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Produced by Suzanne Shell, Sjaani and PG Distributed Proofreaders THE HOUSE ON THE BORDERLAND William Hope Hodgson TO MY FATHER _(Whose feet tread the lost aeons)_ Open the door, And listen! Only the wind's muffled roar, And the glisten Of tears 'round the moon. And, in fancy, the tread Of vanishing shoon- Out in the night with the Dead. "Hush! And hark To the sorrowful cry Of the wind in the dark. Hush and hark, without murmur or sigh, To shoon that tread the lost aeons: To the sound that bids you to die. Hush and hark! Hush and Hark!" _Shoon of the Dead_ AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION TO THE MANUSCRIPT Many are the hours in which I have pondered upon the story that is set forth in the following pages. I trust that my instincts are not awry when they prompt me to leave the account, in simplicity, as it was handed to me. I read, and, in reading, lifted the Curtains of the Impossible that blind the mind, and looked out into the unknown. Amid stiff, abrupt sentences I wandered; and, presently, I had no fault to charge against their abrupt tellings; for, better far than my own ambitious phrasing, is this mutilated story capable of bringing home all that the old Recluse, of the vanished house, had striven to tell. THE FINDING OF THE MANUSCRIPT Yet, in spite of its desolation, my friend Tonnison and I had elected to spend our vacation there. He had stumbled on the place by mere chance the year previously, during the course of a long walking tour, and discovered the possibilities for the angler in a small and unnamed river that runs past the outskirts of the little village. It had taken us all day to accomplish our journey over some of the roughest tracks imaginable, with the result that we were thoroughly tired and somewhat bad tempered. However, the tent had to be erected and our goods stowed away before we could think of food or rest. And so we set to work, with the aid of our driver, and soon had the tent up upon a small patch of ground just outside the little village, and quite near to the river. Then, having stored all our belongings, we dismissed the driver, as he had to make his way back as speedily as possible, and told him to come across to us at the end of a fortnight. We had brought sufficient provisions to last us for that space of time, and water we could get from the stream. Fuel we did not need, as we had included a small oil-stove among our outfit, and the weather was fine and warm. Tonnison had got the stove lit now and was busy cutting slices of bacon into the frying pan; so I took the kettle and walked down to the river for water. On the way, I had to pass close to a little group of the village people, who eyed me curiously, but not in any unfriendly manner, though none of them ventured a word. It was evident, I reflected as I went toward the tent, that the inhabitants of these few huts in the wilderness did not know a word of English; and when I told Tonnison, he remarked that he was aware of the fact, and, more, that it was not at all uncommon in that part of the country, where the people often lived and died in their isolated hamlets without ever coming in contact with the outside world. "I wish we had got the driver to interpret for us before he left," I remarked, as we sat down to our meal. "It seems so strange for the people of this place not even to know what we've come for." Tonnison grunted an assent, and thereafter was silent for a while. Later, having satisfied our appetites somewhat, we began to talk, laying our plans for the morrow; then, after a smoke, we closed the flap of the tent, and prepared to turn in. "I suppose there's no chance of those fellows outside taking anything?" I asked, as we rolled ourselves in our blankets. Tonnison said that he did not think so, at least while we were about; and, as he went on to explain, we could lock up everything, except the tent, in the big chest that we had brought to hold our provisions. I agreed to this, and soon we were both asleep. Next morning, early, we rose and went for a swim in the river; after which we dressed and had breakfast. Then we roused out our fishing tackle and overhauled it, by which time, our breakfasts having settled somewhat, we made all secure within the tent and strode off in the direction my friend had explored on his previous visit. It was on a Tuesday that we arrived in Kraighten, and it would be on the Sunday following that we made a great discovery. Hitherto we had always gone up-stream; on that day, however, we laid aside our rods, and, taking some provisions, set off for a long ramble in the opposite direction. The day was warm, and we trudged along leisurely enough, stopping about mid-day to eat our lunch upon a great flat rock near the riverbank. Afterward we sat and smoked awhile, resuming our walk only when we were tired of inaction. For perhaps another hour we wandered onward, chatting quietly and comfortably on this and that matter, and on several occasions stopping while my companion--who is something of an artist--made rough sketches of striking bits of the wild scenery. And then, without any warning whatsoever, the river we had followed so confidently, came to an abrupt end--vanishing into the earth. "Good Lord!" I said, "who ever would have thought of this?" And I stared in amazement; then I turned to Tonnison. He was looking, with a blank expression upon his face, at the place where the river disappeared. In a moment he spoke. "Let us go on a bit; it may reappear again--anyhow, it is worth investigating." "See!" he said, after a moment, "isn't that mist or something, over there to the right--away in a line with that great piece of rock?" And he indicated with his hand. I stared, and, after a minute, seemed to see something, but could not be certain, and said so. "Anyway," my friend replied, "we'll just go across and have a glance." And he started off in the direction he had suggested, I following. Presently, we came among bushes, and, after a time, out upon the top of a high, boulder-strewn bank, from which we looked down into a wilderness of bushes and trees. "Seems as though we had come upon an oasis in this desert of stone," muttered Tonnison, as he gazed interestedly. Then he was silent, his eyes fixed; and I looked also; for up from somewhere about the center of the wooded lowland there rose high into the quiet air a great column of hazelike spray, upon which the sun shone, causing innumerable rainbows. "How beautiful!" I exclaimed. "Yes," answered Tonnison, thoughtfully. "There must be a waterfall, or something, over there. Perhaps it's our river come to light again. Let's go and see." Suddenly, we came to a halt. Through the trees there had grown upon our ears a distant sound. Tonnison bent forward, listening. I could hear it more plainly now; it was continuous and harsh--a sort of droning roar, seeming to come from far away. I experienced a queer, indescribable, little feeling of nervousness. What sort of place was it into which we had got? I looked at my companion, to see what he thought of the matter; and noted that there was only puzzlement in his face; and then, as I watched his features, an expression of comprehension crept over them, and he nodded his head. "That's a waterfall," he exclaimed, with conviction. "I know the sound now." And he began to push vigorously through the bushes, in the direction of the noise. As we went forward, the sound became plainer continually, showing that we were heading straight toward it. Steadily, the roaring grew louder and nearer, until it appeared, as I remarked to Tonnison, almost to come from under our feet--and still we were surrounded by the trees and shrubs. "Good Lord!" said Tonnison. I was silent, and rather awed. The sight was so unexpectedly grand and eerie; though this latter quality came more upon me later. Presently, I looked up and across to the further side of the chasm. There, I saw something towering up among the spray: it looked like a fragment of a great ruin, and I touched Tonnison on the shoulder. He glanced 'round, with a start, and I pointed toward the thing. His gaze followed my finger, and his eyes lighted up with a sudden flash of excitement, as the object came within his field of view. Arriving opposite it, we walked out on to the projecting arm of rock, and I must confess to having felt an intolerable sense of terror as I looked down from that dizzy perch into the unknown depths below us--into the deeps from which there rose ever the thunder of the falling water and the shroud of rising spray. Reaching the ruin, we clambered 'round it cautiously, and, on the further side, came upon a mass of fallen stones and rubble. The ruin itself seemed to me, as I proceeded now to examine it minutely, to be a portion of the outer wall of some prodigious structure, it was so thick and substantially built; yet what it was doing in such a position I could by no means conjecture. Where was the rest of the house, or castle, or whatever there had been? I went back to the outer side of the wall, and thence to the edge of the chasm, leaving Tonnison rooting systematically among the heap of stones and rubbish on the outer side. Then I commenced to examine the surface of the ground, near the edge of the abyss, to see whether there were not left other remnants of the building to which the fragment of ruin evidently belonged. But though I scrutinized the earth with the greatest care, I could see no signs of anything to show that there had ever been a building erected on the spot, and I grew more puzzled than ever. Then, I heard a cry from Tonnison; he was shouting my name, excitedly, and without delay I hurried along the rocky promontory to the ruin. I wondered whether he had hurt himself, and then the thought came, that perhaps he had found something. The next thing we did was to make a complete tour of the tremendous chasm, which we were able to observe was in the form of an almost perfect circle, save for where the ruin-crowned spur of rock jutted out, spoiling its symmetry. The abyss was, as Tonnison put it, like nothing so much as a gigantic well or pit going sheer down into the bowels of the earth. For some time longer, we continued to stare about us, and then, noticing that there was a clear space away to the north of the chasm, we bent our steps in that direction. He nodded in reply, and glanced at the woods behind furtively. I asked him if he had seen or heard anything. He made no answer; but stood silent, as though listening, and I kept quiet also. "Hark!" he said, sharply. I looked at him, and then away among the trees and bushes, holding my breath involuntarily. A minute came and went in strained silence; yet I could hear nothing, and I turned to Tonnison to say as much; and then, even as I opened my lips to speak, there came a strange wailing noise out of the wood on our left It appeared to float through the trees, and there was a rustle of stirring leaves, and then silence. Presently, Tonnison began to talk. "Look you," he said with decision, "I would not spend the night in _that_ place for all the wealth that the world holds. There is something unholy--diabolical--about it. It came to me all in a moment, just after you spoke. It seemed to me that the woods were full of vile things--you know!" "Yes," I answered, and looked back toward the place; but it was hidden from us by a rise in the ground. "There's the book," I said, and I put my hand into the satchel. "You've got it safely?" he questioned, with a sudden access of anxiety. "Perhaps," he continued, "we shall learn something from it when we get back to the tent. We had better hurry, too; we're a long way off still, and I don't fancy, now, being caught out here in the dark." THE PLAIN OF SILENCE I am an old man. I live here in this ancient house, surrounded by huge, unkempt gardens. I have decided to start a kind of diary; it may enable me to record some of the thoughts and feelings that I cannot express to anyone; but, beyond this, I am anxious to make some record of the strange things that I have heard and seen, during many years of loneliness, in this weird old building. I am not superstitious; but I have ceased to deny that things happen in this old house--things that I cannot explain; and, therefore, I must needs ease my mind, by writing down an account of them, to the best of my ability; though, should this, my diary, ever be read when I am gone, the readers will but shake their heads, and be the more convinced that I was mad. I have heard that there is an old story, told amongst the country people, to the effect that the devil built the place. However, that is as may be. True or not, I neither know nor care, save as it may have helped to cheapen it, ere I came. I did not move. I felt distinctly frightened; but could think of nothing better to do than wait. For perhaps a minute, I kept my glance about the room, nervously. Then I noticed that the lights had commenced to sink, very slowly; until presently they showed minute specks of red fire, like the gleamings of rubies in the darkness. Still, I sat watching; while a sort of dreamy indifference seemed to steal over me; banishing altogether the fear that had begun to grip me. Away in the far end of the huge old-fashioned room, I became conscious of a faint glow. Steadily it grew, filling the room with gleams of quivering green light; then they sank quickly, and changed--even as the candle flames had done--into a deep, somber crimson that strengthened, and lit up the room with a flood of awful glory. Gradually, as I became more accustomed to the idea, I realized that I was looking out on to a vast plain, lit with the same gloomy twilight that pervaded the room. The immensity of this plain scarcely can be conceived. In no part could I perceive its confines. It seemed to broaden and spread out, so that the eye failed to perceive any limitations. Slowly, the details of the nearer portions began to grow clear; then, in a moment almost, the light died away, and the vision--if vision it were--faded and was gone. Suddenly, I became conscious that I was no longer in the chair. Instead, I seemed to be hovering above it, and looking down at a dim something, huddled and silent. In a little while, a cold blast struck me, and I was outside in the night, floating, like a bubble, up through the darkness. As I moved, an icy coldness seemed to enfold me, so that I shivered. An indefinite period passed. Then, for the last time, I saw the earth--an enduring globule of radiant blue, swimming in an eternity of ether. And there I, a fragile flake of soul dust, flickered silently across the void, from the distant blue, into the expanse of the unknown. Slowly, the distant redness became plainer and larger; until, as I drew nearer, it spread out into a great, somber glare--dull and tremendous. Still, I fled onward, and, presently, I had come so close, that it seemed to stretch beneath me, like a great ocean of somber red. I could see little, save that it appeared to spread out interminably in all directions. In a further space, I found that I was descending upon it; and, soon, I sank into a great sea of sullen, red-hued clouds. Slowly, I emerged from these, and there, below me, I saw the stupendous plain that I had seen from my room in this house that stands upon the borders of the Silences. Presently, I landed, and stood, surrounded by a great waste of loneliness. The place was lit with a gloomy twilight that gave an impression of indescribable desolation. From that strange source of light, I glanced down again to my surroundings. Everywhere I looked, I saw nothing but the same flat weariness of interminable plain. Nowhere could I descry any signs of life; not even the ruins of some ancient habitation. Gradually, I found that I was being borne forward, floating across the flat waste. For what seemed an eternity, I moved onward. I was unaware of any great sense of impatience; though some curiosity and a vast wonder were with me continually. Always, I saw around me the breadth of that enormous plain; and, always, I searched for some new thing to break its monotony; but there was no change--only loneliness, silence, and desert. Gradually, I began to weary with the sameness of the thing. Yet, it was a great time before I perceived any signs of the place, toward which I was being conveyed. THE HOUSE IN THE ARENA A minute came and went, and I was at the exit of the chasm, staring out upon an enormous amphitheatre of mountains. Yet, of the mountains, and the terrible grandeur of the place, I recked nothing; for I was confounded with amazement to behold, at a distance of several miles and occupying the center of the arena, a stupendous structure built apparently of green jade. Yet, in itself, it was not the discovery of the building that had so astonished me; but the fact, which became every moment more apparent, that in no particular, save in color and its enormous size, did the lonely structure vary from this house in which I live. An idea came swiftly, and I turned, and glanced rapidly upward, searching the gloomy crags, away to my left. Something loomed out under a great peak, a shape of greyness. I wondered I had not seen it earlier, and then remembered I had not yet viewed that portion. I saw it more plainly now. It was, as I have said, grey. It had a tremendous head; but no eyes. That part of its face was blank. On each side, I looked, and saw more, continually. The mountains were full of strange things--Beast-gods, and Horrors so atrocious and bestial that possibility and decency deny any further attempt to describe them. And I--I was filled with a terrible sense of overwhelming horror and fear and repugnance; yet, spite of these, I wondered exceedingly. Was there then, after all, something in the old heathen worship, something more than the mere deifying of men, animals, and elements? The thought gripped me--was there? And then, in the midst of my wondering and musing, something happened. Until then, I had been staying just within the shadow of the exit of the great rift. Now, without volition on my part, I drifted out of the semi-darkness and began to move slowly across the arena--toward the House. At this, I gave up all thoughts of those prodigious Shapes above me--and could only stare, frightenedly, at the tremendous structure toward which I was being conveyed so remorselessly. Yet, though I searched earnestly, I could discover nothing that I had not already seen, and so became gradually calmer. Silently, intently, I watched this horrible creature, and forgot my fear, momentarily, in my interest in its movements. It was making its way, cumbrously 'round the building, stopping as it came to each window to peer in and shake at the bars, with which--as in this house--they were protected; and whenever it came to a door, it would push at it, fingering the fastening stealthily. Evidently, it was searching for an ingress into the House. Continually, I mounted higher. A few minutes, it seemed, and I had risen above the great mountains--floating, alone, afar in the redness. At a tremendous distance below, the arena showed, dimly; with the mighty House looking no larger than a tiny spot of green. The Swine-thing was no longer visible. With a sense of weariness, I glanced upward at the immense ring of fire. What a strange thing it was! Then, as I stared, out from the dark center, there spurted a sudden flare of extraordinary vivid fire. Compared with the size of the black center, it was as naught; yet, in itself, stupendous. With awakened interest, I watched it carefully, noting its strange boiling and glowing. Then, in a moment, the whole thing grew dim and unreal, and so passed out of sight. Much amazed, I glanced down to the Plain from which I was still rising. Thus, I received a fresh surprise. The Plain--everything had vanished, and only a sea of red mist was spread far below me. Gradually as I stared this grew remote, and died away into a dim far mystery of red against an unfathomable night. A while, and even this had gone, and I was wrapped in an impalpable, lightless gloom. A long space of time came and went, and then at last I entered into the shadow of the world--plunging headlong into the dim and holy earth night. Overhead were the old constellations, and there was a crescent moon. Then, as I neared the earth's surface, a dimness swept over me, and I appeared to sink into a black mist. For a while, I knew nothing. I was unconscious. Gradually, I became aware of a faint, distant whining. It became plainer. A desperate feeling of agony possessed me. I struggled madly for breath, and tried to shout. A moment, and I got my breath more easily. I was conscious that something was licking my hand. Something damp swept across my face. I heard a panting, and then again the whining. It seemed to come to my ears, now, with a sense of familiarity, and I opened my eyes. All was dark; but the feeling of oppression had left me. I was seated, and something was whining piteously, and licking me. I felt strangely confused, and, instinctively, tried to ward off the thing that licked. My head was curiously vacant, and, for the moment, I seemed incapable of action or thought. Then, things came back to me, and I called 'Pepper,' faintly. I was answered by a joyful bark, and renewed and frantic caresses. In a little while, I felt stronger, and put out my hand for the matches. I groped about, for a few moments, blindly; then my hands lit upon them, and I struck a light, and looked confusedly around. All about me, I saw the old, familiar things. And there I sat, full of dazed wonders, until the flame of the match burnt my finger, and I dropped it; while a hasty expression of pain and anger, escaped my lips, surprising me with the sound of my own voice. After a moment, I struck another match, and, stumbling across the room, lit the candles. As I did so, I observed that they had not burned away, but had been put out. I have a remembrance of cursing, peevishly, in my bewilderment. Suddenly, I turned faint and giddy, and had to grasp at the table for support. During a few moments, I held on, weakly; and then managed to totter sideways into a chair. After a little time, I felt somewhat better, and succeeded in reaching the cupboard where, usually, I keep brandy and biscuits. I poured myself out a little of the stimulant, and drank it off. Then, taking a handful of biscuits, I returned to my chair, and began to devour them, ravenously. I was vaguely surprised at my hunger. I felt as though I had eaten nothing for an uncountably long while. During breakfast, next morning, I inquired casually of my sister regarding the date, and found my surmise correct. I had, indeed, been absent--at least in spirit--for nearly a day and a night. And so the days pass on, and I am still filled with a wonder to know the meaning of all that I saw on that memorable night. Yet, well I know that my curiosity is little likely to be satisfied. THE THING IN THE PIT This house is, as I have said before, surrounded by a huge estate, and wild and uncultivated gardens. In passing, I must explain that this river has a subterranean origin, emerging suddenly at the East end of the ravine, and disappearing, as abruptly, beneath the cliffs that form its Western extremity. It was some months after my vision (if vision it were) of the great Plain that my attention was particularly attracted to the Pit. Feeling that there must be someone or something in the Pit, I went back to the house, quickly, for a stick. When I returned, Pepper had ceased his barks and was growling and smelling, uneasily, along the top. Immediately afterward, I heard his barks increase in depth and number, and in between there sounded a noise of confused jabbering. This ceased, and, in the succeeding silence, there rose a semi-human yell of agony. Almost immediately, Pepper gave a long-drawn howl of pain, and then the shrubs were violently agitated, and he came running out with his tail down, and glancing as he ran over his shoulder. As he reached me, I saw that he was bleeding from what appeared to be a great claw wound in the side that had almost laid bare his ribs. Seeing Pepper thus mutilated, a furious feeling of anger seized me, and, whirling my staff, I sprang across, and into the bushes from which Pepper had emerged. As I forced my way through, I thought I heard a sound of breathing. Next instant, I had burst into a little clear space, just in time to see something, livid white in color, disappear among the bushes on the opposite side. With a shout, I ran toward it; but, though I struck and probed among the bushes with my stick, I neither saw nor heard anything further; and so returned to Pepper. There, after bathing his wound in the river, I bound my wetted handkerchief 'round his body; having done which, we retreated up the ravine and into the daylight again. On reaching the house, my sister inquired what had happened to Pepper, and I told her he had been fighting with a wildcat, of which I had heard there were several about. I felt it would be better not to tell her how it had really happened; though, to be sure, I scarcely knew myself; but this I did know, that the thing I had seen run into the bushes was no wildcat. It was much too big, and had, so far as I had observed, a skin like a hog's, only of a dead, unhealthy white color. And then--it had run upright, or nearly so, upon its hind feet, with a motion somewhat resembling that of a human being. This much I had noticed in my brief glimpse, and, truth to tell, I felt a good deal of uneasiness, besides curiosity as I turned the matter over in my mind. It was in the morning that the above incident had occurred. Then, it would be after dinner, as I sat reading, that, happening to look up suddenly, I saw something peering in over the window ledge the eyes and ears alone showing. 'A pig, by Jove!' I said, and rose to my feet. Thus, I saw the thing more completely; but it was no pig--God alone knows what it was. It reminded me, vaguely, of the hideous Thing that had haunted the great arena. It had a grotesquely human mouth and jaw; but with no chin of which to speak. The nose was prolonged into a snout; thus it was that with the little eyes and queer ears, gave it such an extraordinarily swinelike appearance. Of forehead there was little, and the whole face was of an unwholesome white color. I cannot say that I grasped these various details of the brute at the time. I think they seemed to come back to me, afterward, as though imprinted upon my brain. I imagined more than I saw as I looked at the thing, and the material details grew upon me later. For perhaps a minute I stared at the creature; then as my nerves steadied a little I shook off the vague alarm that held me, and took a step toward the window. Even as I did so, the thing ducked and vanished. I rushed to the door and looked 'round hurriedly; but only the tangled bushes and shrubs met my gaze. I ran back into the house, and, getting my gun, sallied out to search through the gardens. As I went, I asked myself whether the thing I had just seen was likely to be the same of which I had caught a glimpse in the morning. I inclined to think it was. I would have taken Pepper with me; but judged it better to give his wound a chance to heal. Besides, if the creature I had just seen was, as I imagined, his antagonist of the morning, it was not likely that he would be of much use. I began my search, systematically. I was determined, if it were possible, to find and put an end to that swine-thing. This was, at least, a material Horror! Gradually, I calmed. The stealthy movements outside had ceased. Gradually, imperceptibly almost, something stole on my ear--a sound that resolved itself into a faint murmur. Quickly it developed and grew into a muffled but hideous chorus of bestial shrieks. It appeared to rise from the bowels of the earth. With the dawning light, the feeling of stupor and fear left me; and I came more into possession of my senses. Thereupon I picked up my book, and crept to the door to listen. Not a sound broke the chilly silence. For some minutes I stood there; then, very gradually and cautiously, I drew back the bolt and opening the door peeped out. My caution was unneeded. Nothing was to be seen, save the grey vista of dreary, tangled bushes and trees, extending to the distant plantation. With a shiver, I closed the door, and made my way, quietly, up to bed. It was evening, a week later. My sister sat in the garden, knitting. I was walking up and down, reading. My gun leant up against the wall of the house; for, since the advent of that strange thing in the gardens, I had deemed it wise to take precautions. Yet, through the whole week, there had been nothing to alarm me, either by sight or sound; so that I was able to look back, calmly, to the incident; though still with a sense of unmitigated wonder and curiosity. I was, as I have just said, walking up and down, and somewhat engrossed in my book. Suddenly, I heard a crash, away in the direction of the Pit. With a quick movement, I turned and saw a tremendous column of dust rising high into the evening air. My sister had risen to her feet, with a sharp exclamation of surprise and fright. Telling her to stay where she was, I snatched up my gun, and ran toward the Pit. As I neared it, I heard a dull, rumbling sound, that grew quickly into a roar, split with deeper crashes, and up from the Pit drove a fresh volume of dust. The noise ceased, though the dust still rose, tumultuously. I reached the edge, and looked down; but could see nothing save a boil of dust clouds swirling hither and thither. The air was so full of the small particles, that they blinded and choked me; and, finally, I had to run out from the smother, to breathe. Gradually, the suspended matter sank, and hung in a panoply over the mouth of the Pit. I could only guess at what had happened. Slowly, the dust subsided, until, presently, I was able to approach the edge, and look down. There was a momentary silence, to which, probably, I owe my life; for, during it, I heard a quick patter of many feet, and, turning sharply, saw a troop of the creatures coming toward me, at a run. Instantly, I raised my gun and fired at the foremost, who plunged head-long, with a hideous howling. Then, I turned to run. More than halfway from the house to the Pit, I saw my sister--she was coming toward me. I could not see her face, distinctly, as the dusk had fallen; but there was fear in her voice as she called to know why I was shooting. 'Run!' I shouted in reply. 'Run for your life!' I think it must have been the terror in my voice, that spurred Mary to run so; for I feel convinced that she had not, as yet, seen those hell creatures that pursued. On we went, my sister leading. Each moment, the nearing sounds of the footsteps, told me that the brutes were gaining on us, rapidly. Fortunately, I am accustomed to live, in some ways, an active life. As it was, the strain of the race was beginning to tell severely upon me. Even this short delay had been nearly sufficient to bring the rest of the brutes down upon me; so that, without an instant's waste of time, I turned and ran for the door. Now, I bethought me of my sister, and, going to the cupboard, I got out a flask of brandy, and a wine-glass. Taking these, I went down to the kitchen, carrying a lighted candle with me. She was not sitting in the chair, but had fallen out, and was lying upon the floor, face downward. For a moment, I stayed there--kneeling and holding the brandy flask. I was utterly puzzled and astonished. Could she be afraid of me? But no! Why should she? I could only conclude that her nerves were badly shaken, and that she was temporarily unhinged. Upstairs, I heard a door bang, loudly, and I knew that she had taken refuge in her room. I put the flask down on the table. My attention was distracted by a noise in the direction of the back door. I went toward it, and listened. It appeared to be shaken, as though some of the creatures struggled with it, silently; but it was far too strongly constructed and hung to be easily moved. Out in the gardens rose a continuous sound. It might have been mistaken, by a casual listener, for the grunting and squealing of a herd of pigs. But, as I stood there, it came to me that there was sense and meaning to all those swinish noises. Gradually, I seemed able to trace a semblance in it to human speech--glutinous and sticky, as though each articulation were made with difficulty: yet, nevertheless, I was becoming convinced that it was no mere medley of sounds; but a rapid interchange of ideas. Pulling myself together, I groped for the door, and, having found it, made my way upstairs, stumbling at each step. I felt dazed, as though I had received a blow on the head. At the same time, my hand smarted badly, and I was full of a nervous, dull rage against those Things. Reaching my study, I lit the candles. As they burnt up, their rays were reflected from the rack of firearms on the sidewall. At the sight, I remembered that I had there a power, which, as I had proved earlier, seemed as fatal to those monsters as to more ordinary animals; and I determined I would take the offensive. From there, I found that I could see nothing. The gardens presented a dim blur of shadows--a little blacker, perhaps, where the trees stood. That was all, and I knew that it was useless to shoot down into all that darkness. The only thing to be done, was to wait for the moon to rise; then, I might be able to do a little execution. I must explain here, that there is a small, raised lawn on this side of the house, upon which this door opens--the windows of the study being barred on this account. All the other entrances--excepting the great gateway which is never opened--are in the lower storey. There was not a moment to lose, and, leaning over, I aimed, quickly, and fired. The report rang sharply, and, almost blending with it, came the loud splud of the bullet striking its mark. From below, rose a shrill wail; and the door ceased its groaning. Then, as I took my weight from off the parapet, a huge piece of the stone coping slid from under me, and fell with a crash among the disorganized throng beneath. Several horrible shrieks quavered through the night air, and then I heard a sound of scampering feet. Cautiously, I looked over. In the moonlight, I could see the great copingstone, lying right across the threshold of the door. I thought I saw something under it--several things, white; but I could not be sure. And so a few minutes passed. It was Providential that I had managed to drive the brutes away just when I did! And that copingstone! I wondered, vaguely, how I had managed to dislodge it. I had not noticed it loose, as I took my shot; and then, as I stood up, it had slipped away from beneath me I felt that I owed the dismissal of the attacking force, more to its timely fall than to my rifle. Then the thought came, that I had better seize this chance to shore up the door, again. It was evident that the creatures had not returned since the fall of the copingstone; but who was to say how long they would keep away? Thus, I made the door stronger than ever; for now it was solid with the backing of boards, and would, I felt convinced, stand a heavier pressure than hitherto, without giving way. After that, I lit the lamp which I had brought from the kitchen, and went down to have a look at the lower windows. Now that I had seen an instance of the strength the creatures possessed, I felt considerable anxiety about the windows on the ground floor--in spite of the fact that they were so strongly barred. I put my hand through the broken window, and shook the bar. It was as firm as a rock. Perhaps the creatures had tried to 'start' it, and, finding it beyond their power, ceased from the effort. After that, I went 'round to each of the windows, in turn; examining them with careful attention; but nowhere else could I trace anything to show that there had been any tampering. Having finished my survey, I went back to the study, and poured myself out a little brandy. Then to the tower to watch. With a jerky movement, I sat forward in the chair, and listened. The house was perfectly silent. Slowly, I stood up, and yawned. I felt desperately tired, still, and sat down again; wondering what it was that had waked me. Quickly, I reached the head of the stairs, and paused a moment. Then, I heard a sound that sent me leaping down, at a mad rate--it was the rattle of bolts being unshot. That foolish sister of mine was actually unbarring the back door. To this, she replied nothing; only trembled, violently, gasping and sobbing, as though in the last extremity of fear. Through some minutes, I reasoned with her; pointing out the need for caution, and asking her to be brave. There was little to be afraid of now, I explained--and, I tried to believe that I spoke the truth--but she must be sensible, and not attempt to leave the house for a few days. At last, I ceased, in despair. It was no use talking to her; she was, obviously, not quite herself for the time being. Finally, I told her she had better go to her room, if she could not behave rationally. Arriving at her room, I laid her upon the bed. She lay there quietly enough, neither speaking nor sobbing--just shaking in a very ague of fear. I took a rug from a chair near by, and spread it over her. I could do nothing more for her, and so, crossed to where Pepper lay in a big basket. My sister had taken charge of him since his wound, to nurse him, for it had proved more severe than I had thought, and I was pleased to note that, in spite of her state of mind, she had looked after the old dog, carefully. Stooping, I spoke to him, and, in reply, he licked my hand, feebly. He was too ill to do more. Then, going to the bed, I bent over my sister, and asked her how she felt; but she only shook the more, and, much as it pained me, I had to admit that my presence seemed to make her worse. And so, I left her--locking the door, and pocketing the key. It seemed to be the only course to take. The rest of the day, I spent between the tower and my study. For food, I brought up a loaf from the pantry, and on this, and some claret, I lived for that day. What a long, weary day it was. If only I could have gone out into the gardens, as is my wont, I should have been content enough; but to be cooped in this silent house, with no companion, save a mad woman and a sick dog, was enough to prey upon the nerves of the hardiest. And out in the tangled shrubberies that surrounded the house, lurked--for all I could tell--those infernal Swine-creatures waiting their chance. Was ever a man in such straits? And so the day passed. After that, I made the 'round of the house again; paying particular attention to the props that supported the study door. Then, feeling that I had done all that lay in my power to insure our safety, I returned to the tower; calling in on my sister and Pepper, for a final visit, on the way. Pepper was asleep; but woke, as I entered, and wagged his tail, in recognition. I thought he seemed slightly better. My sister was lying on the bed; though whether asleep or not, I was unable to tell; and thus I left them. Slowly, the hours passed; without anything unusual happening. And the moon rose, showing the gardens, apparently empty, and silent. And so, through the night, without disturbance or sound. It is in the smallest of these places that I keep my wine; a gloomy hole close to the foot of the cellar stairs; and beyond which, I have seldom proceeded. Indeed, save for the rummage 'round, already mentioned, I doubt whether I had ever, before, been right through the cellars. As I unlocked the great door, at the top of the steps, I paused, nervously, a moment, at the strange, desolate smell that assailed my nostrils. Then, throwing the barrel of my weapon forward, I descended, slowly, into the darkness of the underground regions. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I stood for a minute, and listened. All was silent, save for a faint drip, drip of water, falling, drop-by-drop, somewhere to my left. As I stood, I noticed how quietly the candle burnt; never a flicker nor flare, so utterly windless was the place. Of course, with the amount of light given by my candle, it was not possible to examine each place, minutely, but I was enabled to notice, as I went along, that the walls appeared to be built with wonderful precision and finish; while here and there, an occasional, massive pillar shot up to support the vaulted roof. Holding the light high, I passed on into the cellar, and, keeping to the right, paced slowly up, until I reached the further end. I walked quietly, and looked cautiously about, as I went. But, so far as the light showed, I saw nothing unusual. At the top, I turned to the left, still keeping to the wall, and so continued, until I had traversed the whole of the vast chamber. As I moved along, I noticed that the floor was composed of solid rock, in places covered with a damp mould, in others bare, or almost so, save for a thin coating of light-grey dust. I had halted at the doorway. Now, however, I turned, and made my way up the center of the place; passing among the pillars, and glancing to right and left, as I moved. About halfway up the cellar, I stubbed my foot against something that gave out a metallic sound. Stooping quickly, I held the candle, and saw that the object I had kicked, was a large, metal ring. Bending lower, I cleared the dust from around it, and, presently, discovered that it was attached to a ponderous trap door, black with age. Feeling excited, and wondering to where it could lead, I laid my gun on the floor, and, sticking the candle in the trigger guard, took the ring in both hands, and pulled. The trap creaked loudly--the sound echoing, vaguely, through the huge place--and opened, heavily. Propping the edge on my knee, I reached for the candle, and held it in the opening, moving it to right and left; but could see nothing. I was puzzled and surprised. There were no signs of steps, nor even the appearance of there ever having been any. Nothing; save an empty blackness. I might have been looking down into a bottomless, sideless well. Then, even as I stared, full of perplexity, I seemed to hear, far down, as though from untold depths, a faint whisper of sound. I bent my head, quickly, more into the opening, and listened, intently. It may have been fancy; but I could have sworn to hearing a soft titter, that grew into a hideous, chuckling, faint and distant. Startled, I leapt backward, letting the trap fall, with a hollow clang, that filled the place with echoes. Even then, I seemed to hear that mocking, suggestive laughter; but this, I knew, must be my imagination. The sound, I had heard, was far too slight to penetrate through the cumbrous trap. Then, after a final scrutiny of the rest of the place, I retraced my way through the cellars, to the stairs, and so reached the daylight, with an infinite feeling of relief, that the uncomfortable task was accomplished. The sun was now warm, and shining brightly, forming a wondrous contrast to the dark and dismal cellars; and it was with comparatively light feelings, that I made my way up to the tower, to survey the gardens. There, I found everything quiet, and, after a few minutes, went down to Mary's room. To my questions, as to how she felt, she replied, sanely enough, that she was hungry, and would like to go down to prepare breakfast, if I did not mind. For a minute, I meditated whether it would be safe to let her out. Finally, I told her she might go, on condition that she promised not to attempt to leave the house, or meddle with any of the outer doors. At my mention of the doors, a sudden look of fright crossed her face; but she said nothing, save to give the required promise, and then left the room, silently. Crossing the floor, I approached Pepper. He had waked as I entered; but, beyond a slight yelp of pleasure, and a soft rapping with his tail, had kept quiet. Now, as I patted him, he made an attempt to stand up, and succeeded, only to fall back on his side, with a little yowl of pain. I spoke to him, and bade him lie still. I was greatly delighted with his improvement, and also with the natural kindness of my sister's heart, in taking such good care of him, in spite of her condition of mind. After a while, I left him, and went downstairs, to my study. In a little time, Mary appeared, carrying a tray on which smoked a hot breakfast. As she entered the room, I saw her gaze fasten on the props that supported the study door; her lips tightened, and I thought she paled, slightly; but that was all. Putting the tray down at my elbow, she was leaving the room, quietly, when I called her back. She came, it seemed, a little timidly, as though startled; and I noted that her hand clutched at her apron, nervously. 'Come, Mary,' I said. 'Cheer up! Things look brighter. I've seen none of the creatures since yesterday morning, early.' She looked at me, in a curiously puzzled manner; as though not comprehending. Then, intelligence swept into her eyes, and fear; but she said nothing, beyond an unintelligible murmur of acquiescence. After that, I kept silence; it was evident that any reference to the Swine-things, was more than her shaken nerves could bear. At breakfast, when I met Mary, I was greatly pleased to see that she had sufficiently regained command over herself, to be able to greet me in a perfectly natural manner. She talked sensibly and quietly; only keeping carefully from any mention of the past couple of days. In this, I humored her, to the extent of not attempting to lead the conversation in that direction. THE SEARCHING OF THE GARDENS How slowly the time went; and never a thing to indicate that any of the brutes still infested the gardens. Pepper followed, stopping at the doorstep to sniff, suspiciously; and carrying his nose up and down the jambs, as though following a scent. Then, suddenly, he turned, sharply, and started to run here and there, in semicircles and circles, all around the door; finally returning to the threshold. Here, he began again to nose about. I went 'round to the further end of the stone. Here, I found that it was possible to see under it, for a distance of nearly a couple of feet. Still, I could see nothing of the stricken creatures, and I felt much surprised. I had, as I have before said, guessed that the remains had been removed; yet, I could not conceive that it had been done so thoroughly as not to leave some certain sign, beneath the stone, indicative of their fate. I had seen several of the brutes struck down beneath it, with such force that they must have been literally driven into the earth; and now, not a vestige of them was to be seen--not even a bloodstain. Leaving, I continued my tour 'round the house, finding little else of interest; save at the back, where I came across the piece of piping I had torn from the wall, lying among the long grass underneath the broken window. Then, I returned to the house, and, having re-bolted the back door, went up to the tower. Here, I spent the afternoon, reading, and occasionally glancing down into the gardens. I had determined, if the night passed quietly, to go as far as the Pit, on the morrow. Perhaps, I should be able to learn, then, something of what had happened. The day slipped away, and the night came, and went much as the last few nights had gone. When I rose the morning had broken, fine and clear; and I determined to put my project into action. During breakfast, I considered the matter, carefully; after which, I went to the study for my shotgun. In addition, I loaded, and slipped into my pocket, a small, but heavy, pistol. I quite understood that, if there were any danger, it lay in the direction of the Pit and I intended to be prepared. The opposite side of the Pit, still retained its verdure; but so torn in places, and everywhere covered with dust and rubbish, that it was hardly distinguishable as such. For a little while longer, I loitered about; keeping my eyes and ears open, but still, without seeing or hearing anything suspicious. The whole place was wonderfully quiet; indeed, save for the continuous murmur of the water, at the top end, no sound, of any description, broke the silence. At noon, I went home, for dinner. During the afternoon, I made a partial search of the gardens, accompanied by Pepper; but, without coming upon anything to indicate the presence of the creatures. Next day, I resumed my search through the gardens; but without result. By evening, I had been right through them, and now, I knew, beyond the possibility of doubt, that there were no longer any of the Things concealed about the place. Indeed, I have often thought since, that I was correct in my earlier surmise, that they had left soon after the attack. THE SUBTERRANEAN PIT Another week came and went, during which I spent a great deal of my time about the Pit mouth. I had come to the conclusion a few days earlier, that the arched hole, in the angle of the great rift, was the place through which the Swine-things had made their exit, from some unholy place in the bowels of the world. How near the probable truth this went, I was to learn later. It may be easily understood, that I was tremendously curious, though in a frightened way, to know to what infernal place that hole led; though, so far, the idea had not struck me, seriously, of making an investigation. I was far too much imbued with a sense of horror of the Swine-creatures, to think of venturing, willingly, where there was any chance of coming into contact with them. Gradually, however, as time passed, this feeling grew insensibly less; so that when, a few days later, the thought occurred to me that it might be possible to clamber down and have a look into the hole, I was not so exceedingly averse to it, as might have been imagined. Still, I do not think, even then, that I really intended to try any such foolhardy adventure. For all that I could tell, it might be certain death, to enter that doleful looking opening. And yet, such is the pertinacity of human curiosity, that, at last, my chief desire was but to discover what lay beyond that gloomy entrance. Slowly, as the days slid by, my fear of the Swine-things became an emotion of the past--more an unpleasant, incredible memory, than aught else. Thus, a day came, when, throwing thoughts and fancies adrift, I procured a rope from the house, and, having made it fast to a stout tree, at the top of the rift, and some little distance back from the Pit edge, let the other end down into the cleft, until it dangled right across the mouth of the dark hole. Yet, I had received such a fright, that I was glad to scramble up the rift, and haul up the rope. I was far too shaken and nervous to think of entering that dark hole then, and so returned to the house. I felt more myself next morning; but even then, I could not summon up sufficient courage to explore the place. All this time, the water in the Pit had been creeping slowly up, and now stood but a little below the opening. At the rate at which it was rising, it would be level with the floor in less than another week; and I realized that, unless I carried out my investigations soon, I should probably never do so at all; as the water would rise and rise, until the opening, itself, was submerged. It may have been that this thought stirred me to act; but, whatever it was, a couple of days later, saw me standing at the top of the cleft, fully equipped for the task. Having waited a minute, or so, to steady myself, I proceeded along the way, Pepper following, quietly. I was curiously glad to have the old fellow with me. He was company, and, somehow, with him at my heels, I was less afraid. Also, I knew how quickly his keen ears would detect the presence of any unwelcome creature, should there be such, amid the darkness that wrapped us. To my great relief, a little further on, the track suddenly broadened out again to its original breadth. Gradually, as I went onward, I noticed that the path trended steadily to the right, and so, after some minutes, I discovered that I was not going forward; but simply circling the huge abyss. I had, evidently, come to the end of the great passage. A sudden idea struck me, and I searched 'round for a piece of stone. Presently, I found a bit of rock, about the size of a small loaf. Sticking the candle upright in a crevice of the floor, I went back from the edge, somewhat, and, taking a short run, launched the stone forward into the chasm--my idea being to throw it far enough to keep it clear of the sides. Then, I stooped forward, and listened; but, though I kept perfectly quiet, for at least a full minute, no sound came back to me from out of the dark. I knew, then, that the depth of the hole must be immense; for the stone, had it struck anything, was large enough to have set the echoes of that weird place, whispering for an indefinite period. Even as it was, the cavern had given back the sounds of my footfalls, multitudinously. The place was awesome, and I would willingly have retraced my steps, and left the mysteries of its solitudes unsolved; only, to do so, meant admitting defeat. Then, a thought came, to try to get a view of the abyss. It occurred to me that, if I placed my candles 'round the edge of the hole, I should be able to get, at least, some dim sight of the place. Again, Pepper gave vent to that deep-drawn howl, and, running at me, seized my coat, and attempted to drag me up the path toward the entrance. With a nervous gesture, I shook him off, and crossed quickly over to the left-hand wall. If anything were coming, I was going to have the wall at my back. A short examination showed me that the water reached right across the passage, and was running at a tremendous rate. Already, even as I stood there, it had deepened. I could make only a guess at what had happened. Evidently, the water in the ravine had broken into the passage, by some means. If that were the case, it would go on increasing in volume, until I should find it impossible to leave the place. The thought was frightening. It was evident that I must make my exit as hurriedly as possible. I have a dim recollection of having seen, momentarily, the gleams of several lights; but, of this, I have never been quite sure. If my impressions are correct, I must have been washed down to the very brink of that awful chasm, before Pepper managed to bring me to a standstill. And the lights, of course, could only have been the distant flames of the candles, I had left burning. But, as I have said, I am not by any means sure. My eyes were full of water, and I had been badly shaken. And there was I, without my helpful gun, without light, and sadly confused, with the water deepening; depending solely upon my old friend Pepper, to help me out of that hellish place. I was facing the torrent. Naturally, it was the only way in which I could have sustained my position a moment; for even old Pepper could not have held me long against that terrific strain, without assistance, however blind, from me. Perhaps a minute passed, during which it was touch and go with me; then, gradually I re-commenced my tortuous way up the passage. And so began the grimmest fight with death, from which ever I hope to emerge victorious. Slowly, furiously, almost hopelessly, I strove; and that faithful Pepper led me, dragged me, upward and onward, until, at last, ahead I saw a gleam of blessed light. It was the entrance. Only a few yards further, and I reached the opening, with the water surging and boiling hungrily around my loins. And now I understood the cause of the catastrophe. It was raining heavily, literally in torrents. The surface of the lake was level with the bottom of the opening--nay! more than level, it was above it. Evidently, the rain had swollen the lake, and caused this premature rise; for, at the rate the ravine had been filling, it would not have reached the entrance for a couple more days. THE TRAP IN THE GREAT CELLAR It happened in this wise, that, having occasion to go down to the cellars, the thought occurred to me to pay a visit to the great vault, where the trap is situated; and see whether everything was as I had left it. For a moment, I stood puzzled. I was not particularly afraid. The haunting fear of the Swine-things had left me, long ago; but I was certainly nervous and astonished. Then, a sudden thought possessed me, and I raised the ponderous door, with a feeling of excitement. Leaving it standing upon its end, I seized the lantern, and, kneeling down, thrust it into the opening. As I did so, the moist wind and spray drove in my eyes, making me unable to see, for a few moments. Even when my eyes were clear, I could distinguish nothing below me, save darkness, and whirling spray. Another thought struck me. Were the creatures all drowned? Would they drown? I remembered how unable I had been to find any traces to show that my shooting had been really fatal. Had they life, as we understand life, or were they ghouls? These thoughts flashed through my brain, as I stood in the dark, searching my pockets for matches. I had the box in my hand now, and, striking a light, I stepped to the trap door, and closed it. Then, I piled the stones back upon it; after which, I made my way out from the cellars. This idea of some intangible force being exerted, may seem reasonless. Yet, my instinct warns me, that it is not so. In these things, reason seems to me less to be trusted than instinct. For a considerable period after the last incident which I have narrated in my diary, I had serious thoughts of leaving this house, and might have done so; but for the great and wonderful thing, of which I am about to write. How well I was advised, in my heart, when I stayed on here--spite of those visions and sights of unknown and unexplainable things; for, had I not stayed, then I had not seen again the face of her I loved. Yes, though few know it, none now save my sister Mary, I have loved and, ah! me--lost. I would write down the story of those sweet, old days; but it would be like the tearing of old wounds; yet, after that which has happened, what need have I to care? For she has come to me out of the unknown. Strangely, she warned me; warned me passionately against this house; begged me to leave it; but admitted, when I questioned her, that she could not have come to me, had I been elsewhere. Yet, in spite of this, still she warned me, earnestly; telling me that it was a place, long ago given over to evil, and under the power of grim laws, of which none here have knowledge. And I--I just asked her, again, whether she would come to me elsewhere, and she could only stand, silent. It was thus, that I came to the place of the Sea of Sleep--so she termed it, in her dear speech with me. I had stayed up, in my study, reading; and must have dozed over the book. Suddenly, I awoke and sat upright, with a start. For a moment, I looked 'round, with a puzzled sense of something unusual. There was a misty look about the room, giving a curious softness to each table and chair and furnishing. Gradually, the mistiness increased; growing, as it were, out of nothing. Then, slowly, a soft, white light began to glow in the room. The flames of the candles shone through it, palely. I looked from side to side, and found that I could still see each piece of furniture; but in a strangely unreal way, more as though the ghost of each table and chair had taken the place of the solid article. Gradually, as I looked, I saw them fade and fade; until, slowly, they resolved into nothingness. Now, I looked again at the candles. They shone wanly, and, even as I watched, grew more unreal, and so vanished. The room was filled, now, with a soft, yet luminous, white twilight, like a gentle mist of light. Beyond this, I could see nothing. Even the walls had vanished. Overhead, the sky was of a uniform cold grey color--the whole place being lit by a stupendous globe of pale fire, that swam a little above the far horizon, and shed a foamlike light above the quiet waters. Beyond the gentle murmur of the sea, an intense stillness prevailed. For a long while, I stayed there, looking out across its strangeness. Then, as I stared, it seemed that a bubble of white foam floated up out of the depths, and then, even now I know not how it was, I was looking upon, nay, looking _into_ the face of Her--aye! into her face--into her soul; and she looked back at me, with such a commingling of joy and sadness, that I ran toward her, blindly; crying strangely to her, in a very agony of remembrance, of terror, and of hope, to come to me. Yet, spite of my crying, she stayed out there upon the sea, and only shook her head, sorrowfully; but, in her eyes was the old earth-light of tenderness, that I had come to know, before all things, ere we were parted. (_The legible portions of the mutilated leaves_.) through tears noise of eternity in my ears, we parted She whom I love. O, my God ! nearer with great speed. I saw the radiances of Jupiter and Saturn, spinning, with incredible swiftness, in huge orbits. And ever I drew more nigh, and looked out upon this strange sight--the visible circling of the planets about the mother sun. It was as though time had been annihilated for me; so that a year was no more to my unfleshed spirit, than is a moment to an earth-bound soul. The speed of the planets, appeared to increase; and, presently, I was watching the sun, all ringed about with hair-like circles of different fire--the paths of the planets, hurtling at mighty speed, about the central flame THE NOISE IN THE NIGHT And now, I come to the strangest of all the strange happenings that have befallen me in this house of mysteries. It occurred quite lately--within the month; and I have little doubt but that what I saw was in reality the end of all things. However, to my story. I do not know how it is; but, up to the present, I have never been able to write these things down, directly they happened. It is as though I have to wait a time, recovering my just balance, and digesting--as it were--the things I have heard or seen. No doubt, this is as it should be; for, by waiting, I see the incidents more truly, and write of them in a calmer and more judicial frame of mind. This by the way. Gradually, the whirring noise decreased, and there came a long silence. To the West, I saw the sun, drop with an incredible, smooth, swift motion. Eastward, the shadows of every seen thing crept toward the coming greyness. And the movement of the shadows was visible to me--a stealthy, writhing creep of the shadows of the wind-stirred trees. It was a strange sight. About this time, the buzzing in the corner ceased; telling me that the clock had run down. A few minutes passed, and I saw the Eastward sky lighten. A grey, sullen morning spread through all the darkness, and hid the march of the stars. Overhead, there moved, with a heavy, everlasting rolling, a vast, seamless sky of grey clouds--a cloud-sky that would have seemed motionless, through all the length of an ordinary earth-day. The sun was hidden from me; but, from moment to moment, the world would brighten and darken, brighten and darken, beneath waves of subtle light and shadow The light shifted ever Westward, and the night fell upon the earth. A vast rain seemed to come with it, and a wind of a most extraordinary loudness--as though the howling of a nightlong gale, were packed into the space of no more than a minute. Thus matters were; and, even after the many incredible things that I have seen, I experienced all the time a most profound awe. To see the sun rise and set, within a space of time to be measured by seconds; to watch (after a little) the moon leap--a pale, and ever growing orb--up into the night sky, and glide, with a strange swiftness, through the vast arc of blue; and, presently, to see the sun follow, springing out of the Eastern sky, as though in chase; and then again the night, with the swift and ghostly passing of starry constellations, was all too much to view believingly. Yet, so it was--the day slipping from dawn to dusk, and the night sliding swiftly into day, ever rapidly and more rapidly. Faster and faster, spun the world. And now each day and night was completed within the space of but a few seconds; and still the speed increased. So, amid a strange confusion of mind, the hours passed. All this while had Pepper slept. Presently, feeling lonely and distraught, I called to him, softly; but he took no notice. Again, I called, raising my voice slightly; still he moved not. I walked over to where he lay, and touched him with my foot, to rouse him. At the action, gentle though it was, he fell to pieces. That is what happened; he literally and actually crumbled into a mouldering heap of bones and dust. Outside, the weaving, fluttering light held the world. Inside, I stood, trying to understand what it meant--what that little pile of dust and dry bones, on the carpet, meant. But I could not think, coherently. I turned away, and tottered to the window. I knew, now, that I was old, and the knowledge seemed to confirm my trembling walk. For a little space, I stared moodily out into the blurred vista of changeful landscape. Even in that short time, a year passed, and, with a petulant gesture, I left the window. As I did so, I noticed that my hand shook with the palsy of old age; and a short sob choked its way through my lips. The flicker of the days and nights quickened. The days had grown perceptibly darker, and a queer quality of dusk lay, as it were, in the atmosphere. The nights were so much lighter, that the stars were scarcely to be seen, saving here and there an occasional hair-like line of fire, that seemed to sway a little, with the moon. Quicker, and ever quicker, ran the flicker of day and night; and, suddenly it seemed, I was aware that the flicker had died out, and, instead, there reigned a comparatively steady light, which was shed upon all the world, from an eternal river of flame that swung up and down, North and South, in stupendous, mighty swings. The sky was now grown very much darker, and there was in the blue of it a heavy gloom, as though a vast blackness peered through it upon the earth. Yet, there was in it, also, a strange and awful clearness, and emptiness. Periodically, I had glimpses of a ghostly track of fire that swayed thin and darkly toward the sun-stream; vanished and reappeared. It was the scarcely visible moon-stream. Looking out at the landscape, I was conscious again, of a blurring sort of 'flitter,' that came either from the light of the ponderous-swinging sun-stream, or was the result of the incredibly rapid changes of the earth's surface. And every few moments, so it seemed, the snow would lie suddenly upon the world, and vanish as abruptly, as though an invisible giant 'flitted' a white sheet off and on the earth. By the opposite wall, I came to a weak pause, and wondered, dimly, what was my intent. I looked to my left, and saw my old chair. The thought of sitting in it brought a faint sense of comfort to my bewildered wretchedness. Yet, because I was so weary and old and tired, I would scarcely brace my mind to do anything but stand, and wish myself past those few yards. I rocked, as I stood. The floor, even, seemed a place for rest; but the dust lay so thick and sleepy and black. I turned, with a great effort of will, and made toward my chair. I reached it, with a groan of thankfulness. I sat down. I awoke, with a start. For a moment, I wondered where I was. Then memory came to me As I peered out, there came to me a sudden, inconsequent memory of that last journey among the Outer worlds. I remembered the sudden vision that had come to me, as I neared the Solar System, of the fast whirling planets about the sun--as though the governing quality of time had been held in abeyance, and the Machine of a Universe allowed to run down an eternity, in a few moments or hours. The memory passed, along with a, but partially comprehended, suggestion that I had been permitted a glimpse into further time spaces. I stared out again, seemingly, at the quake of the sun-stream. The speed seemed to increase, even as I looked. Several lifetimes came and went, as I watched. Suddenly, it struck me, with a sort of grotesque seriousness, that I was still alive. I thought of Pepper, and wondered how it was that I had not followed his fate. He had reached the time of his dying, and had passed, probably through sheer length of years. And here was I, alive, hundreds of thousands of centuries after my rightful period of years. Presently, I turned from the window, and glanced 'round the room. It seemed different--strangely, utterly different. Then, I knew what it was that made it appear so strange. It was bare: there was not a piece of furniture in the room; not even a solitary fitting of any sort. Gradually, my amazement went, as I remembered, that this was but the inevitable end of that process of decay, which I had witnessed commencing, before my sleep. Thousands of years! Millions of years! Gradually, an idea began to form itself within my brain; a thought that shook my spirit. It seemed hideous and insupportable; yet it grew upon me, steadily, until it became a conviction. The body under that coating, that shroud of dust, was neither more nor less than my own dead shell. I did not attempt to prove it. I knew it now, and wondered I had not known it all along. I was a bodiless thing. Awhile, I stood, trying to adjust my thoughts to this new problem. In time--how many thousands of years, I know not--I attained to some degree of quietude--sufficient to enable me to pay attention to what was transpiring around me. Now, I saw that the elongated mound had sunk, collapsed, level with the rest of the spreading dust. And fresh atoms, impalpable, had settled above that mixture of grave-powder, which the aeons had ground. A long while, I stood, turned from the window. Gradually, I grew more collected, while the world slipped across the centuries into the future. From the sky, I glanced down to the gardens. They were just a blur of a palish, dirty green. I had a feeling that they stood higher, than in the old days; a feeling that they were nearer my window, as though they had risen, bodily. Yet, they were still a long way below me; for the rock, over the mouth of the pit, on which this house stands, arches up to a great height. It was later, that I noticed a change in the constant color of the gardens. The pale, dirty green was growing ever paler and paler, toward white. At last, after a great space, they became greyish-white, and stayed thus for a very long time. Finally, however, the greyness began to fade, even as had the green, into a dead white. And this remained, constant and unchanged. And by this I knew that, at last, snow lay upon all the Northern world. And so, by millions of years, time winged onward through eternity, to the end--the end, of which, in the old-earth days, I had thought remotely, and in hazily speculative fashion. And now, it was approaching in a manner of which none had ever dreamed. I recollect that, about this time, I began to have a lively, though morbid, curiosity, as to what would happen when the end came--but I seemed strangely without imaginings. All this while, the steady process of decay was continuing. The few remaining pieces of glass, had long ago vanished; and, every now and then, a soft thud, and a little cloud of rising dust, would tell of some fragment of fallen mortar or stone. So, I watched through the fleeting ages, lost in soul-wearing thoughts and wonderings, and possessed with a new weariness. THE SLOWING ROTATION Although the light was decreasing, I could perceive no diminishment in the apparent speed of the sun. It still spread itself in that dazzling veil of speed. The world, so much of it as I could see, had assumed a dreadful shade of gloom, as though, in very deed, the last day of the worlds approached. The sun was dying; of that there could be little doubt; and still the earth whirled onward, through space and all the aeons. At this time, I remember, an extraordinary sense of bewilderment took me. I found myself, later, wandering, mentally, amid an odd chaos of fragmentary modern theories and the old Biblical story of the world's ending. Gradually, as time fled, I began to feel the chill of a great winter. Then, I remembered that, with the sun dying, the cold must be, necessarily, extraordinarily intense. Slowly, slowly, as the aeons slipped into eternity, the earth sank into a heavier and redder gloom. The dull flame in the firmament took on a deeper tint, very somber and turbid. Slowly, the likeness to a sheet of fire, disappeared, and I saw, plainly, the slowing beat of the sun-stream. Yet, even then, the speed of its swing was inconceivably swift. And all the time, the brightness of the fiery arc grew ever duller. Underneath, the world loomed dimly--an indistinct, ghostly region. Overhead, the river of flame swayed slower, and even slower; until, at last, it swung to the North and South in great, ponderous beats, that lasted through seconds. A long space went by, and now each sway of the great belt lasted nigh a minute; so that, after a great while, I ceased to distinguish it as a visible movement; and the streaming fire ran in a steady river of dull flame, across the deadly-looking sky. Year after year flashed into the past, and the days and nights spread into minutes. The sun had ceased to have the appearance of a tail; and now rose and set--a tremendous globe of a glowing copper-bronze hue; in parts ringed with blood-red bands; in others, with the dusky ones, that I have already mentioned. These circles--both red and black--were of varying thicknesses. For a time, I was at a loss to account for their presence. Then it occurred to me, that it was scarcely likely that the sun would cool evenly all over; and that these markings were due, probably, to differences in temperature of the various areas; the red representing those parts where the heat was still fervent, and the black those portions which were already comparatively cool. It struck me, as a peculiar thing, that the sun should cool in evenly defined rings; until I remembered that, possibly, they were but isolated patches, to which the enormous rotatory speed of the sun had imparted a belt-like appearance. The sun, itself, was very much greater than the sun I had known in the old-world days; and, from this, I argued that it was considerably nearer. It was only now, that I recognized how really great had been the snowfall. In places it was vastly deep, as was witnessed by a great, upleaping, wave-shaped hill, away to my right; though it is not impossible, that this was due, in part, to some rise in the surface of the ground. Strangely enough, the range of low hills to my left--already mentioned--was not entirely covered with the universal snow; instead, I could see their bare, dark sides showing in several places. And everywhere and always there reigned an incredible death-silence and desolation. The immutable, awful quiet of a dying world. Away to the North, I could discern a nebulous sort of mistiness; not unlike, in appearance, a small portion of the Milky Way. It might have been an extremely remote star-cluster; or--the thought came to me suddenly--perhaps it was the sidereal universe that I had known, and now left far behind, forever--a small, dimly glowing mist of stars, far in the depths of space. Still, the days and nights lengthened, slowly. Each time, the sun rose duller than it had set. And the dark belts increased in breadth. And all the earth was silent. And there was a cold, such as no living man can ever have known. The earth was now illuminated, by day, with a most doleful light, beyond my power to describe. It seemed as though I looked at the great plain, through the medium of a bronze-tinted sea. It was evident that the earth's rotatory movement was departing, steadily. Gradually, even this thread of light died out; and now, all that was left of our great and glorious sun, was a vast dead disk, rimmed with a thin circle of bronze-red light. There was no night-sky, as we know it. Even the few straggling stars had vanished, conclusively. I might have been in a shuttered room, without a light; for all that I could see. Only, in the impalpableness of gloom, opposite, burnt that vast, encircling hair of dull fire. Beyond this, there was no ray in all the vastitude of night that surrounded me; save that, far in the North, that soft, mistlike glow still shone. Long before this, the smoldering edge of the sun had deadened into blackness. And so, in that supremely future time, the world, dark and intensely silent, rode on its gloomy orbit around the ponderous mass of the dead sun. With this feeling, there came a wonderful clearness of thought, and I realized, despairingly, that the world might wander for ever, through that enormous night. For a while, the unwholesome idea filled me, with a sensation of overbearing desolation; so that I could have cried like a child. In time, however, this feeling grew, almost insensibly, less, and an unreasoning hope possessed me. Patiently, I waited. For a very long space, I watched, without experiencing any of the desire for sleep, that would so soon have visited me in the old-earth days. How I should have welcomed it; if only to have passed the time, away from my perplexities and thoughts. Under all this, there grew up within my mind, a great and overwhelming distress of uneasiness, that left me, but to drop me into an uncomfortable brooding. I felt that I must fight against it; and, presently, hoping to distract my thoughts, I turned to the window, and looked up toward the North, in search of the nebulous whiteness, which, still, I believed to be the far and misty glowing of the universe we had left. Even as I raised my eyes, I was thrilled with a feeling of wonder; for, now, the hazy light had resolved into a single, great star, of vivid green. As I stared, astonished, the thought flashed into my mind; that the earth must be traveling toward the star; not away, as I had imagined. Next, that it could not be the universe the earth had left; but, possibly, an outlying star, belonging to some vast star-cluster, hidden in the enormous depths of space. With a sense of commingled awe and curiosity, I watched it, wondering what new thing was to be revealed to me. Slowly, but surely, the star grew upon my vision, until, in time, it shone as brightly as had the planet Jupiter, in the old-earth days. With increased size, its color became more impressive; reminding me of a huge emerald, scintillating rays of fire across the world. Years fled away in silence, and the green star grew into a great splash of flame in the sky. A little later, I saw a thing that filled me with amazement. It was the ghostly outline of a vast crescent, in the night; a gigantic new moon, seeming to be growing out of the surrounding gloom. Utterly bemused, I stared at it. It appeared to be quite close--comparatively; and I puzzled to understand how the earth had come so near to it, without my having seen it before. Gradually, as the earth traveled forward, the star fell still more to the right; until, at last, it shone on the back of the house, sending a flood of broken rays, in through the skeleton-like walls. Glancing upward, I saw that much of the ceiling had vanished, enabling me to see that the upper storeys were even more decayed. The roof had, evidently, gone entirely; and I could see the green effulgence of the Starlight shining in, slantingly. THE END OF THE SOLAR SYSTEM Years appeared to pass, slowly. The earth had almost reached the center of the sun's disk. The light from the Green _Sun_--as now it must be called--shone through the interstices, that gapped the mouldered walls of the old house, giving them the appearance of being wrapped in green flames. The Swine-creatures still crawled about the walls. Suddenly, there rose a loud roar of swine-voices, and, up from the center of the roofless house, shot a vast column of blood-red flame. I saw the little, twisted towers and turrets flash into fire; yet still preserving their twisted crookedness. The beams of the Green Sun, beat upon the house, and intermingled with its lurid glows; so that it appeared a blazing furnace of red and green fire. In a while, I looked 'round. The huge bulk of the sun, rose high above me. The distance between it and the earth, grew rapidly less. Suddenly, the earth appeared to shoot forward. In a moment, it had traversed the space between it and the sun. I heard no sound; but, out from the sun's face, gushed an ever-growing tongue of dazzling flame. It seemed to leap, almost to the distant Green Sun--shearing through the emerald light, a very cataract of blinding fire. It reached its limit, and sank; and, on the sun, glowed a vast splash of burning white--the grave of the earth. The sun was very close to me, now. Presently, I found that I was rising higher; until, at last, I rode above it, in the emptiness. The Green Sun was now so huge that its breadth seemed to fill up all the sky, ahead. I looked down, and noted that the sun was passing directly beneath me. I glanced toward the diminishing sun. It showed, only as a dark blot on the face of the Green Sun. As I watched, I saw it grow smaller, steadily, as though rushing toward the superior orb, at an immense speed. Intently, I stared. What would happen? I was conscious of extraordinary emotions, as I realized that it would strike the Green Sun. It grew no bigger than a pea, and I looked, with my whole soul, to witness the final end of our System--that system which had borne the world through so many aeons, with its multitudinous sorrows and joys; and now- Suddenly, something crossed my vision, cutting from sight all vestige of the spectacle I watched with such soul-interest. What happened to the dead sun, I did not see; but I have no reason--in the light of that which I saw afterward--to disbelieve that it fell into the strange fire of the Green Sun, and so perished. And then, suddenly, an extraordinary question rose in my mind, whether this stupendous globe of green fire might not be the vast Central Sun--the great sun, 'round which our universe and countless others revolve. I felt confused. I thought of the probable end of the dead sun, and another suggestion came, dumbly--Do the dead stars make the Green Sun their grave? The idea appealed to me with no sense of grotesqueness; but rather as something both possible and probable. THE CELESTIAL GLOBES For a while, many thoughts crowded my mind, so that I was unable to do aught, save stare, blindly, before me. I seemed whelmed in a sea of doubt and wonder and sorrowful remembrance. For a long time, I waited, passively, with a sense of growing content. I had no longer that feeling of unutterable loneliness; but felt, rather, that I was less alone, than I had been for kalpas of years. This feeling of contentment, increased, so that I would have been satisfied to float in company with those celestial globules, forever. Ages slipped by, and I saw the shadowy faces, with increased frequency, also with greater plainness. Whether this was due to my soul having become more attuned to its surroundings, I cannot tell--probably it was so. But, however this may be, I am assured now, only of the fact that I became steadily more conscious of a new mystery about me, telling me that I had, indeed, penetrated within the borderland of some unthought-of region--some subtle, intangible place, or form, of existence. The enormous stream of luminous spheres continued to pass me, at an unvarying rate--countless millions; and still they came, showing no signs of ending, nor even diminishing. For a little, I gazed, and could scarcely believe I saw aright. I glanced 'round. There was the great globe of pale fire, swimming, as I had seen it before, a short distance above the dim horizon. To my left, far across the sea, I discovered, presently, a faint line, as of thin haze, which I guessed to be the shore, where my Love and I had met, during those wonderful periods of soul-wandering, that had been granted to me in the old earth days. Another, a troubled, memory came to me--of the Formless Thing that had haunted the shores of the Sea of Sleep. The guardian of that silent, echoless place. These, and other, details, I remembered, and knew, without doubt that I was looking out upon that same sea. With the assurance, I was filled with an overwhelming feeling of surprise, and joy, and shaken expectancy, conceiving it possible that I was about to see my Love, again. Intently, I gazed around; but could catch no sight of her. At that, for a little, I felt hopeless. Fervently, I prayed, and ever peered, anxiously How still was the sea! My thoughts came back with a leap. I was conscious that something had touched me. I turned quickly. God, Thou wert indeed gracious--it was She! She looked up into my eyes, with an eager longing, and I looked down to her, with all my soul. I should like to have held her; but the glorious purity of her face, kept me afar. Then, out of the winding mist, she put her dear arms. Her whisper came to me, soft as the rustle of a passing cloud. 'Dearest!' she said. That was all; but I had heard, and, in a moment I held her to me--as I prayed--forever. She and I; and nothing, save the silent, spacious void to see us; and only the quiet waters of the Sea of Sleep to hear us. Long before, the floating multitude of cloud-enfolded spheres had vanished into nothingness. Thus, we looked upon the face of the slumberous deeps, and were alone. Alone, God, I would be thus alone in the hereafter, and yet be never lonely! I had her, and, greater than this, she had me. Aye, aeon-aged me; and on this thought, and some others, I hope to exist through the few remaining years that may yet lie between us. How swiftly the darkness spread across the face of the White Orb. Yet, in reality, the time must have been long, beyond human comprehension. At last, only a crescent of pale fire, lit the, now dim, Sea of Sleep. All this while, she had held me; but, with so soft a caress, that I had been scarcely conscious of it. We waited there, together, she and I; speechless, for very sorrow. In the dimming light, her face showed, shadowy--blending into the dusky mistiness that encircled us. A long time, I mused on the subject. I remembered how, on entering the sphere, I had, immediately, lost all sight of the others. For a still further period, I continued to revolve the different details in my mind. The discovery of these rays, and the moving sparks, interested me, extraordinarily. To where did they lead, in such countless profusion? I thought of the worlds in space And those sparks! Messengers! Possibly, the idea was fantastic; but I was not conscious of its being so. Messengers! Messengers from the Central Sun! An idea evolved itself, slowly. Was the Green Sun the abode of some vast Intelligence? The thought was bewildering. Visions of the Unnameable rose, vaguely. Had I, indeed, come upon the dwelling-place of the Eternal? For a time, I repelled the thought, dumbly. It was too stupendous. Yet Huge, vague thoughts had birth within me. I felt, suddenly, terribly naked. And an awful Nearness, shook me. And Heaven ! Was that an illusion? My thoughts came and went, erratically. The Sea of Sleep--and she! Heaven I came back, with a bound, to the present. Somewhere, out of the void behind me, there rushed an immense, dark body--huge and silent. It was a dead star, hurling onward to the burying place of the stars. It drove between me and the Central Suns--blotting them out from my vision, and plunging me into an impenetrable night. An age, and I saw again the violet rays. A great while later--aeons it must have been--a circular glow grew in the sky, ahead, and I saw the edge of the receding star, show darkly against it. Thus, I knew that it was nearing the Central Suns. Presently, I saw the bright ring of the Green Sun, show plainly against the night The star had passed into the shadow of the Dead Sun. After that, I just waited. The strange years went slowly, and ever, I watched, intently. 'The thing I had expected, came at last--suddenly, awfully. A vast flare of dazzling light. A streaming burst of white flame across the dark void. For an indefinite while, it soared outward--a gigantic mushroom of fire. It ceased to grow. Then, as time went by, it began to sink backward, slowly. I saw, now, that it came from a huge, glowing spot near the center of the Dark Sun. Mighty flames, still soared outward from this. Yet, spite of its size, the grave of the star was no more than the shining of Jupiter upon the face of an ocean, when compared with the inconceivable mass of the Dead Sun. Years melted into the past, centuries, aeons. The light of the incandescent star, sank to a furious red. The green twilight that had reigned for so many millions of years, had now given place to impenetrable gloom. Motionless, I peered about me. A century fled, and it seemed to me that I detected occasional dull glows of red, passing me at intervals. Earnestly, I gazed, and, presently, seemed to see circular masses, that showed muddily red, within the clouded blackness. They appeared to be growing out of the nebulous murk. Awhile, and they became plainer to my accustomed vision. I could see them, now, with a fair amount of distinctness--ruddy-tinged spheres, similar, in size, to the luminous globes that I had seen, so long previously. They floated past me, continually. Gradually, a peculiar uneasiness seized me. I became aware of a growing feeling of repugnance and dread. It was directed against those passing orbs, and seemed born of intuitive knowledge, rather than of any real cause or reason. A long time went by, and I became aware that I was nearer to the orbs, than I had been. At this, I grew uneasy; though I was less in fear of those strange globules, than I had been, before seeing their sorrowful inhabitants; for sympathy had tempered my fear. Though I could see the crests of the mountain-amphitheatre, yet it was a great while before their lower portions became visible. Possibly, this was due to the strange, ruddy haze, that seemed to cling to the surface of the Plain. However, be this as it may, I saw them at last. In a still further space of time, I had come so close to the mountains, that they appeared to overhang me. Presently, I saw the great rift, open before me, and I drifted into it; without volition on my part. Far to my right, away up among inaccessible peaks, loomed the enormous bulk of the great Beast-god. Higher, I saw the hideous form of the dread goddess, rising up through the red gloom, thousands of fathoms above me. To the left, I made out the monstrous Eyeless-Thing, grey and inscrutable. Further off, reclining on its lofty ledge, the livid Ghoul-Shape showed--a splash of sinister color, among the dark mountains. Slowly, I moved out across the great arena--floating. As I went, I made out the dim forms of many of the other lurking Horrors that peopled those supreme heights. Gradually, I neared the House, and my thoughts flashed back across the abyss of years. I remembered the dread Specter of the Place. A short while passed, and I saw that I was being wafted directly toward the enormous mass of that silent building. About this time, I became aware, in an indifferent sort of way, of a growing sense of numbness, that robbed me of the fear, which I should otherwise have felt, on approaching that awesome Pile. As it was, I viewed it, calmly--much as a man views calamity through the haze of his tobacco smoke. In a little while, I had come so close to the House, as to be able to distinguish many of the details about it. The longer I looked, the more was I confirmed in my long-ago impressions of its entire similitude to this strange house. Save in its enormous size, I could find nothing unlike. Suddenly, as I stared, a great feeling of amazement filled me. I had come opposite to that part, where the outer door, leading into the study, is situated. There, lying right across the threshold, lay a great length of coping stone, identical--save in size and color--with the piece I had dislodged in my fight with the Pit-creatures. Now, however, it began to be borne upon me, that I had but vaguely conceived what the realization of my suspicion meant. I began to understand, with a more than human clearness, that the attack I had repelled, was, in some extraordinary manner, connected with an attack upon that strange edifice. For a while, I seemed to hang, motionless; suspended amid the darkness. Then, I became conscious that I was moving again; where, I could not tell. Suddenly, far down beneath me, I seemed to hear a murmurous noise of Swine-laughter. It sank away, and the succeeding silence appeared clogged with horror. I was seated in my chair, back again in this old study. My glance wandered 'round the room. For a minute, it had a strange, quivery appearance--unreal and unsubstantial. This disappeared, and I saw that nothing was altered in any way. I looked toward the end window--the blind was up. I rose to my feet, shakily. As I did so, a slight noise, in the direction of the door, attracted my attention. I glanced toward it. For a short instant, it appeared to me that it was being closed, gently. I stared, and saw that I must have been mistaken--it seemed closely shut. With a succession of efforts, I trod my way to the window, and looked out. The sun was just rising, lighting up the tangled wilderness of gardens. For, perhaps, a minute, I stood, and stared. I passed my hand, confusedly, across my forehead. Presently, amid the chaos of my senses, a sudden thought came to me; I turned, quickly, and called to Pepper. There was no answer, and I stumbled across the room, in a quick access of fear. As I went, I tried to frame his name; but my lips were numb. I reached the table, and stooped down to him, with a catching at my heart. He was lying in the shadow of the table, and I had not been able to see him, distinctly, from the window. Now, as I stooped, I took my breath, shortly. There was no Pepper; instead, I was reaching toward an elongated, little heap of grey, ashlike dust THE FOOTSTEPS IN THE GARDEN I was much engrossed in my work, and the time passed, quickly. Suddenly, I heard a soft noise on the path, outside in the garden--pad, pad, pad, it went, with a stealthy, curious sound. I sat upright, with a quick movement, and looked out through the opened door. Again the noise came--pad, pad, pad. It appeared to be approaching. With a slight feeling of nervousness, I stared into the gardens; but the night hid everything. Then the dog gave a long howl, and I started. For a minute, perhaps, I peered, intently; but could hear nothing. After a little, I picked up the pen, which I had laid down, and recommenced my work. The nervous feeling had gone; for I imagined that the sound I had heard, was nothing more than the dog walking 'round his kennel, at the length of his chain. 'Curse that dog!' I muttered, noting what I had done. Then, even as I said the words, there sounded again that queer--pad, pad, pad. It was horribly close--almost by the door, I thought. I knew, now, that it could not be the dog; his chain would not allow him to come so near. The dog's growl came again, and I noted, subconsciously, the taint of fear in it. Outside, on the windowsill, I could see Tip, my sister's pet cat. As I looked, it sprang to its feet, its tail swelling, visibly. For an instant it stood thus; seeming to stare, fixedly, at something, in the direction of the door. Then, quickly, it began to back along the sill; until, reaching the wall at the end, it could go no further. There it stood, rigid, as though frozen in an attitude of extraordinary terror. Suddenly, from the cat, there came a fierce, long screech. I glanced, jerkily, in its direction--Something, luminous and ghostly, encircled it, and grew upon my vision. It resolved into a glowing hand, transparent, with a lambent, greenish flame flickering over it. The cat gave a last, awful caterwaul, and I saw it smoke and blaze. My breath came with a gasp, and I leant against the wall. Over that part of the window there spread a smudge, green and fantastic. It hid the thing from me, though the glare of fire shone through, dully. A stench of burning, stole into the room. Pad, pad, pad--Something passed down the garden path, and a faint, mouldy odor seemed to come in through the open door, and mingle with the burnt smell. The dog had been silent for a few moments. Now, I heard him yowl, sharply, as though in pain. Then, he was quiet, save for an occasional, subdued whimper of fear. A minute went by; then the gate on the West side of the gardens, slammed, distantly. After that, nothing; not even the dog's whine. Slowly, my life came back into me, and I made my way, shakily, up-stairs to bed. THE THING FROM THE ARENA This morning, early, I went through the gardens; but found everything as usual. Near the door, I examined the path, for footprints; yet, here again, there was nothing to tell me whether, or not, I dreamed last night. 'Poor brute!' I muttered, and bent to pat his head. At that, he got upon his feet, nosing and licking my hand, wistfully. Presently, I left him, having other matters to which to attend. After dinner, I went to see him, again. He seemed quiet, and disinclined to leave his kennel. From my sister, I have learnt that he has refused all food today. She appeared a little puzzled, when she told me; though quite unsuspicious of anything of which to be afraid. The day has passed, uneventfully enough. After tea, I went, again, to have a look at the dog. He seemed moody, and somewhat restless; yet persisted in remaining in his kennel. Before locking up, for the night, I moved his kennel out, away from the wall, so that I shall be able to watch it from the small window, tonight. The thought came to me, to bring him into the house for the night; but consideration has decided me, to let him remain out. I cannot say that the house is, in any degree, less to be feared than the gardens. Pepper was in the house, and yet During the night, I was restless. This is unusual for me; but, toward morning, I obtained a few hours' sleep. I rose early, and, after breakfast, visited the dog. He was quiet; but morose, and refused to leave his kennel. I wish there was some horse doctor near here; I would have the poor brute looked to. All day, he has taken no food; but has shown an evident desire for water--lapping it up, greedily. I was relieved to observe this. The evening has come, and I am in my study. I intend to follow my plan of last night, and watch the kennel. The door, leading into the garden, is bolted, securely. I am consciously glad there are bars to the windows Suddenly, I hear a sound, out in the gardens. How it thrills through me. It is approaching. Pad, pad, pad. A prickly sensation traverses my spine, and seems to creep across my scalp. The dog moves in his kennel, and whimpers, frightenedly. He must have turned 'round; for, now, I can no longer see the outline of his shining wound. An uncertain period of time passes, and, gradually, I begin to shake off the feeling of terror, that has possessed me. Yet, still I sit. I seem to have lost the power of movement. I am strangely tired, and inclined to doze. My eyes open and close, and, presently, I find myself falling asleep, and waking, in fits and starts. Suddenly, although there is no noise, I am awake--wide awake. I am acutely conscious of the nearness of some mystery, of some overwhelming Presence. The very air seems pregnant with terror. I sit huddled, and just listen, intently. Still, there is no sound. Nature, herself, seems dead. Then, the oppressive stillness is broken by a little eldritch scream of wind, that sweeps 'round the house, and dies away, remotely. A fresh horror has come to me. I am rising from my chair, without the least intention. I am on my feet, and something is impelling me toward the door that leads out into the gardens. I wish to stop; but cannot. Some immutable power is opposed to my will, and I go slowly forward, unwilling and resistant. My glance flies 'round the room, helplessly, and stops at the window. The great swine-face has disappeared, and I hear, again, that stealthy pad, pad, pad. It stops outside the door--the door toward which I am being compelled There succeeds a short, intense silence; then there comes a sound. It is the rattle of the latch, being slowly lifted. At that, I am filled with desperation. I will not go forward another step. I make a vast effort to return; but it is, as though I press back, upon an invisible wall. I groan out loud, in the agony of my fear, and the sound of my voice is frightening. Again comes that rattle, and I shiver, clammily. I try--aye, fight and struggle, to hold back, _back_; but it is no use Reaching my bedroom, I clamber into bed, all clothed as I am, and pull the bedclothes over me. There, after awhile, I begin to regain a little confidence. It is impossible to sleep; but I am grateful for the added warmth of the bedclothes. Presently, I try to think over the happenings of the past night; but, though I cannot sleep, I find that it is useless, to attempt consecutive thought. My brain seems curiously blank. Toward morning, I begin to toss, uneasily. I cannot rest, and, after awhile, I get out of bed, and pace the floor. The wintry dawn is beginning to creep through the windows, and shows the bare discomfort of the old room. Strange, that, through all these years, it has never occurred to me how dismal the place really is. And so a time passes. After a time, I go to the window, and, opening it, look out. The sun is now above the horizon, and the air, though cold, is sweet and crisp. Gradually, my brain clears, and a sense of security, for the time being, comes to me. Somewhat happier, I go down stairs, and out into the garden, to have a look at the dog. In a little the poor beast rises, and shambles out lurching queerly. In the daylight he stands swaying from side to side, and blinking stupidly. I look and note that the horrid wound is larger, much larger, and seems to have a whitish, fungoid appearance. My sister moves to fondle him; but I detain her, and explain that I think it will be better not to go too near him for a few days; as it is impossible to tell what may be the matter with him; and it is well to be cautious. Hour after hour, I sit in the darkness and silence, and shiver, hopelessly The day has come and gone, and it is night again. I think I must have been dozing. I am very weak, and oh! so miserable, so miserable and tired--tired. The rustle of the paper, tries my brain. My hearing seems preternaturally sharp. I will sit awhile and think I put down the Manuscript, and glanced across at Tonnison: he was sitting, staring out into the dark. I waited a minute; then I spoke. He turned, slowly, and looked at me. His thoughts seemed to have gone out of him into a great distance. Tonnison stared at me, unseeingly, a moment; then, his wits came back to him, and, suddenly, he comprehended my question. After a few moments' silence, Tonnison rose, stiffly, and began to undress. He seemed disinclined to talk; so I said nothing; but followed his example. I was weary; though still full of the story I had just read. Somehow, as I rolled into my blankets, there crept into my mind a memory of the old gardens, as we had seen them. I remembered the odd fear that the place had conjured up in our hearts; and it grew upon me, with conviction, that Tonnison was right. It was very late when we rose--nearly midday; for the greater part of the night had been spent in reading the MS. Tonnison was grumpy, and I felt out of sorts. It was a somewhat dismal day, and there was a touch of chilliness in the air. There was no mention of going out fishing on either of our parts. We got dinner, and, after that, just sat and smoked in silence. Presently, Tonnison asked for the Manuscript: I handed it to him, and he spent most of the afternoon in reading it through by himself. Tonnison looked up. "Nothing!" he said, abruptly; and, somehow, I was less annoyed, than relieved, at his answer. After that, I left him alone. A little before teatime, he looked up at me, curiously. The next morning, we rose early, and went for our accustomed swim: we had partly shaken off the depression of the previous day; and so, took our rods when we had finished breakfast, and spent the day at our favorite sport. After that day, we enjoyed our holiday to the utmost; though both of us looked forward to the time when our driver should come; for we were tremendously anxious to inquire of him, and through him among the people of the tiny hamlet, whether any of them could give us information about that strange garden, lying away by itself in the heart of an almost unknown tract of country. "Look here," said Tonnison, finding that this was about all that he could tell us, "just take a walk 'round the village, while we dress, and find out something, if you can." With a nondescript salute, the man departed on his errand; while we made haste to get into our clothes; after which, we began to prepare breakfast. We were just sitting down to it, when he returned. "It's all in bed the lazy divvils is, sor," he said, with a repetition of the salute, and an appreciative eye to the good things spread out on our provision chest, which we utilized as a table. "Oh, well, sit down," replied my friend, "and have something to eat with us." Which the man did without delay. The years had moved onward, uneventfully enough, in that little hamlet; the man making his monthly journeys, regularly. This news, it appears, so excited the curiosity of the villagers, that they overcame their fears, and marched _en masse_ to the place. There, they found everything, just as described by the carrier. This was all that we could learn. Of the author of the MS., who he was, and whence he came, we shall never know. His identity is, as he seems to have desired, buried forever. That same day, we left the lonely village of Kraighten. We have never been there since. Sometimes, in my dreams, I see that enormous pit, surrounded, as it is, on all sides by wild trees and bushes. And the noise of the water rises upward, and blends--in my sleep--with other and lower noises; while, over all, hangs the eternal shroud of spray. Fierce hunger reigns within my breast, I had not dreamt that this whole world, Crushed in the hand of God, could yield Such bitter essence of unrest, Such pain as Sorrow now hath hurled Out of its dreadful heart, unsealed! Through the whole void of night I search, So dumbly crying out to thee; But thou are _not_; and night's vast throne Becomes an all stupendous church With star-bells knelling unto me Who in all space am most alone! An hungered, to the shore I creep, Perchance some comfort waits on me From the old Sea's eternal heart; But lo! from all the solemn deep, Far voices out of mystery Seem questioning why we are apart! End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The House on the Borderland by William Hope Hodgson	redpajama-book	25,507
This file was produced from images generously made available by the Bibliotheque nationale de France (BnF/Gallica) at ., carlo traverso, Charlie Kirschner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. MARY KING WADDINGTON I. WHEN MACMAHON WAS PRESIDENT II. IMPRESSIONS OF THE ASSEMBLY AT VERSAILLES III. M. WADDINGTON AS MINISTER OF PUBLIC INSTRUCTION IV. THE SOCIAL SIDE OF A MINISTER'S WIFE V. A REPUBLICAN VICTORY AND A NEW MINISTRY VI. THE EXPOSITION YEAR VII. THE BERLIN CONGRESS VIII. GAIETIES AT THE QUAI D'ORSAY IX. M. WADDINGTON AS PRIME MINISTER X. PARLIAMENT BACK IN PARIS XI. LAST DAYS AT THE FOREIGN OFFICE SITTING OF THE NATIONAL ASSEMBLY AT THE PALACE OF VERSAILLES THE FOYER OF THE OPERA MEETING OF OFFICERS OF THE NATIONAL ASSEMBLY, AND OF DELEGATES OF THE NEW CHAMBERS, IN THE SALON OF HERCULES, PALACE OF VERSAILLES PALACE OF THE MINISTER OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS, PARIS WILLIAM E. GLADSTONE NASR-ED-DIN, SHAH OF PERSIA M. JULES GREVY, READING MARSHAL MACMAHON'S LETTER OF RESIGNATION TO THE CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES M. JULES GREVY ELECTED PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC BY THE SENATE AND CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES MEETING AS THE NATIONAL ASSEMBLY THE ELYSEE PALACE, PARIS PRESIDENT SADI CARNOT WHEN MACMAHON WAS PRESIDENT [Illustration: Monsieur Theirs.] [Illustration: Marshal MacMahon.] IMPRESSIONS OF THE ASSEMBLY AT VERSAILLES The sittings of the assembly were very interesting in that wonderful year when everything was being discussed. All public interest of course was centred in Versailles, where the National Assembly was trying to establish some sort of stable government. There were endless discussions and speeches and very violent language in the Chambers. Gambetta made some bitter attacks on the Royalists, accusing them of mauvaise foi and want of patriotism. The Bonapartist leaders tried to persuade themselves and their friends that they still had a hold on the country and that a plebiscite would bring back in triumph their prince. The Legitimists, hoping against hope that the Comte de Chambord would still be the saviour of the country, made passionate appeals to the old feeling of loyalty in the nation, and the centre droit, representing the Orleanists, nervous, hesitating, knowing the position perfectly, ardently desiring a constitutional monarchy, but feeling that it was not possible at that moment, yet unwilling to commit themselves to a final declaration of the Republic, which would make a Royalist restoration impossible. All the Left confident, determined. [Illustration: The foyer of the Opera.] M. WADDINGTON AS MINISTER OF PUBLIC INSTRUCTION THE SOCIAL SIDE OF A MINISTER'S WIFE When it was decided that we should ask the Orleans princes to our party, I thought I would go to see the Duc Decazes, the foreign minister, a charming man and charming colleague, to get some precise information about my part of the entertainment. He couldn't think what I wanted when I invaded his cabinet, and was much amused when I stated my case. "There is nothing unusual in receiving the princes at a ministry. You must do as you have always done." "But that is just the question, I have _never done_. I have never in my life exchanged a word with a royal personage." "It is not possible!" "It is absolutely true; I have never lived anywhere where there was a court." "Your husband must always be at the door with his chef de cabinet, who will replace him while he takes the princess to her place." We often had political breakfasts at home (more breakfasts than dinners). Our Aisne deputies and senators were not very mondains, didn't care much to dine out. They were pleasant enough when they talked about subjects that interested them. Henri Martin, senator of the Aisne, was an old-fashioned Republican, absolutely convinced that no other government would ever succeed in France, but he was moderate. St. Vallier, also a senator from the Aisne, was nervous and easily discouraged when things didn't go smoothly, but he too thought the Republic was the only possible government now, whatever his preferences might have been formerly. [Illustration: Theodor Mommsen. From a painting by Franz von Lenbach.] W. said the marshal was very civil to him, but it was evident that he could not stand Jules Simon any longer and the various measures that he felt were impending. We had many visitors after breakfast, all much excited, wondering what the next step would be--if the Chambers would be dissolved, the marshal trying to impose a cabinet of the Right or perhaps form another moderate liberal cabinet without Jules Simon, but retaining some of his ministers. It was my reception afternoon, and while I was sitting quietly in my drawing-room talking to some of my friends, making plans for the summer, quite pleased to have W. to myself again, the butler hurried into the room telling me that the Marechale de MacMahon was on the stairs, coming to make me a visit. I was very much surprised, as she never came to see me. We met very rarely, except on official occasions, and she made no secret of her dislike to the official Republican ladies (but she was always absolutely correct if not enthusiastic). I had just time to get to the head of the stairs to receive her. She was very amiable, a little embarrassed, took a cup of tea--said the marshal was very sorry to part with W., he had never had any trouble or disagreement with him of any kind, but that it was impossible to go on with a cabinet when neither party had any confidence in the other. I quite agreed, said it was the fortunes of war; I hoped the marshal would find another premier who would be more sympathetic with him, and then we talked of other things. A REPUBLICAN VICTORY AND A NEW MINISTRY Freycinet was a great strength. He was absolutely Republican, but moderate--very clever and energetic, a great friend of Gambetta's--and a beautiful speaker. I have heard men say who didn't care about him particularly, and who were not at all of his way of thinking, that they would rather not discuss with him. He was sure to win them over to his cause with his wonderful, clear persuasive arguments. [Illustration: Palace of the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Paris.] [Illustration: Franz Liszt.] [Illustration: William E. Gladstone. From a photograph by Samuel A. Walker, London.] [Illustration: Lord Lyons.] My winter passed pleasantly enough; I began to feel more at home in my new quarters, and saw many interesting people of all kinds. Every now and then there would be a very lively debate in the Parliament. W. would come home very late, saying things couldn't go on like that, and we would surely be out of office in a few weeks. We always kept our house in the rue Dumont d'Urville, and I went over every week, often thinking that in a few days we should be back there again. When we finally got to the table I found myself on the marshal's left--Mrs. Grant was on his right. The marshal neither spoke nor understood English. Mrs. Grant spoke no French, so the conversation didn't seem likely to be very animated. After a few moments Mrs. Grant naturally wished to say something to her host and she addressed him in English. "Mr. President, I am so happy to be in your beautiful country," then the marshal to me: "Madame Waddington je vous en prie, dites a Madame Grant que je ne puis pas repondre; je ne comprends pas l'anglais; je ne puis pas parler avec elle." "Mrs. Grant, the marshal begs me to say to you that he regrets not being able to talk with you, but unfortunately he does not understand English." Then there was a pause and Mrs. Grant began again: "What a beautiful palace, Mr. President. It must be delightful with that charming garden." Again the marshal to me: "Mais je vous en prie Madame, dites a Madame Grant que je ne puis pas causer avec elle. Il ne faut pas qu'elle me parle, je ne comprends pas." "Mrs. Grant, the marshal is distressed that he cannot talk to you, but he _really_ does not understand any English." It was very trying for Mrs. Grant. Happily her other neighbour knew a little English and she could talk to him, but all through dinner, at intervals, she began again at the marshal. [Illustration: Prince Hohenlohe. After the painting by F.E. Laszlo.] [Illustration: Nasr-ed-Din, Shah of Persia.] I went to a big dinner and reception at the British Embassy, given for all the directors and commissioners of the exposition. It was a lovely warm night, the garden was lighted, everybody walking about, and an orchestra playing. Many of the officials had their wives and daughters with them, and some of the toilettes were wonderful. There were a good many pretty women, Swedes and Danes, the Northern type, very fair hair and blue eyes, attracting much attention, and a group of Chinese (all in costume) standing proudly aloof--not the least interested apparently in the gay scene before them. I wonder what they thought of European manners and customs! There was no dancing, which I suppose would have shocked their Eastern morals. Lord Lyons asked me why I wasn't in Berlin. I said, "For the best of reasons, my husband preferred going without me--but I hoped he would send for me perhaps at the end of the Congress." He told me Lady Salisbury was there with her husband. He seemed rather sceptical as to the peaceful issue of the negotiations--thought so many unforeseen questions would come up and complicate matters. GAIETIES AT THE QUAI D'ORSAY M. WADDINGTON AS PRIME MINISTER [Illustration: The Elysee Palace, Paris] Cataldi made himself very agreeable, spoke French perfectly well, though with a strong Italian accent. He confided to me after dinner that he would have liked to see some of the more advanced political men, instead of the very conservative Catholics we had invited to meet them. "I know what these gentlemen think; I would like to talk to some of the others, those who think 'le clericalism c'est l'ennemi,' and who are firmly convinced that the soutane serves as a cloak for all sorts of underhand and unpatriotic dealings; I can only see them abroad, never in Rome." He would have talked to them quite easily. Italians have so much natural tact, in discussing difficult questions, never irritate people unnecessarily. W. enjoyed his evening. He had never been in Rome, nor known many Romans, and it amused him to see how skilfully Cataldi (who was a devoted admirer of Leo XIII) avoided all cross-currents and difficult questions, saying only what he intended to say, and appreciating all that was said to him. "It is curious how all the ambassadors who go to Russia have that same impression. I have never known it to fail. It is the Russian policy to be delightful to the ambassadors--make life very easy for them--show them all that is brilliant and interesting--open all doors (society, etc.) and keep all sordid and ugly questions in the background." St. Vallier remained at Berlin. His name had been mentioned for Foreign Minister when Dufaure was making his cabinet, but he hadn't the health for it--and I think preferred being in Berlin. He knew Germany well and had a good many friends in Berlin. "If I were in the place of the Princess Helene I should make myself a Protestant. It is a big bait for the daughter of an exiled prince to be Queen of England." "But it couldn't be; no Catholic could change her religion or make herself Protestant." "Yet there is a precedent in your history. Your King Henri IV of beloved memory, a Protestant, didn't hesitate to make himself a Catholic to be King of France." "Ah, but that is quite different." "For you perhaps, chere amie, but not for us." However, the poor young prince died suddenly of pneumonia, so the sacrifice would have been in vain. PARLIAMENT BACK IN PARIS The question of the return of the Parliament to Paris had at last been solved after endless discussions. All the Republicans were in favour of it, and they were masters of the situation. The President, Grevy, too wanted it very much. If the Chambers continued to sit at Versailles, he would be obliged to establish himself there, which he didn't want to do. Many people were very unwilling to make the change, were honestly nervous about possible disturbances in the streets, and, though they grumbled too at the loss of time, the draughty carriages of the parliamentary train, etc., they still preferred those discomforts to any possibility of rioting and street fights, and the invasion of the Chamber of Deputies by a Paris mob. W. was very anxious for the change. There was a great rivalry between him and Gambetta. Both men had such a strong position in the Republican party that it was a pity they couldn't understand each other. I suppose they were too unlike--Gambetta lived in an atmosphere of flattery and adulation. His head might well have been turned--all his familiars were at his feet, hanging upon his words, putting him on a pinnacle as a splendid patriot. Grevy's entourage was much calmer, recognising his great ability and his keen legal mind, not so enthusiastic but always wanting to have his opinion, and relying a good deal upon his judgment. There were of course all sorts of meetings and conversations at our house, with Leon Say, Jules Ferry, Casimir Perier, and others. St. Vallier came on from Berlin, where he was still ambassador. He was very anxious about the state of affairs in France--said Bismarck was very worried at the great step the Radicals had made in the new Parliament--was afraid the Moderate men would have no show. _I_ believe he was pleased and hoped that a succession of incapable ministries and internal quarrels would weaken France still more--and prevent her from taking her place again as a great power. He wasn't a generous victor. December was very cold, snow and ice everywhere, and very hard frosts, which didn't give way at all when the sun came out occasionally in the middle of the day. Everybody was skating, not only at the clubs of the Bois de Boulogne, but on the lakes, which happens very rarely, as the water is fairly deep. The Seine was full of large blocks of ice, which got jammed up against the bridges and made a jarring ugly sound as they knocked against each other. The river steamers had stopped running, and there were crowds of flaneurs loitering on the quais and bridges wondering if the cold would last long enough for the river to be quite frozen over. LAST DAYS AT THE FOREIGN OFFICE [Illustration: M. de Freyeinet. After a photograph by M. Nadaz, Paris] [Illustration: Mme. Sadi Carnot. From a drawing by Mlle. Amelie Beaury-Saurel.] [Illustration: _Photograph, copyright by Pierre Petit, Paris._ President Sadi Carnot.] Adams, Sir Francis, school friend of M. Waddington Aisne, deputies and senators of Department of the Alexander of Battenberg, Prince Alexander of Russia, Grand Duke (Emperor Alexander III), interview with Alexandra, Queen Ambassadors, treatment of, in Russia Americans, violation of rules of court etiquette by; good-natured tolerance of, in European circles; Lord Lyons's opinion of women of Andrassy, Count, at Berlin Congress; personality of Andre, Alfred Annamites as dinner guests Aosta, Due d', in Paris at opening of exposition; author's impressions of Arab horses presented to M. Waddington Arco, Count Arnim, Count, German ambassador in Paris; succeeded by Prince Hohenlohe Aumale, Duc d', president of Bazaine court-martial; at ball at British embassy Austria, description of Empress of, when in Paris; stiffness of court etiquette in Baden, Grand Duchess of, M. Waddington's meeting with Bazaine, Marshal, court-martial of Beaconsfield, Lord, at Berlin Congress Bear as a pet at German embassy Begging letters received by persons in public life Berlin Congress, the; French plenipotentiaries named to the; M. Waddington's account of doings at Berlin Treaty, signing of Bernhardt, Sarah Beust, Comte de, as a musician Bismarck, Count Herbert, story of telegram from; welcomes M. Waddington to Berlin Bismarck, Countess Marie Bismarck, Prince, account of, at Berlin Congress; anxiety of, over French advance in radicalism; suspicions of sincerity of, in anxiety for France; surprise of, over speedy payment of war indemnity by France Bismarck, Princess, M. Waddington's account of Blowitz, M. de, present during meeting of Berlin Congress; M. Waddington's distrust of; Prince Hohenlohe's high opinion of; at Madame de Freycinet's Borel, General Bourneville, days at; a winter house-party at; a winter visit to Breakfasts, political Bridge, remarks on Broglie, Duc de, cabinet of; unpopularity of; break-up of cabinet Brown, John, retainer of Queen Victoria Bunsen, George de Bunsen family Deauville, a vacation at Decazes, Duc appointed to Foreign Office advice on social etiquette from Duc de Broglie contrasted with Denmark, Crown Prince of in Paris during exposition at ball at British embassy at ball at the Quai d'Orsay Desprey, Monseigneur, created a Cardinal Desprey, M. a plenipotentiary of France at Berlin Congress quoted on treatment of ambassadors in Russia named ambassador to Rome Diplomatists antagonistic attitude of, toward the Republic anomalous and mistaken behaviour of superficiality of majority of Dufaure, M. appointed President du Conseil now cabinet formed by Dufferin, Lord Fan, an autographed, as souvenir of Berlin Congress Farmers, usual indifference of French, to form of government enthusiasm of, over the Republic Ferry, Jules Fitz-Maurice, Lord Edmond France, astonishing rapidity of recovery of, after Franco-Prussian War Frederick-Charles, Prince French people self-centred attitude of conventions in dress of girls interest of women in their children lack of regard for, on part of Northern races defence of fine qualities of difficulties of interpreting conversation, cramped lives of middle-class women religious question among Freycinet, M. de appointed Minister of Public Works ability displayed by, as a Republican statesman excellent qualities of succeeds M. Waddington as premier official changes made by Freycinet, Madame de author's visit to, at Quai d'Orsay Ignatieff, General. Isabella, Queen, at Marshal de MacMahon's reception; Description of, and account of audience given author by; Dinner given Marshal and Madame de MacMahon by. Italians, author's doubts concerning. Japanese, reported intelligence of. Jockey Club, Paris, political talk at the. Karolyi, at Berlin Congress. Kellogg, Clara Louise, with the Waddingtons. King, General Rufus. Kruft, chef du materiel at Quai d'Orsay. Napoleon III, Emperor, at Compiegne. Napoleon's tomb, interest of American visitors in. National Assembly, description of sittings of. New Year's day reception at the President's. Ney, Marshal, execution of, recalled. Nuns, the life of. Oliffe, Sir Joseph, a founder of Deauville. Opera Comique, making of marriages at the; artists of the. Opposition leader, joys of position of. Orleans, Due d', at Countess de Segur's salon. Orleans family, members of, at official reception given by the Waddingtons; members of, at Lord Lyons's ball. Orloff, Prince, Russian ambassador; attractive personality of; at Prince Hohenlohe's reception to President Grevy. Paris, reasons against holding of Parliament in; gaiety of, during exposition; return of the Parliament to. Pedro de Bragance, Emperor of Brazil. Pie, Monsignor, created a Cardinal. Piemont, Prince and Princesse de. Pius IX, death of and funeral observances. Poles, author's lack of confidence in. Pontecoulant, Comte de, chef de cabinet under M. Waddington. Pothnau, Admiral, appointed ambassador to Great Britain; Annoyance of, over offer of London embassy to M. Waddington. Protestants, views of, held by Catholics; isolated position of the French. Quai d'Orsay, description of house of Foreign Minister at the; removal of Waddingtons to; receiving and entertaining at; large ball given at; English visitors at; view from, on cold winter nights; departure from; formal visit to Madame de Freycinet at. Quartier Latin, the modern. Versailles, meetings of National Assembly at; terraces and gardens at; Marshal de MacMahon's receptions at; compared with Paris as a meetingplace of Assembly; badly managed fete given by Marshal de MacMahon at; removal of Parliament to Paris from. Victor Emmanuel, death of, and service at the Madeleine for. Victoria, Princess, charming character of; strong English proclivities of. Victoria, Queen, M. Waddington received by, in Paris; prestige of, in France; expresses approval of M. Waddington. Vienna, stiffness of court at. Vogtio, Marquis de, a visit from, at Deauville. Zuylen, Baron von, Dutch minister; as a musician. Zuylen, Madame von.	redpajama-book	4,383
Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charlie Kirschner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. BY ANNA ROBERTSON BROWN LINDSAY PH.D. WHAT IS WORTH WHILE? CULTURE AND REFORM THE VICTORY OF OUR FAITH ANNA ROBERTSON BROWN LINDSAY I. CHORDS OF AWAKENING: THE HIGHER CONQUEST II. PRELUDE: THE CALL OF JESUS III. PROCESSIONAL: THE CHURCH OF GOD IV. THE WORLD-MARCH: OF KINGS OF PRELATES AND EVANGELISTS OF SAGES OF TRADERS OF WORKERS I. CHORDS OF AWAKENING: THE HIGHER CONQUEST _The Son of God goes forth to war, A kingly crown to gain: His blood-red banner streams afar: Who follows in His train? Who best can drink his cup of woe, Triumphant over pain; Who patient bears his cross below, He follows in His train! They met the tyrant's brandished steel, The lions gory mane; They bowed their necks the death to feel: Who follows in their train? They climbed the steep ascent of heaven Through peril, toil, and pain: O God, to us may grace be given To follow in their train!_ The universe is not awry. Fate and man are not altogether at odds. Yet there is a perpetual combat going on between man and nature, and between the power of character and the tyranny of circumstance, death, and sin. The great soul is tossed into the midst of the strife, the longing, and the aspirations of the world. He rises Victor who is triumphant in some great experience of the race. The real world is far more subtle than we as yet understand. When we dive down into the deep, sky and air and houses disappear. We enter a new world--the under-world of water, and things that glide and swim; of sea-grasses and currents; of flowing waves that lap about the body with a cool chill; of palpitating color, that, at great depths, becomes a sort of darkness; of sea-beds of shell and sand, and bits of scattered wreckage; of ooze and tangled sea-plants, dusky shapes, and fan-like fins. Or if we look upward we reach an over-world, where moons and suns are circling in the heights. What draws them together? What keeps a subtle distance between them, which they never cross? How do they, age after age, run a predestined course? We drop a stone. What binds it earthward? Under our feet run magnetic currents that flow from pole to pole. In the clouds above, there are electric vibrations which cannot be described in exact terms. What is the Self that abides in each man? Is it not the consciousness of existence, together with a consciousness of the power of choice? Our individuality lies in the fact that we can decide, choose, and rule among the various contestant impulses of our souls. Herein is the possibility of victory and also the possibility of defeat. Whatever our trials, sorrows, or temptations, joy and courage are ever meant to be in the ascendant; life, however it may break in storms upon us, is not meant to beat down our souls. Unless we are triumphant, we are not wholly useful or well trained. Will and heart together work for victory. II. PRELUDE: THE CALL OF JESUS _I heard the voice of Jesus say I am this dark world's light; Look unto Me, thy morn shall rise, And all thy day be bright. I looked to Jesus, and I found In Him my star, my sun; And in that light of life I'll walk, Till travelling days are done._ There are some who say that Jesus has held the attention and allegiance of the race by an appeal to the religious instinct; that all men naturally seek God, and long to know Him. But if we try to define the religious instinct, we shall find it a hard task. What might be called a religious instinct leads to human sacrifice upon the Aztec altar; directs the Hindu to cast the new-born child in the stream, the friend to sacrifice his best friend to a pagan deity. The truth seems to be that Christ appeals to our whole selves. He calls us by an attraction which is unique. In the universe there exists a force which we must recognize--though we do not yet in the least understand it--which is gradually drawing the race Christward. The law of spiritual gravitation is, that by all the changing impulses of our nature we are drawn upward unto Him. Spohr's lovely anthem voices this cry of the soul: "_As pants the hart for cooling streams, When heated in the chase, So longs my soul, O God, for Thee, And Thy refreshing grace. "For Thee, my God, the living God, My thirsty soul doth pine; Oh! when shall I behold Thy face, Thou Majesty divine_?" The voice of Jesus calls us to awake to toil. We sometimes forget this, and imagine that if we follow Jesus, we shall never have anything to do. Christ does not still the machinery of the world, nor shut the mine, nor take away the sowing and the reaping. The call of Jesus is not a call to rest from work, but to rest in work. The rest we receive is that of sympathy, of inspiration, of efficiency. Christ really increases the toil-capacity of man. Man can do more work, harder work, and always better work, because of the faith that is in him. What makes the confusion and fatigue of life is, that men are everywhere scrambling for themselves, and trying to manage their own undertakings, instead of falling into harmony with God, and through Him, with all that is. What wears the soul out is not the work of life itself--it is its drudgery, its monotony, its blind vagueness, its apparent purposelessness. We do not wish to scatter our lives and spend our years in nothingness. If each heart and soul responded to the call of Jesus, there would be a new heaven and a new earth--a Utopia such as More never dreamed of, nor Plato, nor Bellamy, nor Campanella in his _City of the Sun_. Each hand would be at its own work; each eye would be upon its own task; each foot would be in the right path. All the fear, the weariness, the squalor, and the unrest of life would be done away. The life of each man would be a life of contentment, and of economic advance. Looking at ourselves in a mirror, do we not sometimes think how we would fashion ourselves if we could create a new self, in the image of some ideal which is before us? Would we not make ourselves wholly beautiful if we could make ourselves? Even so, looking out upon our own spirits, do we not some day rouse to the distortion and deformity of sin? Do we wish to retain these grimacing phases of ourselves? Do we not yearn eagerly for the dignity and beauty of high virtue? Do we not long for the graces and perfections which make up a radiant and happy life? If we could be born again, would we not be born a more spiritual being? Conversion is the outlook over a world which is arranged, not for our own glory, but for the good of God's creatures; in which what we do is necessary, fundamental, permanent--not because we ourselves have done it well, nor, in truth, because we have done it at all--but because what we have done is a part of the universe which God is building. We change from a self-centre to a God-centre; from the thought of whether the world applauds to whether God approves; from the thought of keeping our own life to the thought of preserving our own integrity; from isolation from all other souls to a sympathy with them, an understanding of their needs, and a desire to help their lives. It is a turning from a delight in sin, or an indifference to sin, or merely a moral aversion to it, to a deep-rooted hatred of every thought and act of sin, to penitence, and to an earnest desire to pattern after God. For not all energy is material. With each birth there comes a new force into the world, and its influence never dies. The body is born of ages past, of the material stores of centuries; but the soul, in its living, thinking, working power, is a new phase of energy added to the energy of the race. This fact confers on each individual man a strange impressiveness and power. It gives a new significance to the fact that I am. I am something different from what has been, or ever shall be. In the great whirling myriads, I am distinguished and apart. I am an appreciable factor in universal development and a being of elemental power. By every true thought of mine the race becomes wiser. By every right deed, its inheritance of tradition is uplifted; by every high affection, its horizon of love is enlarged. We can bequeath to others this new spiritual energy of our lives. This thought gives us a new zest for life. There is an appetite which is of the soul. It is this wish for growth, for the development of our powers, for a larger life for ourselves and for those who shall come after us. "_It is not death for which we pant, But life, more life, and fuller, that we want_." These aspirations are prophetic. Does a clod-hopper dream? We move toward our desires. The wish for growth is but the call of Jesus to our souls. We sometimes hear of the "limitations of life." What are they? Who set them? Man himself, not God. The call of Jesus urges the soul of man to possibilities which are infinite. The chief thing toward which we are moving is, I believe, the Enthronement of the Christ. Christ has always been, in the hearts of the few, enthroned and enshrined. Even in the dark years of mediaeval superstition and unrest, there were the cloistered ones who maintained traditions of faith and did works of mercy, as there were knightly ones who upheld the ministry of chivalry, and followed, though afar, the tender shining of the Holy Grail. But now all the signs point to a great and general recognition of the Christ--Christ to be lifted high on the hands of the nations, to His throne above the stars! A new spiritual note is to be heard in modern subjects of study, is noticeable in all paths of intellectual prestige. History is no more looked upon as the story of the trophies of warriors, conquerors, and kings. History, rising out of dim mists, is seen to be the marching and the countermarching of nations in the throes of progress and of social change. It is not the story of princes alone, but of peasants as well; the result of myriads of small, obscure lives; of changing conditions; of the movements of great economic, psychologic, and spiritual forces. Looking backward over the moving processional of the nations of the earth, we may see how, without rest, without pause, through countless ages, the myriad legions of men have been passing across the scene of life--passing, and fading away! "_All that tread The globe are but a handful of the tribes That slumber in its bosom_." Science, no longer a dry assembling of facts and figures, is an increasing revelation of the imagination, the exactness, the thoroughness, and the great progressive plans of God. Evolution has become a spiritual formula. The scientist looks out over the earth and sky and sun and star. Against his little years are meted out vast prehistoric spans; against his mastery of a few forms of life, stands Life itself. Back of all, there looms up the great Figure of the Originator of life, and of the forms of life; the Maker and Ruler of them all. Each scientific fact helps exegesis and evidence. Each new aspiration after truth becomes a form of prayer. III. PROCESSIONAL: THE CHURCH OF GOD Though with a scornful wonder Men see her sore opprest, By schisms rent asunder, By heresies distrest; Yet saints their watch are keeping, Their cry goes up, "How long?" And soon the night of weeping Shall be the morn of song. 'Mid toil and tribulation, And tumult of her war, She waits the consummation Of peace for evermore; Till with the vision glorious Her longing eyes are blest, And the great Church victorious Shall be the Church at rest._ The Church should lead, and not follow, the great dreams of the world. In the midst of our new national life we are sending all over the country for the best-trained help and thought in every department of government influence and control. Our problems of the day are preeminently spiritual ones. Colonial control is not a question of material ascendancy--it is a rule over the minds, hearts, and ideals of men. Its moral significance is patent. We are called upon, not only to import provisions, clothing, and household and industrial goods into our new possessions; we are called upon to develop a higher sense of honor, truth, honesty, and every-day morality. Scholars, working-men, business men, farmers, and merchants are being consulted in regard to different phases of our national advance, and every idea which their insight and experience furnish is seized upon. But who is consulting the Church in these concerns, except in reference to mere technical points? Who is looking to the intellectual, moral, and spiritual standards of the Church for guidance? We are to-day ruled spiritually, as well as intellectually, by laymen, and in a way which is quite outside the organized work of the Church. It also lacks greatly in office-force and in supplies. The gospel itself is without price, but in the nature of things it cannot be proclaimed, nor church-work efficiently carried on, without financial outlay. There should be a more adequate equipment for this work. All other enterprises need, without question, stationery, stenographers, literature for distribution, office-rooms, office-hours, and a general arrangement looking toward enlargement and progress. A busy pastor should have an office-equipment just as much as a business man, and it should be supported, as a business office is, out of the funds of the business organization, _i.e._ the local church. Ministers must study more. If they are freed from many tasks now put upon them, it is not unreasonable to ask that this time be put on more careful thinking. Too many a minister of to-day is, intellectually, something of a flibbertigibbet. His sermons do not take hold, because they have not the roots to take hold with. How many ministers possess, for instance, a scholarly knowledge of human nature or of the deeper aspects of redemption? Yet these things he ought to know. There is a large amount of intensely interesting, though spiritually undigested, material for a minister in a book like William James's _Varieties of Religious Experience_. In every church, large or small, there are both men and women who are talented in a special way; who could bring gifts of training and experience to bear upon the problems and opportunities of the Church. Tell me, in prayer or speech-making, formal or social occasion, pastor or people, do we often bring our very deepest, tenderest, most inspiring emotional or intellectual life? It is not a whit more spiritual to be stupid than to be bright. This is what our church-meetings should be--not a formal and very dull round of prayers and set remarks, more or less pointless; they ought to be a yielding-up of our heart's best life to others. There is nothing we resent more than a waste of ourselves. To attract our service, there must be in the Church an inner vitality, a moving and spiritual fire. The dreams of the Church are high and holy. There is the dream of Freedom, of the Freedom of the Soul. It is an inspiring thought this, the essential democracy of the race. We do not find intellectual equality of souls. We see each man or woman differently circumstanced, differently gifted, differently trained. Yet each may say, I am spiritually free! To me also is given the opportunity of development, of majesty of character, of high service. The soul is the thrall of none; nothing can bind it to spiritual serfdom. The lover of music to-day allies himself to Bach, to Haydn, to Mozart, to Wagner, by his appreciation, his sympathy, his understanding of what they have done. He acknowledges their control of his musical self by his efforts to interpret their work to others, and to create new works which shall be inspired by their ideals. Thus he acknowledges their control of his own powers. Such control over the spirit of man is that of the Church over the social body; it stirs the spiritual aspiration of man, it directs his ambition. It fixes upon a standard, the Cross; upon a Hero, the Christ, and reaches unto all the world its arm of power, drawing unto itself the loyalty, the faith, the affection, and the royal service of successive generations of mankind. The dream of Redemption. It is not technical creeds for which the Church as a whole stands, but for certain vital principles which concern the life of the soul, and its relation to God and man. Virtue has always been a dream of the heart. But how inaccessible is virtue, with a past of unforgiven sin! The height of our ideal of redemption is conditioned upon the depth of our realization of sin. To the shallow, redemption is an easy-going process, a way of healing the scratches which the world makes. To the deep and serious-minded, redemption involves the regeneration of the race. Only the ransomed can truly work, love, or praise! Beauty, harmony, and affection are the natural laws of the moral world. There is no despair where there has been no disobedience. _Christus Salvator_ stands out before the world in majesty and power. Virtue is enthroned in a universe which is beneficent. "_Swelling hills and spacious plains Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-towers, And spires whose silent finger points to heaven_." Says Wordsworth also: "_They dreamt not of a perishable home, Who thus could build_." The dream of Permanence. The immortality of the Church is akin to the immortality of the soul. It is a connection which is never severed. When we enter the visible body of the Church on earth, we connect ourselves with the invisible hosts of the Church on high. We enter a company which shall never be disbanded nor dismayed. Something subtle and eternal seems to lay hold of our spirits, and to lift them even to God's Throne. For this Time has been, and for this Time now is: to present spotless before Him the innumerable company of the redeemed, the lion-hearted who, armed by faith and shod with fire, in robes of azure and with songs of praise, shall stand before Him even for evermore! In the press and stir of life we sometimes forget that the highest emotions of which we are capable are those of joy, praise, and prayer. Joy is a heavenward uplift of life--deep happiness of spirit. Praise is an appreciation of the greatness and mercy of the Infinite. Worship is the outpouring of the whole nature, an ascription of blessing, glory, honor, and power and majesty to God. It flows from the religious imagination, and is the supreme offering of the intellectual as well as of the emotional life. This spirit is changing. The most remarkable aspect of the intellectual life of to-day is the rise of faith in the universities. Like the incoming of a great tidal wave at sea is the wave of spiritual insight and religious aspiration that is rolling over the colleges of our land. Too often religion has been a matter of hearsay or dogma. A bitter conflict has always raged between theology and the latest word of science. The Church cannot afford to be without the scientific thinkers of the race. The time has come when there is everywhere heard the call of Jesus to men of mind. IV. THE WORLD-MARCH: OF KINGS [DIE WACHT AM RHEIN] _Jesus shall reign where'er the sun Doth his successive journeys run; His kingdom stretch from shore to shore, Till moons shall wax and wane no more. People and realms of every tongue Dwell on His love with sweetest song; And infant voices shall proclaim Their early blessings on His Name. Blessings abound where'er He reigns; The prisoner leaps to lose his chains, The weary find eternal rest, And all the sons of want are blest. Let every creature rise and bring Peculiar honors to our King; Angels descend with songs again, And earth repeat the loud Amen_. Dominion is an inherent right of the soul. In all our hearts, did we but listen and understand, there are adumbrations of kingly ancestors, and the latent stirrings of kingly powers. Kingship involves ascendancy and authority. Both are truly gained, not by chicanery, but by personal force. There is a natural gift of leadership, which is strengthened by endurance, perseverance, and ceaseless hard work. Another basis of supremacy is conviction. Leadership belongs to those who believe. The man who has a definite policy to propose, and a definite way of working for it, soon outstrips the man who is just looking about. Kingship involves an iron will. An iron will does not imply necessarily ugliness of temper, obstinacy, or pig-headedness. It is simply a straight-forward, dauntless, and invincible way of doing things. What I say, you must do, is back of all successful leadership, whether in the home or in the world-arena. The man who is master of the obedience of his child, or of his fellows, is master of their fate. We are all at the mercy of the strong-willed. This is not a right interpretation of life. When Nature plants an oak in the forest, she does not say, Be a lichen, an _Eozooen canadense_, a small ground-creeping thing! She says, Grow! Become a tall, strong, mountain tree! When we hold our baby in our arms, we do not say, My child, be good for nothing! Neither does God say, Be nothing, do nothing! Just exist as humbly and meekly as you can! He says, "Quit you like men!" Each of us is born for a sceptre and a crown. It gives a strange new thrill to life, to realize that we may be just as ambitious as we please, that we may long earnestly for high things, and work for them, if our inmost desire is not for self but for God. This new idea of ambition should be at the root of education and of religious teaching. Piety is not a namby-pamby sentiment; it is a great intellectual force. Desire is architectural: our dreams should be of prestige and power. True ambition is the reaching-out of the soul toward preordained things. What else is the meaning of our love for excellence, our insatiable yearning for perfection? "What is excellent," says Emerson, "is permanent." To excel in any work is to combine in that work the most enduring qualities of human labor; to excel in any place is to shine forth with the great qualities of the race. Hence, ambition has a rightful place. This story is a Parable of Kings. Such is the power of control that is granted to each new soul. Each child is bequeathed at birth a sceptre and a crown. Education determines whether this power shall be for good or for evil. We cannot take away power from any child--he shall move the affairs of nations--but we can direct this love of power, or crush it; strengthen it, or weaken it; turn it toward the highest help of man, or deflect it to tyranny, cruelty, and crime. Education is the teaching of how to direct energy for the universal good. It lays hold of a child and, out of his destructive instincts--the instinct to bang, and pull, and tear to pieces--it develops creative power, the inventive genius that lies hid within him. It takes the pure love of noise, and trains it to pitches, harmonies, intervals, and makes a musician of the boy who used to whack his spoon. It takes the alphabet and the early pothooks, and the boy by and by combines them into literature. The apples and the peaches which he is taught to exchange justly are by and by transmuted into trade and commerce. He brings cargoes from Cuba and Ceylon, trades with Japan and Hawaii, and the Asiatic isles. The energy of block-building is developed into sculpture, architecture, and civil engineering. The stamping of his foot in anger is directed to determination, perseverance, the rule of the brave spirit, the unconquerable will. Nothing is more marvellous than this grave upbuilding. The next rule is social: the direction of personal energy that shall leave a distinct impress on other lives. It is long before we realize that for each exertion we are responsible; that what we do is held against us in strict account, not only by fate, which builds our destiny for us out of our own deeds, but by every other person with whom we come in contact. Our fellows check off daily against us so much vitality, so much magnanimity, so much idleness, cruelty, spite, goodness, selfishness, meanness, or loving-kindness. Life holds a record of our every deed, and from no least responsibility can we make our escape. We are the prisoners of events which we ourselves have brought about. The discipline of ethics, of home-training, of the Church, and of religious teaching is addressed fundamentally to this social consciousness of ours, this responsibility which we cannot evade. To bear rule aright is to go forth into the world to build up, in authority, talent, and influence, the kingdom of God. Or he may say: I will keep my land in trust for God. I will hold rain and frost, heat and cold, storm and sun, in fee simple for the race. My grain shall pass out into the world's mart, sent forth with love and prayer. Such a farmer is the incarnation of moral grandeur. Let men laugh, if they will, at his overalls and plough, his wide-brimmed hat, his simple manners, and his homely, racy speech. His feet are by the furrow, but his heart is in heaven, and his treasure is there also. Says the author of _Nine Acres on the Hillside_, "The agriculturist walks side by side with the Creator." There is a fine integrity which lies in land. There is a resolution which is concerned with crops. There is a wisdom born of wind and weather. There is a power which comes from the constant revival of life in seed and fruit and flower. This man is King of God's Acres. Let him not despise his kingdom, and may the succession not depart from his house! The Engineer, in a strange and subtle way, stands near to God. His work is done hand-in-hand with God. He takes the forces of nature and the laws of the material world, and bends them to the needs and use of man. Sky and sea or desert may be about him. He knows the arctic cold, the tropic heat; the forest and the plain; the mountain and the marsh; the brook and river; the peak and the precipice; the glacier and the tempest in their course. Out of the very elements he is daily building new paths for man to tread. Soon he, too, must pass; laid after death, it may be, beside some mighty water that his handiwork has spanned. In loneliness and silence does he not often think, I wonder, of the God with whom he deals? It is God who provides the river and the sea; God who through endless ages has piled stone on stone, crust on crust, and has crumpled the strata of the earth as tissue in His hand. It is God who has bound every mote to the earth-centre; who has sent magnetic currents coursing through the globe, and has made tides and sea-changes, and the trade-winds to blow. It is the God of the Gulf Stream, the Caribbean Sea, the God of the Appalachians, the God of the Himalayas, the God of the Cordilleras, of the Amazon, the Yukon, the Yang-tse-Kiang with which he really deals. The endless ages pass and go, but God abides. Little, daring man lifts here and there a hand to mould the world which God has made--pricks the earth for gold or silver, iron or coal--but GOD is everywhere immanent and shines through every hour of change. Hence the March of Engineers is the march of men whom God has trained; in a special sense His master-workmen, craftsmen whom He loves. It is theirs to say, We are the Kings of Works: the Master-builders of the Most High! The problem of academic rule is not to attract a large number of students, to put up imposing buildings, to have endowments, and fill chairs with learned specialists; to grant many degrees, and to keep the hum of a teaching staff and of a student body alive in the ears of a community, marking the college group by flags and colors, cap and gown, processions and occasions. These things are right, but are mainly accessory. We have not all of a university when we have men and buildings, money, students, brains. Back of a university there lies its foundation-idea, that of academic control. What is academic rule? It is rule over the pride of man. A college is a place whose chief power is to inculcate humility by the means of true learning; to establish intellectual honor and integrity by searching out the ways of God in nature, science, and philosophy, and in letters and in art. It is the primary work of a university to make men humble. The Freshman is not teachable. The Sophomore is an intellectual upstart. But by the time a man has been beaten and conquered by the great ideals of the world, which have pierced his bones and humbled his conceit--by the time the race-passions and the race-sorrows have crept across his spirit, by the time that he has been confronted with the achievements of Homer, Empedocles, Hippocrates, Michelangelo, Socrates, Buddha, Plato, Emerson, Gladstone, Bismarck, Lincoln, and Carlyle--his self-exaltation drops from him like a garment. He--who knows how to construe a few pages of the classics, who knows how to demonstrate a few mathematical problems, scan a few verses, recite a few odes, carry on a few scientific experiments, undertake a small research--how shall he compete with these rulers of the thought of men? Then it is that the real rule of a university--its spirit of humility, and of reverence for antiquity--begins. The true university man, born and bred in the century, not in the years, in the race halls, not those alone in his Alma Mater, is neither a scoffer nor an atheist, nor a critic, sceptic, or cynic. He is a man of simple and exalted faith. God, who hath brought such great things to pass in science, nature, and art, in human character, in the destiny of nations, and the history of humble men and women, is a God before whom there must be awe and reverence, and not a flippant scouting of the ancient ideals. Man, who is so tried by temptation and scourging of the spirit, is a creature to be loved, appreciated, understood; not a being to whom shall be shown arrogance, aloofness, and pride. The university that makes snobs of its graduates has not yet entered into its kingdom of control. A university also holds rule over truth. Absolute truth is in God's hand. But the university has class-rooms and libraries, apparatus and laboratories, which are intended for the discovery and furtherance of truth. The university is not a place to cry out for big salaries. The salaries should be living salaries. The seeker after truth should not be left without enough money for heat and shelter, for bread and meat, rest and summer-change; for the coming of children and their education. But truth may lodge without shame in an humble dwelling and may be greatly furthered without an elaborate bill of fare. In particular, he shall pass down from generation to generation the high and noble learning of the past; he shall keep alive the flower of courtesy and charity; he shall tell the dreams of past sages, and interpret them; he shall review the thronging nations; and he shall so imbue the mind with a love of truth, of ideals, of excellence, of honor, that a new race shall go out into a larger and a nobler world. And then a better day shall dawn for men. "_Yet much remains To conquer still; Peace hath her victories No less renowned than War: new foes arise, Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw_." "_We are living,-we are dwelling, In a grand and awful time, Age on age to ages telling, To be living is sublime_!" The day of the true statesman is here; the day of the demagogue is done! The rule of the orator is over the ideals and hopes of men. The demagogue prostitutes this power. His rule is over the passions, prejudices, and resentments of men. He cries aloud in the market-place, and rogues and ward-heelers, and evil-minded politicians, group themselves around him. He waves his sceptre over the vulgar and the rascals of the town. Public service is a god-like service! Our Presidents shall more and more be chosen, not alone for ideas, experience, or for party affiliations: the President shall be chosen because he is a moral hero! Something has stirred in the heart of the American people, which shall not soon be stilled: a spiritual outlook upon political preferment. In the White House we long to have the great spiritual exemplars of our race. Not alone in church shall we offer up a "Prayer before Election." The time is coming when each true ballot-slip shall be a prayer. But as the empires of Buddha and Muhammad fall, a new Empire shall prevail! "_Kings shall bow down before Him, And gold and incense bring; All nations shall adore Him, His praise all people sing. To Him shall prayer unceasing And dally vows ascend; His kingdom still increasing, A kingdom without end_." IV. THE WORLD-MARCH: OF PRELATES AND EVANGELISTS _O Majesty throned, O Lord of all Light, Shine down on our spirits and scatter the night; As Adam received his life-impulse from Thee, Endued with all fulness, we quickened would be_ _Let all that we know--love, learning, and power- Melt down in Thy Presence, and flame in this hour; Anoint us and bless us and lift our desire And grant us to speak as with tongues touched with fire_! _Life flows as a dream--its pleasures are dear: The world is about us--temptation is near; Oh, guide us, and shew us the pathway to God The feet of the prophets aforetime have trod_! ANNA ROBERTSON BROWN LINDSAY But if the call be answered, if certain high-spirited and noble-minded men ask thus to stand as spiritual ministrants to the souls of men, how shall they be trained for the high office? The vital thing is not a knowledge of the historical schisms and decrees of Christendom--not the external Evidences of Religion, Ecclesiastical History, Ecclesiastical Polity, monuments, texts, memorabilia--the vital thing is the power to think about God, and the problems of mankind. It is a heart-knowledge of the difficulties and questionings of a race that yearns for virtue. Homiletics is not a series of nursery-rules for man--formal, didactic droppings of a pedant's tongue. Homiletics is the appeal of man to man, for the welfare of his soul, and the true progress of mankind. Exegesis is not a matter of Hebrew or Greek alone. It includes the spiritual interpretation of the great problems of the race. Homer, Tennyson, Browning, and Dante are exegetes, no less than Lightfoot, Lange, and Schaff. Pastoral Divinity is not the etiquette of a polite way of making calls: it is an entering into the social spirit of the time; the learning of friendliness, unreserve, sympathy, persuasion, and a way of approach. It is the mastery of spiritual _savoir-faire_. Since we have known more of the psychological meaning of adolescence, a new theory of Conversion has sprung up; and whether or not we accept it, the whole outlook over the underlying principle of conversion has been changed. We must at least recognize that conversion is a scientific process, as much as digestion is, or respiration; it is not a purely emotional occurrence. The minister must learn what society really is, and how the far still forces of time act and react upon each other, producing group-actions, institutions, customs, ways. There are social fossils as well as physical ones. Sociology is not a system of fads and reforms. It is the scientific study of society, of its constitution, development, institutions, and growth. He must also breathe largely of the great governmental life of the race--understand the primary principles of politics and administration. He should have some knowledge of commercial interests, of the formulas, incentives, and right principles of trade. There should also be in the seminary an inspirational atmosphere of music, literature, and art. Literature is a revelation of the life of the soul. The man who reads literature and comprehends its message is receiving a fine training which shall fit him for a thorough understanding of the heart; of its practical, ethical, and spiritual problems; of its domestic joys and sorrows; of its human cares and burdens; of the appeals that will come to him for sympathy; of the temptations that beset the race; and of the hopes and trials of the world. In art, the religious spirit broods over the great work of the world. In Angelo, Francesca, Veronese, Botticelli, Titian, Raphael, Tintoretto, and Correggio, the brush of the painter has set forth the adoration of the Church of God. Thus, taken all in all, to be educated as a minister should be to be educated in the Higher Life of the race. Prayer is the true World-Power. Just as there are vast stretches in the world where the foot of man has never trod, so there are unmeasured regions whereon prayer has never been. The more we pray, the more illimitable appears this spiritual realm. And all about us in the universe are also great hidden forces: nothing will lay hold of them but prayer. Each prayer enlarges the soul. The measure of our praying is the measure of our growth. No man has reached his full possibilities of achievement who has not completed the circuit of his possible prayers. Power is proportionate to prayer. And last of all, there is the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. What it is, who may say? But that it is real, who can doubt? To read the lives of Wesley, Whitefield, Finney, Moody, is to feel a strange, deep thrill. They are men who spake, and men listened; who called, and men came to God. Others, alas, so often call, and there is no response. They cannot make headway through the indifference, the sloth, the materialism, and the inherent vulgarity of the world. The life itself is arduous. After all is said, it is not quite the same task to examine and classify either protoplasm or the most highly organized forms of nature, that it is to analyze and understand the mysterious workings of the heart, the intricacies of conscience and conduct, the possibilities of spiritual development or of moral downfall, and the many questionings, agonies, and ecstasies of the soul of man. And they are to be studied and understood with the definite and positive aim of the absolute reconstruction of the world-bound spirit--a change of its motives, purposes, affections, ideals. More than this, there must be at the heart of the more thoughtful minister a philosophic basis for the reconstruction of society itself. Youth is not an adequate preparation for this task: a man must live and grow. To deal with such themes and occasions, there must appear in the world lives of such vigor that they can command; of such charm, that they can attract; of such wisdom, that they can guide and comfort; of such vitality, that they can inspire. And hence there rises before the mind's eye a figure that is both knightly and kingly--a man earnest in the redress of wrong, and who yet holds a subtle authority over the forces that make for wrong; a man burdened with the cares and sorrows of many others, and yet conducting his own life with serenity, enthusiasm, dignity, and hope; a man to whose keen yet tender gaze a life-history is revealed by a word or tone, but whose own eyes receive their light from God. A prophet and a father, a priest and a counsellor, a brother, friend, and judge, a sacrifice and an inspiration should he be who, in reverence and love, brings before a waiting congregation the very Word of Life! Sin is. To-day, sin is thought a somewhat brusque word, lacking in polish. To use it frequently is a mark of lack of '_savoir-faire_! Indeed to speak of it at all is as archaic as to speak of the Ichthyosaurus. But sin is a root-fact of the life of man. It is the office of the spiritual teacher to pluck out sin; to pierce the heart with a recognition of the enormity of sin, and of its far-reaching consequences; to stir the seared conscience, rouse the apathetic life, thrill the spiritual imagination, and to quicken the heart to better love and to nobler dreams. He rebukes the private sins of individuals and the public sins of nations. In the _Faerie Queene_, the "soul-diseased knight" was in a state "_In which his torment often was so great, That like a lyon he would cry and rare, And rend his flesh, and his own synewes eat_." But Fidelia, like the faithful pastor, was both "_able with her word to kill, And raise againe to life the heart that she did thrill_." The evangelist warns. He speaks of sin, death, hell, and the judgment to come. It is for these things that he is sent to testify. These are not the catch-words of a new sort of Fear King who uses oral terrors to affright the soul of man. Heaven and hell are not a new sort of ghost-land: retribution is not a larger way of tribal revenge. No. The latest facts of science present this universe as not only progressive, but as retributive. There is a rebound of evil which makes for pain. Each broken law exacts a penalty. Each deed of sin is a forerunner of personal and of social disaster. The generation that sins shall be cut off, while the stock of the righteous grows strong from age to age. It is of these grave omens that the Man of God must speak. He dare not be tongue-tied by custom or by fear. He must proclaim hell in the ears of all mankind. For wherever hell may be, and we do not yet know, and whatever hell may be, and we cannot even imagine, Hell _is_; and the soul of man must be kept mindful of these great things. We must have forgiveness in order to know God. The most comforting thought in the world is that God knows all we do. There can be no misunderstanding between us: He cannot be misinformed. The evangelist must come close, in sympathy and counsel, to the personal and individual life of those whom he would help. Perhaps the best way to emphasize this point would be to insert here words written by a woman who has been thinking on this subject. A congregation is a mysterious and subtle social force. Its effect on a minister he can neither analyze nor explain. But he knows that its power is mesmeric and cannot be escaped. He goes into its presence from an hour of exalted and uplifted prayer, serene, happy, strong, and prepared to speak words of power and life. Gazing at his people--he can never tell why--the words freeze on his lips. An icy hand seems laid upon his heart, and he makes a cold and formal presentation of his glowing theme, and wonders who or what has done it all. Something satanic and repelling has laid hold of his tongue and brain. Or again, he may have had a worried and troubled week, full of personal anxiety and sorrow. He has not had full time to study--he feels quite unprepared, and enters the pulpit with a halting step, and a choking fear of failure at his heart. This sympathetic atmosphere makes great preachers and great men. In return, there flows from a pastor toward his people a love that few can know or understand. Hence the evangelist of to-day is more than a man who can popularly address a public audience, and by tales and tears arouse a weeping commotion. The evangelist is a man of intellect and prayer, who can preach the gospel to a scientific age, and to a thinking coterie--a coterie of college men and mechanics, of society women and servant-girls, of poets and of mine-diggers, of convicts and of reformers. To-day calls for the utmost intellectual resources of the teacher of the truth, for a great imagination, great style, great sympathy with men, large learning, and unceasing prayer! Hence the work of the reformer is deep and heart-searching work. It means constant study of the spiritual needs of the age, continual insight into the material forces which are moulding the age-images, money, conquest, or whatever they may be. He wishes to maintain a spiritual hold on civilization itself, so to transform the ideal within a man, a community, a nation, in regard to custom, observance, belief, that the outer rite shall follow. The reformer must not only be a man of energy, he must be a man of patience. Great reforms come slowly. As man has advanced, idleness, indolence, brutality, tyranny, drunkenness, cant, and social scorn are gradually being cast out. But behind these simple words lie hid centuries of strife and endeavor, and limitless darkenings of human hope. The force of this reform-energy is uncomputed. We hear of occasional great reformers, but forget that there has been a prevailing influence extending over the ages, of holy men of God, who have preached and taught and prayed; who have preserved our social institutions of spiritual import, and have been a mighty and continuous force working for righteousness and peace. Missions are a higher form of politics. To further missions is to further government, international comity, world-peace. What is doctrine? Doctrine is spiritual truth, formulated in a systematic way. It is also, in church matters, a system of truth which has been believed in, and clung to, by a body of believers constituting some branch of the catholic Church. No soul is finally held by the indefinite, or the namby-pamby. It begins to question, Upon what foundation does this phrase, this fine sentiment, rest? It must stand upon a proposition. This proposition rests either upon a scientific fact, or upon that which, for want of a more definite term, we call the religious instinct of man. But a proposition cannot standalone. It is connected with other propositions, arguments, conclusions. Hence a system of logic, of philosophy, of expressed belief, of doctrine, inevitably grows up in a thinking community, a thinking Church. The tenets of a sect are the theological arrangement of belief which for the present seems best; it is the systematic arrangement of facts so far examined, determined, and classified. But no system of theology can be final. Thought is moving on. Experience is progressive. Providence is continually revealing. The race is a creed-builder, as well as a builder of pyramids, cathedrals, and triumphal arches. Doctrine is an intellectual necessity. Christ is not sporadic, either in history or philosophy. To teach Christ, as the unlettered savage may who has just learned of Christ the Saviour and turns to teach his fellow-savages, might do good or save a soul from death. But in order to command the intellectual respect of the race, there must be another form of teaching yet than this, a teaching which presents Christ in the historic and philosophic setting: the central Figure in a great body of associated spiritual truth; Christ as the fulfilment of prophecy, the means of social adjustment and regeneration; the Finisher of our Faith, and the Source of eternal joy. We must be, not less spiritual Christians, but increasingly intellectual ones, as time rolls on. Shall doctrine be taught a child? Yes! To have a specific doctrine clearly in mind does not fetter the young soul, any more than to be taught the apparent facts of geography and history, which may change either in reality or in his own interpretation as his mind matures. A doctrine is a practical and definite thing to work with; in later life to believe, and to approve of, or disbelieve, and disapprove of. If a man wishes to build a house, does it fetter him to know square measure, cubic contents, geometry, mensuration, and mechanical laws? Yet when he builds his house, he builds it in his own individual way; he stamps it with his own personality and ideas. While building it, perchance, he discovers some new relation or geometric law. Doctrine does not save from hell, but it does save from many a snare that besets the feet of man. It is a steadier of life, a strengthener of hope, a stalwart aid to a practical, devout, and duty-doing life. A catechism is a system of doctrine expressed in its simplest form. Therefore, for the intellectual and moral training of the Church, let us have sound doctrine in the pulpit, and the catechism in the home and Sabbath-school. If doctrine be the crystallized thought and belief of godly men, what is heresy? What is schism? Who is dictator of doctrine? How far are the limits of authority to be pressed? What are the bounds of ecclesiastical control? of intellectual mandate in the Christian Church? Not every man has Europe or Asia in his backyard, nor a lifetime of leisure for research, for special learning, on the moot questions of church-scholarship. Progress consists in each man's doing his best to advance the interests of the kingdom of God in his own special sphere. From others he must take something for granted. The ear of the Church ought always to be open to the sayings of the specialist. A Church should grant liberty of research, of thought, of speech--to a degree. What would we think of an electrician who would complain that a storm had cast down his network of wires? Of a civil engineer who would lament that the mountain over which he was asked to project a road was steep? Of a doctor who would grieve that hosts of people about him were very ill? Of a statesman who would cry out that horrid folks opposed him? It is the work of the specialist to meet emergencies, and it is his professional pride to triumph over difficult conditions. The harder his task, the more he exults in his power of success. What does he find? He soon discovers that the battle is not always to the strong, the educated, or the well-bred. Too often he is at the mercy of rich men who can scarcely put together a grammatical sentence; of poorer men who are, in church affairs, unscrupulous politicians; of women who carp and gossip; and of all sorts of men and women who desire to rule, criticise, hinder, and distrain. They, too, are the very people who, in the ears of God and of the community, have vowed to love him and to uphold his work! The more intellectual and spiritual he is, the more he is troubled and distressed. Watch a scientific association jump with all fours upon a man who has just read a paper before their body! How unsparingly they analyze and criticise! He has to meet questions, opposition, comments, shafts of wit and envy, jovial teasing and correction. He goes out from the meeting with a keener love of truth and exactness, and a less exalted idea of his own powers. Watch the rivalry and sparring that go on in any business. Men meet men who attack them; they fight and overcome them, or are themselves overcome. A minister is not a parlor-pet. How many a time an energetic man, society-bound, must long to kick over a few afternoon tea-tables, and smash his way out through bric-a-brac and chit-chat to freedom and power! The question of a minister's relation to the women of his congregation and the community is not only curious and complex--it is a perpetual comedy. How do other men in public life deal with this problem? They have a genial but indifferent dignity, quite compatible with courtesy and friendly ways. They shoulder responsibility; they do not flirt; they sort out cranks; they flee from simpers; they put down presumption. If married, they laugh heartily with their wives over any letter or episode that is comical or sentimental. If not married, they get out of things the best way they know how, with a sort of plain, manly directness. If a minister would arrogate to himself his free-born privilege of being a thorough-going man, many of his troubles would disappear. Another error in ministerial education and outlook is that too often ministers forget that they compete with other men: they are not an isolated class of humanity. Competition underlies the energy and efficiency of the world's work. When men do not consciously compete with others, they inevitably drop behind. What a minister was intended for, was to stand head and shoulders above other men. God seems to have planned the universe in such a way that everywhere the spiritual shall be supreme. He was meant to be a towering leader. Who, in other realms, has excelled Moses, Joshua, Elijah, David, Paul? The lawyer and the capitalist are together adjusting the industrial relations of the country. We have trusts, syndicates, and corporation-problems handled with a firm intellectual grasp and a wide outlook over human affairs. Bankers are thinking out the financial problems--currency, legal tender, the best forms of money and authority; the whole monetary system of the world is under consideration and analysis. The farmer is learning, through chemistry and other forms of science, new ways of making his farm productive, and the educated agriculturist is rising to be an intellectual factor in the development of our country. Everywhere we see Life awakening--a great renaissance! Has the minister, as a thinker and active force of regeneration, kept pace with this advance? Do many sermons thrill us in this large way? Where does he rank among the world-masters of energy and power? We say that divorce and Sabbath-breaking are sweeping over our country--gambling, social drinking, and many other ills; a sensational press, a corrupt politics, a materialistic greed. Ruling religious thinkers should also, by and by, become leaders of national thought and life. Great public questions should be open to their judgment and appeal; they should be moral arbiters, and spiritual guides in national crises. By a word they should be able to rouse the prayers of the country, and by a word to still widespread anger and uprising. If accredited spiritual leaders cannot help, who can? There are a few men living who seem to hold, for the whole world, the temporal balance. They control mines and shipping, banks and trade. Who, to-day, holds the spiritual destiny of the world in his hand? I long to see men appear upon whom the eyes of the world shall be fastened, in recognition of their spiritual preeminence, as they are now fastened on these industrial giants. Rise! Let some man, earnest and endowed, look forward into the future, and with the courage that comes from inborn power, assert himself among the nations! Allay, O World-Evangelist, not only neighborhood disputes, but international dissensions; project a creed that shall be profound and universal; sweep sects together, unite energy and endeavor, baptize with fire, bring repentance, quicken the race-conscience, uplift the World-Hope! Erect and elemental, hold CHRIST before the race! IV. THE WORLD-MARCH: OF SAGES _Our Father in Heaven, Creator of all, O source of all wisdom, On Thee we would call! Thou only canst teach us, And show us our need, And give to Thy children True knowledge indeed. But vain our instruction, And blind we must be, Unless with our learning Be knowledge of Thee. Then pour forth Thy Spirit And open our eyes, And fill with the knowledge That only makes wise. From pride and presumption, O Lord, keep us free, And make our hearts humble, And loyal to Thee, That living or dying, In Thee we may rest, And prove to the scornful Thy statutes are best._ Such a gift God has given us in our power to think. What a mysterious and deep-hid gift it is! Nerves and sensations, a few convolutions in the brain, acts of attention and observation, certain reactions following certain stimuli: the result, a world of worlds spread out before us; unlimited intellectual possibilities within our grasp! If we refuse to learn to think, we refuse to do our share of the world's work. We are like a horse that balks and will not pull. While we sulk the universe is at a standstill. We cannot deliberately make thoughts. Thought is like life itself: science has not found a formula which will produce it. But just as marriage produces new lives, though we cannot say how, so study and meditation produce thoughts. Something new appears: a concept which was not with the race before. The work of sages has been to rule the thinking of the race. They receive the inspired ideas and spend their lives in teaching them to others: in setting up intellectual vibrations throughout the world. Experience is what the race has been through. Each of us has his personal variant of this common life. Thought is the power by which we make it available for our own better living, and the future life of the race. To the early man, there existed earth, air, water, fire, heat, cold, tempest, and the growth of living things. He lived, ate, fought, but his thoughts were primitive and personal. Have _I_ had enough dinner? he asked, not, Is the race fed? Since then, what the sage has done is to teach men to see, read, write, think, count, and to work; to love ideals, to love mankind and relate his work to human progress. Out of that leaf-writing, and bark-etching, and later rune, have grown the printed writings of mankind. Homer, Dante, Milton, and Shakespeare are the lineal descendants of the man who made holes in a leaf, or lines on a wave-washed sand. Out of the finger-counting have grown up book-keeping, geometry, mathematical astronomy and a knowledge of the higher curves. Out of the prehistoric shrugs and sounds and grimaces we have oral speech--much of it worthless, and not all of it yet wholly intelligible. We are still continually being understood to say what we never meant to say: we are forever putting our private interpretation on the words of other men. Even yet, we are all too stupid. In our dreariest moments does there not come to us sometimes a voice which cries: Up, awake! Cease blinking, and begin to see! So each man goes to the dictionary. He takes a word here, a word there, common words that everybody knows. He puts them together: the result is a presentation of the life of man, and lays hold of his inmost spirit. "_Our birth is but a deep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting And cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home!_" To write, the soul chooses, and God stands ever by to help. That is why great work always impresses us as inspired. God did it. It is God who whispers the deathless thought and phrase: the subtler collocations are divine. Thus knowledge is not permanent. It reels. It proceeds, it changes, it is iridescent with new significance from day to day. It is the relativity of knowledge that dances before the eye, that bewilders, eludes, evades. Group-systems and electives seem like a makeshift for the real thing. We cannot tie a fact to a pupil, because to the tail of the fact is tied history itself. Until a pupil gets a glimpse of that relation, that dependence of which we have just heard, with all that has yet happened in connection with it, he is not yet quite master of his fact. He recites glibly the date of Thermopylae, and does not know that all Greece is trailing behind his desk. When, after subsequent research, he knows something of Greece, he discovers Greece to be dovetailed into Rome and Egypt, and they lay hold upon the plain of Shinar and Eden, and the immemorial, prehistoric years. Ah, no! We never really know. Every fact recedes from us, as might an ebbing wave, and leaves us stranded upon an unhorizoned beach, more despairing than before. Education does not solve the problems of life--it deepens the mystery. What, then, may the sage know? Are there no sages? And have we all been misinformed? The fishing-sage knows the ways and haunts of fish. He is wise in the salmon, the perch, the trout, the tarpon, and the muscalonge. He says. To-day the bass will bite on dobsons, but to-morrow we must have frogs. The moment we set bounds to wisdom, we find that we have shut something out. Wisdom is the free, active life of a growing and attaching soul. We must not only attach information to ourselves, we must assimilate it. Else we are like a crab which should drag about Descartes, or as an ocean sucker which should hug a copy of Thucydides. Conduct is the _pons asinorum_ of life. Wise men somehow cross it, though stumblingly, and with tears. Fools, usurers, oppressors, and spendthrifts of life are left gaping and wrangling on the hellward side. Thinkers have always been climbing up on each other's shoulders to look over into the Beyond. What they have seen, they have told. Some men climb so high into the ethereal places of the Ideal, that they do not get down again. They are the impractical men. An impractical man is not necessarily the educated man; he is the man at the top of some intellectual fence, who wishes to come down, but has absent-mindedly forgotten that he has legs. The legs are not absent, but his wit is. So with the impractical man in every sphere. Education has not really removed his common-sense, as some say, his power to connect passing events with their causes, and to act reasonably; but it has set his thought on some other thought for the time being, and the dinner-bell, we will say, does not detach him from his inquiry. His necktie rides up! He goes out into the street without a hat! Let him alone till he proves the worth of what he is about. The practical man, who hears the dinner-bell and prides himself upon this fact, may not hear sounds far-off and clear, that ring in the impractical man's ear, and that may sometime tell him how to make a better dinner-bell, or provide a better dinner--a great social philosophy--for the race! The really impractical man is not he who reaches out to the intellectual and ideal aspects of life; it is he who lives as if this life were all. There are women who make pets of their clothes, as men make pets of horse or dog. They have just time enough in life to dress themselves up. Looking back over their years, they can only say, I have had clothes! In the same number of years, with no greater advantages or opportunities, other women have become the queenly women of the race. Some women are girt with centuries, instead of gold or gems. Whenever they appear, the event becomes historic; what they do adds new lustre to life. We are all prodigals. We throw away time and strength, and years, and gold, and then weep that we are ignorant, and embeggared at the last. Who shall teach us wisdom, and in what manner may we be wise? Another ideal of the race is Law. We have given up a chaos-philosophy--the haphazard continuity of events--a cometary orbit, for the world. There are fixed relations everywhere existent: the succession of cycles is orderly and prearranged. Another ideal is Progress. We are moving, not toward the bottom, but toward the top of possibility. We reject annihilation, because then there is nothing left. And there must always be something left--progress--a bigger something, a better something. Should annihilation be the truth of things, and all the race mortal, then some day there would be a Last Man. And after the Last Man, what? He would die, and then all that any of the other stars could view of the vast panorama of our earthly generations would be an unburied corpse, with not even a vulture hovering to pick it to freshness in the air! A Last Man? No. Instead, the seers have shown us a great multitude in a heavenly country, praising God, and singing forth His Name forever. Immortality broods over the great thought of the race. All great minds look upward to it: it is the final consummation of our dreams. Hence, wisdom has not yet been arrived at: we are still on the run. This twentieth century will find new problems, new queries, new cranks, and new dismays! When we look down into the physical universe, the primary thing that we find there is gravitation. When we look into the moral universe, the primary thing that we find there is also gravitation--a sinking to a Lower. This is sin--a contrariness of things--which makes the world an evil place to live in, instead of a good; which wrecks character and states, eats the hearts out of cultures and civilizations, destroys strong races, leaves a stain upon even the youngest child, and which is constantly drawing the race downward, instead of upward. Sin is energy deliberately misplaced: energy directed against the course of things, the infinite development, the will of God. Sin is corruption, and desolation, and decay. Death broods over the spirit of man, unless a Redeemer come. The unredeemed ages hang over history like a pall. In them there are monumental oppression, cruelties, and crimes. The breath of myriad millions went out in darkness, and there was none to save. A plague swept over all the race. Hence, even scientifically considered, the final aim of thinking must be, to arrive at some thought which will take hold of this primary fact of sin and uproot it; which will show how the world may be purged of sin. Redemption is the explanation of the existence of man, of his present progress, and his future destiny. It is the great mystery of joy in which the race partakes; the spiritual culmination of all things earthly; the forecast of eternal things yet to be. Redemption is not a dogma; it is a life. Redemption is a perpetual and ascendant moral growth. It marks a world-balm, a world-change. It is in the spirit of man that it works, and not in his outer condition, or external strivings. It is ultimately to root sin out of the world. Thus when the world has breathed to us the holy name of Christ, it has told us the highest that it knows. The March of Sages is toward a Redeemer! The banner of Wisdom is furled about the Cross! IV. THE WORLD-MARCH: OF TRADERS Many a prayer uplifted springs O'er desk, and din, and roar; Many an humble knee is bent When the rushed day is o'er; Far within, where God may be, All exists His Throne to raise; Every triumph of our power Becomes a form of Praise! God of nations, hear our cry, And keep us just and true; Lay Thy hand on all our lives, And bless the work we do: Then from every coast and clime Land and sea shall tribute bring; Gold and traffic, world-domain We offer to our King!_ ANNA ROBERTSON BROWN LINDSAY There are traders and traders--the just and the unjust--the man of honor and the rogue. We set values on thoughts and on transactions, on merchandise and on philanthropies, on ideas and on accounts; and there is a constant distribution of the affairs, as well as of the worldly goods of men. There was a day when trade was a thing of here-and-there; a thing of sailing ships and caravans, of merchants of Bagdad, Cairo, Venice, Alexandria, Jerusalem, Tyre, and Damascus. Ivory, gold, gems, precious stuffs, teak and cedar wood, Lebanon pine, apes, peacocks, sandal-wood, camel's hair, goat's hair, frankincense, pearl, dyes, myrrh, cassia, cinnamon, Balm of Gilead, calamus, spikenard, corn, ebony, figs, fir, olives, olive-wood, wheat, amber, copper, lead, tin, and precious stones were the chief articles of exchange. A very little sufficed the poor; the rich were housed in palaces and panoplied in gems. To-day, each man demands more of the earth's products than ever before. He reaches out a hand for comforts and luxuries, as well as for necessities. He grasps not only the produces of his own and his neighbor's field and vineyard, but demands what lies across continents and seas. Instead of the ship, the camel, and the ass, we now have the ocean freighter or liner, and the flying train of cars: new forces, oil, steam, electricity, and water-power, do the carrying work of man. And hence trade has become Trade, and each trader is involved in the comfort, success, and prosperity of many others. A single commercial transaction to-day involves the lives of hundreds of thousands, competes for their toil and life-blood, carries the decision of their destiny. A great merchant is the real Kris Kringle. He stands at the centre of exchange, distributes from the tropics and the arctic zones. He deals out fur and feathers, books, toys, clothing, engines; ribbons, laces, silks, perfumes; bread-stuffs, sugar, cotton, iron, ice, steel; wheat, flour, beef, stone; lumber, drugs, coal, leather. He scatters periodically the products of mills and looms, of shoe-shops and print-works, fields, factories, mines, and of art-workers. He thus becomes a social force of great power, a social law-giver, in fact. Under his iron rule, the lives of the masses are uplifted or cast down. As large eras open, the ethical ideals become higher. We are beginning to inquire, as never before, into the basis of trade, the place of the trader, the right conduct of this vast problem of Distribution upon which hinges so much of human life and fate. All things look, not only to the integration of trade, but to its exaltation. Trade has ceased to be a thing of individual energy, talent, and commercial alertness. It has risen to great proportions. The large trader is in control of national conduit, as well as of national expense. There is a great deal more in business than the art of making money. Business is, at the roots, a way of making nations; of developing the resources of a country, of handling its industries, of protecting its commerce, of enlarging its institutions, of uplifting its training, aspirations, and ideals. Traffic is educational. Imports influence the national life. We may import opium or Bibles, whiskey or bread-stuffs, locomotives or dancing pigs. With all this demand, the business man still stands largely in a class by himself, a class apart from the great leaders of the world. He is not yet received into the spiritual circles of the race. He goes about the world, sits on boards and committees, fills directorships and trusteeships, pays pew-rent, and runs towns. But when the spiritual conclaves of the world take place, when the things of life and death are inquired into, when words are said of the higher conduct of the life of man, if he draw near inquiringly or unguardedly to the sacred place, scholar and poet, priest, saint, and proud hand-worker alike rise up and say, Go away. It wears upon the heart--this spiritual isolation of the business man. Does not he often say sadly to himself, They only want my money? Why must he go away? What has he done, that he must be waved down? If we discover why he must go away, we shall discover the meaning of that great caste-line which has long been drawn, and ought no longer to be drawn, between trade and letters, trade and the Church, trade and social prestige. It is a strange concept that would bar the business man from the ideal; that would limit his life to an account-book, a ledger, a roll of stocks, rents, and possessions, instead of granting him the freedom of the universe, the privilege of ministering to the race. Singularly enough, the business class is the last class that Christianity has set free. Slaves have been given liberty; women, social companionship and intellectual equality; manual labor has been lifted to dignity and honor. But to break the shackles of the man of trade is the work of our era, or of an era yet to come. Thousands of young men are daily stepping into counting-houses, or behind sales-counters, or into independent stores, who will never lift their eyes from their goods and account-books, nor rise above the linen, hardware, groceries, or house-fixtures which they sell. Such a situation is suicidal of national prosperity, and blocks the high hopes of the world. Endowed with natural business talent, the young man who goes out into the world with such preparation as this knows a great deal more than just how to make money; he knows how to make it honorably and how to spend it, in his business, family, and social life, for the public good; he has in him the making of a statesman and a philanthropist, as well as a man of wealth. Christianity projects into the world new ideals of Trade, of Gain, of Competition, Value, and Return for Toil. What is Trade? Is it merely a way of making money? Then there is no ethical basis for it. "The amount of money which is needed for a good life," says Aristotle, "is not unlimited." To buy at the least, and sell at the most, regardless of the conditions under which least and most are attained--the man who enters life with this idea of trade in his mind might just as well be born a shark and live to prey. Every free dollar in the world will tease and fret him, until he sees it on its way to his own pocket. If this is all there is in trade, the noble-minded will let it alone: it gives no human outlook. It not only undermines personal character, it is the root of national ignominy and dishonor. Take the case of a specially helpful and paying book. The author receives a royalty, and has an income. The publisher receives his profits, and makes a living. The public gains inspiration and ideals. Who is loser? This is sheer business, yet it means loving service for all concerned. To illustrate further: A physician has a frail child, with which the ordinary milk in the market does not agree. To build up its health, he buys a country place and a good cow. The child thrives. In his practice, he sees many other frail children, and it occurs to him that they, too, can be benefited by the same kind of care and watchfulness that he is giving his own child. He buys more cows, has them scientifically cared for, and his agents sell the milk. He finds himself, in the course of time, the owner of a dairy farm, and a man of increasing income. But his trade is not trade for the sake of money! it is trade to make sick children strong and well. He exchanges professional knowledge, executive ability, and human sympathy, for money; in return for which, children receive health, parents joy, and the race a more athletic set of men and women. This is an instance of the inner spirit of the true trade: the spirit which may rule all trade, deny it, or discount it, or scorn it, as you will. Price is a value set on material, on labor, on interest, on scarcity, on excellence, on commercial risks; it is the approximate measure of the cost of production. The ethical price of a commodity is the price which would enable its producer to produce it under healthful and happy conditions--which would insure his having what Dr. Patten calls his "economic rights." This joyous exertion is not harmful; it is tonic. Excellence is an inspiration, an intoxication. Let excellence, not Will-it-pass? be the standard of exchange. From the very endeavor after excellence comes a certain exaltation of spirit, which ennobles the least fragment of daily toil. When the producer brings forth somewhat for sale, let him say: There! That is the best that I can do! It is not what I tried to make of it--the thing of my dreams--but it is the very best which, under the given conditions, I could produce. Then the shoddy side of trade will disappear. The Law of Equity is the final law of trade. But in whose hands is equity? Who appraises value? Who sets price? In whose hand is the final price of the necessaries of life--wheat, rice, sugar, soap, cotton, wool, coal, milk, iron, lumber, ice? The man who puts a price on an article, as buyer or seller, enters an arena which is not only commercial--it is judicial and ethical: he declares for what amount a man's life-blood shall be used. Woman is the real economic distributer. The millionaire manufacturer imagines that he himself runs his business. Oh, no. It is run by farmers' wives. When they do not care for yarn or calico, his looms stand idle for a year; the vast machinery of the world turns on woman's little word: _I want_. Hence the education of women should include this factor: the desire to want the right things. Extravagance is not a part of woman's make-up; it is extraneous. _Gain is that which permanently enriches the life._ By every act of charity, or justice, or insight, or right barter, the soul is made more grand. True trade everywhere may be made a new method of inspiration, growth, and power. Money is a makeshift of the race. God is the only real appraiser, and we never get back a money-value for our soul's toil. Whether we pass wampum, or nickels, or taels, or bank-checks, we are not yet paid for our trade. The higher value of money is its spiritual capacity. Not what it will bring me is primarily important, but what I can buy with it for the race. Sometimes the question comes over me: What am I trading for money? My time? My energy? My ideals? Part of my soul is passing from me: do dollars ever repay? Hence it comes about that all money transactions are fragmentary and symbolic. Money may lead to poverty, or to spiritual wealth. The gift of trade is a gift of God, as much as the gift of prophecy or song. In a right way, we should all love gain. We are not born to go out of the world as poor as when we came into it. We should gain stature, wisdom, strength, influence, ideals. If our latent business capacity were more fully aroused, we should get much more out of life. We would refuse to barter a spiritual heritage for carnal things. We trade thoughts and feelings. But it is very hard to trade fine impulses with those who are intrinsically vulgar. Their treasury is empty of spiritual coin, and their storehouse contains no world-thoughts. We can send a caravan across the desert, a ship across the sea, but we cannot send a Thought into a flaccid or a pompous brain. Human love is not all. There is yet a higher impulse. The most business-like question that ever touches the heart of man is this: For what shall I trade my soul? We hold our souls high: we perceive that eternity itself is not too much to ask. And hence the highest barter is that of the earthly for the spiritual; of the temporal for the unseen and eternal. We say, Give me God, give me heaven, give me divine and sacrificial Love, and I will give my heart. And thus the last transaction is between God and the soul. Godliness is great Gain, and to exchange earth for heaven is a satisfying and unregretted Trade. IV. THE WORLD-MARCH: OF WORKERS Jesus, Thou hast bought us Not with gold or gem, But with Thine own life-blood, For Thy diadem. With Thy blessing filling Each who comes to Thee, Thou hast made us willing, Thou hast made us free. By Thy grand redemption, By Thy grace divine, We are on the Lord's side; Saviour, we are Thine! Not for weight of glory, Not for crown or palm, Enter we the army, Raise the warrior psalm; But for love that claimeth Lives for whom He died, He whom Jesus nameth Must be on His side. By Thy love constraining, By Thy grace divine, We are on the Lord's side; Saviour, we are Thine! FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL The problem in regard to the working-man is not how to pet him, nor to patronize him, but how to educate him and inspire him! He is not a parasite to be fed by the capitalist, nor is the capitalist a parasite upon the working-power of the working-man. Both are men. The problem is, How shall the capitalist lead the noblest, most public-spirited, and helpful life in relation to those in his employ? How shall the working-man lay hold on the best that life can give? How shall he find a work which he is competent to do, and likes to do, and may be supported by doing--and at the same time have a chance to grow; to enter into the large, free culture-life of the world? The complaint of the working-man, when really analyzed, runs down to this: I do income-work, but it does not bring me bread enough to live. Not only that, but ground down as I am by toil, all possibility of the larger, universal work is shut away from me. My faculties are atrophied--paralyzed--and hence my soul smoulders with deep and angry discontent. This ceaseless and sordid anxiety for bread cuts me out of my world-life, my world-toil. I cannot do scientific research-work, or write the books and papers that I ought. My universal labor is interrupted: I cannot be happy until I can take up this larger work again. As the trade of civilization advances, the meaning of bread changes. The university professor, no less than the day-laborer, finds his income too small for him, and says, "I, too, do income-work which does not bring me bread, books, travel, society, a summer home, and surroundings which are not only decent and sanitary, but refined and beautiful." Is it not also the source of the discontent to-day, among almost all classes of women, except the most highly educated and efficient? Women say--our modern daughters, wives, and mothers: "In the home, we do income-work for which we do not receive income. When strangers do this work, they are paid, and we are not." In addition, many a woman is so bound down by daily tasks, that her whole soul cries out, and we hear of the high rate of insanity among farmers' wives, of nervous prostration of the housewives in our towns, and become accustomed to such expressions as "the death of a woman on a Kansas farm." This discontent takes many restless forms. It leads daughters, who ought to be at home, out into morally dangerous but income-earning work; it takes wives out into all manner of clubs, without regard to the fact: as to whether the particular club, in its atmosphere and influence, is good or bad; it brings discouragement, disorder, and unrest into the home, dissatisfaction with house-duties and home-tasks, and is sapping our life where it should be best and strongest--in the home--taking out of it youth, spirit, enthusiasm, inspiration, and content. "_Forth they come from grief and torment; on they wend toward health and mirth, All the wide world is their dwelling, every corner of the earth. Buy them, sell them for thy service! Try the bargain what 'tis worth, For the days are marching on. "These are they who build thy houses, weave thy raiment, win thy wheat, Smooth the rugged, fill the barren, turn the bitter into sweet, All for thee this day--and ever. What reward for them is meet? Till the host comes marching on._" No. As the theory of bodily freedom demands for each man life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, so the highest theory of to-day lays down demands of economic freedom beyond the mere fad of possible existence. Dr. Patten has formulated certain "economic rights" of man. Each employer must say: Before I settle back with a serene belief that I have given my men a living-wage, let me ask: Have they sun? air? sanitary surroundings and conditions? medical care? leisure? education? a chance to grow? Have they enough money for ordinary occasions, and a little to give away? No man or woman has a living-wage, who has no money to give away. This appears to be a fundamental economic law: _Every physical, mental, or spiritual advantage offered to an honest working man or woman increases his economic efficiency_. Therefore even the selfish policy of shrewd corporations to-day is to screw up, and not down; while the more philanthropic are beginning to see, in their social power, a luminous opportunity to do a god-like service. But the capitalist, however just or generous, cannot do for a man what he cannot or will not do for himself. Too many workers imagine that a living-wage is to be given to each man, no matter how he behaves or works. This is a false assumption. Underlying all human effort, there runs a final law, that of Compensation: _What I earn, I shall some day have_. This is a very different proposition from this: _What I do not earn, I want to have_! For every stroke of human toil, the universe assigns a right reward--a reward, not of money only, but of peace of heart, joy, and the possibilities of helpfulness. But when the work done has not been done faithfully, or well, or honestly, or in the right spirit, the reward is lessened to that exact degree. To the end of time, the idle and the lazy must, if they are dependent on their own exertions, be ill housed and fed. If a man wastes, or his wife does, he must not complain that his income will not support him. If he lets opportunities of sustenance and advancement go by, the capitalist is not to be held to account. We need not pay--we ought not to pay--for incompetence, for impertinence, for disobedience of orders, for laziness, for shirking, for cheating, or for theft. To do so is a social wrong. It is the wrong that lies back, not only of sinecures and spoils, but of employing incompetent and wasteful cooks and dressmakers. Before a man complains of his wages, then, let him ask himself: Have I mastered my work? Am I loyal? Am I capable of larger responsibilities, and of wider control? WILLIAM MORRIS says: "_It is right and necessary that all men should have work to do which shall be worth doing, and be of itself pleasant to do: and which should be done under such conditions as would make it neither over-wearisome, nor over-anxious._" "_Then a man shall work and bethink him, and rejoice in the deeds of his handy Nor yet come home in the even too faint and weary to stand._ "_Men in that time a-coming shall work and have no fear For the morrow's lack of earning and the hunger-wolf anear._ "_And what wealth then shall be left us when none shall gather gold To buy his friend in the market, and pinch and pine the sold?_ "_Nay, what save the lovely city, and the little house on the hill, And the wastes and the woodland beauty, and the happy fields we till_; "_And the homes of ancient stories, the tombs of the mighty dead; And the wise men seeking out marvels, and the poet's teeming head;_ "_Far all these shall be ours and all men's, nor shall any lack a share Of the toil and the gain of living in the days when the world grows fair_." Good workers are trained in the home, the school, the shop, the wider world. Every home is an industrial establishment. In it go on the industrial processes of cooking, cleaning, sewing, washing; the care of silver, glass, linen, and household stores; the activities of buying food and clothing; the moral responsibilities of teaching and training servants and children. If any healthy member of the home is excused from at least some form of active work, he will inevitably be a shirker when he grows up. Cannot almost all the problems of human training be run down to this: How to teach a child to work? If he can work, he can be happy; but if he does not want to work, he shall never be happy. No work, no joy, is the universal dictum. When love-making is wholly scientific, then domestic service will be. There is in it the same delicate personal adjustment, the changing requirements of weather, health, temper, and season, of emergency and stress, that are to be found in the most purely personal relation. When there is a period of unusual sickness through the community, not only the doctors have extra tasks, but all household servants as well. Teachers' work will not be rightly done until certain advantages are given to teachers that are now largely withheld. Teachers need more society, more hours of play, freer opportunity of marriage. Instead of being tied up to exercise-books and roll-books, in their home-hours, they should have a chance to spend their time on the golf-links, at afternoon teas, in visiting and in entertaining friends. Take away society from any man or woman, and you take away the possibility of a growing, happy, and helpful life. We need friends just as we need air. Teachers need admiration and affection, just as much as the society girl does. Universities should have, in their faculties, men and women who represent the best social as well as the best intellectual life of the world--who are not only, in the highest sense of the word, society men and women, but who are social leaders, inspiring truth, inculcating larger social ideals of the best sort. It is a different sort of society that she then needs. It is not a boy-and-girl society, with its crude ways, and its adolescent ideas of life. It is the society of earnest, cultured, and public-spirited men and women, each of whom is adding something to the general store of interest and ideals; each of whom is doing some phase of social work, according to his own talent and opportunity. End of Project Gutenberg's The Warriors, by Lindsay, Anna Robertson Brown	redpajama-book	20,023
Produced by Christine De Ryck, Stig M. Valstad, Suzanne L. Shell and PG Distributed Proofreaders A VOYAGE TO THE MOON: WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF THE MANNERS AND CUSTOMS, SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPHY, OF THE PEOPLE OF MOROSOFIA, AND OTHER LUNARIANS. BY GEORGE TUCKER (JOSEPH ATTERLEY) Atterley's birth and education--He makes a voyage- Founders off the Burman coast--Adventures in that Empire--Meets with a learned Brahmin from Benares. The Brahmin's illness--He reveals an important secret to Atterley--Curious information concerning the Moon--The Glonglims--They plan a voyage to the Moon. The Brahmin and Atterley prepare for their voyage- Description of their travelling machine--Incidents of the voyage--The appearance of the earth; Africa; Greece--The Brahmin's speculations on the different races of men--National character. Continuation of the voyage--View of Europe; Atlantic Ocean; America--Speculations on the future destiny of the United States--Moral reflections- Pacific Ocean--Hypothesis on the origin of the Moon. A celebrated physician: his ingenious theories in physics: his mechanical inventions--The feather-hunting Glonglim. The fortune-telling philosopher, who inspected the finger nails: his visiters--Another philosopher, who judged of the character by the hair--The fortune-teller duped--Predatory warfare. The travellers visit a gentleman farmer, who is a great projector: his breed of cattle: his apparatus for cooking--He is taken dangerously ill. Lunarian physicians: their consultation--While they dispute the patient recovers--The travellers visit the celebrated teacher Lozzi Pozzi. Election of the Numnoonce, or town-constable- Violence of parties--Singular institution of the Syringe Boys--The prize-fighters--Domestic manufactures. Further account of Okalbia--The Field of Roses- Curious superstition concerning that flower--The pleasures of smell traced to association, by a Glonglim philosopher. Atterley goes to the great monthly fair--Its various exhibitions; difficulties--Preparations to leave the Moon--Curiosities procured by Atterley--Regress to the Earth. The Brahmin gives Atterley a history of his life. APPEAL TO THE PUBLIC. The chief of a party of Indians, who had visited Washington during Mr. Jefferson's presidency, having, on his return home, assembled his tribe, gave them a detail of his adventures; and dwelling particularly upon the courteous treatment the party had received from their "Great Father," stated, among other things, that he had given them ice, though it was then mid-summer. His countrymen, not having the vivacity of our ladies, listened in silence till he had ended, when an aged chief stepped forth, and remarked that he too, when a young man, had visited their Great Father Washington, in New-York, who had received him as a son, and treated him with all the delicacies that his country afforded, but had given him no ice. "Now," added the orator, "if any man in the world could have made ice in the summer, it was Washington; and if he could have made it, I am sure he would have given it to me. Tustanaggee is, therefore, a liar, and not to be believed." In both these cases, though the argument seemed fair, the conclusion was false; for had either the king or the chief taken the trouble to satisfy himself of the fact, he might have found that his limited experience had deceived him. It is unquestionably true, that if travellers sometimes impose on the credulity of mankind, they are often also not believed when they speak the truth. Credulity and scepticism are indeed but different names for the same hasty judgment on insufficient evidence: and, as the old woman readily assented that there might be "mountains of sugar and rivers of rum," because she had seen them both, but that there were "fish which could fly," she never would believe; so thousands give credit to Redheiffer's patented discovery of perpetual motion, because they had beheld his machine, and question the existence of the sea-serpent, because they have not seen it. As to those who do not call in question my veracity, but only doubt my sanity, I fearlessly appeal from their unkind judgment to the sober and unprejudiced part of mankind, whether, what I have stated in the following pages, is not consonant with truth and nature, and whether they do not there see, faithfully reflected from the Moon, the errors of the learned on Earth, and "the follies of the wise?" _Atterley's birth and education--He makes a voyage--Founders off the Burman coast--Adventures in that Empire--Meets with a learned Brahmin from Benares._ Being about to give a narrative of my singular adventures to the world, which, I foresee, will be greatly divided about their authenticity, I will premise something of my early history, that those to whom I am not personally known, may be better able to ascertain what credit is due to the facts which rest only on my own assertion. The reader is, no doubt, aware that the Burman Empire lies beyond the Ganges, between the British possessions and the kingdom of Siam; and that the natives nearly assimilate with those of Hindostan, in language, manners, religion, and character, except that they are more hardy and warlike. I learnt from him that he was born and bred at Benares, in Hindostan; that he had been intended for the priesthood, and had been well instructed in the literature of the east. That a course of untoward circumstances, upon which he seemed unwilling to dwell, had changed his destination, and made him a wanderer on the face of the earth. That in the neighbouring kingdom of Siam he had formed an intimacy with a learned French Jesuit, who had not only taught him his language, but imparted to him a knowledge of much of the science of Europe, its institutions and manners. That after the death of this friend, he had renewed his wanderings; and having been detained in this village by a fit of sickness for some weeks, he was warned that it was time to quit his rambling life. This place being recommended to him, both by its quiet seclusion, and the unsophisticated manners of its inhabitants, he determined to pass the remnant of his days here, and, by devoting them to the purposes of piety, charity, and science, to discharge his duty to his Creator, his species, and himself; "for the love of knowledge," he added, "has long been my chief source of selfish enjoyment." _The Brahmin's illness--He reveals an important secret to Atterley-Curious information concerning the Moon--The Glonglims--They plan a voyage to the Moon._ "This metal, when separated and purified, has as great a tendency to fly off from the earth, as a piece of gold or lead has to approach it. After making a number of curious experiments with it, we bethought ourselves of putting it to some use, and soon contrived, with the aid of it, to make cars and ascend into the air. We were very secret in these operations; for our unhappy country having then recently fallen under the subjection of the British nation, we apprehended that if we divulged our arcanum, they would not only fly away with all our treasures, whether found in palace or pagoda, but also carry off the inhabitants, to make them slaves in their colonies, as their government had not then abolished the African slave trade. "Yes," said he, "the moon has inhabitants, pretty much the same as the earth, of which they believe their globe to have been formerly a part. But suspend your questions, and let me give you a recital of the most remarkable things I saw there." The love of the marvellous, and the wish for a change, which had long slumbered in my bosom, were now suddenly awakened, and I eagerly caught at his proposal. "When can we set out, father?" said I. _The Brahmin and Atterley prepare for their voyage--Description of their machine--Incidents of the voyage--The appearance of the earth; Africa; Greece--The Brahmin's speculations on the different races of men--National character._ The ardent curiosity I had felt to behold the wonderful things which the Brahmin related, and the hope of returning soon to my children and native country, had made me most impatient for the moment of departure; during which time the hazards and difficulties of the voyage were entirely overlooked: but now that the moment of execution had arrived, and I found myself shut up in this small chest, and about to enter on a voyage so new, so strange, and beset with such a variety of dangers, I will not deny that my courage failed me, and I would gladly have compromised to return to Mozaun, and remain there quietly all the rest of my days. But shame restrained me, and I dissembled my emotions. I observed to him, that less was known of this continent than of the others: that a spirit of lively curiosity had been excited by the western nations of Europe, to become acquainted with the inhabited parts of the globe; but that all the efforts yet made, had still left a large portion almost entirely unknown. I asked if he did not think it probable that some of the nations in the interior of Africa were more advanced in civilization than those on the coast, whose barbarous custom of making slaves of their prisoners, Europeans had encouraged and perpetuated, by purchasing them. "Do you think then," said I, "that there is no such thing as natural inferiority and differences of races?" "And may not," said I, "the very nature of the plant be changed, after a long continuance of the same culture in the same soil?" "Who knows, then," said I, "what our missionaries and colonization societies may effect in Africa." "Let us then proceed," said I, mortified at the imputation on my courage, and influenced yet more, perhaps, by the last argument. The Brahmin then tried to soothe my disappointment, by his remarks on my native land. I told him, when he should see these things in operation with his own eyes, as I trusted he would, if it pleased heaven to favour our undertakings, they would appear less strange. I reminded him of the peculiar circumstances under which our countrymen had commenced their career. "Your reasoning about the natives of Spanish America appears very probable," said the Brahmin; "but is it not equally applicable to your own country ?" I reminded him of the peculiar advantages of our government. He shook his head. "No, Atterley," said he, "do not deceive yourself. The duration of every species of polity is uncertain; the works of nature alone are permanent. The motions of the heavenly bodies are the same as they were thousands of years ago. But not so with the works of man. He is the identical animal that he ever was. His political institutions, however cunningly devised, have always been yet more perishable than his structures of stone and marble. This is according to all past history: and do not, therefore, count upon an exception in your favour, that would be little short of the miraculous. But," he good-naturedly added, "such a miracle may take place in your system; and, although I do not expect it, I sincerely wish it." "You think, then," said I, "that the native of Kamtschatka has the advantage?" "It is the opinion of some philosophers in the moon, that their globe is a fragment of ours; and, as they can see every part of the earth's surface, they believe the Pacific was the place from which the moon was ejected. They pretend that a short, but consistent tradition of the disruption, has regularly been transmitted from remote antiquity; and they draw confirmation of their hypothesis from many words of the Chinese, and other Orientals, with whom they claim affinity." "I see," said I, "that doctors differ and dispute about their own fancies every where." "Do you think, father," said I, "that animal, or even vegetable life, could possibly exist in such a disruption as is supposed?" The dryness of the preceding discussion, which lay out of the course of my studies, together with the effect of my dinner, began to make me a little drowsy; whereupon the Brahmin urged me to take the repose which it was clear I needed; remarking, that when I awoke, he would follow my example. Reclining my head, then, on my cloak, in a few minutes my senses were steeped in forgetfulness. "Alas!" said he, "my country and my countrymen, how different you are in many respects from what I should wish you to be! And yet I do not love you the less. Perhaps I love you the more for your faults, as well as for your misfortunes. I asked him whether he thought if his countrymen were to shake off the yoke of the English, they could maintain their independence? "Undoubtedly," said he. "Who would be able to conquer us?" I suggested to him that they might tempt the ambition of Russia; and cautiously inquired, whether the abstinence from animal food might not render his country much less capable of resistance; and whether it might not serve to explain why India had so often been the prey of foreign conquest? Of this, however, he would hear nothing; but replied, with more impatience than was usual with him- "It is true, Hindostan was invaded by Alexander--but not conquered; and that it has since submitted, in succession, to the Arabians, to the Tartars, under Genghis Khan, and under Tamerlane; to the Persians, under Nadir Shah, and, finally, to the British. But there are few countries of Europe which have not been conquered as often. That nation from which you are descended, and to which mine is now subject, furnishes no exception, as it has been subjugated, in succession, by the Romans, the Danes, the Saxons, the Normans. And, as to courage, we see no difference between those Asiatics who eat animal food as you do, and those who abstain from it as I do. I am told that the Scotch peasantry eat much less animal food than the English, and the Irish far less than they; and yet, that these rank among the best troops of the British. But surely a nation ought not to be suspected of fearing death, whose very women show a contempt of life which no other people have exhibited." This led us to talk of that strange custom of his country, which impels the widow to throw herself on the funeral pile of her husband, and to be consumed with him. I told him that it had often been represented as compulsory--or, in other words, that it was said that every art and means were resorted to, for the purpose of working on the mind of the woman, by her relatives, aided by the priests, who would be naturally gratified by such signal triumphs of religion over the strongest feelings of nature. He admitted that these engines were sometimes put in operation, and that they impelled to the sacrifice, some who were wavering; but insisted, that in a majority of instances the _Suttee_ was voluntary. Here he abruptly broke off the conversation; and, after continuing thoughtful and silent for some time, he remarked: "But do not forget where we are. Nature demands her accustomed rest, and let us prepare to indulge her. I feel little inclined to sleep at present; yet, by the time you have taken some hours' repose, I shall probably require the same refreshment." After enjoying my surprise for a moment, the Brahmin observed: "We have, while you were asleep, passed the middle point between the earth's and the moon's attraction, and we now gravitate less towards our own planet than her satellite. I took the precaution to move you, before you fell by your own gravity, from what was lately the bottom, to that which is now so, and to keep you in this place until you were retained in it by the moon's attraction; for, though your fall would have been, at this point, like that of a feather, yet it would have given you some shock and alarm. The machine, therefore, has undergone no change in its position or course; the change is altogether in our feelings." _Some account of Morosofia, and its chief city Alamatua--Singular dresses of the Lunar ladies--Religious self denial--Glouglim miser and spendthrift._ After a frugal, but not unpalatable repast, and a few hours' sleep, the Brahmin took me round the city and a part of its environs, to make me acquainted with the public buildings, streets, shops, and the appearance of the inhabitants. I soon found that our arrival was generally known and that we excited quite as much curiosity as we felt, though many of the persons we met had seen the Brahmin before. I was surprised that we saw none of their women; but the Brahmin told me that they were every where gazing through their windows; and, on looking up, through these slanting apertures I could often see their eyes peeping over the upper edge of the window-sill. We spent above an hour in examining these curious habiliments, and in inquiring the purposes and uses of the several parts. Sometimes I was induced, through the Brahmin, to criticise their taste and skill, having been always an admirer of simplicity in female attire. But I remarked on this occasion, as on several others, subsequently, that the people of the moon were neither very thankful for advice, nor thought very highly of the judgment of those who differ from them in opinion. After we arose from this strange scene, and had withdrawn to our chamber, I expressed my surprise to my companion at this contrariety in the tastes of the Terrestrials and Lunarians: whereupon he told me, that the difference was rather apparent than real. I told him that our clergy were superior to this weakness, most of them manifesting a proper sense of the bounty of Providence, by eating and drinking of the best, (not very sparingly neither); and that in New-York, we considered some of our preachers the best judges of wine among us. Soon afterwards, we again sallied forth in quest of adventures, and bent our course towards the suburbs. I observed to the Brahmin, that it was a singular, and somewhat inexplicable, species of madness. While we thus conversed, there stepped up to us a handsome man, foppishly dressed in blue trowsers, a pink vest, and a red and white turban; who, after having shaken my companion by the ears, according to the custom of the country among intimate friends, expressed his delight at seeing him again in Morosofia. He then went on, in a lively, humorous strain, to ridicule the nail-smith, and told us several stories of his singular attachment to his nails. In the midst of these sallies, however, a harsh looking personage in brown came up, upon which the countenance of our lively acquaintance suddenly changed, and they walked off together. "Is he also a Glonglim?" I asked. "Assuredly: what man, in his entire senses, could act so irrationally?" "There is nothing on earth that exceeds this," said I. "No," said the Brahmin; "human folly is every where the same." _Physical peculiarities of the Moon-Celestial phenomena--Further description of the Lunarians--National prejudice--Lightness of bodies--The Brahmin carries Atterley to sup with a philosopher--His character and opinions_. The inhabitants of the moon have not the same regularity in their meals, or time for sleep, as we have, but consult their appetites and inclinations like other animals. But they make amends for this irregularity, by a very strict and punctilious observance of festivals, which are regulated by the motions of the sun, at whose rising and setting they have their appropriate ceremonies. Those which are kept at sunrise, are gay and cheerful, like the hopes which the approach of that benignant luminary inspires. The others are of a grave and sober character, as if to prepare the mind for serious contemplation in their long-enduring night. When the earth is at the full, which is their midnight, it is also a season of great festivity with them. The carriages are drawn altogether by dogs, which are the largest animals they have, except the zebra, and a small buffalo. This diminution of gravity is, however, of some disadvantage to them. Many of their tools are not as efficient as ours, especially their axes, hoes, and hammers. On the other hand, when a person falls to the ground, it is nearly the same thing as if an inhabitant of the earth were to fall on a feather bed. Yet I saw as many instances of fractured limbs, hernia, and other accidents there, as I ever saw on the earth; for when they fall from great heights, or miscarry in the feats of activity which they ambitiously attempt, it inflicts the same injury upon them, as a fall nearer the ground does upon us. From this decision there was no appeal, and no other dissent than what was expressed by a look or a low murmur. But I perceived the corpulent gentleman and the wan mathematician slily exchange their dishes, by which they both seemed to consider themselves gainers. The dish allotted to me, being of a middling character, I ate of it without repining; though, from the savoury fumes of my right-hand neighbour's plate, I could not help wishing I had been allowed to choose for myself. After we retired, my friend told me that Wigurd was a good man in the main, though he had been as much hated by some as if his conduct had been immoral, instead of his opinions merely being singular. "He not long ago," added the Brahmin "wrote a book against marriage, and soon afterwards wedded, in due form, the lady you saw at his table. She holds as strange tenets as he, which she supports with as much zeal, and almost as much ability. But I predict that the popularity of their doctrines will not last; and if ever you visit the moon again, you will find that their glory, now at its height, like the ephemeral fashions of the earth, will have passed away." _A celebrated physician: his ingenious theories in physics: his mechanical inventions--The feather-hunting Glonglim._ To compensate their want of this natural advantage, the inhabitants of Moriboozia are abundantly supplied with a petroleum, or bituminous liquid, which is found every where about their lakes, or on their mountains, and which they burn in lamps, of various sizes, shapes, and constructions. They have also numerous volcanoes, each of which sheds a strong light for many miles around. He maintained that the number of our senses was greater than that commonly assigned to us. That we had, for example, a sense of acids, of alkalies, of weight, and of heat. That acid substances acted upon our bodies by a peculiar set of nerves, or through some medium of their own, was evident from this, that they set the teeth on edge, though these, from their hard and bony nature, are insensible to the touch. That astringents shrivelled up the flesh and puckered the mouth, even when their taste was not perceived. That when the skin shrunk on the application of vinegar, could it be said that it had not a peculiar sense of this liquid, or rather of its acidity, since the existence of the senses was known only by effects which external matter produced on them? That the senses, like that of touch, were seated in most parts of the body, but were most acute in the mouth, nose, ears, and eyes. He showed some disposition to maintain the popular notions of the Greeks and Romans, that the rivers and streams are endowed with reason and volition; and endeavoured to prove that some of their windings and deviations from a straight line, cannot be explained upon mechanical principles. He has, too, a large grist and saw mill, which are put in motion by the explosion of gunpowder. This is conveyed, by a sufficiently ingenious machine, in very small portions, to the bottom of an upright cylinder, which is immediately shut perfectly close. A flint and steel are at the same time made to strike directly over it, and to ignite the powder. The air that is thus generated, forces up a piston through a cylinder, which piston, striking the arm of a wheel, puts it in motion, and with it the machinery of the mills. A complete revolution of the wheel again prepares the cylinder for a fresh supply of gunpowder, which is set on fire, and produces the same effect as before. "You perceive," he added, "the drawer missing. That contained substances offensive to the sight or smell, which my maid, conducted to it by her nose, conceived to be some animal curiosities I had been collecting, in a state of putrefaction and decay, and did not hesitate to throw them into the fire. I afterwards found myself very much at a loss, whenever my subject led me to the mention of objects of this character, and I therefore spoke of them as seldom as possible." After bestowing that tribute of admiration and praise which every great author or inventor expects, in his own house, and not omitting his customary medical fee, we took our leave. The Brahmin and I endeavoured to give the sufferers some assistance; but this was rendered unnecessary, by the crowd which their cries and lamentations brought to their relief. I thought that the author of so much mischief would have been stoned on the spot; but, to my surprise, his servants seemed to feel as much for his honour as their own safety, and warmly interfered in his behalf, until they had somewhat appeased the rage of the surrounding multitude. _The fortune-telling philosopher, who inspected the finger nails: his visiters--Another philosopher, who judged of the character by the hair--The fortune-teller duped--Predatory warfare._ My hand was next examined; but little was said of me, except that I had been a great traveller, and should be so again; that I should encounter many dangers and difficulties; that I possessed more intelligence than sensibility, and more prudence than generosity. Thus he discovered in me great courage, enterprise, and constancy of purpose. A hale, robust, well-set man, now bursting through the crowd, and thrusting out his hand, abruptly asked the wise man to tell him, if he could, in what part of the country he lived. Avarabet mentioned a distant district on the coast of Morosofia. "Good," said the other; "and what is my calling?" After a slight pause, he replied, that he got his living on the water. "Good again. Shall I ever be rich?" "Better and better," rejoined the inquirer, at the same time giving vent to a loud and hearty laugh. Surely, thought I, sailors are every where the same sort of beings, rough and boisterous as the elements they roam over. "And what is your opinion of me farther?" "You are bold, frank, improvident, credulous and good-natured." "But very inferior?" said the Brahmin. "Is this custom," asked the Brahmin, "an advantage or a tax on your estate?" "And how much is it worth to your neighbour?" "I presume nearly as much." "Do your vassals get rich by the bounty you give them?" "As to that matter, some who are lucky succeed very well, and the rest make a living by it." "And what do they give you for the privilege of hunting your neighbour's cattle?" "Nothing at all: I even lose my customary rent from those who engage in it." "And it is the same case with your neighbour?" "Certainly," said he. _The travellers visit a gentleman farmer, who is a great projector: his breed of cattle: his apparatus for cooking: he is taken dangerously ill._ "Have you always," he asked, "had the same number of acres in grain and grass under your new and old system?" "Pretty nearly," says the other. "My new breed, however, though fewer, consume more than their predecessors." "How many head did you formerly sell in a year?" "How many do you now sell?" "Certainly; because such meat as mine commands an extraordinary price." "But who has the skill," quickly rejoined the other, "of which I can boast? and who would take the same trouble, although they had the skill?" "But stop here a moment," said our host, "till I go to see how my last improved oil-cake is relished by my cattle." "And is this really the origin," said I, "of that strange phenomenon, which has furnished so much matter of speculation to the sages both of Europe and America?" "Our party were greatly amused at the disputations of a learned society in Europe, in which they undertook to give a mathematical demonstration that they could not be thrown from a volcano of the earth, nor from the moon, but were suddenly formed in the atmosphere. I should as soon believe that a loaf of bread could be made and baked in the atmosphere." After having suffered as much as we could well bear, from the heat and confined air of this laboratory of eatables, and passed the proper number of compliments on the skill and ingenuity they displayed, we ascended to his hall, to partake of that feast, to prepare which we had seen all the elements and the mechanical powers called into action. There were a few of his city acquaintances present, besides ourselves: but whether it was owing to the effect of the steam from the dishes on our stomachs, or that this scientific cookery was not suited to our unpractised palates, I know not, but we all made an indifferent repast, except our host, who tasted every dish, and seemed to relish them all. After sitting some time at table, conversing on the progress of science, its splendid achievements, and the pleasing prospects which it yet dimly showed in the future, our hospitable entertainer, perceiving we were fatigued with the labours of the day, invited us to take our next _lallaneae_, or sleep, with him, for which hospitality we felt very grateful. We were then shown to a room, in which there were marks of the same fertile invention, in saving labour and promoting convenience; but we were too sleepy to take much notice of them. Our beds were filled with air, which is quite as good as feathers, except that when the leather covering gets a hole in it, from ripping, or other accidents, it loses its elasticity with its air--an accident which happened to me this very night; for a mouse having gnawed the leather where the housemaid's greasy fingers had left a mark, I sunk gently down, not to soft repose, but on the hard planks, where I uncomfortably lay until the bell warned us to rise for breakfast. As soon as I was dressed, I walked out into a large garden, and, as the sun was not yet so high as to make it sultry, was enjoying the balmy sweetness of the air, and the flowering shrubs, which in beauty and fragrance almost exceeded those of India, when I saw a servant run by the garden wall, enter the stable, and bring out a zebra. On inquiring the cause, I was made to understand that our noble host was taken suddenly ill. I immediately returned to the house, and found the domestics running to and fro, and manifesting the greatest anxiety, as well as hurry, in their looks. I went into the Brahmin's room, and found him dressed. He went out, and after some time, informed me that our kind host had a violent _cholera morbus_, in consequence of the various kinds of food with which he had overloaded his stomach at dinner; that he considered himself near his last end, and was endeavouring to arrange his affairs for the event. I could not help meditating on the melancholy uncertainty of human life, when I contrasted the comforts, the pleasures, the pride of conscious usefulness and genius felt by this gentleman a short time since, with the agony which that trying and bitter hour brings to the stoutest and most callous heart--when it must quit this state of being for another, of which it knows so little, and over which fear and doubt throw a gloom that hope cannot entirely dispel. _Lunarian physicians: their consultation--While they dispute the patient recovers--The travellers visit the celebrated teacher Lozzi Pozzi._ The Brahmin replied, that he had not yet had an opportunity of meeting with it. The Brahmin asked him if this unit did not present different symptoms on different occasions. "Certainly," he replied: "from too much or too little action, in this set of vessels or that, it is differently modified, and must be treated accordingly." They had not been long together, before their voices grew, from a whisper, so loud, that we could distinctly hear all they said. "Sir," says Dr. Shakrack, "the patient is in a state of direct debility: we must stimulate, if we would restore a healthy action. Pour in the _stimulantia_ and _irritentia_, and my life for it, the patient is saved." Dr. Shuro, who had manifested his impatience at this long harangue, by frequent interruptions, and which Dridrano's show of deference could scarcely keep down, hastily replied: "You have manifestly taken the hint of your theory from me; and because I have advanced the doctrine that disease is an unit, you come forward now, and insist that remedy is an unit too." "And does not darkness remind us of light," replied Shuro, "by the contrast? heat of cold--north of south?" "Gentlemen," then said Shakrack, who had been walking to and fro, during the preceding controversy, "as you seem to agree so ill with each other, I trust you will unite in adopting my course. Let us begin with this cordial; we will then vary the stimulus, if necessary, by means of the elixir, and you will see the salutary effects immediately. A loss of blood would still farther increase the debility of the patient; and I appeal to your candour, Dr. Shuro, whether you ever practised venesection in such a case?" "If you had stimulated him, you might have had an opportunity of making your favourite experiment a little oftener," said Shakrack. "You are facetious, sir; I imagine you have been using your own panacea somewhat too freely to-day." "Not so," said his opponent, angrily; "but if you are not more guarded in your expressions, I shall make use of yours, in a way you won't like." Upon which they proceeded to blows, Dridrano all the while bellowing, "I beg, my worthy seniors, for the honour of science, that you will forbear!" The noise of the dispute had waked the patient, who, learning the cause of the disturbance, calmly begged they would give themselves no concern about him, but let him die in peace. The domestics, who had been for some time listening to the dispute, on hearing the scuffle, ran in and parted the angry combatants, who, like an abscess just lanced, were giving vent to all the malignant humours that had been so long silently gathering. We took a different road home from the way we had come, and had not walked far, before we met a number of small boys, each having a bag on his back, as large as he could stagger under. Surprised at seeing children of their tender years, thus prematurely put to severe labour, I was about to rail at the absurd custom of this strange country, when my friend checked me for my hasty judgment, and told me that these boys were on their way to school, after their usual monthly holiday. We attended them to their schoolhouse, which stood in sight, on the side of a steep chalky hill. The Brahmin told me that the teacher's name was Lozzi Pozzi, and that he had acquired great celebrity by his system of instruction. When the boys opened their bags, I found that instead of books and provisions, as I had expected, they were filled with sticks, which they told us constituted the arithmetical lessons they were required to practise at home. These sticks were of different lengths and dimensions, according to the number marked on them; so that by looking at the inscription, you could tell the size, or by seeing or feeling the size, you could tell the number. Having understood that there was an academy in the neighbourhood, in which youths of maturer years were instructed in the fine arts, we were induced to visit it; but there being a vacation at that time, we could see neither the professors nor students, and consequently could gain little information of the course of discipline and instruction pursued there. We were, however, conducted to a small _menagerie_ attached to the institution, by its keeper, where the habits and accomplishments of the animals bore strong testimony in favour of the diligence and skill of their teachers. The keeper, who was deeply mortified at seeing the fabric he had raised with such indefatigable labour, overturned in a moment, protested that nothing of the sort had ever happened before. To which we replied, by way of consolation, that perhaps the same thing might never happen again; and that, while his art had achieved a conquest over nature, this was only a slight rebellion of nature against art. We then thanked him for his politeness, and took our leave. _Election of the Numnoonce, or town-constable--Violence of parties--Singular institution of the Syringe Boys--The prize-fighters--Domestic manufactures._ When we got back to the city, we found an unusual stir and bustle among the citizens, and on inquiring the cause, we understood they were about to elect the town-constable. After taking some refreshment at our lodgings, where we were very kindly received, we again went out, and were hurried along with the crowd, to a large building near the centre of the city. The multitude were shouting and hallooing with great vehemence. The Brahmin remarking an elderly man, who seemed very quiet in the midst of all this ferment, he thought him a proper person to address for information. "I suppose," says he, "from the violence of these partisans, they are on different sides in religion or politics?" "Are you not a pretty fellow to vote for Bald-head, whom you have so often called rogue and blockhead?" "It becomes you to talk of consistency, indeed! Pray, sir, how does it happen that you are now against him, when you were so lately sworn friends, and used to eat out of the same dish?" We asked our guide what these men were to gain by the issue of the contest. "Nineteenths of them nothing. But a few hope to be made deputies, if their candidates succeed, and they therefore egg on the rest." "I presume," said I, "that the champions who thus expose their persons and lives in the cause of another, are Glonglims?" On looking more attentively, I perceived many of these beings among the spectators, showing, by their gestures, the greatest anxiety for the issue of the contest. They each carried a scrip, or bag, the contents of which they ever and anon gave to their respective champions, whose wind, it is remarked, is very apt to fail, unless thus assisted. This dame was a very fluent, ready-witted woman, and she spoke with the confidence that consciousness of the powers of disputation commonly inspires. She went on enlarging on the mischiefs of the practice she condemned, and, by insensible gradations, so magnified them, that at last she clearly made out that there was no surer way of rendering their daughters sickly, deformed, vicious, and unchaste, than to set them about making their own clothes. Having, with great warmth and earnestness, used these arguments, he concluded, by plainly hinting to his wife that she had always been the apologist of the tailor, in all their disputes; and that she could not be so obstinately blind to the irrefragable reasoning he had urged, if she were not influenced by her old hankering after this fellow, and did not consult his interests in preference to those of her own family. Upon this remark the old woman took fire, and, in spite of our presence, they both had recourse to direct and the coarsest abuse. "That is," said the Brahmin, "as if our landlady, by way of inducing her daughters to give up gardening for spinning, were to tell them, if they did not find their new occupation as profitable as the old, she would more than make up the difference out of her own pocket, which, though it might suit the daughters very well, would be a losing business to the family." _Description of the Happy Valley--The laws, customs, and manners of the Okalbians--Theory of population--Rent--System of government._ They have little or no commerce with any other people, the valley producing every vegetable production, and the mountains every mineral, which they require; and in fact, they have no foreign intercourse whatever, except when they visit, or are visited from curiosity. Though they have been occasionally bullied and threatened by lawless and overbearing neighbours; yet, as they can be approached by only a single gorge in the mountain, which is always well garrisoned, (and they present no sufficient object to ambition, to compensate for the scandal of invading so inoffensive and virtuous a people,) they have never yet been engaged in war. I felt very anxious to know how it was that their numbers did not increase, as they were exempt from all pestilential diseases, and live in such abundance, that a beggar by trade has never been known among them, and are remarkable for their moral habits. "Let us inquire at the fountain-head," said the Brahmin; and we went to see the chief magistrate, who received us in a style of unaffected frankness, which in a moment put us at our ease. After we had explained to him who we were, and answered such inquiries as he chose to make: "Sir," said I, through the Brahmin, who acted as interpreter, "I have heard much of your country, and I find, on seeing it, that it exceeds report, in the order, comfort, contentment, and abundance of the people. But I am puzzled to find out how it is that your numbers do not increase. I presume you marry late in life?" "On the contrary," said he; "every young man marries as soon as he receives his education, and is capable of managing the concerns of a family. Some are thus qualified sooner, and some later." "Some occasionally migrate, then?" "How, then, do your associates continue stationary?" "I see," said the magistrate, smiling, "you are under an error. No separation takes place, and none is necessary." "How, then, am I to believe ?" Changing now the subject, I ventured to inquire how they employed their leisure hours, and whether many did not experience here a wearisome sameness, and a feeling of confinement and restraint. "They always pursue some profession or trade, by the profits of which they support themselves. We have nothing but intellect and ingenuity to export; for though our country produces every thing, there is no commodity that we can so well spare. Their talents find them employment every where; and the necessity they are under of a laborious exertion of these talents, and of submitting to a great deal from those whose customs and manners are not to their taste, and whom they feel inferior to themselves, is a considerable check to the desire to go abroad, so much so, that we hold out the farther inducement of political distinction when they return." "What, then! you have ambition among you?" "But have you not many more competitors, than you have public offices?" Our Washington then presented himself to my mind, and for a moment I began to question his claim to the unexampled honours bestowed on him by his countrymen, until I recollected that he was as distinguished by his respect for the laws, and his sound views of national policy, as for his military services. "But I thought," said I, "that all the land in the valley was of equal fertility." "So it is; but what has that to do with rent?" "Sir," said I, "our ablest writers on this subject have lately discovered that there can be no rent where there is not a gradation of soils, such as exists in every country of the earth." _Farther account of Okalbia--The Field of Roses--Curious superstition concerning that flower--The pleasures of smell traced to association, by a Glonglim philosopher._ "You do not," said I, "examine witnesses who are interested?" "Why not? The judges even examine the parties themselves." I then told him that the smallest direct interest in the issue of the controversy, disqualified a witness with us, from the strong bias it created to misrepresent facts, and even to misconceive them. I told him that these objections applied to the credibility, and not to the competency, of witnesses, which distinctions of the lawyers I endeavoured to explain to him. "That, indeed, may be the operation of the rule. But cases of such flagrant inconsistency are very rare; and this rule, like every other, must be tried by its general, and not its partial effects." On my return home, I repeated this conversation to a lawyer of my acquaintance, who told me that such a rule of evidence might do for the people in the moon, but it certainly would not suit us. I leave the matter to be settled by more competent heads than mine, and return to my narrative. "Have you, then, no parties?" said I. "Oh yes; we are not without our political parties and disputes; and we sometimes wrangle about very small matters--such as, what amount of labour shall be bestowed on the public roads--the best modes of conducting our schools and colleges--the comparative merits of the candidates for office, or the policy of some proposed change in the laws. Man is made, you know, of very combustible materials, and may be kindled as effectually by a spark falling at the right time, in the right place, as when within reach of a great conflagration." The women appeared here to be under few restraints. I understood that they were taught, like our sex, all the speculative branches of knowledge, but that they were more especially instructed, by professed teachers, in cookery, needlework, and every sort of domestic economy; as were the young men in the occupations which require strength and exposure. They have a variety of public schools, and some houses for public festivals, but no public hospitals or almshouses whatever, the few cases of private distress or misfortune being left for relief to the merits of the sufferer and the compassion of individuals. "What, father," said I, "could have given rise to so strange an opinion?" I told the Brahmin that the same opinion prevailed in my country. That the vulgar also believe the moon, according to its age, to have particular effects on the flesh of slaughtered animals; and that all sailors distinguish between a wet and a dry day, according to the position of the crescent. "Why do we like," he continued, "the smell of a beef-steak, or of a cup of tea, except for the pleasure we receive from their taste?" _Atterley goes to the great monthly fair--Its various exhibitions; difficulties--Preparations to leave the Moon--Curiosities procured by Atterley--Regress to the Earth._ _The Brahmin gives Atterley a history of his life._ "Some of these accusations, being utterly groundless, I was able to disprove; but the few that were true I endeavoured to excuse, and thus, by their admission, credit was procured for their most unfounded calumny. These petty transgressions, (for I cannot even now regard them as sins,) industriously reported and artfully exaggerated, did me lasting injury with all the most pious of our caste. The charitable portion, indeed, were merely estranged from me; but the more bigoted part began to regard me with aversion and horror. "She had by this time approached a small gate, which communicated with the apartments on the ground-floor of the Zenana; when, turning to me, she said, "You can return the way you came, but I must leave you here;" and, making a slight bow, she sprung like a young fawn through the gate, and was out of sight in a moment. "I continued for some time in a sort of dreaming ecstasy; but as soon as I collected my thoughts, I began to devise some scheme by which I could again have the happiness of seeing and conversing with the lovely Veenah. My brain had before that time teemed with ambitious projects of distinguishing myself; sometimes as a priest--sometimes as a writer; and occasionally I thought I would bend all my efforts to rouse my countrymen to throw off the ignominious yoke of Great Britain. But this short interview had changed the whole current of my thoughts. I had now a new set of feelings, opinions, and wishes. My mind dwelt solely upon the pleasures of domestic life--the surpassing bliss of loving and of being beloved. "The time now approached for Veenah and her mother to return to Benares. On the evening before they set out, Fatima contrived for us a longer interview than usual. It was as melancholy as it was tender. But in the midst of my grief, at the prospect of our separation, I recollected that we were soon to meet again in the city; while Veenah's tears, for she did not attempt to disguise or suppress her feelings, seemed already to forebode that our happiness was here to terminate. _The Brahmin's story continued--The voyage concluded--Atterley and the Brahmin separate--Atterley arrives in New--York._ "'Tell him,' said she, 'that heaven has forbid it, and to its decrees we are bound to submit. I am now the wife of another, and it is our duty to forget all that is past. But if this be possible, my heart tells me it can be only by our never meeting!' "In saying this, she wept bitterly; but at the same time exacted a promise from Fatima, that she would never mention the subject to her again. Finding her thus inexorable, I fell into a settled melancholy, and my health was visibly declining. The Europeans consider the natives of Hindostan to be feeble and effeminate; but the soul, that which distinguishes man from brutes, acts with an intensity and constancy of purpose of which they can furnish no examples. "You must not, however, suppose that I even then entertained the purpose of taking away my enemy's life. No, I could not bring my mind exactly to that; but I had a vague, undefined hope, that if we met, some new provocation on his part would afford me just occasion for avenging myself on all; so ingenious, my dear friend, is the sophistry of the passions. "After my father's death, I indulged a curiosity I had felt in my youth, of seeing foreign countries; and I visited China, Japan, and England. During my residence in Asia, I had discovered lunarium ore in the mountain near Mogaun; and this circumstance, many years afterwards, when I determined to rest from my labours, induced me to settle in that mountain, as I have before stated. I have occasionally used the metal to counterbalance the gravity of a small car, by which I have profited, by a favourable wind, to indulge the melancholy satisfaction of looking down on the tombs of my parents, and of the ill-fated Veenah: approaching the earth near enough, in the night, to see the sacred spots, but not enough to violate the religious injunctions of my caste; to avoid which, however, it was sometimes necessary for me to go across Hindostan to Arabia or Persia, and there wait for a change of wind before I could return: and it was these excursions which suggested to the superstitious Burmans that my form had undergone a temporary transformation. When such have been the woes of my life, you can no longer think it strange, Atterley, that I delayed their painful recital; or that, after having endured so much, all common dangers and misfortunes should appear to me insignificant." "Methinks," says the Brahmin, "you are describing a native of Canton or Pekin. But," added he, after a short pause, "though to a superficial observer man appears to put on very different characters, to a philosopher he is every where the same--for he is every where moulded by the circumstances in which he is placed. Thus; let him be in a situation that is propitious to commerce, and the habits of traffic produce in him shrewdness and address. Trade is carried on chiefly in towns, because it is there carried on most advantageously. This situation gives the trader a more intimate knowledge of his species--a more ready insight into character, and of the modes of operating on it. His chief purpose is to buy as cheap, and to sell as dear, as he can; and he is often able to heighten the recommendations or soften the defects of some of the articles in which he deals, without danger of immediate detection; or, in other words, his representations have some influence with his customers. He avails himself of this circumstance, and thus acquires the habit of lying; but, as he is studious to conceal it, he becomes wary, ingenious, and cunning. It is thus that the Phenicians, the Carthagenians, the Dutch, the Chinese, the New-Englanders, and the modern Greeks, have always been regarded as inclined to petty frauds by their less commercial neighbours." I mentioned the English nation. Anonymous Review of _A Voyage to the Moon_ "I learned from him that he was born and bred at Benares, in Hindostan, that he had been intended for the priesthood, and had been well instructed in the literature of the east That a course of untoward circumstances, upon which he seemed unwilling to dwell, had changed his destination, and made him a wanderer on the face of the earth That in the neighbouring kingdom of Siam he had formed an intimacy with a learned French Jesuit, who had not only taught him his language, but imparted to him a knowledge of much of the science of Europe, its institutions and manners That after the death of this friend, he had renewed his wanderings, and having been detained in this village by a fit of sickness for some weeks, he was warned that it was time to quit his rambling life. This place being recommended to him, both by its quiet seclusion, and the unsophisticated manners of its inhabitants, he determined to pass the remnant of his days here, and, by devoting them to the purposes of piety, charity, and science, to discharge his duty to his Creator, his species, and himself, 'for the love of knowledge,' he added, 'has long been my chief source of selfish enjoyment'" "This metal, when separated and purified, has as great a tendency to fly off from the earth, as a piece of gold or lead has to approach it. After making a number of curious experiments with it, we bethought ourselves of putting it to some use, and soon contrived, with the aid of it, to make cars and ascend into the air. We were very secret in these operations, for our unhappy country having then recently fallen under the subjection of the British nation, we apprehended that if we divulged our arcanum, they would not only fly away with all our treasures, whether found in palace or pagoda, but also carry off the inhabitants, to make them slaves in their colonies, as their government had not then abolished the African slave trade. For the construction of their apparatus they had recourse to an ingenious artificer in copper and other metals, whose child the Brahmin had been instrumental in curing of a chronic disease, and in whose fidelity as well as good will they could securely rely. The whole face of the moon, Atterley now found to be entirely changed, and on looking through the upper telescope, the earth presented an appearance not very dissimilar; but the outline of her continents and oceans was still perceptible in different shades, and capable of being readily recognised; the bright glare of the sun, however, made the surfaces of both bodies somewhat dim and pale. "Her disc had now lost its former silvery appearance, and began to look more like that of the earth, when seen at the same distance. It was a most gratifying spectacle to behold the objects successively rising to our view, and steadily enlarging in their dimensions. The rapidity with which we approached the moon, impressed me, in spite of myself, with the alarming sensation of falling; and I found myself alternately agitated with a sense of this danger, and with impatience to take a nearer view of the new objects that greeted my eyes. The Brahmin was wholly absorbed in calculations for the purpose of adjusting our velocity to the distance we had to go, his estimates of which, however, were in a great measure conjectural; and ever and anon he would let off a ball of the lunar metal. The view of America, suggests some remarks on the _political peculiarities of the United States_, with speculations on their future destiny. A lively description of the contrast between the circumstances of the Kamtschadale- "The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone," A disquisition also takes place--_whether India or Egypt were the parent of the Arts?_ Other topics of interest are also discussed with the like ingenuity. The belief of the influence of the moon on the human intellect, the Brahmin remarks, may be perceived in the opinions of the vulgar, and in many of the ordinary forms of expression; and he takes occasion to remark, that these very opinions, as well as some obscure hints in the Sanscrit, give countenance to the idea, that they were not the only voyagers to the moon; but that, on the contrary, the voyage had been performed in remote antiquity; and the Lunarians, we are told, have a similar tradition. Many ordinary forms of expression are adduced in support of these ideas. Leaving this ingenious _badinage_ with the defence of the serious and sentimental Schiller, "Hoher Sinn liegt oft in Kindischen Spiele," we return to our travellers, who, at their lodgings, meet with an instance of _lunar puritanism_--the family eating those portions of fruits, vegetables, &c., which are thrown away by us, and _vice versa_, "from a persuasion that all pleasure received through the senses is sinful, and that man never appears so acceptable in the sight of the Deity, as when he rejects all the delicacies of the palate, as well as other sensual gratifications, and imposes on himself that food to which he feels naturally most repugnant." And this is followed by a picture of _reckless prodigality_ in another Glonglim. We pass over the description of the physical peculiarities of the moon, which seem to be according to the received opinions of astronomers, as well as the satire on _National Prejudices_, in the persons of the Hilliboos and Moriboos, and that on the Godwinian system of morals. "The Brahmin and I endeavoured to give the sufferers some assistance; but this was rendered unnecessary, by the crowd which their cries and lamentations brought to their relief. I thought that the author of so much mischief would have been stoned on the spot; but, to my surprise, his servants seemed to feel as much for his honour as their own safety, and warmly interfered in his behalf, until they had somewhat appeased the rage of the surrounding multitude." The _absurdities_ of the _physiognomical system_ of Lavater, and of the _craniological system_ of MM. Gall and Spurzheim, were not likely to escape animadversion, in a work of general satire, fruitful as they have already been in such themes. The representative of the former, is a fortune-telling philosopher, Avarabet, (Lavater,) whose course of proceeding was, to examine the finger nails, and, according to their form, colour, thickness, surface, grain, and other properties, to determine the character and destinies of those who consulted him; and that of the latter, a physician, who judged of the character of disposition or disease, by the examination of a lock of the hair. The upshot of the story is, as might be anticipated, that the fortune-telling philosopher is caught, and exposed in his own toils. A visit to a projector in building, husbandry, and cookery, introduces us to some inventions not unworthy of the occupation, of the courtiers of _La Reine Quinte_, or of the Professors of the Academy of Lagado. A difficulty surrounds the subject, however we view it. _Aerolites_, as they have been designated, have now been found in almost every region and climate of the globe--from Arabia to the farthest point of Baffin's Bay; and this very circumstance would seem to be opposed to their aerial origin, unless we are to suppose that they can be formed in every state, and in the opposite extremes of the atmosphere. The Brahmin assigns them a lunar origin, and adds, "our party were greatly amused at the disputations of a learned society in Europe, in which they undertook to give a mathematical demonstration, that they could not be thrown from a volcano of the earth, nor from the moon, but were suddenly formed in the atmosphere. I should as soon believe, that a loaf of bread could be made and baked in the atmosphere." In a _menagerie_ attached to an academy, in which youths of maturer years were instructed in the fine arts, the travellers had an opportunity of observing the vain attempts of education, to control the natural or instinctive propensities. "Naturam expellas furca tamen usque recurret." "For nature driven out, with proud disdain, All powerful goddess, will return again." The chapter concludes with a discussion between an old man and his wife, in which the _policy of encouraging manufactures_, is argued. In an account of Okalbia--a happy valley--similar only in name to that in _Rasselas_, the author seems to sketch his views of a _perfect commonwealth_, and glances at some important questions of _politics_ and _political economy_. Prudential restraints are considered sufficient to obviate a _redundancy of population_--and on _Ricardo's theory of rent_, the author holds the same opinions as those already expressed in this Journal. Some useful hints are also afforded on the subject of _legislation and jurisprudence_. After having passed a week amongst the singular and happy Okalbians, whom our travellers found equally amiable, intelligent, and hospitable, they returned to Alamatua. Jeffery's _theory of beauty_, as developed in the article _beauty_, of the _supplement to the Encyclopaedia Britannica_, in which he denies the existence of original beauty and refers it to association, is ridiculed by an extension of a similar kind of reasoning to the smell. Having now satisfied his curiosity, Atterley became anxious to return to his native planet, and accordingly urged the Brahmin to lose no time in preparing for their departure. They were soon, however, informed that a man high in office, by way of affecting political sagacity, had proposed to detain them, on the ground that when such voyages as their's were shown to be practicable, the inhabitants of the earth, who were so much more numerous than those of the moon, might invade the latter with a large army, for the purpose of rapine and contest; but notwithstanding the influence of this sapient politician, they finally obtained leave to quit the moon whenever they thought proper. "'Methinks,' says the Brahmin, 'you are describing a native of Canton or Pekin. But,' added he, after a short pause, 'though to a superficial observer man appears to put on very different characters, to a philosopher he is every where the same--for he is every where moulded by the circumstances in which he is placed. Thus; let him be in a situation that is propitious to commerce, and the habits of traffic produce in him shrewdness and address. Trade is carried on chiefly in towns, because it is there carried on most advantageously. This situation gives the trader a more intimate knowledge of his species--a more ready insight into character, and of the modes of operating on it. His chief purpose is to buy as cheap, and to sell as dear, as he can; and he is often able to heighten the recommendations or soften the defects of some of the articles in which he deals, without danger of immediate detection; or, in other words, big representations have some influence with his customers. He avails himself of this circumstance, and thus acquires the habit of lying; but, as he is studious to conceal it, he becomes wary, ingenious, and cunning. It is thus that the Phenicians, the Carthagenians, the Dutch, the Chinese, the New-Englanders, and the modern Greeks, have always been regarded as inclined to petty frauds by their less commercial neighbours.' I mentioned the English nation. [APPENDIX FOOTNOTES] End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Voyage to the Moon, by George Tucker	redpajama-book	14,066
Produced by Ted Garvin, Dave Morgan and PG Distributed Proofreaders TRANSLATED BY JAMES C. BROGAN _Beginneth the Book called Elegy of Madonna Fiammetta, sent by her to Ladies in Love._ _Wherein the lady describes who she was, and by what signs her misfortunes were foreshadowed, and at what time, and where, and in what manner, and of whom she became enamored, with the description of the ensuing delight._ "O lady, thou alone art mine only bliss!" In like fashion, he, without changing his place, continued to scrutinize my features, but with the greatest caution; and, perhaps, having had much practice in amorous warfare, and knowing by what devices the longed-for prey might be captured, he showed himself every moment more humble, more desperate, and more fraught with tender yearning. Alas! how much guile did that seeming desperation hide, which, as the result has now shown, though it may have come from the heart, never afterward returned to the same, and made manifest later that its revealment on the face was only a lure and a delusion! And, not to mention all his deeds, each of which was full of most artful deception, he so wrought upon me by his own craft, or else the fates willed it should so happen, that I straightway found myself enmeshed in the snares of sudden and unthought-of love, in a manner beyond all my powers of telling, and so I remain unto this very hour. He was a most wary and circumspect youth, whereunto my experience was able to bear witness frequently. Going very rarely, and always in the most decorous manner, to the places where I happened to be, he used to observe me, but ever with a cautious eye, so that it seemed as if he had planned as well as I to hide the tender flames that glowed in the breasts of both. Certainly, if I denied that love, although it had clutched every corner of my heart and taken violent possession of every recess of my soul, grew even more intense whenever it happened that my eyes encountered his, I should deny the truth; he added further fuel to the fires that consumed me, and rekindled such as might be expiring, if, mayhap, there were any such. But the beginning of all this was by no means so cheerful as the ending was joyless, as soon as I was deprived of the sight of this, my beloved, inasmuch as the eyes, being thus robbed of their delight, gave woful occasion of lamentation to the heart, the sighs whereof grew greater in quality as well as in quantity, and desire, as if seizing my every feeling, took me away from myself, and, as if I were not where I was, I frequently gave him who saw me cause for amazement by affording numberless pretexts for such happenings, being taught by love itself. In addition to this, the quiet of the night and the thoughts on which my fancy fed continuously, by taking me out of myself, sometimes moved me to actions more frantic than passionate and to the employment of unusual words. "My dearest daughter, whom I love as my very self, tell me, I pray you, what are the sorrows that have for some time past been harassing you? You who were wont to be so gay formerly, you whom I have never seen before with a mournful countenance, seem to me now to be the prey of grief and to let no moment pass without a sigh." "Indeed, dear nurse, no fresh sorrows harass me; nor do I feel that I am in any way different from what I am wont to be. Perhaps some troubles I may have, but they are such as are incidental to all women." Alas! when I heard her speak thus, provoked and stung by her words, I said: "If, then, thou wittest of all this, wherefore dost thou question me? All that thou hast to do now is to keep secret that which thou hast discovered." "In good truth," she replied, "I will conceal all that which it is not meet that another should know, and may the earth open and engulf me in its bowels before I ever reveal aught that might turn to thy open shame! Therefore, do thou live assured of this, and guard thyself carefully from letting another know that which I, without either thyself or anyone else telling me, have learned from observing thy looks. As for myself, it is not now, but long ere now, that I have learned to keep hidden that which should not be disclosed. Therefore, do thou continue to feel secure as to this matter, and watch most carefully that thou lettest not another know that which I, not witting it from thee or from another, most surely have discovered from thine own face and from its changeful seeming. But, if thou art still the victim of that folly by which I know thou hast been enslaved, if thou art as prone now as erewhile to indulge that feeling to which thou hast already given way, then know I right well that I must leave thee to thy own devices, for bootless will be my teachings and my warnings. Still, although this cruel tyrant, to whom in thy youthful simplicity being taken by surprise thou hast yielded thy freedom, appears to have deprived thee of understanding as well as of liberty, I will put thee in mind of many things, and entreat thee to fling off and banish wicked thoughts from thy chaste bosom, to quench that unholy fire, and not to make thyself the thrall of unworthy hopes. Now is the time to be strong in resistance; for whoso makes a stout fight in the beginning roots out an unhallowed affection, and bears securely the palm of victory; but whoso, with long and wishful fancies, fosters it, will try too late to resist a yoke that has been submitted to almost unresistingly." "Alas!" I replied, "how far easier it is to say such things than to lead them to any good result." Whereto I thus made answer: "Only too well do I know, dear nurse, the truth of that which thou sayest. But a furious madness constrains me to follow the worse course; vainly does my heart, insatiable in its desires, long for strength to enable it to adopt thy advice; what reason enjoins is rendered of no avail by this soul-subduing passion. My mind is wholly possessed by Love, who rules every part thereof, in virtue of his all-embracing deity; and surely thou art aware that his power is absolute, and 'twere useless to attempt to resist it." Having said these words, I became almost unconscious, and fell into her arms. But she, now more agitated than before, in austere and rebuking tones, said: After hearing which, I said: Thereupon, she, being angry, and not without reason, making no answer, but muttering to herself, passed out of the chamber and left me alone. "O peerless and eternal loveliness! O divinest of deities! O sole mistress of all my thoughts! whose power is felt to be most invincible by those who dare to try to withstand it, forgive the ill-timed obstinacy wherewith I, in my great folly, attempted to ward off from my breast the weapons of thy son, who was then to me an unknown divinity. Now, I repeat, be it done unto me according to thy pleasure, and according to thy promises withal. Surely, my faith merits a due reward in time and space, seeing that I, taking delight in thee more than do all other women, wish to see the number of thy subjects increase forever and ever." Hardly had I made an end of speaking these words, when she moved from the place where she was standing, and came toward me. Then, her face glowing with the most fervent expression of affection and sympathy, she embraced me, and touched my forehead with her divine lips. Next, just as the false Ascanius, when panting in the arms of Dido, breathed on her mouth, and thereby kindled the latent flame, so did she breathe on my mouth, and, in that wise, rendered the divine fire that slumbered in my heart more uncontrollable than ever, and this I felt at that very moment. Thereafter, opening a little her purple robe, she showed me, clasped in her arms against her ravishing breast, the very counterpart of the youth I loved, wrapped in the transparent folds of a Grecian mantle, and revealing in the lineaments of his countenance pangs that were not unlike those I suffered. "O damsel," she said, "rivet thy gaze on the youth before thee: we have not given thee for lover a Lissa, a Geta, or a Birria, or anyone resembling them, but a person in every way worthy of being loved by every goddess in the heavens. Thee he loves more than himself, as we have ordained, and thee will he ever love; therefore do thou, joyfully and securely, abandon thyself to his love. Thy prayers have moved us to pity, as it is meet that prayers so deserving should, and so, be of good hope, and fear not that thou shalt be without the reward due thee in the future." _Oime!_ most compassionate ladies, what is there that Love will not teach to his subjects? and what is there that he is not able to render them skilful in learning? I, who of all young women was the most simple-minded, and ordinarily with barely power to loose my tongue, when among my companions, concerning the most trivial and ordinary affairs, now, because of this my affection, mastered so speedily all his modes of speech that, in a brief space, my aptness at feigning and inventing surpassed that of any poet! And there were few questions put to me in response to which, after meditating on their main points, I could not make up a pleasing tale: a thing, in my opinion, exceedingly difficult for a young woman to begin, and still more difficult to finish and relate afterward. But, if my actual situation required it, I might set down numerous details which might, perhaps, seem to you of little or no moment, as, for instance, the artful experiment whereby we tested the fidelity of my favorite maid to whom, and to whom alone, we meditated entrusting the secret of this hidden passion, considering that, should another share it, our uneasiness, lest it should not be kept, would be most grievous. Furthermore, it would weary you if I mentioned all the plans we adopted, in order to meet divers situations, plans that I do not believe were ever imagined by any before us; and albeit I am now well aware that they all worked for my ultimate destruction, yet the remembrance of them does not displease me. Unless, O ladies, my judgment be greatly at fault, the strength of our minds was by no means small, if it be but taken in account how hard a thing it is for youthful persons in love to resist long the rush of impetuous ardor without crossing the bounds set by reason: nay, it was so great and of such quality that the most valiant of men, by acting in such wise, would win high and worthy laud as a result thereof. But my pen is now about to depict the final ending to which love was guided, and, before I do so, I would appeal to your pity and to those soft sentiments which make their dwelling in your tender breasts, and incline your thoughts to a like termination. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of La Fiammetta, by Giovanni Boccaccio	redpajama-book	2,549
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Sjaani and PG Distributed Proofreaders _Upon a paper attached to the Narrative which follows, Doctor Hesselius has written a rather elaborate note, which he accompanies with a reference to his Essay on the strange subject which the MS. illuminates. As I publish the case, in this volume, simply to interest the "laity," I shall forestall the intelligent lady, who relates it, in nothing; and after due consideration, I have determined, therefore, to abstain from presenting any precis of the learned Doctor's reasoning, or extract from his statement on a subject which he describes as "involving, not improbably, some of the profoundest arcana of our dual existence, and its intermediates." I was anxious on discovering this paper, to reopen the correspondence commenced by Doctor Hesselius, so many years before, with a person so clever and careful as his informant seems to have been. Much to my regret, however, I found that she had died in the interval. She, probably, could have added little to the Narrative _which she communicates in the following pages, with, so far as I can pronounce, such conscientious particularity_. My father was in the Austrian service, and retired upon a pension and his patrimony, and purchased this feudal residence, and the small estate on which it stands, a bargain. Nothing can be more picturesque or solitary. It stands on a slight eminence in a forest. The road, very old and narrow, passes in front of its drawbridge, never raised in my time, and its moat, stocked with perch, and sailed over by many swans, and floating on its surface white fleets of water lilies. Over all this the schloss shows its many-windowed front; its towers, and its Gothic chapel. Respecting the cause of the desertion of this striking and melancholy spot, there is a legend which I shall relate to you another time. I and my father constituted the family at the schloss. My mother, a Styrian lady, died in my infancy, but I had a good-natured governess, who had been with me from, I might almost say, my infancy. I could not remember the time when her fat, benignant face was not a familiar picture in my memory. My gouvernantes had just so much control over me as you might conjecture such sage persons would have in the case of a rather spoiled girl, whose only parent allowed her pretty nearly her own way in everything. The morning after I saw this apparition I was in a state of terror, and could not bear to be left alone, daylight though it was, for a moment. But I was not comforted, for I knew the visit of the strange woman was _not_ a dream; and I was _awfully_ frightened. I remembered, in the course of that day, a venerable old man, in a black cassock, coming into the room with the nurse and housekeeper, and talking a little to them, and very kindly to me; his face was very sweet and gentle, and he told me they were going to pray, and joined my hands together, and desired me to say, softly, while they were praying, "Lord hear all good prayers for us, for Jesus' sake." I think these were the very words, for I often repeated them to myself, and my nurse used for years to make me say them in my prayers. I am now going to tell you something so strange that it will require all your faith in my veracity to believe my story. It is not only true, nevertheless, but truth of which I have been an eyewitness. It was a sweet summer evening, and my father asked me, as he sometimes did, to take a little ramble with him along that beautiful forest vista which I have mentioned as lying in front of the schloss. "General Spielsdorf cannot come to us so soon as I had hoped," said my father, as we pursued our walk. He was to have paid us a visit of some weeks, and we had expected his arrival next day. He was to have brought with him a young lady, his niece and ward, Mademoiselle Rheinfeldt, whom I had never seen, but whom I had heard described as a very charming girl, and in whose society I had promised myself many happy days. I was more disappointed than a young lady living in a town, or a bustling neighborhood can possibly imagine. This visit, and the new acquaintance it promised, had furnished my day dream for many weeks. "And how soon does he come?" I asked. "And why?" I asked, both mortified and curious. "Because the poor young lady is dead," he replied. "I quite forgot I had not told you, but you were not in the room when I received the General's letter this evening." "Here is the General's letter," he said, handing it to me. "I am afraid he is in great affliction; the letter appears to me to have been written very nearly in distraction." It said "I have lost my darling daughter, for as such I loved her. During the last days of dear Bertha's illness I was not able to write to you. "Before then I had no idea of her danger. I have lost her, and now learn _all_, too late. She died in the peace of innocence, and in the glorious hope of a blessed futurity. The fiend who betrayed our infatuated hospitality has done it all. I thought I was receiving into my house innocence, gaiety, a charming companion for my lost Bertha. Heavens! what a fool have I been! In these terms ended this strange letter. Though I had never seen Bertha Rheinfeldt my eyes filled with tears at the sudden intelligence; I was startled, as well as profoundly disappointed. The sun had now set, and it was twilight by the time I had returned the General's letter to my father. It was a soft clear evening, and we loitered, speculating upon the possible meanings of the violent and incoherent sentences which I had just been reading. We had nearly a mile to walk before reaching the road that passes the schloss in front, and by that time the moon was shining brilliantly. At the drawbridge we met Madame Perrodon and Mademoiselle De Lafontaine, who had come out, without their bonnets, to enjoy the exquisite moonlight. We heard their voices gabbling in animated dialogue as we approached. We joined them at the drawbridge, and turned about to admire with them the beautiful scene. Over the sward and low grounds a thin film of mist was stealing like smoke, marking the distances with a transparent veil; and here and there we could see the river faintly flashing in the moonlight. No softer, sweeter scene could be imagined. The news I had just heard made it melancholy; but nothing could disturb its character of profound serenity, and the enchanted glory and vagueness of the prospect. "The moon, this night," she said, "is full of idyllic and magnetic influence--and see, when you look behind you at the front of the schloss how all its windows flash and twinkle with that silvery splendor, as if unseen hands had lighted up the rooms to receive fairy guests." There are indolent styles of the spirits in which, indisposed to talk ourselves, the talk of others is pleasant to our listless ears; and I gazed on, pleased with the tinkle of the ladies' conversation. "'In truth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me: you say it wearies you; But how I got it--came by it.' "I forget the rest. But I feel as if some great misfortune were hanging over us. I suppose the poor General's afflicted letter has had something to do with it." At this moment the unwonted sound of carriage wheels and many hoofs upon the road, arrested our attention. The excitement of the scene was made more painful by the clear, long-drawn screams of a female voice from the carriage window. We all advanced in curiosity and horror; me rather in silence, the rest with various ejaculations of terror. Our suspense did not last long. Just before you reach the castle drawbridge, on the route they were coming, there stands by the roadside a magnificent lime tree, on the other stands an ancient stone cross, at sight of which the horses, now going at a pace that was perfectly frightful, swerved so as to bring the wheel over the projecting roots of the tree. I knew what was coming. I covered my eyes, unable to see it out, and turned my head away; at the same moment I heard a cry from my lady friends, who had gone on a little. I approached; the young lady was apparently stunned, but she was certainly not dead. My father, who piqued himself on being something of a physician, had just had his fingers on her wrist and assured the lady, who declared herself her mother, that her pulse, though faint and irregular, was undoubtedly still distinguishable. The lady clasped her hands and looked upward, as if in a momentary transport of gratitude; but immediately she broke out again in that theatrical way which is, I believe, natural to some people. She was what is called a fine looking woman for her time of life, and must have been handsome; she was tall, but not thin, and dressed in black velvet, and looked rather pale, but with a proud and commanding countenance, though now agitated strangely. I plucked my father by the coat, and whispered earnestly in his ear: "Oh! papa, pray ask her to let her stay with us--it would be so delightful. Do, pray." "If Madame will entrust her child to the care of my daughter, and of her good gouvernante, Madame Perrodon, and permit her to remain as our guest, under my charge, until her return, it will confer a distinction and an obligation upon us, and we shall treat her with all the care and devotion which so sacred a trust deserves." "I cannot do that, sir, it would be to task your kindness and chivalry too cruelly," said the lady, distractedly. "It would, on the contrary, be to confer on us a very great kindness at the moment when we most need it. My daughter has just been disappointed by a cruel misfortune, in a visit from which she had long anticipated a great deal of happiness. If you confide this young lady to our care it will be her best consolation. The nearest village on your route is distant, and affords no such inn as you could think of placing your daughter at; you cannot allow her to continue her journey for any considerable distance without danger. If, as you say, you cannot suspend your journey, you must part with her tonight, and nowhere could you do so with more honest assurances of care and tenderness than here." By this time the carriage was replaced in its upright position, and the horses, quite tractable, in the traces again. I was filled with wonder that my father did not seem to perceive the change, and also unspeakably curious to learn what it could be that she was speaking, almost in his ear, with so much earnestness and rapidity. We followed the _cortege_ with our eyes until it was swiftly lost to sight in the misty wood; and the very sound of the hoofs and the wheels died away in the silent night air. Nothing remained to assure us that the adventure had not been an illusion of a moment but the young lady, who just at that moment opened her eyes. I could not see, for her face was turned from me, but she raised her head, evidently looking about her, and I heard a very sweet voice ask complainingly, "Where is mamma?" Our good Madame Perrodon answered tenderly, and added some comfortable assurances. I then heard her ask: "Where am I? What is this place?" and after that she said, "I don't see the carriage; and Matska, where is she?" As soon as she is comfortably in bed, I thought, I will run up to her room and see her. The stranger now rose, and leaning on Madame's arm, walked slowly over the drawbridge and into the castle gate. It is furnished in old carved oak, with large carved cabinets, and the chairs are cushioned with crimson Utrecht velvet. The walls are covered with tapestry, and surrounded with great gold frames, the figures being as large as life, in ancient and very curious costume, and the subjects represented are hunting, hawking, and generally festive. It is not too stately to be extremely comfortable; and here we had our tea, for with his usual patriotic leanings he insisted that the national beverage should make its appearance regularly with our coffee and chocolate. We sat here this night, and with candles lighted, were talking over the adventure of the evening. Madame Perrodon and Mademoiselle De Lafontaine were both of our party. The young stranger had hardly lain down in her bed when she sank into a deep sleep; and those ladies had left her in the care of a servant. "How do you like our guest?" I asked, as soon as Madame entered. "Tell me all about her?" "I like her extremely," answered Madame, "she is, I almost think, the prettiest creature I ever saw; about your age, and so gentle and nice." "She is absolutely beautiful," threw in Mademoiselle, who had peeped for a moment into the stranger's room. "And such a sweet voice!" added Madame Perrodon. "Did you remark a woman in the carriage, after it was set up again, who did not get out," inquired Mademoiselle, "but only looked from the window?" "No, we had not seen her." Then she described a hideous black woman, with a sort of turban on her head, and who was gazing all the time from the carriage window, nodding and grinning derisively towards the ladies, with gleaming eyes and large white eyeballs, and her teeth set as if in fury. "Did you remark what an ill-looking pack of men the servants were?" asked Madame. "Yes," said my father, who had just come in, "ugly, hang-dog looking fellows as ever I beheld in my life. I hope they mayn't rob the poor lady in the forest. They are clever rogues, however; they got everything to rights in a minute." "I dare say they are worn out with too long traveling," said Madame. "Besides looking wicked, their faces were so strangely lean, and dark, and sullen. I am very curious, I own; but I dare say the young lady will tell you all about it tomorrow, if she is sufficiently recovered." "I don't think she will," said my father, with a mysterious smile, and a little nod of his head, as if he knew more about it than he cared to tell us. This made us all the more inquisitive as to what had passed between him and the lady in the black velvet, in the brief but earnest interview that had immediately preceded her departure. We were scarcely alone, when I entreated him to tell me. He did not need much pressing. "There is no particular reason why I should not tell you. She expressed a reluctance to trouble us with the care of her daughter, saying she was in delicate health, and nervous, but not subject to any kind of seizure--she volunteered that--nor to any illusion; being, in fact, perfectly sane." "How very odd to say all that!" I interpolated. "It was so unnecessary." For my part, I was delighted. I was longing to see and talk to her; and only waiting till the doctor should give me leave. You, who live in towns, can have no idea how great an event the introduction of a new friend is, in such a solitude as surrounded us. When the physician came down to the drawing room, it was to report very favorably upon his patient. She was now sitting up, her pulse quite regular, apparently perfectly well. She had sustained no injury, and the little shock to her nerves had passed away quite harmlessly. There could be no harm certainly in my seeing her, if we both wished it; and, with this permission I sent, forthwith, to know whether she would allow me to visit her for a few minutes in her room. The servant returned immediately to say that she desired nothing more. You may be sure I was not long in availing myself of this permission. There were candles at the bedside. She was sitting up; her slender pretty figure enveloped in the soft silk dressing gown, embroidered with flowers, and lined with thick quilted silk, which her mother had thrown over her feet as she lay upon the ground. But this almost instantly lighted into a strange fixed smile of recognition. There was a silence of fully a minute, and then at length she spoke; I could not. Her smile had softened. Whatever I had fancied strange in it, was gone, and it and her dimpling cheeks were now delightfully pretty and intelligent. I felt reassured, and continued more in the vein which hospitality indicated, to bid her welcome, and to tell her how much pleasure her accidental arrival had given us all, and especially what a happiness it was to me. I took her hand as I spoke. I was a little shy, as lonely people are, but the situation made me eloquent, and even bold. She pressed my hand, she laid hers upon it, and her eyes glowed, as, looking hastily into mine, she smiled again, and blushed. She answered my welcome very prettily. I sat down beside her, still wondering; and she said: "Your looks won me; I climbed on the bed and put my arms about you, and I think we both fell asleep. I was aroused by a scream; you were sitting up screaming. I was frightened, and slipped down upon the ground, and, it seemed to me, lost consciousness for a moment; and when I came to myself, I was again in my nursery at home. Your face I have never forgotten since. I could not be misled by mere resemblance. _You are_ the lady whom I saw then." It was now my turn to relate my corresponding vision, which I did, to the undisguised wonder of my new acquaintance. Now the truth is, I felt rather unaccountably towards the beautiful stranger. I did feel, as she said, "drawn towards her," but there was also something of repulsion. In this ambiguous feeling, however, the sense of attraction immensely prevailed. She interested and won me; she was so beautiful and so indescribably engaging. I perceived now something of languor and exhaustion stealing over her, and hastened to bid her good night. She held me close in her pretty arms for a moment and whispered in my ear, "Good night, darling, it is very hard to part with you, but good night; tomorrow, but not early, I shall see you again." She sank back on the pillow with a sigh, and her fine eyes followed me with a fond and melancholy gaze, and she murmured again "Good night, dear friend." Next day came and we met again. I was delighted with my companion; that is to say, in many respects. She confessed that she had experienced a similar shock on seeing me, and precisely the same faint antipathy that had mingled with my admiration of her. We now laughed together over our momentary horrors. _Her Habits--A Saunter_ I told you that I was charmed with her in most particulars. There were some that did not please me so well. She was above the middle height of women. I shall begin by describing her. She was slender, and wonderfully graceful. Except that her movements were languid--very languid--indeed, there was nothing in her appearance to indicate an invalid. Her complexion was rich and brilliant; her features were small and beautifully formed; her eyes large, dark, and lustrous; her hair was quite wonderful, I never saw hair so magnificently thick and long when it was down about her shoulders; I have often placed my hands under it, and laughed with wonder at its weight. It was exquisitely fine and soft, and in color a rich very dark brown, with something of gold. I loved to let it down, tumbling with its own weight, as, in her room, she lay back in her chair talking in her sweet low voice, I used to fold and braid it, and spread it out and play with it. Heavens! If I had but known all! There was a coldness, it seemed to me, beyond her years, in her smiling melancholy persistent refusal to afford me the least ray of light. I cannot say we quarreled upon this point, for she would not quarrel upon any. It was, of course, very unfair of me to press her, very ill-bred, but I really could not help it; and I might just as well have let it alone. What she did tell me amounted, in my unconscionable estimation--to nothing. She would not tell me the name of her family, nor their armorial bearings, nor the name of their estate, nor even that of the country they lived in. She used to place her pretty arms about my neck, draw me to her, and laying her cheek to mine, murmur with her lips near my ear, "Dearest, your little heart is wounded; think me not cruel because I obey the irresistible law of my strength and weakness; if your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours. In the rapture of my enormous humiliation I live in your warm life, and you shall die--die, sweetly die--into mine. I cannot help it; as I draw near to you, you, in your turn, will draw near to others, and learn the rapture of that cruelty, which yet is love; so, for a while, seek to know no more of me and mine, but trust me with all your loving spirit." And when she had spoken such a rhapsody, she would press me more closely in her trembling embrace, and her lips in soft kisses gently glow upon my cheek. Her agitations and her language were unintelligible to me. From these foolish embraces, which were not of very frequent occurrence, I must allow, I used to wish to extricate myself; but my energies seemed to fail me. Her murmured words sounded like a lullaby in my ear, and soothed my resistance into a trance, from which I only seemed to recover myself when she withdrew her arms. In these mysterious moods I did not like her. I experienced a strange tumultuous excitement that was pleasurable, ever and anon, mingled with a vague sense of fear and disgust. I had no distinct thoughts about her while such scenes lasted, but I was conscious of a love growing into adoration, and also of abhorrence. This I know is paradox, but I can make no other attempt to explain the feeling. But, I suspect, in all lives there are certain emotional scenes, those in which our passions have been most wildly and terribly roused, that are of all others the most vaguely and dimly remembered. She used to sigh at my vehemence, then turn away and drop my hand. Respecting these very extraordinary manifestations I strove in vain to form any satisfactory theory--I could not refer them to affectation or trick. It was unmistakably the momentary breaking out of suppressed instinct and emotion. Was she, notwithstanding her mother's volunteered denial, subject to brief visitations of insanity; or was there here a disguise and a romance? I had read in old storybooks of such things. What if a boyish lover had found his way into the house, and sought to prosecute his suit in masquerade, with the assistance of a clever old adventuress. But there were many things against this hypothesis, highly interesting as it was to my vanity. I rose to mark my respect as they passed, and joined in the hymn they were very sweetly singing. My companion shook me a little roughly, and I turned surprised. She said brusquely, "Don't you perceive how discordant that is?" "I think it very sweet, on the contrary," I answered, vexed at the interruption, and very uncomfortable, lest the people who composed the little procession should observe and resent what was passing. I resumed, therefore, instantly, and was again interrupted. "You pierce my ears," said Carmilla, almost angrily, and stopping her ears with her tiny fingers. "Besides, how can you tell that your religion and mine are the same; your forms wound me, and I hate funerals. What a fuss! Why you must die--_everyone_ must die; and all are happier when they do. Come home." "My father has gone on with the clergyman to the churchyard. I thought you knew she was to be buried today." "She? I don't trouble my head about peasants. I don't know who she is," answered Carmilla, with a flash from her fine eyes. "She is the poor girl who fancied she saw a ghost a fortnight ago, and has been dying ever since, till yesterday, when she expired." "Tell me nothing about ghosts. I shan't sleep tonight if you do." "I hope there is no plague or fever coming; all this looks very like it," I continued. "The swineherd's young wife died only a week ago, and she thought something seized her by the throat as she lay in her bed, and nearly strangled her. Papa says such horrible fancies do accompany some forms of fever. She was quite well the day before. She sank afterwards, and died before a week." "Well, _her_ funeral is over, I hope, and _her_ hymn sung; and our ears shan't be tortured with that discord and jargon. It has made me nervous. Sit down here, beside me; sit close; hold my hand; press it hard-hard-harder." We had moved a little back, and had come to another seat. She sat down. Her face underwent a change that alarmed and even terrified me for a moment. It darkened, and became horribly livid; her teeth and hands were clenched, and she frowned and compressed her lips, while she stared down upon the ground at her feet, and trembled all over with a continued shudder as irrepressible as ague. All her energies seemed strained to suppress a fit, with which she was then breathlessly tugging; and at length a low convulsive cry of suffering broke from her, and gradually the hysteria subsided. "There! That comes of strangling people with hymns!" she said at last. "Hold me, hold me still. It is passing away." And so gradually it did; and perhaps to dissipate the somber impression which the spectacle had left upon me, she became unusually animated and chatty; and so we got home. In the meantime, the mountebank, standing in the midst of the courtyard, raised his grotesque hat, and made us a very ceremonious bow, paying his compliments very volubly in execrable French, and German not much better. Then, disengaging his fiddle, he began to scrape a lively air to which he sang with a merry discord, dancing with ludicrous airs and activity, that made me laugh, in spite of the dog's howling. Then he advanced to the window with many smiles and salutations, and his hat in his left hand, his fiddle under his arm, and with a fluency that never took breath, he gabbled a long advertisement of all his accomplishments, and the resources of the various arts which he placed at our service, and the curiosities and entertainments which it was in his power, at our bidding, to display. "Will your ladyships be pleased to buy an amulet against the oupire, which is going like the wolf, I hear, through these woods," he said dropping his hat on the pavement. "They are dying of it right and left and here is a charm that never fails; only pinned to the pillow, and you may laugh in his face." These charms consisted of oblong slips of vellum, with cabalistic ciphers and diagrams upon them. He was looking up, and we were smiling down upon him, amused; at least, I can answer for myself. His piercing black eye, as he looked up in our faces, seemed to detect something that fixed for a moment his curiosity. In an instant he unrolled a leather case, full of all manner of odd little steel instruments. The young lady, indeed, looked very angry as she drew back from the window. "How dares that mountebank insult us so? Where is your father? I shall demand redress from him. My father would have had the wretch tied up to the pump, and flogged with a cart whip, and burnt to the bones with the cattle brand!" "How so?" inquired my father. "I am so afraid of fancying I see such things; I think it would be as bad as reality." "We are in God's hands: nothing can happen without his permission, and all will end well for those who love him. He is our faithful creator; He has made us all, and will take care of us." "Creator! _Nature!_" said the young lady in answer to my gentle father. "And this disease that invades the country is natural. Nature. All things proceed from Nature--don't they? All things in the heaven, in the earth, and under the earth, act and live as Nature ordains? I think so." "The doctor said he would come here today," said my father, after a silence. "I want to know what he thinks about it, and what he thinks we had better do." "Doctors never did me any good," said Carmilla. "Then you have been ill?" I asked. "More ill than ever you were," she answered. "Yes, a long time. I suffered from this very illness; but I forget all but my pain and weakness, and they were not so bad as are suffered in other diseases." "You were very young then?" "I dare say, let us talk no more of it. You would not wound a friend?" She looked languidly in my eyes, and passed her arm round my waist lovingly, and led me out of the room. My father was busy over some papers near the window. "Why does your papa like to frighten us?" said the pretty girl with a sigh and a little shudder. "He doesn't, dear Carmilla, it is the very furthest thing from his mind." "Are you afraid, dearest?" "I should be very much if I fancied there was any real danger of my being attacked as those poor people were." "You are afraid to die?" "But to die as lovers may--to die together, so that they may live together. "Girls are caterpillars while they live in the world, to be finally butterflies when the summer comes; but in the meantime there are grubs and larvae, don't you see--each with their peculiar propensities, necessities and structure. So says Monsieur Buffon, in his big book, in the next room." Later in the day the doctor came, and was closeted with papa for some time. "Well, I do wonder at a wise man like you. What do you say to hippogriffs and dragons?" The doctor was smiling, and made answer, shaking his head- "Nevertheless life and death are mysterious states, and we know little of the resources of either." And so they walked on, and I heard no more. I did not then know what the doctor had been broaching, but I think I guess it now. _A Wonderful Likeness_ This arrival created in our secluded quarters quite a sensation. The cases remained in the hall, and the messenger was taken charge of by the servants till he had eaten his supper. Then with assistants, and armed with hammer, ripping chisel, and turnscrew, he met us in the hall, where we had assembled to witness the unpacking of the cases. The artist now produced it, with evident pride. It was quite beautiful; it was startling; it seemed to live. It was the effigy of Carmilla! "Carmilla, dear, here is an absolute miracle. Here you are, living, smiling, ready to speak, in this picture. Isn't it beautiful, Papa? And see, even the little mole on her throat." My father laughed, and said "Certainly it is a wonderful likeness," but he looked away, and to my surprise seemed but little struck by it, and went on talking to the picture cleaner, who was also something of an artist, and discoursed with intelligence about the portraits or other works, which his art had just brought into light and color, while I was more and more lost in wonder the more I looked at the picture. "Will you let me hang this picture in my room, papa?" I asked. "Certainly, dear," said he, smiling, "I'm very glad you think it so like. It must be prettier even than I thought it, if it is." The young lady did not acknowledge this pretty speech, did not seem to hear it. She was leaning back in her seat, her fine eyes under their long lashes gazing on me in contemplation, and she smiled in a kind of rapture. "Ah!" said the lady, languidly, "so am I, I think, a very long descent, very ancient. Are there any Karnsteins living now?" "How interesting!" she said, languidly. "But see what beautiful moonlight!" She glanced through the hall door, which stood a little open. "Suppose you take a little ramble round the court, and look down at the road and river." "It is so like the night you came to us," I said. She sighed; smiling. She rose, and each with her arm about the other's waist, we walked out upon the pavement. In silence, slowly we walked down to the drawbridge, where the beautiful landscape opened before us. "And so you were thinking of the night I came here?" she almost whispered. "Are you glad I came?" "Delighted, dear Carmilla," I answered. She kissed me silently. "I am sure, Carmilla, you have been in love; that there is, at this moment, an affair of the heart going on." How beautiful she looked in the moonlight! Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a hand that trembled. Her soft cheek was glowing against mine. "Darling, darling," she murmured, "I live in you; and you would die for me, I love you so." She was gazing on me with eyes from which all fire, all meaning had flown, and a face colorless and apathetic. "Is there a chill in the air, dear?" she said drowsily. "I almost shiver; have I been dreaming? Let us come in. Come; come; come in." "You look ill, Carmilla; a little faint. You certainly must take some wine," I said. "Yes. I will. I'm better now. I shall be quite well in a few minutes. Yes, do give me a little wine," answered Carmilla, as we approached the door. "Let us look again for a moment; it is the last time, perhaps, I shall see the moonlight with you." "How do you feel now, dear Carmilla? Are you really better?" I asked. I was beginning to take alarm, lest she should have been stricken with the strange epidemic that they said had invaded the country about us. "Papa would be grieved beyond measure," I added, "if he thought you were ever so little ill, without immediately letting us know. We have a very skilful doctor near us, the physician who was with papa today." "I'm sure he is. I know how kind you all are; but, dear child, I am quite well again. There is nothing ever wrong with me, but a little weakness. But there occurred that night an event which gave my thoughts quite a new turn, and seemed to startle even Carmilla's languid nature into momentary energy. _A Very Strange Agony_ When we got into the drawing room, and had sat down to our coffee and chocolate, although Carmilla did not take any, she seemed quite herself again, and Madame, and Mademoiselle De Lafontaine, joined us, and made a little card party, in the course of which papa came in for what he called his "dish of tea." When the game was over he sat down beside Carmilla on the sofa, and asked her, a little anxiously, whether she had heard from her mother since her arrival. He then asked whether she knew where a letter would reach her at present. "I cannot tell," she answered ambiguously, "but I have been thinking of leaving you; you have been already too hospitable and too kind to me. I have given you an infinity of trouble, and I should wish to take a carriage tomorrow, and post in pursuit of her; I know where I shall ultimately find her, although I dare not yet tell you." So he gallantly, in his old-fashioned way, kissed her hand, smiling and pleased at her little speech. I accompanied Carmilla as usual to her room, and sat and chatted with her while she was preparing for bed. "Do you think," I said at length, "that you will ever confide fully in me?" She turned round smiling, but made no answer, only continued to smile on me. "You won't answer that?" I said. "You can't answer pleasantly; I ought not to have asked you." "Now, Carmilla, you are going to talk your wild nonsense again," I said hastily. "Not I, silly little fool as I am, and full of whims and fancies; for your sake I'll talk like a sage. Were you ever at a ball?" "No; how you do run on. What is it like? How charming it must be." "I almost forget, it is years ago." "I remember everything about it--with an effort. I see it all, as divers see what is going on above them, through a medium, dense, rippling, but transparent. There occurred that night what has confused the picture, and made its colours faint. I was all but assassinated in my bed, wounded here," she touched her breast, "and never was the same since." "Were you near dying?" "Yes, very--a cruel love--strange love, that would have taken my life. Love will have its sacrifices. No sacrifice without blood. Let us go to sleep now; I feel so lazy. How can I get up just now and lock my door?" She was lying with her tiny hands buried in her rich wavy hair, under her cheek, her little head upon the pillow, and her glittering eyes followed me wherever I moved, with a kind of shy smile that I could not decipher. I bid her good night, and crept from the room with an uncomfortable sensation. I often wondered whether our pretty guest ever said her prayers. I certainly had never seen her upon her knees. In the morning she never came down until long after our family prayers were over, and at night she never left the drawing room to attend our brief evening prayers in the hall. The precautions of nervous people are infectious, and persons of a like temperament are pretty sure, after a time, to imitate them. I had adopted Carmilla's habit of locking her bedroom door, having taken into my head all her whimsical alarms about midnight invaders and prowling assassins. I had also adopted her precaution of making a brief search through her room, to satisfy herself that no lurking assassin or robber was "ensconced." These wise measures taken, I got into my bed and fell asleep. A light was burning in my room. This was an old habit, of very early date, and which nothing could have tempted me to dispense with. Thus fortified I might take my rest in peace. But dreams come through stone walls, light up dark rooms, or darken light ones, and their persons make their exits and their entrances as they please, and laugh at locksmiths. I had a dream that night that was the beginning of a very strange agony. I cannot call it a nightmare, for I was quite conscious of being asleep. It would be vain my attempting to tell you the horror with which, even now, I recall the occurrence of that night. It was no such transitory terror as a dream leaves behind it. It seemed to deepen by time, and communicated itself to the room and the very furniture that had encompassed the apparition. I was comfortable enough with my good-natured companions, Madame Perrodon, and the vivacious Mademoiselle Lafontaine. They both perceived that I was out of spirits and nervous, and at length I told them what lay so heavy at my heart. Mademoiselle laughed, but I fancied that Madame Perrodon looked anxious. "By-the-by," said Mademoiselle, laughing, "the long lime tree walk, behind Carmilla's bedroom window, is haunted!" "Nonsense!" exclaimed Madame, who probably thought the theme rather inopportune, "and who tells that story, my dear?" "So he well might, as long as there are cows to milk in the river fields," said Madame. "I daresay; but Martin chooses to be frightened, and never did I see fool more frightened." "You must not say a word about it to Carmilla, because she can see down that walk from her room window," I interposed, "and she is, if possible, a greater coward than I." Carmilla came down rather later than usual that day. "I was so frightened last night," she said, so soon as were together, "and I am sure I should have seen something dreadful if it had not been for that charm I bought from the poor little hunchback whom I called such hard names. I had a dream of something black coming round my bed, and I awoke in a perfect horror, and I really thought, for some seconds, I saw a dark figure near the chimney-piece, but I felt under my pillow for my charm, and the moment my fingers touched it, the figure disappeared, and I felt quite certain, only that I had it by me, that something frightful would have made its appearance, and, perhaps, throttled me, as it did those poor people we heard of. "Well, listen to me," I began, and recounted my adventure, at the recital of which she appeared horrified. "And had you the charm near you?" she asked, earnestly. "No, I had dropped it into a china vase in the drawing room, but I shall certainly take it with me tonight, as you have so much faith in it." At this distance of time I cannot tell you, or even understand, how I overcame my horror so effectually as to lie alone in my room that night. I remember distinctly that I pinned the charm to my pillow. I fell asleep almost immediately, and slept even more soundly than usual all night. Next night I passed as well. My sleep was delightfully deep and dreamless. But I wakened with a sense of lassitude and melancholy, which, however, did not exceed a degree that was almost luxurious. "Well, I told you so," said Carmilla, when I described my quiet sleep, "I had such delightful sleep myself last night; I pinned the charm to the breast of my nightdress. It was too far away the night before. I am quite sure it was all fancy, except the dreams. I used to think that evil spirits made dreams, but our doctor told me it is no such thing. Only a fever passing by, or some other malady, as they often do, he said, knocks at the door, and not being able to get in, passes on, with that alarm." "And what do you think the charm is?" said I. "It has been fumigated or immersed in some drug, and is an antidote against the malaria," she answered. "Then it acts only on the body?" "Certainly; you don't suppose that evil spirits are frightened by bits of ribbon, or the perfumes of a druggist's shop? No, these complaints, wandering in the air, begin by trying the nerves, and so infect the brain, but before they can seize upon you, the antidote repels them. That I am sure is what the charm has done for us. It is nothing magical, it is simply natural." I should have been happier if I could have quite agreed with Carmilla, but I did my best, and the impression was a little losing its force. For some nights I slept profoundly; but still every morning I felt the same lassitude, and a languor weighed upon me all day. I felt myself a changed girl. A strange melancholy was stealing over me, a melancholy that I would not have interrupted. Dim thoughts of death began to open, and an idea that I was slowly sinking took gentle, and, somehow, not unwelcome, possession of me. If it was sad, the tone of mind which this induced was also sweet. Whatever it might be, my soul acquiesced in it. I would not admit that I was ill, I would not consent to tell my papa, or to have the doctor sent for. Carmilla became more devoted to me than ever, and her strange paroxysms of languid adoration more frequent. She used to gloat on me with increasing ardor the more my strength and spirits waned. This always shocked me like a momentary glare of insanity. Without knowing it, I was now in a pretty advanced stage of the strangest illness under which mortal ever suffered. There was an unaccountable fascination in its earlier symptoms that more than reconciled me to the incapacitating effect of that stage of the malady. This fascination increased for a time, until it reached a certain point, when gradually a sense of the horrible mingled itself with it, deepening, as you shall hear, until it discolored and perverted the whole state of my life. My sufferings had, during the last week, told upon my appearance. I had grown pale, my eyes were dilated and darkened underneath, and the languor which I had long felt began to display itself in my countenance. My father asked me often whether I was ill; but, with an obstinacy which now seems to me unaccountable, I persisted in assuring him that I was quite well. Carmilla complained of dreams and feverish sensations, but by no means of so alarming a kind as mine. I say that mine were extremely alarming. Had I been capable of comprehending my condition, I would have invoked aid and advice on my knees. The narcotic of an unsuspected influence was acting upon me, and my perceptions were benumbed. I am going to tell you now of a dream that led immediately to an odd discovery. Madame and Mademoiselle came scurrying out of their rooms in alarm; a lamp burned always on the lobby, and seeing me, they soon learned the cause of my terror. I insisted on our knocking at Carmilla's door. Our knocking was unanswered. It soon became a pounding and an uproar. We shrieked her name, but all was vain. Servants, however, soon came running up the stairs; I had got on my dressing gown and slippers meanwhile, and my companions were already similarly furnished. Recognizing the voices of the servants on the lobby, we sallied out together; and having renewed, as fruitlessly, our summons at Carmilla's door, I ordered the men to force the lock. They did so, and we stood, holding our lights aloft, in the doorway, and so stared into the room. We called her by name; but there was still no reply. We looked round the room. Everything was undisturbed. It was exactly in the state in which I had left it on bidding her good night. But Carmilla was gone. The whole household, with my father at its head, was in a state of agitation next morning. Every part of the chateau was searched. The grounds were explored. No trace of the missing lady could be discovered. The stream was about to be dragged; my father was in distraction; what a tale to have to tell the poor girl's mother on her return. I, too, was almost beside myself, though my grief was quite of a different kind. "Dear Carmilla, what has become of you all this time? We have been in agonies of anxiety about you," I exclaimed. "Where have you been? How did you come back?" "Last night has been a night of wonders," she said. "For mercy's sake, explain all you can." My father took a turn up and down the room, thinking. I saw Carmilla's eye follow him for a moment with a sly, dark glance. "Will you forgive me, my dear, if I risk a conjecture, and ask a question?" Carmilla was leaning on her hand dejectedly; Madame and I were listening breathlessly. "Now, my question is this. Have you ever been suspected of walking in your sleep?" "Never, since I was very young indeed." "But you did walk in your sleep when you were young?" "Yes; I know I did. I have been told so often by my old nurse." My father smiled and nodded. "I do, but not all," she answered. "And how, papa, do you account for her finding herself on the sofa in the dressing room, which we had searched so carefully?" Carmilla was looking charmingly. Nothing could be more beautiful than her tints. Her beauty was, I think, enhanced by that graceful languor that was peculiar to her. I think my father was silently contrasting her looks with mine, for he said: "I wish my poor Laura was looking more like herself"; and he sighed. So our alarms were happily ended, and Carmilla restored to her friends. As Carmilla would not hear of an attendant sleeping in her room, my father arranged that a servant should sleep outside her door, so that she would not attempt to make another such excursion without being arrested at her own door. That night passed quietly; and next morning early, the doctor, whom my father had sent for without telling me a word about it, arrived to see me. Madame accompanied me to the library; and there the grave little doctor, with white hair and spectacles, whom I mentioned before, was waiting to receive me. I told him my story, and as I proceeded he grew graver and graver. After a minute's reflection, he asked Madame if he could see my father. He was sent for accordingly, and as he entered, smiling, he said: "I dare say, doctor, you are going to tell me that I am an old fool for having brought you here; I hope I am." But his smile faded into shadow as the doctor, with a very grave face, beckoned him to him. He and the doctor talked for some time in the same recess where I had just conferred with the physician. It seemed an earnest and argumentative conversation. The room is very large, and I and Madame stood together, burning with curiosity, at the farther end. Not a word could we hear, however, for they spoke in a very low tone, and the deep recess of the window quite concealed the doctor from view, and very nearly my father, whose foot, arm, and shoulder only could we see; and the voices were, I suppose, all the less audible for the sort of closet which the thick wall and window formed. After a time my father's face looked into the room; it was pale, thoughtful, and, I fancied, agitated. "Laura, dear, come here for a moment. Madame, we shan't trouble you, the doctor says, at present." My father held out his hand to me, as I drew near, but he was looking at the doctor, and he said: "It certainly is very odd; I don't understand it quite. Laura, come here, dear; now attend to Doctor Spielsberg, and recollect yourself." "None at all," I answered. "Can you indicate with your finger about the point at which you think this occurred?" "Very little below my throat--here," I answered. I wore a morning dress, which covered the place I pointed to. "Now you can satisfy yourself," said the doctor. "You won't mind your papa's lowering your dress a very little. It is necessary, to detect a symptom of the complaint under which you have been suffering." "You see it now with your own eyes," said the doctor, with a gloomy triumph. "What is it?" I exclaimed, beginning to be frightened. "Nothing, my dear young lady, but a small blue spot, about the size of the tip of your little finger; and now," he continued, turning to papa, "the question is what is best to be done?" "Is there any danger?" I urged, in great trepidation. "I trust not, my dear," answered the doctor. "I don't see why you should not recover. I don't see why you should not begin immediately to get better. That is the point at which the sense of strangulation begins?" "And--recollect as well as you can--the same point was a kind of center of that thrill which you described just now, like the current of a cold stream running against you?" "It may have been; I think it was." "Ay, you see?" he added, turning to my father. "Shall I say a word to Madame?" "Certainly," said my father. He called Madame to him, and said: "We may rely upon your kindness, Madame, I know," added my father. Madame satisfied him eagerly. "And you, dear Laura, I know you will observe the doctor's direction." "I shall have to ask your opinion upon another patient, whose symptoms slightly resemble those of my daughter, that have just been detailed to you--very much milder in degree, but I believe quite of the same sort. She is a young lady--our guest; but as you say you will be passing this way again this evening, you can't do better than take your supper here, and you can then see her. She does not come down till the afternoon." And then they repeated their directions to me and to Madame, and with this parting charge my father left us, and walked out with the doctor; and I saw them pacing together up and down between the road and the moat, on the grassy platform in front of the castle, evidently absorbed in earnest conversation. The doctor did not return. I saw him mount his horse there, take his leave, and ride away eastward through the forest. Nearly at the same time I saw the man arrive from Dranfield with the letters, and dismount and hand the bag to my father. In the meantime, Madame and I were both busy, lost in conjecture as to the reasons of the singular and earnest direction which the doctor and my father had concurred in imposing. Madame, as she afterwards told me, was afraid the doctor apprehended a sudden seizure, and that, without prompt assistance, I might either lose my life in a fit, or at least be seriously hurt. "This letter had been delayed; it is from General Spielsdorf. He might have been here yesterday, he may not come till tomorrow or he may be here today." On the contrary, he looked as if he wished him at the bottom of the Red Sea. There was plainly something on his mind which he did not choose to divulge. "Papa, darling, will you tell me this?" said I, suddenly laying my hand on his arm, and looking, I am sure, imploringly in his face. "Perhaps," he answered, smoothing my hair caressingly over my eyes. "Does the doctor think me very ill?" "But do tell me, papa," I insisted, "what does he think is the matter with me?" Passing the drawbridge we turn to the right, and follow the road over the steep Gothic bridge, westward, to reach the deserted village and ruined castle of Karnstein. No sylvan drive can be fancied prettier. The ground breaks into gentle hills and hollows, all clothed with beautiful wood, totally destitute of the comparative formality which artificial planting and early culture and pruning impart. The irregularities of the ground often lead the road out of its course, and cause it to wind beautifully round the sides of broken hollows and the steeper sides of the hills, among varieties of ground almost inexhaustible. The General dismounted as we pulled up, and, after the usual greetings, was easily persuaded to accept the vacant seat in the carriage and send his horse on with his servant to the schloss. We had not long resumed our drive, when the General began to talk, with his usual soldierly directness, of the bereavement, as he termed it, which he had sustained in the death of his beloved niece and ward; and he then broke out in a tone of intense bitterness and fury, inveighing against the "hellish arts" to which she had fallen a victim, and expressing, with more exasperation than piety, his wonder that Heaven should tolerate so monstrous an indulgence of the lusts and malignity of hell. "I should tell you all with pleasure," said the General, "but you would not believe me." "Why should I not?" he asked. "Because," he answered testily, "you believe in nothing but what consists with your own prejudices and illusions. I remember when I was like you, but I have learned better." "You are right in supposing that I have not been led lightly into a belief in the marvelous--for what I have experienced is marvelous--and I have been forced by extraordinary evidence to credit that which ran counter, diametrically, to all my theories. I have been made the dupe of a preternatural conspiracy." Notwithstanding his professions of confidence in the General's penetration, I saw my father, at this point, glance at the General, with, as I thought, a marked suspicion of his sanity. The General did not see it, luckily. He was looking gloomily and curiously into the glades and vistas of the woods that were opening before us. "You are going to the Ruins of Karnstein?" he said. "Yes, it is a lucky coincidence; do you know I was going to ask you to bring me there to inspect them. I have a special object in exploring. There is a ruined chapel, ain't there, with a great many tombs of that extinct family?" "So there are--highly interesting," said my father. "I hope you are thinking of claiming the title and estates?" My father said this gaily, but the General did not recollect the laugh, or even the smile, which courtesy exacts for a friend's joke; on the contrary, he looked grave and even fierce, ruminating on a matter that stirred his anger and horror. My father looked at him again, but this time not with a glance of suspicion--with an eye, rather, of keen intelligence and alarm. "Yes, poor thing! when I saw her last she certainly was quite lovely," said my father. "I was grieved and shocked more than I can tell you, my dear friend; I knew what a blow it was to you." He took the General's hand, and they exchanged a kind pressure. Tears gathered in the old soldier's eyes. He did not seek to conceal them. He said: "We have been very old friends; I knew you would feel for me, childless as I am. She had become an object of very near interest to me, and repaid my care by an affection that cheered my home and made my life happy. That is all gone. The years that remain to me on earth may not be very long; but by God's mercy I hope to accomplish a service to mankind before I die, and to subserve the vengeance of Heaven upon the fiends who have murdered my poor child in the spring of her hopes and beauty!" "You said, just now, that you intended relating everything as it occurred," said my father. "Pray do; I assure you that it is not mere curiosity that prompts me." By this time we had reached the point at which the Drunstall road, by which the General had come, diverges from the road which we were traveling to Karnstein. "How far is it to the ruins?" inquired the General, looking anxiously forward. "Yes; and very splendid, I believe, they were," said my father. "Princely! But then his hospitalities are quite regal. He has Aladdin's lamp. The night from which my sorrow dates was devoted to a magnificent masquerade. The grounds were thrown open, the trees hung with lamps. There was such a display of fireworks as Paris itself had never witnessed. And such music--music, you know, is my weakness--such ravishing music! The finest instrumental band, perhaps, in the world, and the finest singers who could be collected from all the great operas in Europe. As you wandered through these fantastically illuminated grounds, the moon-lighted chateau throwing a rosy light from its long rows of windows, you would suddenly hear these ravishing voices stealing from the silence of some grove, or rising from boats upon the lake. I felt myself, as I looked and listened, carried back into the romance and poetry of my early youth. "When the fireworks were ended, and the ball beginning, we returned to the noble suite of rooms that were thrown open to the dancers. A masked ball, you know, is a beautiful sight; but so brilliant a spectacle of the kind I never saw before. "It was a very aristocratic assembly. I was myself almost the only 'nobody' present. "My dear child was looking quite beautiful. She wore no mask. Her excitement and delight added an unspeakable charm to her features, always lovely. I remarked a young lady, dressed magnificently, but wearing a mask, who appeared to me to be observing my ward with extraordinary interest. I had seen her, earlier in the evening, in the great hall, and again, for a few minutes, walking near us, on the terrace under the castle windows, similarly employed. A lady, also masked, richly and gravely dressed, and with a stately air, like a person of rank, accompanied her as a chaperon. "Had the young lady not worn a mask, I could, of course, have been much more certain upon the question whether she was really watching my poor darling. "I am now well assured that she was. "Availing herself of the privilege of her mask, she turned to me, and in the tone of an old friend, and calling me by my name, opened a conversation with me, which piqued my curiosity a good deal. She referred to many scenes where she had met me--at Court, and at distinguished houses. She alluded to little incidents which I had long ceased to think of, but which, I found, had only lain in abeyance in my memory, for they instantly started into life at her touch. "In the meantime, availing myself of the license of a masquerade, I put not a few questions to the elder lady. "'You have puzzled me utterly,' I said, laughing. 'Is that not enough? Won't you, now, consent to stand on equal terms, and do me the kindness to remove your mask?' "'Can any request be more unreasonable?' she replied. 'Ask a lady to yield an advantage! Beside, how do you know you should recognize me? Years make changes.' "'As you see,' I said, with a bow, and, I suppose, a rather melancholy little laugh. "'As philosophers tell us,' she said; 'and how do you know that a sight of my face would help you?' "'I should take chance for that,' I answered. 'It is vain trying to make yourself out an old woman; your figure betrays you.' "'Years, nevertheless, have passed since I saw you, rather since you saw me, for that is what I am considering. Millarca, there, is my daughter; I cannot then be young, even in the opinion of people whom time has taught to be indulgent, and I may not like to be compared with what you remember me. You have no mask to remove. You can offer me nothing in exchange.' "'My petition is to your pity, to remove it.' "'And mine to yours, to let it stay where it is,' she replied. "'Well, then, at least you will tell me whether you are French or German; you speak both languages so perfectly.' "'I don't think I shall tell you that, General; you intend a surprise, and are meditating the particular point of attack.' "'At all events, you won't deny this,' I said, 'that being honored by your permission to converse, I ought to know how to address you. Shall I say Madame la Comtesse?' "She laughed, and she would, no doubt, have met me with another evasion--if, indeed, I can treat any occurrence in an interview every circumstance of which was prearranged, as I now believe, with the profoundest cunning, as liable to be modified by accident. "The lady turned quickly to him, and touched her lip in token of silence; she then said to me, 'Keep my place for me, General; I shall return when I have said a few words.' "And with this injunction, playfully given, she walked a little aside with the gentleman in black, and talked for some minutes, apparently very earnestly. They then walked away slowly together in the crowd, and I lost them for some minutes. "I spent the interval in cudgeling my brains for a conjecture as to the identity of the lady who seemed to remember me so kindly, and I was thinking of turning about and joining in the conversation between my pretty ward and the Countess's daughter, and trying whether, by the time she returned, I might not have a surprise in store for her, by having her name, title, chateau, and estates at my fingers' ends. But at this moment she returned, accompanied by the pale man in black, who said: "'I shall return and inform Madame la Comtesse when her carriage is at the door.' "He withdrew with a bow." "'Then we are to lose Madame la Comtesse, but I hope only for a few hours,' I said, with a low bow. "'It may be that only, or it may be a few weeks. It was very unlucky his speaking to me just now as he did. Do you now know me?' "I assured her I did not. "She went on to make her petition, and it was in the tone of a person from whom such a request amounted to conferring, rather than seeking a favor. "This was only in manner, and, as it seemed, quite unconsciously. Than the terms in which it was expressed, nothing could be more deprecatory. It was simply that I would consent to take charge of her daughter during her absence. "This was, all things considered, a strange, not to say, an audacious request. She in some sort disarmed me, by stating and admitting everything that could be urged against it, and throwing herself entirely upon my chivalry. At the same moment, by a fatality that seems to have predetermined all that happened, my poor child came to my side, and, in an undertone, besought me to invite her new friend, Millarca, to pay us a visit. She had just been sounding her, and thought, if her mamma would allow her, she would like it extremely. "The gentleman in black returned, and very ceremoniously conducted the lady from the room. "The demeanor of this gentleman was such as to impress me with the conviction that the Countess was a lady of very much more importance than her modest title alone might have led me to assume. "Her last charge to me was that no attempt was to be made to learn more about her than I might have already guessed, until her return. Our distinguished host, whose guest she was, knew her reasons. "'But here,' she said, 'neither I nor my daughter could safely remain for more than a day. I removed my mask imprudently for a moment, about an hour ago, and, too late, I fancied you saw me. So I resolved to seek an opportunity of talking a little to you. Had I found that you had seen me, I would have thrown myself on your high sense of honor to keep my secret some weeks. As it is, I am satisfied that you did not see me; but if you now suspect, or, on reflection, should suspect, who I am, I commit myself, in like manner, entirely to your honor. My daughter will observe the same secrecy, and I well know that you will, from time to time, remind her, lest she should thoughtlessly disclose it.' "'In the next room,' said Millarca, 'there is a window that looks upon the hall door. I should like to see the last of mamma, and to kiss my hand to her.' "We assented, of course, and accompanied her to the window. We looked out, and saw a handsome old-fashioned carriage, with a troop of couriers and footmen. We saw the slim figure of the pale gentleman in black, as he held a thick velvet cloak, and placed it about her shoulders and threw the hood over her head. She nodded to him, and just touched his hand with hers. He bowed low repeatedly as the door closed, and the carriage began to move. "'She is gone,' said Millarca, with a sigh. "'She did not look up,' said the young lady, plaintively. "'The Countess had taken off her mask, perhaps, and did not care to show her face,' I said; 'and she could not know that you were in the window.' "She sighed, and looked in my face. She was so beautiful that I relented. I was sorry I had for a moment repented of my hospitality, and I determined to make her amends for the unavowed churlishness of my reception. "The young lady, replacing her mask, joined my ward in persuading me to return to the grounds, where the concert was soon to be renewed. We did so, and walked up and down the terrace that lies under the castle windows. "Millarca became very intimate with us, and amused us with lively descriptions and stories of most of the great people whom we saw upon the terrace. I liked her more and more every minute. Her gossip without being ill-natured, was extremely diverting to me, who had been so long out of the great world. I thought what life she would give to our sometimes lonely evenings at home. "This ball was not over until the morning sun had almost reached the horizon. It pleased the Grand Duke to dance till then, so loyal people could not go away, or think of bed. "We had just got through a crowded saloon, when my ward asked me what had become of Millarca. I thought she had been by her side, and she fancied she was by mine. The fact was, we had lost her. "All my efforts to find her were vain. I feared that she had mistaken, in the confusion of a momentary separation from us, other people for her new friends, and had, possibly, pursued and lost them in the extensive grounds which were thrown open to us. "Now, in its full force, I recognized a new folly in my having undertaken the charge of a young lady without so much as knowing her name; and fettered as I was by promises, of the reasons for imposing which I knew nothing, I could not even point my inquiries by saying that the missing young lady was the daughter of the Countess who had taken her departure a few hours before. "At about that time a servant knocked at my niece's door, to say that he had been earnestly requested by a young lady, who appeared to be in great distress, to make out where she could find the General Baron Spielsdorf and the young lady his daughter, in whose charge she had been left by her mother. "There could be no doubt, notwithstanding the slight inaccuracy, that our young friend had turned up; and so she had. Would to heaven we had lost her! "She told my poor child a story to account for her having failed to recover us for so long. Very late, she said, she had got to the housekeeper's bedroom in despair of finding us, and had then fallen into a deep sleep which, long as it was, had hardly sufficed to recruit her strength after the fatigues of the ball. "That day Millarca came home with us. I was only too happy, after all, to have secured so charming a companion for my dear girl." "In the midst of my perplexities, an anxiety of a far more urgent kind presented itself. "My dear child began to lose her looks and health, and that in a manner so mysterious, and even horrible, that I became thoroughly frightened. You may guess how strangely I felt as I heard my own symptoms so exactly described in those which had been experienced by the poor girl who, but for the catastrophe which followed, would have been at that moment a visitor at my father's chateau. You may suppose, also, how I felt as I heard him detail habits and mysterious peculiarities which were, in fact, those of our beautiful guest, Carmilla! A vista opened in the forest; we were on a sudden under the chimneys and gables of the ruined village, and the towers and battlements of the dismantled castle, round which gigantic trees are grouped, overhung us from a slight eminence. In a frightened dream I got down from the carriage, and in silence, for we had each abundant matter for thinking; we soon mounted the ascent, and were among the spacious chambers, winding stairs, and dark corridors of the castle. He pointed down to the grey walls of the Gothic building partly visible through the foliage, a little way down the steep. "And I hear the axe of a woodman," he added, "busy among the trees that surround it; he possibly may give us the information of which I am in search, and point out the grave of Mircalla, Countess of Karnstein. These rustics preserve the local traditions of great families, whose stories die out among the rich and titled so soon as the families themselves become extinct." "We have a portrait, at home, of Mircalla, the Countess Karnstein; should you like to see it?" asked my father. "What! see the Countess Mircalla," exclaimed my father; "why, she has been dead more than a century!" "Not so dead as you fancy, I am told," answered the General. "What?" exclaimed my father, more than ever bewildered. "To strike her head off." "Aye, with a hatchet, with a spade, or with anything that can cleave through her murderous throat. You shall hear," he answered, trembling with rage. And hurrying forward he said: "That beam will answer for a seat; your dear child is fatigued; let her be seated, and I will, in a few sentences, close my dreadful story." The squared block of wood, which lay on the grass-grown pavement of the chapel, formed a bench on which I was very glad to seat myself, and in the meantime the General called to the woodman, who had been removing some boughs which leaned upon the old walls; and, axe in hand, the hardy old fellow stood before us. "Have you been long employed about this forest?" asked my father of the old man. "I have been a woodman here," he answered in his patois, "under the forester, all my days; so has my father before me, and so on, as many generations as I can count up. I could show you the very house in the village here, in which my ancestors lived." "How came the village to be deserted?" asked the General. "It was troubled by revenants, sir; several were tracked to their graves, there detected by the usual tests, and extinguished in the usual way, by decapitation, by the stake, and by burning; but not until many of the villagers were killed. "The stranger, having seen all this, came down from the steeple, took the linen wrappings of the vampire, and carried them up to the top of the tower, which he again mounted. When the vampire returned from his prowlings and missed his clothes, he cried furiously to the Moravian, whom he saw at the summit of the tower, and who, in reply, beckoned him to ascend and take them. Whereupon the vampire, accepting his invitation, began to climb the steeple, and so soon as he had reached the battlements, the Moravian, with a stroke of his sword, clove his skull in twain, hurling him down to the churchyard, whither, descending by the winding stairs, the stranger followed and cut his head off, and next day delivered it and the body to the villagers, who duly impaled and burnt them. "This Moravian nobleman had authority from the then head of the family to remove the tomb of Mircalla, Countess Karnstein, which he did effectually, so that in a little while its site was quite forgotten." "Can you point out where it stood?" asked the General, eagerly. The forester shook his head, and smiled. "My beloved child," he resumed, "was now growing rapidly worse. The physician who attended her had failed to produce the slightest impression on her disease, for such I then supposed it to be. He saw my alarm, and suggested a consultation. I called in an abler physician, from Gratz. "'Pardon me,' said the old physician from Gratz, looking displeased, 'I shall state my own view of the case in my own way another time. I grieve, Monsieur le General, that by my skill and science I can be of no use. Before I go I shall do myself the honor to suggest something to you.' "He seemed thoughtful, and sat down at a table and began to write. "Profoundly disappointed, I made my bow, and as I turned to go, the other doctor pointed over his shoulder to his companion who was writing, and then, with a shrug, significantly touched his forehead. "'And what is the nature of the seizure you speak of?' I entreated. "'I have stated all fully in this note, which I place in your hands upon the distinct condition that you send for the nearest clergyman, and open my letter in his presence, and on no account read it till he is with you; you would despise it else, and it is a matter of life and death. Should the priest fail you, then, indeed, you may read it.' "He asked me, before taking his leave finally, whether I would wish to see a man curiously learned upon the very subject, which, after I had read his letter, would probably interest me above all others, and he urged me earnestly to invite him to visit him there; and so took his leave. "The ecclesiastic was absent, and I read the letter by myself. At another time, or in another case, it might have excited my ridicule. But into what quackeries will not people rush for a last chance, where all accustomed means have failed, and the life of a beloved object is at stake? "Nothing, you will say, could be more absurd than the learned man's letter. "For a few moments I had stood petrified. I now sprang forward, with my sword in my hand. The black creature suddenly contracted towards the foot of the bed, glided over it, and, standing on the floor about a yard below the foot of the bed, with a glare of skulking ferocity and horror fixed on me, I saw Millarca. Speculating I know not what, I struck at her instantly with my sword; but I saw her standing near the door, unscathed. Horrified, I pursued, and struck again. She was gone; and my sword flew to shivers against the door. "I can't describe to you all that passed on that horrible night. The whole house was up and stirring. The specter Millarca was gone. But her victim was sinking fast, and before the morning dawned, she died." The old General was agitated. We did not speak to him. My father walked to some little distance, and began reading the inscriptions on the tombstones; and thus occupied, he strolled into the door of a side chapel to prosecute his researches. The General leaned against the wall, dried his eyes, and sighed heavily. I was relieved on hearing the voices of Carmilla and Madame, who were at that moment approaching. The voices died away. In this solitude, having just listened to so strange a story, connected, as it was, with the great and titled dead, whose monuments were moldering among the dust and ivy round us, and every incident of which bore so awfully upon my own mysterious case--in this haunted spot, darkened by the towering foliage that rose on every side, dense and high above its noiseless walls--a horror began to steal over me, and my heart sank as I thought that my friends were, after all, not about to enter and disturb this triste and ominous scene. The old General's eyes were fixed on the ground, as he leaned with his hand upon the basement of a shattered monument. I was just about to rise and speak, and nodded smiling, in answer to her peculiarly engaging smile; when with a cry, the old man by my side caught up the woodman's hatchet, and started forward. On seeing him a brutalized change came over her features. It was an instantaneous and horrible transformation, as she made a crouching step backwards. Before I could utter a scream, he struck at her with all his force, but she dived under his blow, and unscathed, caught him in her tiny grasp by the wrist. He struggled for a moment to release his arm, but his hand opened, the axe fell to the ground, and the girl was gone. He staggered against the wall. His grey hair stood upon his head, and a moisture shone over his face, as if he were at the point of death. "But I have been standing there, in the passage, ever since Mademoiselle Carmilla entered; and she did not return." She then began to call "Carmilla," through every door and passage and from the windows, but no answer came. "She called herself Carmilla?" asked the General, still agitated. "Carmilla, yes," I answered. "Aye," he said; "that is Millarca. That is the same person who long ago was called Mircalla, Countess Karnstein. Depart from this accursed ground, my poor child, as quickly as you can. Drive to the clergyman's house, and stay there till we come. Begone! May you never behold Carmilla more; you will not find her here." _Ordeal and Execution_ They sauntered together down the side aisle, opposite to the spot where I was standing, conversing as they went; then they began measuring distances by paces, and finally they all stood together, facing a piece of the sidewall, which they began to examine with great minuteness; pulling off the ivy that clung over it, and rapping the plaster with the ends of their sticks, scraping here, and knocking there. At length they ascertained the existence of a broad marble tablet, with letters carved in relief upon it. With the assistance of the woodman, who soon returned, a monumental inscription, and carved escutcheon, were disclosed. They proved to be those of the long lost monument of Mircalla, Countess Karnstein. The old General, though not I fear given to the praying mood, raised his hands and eyes to heaven, in mute thanksgiving for some moments. "Tomorrow," I heard him say; "the commissioner will be here, and the Inquisition will be held according to law." Then turning to the old man with the gold spectacles, whom I have described, he shook him warmly by both hands and said: "Baron, how can I thank you? How can we all thank you? You will have delivered this region from a plague that has scourged its inhabitants for more than a century. The horrible enemy, thank God, is at last tracked." My father led the stranger aside, and the General followed. I know that he had led them out of hearing, that he might relate my case, and I saw them glance often quickly at me, as the discussion proceeded. My father came to me, kissed me again and again, and leading me from the chapel, said: In this quest we were successful: and I was glad, being unspeakably fatigued when we reached home. But my satisfaction was changed to dismay, on discovering that there were no tidings of Carmilla. Of the scene that had occurred in the ruined chapel, no explanation was offered to me, and it was clear that it was a secret which my father for the present determined to keep from me. The priest had performed certain solemn rites that night, the purport of which I did not understand any more than I comprehended the reason of this extraordinary precaution taken for my safety during sleep. I saw all clearly a few days later. The disappearance of Carmilla was followed by the discontinuance of my nightly sufferings. You have heard, no doubt, of the appalling superstition that prevails in Upper and Lower Styria, in Moravia, Silesia, in Turkish Serbia, in Poland, even in Russia; the superstition, so we must call it, of the Vampire. For my part I have heard no theory by which to explain what I myself have witnessed and experienced, other than that supplied by the ancient and well-attested belief of the country. The next day the formal proceedings took place in the Chapel of Karnstein. Here then, were all the admitted signs and proofs of vampirism. The body, therefore, in accordance with the ancient practice, was raised, and a sharp stake driven through the heart of the vampire, who uttered a piercing shriek at the moment, in all respects such as might escape from a living person in the last agony. Then the head was struck off, and a torrent of blood flowed from the severed neck. The body and head was next placed on a pile of wood, and reduced to ashes, which were thrown upon the river and borne away, and that territory has never since been plagued by the visits of a vampire. My father has a copy of the report of the Imperial Commission, with the signatures of all who were present at these proceedings, attached in verification of the statement. It is from this official paper that I have summarized my account of this last shocking scene. I write all this you suppose with composure. But far from it; I cannot think of it without agitation. Nothing but your earnest desire so repeatedly expressed, could have induced me to sit down to a task that has unstrung my nerves for months to come, and reinduced a shadow of the unspeakable horror which years after my deliverance continued to make my days and nights dreadful, and solitude insupportably terrific. Carmilla did this; so did Millarca. "He adopted the stratagem of a journey here, a pretended removal of her remains, and a real obliteration of her monument. When age had stolen upon him, and from the vale of years, he looked back on the scenes he was leaving, he considered, in a different spirit, what he had done, and a horror took possession of him. He made the tracings and notes which have guided me to the very spot, and drew up a confession of the deception that he had practiced. If he had intended any further action in this matter, death prevented him; and the hand of a remote descendant has, too late for many, directed the pursuit to the lair of the beast." We talked a little more, and among other things he said was this: The following Spring my father took me a tour through Italy. We remained away for more than a year. It was long before the terror of recent events subsided; and to this hour the image of Carmilla returns to memory with ambiguous alternations--sometimes the playful, languid, beautiful girl; sometimes the writhing fiend I saw in the ruined church; and often from a reverie I have started, fancying I heard the light step of Carmilla at the drawing room door. Other books by J. Sheridan LeFanu The Cock and Anchor Torlogh O'Brien The House by the Churchyard Uncle Silas Checkmate Carmilla The Wyvern Mystery Guy Deverell Ghost Stories and Tales of Mystery The Chronicles of Golden Friars In a Glass Darkly The Purcell Papers The Watcher and Other Weird Stories A Chronicle of Golden Friars and Other Stories Madam Growl's Ghost and Other Tales of Mystery Green Tea and Other Stories Sheridan LeFanu: The Diabolic Genius Best Ghost Stories of J.S. LeFanu The Best Horror Stories The Vampire Lovers and Other Stories Ghost Stories and Mysteries The Hours After Midnight J.S. LeFanu: Ghost Stories and Mysteries Ghost and Horror Stories Green Tea and Other Ghost Stones Carmilla and Other Classic Tales of Mystery End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Carmilla, by J. Sheridan LeFanu	redpajama-book	19,431
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Danny Wool, Luiz Antonio de Souza, Elisa Williams, Tonya Allen and PG Distributed Proofreaders STEWART EDWARD WHITE SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS _Illustrations by Will Crawford_ II. THE "LAUGHING LASS" V. THE DISAPPEARANCE THE BRASS BOUND CHEST _Being the story told by Ralph Slade, Free Lance, to the officers of the United States Cruiser "Wolverine"_ I. THE BARBARY COAST II. THE GRAVEN IMAGE V. THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE VII. CAPTAIN SELOVER LOSES HIS NERVE VIII. WRECKING OF THE "GOLDEN HORN" IX. THE EMPTY BRANDY BOTTLE X. CHANGE OF MASTERS XII. "OLD SCRUBS" COMES ASHORE XIII. I MAKE MY ESCAPE XIV. AN ADVENTURE IN THE NIGHT XVIII. THE CATASTROPHE V. THE PINWHEEL VOLCANO VI. MR. DARROW RECEIVES VIII. THE MAKER OF MARVELS "And you know a heap too much" A schooner comporting herself in a manner uncommon on the Pacific A man who was a bit of a mechanic was set to work to open the chest Slowly the man defined himself as a shape takes form in a fog "These sheep had become as wild as deer" With a strangled cry the sailor cast the shirt from him "Sorry not to have met you at the door," he said courteously "Barnett's the man for her then," said Ives. "He's no economist when it comes to getting results. There she goes!" Here and there in the sea a glint of silver, a patch of purple, or dull red, or a glistening apparition of black showed where the unintended victims of the explosion, the gay-hued open-sea fish of the warm waters, had succumbed to the force of the shock. Of the intended victim there was no sign save a few fragments of wood bobbing in a swirl of water. When Barnett, the ordnance officer in charge of the destruction, returned to the ship, Carter complimented him. "Good clean job, Barnett. She was a tough customer, too." "What was she?" asked Ives. Ives turned to the ship's surgeon, Trendon, a grizzled and brief-spoken veteran, who had at his finger's tips all the lore of all the waters under the reign of the moon. "Not as far as many another derelict has wandered in her time, son," said Barnett. "Well, there was the _Laughing Lass_." "How did you happen to hit on her?" asked Barnett quickly. "Why not, sir? It naturally came into my head. She was last seen somewhere about this part of the world, wasn't she?" After a moment's hesitation he added: "From something I heard ashore I judge we've a commission to keep a watch out for her as well as to destroy derelicts." "What about the _Laughing Lass_?" asked McGuire, the paymaster, a New Englander, who had been in the service but a short time. "Good Lord! don't you remember the _Laughing Lass_ mystery and the disappearance of Doctor Schermerhorn?" "Karl Augustus Schermerhorn, the man whose experiments to identify telepathy with the Marconi wireless waves made such a furore in the papers?" "And he was lost with the _Laughing Lass_?" "Was that Ralph Slade?" asked Barnett. "Yes. He was a free-lance writer and artist." "I knew him well," said Barnett. "He was in our mess in the Philippine campaign, on the _North Dakota_. War correspondent then. It's strange that I never identified him before with the Slade of the _Laughing Lass_." "What was the object of the voyage?" asked Ives. "They were supposed to be after buried treasure," said Barnett. "I've always thought it more likely that Doctor Schermerhorn was on a scientific expedition," said Edwards. "I knew the old boy, and he wasn't the sort to care a hoot in Sheol for treasure, buried or unburied." "Yes," agreed Barnett. "Flora and fauna of some unknown island would be much more in the Schermerhorn line of traffic. Not unlikely that some of the festive natives collected the unfortunate professor." The lookout had given extra voice to it. It was plainly heard throughout the ship. "Hello," responded Carter, the officer of the deck. "There's a light here I can't make anything out of, sir." "Sort of a queer general glow." "General glow, indeed!" muttered Forsythe, among the group aft. "That fellow's got an imagination." "Can't you describe it better than that?" called Carter. "Don't make it out at all, sir. 'Tain't any regular and proper light. Looks like a lamp in a fog." Among themselves the officers discussed it interestedly, as it grew plainer. "Not unlike the electric glow above a city, seen from a distance," said Barnett, as it grew plainer. "Mirage, maybe," suggested Edwards. "Great heavens! Look at that!" shouted Edwards. A great shaft of pale brilliance shot up toward the zenith. Under it whirled a maelstrom of varied radiance, pale with distance, but marvellously beautiful. Forsythe passed them with a troubled face, on his way below to report, as his relief went up. "The quartermaster reports the compass behaving queerly," he said. "Humph!" grunted the veteran. "New to me. Volcanic, maybe." Nor did evening bring a repetition of that strange glow. Midnight found the late stayers still deep in the discussion. "Why so?" asked the paymaster. "Because volcanoes are mostly stationary, and we headed due for that light." "Yes; but did we keep headed?" said Barnett, who was navigating officer as well as ordnance officer, in a queer voice. "After the light disappeared the compass kept on varying. The stars were hidden. There is no telling just where we were headed for some time." "Hardly that," said the navigator. "We could guide her to some extent by the direction of wind and waves. If it was volcanic we ought certainly to have sighted it by now." "Always some electricity in volcanic eruptions," said Trendon. "Makes compass cut didoes. Seen it before." "Where?" queried Carter. "Off Martinique. Pelee eruption. Needle chased its tail like a kitten." "Are there many volcanoes hereabouts?" somebody asked. "E. D.'s and P. D.'s?" queried the paymaster. "Good boy, Billy," said Dr. Trendon, approvingly. "Do another." "It's a fact," said the ensign, heatedly. "Why, a couple of years back there was a trader here stocked up with a lot of belly-mixture in bottles. Thought he was going to make his pile because there'd been a colic epidemic in the islands the season before. Bottles were labelled 'Do not shake.' That settled his business. Might as well have marked 'em 'Keep frozen' in this part of the world. Fellow went broke." "In any case," said Barnett, "such a glow as that we sighted last night I've never seen from any volcano." "Nor I," said Trendon. "Don't prove it mightn't have been." "I'll just bet the best dinner in San Francisco that it isn't," said Edwards. "You're on," said Carter. "Let me in," suggested Ives. "To-night isn't likely to settle it, anyhow," said Ives. "I move we turn in." They found Carter, whose watch on deck it was, reprimanding the lookout. "No, sir," the man was insisting, "she didn't show no light, sir. I'd 'a' sighted her an hour ago, sir, if she had." "We shall see," said Carter grimly. "Who's your relief?" "Let him take your place. Go aloft, Sennett." As the lookout, crestfallen and surly, went below, Barnett said in subdued tones: "Upon my word, I shouldn't be surprised if the man were right. Certainly there's something queer about that hooker. Look how she handles herself." "Mighty queer tactics," muttered Edwards. "I think she's steering herself." "Good thing she carries a weather helm," commented Ives, who was an expert on sailing rigs. "Most of that type do. Otherwise she'd have jibed her masts out, running loose that way." Captain Parkinson appeared on deck and turned his glasses for a full minute on the strange schooner. "Aloft there," he hailed the crow's-nest. "Do you make out anyone aboard?" "No, sir," came the answer. "Mr. Carter, have the chief quartermaster report on deck with the signal flags." "Aren't we going to run up to her?" asked McGuire, turning in surprise to Edwards. "And take the risk of getting a hole punched in our pretty paint, with her running amuck that way? Not much!" "What ship is that?" "Are you in trouble?" asked the cruiser, and waited. The schooner showed a bare and silent main-peak. "Heave to." Now Uncle Sam was giving orders. But the other paid no heed. "We'll make that a little more emphatic," said Captain Parkinson. A moment later there was the sharp crash of a gun and a shot went across the bows of the sailing vessel. Hastened by a flaw of wind that veered from the normal direction of the breeze the stranger made sharply to windward, as if to obey. But the schooner, after standing for a moment, all flapping, answered another flaw, and went wide about on the opposite tack. "Derelict," remarked Captain Parkinson. "She seems to be in good shape, too, Dr. Trendon!" "Yes, sir." The surgeon went to the captain, and the others could hear his deep, abrupt utterance in reply to some question too low for their ears. "Might be, sir. Beri-beri, maybe. More likely smallpox if anything of that kind. But _some_ of 'em would be on deck." "Whew! A plague ship!" said Billy Edwards. "Just my luck to be ordered to board her." He shivered slightly. "Scared, Billy?" said Ives. Edwards had a record for daring which made this joke obvious enough to be safe. "I wouldn't want to have my peculiar style of beauty spoiled by smallpox marks," said the ensign, with a smile on his homely, winning face. "And I've a hunch that that ship is not a lucky find for this ship." [Illustration: A schooner comporting herself in a manner uncommon on the Pacific] They were now within a mile of the schooner. Edwards scrutinised her calculatingly. "Well, I've a hunch that that ship is a lucky find for any ship, but particularly for this ship." "Great Caesar!" cried the ensign excitedly. "Do you think it's _her_?" A buzz of electric interest went around the group. Every glass was raised; every eye strained toward her stern to read the name as she veered into the wind again. About she came. A sharp sigh of excited disappointment exhaled from the spectators. The name had been painted out. "Take your time. Don't come alongside until she is in the wind. Leave enough men aboard to handle her." "Well, sir?" There was a hint of effort at restraint in the captain's voice. "She's the _Laughing Lass_, sir. Everything ship-shape, but not a soul aboard." "Come below, Mr. Edwards," said the captain. And they went, leaving behind them a boiling cauldron of theory and conjecture. Billy Edwards came on deck with a line of irritation right-angling the furrows between his eyes. "The captain won't believe me," blurted out Edwards. "Is it as bad as that?" asked Barnett, smiling. "Oh, go on. Out with it. Give us the facts. Never mind your credibility." "Are you sure all the boats are there?" asked Ives. "Been over her, inside and out. No sign of collision. No leak. No anything, except that the starboard side is blistered a bit. No evidence of fire anywhere else. I tell you," said Billy Edwards pathetically, "it's given me a headache." "But crews don't just step out and run around the corner and hide, when they're scared," objected Barnett. "That's true, too," assented Ives. "Well, perhaps that volcanic eruption jarred them so that they jumped for it." "Pretty wild theory, that," said Edwards. "No wilder than the facts, as you give them," was the retort. "That's so," admitted the ensign gloomily. "But how about pestilence?" suggested Barnett. "Maybe they died fast and the last survivor, after the bodies of the rest were overboard, got delirious and jumped after them." "Not if the galley fire was hot," said Dr. Trendon, briefly. "No; pestilence doesn't work that way." "Did you look at the wheel, Billy?" asked Ives. "Did I! There's another thing. Wheel's all right, but compass is no good at all. It's regularly bewitched." "What about the log, then?" "Couldn't find it anywhere. Hunted high, low, jack, and the game; everywhere except in the big, brass-bound chest I found in the captain's cabin. Couldn't break into that." "Dr. Schermerhorn's chest!" exclaimed Barnett. "Then he was aboard." "Well, he isn't aboard now," said the ensign grimly. "Not in the flesh. And that's all," he added suddenly. "No; it isn't all," said Barnett gently. "There's something else. Captain's orders?" "Oh, no. Captain Parkinson doesn't take enough stock in my report to tell me to withhold anything," said Edwards, with a trace of bitterness in his voice. "It's nothing that I believe myself, anyhow." "Give _us_ a chance to believe it," said Ives. "Well," said the ensign hesitantly, "there's a sort of atmosphere about that schooner that's almost uncanny." "Oh, you had the shudders before you were ordered to board," bantered Ives. "That's strange enough about the compass," said Barnett slowly. "Ours is all right again. The schooner must have been so near the electric disturbance that her instruments were permanently deranged." "That would lend weight to the volcanic theory," said Carter. "So the captain didn't take kindly to your go-look-see?" questioned Ives of Edwards. "As good as told me I'd missed the point of the thing," said the ensign, flushing. "Perhaps he can make more of it himself. At any rate, he's going to try. Here he is now." "Dr. Trendon," said the captain, appearing. "You will please to go with me to the schooner." "Yes, sir," said the surgeon, rising from his chair with such alacrity as to draw from Ives the sardonic comment: "Why, I actually believe old Trendon is excited." "Billy was right," he said. "But he didn't tell us anything," cried Ives. "He didn't clear up the mystery." "Thanks," murmured the ensign. "What was that?" "You said 'Not a living being aboard.' Exact words, hey?" "Keep your temperature down, my boy. No. You were exactly right. Not a living being aboard." "Thanks for nothing," retorted the ensign. "Neither human nor other," pursued Trendon. "Food scattered around the galley. Crumbs on the mess table. Ever see a wooden ship without cockroaches?" "Never particularly investigated the matter." "Don't believe such a thing exists," said Ives. "Not a cockroach on the _Laughing Lass_. Ever know of an old hooker that wasn't overrun with rats?" "No; nor anyone else. Not above water." "No wonder Billy's tender nerves went wrong." said Ives, with irrepressible flippancy. "She's probably haunted by cockroach wraiths." "He'll have a chance to see," said Trendon. "Captain's going to put him in charge." "By way of apology, then," said Barnett. "That's pretty square." "Captain Parkinson wishes to see you in his cabin, Mr. Edwards," said an orderly, coming in. "A pleasant voyage, Captain Billy," said Ives. "Sing out if the goblins git yer." "And a mighty subtle sort," agreed Trendon. "Don't like the looks of it." He shook a solemn head. "Don't like it for a damn." "Probably doesn't carry any fog horn," said Carter bitterly, voicing a general uneasiness. "No log; compass crazy; without fog signal; I don't like that craft. Barnett ought to have been ordered to blow the damned thing up, as a peril to the high seas." "We'll pick her up in the morning, surely," said Forsythe. "This can't last for ever." Nor did it last long. An hour before midnight a pounding shower fell, lashing the sea into phosphorescent whiteness. It ceased, and with the growl of a leaping animal a squall furiously beset the ship. Soon the great steel body was plunging and heaving in the billows. It was a gloomy company about the wardroom table. Upon each and all hung an oppression of spirit. Captain Parkinson came from his cabin and went on deck. Constitutionally he was a nervous and pessimistic man with a fixed belief in the conspiracy of events, banded for the undoing of him and his. Blind or dubious conditions racked his soul, but real danger found him not only prepared, but even eager. Now his face was a picture of foreboding. "Parky looks as if Davy Jones was pulling on his string," observed the flippant Ives to his neighbour. "Worrying about the schooner. Hope Billy Edwards saw or heard or felt that squall coming," replied Forsythe, giving expression to the anxiety that all felt. "He's a good sailor man," said Ives, "and that's a staunch little schooner, by the way she handled herself." "Oh, it will be all right," said Carter confidently. "The wind's moderating now." "But there's no telling how far out of the course this may have blown him." Barnett came down, dripping. "Anything new?" asked Dr. Trendon. The navigating officer shook his head. "Nothing. But the captain's in a state of mind," he said. "What's wrong with him?" "The schooner. Seems possessed with the notion that there's something wrong with her." "Aren't you feeling a little that way yourself?" said Forsythe. "I am. I'll take a look around before I turn in." He left behind him a silent crowd. His return was prompt and swift. "Come on deck," he said. "The aurora!" cried McGuire, the paymaster. "Oh, certainly," replied Ives, with sarcasm. "Dead in the west. Common spot for the aurora. Particularly on the edge of the South Seas, where they are thick!" Nobody had an answer. Carter hastened forward and returned to report. "It's electrical anyway," said Carter. "The compass is queer again." "Edwards ought to be close to the solution of it," ventured Ives. "This gale should have blown him just about to the centre of interest." "If only he isn't involved in it," said Carter anxiously. "What could there be to involve him?" asked McGuire. "I don't know," said Carter slowly. "Somehow I feel as if the desertion of the schooner was in some formidable manner connected with that light." "What do you make it out to be?" came the query from below. "Green light's all I can see, sir." There was a pause. As for a prearranged scene, the fog-curtain parted. There loomed silently and swiftly the _Laughing Lass_. Down she bore upon the greater vessel until it seemed as if she must ram; but all the time she was veering to windward, and now she ran into the wind with a castanet rattle of sails. So close aboard was she that the eager eyes of Uncle Sam's men peered down upon her empty decks--for she was void of life. Behind the cruiser's blanketing she paid off very slowly, but presently caught the breeze full and again whitened the water at her prow. Forgetting regulations, Ives hailed loudly: "Ahoy, _Laughing Lass_! Ahoy, Billy Edwards!" "Been deserted since early last night," said Trendon hoarsely. "How can you tell that?" asked Barnett. "Both sails reefed down. Ready for that squall. Been no weather since to call for reefs. Must have quit her during the squall." "Then they jumped," cried Carter, "for I saw her boats. It isn't believable." "Neither was the other," said Trendon grimly. A hurried succession of orders stopped further discussion for the time. Ives was sent aboard the schooner to lower sail and report. He came back with a staggering dearth of information. The boats were all there; the ship was intact--as intact as when Billy Edwards had taken charge--but the cheery, lovable ensign and his men had vanished without trace or clue. As to the how or the wherefore they might rack their brains without guessing. There was the beginning of a log in the ensign's handwriting, which Ives had found with high excitement and read with bitter disappointment. There was no further entry. "Dr. Trendon is right," said Barnett. "Whatever happened--and God only knows what it could have been--it happened just after the squall." "Just about the time of the strange glow," cried Ives. "Case of blue funk, sir. Might as well be sick. Good for nothing. Others aren't much better." "Who was to be in charge?" [Illustration: A man who was a bit of a mechanic was set to work to open the chest] Congdon was sent for. "You're ordered aboard the schooner for the night, Congdon," said the captain. "Is there any reason why you do not wish to go?" The man hesitated, looking miserable. Finally he blurted out, not without a certain dignity: "I obey orders, sir." "Speak out, my man," urged the captain kindly. He stopped, failing of the word. "You know what Mr. Edwards was, sir, for pluck," he concluded. "The schooner got him, sir. You don't make no doubt of that, do you, sir?" The man spoke in a hushed voice, with a shrinking glance back of him. "Will you go aboard under Mr. Ives?" "Anywhere my officer goes I'll go, and gladly, sir." "_Petit Chel_--Pshaw! _Jolie Celimene!_ No," muttered Trendon. "_Marie--Marie_--I've got it! The _Marie Celeste_." "Got what? What about her?" "What became of the crew?" "Wish I could tell you. Might help to unravel our tangle." He shook his head in sudden, unwonted passion. "Evidently there's something criminal in her record," said Barnett, frowning at the fusty schooner astern. "Otherwise the name wouldn't be painted out." "Painted out long ago. See how rusty it is. Schermerhorn's work maybe," replied Trendon. "Secret expedition, remember." "In the name of wonders, why should he do it?" "Secret expedition, wasn't it?" "Um-ah; that's true," said the other thoughtfully. "It's quite possible." "Captain wishes to see both of you gentlemen in the ward room, if you please," came a message. Below they found all the officers gathered. Captain Parkinson was pacing up and down in ill-controlled agitation. Instantly every man, from the veteran Trendon to the youthful paymaster, volunteered. There was a dead silence. "Mr. Barnett? Dr. Trendon? Mr. Ives?" "I have asked myself that over and over. Whatever the source of the light and however near to it the schooner may have been, she is evidently unharmed." "Yes, sir," said Barnett. "That seems to vitiate that explanation." "I thank you, gentlemen, for the promptitude of your offers," continued the captain. "In this respect you make my duty the more difficult. I shall accept Mr. Ives because of his familiarity with sailing craft and with these seas." His eyes ranged the group. Not so easily was a crew obtained. Having in mind the excusable superstition of the men, Captain Parkinson was unwilling to compel any of them to the duty. Awed by the mystery of their mates' disappearance, the sailors hung back. Finally by temptation of extra prize money, a complement was made up. For several hours the rain fell and the gale howled. Then the sky swiftly cleared, and with the clearing there rose a great cry of amaze from stem to stern of the _Wolverine_. For far toward the western horizon appeared such a prodigy as the eye of no man aboard that ship had ever beheld. From a belt of marvellous, glowing gold, rich and splendid streamers of light spiralled up into the blackness of the heavens. "The needle! The compass!" he shrieked. Barnett ran to the wheel house with Trendon at his heels. The others followed. The needle was swaying like a cobra's head. And as a cobra's head spits venom, it spat forth a thin, steel-blue stream of lucent fire. Then so swiftly it whirled that the sparks scattered from it in a tiny shower. It stopped, quivered, and curved itself upward until it rattled like a fairy drum upon the glass shield. Barnett looked at Trendon. "Volcanic?" he said. "'Mine eyes have seen the coming of the glory of the Lord,'" muttered the surgeon in his deep bass, as he looked forth upon the streaming, radiant heavens. "It's like nothing else." In the west the splendour and the terror shot to the zenith. Barnett whirled the wheel. The ship responded perfectly. "I though she might be bewitched, too," he murmured. "You may heal her for the light, Mr. Barnett," said Captain Parkinson calmly. He had come from his cabin, all his nervous depression gone in the face of an imminent and visible danger. Slowly the great mass of steel swung to the unknown. For an hour the unknown guided her. Then fell blackness, sudden, complete. After that radiance the dazzled eye could make out no stars, but the look-out's keen vision discerned something else. "Ship afire," he shouted hoarsely. They turned their eyes to the direction indicated, and beheld a majestic rolling volume of purple light. Suddenly a fiercer red shot it through. "That's no ship afire," said Trendon. "Volcano in eruption." "And the other?" asked the captain. "Poor Billy Edwards wins his bet," said Forsythe, in a low voice. "God grant he's on earth to collect it," replied Barnett solemnly. "If that's another gull," muttered Carter, "I'll have something to say to you, my festive lookout." The news ran electrically through the cruiser, and all eyes were strained for a glimpse of the boat. The ship swung away to starboard. "Let me know as soon as you can make her out," ordered Carter. "There's certainly something there," said Forsythe, presently. "I can make out a speck rising on the waves." "Bit o' wreckage from Barnett's derelict," muttered Trendon, scowling through his glasses. "Rides too high for a spar or anything of that sort," said the junior lieutenant. "She's a small boat," came in the clear tones of the lookout, "driftin' down." "Anyone in her?" asked Carter. Captain Parkinson appeared and Carter pointed out the speck to him. "Yes. Give her full speed," said the captain, replying to a question from the officer of the deck. "Can you make out her build?" "Rides high, like a dory, sir." "Wasn't there a dory on the _Laughing Lass_?" cried Forsythe. "On her stern davits," answered Trendon. "It is hardly probable that unattached small boats should be drifting about these seas," said Captain Parkinson, thoughtfully. "If she's a dory, she's the _Laughing Lass_'s boat." "That's what she is," said Barnett. "You can see her build plain enough now." "Mr. Barnett, will you go aloft and keep me posted?" said the captain. The executive officer climbed to join the lookout. As he ascended, those below saw the little craft rise high and slow on a broad swell. "Same dory," said Trendon. "I'd swear to her in Constantinople." "What else could she be?" muttered Forsythe. "No, sir; not that I can see." "Good," said the captain quietly. "We should have news, at least." "Ives or McGuire," suggested Forsythe, in low tones. "Or Billy Edwards," amended Carter. "Not Edwards," said Trendon. "How do you know?" demanded Forsythe. "Can you make out which of the men are in her?" hailed the captain. "Don't think it's any of our people," came the astonishing reply from Barnett. "No, sir, beg your parding," called the lookout. "Nothin' like that in our crew, sir." The other sprawled aft, and at a nearer sight of him some of the men broke out into nervous titters. There was some excuse, for surely such a scarecrow had never before been the sport of wind and wave. A thing of shreds he was, elaborately ragged, a face overrun with a scrub of beard, and preternaturally drawn, surmounted by a stiff-dried, dirty, cloth semi-turban, with a wide, forbidding stain along the side, worked out the likeness to a make-up. "My God!" cackled Forsythe with an hysterical explosion; and again, "My God!" A long-drawn, irrepressible aspiration of expectancy rose from the warship's decks as the stranger raised his haggard face, turned eyes unseeingly upon them, and fell back. The forward occupant stirred not, save as the boat rolled. Long-drawn, like the mockery of a wail, the minor cadence wavered through the stillness, and died away. "The High Barbaree!" cried Trendon. "You know it?" asked the captain, expectant of a clue. "I don't see that that helps us any," said Forsythe, looking down on the preparations that were making to receive the unexpected guests. "Can't give any account of himself yet," said the surgeon. "Weak and not rightly conscious." "Enough. Gash in his scalp. Fever. Thirst and exhaustion. Nervous shock, too, I think." "How came he aboard the _Laughing Lass_?" "Does he know anything of Billy?" "Was he a stow-away?" "Did you ask him about Ives and McGuire?" "How came he in the small boat?" "Where are the rest?" "Now, now," said the veteran chidingly. "How can I tell? Would you have me kill the man with questions?" He left them to look at the body of the bo's'n's mate. Not a word had he to say when he returned. Only the captain got anything out of him but growling and unintelligible expressions, which seemed to be objurgatory and to express bewildered cogitation. "How long had poor Timmins been drowned?" the captain had asked him, and Trendon replied: "Captain Parkinson, the man wasn't drowned. No water in his lungs." "Not drowned! Then how came he by his death?" "If I were to diagnose it under any other conditions I should say that he had inhaled flames." "I think I'll try him with a little brandy," said Trendon, and sent for the liquor. Barnett raised the patient while the surgeon held the glass to his lips. The man's hand rose, wavered, and clasped the glass. "All right, my friend. Take it yourself, if you like," said Trendon. "Prosit, Barnett," said the man, in a voice like the rasp of rusty metal. The navy man straightened up as from a blow under the jaw. "Be careful what you are about," warned Trendon, addressing his superior officer sharply, for Barnett had all but let his charge drop. His face was a puckered mask of amaze and incredulity. "Heard him plain enough. Who is he?" "Ralph Slade, by the Lord!" he exclaimed. "Of the _Laughing Lass_?" cried Trendon. "Of the _Laughing Lass_." Such a fury of eagerness burned in the face of Barnett that Trendon cautioned him. "See here, Mr. Barnett, you're not going to fire a broadside of disturbing questions at my patient yet a while. He's in no condition." But it was from the other that the questions came. Opening his eyes he whispered, "The sailor? Where?" "Dead," said Trendon bluntly. Then, breaking his own rule of repression, he asked: "Did he come off the schooner with you?" "Picked him up," was the straining answer. "Drifting." The survivor looked around him, then into Barnett's face, and his mind too, traversed the years. "_North Dakota?_" he queried. "No; I've changed my ship," said Barnett. "This is the _Wolverine_." "Where's the _Laughing Lass_?" Barnett shook his head. "Tell me," begged Slade. "Wait till you're stronger," admonished Trendon. "Can't wait," said the weak voice. The eyes grew wild. "Mr. Barnett, tell him the bare outline and make it short," said the surgeon. The man nodded eagerly. "I suppose you were aboard," said Barnett, and Trendon made a quick gesture of impatience and rebuke. The officers looked at each other. "Go on," said Trendon to his companion. "We put a crew aboard in command of an ensign," continued Barnett, "and picked up the schooner the next night, deserted. You must know about it. Where is Billy Edwards?" "Never heard of him," whispered the other. "Ives and McGuire, then. They were there after--Great God, man!" he cried, his agitation breaking out, "Pull yourself together! Give us something to go on." "Mr. Barnett!" said the surgeon peremptorily. But the suggestion was working in the sick man's brain. He turned to the officers a face of horror. "Your man, Edwards--the crew--they left her? In the night?" "The light! You saw it?" "The volcano?" he rasped out. "Dead ahead," was the reply. "Stand by!" grasped Slade. He strove to rise, to say something further, but endurance had reached its limit. The man was utterly done. Dr. Trendon went on deck, his head sunk between his shoulders. For a minute he was in earnest talk with the captain. Presently the _Wolverine_'s engines slowed down, and she lay head to the waves, with just enough turn of the screw to hold her against the sea-way. By the following afternoon Dr. Trendon reported his patient as quite recovered. "The gentleman wants to know if he can come on deck, sir," saluted an orderly. "Waked up, eh. Come on, Barnett. Help me boost him on deck." The officers pressed forward. "Mighty glad to see you out." "Hope you've got your pins under you again." "Old man, I'm mighty glad we came along." The chorus of greeting was hearty enough, but the journalist barely paid the courtesy of acknowledgment. His eye swept the horizon eagerly until it rested on the cloud of volcanic smoke billowing up across the setting sun. A sigh of relief escaped him. "Yesterday," replied the navigating officer. "We've stood off and on, looking for some of our men." But Slade brushed the remark aside. "Head for it!" he cried excitedly. "We may be in time! There's a man on that island." "A man!" "Another!" "Not Billy Edwards?" "Not some of our boys?" Slade stared at them bewildered. "Hold on," interposed Dr. Trendon authoritatively. "What's his name?" he inquired of the journalist. "Darrow," replied the latter. "Percy Darrow. Do you know him?" "Who in Kamschatka is Percy Darrow?" demanded Forsythe. They stared at him incredulously. At table the young officers, at a sharp hint from Dr. Trendon, conversed on indifferent subjects until the journalist had partaken heartily of what the physician allowed him. Slade ate with keen appreciation. "Scotch high-ball, then," voted Slade, "the higher the better." The steward brought a tall glass with ice, in which the newcomer mixed his drink. Then for quite a minute he sat silent, staring at the table, his fingers aimlessly rubbing into spots of wetness the water beads as they gathered on the outside of his glass. Suddenly he looked up. "We've seen marvels ourselves in the last few days," encouraged Captain Parkinson. "Fire ahead, man," advised Barnett impatiently. "Just begin at the beginning and let it go at that." Slade sipped at his glass reflectively. "Well," said he at length, "the best way to begin is to show you how I happened to be mixed up in it at all." The officers unconsciously relaxed into attitudes of greater ease. Overhead the lamps swayed gently to the swell. The dull throb of the screw pulsated. Stewards clad in white moved noiselessly, filling the glasses, deferentially striking lights for the smokers, clearing away the last dishes of the repast. "I'm a reporter by choice, and a detective by instinct," began Slade, with startling abruptness. "Furthermore, I'm pretty well off. I'm what they call a free lance, for I have no regular desk on any of the journals. I generally turn my stuff in to the _Star_ because they treat me well. In return it is pretty well understood between us that I'm to use my judgment in regard to 'stories' and that they'll stand back of me for expenses. You see, I've been with them quite a while." He looked around the circle as though in appeal to the comprehension of his audience. Some of the men nodded. Others sipped from their glasses or drew at their cigars. The reporter grinned assent. "After the old man had turned him down for good, Slade fished down in his warbag and hauled out an old tattered document from an oilskin case. 'Hold on a minute,' said he, 'you old shellback. I've proved to you that I can write; and I've proved to you that I have fought, and now here I'll prove to you that I can sail. If writing, fighting, and sailing don't fit me adequately to report any little disturbances your antiquated washboiler may blunder into, I'll go to raising cabbages.' With that he presented a master's certificate! Where did you get it, anyway? I never found out." "Passed as 'fresh-water' on the Great Lakes," replied Slade briefly. "Well, the spunk and the certificate finished the captain. He was an old square rigger himself in the Civil War." THE BRASS BOUND CHEST _Being the story told by Ralph Slade, Free Lance, to the officers of the United States cruiser Wolverine_. You've all heard of Dr. Karl Augustus Schermerhorn. He did some big things, and had in mind still bigger. I'd met him some time before in connection with his telepathy and wireless waves theory. It was picturesque stuff for my purpose, but wasn't in it with what the old fellow had really done. He showed me--well, that doesn't matter. The point is, that good, staid, self-centred, or rather science-centred, Dr. Schermerhorn was standing at midnight in a dark alley on the Barbary Coast in San Francisco talking to an individual whose facial outline at least was not ornamental. My curiosity, or professional instinct, whichever you please, was all aroused. I flattened myself against the wall. "I guess you've made no mistake on that. I'm her master, and her owner too." "Well, I haf been told you might rent her," said the Doctor. "Rent her!" mimicked the falsetto. "Well, that--hell, yes, I'll _rent_ her!" he laughed again. "Doch recht." The Doctor was plainly at the end of his practical resources. After waiting a moment for something more definite, the falsetto inquired rather drily: "How long? What to? What for? Who are you, anyway?" "I am Dr. Schermerhorn," the latter answered. "Seen pieces about you in the papers." "How many men haf you in the crew?" "And you could go--soon?" "Soon as you want--_if_ I go." "I wish to leaf to-morrow." "If I can get the crew together, I might make it. But say, let's not hang out here in this run of darkness. Come over to the grog shop yonder where we can sit down." To my relief, for my curiosity was fully aroused--Dr. Schermerhorn's movements are usually productive--this proposal was vetoed. "No, no!" cried the Doctor, with some haste, "this iss well! Somebody might oferhear." The huge figure stirred into an attitude of close attention. After a pause the falsetto asked deliberately: "I brefer not to say." "H'm! How long a cruise?" "I want to rent your schooner and your crew as-long-as I-please-to remain." "H'm! How long's that likely to be?" "Maybe a few months; maybe seferal years." "H'm! Unknown port; unknown cruise. See here, anything crooked in this?" "No, no! Not at all! It iss simply business of my own." "Not that I care," commented the other easily, "only risks is worth paying for." "There shall not be risk." "Now as to pay--how mooch iss your boat worth?" I could almost follow the man's thoughts as he pondered how much he dared ask. "Gosh all fish-hooks! They'd go to hell with you for that!" "I will send some effects in the morning." The master hesitated. "That's all right, Doctor, but how do I know it's all right? Maybe by morning you'll change your mind." "Ach, but yes. I haf forgot. Darrow told me. I will make you a check. Let us go to the table of which you spoke." "Sure!" said he, shoving me my glass of beer. "Know them?" I inquired. "Thanks," I muttered, and dodged out again, leaving the beer untouched. The affair interested me greatly. Apparently Dr. Schermerhorn was about to go on a long voyage. I prided myself on being fairly up to date in regard to the plans of those who interested the public; and the public at that time was vastly interested in Dr. Schermerhorn. I, in common with the rest of the world, had imagined him anchored safely in Philadelphia, immersed in chemical research. Here he bobbed up at the other end of the continent, making shady bargains with obscure shipping captains, and paying a big premium for absolute secrecy. It looked good. I gazed for some time at this marvel. It's unusual enough anywhere, but aboard a California hooker it is little short of miraculous. The crew had all turned up, apparently, and a swarm of stevedores were hustling every sort of provisions, supplies, stock, spars, lines and canvas down into the hold. It was a rush job, and that mate was having his hands full. I didn't wonder at his language nor at his looks, both of which were somewhat mussed up. Then almost at my elbow I heard that shrill falsetto squeal, and turned just in time to see the captain ascend the after gangplank. His actions amused me. The discrepancy between his personal habits and his particularity in the matter of his surroundings was exceedingly interesting. I have often noticed that such discrepancies seem to indicate exceptional characters. As I watched him, his whole frame stiffened. The long gorilla arms contracted, the hairy head sunk forward in the tenseness of a serpent ready to strike. He uttered a shrill falsetto shriek that brought to a standstill every stevedore on the job; and sprang forward to seize his mate by, the shoulder. "How far is it to the side of the ship, you hound of hell?" shrieked the captain. Mumble--surprised--for an answer. Rumble from the mate. "No, by God, you won't call up any of the crew. You'll get a swab and do it yourself. You'll get a _hand_ swab and get down on your knees, damn you! I'll teach you to be lazy!" The mate said something again. The mate stood it pretty well, but there comes a time when further talk is useless even in regard to a most heinous offense. And, of course, as you know, the mate could hardly consider himself very seriously at fault. Why, the ship was not yet at sea, and in all the clutter of charging. He began to answer back. In a moment it was a quarrel. Abruptly it was a fight. The mate marked Selover beneath the left eye. The captain with beautiful simplicity crushed his antagonist in his gorilla-like squeeze, carried him to the side of the vessel, and dropped him limp and beaten to the pier. And the mate was a good stout specimen of a sea-farer, too. "Kin I carry th' box for you, boss?" he asked, at the same time reaching for it. The doctor's thin figure seemed fairly to shrink at the idea. "No, no!" he cried. "It iss not for you to carry!" He hastened up the gangplank, clutching the chest close. At the top Captain Selover met him. "Hello, doctor," he squeaked. "Here in good time. We're busy, you see. Let me carry your chest for you." "No, no!" Dr. Schermerhorn fairly glared. "It's almighty heavy," insisted the captain. "Let me give you a hand." "You must not _touch!_" emphatically ordered the scientist. "Where iss the cabin?" He disappeared down the companionway clasping his precious load. The young man remained on deck to superintend the stowing of the scientific goods and the personal baggage. "You need a mate," said I. "Perhaps," he admitted. "Where's your man?" "Right here," said I. His eyes widened a little. Otherwise he showed no sign of surprise. I cursed my clothes. Fortunately I had my master's certificate with me--I'd passed fresh-water on the Great Lakes--I always carry that sort of document on the chance that it may come handy. It chanced to have a couple of naval endorsements, results of the late war. "Look here," I said before I gave it to him. "You don't believe in me. My clothes are too good. That's all right. They're all I have that are good. I'm broke. I came down here wondering whether I'd better throw myself in the drink." "You look like a dude," he squeaked. "Where did you ever ship?" I handed him my certificate. The endorsements from Admiral Keays and Captain Arnold impressed him. He stared at me again, and a gleam of cunning crept into his eyes. "Nothing crooked about this?" he breathed softly. I had the key to this side of his character. You remember I had overheard the night before his statement of his moral scruples. I said nothing, but looked knowing. "What was it?" he murmured. "Plain desertion, or something worse?" I remained inscrutable. "He won't spit on your decks, anyway," I broke in boldly. Captain Selover's hairy face bristled about the mouth. This I subsequently discovered was symptom of a grin. "You saw that, eh?" he trebled. "Aren't you afraid he'll bring down the police and delay your sailing?" I asked. He grinned again, with a cunning twinkle in his eye. "You needn't worry. There ain't goin' to be any police. He had his advance money, and he won't risk it by tryin' to come back." We came to an agreement. I professed surprise at the wages. The captain guardedly explained that the expedition was secret. "What's our port?" I asked, to test him. "Our papers are made out for Honolulu," he replied. We adjourned to sign articles. "By the way," said I, "I wish you wouldn't make them out in my own name. 'Eagen' will do." "All right," he laughed, "I _sabe_. Eagen it is." "Wish you could help with the lading," said he. "Still, I can get along. Want any advance money?" "No," I replied; then I remembered that I was supposed to be broke. "Yes," I amended. "I'll be here," I assured him. At that time I wore a pointed beard. This I shaved. Also I was accustomed to use eye-glasses. The trouble was merely a slight astigmatism which bothered me only in reading or close inspection. I could get along perfectly well without the glasses, so I discarded them. I had my hair cut rather close. When I had put on sea boots, blue trousers and shirt, a pea jacket and a cap I felt quite safe from the recognition of a man like Dr. Schermerhorn. In fact, as you shall see, I hardly spoke to him during all the voyage out. "Didn't know you," he trebled. "But you look shipshape. Come, I'll show you your quarters." Immediately I discovered what I had suspected before; that on so small a schooner the mate took rank with the men rather than the afterguard. Cabin accommodations were of course very limited. My own lurked in the waist of the ship--a tiny little airless hole. "Here's where Johnson stayed," proffered Selover. "You can bunk here, or you can go in the foc'sle with the men. They's more room there. We'll get under way with the turn of the tide." He left me. I examined the cabin. It was just a trifle larger than its single berth, and the berth was just a trifle larger than myself. My chest would have to be left outside. I strongly suspected that my lungs would have to be left outside also; for the life of me I could not see where the air was to come from. With a mental reservation in favour of investigating the forecastle, I went on deck. "They'd mighty near have a boat apiece," I thought, and went forward. Just outside the forecastle hatch I paused. Someone below was singing in a voice singularly rich in quality. The words and the quaintness of the minor air struck me immensely and have clung to my memory like a burr ever since. "'Are you a man-o'-war or a privateer,' said he. _Blow high, blow low, what care we!_ 'Oh, I am a jolly pirate, and I'm sailing for my fee.' _Down on the coast of the high Barbare-e-e."_ I am going to tell you more of this man, because, as you shall see, he was destined to have much to do with my life, the fate of Dr. Karl Augustus Schermerhorn, and the doom of the _Laughing Lass_. [Illustration: Slowly the man defined himself as a shape takes form in a fog.] Then the grotesque figure in the corner stirred. "Well, mates," said the man, "believe or not believe, it's in the book, and it stands to reason, too. We have gold mines here in Californy and Nevada and all them States; and we hear of gold mines in Mexico and Australia, too, but did you ever hear tell of gold mines in Europe? Tell me that! And where did the gold come from then, before they discovered America? Tell me that! Why they made it, just as the man that wrote this-here says, and you can kiss the Book on that." "How about that place, Ophir, I read about?" asked a voice from the bunks. The man shot a keen glance thither from beneath his brows. "Know last year's output from the mines of Ophir, Thrackles?" he inquired in silky tones. "Why, no," stammered the man addressed as Thrackles. "Well I do," pursued the man with the steel hook, "and it's just the whole of nothing, and you can kiss the Book on that too! There ain't any gold output, because there ain't any mines, and there never have been. They made their gold." "All I know is the pay's good; and that's enough," concluded Thrackles, from a bunk. "The pay's too good," growled Handy Solomon. "This ain't no job to go look at the 'clipse of the moon, or the devil's a preacher!" "W'at you maik heem, den?" queried Perdosa. "It's treasure, of course," said Handy Solomon shortly. "What's the matter with you, Doctor?" demanded Thrackles. A pause ensued. Somebody scratched a match and lit a pipe. "No, I don't see that!" broke out Thrackles finally, with some impatience. "I _sabe_ how a man goes after treasure with a box; but why should he take treasure away in a box? What do you think, Bucko?" he suddenly appealed to me. I looked up from my investigation of the empty berths. "I don't think much about it," I replied, "except that by the look of the stores we're due for more than Honolulu; and from the look of the light we'd better turn to on deck." An embarrassed pause fell. "Who are you, anyway?" bluntly demanded the man with the steel hook. "My name is Eagen," I replied; "I've the berth of mate. Which of these bunks are empty?" "She's at the flood," he squeaked. "And here comes the Lucy Belle." The tug took us in charge and puffed with us down the harbour and through the Golden Gate. We had sweated the canvas on her, even to the flying jib and a huge club topsail she sometimes carried at the main, for the afternoon trades had lost their strength. About midnight we drew up on the Farallones. The lights of shore had sunk; the _Laughing Lass_ staggered and leaped joyously with the glory of the open sea. She seemed alone on the bosom of the ocean; and for the life of me I could not but feel that I was embarked on some desperate adventure. The notion was utterly illogical; that I knew well. In sober thought, I, a reporter, was shadowing a respectable and venerable scientist, who in turn was probably about to investigate at length some little-known deep-sea conditions or phenomena of an unexplored island. But that did not suffice to my imagination. The ship, its surroundings, its equipment, its crew--all read fantastic. So much the better story, I thought, shrugging my shoulders at last. I found him leaning against the taffrail, his languid graceful figure supported by his elbows, his chin propped against his hand. As I approached the binnacle, he raised his eyes and motioned me to him. The insolence of it was so superb that for a moment I was angry enough to ignore him. Then I reflected that I was here, not to stand on my personal dignity, but to get information. I joined him. "You are the mate?" he drawled. "Do you know where you are going?" he inquired at length. "Depends on the moral character of my future actions," I rejoined tartly. He allowed a smile to break and fade, then lighted his cigarette. "Well, to tell you the truth I don't know where we are going," he continued. "Thought you might be able to inform me. Where did this ship and its precious gang of cutthroats come from, anyway?" "I am eaten with curiosity," he stated in the least curious voice in the world. "I suppose you know who his Nibs is?" "How should I know?" I asked. "You should know in the course of intelligent conversation with me," he drawled. "Well, he, good old staid Schermie with the vertebrated thoughts gets kittenish. He says to me, 'Joost imachin, Percy, you are all-alone-on-a-desert-island placed; and that you will sit on those sands and wish within yourself all you would buy to be comfortable. Go out and buy me those things--in abundance.' Those were my directions." "What does he pay you?" he asked. "Enough," I replied. "More than enough, by a good deal, I'll bet," he rejoined. "The old fool! He ought to have left it to me. What is this craft? Have you ever sailed on her before?" "Have any of the crew?" I replied that I believed all of them were Selover's men. He threw the cigarette butt into the sea and turned back. He passed on down the companion. Handy Solomon glared after him, then down at his hook. He bent his arm this way and that, drawing the hook toward him softly, as a cat does her claws. His eyes cleared and a look of admiration crept into them. He remained staring for a moment at the hook. Then he looked up and caught my eye. His own turned quizzical. He shifted his quid and began to hum: "The bos'n laid aloft, aloft laid he, _Blow high, blow low! What care we?_ 'There's a ship upon the wind'ard, a wreck upon the lee,' _Down on the coast of the high Barbare-e-e."_ On deck I talked with Captain Selover. "She's a snug craft," I approached him. "You have armed her well." He muttered something of pirates and the China seas. Captain Selover looked me direct in the eye. "Talk straight, Mr. Eagen," said he. "What is this ship, and where is she bound?" I asked, with equal simplicity. "Well, you see, last season we were pearl fishing." "But you needed only your diver and your crew," I objected. "There was the matter of a Japanese gunboat or so," he explained. "Poaching!" I cried. "Hold on!" I cried. "There was a trouble last year in the Ishigaki Jima Islands where a poacher beat off the _Oyama_. It was a desperate fight." Captain Selover's eye lit up. He planted far apart his thick legs in their soiled blue trousers, pushed back his greasy linen boating hat and stared at me with some amusement. "How do you know I won't blow on Lieutenant or Ensign Ralph Slade, U.S.N., when I get back?" he demanded. I blessed that illusion, anyway. "Besides, I know my man. You won't do anything of the sort." He walked to the rail and spat carefully over the side. "As for the doctor," he went on, "he knows all about it. He told me all about myself, and everything I had ever done from the time I'd licked Buck Jones until last season's little diversion. Then he told me that was why he wanted me to ship for this cruise." The captain eyed me quizzically. I threw out my hands in a comic gesture of surrender. "Well, where are we bound, anyway?" The dirty, unkempt, dishevelled figure stiffened. He turned away to the binnacle. In spite of his personal filth, in spite of the lawless, almost piratical, character of the man, in that moment I could not but admire him. If Percy Darrow was ignorant of the purposes of this expedition, how much more so Captain Selover. Yet he accepted his trust blindly, and as far as I could then see, intended to fulfil it faithfully. I liked him none the worse for snubbing me. It indicated a streak in his moral nature akin to and quite as curious as his excessive neatness regarding his immediate surroundings. We were all below. The captain himself had the wheel. Discipline, while strict, was not conventional. "Why not?" demanded Pulz, breaking his silence. "Ain't you got a reason, Doctor?" asked Handy Solomon. Nobody said anything for some time; nobody stirred, except that Handy Solomon, his steel claw removed from its socket, whittled and tested, screwed and turned, trying to fix the hook so that, in accordance with the advice of Percy Darrow, it would turn either way. "What is it, then, Doctor?" he asked softly at last. While Pulz read, Handy Solomon worked on the alteration of his claw. He could never get it to hold, and I remember as an undertone to Pulz's reading, the rumble of strange, exasperated oaths. Whatever the evening's lecture, it always ended with the book on alchemy. These men had no perspective by which to judge such things. They accepted its speculations and theories at their face value. Extremely laughable were the discussions that followed. I often wished the shade of old Duvall could be permitted to see these, his last disciples, spelling out dimly his teachings, mispronouncing his grave utterances, but believing utterly. "Too bad it doesn't work, my amiable pirate," said he. "It would be so handy for fighting--See here," he suddenly continued, pulling some object from his pocket, "here's a pipe; present to me; I don't smoke 'em. Twist her halfway, like that, she comes out. Twist her halfway, like this, she goes in. That's your principle. Give her back to me when you get through." "That's all right," said the young man, smiling full at him. "Now what are you going to fight?" THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE Perdosa protested that he had had nothing to do with it, but Captain Selover, enraged as always when his precious deck was soiled, would not listen. Finally the Mexican grew sulky and turned away as though refusing to hear more. The captain thereupon felled him to the deck, and began brutally to kick him in the face and head. Perdosa writhed and begged, but without avail. The other members of the crew gathered near. After a moment, they began to murmur. Finally Thrackles ventured, most respectfully, to intervene. "You'll kill him, sir," he interposed. "He's had enough." "Had enough, has he?" screeched the captain. "Well, you take what's left." He chased them forward, and he chased them aft, and every time the pins fell, blood followed. Finally they dived like rabbits into the forecastle hatch. Captain Selover leaned down after them. "Now tie yourselves up," he advised, "and then come on deck and clean up after yourselves!" He turned to me. "Mr. Eagen, turn out the crew to clean decks." I descended to the forecastle, followed immediately by Handy Solomon. The latter had taken no part in the affair. We found the men in horrible shape, what with the bruises and cuts, and bleeding freely. "Now you're a nice-looking Sunday school!" observed Handy Soloman, eyeing them sardonically. "Tackel Old Scrubs, will ye? Well, some needs a bale of cotton to fall on 'em afore they learns anything. Enjoyed your little diversions, mates? And w'at do you expect to gain? I asks you that, now. You poor little infants! Ain't you never tackled him afore? Don't remember a little brigatine, name of the _Petrel!_ My eye, but you _are_ a pack of damn fools!" To this he received no reply. The men sullenly assisted each other. Then they went immediately on deck and to work. After this taste of his quality, Captain Selover enjoyed a quiet ship. We made good time, but for a long while nothing happened. Finally the monotony was broken by an incident. "Yes," replied the doctor simply. I could hear a chair overturned. "I can do everything," broke in the doctor. "The possibilities are enormous." "And you can really produce it in quantity?" "I think so; it iss for us to discover." "I found de treasure!" he almost shouted. "I know where he kept!" They leaped at him--Handy Solomon and Pulz--and fairly shook out of him what he thought he knew. He babbled in the forgotten terms of alchemy, dressing modern facts in the garments of mediaeval thought until they were scarcely to be recognised. "And so he say dat he fine him, de Philosopher Stone, and he keep him in dat heavy box we see him carry aboard, and he don' have to make gol' with it--he can make diamon's--_diamon's_--he say it too easy to fill dat box plum full of diamon's." "You drunken Greaser swab!" snarled Handy Solomon. "You misbegotten son of a Yaqui! I'll learn you to step on a seaman's foot, and you can kiss the book on that! I'll cut your heart out and feed it to the sharks!" "Potha!" sneered Perdosa. "You cut heem you finger wid your knife." "I'll kill you sure, you Greaser, as soon as my hands are free!" And some muttered reply from the Mexican. The wind hit us hard, held on a few moments, and moderated to a stiff puff. There followed the rain, so of course I knew it would amount to nothing. I was just stooping to throw the stops off the staysail when I felt myself seized from behind, and forced rapidly toward the side of the ship. Of course I struggled. The Japanese have a little trick to fool a man who catches you around the waist from behind. It is part of the jiu-jitsu taught the Samurai--quite a different proposition from the ordinary "policeman jiu-jitsu." I picked it up from a friend in the nobility. It came in very handy now, and by good luck a roll of the ship helped me. In a moment I stood free, and Perdosa was picking himself out of the scuppers. The expression of astonishment was fairly well done--I will say that for him--but I was prepared for histrionics. "Senor!" he gasped. "Eet is you! _Sacrosanta Maria!_ I thought you was dat Solomon! Pardon me, senor! Pardon! Have I hurt you?" He approached me almost wheedling. I could have laughed at the villain. It was all so transparent. He no more mistook me for Handy Solomon than he felt any real enmity for that person. But being angry, and perhaps a little scared, I beat him to his quarters with a belaying pin. The next morning I approached Captain Selover. "Captain," said I, "I think it my duty to report that there is trouble brewing among the crew." "There always is," he replied, unmoved. "But this is serious. Dr. Schermerhorn came aboard with a chest which the men think holds treasure. The other evening Robinson overheard him tell his assistant that he could easily fill the box with diamonds. Of course, he was merely illustrating the value of some scientific experiment, but Robinson thinks, and has made the others think, that the chest contains something to make diamonds with. I am sure they intend to get hold of it. The affair is coming to a head." Captain Selover listened almost indifferently. Captain Selover grinned. "What did you do?" he asked. "Hazed him to his quarters with a belaying pin." "Well, that's all settled then, isn't it? What more do you want?" "I can take care of myself," he went on. "You ought to take care of yourself. Then there's nothing more to do." "You have a gun, of course?" he inquired. "I forgot to ask." "Well, no wonder you feel sort of lost and hopeless! Here, take this, it'll make a man of you." "Here's a few loose cartridges," said he. "Now go easy. This is no warship, and we ain't got men to experiment on. Lick 'em with your fists or a pin, if you can; and if you do shoot, for God's sake just wing 'em a little. They're awful good lads, but a little restless." I joined the afterguard. "You see?" the doctor was exclaiming. "It iss as I haf said. The island iss there. Everything iss as it should be!" He was quite excited. Percy Darrow, too, was shaken out of his ordinary calm. "The volcano is active," was his only comment, but it explained the ragged cloud. "You say there's a harbour?" inquired Captain Selover. "It should be on the west end," said Dr. Schermerhorn. "Now wouldn't that get you?" he squeaked. "Doctor runs up against a Norwegian bum who tells him about a volcanic island, and gives its bearings. The island ain't on the map at all. Doctor believes it, and makes me lay my course for those bearings. _And here's the island_! So the bum's story was true! I'd like to know what the rest of it was!" His eyes were shining. "Do we anchor or stand off and on?" I asked. Captain Selover turned to grip me by the shoulder. "I have orders from Darrow to get to a good berth, to land, to build shore quarters, and to snug down for a stay of a year at least!" We stared at each other. "Joyous prospect," I muttered. "Hope there's something to do there." When within a mile we put the helm up, and ran for the west end. A bold point we avoided far out, lest there should be outlying ledges. Then we came in sight of a broad beach and pounding surf. I was ordered to take a surf boat and investigate for a landing and an anchorage. The swell was running high. We rowed back and forth, puzzled as to how to get ashore with all the freight it would be necessary to land. The ship would lie well enough, for the only open exposure was broken by a long reef over which we could make out the seas tumbling. But inshore the great waves rolled smoothly, swiftly-then suddenly fell forward as over a ledge, and spread with a roar across the yellow sands. The fresh winds blew the spume back to us. We conversed in shouts. "We can surf the boat," yelled Thrackles, "but we can't land a load." We rowed in. The water was still. A faint ebb and flow whispered against the tiny gravel beach at the end. I noted a practicable way from it to the top of the cliff, and from the cliff down again to the sand beach. Everything was perfect. The water was a beautiful light green, like semi-opaque glass, and from the indistinctness of its depths waved and beckoned, rose and disappeared with indescribable grace and deliberation long feathery sea growths. In a moment the bottom abruptly shallowed. The motion of the boat toward the beach permitted us to catch a hasty glimpse of little fish darting, of big fish turning, of yellow sand and some vivid colour. Then came the grate of gravel and the scraping of the boat's bottom on the beach. We jumped ashore eagerly. I left the men, very reluctant, and ascended a natural trail to a high sloping down over which blew the great Trades. Grass sprung knee-high. A low hill rose at the back. From below the fall of the cliff came the pounding of surf. As there was nothing more to be seen here, I turned above the hollow of our cove, skirted the base of the hill, and so down to the beach. It occupied a wide semicircle where the hills drew back. The flat was dry and grown with thick, coarse grass. A stream emerged from a sort of canon on its landward side. I tasted it, found it sulphurous, and a trifle worse than lukewarm. A little nearer the cliff, however, was a clear, cold spring from the rock, and of this I had a satisfying drink. When I arose from my knees, I made out an animal on the hill crest looking at me, but before I could distinguish its characteristics it had disappeared. I returned along the tide sands. The surf dashed and roared, lifting seaweeds of a blood red, so that in places the water looked pink. Seals innumerable watched me from just outside the breakers. As the waves lifted to a semi-transparence, I could make out others playing, darting back and forth, up and down like disturbed tadpoles, clinging to the wave until the very instant of its fall, then disappearing as though blotted out. The salt smell of seaweed was in my nostrils: I found the place pleasant- With these few and scattered impressions we returned to the ship. It had been warped to a secure anchorage, and snugged down. Dr. Schermerhorn and Darrow were on deck waiting to go ashore. "It's all right," Darrow volunteered to Captain Selover, as he came over the side. "We've found what we want." Their clothes were picked by brush and their boots muddy. Next morning Captain Selover detailed me to especial work. After a mile of this, the bottom ran up nearly to the level of the sides, and we stepped out on the floor of a little valley almost surrounded by more hills. It was an extraordinary place, and since much happened there, I must give you an idea of it. For the hills were utterly precipitous. I suppose a man might have made his way up the various knobs, ledges, and inequalities, but it would have required long study and a careful head. I, myself, later worked my way a short distance, merely to examine the texture of their marvellous colour. CAPTAIN SELOVER LOSES HIS NERVE I was toward the last engaged in screwing on a fixture for the generation of acetelyne gas. Dr. Schermerhorn had turned with enthusiasm to the unpacking of his chemical apparatus. Almost immediately at the close of the freight-carrying, he had appeared, lugging his precious chest, this time suffering the assistance of Darrow, and had camped on the spot. We could not induce him to leave, so we put up a tent for him. Darrow remained with him by way of safety against the men, whose measure, I believe, he had taken. Now that all the work was finished, the doctor put in a sudden appearance. "Percy," said he, "now we will have the defence built." He dragged us with him to the narrow part of the arroyo, just before it rose to the level of the valley. "Here we will build the stockade-defence," he announced. Darrow and I stared at each other blankly. "What for, sir?" inquired the assistant. "I haf come to be undisturbed," announced the doctor, with owl-like, Teutonic gravity, "and I will not be disturbed." Darrow nodded to me and drew his principal aside. They conversed earnestly for several minutes. Then the assistant returned to me. "But," I expostulated, "what's the _use_ of it? Even if the men were dangerous, that would just make them think you _did_ have something to guard." "I know that. Orders," replied Percy Darrow. "I'm not going to have this crew aboard," stated Captain Selover positively, "I'm going to clean her." He himself stayed, however. We rowed in, constructed a hasty fireplace of stones, spread our blankets, and built an unnecessary fire near the beach. "Clean her!" grumbled Thrackles, "my eye!" "I'd rather round the Cape," growled Pulz hopelessly. "You can kiss the Book on it," replied he. "Down by the line in that little swab of a sand island. My eye, but _don't_ I remember! I sweated my liver white." They smoked in silence. "That's a main queer contrivance of the Perfessor's--that stockade-like," ventured Solomon, after a little. "He doesn't want any intrusion," I said. "These scientific experiments are very delicate." "Quite like," he commented non-committally. "I'll just see to your shore quarters," he squeaked. "You empty her." "Of course, sir," said I, "it's the only proper place for you." "I'm glad you think so," he rejoined, apparently relieved. "And anyway," he cried, with a burst of feeling, "I hate the gritty feeling of it under my feet! Solid oak's the only walking for a man." He left me hastily, as though a trifle ashamed. I thought he seemed depressed, even a little furtive, and yet on analysis I could discover nothing definite on which to base such a conclusion. It was rather a feeling of difference from the man I had known. In my fatigue it seemed hardly worth thinking about. The men had rolled themselves in their blankets, tired with the long day. Next morning Captain Selover was ashore early. He had quite recovered his spirits, and offered me a dram of French brandy, which I refused. We worked hard again; again the master returned at night to his vessel, this time without a word to any of us; again the men, drugged by toil, turned in early and slept like the dead. We became entangled in a mesh of days like these, during which things were accomplished, but in which was no space for anything but the tasks imposed upon us. The men for the most part had little to say. "Why don't you kick to the Old Man, then?" sneered Thrackles. The silence that followed, and the sullenness with which Perdosa readdressed himself to his work, was significant enough of Captain Selover's past relations with the men. And how we did clean her! We stripped her of every stitch and sliver until she floated high, an empty hull, even her spars and running rigging ashore. I understood now the crew's grumbling. We literally went at her with a nail brush. When we had quite finished, we had the anchor chain dealt out to us in fathoms, and scraped, pounded and polished that. These were indeed days full of labour. Being busy from morning until night we knew but little of what was about us. We saw the open sea and the waves tumbling over the reef outside. We saw the headlands, and the bow of the bay and the surf with its watching seals and the curve of yellow sands. We saw the sweep of coast and the downs and the strange huts we had built out of departed magnificence. And that was all; that constituted our world. In the evening sometimes we lit a big bonfire, sailor fashion, just at the edge of the beach. There we sat at ease and smoked our pipes in silence, too tired to talk. Even Handy Solomon's song was still. Outside the circle of light were mysterious things--strange wavings of white hands, bendings of figures, callings of voices, rustling of feet. We knew them for the surf and the wind in the grasses: but they were not the less mysterious for that. "He has to clean up after his own feet, he's so dirty," sagely proffered Handy Solomon. And this was true. Handy Solomon was coming in last. Instead of dropping to his place, he straddled the fire, stretching his arms over his head. He let them fall with a sharp exhalation. "'Lay aloft, lay aloft,' the jolly bos'n cried. _Blow high, blow low, what care we!_ 'Look ahead, look astern, look a-windward, look a-lee.' _Down on the coast of the high Barbare-e-e._" "By God, we're _through_!" cried Pulz. "I'd clean forgot it!" "Wonder how the old doctor is getting on?" ventured Thrackles, after a while. "The devil's a preacher! I wonder?" cried Handy Solomon. "Let's make 'em a call," suggested Pulz. I carried the glow of it with me over until next morning, and was therefore somewhat dashed to meet Captain Selover, with clouded brows and an uncertain manner. He quite ignored my greeting. "By God, Eagen," he squeaked, "can you think of anything more to be done?" I straightened my back and laughed. "Haven't you worked us hard enough?" I inquired. "Unless you gild the cabins, I don't see what else there can be to do." Captain Selover stared me over. "And you a naval man!" he marvelled. "Don't you see that the only thing that keeps this crew from gettin' restless is keeping them busy? I've sweat a damn sight more with my brain than you have with your back thinking up things to do. I can't see anything ahead, and then we'll have hell to pay. Oh, they're a sweet lot!" He seemed to read my thoughts, and went on. He would have maundered on, but I seized his arm and led him out of possible hearing of the men. "Not ashore," protested Captain Selover weakly. "Well, they don't know that. For God's sake don't let them see you've lost your nerve this way." He did not even wince at the accusation. "Put up a front." "You can wreck the _Golden Horn_," I suggested. "I don't know whether there's anything left worth salvage; but it'll be something to do." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Good!" he cried, "I never thought of it." "Another thing," said I, "you better give them a day off a week. That can't hurt them and it'll waste just that much more time." "All right," agreed Captain Selover. "Another thing yet. You know I'm not lazy, so it ain't that I'm trying to dodge work. But you'd better lay me off. It'll be so much more for the others." "That's true," said he. That evening I sat apart considerably disturbed. I felt that the ground had dropped away beneath my feet. To be sure, everything was tranquil at present; but now I understood the source of that tranquillity and how soon it must fail. With opportunity would come more scheming, more speculation, more cupidity. How was I to meet it, with none to back me but a scared man, an absorbed man, and an indifferent man? WRECKING OF THE GOLDEN HORN "Hullo, boys," said he, "been busy?" "How are ye, sir?" replied Handy Solomon. "Good Lord, mates, look at that!" "Now I wonder what that might be!" marvelled Thrackles. "Northern lights," hazarded Pulz. "I've seen them almost like that in the Behring Seas." "Northern lights your eye!" sneered Handy Solomon. "You may have seen them in the Behring Seas, but never this far south, and in August, and you can, kiss the Book on that." "What do you think, sir?" Thrackles inquired of the assistant. "Devil's fire," replied Percy Darrow briefly. "The island's a little queer. I've noticed it before." Darrow turned directly to him. "Yes, devil's fire; and devils, too, for all I know; and certainly vampires. Did you ever hear of vampires, Doctor?" "Well, they are women, wonderful, beautiful women. A man on a long voyage would just smack his lips to see them. They have shiny grey eyes, and lips red as raspberries. When you meet them they will talk with you and go home with you. And then when you're asleep they tear a little hole in your neck with their sharp claws, and they suck the blood with their red lips. When they aren't women, they take the shape of big bats like birds." He turned to me with so beautifully casual an air that I wanted to clap him on the back with the joy of it. "Where's Selover?" inquired Darrow. "He stays aboard," I hastened to say. "Wants to keep an eye on the ship." "That's laudable. What have you been doing?" "We've been cleaning ship. Just finished yesterday evening." "We were thinking of wrecking the _Golden Horn_." "Quite right. Well, if you want any help with your engines or anything of the sort, call on me." He arose and began to light his lantern. "I hope as how you're getting on well there above, sir?" ventured Handy Solomon insinuatingly. "Very well, I thank you, my man," replied Percy Darrow drily. "Remember those vampires, Doctor." He swung the lantern and departed without further speech. We followed the spark of it until it disappeared in the arroyo. Behind us bellowed the sea; over against us in the sky was the dull threatening glow of the volcano; about us were mysterious noises of crying birds, barking seals, rustling or rushing winds. I felt the thronging ghosts of all the old world's superstition swirling madly behind us in the eddies that twisted the smoke of our fire. "Jove, boys, how could you guess it _all_ wrong," he wondered. His explanations consumed but a few moments. After they were finished, we adjourned to the fire. Thus we came gradually to a better acquaintance with the doctor's assistant. In many respects he remained always a puzzle, to me. Certainly the men never knew how to take him. He was evidently not only unafraid of them, but genuinely indifferent to them. Yet he displayed a certain interest in their needs and affairs. His practical knowledge was enormous. I think I have told you of the completeness of his arrangements--everything had been foreseen from grindstones to gas nippers. The same quality of concrete speculation showed him what we lacked in our own lives. It was now well along toward spring. The winter had been like summer, and with the exception of a few rains of a week or so, we had enjoyed beautiful skies. The seals had thinned out considerably, but were now returning in vast numbers ready for their annual domestic arrangements. "We've finished, sir," said I. "Will you come ashore and have a look, sir?" I inquired. "I ain't going ashore again," he muttered thickly. "I ain't going ashore again," he repeated obstinately, "and that's all there is to it. It's too much of a strain on any man. Suit yourself. You run them. I shipped as captain of a vessel. I'm no dock walloper. I won't _do_ it--for no man!" I gasped with dismay at the man's complete moral collapse. It seemed incredible. I caught myself wondering whether he would recover tone were he again to put to sea. "My God, man, but you _must_!" I cried at last. "I won't, and that's flat," said he, and turned deliberately on his heel and disappeared in the cabin. THE EMPTY BRANDY BOTTLE We left him, scaled the cliff, and turned up a broad, pleasant valley toward the interior. There the later lava flow had been deflected. All that showed of the original eruption were occasional red outcropping rocks. Soil and grass had overlaid the mineral. Scattered trees were planted throughout the flat. Cacti and semi-tropical bushes mingled with brush on the rounded side hills. A number of brilliant birds fluttered at our approach. Suddenly Handy Solomon, who was in advance, stopped and pointed to the crest of the hill. A file of animals moved along the sky line. "Mutton!" said he, "or the devil's a preacher!" "Sheep!" cried Thrackles. "Where did they come from?" "_Golden Horn_," I suggested. "Remember that wide, empty deck forward? They carried sheep there." The men separated, intending fresh meat. The affair was ridiculous. These sheep had become as wild as deer. Our surrounding party with its silly bared knives could only look after them open-mouthed, as they skipped nimbly between its members. "Get a gun of the Old Man, Mr. Eagen," suggested Pulz, "and we'll have something besides salt horse and fish." We continued. The island was like this as far as we went. When we climbed a ridge, we found ourselves looking down on a spider-web of other valleys and canons of the same nature, all diverging to broad downs and a jump into the sea, all converging to the outworks that guarded the volcano with its canopy of vapour. "A man could climb down there," said he. "Why should he want to?" I demanded sharply. "_Quien sabe_?" shrugged he. [Illustration: "These sheep had become as wild as deer"] The next day we continued our explorations by land, and so for a week after that. I thought it best not to relinquish all authority, so I organised regular expeditions, and ordered their direction. The men did not object. It was all good enough fun to them. The net results were that we found a nesting place of sea birds--too late in the season for eggs; a hot spring near enough camp to be useful; and that was about all. The sheep were the only animals on the island, although there were several sorts of birds. In general, the country was as I have described it--either volcanic or overlaid with fertile earth. In any case it was canon and hill. We soon grew tired of climbing and turned our attention to the sea. Suddenly the place let loose in pandemonium. The most fiendish cries, groans, shrieks, broke out, confusing themselves so thoroughly with their own echoes that the volume of sound was continuous. Heavy splashes shook the water. The boat rocked. The invisible surface was broken into facets. Below us the bottom was clouded with black figures, darting rapidly like a school of minnows beneath a boat. They darkened the coral and the sands and the glistening sea growths just as a cloud temporarily darkens the landscape--only the occultations and brightenings succeeded each other much more swiftly. We stared stupefied, our thinking power blurred by the incessent whirl of motion and noise. Suddenly Thrackles laughed aloud. "Seals!" he shouted through his trumpeted hands. Our eyes were expanding to the twilight. We could make out the arch of the room, its shelves, and hollows, and niches. Lying on them we could discern the seals, hundreds and hundreds of them, all staring at us, all barking and bellowing. As we approached, they scrambled from their elevations, and, diving to the bottom, scurried to the entrance of the cave. The chamber was very lofty. As we rowed cautiously in, it lost nothing of its height, but something in width. It was marvellously , like all the volcanic rocks of this island. In addition some chemical drip had thrown across its vividness long gauzy streamers of white. We rowed in as far as the faintest daylight lasted us. The occasional reverberating _boom_ of the surges seemed as distant as ever. "Perdosa," said I firmly, "put up that knife." "Perdosa," I repeated, "drop that knife." Perdosa hesitated a fraction of an instant. I really think he might have chanced it, but Handy Solomon, who had been watching me closely, growled at him. "Drop it, you fool!" he said. Perdosa let fall the knife. "Now, get at that cable," I commanded, still at white heat. I stood over him until he was well at work, then turned back to set tasks for the other men. Handy Solomon met me halfway. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Eagen," said he, "I want a word with you." "I have nothing to say to you," I snapped, still excited. "It ain't reasonable not to hear a man's say," he advised in his most conciliatory manner, "I'm talking for all of us." He paused a moment, took my silence for consent, and went ahead. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Eagen," said he, "we ain't going to do any more useless work. There ain't no laziness about us, but we ain't going to be busy at nothing. All the camp work and the haulin' and cuttin' and cleanin' and the rest of it, we'll do gladly. But we ain't goin' to pound any more cable, and you can kiss the Book on that." He made a deprecatory gesture. "Put us aboard ship, sir, and let us hear the Old Man give his orders, and you'll find no mutiny in us. But here ashore it's different. Did the Old Man give orders to pound the cable?" "I represent the captain," I stammered. He caught the evasion. "I thought so. Well, if you got any kick on us, please, sir, go get the Old Man. If he says to our face, pound cable, why pound cable it is. Ain't that right, boys?" There was more of the same sort. I had plenty of time to see my dilemma. Either I would have to abandon my attempt to keep the men busy, or I would have to invoke the authority of Captain Selover. To do the latter would be to destroy it. The master had become a stuffed figure, a bogie with which to frighten, an empty bladder that a prick would collapse. With what grace I could muster, I had to give in. "You'll have to have it your own way, I suppose," I snapped. Thrackles grinned, and Pulz started to say something, but Handy Solomon, with a peremptory gesture, and a black scowl, stopped him short. They gave them, grinning broadly. The villain stood looking at me, a sardonic gleam in the back of his eye. Then he gave a little hitch to his red head covering, and sauntered away humming between his teeth. I stood watching him, choked with rage and indecision. The humming broke into words. "Here, you swab," he cried to Thrackles, "and you, Pancho! get some wood, lively! And Pulz, bring us a pail of water. Doctor, let's have duff to celebrate on." The men fell to work with alacrity. The only indisputable fact I could adduce was that I had allowed my authority to slip through my fingers. And adequately to excuse that, I should have to confess that I was a writer and no handler of men. "Going for a little walk, sir?" asked Handy Solomon sweetly. "That's quite right and proper. Nothin' like a little walk to get you fit and right for your bunk." He held close to my elbow. We got just as far as the stockade in the bed of the arroyo. The lights we could make out now across the zenith; but owing to the precipitance of the cliffs, and the rise of the arroyo bed, it was impossible to see more. Handy Solomon felt the defences carefully. "No," I answered gruffly. From that time on I was virtually a prisoner; yet so carefully was my surveillance accomplished that I could place my finger on nothing definite. Someone always accompanied me on my walks; and in the evening I was herded as closely as any cattle. Handy Solomon took the direction of affairs off my hands. You may be sure he set no very heavy tasks. The men cut a little wood, carried up a few pails of water--that was all. I was not permitted to row out to the _Laughing Lass_ without escort. Therefore I never attempted to visit her again. The men were not anxious to do so, their awe of the captain made them only too glad to escape his notice. That empty shell of a past reputation was my only hope. It shielded the arms and ammunition. "Voodoos?" he said. "Of course there are. Don't fool yourself for a minute on that. There are good ones and bad ones. You can tame them if you know how, and they will do anything you want them to." Pulz chuckled in his throat. "You don't believe it?" drawled the assistant turning to him. "Well, it's so. You know that heavy box we are so careful of? Well, that's got a tame voodoo in it." "Doan you! Doan you!" he gasped, shaking the assistant violently back and forth. "Dat he King Voodoo song! Dat call him all de voodoo--all!" He stared wildly about in the darkness as though expecting to see the night thronged. There was a moment of confusion. Eager for any chance I hissed under my breath; "Danger! Look out!" I could not tell whether or not Darrow heard me. He left soon after. The mention of the chest had focussed the men's interest. "Well," Pulz began, "we've been here on this spot o' hell for a long time." "A man can do a lot in that time." "They've been busy." "Wonder what they've done?" There was no answer to this, and the sea lawyer took a new tack. They cried out in prolonged astonishment. "I'm sure I can't tell you," I replied shortly. "Well, it's a pile of money, anyway." Nobody said anything for some time. "Wonder what they've done?" Pulz asked again. "Something that pays big." Thrackles supplied the desired answer. "That's to scare us out," said Handy Solomon, with vast contempt. "That's what makes me sure it _is_ the chest." Pulz muttered some of the jargon of alchemy. "We wouldn't know how to use it," interrupted Pulz. "Philosopher's stone or not, something's up. The old boy took too good care of that box, and he's spending too much money, and he's got hold of too much hell afloat to be doing it for his health." "You know w'at I t'ink?" smiled Perdosa. "He mak' di'mon's. He _say_ dat." "Get him ches'," he muttered. "I see him full--full of di'mon's!" They listened to him with vast respect, and were visibly impressed. So deep was the sense of awe that Handy Solomon unbent enough to whisper to me: Nothing more developed for a long time except a savage fight between Pulz and Perdosa. I hunted sheep, fished, wandered about--always with an escort tired to death before he started. The thought came to me to kill this man and so to escape and make cause with the scientists. My common sense forbade me. I begin to think that common sense is a very foolish faculty indeed. It taught me the obvious--that all this idle, vapouring talk was common enough among men of this class, so common that it would hardly justify a murder, would hardly explain an unwarranted intrusion on those who employed me. How would it look for me to go to them with these words in my mouth: "And who are you?" they could ask. "I am a reporter," would be my only truthful reply. Even Percy Darrow saw the surliness of the men's attitudes, and with his usual good sense divined the cause. "You chaps are getting lazy," said he, "why don't you do something? Where's the captain?" They growled something about there being nothing to do, and explained that the captain preferred to live aboard. "Nothin' to do with a voodoo?" grunted Handy Solomon. Next morning they shook off their lethargy and went seal-hunting. I was practically commanded to attend. This attitude had been growing of late: now it began to take a definite form. "Mr. Eagan, don't you want to go hunting?" or "Mr. Eagen, I guess I'll just go along with you to stretch my legs," had given way to, "We're going fishing: you'd better come along." I had known for a long time that I had lost any real control of them; and that perhaps humiliated me a little. However, my inexperience at handling such men, and the anomalous character of my position to some extent consoled me. In the filaments brushed across the face of my understanding I could discover none so strong as to support an overt act on my part. I cannot doubt, that had the affair come to a focus, I should have warned the scientists even at the risk of my life. In fact, as I shall have occasion to show you, I did my best. But at the moment, in all policy I could see my way to little besides acquiescence. Later Handy Solomon approached me on another diplomatic errand. "The seals is getting shy, sir," said he. "The only way to do is to shoot them," said he. "Quite like," I agreed. "We've got no cartridges," he insinuated. "And you've taken charge of my rifle," I pointed out. "Oh, not a bit, sir," he cried. "Thrackles, he just took it to clean it--you can have it whenever you want it, sir." "I have no cartridges--as you have observed," said I. "There's plenty aboard," he suggested. "And they're in very good hands there," said I. He ruminated a moment, polishing the steel of his hook against the other arm of his shirt. Suddenly he looked up at me with a humorous twinkle. "You're afraid of us!" he accused. I was silent, not knowing just how to meet so direct an attack. "No need to be," he continued. He looked at me shrewdly; then stood off on another tack. He stopped abruptly, spat, and looked at me. I wondered whither this devious diplomacy led us. The man's boldness in so fully arming me was astonishing, and his carelessness in allowing me aboard with Captain Selover astonished me still more. Nevertheless I promised to go for the desired cartridges, fully resolved to make an appeal. "What's to keep him from staying aboard?" cried Thrackles, protesting. "Well, he might," acknowledged Handy Solomon, "and then are we the worse off? You ain't going to make a boat attack against Old Scrubs, are you?" Thrackles hesitated. "Don't you believe none in luck?" asked Handy Solomon. "Aye." "Well, so do I, with w'at that law-crimp used to call joodicious assistance." I rowed out to the _Laughing Lass_ very thoughtful, and a little shaken by the plausible argument. Captain Selover was lying dead drunk across the cabin table. I did my best to waken him, but failed, took a score of cartridges--no more--and departed sadly. Nothing could be gained by staying aboard; every chance might be lost. Besides, an opening to escape in the direction of the laboratory might offer--I, as well as they, believed in luck judiciously assisted. In the ensuing days I learned much of the habits of seals. We sneaked along the cliff tops until over the rookeries; then lay flat on our stomachs and peered cautiously down on our quarry. The seals had become very wary. A slight jar, the fall of a pebble, sometimes even sounds unnoticed by ourselves, were enough to send them into the water. There they lined up just outside the surf, their sleek heads glossy with the wet, their calm, soft eyes fixed unblinkingly on us. When, however, we succeeded in gaining an advantageous position, it was necessary to shoot with extreme accuracy. A bullet directly through the back of the head would kill cleanly. A hit anywhere else was practically useless, for even in death the animals seemed to retain enough blind instinctive vitality to flop them into the water. There they were lost. I learned curious facts about seals in those days. The hunting did not appeal to me particularly, because it seemed to me useless to kill so large an animal for so small a spoil. Still, it was a means to my all-absorbing end, and I confess that the stalking, the lying belly down on the sun-warmed grass over the surge and under the clear sky, was extremely pleasant. While awaiting the return of the big bull often we had opportunity to watch the others at their daily affairs, and even the unresponsive Thrackles was struck with their almost human intelligence. Did you know that seals kiss each other, and weep tears when grieved? The men often discussed among themselves the narrow, dry cave. There the animals were practically penned in. They agreed that a great killing could be made there, but the impossibility of distinguishing between the bulls and the cows deterred them. The cave was quite dark. Immerced in our own affairs thus, the days, weeks, and months went by. Events had slipped beyond my control. I had embarked on a journalistic enterprise, and now that purpose was entirely out of my reach. Up the valley Dr. Schermerhorn and his assistant were engaged in some experiment of whose very nature I was still ignorant. Also I was likely to remain so. The precautions taken against interference by the men were equally effective against me. As if that were not enough, any move of investigation on my part would be radically misinterpreted, and to my own danger, by the men. I might as well have been in London. We were to hunt seals, and fish, and pry bivalves from the rocks at low tide, and build fires, and talk, and alternate between suspicion and security, between the danger of sedition and the insanity of men without defined purpose, world without end forever. "OLD SCRUBS" COMES ASHORE "How many of these damn things we got?" he inquired. "Well, we've got enough for me. I'm sick of this job. It stinks." "It ain't such a hell of a fortune," growled Pulz, his evil little white face thrust forward. "There's other things worth all the seal trimmin's of the islands." "You've hit it, Doctor," cut in Solomon. There we were again, back to the old difficulty, only worse. Idleness descended on us again. We grew touchy on little things, as a misplaced plate, a shortage of firewood, too deep a draught at the nearly empty bucket. The noise of bickering became as constant as the noise of the surf. If we valued peace, we kept our mouths shut. The way a man spat, or ate, or slept, or even breathed became a cause of irritation to every other member of the company. We stood the outrage as long as we could; then we objected in a wild and ridiculous explosion which communicated its heat to the object of our wrath. Then there was a fight. It needed only liquor to complete the deplorable state of affairs. I did not sleep at all. The moon had risen, had mounted the heavens, and now was sailing overhead. By the fretwork of its radiance through the chinks of our rudely-built cabin I had marked off the hours. A thunderstorm rumbled and flashed, hull down over the horizon. It was many miles distant, and yet I do not doubt that its electrical influence had dried the moisture of our equanimity, leaving us rattling husks for the winds of destiny to play upon. Certainly I can remember no other time, in a rather wide experience, when I have felt myself more on edge, more choked with the restless, purposeless nervous energy that leaves a man's tongue parched and his eyes staring. And still that infernal cricket, or whatever it was, chirped. I had thought myself alone in my vigil, but when finally I could stand it no longer, and kicked aside my covering with an oath of protest, I was surprised to hear it echoed from all about me. "Damn that cricket!" I cried. Handy Solomon finally shook himself and arose. "I'm sick of this," said he, "I'm goin' seal-hunting." "There's seal in there," cried Handy Solomon, "lots of 'em!" As it was again high tide, we rowed in to the steep shore inside the cave's mouth and beached the boat. The place was full of seals; we could hear them bellowing. "They'll run over us," screamed Pulz. "No, they won't. You can dodge up the sides when they go by." This was indeed well possible, so we gripped our clubs and ventured into the darkness. Now Thrackles approached and screamed himself black trying to impart some plan. He failed; but stooped and picked up a stone and threw it into the mass of seals. The others understood. A shower of stones followed. The animals milled like cattle, bellowed the louder, but would not face their tormentors. Finally an old cow flopped by in a panic. I thought they would have let her go, but she died a little beyond the bull. No more followed, although the men threw stones as fast and hard as they were able. Their faces were livid with anger, like that of an evil-tempered man with an obstinate horse. Suddenly Handy Solomon put his head down, and with a roar distinctly audible even above the din that filled the cave, charged directly into the herd. I saw the beasts cringe before him; I saw his club rising and falling indiscriminately; and then the whole back of the cave seemed to rise and come at us. The seals were now cowed and defenceless. It was a slaughter, and the most debauching and brutal I have ever known. I had hit out with the rest when it had been a question of defence, but from this I turned aside in a sick loathing. The men seemed possessed of devils, and of their unnatural energy. Perdosa cast aside the club and took to his natural weapon, the knife. I can see him yet rolling over and over embracing a big cow, his head jammed in an ecstasy of ferocity between the animal's front flippers, his legs clasped to hold her body, only his right arm rising and falling as he plunged his knife again and again. She struggled, turning him over and under, wept great tears, and fairly whined with terror and pain. Finally she was still, and Perdosa staggered to his feet, only to stare about him drunkenly for a moment before throwing himself with a screech on another victim. "Someone else turn," he growled, "I cook aboard ship." "I cut heem de wood!" he said, "I do my share; eef I cut heem de wood you mus' cook heem de grub!" "Eef you no cook heem de grub, you no hab my wood!" he shrieked, with enough oaths to sink his soul. Finally Pulz interfered. "Here you damn foreigners," said he, "quit it! Let up, I say! We got to eat. You let that wood alone, or you'll pick it up again!" But Thrackles interfered sharply. "Come off!" he commanded. "None o' that!" A great rage fell on them all, blind and terrible, like that leading to the slaughter of the seals. They fought indiscriminately, hitting at each other with fists and knives. It was difficult to tell who was against whom. The sound of heavy breathing, dull blows, the tear of cloth; and grunts of punishment received; the swirl of the sand, the heave of struggling bodies, all riveted my attention, so that I did not see Captain Ezra Selover until he stood almost at my elbow. "Stop!" he shrieked in his high, falsetto voice. The change in his eyes had crept into his features. They had turned foolishly amiable, vacant, confiding. "'llo boys," said he appealingly, "you good fellowsh, ain't you? Have a drink. 'S good stuff. Good ol' bottl'," he lurched, caught himself, and advanced toward them, still with the empty smile. "By God, he's drunk!" Handy Solomon breathed, scarcely louder than a whisper. I had plenty of time to run away. I do not know why I did not do so; but the fact stands that I remained where I was until they had finished Captain Selover. Then I took to my heels, but was soon cornered. I drew my revolver, remembered that I had emptied it in the seal cave--and had time for no more coherent mental processes. A smothering weight flung itself on me, against which I struggled as hard as I could, shrinking in anticipation from the thirsty plunge of the knives. However, though the weight increased until further struggle was impossible, I was not harmed, and in a few moments found myself, wrists and ankles tied, beside a roaring fire. While I collected myself I heard the grate of a boat being shoved off from the cove, and a few moments later made out lights aboard the _Laughing Lass_. Their evil passions were all awake, and the plan, so long indefinite, developed like a photographer's plate. "And now the diamonds," muttered Pulz. "There's a ship upon the windward, a wreck upon the lee, _Down on the coast of the high Barbare-e-e_," roared Handy Solomon. "Damn it all, boys, it's the best night's work we ever did. The stuff's ours. Then it's me for a big stone house in Frisco O!" "Frisco, hell," sneered Pulz, "that's all you know. You ought to travel. Paris for me and a little gal to learn the language from." Thrackles was for a ship and the China trade. "Dam' fool," muttered Handy Solomon. "Well, here's to crime!" He drank a deep cup of the raw rum, and staggered back to his seat on the sands. "'I am not a man-o'-war, nor a privateer,' said he. _Blow high, blow low! What care we_! 'But I am a jolly pirate and I'm sailing for my fee,' _Down on the coast of the high Barbare-e-e_." he sang. "We'll land in Valparaiso and we'll go every man his way; and we'll sink the old _Laughing Lass_ so deep the mermaids can't find her." Thrackles piled on more wood and the fire leaped high. "Let's get after 'em,' said he. "To-morrow's jes' 's good," muttered Pulz. "Les' hav' 'nother drink." "We'll stay here 'n see if our ol' frien' Percy don' show up," said Handy Solomon. He threw back his head and roared forth a volume of sound toward the dim stars. "Broadside to broadside the gallant ships did lay, _Blow high, blow low! What care we_? 'Til the jolly man-o'-war shot the pirate's mast away, _Down on the coast of the high Barbare-e-e_." Fortunately I was at the edge of illumination, and behind the group. I turned over on my side so that my back was toward the fire. Then rapidly I cast loose my ankle lashings. Thus I was free, and selecting a moment when universal attention was turned toward the rum barrel, I rolled over a sand dune, got to my hands and knees, and crept away. Through the coarse grass I crept thus, to the very entrance of the arroyo, then rose to my feet. In the middle distance the fire leaped red. Its glow fell intermittently on the surges rolling in. The men staggered or lay prone, either as gigantic silhouettes or as tatterdemalions painted by the light. The keg stood solid and substantial, the hub about which reeled the orgy. At the edge of the wash I could make out something prone, dim, limp, thrown constantly in new positions of weariness as the water ebbed and flowed beneath it, now an arm thrown out, now cast back, as though Old Scrubs slept feverishly. The drunkards were getting noisy. Handy Solomon still reeled off the verses of, his song. The others joined in, frightfully off the key; or punctuated the performance by wild staccato yells. bellowed Handy Solomon. I turned and plunged into the cool darkness of the canon. AN ADVENTURE IN THE NIGHT "My Gawd!" he shivered. "Look! Dar it is again!" He fell to pattering in a tongue unknown to me--charms, spells, undoubtedly, to exorcise the devils that had hold of him. I followed the direction of his gaze, and myself cried out. As abruptly it was broken again by a similar exhibition; only this time the fire was blue. Blue was followed by purple, purple by red. Then ensued the briefest possible pause, in which a figure moved across the bars of light escaping through the chinks of the laboratory, and then the whole valley blazed with patches of vari- fire. It was not a reflection: it was actual physical conflagration of the solid rock, in irregular areas. Some of the fire shapes were most fantastic. And with the unexpectedness of a bursting shell the surface of the ground before our feet crackled into a ghastly blue flame. The sailor had me foul. I did my best to twist around, to unbutton the collar, but in vain. I felt my wind leaving me, the ghastly blue light was shot with red. Distinctly I heard the man's sharp intaken breath as some new phenomenon met his eye, and his great oath as he swore. "By the mother of God!" he cried, "it's the devil." Then I was jerked off my feet, and the next I knew I was lying on my back, very wet, on the beach; the day was breaking, and the men, quite sober, were talking vehemently. At the sight I made a desperate attempt to move, but with the effort discovered that I was again bound. My stirring thus called Pulz's attention. Before I could look away he had followed the direction of my gaze. The discussion instantly ceased. They waited in grim silence. I did not know what to do. Percy Darrow, carrying some sort of large book, was walking rapidly toward us. Perdosa had disappeared. Thrackles after an instant came and sat beside me and clapped his big hand over my mouth. It was horrible. "Boys," he shouted cheerfully. "The time's up. We've succeeded. We'll sail just as soon as the Lord'll let us get ready. Rustle the stuff aboard. The doctor'll be down in a short time, and we ought to be loaded by night." The thought made me desperate. I had failed as a leader of these men, and I had been forced to stand by at debauching, cruel, and murderous affairs, but now it is over I thank Heaven the reproach cannot be made against me that at any time I counted the consequences to myself. Thrackles's hand lay heavy across my mouth. I bit it to the bone, and as he involuntarily snatched it away, I rolled over toward the sea. Thrackles leaped upon me and struck me heavily upon the mouth, then sprang for a rifle. I managed to struggle back to the dune, whence I could see. Percy Darrow, with the keenness that always characterised his mental apprehension, had understood enough of my strangled cry. He had not hesitated nor delayed for an explanation, but had turned track and was now running as fast as his long legs would carry him back toward the opening of the ravine. My companions stood watching him, but making no attempt either to shoot or to follow. For a moment I could not understand this, then remembered the disappearance of Perdosa. My heart jumped wildly, for the Mexican had been gone quite long enough to have cut off the assistant's escape. I could not doubt that he would pick off his man at close range as soon as the fugitive should have reached the entrance to the arroyo. A significant indication was that the men did not take the trouble to get nearer, for which manoeuvre they would have had time in plenty, but distributed themselves leisurely for a shooting match. Pulz fired from the knee. The dust this time puffed below. "Thought she'd carry up at that distance," he muttered. The sun had been shining in our faces. I could imagine its blurring effect on the sights. Now abruptly it was blotted out, and a semi-twilight fell. We all looked up, in spite of ourselves. An opaque veil had been drawn quite across the heavens, through which we could not make out even the shape of the sun. It was like a thunder cloud except that its under surface instead of being the usual grey-black was a deep earth-brown. As we looked up, a deep bellow stirred the air, which had fallen quite still, long forks of lightning shot horizontally from the direction of the island's interior, and flashes of dull red were reflected from the canopy of cloud. We stared at each other, our faces whitening. "What kind of hell has broke loose?" muttered Pulz. "Voodoo! Voodoo!" he groaned. "Damn his soul!" cried Handy Solomon, his face livid. He threw his rifle to the beach and danced on it in an ecstasy of rage. "What do we care," growled Thrackles, "he's no good to us. W'at I want to know is, wat's up here, anyhow!" "Didn't you never see a volcano go off, you swab?" snapped Handy Solomon. "Easy with your names, mate. No, I never did. We better get out." "Without the chest?" "S'pose we go up the gulch and get it, then," suggested Thrackles. But at this Handy Solomon drew back in evident terror. "Up that hole of hell?" he objected. "Not I. You an' Pulz go." "Now you let me run this," he commanded; "we got to find out somethin'. It ain't no good to us without we knows--and we want to find out how he's got the rest hid." "I'm goin' out to help him carry her in," announced the seaman. A long pause ensued, in which I watched the deep canopy of red-black thicken overhead. A strange and unearthly light had fallen on the world, and the air was quite still. After a while I heard Handy Solomon and Dr. Schermerhorn join the group. "There you are, Perfessor," cried Handy Solomon, in tones of the greatest heartiness, "I'll put her right there, and she'll be as safe as a babby at home. She's heavy, though." Dr. Schermerhorn laughed a pleased and excited laugh. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was strung high, and guessed that his triumph needed an audience. "You may say so well!" he said. "It iss heafy; and it iss heafy with the world-desire, the great substance than can do efferything. Where iss Percy?" "It'll take a man long time to carry down all your things, Perfessor." "Oh, led them go! The eruption has alretty swallowed them oop. The lava iss by now a foot deep in the valley. Before long it flows here, so we must embark." "But you've lost all them vallyable things, Perfessor," said Handy Solomon. "Now, I call that hard luck." Dr. Schermerhorn snapped his fingers. "I'm a plain seaman, Perfessor, and I suppose I got to believe you; but she's a main small box for all that." "Could a man make diamonds?" asked Pulz abruptly. I could hear the sharp intake of the men's breathing as they hung on the reply. "Then it'll change coal to diamonds?" asked Handy Solomon. "Come along!" said he. All kept looking fearfully toward the arroyo. A dense white steam marked its course. The air was now heavy with portent. Successive explosions, some light, some severe, shook the foundations of the island. Great rocks and boulders bounded down the hills. The flashes of lightning had become more frequent. We moved, exaggerated to each other's vision by the strange light, uncouth and gigantic. "Let's get out of this!" cried Thrackles. The row out to the ship was wet and dangerous. Seismic disturbances were undoubtedly responsible for high pyramidic waves that lifted and fell without onward movement. We fairly tumbled up out of the dory, which we did not hoist on deck, but left at the end of the painter to beat her sides against the ship. "You aren't going to leave him on the island," I cried. "He'll die of starvation." "Look here, you," he snarled, "you'd better just stow your gab. You're lucky to be here yourself, let alone botherin' your thick head about anybody else, and you can kiss the Book on that! Do you know why you ain't with them carrion?" He jerked his thumb toward the beach. "It's because Solomon Anderson's your friend. Thrackles would have killed you in a minute 'count of his bit hand. I got you your chance. Now don't you be a fool, for I ain't goin' to stand between you and them another time. Besides, he won't last long if that volcano keeps at it." He left me. Whatever truth lay in his assumption of friendship, and I doubted there existed much of either truth or friendship in him, I saw the common sense of his advice. I was in no position to dictate a course of action. After the sails were on her we gathered at the starboard rail to watch the shore. There the hills ran into inky blackness, as the horizon sometimes merges into a thunder squall. A dense white steam came from the creek bed within the arroyo. The surges beat on the shore louder than the ordinary, and the foam, even in these day hours, seemed to throw up a faint phosphorescence. Frequent earthquakes oscillated the landscape. We watched, I do not know for what, our eyes straining into the murk of the island. Nobody thought of the chest, which lay on the cabin table aft. I contributed maliciously my bit to their fear. "These volcanic islands sometimes sink entirely," I suggested, "and in that case we'd be carried down by the suction." It was intended merely to increase their uneasiness, but, strangely enough, after a few moments it ended by imposing itself on my own fears. I began to be afraid the island would sink, began to watch for it, began to share the fascinated terror of these men. The suspense after a time became unbearable, for while the portent-whether physical or moral we were too far under its influence to distinguish--grew momentarily, our own souls did not expand in due correspondence. We talked of towing, of kedging out, of going to any extreme, even to small boats. Then just as we were about to move toward some accomplishment, a new phenomenon chained our attention to the shore. Before its scorching the grasses even at the edge of the sea were smoking, and our camp had already burst into flames. We had to shield our faces against the heat, and the wooden railing under our hands was growing warm. Pulz turned an ashy countenance toward us. "My God," he screamed. "What's going to happen when she hits the sea?" "Hell's loose," growled Thrackles. We were clinging hard as the ship reeled. Huge surges were racing in from seaward, growing larger with each successive billow. Handy Solomon raised his head, listened intently, and struck his forehead. "Wind," he screamed at the top of his voice, and jumped for the halliards. We finished just in time. I was turning away after tying the last gasket on the foresail, when the deck up-ended and tipped me headforemost into the starboard scupper. At the same time a smother of salt water blew over the port rail, now far above me, to drench me as thoroughly as though I had fallen overboard. I brushed out my eyes to find the ship smack on her beam ends, and the wind howling by from the sea. I had company enough in the scuppers. Only Handy Solomon clung desperately to the wheel, jamming his weight to port in the hope she might pay up: Thrackles, too, his eye squinted along some bearing of his own, was waiting for her to drag. Presently it became evident that she was doing so, whereupon he drew his knife across our hawser. For an interminable time, as it seemed to me, we lay absolutely motionless. The scene is stamped indelibly on my memory--the bulwarks high above me, the steep, sleek deck, the piratical figure tense at the wheel, the snarling water racing from beneath us, the lurid glow to landward crawling up on us inch by inch like a hungry wild beast. Then almost imperceptibly the brave schooner righted. The strained lines on Handy Solomon's carven features relaxed little by little. Thrackles, staring over the side, let out a mighty roar. "Steerage way," he shouted, and executed an awkward clog dance on the reeling deck. As we made our way from beneath the island, the weight of the wind seemed to lessen. We got the foresail on her, then a standing jib; finally little by little all her ordinary working canvas. Before we knew it, we were bowling along under a stiff breeze, and the island was dropping astern. From a distance it presented a truly imposing sight. The centre shot intermittent blasts of ruddy light; explosions, deadened by distance, still reverberated strongly; the broad canopy of brown-red, split with lightnings, spread out like a huge umbrella. The lurid gloom that had enveloped us in the atmosphere apparently of a nether world had given place to a twilight. Abruptly we passed from it to a sun-kissed, sparkling sea. The breeze blew sweet and strong; the waves ran untortured in their natural long courses. He approached me with a confidence that proclaimed the new leader. A brace of Colt's revolvers swung from his belt, the tatters of his blood-stained garments hung about him. "Well, here we are," he remarked. I nodded, waiting for what he had to disclose. "And lucky for you that you're here at all, say I," he continued. "And now that you're here, w'at are you going to do? That's the question--w'at are you going to do?" He cocked his head sidewise and looked at me speculatively as a cat might look at a rather large mouse. "We been a little rough," he went on after a moment, "and some folks is strait-laced. There might be trouble. And you know a heap too much." "What do you want of me?" I demanded. "If not?" I inquired. He shrugged his shoulders. "I leave it to you." "There's always the sea," I suggested. "And it's deep," he agreed. "Oh, that'll be all right," he cried; "you can have it." If anything was needed to convince me of the man's sinister intentions, this too ready acquiescence would have been enough. I knew him too well. If he had had the slightest intention of permitting me to go free, he would have bargained. I had no time to analyse these various impressions, however, for my attention was almost instantly distracted. From the cabin came the sound of a sharp fall, then a man cried out, and on the heels of it Pulz darted from the cabin, screaming horribly. We were all on deck, and as the little man rushed toward the stern Handy Solomon twisted him deftly from his feet. "My God, mate, what is it?" he cried, as he pinned the sufferer to the deck. But Pulz could not answer. He shivered, stiffened, and lay rigid, his eyes rolled back. "Fits," remarked Thrackles impatiently. The excitement died. Rum was forced between the victim's lips. After a little he recovered, but could tell us nothing of his seizure. "Pancho, here, says he's been a mechanic," said he. "I right well know he's been a housebreaker. So he's got the _sabe_ for the job, and you can kiss the Book on that." Perdosa, with a grin, leaned over the cover from behind and began to pick away at the lock with a long, crooked wire. The others drew close about. I slipped nearer the door, imagining that in their riveted interest I saw my opportunity. To my surprise I caught a glimpse of legs disappearing up the companion. I took stock. Pulz had gone on deck. This surprised me, for I should have thought every man interested enough in the supposed treasure to wish to be present at its uncovering; and it annoyed me still more--the success of my plan demanded a clear deck. However, there was nothing for it now but to trust that Pulz had wished to visit the forecastle, and that I might find the afterworks empty. I paused at the foot of the companion and looked back. A breathlessness of excitement held the pirates in a vise. From above, the hanging lamp threw strong shadows across their faces, bringing out the deep lines, accentuating the dominant passions. With their rags and blood, their unshaven faces, their firearms, their filth, they showed in violent antithesis to the immaculate white of Old Scrubs's cabin, its glittering brass, and its shining leather. I darted up the steps. The contrast of the starry night with the glare of the cabin lamp dazzled my eyes. I stood stock still for a moment, during which the only sounds audible were the singing of the winds through the rigging, the wash of the sea, and the small, sharp click of Perdosa's instrument as he worked at the chest. Presently I could see better. I looked forward and aft for Pulz, but could see nothing of him, and had just about concluded that he had gone forward when I happened to glance aloft. There, to my astonishment, I made him out, huddled in silhouette against the stars, close to the main truck. What he was doing there I could not imagine. However, I did not have time to bother my head about him, further than to rejoice that he could not obstruct me. I should very much have liked to get hold of a rifle and ammunition, or at least to lay in biscuit and water, but for this there was no time. It was not absolutely essential. The dull glow of the island was still visible. I had my pillar of fire and smoke to guide me. Without further delay I jerked loose the painter and drew the extra dory alongside. Almost immediately the rectangle on the roof through which the light made its passage began to splay out, like lighted oil, although the column retained still the integrity of its outline. The fire, if such it could be called, ran with incredible rapidity along the seams between the planks, forward and aft, until the entire deck was sketched like a pyrotechnic display in thin, vivid lines of incandescence. From each of these lines then the fire began again to spread, as though soaking through the planks. "That's all," he said unsteadily. There passed through the group a stir and a murmur. Someone broke into sharp coughing. Chairs, shoved back, grated on the floor. "That's all," repeated Slade, a note of insistence in his voice. "Why don't you say something? Confound you, why don't you say something?" His speech rose husky and cracked. "Don't you believe it?" "Hold on," said the surgeon quietly. "No need to get excited." "Oh, well," muttered the reporter, with a sudden lapse. "Possibly you think I'm romancing. It doesn't matter. I don't suppose I'd believe it myself, in your place." "But we're heading for the island," suggested Forsythe. "That's so," cried Slade. "Well, that's all right. Believe or disbelieve as much as you like. Only get Percy Darrow off that island. Then we'll have his version. There are a few things I want to find out about, myself." "There are several that promise to be fairly interesting," said Forsythe, under his breath. Slade turned to the captain. "Have you any questions to put to me, sir?" he asked formally. The reporter drank the liquor and again turned to Captain Parkinson. "Only about our men," said the commanding officer, after a little thought. Slade shook his head. "I'm sorry I can't help you there, sir." "Dr. Trendon said that you knew nothing about Edwards." "Edwards?" repeated Slade inquiringly. His mind, still absorbed in the events which he had been relating, groped backward. Trendon came to his aid. "Barnett asked you about him, you remember. It was when you recovered consciousness. Our ensign. Took over charge of the _Laughing Lass_." "Oh, of course. I was a little dazed, I fancy." "Pardon me," said the other. "My head doesn't seem to work quite right yet. Just a moment, please." He sat silent, with closed eyes. "You say you picked up the _Laughing Lass_. When?" he asked presently. "Then you put out the fire." The circle closed in on Slade, with an unconscious hitching forward of chairs. He had fixed his eyes on the captain. His mouth worked. Obviously he was under a tensity of endeavour in keeping his faculties set to the problem. The surgeon watched him, frowning. "There was no fire," said the captain. "You landed in the small boat. Knocked you senseless," said Trendon. "Concussion of the brain. Idea of flame might have been a retroactive hallucination." "Retroactive rot," cried the other. "I beg your pardon, Dr. Trendon. But if you'd seen her as I saw her--Barnett!" He turned in appeal to his old acquaintance. "There was no fire, Slade," replied the executive officer gently. "No sign of fire that we could find, except that the starboard rail was blistered." "Oh, that was from the volcano," said Slade. "That was nothing." "It was all there was," returned Barnett. "Just let me run this thing over," said the free lance slowly. "You found the schooner. She wasn't afire. She didn't even seem to have been afire. You put a crew aboard under your ensign, Edwards. Storm separated you from her. You picked her up again deserted. Is that right?" "Day before yesterday morning." "Then," cried the other excitedly, "the fire was smouldering all the time. It broke out and your men took to the water." "Impossible," said Barnett. "Fiddlesticks!" said the more downright surgeon. "I hardly think Mr. Edwards would be driven overboard by a fire which did not even scorch his ship," suggested the captain mildly. "It drove our lot overboard," insisted Slade. "Do you think we were a pack of cowards? I tell you, when that hellish thing broke loose, you had to go. It wasn't fear. It wasn't pain. It was--What's the use. You can't explain a thing like that." "We certainly saw the glow the night Billy Edwards was--disappeared," mused Forsythe. "And again, night before last," said the captain. "What's that!" cried Slade. "Where is the _Laughing Lass_?" "I'd give something pretty to know," said Barnett. "In tow?" said Forsythe. "No, indeed. We hadn't adequate facilities for towing her. Didn't you tell him, Mr. Barnett?" "Where is she, then?" Slade fired the question at them like a crossexaminer. "Why, we shipped another crew under Ives and McGuire that noon. We were parted again, and haven't seen them since." "My orders, Mr. Slade," said Captain Parkinson, with quiet dignity. "Of course, sir. I beg your pardon," returned the other. "But--you say you saw the light again?" He pointed under foot. Captain Parkinson rose and went to his cabin. Slade rose, too, but his knees were unsteady. He tottered, and but for the swift aid of Barnett's arm, would have fallen. "Overdone," said Dr. Trendon, with some irritation. "Cost you something in strength. Foolish performance. Turn in now." Slade tried to protest, but the surgeon would not hear of it, and marched him incontinently to his berth. Returning, Trendon reported, with growls of discontent, that his patient was in a fever. "Couldn't expect anything else," he fumed. "Pack of human interrogation points hounding him all over the place." "What do you think of his story?" asked Forsythe. "Man's telling a straight story." "You think it's all true?" cried Forsythe. "Humph!" grunted the other. "_He thinks it's all true_." An orderly appeared and knocked at the captain's cabin. "Beg pardon, sir," they heard him say. "Mr. Carter would like to know how close in to run. Volcano's acting up pretty bad, sir." Captain Parkinson went on deck, followed by the rest. Feeling the way forward, the cruiser was soon caught in a maze of cross currents. Hither and thither she was borne, a creature bereft of volition. Order followed order like the rattle of quick-fire, and was obeyed with something more than the _Wolverine's_ customary smartness. From the bridge Captain Parkinson himself directed his ship. His face was placid: his bearing steady and confident. This in itself was sufficient earnest that the cruiser was in ticklish case. For it was an axiom of the men who sailed under Parkinson that the calmer that nervous man grew, the more cause was there for nervousness on the part of others. "It's spreading out toward us," said Barnett to his fellow officers, gathered aft. "Time to move, then," grunted Trendon. The others looked at him inquiringly. "About as healthful as prussic acid, those volcanic gases," explained the surgeon. The ship edged on and inward. Presently the sing-song of the leadsman sounded in measured distinctness through the silence. Then a sudden activity and bustle forward, the rattle of chains, and the _Wolverine_ was at anchor. The captain came down from the bridge. "What do you think, Dr. Trendon?" he asked. More explicit inquiry was not necessary. The surgeon understood what was in his superior's mind. "Never can tell about volcanoes, sir," he said. "Of course," agreed the captain. "But--well, do you recognise any of the symptoms?" "Want me to diagnose a case of earthquake, sir?" grinned Trendon. "She might go off to-day, or she might behave herself for a century." "Well, it's all chance," said the other, cheerfully. "The man _might_ be alive. At any rate we must do our best on that theory. What do you make of that cloud on the peak?" "Poisonous vapours, I suppose. Thought we'd have a chance to make sure just now. Seemed to be coming right for us. Wind's shifted it since." "There couldn't be anything alive up there?" "Not so much as a bug," replied the doctor positively. "Yet I thought when the vapour lifted a bit that I saw something moving." "When was that, sir?" "We'll see soon enough, sir," put in Forsythe. "The wind is driving it down to the south'ard." Sullenly, reluctantly, the forbidding mass moved across the headland. All glasses were bent upon it. Without taking his binocular from his eyes, Trendon began to ruminate aloud. "There it is," cried Forsythe. "Look. The highest point." Dull, gray wisps of murk, the afterguard of the gaseous cloud, were twisting and spiraling in a witch-dance across the landscape, and, seen by snatches and glimpses through it, something flapped darkly in the breeze. Suddenly the veil parted and fled. A flag stood forth in the sharp gust, rigid, and appalling. It was black. "The Jolly Roger, by God! They've come back!" exclaimed Forsythe. "And set up the sign of their shop," added Barnett. "If they stuck to their flag--good-bye," observed Trendon grimly. "Dr. Trendon," said Captain Parkinson, "you will arm yourself and go with me in the gig to make a landing." "Yes, sir," responded the surgeon. "Should we be overtaken by the vapour while on the highland and be unable to get back to the beach, you are to send no rescuing party up there until the air has cleared." "Do you understand?" "Dr. Trendon, will you see Mr. Slade and inquire of him the best point for landing?" "I suppose it would hardly do to take him with us?" pursued the commanding officer. "If he is roused now, even for a moment, I won't answer for the consequences, sir," said the surgeon bluntly. "Surely you can have him point out a landing place," said the captain. "On your responsibility," returned the other, obstinately. "He's under opiate now." "Be it so," said Captain Parkinson, after a time. Going in, they saw no sign of life along the shore. Even the birds had deserted it. For the time the volcano seemed to have pretermitted its activity. Now and again there was a spurtle of smoke from the cone, followed by subterranean growlings, but, on the whole, the conditions were reassuring. As they drew in, it became apparent that they must scale the cliff from the boat. Farther to the south opened out a wide cove that suggested easy beaching, but over it hung a cloud of steam. "Lava pouring down," said Trendon. "Furl that flag," he ordered. Congdon, the coxswain of the gig, stepped forward and began to work at the fastenings. Presently he turned a grinning face to the captain, who was scanning the landscape through his glass. "Beggin' your pardon, sir," he said. "Well, what is it?" demanded Captain Parkinson. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, that ain't rightly no flag. That's what you might rightly call a garment, sir. It's an undershirt, beggin' your pardon." "No, sir. It ain't rightly black, look." Wrenching the object from its fastenings, he flapped it violently. A cloud of sooty dust, beaten out, spread about his face. With a strangled cry the sailor cast the shirt from him and rolled in agony upon the ground. "You fool!" cried Trendon. "Stand back, all of you." Opening his medicine case, he bent over the racked sufferer. Presently the man sat up, pale and abashed. "That's how poisonous volcanic gas is," said the surgeon to his commanding officer. "Only inhaled remnants of the dust, too." "An ill outlook for the man we're seeking," the captain mused. "Dead if he's anywhere on this highland," declared Trendon. "Let's look at his flag-pole." He examined the staff. "Came from the beach," he pronounced. "Waterworn. H'm! Maybe he ain't so dead, either." "I don't quite follow you, Dr. Trendon." "Why, I guess our man has figured this thing all out. Brought this pole up from the beach to plant it here. Why? Because this was the best observation point. No good as a permanent residence, though. Planted his flag and went back." "Why didn't we see him on the beach, then?" "Did you notice a cave around to the north? Good refuge in case of fumes." "It's worth trying," said the captain, putting up his glass. "Hold on, sir. What's this? Here's something. Look here." Trendon pointed to a small bit of wood rather neatly carved to the shape of an indicatory finger, and lashed to the staff, at the height of a man's face. The others clustered around. "Oh, the devil!" cried Trendon. "It must have got twisted. It's pointing straight down." "Strange performance," said the captain. "However, since it points that way--heave aside those rocks, men." "Seen something of life, I reckon," said Trendon, as the captain turned the volume about slowly in his hands. "And of death," returned Captain Parkinson solemnly. "Do you know, Trendon, I almost dread to open this." "Pshaw!" returned the other. "What is it to us?" He threw the cover back. Neatly lettered on the inside, in the fine and slightly angular writing characteristic of the Teutonic scholar, was the legend: [Illustration: With a strangled cry the sailor cast the shirt from him] "German!" he cried, in a note of disappointment, "Can you read German script?" "A memorandum for outfitting, probably," suggested the captain. "Try here." "Chemical formulae," said Trendon. "Pages of 'em. The devil! Can't make a thing of it." "Well, here's something in English." "Picric acid? Benzene compounds? Those are high explosives," said Captain Parkinson. "We should have Barnett go over this." "Here's a name under the formula. _Dr. A. Mardenter, Ann Arbor, Mich_. That explains its being in English. Probably copied from a letter." "Don't explain enough," grunted Trendon. "Deserted ship. Billy Edwards. Mysterious lights. Slade and his story. Any explosives in those? Good enough, far as it goes. Don't go far enough." "It certainly leaves gaps," admitted the other. He turned over a few more pages. "Formulas, formulas, formulas. What's this? Here are some marginal annotations." "Unbehasslich," read Trendon. "Let's see. That means 'highly unsatisfactory,' or words to that effect. Hi! Here's where the old man loses his temper. Listen: _'May the devil take Carroll and Crum for careless'_--h'm--well, _'pig-dogs.'_ Now, where do Carroll and Crum come in?" "They're a firm of analytical chemists in Washington," said the captain. "When I was on the ordnance board I used to get their circulars." "Fits in. What? More English? Worse than the German, this is." The captain turned several more pages. They were blank. "At any rate, it seems to be the end," he said. "I should hope so," returned the other, disgustedly. He took the book on his knees, fluttering the leaves between thumb and finger. Suddenly he checked, cast back, and threw the book wide open. "Here beginneth a new chapter," said he, quietly. No imaginable chirography could have struck the eye with more of contrast to the professor's small and nervous hand. Large, rounded, and rambling, it filled the page with few and careless words. "Damn his cigarettes!" cried the surgeon. "This must be Darrow. Finicky beast! Let's see if it's signed." He whirled the leaves over to the last sheet, glanced at it, and sprang to his feet. There, sprawled in tremulous characters, as by a hand shaken with agony or terror, was written: _Look for me in the cave. Percy Darrow._ The bullet hole in the corner furnished a sinister period to the signature. "Wrap that up and carry it carefully," he said. "Aye, aye, sir," said the coxswain, swathing it in his jacket and tucking it under his arm. "Now to find that cave," said Captain Parkinson to the surgeon. "The cave in the cliff, of course," said Trendon. "Noticed it coming in, you know." "On the north shore, about a mile to the east of here." "Then we'll cut directly across." "Beg your pardon, sir," put in Congdon, "but I don't think we can make it from this side, sir." "No beach, sir, and the cliff's like the side of a ship. Looks to be deep water right into the cave's mouth." "Back to the boat, then. Bring that flag along." "Run her in easy," came the captain's order. "Keep a sharp lookout for hidden rocks." "Silence in the boat," said the captain, in such buoyant tones that the men braced themselves against the expected peril. "Light the lantern and pass it to me," came the order. "Keep below the gunwale, men." As the match spluttered: "Do you see something, a few rods to port?" asked the captain in Trendon's ear. "Pair of green lights," said Trendon. "Eyes. _Seals!_" "_Seals! Seals! Seals_!" shouted the walls, for the surgeon had suddenly released his voice. And as the mockery boomed, the green lights disappeared and there was more splashing from the distance. The crew sat up again. "Must have been a swimmer to get in here," commented Trendon, glancing at the walls. "Unless he had a boat," said the captain. "But why doesn't he answer?" "Better try again. No telling how much more there is of this." The surgeon raised his ponderous bellow, and the cave roared again with the summons. Silence, formidable and unbroken, succeeded. "House to house search is now in order," he said. "Must be in here somewhere--unless the seals got him." "Poisonous," he cried. "More volcano," said Trendon. He bent to the black hole and sniffed cautiously. "I'll go in, sir," volunteered Congdon. "I've had fire-practice." "My business," said Trendon, briefly. "Decomposition; unpleasant, but not dangerous." Pushing the lantern before him, he wormed his way until the light was blotted out. Presently it shone forth from the funnel, showing that the explorer had reached the inner open space. Captain Parkinson dropped down and peered in, but the evil odour was too much for him. He retired, gagging and coughing. Trendon was gone for what seemed an interminable time. His superior officer fidgeted uneasily. At last he could stand it no longer. "Dr. Trendon, are you all right?" he shouted. "Yup," answered a choked voice. "Cubbing oud dow." "Phew!" he gasped. "Thought I was tough, but--Phee-ee-ee-ew!" "No, sir. Not Darrow. Only a poor devil of a seal that crawled in there to die." "Would a corpse rise to the surface soon in waters such as these, Dr. Trendon?" asked the captain. "Might, sir. Might not. No telling that." The captain ruminated. Then he beat his fist on his knee. "What other cave?" asked the surgeon. "The cave where they killed the seals." "Surely!" exclaimed Trendon. "Wait, though. Didn't Slade say it was between here and the point?" "Yes. Beyond the small beach." "No cave there," declared the surgeon positively. "There must be. Congdon, did you see an opening anywhere in the cliff as we came along?" "We'll see about that," said the captain, grimly. "Head her about. Skirt the shore as near the breakers as you safely can." The gig retraced its journey. "There's the beach, as Slade described it," said Captain Parkinson, as they came abreast of the little reach of sand. "Bits of wreckage fixed in the sand." "Don't think so, sir. Too well matched." "We have no time to settle the matter now," said the captain impatiently. "We must find that cave, if it is to be found." Hovering just outside the final drag of the surf, under the skilful guidance of Congdon, the boat moved slowly along the line of beach to the line of cliff. All was open as the day. The blazing sun picked out each detail of jut and hollow. Evidently the poisonous vapours from the volcano had not spread their blight here, for the face of the precipice was bright with many flowers. So close in moved the boat that its occupants could even see butterflies fluttering above the bloom. But that which their eager eyes sought was still denied them. No opening offered in that smiling cliff-side. Not by so much as would admit a terrier did the mass of rock and rubble gape. "And Slade described the cave as big enough to ram the _Wolverine_ into," muttered Trendon. Up to the point of the headland, and back, passed the boat. Blank disappointment was the result. "What is your opinion now, Dr. Trendon?" asked the captain of the older man. "Don't know, sir," answered the surgeon hopelessly. "Looks as if the cave might have been a hallucination." "I shall have something to say to Mr. Slade on our return," said the captain crisply. "If the cave was an hallucination, as you suggest, the seal-murder was fiction." "Looks so," agreed the other. "And the murder of the captain. How about that?" "And the mutiny of the men," added the surgeon. "And the killing of the doctor. Your patient seems to be a romantic genius." "And the escape of Darrow. Hold hard," quoth Trendon. "Darrow's no romance. Nothing fictional about the flag and ledger." "True enough," said the captain, and fell to consideration. "Anyway," said Trendon vigorously, "I'd like to have a look at those birdroosts. Mighty like signposts, to my mind." "Very well," said the captain. "It'll cost us only a wetting. Run her in, Congdon." This slab is erected as a memento of admiring esteem by the last of his victims. "And you can kiss the Book on that."_ "Percy Darrow _fecit_," said the surgeon. "You can kiss the Book on _that_, too." "Then Slade was telling the truth!" "Apparently. Seems good corroboration." The captain turned to the other mound. Its slab was carved by the same hand. "Billy Edwards," said the captain, very low. He uncovered. The surgeon did likewise. So, for a space, they stood with bared heads between the twin graves. THE PINWHEEL VOLCANO "Another point," said he. "Darrow was alive within a few days." Captain Parkinson turned slowly away from the grave. "You are right," he said, with an effort. "Our business is with the living now. The dead must wait." "Hide and seek," growled Trendon. "If he's here why don't he show himself?" The other shook his head. "Place is all trampled up with his footprints," said Trendon. "He's plodded back and forth like a prisoner in a cell." "The ledger," said the captain. "I'd forgotten it. That grave drove everything else out of my mind." "Bring the book here," called Trendon. "Mount guard over Mr. Edwards's grave," commanded the captain. The man saluted and moved on. "With your permission, sir," said Trendon. On a nod from his superior officer he opened the ledger and took up Darrow's record. "Not much there," sniffed Trendon. "Go on," said the captain. "The fellow is a tobacco maniac," growled Trendon, feeling in his breast pocket. "The devil," he cried, bringing forth an empty hand. Silently the captain handed him a cigar. "Thank you, sir," he said, lighted it, and continued reading. "Yes," agreed Captain Parkinson. "That was the night Billy Edwards--Go on." "That's all, except the scrawl on the last page," said Trendon. "Some action of the volcano scared him off. He just had time to scrawl that last message and drop the book into the cache. The question is, did he get back alive?" "I doubt it," said the captain. "We will search the headland for his body." "But the cave," insisted the surgeon. "We ought to have found some sign of him there." "Slade is the solution," said the captain. "We must ask him." They put back to the ship. Barnett was anxiously awaiting them. "Your patient has been in a bad way, Dr. Trendon," he said. "What's wrong?" asked Trendon, frowning. "He came up on deck, wild-eyed and staggering. There was a sheet of paper in his hand which seemed to have some bearing on his trouble. When he found you had gone to the island without him he began to rage like a maniac. I had to have him carried down by force. In the rumpus the paper disappeared. I assumed the responsibility of giving him an opiate." "Quite right," approved Trendon. "I'll go down. Will you come with me, sir?" he said to the captain. They found Slade in profound slumber. "Won't do to wake him now," growled Trendon. "Hello, what's here?" Lying in the hollow of the sick man's right hand, where it had been crushed to a ball, was a crumpled mass of tracing paper. Trendon smoothed it out, peered at it and passed it to the captain. "Map of the island," barked Trendon. "Look here." "No guarantee that there may not have been," returned the other. "This island has been considerably shaken up lately. Entrance may have been closed by a landslide down the cliff. Noticed signs myself, but didn't think of it in connection with the cave." "That's work for Barnett, then," said the captain, brightening. "We'll blow up the whole face of the cliff, if necessary, but we'll get at that cave." He hurried out. Order followed order, and soon the gig, with the captain, Trendon, and the torpedo expert, was driving for the point marked "Seal Cave" on the map over which they were bent. "That was the night we saw the last glow, and the big burst from the volcano, wasn't it?" "The island would have been badly shaken up." "Not so violently but that the flag-pole stood," said the captain. "Give the fellow a chance," growled Trendon. "Air may be all right in the cave. Good water there, too. Says so himself. By Slade's account he's a pretty capable citizen when it comes to looking after himself. Wouldn't wonder if we'd find him fit as a fiddle." "There was no clue to Ives and McGuire?" asked Barnett presently. "None." It was the captain who answered. The gig grated, and the tide being high, they waded to the base of the cliff, Barnett carrying his precious explosives aloft in his arms. "Here's the spot," said the captain. "See where the water goes in through those crevices." "Opening at the top, too," said Trendon. He let out his bellow, roaring Darrow's name. "I doubt if you could project your voice far into a cave thus blocked," said Captain Parkinson. "We'll try this." He drew his revolver and fired. The men listened at the crevices of the rock. No sound came from within. "Your enterprise, Mr. Barnett," said the commander, with a gesture which turned over the conduct of the affair to the torpedo expert. Barnett examined the rocks with enthusiasm. "Looks like moderately easy stuff," he observed. "See how the veins run. You could almost blow a design to order in that." "Yes; but how about bringing down the whole cave?" "Oh, of course there's always an element of uncertainty when you're dealing with high explosives," admitted the expert. "But unless I'm mistaken, we can chop this out as neat as with an axe." Dropping his load of cartridges carelessly upon a flat rock which projected from the water, he busied himself in a search along the face of the cliff. Presently, with an "Ah," of satisfaction, he climbed toward a hand's breadth of platform where grew a patch of purple flowers. "Throw me up a knife, somebody," he called. "Take notice," said Trendon, good-naturedly, "that I'm the botanist of this expedition." "Oh, you can have the flowers. All I want is what they grow in." "How is that, Mr. Barnett?" asked the captain, with lively interest. "You see, sir," returned the demonstrator, perched high, like a sculptor at work on some heroic masterpiece, "what we want is to split off this rock." He patted the flank of the huge slab. "There's a lovely vein running at an angle inward from where I sit. Split that through, and the rock should roll, of its own weight, away from the entrance. It's held only by the upper projection that runs under the arch here." "Neat programme," commented Trendon, with a tinge of sardonic scepticism. The surgeon recoiled. "Supposing you don't catch it?" "Well, supposing I don't." "It's dynamite, isn't it?" "Something of the same nature. Joveite, it's called." Still the surgeon stared at him. Barnett laughed. "Oh, you've got the high explosives superstition," he said lightly. "Dynamite don't go off as easy as people think. You could drop that stuff from the cliffhead without danger. Have I got to come down for it?" With a wry face Trendon tossed up the package. It was deftly caught. Breaking the package open, he spread the yellow powder in a slightly curving line along the rock. With the mud he capped this over, forming a little arched roof. "To keep it from blowing away," surmised Trendon. "No; to make it blow down instead of blowing up." "Oh, rot!" returned the downright surgeon. "That pound of dirt won't make the shadow of a feather's difference." "Won't it!" retorted the other. "Curious thing about high explosives. A mud-cap will hold down the force as well as a ton of rock. Wait and see what happens to the rock beneath." "Here," said Trendon, "I resign. From now on I'm a spectator." Barnett swung the fulminate in his handkerchief and gave it to a sailor to hold. The man dandled it like a new-born infant. Back to his rock went Barnett. Producing some cord, he let down an end. "Tie the handkerchief on, and get out of the way," he directed. "Will you kindly order the boat ready, Captain Parkinson?" he called. The order was given. He touched a match to the fuse. It caught. For a moment he watched it. "Going all right," he reported, as he struck the water. "Plenty of time." "It's out," grunted Trendon. From the face of the cliff puffed a cloud of dust. A thudding report boomed over the water. Just a wisp of whitish-grey smoke arose, and beneath it the great rock, with a gapping seam across its top, rolled majestically outward, sending a shower of spray on all sides, and opening to their eager view a black chasm into the heart of the headland. The experiment had worked out with the accuracy of a geometric problem. "That's all, sir," Barnett reported officially. "Magic! Modern magic!" said the captain. He stared at the open door. For the moment the object of the undertaking was forgotten in the wonder of its exact accomplishment. "Darrow'll think an earthquake's come after him," remarked Trendon. "Give way," ordered the captain. The boat grated on the sand. Captain Parkinson would have entered, but Barnett restrained him. [Illustration: "Sorry not to have met you at the door," he said courteously.] "There's fire inside," he said. In a moment they all saw it, a single, pin-point glow, far back in the blackness, a Cyclopean eye, that swayed as it approached. Alternately it waned and brightened. Suddenly it illuminated the dim lineaments of a face. The face neared them. It joined itself to reality by a very solid pair of shoulders, and a man sauntered into the twilit mouth of the cavern, removed a cigarette from his lips, and gave them greeting. "Sorry not to have met you at the door," he said, courteously. "It was you that knocked, was it not? Yes? It roused me from my siesta." They stared at him in silence. He blinked in the light, with unaccustomed eyes. They noticed that he held a revolver in his hand. "I am Captain Parkinson of the United States cruiser _Wolverine_," said the commander. "This is Mr. Barnett, Mr. Darrow. Dr. Trendon, Mr. Darrow." They shook hands all around. "Like some damned silly afternoon tea," Trendon said later, in retailing it to the mess. A pause followed. "Won't you step in, gentlemen?" said Darrow, "May I offer you the makings of a cigarette?" "Wouldn't you be robbing yourself?" inquired the captain, with a twinkle. "Oh, you found the diary, then," said Darrow easily. "Rather silly of me to complain so. But really, in conditions like these, tobacco becomes a serious problem." "Can you give me any news of my friend Thrackles?" asked Darrow lightly. "Or the esteemed Pulz? Or the scholarly and urbane Robinson of Ethiopian extraction?" "Dead," said the captain. "Ah, a pity," said the other. He put his hand to his forehead. "I had thought it probable." His face twitched. "Dead? Very good. In fact really er amusing." He began to laugh, quite to himself. It was not a pleasant laugh to hear. Trendon caught and shook him by the shoulder. Darrow seemed not to hear him. "Dead, all dead!" he repeated. "And I've outlasted 'em! God damn 'em, I've outlasted 'em!" And his mirth broke forth in a strangely shocking spasm. Trendon lifted a hand and struck him so powerfully between the shoulder blades that he all but plunged forward on his face. "Quit it!" he ordered again. "Get hold of yourself!" Darrow turned and gripped him. The surgeon winced with the pain of his grasp. "I can't," gasped the maroon, between paroxysms. "I've been living in hell. A black, shaking, shivering hell, for God knows how long What do you know? Have you ever been buried alive?" And again the agony of laughter shook him. "This, then," muttered the doctor, and the hypodermic needle shot home. During the return Darrow lay like a log in the bottom of the gig. The opiate had done its work. Consciousness was mercifully dead within him. "I hope you've been able to make yourself comfortable," said the commander, courteously. "It would be strange indeed if I could not," returned Darrow, smiling. "You forget that you have set a savage down in the midst of luxury." "Make yourself free of Ives's things," invited Captain Parkinson. "Poor fellow; he will not use them again, I fear." "No; but we have to thank you for that burial," said the captain. Darrow made a swift gesture. "Oh, if thanks are going," he cried, and paused in hopelessness of adequate expression. "This has been a bitter cruise for us," continued the captain. He sighed and was silent for a moment. "There is much to tell and to be told," he resumed. "Much," agreed the other, gravely. The captain stared. "Slade," he said. "Ralph Slade." "Apparently there's a missing link. Or--I fear I was not wholly myself yesterday for a time. Possibly something occurred that I did not quite take in." "If you don't mind," said Darrow composedly, "I'd like to get at this thing now. I'm in excellent understanding, I assure you." "Very well. I am speaking of the man who acted as mate in the _Laughing Lass_. The journalist who--good heavens! What arrant stupidity! I have to beg your pardon, Mr. Darrow. It has just occurred to me. He called himself Eagen with you." "Eagen! What is this? Is Eagen alive?" "And on this ship. We picked him up in an open boat." "And you say he calls himself Slade?" "He is Ralph Slade, adventurer and journalist. Mr. Barnett knows him and vouches for him." "And he was on our island under an assumed name," said Darrow in tones that had the smoothness and the rasp of silk. "Rather annoying. Not good form, quite, even for a pirate." "Yet, I believe he saved your life," suggested the captain. Darrow got to his feet. "I think I'd like to see Eagen--Slade--whatever he calls himself." Darrow drew back a little, misinterpreting the other's attitude. "Do I understand that I am under restraint?" he asked stiffly. "Certainly not. Why should you be?" "You'll find my story highly unsatisfactory in detail, I fancy. I merely want to know whether I'm to present it as a defence, or only an explanation." "We shall be glad to hear your story when you are ready to tell it--after you have seen Mr. Slade." "Thank you," said Darrow simply. "You have heard his?" "Yes. It needs filling in." "When may I see him?" "That's for Dr. Trendon to say. He came to us almost dead. I'll find out." The surgeon reported Slade much better, but all a-quiver with excitement. "Hate to put the strain on him," said he. "But he'll be in a fever till he gets this thing off his mind. Send Mr. Darrow to him." "Ah," said Darrow, unmoved. "I'm to be neither defendant nor prosecutor." No little cynicism lurked in Darrow's tones as he said: "You have confidence in Mr. Slade, alias Eagen." "Yes," replied Captain Parkinson, in a tone that closed that topic. "Still, I should be glad to have you gentlemen present, if only for a moment," insisted Darrow, presently. "Perhaps it would be as well--on account of the patient," said the surgeon significantly. "Very well," assented the captain. "Here's your prize, Slade," said the surgeon. Darrow halted, just inside the door. With an eager light in his face Slade leaned forward and stretched out his hand. "I couldn't believe it until I saw you, old man," he cried. Darrow's eyebrows went up. Before Slade had time to note that there was no response to his outstretched hand, the surgeon had jumped in and pushed him roughly back upon his pillow. "What did you promise?" he growled. "You were to lie still, weren't you? And you'll do it, or out we go." "How are you, Eagen?" drawled Darrow. "Not Eagen. I'm done with that. They've told you, haven't they?" Darrow nodded. "Are you the only survivor?" he inquired. "Not the captain. They murdered him." "Ah," said Darrow softly. "And you--I beg your pardon--your--er--friends disposed of the doctor in the same way?" "Handy Solomon," replied Slade with shaking lips. "Hell's got that fiend, if there's a hell for human fiends. They threw the doctor's body in the surf." "You didn't notice whether there were any papers?" "If there were they must have been destroyed with the body when the lava poured down the valley into the sea." "The lava: of course," assented Darrow, with elaborate nonchalance. "Well, he was a kind old boy. A cheerful, simple, wise old child." Dr. Trendon arose, and Captain Parkinson with him. At the end of an hour he returned. Slade was lying back on his pillow. Darrow was talking, eagerly, confidentially. In another hour he came out. "The whole thing is clear," he said to Captain Parkinson. "I am ready to report to you." "This evening," said the captain. "The mess will want to hear." "Yes, they will want to hear," assented Darrow. "You've had Slade's story. I'll take it up where he left off, and he'll check me. Mine's as incredible as--as Slade's was. And it's as true." THE MAKER OF MARVELS As they had gathered to hear Ralph Slade's tale, so now the depleted mess of the _Wolverine_ grouped themselves for Percy Darrow's sequel. Slade himself sat directly across from the doctor's assistant. Before him lay a paper covered with jotted notes. Trendon slouched low in the chair on Slade's right. Captain Parkinson had the other side. Convenient to Darrow's hand lay the material for cigarettes. As he talked he rolled cylinder after cylinder, and between sentences consumed them in long, satisfying puffs. "Interrupt me when any point needs clearing up," he said. "It's a blind trail at best. You've the right to see it as plain as I can make it--with Slade's help. Cut right in with your questions: There'll be plenty to answer and some never will be answered "Surprising enough, from the survivor's viewpoint," said Slade. "They volunteered, sir," said the Captain, with simple pride. His cigarette glowed fiercely in the dimness before he took up his tale again. "They were not, indeed," corroborated Barnett. "'Pitchblende; no!' he would exclaim. 'It has not the great power. The mines are not deep enough, yet!' "Then suddenly the great idea that was to bring him success, and cost him his life, came to him. The bowels of the earth must hold the secret! He took up volcanoes Does all this sound foolish? It was not if you knew the man. He was a mighty enthusiast, a born martyr. Not cold-blooded, like the rest of us. The fire was in his veins A light, please. Thank you. "'That iss for which we haf so-long-in-vain sought, Percy,' he said to me in his quaint, link-chain style of speech. 'A leedle prifate volcanolaboratory to ourselves to have. Totally unknown: undescribed, not-on-thechart-to-be-found. To-morrow we start. I make a list of the things-toget.' "Meantime, the volcano also became--well, what you might call temperamental. "'And about time, sir,' said I. 'If we don't do something soon we may have trouble with the men.' "'So?' said he in surprise. 'But they could do nothing. Nothing.' He wagged his great head confidently. 'We are armed.' "'Oh, yes, armed. So are they.' "'We are armed,' he repeated obstinately. 'Such as no man was ever armed, are we armed.' "He checked himself abruptly and walked away. Well, I've since wondered what would have happened had the men attacked us. It would have been worth seeing, and--and surprising. Yes: I'm quite certain it would have been surprising. Perhaps, too, I might have learned more of the Great Secret and yet, I don't know. It's all dark a hint here theory mere glints of light Where did I put Ah, thank you." For some moments Darrow sat gazing fixedly at the table before him. His cigarette tip glowed and failed. Someone suggested drinks. The captain asked Darrow what he would have, but the question went unnoted. "'It should shut and open softly, gently,' explained the Professor. 'So. Not with-a-grating-sound-to-be-accompanied,' he added, with his curious effect of linked phraseology. "'So, Percy, my boy,' said the doctor kindly. 'That will with-sufficientsafety guard our treasure. When we obtain it, Percy. When it entirelyfinished-and-completed shall be.' "'And when will that be?' I asked. "'God knows,' he said cheerfully. 'It progresses.' "'I do not understand. It is a not-to-be-comprehended accident.' It appears that he didn't quite know why he had taken to the water. Or if he did, he didn't want to tell. "Next day he was as good as new. Just as silent as before, but it was a smiling, satisfied silence. So it went for weeks, for months, with the accesses of depression and anger always rarer. Then came an afternoon when, returning from a stalk after sheep, I heard strange and shocking noises from the laboratory. Strict as was the embargo which kept me outside the door, I burst in, only to be seized in a suffocating grip. Of a sudden I realised that I was being embraced. The doctor flourished a hand above my head and jigged with ponderous steps. The dismal noises continued to emanate from his mouth. He was singing. I wish I could give you a notion of the amazement, the paralysing wonder with which No, you did not know Dr. Schermerhorn: you would not understand "'Percy, you shall be rewarded,' he said. 'You haf like-a-trump-card stuck by me. You shall haf riches, gold, what you will. You are young; your blood runs red. With such riches nothing is beyond you. You could the ancient-tombs-of-Egypt explore. It is open to you such collections-ashave-never-been-gathered to make. What shall it be? Scarabs? Missals? Prehistoric implements? Amuse yourself, _mein kind_. We shall be able thebills-with-usurious-interest to pay. What will you haf?' "I said I'd like a vacation, if convenient. "'Presently,' he replied. 'There yet remains the guardianship to be perfected. Then to-a-world-astonished-and-respectful we return. To-night we celebrate. I play you a rubber of pinochle.' "Such indifference as the doctor displayed toward the volcano I have never known. If I ventured to warn him he would assure me that there was no cause for alarm. I think he regarded that little hell's kitchen as merely a feed-spout for his vast enterprise. He felt a sort of affection toward it; he was tolerant of its petty fits of temper. That he completed his work before the destruction came was sheer luck. Nothing else. The day before the outburst he came to me with a tiny phial of complicated design. "'Percy, I will at-a-reasonable-price sell this to you,' he said. "'How much?' I inquired, responding to his playfulness. "'I haven't that amount with me,' I began. "'My I. O. U.?' I inquired. "'It makes no matter. See. I will gif it to you gratis.' "He handed me the metal contrivance. It was closed. Feeling in his upper waistcoat pocket, Darrow brought out a phial, so tiny that it rolled in the palm of his hand. He contemplated it, lost in thought. "Radium?" queried Barnett, with the keen interest of the scientist. "That night he turned over to me the key of the large chest and his ledger. The latter he bade me read. It was a complete jumble. You have seen it We were up a good part of the night with our pet volcano. It was suffering from internal disturbances. 'So,' the doctor would say indulgently, when a particularly active rock came bounding down our way. 'Little play-antics-to-exhibit now that the work iss finished.' "In the morning he insisted on my leaving him alone and going down to give the orders. I took the ledger, intending to send it aboard. It saved my life possibly: Solomon's bullet deflected slightly, I think, in passing through the heavy paper. Slade has told you about my flight. I ought to have gone straight up the arroyo Yet I could hardly have made it I did not see him again, the doctor. My last glimpse the old man--I remember now how the grey had spread through his beard--he was growing old--it had been ageing labour. He stood there at his laboratory door and the mountain spouted and thundered behind. "'We will a name-to-suit-properly gif it,' he said, as I left him. 'It shall make us as the gods. We will call it celestium.' "I left him there smiling. Smiling happily. The greatest force of his age--if he had lived. Very wise, very simple--a kind old child. May I trouble you for a light? Thanks." "It did," said Captain Parkinson, drily. "That is what I couldn't figure out to save my life," said Slade eagerly. "He did," said Slade. "I heard the clang. But I saw the radiance on the clouds. And the whole thickness of a solid oak deck was in between the sky and the chest." "Oh, a little thing like an oak deck wouldn't interrupt the kind of rays the doctor used. He had his own method of screening, you understand. However, this inconsiderable guardian affair must have used itself up, which true celestium wouldn't have done. So when Perdosa sets his genius for lock-picking to the task, the inner box, full of the genuine article, has no warning sign-post, so to speak. Everything's peaceful until they raise the compound-filled hollow layer of the inner cover, which serves to interrupt the action. Then comes the general exit and the superior fireworks." "That's when the rays ran through the ship," said Slade. "It seemed to follow the deck-lines." "The stuff had a strange affinity for tar," said Darrow. "I told you of the circle of fire about Professor Schermerhorn's waist the day he gave me such a scare. That was the celestium working on the tarred rope he wore for a belt. It made a livid circle on his skin. Did I tell you of his experiments with pitch? It doesn't matter. Where was I?" "At the place where we all jumped," said Slade. "Oh, yes. And you dove into the small boat, trying to reach the water." "Wait a bit," said Barnett. "If that was the exhibition of radiance we saw, it died out in a few minutes. How was that? Did they close the chest before they ran?" "Probably not," replied Darrow. "Slade spoke of Pulz taking to the maintop and being shaken out by the sudden shock of a wave. That may have been a volcanic billow. Whatever it was, it undoubtedly heeled the ship sufficiently to bring down both lids, which were rather delicately balanced." "Yes, for Billy Edwards found the chest closed and locked," said Barnett. "Thank you, Mr. Darrow," returned the captain quietly. "We found the chest closed again when the empty ship came back," observed Barnett. "Ives and McGuire," said the Captain, as Darrow paused. "The glow came again that night, and the next day we picked up Slade," said Barnett. "You know what the glow meant for your companions," said Darrow. "You are wrong there," said Darrow. "I have seen her." In a common impulse the little circle leaned to him. "Under bare poles?" cried Slade. "The halliards must have disintegrated from some slow action of the celestium. It could be destructive: terrifically destructive. You shall judge. There was the schooner, naked as your hand. Possibly I might have thought it a hallucination but for what came after. Darkness fell again. I supposed then that Handy Solomon's crew were managing--or mismanaging--the _Laughing Lass_ without the aid of their leader, whom I had satisfactorily buried. I hoped they would come ashore on the rocks. Yes I was vengeful then. "Of a sudden there sprang from the darkness a ship of light. You have all seen those great electric effects at expositions. Someone touches a button you know. It was like that. Only that the piercingly brilliant jewelled wonder of a ship was set in the midst of a swirl of variradiance such as I can't begin to describe. You saw it from a distance. Imagine what it was, coming close upon you that way--dead on, out of the night. A living glory, a living terror " His voice sank. With a shaking hand he fumbled amid his cigarette papers. "It came on. A human figure, glowing like a diamond ablaze, leaped out from it; another shot down from the foremast. I don't know how many I saw go. It was like a theatric effect, unreal, unconvincing, incredible. The end fitted it." Darrow's eye roved. It fell upon a quaintly modelled ship, hung above the door. "What's that?" he cried. "Fool thing some Malay gave me," grunted Trendon. "Pretended to be grateful because I cut his foot off. No good. Go on with the story." "No good? You don't care what happens to it?" "Meant to heave it overboard before now," growled the other. Someone handed it down to Darrow. "If I had something to hold enough water," muttered he, "I'd like to float it. I'd like to see for myself how it worked out. I'd like to see that devil-work in action." He spoke feverishly. "Boy, fill the portable rubber tub in Mr. Forsythe's cabin and bring it here," ordered the captain. "That will do." said Darrow, recovering himself. He floated the model in the tub. "Now, I don't know how this will come out," he said. "Nor do I know why the _Laughing Lass_ met her fate under Ives and McGuire, and not before. Perhaps the chest lay open longer long enough, anyway. We'll try it." From his pocket he took a curious small phial. "Is that what Dr. Schermerhorn gave you?" asked Slade. "Yes," said Darrow. He set it carefully inside the little model and slipped a lever. Slade quietly turned down the light. A faint glow shot up. It grew bright and eddied in lovely, variant colours. As if set to a powder train, it ran through the ship. The pale faces of the spectators shone ghastly in its radiance. From someone burst a sudden gasp. "There is not enough for danger," said Darrow, quietly. "As a point of interest," grunted Trendon. Everyone looked at his outstretched hand. A little pocket compass lay in the palm. The needle spun madly, projecting blue, vivid sparklings. "My God!" cried Slade, and covered his eyes for a moment. He snatched away his hands as a suppressed cry went up from the others. "As I expected," said Darrow quietly. The little craft opened out; it disintegrated. All that radiance dissolved and with its going the substance upon which it shaped itself vanished. The last glow showed a formless pulp, spreading upon the water. "So passed the _Laughing Lass_," said Darrow solemnly. "And the chest is at the bottom of the sea," said Barnett. "Good place for it," muttered Trendon. "It might be recovered," cried Slade, excitedly. "Let it lie," said the captain. "Has it not cost enough? Let it lie." The water in the tub fumed and sparkled faintly and was still. Darkness fell, except where Darrow's cigarette point glowed and faded. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mystery by Stewart Edward White and Samuel Hopkins Adams	redpajama-book	39,106
Produced by Dennis McCarthy The base text for this edition has been provided by Digital Dante, a project sponsored by Columbia University's Institute for Learning Technologies. Specific thanks goes to Jennifer Hogan (Project Editor/Director), Tanya Larkin (Assistant to Editor), Robert W. Cole (Proofreader/Assistant Editor), and Jennifer Cook (Proofreader). Incipit Comoedia Dantis Alagherii, Florentini natione, non moribus. The Divine Comedy translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (e-text courtesy ILT's Digital Dante Project) Midway upon the journey of our life I found myself within a forest dark, For the straightforward pathway had been lost. Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say What was this forest savage, rough, and stern, Which in the very thought renews the fear. So bitter is it, death is little more; But of the good to treat, which there I found, Speak will I of the other things I saw there. I cannot well repeat how there I entered, So full was I of slumber at the moment In which I had abandoned the true way. But after I had reached a mountain's foot, At that point where the valley terminated, Which had with consternation pierced my heart, Upward I looked, and I beheld its shoulders, Vested already with that planet's rays Which leadeth others right by every road. Then was the fear a little quieted That in my heart's lake had endured throughout The night, which I had passed so piteously. And even as he, who, with distressful breath, Forth issued from the sea upon the shore, Turns to the water perilous and gazes; So did my soul, that still was fleeing onward, Turn itself back to re-behold the pass Which never yet a living person left. And lo! almost where the ascent began, A panther light and swift exceedingly, Which with a spotted skin was covered o'er! The time was the beginning of the morning, And up the sun was mounting with those stars That with him were, what time the Love Divine The hour of time, and the delicious season; But not so much, that did not give me fear A lion's aspect which appeared to me. He seemed as if against me he were coming With head uplifted, and with ravenous hunger, So that it seemed the air was afraid of him; And a she-wolf, that with all hungerings Seemed to be laden in her meagreness, And many folk has caused to live forlorn! She brought upon me so much heaviness, With the affright that from her aspect came, That I the hope relinquished of the height. And as he is who willingly acquires, And the time comes that causes him to lose, Who weeps in all his thoughts and is despondent, E'en such made me that beast withouten peace, Which, coming on against me by degrees Thrust me back thither where the sun is silent. When I beheld him in the desert vast, "Have pity on me," unto him I cried, "Whiche'er thou art, or shade or real man!" 'Sub Julio' was I born, though it was late, And lived at Rome under the good Augustus, During the time of false and lying gods. A poet was I, and I sang that just Son of Anchises, who came forth from Troy, After that Ilion the superb was burned. But thou, why goest thou back to such annoyance? Why climb'st thou not the Mount Delectable, Which is the source and cause of every joy?" "Now, art thou that Virgilius and that fountain Which spreads abroad so wide a river of speech?" I made response to him with bashful forehead. "O, of the other poets honour and light, Avail me the long study and great love That have impelled me to explore thy volume! Behold the beast, for which I have turned back; Do thou protect me from her, famous Sage, For she doth make my veins and pulses tremble." "Thee it behoves to take another road," Responded he, when he beheld me weeping, "If from this savage place thou wouldst escape; And has a nature so malign and ruthless, That never doth she glut her greedy will, And after food is hungrier than before. Many the animals with whom she weds, And more they shall be still, until the Greyhound Comes, who shall make her perish in her pain. He shall not feed on either earth or pelf, But upon wisdom, and on love and virtue; 'Twixt Feltro and Feltro shall his nation be; Of that low Italy shall he be the saviour, On whose account the maid Camilla died, Euryalus, Turnus, Nisus, of their wounds; Therefore I think and judge it for thy best Thou follow me, and I will be thy guide, And lead thee hence through the eternal place, And thou shalt see those who contented are Within the fire, because they hope to come, Whene'er it may be, to the blessed people; To whom, then, if thou wishest to ascend, A soul shall be for that than I more worthy; With her at my departure I will leave thee; Because that Emperor, who reigns above, In that I was rebellious to his law, Wills that through me none come into his city. He governs everywhere, and there he reigns; There is his city and his lofty throne; O happy he whom thereto he elects!" And I to him: "Poet, I thee entreat, By that same God whom thou didst never know, So that I may escape this woe and worse, Thou wouldst conduct me there where thou hast said, That I may see the portal of Saint Peter, And those thou makest so disconsolate." Then he moved on, and I behind him followed. Made myself ready to sustain the war, Both of the way and likewise of the woe, Which memory that errs not shall retrace. O Muses, O high genius, now assist me! O memory, that didst write down what I saw, Here thy nobility shall be manifest! And I began: "Poet, who guidest me, Regard my manhood, if it be sufficient, Ere to the arduous pass thou dost confide me. Thou sayest, that of Silvius the parent, While yet corruptible, unto the world Immortal went, and was there bodily. But if the adversary of all evil Was courteous, thinking of the high effect That issue would from him, and who, and what, To men of intellect unmeet it seems not; For he was of great Rome, and of her empire In the empyreal heaven as father chosen; The which and what, wishing to speak the truth, Were stablished as the holy place, wherein Sits the successor of the greatest Peter. Upon this journey, whence thou givest him vaunt, Things did he hear, which the occasion were Both of his victory and the papal mantle. Thither went afterwards the Chosen Vessel, To bring back comfort thence unto that Faith, Which of salvation's way is the beginning. But I, why thither come, or who concedes it? I not Aeneas am, I am not Paul, Nor I, nor others, think me worthy of it. Therefore, if I resign myself to come, I fear the coming may be ill-advised; Thou'rt wise, and knowest better than I speak." And as he is, who unwills what he willed, And by new thoughts doth his intention change, So that from his design he quite withdraws, Such I became, upon that dark hillside, Because, in thinking, I consumed the emprise, Which was so very prompt in the beginning. "If I have well thy language understood," Replied that shade of the Magnanimous, "Thy soul attainted is with cowardice, Among those was I who are in suspense, And a fair, saintly Lady called to me In such wise, I besought her to command me. Her eyes where shining brighter than the Star; And she began to say, gentle and low, With voice angelical, in her own language: 'O spirit courteous of Mantua, Of whom the fame still in the world endures, And shall endure, long-lasting as the world; And may, I fear, already be so lost, That I too late have risen to his succour, From that which I have heard of him in Heaven. Bestir thee now, and with thy speech ornate, And with what needful is for his release, Assist him so, that I may be consoled. Beatrice am I, who do bid thee go; I come from there, where I would fain return; Love moved me, which compelleth me to speak. When I shall be in presence of my Lord, Full often will I praise thee unto him.' Then paused she, and thereafter I began: 'O Lady of virtue, thou alone through whom The human race exceedeth all contained Within the heaven that has the lesser circles, So grateful unto me is thy commandment, To obey, if 'twere already done, were late; No farther need'st thou ope to me thy wish. But the cause tell me why thou dost not shun The here descending down into this centre, From the vast place thou burnest to return to.' 'Since thou wouldst fain so inwardly discern, Briefly will I relate,' she answered me, 'Why I am not afraid to enter here. God in his mercy such created me That misery of yours attains me not, Nor any flame assails me of this burning. A gentle Lady is in Heaven, who grieves At this impediment, to which I send thee, So that stern judgment there above is broken. Lucia, foe of all that cruel is, Hastened away, and came unto the place Where I was sitting with the ancient Rachel. "Beatrice" said she, "the true praise of God, Why succourest thou not him, who loved thee so, For thee he issued from the vulgar herd? Dost thou not hear the pity of his plaint? Dost thou not see the death that combats him Beside that flood, where ocean has no vaunt?" Never were persons in the world so swift To work their weal and to escape their woe, As I, after such words as these were uttered, Came hither downward from my blessed seat, Confiding in thy dignified discourse, Which honours thee, and those who've listened to it.' After she thus had spoken unto me, Weeping, her shining eyes she turned away; Whereby she made me swifter in my coming; And unto thee I came, as she desired; I have delivered thee from that wild beast, Which barred the beautiful mountain's short ascent. What is it, then? Why, why dost thou delay? Why is such baseness bedded in thy heart? Daring and hardihood why hast thou not, Even as the flowerets, by nocturnal chill, Bowed down and closed, when the sun whitens them, Uplift themselves all open on their stems; Such I became with my exhausted strength, And such good courage to my heart there coursed, That I began, like an intrepid person: "O she compassionate, who succoured me, And courteous thou, who hast obeyed so soon The words of truth which she addressed to thee! I entered on the deep and savage way. "Through me the way is to the city dolent; Through me the way is to eternal dole; Through me the way among the people lost. Justice incited my sublime Creator; Created me divine Omnipotence, The highest Wisdom and the primal Love. Before me there were no created things, Only eterne, and I eternal last. All hope abandon, ye who enter in!" These words in sombre colour I beheld Written upon the summit of a gate; Whence I: "Their sense is, Master, hard to me!" We to the place have come, where I have told thee Thou shalt behold the people dolorous Who have foregone the good of intellect." And after he had laid his hand on mine With joyful mien, whence I was comforted, He led me in among the secret things. There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud Resounded through the air without a star, Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat. Languages diverse, horrible dialects, Accents of anger, words of agony, And voices high and hoarse, with sound of hands, Made up a tumult that goes whirling on For ever in that air for ever black, Even as the sand doth, when the whirlwind breathes. And I, who had my head with horror bound, Said: "Master, what is this which now I hear? What folk is this, which seems by pain so vanquished?" Commingled are they with that caitiff choir Of Angels, who have not rebellious been, Nor faithful were to God, but were for self. The heavens expelled them, not to be less fair; Nor them the nethermore abyss receives, For glory none the damned would have from them." And I: "O Master, what so grievous is To these, that maketh them lament so sore?" He answered: "I will tell thee very briefly. These have no longer any hope of death; And this blind life of theirs is so debased, They envious are of every other fate. No fame of them the world permits to be; Misericord and Justice both disdain them. Let us not speak of them, but look, and pass." And I, who looked again, beheld a banner, Which, whirling round, ran on so rapidly, That of all pause it seemed to me indignant; And after it there came so long a train Of people, that I ne'er would have believed That ever Death so many had undone. When some among them I had recognised, I looked, and I beheld the shade of him Who made through cowardice the great refusal. Forthwith I comprehended, and was certain, That this the sect was of the caitiff wretches Hateful to God and to his enemies. These miscreants, who never were alive, Were naked, and were stung exceedingly By gadflies and by hornets that were there. These did their faces irrigate with blood, Which, with their tears commingled, at their feet By the disgusting worms was gathered up. And when to gazing farther I betook me. People I saw on a great river's bank; Whence said I: "Master, now vouchsafe to me, That I may know who these are, and what law Makes them appear so ready to pass over, As I discern athwart the dusky light." And he to me: "These things shall all be known To thee, as soon as we our footsteps stay Upon the dismal shore of Acheron." Then with mine eyes ashamed and downward cast, Fearing my words might irksome be to him, From speech refrained I till we reached the river. And lo! towards us coming in a boat An old man, hoary with the hair of eld, Crying: "Woe unto you, ye souls depraved! Hope nevermore to look upon the heavens; I come to lead you to the other shore, To the eternal shades in heat and frost. And thou, that yonder standest, living soul, Withdraw thee from these people, who are dead!" But when he saw that I did not withdraw, He said: "By other ways, by other ports Thou to the shore shalt come, not here, for passage; A lighter vessel needs must carry thee." And unto him the Guide: "Vex thee not, Charon; It is so willed there where is power to do That which is willed; and farther question not." Thereat were quieted the fleecy cheeks Of him the ferryman of the livid fen, Who round about his eyes had wheels of flame. But all those souls who weary were and naked Their colour changed and gnashed their teeth together, As soon as they had heard those cruel words. God they blasphemed and their progenitors, The human race, the place, the time, the seed Of their engendering and of their birth! Thereafter all together they drew back, Bitterly weeping, to the accursed shore, Which waiteth every man who fears not God. Charon the demon, with the eyes of glede, Beckoning to them, collects them all together, Beats with his oar whoever lags behind. So they depart across the dusky wave, And ere upon the other side they land, Again on this side a new troop assembles. "My son," the courteous Master said to me, "All those who perish in the wrath of God Here meet together out of every land; And ready are they to pass o'er the river, Because celestial Justice spurs them on, So that their fear is turned into desire. This way there never passes a good soul; And hence if Charon doth complain of thee, Well mayst thou know now what his speech imports." This being finished, all the dusk champaign Trembled so violently, that of that terror The recollection bathes me still with sweat. The land of tears gave forth a blast of wind, And fulminated a vermilion light, Which overmastered in me every sense, And as a man whom sleep hath seized I fell. Broke the deep lethargy within my head A heavy thunder, so that I upstarted, Like to a person who by force is wakened; And round about I moved my rested eyes, Uprisen erect, and steadfastly I gazed, To recognise the place wherein I was. True is it, that upon the verge I found me Of the abysmal valley dolorous, That gathers thunder of infinite ululations. Obscure, profound it was, and nebulous, So that by fixing on its depths my sight Nothing whatever I discerned therein. And I, who of his colour was aware, Said: "How shall I come, if thou art afraid, Who'rt wont to be a comfort to my fears?" And he to me: "The anguish of the people Who are below here in my face depicts That pity which for terror thou hast taken. Let us go on, for the long way impels us." Thus he went in, and thus he made me enter The foremost circle that surrounds the abyss. There, as it seemed to me from listening, Were lamentations none, but only sighs, That tremble made the everlasting air. And this arose from sorrow without torment, Which the crowds had, that many were and great, Of infants and of women and of men. To me the Master good: "Thou dost not ask What spirits these, which thou beholdest, are? Now will I have thee know, ere thou go farther, That they sinned not; and if they merit had, 'Tis not enough, because they had not baptism Which is the portal of the Faith thou holdest; And if they were before Christianity, In the right manner they adored not God; And among such as these am I myself. For such defects, and not for other guilt, Lost are we and are only so far punished, That without hope we live on in desire." Great grief seized on my heart when this I heard, Because some people of much worthiness I knew, who in that Limbo were suspended. "Tell me, my Master, tell me, thou my Lord," Began I, with desire of being certain Of that Faith which o'ercometh every error, Abraham, patriarch, and David, king, Israel with his father and his children, And Rachel, for whose sake he did so much, And others many, and he made them blessed; And thou must know, that earlier than these Never were any human spirits saved." We ceased not to advance because he spake, But still were passing onward through the forest, The forest, say I, of thick-crowded ghosts. Not very far as yet our way had gone This side the summit, when I saw a fire That overcame a hemisphere of darkness. We were a little distant from it still, But not so far that I in part discerned not That honourable people held that place. "O thou who honourest every art and science, Who may these be, which such great honour have, That from the fashion of the rest it parts them?" And he to me: "The honourable name, That sounds of them above there in thy life, Wins grace in Heaven, that so advances them." Because to each of these with me applies The name that solitary voice proclaimed, They do me honour, and in that do well." Thus I beheld assemble the fair school Of that lord of the song pre-eminent, Who o'er the others like an eagle soars. When they together had discoursed somewhat, They turned to me with signs of salutation, And on beholding this, my Master smiled; Thus we went on as far as to the light, Things saying 'tis becoming to keep silent, As was the saying of them where I was. People were there with solemn eyes and slow, Of great authority in their countenance; They spake but seldom, and with gentle voices. There opposite, upon the green enamel, Were pointed out to me the mighty spirits, Whom to have seen I feel myself exalted. I saw Electra with companions many, 'Mongst whom I knew both Hector and Aeneas, Caesar in armour with gerfalcon eyes; I saw Camilla and Penthesilea On the other side, and saw the King Latinus, Who with Lavinia his daughter sat; I saw that Brutus who drove Tarquin forth, Lucretia, Julia, Marcia, and Cornelia, And saw alone, apart, the Saladin. When I had lifted up my brows a little, The Master I beheld of those who know, Sit with his philosophic family. All gaze upon him, and all do him honour. There I beheld both Socrates and Plato, Who nearer him before the others stand; Democritus, who puts the world on chance, Diogenes, Anaxagoras, and Thales, Zeno, Empedocles, and Heraclitus; Of qualities I saw the good collector, Hight Dioscorides; and Orpheus saw I, Tully and Livy, and moral Seneca, Euclid, geometrician, and Ptolemy, Galen, Hippocrates, and Avicenna, Averroes, who the great Comment made. And to a place I come where nothing shines. There standeth Minos horribly, and snarls; Examines the transgressions at the entrance; Judges, and sends according as he girds him. I say, that when the spirit evil-born Cometh before him, wholly it confesses; And this discriminator of transgressions "O thou, that to this dolorous hostelry Comest," said Minos to me, when he saw me, Leaving the practice of so great an office, "Look how thou enterest, and in whom thou trustest; Let not the portal's amplitude deceive thee." And unto him my Guide: "Why criest thou too? Do not impede his journey fate-ordained; It is so willed there where is power to do That which is willed; and ask no further question." And now begin the dolesome notes to grow Audible unto me; now am I come There where much lamentation strikes upon me. I came into a place mute of all light, Which bellows as the sea does in a tempest, If by opposing winds 't is combated. The infernal hurricane that never rests Hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine; Whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them. When they arrive before the precipice, There are the shrieks, the plaints, and the laments, There they blaspheme the puissance divine. I understood that unto such a torment The carnal malefactors were condemned, Who reason subjugate to appetite. And as the wings of starlings bear them on In the cold season in large band and full, So doth that blast the spirits maledict; It hither, thither, downward, upward, drives them; No hope doth comfort them for evermore, Not of repose, but even of lesser pain. And as the cranes go chanting forth their lays, Making in air a long line of themselves, So saw I coming, uttering lamentations, Shadows borne onward by the aforesaid stress. Whereupon said I: "Master, who are those People, whom the black air so castigates?" To sensual vices she was so abandoned, That lustful she made licit in her law, To remove the blame to which she had been led. She is Semiramis, of whom we read That she succeeded Ninus, and was his spouse; She held the land which now the Sultan rules. The next is she who killed herself for love, And broke faith with the ashes of Sichaeus; Then Cleopatra the voluptuous." Helen I saw, for whom so many ruthless Seasons revolved; and saw the great Achilles, Who at the last hour combated with Love. After that I had listened to my Teacher, Naming the dames of eld and cavaliers, Pity prevailed, and I was nigh bewildered. And, he to me: "Thou'lt mark, when they shall be Nearer to us; and then do thou implore them By love which leadeth them, and they will come." As turtle-doves, called onward by desire, With open and steady wings to the sweet nest Fly through the air by their volition borne, So came they from the band where Dido is, Approaching us athwart the air malign, So strong was the affectionate appeal. "O living creature gracious and benignant, Who visiting goest through the purple air Us, who have stained the world incarnadine, If were the King of the Universe our friend, We would pray unto him to give thee peace, Since thou hast pity on our woe perverse. Of what it pleases thee to hear and speak, That will we hear, and we will speak to you, While silent is the wind, as it is now. Sitteth the city, wherein I was born, Upon the sea-shore where the Po descends To rest in peace with all his retinue. As soon as I had heard those souls tormented, I bowed my face, and so long held it down Until the Poet said to me: "What thinkest?" When I made answer, I began: "Alas! How many pleasant thoughts, how much desire, Conducted these unto the dolorous pass!" Then unto them I turned me, and I spake, And I began: "Thine agonies, Francesca, Sad and compassionate to weeping make me. But tell me, at the time of those sweet sighs, By what and in what manner Love conceded, That you should know your dubious desires?" And she to me: "There is no greater sorrow Than to be mindful of the happy time In misery, and that thy Teacher knows. But, if to recognise the earliest root Of love in us thou hast so great desire, I will do even as he who weeps and speaks. Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating. Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it. That day no farther did we read therein." And fell, even as a dead body falls. New torments I behold, and new tormented Around me, whichsoever way I move, And whichsoever way I turn, and gaze. Huge hail, and water sombre-hued, and snow, Athwart the tenebrous air pour down amain; Noisome the earth is, that receiveth this. Red eyes he has, and unctuous beard and black, And belly large, and armed with claws his hands; He rends the spirits, flays, and quarters them. When Cerberus perceived us, the great worm! His mouths he opened, and displayed his tusks; Not a limb had he that was motionless. And my Conductor, with his spans extended, Took of the earth, and with his fists well filled, He threw it into those rapacious gullets. Such as that dog is, who by barking craves, And quiet grows soon as his food he gnaws, For to devour it he but thinks and struggles, The like became those muzzles filth-begrimed Of Cerberus the demon, who so thunders Over the souls that they would fain be deaf. We passed across the shadows, which subdues The heavy rain-storm, and we placed our feet Upon their vanity that person seems. "O thou that art conducted through this Hell," He said to me, "recall me, if thou canst; Thyself wast made before I was unmade." And I to him: "The anguish which thou hast Perhaps doth draw thee out of my remembrance, So that it seems not I have ever seen thee. But tell me who thou art, that in so doleful A place art put, and in such punishment, If some are greater, none is so displeasing." And he to me: "Thy city, which is full Of envy so that now the sack runs over, Held me within it in the life serene. You citizens were wont to call me Ciacco; For the pernicious sin of gluttony I, as thou seest, am battered by this rain. I answered him: "Ciacco, thy wretchedness Weighs on me so that it to weep invites me; But tell me, if thou knowest, to what shall come The citizens of the divided city; If any there be just; and the occasion Tell me why so much discord has assailed it." And he to me: "They, after long contention, Will come to bloodshed; and the rustic party Will drive the other out with much offence. High will it hold its forehead a long while, Keeping the other under heavy burdens, Howe'er it weeps thereat and is indignant. Here ended he his tearful utterance; And I to him: "I wish thee still to teach me, And make a gift to me of further speech. Say where they are, and cause that I may know them; For great desire constraineth me to learn If Heaven doth sweeten them, or Hell envenom." And he: "They are among the blacker souls; A different sin downweighs them to the bottom; If thou so far descendest, thou canst see them. But when thou art again in the sweet world, I pray thee to the mind of others bring me; No more I tell thee and no more I answer." Then his straightforward eyes he turned askance, Eyed me a little, and then bowed his head; He fell therewith prone like the other blind. And the Guide said to me: "He wakes no more This side the sound of the angelic trumpet; When shall approach the hostile Potentate, So we passed onward o'er the filthy mixture Of shadows and of rain with footsteps slow, Touching a little on the future life. Wherefore I said: "Master, these torments here, Will they increase after the mighty sentence, Or lesser be, or will they be as burning?" And he to me: "Return unto thy science, Which wills, that as the thing more perfect is, The more it feels of pleasure and of pain. Albeit that this people maledict To true perfection never can attain, Hereafter more than now they look to be." Round in a circle by that road we went, Speaking much more, which I do not repeat; We came unto the point where the descent is; There we found Plutus the great enemy. "Pape Satan, Pape Satan, Aleppe!" Thus Plutus with his clucking voice began; And that benignant Sage, who all things knew, Said, to encourage me: "Let not thy fear Harm thee; for any power that he may have Shall not prevent thy going down this crag." Then he turned round unto that bloated lip, And said: "Be silent, thou accursed wolf; Consume within thyself with thine own rage. Not causeless is this journey to the abyss; Thus is it willed on high, where Michael wrought Vengeance upon the proud adultery." Even as the sails inflated by the wind Involved together fall when snaps the mast, So fell the cruel monster to the earth. Justice of God, ah! who heaps up so many New toils and sufferings as I beheld? And why doth our transgression waste us so? As doth the billow there upon Charybdis, That breaks itself on that which it encounters, So here the folk must dance their roundelay. Thus they returned along the lurid circle On either hand unto the opposite point, Shouting their shameful metre evermore. Exclaimed: "My Master, now declare to me What people these are, and if all were clerks, These shaven crowns upon the left of us." Clerks those were who no hairy covering Have on the head, and Popes and Cardinals, In whom doth Avarice practise its excess." And I: "My Master, among such as these I ought forsooth to recognise some few, Who were infected with these maladies." And he to me: "Vain thought thou entertainest; The undiscerning life which made them sordid Now makes them unto all discernment dim. Ill giving and ill keeping the fair world Have ta'en from them, and placed them in this scuffle; Whate'er it be, no words adorn I for it. Now canst thou, Son, behold the transient farce Of goods that are committed unto Fortune, For which the human race each other buffet; "Master," I said to him, "now tell me also What is this Fortune which thou speakest of, That has the world's goods so within its clutches?" And he to me: "O creatures imbecile, What ignorance is this which doth beset you? Now will I have thee learn my judgment of her. He whose omniscience everything transcends The heavens created, and gave who should guide them, That every part to every part may shine, Distributing the light in equal measure; He in like manner to the mundane splendours Ordained a general ministress and guide, Your knowledge has no counterstand against her; She makes provision, judges, and pursues Her governance, as theirs the other gods. Her permutations have not any truce; Necessity makes her precipitate, So often cometh who his turn obtains. And this is she who is so crucified Even by those who ought to give her praise, Giving her blame amiss, and bad repute. But she is blissful, and she hears it not; Among the other primal creatures gladsome She turns her sphere, and blissful she rejoices. Let us descend now unto greater woe; Already sinks each star that was ascending When I set out, and loitering is forbidden." We crossed the circle to the other bank, Near to a fount that boils, and pours itself Along a gully that runs out of it. The water was more sombre far than perse; And we, in company with the dusky waves, Made entrance downward by a path uncouth. A marsh it makes, which has the name of Styx, This tristful brooklet, when it has descended Down to the foot of the malign gray shores. And I, who stood intent upon beholding, Saw people mud-besprent in that lagoon, All of them naked and with angry look. They smote each other not alone with hands, But with the head and with the breast and feet, Tearing each other piecemeal with their teeth. Said the good Master: "Son, thou now beholdest The souls of those whom anger overcame; And likewise I would have thee know for certain Beneath the water people are who sigh And make this water bubble at the surface, As the eye tells thee wheresoe'er it turns. Fixed in the mire they say, 'We sullen were In the sweet air, which by the sun is gladdened, Bearing within ourselves the sluggish reek; Now we are sullen in this sable mire.' This hymn do they keep gurgling in their throats, For with unbroken words they cannot say it." Thus we went circling round the filthy fen A great arc 'twixt the dry bank and the swamp, With eyes turned unto those who gorge the mire; Unto the foot of a tower we came at last. I say, continuing, that long before We to the foot of that high tower had come, Our eyes went upward to the summit of it, And, to the sea of all discernment turned, I said: "What sayeth this, and what respondeth That other fire? and who are they that made it?" And he to me: "Across the turbid waves What is expected thou canst now discern, If reek of the morass conceal it not." Cord never shot an arrow from itself That sped away athwart the air so swift, As I beheld a very little boat Come o'er the water tow'rds us at that moment, Under the guidance of a single pilot, Who shouted, "Now art thou arrived, fell soul?" As he who listens to some great deceit That has been done to him, and then resents it, Such became Phlegyas, in his gathered wrath. My Guide descended down into the boat, And then he made me enter after him, And only when I entered seemed it laden. Soon as the Guide and I were in the boat, The antique prow goes on its way, dividing More of the water than 'tis wont with others. And I to him: "With weeping and with wailing, Thou spirit maledict, do thou remain; For thee I know, though thou art all defiled." Then stretched he both his hands unto the boat; Whereat my wary Master thrust him back, Saying, "Away there with the other dogs!" Thereafter with his arms he clasped my neck; He kissed my face, and said: "Disdainful soul, Blessed be she who bore thee in her bosom. That was an arrogant person in the world; Goodness is none, that decks his memory; So likewise here his shade is furious. How many are esteemed great kings up there, Who here shall be like unto swine in mire, Leaving behind them horrible dispraises!" And I: "My Master, much should I be pleased, If I could see him soused into this broth, Before we issue forth out of the lake." And he to me: "Ere unto thee the shore Reveal itself, thou shalt be satisfied; Such a desire 'tis meet thou shouldst enjoy." A little after that, I saw such havoc Made of him by the people of the mire, That still I praise and thank my God for it. They all were shouting, "At Philippo Argenti!" And that exasperate spirit Florentine Turned round upon himself with his own teeth. We left him there, and more of him I tell not; But on mine ears there smote a lamentation, Whence forward I intent unbar mine eyes. And the good Master said: "Even now, my Son, The city draweth near whose name is Dis, With the grave citizens, with the great throng." And I: "Its mosques already, Master, clearly Within there in the valley I discern Vermilion, as if issuing from the fire They were." And he to me: "The fire eternal That kindles them within makes them look red, As thou beholdest in this nether Hell." Then we arrived within the moats profound, That circumvallate that disconsolate city; The walls appeared to me to be of iron. Goes through the kingdom of the people dead?" And my sagacious Master made a sign Of wishing secretly to speak with them. A little then they quelled their great disdain, And said: "Come thou alone, and he begone Who has so boldly entered these dominions. Let him return alone by his mad road; Try, if he can; for thou shalt here remain, Who hast escorted him through such dark regions." Think, Reader, if I was discomforted At utterance of the accursed words; For never to return here I believed. Do not desert me," said I, "thus undone; And if the going farther be denied us, Let us retrace our steps together swiftly." And that Lord, who had led me thitherward, Said unto me: "Fear not; because our passage None can take from us, it by Such is given. But here await me, and thy weary spirit Comfort and nourish with a better hope; For in this nether world I will not leave thee." So onward goes and there abandons me My Father sweet, and I remain in doubt, For No and Yes within my head contend. I could not hear what he proposed to them; But with them there he did not linger long, Ere each within in rivalry ran back. They closed the portals, those our adversaries, On my Lord's breast, who had remained without And turned to me with footsteps far between. His eyes cast down, his forehead shorn had he Of all its boldness, and he said, with sighs, "Who has denied to me the dolesome houses?" And unto me: "Thou, because I am angry, Fear not, for I will conquer in the trial, Whatever for defence within be planned. O'er it didst thou behold the dead inscription; And now this side of it descends the steep, Passing across the circles without escort, That hue which cowardice brought out on me, Beholding my Conductor backward turn, Sooner repressed within him his new colour. He stopped attentive, like a man who listens, Because the eye could not conduct him far Through the black air, and through the heavy fog. But none the less his saying gave me fear, Because I carried out the broken phrase, Perhaps to a worse meaning than he had. Naked of me short while the flesh had been, Before within that wall she made me enter, To bring a spirit from the circle of Judas; That is the lowest region and the darkest, And farthest from the heaven which circles all. Well know I the way; therefore be reassured. This fen, which a prodigious stench exhales, Encompasses about the city dolent, Where now we cannot enter without anger." And more he said, but not in mind I have it; Because mine eye had altogether drawn me Tow'rds the high tower with the red-flaming summit, And with the greenest hydras were begirt; Small serpents and cerastes were their tresses, Wherewith their horrid temples were entwined. And he who well the handmaids of the Queen Of everlasting lamentation knew, Said unto me: "Behold the fierce Erinnys. This is Megaera, on the left-hand side; She who is weeping on the right, Alecto; Tisiphone is between;" and then was silent. "Medusa come, so we to stone will change him!" All shouted looking down; "in evil hour Avenged we not on Theseus his assault!" "Turn thyself round, and keep thine eyes close shut, For if the Gorgon appear, and thou shouldst see it, No more returning upward would there be." Thus said the Master; and he turned me round Himself, and trusted not unto my hands So far as not to blind me with his own. O ye who have undistempered intellects, Observe the doctrine that conceals itself Beneath the veil of the mysterious verses! And now there came across the turbid waves The clangour of a sound with terror fraught, Because of which both of the margins trembled; Not otherwise it was than of a wind Impetuous on account of adverse heats, That smites the forest, and, without restraint, The branches rends, beats down, and bears away; Right onward, laden with dust, it goes superb, And puts to flight the wild beasts and the shepherds. Mine eyes he loosed, and said: "Direct the nerve Of vision now along that ancient foam, There yonder where that smoke is most intense." From off his face he fanned that unctuous air, Waving his left hand oft in front of him, And only with that anguish seemed he weary. Ah! how disdainful he appeared to me! He reached the gate, and with a little rod He opened it, for there was no resistance. "O banished out of Heaven, people despised!" Thus he began upon the horrid threshold; "Whence is this arrogance within you couched? What helpeth it to butt against the fates? Your Cerberus, if you remember well, For that still bears his chin and gullet peeled." Than that of him who in his presence is; And we our feet directed tow'rds the city, After those holy words all confident. Within we entered without any contest; And I, who inclination had to see What the condition such a fortress holds, Soon as I was within, cast round mine eye, And see on every hand an ample plain, Full of distress and torment terrible. Even as at Arles, where stagnant grows the Rhone, Even as at Pola near to the Quarnaro, That shuts in Italy and bathes its borders, The sepulchres make all the place uneven; So likewise did they there on every side, Saving that there the manner was more bitter; For flames between the sepulchres were scattered, By which they so intensely heated were, That iron more so asks not any art. All of their coverings uplifted were, And from them issued forth such dire laments, Sooth seemed they of the wretched and tormented. And I: "My Master, what are all those people Who, having sepulture within those tombs, Make themselves audible by doleful sighs?" And he to me: "Here are the Heresiarchs, With their disciples of all sects, and much More than thou thinkest laden are the tombs. Here like together with its like is buried; And more and less the monuments are heated." And when he to the right had turned, we passed Between the torments and high parapets. Now onward goes, along a narrow path Between the torments and the city wall, My Master, and I follow at his back. "O power supreme, that through these impious circles Turnest me," I began, "as pleases thee, Speak to me, and my longings satisfy; And he to me: "They all will be closed up When from Jehoshaphat they shall return Here with the bodies they have left above. Their cemetery have upon this side With Epicurus all his followers, Who with the body mortal make the soul; But in the question thou dost put to me, Within here shalt thou soon be satisfied, And likewise in the wish thou keepest silent." And I: "Good Leader, I but keep concealed From thee my heart, that I may speak the less, Nor only now hast thou thereto disposed me." "O Tuscan, thou who through the city of fire Goest alive, thus speaking modestly, Be pleased to stay thy footsteps in this place. And unto me he said: "Turn thee; what dost thou? Behold there Farinata who has risen; From the waist upwards wholly shalt thou see him." I had already fixed mine eyes on his, And he uprose erect with breast and front E'en as if Hell he had in great despite. And with courageous hands and prompt my Leader Thrust me between the sepulchres towards him, Exclaiming, "Let thy words explicit be." As soon as I was at the foot of his tomb Somewhat he eyed me, and, as if disdainful, Then asked of me, "Who were thine ancestors?" I, who desirous of obeying was, Concealed it not, but all revealed to him; Whereat he raised his brows a little upward. Then there uprose upon the sight, uncovered Down to the chin, a shadow at his side; I think that he had risen on his knees. Weeping, he said to me: "If through this blind Prison thou goest by loftiness of genius, Where is my son? and why is he not with thee?" And I to him: "I come not of myself; He who is waiting yonder leads me here, Whom in disdain perhaps your Guido had." When he became aware of some delay, Which I before my answer made, supine He fell again, and forth appeared no more. But the other, magnanimous, at whose desire I had remained, did not his aspect change, Neither his neck he moved, nor bent his side. Whence I to him: "The slaughter and great carnage Which have with crimson stained the Arbia, cause Such orisons in our temple to be made." After his head he with a sigh had shaken, "There I was not alone," he said, "nor surely Without a cause had with the others moved. "Ah! so hereafter may your seed repose," I him entreated, "solve for me that knot, Which has entangled my conceptions here. "We see, like those who have imperfect sight, The things," he said, "that distant are from us; So much still shines on us the Sovereign Ruler. When they draw near, or are, is wholly vain Our intellect, and if none brings it to us, Not anything know we of your human state. Hence thou canst understand, that wholly dead Will be our knowledge from the moment when The portal of the future shall be closed." And if just now, in answering, I was dumb, Tell him I did it because I was thinking Already of the error you have solved me." And now my Master was recalling me, Wherefore more eagerly I prayed the spirit That he would tell me who was with him there. Thereon he hid himself; and I towards The ancient poet turned my steps, reflecting Upon that saying, which seemed hostile to me. He moved along; and afterward thus going, He said to me, "Why art thou so bewildered?" And I in his inquiry satisfied him. "Let memory preserve what thou hast heard Against thyself," that Sage commanded me, "And now attend here;" and he raised his finger. "When thou shalt be before the radiance sweet Of her whose beauteous eyes all things behold, From her thou'lt know the journey of thy life." Unto the left hand then he turned his feet; We left the wall, and went towards the middle, Along a path that strikes into a valley, Which even up there unpleasant made its stench. Upon the margin of a lofty bank Which great rocks broken in a circle made, We came upon a still more cruel throng; And there, by reason of the horrible Excess of stench the deep abyss throws out, We drew ourselves aside behind the cover Of a great tomb, whereon I saw a writing, Which said: "Pope Anastasius I hold, Whom out of the right way Photinus drew." The Master thus; and unto him I said, "Some compensation find, that the time pass not Idly;" and he: "Thou seest I think of that. They all are full of spirits maledict; But that hereafter sight alone suffice thee, Hear how and wherefore they are in constraint. Of every malice that wins hate in Heaven, Injury is the end; and all such end Either by force or fraud afflicteth others. But because fraud is man's peculiar vice, More it displeases God; and so stand lowest The fraudulent, and greater dole assails them. To God, to ourselves, and to our neighbour can we Use force; I say on them and on their things, As thou shalt hear with reason manifest. A death by violence, and painful wounds, Are to our neighbour given; and in his substance Ruin, and arson, and injurious levies; Whoever of your world deprives himself, Who games, and dissipates his property, And weepeth there, where he should jocund be. Violence can be done the Deity, In heart denying and blaspheming Him, And by disdaining Nature and her bounty. And for this reason doth the smallest round Seal with its signet Sodom and Cahors, And who, disdaining God, speaks from the heart. Fraud, wherewithal is every conscience stung, A man may practise upon him who trusts, And him who doth no confidence imburse. Hypocrisy, flattery, and who deals in magic, Falsification, theft, and simony, Panders, and barrators, and the like filth. Hence in the smallest circle, where the point is Of the Universe, upon which Dis is seated, Whoe'er betrays for ever is consumed." And I: "My Master, clear enough proceeds Thy reasoning, and full well distinguishes This cavern and the people who possess it. But tell me, those within the fat lagoon, Whom the wind drives, and whom the rain doth beat, And who encounter with such bitter tongues, Wherefore are they inside of the red city Not punished, if God has them in his wrath, And if he has not, wherefore in such fashion?" And unto me he said: "Why wanders so Thine intellect from that which it is wont? Or, sooth, thy mind where is it elsewhere looking? If thou regardest this conclusion well, And to thy mind recallest who they are That up outside are undergoing penance, Clearly wilt thou perceive why from these felons They separated are, and why less wroth Justice divine doth smite them with its hammer." "O Sun, that healest all distempered vision, Thou dost content me so, when thou resolvest, That doubting pleases me no less than knowing! From Intellect Divine, and from its art; And if thy Physics carefully thou notest, After not many pages shalt thou find, That this your art as far as possible Follows, as the disciple doth the master; So that your art is, as it were, God's grandchild. And since the usurer takes another way, Nature herself and in her follower Disdains he, for elsewhere he puts his hope. But follow, now, as I would fain go on, For quivering are the Fishes on the horizon, And the Wain wholly over Caurus lies, And far beyond there we descend the crag." The place where to descend the bank we came Was alpine, and from what was there, moreover, Of such a kind that every eye would shun it. Such as that ruin is which in the flank Smote, on this side of Trent, the Adige, Either by earthquake or by failing stay, For from the mountain's top, from which it moved, Unto the plain the cliff is shattered so, Some path 'twould give to him who was above; Even such was the descent of that ravine, And on the border of the broken chasm The infamy of Crete was stretched along, My Sage towards him shouted: "Peradventure Thou think'st that here may be the Duke of Athens, Who in the world above brought death to thee? As is that bull who breaks loose at the moment In which he has received the mortal blow, Who cannot walk, but staggers here and there, The Minotaur beheld I do the like; And he, the wary, cried: "Run to the passage; While he wroth, 'tis well thou shouldst descend." Thus down we took our way o'er that discharge Of stones, which oftentimes did move themselves Beneath my feet, from the unwonted burden. Thoughtful I went; and he said: "Thou art thinking Perhaps upon this ruin, which is guarded By that brute anger which just now I quenched. Now will I have thee know, the other time I here descended to the nether Hell, This precipice had not yet fallen down. But truly, if I well discern, a little Before His coming who the mighty spoil Bore off from Dis, in the supernal circle, Upon all sides the deep and loathsome valley Trembled so, that I thought the Universe Was thrilled with love, by which there are who think The world ofttimes converted into chaos; And at that moment this primeval crag Both here and elsewhere made such overthrow. But fix thine eyes below; for draweth near The river of blood, within which boiling is Whoe'er by violence doth injure others." O blind cupidity, O wrath insane, That spurs us onward so in our short life, And in the eternal then so badly steeps us! And between this and the embankment's foot Centaurs in file were running, armed with arrows, As in the world they used the chase to follow. My Master said: "Our answer will we make To Chiron, near you there; in evil hour, That will of thine was evermore so hasty." And he in the midst, who at his breast is gazing, Is the great Chiron, who brought up Achilles; That other Pholus is, who was so wrathful. Thousands and thousands go about the moat Shooting with shafts whatever soul emerges Out of the blood, more than his crime allots." Near we approached unto those monsters fleet; Chiron an arrow took, and with the notch Backward upon his jaws he put his beard. After he had uncovered his great mouth, He said to his companions: "Are you ware That he behind moveth whate'er he touches? Replied: "Indeed he lives, and thus alone Me it behoves to show him the dark valley; Necessity, and not delight, impels us. Upon his right breast Chiron wheeled about, And said to Nessus: "Turn and do thou guide them, And warn aside, if other band may meet you." We with our faithful escort onward moved Along the brink of the vermilion boiling, Wherein the boiled were uttering loud laments. People I saw within up to the eyebrows, And the great Centaur said: "Tyrants are these, Who dealt in bloodshed and in pillaging. Here they lament their pitiless mischiefs; here Is Alexander, and fierce Dionysius Who upon Sicily brought dolorous years. That forehead there which has the hair so black Is Azzolin; and the other who is blond, Obizzo is of Esti, who, in truth, A little farther on the Centaur stopped Above a folk, who far down as the throat Seemed from that boiling stream to issue forth. Then people saw I, who from out the river Lifted their heads and also all the chest; And many among these I recognised. Thus ever more and more grew shallower That blood, so that the feet alone it covered; And there across the moat our passage was. "Even as thou here upon this side beholdest The boiling stream, that aye diminishes," The Centaur said, "I wish thee to believe That on this other more and more declines Its bed, until it reunites itself Where it behoveth tyranny to groan. Justice divine, upon this side, is goading That Attila, who was a scourge on earth, And Pyrrhus, and Sextus; and for ever milks The tears which with the boiling it unseals In Rinier da Corneto and Rinier Pazzo, Who made upon the highways so much war." Then back he turned, and passed again the ford. Not yet had Nessus reached the other side, When we had put ourselves within a wood, That was not marked by any path whatever. Not foliage green, but of a dusky colour, Not branches smooth, but gnarled and intertangled, Not apple-trees were there, but thorns with poison. Such tangled thickets have not, nor so dense, Those savage wild beasts, that in hatred hold 'Twixt Cecina and Corneto the tilled places. There do the hideous Harpies make their nests, Who chased the Trojans from the Strophades, With sad announcement of impending doom; Broad wings have they, and necks and faces human, And feet with claws, and their great bellies fledged; They make laments upon the wondrous trees. Thou comest out upon the horrible sand; Therefore look well around, and thou shalt see Things that will credence give unto my speech." I heard on all sides lamentations uttered, And person none beheld I who might make them, Whence, utterly bewildered, I stood still. I think he thought that I perhaps might think So many voices issued through those trunks From people who concealed themselves from us; Therefore the Master said: "If thou break off Some little spray from any of these trees, The thoughts thou hast will wholly be made vain." Then stretched I forth my hand a little forward, And plucked a branchlet off from a great thorn; And the trunk cried, "Why dost thou mangle me?" After it had become embrowned with blood, It recommenced its cry: "Why dost thou rend me? Hast thou no spirit of pity whatsoever? So from that splinter issued forth together Both words and blood; whereat I let the tip Fall, and stood like a man who is afraid. "Had he been able sooner to believe," My Sage made answer, "O thou wounded soul, What only in my verses he has seen, Not upon thee had he stretched forth his hand; Whereas the thing incredible has caused me To put him to an act which grieveth me. But tell him who thou wast, so that by way Of some amends thy fame he may refresh Up in the world, to which he can return." And the trunk said: "So thy sweet words allure me, I cannot silent be; and you be vexed not, That I a little to discourse am tempted. That from his secrets most men I withheld; Fidelity I bore the glorious office So great, I lost thereby my sleep and pulses. The courtesan who never from the dwelling Of Caesar turned aside her strumpet eyes, Death universal and the vice of courts, Inflamed against me all the other minds, And they, inflamed, did so inflame Augustus, That my glad honours turned to dismal mournings. My spirit, in disdainful exultation, Thinking by dying to escape disdain, Made me unjust against myself, the just. I, by the roots unwonted of this wood, Do swear to you that never broke I faith Unto my lord, who was so worthy of honour; Waited awhile, and then: "Since he is silent," The Poet said to me, "lose not the time, But speak, and question him, if more may please thee." Whence I to him: "Do thou again inquire Concerning what thou thinks't will satisfy me; For I cannot, such pity is in my heart." Therefore he recommenced: "So may the man Do for thee freely what thy speech implores, Spirit incarcerate, again be pleased To tell us in what way the soul is bound Within these knots; and tell us, if thou canst, If any from such members e'er is freed." Then blew the trunk amain, and afterward The wind was into such a voice converted: "With brevity shall be replied to you. It falls into the forest, and no part Is chosen for it; but where Fortune hurls it, There like a grain of spelt it germinates. It springs a sapling, and a forest tree; The Harpies, feeding then upon its leaves, Do pain create, and for the pain an outlet. Here we shall drag them, and along the dismal Forest our bodies shall suspended be, Each to the thorn of his molested shade." We were attentive still unto the trunk, Thinking that more it yet might wish to tell us, When by a tumult we were overtaken, In the same way as he is who perceives The boar and chase approaching to his stand, Who hears the crashing of the beasts and branches; Those legs of thine at joustings of the Toppo!" And then, perchance because his breath was failing, He grouped himself together with a bush. Behind them was the forest full of black She-mastiffs, ravenous, and swift of foot As greyhounds, who are issuing from the chain. On him who had crouched down they set their teeth, And him they lacerated piece by piece, Thereafter bore away those aching members. Thereat my Escort took me by the hand, And led me to the bush, that all in vain Was weeping from its bloody lacerations. "O Jacopo," it said, "of Sant' Andrea, What helped it thee of me to make a screen? What blame have I in thy nefarious life?" When near him had the Master stayed his steps, He said: "Who wast thou, that through wounds so many Art blowing out with blood thy dolorous speech?" And he to us: "O souls, that hither come To look upon the shameful massacre That has so rent away from me my leaves, Forever with his art will make it sad. And were it not that on the pass of Arno Some glimpses of him are remaining still, Those citizens, who afterwards rebuilt it Upon the ashes left by Attila, In vain had caused their labour to be done. Of my own house I made myself a gibbet." Because the charity of my native place Constrained me, gathered I the scattered leaves, And gave them back to him, who now was hoarse. Clearly to manifest these novel things, I say that we arrived upon a plain, Which from its bed rejecteth every plant; The dolorous forest is a garland to it All round about, as the sad moat to that; There close upon the edge we stayed our feet. Of naked souls beheld I many herds, Who all were weeping very miserably, And over them seemed set a law diverse. Supine upon the ground some folk were lying; And some were sitting all drawn up together, And others went about continually. Those who were going round were far the more, And those were less who lay down to their torment, But had their tongues more loosed to lamentation. O'er all the sand-waste, with a gradual fall, Were raining down dilated flakes of fire, As of the snow on Alp without a wind. As Alexander, in those torrid parts Of India, beheld upon his host Flames fall unbroken till they reached the ground. Whence he provided with his phalanxes To trample down the soil, because the vapour Better extinguished was while it was single; Thus was descending the eternal heat, Whereby the sand was set on fire, like tinder Beneath the steel, for doubling of the dole. Without repose forever was the dance Of miserable hands, now there, now here, Shaking away from off them the fresh gleeds. "Master," began I, "thou who overcomest All things except the demons dire, that issued Against us at the entrance of the gate, And he himself, who had become aware That I was questioning my Guide about him, Cried: "Such as I was living, am I, dead. If Jove should weary out his smith, from whom He seized in anger the sharp thunderbolt, Wherewith upon the last day I was smitten, And if he wearied out by turns the others In Mongibello at the swarthy forge, Vociferating, 'Help, good Vulcan, help!' Even as he did there at the fight of Phlegra, And shot his bolts at me with all his might, He would not have thereby a joyous vengeance." Then did my Leader speak with such great force, That I had never heard him speak so loud: "O Capaneus, in that is not extinguished Thine arrogance, thou punished art the more; Not any torment, saving thine own rage, Would be unto thy fury pain complete." God in disdain, and little seems to prize him; But, as I said to him, his own despites Are for his breast the fittest ornaments. Now follow me, and mind thou do not place As yet thy feet upon the burning sand, But always keep them close unto the wood." Speaking no word, we came to where there gushes Forth from the wood a little rivulet, Whose redness makes my hair still stand on end. As from the Bulicame springs the brooklet, The sinful women later share among them, So downward through the sand it went its way. The bottom of it, and both sloping banks, Were made of stone, and the margins at the side; Whence I perceived that there the passage was. Nothing has been discovered by thine eyes So notable as is the present river, Which all the little flames above it quenches." These words were of my Leader; whence I prayed him That he would give me largess of the food, For which he had given me largess of desire. "In the mid-sea there sits a wasted land," Said he thereafterward, "whose name is Crete, Under whose king the world of old was chaste. A grand old man stands in the mount erect, Who holds his shoulders turned tow'rds Damietta, And looks at Rome as if it were his mirror. His head is fashioned of refined gold, And of pure silver are the arms and breast; Then he is brass as far down as the fork. From that point downward all is chosen iron, Save that the right foot is of kiln-baked clay, And more he stands on that than on the other. Each part, except the gold, is by a fissure Asunder cleft, that dripping is with tears, Which gathered together perforate that cavern. From rock to rock they fall into this valley; Acheron, Styx, and Phlegethon they form; Then downward go along this narrow sluice Unto that point where is no more descending. They form Cocytus; what that pool may be Thou shalt behold, so here 'tis not narrated." And I to him: "If so the present runnel Doth take its rise in this way from our world, Why only on this verge appears it to us?" And he to me: "Thou knowest the place is round, And notwithstanding thou hast journeyed far, Still to the left descending to the bottom, Thou hast not yet through all the circle turned. Therefore if something new appear to us, It should not bring amazement to thy face." Thou shalt see Lethe, but outside this moat, There where the souls repair to lave themselves, When sin repented of has been removed." Then said he: "It is time now to abandon The wood; take heed that thou come after me; A way the margins make that are not burning, And over them all vapours are extinguished." Even as the Flemings, 'twixt Cadsand and Bruges, Fearing the flood that tow'rds them hurls itself, Their bulwarks build to put the sea to flight; And as the Paduans along the Brenta, To guard their villas and their villages, Or ever Chiarentana feel the heat; In such similitude had those been made, Albeit not so lofty nor so thick, Whoever he might be, the master made them. Now were we from the forest so remote, I could not have discovered where it was, Even if backward I had turned myself, To eye each other under a new moon, And so towards us sharpened they their brows As an old tailor at the needle's eye. And I, when he stretched forth his arm to me, On his baked aspect fastened so mine eyes, That the scorched countenance prevented not His recognition by my intellect; And bowing down my face unto his own, I made reply, "Are you here, Ser Brunetto?" And he: "May't not displease thee, O my son, If a brief space with thee Brunetto Latini Backward return and let the trail go on." I said to him: "With all my power I ask it; And if you wish me to sit down with you, I will, if he please, for I go with him." Therefore go on; I at thy skirts will come, And afterward will I rejoin my band, Which goes lamenting its eternal doom." And he began: "What fortune or what fate Before the last day leadeth thee down here? And who is this that showeth thee the way?" "Up there above us in the life serene," I answered him, "I lost me in a valley, Or ever yet my age had been completed. And he to me: "If thou thy star do follow, Thou canst not fail thee of a glorious port, If well I judged in the life beautiful. And if I had not died so prematurely, Seeing Heaven thus benignant unto thee, I would have given thee comfort in the work. But that ungrateful and malignant people, Which of old time from Fesole descended, And smacks still of the mountain and the granite, Will make itself, for thy good deeds, thy foe; And it is right; for among crabbed sorbs It ill befits the sweet fig to bear fruit. Old rumour in the world proclaims them blind; A people avaricious, envious, proud; Take heed that of their customs thou do cleanse thee. Their litter let the beasts of Fesole Make of themselves, nor let them touch the plant, If any still upon their dunghill rise, In which may yet revive the consecrated Seed of those Romans, who remained there when The nest of such great malice it became." "If my entreaty wholly were fulfilled," Replied I to him, "not yet would you be In banishment from human nature placed; For in my mind is fixed, and touches now My heart the dear and good paternal image Of you, when in the world from hour to hour You taught me how a man becomes eternal; And how much I am grateful, while I live Behoves that in my language be discerned. What you narrate of my career I write, And keep it to be glossed with other text By a Lady who can do it, if I reach her. This much will I have manifest to you; Provided that my conscience do not chide me, For whatsoever Fortune I am ready. Such handsel is not new unto mine ears; Therefore let Fortune turn her wheel around As it may please her, and the churl his mattock." My Master thereupon on his right cheek Did backward turn himself, and looked at me; Then said: "He listeneth well who noteth it." Nor speaking less on that account, I go With Ser Brunetto, and I ask who are His most known and most eminent companions. And he to me: "To know of some is well; Of others it were laudable to be silent, For short would be the time for so much speech. Priscian goes yonder with that wretched crowd, And Francis of Accorso; and thou hadst seen there If thou hadst had a hankering for such scurf, More would I say, but coming and discoursing Can be no longer; for that I behold New smoke uprising yonder from the sand. A people comes with whom I may not be; Commended unto thee be my Tesoro, In which I still live, and no more I ask." Then he turned round, and seemed to be of those Who at Verona run for the Green Mantle Across the plain; and seemed to be among them Now was I where was heard the reverberation Of water falling into the next round, Like to that humming which the beehives make, Ah me! what wounds I saw upon their limbs, Recent and ancient by the flames burnt in! It pains me still but to remember it. Unto their cries my Teacher paused attentive; He turned his face towards me, and "Now wait," He said; "to these we should be courteous. And if it were not for the fire that darts The nature of this region, I should say That haste were more becoming thee than them." As champions stripped and oiled are wont to do, Watching for their advantage and their hold, Before they come to blows and thrusts between them, Let the renown of us thy mind incline To tell us who thou art, who thus securely Thy living feet dost move along through Hell. He in whose footprints thou dost see me treading, Naked and skinless though he now may go, Was of a greater rank than thou dost think; He was the grandson of the good Gualdrada; His name was Guidoguerra, and in life Much did he with his wisdom and his sword. The other, who close by me treads the sand, Tegghiaio Aldobrandi is, whose fame Above there in the world should welcome be. And I, who with them on the cross am placed, Jacopo Rusticucci was; and truly My savage wife, more than aught else, doth harm me." Could I have been protected from the fire, Below I should have thrown myself among them, And think the Teacher would have suffered it; But as I should have burned and baked myself, My terror overmastered my good will, Which made me greedy of embracing them. Then I began: "Sorrow and not disdain Did your condition fix within me so, That tardily it wholly is stripped off, As soon as this my Lord said unto me Words, on account of which I thought within me That people such as you are were approaching. I of your city am; and evermore Your labours and your honourable names I with affection have retraced and heard. "So may the soul for a long while conduct Those limbs of thine," did he make answer then, "And so may thy renown shine after thee, Valour and courtesy, say if they dwell Within our city, as they used to do, Or if they wholly have gone out of it; For Guglielmo Borsier, who is in torment With us of late, and goes there with his comrades, Doth greatly mortify us with his words." "The new inhabitants and the sudden gains, Pride and extravagance have in thee engendered, Florence, so that thou weep'st thereat already!" Therefore, if thou escape from these dark places, And come to rebehold the beauteous stars, When it shall pleasure thee to say, 'I was,' See that thou speak of us unto the people." Then they broke up the wheel, and in their flight It seemed as if their agile legs were wings. Not an Amen could possibly be said So rapidly as they had disappeared; Wherefore the Master deemed best to depart. I followed him, and little had we gone, Before the sound of water was so near us, That speaking we should hardly have been heard. Which is above called Acquacheta, ere It down descendeth into its low bed, And at Forli is vacant of that name, Thus downward from a bank precipitate, We found resounding that dark-tinted water, So that it soon the ear would have offended. I had a cord around about me girt, And therewithal I whilom had designed To take the panther with the painted skin. After I this had all from me unloosed, As my Conductor had commanded me, I reached it to him, gathered up and coiled, Whereat he turned himself to the right side, And at a little distance from the verge, He cast it down into that deep abyss. "It must needs be some novelty respond," I said within myself, "to the new signal The Master with his eye is following so." Ah me! how very cautious men should be With those who not alone behold the act, But with their wisdom look into the thoughts! He said to me: "Soon there will upward come What I await; and what thy thought is dreaming Must soon reveal itself unto thy sight." Aye to that truth which has the face of falsehood, A man should close his lips as far as may be, Because without his fault it causes shame; But here I cannot; and, Reader, by the notes Of this my Comedy to thee I swear, So may they not be void of lasting favour, Athwart that dense and darksome atmosphere I saw a figure swimming upward come, Marvellous unto every steadfast heart, Even as he returns who goeth down Sometimes to clear an anchor, which has grappled Reef, or aught else that in the sea is hidden, Who upward stretches, and draws in his feet. "Behold the monster with the pointed tail, Who cleaves the hills, and breaketh walls and weapons, Behold him who infecteth all the world." Thus unto me my Guide began to say, And beckoned him that he should come to shore, Near to the confine of the trodden marble; And that uncleanly image of deceit Came up and thrust ashore its head and bust, But on the border did not drag its tail. The face was as the face of a just man, Its semblance outwardly was so benign, And of a serpent all the trunk beside. With colours more, groundwork or broidery Never in cloth did Tartars make nor Turks, Nor were such tissues by Arachne laid. As sometimes wherries lie upon the shore, That part are in the water, part on land; And as among the guzzling Germans there, The beaver plants himself to wage his war; So that vile monster lay upon the border, Which is of stone, and shutteth in the sand. His tail was wholly quivering in the void, Contorting upwards the envenomed fork, That in the guise of scorpion armed its point. The Guide said: "Now perforce must turn aside Our way a little, even to that beast Malevolent, that yonder coucheth him." And after we are come to him, I see A little farther off upon the sand A people sitting near the hollow place. Then said to me the Master: "So that full Experience of this round thou bear away, Now go and see what their condition is. There let thy conversation be concise; Till thou returnest I will speak with him, That he concede to us his stalwart shoulders." Out of their eyes was gushing forth their woe; This way, that way, they helped them with their hands Now from the flames and now from the hot soil. Not otherwise in summer do the dogs, Now with the foot, now with the muzzle, when By fleas, or flies, or gadflies, they are bitten. That from the neck of each there hung a pouch, Which certain colour had, and certain blazon; And thereupon it seems their eyes are feeding. And as I gazing round me come among them, Upon a yellow pouch I azure saw That had the face and posture of a lion. Proceeding then the current of my sight, Another of them saw I, red as blood, Display a goose more white than butter is. Now get thee gone; and since thou'rt still alive, Know that a neighbour of mine, Vitaliano, Will have his seat here on my left-hand side. A Paduan am I with these Florentines; Full many a time they thunder in mine ears, Exclaiming, 'Come the sovereign cavalier, And fearing lest my longer stay might vex Him who had warned me not to tarry long, Backward I turned me from those weary souls. I found my Guide, who had already mounted Upon the back of that wild animal, And said to me: "Now be both strong and bold. Now we descend by stairways such as these; Mount thou in front, for I will be midway, So that the tail may have no power to harm thee." Such as he is who has so near the ague Of quartan that his nails are blue already, And trembles all, but looking at the shade; Even such became I at those proffered words; But shame in me his menaces produced, Which maketh servant strong before good master. I seated me upon those monstrous shoulders; I wished to say, and yet the voice came not As I believed, "Take heed that thou embrace me." And said: "Now, Geryon, bestir thyself; The circles large, and the descent be little; Think of the novel burden which thou hast." Even as the little vessel shoves from shore, Backward, still backward, so he thence withdrew; And when he wholly felt himself afloat, There where his breast had been he turned his tail, And that extended like an eel he moved, And with his paws drew to himself the air. A greater fear I do not think there was What time abandoned Phaeton the reins, Whereby the heavens, as still appears, were scorched; Nor when the wretched Icarus his flanks Felt stripped of feathers by the melting wax, His father crying, "An ill way thou takest!" Than was my own, when I perceived myself On all sides in the air, and saw extinguished The sight of everything but of the monster. Onward he goeth, swimming slowly, slowly; Wheels and descends, but I perceive it only By wind upon my face and from below. I heard already on the right the whirlpool Making a horrible crashing under us; Whence I thrust out my head with eyes cast downward. Then was I still more fearful of the abyss; Because I fires beheld, and heard laments, Whereat I, trembling, all the closer cling. I saw then, for before I had not seen it, The turning and descending, by great horrors That were approaching upon divers sides. As falcon who has long been on the wing, Who, without seeing either lure or bird, Maketh the falconer say, "Ah me, thou stoopest," Even thus did Geryon place us on the bottom, Close to the bases of the rough-hewn rock, And being disencumbered of our persons, He sped away as arrow from the string. Inferno: Canto XVIII There is a place in Hell called Malebolge, Wholly of stone and of an iron colour, As is the circle that around it turns. Right in the middle of the field malign There yawns a well exceeding wide and deep, Of which its place the structure will recount. As where for the protection of the walls Many and many moats surround the castles, The part in which they are a figure forms, Just such an image those presented there; And as about such strongholds from their gates Unto the outer bank are little bridges, So from the precipice's base did crags Project, which intersected dikes and moats, Unto the well that truncates and collects them. Within this place, down shaken from the back Of Geryon, we found us; and the Poet Held to the left, and I moved on behind. Upon my right hand I beheld new anguish, New torments, and new wielders of the lash, Wherewith the foremost Bolgia was replete. Down at the bottom were the sinners naked; This side the middle came they facing us, Beyond it, with us, but with greater steps; This side and that, along the livid stone Beheld I horned demons with great scourges, Who cruelly were beating them behind. Therefore I stayed my feet to make him out, And with me the sweet Guide came to a stand, And to my going somewhat back assented; If false are not the features which thou bearest, Thou art Venedico Caccianimico; But what doth bring thee to such pungent sauces?" And he to me: "Unwillingly I tell it; But forces me thine utterance distinct, Which makes me recollect the ancient world. Not the sole Bolognese am I who weeps here; Nay, rather is this place so full of them, That not so many tongues to-day are taught While speaking in this manner, with his scourge A demon smote him, and said: "Get thee gone Pander, there are no women here for coin." I joined myself again unto mine Escort; Thereafterward with footsteps few we came To where a crag projected from the bank. This very easily did we ascend, And turning to the right along its ridge, From those eternal circles we departed. When we were there, where it is hollowed out Beneath, to give a passage to the scourged, The Guide said: "Wait, and see that on thee strike The vision of those others evil-born, Of whom thou hast not yet beheld the faces, Because together with us they have gone." From the old bridge we looked upon the train Which tow'rds us came upon the other border, And which the scourges in like manner smite. Still what a royal aspect he retains! That Jason is, who by his heart and cunning The Colchians of the Ram made destitute. He by the isle of Lemnos passed along After the daring women pitiless Had unto death devoted all their males. There did he leave her pregnant and forlorn; Such sin unto such punishment condemns him, And also for Medea is vengeance done. Thence we heard people, who are making moan In the next Bolgia, snorting with their muzzles, And with their palms beating upon themselves The margins were incrusted with a mould By exhalation from below, that sticks there, And with the eyes and nostrils wages war. The bottom is so deep, no place suffices To give us sight of it, without ascending The arch's back, where most the crag impends. Thither we came, and thence down in the moat I saw a people smothered in a filth That out of human privies seemed to flow; He screamed to me: "Wherefore art thou so eager To look at me more than the other foul ones?" And I to him: "Because, if I remember, I have already seen thee with dry hair, And thou'rt Alessio Interminei of Lucca; Therefore I eye thee more than all the others." And he thereon, belabouring his pumpkin: "The flatteries have submerged me here below, Wherewith my tongue was never surfeited." Then said to me the Guide: "See that thou thrust Thy visage somewhat farther in advance, That with thine eyes thou well the face attain Of that uncleanly and dishevelled drab, Who there doth scratch herself with filthy nails, And crouches now, and now on foot is standing. And herewith let our sight be satisfied." O Simon Magus, O forlorn disciples, Ye who the things of God, which ought to be The brides of holiness, rapaciously We had already on the following tomb Ascended to that portion of the crag Which o'er the middle of the moat hangs plumb. Wisdom supreme, O how great art thou showest In heaven, in earth, and in the evil world, And with what justice doth thy power distribute! To me less ample seemed they not, nor greater Than those that in my beautiful Saint John Are fashioned for the place of the baptisers, In all of them the soles were both on fire; Wherefore the joints so violently quivered, They would have snapped asunder withes and bands. Even as the flame of unctuous things is wont To move upon the outer surface only, So likewise was it there from heel to point. And he to me: "If thou wilt have me bear thee Down there along that bank which lowest lies, From him thou'lt know his errors and himself." And I: "What pleases thee, to me is pleasing; Thou art my Lord, and knowest that I depart not From thy desire, and knowest what is not spoken." And the good Master yet from off his haunch Deposed me not, till to the hole he brought me Of him who so lamented with his shanks. "Whoe'er thou art, that standest upside down, O doleful soul, implanted like a stake," To say began I, "if thou canst, speak out." I stood even as the friar who is confessing The false assassin, who, when he is fixed, Recalls him, so that death may be delayed. And he cried out: "Dost thou stand there already, Dost thou stand there already, Boniface? By many years the record lied to me. Art thou so early satiate with that wealth, For which thou didst not fear to take by fraud The beautiful Lady, and then work her woe?" Such I became, as people are who stand, Not comprehending what is answered them, As if bemocked, and know not how to answer. Then said Virgilius: "Say to him straightway, 'I am not he, I am not he thou thinkest.'" And I replied as was imposed on me. Whereat the spirit writhed with both his feet, Then, sighing, with a voice of lamentation Said to me: "Then what wantest thou of me? If who I am thou carest so much to know, That thou on that account hast crossed the bank, Know that I vested was with the great mantle; And truly was I son of the She-bear, So eager to advance the cubs, that wealth Above, and here myself, I pocketed. Beneath my head the others are dragged down Who have preceded me in simony, Flattened along the fissure of the rock. But longer I my feet already toast, And here have been in this way upside down, Than he will planted stay with reddened feet; For after him shall come of fouler deed From tow'rds the west a Pastor without law, Such as befits to cover him and me. I do not know if I were here too bold, That him I answered only in this metre: "I pray thee tell me now how great a treasure Nor Peter nor the rest asked of Matthias Silver or gold, when he by lot was chosen Unto the place the guilty soul had lost. Therefore stay here, for thou art justly punished, And keep safe guard o'er the ill-gotten money, Which caused thee to be valiant against Charles. And were it not that still forbids it me The reverence for the keys superlative Thou hadst in keeping in the gladsome life, I would make use of words more grievous still; Because your avarice afflicts the world, Trampling the good and lifting the depraved. The Evangelist you Pastors had in mind, When she who sitteth upon many waters To fornicate with kings by him was seen; And while I sang to him such notes as these, Either that anger or that conscience stung him, He struggled violently with both his feet. I think in sooth that it my Leader pleased, With such contented lip he listened ever Unto the sound of the true words expressed. Therefore with both his arms he took me up, And when he had me all upon his breast, Remounted by the way where he descended. There tenderly he laid his burden down, Tenderly on the crag uneven and steep, That would have been hard passage for the goats: Thence was unveiled to me another valley. I was already thoroughly disposed To peer down into the uncovered depth, Which bathed itself with tears of agony; And people saw I through the circular valley, Silent and weeping, coming at the pace Which in this world the Litanies assume. For tow'rds the reins the countenance was turned, And backward it behoved them to advance, As to look forward had been taken from them. As God may let thee, Reader, gather fruit From this thy reading, think now for thyself How I could ever keep my face unmoistened, When our own image near me I beheld Distorted so, the weeping of the eyes Along the fissure bathed the hinder parts. Truly I wept, leaning upon a peak Of the hard crag, so that my Escort said To me: "Art thou, too, of the other fools? Here pity lives when it is wholly dead; Who is a greater reprobate than he Who feels compassion at the doom divine? Lift up, lift up thy head, and see for whom Opened the earth before the Thebans' eyes; Wherefore they all cried: 'Whither rushest thou, Amphiaraus? Why dost leave the war?' And downward ceased he not to fall amain As far as Minos, who lays hold on all. See, he has made a bosom of his shoulders! Because he wished to see too far before him Behind he looks, and backward goes his way: Behold Tiresias, who his semblance changed, When from a male a female he became, His members being all of them transformed; That Aruns is, who backs the other's belly, Who in the hills of Luni, there where grubs The Carrarese who houses underneath, Among the marbles white a cavern had For his abode; whence to behold the stars And sea, the view was not cut off from him. And she there, who is covering up her breasts, Which thou beholdest not, with loosened tresses, And on that side has all the hairy skin, Was Manto, who made quest through many lands, Afterwards tarried there where I was born; Whereof I would thou list to me a little. After her father had from life departed, And the city of Bacchus had become enslaved, She a long season wandered through the world. Above in beauteous Italy lies a lake At the Alp's foot that shuts in Germany Over Tyrol, and has the name Benaco. Midway a place is where the Trentine Pastor, And he of Brescia, and the Veronese Might give his blessing, if he passed that way. Sitteth Peschiera, fortress fair and strong, To front the Brescians and the Bergamasks, Where round about the bank descendeth lowest. There of necessity must fall whatever In bosom of Benaco cannot stay, And grows a river down through verdant pastures. Soon as the water doth begin to run, No more Benaco is it called, but Mincio, Far as Governo, where it falls in Po. Not far it runs before it finds a plain In which it spreads itself, and makes it marshy, And oft 'tis wont in summer to be sickly. Passing that way the virgin pitiless Land in the middle of the fen descried, Untilled and naked of inhabitants; There to escape all human intercourse, She with her servants stayed, her arts to practise And lived, and left her empty body there. The men, thereafter, who were scattered round, Collected in that place, which was made strong By the lagoon it had on every side; Therefore I caution thee, if e'er thou hearest Originate my city otherwise, No falsehood may the verity defraud." And I: "My Master, thy discourses are To me so certain, and so take my faith, That unto me the rest would be spent coals. Then said he to me: "He who from the cheek Thrusts out his beard upon his swarthy shoulders Was, at the time when Greece was void of males, Eryphylus his name was, and so sings My lofty Tragedy in some part or other; That knowest thou well, who knowest the whole of it. The next, who is so slender in the flanks, Was Michael Scott, who of a verity Of magical illusions knew the game. Behold Guido Bonatti, behold Asdente, Who now unto his leather and his thread Would fain have stuck, but he too late repents. Behold the wretched ones, who left the needle, The spool and rock, and made them fortune-tellers; They wrought their magic spells with herb and image. But come now, for already holds the confines Of both the hemispheres, and under Seville Touches the ocean-wave, Cain and the thorns, And yesternight the moon was round already; Thou shouldst remember well it did not harm thee From time to time within the forest deep." Thus spake he to me, and we walked the while. From bridge to bridge thus, speaking other things Of which my Comedy cares not to sing, We came along, and held the summit, when We halted to behold another fissure Of Malebolge and other vain laments; And I beheld it marvellously dark. As in the Arsenal of the Venetians Boils in the winter the tenacious pitch To smear their unsound vessels o'er again, Thus, not by fire, but by the art divine, Was boiling down below there a dense pitch Which upon every side the bank belimed. I saw it, but I did not see within it Aught but the bubbles that the boiling raised, And all swell up and resubside compressed. The while below there fixedly I gazed, My Leader, crying out: "Beware, beware!" Drew me unto himself from where I stood. Who, while he looks, delays not his departure; And I beheld behind us a black devil, Running along upon the crag, approach. Ah, how ferocious was he in his aspect! And how he seemed to me in action ruthless, With open wings and light upon his feet! His shoulders, which sharp-pointed were and high, A sinner did encumber with both haunches, And he held clutched the sinews of the feet. Unto that town, which is well furnished with them. All there are barrators, except Bonturo; No into Yes for money there is changed." He hurled him down, and over the hard crag Turned round, and never was a mastiff loosened In so much hurry to pursue a thief. The other sank, and rose again face downward; But the demons, under cover of the bridge, Cried: "Here the Santo Volto has no place! Not otherwise the cooks their scullions make Immerse into the middle of the caldron The meat with hooks, so that it may not float. Said the good Master to me: "That it be not Apparent thou art here, crouch thyself down Behind a jag, that thou mayest have some screen; With the same fury, and the same uproar, As dogs leap out upon a mendicant, Who on a sudden begs, where'er he stops, They issued from beneath the little bridge, And turned against him all their grappling-irons; But he cried out: "Be none of you malignant! "Thinkest thou, Malacoda, to behold me Advanced into this place," my Master said, "Safe hitherto from all your skill of fence, Without the will divine, and fate auspicious? Let me go on, for it in Heaven is willed That I another show this savage road." Then was his arrogance so humbled in him, That he let fall his grapnel at his feet, And to the others said: "Now strike him not." And unto me my Guide: "O thou, who sittest Among the splinters of the bridge crouched down, Securely now return to me again." Wherefore I started and came swiftly to him; And all the devils forward thrust themselves, So that I feared they would not keep their compact. Close did I press myself with all my person Beside my Leader, and turned not mine eyes From off their countenance, which was not good. But the same demon who was holding parley With my Conductor turned him very quickly, And said: "Be quiet, be quiet, Scarmiglione;" And if it still doth please you to go onward, Pursue your way along upon this rock; Near is another crag that yields a path. Come forward, Libicocco and Draghignazzo, And tusked Ciriatto and Graffiacane, And Farfarello and mad Rubicante; Search ye all round about the boiling pitch; Let these be safe as far as the next crag, That all unbroken passes o'er the dens." "O me! what is it, Master, that I see? Pray let us go," I said, "without an escort, If thou knowest how, since for myself I ask none. If thou art as observant as thy wont is, Dost thou not see that they do gnash their teeth, And with their brows are threatening woe to us?" And he to me: "I will not have thee fear; Let them gnash on, according to their fancy, Because they do it for those boiling wretches." And he had made a trumpet of his rump. I have erewhile seen horsemen moving camp, Begin the storming, and their muster make, And sometimes starting off for their escape; Vaunt-couriers have I seen upon your land, O Aretines, and foragers go forth, Tournaments stricken, and the joustings run, Sometimes with trumpets and sometimes with bells, With kettle-drums, and signals of the castles, And with our own, and with outlandish things, But never yet with bagpipe so uncouth Did I see horsemen move, nor infantry, Nor ship by any sign of land or star. Ever upon the pitch was my intent, To see the whole condition of that Bolgia, And of the people who therein were burned. Even as the dolphins, when they make a sign To mariners by arching of the back, That they should counsel take to save their vessel, As on the brink of water in a ditch The frogs stand only with their muzzles out, So that they hide their feet and other bulk, So upon every side the sinners stood; But ever as Barbariccia near them came, Thus underneath the boiling they withdrew. And Graffiacan, who most confronted him, Grappled him by his tresses smeared with pitch, And drew him up, so that he seemed an otter. I knew, before, the names of all of them, So had I noted them when they were chosen, And when they called each other, listened how. "O Rubicante, see that thou do lay Thy claws upon him, so that thou mayst flay him," Cried all together the accursed ones. And I: "My Master, see to it, if thou canst, That thou mayst know who is the luckless wight, Thus come into his adversaries' hands." Near to the side of him my Leader drew, Asked of him whence he was; and he replied: "I in the kingdom of Navarre was born; My mother placed me servant to a lord, For she had borne me to a ribald knave, Destroyer of himself and of his things. Then I domestic was of good King Thibault; I set me there to practise barratry, For which I pay the reckoning in this heat." Among malicious cats the mouse had come; But Barbariccia clasped him in his arms, And said: "Stand ye aside, while I enfork him." And Libicocco: "We have borne too much;" And with his grapnel seized him by the arm, So that, by rending, he tore off a tendon. Eke Draghignazzo wished to pounce upon him Down at the legs; whence their Decurion Turned round and round about with evil look. When they again somewhat were pacified, Of him, who still was looking at his wound, Demanded my Conductor without stay: He of Gallura, vessel of all fraud, Who had the enemies of his Lord in hand, And dealt so with them each exults thereat; And the grand Provost, turned to Farfarello, Who rolled his eyes about as if to strike, Said: "Stand aside there, thou malicious bird." "If you desire either to see or hear," The terror-stricken recommenced thereon, "Tuscans or Lombards, I will make them come. But let the Malebranche cease a little, So that these may not their revenges fear, And I, down sitting in this very place, Cagnazzo at these words his muzzle lifted, Shaking his head, and said: "Just hear the trick Which he has thought of, down to throw himself!" Whence he, who snares in great abundance had, Responded: "I by far too cunning am, When I procure for mine a greater sadness." Alichin held not in, but running counter Unto the rest, said to him: "If thou dive, I will not follow thee upon the gallop, But I will beat my wings above the pitch; The height be left, and be the bank a shield To see if thou alone dost countervail us." The Navarrese selected well his time; Planted his feet on land, and in a moment Leaped, and released himself from their design. Not otherwise the duck upon a sudden Dives under, when the falcon is approaching, And upward he returneth cross and weary. Infuriate at the mockery, Calcabrina Flying behind him followed close, desirous The other should escape, to have a quarrel. And when the barrator had disappeared, He turned his talons upon his companion, And grappled with him right above the moat. But sooth the other was a doughty sparhawk To clapperclaw him well; and both of them Fell in the middle of the boiling pond. A sudden intercessor was the heat; But ne'ertheless of rising there was naught, To such degree they had their wings belimed. This side and that they to their posts descended; They stretched their hooks towards the pitch-ensnared, Who were already baked within the crust, And in this manner busied did we leave them. Inferno: Canto XXIII Upon the fable of Aesop was directed My thought, by reason of the present quarrel, Where he has spoken of the frog and mouse; Thus did I ponder: "These on our account Are laughed to scorn, with injury and scoff So great, that much I think it must annoy them. If anger be engrafted on ill-will, They will come after us more merciless Than dog upon the leveret which he seizes," I felt my hair stand all on end already With terror, and stood backwardly intent, When said I: "Master, if thou hidest not Thyself and me forthwith, of Malebranche I am in dread; we have them now behind us; I so imagine them, I already feel them." And he: "If I were made of leaded glass, Thine outward image I should not attract Sooner to me than I imprint the inner. Not yet he finished rendering such opinion, When I beheld them come with outstretched wings, Not far remote, with will to seize upon us. My Leader on a sudden seized me up, Even as a mother who by noise is wakened, And close beside her sees the enkindled flames, Who takes her son, and flies, and does not stop, Having more care of him than of herself, So that she clothes her only with a shift; Ne'er ran so swiftly water through a sluice To turn the wheel of any land-built mill, When nearest to the paddles it approaches, As did my Master down along that border, Bearing me with him on his breast away, As his own son, and not as a companion. Hardly the bed of the ravine below His feet had reached, ere they had reached the hill Right over us; but he was not afraid; A painted people there below we found, Who went about with footsteps very slow, Weeping and in their semblance tired and vanquished. They had on mantles with the hoods low down Before their eyes, and fashioned of the cut That in Cologne they for the monks are made. Without, they gilded are so that it dazzles; But inwardly all leaden and so heavy That Frederick used to put them on of straw. O everlastingly fatiguing mantle! Again we turned us, still to the left hand Along with them, intent on their sad plaint; But owing to the weight, that weary folk Came on so tardily, that we were new In company at each motion of the haunch. Perhaps thou'lt have from me what thou demandest." Whereat the Leader turned him, and said: "Wait, And then according to his pace proceed." When they came up, long with an eye askance They scanned me without uttering a word. Then to each other turned, and said together: "He by the action of his throat seems living; And if they dead are, by what privilege Go they uncovered by the heavy stole?" Then said to me: "Tuscan, who to the college Of miserable hypocrites art come, Do not disdain to tell us who thou art." And I to them: "Born was I, and grew up In the great town on the fair river of Arno, And with the body am I've always had. But who are ye, in whom there trickles down Along your cheeks such grief as I behold? And what pain is upon you, that so sparkles?" Frati Gaudenti were we, and Bolognese; I Catalano, and he Loderingo Named, and together taken by thy city, When me he saw, he writhed himself all over, Blowing into his beard with suspirations; And the Friar Catalan, who noticed this, And thereupon I saw Virgilius marvel O'er him who was extended on the cross So vilely in eternal banishment. Then he made answer: "Nearer than thou hopest There is a rock, that forth from the great circle Proceeds, and crosses all the cruel valleys, The Leader stood awhile with head bowed down; Then said: "The business badly he recounted Who grapples with his hook the sinners yonder." Thereat my Leader with great strides went on, Somewhat disturbed with anger in his looks; Whence from the heavy-laden I departed After the prints of his beloved feet. What time the hoar-frost copies on the ground The outward semblance of her sister white, But little lasts the temper of her pen, The husbandman, whose forage faileth him, Rises, and looks, and seeth the champaign All gleaming white, whereat he beats his flank, Returns in doors, and up and down laments, Like a poor wretch, who knows not what to do; Then he returns and hope revives again, Seeing the world has changed its countenance In little time, and takes his shepherd's crook, And forth the little lambs to pasture drives. Thus did the Master fill me with alarm, When I beheld his forehead so disturbed, And to the ailment came as soon the plaster. And even as he who acts and meditates, For aye it seems that he provides beforehand, So upward lifting me towards the summit And had it not been, that upon that precinct Shorter was the ascent than on the other, He I know not, but I had been dead beat. But because Malebolge tow'rds the mouth Of the profoundest well is all inclining, The structure of each valley doth import Withouten which whoso his life consumes Such vestige leaveth of himself on earth, As smoke in air or in the water foam. And therefore raise thee up, o'ercome the anguish With spirit that o'ercometh every battle, If with its heavy body it sink not. A longer stairway it behoves thee mount; 'Tis not enough from these to have departed; Let it avail thee, if thou understand me." Then I uprose, showing myself provided Better with breath than I did feel myself, And said: "Go on, for I am strong and bold." Upward we took our way along the crag, Which jagged was, and narrow, and difficult, And more precipitous far than that before. Speaking I went, not to appear exhausted; Whereat a voice from the next moat came forth, Not well adapted to articulate words. I know not what it said, though o'er the back I now was of the arch that passes there; But he seemed moved to anger who was speaking. I was bent downward, but my living eyes Could not attain the bottom, for the dark; Wherefore I: "Master, see that thou arrive At the next round, and let us descend the wall; For as from hence I hear and understand not, So I look down and nothing I distinguish." "Other response," he said, "I make thee not, Except the doing; for the modest asking Ought to be followed by the deed in silence." And I beheld therein a terrible throng Of serpents, and of such a monstrous kind, That the remembrance still congeals my blood Let Libya boast no longer with her sand; For if Chelydri, Jaculi, and Phareae She breeds, with Cenchri and with Amphisbaena, Neither so many plagues nor so malignant E'er showed she with all Ethiopia, Nor with whatever on the Red Sea is! Among this cruel and most dismal throng People were running naked and affrighted. Without the hope of hole or heliotrope. They had their hands with serpents bound behind them; These riveted upon their reins the tail And head, and were in front of them entwined. Nor 'O' so quickly e'er, nor 'I' was written, As he took fire, and burned; and ashes wholly Behoved it that in falling he became. And when he on the ground was thus destroyed, The ashes drew together, and of themselves Into himself they instantly returned. On herb or grain it feeds not in its life, But only on tears of incense and amomum, And nard and myrrh are its last winding-sheet. And as he is who falls, and knows not how, By force of demons who to earth down drag him, Or other oppilation that binds man, When he arises and around him looks, Wholly bewildered by the mighty anguish Which he has suffered, and in looking sighs; Such was that sinner after he had risen. Justice of God! O how severe it is, That blows like these in vengeance poureth down! The Guide thereafter asked him who he was; Whence he replied: "I rained from Tuscany A short time since into this cruel gorge. A bestial life, and not a human, pleased me, Even as the mule I was; I'm Vanni Fucci, Beast, and Pistoia was my worthy den." And the sinner, who had heard, dissembled not, But unto me directed mind and face, And with a melancholy shame was painted. Then said: "It pains me more that thou hast caught me Amid this misery where thou seest me, Than when I from the other life was taken. What thou demandest I cannot deny; So low am I put down because I robbed The sacristy of the fair ornaments, Mars draws a vapour up from Val di Magra, Which is with turbid clouds enveloped round, And with impetuous and bitter tempest Over Campo Picen shall be the battle; When it shall suddenly rend the mist asunder, So that each Bianco shall thereby be smitten. And this I've said that it may give thee pain." At the conclusion of his words, the thief Lifted his hands aloft with both the figs, Crying: "Take that, God, for at thee I aim them." And round his arms another, and rebound him, Clinching itself together so in front, That with them he could not a motion make. Pistoia, ah, Pistoia! why resolve not To burn thyself to ashes and so perish, Since in ill-doing thou thy seed excellest? Through all the sombre circles of this Hell, Spirit I saw not against God so proud, Not he who fell at Thebes down from the walls! He fled away, and spake no further word; And I beheld a Centaur full of rage Come crying out: "Where is, where is the scoffer?" I do not think Maremma has so many Serpents as he had all along his back, As far as where our countenance begins. Upon the shoulders, just behind the nape, With wings wide open was a dragon lying, And he sets fire to all that he encounters. He goes not on the same road with his brothers, By reason of the fraudulent theft he made Of the great herd, which he had near to him; Until what time they shouted: "Who are you?" On which account our story made a halt, And then we were intent on them alone. Exclaiming: "Where can Cianfa have remained?" Whence I, so that the Leader might attend, Upward from chin to nose my finger laid. If thou art, Reader, slow now to believe What I shall say, it will no marvel be, For I who saw it hardly can admit it. Ivy was never fastened by its barbs Unto a tree so, as this horrible reptile Upon the other's limbs entwined its own. E'en as proceedeth on before the flame Upward along the paper a brown colour, Which is not black as yet, and the white dies. Even as a lizard, under the great scourge Of days canicular, exchanging hedge, Lightning appeareth if the road it cross; Henceforth be silent Lucan, where he mentions Wretched Sabellus and Nassidius, And wait to hear what now shall be shot forth. Be silent Ovid, of Cadmus and Arethusa; For if him to a snake, her to fountain, Converts he fabling, that I grudge him not; Together they responded in such wise, That to a fork the serpent cleft his tail, And eke the wounded drew his feet together. The legs together with the thighs themselves Adhered so, that in little time the juncture No sign whatever made that was apparent. I saw the arms draw inward at the armpits, And both feet of the reptile, that were short, Lengthen as much as those contracted were. He who was standing drew it tow'rds the temples, And from excess of matter, which came thither, Issued the ears from out the hollow cheeks; What did not backward run and was retained Of that excess made to the face a nose, And the lips thickened far as was befitting. He who lay prostrate thrusts his muzzle forward, And backward draws the ears into his head, In the same manner as the snail its horns; And so the tongue, which was entire and apt For speech before, is cleft, and the bi-forked In the other closes up, and the smoke ceases. The soul, which to a reptile had been changed, Along the valley hissing takes to flight, And after him the other speaking sputters. Then did he turn upon him his new shoulders, And said to the other: "I'll have Buoso run, Crawling as I have done, along this road." And notwithstanding that mine eyes might be Somewhat bewildered, and my mind dismayed, They could not flee away so secretly The other was he whom thou, Gaville, weepest. Rejoice, O Florence, since thou art so great, That over sea and land thou beatest thy wings, And throughout Hell thy name is spread abroad! But if when morn is near our dreams are true, Feel shalt thou in a little time from now What Prato, if none other, craves for thee. And if it now were, it were not too soon; Would that it were, seeing it needs must be, For 'twill aggrieve me more the more I age. We went our way, and up along the stairs The bourns had made us to descend before, Remounted my Conductor and drew me. And following the solitary path Among the rocks and ridges of the crag, The foot without the hand sped not at all. Then sorrowed I, and sorrow now again, When I direct my mind to what I saw, And more my genius curb than I am wont, That it may run not unless virtue guide it; So that if some good star, or better thing, Have given me good, I may myself not grudge it. As many as the hind (who on the hill Rests at the time when he who lights the world His countenance keeps least concealed from us, While as the fly gives place unto the gnat) Seeth the glow-worms down along the valley, Perchance there where he ploughs and makes his vintage; And such as he who with the bears avenged him Beheld Elijah's chariot at departing, What time the steeds to heaven erect uprose, For with his eye he could not follow it So as to see aught else than flame alone, Even as a little cloud ascending upward, I stood upon the bridge uprisen to see, So that, if I had seized not on a rock, Down had I fallen without being pushed. And the Leader, who beheld me so attent, Exclaimed: "Within the fires the spirits are; Each swathes himself with that wherewith he burns." "My Master," I replied, "by hearing thee I am more sure; but I surmised already It might be so, and already wished to ask thee Who is within that fire, which comes so cleft At top, it seems uprising from the pyre Where was Eteocles with his brother placed." He answered me: "Within there are tormented Ulysses and Diomed, and thus together They unto vengeance run as unto wrath. And there within their flame do they lament The ambush of the horse, which made the door Whence issued forth the Romans' gentle seed; Therein is wept the craft, for which being dead Deidamia still deplores Achilles, And pain for the Palladium there is borne." That thou make no denial of awaiting Until the horned flame shall hither come; Thou seest that with desire I lean towards it." And he to me: "Worthy is thy entreaty Of much applause, and therefore I accept it; But take heed that thy tongue restrain itself. Leave me to speak, because I have conceived That which thou wishest; for they might disdain Perchance, since they were Greeks, discourse of thine." When now the flame had come unto that point, Where to my Leader it seemed time and place, After this fashion did I hear him speak: Then of the antique flame the greater horn, Murmuring, began to wave itself about Even as a flame doth which the wind fatigues. Thereafterward, the summit to and fro Moving as if it were the tongue that spake, It uttered forth a voice, and said: "When I From Circe had departed, who concealed me More than a year there near unto Gaeta, Or ever yet Aeneas named it so, Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence For my old father, nor the due affection Which joyous should have made Penelope, Could overcome within me the desire I had to be experienced of the world, And of the vice and virtue of mankind; Both of the shores I saw as far as Spain, Far as Morocco, and the isle of Sardes, And the others which that sea bathes round about. I and my company were old and slow When at that narrow passage we arrived Where Hercules his landmarks set as signals, That man no farther onward should adventure. On the right hand behind me left I Seville, And on the other already had left Ceuta. Which is remaining of your senses still Be ye unwilling to deny the knowledge, Following the sun, of the unpeopled world. Consider ye the seed from which ye sprang; Ye were not made to live like unto brutes, But for pursuit of virtue and of knowledge.' So eager did I render my companions, With this brief exhortation, for the voyage, That then I hardly could have held them back. And having turned our stern unto the morning, We of the oars made wings for our mad flight, Evermore gaining on the larboard side. Already all the stars of the other pole The night beheld, and ours so very low It did not rise above the ocean floor. Joyful were we, and soon it turned to weeping; For out of the new land a whirlwind rose, And smote upon the fore part of the ship. Until the sea above us closed again." Inferno: Canto XXVII Already was the flame erect and quiet, To speak no more, and now departed from us With the permission of the gentle Poet; When yet another, which behind it came, Caused us to turn our eyes upon its top By a confused sound that issued from it. Bellowed so with the voice of the afflicted, That, notwithstanding it was made of brass, Still it appeared with agony transfixed; But afterwards, when they had gathered way Up through the point, giving it that vibration The tongue had given them in their passage out, We heard it said: "O thou, at whom I aim My voice, and who but now wast speaking Lombard, Saying, 'Now go thy way, no more I urge thee,' Because I come perchance a little late, To stay and speak with me let it not irk thee; Thou seest it irks not me, and I am burning. If thou but lately into this blind world Hast fallen down from that sweet Latian land, Wherefrom I bring the whole of my transgression, Say, if the Romagnuols have peace or war, For I was from the mountains there between Urbino and the yoke whence Tiber bursts." And I, who had beforehand my reply In readiness, forthwith began to speak: "O soul, that down below there art concealed, Romagna thine is not and never has been Without war in the bosom of its tyrants; But open war I none have left there now. Ravenna stands as it long years has stood; The Eagle of Polenta there is brooding, So that she covers Cervia with her vans. Verrucchio's ancient Mastiff and the new, Who made such bad disposal of Montagna, Where they are wont make wimbles of their teeth. The cities of Lamone and Santerno Governs the Lioncel of the white lair, Who changes sides 'twixt summer-time and winter; And that of which the Savio bathes the flank, Even as it lies between the plain and mountain, Lives between tyranny and a free state. Now I entreat thee tell us who thou art; Be not more stubborn than the rest have been, So may thy name hold front there in the world." After the fire a little more had roared In its own fashion, the sharp point it moved This way and that, and then gave forth such breath: I was a man of arms, then Cordelier, Believing thus begirt to make amends; And truly my belief had been fulfilled But for the High Priest, whom may ill betide, Who put me back into my former sins; And how and wherefore I will have thee hear. While I was still the form of bone and pulp My mother gave to me, the deeds I did Were not those of a lion, but a fox. The machinations and the covert ways I knew them all, and practised so their craft, That to the ends of earth the sound went forth. That which before had pleased me then displeased me; And penitent and confessing I surrendered, Ah woe is me! and it would have bestead me; The Leader of the modern Pharisees Having a war near unto Lateran, And not with Saracens nor with the Jews, Nor the high office, nor the sacred orders, In him regarded, nor in me that cord Which used to make those girt with it more meagre; To cure him of the fever of his pride. Counsel he asked of me, and I was silent, Because his words appeared inebriate. And then he said: 'Be not thy heart afraid; Henceforth I thee absolve; and thou instruct me How to raze Palestrina to the ground. Then urged me on his weighty arguments There, where my silence was the worst advice; And said I: 'Father, since thou washest me Of that sin into which I now must fall, The promise long with the fulfilment short Will make thee triumph in thy lofty seat.' He must come down among my servitors, Because he gave the fraudulent advice From which time forth I have been at his hair; O miserable me! how I did shudder When he seized on me, saying: 'Peradventure Thou didst not think that I was a logician!' Said: 'Of the thievish fire a culprit this;' Wherefore, here where thou seest, am I lost, And vested thus in going I bemoan me." When it had thus completed its recital, The flame departed uttering lamentations, Writhing and flapping its sharp-pointed horn. Onward we passed, both I and my Conductor, Up o'er the crag above another arch, Which the moat covers, where is paid the fee By those who, sowing discord, win their burden. Inferno: Canto XXVIII Each tongue would for a certainty fall short By reason of our speech and memory, That have small room to comprehend so much. If were again assembled all the people Which formerly upon the fateful land Of Puglia were lamenting for their blood Shed by the Romans and the lingering war That of the rings made such illustrious spoils, As Livy has recorded, who errs not, With those who felt the agony of blows By making counterstand to Robert Guiscard, And all the rest, whose bones are gathered still At Ceperano, where a renegade Was each Apulian, and at Tagliacozzo, Where without arms the old Alardo conquered, Between his legs were hanging down his entrails; His heart was visible, and the dismal sack That maketh excrement of what is eaten. While I was all absorbed in seeing him, He looked at me, and opened with his hands His bosom, saying: "See now how I rend me; How mutilated, see, is Mahomet; In front of me doth Ali weeping go, Cleft in the face from forelock unto chin; And all the others whom thou here beholdest, Disseminators of scandal and of schism While living were, and therefore are cleft thus. But who art thou, that musest on the crag, Perchance to postpone going to the pain That is adjudged upon thine accusations?" "Nor death hath reached him yet, nor guilt doth bring him," My Master made reply, "to be tormented; But to procure him full experience, Me, who am dead, behoves it to conduct him Down here through Hell, from circle unto circle; And this is true as that I speak to thee." "Now say to Fra Dolcino, then, to arm him, Thou, who perhaps wilt shortly see the sun, If soon he wish not here to follow me, So with provisions, that no stress of snow May give the victory to the Novarese, Which otherwise to gain would not be easy." Staying to look in wonder with the others, Before the others did his gullet open, Which outwardly was red in every part, Cast over from their vessel shall they be, And drowned near unto the Cattolica, By the betrayal of a tyrant fell. Between the isles of Cyprus and Majorca Neptune ne'er yet beheld so great a crime, Neither of pirates nor Argolic people. Will make them come unto a parley with him; Then will do so, that to Focara's wind They will not stand in need of vow or prayer." And I to him: "Show to me and declare, If thou wouldst have me bear up news of thee, Who is this person of the bitter vision." O how bewildered unto me appeared, With tongue asunder in his windpipe slit, Curio, who in speaking was so bold! Cried out: "Thou shalt remember Mosca also, Who said, alas! 'A thing done has an end!' Which was an ill seed for the Tuscan people." "And death unto thy race," thereto I added; Whence he, accumulating woe on woe, Departed, like a person sad and crazed. If it were not that conscience reassures me, That good companion which emboldens man Beneath the hauberk of its feeling pure. I truly saw, and still I seem to see it, A trunk without a head walk in like manner As walked the others of the mournful herd. And by the hair it held the head dissevered, Hung from the hand in fashion of a lantern, And that upon us gazed and said: "O me!" When it was come close to the bridge's foot, It lifted high its arm with all the head, To bring more closely unto us its words, Which were: "Behold now the sore penalty, Thou, who dost breathing go the dead beholding; Behold if any be as great as this. And so that thou may carry news of me, Know that Bertram de Born am I, the same Who gave to the Young King the evil comfort. I made the father and the son rebellious; Achitophel not more with Absalom And David did with his accursed goadings. Because I parted persons so united, Parted do I now bear my brain, alas! From its beginning, which is in this trunk. Thus is observed in me the counterpoise." The many people and the divers wounds These eyes of mine had so inebriated, That they were wishful to stand still and weep; But said Virgilius: "What dost thou still gaze at? Why is thy sight still riveted down there Among the mournful, mutilated shades? And now the moon is underneath our feet; Henceforth the time allotted us is brief, And more is to be seen than what thou seest." "If thou hadst," I made answer thereupon, "Attended to the cause for which I looked, Perhaps a longer stay thou wouldst have pardoned." Meanwhile my Guide departed, and behind him I went, already making my reply, And superadding: "In that cavern where I held mine eyes with such attention fixed, I think a spirit of my blood laments The sin which down below there costs so much." Then said the Master: "Be no longer broken Thy thought from this time forward upon him; Attend elsewhere, and there let him remain; For him I saw below the little bridge, Pointing at thee, and threatening with his finger Fiercely, and heard him called Geri del Bello. So wholly at that time wast thou impeded By him who formerly held Altaforte, Thou didst not look that way; so he departed." "O my Conductor, his own violent death, Which is not yet avenged for him," I said, "By any who is sharer in the shame, Made him disdainful; whence he went away, As I imagine, without speaking to me, And thereby made me pity him the more." When we were now right over the last cloister Of Malebolge, so that its lay-brothers Could manifest themselves unto our sight, Divers lamentings pierced me through and through, Which with compassion had their arrows barbed, Whereat mine ears I covered with my hands. What pain would be, if from the hospitals Of Valdichiana, 'twixt July and September, And of Maremma and Sardinia We had descended on the furthest bank From the long crag, upon the left hand still, And then more vivid was my power of sight Down tow'rds the bottom, where the ministress Of the high Lord, Justice infallible, Punishes forgers, which she here records. I do not think a sadder sight to see Was in Aegina the whole people sick, (When was the air so full of pestilence, The animals, down to the little worm, All fell, and afterwards the ancient people, According as the poets have affirmed, Were from the seed of ants restored again,) Than was it to behold through that dark valley The spirits languishing in divers heaps. We step by step went onward without speech, Gazing upon and listening to the sick Who had not strength enough to lift their bodies. And never saw I plied a currycomb By stable-boy for whom his master waits, Or him who keeps awake unwillingly, And the nails downward with them dragged the scab, In fashion as a knife the scales of bream, Or any other fish that has them largest. Tell me if any Latian is with those Who are herein; so may thy nails suffice thee To all eternity unto this work." Wholly to me did the good Master gather, Saying: "Say unto them whate'er thou wishest." And I began, since he would have it so: Say to me who ye are, and of what people; Let not your foul and loathsome punishment Make you afraid to show yourselves to me." 'Tis true I said to him, speaking in jest, That I could rise by flight into the air, And he who had conceit, but little wit, And to the Poet said I: "Now was ever So vain a people as the Sienese? Not for a certainty the French by far." Whereat the other leper, who had heard me, Replied unto my speech: "Taking out Stricca, Who knew the art of moderate expenses, And Niccolo, who the luxurious use Of cloves discovered earliest of all Within that garden where such seed takes root; And taking out the band, among whom squandered Caccia d'Ascian his vineyards and vast woods, And where his wit the Abbagliato proffered! And thou shalt see I am Capocchio's shade, Who metals falsified by alchemy; Thou must remember, if I well descry thee, How I a skilful ape of nature was." So reft of reason Athamas became, That, seeing his own wife with children twain Walking encumbered upon either hand, He cried: "Spread out the nets, that I may take The lioness and her whelps upon the passage;" And then extended his unpitying claws, Hecuba sad, disconsolate, and captive, When lifeless she beheld Polyxena, And of her Polydorus on the shore And the Aretine, who trembling had remained, Said to me: "That mad sprite is Gianni Schicchi, And raving goes thus harrying other people." "O," said I to him, "so may not the other Set teeth on thee, let it not weary thee To tell us who it is, ere it dart hence." And he to me: "That is the ancient ghost Of the nefarious Myrrha, who became Beyond all rightful love her father's lover. She came to sin with him after this manner, By counterfeiting of another's form; As he who goeth yonder undertook, That he might gain the lady of the herd, To counterfeit in himself Buoso Donati, Making a will and giving it due form." The heavy dropsy, that so disproportions The limbs with humours, which it ill concocts, That the face corresponds not to the belly, "O ye, who without any torment are, And why I know not, in the world of woe," He said to us, "behold, and be attentive Unto the misery of Master Adam; I had while living much of what I wished, And now, alas! a drop of water crave. The rivulets, that from the verdant hills Of Cassentin descend down into Arno, Making their channels to be cold and moist, Ever before me stand, and not in vain; For far more doth their image dry me up Than the disease which strips my face of flesh. The rigid justice that chastises me Draweth occasion from the place in which I sinned, to put the more my sighs in flight. There is Romena, where I counterfeited The currency imprinted with the Baptist, For which I left my body burned above. But if I here could see the tristful soul Of Guido, or Alessandro, or their brother, For Branda's fount I would not give the sight. "I found them here," replied he, "when I rained Into this chasm, and since they have not turned, Nor do I think they will for evermore. It gave a sound, as if it were a drum; And Master Adam smote him in the face, With arm that did not seem to be less hard, Saying to him: "Although be taken from me All motion, for my limbs that heavy are, I have an arm unfettered for such need." Whereat he answer made: "When thou didst go Unto the fire, thou hadst it not so ready: But hadst it so and more when thou wast coining." The dropsical: "Thou sayest true in that; But thou wast not so true a witness there, Where thou wast questioned of the truth at Troy." "Remember, perjurer, about the horse," He made reply who had the swollen belly, "And rueful be it thee the whole world knows it." "Rueful to thee the thirst be wherewith cracks Thy tongue," the Greek said, "and the putrid water That hedges so thy paunch before thine eyes." Then the false-coiner: "So is gaping wide Thy mouth for speaking evil, as 'tis wont; Because if I have thirst, and humour stuff me Thou hast the burning and the head that aches, And to lick up the mirror of Narcissus Thou wouldst not want words many to invite thee." In listening to them was I wholly fixed, When said the Master to me: "Now just look, For little wants it that I quarrel with thee." When him I heard in anger speak to me, I turned me round towards him with such shame That still it eddies through my memory. And as he is who dreams of his own harm, Who dreaming wishes it may be a dream, So that he craves what is, as if it were not; Such I became, not having power to speak, For to excuse myself I wished, and still Excused myself, and did not think I did it. "Less shame doth wash away a greater fault," The Master said, "than this of thine has been; Therefore thyself disburden of all sadness, And make account that I am aye beside thee, If e'er it come to pass that fortune bring thee Where there are people in a like dispute; For a base wish it is to wish to hear it." We turned our backs upon the wretched valley, Upon the bank that girds it round about, Going across it without any speech. There it was less than night, and less than day, So that my sight went little in advance; But I could hear the blare of a loud horn, After the dolorous discomfiture When Charlemagne the holy emprise lost, So terribly Orlando sounded not. Short while my head turned thitherward I held When many lofty towers I seemed to see, Whereat I: "Master, say, what town is this?" And he to me: "Because thou peerest forth Athwart the darkness at too great a distance, It happens that thou errest in thy fancy. Well shalt thou see, if thou arrivest there, How much the sense deceives itself by distance; Therefore a little faster spur thee on." Then tenderly he took me by the hand, And said: "Before we farther have advanced, That the reality may seem to thee As, when the fog is vanishing away, Little by little doth the sight refigure Whate'er the mist that crowds the air conceals, So, piercing through the dense and darksome air, More and more near approaching tow'rd the verge, My error fled, and fear came over me; Because as on its circular parapets Montereggione crowns itself with towers, E'en thus the margin which surrounds the well Certainly Nature, when she left the making Of animals like these, did well indeed, By taking such executors from Mars; And if of elephants and whales she doth not Repent her, whosoever looketh subtly More just and more discreet will hold her for it; For where the argument of intellect Is added unto evil will and power, No rampart can the people make against it. So that the margin, which an apron was Down from the middle, showed so much of him Above it, that to reach up to his hair "Raphael mai amech izabi almi," Began to clamour the ferocious mouth, To which were not befitting sweeter psalms. And unto him my Guide: "Soul idiotic, Keep to thy horn, and vent thyself with that, When wrath or other passion touches thee. Search round thy neck, and thou wilt find the belt Which keeps it fastened, O bewildered soul, And see it, where it bars thy mighty breast." Here let us leave him and not speak in vain; For even such to him is every language As his to others, which to none is known." Therefore a longer journey did we make, Turned to the left, and a crossbow-shot oft We found another far more fierce and large. In binding him, who might the master be I cannot say; but he had pinioned close Behind the right arm, and in front the other, Ephialtes is his name; he showed great prowess. What time the giants terrified the gods; The arms he wielded never more he moves." And I to him: "If possible, I should wish That of the measureless Briareus These eyes of mine might have experience." Whence he replied: "Thou shalt behold Antaeus Close by here, who can speak and is unbound, Who at the bottom of all crime shall place us. There never was an earthquake of such might That it could shake a tower so violently, As Ephialtes suddenly shook himself. Then was I more afraid of death than ever, For nothing more was needful than the fear, If I had not beheld the manacles. "O thou, who in the valley fortunate, Which Scipio the heir of glory made, When Hannibal turned back with all his hosts, The sons of Earth the victory would have gained: Place us below, nor be disdainful of it, There where the cold doth lock Cocytus up. Still in the world can he restore thy fame; Because he lives, and still expects long life, If to itself Grace call him not untimely." As seems the Carisenda, to behold Beneath the leaning side, when goes a cloud Above it so that opposite it hangs; Such did Antaeus seem to me, who stood Watching to see him stoop, and then it was I could have wished to go some other way. But lightly in the abyss, which swallows up Judas with Lucifer, he put us down; Nor thus bowed downward made he there delay, But, as a mast does in a ship, uprose. Inferno: Canto XXXII If I had rhymes both rough and stridulous, As were appropriate to the dismal hole Down upon which thrust all the other rocks, I would press out the juice of my conception More fully; but because I have them not, Not without fear I bring myself to speak; For 'tis no enterprise to take in jest, To sketch the bottom of all the universe, Nor for a tongue that cries Mamma and Babbo. But may those Ladies help this verse of mine, Who helped Amphion in enclosing Thebes, That from the fact the word be not diverse. O rabble ill-begotten above all, Who're in the place to speak of which is hard, 'Twere better ye had here been sheep or goats! When we were down within the darksome well, Beneath the giant's feet, but lower far, And I was scanning still the lofty wall, I heard it said to me: "Look how thou steppest! Take heed thou do not trample with thy feet The heads of the tired, miserable brothers!" Whereat I turned me round, and saw before me And underfoot a lake, that from the frost The semblance had of glass, and not of water. So thick a veil ne'er made upon its current In winter-time Danube in Austria, Nor there beneath the frigid sky the Don, As there was here; so that if Tambernich Had fallen upon it, or Pietrapana, E'en at the edge 'twould not have given a creak. "Ye who so strain your breasts together, tell me," I said, "who are you;" and they bent their necks, And when to me their faces they had lifted, So with his head I see no farther forward, And bore the name of Sassol Mascheroni; Well knowest thou who he was, if thou art Tuscan. And that thou put me not to further speech, Know that I Camicion de' Pazzi was, And wait Carlino to exonerate me." And while we were advancing tow'rds the middle, Where everything of weight unites together, And I was shivering in the eternal shade, Weeping he growled: "Why dost thou trample me? Unless thou comest to increase the vengeance of Montaperti, why dost thou molest me?" And I: "My Master, now wait here for me, That I through him may issue from a doubt; Then thou mayst hurry me, as thou shalt wish." "Now who art thou, that goest through Antenora Smiting," replied he, "other people's cheeks, So that, if thou wert living, 'twere too much?" "Living I am, and dear to thee it may be," Was my response, "if thou demandest fame, That 'mid the other notes thy name I place." And he to me: "For the reverse I long; Take thyself hence, and give me no more trouble; For ill thou knowest to flatter in this hollow." Then by the scalp behind I seized upon him, And said: "It must needs be thou name thyself, Or not a hair remain upon thee here." When cried another: "What doth ail thee, Bocca? Is't not enough to clatter with thy jaws, But thou must bark? what devil touches thee?" "Now," said I, "I care not to have thee speak, Accursed traitor; for unto thy shame I will report of thee veracious news." "Begone," replied he, "and tell what thou wilt, But be not silent, if thou issue hence, Of him who had just now his tongue so prompt; He weepeth here the silver of the French; 'I saw,' thus canst thou phrase it, 'him of Duera There where the sinners stand out in the cold.' If thou shouldst questioned be who else was there, Thou hast beside thee him of Beccaria, Of whom the gorget Florence slit asunder; Gianni del Soldanier, I think, may be Yonder with Ganellon, and Tebaldello Who oped Faenza when the people slep." And even as bread through hunger is devoured, The uppermost on the other set his teeth, There where the brain is to the nape united. "O thou, who showest by such bestial sign Thy hatred against him whom thou art eating, Tell me the wherefore," said I, "with this compact, That if thou rightfully of him complain, In knowing who ye are, and his transgression, I in the world above repay thee for it, If that wherewith I speak be not dried up." Inferno: Canto XXXIII His mouth uplifted from his grim repast, That sinner, wiping it upon the hair Of the same head that he behind had wasted. Then he began: "Thou wilt that I renew The desperate grief, which wrings my heart already To think of only, ere I speak of it; But if my words be seed that may bear fruit Of infamy to the traitor whom I gnaw, Speaking and weeping shalt thou see together. That, by effect of his malicious thoughts, Trusting in him I was made prisoner, And after put to death, I need not say; But ne'ertheless what thou canst not have heard, That is to say, how cruel was my death, Hear shalt thou, and shalt know if he has wronged me. A narrow perforation in the mew, Which bears because of me the title of Famine, And in which others still must be locked up, Had shown me through its opening many moons Already, when I dreamed the evil dream Which of the future rent for me the veil. With sleuth-hounds gaunt, and eager, and well trained, Gualandi with Sismondi and Lanfianchi He had sent out before him to the front. After brief course seemed unto me forespent The father and the sons, and with sharp tushes It seemed to me I saw their flanks ripped open. When I before the morrow was awake, Moaning amid their sleep I heard my sons Who with me were, and asking after bread. Cruel indeed art thou, if yet thou grieve not, Thinking of what my heart foreboded me, And weep'st thou not, what art thou wont to weep at? And I heard locking up the under door Of the horrible tower; whereat without a word I gazed into the faces of my sons. I wept not, I within so turned to stone; They wept; and darling little Anselm mine Said: 'Thou dost gaze so, father, what doth ail thee?' Still not a tear I shed, nor answer made All of that day, nor yet the night thereafter, Until another sun rose on the world. Both of my hands in agony I bit; And, thinking that I did it from desire Of eating, on a sudden they uprose, And said they: 'Father, much less pain 'twill give us If thou do eat of us; thyself didst clothe us With this poor flesh, and do thou strip it off.' I calmed me then, not to make them more sad. That day we all were silent, and the next. Ah! obdurate earth, wherefore didst thou not open? When he had said this, with his eyes distorted, The wretched skull resumed he with his teeth, Which, as a dog's, upon the bone were strong. Ah! Pisa, thou opprobrium of the people Of the fair land there where the 'Si' doth sound, Since slow to punish thee thy neighbours are, Let the Capraia and Gorgona move, And make a hedge across the mouth of Arno That every person in thee it may drown! For if Count Ugolino had the fame Of having in thy castles thee betrayed, Thou shouldst not on such cross have put his sons. We passed still farther onward, where the ice Another people ruggedly enswathes, Not downward turned, but all of them reversed. Weeping itself there does not let them weep, And grief that finds a barrier in the eyes Turns itself inward to increase the anguish; Because the earliest tears a cluster form, And, in the manner of a crystal visor, Fill all the cup beneath the eyebrow full. And notwithstanding that, as in a callus, Because of cold all sensibility Its station had abandoned in my face, Still it appeared to me I felt some wind; Whence I: "My Master, who sets this in motion? Is not below here every vapour quenched?" Whence he to me: "Full soon shalt thou be where Thine eye shall answer make to thee of this, Seeing the cause which raineth down the blast." Lift from mine eyes the rigid veils, that I May vent the sorrow which impregns my heart A little, e'er the weeping recongeal." Whence I to him: "If thou wouldst have me help thee Say who thou wast; and if I free thee not, May I go to the bottom of the ice." Then he replied: "I am Friar Alberigo; He am I of the fruit of the bad garden, Who here a date am getting for my fig." "O," said I to him, "now art thou, too, dead?" And he to me: "How may my body fare Up in the world, no knowledge I possess. Such an advantage has this Ptolomaea, That oftentimes the soul descendeth here Sooner than Atropos in motion sets it. And, that thou mayest more willingly remove From off my countenance these glassy tears, Know that as soon as any soul betrays As I have done, his body by a demon Is taken from him, who thereafter rules it, Until his time has wholly been revolved. Itself down rushes into such a cistern; And still perchance above appears the body Of yonder shade, that winters here behind me. This thou shouldst know, if thou hast just come down; It is Ser Branca d' Oria, and many years Have passed away since he was thus locked up." "I think," said I to him, "thou dost deceive me; For Branca d' Oria is not dead as yet, And eats, and drinks, and sleeps, and puts on clothes." "In moat above," said he, "of Malebranche, There where is boiling the tenacious pitch, As yet had Michel Zanche not arrived, And still above in body seems alive! Inferno: Canto XXXIV "'Vexilla Regis prodeunt Inferni' Towards us; therefore look in front of thee," My Master said, "if thou discernest him." As, when there breathes a heavy fog, or when Our hemisphere is darkening into night, Appears far off a mill the wind is turning, Methought that such a building then I saw; And, for the wind, I drew myself behind My Guide, because there was no other shelter. Now was I, and with fear in verse I put it, There where the shades were wholly covered up, And glimmered through like unto straws in glass. He from before me moved and made me stop, Saying: "Behold Dis, and behold the place Where thou with fortitude must arm thyself." How frozen I became and powerless then, Ask it not, Reader, for I write it not, Because all language would be insufficient. I did not die, and I alive remained not; Think for thyself now, hast thou aught of wit, What I became, being of both deprived. The Emperor of the kingdom dolorous From his mid-breast forth issued from the ice; And better with a giant I compare Than do the giants with those arms of his; Consider now how great must be that whole, Which unto such a part conforms itself. To him in front the biting was as naught Unto the clawing, for sometimes the spine Utterly stripped of all the skin remained. "That soul up there which has the greatest pain," The Master said, "is Judas Iscariot; With head inside, he plies his legs without. And the other, who so stalwart seems, is Cassius. But night is reascending, and 'tis time That we depart, for we have seen the whole." As seemed him good, I clasped him round the neck, And he the vantage seized of time and place, And when the wings were opened wide apart, He laid fast hold upon the shaggy sides; From fell to fell descended downward then Between the thick hair and the frozen crust. When we were come to where the thigh revolves Exactly on the thickness of the haunch, The Guide, with labour and with hard-drawn breath, Then through the opening of a rock he issued, And down upon the margin seated me; Then tow'rds me he outstretched his wary step. I lifted up mine eyes and thought to see Lucifer in the same way I had left him; And I beheld him upward hold his legs. And if I then became disquieted, Let stolid people think who do not see What the point is beyond which I had passed. "Rise up," the Master said, "upon thy feet; The way is long, and difficult the road, And now the sun to middle-tierce returns." It was not any palace corridor There where we were, but dungeon natural, With floor uneven and unease of light. "Ere from the abyss I tear myself away, My Master," said I when I had arisen, "To draw me from an error speak a little; And he to me: "Thou still imaginest Thou art beyond the centre, where I grasped The hair of the fell worm, who mines the world. That side thou wast, so long as I descended; When round I turned me, thou didst pass the point To which things heavy draw from every side, And now beneath the hemisphere art come Opposite that which overhangs the vast Dry-land, and 'neath whose cope was put to death The Man who without sin was born and lived. Thou hast thy feet upon the little sphere Which makes the other face of the Judecca. Here it is morn when it is evening there; And he who with his hair a stairway made us Still fixed remaineth as he was before. Upon this side he fell down out of heaven; And all the land, that whilom here emerged, For fear of him made of the sea a veil, And came to our hemisphere; and peradventure To flee from him, what on this side appears Left the place vacant here, and back recoiled." A place there is below, from Beelzebub As far receding as the tomb extends, Which not by sight is known, but by the sound Of a small rivulet, that there descendeth Through chasm within the stone, which it has gnawed With course that winds about and slightly falls. The Guide and I into that hidden road Now entered, to return to the bright world; And without care of having any rest Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Divine Comedy, Longfellow's Translation, Hell, by Dante Alighieri	redpajama-book	34,840
Produced by Jonathan Ingram and PG Distributed Proofreaders THE EULOGIES OF HOWARD. THE EULOGIES OF HOWARD My arguments, and my zeal, made some impression on the mind of my antagonist; and sunk so deeply into my own, that on my retiring to rest they gave rise to the following vision. I obeyed with reverential silence; and as I passed the vestibule of the majestic edifice, my heart panted with an aweful expectation of beholding the shades of Solon, Lycurgus, and other departed Legislators, from the various nations of the world. I was chearfully surprized by a very different spectacle. "By this community, I am confident, such public honours will be paid to HOWARD, as may be most suitable to the peculiar interest which it becomes us to take in his glory. What these honours shall be is a point to be settled by this liberal and enlightened Assembly, which assuredly will not fail to remember that he suggested to Legal Authority her omissions and defects with the modest and endearing tenderness of a Friend; that he laboured in the service of Justice with that intelligence, fortitude, and zeal, which her votaries cannot too warmly admire, or too gratefully acknowledge." The President arose as he thus ended his speech; and the members of the Assembly seemed beginning to confer among themselves; but what debates ensued, or what measure was adopted, I am unable to tell, as my visionary Guides immediately hurried me to the adjoining Temple. Thus strongly prepossessed in his favour, I was delighted to observe that he was preparing to address the Assembly in the moment we entered. My celestial Guides smiled on each other in perceiving my satisfaction; and being placed by them instantaneously in a commodious situation, I heard the following discourse; which the character I have described delivered with an ease and refined acuteness peculiar to himself, never raising his voice above the pitch of polite and spirited conversation: "When our indefatigable Visitor of prisons was in Russia, he beheld, in public, the punishment of the knoot severely administered by a strong and stern executioner. "On the following day he waited on this man, to request from him various information. The executioner attended him obsequiously; but this athletic savage, though trained to acts of cruelty, and conscious he had a legal sanction for the barbarous violence he had exerted, could not behold without shuddering the meek and gentle Missionary of Compassion. "I could wish, for the moral interest of mankind, that it were possible to obtain a minute account of the services rendered to the calamitous spirit of many a forsaken individual by the singular charity of HOWARD. What could be more instructive than to observe how his Beneficence encreased by its exertion and success; while his desire of befriending the wretched became, as it were, the vital spirit that gave strength and duration to his own existence! "If we contemplate with pleasure the singular re-establishment of bodily health, which HOWARD derived from his active philanthropy; it may be still more pleasing to recollect, that it also afforded him an efficacious medicine for an afflicted mind. Perhaps it was to shew the full efficacy of this virtue in all its lustre, that Heaven allotted to this excellent personage a domestic calamity, which appears (to borrow an expression from a great writer) 'of an unconscionable size to human strength.' "Earthly distinctions, you know, are of little moment in the sight of Heaven. You will hear no Prelate; and perhaps you may feel surprised and indignant, when you observe how very few of your Mitred Countrymen are to be seen in this Assembly; but you will not retain in this hallowed spot that most common of human infirmities, a tendency to censure or to suspicion. You will recollect that this Convocation contains only those charitable men, who are peculiarly disposed to honour your recent model of this Christian virtue. Other good men may exist, who, from motives of innocent mistake, or of mere inadvertency, may fail to exhibit that animated regard to his exemplary character, which assuredly it has merited from all men, and which the Ministers of Religion may most properly display. We immediately entered the temple; and I beheld an Ecclesiastic rising at that moment to address a very numerous Assembly of his order, that seemed to contain Christians of every sect, and Ministers of every degree. The person preparing to speak was distinguished by a majestic comeliness of person, though he appeared to have passed the middle age of life; and with a powerful elocution he delivered the following discourse. "The Righteous are bold as a Lion." Proverbs, chap, xxviii, ver. i. "With every apparent disadvantage, Howard conceived it possible that his endeavours might correct the abuses, and mitigate the sufferings of men, in various nations of the world. Whence happened it, that a mortal, so visibly weak and gentle, shrunk not from an idea so pregnant with difficulty and peril! It was because, 'The Righteous are bold as a Lion.' It was because he felt the strongest internal conviction of this animating truth, that, while Heaven blesses a man with health sufficient to pursue a benevolent and magnanimous design, the vigour of his mind, and most probably his powers of doing good, will be proportioned to the firmness of his faith, and the sincerity of his virtue. "The Sensualist and the Sceptic may, indeed, deride the conduct of a man, who sacrificed all the common pleasures of life, and sought for no recompence but in the favour of Heaven. It may be said that an illusive fervor of mind has hurried men, in all periods of the world, into singular and wild exertions, which excite the wonder of the passing hour, and are afterwards either deservedly forgotten, or only recalled to notice by Reason and Philosophy, to caution the restless and impetuous spirit of man against all similar excesses. "But the pursuits of Howard, though they had all that sublime energy which so often distinguished the projects of Superstition, were so far from being influenced by any superstitious propensity, that perhaps they cannot appear to more advantage than by being brought into comparison, or contrast, not with the sluggish piety of sequestered Monks, but with the bold and splendid feats of the most active and enterprising Fanaticism. Allow me, therefore, to recall to your thoughts those distant ages, when every ardent spirit in Christendom was inflamed with a passionate desire to deliver the Christian pilgrims of Palestine from the oppression of Infidels! Figure to yourselves the whole force of Europe collecting its violence, like a troubled sea, and preparing to pour a terrific and destructive inundation over the Holy Land! Behold the strong and the weak, the ambitious and the humble, pursuing the same object! Behold assembled Kings and their People, Soldiers and Priests, the servants of Earth and Heaven rushing, with equal ardour, to rescue the Sepulchre of Christ, and to drown all the innumerable enemies of their Faith in an universal deluge of blood! In this scene we have the sublimest spectacle, perhaps, that was ever exhibited by mistaken piety and misguided valour. The love of God, by which this heroic multitude was professedly impelled, was probably in many minds as sincere as it was ardent. The religious spirit of their enterprize can still animate and transport us in the song of the Poet: and in the more rational page of History, while we justly lament the errors of their devotion, we admire the force and perseverance of their courage. "Yes, my Brethren, the day will assuredly come, when the servant so signally faithful will be called to a reward, surpassing the utmost reach of our conception, by the voice of his Righteous Master--then, and then only, will praise be fully proportioned to his transcendant merit; when this consummate Christian is raised to glory by the glorified Messiah, when his pure spirit exults in the commendation of his GOD. "As bravery and compassion are the characteristics of good Soldiers, you cannot want, my friends, any long exhortation from me to honour the memory of HOWARD; the most resolute and the most compassionate man that has lived in our time. Though he was not of our profession, as his life was devoted to mitigate the united horrors of captivity and sickness, those worst of enemies to the spirit of a soldier, you will undoubtedly feel that he has a peculiar claim to our most grateful and generous regard." As soon as the divine messenger had ceased to speak, every voice in the reanimated multitude, that heard him, raised a shout of benediction on the name of HOWARD. I started in transport at the sound; and the effort that I made to join the universal acclamation terminated my vision. Pardon me, thou gentlest and most indulgent of Friends! that, conscious as I am of the sincerity with which thy pure mind ever wished to avoid all exuberance of praise, I yet presume to send into the world such a tribute to thy virtues as thy humility might reject. Let the motives of the publication atone for all its defects! This little work is made public, not from a vain expectation, or desire, in the Writer to obtain any degree of literary distinction; for, if his wishes and endeavours are successful, the world will not know from what hand it proceeds. Thou most revered object of my regard, who art looking down, perhaps, with compassion on the petty labours of various mortals, now trying to commemorate thy merit, thou seest that I am influenced by no arrogant conceit of having praised with peculiar felicity the perfections that I so ardently admire. No! I am perfectly sensible, that the most worthy memorial of thy virtues will be found in those pure records of thy public services which thy own hand has given to the world with all the amiable and affecting simplicity that distinguished thy character, and in the more comprehensive composition of some accomplished Biographer, who may have opportunities and ability to do justice to thy life. End of Project Gutenberg's The Eulogies of Howard, by William Hayley	redpajama-book	2,200
Produced by Andrew Heath, Joshua Hutchinson, Audrey Longhurst and PG Distributed Proofreaders A Foreign Dish for every day in the year Make a pancake batter and fry in thin cakes. Then spread them with a layer of anchovies, butter and a layer of caviare. Sprinkle with minced shallots, cayenne pepper and lemon-juice. Roll up and serve hot as possible. Make a rich pie-dough; then line a pie-dish with the dough. Pare and remove the stones from the peaches and cut into quarters. Lay closely on the pie; sprinkle with brown sugar and moisten with wine. Bake in a moderate oven until done. Then spread with a meringue and let brown in the oven a few minutes. Place the mackerel in a baking-dish; sprinkle with pepper and chopped parsley. Cover with fried bread-crumbs and bits of butter, and moisten with cream. Then bake until brown on top and serve hot with stewed potatoes. Select fine smooth potatoes; cut off the end of each and scrape out the inside. Mix this with chopped ham, onion and parsley, and a tablespoonful of butter. Season with salt, pepper and lemon-juice. Fill the potato with the mixture and let bake in a moderate oven until tender and serve hot. Cut some celery, apples and truffles into fine shreds and mix with chrysanthemum flowers; season with salt and pepper. Put in a salad bowl and cover with a mayonnaise dressing. Garnish with chopped hard-boiled eggs and olives. Make a pie-dough. Roll out and spread with melted butter, raisins, currants, chopped apples, nuts and shredded citron. Cover well with brown sugar and sprinkle with cinnamon and the grated peel of a lemon. Roll up the dough. Lay in a buttered baking-pan. Rub the top well with melted butter and let bake until brown. Serve with wine sauce. Clean sheep's kidneys and cut into thin slices. Sprinkle with salt, cayenne pepper and grated lemon peel. Then dip in beaten egg and fine bread-crumbs and broil on a hot greased gridiron. Serve on buttered toast, spread with curry paste. Boil some prunes until tender. Remove the kernels and mash the prunes well. Mix with sugar, cinnamon and lemon-juice to taste. Make a rich biscuit dough, roll out and place on a well-buttered baking-pan. Fill with the prunes and let bake until done. Serve cold. Chop cooked veal and boiled ham; place in a well-greased mold alternate layers of veal, ham and hard-boiled eggs. Sprinkle with pepper, mace and chopped parsley. Moisten with beef-stock and let bake in the oven. Serve cold, sliced very thin, garnished with watercress. Chop cooked veal to a fine mince; butter a baking-dish and put alternate layers of veal, rice and tomato-sauce until dish is full. Cover over with fine bread-crumbs; pour over some melted butter and let bake in the oven until brown. Serve with French peas. Clean and split a fish open down the back; remove the backbone; sprinkle with salt and pepper; put in a baking-dish, flesh side up. Put flakes of butter on top; sprinkle with a little flour; moisten with cream. Bake in a hot oven until brown. Pour over a Hollandaise sauce and serve hot. Slice some hard-boiled eggs and place in a well-buttered baking-dish. Cover with well-beaten raw eggs; sprinkle with salt, pepper, cayenne and curry-powder, a few bits of butter rolled in bread-crumbs and some grated cheese. Let bake in a moderate oven until done. Cut tough ends from the asparagus; scrape and boil in salted water until tender. Make a cream sauce. When done, stir in the yolk of an egg; season with a little white pepper. The sauce must be rather thick and poured hot over the asparagus. Serve with veal chops. Make a rich biscuit dough; roll out; then put on a well-buttered baking-tin. Stone black cherries. Sprinkle the dough with flour and cover with the cherries. Sprinkle with sugar and let bake until done. Then cover with a sweetened egg custard and bake until brown. Serve cold. Clean and season the sweetbreads with salt and pepper and sprinkle with lemon-juice and chopped parsley. Roll in fine bread-crumbs and fry in hot lard. Fry some eggs and put on a platter with the sweetbreads and serve with tomato-sauce. Peel and core the apples and fill the space with currants. Sprinkle with sugar, cinnamon and grated lemon peel, and cover each apple with a rich pie-paste. Lay on a well-buttered pie-dish and let bake until done. Serve with wine sauce. Peel the cucumbers and cut into inch slices. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and dip in beaten eggs and fine bread-crumbs. Season with salt and pepper and fry in hot lard until brown. Serve with tomato-sauce and veal chops. Make a rich puff paste; roll out thin and cut into squares; then fill with fruit jam; turn over and pinch in the edges. Drop in a kettle of deep hot lard and fry until a delicate brown. Sprinkle with pulverized sugar and serve hot. Boil large oysters in their liquor; season with salt, pepper and curry-powder. Let come to a boil; then drain, and spread the oysters with highly seasoned minced chicken. Dip them in a seasoned egg batter and fry in deep hot lard to a golden brown. Serve hot, garnished with fried parsley and lemon slices. Stone some large olives and fill the space with anchovy paste, mixed with well-seasoned tomato-sauce. Then fry thin slices of bread and spread with some of the paste. Place a filled olive in the centre; sprinkle with chopped hard-boiled eggs and garnish with fillets of anchovies and sprigs of parsley. Clean and season a chicken with salt and pepper and let boil until tender. Put the chicken in a baking-dish; pour over some tomato-sauce highly seasoned; sprinkle with well-buttered bread-crumbs and let bake until brown. Place on a large platter with a border of boiled rice and pour over the sauce. Serve hot. Cut cooked veal into small pieces; season and moisten with a rich beef gravy. Pour into a deep pie-dish. Then make a cover with mashed potatoes moistened with cream; sprinkle with bits of butter and let bake until brown. Serve hot. Take tender veal cutlets; season highly with pepper and salt. Dip in beaten egg and fine bread-crumbs and fry in boiling lard until a light brown. Have ready some boiled macaroni well seasoned. Put on a platter with the cutlets and pour over all a highly seasoned tomato-sauce. Clean and season a goose and stuff with oysters well seasoned with salt, pepper, parsley, thyme and bits of butter rolled in fine bread-crumbs. Put in a baking-dish. Pour over the oyster liquor and a little hot water; let bake until done. Baste as often as necessary. Serve with red currant jelly. Blanch the sweetbreads and sprinkle with salt and pepper; then cut into thin slices. Dip in beaten egg and roll in grated Swiss cheese and fine bread-crumbs and fry in a little hot butter to a golden brown. Serve hot, garnished with parsley. Slice the fish; season highly with salt, pepper, cloves, lemon-juice and parsley. Then roll in flour and fry in hot olive-oil until brown. Garnish with lemon slices and parsley. Serve with a lettuce salad with French dressing. Drain large oysters; sprinkle with salt and pepper. Try out a few slices of bacon in a frying-pan; remove the bacon. Roll the oysters in fine bread-crumbs and saute until brown on both sides. Place on hot buttered toast; sprinkle with lemon-juice and garnish with olives.	redpajama-book	1,628
Produced by Beth Trapaga and PG Distributed Proofreaders THE MOUNTAINS OF CALIFORNIA [Illustration: HOOFED LOCUSTS.] I THE SIERRA NEVADA II THE GLACIERS III THE SNOW IV A NEAR VIEW OF THE HIGH SIERRA V THE PASSES VI THE GLACIER LAKES VII THE GLACIER MEADOWS VIII THE FORESTS IX THE DOUGLAS SQUIRREL X A WIND-STORM IN THE FORESTS XI THE RIVER FLOODS XII SIERRA THUNDER-STORMS XIII THE WATER-OUZEL XIV THE WILD SHEEP XV IN THE SIERRA FOOT-HILLS XVI THE BEE-PASTURES LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Though of such stupendous depth, these famous canons are not raw, gloomy, jagged-walled gorges, savage and inaccessible. With rough passages here and there they still make delightful pathways for the mountaineer, conducting from the fertile lowlands to the highest icy fountains, as a kind of mountain streets full of charming life and light, graded and sculptured by the ancient glaciers, and presenting, throughout all their courses, a rich variety of novel and attractive scenery, the most attractive that has yet been discovered in the mountain-ranges of the world. The walls of these park valleys of the Yosemite kind are made up of rocks mountains in size, partly separated from each other by narrow gorges and side-canons; and they are so sheer in front, and so compactly built together on a level floor, that, comprehensively seen, the parks they inclose look like immense halls or temples lighted from above. Every rock seems to glow with life. Some lean back in majestic repose; others, absolutely sheer, or nearly so, for thousands of feet, advance their brows in thoughtful attitudes beyond their companions, giving welcome to storms and calms alike, seemingly conscious yet heedless of everything going on about them, awful in stern majesty, types of permanence, yet associated with beauty of the frailest and most fleeting forms; their feet set in pine-groves and gay emerald meadows, their brows in the sky; bathed in light, bathed in floods of singing water, while snow-clouds, avalanches, and the winds shine and surge and wreathe about them as the years go by, as if into these mountain mansions Nature had taken pains to gather her choicest treasures to draw her lovers into close and confiding communion with her. [Illustration: MOUNT TAMALPAIS--NORTH OF THE GOLDEN GATE.] [Illustration: MOUNT SHASTA, LOOKING SOUTHWEST.] This change from icy darkness and death to life and beauty was slow, as we count time, and is still going on, north and south, over all the world wherever glaciers exist, whether in the form of distinct rivers, as in Switzerland, Norway, the mountains of Asia, and the Pacific Coast; or in continuous mantling folds, as in portions of Alaska, Greenland, Franz-Joseph-Land, Nova Zembla, Spitzbergen, and the lands about the South Pole. But in no country, as far as I know, may these majestic changes be studied to better advantage than in the plains and mountains of California. [Illustration: MOUNT HOOD.] [Illustration: MOUNT RAINIER FROM PARADISE VALLEY--NISQUALLY GLACIER.] A similar blurred condition of the superficial records of glacial action obtains throughout most of Oregon, Washington, British Columbia, and Alaska, due in great part to the action of excessive moisture. Even in southeastern Alaska, where the most extensive glaciers on the continent are, the more evanescent of the traces of their former greater extension, though comparatively recent, are more obscure than those of the ancient California glaciers whore the climate is drier and the rocks more resisting. These general views of the glaciers of the Pacific Coast will enable my readers to see something of the changes that have taken place in California, and will throw light on the residual glaciers of the High Sierra. Early next morning I set out to trace the grand old glacier that had done so much for the beauty of the Yosemite region back to its farthest fountains, enjoying the charm that every explorer feels in Nature's untrodden wildernesses. The voices of the mountains were still asleep. The wind scarce stirred the pine-needles. The sun was up, but it was yet too cold for the birds and the few burrowing animals that dwell here. Only the stream, cascading from pool to pool, seemed to be wholly awake. Yet the spirit of the opening day called to action. The sunbeams came streaming gloriously through the jagged openings of the _col_, glancing on the burnished pavements and lighting the silvery lakes, while every sun-touched rock burned white on its edges like melting iron in a furnace. Passing round the north shore of my camp lake I followed the central stream past many cascades from lakelet to lakelet. The scenery became more rigidly arctic, the Dwarf Pines and Hemlocks disappeared, and the stream was bordered with icicles. As the sun rose higher rocks were loosened on shattered portions of the cliffs, and came down in rattling avalanches, echoing wildly from crag to crag. The sun gave birth to a network of sweet-voiced rills that ran gracefully down the glacier, curling and swirling in their shining channels, and cutting clear sections through the porous surface-ice into the solid blue, where the structure of the glacier was beautifully illustrated. As the snow fa's in the river A moment white, then lost forever, This difference in form between the north and south sides of the peaks was almost wholly produced by the difference in the kind and quantity of the glaciation to which they have been subjected, the north sides having been hollowed by residual shadow-glaciers of a form that never existed on the sun-beaten sides. It appears, therefore, that shadows in great part determine not only the forms of lofty icy mountains, but also those of the snow-banners that the wild winds hang on them. A NEAR VIEW OF THE HIGH SIERRA My general plan was simply this: to scale the canon, wall, cross over to the eastern flank of the range, and then make my way southward to the northern spurs of Mount Ritter in compliance with the intervening topography; for to push on directly southward from camp through the innumerable peaks and pinnacles that adorn this portion of the axis of the range, however interesting, would take too much time, besides being extremely difficult and dangerous at this time of year. Above this memorable spot, the face of the mountain is still more savagely hacked and torn. It is a maze of yawning chasms and gullies, in the angles of which rise beetling crags and piles of detached boulders that seem to have been gotten ready to be launched below. But the strange influx of strength I had received seemed inexhaustible. I found a way without effort, and soon stood upon the topmost crag in the blessed light. Westward, the general flank of the range is seen flowing sublimely away from the sharp summits, in smooth undulations; a sea of huge gray granite waves dotted with lakes and meadows, and fluted with stupendous canons that grow steadily deeper as they recede in the distance. Below this gray region lies the dark forest zone, broken here and there by upswelling ridges and domes; and yet beyond lies a yellow, hazy belt, marking the broad plain of the San Joaquin, bounded on its farther side by the blue mountains of the coast. Turning now to the northward, there in the immediate foreground is the glorious Sierra Crown, with Cathedral Peak, a temple of marvelous architecture, a few degrees to the left of it; the gray, massive form of Mammoth Mountain to the right; while Mounts Ord, Gibbs, Dana, Conness, Tower Peak, Castle Peak, Silver Mountain, and a host of noble companions, as yet nameless, make a sublime show along the axis of the range. [Illustration: MAP OF THE YOSEMITE VALLEY.] The lower end of the glacier was beautifully waved and barred by the outcropping edges of the bedded ice-layers which represent the annual snowfalls, and to some extent the irregularities of structure caused by the weathering of the walls of crevasses, and by separate snowfalls which have been followed by rain, hail, thawing and freezing, etc. Small rills were gliding and swirling over the melting surface with a smooth, oily appearance, in channels of pure ice--their quick, compliant movements contrasting most impressively with the rigid, invisible flow of the glacier itself, on whose back they all were riding. Night drew near before I reached the eastern base of the mountain, and my camp lay many a rugged mile to the north; but ultimate success was assured. It was now only a matter of endurance and ordinary mountain-craft. The sunset was, if possible, yet more beautiful than that of the day before. The Mono landscape seemed to be fairly saturated with warm, purple light. The peaks marshaled along the summit were in shadow, but through every notch and pass streamed vivid sun-fire, soothing and irradiating their rough, black angles, while companies of small, luminous clouds hovered above them like very angels of light. Darkness came on, but I found my way by the trends of the canons and the peaks projected against the sky. All excitement died with the light, and then I was weary. But the joyful sound of the waterfall across the lake was heard at last, and soon the stars were seen reflected in the lake itself. Taking my bearings from these, I discovered the little pine thicket in which my nest was, and then I had a rest such as only a tired mountaineer may enjoy. After lying loose and lost for awhile, I made a sunrise fire, went down to the lake, dashed water on my head, and dipped a cupful for tea. The revival brought about by bread and tea was as complete as the exhaustion from excessive enjoyment and toil. Then I crept beneath the pine-tassels to bed. The wind was frosty and the fire burned low, but my sleep was none the less sound, and the evening constellations had swept far to the west before I awoke. [Illustration: MAP OF THE YOSEMITE VALLEY, SHOWING PRESENT RESERVATION BOUNDARY.] The so-called practicable road-passes are simply those portions of the range more degraded by glacial action than the adjacent portions, and degraded in such a way as to leave the summits rounded, instead of sharp; while the peaks, from the superior strength and hardness of their rocks, or from more favorable position, having suffered less degradation, are left towering above the passes as if they had been heaved into the sky by some force acting from beneath. Having thus in a general way indicated the height, leading features, and distribution of the principal passes, I will now endeavor to describe the Mono Pass in particular, which may, I think, be regarded as a fair example of the higher alpine passes in general. The main portion of the Mono Pass is formed by Bloody Canon, which begins at the summit of the range, and runs in a general east-northeasterly direction to the edge of the Mono Plain. When at length we enter the mountain gateway, the somber rocks seem aware of our presence, and seem to come thronging closer about us. Happily the ouzel and the old familiar robin are here to sing us welcome, and azure daisies beam with trustfulness and sympathy, enabling us to feel something of Nature's love even here, beneath the gaze of her coldest rocks. After indulging here in a dozing, shimmering lake-rest, the happy stream sets forth again, warbling and trilling like an ouzel, ever delightfully confiding, no matter how dark the way; leaping, gliding, hither, thither, clear or foaming: manifesting the beauty of its wildness in every sound and gesture. Leaving the lake, it glides quietly through the rushes, destined never more to touch the living rock. Henceforth its path lies through ancient moraines and reaches of ashy sage-plain, which nowhere afford rocks suitable for the development of cascades or sheer falls. Yet this beauty of maturity, though less striking, is of a still higher order, enticing us lovingly on through gentian meadows and groves of rustling aspen to Lake Mono, where, spirit-like, our happy stream vanishes in vapor, and floats free again in the sky. Bloody Canon, like every other in the Sierra, was recently occupied by a glacier, which derived its fountain snows from the adjacent summits, and descended into Mono Lake, at a time when its waters stood at a much higher level than now. The principal characters in which the history of the ancient glaciers is preserved are displayed here in marvelous freshness and simplicity, furnishing the student with extraordinary advantages for the acquisition of knowledge of this sort. The most striking passages are polished and striated surfaces, which in many places reflect the rays of the sun like smooth water. The dam of Red Lake is an elegantly modeled rib of metamorphic slate, brought into relief because of its superior strength, and because of the greater intensity of the glacial erosion of the rock immediately above it, caused by a steeply inclined tributary glacier, which entered the main trunk with a heavy down-thrust at the head of the lake. Recognizing the unsatisfiable longings of my Scotch Highland instincts, he threw out some hints concerning Bloody Canon, and advised me to explore it. "I have never seen it myself," he said, "for I never was so unfortunate as to pass that way. But I have heard many a strange story about it, and I warrant you will at least find it wild enough." At length, as I entered the pass, the huge rocks began to close around in all their wild, mysterious impressiveness, when suddenly, as I was gazing eagerly about me, a drove of gray hairy beings came in sight, lumbering toward me with a kind of boneless, wallowing motion like bears. The night was full of strange sounds, and I gladly welcomed the morning. Breakfast was soon done, and I set forth in the exhilarating freshness of the new day, rejoicing in the abundance of pure wildness so close about me. The stupendous rocks, hacked and scarred with centuries of storms, stood sharply out in the thin early light, while down in the bottom of the canon grooved and polished bosses heaved and glistened like swelling sea-waves, telling a grand old story of the ancient glacier that poured its crushing floods above them. Like the rye-field, I found the so-called desert of Mono blooming in a high state of natural cultivation with the wild rose, cherry, aster, and the delicate abronia; also innumerable gilias, phloxes, poppies, and bush-compositae. I observed their gestures and the various expressions of their corollas, inquiring how they could be so fresh and beautiful out in this volcanic desert. They told as happy a life as any plant-company I ever met, and seemed to enjoy even the hot sand and the wind. But the vegetation of the pass has been in great part destroyed, and the same may be said of all the more accessible passes throughout the range. Immense numbers of starving sheep and cattle have been driven through them into Nevada, trampling the wild gardens and meadows almost out of existence. The lofty walls are untouched by any foot, and the falls sing on unchanged; but the sight of crushed flowers and stripped, bitten bushes goes far toward destroying the charm of wildness. The canon should be seen in winter. A good, strong traveler, who knows the way and the weather, might easily make a safe excursion through it from Yosemite Valley on snow-shoes during some tranquil time, when the storms are hushed. The lakes and falls would be buried then; but so, also, would be the traces of destructive feet, while the views of the mountains in their winter garb, and the ride at lightning speed down the pass between the snowy walls, would be truly glorious. [Illustration: VIEW OF THE MONO PLAIN FROM THE FOOT OF BLOODY CANON.] Though the eastern flank of the range is excessively steep, we find lakes pretty regularly distributed throughout even the most precipitous portions. They are mostly found in the upper branches of the canons, and in the glacial amphitheaters around the peaks. [Illustration: THE DEATH OF A LAKE.] A few small lakes unfortunately situated are extinguished suddenly by a single swoop of an avalanche, carrying down immense numbers of trees, together with the soil they were growing upon. Others are obliterated by land-slips, earthquake taluses, etc., but these lake-deaths compared with those resulting from the deliberate and incessant deposition of sediments, may be termed accidental. Their fate is like that of trees struck by lightning. I must now make haste to give some nearer views of representative specimens lying at different elevations on the main lake-belt, confining myself to descriptions of the features most characteristic of each. The sunnier north wall is more varied in sculpture, but the general tone is the same. A few headlands, flat-topped and soil-covered, support clumps of cedar and pine; and up-curving tangles of chinquapin and live-oak, growing on rough earthquake taluses, girdle their bases. Small streams come cascading down between them, their foaming margins brightened with gay primulas, gilias, and mimuluses. And close along the shore on this side there is a strip of rocky meadow enameled with buttercups, daisies, and white violets, and the purple-topped grasses out on its beveled border dip their leaves into the water. The lower edge of the basin is a dam-like swell of solid granite, heavily abraded by the old glacier, but scarce at all cut into as yet by the outflowing stream, though it has flowed on unceasingly since the lake came into existence. During these blessed color-days no cloud darkens the sky, the winds are gentle, and the landscape rests, hushed everywhere, and indescribably impressive. A few ducks are usually seen sailing on the lake, apparently more for pleasure than anything else, and the ouzels at the head of the rapids sing always; while robins, grosbeaks, and the Douglas squirrels are busy in the groves, making delightful company, and intensifying the feeling of grateful sequestration without ruffling the deep, hushed calm and peace. Toward May, the lake begins to open. The hot sun sends down innumerable streams over the cliffs, streaking them round and round with foam. The snow slowly vanishes, and the meadows show tintings of green. Then spring comes on apace; flowers and flies enrich the air and the sod, and the deer come back to the upper groves like birds to an old nest. A beautiful variety of the bench-top lakes occurs just where the great lateral moraines of the main glaciers have been shoved forward in outswelling concentric rings by small residual tributary glaciers. Instead of being encompassed by a narrow ring of trees like Orange Lake, these lie embosomed in dense moraine woods, so dense that in seeking them you may pass them by again and again, although you may know nearly where they lie concealed. [Illustration: LAKE STARR KING.] Lake Starr King, lying to the north of the cone of that name, above the Little Yosemite Valley, is a fine specimen of this variety. The ouzels pass it by, and so do the ducks; they could hardly get into it if they would, without plumping straight down inside the circling trees. They are nearly as level as the lakes whose places they have taken, and present a dry, even surface free from rock-heaps, mossy bogginess, and the frowsy roughness of rank, coarse-leaved, weedy, and shrubby vegetation. The sod is close and fine, and so complete that you cannot see the ground; and at the same time so brightly enameled with flowers and butterflies that it may well be called a garden-meadow, or meadow-garden; for the plushy sod is in many places so crowded with gentians, daisies, ivesias, and various species of orthocarpus that the grass is scarcely noticeable, while in others the flowers are only pricked in here and there singly, or in small ornamental rosettes. I would fain ask my readers to linger awhile in this fertile wilderness, to trace its history from its earliest glacial beginnings, and learn what we may of its wild inhabitants and visitors. How happy the birds are all summer and some of them all winter; how the pouched marmots drive tunnels under the snow, and how fine and brave a life the slandered coyote lives here, and the deer and bears! But, knowing well the difference between reading and seeing, I will only ask attention to some brief sketches of its varying aspects as they are presented throughout the more marked seasons of the year. The summer life we have been depicting lasts with but little abatement until October, when the night frosts begin to sting, bronzing the grasses, and ripening the leaves of the creeping heathworts along the banks of the stream to reddish purple and crimson; while the flowers disappear, all save the goldenrods and a few daisies, that continue to bloom on unscathed until the beginning of snowy winter. In still nights the grass panicles and every leaf and stalk are laden with frost crystals, through which the morning sunbeams sift in ravishing splendor, transforming each to a precious diamond radiating the colors of the rainbow. The brook shallows are plaited across and across with slender lances of ice, but both these and the grass crystals are melted before midday, and, notwithstanding the great elevation of the meadow, the afternoons are still warm enough to revive the chilled butterflies and call them out to enjoy the late-flowering goldenrods. The divine alpenglow flushes the surrounding forest every evening, followed by a crystal night with hosts of lily stars, whose size and brilliancy cannot be conceived by those who have never risen above the lowlands. In rare instances we find an alpine basin the bottom of which is a perfect meadow, and the sides nearly all the way round, rising in gentle curves, are covered with moraine soil, which, being saturated with melting snow from encircling fountains, gives rise to an almost continuous girdle of down-curving meadow vegetation that blends gracefully into the level meadow at the bottom, thus forming a grand, smooth, soft, meadow-lined mountain nest. It is in meadows of this sort that the mountain beaver (_Haplodon_) loves to make his home, excavating snug chambers beneath the sod, digging canals, turning the underground waters from channel to channel to suit his convenience, and feeding the vegetation. Another kind of meadow or bog occurs on densely timbered hillsides where small perennial streams have been dammed at short intervals by fallen trees. Still another kind is found hanging down smooth, flat precipices, while corresponding leaning meadows rise to meet them. [Illustration: VIEW IN THE SIERRA FOREST.] [Illustration: EDGE OF THE TIMBER LINE ON MOUNT SHASTA.] [Illustration: VIEW IN THE MAIN PINE BELT OF THE SIERRA FOREST.] THE NUT PINE (_Pinus Sabiniana_) [Illustration: NUT PINE (PINUS SABINIANA).] [Illustration: THE GROVE FORM. THE ISOLATED FORM (PINUS TUBERCULATA).] While exploring the lower portion of the Merced Canon I found a lonely miner seeking his fortune in a quartz vein on a wild mountain-side planted with this singular tree. He told me that he called it the Hickory Pine, because of the whiteness and toughness of the wood. It is so little known, however, that it can hardly be said to have a common name. Most mountaineers refer to it as "that queer little pine-tree covered all over with burs." In my studies of this species I found a very interesting and significant group of facts, whose relations will be seen almost as soon as stated: [Illustration: LOWER MARGIN OF THE MAIN PINE BELT, SHOWING OPEN CHARACTER OF WOODS.] SUGAR PINE (_Pinus Lambertiana_) This is the noblest pine yet discovered, surpassing all others not merely in size but also in kingly beauty and majesty. This grand pine discovered under such, exciting circumstances Douglas named in honor of his friend Dr. Lambert of London. [Illustration: SUGAR PINE ON EXPOSED RIDGE.] The sugar, from which the common name is derived, is to my taste the best of sweets--better than maple sugar. It exudes from the heart-wood, where wounds have been made, either by forest fires, or the ax, in the shape of irregular, crisp, candy-like kernels, which are crowded together in masses of considerable size, like clusters of resin-beads. When fresh, it is perfectly white and delicious, but, because most of the wounds on which it is found have been made by fire, the exuding sap is stained on the charred surface, and the hardened sugar becomes brown. Indians are fond of it, but on account of its laxative properties only small quantities may be eaten. Bears, so fond of sweet things in general, seem never to taste it; at least I have failed to find any trace of their teeth in this connection. No other pine seems to me so unfamiliar and self-contained. In approaching it, we feel as if in the presence of a superior being, and begin to walk with a light step, holding our breath. Then, perchance, while we gaze awe-stricken, along comes a merry squirrel, chattering and laughing, to break the spell, running up the trunk with no ceremony, and gnawing off the cones as if they were made only for him; while the carpenter-woodpecker hammers away at the bark, drilling holes in which to store his winter supply of acorns. [Illustration: YOUNG SUGAR PINE BEGINNING TO BEAR CONES.] The most constant companion of this species is the Yellow Pine, and a worthy companion it is. [Illustration: FOREST OF SEQUOIA, SUGAR PINE, AND DOUGLAS SPRUCE.] View the forest from beneath or from some commanding ridge-top; each tree presents a study in itself, and proclaims the surpassing grandeur of the species. YELLOW, OR SILVER PINE (_Pinus ponderosa_) [Illustration: PINUS PONDEROSA.] DOUGLAS SPRUCE (_Pseudotsuga Douglasii_) The young trees are mostly gathered into beautiful family groups, each sapling exquisitely symmetrical. The primary branches are whorled regularly around the axis, generally in fives, while each is draped with long, feathery sprays, that descend in curves as free and as finely drawn as those of falling water. INCENSE CEDAR (_Libocedrus decurrens_) [Illustration: INCENSE CEDAR IN ITS PRIME.] WHITE SILVER FIR (_Abies concolor_) MAGNIFICENT SILVER FIR, OR RED FIR (_Abies magnifica_) This is the most charmingly symmetrical of all the giants of the Sierra woods, far surpassing its companion species in this respect, and easily distinguished from it by the purplish-red bark, which is also more closely furrowed than that of the white, and by its larger cones, more regularly whorled and fronded branches, and by its leaves, which are shorter, and grow all around the branchlets and point upward. [Illustration: VIEW OF FOREST OF THE MAGNIFICENT SILVER FIR.] [Illustration: SILVER-FIR FOREST GROWING ON MORAINES OF THE HOFFMAN AND TENAYA GLACIERS.] BIG TREE (_Sequoia gigantea_) _Is the species verging to extinction? What are its relations to climate, soil, and associated trees?_ All the phenomena bearing on these questions also throw light, as we shall endeavor to show, upon the peculiar distribution of the species, and sustain the conclusion already arrived at on the question of extension. Since, then, it is a fact that thousands of Sequoias are growing thriftily on what is termed dry ground, and even clinging like mountain pines to rifts in granite precipices; and since it has also been shown that the extra moisture found in connection with the denser growths is an effect of their presence, instead of a cause of their presence, then the notions as to the former extension of the species and its near approach to extinction, based upon its supposed dependence on greater moisture, are seen to be erroneous. Again, if the restriction and irregular distribution of the species be interpreted as a result of the desiccation of the range, then instead of increasing as it does in individuals toward the south where the rainfall is less, it should diminish. If, then, the peculiar distribution of Sequoia has not been governed by superior conditions of soil as to fertility or moisture, by what has it been governed? Finally, pursuing my investigations across the basins of the Kaweah and Tule, I discovered that the Sequoia belt attained its greatest development just where, owing to the topographical peculiarities of the region, the ground had been most perfectly protected from the main ice-rivers that continued to pour past from the summit fountains long after the smaller local glaciers had been melted. Taking now a general view of the belt, beginning at the south, we see that the majestic ancient glaciers were shed off right and left down the valleys of Kern and King's rivers by the lofty protective spurs outspread embracingly above the warm Sequoia-filled basins of the Kaweah and Tule. Then, next northward, occurs the wide Sequoia-less channel, or basin, of the ancient San Joaquin and King's River _mer de glace_; then the warm, protected spots of Fresno and Mariposa groves; then the Sequoia-less channel of the ancient Merced glacier; next the warm, sheltered ground of the Merced and Tuolumne groves; then the Sequoia-less channel of the grand ancient _mer de glace_ of the Tuolumne and Stanislaus; then the warm old ground of the Calaveras and Stanislaus groves. It appears, therefore, that just where, at a certain period in the history of the Sierra, the glaciers were not, there the Sequoia is, and just where the glaciers were, there the Sequoia is not. In studying the fate of our forest king, we have thus far considered the action of purely natural causes only; but, unfortunately, _man_ is in the woods, and waste and pure destruction are making rapid headway. If the importance of forests were at all understood, even from an economic standpoint, their preservation would call forth the most watchful attention of government. Only of late years by means of forest reservations has the simplest groundwork for available legislation been laid, while in many of the finest groves every species of destruction is still moving on with accelerated speed. It appears, therefore, that notwithstanding our forest king might live on gloriously in Nature's keeping, it is rapidly vanishing before the fire and steel of man; and unless protective measures be speedily invented and applied, in a few decades, at the farthest, all that will be left of _Sequoia gigantea_ will be a few hacked and scarred monuments. The endurance of the species is shown by its wandering occasionally out over the lava plains with the Yellow Pine, and climbing moraineless mountain-sides with the Dwarf Pine, clinging to any chance support in rifts and crevices of storm-beaten rocks--always, however, showing the effects of such hardships in every feature. MOUNTAIN PINE (_Pinus monticola_) JUNIPER, OR RED CEDAR (_Juniperus occidentalis_) [Illustration: JUNIPER, OR RED CEDAR.] HEMLOCK SPRUCE (_Tsuga Pattoniana_) The staminate cones of all the coniferae are beautiful, growing in bright clusters, yellow, and rose, and crimson. Those of the Hemlock Spruce are the most beautiful of all, forming little conelets of blue flowers, each on a slender stem. DWARF PINE (_Pinus albicaulis_) [Illustration: GROUP OF ERECT DWARF PINES.] During stormy nights I have often camped snugly beneath the interlacing arches of this little pine. The needles, which have accumulated for centuries, make fine beds, a fact well known to other mountaineers, such as deer and wild sheep, who paw out oval hollows and lie beneath the larger trees in safe and comfortable concealment. [Illustration: A DWARF PINE.] WHITE PINE (_Pinus flexilis_) This species is widely distributed throughout the Rocky Mountains, and over all the higher of the many ranges of the Great Basin, between the Wahsatch Mountains and the Sierra, where it is known as White Pine. In the Sierra it is sparsely scattered along the eastern flank, from Bloody Canon southward nearly to the extremity of the range, opposite the village of Lone Pine, nowhere forming any appreciable portion of the general forest. From its peculiar position, in loose, straggling parties, it seems to have been derived from the Basin ranges to the eastward, where it is abundant. NEEDLE PINE (_Pinus aristata_) This species is restricted in the Sierra to the southern portion of the range, about the head waters of Kings and Kern rivers, where it forms extensive forests, and in some places accompanies the Dwarf Pine to the extreme limit of tree-growth. [Illustration: OAK GROWING AMONG YELLOW PINES.] NUT PINE (_Pinus monophylla_) This is undoubtedly the most important food-tree on the Sierra, and furnishes the Mono, Carson, and Walker River Indians with more and better nuts than all the other species taken together. It is the Indians' own tree, and many a white man have they killed for cutting it down. Of other trees growing on the Sierra, but forming a very small part of the general forest, we may briefly notice the following: _Chamoecyparis Lawsoniana_ is a magnificent tree in the coast ranges, but small in the Sierra. It is found only well to the northward along the banks of cool streams on the upper Sacramento toward Mount Shasta. Only a few trees of this species, as far as I have seen, have as yet gained a place in the Sierra woods. It has evidently been derived from the coast range by way of the tangle of connecting mountains at the head of the Sacramento Valley. In shady dells and on cool stream banks of the northern Sierra we also find the Yew (_Taxus brevifolia_). _Betula occidentalis_, the only birch, is a small, slender tree restricted to the eastern flank of the range along stream-sides below the pine-belt, especially in Owen's Valley. THE DOUGLAS SQUIRREL (_Sciurus Douglasii_) The Douglas Squirrel is by far the most interesting and influential of the California sciuridae, surpassing every other species in force of character, numbers, and extent of range, and in the amount of influence he brings to bear upon the health and distribution of the vast forests he inhabits. The Douglas is closely allied to the Red Squirrel or Chickaree of the eastern woods. Ours may be a lineal descendant of this species, distributed westward to the Pacific by way of the Great Lakes and the Rocky Mountains, and thence southward along our forested ranges. This view is suggested by the fact that our species becomes redder and more Chickaree-like in general, the farther it is traced back along the course indicated above. But whatever their relationship, and the evolutionary forces that have acted upon them, the Douglas is now the larger and more beautiful animal. While ascending trees all his claws come into play, but in descending the weight of his body is sustained chiefly by those of the hind feet; still in neither case do his movements suggest effort, though if you are near enough you may see the bulging strength of his short, bear-like arms, and note his sinewy fists clinched in the bark. Whether going up or down, he carries his tail extended at full length in line with his body, unless it be required for gestures. But while running along horizontal limbs or fallen trunks, it is frequently folded forward over the back, with the airy tip daintily upcurled. In cool weather it keeps him warm. Then, after he has finished his meal, you may see him crouched close on some level limb with his tail-robe neatly spread and reaching forward to his ears, the electric, outstanding hairs quivering in the breeze like pine-needles. But in wet or very cold weather he stays in his nest, and while curled up there his comforter is long enough to come forward around his nose. It is seldom so cold, however, as to prevent his going out to his stores when hungry. [Illustration: SEEDS, WINGS, AND SCALE OF SUGAR PINE. (NAT. SIZE.)] [Illustration: TRYING THE BOW.] A WIND-STORM IN THE FORESTS [Illustration: A WIND-STORM IN THE CALIFORNIA FORESTS. (AFTER A SKETCH BY THE AUTHOR.)] Excepting only the shadows there was nothing somber in all this wild sea of pines. On the contrary, notwithstanding this was the winter season, the colors were remarkably beautiful. The shafts of the pine and libocedrus were brown and purple, and most of the foliage was well tinged with yellow; the laurel groves, with the pale undersides of their leaves turned upward, made masses of gray; and then there was many a dash of chocolate color from clumps of manzanita, and jet of vivid crimson from the bark of the madronos, while the ground on the hillsides, appearing here and there through openings between the groves, displayed masses of pale purple and brown. The sounds of the storm corresponded gloriously with this wild exuberance of light and motion. The profound bass of the naked branches and boles booming like waterfalls; the quick, tense vibrations of the pine-needles, now rising to a shrill, whistling hiss, now falling to a silky murmur; the rustling of laurel groves in the dells, and the keen metallic click of leaf on leaf--all this was heard in easy analysis when the attention was calmly bent. We all travel the milky way together, trees and men; but it never occurred to me until this storm-day, while swinging in the wind, that trees are travelers, in the ordinary sense. They make many journeys, not extensive ones, it is true; but our own little journeys, away and back again, are only little more than tree-wavings--many of them not so much. As I gazed on the impressive scene, all the so-called ruin of the storm was forgotten, and never before did these noble woods appear so fresh, so joyous, so immortal. Nor was the flood confined to the ground. Every tree had a water system of its own spreading far and wide like miniature Amazons and Mississippis. The forms of storms are in great part measured, and controlled by the topography of the regions where they rise and over which they pass. When, therefore, we attempt to study them from the valleys, or from gaps and openings of the forest, we are confounded by a multitude of separate and apparently antagonistic impressions. The bottom of the storm is broken up into innumerable waves and currents that surge against the hillsides like sea-waves against a shore, and these, reacting on the nether surface of the storm, erode immense cavernous hollows and canons, and sweep forward the resulting detritus in long trains, like the moraines of glaciers. But, as we ascend, these partial, confusing effects disappear and the phenomena are beheld united and harmonious. When I arrived at the village about sundown, the good people bestirred themselves, pitying my bedraggled condition as if I were some benumbed castaway snatched from the sea, while I, in turn, warm with excitement and reeking like the ground, pitied them for being dry and defrauded of all the glory that Nature had spread round about them that day. SIERRA THUNDER-STORMS [Illustration: WATER-OUZEL DIVING AND FEEDING.] It is pitiful to see wee frost-pinched sparrows on cold mornings in the mountain groves shaking the snow from their feathers, and hopping about as if anxious to be cheery, then hastening back to their hidings out of the wind, puffing out their breast-feathers over their toes, and subsiding among the leaves, cold and breakfastless, while the snow continues to fall, and there is no sign of clearing. But the Ouzel never calls forth a single touch of pity; not because he is strong to endure, but rather because he seems to live a charmed life beyond the reach of every influence that makes endurance necessary. The more striking strains are perfect arabesques of melody, composed of a few full, round, mellow notes, embroidered with delicate trills which fade and melt in long slender cadences. In a general way his music is that of the streams refined and spiritualized. The deep booming notes of the falls are in it, the trills of rapids, the gurgling of margin eddies, the low whispering of level reaches, and the sweet tinkle of separate drops oozing from the ends of mosses and falling into tranquil pools. The Ouzel never sings in chorus with other birds, nor with his kind, but only with the streams. And like flowers that bloom beneath the surface of the ground, some of our favorite's best song-blossoms never rise above the surface of the heavier music of the water. I have often observed him singing in the midst of beaten spray, his music completely buried beneath the water's roar; yet I knew he was surely singing by his gestures and the movements of his bill. His food, as far as I have noticed, consists of all kinds of water insects, which in summer are chiefly procured along shallow margins. Here he wades about ducking his head under water and deftly turning over pebbles and fallen leaves with his bill, seldom choosing to go into deep water where he has to use his wings in diving. He seems to be especially fond of the larvae; of mosquitos, found in abundance attached to the bottom of smooth rock channels where the current is shallow. When feeding in such places he wades up-stream, and often while his head is under water the swift current is deflected upward along the glossy curves of his neck and shoulders, in the form of a clear, crystalline shell, which fairly incloses him like a bell-glass, the shell being broken and re-formed as he lifts and dips his head; while ever and anon he sidles out to where the too powerful current carries him off his feet; then he dexterously rises on the wing and goes gleaning again in shallower places. But during the winter, when the stream-banks are embossed in snow, and the streams themselves are chilled nearly to the freezing-point, so that the snow falling into them in stormy weather is not wholly dissolved, but forms a thin, blue sludge, thus rendering the current opaque--then he seeks the deeper portions of the main rivers, where he may dive to clear water beneath the sludge. Or he repairs to some open lake or mill-pond, at the bottom of which he feeds in safety. [Illustration: OUZEL ENTERING A WHITE CURRENT.] No harsh lines are presented by any portion of the nest as seen in place, but when removed from its shelf, the back and bottom, and sometimes a portion of the top, is found quite sharply angular, because it is made to conform to the surface of the rock upon which and against which it is built, the little architect always taking advantage of slight crevices and protuberances that may chance to offer, to render his structure stable by means of a kind of gripping and dovetailing. In choosing a building-spot, concealment does not seem to be taken into consideration; yet notwithstanding the nest is large and guilelessly exposed to view, it is far from being easily detected, chiefly because it swells forward like any other bulging moss-cushion growing naturally in such situations. This is more especially the case where the nest is kept fresh by being well sprinkled. Sometimes these romantic little huts have their beauty enhanced by rock-ferns and grasses that spring up around the mossy walls, or in front of the door-sill, dripping with crystal beads. [Illustration: THE OUZEL AT HOME.] An acquaintance of mine, a sort of foot-hill mountaineer, had a pet cat, a great, dozy, overgrown creature, about as broad-shouldered as a lynx. During the winter, while the snow lay deep, the mountaineer sat in his lonely cabin among the pines smoking his pipe and wearing the dull time away. Tom was his sole companion, sharing his bed, and sitting beside him on a stool with much the same drowsy expression of eye as his master. The good-natured bachelor was content with his hard fare of soda-bread and bacon, but Tom, the only creature in the world acknowledging dependence on him, must needs be provided with fresh meat. Accordingly he bestirred himself to contrive squirrel-traps, and waded the snowy woods with his gun, making sad havoc among the few winter birds, sparing neither robin, sparrow, nor tiny nuthatch, and the pleasure of seeing Tom eat and grow fat was his great reward. [Illustration: YOSEMITE BIRDS, SNOW-BOUND AT THE FOOT OF INDIAN CANON.] THE WILD SHEEP (_Ovis montana_) On account of the extreme variability of the sheep under culture, it is generally supposed that the innumerable domestic breeds have all been derived from the few wild species; but the whole question is involved in obscurity. According to Darwin, sheep have been domesticated from a very ancient period, the remains of a small breed, differing from any now known, having been found in the famous Swiss lake-dwellings. Compared with the best-known domestic breeds, we find that our wild species is much larger, and, instead of an all-wool garment, wears a thick over-coat of hair like that of the deer, and an under-covering of fine wool. The hair, though rather coarse, is comfortably soft and spongy, and lies smooth, as if carefully tended with comb and brush. The predominant color during most of the year is brownish-gray, varying to bluish-gray in the autumn; the belly and a large, conspicuous patch on the buttocks are white; and the tail, which is very short, like that of a deer, is black, with a yellowish border. The wool is white, and grows in beautiful spirals down out of sight among the shining hair, like delicate climbing vines among stalks of corn. A ram and ewe that I obtained near the Modoc lava-beds, to the northeast of Mount Shasta, measured as follows: A few of the more energetic of the Pah Ute Indians hunt the wild sheep every season among the more accessible sections of the High Sierra, in the neighborhood of passes, where, from having been pursued, they have become extremely wary; but in the rugged wilderness of peaks and canons, where the foaming tributaries of the San Joaquin and King's rivers take their rise, they fear no hunter save the wolf, and are more guileless and approachable than their tame kindred. Their resting-places seem to be chosen with reference to sunshine and a wide outlook, and most of all to safety. Their feeding-grounds are among the most beautiful of the wild gardens, bright with daisies and gentians and mats of purple bryanthus, lying hidden away on rocky headlands and canon sides, where sunshine is abundant, or down in the shady glacier valleys, along the banks of the streams and lakes, where the plushy sod is greenest. Here they feast all summer, the happy wanderers, perhaps relishing the beauty as well as the taste of the lovely flora on which they feed. [Illustration: SNOW-BOUND ON MOUNT SHASTA.] Nothing is more commonly remarked by noisy, dusty trail-travelers in the Sierra than the want of animal life--no song-birds, no deer, no squirrels, no game of any kind, they say. But if such could only go away quietly into the wilderness, sauntering afoot and alone with natural deliberation, they would soon learn that these mountain mansions are not without inhabitants, many of whom, confiding and gentle, would not try to shun their acquaintance. [Illustration: HEAD OF THE MERINO RAM (DOMESTIC).] [Illustration: HEAD OF ROCKY MOUNTAIN WILD SHEEP.] [Illustration: CROSSING A CANON STREAM.] Those shepherds who, in summer, drive their flocks to the mountain pastures, and, while watching them night and day, have seen them frightened by bears and storms, and scattered like wind-driven chaff, will, in some measure, be able to appreciate the self-reliance and strength and noble individuality of Nature's sheep. [Illustration: WILD SHEEP JUMPING OVER A PRECIPICE.] It appears, therefore, that the methods of this wild mountaineering become clearly comprehensible as soon as we make ourselves acquainted with the rocks, and the kind of feet and muscles brought to bear upon them. The Modoc and Pah Ute Indians are, or rather have been, the most successful hunters of the wild sheep in the regions that have come under my own observation. I have seen large numbers of heads and horns in the caves of Mount Shasta and the Modoc lava-beds, where the Indians had been feasting in stormy weather; also in the canons of the Sierra opposite Owen's Valley; while the heavy obsidian arrow-heads found on some of the highest peaks show that this warfare has long been going on. [Illustration: INDIANS HUNTING WILD SHEEP.] Man is the most dangerous enemy of all, but even from him our brave mountain-dweller has little to fear in the remote solitudes of the High Sierra. The golden plains of the Sacramento and San Joaquin were lately thronged with bands of elk and antelope, but, being fertile and accessible, they were required for human pastures. So, also, are many of the feeding-grounds of the deer--hill, valley, forest, and meadow--but it will be long before man will care to take the highland castles of the sheep. And when we consider here how rapidly entire species of noble animals, such as the elk, moose, and buffalo, are being pushed to the very verge of extinction, all lovers of wildness will rejoice with me in the rocky security of _Ovis montana_, the bravest of all the Sierra mountaineers. IN THE SIERRA FOOT-HILLS Anxious that I should miss none of the wonders of their old gold-field, the good people had much to say about the marvelous beauty of Cave City Cave, and advised me to explore it. This I was very glad to do, and finding a guide who knew the way to the mouth of it, I set out from Murphy the next morning. It was delightful to witness here the infinite deliberation of Nature, and the simplicity of her methods in the production of such mighty results, such perfect repose combined with restless enthusiastic energy. Though cold and bloodless as a landscape of polar ice, building was going on in the dark with incessant activity. The archways and ceilings were everywhere hung with down-growing crystals, like inverted groves of leafless saplings, some of them large, others delicately attenuated, each tipped with a single drop of water, like the terminal bud of a pine-tree. The only appreciable sounds were the dripping and tinkling of water failing into pools or faintly plashing on the crystal floors. The outer chambers of mountain caves are frequently selected as homes by wild beasts. In the Sierra, however, they seem to prefer homes and hiding-places in chaparral and beneath shelving precipices, as I have never seen their tracks in any of the caves. This is the more remarkable because notwithstanding the darkness and oozing water there is nothing uncomfortably cellar-like or sepulchral about them. When we emerged into the bright landscapes of the sun everything looked brighter, and we felt our faith in Nature's beauty strengthened, and saw more clearly that beauty is universal and immortal, above, beneath, on land and sea, mountain and plain, in heat and cold, light and darkness. But of late years plows and sheep have made sad havoc in these glorious pastures, destroying tens of thousands of the flowery acres like a fire, and banishing many species of the best honey-plants to rocky cliffs and fence-corners, while, on the other hand, cultivation thus far has given no adequate compensation, at least in kind; only acres of alfalfa for miles of the richest wild pasture, ornamental roses and honeysuckles around cottage doors for cascades of wild roses in the dells, and small, square orchards and orange-groves for broad mountain-belts of chaparral. [Illustration: A BEE-RANCH IN LOWER CALIFORNIA.] Because so long a period of extreme drought succeeds the rainy season, most of the vegetation is composed of annuals, which spring up simultaneously, and bloom together at about the same height above the ground, the general surface being but slightly ruffled by the taller phacelias, pentstemons, and groups of _Salvia carduacea_, the king of the mints. Sauntering in any direction, hundreds of these happy sun-plants brushed against my feet at every step, and closed over them as if I were wading in liquid gold. The air was sweet with fragrance, the larks sang their blessed songs, rising on the wing as I advanced, then sinking out of sight in the polleny sod, while myriads of wild bees stirred the lower air with their monotonous hum--monotonous, yet forever fresh and sweet as every-day sunshine. Hares and spermophiles showed themselves in considerable numbers in shallow places, and small bands of antelopes were almost constantly in sight, gazing curiously from some slight elevation, and then bounding swiftly away with unrivaled grace of motion. Yet I could discover no crushed flowers to mark their track, nor, indeed, any destructive action of any wild foot or tooth whatever. The great yellow days circled by uncounted, while I drifted toward the north, observing the countless forms of life thronging about me, lying down almost anywhere on the approach of night. And what glorious botanical beds I had! Oftentimes on awaking I would find several new species leaning over me and looking me full in the face, so that my studies would begin before rising. This was the full springtime. The sunshine grew warmer and richer, new plants bloomed every day; the air became more tuneful with humming wings, and sweeter with the fragrance of the opening flowers. Ants and ground squirrels were getting ready for their summer work, rubbing their benumbed limbs, and sunning themselves on the husk-piles before their doors, and spiders were busy mending their old webs, or weaving new ones. In April, plant-life, as a whole, reached its greatest height, and the plain, over all its varied surface, was mantled with a close, furred plush of purple and golden corollas. By the end of this month, most of the species had ripened their seeds, but undecayed, still seemed to be in bloom from the numerous corolla-like involucres and whorls of chaffy scales of the composite. In May, the bees found in flower only a few deep-set liliaceous plants and eriogonums. The main ranges send out spurs somewhat parallel to their axes, inclosing level valleys, many of them quite extensive, and containing a great profusion of sun-loving bee-flowers in their wild state; but these are, in great part, already lost to the bees by cultivation. [Illustration: WILD BEE GARDEN.] Thus, by forces seemingly antagonistic and destructive, has Mother Nature accomplished her beneficent designs--now a flood of fire, now a flood of ice, now a flood of water; and at length an outburst of organic life, a milky way of snowy petals and wings, girdling the rugged mountain like a cloud, as if the vivifying sunbeams beating against its sides had broken into a foam of plant-bloom and bees, as sea-waves break and bloom on a rock shore. Besides the common honey-bee there are many other species here--fine mossy, burly fellows, who were nourished on the mountains thousands of sunny seasons before the advent of the domestic species. Among these are the bumblebees, mason-bees, carpenter-bees, and leaf-cutters. Butterflies, too, and moths of every size and pattern; some broad-winged like bats, flapping slowly, and sailing in easy curves; others like small, flying violets, shaking about loosely in short, crooked flights close to the flowers, feasting luxuriously night and day. Great numbers of deer also delight to dwell in the brushy portions of the bee-pastures. Still more impressive are the warm, reviving days of spring in the mountain pastures. The blood of the plants throbbing beneath the life-giving sunshine seems to be heard and felt. Plant growth goes on before our eyes, and every tree in the woods, and every bush and flower is seen as a hive of restless industry. The deeps of the sky are mottled with singing wings of every tone and color; clouds of brilliant chrysididae dancing and swirling in exquisite rhythm, golden-barred vespidae, dragon-flies, butterflies, grating cicadas, and jolly, rattling grasshoppers, fairly enameling the light. On bright, crisp mornings a striking optical effect may frequently be observed from the shadows of the higher mountains while the sunbeams are pouring past overhead. Then every insect, no matter what may be its own proper color, burns white in the light. Gauzy-winged hymenoptera, moths, jet-black beetles, all are transfigured alike in pure, spiritual white, like snowflakes. The main honey months, in ordinary seasons, are April, May, June, July, and August; while the other months are usually flowery enough to yield sufficient for the bees. A good many of the so-called bee-ranches of Los Angeles and San Diego counties are still of the rudest pioneer kind imaginable. A man unsuccessful in everything else hears the interesting story of the profits and comforts of bee-keeping, and concludes to try it; he buys a few colonies, or gets them, from some overstocked ranch on shares, takes them back to the foot of some canon, where the pasturage is fresh, squats on the land, with, or without, the permission of the owner, sets up his hives, makes a box-cabin for himself, scarcely bigger than a bee-hive, and awaits his fortune. [Illustration: A BEE-RANCH ON A SPUR OF THE SAN GABRIEL RANGE. CARDINAL FLOWER.] [Illustration: A BEE-PASTURE ON THE MORAINE DESERT, SPANISH BAYONET.] Behind the San Bernardino Range lies the wild "sage-brush country," bounded on the east by the Colorado River, and extending in a general northerly direction to Nevada and along the eastern base of the Sierra beyond Mono Lake. End of Project Gutenberg's The Mountains of California, by John Muir	redpajama-book	12,404
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The Divine Comedy translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (e-text courtesy ILT's Digital Dante Project) To run o'er better waters hoists its sail The little vessel of my genius now, That leaves behind itself a sea so cruel; But let dead Poesy here rise again, O holy Muses, since that I am yours, And here Calliope somewhat ascend, My song accompanying with that sound, Of which the miserable magpies felt The blow so great, that they despaired of pardon. Unto mine eyes did recommence delight Soon as I issued forth from the dead air, Which had with sadness filled mine eyes and breast. The beauteous planet, that to love incites, Was making all the orient to laugh, Veiling the Fishes that were in her escort. Rejoicing in their flamelets seemed the heaven. O thou septentrional and widowed site, Because thou art deprived of seeing these! When from regarding them I had withdrawn, Turning a little to the other pole, There where the Wain had disappeared already, I saw beside me an old man alone, Worthy of so much reverence in his look, That more owes not to father any son. "Who are you? ye who, counter the blind river, Have fled away from the eternal prison?" Moving those venerable plumes, he said: "Who guided you? or who has been your lamp In issuing forth out of the night profound, That ever black makes the infernal valley? The laws of the abyss, are they thus broken? Or is there changed in heaven some council new, That being damned ye come unto my crags?" Then did my Leader lay his grasp upon me, And with his words, and with his hands and signs, Reverent he made in me my knees and brow; But since it is thy will more be unfolded Of our condition, how it truly is, Mine cannot be that this should be denied thee. As I have said, I unto him was sent To rescue him, and other way was none Than this to which I have myself betaken. I've shown him all the people of perdition, And now those spirits I intend to show Who purge themselves beneath thy guardianship. How I have brought him would be long to tell thee. Virtue descendeth from on high that aids me To lead him to behold thee and to hear thee. Now may it please thee to vouchsafe his coming; He seeketh Liberty, which is so dear, As knoweth he who life for her refuses. Thou know'st it; since, for her, to thee not bitter Was death in Utica, where thou didst leave The vesture, that will shine so, the great day. Eyes of thy Marcia, who in looks still prays thee, O holy breast, to hold her as thine own; For her love, then, incline thyself to us. Permit us through thy sevenfold realm to go; I will take back this grace from thee to her, If to be mentioned there below thou deignest." "Marcia so pleasing was unto mine eyes While I was on the other side," then said he, "That every grace she wished of me I granted; Now that she dwells beyond the evil river, She can no longer move me, by that law Which, when I issued forth from there, was made. But if a Lady of Heaven do move and rule thee, As thou dost say, no flattery is needful; Let it suffice thee that for her thou ask me. This little island round about its base Below there, yonder, where the billow beats it, Doth rushes bear upon its washy ooze; No other plant that putteth forth the leaf, Or that doth indurate, can there have life, Because it yieldeth not unto the shocks. Thereafter be not this way your return; The sun, which now is rising, will direct you To take the mount by easier ascent." With this he vanished; and I raised me up Without a word, and wholly drew myself Unto my Guide, and turned mine eyes to him. And he began: "Son, follow thou my steps; Let us turn back, for on this side declines The plain unto its lower boundaries." The dawn was vanquishing the matin hour Which fled before it, so that from afar I recognised the trembling of the sea. As soon as we were come to where the dew Fights with the sun, and, being in a part Where shadow falls, little evaporates, Both of his hands upon the grass outspread In gentle manner did my Master place; Whence I, who of his action was aware, Extended unto him my tearful cheeks; There did he make in me uncovered wholly That hue which Hell had covered up in me. Then came we down upon the desert shore Which never yet saw navigate its waters Any that afterward had known return. There he begirt me as the other pleased; O marvellous! for even as he culled The humble plant, such it sprang up again Suddenly there where he uprooted it. Purgatorio: Canto II Already had the sun the horizon reached Whose circle of meridian covers o'er Jerusalem with its most lofty point, And night that opposite to him revolves Was issuing forth from Ganges with the Scales That fall from out her hand when she exceedeth; So that the white and the vermilion cheeks Of beautiful Aurora, where I was, By too great age were changing into orange. We still were on the border of the sea, Like people who are thinking of their road, Who go in heart and with the body stay; From which when I a little had withdrawn Mine eyes, that I might question my Conductor, Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. Then on each side of it appeared to me I knew not what of white, and underneath it Little by little there came forth another. He cried: "Make haste, make haste to bow the knee! Behold the Angel of God! fold thou thy hands! Henceforward shalt thou see such officers! See how he scorneth human arguments, So that nor oar he wants, nor other sail Than his own wings, between so distant shores. See how he holds them pointed up to heaven, Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!" Then as still nearer and more near us came The Bird Divine, more radiant he appeared, So that near by the eye could not endure him, But down I cast it; and he came to shore With a small vessel, very swift and light, So that the water swallowed naught thereof. Then made he sign of holy rood upon them, Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, And he departed swiftly as he came. On every side was darting forth the day. The sun, who had with his resplendent shafts From the mid-heaven chased forth the Capricorn, When the new people lifted up their faces Towards us, saying to us: "If ye know, Show us the way to go unto the mountain." And answer made Virgilius: "Ye believe Perchance that we have knowledge of this place, But we are strangers even as yourselves. Just now we came, a little while before you, Another way, which was so rough and steep, That mounting will henceforth seem sport to us." The souls who had, from seeing me draw breath, Become aware that I was still alive, Pallid in their astonishment became; So at the sight of me stood motionless Those fortunate spirits, all of them, as if Oblivious to go and make them fair. I think with wonder I depicted me; Whereat the shadow smiled and backward drew; And I, pursuing it, pressed farther forward. Gently it said that I should stay my steps; Then knew I who it was, and I entreated That it would stop awhile to speak with me. It made reply to me: "Even as I loved thee In mortal body, so I love thee free; Therefore I stop; but wherefore goest thou?" Whence I, who now had turned unto that shore Where salt the waters of the Tiber grow, Benignantly by him have been received. Unto that outlet now his wing is pointed, Because for evermore assemble there Those who tow'rds Acheron do not descend." And I: "If some new law take not from thee Memory or practice of the song of love, Which used to quiet in me all my longings, Thee may it please to comfort therewithal Somewhat this soul of mine, that with its body Hitherward coming is so much distressed." "Love, that within my mind discourses with me," Forthwith began he so melodiously, The melody within me still is sounding. My Master, and myself, and all that people Which with him were, appeared as satisfied As if naught else might touch the mind of any. We all of us were moveless and attentive Unto his notes; and lo! the grave old man, Exclaiming: "What is this, ye laggard spirits? What negligence, what standing still is this? Run to the mountain to strip off the slough, That lets not God be manifest to you." Even as when, collecting grain or tares, The doves, together at their pasture met, Quiet, nor showing their accustomed pride, If aught appear of which they are afraid, Upon a sudden leave their food alone, Because they are assailed by greater care; Nor was our own departure less in haste. Purgatorio: Canto III Inasmuch as the instantaneous flight Had scattered them asunder o'er the plain, Turned to the mountain whither reason spurs us, I pressed me close unto my faithful comrade, And how without him had I kept my course? Who would have led me up along the mountain? He seemed to me within himself remorseful; O noble conscience, and without a stain, How sharp a sting is trivial fault to thee! After his feet had laid aside the haste Which mars the dignity of every act, My mind, that hitherto had been restrained, Let loose its faculties as if delighted, And I my sight directed to the hill That highest tow'rds the heaven uplifts itself. The sun, that in our rear was flaming red, Was broken in front of me into the figure Which had in me the stoppage of its rays; "Why dost thou still mistrust?" my Comforter Began to say to me turned wholly round; "Dost thou not think me with thee, and that I guide thee? 'Tis evening there already where is buried The body within which I cast a shadow; 'Tis from Brundusium ta'en, and Naples has it. To suffer torments, both of cold and heat, Bodies like this that Power provides, which wills That how it works be not unveiled to us. Mortals, remain contented at the 'Quia;' For if ye had been able to see all, No need there were for Mary to give birth; And ye have seen desiring without fruit, Those whose desire would have been quieted, Which evermore is given them for a grief. We came meanwhile unto the mountain's foot; There so precipitate we found the rock, That nimble legs would there have been in vain. 'Twixt Lerici and Turbia, the most desert, The most secluded pathway is a stair Easy and open, if compared with that. And while he held his eyes upon the ground Examining the nature of the path, And I was looking up around the rock, On the left hand appeared to me a throng Of souls, that moved their feet in our direction, And did not seem to move, they came so slowly. "Lift up thine eyes," I to the Master said; "Behold, on this side, who will give us counsel, If thou of thine own self can have it not." Then he looked at me, and with frank expression Replied: "Let us go there, for they come slowly, And thou be steadfast in thy hope, sweet son." When they all crowded unto the hard masses Of the high bank, and motionless stood and close, As he stands still to look who goes in doubt. "O happy dead! O spirits elect already!" Virgilius made beginning, "by that peace Which I believe is waiting for you all, As sheep come issuing forth from out the fold By ones and twos and threes, and the others stand Timidly, holding down their eyes and nostrils, And what the foremost does the others do, Huddling themselves against her, if she stop, Simple and quiet and the wherefore know not; So moving to approach us thereupon I saw the leader of that fortunate flock, Modest in face and dignified in gait. As soon as those in the advance saw broken The light upon the ground at my right side, So that from me the shadow reached the rock, They stopped, and backward drew themselves somewhat; And all the others, who came after them, Not knowing why nor wherefore, did the same. "Without your asking, I confess to you This is a human body which you see, Whereby the sunshine on the ground is cleft. Marvel ye not thereat, but be persuaded That not without a power which comes from Heaven Doth he endeavour to surmount this wall." The Master thus; and said those worthy people: "Return ye then, and enter in before us," Making a signal with the back o' the hand When with humility I had disclaimed E'er having seen him, "Now behold!" he said, And showed me high upon his breast a wound. Then said he with a smile: "I am Manfredi, The grandson of the Empress Costanza; Therefore, when thou returnest, I beseech thee Go to my daughter beautiful, the mother Of Sicily's honour and of Aragon's, And the truth tell her, if aught else be told. Horrible my iniquities had been; But Infinite Goodness hath such ample arms, That it receives whatever turns to it. Had but Cosenza's pastor, who in chase Of me was sent by Clement at that time, In God read understandingly this page, The bones of my dead body still would be At the bridge-head, near unto Benevento, Under the safeguard of the heavy cairn. Now the rain bathes and moveth them the wind, Beyond the realm, almost beside the Verde, Where he transported them with tapers quenched. By malison of theirs is not so lost Eternal Love, that it cannot return, So long as hope has anything of green. True is it, who in contumacy dies Of Holy Church, though penitent at last, Must wait upon the outside this bank See now if thou hast power to make me happy, By making known unto my good Costanza How thou hast seen me, and this ban beside, For those on earth can much advance us here." Purgatorio: Canto IV Whenever by delight or else by pain, That seizes any faculty of ours, Wholly to that the soul collects itself, And hence, whenever aught is heard or seen Which keeps the soul intently bent upon it, Time passes on, and we perceive it not, A greater opening ofttimes hedges up With but a little forkful of his thorns The villager, what time the grape imbrowns, Than was the passage-way through which ascended Only my Leader and myself behind him, After that company departed from us. With the swift pinions and the plumes I say Of great desire, conducted after him Who gave me hope, and made a light for me. We mounted upward through the rifted rock, And on each side the border pressed upon us, And feet and hands the ground beneath required. And he to me: "No step of thine descend; Still up the mount behind me win thy way, Till some sage escort shall appear to us." The summit was so high it vanquished sight, And the hillside precipitous far more Than line from middle quadrant to the centre. Spent with fatigue was I, when I began: "O my sweet Father! turn thee and behold How I remain alone, unless thou stay!" "O son," he said, "up yonder drag thyself," Pointing me to a terrace somewhat higher, Which on that side encircles all the hill. These words of his so spurred me on, that I Strained every nerve, behind him scrambling up, Until the circle was beneath my feet. Thereon ourselves we seated both of us Turned to the East, from which we had ascended, For all men are delighted to look back. The Poet well perceived that I was wholly Bewildered at the chariot of the light, Where 'twixt us and the Aquilon it entered. Whereon he said to me: "If Castor and Pollux Were in the company of yonder mirror, That up and down conducteth with its light, Thou wouldst behold the zodiac's jagged wheel Revolving still more near unto the Bears, Unless it swerved aside from its old track. How that may be wouldst thou have power to think, Collected in thyself, imagine Zion Together with this mount on earth to stand, "Truly, my Master," said I, "never yet Saw I so clearly as I now discern, There where my wit appeared incompetent, That the mid-circle of supernal motion, Which in some art is the Equator called, And aye remains between the Sun and Winter, For reason which thou sayest, departeth hence Tow'rds the Septentrion, what time the Hebrews Beheld it tow'rds the region of the heat. But, if it pleaseth thee, I fain would learn How far we have to go; for the hill rises Higher than eyes of mine have power to rise." Therefore, when it shall seem so pleasant to thee, That going up shall be to thee as easy As going down the current in a boat, Then at this pathway's ending thou wilt be; There to repose thy panting breath expect; No more I answer; and this I know for true." And as he finished uttering these words, A voice close by us sounded: "Peradventure Thou wilt have need of sitting down ere that." "O my sweet Lord," I said, "do turn thine eye On him who shows himself more negligent Then even Sloth herself his sister were." Then he turned round to us, and he gave heed, Just lifting up his eyes above his thigh, And said: "Now go thou up, for thou art valiant." Then knew I who he was; and the distress, That still a little did my breathing quicken, My going to him hindered not; and after I came to him he hardly raised his head, Saying: "Hast thou seen clearly how the sun O'er thy left shoulder drives his chariot?" His sluggish attitude and his curt words A little unto laughter moved my lips; Then I began: "Belacqua, I grieve not For thee henceforth; but tell me, wherefore seated In this place art thou? Waitest thou an escort? Or has thy usual habit seized upon thee?" And he: "O brother, what's the use of climbing? Since to my torment would not let me go The Angel of God, who sitteth at the gate. Unless, e'er that, some prayer may bring me aid Which rises from a heart that lives in grace; What profit others that in heaven are heard not?" Meanwhile the Poet was before me mounting, And saying: "Come now; see the sun has touched Meridian, and from the shore the night Covers already with her foot Morocco." I had already from those shades departed, And followed in the footsteps of my Guide, When from behind, pointing his finger at me, Mine eyes I turned at utterance of these words, And saw them watching with astonishment But me, but me, and the light which was broken! "Why doth thy mind so occupy itself," The Master said, "that thou thy pace dost slacken? What matters it to thee what here is whispered? Come after me, and let the people talk; Stand like a steadfast tower, that never wags Its top for all the blowing of the winds; What could I say in answer but "I come"? I said it somewhat with that colour tinged Which makes a man of pardon sometimes worthy. Meanwhile along the mountain-side across Came people in advance of us a little, Singing the Miserere verse by verse. When they became aware I gave no place For passage of the sunshine through my body, They changed their song into a long, hoarse "Oh!" If they stood still because they saw his shadow, As I suppose, enough is answered them; Him let them honour, it may profit them." Vapours enkindled saw I ne'er so swiftly At early nightfall cleave the air serene, Nor, at the set of sun, the clouds of August, But upward they returned in briefer time, And, on arriving, with the others wheeled Tow'rds us, like troops that run without a rein. "This folk that presses unto us is great, And cometh to implore thee," said the Poet; "So still go onward, and in going listen." "O soul that goest to beatitude With the same members wherewith thou wast born," Shouting they came, "a little stay thy steps, Look, if thou e'er hast any of us seen, So that o'er yonder thou bear news of him; Ah, why dost thou go on? Ah, why not stay? Long since we all were slain by violence, And sinners even to the latest hour; Then did a light from heaven admonish us, So that, both penitent and pardoning, forth From life we issued reconciled to God, Who with desire to see Him stirs our hearts." Speak ye, and I will do it, by that peace Which, following the feet of such a Guide, From world to world makes itself sought by me." Whence I, who speak alone before the others, Pray thee, if ever thou dost see the land That 'twixt Romagna lies and that of Charles, Thou be so courteous to me of thy prayers In Fano, that they pray for me devoutly, That I may purge away my grave offences. From thence was I; but the deep wounds, through which Issued the blood wherein I had my seat, Were dealt me in bosom of the Antenori, There where I thought to be the most secure; 'Twas he of Este had it done, who held me In hatred far beyond what justice willed. But if towards the Mira I had fled, When I was overtaken at Oriaco, I still should be o'er yonder where men breathe. I ran to the lagoon, and reeds and mire Did so entangle me I fell, and saw there A lake made from my veins upon the ground." Then said another: "Ah, be that desire Fulfilled that draws thee to the lofty mountain, As thou with pious pity aidest mine. I was of Montefeltro, and am Buonconte; Giovanna, nor none other cares for me; Hence among these I go with downcast front." And I to him: "What violence or what chance Led thee astray so far from Campaldino, That never has thy sepulture been known?" "Oh," he replied, "at Casentino's foot A river crosses named Archiano, born Above the Hermitage in Apennine. There where the name thereof becometh void Did I arrive, pierced through and through the throat, Fleeing on foot, and bloodying the plain; There my sight lost I, and my utterance Ceased in the name of Mary, and thereat I fell, and tenantless my flesh remained. Truth will I speak, repeat it to the living; God's Angel took me up, and he of hell Shouted: 'O thou from heaven, why dost thou rob me? Well knowest thou how in the air is gathered That humid vapour which to water turns, Soon as it rises where the cold doth grasp it. He joined that evil will, which aye seeks evil, To intellect, and moved the mist and wind By means of power, which his own nature gave; Thereafter, when the day was spent, the valley From Pratomagno to the great yoke covered With fog, and made the heaven above intent, So that the pregnant air to water changed; Down fell the rain, and to the gullies came Whate'er of it earth tolerated not; And as it mingled with the mighty torrents, Towards the royal river with such speed It headlong rushed, that nothing held it back. My frozen body near unto its outlet The robust Archian found, and into Arno Thrust it, and loosened from my breast the cross I made of me, when agony o'ercame me; It rolled me on the banks and on the bottom, Then with its booty covered and begirt me." Espousing me, my finger with his gem." Purgatorio: Canto VI Whene'er is broken up the game of Zara, He who has lost remains behind despondent, The throws repeating, and in sadness learns; Even such was I in that dense multitude, Turning to them this way and that my face, And, promising, I freed myself therefrom. There was the Aretine, who from the arms Untamed of Ghin di Tacco had his death, And he who fleeing from pursuit was drowned. I saw Count Orso; and the soul divided By hatred and by envy from its body, As it declared, and not for crime committed, Pierre de la Brosse I say; and here provide While still on earth the Lady of Brabant, So that for this she be of no worse flock! Began I: "It appears that thou deniest, O light of mine, expressly in some text, That orison can bend decree of Heaven; And ne'ertheless these people pray for this. Might then their expectation bootless be? Or is to me thy saying not quite clear?" And he to me: "My writing is explicit, And not fallacious is the hope of these, If with sane intellect 'tis well regarded; And there, where I affirmed that proposition, Defect was not amended by a prayer, Because the prayer from God was separate. Verily, in so deep a questioning Do not decide, unless she tell it thee, Who light 'twixt truth and intellect shall be. I know not if thou understand; I speak Of Beatrice; her shalt thou see above, Smiling and happy, on this mountain's top." And I: "Good Leader, let us make more haste, For I no longer tire me as before; And see, e'en now the hill a shadow casts." "We will go forward with this day" he answered, "As far as now is possible for us; But otherwise the fact is than thou thinkest. Ere thou art up there, thou shalt see return Him, who now hides himself behind the hill, So that thou dost not interrupt his rays. But yonder there behold! a soul that stationed All, all alone is looking hitherward; It will point out to us the quickest way." We came up unto it; O Lombard soul, How lofty and disdainful thou didst bear thee, And grand and slow in moving of thine eyes! Nothing whatever did it say to us, But let us go our way, eying us only After the manner of a couchant lion; Still near to it Virgilius drew, entreating That it would point us out the best ascent; And it replied not unto his demand, Ah! servile Italy, grief's hostelry! A ship without a pilot in great tempest! No Lady thou of Provinces, but brothel! That noble soul was so impatient, only At the sweet sound of his own native land, To make its citizen glad welcome there; What boots it, that for thee Justinian The bridle mend, if empty be the saddle? Withouten this the shame would be the less. Ah! people, thou that oughtest to be devout, And to let Caesar sit upon the saddle, If well thou hearest what God teacheth thee, Behold how fell this wild beast has become, Being no longer by the spur corrected, Since thou hast laid thy hand upon the bridle. O German Albert! who abandonest Her that has grown recalcitrant and savage, And oughtest to bestride her saddle-bow, May a just judgment from the stars down fall Upon thy blood, and be it new and open, That thy successor may have fear thereof; Because thy father and thyself have suffered, By greed of those transalpine lands distrained, The garden of the empire to be waste. Come and behold Montecchi and Cappelletti, Monaldi and Fillippeschi, careless man! Those sad already, and these doubt-depressed! Come and behold thy Rome, that is lamenting, Widowed, alone, and day and night exclaims, "My Caesar, why hast thou forsaken me?" Come and behold how loving are the people; And if for us no pity moveth thee, Come and be made ashamed of thy renown! And if it lawful be, O Jove Supreme! Who upon earth for us wast crucified, Are thy just eyes averted otherwhere? Or preparation is 't, that, in the abyss Of thine own counsel, for some good thou makest From our perception utterly cut off? For all the towns of Italy are full Of tyrants, and becometh a Marcellus Each peasant churl who plays the partisan! My Florence! well mayst thou contented be With this digression, which concerns thee not, Thanks to thy people who such forethought take! Many at heart have justice, but shoot slowly, That unadvised they come not to the bow, But on their very lips thy people have it! Many refuse to bear the common burden; But thy solicitous people answereth Without being asked, and crieth: "I submit." Now be thou joyful, for thou hast good reason; Thou affluent, thou in peace, thou full of wisdom! If I speak true, the event conceals it not. Athens and Lacedaemon, they who made The ancient laws, and were so civilized, Made towards living well a little sign Compared with thee, who makest such fine-spun Provisions, that to middle of November Reaches not what thou in October spinnest. How oft, within the time of thy remembrance, Laws, money, offices, and usages Hast thou remodelled, and renewed thy members? And if thou mind thee well, and see the light, Thou shalt behold thyself like a sick woman, Who cannot find repose upon her down, But by her tossing wardeth off her pain. Purgatorio: Canto VII "Or ever to this mountain were directed The souls deserving to ascend to God, My bones were buried by Octavian. I am Virgilius; and for no crime else Did I lose heaven, than for not having faith;" In this wise then my Leader made reply. So he appeared; and then bowed down his brow, And with humility returned towards him, And, where inferiors embrace, embraced him. "O glory of the Latians, thou," he said, "Through whom our language showed what it could do O pride eternal of the place I came from, What merit or what grace to me reveals thee? If I to hear thy words be worthy, tell me If thou dost come from Hell, and from what cloister." "Through all the circles of the doleful realm," Responded he, "have I come hitherward; Heaven's power impelled me, and with that I come. I by not doing, not by doing, lost The sight of that high sun which thou desirest, And which too late by me was recognized. A place there is below not sad with torments, But darkness only, where the lamentations Have not the sound of wailing, but are sighs. There dwell I with the little innocents Snatched by the teeth of Death, or ever they Were from our human sinfulness exempt. But if thou know and can, some indication Give us by which we may the sooner come Where Purgatory has its right beginning." He answered: "No fixed place has been assigned us; 'Tis lawful for me to go up and round; So far as I can go, as guide I join thee. But see already how the day declines, And to go up by night we are not able; Therefore 'tis well to think of some fair sojourn. Souls are there on the right hand here withdrawn; If thou permit me I will lead thee to them, And thou shalt know them not without delight." And on the ground the good Sordello drew His finger, saying, "See, this line alone Thou couldst not pass after the sun is gone; Not that aught else would hindrance give, however, To going up, save the nocturnal darkness; This with the want of power the will perplexes. We might indeed therewith return below, And, wandering, walk the hill-side round about, While the horizon holds the day imprisoned." Thereon my Lord, as if in wonder, said: "Do thou conduct us thither, where thou sayest That we can take delight in tarrying." Little had we withdrawn us from that place, When I perceived the mount was hollowed out In fashion as the valleys here are hollowed. "Thitherward," said that shade, "will we repair, Where of itself the hill-side makes a lap, And there for the new day will we await." Gold and fine silver, and scarlet and pearl-white, The Indian wood resplendent and serene, Fresh emerald the moment it is broken, "Salve Regina," on the green and flowers There seated, singing, spirits I beheld, Which were not visible outside the valley. "Before the scanty sun now seeks his nest," Began the Mantuan who had led us thither, "Among them do not wish me to conduct you. Better from off this ledge the acts and faces Of all of them will you discriminate, Than in the plain below received among them. He who sits highest, and the semblance bears Of having what he should have done neglected, And to the others' song moves not his lips, Rudolph the Emperor was, who had the power To heal the wounds that Italy have slain, So that through others slowly she revives. The other, who in look doth comfort him, Governed the region where the water springs, The Moldau bears the Elbe, and Elbe the sea. His name was Ottocar; and in swaddling-clothes Far better he than bearded Winceslaus His son, who feeds in luxury and ease. And the small-nosed, who close in council seems With him that has an aspect so benign, Died fleeing and disflowering the lily; Father and father-in-law of France's Pest Are they, and know his vicious life and lewd, And hence proceeds the grief that so doth pierce them. And if as King had after him remained The stripling who in rear of him is sitting, Well had the valour passed from vase to vase, Which cannot of the other heirs be said. Frederick and Jacomo possess the realms, But none the better heritage possesses. Not oftentimes upriseth through the branches The probity of man; and this He wills Who gives it, so that we may ask of Him. Eke to the large-nosed reach my words, no less Than to the other, Pier, who with him sings; Whence Provence and Apulia grieve already The plant is as inferior to its seed, As more than Beatrice and Margaret Costanza boasteth of her husband still. Behold the monarch of the simple life, Harry of England, sitting there alone; He in his branches has a better issue. He who the lowest on the ground among them Sits looking upward, is the Marquis William, For whose sake Alessandria and her war Make Monferrat and Canavese weep." Purgatorio: Canto VIII 'Twas now the hour that turneth back desire In those who sail the sea, and melts the heart, The day they've said to their sweet friends farewell, And the new pilgrim penetrates with love, If he doth hear from far away a bell That seemeth to deplore the dying day, It joined and lifted upward both its palms, Fixing its eyes upon the orient, As if it said to God, "Naught else I care for." "Te lucis ante" so devoutly issued Forth from its mouth, and with such dulcet notes, It made me issue forth from my own mind. And then the others, sweetly and devoutly, Accompanied it through all the hymn entire, Having their eyes on the supernal wheels. Here, Reader, fix thine eyes well on the truth, For now indeed so subtile is the veil, Surely to penetrate within is easy. I saw that army of the gentle-born Thereafterward in silence upward gaze, As if in expectation, pale and humble; Green as the little leaflets just now born Their garments were, which, by their verdant pinions Beaten and blown abroad, they trailed behind. Clearly in them discerned I the blond head; But in their faces was the eye bewildered, As faculty confounded by excess. "From Mary's bosom both of them have come," Sordello said, "as guardians of the valley Against the serpent, that will come anon." Whereupon I, who knew not by what road, Turned round about, and closely drew myself, Utterly frozen, to the faithful shoulders. Already now the air was growing dark, But not so that between his eyes and mine It did not show what it before locked up. Tow'rds me he moved, and I tow'rds him did move; Noble Judge Nino! how it me delighted, When I beheld thee not among the damned! No greeting fair was left unsaid between us; Then asked he: "How long is it since thou camest O'er the far waters to the mountain's foot?" And on the instant my reply was heard, He and Sordello both shrank back from me, Like people who are suddenly bewildered. When thou shalt be beyond the waters wide, Tell my Giovanna that she pray for me, Where answer to the innocent is made. I do not think her mother loves me more, Since she has laid aside her wimple white, Which she, unhappy, needs must wish again. Through her full easily is comprehended How long in woman lasts the fire of love, If eye or touch do not relight it often. So fair a hatchment will not make for her The Viper marshalling the Milanese A-field, as would have made Gallura's Cock." In this wise spake he, with the stamp impressed Upon his aspect of that righteous zeal Which measurably burneth in the heart. My greedy eyes still wandered up to heaven, Still to that point where slowest are the stars, Even as a wheel the nearest to its axle. As he was speaking, to himself Sordello Drew him, and said, "Lo there our Adversary!" And pointed with his finger to look thither. Upon the side on which the little valley No barrier hath, a serpent was; perchance The same which gave to Eve the bitter food. I did not see, and therefore cannot say How the celestial falcons 'gan to move, But well I saw that they were both in motion. Hearing the air cleft by their verdant wings, The serpent fled, and round the Angels wheeled, Up to their stations flying back alike. The shade that to the Judge had near approached When he had called, throughout that whole assault Had not a moment loosed its gaze on me. "So may the light that leadeth thee on high Find in thine own free-will as much of wax As needful is up to the highest azure," Currado Malaspina was I called; I'm not the elder, but from him descended; To mine I bore the love which here refineth." "O," said I unto him, "through your domains I never passed, but where is there a dwelling Throughout all Europe, where they are not known? That fame, which doeth honour to your house, Proclaims its Signors and proclaims its land, So that he knows of them who ne'er was there. And, as I hope for heaven, I swear to you Your honoured family in naught abates The glory of the purse and of the sword. It is so privileged by use and nature, That though a guilty head misguide the world, Sole it goes right, and scorns the evil way." Before that such a courteous opinion Shall in the middle of thy head be nailed With greater nails than of another's speech, Unless the course of justice standeth still." Purgatorio: Canto IX The concubine of old Tithonus now Gleamed white upon the eastern balcony, Forth from the arms of her sweet paramour; With gems her forehead all relucent was, Set in the shape of that cold animal Which with its tail doth smite amain the nations, Just at the hour when her sad lay begins The little swallow, near unto the morning, Perchance in memory of her former woes, And when the mind of man, a wanderer More from the flesh, and less by thought imprisoned, Almost prophetic in its visions is, In dreams it seemed to me I saw suspended An eagle in the sky, with plumes of gold, With wings wide open, and intent to stoop, And this, it seemed to me, was where had been By Ganymede his kith and kin abandoned, When to the high consistory he was rapt. I thought within myself, perchance he strikes From habit only here, and from elsewhere Disdains to bear up any in his feet. Then wheeling somewhat more, it seemed to me, Terrible as the lightning he descended, And snatched me upward even to the fire. Therein it seemed that he and I were burning, And the imagined fire did scorch me so, That of necessity my sleep was broken. Not otherwise Achilles started up, Around him turning his awakened eyes, And knowing not the place in which he was, What time from Chiron stealthily his mother Carried him sleeping in her arms to Scyros, Wherefrom the Greeks withdrew him afterwards, Than I upstarted, when from off my face Sleep fled away; and pallid I became, As doth the man who freezes with affright. "Be not intimidated," said my Lord, "Be reassured, for all is well with us; Do not restrain, but put forth all thy strength. Thou hast at length arrived at Purgatory; See there the cliff that closes it around; See there the entrance, where it seems disjoined. Whilom at dawn, which doth precede the day, When inwardly thy spirit was asleep Upon the flowers that deck the land below, Sordello and the other noble shapes Remained; she took thee, and, as day grew bright, Upward she came, and I upon her footsteps. So did I change; and when without disquiet My Leader saw me, up along the cliff He moved, and I behind him, tow'rd the height. Reader, thou seest well how I exalt My theme, and therefore if with greater art I fortify it, marvel not thereat. And as I opened more and more mine eyes, I saw him seated on the highest stair, Such in the face that I endured it not. And in his hand he had a naked sword, Which so reflected back the sunbeams tow'rds us, That oft in vain I lifted up mine eyes. "Tell it from where you are, what is't you wish?" Began he to exclaim; "where is the escort? Take heed your coming hither harm you not!" "A Lady of Heaven, with these things conversant," My Master answered him, "but even now Said to us, 'Thither go; there is the portal.'" "And may she speed your footsteps in all good," Again began the courteous janitor; "Come forward then unto these stairs of ours." Both of his feet was holding upon this The Angel of God, upon the threshold seated, Which seemed to me a stone of diamond. "Whenever faileth either of these keys So that it turn not rightly in the lock," He said to us, "this entrance doth not open. From Peter I have them; and he bade me err Rather in opening than in keeping shut, If people but fall down before my feet." Then pushed the portals of the sacred door, Exclaiming: "Enter; but I give you warning That forth returns whoever looks behind." And when upon their hinges were turned round The swivels of that consecrated gate, Which are of metal, massive and sonorous, Roared not so loud, nor so discordant seemed Tarpeia, when was ta'en from it the good Metellus, wherefore meagre it remained. Exactly such an image rendered me That which I heard, as we are wont to catch, When people singing with the organ stand; For now we hear, and now hear not, the words. When we had crossed the threshold of the door Which the perverted love of souls disuses, Because it makes the crooked way seem straight, Re-echoing I heard it closed again; And if I had turned back mine eyes upon it, What for my failing had been fit excuse? We mounted upward through a rifted rock, Which undulated to this side and that, Even as a wave receding and advancing. "Here it behoves us use a little art," Began my Leader, "to adapt ourselves Now here, now there, to the receding side." And this our footsteps so infrequent made, That sooner had the moon's decreasing disk Regained its bed to sink again to rest, Than we were forth from out that needle's eye; But when we free and in the open were, There where the mountain backward piles itself, I wearied out, and both of us uncertain About our way, we stopped upon a plain More desolate than roads across the deserts. And far as eye of mine could wing its flight, Now on the left, and on the right flank now, The same this cornice did appear to me. Thereon our feet had not been moved as yet, When I perceived the embankment round about, Which all right of ascent had interdicted, To be of marble white, and so adorned With sculptures, that not only Polycletus, But Nature's self, had there been put to shame. The Angel, who came down to earth with tidings Of peace, that had been wept for many a year, And opened Heaven from its long interdict, In front of us appeared so truthfully There sculptured in a gracious attitude, He did not seem an image that is silent. And in her mien this language had impressed, "Ecce ancilla Dei," as distinctly As any figure stamps itself in wax. Whereat I moved mine eyes, and I beheld In rear of Mary, and upon that side Where he was standing who conducted me, Another story on the rock imposed; Wherefore I passed Virgilius and drew near, So that before mine eyes it might be set. Likewise unto the smoke of the frankincense, Which there was imaged forth, the eyes and nose Were in the yes and no discordant made. Preceded there the vessel benedight, Dancing with girded loins, the humble Psalmist, And more and less than King was he in this. Opposite, represented at the window Of a great palace, Michal looked upon him, Even as a woman scornful and afflicted. I moved my feet from where I had been standing, To examine near at hand another story, Which after Michal glimmered white upon me. There the high glory of the Roman Prince Was chronicled, whose great beneficence Moved Gregory to his great victory; 'Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking; And a poor widow at his bridle stood, In attitude of weeping and of grief. Around about him seemed it thronged and full Of cavaliers, and the eagles in the gold Above them visibly in the wind were moving. The wretched woman in the midst of these Seemed to be saying: "Give me vengeance, Lord, For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking." Return?" And he: "Who shall be where I am Will give it thee." And she: "Good deed of others What boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?" Whence he: "Now comfort thee, for it behoves me That I discharge my duty ere I move; Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me." He who on no new thing has ever looked Was the creator of this visible language, Novel to us, for here it is not found. While I delighted me in contemplating The images of such humility, And dear to look on for their Maker's sake, "Behold, upon this side, but rare they make Their steps," the Poet murmured, "many people; These will direct us to the lofty stairs." Mine eyes, that in beholding were intent To see new things, of which they curious are, In turning round towards him were not slow. But still I wish not, Reader, thou shouldst swerve From thy good purposes, because thou hearest How God ordaineth that the debt be paid; Attend not to the fashion of the torment, Think of what follows; think that at the worst It cannot reach beyond the mighty sentence. "Master," began I, "that which I behold Moving towards us seems to me not persons, And what I know not, so in sight I waver." But look there fixedly, and disentangle By sight what cometh underneath those stones; Already canst thou see how each is stricken." O ye proud Christians! wretched, weary ones! Who, in the vision of the mind infirm Confidence have in your backsliding steps, Do ye not comprehend that we are worms, Born to bring forth the angelic butterfly That flieth unto judgment without screen? Why floats aloft your spirit high in air? Like are ye unto insects undeveloped, Even as the worm in whom formation fails! As to sustain a ceiling or a roof, In place of corbel, oftentimes a figure Is seen to join its knees unto its breast, Which makes of the unreal real anguish Arise in him who sees it, fashioned thus Beheld I those, when I had ta'en good heed. True is it, they were more or less bent down, According as they more or less were laden; And he who had most patience in his looks Weeping did seem to say, "I can no more!" Purgatorio: Canto XI Praised be thy name and thine omnipotence By every creature, as befitting is To render thanks to thy sweet effluence. Come unto us the peace of thy dominion, For unto it we cannot of ourselves, If it come not, with all our intellect. Even as thine own Angels of their will Make sacrifice to thee, Hosanna singing, So may all men make sacrifice of theirs. Give unto us this day our daily manna, Withouten which in this rough wilderness Backward goes he who toils most to advance. This last petition verily, dear Lord, Not for ourselves is made, who need it not, But for their sake who have remained behind us." Thus for themselves and us good furtherance Those shades imploring, went beneath a weight Like unto that of which we sometimes dream, Unequally in anguish round and round And weary all, upon that foremost cornice, Purging away the smoke-stains of the world. If there good words are always said for us, What may not here be said and done for them, By those who have a good root to their will? Well may we help them wash away the marks That hence they carried, so that clean and light They may ascend unto the starry wheels! "Ah! so may pity and justice you disburden Soon, that ye may have power to move the wing, That shall uplift you after your desire, For he who cometh with me, through the burden Of Adam's flesh wherewith he is invested, Against his will is chary of his climbing." The words of theirs which they returned to those That he whom I was following had spoken, It was not manifest from whom they came, But it was said: "To the right hand come with us Along the bank, and ye shall find a pass Possible for living person to ascend. And were I not impeded by the stone, Which this proud neck of mine doth subjugate, Whence I am forced to hold my visage down, Him, who still lives and does not name himself, Would I regard, to see if I may know him And make him piteous unto this burden. A Latian was I, and born of a great Tuscan; Guglielmo Aldobrandeschi was my father; I know not if his name were ever with you. The ancient blood and deeds of gallantry Of my progenitors so arrogant made me That, thinking not upon the common mother, All men I held in scorn to such extent I died therefor, as know the Sienese, And every child in Campagnatico. I am Omberto; and not to me alone Has pride done harm, but all my kith and kin Has with it dragged into adversity. And here must I this burden bear for it Till God be satisfied, since I did not Among the living, here among the dead." And looked at me, and knew me, and called out, Keeping his eyes laboriously fixed On me, who all bowed down was going with them. "O," asked I him, "art thou not Oderisi, Agobbio's honour, and honour of that art Which is in Paris called illuminating?" "Brother," said he, "more laughing are the leaves Touched by the brush of Franco Bolognese; All his the honour now, and mine in part. In sooth I had not been so courteous While I was living, for the great desire Of excellence, on which my heart was bent. Here of such pride is paid the forfeiture; And yet I should not be here, were it not That, having power to sin, I turned to God. O thou vain glory of the human powers, How little green upon thy summit lingers, If't be not followed by an age of grossness! In painting Cimabue thought that he Should hold the field, now Giotto has the cry, So that the other's fame is growing dim. Naught is this mundane rumour but a breath Of wind, that comes now this way and now that, And changes name, because it changes side. What fame shalt thou have more, if old peel off From thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been dead Before thou left the 'pappo' and the 'dindi,' With him, who takes so little of the road In front of me, all Tuscany resounded; And now he scarce is lisped of in Siena, Where he was lord, what time was overthrown The Florentine delirium, that superb Was at that day as now 'tis prostitute. Your reputation is the colour of grass Which comes and goes, and that discolours it By which it issues green from out the earth." And I: "Thy true speech fills my heart with good Humility, and great tumour thou assuagest; But who is he, of whom just now thou spakest?" "That," he replied, "is Provenzan Salvani, And he is here because he had presumed To bring Siena all into his hands. He has gone thus, and goeth without rest E'er since he died; such money renders back In payment he who is on earth too daring." And I: "If every spirit who awaits The verge of life before that he repent, Remains below there and ascends not hither, (Unless good orison shall him bestead,) Until as much time as he lived be passed, How was the coming granted him in largess?" "When he in greatest splendour lived," said he, "Freely upon the Campo of Siena, All shame being laid aside, he placed himself; And there to draw his friend from the duress Which in the prison-house of Charles he suffered, He brought himself to tremble in each vein. I say no more, and know that I speak darkly; Yet little time shall pass before thy neighbours Will so demean themselves that thou canst gloss it. This action has released him from those confines." Purgatorio: Canto XII Abreast, like oxen going in a yoke, I with that heavy-laden soul went on, As long as the sweet pedagogue permitted; But when he said, "Leave him, and onward pass, For here 'tis good that with the sail and oars, As much as may be, each push on his barque;" Upright, as walking wills it, I redressed My person, notwithstanding that my thoughts Remained within me downcast and abashed. I had moved on, and followed willingly The footsteps of my Master, and we both Already showed how light of foot we were, When unto me he said: "Cast down thine eyes; 'Twere well for thee, to alleviate the way, To look upon the bed beneath thy feet." As, that some memory may exist of them, Above the buried dead their tombs in earth Bear sculptured on them what they were before; Whence often there we weep for them afresh, From pricking of remembrance, which alone To the compassionate doth set its spur; So saw I there, but of a better semblance In point of artifice, with figures covered Whate'er as pathway from the mount projects. I saw Briareus smitten by the dart Celestial, lying on the other side, Heavy upon the earth by mortal frost. I saw Thymbraeus, Pallas saw, and Mars, Still clad in armour round about their father, Gaze at the scattered members of the giants. I saw, at foot of his great labour, Nimrod, As if bewildered, looking at the people Who had been proud with him in Sennaar. O Saul! how fallen upon thy proper sword Didst thou appear there lifeless in Gilboa, That felt thereafter neither rain nor dew! O Rehoboam! no more seems to threaten Thine image there; but full of consternation A chariot bears it off, when none pursues! Displayed moreo'er the adamantine pavement How unto his own mother made Alcmaeon Costly appear the luckless ornament; Displayed how his own sons did throw themselves Upon Sennacherib within the temple, And how, he being dead, they left him there; Displayed the ruin and the cruel carnage That Tomyris wrought, when she to Cyrus said, "Blood didst thou thirst for, and with blood I glut thee!" I saw there Troy in ashes and in caverns; O Ilion! thee, how abject and debased, Displayed the image that is there discerned! Whoe'er of pencil master was or stile, That could portray the shades and traits which there Would cause each subtile genius to admire? Dead seemed the dead, the living seemed alive; Better than I saw not who saw the truth, All that I trod upon while bowed I went. Now wax ye proud, and on with looks uplifted, Ye sons of Eve, and bow not down your faces So that ye may behold your evil ways! More of the mount by us was now encompassed, And far more spent the circuit of the sun, Than had the mind preoccupied imagined, When he, who ever watchful in advance Was going on, began: "Lift up thy head, 'Tis no more time to go thus meditating. With reverence thine acts and looks adorn, So that he may delight to speed us upward; Think that this day will never dawn again." I was familiar with his admonition Ever to lose no time; so on this theme He could not unto me speak covertly. Towards us came the being beautiful Vested in white, and in his countenance Such as appears the tremulous morning star. His arms he opened, and opened then his wings; "Come," said he, "near at hand here are the steps, And easy from henceforth is the ascent." At this announcement few are they who come! O human creatures, born to soar aloft, Why fall ye thus before a little wind? He led us on to where the rock was cleft; There smote upon my forehead with his wings, Then a safe passage promised unto me. As on the right hand, to ascend the mount Where seated is the church that lordeth it O'er the well-guided, above Rubaconte, The bold abruptness of the ascent is broken By stairways that were made there in the age When still were safe the ledger and the stave, As we were turning thitherward our persons, "Beati pauperes spiritu," voices Sang in such wise that speech could tell it not. We now were hunting up the sacred stairs, And it appeared to me by far more easy Than on the plain it had appeared before. Whence I: "My Master, say, what heavy thing Has been uplifted from me, so that hardly Aught of fatigue is felt by me in walking?" Thy feet will be so vanquished by good will, That not alone they shall not feel fatigue, But urging up will be to them delight." Then did I even as they do who are going With something on the head to them unknown, Unless the signs of others make them doubt, Wherefore the hand to ascertain is helpful, And seeks and finds, and doth fulfill the office Which cannot be accomplished by the sight; Upon beholding which my Leader smiled. Purgatorio: Canto XIII Shade is there none, nor sculpture that appears; So seems the bank, and so the road seems smooth, With but the livid colour of the stone. "If to inquire we wait for people here," The Poet said, "I fear that peradventure Too much delay will our election have." Then steadfast on the sun his eyes he fixed, Made his right side the centre of his motion, And turned the left part of himself about. Thou warmest the world, thou shinest over it; If other reason prompt not otherwise, Thy rays should evermore our leaders be!" As much as here is counted for a mile, So much already there had we advanced In little time, by dint of ready will; And tow'rds us there were heard to fly, albeit They were not visible, spirits uttering Unto Love's table courteous invitations, And ere it wholly grew inaudible Because of distance, passed another, crying, "I am Orestes!" and it also stayed not. And the good Master said: "This circle scourges The sin of envy, and on that account Are drawn from love the lashes of the scourge. The bridle of another sound shall be; I think that thou wilt hear it, as I judge, Before thou comest to the Pass of Pardon. And when we were a little farther onward, I heard a cry of, "Mary, pray for us!" A cry of, "Michael, Peter, and all Saints!" I do not think there walketh still on earth A man so hard, that he would not be pierced With pity at what afterward I saw. For when I had approached so near to them That manifest to me their acts became, Drained was I at the eyes by heavy grief. So that in others pity soon may rise, Not only at the accent of their words, But at their aspect, which no less implores. And as unto the blind the sun comes not, So to the shades, of whom just now I spake, Heaven's light will not be bounteous of itself; For all their lids an iron wire transpierces, And sews them up, as to a sparhawk wild Is done, because it will not quiet stay. To me it seemed, in passing, to do outrage, Seeing the others without being seen; Wherefore I turned me to my counsel sage. Upon the other side of me I had The shades devout, who through the horrible seam Pressed out the tears so that they bathed their cheeks. To them I turned me, and, "O people, certain," Began I, "of beholding the high light, Which your desire has solely in its care, So may grace speedily dissolve the scum Upon your consciences, that limpidly Through them descend the river of the mind, Tell me, for dear 'twill be to me and gracious, If any soul among you here is Latian, And 'twill perchance be good for him I learn it." By way of answer this I seemed to hear A little farther on than where I stood, Whereat I made myself still nearer heard. "Spirit," I said, "who stoopest to ascend, If thou art he who did reply to me, Make thyself known to me by place or name." "Sienese was I," it replied, "and with The others here recleanse my guilty life, Weeping to Him to lend himself to us. Sapient I was not, although I Sapia Was called, and I was at another's harm More happy far than at my own good fortune. And that thou mayst not think that I deceive thee, Hear if I was as foolish as I tell thee. The arc already of my years descending, My fellow-citizens near unto Colle Were joined in battle with their adversaries, And I was praying God for what he willed. Routed were they, and turned into the bitter Passes of flight; and I, the chase beholding, A joy received unequalled by all others; So that I lifted upward my bold face Crying to God, 'Henceforth I fear thee not,' As did the blackbird at the little sunshine. Peace I desired with God at the extreme Of my existence, and as yet would not My debt have been by penitence discharged, Had it not been that in remembrance held me Pier Pettignano in his holy prayers, Who out of charity was grieved for me. But who art thou, that into our conditions Questioning goest, and hast thine eyes unbound As I believe, and breathing dost discourse?" "Mine eyes," I said, "will yet be here ta'en from me, But for short space; for small is the offence Committed by their being turned with envy. Far greater is the fear, wherein suspended My soul is, of the torment underneath, For even now the load down there weighs on me." And she to me: "Who led thee, then, among us Up here, if to return below thou thinkest?" And I: "He who is with me, and speaks not; And living am I; therefore ask of me, Spirit elect, if thou wouldst have me move O'er yonder yet my mortal feet for thee." "O, this is such a novel thing to hear," She answered, "that great sign it is God loves thee; Therefore with prayer of thine sometimes assist me. And I implore, by what thou most desirest, If e'er thou treadest the soil of Tuscany, Well with my kindred reinstate my fame. Them wilt thou see among that people vain Who hope in Talamone, and will lose there More hope than in discovering the Diana; But there still more the admirals will lose." Purgatorio: Canto XIV "I know not who, but know he's not alone; Ask him thyself, for thou art nearer to him, And gently, so that he may speak, accost him." Whence comest and who art thou; for thou mak'st us As much to marvel at this grace of thine As must a thing that never yet has been." From thereupon do I this body bring. To tell you who I am were speech in vain, Because my name as yet makes no great noise." And thus the shade that questioned was of this Himself acquitted: "I know not; but truly 'Tis fit the name of such a valley perish; For from its fountain-head (where is so pregnant The Alpine mountain whence is cleft Peloro That in few places it that mark surpasses) To where it yields itself in restoration Of what the heaven doth of the sea dry up, Whence have the rivers that which goes with them, Virtue is like an enemy avoided By all, as is a serpent, through misfortune Of place, or through bad habit that impels them; On which account have so transformed their nature The dwellers in that miserable valley, It seems that Circe had them in her pasture. Curs findeth it thereafter, coming downward, More snarling than their puissance demands, And turns from them disdainfully its muzzle. It goes on falling, and the more it grows, The more it finds the dogs becoming wolves, This maledict and misadventurous ditch. Descended then through many a hollow gulf, It finds the foxes so replete with fraud, They fear no cunning that may master them. Nor will I cease because another hears me; And well 'twill be for him, if still he mind him Of what a truthful spirit to me unravels. Thy grandson I behold, who doth become A hunter of those wolves upon the bank Of the wild stream, and terrifies them all. He sells their flesh, it being yet alive; Thereafter slaughters them like ancient beeves; Many of life, himself of praise, deprives. As at the announcement of impending ills The face of him who listens is disturbed, From whate'er side the peril seize upon him; So I beheld that other soul, which stood Turned round to listen, grow disturbed and sad, When it had gathered to itself the word. But since God willeth that in thee shine forth Such grace of his, I'll not be chary with thee; Know, then, that I Guido del Duca am. My blood was so with envy set on fire, That if I had beheld a man make merry, Thou wouldst have seen me sprinkled o'er with pallor. From my own sowing such the straw I reap! O human race! why dost thou set thy heart Where interdict of partnership must be? And not alone his blood is made devoid, 'Twixt Po and mount, and sea-shore and the Reno, Of good required for truth and for diversion; For all within these boundaries is full Of venomous roots, so that too tardily By cultivation now would they diminish. Where is good Lizio, and Arrigo Manardi, Pier Traversaro, and Guido di Carpigna, O Romagnuoli into bastards turned? When in Bologna will a Fabbro rise? When in Faenza a Bernardin di Fosco, The noble scion of ignoble seed? Be not astonished, Tuscan, if I weep, When I remember, with Guido da Prata, Ugolin d' Azzo, who was living with us, The dames and cavaliers, the toils and ease That filled our souls with love and courtesy, There where the hearts have so malicious grown! O Brettinoro! why dost thou not flee, Seeing that all thy family is gone, And many people, not to be corrupted? Bagnacaval does well in not begetting And ill does Castrocaro, and Conio worse, In taking trouble to beget such Counts. Will do well the Pagani, when their Devil Shall have departed; but not therefore pure Will testimony of them e'er remain. But go now, Tuscan, for it now delights me To weep far better than it does to speak, So much has our discourse my mind distressed." We were aware that those beloved souls Heard us depart; therefore, by keeping silent, They made us of our pathway confident. When we became alone by going onward, Thunder, when it doth cleave the air, appeared A voice, that counter to us came, exclaiming: "Shall slay me whosoever findeth me!" And fled as the reverberation dies If suddenly the cloud asunder bursts. As soon as hearing had a truce from this, Behold another, with so great a crash, That it resembled thunderings following fast: "I am Aglaurus, who became a stone!" And then, to press myself close to the Poet, I backward, and not forward, took a step. Already on all sides the air was quiet; And said he to me: "That was the hard curb That ought to hold a man within his bounds; But you take in the bait so that the hook Of the old Adversary draws you to him, And hence availeth little curb or call. The heavens are calling you, and wheel around you, Displaying to you their eternal beauties, And still your eye is looking on the ground; Whence He, who all discerns, chastises you." Purgatorio: Canto XV So much it now appeared, towards the night, Was of his course remaining to the sun; There it was evening, and 'twas midnight here; And the rays smote the middle of our faces, Because by us the mount was so encircled, That straight towards the west we now were going Whereat towards the summit of my brow I raised my hands, and made myself the visor Which the excessive glare diminishes. As when from off the water, or a mirror, The sunbeam leaps unto the opposite side, Ascending upward in the selfsame measure That it descends, and deviates as far From falling of a stone in line direct, (As demonstrate experiment and art,) So it appeared to me that by a light Refracted there before me I was smitten; On which account my sight was swift to flee. "What is that, Father sweet, from which I cannot So fully screen my sight that it avail me," Said I, "and seems towards us to be moving?" "Marvel thou not, if dazzle thee as yet The family of heaven," he answered me; "An angel 'tis, who comes to invite us upward. Soon will it be, that to behold these things Shall not be grievous, but delightful to thee As much as nature fashioned thee to feel." When we had reached the Angel benedight, With joyful voice he said: "Here enter in To stairway far less steep than are the others." We mounting were, already thence departed, And "Beati misericordes" was Behind us sung, "Rejoice, thou that o'ercomest!" Whence he to me: "Of his own greatest failing He knows the harm; and therefore wonder not If he reprove us, that we less may rue it. Because are thither pointed your desires Where by companionship each share is lessened, Envy doth ply the bellows to your sighs. But if the love of the supernal sphere Should upwardly direct your aspiration, There would not be that fear within your breast; "I am more hungering to be satisfied," I said, "than if I had before been silent, And more of doubt within my mind I gather. How can it be, that boon distributed The more possessors can more wealthy make Therein, than if by few it be possessed?" And he to me: "Because thou fixest still Thy mind entirely upon earthly things, Thou pluckest darkness from the very light. That goodness infinite and ineffable Which is above there, runneth unto love, As to a lucid body comes the sunbeam. So much it gives itself as it finds ardour, So that as far as charity extends, O'er it increases the eternal valour. And if my reasoning appease thee not, Thou shalt see Beatrice; and she will fully Take from thee this and every other longing. Even as I wished to say, "Thou dost appease me," I saw that I had reached another circle, So that my eager eyes made me keep silence. There it appeared to me that in a vision Ecstatic on a sudden I was rapt, And in a temple many persons saw; And at the door a woman, with the sweet Behaviour of a mother, saying: "Son, Why in this manner hast thou dealt with us? Then I beheld another with those waters Adown her cheeks which grief distils whenever From great disdain of others it is born, And saying: "If of that city thou art lord, For whose name was such strife among the gods, And whence doth every science scintillate, Avenge thyself on those audacious arms That clasped our daughter, O Pisistratus;" And the lord seemed to me benign and mild To answer her with aspect temperate: "What shall we do to those who wish us ill, If he who loves us be by us condemned?" Then saw I people hot in fire of wrath, With stones a young man slaying, clamorously Still crying to each other, "Kill him! kill him!" And him I saw bow down, because of death That weighed already on him, to the earth, But of his eyes made ever gates to heaven, Imploring the high Lord, in so great strife, That he would pardon those his persecutors, With such an aspect as unlocks compassion. Soon as my soul had outwardly returned To things external to it which are true, Did I my not false errors recognize. My Leader, who could see me bear myself Like to a man that rouses him from sleep, Exclaimed: "What ails thee, that thou canst not stand? "O my sweet Father, if thou listen to me, I'll tell thee," said I, "what appeared to me, When thus from me my legs were ta'en away." What thou hast seen was that thou mayst not fail To ope thy heart unto the waters of peace, Which from the eternal fountain are diffused. I did not ask, 'What ails thee?' as he does Who only looketh with the eyes that see not When of the soul bereft the body lies, But asked it to give vigour to thy feet; Thus must we needs urge on the sluggards, slow To use their wakefulness when it returns." We passed along, athwart the twilight peering Forward as far as ever eye could stretch Against the sunbeams serotine and lucent; This of our eyes and the pure air bereft us. Purgatorio: Canto XVI Darkness of hell, and of a night deprived Of every planet under a poor sky, As much as may be tenebrous with cloud, Ne'er made unto my sight so thick a veil, As did that smoke which there enveloped us, Nor to the feeling of so rough a texture; For not an eye it suffered to stay open; Whereat mine escort, faithful and sagacious, Drew near to me and offered me his shoulder. E'en as a blind man goes behind his guide, Lest he should wander, or should strike against Aught that may harm or peradventure kill him, So went I through the bitter and foul air, Listening unto my Leader, who said only, "Look that from me thou be not separated." "Master," I said, "are spirits those I hear?" And he to me: "Thou apprehendest truly, And they the knot of anger go unloosing." After this manner by a voice was spoken; Whereon my Master said: "Do thou reply, And ask if on this side the way go upward." And I: "O creature that dost cleanse thyself To return beautiful to Him who made thee, Thou shalt hear marvels if thou follow me." "Thee will I follow far as is allowed me," He answered; "and if smoke prevent our seeing, Hearing shall keep us joined instead thereof." Thereon began I: "With that swathing band Which death unwindeth am I going upward, And hither came I through the infernal anguish. And if God in his grace has me infolded, So that he wills that I behold his court By method wholly out of modern usage, Conceal not from me who ere death thou wast, But tell it me, and tell me if I go Right for the pass, and be thy words our escort." For mounting upward, thou art going right." Thus he made answer, and subjoined: "I pray thee To pray for me when thou shalt be above." And I to him: "My faith I pledge to thee To do what thou dost ask me; but am bursting Inly with doubt, unless I rid me of it. The world forsooth is utterly deserted By every virtue, as thou tellest me, And with iniquity is big and covered; Ye who are living every cause refer Still upward to the heavens, as if all things They of necessity moved with themselves. If this were so, in you would be destroyed Free will, nor any justice would there be In having joy for good, or grief for evil. The heavens your movements do initiate, I say not all; but granting that I say it, Light has been given you for good and evil, To greater force and to a better nature, Though free, ye subject are, and that creates The mind in you the heavens have not in charge. Hence, if the present world doth go astray, In you the cause is, be it sought in you; And I therein will now be thy true spy. Forth from the hand of Him, who fondles it Before it is, like to a little girl Weeping and laughing in her childish sport, Issues the simple soul, that nothing knows, Save that, proceeding from a joyous Maker, Gladly it turns to that which gives it pleasure. Hence it behoved laws for a rein to place, Behoved a king to have, who at the least Of the true city should discern the tower. Wherefore the people that perceives its guide Strike only at the good for which it hankers, Feeds upon that, and farther seeketh not. Clearly canst thou perceive that evil guidance The cause is that has made the world depraved, And not that nature is corrupt in you. In the land laved by Po and Adige, Valour and courtesy used to be found, Before that Frederick had his controversy; Now in security can pass that way Whoever will abstain, through sense of shame, From speaking with the good, or drawing near them. Currado da Palazzo, and good Gherardo, And Guido da Castel, who better named is, In fashion of the French, the simple Lombard: "O Marco mine," I said, "thou reasonest well; And now discern I why the sons of Levi Have been excluded from the heritage. But what Gherardo is it, who, as sample Of a lost race, thou sayest has remained In reprobation of the barbarous age?" "Either thy speech deceives me, or it tempts me," He answered me; "for speaking Tuscan to me, It seems of good Gherardo naught thou knowest. By other surname do I know him not, Unless I take it from his daughter Gaia. May God be with you, for I come no farther. Behold the dawn, that through the smoke rays out, Already whitening; and I must depart- Yonder the Angel is--ere he appear." Thus did he speak, and would no farther hear me. Purgatorio: Canto XVII Remember, Reader, if e'er in the Alps A mist o'ertook thee, through which thou couldst see Not otherwise than through its membrane mole, How, when the vapours humid and condensed Begin to dissipate themselves, the sphere Of the sun feebly enters in among them, Thus, to the faithful footsteps of my Master Mating mine own, I issued from that cloud To rays already dead on the low shores. Who moveth thee, if sense impel thee not? Moves thee a light, which in the heaven takes form, By self, or by a will that downward guides it. Of her impiety, who changed her form Into the bird that most delights in singing, In my imagining appeared the trace; And hereupon my mind was so withdrawn Within itself, that from without there came Nothing that then might be received by it. Around him were the great Ahasuerus, Esther his wife, and the just Mordecai, Who was in word and action so entire. And even as this image burst asunder Of its own self, in fashion of a bubble In which the water it was made of fails, There rose up in my vision a young maiden Bitterly weeping, and she said: "O queen, Why hast thou wished in anger to be naught? Thou'st slain thyself, Lavinia not to lose; Now hast thou lost me; I am she who mourns, Mother, at thine ere at another's ruin." As sleep is broken, when upon a sudden New light strikes in upon the eyelids closed, And broken quivers ere it dieth wholly, So this imagining of mine fell down As soon as the effulgence smote my face, Greater by far than what is in our wont. I turned me round to see where I might be, When said a voice, "Here is the passage up;" Which from all other purposes removed me, And made my wish so full of eagerness To look and see who was it that was speaking, It never rests till meeting face to face; But as before the sun, which quells the sight, And in its own excess its figure veils, Even so my power was insufficient here. "This is a spirit divine, who in the way Of going up directs us without asking, And who with his own light himself conceals. He does with us as man doth with himself; For he who sees the need, and waits the asking, Malignly leans already tow'rds denial. Accord we now our feet to such inviting, Let us make haste to mount ere it grow dark; For then we could not till the day return." Near me perceived a motion as of wings, And fanning in the face, and saying, "'Beati Pacifici,' who are without ill anger." Already over us were so uplifted The latest sunbeams, which the night pursues, That upon many sides the stars appeared. "O manhood mine, why dost thou vanish so?" I said within myself; for I perceived The vigour of my legs was put in truce. We at the point were where no more ascends The stairway upward, and were motionless, Even as a ship, which at the shore arrives; And I gave heed a little, if I might hear Aught whatsoever in the circle new; Then to my Master turned me round and said: "Say, my sweet Father, what delinquency Is purged here in the circle where we are? Although our feet may pause, pause not thy speech." And he to me: "The love of good, remiss In what it should have done, is here restored; Here plied again the ill-belated oar; But still more openly to understand, Turn unto me thy mind, and thou shalt gather Some profitable fruit from our delay. Neither Creator nor a creature ever, Son," he began, "was destitute of love Natural or spiritual; and thou knowest it. The natural was ever without error; But err the other may by evil object, Or by too much, or by too little vigour. But when to ill it turns, and, with more care Or lesser than it ought, runs after good, 'Gainst the Creator works his own creation. Hence thou mayst comprehend that love must be The seed within yourselves of every virtue, And every act that merits punishment. Now inasmuch as never from the welfare Of its own subject can love turn its sight, From their own hatred all things are secure; There are, who, by abasement of their neighbour, Hope to excel, and therefore only long That from his greatness he may be cast down; There are, who power, grace, honour, and renown Fear they may lose because another rises, Thence are so sad that the reverse they love; And there are those whom injury seems to chafe, So that it makes them greedy for revenge, And such must needs shape out another's harm. This threefold love is wept for down below; Now of the other will I have thee hear, That runneth after good with measure faulty. If languid love to look on this attract you, Or in attaining unto it, this cornice, After just penitence, torments you for it. There's other good that does not make man happy; 'Tis not felicity, 'tis not the good Essence, of every good the fruit and root. I say not, that thou seek it for thyself." Purgatorio: Canto XVIII An end had put unto his reasoning The lofty Teacher, and attent was looking Into my face, if I appeared content; And I, whom a new thirst still goaded on, Without was mute, and said within: "Perchance The too much questioning I make annoys him." But that true Father, who had comprehended The timid wish, that opened not itself, By speaking gave me hardihood to speak. Whence I: "My sight is, Master, vivified So in thy light, that clearly I discern Whate'er thy speech importeth or describes. Therefore I thee entreat, sweet Father dear, To teach me love, to which thou dost refer Every good action and its contrary." "Direct," he said, "towards me the keen eyes Of intellect, and clear will be to thee The error of the blind, who would be leaders. The soul, which is created apt to love, Is mobile unto everything that pleases, Soon as by pleasure she is waked to action. Your apprehension from some real thing An image draws, and in yourselves displays it So that it makes the soul turn unto it. And if, when turned, towards it she incline, Love is that inclination; it is nature, Which is by pleasure bound in you anew Then even as the fire doth upward move By its own form, which to ascend is born, Where longest in its matter it endures, So comes the captive soul into desire, Which is a motion spiritual, and ne'er rests Until she doth enjoy the thing beloved. Now may apparent be to thee how hidden The truth is from those people, who aver All love is in itself a laudable thing; Because its matter may perchance appear Aye to be good; but yet not each impression Is good, albeit good may be the wax." "Thy words, and my sequacious intellect," I answered him, "have love revealed to me; But that has made me more impregned with doubt; For if love from without be offered us, And with another foot the soul go not, If right or wrong she go, 'tis not her merit." And he to me: "What reason seeth here, Myself can tell thee; beyond that await For Beatrice, since 'tis a work of faith. Every substantial form, that segregate From matter is, and with it is united, Specific power has in itself collected, Which without act is not perceptible, Nor shows itself except by its effect, As life does in a plant by the green leaves. Now, that to this all others may be gathered, Innate within you is the power that counsels, And it should keep the threshold of assent. This is the principle, from which is taken Occasion of desert in you, according As good and guilty loves it takes and winnows. Those who, in reasoning, to the bottom went, Were of this innate liberty aware, Therefore bequeathed they Ethics to the world. Supposing, then, that from necessity Springs every love that is within you kindled, Within yourselves the power is to restrain it. The noble virtue Beatrice understands By the free will; and therefore see that thou Bear it in mind, if she should speak of it." The moon, belated almost unto midnight, Now made the stars appear to us more rare, Formed like a bucket, that is all ablaze, And counter to the heavens ran through those paths Which the sun sets aflame, when he of Rome Sees it 'twixt Sardes and Corsicans go down; And that patrician shade, for whom is named Pietola more than any Mantuan town, Had laid aside the burden of my lading; Whence I, who reason manifest and plain In answer to my questions had received, Stood like a man in drowsy reverie. But taken from me was this drowsiness Suddenly by a people, that behind Our backs already had come round to us. And as, of old, Ismenus and Asopus Beside them saw at night the rush and throng, If but the Thebans were in need of Bacchus, So they along that circle curve their step, From what I saw of those approaching us, Who by good-will and righteous love are ridden. "Mary in haste unto the mountain ran, And Caesar, that he might subdue Ilerda, Thrust at Marseilles, and then ran into Spain." "Quick! quick! so that the time may not be lost By little love!" forthwith the others cried, "For ardour in well-doing freshens grace!" "O folk, in whom an eager fervour now Supplies perhaps delay and negligence, Put by you in well-doing, through lukewarmness, So full of longing are we to move onward, That stay we cannot; therefore pardon us, If thou for churlishness our justice take. I was San Zeno's Abbot at Verona, Under the empire of good Barbarossa, Of whom still sorrowing Milan holds discourse; Because his son, in his whole body sick, And worse in mind, and who was evil-born, He put into the place of its true pastor." If more he said, or silent was, I know not, He had already passed so far beyond us; But this I heard, and to retain it pleased me. In rear of all they shouted: "Sooner were The people dead to whom the sea was opened, Than their inheritors the Jordan saw; And those who the fatigue did not endure Unto the issue, with Anchises' son, Themselves to life withouten glory offered." Then when from us so separated were Those shades, that they no longer could be seen, Within me a new thought did entrance find, And meditation into dream transmuted. Purgatorio: Canto XIX It was the hour when the diurnal heat No more can warm the coldness of the moon, Vanquished by earth, or peradventure Saturn, When geomancers their Fortuna Major See in the orient before the dawn Rise by a path that long remains not dim, There came to me in dreams a stammering woman, Squint in her eyes, and in her feet distorted, With hands dissevered and of sallow hue. I looked at her; and as the sun restores The frigid members which the night benumbs, Even thus my gaze did render voluble Her tongue, and made her all erect thereafter In little while, and the lost countenance As love desires it so in her did colour. When in this wise she had her speech unloosed, She 'gan to sing so, that with difficulty Could I have turned my thoughts away from her. "I am," she sang, "I am the Siren sweet Who mariners amid the main unman, So full am I of pleasantness to hear. I drew Ulysses from his wandering way Unto my song, and he who dwells with me Seldom departs so wholly I content him." Her mouth was not yet closed again, before Appeared a Lady saintly and alert Close at my side to put her to confusion. She seized the other and in front laid open, Rending her garments, and her belly showed me; This waked me with the stench that issued from it. I rose; and full already of high day Were all the circles of the Sacred Mountain, And with the new sun at our back we went. When I heard say, "Come, here the passage is," Spoken in a manner gentle and benign, Such as we hear not in this mortal region. He moved his pinions afterwards and fanned us, Affirming those 'qui lugent' to be blessed, For they shall have their souls with comfort filled. "What aileth thee, that aye to earth thou gazest?" To me my Guide began to say, we both Somewhat beyond the Angel having mounted. And I: "With such misgiving makes me go A vision new, which bends me to itself, So that I cannot from the thought withdraw me." "Didst thou behold," he said, "that old enchantress, Who sole above us henceforth is lamented? Didst thou behold how man is freed from her? Suffice it thee, and smite earth with thy heels, Thine eyes lift upward to the lure, that whirls The Eternal King with revolutions vast." Such I became, and such, as far as cleaves The rock to give a way to him who mounts, Went on to where the circling doth begin. "Adhaesit pavimento anima mea," I heard them say with sighings so profound, That hardly could the words be understood. "O ye elect of God, whose sufferings Justice and Hope both render less severe, Direct ye us towards the high ascents." "If ye are come secure from this prostration, And wish to find the way most speedily, Let your right hands be evermore outside." Thus did the Poet ask, and thus was answered By them somewhat in front of us; whence I In what was spoken divined the rest concealed, And unto my Lord's eyes mine eyes I turned; Whence he assented with a cheerful sign To what the sight of my desire implored. When of myself I could dispose at will, Above that creature did I draw myself, Whose words before had caused me to take note, Saying: "O Spirit, in whom weeping ripens That without which to God we cannot turn, Suspend awhile for me thy greater care. Who wast thou, and why are your backs turned upwards, Tell me, and if thou wouldst that I procure thee Anything there whence living I departed." And he to me: "Wherefore our backs the heaven Turns to itself, know shalt thou; but beforehand 'Scias quod ego fui successor Petri.' Between Siestri and Chiaveri descends A river beautiful, and of its name The title of my blood its summit makes. A month and little more essayed I how Weighs the great cloak on him from mire who keeps it, For all the other burdens seem a feather. Tardy, ah woe is me! was my conversion; But when the Roman Shepherd I was made, Then I discovered life to be a lie. Until that time a wretched soul and parted From God was I, and wholly avaricious; Now, as thou seest, I here am punished for it. What avarice does is here made manifest In the purgation of these souls converted, And no more bitter pain the Mountain has. Even as our eye did not uplift itself Aloft, being fastened upon earthly things, So justice here has merged it in the earth. As avarice had extinguished our affection For every good, whereby was action lost, So justice here doth hold us in restraint, Bound and imprisoned by the feet and hands; And so long as it pleases the just Lord Shall we remain immovable and prostrate." I on my knees had fallen, and wished to speak; But even as I began, and he was 'ware, Only by listening, of my reverence, "What cause," he said, "has downward bent thee thus?" And I to him: "For your own dignity, Standing, my conscience stung me with remorse." If e'er that holy, evangelic sound, Which sayeth 'neque nubent,' thou hast heard, Well canst thou see why in this wise I speak. Now go; no longer will I have thee linger, Because thy stay doth incommode my weeping, With which I ripen that which thou hast said. On earth I have a grandchild named Alagia, Good in herself, unless indeed our house Malevolent may make her by example, And she alone remains to me on earth." Purgatorio: Canto XX Ill strives the will against a better will; Therefore, to pleasure him, against my pleasure I drew the sponge not saturate from the water. Onward I moved, and onward moved my Leader, Through vacant places, skirting still the rock, As on a wall close to the battlements; For they that through their eyes pour drop by drop The malady which all the world pervades, On the other side too near the verge approach. Accursed mayst thou be, thou old she-wolf, That more than all the other beasts hast prey, Because of hunger infinitely hollow! O heaven, in whose gyrations some appear To think conditions here below are changed, When will he come through whom she shall depart? Onward we went with footsteps slow and scarce, And I attentive to the shades I heard Piteously weeping and bemoaning them; And I by peradventure heard "Sweet Mary!" Uttered in front of us amid the weeping Even as a woman does who is in child-birth; And in continuance: "How poor thou wast Is manifested by that hostelry Where thou didst lay thy sacred burden down." Thereafterward I heard: "O good Fabricius, Virtue with poverty didst thou prefer To the possession of great wealth with vice." So pleasurable were these words to me That I drew farther onward to have knowledge Touching that spirit whence they seemed to come. He furthermore was speaking of the largess Which Nicholas unto the maidens gave, In order to conduct their youth to honour. "O soul that dost so excellently speak, Tell me who wast thou," said I, "and why only Thou dost renew these praises well deserved? Not without recompense shall be thy word, If I return to finish the short journey Of that life which is flying to its end." And he: "I'll tell thee, not for any comfort I may expect from earth, but that so much Grace shines in thee or ever thou art dead. I was the root of that malignant plant Which overshadows all the Christian world, So that good fruit is seldom gathered from it; But if Douay and Ghent, and Lille and Bruges Had Power, soon vengeance would be taken on it; And this I pray of Him who judges all. Hugh Capet was I called upon the earth; From me were born the Louises and Philips, By whom in later days has France been governed. I found me grasping in my hands the rein Of the realm's government, and so great power Of new acquest, and so with friends abounding, That to the widowed diadem promoted The head of mine own offspring was, from whom The consecrated bones of these began. So long as the great dowry of Provence Out of my blood took not the sense of shame, 'Twas little worth, but still it did no harm. Then it began with falsehood and with force Its rapine; and thereafter, for amends, Took Ponthieu, Normandy, and Gascony. Charles came to Italy, and for amends A victim made of Conradin, and then Thrust Thomas back to heaven, for amends. A time I see, not very distant now, Which draweth forth another Charles from France, The better to make known both him and his. Unarmed he goes, and only with the lance That Judas jousted with; and that he thrusts So that he makes the paunch of Florence burst. He thence not land, but sin and infamy, Shall gain, so much more grievous to himself As the more light such damage he accounts. The other, now gone forth, ta'en in his ship, See I his daughter sell, and chaffer for her As corsairs do with other female slaves. What more, O Avarice, canst thou do to us, Since thou my blood so to thyself hast drawn, It careth not for its own proper flesh? That less may seem the future ill and past, I see the flower-de-luce Alagna enter, And Christ in his own Vicar captive made. I see him yet another time derided; I see renewed the vinegar and gall, And between living thieves I see him slain. I see the modern Pilate so relentless, This does not sate him, but without decretal He to the temple bears his sordid sails! When, O my Lord! shall I be joyful made By looking on the vengeance which, concealed, Makes sweet thine anger in thy secrecy? What I was saying of that only bride Of the Holy Ghost, and which occasioned thee To turn towards me for some commentary, So long has been ordained to all our prayers As the day lasts; but when the night comes on, Contrary sound we take instead thereof. At that time we repeat Pygmalion, Of whom a traitor, thief, and parricide Made his insatiable desire of gold; Then we accuse Sapphira with her husband, We laud the hoof-beats Heliodorus had, And the whole mount in infamy encircles Polymnestor who murdered Polydorus. Here finally is cried: 'O Crassus, tell us, For thou dost know, what is the taste of gold?' But in the good that here by day is talked of, Erewhile alone I was not; yet near by No other person lifted up his voice." From him already we departed were, And made endeavour to o'ercome the road As much as was permitted to our power, When I perceived, like something that is falling, The mountain tremble, whence a chill seized on me, As seizes him who to his death is going. Then upon all sides there began a cry, Such that the Master drew himself towards me, Saying, "Fear not, while I am guiding thee." "Gloria in excelsis Deo," all Were saying, from what near I comprehended, Where it was possible to hear the cry. Then we resumed again our holy path, Watching the shades that lay upon the ground, Already turned to their accustomed plaint. No ignorance ever with so great a strife Had rendered me importunate to know, If erreth not in this my memory, As meditating then I seemed to have; Nor out of haste to question did I dare, Nor of myself I there could aught perceive; So I went onward timorous and thoughtful. Purgatorio: Canto XXI The natural thirst, that ne'er is satisfied Excepting with the water for whose grace The woman of Samaria besought, Put me in travail, and haste goaded me Along the encumbered path behind my Leader And I was pitying that righteous vengeance; A shade appeared to us, and came behind us, Down gazing on the prostrate multitude, Nor were we ware of it, until it spake, Saying, "My brothers, may God give you peace!" We turned us suddenly, and Virgilius rendered To him the countersign thereto conforming. Thereon began he: "In the blessed council, Thee may the court veracious place in peace, That me doth banish in eternal exile!" "How," said he, and the while we went with speed, "If ye are shades whom God deigns not on high, Who up his stairs so far has guided you?" His soul, which is thy sister and my own, In coming upwards could not come alone, By reason that it sees not in our fashion. Whence I was drawn from out the ample throat Of Hell to be his guide, and I shall guide him As far on as my school has power to lead. But tell us, if thou knowest, why such a shudder Erewhile the mountain gave, and why together All seemed to cry, as far as its moist feet?" In asking he so hit the very eye Of my desire, that merely with the hope My thirst became the less unsatisfied. "Naught is there," he began, "that without order May the religion of the mountain feel, Nor aught that may be foreign to its custom. Free is it here from every permutation; What from itself heaven in itself receiveth Can be of this the cause, and naught beside; Dense clouds do not appear, nor rarefied, Nor coruscation, nor the daughter of Thaumas, That often upon earth her region shifts; Lower down perchance it trembles less or more, But, for the wind that in the earth is hidden I know not how, up here it never trembled. It trembles here, whenever any soul Feels itself pure, so that it soars, or moves To mount aloft, and such a cry attends it. Therefore thou heardst the earthquake, and the pious Spirits along the mountain rendering praise Unto the Lord, that soon he speed them upwards." So said he to him; and since we enjoy As much in drinking as the thirst is great, I could not say how much it did me good. And the wise Leader: "Now I see the net That snares you here, and how ye are set free, Why the earth quakes, and wherefore ye rejoice. Now who thou wast be pleased that I may know; And why so many centuries thou hast here Been lying, let me gather from thy words." "In days when the good Titus, with the aid Of the supremest King, avenged the wounds Whence issued forth the blood by Judas sold, Under the name that most endures and honours, Was I on earth," that spirit made reply, "Greatly renowned, but not with faith as yet. My vocal spirit was so sweet, that Rome Me, a Thoulousian, drew unto herself, Where I deserved to deck my brows with myrtle. Of the Aeneid speak I, which to me A mother was, and was my nurse in song; Without this weighed I not a drachma's weight. These words towards me made Virgilius turn With looks that in their silence said, "Be silent!" But yet the power that wills cannot do all things; For tears and laughter are such pursuivants Unto the passion from which each springs forth, In the most truthful least the will they follow. And, "As thou well mayst consummate a labour So great," it said, "why did thy face just now Display to me the lightning of a smile?" "Speak," said my Master, "and be not afraid Of speaking, but speak out, and say to him What he demands with such solicitude." Whence I: "Thou peradventure marvellest, O antique spirit, at the smile I gave; But I will have more wonder seize upon thee. If other cause thou to my smile imputedst, Abandon it as false, and trust it was Those words which thou hast spoken concerning him." Already he was stooping to embrace My Teacher's feet; but he said to him: "Brother, Do not; for shade thou art, and shade beholdest." Treating a shadow as substantial thing." Purgatorio: Canto XXII And those who have in justice their desire Had said to us, "Beati," in their voices, With "sitio," and without more ended it. And I, more light than through the other passes, Went onward so, that without any labour I followed upward the swift-footed spirits; When thus Virgilius began: "The love Kindled by virtue aye another kindles, Provided outwardly its flame appear. Hence from the hour that Juvenal descended Among us into the infernal Limbo, Who made apparent to me thy affection, But tell me, and forgive me as a friend, If too great confidence let loose the rein, And as a friend now hold discourse with me; How was it possible within thy breast For avarice to find place, 'mid so much wisdom As thou wast filled with by thy diligence?" Verily oftentimes do things appear Which give fallacious matter to our doubts, Instead of the true causes which are hidden! Thy question shows me thy belief to be That I was niggard in the other life, It may be from the circle where I was; Therefore know thou, that avarice was removed Too far from me; and this extravagance Thousands of lunar periods have punished. And were it not that I my thoughts uplifted, When I the passage heard where thou exclaimest, As if indignant, unto human nature, 'To what impellest thou not, O cursed hunger Of gold, the appetite of mortal men?' Revolving I should feel the dismal joustings. Then I perceived the hands could spread too wide Their wings in spending, and repented me As well of that as of my other sins; How many with shorn hair shall rise again Because of ignorance, which from this sin Cuts off repentance living and in death! And know that the transgression which rebuts By direct opposition any sin Together with it here its verdure dries. Therefore if I have been among that folk Which mourns its avarice, to purify me, For its opposite has this befallen me." "Now when thou sangest the relentless weapons Of the twofold affliction of Jocasta," The singer of the Songs Bucolic said, "From that which Clio there with thee preludes, It does not seem that yet had made thee faithful That faith without which no good works suffice. If this be so, what candles or what sun Scattered thy darkness so that thou didst trim Thy sails behind the Fisherman thereafter?" Thou didst as he who walketh in the night, Who bears his light behind, which helps him not, But wary makes the persons after him, When thou didst say: 'The age renews itself, Justice returns, and man's primeval time, And a new progeny descends from heaven.' Through thee I Poet was, through thee a Christian; But that thou better see what I design, To colour it will I extend my hand. Already was the world in every part Pregnant with the true creed, disseminated By messengers of the eternal kingdom; And thy assertion, spoken of above, With the new preachers was in unison; Whence I to visit them the custom took. Then they became so holy in my sight, That, when Domitian persecuted them, Not without tears of mine were their laments; And all the while that I on earth remained, Them I befriended, and their upright customs Made me disparage all the other sects. And ere I led the Greeks unto the rivers Of Thebes, in poetry, I was baptized, But out of fear was covertly a Christian, Thou, therefore, who hast raised the covering That hid from me whatever good I speak of, While in ascending we have time to spare, Tell me, in what place is our friend Terentius, Caecilius, Plautus, Varro, if thou knowest; Tell me if they are damned, and in what alley." "These, Persius and myself, and others many," Replied my Leader, "with that Grecian are Whom more than all the rest the Muses suckled, Euripides is with us, Antiphon, Simonides, Agatho, and many other Greeks who of old their brows with laurel decked. There some of thine own people may be seen, Antigone, Deiphile and Argia, And there Ismene mournful as of old. There she is seen who pointed out Langia; There is Tiresias' daughter, and there Thetis, And there Deidamia with her sisters." What time my Guide: "I think that tow'rds the edge Our dexter shoulders it behoves us turn, Circling the mount as we are wont to do." Thus in that region custom was our ensign; And we resumed our way with less suspicion For the assenting of that worthy soul They in advance went on, and I alone Behind them, and I listened to their speech, Which gave me lessons in the art of song. But soon their sweet discourses interrupted A tree which midway in the road we found, With apples sweet and grateful to the smell. On that side where our pathway was enclosed Fell from the lofty rock a limpid water, And spread itself abroad upon the leaves. The Poets twain unto the tree drew near, And from among the foliage a voice Cried: "Of this food ye shall have scarcity." Then said: "More thoughtful Mary was of making The marriage feast complete and honourable, Than of her mouth which now for you responds; And for their drink the ancient Roman women With water were content; and Daniel Disparaged food, and understanding won. The primal age was beautiful as gold; Acorns it made with hunger savorous, And nectar every rivulet with thirst. Honey and locusts were the aliments That fed the Baptist in the wilderness; Whence he is glorious, and so magnified As by the Evangel is revealed to you." Purgatorio: Canto XXIII The while among the verdant leaves mine eyes I riveted, as he is wont to do Who wastes his life pursuing little birds, My more than Father said unto me: "Son, Come now; because the time that is ordained us More usefully should be apportioned out." I turned my face and no less soon my steps Unto the Sages, who were speaking so They made the going of no cost to me; And lo! were heard a song and a lament, "Labia mea, Domine," in fashion Such that delight and dolence it brought forth. "O my sweet Father, what is this I hear?" Began I; and he answered: "Shades that go Perhaps the knot unloosing of their debt." In the same way that thoughtful pilgrims do, Who, unknown people on the road o'ertaking, Turn themselves round to them, and do not stop, Even thus, behind us with a swifter motion Coming and passing onward, gazed upon us A crowd of spirits silent and devout. Each in his eyes was dark and cavernous, Pallid in face, and so emaciate That from the bones the skin did shape itself. I do not think that so to merest rind Could Erisichthon have been withered up By famine, when most fear he had of it. Thinking within myself I said: "Behold, This is the folk who lost Jerusalem, When Mary made a prey of her own son." Their sockets were like rings without the gems; Whoever in the face of men reads 'omo' Might well in these have recognised the 'm.' Who would believe the odour of an apple, Begetting longing, could consume them so, And that of water, without knowing how? I still was wondering what so famished them, For the occasion not yet manifest Of their emaciation and sad squalor; And lo! from out the hollow of his head His eyes a shade turned on me, and looked keenly; Then cried aloud: "What grace to me is this?" Never should I have known him by his look; But in his voice was evident to me That which his aspect had suppressed within it. This spark within me wholly re-enkindled My recognition of his altered face, And I recalled the features of Forese. "Ah, do not look at this dry leprosy," Entreated he, "which doth my skin discolour, Nor at default of flesh that I may have; But tell me, for God's sake, what thus denudes you? Make me not speak while I am marvelling, For ill speaks he who's full of other longings." And he to me: "From the eternal council Falls power into the water and the tree Behind us left, whereby I grow so thin. All of this people who lamenting sing, For following beyond measure appetite In hunger and thirst are here re-sanctified. Desire to eat and drink enkindles in us The scent that issues from the apple-tree, And from the spray that sprinkles o'er the verdure; If sooner were the power exhausted in thee Of sinning more, than thee the hour surprised Of that good sorrow which to God reweds us, How hast thou come up hitherward already? I thought to find thee down there underneath, Where time for time doth restitution make." And he to me: "Thus speedily has led me To drink of the sweet wormwood of these torments, My Nella with her overflowing tears; So much more dear and pleasing is to God My little widow, whom so much I loved, As in good works she is the more alone; For the Barbagia of Sardinia By far more modest in its women is Than the Barbagia I have left her in. O brother sweet, what wilt thou have me say? A future time is in my sight already, To which this hour will not be very old, When from the pulpit shall be interdicted To the unblushing womankind of Florence To go about displaying breast and paps. What savages were e'er, what Saracens, Who stood in need, to make them covered go, Of spiritual or other discipline? But if the shameless women were assured Of what swift Heaven prepares for them, already Wide open would they have their mouths to howl; For if my foresight here deceive me not, They shall be sad ere he has bearded cheeks Who now is hushed to sleep with lullaby. O brother, now no longer hide thee from me; See that not only I, but all these people Are gazing there, where thou dost veil the sun." Whence I to him: "If thou bring back to mind What thou with me hast been and I with thee, The present memory will be grievous still. Thence his encouragements have led me up, Ascending and still circling round the mount That you doth straighten, whom the world made crooked. He says that he will bear me company, Till I shall be where Beatrice will be; There it behoves me to remain without him. Your realm, that from itself discharges him." Purgatorio: Canto XXIV Nor speech the going, nor the going that Slackened; but talking we went bravely on, Even as a vessel urged by a good wind. And shadows, that appeared things doubly dead, From out the sepulchres of their eyes betrayed Wonder at me, aware that I was living. And I, continuing my colloquy, Said: "Peradventure he goes up more slowly Than he would do, for other people's sake. "My sister, who, 'twixt beautiful and good, I know not which was more, triumphs rejoicing Already in her crown on high Olympus." This," pointing with his finger, "is Buonagiunta, Buonagiunta, of Lucca; and that face Beyond him there, more peaked than the others, Has held the holy Church within his arms; From Tours was he, and purges by his fasting Bolsena's eels and the Vernaccia wine." I saw for hunger bite the empty air Ubaldin dalla Pila, and Boniface, Who with his crook had pastured many people. He murmured, and I know not what Gentucca From that place heard I, where he felt the wound Of justice, that doth macerate them so. "O soul," I said, "that seemest so desirous To speak with me, do so that I may hear thee, And with thy speech appease thyself and me." "A maid is born, and wears not yet the veil," Began he, "who to thee shall pleasant make My city, howsoever men may blame it. Thou shalt go on thy way with this prevision; If by my murmuring thou hast been deceived, True things hereafter will declare it to thee. But say if him I here behold, who forth Evoked the new-invented rhymes, beginning, 'Ladies, that have intelligence of love?'" "O brother, now I see," he said, "the knot Which me, the Notary, and Guittone held Short of the sweet new style that now I hear. I do perceive full clearly how your pens Go closely following after him who dictates, Which with our own forsooth came not to pass; Even as the birds, that winter tow'rds the Nile, Sometimes into a phalanx form themselves, Then fly in greater haste, and go in file; In such wise all the people who were there, Turning their faces, hurried on their steps, Both by their leanness and their wishes light. And as a man, who weary is with trotting, Lets his companions onward go, and walks, Until he vents the panting of his chest; So did Forese let the holy flock Pass by, and came with me behind it, saying, "When will it be that I again shall see thee?" "How long," I answered, "I may live, I know not; Yet my return will not so speedy be, But I shall sooner in desire arrive; Because the place where I was set to live From day to day of good is more depleted, And unto dismal ruin seems ordained." "Now go," he said, "for him most guilty of it At a beast's tail behold I dragged along Towards the valley where is no repentance. Faster at every step the beast is going, Increasing evermore until it smites him, And leaves the body vilely mutilated. Not long those wheels shall turn," and he uplifted His eyes to heaven, "ere shall be clear to thee That which my speech no farther can declare. Now stay behind; because the time so precious Is in this kingdom, that I lose too much By coming onward thus abreast with thee." And when before us he had gone so far Mine eyes became to him such pursuivants As was my understanding to his words, Appeared to me with laden and living boughs Another apple-tree, and not far distant, From having but just then turned thitherward. People I saw beneath it lift their hands, And cry I know not what towards the leaves, Like little children eager and deluded, Who pray, and he they pray to doth not answer, But, to make very keen their appetite, Holds their desire aloft, and hides it not. Then they departed as if undeceived; And now we came unto the mighty tree Which prayers and tears so manifold refuses. Thus said I know not who among the branches; Whereat Virgilius, Statius, and myself Went crowding forward on the side that rises. And of the Jews who showed them soft in drinking, Whence Gideon would not have them for companions When he tow'rds Midian the hills descended." I raised my head to see who this might be, And never in a furnace was there seen Metals or glass so lucent and so red And as, the harbinger of early dawn, The air of May doth move and breathe out fragrance, Impregnate all with herbage and with flowers, So did I feel a breeze strike in the midst My front, and felt the moving of the plumes That breathed around an odour of ambrosia; And heard it said: "Blessed are they whom grace So much illumines, that the love of taste Excites not in their breasts too great desire, Purgatorio: Canto XXV Now was it the ascent no hindrance brooked, Because the sun had his meridian circle To Taurus left, and night to Scorpio; Wherefore as doth a man who tarries not, But goes his way, whate'er to him appear, If of necessity the sting transfix him, And as the little stork that lifts its wing With a desire to fly, and does not venture To leave the nest, and lets it downward droop, Even such was I, with the desire of asking Kindled and quenched, unto the motion coming He makes who doth address himself to speak. Not for our pace, though rapid it might be, My father sweet forbore, but said: "Let fly The bow of speech thou to the barb hast drawn." "If thou wouldst call to mind how Meleager Was wasted by the wasting of a brand, This would not," said he, "be to thee so sour; And wouldst thou think how at each tremulous motion Trembles within a mirror your own image; That which seems hard would mellow seem to thee. But that thou mayst content thee in thy wish Lo Statius here; and him I call and pray He now will be the healer of thy wounds." "If I unfold to him the eternal vengeance," Responded Statius, "where thou present art, Be my excuse that I can naught deny thee." Then he began: "Son, if these words of mine Thy mind doth contemplate and doth receive, They'll be thy light unto the How thou sayest. The perfect blood, which never is drunk up Into the thirsty veins, and which remaineth Like food that from the table thou removest, Takes in the heart for all the human members Virtue informative, as being that Which to be changed to them goes through the veins Again digest, descends it where 'tis better Silent to be than say; and then drops thence Upon another's blood in natural vase. The active virtue, being made a soul As of a plant, (in so far different, This on the way is, that arrived already,) Then works so much, that now it moves and feels Like a sea-fungus, and then undertakes To organize the powers whose seed it is. Now, Son, dilates and now distends itself The virtue from the generator's heart, Where nature is intent on all the members. So far, that in his doctrine separate He made the soul from possible intellect, For he no organ saw by this assumed. Open thy breast unto the truth that's coming, And know that, just as soon as in the foetus The articulation of the brain is perfect, The primal Motor turns to it well pleased At so great art of nature, and inspires A spirit new with virtue all replete, And that thou less may wonder at my word, Behold the sun's heat, which becometh wine, Joined to the juice that from the vine distils. Whenever Lachesis has no more thread, It separates from the flesh, and virtually Bears with itself the human and divine; The other faculties are voiceless all; The memory, the intelligence, and the will In action far more vigorous than before. Soon as the place there circumscribeth it, The virtue informative rays round about, As, and as much as, in the living members. And even as the air, when full of rain, By alien rays that are therein reflected, With divers colours shows itself adorned, So there the neighbouring air doth shape itself Into that form which doth impress upon it Virtually the soul that has stood still. And then in manner of the little flame, Which followeth the fire where'er it shifts, After the spirit followeth its new form. Since afterwards it takes from this its semblance, It is called shade; and thence it organizes Thereafter every sense, even to the sight. Thence is it that we speak, and thence we laugh; Thence is it that we form the tears and sighs, That on the mountain thou mayhap hast heard. According as impress us our desires And other affections, so the shade is shaped, And this is cause of what thou wonderest at." And now unto the last of all the circles Had we arrived, and to the right hand turned, And were attentive to another care. There the embankment shoots forth flames of fire, And upward doth the cornice breathe a blast That drives them back, and from itself sequesters. "Summae Deus clementiae," in the bosom Of the great burning chanted then I heard, Which made me no less eager to turn round; And spirits saw I walking through the flame; Wherefore I looked, to my own steps and theirs Apportioning my sight from time to time. After the close which to that hymn is made, Aloud they shouted, "Virum non cognosco;" Then recommenced the hymn with voices low. This also ended, cried they: "To the wood Diana ran, and drove forth Helice Therefrom, who had of Venus felt the poison." Then to their song returned they; then the wives They shouted, and the husbands who were chaste. As virtue and the marriage vow imposes. That the last wound of all should be closed up. Purgatorio: Canto XXVI On the right shoulder smote me now the sun, That, raying out, already the whole west Changed from its azure aspect into white. And with my shadow did I make the flame Appear more red; and even to such a sign Shades saw I many, as they went, give heed. This was the cause that gave them a beginning To speak of me; and to themselves began they To say: "That seems not a factitious body!" Then towards me, as far as they could come, Came certain of them, always with regard Not to step forth where they would not be burned. "O thou who goest, not from being slower But reverent perhaps, behind the others, Answer me, who in thirst and fire am burning. Nor to me only is thine answer needful; For all of these have greater thirst for it Than for cold water Ethiop or Indian. Tell us how is it that thou makest thyself A wall unto the sun, as if thou hadst not Entered as yet into the net of death." For through the middle of the burning road There came a people face to face with these, Which held me in suspense with gazing at them. The new-come people: "Sodom and Gomorrah!" The rest: "Into the cow Pasiphae enters, So that the bull unto her lust may run!" Then as the cranes, that to Riphaean mountains Might fly in part, and part towards the sands, These of the frost, those of the sun avoidant, And close to me approached, even as before, The very same who had entreated me, Attent to listen in their countenance. Neither unripe nor ripened have remained My members upon earth, but here are with me With their own blood and their articulations. I go up here to be no longer blind; A Lady is above, who wins this grace, Whereby the mortal through your world I bring. But as your greatest longing satisfied May soon become, so that the Heaven may house you Which full of love is, and most amply spreads, Tell me, that I again in books may write it, Who are you, and what is that multitude Which goes upon its way behind your backs?" Not otherwise with wonder is bewildered The mountaineer, and staring round is dumb, When rough and rustic to the town he goes, Than every shade became in its appearance; But when they of their stupor were disburdened, Which in high hearts is quickly quieted, Our own transgression was hermaphrodite; But because we observed not human law, Following like unto beasts our appetite, In our opprobrium by us is read, When we part company, the name of her Who bestialized herself in bestial wood. Now knowest thou our acts, and what our crime was; Wouldst thou perchance by name know who we are, There is not time to tell, nor could I do it. Thy wish to know me shall in sooth be granted; I'm Guido Guinicelli, and now purge me, Having repented ere the hour extreme." The moment I heard name himself the father Of me and of my betters, who had ever Practised the sweet and gracious rhymes of love; And without speech and hearing thoughtfully For a long time I went, beholding him, Nor for the fire did I approach him nearer. When I was fed with looking, utterly Myself I offered ready for his service, With affirmation that compels belief. And he to me: "Thou leavest footprints such In me, from what I hear, and so distinct, Lethe cannot efface them, nor make dim. But if thy words just now the truth have sworn, Tell me what is the cause why thou displayest In word and look that dear thou holdest me?" And I to him: "Those dulcet lays of yours Which, long as shall endure our modern fashion, Shall make for ever dear their very ink!" "O brother," said he, "he whom I point out," And here he pointed at a spirit in front, "Was of the mother tongue a better smith. Verses of love and proses of romance, He mastered all; and let the idiots talk, Who think the Lemosin surpasses him. To clamour more than truth they turn their faces, And in this way establish their opinion, Ere art or reason has by them been heard. Thus many ancients with Guittone did, From cry to cry still giving him applause, Until the truth has conquered with most persons. Now, if thou hast such ample privilege 'Tis granted thee to go unto the cloister Wherein is Christ the abbot of the college, To him repeat for me a Paternoster, So far as needful to us of this world, Where power of sinning is no longer ours." I moved a little tow'rds him pointed out, And said that to his name my own desire An honourable place was making ready. He of his own free will began to say: 'Tan m' abellis vostre cortes deman, Que jeu nom' puesc ni vueill a vos cobrire; Jeu sui Arnaut, que plor e vai chantan; Consiros vei la passada folor, E vei jauzen lo jorn qu' esper denan. Then hid him in the fire that purifies them. Purgatorio: Canto XXVII As when he vibrates forth his earliest rays, In regions where his Maker shed his blood, (The Ebro falling under lofty Libra, And waters in the Ganges burnt with noon,) So stood the Sun; hence was the day departing, When the glad Angel of God appeared to us. Outside the flame he stood upon the verge, And chanted forth, "Beati mundo corde," In voice by far more living than our own. When we were close beside him thus he said; Wherefore e'en such became I, when I heard him, As he is who is put into the grave. Towards me turned themselves my good Conductors, And unto me Virgilius said: "My son, Here may indeed be torment, but not death. Remember thee, remember! and if I On Geryon have safely guided thee, What shall I do now I am nearer God? Believe for certain, shouldst thou stand a full Millennium in the bosom of this flame, It could not make thee bald a single hair. Now lay aside, now lay aside all fear, Turn hitherward, and onward come securely;" And I still motionless, and 'gainst my conscience! Seeing me stand still motionless and stubborn, Somewhat disturbed he said: "Now look thou, Son, 'Twixt Beatrice and thee there is this wall." As at the name of Thisbe oped his lids The dying Pyramus, and gazed upon her, What time the mulberry became vermilion, Even thus, my obduracy being softened, I turned to my wise Guide, hearing the name That in my memory evermore is welling. Then into the fire in front of me he entered, Beseeching Statius to come after me, Who a long way before divided us. When I was in it, into molten glass I would have cast me to refresh myself, So without measure was the burning there! And my sweet Father, to encourage me, Discoursing still of Beatrice went on, Saying: "Her eyes I seem to see already!" A voice, that on the other side was singing, Directed us, and we, attent alone On that, came forth where the ascent began. "Venite, benedicti Patris mei," Sounded within a splendour, which was there Such it o'ercame me, and I could not look. "The sun departs," it added, "and night cometh; Tarry ye not, but onward urge your steps, So long as yet the west becomes not dark." Straight forward through the rock the path ascended In such a way that I cut off the rays Before me of the sun, that now was low. And of few stairs we yet had made assay, Ere by the vanished shadow the sun's setting Behind us we perceived, I and my Sages. Each of us of a stair had made his bed; Because the nature of the mount took from us The power of climbing, more than the delight. Even as in ruminating passive grow The goats, who have been swift and venturesome Upon the mountain-tops ere they were fed, Hushed in the shadow, while the sun is hot, Watched by the herdsman, who upon his staff Is leaning, and in leaning tendeth them; And as the shepherd, lodging out of doors, Passes the night beside his quiet flock, Watching that no wild beast may scatter it, Little could there be seen of things without; But through that little I beheld the stars More luminous and larger than their wont. Youthful and beautiful in dreams methought I saw a lady walking in a meadow, Gathering flowers; and singing she was saying: "Know whosoever may my name demand That I am Leah, and go moving round My beauteous hands to make myself a garland. To please me at the mirror, here I deck me, But never does my sister Rachel leave Her looking-glass, and sitteth all day long. To see her beauteous eyes as eager is she, As I am to adorn me with my hands; Her, seeing, and me, doing satisfies." And now before the antelucan splendours That unto pilgrims the more grateful rise, As, home-returning, less remote they lodge, The darkness fled away on every side, And slumber with it; whereupon I rose, Seeing already the great Masters risen. "That apple sweet, which through so many branches The care of mortals goeth in pursuit of, To-day shall put in peace thy hungerings." Speaking to me, Virgilius of such words As these made use; and never were there guerdons That could in pleasantness compare with these. Such longing upon longing came upon me To be above, that at each step thereafter For flight I felt in me the pinions growing. When underneath us was the stairway all Run o'er, and we were on the highest step, Virgilius fastened upon me his eyes, And said: "The temporal fire and the eternal, Son, thou hast seen, and to a place art come Where of myself no farther I discern. By intellect and art I here have brought thee; Take thine own pleasure for thy guide henceforth; Beyond the steep ways and the narrow art thou. Behold the sun, that shines upon thy forehead; Behold the grass, the flowerets, and the shrubs Which of itself alone this land produces. Until rejoicing come the beauteous eyes Which weeping caused me to come unto thee, Thou canst sit down, and thou canst walk among them. Expect no more or word or sign from me; Free and upright and sound is thy free-will, And error were it not to do its bidding; Thee o'er thyself I therefore crown and mitre!" Purgatorio: Canto XXVIII Eager already to search in and round The heavenly forest, dense and living-green, Which tempered to the eyes the new-born day, Withouten more delay I left the bank, Taking the level country slowly, slowly Over the soil that everywhere breathes fragrance. A softly-breathing air, that no mutation Had in itself, upon the forehead smote me No heavier blow than of a gentle wind, Yet not from their upright direction swayed, So that the little birds upon their tops Should leave the practice of each art of theirs; But with full ravishment the hours of prime, Singing, received they in the midst of leaves, That ever bore a burden to their rhymes, Such as from branch to branch goes gathering on Through the pine forest on the shore of Chiassi, When Eolus unlooses the Sirocco. Already my slow steps had carried me Into the ancient wood so far, that I Could not perceive where I had entered it. And lo! my further course a stream cut off, Which tow'rd the left hand with its little waves Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang. All waters that on earth most limpid are Would seem to have within themselves some mixture Compared with that which nothing doth conceal, Although it moves on with a brown, brown current Under the shade perpetual, that never Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. With feet I stayed, and with mine eyes I passed Beyond the rivulet, to look upon The great variety of the fresh may. And there appeared to me (even as appears Suddenly something that doth turn aside Through very wonder every other thought) A lady all alone, who went along Singing and culling floweret after floweret, With which her pathway was all painted over. "Ah, beauteous lady, who in rays of love Dost warm thyself, if I may trust to looks, Which the heart's witnesses are wont to be, May the desire come unto thee to draw Near to this river's bank," I said to her, "So much that I might hear what thou art singing. Thou makest me remember where and what Proserpina that moment was when lost Her mother her, and she herself the Spring." On the vermilion and the yellow flowerets She turned towards me, not in other wise Than maiden who her modest eyes casts down; And my entreaties made to be content, So near approaching, that the dulcet sound Came unto me together with its meaning As soon as she was where the grasses are. Bathed by the waters of the beauteous river, To lift her eyes she granted me the boon. I do not think there shone so great a light Under the lids of Venus, when transfixed By her own son, beyond his usual custom! Erect upon the other bank she smiled, Bearing full many colours in her hands, Which that high land produces without seed. More hatred from Leander did not suffer For rolling between Sestos and Abydos, Than that from me, because it oped not then. "Ye are new-comers; and because I smile," Began she, "peradventure, in this place Elect to human nature for its nest, Some apprehension keeps you marvelling; But the psalm 'Delectasti' giveth light Which has the power to uncloud your intellect. And thou who foremost art, and didst entreat me, Speak, if thou wouldst hear more; for I came ready To all thy questionings, as far as needful." "The water," said I, "and the forest's sound, Are combating within me my new faith In something which I heard opposed to this." Whence she: "I will relate how from its cause Proceedeth that which maketh thee to wonder, And purge away the cloud that smites upon thee. The Good Supreme, sole in itself delighting, Created man good, and this goodly place Gave him as hansel of eternal peace. By his default short while he sojourned here; By his default to weeping and to toil He changed his innocent laughter and sweet play. That the disturbance which below is made By exhalations of the land and water, (Which far as may be follow after heat,) Might not upon mankind wage any war, This mount ascended tow'rds the heaven so high, And is exempt, from there where it is locked. Now since the universal atmosphere Turns in a circuit with the primal motion Unless the circle is broken on some side, Upon this height, that all is disengaged In living ether, doth this motion strike And make the forest sound, for it is dense; And so much power the stricken plant possesses That with its virtue it impregns the air, And this, revolving, scatters it around; And yonder earth, according as 'tis worthy In self or in its clime, conceives and bears Of divers qualities the divers trees; It should not seem a marvel then on earth, This being heard, whenever any plant Without seed manifest there taketh root. And thou must know, this holy table-land In which thou art is full of every seed, And fruit has in it never gathered there. The water which thou seest springs not from vein Restored by vapour that the cold condenses, Like to a stream that gains or loses breath; Upon this side with virtue it descends, Which takes away all memory of sin; On that, of every good deed done restores it. This every other savour doth transcend; And notwithstanding slaked so far may be Thy thirst, that I reveal to thee no more, I'll give thee a corollary still in grace, Nor think my speech will be to thee less dear If it spread out beyond my promise to thee. Then backward did I turn me wholly round Unto my Poets, and saw that with a smile They had been listening to these closing words; Then to the beautiful lady turned mine eyes. Purgatorio: Canto XXIX Singing like unto an enamoured lady She, with the ending of her words, continued: "Beati quorum tecta sunt peccata." She then against the stream moved onward, going Along the bank, and I abreast of her, Her little steps with little steps attending. Nor even thus our way continued far Before the lady wholly turned herself Unto me, saying, "Brother, look and listen!" And lo! a sudden lustre ran across On every side athwart the spacious forest, Such that it made me doubt if it were lightning. But since the lightning ceases as it comes, And that continuing brightened more and more, Within my thought I said, "What thing is this?" And a delicious melody there ran Along the luminous air, whence holy zeal Made me rebuke the hardihood of Eve; For there where earth and heaven obedient were, The woman only, and but just created, Could not endure to stay 'neath any veil; Underneath which had she devoutly stayed, I sooner should have tasted those delights Ineffable, and for a longer time. In front of us like an enkindled fire Became the air beneath the verdant boughs, And the sweet sound as singing now was heard. O Virgins sacrosanct! if ever hunger, Vigils, or cold for you I have endured, The occasion spurs me their reward to claim! Now Helicon must needs pour forth for me, And with her choir Urania must assist me, To put in verse things difficult to think. But when I had approached so near to them The common object, which the sense deceives, Lost not by distance any of its marks, The faculty that lends discourse to reason Did apprehend that they were candlesticks, And in the voices of the song "Hosanna!" Above them flamed the harness beautiful, Far brighter than the moon in the serene Of midnight, at the middle of her month. I turned me round, with admiration filled, To good Virgilius, and he answered me With visage no less full of wonderment. Then back I turned my face to those high things, Which moved themselves towards us so sedately, They had been distanced by new-wedded brides. The lady chid me: "Why dost thou burn only So with affection for the living lights, And dost not look at what comes after them?" Then saw I people, as behind their leaders, Coming behind them, garmented in white, And such a whiteness never was on earth. The water on my left flank was resplendent, And back to me reflected my left side, E'en as a mirror, if I looked therein. When I upon my margin had such post That nothing but the stream divided us, Better to see I gave my steps repose; And I beheld the flamelets onward go, Leaving behind themselves the air depicted, And they of trailing pennons had the semblance, So that it overhead remained distinct With sevenfold lists, all of them of the colours Whence the sun's bow is made, and Delia's girdle. They all of them were singing: "Blessed thou Among the daughters of Adam art, and blessed For evermore shall be thy loveliness." After the flowers and other tender grasses In front of me upon the other margin Were disencumbered of that race elect, Reader! to trace their forms no more I waste My rhymes; for other spendings press me so, That I in this cannot be prodigal. But read Ezekiel, who depicteth them As he beheld them from the region cold Coming with cloud, with whirlwind, and with fire; And such as thou shalt find them in his pages, Such were they here; saving that in their plumage John is with me, and differeth from him. So high they rose that they were lost to sight; His limbs were gold, so far as he was bird, And white the others with vermilion mingled. And now they seemed conducted by the white, Now by the red, and from the song of her The others took their step, or slow or swift. Contrary care the other manifested, With sword so shining and so sharp, it caused Terror to me on this side of the river. But of the rose, and other flowers vermilion; At little distance would the sight have sworn That all were in a flame above their brows. And when the car was opposite to me Thunder was heard; and all that folk august Seemed to have further progress interdicted, There with the vanward ensigns standing still. Purgatorio: Canto XXX When the Septentrion of the highest heaven (Which never either setting knew or rising, Nor veil of other cloud than that of sin, They all were saying, "Benedictus qui venis," And, scattering flowers above and round about, "Manibus o date lilia plenis." Ere now have I beheld, as day began, The eastern hemisphere all tinged with rose, And the other heaven with fair serene adorned; And the sun's face, uprising, overshadowed So that by tempering influence of vapours For a long interval the eye sustained it; Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers Which from those hands angelical ascended, And downward fell again inside and out, Over her snow-white veil with olive cinct Appeared a lady under a green mantle, Vested in colour of the living flame. And my own spirit, that already now So long a time had been, that in her presence Trembling with awe it had not stood abashed, Without more knowledge having by mine eyes, Through occult virtue that from her proceeded Of ancient love the mighty influence felt. As soon as on my vision smote the power Sublime, that had already pierced me through Ere from my boyhood I had yet come forth, To the left hand I turned with that reliance With which the little child runs to his mother, When he has fear, or when he is afflicted, To say unto Virgilius: "Not a drachm Of blood remains in me, that does not tremble; I know the traces of the ancient flame." But us Virgilius of himself deprived Had left, Virgilius, sweetest of all fathers, Virgilius, to whom I for safety gave me: Nor whatsoever lost the ancient mother Availed my cheeks now purified from dew, That weeping they should not again be darkened. "Dante, because Virgilius has departed Do not weep yet, do not weep yet awhile; For by another sword thou need'st must weep." E'en as an admiral, who on poop and prow Comes to behold the people that are working In other ships, and cheers them to well-doing, Upon the left hand border of the car, When at the sound I turned of my own name, Which of necessity is here recorded, I saw the Lady, who erewhile appeared Veiled underneath the angelic festival, Direct her eyes to me across the river. Although the veil, that from her head descended, Encircled with the foliage of Minerva, Did not permit her to appear distinctly, "Look at me well; in sooth I'm Beatrice! How didst thou deign to come unto the Mountain? Didst thou not know that man is happy here?" Mine eyes fell downward into the clear fountain, But, seeing myself therein, I sought the grass, So great a shame did weigh my forehead down. As to the son the mother seems superb, So she appeared to me; for somewhat bitter Tasteth the savour of severe compassion. Silent became she, and the Angels sang Suddenly, "In te, Domine, speravi:" But beyond 'pedes meos' did not pass. Even as the snow among the living rafters Upon the back of Italy congeals, Blown on and drifted by Sclavonian winds, And then, dissolving, trickles through itself Whene'er the land that loses shadow breathes, So that it seems a fire that melts a taper; E'en thus was I without a tear or sigh, Before the song of those who sing for ever After the music of the eternal spheres. But when I heard in their sweet melodies Compassion for me, more than had they said, "O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus upbraid him?" The ice, that was about my heart congealed, To air and water changed, and in my anguish Through mouth and eyes came gushing from my breast. She, on the right-hand border of the car Still firmly standing, to those holy beings Thus her discourse directed afterwards: Not only by the work of those great wheels, That destine every seed unto some end, According as the stars are in conjunction, But by the largess of celestial graces, Which have such lofty vapours for their rain That near to them our sight approaches not, But so much more malignant and more savage Becomes the land untilled and with bad seed, The more good earthly vigour it possesses. Some time did I sustain him with my look; Revealing unto him my youthful eyes, I led him with me turned in the right way. When from the flesh to spirit I ascended, And beauty and virtue were in me increased, I was to him less dear and less delightful; And into ways untrue he turned his steps, Pursuing the false images of good, That never any promises fulfil; Nor prayer for inspiration me availed, By means of which in dreams and otherwise I called him back, so little did he heed them. So low he fell, that all appliances For his salvation were already short, Save showing him the people of perdition. For this I visited the gates of death, And unto him, who so far up has led him, My intercessions were with weeping borne. God's lofty fiat would be violated, If Lethe should be passed, and if such viands Should tasted be, withouten any scot Of penitence, that gushes forth in tears." Purgatorio: Canto XXXI "O thou who art beyond the sacred river," Turning to me the point of her discourse, That edgewise even had seemed to me so keen, She recommenced, continuing without pause, "Say, say if this be true; to such a charge, Thy own confession needs must be conjoined." My faculties were in so great confusion, That the voice moved, but sooner was extinct Than by its organs it was set at large. Awhile she waited; then she said: "What thinkest? Answer me; for the mournful memories In thee not yet are by the waters injured." Confusion and dismay together mingled Forced such a Yes! from out my mouth, that sight Was needful to the understanding of it. Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 'tis discharged Too tensely drawn the bowstring and the bow, And with less force the arrow hits the mark, So I gave way beneath that heavy burden, Outpouring in a torrent tears and sighs, And the voice flagged upon its passage forth. Whence she to me: "In those desires of mine Which led thee to the loving of that good, Beyond which there is nothing to aspire to, What trenches lying traverse or what chains Didst thou discover, that of passing onward Thou shouldst have thus despoiled thee of the hope? And what allurements or what vantages Upon the forehead of the others showed, That thou shouldst turn thy footsteps unto them?" After the heaving of a bitter sigh, Hardly had I the voice to make response, And with fatigue my lips did fashion it. Weeping I said: "The things that present were With their false pleasure turned aside my steps, Soon as your countenance concealed itself." And she: "Shouldst thou be silent, or deny What thou confessest, not less manifest Would be thy fault, by such a Judge 'tis known. But still, that thou mayst feel a greater shame For thy transgression, and another time Hearing the Sirens thou mayst be more strong, Cast down the seed of weeping and attend; So shalt thou hear, how in an opposite way My buried flesh should have directed thee. Never to thee presented art or nature Pleasure so great as the fair limbs wherein I was enclosed, which scattered are in earth. And if the highest pleasure thus did fail thee By reason of my death, what mortal thing Should then have drawn thee into its desire? Thou oughtest not to have stooped thy pinions downward To wait for further blows, or little girl, Or other vanity of such brief use. Even as children silent in their shame Stand listening with their eyes upon the ground, And conscious of their fault, and penitent; So was I standing; and she said: "If thou In hearing sufferest pain, lift up thy beard And thou shalt feel a greater pain in seeing." With less resistance is a robust holm Uprooted, either by a native wind Or else by that from regions of Iarbas, Than I upraised at her command my chin; And when she by the beard the face demanded, Well I perceived the venom of her meaning. And as my countenance was lifted up, Mine eye perceived those creatures beautiful Had rested from the strewing of the flowers; Beneath her veil, beyond the margent green, She seemed to me far more her ancient self To excel, than others here, when she was here. Such self-conviction stung me at the heart O'erpowered I fell, and what I then became She knoweth who had furnished me the cause. Then, when the heart restored my outward sense, The lady I had found alone, above me I saw, and she was saying, "Hold me, hold me." Up to my throat she in the stream had drawn me, And, dragging me behind her, she was moving Upon the water lightly as a shuttle. When I was near unto the blessed shore, "Asperges me," I heard so sweetly sung, Remember it I cannot, much less write it. The beautiful lady opened wide her arms, Embraced my head, and plunged me underneath, Where I was forced to swallow of the water. 'We here are Nymphs, and in the Heaven are stars; Ere Beatrice descended to the world, We as her handmaids were appointed her. Thus singing they began; and afterwards Unto the Griffin's breast they led me with them, Where Beatrice was standing, turned towards us. "See that thou dost not spare thine eyes," they said; "Before the emeralds have we stationed thee, Whence Love aforetime drew for thee his weapons." Think, Reader, if within myself I marvelled, When I beheld the thing itself stand still, And in its image it transformed itself. While with amazement filled and jubilant, My soul was tasting of the food, that while It satisfies us makes us hunger for it, O splendour of the living light eternal! Who underneath the shadow of Parnassus Has grown so pale, or drunk so at its cistern, He would not seem to have his mind encumbered Striving to paint thee as thou didst appear, Where the harmonious heaven o'ershadowed thee, When in the open air thou didst unveil? Purgatorio: Canto XXXII So steadfast and attentive were mine eyes In satisfying their decennial thirst, That all my other senses were extinct, And upon this side and on that they had Walls of indifference, so the holy smile Drew them unto itself with the old net When forcibly my sight was turned away Towards my left hand by those goddesses, Because I heard from them a "Too intently!" And that condition of the sight which is In eyes but lately smitten by the sun Bereft me of my vision some short while; But to the less when sight re-shaped itself, I say the less in reference to the greater Splendour from which perforce I had withdrawn, I saw upon its right wing wheeled about The glorious host returning with the sun And with the sevenfold flames upon their faces. As underneath its shields, to save itself, A squadron turns, and with its banner wheels, Before the whole thereof can change its front, That soldiery of the celestial kingdom Which marched in the advance had wholly passed us Before the chariot had turned its pole. Then to the wheels the maidens turned themselves, And the Griffin moved his burden benedight, But so that not a feather of him fluttered. The lady fair who drew me through the ford Followed with Statius and myself the wheel Which made its orbit with the lesser arc. So passing through the lofty forest, vacant By fault of her who in the serpent trusted, Angelic music made our steps keep time. I heard them murmur altogether, "Adam!" Then circled they about a tree despoiled Of blooms and other leafage on each bough. Its tresses, which so much the more dilate As higher they ascend, had been by Indians Among their forests marvelled at for height. "Blessed art thou, O Griffin, who dost not Pluck with thy beak these branches sweet to taste, Since appetite by this was turned to evil." After this fashion round the tree robust The others shouted; and the twofold creature: "Thus is preserved the seed of all the just." And turning to the pole which he had dragged, He drew it close beneath the widowed bough, And what was of it unto it left bound. In the same manner as our trees (when downward Falls the great light, with that together mingled Which after the celestial Lasca shines) Less than of rose and more than violet A hue disclosing, was renewed the tree That had erewhile its boughs so desolate. I never heard, nor here below is sung, The hymn which afterward that people sang, Nor did I bear the melody throughout. Had I the power to paint how fell asleep Those eyes compassionless, of Syrinx hearing, Those eyes to which more watching cost so dear, Even as a painter who from model paints I would portray how I was lulled asleep; He may, who well can picture drowsihood. Therefore I pass to what time I awoke, And say a splendour rent from me the veil Of slumber, and a calling: "Rise, what dost thou?" As to behold the apple-tree in blossom Which makes the Angels greedy for its fruit, And keeps perpetual bridals in the Heaven, Peter and John and James conducted were, And, overcome, recovered at the word By which still greater slumbers have been broken, And saw their school diminished by the loss Not only of Elias, but of Moses, And the apparel of their Master changed; And all in doubt I said, "Where's Beatrice?" And she: "Behold her seated underneath The leafage new, upon the root of it. Behold the company that circles her; The rest behind the Griffin are ascending With more melodious song, and more profound." And if her speech were more diffuse I know not, Because already in my sight was she Who from the hearing of aught else had shut me. Alone she sat upon the very earth, Left there as guardian of the chariot Which I had seen the biform monster fasten. "Short while shalt thou be here a forester, And thou shalt be with me for evermore A citizen of that Rome where Christ is Roman. Therefore, for that world's good which liveth ill, Fix on the car thine eyes, and what thou seest, Having returned to earth, take heed thou write." Thus Beatrice; and I, who at the feet Of her commandments all devoted was, My mind and eyes directed where she willed. Never descended with so swift a motion Fire from a heavy cloud, when it is raining From out the region which is most remote, As I beheld the bird of Jove descend Down through the tree, rending away the bark, As well as blossoms and the foliage new, And he with all his might the chariot smote, Whereat it reeled, like vessel in a tempest Tossed by the waves, now starboard and now larboard. Thereafter saw I leap into the body Of the triumphal vehicle a Fox, That seemed unfed with any wholesome food. But for his hideous sins upbraiding him, My Lady put him to as swift a flight As such a fleshless skeleton could bear. Then by the way that it before had come, Into the chariot's chest I saw the Eagle Descend, and leave it feathered with his plumes. And such as issues from a heart that mourns, A voice from Heaven there issued, and it said: "My little bark, how badly art thou freighted!" Methought, then, that the earth did yawn between Both wheels, and I saw rise from it a Dragon, Who through the chariot upward fixed his tail, And as a wasp that draweth back its sting, Drawing unto himself his tail malign, Drew out the floor, and went his way rejoicing. That which remained behind, even as with grass A fertile region, with the feathers, offered Perhaps with pure intention and benign, Reclothed itself, and with them were reclothed The pole and both the wheels so speedily, A sigh doth longer keep the lips apart. Firm as a rock upon a mountain high, Seated upon it, there appeared to me A shameless whore, with eyes swift glancing round, And, as if not to have her taken from him, Upright beside her I beheld a giant; And ever and anon they kissed each other. But because she her wanton, roving eye Turned upon me, her angry paramour Did scourge her from her head unto her feet. Then full of jealousy, and fierce with wrath, He loosed the monster, and across the forest Dragged it so far, he made of that alone A shield unto the whore and the strange beast. Purgatorio: Canto XXXIII And Beatrice, compassionate and sighing, Listened to them with such a countenance, That scarce more changed was Mary at the cross. But when the other virgins place had given For her to speak, uprisen to her feet With colour as of fire, she made response: "'Modicum, et non videbitis me; Et iterum,' my sisters predilect, 'Modicum, et vos videbitis me.'" And with a tranquil aspect, "Come more quickly," To me she said, "that, if I speak with thee, To listen to me thou mayst be well placed." As soon as I was with her as I should be, She said to me: "Why, brother, dost thou not Venture to question now, in coming with me?" As unto those who are too reverential, Speaking in presence of superiors, Who drag no living utterance to their teeth, It me befell, that without perfect sound Began I: "My necessity, Madonna, You know, and that which thereunto is good." Know that the vessel which the serpent broke Was, and is not; but let him who is guilty Think that God's vengeance does not fear a sop. Without an heir shall not for ever be The Eagle that left his plumes upon the car, Whence it became a monster, then a prey; For verily I see, and hence narrate it, The stars already near to bring the time, From every hindrance safe, and every bar, But soon the facts shall be the Naiades Who shall this difficult enigma solve, Without destruction of the flocks and harvests. Note thou; and even as by me are uttered These words, so teach them unto those who live That life which is a running unto death; Whoever pillages or shatters it, With blasphemy of deed offendeth God, Who made it holy for his use alone. Thy genius slumbers, if it deem it not For special reason so pre-eminent In height, and so inverted in its summit. And if thy vain imaginings had not been Water of Elsa round about thy mind, And Pyramus to the mulberry, their pleasure, Thou by so many circumstances only The justice of the interdict of God Morally in the tree wouldst recognize. But since I see thee in thine intellect Converted into stone and stained with sin, So that the light of my discourse doth daze thee, I will too, if not written, at least painted, Thou bear it back within thee, for the reason That cinct with palm the pilgrim's staff is borne." And I: "As by a signet is the wax Which does not change the figure stamped upon it, My brain is now imprinted by yourself. But wherefore so beyond my power of sight Soars your desirable discourse, that aye The more I strive, so much the more I lose it?" "That thou mayst recognize," she said, "the school Which thou hast followed, and mayst see how far Its doctrine follows after my discourse, And mayst behold your path from the divine Distant as far as separated is From earth the heaven that highest hastens on." Whence her I answered: "I do not remember That ever I estranged myself from you, Nor have I conscience of it that reproves me." "And if thou art not able to remember," Smiling she answered, "recollect thee now That thou this very day hast drunk of Lethe; And if from smoke a fire may be inferred, Such an oblivion clearly demonstrates Some error in thy will elsewhere intent. Truly from this time forward shall my words Be naked, so far as it is befitting To lay them open unto thy rude gaze." And more coruscant and with slower steps The sun was holding the meridian circle, Which, with the point of view, shifts here and there When halted (as he cometh to a halt, Who goes before a squadron as its escort, If something new he find upon his way) The beautiful lady: "This and other things Were told to him by me; and sure I am The water of Lethe has not hid them from him." And Beatrice: "Perhaps a greater care, Which oftentimes our memory takes away, Has made the vision of his mind obscure. Like gentle soul, that maketh no excuse, But makes its own will of another's will As soon as by a sign it is disclosed, Even so, when she had taken hold of me, The beautiful lady moved, and unto Statius Said, in her womanly manner, "Come with him." If, Reader, I possessed a longer space For writing it, I yet would sing in part Of the sweet draught that ne'er would satiate me; From the most holy water I returned Regenerate, in the manner of new trees That are renewed with a new foliage, Pure and disposed to mount unto the stars. End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Dante's Purgatory [Divine Comedy] as translanted by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow	redpajama-book	37,883
Produced by Jonathan Ingram and PG Distributed Proofreaders _An Illustrated Monthly_ EDITED BY GEORGE NEWNES The Queen of Holland. By Mary Spencer-Warren. The Helmet. From the French of Ferdinand Beissier. The Music of Nature. By T. Camden Pratt. Part II. A Terrible New Year's Eve. By Kathleen Huddleston. Personal Reminiscences of Sir Andrew Clark. By E. H. Pitcairn. The Signatures of Charles Dickens (with Portraits). By J. Holt Schooling. The Mirror. From the French of George Japy. Handcuffs. By Inspector Moser. The Family Name. From the French of Henri Malin. _Stories from the Diary of a Doctor._ _By the Authors of "THE MEDICINE LADY."_ [Illustration: "THE HORROR OF STUDLEY GRANGE."] I read the words, "Lady Studley." "Show her in," I said, hastily, and the next moment a tall, slightly-made, fair-haired girl entered the room. The colour rushed into her cheeks as she held out her hand to me. I motioned her to a chair, and then asked her what I could do for her. "With pleasure," I replied. "Where do you live?" "At Studley Grange, in Wiltshire. Don't you know our place?" "I daresay I ought to know it," I replied, "although at the present moment I can't recall the name. You want me to come to see your husband. I presume you wish me to have a consultation with his medical attendant?" [Illustration: "LADY STUDLEY SPOKE WITH GREAT EMPHASIS."] Lady Studley spoke with great emphasis and earnestness. Her long, slender hands were clasped tightly together. She had drawn off her gloves and was bending forward in her chair. Her big, childish, and somewhat restless blue eyes were fixed imploringly on my face. "I must think the matter over," I said. "You flatter me by wishing for me, and by believing that I can render you assistance, but I cannot take a step of this kind in a hurry. I will write to you by to-night's post if you will give me your address. In the meantime, kindly tell me some of the symptoms of Sir Henry's malady." "When did these symptoms begin to appear?" I asked. "It is mid-winter now," said Lady Studley. "The queer symptoms began to show themselves in my husband in October. They have been growing worse and worse. In short, I can stand them no longer," she continued, giving way to a short, hysterical sob. "I felt I must come to someone--I have heard of you. Do, do come and save us. Do come and find out what is the matter with my wretched husband." "You will forgive me for speaking," I said, "but you do not look at all well yourself. I should like to prescribe for you as well as your husband." She touched my hand with fingers that burnt like a living coal and left the room. [Illustration: "LADY STUDLEY HAD COME HERSELF TO FETCH ME."] "I don't know how to thank you," she said, giving me a feverish clasp of her hand. "Your visit fills me with hope--I believe that you will discover what is really wrong. Home!" she said, giving a quick, imperious direction to the footman who appeared at the window of the carriage. "Do you mind?" she asked. "What have you said about me to Sir Henry?" I inquired. "That you are a great friend of the Onslows, and that I have asked you here for a week's change," she answered immediately. "As a guest, my husband will be polite and delightful to you--as a doctor, he would treat you with scant civility, and would probably give you little or none of his confidence." She turned very pale when I said this, and tears filled her eyes. "Never mind," I said now, for I could not but be touched by her extremely pathetic and suffering face, by the look of great illness which was manifested in every glance. "Never mind now; I am glad you have told me exactly the terms on which you wish me to approach your husband; but I think that I can so put matters to Sir Henry that he will be glad to consult me in my medical capacity." "Oh, but he does not even know that I suspect his illness. It would never do for him to know. I suspect! I see! I fear! but I say nothing. Sir Henry would be much more miserable than he is now, if he thought that I guessed that there is anything wrong with him." "It is impossible for me to come to the Grange except as a medical man," I answered, firmly. "I will tell Sir Henry that you have seen some changes in him, and have asked me to visit him as a doctor. Please trust me. Nothing will be said to your husband that can make matters at all uncomfortable for you." Lady Studley did not venture any further remonstrance, and we now approached the old Grange. It was an irregular pile, built evidently according to the wants of the different families who had lived in it. The building was long and rambling, with rows of windows filled up with panes of latticed glass. In front of the house was a sweeping lawn, which, even at this time of the year, presented a velvety and well-kept appearance. We drove rapidly round to the entrance door, and a moment later I found myself in the presence of my host and patient. Sir Henry Studley was a tall man with a very slight stoop, and an aquiline and rather noble face. His eyes were dark, and his forehead inclined to be bald. There was a courtly, old-world sort of look about him. He greeted me with extreme friendliness, and we went into the hall, a very large and lofty apartment, to tea. [Illustration: "'HAVE YOU A GHOST HERE?' I ASKED, WITH A LAUGH."] "Have you a ghost here?" I asked, with a laugh. I don't know what prompted me to ask the question. The moment I did so, Sir Henry turned white to his lips, and Lady Studley held up a warning finger to me to intimate that I was on dangerous ground. I felt that I was, and hastened to divert the conversation into safer channels. Inadvertently I had touched on a sore spot. I scarcely regretted having done so, as the flash in the baronet's troubled eyes, and the extreme agitation of his face, showed me plainly that Lady Studley was right when she spoke of his nerves being in a very irritable condition. Of course, I did not believe in ghosts, and wondered that a man of Sir Henry's calibre could be at all under the influence of this old-world fear. I answered that I used to be in the old days, before medicine and patients occupied all my thoughts. "If this open weather continues, I can probably give you some of your favourite pastime," rejoined Sir Henry; "and now perhaps you would like to be shown to your room." My bedroom was in a modern wing of the house, and looked as cheerful and as unghostlike as it was possible for a room to be. I did not rejoin my host and hostess until dinner-time. We had a sociable little meal, at which nothing of any importance occurred, and shortly after the servants withdrew, Lady Studley left Sir Henry and me to ourselves. She gave me another warning glance as she left the room. I had already quite made up my mind, however, to tell Sir Henry the motive of my visit. The moment the door closed behind his wife, he started up and asked me if I would mind coming with him into his library. "The fact is." he said, "I am particularly glad you have come down. I want to have a talk with you about my wife. She is extremely unwell." I signified my willingness to listen to anything Sir Henry might say, and in a few minutes we found ourselves comfortably established in a splendid old room, completely clothed with books from ceiling to floor. "These are my friends, the companions of my hours of solitude. Now sit down, Dr. Halifax; make yourself at home. You have come here as a guest, but I have heard of you before, and am inclined to confide in you. I must frankly say that I hate your profession as a rule. I don't believe in the omniscience of medical men, but moments come in the lives of all men when it is necessary to unburden the mind to another. May I give you my confidence?" While I was speaking, Sir Henry's face became extremely watchful, eager, and tense. "This is remarkable," he said. "So Lucilla is anxious about me? I was not aware that I ever gave her the least clue to the fact that I am not--in perfect health. This is very strange--it troubles me." "Well," he said, "I am obliged to you for being perfectly frank with me. My wife scarcely did well to conceal the object of your visit. But now that you have come, I shall make use of you both for myself and for her." "Then you are not well?" I asked. "Well!" he answered, with almost a shout. "Good God, no! I think that I am going mad. I know--I know that unless relief soon comes I shall die or become a raving maniac." "I am ready to listen," I replied. "You see," he continued, "that she is very delicate?" "Yes," I replied; "to be frank with you, I should say that Lady Studley was consumptive." He started when I said this, and pressed his lips firmly together. After a moment he spoke. "You are right," he replied. "I had her examined by a medical man--Sir Joseph Dunbar--when I was last in London; he said her lungs were considerably affected, and that, in short, she was far from well." "Did he not order you to winter abroad?" "He did, but Lady Studley opposed the idea so strenuously that I was obliged to yield to her entreaties. Consumption does not seem to take quite the ordinary form with her. She is restless, she longs for cool air, she goes out on quite cold days, in a closed carriage, it is true. Still, except at night, she does not regard herself in any sense as an invalid. She has immense spirit--I think she will keep up until she dies." "You speak of her being an invalid at night," I replied. "What are her symptoms?" Sir Henry shuddered quite visibly. "Oh, those awful nights!" he answered. "How happy would many poor mortals be, but for the terrible time of darkness. Lady Studley has had dreadful nights for some time: perspirations, cough, restlessness, bad dreams, and all the rest of it. But I must hasten to tell you my story quite briefly. In the beginning of October we saw Sir Joseph Dunbar. I should then, by his advice, have taken Lady Studley to the Riviera, but she opposed the idea with such passion and distress, that I abandoned it." "At my wife's earnest request," continued Sir Henry, "we returned to the Grange. She declared her firm intention of remaining here until she died. "She is very ill," I said. "But I will speak of that presently. Now will you favour me with an account of your own symptoms, Sir Henry?" [Illustration: "HE LOCKED THE DOOR AND PUT THE KEY IN HIS POCKET."] He started again when I said this, and going across the room, locked the door and put the key in his pocket. "Perhaps you will laugh at me," he said, "but it is no laughing matter, I assure you. The most terrible, the most awful affliction has come to me. In short, I am visited nightly by an appalling apparition. You don't believe in ghosts, I judge that by your face. Few scientific men do." "Frankly, I do not," I replied. "So-called ghosts can generally be accounted for. At the most they are only the figments of an over-excited or diseased brain." "Forgive a personal question," I interrupted. "Has your marriage disappointed you?" "No, no; far from it," he replied with fervour. "I love my dear wife better and more deeply even than the day when I took her as a bride to my arms. It is true that I am weighed down with sorrow about her, but that is entirely owing to the state of her health." "It is strange," I said, "that she should be weighed down with sorrow about you for the same cause. Have you told her of the thing which terrifies you?" "Never, never. I have never spoken of it to mortal. It is remarkable that my wife should have told you that I looked like a man who has seen a ghost. Alas! alas! But let me tell you the cause of my shattered nerves, my agony, and failing health." "Pray do, I shall listen attentively," I replied. "But have you never tried to investigate this thing?" I said. "Why do you sleep in that room?" "I must not go away from Lady Studley. My terror is that she should know anything of this--my greater terror is that the apparition, failing me, may visit her. I daresay you think I'm a fool, Halifax; but the fact is, this thing is killing me, brave man as I consider myself." "Do you see it every night?" I asked. [Illustration: "IT IS THE MOST GHASTLY, THE MOST HORRIBLE FORM OF TORTURE.] "I have not the least shadow of doubt," I said, after a pause, "that the thing can be accounted for." Sir Henry shook his head. "No, no," he replied, "it is either as you suggest, a figment of my own diseased brain, and therefore just as horrible as a real apparition; or it is a supernatural visitation. Whether it exists or not, it is reality to me and in no way a dream. The full horror of it is present with me in my waking moments." "Do you think anyone is playing an awful practical joke?" I suggested. "Do you mind taking me to your room?" I said. "Not to-night," he answered. "It is late, and Lady Studley might express surprise. The object of my life is to conceal this horror from her. When she is out to-morrow you shall come to the room and judge for yourself." "Well," I said, "I shall have an interview with your wife to-morrow, and urge her most strongly to consent to leave the Grange and go away with you." Shortly afterwards we retired to rest, or what went by the name of rest in that sad house, with its troubled inmates. I must confess that, comfortable as my room was, I slept very little. Sir Henry's story stayed with me all through the hours of darkness. I am neither nervous nor imaginative, but I could not help seeing that terrible eye, even in my dreams. "After all, I cannot urge that poor girl to go abroad," I said to myself. "She is hastening rapidly to her grave, and no power on earth can save her. She looks as if there were extensive disease of the lungs. How restless her eyes are, too! I would much rather testify to Sir Henry's sanity than to hers." Sir Henry Studley also bore traces of a sleepless night--his face was bloodless; he averted his eyes from mine; he ate next to nothing. Immediately after breakfast, I followed Lady Studley into her morning-room. I had already made up my mind how to act. Her husband should have my full confidence--she only my partial view of the situation. "Well," I said, "I have seen your husband and talked to him. I hope he will soon be better. I don't think you need be seriously alarmed about him. Now for yourself, Lady Studley. I am anxious to examine your lungs. Will you allow me to do so?" "I suppose Henry has told you I am consumptive?" "He says you are not well," I answered. "I don't need his word to assure me of that fact--I can see it with my own eyes. Please let me examine your chest with my stethoscope." She hesitated for a moment, looking something like a wild creature brought to bay. Then she sank into a chair, and with trembling fingers unfastened her dress. Poor soul, she was almost a walking skeleton--her beautiful face was all that was beautiful about her. A brief examination told me that she was in the last stage of phthisis--in short, that her days were numbered. "What do you think of me?" she asked, when the brief examination was over. "You are ill," I replied. "How soon shall I die?" "God only knows that, my dear lady," I answered. "Oh, you needn't hide your thoughts," she said. "I know that my days are very few. Oh, if only, if only my husband could come with me! I am so afraid to go alone, and I am fond of him, very fond of him." I soothed her as well as I could. "You ought to have someone to sleep in your room at night," I said. "You ought not to be left by yourself." "Henry is near me--in the next room," she replied. "I would not have a nurse for the world--I hate and detest nurses." Soon afterwards she left me. She was very erratic, and before she left the room she had quite got over her depression. The sun shone out, and with the gleam of brightness her volatile spirits rose. "I am going for a drive," she said. "Will you come with me?" "Not this morning," I replied. "If you ask me to-morrow, I shall be pleased to accompany you." "Well, go to Henry," she answered. "Talk to him--find out what ails him, order tonics for him. Cheer him in every way in your power. You say he is not ill--not seriously ill--I know better. My impression is that if my days are numbered, so are his." She went away, and I sought her husband. As soon as the wheels of her brougham were heard bowling away over the gravel sweep, we went up together to his room. "This is a quaint old wardrobe," I said. "It looks out of place with the rest of the furniture. Why don't you have it removed?" [Illustration: "DON'T GO NEAR IT--I DREAD IT!"] "I see," I answered. "The wardrobe is built into the wall. That is the reason it cannot be removed. Have you got the key about you?" He fumbled in his pocket, and presently produced a bunch of keys. "I wish you wouldn't open the wardrobe," he said. "I frankly admit that I dislike having it touched." "All right," I replied. "I will not examine it while you are in the room. You will perhaps allow me to keep the key?" "Certainly! You can take it from the bunch, if you wish. This is it. I shall be only too glad to have it well out of my own keeping." "We will go downstairs," I said. We returned to Sir Henry's library. It was my turn now to lock the door. "Why do you do that?" he asked. "What have you got to say?" "I have a plan to propose to you." "I want you to change bedrooms with me to-night." "It may not visit you." "It may not, but on the other hand it may. I have a curiosity to lie on that bed and to face that wardrobe in the wall. You must yield to my wishes, Sir Henry." "But how can the knowledge of this arrangement be kept from my wife?" "Easily enough. You will both go to your rooms as usual. You will bid her good-night as usual, and after the doors of communication are closed I will enter the room and you will go to mine, or to any other that you like to occupy. You say your wife never comes into your room during the hours of the night?" "She has never yet done so." "She will not to-night. Should she by any chance call for assistance, I will immediately summon you." It was very evident that Sir Henry did not like this arrangement. He yielded, however, to my very strong persuasions, which almost took the form of commands, for I saw that I could do nothing unless I got complete mastery over the man. Lady Studley returned from her drive just as our arrangements were fully made. I had not a moment during all the day to examine the interior of the wardrobe. The sick woman's restlessness grew greater as the hours advanced. She did not care to leave her husband's side. She sat with him as he examined his books. She followed him from room to room. In the afternoon, to the relief of everyone, some fresh guests arrived. In consequence we had a cheerful evening. Lady Studley came down to dinner in white from top to toe. Her dress was ethereal in texture and largely composed of lace. I cannot describe woman's dress, but with her shadowy figure and worn, but still lovely face, she looked spiritual. The gleam in her large blue eyes was pathetic. Her love for her husband was touching to behold. How soon, how very soon, they must part from each other! Only I as a doctor knew how impossible it was to keep the lamp of life much longer burning in the poor girl's frame. We retired as usual to rest. Sir Henry bade me a cheerful good-night. Lady Studley nodded to me as she left the room. [Illustration: "'SLEEP WELL,' SHE SAID, IN A GAY VOICE."] "Sleep well," she said, in a gay voice. It was late the next morning when we all met round the breakfast table. Sir Henry looked better, but Lady Studley many degrees worse, than the night before. I wondered at her courage in retaining her post at the head of her table. The visitors, who came in at intervals and took their seats at the table, looked at her with wonder and compassion. "Surely my hostess is very ill?" said a guest who sat next my side. "Yes, but take no notice of it," I answered. Soon after breakfast I sought Sir Henry. "Well--well?" he said, as he grasped my hand. "Halifax, you have seen it. I know you have by the expression of your face." "Yes," I replied, "I have." "How quietly you speak. Has not the horror of the thing seized you?" "No," I said, with a brief laugh. "I told you yesterday that my nerves were in tolerable order. I think my surmise was correct, and that the apparition has tangible form and can be traced to its foundation." An unbelieving look swept over Sir Henry's face. "Ah," he said, "doctors are very hard to convince. Everything must be brought down to a cold material level to satisfy them; but several nights in that room would shatter even your nerves, my friend." "You are quite right," I answered. "I should be very sorry to spend several nights in that room. Now I will tell you briefly what occurred." We were standing in the library. Sir Henry went to the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. "Can I come in?" said a voice outside. The voice was Lady Studley's. "In a minute, my darling," answered her husband. "I am engaged with Halifax just at present." "Medically, I suppose?" she answered. "Yes, medically," he responded. "Now speak," he said. "Be quick. She is sure to return, and I don't like her to fancy that we are talking secrets." "This is my story," I said. "I went into your room, put out all the lights, and sat on the edge of the bed." "You did not get into bed, then?" "No, I preferred to be up and to be ready for immediate action should the apparition, the horror, or whatever you call it, appear." "Good God, it is a horror, Halifax!" "I cannot agree with you--but proceed," said the baronet, impatiently. "What did you feel when you saw that light?" "Too excited to be nervous," I answered, briefly. "Out of the circle of light the horrible eye looked at me." "What did you do then? Did you faint?" "No, I went noiselessly across the carpet up to the door of the wardrobe and looked in." "Heavens! you are daring. I wonder you are alive to tell this tale." "Lady Studley will find out." "She will not. I sleep in the haunted room again to-night, and during the day you must so contrive matters that I have plenty of time to examine the wardrobe. I did not do so yesterday because I had not an opportunity. You must contrive to get Lady Studley out of the way, either this morning or afternoon, and so manage matters for me that I can be some little time alone in your room." "Henry, Henry, how awestruck you look!" said a gay voice at the window. Lady Studley had come out, had come round to the library window, and, holding up her long, dark-blue velvet dress, was looking at us with a peculiar smile. "Well, my love," replied the baronet. He went to the window and flung it open. "Lucilla," he exclaimed, "you are mad to stand on the damp grass." "Oh, no, not mad," she answered. "I have come to that stage when nothing matters. Is not that so, Dr. Halifax?" "You are very imprudent," I replied. She shook her finger at me playfully, and turned to her husband. "Henry," she said, "have you taken my keys? I cannot find them anywhere." "What do you think of my husband this morning?" she asked. "He is a little better," I replied. "I am confident that he will soon be quite well again." She gave a deep sigh when I said this, her lips trembled, and she turned away. I thought my news would make her happy, and her depression surprised me. At this moment Sir Henry came into the room. "Here are your keys," he said to his wife. He gave her the same bunch he had given me the night before. I hoped she would not notice that the key of the wardrobe was missing. "And now I want you to come for a drive with me," said Sir Henry. He did not often accompany her, and the pleasure of this unlooked-for indulgence evidently tempted her. "Very well," she answered. "Is Dr. Halifax coming?" "No, he wants to have a ride." "If he rides, can he not follow the carriage?" "Will you do that, Halifax?" asked my host. "No, thank you," I answered; "I must write some letters before I go anywhere. I will ride to the nearest town and post them presently, if I may." I left the room as I spoke. [Illustration: "GOOD HEAVENS! WHAT HAD HAPPENED?"] It was troublesome to unlock, because the key was a little rusty, and it was more than evident that the heavy doors had not been opened for some time. Both these doors were made of glass. When shut, they resembled in shape and appearance an ordinary old-fashioned window. The glass was set in deep mullions. It was thick, was of a peculiar shade of light blue, and was evidently of great antiquity. I opened the doors and went inside. The wardrobe was so roomy that I could stand upright with perfect comfort. It was empty, and was lined through and through with solid oak. I struck a light and began to examine the interior with care. After a great deal of patient investigation I came across a notch in the wood. I pressed my finger on this, and immediately a little panel slid back, which revealed underneath a small button. I turned the button and a door at the back of the wardrobe flew open. A flood of sunlight poured in, and stepping out, I found myself in another room. I looked around me in astonishment. This was a lady's chamber. Good heavens! what had happened? I was in Lady Studley's room. Shutting the mysterious door of the wardrobe very carefully, I found that all trace of its existence immediately vanished. What could this thing portend? I had already convinced myself that if Sir Henry were the subject of a hallucination, I also shared it. As this was impossible, I felt certain that the apparition had a material foundation. Who was the person who glided night after night into Lady Studley's room, who knew the trick of the secret spring in the wall, who entered the old wardrobe, and performed this ghastly, this appalling trick on Sir Henry Studley? I resolved that I would say nothing to Sir Henry of my fresh discovery until after I had spent another night in the haunted room. There, huddled up on the floor, lay the prostrate and unconscious form of Lady Studley. A black cloak in which she had wrapped herself partly covered her face, but I knew her by her long, fair hair. I pulled back the cloak, and saw that the unhappy girl had broken a blood-vessel, and even as I lifted her up I knew that she was in a dying condition. "What is it?" he asked, springing upright in bed. "Dying?" he asked, in an agonized whisper. I nodded my head. I could not speak. He followed me to his wife's room. He forgot even to question me about the apparition, so horrified was he at the sight which met his view. I administered restoratives to the dying woman, and did what I could to check the haemorrhage. After a time Lady Studley opened her dim eyes. "Oh, Henry!" she said, stretching out a feeble hand to him, "come with me, come with me. I am afraid to go alone." "My poor Lucilla," he said. He smoothed her cold forehead, and tried to comfort her by every means in his power. After a time he left the room. When he did so she beckoned me to approach. "I have failed," she said, in the most thrilling voice of horror I have ever listened to. "I must go alone. He will not come with me." Her voice was very faint. I could scarcely hear her muttered words. Her eyes were glazing fast, death was claiming her, and yet hatred against some unknown person thrilled in her feeble voice. "How did you find out the secret door of the wardrobe?" I asked. She made a faint, impatient movement. "I wanted to be certain that my husband was really very ill," she said. "I wanted you to talk to him--I guessed he would confide in you; I thought it most probable that you would tell him that he was a victim of brain hallucinations. This would frighten him and would suit my purpose exactly. I also sent for you as a blind. I felt sure that under these circumstances neither you nor my husband could possibly suspect me." She was silent again, panting from exhaustion. "I have failed," she said, after a long pause. "You have discovered the truth. It never occurred to me for a moment that you would go into the room. He will recover now." She paused; a fresh attack of haemorrhage came on. Her breath came quickly. Her end was very near. Her dim eyes could scarcely see. Groping feebly with her hand she took mine. "Dr. Halifax--promise." "I have failed, but let me keep his love, what little love he has for me, before he marries that other woman. Promise that you will never tell him." "Rest easy," I answered, "I will never tell him." Sir Henry entered the room. I made way for him to kneel by his wife's side. As the grey morning broke Lady Studley died. It may be of interest to explain how Lady Studley in her unhealthy condition of mind and body performed the extraordinary trick by which she hoped to undermine her husband's health, and ultimately cause his death. I experimented with the materials which I carried away with me, and succeeded, so my friends told me, in producing a most ghastly effect. When last I heard of Studley Grange it was let for a term of years and Sir Henry had gone abroad. I have not heard that he has married again, but he probably will, sooner or later. _The Queen of Holland._ BY MARY SPENCER-WARREN. [Illustration: THE ROYAL PALACE, AMSTERDAM. _From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._] "I know a city, whose inhabitants dwell on the tops of trees like rooks." Thus spake Erasmus; and this literal fact makes Amsterdam a most curious as well as a most interesting place. [Illustration: THE HALL OR RECEPTION-ROOM. _From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._] All went well for a time, but during a period of watchful quietude our artist was suddenly and unexpectedly confronted with a gathering of rats of anything but peaceable aspect. It was too much for him! He made a wild rush for the staircase, which, being narrow and treacherous, resulted in a too rapid descent, a very forcible alighting at the foot, and a much bruised and shaken body. Here I am given a full description of the appearance of this hall when laid for the State banquet on the occasion of the somewhat recent visit of the German Emperor. Splendid, indeed, must have been the effect of the hundreds of lights gleaming upon the pure marble, the rare exotics, the massive plate, the State dresses, and the rich liveries; and I am not surprised at the enthusiasm of the narrator as he dilates on the grandeur displayed. [Illustration: THE THRONE ROOM. _From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._] [Illustration: THE QUEEN OF HOLLAND. _From a Photo. by W. G. Kuijer, Amsterdam._] While I have been looking round, attentive servitors have been busily engaged in uncovering the throne and canopy for my inspection, and the crown which surmounts the chair is fetched from its safe keeping place, screwed on, and I am at liberty to thoroughly examine the most important piece of furniture in the kingdom. [Illustration: THE QUEEN-REGENT. _From a Photo. by W. G. Kuijer, Amsterdam._] Perhaps you would like a description of the throne. The chair is beautifully burnished, covered with ruby velvet, and edged with ruby and gold fringe; the back is surmounted by a crown containing sapphires, with lions in support; another crown and the letter W being wrought on the velvet immediately underneath. In front of the chair is a footstool to match. The canopy is curtained in ruby velvet, with lining of cream silk--in token of the youth of its future occupant--with fringe, cord, and tassels of gold. It is surmounted by crowns and ostrich plumes, on the inner centre being worked the Royal Arms, with the motto "Je Maintiendrai" standing out in bold relief. On either side the canopy may be noted the floral wreaths containing the "Zuid Holland" and "Noord Holland" respectively. The room--as are the major part of them--is richly carpeted with hand-made "Deventers" of artistic design and colour blend. [Illustration: THE QUEEN'S SITTING-ROOM. _From a Photo. by Gunn & Stewart, Richmond._] Leaving here, I pass on to a room which is of much importance, namely, the sitting-room of Her Majesty the Queen. In the lifetime of the late King it was his habit to pass very much of his time here; thus, this was really His Majesty's audience chamber. Here he would have his little daughter of whom he was passionately fond--taking a great delight in listening to her merry prattle, and her amusing remarks on whatever attracted her attention. The windows of the room look out on to the Dam, a large square, which is quite the busiest part of the city. The view from these windows is a never-ending source of interest to the little Princess, and here she is wont to station herself, the inhabitants continually congregating and greeting her with hearty cheering. [Illustration: A CORNER OF THE QUEEN'S SITTING-ROOM. _From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._] [Illustration: PAINTED FRIEZE ON MANTEL-PIECE IN DINING-ROOM. _From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond_.] [Illustration: THE JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON. _From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond_.] In the large dining-room may also be seen more of the matchless white marble ornamentation, and I should much like to linger and admire, but as Her Majesty the Queen-Regent has graciously promised me the _entree_ of other of her Royal Palaces, I am obliged rather to curtail my work in Amsterdam. At frequent intervals along the line are road crossings, each with their little gatehouse, and each kept by a woman, who turns out as we pass, dressed in her long blue coat with scarlet facings, quaint, tall shiny hat, and in her hand the signal-flag. At length I reach Apeldoorn, and there a difficulty presents itself. That the Palace is some distance away I am aware, but _how_ far I do not know, or in which direction, and while I am parleying and gesticulating in a mixture of French, English, and a _few_ words of Dutch, the only conveyance obtainable takes itself off, and I am left to tramp through the woods with a jargon of Dutch directions ringing in my ears, and a very faint idea of longitude or latitude in my mind. Making the man in charge understand that I wanted the "Paleis," I found he was bound in the same direction. By this time the rutty roads were almost ankle deep in mud, so when I was invited to ride, I gladly scrambled to the top of the pile, and so jogged along; my good-natured guide trudging at the side, pipe in mouth, regardless of the weather. In such stately style, then, I at length sighted the Palace, but was careful to make a descent before getting _too_ near, as THE STRAND MAGAZINE must make a more dignified appearance at a Royal residence than a wood-cart and a smock-frocked driver can impart. [Illustration: THE ROYAL PALACE AT DEN HAAG. _From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond_.] Of course I make the best use of the interval and see all I can of the Palace. A fine-looking and imposing building it is, standing back in a large quadrangle, the latter being gay with flowers. The outer rails are literally on the edge of the wood, and no more secluded spot can be imagined than this--the favourite residence of their Majesties. His Majesty the late King also preferred this residence to those more immediately near or in towns, and it was here he breathed his last. What I see of the interior is superbly grand, but it is more to the purpose that I have the honour of seeing their Majesties during the day, and the opportunity of some observation. The youthful Queen seems a most pleasing and intelligent-looking child, and is eminently child-like and unaffected in her manner and movements. Readers may be interested in knowing that, in addition to masters provided for Her Majesty's training, she has an English governess, under whose charge she is more immediately placed. My interview with Her Majesty's Private Secretary is of the most pleasant, and I cannot but record my grateful appreciation of this gentleman's kindness and courtesy extended towards me throughout my stay in Holland; such courteous attention much facilitating my work. [Illustration: STATUE OF WILLIAM II, WITH THE CHURCH. _From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond_.] [Illustration: THE LATE KING'S RECEPTION-ROOM. _From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond_.] [Illustration: THE QUEEN'S BALL-ROOM. _From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._] [Illustration: THE LARGE DINING-ROOM. _From a Photo by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._] [Illustration: FAVOURITE HORSE OF WILLIAM II. _From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._] The ceiling of this room shows some beautiful relief carving of fruit and flowers, also some fine fresco work; the chandeliers here are massive, as is the furniture and other appointments. The room is long and of not much width, but lofty and well-lighted. [Illustration: THE CRYSTAL ROOM. _From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._] [Illustration: SIDEBOARD AND MINIATURES IN SMALL DINING-ROOM. _From a Photo by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._] [Illustration: THE STATE BALL-ROOM. _From a Photo by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._] [Illustration: THE QUEEN'S RECEPTION-ROOM. _From a Photo by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._] The Queen's reception-room is prettily hung in crimson with designs depicting art and music; the furniture bright and handsome in crimson and cream. On either side of the fireplace stand some crimson velvet screens in burnished frames, the crown and arms worked on the velvet in characters of gold. In the accompanying view you will observe a large album on a stand; this was given to the Queen-Regent by the ladies of Holland. It is of leather, with ormolu mounts, on the covers being painted panels and flowers worked in silk, these flowers being surrounded with rubies and pearls; and at either corner is a large sapphire. The interior shows pages of vellum, with names of subscribers beautifully inscribed. [Illustration: OVER-MANTEL IN TEA-ROOM. _From a Photo by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._] [Illustration: THE LATE KING'S SITTING-ROOM. _From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._] Then I pass on through the King's dining-room, a stately and richly-appointed apartment. On through the Ministers' room, and so into His Majesty's private sitting-room. Here I cannot but linger, there are so many treasures rich and rare, the chief of which consists in the elaborate cabinets and other furniture, all of tortoiseshell and silver, quite the best I have seen of its kind. Some of it looks as though crammed with secret drawers, and I stand before it wondering whether Queen Wilhelmina will be as anxious to discover and overhaul them as _I_ should be. [Illustration: "T'HUIS IN'T BOSCH," NEAR DEN HAAG. _From a Photo. by Gunn & Stuart, Richmond._] [_The Illustrated Interviews will be continued as usual next month_.] _Zig-Zags at the Zoo._ XIX. ZIG-ZAG BATRACHIAN. [Illustration: A SMALL LUNCH.] [Illustration: "THINK I COULD MANAGE THAT BEETLE, TYRRELL?"] [Illustration: EVIL COMMUNICATIONS.] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration: "HAPPY?"] [Illustration: "I AM HAPPY."] [Illustration: "WHY SHOULDN'T I BE HAPPY?"] [Illustration: "THE SOCIETY LODGES ME."] [Illustration: "TYRRELL FEEDS ME."] [Illustration: "NO EXPENSE TO ME, YOU KNOW."] [Illustration] [Illustration: "GOOD DAY TO YOU."] [Illustration: "HERE WE ARE!"] [Illustration: "HOW DO? I'M OFF."] [Illustration: "EH?"] [Illustration: "WHAT?"] [Illustration: "WHO'S THAT?"] [Illustration] From the French by Ferdinand Beissier. "But, uncle--I love my cousin!" "It will be my death!" "Nonsense! you'll console yourself with some other girl." My uncle, whose back had been towards me, whirled round, his face red to bursting, and brought his closed fist down upon the counter with a heavy thump. "Never!" he cried; "never: Do you hear what I say?" Time out of mind the shop had belonged to the Cornuberts. It passed regularly from father to son, and my uncle--his neighbours said--could not but be the possessor of a nice little fortune. Held in esteem by all, a Municipal Councillor, impressed by the importance and gravity of his office, short, fat, highly choleric and headstrong, but at bottom not in the least degree an unkind sort of man--such was my uncle Cornubert, my only living male relative, who, as soon as I left school, had elevated me to the dignity of chief and only clerk and shopman of the "Maltese Cross." But my uncle was not only a dealer in antiquities and a Municipal Councillor, he was yet more, and above all, the father of my cousin Rose, with whom I was naturally in love. To come back to the point at which I digressed. "The Council!" he cried. [Illustration: "AT THAT MOMENT ROSE APPEARED."] At that moment Rose appeared with my uncle's cane and hat, which she handed to him. He kissed her on the forehead; then, giving me a last but eloquent look, hurried from the shop. "What is the matter with my father?" she asked; "he seems to be angry with you." I looked at her--her eyes were so black, her look so kind, her mouth so rosy, and her teeth so white that I told her all--my love, my suit to her father, and his rough refusal. I could not help it--after all, it was _his_ fault! He was not there: I determined to brave his anger. Besides, there is nobody like timid persons for displaying courage under certain circumstances. My cousin said nothing; she only held down her eyes--while her cheeks were as red as those of cherries in May. "Are you angry with me?" I asked, tremblingly. "Are you angry with me, Rose?" "But how?" asked Rose. Ah! how? That was exactly the difficulty. But, no matter; I would find a way to surmount it! We each of us went on rubbing without raising our heads. "Here, take this," said my uncle, handing me a bulky parcel from under his arm. "A splendid purchase, you'll see." The subject did not interest me in the least. "It will not go down--the hinges have got out of order," said my uncle; "but it's a superb piece, and, when it has been thoroughly cleaned and touched up, will look well--that shall be your to-morrow's job." "Very good, uncle," I murmured, not daring to raise my eyes to his. [Illustration: "MY UNCLE SAT SMOKING HIS PIPE AND WATCHING ME."] I went on rubbing at my helmet. "You have made it quite bright enough--put it down," said my uncle. I put it down. The storm was gathering: I could not do better than allow it to blow over. But suddenly, as if overtaken by a strange fancy, my uncle took up the enormous morion and turned and examined it on all sides. "A handsome piece of armour, there is no doubt about it; but it must have weighed pretty heavily on its wearer's shoulders," he muttered; and, urged by I know not what demon, he clapped it on his head and latched the gorget-piece about his neck. Struck almost speechless, I watched what he was doing--thinking only how ugly he looked. I could contain myself no longer, and burst into a roar of laughter; for my uncle, stumpy, fat, and rubicund, presented an irresistibly comic appearance. [Illustration: "THREATENINGLY HE CAME TOWARDS ME."] Threateningly, he came towards me. I could not see his face, but I felt that it was red to bursting. "When you have done laughing, idiot!" he cried. But the helmet swayed so oddly on his shoulders, his voice came from out it in such strange tones, that the more he gesticulated, the more he yelled and threatened me, the louder I laughed. "The Municipal Council!" murmured my uncle, in a stifled voice. "Quick! help me off with this beast of a machine! We'll settle our business afterwards!" But, suddenly likewise, an idea--a wild, extraordinary idea--came into my head; but then, whoever is madder than a lover? Besides, I had no choice of means. "No," I repeated, firmly, "I'll not help you out, unless you give me the hand of my cousin Rose!" "If you do not consent to do what I ask of you," I added, "not only will I not help you off with your helmet, but I will call in all your neighbours, and then go and find the Municipal Council!" "You'll end your days on the scaffold!" cried my uncle. The clock was still striking; my uncle raised his arms as if to curse me. "Well, then--yes!" murmured my uncle. "But make haste!" "On your word of honour?" "On my word of honour!" The visor gave way, the gorget-piece also, and my uncle's head issued from durance, red as a poppy. Just in time. The chemist at the corner, a colleague in the Municipal Council, entered the shop. "Are you coming?" he asked; "they will be beginning the business without us." "I'm coming," replied my uncle. And without looking at me, he took up his hat and cane and hurried out. The next moment all my hopes had vanished. My uncle would surely not forgive me. At dinner-time I took my place at table on his right hand in low spirits, ate little, and said nothing. "It will come with the dessert," I thought. Rose looked at me, and I avoided meeting her eyes. As I had expected, the dessert over, my uncle lit his pipe, raised his head, and then- "Rose--come here!" "Do you know what that fellow there asked me to do, yesterday?" I trembled like a leaf, and Rose did the same. [Illustration: "DO YOU LOVE HIM?"] "To give him your hand," he added. "Do you love him?" Rose cast down her eyes. "Very well," continued my uncle; "on this side, the case is complete. Come here, you." "Here I am, uncle," and, in a whisper. I added quickly: "Forgive me!" He burst into a hearty laugh. "Marry her, then, donkey--since you love her, and I give her to you!" And Rose and I threw ourselves into his arms. "Very good! very good!" he cried, wiping his eyes. "Be happy, that's all I ask." _The Music of Nature._ BY A. T. CAMDEN PRATT. Reference was made at the close of the last article to the voice of the dog, and his method of making his feelings and desires understood. It is, of course, well known that this is an acquired habit, or accomplishment. In a state of Nature the dog does not even bark; he has acquired the art or knowledge from his companionship with man. Isaiah compares the blind watchman of Israel to dogs, saying, "They are dumb; they cannot bark." Again, to quote the argument of Dr. Gardiner: "The dog indicates his different feelings by different tones." The following is his yelp when his foot is trod upon. [Illustration] [Illustration: DOG YELPING.] [Illustration] [Illustration: THE OX.] [Illustration] [Illustration: COW LOWING.] [Illustration] [Illustration: HORSE NEIGHING.] The horse, on the other hand, is rarely heard, and, though having a piercing whinny which passes through every semitone of the scale, it is scarcely ever varied. [Illustration: THE CHIRP OF THE GRASSHOPPER.] [Illustration] [Illustration: FLY BUZZING.] [Illustration] [Illustration: DUCK.] These instances might be still further multiplied, but enough have, perhaps, been given to excite some general interest in "the _Music of Nature_." [Illustration: PRESENT DAY. _From a Photo. by Foster & Martin, Melbourne._] [Illustration: PRESENT DAY. _From a Photo. by Walery, Regent Street._] THE LORD BISHOP OF PETERBOROUGH. [Illustration: PRESENT DAY. _From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._] [Illustration: PRESENT DAY. _From a Photograph by W. & A. H. Fry, Brighton._] SIR RICHARD TEMPLE, BART, M.P. [Illustration: PRESENT DAY. _From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._] _A Terrible New Year's Eve._ BY KATHLEEN HUDDLESTON. In a little Belgian village not many miles from Brussels the winter sun shone brightly. It shone through the quaint old windows of a little, red-tiled cottage, and on the figure of a girl who stood in the centre of the kitchen reading a long, closely written letter. Over the blazing fire, where the "pot au feu" was simmering, bent an old woman, and the girl's voice came joyously to her as she stirred the savoury mess. [Illustration: "MY AUNT, PAUL HAS SENT FOR ME."] "My aunt, Paul has sent for me. At last he has got permanent work. It is nothing very great at present, but it may lead to better things, and the pay is enough, with what he has saved, to enable him to rent a little 'appartement.' If I can, he wants me, with our little Pierre, to catch the coach at 'Les Trois Freres' to-morrow. We should then reach Brussels by night and spend our New Year together." As Babette spoke, her cheeks all flushed with hope and joy, the eyes of both the women rested on a cradle that stood in the room. In this, baby Pierre, only a twelvemonth old, lay sleeping peacefully. Then said the old woman, sadly, "I shall miss you, dearest, and the baby too. Still, it is only right you should go. Perhaps in the summer you may return for a bit. Time passes quickly. A year ago you were weeping over Paul's departure; and now, behold, you are going to join him, and lay in his arms the son he has never seen." But there was no time to waste. After the simple mid-day meal there were many things to be done, and all through the short winter day they were busy. There was a bundle of warm wraps to be put together for Babette to take with her. Her little trunk, with Pierre's cradle, and some odds and ends of furniture, would follow in a few days, when her aunt had collected and packed them all. Her little store of money was counted over. Alas! it was very slender. She must travel quickly and cheaply if it was to last her till she reached Brussels. Farmer Jean had a man with him, and between them they got the poor animal up, while Babette stood in the cold highway, her baby peeping wonderingly from the folds of her cloak. The horse was bruised and cut about the knees, but otherwise unhurt, so the men resumed their places; Babette climbed back to hers, and the heavy cart went jolting on. The farmer cracked his whip, and whenever the road grew worse he or his man got down and led the horses. In spite of this, their progress grew slower and slower. "Am I too late for the coach?" she cried. "Has it gone?" And then, when the man told her she was indeed too late, all strength and energy left her, and she sank sobbing on the wooden bench by the door. [Illustration: "'CHEER UP, MY LASS', HE SAID KINDLY."] "I would not talk too much about them in the meantime, friend. In some countries it might be dangerous, but we are honest in Belgium." It was the other man who spoke, and his voice, though rough, was not unpleasant. He paid the landlord, caught up his stick, and with a curt "Good-day" passed out of "Les Trois Freres." "He, also, perhaps, is going to Brussels. He means to walk, and if he, why not I?" said the pedlar. He had come in cold and tired, and the landlord's good ale had made him slightly loquacious. "Yes, I shall try and walk. The roads are better walking than driving. It is not so very many miles, and most likely I shall be overtaken by some cart going the same way." And he rose as he spoke. Babette rose also and caught him eagerly by the hand. "I will walk with you," she cried. "I am strong, well shod, and the fastest walker in our village. We can get to Brussels before dark, in spite of my having my boy to carry. Oh! bless you for thinking of it, for now I shall see Paul before the year is out." Nor would she be dissuaded. Farmer Jean came in and said something about snow. "The sky was darkening for it already." But Babette was firm. The landlord's buxom wife came forth from an inner room and offered her a lodging for the night, and then, when she could not persuade her, helped her to wrap the baby up afresh, and finally made her place in her pocket a tiny flask of brandy, "in case," she said, "the snow should overtake them." They could do nothing but thank him and accept his offer. Even Babette acknowledged that all hope of reaching Brussels was now over. The New Year would have dawned before she and her husband met. In answer to his peremptory knock, the door was opened by a man slighter and shorter than himself, but sufficiently like him to be known as his brother, and the travellers staggered in--the door, with a heavy crash, blowing to behind them. [Illustration: "A MAN AND A WOMAN SAT OVER THE FIRE."] Babette looked up as he spoke, and intercepted a glance so strange and savage that passed between the brothers and then rested on her friend the pedlar, that involuntarily she shuddered and turned pale. Babette could hear the pedlar moving backwards and forwards with uncertain, tired footsteps. There was no sound below, even the wind was hushed. She drew aside the curtains and looked out, and saw that the snow had ceased to fall, and lay thick and white on the ground. Then there came a sudden presentiment upon her. A sense of danger, vague and undefined, seemed to surround her. It was all the more terrible on account of its vagueness. She did not know what she feared, yet the terror of something horrible was strong upon her. She slipped off her boots, and stole gently up to the door that divided her room from the pedlar's. "Sir," she whispered, "you are very, very tired, and will sleep heavily. I am so anxious, I don't know why; but forgive me and do trust me. Push your pocket-book that contains your money under the door. See--it does not fit tight! We don't know who the people of the house are: they may try to rob you. I will tie it up inside my baby's shawls, and will give it back to you as soon as we are out of this place. Oh, would to God that we had never entered it! Your money will be safe with me, and they will never think of looking for it here. Will you give it me?" "It's a jest that has cost him dear," answered the other, as he watched his brother search the girl's clothes and then slip his murderous hands beneath her pillow. He withdrew them empty. "Shall we settle her?" he asked, "or let her go? Is it not best to be on the safe side?" Babette lay like a log, stirring neither hand nor foot. In that awful moment, when her life or death was trembling in the balance, her mother love, that divine instinct implanted in every woman's breast, came to her and saved her. She knew that if she moved her baby's life was gone--her own she hardly cared about just then. But those little limbs that were nestling so soft and warm against her own, and that little flaxen head that was cuddled against her arm, for their sake she was brave. [Illustration: "SHE LAY MOTIONLESS"] So she lay motionless and listened, fearing that the men would hear even the quick, heavy throbs of her heart. But they did not. They searched quickly and systematically amongst all her clothing. They felt under her pillow again, but never thought of looking at the shawls of the baby who lay so peacefully by her side; and then at last they crept away and closed the door gently behind them. The room was in utter darkness. For ages, as it seemed, Babette lay there, afraid to stir, and listening vainly for some sound; then she sat up, all white and trembling. "My God!" she thought. "What awful thing has happened? Oh, give me strength and courage, for my baby's sake." As an inspiration, there came to her the thought of the little bottle that the good-natured landlady of "Les Trois Freres" had given her. She felt in the pocket of her dress and drew it out, taking a long, deep draught of the fiery spirit. She had been on the verge of fainting, though she knew it not, and the brandy put new life into her. She listened for a long time and then gently--very gently--she crept out of bed and drew aside the little curtain from the window. Perhaps a wild idea of escaping into the cold, dark night outside, aided by a sheet or blanket, flashed through her brain. If so, she soon realized that it would not be practicable. The window was not high, but it was small, and divided by thick, old-fashioned bars of iron. To get out was impossible. [Illustration: "SHE STOOD CONSIDERING."] As she stood considering, a thin, flickering moonbeam crept in and partially lighted up the room. It fell on to the door that led into the pedlar's chamber, and showed her something dark and slimy that was flowing slowly--slowly from under it into her room. She did not cry out or fall senseless. She bent down and put her hand into it, and saw that it was blood--her poor old friend's life-blood--for she knew now beyond all doubt that he had been murdered for the sake of his supposed wealth. She knew she was helpless till morning. To get out of the house was impossible, for to do so she must pass down the stairs and through the room below, where probably they were either sleeping or watching. If she had courage and could only let them think she knew and suspected nothing, she might still escape. Surely they would not dare to murder her also, for they knew her husband would be expecting her next day, and would be looking for her if she did not come. With another prayer, this time uttered shiveringly, for the soul of the pedlar, she nerved herself to get into bed again, and lay there till morning with her child against her heart; gazing with staring, sleepless eyes at the door which divided her from that awful room; keeping surely the most terrible vigil that ever woman kept. At last the morning dawned, clear and bright. A frost had set in, and the roads were clean and hard, the sky was blue. If it had not been for that ghastly stain that had crept across the far end of her room, she might almost have thought that the events of the night had been but a fearful dream. Her child awoke, fresh and smiling, and she could hear them stirring in the living room below. She felt that now, indeed, the hardest part of her task was still before her. On a little table by the side of her bed there was a small, cracked looking-glass. When she was dressed she looked into it and saw that it reflected a face death-like in its pallor, with burning lips and feverish eyes. She took the bottle from her pocket again and gulped down the rest of its contents. It sent a flush into her cheeks and steadied the sick trembling that was shaking her through and through. Without stopping to think or look round again, she took up her boy and descended the stairs, and entered the room where they had supped on the previous night. The old woman was its sole occupant now. She was bending over the fire frying something for breakfast, and the table in the centre of the room was prepared for the meal. She looked if possible more untidy and slovenly than when Babette had last seen her, and greeted the girl with a feeble smile. Then she poured her out a cup of coffee, and Babette had sat down and begun to sip it (for she knew she must make a pretence of breakfasting) when the eldest son came in. There was a very uneasy look upon his evil-looking face. "How are you?" he asked, sullenly, as he sat down opposite her. "I hope, rested. Did you sleep well?" "Yes," repeated Babette, "I shall very likely meet him in Brussels, but I don't even know his name. And I, too, good people, ought to be starting. The morning is fine, and walking will be easy." She drank down her coffee as she spoke and rose. "I cannot eat," she exclaimed, seeing that they both looked suspiciously at the thick slice of currant-bread, that lay untouched on her plate. "I think I am excited at the thought of seeing my husband again. It seems so long since we parted, and now we shall meet so soon." "Oh, heavens! Why did I not see that sign last night?" the girl thought, despairingly, as she trudged along the hard, frosty road. "It would have saved his life and perhaps my reason." "Good-day," she said, in thick, guttural tones, as she reached Babette. "Are you on the way to Brussels?" Babette made way for her to pass, somewhat shyly. "Yes," she said, "and I am in haste; but the roads are heavy and I have my baby to carry." It did not take long for the whole horrible truth to flash across her. Doubtless they had felt insecure after their terrible deed, and the youngest Marac had been dispatched after her, disguised as a woman, with instructions to way-lay her by some shorter cut, in order to find out if she was really ignorant of the frightful way in which the pedlar had met his untimely end. "I was journeying with a friend yesterday," she replied, "when the snow-storm overtook us. Luckily we met a man whose home lay in our road. He was very good, and took us there and gave us supper and beds." The stranger laughed. "A good Samaritan, indeed! And your friend? Where is he now? Did he find his hosts so hospitable that he was unable to tear himself away?" This speech, uttered in such a soft, even voice--for Babette had schooled herself well by now--seemed to satisfy her companion, and they walked on side by side in silence for what seemed to the poor girl the longest hour she had ever passed. At last, in the far distance there rose the spires and roofs of Brussels. The chiming of church bells came gaily towards them through the frosty air, and Babette knew that her terrible journey was well-nigh ended. At the entrance of the town the stranger stopped. [Illustration: "GOOD-BYE."] "Good-bye," she said, curtly; "I am late for the market, and must sell my eggs quickly or shall not get my price." [Illustration: "SHE SANK DOWN IN A HEAVY, DEATH-LIKE SWOON."] Wonder, horror, and bewilderment all dawned in turns on her hearers' countenances, and it was not until she unpinned her baby's shawls and handed the shabby pocket-book to the priest that they were quite certain they had not to deal with some poor, wandering lunatic. But when the money had been looked at and replaced, then, indeed, they saw the necessity for prompt action. The cure caught up his hat, and, after whispering a few words to the women, hurried out of the sacristy. And so he was, and then, when she had been examined by the chief of the police and sobbed out her story all over again, from the shelter of Paul's broad arms, she felt safe at last. She went peacefully home with her husband, and after a good night's rest in the little rooms he had taken for her, she was able to listen calmly when told next day of the capture of the whole Marac family. They had been taken red-handed in their guilt, for had not the pedlar's body been found in a disused cellar under their house? He was brought to Brussels to be buried, but his name was never known, and his money was never claimed. Probably, as he had told Babette, he had been a friendless old man, wandering alone from place to place. _Personal Reminiscences of Sir Andrew Clark._ [Illustration: SIR ANDREW CLARK.] It is said that he always hoped to die in his carriage or consulting-room, and it was in the latter, while talking with a lady (the Hon. Miss Boscawen) about some charity, that he was seized with the illness which ended so fatally. In his case it is no morbid curiosity which makes thousands interested in every detail concerning him. [Illustration: THE GRAVE IN ESSENDON CHURCHYARD. _From a Photo. by Mavor & Meredith._] Sir Andrew was devoted to the College. He made an excellent President, and a dignified, courteous, and just chairman. His successor will find it no easy task to fill his place. [Illustration: CAMFIELD HOUSE, ESSENDON. _From a Photo. by Mavor & Meredith._] His love of metaphysics, combined with a very high motive, made him naturally interested in the _whole_ man--body, mind, and spirit. To quote the words of a well-known bishop: "It was his intrepid honesty which was so valuable a quality. In Sir Andrew Clark men felt that he wished to do them good, and to do them the best good, by making men of them." [Illustration: SIR ANDREW CLARK'S HOUSE IN CAVENDISH SQUARE. _From a Photograph by Mavor & Meredith._] [Illustration: CENSORS' ROOM--COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS. _From a Photo. by Mavor & Meredith_.] He had an ideal, and he did his utmost to live up to it. His words in many instances did as much good as his medicine. [Illustration: ENTRANCE HALL--COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS. _From a Photo. by Mavor & Meredith_] [Illustration: THE READING ROOM--COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS. _From a Photo. by Mavor & Meredith_] [Illustration: THE CADUCENS, MACE, BOOK, AND SEAL--COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS _From a Photo by Mavor & Meredith_] Literary people and brain-workers particularly interested him, and they found in the kind doctor a friend who understood them. He would advise all writing that involved thought to be done in the morning before luncheon. The evening might be spent in "taking in" or reading up the subject of a book or paper, but there must be no giving out. For brain-workers who were not strong, he insisted on meat in the middle of the day; he declared that for this class it was "physiologically wicked" even to have luncheon without. [Illustration: THE LONDON HOSPITAL _From a Photo. by Mavor & Meredith._] [Illustration: THE HARRISON WARD--LONDON HOSPITAL. _From a Photo. by Mavor & Meredith._] To others who might get well, he would say: "Fight for your life." "Die to live," was a favourite saying of Sir Andrew's. "In congenial work you will find life, strength, and happiness." This certainly was his own experience. Only in July last he said to the writer of this notice: "I never know what it is to feel well now, but work is the joy of my life." [A] The substance of this anecdote which I quote from memory, appeared in the _Daily News_, and happened at Newcastle. [Illustration: NURSE HARRISON--LONDON HOSPITAL. (The nurse who tended Sir Andrew Clark in his last illness.) _From a Photograph by Mavor & Meredith._] [Illustration: FACSIMILE OF A PRESCRIPTION WRITTEN BY SIR ANDREW CLARK.] [Illustration: SIR JAMES CLARK. (Eldest son of Sir Andrew Clark.) _From a Photograph by Wyrall, Aldershot._] Sundays were often spent out of town, at Hawarden and elsewhere, and latterly at Camfield, the house so lately purchased. Both this and his town house were entirely furnished, as he wished each to be complete in itself. Already at Essendon the example of his life was felt to be a power for good, as well as the kind interest he took in his poorer neighbours, inviting them up to his house, promising to give the men a dinner at Christmas, etc. Yet Sir Andrew was no "country gentleman"; his favourite recreation was books. On being asked: "Which way are we looking? In which direction is London?" he replied: "I don't know." "Don't you know how the house stands, or what soil it is built upon?" and again he had to plead ignorance. I much regret that lack of space prevents my describing the London Hospital as I should like. Of most hospitals Sir Andrew was a governor, but his great interest was the London, of which he and Lady Clark were both life governors. [Illustration: SIR ANDREW CLARK. _From a Painting by G.F. Watts, R.A._] Very imperfectly I have described the varied work of a man of limitless energy, with an exceptionally keen appreciation of men and things. A great man has passed away, and we are poorer in consequence. [Illustration: Winnifred Emma Heale. _From a Photo. by Heath & Bradnee, Exeter._] [Illustration: Edith Marguerite Dickinson. _From a Photo. by J. Hargreaves, Barrow-in-Furness._] [Illustration: Myrta Vivienne Stubbs. _From a Photo. by Medringtons, Ltd., Liverpool._] [Illustration: Kathleen Keyse _From a Photograph._] [Illustration: Madge Erskine _From a Photo. by Allison & Allison, Belfast._] [Illustration: Dorothy Birch Done _From a Photo. by Stanley Hurst, Wrexham._] [Illustration: Evelyn Mary Dowdell. _From a Photo. by G. Ridsdale Cleare, Lower Clapton, N. E._] [Illustration: Nelly M. Morris. _From a Photo. by J. W. Thomas, Colwyn Bay._] [Illustration: Aligander Smith. _From a Photo. by Norman, May, & Co., Ltd., Malvern._] _The Signatures of Charles Dickens (with Portraits)._ BY J. HOLT SCHOOLING. Let us look at some other early signatures. Hitherto they have been stowed away in various collections, and they are almost unknown. [Illustration: CHARLES DICKENS AS "CAPTAIN BOBADIL" IN "EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR." _From a Painting by C.R. Leslie, R.A._] [Illustration: DICKENS AS "RICHARD WARDOUR" IN "THE FROZEN DEEP."] [Illustration: DICKENS IN HIS BASKET CARRIAGE. _From a Photo. by Mason._] Now, in the little Japanese village of Yowcuski a looking-glass was an unheard-of thing, and girls did not even know what they looked like, except on hearing the description which their lovers gave them of their personal beauty (which description, by-the-bye, was sometimes slightly biased, according as the lover was more or less devoted). Kiki-Tsum dropped on his knees, and gazing earnestly at the object he held in his hand, he whispered, "It is my sainted father. How could his portrait have come here? Is it, perhaps, a warning of some kind for me?" He carefully folded the precious treasure up in his handkerchief, and put it in the large pocket of his loose blouse. When he went home that night he hid it away carefully in a vase which was scarcely ever touched, as he did not know of any safer place in which to deposit it. He said nothing of the adventure to his young wife, for, as he said to himself "Women are curious, and then, too, _sometimes_ they are given to talking," and Kiki-Tsum felt that it was too reverent a matter to be discussed by neighbours, this finding of his dead father's portrait in the street. For some days Kiki-Tsum was in a great state of excitement. He was thinking of the portrait all the time, and at intervals he would leave his work and suddenly appear at home to take a furtive look at his treasure. [Illustration: "ALWAYS WITH THE SAME SOLEMN EXPRESSION."] [Illustration: "WHAT WAS IT SHE SAW?"] Why, the portrait of a woman, and she had believed that Kiki-Tsum was so good, and so fond, and so true. She had no heart, however, for anything, and did not even make any attempt to prepare a meal for her husband. She just went on sitting there on the floor, nursing the portrait, and at the same time her wrath. When later on Kiki-Tsum arrived, he was surprised to find nothing ready for their evening meal, and no wife. He walked through to the other rooms, and was not long left in ignorance of the cause of the unusual state of things. "So this is the love you professed for me! This is the way in which you treat me, before we have even been married a year!" "I cannot understand," said her bewildered husband. "Oh, you can't?" she said, laughing hysterically. "I can, though, well enough. You like that hideous, villainous-looking woman better than your own true wife. I would say nothing if she were at any rate beautiful; but she has a vile face, a hideous face, and looks wicked and murderous, and everything that is bad!" Lili-Tsee's eyes flashed with indignation at this apparently barefaced lie. "Hear him!" she almost screamed. "He wants to tell me now that I do not know a woman's face from a man's." "My children," he said, putting his head in at the door, "why this unseemly anger, why this dispute?" "Father," said Kiki-Tsum, "my wife is mad." "All women are so, my son, more or less," interrupted the holy _bonze_. "You were wrong to expect perfection, and must abide by your bargain now. It is no use getting angry, all wives are trials." "But what she says is a lie." "It is not, father," exclaimed Lili-Tsee. "My husband has the portrait of a woman, and I found it hidden in my rose-leaf vase." "I swear that I have no portrait but that of my poor dead father," explained the aggrieved husband. "My children, my children," said the holy _bonze_, majestically, "show me the portraits." The _bonze_ took the glass and looked at it earnestly. He then bowed low before it, and in an altered tone said: "My children, settle your quarrel and live peaceably together. You are both in the wrong. This portrait is that of a saintly and venerable _bonze_. I know not how you could mistake so holy a face. I must take it from you and place it amongst the precious relics of our church." So saying, the _bonze_ lifted his hands to bless the husband and wife, and then went slowly away, carrying with him the glass which had wrought such mischief. WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY INSPECTOR MAURICE MOSER, _Late of the Criminal Investigation Department, Great Scotland Yard._ The word "handcuff" is a popular corruption of the Anglo-Saxon "handcop," _i.e._, that which "cops" or "catches" the hands. In those olden days there dwelt in the Carpathian Sea a wily old deity, known by the name of Proteus, possessing the gift of prophecy, the fruits of which he selfishly denied to mankind. So Aristaeus came, as Virgil tells us, from a distant land to consult the famous prophet. He found him on the sea-shore among his seals, basking in the afternoon sun. Quick as thought he fitted handcuffs on him, and all struggles and devices were now of no avail. Such was then the efficacy of handcuffs even on the persons of the immortal gods. The nearest approach to a mention that we find after that is in the Book of Psalms: "To bind their kings in chains and their nobles in fetters of iron." But in the Greek, the Latin, Wickliffe's, and Anglo-Saxon Bible we invariably find a word of which handcuffs is the only real translation. It is also interesting to note that in the Anglo-Saxon version the kings are bound in "footcops" and the nobles in "handcops." My personal experience of handcuffs is small, because I dislike them, for in addition to their clumsiness, I know that when I have laid my hands upon my man, it will be difficult for him to escape. In Belgium the use of handcuffs by police officers is entirely forbidden. Prisoners are handcuffed only on being brought before the _Juge d'Instruction_ or _Procureur du Roi_, and when crossing from court to court. Women are never handcuffed in England, but on the Continent it is not an uncommon occurrence. I cannot refrain from relating a piquant little anecdote told to me by a French colleague, who had occasion to make an arrest, and came unexpectedly on his man. Unfortunately he was unprovided with handcuffs and was somewhat at a disadvantage, but being a quick-witted fellow, he bethought himself of an effectual expedient. Taking out his knife he severed the prisoner's buttons which were attached to his braces, thus giving the man occupation for his hands and preventing a rapid flight. I am indebted to M. Goron, Chief of the Detective Department in Paris, and other colleagues for some of the specimens here reproduced by me. From the French of HENRI MALIN "Led astray by a companion, I have been gambling on the Bourse, and am involved in yesterday's crash, in which so many fortunes have been suddenly swamped. "I scarcely dare to tell you how much I have lost. Yet I _must_ do so, for the honour of the Sauvalliers is concerned. Alas! you will be all but ruined! "When I found that the smash was inevitable I went mad, and entered my room with the intention of putting an end to my wretched existence. But more sober thoughts prevailed: I changed my mind. I had heard that officers were being recruited for Tonquin, and I determined to volunteer for this service. My suicide would not have bettered matters; it would rather have left an added blot upon our family name. Out there, at all events, my death may be of use; it will cause you no shame, and may perhaps move you to a little compassion for your guilty, but most unhappy and despairing son, who suffers agonies at thought of the trouble he has brought upon you, and who now bids you an eternal farewell! "CAMILLE SAUVALLIER." And now, in spite of all his precautions, a disaster greater than any he had dreamed of had overwhelmed him. [Illustration: "HE ROSE WITH DIFFICULTY."] But before it came to that, he would try every expedient: he would strain every nerve. So all night long the poor man planned and calculated, and in the morning, with heavy heart, proceeded to put his plans into effect. He visited his numerous friends and told them of his trouble, which elicited much sympathy. In order to help, some made large purchases of him, paying ready money, others advanced or lent him money. All day until the evening he was running about Paris collecting cheques, bank-notes, and orders. Andree, unconscious of the trouble of her elders, began to play with her "Jeanne," a doll nearly as big as herself, which her grandfather had given her some time previously, and which she loved, she said, "as her own daughter." Mons. Sauvallier wept upon the neck of his little granddaughter, murmuring, "You also, my angel? Oh, that miserable boy!" Thus Camille's debt was paid, and the honour of the Sauvalliers was saved. But the father's fortune had gone! He was able, however, to retain his business. He said to himself that he must work still, in spite of his threescore years; that he must labour incessantly, with the anxious ardour of those beginning life with nothing to rely upon save their own exertions. He reduced his expenses, gave up his own house and went to live with his son, sold his carriage and horses, discharged his servants, and stinted himself in every possible way. Auguste became his designer, Auguste's wife his clerk. Each accepted his or her share of the burden bravely and uncomplainingly, as an important duty which must at any cost be accomplished. The campaign of Tonquin was in full swing. In the midst of an unknown country, harassed by innumerable difficulties, the French soldiers were contending painfully with an irrepressible, ever-rallying foe. The smallest success served to excite the popular patriotism, and all awaited impatiently the tidings of a decisive victory. Upon reading these words, Mons. Sauvallier felt a strange emotion, in which anguish mingled with joy. For a moment he was silent; then he said to his son, "You think that it is he? He is, then, a captain?" He read the despatch again, then murmured softly: "The cross! Condition hopeless!" And a tear rolled down his cheek. Mons. Sauvallier could not go out of doors without seeing his son's presentment. From the news-stalls of the boulevards, the corners of the streets, the publishers' shop-fronts, a ubiquitous Camille watched him pass, and seemed to follow him with his eyes. Almost at each step the father received congratulations, while complimentary letters and cards covered his table to overflowing. But, alas! the telegrams which he received daily from Tonquin left him little hope that he should ever again behold in the flesh this dear son, of whom now he was so proud. [Illustration: "HERE HE IS!"] Auguste and his wife followed the pair. Mons. Sauvallier, taken completely by surprise, rose quickly from his chair, then stood motionless, overcome by his emotion. He saw before him Camille, with the scar upon his forehead, and the cross upon his breast--Camille, the hero of the hour, who had shed such lustre upon the family name! Timid and embarrassed, like a child who has been guilty of a fault, Camille stood with bowed head, and when he saw how much his father had aged, he knew that it was his conduct which had wrought the sad change, and his contrition was deepened tenfold. But as he was about to throw himself at his father's feet, Mons. Sauvallier, with a sudden movement, clasped him to his breast, exclaiming, in a voice full of tears, "No, Camille! in my arms! in my arms!" Father and son, locked together in closest embrace, mingled their sobs, while Auguste and his wife, looking on, wept in sympathy. The silence was broken by Andree. The child had vanished for a moment, but speedily reappeared, fondling her precious doll, which, it is needless to say, had not been sold. Holding it out to the captain, she said in her liveliest manner: "Here is Jeanne, uncle! You remember her? Give her a kiss directly! Don't you think that she has grown?" _The Queer Side of Things--Among the Freaks._ [Illustration: "HE FOUND THE DWARF ASLEEP ON A BENCH."] [Illustration: "HIS HELMET HAD FALLEN INTO A TUB OF WATER."] "This Female Samson was a good sort of woman in her way, though she was a little rough and a bit what you might call masculine in her ways. She didn't like the Dwarf, and he didn't like her. [Illustration: "SHE PULLED HIM OVER TO HER BY HIS COLLAR."] [Illustration] [Illustration] _Two Styles: A Tale with a Moral._ Uffizzi Robbinson was blessed with a very full rich, tenor voice but a very empty purse and he stood in need of a HOLIDAY. So he cut his hair & otherwise disguised himself & went off to Brighton, and having hired a piano & boy took up his station on the front and started in to make his fortune. He sang song after song, all of them highly classical, in his most approved style, but his audience being limited and critical, his prospects looked gloomy. A gentle hint from his boy set him thinking!! He DISAPPEARED!!! A shadow on the blind gave the only indication of what he was doing!!	redpajama-book	18,710
E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Sarah Lewis, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders _'Certainly not Matilda I would rather she were called Aspasia.'_ Edith read this expression of feeling on a colourless telegraph form, and as she was, at Knightsbridge, unable to hear the ironical tone of the message she took it literally. She criticised the name, but was easily persuaded by her mother-in-law to make no objection. The elder Mrs Ottley pointed out that it might have been very much worse. 'But it's not a pretty name,' objected Edith. 'If it wasn't to be Matilda, I should rather have called her something out of Maeterlinck--Ygraine, or Ysolyn--something like that.' So the young girl was named Aspasia Matilda Ottley. It was characteristic of Edith that she kept to her own point, though not aggressively. When Bruce returned after his after-cure, it was too late to do anything but pretend he had meant it seriously. Archie called his sister Dilly. 'I had such a lovely dream last night, Mother.' 'Did you, pet? How sweet of you. What was it?' 'Oh, nothing much. It was all right. Very nice. It was a lovely dream. I dreamt I was in heaven.' 'Really! How delightful. Who was there?' 'Oh, you were there, of course. And father. Nurse, too. It was a lovely dream. Such a nice place.' 'Dilly? Er--no--no--she wasn't. She was in the night nursery, with Satan.' Here Archie interposed. 'Mother, can I have your long buttonhook?' 'Mother, can I have your long buttonhook?' Here Bruce came in. Edith rang off. Archie disappeared. Bruce was walking about doing very mild gymnastics, and occasionally hitting himself on the left arm with the right fist.' Look at my muscle--look at it--and all in such a short time!' 'Wonderful!' said Edith. 'What have you done?' 'Why--you know that great ridiculous old wooden chest that your awful Aunt Matilda sent you for your birthday--absurd present I call it--mere lumber.' 'Yes, of course it's very good for you to do all these exercises; no doubt it's capital Er--you know I've had all the things taken out of the chest since you tried it before, don't you?' 'Things--what things? I didn't know there was anything in it.' 'Only a silver tea-service, and a couple of salvers,' said Edith, in a low voice He calmed down fairly soon and said: 'Edith, I have some news for you. You know the Mitchells?' 'Do I know the _Mitchells_? Mitchell, your hero in your office, that you're always being offended with--at _least_ I know the Mitchells by _name_. I ought to.' 'Well, what do you think they've done? They've asked us to dinner.' 'Yes, and what I thought was so particularly jolly of him was that it was a verbal invitation. Mitchell said to me, just like this, 'Ottley, old chap, are you doing anything on Sunday evening?'' Here Archie came to the door and said, 'Mother, can I have your long buttonhook?' Edith shook her head and frowned. ''Ottley, old chap,'' continued Bruce, ''are you and your wife doing anything on Sunday? If not, I do wish you would waive ceremony and come and dine with us. Would Mrs Ottley excuse a verbal invitation, do you think?' I said, 'Well, Mitchell, as a matter of fact I don't believe we have got anything on. Yes, old boy, we shall be delighted.' I accepted, you see. I accepted straight out. When you're treated in a friendly way, I always say why be unfriendly? And Mrs Mitchell is a charming little woman--I'm sure you'd like her. It seems she's been dying to know you.' 'Well, you will now. Let bygones be bygones. They live in Hamilton Place.' 'I told you he was doing very well, and his wife has private means.' 'Mother,' Archie began again, like a litany, 'can I have your long buttonhook? I know where it is.' 'No, Archie, certainly not; you can't fasten laced boots with a buttonhook Well, that will be fun, Bruce.' 'I believe they're going to have games after dinner,' said Bruce. 'All very jolly--musical crambo--that sort of thing What shall you wear, Edith?' 'Mother, do let me have your long buttonhook. I want it. It isn't for my boots.' '_Certainly_ not. What a nuisance you are! Do go away I think I shall wear my salmon- dress with the sort of mayonnaise sash (No, you're not to have it, Archie).' 'But, Mother, I've got it I can soon mend it, Mother.' 'What on earth's that thing in your hair, Edith?' 'I don't like it. Your hair looks very nice without it. What on _earth_ did you get it for?' 'Really. Edith! My memory is unerring, dear. I never make a mistake. Haven't you ever noticed it?' 'A--oh yes--I think I have.' 'By Jove!' said Bruce, as he got out, 'I'd no idea old Mitchell did himself so well as this.' The butler had never heard of the Mitchells. The house belonged to Lord Rosenberg. 'You are perfectly right,' said Edith: 'the bankruptcy of an old friend and colleague could be no satisfaction to any man.' Hamilton Gardens was a gloomy little place, like a tenement building out of Marylebone Road. Bruce, in trying to ring the bell, unfortunately turned out all the electric light in the house, and was standing alone in despair in the dark when, fortunately the porter, who had been out to post a letter, ran back, and turned up the light again 'I shouldn't have thought they could play musical crambo here, 'he called out to Edith while he was waiting. 'And now isn't it odd? I have a funny kind of feeling that the right address is Hamilton House.' 'I suppose you're perfectly certain they don't live at a private idiot asylum?' Edith suggested doubtfully. On inquiry it appeared the Mitchells did not live at Hamilton Gardens. An idea occurred to Edith, and she asked for a directory. The Winthrop Mitchells lived at Hamilton Terrace, St John's Wood. 'How else can I go in?' 'I think we'd better tell them what _has_ happened,' said Edith; 'it will make them laugh. I hope they will have begun their dinner.' 'Surely they will have finished it.' 'Perhaps we may find them at their games!' 'Now, now, don't be bitter, Edith dear--never be bitter--life has its ups and downs Well! I'm rather glad, after all, that Mitchell doesn't live in that horrid little hole.' 'I'm sure you are,' said Edith; 'it could be no possible satisfaction to you to know that a friend and colleague of yours is either distressingly hard up or painfully penurious.' They arrived at the house, but there were no lights, and no sign of life. The Mitchells lived here all right, but they were out. The parlourmaid explained. The dinner-party had been Saturday, the night before 'Strange,' said Bruce, as he got in again. 'I had a curious presentiment that something was going wrong about this dinner at the Mitchells'.' 'What dinner at the Mitchells'? There doesn't seem to be any.' 'Do you know,' Bruce continued his train of thought, 'I felt certain somehow that it would be a failure. Wasn't it odd? I often think I'm a pessimist, and yet look how well I'm taking it. I'm more like a fatalist--sometimes I hardly know what I am.' 'I could tell you what you are,' said Edith, 'but I won't, because now you must take me to the Carlton. We shall get there before it's closed.' After long argument and great indecision the matter was settled by a cordial letter from Mrs Mitchell, asking them to dinner on the following Thursday, and saying she feared there had been some mistake. So that was all right. Bruce was in good spirits again; he was pleased too, because he was going to the theatre that evening with Edith and Vincy, to see a play that he thought wouldn't be very good. He had almost beforehand settled what he thought of it, and practically what he intended to say. But when he came in that evening he was overheard to have a strenuous and increasingly violent argument with Archie in the hall. Edith opened the door and wanted to know what the row was about. 'Will you tell me, Edith, where your son learns such language? He keeps on worrying me to take him to the Zoological Gardens to see the--well--you'll hear what he says. The child's a perfect nuisance. Who put it into his head to want to go and see this animal? I was obliged to speak quite firmly to him about it.' Edith was not alarmed that Bruce had been severe. She thought it much more likely that Archie had spoken very firmly to him. He was always strict with his father, and when he was good Bruce found fault with him. As soon as he grew really tiresome his father became abjectly apologetic. Archie was called and came in, dragging his feet, and pouting, in tears that he was making a strenuous effort to encourage. 'You must be firm with him,' continued Bruce. 'Hang it! Good heavens! Am I master in my own house or am I not?' There was no reply to this rhetorical question. He turned to Archie and said in a gentle, conciliating voice: 'Archie, old chap, tell your mother what it is you want to see. Don't cry, dear.' 'Want to see the damned chameleon,' said Archie, with his hands in his eyes. 'Want father to take me to the Zoo.' 'I want to see the damned chameleon.' 'You hear!' exclaimed Bruce to Edith. 'Who taught you this language?' 'Miss Townsend taught it me.' 'Come, Archie, you know Miss Townsend never taught you to say that. What have you got into your head?' 'Well, she didn't exactly teach me to say it--she didn't give me lessons in it--but she says it herself. She said the damned chameleon was lovely; and I want to see it. She didn't say I ought to see it. But I want to. I've been wanting to ever since. She said it at lunch today, and I do want to. Lots of other boys go to the Zoo, and why shouldn't I? I want to see it so much.' 'It's all right, Bruce,' Edith laughed. 'Miss Townsend told me she had been to see the _Dame aux Camelias_ some time ago. She was enthusiastic about it. Archie dear, I'll take you to the Zoological Gardens and we'll see lots of other animals. And don't use that expression.' 'Mr Vincy,' announced the servant. 'I must go and dress,' said Bruce. Vincy Wenham Vincy was always called by everyone simply Vincy. Applied to him it seemed like a pet name. He had arrived at the right moment, as he always did. He was very devoted to both Edith and Bruce, and he was a confidant of both. He sometimes said to Edith that he felt he was just what was wanted in the little home; an intimate stranger coming in occasionally with a fresh atmosphere was often of great value (as, for instance, now) in calming or averting storms. He had a number of relatives in high places, who bored him, and were always trying to get him married. He had taken up various occupations and travelled a good deal. But his greatest pleasure was the study of people. There was nothing cold in his observation, nothing of the cynical analyst. He was impulsive, though very quiet, immensely and ardently sympathetic and almost too impressionable and enthusiastic. It was not surprising that he was immensely popular generally, as well as specially; he was so interested in everyone except himself. But he did not care in the least for acquaintances, and spent much ingenuity in trying to avoid them; he only liked intimate friends, and of all he had perhaps the Ottleys were his greatest favourites. Vincy was pleased with the story of the Mitchells that Edith told him, and she was glad to hear that he knew the Mitchells and had been to the house. 'How like you to know everyone. What did they do?' 'It sounds rather fun. Perhaps you will be asked next Thursday. Try.' 'I'll try. I'll call, and remind her of me. I daresay she'll ask me. She's very good-natured. She believes in spiritualism, too.' 'I wonder who'll be there?' 'Anyone might be there, or anyone else. As they say of marriage, it's a lottery. They might have roulette, or a spiritual seance, or Kubelik, or fancy dress heads.' 'Fancy dress heads!' 'Yes. Or a cotillion, or just bridge. You never know. The house is rather like a country house, and they behave accordingly. Even hide-and-seek, I believe, sometimes. And Mitchell adores unpractical jokes, too.' 'I see. It's rather exciting that I'm going to the Mitchells at last.' 'Yes, perhaps it will be the turning-point of your life,' said Vincy. 'Ah! here's Bruce.' 'I don't think much of that opera glass your mother gave you,' Bruce remarked to his wife, soon after the curtain rose. 'It's the fashion,' said Edith. 'It's jade--the latest thing.' 'I don't care if it is the fashion. It's no use. Here, try it, Vincy.' He handed it to Vincy, who gave Bruce a quick look, and then tried it. 'Rather quaint and pretty, I think. I like the effect,' he said, handing it back to Bruce. 'It may be quaint and pretty, and it may be the latest thing, and it may be jade,' said Bruce rather sarcastically, 'but I'm not a slave to fashion. I never was. And I don't see any use whatever in an opera glass that makes everything look smaller instead of larger, and at a greater distance instead of nearer. I call it rot. I always say what I think. And you can tell your mother what I said if you like.' 'You're looking through it the wrong side, dear,' said Edith. Still, Archie was, so far, her greatest interest. He was a particularly pretty boy, and she was justified in thinking him rather unusual. At this period he spent a considerable amount of his leisure time not only in longing to see real animals, but in inventing and drawing pictures of non-existent ones--horrible creatures, or quaint creatures, for which he found the strangest names. He told Dilly about them, but Dilly was not his audience--she was rather his confidante and literary adviser; or even sometimes his collaborator. His public consisted principally of his mother. It was a convention that Edith should be frightened, shocked and horrified at the creatures of his imagination, while Dilly privately revelled in their success. Miss Townsend, the governess, was rather coldly ignored in this matter. She had a way of speaking of the animals with a smile, as a nice occupation to keep the children quiet. She did not understand. 'Please, Madam, would you kindly go into the nursery; Master Archie wishes you to come and hear about the golden--something he's just made up like,' said Dilly's nurse with an expression of resignation. 'Oh dear! Tell Master Archie I'm coming.' She ran into the nursery and found Archie and Dilly both looking rather excited; Archie, fairly self-controlled, with a paper in his hand on which was a rough sketch which he would not let her see, and hid behind him. 'Mother,' Archie began in a low, solemn voice, rather slowly, 'the golden quoribus is the most horrible animal, the most awful-looking animal, you ever heard of in _your_ life!' 'Oh-h-h! How awful!' said Edith, beginning to shiver. 'Wait a moment--let me sit down quietly and hear about it.' She sat down by the fire and clasped her hands, looking at him with a terrified expression which was part of the ritual. Dilly giggled, and put her thumb in her mouth, watching the effect with widely opened eyes. 'Much more awful than the gazeka, of course, I suppose?' Edith said rather rashly. 'Oh, I beg your pardon,' said Edith repentantly; 'do go on.' 'No the golden quoribus is far-ar-r-r-r more frightening even than the jilbery. Do you remember how awful _that_ was? And much larger.' 'What! Worse than the jilbery! Oh, good gracious! How dreadful! What's it like?' 'A little longer,' said Dilly. '(Shut up, miss!) As long. It's called the golden quoribus because it's bright gold, except the bumps; and the bumps are green.' 'Bright green,' said Dilly. '(Oh, will you hold your tongue, Dilly?) Green.' 'How terrible! And what shape is it?' 'Does it breathe fire?' asked Edith. Archie smiled contemptuously. 'Breathe fire! Oh, Mother! Do you think it's a silly dragon in a fairy story? Of course it doesn't. How can it breathe fire?' 'Sorry,' said Edith apologetically. 'Go on.' '_But_, the peculiar thing about it, besides that it lives entirely on muffins and mutton and the frightening part, I'm coming to now.' He became emphatic, and spoke slowly. 'The golden quoribus has more claws than any other animal in the whole world!' 'Oh-h-h,' she shuddered. 'Yes,' said Archie solemnly. 'It has large claws coming out of its head.' 'Its head! Good gracious!' 'It has claws here and claws there; claws coming out of the eyes; and claws coming out of the ears; and claws coming out of its shoulders; and claws coming out of the forehead!' Edith shivered with fright and held up her hands in front of her eyes to ward off the picture. 'And claws coming out of the mouth,' said Archie, coming a step nearer to her and raising his voice. 'And claws coming out of the hands, and claws coming out of the feet!' 'Yes,' said Dilly, wildly and recklessly and jumping up and down, 'and claws on the ceiling, and claws on the floor, and claws all over the world!' Shrieks, sobs and tears filled the quiet nursery. When Edith told Vincy he entirely took Archie's side. The Mitchells were, as Vincy had said, extremely hospitable; they had a perfect mania for receiving; they practically lived for it, and the big house at Hampstead, with its large garden covered in, and a sort of studio built out, was scarcely ever without guests. When they didn't have some sort of party they invariably went out. Mrs Mitchell was a tiny brown-eyed creature, who looked absurdly young; she was kind, sprightly, and rather like a grouse. Mitchell was a jovial-looking man, with a high forehead, almost too much ease of manner, and a twinkling eye. Edith felt happy tonight; her spirits were raised by what she felt to be an atmosphere _tiede_, as the French say; full of indulgence, sympathetic, relaxing, in which either cleverness or stupidity could float equally at its ease. The puerility of the silly little arrangements to amuse removed all sense of ceremony. The note is always struck by the hostess, and she was everything that was amiable, without effort or affectation. In this way Miss Mooney lived a good deal in the past, but she was not unaware of the present, and was always particularly nice to people generally regarded as bores. So she was never without plenty of invitations. Mitchell had had formerly a slight _tendre_ for her, and in his good nature pretended to think she had not altered a bit. She was still refined _comme cela ne se fait plus_; it was practically no longer possible to find such a perfect lady, even on the stage. As she also had all the easy good nature of the artist, and made herself extremely agreeable, Bruce was delighted with her, and evidently thought he had drawn a prize. 'Aren't the Mitchells dears?' said Edith. 'Oh, quite. Do you know them well?' 'Very well, indeed. But I've never seen them before.' 'Ah, I see. Well, now we've found our way here--broken the ice and that sort of thing--we must often come and dine with them, mustn't we, Mrs Ottley? Can't we come again next week?' 'Very sweet of you to ask us, I'm sure.' Something in his suave manner of taking everything for granted seemed to make them know each other almost too quickly, and gave her an odd sort of self-consciousness. She turned to Captain Willis on her other side. 'I say,' he said querulously, 'isn't this a bit off? We've got the same ribbons and you haven't said a word to me yet! Rather rot, isn't it, what?' 'Oh, haven't I? I will now.' Captain Willis lowered his voice to a confidential tone and said: 'Do you know, what I always say is--live and let live and let it go at that; what?' 'That's a dark saying,' said Edith. 'Have a burnt almond,' said Captain Willis inconsequently, as though it would help her to understand. 'Yes, Mrs Ottley, that's what I always say But people won't, you know--they won't--and there it is.' He seemed resigned. 'Good chap, Mitchell, isn't he? Musical chairs, I believe--that's what we're to play this evening; or bridge, whichever we like. I shall go in for bridge. I'm not musical.' 'And which shall you do?' asked Aylmer of Edith. He had evidently been listening. 'We'll talk then, shall we? I can't play bridge either Mrs Ottley--which is your husband? I didn't notice when you came in.' 'Over there, opposite; the left-hand corner.' 'Good-looking chap with the light moustache--next to Myra Mooney?' 'That's it,' she said. 'He seems to be enjoying himself. I'm glad he's got Miss Mooney. He's lucky.' 'He is indeed,' said Aylmer. 'She's a wonderful-looking woman--like an old photograph, or someone in a book,' said Edith. 'Do you care for books?' 'I _have_ done worse. I've been reading Rudyard Kipling for the last time.' 'Really! Don't you like him? Why?' 'I feel all the time, somehow, as if he were calling me by my Christian name without an introduction, or as if he wanted me to exchange hats with him,' she said. 'He's so fearfully familiar with his readers.' 'But you think he keeps at a respectful distance from his characters? However--why worry about books at all, Mrs Ottley? Flowers, lilies of the field, and so forth, don't toil or spin; why should they belong to libraries? I don't think you ever ought to read--except perhaps sometimes a little poetry, or romance You see, that is what you are, rather, isn't it?' 'Don't you care for books?' she answered, ignoring the compliment. 'I should have thought you loved them, and knew everything about them. I'm not sure that I know.' 'You know quite enough, believe me,' he answered earnestly. 'Oh, don't be cultured--don't talk about Lloyd George! Don't take an intelligent interest in the subjects of the day!' 'All right; I'll try not.' She turned with a laugh to Captain Willis, who seemed very depressed. 'It isn't meant to be. What's the matter?' 'Oh, don't say that. Indeed you are.' she consoled him. 'Well, you amuse _me_!' 'Right!' He laughed cheerily. He always filled up pauses with a laugh. 'Fancy! Boys are rather nice things to have about, aren't they?' She was looking round the table, trying to divine which was Mrs Aylmer Ross. No, she wasn't there. Edith felt sure of it. It was an unaccountable satisfaction. 'Yes; he's all right. And now give me a detailed description of _your_ children.' 'I can't. I never could talk about them.' 'I see I should like to see them I saw you speak to Vincy. Dear little fellow, isn't he?' 'He's a great friend of mine.' 'I'm tremendously devoted to him, too. He's what used to be called an exquisite. And he _is_ exquisite; he has an exquisite mind. But, of course, you know what a good sort he is.' 'He seems rather to look at life than to act in it, doesn't he?' continued Aylmer. 'He's a brilliant sort of spectator. Vincy thinks that all the world's a stage, but _he's_ always in the front row of the stalls. I never could be like that I always want to be right in the thick of it, on in every scene, and always performing!' 'To an audience?' said Edith. He smiled and went on. 'That's quite true.' 'And, after all, it's really only expression that makes things real. 'If you don't talk about a thing, it has never happened.'' 'But it doesn't always follow that a thing has happened because you do talk about it,' said Edith. 'Ah, Mrs Mitchell's going !' He remained in a rather ecstatic state of absence of mind. Nearly all the men had now joined the ladies in the studio, with the exception of Bruce and of Aylmer Ross. Mrs Mitchell had taken an immense fancy to Edith and showed it by telling her all about a wonderful little tailor who made coats and skirts better than Lucile for next to nothing, and by introducing to her Lord Rye and the embassy man, and Mr Cricker. Edith was sitting in a becoming corner under a shaded light from which she could watch the door, when Vincy came up to talk to her. 'You seemed to get on rather well at dinner,' he said. 'Yes; isn't Captain Willis a dear?' 'Oh, simply sweet. So bright and clever. I was sure you'd like him, Edith.' Captain Willis here came up and said, a shade more jovially than he had spoken at dinner, with his laugh: 'Well, you know, Mrs Ottley, what I always say is--live and let live and let it go at that; what? But they never _do_, you know! They won't--and there it is!' Edith was unreasonably annoyed. What on earth could he and Bruce find to talk about? At length, growing tired of her position, she got up, and walked across the room to look at a picture on the wall, turning her graceful back to the room. Bruce had now at last left his companion, but still Aylmer Ross did not go and speak to her, though he was sitting alone. Musical chairs began in the studio. Someone was playing 'Baby, look-a-here,' stopping suddenly in the middle to shouts of laughter and shrieks from the romping players. In the drawing-room some of the people were playing bridge. How dull the rest of the evening was! Just before the party practically broke up, Edith had an opportunity of saying as she passed Aylmer: 'I thought we were going to have a talk instead of playing games?' 'I saw you were occupied,' he answered ceremoniously. 'I didn't like--to interrupt.' She laughed. 'Is this a jealous scene, Mr Ross?' 'I wonder,' he said, smiling, 'and if so, whose. Well, I hope to see you again soon.' '_What_ a success your charming wife has had tonight,' said Mrs Mitchell to Bruce, as they took leave. 'Everyone is quite wild about her. How pretty she is! You _must_ be proud of her.' They were nearly the last. Mr Cricker, who had firmly refused the whole evening, in spite of abject entreaties, to dance like Nijinsky, suddenly relented when everyone had forgotten all about it, and was leaping alone in the studio, while Lord Rye, always a great lingerer, was playing Richard Strauss to himself on the baby Grand, and smoking a huge cigar. 'Yes. Why shouldn't I? However, it seems from what he said that he thinks the Carlton's nicer for a talk, so I'm going to ask him there instead. You can come too, dear. He won't mind; it won't prevent our talking.' 'Oh, are we going to give a dinner at the Carlton?' 'Well, do you want me to write tomorrow morning then, dear?' 'Er--no--I have asked him already.' 'Oh, really--which day?' 'Well, I suggested next Thursday--but he thought tomorrow would be better; he's engaged for every other day. Now don't go and say you're engaged tomorrow. If you are, you'll have to chuck it!' 'Oh no; I'm not engaged.' 'I really hardly know how to apologise, Mrs Ottley. I oughtn't to have turned up in this cool way. But your husband has kindly asked me to dine with you tonight, and I wasn't sure of the time. I thought I'd come and ask you.' He waited a minute. 'Of course, if I hadn't been so fortunate as to find you in, I should just have left a note.' He looked round the room. Obviously it was quite unnecessary for him to have called; he could have sent the note that he had brought with him. She was flattered. She thought that she liked his voice and the flash of his white teeth when he smiled. 'Oh no, thanks; isn't it too early? I sha'n't keep you a moment. Thanks very much You were playing something when I came in. I wish you'd play it to me over again.' 'That's charming,' he said. 'Thanks. Tosti, of course.' She came back to the fireplace. 'Of course. We had great fun last night, didn't we?' 'Oh, _I_ enjoyed myself immensely; part of the time at least.' 'But after dinner you were rather horrid, Mr Ross. You wouldn't come and talk to me, would you?' 'Wouldn't I? I was afraid. Tell me, do I seem many years older since last night?' he asked. 'I don't see any difference. Why?' 'Because I've lived months--almost years--since I saw you last. Time doesn't go by hours, does it? What a charming little room this is. It suits you. There's hardly anything in it, but everything is right.' 'And how right! I've had rather the same idea in my house, but I couldn't keep it up. It's different for a man alone; things seem to accumulate; especially pictures. I know such a lot of artists. I'm very unfortunate in that respect I really feel I oughtn't to have turned up like this, Mrs Ottley.' 'You're very kind Excuse my country manners, but how nice your husband is. He was very kind to me.' 'He liked _you_ very much, too.' 'He seems charming,' he repeated, then said with a change of tone and with his occasional impulsive brusqueness, 'I wonder--does he ever jar on you in any way?' 'Oh no. Never. He couldn't. He amuses me,' Edith replied softly. 'Oh, does he? If I had the opportunity I wonder if I should _amuse_ you,' he spoke thoughtfully. 'No; I don't think you would at all,' said Edith, looking him straight in the face. 'Oh yes; he comes here most days, or we talk on the telephone.' 'I shall certainly go,' said Edith, 'whether he asks me or not.' 'What shall you wear, Mrs Ottley?' 'Oh, I thought, perhaps, my mauve chiffon? What do you advise?' she smiled. 'Not what you wore last night?' 'It was very jolly. I liked it. Er--red, wasn't it?' 'Oh no! It was pink!' she answered. Then there was an extraordinary pause, in which neither of them seemed able to think of anything to say. There was a curious sort of vibration in the air. 'Very,' was his reply, which was not very relevant. Another pause was beginning. 'Mr Vincy,' announced the servant. He was received with enthusiasm, and Aylmer Ross now recovered his ease and soon went away. 'Edith!' said Vincy, in a reproving tone. '_Really_! How _very_ soon!' 'He came to know what time we dine. He was just passing.' 'Oh, yes. He would want to know. He lives in Jermyn Street. I suppose Knightsbridge is on his way to there.' 'From where?' she asked. 'From here,' said Vincy. 'What happened after we left?' said Edith. 'I saw the Cricker man beginning to dance with hardly anyone looking at him.' 'Isn't his imitation of Nijinsky wonderful?' asked Vincy. 'Simply marvellous! I thought he was imitating George Grossmith. Do you know, I love the Mitchells, Vincy. It's really great fun there. Fancy, Bruce seems so delighted with Aylmer Ross and Miss Mooney that he insisted on their both dining with us tonight.' 'He seemed rather carried away, I thought. There's a fascination about Aylmer. There are so many things he's not,' said Vincy. 'Tell me some of them.' She was delighted at this especially. 'If he took a fancy to a person--well, it might be rather serious, if you take my meaning,' said Vincy. 'How sweet of him! So unusual. Do you like Myra Mooney?' 'Ah, I noticed that.' 'I suppose he wasn't brilliant today. He was too thrilled. But, do be just a teeny bit careful, Edith dear, because when he is at all he's very much so. Do you see?' Edith liked Vincy to talk in his favourite Cockney strain. It contrasted pleasantly with his soft, even voice and _raffine_ appearance. 'Here's Bruce,' she said. Bruce came in carrying an enormous basket of gilded straw. It was filled with white heather, violets, lilies, jonquils, gardenias and mimosa. The handle was trimmed with mauve ribbon. 'Oh, Bruce! How angelic of you!' 'Don't be in such a hurry, dear. These are not from me. They arrived just at the same time that I did. Brought by a commissionaire. There was hardly room for it in the lift.' Edith looked quickly at the card. It bore the name of the minister of the place with a name like Ruritania. 'Well, I don't care. I shall go straight to the embassy,' said Bruce. 'No, I sha'n't. I'll send them back and write him a line--tell him that Englishwomen are not in the habit of accepting presents from undesirable aliens I consider it a great liberty. Aren't I right, Vincy?' 'Quite. But perhaps he means no harm, Bruce. I daresay it's the custom in the place with the funny name. You see, you never know, in a place like that.' 'Then you don't think I ought to take it up?' 'I don't want them. It's a very oppressive basket,' Edith said. 'How like you, Edith! I thought you were fond of flowers.' 'Some women are never satisfied. It's very rude and ungrateful to the poor old man, who meant to be nice, no doubt, and to show his respect for Englishwomen. I think you ought to write and thank him,' said Bruce. 'And let me see the letter before it goes.' Impressionistic as he was in life, on the other hand, curiously, Aylmer's real taste in art and decoration was Pre-Raphaelite; delicate, detailed and meticulous almost to preciousness. He often had delightful things in his house, but never for long. He had no pleasure in property; valuable possessions worried him, and after any amount of trouble to get some object of art he would often give it away the next week. For he really liked money only for freedom and ease. The general look of the house was, consequently, distinguished, sincere and extremely comfortable. It was neither hackneyed nor bizarre, and, while it contained some interesting things, had no superfluities. Aylmer had been spoilt as a boy and was still wilful and a little impatient. For instance he could never wait even for a boy-messenger, but always sent his notes by taxi to wait for an answer. And now he wanted something in a hurry, and was very much afraid he would never get it. So absurdly hard hit was Aylmer that it seemed to him as if to see her again as soon as possible was already the sole object in his life. Did she like him? Intuitively he felt that during his little visit his intense feeling had radiated, and not displeased--perhaps a little impressed--her. He could easily, he knew, form a friendship with them; arrange to see her often. He was going to meet her tonight, through his own arrangement. He would get them to come and dine with him soon--no, the next day. Well, where was the harm? He seemed so nervous while dressing that Soames, the valet, to whom he was a hero, ventured respectfully to hope there was nothing wrong. 'No. I'm all right,' said Aylmer. 'I'm never ill. I think, Soames, I shall probably die of middle age.' He went out laughing, leaving the valet smiling coldly out of politeness. Soames never understood any kind of jest. He took himself and everyone else seriously. But he already knew perfectly well that his master had fallen in love last night, and he disapproved very strongly. He thought all that sort of thing ought to be put a stop to. 'Mrs Ottley,' said Miss Townsend,' do you mind looking at this essay of Archie's? I really don't know what to think of it. I think it shows talent, except the spelling. But it's _very_ naughty of him to have written what is at the end.' Edith took the paper and read: trays of character will always show threw how ever much you may polish it up trays of character will always show threw the grane of the wood. A burd will keep on singing because he wants to and they can't help doing what it wants this is instinkt. and it is the same with trays of charicter. having thus shown my theory that trays of carocter will always show threw in spite of all trubble and in any circemstances whatever I will conclude Archibald Bruce Ottley please t.o.' On the other side of the paper was written very neatly, still in Archie's writing: 'Do you see?' said Miss Townsend. 'It's his way of slyly calling poor Dilly a beast, because he's angry with her. Isn't it a shame? What shall I do?' Both of them laughed and enjoyed it. 'Archie, what is the meaning of this? Why did you make this census of your home?' Edith asked him gently. 'Why, I didn't make senses of my home; I just wrote down who lived here.' Edith looked at him reproachfully. 'What, you're allowed to call her these awful names after breakfast?' 'No. She made a rule before breakfast I wasn't to call Dilly a beast, and I haven't. How did you know it meant her anyway? It might have meant somebody else.' 'What are you angry with the child for?' 'Oh, she bothers so. The moment I imitate the man with the German accent she begins to cry. She says she doesn't like me to do it. She says she can't bear me to. Then she goes and tells Miss Townsend I slapped her, and Miss Townsend blames me.' 'Then you shouldn't have slapped her; it was horrid of you; you ought to remember she's a little girl and weaker than you.' 'Well, I'll make it up if she begs my pardon; not unless she does I sha'n't,' said Archie magnanimously. 'I shall certainly not allow her to do anything of the kind.' At this moment Dilly came in, with her finger in her tiny mouth, and went up to Archie, drawling with a pout, and in a whining voice: 'That's all right, Dilly,' he said forgivingly. Then he turned to his mother. 'Mother, have you got that paper?' 'Yes, I have indeed!' 'Well, cross out--that, and put in Aspasia Matilda Ottley. Sorry, Dilly!' He kissed her, and they ran off together hand in hand; looking like cherubs, and laughing musically. 'Won't your mother be disappointed?' Edith asked. 'My dear Edith, you can safely leave that to me. Of course she'll be disappointed, but you can go round and see her, and speak to her nicely and tell her that after all we can't come because we've got another engagement.' 'Don't be in a hurry, dear. Don't rush things; remember she's my mother. Perhaps to you, Edith, it seems a rather old-fashioned idea, and I daresay you think it's rot, but to me there's something very sacred about the idea of a mother.' He lit a cigarette and looked in the glass. 'Yes, but he can't have asked them on purpose, Bruce, because, you see, we didn't know him on Thursday.' Edith looked away. She had not quite mastered the art of the inward smile. Edith sat down to the writing-table. 'How bad is your influenza?' 'If she thinks it's catching, dear, she'll want Archie and Dilly, and Miss Townsend and Nurse to go and stay with her in South Kensington, and that will be quite an affair.' 'My dear Edith,' said Bruce, 'you're over-anxious; I shall do nothing of the kind. There's no need that I should be laid up for this. It's not serious.' He was beginning to believe in his own illness, as usual. As soon as Bruce had gone out Edith rang up the elder Mrs Ottley on the telephone, and relieved her anxiety in advance. They were great friends; the sense of humour possessed by her mother-in-law took the sting out of the relationship. The dinner at Aylmer's house was a great success. Bruce enjoyed himself enormously, for he liked nothing better in the world than to give his opinion. And Aylmer was specially anxious for his view as to the authenticity of a little Old Master he had acquired, and took notes, also, of a word of advice with regard to electric lighting, admitting he was not a very practical man, and Bruce evidently was. Edith was interested and pleased to go to the house of her new friend and to reconstruct the scene as it must have been when Mrs Aylmer Ross had been there. Freddy, the boy, was at school, but there was a portrait of him. Evidently he resembled his father. The sketch represented him with the same broad forehead, smooth, dense light hair, pale blue eyes under eyebrows with a slight frown in them, and the charming mouth rather fully curved, expressing an amiable and pleasure-loving nature. The boy was good-looking, but not, Edith thought, as handsome as Aylmer. The only other woman present was Lady Everard, a plump, talkative, middle-aged woman in black; the smiling widow of Lord Everard, and well known for her lavish musical hospitality and her vague and indiscriminate good nature. She bristled with aigrettes and sparkled with diamonds and determination. She was marvellously garrulous about nothing in particular. She was a woman who never stopped talking for a single moment, but in a way that resembled leaking rather than laying down the law. Tepidly, indifferently and rather amusingly she prattled on without ceasing, on every subject under the sun, and was socially a valuable help because where she was there was never an awkward pause--or any other kind. Vincy was there and young Cricker, whose occasional depressed silences were alternated with what he called a certain amount of sparkling chaff. Lady Everard told Edith that she felt quite like a sort of mother to Aylmer. Edith waited in vain for a pause to say she didn't know the name of the singer. Lady Everard went on, leaning comfortably back in Aylmer's arm-chair. 'Very. Really fond of it; but I'm only a listener.' Lady Everard seemed delighted and brightened up. In the dining-room Cricker was confiding in Aylmer, while Vincy and Bruce discussed the Old Master. Cricker came a little nearer, lowering his voice again. 'It's a very peculiar case,' he said proudly. 'Of course; it always is.' He took out a letter-case. Cricker put the case back. 'She certainly can't be very sane,' returned Aylmer. Before the end of the evening Aylmer had arranged to take the Ottleys to see a play that was having a run. After this he dropped in to tea to discuss it and Bruce kept him to dinner. Vincy, with all his gentle manner, had in art an extraordinary taste for brutality and violence, and his rooms were covered with pictures by Futurists and Cubists, wild studies by wild men from Tahiti and a curious collection of savage ornaments and weapons. 'No, nor do I; but I do like to look at it,' Vincy said. 'Oh, Vincy, do tell me--what are you going to eat tonight?' Edith exclaimed. 'Unless you're with other people I can never imagine you sitting down to a proper meal.' Eat? Oh a nice orange, I think,' said he. Sometimes when I'm alone I just have a nice egg and a glass of water, I do myself very well. Don't worry about me, Edith.' When they were alone for a moment Aylmer looked out of the window. It was rather high up, and they looked down on the hustling crowds of people pushing along through the warm air in Victoria Street. 'It's getting decent weather,' he said. 'I may be going away pretty soon,' he said. 'Going away! Oh, where?' 'I'm not quite sure yet.' 'I shall be lunching not very far from you tomorrow.' 'I wonder who this other place is laid for,' said Aylmer, looking at the table. 'Good heavens, no!' cried Edith. 'What an extraordinary idea!' But with Aylmer there was, and would always be, less real freedom and impersonal frankness, because there was so much more selfconsciousness; in fact because there was an unacknowledged but very strong mutual physical attraction. Edith had, however, felt until now merely the agreeable excitement of knowing that a man she liked, and in whom she was immensely interested, was growing apparently devoted to her, while _she_ had always believed that she would know how to deal with the case in such a way that it could never lead to anything more--that is to say, to more than _she_ wished. This morning Edith had telephoned to her friend, Miss Bennett, an old schoolfellow who had nothing to do, and adored commissions. Edith, sitting by the fire or at the 'phone, gave her orders, which were always decisive, short and yet meticulous. Miss Bennett was a little late this morning, and Edith had been getting quite anxious to see her. When she at last arrived--she was a nondescript-looking girl, with a small hat squashed on her head, a serge coat and skirt, black gloves and shoes with spats--Edith greeted her rather reproachfully with: 'You're late, Grace.' 'Sorry,' said Grace. The name suited her singularly badly. She was plain, but had a pleasant face, a pink complexion, small bright eyes, protruding teeth and a scenario for a figure, merely a collection of bones on which a dress could be hung. She was devoted to Edith, and to a few other friends of both sexes, of whom she made idols. She was hard, abrupt, enthusiastic, ignorant and humorous. 'All right,' interrupted Edith. 'You couldn't help it. Listen' to what I want you to do.' 'Go ahead,' said Miss Bennett, taking out a note-book and pencil. Edith spoke in her low, soft, impressive voice, rather slowly. 'On appro.?' asked Miss Bennett. 'On anything you like, but made of Liberty satin, with a dull surface.' 'Call it what you like, only get it. You must bring them back in a taxi.' 'They're not to cost more than--oh! not much,' added Edith, 'at the most.' 'Economical woman! Why not have a really good tea-gown while you're about it?' 'These _will_ be good. I want to have a hard outline like a Fergusson.' 'Oh, really? What's that?' 'Never mind. And suppose you can't get the shape, Grace.' 'Edith, what curious ideas you have! But you're right enough. Anything else?' said Miss Bennett, standing up, ready to go. 'I like shopping for you. You know what you want.' 'How extraordinary it is the way you hate anything shiny!' exclaimed Miss Bennett, making a note. Edith looked at her shoes; they were perfect, tiny, pointed and made of black suede. She decided they would do. 'Yes, that's all, dear.' 'And might I kindly ask,' said Miss Bennett, getting up, 'any particular reason for all this? Are you going to have the flu, or a party, or what?' 'No,' said Edith, who was always frank when it was possible. 'I'm expecting a visitor who's never seen me in anything but a coat and skirt, or in evening dress.' 'Oh! He wants a change, does he?' 'Don't be vulgar, Grace. Thanks awfully, dear. You're really kind.' They both laughed, and Edith gently pushed her friend out of the room. Then she sat down on a sofa, put up her feet, and began to read _Rhythm_ to divert her thoughts. Vincy had brought it to convert her to Post-Impressionism. Miss Bennett had come up in the lift with a heap of cardboard boxes, and the azalea. A taxi was waiting at the door. 'Perfect!' said Edith. 'Only I must cut off those buttons. I hate buttons.' 'How are you going to fasten it, then, dear?' 'With hooks and eyes. Marie can sew them on.' The deep blue with the white spots had a vivid and charming effect, and suited her blonde colouring; she saw she was very pretty in it, and was pleased. 'Aren't you going to try the others on, dear?' asked Grace. 'Right. Then I'll take them back.' 'You're sweet. Won't you come back to lunch?' 'I'll come back to lunch tomorrow,' said Miss Bennett, 'and you can tell me about your tea-party. Oh, and here's a little bit of stuff for the plant. I suppose you'll put the azalea into the large pewter vase?' 'Yes, and I'll tie this round its neck.' 'Sorry it's cotton,' said Miss Bennett. 'I couldn't get any silk the right colour.' 'Oh, I like cotton, if only it's not called sateen! Good-bye, darling. You're delightfully quick!' With a quiet smile, Edith dismissed her. 'I know it's very unliterary of me, but I enjoy reading newspapers better than reading anything else in the world. After all, it's contemporary history, that's my defence. But I suppose it is because I'm so intensely interested in life.' 'Tell me exactly, what papers do you really read?' 'Well, I think it's wicked of you to encourage all this frivolity. And what price _The Queen, Horrie Notes, or The Tatler_?' 'Oh, we have those too--for Bruce.' 'And does Archie show any of this morbid desire for journalism?' 'Oh yes. He takes in _Chums and Little Folks_.' 'And I see you're reading _Rhythm_. That's Vincy's fault, of course.' 'How do you find time for all this culture?' 'I read quickly, and what I have to do I do rather quickly.' 'Is that why you never seem in a hurry? I think you're the only leisured-looking woman I know in London.' 'I do think I've solved the problem of labour-saving; I've reduced it to a science.' 'By not working, I suppose.' 'You're wonderful. And that blue ' 'Do you really think so?' He was beginning to get carried away. He stood up and looked out of the window. The pink and white hyacinths were strongly scented in the warm air. He turned round. She said demurely: 'It will be nice weather for you to go away now, won't it?' 'I don't think so.' He spoke impulsively. 'I shall hate it; I shall be miserable.' 'Really!' in a tone of great surprise. 'You're dying to ask me something,' he said. 'Which am I dying to ask you: _where_ you're going, or _why_ you're going?' She gave her most vivid smile. He sat down with a sigh. People still sigh, sometimes, even nowadays. 'I don't know where I'm going; but I'll tell you why I'm seeing too much of you.' 'You see, Mrs Ottley, seeing a great deal of you is very entrancing, but it's dangerous.' 'But why should you do without it?' 'But you can come and see me sometimes, can't you?' 'Yes; that's the worst of all,' he answered, with emphasis. 'And is that really why you're going?' she asked gently. 'You're forcing me to answer you.' 'And shall you soon forget all about it?' He changed his position and sat next to her on the sofa. 'And so you won't miss me a bit,' he said caressingly. 'You wouldn't care if you never saw me again, would you?' 'Yes, I should care. Why, you know we're awfully good friends; I like you immensely.' 'Oh! So differently.' 'I'm glad of that, at any rate!' There was an embarrassed pause. 'So this is really the last time I'm to see you for ages, Mrs Ottley?' 'Is it? Will it seem long to you?' 'Why, of course. We shall--I shall miss you very much. I told you so.' 'Really?' he insisted. 'Really,' she smiled. They looked at each other. Edith felt less mistress of the situation than she had expected. She was faced with a choice; she felt it; she knew it. She didn't want him to go. Still, perhaps There was a vibration in the air. Suddenly a sharp ring was heard. Overpowered by a sudden impulse, Aylmer seized her impetuously by the shoulders, kissed her roughly and at random before she could stop him, and said incoherently: 'Edith! Good-bye. I love you, Edith,' and then stood up by the mantelpiece. 'Mr Vincy,' announced the servant. 'The Moonshine Girl' At dinner before the play Edith was very bright, and particularly pretty. Bruce, too, was in good spirits. 'No, dear. I think you're quite right.' 'And oddly enough--as I was trying to tell you just now, only you didn't seem to be listening--a black cat ran across my path only this afternoon.' He smiled, gratified at the recollection. 'No, indeed. I think so myself.' 'You're pleased to be facetious,' remarked Edith. Edith got up. 'Very sweet of you.' 'But,' continued Bruce, 'because I think you pretty, it doesn't follow that I think everybody else is hideous. I tell you that straight from the shoulder, and I must say this for you, dear, I've never seen any sign of jealousy on your part.' 'I'd show it soon enough if I felt it--if I thought I'd any cause,' said Edith; 'but I didn't think I had.' Bruce gave a rather fatuous smile. 'Oh, go and get ready, my dear,' he answered. 'Don't let's talk nonsense. Who's going to be there tonight, do you know?' 'Oh, only Lady Everard and Vincy.' 'Lady Everard is a nice woman. You're going to that musical thing of hers, I suppose?' 'Yes, I suppose so.' 'Not musical! Oh dear! I thought I was,' said Edith. 'Oh, anyhow, not when I'm here, so it doesn't matter. Besides, your being appreciative and that sort of thing is very nice. Look what a social success you've had at the Everards', for instance, through listening and understanding these things; it is not an accomplishment to throw away. No, Edith dear, I should tell you, if you would only listen to me, to keep up your music, but you won't and there's an end of it That souffle was really very good. Cook's improving. For a plain little cook like that, with such small wages, and no kitchenmaid, she does quite well.' 'Oh yes, she's not bad,' said Edith. She knew that if Bruce had been aware the cook's remuneration was adequate he would not have enjoyed his dinner. They were in the box in the pretty theatre. Lady Everard, very smart in black, sparkling with diamonds, was already there with Aylmer. Vincy had not arrived. 'Very disinterested,' murmured Lady Everard. 'Very nice of him, I'm sure. It isn't many people that would do a thing like that. A nice voice, too. Of course, this is not what _I_ call good music, but it's very bright in its way, and the words--I always think these words are so clever. So witty. Listen to them--do listen to them, dear Mrs Ottley.' 'Charming,' murmured Lady Everard; 'brilliant--I know his father so well.' 'Whose father--the censor's?' Edith smiled and nodded assent, trying to stop the incessant trickle of Lady Everard's leaking conversation. She loved theatres, and she enjoyed hearing every word, which was impossible while there was more dialogue in the box than on the stage; also, Aylmer was sitting behind her. The comic lady now came on; there were shrieks of laughter at her unnecessary and irrelevant green boots and crinoline and Cockney accent. She proposed to marry the hero, who ran away from her. There was more chorus; and the curtain fell. 'It looks like a jury,' said Edith. 'Perhaps it is.' 'Probably a board of directors,' said Aylmer. 'You're an angel if you've forgiven me,' he said, as they went out. 'Have you forgiven me?' he asked anxiously, as soon as they were in the dark shelter of the cab. 'Yes, oh yes. Please don't let's talk about it any more What time do you start tomorrow?' 'You think I ought to go then?' 'But you'd rather I remained here; rather we should go on as we are--wouldn't you?' 'Well, you know I should never have dreamt of suggesting you should go away. I like you to be here.' 'At any cost to me? No, Edith; I can't stand it. And since I've told you it's harder. Your knowing makes it harder.' 'I should have thought that if you liked anyone so _very_ much, you would want to see them all the time, as much as possible, always--even with other people anything rather than not see them--be away altogether. At least, that's how I should feel.' 'No doubt you would; that's a woman's view. And besides, you see, you don't care!' 'The more I cared, the less I should go away, I think.' 'But, haven't I tried? And I can't bear it. You don't know how cruel you are with your sweetness, Edith Oh, put yourself in my place! How do you suppose I feel when I've been with you like this, near you, looking at you, delighting in you the whole evening--and then, after supper, you go away with Bruce? _You've_ had a very pleasant evening, no doubt; it's all right for you to feel you've got me, as you know you have--and with no fear, no danger. Yes, you enjoy it!' 'Please, do be frank.' 'I love you. I'm madly in love with you. I adore you.' Aylmer stopped, deeply moved at the sound of his own words. Few people realise the effect such words have on the speaker. Saying them to her was a great joy, and an indulgence, but it increased painfully his passionate feeling, making it more accentuated and acute. To let himself go verbally was a wild, bitter pleasure. It hurt him, and he enjoyed it. 'And I'd do anything in the world to get you. And I'd do anything in the world for you, too. And if you cared for me I'd go away all the same. At least, I believe I should We shall be there in a minute. 'Listen, dear. I want you, occasionally, to write to me; there's no earthly reason why you shouldn't. I'll let you know my address. It will prevent my being too miserable, or rushing back. And will you do something else for me?' 'Angel! Well, when you write, call me Aylmer. You never have yet, in a letter. Treat me just like a friend--as you treat Vincy. Tell me what you're doing, where you're going, who you see; about Archie and Dilly; about your new dresses and hats; what you're reading--any little thing, so that I'm still in touch with you.' 'Yes, I will; I shall like to. And don't be depressed, Aylmer. Do enjoy your journey; write to me, too.' 'Yes, I'm going to write to you, but only in an official way, only for Bruce. And, listen. Take care of yourself. You're too unselfish. Do what you want sometimes, not what other people want all the time. Don't read too much by electric light and try your eyes. And don't go out in these thin shoes in damp weather--promise!' She laughed a little--touched. 'Be a great deal with the children. I like to think of you with them. And I hope you won't be always going out,' he continued, in a tone of unconscious command, which she enjoyed 'Please don't be continually at Lady Everard's, or at the Mitchells', or anywhere. I hate you to be admired--how I hate it!' 'Fancy! And I was always brought up to believe people are proud of what's called the 'success' of the people that they--like.' 'You're very Oriental!' she laughed. No woman could help being really pleased at such whole-hearted devotion and such Bluebeard-like views--especially when they were not going to be carried out. Edith was thrilled by the passionate emotion she felt near her. How cold it would be when he had gone! He _was_ nice, handsome, clever--a darling! 'Don't forget me, Aylmer. I don't want you to forget me. Later on we'll have a real friendship.' '_Friendship!_ Don't use that word. It's so false--such humbug--for _me_ at any rate. To say I could care for you as a friend is simply blasphemy! How can it be possible for _me_? But I'll try. Thanks for _any_thing! You're an angel--I'll try.' 'And it's horribly inconsistent, and no doubt very wicked of me, but, do you know, I should be rather pained if I heard you had fallen in love with someone else.' 'Ah, that would be impossible!' he cried. 'Never--never! It's the real thing; there never was anyone like you, there never will be. Edith took away her hand. 'Your scarf's coming off, you'll catch cold,' said Aylmer, and as he was trying, rather awkwardly, to put the piece of blue chiffon round her head he drew the dear head to him and kissed her harshly. She could not protest; it was too final; besides, they were arriving; the cab stopped. Vincy came to the door. 'Welcome to Normanhurst!' cried Vincy, with unnecessary facetiousness, giving them a slightly anxious glance. He thought Edith had more colour than usual. Aylmer was pale. The supper was an absolute and complete failure; the guests displayed the forced gaiety and real depression, and constrained absentmindedness, of genuine and hopeless boredom. Except for Lady Everard's ceaseless flow of empty prattle the pauses would have been too obvious. Edith, for whom it was a dreary anti-climax, was rather silent. Aylmer talked more, and a little more loudly, than usual, and looked worn. Bruce, whom champagne quickly saddened, became vaguely reminiscent and communicative about old, dead, forgotten grievances of the past, while Vincy, who was a little shocked at what he saw (and he always saw everything), did his very best, just saving the entertainment from being a too disastrous frost. 'Well! Good luck!' said Aylmer, lifting his glass with sham conviviality.' I start tomorrow morning by the Orient Express.' 'Hooray!' whispered Vincy primly. 'But I'm not a gay bachelor. My boy is coming to join me in the summer holidays, wherever I am,' said Aylmer. 'Surely June's just the nice time in London, Bruce,' said Vincy, in his demure voice. Aylmer and his guests had reached the stage of being apparently all lost in their own thoughts, and the conversation had been practically reduced to a disjointed monologue on music by Lady Everard, when the lights began to be lowered, and the party broke up. 'I'm coming to see you so soon,' said Vincy. It was about a fortnight later. Edith and Bruce, from different directions, arrived at the same moment at their door, and went up together in the lift. On the little hall-table was a letter addressed to Edith. She took it up rather quickly, and went into the drawing-room. Bruce followed her. 'That a letter, Edith?' 'What do you suppose it is, Bruce?' 'What _could_ I have supposed it was, Edith? A plum pudding?' He laughed very much. 'You are very humorous today, Bruce.' 'Letter from a friend?' 'I beg your pardon? What did you say, dear?' He raised his voice unnecessarily: 'I Said A LETTER FROM A FRIEND!' She started. 'Oh yes! I heard this time.' 'Edith, I know of an excellent aurist in Bond Street. I wish you'd go and see him. I'll give you the address.' 'I know of a very good elocutionist in Oxford Street. I think I would go and have some lessons, if I were you, Bruce; the summer classes are just beginning. They teach you to speak so clearly, to get your voice over the footlights, as it were. I think all men require to study oratory and elocution. It comes in so useful!' Bruce lowered his voice almost to a whisper. 'Are you playing the fool with me?' She nodded amiably in the manner of a person perfectly deaf, but who is pretending to hear. 'Yes, dear; yes, quite right.' 'Who--me? _I_ don't know.' 'Who is that letter from, Edith?' he said breezily, in a tone of sudden careless and cheery interest. 'I haven't read it yet, Bruce,' she answered, in the same tone, brightly. 'Oh. Why don't you read it?' 'Oh! I shall presently.' 'When I've opened it.' 'Oh, do you want to have a game? Shall I send for Archie?' 'Edith, why don't you take off your hat?' 'I can't think. Why don't you take off your coat?' 'I haven't time. Show me that letter.' 'Who's your letter from?' 'How should I know?' Edith got up and went towards the door. Bruce was beforehand with her and barred the way, standing with his arms outstretched and his back to the door. 'Edith, I'm pained and surprised at your conduct!' 'Conduct!' she exclaimed. 'Don't echo my words! I will _not_ be echoed, do you hear? Behaviour, then, if you prefer the word Why don't you wish me to see that letter?' Edith quickly looked at the letter. Until this moment she had had an unreasonable and nervous terror that Aylmer might have forgotten his intention of writing what he called officially, and might have written her what she now inwardly termed a lot of nonsense. But she now saw she had made a mistake: it was not his handwriting nor his postmark. She became firmer. 'Oh, you do, do you? What next? What next! I suppose the next thing you'll wish is to be a suffragette.' 'The question,' said Edith, in the most cool, high, irritating voice she could command, 'really, of votes for women hardly enters into our argument here. As a matter of fact, I take no interest in any kind of politics, and, I may be entirely wrong, but if I were compelled to take sides on the subject, I should be an anti-suffragist.' 'Oh, you would, would you? That's as well to know! That's interesting. Give me that letter.' 'Do you think you have the right to speak to me like that?' 'Edith,' he said rather pathetically, trying to control himself. 'I beg you, I _implore_ you to let me see the letter! Hang it all! You know perfectly well, old girl, how fond I am of you. I may worry you a bit sometimes, but you know my heart's all right.' 'Of course, Bruce; I'm not finding fault with you. I only want to read my own letter, that's all.' 'But if I let you out of this room without having shown it me, then if there's something you don't want me to see, you'll tear it up or chuck it in the fire.' Edith was quite impressed at this flash of prophetic insight. She admitted to herself he was right. 'Oh, you're not! It sounded a little like it.' 'But it isn't. I don't _mind_ all this responsibility, but I ought, at least, to be allowed to read my letters.' 'Well, darling, you shall, as a rule. Look here, old girl, you shall. I promise you, faithfully, dear. Oh, Edith, you're looking awfully pretty; I like that hat. Look here, I promise you, dear, I'll _never_ ask you again, never as long as I live. But I've a fancy to read this particular letter. Why not just gratify it? It's a very harmless whim.' His tone suddenly changed. 'What do you suppose there's _in_ the damned letter? Something you're jolly well anxious I shouldn't see.' She made a step forward. He rushed at her, snatched the letter out of her hand, and went to the window with it. She went into her own room, shut the door, and threw herself on the bed, her whole frame shaking with suppressed laughter. Bruce, alone, with trembling fingers tore open the envelope. Never in his life had he been opposed by Edith before in this way. He read these words in stereotyped writing: Bruce rushed to the door and called out: 'Edith! Sorry! Edie, I say, I'm sorry. Come back.' There was no answer. He pushed the letter under the door of her room, and said through the keyhole: 'Edith, look here, I'm just going for a little walk. I'll be back to dinner. Don't be angry.' Bruce brought her home a large bunch of Parma violets. But neither of them ever referred to the question again, and for some time there was a little less of the refrain of 'Am I master in my own house, or am I not?' The next morning, when a long letter came from Aylmer, from Spain, Edith read it at breakfast and Bruce didn't ask a single question. However, she left it on his plate, as if by mistake. He might just as well read it. 'Here you are, Mavis!' He calmed her and himself by this banal welcome. He made a movement to help her off with her coat, but she stopped him, and he didn't insist, guessing that she supposed her blouse to be unfit for publication. She sat down on the sofa, and leaned back, looking at him with her pretty, weary, dreary, young, blue eyes. 'It seems such a long time since I saw you,' said Vincy. 'You're tired; I wish I had a lift.' 'I am tired,' she spoke in rather a hoarse voice always. 'And I ought not to stop long.' 'Oh, stay a minute longer, won't you?' he asked. 'Well, I like that! I've only just this moment arrived!' 'Oh, Mavis, don't say that! Have some tea.' He waited on her till she looked brighter. 'How is Aunt Jessie?' 'Aunt Jessie's been rather ill.' 'Still that nasty pain?' asked Vincy. She stared at him, then laughed. 'As if you remember anything about it.' 'Oh, Mavis! I do remember it. I remember what was the matter with her quite well.' 'I bet you don't. What was it?' she asked, with childish eagerness. 'It was that wind round the heart that she gets sometimes. She told me about it. Nothing seems to shift it, either.' Mavis laughed--hoarse, childlike laughter that brought tears to her eyes. 'It's a shame to make fun of Aunt Jessie; she's a very, very good sort.' 'Oh, good gracious, Mavis, if it comes to sorts, I'm sure she's quite at the top of the tree. But don't let's bother about her now.' 'What _do_ you want to bother about?' 'Oh no, Vincy; you can't take me out to dinner. I don't look up to the mark.' She looked in a glass. 'My hat--it's a very good hat--it cost more than you'd think--but it shows signs of wear.' 'Oh, that reminds me,' began Vincy. 'What _do_ you think happened the other day? A cousin of mine who was up in London a little while bought a hat--it didn't suit her, and she insisted on giving it to me! She didn't know what to do to get rid of it! I'd given her something or other, for her birthday, and _she_ declared she would give this to _me_ for _my_ birthday, and so--I've got it on my hands.' 'What a very queer thing! It doesn't sound true.' 'No; does it? Do have some more tea, Mavis darling.' 'No, thanks; I'll have another cake.' She laughed. 'Asking _me_! You do what you like in your own house.' 'It's yours,' he answered, 'when you're here. And when you're not, even more,' he added as an afterthought. He struck a match; she laughed and said: 'I don't believe I understand you a bit.' 'Oh--I went to the play last night,' said Vincy. 'Oh, Mavis, it was such a wearing play.' 'All about nothing, I suppose? They always are, now.' 'Was it Bernard Shaw?' she asked. 'No; it wasn't; not this time; it was someone else. Oh, I do feel sometimes when I'm sitting in my stall, so good and quiet, holding my programme nicely and sitting up straight to the table, as it were, and then a fellow lets me have it, tells me where I'm wrong and all that; I _should_ like to stand up and give a back answer, wouldn't you?' 'No; I'd like to see _you_ do it! Er--what colour is that hat that your cousin gave you?' 'Oh, colour?' he said thoughtfully, smoking. 'Let me see--what colour was it? It doesn't seem to me that it was any particular colour. It was a very curious colour. Sort of mole-colour. Or was it cerise? Or violet? You wouldn't like to see it, would you?' 'Why, yes, I'd like to see it; I wouldn't try it on of course.' 'Why, what a jolly hat!' she exclaimed. 'You may not know it, but that would just suit me; it would go with my dress, too.' 'Don't you think it suits me?' she said, turning round. 'Yes, I think you look very charming in it. Shall I put it back?' 'I sha'n't know what on earth to do with it,' he said discontentedly. 'It's so silly having a hat about in a place like this. Of course you wouldn't dare to keep it, I suppose? It does suit you all right, you know; it would be awfully kind of you.' 'What a funny person you are, Vincy. I _should_ like to keep it. What could I tell Aunt Jessie?' 'Ah, well, you see, that's where it is! I suppose it wouldn't do for you to tell her the truth.' 'I could tell her all that, of course.' 'Oh, Vincy, I think you're very sweet to me, but how late dare I get back to Ravenscourt Park?' 'Which would you _rather_ I did?' 'Well, need you ask?' 'I don't know, Vincy. I have a curious feeling sometimes. I believe you're rather glad when I've gone--relieved!' Her colour rose, and tears came to her eyes. 'Oh, then you _are_ glad when I'm gone!' She pouted. 'You don't care for me a bit, Vincy,' she said, in a plaintive voice. He sat down next to her on the little striped sofa, and took her hand. 'Don't speak as if I were a baby!' 'Do you mind telling me what we're quarrelling about, my dear? I only ask for information.' 'Oh, we're _not_. You're awfully sweet. You know I love you, Vincy.' 'I thought, perhaps, it was really all right.' 'Sometimes I feel miserable and jealous.' He smiled. 'Ah! What are you jealous of, Mavis?' 'Oh, everything--everyone--all the people you meet.' 'Is that all? Well, you're the only person I ever meet--by appointment, at any rate.' 'Well--the Ottleys!' His eye instinctively travelled to a photograph of Edith, all tulle and roses; a rather fascinating portrait. 'What about _her_?' asked Mavis. 'What price Mrs Ottley?' 'Your hair's coming down,' he remarked. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'But at the back it generally is.' 'Don't move--let me do it.' Pretending to arrange it, he took all the hairpins out, and the cloud of dark red hair fell down on her shoulders. 'I like your hair, Mavis.' 'It seems too awful I should have been with you such a long time this afternoon,' she exclaimed. 'And sometimes it seems so dreadful to think I can't be with you always.' 'Yes, doesn't it? Mavis dear, will you do up your hair and come out to dinner?' 'Vincy dear, I think I'd better not, because of Aunt Jessie.' 'Oh, very well; all right. Then you will another time?' 'Oh, you don't want me to stay?' 'Yes, I do; do stay.' 'No, next time--next Tuesday.' 'Very well, very well.' 'The next time I see you,' she said, 'I want to have a long, _long_ talk.' 'Oh yes; we must, mustn't we?' He felt something false, worrying, unreliable and incalculable in Mavis. She didn't seem real He wished she were fortunate and happy; but he wished even more that he were never going to see her again. And still! More of the Mitchells 'Winthrop is a wonderful man!' said Mrs Mitchell to Edith, as she watched her husband proudly. 'Who would dream he was clean-shaven! Look at that moustache! Look at the wonderful way his coat doesn't fit; he's got just that Russian touch with his clothes; I don't know how he's done it, I'm sure. How I wish dear Aylmer Ross was here; he _would_ appreciate it so much.' 'Yes, I wish he were,' said Edith. 'I can't think what he went away for. I suppose he heard the East a-calling, and all that sort of thing. The old wandering craving you read of came over him again, I suppose. Well, let's hope he'll meet some charming girl and bring her back as his bride. Where is he now, do you know, Mrs Ottley?' 'In Armenia, I fancy,' said Edith. Lady Hartland was the yellow lady in red, who thought she was flirting with a fascinating Slav. Edith refused to dance. She sat in a corner with Vincy and watched the dancers. 'Edith,' said Vincy; 'I think you're quieter than you used to be. Sometimes you seem rather absent-minded.' 'Am I? I'm sorry; there's nothing so tedious to other people. Why do you think I'm more serious?' 'I think you miss Aylmer.' 'Oh, I don't agree with you at all. I think there ought to be any amount of technique, and personality, and magnetism, and temperament. I don't mind _how_ much technique there is, as long as nobody talks about it. But neither of these expressions is quite so bad as that dreadful thing you always find in American books, and that lots of people have caught up--especially palmists and manicures--mentality.' 'Yes, mentality's very depressing,' said Vincy. 'I could get along nicely without it, I think I had a long letter from Aylmer today. He seemed unhappy.' 'I had a few lines yesterday,' said Edith. 'He said he was having a very good time. What did he say to you?' 'Oh, he wrote, frankly to _me_.' 'Miserable; enamoured of sorrow; got the hump; frightfully off colour; wants to come back to London. He misses the Mitchells. I suppose it's the Mitchells.' Edith smiled and looked pleased. 'He asked me not to come here much.' 'You are more secretive than jealous, yourself. But I have very much the same feeling,' Edith said. 'Many women I know think the ideal of happiness is to be in love with a great man, or to be the wife of a great public success; to share his triumph! They forget you share the man as well!' 'I suppose the idea is that, after the publicity and the acclamation and the fame and the public glory and the shouting, you take the person home, and feel he is only yours, really.' 'But, can a famous person be only yours? No. I shouldn't like it. It isn't that I don't _like_ cleverness and brilliance, but I don't care for the public glory.' 'I see; you don't mind how great a genius he is, as long as he isn't appreciated,' replied Vincy. 'Well, then, in heaven's name let us stick to our obscurities!' The Agonies of Aylmer In the fresh cheerfulness of the early morning, after sleep, with the hot June sun shining in at the window, Aylmer used to think he was better. He would read his letters and papers, dress slowly, look out of the window at the crowds on the pavement--he had come back to Paris--feel the infectious cheeriness and sense of adventure of the city; then he would say to himself that his trip had been successful. He _was_ better. When he went out his heart began to sink a little already, but he fought it off; there would be a glimpse of an English face flashing past in a carriage--he thought of Edith, but he put it aside. Then came lunch. For some reason, immediately after lunch his malady--for, of course, such love is a malady--incongruously attacked him in an acute form. 'Why after lunch?' he asked himself. Could it be that only when he was absolutely rested, before he had had any sort of fatigue, that the deceptive improvement would show itself? He felt a wondering humiliation at his own narrow grief. However, this was the hour that it recurred; he didn't know why. He had tried all sorts of physical cures--for there is no disguising the fact that such suffering is physical, and so why should the cure not be, also? He had tried wine, no wine, exercise, distraction, everything--and especially a constant change of scene. This last was the worst of all. He felt so exiled in Sicily, and in Spain--so terribly far away--it was unbearable. He was happier directly he got to Paris, because he seemed more in touch with England and her. Yes; the pain had begun again Aylmer went and sat alone outside the cafe. It was not his nature to dwell on his own sensations. He would diagnose them quickly and acutely, and then throw them aside. He was quickly bored with himself; he was no egotist. But today, he thought, he _would_ analyse his state, to see what could be done. 'Rapture sharper than a sword, Joy like o sudden spear.' These words, casually read somewhere, came back to him whenever he remembered her! Aylmer had read, heard of these obsessions, but never believed in them. It was folly, madness! He stood up, tossing his head as though to throw it off. He went to fetch some friends, went with them to see pictures, to have tea, and to drive in the Bois, accepting also an invitation to dine with a man--a nice boy--a fellow who had been at Oxford with him, and was at the embassy here, a young attache. He was quite nice: a little dull, and a little too fond of talking about his chief. He had no photograph of her, but he still thought she was like his mother's miniature, and often looked at it. He wished he wasn't going to dine with that young man tonight. Aylmer was the most genial and sociable of men; he usually disliked being alone; yet just now being with people bored him; it seemed an interruption. He was going through a crisis. Yes; he could not stand anyone this evening. He rang the bell and sent a _petit bleu_ to say he was prevented from dining with his friend. What a relief when he had sent this--now he could think of her alone in peace That was a recollection of babyhood, and yet he remembered even now that obstinate, aching longing He suddenly felt angry, furious. What was Edith doing now? Saying good-night to Archie and Dilly? They certainly did look, as she had said, heavenly angels in their night attire (he had been privileged to see them). Then she was dressing for dinner and going out with Bruce. Good heavens! what noble action had Bruce ever done for _him_ that he should go away? Why make such a sacrifice--for Bruce? Perhaps, sometimes, she really missed him a little. They had had great fun together; she looked upon him as a friend; not only that, but he knew that he amused her, that she liked him, thought him clever, and--admired him even. About an hour later, when the pain had somehow become stupefied, he lit a cigarette, ashamed of his emotion even to himself, and rang. The servant brought him a letter--the English post. He had thought so much of her, felt her so deeply the last few days that he fancied it must somehow have reached her. He read: 'I'm glad you are in Paris; it seems nearer home. Last night I went to the Mitchells' and Mr Mitchell disguised himself as a Russian Count. Nobody worried about it, and then he went and undisguised himself again. But Lady Hartland worried about it, and as she didn't know the Mitchells before, when he was introduced to her properly she begged him to give her the address of that charming Russian. And Vincy was there, and darling Vincy told me you'd written him a letter saying you weren't so very happy. And oh, Aylmer, I don't see the point of your waiting till September to come back. Why don't you come _now_? 'We're going away for Archie's holidays. Come back and see us and take Freddie with us somewhere in England. You told me to ask you when I wanted you--ask you anything I wanted. Well, I want to see you. I miss you too much. You arrived in Paris last night. Let me knew when you can come. I want you. The bell was rung violently. Orders were given, arrangements made, packing was done. Aylmer was suddenly quite well, quite happy. She thought she had a soft, tender admiration for him, that he had a charm for her; that she admired him. But she had not the slightest idea that on her side there was anything that could disturb her in any way. And so that his sentiment, which she had found to be rather infectious, should never carry her away, she meant only to see him now and then; to meet again and be friends. Merely to be back in the same town made him nearly wild with joy. How jolly London looked at the beginning of July! So gay, so full of life. And then he read a letter in a writing he didn't know; it was from Mavis Argles, the friend of Vincy--the young art-student: Vincy had given her his address some time ago--asking him for some special privilege which he possessed, to see some of the Chinese pictures in the British Museum. He was to oblige her with a letter to the museum. She would call for it. Vincy was away, and evidently she had by accident chosen the day of Aylmer's return without knowing anything of his absence. She had never seen him in her life. 'I've just this moment got your letter, Miss Argles. But, of course, I'm only too delighted.' 'Thank you. Mr Vincy said you'd give me the letter.' The girl sat down stiffly on the edge of a chair. Vincy had said she was pretty. Aylmer could not see it. But he felt brimming over with sympathy and kindness for her--for everyone, in fact. She firmly declined lunch, but consented that he should drive her, and they went. Aylmer talked with the eagerness produced by his restless excitement and she listened with interest, somewhat fascinated, as people always were, with his warmth and vitality. As they were driving along Oxford Street Edith, walking with Archie, saw them clearly. She had been taking him on some mission of clothes. (For the children only she went into shops.) He was talking with such animation that he did not see her, to a pale young girl with bright red hair. Edith knew the girl by sight, knew perfectly well that she was Vincy's friend--there was a photograph of her at his rooms. Aylmer did not see her. After a start she kept it to herself. She walked a few steps, then got into a cab. She felt ill. So Aylmer had never got her letter? He had been in London without telling her. He had forgotten her. Perhaps he was deceiving her? And he was making love obviously to that sickening, irritating red-haired fool (so Edith thought of her), Vincy's silly, affected art-student. I saw you this morning. I wrote you a line to Paris, not knowing you had returned. When you get the note forwarded, will you do me the little favour to tear it up unopened? I'm sure you will do this to please me. Aylmer left Miss Argles at the British Museum. When he went back, he found this letter. An Extraordinary Afternoon He rang and rang (and used language), and after much difficulty getting an answer he asked, '_Why he could not get on_' a pathetic question asked plaintively by many people (not only on the telephone). 'The line is out of order.' 'Mrs Ottley is not at home, sir.' At his blank expression the servant, who knew him, and of course liked him, as they always did, offered the further information that Mrs Ottley had gone out for the whole afternoon. 'Are the children at home, or out with Miss Townsend?' 'The children are out, sir, but not with Miss Townsend. They are spending the day with their grandmother.' 'Oh! Do you happen to know if Mr and Mrs Ottley will be at home to dinner?' 'I've heard nothing to the contrary, sir.' 'May I come in and write a note?' He went into the little drawing-room. It was intensely associated with her. He felt a little emu There was the writing-table, there the bookcase, the few chairs, the grey walls; some pale roses fading in a pewter vase The restfulness of the surroundings filled him, and feeling happier he wrote on the grey notepaper: He paused, and then added: He went to his club, there to try and pass the time until the evening. He meant to go in the evening, even if she put him off again; and, if they were out, to wait until they returned, pretending he had not heard from her again. After Edith had written and sent her letter to Aylmer in the morning, Mrs Ottley the elder came to fetch the children to dine, and Edith told Miss Townsend to go for the afternoon. She was glad she would be absolutely alone. 'Aren't you very well, dear Mrs Ottley?' asked this young lady, in her sweet, sympathetic way. Sweet, gentle Miss Townsend went away. She was dressed rather like herself, Edith observed; she imitated Edith. She had the soft, graceful manner and sweet voice of her employer. She was slim and had a pretty figure, but was entirely without Edith's charm or beauty. Vaguely Edith wondered if she would ever have a love affair, ever marry. She hoped so, but (selfishly) not till Archie went to Eton. Then she found herself looking at her lonely lunch; she tried to eat, gave it up, asked for a cup of tea. At last, she could bear the flat no longer. It was a glorious day, very hot, Edith felt peculiar. She thought that if she spent all the afternoon out and alone, it would comfort her, and she would think it out. Trees and sky and sun had always a soothing effect on her. She went out, walked a little, felt worried by the crowd of shoppers swarming to Sloane Street and the Brompton Road, got into a taxi and drove to the gate of Kensington Gardens, opposite Kensington Gore. Here she soon found a seat. At this time of the day the gardens were rather unoccupied, and in the burning July afternoon she felt almost as if in the country. She took off her gloves--a gesture habitual with her whenever possible. She looked utterly restful. She had nothing in her hands, for she never carried either a parasol or a bag, nor even in winter a muff or in the evening a fan. All these little accessories seemed unnecessary to her. She liked to simplify. She hated fuss, anything worrying, agitating. Edith belonged to the superior class of human being whom jealousy chills and cures, and does not stimulate to further efforts. It was not in her to go in for competition. The moment she believed someone else took her place she relaxed her hold. This is the finer temperament, but it suffers most. She would not try to take Aylmer away. Let him remain with his red-haired Miss Argles! He might even marry her. He deserved it. She meant to tell Vincy, of course. Poor Vincy, _he_ didn't know of the treachery. Now she must devote herself to the children, and be good and kind to Bruce. At least, Bruce was _true_ to her in his way. Then Edith had a reaction. She would cure herself today! No more flirtation, no more amitie amoureuse. They were going away. The children, darlings, how they loved her! And Bruce. She was reminding herself she must be gentle, good, to Bruce. He had at least never deceived her! Edith turned round and went home. So that was how Bruce behaved to her! It must be stopped. And without making Bruce hate her. Giving no reason of any kind, she told the governess that she had decided the children's holidays should begin from that day, and that she was unexpectedly going away with them almost immediately, and she added that she would not require Miss Townsend any more. She enclosed a cheque, and said she would send on some books and small possessions that Miss Townsend had kept there. This was sent by a messenger to Miss Townsend's home near Westbourne Grove. She would find it on her return from her walk! And now Edith read Aylmer's note--it was so real, so sincere, she began to disbelieve her eyes this morning. It gave her more courage; she wanted to be absolutely calm, and looking her very best, for Bruce's entrance. 'Hallo! Aren't the children in yet? Far too late for them to be out.' 'Nurse fetched Dilly. She has gone to bed. Archie is coming presently; mother will send him all right.' 'How are you, Edith, old girl?' 'I'm quite well, Bruce.' 'Bruce, I am not going to take Miss Townsend away with us. She is not coming any more.' 'Not--Why? What the devil's the idea of this new scheme? What's the matter with Miss Townsend?' 'Bruce,' answered Edith, 'I prefer not to go into the question, and later you will be glad I did not. I've decided that Miss Townsend is not to come any more at all. I've written to tell her so. I'll look after the children with nurse until we come back It's all settled.' 'Well upon my word!' he exclaimed, looking at her uneasily. 'Have it your own way, of course--but upon my word! Why?' 'Do you really want me to tell you exactly why? I would so much prefer not.' 'Oh, all right, Edith dear; after all--hang it all--you're the children's mother--it's for you to settle No, I don't want to know anything. Have it as you wish.' 'Then we won't discuss it again. Shall we?' He was looking really rather shamefaced, and she thought she saw a gleam of remorse and also of relief in his eye. She went into the other room. She had not shown him Aylmer's letter. She looked a question. 'And I never shall.' 'Do. And look here, Bruce, leave it to me to tell the children. They'll forget after the holidays. Archie must not be upset.' Edith was really delighted, she felt she had won, and she _did_ want that horrid little Townsend to be scored off! Wasn't it natural? She wanted to hear no more about it. The absurdly simple explanation, made almost in dumb show, by action rather than in dialogue, was soon given. He was surprised, simply enchanted, at the entire frankness of her recognition; she acknowledged openly that it mattered to her tremendously whether or not he was on intimate terms or flirting with little Miss Argles, or with little Miss anybody. He was not even to look at any woman except herself, that was arranged between them now and understood. They were side by side, with hands clasped as a matter of course, things taken for granted that he formerly never dreamt of. The signs of emotion in her face he attributed of course to the morning's contretemps, knowing nothing of the other trouble. 'It's heavenly being here again. You're prettier than ever, Edith; sweeter than ever. What a time I had away. It got worse and worse.' 'You're far too good and kind to me. But I _have_ suffered--awfully.' 'What did you feel? Tell me!' 'I felt, when I saw you with her, as if I hadn't got a friend in the world. I felt quite alone. I felt as if the ground were going to open and swallow me up. I relied on you so much, far more than I knew! I was struck dumb, and rooted to the spot, and knocked all of a heap, in a manner of speaking, as Vincy would say,' Edith went on, laughing. 'But now, you've cured me thoroughly; you're such a _real_ person.' 'Where's Bruce?' Aylmer asked suddenly. 'He's gone to the club. He'll be back rather soon, I should think.' 'I won't wait. I would rather not meet him this evening. When shall I see you again?' 'Oh, I don't know. I don't think I want to make any plans now.' 'As you wish. I say, do you really think Vincy can care for that girl?' 'I believe he has had a very long friendship of some kind with her. He's never told me actually, but I've felt it,' Edith said. 'Is he in love with her? Can he be?' 'She's in love with him, I suppose,' said Aylmer. 'It was only because she thought it would please him that she wanted to see those things at the museum. I think she's a little anxious. I found her a wild, irritating, unaccountable, empty creature. I believe she wants him to marry her.' 'I hope he won't, unless he _really_ wants to,' said Edith. 'It would be a mistake for Vincy to sacrifice himself as much as that.' 'I hope indeed he won't,' exclaimed Aylmer. 'And I think it's out of the question. Miss Argles is only an incident, surely. She looks the slightest of episodes.' 'It's a very long episode. It might end, though--if she insists and he won't.' 'Oh, bother, never mind them!' Aylmer replied, with boyish impatience. 'Let me look at _you_ again. Do you care for me a little bit, Edith?' 'Well, what's going to be done about it?' he asked, with happy triviality. 'Don't talk nonsense,' she replied. 'We're just going to see each other sometimes.' 'I'll be satisfied with anything!' cried Aylmer, 'after what I've suffered not seeing you at all. We'll have a new game. You shall _make_ the rules and I'll keep them.' 'Oh, no plans tonight. I must think.' She looked thoughtful. 'Tell me, how's Archie?' he said. 'Archie's all right--delightful. Dilly, too. But I'm rather bothered.' She paused a moment. 'Miss Townsend won't be able to come back any more,' she said steadily. 'Really? What a pity. I suppose the fool of a girl's engaged, or something.' 'She won't come back any more,' answered Edith. 'Will you have to get a new Miss Townsend?' 'I thought of being their governess myself--during the holidays, anyhow.' 'But that will leave you hardly any time--no leisure.' 'For anything--for me, for instance,' said Aylmer boldly. He was full of the courage and audacity caused by the immense relief of seeing her again and finding her so responsive. 'Look here,' said Aylmer suddenly. 'I don't believe I can do without you.' 'You said _I_ was to make the rules.' 'Make them then; go on.' 'I agree to it all, to every word. You'll see if I don't stick to it absolutely.' 'Thank you, dear Aylmer.' 'Then I mustn't kiss you?' 'All right. Never again after tonight. Tonight is the great exception,' said Aylmer. She made a tardy and futile protest. Then she said: 'Now, Aylmer, you must go.' She sighed. 'I have a lot of worries.' 'I never heard you say that before. Let me take them and demolish them for you. Can't you give them to me?' 'No; I shall give nothing more to you. Good-bye 'Remember, there are to be no more exceptions,' said Edith. And she had seen Aylmer again! There was nothing in it about Miss Argles. What happiness! She ought to have trusted him. He cared for her. He loved her. His sentiment was worth having. And she cared for him too; how much she didn't quite know. She admired him; he fascinated her, and she also felt a deep gratitude because he gave her just the sort of passionate worship that she must have always unconsciously craved for. With a strong effort of self-coercion she banished all delightful recollections as she heard Bruce come up in the lift. He came in with a slightly shy, uncomfortable manner. Again, she felt sorry for him. He gave her a quick glance, a sort of cautious look which made her feel rather inclined to laugh. Then he said: 'I've just been down to the club. What have you been doing?' 'Aylmer's been here.' 'Didn't know he was in town.' 'He's only come for a few days.' 'I should like to see him,' said Bruce, looking brighter. 'Did he ask after me?' He looked at her again and said suspiciously: 'Look here, I don't wish to blame you in any way for what--er-arrangements you like to make in your own household. But--er--have you written to Miss Townsend?' 'Yes; she won't come back.' 'Er--but won't she ask why?' 'Why?' asked Bruce, with a tinge of defiance. 'Because then I should have to explain. And I don't like explaining.' 'Did Archie enjoy his day?' 'Oh yes,' said Edith. Bruce suddenly stood up, and a franker, more manly expression came into his face. He looked at her with a look of pain. Tears were not far from his eyes. 'Edith, you're a brick. You're too good for me.' She looked down and away without answering. 'Look here, is there anything I can do to please you?' 'What? I'll do it, whatever it is, on my word of honour.' Bruce held out both his hands. 'I swear I'd never recognise her even if I should meet her accidentally.' 'I know it's a very odd thing to ask,' continued Edith, 'just a fancy; why should I mind your not seeing Miss Townsend?' 'However, I _do_ mind, and I'll be grateful.' 'Then you're not cross, Edith--not depressed?' She gave her sweetest smile. She looked brilliantly happy and particularly pretty. With a violent reaction of remorse, and a sort of tenderness, he tried to put his arm round her. She moved away. 'Don't you forgive me, Edith, for anything I've done that you don't like?' 'Yes, I _entirely_ forgive you. The incident is closed.' 'Really forgive me?' 'Absolutely. And I've had a tiring day and I'm going to sleep. Good night.' With a kind little nod she left him standing in the middle of the room with that air of stupid distinction that he generally assumed when in a lift with other people, and that came to his rescue at awkward moments--a dull, aloof, rather haughty expression. But it was no use to him now. He had considerable difficulty in refraining from venting his temper on the poor, dumb furniture; in fact, he did give a kick to a pretty little writing-table. It made no sound, but its curved shoulder looked resentful. 'What a day!' said Bruce to himself. He went to his room, pouting like Archie. But he knew he had got off cheaply. Another Side of Bruce He was not incapable, either, of appreciating Edith's attitude. She had never cross-questioned him, never asked him for a single detail, never laboured the subject, nor driven the point home, nor condescended even to try to find out how far things had really gone. She hadn't even told him how she knew; he was ashamed to ask. And, after that promise of forgiveness, she never referred to it; there was never the slightest innuendo, teasing, reproach. Yes, by Jove! Edith was wonderful! And so Bruce meant to play the game too. For several days he asked the porter at the club if there were any letters, receiving the usual reply, 'None, sir.' 'Sandringham, indeed! Some boarding house, I suppose,' said Bruce to himself. 'What a lot of 'ones'! Fine grammar for a governess.' ' Wishing you every happiness (I _shall_ miss the children!). '_P.S._--I shall never forget how happy I was with you and Mrs Ottley.' Bruce's expression as he read the last line was rather funny. 'She's a silly little fool, and I shan't answer,' he reflected. Re-reading the letter, he found it more unsatisfactory still, and destroyed it. That day at the club, Bruce in his depression had a chat with Goldthorpe, his golfing companion and sometime confidant. Over a cigarette and other refreshments, Bruce murmured how he had put an end to the little affair for the sake of his wife. 'Rather jolly little girl, she was.' 'Oh yes,' said Goldthorpe indifferently. He thought Edith very attractive, and would have liked to have the duty of consoling her. 'Grey eyes--no, by Jove! I should call them hazel, with black lashes, no, not exactly black--brown. Nice, white teeth, slim figure--perhaps a bit too straight. Brownish hair with a tinge of gold in the sun.' 'That's all right,' said Goldthorpe. He seemed to have had enough of this retrospective inventory. He looked at his watch and found he had an appointment. Bruce, thinking he seemed jealous, smiled to himself. For a few days after what had passed there was a happy reaction in the house. Everyone was almost unnaturally sweet and polite and unselfish about trifles to everybody else. Edith was devoting herself to the children, Bruce had less of her society than usual. She seemed to assume they were to be like brother and sister. He wouldn't at present raise the question; thinking she would soon get over such a rotten idea. Besides, a great many people had left town; and they were, themselves, in the rather unsettled state of intending to go away in a fortnight. Though happy at getting off so easily, Bruce was really missing the meetings and notes (rather than the girl). Fortunately, Vincy now returned; he was looking sunburnt and happy. He had been having a good time. Yet he looked a little anxious occasionally, as if perplexed. 'I guess who she is. What does she want you to do?' 'She wants me to do what all my relations are always bothering me to do,' said Vincy, 'only with a different person.' 'To marry her, I suppose? Shall you?' 'I'm afraid not,' he said. 'I don't think I quite can.' 'Don't you think it would be rather unkind to her?' Neither of them had mentioned Miss Argles' name. The fact that Vincy referred to it at all showed her that he had recovered from his infatuation. 'But do you think I'm treating the poor girl badly?' 'Well, that was rather my idea. Oh, but, Edith, it's hard to hurt anyone.' 'You know I saw her driving with Aylmer that day, and I thought he liked her. I found I was wrong.' 'What sort of person? She's pretty in her way. I daresay she'll attract someone.' 'Yes, Vincy dear, but we're not living in a feuilleton. What's really going to be done? Will she be nasty?' 'No. But I'm afraid Aunt Jessie will abuse me something cruel.' He thought a little while. 'In fact she has.' 'What does she say?' 'She says I'm no gentleman. She said I had no business to lead the poor girl on, in a manner of speaking, and walk out with her, and pay her marked attention, and then not propose marriage like a gentleman.' 'Then you're rather unhappy just now, Vincy?' 'That's about all, thanks very much,' said Vincy. 'Edith,' he said,' have you asked Aylmer to come and stay with us at Westgate?' 'Oh no. I think I'd rather not.' 'Why on earth not? How absurd of you. It's a bit selfish, dear, if you'll excuse my saying so. It's all very well for you: you've got the children and Vincy to amuse you (you're coming, aren't you, Vincy?). What price me? I must have someone else who can go for walks and play golf, a real pal, and so forth. I need exercise, and intellectual sympathy. Aylmer didn't say he had anywhere else to go.' 'He's going to take his boy, Freddie, away to some seaside place. He doesn't like staying with people.' 'Isn't it?' answered Vincy. 'Well, look here, I'm going right down to Jermyn Street purposely to tell him. I'll be back to dinner; do stop, Vincy.' While he was there a rather pretty pale girl, with rough red hair, was announced. Aylmer introduced Miss Argles. 'I only came for a minute, to bring back those books, Mr Ross,' she said shyly. 'I can't stop.' 'Oh, thank you so much,' said Aylmer. 'Won't you have tea?' 'No, nothing. I _must_ go at _once_. I only brought you in the books myself to show you they were safe.' 'Well, I'll be off then. I'll tell Edith you'll write for rooms. Look sharp about it, because they soon go at the best hotels.' 'At any rate I'll bring Freddie down for a week,' said Aylmer, 'and then we'll see.' 'Who is that girl?' asked Bruce, as he left. 'She's a young artist, and I lent her some books of old prints she wanted. She's not a particular friend of mine--I don't care for her much.' Bruce didn't hear the last words, for he was flying out of the door. Miss Argles was walking very slowly; he joined her. 'Pardon me,' he said, raising his hat. 'It's so very hot--am I going your way? Would you allow me to see you home?' 'Oh, you're very kind, I'm sure,' she said sadly. 'But I don't think--I live at Ravenscourt Park.' Bruce thought there was plenty of time. 'Why how very curious! That's just where I was going,' said he boldly. He put up his stick. Instead of a taxi a hansom drove up. Bruce hailed it. 'Always like to give these chaps a turn when I can,' he said. It would take longer. 'How kind-hearted you are,' murmured the girl. 'But I'd really rather not, thank you.' 'Then how shall you get back?' 'Oh no; it's far too hot. Let me drop you, as I'm going in your direction.' He gave her a rather fixed look of admiration, and smiled. She gave a slight look back and got into the cab. 'What ripping red hair,' said Bruce to himself as he followed her. Before the end of the drive, which for him was a sort of adventure, Mavis had promised to meet Bruce when she left her Art School next Tuesday at a certain tea-shop in Bond Street. 'Holloa, Vincy! So glad you're still here. Let's have dinner, Edie.' What she was supposed to be working at, heaven only knew; for she never wrote a line of anything, and even her social notes and invitation cards were always written by her secretary. With her usual curious combination of weak volubility and decided laying-down of the law, she was preparing to hold forth to young La France (whom she expected), on the subject of Debussy, Edvina, Marcoux, the appalling singing of all his young friends, his own good looks, and other subjects of musical interest, when Mr Cricker was announced. She greeted him with less eagerness, if less patronage, than her other protege, but graciously offered him tea and permitted a cigarette. 'I'm pleased to see you, my dear Willie,' she said; 'all the more because I hear Mrs Mitchell has taken Wednesdays now. Not _quite_ a nice thing to do, I think; although, after all, I suppose we could hardly really clash. True, we _do_ happen to know a few of the same people.' (By that Lady Everard meant she had snatched as many of Mrs Mitchell's friends away as she thought desirable.) 'But as a general rule I suppose we're not really in the same set. But perhaps you're going on there afterwards?' That had been Mr Clicker's intention, but he denied it, with surprise and apparent pain at the suspicion. She settled down more comfortably. 'Ah, well, Mrs Mitchell is an extremely nice, hospitable woman, and her parties are, I know, considered _quite_ amusing, but I do think--I really do--that her husband carries his practical jokes and things a _little_ too far. It isn't good form, it really isn't, to see a man of his age, with his face blacked, coming in after dinner with a banjo, calling himself the Musical White-eyed Kaffir, as he did the last time I was there. I find it _deplace_--that's the word, _deplace_. He seemed to think that we were all children at a juvenile party! I was saying so to Lord Rye only last night. Lord Rye likes it, I think, but he says Mr Mitchell's mad--that's what it is, a little mad. Last time Lord Rye was there everybody had a present given them hidden in their table napkins. There had been some mistake in the parcels, I believe, and Miss Mooney--you know, the actress, Myra Mooney--received a safety razor, and Lord Rye a vanity bag. Everybody screamed with laughter, but I must say it seemed to me rather silly. I wasn't there myself.' 'And is that affair still going on, Willie dear? It seems to me _such_ a pity. I _do_ wish you would try and give it up.' She smiled. 'Not everything, Willie; a little of music, perhaps. I know a good voice when I hear it. I have a certain _flair_ for what's going to be a success in that direction, and of course I've been everywhere and seen everything. I've a certain natural knowledge of life, too, and keep well up to date with everything that's going on. I knew about the Hendon Divorce Case long before anyone else, though it never came off after all, but that's not the point. But then I'm so discreet; people tell me things. At any rate, I always _know_.' 'Yes, I suppose so. But as a matter of fact, Lady Everard, if she didn't--well--what you might call make a dash for it, I shouldn't worry about her at all.' 'Men,' continued Lady Everard, not listening, 'only like coldness; coldness, reserve. The only way in the world to draw a man on is to be always out to him, or to go away, and never even let him hear your name mentioned.' 'I daresay there's a lot in that,' said Cricker, wondering why she did not try that plan with young La France. 'Oh, I say, I can't tell you who it is, Lady Everard; really not.' 'What did I tell you? I knew it wasn't; I only said that to draw you. However, have a little more tea, or some iced coffee, it's so much more refreshing I always think. My dear Willie, I was only chaffing you. I knew perfectly well it wasn't either of the people I suggested. The point is, it seems to prey on your mind, and worry you, and you won't break it off.' 'I will dictate you a letter,' she said. 'Far be it from me to interfere, and I don't pretend to know more about this sort of thing than anybody else. At the same time, if you'll take it down just as I tell it, and send it off, you'll find it will do admirably. Have you got a pencil?' As if dully hypnotised, he took out a pencil and notebook. 'It would be awfully kind of you, Lady Everard. It might give me an idea anyway.' 'Yes, I've got that.' 'Or, perhaps, just Thursday. Thursday looks more casual, more full of feeling than the exact date. Got Thursday?' 'Yes, but it isn't Thursday, it's Friday.' 'All right, Friday, or any day you like. The day is not the point. You can send it tomorrow, or any time you like. Wednesday. My dearest Irene.' 'Her name's not Irene.' 'Oh no, I forgot. Take that out. Dear Margaretta. Circumstances have occurred since I last had the pleasure of seeing you that make it absolutely impossible that I could ever meet you again.' 'Go on. Ever see you or meet you again. You wish to be kind to her, I suppose?' 'Then say: Duty has to come between us, but God knows I wish you well.' Tears were beginning to come to Lady Everard's eyes, and she spoke with a break in her voice. 'I wish you well, Irene.' 'I wish you well, Margaretta. Some day in the far distant future you'll think of me, and be thankful for what I have done. It's for your good and my own happiness that we part now, and for ever. Adieu, and may God bless you. How do you sign yourself?' 'Very well then, be more serious this time: Always your faithful friend, William Stacey Cricker.' He glanced over the note, his face falling more and more, while Lady Everard looked more and more satisfied. 'Copy that out, word for word, the moment you go back, and send it off,' she said, 'and all the worst of your troubles will be over.' 'I should think the worst is yet to come,' said he ruefully. 'But you promise to do it, Willie? Oh, promise me?' 'Not a word, Willie; it will be your salvation. Come and see me soon, and tell me the result. Ah! here you are, cher maitre!' With a bright smile she welcomed Mr La France, who was now announced, gently dismissing Willie with a push of the left hand. 'Good heavens!' he said to himself, as he got into the cab, 'why, if I were to send a thing like that there would be murder and suicide! She'd show it to her husband, and he'd come round and knock me into a cocked hat for it. Dear Lady Everard--she's a dear, but she doesn't know anything about anything.' He tore the pages out of his pocket-book, and called out to the cabman the address of the Mitchells. 'Ah, chere madame, que je suis fatigue!' exclaimed La France, as he threw himself back against the cushions. His hair was long and smooth and fair, so fair that he had been spoken of by jealous singers as a peroxide blond. His eyes were greenish, and he had dark eyebrows and eyelashes. He was good-looking. His voice in speaking was harsh, but his manner soft and insidious. His talents were cosmopolitan; his tastes international; he had no duties, few pleasures and that entire want of leisure known only to those who have practically nothing whatever to do. 'Fatigued? That's what you always say,' said Lady Everard, laughing. 'But it is always true,' he said, with a strong French accent. 'You should take more exercise, Paul. Go out more in the air. You lead too secluded a life.' 'Ah, you wish I go horseback riding. Ver' nice, but not for me. I have never did it. I cannot begun now, Lady Everard. I spoil all the _veloute_ of my voice. Have you seen again that pretty little lady I met here before? Delicious light brown hair, pretty blue eyes, a wonderful blue, a blue that seem to say to everyone something different.' 'What!' exclaimed Lady Everard. 'Are you referring to Mrs Ottley?' She calmed down again. 'Oh yes, she's charming, awfully sweet--devoted to her husband, you know--absolutely devoted to her husband; so rare and delightful nowadays in London.' 'Oh yes, ver' nice. Me, I am devoted to 'er husband too. I go to see him. He ask me.' 'What, without _me_?' exclaimed Lady Everard. 'I meet him the other night. He ask me to come round and sing him a song. I cannot ask if I may bring Lady Everard in my pocket.' 'Really, Paul, I don't think that quite a nice joke to make, I must say.' Then relenting she said: 'I know it's only your artistic fun.' 'So she ver' devoted to him? He have great confidence in her; he trust her quite; he sure she never have any flirt?' 'He has every confidence; he's certain, absolutely certain!' exclaimed Lady Everard. 'He wait till she come and tell him, I suppose. 'E is right.' He continued in this strain for some time, constantly going back to his admiration for Edith, and then began (with a good deal of bitterness) on the subject of another young singer, whom he declared to be _un garcon charmant_, but no good. 'He could not sing for nuts.' She heartily agreed, and they began to get on beautifully again, when she suddenly said to him: 'Is it true you were seen talking in the park to that girl Miss Turnbull, on Sunday?' 'If you say I was seen, I was. You could not know I talk to her unless I was seen. You could not know by wireless.' 'Don't talk nonsense, Paul,' she answered sharply. 'The point isn't that you were seen, but that you did it.' 'Who did it? Me? I didn't do anything.' 'I don't think it's fair to me, I must say; it hurt my feelings that you should meet Amy Turnbull in the park and talk to her.' 'But what could I say? It is ver' difficul. I walk through the park; she walk through it with another lady. She speak to me. She say: Ah, dear Mr La France, what pleasure to see you! I ask you, Lady Everard, could I, a foreigner, not even naturalised here, could I order her out of the park? Could I scream out to her: Go out, do not walk in ze Hyde Park! Lady Everard do not like you! I have no authority to say that. I am not responsible for the persons that walk in their own park in their own country. She might answer me to go to the devil! She might say to me: What, Lady Everard not like me, so I am not allowed in the park? What that got to do with it? In a case like this, chere madame, I have no legal power.' She laughed forgivingly and said: Since his return Aylmer saw everything through what he called a rose- microscope--that is to say, every detail of his life, and everything connected with it, seemed to him perfect. He saw Edith as much as ever, and far less formally than before. She treated him with affectionate ease. She had admitted by her behaviour on the night he returned that she cared for him, and, for the moment, that was enough. A sort of general relaxation of formality, due to the waning of the season, and to people being too busy to bother, or already in thought away, seemed to give a greater freedom. Everyone seemed more natural, and more satisfied to follow their own inclinations and let other people follow theirs. London was getting stale and tired, and the last feverish flickers of the exhausted season alternated with a kind of languor in which nobody bothered much about anybody else's affairs. General interest was exhausted, and only a strong sense of self-preservation seemed to be left; people clung desperately to their last hopes. Edith was curiously peaceful and contented. She would have had scarcely any leisure but that her mother-in-law sometimes relieved her of the care of the children. Being very anxious that they should not lose anything from Miss Townsend's absence, she gave them lessons every day. 'Where's Miss Townsend?' 'Why is she at Bexhill?' 'Because she likes it.' 'Why isn't Miss Townsend?' 'Well, why isn't she Miss Townsend any more?' 'But she's not our Miss Townsend any more. Why isn't she?' 'Isn't she coming back?' Watching his mother's face he realised that she didn't regret this, so he said: 'Is Miss Townsend teaching anybody else?' 'I daresay she is, or she will, perhaps.' 'What are their names?' 'How should I know?' 'Do you think she'll teach anybody else called Archie?' 'I wonder if she'll ever be cross with the next boy she teaches.' 'Miss Townsend was very kind to you,' said Edith. 'But you need not think about her any more, because you will be going to school when you come back from the holidays.' 'That's what I told Dilly,' said Archie. 'But Dilly's not going to school. Dilly doesn't mind; she says she likes you better than Miss Townsend.' 'Very kind of her, I'm sure,' laughed Edith. 'Oh, aren't you? You've got to; you're to go now because I expect Miss Bennett.' 'Can't I see Miss Bennett?' 'Why do you want to see her?' 'I don't want to see her; but she always brings parcels. I like to see the parcels.' 'They are not for you; she brings parcels because I ask her to do shopping for me. It's very kind of her.' She waited a minute, then he said: 'Mother, do let me be here when Miss Bennett brings the parcels. I'll be very useful. I can untie parcels with my teeth, like this. Look! I throw myself on the parcel just like a dog, and shake it and shake it, and then I untie it with my teeth. It would be awfully useful.' She refused the kind offer. Miss Bennett arrived as usual with the parcels, looking pleasantly business-like and important. 'I wonder if these things will do?' she said, as she put them out on the table. 'Oh, they're sure to do,' said Edith; 'they're perfect.' 'My dear, wait till you see them. I don't think I've completed all your list.' She took out a piece of paper. 'Where did you get everything?' Edith asked, without much interest. 'At Boots', principally. Then the novels--Arnold Bennett, Maxwell--Oh, and I've got you the poem: 'What is it?' by Gilbert Frankau.' 'And here's your travelling cloak from the other place.' 'It looks lovely,' said Edith. 'Aren't you going to try it on?' 'No; it's sure to be all right.' 'I never saw such a woman as you! Here are the hats. You've _got_ to choose these.' 'Thanks, Grace; you're awfully kind and clever. Now do you know what you're going to do? You're going to the Academy with me and Aylmer. He's coming to fetch us.' 'Oh, really--what fun!' At this moment he arrived. Edith introduced them. 'I've been having such a morning's shopping,' she said, 'I deserve a little treat afterwards, don't I?' 'What sort of shopping? I'll tell you what you ought to have--a great cricket match when the shopping season's over, between the Old Selfridgians, and the Old Harrodians,' he said, laughing. They walked through acres of oil paintings and dozens of portraits of Chief Justices. 'I can't imagine anyone but Royalty enjoying these pictures,' said Edith. 'They don't go to see pictures; they go to view exhibits,' Aylmer answered. Then they gave it up, and Aylmer took them out to lunch at a club almost as huge and noisy and as miscellaneous as the Academy itself. However, they thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Edith and Bruce were to take up their abode in their little country house at Westgate next day. 'Yes. Look at this wire.' 'Mitchell, of course. Who should it be?' He spoke aggressively, then softened down to explanation, 'Mitchell's in town a few days on business, too. I may be detained till Tuesday--or even Wednesday next.' The suspicion hurt her, for he had given his word of honour, and had been nice to her ever since, and amiable (though rather absent and bored) with the children. She walked down to the station with him, though he wished to go in the cab which took his box and suit-case, but he did not resist her wish. On the way he said, looking round as if he had only just arrived and had never seen it before: 'This is a very nice little place. It's just the right place for you and the children. If I were you, I should stay on here.' It struck her he spoke in a very detached way, and some odd foreshadowing came to her. 'Why--aren't you coming back?' she asked jokingly. 'Me? _What_ an idea! Yes, of course. But I've told you--this business of mine--well, it'll take a little time to arrange. Still, I expect to be back on Tuesday. Or quite on Wednesday--or sooner.' They walked on and had nearly reached the station. 'How funny you are, Bruce!' 'Of what nature is it?' '_You_ appear to be--very. But I'm not asking you to tell me any details about the business, whatever it may be.' They arrived at the station, and Bruce gave her what she thought a very queer look. It was a mixture of fear, daring, caution and a sort of bravado. Anxiety was in it, as well as a pleased self-consciousness. 'Tell me, frankly, something I'd like to know, Bruce.' 'Are you getting suspicious of me, Edith? That's not like you. Mind you, it's a great mistake in a woman; women should always trust. Mistrust sometimes drives a man to--to--Oh, anyhow, it's a great mistake.' 'I only want you to tell me something, Bruce. I'll believe you implicitly if you'll answer Do you ever see Miss Townsend now?' 'Never seen her, never written to her, never communicated with her since she left! Don't know where she is and don't care. Now you do believe me?' he asked, with all the earnestness and energy of truth. 'Absolutely. Forgive me for asking.' 'Oh, that's all right.' He was relieved, and smiled. 'All right, Bruce dear. I'm glad. It would have worried me.' 'Now go, Edith. Don't bother to wait till I get in. I'll write to you--I'll write to you soon.' She still lingered, seeing something odd in his manner. She waited on till the train started. His manner was alternately peevish and kind, but altogether odd. Her last glimpse was a rather pale smile from Bruce as he waved his hand and then turned to his paper 'Well, what _does_ it matter so long as he _has_ gone!' exclaimed Aylmer impatiently, when she expressed her wonder at Bruce's going. The tide was low, and they went for a long walk over the hard shining sand, followed by Archie picking up wonderful shells and slipping on the green seaweed. Everything seemed fresh, lovely. She herself was as fresh as the sea breeze, and Aylmer seemed to her as strong as the sea. (Privately, Edith thought him irresistible in country clothes.) Edith had everything here to make her happy, including Bruce's mother, who relieved her of the children when she wanted rest and in whose eyes she was perfection. She saw restrained adoration in Aylmer's eyes, love and trust in the eyes of the children. She had all she wanted. And yet--something tugged at her heart, and worried her. She had a strange and melancholy presentiment. 'What divine heavenly pets and ducks of angels they are!' exclaimed Lady Everard rather distractedly. 'Angels! Divine! And so good, too! I never saw such darlings in my life. Look at them, Paul. Aren't they sweet?' 'Voulez-vous lend me your goggles?' 'Mais certainement! Of course I will. Voila mon petit.' 'The darling! How sweet and amusing of him! But they're only to be used in the motor, you know. Don't break them, darling, will you? Monsieur will want them again. Ah! how sweet he looks!' as he put them on, 'I never saw such a darling in the whole course of my life! Look at him, Mrs Ottley. Look at him, Paul!' 'Charmant. C'est delicieux,' grumbled La France. 'You don't know what I am now,' said Archie, having fixed the goggles on his own fair head, to the delight of Dilly. 'What am I?' asked Archie, in his persistent way, as he walked round the group on the lawn, in goggles, followed closely by Dilly, saying, 'Yes, what is he?' looking exactly like a live doll, with her golden hair and blue ribbons. 'You're a motorist, darling.' 'No, I'm not a silly motorist. Guess what I am?' 'It's so difficult to guess, such hot weather! Can you guess, Paul?' 'I sink he is a nuisance,' replied the Frenchman, laughing politely. 'No, that's wrong. You guess what I am.' 'Guess what he is,' echoed Dilly. 'O Lord! what does it matter? What I always say is--live and let live, and let it go at that,' said Captain Willis, with his loud laugh. 'What, Mrs Ottley? But they won't do it, you know--they won't--and there it is!' 'Guess what I am,' persisted Archie. 'Never mind what you are; do go and sit down, and take those things off,' said Edith. 'Not till you guess what I am.' 'No, Dilly doesn't know. Guess what I am, grandmamma!' 'I thought you'd never guess. Well, I'm a blue-faced mandrill!' declared Archie, as he took the goggles off reluctantly and gave them back to La France, who put them under his chair. 'Don't say anything at all if you can't say it right,' said Archie, raising his voice and losing his temper. 'Well, they's both the same.' 'No, they jolly well aren't.' He drew her a little aside. 'A blue-faced mandrill, silly, is real; it's in my natural history book.' 'Sorry,' said Dilly apologetically. 'In my natural history book it is, a _real_ thing. I'm a blue-faced mandrill Now say it after me.' 'I wasn't doing it on purpose.' 'Oh, get away before I hit you! You're a silly little fool.' 'Will you shut up or will you not?' Aylmer seized hold of him. 'What are you going to do, Archie?' 'Teach Dilly what I am. She says--Oh, she's _such_ a fool!' Archie was devoted to Aylmer. Following him, he handed the tea to Mr Cricker, saying pathetically: 'I'm a blue-faced mandrill, and she knew it. I told her so. Aren't girls fools? They do worry!' 'They _are_ torments,' said Aylmer. 'I wish that Frenchman would give me his goggles to keep! He doesn't want them.' 'I'll give you a pair,' said Aylmer. 'Thanks,' said Cricker,' I won't have any tea. I wish you'd come and have a little talk with me, Ross. Can I have a word with you alone?' Aylmer good-naturedly went aside with him. 'It's worse than ever,' said Cricker, in low, mysterious tones. 'Since I've been staying with Lady Everard it's been wire, wire, wire--ring, ring, ring--and letters by every post! You see, I thought it was rather a good plan to get away for a bit, but I'm afraid I shall have to go back. Fancy, she's threatened suicide, and telling her husband, and confiding in Lady Everard! And giving up the stage, and oh, goodness knows what! There's no doubt the poor child is absolutely raving about me. No doubt whatever.' Aylmer was as sympathetic as he knew how. The party was just going off when La France found that the goggles had disappeared. A search-party was organised; great excitement prevailed; but in the end they went away without the glasses. When Dilly had just gone to sleep in her cot a frightening figure crept into her room and turned on the electric light. 'Oh, Archie! What is it! Who is it! Oh! Oh!' 'Don't be frightened,' said Archie, in his deepest voice, obviously hoping she would be frightened. He was in pyjamas and goggles. 'Don't be frightened! _Now! Say what I am_. What am I?' 'A blue-faced mandrill,' she whined. He took off the goggles and kissed her. 'Right! Good night, old girl!' The following Tuesday, Edith, Aylmer, Vincy and Mrs Ottley were sitting on the veranda after dinner. They had a charming little veranda which led on to a lawn, and from there straight down to the sea. It was their custom to sit there in the evening and talk. The elder Mrs Ottley enjoyed these evenings, and the most modern conversation never seemed to startle her. She would listen impassively, or with a smile, as if in silent approval, to the most monstrous of paradoxes or the most childish chaff. Aylmer's attention and kind thought for her had absolutely won her heart. She consulted him about everything, and was only thoroughly satisfied when he was there. His strong, kind, decided voice, his good looks, his decision, and a sort of responsible impulsiveness, all appealed to her immensely. She looked up to him, in a kind of admiring maternal way; Edith often wondered, did she not see Aylmer's devotion? But, if she did, Mrs Ottley thought nothing of it. Her opinion of Edith was so high that she trusted her in any complications 'Isn't Bruce coming down tonight?' she asked Edith. 'I'm to have a wire.' 'Ah, here's the last post. Perhaps he's written instead.' Edith went into the drawing-room to read it; there was not sufficient light on the veranda 'I hope what I am about to tell you will not worry you too much. At any rate I do hope you will not allow it to affect your health. It is inevitable, and you must make up your mind to it as soon as possible. I say this in no spirit of unkindness; far from it. It is hard to me to break the news to you, but it must be done. 'Mavis Argles and I are all in all to each other. We have made up our minds on account of certain _circumstances_ to throw in our lot together, and we are starting for Australia today. When this reaches you, we shall have started. I enclose the address to write to me. 'I shall always have the greatest regard and respect for you, and _wish you well_. 'I am sorry also about my mother, but you must try and explain that it is for the best. You also will know exactly what to do, and how to bring up the children just as well without me as with. 'Hoping this sudden news will not affect your health in any way, and that you will try and stay on a good while at Westgate, as I am sure the air is doing you good, believe me, yours affectionately as always, '_P.S._--Mind you don't forget to divorce me as soon as you can for Mavis's sake. Vincy will give you all the advice you need. Don't think badly of me; I have meant well. Try and cheer up. I am sorry not to write more fully, but you can imagine how I was rushed to catch today's steamer.' The next morning Aylmer at his hotel received a little note asking him to come round and see Edith, while the others were out. It was there, in the cool, shady room, that Edith showed him the letter. He looked at her in delight almost too great for expression. Edith knew she was going to have a hard task now. She was pale, but looked completely composed. She said: 'You're wrong, Aylmer. I'm not going to set him free.' 'What?' he almost shouted. 'Are you mad? What! Stick to him when he doesn't want you! Ruin the wretched girl's life!' 'Edith!' he exclaimed. 'What--when he doesn't _want_ the children--when he deserts them?' 'He is their father.' 'Their father! Then, if you were married to a criminal who implored you to divorce him you wouldn't, because he was their father!' Aylmer threw himself down in an arm-chair, staring at her. 'You amaze me,' he said. 'You amaze me. You're not human. Do you adore this man, that you forgive him everything? You don't even seem angry.' 'I don't adore him, that is why I'm not so very angry. I was terribly hurt about Miss Townsend. My pride, my trust were hurt but after that I can't ever feel that personal jealousy any more. What I have got to think of is what is best.' 'Edith, you don't care for me. I'd better go away.' He turned away; he had tears in his eyes. 'Oh, don't, Aylmer! You know I do!' 'I'm not going to let Mrs Ottley know anything about it for the present.' 'You're not going to tell her?' 'Oh, Edith, don't be a fool! You're throwing away our happiness when you've got it in your hand.' 'Edith, you're beyond me,' said Aylmer. 'I give up understanding you.' She stood up again and looked out of the window. 'And you'll take him back? You have no pride, Edith.' 'Oh, good God! I haven't patience with all this hair-splitting nonsense. Brotherly husbands who run away with other girls, and beg you to divorce them; sisterly wives who forgive them and stick to them against their will ' He suddenly stopped, and held out his hand. 'Forgive me, Edith. I believe whatever you say is right. Will you forgive me?' 'You see, it's chiefly on account of the children. If it weren't for them I _would_ take advantage of this to be happy with you. At least--no--I'm not sure that I would; not if I thought it would be Bruce's ruin.' 'And you don't think I'd be good to the children?' 'Good? I know you would be an angel to them! But what's the use? I tell you I can't do it.' 'I have consulted _you_,' she said, with a slight smile. 'You take no notice of what I say.' 'As a matter of fact, I don't wish to consult anyone. I have made my own decision. I have written my letter.' She took it out of her bag. It was directed to Bruce, at the address he had given her in Australia. 'I suppose you won't let me read it?' he said sadly. 'I think I'd rather not,' she said. Terribly hurt, he turned to the door. 'No--no, you shall read it!' she exclaimed. 'But don't say anything, make no remark about it. You shall read it because I trust you, because I really care for you.' 'Perhaps I oughtn't to,' he said. 'No, dear; keep it to yourself.' His delicacy had revived and he was ashamed of his jealousy. But now she insisted on showing it to him, and he read: 'I'm not going to reproach you, for if you don't feel the claims of others on you, my words will make no difference. 'Remember, whenever you like to come back, you will be welcomed, and nothing shall ever be said about it.' Aylmer gave her back the letter. He was touched. 'You see,' she said eagerly, 'I haven't got a grain of jealousy. All that part is quite finished. That's the very reason why I can judge calmly.' She fastened up the letter, and then said with a smile: 'And now, let's be happy the rest of the summer. Won't you?' He answered that she was _impayable_--marvellous--that he would help her--devote himself to doing whatever she wished. On consideration he saw that there was still hope. 'Never, Edith!' exclaimed Vincy, fixing his eyeglass in his eye, and opening his mouth in astonishment. 'Never! Well, I'm gormed!' Edith had asked Aylmer to try and forget what had happened--to make himself believe that Bruce had really only gone away medicinally. For the present, he did as she wished, but he was longing to begin talking to her on the subject again, both because it interested him passionately from the psychological point of view, and far more, naturally, because he had hopes of persuading her in time. She was not bound by letter; she could change her mind. Bruce might and possibly would, insist. Edith told him that she had run away with a married man. 'Never, Edith!' he exclaimed. 'Who would have thought it! It seems almost too good to be true!' 'Don't say that, Vincy.' 'But how did you hear it? You know everything.' 'I heard it on good authority. I _know_ it's true.' 'And to think I was passing the remark only the other day that I thought I ought to look her up, in a manner of speaking, or write, _or something_,' continued Vincy; 'and who _is_ the poor dear man? Do you know?' He looked at her with a sudden vague suspicion of he knew not what. 'Bruce was always inclined to be romantic, you know,' she said steadily. 'Yes, that's it; I didn't want anyone to know about it. I'm so afraid of making Mrs Ottley unhappy.' 'But you're not serious, Edith?' 'I suppose I'd better show you his letter. He tells me to ask your advice.' 'I'm not jealous,' said Edith. 'My last trouble with Bruce seems to have cured me of any feeling of the kind. But I have a sort of pity and affection for him still in a way--almost like a mother! I'm really afraid he will be miserable with her, and then he'll feel tied to her and be wretched all his life. So I'm giving him a chance.' He looked at her with admiring sympathy. 'But what about other friends?' 'Edith, I'm awfully sorry; I wish I'd married her now, then she wouldn't have bothered about Bruce.' 'But you can't stand her, Vincy.' 'I know, Edith dear; but I'd marry any number of people to prevent anything tiresome for you. And Aylmer, of course--Edith, really, I think Aylmer ought to go away; I'm sure he ought. It is a mistake to let him stay here under these circumstances.' 'Why?' said Edith. 'I don't see that; if I were going to take Bruce at his word, then it would be different, of course.' 'How can life be like a play? It's hopeless to attempt it,' she said rather sadly. 'Edith, do you think if Bruce knew--how much you liked Aylmer--he would have written that letter?' 'No. And I don't believe he would ever have gone away.' 'Still, I think you ought to send Aylmer away now.' 'Why?' she repeated. 'Nothing could be more intensely correct. Mrs Ottley's staying with me--why shouldn't I have the pleasure of seeing Aylmer because Bruce is having a heavenly time on board ship?' 'I suppose there's that point of view,' said Vincy, rather bewildered. 'I say, Edith!' 'About Bruce having a heavenly time on board ship--a--she always grumbles; she's always complaining. She's never, never satisfied She keeps on making scenes.' 'Yes. But I suppose if there's a certain predicament--then--Oh, Edith--are you unhappy?' During these summer days Aylmer was not so peacefully happy. His devotion was assiduous, silent, discreet, and sometimes his feelings were almost uncontrollable, but he hoped; and he consoled himself by the thought that some day he would really have his wish--anything might happen; the chances were all in his favour. What an extraordinary woman she was--and how pretty--how subtle; how perfect their life might be together He implored Vincy to use his influence. 'I can't see Edith in anything so crude as the--as--that court,' Vincy said. 'But Bruce begs her to do it. What could their life be together afterwards? It's simply a deliberate sacrifice.' So the children played and enjoyed themselves, and sometimes asked after their father, and Mrs Ottley, though a little anxious, enjoyed herself too, and Edith had never been so happy. She was having a holiday. She dismissed all trouble and lived in a sort of dream. Towards the end of the summer, hearing no more from Bruce, Aylmer grew still more hopeful; he began to regard it as practically settled. The next letter in answer to Edith's would doubtless convince her, and he would then persuade her; it was, tacitly, he thought, almost agreed now; it was not spoken of between them, but he believed it was all right Aylmer had come back to London in the early days of September and was wandering through his house thinking how he would have it done up and how he wouldn't leave it when they were married, when a telephone message summoned him to Knightsbridge. He went, and found the elder Mrs Ottley just going away. He thought she looked at him rather strangely. 'I think Edith wants to speak to you,' she said, as she left the room. 'Dear Edith! Be nice to her.' And she fled. Aylmer waited alone, looking round the room that he loved because he associated it with her. A chill presentiment struck to his heart. 'You've had a letter? Go on; don't keep me in suspense.' He spoke with nervous impatience, and no self-restraint. She sat down by him. She had no wish to create an effect, but she found it difficult to speak. 'All right!' said Aylmer, getting up. 'Let him come. Forgive him again, that's right! Would you have done that for _me_?' 'I quite believe it. But why?' 'Because I care for you too much. If you had been in Bruce's position I should never have seen you again. With him it's different. It's a feeling of--it's for him, not for me. I've felt no jealousy, no passion, so I could judge calmly.' 'All right,' repeated Aylmer ironically; 'all right! Judge calmly! Do the right thing. You know best.' He stopped a moment, and then said, taking his hat: 'I understand now. I see clearly at last. You've had the opportunity and you wouldn't take it; you don't care for me. I'm going.' He went to the door. 'Oh, come back, Aylmer! Don't go like that! You know I care for you, but what could I do? I foresaw this You know, I can't feel _no_ responsibility about Bruce. I couldn't make my happiness out of someone else's misery. He would have been miserable and, not only that, it would have been his ruin. Bruce could never be safe, happy, or all right, except here.' 'And you think he'll alter, now, be grateful and devoted, I suppose--appreciate you?' 'Do people alter?' she answered. 'I neither know nor care if he will, but you? I could have made you happy. You won't let me. Oh, Edith, how could you torture me like this all the summer?' 'Yes. But it makes this so much harder.' 'It would be such a risk!' she answered. 'But is anything worth having unless you're ready to risk every-thing to get it?' 'I _would_ risk everything, for myself. But not for others If you feel you want to go away,' she said, 'let it be only for a little while.' 'A little while! I hope I shall _never_ see you again! Do you think I'm such a miserable fool--do you think I could endure the position of a tame cat? You forget I'm a man! No; I'll never see you again now, not if it kills me!' 'No, you've chosen. You _have_ been cruel to me, and you're too good to him. But I suppose you must carry out your own nature, Edith. I've been the victim. That's all.' 'And won't you be friends?' she said. 'No. I won't and I can't.' 'If you'll change your mind--you still can--we can still be happy. We can be everything to each other Give him up. Give him up.' 'I can't,' said Edith. Intellectual Sympathy 'What are you going to wear tonight, Edith?' 'Don't say anything. I don't wish you to wear anything. I'm anxious you should look your best, really nice, especially as we haven't been to the Mitchells' for so long. Wear your new blue dress.' Bruce got up and walked across the room and looked in the glass. 'Certainly, I'm a bit sunburnt,' he remarked thoughtfully. 'But it doesn't suit me badly, not really badly; does it?' 'I'll see about it.' 'Don't let me have to speak about it again, will you? I wonder who will be at the Mitchells' tonight?' 'Miss Mooney! I hope not! I can't stand that woman. I think she's absurd; she's a mass of affectation and prudishness. And--Edith!' 'I don't want to interfere between mother and daughter--I know you're perfectly capable and thoroughly well suited to bringing up a girl, but I really do think you're encouraging Dilly in too great extravagance.' 'I found her making a pinafore for her doll out of a lace flounce of real old Venetian lace. Dilly said she found it on the floor. 'On the floor, indeed,' I said to her. 'You mustn't use real lace!' She said, 'Why not? It's a real doll!' Lately Dilly's got a way of answering back that I don't like at all. Speak to her about it, will you, Edith?' 'Oh yes, of course I will.' Bruce complained very much of the dullness of the early autumn in London without Aylmer. This sudden mania for long journeys on Aylmer's part was a most annoying hobby. He would never get such a pleasant friend as Aylmer again. Aylmer was his hero. 'Why do you think he's gone away?' he rather irritatingly persisted. 'I haven't the slightest idea.' 'Why, I have a sort of idea,' he looked away, 'that Aylmer might--well, might have proposed to you!' 'Oh! _What_ an extraordinary idea!' 'But he never did show any sign whatever, I suppose of--well, of--being more interested in you than he ought to have been?' 'Oh, of course, I know that--you're not his style. You liked him very much, didn't you, Edith? ' 'I like him very much now.' 'It would have been a very unfair advantage to take of my absence if he had,' continued Bruce. 'But he was incapable of it, of course.' 'Mr Vincy!' announced the servant. Vincy had not lost his extraordinary gift for turning up at the right moment. He was more welcome than ever now.	redpajama-book	33,254
Produced by Ted Garvin, Josephine Paolucci and PG Distributed Proofreaders Other Books by the Same Author: "Journeys to Bagdad" _Sixth printing_. "Chimney-Pot Papers" _Third printing_. Illustrated by Theodore Diedricksen, Jr. TO MY FATHER AND MOTHER I. There's Pippins and Cheese to Come II. On Buying Old Books III. Any Stick Will Do to Beat a Dog IV. Roads of Morning V. The Man of Grub Street Comes from His Garret VI. Now that Spring is Here VII. The Friendly Genii VIII. Mr. Pepys Sits in the Pit IX. To an Unknown Reader X. A Plague of All Cowards XI. The Asperities of the Early British Reviewers XII. The Pursuit of Fire THERE'S PIPPINS AND CHEESE TO COME There's Pippins and Cheese To Come In my noonday quest for food, if the day is fine, it is my habit to shun the nearer places of refreshment. I take the air and stretch myself. Like Eve's serpent I go upright for a bit. Yet if time presses, there may be had next door a not unsavory stowage. A drinking bar is nearest to the street where its polished brasses catch the eye. It holds a gilded mirror to such red-faced nature as consorts within. Yet you pass the bar and come upon a range of tables at the rear. Nor are you led off because a near-by stairway beckons you to a Chinese restaurant up above. A golden dragon swings over the door. Its race has fallen since its fire-breathing grandsire guarded the fruits of the Hesperides. Are not "soys" and "chou meins" and other such treasures of the East laid out above? And yet the dragon dozes at its post like a sleepy dog. No flame leaps up its gullet. The swish of its tail is stilled. If it wag at all, it's but in friendship or because a gust of wind has stirred it from its dreams. But by what sad chance have these blithe fellows been disjointed? If a gloomy mood prevails in you--as might come from a bad turn of the market--you fancy that the evil daughter of Herodias still lives around the corner, and that she has set out her victims to the general view. If there comes a hurdy-gurdy on the street and you cock your ear to the tune of it, you may still hear the dancing measure of her wicked feet. Or it is possible that these are the kindred of Holofernes and that they have supped guiltily in their tents with a sisterhood of Judiths. A fine dinner is lost within me. A quail is but an inferior chicken--a poor relation outside the exclusive hennery. Terrapin sits low in my regard, even though it has wallowed in the most aristocratic marsh. Through such dinners I hack and saw my way without even gaining a memory of my progress. If asked the courses, I balk after the recital of the soup. Indeed, I am so forgetful of food, even when I dine at home, that I can well believe that Adam when he was questioned about the apple was in real confusion. He had or he had not. It was mixed with the pomegranate or the quince that Eve had sliced and cooked on the day before. I am partial to picnics--the spreading of the cloth in the woods or beside a stream--although I am not avid for sandwiches unless hunger press me. Rather, let there be a skillet in the company and let a fire be started! Nor need a picnic consume the day. In summer it requires but the late afternoon, with such borrowing of the night as is necessary for the journey home. You leave the street car, clanking with your bundles like an itinerant tinman. You follow a stream, which on these lower stretches, it is sad to say, is already infected with the vices of the city. Like many a countryman who has come to town, it has fallen to dissipation. It shows the marks of the bottle. Further up, its course is cleaner. You cross it in the mud. Was it not Christian who fell into the bog because of the burden on his back? Then you climb a villainously long hill and pop out upon an open platform above the city. And now that I have climbed and won this height, I must tread downward through the sloping shade And travel the bewildered tracks till night. Yet for this hour I still may here be stayed And see the gold air and the silver fade And the last bird fly into the last light. And now as time went on, the richness of the food did somewhat dominate his person. The girth of his wisdom grew no less, but his body fattened. In a word, the good gentleman's palate came to vie with his intellect. Less often was he engaged upon some dark saying of Isidore of Seville. Rather, even if his favorite topic astrology were uppermost about the table, his eye travelled to the pantry on every change of dishes. His fingers, too, came to curl most delicately on his fork. He used it like an epicure, poking his viands apart for sharpest scrutiny. His nod upon a compote was much esteemed. The following morning, Sir Kenelm's son posted to London bearing the recipes, with a pistol in the pocket of his great coat against the crossing of Hounslow Heath. He went to a printer at the Star in Little Britain whose name was H. Brome. Shortly the book appeared. It was the son who wrote the preface: "There needs no Rhetoricating Floscules to set it off. The Authour, as is well known, having been a Person of Eminency for his Learning, and of Exquisite Curiosity in his Researches. Even that Incomparable Sir Kenelme Digbie Knight, Fellow of the Royal Society and Chancellour to the Queen Mother, (Et omen in Nomine) His name does sufficiently Auspicate the Work." The sale of the book is not recorded. It is supposed that the Lady Middlesex, so many of whose recipes had been used, directed that her chair be carried to the shop where the book was for sale and that she bought largely of it. The Countess of Dorset bought a copy and spelled it out word for word to her cook. As for the Lady Monmouth, she bought not a single copy, which neglect on coming to the Digbys aroused a coolness. The waiter thrusts a card beneath my nose. "Nice leg of lamb, sir?" I waved him off. "Hold a bit!" I cried. "You'll fetch me a capon in white broth as my Lady Monmouth broileth hers. Put plentiful sack in it and boil it until it simpreth!" The waiter scratched his head. "The chicken pie is good," he said. "It's our Wednesday dish." "Varlet!" I cried--then softened. "Let it be the chicken pie! But if the cook knoweth the manner that Lord Carlile does mix and pepper it, let that manner be followed to the smallest fraction of a pinch!" By some slim chance, reader, you may be the kind of person who, on a visit to a strange city, makes for a bookshop. Of course your slight temporal business may detain you in the earlier hours of the day. You sit with committees and stroke your profound chin, or you spend your talent in the market, or run to and fro and wag your tongue in persuasion. Or, if you be on a holiday, you strain yourself on the sights of the city, against being caught in an omission. The bolder features of a cathedral must be grasped to satisfy a quizzing neighbor lest he shame you later on your hearth, a building must be stuffed inside your memory, or your pilgrim feet must wear the pavement of an ancient shrine. However, these duties being done and the afternoon having not yet declined, do you not seek a bookshop to regale yourself? It was in this shop that I inquired whether there was published a book on piracy in Cornwall. Now, I had lately come from Tintagel on the Cornish coast, and as I had climbed upon the rocks and looked down upon the sea, I had wondered to myself whether, if the knowledge were put out before me, I could compose a story of Spanish treasure and pirates. For I am a prey to such giddy ambition. A foul street--if the buildings slant and topple--will set me thinking delightfully of murders. A wharf-end with water lapping underneath and bits of rope about will set me itching for a deep-sea plot. Or if I go on broader range and see in my fancy a broken castle on a hill, I'll clear its moat and sound trumpets on its walls. If there is pepper in my mood, I'll storm its dungeon. Or in a softer moment I'll trim its unsubstantial towers with pageantry and rest upon my elbow until I fall asleep. So being cast upon the rugged Cornish coast whose cliffs are so swept with winter winds that the villages sit for comfort in the hollows, it was to be expected that my thoughts would run toward pirates. With this guilty secret in me I blushed as I asked the question. It seemed sure that the shopkeeper must guess my purpose. I felt myself suspected as though I were a rascal buying pistols to commit a murder. Indeed, I seem to remember having read that even hardened criminals have become confused before a shopkeeper and betrayed themselves. Of course, Dick Turpin and Jerry Abershaw could call for pistols in the same easy tone they ordered ale, but it would take a practiced villainy. But I in my innocence wanted nothing but the meager outline of a pirate's life, which I might fatten to my uses. But on a less occasion, when there is no plot thumping in me, I still feel a kind of embarrassment when I ask for a book out of the general demand. I feel so like an odd stick. This embarrassment applies not to the request for other commodities. I will order a collar that is quite outside the fashion, in a high-pitched voice so that the whole shop can hear. I could bargain for a purple waistcoat--did my taste run so--and though the sidewalk listened, it would not draw a blush. I have traded even for women's garments--though this did strain me--without an outward twitch. Finally, to top my valor, I have bought sheet music of the lighter kind and have pronounced the softest titles so that all could hear. But if I desire the poems of Lovelace or the plays of Marlowe, I sidle close up to the shopkeeper to get his very ear. If the book is visible, I point my thumb at it without a word. On leaving the shop, lest I should be nipped in a neglect, I visited the Roman baths. Then I took the waters in the Assembly Room. It was Sam Weller, you may recall, who remarked, when he was entertained by the select footmen, that the waters tasted like warm flat-irons. Finally, I viewed the Crescent around which the shirted Winkle ran with the valorous Dowler breathing on his neck. With such distractions, as you may well imagine, Cornish pirates became as naught. Such mental vibration as I had was now gone toward a tale of fashion in the days when Queen Anne was still alive. Of a consequence, I again sought the bookshop and stifling my timidity, I demanded such volumes as might set me most agreeably to my task. Any Stick Will Do To Beat A Dog Frankly, I would enjoy the country more, if I knew that all the dogs were away on visits. Of course, the highroad is quite safe. Its frequent traffic is its insurance. Then, too, the barns are at such a distance, it is only a monstrous anger can bring the dog. But if you are in need of direction you select a friendly white house with green shutters. You swing open the gate and crunch across the pebbles to the door. To the nearer eye there is a look of "dog" about the place. Or maybe you are hot and thirsty, and there is a well at the side of the house. Is it better to gird yourself to danger or to put off your thirst until the crossroads where pop is sold? Or a lane leads down to the river. Even at this distance you hear the shallow brawl of water on the stones. A path goes off across a hill, with trees beckoning at the top. There is a wind above and a wider sweep of clouds. Surely, from the crest of the hill the whole county will lie before you. Such tunes as come up from the world below--a school-bell, a rooster crowing, children laughing on the road, a threshing machine on the lower meadows--such tunes are pitched to a marvellous softness. Shall we follow the hot pavement, or shall we dare those lonely stretches? But these golden days are past. Tunbridge Wells has sunk from fashion. The gaming tables are gone. A band still plays mornings in the Pantilles--or did so before the war--but cheaper gauds are offered in the shops. Emerald brooches are fallen to paste. In all the season there is scarcely a single demand for a diamond garter. If there were now a Rout, the only dancers would be stiff shadows from the past. The healing waters still trickle from the ground and an old woman serves you for a penny, but the miracle has gone. The old world is cured and dead. "Did you hear her last night?" "Was it Flossie that I heard?" "Yes. The poor dear was awake all night. She got her feet wet yesterday when I let her run upon the grass." The poppy blooms and fades. The maid captures the ball of worsted and restores it. It lies in the widow's lap. The band plays. The needles click to a long tune. The healing waters trickle from the ground. The old woman whines their merits. Flossie sits motionless, her head cocked and her eye upon the ball. Perhaps the god of puppies will again be good to her. The lake lay to the north with no land beyond, the city to the east. But to the west- Several miles outside the city as it then was, and still beyond its clutches, the country was cut by a winding river bottom with sharp edges of shale. Down this valley Rocky River came brawling in the spring, over-fed and quarrelsome. Later in the year--its youthful appetite having caught an indigestion--it shrunk and wasted to a shadow. By August you could cross it on the stones. The uproar of its former flood was marked upon the shale and trunks of trees here and there were wedged, but now the river plays drowsy tunes upon the stones. There is scarcely enough movement of water to flick the sunlight. A leaf on its idle current is a lazy craft whose skipper nods. There were hickory trees on the point above. May-apples grew in the deep woods, and blackberries along the fences. And in the season sober horses plowed up and down the fields with nodding heads, affirming their belief in the goodness of the soil and their willingness to help in its fruition. Beyond Kamm's Corners you came to the great valley. When almost down the hill you passed a house with broken windows and unkept grass. This house, by report, was haunted, but you could laugh at such tales while the morning sun was up. At the bottom of the hill a bridge crossed the river, with loose planking that rattled as though the man who made nails was dead. My grandfather in those days had much leisure time. He still kept an office at the rear of the house, although he had given up the regular practice of the law. But a few old clients lingered on, chiefly women who carried children in their arms and old men without neckties who came to him for free advice. These he guided patiently in their troubles, and he would sit an hour to listen to a piteous story. In an extremity he gave them money, or took a well-meant but worthless note. Often his callers overran the dinner hour and my mother would have to jingle the dinner bell at the door to rouse them. Occasionally he would be called on for a public speech, and for several days he would be busy at his desk. Frequently he presided at dinners and would tell a story and sing a song, for he had a fine bass voice and was famous for his singing. He read much in those last years in science. When he was not reading Trowbridge to his grandchildren, it was Huxley to himself. But when his eyes grew tired, he would on an occasion--if there was canning in the house--go into the kitchen where my mother and grandmother worked, and help pare the fruit. Seriously, as though he were engaged upon a game, he would cut the skin into thinnest strips, unbroken to the end, and would hold up the coil for us to see. Or if he broke it in the cutting it was a point against him in the contest. It was seldom that Dolly lost her restraint. She would, indeed, when she came near the stable, somewhat hasten her stride; and when we came on our drives to the turning point and at last headed about for home, Dolly would know it and show her knowledge by a quickening of the ears and the quiver of a faint excitement. Yet Dolly lost her patience when there were flies. Then she threw off all repression and so waved her tail that she regularly got it across the reins. This stirred my grandfather to something not far short of anger. How vigorously would he try to dislodge the reins by pulling and jerking! Dolly only clamped down her tail the harder. Experience showed that the only way was to go slowly and craftily and without heat or temper--a slackening of the reins--a distraction of Dolly's attention--a leaning across the dashboard--a firm grasping of the tail out near the end--a sudden raising thereof. Ah! It was done. We all settled back against the cushions. Or perhaps a friendly fly would come to our assistance and Dolly would have to use her tail in another direction. When he took his afternoon nap and lay upon his back on the sofa in the sitting-room, we made paper pin-wheels to see whether his breath would stir them. This trick having come to his notice by a sudden awakening, he sometimes thereafter played to be asleep and snored in such a mighty gust that the wheels spun. He was like a Dutch tempest against a windmill. But the best holiday was a trip to the farm. This farm--to which in our slow trot we have been so long a time in coming--lay for a mile on the upper land, and its grain fields and pastures looked down into the valley. The buildings, however, were set close to the road and fixed their interest on such occasional wagons as creaked by. A Switzer occupied the farm, who owned, in addition to the more immediate members of his family, a cuckoo clock whose weights hung on long cords which by Saturday night reached almost to the floor. When I have sat at his table, I have neglected cheese and the lesser foods, when the hour came near, in order not to miss the cuckoo's popping out. And in the duller spaces, when the door was shut, I have fancied it sitting in the dark and counting the minutes to itself. And now, although it is not yet noon, hunger rages in us. The pancakes, the syrup, the toast and the other incidents of breakfast have disappeared the way the rabbit vanishes when the magician waves his hand. The horrid Polyphemus did not so crave his food. And as yet there is no comforting sniff from the kitchen. Scrubbing and other secular matters engage the farmer's wife. There is as yet not a faintest gurgle in the kettle. Ah! At last! My grandfather is calling from the house. We run back and find that the lunch is ready and is laid upon a table with a red oil-cloth cover. We apply ourselves. Silence The sky flames with color. Then deadens in the east. The dusk is falling. The roads grow dark. Where run the roads of night? While there is light, you can see the course they keep across the country--the dust of horses' feet--a bridge--a vagrant winding on a hill beyond. All day long they are busy with the feet of men and women and children shouting. Then twilight comes, and the roads lead home to supper and the curling smoke above the roof. But at night where run the roads? It's dark beyond the candle's flare--where run the roads of night. My brother and I have become sleepy. We lop over against my grandfather- We awake with a start. There is a gayly lighted horse-car jingling beside us. The street lights show us into harbor. We are home at last. The Man Of Grub Street Comes From His Garret The park seems to be freer and more natural than the streets outside. A man goes by gesticulating as though he practiced for a speech. A woman adjusts her stocking on the coping below the fence with the freedom of a country road. A street sweeper, patched to his office, tunes his slow work to fit the quiet surroundings. Boys skate by or cut swirls upon the pavement in the privilege of a playground. Now that Spring is here It is on such a bright Spring morning that the housewife, duster in hand, throws open her parlor window and looks upon the street. A pleasant park is below, of the size of a city square, and already it stirs with the day's activity. The housewife beats her cloth upon the sill and as the dust flies off, she hears the cries and noises of the place. In a clear tenor she is admonished that there is an expert hereabouts to grind her knives. A swarthy baritone on a wagon lifts up his voice in praise of radishes and carrots. His eye roves along the windows. The crook of a hungry finger will bring him to a stand. Or a junkman is below upon his business. Yesterday the bells upon his cart would have sounded sour, but this morning they rattle agreeably, as though a brisker cow than common, springtime in her hoofs, were jangling to her pasture. At the sound--if you are of country training--you see yourself, somewhat misty through the years, barefoot in a grassy lane, with stick in hand, urging the gentle beast. There is a subtle persuasion in the junkman's call. In these tones did the magician, bawling for old lamps, beguile Aladdin. If there were this morning in my lodging an unrubbed lamp, I would toss it from the window for such magic as he might extract from it. And if a fair Princess should be missing at the noon and her palace be skipped from sight, it will follow on the rubbing of it. The call of red cherries in the park--as you might guess from its Italian source--is set to an amorous tune. What lady, smocked in morning cambric, would not be wooed by such a voice? The gay fellow tempts her to a purchase. It is but a decent caution--now that Spring is here--that the rascal does not call his wares by moonlight. As for early peas this morning, it is Pan himself who peddles them--disguised and smirched lest he be caught in the deception--Pan who stamps his foot and shakes the thicket--whose habit is to sing with reedy voice of the green willows that dip in sunny waters. Although he now clatters his tins and baskets and cries out like a merchant, his thoughts run to the black earth and the shady hollows and the sound of little streams. I like these persons who ply their trades upon the sidewalk. My hatter--the fellow who cleans my straw hat each Spring--is a partner of a bootblack. Over his head as he putters with his soap and brushes, there hangs a rusty sign proclaiming that he is famous for his cleaning all round the world. He is so modest in his looks that I have wondered whether he really can read the sign. Or perhaps like a true merchant, he is not squeamish at the praise. As I have not previously been aware that any of his profession ever came to general fame except the Mad Hatter of Wonderland, I have squinted sharply at him to see if by chance it might be he, but there are no marks even of a distant kinship. He does, however, bring my hat to a marvellous whiteness and it may be true that he has really tended heads that are now gone beyond Constantinople. I beg, therefore, that when you walk upon the street on the next day of April fool, that you yield to the occasion. If an urchin points his finger at your hat, humor him by removing it! Look sharply at it for a supposed defect! His glad shout will be your reward. Or if you are begged piteously to lift a stand-pipe wrapped to the likeness of a bundle, even though you sniff the imposture, seize upon it with a will! It is thus, beneath these April skies, that you play your part in the pageantry that marks the day. A cousin and I were joint proprietors. In the making of it, the hammer and nails were mine by right of sex, while she stitched in womanish fashion on the fabrics. She was leading woman and I was either the hero or the villain as fitted to my mood. My younger cousin--although we scorned her for her youth--was admitted to the slighter parts. She might daub herself with cork, but it must be only when we were done. Nor did we allow her to carry the paper knife--shaped like a dagger--which figured hugely in our plots. If we gave her any word to speak, it was as taffy to keep her silent about some iniquity that we had worked against her. In general, we judged her to be too green and giddy for the heavy parts. At the most, she might take pins at the door--for at such a trifle we displayed our talents--or play upon the comb as orchestra before the rising of the curtain. The usual approach to this theatre was the kitchen door, and those who came to enjoy the drama sniffed at their very entrance the new-baked bread. A pan of cookies was set upon a shelf and a row of apples was ranged along the window sill. Of the ice-box around the corner, not a word, lest hunger lead you off! As for the cook, although her tongue was tart upon a just occasion and although she shooed the children with her apron, secretly she liked to have them crowding through her kitchen. Is there not a story in which children are tracked by an ogre through the perilous wood by the crumbs they dropped? Then let us hope there is no ogre lurking on these back stairs, for the trail is plain. It would be near the top, farthest from the friendly kitchen, that the attack might come, for there the stairs yielded to the darkness of the attic. There it was best to look sharp and to turn the corners wide. A brave whistling kept out the other noises. It was after Aladdin had been in town that the fires burned hottest in us. My grandfather and I went together to the matinee, his great thumb within my fist. We were frequent companions. Together we had sat on benches in the park and poked the gravel into patterns. We went to Dime Museums. Although his eyes had looked longer on the world than mine, we seemed of an equal age. Who knows how to dip a pen within the twilight? Who shall trace the figures of the mist? The play is done. We come out in silence. Our candy is but a remnant. Darkness has fallen. The pavements are wet and shining, so that the night might see his face, if by chance the old fellow looked our way. All about there are persons hurrying home with dinner-pails, who, by their dull eyes, seem never to have heard what wonders follow on the rubbing of a lamp. But how the fires leaped up--how ambition beat within us--how our attic theatre was wrought to perfection--how the play came off and wracked the neighborhood of its pins--with what grace I myself acted Aladdin--these things must be written by a vain and braggart pen. Mr. Pepys Sits in the Pit In life, Samuel Pepys walked gravely in majestical robe with full-bottomed wig and with ceremonial lace flapping at his wrists. Every step, if his portrait is to be believed, was a bit of pageantry. Such was his fame, that if his sword but clacked a warning on the pavement, it must have brought the apprentices to the windows. Tradesmen laid down their wares to get a look at him. Fat men puffed and strained to gain the advantage of a sill. Fashionable ladies peeped from brocaded curtains and ogled for his regard. Or if he went by chair, the carriers held their noses up as though offended by the common air. When he spoke before the Commons, the galleries were hushed. He gave his days to the signing of stiff parchments--Admiralty Orders or what not. He checked the King himself at the council table. In short, he was not only a great personage, but also he was quite well aware of the fact and held himself accordingly. In consequence of this, Samuel Pepys is now known chiefly for his attentions to the pretty actresses of Drury Lane, for kissing Nell Gwynne in her tiring-room, for his suppers with "the jade" Mrs. Knipp, for his love of a tune upon the fiddle, for coming home from Vauxhall by wherry late at night, "singing merrily" down the river. Or perhaps we recall him best for burying his wine and Parmazan cheese in his garden at the time of the Fire, or for standing to the measure of Mr. Pin the tailor for a "camlett cloak with gold buttons," or for sitting for his portrait in an Indian gown which he "hired to be drawn in." Who shall say that this is not the very portrait by which we have fancied him stalking off to Commons? Could the apprentices have known in what a borrowed majesty he walked, would they not have tossed their caps in mirth and pointed their dusky fingers at him? Consequently, despite the weightier parts of the diary, we know Pepys chiefly in his hours of ease. Sittings and consultations are so dry. If only the world would run itself decently and in silence! Even a meeting of the Committee for Tangier--when the Prince of Wales was present and such smaller fry as Chancellors--is dull and is matter for a skipping eye. If some of the weightier parts are somewhat dry, there are places in which a lighter show of personality is coincident with real historical data. Foremost are the pages where Pepys goes to the theatre. "Would it fit your humor," asks Mr. Pepys, when we have been handed to our seats, "would it fit your humor, if we go around to the Rose Tavern for some burnt wine and a breast of mutton off the spit? It's sure that some brave company will fall in, and we can have a tune. We'll not heed the bellman. We'll sit late, for it will be a fine light moonshine morning." To an Unknown Reader I do not know to what I can attribute my timidity. Possibly it arises from the fact that until recently my writing met with uniform rejection and failure. For years I wrote secretly in order that few persons might know how miserably I failed. I answered upon a question that I had given up the practice, that I now had no time for it, that I scribbled now and then but always burned it. All that while I gave my rare leisure and my stolen afternoons--the hours that other men give to golf and sleep and sitting together--these hours I gave to writing. On a holiday I was at it early. On Saturday when other folks were abroad, I sat at my desk. It was my grief that I was so poor a borrower of the night that I blinked stupidly on my papers if I sat beyond the usual hour. Writing was my obsession. I need no pity for my failures, for although I tossed my cap upon a rare acceptance, my deeper joy was in the writing. That joy repeated failures could not blunt. But perhaps, reader, we are brothers in these regards. Perhaps you, too, have faded papers. Or possibly, even on a recent date, you sighed your soul into an essay or a sonnet, and you now have manuscript which you would like to sell. Do not mistake me! I am not an editor, nor am I an agent for these wares. Rather I speak as a friend who, having many such hidden sorrows, offers you a word of comfort. To a desponding Hamlet I exclaim, "'Tis common, my Lord." I have so many friends that have had an unproductive fling toward letters, that I think the malady is general. So many books are published and flourish a little while in their bright wrappers, but yours and theirs and mine waste away in a single precious copy. These things you have committed. Good sir, we are of a common piece. Let us salute as brothers! And therefore, as to a comrade, I bid you continue in your ways. And that you may not lack matter for your pen, I warmly urge you, when by shrewdest computation you have exhausted the plots of adventure and have worn your villains thin, that you proceed in quieter vein. I urge you to an April mood, for the winds of Spring are up and daffodils nod across the garden. There is black earth in the Spring and green hilltops, and there is also the breath of flowers along the fences and the sound of water for your pen to prattle of. A Plague of All Cowards But I am not disposed toward any of these subjects, least of all the cat, upon which I look--despite the coldness of her nature--as a harmless and comforting appendage of the hearth-rug. I would no more prey upon her morals than I would the morals of the andirons. I choose, rather, to slip to another angle of the question and say a few words about cowards, among whom I have already confessed that I number myself. And yet--really I hesitate. I blush. My attack will be too intimate; for I have confessed that I am not the very button on the cap of bravery. I have indeed stiffened myself to ride a horse, a mightier feat than driving him because of the tallness of the monster and his uneasy movement, as though his legs were not well socketed and might fall out on a change of gaits. I have ridden on a camel in a side-show, but have found my only comfort in his hump. I have stroked the elephant. In a solemn hour of night I have gone downstairs to face a burglar. But I do not run singing to these dangers. While your really brave fellow is climbing a dizzy staircase to the moon--I write in figure--I would shake with fear upon a lower platform. Perhaps you recall Mr. Tipp of the Elia essays. "Tipp," says his pleasant biographer, "never mounted the box of a stage-coach in his life; or leaned against the rails of a balcony; or walked upon the ridge of a parapet; or looked down a precipice; or let off a gun." I cannot follow Tipp, it may be, to his extreme tremors--my hair will not rise to so close a likeness of the fretful porcupine--yet in a measure we are in agreement. We are, as it were, cousins, with the mark of our common family strong on both of us. The bravery of this kind of person is not confined to these few matters. If you happen to go driving with him, he will--if the horse is of the kind that distends his nostrils--on a sudden toss you the reins and leave you to guard him while he dispatches an errand. If it were a motor car there would be a brake to hold it. If it were a boat, you might throw out an anchor. A butcher's cart would have a metal drag. But here you sit defenseless--tied to the whim of a horse--greased for a runaway. The beast Dobbin turns his head and holds you with his hard eye. There is a convulsive movement along his back, a preface, it may be, to a sudden seizure. A real friend would have loosed the straps that run along the horse's flanks. Then, if any deviltry take him, he might go off alone and have it out. There was such a picture on the wall of the stable. "Have you any horses," I asked nervously, jerking my thumb toward the wall, "any horses that have been fed on just ordinary food? Some that are a little tired?" "'He don't shy, does he?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. But how Mr. Pickwick dropped his whip, how Mr. Winkle got off his tall horse to pick it up, how he tried in vain to remount while his horse went round and round, how they were all spilt out upon the bridge and how finally they walked to Manor Farm--these things are known to everybody with an inch of reading. "'How far is it to Dingley Dell?' they asked. "'Is it a good road?' "The depressed Pickwickians turned moodily away, with the tall quadruped, for which they all felt the most unmitigated disgust, following slowly at their heels." "Have you any horses," I repeated, "that have not been fed on Blat's Food--horses that are, so to speak, on a diet?" The Asperities of the Early British Reviewers It was in this dark hour of English history that the writers polished their brasses and set up as Persons. And if the leading articles that they wrote of mornings stung and snapped with venom, it is natural that the book reviews on which they spent their afternoons had also some vinegar in them, especially if they concerned books written by those of the opposition. And other writers, even if they had no political connection, borrowed their manners from those who had. It was the animosities of party politics that set the general tone. Billingsgate that had grown along the wharves of the lower river, was found to be of service in Parliament and gave a spice and sparkle even to a book review. Presently a large part of literary England wore the tags of political preference. Writers were often as clearly distinguished as were the ladies in the earlier day, when Addison wrote his paper on party patches. There were seats of Moral Philosophy to be handed out, under-secretaryships, consular appointments. It is not enough to say that Francis Jeffrey was a reviewer, he was as well a Whig and was running a Review that was Whig from the front cover to the back. Leigh Hunt was not merely a poet, for he was also a radical, and therefore in the opinions of Tories, a believer in immorality and indecency. No matter how innocent a title might appear, it was held in suspicion, on the chance that it assailed the Ministry or endangered the purity of England. William Gifford was more than merely the editor of the Quarterly Review, for he was as well a Tory editor whose duty it was to pry into Whiggish roguery. Lockhart and Wilson, who wrote in Blackwood's, were Tories tooth and nail, biting and scratching for party. Nowadays, literature, having found the public to be its most profitable patron, works hard and even abjectly for its favor. Although there are defects in the arrangement, it must be confessed that the divorce of literature from politics contributes to the general peace of the household. Francis Jeffrey wrote this, and Moore challenged him to fight. The police interfered, and as Jeffrey put it, "the affair ended amicably. We have since breakfasted together very lovingly. He has expressed penitence for what he has written and declared that he will never again apply any little talents he may possess to such purpose: and I have said that I shall be happy to praise him whenever I find that he has abjured these objectionable topics." It was Sydney Smith who said of Jeffrey he would "damn the solar system--bad light--planets too distant--pestered with comets. Feeble contrivance--could make a better with great ease." Jeffrey reviewed Wordsworth and found in the "Lyrical Ballads" "vulgarity, affectation and silliness." He is alarmed, moreover, lest his "childishness, conceit and affectation" spread to other authors. He proposes a poem to be called "Elegiac Stanzas to a Sucking Pig," and of "Alice Fell" he writes that "if the publishing of such trash as this be not felt as an insult on the public taste, we are afraid it cannot be insulted." When the "White Doe of Rylstone" was published--no prime favorite, I confess, of my own--Jeffrey wrote that it had the merit of being the very worst poem he ever saw imprinted in a quarto volume. "It seems to us," he wrote, "to consist of a happy union of all the faults, without any of the beauties, which belong to his school of poetry. It is just such a work, in short, as some wicked enemy of that, school might be supposed to have devised, on purpose to make it ridiculous." As long as Jeffrey hoped to enlist Southey to write for the Edinburgh Review, he treated him with some favor. But Southey took up with the Quarterly. "The Laureate," says the Edinburgh presently, "has now been out of song for a long time: But we had comforted ourselves with the supposition that he was only growing fat and lazy The strain, however, of this publication, and indeed of some that went before it, makes us apprehensive that a worse thing has befallen him that the worthy inditer of epics is falling gently into dotage." Now for the Quarterly Review, if by chance it can show an equal spleen! Leigh Hunt's "Rimini" the Quarterly finds to be an "ungrammatical, unauthorized, chaotic jargon, such as we believe was never before spoken, much less written We never," concludes the reviewer, "in so few lines saw so many clear marks of the vulgar impatience of a low man, conscious and ashamed of his wretched vanity, and labouring, with coarse flippancy, to scramble over the bounds of birth and education, and fidget himself into the stout-heartedness of being familiar with a Lord." In a later review, Hunt is a propounder of atheism. "Henceforth," says the reviewer, " he may slander a few more eminent characters, he may go on to deride venerable and holy institutions, he may stir up more discontent and sedition, but he will have no peace of mind within he will live and die unhonoured in his own generation, and, for his own sake it is to be hoped, moulder unknown in those which are to follow." Hazlitt belongs to a "class of men by whom literature is more than at any period disgraced." His style is suited for washerwomen, a "class of females with whom he and his friend Mr. Hunt particularly delight to associate." Of Blackwood's Magazine the special victims were Keats and Hunt and Coleridge. "Mr. Coleridge," says the reviewer, " seems to believe that every tongue is wagging in his praise--that every ear is open to imbibe the oracular breathings of his inspiration no sound is so sweet to him as that of his own voice he seems to consider the mighty universe itself as nothing better than a mirror in which, with a grinning and idiot self-complacency, he may contemplate the physiognomy of Samuel Taylor Coleridge Yet insignificant as he assuredly is, he cannot put pen to paper without a feeling that millions of eyes are fixed upon him " Blackwood's wrote of the "calm, settled, imperturbable, drivelling idiocy of Endymion," and elsewhere of Keats' "prurient and vulgar lines, evidently meant for some young lady east of Temple Bar It is a better and a wiser thing," it commented, "to be a starved apothecary than a starved poet; so back to the shop, Mr. John, back to 'plasters, pills and ointment boxes.'" And even when Shelley wrote his "Adonais" on the death of Keats, Blackwood's met it with a contemptible parody: "Weep for my Tom cat! all ye Tabbies weep!" Perhaps I have quoted enough. This is the parentage of our silken and flattering criticism. The pages of these old reviews rest yellow on the shelves. From them there comes a smell of rotting leather, as though the infection spreads. The hour grows late. Like the ghost of the elder Hamlet, I detect the morning to be near. "Good evening," I said, "you startled me." Without waiting for an answer, he took the poker and dealt the logs several blows. It didn't greatly help the flame, but he poked with such enjoyment that I smiled. I have myself rather a liking for stirring a fire. He set another log in place. Then he drew from his pocket a handful of dried orange peel. "I love to see it burn," he said. "It crackles and spits." He ranged the peel upon the log where the flame would get it, and then settled himself in the big chair. "Perhaps you smoke?" I asked, pushing toward him a box of cigarettes. He smiled. "I thought that you would know my habits. I don't smoke." "So you were going by and came up to see me?" I asked. "Yes. I was not sure that I would know you. You are a little older than I thought, a little--stouter, but dear me, how you have lost your hair! But you have quite forgotten me." "My dear boy," I said, "you have the advantage of me. Where have I seen you? There is something familiar about you and I am sure that I have seen that brown suit before." "Did you?" I replied. "So did I when I was a little younger than you are. Perhaps if I might see your face, I would know you." I accepted the part he offered me. "Perhaps you would like a knife and plate," I said. "I can find them in the pantry." "Not for me," he replied. "I prefer to eat mine this way." He took an enveloping bite. "I myself care nothing for plates," I said. We ate in silence. Presently: "You have my habit," I said, "of eating everything, skin, seeds and all." "Everything but the stem," he replied. By this time the orange peel was hissing and exploding. "I wonder," he said, "if that is so." He turned in his chair and faced me, although his face was still in shadow. "Doubtless, we are far different in many things. Do you swallow grape seeds?" "Hardly!" I cried. "I spit them out." "I am glad of that." He paused. "It was a breezy hilltop where I lay. I thought of you all afternoon. You are famous, of course?" "Oh, I'm so sorry. I had hoped you might be. I had counted on it. It is very disappointing. I was thinking about that as I lay on the hill. But aren't you just on the point of doing something that will make you famous?" "Dear me, I am so sorry. Do you happen to be married?" "And would you mind telling me her name?" For a moment or so he was lost in thought, and then he spoke again: "You were writing when I came into the room?" "Nothing important." The boy stopped and fixed his eyes on me. "I don't suppose that you happen to be a poet?" The boy took a turn at the fire with the poker, but it was chiefly in embarrassment. Presently he returned to his chair. He stretched his long arms upward above his head. "No, I'm not," he said. "And yet sometimes I think that I have a kind of poetry in me. Only I can't get it into words. I lay thinking about that, too, on the hillside. There was a wind above my head, and I thought that I could almost put words to the tune. But I have never written a single poem. Yet, goodness me, what thoughts I have! But they aren't real thoughts--what you would regularly call thoughts. Things go racing and tingling in my head, but I can never get them down. They are just feelings." As he spoke, the boy gazed intently through the chimney bricks out into another world. The fireplace was its portal and he seemed to wait for the fires to cool before entering into its possession. It was several moments before he spoke again. "Sometimes I get an impression of pity--a glance up a dark hallway--an old woman with a shawl upon her head--a white face at a window--a blind fiddler in the street--but the impression is gone in a moment. Or a touch of beauty gets me. It may be nothing but a street organ in the spring. Perhaps you like street organs, too?" "A little, rather sadly," I replied. "That's too bad, but perhaps you sing?" "Dear me, that's too bad. I have rather a voice myself. Well, as I was saying, when I hear those tunes, I curl up with the smoke and blow forth from the chimney. If I walk upon the street when the wind is up, and see a light fleece of smoke coming from a chimney top, I think that down below someone is listening to music that he likes, and that his thoughts ride upon the night, like those white streamers of smoke. And then I think of castles and mountains and high places and the sounds of storm. Or in fancy I see a tower that tapers to the moon with a silver gleam upon it." The boy had spoken so fast that he was out of breath. "Hold a bit!" I cried. "What you have said sounds familiar. Where could I have heard it before?" There was something almost like a sneer on the boy's face. "What a memory you have! And perhaps you recall this brown suit, too. It's ugly enough to be remembered. Now please let me finish what came to me this afternoon on the hill! Prometheus," he continued, "scaled the heavens and brought back fire to mortals. And he, as the story goes, clutched at a lightning bolt and caught but a spark. And even that, glorious. Mankind properly accredits him with a marvellous achievement. It is for this reason that I comfort myself although I have not yet written a single line of verse." "My dear fellow," I said, "please tell me where I have read something like what you have spoken?" "Assuredly. Choose your tune!" He fumbled a bit in the rack and passing some rather good music, he held up a torn and yellow sheet. "This is what I want," he said. The boy made no comment. He had sunk down in his chair until he was quite out of sight. "Well," I said, "what next?" There was no answer. I arose from the bench and glanced in his direction. "Hello," I cried, "what has become of you?" The chair was empty. I turned on all the lights. He was nowhere in sight. I shook the hangings. I looked under my desk, for perhaps the lad was hiding from me in jest. It was unlikely that he could have passed me to gain the door, but I listened at the sill for any sound upon the stairs. The hall was silent. I called without response. Somewhat bewildered I came back to the hearth. Only a few minutes before, as it seemed, there had been a brisk fire with a row of orange peel upon the upper log. Now all trace of the peel was gone and the logs had fallen to a white ash. I was standing perplexed, when I observed that a little pile of papers lay on the rug just off the end of my desk as by a careless elbow. At least, I thought, this impolite fellow has forgotten some of his possessions. It will serve him right if it is poetry that he wrote upon the hilltop. I gazed at the chimney bricks and their substance seemed to part before my eyes. I looked into a world beyond--a fabric of moonlight and hilltop and the hot fret of youth. Perhaps the boy had only been waiting for the fire upon the hearth to cool to enter this other world of his restless ambition and desire. Reader, if by chance you have the habit of writing--let us confine ourselves now to sonnets and such airy matter as rides upon the night--doubtless, you sit sometimes at your desk bare of thoughts. The juices of your intellect are parched and dry. In such plight, I beg you not to fall upon your fingers or to draw pictures on your sheet. But most vehemently, and with such emphasis as I possess, I beg you not to rummage among your rejected and broken fragments in the hope of recasting a withered thought to a present mood. Rather, before you sour and curdle, it is good to put on your hat and take your stupid self abroad. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of There's Pippins And Cheese To Come by Charles S. Brooks	redpajama-book	11,831
Produced by Imran Ghory, Stan Goodman, Josephine Paolucci and PG Distributed Proofreaders BEING NARRATIVES OF NOBLE LIVES AND BRAVE DEEDS _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_. GOOD MORNING! GOOD NIGHT! TRUE STORIES PURE AND BRIGHT. _A Great Commander on a Famous Battlefield_ THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON _Some Children of the Kingdom_ _The Victor, the Story of an Unknown Man_ _STORIES OF MEN AND WOMEN WHO HAVE BEEN STEADY WHEN "UNDER FIRE_". THE STORY OF ALICE AYRES. So rapid was the progress of the fire that, by the time the escapes reached the house, tongues of flame were shooting out from the windows, and it was impossible to place the ladders in position. The gunpowder had exploded with great violence, and casks of oil were burning with an indescribable fury. Again the people in the street called on her to save her own life; but her only answer was to go back into the fierce flames and stifling smoke, and bring out another child, which was safely transferred to the crowd below. Then, at length, she was free to think of herself. But, alas! her head was dizzy and confused, and she was no longer able to act as surely as she had hitherto done. She jumped--but, to the horror of that anxious admiring throng below, her body struck against the projecting shop-sign, and rebounded, falling with terrific force on to the hard pavement below. Her spine was so badly injured that although everything possible was done for her at Guy's Hospital, whither she was removed, she died on the following Sunday. A SLAVE TRADE WARRIOR. SOME STORIES OF SIR SAMUEL BAKER. Still, in spite of all obstacles, he made steady progress. At Sobat, situated on the Nile above Khartoum, he established a station, and had a watch kept on passing ships to see that no slaves were conveyed down the river. Soon the irons were knocked off and the poor slaves set free, to their great wonder and delight. But before long they began to suffer from want of food. The tribes round about had been set against them by the slave hunters, and would supply them with nothing; so that Baker, in the midst of plenty, seemed likely to perish of starvation. However, he soon adopted energetic measures to prevent that. Having taken official possession of the land in the name of the Khedive he seized a sufficient number of animals for his requirements. The head man of the tribe and his followers were soon buzzing about his ears like a swarm of wasps; but seeing he was not to be frightened by their threats they showed themselves ready enough in the future to supply him with cattle in return for payment. His own soldiers were nearly as troublesome as the natives. They were lazy and mutinous; the sentries went to sleep, the scouts were unreliable, they were full of complaints; whilst round about him were the natives, ready to steal, maim, and murder whenever they could get an opportunity. He therefore set his men to work to build a strong fort. They cut thick logs of wood, and planted them firmly in the ground, prepared fireproof rooms for the ammunition, and were in the course of a few days ready in case of emergency. These preparations had been made none too soon. [Illustration: Burning the king's Divan and Huts.] The fort was surrounded by thousands of natives, who kept up a continuous fire, and the bushes near at hand were full of sharp-shooters. But the fort was strong, and its defenders fought bravely; the woods were gradually cleared of sharp-shooters, and the natives, ere long, broke and fled. Then Sir Samuel sent a detachment out of the fort, and set fire to the king's divan and to the surrounding huts to teach the people a lesson for their treachery. But the place was full of foes. A poisoned spear was thrown at Sir Samuel, and every day he remained his force was in danger of destruction, so he determined to go on to King Riongo, whom he hoped would be more friendly. Then it was discovered that the country through which they had to pass was full of concealed foes. From the long grass and bushes spears were constantly hurled at them, and not a few of the men were mortally wounded. Sir Samuel saw several lances pass close to his wife's head, and he narrowly escaped being hit on various occasions. But, at last, Riongo's territory was reached. The king was friendly, and for a time they were in comparative safety. THE STORY OF CASE AND CHEW. The large gasholders, which are often a source of wonder to youthful minds as they rise and fall, are the places in which gas is stored for the use of our cities. By day, when they are generally receiving more gas than they are giving out, they rise; and again at night, when less is being pumped into them than is going out for consumption in the streets and houses, they fall. The gasholder is placed in a tank of water, so that there is no waste of gas as the huge iron holder fills or empties. Such deeds are so often done by our working men that they think nothing about it. They do not know that they are heroes--that's the best of it! It is a fact to be thankful for that everywhere throughout the land, beneath the rough jackets of our artisans and labourers, beat hearts as true and fearless as those which have stormed the fort or braved the dangers of the battlefield. THE COMMANDER OF THE "THIN RED LINE". THE STORY OF SIR COLIN CAMPBELL. It was his "baptism of fire". Colin was in the rear company. His captain came for him, and taking the lad's hand walked with him up and down in front of the leading company for several minutes, whilst the enemy's guns were commencing to fire. Then he told the youngster to go back to his place. "It was the greatest kindness that could have been shown to me at such a time; and through life I have felt grateful for it," wrote Colin Campbell in later life of this incident. Soon after, the regiment to which he belonged formed part of the army that retreated to Corunna, when our troops suffered such terrible hardships. Colin Campbell had a rough time of it then. The soles of his boots were worn to pieces, and so long a time did he wear them without a change that the uppers stuck firmly to his legs; and, though the boots were soaked in hot water, the skin came away when they were taken off. Battle after battle followed ere the French troops were driven out of Spain, and Colin Campbell, young as he was, fought like a veteran. For his gallant conduct on this occasion he was specially mentioned in the despatch that the general commanding the forces sent to the Duke of Wellington. A few weeks later the troops moved on, and fought at the battle of Bidassoa, Colin Campbell being left in the hospital to recover from his wounds. But so little was it to his liking to stay in the rear that he escaped from the hospital, and managed not only to fight at Bidassoa, but to get wounded again! After the Chinese war, Colin Campbell was busy in India, and at Chillianwallah was wounded in the arm. It was in this battle he narrowly escaped with his life. The day after the fight, when he was being assisted to take off his uniform, he found that a small pistol which had been put in his pocket without his knowledge was broken, his watch smashed, and his side bruised. A bullet had struck him, unperceived in the heat of the battle, and his life saved by its force having been arrested by the handle of the pistol. The terrific charge of these fierce Highlanders, combined with their dress, struck terror into the hearts of the Russians; who said that they thought they had come to fight men, but did not bargain for demons in petticoats! "Now, men," Sir Colin had said before the engagement, "you are going into battle. Remember this: Whoever is wounded--I don't care what his rank is--must lie where he falls till the bandsmen come to attend to him Be steady. Keep silent. Fire low. Now, men, the army will watch us. Make me proud of the Highland brigade!" At the conclusion of that well-fought day the commander-in-chief, Lord Raglan, sent for Sir Colin. His eyes were full, his lips quivered, and he was unable to speak; but he gave Campbell a hearty handshake and a look which spoke volumes. That was a joyful day for Sir Colin. Sir Colin's men, fierce and eager for the onset, would have dashed from behind the hillock where they were stationed, but for the stern voice commanding them to stand firm in their ranks. Before the Crimean war was over, Sir Colin resigned his command, and returned to England, as a protest against an affront he had received. As the Mutiny is alluded to briefly in the story of Havelock, I will only state that Sir Colin's vigorous, cautious, skilful policy ere long brought this fearful rebellion to a close. For his able conduct of the war he was warmly thanked by the Queen; and at its conclusion was raised to the peerage, under the title of Lord Clyde. Colin Campbell was an admirable soldier, firm in discipline, setting a good example, ever thoughtful for the comfort and well-being of his men, sharing in all the hardships and perils they passed through. It is, therefore, not surprising that his men loved him. He prepared for his end with a humility as worthy of example as his deeds in the army had been. "Mind this," he said to his old friend General Eyre, "I die at peace with all the world." He frequently asked Mrs. Eyre to pray with him, and to read the Bible aloud. A SAILOR BOLD AND TRUE. STORIES OF LORD COCHRANE. Ship after ship he took, till his name became a terror to the Spaniards and French; for he was so audacious, that no matter how big was the vessel he came across, nor how small his own, he "went at them," as Nelson had told him to do; and many a stately prize brought he home as the result of his daring and bravery. When he got to Rosas the place was within an ace of surrender. The French had pounded the defences into a deplorable condition. Fort Trinidad, an important position, was about to be assaulted, the walls having been well-nigh beaten down by the fire of the enemy. Cochrane however, with an immense quantity of sandbags, palisades, and barrels, made it pretty secure. But he did a cleverer thing even than this. There was a piece of steep rock, up which the besiegers would have to climb. This he covered with grease, so as to make it difficult to get a foothold, and planks with barbed hooks were placed ready to catch those who were rash enough to seek their aid. The assault was delivered--up the rock came the French, and--down they tumbled in dozens and hundreds. Those who caught hold of the planks were hooked; and, to crown all, a heavy fire was poured into them by the British. During the siege the Spanish flag was shot away whilst a heavy cannonade was going on; but Cochrane, though the bullets were whistling about in every direction, calmly stepped down into the ditch, and rescued the flag. [Illustration: LORD COCHRANE RESCUING THE FLAG.] When he was not fighting his country's battles at sea, he was besieging Parliament to bring about reforms in the Navy. This naturally brought him a good many enemies amongst rich and powerful people, who were making plenty of money out of the Government, and doing nothing for it. So, when these persons had a chance of bringing a charge of conspiracy against him, they were right glad of the opportunity; and in the end Cochrane was sent to prison. A ROUGH DIAMOND THAT WAS POLISHED. THE STORY OF JOHN CASSELL. "I were summat ruff afore I went to Lunnon," said John Cassell. He had called to see his friend Thomas Whittaker, who was staying at Nottingham, and John was announced as "the Manchester carpenter". He was dressed on the occasion in a suit of clothes which a Quaker friend had given him; but Cassell being tall and thin, and the Quaker short and stout, they did not altogether fit! When John remarked that he was "summat ruff," the gentleman at whose house Mr. Whittaker was staying nearly had a fit; and after he had at length recovered his gravity he ejaculated, "Well, I would have given a guinea to have seen you before you did go". It is true that when he ought to have been at school he was often at play, or seeing something of the world, its sights and festivities, on his own account. True, also, that he tumbled into the river, and nearly ended his career at a very early age. Still he survived his river catastrophe; and, though he gained little book learning, possessed such a good and retentive memory, and was so observant, that his mind became stored with vivid impressions of the scenes and surroundings of his youth, which he related with great effect in after-life. After this he attended meetings and took an active part on the platform, and became known as "the boy lecturer". Though he was dressed in fustian, and wore a workman's apron, he spoke effectively, and his words went to the hearts of his hearers. His originality of style, too, pleased the audiences of working people whom he addressed. He worked his way to town, and lectured on the road. He carried a bell, and with that brought together his audiences. His clothes became threadbare, his boots worn out, his general appearance dilapidated; but he got help from a few good people, who saw the hero beneath his rags. In the evening, seeing that a temperance meeting was to be held in a hall off the Westminster Road, he went to it; and asked to be allowed to speak. Some of those on the platform viewed with distrust the gaunt, shabby, travel-stained applicant. But he would take no denial, and soon won cheers from the audience. When he stopped short, after a brief address, someone shouted "Go on". "How can a chap go on when he has nothing to say?" came the ready reply. That night he had no money in his pocket to pay for a bed; so he walked the streets of London through the weary hours till dawn of day. "No," replied John; "it is true I carry all my wealth in my little wallet, and have only a few pence in my pocket; but I have faith in God I shall yet succeed." Struck by his manifest sincerity, the gentleman introduced him next day to a friend who took a warm interest in the temperance cause. "Which wouldst thou prefer, carpentering or trying to persuade thy fellow-men to give up drinking, and to become teetotalers?" he asked. "Then thou shalt have an opportunity, and I will stand thy friend." John Cassell now went forth as a disciple of the temperance cause. Remembering his experiences on the way to London he furnished himself with a watchman's rattle, with which he used to call together the people of the villages he visited. "Well," remarked Whittaker as a joke, "you can if you go with me to Derby." John accepted the invitation forthwith, much to his friend's chagrin, who was bothered to know what to do with him; for he was under the impression that some members of the family where he expected to lodge would not give a very hearty welcome to this rough fellow. "'Well,' I said, 'I have no objection; but, you know, _I_ am only a lodger.' "However, go with me he _would_, and _did_. That was the man. When John made up his mind to do a thing he did it; and to that feature in his character, no doubt, much of his future success may be attributed. The gentleman at whose house he met me at Nottingham, and who was ashamed of him, subsequently became his servant, and touched his hat to him; and John has pulled up at my own door in his carriage, with a liveried servant, when I lived near to him in London." How to cure the curse of drink, what to give in its place when the pleasures of the glass were taken away--that was the problem which many have tried to solve. None more successfully than John Cassell. At a meeting in Exeter Hall he suddenly put a new view before his audience. "I have it!" he exclaimed. "The remedy is education. Educate the working men and women, and you have a remedy for the crying evil of the country. Give the people mental food, and they will not thirst after the abominable drink which is poisoning them." He had hitherto been doing something to assist the temperance cause by the sale of tea and coffee, and he now turned his attention to the issue of publications calculated to benefit the cause. John Cassell had his ambitions, but they were of a very simple kind. "A BRAVE, FEARLESS SORT OF LASS." THE STORY OF GRACE DARLING. Let us see how that has come about. William Darling, Grace's father, was keeper of the Longstone Lighthouse on the Farne Islands, off the coast of Northumberland. Longstone is a desolate rock, swept by the northern gales; and woe betide the ship driven on its pitiless shores! Mr. Darling and his family had saved the lives of many persons who had been shipwrecked ere that memorable day of which I will tell you. [Illustration: Longstone Lighthouse.] The _Forfarshire_ meantime was the sport of the waves, which threatened every minute to smash her in pieces. That morning Grace was awakened by the sound of voices in distress, and dressing quickly she sought her father. They listened, and soon their worst fears were confirmed. Near at hand, but still quite beyond reach of help, could be heard the despairing shrieks of the shipwrecked crew. But Grace entreated: "Father, we must not let them perish. I will go with you in the boat, and God will give us success." In vain Mrs. Darling urged that the attempt was too perilous to be justified, and reproached Grace for endeavouring to persuade her father to run such unwarrantable risks. No, duty did not demand such an act; and for a time he declined to put out. It was now that her courage was put to the severest test. At this critical moment the lives of her father and all the survivors depended upon her judgment and skill. Well did her past experience and cool nerve then serve her. Alone and unaided she kept the boat in a favourable position in the teeth of that pitiless gale; and as soon as her father signalled to her she waited for an opportune moment and rowed in. Ere long, in spite of the fury of wind and wave, they had got all aboard, and rowed back in safety to the lighthouse. The passengers who were rescued told the story of Grace's courage; and soon the tale was in every newspaper. Doubtless many a time, before and since, faith as strong, and bravery as heroic, have been shown, and have passed unrecorded and unnoticed by men. But duty performed in simple faith and without expectation of reward brings inward peace and joy greater than any outward recognition can give. THE STORY OF FATHER DAMIEN. Of all forms of disease leprosy is perhaps the most terrible. The lepers of whom we read in the Bible were obliged to dwell alone outside the camp; and even king Uzziah, when smitten with leprosy, mighty monarch though he was, had to give up his throne and dwell by himself to the end of his days. In the far-off Sandwich (or Hawaiian) Islands in the Pacific Ocean there are many lepers; but the leprosy from which they suffer is of a more fatal kind than that which is spoken of in the Bible. When a shipload of these poor creatures leaves Honolulu for the little Isle of Molokai there is great wailing by the relatives of those sent away, for they know the parting is final. Yet he was not cast down when he became aware of the fact, for he had anticipated it. "People pity me and think me unfortunate," he remarked; "but I think myself the happiest of missionaries." When he was nearing his end, he wrote of the disease as a "providential agent to detach the heart from all earthly affection, prompting much the desire of a Christian soul to be united--the sooner the better--with Him who is her only life". A GREAT ARCTIC EXPLORER. THE STORY OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. The passage to the North Pole is barred by ice fields and guarded by frost and snow more securely than Cerberus guarded the approach to the kingdom of Pluto. Then he was shipwrecked on the coast of Australia, did some fighting in the Straits of Malacca, and was present at the great battle of Trafalgar. Next summer, Franklin descended the river to its mouth, and embarking in canoes he and his followers made towards Behring Strait, from which they were ere long driven back by their old dread enemy--starvation. For many days on their return journey they had nothing to live upon but rock moss, which barely kept them alive. They became so worn and ill that they could only cover a few miles a day, and Franklin fainted from exhaustion. The object for which Sir John Franklin had sailed, viz., the discovery of the North West passage, had been attained, but no single man of the expedition, alas, lived to enjoy the fruits of the discovery. THE STORY OF FIREMAN FORD. In the waiting room at the head quarters of the London Fire Brigade, in Southwark Street, London, is an oak board on which are fixed a number of brass tablets, bearing the names of men who are entitled to a place on this "Roll of Honour". "Ford was evidently coming down the shoot when his axe handle or some of his accoutrements became entangled in the wire netting; so that, to clear himself, he had to break through, and, while struggling to do so, he got so severely burned that his recovery was hopeless. "It was a work of no ordinary skill and difficulty to save so many persons in the few moments available for the purpose; and, when it is mentioned that some of them were very old and crippled, it is no exaggeration to say that it would be impossible to praise too highly Ford's conduct on this occasion, which has resulted so disastrously to himself. That's all the official record says--simple, calm, straightforward--like Joseph Ford's conduct on that night. Men have been burnt at the stake and tortured, and limbs have been stretched on the rack, and people have been maimed by thumbscrews and bootscrews, and put inside iron figures with nails that tear and pierce. All this have they suffered in pursuit of duty, or at the bidding of conscience; and of such and of brave Joseph Ford there comes to us across the ages--a saying spoken long ago, to the effect that "he that loseth his life shall save it": and we need to remember that saying in such cases as that of Fireman Ford. A BLIND HELPER OF THE BLIND. THE STORY OF ELIZABETH GILBERT. Bessie was fond of romping games, and preferred by far getting a few knocks and bumps to being helped or guided by others when she was at play. She was by nature passionate, yet she gradually subdued this failing. She was a general favourite; and, when any petition had to be asked of father, it was always Bessie who was put forward to do it, as the children knew how good were her chances of being successful in her mission. And, so though no glimmer of light from the sun reached her, the child was not dull or unhappy. She listened to the birds with delight, and knew their songs; she loved flowers and liked people to describe them to her; and she was fond of making expeditions to the fields and meadows. But as Bessie grew up she began to feel some of the sadness and loneliness natural to her lot. Her sisters could no longer be constantly with her as in the nursery days; and though she made no complaint, nor spoke of it to those around her, yet she felt it none the less keenly. By this time her father had become Bishop of Chichester. "Work to death!" she replied with a happy laugh. "I am working to life." But if a few were opposed, her parents, brothers, sisters, and the majority of those she loved, were in hearty sympathy. This, of course, entailed a loss; but Bessie had been left a legacy by her godmother, which gave her an income of her own, and a large portion of this she continued to devote throughout her life to helping the blind. The increase in expenses as the scheme developed rendered it necessary to ask for public assistance. By the bishop's advice a committee was formed, and money collected. This gracious acknowledgment of the work in which Miss Gilbert was engaged not only gave sincere pleasure to the blind lady herself, but helped on her scheme immensely. And the Queen did more than contribute money: orders for work were sent from Windsor Castle, Osborne and Balmoral; and the blind people delighted in saying that they were making brooms for the Queen. The benefit to the blind was not confined to what Miss Gilbert was doing herself, but general interest in their welfare was excited in all parts of the kingdom. Naturally, many difficulties had to be encountered. Blind people applied for work who wished for alms instead; and arrangements necessary for carrying out so large a scheme entailed a good deal of labour on Miss Gilbert's part. Yet she was very happy in her mission, which attracted numerous friends occupying positions of eminence. A GREAT TRAVELLER IN THE AIR. SOME ANECDOTES OF JAMES GLAISHER. For many years past men of science have been engaged in ascending far up amongst the clouds for the purpose of finding out as much as possible about the various currents of air, the electrical state of the atmosphere, the different kinds of clouds, sound, temperature and such matters. The year following Mr. Glaisher had a narrow escape from drowning. Much valuable scientific information has been obtained by Mr. Glaisher, and by those who, like him, have made perilous journeys into cloudland. THE SOLDIER WITH THE MAGIC WAND. THE STORY OF GENERAL GORDON. In early life he was delicate, and of all professions that of a soldier seemed least suitable for him. At school he made no mark in learning. On his way he wrote from Marseilles to his mother; and, after telling her of the sights and scenes he has witnessed, mentions that he will leave Marseilles "D.V. on Monday for Constantinople". He was mentioned in the official despatches, and received from the French Government the Cross of the Legion of Honour. During this war the only weapon Gordon carried was a cane; and men grew to regard this stick as a kind of magic wand, and Gordon as a man whom nothing could harm. He returned to England and settled down at Gravesend, living quite simply, and working in his spare moments amongst the poor. To the boys he was a hero indeed. That was but natural, seeing he not only taught them to read and write, and tried to get them situations, but treated them as his friends. In his sitting-room was a map of the world, with pins stuck in it marking the probable positions of the ships in which his "kings" (as he called his boys) were to be found in various parts of the world. Thus, as they moved from place to place, he followed them in his thoughts, and was able to point out their whereabouts to inquiring friends. It is no wonder then that the urchins scrawled upon the walls of the town, "C.G. is a jolly good feller". "God bless the Kernel." He visited the hospitals and workhouses, and all the money he received he expended on the poor; for he believed that having given his heart to God he had no right to keep anything for himself. He comforted the sick and dying, he taught in the Ragged and Sunday Schools. He lived on the plainest food himself, thus "enduring hardness". He even gave up his garden, turning it into a kind of allotment for the needy. He was beset with difficulties, and "worn to a shadow" by incessant work and ceaseless anxiety; but he would not give up. In all his trials he felt the presence of God. As he watched his men hauling the boats up the rapids he "_prayed them up_ as he used to do the troops when they wavered in the breaches in China". [ILLUSTRATION: GORDON STATUE IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE.] Later on he was to give his life for these people; but the hour was not yet. When Gordon was in Abyssinia King John took him prisoner. Brought before his Majesty, Gordon fairly took away the breath of the monarch by going up to him, placing his own chair beside the king's, and telling him that he would only talk to him as an equal. "Do you know, Gordon Pasha," said the king, "that I could kill you on the spot if I liked?" "I am perfectly aware of it," replied Gordon calmly; "so do it, if it is your royal pleasure." "What! ready to be killed?" asked the king incredulously. "Certainly. I am always ready to die," answered the pasha; "and so far from fearing your putting me to death you would confer a favour on me by so doing." Upon this his Majesty gave up the idea of frightening him. The Egyptian garrisons of the Soudan towns were sore beset by the legions which were gathering beneath the banners of the Mahdi, who, flushed with victory, was threatening an eruption into Lower Egypt itself. But ere long it was found even beyond his powers; for after sending off a portion of the Khartoum population in safety down the river, the Mahdi's legions closed in upon him, and Khartoum was in a state of siege. For nearly a year he held the city against all the forces of the enemy; and meantime Great Britain was stirred with a vehement desire to save the life of this devoted man. Whilst the British troops were slowly forcing their way up the river and across the desert, Khartoum was enduring a death agony. Famine had produced lack of discipline on the part of some of the troops; and Gordon foresaw well what the end must be, though without a fear for himself. In the early dawn of that day the Mahdi assaulted the town in overwhelming force--whether helped by treachery is not exactly known; and before his well-fed, well-trained hosts, the feeble worn-out garrison gave way, the walls were scaled, the city taken, and the hero who had won the affection of many nations fell amidst the people he had come to save. [ILLUSTRATION: REDUCED FACSIMILE OF THE LAST PAGE OF GORDON'S DIARY AT KHARTOUM.] It was on the whole a happy and fitting end. The mind cannot conceive Gordon rusting out; and the man lived so much in the presence of God that death was a welcome visitor. "Like Lawrence," he wrote, "I have tried to do my duty"; and England confessed that right nobly he had done it. The bracing life they lead in their country home soon brings the colour to their cheeks, and the training they receive fits them for becoming useful citizens and valuable servants of the State. Most of them join the army, and the Gordon boys are now to be found serving the Queen in every land. THE STORY OF SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE. If the story seems somewhat out of place amongst nineteenth century records, it is, nevertheless, such a unique display of stubborn heroism "under fire" that I have not hesitated to include it. He had no sooner delivered his message than the Spaniards came in sight. The few ships at Lord Howard's command were in a very unready state for fighting. Many of the seamen were ill. Some of the ships' companies were procuring ballast, others getting in water. Being so unprepared for the contest, and so greatly outnumbered, the British ships weighed their anchors and set sail. The last ship to get under weigh was _The Revenge_, as Sir Richard waited for the men left on the island, who would have otherwise been captured. After discharging their guns the Spanish ships endeavoured to board _The Revenge_; but, notwithstanding the multitude of their armed men, they were repulsed again and again, and driven back either into their ships or into the sea. Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame. For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more- God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before? He endeavoured to persuade his men to yield themselves to God, and to the mercy of none else; that, as they had repulsed so many enemies, they should not shorten the honour of their nation by prolonging their lives by a few hours or days. Being sent for by Don Alfonso Bassan, the Spanish commander, Sir Richard made no objection to going, answering that he might do as he pleased with his body, for he esteemed it not. As he was being carried out of the ship he swooned, and reviving again desired the company to pray for him. "Here die I, Richard Grenville," said he, "with a joyful and quiet mind; for that I have ended my life as a true soldier ought to do, that hath fought for his country, queen, religion and honour. Whereby my soul most joyfully departeth out of this body, and shall always leave behind it an everlasting fame of a valiant and true soldier, that hath done his duty as he was bound to do." The reason the other British ships did not take part in the contest was that it was altogether hopeless; and that, had the admiral ordered it, the entire fleet would probably have fallen into the hands of the Spaniards, seeing that they so greatly outnumbered the British ships. And, although Lord Howard would himself have gone into battle even against such odds as that, yet the other commanders were greatly opposed to so rash an enterprise; and the master of his own ship said he would rather jump into the sea than conduct her Majesty's ship and the rest to be a prey to the enemy. THE STORY OF BISHOP HANNINGTON. Fancy Hannington, of all persons in the world, turning missionary, and going out to preach the Gospel to the blacks! What could possibly make such a man as that go into the wilds of Africa to be tormented, tortured, and slain by savages? I will try and show briefly how it came about. At school Hannington was the veriest pickle, and was nicknamed "Mad Jim". Both at Oxford and at Martinhoe, in North Devon, where he spent some time during the vacations, Hannington preserved his reputation for fun and love of adventure. At Oxford he took part in practical jokes innumerable; at Martinhoe cliff-climbing and adventurous scrambles occupied some little of his time. Thereafter followed a change in Hannington's life--he prayed more. It seems that about this time a college friend began to think much of him, and to pray earnestly for him; and finally wrote to him a serious, simple, earnest letter, which had much effect on Hannington. But to him, as to every true-hearted seeker, light came at last. Not long afterwards he could write, "I know now that Jesus Christ died for me, and that He is mine and I am His". After little more than a year in Devonshire, Hannington was appointed curate in charge of St. George's, Hurstpierpoint, near Brighton. By his earnestness he roused the people to a fuller faith and to better works. Finding much drunkenness in the place he turned teetotaler, and persuaded many to sign the pledge. He started Bible classes, prayer meetings, and mothers' meetings. Not only was he a shining light in his own parish, but he also went about the country and assisted at revival missions, showing himself everywhere a bright and helpful minister of the Gospel. Their high estimation of his capacities may be gathered from the fact that he was appointed as leader of the expedition which was being sent out. Strangely enough, both his missionary journeys in Africa failed in their original aim, which was to reach the kingdom of Uganda. He determined to try a different route from that taken before, in order to avoid the fevers from which the previous expedition had suffered so terribly. After surmounting many difficulties in his passage through Masai Land he had by October reached within a few days' journey of Uganda; but there, on the outskirts of the kingdom he sought to enter, a martyr's death crowned his brief but earnest mission life. It seems that Mwanga had some fear of invasion from the East; and acting on his suspicions, without taking any trouble to ascertain the facts of the case, had sent the fatal command. [Illustration: diary entry] A MAN WHO CONQUERED DISAPPOINTMENTS. THE STORY OF SIR HENRY HAVELOCK. He knew the right, and did it--thus early he was a philosopher in a small way. It had been intended that Havelock should follow the law as a profession; and he was studying with this end in view when his father stopped the necessary supplies of money, and he had to turn to some other occupation for a living. Unlike Colin Campbell, who was in the thick of the fight within a few months of joining his regiment, it was some years before Havelock had a chance of distinguishing himself; but meantime he set to work to study military history and tactics both ancient and modern. Havelock's faith, strong though it was, had to undergo a time of severe trial. Doubts arose in his mind, and made him miserable while they lasted. But on board ship he came across Lieut. Gardner, to whom, with others, he was giving lessons in languages; and as a result of his intercourse with this man he became again the same simple loving believer that he had been when he learnt to read the Bible at his mother's knee, or braved the taunts of his school-fellows. Though there was not a great deal of fighting to do, there were great losses of men through disease; and Havelock himself was ere long so ill that he was told a voyage to England was the only thing to save his life. This, however, he objected to; and after a stay at Bombay he was sufficiently restored to rejoin his regiment. During this war a night attack was made by the enemy on an outpost; and the men ordered to repulse it were not ready when summoned. Heavy trials befel him. Death laid its hand on his little boy Ettrick, and another child was so burnt in a fire that happened at their bungalow that he died also, whilst his beloved wife narrowly escaped the same fate. Yet he bore all this with patience. Stern commander though he was, his men loved him so much that they wanted to give him a month of their pay to assist him in the loss of means occasioned by the fire. Though their offer was refused, yet Havelock could not but be thankful for the kind feeling which prompted it. In the Afghan war Havelock was with General Sale at Jellalabad at the time that Dr. Brydon brought the news of the massacre of our men by the Afghans; and during the anxious time that followed he was able to render good service in the field and at the council table. Not a moment was to be lost, for both cities were in deadly peril. Sour he was _not_, but he kept splendid discipline among his troops. "Soldiers," he said as they set out, "there is work before us. We are bound on an expedition whose object is the supremacy of British rule, and to avenge the fate of British men and women." Day, after day, the men fought and marched--marched and fought. Battle after battle was won against foes of reckless daring, carefully entrenched, amply supplied with big guns, and infinitely superior in numbers. And again the Scots scattered the enemy, at the bayonet's point. The sun was far towards the western horizon before the battle was finally over. The mutineers were brave men; and, though beaten, retreated, reformed, and fought again. The enemy had rallied at a village; and Havelock's men, after their day's fight, lagged a little when, having gone over ploughed fields and swamps, they came again under fire. [Illustration: THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW.] Cawnpore was won; but, alas! the women and children had been slain whilst their countrymen had been fighting for their deliverance. And Lucknow was not yet to be relieved. For after advancing into Oude Havelock found that constant fighting, cholera, sunstroke and illness had so reduced his numbers that to go on would risk the extermination of his force. He therefore returned to await reinforcements. By the time these arrived, Sir James Outram had been appointed general of the forces in India; but he generously refused to accept the command till Lucknow had been relieved, saying that, Havelock having made such noble exertions, it was only right he should have the honour of leading the troops till this had been done. As the women and children frantic with joy rushed to welcome their rescuers the stern-set faces of the Highlanders changed to joy and gladness; hunger, thirst, wounds, weariness--all were forgotten as they clasped hands with those for whom they had fought and bled. "God bless you," they exclaimed; "why, we expected to have found only your bones!" "And the children living too!" Women and children, civilians and soldiers, gave themselves up to pure gladness of heart, and in that meeting all thought of past woes and dangers faded away. After a series of the most thrilling incidents the world has known, Lucknow was finally relieved by Sir Colin Campbell. When Havelock came from the Residency to meet the troops the men flocked round him cheering, and their enthusiasm brought tears to the veteran's eyes. A FRIEND OF PRISONERS. THE STORY OF JOHN HOWARD. In St. Paul's Cathedral there stands a monument representing a man with a key in his right hand and a scroll in his left, whilst on the pedestal from which he looks down are pictured relics of the prison life of the past. The man is John Howard, who travelled tens of thousands of miles, and spent many years in visiting gaols all over England and the Continent, and in endeavouring to render prison life less degrading and brutalising. Wherever he went prison doors were unlocked as if he possessed a magic key; and by his life and books he did more to help prisoners than any other man. Then a great grief came to him. His wife died, and Howard was bowed down with sorrow. Some years later he became a sheriff of Bedford, and began visiting the prisoners in the gaol where John Bunyan wrote the _Pilgrim's Progress_. From the inquiries he made during the course of his visitations he was astonished to find that the gaolers received no salary, and that they lived on what they could make out of the prisoners. As a result it often happened that those who had been acquitted at their trial were kept in prison long afterwards, because they were unable to pay the fees which the gaoler demanded. Hundreds of cases as bad or worse than these did he discover and bring before public notice. Determined that these Acts should not remain a dead letter, he went about the country seeing that what Parliament required was actually carried out. Not contented with what he had already done, he travelled abroad, inspecting the prisons of France, Russia, Holland, Switzerland, Germany, and other countries, in order to see how they compared with those in Great Britain. Strange to say, he discovered that in a number of cases they were in many ways better; and the prisoners, unlike their fellows in Britain, were generally employed in some useful manner. When Howard was in Russia the empress sent a message saying she desired to see him; but he returned an answer that he was devoting his time to inspecting prisons, and had no leisure for visiting the palaces of rulers. At Rome, however, he was prevailed on to go and see the Pope, on the express understanding that he should not be obliged to kiss his holiness's toe; and he came away with a very pleasant remembrance of the Holy Father. Having made up his mind to see the quarantine establishment at Marseilles, Howard made his way through France, though he was so feared and disliked by the Government that he was warned if he were caught in that country he would be thrown into the Bastille. He disguised himself as a doctor, and after some narrow escapes arrived at Marseilles and visited the Lazaretto (or place of detention for the infected), though even Frenchmen were forbidden to do so. He took drawings of the place, and then went on a tour to many southern cities. He was at Smyrna while fever was raging with fury, and went amongst the sick and fever-stricken, fearless of the consequences. In the course of his travels the ship in which he was a passenger was attacked by pirates, and John Howard showed himself as brave in actual battle as he was in fighting abuses; for he loaded the big gun with which the ship was armed nearly up to the muzzle with nails and spikes, and fired it into the pirate crew just in time to save himself and his companions from destruction. The books in which he gave an account of his experiences were eagerly read by the public, and produced a profound effect. A HERO OF THE VICTORIA CROSS. THE STORY OF KAVANAGH. It was the time of the Indian Mutiny. Lucknow was in the hands of the rebels. Within the Residency Sir James Outram, Sir Henry Havelock, and their troops, were fast shut up, around them a vast multitude of mutineers. But now near at hand was Sir Colin Campbell with the army of relief. They were now in the best of spirits, and went along for a few miles in a state of great gladness. Then came a rude shock. They had taken the wrong direction, and were returning into the midst of the rebels. It was an awful awakening for Kavanagh. Suppose the spy after all were playing him false. It seemed an extraordinary mistake to have made. Happily it was stupidity not treason that had caused the disastrous loss of time, and the guide was full of sorrow for his error. All through the British camp spread the tale of Kavanagh's brave deed; and the enthusiasm of officers and men alike knew no bounds. In consideration of his gallant services he received the Victoria Cross, and was afterwards made Assistant-Commissioner of Oude. THE MAN WHO BRAVED THE FLOOD. THE STORY ON CAPTAIN LENDY'S BRAVE DEED. It was no easy task to perform. The men had to cut their way through a dense jungle. This was heavy and tiring work, and, owing to the fact that for a month past they had been obliged to exist on a small quantity of rice, they were not in the best condition to undertake such labour. No wonder, then, that the natives were terrified at the idea of attempting to swim across. Yet the river lay between Captain Lendy's force and the food and rest it needed. So, though owing to the privations the men had endured their vital powers were at a low ebb, yet, with starvation staring them in the face they must make the passage--alligators and falls notwithstanding. Then followed a scene of excitement and danger. Private Momo Bangura and Sergeant Smith were the next pair to start. Hardly had they reached midstream when Bangura's rifle band, slipping over his arms, pinned them to his side. Smith gallantly went to the rescue; but it was difficult enough for him to get along alone; and, with Bangura to support, he quickly became exhausted. After shouting for help, he and his companion disappeared from view beneath the waters. Diving into the stream he soon reached the drowning man; and the others, released from their burden, were now able to give their undivided attention to self-preservation. It was for a time a stern fight with death. But Lendy was cool, calm, resourceful. Yard by yard the distance between the further shore was lessened, notwithstanding the race of the waters toward the falls. Foot by foot he drew nearer to safety, though the man lay like a log in the grasp of his rescuer, unable to assist in the struggle that was going on. At length the shadow of death was dissipated; for the gallant soldier managed to land his burden on the further shore, which the others had already reached. The end of the stern combat with the waters was particularly gratifying, as several men had previously lost their lives in crossing the same river. The silver medal of the Royal Geographical Society was awarded to Captain Lendy, and a bronze medal given to his brave followers. But, alas! Lendy did not live to receive his medal. Ere it could reach him he had fallen in a night attack which the French made by mistake upon our forces, supposing them to be natives whom they were seeking to punish. Ere the error was discovered the loss on both sides was serious, and in the conflict her Majesty was deprived of the services of a devoted and faithful servant by the death of heroic Captain E.A.W. Lendy. The little block in this page is a reproduction of Momo Bangura's statement forwarded to the Colonial Office, duly witnessed by his companions' signatures. Pte Momo. Bangurah's Statement. (sd) Benoni Johnson Sub Inspr. F.P. " R.W. Sawyer Sergt " S. Jenkins Coker Sergt " Emanuel R. Palmer Sergt A TEMPERANCE LEADER. THE STORY OF JOSEPH LIVESEY. The leader of the great temperance movement in England--Joseph Livesey, of Preston--had a very bad start in life. His grandfather, who adopted him, failed in business; and Joseph Livesey commenced his career by doing the work of a domestic servant, as well as toiling at the loom. "As we were too poor to keep a servant," he says, "and having no female help except to wash the clothes and occasionally clean up, I may be said to have been the housekeeper." But, whilst he was weaving in the cellar where his grandfather and uncle also worked, he was at the same time gaining knowledge day by day. When his pocket money of a penny a week was increased to threepence, he felt himself on the high road to wealth, and ere long he was the possessor of a Bible and a grammar, which he set himself to study whenever he could get a spare moment. It is sad enough to see the number of families that are ruined by drink at the present time; but in Livesey's early days people suffered even more from drunkenness than they do now. The weavers used to keep Monday as a day of leisure; and the public-houses were crowded from morning till night with men and women, who drank away their earnings to the last penny. In the church to which Joseph Livesey belonged the ringers and singers were hard drinkers, the gravedigger was a drunkard, and the parish clerk was often intoxicated! Living amidst so much sin and misery, this frail lad determined to strive his hardest to assist others. He found Sunday a day of rest and rejoicing to him "a feast of good things," and became a Sunday-school teacher and preacher. So far as worldly matters went he was not at all successful in early life. Weaving was so badly paid that he tried several other trades, but only to meet with failure. He had been ordered to take some cheese in the forenoon, so he bought a piece at about eightpence a pound; and as he munched it came this thought: cheese wholesale cost but fivepence per pound; would it not be possible to buy a piece wholesale and sell it to his friends, so that he too might have the benefit of getting it at this low price? No sooner thought of than done. But, when he had finished weighing out the cheese to his friends, he found he had made, quite unexpectedly, a profit of eighteenpence, and that it was more than he could have gained by a great deal of weaving. So he changed his trade: weaving gave place to cheese mongering; and, after some very hard work and persevering efforts, he placed himself beyond the reach of poverty. John Gratix Edw'd Dickinson Jno: Broadbelt Jno: Smith Joseph Livesey David Anderson Jno: Ring.] "There is more food in a pennyworth of bread," said Livesey, "than in a gallon of ale"; and he proved it. He lectured far and wide; and, though he met with much opposition, facts in the end prevailed. He was not only a temperance advocate, but an earnest worker for the good of others in various directions. He visited the sick, and helped them. When the railways came he started cheap trips to the seaside for working people, and was never happier than when he was helping the poor and unfortunate. A GREAT MISSIONARY EXPLORER. THE STORY OF DAVID LIVINGSTONE. A stern father, a loving mother, both godly and upright people--such were the parents of David; and he respected and loved them with a true and constant affection. In later life he used to say he was glad he had thus toiled; and that, if it were possible to begin life again, he would like to go through just the same hard training. He studied the language of the tribes amongst whom he was ministering; and soon the people were able to sing in their own tongue, "There is a fountain filled with blood," "Jesus shall reign where'er the sun," and other beautiful hymns which delight the hearts of those in our own land. [Illustration: LIVINGSTONE ATTACKED BY THE LION] This chief would have been willing to help Livingstone to convert his tribe at a great pace, only his method was not to the missionary's liking. "Do you think," said Sechele, "you can make my people believe by talking to them? I can make them do nothing except by thrashing them, and if you like I shall call my headman, and with our whips of rhinoceros hide we will soon make them all believe together!" Still on, on into the dark continent went Livingstone. Not dark to him, for he loved the natives and possessed such powers of attraction that wherever he settled he won their affections. On the road Livingstone and his family had a terribly anxious time. The water in the waggons was all but finished, they were passing through a desert land, their guide had left them. The children were suffering from thirst; his wife, though not uttering a word of reproach, was in an agony of anxiety for her little ones, and Livingstone was fearful lest they should perish in this desert country. When hope had nearly vanished some of the party who had gone out searching for water returned with a supply. They were soon after welcomed by Sebituane, the greatest chief in Central Africa, who gave them food to eat, soft skins to lie upon, and made much of them. After the death of Sebituane his son Sekeletu was equally friendly, as may be gathered from this page of Livingstone's diary, which, by the kindness of his daughter, Mrs. Bruce, I am permitted to reproduce. This entry in his diary was written on the eve of Livingstone's great journey to the West Coast. Having sent his wife and family to England, he determined to find a way from the centre of Africa to the West Coast. It was a forlorn hope; but, says Livingstone, "Cannot the love of Christ carry the missionary where the slave trade carries the trader? I shall open up a path to the interior or perish." After this followed the journey to the East Coast ending at Quilemane. Great was their grief and great was the sorrow of all in this country when the news reached Britain of his decease. But the little factory boy had done such a great work that no place was good enough for his remains but Westminster Abbey. FROM FARM LAD TO MERCHANT PRINCE. THE STORY OF GEORGE MOORE. The lad was shrewd and earnest, and showed a power of thinking and acting for himself. All things considered, it is perhaps not surprising that he got into bad habits himself. He began to gamble at cards, sitting up often nearly all night, and losing or winning considerable sums of money. But he narrowly escaped being discharged, and on thinking the matter over he saw how great was his folly. So he determined, with God's help, to give up his evil ways, and was enabled to lead a better life in future. "Yes," he replied; "I fear no evil He will never leave me, nor forsake me." A MAN WHO ASKED AND RECEIVED. THE STORY OF GEORGE MUeLLER. He had, indeed, grown so hardened that he could tell lies without blushing. He pretended to lose some money which had been sent to him, and his friends gave him more to replace it. He got into debt, and pawned his clothes in order to procure the means to go to taverns and places of amusement. But the hand of God was upon him, and he did not do these things without suffering in his mind. About this time too he began to study the Bible earnestly. Rather a remarkable thing happened in connection with the opening of the Home. The money had been supplied, and preparations had been made to receive the children, but none sought admission! Mueller cast about in his mind as to why this should be so, and he discovered that whilst he had asked God for money to open the Home and for helpers, he had forgotten to pray that the children might be sent; and to this he attributed such a strange occurrence. Still, the omission was soon rectified, and the Home ere long teemed with children. Again and again he has not known where to turn for the next meal for his orphans; but, as if by a miracle, supplies have been _always_ forthcoming. Though often in great straits Mr. Mueller has never asked for help except of God, and _never_ has that help been denied. A LABOURER IN THE VINEYARD. THE STORY OF ROBERT MOFFAT. "Oh, mother! ask what you will, and I shall do it." So said Robert Moffat as he stood with his mother on the Firth of Forth waiting for the boat to ferry him across. "I only ask whether you will read a chapter in the Bible every morning and another every evening." "Mother," he replied, "you know I read my Bible." "I know you do," was her answer; "but you do not read it regularly, or as a duty you owe to God, its Author." "Now I shall return home," she observed when his word had been pledged, "with a happy heart, inasmuch as you have promised to read the Scriptures daily. O Robert, my son, read much in the New Testament! Read much in the Gospels--the blessed Gospels! Then you cannot well go astray. If you pray, the Lord Himself will teach you." Thus they parted--he starting on his life's journey with her earnest pleadings ringing in his ears. Ere long, however, his fears rolled away. He perceived that being justified by faith he had peace with Christ, and rejoiced in the grace and power of the Lord. Some good Wesleyans took an interest in the young gardener, and he attended their meetings, which he found very helpful. When a little later on he was offered a much better situation on the condition that he gave up Methodism he refused it, preferring, as he says, "his God to white and yellow ore". A little later he had the opportunity of hearing Mr. Roby, and determined to call upon him and offer himself for mission work. So great was his dread of making this call that he asked a companion to accompany him, and be present at the interview, but could only induce his friend to wait for him outside. When he got to Mr. Roby's door his courage failed him; he looked longingly at his friend and began to retreat. However, his conscience would not allow him to surrender; and back again he went to the house, but still feared to knock. At length after walking up and down the street in a state of painful indecision he returned and ventured to knock. A terrible moment followed. He would have given anything to run away, and hoped with all his heart Mr. Roby would be out. This, however, was not the case; and, brought face to face with the mission preacher, he told his story simply and effectively, and Mr. Roby promised to write to the Missionary Society about him. Before commencing he asked for the servants. The farmer, roused to indignation by such a request, said he would call in the dogs and baboons if Moffat wanted a congregation of that sort! But the missionary was not to be denied. In reading the Bible he selected the story of the Syrophoenician woman. Before many minutes had passed the farmer stopped him, saying he would have the servants in. When the service was over the old man said to Moffat, "My friend, you took a hard hammer, and you have broken a hard head". [Illustration: MOFFAT PREACHING TO THE BOERS.] Shortly after, Mr. and Mrs. Moffat started for Bechuanaland. They went through many privations, and suffered much from hunger and thirst; but the Gospel was preached to the tribes. Moffat in those days was not only teacher and preacher, but carpenter, smith, cooper, tailor, shoemaker, miller, baker and gardener! Moffat had hitherto taught the natives through an interpreter. He now determined not only to master their language, but to get to know all about their habits and customs, so as to be able to lay hold of them more forcibly. He not only preached the Word in their native tongue, but set up in type and printed the Gospel of St. Luke and some hymns. Then he followed on with the other Gospels and also the Epistles, till the entire of the New Testament was translated into their language. It must not be thought that a missionary's only cares are those connected with preaching. Far from it. To Mrs. Moffat, who tried to teach the women to be cleanly in their habits, they would say, "Ra Mary, your customs may be good enough for you, but we don't see that they fill the stomach". The difficulty of getting sufficient food to eat was very real. The soil in the neighbourhood of the station was light and needed plenty of water, but the stream which supplied them with the necessary moisture for their vegetables was diverted from its channel by the natives, so that the missionary's garden was nearly burnt up by the hot sun. Though he was ready to lay down his life for their good, it was long ere the natives understood how firm a friend he was. At a time of great drought the native "rain-makers" declared that the bell of the chapel frightened away the clouds. So a number of people came to the missionary, and told him they were determined that he must go. But Moffat was not to be awed by the threats of the warriors. He told them that they might kill him, but he should certainly not be driven away. Then the chief and his followers gave up the contest and retired, full of wonder and admiration at his dauntless determination. Gradually a great and wonderful change came over the people amongst whom Robert and Mary Moffat lived. From utter disregard of teaching they began to exhibit signs of spiritual life, and a number were baptised and received into the Church. [Illustration: Letter] [Illustration: Reduced Facsimile letter from Moffat.] "THE LADY WITH THE LAMP." THE STORY OF FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. "Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room." Her father was a good and wealthy man, who took great interest in the poor; and her mother was ever seeking to do them some kindness. Thus Florence saw no little of cottage folk. She took them dainties when they were ailing, and delighted to nurse them when ill. Going together to the shepherd's home they found the dog very excited and angry; but, on Florence speaking to it in her gentle voice, it came and lay down at her feet, and allowed her to examine the damaged limb. When Florence spoke to the man the dog wagged its tail as much as to say, "I'm mighty glad to see _you_ again"; whereupon the shepherd remarked: "Do look at the dog, miss, he be so pleased to hear your voice". The fact that even her dolls were properly bandaged when their limbs became broken, or the sawdust began to run out of their bodies, will show that even then she was a thoughtful, kindly little person. When she grew up she wished very much to learn how to nurse the sick. Miss Nightingale thus learnt nursing very thoroughly, and when she came back to England turned her knowledge to account by taking charge of an institution in London. By good management, tact and skill, the institution became a great success; but she was too forgetful of self, and after a time the hard work told upon her health, and she was obliged to take a rest from her labours. The time came when the Russian war broke out and Great Britain and France sent their armies into the Crimea. Our men fought like heroes. But it was found out ere many months had passed that those brave fellows, who were laying down their lives for the sake of their country, were being so badly nursed when they were sick and wounded that more were being slain by neglect than by the guns of the enemy. All Britain was stirred with admiration at her heroism; for it was well known how difficult was the task she was undertaking. But the quiet gentle woman herself feared neither death, disease nor hard work; the only thing she did not like was the fuss the people made about her. But "the lady with the lamp" soon brought about a revolution; and the soldiers knew to their joy what it was to have proper nursing. No wonder the men kissed her shadow! Wherever the worst cases were to be found there was Florence Nightingale. Day and night she watched and waited, worked and prayed. Her very presence was medicine and food and light to the soldiers. Gradually disorder disappeared, and deaths became fewer day by day. Good nursing; care and cleanliness; nourishing food, and--perhaps beyond and above all--love and tenderness, wrought wonders. The oath in the soldier's mouth turned to a prayer at her appearance. Before her task was finished Miss Nightingale had taken the fever herself, but her life was mercifully spared. Since those days, Florence Nightingale has done many kindly and noble deeds. She has always lived as much out of the public sight as possible, though her work has rendered her dear to all hearts. Though she has had much ill health herself, she has been able to accomplish a splendid life's work, and to advance the study of nursing in all parts of the globe. FOR ENGLAND, HOME, AND DUTY. THE DEATH OF NELSON. It was received with an outburst of cheering. His officers represented to him how desirable it was that he should keep out of the battle as long as possible; and, knowing the truth of this, he signalled to the other ships to go in front. Yet his desire to be in the forefront of the attack was so great that he would not take in any sail on The Victory, and thus rendered it impossible for the other vessels to obey his orders. The fire of the enemy was so heavy that Nelson, smiling, said, "This is too warm work, Hardy, to last long". Up to that time not a shot had been fired from _The Victory_; and Nelson declared that never in all his battles had he seen anything which surpassed the cool courage of his crew. Then, however, when they had come to close quarters with the enemy, from both sides of _The Victory_ flashed forth the fire of the guns, carrying swift destruction among the foe. [Illustration: Nelson's Tomb in St. Paul's Cathedral.] When he had been taken down to the cockpit he insisted that the surgeon should leave him and attend to others; "for," said he, "you can do nothing for me". A WOMAN WHO SUCCEEDED BY FAILURE. THE STORY OF HARRIET NEWELL. Even in her girlhood she looked forward to assisting in making the Gospel known in distant lands. Long before any movement sprang up in America for sending out female missionaries to the heathen, the day dream of this little girl was to devote herself to the mission cause. Her life was brightened by her belief, and she ever kept in view what she believed to be her mission in life. "What can I do," she writes, "that the light of the Gospel may shine upon the heathen? They are perishing for lack of knowledge, while I enjoy the glorious privileges of a Christian land." The means of accomplishing her desire soon came. A young missionary, named Newell, who was going out to India, asked her to become his wife. Her decision was not taken without earnest prayer; and had her parents opposed her wishes she would have been prepared to give them up, but, gaining their consent, she accepted Mr. Newell's offer. She was fully aware that the difficulties in the way would be very great; for up to that time no female missionary had gone from America to the mission field. On his arrival in Calcutta Mr. Newell, in accordance with the regulation of the East India Company at that time, reported himself at the police office; and to his sorrow found that the Company would not allow any missionaries to work in their dominions! But it was by her influence alone that she was permitted to engage in the work her heart longed for. On the journey to Mauritius rapid consumption set in, and day by day she became weaker. For her example produced a wave of religious life and missionary enthusiasm in America, the like of which has hardly ever been known. The very fact of this whole-hearted girl giving up her life for the cause of Christ, and the pathos of her untimely end, did more to touch the hearts of multitudes than perhaps the most apparently successful accomplishment of her mission would have done. A MARTYR OF THE SOUTH SEAS. THE MORNING AND EVENING OF BISHOP PATTESON'S LIFE. Bishop Selwyn of New Zealand was preaching, and the boy says of the sermon: "It was beautiful when he talked of his going out to found a church, and then to die neglected and forgotten". And thus full of faith he laboured on, telling the people of these scattered islands, which besprinkle the southern ocean like stars in the milky way, of the love of Christ. Yet he had troubles closer at home than this even. The trading ships were coming in numbers to the islands, and carrying off the natives either by guile or by force to Fiji and other places where labourers were wanted. Notwithstanding the anxieties which beset him on this account, the good bishop continued to work as hard as ever, and very happy he was about his people. He had never experienced such cheering success before, and, though his friends were endeavouring to persuade him to take rest and change for his health's sake, he determined to labour on while there was so much need for his exertion and such blessed results followed. As they made their way towards shore a canoe drifted out, and lying in it, wrapped in a native mat, was the body of Bishop Patteson. So the good bishop died for the misdeeds of others. The natives but followed their traditions in exacting blood for blood, and their poor dark minds could not distinguish between the good and the bad white men. SOME ANECDOTES ABOUT LORD SHAFTESBURY. "Address your letter to me at Grosvenor Square," replied Lord Shaftesbury, "and it will probably reach me; but, if after my name you put 'K.G. and Coster,' there will be no doubt that I shall get it!" This conversation took place at the conclusion of a meeting which had been held by the costermongers. They had met to talk about their grievances, and Lord Shaftesbury had attended the gathering and promised to help them, telling them to write to him if they required further assistance. The noble Knight of the Garter was not only interested in the costermongers themselves, but in their animals too. So, as Lord Shaftesbury had been kind to the costers and taken such interest in their pursuits, they invited him to a special meeting, at which they presented him with a splendid donkey. The donkey was then led down the steps of the platform, and Lord Shaftesbury remarked, "I hope the reporters of the press will state that, the donkey having vacated the chair, the place was taken by Lord Shaftesbury". Let us turn for a moment to the beginning of his life, and see how it was that Lord Shaftesbury was induced to devote himself so heartily to the good of the poor and oppressed. [Illustration: Lord Shaftesbury inspecting the Costers' Donkeys.] She was very fond of the little boy, and would tell him the "sweet story of old" in so attractive a manner that a deep impression was made upon his heart. The prayers she taught him in childhood he not only used in his youth, but even in old age the words were often upon his lips. When he was a schoolboy at Harrow came the turning point in his life. The effect this had upon the youth was so great that he resolved to devote his life to helping the poor and friendless. There was plenty of work for him to do. Children in factories and mines required to be protected from the cruelties to which they were subjected; chimney sweeps needed to be guarded from the dangers to which they were exposed; the hours of labour in factories were excessive; thieves required to be shown a way of escape from their wretched life; ragged schools and other institutions needed support. These and numerous other matters kept Lord Shaftesbury hard at work during the entire of his long life, and by his help many wise alterations were made in the laws of the country. "Do what is right and trust to Providence for the rest," was his motto; and he stuck to it always. Lord Shaftesbury brought before Parliament a scheme for assisting young thieves to emigrate; and the grown-up burglars and vagabonds, seeing how much in earnest he was, invited him to a meeting. To this he went without a moment's hesitation. The door was guarded by a detachment of thieves, who watched to see that none but those of their class went in. The city missionary, who was present, urged them to pray, as God could help them. It was a shocking state of existence, nor did it grow better as the children got older. Then they had to drag heavy loads along the floors of the mine. When the passages were narrow the boys and girls had a girdle fastened round their waists, a chain was fixed to this, and passed between their legs and hooked to the carriage. Then, crawling on hands and knees through the filth and mire, they pulled these trucks as cattle would drag them, whilst their backs were bruised and wounded by knocking against the low roof. Against such cruelties Lord Shaftesbury was constantly warring; and his warfare was not in vain. Quite as badly off were the little chimney sweeps. Boys were kidnapped, and sold to cruel masters, who forced them to climb high chimneys filled with soot and smoke. If they refused, a fire was perhaps lighted below, and they would thus be forced to ascend. The consequence was that many terrible accidents happened, resulting in the deaths of these poor little fellows, whilst numbers died early from disease. Lord Shaftesbury roused the country to a sense of the wrong that was being done to the chimney sweeps, and Bills were passed in Parliament for their protection. Not only children, but men and women also, needed to be defended from wrong and overwork. A young woman whilst working in a mill at Stockport was caught by the machinery and badly injured. When the accident happened she had not completed her week's work, so eighteenpence was deducted from her wages! For shorter hours and better treatment of factory hands the earl struggled in and out of Parliament; and, though the battle was long and fierce, it ended in victory. Such labour took up much time, and brought many expenses to the good earl. It brought him, too, plenty of enemies; for most of his life was devoted to striving to make the rich and selfish do justice to the poor and downcast. He not only gave his time, but his money too; and oftentimes, though the eldest son of an earl, and later an earl himself, he hardly knew where to turn for the means to keep his schemes going. To these schools, established in the poorest neighbourhoods of the metropolis, came the street arabs, the poor and abandoned, and received kindness and teaching, which comforted and civilised them. The outcasts who slept in doorways, under arches, and in all kinds of horrible and unhealthy places, were the objects of this good man's care; and ways were found of benefiting and starting afresh hundreds of lads who would otherwise have become thieves or vagabonds in the great city. A STATESMAN WHO HAD NO ENEMIES. THE STORY OF W.H. SMITH. It is always well to remember that the man who serves his country as a good citizen, as a soldier, as a statesman, or in any other walk of life, deserves our admiration as much as the missionary or the minister of the Gospel--each and all such are servants of the great King. It was a great disappointment to him to do this--yet he was able to write, "It is my duty to acknowledge an overruling and directing Providence in all the very minutest things, by being in whatever state I am therewith content. My conclusion is, then, that I am at present pursuing the path of duty, however imperfectly; wherever it may lead, or what it may become, I know not." It was a busy life in which Smith was launched at the commencement of his career. But wear and tear and the anxieties of business life had made old Mr. Smith often quick-tempered, and difficult to please; and the coming of Mr. "W.H." into the business was hailed with pleasure by the workmen: he was so full of tact and sympathy; and sometimes, when his father had raised a storm of ill-feeling by some hasty expressions, he was able to bring peace and calm by his pleasant and genial manner. Yet he was every inch a man of business, and even more clear-headed and far-seeing than the senior partner, his father. It was he who commenced the railway bookstall business. From this date the business advanced with giant strides. Managers and clerks had to be engaged, the latter in large numbers. Here the genius of Smith as a judge of character was abundantly shown. He came to a determination almost at a glance, and seldom erred in his judgment. He often wrote to his wife whilst the debates were going on in the House of Commons. "Here I am, sitting listening to Arthur Balfour, who is answering Mr. J. Morley," he writes; "and I have ears for him and thoughts for my dear ones at home." "GREATER THAN AN ARCHBISHOP." ANECDOTES ABOUT THE REV. CHARLES SIMEON. "As to Simeon," wrote Macaulay, "if you knew what his authority and influence were, and how they extended from Cambridge to the most remote corners of England, you would allow that his real sway over the Church was far greater than that of any primate." The turning point in his life came soon after his arrival at Cambridge. In his twentieth year he had experienced that deep conviction known as conversion. Like every true convert, Simeon, having found the way himself, now endeavoured to help others to realise the same blessed hope. His intimate friends were told of the new joy that had come to him: he instructed the women who worked at the colleges, and when he went home induced his relatives to commence family prayers. Though the light had dawned upon him he was nevertheless full of faults. He dressed showily, went to races, spent his Sundays carelessly. But gradually these habits were overcome, and he grew in holiness, becoming watchful of his conduct, praying more fervently, living nearer to Christ. Now came an eventful period in this good man's life. The minister of Trinity Church, Cambridge, having died, Simeon was appointed by the bishop. The parishioners, however, desired to have as minister the curate; and, as it was impossible to gratify their wish, they made matters as unpleasant as possible for Simeon. The pew doors were nearly all kept locked, so that the space left for the congregation was much reduced. It was an uncomfortable beginning; but Simeon persevered. He began a course of Sunday evening lectures, to which the people flocked in crowds; but the churchwardens locked the church doors and carried off the keys. Besides beings rude and unmannerly, that was distinctly illegal; but Simeon put up with the affront for the sake of peace. The church was crowded. The young man read the paper which Simeon had prepared for him, but did so in a voice low and partially inaudible. Then Simeon himself, taking the paper from him, read the apology in such tones that none could fail to hear. The young men were impressed, and the congregation listened to the sermon that followed with more than usual attention. "Why, my dear brother," said Simeon, "I am sure you will pardon me; you know it is all love, my brother--but, indeed, it was just as if you were knocking on a warming-pan--tin, tin, tin, tin, without any intermission!" Not only had he to put up with active but also with much passive opposition. But he went on in faith and charity, till his enemies became his friends--his friends, his ardent and reverent admirers. We must pass over without further comment a life of humility, love, and holiness--a life full of good works at home, and ardently interested in missions abroad. "I don't think now," he answered brightly; "I enjoy." At another time his friends, believing the end was at hand, gathered round him. "You want to see," he remarked, "what is called a dying scene. That I abhor I wish to be alone with my God, the lowest of the low." In that last sentence, perhaps, lies the secret of the man's far-reaching and undying influence. A SOLDIER MISSIONARY. THE STORY OF HEDLEY VICARS. Hedley Vicars was a true soldier and earnest Christian. The last words he wrote, penned the night before he died, were: "I spent the evening with Cay. I read Isaiah, xli.; and he prayed. We walked together during the day, and exchanged our thoughts about Jesus." He spent a busy time in the Crimea, doing plenty of hard work in the trenches; and when off duty engaged in hospital visiting, tract and book distributing, attending prayer meetings and mission services, constant in his Bible reading, and always endeavouring to do good to others. His mother's letters stirred him to sorrow for past faults and desires to live a new life. The sudden death of his fellow-officer, Lieut. Bindon, made him realise the uncertainty of earthly things. But he had got that which was better than any ordinary friendships. Though he often came under the fire of jeers and taunts--more trying to most men than the rifle bullets of the enemy--he experienced a new joy which increased and deepened. THE LASS THAT LOVED THE SAILORS. THE STORY OF AGNES WESTON. "I was obliged to go to church, but I was determined not to listen, and oftentimes when the preacher gave out the text I have stopped my ears and shut my eyes that I might neither see nor hear." However, she got out of this Slough of Despond, and having become convinced of God's love she told the good story to the sick in hospitals, to soldiers and sailors without number, and has done more for the good of Jack Tar afloat and ashore than perhaps any other man or woman. Another day she came across a poor fellow with both legs broken; and after a little earnest talk he said, "I've been a bad fellow, but I'll trust Him". Others she found who had been already influenced by Miss Marsh; and so her task of teaching was made easier. At the Sunday school she showed so great a genius for taming unruly boys that the curate handed over to her the very worst of the youths, that she might "lick them into shape". After that followed temperance work. This is how Miss Weston came to sign the pledge. Pausing suddenly he remarked, "If you please, Miss Weston, be you a teetotaler?" "No," she replied; "I only take a glass of wine occasionally, of course in strict moderation." Laying down the pen he remarked he thought he'd do the same. So after this Miss Weston became an out-and-out teetotaler, duly pledged. "I am sure she will," replied the soldier; "I will write and ask her." The good news that there was a kind friend willing to write to them gradually spread; and sailor after sailor wrote to Miss Weston, and their correspondence grew so large that at length she had to print her letters. Then the sailor boys wanted a letter all to themselves, saying they could not fully understand the men's bluebacks. Miss Weston could not refuse; so she printed them a letter too; and many a reply she had from the boys, telling her of their trials and difficulties, and the help her letters had been to them. Before Miss Weston had been long at work she thought it would be useful if she went on board the vessels, and had a chat about temperance with the men. At length Admiral Sir King Hall became interested in the subject. He determined to hear what Miss Weston had to say to the men, and, if he was satisfied that her teaching would benefit them, to assist her in her object. He got together a meeting of dockyard workmen, and asked her to speak to them. So pleased was he with her address that the word went abroad to all the ships in the harbour: "Don't be afraid to let Miss Weston come on board and speak to your ship's company. I'll stand security for her." At the present day on board every ship in the service there is a branch of the Royal Navy Temperance Society, and thus our sailors are being encouraged to become sober as well as gallant men. yet as a matter of fact there are always sharks on the look-out to cheat and rob Jack whenever he has money in his pocket. Miss Weston's homes are as bright almost as the sunshine. Cheap and good food, tea and coffee both hot and fresh, plenty of light, lots of periodicals and games; and, for those who wish it, short meetings for prayer and praise. There is a great deal more to tell about Miss Weston, but my space is short; those, however, who wish to know more will find plenty of information in the little book called _Our Blue Jackets_. A GREAT COMMANDER ON A FAMOUS BATTLEFIELD THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON AT WATERLOO. Before leaving the village he saw to the preparation of hospitals for the wounded, and to the arrangements made for the distribution of the reserves of ammunition. Then mounting his favourite charger, Copenhagen, he rode to the positions where his men were posted, and made a careful and thorough inspection. The farm house of Hougoumont, where some of the most furious fighting of the day took place, received his special attention. Having thus done all that a commander could do to ensure the success of the day, he rode back to the high ground from which he could command a full view of the battle, and with a face calm and serene waited for the French attack. It was this serenity which had so great an effect on his troops. They knew their great commander, and had confidence in him, and this aided them during that eventful day in holding their positions with that stubborn courage which destroyed all the hopes of the Emperor Napoleon. All day long the duke was cool as if he had been riding among his men in Hyde Park. Wherever he went a murmur of "Silence! stand to your front!" was heard, and at his presence men grew steady as on parade. Again and again commanders told him of the fearful havoc made in the ranks of their brigades, and asked either for support or to be allowed to withdraw their men. They generally received this answer, "It is impossible; you must hold the ground to the last man". When asked by some of his staff what they should do if he fell, he gave the same answer, "My plan is simply to stand my ground here to the last man". "Hard pounding this, gentlemen!" he remarked to a battalion on which the French shells were falling with destructive fury; "but we will try who can pound the longest." "Wait a little longer, my lads," was the duke's reply to the murmur which reached him from some of his troops who had suffered heavily from the French fire and were anxious to charge, "and you shall have your wish." At another time, when some German troops hesitated to advance against the French, the duke put himself at their head. When Napoleon's Old Guard was advancing up the hill, the only sight they could see was the duke and a few mounted officers, till a voice was heard, "Up, guards, and at them!" And the best men in the whole French army, the pick of the bravest of the brave, fell back before the onset of the British guards. A PRINCE OF PREACHERS. THE STORY OF JOHN WESLEY. "I do intend to be more particularly careful of the soul of this child that Thou hast so mercifully provided for than ever I have been, that I may do my endeavour to instil into his mind the principles of Thy true religion and virtue. Lord, give me grace to do it sincerely and prudently, and bless my attempts with good success!" Is it wonderful that, with her example before their eyes and her fervent prayers to help them, the Wesleys made a mark upon the world? Although he was not at school remarkable for the piety he had shown earlier, yet he never gave up reading his Bible daily and saying his prayers morning and evening. Those were the early days of Methodism, when Whitefield and Wesley were preaching the Gospel, and giving it a new meaning to the multitude. People did not understand such a state of things. Bishop Butler, author of the _Analogy of Religion_, was ill pleased at a style of preaching so different from that to which the people of the day were accustomed; and told Wesley so. But the mission of John Wesley was to rouse the masses. This he did, though at great peril to his own life; for his preaching often produced strong opposition. Then Wesley went out to the angry crowd, and standing on a chair asked, "What do you want with me?" "We want you to go with us to the justice!" cried some. "That I will, with all my heart," he replied. Then he spoke a few words to them; and the people shouted: "The gentleman is an honest gentleman, and we will spill our blood in his defence". But they changed their minds later on; for they met a Walsall crowd on their way, who attacked Wesley savagely, and those who had been loud in their promises to protect him--fled! "Are you willing," cried Wesley, "to hear me?" But he was determined his Grimsby congregation should not be disappointed; and he so worked on the boatmen's feelings that they took him over even at the risk of their lives. When Wesley was on his death-bed he wrote to Wilberforce cheering him in his struggle against the slave trade. "Unless God has raised you up for this very thing," writes Wesley, "you will be worn out by the opposition of men and devils, but if God be for you who can be against you? Go on in the name of God and in the power of His might till even American slavery, the vilest that ever saw the sun, shall vanish away before it." SOME CHILDREN OF THE KINGDOM. Shortly after Mwanga, King of Uganda, came to the throne, reports were made to that weak-minded monarch that Mr. Mackay, the missionary, was sending messages to Usoga, a neighbouring State, to collect an army for the purpose of invading Uganda. His mind having thus become inflamed with suspicion, he was ready to believe anything against the missionaries, or to invent something if necessary. Thus he complained that his pages, who received instruction from the missionaries, had adopted Jesus as their King, and regarded himself as little better than a brother. As they were passing through their agony, they were laughed at by the people, who asked them if Jesus Christ could do anything to help them. THE STORY OF JOHN CLINTON. Lives of great men all remind us We should make our lives sublime, And departing leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time. [_For the above account I am indebted to the Rev. Arthur W. Jephson, M.A., Vicar of St. John's, Walworth_.] [Illustration: THE END] Selections from Cassell & Company's Publications. Illustrated, Fine-Art, and other Volumes. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Beneath the Banner, by F. J. Cross	redpajama-book	20,975
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Josephine Paolucci and PG Distributed Proofreaders [Illustration: They walked, thus guided by an obsequious waiter, through a light _confetti_ of tossed greetings.] [Dedication: To my mother and my father] II. SIEVE OF FULFILMENT IV. HERS _NOT_ TO REASON WHY VII. GET READY THE WREATHS There was that picture so acidly etched into Miss Slayback's brain that she had only to close her eyes in the slit-like sanctity of her room and in the brief moment of courting sleep feel the pink penumbra of her vision begin to glow. How Miss Slayback, by habit not gregarious, met Mr. Batch is of no consequence, except to those snug ones of us to whom an introduction is the only means to such an end. Suddenly, with a small catch of breath that was audible in her throat, Miss Slayback stepped out of that doorway, squirming her way across the tight congestion of the sidewalk to its curb, then in and out, brushing this elbow and that shoulder, worming her way in an absolutely supreme anxiety to keep in view a brown derby hat bobbing right briskly along with the crowd, a greenish-black bit of feather upright in its band. To-night, as he turned into Cafe Hungarian, Miss Slayback slowed and drew back into the overshadowing protection of an adjoining office-building. She was breathing hard, and her little face, somehow smaller from chill, was nevertheless a high pink at the cheek-bones. Off at the side, Mr. Jimmie Batch had already disposed of his hat and gray overcoat, and tilting the chair opposite him to indicate its reservation, shook open his evening paper, the waiter withholding the menu at this sign of rendezvous. Straight toward that table Miss Slayback worked quick, swift way, through this and that aisle, jerking back and seating herself on the chair opposite almost before Mr. Batch could raise his eyes from off the sporting page. There was an instant of silence between them--the kind of silence that can shape itself into a commentary upon the inefficacy of mere speech--a widening silence which, as they sat there facing, deepened until, when she finally spoke, it was as if her words were pebbles dropping down into a well. "Don't look so surprised, Jimmie," she said, propping her face calmly, even boldly, into the white-kid palms. "You might fall off the Christmas tree." He was staring now quite frankly, and his mouth had fallen open. "Gert!" he said. "Yes," said Miss Slayback, her insouciance gaining with his discomposure, her eyes widening and then a dolly kind of glassiness seeming to set in. "You wasn't expecting me, Jimmie?" He jerked up his head, not meeting her glance. "What's the idea of the comedy?" "You don't look glad to see me, Jimmie." "If you--think you're funny." She was working out of and then back into the freshly white gloves in a betraying kind of nervousness that belied the toss of her voice. "Well, of all things! Mad-cat! Mad, just because you didn't seem to be expecting me." Her lips were trembling now. "You--you bet your life there's some things that are just the limit." She sat forward, grasping the table-sides, her chair tilting with her. "Don't you dare to get up and leave me sitting here! Jimmie Batch, don't you dare!" The waiter intervened, card extended. "We--we're waiting for another party," said Miss Slayback, her hands still rigidly over the table-sides and her glance like a steady drill into Mr. Batch's own. "If I was a girl and didn't have more shame!" "Shame! Now you're shouting, Jimmie Batch. I haven't got shame, and I don't care who knows it. A girl don't stop to have shame when she's fighting for her rights." "I know it isn't, Jimmie. You're the kind of a fellow wouldn't even talk to himself for fear of committing hisself." "I'll show you my regiment some day." "I--I know you're not tied to my apron-strings, Jimmie. I--I wouldn't have you there for anything. Don't you think I know you too well for that? That's just it. Nobody on God's earth knows you the way I do. I know you better than you know yourself." "You better beat it, Gertie. I tell you I'm getting sore." Her face flashed from him to the door and back again, her anxiety almost edged with hysteria. "Come on, Jimmie--out the side entrance before she gets here. May Scully ain't the company for you. You think if she was, honey, I'd--I'd see myself come butting in between you this way, like--like a--common girl? She's not the girl to keep you straight. Honest to God she's not, honey." "My business is my business, let me tell you that." "When I want advice about my friends I ask for it." "Gee! you ought to let the Salvation Army tie a bonnet under your chin." "She's always had her eyes on you, Jimmie. 'Ain't you men got no sense for seein' things? Since the day they moved the Gents' Furnishings across from the Ladies' Neckwear she's had you spotted. Her goings-on used to leak down to the basement, alrighty. She's not a good girl, May ain't, Jimmie. She ain't, and you know it. Is she? Is she?" "Aw!" said Jimmie Batch. "You see! See! 'Ain't got the nerve to answer, have you?" "It would be my business." "It would be my own spontaneous combustion." "You know it all, don't you?" "Yeh, and there was some pep to variety, too." "Don't throw over, Jimmie, what my getting you out of it to a decent job in a department store has begun to do for you. And you're making good, too. Higgins told me to-day, if you don't let your head swell, there won't be a fellow in the department can stack up his sales-book any higher." "Don't throw it all over, Jimmie--and me--for a crop of dyed red hair and a few dollars to ruin yourself with." He shot her a look of constantly growing nervousness, his mouth pulled to an oblique, his glance constantly toward the door. "They're my fingers, ain't they?" "You see, Jimmie, I--I'm the only person in the world that likes you just for what--you ain't--and hasn't got any pipe dreams about you. That's what counts, Jimmie, the folks that like you in spite, and not because of." "I know there's not a better fellow in the world if he's kept nailed to the right job, and I know, too, there's not another fellow can go to the dogs any easier." "I know it, Jimmie--that I ought to be ashamed. Don't think I haven't cried myself to sleep with it whole nights in succession." "Don't think I don't know it, that I'm laying myself before you pretty common. I know it's common for a girl to--to come to a fellow like this, but--but I haven't got any shame about it--I haven't got anything, Jimmie, except fight for--for what's eating me. And the way things are between us now is eating me." "I--Why, I got a mighty high regard for you, Gert." "I'm not ashamed to tell you, Jimmie Batch, that I've been the making of you since that night you threw the wink at me. And--and it hurts, this does. God! how it hurts!" He was pleating the table-cloth, swallowing as if his throat had constricted, and still rearing his head this way and that in the tight collar. "I--never claimed not to be a bad egg. This ain't the time and the place for rehashing, that's all. Sure you been a friend to me. I don't say you haven't. Only I can't be bossed by a girl like you. I don't say May Scully's any better than she ought to be. Only that's my business. You hear? my business. I got to have life and see a darn sight more future for myself than selling shirts in a Fourteenth Street department store." "May Scully can't give it to you--her and her fast crowd." "Maybe she can and maybe she can't." "Them few dollars won't make you; they'll break you." "That's for her to decide, not you." "Gad! your middle name ought to be Nagalene." "I can't help that, can I?" "Why, there--there's nothing on God's earth I hate, Jimmie, like I hate that Bargain-Basement. When I think it's down there in that manhole I've spent the best years of my life, I--I wanna die. The day I get out of it, the day I don't have to punch that old time-clock down there next to the Complaints and Adjustment Desk, I--I'll never put my foot below sidewalk level again to the hour I die. Not even if it was to take a walk in my own gold-mine." "It ain't exactly a garden of roses down there." "Why, I hate it so terrible, Jimmie, that sometimes I wake up nights gritting my teeth with the smell of steam-pipes and the tramp of feet on the glass sidewalk up over me. Oh. God! you dunno--you dunno!" "When it comes to that the main floor ain't exactly a maiden's dream, or a fellow's, for that matter." "Good Lord, girl! You deserve better 'n me." "Aw-there you go again!" "I can't help it, Jimmie. It's because I never knew a fellow had what's he's cut out for written all over him so. You're a born clerk, Jimmie. "I never set myself up to nobody for anything I wasn't." "Well, haven't I just said you--you deserve better." Mr. James P. Batch reached up for his hat and overcoat, cramming the newspaper into a rear pocket. "Come on," he said, stalking toward the side door and not waiting to see her to her feet. "Jimmie darling, I--I just never will get over your finding this place for us." Mr. Batch wiped his forearm across his brow, his voice jerking between the squeak of nails extracted from wood. "It was you, honey. You give me the to-let ad, and I came to look, that's all." "Just the samey, it was my boy found it. If you hadn't come to look we might have been forced into taking that old dark coop over on Simpson Street." "What's all this junk in this barrel?" "Them's kitchen utensils, honey." "Kitchen things that you don't know nothing about except to eat good things out of." "Don't bend it! That's a celery-brush. Ain't it cute?" "A celery-brush! Why didn't you get it a comb, too?" "Aw, now, honey-bee, don't go trying to be funny and picking through these things you don't know nothing about! They're just cute things I'm going to cook something grand suppers in, for my something awful bad boy." He leaned down to kiss her at that. "Gee!" She was standing, her shoulder to him and head thrown back against his chest. She looked up to stroke his cheek, her face foreshortened. "I'm all black and blue pinching myself, Jimmie." "Every night when I get home from working here in the flat I say to myself in the looking-glass, I say, 'Gertie Slayback, what if you're only dreamin'?'" "I say to myself, 'Are you sure that darling flat up there, with the new pink-and-white wall-paper and the furniture arriving every day, is going to be yours in a few days when you're Mrs. Jimmie Batch?'" "Mrs. Jimmie Batch--say, that's immense." She closed her eyes and let her hand linger up at his cheek, head still back against him, so that, inclining his head, he could rest his lips in the ash-blond fluff of her hair. "Talk about can't wait! If to-morrow was any farther off they'd have to sweep out a padded cell for me." "It's a good thing we made up our minds quick, Jimmie. They'll be getting wise. If too many get exemption from the army by marrying right away, it'll be a give-away." "I'd like to know who can lay his hands on the exemption of a little wife to support." "Oh, Jimmie, it--it sounds so funny. Being supported! Me that always did the supporting, not only to me, but to my mother and great-grand-mother up to the day they died." "I'm the greatest little supporter you ever seen." "We--I'm going to pay it, too." "And my Jimmie is going to work to get himself promoted and quit being a sorehead at his steady hours and all." "I know more about selling, honey, than the whole bunch of dubs in that store put together if they'd give me a chance to prove it." She laid her palm to his lips. "'Shh-h-h! You don't nothing of the kind. It's not conceit, it's work is going to get my boy his raise." "'Shh-h! J. G. Hoffheimer don't have to get pointers from Jimmie Batch how to run his department store." "There you go again. What's J. G. Hoffheimer got that I 'ain't? Luck and a few dollars in his pocket that, if I had in mine, would- "It was his own grit put those dollars there, Jimmie. Just put it out of your head that it's luck makes a self-made man." "Jimmie, please--please! You wouldn't want to take a girl's savings of years and years to gamble on a sporty cigar proposition with a card-room in the rear. You wouldn't, Jimmie. You ain't that kind of fellow. Tell me you wouldn't, Jimmie." He turned away to dive down into the barrel. "Naw," he said, "I wouldn't." The sun had receded, leaving a sudden sullen gray, the little square room, littered with an upheaval of excelsior, sheet-shrouded furniture, and the paperhanger's paraphernalia and inimitable smells, darkening and seeming to chill. "We got to quit now, Jimmie. It's getting dark and the gas ain't turned on in the meter yet." He rose up out of the barrel, holding out at arm's-length what might have been a tinsmith's version of a porcupine. "What in--What's this thing that scratched me?" She danced to take it. "It's a grater, a darling grater for horseradish and nutmeg and cocoanut. I'm going to fix you a cocoanut cake for our honeymoon supper to-morrow night, honey-bee. Essie Wohlgemuth over in the cake-demonstrating department is going to bring me the recipe. Cocoanut cake! And I'm going to fry us a little steak in this darling little skillet. Ain't it the cutest!" "Cute she calls a tin skillet." "Look what's pasted on it. 'Little Housewife's Skillet. The Kitchen Fairy.' That's what I'm going to be, Jimmie, the kitchen fairy. Give me that. It's a rolling-pin. All my life I've wanted a rolling-pin. Look, honey, a little string to hang it up by. I'm going to hang everything up in rows. It's going to look like Tiffany's kitchen, all shiny. Give me, honey; that's an egg-beater. Look at it whiz. And this--this is a pan for war bread. I'm going to make us war bread to help the soldiers." "You're a little soldier yourself," he said. "That's what I would be if I was a man, a soldier all in brass buttons." "There's a bunch of the fellows going," said Mr. Batch, standing at the window, looking out over roofs, dilly-dallying up and down on his heels and breaking into a low, contemplative whistle. She was at his shoulder, peering over it. "You wouldn't be afraid, would you, Jimmie?" "You bet your life I wouldn't." She was tiptoes now, her arms creeping up to him. "Only my boy's got a wife--a brand-new wifie to support, 'ain't he?" "That's what he has," said Mr. Batch, stroking her forearm, but still gazing through and beyond whatever roofs he was seeing. "Look! We got a view of the Hudson River from our flat, just like we lived on Riverside Drive." "Look, honey-bee, close! See that little streak?" "All right, then, if you see it I see it." "To think we got a river view from our flat! It's like living in the country. I'll peek out at it all day long. God! honey, I just never will be over the happiness of being done with basements." "With that bunch of boobs a fellow's got a swell chance to get anywheres." "Jimmie! Why, it's the most beautiful thing in the world, like a garden of lilies or--or something, a marriage ceremony is! You got the ring safe, honey-bee, and the license?" "Pinned in my pocket where you put 'em, Flirty Gertie." "Flirty Gertie! Now you'll begin teasing me with that all our life--the way I didn't slap your face that night when I should have. I just couldn't have, honey. Goes to show we were just cut and dried for each other, don't it? Me, a girl that never in her life let a fellow even bat his eyes at her without an introduction. But that night when you winked, honey--something inside of me just winked back." "Sorry? Well, I guess not!" "I never took any stock in her, honey. I was just letting her like me." She sat back on the box edge, regarding him, her face so soft and wont to smile that she could not keep her composure. "Get me my hat and coat, honey. We'll walk down. Got the key?" They skirmished in the gloom, moving through slit-like aisles of furniture and packing-box. "Oh, the running water is hot, Jimmie, just like the ad said! We got red-hot running water in our flat. Close the front windows, honey. We don't want it to rain in on our new green sofa. Not 'til it's paid for, anyways." "We'll always make 'em little love landings, Jimmie, so we can't ever get tired climbing them." "It's a soldier boy talkin', Gert." "If it ain't!" They tiptoed at the fringe of the circle, heads back. "Say, them boys do stack up some for Uncle Sam." "I'm here to tell you that them boys stack up some." A banner stiffened out in the breeze, Mr. Batch reading: "Enlist before you are drafted. Last chance to beat the draft. Prove your patriotism. Enlist now! Your country calls!" "Come on," said Mr. Batch. "Wait. I want to hear what he's saying." " there's not a man here before me can afford to shirk his duty to his country. The slacker can't get along without his country, but his country can very easily get along without him." "Don't be a buttonhole patriot! A government that is good enough to live under is good enough to fight under!" "If there is any reason on earth has manifested itself for this devastating and terrible war it is that it has been a maker of men. "I'll be a different man, if I live to come back home after this war and take up my work again as a draftsman. Why, I've seen weaklings and self-confessed failures and even ninnies go into them trenches and come out--oh yes, plenty of them do come out--men. Men that have got close enough down to the facts of things to feel new realizations of what life means come over them. Men that have gotten back their pep, their ambitions, their unselfishness. That's what war can do for your men, you women who are helping them to foster the spirit of holding back, of cheating their government. That's what war can do for your men. Make of them the kind of men who some day can face their children without having to hang their heads. Men who can answer for their part in making the world a safe place for democracy." An hour they stood there, the air quieting but chilling, and lavishly sown stars cropping out. Street lights had come out, too, throwing up in ever darker relief the figure above the heads of the crowd. His voice had coarsened and taken on a raw edge, but every gesture was flung from the socket, and from where they had forced themselves into the tight circle Gertie Slayback, her mouth fallen open and her head still back, could see the sinews of him ripple under khaki and the diaphragm lift for voice. There was a shift of speakers then, this time a private, still too rangy, but his looseness of frame seeming already to conform to the exigency of uniform. "Come on, Jimmie. I--I'm cold." He was suddenly conscious that she was crying, quietly, her handkerchief wadded against her mouth. He strode on with a scowl and his head bent. "Let's sit down in this little park, Jimmie. I'm tired." He took immediately to roving the toe of his shoe in and out among the gravel. She stole out her hand to his arm. "Well, Jimmie?" Her voice was in the gauze of a whisper that hardly left her throat. "Well, what?" he said, still toeing. "There--there's a lot of things we never thought about, Jimmie." "Say, when a fellow's shoved he falls. I never gave a thought to sneaking an exemption until it was put in my head. I'd smash the fellow in the face that calls me coward, I will." "You could have knocked me down with a feather, Jimmie, looking at it his way all of a sudden." "I know, Jimmie; you--you're right. It was me suggested hurrying things like this. Sneakin'! Oh, God! ain't I the messer-up!" "Lay easy, girl. I'm going to see it through. I guess there's been fellows before me and will be after me who have done worse. I'm going to see it through. All I got to say is I'll smash up the fellow calls me coward. Come on, forget it. Let's go." She was close to him, her cheek crinkled against his with the frank kind of social unconsciousness the park bench seems to engender. "Come on, Gert. I got a hunger on." '"Shh-h-h, Jimmie! Let me think. I'm thinking." "Too much thinking killed a cat. Come on." "Jimmie--would you--had you ever thought about being a soldier?" "Sure. I came in an ace of going into the army that time after--after that little Central Street trouble of mine. I've got a book in my trunk this minute on military tactics. Wouldn't surprise me a bit to see me land in the army some day." "It's a fine thing, Jimmie, for a fellow--the army." "Yeh, good for what ails him." She drew him back, pulling at his shoulder so that finally he faced her. "Jimmie!" "You didn't believe it." "Aw, say now, what's the use digging up ancient history?" "You'd be right, Jimmie, not to believe it. I haven't lived up to what I said." "Oh Lord, honey! What's eating you now? Come to the point." She would not meet his eyes, turning her head from him to hide lips that would quiver. "Honey, it--it ain't coming off--that's all. Not now--anyways." "You got to go, Jimmie. You got to go, because you want to go and--because I want you to go." "You did, Jimmie, you did, and--and I never was so glad over you that you did complain. I just never was so glad. I want you to go, Jimmie. I want you to go and get a man made out of you. They'll make a better job out of you than ever I can. I want you to get the yellow streak washed out. I want you to get to be all the things he said you would. For every line he was talking up there, I could see my boy coming home to me some day better than anything I could make out of him, babying him the way I can't help doing. I could see you, honey-bee, coming back to me with the kind of lift to your head a fellow has when he's been fighting to make the world a safe place for dem--for whatever it was he said. I want you to go, Jimmie. I want you to beat the draft, too. Nothing on earth can make me not want you to go." "Why, Gert--you're kiddin'!" "Honey, you want to go, don't you? You want to square up those shoulders and put on khaki, don't you? Tell me you want to go!" "Oh, you're going, Jimmie! You're going!" "What's a flat? What's furniture? What's anything? There's not a firm in business wouldn't take back a boy's furniture--a boy's everything--that's going out to fight for--for dem-o-cracy! What's a flat? What's anything?" He let drop his head to hide his eyes. And yet the air was martial with banner and with shout. And the ecstasy of such moments is like a dam against reality, pressing it back. It is in the pompless watches of the night or of too long days that such dams break, excoriating. Nor was Gertie Slayback crying. On the contrary, she was inclined to laughter. A little too inclined to a high and brittle sort of dissonance over which she seemed to have no control. "'By, Jimmie! So long! Jimmie! You-hoo!" Tramp. Tramp. Tramp-tramp-tramp. "You-hoo! Jimmie! So long, Jimmie!" How constant a stream is the runnel of men's small affairs! An alarm-clock on a small shelf edged in scalloped white oilcloth ticked with spick-and-span precision into a kitchen so correspondingly spick and span that even its silence smelled scoured, rows of tins shining into it. A dun- kind of dusk, soot floating in it, began to filter down the air-shaft, dimming them. A door slammed in an outer hall, as she was still stirring and looking down into the stew. "Don't track through the parlor." "I yain't! Gee, can't a feller walk?" "Put your books on the hat-rack." She supped up bird-like from the tip of her spoon, smacking for flavor. "I made you an asafetida-bag, Edwin, it's in your drawer. Don't you leave this house to-morrow without it on." "Where's my stamp-book?" "On your table, where it belongs." "Gee whiz! if you got my Argentine stamps mixed!" "Where's my batteries?" "Under your bed, where they belong." "Your father'll be home any minute now. Don't spoil your appetite." "Mamma's boy leads 'em." He entered at that, submitting to a kiss upon an averted cheek. "See what mother's fixed for you!" "M-m-m-m! fritters!" "M-m-m-m--lamb stew!" "I shopped all morning to get okra to go in it for your father." She tiptoed up to kiss him again, this time at the back of the neck, carefully averting her floury hands. "Aw, fellers don't use pen-wipers!" He set up a jiggling, his great feet coming down with a clatter. "No; not with neighbors underneath." He flopped down, hooking his heels in the chair-rung. "Blow-cat Dennis is going to City College." "Quit crackin' your knuckles." "Tell them things to your father, Edwin; I 'ain't got the say-so." "I'm willing to scrimp and save for it, Edwin; but in the end I haven't got the say-so, and you know it." "The boys that are going to college got to register now for the High School College Society." "Other fellers' mothers put in a word for 'em." In Mrs. Ross's dining-room, a red-glass dome, swung by a chain over the round table, illuminated its white napery and decently flowered china. Beside the window looking out upon a gray-brick wall almost within reach, a canary with a white-fluted curtain about the cage dozed headless. Beside that window, covered in flowered chintz, a sewing-machine that could collapse to a table; a golden-oak sideboard laid out in pressed glassware. A homely simplicity here saved by chance or chintz from the simply homely. Mr. Harry Ross drew up immediately beside the spread table, jerking open his newspaper and, head thrown back, read slantingly down at the head-lines. "Hah--that's the stuff! Don't spill!" He did not rise, but reached up to kiss her as she passed. "Burnt your soup a little to-night, mother." She sat down opposite, breathing deeply outward, spreading her napkin out across her lap. "Nothing. Edwin, run out and bring papa the paprika to take the burnt taste out. I turned all the cuffs on your shirts to-day, Harry." He was well over his soup now, drinking in long draughts from the tip of his spoon. "News! In A. E. Unger's office, a man don't get his nose far enough up from the ledger to even smell news." "I see Goldfinch & Goetz failed." "That's good, son. Little more of that stew, mother?" "Yes, but go tell him so." "Credit? Huh! to hear him tell it, he was born with that idea in his bullet head." "I'd like to hear him say it to me, if ever I lay eyes on him, that it wasn't you who begged him to get into it." "The fellers that are goin' to college next term have to register for the High School College Society, pop--dollar dues." The muscles of Edwin's face relaxed, his mouth dropping to a pout, the crude features quivering. "Aw, pop, a feller nowadays without a college education don't stand a show." Edwin threw a quivering glance to his mother and gulped through a constricted throat. "Your mother'd say you could have the moon, too, if she had to climb a greased pole to get it. She'd start weaving door-mats for the Cingalese Hottentots if she thought they needed 'em." "It's the free City College, pop." Nervousness had laid hold of her so that in and out among the dishes her hand trembled. "I guess you're looking for another case like your father, sitting penniless around the house, tinkering on inventions up to the day he died." "Pa never had the business push, Harry. You know yourself his churn was ready for the market before the Peerless beat him in on it." "They all say that." "If it didn't cost a cent, I wouldn't have it. Now cut it out--you hear? Quick!" "And no shuffling of feet, neither!" "He didn't shuffle, Harry; it's just his feet growing so fast he can't manage them." Mr. Ross flung down his napkin, facing him. "You're going where I put you, young man. You're going to get the right kind of a start that I didn't get in the biggest money-making business in the world." "I won't. I'll get me a job in an aeroplane-factory." His father's palm came down with a small crash, shivering the china. "By Gad! you take that impudence out of your voice to me or I'll rawhide it out!" His heavy, unformed lips now trembling frankly against the tears he tried so furiously to resist, Edwin charged with lowered head from the room, sobs escaping in raw gutturals. Mr. Ross came back to his plate, breathing heavily, fist, with a knife upright in it, coming down again on the table, his mouth open, to facilitate labored breathing. "By Heaven! I'll cowhide that boy to his senses! I've never laid hand on him yet, but he ain't too old. I'll get him down to common sense, if I got to break a rod over him." Handkerchief against trembling lips, Mrs. Ross looked after the vanished form, eyes brimming. "Harry, you--you're so rough with him." "I'll be rougher yet before I'm through." "So'd your father have talent." "I'm going to put my son's talent where I can see a future for it." "He's ambitious, Harry." "So'm I--to see my son trained to be something besides a looney inventor like his grandfather before him." "It's your woman-ideas I got to blame for this. I want you to stop, Millie, putting rich man's ideas in his head. You hear? I won't stand for it." "I--could fix the money part, Harry--easy." He regarded her with his jaw dropped in the act of chewing. "By Gad! where do you plant it?" "It--it's the way I scrimp, Harry. Another woman would spend it on clothes or--a servant--or matinees. It ain't hard for a home body like me to save, Harry." He reached across the table for her wrist. "Poor little soul," he said, "you don't see day-light." "Let him go, Harry, if--if he wants it. I can manage the money." His scowl returned, darkening him. "My hunch never fails me." She was leaning across the table, her hands clasping its edge, her small, plump face even pinker. He threw out his legs beneath the table and sat back, hands deep in pockets, and a toothpick hanging limp from between lips that were sagging. "You--got faith in this Goldfinch & Goetz failure like you had in 'Pan-America' and 'The Chaperon,' Harry?" "How--many dollars, Harry?" "Harry, what would you say if--if I was to tell you something?" "What is it, mother? You better get Annie in on Mondays. We 'ain't got any more to show without her than with her." "Well, you just had an instance of the thanks you get." He regarded her above the flare of a match to his cigar-end. He sat well up, the light reflecting in points off his polished glasses. "Mother, you're joking!" Her hands were out across the table now, almost reaching his, her face close and screwed under the lights. "It's the hard shell town of the world!" He regarded her in a heavy-jawed kind of stupefaction. "Woman alive!" he said. "Great Heavens, woman alive!" "It's in the bank, waiting, Harry--all for you." "Why, Millie, I--I don't know what to say." "I want you to have it, Harry. It's yours. Out of your pocket, back into it. You got capital to start with now." "I--Why, I can't take that money, Millie, from you!" "From your wife? When she stinted and scrimped and saved on shoe-leather for the happiness of it?" "Why, this is no sure thing I got on the brain." "I got nothing but my own judgment to rely on." "There's not as big a gamble in the world as the show business. I can't take your savings, mother." "Harry, if--if you don't, I'll tear it up. It's what I've worked for. I'm too tired, Harry, to stand much. If you don't take it, I--I'm too tired, Harry, to stand it." "I couldn't stand it, I tell you," she said, the tears now bursting and flowing down over her cheeks. "Don't you think it means something to me, too, Harry?" "I can't lose, Millie. Even if this country gets drawn into the war, there's a mint of money in that show as I see it. It'll help the people. The people of this country need to have their patriotism tickled." "Is it her picture I found in your drawer the other day, Harry, cut out from a Sunday newspaper?" She rose, coming round to lay her arms across his shoulders. "I've picked the winners for the other fellows every time, Mil." "Anyhow, it's worth the gamble, Harry." "I got a nose for what the people want. I've never been able to prove it from a high stool, but I'll show 'em now--by God! I'll show 'em now!" He sprang up, pulling the white table-cloth awry and folding her into his embrace. "I'll show 'em." "We--can educate our boy, then, Harry, like--like a rich man's son." "We ain't rich yet." "Promise me, Harry, if we are--promise me that, Harry. It's the only promise I ask out of it. Whatever comes, if we win or lose, our boy can have college if he wants." He held her close, his head up and gazing beyond her. "With a rich daddy my boy can go to college like the best of 'em." "Promise me that, Harry." "I promise, Millie." He released her then, feeling for an envelope in an inner pocket, and, standing there above the disarrayed dinner-table, executed some rapid figures across the back of it. She stood for a moment regarding him, hands pressed against the sting of her cheeks, tears flowing down over her smile. Then she took up the plate of cloying fritters and tiptoed out, opening softly the door to a slit of a room across the hall. In the patch of light let in by that opened door, drawn up before a small table, face toward her ravaged with recent tears, and lips almost quivering, her son lay in the ready kind of slumber youth can bring to any woe. She tiptoed up beside him, placing the plate of fritters back on a pile of books, let her hands run lightly over his hair, kissed him on each swollen lid. "My son! My little boy! My little boy!" Beneath the swirl of a gown that lay in an iridescent avalanche of sequins about her feet, her foot, tilted to an unbelievable hypothenuse off a cloth-of-silver heel, beat a small and twinkling tattoo, her fingers tattooing, too, along the chair-sides. A door opened at the far end of the room, letting in a patch of hall light and a dark figure coming into silhouette against it. "Had your supper--dinner, Harry?" "No. What's the idea calling me off when I got a business dinner on hand? What's the hurry call this time? I have to get back to it." She clasped her hands to her bare throat, swallowing with effort. "I can't help it, Harry. I think I must be going crazy. I can't stop myself. All of a sudden everything comes over me. I think I must be going crazy." Her voice jerked up to an off pitch, and he flung himself down on the deep-cushioned couch, his stiff expanse of dress shirt bulging and straining at the studs. A bit redder and stouter, too, he was constantly rearing his chin away from the chafing edge of his collar. "O Lord!" he said. "I guess I'm let in for some cutting-up again! Well, fire away and have it over with! What's eating you this time?" She was quivering so against sobs that her lips were drawn in against her teeth by the great draught of her breathing. "I can't stand it, Harry. I'm going crazy. I got to get relief. It's killing me--the lonesomeness--the waiting. I can't stand no more." He sat looking at a wreath of roses in the light carpet, lips compressed, beating with fist into palm. "Gad! I dunno! I give up. You're too much for me, woman." "I can't go on this way--the suspense--can't--can't." She was clasping and unclasping her hands, swaying, her eyes closed. "It ain't often you put it in." "If you 'ain't learned the demands of my business by now, I'm not going over them again." "You ought to have some men to deal with. I'd like to see Mrs. Unger try to dictate to him how to run his business." "You've left me behind, Harry. I--try to keep up, but--I can't. I ain't the woman to naturally paint my hair this way. It's my trying to keep up, Harry, with you and--and--Edwin. These clothes--I ain't right in 'em, Harry; I know that. That's why I can't stand it. The suspense. The waiting up nights. I tell you I'm going crazy. Crazy with knowing I'm left behind." "I never told you to paint up your hair like a freak." "You thought! You're always thinking." She stood behind him now over the couch, her hand yearning toward but not touching him. "O God! Harry, ain't there no way I can please you no more--no way?" "You can please me by acting like a human being and not getting me home on wild-goose chases like this." "But I can't stand it, Harry! The quiet. Nobody to do for. You always gone. Edwin. The way the servants--laugh. I ain't smart enough, like some women. I got to show it--that my heart's breaking." "Tell me how to make myself like Alma Zitelle to you, Harry. For God's sake, tell me!" He looked away from her, the red rising up above the rear of his collar. "You're going to drive me crazy desperate, too, some day, on that jealousy stuff. I'm trying to do the right thing by you and hold myself in, but--there's limits." "Harry, it--ain't jealousy. I could stand anything if I only knew. If you'd only come out with it. Not keep me sitting here night after night, when I know you--you're with her. It's the suspense, Harry, as much as anything is killing me. I could stand it, maybe, if I only knew. If I only knew!" He sprang up, wheeling to face her across the couch. She stood looking at him, cheeks cased in palms, and her sagging eye-sockets seeming to darken, even as she stared. "It happens every day, Millie. Man and woman grow apart, that's all. Your own son is man enough to understand that. Nobody to blame. Just happens." "Aw, now, Millie, it's no easier for me to say than for you to listen. I'd sooner cut off my right hand than put it up to you. Been putting it off all these months. If you hadn't nagged--led up to it, I'd have stuck it out somehow and made things miserable for both of us. It's just as well you brought it up. I--Life's life, Millie, and what you going to do about it?" A sound escaped her like the rising moan of a gale up a flue; then she sat down against trembling that seized her and sent ripples along the iridescent sequins. "Harry, she--she's a common woman." "We won't discuss that." "For God's sake, Millie, don't talk like--that! It's awful! What's those things got to do with it? It's--awful!" "We won't go into that." "You can't throw that up to me, Millie. I've squared that debt." "She'll throw you over, Harry, when I'll stand by you to the crack of doom. Take my word for it, Harry. O God! Harry, please take my word for it!" She closed her streaming eyes, clutching at his sleeve in a state beyond her control. "Won't you please? Please!" "I--I'd sooner be hit in the face, Millie, than--have this happen. Swear I would! But you see for yourself we--we can't go on this way." She sat for a moment, her stare widening above the palm clapped tightly against her mouth. She fell to rocking herself in the straight chair. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" "I done it myself. I couldn't let well enough alone. I was ambitious for 'em. I dug my own grave. I done it myself. Done it myself!" "O God--my boy--my little boy--my little boy!" "I--Let me think, let--me--think." Her tears had quieted now to little dry moans that came with regularity. She was still swaying in her chair, eyes closed. He walked to the window in a state of great perturbation, stood pulling inward his lips and staring down into the now brilliantly lighted flow of Broadway. Turned into the room with short, hasty strides, then back again. Came to confront her. She nodded, acquiescing, her lips bitterly wry. "Suppose I just slip away easy, Millie, and let him fix up things so it'll be easiest for us both. Send the boy down to see me to-morrow. He's old enough and got enough sense to have seen things coming. He knows. Suppose--I just slip out easy, Millie, for--for--both of us. Huh, Millie?" She nodded again, her lips pressed back against outburst. "Don't!" she cried. "Don't--don't--don't!" He hesitated, stood regarding her there in the chair, eyes squeezed closed like Iphigenia praying for death when exiled in Tauris. "Go!" she cried, the wail clinging to her lips. He felt round for his hat, his gaze obscured behind the shining glasses, tiptoed out round the archipelago of too much furniture, groped for the door-handle, turning it noiselessly, and stood for the instant looking back at her bathed in the rosy light and seated upright like a sleeping Ariadne; opened the door to a slit that closed silently after him. "Hello, mother!" he said, striding quickly through the chairs and over to where she sat. "Thought I'd sleep home to-night, mother." He kissed her lightly, perking up her shoulder butterflies of green sequins, and standing off to observe. "Got to hand it to my little mother for quiet and sumptuous el-e-gance! Some classy spangy-wangles!" He ran his hand against the lay of the sequins, absorbed in a conscious kind of gaiety. She moistened her lips, trying to smile. "Mother," he said, pulling at his coat lapels with a squaring of shoulders, "you--you going to be a dead game little sport?" She was looking ahead now, abstraction growing in her white face. He fell into short strides up and down the length of the couch front. She looked up at him with the tremulous smile still trying to break through. "My boy can mix with the best of 'em." She was beating softly against his hand held in hers, her voice rising again, and her tears. "It's nervousness, mother. You ought to get out more. I'm going to get you some war-work to do, mother, that 'll make you forget yourself. Service is what counts these days!" "Don't leave me, Edwin! Baby darling, don't leave me! I'm alone! I'm afraid." "It's the women like you, mother--with guts--with grit--that send their sons to war." "I 'ain't got grit!" "You're going to have your hands so full, little mother, taking care of the Army and Navy, keeping their feet dry and their chests warm, that before you know it you'll be down at the pier some fine day watching us fellows come home from victory." "You're going to coddle the whole fighting front, making 'em sweaters and aviation sets out of a whole ton of wool I'm going to lay in the house for you. Time's going to fly for my little mother." "You wouldn't have me a quitter, little mother. You wouldn't have the other fellows in my crowd at college go out and do what I haven't got the guts to do. You want me to hold up my head with the best of 'em." "Attention, little mother--stand!" She lay back her head, laughing, crying, sobbing, choking. "O God--take him and bring him back--to me!" On a day when sky and water were so identically blue that they met in perfect horizon, the S. S. _Rowena_, sleek-flanked, mounted fore and aft with a pair of black guns that lifted snouts slightly to the impeccable blue, slipped quietly, and without even a newspaper sailing-announcement into a frivolous midstream that kicked up little lace edged wavelets, undulating flounces of them. A blur of faces rose above deck-rails, faces that, looking back, receded finally. The last flag and the last kerchief became vapor. Against the pier-edge, frantically, even perilously forward, her small flag thrust desperately beyond the rail, Mrs. Ross, who had lost a saving sense of time and place, leaned after that ship receding in majesty, long after it had curved from view. Now only Mrs. Ross. An hour she stood there, a solitary figure at the rail, holding to her large black hat, her skirts whipped to her body and snapping forward in the breeze. The sun struck off points from the water, animating it with a jewel-dance. It found out in a flash the diamond-and-sapphire top to her gold-mesh hand-bag, hoppity-skippiting from facet to facet. "My boy--my little boy!" Strolling the edge of that park so close to the water that she could hear it seethe in the receding, a policeman finally took to following Mrs. Ross, his measured tread behind hers, his night-stick rapping out every so often. She found out a bench then, and never out of his view, sat looking out across the infinitude of blackness to where the bay so casually meets the sea. Night dampness had sent her shivering, the plumage of her hat, the ferny feathers of the bird-of-paradise, drooping almost grotesquely over the brim. A small detachment of Boy Scouts, sturdy with an enormous sense of uniform and valor, marched through the asphalt alleys of the park with trained, small-footed, regimental precision--small boys with clean, lifted faces. A fife and drum came up the road. Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat! Within her apartment on upper Broadway, not even a hall light burned when she let herself in with her key. At the remote end of the aisle of blackness a slit of yellow showed beneath the door, behind it the babble of servants' voices. She entered finally, sidling in among the chairs. After a while, with a pair of long amber- needles, she fell to knitting with a fast, even furious ambidexterity, her mouth pursing up with a driving intensity, her boring gaze so concentrated on the thing in hand that her eyes seemed to cross. The old pinkly moist look had come out in her face. Tired bombazine procession, wrapped in the greasy odors of years of carpet-sweeping and emptying slops, airing the gassy slit of room after the coroner; and padding from floor to floor on a mission of towels and towels and towels! "Irving, quit your noise in the hall." "Ain't you ashamed, a big boy like you, and Mrs. Suss with her neuralgia?" After a while she would resume her climb. "'Mamma,' he says, 'guess why I feel like saying "Baa."'" "Sheep talk, Mrs. Finshriber. B-a-a, like a sheep goes." "'Cause I got so many Friday nights' lamb in me, mamma,' he said. Quick like a flash that child is." "Last night's chicken, let me tell you, I don't wish it to a dog! Such a piece of dark meat with gizzard I had to swallow." "They don't come any better or any better looking, my husband always says. 'S-ay,' I tell him, 'she can stand her good looks.'" "It's a shame, let me tell you, that a woman like Mrs. Kaufman can't see for herself such things. God forbid I should ever be so blind to my Irving. I tell you that Ruby has got it more like a queen than a boarding-housekeeper's daughter. Spats, yet!" "Rich girls could be glad to have it always so good." "S-ay, when that girl even turns a hand, pale like a ghost her mother gets." "How girls are raised nowadays, even the poor ones!" "Ain't it cranberry between Ruby and Vetsburg?" "Yes, yes, and look such a dish of it!" "You think it don't hurt like a knife! For myself I don't mind, but my Irving! How that child loves 'em, and he should got to sit at the same table without cranberries." "No, no, mama, please!" She caught at the hovering wrist to spare the descent of the knife. "Ruby, you don't eat enough to keep a bird alive. Ain't it a shame, Mr. Vetsburg, a girl should be so dainty?" "That's right, Mr. Vetsburg, you should scold her when she don't eat." Above the black-bombazine basque, so pleasantly relieved at the throat by a V of fresh white net, a wave of color moved up Mrs. Kaufman's face into her architectural coiffure, the very black and very coarse skein of her hair wound into a large loose mound directly atop her head and pierced there with a ball-topped comb of another decade. "I always say, Mr. Vetsburg, she minds you before she minds anybody else in the world." "Ma," said Miss Kaufman, close upon that remark, "some succotash, please." From her vantage down-table, Mrs. Katz leaned a bit forward from the line. "Look, Mrs. Finshriber, how for a woman her age she snaps her black eyes at him. It ain't hard to guess when a woman's got a marriageable daughter--not?" "You can take it from me she'll get him for her Ruby yet! And take it from me, too, almost any girl I know, much less Ruby Kaufman, could do worse as get Meyer Vetsburg." "Believe me, a girl like Ruby can manage what she wants. Take it from me, she's got it behind her ears." "No! Shapiro & Stein?" "I wouldn't be surprised if her mother don't send her down to Atlantic City over Easter again if Vetsburg goes. Every holiday she has to go lately like it was coming to her." "I wouldn't be surprised she's fresh with the boys, but, believe me, if she gets the uncle she don't take the nephew!" "Say, a clerk in his own father's hotel like the Markovitches got in Atlantic City ain't no crime." "I always say I can tell when Leo Markovitch comes down, by the way her mother's face gets long and the daughter's gets short." "Can you blame her? Leo Markovitch, with all his monograms on his shirt-sleeves and such black rims on his glasses, ain't the Rosenthal Vetsburg Hosiery Company, not by a long shot! There ain't a store in this town you ask for the No Hole Guaranteed Stocking, right away they don't show it to you. Just for fun always I ask." "Cornstarch pudding! Irving, stop making that noise at Mrs. Kaufman! Little boys should be seen and not heard even at cornstarch pudding." "_Gott_! Wouldn't you think, Mrs. Katz, how Mrs. Kaufman knows how I hate desserts that wabble, a little something extra she could give me." "How she plays favorite, it's a shame. I wish you'd look, too, Mrs. Finshriber, how Flora Proskauer carries away from the table her glass of milk with slice bread on top. I tell you it don't give tune to a house the boarders should carry away from the table like that. Irving, come and take with you that extra piece cake. Just so much board we pay as Flora Proskauer." In the yellow gloom, the odors of food permeating it, they filed out and up the dim lit stairs into dim-lit halls, the line of conversation and short laughter drifting after. "Ice-water, ple-ase, Mrs. Kauf-man." "Mama, let me run and do it." "Don't you move, Ruby. When Annie goes up to bed it's time enough. Won't you come in for a while, Mr. Vetsburg?" "Don't care if I do". "You must excuse, Mr. Vetsburg, how this room looks. All day we've been sewing Ruby her new dress." She caught up a litter of dainty pink frills in the making, clearing a chair for him. "Sit down, Mr. Vetsburg." "Ruby, in such a light you shouldn't strain your eyes." "All right, ma," stitching placidly on. "What'll you give me, Ruby, if I tell you whose favorite color is pink?" "Aw, Vetsy!" she cried, her face like a rose, "_your_ color's pink!" From the depths of an inverted sewing-machine top Mrs. Kaufman fished out another bit of the pink, ruffling it with deft needle. The flute lifted its plaintive voice, feeling for high C. Mr. Vetsburg lighted a loosely wrapped cigar and slumped in his chair. "If anybody," he observed, "should ask right this minute where I'm at, tell 'em for me, Mrs. Kaufman, I'm in the most comfortable chair in the house." "You should keep it, then, up in your room, Mr. Vetsburg, and not always bring it down again when I get Annie to carry it up to you." "Say, I don't give up so easy my excuse for dropping in evenings." He sat regarding her, puffing and chewing his live cigar. Suddenly he leaped forward, his hand closing rigidly over hers. "Quick, there's a hole in your chin." "_Gott_! a--a--what?" At that he relaxed at his own pleasantry, laughing and shrugging. With small white teeth Miss Kaufman bit off an end of thread. "Don't let him tease you, ma; he's after your dimple again." "_Ach, du_--tease, you! Shame! Hole in my chin he scares me with!" "Always around Easter spring fever right away gets hold of me!" Mr. Vetsburg bit his cigar, slumped deeper; and inserted a thumb in the arm of his waistcoat. "Why, Mrs. Kaufman, don't you and Ruby come down by Atlantic City with me to-morrow over Easter? Huh? A few more or less don't make no difference to my sister the way they get ready for crowds." Miss Kaufman shot forward, her face vivid. "Oh, Vetsy," she cried, and a flush rushed up, completely dyeing her face. His face lit with hers, a sunburst of fine lines radiating from his eyes. "Why--why, we--we'd just love it, wouldn't we, ma? Atlantic City, Easter Day! Ma!" "Well, what of it? It won't hurt all of them old things upstairs that let you wait on them hand and foot all year to go without a few frills for their Easter dinner." "Ruby, aren't you ashamed to talk like that?" "Sat there and looked at poor old man Katz with his ear all ragged like it had been chewed off, and wondered why he didn't just go down to Brooklyn Bridge for a high jump." "Mr. Vetsburg, you--you mustn't listen to her." "Can't take a day off for a rest at Atlantic City, because their old Easter dinner might go down the wrong side. Honest, mama, to--to think how you're letting a crowd of old, flabby women that aren't fit even to wipe your shoes make a regular servant out of you! Mommy!" "But, mommy, is it any fun for a girl to keep taking trips like that with--with her mother always at home like a servant? What do people think? Every holiday that Vetsy asks me, you--you back out. I--I won't go without you, mommy, and--and I _want_ to go, ma, I--I _want_ to!" He smiled, regarding her. Tears had fallen and dried on Mrs. Kaufman's cheeks; she wavered between a hysteria of tears and laughter. He rose kindly. "Say, when such a little thing can upset her it's high time she took for herself a little rest. If she backs out, we string her up by the thumbs--not, Ruby?" "We're going, ma. Going! You'll love the Markovitchs' hotel, ma dearie, right near the boardwalk, and the grandest glassed-in porch and--and chairs, and--and nooks, and things. Ain't they, Vetsy?" "Yes, you little Ruby, you," he said, regarding her with warm, insinuating eyes, even crinkling an eyelid in a wink. She did not return the glance, but caught her cheeks in the vise of her hands as if to stem the too quick flush. "Now you--you quit!" she cried, flashing her back upon him in quick pink confusion. "She gets mad yet," he said, his shoulders rising and falling in silent laughter. "Well," he said, clicking the door softly after him, "good night and sleep tight." Upon the click of that door Mrs. Kaufman leaned softly forward in her chair, speaking through a scratch in her throat. "Ruby!" With her flush still high, Miss Kaufman danced over toward her parent, then as suddenly ebbed in spirit, the color going. "Why, mommy, what--what you crying for, dearie? Why, there's nothing to cry for, dearie, that we're going off on a toot to-morrow. Honest, dearie, like Vetsy says, you're all nerves. I bet from the way Suss hollered at you to-day about her extra milk you're upset yet. Wouldn't I give her a piece of my mind, though! Here, move your chair, mommy, and let me pull down the bed." "I--I'm all right, baby. Only I just tell you it's enough to make anybody cry we should have a friend like we got in Vetsburg. I--I tell you, baby, they just don't come better than him. Not, baby? Don't be ashamed to say so to mama." "I ain't, mama! And, honest, his--his whole family is just that way. Sweet-like and generous. Wait till you see the way his sister and brother-in-law will treat us at the hotel to-morrow. And--and Leo, too." "I always say the day what Meyer Vetsburg, when he was only a clerk in the firm, answered my furnished-room advertisement was the luckiest day in my life." "I was only teasing, ma. You just ought to seen his face. Any day he'd leave us!" "You know, baby, without mama coming right out in words." "Ma, honest I don't. What?" "You see it coming just like I do. Don't fool mama, baby." "Now, now, baby, is it wrong a mother should talk to her own baby about what is closest in both their hearts?" "I--I--mama, I--I don't know!" "How he's here in this room every night lately, Ruby, since you--you're a young lady. How right away he follows us up-stairs. How lately he invited you every month down at Atlantic City. Baby, you ain't blind, are you?" "Baby, ain't you ashamed like it makes any difference how a good man talks?" She reached out, drawing her daughter by the wrists down into her lap. "You're a bad little flirt, baby, what pretends she don't know what a blind man can see." Miss Kaufman's eyes widened, darkened, and she tugged for the freedom of her wrists. "Ma, quit scaring me!" "Scaring you! That such a rising man like Vetsburg, with a business he worked himself into president from clerk, looks every day more like he's falling in love with you, should scare you!" In reply she fell to stroking the smooth black plaits, wound coronet fashion about Miss Kaufman's small head. Large, hot tears sprang to her eyes. "Baby, when you talk like that it's you that scares mama!" "Mama, mama, and you pretending all these years you didn't mind!" "That's what my little girl can do for mama, better as stenography. Set herself down well. That's why, since we got on the subject, baby, I--I hold off signing up the new lease, with every day Shulif fussing so. Maybe, baby, I--well, just maybe--eh, baby?" For answer a torrent of tears so sudden that they came in an avalanche burst from Miss Kaufman, and she crumpled forward, face in hands and red rushing up the back of her neck and over her ears. "No, no, ma! No, no!" She fell back, regarding her. "Why, Ruby. Why, Ruby, girl!" "It ain't fair. You mustn't!" "Mustn't! Mustn't!" Her voice had slipped up now and away from her. "Mama, mama, you're killing me." She fell back against her parent's shoulder, her face frankly distorted. "Ruby, should you be afraid to talk to mama, who don't want nothing but her child's happiness?" "You know, mommy. You know!" "Is there somebody else you got on your mind, baby?" "Tell mama, baby. It ain't a--a crime if you got maybe somebody else on your mind." "I can't say it, mommy. It--it wouldn't be--be nice." "He--he--We ain't even sure yet." "So help me, I don't." "Oh, mommy, mommy!" And she buried her hot, revealing face into the fresh net V. "Why--why, baby, a--a _boy_ like that!" "A little yellow-haired boy like him that--that can't support you, baby, unless you live right there in his mother's and father's hotel away--away from me!" "Ruby, a smart girl like you. A little snip what don't make salt yet, when you can have the uncle hisself!" A large furrow formed between Mrs. Kaufman's eyes, darkening her. "You wouldn't, Ruby!" she said, clutching her. "Oh, mommy, mommy, when a--a girl can't help a thing!" "He ain't good enough for you, baby!" "O my God!" said Mrs. Kaufman, drawing her hand across her brow. "His uncle Meyer, ma, 's been hinting all along he--he's going to give Leo his start and take him in the business. That's why we--we're waiting without saying much, till it looks more like--like we can all be together, ma." "All my dreams! My dreams I could give up the house! My baby with a well-to-do husband maybe on Riverside Drive. A servant for herself, so I could pass, maybe, Mrs. Suss and Mrs. Katz by on the street. Ruby, you--you wouldn't, Ruby. After how I've built for you!" "Oh, mama, mama, mama!" "I never thought, mommy. Why--why, Vetsy he's just like a relation or something." "I tell you, baby, it's just an idea you got in your head." "No, no, mama. No, no." Suddenly Mrs. Kaufman threw up her hands, clasping them tight against her eyes, pressing them in frenzy. "O my God!" she cried. "All for nothing!" and fell to moaning through her laced fingers. "All for nothing! Years. Years. Years." "Oh--don't, don't! Just let me be. Let me be. O my God! My God!" "I can't go on all the years, Ruby. I'm tired. Tired, girl." "Of course you can't, darling. We--I don't want you to. 'Shh-h-h!" "It's only you and my hopes in you that kept me going all these years. The hope that, with some day a good man to provide for you, I could find a rest, maybe." "Every time what I think of that long envelope laying there on that desk with its lease waiting to be signed to-morrow, I--I could squeeze my eyes shut so tight and wish I didn't never have to open them again on this--this house and this drudgery. If you marry wrong, baby, I'm caught. Caught in this house like a rat in a trap." At sight of her so prostrate there, Ruby Kaufman grasped the cold face in her ardent young hands, pressing her lips to the streaming eyes. "I didn't, ma. Cross my heart. It's only I--I kinda had him in my head. That's all, dearie. That's all!" "He can't provide, baby." "Mama's girl," sobbed Mrs. Kaufman, scooping the small form to her bosom and relaxing. "Mama's own girl that minds." They fell quiet, cheek to cheek, staring ahead into the gaslit quiet, the clock ticking into it. The tears had dried on Mrs. Kaufman's cheeks, only her throat continuing to throb and her hand at regular intervals patting the young shoulder pressed to her. It was as if her heart lay suddenly very still in her breast. "Mama's own girl that minds." "It--it's late, ma. Let me pull down the bed." "No, no, mama. Move, dearie. Let me pull down the bed. There you are. Now!" With a wrench Mrs. Kaufman threw off her recurring inclination to tears, moving casually through the processes of their retirement. "To-morrow, baby, I tighten the buttons on them new spats. How pretty they look." "I told Mrs. Katz to-day right out her Irving can't bring any more his bicycle through my front hall. Wasn't I right?" "Of course you were, ma." "She's too fat for pink." "No, no, mama; you." They crept into bed, grateful for darkness. The flute had died out, leaving a silence that was plaintive. "You all right, baby?" "Yes, ma." And she snuggled down into the curve of her mother's arm. "Are you, mommy?" "Go to sleep, then." "Good night, mommy." Lying there, with her face upturned and her eyes closed, a stream of quiet tears found their way from under Miss Kaufman's closed lids, running down and toward her ears like spectacle frames. "Are you all right?" "You--you ain't mad at mama?" "'Course not, dearie." "I--thought it sounded like you was crying." "Why, mommy, 'course not! Turn over now and go to sleep." Another hour, and suddenly Mrs. Kaufman shot out her arm from the coverlet, jerking back the sheet and feeling for her daughter's dewy, upturned face where the tears were slashing down it. "Mommy, you--you mustn't!" "Oh, my darling, like I didn't suspicion it!" "Because I got for her my own ideas, my daughter shouldn't have in life the man she wants!" "Oh, mommy, if--if I thought you did!" "I do. Why not? A fine young man what my girl is in love with. Every mother should have it so." "I tell you I feel fine. You don't need to feel bad or cry another minute. I can tell you I feel happy. To-morrow at Atlantic City if such a rascal don't tell me for himself, I--I ask him right out!" "For why yet he should wait till he's got better prospects, so his mother-in-law can hang on? I guess not!" "Of course, baby. Mama knows. Of course!" "He--I just can't begin to tell you, ma, the kind of a fellow Leo is till you know him better, mommy dear." "I--I can tell you, baby, I'm happy as you." "Mommy dear, kiss me." They talked, huddled arm in arm, until dawn flowed in at the window and dirty roofs began to show against a clean sky. Footsteps began to clatter through the asphalt court and there came the rattle of milk-cans. "I wonder if Annie left out the note for Mrs. Suss's extra milk!" "Ma dear, let me go." "Lay right where you are! I guess you want you should look all worn out when a certain young man what I know walks down to meet our train at Atlantic City this afternoon, eh?" "Oh, mommy, mommy!" And Ruby lay back against the luxury of pillows. After a morning of up-stairs and down-stairs and in and out of chambers, Mrs. Kaufman, enveloped in a long-sleeved apron still angular with starch, hung up the telephone receiver in the hall just beneath the staircase and entered her bedroom, sitting down rather heavily beside the open shelf of her desk. A long envelope lay uppermost on that desk, and she took it up slowly, blinking her eyes shut and holding them squeezed tight as if she would press back a vision, even then a tear oozing through. She blinked it back, but her mouth was wry with the taste of tears. A slatternly maid poked her head in through the open door. "Mrs. Katz broke 'er mug!" She was crying now frankly, and when the door swung closed, even though it swung back again on its insufficient hinge, she let her head fall forward into the pillow of her arms, the curve of her back rising and falling. But after a while the greengrocer came on his monthly mission, in his white apron and shirt-sleeves, and she compared stubs with him from a file on her desk and balanced her account with careful squinted glance and a keen eye for an overcharge on a cut of breakfast bacon. On the very heels of him, so that they met and danced to pass each other in the doorway, Mr. Vetsburg entered, with an overcoat flung across his right arm and his left sagging to a small black traveling-bag. She rose and moved forward in her crackly starched apron. "I--Please, Mr. Vetsburg, it ain't right, I know!" "You--you got to excuse me again, Mr. Vetsburg. It ain't no use I should try to get away on Saturdays, much less Easter Saturday." "Well, of all things!" He let his bag slip to the floor. "Maybe, Mrs. Kaufman," he said, "it ain't none of my business, but ain't it a shame a good business woman like you should let herself always be tied down to such a house like she was married to it?" "Can't get away on Saturdays, just like it ain't the same any other day in the week, I ask you! Saturday you blame it on yet!" "A little shyster doctor like Abrams with his advertisements all over the newspapers should sponge off you and your holiday! By golly! Mrs. Kaufman, just like Ruby says, how you let a whole houseful of old hens rule this roost it's a shame!" He took up her hat, a small turban of breast feathers, laid out on the table beside him, and advanced with it clumsily enough. "Come," he said, "please now, Mrs. Kaufman. Please." "I--I got plans made for us to-morrow down by the shore that's--that's just fine! Come now, Mrs. Kaufman." A rush of dark blood had surged up into Mr. Vetsburg's face, and he twiddled his hat, his dry fingers moving around inside the brim. "A man, Mrs. Kaufman, can bust!" He was still violently dark, but swallowing with less labor. "Yes, from holding in. Mrs. Kaufman, should a woman like you--the finest woman in the world, and I can prove it--a woman, Mrs. Kaufman, who in her heart and my heart and--Should such a woman not come to Atlantic City when I got everything fixed like a stage set!" "Will you, Mrs. Kaufman, come or won't you? Will you, I ask you, or won't you?" "All right, then, I--I bust out now. To-day can be as good as to-morrow! Not with my say in a t'ousand years, Mrs. Kaufman, you sign that lease! I ain't a young man any more with fine speeches, Mrs. Kaufman, but not in a t'ousand years you sign that lease." "If anybody's got a lease on you, Mrs. Kaufman, I--I want it! I want it! That's the kind of a lease would suit me. To be leased to you for always, the rest of your life!" "He's a fine fellow, Mrs. Kaufman. With his uncle to help 'em, they got, let me tell you, a better start as most young ones!" She rose, holding on to the desk. "Lena," he uttered, very softly. "Lena, Mr. Vetsburg?" "It 'ain't been easy, Lenie, these years while she was only growing up, to keep off my lips that name. A name just like a leaf off a rose. Lena!" he reiterated and advanced. Comprehension came quietly and dawning like a morning. He crossed to the little desk and bent low over her chair, his hand not on her shoulder, but at the knob of her chair. His voice had a swift rehearsed quality. "He's a good boy, Leo is, Lenie. A good boy what can be good to a woman like his father before him. Good enough even for a fine girl like our Ruby, Lenie--_our_ Ruby!" "Lenie," he said, his singing, tingling fingers closing over her wrist. With her free arm she reached and slammed the door, let her cheek lie to the back of his hand, and closed her eyes. HERS _NOT_ TO REASON WHY In France, women with blue faces and too often with the pulling lips of babes at dry breasts, learned the bitter tasks of sewing closed the coat sleeves and of cutting off and hemming the trousers leg at the knee. In America, women new to the feel of fur learned to love it and not question whence it came. Men of small affairs, suddenly earthquaked to the crest of the great tidal wave of new market-values, went drunk with wealth. But that is the New York of the Saturnite and of Teufelsdroeckh alone with his stars. A shower of white light from an incandescent tooth-brush sign opposite threw a pallid reflection upon Mrs. Connors; it spun the fuzz of frizz rising off her blond coiffure into a sort of golden fog and picked out the sequins of her bodice. From her brace of windows in the Hotel Metropolis, the street was not unlike a gully cut through mica, a honking tributary flowing into the great sea of Broadway. A low, high-power car, shaped like an ellipse, cut through the snarl of traffic, bleating. A woman, wrapped in a greatcoat of "baby" pelts and an almost undistinguishable dog in the cove of her arm, walked out from the Hotel Metropolis across the sidewalk and into a taxicab. An army of derby hats, lowered slightly into the wind, moved through the white kind of darkness. Standing there, buffeting her pink nails across her pink palms, Mrs. Connors followed the westward trend of that army. Out from it, a face lying suddenly back flashed up at her, a mere petal riding a swift current. But at sight of it Mrs. Blutch Connors inclined her entire body, pressing a smile and a hand against the cold pane, then turned inward, flashing on an electrolier--a bronze Nydia holding out a cluster of frosted bulbs. A great deal of the strong breath of a popular perfume and a great deal of artificial heat lay sweet upon that room, as if many flowers had lived and died in the same air, leaving insidious but slightly stale memories. "Babe!" said Mr. Blutch Connors, upon the slam of the lift door. "My boy's beau-ful cheeks all cold!" "My girl's beau-ful cheeks all warm and full of some danged good cologne," said Mr. Connors, closing the door of their rooms upon them, pressing her head back against the support of his arm, and kissing her throat as the chin flew up. He pressed a button, and the room sprang into more light, coming out pinkly and vividly--the brocaded walls pliant to touch with every so often a gilt-framed engraving; a gilt table with an onyx top cheerfully cluttered with the sauciest short-story magazines of the month; a white mantelpiece with an artificial hearth and a pink-and-gilt _chaise-longue_ piled high with small, lacy pillows, and a very green magazine open and face downward on the floor beside it. "Comin' better, honeybunch?" "I dunno, Babe. The town's mad with money, but I don't feel myself going crazy with any of it." "What ud you bring us, honey?" He slid out of his silk-lined greatcoat, placing his brown derby atop. "Wow! how I love the woman!" he cried, closing his hands softly about her throat and tilting her head backward again. "Darlin', you hurt!" "Br-r-r--can't help it!" When Mr. Connors moved, he gave off the scent of pomade freely; his slightly thinning brown hair and the pointy tips to a reddish mustache lay sleek with it. There was the merest suggestion of _embonpoint_ to the waistcoat, but not so that, when he dropped his eyes, the blunt toes of his russet shoes were not in evidence. His pin-checked suit was pressed to a knife-edge, and his brocaded cravat folded to a nicety; there was an air of complete well-being about him. Men can acquire that sort of eupeptic well-being in a Turkish bath. Young mothers and life-jobbers have it naturally. Suddenly, Mrs. Connors began to foray into his pockets, plunging her hand into the right, the left, then stopped suddenly, her little face flashing up at him. "Is my babe disappointed I didn't dig her coat and earrings out of hock?" She lay against him. "There just ain't no squeal in my girl." She stroked his sleeve as if it had the quality of fur. "Is the rabbit's foot still kicking my boy?" "Never seen the like, honey. The cards just won't come. This afternoon I even played the wheel over at Chuck's, and she spun me dirt." "It's gotta turn, Blutch." "Remember the run of rotten luck you had that year in Cincinnati, when the ponies was runnin' at Latonia?" He laid his hand over hers. "Come on, Babe. Joe'll be here directly, and then we're going and blow them spangles to a supper." "Now there's nothin' to worry about, Babe. Have I ever landed anywhere but on my feet? We'll be driving a racer down Broadway again before the winter's over. There's money in motion these wartimes, Babe. They can't keep my hands off it." "Blutch, how--how much did you drop to-day? "I could tell clear down on the street you lost, honey, the way you walked so round-shouldered." "It--it ain't that, Blutch; but--but where's it comin' from?" He struck his thigh a resounding whack. She sat hunched up in the pink-satinet frock, the pink sequins dancing, and her small face smaller because of the way her light hair rose up in the fuzzy aura. "That was the time you gave Lenny Gratz back his losings and got him back to his wife." "Right-o! Seen him only to-night. He's traveling out of Cleveland for an electric house and has forgot how aces up looks. That boy had as much chance in the game as a deacon." Mrs. Connors laid hold of Mr. Connors's immaculate coat lapel, drawing him toward her. "If only what, Babe?" "I wish to God you was out of it, Blutch! I wish to God!" "Out of what, Babe?" "You're too good, Blutch, and too honest to be in it. The game'll break you in the end. It always does. Blutch darling, I wish to God you was out of it!" "Why, Ann 'Lisbeth, I never knew you felt this way about it." "I do, Blutch, I do! For years, it's been here in me--here, under my heart--eatin' me, Blutch, eatin' me!" And she placed her hands flat to her breast. "Babe, Babe, you mustn't!" "Babe, you been sittin' at home alone too much. I always tell you, honey, you ought to make friends. Chuck De Roy's wife wants the worst way to get acquainted with you--a nice, quiet girl. It ain't right, Babe, for you not to have no friends at all to go to the matinee with or go buyin' knickknacks with. You're gettin' morbid, honey." She worked herself out of his embrace, withholding him with her palms pressed out against his chest. He was for folding her in his arms, but she still withheld him. He grew grave, looking long into her blue eyes with the tears forming over them. "Why, Ann 'Lisbeth, danged if I know what to say! You sure you're feelin' well, Babe? 'Ain't took cold, have you, with your fur coat in hock?" "Well, I--I guess, honey, if the truth was told, your old man ain't cut out for nothing much besides the gamin'-table--a fellow that's knocked around the world the way I have." "No, no, Blutch; I don't want 'em. I swear to God I don't want 'em!" She held up her face with the tears rolling down it, and he kissed a dry spot and her yellow frizzed bangs. "My girl! My cry-baby girl!" "You're all I got in the world, Blutch! Thinkin' of what's best for you has eat into me." "We'll never get nowheres in this game, hon. We ain't even sure enough of ourselves to have a home like--like regular folks." "You ain't all wrong, girl." "You'd give the shirt off your back, Blutch; that's why we can't ever have a nest-egg as long as you're playin' stakes. There's too many hard-luck stories lying around loose in the gamblin' game." "The next big haul I make I'm going to get out, girl, so help me!" "Why not, Babe--seein' you want it? There ain't no string tied to me and the green-felt table. I can go through with anything I make up my mind to." "Oh, honey baby, you promise! Darling little fuzzy chickens!" Suddenly Mrs. Connors crumpled in a heap upon the lacy pillows, pink sequins heaving. "Nothin', Blutch, only--only I just never was so happy." "Lord!" said Blutch Connors. "All these years, and I never knew anything was eatin' her." "I--I never was, Blutch." "Lord bless my soul! The poor little thing was afraid to say it was a chicken-farm she wanted!" He patted her constantly, his eyes somewhat glazy. "You ain't all wrong, girl." "You home evenings, Blutch, regular like." "You poor little thing!" "You'll play safe, Blutch? Play safe to win!" "You was too fed up with luck then, Blutch. I knew better 'n to ask." "Lord bless my soul! and the poor little thing was afraid to say it was a chicken-farm she wanted!" "Promise me, Blutch, you'll play 'em close--to win!" "He's crooked, Blutch, I tell you." "No more 'n all of 'em are, Babe. Your eyes open and your pockets closed is my motto. What you got special against Joe? You mustn't dig up on a fellow, Babe." "What I don't know about the private life of my card friends don't hurt me." "I know there ain't no medals on Joe, Babe, but if you don't stop listenin' to town talk, you're going to get them pretty little ears of yours all sooty." "Honeybunch, you and Joe go. I ain't hungry." "I'll have 'em send me up a bite from the grill." "You ain't sore because I asked Joe? It's business, Babe." "Of course I ain't, honey; only, with you and him goin' right over to Al's afterward, what's the sense of me goin'? I wanna stay home and think. It's just like beginnin' to-night I could sit here and look right into the time when there ain't goin' to be no more waitin' up nights for my boy. I--They got all little white chickens out at Denny's roadhouse, Blutch--white with red combs. Can we have some like them?" "You betcher life we can! I'm going to win the beginnings of that farm before I'm a night older. Lordy! Lordy! and to think I never knew anything was eatin' her!" "Blutch, I--I don't know what to say. I keep cryin' when I wanna laugh. I never was so happy, Blutch, I never was." "My little kitty-puss!" "Come right in, Joe! I'm here and waitin' for you." "Ain't the missis in on this killin'?" "No, Joe; not--to-night." "Sorry to hear it," said Mr. Kirby, flecking an inch of cigar-ash to the table-top. "Fine rig-up, with due respect to the lady, your missis is wearing to-night." "The wife ain't so short on looks, is she?" "You know my sentiments about her. They don't come no ace-higher." She , even quivered, standing there beside the bronze Nydia. "I tell her we're out for big business to-night, Joe." "Sky's the limit. Picked up a pin pointin' toward me and sat with my back to a red-headed woman. Can't lose." "Well, good-night, Babe. Take care o' yourself." "Good night, Blutch. You'll play 'em close, honey?" "You just know I will, Babe." An hour she sat there, alone on the _chaise-longue_, staring into space and smiling at what she saw there. Finally she dropped back into the lacy mound of pillows, almost instantly asleep, but still smiling. Mr. Connors entered, scouting out a dozy clerk. Mr. Connors lowered his voice, nudging. "What's the idea--chicken broth? You better go in the park and catch her a chippie." "It'll freeze to death." "Look! This side pocket is lined with velvet." Mr. Connors dug deep. "Keep the poker-chip for pin-money." When Mr. Connors emerged, a small, chirruping bunch of fuzz, cupped in his hand, lay snug in the velvet-lined pocket. Stepping out to cross the street, simultaneously a great silent motor-car, noiseless but wild with speed, tore down the surface-car tracks, blacker in the hulking shadow of the Elevated trellis. A quick doubling up of the sagging silhouette, and the groan of a clutch violently thrown. A woman's shriek flying thin and high like a javelin of horror. A crowd sprung full grown out of the bog of the morning. White, peering faces showing up in the brilliant paths of the acetylene lamps. A uniform pushing through. A crowbar and the hard breathing of men straining to lift. A sob in the dark. Stand back! Stand back! Dawn--then a blue, wintry sky, the color and hardness of enamel; and sunshine, bright, yet so far off the eye could stare up to it unsquinting. It lay against the pink-brocaded window-hangings of the suite in the Hotel Metropolis; it even crept in like a timid hand reaching toward, yet not quite touching, the full-flung figure of Mrs. Blutch Connors, lying, her cheek dug into the harshness of the carpet, there at the closed door to the bedroom--prone as if washed there, and her yellow hair streaming back like seaweed. Sobs came, but only the dry kind that beat in the throat and then come shrilly, like a sheet of silk swiftly torn. Lying there, with her face swollen and stamped with the carpet-nap, squirming in a grief that was actually abashing before it was heartbreaking, Ann 'Lisbeth Connors, whose only epiphany of life was love, and shut out from so much else that helps make life sweet, was now shut out from none of its pain. Heart-constricting silence, and only the breath of ether seeping out to her, sweet, insidious. She took to hugging herself violently against a sudden chill that rushed over her, rattling her frame. The bedroom door swung noiselessly back, fanning out the etheric fumes, and closed again upon an emerging figure. He looked down upon her with the kind of glaze over his eyes that Bellini loved to paint, compassion for the pain of the world almost distilled to tears. "My poor little lady!" "O God--no--no--no! No, Doctor, no! You wouldn't! Please! Please! You wouldn't let him leave me here all alone, Doctor! O God! you wouldn't! I'm all alone, Doctor! You see, I'm all alone. Please don't take him from me. He's mine! You can't! Promise me, Doctor! My darlin' in there--why are you hurtin' him so? Why has he stopped hollerin'? Cut me to pieces to give him what he needs to make him live. Don't take him from me, Doctor. He's all I got! O God--God--please!" And fell back swooning, with an old man's tear splashing down as if to revivify her. The heart has a resiliency. Strained to breaking, it can contract again. Even the waiting women, Iseult and Penelope, learned, as they sat sorrowing and watching, to sing to the swing of the sea. When, out of the slough of dark weeks, Mrs. Connors took up life again, she was only beaten, not broken--a reed lashed down by storm and then resilient, daring to lift its head again. A wan little head, but the eyes unwashed of their blue and the irises grown large. The same hard sunshine lay in its path between the brocade curtains of a room strangely denuded. It was as if spring had died there, when it was only the _chaise-longue_, barren of its lacy pillows, a glass vase and silver-framed picture gone from the mantel, a Mexican afghan removed from a divan and showing its bulges. It was any hotel suite now--uncompromising; leave me or take me. In taking leave of it, Mrs. Connors looked about her even coldly, as if this barren room were too denuded of its memories. "You--you been mighty good to me, Joe. It's good to know--everything's--paid up." Mr. Joe Kirby sat well forward on a straight chair, knees well apart in the rather puffy attitude of the uncomfortably corpulent. "Now, cut that! Whatever I done for you, Annie, I done because I wanted to. If you'd 'a' listened to me, you wouldn't 'a' gone and sold out your last dud to raise money. Whatcha got friends for?" "The way you dug down for--for the funeral, Joe. He--he couldn't have had the silver handles or the gray velvet if--if not for you, Joe. He--he always loved everything the best. I can't never forget that of you, Joe--just never." She was pinning on her little crepe-edged veil over her decently black hat, and paused now to dab up under it at a tear. "I'd 'a' expected poor old Blutch to do as much for me." "He would! He would! Many's the pal he buried." "I hate, Annie, like anything to see you actin' up like this. You ain't fit to walk out of this hotel on your own hook. Where'd you get that hand-me-down?" She looked down at herself, quickly reddening. "It's a warm suit, Joe." "O God!" she sobbed into her handkerchief, "why didn't you take me when you took him?" "No, no; I'm taking 'em too often. But they warm me. They warm me, and I'm cold, Joe--cold." He put out a short, broad hand toward her. "I gotta go now, Joe. These rooms ain't mine no more." '"Ain't I told you? I'm going out. Anybody that's willin' to work can get it in this town. I ain't the softy you think I am." He took her small black purse up from the table. "What's your capital?" "You can't cut no capers on that, girl." He dropped something in against the coins. "No, no; not a cent from you--for myself. I--I didn't know you in them days for nothing. I was only a kid, but I--I know you! I know. You gimme! Gimme!" He withheld it from her. "Hold your horses, beauty! What I was then I am now, and I ain't ashamed of it. Human, that's all. The best of us is only human before a pretty woman." She had snatched up her small hand-satchel from the divan and stood flashing now beside him, her small, blazing face only level with his cravat. "Oh, you--Woh--woh--woh!" It is like the note of a wind instrument--an oboe adding its slow note to the boom of the kettle-drum, the clang of gold- cymbals, and the singing ecstasy of violins. Nights she supped in a family-entrance cafe beneath her room--veal stew and a glass of beer. She would sit over it, not unpleasantly muzzy. She slept of nights now, and not so rigidly. Then followed a week of lesser department stores as she worked her way down-town, of offices tucked dingily behind lithograph and small-ware shops, and even an ostrich-feather loft, with a "Curlers Wanted" sign hung out. A face peered down at her from a high chair behind the champing machine. "'Goil wanted,' is what it says. Goil!" "I--I ain't old," she faltered. "Hang your coat and hat behind the sink." Before noon, a waste of miscut cards about her, she cut her hand slightly, fumbling at the machine, and cried out. The Jefferson Market Lunch Room, thick with kicked-up sawdust and the fumes of hissing grease, was sunk slightly below the level of the sidewalk, a fitting retreat for the mole-like humanity that dined furtively at its counter. Men with too short coat-sleeves and collars turned up; women with beery eyes and uneven skirt-hems dank with the bilge-water of life's lower decks. Ann 'Lisbeth, hers not to argue, but accept, dallied with no such question. Behind the lunch-room, a sink of unwashed dishes rose to a mound. She plunged her hands into tepid water that clung to her like fuzz. "I won't," said Ann 'Lisbeth, a wave of the furry water slopping out and down her dress-front. Yes, reader; but who are you to turn away sickened and know no more of this? You who love to bask in life's smile, but shudder at its drool! A Carpenter did not sicken at a leper. He held out a hand. "O God!" she cried in immediate hysteria. "O God! O God!" and fell to her knees in a frenzy of clearing-up. A raw-boned Minerva, a waitress with whom she had had no previous word, sprang to her succor, a big, red hand of mercy jerking her up from the debris. "Clear out! He's across the bar. Beat it while the going's good. Your week's gone in breakage, anyways, and he'll split up the place when he comes. Clear out, girl, and here--for car fare." Out in the street, her jacket not quite on and her hat clapped askew, Ann 'Lisbeth found herself quite suddenly scuttling down a side-street. In her hand a dime burnt up into the palm. A great shame at her smelling, grease-caked dress-front smote her, too, and she stood back in a doorway, scraping at it with a futile forefinger. February had turned soft and soggy, the city streets running mud, and the damp insidious enough to creep through the warmth of human flesh. A day threatened with fog from East River had slipped, without the interim of dusk, into a heavy evening. Her clothing dried, but sitting in a small triangle of park in Grove Street, chill seized her again, and, faint for food, but with nausea for it, she tucked her now empty pint bottle beneath the bench. She was crying incessantly, but her mind still seeming to revive. Her small black purse she drew out from her pocket. It had a collapsed look. Yet within were a sample of baby-blue cotton crepe, a receipt from a dyeing-and-cleaning establishment, and a bit of pink chamois; in another compartment a small assortment of keys. An hour Ann 'Lisbeth sat there, with the key in her lax hand. Finally she rubbed the pink chamois across her features and adjusted her hat, pausing to scrape again with forefinger at the front of her, and moved on through the gloom, the wind blowing her skirt forward. At Fiftieth Street she alighted, the white lights of the whitest street in the world forcing down through the murk, and a theater crowd swarming to be turned from reality. The incandescent sign of the Hotel Liberty jutted out ahead. She did not pause. She was in and into an elevator even before a lackey turned to stare. A lamp with a red shade sprang up and a center chandelier. A warm-toned, well-tufted room, hotel chromos well in evidence, but a turkey-red air of solid comfort. Beyond, a white-tiled bathroom shining through the open door, and another room hinted at beyond that. She dropped, even in her hat and jacket, against the divan piled with fat-looking satin cushions. Tears coursed out from her closed eyes, and she relaxed as if she would swoon to the luxury of the pillows, burrowing and letting them bulge up softly about her. A key scraped in the lock. From where she stood a rigidity raced over Ann 'Lisbeth, locking her every limb in paralysis. Her mouth moved to open and would not. The handle turned, and, with a sudden release of faculties, darting this way and that, as if at bay, she tore the white-enameled medicine-chest from its moorings, and, with a yell sprung somewhere from the primordial depths of her, stood with it swung to hurl. The door opened and she lunged, then let it fall weakly and with a small crash. The fog from East River was blowing in grandly as she ran into its tulle. It closed around and around her. "Oh-h-h-h, God bless my soul!" she said. Miss Josie Beemis, narrowly constricted between shoulders that barely sloped off from her neck, with arms folded flat to her flat bosom and her back a hypothenuse against the counter, looked up. Miss Hassiebrock batted at her lips and shuddered. Miss Beemis hugged herself a bit flatter, looking out straight ahead into a parasol sale across the aisle. "Enough sleep ain't such a bad cure for gaps," she said. "I'll catch up in time, dearie; my foot's been asleep all day." "You can't, dearie," said Miss Hassiebrock, driven to vaudevillian extremities, "you're cracked." "Well, I may be cracked, but my good name ain't." A stiffening of Miss Hassiebrock took place, as if mere verbiage had suddenly flung a fang. From beneath the sternly and too starched white shirtwaist and the unwilted linen cravat wound high about her throat and sustained there with a rhinestone horseshoe, it was as if a wave of color had started deep down, rushing up under milky flesh into her hair. "Is that meant to be an in-sinuating remark, Josie?" "'Tain't how it's meant; it's how it's took." "There's some poor simps in this world, maybe right here in this store, ought to be excused from what they say because they don't know any better." "I know this much: To catch the North End street-car from here, I don't have to walk every night down past the Stag Hotel to do it." At that Miss Hassiebrock's ears, with the large pearl blobs in them, tingled where they peeped out from the scallops of yellow hair, and she swallowed with a forward movement as if her throat had constricted. "I--take the street-car where I darn please, and it's nobody's darn business." "Sure it ain't! Only, if a poor working-girl don't want to make it everybody's darn business, she can't run around with the fast rich boys of this town and then get invited to help hem the altar-cloth." "Anything I do in this town I'm not ashamed to do in broad daylight." "Maybe; but just the samey, I notice the joy rides out to Claxton don't take place in broad daylight. I notice that 'tall, striking blonde' and Charley Cox's speed-party in the morning paper wasn't exactly what you'd call a 'daylight' affair." "No, it wasn't; it was--my affair." "Maybe if some of the girls in this store didn't have time to nose so much, they'd know why I can make them all look like they was caught out in the rain and not pressed the next morning. While they're snooping in what don't concern them I'm snipping. Snipping over my last year's black-and-white-checked jacket into this year's cutaway. If you girls had as much talent in your needle as you've got in your conversation, you might find yourselves somewheres." "Maybe what you call 'somewheres' is what lots of us would call 'nowheres.'" Miss Hassiebrock drew herself up and, from the suzerainty of sheer height, looked down upon Miss Beemis there, so brown and narrow beside the friendship-bracelet rack. "I'll have you know, Josie Beemis, that if every girl in this store watched her step like me, there'd be a darn sight less trouble in the world." "I know you don't go beyond the life-line, Loo, but, gee! you--you do swim out some!" "Little Loo knows her own depth, all righty." "Not the way you're cuttin' up with Charley Cox." Miss Hassiebrock lowered her flaming face to scrutinize a tray of rhinestone bar pins. "I'd like to see any girl in this store turn down a bid with Charley Cox. I notice there are plenty of you go out to the Highland dances hoping to meet even his imitation." "The rich boys that hang around the Stag and out to the Highlands don't get girls like us anywheres." "You let John Simeon out of this conversation!" "You let Charley Cox out!" "Maybe he don't smell like a cleaned white glove, but John means something by me that's good." "Y-aw," said Miss Beemis. The day dwindled. Died. At West Street, where Broadway intersects, the red sun at its far end settled redly and cleanly to sink like a huge coin into the horizon. The Popular Store emptied itself into this hot pink glow, scurried for the open street-car and, oftener than not, the overstuffed rear platform, nose to nose, breath to breath. But, not given to self-inventory, the Popular Store emptied itself with that blessed elasticity of spirit which, unappalled, stretches to to-morrows as they come. "See you to-morrow, Josie." "Ain't you taking the car?" "No, dearie," said Miss Hassiebrock, stepping down to cross the street; "you take it, but not for keeps." Through this, and like Diana, who, so aloof from desire, walked in the path of her own splendor, strode Miss Hassiebrock, straight and forward of eye. Past the Stag Hotel, in an aisle formed by lounging young bloods and a curb lined with low, long-snouted motor-cars, the gaze beneath the red sailor and above the high, horsy stock a bit too rigidly conserved. "What's your hurry, honey?" She spun about, too startled. "Charley Cox! Well, of all the nerve! Why didn't you scare me to death and be done with it?" "Well, I should say you did!" He linked his arm into hers. "Come on; I'll buy you a drink." "All right, then; I'll buy you a supper. The car is back there, and we'll shoot out to the inn. What do you say? I feel like a house afire this evening, kiddo. What does your speedometer register?" "Charley, aren't you tired painting this old town yet? Ain't there just nothing will bring you to your senses? Honest, this morning's papers are a disgrace. You--you won't catch me along again." He slid his arm, all for ingratiating, back into hers. "Come now, honey; you know you like me for my speed." She would not smile. "Honest, Charley, you're the limit." "But you like me just the same. Now don't you, Loo?" She looked at him sidewise. "You've been drinking, Charley." He felt of his face. "Not a drop, Loo. I need a shave, that's all." "Look at your stud--loose." He jammed a diamond whip curling back upon itself into his maroon scarf. He was slightly heavy, so that his hands dimpled at the knuckle, and above the soft collar, joined beneath the scarf with a goldbar pin, his chin threatened but did not repeat itself. "I got to go now, Charley; there's a North End car coming." "Aw, now, sweetness, what's the idea? Didn't you walk down here to pick me up?" An immediate flush stung her face. "I got to hand it you, Loo; when you walk down this street, you make every girl in town look warmed over." "Do you like it, Charley? It's that checked jacket I bought at Hamlin's sale last year made over." "Say, it's classy! You look like all the money in the world, honey." "You're the show-piece of the town, all right. Come on; let's pick up a crowd and muss-up Claxton Road a little." "I meant what I said, Charley. After the cuttings-up of last night and the night before I'm quits. Maybe Charley Cox can afford to get himself talked about because he's Charley Cox, but a girl like me with a job to hold down, and the way ma and Ida Bell were sitting up in their nightgowns, green around the gills, when I got home last night--nix! I'm getting myself talked about, if you want to know it, running with--your gang, Charley." "You was drunk when you asked me, Charley." "I don't blame you, girl. You might do worse--but not much." "That's what you'd need for your finishing-touch, a girl like me dragging you down." "Yes, maybe, if you didn't have a cent." "Come on; let me ride you around the block, then." "If--if you like my company so much, can't you just take a walk with me or come out and sit on our steps awhile?" "Lord, girl, Flamm Avenue is hot enough to fry my soul to-night!" "Thank God for that! I sneaked home this morning to change my clothes, and thought maybe I'd got into somebody's mausoleum by mistake." "Was--was your papa around, Charley?" "In the library, shut up with old man Brookes." "Did he--did he see the morning papers? You know what he said last time, Charley, when the motor-cycle cop chased you down an embankment." "Honey, if my old man was to carry out every threat he utters, I'd be disinherited, murdered, hong-konged, shanghaied, and cremated every day in the year." "I got to go now, Charley." "Not let a fellow even spin you home?" "You know I want to, Charley, but--but it don't do you any good, boy, being seen with me in that joy-wagon of yours. It--it don't do you any good, Charley, ever--ever being seen with me." "You're a nice little girl, all righty." "Take care of this little lady there, conductor, and don't let your car skid." "Oh, Charley--silly!" She forced her way into the jammed rear platform, the sharp brim of the red sailor creating an area for her. Wedged there in the moist-faced crowd, she looked after him, at his broad back receding. An inclination to cry pressed at her eyeballs. "Come out to your supper. I'll warm up the kohlrabi." "I wish to Heaven somebody in this joint would remember to keep those front windows shut!" Miss Ida Bell Hassiebrock, at the right of the table, turned her head so that, against the window, her profile, somewhat thin, cut into the gloom. "There's a lot of things I wish around here," she said, without a ripple to her lips. "I'll warm up the kohlrabi, Loo." Mrs. Hassiebrock, in the green black of a cotton umbrella and as sparse of frame, moved around to the gas-range, scraping a match and dragging a pot over the blue flame. "Never mind, ma; I ain't hungry." "I got B in de-portment to-day, Loo. You owe me the wear of your spats Sunday." Miss Hassiebrock squeezed the hand at her waist. "All right, honey. Cut Loo a piece of bread." "Gussie Flint's mother scalded her leg with the wash-boiler." Mrs. Hassiebrock came then, limping around, tilting the contents of the steaming pot to a plate. "Sit down, ma; don't bother." Miss Hassiebrock drew up, pinning a fringed napkin that stuck slightly in the unfolding across her shining expanse of shirtwaist. Broke a piece of bread. Dipped. "Paula Krausnick only got C in de-portment. When the monitor passed the basin, she dipped her sponge soppin'-wet." Mrs. Hassiebrock, now at the sink, swabbed a dish with gray water. "My feet's killin' me," she said. "I think it's a shame, ma, the way you keep thumping around in your stocking feet like this was backwoods." "You thump around as much as you darn please, ma. If Ida Bell don't like the looks of you, let her go home with some of her swell stenog friends. You let your feet hurt you any old way you want 'em to. I'm going to buy you some arnica. Pass the kohlrabi." "Well, my swell 'stenog friends,' as you call them, keep themselves self-respecting girls without getting themselves talked about, and that's more than I can say of my sister. If ma had the right kind of gumption with you, she'd put a stop to it, all right." Mrs. Hassiebrock leaned her tired head sidewise into the moist palm of her hand. "She's beyond me and the days when a slipper could make her mind. I wisht to God there was a father to rule youse!" "Shut up, Genevieve! Just don't you let my business interfere with yours, Ida Bell. Brookes don't know you're on earth outside of your dictation-book. Take it from me, I bet he wouldn't know you if he met you on the street." "That's about all you know about it! If you found yourself confidential stenographer to the biggest lawyer in town, he'd know you, all right--by your loud dressing. A blind man could see you coming." "Ma, are you going to stand there and let her talk to me thataway? I notice she's willing to borrow my loud shirtwaists and my loud gloves and my loud collars." "If ma had more gumption with you, maybe things would be different." Mrs. Hassiebrock limped to the door, dangling a pail. "I 'ain't got no more strength against her. My ears won't hold no more. I'm taking this hot oil down to Mrs. Flint's scalds. She's, beyond my control, and the days when a slipper could make her mind. I wisht to God there was a father! I wisht to God!" Her voice trailed off and down a rear flight of stairs. "If Roy Brownell was Charley Cox, I'd hate to leave him laying around loose where you could get your hands on him." "Genevieve, you run out and play." Miss Lola Hassiebrock sprang up then, her hand coming down in a small crash to the table. "You cut out that talk in front of that child!" "Here, honey; Loo's got a dime for you." "Sending that child out along your own loose ways, instead of seeing to it she stays home to help ma do the dishes!" "I'll do the dishes for ma." "You dry up, Ida Bell! I'll do what I pl--ease with my di--uhm--di--uhm." "Well, if you don't want her to hear what she sees with her eyes all around her, come into the bedroom, then, and I can tell you something that'll bring you to your senses." "What you can tell me I don't want to hear." After them, the immediately locked door resisting, Genevieve fell to batting the panels. "Let me in! Let me in! You're fussin' about your beaux. Ray Brownell has a long face, and Charley Cox has a red face--red face--red face! Let me in! In!" Silence descended over that kitchen, and a sooty dusk that almost obliterated the table, drawn out and cluttered after the manner of those who dine frowsily; the cold stove, its pots cloying, and a sink piled high with a task whose only ending is from meal to meal. Finally that door swung open again; the wide-shouldered, slim-hipped silhouette of Miss Hassiebrock moved swiftly and surely through the kind of early darkness, finding out for itself a wall telephone hung in a small patch of hallway separating kitchen and front room. Her voice came tight, as if it were a tense coil in her throat that she held back from bursting into hysteria. Claxton Inn, slightly outside the city limits and certain of its decorums, stands back in a grove off a macadamized highway that is so pliant to tire that of summer nights, with tops thrown back and stars sown like lavish grain over a close sky and to a rushing breeze that presses the ears like an eager whisper, motor-cars, wild to catch up with the horizon, tear out that road--a lightning-streak of them--fearing neither penal law nor Dead Man's Curve. "Aw, Charley, I thought you promised you wasn't going to stop!" "Honey, sweetness, I just never was so dry." Miss Hassiebrock laid out a hand along his arm, sitting there in the quiet car, the trees closing over them. "There's Yiddles Farm a little farther out, Charley; let's stop there for some spring water." He was peeling out of his gauntlets, and cramming them into spacious side pockets. "Water, honey, can wash me, but it can't quench me." "No high jinks to-night, though, Charley?" They high-stepped through the gloom, and finally, with firmer step, up the gravel walk and into the white-lighted, screened-in porch. "Hi, Charley. Hi, Loo!" "You don't feel like sitting with Jess and the crowd, Loo?" "Charley, hasn't that gang got you into enough mix-ups?" "All right, honey; anything your little heart desires." She leaned on her elbows across the table from him, smiling and twirling a great ring of black onyx round her small finger. "Sure. What'll you have, hon?" "Got any my special Gold Top on ice for me, George? Good. Shoot me a bottle and a special layout of _hors-d'oeuvre_. How's that, sweetness?" "Poor little girl," he said, patting the black onyx, "with the bad old blues! I know what they are, honey; sometimes I get crazy with 'em myself." "It's you makes me blue, Charley." "Now, now; just don't worry that big, nifty head of yours about me." "The--the morning papers and all. I--I just hate to see you going so to--to the dogs, Charley--a--fellow like you--with brains." "You ain't a bad egg. You just never had a chance. You been killed with coin." "My old man is going to wake up in a minute and find me on his checking-account again. Charley boy better be making connections with headquarters or he won't find himself such a hit with the niftiest doll in town, eh?" "Charley, you--you haven't run through those thousands and thousands and thousands the papers said you got from your granny that time?" "It was slippery, hon; somebody buttered it." "Charley, Charley, ain't there just no limit to your wildness?" "Did--did he hear about last night, Charley? You know what came out in the paper about making a new will if--if you ever got pulled in again for rough-housing?" "Next to taking it with him, he'll leave it to me before he'll see a penny go out of the family. I've seen his will, hon." "Charley, you--you got so much good in you. The way you sent that wooden leg out to poor old lady Guthrie. The way you made Jimmy Ball go home, and the blind-school boys and all. Why can't you get yourself on the right track where you belong, Charley? Why don't you clear--out--West where it's clean?" "Thought I was kidding you last night--didn't you--about wedding-bells?" "I know. You're going to watch your step, little girl, and I don't know as I blame you. You can get plenty of boys my carat, and a lot of other things thrown in I haven't got to offer you." "As if I wouldn't like you, Charley, if you were dead broke!" "Of course you would! There, there, girl, I don't blame any of you for feathering your nest." He was flushed now and above the soft collar, his face had relaxed into a not easily controllable smile. "Feather your nest, girl; you got the looks to do it. It's a far cry from Flamm Avenue to where a classy girl like you can land herself if she steers right. And I wish it to you, girl; the best isn't good enough." "I--I dare you to ask me again, Charley!" He was wagging his head now insistently, but pinioning his gaze with the slightly glassy stare of those who think none too clearly. "Honest, I don't know, beauty. What's the idea?" "Well--I--I--dare you to ask me again, Charley." "I'm serious, girl." "There's Jess over there can get us a special license from his brother-in-law. Married in verse in Claxton sounds good to me, honey." "Of course not, Charley." "Now, you're sure, honey? You're drawing a fellow that went to the dogs before he cut his canines." "You're not all to the canines yet, Charley." "I may be a black sheep, honey, but, thank God, I got my golden fleece to offer you!" "You're not--black." "Jess--over here! Quick!" "Gawd bless you, dearie; it's a big night's work!" In the Louis Quinze, gilt-bedded, gilt-framed, gilt-edged bridal-suite _de luxe_ on the seventeenth floor, Mrs. Charley Cox sat rigid enough and in shirt-waisted incongruity on the lower curl of a gilt divan that squirmed to represent the letter S. "Charley--are you--sorry?" He wriggled out of his dust-coat, tossing it on the gilt-canopied bed and crossed to her, lifting off her red sailor. She stroked his coat-sleeve, mouthing back tears. "Now everybody'll say--you're a goner--for sure--marrying a--Popular Store girl." "If anybody got the worst of this bargain, it's my girl." "My own boy," she said, still battling with tears. "That--that's the trouble, Charley--there's just no way to make a boy with money know you married him for any other reason." "I'm not blaming you, honey. Lord! what have I got besides money to talk for me?" "Lots. Why--like Jess says, Charley, when you get to squaring your lips and jerking up your head, there's nothing in the world you can't do that you set out to do." "Charley, Charley, that's not what I want, boy. Now that I've got you, there ain't a chain of diamonds on earth I'd turn my wrist for." "Would be what, honey?" "A winner. You got brains, Charley--if only you'd have gone through school and shown them. If you'd only have taken education, Charley, and not got fired out of all the academies, my boy would beat 'em all. Lord! boy, there's not a day passes over my head I don't wish for education. That's why I'm so crazy my little sister Genevieve should get it. I'd have took to education like a fish to water if I'd have had the chance, and there you were, Charley, with every private school in town and passed 'em up." "I know, girl, just looks like every steer I gave myself was the wrong steer till it was too late to get in right again. Bad egg, I tell you, honey." He patted her yellow hair, tilting her head back against his arm, pinching her cheeks together and kissing her puckered mouth. "Dream on, honey. I like you crazy, too." "You married this millionaire kid, and, bless your heart, he's going to make good by showing you the color of his coin!" She sprang back from the curve of his embrace, unshed tears immediately distilled. She peered at the sheet over his shoulder, her cheek against his and still sobbing a bit in her throat. The jerking of her breath stopped then; in fact, it was as if both their breathing had let down with the oneness of a clock stopped. He let the paper fall between his wide-spread knees, the blood flowing down from his face and seeming to leave him leaner. "Charley--Charley--darling!" "My--poor old man!" he said in a voice that might have been his echo in a cave. "He--his heart must have give out on him, Charley, while he slept in the night." "My--poor--old--man!" She stretched out her hand timidly to his shoulder. "Charley--boy--my poor boy!" He reached up to cover her timid touch, still staring ahead, as if a mental apathy had clutched him. "He died like--he--lived. Gad--it's--tough!" "He's at peace now, darling--and all your sins are forgiven--like you forgive--his." His lips were twisting. She held her cheek to his so that her tears veered out of their course, zigzagging down to his waistcoat, stroked his hair, placing her rich, moist lips to his eyelids. "My darling! My darling boy! My own poor darling!" Sobs rumbled up through him, the terrific sobs that men weep. "You--married a rotter, Loo--that couldn't even live decent with his--old man. He--died like a dog--alone." "I'll make it up to you, girl, for the rotter I am. I'm a rich man now, Loo." She reached out, placing her hand pat across his mouth, and, in the languid air of the room, shuddering so that her lips trembled. "Charley--for God's sake--it--it's a sin to talk that way!" "O God, I know it, girl! I'm all muddled--muddled." He let his forehead drop against her arm, and in the long silence that ensued she sat there, her hand on his hair. "Right living, Charley, makes dying take care of itself." "God! how he must have died, then! Like a dog--alone." "'Sh-h-h, Charley; don't get to thinking." Without raising his head, he reached up to stroke her arm. "Honey, you're shivering." Then Mrs. Cox rose, her face distorted with holding back tears, her small high heels digging into and breaking the newspaper at his feet. "You don't know it, but my sister, Charley--Ida Bell!" "Why, Loo, I sent off the message to your mama. They know it by now." "You--you don't know, Charley. My sister--I swore her an oath on my mother's prayer-book. I wouldn't tell, but, now that he's dead, that--lets me out. The will--Charley, he made it yesterday, like he always swore he would the next time you got your name on the front page." "Made what, honey? Who?" He regarded her as if trying to peer through something opaque, his hands spread rather stupidly on his wide knees. "Charley, Charley, can't you understand? A dollar, that puts him within the law, is all he left you." "He never did. He never did. He wouldn't. He couldn't. He never did. I saw--his will. I'm the only survivor. I saw his will." "He did it? He did it? My old man did it?" "As sure as I'm standing here, Charley." He fell to blinking rapidly, his face puckering to comprehend. "I never thought it could happen. But I--I guess it could happen. I think you got me doped, honey." He sprang up at that, jerking her backward, and all the purple-red gushed up into his face again. "Charley, no--no! He'd rise out of his grave at you. It's never been known where a will was broke where they didn't rise out of the grave to haunt." He took her squarely by the shoulders, the tears running in furrows down his face. "Charley," she said, lifting herself by his coat lapels, and her eyes again so closely level with his, "you're crazy with the heat--stark, raving crazy! You got your chance, boy, to show what you're made of--can't you see that? We're going West, where men get swept out with clean air and clean living. We'll break ground in this here life for the kind of pay-dirt that'll make a man of you. You hear? A man of you!" He lifted her arms, and because they were pressing insistently down, squirmed out from beneath them. "You're a good sport, girl; nobody can take that from you. But just the same, I'm going to let you off without a scratch." "'Good sport'! I'd like to know, anyways, where I come in with all your solid-gold talk. Me that's stood behind somebody-or-other's counter ever since I had my working-papers." He shook his head, turning away his eyes to hide their tears. "You been stung, Loo. Nothing on earth can change that." She turned his face back to her, smiling through her own tears. She wound her arms round him, trembling between the suppressed hysteria of tears and laughter. "Not a chance, Charley!" He jerked her so that her face fell back from him, foreshortened. "Loo--oh, girl! Oh, girl!" Her throat was tight and would not give her voice for coherence. "Charley--we--we'll show 'em--you--me!" Looking out above her head at the vapory sky showing through the parting of the pink-brocade curtains, rigidity raced over Mr. Cox, stiffening his hold of her. The lean look had come out in his face; the flanges of his nose quivered; his head went up. Hands in lap, head back against the mat of her chair, Mrs. Burkhardt looked straight ahead of her into this silence--at a closed door hung with a newspaper rack, at a black-walnut horsehair divan, a great sea-shell on the carpet beside it. A nickelplated warrior gleamed from the top of a baseburner that showed pink through its mica doors. He stood out against the chocolate-ocher wallpaper and a framed Declaration of Independence, hanging left. A coal fell. Mr. Burkhardt sat up, shook himself of sleep. "Little chilly," he said, and in carpet slippers and unbuttoned waistcoat moved over to the base-burner, his feet, to avoid sloughing, not leaving the floor. He was slightly stooped, the sateen back to his waistcoat hiking to the curve of him. But he swung up the scuttle with a swoop, rattling coal freely down into the red-jowled orifice. "Ugh, don't!" she said. "I'm burnin' up." He jerked back the scuttle, returning to his chair, and, picking up the fallen newspaper, drew down his spectacles from off his brow and fell immediately back into close, puckered scrutiny of the printed page. "What time is it, Burkhardt? That old thing on the mantel's crazy." He drew out a great silver watch. The clock ticked in roundly again except when he rustled his paper in the turning. The fire was crackling now, too, in sharp explosions. Beyond the arc of lamp the room was deeper than ever in shadow. Finally John Burkhardt's head relaxed again to his shirt-front, the paper falling gently away to the floor. She regarded his lips puffing out as he breathed. Hands clasped, arms full length on the table, it was as if the flood of words pressing against the walls of her, to be shrieked rather than spoken, was flowing over to him. He jerked erect again, regarding her through blinks. "Must 'a' dozed off," he said, reaching down for his newspaper. She was winding her fingers now in and out among themselves. "What--does a person do that's smotherin'?" "I know. That's what I'm doing. Smotherin'!" "A touch of the old trouble, Hanna?" She sat erect, with her rather large white hands at the heavy base to her long throat. They rose and fell to her breathing. Like Heine, who said so potently, "I am a tragedy," so she, too, in the sulky light of her eyes and the pulled lips and the ripple of shivers over her, proclaimed it of herself. "Go lay down on the sofa a bit, Hanna. I'll cover you with a plaid. It's the head-noises again bothering you." "I must 'a' dozed off, Hanna." He was reading again in stolid profile. "For God's sake, talk! Say something, or I'll go mad!" He laid his paper across his knee, pushing up his glasses. "Sing a little something, Hanna. You're right restless this evening." "'Restless'!" she said, her face wry. "If I got to sit and listen to that white-faced clock ticking for many more evenings of this winter, you'll find yourself with a raving maniac on your hands. That's how restless I am!" He rustled his paper again. "Don't read!" she cried. "Don't you dare read!" He sat staring ahead, in a heavy kind of silence, breathing outward and passing his hand across his brow. Her breathing, too, was distinctly audible. He mopped his brow this time, clearing his throat. "I've never stood in your light, Hanna, of having a good time. Go ahead. I'm always glad when you go up-town with the neighbor women of a Saturday evening. I'd be glad if you'd have 'em in here now and then for a little sociability. Have 'em. Play the graphophone for 'em. Sing. You 'ain't done nothin' with your singin' since you give up choir." "Come; let's go to a moving picture, Hanna. Go wrap yourself up warm." "Maybe there's something showin' in the op'ry-house to-night." "Oh, you got a record to be proud of, John Burkhardt: Not a foot in that opera-house since we're married. I wouldn't want to have your feelin's!" His quietude was like a great, impregnable, invisible wall inclosing him. "I do yet, Hanna--only you don't laugh no more. There's nothin' so fine in a woman as sunshine." "Provided you don't have to furnish any of it." "It's been knocked out of me, every bit of laugh I ever had in me; lemme tell you that." "I always kept hopin', Hanna, I could get you to take more to the home." "I know. I know what's comin'." "Keepin" a menagerie of mangy spaniels ain't my idea of livin'." "There's the piano, Hanna, bought special for it." "Yes, I know; you snored into my singin' with enjoyment, all right." "Kittie Scogin, Hanna, is a poor comparison for any woman to make with herself." "They say her sense is what killed Ed Bevins of shame and heartbreak." "Say, don't tell me! It was town talk the way he made her toady to his folks, even after he'd been cut off without a cent. Kittie told me herself the very sight of the old Bevins place over on Orchard Street gives her the creeps down her back. If not for old lady Scogin, 'way up in the seventies, she'd never put her foot back in this dump. That girl had sense." "There's not a time she comes back here it don't have an upsettin' influence on you, Hanna." "I know what's upsettin' me, all right. I know!" They sat then in a further silence that engulfed them like fog. A shift of wind blew a gust of dry snow against the window-pane with a little sleety noise. And as another evidence of rising wind, a jerk of it came down the flue, rattling the fender of a disused grate. "We'd better keep the water in the kitchen runnin' to-night. The pipes'll freeze." Tick-tock. Tick. Tock. She had not moved, still sitting staring above the top of his head. He slid out his watch, yawning. "If--if you ain't sleepy awhile yet, Hanna, why not run over to Widow Dinninger's to pass the time of evenin'? I'll keep the door on the latch." She sprang up, snatching a heavy black shawl, throwing it over her and clutching it closed at the throat. "Where you goin', Hanna?" "Walkin'," she said, slamming the door after her. In spring Adalia is like a dear old lady's garden of marigold and bleeding-heart. Flushes of sweetpeas ripple along its picket fences and off toward the backyards are long grape-arbors, in autumn their great fruit-clusters ripening to purple frost. Come winter there is almost an instant shriveling to naked stalk, and the trellis-work behind vines comes through. Even the houses seem immediately to darken of last spring's paint, and, with windows closed, the shades are drawn. Oftener than not Adalia spends its evening snugly behind these drawn shades in great scoured kitchens or dining-rooms, the house-fronts dark. There was a moving about within, the scrape of a match, and finally the door opening slightly, a figure peering out. "It's me, Mrs. Scogin--Hanna Burkhardt!" The door swung back then, revealing a just-lighted parlor, opening, without introduction of hall, from the sidewalk. "Well, if it ain't Hanna Burkhardt! What you doin' out this kind of a night? Come in. Kittie's dryin' her hair in the kitchen. Used to be she could sit on it, and it's ruint from the scorchin' curlin'-iron. I'll call her. Sit down, Hanna. How's Burkhardt? I'll call her. Oh, Kittie! Kit-tie, Hanna Burkhardt's here to see you." In the wide flare of the swinging lamp, revealing Mrs. Scogin's parlor of chromo, china plaque, and crayon enlargement, sofa, whatnot, and wax bouquet embalmed under glass, Mrs. Burkhardt stood for a moment, blowing into her cupped hands, unwinding herself of shawl, something Niobian in her gesture. "Yoo-hoo--it's only me, Kit! Shall I come out?" "Naw--just a minute; I'll be in." "Don't care if I do." "You can lean back against that chair-bow." "He's been made deacon--not?" "You can lean back against that bow." "So Burkhardt's been made deacon." "A deacon. Mine went to his grave too soon." "They said down at market to-day, Mrs. Scogin, that Addie Fitton knocked herself against the woodbin and has water on the knee." "It took Martha and Eda and Gessler's hired girl to hold her in bed with the pain." Kittie Scogin Bevins entered then through a rain of bead portieres. Insistently blond, her loosed-out hair newly dry and flowing down over a very spotted and very baby-blue kimono, there was something soft-fleshed about her, a not unappealing saddle of freckles across her nose, the eyes too light but set in with a certain feline arch to them. "This ain't nothing. Wait till we begin to get snowed in!" She fitted herself into the lower curl of the couch, crossing her hands at the back of her head, drawing up her feet so that, for lack of space, her knees rose to a hump. "What's new in Deadtown, Han?" "Burkhardt's been made a deacon, Kittie." "O Lord! ma, forget it!" Mrs. Scogin Bevins threw out her hands to Mrs. Burkhardt in a wide gesture, indicating her mother with a forefinger, then with it tapping her own brow. "Crazy as a loon! Bats!" "I keep tellin' her, Kittie, to stay home. New York ain't no place for a divorced woman to set herself right with the Lord." "Ma, if you don't quit raving and clear on up to bed, I'll pack myself out to-night yet, and then you'll have a few things to set right with the Lord. Go on up, now." Mrs. Scogin went then, tiredly and quite bent forward, toward a flight of stairs that rose directly from the parlor, opened a door leading up into them, the frozen breath of unheated regions coming down. "Quick--close that door, ma!" "Come to see a body, Hanna, when she ain't here. She won't stay at home, like a God-fearin' woman ought to." "Light the gas-heater up there, if you expect me to come to bed. I'm used to steam-heated flats, not barns." Mrs. Scogin Bevins flung herself up, then, a wave of red riding up her face. "If you don't go up--if you--don't! Go--now! Honest, you're gettin' so luny you need a keeper. Go--you hear?" The door shut slowly, inclosing the old figure. She relaxed to the couch, trying to laugh. "Luny!" she said. "Bats! Nobody home!" "I like your hair like that, Kittie. It looks swell." "It's easy. I'll fix it for you some time. It's the vampire swirl. All the girls are wearing it." "Yeh. I had on a blue dress with white polka-dots." They laughed back into the years. "Not to me, Kittie. You've done things with your life since then. I 'ain't." "You know what I've always told you about yourself, Hanna. If ever there was a fool girl, that was Hanna Long. Lord! if I'm where I am on my voice, where would you be?" "I could have told you that the night you came running over to tell me." "I know it, Kit. God knows I've eat out my heart with knowin' it! Only--only it was so hard--a man givin' me no more grounds than he does. What court would listen to his stillness for grounds? I 'ain't got grounds." "Say, you could 'a' left that to me. My little lawyer's got a factory where he manufactures them. He could 'a' found a case of incompatibility between the original turtle-doves." "John Burkhardt would give me the razzle-dazzle jimjams overnight, he would. That face reminds me of my favorite funeral." "I told him to-night, Kittie, he's killin' me with his deadness. I ran out of the house from it. It's killin' me." "Why, you poor simp, standing for it!" "He's small, Kittie. He's a small potato of a man in his way of livin'. He can live and die without doin' anything except the same things over and over again, year out and year in." "I know. I know. Ed was off the same pattern. It's the Adalia brand. Lord! Hanna Long, if you could see some of the fellows I got this minute paying attentions to me in New York, you'd lose your mind. Spenders! Them New York guys make big and spend big, and they're willing to part with the spondoolaks. That's the life!" "I--You look it, Kit. I never seen a girl get back her looks and keep 'em like you. I says to him to-night, I says, 'When I look at myself in the glass, I wanna die.'" Mrs. Burkhardt's head went up. Her mouth had fallen open, her eyes brightening as they widened. "Kit--when you goin' back?" "To-morrow a week, honey--if I live through it." "Could you, Kit, and to--to get a start?" "They say it of me there ain't a string in the Bijou Cafe that I can't pull my way." "Could you, Kit? Would you?" "I don't tell nobody how to run his life, Hanna. It's mighty hard to advise the other fellow about his own business. I don't want it said in this town, that's down on me, anyways, that Kit Scogin put ideas in Hanna Long's head." "Sure I would! Only, remember, I ain't responsible. I don't tell anybody how to run his life. That's something everybody's got to decide for herself." "I--have--decided, Kittie." She set the lamp down on the brown-marble top of a wash-stand, pushed back her hair with both hands, and sat down on the bed-edge, heavily breathing from a run through deserted night's streets. "I gotta talk to you, Burkhardt--now--to-night." "Now's no time, Hanna. Come to bed." "Things can't go on like this, John." "Maybe you're right, Hanna. I been layin' up here and thinkin' the same myself. What's to be done?" "I've got to the end of my rope." "With so much that God has given us, Hanna--health and prosperity--it's a sin before Him that unhappiness should take root in this home." "If you're smart, you won't try to feed me up on gospel to-night!" "Come on to bed, Hanna. You'll catch cold. Your breath's freezin'." Her words threatened to come out on a sob, but she stayed it, the back of her hand to her mouth. Her gaze was riveted, and would not move, from a little curtain above the wash-stand, a guard against splashing crudely embroidered in a little hand-in-hand boy and girl. "You--you're sayin' a good many hasty things to-night, Hanna." He plucked at a gray-wool knot in the coverlet. "Mighty hasty things." She turned, then, plunging her hands into the great suds of feather bed, the whole thrust of her body toward him. "Goin' where, Hanna?" "I ain't tryin', Hanna." She drew back in a flash of something like surprise. "You're willin', then?" "No, Hanna, not willin'." "You can't keep me from it. Incompatibility is grounds!" The fires of her rebellion, doused for the moment, broke out again, flaming in her cheeks. He raised himself to his elbow, regarding her there in her flush, the white line of her throat whiter because of it. She was strangely, not inconsiderably taller. "Why, Hanna, what you been doin' to yourself?" "In--incompatibility is grounds." "It's mighty becomin', Hanna. Mighty becomin'." "It's grounds, all right!" "'Grounds'? Grounds for what, Hanna?" She looked away, her throat distending as she swallowed. There was a pause, then so long that she had a sense of falling through its space. "Look at me, Hanna!" She swung her gaze reluctantly to his. He was sitting erect now, a kind of pallor setting in behind the black beard. "Leggo!" she said, loosening his tightening hand from her wrists. "Leggo; you hurt!" "I--take it when a woman uses that word in her own home, she means it." "So was Ed Bevins. It never hurt his hide." "But it left her with a black name in the town." "Who cares? She don't." "Yes," he said, finally, not taking his eyes from her and the chin hardening so that it shot out and up. "Yes, Hanna; you're right. You got to go." In something pink, silk, and conservatively V, she was a careful management's last bland ingredient to an evening that might leave too Cayenne a sting to the tongue. "Gawd!" she said, and leaned her head on her hand. "I better get me a job hollerin' down a well!" Her companion drained his stemless glass with a sharp jerking back of the head. His was the short, stocky kind of assurance which seemed to say, "Greater securities hath no man than mine, which are gilt-edged." Obviously, Mr. Lew Kaminer clipped his coupons. "Not so bad," he said. "The song ain't dead; the crowd is." "Say, they can't hurt my feelin's. I been a chaser-act ever since I hit the town." "Just the same," she said, pushing away her glass, "my future in this business is behind me." He regarded her, slumped slightly in his chair, celluloid toothpick dangling. There was something square about his face, abetted by a parted-in-the-middle toupee of great craftsmanship, which revealed itself only in the jointure over the ears of its slightly lighter hair with the brown of his own. There was a monogram of silk on his shirt-sleeve, of gold on his bill-folder, and of diamonds on the black band across the slight rotundity of his waistcoat. "Never you mind, I'm for you, girl," he said. There was an undeniable taking-off of years in Miss de Long. Even the very texture of her seemed younger and the skin massaged to a new creaminess, the high coiffure blonder, the eyes quicker to dart. "Lay off, candy kid," she said. "You're going to sugar." "Have another fizz," he said, clicking his fingers for a waiter. "Anything to please the bold, bad man," she said. "Say," he said, "any time anybody puts anything over on you!" "There you are!" he cried, eying her fizz. "Drink it down; it's good for what ails you." "Gawd!" she said. "I wish I knew what it was is ailin' me!" "It's all right for us girls to take what we want, but the management don't want nothing rough around--not in war-time." "There's nothing rough about me, Lew. None of you fellows can't say that about me. I believe in a girl havin' a good time, but I believe in her always keepin' her self-respect. I always say it never hurt no girl to keep her self-respect." "What's become of the big blond-looker used to run around with you when you was over at the Bijou?" "Me and Kit ain't friends no more." "She was some looker." "That baby had some pair of shoulders!" "I ain't the girl to run a friend down, anyway, when she comes from my home town; but I could tell tales--Gawd! I could tell tales!" There was new loquacity and a flush to Miss de Long. She sipped again, this time almost to the depth of the glass. "The way to find out about a person, Lew, is to room with 'em in the same boardin'-house. Beware of the baby stare is all I can tell you. Beware of that." "Well, Lew Kaminer," she said, "you'd kid your own shadow. Callin' me a baby-stare. Of all things! Lew Kaminer!" She looked away to smile. "Drink it all down, baby-stare," he said, lifting the glass to her lips. They were well concealed and back away from the thinning patter of the crowd, so that, as he neared her, he let his face almost graze--indeed touch, hers. She made a great pretense of choking. "Drink it down-like a major." She bubbled into the glass, her eyes laughing at him above its rim. He clicked again with his fingers. "Well, whatta you know about that? Pay-day?" "Yeh-while it lasts. I hear there ain't goin' to be no more cabarets or Camembert cheese till after the war." "What you going to do with it--buy us a round of fizz?" She bit open the knot, a folded bill dropping to the table, uncurling. "You know where there's more chicken feed waitin' when you get hard up, sister. You're slower to gobble than most. You know what I told you last night, kiddo--you need lessons." "You oughta be singin' in grand op'ra." She hitched sidewise in her chair, dipped her forefinger into her fresh glass, snapped it at him so that he blinked under the tiny spray. "That for you!" she said, giggling. She was now repeatedly catching herself up from a too constant impulse to repeat that giggle. "You little devil!" he said, reaching back for his handkerchief. She dipped again, this time deeper, and aimed straighter. "Quit!" he said, catching her wrist and bending over it. "Quit it, or I'll bite!" Her mouth still resolute not to loosen, she jerked back from him. There was only the high flush which she could not control, and the gaze, heavy lidded, was not so sure as it might have been. She was quietly, rather pleasantly, dizzy. "What do you wi-ish?" "Oh, I--I dunno what I wish!" "If you ain't a card!" He had lighted a cigar, and, leaning toward her, blew out a fragrant puff to her. "M-m-m!" she said; "it's a Cleopatra." "It's a Habana Queen. Habana because it reminds me of Hanna." At this crowning puerility Mr. Kaminer paused suddenly, as if he had detected in his laughter a bray. "Is Habana in the war, Lew?" "Darned if I know exactly." "Ain't this war just terrible, Lew?" She buried her nose in her handkerchief, turning her head. Her eyes had begun to crinkle. "It--it's just awful! All them sweet boys!" "Cry-baby! Cry-baby, stick your little finger in your little eye!" She regarded him wryly, her eyes crinkled now quite to slits. "Look at the cry-baby!" "I get so darn blue." "Honest to Gawd, Lew, I get so darn blue I could die." "You're a nice girl, and I'd like to see anybody try to get fresh with you!" "Do you--honest, Lew--like me?" "There's something about you, girl, gets me every time. Cat-eyes! Kitty-eyes!" "Sometimes I get so blue--get to thinkin' of home and the way it all happened. You know the way a person will. Home and the--divorce and the way it all happened with--him--and how I come here and--where it's got me, and--and I just say to myself, 'What's the use?' You know, Lew, the way a person will. Back there, anyways, I had a home. There's something in just havin' a home, lemme tell you. Bein' a somebody in your own home." "You're a somebody any place they put you." "Uh--uh--now--cry-baby!" He flecked his cigar, hitching his arm up along the chair-back, laughed, reddened slightly. She drained her glass, blew her nose, and wiped her eyes. She was sitting loosely forward now, her hand out on his. "You're the only thing on God's earth that's kept me from--sneakin" back there--honest. Lew, I'd have gone back long ago and eat dirt to make it up with him--if not for you. I--ain't built like Kittie Scogin and those girls. I got to be self-respectin' with the fellows or nothing. They think more of you in the end--that's my theory." "Lew--will you--are you--you ain't kiddin' me all these weeks? Taxicabbin' me all night in the Park and--drinkin' around this way all the time together. You 'ain't been kiddin' me, Lew?" He shot up his cigar to an oblique. "It ain't every girl I take up with; just let that sink in. I like 'em frisky, but I like 'em cautious. That's where you made a hit with me. Little of both. Them that nibble too easy ain't worth the catch." She reached out the other hand, covering his with her both. "You're--talkin' weddin'-bells, Lew?" He regarded her, the ash of his cigar falling and scattering down his waistcoat. "Weddin', Lew." Her voice was as thin as a reed. "O Lord!" he said, pushing back slightly from the table. "Have another fizz, girl, and by that time we'll be ready for a trip in my underground balloon. Waiter!" She drew down his arm, quickly restraining it. She was not so sure now of controlling the muscles of her mouth. He cast a quick glance about, grasped at the sides of the table, and leaned toward her, _sotto_. "For God's sake, hush! Are you crazy?" "Why, you're crazy with the heat, girl! I thought you and me was talking the same language. I want to do the right thing by you. Sure I do! Anything in reason is yours for the askin'. That's what I been comin' to." "Then, Lew, I want you to do by me like you'd want your sister done by." "I tell you you're crazy. You been hitting up too many fizzes lately." "O God! Why don't I die? I ain't fit for nothing else!" "Wouldn't I be better off out of it? Why don't I die?" He was trembling down with a suppression of rage and concern for the rising gale in her voice. "You can't make a scene in public with me and get away with it. If that's your game, it won't land you anywhere. Stop it! Stop it now and talk sense, or I'll get up. By God! if you get noisy, I'll get up and leave you here with the whole place givin' you the laugh. You can't throw a scare in me." But Miss de Long's voice and tears had burst the dam of control. There was an outburst that rose and broke on a wave of hysteria. "Lemme die--that's all I ask! What's there in it for me? What has there ever been? Don't do it, Lew! Don't--don't!" It was then Mr. Kaminer pushed back his chair, flopped down his napkin, and rose, breathing heavily enough, but his face set in an exaggerated kind of quietude as he moved through the maze of tables, exchanged a check for his hat, and walked out. Finally Miss de Long rose, moving through the zigzag paths of empty tables toward a deserted dressing-room. In there she slid into black-velvet slippers and a dark-blue walking-skirt, pulled on over the pink silk, tucking it up around the waist so that it did not sag from beneath the hem, squirmed into a black-velvet jacket with a false dicky made to emulate a blouse-front, and a blue-velvet hat hung with a curtain-like purple face-veil. As she went out the side, Keeley's was closing its front doors. "Adalia--please. Huh? Ohio. Next train." She again bit open the corner knot of her handkerchief. She was trembling so that occasionally she stopped against a vertigo that went with it, wiped up under the curtain of purple veil at the beads of perspiration which would spring out along her upper lip. She was quite washed of rouge, except just a swift finger-stroke of it over the cheek-bones. She had taken out the dicky, too, and for some reason filled in there with a flounce of pink net ripped off from the little ruffles that had flowed out from her sleeves. She was without baggage. Out from the hallway shot a cocker spaniel, loose-eared, yapping. "Aw, now, he ain't! I sent him down by Gredel's nurseries on his way home to-night, for some tulip-bulbs for my iron jardinieres. He ought to be back any minute if he 'ain't stopped to brag with old man Gredel that our arbutus beats his." Then, smiling and rubbing with the back of her free hand at a flour-streak across her cheek: "If--if it's the lady from the orphan asylum come to see about the--the little kid we want--is there anything I can do for you? I'm his wife. Won't you come in?" She walked swiftly, the purple veil blown back and her face seeming to look out of it whitely, so whitely that she became terrible. Night was at hand, and Adalia was drawing down its front shades. GET READY THE WREATHS Over Benson hangs a white haze of limestone, gritty with train and foundry smoke. At night the lime-kilns, spotted with white deposits, burn redly, showing through their open doors like great, inflamed diphtheretic throats, tongues of flame bursting and licking out. Winchester Road, which runs out from the heart of the city to string these towns together, is paved with brick, and its traffic, for the most part, is the great, tin-tired dump-carts of the quarries and steel interurban electric cars which hum so heavily that even the windows of outlying cottages titillate. For blocks, from Benson to Maplehurst and from Maplehurst to Ridgeway Heights, Winchester Road repeats itself in terms of the butcher, the baker, the corner saloon. A feed-store. A monument- and stone-cutter. A confectioner. A general-merchandise store, with a glass case of men's collars outside the entrance. The butcher, the baker, the corner saloon. At Benson, where this highway cuts through, the city, wreathed in smoke, and a great oceanic stretch of roofs are in easy view, and at closer range, an outlying section of public asylums for the city's discard of its debility and its senility. Even the notions and dry-goods, flanking the right wall in stacks and bolts, merge into blur, the outline of a white-sateen and corseted woman's torso surmounting the topmost of the shelves with bold curvature. With spring sunshine even hot against the steel rails of Winchester Road, and awnings drawn against its inroads into the window display, Mrs. Shila Coblenz, routing gloom, reached up tiptoe across the haberdashery counter for the suspended chain of a cluster of bulbs, the red of exertion rising up the taut line of throat and lifted chin. "A little light on the subject, Milt." Facing her from the outer side of the counter, Mr. Milton Bauer stretched also, his well-pressed, pin-checked coat crawling up. All things swam out into the glow. The great suspended stud; the background of shelves and boxes; the scissors-like overalls against the wall; a clothesline of children's factory-made print frocks; a center-bin of women's untrimmed hats; a headless dummy beside the door, enveloped in a long-sleeved gingham apron. With his chest across the counter and legs out violently behind, Mr. Bauer flung up a glance from his order-pad. "You could shave an egg," he said. "Can't tempt you with them wash silks, Mrs. C.? Neatest little article on the market to-day." "No demand. They finger it up, and then buy the cotton stuffs. Every time I forget my trade hacks rock instead of clips bonds for its spending-money I get stung." "Send me up a dress-pattern off this coral-pink sample for Selene." "This here dark mulberry, Mrs. C., would suit you something immense." "That'll be about all." He flopped shut his book, snapping a rubber band about it and inserting it in an inner coat pocket. "You ought to stick to them dark, winy shades, Mrs. C. With your coloring and black hair and eyes, they bring you out like a gipsy. Never seen you look better than at the Y.M.H.A. entertainment." Quick color flowed down her open throat and into her shirtwaist. It was as if the platitude merged with the very corpuscles of a blush that sank down into thirsty soil. "You boys," she said, "come out here and throw in a jolly with every bill of goods. I'll take a good fat discount instead." "Fact. Never seen you look better. When you got out on the floor in that stamp-your-foot kind of dance with old man Shulof, your hand on your hip and your head jerking it up, there wasn't a girl on the floor, your own daughter included, could touch you, and I'm giving it to you straight." "Say, have you heard the news?" "Hammerstein is bringing over the crowned heads of Europe for vaudeville." Mrs. Coblenz moved back a step, her mouth falling open. "Why, Milton Bauer, in the old country a man could be strung up for saying less than that!" "If--if you had an old mother like mine up-stairs, Milton, eating out her heart and her days and her weeks and her months over a husband's grave somewhere in Siberia and a son's grave somewhere in Kishinef, you wouldn't see the joke neither." Mr. Bauer executed a self-administered pat sharply against the back of his hand. "Selene ain't the best judge of her poor old grandmother. It's hard for a young girl to have patience for old age sitting and chewing all day over the past. It's right pitiful the way her grandmother knows it, too, and makes herself talk English all the time to please the child and tries to perk up for her. Selene, thank God, 'ain't suffered, and can't sympathize!" "What's ailing her, Mrs. C.? I kinda miss seeing the old lady sitting down here in the store." "It's the last year or so, Milt. Just like all of a sudden a woman as active as mama always was, her health and--her mind kind of went off with a pop." "Say, ain't that just a shame, though!" "Say, ain't that tough!" "It's a godsend she's got the eyes to do it. It's wonderful the way she reads--in English, too. There ain't a daily she misses. Without them and the wreaths--I dunno--I just dunno. Is--is it any wonder, Milt, I--I can't see the joke?" "I'll get her back, though." "Why, you--she can't get back there, Mrs. C." "You can call on me, Mrs. C., to keep my eye on things while you're gone." "You just try me out." "Fine fellow, Mark Haas!" "There's ma thumping with the poker on the up-stairs floor. When it's closing-time she begins to get restless. I--I wish Selene would come in. She went out with Lester Goldmark in his little flivver, and I get nervous about automobiles." Mr. Bauer slid an open-face watch from his waistcoat. "Good-night, Milt; and mind you put up that order of assorted neckwear yourself. Greens in ready-tieds are good sellers for this time of the year, and put in some reds and purples for the teamsters." "No sooner said than done." "And come out for supper some Sunday night, Milt. It does mama good to have young people around." He reached across the counter, placing his hand over hers. "Good-night, Mrs. C.," he said, a note lower in his throat; "and remember that call-on-me stuff wasn't all conversation." "Good-night, Milt," said Mrs. Coblenz, a coating of husk over her own voice and sliding her hand out from beneath, to top his. "You--you're all right!" "Ma, why didn't you rap for Katie to come up and light the gas? You'll ruin your eyes, dearie." Mrs. Goblenz stooped, recovering the wreath. With her profile still to the chair-back, a tear oozed down the corrugated face of Mrs. Horowitz's cheek. Another. "Now, mama! Now, mama!" Mrs. Coblenz slid down to her knees beside the chair. "Now, mama; shame on my little mama! Is that the way to act when Shila comes up after a good day? 'Ain't we got just lots to be thankful for--the business growing and the bank-book growing, and our Selene on top? Shame on mama!" "I got a heaviness--here--inside--here." Mrs. Coblenz reached up for the old hand, patting it. "It's nothing, mama--a little nervousness." "You'm a good girl. You'm a good girl, Shila." Tears were coursing down to a mouth that was constantly wry with the taste of them. "And you're a good mother, mama. Nobody knows better than me how good." "You'm a good girl, Shila." "I was thinking last night, mama, waiting up for Selene--just thinking how all the good you've done ought to keep your mind off the spells, dearie." "His feet--blood from my heart in the snow--blood from my heart!" "But I'm going to take you back, mama. To papa's grave. To Aylorff's. But don't eat your heart out until it comes, darling. I'm going to take you back, mama, with every wreath in the stack; only, you mustn't eat out your heart in spells. You mustn't, mama; you mustn't." Sobs rumbled up through Mrs. Horowitz, which her hand to her mouth tried to constrict. "Mama darling, please don't go over it all again. What's the use making yourself sick? Please!" "Don't get to it--mama, please! Don't rock yourself that way! You'll get yourself dizzy! Don't, ma; don't!" "Mama, mama! My God! What shall we do? These spells! You'll kill yourself, darling. I'm going to take you back, dearie--ain't that enough? I promise. I promise. You mustn't, mama! These spells--they ain't good for a young girl like Selene to hear. Mama, 'ain't you got your own Shila--your own Selene? Ain't that something? Ain't it? Ain't it?" Large drops of sweat had come out and a state of exhaustion that swept completely over, prostrating the huddled form in the chair. "Rest! O my God! rest!" "Yes, yes, mama; lean on me." "Yes, yes, darling." Her voice had died now to a whimper that lay on the room after she had passed out of it. When Miss Coblenz caught her eye in the square of mirror above the mantelpiece, her hands flew to her cheeks to feel of their redness. They were soft cheeks, smooth with the pollen of youth, and hands still casing them, she moved another step toward the portiered door. Mrs. Coblenz emerged immediately, finger up for silence, kissing her daughter on the little spray of cheek-curls. "'Shh-h-h! Gramaw just had a terrible spell." She dropped down into the upholstered chair beside the base-burner, the pink and moisture of exertion out in her face, took to fanning herself with the end of a face-towel flung across her arm. "Poor gramaw!" she said. "Poor gramaw!" Miss Coblenz sat down on the edge of a slim, home-gilded chair, and took to gathering the blue-silk dress into little plaits at her knee. Mrs. Coblenz jerked herself to the moment. "Did mama's girl have a good time? Look at your dress, all dusty! You oughtn't to wear your best in that little flivver." Suddenly Miss Coblenz raised her glance, her red mouth bunched, her eyes all iris. "Of course--if you don't want to know--anything." At that large, brilliant gaze, Mrs. Coblenz leaned forward, quickened. "Well, why--why don't you ask me something?" "Why, I--I dunno, honey. Did--did you and Lester have a nice ride?" There hung a slight pause, and then a swift moving and crumpling-up of Miss Coblenz on the floor beside her mother's knee. "You know--only, you won't ask." With her hand light upon her daughter's hair, Mrs. Coblenz leaned forward, her bosom rising to faster breathing. Immediate tears were already finding staggering procession down Mrs. Coblenz's face, her hovering arms completely encircling the slight figure at her feet. "My little girl! My little Selene! My all!" "My baby! It's like I can't realize it. So young!" "He took the measure of my finger, mama, with a piece of string. A diamond, he says, not too flashy, but neat." "We have 'em, and we suffer for 'em, and we lose 'em." "Oh, darling, it's like I can't bear it!" At that Miss Coblenz sat back on her tall wooden heels, mauve spats crinkling. "Well, you're a merry little future mother-in-law, momsie!" "It ain't that, baby. I'm happy that my girl has got herself up in the world with a fine upright boy like Lester; only--you can't understand, babe, till you've got something of your own flesh and blood that belongs to you, that I--I couldn't feel anything except that a piece of my heart was going if--if it was a king you was marrying." "Didn't Lester want to--to come in for a while, Selene, to--to see--me?" Sitting there on her heels, Miss Coblenz looked away, answering with her face in profile. "Well, they do. You--you're all right, mama, as up to date as any of them, but how do you think a girl feels, with gramaw always harping right in front of everybody the way granpa was a revolutionist and was hustled off barefooted to Siberia like a tramp? And the way she was cooking black beans when my uncle died. Other girls' grandmothers don't tell everything they know. Alma Yawitz's grandmother wears lorgnettes, and you told me yourself they came from nearly the same part of the Pale as gramaw. But you don't hear them remembering it. Alma Yawitz says she's Alsace-Lorraine on both sides. People don't tell everything they know. Anyway where a girl's got herself as far as I have!" Through sobs that rocked her, Mrs. Coblenz looked down upon her daughter. "Your poor old grandmother don't deserve that from you! In her day she worked her hands to the bone for you. With the kind of father you had we might have died in the gutter but for how she helped to keep us out, you ungrateful girl--your poor old grandmother, that's suffered so terrible!" "I know it, mama, but so have other people suffered." "She's old, Selene--old." "I tell you it's the way you indulge her, mama. I've seen her sitting here as perk as you please, and the minute you come in the room down goes her head like--like she was dying." "It's you will be my responsibility now, ma." "He's a good boy, Selene. It'll be a proud day for me and gramaw. Gramaw mustn't miss none of it. He's a good boy and a fine family." "That's why, mama, we--got to--to do it up right." "Lester knows, child, he's not marrying a rich girl." "A girl don't have to--be rich to get married right." "You'll have as good as mama can afford to give it to her girl." "It--it would be different if Lester's uncle and all wasn't in the Acme Club crowd, and if I hadn't got in with all that bunch. It's the last expense I'll ever be to you, mama." "Oh, baby, don't say that!" "Who ever heard of having a reception _here_! People won't come from town 'way out to this old--cabbage-patch. Even Gertie Wolf, with their big house on West Pine Boulevard, had her reception at the Walsingham Hotel. You--We--can't expect Mark Haas and all the relations--the Sinsheimers-and--all to come out here. I'd rather not have any." "But, Selene, everybody knows we ain't millionaires, and that you got in with that crowd through being friends at school with Amy Rosen. All the city salesmen and the boys on Washington Avenue, even Mark Haas himself, that time he was in the store with Lester, knows the way we live. You don't need to be ashamed of your little home, Selene, even if it ain't on West Pine Boulevard." "It'll be--your last expense, mama. The Walsingham, that's where the girl that Lester Goldmark marries is expected to have her reception." "But, Selene, mama can't afford nothing like that." Pink swam up into Miss Coblenz's face, and above the sheer-white collar there was a little beating movement at the throat, as if something were fluttering within. "I--I'd just as soon not get married as--as not to have it like other girls." "If I--can't have a trousseau like other girls and the things that go with marrying into a--a family like Lester's--I--then--there's no use. I--I can't! I--wouldn't!" She was fumbling, now, for a handkerchief, against tears that were imminent. "Oh, I know! I knew you'd try to dump that stuff on me. That old, worm-eaten stuff in gramaw's chest." "You--have got the money!" "So help me God, Selene! You know, with the quarries shut down, what business has been. You know how--sometimes even to make ends meet it is a pinch. You're an ungrateful girl, Selene, to ask what I ain't able to do for you. A child like you, that's been indulged, that I 'ain't even asked ever in her life to help a day down in the store. If I had the money, God knows you should be married in real lace, with the finest trousseau a girl ever had. But I 'ain't got the money--I 'ain't got the money." "That's gramaw's, to go back--home on. That's the money for me to take gramaw and her wreaths back home on." "There you go--talking luny." "Well, I'd like to know what else you'd call it, kidding yourself along like that." "Selene, Selene, ain't it coming to gramaw, after all her years' hard work helping us that--she should be entitled to go back with her wreaths for the graves? Ain't she entitled to die with that off her poor old mind? You bad, ungrateful girl, you, it's coming to a poor old woman that's suffered as terrible as gramaw that I should find a way to take her back." "You know gramaw's too old to take a trip like that. You know in your own heart she won't ever see that day. Even before the war, much less now, there wasn't a chance for her to get passports back there. I don't say it ain't all right to kid her along, but when it comes to--to keeping me out of the--the biggest thing that can happen to a girl--when gramaw wouldn't know the difference if you keep showing her the bank-book--it ain't right. That's what it ain't. It ain't right!" In the smallest possible compass, Miss Coblenz crouched now upon the floor, head down somewhere in her knees, and her curving back racked with rising sobs. "Baby, don't cry so--for God's sake, don't cry so!" "I wish I was dead!" "'Sh-h-h! You'll wake gramaw." "O God, help me to do the right thing!" "No! No! That little bank-book and its entries are her life--her life." "O God, show me the way!" "Mama, promise me--your little Selene. Promise me?" "Selene, Selene, can we keep it from her?" "I swear we can, mama." "Poor, poor gramaw!" "Mama? Mama darling?" "O God, show me the way!" "Ain't it me that's got life before me? My whole life?" "Then, mama, please--you will--you will--darling?" Light, glitteringly filtered through the glass prisms, flowed down upon the dais; upon Miss Selene Coblenz, in a taffeta that wrapped her flat waist and chest like a calyx and suddenly bloomed into the full-inverted petals of a skirt; upon Mr. Lester Goldmark, his long body barely knitted yet to man's estate, and his complexion almost clear, standing omnivorous, omnipotent, omnipresent, his hair so well brushed that it lay like black japanning, a white carnation at his silk lapel, and his smile slightly projected by a rush of very white teeth to the very front. Next in line, Mrs. Coblenz, the red of a fervent moment high in her face, beneath the maroon-net bodice the swell of her bosom, fast, and her white-gloved hand constantly at the opening and shutting of a lace-and-spangled fan. Back, and well out of the picture, a potted hydrangea beside the Louis Quinze armchair, her hands in silk mitts laid out along the gold-chair sides, her head quavering in a kind of mild palsy, Mrs. Miriam Horowitz, smiling and quivering her state of bewilderment. With an unfailing propensity to lay hold of to whomsoever he spake, Mr. Lester Goldmark placed his white-gloved hand upon the white-gloved arm of Mrs. Coblenz. Mrs. Coblenz threw her glance out over the crowded room, surging with a wave of plumes and clipped heads like a swaying bucket of water which crowds but does not lap over its sides. "I guess the crowd is finished coming in by now. You tired, Selene?" Miss Coblenz turned her glowing glance. "Tired! This is the swellest engagement-party I ever had." "Just look at gramaw, too! She holds up her head with the best of them. I wouldn't have had her miss this, not for the world." "Mama, here comes Sara Suss and her mother. Take my arm, Lester honey. People mama used to know." Miss Coblenz leaned forward beyond the dais with the frail curve of a reed. "Howdado, Mrs. Suss Thank you. Thanks. Howdado, Sara? Meet my _fiance_, Lester Haas Goldmark; Mrs. Suss and Sara Suss, my _fiance_ That's right, better late than never. There's plenty left We think he is, Mrs. Suss. Aw, Lester honey, quit! Mama, here's Mrs. Suss and Sadie." "Mama, 'sh-h-h! the waiters know what to do." Mrs. Coblenz turned back, the flush warm to her face. "Say, for an old friend I can be my own self." "Can we break the receiving-line now, Lester honey, and go down with everybody? The Sinsheimers and their crowd over there by themselves, we ought to show we appreciate their coming." Mr. Goldmark twisted high in his collar, cupping her small bare elbow in his hand. "That's what I say, lovey; let's break. Come, Mother Coblenz, let's step down on high society's corns." "Get her some newspapers, ma, and I brought her a wreath down to keep her quiet. It's wrapped in her shawl." Her skirts delicately lifted, Miss Coblenz stepped down off the dais. With her cloud of gauze-scarf enveloping her, she was like a tulle-clouded "Springtime," done in the key of Botticelli. "Oop-si-lah, lovey-dovey!" said Mr. Goldmark, tilting her elbow for the downward step. "Oop-si-lay, dovey-lovey!" said Miss Coblenz, relaxing to the support. "Mrs. Coblenz, see what I got for you!" She turned, smiling. "You don't look like you need salad and green ice-cream. You look like you needed what I wanted--a cup of coffee." "Aw, Mr. Haas--now where in the world--Aw, Mr. Haas!" With a steaming cup outheld and carefully out of collision with the crowd, Mr. Haas unflapped a napkin with his free hand, inserting his foot in the rung of a chair and dragging it toward her. "Now," he cried, "sit and watch me take care of you!" He smiled now, peering through gold-rimmed spectacles attached by a chain to a wire-encircled left ear. "Sit," he cried, "and let me serve you!" Standing there with a diffidence which she could not crowd down, Mrs. Coblenz smiled through closed lips that would pull at the corners. "The idea, Mr. Haas--going to all that trouble!" She stirred around and around the cup, supping up spoonfuls gratefully. "I'm sure much obliged. It touches the right spot." He pressed her down to the chair, seating himself on the low edge of the dais. "Now you sit right there and rest your bones." "But my mother, Mr. Haas. Before it's time for the ride home she must rest in a quiet place." "You--sure have been grand, Mr. Haas!" "I shouldn't be grand yet to my--Let's see--what relation is it I am to you?" "Honest, you're a case, Mr. Haas--always making fun!" "My poor dead sister's son marries your daughter. That makes you my--nothing-in-law." "Honest, Mr. Haas, if I was around you, I'd get fat laughing." She struck him then with her fan, but the color rose up into the mound of her carefully piled hair. "I always say I can see where Lester gets his comical ways. Like his uncle, that boy keeps us all laughing." She was looking away again, shoulders heaving to silent laughter, the blush still stinging. "It's been so--so long, Mr. Haas, since I had compliments made to me. You make me feel so--silly." "I know it, you nice, fine woman, you; and it's a darn shame!" "I--the woman that lives to see a day like this--her daughter the happiest girl in the world, with the finest boy in the world--is getting her dues, all right, Mr. Haas." "She's a fine girl, but she ain't worth her mother's little finger-nail." "That's right. The minute a man tries to break the ice with this little lady, it's a freeze-out. Now what did I say so bad? In business, too. Never seen the like. It's like trying to swat a fly to come down on you at the right minute. But now, with you for a nothing-in-law, I got rights." "If--you ain't the limit, Mr. Haas!" "Don't mind saying it, Mrs. C., and, for a bachelor, they tell me I'm not the worst judge in the world, but there's not a woman on the floor stacks up like you do." "Well--of all things!" She sprang now, trembling, to her feet, all the red of the moment receding. He took her arm, winding her in and out among crowded-out chairs behind the dais. "I wish it to every mother to have a daughter like you, Mrs. C." "No! No!" she said, stumbling rather wildly through the chairs. "No! No! No!" He forged ahead, clearing her path of them. Beside the potted hydrangea, well back and yet within an easy view, Mrs. Horowitz, her gilt armchair well cushioned for the occasion, and her black grenadine spread decently about her, looked out upon the scene, her slightly palsied head well forward. "Mama, you got enough? You wouldn't have missed it, eh? A crowd of people we can be proud to entertain. Not? Come; sit quiet in another room for a while, and then Mr. Haas, with his nice big car, will drive us all home again. You know Mr. Haas, dearie--Lester's uncle that had us drove so careful in his fine car. You remember, dearie--Lester's uncle?" Mrs. Horowitz looked up, her old face crackling to smile. "Mama dearie, Mr. Haas is in a hurry. He's come to help me walk you into a little room to rest before we go home in Mr. Haas's big, fine auto. Where you can go and rest, mama, and read the newspapers. Come." "My back--_ach_--my back!" "Yes, yes, mama; we'll fix it. Up! So--la!" They raised her by the crook of each arm, gently. "So! Please, Mr. Haas, the pillows. Shawl. There!" Around a rear hallway, they were almost immediately into a blank, staring hotel bedroom, fresh towels on the furniture-tops only enhancing its staleness. "Here we are. Sit her here, Mr. Haas, in this rocker." They lowered her, almost inch by inch, sliding down pillows, against the chair-back. "Now, Shila's little mama want to sleep?" "I got--no rest--no rest." "You're too excited, honey; that's all." "Here--here's a brand-new hotel Bible on the table, dearie. Shall Shila read it to you?" "Now, now, mama. Now, now; you mustn't! Didn't you promise Shila? Look! See, here's a wreath wrapped in your shawl for Shila's little mama to work on. Plenty of wreaths for us to take back. Work awhile, dearie, and then we'll get Selene and Lester, and, after all the nice company goes away, we'll go home in the auto." "I know! The papers! That's what little mama wants. Mr. Haas, that's what she likes better than anything--the evening papers." "I'll go down and send 'em right up with a boy, and telephone for the car. The crowd's beginning to pour out now. Just hold your horses there, Mrs. C., and I'll have those papers up here in a jiffy." He was already closing the door after him, letting in and shutting out a flare of music. "_Mem Mann. Mein Suehn_." "Aylorff--_der klenste Kranz far ihm_!" "There! That's the papers!" To a succession of quick knocks, she flew to the door, returning with the folded evening editions under her arm. Music from the ferned-in orchestra came in drifts, faint, not so faint. From somewhere, then immediately from everywhere--beyond, below, without, the fast shouts of newsboys mingling. Suddenly and of her own volition, and with a cry that shot up through the room, rending it like a gash, Mrs. Horowitz, who moved by inches, sprang to her supreme height, her arms, the crooks forced out, flung up. "My darlings--what died--for it! My darlings what died for it! My darlings--Aylorff, my husband!" There was a wail rose up off her words, like the smoke of incense curling, circling around her. "My darlings what died to make free!" "Mama! Darling! Mama! Mr. Haas! Help! Mama! My God!" "My boy--my own! They died for it! _Mein Mann! Mein Suehn_!" In her ears a ringing silence, as if a great steel disk had clattered down into the depths of her consciousness. There on her knees, trembling seized her, and she hugged herself against it, leaning forward to corroborate her gaze. MOST RIGID AUTOCRACY IN THE WORLD OVERTHROWN "Mama! Mama! My God! Mama!" "Home, Shila; home! My husband who died for it--Aylorff! Home now, quick! My wreaths! My wreaths!" "Yes, yes, darling; your wreaths. Let--let me think. Freedom! O my God! help me to find a way! O my God!" "Here, darling, here!" "There, darling, there!" Heavily, the arm at the waist gently sustaining, Mrs. Horowitz sank rather softly down, her eyelids fluttering for the moment. A smile had come out on her face, and, as her head sank back against the rest, the eyes resting at the downward flutter, she gave out a long breath, not taking it in again. Upon that scene, the quiet of the room so raucously lacerated, burst Mr. Haas, too breathless for voice. "Mr. Haas--my mother! Help--my mother! It's a faint, ain't it? A faint?" "It's a faint, ain't it, Mr. Haas? Tell her I'll take her back. Wake her up, Mr. Haas! Tell her I'm a bad girl, but I--I'm going to take her back. Now! Tell her! Tell her, Mr. Haas, I've got the bank-book. Please! Please! O my God!" He turned to her, his face working to keep down compassion. "We must get a doctor, little lady." She threw out an arm. "Mama darling, I tell you, wake up! I'm a bad girl, but I'll take you back. Tell her, Mr. Haas, I'll take her back. Wake up, darling! I swear to God I'll take you!" "Mrs. Coblenz, my--poor little lady, your mother don't need you to take her back. She's gone back where--where she wants to be. Look at her face, little lady. Can't you see she's gone back?" "No! No! Let me go. Let me touch her. No! No! Mama darling!" "Why, there wasn't a way, little lady, you could have fixed it for that poor--old body. She's beyond any of the poor fixings we could do for her. You never saw her face like that before. Look!" "The wreaths--the wreaths!" He picked up the raffia circle, placing it back again against the quiet bosom. "Poor little lady!" he said. "Shila--that's left for us to do. You and me, Shila--we'll take the wreaths back for her." "My darling--my darling mother! I'll take them back for you! I'll take them back for you!" "_We'll_ take them back for her--Shila." "_We'll_ take them back for her--Shila." "_We'll_ take them back for you, mama. We'll take them back for you, darling!" End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Gaslight Sonatas, by Fannie Hurst	redpajama-book	39,621
E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION. HOSPITAL OF ST. THOMAS, CANTERBURY. The subject of the above engraving claims the attention of the antiquarian researcher, not as the lofty sculptured mansion of our monastic progenitors, or the towering castle of the feudatory baton, for never has the voice of boisterous revelry, or the tones of the solemn organ, echoed along its vaulted roof; a humbler but not less interesting trait marks its history. It was here that the zealous pilgrim, strong in bigot faith, rested his weary limbs, when the inspiring name of Becket led him from the rustic simplicity of his native home, to view the spot where Becket fell, and to murmur his pious supplication at the shrine of the murdered Saint; how often has his toil-worn frame been sheltered beneath that hospitable roof; imagination can even portray him entering the area of yon pointed arch, leaning on his slender staff--perhaps some wanderer from a foreign land. Its present appearance is ancient, but not possessing any of those magic features which render the mansions of our majores so grand and magnificently solemn; a hall and chapel of imposing neatness and simplicity are still in good condition, but several of the apartments are dilapidated in part, and during a wet season admit the aqueous fluid through the chinks and fissures of their venerable walls. MINOR AFFECTIONS OF THE BRAIN. EFFECTS OF KINDNESS ON THE SICK. The season has now advanced to full maturity. The corn is yielding to the sickle, the husbandmen, "By whose tough labours, and rough hands," our barns are stored with grain, are at their toils, and when nature is despoiled of her riches and beauty, will, with glad and joyous heart, celebrate the annual festival of Hark! the ripe and hoary rye Waving white and billowy, Gives a husky rustle, as Fitful breezes fluttering pass. See the brown and bending wheat, By its posture seems to meet The harvest's sickle, as it gleams Like the crescent moon in streams, Brown with shade and night that run Under shores and forests dun. Lusty Labour, with tired stoop, Levels low, at every swoop, Armfuls of ripe-coloured corn, Yellow as the hair of morn; And his helpers track him close, Laying it in even rows, On the furrow's stubbly ridge; Nearer to the poppied hedge. Some who tend on him that reaps Fastest, pile it into heaps; And the little gleaners follow Them again, with whoop and halloo When they find a hand of ears More than falls to their compeers. Ripening in the dog-star's ray, Some, too early mown, doth lay; Some in graceful shocks doth stand Nodding farewell to the land That did give it life and birth; Some is borne, with shout and mirth, Drooping o'er the groaning wain. Through the deep embowered lane; And the happy cottaged poor, Hail it, as it glooms their door, With a glad, unselfish cry, Though they'll buy it bitterly. Now 'tis eve, and done all labour, And to merry pipe and tabor, Or to some cracked viol strummed With vile skill, or table drummed To the tune of some brisk measure, Wont to stir the pulse to pleasure, Men and maidens timely beat The ringing ground with frolic feet; And the laugh and jest go round Till all mirth in noise is drowned. _Literary Souvenir_. ARMORIAL BEARINGS AT CROYDON PALACE. (_To the Editor of the Mirror_.) The supporting of the arms with angels, &c. was a favourite device of Richard, as may be seen in divers antiquarian and topographical works. It is probable the hall of Croydon palace was built during the reign of Richard, which will account for his arms being placed there. DEATH OF MR. CANNING. ISLANDS PRODUCED BY INSECTS. TO MY BROTHER, ON HIS LEAVING ENGLAND. By The Author of "Ahab." Wherever your fortune may lead you to roam, Forget not, young exile, the land of your home; Let it ever be present to memory's eye, 'Tis the place where the bones of your fore-father's lie. Let the thought of it ever your comforter be, For no spot on this earth like your home can you see. The fields where you rove may be more fresh and fair, More splendid the sun, and more fragrant the air, More lovely the flowers, more refreshing the breeze, More tranquil the waters, more fruitful the trees. But home after all things--that dear little spot, Tho' it be but a desert can ne'er be forgot. In the thoughts of the day, and the dreams of the night, On your eyes like the kiss of your mother 'twill light, Then the mist will disperse which long absence has spread. And the paths you have trodden again you shall tread. Then farewell, young exile, wherever you roam, Oh! dear as your honour, your life, be your home. RETROSPECTIVE GLEANINGS. VIII. Item, That no man waite at the table without a trencher in his hand, except it be vppon some good cause, on paine of Id. _By Miss Emma Roberts_. _London Weekly Review_. SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS. His death was in singular accordance with his _taste_ through life. He sought the banks of the _Brandywine_, and whether it were that the composition of its stream so little responded to its title as to prey upon his _spirits_, or from some other cause, there he "_drank_ his last." _New Monthly Magazine._ THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS. AMERICAN TRAVELLING. A MAGNIFICENT WATERFALL. SETTING IN OF AN INDIAN MONSOON. Encamped in a low situation, on the borders of a lake formed to collect the surrounding water, we found ourselves in a few hours in a liquid plain. The tent-pins giving way, in a loose soil, the tents fell down, and left the whole army exposed to the contending elements. _Arnott's Elements of Physics._ THE CAVALRY SCHOOL OF ST. GERMAINS. CENTRE OF GRAVITY, IN REFERENCE TO SEA-SICKNESS. Man requiring so strictly to maintain his perpendicularity, that is, to keep the centre of gravity always over the support of his body, ascertains the required position in various ways, but chiefly by the perpendicularity or known position of things about him. Vertigo, and sickness commonly called sea-sickness, because it most frequently occurs at sea, are the consequences of depriving him of his standards of comparison, or of disturbing them. At night, or by blind people, standards belonging to the sense of touch are used; and it is because on board ship, the standards both of sight and of touch are lost, that the effect is so very remarkable. But sea-sickness also partly depends on the irregular pressure of the bowels against the diaphragm, as their inertia or weight varies with the rising and falling of the ship. From the nature of sea-sickness, as discovered in all these facts, it is seen why persons unaccustomed to the motion of a ship, often find relief in keeping their eyes directed to the fixed shore, where it is visible; or in lying down on their backs and shutting their eyes; or in taking such a dose of exhilarating drink as shall diminish their sensibility to all objects of external sense. _Arnott's Elements of Physics._ THE BRITISH INSTITUTION. MUSICAL COMPOSITION. A PUZZLE FOR THE CURIOUS.	redpajama-book	1,582
ITS TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS II. THE PHILISTINES, III. DISCOMFITURE OF THE PHILISTINES, IV. THE SUPPER CLUB, V. CATCHING A TARTAR, VII. RONLEIGH COLLEGE, IX. A HOLIDAY ADVENTURE, XI. SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS, XII. THE WRAXBY MATCH, XIII. THE ELECTIONS, XIV. A PASSAGE OF ARMS, XV. THE READING-ROOM RIOT, XVI. THE CIPHER LETTER, XVII. DIGGORY READS THE CIPHER, XVIII. A SECRET SOCIETY, XIX. A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS, XX. SOWING THE WIND, XXI. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND, "Diggory Trevanock." The whole class exploded. The new-comer's answer made a favourable impression on the minds of his companions, and as soon as the morning's work was over, they set about the task of mutual introduction in a far more friendly manner than was customary on these occasions. He was a wiry little chap, with bright eyes, for ever on the twinkle, and black hair pasted down upon his head, so as not to show the slightest vestige of curl, while the sharp, mischievous look on his face, and the quick, comical movements of his body, suggested something between a terrier and a monkey. There was never very much going on in the way of regular sports or pastimes at The Birches; the smallness of numbers made it difficult to attempt proper games of cricket or football, and the boys were forced to content themselves with such substitutes as prisoner's base, cross tag, etc., or in carrying out the projects of Fred Acton, who was constantly making suggestions for the employment of their time, and compelling everybody to conform to his wishes. At the time when our story commences the ground was covered with snow; but Acton was equal to the occasion, and as soon as dinner was over, ordered all hands to come outside and make a slide. "What!" he cried, in answer to a feeble protest on the part of Mugford, "make it on level ground? Of course not, when we've got this jolly hill to go down; not if I know it. We'll open the door at the bottom, and go right on into the playground." He hobbled up the hill, and pausing for a moment at the top to take breath, suddenly exclaimed, "Look here, I'm going down it on skates." "I think they're mine," faltered Mugford. "But I don't want to." "But I say you must!" It was at this moment that Diggory Trevanock stepped forward, and remarked in a casual manner that if Mugford didn't wish to do it, but would lend him the skates, he himself would go down the slide. Several willing hands were stretched out to assist in arming Diggory for the enterprise, and in a few moments he was assisted to the top of the slide. "All right," he said; "let go!" From that moment until the day he left there was never a more popular boy at The Birches than Diggory Trevanock. "I say," remarked Mugford, as they met a short time later in the cloak-room, "that was awfully good of you to go down the slide instead of me; what ever made you do it?" The Birches was an old house, and though its outward appearance was modern enough, the interior impressed even youthful minds with a feeling of reverence for its age. The heavy timbers, the queer shape of some of the bedrooms and attics, the narrow, crooked passages, and the little unexpected flights of stairs, were all things belonging to a bygone age, of which the pupils were secretly proud, and which caused them to remember the place, and think of it at the time, as being in some way different from an ordinary school. "But what about the bedrooms?" interrupted Diggory; "have you given up having crusades?" "You needn't bother to race," said Mugford; "I'll do it--I'm sure to be the last." "It's those confounded Main-top men!" cried Jack Vance; "I will pay them out. I wonder where the fellows got the snow from?" "Oh, I expect they opened the window and took it off the ledge," answered Diggory. "Look here--let's sweep it up into this piece of paper before it melts." "I wonder if they'll hear anything of the ghost again this term?" said Mugford, "What ghost?" asked Diggory. "Do they always do that?" "Yes, so they say, whenever there is a row." "Well, then," said Diggory, "I'll tell you what we'll do: we'll go very quietly up into that attic, and groan and knock on the wall until you think they've both got their heads well under the clothes, and then we'll rush in and bag their pillows, or drag them out of bed, or something of that sort. You aren't afraid to go into the attic, are you?" he continued, seeing that the others hesitated. "Why, of course there are no such things as ghosts. Or, look here, I'll go in, and you can wait outside." "N--no, I don't mind," answered Vance; "and it'll be an awful lark catching them with their heads under the clothes." "He's always last," said Vance; "we must give him time to undress, and then we'll start." "Be careful," whispered Vance; "there are several loose boards, and they crack like anything." "Go on!" whispered Mugford, nudging Vance. "Go on!" repeated the latter, giving Diggory's arm a gentle push. The new boy had certainly undertaken to play the part of the ghost, and there was no excuse for his backing out of it at the last moment. "All right," he muttered, "I'll go." Just then a terrible thing happened. Diggory clutched the door-knob as though it were the handle of a galvanic battery, while Mugford and Vance seized each other by the arm and literally gasped for breath. The stillness had been broken by a slight sound, as of something falling inside the attic, and this was followed a moment later by a shrill, unearthly scream. Freeing themselves with some little difficulty from the general entanglement, they rose to their feet, and after surveying each other for a moment in silence, gave vent to a simultaneous ejaculation of "_The ghost_!" "What were you fellows doing up there?" asked Kennedy. "Why, we came up to have a joke with you," answered Vance; "but just when we got up to the landing, it--it made that noise!" There was the sound of the key turning in the lock of Mr. Blake's door. "_Cave_!" whispered Mugford. "Ha, ha! I've got your ghost; I've been trying to lay him for some time past." The jingle of a chain was distinctly audible; Mr. Blake was evidently bringing the spectre down in his arms! Diggory and Vance could no longer restrain their curiosity; they hopped out of bed and glanced round the corner of the door. The master held in his hand a rusty old gin, the iron jaws of which were tightly closed upon the body of an enormous rat. "There's a monster for you!" he said; "I think it's the biggest I ever saw. He'd carried the trap, chain and all, right across the room, but that finished him; he was as dead as a stone when I picked him up. Now get back to bed; I should think you're both nearly frozen." Diggory and Jack Vance followed the advice given to Kennedy and Jacobs, and did so rather sheepishly. They felt they had been making tools of themselves; yet it would never have done to own to such a thing. "What a lark!" said the new boy, after a few moments' silence. Poor Mugford certainly seemed likely to be a heavy drag on the association; he was constantly tumbling into trouble, and needing to be pulled out again by those who had promised to be his friends. "Now, look here," said Acton, addressing the defendant with great severity, "no humbug--how much money did you bring back with you?" "Bother your brother and the telescope! Why can't you answer my question? How much money did you bring back with you?" "Then why in the name of Fortune don't you pay up?" "Because I had to pay all that to Noaks for bird-seed." "Oh no, we shan't!" interrupted Cross. "He only gets sixpence a week, and he's always breaking windows and other things, and having it stopped." "Oh, its a book that was given me on my birthday, called 'Lofty Thoughts for Little Thinkers.'" "Lofty grandmother!" said Acton impatiently. "What else have you got ?" "Oh, dry up!" interrupted Acton; "what bosh! Who d'you expect would buy any of that rubbish? Look here, we'll give you till after dinner, and unless you find something sensible by then, we shall come and hunt for ourselves." "That's just like Mug," said Jack Vance to Diggory, as the group of boys slowly dispersed; "he's always doing something stupid. But I suppose as we made that alliance, we ought to try to help the beggar somehow." They followed their unfortunate comrade to his desk, which when opened displayed a perfect chaos of ragged books, loose sheets of paper, broken pen-holders, pieces of string, battered cardboard boxes, and other rubbish. "Look here, Mug, what have you got to sell? you'll have to fork out something." "Are there any of these things you particularly wish to keep?" asked Diggory; "because, if so, Vance and I'll bid for them, and then you can buy them back from us again when you've got some more money." "That's awfully kind of you," answered Mugford, brightening up. "I'll tell you what I should like to keep, and that's my clasp-knife and the book; they're such jolly stories. 'The Pit and the Pendulum' always gives me bad dreams, and 'The Premature Burial' makes you feel certain you'll be buried alive." "All right; and did you bring a cake back with you?" The sale had not long been concluded, and the little community were preparing to obey Acton's order to "Come outside," when the latter rushed into the room finning with rage. "I say," he exclaimed, "what do you think that beast of a Noaks has done? Why, he's gone and put ashes all over our slide!" "Who is Noaks?" asked Diggory. "Is he that sour-looking man who brings the boots in every morning?" "Yes, that's so," answered Vance. "He hates us all--partly, I believe, because his son's a Philistine. I wonder old Welsby doesn't get another man." "Oh, the cad!" cried Acton; "let's go for him." The whole garrison combined in making a vigorous sortie into the road; but it was only to find the enemy in full retreat, and a few dropping shots at long range ended the skirmish. "I say, Vance," exclaimed Diggory, "who are they? Who are these fellows?" Now, as the aforesaid Philistines play rather an Important part in the opening chapters of our story, I propose to answer the question myself, in such a way that the reader may be enabled to take a more intelligent interest in the chain of events which commenced with the destruction of the snow man; and in order that this may be done in a satisfactory manner, I will in a few words map out the ground on which this memorable campaign was afterwards conducted. The pupils of Mr. Phillips had been formerly called by Mr. Welsby's boys the Phillipians, which title had in time given place to the present nickname of the Philistines. "But who is young Noaks?" asked Diggory, as Jack Vance finished a hasty account of this warfare with the Philistines. "Why, that's just the funny part of it," returned the other. "This Sam Noaks is the son of our Noaks, but he's got an uncle, called Simpson, who lives at Todderton, where I come from. This man Simpson made a lot of money out in Australia, and when he came back to England he adopted young Noaks, and sends him here to Phillips's school." "Perhaps it wasn't fastened," suggested Morris. "Yes, it was," answered Kennedy excitedly. "I noticed that this morning, when we were picking up stones for the snow man's buttons." There was a murmur of suppressed wrath at the memory of the fate of this gallant expedition. DISCOMFITURE OF THE PHILISTINES. "Couldn't we tell Mr. Welsby?" suggested Butler, a timid small boy belonging to the "Dogs' Home." There was a silence, broken at length by Diggory Trevanock. "I don't know what you think," he began, "but it seems to me it's no use making any plans until we find out who tells 'em to the Philistines. I should say that Noaks is the fellow who does it, but we ought to make certain." "Yes, but how are we to do it?" asked Acton, laughing; "that's just what I want to know." "Well, I've got a bit of a plan," returned the other, "only I should like to tell it you in private." "All right," answered the dux; "come on outside. Now, then, what is it?" "Oh--ah!" said Acton, "that isn't a bad idea; at all events we'll try it." The project was put into immediate execution. That same afternoon, just before tea, Acton and Diggory discussed the bogus plan in Noaks's hearing, while Jack Vance, having been admitted into their confidence and sworn to secrecy, willingly agreed to go out with Diggory and form the reconnoitering party which was to report on the movements of the enemy. "You'll have plenty of time," he said, glancing at his watch, "and with this moonlight you'll soon be able to see if they're about. I'll keep the door, and let you in when you come back." "Perhaps they are hiding," answered Diggory. "Look here! let's get into this field and run down on the other side of the hedge until we get opposite the gate." "Wait a minute," answered Diggory. "I'll see if I can stir any of them;" and so saying, he knelt up, and cried in an audible voice, "Now, then, are you all ready?" "Hullo!" cried young Noaks, who had headed the sortie. "There's nobody here, and yet I'll swear I heard them somewhere." "So did I," answered another voice; "they must have cut and run." "What shall we do?" whispered Jack; "this field's so large they'll run us down before we get to the other hedge. Shall we make a bolt and chance it?" The bell for evening preparation was ringing as they reached The Birches, and only a very few hasty replies could be given to Acton's eager inquiries as they rushed together up the garden path. In the little interval before supper, however, the subject was resumed in a quiet corner of the passage. "So it must have been old Noaks who told them," said Acton; "that's proved without a doubt. I vote we go and have a jolly row with him to-morrow morning." "No, I shouldn't do that," answered Diggory; "don't let him know that we've found him out." "Well, look here," answered Acton, thumping the wall with his fist and frowning heavily, "what are we going to do to get even with the Philistines? We can't go out and fight them in Locker's Lane; we're too small, and they know it. Young Noaks would never have dared to act as he did after they'd knocked our snow man down if Mason had been here. They think now they're going to ride rough-shod over us; but they aren't, and we must show them we aren't going to be trampled on." "So we will," cried Jack Vance excitedly, "and that jolly quick!" There was a moment's pause. "I'm sure I don't know," answered Jack sadly, and so the meeting terminated. "No, no, it's not that," said Diggory, "but I wanted to help you; I've got an idea." "W--what about?" asked the other, in a sleepy voice. "Why, how we can pay out the Philistines!" "Oh, bother the Philistines!" grumbled Jack, and promptly returned to the land of dreams. "I wonder where those fellows Vance and Trevanock are?" said Acton the following afternoon, as the boys were picking up for a game at prisoner's base. "And there's that dummy of a Mugford--where's he sneaked off to? he never will play games if he can possibly help it." "What have you fellows been up to?" cried Acton; "why don't you tell us?" "Oh my!" gasped Diggory, "we've taken a fine rise out of the Philistines; they can't say we're not quits with them now!" and he went off into a fresh fit of merriment. Shaw and Morris seized hold of Jack Vance, and at length succeeded in shaking him into a sufficient state of sobriety to be able to answer their questions. "My eye," cried the dux, "won't the Philistines be wild! Fancy upsetting them in the mud, and knocking Bernard's wind out! They won't be in a hurry to meddle with us again. Well done, Diggy!" The Philistines seemed, for the time being, paralyzed by the humiliation of their mud bath, and for many months there was a complete cessation from hostilities. It was perhaps only natural that in time of peace a brave knight like Acton should turn his thoughts from war to love-making, and therefore I shall make no excuse for relating a little experience of his which must be introduced as a prelude to the account of the formation of the famous supper club. "I should say," answered Diggory, after a moment's thought, "that the best thing would be to toss up for it." "All right; have you got a coin?" "No, but I think I've got a brass button. Yes, here it is. Now, then, front you speak, and back you write. There you are--it's a letter!" "I believe it's the girl who always says that," answered Jack Vance, kicking a bit of wood into a corner. "Then, again, I don't know how to begin. Would you say 'Dear Miss Eleanor,' or 'Dear Miss Welsby'? I think 'Dear Eleanor' sounds rather cheeky." "Well, I'm going to write the letter in 'prep' this evening, and let her have it to-morrow. Did you notice I gave her a flower this morning, and she stuck it in her dress?" "Yes; but fellows are often doing that," answered Jack Vance, "and she always wears them, either in her dress or stuck up somehow under her brooch." "He's shown me the letter," whispered Diggory to Jack Vance; "only I promised I wouldn't say what was in it, but it ends up with a piece of poetry as long as this table!" "I've done it," he said, looking awfully solemn. "She was in the hall, and I gave it to her as I came out. I say, how many _t's_ are there in 'attachment'?" At length a voice from the house was heard calling, "Fred--Fred Acton!" The dux turned a trifle pale, but pulling himself together, marched off with a firm step to learn his fate. "She called him Fred," murmured Diggory; "that sounds hopeful." "Well, what happened?" inquired Jack Vance. "What's the matter ?" cried Diggory; "what did she say?" "Why, this!" answered the other, in a voice trembling with suppressed emotion: "she said I was a silly boy, and--and--_gave me a lump of cake!_" "Well, I think it's rather unfeeling of you fellows," said the rejected suitor; "I can tell you I'm jolly cut up about it." There was a murmur expressive of approbation at this generous offer, mingled with sympathy for the unhappy circumstance which gave rise to it, and which was now an open secret. "Look out, they're coming!" whispered Jack Vance; "wasn't that something hit the door?" "It sounded as if something fell on the floor," answered Diggory. "I wonder if anything's rolled off either of the washstands." Jack Vance reconnoitred the passage, while Diggory and Mugford examined the room; but nothing could be found to account for the disturbance. "It must have been the fellows in the 'Main-top.' I expect they dropped a book or upset a chair. Don't let's bother about it any more." "Why, look here! If this beastly bottle of ginger-beer hasn't gone and burst in the middle of my box!" "Ah, well," sighed Acton, with his mouth full of pork-pie, "I'm rather glad for some things that I didn't get engaged. It must be rather a bore having to spend all your money in rings and that sort of thing, instead of in grub; though I really think I'd have given up grub for Miss Eleanor." This yarn produced others, and the time passed pleasantly enough, until full justice had been done to the provisions, and hardly a crumb remained. "Phew! isn't it hot?" said Diggory; "let's open the window a bit. The moon must be full," he continued, as he raised the sash; "it's nearly as light as day. I can see all down the garden, and--hullo! quick, put the candle out!" "It can't be Blake," answered Acton; "he's gone to Fenley to play in a cricket match, and isn't coming back till to-morrow morning. Old Welsby went to bed hours ago; and, besides, what should either of them want to be doing down there at this time of night? You must have been dreaming, Diggy." "No, I wasn't; I saw it distinctly. It must be old Blake. He's come home sooner than he expected, and I shouldn't wonder if he's going round by the road to take us by surprise." "He can't do that," answered Acton, "because I've got the key of the shed, and the door-key's hung up inside." "What old Welsby says is quite right," remarked the latter; "and until those things are found, we may all be looked upon as thieves." The search, however, proved fruitless; and, what was worse, in turning over the contents of the shed, Acton discovered that a bull's-eye lantern belonging to himself had disappeared from the shelf on which it usually stood; while Mugford declared that a box of compasses, which he had brought down a few days before to draw a pattern on a piece of board, was also missing. At the time appointed Acton ran down the path, and found Diggory waiting for him by the shed. In front of the bench, where the ground had been much trodden, there was a great deal of loose dust. Diggory went down on his hands and knees, and producing an old clothes-brush from his pocket, swept about a square yard of the ground until the dust lay in a perfectly smooth surface. "There," he said, rising to his feet again; "we'll do this the last thing every night, and any morning if we find the cotton gone we must look here for footprints, and then we ought to be able to tell if it's a man or a boy." "Don't you think we ought to tell Blake about that man you saw?" asked Acton, as they walked back to the schoolroom. "Well, we'll set it to-night," answered Diggory, "and that shall be the last time." The following morning Acton was sauntering towards the playground, when Diggory came running up the path in a state of great excitement. "I say, the cotton's gone!" Acton rushed down, unlocked the door of the shed, and went inside. "Hullo!" he exclaimed, as Diggory followed; "_it is_ some man. Look at these footprints, and hobnailed boots into the bargain!" The master cross-questioned Acton and Diggory, but seemed rather inclined to doubt their story. The boys crowded round, wondering what was up. "I've got here a challenge from Horace House to play a match against them, either on our ground or on theirs. I think it's a pity that you shouldn't have an opportunity of playing against strangers. Of course they are bigger and heavier than we are, and we should probably get licked; but that isn't the question: any sportsman would sooner play a losing game than no game at all, and it'll be good practice. We always used to have a match with them every term; but some little time ago there seemed to be a lack--well, I'll say of good sportsmen among them, and the meetings had to be abandoned. I've talked the matter over with Mr. Welsby, and he seems willing to give the thing another trial." An excited murmur ran through the crowd. "Very well, then, I'll write and say we shall be pleased to play them here on Saturday week." Mr. Blake arranged the order of the team, and remarking that they would need a good defence, put himself and Shaw as full backs. Acton took centre forward, with Jack Vance on his right, while Diggory was told off to keep goal. "I say," muttered Jacobs, "they're awfully big." "Well, what does that matter?" answered Diggory, cracking another nut and spitting out the shell. "They aren't going to eat us; and as for that chap Noaks, he's all noise--look how he muffed that kick." Mr. Blake tossed up. "Now, you fellows," he said, coming up to his followers, "we play towards the road; get to your places, and remember what I told you." Cross was badly kicked while attempting to take the ball from Hogson, and had to retire from the game. There were some black looks and a murmur of indignation among the home team, but Mr. Blake hushed it up in a moment. "I think," he said pleasantly, "that the play is a trifle rough. Our men," he added, laughing, "are rather under size." It was Mr. Blake's voice, and he came striding up the ground looking as black as thunder. "I protest against that deliberate piece of foul play. I have played against all the chief clubs in the district, and in any of those matches, if such a thing had happened, this man would have been ordered off the ground." There was a buzz of approval, in which several of the Philistines joined. "Bravo!" whispered Acton; "old Fox is a good sort." Neither side had scored, and it seemed as though the game would end in a draw--a result which the home team would have considered highly satisfactory. "Look here, Acton," said Mr. Blake: "let me take your place, and you go back. Do all you can to stop them if they come." "Corner!" cried Mr. Blake. "I'll take it. Now you fellows get it through somehow or other!" What words of mine can tell that tale of woe or describe the burst of indignation which followed its recital? Cross had unwisely decided to shorten his return journey by risking the dangers of Locker's Lane. He had been captured by a party of Philistines, who, under the leadership of Hogson, had not only robbed him of his pie, but had held him prisoner while they devoured it before his very eyes! "It's true," continued Morris excitedly. "I didn't change for football yesterday afternoon, but before going into the field I hung my watch up on a nail in the shed, and stupidly forgot all about it until I came to wind it up last night. Then it was too late to fetch it, and now it's gone!" "Look here !" cried Acton, glaring round the group with an unusually ferocious look, "who knows anything about this? speak up, can't you! We've had enough of this prigging business, and I'm sick of it!" "Well," continued the dux, "I'm going straight off to old Welsby to tell him, and I won't keep the key of that place. Of course it makes me look as if I were the thief, and I won't stand it any longer." The speaker turned on his heel and strode off in the direction of the house. "Oh, I say," muttered Jack Vance, "now there'll be a row!" Jack's prophecy was soon fulfilled. The watch and chain could not be found, and there was but little doubt that they had been stolen. Mr. Welsby called the boys together, and though he spoke in a calm and collected manner, with no trace of passion in his voice, yet his words made them all tremble. Miss Eleanor sat silent at the tea-table, with a shocked expression on her face; and Mr. Blake, when told of the occurrence, said sharply, "Well, we'd better have locks put on everything, and the sooner the better." "I'm not afraid of the Philistines; besides, they won't see us now." As they drew near to Horace House, a solitary figure was discovered standing in the shadow of the brick wall. "It's young Noaks," whispered Diggory. "It's too late to turn back, but most likely he won't notice us in this light if we walk straight on." All the boys threw down their books, and started to their feet. Acton and Vance banished from their minds all thought of the disagreement which had lately estranged them from their unfortunate school-fellow, and joined heartily in the general outburst of wrath and consternation. The thought that Diggory, their well-beloved, was at that very moment languishing, a prisoner of war, in the hands of the Philistines was almost unbearable. "Oh, such a lark!" cried the boy. "They'll wish they'd never caught me! I'll tell you all about it after tea." As soon as the meal was over, Diggory was seized, hurried up into the schoolroom, and there forced to relate his adventures. "Well," he began, "they collared me, and dragged me through the gates and along into their playground. Noaks looked at me and said, 'Hullo, here's luck! This is the young beggar who tied that rope to the scrapers; I vote we give him a jolly good licking.' I told them that my father was a lawyer, and if any of them touched me he'd take a summons out against them for assault. That frightened Noaks, for you can see he's a regular coward, so he asked the others what they thought had better be done with me. "'I know,' said Hogson. 'There's an old cow-shed in the field next to ours; let's shut him in and keep him there till after tea. He'll get a jolly row for being late when he gets back, and he won't dare to say where he's been; because I know it's against their rules to come anywhere near us, and Locker's Lane is out of bounds. If he does tell, we'll swear he was in the road chucking stones at the windows.' "I told him, and asked him who he was, and it turned out his name was Joe Crump, and he's the boy who cleans the knives at Philips's. He happened to be knocking about when they took me prisoner, and he couldn't see who it was in the dark, and thought it might be his younger brother who comes on errands from the grocer's; the Philistines are always playing tricks on him. "But that's not all," cried the youngster, shaking himself free from his leader's embrace. "The best is this. I had a bit of a talk with Joe Crump before I came away, and he says that young Noaks is going to leave at the end of this term, and he's been telling the Philistines that before he goes he means to do something that'll pay us out for his being sent off the field in that football match. Crump doesn't know what he means to do, but I made him promise, if he finds out, to come and tell me, and I'll give him another shilling. Then we shall be prepared." "I say, Diggy," exclaimed Jack Vance, "you are a _corker!_" and the bell now commencing to ring for evening preparation, the meeting terminated. It was an annual custom at The Birches for the boys to subscribe towards getting a display of fireworks, which were let off in the playground under the superintendence of Mr. Blake. The head-master himself gave a donation towards the fund, and allowed the boys to prepare the next day's work in the afternoon instead of in the evening. This year, however, when Acton went, as usual, to the library to formally ask permission that the celebration should take place, he met with a terrible rebuff. "No, Acton," answered Mr. Welsby; "as long as the school continues to be disgraced by these repeated thefts--as, for example, this recent instance of Morris's watch and chain--I do not feel inclined to allow the same privileges as before. There will be no fireworks this term." "I'm shot if I do!" answered the dux, turning round to face the trio, and walking backwards up the path; "why should I go more than any other fellow?" "Why, because you've got such a way with you," returned Diggory. "She'd be sure to do it for you; why, the last time you spoke to her she gave you a lump of cake." Acton seized the speaker by the neck and shook him like a rat. "You're the cheekiest little imp I ever came across," he said. "I've a jolly good mind to give you a good licking, only I don't believe you'd care tu'pence if I did!" "Well, anyhow you've got to go," answered Diggory, calmly picking up his cap, which had fallen to the ground; "and if you're afraid to go alone for fear she should think it's another proposal, I'll come with you." "Humph!" growled the man, as the boy gave him the message. "It's a nice thing that I should have to fetch and carry all your fooling playthings for you; it's a pity you young gen'lemen can't do something for yourselves, instead of bothering me." "Well, it isn't my orders," answered Jack; "it's Mr. Blake's." "Mr. Blake's, is it? All right, I'll do it when I can spare the time." When the boys came out at interval, the box was still lying about in the yard, although there were heavy clouds overhead threatening rain. Mr. Blake sent for Noaks, and a rather sharp passage of arms took place between them, which ended in the man's being told to leave what he was doing and carry the fireworks down to the shed. "I believe he left them on purpose, in the hope they'd get wet," said Shaw. "He hates us all like poison, and I believe it's all because his son's at the other school. D'you remember what a row he kicked up when he heard Acton say that the Philistines were cads for shooting at us with catapults?" "Yes," answered Morris; "and if he hates us, he hates Blake a jolly sight worse. He's been like it ever since that football match; and he'll get sacked if he doesn't mind, for Blake won't stand his cheek much longer." "I say, Diggy," cried Acton at the close of afternoon school, "I wish you'd run down into the playground and bring up that football flag that's got to be mended; I left it in the corner by the shed. I'd go myself, but I want to finish this letter before tea." "I say," exclaimed Diggory, "it'll be a splendid night for the fireworks if it's like this to-morrow. We must get--Hark! what's that?" "I didn't hear anything." "Yes, there was a sort of a rapping sound. Hush! there it is again." "Who's there?" asked Jack Vance. "I want to speak to the young gen'leman who was locked up t'other day in the cow-shed," was the answer, given in a low voice which Diggory instantly recognized. "Well, if you are," answered the voice, "you'll remember you offered me a bob if I could find out and tell you when somebody was going to do something." "Well, what's the news?" Jack Vance fortunately had the required coin in his pocket, and Diggory dropped it into Joe Crump's cap. "I can't say," returned Crump, "so it's no use asking me. I only knows that Noaks is a-going to do it; 'drown 'em all in a bucket of water,' was what he said. Remember you promised to tell nothink about me, that's all. Good-night, mister!" The stranger vanished in the darkness, and Diggory dropped down from the wall. "Here's a pretty go!" he remarked. "What are we to do? there's no time to lose. Come on, Jack, let's go and tell Acton." The latter was engaged on the closing sentence of his letter; but on hearing the intelligence which Diggory had to impart, he threw the unfinished epistle into his desk, and rose to his feet with an exclamation of astonishment. "D'you think it's really true? or is this fellow, Lump or Bump or whatever you call him, trying to take a rise out of us, or telling lies to earn the shilling?" "I don't think so," answered Diggory, "and I'll tell you why. For some reason or other, he's at daggers drawn with young Noaks and Hogson. I think they've knocked him about, and he's doing it to pay them out." "But how did they get to know about our fireworks? and how do they reckon they're going to get them out of the shed? Look here, hadn't we better tell Blake?" "We can't do that," answered Jack Vance, "or it'll get Diggy in a row. If he says anything about Joe Crump, it'll all come out about his having been in Locker's Lane when the Philistines caught him, and of course that's against rules." "What time did he say they meant to come?" There was a silence which lasted for over a minute; then Diggory spoke. This suggestion was accepted with some reluctance, as both boys were anxious to take part in the adventure. Acton's word, however, was law, and eventually Diggory was chosen by fate to be his companion. "I believe it's all bunkum," said Acton, as they strolled back towards the house. "However, we'll come down as we said, and just see if anything happens." Acton and Diggory, both tingling with excitement, lingered behind until the rest had left the room; then, when the coast was clear, they slipped out into the garden, and hurried down the sloping path. It was considerably lighter than it had been before tea; the clouds had cleared away, and there were plenty of stars. "Well, if there's nothing in it," answered Diggory, "how should Joe Crump have got to know we had any fireworks in the place? There must-Hush! what's that?" There was a sound of footsteps coming down the path from the house. "_Cave!_" cried Acton. "It's Blake; let's hide!" They had hardly time to conceal themselves, when a man, the outline of whose figure they could just make out in the gloom, came through the garden door, and, advancing a few yards, stood still, turning his head from side to side as though looking to make sure that the quadrangle was empty. "He heard us talking," whispered Acton. "He's the thief who stole all those things!" answered Acton excitedly. "He must have another key, and he's going to bag something now." "They've come," whispered Diggory. "He's got the key of the door, and is going to let them in." "Now, then," said old Noaks, "if you're going to do it, just look sharp." "No, I shan't," returned the man. "I don't know nothink about it. It's your game, and all I promised was I'd open the door." The firework display came off the following evening, and was a great success. Every rocket or Roman candle that shot into the air seemed to attest the final triumph of the Birchites over the Philistines, and was cheered accordingly. I say final triumph, for the removal of young Noaks and Hogson from the rival school caused a great change for the better among the ranks of Horace House. The old feud died out, giving place to a far better spirit, which was manifested each term in the friendly manner in which the teams met for matches at cricket and football. "D'you remember," remarked the former, "how, that night we caught the Philistines bagging our fireworks, you said, 'Well, I should think now we've just about finished with young Noaks'?" "Did I?" answered Jack, shrugging his shoulders. "My eye, I ought to have said we'd just begun!" "What bedroom are you in?" With Carton acting as conductor, the party set out on a tour of inspection. It was some time before the new-comers could find their way about alone without turning down wrong passages, or encroaching on forbidden ground, and getting shouted at by irate seniors, and ordered to "Come out of that!" But by the time they had finished their round, and the clanging of a big bell summoned them to assemble in the dining-hall for tea, they had been able to form a general idea as to the geography of Ronleigh College, and a brief account of their discoveries will be of interest to the reader. "That's the gymnasium on the left," said Carton, "and above it are studies; and that row of big windows on the right, with the glass in the top, is the big schoolroom." This formed but a small corner of a large level field, in which a number of boys were to be seen wandering about arm in arm, or standing chatting together in small groups, pausing every now and then in their conversation to give chase to a football which was being kicked about in an aimless fashion by a number of their more energetic companions. "Where do all the fellows go when they aren't out of doors?" asked Diggory. "What sort of a place is that?" "Oh, it's where the play-boxes are kept. Come along; we'll go there next." The small boy grabbed up the bits of paper, stuffed them in his pocket, and hurried away towards the schoolroom. "But what's a prefect?" "Why, I thought it was only masters did that," said Jack Vance. "What was that?" asked Diggory. "Why, fellows used always to christen you with a nickname: they stuck your head in a basin and poured water over you, and if you struggled you got it all down your back." "Yes," continued Carton, "and they hid your clothes, and had bull-fights and all sorts of foolery. That was in _Nineteen_: old 'Thirsty' was the prefect for that passage, and he doesn't care tu'pence what fellows do. But Allingford's put a stop to almost all that kind of thing: he's captain of the school, and he's always awfully down on anything of that sort." The forms passed on in their usual order, and the new boys were conducted to a vacant classroom, where they received a set of examination papers which were intended to test the amount of their knowledge, and determine the position in which they were to start work on the following day. "The last time I saw you," returned Jack, in rather a bitter tone, "was when you came to spoil our fireworks, and we collared you in the shed." Noaks clinched his fist, and for a moment his brow darkened; the next instant, however, he laughed as though the recollection of the incident afforded him an immense amount of amusement. "Ha, ha! Yes, awful joke that, wasn't it? almost as good as the time when that fool of a master of yours, Lake, or Blake, or whatever you call him, had me sent off the field so that you could win the match." "It was no such thing," answered Jack. "You know very well why it was Blake interfered; and he's not a fool, but a jolly good sort." "I say," whispered Diggory, as soon as they had regained their seat in the examination-room, "I vote we give that chap the cold shoulder." "Bother it!" cried the small, sandy-haired boy, who had bumped his knee rushing from the table to his place; "why didn't you make more noise when you came in?" "But I thought you were asking for silence," answered Diggory. "Of course they must," answered Maxton, who, with both elbows on the desk, was blowing subdued railway whistles through his hands; "every new fellow has to write his name on that little slate on Mr. Watford's table, and he enters them from there into his mark-book. I'm head boy, and I've got to see you do it. Look sharp, or he'll be here in a minute, and there'll be a row." "Please, sir," faltered Mugford, "we put them there ourselves." "Please, sir," answered Diggory warily, "we thought we had to, so that you might have our names to enter in your mark-book." There was a burst of laughter, but that answer went a long way towards setting the Alliance on a good footing with their class-mates. "That young Trevanock's the right sort," said Maxton, "and so are the others. I thought they'd sneak about that slate, but they didn't." "I don't see it's much of a lark to bag what doesn't belong to you," muttered Diggory. "What's that you say?" "Nothing for you to hear," returned the other. "I don't know if you're waiting about here to get some cake, but I'm sure I never invited you to come." "Look here, don't be cheeky," answered Noaks. "If you think I want to make friends with a lot of impudent young monkeys like you, all I can say is you're jolly well mistaken," and so saying he turned on his heel and walked away. "I say, there's a good cock-shy," said Noaks, nodding his head in the direction of the paint. "Umph! shouldn't like to try," answered Mouler. "Because Oaks would jolly well punch both our heads." "Well, here's a new kid coming; let's set him on to do it. You speak to him; he knows me. His name's Mugford." "Confound you!" he cried; "who did that ?" "Thought it was empty! why didn't you look, you young blockhead?" cried the prefect, catching the small boy by the arm, while Noaks and Mouler burst into a roar of laughter. "Stop a minute, Oaks," he said. "I happened to see this little game; let's hear what the kid's got to say for himself." In faltering tones Mugford told his story. Without a word the stranger stepped up to Mouler and dealt him a sounding box on the ear. "Yes," answered Diggory; "look out for squalls." Jack Vance and Diggory soon became popular members of "The Happy Family," and their loyalty to Mugford caused the latter's path to be much smoother than it probably would have been had he been compelled to tread it alone. Carton turned out a capital fellow; Rathson, the small, sandy-haired boy mentioned in the previous chapter, and who generally went by the name of "Rats," took a great fancy to Jack; while Maxton repeated his assertion that young Trevanock was "the right sort," and as a further mark of his favour presented the new-comer with a moleskin of his own curing, which looked very nice, but, as "Rats" put it, "smelt rather fruity." "I haven't been doing anything," answered the other. "What do you think he wants me for?" But it was not so much the furniture as the occupants of the study that attracted Diggory's attention. John Acton, a tall, wiry fellow, who looked as though his whole body was as hard and tough as whip-cord, was standing leaning on the end of the mantelpiece talking to another of the seniors, who sat sprawling in a folding-chair on the other side of the fire; while seated at the table, turning over the leaves of what appeared to be a big manuscript book, was no less a personage than Allingford, the school captain. "I was told you wanted to see me," said Diggory nervously. "He wrote," answered Diggory. "We tossed up whether he should do that or speak." There was a burst of laughter. "Did you see the letter?" "Why not? don't you remember?" "Oh, that's all rot! you can tell me; I'm his brother. Come, out with it." "I can't tell you," he repeated; "it was a promise, you know." "I say," exclaimed the latter, "have you seen Mugford?" "No. What's the matter? what have you done to your mouth?" "Why, I've had a beastly row with Noaks. I'll 'tell you after school." "No, tell me now," cried Diggory, pulling his companion aside into a corner by the door. "Quick--what was it?" "Why, he pounced down on Mugford, out there by the fives-court, and began twisting his arm and saying he'd pay him out for that paint-pot business. I went to the rescue, and the beast hit me with the back of his hand here on the mouth. I told him he was a cad, and said something about his father being only a man-servant, and having stolen our things. I'm sorry now, for it was rather a low thing to do, but I was in such a wax I didn't think what I was saying. Mouler was standing by, and he heard it, and laughed; and Noaks looked as if he'd have killed me. I believe he would have knocked me down, only Rowlands, the prefect, came up and stopped the row." It is probable that, if this had happened at Horace House, Jack Vance would have received a good licking as soon as the classes were dismissed; but a few very plain and forcible words spoken by Rowlands on the subject of knocking small boys about caused Noaks to postpone his retaliation. "FLETCHER II." "J. A. BIBBS." "You must come," said "Rats" to Diggory; "it'll be an awful lark." "But what's it all about?" "Oh, you'll hear when you get there. It's Fletcher's idea; he wants to start a new magazine. Eastfield, who edits _The Ronleian_, is Maxton's cousin; so Maxton's going to interrupt and get some other fellows to do the same. I'm going to be part of the opposition," added the youthful "Rats," beaming with delight, "and I have got a whole heap of paper bags I'm going to burst while Fletcher's speaking." There were mingled cries of "Yes!" and "No!" and a stentorian yell of "No, you cuckoo! of course we won't," from Maxton, and another explosion. "Go on!" cried Fletcher, who had descended from the platform to make room for his colleague; "say something, you fool!" "The magazine is to be written on exercise-book paper," began Bibbs, and had only got thus far when he was interrupted by a perfect salvo of paper bags which little "Rats" discharged in quick succession. "Shut up, Maxton!" cried Fletcher, rushing to the spot; "you've only come here on purpose to interrupt. Let's turn him out!" "Now, then," he demanded, "what are you youngsters making this awful row for? I've a jolly good mind to take all your names." "Here, not so fast," answered the prefect, blocking up the doorway as some boys tried to escape; "what are you chaps doing in here? I thought you'd been told to keep out." The crowd rushed forth and quickly dispersed. "That Thurston seems an awful decent chap," said Diggory; "I didn't think he'd let us off so easily." "Hullo, you new kids! what are you called?" A HOLIDAY ADVENTURE. "The Philistines are quite friendly now," wrote Acton. "We had a match against them last week on their ground, and they gave us tea after. It's awfully slow; I almost wish that chap Noaks was back." "So do I," added Diggory, as he finished the sentence; "we could very well spare him." "Oh, he's all right," answered Jack Vance; "that row's blown over now. As long as we leave him alone he won't interfere with us." "Won't he!" returned the other; "you take my word for it, he hasn't forgotten what you said about his father, and he's only waiting for a chance to pay us out. Whenever I go near him he looks as black as ink." Both Mugford and Diggory were charmed with the idea. "But d'you really think your mater would have us?" they asked. "Of course she will, if I ask her," answered Jack, and straightway sat down to write the letter. Just as they were getting into the train, who should come out of the booking-office but young Noaks. "Hullo!" said Jack. "He must be going home too; I hope he won't come in here." "Jack," said Mr. Vance, "you know that house that was to let just on the other side of The Hermitage? Who d'you think's taken it?" "I don't know, father." "Why, that man Simpson, the uncle of your friend what's-his-name." "I suppose," said Mugford thoughtfully, "that as he's a hermit that's why his place is called The Hermitage." "Well done, Mug!" said Jack, speaking with his mouth pretty full; "you're getting quite sharp." "Yes, that's it," continued Mr. Vance, laughing. "The old man's away from home just now; he was suffering from rheumatism very badly, and the doctor ordered him to a course of treatment at some baths." The conversation turned on other topics, and when at length they rose from the table, Jack proposed a stroll round the garden. There were many things to see--some pet rabbits, a swing, and an old summer-house, which Jack, being, we should say, of a decidedly nautical turn of mind, had turned into a sort of miniature shipbuilding yard for the construction of model vessels; though at present the chief use to which the place seemed to have been put was the production of a great amount of chips and shavings. "I say," exclaimed the owner, after he and his friends had amused themselves for some time boring holes in the door with a brace, "I know what we'll do: let's go over and explore The Hermitage!" Anything with a spice of excitement in it was meat and drink to Diggory. He immediately seconded the proposition, and Mugford, after a moment's hesitation, agreed to join his companions in the enterprise. They strolled off down the path, and soon reached a long stretch of brick wall, the top of which was thickly covered with fragments of broken bottles. "I say," whispered Mugford, "hadn't we better go back? what if the old chap's at home!" "Oh, it's all right; there's nobody about," answered Jack. "Let's go on and see what the place is really like." "Have you ever been inside?" asked Diggory. "Well, then, I'm going in," answered Diggory, with a twinkle in his eye. "Go on! Why, you might be had up for house-breaking!" Using the big blade of the clasp-knife as a lever, Diggory had just succeeded in raising the sash the fraction of an inch, when the steel suddenly snapped off short at the handle. "Oh, never mind," said the owner; "let's go back now. What if we're seen!" By inserting their fingers in the aperture, the boys soon raised the sash, and a few seconds later Diggory mounted the ledge and scrambled through the window "Come on," he said; "the coast's all clear." Jack Vance joined him immediately, and Mugford, not wishing to be left alone outside, was not long in making up his mind to follow his companions. The intruders stood for a few moments gazing round in silence. The place did not look very interesting, and smelt rather damp and mouldy. "I say," exclaimed Jack Vance, "look there: he don't seem very careful how he leaves his things when he goes away." "Old bachelors are always untidy," remarked Diggory. "Let's see where this door leads to." He turned the handle as he spoke, and walked out into a gloomy little hall paved with cold, bare flagstones, which caused their footsteps to waken mournful echoes in the empty house. He never reached the end of the sentence, for Diggory suddenly raised his hand, exclaiming in a whisper, "Hark! what was that?" The loud ticking of Mugford's old turnip of a watch was distinctly audible in the silence which followed. "Hark! there it is again; listen." "We shall be caught," whimpered Mugford; "I knew we should. What can we do?" Ages seemed to pass while Jack Vance and Mugford stood in the dark passage awaiting their companion's return. At length the door was pushed softly open. "You are a great ass, Diggy, to go giving us a start like that," said Jack, as they paused for a moment to take breath before returning to the house. A good tea, with all kinds of nice things on the table, soon revived the boys from the trifling shock which their nerves had sustained, and by the end of the evening their adventure was wellnigh forgotten. They were destined, however, to remember it for many a long day to come, and before many hours had passed they were heartily wishing that they had never set foot inside The Hermitage, but kept on their own side of the wall. The party were seated at supper on Sunday evening, when a servant entered the room, and addressing her master said, "If you please, sir, there's a policeman called to see you." The meal was nearly over when Mr. Vance returned and reseated himself at the table. "Did either of you hear the dog bark last night?" he asked. "Why, because old Fossberry's house has been broken into, and they think the thieves must have come through our garden; there were some footmarks in the shrubbery just on the other side of the wall." "What will they get if they are caught?" asked Jack faintly. "Oh, penal servitude, I suppose; it's a serious business housebreaking." "How quiet you boys are!" said Mrs. Vance a short time later. "I think you must be tired. Wouldn't you like to go to bed?" "Well," he exclaimed, "we're in a nice mess." "But we didn't steal the coins," said Mugford. "Of course we didn't--the safe had been robbed before we went there--but it looks as if we'd done it; and if they find out we got into the house, I don't see how we're going to prove that we're innocent." There was a short silence; then Diggory spoke. "Well, I was thinking of doing that myself, only I don't see what good it can do. If we tell him, he'll be bound to tell the police, to explain about those footmarks; and when it comes out that we got into the house, I should think we are pretty certain to be charged with having stolen the coins. I think the best thing will be to keep it dark: we didn't crib the things, and the thieves are sure to be caught in time." The following morning was spent in visiting such parts of the town of Todderton as were worth seeing. "Upon my word," said Jack, "I feel funky to show my nose outside our gate, just as if I really had prigged those wretched coins. I shan't be at all sorry this evening to get back to Ronleigh. It's all in the paper this morning; it mentions the footmarks and the knife-blade, and says that as yet the police have not been able to discover any further traces of the robbers." "Hullo, you fellows!" he exclaimed; "didn't you hear me whistle? I was standing over there by the book-stall." "Yes," answered Diggory, with a well-assumed air of indifference. "I suppose they'll catch the thieves in time." "I suppose so," returned the other, "especially if they find the chap who owns that knife with the broken blade." Noaks watched their faces for a moment, evidently well pleased with the effect which his remark had produced; then he burst out laughing. "Look here," he continued, producing from his pocket a buck-handled clasp-knife: "I wonder if that's anything like it; I see the big blade's broken." "My dear fellow, I never said you did. I only know that on Saturday I was looking over our wall, through an opening there happens to be in the shrubs, and saw you fellows climbing out of the old chap's window; and after you'd gone I noticed something lying in the path, and I hopped over, and picked up this knife." "Give it here; it's mine," said Mugford, holding out his hand. "No fear," answered the other, calmly returning the piece of lost property to his own pocket. "In this case finding's keeping; besides, I'm not sure if I couldn't get a reward for this if I sent it to the right place." The train began to slacken speed as it approached Ronleigh station. "Look here, Noaks," cried Jack Vance, in a fit of desperation, "what are you going to do? You know very well we are not thieves." "Hullo!" he exclaimed. "Old Ally sent me down to get a paper, and I thought you'd come by this train. I say, there's a fine row on up at the school--such a lark; I'll tell you about it as we go along." "Look sharp; out with it!" they exclaimed. "What's happened?" "Was that what the row's about?" asked Diggory. "Hullo, Fletcher! where on earth have you been all the evening?" "Oh, I've been nowhere in particular," he answered, laughing. "But I say, young man, you seem to have raised a pretty good hornets' nest about your ears along this corridor." "Yes, I know; they've had the cheek to send me that!" He leaned back as he spoke, and taking a piece of paper from the table, tossed it across to his friend. It was a letter signed by most of the prefects, suggesting that he should send in his resignation. "Humph!" said Fletcher; "that's a nice sort of a round robin, don't you call it? Well, what are you going to do?" "Pooh!" returned the other. "Now that you are a prefect, I wouldn't give up all the privileges and the right to go out and come in when you like just because a strait-laced chap like Allingford chooses to take offence at something you do. They can't force you to resign unless they go to the doctor, and they won't do that. I know what I'd do: I'd tell them pretty straight to go and be hanged, and keep their sermonizing to themselves." Thurston turned on the speaker with a sudden burst of anger. "That's all very fine. You took precious good care to save your own bacon; you always do." "Oh, go on!" answered Fletcher, rising from his chair; "you're in a wax to-night. Well, ta, ta! Don't you resign." The latter, following either his own inclination or the advice of his chum, decided not to resign his position as a prefect, and in a few days' time the majority of the school had wellnigh forgotten the fracas at the Black Swan. The packet turned out to be a copy of the Todderton weekly paper. "I've marked the place," added Noaks, turning on his heel with a sneering laugh; "you needn't give it me back." There was a moment's silence. "I wish I'd told my guv'nor," muttered Jack Vance. "Well, tell him now," said Diggory. "Oh no, I can't now; he'd wonder why I hadn't done it sooner. Besides, I believe Noaks is only doing this to frighten us; he can't prove that we stole the coins, because we didn't. All the same, it would be very awkward if he sent the police that jack-knife, and told them he'd seen us climbing out of the old chap's window." "Yes," answered Diggory; "I suppose it would look rather fishy. Bother him! why can't he leave us alone?" SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. "I wonder if Noaks has still got my knife?" said Mugford. "Oh, I don't know," answered Jack. "He's too much taken up with Mouler and Gull and all that lot to think about us. I shouldn't bother my head about it any further; he only showed us that paper out of spite, to put us in a funk." The consequences which resulted from this lack of harmony among those in authority may be easily imagined. "Old Thirsty never makes a row when he sees a chap doing so-and-so," was the cry. "Why should Oaks and Rowlands and those other fellows kick up bothers, and give lines for the same thing?" To all these murmurers the prefects turned a deaf ear. "I don't care what Thurston does," would be their answer; "you know the rule, and that's sufficient." Any further remonstrance on the part of the offender was met with a summary "Shut up, or you'll get your head punched," and so for a time the matter ended. So the members of "The Happy Family" pursued the even tenor of their way, getting into scrapes and scrambling out of them, feasting on pastry and ginger-beer, turning up in force on Saturday afternoon to witness the cricket matches, and coming to the conclusion that though Oaks and Rowlands might be a trifle strict, and rather freehanded with lines and "impots," yet all this could be overlooked and forgiven for the sake of the punishment which they inflicted on the enemy's bowling. Wednesday, the fourteenth of June, was Jack Vance's birthday, and just before morning school he expressed his intention of keeping it up in a novel manner. "Oh, I'd advise you not to!" cried "Rats," who was standing by and overheard the project. Diggory and Mugford both expressed their willingness to join in the expedition, and arrangements were accordingly made for it to take place that afternoon. Jack, as we have said before, was of rather a nautical turn of mind, and occasionally, when the fit was on him, loved to interlard his conversation with seafaring expressions. "She isn't much of a craft to look at," he remarked, as they drew up and dismounted at the spot where Mugford stood waiting for them; "but we'll imagine this is my steam-yacht, and that we're going for a cruise. Now then, Diggy, you're the mate, and you shall sit on the starboard side and steer. Mugford's the passenger, so he'll go in the middle. I'm captain, and I'll work the port treadles. Now, then, all aboard!" "Starboard a little!" The steering gear worked rather stiffly. Diggory gave the handle a hard twist, and it went round further than he intended. "Port!" cried the captain, "hard a-port!" But it was too late, and the next moment the "coffee-mill" ran down the sloping bank and plunged into the duck-pond. It gave a violent lurch, but fortunately its breadth of beam kept it from overturning, and the water, being not more than a few inches deep, only wet the boots of the mariners. "You great ass, Diggy! why didn't you _port?_" demanded the captain. "Well, I can't," answered Jack; "the captain never ought to leave the ship." "Oh, I'll go," answered Mugford, laughing; and accordingly, after performing some complicated gymnastic feats in getting off his boots, he slid from the seat into the water, and so hauled the "coffee-mill" back to _terra firma_. It would be impossible to describe in detail all the alarming incidents which happened during the outward passage. "Look here!" said Diggory at length: "don't you think we've gone far enough? we shan't be back in time for tea." "Oh, I forgot," answered the captain. "We'll see. Stand by your anchor! Let go-o-o!" The "coffee-mill" stopped, and Jack Vance pulled out his watch. The tricycle clanked and rattled away merrily enough on the return journey until it came to the long hill, which this time had to be climbed instead of descended. "Don't let's get off," said Jack; "we ought to rush her up this if we set our minds to it." "The chain's gone," gasped the captain. "There's a cart behind! Quick, run her aground!" There was an awful moment, when earth, sky, arms, legs, wheels, and bushes seemed all mixed together, and then Jack Vance found himself resting on his hands and knees in a puddle of dirty water. Diggory and Mugford had been driven with considerable violence into the thickest part of a thorn hedge, and proceeded to extricate themselves therefrom with many groans and lamentations. "Well," said the mate, as they proceeded to drag the machine out of the ditch, "I should think, Jack, you've celebrated your birthday about enough; now you'd better give over, or we shall all be sent home in a sack." "Yes; the chain broke, and we ran into the ditch." "Umph! bad business. Now you'll have to foot it, I suppose." "Yes," answered Jack ruefully; "and we're bound to be back late pushing this old thing all the way. I wish old Jobling would try a ride on it himself." "Oh! is that the 'coffee-mill'?" exclaimed the prefect, laughing. "Well, look here! If you're late, I'll see whoever's on duty, and tell him about the breakdown, and see if I can get you off." "Oh, thanks awfully!" chorused the small boys. "Yes, I do," answered young Fletcher: "it's Thirsty's; I've seen it often." Preparation of the next day's work having ended, Diggory's attention was occupied for a time in discussing with Carton the merits of some foreign stamps. Just before supper, however, he remembered the match-box, and hurried away to restore it to its rightful owner. Thurston was evidently at home, for a prolonged shout of laughter and the clamour of several voices reached Diggory's ears as he approached the study. As he knocked at the door the noise suddenly ceased, there was a moment's silence, and then a murmur in a low tone, followed by a scuffling of feet and the overturning of a chair. "Who's there? you can't come in!" shouted the owner of the den. "I don't want to," answered Diggory, through the keyhole. "I've brought your match-box that I picked up in the 'quad.'" "Oh, thanks; you're a brick," he said, taking the box, and immediately closed the door and turned the key. Diggory was retracing his steps along the passage, wondering what could be the object of all this secrecy, when he nearly ran into the school captain. "Hullo, young man!" said the latter, "where have you been?" "To Thurston's study." "What have you been there for?" demanded Allingford sharply, with a sudden change in his tone and manner. "Only to give him his match-box that I picked up in the 'quad.'" The latter wandered off, wondering more than ever what could have been the object of the private gathering in Thurston's study which he had just interrupted. Mischief certainly was brewing, and the "kick-up" came sooner than even Carton himself expected. "I do hope we lick them," said little "Rats" to Jack Vance as they stood by the pavilion, watching Oaks mixing some whiting for the creases; "we _must_ somehow or other." "That chap with the wicket-keeping gloves in his hand is Partridge, their captain," said Carton; "and that fellow who's putting out the single stump to bowl at is Austin. He does put them in to some tune; you can hardly see the ball, it's so swift." There was a faint _clang_ from the pitch. "No, he won't," cried "Rats" excitedly. "Old Ally'll knock him into a cocked hat. He'll soon break his back," added the speaker complaisantly. "Hullo! men in--Parkes and Rowland." The noisy clatter of "The Happy Family" ceases as the crowd of boys, ranged all down the sides of the field, turn to watch the opening of the game. It is an ideal day for cricket, with a fresh breeze blowing, just sufficient to temper the hot afternoon sunshine and cause a flutter of cricket-shirts and boundary flags. Rowland takes centre, twists the handle of his bat round and round in his hands, and is heard amid the general hush to say, "No, no trial." Austin glances round at the motionless figures of his comrades, signals to _long-on_ to stand a little deeper, and then delivers the ball. With an easy and graceful forward stroke, the batsman returns it sharply in the direction of the opposite wicket, and an almost imperceptible movement, like the releasing of a spring, takes place among the fielders. So begins the battle. "Never mind!" cried "Rats." "Here comes old Ally; he'll make them trot round a bit!" For some time cheer followed cheer, and "The Happy Family" clapped until their hands smarted; then suddenly there arose a prolonged "_Oh, oh!_" from all the field. "Hullo! what's the matter?" asked Bibbs, looking up from the book he was reading. "What's the matter?" shouted Maxton wrathfully, snatching away the volume and banging Bibbs on the head with it. "Why don't you watch the game? Old Ally's bowled off his pads!" It was only too true: the captain's wicket was down, and "The Happy Family," after a simultaneous ejaculation of "_Blow it!_" tore up stalks of grass, and began to chew them with a stern expression on their faces. "Oh, bother it all!" sighed "Rats; this is nothing but a procession." "Now, Oaks, old chap, do your best for us!" cried Allingford. "All right," returned the other, laughing, as he paused for a moment outside the pavilion to fasten the strap of his batting-glove; "I'm going to make runs this journey, or die in the attempt." "Thurston, you're in!" came from the scorer. The big fellow turned his head in the direction of "The Happy Family," and with something of the old good-humoured smile, which had seldom of late been seen upon his face, answered: "All right, my boy, you see if I don't." "Jolly fellow old Thirsty," remarked "Rats," swelling with pride at this friendly recognition. "He can play when he likes, but he hasn't troubled to practise much of late. He used always--Phew! my eye, what an awful crack!" A terrifically swift ball from Austin had risen suddenly from the hard ground. Thurston had no time to avoid it, but turning away his face, received the blow on the back of his head. He dropped his bat, staggered away from the wicket, and fell forward on his knees. To suffer for the cause of the school in a cricket or football match was a thing which, like charity, "covered a multitude of sins." Allingford hurried out of the pavilion and ran towards the pitch, while Partridge and a few more of the "Wraxby men gathered round their wounded opponent and helped him to his feet. "You'd better come out, Thurston," said the Ronleigh captain; "I'll send the next man in." "No, I'll go on," replied the other, in rather a shaky voice; "I shall be all right in a minute." It requires something more than ordinary pluck for a batsman to stand up to fast bowling and show good form after having been badly hit. For a time a great deal of determination, and the exercise of a considerable amount of will power, are necessary to conquer the natural inclination to shrink from a possible repetition of the injury; and those who watched the dogged manner in which Thurston continued to defend his wicket, being themselves practical cricketers, rewarded him with loud shouts of encouragement and praise. Oaks piled on the score with unflagging energy, while the careful play of his companion defied all attempts of the Wraxby bowlers to dissolve the partnership. "Oh, we shall lick them easily!" cried "Rats" jubilantly; while Fletcher junior gave vent to his feelings by handing Bibbs's bag of sweets round to the company. The closing scene of the game caused an amount of excitement unparalleled in the history of Ronleigh cricket. "Hang it all!" exclaimed the latter, throwing down a handful of playing cards upon the table, and pushing back his chair. "I shan't play any more to-night; I've got no more tin." "Oh, go on; I'll lend you some," answered Fletcher. "I don't care whether I win or lose; it's only the game I play for." As a matter of fact, Fletcher nearly always _did_ win, and was mightily displeased on the rare occasions when he lost. "Oh, something with a good swing to it. I feel like kicking up a row." "Why," came the answer, uttered in rather a drawling tone, "I wish you fellows wouldn't make so much row. I can't possibly work. Do be quiet." "All right," growled the owner of the study; "keep your hair on, old fellow!" "Sh! steady on, Thirsty," said Fletcher, in a low tone. "Don't go too far, or he'll put a stop to our next merry meeting. I know Allingford, and he's rather a hard wall to run your head against." "That confounded old Browse has gone and sneaked!" cried the other, with a flush of passion on his face. "Let's wait till Ally's gone, and then make a raid on the old stew-pot." Hawley and Gull sprang to their feet with a murmur of assent; Fletcher shrugged his shoulders and remained silent. Thurston's conduct on the cricket field had clearly proved him to be no coward. He stood his ground, and returned Allingford's angry glances with a look of fierce defiance. He attempted to make some reply, but somehow the words failed him, and turning on his heel he walked away to his own study. "Confound that fellow Fletcher!" he muttered between his teeth. "He always takes precious good care to sneak away when there's any row on. If it wasn't for that money I owe him, I'd punch his head." "Well," said Thurston, looking up with a frown from the book he was reading, "what d'you want now? I don't remember asking you fellows to come and see me. A chap can't call his study his own nowadays." "No," answered Acton grimly. "If a chap wants to work, a lot of blackguards come and wreck his furniture." "Look here, Thurston," said the captain coldly, "we've no wish to stay here longer than we can help. We've come simply to tell you this--that after what's happened to-night the prefects are determined that to-morrow morning you send in your resignation to the doctor." "And supposing I don't choose to send in my resignation?" returned the other. "Then," answered the captain calmly, "we shall send it in for you." There was a moment's silence; then Thurston rose from his chair, and closing his book flung it down with a bang upon the table. "Well, perhaps so," answered Oaks; "but I'll tell you this--Thurston means mischief. I wish he was going to leave. He won't forget this in a hurry, and my belief is we shall hear more about it next term." Every school has its own methods of choosing those who are to fill the posts and offices in connection with its various institutions, and it will be well to describe, in a few words, how this was done at Ronleigh, in order that the reader may follow with greater interest the working out of an important event in the history of the college. At the commencement of this particular winter term the school reassembled on a Tuesday, and on Thursday notice was given that the elections would take place on the following Saturday afternoon. "Acton saved us from getting into a row after that 'coffee-mill' business," remarked Diggory. "Rowland gave Noaks a dressing down when he hit me in the mouth," said Jack Vance. "And old Ally boxed Mouler's ears when they made me upset that paint," added Mugford. Poor Bibbs especially became a target for the humour of the electors. According to Fletcher's instructions, he had written out a speech and learned it by heart; but though he was being continually called upon to deliver it, he never got beyond the opening "Ahem! Gentlemen," before a sudden movement of the platform precipitated him into the arms of his irreverent hearers, or a shout of "Play up at the cocoa-nuts!" followed by a shower of acorns, bits of stick, and pieces of turf, caused him to jump down and hastily seek shelter behind the roller. "I wouldn't vote for a chap like Thurston, who goes boozing in a common 'pub' like the Black Swan," cried "Rats;" "but that's just the sort of man for you. You're a cheap lot, the whole crew of you!" "Look here, young 'Rats,'" retorted Fletcher junior from the opposite room, wandering rather wide of the subject in hand. "Why don't you write home and ask your people to buy you a new pair of braces, instead of mending those old ones up with string? You look just like a young street arab, and that's about what you are!" "Don't you fellows talk about broken braces, and looking like street arabs," cried Diggory, "when only yesterday old Greyling sent Stokes out of class and told him to go down to the lavatory and wash his face. That's a sample of you Thurstonians!" "Look here!" shouted the boy alluded to, springing out of bed, and appearing in his night-shirt at the opposite end of the dormitory. "You know very well that Grundy flipped a pen full of ink over me, and that was why I had to go out and wash my face." "I know you looked altogether a different fellow when you came back," returned Jack Vance: "I hardly knew you!" There was a momentary pause in the discussion, and Bibbs, thinking this a suitable opportunity for the delivery of his speech, stepped forward, and took up his stand in the doorway. Hardly, however, had he pronounced the opening "Ahem! Gentlemen," when a cake of soap, flung by Maxton, struck him a violent blow in the pit of the stomach, and he was still rolling and groaning on his bed in the throes of recovering his lost wind when the prefect arrived to turn out the light. "You mark my word," said Diggory, "as soon as the prefects have gone down to supper those chaps from over the way'll come across and pay us out for throwing that soap. We'd better put a chair against the door." On Saturday, just before morning school, the voting papers were collected, and directly after dinner the boys assembled to hear the result of the poll. According to the usual custom, no masters were present. Allingford presided, and the excitement was intense. "Gentlemen, the business of this meeting, as you are very well aware, is to announce the result of the elections. "The following," continued Allingford, referring to the paper which he held in his hand, "have been chosen to act as the Sports Committee: Myself chairman, Oaks, Acton, Rowland, Parkes, Redfern, and Hoyle. "Dale, who for some time past held the position of keeper of the reading-room, having left, the choice of a successor has fallen between Lucas and Ferris, who, singularly enough, both received the same number of votes. Each of these gentlemen being equally ready to withdraw in the other's favour, I exercised my prerogative as captain of the school, and gave the casting vote in favour of Lucas." As the captain finished speaking, Hawley, Gull, Noaks, and several other boys sprang to their feet, their appearance being the signal for a fresh outburst of cheers and groans. Young "Rats" commenced to hiss like a small steam-engine, while Grundy made frantic but futile attempts to reach over from the desk behind and smite him on the head with a French dictionary. With the exception of Hawley, those who had risen sat down again. "I want to ask," said the former, "what were the numbers in the voting for the prefects?" "Did Thurston receive any votes?" "That," returned the captain, "is a question which, for certain reasons, I think it would be best not to answer." "I think," interrupted Gull, rising to his feet, amid a murmur of excitement, "that we have a perfect right to insist on the figures being made public; everything in connection with these elections ought to be fair and open." "I don't care what you do," he exclaimed, with a short laugh. "I can guess pretty well what's coming." "There!" cried Gull; "you hear what Thurston says. Now let's have the figures." "Then, if he got more votes than either Parkes or Fielding, why isn't he elected?" "Because the doctor would not sanction it. The names have to be submitted to him for approval, and he appointed Parkes and Fielding." "Did you try to influence him to overlook Thurston?" demanded Gull angrily. But an immediate outburst of such cries as "Shame!" "Shut up!" and "Sit down!" showed the speaker he had gone too far, and rendered it unnecessary for Allingford to reply to the question. "I think," said Fletcher senior, rising to his feet when this interruption had ceased, and looking round with a foxy smile on his face, "that, with all due respect to the gentlemen who have been elected as prefects, it is a great pity that the doctor should not have consented to confirm the choice of the school, and reappoint Thurston. I think if the matter were laid before him in a proper light he might be induced to reconsider his decision." "Well, will you go and see him about it yourself?" asked Allingford, with a slight sneer. "No; of course I shouldn't go alone," returned Fletcher. "I think it's a matter that should be taken up by the whole school." There was a moment's lull in the proceedings, broken only by a confused murmur of voices; then Acton jumped to his feet. The football captain was popular with everybody, and the sight of his jovial face and sturdy figure was greeted with a burst of cheers. "Oh, it's true enough," answered Grundy from the back desk; "and I'm jolly glad he's done it. I heard him say this morning that if Allingford and those other fellows wouldn't put up with him as a prefect, they shouldn't have him in the team." "Oh, shut your mouth, you young prig!" interrupted Grundy, and the entrance of Mr. Greyling put a stop to any further conversation. "Then put up your goal-posts, and mark your touch-line; We'll grind them to powder, and put them in brine. Let boarders and day boys all come out to see Us fight for the honour of ancient Ronleigh." _Chorus_: "Then put up your goal-posts, and mark," etc. Too soon their rejoicings and empty their boast, For the Town fellows very soon had them on toast; And the bystanders sighed as they saw frequently The ball pass the "back" of our ancient Ronleigh. _Chorus_: "Then put up your goal-posts, and mark," etc. From this draw a moral, you fellows who rule: Sink personal spite when you act for the school; And whatever your notions of prefects may be, Let's have the right men in the team at Ronleigh. _Chorus_: "Then put up your goal-posts, and mark," etc. "Well, I call that a beastly shame. The chap who wrote it ought to be kicked round the field." "My eye," cried Grundy, "listen to what's talking! Kicked round the field, indeed! Why, I think it's jolly good: it serves Allingford and those other fellows just right for turning Thurston out of the team." "What a lie!" retorted Jack. "You know very well they didn't turn him out; he went out of his own accord." "Yes; you called me a liar, didn't you?" "So you are! Let go my coat!" The sentence was interrupted by Jack giving a sudden twist and striking his antagonist a heavy blow in the chest, which sent him staggering against the opposite wall. Grundy was nearly a head taller than Vance; but the latter's blood was up, and in another moment the dogs of war would have assuredly broken loose had not the flutter of a gown at the end of the passage announced the advent of Mr. Greyling. Jack read the challenge, turned round and nodded, and then went calmly on with his work as though nothing had happened. This cool way of treating the matter did not altogether please Grundy, who had rather expected that his adversary would elect to "take a licking." He had, however, every reason to count upon an easy victory, and so promptly despatched another note, which contained the words: "Very well. I'll smash you." "You'll get licked!" added Diggory, with a sigh. "I say, Diggy," whispered the latter, "don't you think Grundy'll lick him?" Young "Rats," who was always ready to take part in anything from a garden party to a game of marbles, immediately accepted the invitation. "Jolly glad you told me," he cried; "wouldn't have missed seeing it for anything. Jack Vance and Grundy--whew-w-w!" The long whistle with which he concluded the sentence had certainly an ominous sound, but the appearance of their principal was the signal for the seconds to hide their fears under an assumed air of jovial confidence. "Lick him!" answered "Rats;" "I should think so! Lick him into fits; I could do it myself." "He's a beastly bully," added Mugford solemnly; "and bullies always get licked--in books." "I don't care," answered Jack jauntily, "if I lick him or not, but I know he'll find me a pretty hard nut to crack." Ronleigh had no recognized duelling-ground, but when a premeditated encounter did take place, the combatants usually resorted to a little patch of grass situated between the back of the pavilion and the edge of the adjoining field. Here it was possible to conduct an affair of honour without much fear of interruption. "Look here, young Vance," said Grundy, "if you like to apologize for calling me a liar, I'll let you off; if not, I'm going to punch your head." "Punch away!" answered Jack stolidly, and all further attempt at pacification was abandoned. The principals took off their coats and collars, while their companions drew aside to give them room, and the signal was given to commence the action. Grundy made no attempt at any display of science; he simply relied on his superior strength and size, and charged down upon his adversary with the intention of thumping and pounding him till he gave in. Jack Vance knew very little about the "noble art," except that it was the proper thing to hit straight from the shoulder; and following out this fundamental principle, he succeeded in landing his opponent a good hard drive between the eyes, which made him see more stars than are to be witnessed at the explosion of a sixpenny rocket. Grundy drew back, and after blinking and rubbing his nose for a moment, came on again, this time with greater caution. Jack, on the other hand, emboldened by his previous success, made an unwise attempt to rush the fighting, and was rewarded with a sounding smack on the cheek-bone which broke the skin and sent him staggering back into the arms of Diggory. After this there was another short breathing-space; a thin stream of blood was trickling from Grundy's nasal organ, while Diggory and Mugford noticed with aching hearts that their comrade was beginning to look rather limp, and was getting short of breath. "Hullo, you young beggars! what are you up to?" "Hullo!" he continued, stepping forward and grasping Grundy by the shoulder; "what's up? what's the joke?" "It's only a bit of a fight," said Andson; "they had a row this morning." "Well, it's his own doing," growled Grundy. "I offered to let him off, but he wanted to have it out." Fletcher and Andson had already beaten a retreat, and Grundy was preparing to follow, when Allingford called him back. "Come," he said, in a kinder tone. "I don't know what your quarrel's about, but finish it up like men, and shake hands." "Well, what was the row about?" "Nonsense; fellows don't fight for nothing. What was it? Any great secret?" "Oh no," answered Jack, laughing: "it began about that lot of verses that was pinned upon the notice-board this morning. Grundy said Thurston was turned out of the team, and I said he wasn't." THE READING-ROOM RIOT. "It's an awful pity about old 'Thirsty,'" he would say to his brother prefects. "I try to keep him a bit straight; but upon my word, if he will go on being so friendly with such cads as Gull and Noaks, I shall chuck him altogether." The speaker's methods of endeavouring to keep his chum straight were, to say the least of it, not very effective, and, if anything, rather more calculated to encourage him still further in his descent along the downward road. "I don't care what they think; they're a beastly set of prigs, and I'll have nothing more to do with them--with Allingford especially." "Well, of course," answered Fletcher, with an air of resignation, "the quarrel's yours and not mine. I must own that I think Allingford made a great deal of unnecessary fuss over that Black Swan business, and acted very shabbily in making you send in your resignation just before the holidays. There's something, too, that I can't understand about the doctor's not confirming your re-election; and I think there ought to have been some further attempt made to get you to remain in the team-you did a lot of good service last season. However, my advice is, Put your pride in your pocket, and return to the fold." Young Carton had shown that he possessed a certain amount of insight into character when he told Diggory that Thurston was a dangerous fellow to cross. The ex-prefect's brow darkened as Fletcher enumerated this list of real or imaginary grievances, and at the conclusion of the latter's speech there was a short silence. The duties of the keeper of the reading-room were to receive and take charge of the papers and magazines, to keep the accounts, and to be nominally responsible for the order of the room. I say nominally, as the law relating to absolute silence was never actually enforced; and as long as the members amused themselves in a reasonably quiet manner, and without turning the place into a bear-garden, they were allowed to converse over their games of chess or draughts, and exchange their opinions on the news of the day. Those boys who at the time of the elections had formed the rank and file of the Thurstonian party, saw here an opportunity for showing their resentment of what they still chose to consider unfair conduct on Allingford's part. As a result, so they said, of the captain's favouritism, Lucas had been forced into a position for which he was entirely un-fitted; and with the expressed determination "not to stand him at any price," they proved themselves ever ready to assist in keeping up a constant repetition of the disturbances which have just been described. "I shan't," returned the other. "Keep to yourself, and mind your own business." "That's just what I'm doing; you know the rules as well as I do. It's my business to keep order in this room." "Rubbish! Who do you think cares for your rules, you jack-in-office?" "Will you leave the room?" "No, of course I won't. If you want to act 'chucker-out,' you'd better try it on." The offender, seeing perhaps that this was no empty threat, evidently considered it the wiser plan not to risk an interview with the head-master. "Oh, keep your wig on!" he answered, with a scornful laugh. "I shouldn't like to make you prove yourself a sneak as well as a coward. I'm going in a minute." The assembly, who for the most part considered the stocks joke very good fun, and were possessed with all the traditional schoolboy hatred for anything in the shape of telling tales, showed their disapproval with a good deal of booing and hissing as Gull sauntered out of the room, and Lucas bent over his accounts with the despairing sense of having lost instead of gained by the encounter. It soon became evident that the matter was not to be allowed to drop without some show of feeling, for on the following morning the unfortunate official was greeted with jeers and uncomplimentary remarks wherever he went. Just before tea Diggory and Jack Vance were crossing the quadrangle on their way from the gymnasium to the schoolroom, when they were accosted by Fletcher junior. "I say," remarked the latter, in rather a knowing manner, "if you want to see a lark, come to the reading-room before 'prep.'" "Shall we go?" said Diggory. "We might as well," answered his companion, laughing. "I wonder what the joke is! Another moth-hunt, or some more of that 'stocks' business, I suppose." Jack and Diggory listened in amazement to the uproar with which they suddenly found themselves surrounded, and not wishing to risk the chance of having a form or a table upset on their toes, remained seated in their corner, wondering how the affair would end. "Never you mind," answered the unfortunate official, choking with rage; "the bell's gone, so all of you clear out." "Who did it? who did it?" was the question asked on all sides. "I don't know," would be the answer. "They say it wasn't the fellows who were in the room--some of them put the gas out; but it was a lot of other chaps, who rushed in after, who did all the damage and caused such 'ructions.'" "Then who d'you think planned it?" asked Mugford. "I don't know, but I believe Gull had a hand in it." "Oh, I don't think that," answered Jack Vance. "He came in and lit the gas; if he'd been in it, he'd have skedaddled with the rest." "Um--would he?" returned Diggory, nodding his head in a sagacious manner; "I'm rather inclined to think he came in on purpose." "I need hardly say," began the doctor, in his clear, decisive manner, "that my object in calling you together is to inquire into a disgraceful piece of disorder which took place in the reading-room last night. I am astonished that such outrageous behaviour should be possible in what, up to the present time, I have always been proud to regard as a community of gentlemen. Such an offence against law and order cannot be allowed to pass unpunished. I feel certain that the greater number of those here present had no share in it, and I shall give the culprits a chance of proving themselves at all events sufficiently honourable to prevent their schoolfellows suffering the consequences which have arisen from the folly of individuals. Let those boys who are responsible for what occurred last evening stand up!" "N--no, sir," answered "Rats" plaintively. "Then will you explain exactly what you did do?" "Do you remember what boys were in the reading-room last night?" "Yes, sir, but I don't think they were responsible for what happened; it was done by others who came in from outside." There was a silence. The prospect of having to work on Wednesday afternoon caused, the boys themselves to take up the doctor's inquiry, and the query, "Who did it?" became the burning question of the hour. The riot had evidently been carefully planned beforehand, and the plot arranged in such a manner that those who took part in it might do so without being recognized. "I didn't," murmured the other warily. "All I knew was that they were going to put 'Rats' in the 'stocks;' I hadn't the faintest idea there was going to be such a fine old rumpus." "Umph! hadn't you?" muttered Diggory, turning on his heel; "I know better." "Is it a puzzle?" inquired Mugford. "No, but I'll tell you what I think it is," answered Diggory, sitting down, and speaking in a low, mysterious tone: "it's a letter written in cipher." "Of course they can, if they know the key. Didn't I say it was written in cipher, you duffer? Every letter you see there stands for something different." "Because, you prize ass," retorted Diggory, with pardonable asperity, "they didn't want it read." "Then if they didn't want it read, why did they write it at all?" exclaimed Mugford triumphantly. "Look here," interrupted Jack Vance, "where did you find the thing?" "There is a way of finding out a cipher," answered Diggory; "it tells you how to do it in that book that we bought when Mug had his things sold by auction at Chatford." "I lent it to Maxton, but I should think he's finished it by this time. I'll go and see." Jack Vance handed him the required article, which happened to be of the kind which fit all watches. "No," answered Jack Vance. "By-the-bye, did you hear that he had another row with 'Thirsty' last night?" In the course of the afternoon Diggory secured Mugford's copy of Poe's tales, and (sad to relate) spent a good part of that evening's preparation in trying to unravel the secret of the mysterious missive which he had found in the box-room. So intent was he on solving the problem that, instead of going down to supper with the majority of his companions, he remained seated at his desk, poring over the experiments which he was making according to directions given in the famous story of "The Gold Bug." "Well, how are you getting on ?" inquired Jack Vance, as the crowd came straggling back from the dining-hall. While Diggory was holding forth in the big schoolroom on his methods of reading a cipher, a conversation of a very different character, and on a matter of grave importance, was taking place in the study of the school captain. The "sap" certainly presented an extraordinary appearance. His spectacles were gone; his hair was pasted all over his face, as though he had just come up from a long dive; his clothes were torn, and in a state of the wildest disorder; while the strangest part of all was that from head to foot he seemed soaking wet, drenched through and through with water, which dripped from his garments as he stood. "Why, man alive!" cried Allingford, "what have you been up to?" "But what was? what's the matter?" In order to reach the laboratory, it was necessary to traverse the box-room and the gymnasium, both of which were in darkness, the lights being turned out by the prefect on duty when the boys assembled for preparation. "It's that Thurston and some of his gang," he repeated in conclusion; "they did it to pay me out for interfering with their noisy meetings." "All right!" he exclaimed; "leave this to me. Go and change your clothes." "Wait a minute," said Allingford. "Which is Thurston's study?" Acton knocked at the door; and receiving no answer, pushed it open and looked in. The room was empty. "Come on," cried Allingford; "the 'gym!' They may be there still." "They're gone," said Acton. "What shall we do?" "Well, what d'you want?" Allingford walked quickly forward. "Look here," he demanded sternly, "where have you been? What have you been doing?" The captain hesitated a moment, rather nonplussed by this unexpected reply. "I believe you know something about this affair with Browse," he continued. "Who did it?" "I don't know what you're talking about," retorted Thurston angrily. "Look here, Allingford, I'll thank you not to call me a blackguard for nothing, for I suppose that's what you're driving at. If you don't think I'm speaking the truth, ask Smeaton. I suppose you'll take his word, if you won't take mine." Smeaton, whose veracity it was impossible to doubt, confirmed the last speaker's assertions, and Allingford and Acton were forced to beat a retreat, feeling that they had certainly been worsted in the encounter. "What's to be done?" asked Acton, as they re-entered the captain's study. "I don't know," answered the other, flinging himself into a chair. "The only thing I can see is to report it to the doctor." "Oh, I shouldn't do that; it's more a piece of personal spite than any disorder and breach of rule, like that reading-room affair. I think it's a thing which ought to be put down by the fellows themselves. Who was in Thurston's study last night?" "I don't know. It may have been those fellows Gull and Hawley, but you can't accuse them without some evidence; you see what I got just now for tackling Thurston. Ever since the elections there seem to be a lot of fellows bent on bringing the place to the dogs. Thurston's hand and glove with the whole lot of them, and it's hard to say who did this thing to Browse." "Well, I'll tell you what I think I'd better do," said Allingford, preparing to wish his companions good-night. "I'll report it to the doctor, and ask him not to take any steps in the matter until we've had a chance of inquiring into it ourselves." The story of Browse's mishap, as we have just said, soon passed from mouth to mouth, until it was common property throughout the college. The remarks which the news elicited were often of an entirely opposite nature, according to the character of the boys who made them. Noaks and Mouler laughed aloud, declaring it a rare good joke; but to the credit of the Ronleians of that generation be it said, the majority shook their heads, and muttered, "Beastly shame!" "What'll be done?" was the question asked on all sides. "Will it be reported to the doctor?" "Hullo!" said Diggory, "another rhyme?" "A meeting of the whole school will take place directly after dinner in the gymnasium. A full attendance is urgently requested, as the matter for consideration is of great importance. "Humph," muttered Fletcher senior to himself, as he turned on his heel after reading the notice, "the fat's in the fire now, and no mistake." DIGGORY READS THE CIPHER. "Ay, ay, Sir Colin; ye ken us, and we ken you." "I think you all know," began the captain, "the reason of this meeting being called together. Last night Browse was set on in this room--in the dark, mind you--knocked down, and drenched with cold water. Some fellows may think it a good joke. I don't; I think the fellows who did it were cads and cowards. I reported the matter to the doctor, and he consented to act in accordance with the wishes of the prefects, and leave the matter in the hands of the boys themselves rather than inquire into it himself, which would probably only have meant another punishment for the whole school." ("Hear, hear!") "Some of you, I know, have lately taken a dislike to me, and think I don't act rightly." ("No, no!") "If I'm to blame, I'm sorry for it, for I've always tried to do my best. I ask you not to look upon this matter as a personal affair, either of mine or of any of the other prefects, but to consider only the welfare of the school. I say again that if Ronleigh is to retain its reputation, and be kept from going to the dogs, it's high time these underhanded bits of foul play like the reading-room row and this attack on Browse were put a stop to; and I beg you all to join in taking measures to prevent anything of the kind occurring again in the future." The speaker concluded his remarks amid a general outburst of applause. "Well, I can't swear," answered Browse readily. "I couldn't see, because it was dark, and my spectacles were knocked off; but I'm pretty certain it was some of Thurston's lot--Gull, or Hawley, or some of those fellows. They did it because I complained when they kicked up a row and interfered with my work." This reply created a great sensation, and the air was rent with a storm of groans, cheers, and hisses. Oaks, who seemed to have taken upon himself the duties of counsel for the prosecution, held up his hand to procure silence. "In bed, asleep," answered Gull promptly. "Well, I was about some private business of my own." "I don't see why I should tell you all my private affairs." The speech had just the effect which Thurston intended it should have. The English schoolboy has always been a zealous champion of "fair play," though sometimes misled in his ideas as to what the term really implies. A vague sense that the prefects were at fault, and that this inquiry was a blind to cover their shortcomings, spread through the meeting. Oaks was interrupted and prevented from questioning Hawley, and it seemed as though the good influence of Allingford's opening speech would be entirely lost, and that the meeting would bring about a still more hostile attitude on the part of the rank and file towards those in authority. The Thurstonians, however, attempting to make the most of this temporary triumph, met with an unexpected disaster, which quickly turned the changing tide of public opinion. During a momentary pause in the hubbub which followed Thurston's address, Fletcher senior, with the usual smile upon his face, began to speak. "You're lying!" interrupted the other sharply. "Take care, or I'll prove it!" There was a dead silence all over the room. Fletcher did not know what was coming, and though he felt uneasy, he had gone too far to go back. "I can't understand," he began, "why you should have this unkind feeling towards me. I can only repeat, in spite of what you say, that I _am_ your friend." A derisive groan rose from the crowd. "I can prove it up to the hilt. You had the confounded cheek to borrow from me the very book of songs you used when you wrote the parody, and you were fool enough to leave the rough copy in it when you brought it back. It's there now, in your writing. Shall I send for it? it's on my study table at this moment." The culprit muttered something about it's being "only a joke," but his reply was lost amid a storm of hoots and hisses. "Hullo, old chap!" said Thurston, entering his friend's study a few moments later; "you made rather a mess of that speech of yours. I'm inclined to think you've damaged your reputation." "I don't care," returned the other; "we're both leaving at the end of this term. As for Allingford, just let him look out: it'll be my turn to move next, and there's plenty of time to finish the game between now and Christmas." It was a bright, crisp afternoon. Almost everybody hurried away to change for football. "Where's Diggy?" asked Jack Vance, as he and Mugford strolled out to the junior playing field. "Oh, he said he wasn't coming; he's stewing away at that stupid cipher. He can't find any word except 'the;' he'll never be able to read the thing." The crowd of players were tramping across the paved playground, and surging through the archway into the quadrangle, when Jack Vance and Mugford were suddenly confronted by Diggory. He held some scraps of paper in his hand, and appeared to be greatly agitated. "Come here," he cried, seizing each of them by the arm; "I've got something to show you." "Pooh! what of that?" answered Jack, rather annoyed at being taken so far out of his way for nothing. "I expect it isn't anything particular after all." "It is, though," returned the other confidently; "and you'll say so too when you read it." Diggory paused as though to see what effect this announcement would have on the faces of his friends. "Well!" they exclaimed; "go on!" "Why, then, I saw in a moment what they'd done: _they'd simply transposed the whole alphabet_--A. was Z, and Z was A!" "Oh!" cried Jack Vance; "I see it now." Mugford stared at Jack Vance, and Jack stared at Diggory. "D'you see?" cried the latter eagerly. "Why, it must have something to do with this row about Browse." "Of course: the fellows who did it didn't want, I suppose, to be seen talking together too much just before it happened, and so they invented this way of making their plans." "I believe it's either Noaks or Mouler," said Mugford; "they were both of them siding with Thurston, and trying to kick up a row at the meeting." That evening and the following day the greater portion of their free time was spent in discussing the great question as to what should be done. The cipher note evidently had direct connection with the attack on Browse, but the translation of the letter was in itself like finding a key without knowing the whereabouts of the lock which it fitted. The question was, by whom and for whom it had been written. He walked quickly out of the room, and came back a few moments later at a run. "What do you think it is?" said Mugford. "If they catch you prying about, and find out that you've been watching them, you'll get an awful licking." "I expect it was the man," said Thurston, producing a candle-end, and sticking it in an empty ginger-beer bottle which lay on the ground. "He was in here this afternoon after some of those old boxes, and I expect he lit his pipe. The smell is sure to hang about when the door's shut." "Perhaps it was Gull," answered Thurston. "Where is he?" "He's got some turned work to do," answered Hawley. "D'you think young Grundy's to be trusted?" asked Noaks. "Oh yes," answered Hawley; "he's been on our side all along. He had a fight with young what's-his-name not long ago, about that skit on the Town match. Besides, I've told him that if it gets out that he had a hand in that Browse business, he'll be expelled. So he'll keep his mouth shut right enough." "Oh, by-the-bye," cried Thurston, turning to his particular chum, "have you heard anything more about that poem of yours?" Fletcher senior, who had been sitting all this time scowling in silence at the candle, answered shortly, "No." "Hullo!" returned his friend, "what's the matter? You seem precious glum to-night. What's up? Are you going to chuck this business and turn good?" "You asked me whether I'd heard anything more about that rhyme I wrote," answered the other, rousing himself, and speaking with a thrill of anger in his voice. "I say no, but I've _seen_ a jolly lot." "Hear, hear!" exclaimed Thurston; "that's just what I say. And now the question is, what shall we do?" "Nothing at present," answered the other. "We must wait until this affair's blown over. There's no need to run the risk of getting expelled; and, besides, we want some time to think of a plan." The faint _clang, ter-ang_ of a bell sounded across the playing field. Noaks and Hawley rose to their feet. "Hullo!" he exclaimed, catching the small boy by the arm. "Who are you? and where have you been?" "What's that to you?" answered Diggory boldly; "let me go." The remembrance of that mysterious smell of a fusee flashed across Noaks's mind. "Look here!" he cried sharply. "You tell me this moment where you've been." "In the other field." "What were you doing there?" There was a moment's silence. Noaks had a strong suspicion that the other knew something about the secret meeting; it was equally possible, however, that he did not. Young madcaps were often known to let off steam by careering wildly round the field after dark, and if this had really been the case in the present instance, it would be folly to say anything that should awaken suspicion. The big fellow hesitated; then a happy thought occurred to him: he dragged his captive across the paved playground, and stopping under the gas-lamp which lit up the archway leading into the quadrangle, began a hasty examination of the contents of the latter's pockets. There was no time to lose, and failing to find what he sought, Noaks gave the youngster a final shake, saying as he did so: "Look here, have you forgotten that coin robbery? Because, if you have, I haven't. I've got that knife still. Don't you fall foul of me, or you'll have reason to be sorry for it, d'you hear?" "You see," said Diggory, as he brought his story to a close, "the thing was this: he wasn't quite sure whether I knew anything or not, but he said that to frighten me in case I did." "I don't see that we can do anything," began Mugford uneasily. "You say they aren't going to kick up any other row just yet, and it would be an awful thing if Noaks found it out, and sent my knife to the police." A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS. "Have you got anything to read going along?" asked Diggory, as they stood lingering round the carriage door. "Yes," answered Carton. "Look here, you fellows, you might get in and sit round the window till the train starts; it'll keep other people from getting in, and I shall have the place to myself." "Aha, my boys!" continued Carton, rubbing his hands together, "when you're stewing away in 'prep' this evening, think of me at home eating a rattling good tea, and no more work to prepare after it for old Greyling." Off she certainly was. There had been a sharp chirrup of the whistle, and at almost the same moment the train began to move. Diggory tried to let down the window to get at the handle of the door; but the sash worked stiffly, and before he succeeded in making it drop, the train had run the length of the platform, and the station was left behind. "You'll have to go as far as Chatton now," said Carton. "Never mind; you can get back by the next train." On examination, the only articles of value Mugford's pockets were found to contain were an aluminium pencil-case which wouldn't work, and a dirty scrap of indiarubber. "What time's the next train back to Ronleigh?" asked Jack, as he paid the money for their fare to the ticket-collector. The boys wandered disconsolately through the booking-office of the little country station, and halted outside to consider what was to be done. "It's a good bit shorter by rail," mused Diggory, "if we could walk along the line. That tunnel under Arrow Hill cuts off a long round." "We couldn't do that," said Mugford; "there are notice-boards all over the shop saying that trespassers on the railway will be prosecuted." "Oh, bother that," cried Jack Vance, suddenly smitten with Diggory's idea. "Who cares for notice-boards? We'll go home along the line. If we trot every now and then, we shall get back in time." "Well, we'd better walk along the road as far as that curve," said Diggory, "and then they won't see us from the station." There was something forbidding about the dark, gloomy entrance--the stale, smoky smell, and the damp dripping from the roof, all tending to give it a very uninviting aspect. "It's awfully long," said Mugford; "don't you think we'd better turn back?" The ground seemed to be plentifully strewn with ashes, which scrunched under their feet as they plodded along, and their voices sounded hollow and strange. "My eye," said Jack, "it's precious dark. I can hardly see where I'm going." "Hadn't we better go back?" faltered Mugford. "No, you fathead; shut up." The darkness seemed to increase, and the silence grew oppressive. The boys were walking in single file, Diggory leading, and Jack Vance bringing up the rear. "I say," exclaimed the latter, as he stumbled over a sleeper, "I shouldn't like to be caught here by a train." "Well, all you'd have to do would be to cross over on to the other line." Imperceptibly the boys quickened their pace until it became almost a trot. "Hurrah!" cried Diggory, a few moments later, as a far-distant semicircle of daylight came into view. "There's the other end." The little party halted for a moment, but instead of hearing the shrill yell for the production of which Jack had just filled his lungs, their ears were greeted with a far more terrible sound, which caused their hearts to stop beating. There was, it seemed, a sudden boom, followed by a long, continuous roar. Diggory turned his head, to find the far-off patch of light replaced by a spark of fiery red, and the terrible truth flashed across his mind that in the excitement of the moment he could not remember for certain which was the down line. What followed even those who underwent the experience could never clearly describe. They flung themselves upon the ground: there were the thundering roar of an earthquake, coupled with a deafening clatter, as though the whole place were falling about their ears, and a whirling hurricane of hot air and steam. "I say, you fellows," cried Diggory, as they emerged into the fresh air, "I wouldn't go through there again for something." "It was a good thing you gave me that shove," said Mugford; "I felt as though I couldn't move. And we were standing on the very line it went over." "Come along," cried Jack Vance; "let's bolt." Unless they doubled back into the tunnel, their only way of escape lay in scaling the right side of the cutting, as a short distance down the line a gang of platelayers were at work, who would have intercepted them before they reached the open country. Jack Vance and Diggory, whose powers of wind and limb had benefited by constant exercise in the football field, were soon at the top; but Mugford, who was not inclined to be athletic, and who had already been pretty nearly pumped in hurrying out of the tunnel; was still slowly dragging himself up the ascent, panting and puffing like a steam-engine, when his comrades reached the summit. "Bun for it!" panted Mugford; "don't wait for me!" "Go on!" cried Mugford. "Shan't!" repeated his companions. "All right," he said. "Hop up; I'll find room for you somewhere." "I say," cried Jack, "this is a stroke of good luck. Why, we shall be back in time after all." Ronleigh was fortunate in having a staff of masters who won the respect and confidence of the boys. Some poor-spirited fellows there are who will always abuse those set in authority over them; but at Ronleigh there was happily, on the whole, a mutual good understanding, such as might exist in a well and wisely disciplined regiment between officers and men. "Hullo!" exclaimed Diggory, "look out! Here's that wretched little Grice coming; there, he's stopped to look into the ironmonger's shop. We must dodge past him somehow, or he'll want to know where we've been." The trio crossed quickly over to the opposite side of the street, and hurried off at full speed in the direction of the school. "Hullo, you kids! where have you been?" inquired the captain. The prefect locked the door, and continuing his conversation with Allingford, started off down the passage. On reaching what was the main corridor on the ground floor, they paused for a moment, and stood warming their hands at the hot-water pipe, and it was while thus engaged that they were suddenly accosted by Mr. Grice, who bustled up to them in a great state of excitement. "Are you on duty, Oaks?" "Have any boys come in late?" "They weren't late, sir," answered Oaks; "they came in about a minute ago." Prefects at Ronleigh were not in the habit of being lectured as though they were lower-school boys. Oaks bit his lip. "Don't keep contradicting me, sir," said the master. "We are supposed to work by the school clock, sir," interposed the captain. "I'm not aware that I addressed any remark to you, Allingford," retorted Mr. Grice, rapidly losing all control of his temper. "You need make no further attempt to teach me the rules of the school; I flatter myself that I am sufficiently well versed in them already." A crowd of idlers, attracted by the angry tones of the master's voice, had begun to collect in the passage, and the captain flushed to the roots of his hair at being thus taken to task in public. "I merely said, sir, that we work by the school clock." "I can't do that, sir," answered Oaks stolidly, "for they were in time." Mr. Grice boiled over. "You are a very impertinent fellow," he cried. "I shall report you both to the doctor." And so saying, he turned on his heel and walked away. A few moments later Mr. Grice withdrew, looking rather crestfallen. As may be imagined, the result of his interview with the head-master was never made public, and in the meantime Ronleians old and young were expressing their high approval of the conduct of their captain and his lieutenant. The gilt was beginning to wear off the Thurstonian gingerbread, and sensible fellows, who could tell the difference between jewel and paste, were less inclined than ever to be led by the nose by such fellows as Gull and Hawley. Here was an instance in which the prefects had taken a stand against palpable injustice, and the action had caused the whole body to rise several pegs in everybody's estimation. "Hullo!" cried Jack Vance; "what's up? You look as if you had lost a sovereign and found sixpence!" "Matter enough," murmured Mugford, whose heart was evidently in his mouth: "I'm going to leave." "Oh, dash it all!" said the latter; "you mustn't go? Isn't there anything we can do? Shall I write to your guv'nor?" The idea of Jack Vance addressing a remonstrance to his respected parent caused the ghost of a smile to appear on Mugford's doleful face. "No, it's no good," he answered. "There's nothing for it; I shall have to leave." "Yes," answered Diggory, after a moment's thought, "I suppose it is. I wish we could do something more before it's broken up." As he spoke, he passed his hand mechanically along the lower surface of the window ledge; then with a sudden exclamation he went down on his knees, and picked something out of the wall. It was another note written in cipher! "Hullo!" said Jack Vance; "they're at it again!" His companion made no reply, but taking out a pencil, copied the cipher on the back of an envelope, and then replaced the mysterious document in the crack between the window-frame and the bricks. "What are you doing that for?" "Why, because they may miss it, and smell a rat. Come on; let's get the key and see what it means." "I don't know, unless it is that they are going to have another meeting after tea under the pavilion." "Let's find Mug, and hear what he thinks." "I can't see," said Mugford, "that it means anything else than that they are going to have another meeting." "Yes, that's it. I shall go down to the pavilion again after tea, and see what's up. I shouldn't wonder if there is going to be another row. Fletcher said he meant to do something before he left, and there isn't much time now before the end of the term." "Shan't Mug or I go this time?" asked Jack Vance; "it's rather a risky business." "No, I'll go; I know now just where to hide." "Why, they didn't come; there wasn't any meeting. I waited and waited, until I saw it was no use staying any longer; so then I gave it up as a bad job." "Did the note really say to-night?" "Yes: I went down just before tea to see if it was still there, and I brought it away with me. Here, look for yourself." As he spoke, Diggory produced the slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket. By the light of the archway lamp it was compared with a hastily-constructed key, and the former translation was found to be correct. "What are you doing that for?" asked Gull. The party grouped themselves round the candle, as they had done on the previous occasion, when Diggory had watched their movements from behind the pile of forms, and Thurston, with an inquiring look at Fletcher, asked, "Well, what's the object of this pleasant little reunion?" The shaft went home, and Thurston's face darkened with anger. "No," he answered indignantly, "and I wouldn't play, not if they all went down on their knees and begged me to. What do I care about the Wraxby match? If I could, I'd put a stopper on it, and bring the whole thing to the ground." "Well," continued Fletcher calmly, "that's just what we're going to do. If you'd asked me this morning how we could put a spoke in Allingford's wheel, and pay out him and a lot of those other prigs like Oaks and Rowlands, I couldn't have told you; but now the thing's as easy as pat. They'll find out they haven't cold-shouldered me at every turn and corner for nothing. I'll give them tit for tat, and after Christmas, when I've left this beastly place, I'll write and tell them who did it." "You seem to have got your back up, old chap," said Thurston, referring to the bitter tones in which the last few sentences had been spoken; "but out with it--what's your plan?" "Why, this: I'd no idea what a chance we should have when I stuck that note in our pillar-box, but here it is all ready made. Allingford and Oaks have had a row with little Grice; he's reported them, and it's quite natural they should want to pay him out for doing it. As they're such good boys, I don't suppose they'll try anything of the kind; but we might undertake the job, and do it for them." The speaker paused to see if he had been understood. "That's about it," returned the other, laughing. "What could we do better?" "Well," he inquired, "and what's to be the trick?" "So that's your little game, is it?" he inquired. "And I'll help if you like," added Noaks, who thought the present occasion a good opportunity to distinguish himself. "Have you got the screws?" "Yes," answered Noaks, producing a twist of paper from his pocket. "Don't you think I'd better go and keep _cave_ at the top of the stairs?" whispered Fletcher. Standing in the cold, dark passage, the work seemed to take ages to perform; but at length it was finished. "Hist! what are you doing?" Fletcher had produced a scrap of paper from his pocket, and was seemingly about to slip it under the door. "I want to make certain that it shall be put down to Oaks," he whispered; "so in case the screw-driver should be overlooked, I'm going to slip this under the door for Grice to find in the morning." REAPING THE WHIRLWIND. "Well," asked Diggory, "who did it?" "Who d'you think it was?" retorted Jack Vance. "Why, some of Thurston's lot, I believe." Mugford, who was always rather slow at grasping a new idea, opened his eyes in astonishment. "But," he exclaimed, "how about the paper and the screw-driver?" "Pooh!" answered Diggory, "how about that cipher note that said, 'To-night'?" "Of course," added Jack Vance, "they'd evidently arranged it beforehand, and that paper was to say when they were to do the trick." "I don't see how they are going to get out of it," sighed Mugford. "Why, we must tell all we know, and show Dr. Denson the note." "Won't it be sneaking?" "I should consider we were beastly sneaks if we didn't." "So we should be!" exclaimed Jack Vance. "They've always been jolly decent to us, and it was on our account they had this row with Grice." "If Noaks finds we've split, he'll send that knife to the police," said Mugford. "I don't care a straw what Noaks does," answered Diggory boldly. "You fellows needn't have anything to do with it; I'll go and tell Dr. Denson myself." "No; I'll come too," said Jack. "I assure you, sir," said Oaks, in a low, agitated voice, "that we have had no hand in this matter." "I am sorry even to seem to doubt your word, Oaks," answered the doctor, "but I think you must own that appearances are very much against you. A screw-driver bearing your name was found in the passage, and this piece of paper, which was pushed under the bedroom door, and which now lies before me, bears a direct reference to the dispute about the school time. As far as I can see at present, the only conclusion which can be arrived at is that this is an act of retaliation which has sprung from your contention with Mr. Grice." The captain was about to speak, but Dr. Denson held up his hand. Dr. Denson frowned, and sat for some moments without speaking, rapping the blotting-pad in front of him with the butt end of a seal; then remembering the presence of the small boys, he turned towards them with an inquiring look. The telling of the tale occupied some considerable time, for the doctor had many questions to ask; and when it came to the account of the conversation which had taken place under the pavilion, his face visibly darkened. "My eye," remarked Diggory, an hour later, "I wouldn't go through that again for something! I swear that by the time I'd finished the perspiration was running down my back in a regular stream." "Only the same as Trevanock, sir; we--we found it out together." "We were afraid to, sir," faltered Jack Vance; "and we thought it would be sneaking." "Dear, dear," exclaimed the head-master impatiently, "when will you boys see things in a proper light? You think it wrong to tell tales, and yet quite right that innocent people should suffer for things done by these miserable cowards!" "Afraid of telling more tales, I suppose. Well, well; the question now is whether the same boys are guilty of having screwed up Mr. Grice's door. Why they should have done such a thing I don't understand, nor do I see how it is to be brought home to them simply by means of this exceedingly brief note." Every member of the company edged forward, and looking down at what lay on the writing-table, saw in a moment that the mystery was solved. Even the dread atmosphere of the doctor's study could not restrain some show of excitement on the part of those interested in this disclosure, but it was quickly suppressed. "I wish to know," began the doctor, "which of you boys were concerned in what took place last night? I refer, of course, to the screwing up of Mr. Grice's bedroom door." "Had you anything to do with it, Fletcher?" "Then will you tell me the meaning of this?" continued the head-master, holding up the cipher note. "I--I don't know what it means," began the prefect. "Don't lie to me, sir," interrupted the doctor sternly. "You know very well what it means; it's of your own invention." "I screwed up Mr. Grice's door," he said sullenly. "And who assisted you?" To this inquiry Thurston would give no reply, but maintained a dogged silence. Gull and Hawley, however, anxious at all costs to save their own skins, practically answered the question by saying, "We didn't," and casting significant glances at Noaks and Fletcher. "Well," said the captain, "you kids have done us a good turn. We were in a precious awkward box, and I don't know how we should have got out of it if it hadn't been for you." "Yes," added Oaks: "I was never more surprised at anything in my life than when Trevanock said he knew who'd done the business. It made old Denson open his eyes." "So it did," continued Allingford; "and if it hadn't come out, the whole school would have got into another precious row, and there'd have been a stop put to the Wraxby match. I tell you what. You youngsters thought it sneaking to let out what you knew; in my opinion you'd have been jolly sneaks if you'd shielded those blackguards, and allowed everyone else to suffer. Well, as I said before, you've done is a good turn, and as long as we're at Ronleigh together we shan't forget you." "Did you see his face?" said Diggory. "He looked as if he could have killed us. He's never forgiven us since that time he was turned off the football field for striking you at The Birches." "No," added Jack Vance; "and then we were the means of old Noaks getting the sack over those fireworks; and that reminds me he's always had a grudge against me for letting out that time that his father was a servant man; and now there's this last row. Oh yes! he'll do his best now to get us into a bother over that knife of Mugford's." "Of course he will," answered Diggory; "that's what he meant by glaring at us as he did." "I don't care!" exclaimed Jack Vance, with forced bravado; "he can't prove we stole the coins." "Of course he can't," sighed Mugford; "but if there's a row it'll rather spoil our Christmas." "Hurrah!" cried "Rats," who was in a great state of excitement when the news arrived; "they won't ask us again if we'd like to play a master, the cheeky beggars!" "I say, have you heard the latest?" cried Maxton, bursting into the reading-room just before preparation, regardless alike of the presence of Lucas and the rule relating to silence. "What about?" asked several voices. "Well, then, he's run away!" Magazines and papers fell from the hands which held them, and the usual quiet of the room was broken by a buzz of astonishment. "I do, though: he's skedaddled right enough, and they can't find him anywhere." The report was only too true. Afraid to face his schoolfellows, and having already received several intimations, from fellows passing the housekeeper's parlour, that a jolly good licking awaited him when he left his present place of refuge, Noaks had watched his opportunity, and when the boys were at tea had slipped out, and, as Maxton put it, "run away." "He's got my knife with him," said Mugford; "he may go any day and try for that reward." The last day of the term arrived in due course, bringing with it that jolly time when everybody is excited, happy, and good-tempered; when the morning's work is a mere matter of form, and the boys slap their books together at the sound of the bell, with the joyful conviction that the whole length of the Christmas holidays lies between them and "next lesson." "None of the fellows'll come near it," said Jack Vance; "and if old Watford should be knocking round and catch us there, he won't do anything to-day; we shall have to clear out, that's all." "Yes," answered Diggory; "it was just after we'd been frightened by the ghost. D'you remember the 'Main-top' and the 'House of Lords' and the Philistines? I wonder what's become of them all?" At length, when the paper bags had been wellnigh emptied, Jack Vance intimated his intention of making a speech--which announcement was received with considerable applause. This sentiment was received with shouts of applause, and in honouring it the jam-pots were drained to their muddy dregs. "You've always been very kind to me," he began, speaking rather quickly. "No, we haven't," interrupted Jack Vance. It was customary to laugh at whatever Mugford said, but on this occasion not even a smile greeted the conclusion of his remarks. Each boy pocketed his fragment of wood in silence. Jack Vance tried to crack a joke, but it was a miserable failure. "There was something I wanted to say," began "Rats" thoughtfully. "I shall remember it in a minute. Oh, _bother!_" "Why, I know what it was; Mugford's talking about writing to him reminded me of it. I'm awfully sorry, but there were some letters came for you chaps this morning. I took them off the table, meaning to give them to you; but I quite forgot, and left them in my desk." "Rats" scrambled to his feet and hurried out of the room. Jack Vance pulled out his watch, and held it down so that the glimmer of the red light from between the bars of the stove fell upon its face. "My word," he exclaimed, "it's time we thought about packing!" "Wait a jiff for those letters," answered Diggory. A moment later "Rats" came scampering down the passage. "Here they are," he cried; "I'm very sorry I forgot 'em. A letter for Mugford, and a paper for Vance." Diggory relighted the gas-jet which he had turned out after boiling the kettle, and proceeded, with the assistance of "Rats," to gather up the remains of the feast. They had hardly, however, got further than emptying the tin kettle down the ventilator before their attention was attracted by a joyful exclamation from Jack Vance. "What d'you think's happened?" he cried, brandishing the open newspaper. "Why, they've caught the thieves who stole old Fossberry's coins!" "They have, though. It was the old woman who looks after the house, and her husband; they're to be tried at the next assizes. They did it right enough; some of the coins were found in their possession, and--Hullo! what's the matter with you?" The latter remark was addressed to Mugford, who suddenly jumped on a form, began to dance, fell off into the coal-box, scrambled to his feet, and capered wildly round the room. "He's gone mad!" cried Diggory; "catch him, and sit on his head!" "No, I haven't!" exclaimed Mugford, coming to a standstill; "but what do you think's happened? Guess!" "Not that you're going to stay on here!" "Yes! My uncle says he'll pay for me, and I'm to come back again after Christmas!" "Well, I'm sure!" gasped Jack Vance; "and we've just dissolved the Alliance! We must make it again." "Well, so it shall be," cried Jack Vance, embracing Mugford with the hugging power of a juvenile bear: "next term we'll start afresh."	redpajama-book	30,706
Credit for e-text: The Library of Congress, Joshua Hutchinson, David King, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team SPALDING'S OFFICIAL ATHLETIC LIBRARY AMERICA'S NATIONAL GAME The above work should have a place in every public library in this country, as also in the libraries of public schools and private houses. The author of "America's National Game" is conceded, always, everywhere, and by everybody, to have the best equipment of any living writer to treat the subject that forms the text of this remarkable volume, viz., the story of the origin, development and evolution of Base Ball, the National Game of our country. The book is a veritable repository of information concerning players, clubs and personalities connected with the game in its early days, and is written in a most interesting style, interspersed with enlivening anecdotes and accounts of events that have not heretofore been published. The response on the part of the press and the public to Mr. Spalding's efforts to perpetuate the early history of the National Game has been very encouraging and he is in receipt of hundreds of letters and notices, a few of which are here given. SPALDING'S OFFICIAL ATHLETIC LIBRARY SPALDING'S OFFICIAL BASE BALL GUIDE A Remarkable Base Ball Tournament A World's Series Problem American League Averages, Official Base Ball Writers of the South Base Ball Worth While? Base Ball Playing Rules, Official Index to Playing Ready Reference Index to Base Ball Playing Rules, Spalding's Simplified- Ball Ball Ground Balls, Providing Balls, Soiling Base Running Rules Bat, Regulation Batting Rules Benches, Players Coaching Rules Definitions, General Field for Play, Fitness of Field Rules Game, Regulation Gloves and Mitts, Regulation Ground Rules Innings, Choice of Players, Numbers and Position of Players, Substitute Pitching Rules Scoring Rules Scoring of Runs Umpires' Authority Umpires' Duties Uniforms Diagram, Correct, of a Ball Field Elementary School Base Ball Tournament John Tomlinson Brush National League Averages, Official National Association of Professional Base Ball Leagues- American Association Appalachian League Blue Grass League Border League Canadian League Central Association Central Kansas League Central League Cotton States League Eastern Association Illinois-Missouri League Indiana-Illinois-Iowa League International League Kentucky-Ind.-Tenn. League Michigan State League "Mink" League New York State League New England League Nebraska State League North Carolina League Northwestern League Ohio and Pennsylvania League Ohio State League Pacific Coast League South Atlantic League Southeastern League Southern Association Southern Michigan Association Texas League Tri-State League Union Association Virginia League Western Canada League Western League New Faces in the Old League Schedules- American League International League National League Northwestern League Southern Michigan Texas League The Spalding Base Ball Hall of Fame The players have effected an organization. That, too, is an incident of interest, for it is well within the memory of the Base Ball "fans" of this day what happened when another organization was perfected in the past. For this organization it may be said that the members promise that it will be their object to bring about better deportment on the part of their own associates and that they will work their best for the advancement of Base Ball from a professional standpoint. If they do this they will be of benefit to the sport. If they work from selfish motives it is inevitable that eventually there will be a clash, as there was in the past. The last world's series which was played was the greatest special series of games which has been played in the history of the national pastime. There may have been single games and there may have been series which have attracted their full measure of interest from the Base Ball "fans," but there never has been a special series so filled with thrills and excitement as that between the New York and Boston clubs. The GUIDE this year enters into the subject thoroughly with photographs and a story of the games and feels that the readers will enjoy the account of the contests. Some innovations have been attempted in this number of the GUIDE which should interest Base Ball readers. Attention is called to the symposium by prominent Base Ball writers which brings up a subject of interest in regard to future world's series. There are other special articles, including something about the Base Ball writers of the South, who have decided to organize a chapter of their own. PROGRESS OF AMERICA'S NATIONAL GAME There is no doubt as to their intention to play Base Ball. They are making efforts to procure suitable players from the United States to coach them and the French promoters of the sport are determined that their young men shall be given every opportunity to take advantage of the game of which they have heard so much, and have seen so little. Dr. Eliot, former president of Harvard, who recently returned from a trip around the world, holds that Base Ball has done more to humanize and civilize the Chinese than any influence which has been introduced by foreigners, basing his statement on the fact that the introduction of the sport among the younger Chinese has exerted a tremendous restraint upon their gambling propensities. So it would appear that the introduction of the national game of the United States into China is likely to exert a humanizing influence which shall go further than legislation or sword, and if only the missionaries had grasped earlier the wishes and the tendency of the younger element of the Chinese population, the country might be further along than it is with its progressive movement. In connection with the widespread influence which Base Ball is having on both sides of the world, on the shores of the Pacific Ocean and on those of the Atlantic Ocean the editor would like to call attention to the theory which has been advanced by Mr. A.G. Spalding, the founder of the GUIDE, as to the efficacy of Base Ball for the purpose of training athletes, that has a worldwide application. "But there is food for thought in this uninterrupted succession of triumphs. Why do our athletes always win? All other things being equal, the contestants in the country holding the event should naturally come to the front. Their numbers are always greater than those from any other country and the home grounds influence is strong. However, that advantage has not in any case prevented American success. "Therefore there must be a cause. What is it? Measured by scale and tape, our athlete's are not so much superior as a class. The theory of 'more beef' must be discarded. We may not lay claim to having all the best trainers of the world. We must look to some other source for American prowess. "I may be a prejudiced judge, but I believe the whole secret of these continued successes is to be found to the kind of training that comes with the playing of America's national game, and our competitors in other lands may never hope to reach the standard of American athletes until they learn this lesson and adopt our pastime. WHAT A SEASON OF BASE BALL COSTS The receipts of Base Ball barely cover these expenditures. The alleged profits of Base Ball mostly are fanciful dreams of those who know nothing of the practical side of the sport and are stunned when they are made acquainted with the real financial problems which confront club owners. "You may go through it if you wish," said the owner, "but here is the balance for the last day of the year." "That's answer enough for me," said the writer. "I am through with any more essays on the affluence of Base Ball 'magnates.' I think it would be better to extend them the hand of charity than the mailed fist." THE NEW ORGANIZATION OF PLAYERS In the present instance those foremost in perfecting the organization have also been foremost in asserting that the players' organization's principal aim is to co-operate with the club owners. There is no organization, either of unscrupulous Base Ball players or unscrupulous club owners, which will ever find it possible to destroy organized Base Ball. The results that organized Base Ball have brought about will never be annihilated although grave injury could be temporarily wrought by a force defiant to tie unusual demands made by the sport to perpetuate itself successfully. Any ball player imbued with the idea that the "stars" should be grouped together in the city best able to pay the highest salaries simply is an enemy to his career and to those of his fellow players. Without some handicap to assist in the equalizing of the strength of Base Ball nines of the professional leagues there will be no prosperity for the leagues or the clubs individually. No better evidence may be cited to prove this than the fact, repeatedly demonstrated that in the smaller leagues Base Ball enthusiasts in the city best able to pay the largest salaries frequently withdraw their support of the team because "it wins all the time." It is true that improvements can be made. It is evident that there are still commercialized owners not over capitalized with a spirit of sport. It is undeniable that there are ball players not imbued with a high tone of the obligations, which they owe to their employers and to the public, but it is as certain as the existence of the game that progress has been made, and that it has not ceased to move forward. For that reason players and owners must be guided by a sense of lofty ideals and not be led astray by foolish outbursts over trivial differences of opinion, easily to be adjusted by the exercise of a little common sense. BASE BALL PLAYED IN SWEDEN In connection with the subject of "Base Ball For All the World," for which the GUIDE expounds and spreads the gospel, the Editor would submit a very interesting letter received by him from Sweden. it reads as follows: To the Editor of the GUIDE: The work of getting the book out has been somewhat slow on account of that the work of translating, proofreading, etc., all had to be done on our spare time, but it is done now, and I think we have succeeded pretty well, everything considered. The books will be distributed by a well-known book firm, Bjork & Boyeson, Stockholm, and will soon be available in all the bookstores in Sweden. We got some advance copies out just in time for the Olympic Games, and I had the pleasure of presenting some copies to Commissioner Col. Thompson, Manager Halpin and others of the American Olympic Committee. At our game here we distributed the "Description of Base Ball," written by you and translated into Swedish, and it came of good use. Next year we intend to have our teams appear in the nearby cities around here, so as to give people a chance to see the game, and it will not be long before they will start it in Stockholm, so I think the game is bound to be popular here also, Mr. George Wright, of Boston, was the umpire at the Stockholm games, and as he was very kind to us, we would like to send him the picture of the club, and hope that you will forward us his address. I am, for Westeras Base Ball Club, Electrical Engineer. THE NEW NATIONAL AGREEMENT The principal fact of congratulation lies in the safeguards and provisions which have been thrown around the players of the minor leagues and in the equitable and just measures which have been agreed upon to provide for their future. As a general rule it may be taken for granted that the players of the major leagues can take care of themselves. That is to say, their positions, if they are expert in their calling, and conscientious in their deportment, really take care of them. No club owner, unless he is maliciously or foolishly inclined, will jeopardize the interests of his team by acting in a wilfully unjust manner toward a player who is cheerfully and uprightly offering his services. We may hear of occasional exceptions to this condition of things, but if these occasional exceptions chance to arise, it is inevitably certain that the owner in the long run will suffer to a greater degree than the player with whom he deals unfairly. At no time in the history of the game, which is so dear to the hearts of the American people, has the general legislative and executive body been so well equipped by the adoption of pertinent and virile laws to insist upon justice to all concerned as at the present moment. The new National Agreement is an improvement upon the old and the old was a long, long step in advance of anything which had preceded it. The mere fact that club owners and leagues were so willing to adopt a system better than its predecessor wholly confutes the absurd assertions of the radical element that there is no consideration shown for the player. To the contrary, every consideration has been shown to the player, but the latter must not confound with the consideration shown to him the idea that his interests are the only interests at stake in Base Ball. The man who is willing to furnish the sinews of war has as good standing in court as the player who furnishes the base hits and the phenomenal catches. So perfect is the system which is being attempted to be set in force by the new National Agreement that the young man who now essays to play professional Base Ball may be assured of steady advancement in this profession and a generally improving condition if he will be as honest by his employer as he expects his employer to be honest by him. The graduated system of assisting players, step by step, from the least important leagues to the most important is the most perfect plan of its kind that has ever been devised. There may be flaws in it, but if there are they will be remedied, and if modifications are necessary to make it more perfect there is no doubt that such modifications will be agreed upon. A WORLD'S SERIES PROBLEM Much discussion arose after the finish of the last world's series as to whether the adjustment of dates had worked satisfactorily. The contention was that playing off a tie game on the ground where the game had been scheduled might work some inconvenience to "fans" and result in an inequitable allotment of dates, simply to conform to custom. It was asserted that the importance of the series demanded that it be a home-and-home affair, dates to alternate regularly, regardless of all ties or drawn games. To obtain opinion that is sound and practical the Editor of the GUIDE sent forth the following letter: It has seemed to some that it is unjust. It is also contended that it is unfair to the patrons of the game to schedule a contest and then not play in the city specified after some had traveled many miles to see it. Will you please give the GUIDE your opinion as to whether a change would be advisable? JOHN B. FOSTER, _Editor Spalding's Official Base Ball Guide._ Answers were received to the request for a "symposium of opinion" as follows: W.B. HANNA, _New York Sun._ OSCAR C. REICHOW, _Chicago Daily News._ "It is our opinion that a tie game was played and it should be considered as a game. Either side had an opportunity to win and any advantage that the home club might have had was lost when it failed to break the tie. "It is, therefore, our belief that this game should have been played in the other city. "As to it being unfair to the patrons who had traveled so far to see the scheduled contest, there is no doubt that they were afforded a sufficient amount of amusement and excitement for their trouble, in witnessing a closely played contest." J. G. T. SPINK, _St. Louis Sporting News._ JOHN E. WHEELER, _New York Herald._ "I think that the scheduled programme should be played through irrespective of the results of the respective games, and any extra playing or playing-off should be done after the originally set schedule is completed." "That same situation is not likely to again arise for a long time, and I believe the rule as it stands is a guarantee to the public of the strict honesty of the world's championship contests." DAMON RUNYON, _The New York American._ MALCOLM MACLEAN, _Base Ball Editor Chicago Evening Post._ "I think it might be fairer to both world's series contenders to play a regular schedule, regardless of the fact that any tie games may arise in the series. Under the old system of playing the tie off in the city where the tie game is played, it brings about a great deal of confusion. Many fans make arrangements to see a game on a certain day and are greatly disappointed when the game is played in a different city. Of course, the old rule of playing the play-off game on the same grounds as the tie game, is fair to both contesting clubs, as it is merely a matter of chance where a tie game is played." FRED. G. LIEB, _New York Press._ WILLIAM G. WEART, _The Evening Telegraph._ "It is not clear to me, however, just now these things can be remedied without disturbing the balance of an even break for both teams more violently than was the case last fall. "So it looks to me as if the patrons would have to take their chances in the future as they have in the past." JAMES C. O'LEABT, _Boston Globe._ "It seems to me that it would be better to alternate (in case of a tie), as a team able to tie its opponent on a hostile field would be entitled to consideration for this performance. I am very certain, however, that the players of both clubs in the recent world's series were satisfied with an arrangement which minimized the amount of traveling they were called upon to do. FRANCIS EATON, _Sports Editor Boston Journal._ "To me the feasible thing to do appears to be to insert a clause in stipulations covering all short series of a special character, such as intercity, inter-league and world's series, making it compulsory for the teams to alternate between the cities or grounds of the competing clubs." PURVES T. KNOX, _New York Evening Telegram._ R. W. LARDNER, _Chicago Examiner._ "A change in the rule governing the playing-off of tie games in the world's series should be made. The teams ought to appear in each city on the dates named in the schedule drawn up before the series starts, unless the weather interferes." WILLIAM H. WRIGHT, _New York Tribune._ L. E. SANBORN, _Chicago Tribune._ NEW FACES IN THE OLD LEAGUE The death of John T. Brush removed from Base Ball a dean of the National League. Wise in the lore of the game, a man more of the future than of the present, as he always foresaw that which some of his contemporaries were less alert in perceiving, it meant no easy task to be his successor. This digression has been made to call attention to the fact that while rumor was plentiful as to the future control of the Giants Mr. Brush was carefully "grooming" a young man--his son-in-law, Mr. H. Hempstead--to take his place. The Giants, as successful as they have been under the control of John T. Brush and John J. McGraw, the men who have been the executive heads in both the business and the playing departments of the game, are as susceptible to reverses as if they were the lowliest club in the organization. It is only by constant and severe application that the club's affairs may be kept at the best pitch. Mr. Hempstead brings to Base Ball the advantage of youth, a keen business sagacity developed beyond his years, coolness, a disposition that is sunny and not easily ruffled, and a reputation for unvarying fairness and the highest type of business and sport ideals. Quite a list of qualities, but they are there. If characteristics of that description fail to maintain the high standard of the New York club, then it will be due to the fact that our standards of business deportment have turned topsy-turvy. William H. Locke is the new president and part owner of the Philadelphia club. He and Mr. Hempstead are the "junior" presidents of the league. There is no necessity for the Editor of the GUIDE to enter into any long and fulsome praise as to William H. Locke. His career speaks for itself and he speaks for himself. A young man of the finest attributes, he has brought nothing to the mill of Base Ball to grind except that which was the finest and the cleanest grain. Perhaps no young man ever left a newspaper office to become a Base Ball president with more good wishes behind him than William H. Locke. He served his apprenticeship as secretary of the Pittsburgh club and he served it well. He is a high class, delightful young man, every inch of him, and Philadelphia will soon become as proud of him as Pittsburgh is now. Still another newspaper writer has been claimed from the desk by the National League. He is Herman Nickerson, formerly sporting editor of the Boston Journal, who is now the secretary of the Boston National League club. In the American League the death of Mr. Thomas D. Noyes, president of the Washington club, a young man who left behind naught but friends, left a vacancy in the organization which was filled by the selection of Mr. Benjamin S. Minor. The new president of the club has had practical experience in Base Ball and perhaps plenty of it, as almost everybody has had in Washington, but he is a wideawake, progressive and ambitious man, who is of just the type to keep Base Ball going, now that it has struck its gait in the national capital, and the future of the sport looks all the brighter for his connection with it. It is true that some men make better umpires than others, exactly as some men make better ball players than others, but it is also true that if the men who find it the hardest task to become the most expert umpires would be given a little more encouragement they might be a little more successful. There was less tendency on the part of the umpires to render their decisions without being in a position to follow the play correctly. They were occasionally willing to concede that they might have been wrong when an analysis of the play was brought to their attention and they were firm in asserting discipline without becoming overheated on their own account. Young umpires, in their haste to "make good" in the major leagues, are apt to overdo rather than fail to be on time. While it is not a pleasant subject to discuss, it is a fact that some umpires had been accustomed to use the very language to players on the field that they were presumed in their official capacity as umpires to correct. The writer knows of instances where this took place. It is contended that the position of the umpire has been rendered more arduous by reason of the world's series. The argument is advanced that the players are more intractable, by reason of their eagerness to play in the post-season games. That argument would be stronger were it not for the fact that some of the worst disturbances emanate from the players of the clubs that have no chance to play in the world's series. There are players who make honest objection on the excitement of the moment from sheer desire to win, but their lapses from Base Ball etiquette are so few and far between that their transgressions usually may be forgiven with some grace. BASE BALL WRITERS OF THE SOUTH While the Base Ball writers of the cities which comprise the Southern Association have no organized membership similar to the Base Ball Writers' Association of the major leagues and the organizations which are best known as the class AA leagues, they are a clever, hard-working group of young men, who have labored in season and out of season, not only to build up Base Ball but to build it up on the right lines. It is a high class sport in the main, managed by high class, men for high class purposes. Very likely to their zeal, their courage, their tact and their ability it is possible to ascribe the increase in good ball players which is making itself manifest in the South. More high class and attractive athletes are coming from the Southern states in these days than ever was the case before. Base Ball is very glad to have them. When a representative major league team is made up of players who represent every section in the Union, engaged for their skill, it seems as if Base Ball has become nearer an ideal and a national pastime than ever before in the history of the sport. To the Southern writers the members of the Base Ball Writers Association and those of the organizations patterned on like lines send greeting. BASE BALL WORTH WHILE? It is Dr. Reisner's custom each year to preach a sermon to the Base Ball players and their friends in his church in New York, and the building always is filled to listen to his discourse. In view of the interest which he takes in the national game and because of his excellent knowledge as to the general details of the sport, the Editor of the GUIDE asked him to say a few words to the ball players of the United States through the medium of this publication, and he has graciously consented to do so in the following pithy and straightforward talks: BY THE REV. CHRISTIAN F. REISNER, NEW YORK. The Bible is the Spalding book of rules for the game of life. James B. Sullivan, beloved by all athletes, gave me these rules for athletes: "Don't drink, use tobacco or dissipate. Go to bed early and eat wholesome food!" The boozer gets out of the game as certainly as the bonehead. Mathewson belongs to the high type now being generally duplicated. He is a modern masculine Christian. Base Ball demands brains as well as brawn. Minds muddled by licentiousness and liquor are too "leady" for leaders. Hotheadedness topples capable players. I am proud to style scores of Base Ball players, I know, as gentlemen. They are optimists. Defect is unrecognized. Team work makes them brotherly. Bickerings break a Baseballist. Every member of the team gives himself wholly to the game. Jeers are as harmless as cheers. It taught him how to knock the Devil out of the box. Base Ball is invaluable to America. It thrills and so rests tired nerves. It brings the "shut-in" man into God's healing out-o'-doors. While yelling he swallows great draughts of lung-expanding, purifying air and forgets the fear of "taking cold." Base Ball absolutely pulls the brain away from business. It emphasizes the value of decency and gives healthy and high toned recreation to millions. If kept clean its good-doing cannot be measured. Nothing is worth while that does not do that. THE SPALDING BASE BALL HALL OF FAME (From Spalding's Official Base Ball Record.) New faces enter into the Spalding Base Ball "Hall of Fame" this year. The object of this "Hall of Fame" is not necessarily to portray the very top men of each department of the national game, for it frequently happens in these days, when players take part in only a few innings now and then, that they become entitled to mention in the records, although they do not bear the real brunt of the work. In the "Hall of Fame" will be found the men who might well be termed the "regulars." Day in and day out they were on the diamond, or ready to take their place on the diamond, if they were not injured. For the position of leading outfielder, all things considered, Carey of Pittsburgh is selected for the "Hall of Fame." Not only did he play in the greatest number of games of any outfielder, but his general work in the outfield was sensational. In the outfield, for all around work, the place of honor goes to Amos Strunk, the young player of the Philadelphia club. He was in center field and in left field, and he was a busy young man for most of the year. The man who caught him seems entitled to be considered the leading catcher. He is Cady of Boston, although for hard work Carrigan, also of Boston, gives him a close race. Lewis of Boston is the leading batter of sacrifice hits. Collins of Philadelphia was the best run getter. Last, but by no means least, of all, Milan, the clever outfielder of Washington, is the best base stealer of the year, and better than all the rest, earns his distinction in joining the "Hall of Fame" by establishing a new record of stolen bases. JOHN TOMLINSON BRUSH Mr. Brush's career in Base Ball, a sport to which he was devotedly attached, and for which he had the highest ideals and aims, began with the Indianapolis club of the National League. An opportunity presented itself by which it was possible to procure for the city of Indianapolis a franchise in the National League. Mr. Brush was quick to perceive the advantages which this might have in an advertising way for the city with which he had cast his lot and subscribed to the stock. Like many such adventures in the early history of the sport there came a time when the cares and the duties of the club had to be assumed by a single individual and it was then that he became actively identified as a managing owner, as the duty of caring for the club fell upon his shoulders. From that date, until the date of his death, he was actively interested in every detail relating to Base Ball which might pertain to the advancement of the sport, and his principal effort in his future participation in the game was to see that it advanced on the lines of the strictest integrity and in such a manner that its foundation should be laid in the rock of permanent success. Naturally this was bound to bring him into conflict with some who looked upon Base Ball as an idle pastime, in which only the present moment was to be consulted. The earliest environment of Base Ball was not wholly of a substantial nature. It was a game, intrinsically good of itself, in which the hazards had always been against the weak. There was not that consideration of equity which would have been for its best interests, but this was not entirely the fault of the separate members of the Base Ball body, but the result of conditions, in which those whose thought was only for the moment, overshadowed the best interests of the pastime. There was an inequity in regulations governing the sport by which the clubs in the smaller cities were forced, against the will of their owners, to be the weaker organizations, and possibly this was less due to a desire upon the more fortunate and larger clubs to maintain such a state of affairs, than to the fact that the organization generally had expanded upon lines with little regard to the future. This attitude of the players resulted at length in the formation of a body known as the Brotherhood. To offset not the Brotherhood, but the cause which led to its formation, Mr. Brush devised the famous classification plan. Imperfectly understood in what it intended to do for the players, it was seized upon as a reason for the revolt of the players and the organization of the Brotherhood League. At heart it was the idea of Mr. Brush so to equalize salaries that the players of all clubs should be reimbursed in an equitable manner. As always had been the case, and probably always is likely to be, the players who received the larger salaries were in no mood to share with their weaker brothers any excess margin of pay which they thought that they had justly earned, and it was not a difficult matter for them to obtain the consent of players who might really have benefited by the plan to co-operate with them on the basis of comradeship. The motives of Mr. Brush were thoroughly misconstrued by some, and, if grasped by others, they were disregarded, because they conflicted with their immediate temporary prosperity. The Brotherhood League came into existence and rivaled the National League. The players of the National League and the American Association deserted to join the Brotherhood League, upon a platform that promised Utopia in Base Ball. Unquestionably it was the idea of the general Brotherhood organization that the National League would abandon the fight and succumb, but the National League owners were built of sterner stuff. Meanwhile, Base Ball had received a setback greater than any which had befallen the sport in an organized sense from a professional standpoint. The Brotherhood League was a pronounced and emphatic failure. This is not the verdict of personal opinion, but a record which is indelibly impressed upon Base Ball history. It was the theory of the Brotherhood League that it, in part, should be governed by representative players, but the players would not be governed by players. Discipline relaxed, teams did pretty much as they pleased, and the public remained away from the games. It may be added with truth that the National League games were not much better patronized, but that was due to the prevalent apathy in Base Ball affairs throughout the United States. When the Brotherhood League was formed and withdrew so many players from the National League the latter organization undertook to strengthen itself where it could and when Brooklyn and Cincinnati applied for membership in the circuit both were admitted. The New York National League club had lost many of its players and, upon the substitution of Cincinnati for Indianapolis in the National League circuit, procured from Mr. Brush many players of note, among them Rusie, Glasscock, Buckley, Bassett and Denny. Relative to the withdrawal of Indianapolis from the circuit it may be said that Mr. Brush flatly refused to give up his club, asserting stoutly that he was perfectly able to continue the fight, but when he felt that the exigencies of the occasion demanded that Cincinnati become a member, he agreed to give up the franchise, providing that he be permitted to retain his membership in the National League, and transfer such of his players as New York desired to the latter city. It has been alleged that he demanded an exorbitant price from New York for the transfer of the players. This is untrue. He asked the price of his franchise, the value of his players, and the worth of giving up a Base Ball year in a city in which there was to be no conflicting club and, as he had expressed full confidence in his ability to make a winning fight for the National League, it was agreed that his rights to be considered could not be overlooked. To retain his National League membership he accepted stock in the New York club. A.G. Spalding, John T. Brush, Frank De Hass Robison, Charles H. Byrne and A.H. Soden were prominent members of the National League to bringing this result about. Of these, Mr. Spalding and Mr. Soden survive, but have retired from active participation in Base Ball affairs. But the method was better, for the instruments of this readjustment of conditions were the owners and not the players. Briefly, it was the following: But the principal consideration and the result accomplished in this consolidation of leagues was that all gate receipts should be divided, share and share alike, so far as general admissions were concerned. That was the greatest and most far-reaching achievement in the history of Base Ball. Prior to that time the principle of a fixed guarantee for each game played had given each home club a stupendous bulk of the sums paid by the public toward the maintenance of the sport. The inevitable outcome of such an arrangement was that the clubs in the larger cities completely overshadowed the clubs in the smaller cities. The teams in the cities of less population were expected to try to place rival organizations on the field that would equal in playing strength those of New York, Boston and Chicago, but they were unable to do so unless their owners were willing to go on year after year with large deficits staring them in the face. More than that, and which to the ball player is most important of all, it "jumped" the salaries of the players in the smaller clubs until they were on equal terms with their fellow players in the larger clubs, so that Mr. Brush helped to accomplish by this plan the very aim which he had at heart when he proposed the classification plan--a just, impartial and equal reimbursement to every player in the game, so far as the finances of each club would permit--and without that bane to all players, a salary limit. Having brought forth this new condition in Base Ball, which was so just that its results almost immediately began to make themselves manifest, the owner of the Cincinnati club devoted his time and his energies to the endeavor to place a championship club in Cincinnati. He never was successful in that purpose, although his ill fortune was no greater than that of his predecessors. The time came that Mr. Brush learned that the New York Base Ball Club could be purchased. He obtained the stock necessary to make him owner of the New York organization from Mr. Andrew Freedman, but before he did so another Base Ball war had begun between the National League and the American League, a disagreement starting from the simplest of causes, but which, like many another such disagreement, resulted in the most damaging of conditions to the prosperity of the pastime. As had been the case in the prior war brought about by the organization of the Brotherhood League, Mr. Brush fought staunchly for his rights. Prominent National League players were taken by the American League clubs, and this brought retaliation. At length the National League opened negotiations to obtain certain American League players and succeeded in doing so. Among these were the manager of the Baltimore club, John J. McGraw, who felt that he was acting perfectly within his rights in joining the New York National League club. Directly upon his acceptance of the management of the New York club Mr. Brush became its owner and the era of prosperity was inaugurated in New York, which was soon enjoyed by every club throughout the United States. The rules for these world's series were formulated and adopted upon the suggestion and by the advice of Mr. Brush and since a regular world's series season has been a feature of Base Ball the national game has progressed with even greater strides than was the case in the past. At a meeting of the National League the following resolutions were adopted: _Whereas_, The death of Mr. John T. Brush, president of the New York National League Base Ball Club, comes as a sad blow to organized professional Base Ball and particularly to us, his associates in the National League. As the dean of organized professional Base Ball, his wise counsel, his unerring judgment, his fighting qualities and withal his eminent fairness and integrity in all matters pertaining to the welfare of the national game will be surely missed. He was a citizen of sterling worth, of high moral standards and of correct business principles, and his death is not only a grievous loss to us, but to the community at large as well. Be it, therefore, _Resolved_, That the members of the National League of Professional Base Ball Clubs, in session to-day, express their profound grief at the loss of their friend, associate and counsellor and extend to the members of his bereaved family their sincere sympathy in the great loss which they have sustained by his death. Be it further _Resolved_, That a copy of these resolutions be spread on the records of the league. In connection with the death of Mr. Brush, Ben Johnson, president of the American League, said: "Mr. Brush was a power in Base Ball. He will be missed as much in the American League as in the National League." The Grand Army of the Republic, the Indianapolis Commercial Club and a number of local and out-of-town clubs and social organizations of which Mr. Brush was a member also were represented. "He went through the Civil War so quietly that the fact was unknown to some of his most intimate friends. He was mustered out with honor and entered the business world in Indianapolis. His labors here put him at the forefront for sagacity, squareness, honorable treatment and generosity. "His love of sport made him a patron of the national game. In a perfectly natural way, he went from manager of the local team to proprietor of the New York Giants. He was a Bismarck in plan and a Napoleon in execution. His aim was pre-eminence and he won place by the consent of all. The recent spectacular outpouring of people and colossal financial exhibit in the struggle for the pennant between New York and Boston were but the legitimate outcome of his marvelous skill. "He was an early member of the Masonic fraternity. He took his Blue Lodge degree in his native town and to demonstrate his attachment he never removed his membership. Where he had been raised to the sublime degree of a master there he wished to keep his affiliation always. "The conspicuous feature of his life was its indomitable purpose." Viewed from the very strict standpoint that all Base Ball games should be played without mistake or blunder this world's series may be said to have been inartistic, but it is only the hypercritical theorist who would take such a cold-blooded view of the series. From the lofty perch of the "bleacherite" it was a series crammed with thrills and gulps, cheers and gasps, pity and hysteria, dejection and wild exultation, recrimination and adoration, excuse and condemnation, and therefore it was what may cheerfully be called "ripping good" Base Ball. There were plays on the field which simply lifted the spectators out of their seats in frenzy. There were others which caused them to wish to sink through the hard floor of the stand in humiliation. There were stops in which fielders seemed to stretch like india rubber and others in which they shriveled like parchment which has been dried. There were catches of fly balls which were superhuman and muffs of fly balls which were "superawful." There were beautiful long hits, which threatened to change the outcome of games and some of them did. There were opportunities for other beautiful long hits which were not made. Such sudden and complete reversal on the part of the mental demeanor of spectators was never before seen on a ball field in a world's series. The Boston enthusiasts had given up and were willing to concede the championship to New York. In the twinkling of an eye there was a muffed fly, a wonderful catch by the same player who muffed the ball--Snodgrass--a base on balls to Yerkes, a missed chance to retire Speaker easily on a foul fly, then a base hit by Speaker to right field, on which Engel scored, another base on balls to Lewis and then the long sacrifice fly to right field by Gardner, which sent Yerkes over the plate with the winning run. Before entering upon a description of the games it is appropriate to say that the umpiring in this series was as near perfection as it could be. It was by far the best of any since the series had been inaugurated. The umpires were William Klem and Charles Rigler of the National League and Frank O'Loughlin and William Evans of the American League. In this contest the Giants ran bases with such daring that they had the Boston players confused and uncertain. Cady did not know whether to throw the ball or hold it, and the general exhibition of speed on the bases which was made by New York was characteristic of the team's dash in the race for the championship of the National League, and a system which the Boston players could not fathom. The scores of the games are as follows: THE COMPOSITE SCORE. Umpires--Evans and O'Loughlin, of the American League; Klem and Rigler, of the National League. Official scorers--Francis C. Richter of Philadelphia, and J. Taylor Spink of St. Louis, all games. Weather--Clear and cool. INDIVIDUAL BATTING AVERAGES. INDIVIDUAL BOSTON BATTING. INDIVIDUAL NEW YORK BATTING. INDIVIDUAL FIELDING AVERAGES. THE PITCHERS' RECORDS. G. W. L. T. TO. PC. H. BB. HB. SO. IP. AB. While there were some who were quite sanguine before the beginning of the season that the Giants would win the championship, there were others who were convinced that they would have a hard time to hold their title, and after the season was over both factions were fairly well satisfied with their preliminary forecast. In the opinion of the writer this new method, which has been put into usage by Secretary Heydler, is far superior to anything which has been offered in years as a valuable record of the actual work of pitchers. It holds the pitcher responsible for every run which is made from his delivery. It does not hold him responsible for any runs which may have been made after the opportunity has been offered to retire the side, nor does it hold him responsible for runs which are the result of the fielding errors of his fellow players. On the other hand, if he gives bases on balls, if he is batted for base hits, if he makes balks, and if he makes wild pitches, he must stand for his blunders and have all such runs charged against him as earned runs. Fired with the knowledge that they were at the turning point in the race the New York players battled desperately with their rivals on Pittsburgh's home field and won. Even the Pittsburgh players were filled with admiration for the foe whom they had met, and while they were not in the mood to accept defeat with equanimity, they did accept it graciously and congratulated the victors as they left Pittsburgh after playing the last game of the season which had been scheduled between them on Forbes Field. Chicago managed to hold its own fairly well against the New York team. Indeed, the Cubs beat the New Yorks on the series for the season, but there were other clubs, Pittsburgh, St. Louis and Cincinnati, which won from Chicago when victories were most needed by the Cubs, and their hope to capture the pennant deserted them as they were making their last trip through the east. To the other managers, who had been watching the work of the Cincinnatis it was apparent that sooner or later the break would have to come for the reason that, as the season progressed, better pitching would have to be faced by the Cincinnati club, while it was doubtful whether the Cincinnati pitchers could do any better than they were doing. The manager seemed to have known this, for when the break did come and the Reds began to totter, he said in reference to their downfall that no team could be expected to win with only ordinary pitching to assist it. In this manner Cincinnati played through the middle of the season always just a little behind most of its opponents. As the latter days of the year began to dawn the Reds began to improve and not the least of which was in the better work of the pitchers. Misfortune and ill luck always attaches itself in a minor degree to every team which engages in a championship contest, but most assuredly Philadelphia had more of its share of reverses through accidents to players and illness than any team of the National League. Yet the Philadelphias were courageous players from whom little complaint was heard. They took their misfortunes with what grace they could and played ball with what success they could achieve, whether they had their best team in the field or their poorest. Perhaps, if the St. Louis team had been a little stronger to batting it would have rated higher among the organization of the National League. Several games were lost which would have been taken into camp by a better display at bat. In fielding the team was much stronger and the success of the infield, combined with some excellent outfield work now and then, frequently held the team up in close battles, but when the pitchers faltered on the path the fielders were not able to bear the force of the attack. When the team began the season at Washington Park a tremendous crowd filled the stands. Long before it was time for the game to begin the spectators became unruly and swarmed over the field. It was impossible for the ground police to do anything with the excited enthusiasts and at last the city police were asked to assist. They tried to clear the field, but only succeeded in driving the crowd from the infield. Spectators were so thick in the outfield that they crowded upon the bases and prevented the players from doing their best. For that matter the outfielders could not do much of anything. This unfortunate beginning appeared to depress the Brooklyn team. The players recovered slightly, but had barely got into their stride again when accidents to the men began to happen. Some of them became ill, and the manager was put to his wits end to get a team on the field which should make a good showing. The semi-monthly standing of the race by percentages follows: STANDING OF CLUBS AT CLOSE OF SEASON. BY IRVING E. SANBORN, CHICAGO. The prompt and unyielding stand taken by President Johnson against the action of the Detroit players and the diplomatic efforts of President Navin of that club averted serious or extended trouble and undoubtedly furnished a warning against any similar act in the near future. Another, excellent result was the effort made by club owners to prevent the abuse of the right of free speech by that small element of the game's patronage which finds its greatest joy in abusing the players, secure in the knowledge that it is practically protected from personal injury in retaliation. The semi-monthly standing of the race by percentages follows: STANDING OF CLUBS AT CLOSE OF SEASON STANDING OF CLUBS AT CLOSE OF SEASON. N.Y. Pitts.Chi. Cin. Phil.St.L. Bkln. Bos. Won. PC. CHAMPIONSHIP WINNERS IN PREVIOUS YEARS.	redpajama-book	11,142
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. THE HUNT BALL MYSTERY BY SIR WILLIAM MAGNAY, Bt. Author of "A Prince of Lovers," "The Mystery of the Unicorn," etc., etc. II THE STAINED FLOWERS III THE STREAK ON THE CUFF IV THE MISSING GUEST VI THE MYSTERY OF CLEMENT HENSHAW VII THE INCREDULITY OF GERVASE HENSHAW VIII KELSON'S PERPLEXITY IX THE CLOAK OF NIGHT X AN ALARMING DISCOVERY XI GIFFORD'S COMMISSION XII HAD HENSHAW A CLUE? XIII WHAT GIFFORD SAW IN THE WOOD XIV GIFFORD'S PERPLEXITY XV ANOTHER DISCOVERY XVII WHAT A GIRL SAW XVIII THE LOST BROOCH XIX IN THE CHURCHYARD XX AN INVOLUNTARY EAVESDROPPER XXI GIFFORD CONTINUES HIS STORY XXII HOW GIFFORD ESCAPED XXIII EDITH MORRISTON'S STORY XXIV HOW THE STORY ENDED XXVII GIFFORD'S REWARD "I'm afraid it must have gone on in the van, sir." "Gone on!" Hugh Gifford exclaimed angrily. "But you had no business to send the train on till all the luggage was put out." "The very thing I wanted most," the owner returned. "I say, Kelson," he went on, addressing a tall, soldierly man who strolled up, "a nice thing has happened; the train has gone off with my evening clothes." Kelson whistled. "Are you sure?" "Quite." Gifford appealed to the porter, who regretfully confirmed the statement. "That's awkward to-night," Kelson commented with a short laugh of annoyance. "Look here, we'd better interview the station-master, and have your case wired for to the next stop. I am sorry, old fellow, I kept you talking instead of letting you look after your rattle-traps, but I was so glad to see you again after all this long time." "Thanks, my dear Harry, you've nothing to blame yourself about. It was my own fault being so casual. The nuisance is that if I don't get the suit-case back in time I shan't be able to go with you to-night." "No," his friend responded; "that would be a blow. And it's going to be a ripping dance. Dick Morriston, who hunts the hounds, is doing the thing top-hole. Now let's see what the worthy and obliging Prior can do for us." "There is a gentleman here going to the _Lion_" he said with a rather embarrassed air; "I told him your fly was engaged, sir; but he said perhaps you would let him share it with you." Kelson looked black. "I like the way some people have of taking things for granted. Cheek, I call it. He had better wait or walk." "The gentleman said he was in a hurry, sir," the porter observed apologetically. "No reason why he should squash us up in the fly," Kelson returned. "I'll have a word with the gentleman. Where is he?" "I think he is in the fly, sir." "The devil he is! We'll have him out, Hugh. Infernally cool." And he strode off towards the waiting fly. "Better see what sort of chap he is before you go for him, Harry," Gifford said deprecatingly as he followed. He knew his masterful friend's quick temper, and anticipated a row. "If you don't mind, this is my fly, sir," Kelson was saying as Gifford reached him. "The porter told me it was the _Golden Lion_ conveyance," a strong, deeply modulated voice replied from the fly. "And I think he told you it was engaged," Kelson rejoined bluffly. Kelson was beginning angrily when Gifford intervened pacifically. "It is all right, Harry. We can squeeze in. The fellow seems more or less a gentleman; don't let's be churlish," he added in an undertone. "But it is infernal impudence," Kelson protested. "Yes; but we don't want a row. It is not as though there was another conveyance he could take." "All right. I suppose we shall have to put up with the brute," Kelson assented grudgingly. "But I hate being bounced like this." "I'll take the front seat, if you like," the stranger said, without, however, showing much inclination to move. With no very amiable face Kelson got in and took the vacant seat by the stranger. His attitude was not conducive to geniality, and so for a while there was silence. At length as they turned from the station approach on to the main road the stranger spoke. His deep-toned voice had a musical ring in it, yet somehow to Gifford's way of thinking it was detestable. Perhaps it was the speaker's rather aggressive and, to a man, objectionable personality, which made it seem so. "I am sorry to inconvenience you," he said, more with an air of saying the right thing than from any real touch of regret. "On an occasion like this they ought to provide more conveyances. But country towns are hopeless." "Oh, it is all right," Gifford responded politely. "The drive is not very long." "I presume you gentlemen are going to the Hunt Ball?" he asked. "Yes," Gifford answered. "Rather a new departure having it in a private house," the man said. "Quite a sound idea, I have no doubt Morriston will do us as well--much better than we should fare at the local hotel or Assembly Rooms." "No reason at all," Kelson answered, except that I don't remember to have seen you out with the Cumberbatch." "I dare say not," the other rejoined easily. "It is some years since I hunted with them. I'm living down in the south now, and when I'm at home usually turn out with the Bavistock. Quite a decent little pack, _faute de mieux_; and Bobby Amphlett, who hunts them, is a great pal of mine." "I see," Kelson observed guardedly. "Yes, I believe they are quite good as far as they go." "No doubt," Kelson responded dryly. "As you have been good enough to ask me to share your fly," the man observed, with a rather aggressive touch of irony, "I may as well let you know who I am. My name is Henshaw, Clement Henshaw." "Any relation to Gervase Henshaw?" Gifford asked. "He is my brother. You know him?" "Only by reputation at my profession, the Bar. And I came across a book of his the other day." "Ah, yes. Gervase scribbles when he has time. He is by way of being an authority on criminology." "And is, I should say," Gifford added civilly. "Yes; he is a smart fellow. Has the brains of the family. I'm all for sport and the open-air life." "And yet," thought Gifford, glancing at the dark, rather intriguing face opposite to him, "you don't look a sportsman. More a _viveur_ than a regular open-air man, more at home in London or Paris than in the stubbles or covert." But he merely nodded acceptance of Henshaw's statement. "My name is Kelson," the soldier said, supplying an omission due to Henshaw's talk of himself. "I have hunted this country pretty regularly since I left the Service. And my friend is Hugh Gifford." "Gifford? Did not Wynford Place where we are going to-night belong to the Giffords?" Henshaw asked, curiosity overcoming tact. "Yes," Gifford answered, "to an uncle of mine. He sold it lately to Morriston." "Ah; a pity. Fine old place," Henshaw observed casually. "Naturally you know it well." "No doubt a very convenient plan," Gifford replied dryly. "All the same, if I can retrieve my evening kit, which has gone astray, I hope to enjoy myself at Wynford Place to-night without being troubled with undue sentimentality." "What do you think of our acquaintance?" Gifford said as they settled down in the private room of Kelson, who made the _Golden Lion_ his hunting quarters. "Not much. In fact, I took a particular dislike to the fellow. Wrong type of sportsman, eh?" "Decidedly. Fine figure of a man and good-looking enough, but spoilt by that objectionable, cock-sure manner." "And I should say a by no means decent character." "A swanker to the finger-tips. And that implies a liar." "Good. Then we shan't be under the ungracious necessity of shaking him off. I can't tell you how sick I am, Harry, at the loss of my things." "No more than I am, my dear fellow. If only a suit of mine would fit you. But that's hopeless." "We'll hope they'll arrive in time for you to see something of the fun at any rate," Kelson said. "I'm in no hurry; I'll wait with you." "I don't like it, Hugh." So it was arranged that Captain Kelson should go on alone and his guest should follow as soon as his clothes turned up and he could change into them. That settled, they sat down to dinner. "Tell me about the Morristons, Harry," Gifford said. "He is a very good fellow, isn't he?" "Yes, I know. What is the sister like?" "A fine, handsome girl," Kelson answered, without enthusiasm. "Rather too cold and statuesque for my taste, although I have heard she has a bit of the devil in her. Quite a sportswoman, and as good after hounds as her brother. They say she had a thin time of it with her step-mother, and has come out wonderfully since the old lady died. Lord Painswick, who lives near here, is supposed to be very sweet on her. Perhaps the affair will develop to-night. The ball will be rather a toney affair." "Morriston has plenty of money?" "Heaps. And the sister is an heiress too. The old man did not nearly live up to his income and there were big accumulations." "Which enabled the son to buy our property," Gifford said with a tinge of bitterness. "Well, it might have been worse. Wynford has not passed into the hands of some Jew millionaire or City speculator, but has gone to a gentleman, a good fellow and a sportsman, eh?" "Yes; Dick Morriston is all that. As the place had to go, you could not have found a better man to succeed your people." When the time came to start for the ball Gifford went down to see his friend off and to repeat his orders concerning the immediate delivery of his suit-case when it should arrive. Henshaw was in the hall, bulking big in a fur coat and complaining in a masterful tone of the unpunctuality of his fly. A handsome fellow, Gifford was constrained to acknowledge, and of a strong, positive character; the type of man, he thought, who could be very fascinating to women--and very brutal. "Oh, I shall come on when my things arrive, which ought to be soon," Gifford responded coldly, disliking the man and his rather obvious insincerity. "We might have driven over together," Henshaw said, addressing Kelson. "But I hardly cared to propose it after the line you took at the station." There was an unpleasant curl of the lip as he spoke the words almost vindictively, as though with intent to put Kelson in the wrong. But his sneer had no effect on the ex-Cavalryman. "I am driving over in my own trap," he replied coolly, ignoring the other's intent. "You will be a good deal more comfortable in a closed carriage." Kelson nodded with a grim appreciation of the man's trick of argument, and went out to his waiting dog-cart. Henshaw's fly drove up as Gifford turned back from the door. "I suppose we shall see you towards midnight," he said lightly as he passed Gifford, his tone clearly suggesting his utter indifference in the matter. Accordingly he filled a pipe, put on a thick overcoat and a golf cap and went out, leaving word of his return within the hour. "Shall you be going to Wynford Place, sir?" the landlord inquired as he glanced at the clock. "I'm afraid you must look upon me rather in the light of an intruder here," Morriston said pleasantly. "It is very kind of you to say so," his host rejoined. "Anyhow the least I can do is to ask you with all sincerity to make yourself free of the place while you are in the neighbourhood. Edith," he called to a tall, handsome girl who was just passing on a man's arm, "this is Mr. Gifford, who knows Wynford much better than we do." Miss Morriston left her partner and held out her hand. "We were so sorry to hear of your annoying experience," she said. "These railway people are too stupid. I am so glad you retrieved your luggage in time to come on to us." Gifford was looking at her with some curiosity during her speech, and quickly came to the conclusion that Kelson's description of her had certainly not erred on the side of exaggeration. She looked divinely handsome in her ball-dress of a darkish shade of blue, relieved by a bunch of roses in her corsage and a single diamond brooch. Statuesque, too statuesque, Kelson had called her; certainly her manner and bearing had a certain cold stateliness, but Gifford had penetration enough to see that behind the reserve and the society tone of her welcome there might easily be a depth of feeling which his friend with a lesser knowledge of human nature never suspected. An interesting girl, decidedly, Gifford concluded as he made a suitable acknowledgment of her greeting, and, I fancy, my friend Harry takes a rather too superficial view of her character, he thought, as strolling off in search of Kelson, he found himself watching his hostess from across the room with more than ordinary interest. He soon encountered Kelson coming out of a gaily decorated passage which he knew led to the old tower. He had a pretty girl on his arm, tall and fair, but with none of Miss Morriston's dignified coldness. This girl had a sunny, laughing face, and Gifford thought he understood why his friend had not been enthusiastic over the probable Lady Painswick. Kelson, receiving him with delight, introduced him, with an air of proprietorship it seemed, to his companion, Miss Tredworth. "Have you been exploring the old tower?" Gifford asked. "We've been sitting out there," Kelson answered with a laugh. "They have converted the lower rooms into quite snug retreats." "In my uncle's day they were anything but snug," Gifford observed. "I remember we used to play hide-and-seek up there." He spoke with preoccupation, his eyes fixed on a bunch of white flowers which the girl wore on her black dress. They were slightly blotched and sprinkled with a dark colour in a way which was certainly not natural, and Gifford, held by the peculiar sight, looked in wonder from the flowers to the girl's face. "You must give Gifford a dance," Kelson said, breaking up the rather awkward pause. "I'm afraid my card is full," Miss Tredworth said, holding it up. But Gifford protested. "Indeed I won't rob you, Harry," he declared. "I'm tired, and should be a stupid partner." "Tired?" Kelson remonstrated. "Why, you have been resting at the _Lion_ waiting for your things while we have been dancing our hardest." "Resting? No; I went out for a walk," Gifford replied. "The deuce you did! Where did you go to?" "Oh, nowhere particular," Gifford answered rather evasively. "Just about the town." THE STREAK ON THE CUFF Hugh Gifford did not stay very long at the dance. He took a mouthful of supper, and then told Kelson that he had a headache and was going to walk back to the _Golden Lion_. Kelson was distressed. "My dear fellow, coming so late and going so early, it's too bad. This is the best time of the night. I hope the old place with its memories hasn't distressed you." "Oh, no," was the answer. "But something has upset me. I'll get back and turn in. By the way, I don't see that man Henshaw." "More or less. Well, if you will go, old fellow, do make yourself comfortable at the _Lion_ and call for anything you fancy. I'm dancing this waltz." Gifford left the dance and went back to the hotel. He seemed perplexed and worried, so much so that for some time he paced his room restlessly and then, instead of turning in, he went back to the sitting-room, lighted a pipe, and settled himself there to await his friend's return. "Why, Hugh!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Still up?" "I didn't feel like sleeping," Gifford answered, "and if I'm to keep awake I'd rather stay up." Kelson looked at him curiously. "I hope the visit to your old home hasn't been too much for you," he remarked with the limited sympathy of a strong man whose nerves are not easily affected. "Oh, no," Gifford assured him. "Although somehow I did feel rather out of it. I have had rather a teasing day, but I shall be all right in the morning, and am looking forward to a run round the scenes of my childhood." "Good," Kelson responded, relieved to think his friend's visit was not after all going to be as dismal as he had begun to fear. "Well, Hugh," he added gaily. "I have a piece of news for you." "Not that you are engaged?" Something, an almost apprehensive touch, in Gifford's tone rather took his friend aback. "To Miss--the girl you were dancing with?" Again Gifford's tone gave a check to Kelson's enthusiasm. It was with a more serious face that he replied, "Muriel Tredworth, the best girl in England. I hope, my dear Hugh, you are not going to say you don't think so." "Certainly not," Gifford answered promptly. "I never saw or heard of her before to-night." "Heaven forbid!" Gifford ejaculated fervently. "You don't congratulate me," his friend returned with a touch of suspicion. Gifford forced a laugh. "My dear Harry, you have taken my breath away. You deserve the best wife in the kingdom, and I sincerely hope you have got her," he said, not very convincingly. Gifford glanced at the worried face of the big, simple-minded sportsman, more or less a child in his knowledge of the subtleties of human nature, and as he did so his heart smote him. "We are, and I hope we always shall be," he declared, grasping his hand. "You are making too much of my unfortunate manner to-night, and I'm sorry. With all my heart I congratulate you, and wish you every blessing and all happiness." There was an unmistakable ring of sincerity in his speech now, and, without going aside to question its motive, as a more penetrating mind might have done, Kelson accepted his friend's congratulations without question. "Thanks, old fellow," he responded, brightening as he returned the grasp of Gifford's hand. "I was sure of your good wishes. You need not fear I have made a mistake. Muriel is a thorough good sort, and we shall suit each other down to the ground. We've every chance of happiness." Before Gifford could reply there came a knock at the door. The landlord entered. "Beg your pardon, captain," he said, "I'm sorry to trouble you, but could you tell me whether they are keeping up the Hunt Ball very late?" Mr. Dipper's face assumed a perplexed expression. "Thank you, captain," he said. "My reason for asking the question is that Mr. Henshaw, who has a room here, has not come in." "Not come in?" Kelson repeated. "Too bad to keep you up, Mr. Dipper." Gifford shrugged. "Unless he has come across friends and gone off with them." "He couldn't well do that without calling here for his things," Kelson objected. "I suppose he did not do that, unknown to you?" he asked the landlord. "No, captain. His things are all laid out in his room, and the fire kept up as he ordered." "Then I don't know what has become of him," Kelson returned, manifestly not interested in the subject. "I certainly should not keep open any longer. If Mr. Henshaw turns up at an unreasonable hour, let him wait and get in when he can. Don't you think so, Hugh?" Gifford nodded. "I think, considering the hour, Mr. Dipper will be quite justified in locking up," he answered. "Thank you, gentlemen; I will. Goodnight," and the landlord departed. Kelson turned to a side table and poured out a drink. "Decent fellow, Dipper, and uniformly obliging," he said. "I certainly don't see why he should be inconvenienced and kept out of his bed by that swanker, who has probably gone off with some pal and hasn't had the decency to leave word to that effect. Bad style of man altogether. Hullo! What's this?" "What's the matter?" Gifford crossed to Kelson, who was looking at his shirt-cuff. A dark red streak was on the white linen. "Hanged if it doesn't look like blood," Kelson said, holding it to the light. Gifford caught his arm and scrutinized the stain. "It is blood," he said positively. Next morning Captain Kelson took his guest for a long drive round the neighbourhood. Before starting he asked the landlord at what time Henshaw had returned. "He didn't come in at all, captain," Dipper answered in an aggrieved tone. "His fire was kept up all night for nothing." "I suppose he has been here this morning," Kelson observed casually. "No," was the prompt reply. "Nothing has been seen or heard of him here since he left last night for the ball." Kelson whistled. "That looks rather queer, doesn't it, Hugh?" Gifford nodded. "Very, I should say. What do you make of it?" he asked the landlord. That worthy spread out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "It's beyond me, gentlemen. We can none of us make it out. I've never known anything quite like it happen all the years I've been in the business." "Oh, you'll have an explanation in the course of the morning all right," said Kelson with a smile at the host's worry. "Don't take it too seriously; it isn't worth it. You've got Mr. Henshaw's luggage, which indemnifies you, and he is manifestly a person quite capable of taking care of himself." Mr. Dipper gave a doubtful jerk of the head. "It is very mysterious all the same." Kelson laughed as he went off with his friend. "I'm afraid I can't get up much interest in the doings of the objectionable Henshaw," he remarked lightly as they started off. "Such men as he know what they are about, and are not too punctilious with regard to other people's inconvenience." "No," Gifford responded quietly. "All the same, his non-appearance is a little mysterious." Kelson blew away the suggestion of mystery in a short, contemptuous laugh. "I quite agree with you there," Gifford answered with conviction, and the subject dropped. When they returned for luncheon they found that nothing had been heard of the _Golden Lion's_ missing guest. "By the way," he said presently, as they sat over tea, "rather an extraordinary thing has happened at the _Golden Lion_." "What's that?" asked his host. "Did you notice a man named Henshaw here last night? A big, dark fellow, probably a stranger to you, but by way of being a former follower of the Cumberbatch." "An old fellow?" Morriston asked. "Tall and very dark, almost to swarthiness; of course I remember the man." Morriston exclaimed with sudden recollection. "I introduced him to a partner." "I noticed the fellow," observed Lord Painswick, who also was calling. "Theatrical sort of chap. What has he done?" Kelson laughed. "Simply disappeared, that's all." "Disappeared!" There was a chorus of interest. "And nothing has been seen or heard of the man since," Gifford put in. "No, can't say I did," Painswick answered. "And," observed Kelson, "he was not a man to be easily overlooked when he was on show. I missed him, not altogether disagreeably, after the early dances." "What is the idea?" Edith Morriston inquired. "Is there any theory to account for his disappearance?" "And still in his evening things?" Painswick said with a laugh. "Rather uncomfortable this weather." "That is most curious," Kelson said with a mystified air. "Henshaw was wearing a fur coat and soft hat when we saw him in the hall of the _Lion_ just before starting. Don't you remember, Hugh?" "Yes; certainly he was," Gifford answered. "Then they must be his," Morriston concluded. "And where is he--without them?" Painswick added with a laugh. "Dead of cold?" "It is altogether quite mysterious," Morriston observed with a puzzled air. "He can't be here still." "Hardly," his sister replied. "You know him?" she asked Kelson. "Quite casually. So far as nearly coming to a rough and tumble with the fellow for his cheek in scoffing our fly at the station constitutes an acquaintance. Gifford acted as peacemaker, and we put up with the fellow's company to the town. But neither of us imbibed a particularly high opinion of the sportsman, did we, Hugh?" "No," Gifford assented; "his was not a taking character, to men at any rate; and we rather wondered how he came to be going to the Cumberbatch Ball." "No doubt he got his ticket in the ordinary way," Morriston said. "It only shows, my dear Dick," his sister observed, "you may quite easily run risks in giving a semi-public dance in your own house." Morriston laughed. "Oh, come, Edith," he protested, "we need not make too much of it. We don't know for certain that the man was a queer character." "Anyhow," said Kelson, "if this Henshaw was a bad lot he had the decency to efface himself promptly enough. The puzzle is, what on earth has become of him?" Naturally Kelson accepted the invitation with alacrity, and Gifford could do no less than fall in with the arrangement. "Hope you won't mind going over to Wynford," Kelson said as they drove back. "If it is at all painful to you from old associations, I'll make an excuse for you." Gifford hesitated a moment. "Oh, no," he answered. "I'll come. There is no use in being sentimental about the place going out of our family, and these Morristons are quite the right sort of people to have it. A splendidly thoroughbred type of girl, Miss Morriston." Kelson laughed. "Oh, yes; a magnificent creature; cut out for a duchess. Only, you know, my dear Hugh, if I married a woman like that I should always be a little afraid of her. A magnificent chatelaine and all that, but too cold for my taste." "You think there is no deep feeling under the ice of her manner?" "I should say that with him the ice is a little below the surface," Gifford ventured. As they entered the _Golden Lion_ the landlord met them. "Well, Mr. Dipper, any news of your missing guest?" Kelson inquired with characteristic cheeriness, ignoring the troubled expression on that worthy's face. "Oh, you've no responsibility in the matter," Kelson assured him. "Don't you worry about it, Mr. Dipper. If the man goes out and does not choose to come back, that, beyond the payment of your charges, can be no affair of yours. Isn't that so, Hugh?" "Certainly," Gifford assented. Still their host looked anything but satisfied. "Yes, sir, that's quite right; all the same, we are beginning not to like the look of it. It is very mysterious." "It is, Mr. Dipper, to say the least of it," Kelson replied. "Still from such opinion as we were able to form of Mr. Henshaw I don't think it worth while making much fuss about it. He'll turn up all right and probably call you a fool for your pains." "I would not worry about it if I were you," Gifford said quietly. As they turned to go upstairs a telegraph boy came in and handed his message to the landlord, who read it and handed it to Kelson. "That's his brother," Gifford observed. "All right," said Kelson. "Let him worry if he likes. All you have to do, Mr. Dipper, is what he asks you there." He went upstairs with Gifford, leaving the landlord reperusing the telegram, his plump face dark with misgiving. That night the missing man did not return, nor was anything heard of him. The morning brought no news, and even Kelson began to think there might be something serious in it. "If it was anybody but that man," he said casually over a hearty breakfast, "I should say it would be worth while taking steps to find out what had become of him. But that fellow can take care of himself; and when you come to think of it, his coming down here, an outsider, to the ball, was in itself rather fishy." Gifford agreed, and they fell to discussing the day's plans. Kelson was going to drive over to have the momentous interview with Miss Tredworth's father. He anticipated no difficulty there; still, as he said, "The thing has got to be done, and the sooner it is over the better." "Why not go to-morrow?" Gifford suggested. "There will be rather a rush to-day." Kelson, a man of action, scoffed at the idea. "Oh, no; Muriel and Charlie are coming over to Wynford to luncheon. I shall simply get the thing settled and drive back with them." So it was arranged. Gifford spent the morning in a stroll about the familiar neighbourhood, and when luncheon time came they all met at Wynford Place. Miss Morriston was not present. Her brother apologized for her absence, saying she had been obliged to keep an engagement to lunch with a friend, but that she had promised to return quite early in the afternoon. Mr. Piercy, the antiquarian, proved to be by no means as dry as his pursuit suggested. He was a lively little man with a fund of interesting stories furnished by the lighter side of his work, and altogether the luncheon was quite amusing. When it was over Morriston suggested that, not to waste the daylight, they should begin their tour of the house; he called upon Gifford to share the duties of guidance, and the party moved off. "Hope you haven't been bored all the morning, Hugh," Kelson said to his friend as they found themselves side by side. "Any news at the _Lion_? Has Henshaw turned up yet?" Gifford shook his head. "No. Host Dipper has had another telegram of inquiry from the brother, but had nothing to tell him in return." Kelson's face became grave. "It really does begin to look serious," he remarked. "Yes; Dipper has been interviewing the police on the subject." "Has he? Well, I only hope Henshaw has not been playing the fool, or worse, and caused all this fuss for nothing." The party moved on to the great hall where the dancing had taken place, and so to the passage connecting the main building with the ancient tower. "Now this is the part which will no doubt interest you most, Mr. Piercy," Morriston said; "this fourteenth century tower, which is to-day in a really wonderful state of preservation." "Ah, yes," the archaeologist murmured; "they could build in those days." "Now we will go up to the top room," Morriston proposed. "It is used only for lumber, but there is quite a good view from it." He preceded the rest of the party up the winding stairs to the topmost door. "Hullo!" he exclaimed, pushing at it, "the door is locked. And the key appears to have been taken away," he added, bending down and feeling about in the imperfect light. The whole party was consequently held up on the narrow stairs. "I'll go and ask what has become of the key," Morriston said, making his way past them. In a minute he returned, presently followed by the butler. "How is it that this top door is locked, Stent?" he asked. "And where is the key?" "I don't know, sir. Alfred mentioned this morning that the door was locked and the key taken away; we thought you must have locked it, sir." "I? No, I've not been up here since the morning of the ball, when I had those old things brought up from the lower room to be out of the way." "Did you lock the door then, sir?" "This is rather provoking," Morriston said, as they waited. "I particularly wanted to show you the view, which should be lovely on a clear day like this. If we have to wait much longer the light will be going. Besides, it is quite a quaint old room with a curious recess formed by the bartizan you may have noticed from outside." Presently the butler returned accompanied by a footman with several keys. None of them, however, would go into the lock, not even the smallest of them. "I can't make it out, sir," said the man, kneeling to get more effectively to work. But no key would enter. The footman at last took a box of matches from his pocket, struck a light and, holding it to the key-hole, peered in. "Why, the key is in the lock, on the other side, sir," he said in astonishment. "Then the door can't be locked," Morriston said, pushing it. The footman rose and pushed too, but the door showed no sign of yielding; it was fastened sure enough. "Are you sure the key is in the door on the inside?" he asked. "Certain, sir. Will you look for yourself, sir?" the man replied, striking another match and holding it so that his master could convince himself. "No doubt about that," Morriston declared, as he rose from his scrutiny. "It is the most extraordinary thing I have ever known. Can you account for it, Stent?" The butler shook his head. "No, sir. Unless someone is in there now." Morriston again shouted, but no answer came. "I presume there is no way out of the room but this door," Piercy asked. "A sheer drop of quite that distance," he answered. Accordingly the whole party went down into the hall and so out to the garden, where they strolled round the house, Piercy meanwhile taking notes of its architectural features. As they came to the tower the rays of a late winter sun were striking it almost horizontally, lighting it up in a picturesque glow. Piercy, with his archaeological knowledge, was able to tell the owner and Gifford a good deal about the ancient structure of which they had previously been ignorant. "The sunset would have been worth seeing from that top window," Morriston said, evidently perplexed and annoyed over the mystery of the locked door. "I can't make out what has happened." "The person who locked the door assuredly did not make his exit by the window," Kelson remarked with a laugh, as he looked up at the sheer surface of the upper wall; "unless he was bent on suicide, in which case we should have found what was left of him at the foot of the tower." As they went on round the house, Miss Morriston was seen coming up the drive. Her brother hurried forward to meet her. "I say, Edith," he exclaimed, "we are in a great fix. Can you explain how the door of the top room in the tower comes to be locked with the key inside?" Miss Morriston looked surprised. "What, Dick?" Miss Morriston thought a moment. "My dear Dick, the door can't be locked." "It is, I tell you," he returned; "most certainly locked. We have tried it and found it quite fast." "Then there must be someone in the room," his sister said. "Someone playing you a trick," and the girl laughed. "But who? who?" he returned. His sister gave a shrug. "Oh, you'll find out soon enough," she replied, with a smile. Miss Morriston in her stately way looked amused. "My dear old Dick, you have been making a fuss about it. You will probably find the door open when you go up." "And I'll know who has been playing this stupid trick," Morriston said wrathfully. "A footman making love to a housemaid turned the key in a panic at being trapped," Kelson said to his host. "I dare say," Morriston replied with a laugh of ill-humour. "And he'll have to pay for his impudence." That explanation by its feasibility was generally accepted as the simple solution of the mystery. "Come along!" Morriston called. "We'll all go up, and see whether the door is open or not. We shall just be in time to catch the sunset." He led the way through the hall and the corridor beyond and so up the winding stairs. "What, not open yet?" he exclaimed as the last turn showed the workman busy at the lock. "Well, this is extraordinary." The locksmith was kneeling and working at the door, while the footman stood over him holding a candle. "The key is in the lock, inside, isn't it?" Morriston asked. "Yes, sir," the man answered. "There is no doubt about that." "How do you account for it?" The man looked up from his task and shook his head. "Can't account for it, sir. Unless so be as there is someone inside." "Yes, sir. I'll have it turned in a minute." He took from his bag a long pair of hollow pliers which he inserted in the lock and then screwed tightly, clutching the end of the key. Then fitting a transverse rod to the pliers and using it as a lever he carefully forced the key round, and so shot back the lock. There was a short pause while the man unscrewed his instrument; then he stepped back and pushed open the door. Morriston went in quickly. "There is the key, sure enough," he said, looking round at the inside of the door. He took a couple of steps farther into the room, only to utter an exclamation of intense surprise and horror; then turned quickly with an almost scared face. "Go back!" he cried hoarsely, holding up his hands with an arresting gesture. "Kelson, Mr. Gifford, come here a moment and shut the door. Look!" he said in a breathless whisper, pointing to the floor beneath the window through which the deep orange light of the declining sun was streaming. "Henshaw!" Kelson gasped. THE MYSTERY OF CLEMENT HENSHAW Kelson made an irresolute movement as though wavering between the implied invitation to quit the room and an inclination not to run away from the grim business. He glanced at Gifford, who showed no sign of moving. "Just as you like," he replied in a hushed voice. "Perhaps we had better stay here till you come back." He went out, closing the door. "I can't make this out, Hugh," Kelson said, pulling himself together and moving to the opposite side of the room. "No," Gifford responded mechanically. "On the contrary," his friend murmured in the same preoccupied tone. "What do you think? How can you account for it?" Kelson demanded, as appealing to the other's greater knowledge of the world. It seemed to be with an effort that Gifford released himself from the fascination that held his gaze to the tragedy. "It is an absolute mystery," he replied, moving to where his friend stood. For a moment Gifford did not answer. Then he said, "No doubt about it, I should imagine." "I cannot understand it," Kelson went on, with a sharp gesture of perplexity. "I can imagine some sort of love affair bringing the poor fellow down to this place; but that he should come up here and do this thing, even if it went wrong, is more than I can conceive. Taking the man as we knew him it is out of all reason." "Yes," Gifford assented. "But we don't know yet that it is a case of suicide." "So we are forced back to the suicide theory," Gifford remarked. He had gone to the landing outside the door. "You think it possible?" Kelson demanded incredulously. "Possible, if far from probable," the other answered with conviction. "There are women who can be as secret as the grave, at any rate so far as appearances to the outer world are concerned. I wonder whom he danced with. Do you remember?" "No. I seem to recollect him with a girl in a light green dress, but that does not take us far." Footsteps on the stairway announced their host's return. "The police will be here, directly," he reported, "and, I hope, a doctor. I have done my best to keep it from the ladies, and I don't think that, so far, any of them has an exact idea of what made me turn them back. Just as well the horror should be kept dark as long as possible. It is such an awful blow to me that I can scarcely realize it yet." "Miss Morriston does not know?" Kelson asked. "No. And I only hope it won't give her a dislike to the house when she does. For I am hoping to have her here a good deal with me, even if she marries." A police inspector accompanied by a detective and a constable now arrived. Morriston took them into the room of death. Gifford grasped Kelson's arm. "I don't think there is any use in our staying here," he suggested. "Let us go down." The other man nodded, and they began to descend. "You are not going, Kelson?" Morriston cried, hurrying to the door. "We thought we could be of no use and might be in the way," Gifford replied. "Oh, I wish you would stay," Morriston urged, going down a few steps to them. "I know it is not pleasant; on the contrary it's a ghastly affair; but I should like to have you with me till this police business is over. I won't ask you to stay up here, but if you don't mind waiting downstairs I should be so grateful. I might want your advice. You'll find the rest of the party in the drawing-room." "Is my brother coming?" she asked. "He will be down soon," Gifford answered in as casual a tone as he could assume. There was a momentary pause as each man, hesitating between a direct falsehood, the truth, and a plausible excuse, rather waited for the other to speak. Gifford answered. "No, nothing that you need worry about, Miss Morriston. Your brother will tell you later on." But the hesitation seemed to have aroused the girl's suspicions. "Do tell me now," she said, with just a tremor of anxiety underlying the characteristic coldness of her tone. "Unless," she added, "it is something not exactly proper for me to hear." Kelson quickly availed himself of the loophole she gave him. "You had better wait and hear it from Dick," he said, suggesting a move towards the drawing-room. "In the meantime there is nothing you need be alarmed about." As she turned towards the passage leading to the tower Kelson sprang forward and intercepted her. "No, no, Miss Morriston," he remonstrated with a prohibiting gesture, "don't go up there now. Take my word for it you had better not. Dick will be down directly to explain what is wrong." For a few moments her eyes rested on him searchingly. "Very well," she said at length. "If you say I ought not to go, I won't. But you don't lessen my anxiety to know what has happened." "There is no particular cause for anxiety on your part," Kelson said reassuringly. She had turned and now led the way to the drawing-room. As they entered they were received by expectant looks. "Well, is the mystery solved?" young Tredworth inquired. Kelson gave him a silencing look. "You'll hear all about it in good time," he replied between lightness and gravity. Piercy rose to take his leave. "Oh, you must not go yet," Miss Morriston protested. "They are just bringing tea." "Oh, no," his hostess insisted. "I don't know of anything wrong. At least neither Captain Kelson nor Mr. Gifford will admit anything. You must have tea before your long drive." The subject of the mystery in the tower was tacitly dropped, perhaps from a vague feeling that it was best not alluded to, at any rate by the ladies, and the conversation flowed, with more or less effort, on ordinary local topics. Tea over, Piercy took his leave. "You must come again, Mr. Piercy, while you are in this part of the county," Miss Morriston said graciously, "when you shall have no episodes of lost keys to hinder your researches. My brother shall write to you." Kelson took the departing visitor out into the hall to see him off. "You'll see it all in the papers to-morrow, I expect," he said in a confidential tone, "so there is no harm in telling you there has been a most gruesome discovery in that locked room. A man who was here at the Hunt Ball, has been found dead; suicide no doubt. The police are here now." "Good heavens! A mercy the ladies did not see it." "Yes; they'll have to know sooner or later. The later the better." "Yes, indeed. Any idea of the cause of the sad business?" "None, as yet. A complete mystery." "Probably a woman in it." "Not unlikely. Good-bye." As Kelson turned from the door, Morriston and another man appeared at the farther end of the hall and called to him. "You know Dr. Page," he said as Kelson joined them. "A terrible business this, doctor," Kelson observed as they shook hands. "Dr. Page," said Morriston, "has made a cursory examination of the body. The autopsy will take place elsewhere. The police are making notes of everything important, and after dark will remove the body quietly by the tower door. So I hope the ladies will know nothing of the tragedy just yet." As they were speaking a footman had opened the hall-door and now approached with a card on a salver. "Can you see this gentleman, sir?" he said. Morriston took the card, and as he glanced at it an expression of pain crossed his face. He handed it silently to Kelson, who gave it back with a grave nod. It was the card of "Mr. Gervase Henshaw, II Stone Court, Temple, E.G." THE INCREDULITY OF GERVASE HENSHAW "Show Mr. Henshaw into the library," Morriston said to the footman. "This is horribly tragic," he added in a low tone to Kelson, "but it has to be gone through, and perhaps the sooner the better. His brother?" "Yes; he mentioned him on our way from the station the other evening. At any rate he will be able to see the situation for himself." "You will come with me?" Morriston suggested. "You might fetch your friend, Gifford." Kelson nodded, opened the drawing-room door and called Gifford out, while Morriston waited in the hall. "There is nothing to be said but the bare, inevitable truth," Gifford answered. "You can't now break it to him by degrees." Morriston, dreading to break the news abruptly, had not interrupted his questions. "I am sorry to say I can," he now answered in a subdued tone. "Worse than that," Morriston answered sympathetically. Henshaw with a start fell back a step. "We have," Morriston said quietly, "only discovered the terrible truth within the last hour or so." "But dead?" Henshaw protested incredulously. "How--how can he be dead? How did he die? An accident?" "I am afraid it looks as though by his own hand," Morriston answered in a hushed voice. The expression of incredulity on Henshaw's face manifestly deepened. "By his own hand?" he echoed. "Suicide? Clement commit suicide? Impossible! Inconceivable!" "If you please," The words were rapped out almost peremptorily. Morriston pointed to a chair, but his visitor, in his preoccupation, seemed to take no notice of the gesture, continuing to stand restlessly, in an attitude of strained attention. "I don't understand it at all," he said when the story was finished. "Nor do any of us," Morriston returned promptly. "The whole affair is as mysterious as it is lamentable. Still it appears to be clearly a case of suicide." "Suicide!" Henshaw echoed with a certain scornful incredulity. "Why suicide? In connexion with my brother the idea seems utterly preposterous." "The door locked on the inside," Morriston suggested. "Unfortunately," Morriston replied, sympathetically restraining any approach to an argumentative tone, "your brother was practically a stranger to me, and to us all. My friends here, Captain Kelson and Mr. Gifford, met him casually at the railway station and drove with him to the _Golden Lion_ in the town, where they all put up." Henshaw's sharp scrutiny was immediately transferred from Morriston to his companions. "Can you, gentlemen, throw any light on the matter?" he asked sharply. "None at all, I am sorry to say," Kelson answered readily. "I may as well tell you how our very slight acquaintance with him came about." "If you please," Henshaw responded, in a tone more of command than request. Kelson, naturally ignoring his questioner's slightly offensive manner, thereupon related the circumstances of the encounter at the station-yard and of the subsequent drive to the town, merely softening the detail of their preliminary altercation. Henshaw listened alertly intent, it seemed, to seize upon any point which did not satisfy him. "That was all you saw of my unfortunate brother?" he demanded at the end. "We saw him for a few moments in the hall of the hotel just as we were starting," Kelson answered. "You drove here together? No?" "No; your brother took an hotel carriage, and I drove in my own trap." "No," Gifford answered. "I came on later. A suit-case with my evening things had gone astray--been carried on in the train, and I had to wait till it was returned." Henshaw stared at him for a moment sharply as though the statement had about it something vaguely suspicious, seemed about to put another question, checked himself, and turned about with a gesture of perplexity. "I can say nothing more," Gifford answered. "The facts," he said in a lawyer-like tone, "don't appear to lead us far. But when ascertained facts stop short they may be supplemented. Apart from what is actually known--I ask this as the dead man's only brother--have either of you gentlemen formed any idea as to how he came by his death?" He was looking at Morriston, his cross-examining manner now softened by the human touch. "It has not occurred to me to look beyond what seems the obvious explanation of suicide," Morriston answered frankly. Henshaw turned to Kelson. "And you, sir; have you any idea beyond the known facts?" Henshaw interrupted him sharply. "Now you are getting back to the facts, Captain Kelson. I tell you the idea of my brother Clement taking his own life is to me absolutely inconceivable. Have you any idea, however far-fetched, as to what really may have happened?" Kelson shook his head. "None. Except I must say he looked to me the last man who would do such an act." "I should think so," Henshaw returned decidedly. Then he addressed himself to Gifford. "I must ask you, sir, the same question." "And I can give you no more satisfactory answer," Gifford said. "As a man with knowledge of the world as I take you to be?" Henshaw urged keenly. "But I did," Henshaw retorted vehemently. "And I tell you, gentlemen, the thing is utterly impossible. But we shall see. The body--is it here?" "The police have charge of it in the room where he was found. It is to be removed at nightfall. You will wish to see it?" Morriston answered. "Yes; so far as we have been able to ascertain," Morriston answered. "Naturally, before this awful discovery we had been much exercised by his mysterious disappearance and failure to return to the hotel." "No, I cannot understand it," Morriston replied, as he turned and began to ascend the winding stairway. On the threshold of the topmost floor he paused. "This is the door we found locked on the inside," he observed quietly. Henshaw gave a keen look round, and nodded. Morriston pushed open the door and they entered. After a few moments' scrutiny, Henshaw turned to the officers. "I am the brother of the deceased," he said, addressing more particularly the detective. "What do you make of this?" The question was put in the same sharp, business-like tone which had characterized his utterances in the library. "Judging by the door being locked on the inside," the detective answered sympathetically, "it can only be a case of suicide." "Detective-Sergeant Finch." "Mr. Finch. Did the doctor say suicide?" "I did not hear him express a definite opinion. Did you, inspector?" "No, Mr. Finch. I rather presumed the doctor took it for granted." "Took it for granted!" Henshaw echoed contemptuously. "I'm not going to take it for granted, I can tell you. Did the doctor examine the body?" "He made a cursory examination. He is arranging to meet the police surgeon for an autopsy to-morrow morning." On the table lay a narrow-bladed chisel, the lower portion of the bright steel discoloured with the dark stain of blood. The inspector pointed to it. "That is the instrument with which the wound must have been made," he remarked in a subdued tone. "It was found lying beside the body." Henshaw took it up and ran his eyes over it. "How could he have got this?" he demanded, looking round with what seemed a distrustful glance. "That is so apparently, Mr. Morriston," the detective corroborated. "It has been identified by Haynes, the estate carpenter." Henshaw put down the chisel and for some moments kept silence, tightening his thin lips as though in strenuous thought. Then suddenly he demanded, "Beyond the fact that the door was found locked from within, what reason have you for your conclusion?" Mr. Finch shrugged. "We don't see how it could be otherwise, sir," he replied with quiet conviction. "Clearly the deceased gentleman must have been alone in the room when he died." "Might he not have locked the door after the wound was given?" Henshaw suggested in a tone of cross-examination. "Dr. Page was of opinion that death, or at any rate unconsciousness, must have been almost instantaneous," Finch rejoined respectfully. "Even supposing the autopsy bears out that view I shall not be satisfied," Henshaw declared. The inspector took up the argument. He threw back the window and invited Henshaw to look down. The argument seemed conclusive. "Was the window found open or shut?" "It was found unlatched, sir," Finch answered. "But the servants think that it was opened that morning and owing to the extra work in the house that day its fastening in the evening was overlooked." Henshaw kept silence, seemingly indifferent to the officials' arguments. "I can only tell you I am far from satisfied with the suicide theory," he said at length. "My brother was not that sort of man. He had nerves of iron; he was in love with life and all it meant to him, and he made it a rule never to let anything worry him. Let the other fellow worry, was his motto. Well, we shall see." He turned towards the door, and as he did so he caught sight of a cardboard box in which was a collection of various articles, jewellery, a watch and chain, money, a pocket-handkerchief, a letter, and a dance programme. "The contents of deceased's pockets," the inspector observed, answering Henshaw's glance of curiosity. "We have collected and made a list of them, and they will in due course be handed to you, or to his heir, on the coroner's order." "Is that a letter? May I see it?" As the official hesitated, Henshaw had snatched the paper, a folded note, and rapidly ran his eye through its contents. Then he gave a curious laugh, as he turned over the paper as though seeking an address, and laid it back in the box. "A note from my brother to an anonymous lady," he observed quietly. "Perhaps if we could find out whom it was meant for she would throw some light on the mystery." "A nailer," Gifford answered shortly. "No," Gifford agreed. "I was very sorry for Morriston. He behaved extremely well, considering the irritatingly antagonistic line the man chose to take up." "Brainy man, Henshaw; unpleasantly sharp, eh?" "Yes," Gifford replied. "Added to his legal training he is by way of being an expert in criminology." "I do hope," Kelson remarked thoughtfully, "he is not going to make himself unpleasant down here. The scandal will be quite enough without that. Horribly rough luck on the Morristons as new-comers here to have an affair like this happening in their house. I can't think what brought the man down here." "No; he came with a purpose, that's certain." "Oh, everything went off beautifully," Kelson answered, his tone brightening with the change of subject. "The old boy gave me his consent and his blessing. I've scarcely been able as yet to appreciate my luck, with this affair at Wynford Place intervening." "It is suggested," said Kelson, "that we should be married quite soon. The Tredworths are going abroad next month and don't propose to hurry back. So it means that if the wedding does not take place before they leave it must be postponed till probably the autumn." "I should think the latter would be the best plan." "No; but settlements take a long time to draw up." "Not if the lawyers are told to hurry up with them." "Then you will have to find a house, and get furniture. And there is the trousseau," Gifford urged. "I don't believe in rushing matters," Gifford rejoined. "Least of all matrimony." "I certainly don't want you to be in too great a hurry," Gifford returned calmly. "I feel it is a mistake." Kelson laughed. "You are not going to suggest we don't know our own minds." "Hardly. But why not wait till the family returns? Of course it is no business of mine." "No," Kelson replied with a laugh of annoyance; "and you can't be expected to enter into my feelings on the subject. But I think you might be a little less grudging of your sympathy." "You quite mistake me, Harry," Gifford replied warmly. "It is only in your own interest that I counsel you not to be in a hurry." "It is a mistake to rush things, that is all," was the unsatisfactory answer. "If I saw the slightest chance of danger I would not hesitate to take your advice," Kelson said. "But I don't. Nor do you. Since when have you become so cautious?" Gifford forced a laugh. "It is coming on with age." Kelson clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't encourage it, my dear Hugh. It will spoil all the enjoyment in your life, and in other people's too, if you force the note. I promise you I won't hurry on the wedding more than is absolutely necessary." "Very well," Gifford responded, and the subject dropped. They had finished dinner, at which the absorbing subject of the tragedy at Wynford Place was the main topic of their conversation, when the landlord came in to say that Mr. Gervase Henshaw, who was staying at the hotel, would like to see them if they were disengaged. Kelson looked across at his friend. "Shall we see him?" Gifford nodded. "We had better hear what he has to say. We don't want him worrying Morriston." "Ask Mr. Henshaw up," Kelson said to the landlord, and in a minute he was ushered in. With a quick, decisive movement Henshaw took the seat to which Kelson invited him. "I'm afraid there is very little we can tell you," Gifford replied. "But we are at your service." "Is he sure of it?" Kelson asked. "He won't be positive till he has made the autopsy," Henshaw answered. "He merely suggests that it was a very awkward and altogether unlikely place for a man to wound himself. Anyhow that guarded opinion is enough to strengthen my inclination to scout the idea of suicide." "Then," said Kelson, "we are faced by the difficulty of the locked door." Henshaw made a gesture of indifference. "You will be justified," Kelson murmured. "I think so--by the result," was the quick rejoinder. Gifford spoke. "What do you think was the real object in your brother coming down here?" Henshaw looked at his questioner keenly before he answered. "It is my opinion, my conviction, there was a lady in the case. May I ask what prompted you to ask the question?" Gifford shrugged. "Some idea of the sort was in my own mind," he replied, with a reserve which could scarcely be satisfying to Henshaw. "Perhaps," he said keenly, "you have also an idea who the lady was." Gifford shook his head. "Not at all," he returned promptly. "Then why should the idea have suggested itself to you," came the cross-examining rejoinder. "Your brother was not a member of the Hunt, and it seemed to us--curious." "Was it addressed?" Gifford put the question quickly, almost eagerly. "No," Henshaw answered. "I wish it had been. In that case we should be near the end of the mystery." Kelson was staring at the glib speaker with astounded eyes. "Do you suppose a woman killed your brother?" he almost gasped. "Not an easy task," Gifford remarked, with his eye furtively on Kelson, who had become strangely interested. Kelson was now staring almost stupidly at Gifford. "Neither of you gentlemen saw my brother dancing?" Henshaw demanded sharply. "I saw nothing of him at all in the ballroom," Gifford answered, "as I did not arrive till about midnight. Did you see him, Harry?" he asked, as though with the design of rousing Kelson from his rather suspicious attitude. Kelson seemed to pull himself together by an effort. "No--yes; I caught a glimpse of him, I think, with a girl in green." "You know who she was?" Henshaw demanded. "I've not the vaguest idea," Kelson answered mechanically. "I did not see her face." Henshaw rose. Perhaps from Kelson's manner he gathered that the men were tired, and had had enough of him. He shook hands, with a word of thanks and an apology. "We may know more after the inquest to-morrow afternoon," he remarked, "although I doubt it. You will let me consult you again, if necessary? Thanks. Goodnight." Gifford forced a smile. "My dear Harry, how absurd! What could that have had to do with it?" Kelson gave an uncomfortable laugh. "It is a grim coincidence," he said. At the inquest which was held next day nothing was elicited which could offer any solution of the mystery of Clement Henshaw's death. It seemed to be pretty generally accepted to be a case of suicide, although that view was opposed in evidence, not only by Gervase Henshaw on general grounds, but also by the medical witnesses, who had grave doubts whether the mortal wound had been self-inflicted. "Just possible but decidedly improbable, both from the position of the wound and the direction of the blow," was Dr. Page's opinion. It was a downward, oblique stab in the throat which had pierced the larynx and penetrated the jugular vein. The deceased would have been unable to cry out and would probably have quickly become insensible from asphyxiation. Unless he was left-handed the stab could scarcely have been self-given. The police authorities committed themselves to no definite theory at that stage, and at their request the inquiry was adjourned for a month. Morriston, leaving the hall with Kelson and Gifford, asked them to walk back with him to Wynford Place. "Let us throw off this depressing business as well as we can," he said. "Of course I have had to break it to my sister and the others; they would have seen it to-day in print. Thank goodness the papers don't look beyond the suicide idea, so they are not making much fuss about it. If they took a more sensational view, as I fear they will now after the medical evidence, it would be a terrible nuisance." "I hope the ladies were not much upset when you told them," Gifford remarked. "Well, they already had an idea that something was seriously wrong, and that took the edge off the announcement. Of course they were horribly shocked at the idea of the tragedy so close at hand, though I softened the details as well as I could." "If the suicide idea is to be abandoned," said Kelson, speaking with an unusually gloomy, preoccupied air, "the police have an uncommonly difficult and delicate task before them." "Yes, indeed," Morriston responded. "And I should say that abnormally keen person, the brother, will keep them up to collar." "He means to," Kelson replied rather grimly. "We had him for an hour last night cross-examining us, naturally to no purpose; we could tell him nothing." "He won't leave a stone unturned," Morriston said. "He proposes to return here after the funeral in town." "And I should say," observed Kelson, "if the mystery is to be solved he is the man to solve it. What do you think, Hugh?" Gifford seemed to rouse himself by an effort from an absorbing train of thought. "Oh, yes," he answered. "Except that it is possible to be a little too clever and so overlook the obvious." "Not among your guests, let's hope," Kelson said with a touch of uneasiness. "Yes, so we may," said Kelson alertly, though with something of a shudder. "Not a pleasant idea," continued Morriston. "But I don't see, if a bad character did get in and mix with the company, why he should have done a fellow guest to death, nor how he contrived to leave his victim and get out of the room after he had locked the door." "Down here?" Morriston objected incredulously. "Where he was a stranger? Unless some ingenious person, bent on vengeance, tracked him here and then lured him into the tower. Then how did the determined pursuer contrive to leave him and the key inside the locked room?" At Wynford Place, where they had now arrived, they found several callers. The subject of the tragedy was naturally uppermost in everybody's mind, and the principal topic of conversation. Morriston and his companions were eagerly questioned as to what had come out at the inquest, but, except that the medical evidence was rather sceptical of the suicide theory, were unable to relieve the curiosity. "I think, my dear Dick," remarked Lord Painswick, who was there, "we can furnish more evidence in this room than you seem to have got hold of at the inquest." And he looked round the company with a knowing smile. "Only we have had a lady here, Miss Elyot, who says she danced with the poor fellow." "I only just took a turn with him, for the waltz was nearly over when he asked me," said the girl thus alluded to. "Did you wear a green dress?" Kelson asked eagerly. "Only that it must have been you I saw with him." "And can you throw any light on the mystery?" Morriston asked. The girl shook her head. "None at all, I'm afraid." "Did Mr. Henshaw's manner or state of mind strike you as being peculiar?" "Not in the least," Miss Elyot answered with decision. "During the short time we were together our talk was quite commonplace, mostly of the changes in the county." "Did he, Henshaw, know it formerly?" Morriston asked with some surprise. "Oh, yes," Miss Elyot answered, "he used to stay with some people over at Lamberton; you remember the Peltons, Muriel?" she turned to Miss Tredworth. "Of course you do." "Oh, yes," Muriel Tredworth answered. "I remember them quite well, although we didn't know much about them." "Don't you recollect," Miss Elyot continued, "meeting this very Mr. Henshaw at a big garden party they gave. I know you played tennis with him." As she spoke she caught Gifford's eye; he was watching her keenly, more closely perhaps than manners or tact warranted. "And do you find the place much changed since your time, Mr. Gifford?" she inquired, as though to relieve the awkwardness. "Not as much as I could have imagined," he answered, through what seemed a fit of preoccupation. "Mr. Gifford has not had much opportunity yet of seeing how far it has altered, with this tragic affair to upset everything," Morriston put in. "No, it has been a most unlucky time for him to revisit Wynford," Miss Morriston added in her cold tone. "I hope Mr. Gifford is not going to hurry away from the neighbourhood in consequence." "Not if I can prevent it," Kelson replied, with a laugh. "I hope," Morriston said hospitably, "that whether his stay be short or long Mr. Gifford will consider himself quite at home here. And I need not say, my dear Kelson, that invitation includes you." Both men thanked him. "We have already done a little trespassing in your park," Kelson observed with a laugh. "Please don't call it trespassing again," Miss Morriston commanded. "Let me give you another cup of tea, Muriel." "The old house looks most picturesque by moon-light," observed Lord Painswick. "I was quite fascinated by it the other night." "There is a full moon now," Gifford said. "We will stroll round and admire when we leave." "Moonlight has its dangers as well as its beauties," Painswick murmured sententiously. As he spoke the words there came a startling little cry from Miss Tredworth accompanied by the crash and clatter of falling crockery. Gifford's remark had been made with his eyes fixed on his friend's _fiancee_, to whom at that moment Miss Morriston was handing the refilled cup of tea. A hand of each girl was upon the saucer as the words were uttered; by whose fault it was let fall it was impossible to say. But the slight cry of dismay had come from Miss Tredworth. "Oh, I am so sorry," she exclaimed, colouring with vexation. "How stupid and clumsy of me. Your lovely china." "It was my fault," Edith Morriston protested, her clear-cut face showing no trace of annoyance. "I thought you had hold of the cup, and I let it go too soon. Ring the bell, will you, Dick." "Please don't distress yourself, Miss Tredworth," Mr. Morriston entreated her as he crossed to the bell. "I'm sure it was not your fault." "Was that a quotation, Mr. Gifford?" Miss Morriston asked, clearly with the object of dismissing the unfortunate episode. "My remark about the cloak of night?" he replied. "Perhaps. I seem to have heard something like it somewhere." And as he spoke he glanced curiously at Miss Tredworth. AN ALARMING DISCOVERY "It is altogether a most mysterious affair," he observed sagely, being free, now that his late guest's perplexing disappearance was accounted for, even in that tragic fashion, to regard the business and to moralize over it without much personal feeling in the matter. "I fancy Mr. Gervase Henshaw means to work the police up to getting to the bottom of it. For I don't fancy that he is by any means satisfied that his unfortunate brother took his own life. And I must say," he added in a pronouncement evidently the fruit of careful deliberation, "I don't know how it strikes you, gentlemen, but from what I saw of the deceased it is hard to imagine him as making away with himself." "Yes," Gifford replied. "But before any other conclusion can be fairly arrived at the police will have to account for the locked door." Evidently Mr. Dipper's lucubrations had not, so far, reached a satisfactory explanation of that puzzle; he could only wag his head and respond generally, "Ah, yes. That will be a hard nut for them to crack, I'm thinking." The dinner at Wynford Place was made as cheerful as, with the gloom of a tragedy over the house, could be possible. "Have the police arrived at any theory?" Gifford inquired. "Then how, with the door locked on the inside did they make their escape?" Miss Morriston asked. "That can so far be only a matter of conjecture," her brother answered, with a shrug. "Of course they might have provided themselves with some sort of ladder, but there are no signs of it. And the height of the window in that top room is decidedly against the theory." "We hear at the _Lion_" Kelson remarked, "that the brother, Gervase Henshaw, is returning to-morrow or next day." Morriston did not receive the news with any appearance of satisfaction. "I hope he won't come fussing about here," he said, with a touch of protest. "Making every allowance for the sudden shock under which he was labouring I thought his attitude the other day most objectionable, didn't you?" "I did most certainly," Gifford answered promptly. "His manners struck me as deplorable," Kelson agreed. "Yes," their host continued. "It never seemed to occur to the fellow that some little sympathy was due also to us. But he seemed rather to suggest that the tragedy was our fault. In ordinary circumstances I should have dealt pretty shortly with him. But it was not worth while." "No," Kelson observed, "All the same, you need not allow a continuation of his behaviour." "I don't intend to," Morriston replied with decision. "I hope the man won't want to come ferreting in the place; that may well be left to the police; but if he does I can't very well refuse him leave. He must be free of the house, or at any rate of the tower." "Or," put in Kelson, "he'll have a grievance against you, and accuse you of trying to burk the mystery." Her brother laughed. "My dear Edith, the type of man you would simply loathe. Abnormally, unpleasantly sharp and suspicious; with a cleverness which takes no account of tact or politeness, he questions you as though you were in the witness-box and he a criminal barrister trying to trap you. I don't know whether he behaves more civilly to ladies, but from our experience of the man I should recommend you to keep out of his way." "I shall," his sister replied. "I should say no respecter of persons--or anything else," Kelson remarked with a laugh. "Let us hope he won't take it into his head to worry us," Miss Morriston said with quiet indifference. "I am sorry to see," Morriston observed later on when the ladies had left them, "that the papers are beginning to take a sensational view of the affair." "Yes," Kelson responded; "we noticed that. It will be a nuisance for you." "The police," Morriston took up the word, "are fairly nonplussed. It seems the farther they get the less obvious does the suicide theory become. Well, we shall see." "In the meantime I'm afraid you and Miss Morriston are in for a heap of undeserved annoyance," Kelson observed sympathetically. "Yes," Morriston agreed gloomily; "I am sorry for Edith; she is plucky, and feels it, I expect, far more than she cares to show." When the men went into the drawing-room Muriel Tredworth made a sign to Kelson; he joined her and, sitting down some distance apart from the rest, they carried on in low tones what seemed to be a serious conversation. With the gloom of a tragedy over the house the little party could not be very festive; avoid it as they set themselves to do, the brooding subject could not be ignored, general conversation flagged, and it soon became time for the visitors to say good-night. As they walked back to the town together Gifford noticed that his companion was unusually silent, and he tactfully forbore to break in upon his preoccupation. At length Kelson spoke. "Muriel has just been telling me of an unpleasant and unaccountable thing which happened to her this evening. A discovery of a rather alarming character. I said I would take your advice about it, Hugh, and she agreed." "Does it concern the affair at Wynford?" "It may," Kelson answered in a perplexed tone; "and yet I don't well see how it can. Anyhow it is uncommonly mysterious. We won't talk about it here," he added gravely, "but wait till we get in." "Miss Morriston looked well to-night," Gifford remarked, falling in with his friend's wish to postpone the more engrossing subject. "Yes," Kelson agreed casually. "She takes this ghastly business quietly enough. But that is her way." "I have been wondering," Gifford said, "how much she cares for Painswick. He is manifestly quite smitten, but I doubt her being nearly as keen on him." "They are not engaged, then?" Arrived at the _Golden Lion_ they went straight up to Kelson's room, where with more curiosity than he quite cared to show, Gifford settled himself to hear what the other had to tell him. "Tell me," Gifford said quietly. "You know," Kelson proceeded, "they are going to this dance at Hasborough to-morrow. Well, it appears that when her maid was overhauling her ball-dress, the same she wore here the other night, she found blood stains on it." "That," Gifford remarked coolly, "may satisfactorily account for the marks on your cuff." Kelson stared in surprise at the other's coolness. "Hardly by the idea that Miss Tredworth had anything to do with the late tragedy," was the quiet answer. "Good heavens, man, I should hope not," Kelson cried vehemently. "That is too monstrously absurd." "What is Miss Tredworth's idea?" "She has none. She is completely mystified. And inclined to be horribly frightened." "Naturally," Gifford commented in the same even tone. "I don't know what you want me to do or say, Harry," Gifford expostulated. "The whole affair is so utterly mysterious that I can't pretend even to hazard an explanation." "In the meantime Muriel and I are in the most appalling position. Why, man, she may at any moment be arrested on suspicion if this discovery leaks out, as it is sure to do." "You can't try to hush it up; that would be a fatal mistake," Gifford said thoughtfully, "and would immediately arouse suspicion." "I should not do anything in a hurry," Gifford answered. "But surely," Kelson remonstrated, "the sooner we take the line of putting ourselves in the right the better." Again Gifford paused before replying. "Can Miss Tredworth give no explanation, has she no idea as to how the stains came on her dress?" "None whatever," was the emphatic answer. "You are absolutely sure of that?" Kelson jumped up from his chair. "Hugh, what are you driving at?" he cried, his eyes full of vague suspicion. "I--I don't understand the cool way you are taking this. There is something behind it. Tell me. I will know; I have a right." Evidently the man was almost beside himself with the fear of something he could not comprehend. Gifford rose and laid a hand sympathetically on his shoulder. "I am sorry to seem so brutal, Harry," he said gently, "but this discovery does not surprise me." "Only," Gifford answered calmly, "that when you introduced me to Miss Tredworth at the dance I noticed the stains on the white flowers she wore." "You did?" Kelson was staring stupidly at Gifford. "And you knew they were blood-stains?" "I could not tell that," was the answer. "But now it is pretty certain they were." For some seconds neither man spoke. Then with an effort Kelson seemed to nerve himself to put another question. "Hugh," he said, his eyes pitiful with fear, "you--you don't think Muriel Tredworth had anything to do with Henshaw's death?" Gifford turned away, and leaned on the mantelpiece. "I don't know what to think," he said gloomily. GIFFORD'S COMMISSION When Gifford arrived at Wynford Place he found Kelson pacing the drive and impatiently expecting him. "Come along," he exclaimed, "the Morristons are waiting for us." "Is utterly unable to account for the state of her dress," Kelson declared promptly. "She is positive that if she noticed the man she never spoke a word to him, nor danced with him. She says that if she ever met him before, as according to that girl the other day was the case, she had quite forgotten the circumstance. So the sooner we communicate this discovery to the police the better. As it is, they say the servants are talking of it; so the present position is quite intolerable." "Most decidedly," Kelson replied, with a troubled face. Charlie Tredworth was also quite emphatically of opinion that his sister should make no secret of what had been found. "The inspector, who is here," Morriston said, "tells me that Major Freeman, our chief constable, intends to come here this morning. I'll say we want to see him directly he arrives." It was not long before the chief constable was shown into the library. Morriston lost no time in telling him of the mysterious circumstance which had come to light. Major Freeman, a keen soldierly man, with the stern expression and uncompromising manner naturally acquired by those whose business is to deal with crime, received the information with grave perplexity. He turned a searching look upon Muriel Tredworth. "I understand you are quite unable to account for the stains on your dress, Miss Tredworth?" he asked in a tone of courteous insistence. "Quite," she answered. "I did not speak to Mr. Henshaw or even notice him in the ball-room." "You had--pardon these questions; I am putting this in your own interest--you had at no time any acquaintance with Mr. Clement Henshaw?" "I can hardly say that I had," the girl replied; "although a friend has told me that I played tennis with him at a garden-party some years ago." "A circumstance which you do not recollect?" The question was put politely, even sympathetically, yet with a certain uncomfortable directness. "No," Muriel answered. "Even when I was reminded of it, my recollection was of the vaguest description. So far as that goes I could neither admit nor deny it with any certainty." "And naturally you never, to your knowledge, saw or communicated with the deceased man since?" Muriel flushed. "No; absolutely no," she returned with a touch of resentment at the suggestion. "Which only a burglar or a locksmith would be likely to have," Kelson suggested. Major Freeman nodded. "Quite so. I am not for a moment suggesting that as an explanation of the mystery. It goes naturally much deeper than that. Mr. Gervase Henshaw is to look into his brother's affairs and papers while in town, and I am hoping that on his return here he may be able to give some information which will afford a clue on which we can work. In the meantime my men are not relaxing their efforts in this rather baffling case." "In which," Morriston suggested, "this new piece of evidence does not afford any useful clue." Major Freeman smiled, a little awkwardly, it seemed. "If anything, it would appear to complicate the problem still further," he replied guardedly. "Still, I am very glad to have it, and thank you for informing me so promptly. Miss Tredworth may rest assured that should we find it necessary to go still farther into this piece of evidence, it will be done with as little annoyance as possible." But there was clearly nothing to be done except to let the police researches take their course and to wait for developments. The party at Wynford was going over to the dance at Stowgrave that evening and it was arranged that they would call for Kelson and Gifford and all go on together. Accordingly at the appointed time the carriage stopped at the _Golden Lion_; Kelson joining Miss Tredworth and her brother, while Gifford drove with Morriston. In answer to his companion's inquiry Morriston said that he had heard of nothing fresh in the Henshaw case. "I saw Major Freeman for a moment as he was leaving," he said, "and gathered that the police were still at a loss for any satisfactory explanation as to how the crime was committed." "He made no suggestion as to the stains on Miss Tredworth's dress?" Gifford asked. "No. Although I fancy he is a good deal exercised by that piece of evidence. Mentioned, as delicately as possible, that it might be necessary to have the stains analyzed, but did not wish the girl to be alarmed or worried about it. I can't understand," Morriston added in a puzzled tone, "how on earth she could possibly have had anything to do with it." "Something of the sort. If there were blood on his lapel or sleeve." "H'm! It would be easy to ascertain for certain whom she danced with," Morriston said reflectively. "But that again is almost unthinkable." "And," Gifford added, "it seems to go no way towards elucidating the problem of how Henshaw came to his death. As a matter of fact I should say Miss Tredworth danced and sat out nearly the whole of the evening with Kelson. You know he proposed at the dance?" "Yes, I understood that. Poor Kelson; I am sorry for him, and for them both. It is an ominous beginning of their betrothal." "It is rather pleasant," she said a little wearily, "to get away from the atmosphere of mystery and police investigation we have been living in at home." "Which I hope and believe will very soon be over," Gifford responded cheeringly. Miss Morriston glanced at him curiously. "You believe that?" she returned almost sharply. "How can you think so? It seems to me that with little apparent likelihood of clearing up the mystery, the affair may drag on for weeks." Leaning back and watching his companion's face in profile as she sat forward, he could see that his suggestion was by no means convincing. "I wish I could take your view, Mr. Gifford," she returned, with the suggestion of a bitter smile. "I dare say if the authorities were left to themselves they might give up. But you forget a very potent factor in the tiresome business, the brother, Mr. Gervase Henshaw; he will keep them up to the work of investigation, will he not?" "Objectionable?" Gifford supplied as she hesitated. "Unpleasantly sharp and energetic, I should say. Although it is, perhaps, hardly fair to judge a man labouring under the stress of a brother's tragic death." "He is determined to get to the explanation of the mystery?" The tinge of excitement she had exhibited in her former question had now passed away: she now spoke in her habitual cold, even tone. "He says so. Naturally he will do all he can to that end. Of course it would be a satisfaction to know for certain how the tragedy came about: not that it matters much otherwise. But unfortunately he rather poses as an expert in criminology, and that will make for pertinacity." For a moment Miss Morriston kept silent. "It is very unfortunate," she murmured at length. "It will worry poor old Dick horribly. I think he is already beginning to wish he had never seen Wynford." "You think not," Miss Morriston responded mechanically. "Indeed I think so." As he spoke Gifford could not help a slight feeling of wonder that this girl, from whom he would have expected an attitude rather of indifference, should allow herself to be so greatly worried by the affair. For that she was far more troubled than she allowed to appear he was certain. It is her pride, he told himself. A high-bred girl like this would naturally hate the very idea of a sensational scandal under her roof, and all its unpleasant, rather sordid accompaniments. "I wish," he added with a touch of fervour, "that I could persuade you to dismiss any fear of annoyance from your mind." "Of course, of course I will," he answered with eager gladness. "Only let me know what you wish and you may command the very utmost I can do. And please don't think of me as a stranger." Edith Morriston smiled, and to Gifford it was the most fascinating smile he had ever seen. "Only let me know how I can serve you," he said, his pulses tingling. "Yes; he is expected there to-morrow morning, if not to-night." "Please, Miss Morriston!" Gifford pleaded. "To minimize any annoyance we are likely to suffer through his--his uncomfortable zeal," she resumed hesitatingly. "If not that, you may, if he is friendly with you, have an opportunity of getting to hear something of his plans and ideas, and warning me if he is likely to worry us at Wynford. We don't want the tragedy kept alive indefinitely; it would be intolerable. I am sure you understand how I feel. That is all." "You may rely on me to the utmost," Gifford assured her fervently, in answer to the question in her eyes. "Thank you," she said, as she rose. "I felt sure I might ask you this favour and trust you." She made a slight movement of putting out her hand. The gesture was coldly made; it might, indeed, have been checked, and gone for nothing. But Gifford, keenly on the alert for a sign of regard, was quick to take the hand and press it impulsively. "You may trust me, Miss Morriston," he murmured. "Thank you," she responded simply, but, he was glad to notice, with a touch of relief. She lightly took his arm and they went back to the ball-room. It was not until evening that he came across Henshaw, it being to his mind essential not to appear anxious or to seek out the criminologist with the obvious view of getting information as to his plans. "So you are back again, Mr. Henshaw," he said with a careless nod of greeting as they encountered in the hall of the hotel. "I hear the police have not yet arrived at any satisfactory conclusion." "There is a likelihood of our not being at a loss much longer," Henshaw replied, speaking through his teeth with a certain grim satisfaction. "What, you have made a discovery?" Gifford exclaimed. Henshaw's face hardened. "I am not yet at liberty to say what I have found," he returned in an uncompromising tone. "But I think you may take it from me as absolutely certain that my brother did not take his own life." "Certainly I do," Gifford agreed promptly. "And am quite content to restrain my curiosity till I get information from the papers." Eager as he was, Gifford resolved to show no further curiosity. "You know best," he rejoined almost casually. "But I hope for the Morristons' sake the mystery will be soon satisfactorily cleared up." There was a peculiar glitter in Henshaw's eyes as he replied, "No doubt they are anxious." "Naturally. They are getting rather worried by all this police fuss." "Naturally." Henshaw repeated Gifford's word with a curious emphasis. "It is unfortunate for them," he added. "But all the same it is imperative that the manner of my brother's death should be thoroughly investigated." He nodded, and as unwilling to discuss the matter further, opened a newspaper and turned away. About noon next day Gifford went with Kelson to Wynford Place. They had seen nothing more of Henshaw who, it seemed, was rather inclined to hold away from them, possibly with a view to avoiding an opportunity of discussing the affair, or because he was occupied in following up some clue he had, or thought he had, got hold of. This was naturally a disappointment to Gifford, who was anxious, on Miss Morriston's behalf, to keep himself posted as to Henshaw's intentions. "Of course," said Kelson, "the fellow will have heard of the stains found on Muriel's dress, and will set himself to make the most of that discovery. I only hope he won't take to worrying her. She is quite enough upset about it without that." "Doubtless that is why he is keeping away from us," Gifford observed. "He probably has heard of your engagement." "And has the decency to see that he cannot very well discuss the matter with us," Kelson added. On their arrival at Wynford Place Morriston told them that Gervase Henshaw was there with a detective in the room of the tragedy. "There is a decided improvement in his manner to-day," he said with a laugh. "He has been quite considerate and apologetic; so much so that I think I shall have to ask him to stay to luncheon; it seems rather churlish in the circumstances not to do so when the man is actually in the house on what should be to him a very sad business. But you fellows must stay too, to take off some of the strain." He presently took an opportunity of joining Edith Morriston in the garden. "Yes?" she responded, with a scarcely concealed curiosity to hear what had passed. "He has evidently got hold of some clue, or at least thinks he has," Gifford proceeded. "But what it is he did not tell me. In fact he rather declined to discuss the affair. I fancy he had had a long consultation with the police authorities." "And he would tell you nothing?" "Nothing. I rather expected he might have come, as before, to discuss the case with us, but he has made a point of keeping away. I hear, however, from your brother that he seems far less objectionable this time." Somewhat to Gifford's surprise, she gave a rather grudging assent. "Yes, I suppose he is. I happened to see him on his arrival, and he certainly was polite enough, but it is possible to be even objectionably polite." "Oh, no," she interrupted, "I can't say he has annoyed me--from his point of view." She laughed. "The man tried to be particularly agreeable, I think." "And succeeded in being the reverse," Gifford added. "I can quite understand. Still, it might be worse." "Oh, yes," she agreed in a tone which did nothing to abate his curiosity. The luncheon bell rang out and they turned. "I haven't thanked you for looking after our interests, Mr. Gifford," the girl said. "I have unfortunately been able to do nothing," he replied deprecatingly. "But you have tried," she rejoined graciously, "and it is not your fault if you have not succeeded. It is a comfort to think that we have a friend at hand ready to help us if need be, and I am most grateful." The unusual feeling in her tone thrilled him. "I should love to do something worthy of your gratitude," he responded, in a subdued tone. "You take a lower view of your service than I do," she rejoined as they reached the house, and no more could be said. At luncheon the improvement which their host had mentioned in Henshaw's attitude was strikingly apparent. His dogmatic self-assertiveness which had before been found so irritating was laid aside; his manner was subdued, his tone was sympathetic as he apologized for all the annoyance to which his host and hostess were being put. Gifford, watching him alertly, wondered at the change, and more particularly at its cause, which set him speculating. What did it portend? It seemed as though the complete alteration in the man's attitude and manner might indicate that he had got the solution of the mystery, and no longer had that problem to worry him. Certainly there was little to find fault with in him to-day. He could not quite reconcile it with the way she had spoken of him previously; but then he told himself that he was making too much of the business, and saw what was mere politeness through the magnifying glasses of jealousy. And so, secure in his position, he proceeded to view Henshaw's attempts to ingratiate himself with an amused equanimity. WHAT GIFFORD SAW IN THE WOOD He had not had that day an opportunity of any private talk with Miss Morriston, for she had driven out after luncheon to pay a call. But a certain suggestion of warmth in her leave-taking had assured him that she still looked for his help and that the conditions were not changed. "They don't seem to have come to any definite conclusion as to how the tragedy happened," Morriston said. "They have an idea, as I gather from Major Freeman, where to look for the murderer, if murder it was; which I am rather inclined to doubt." "Is Henshaw likely to give up the search?" Gifford asked. Morriston looked puzzled. "I can't make out," he answered in a slightly perplexed tone. "Even Freeman does not seem to know what his idea is. He is still about here." "Yes," Gifford replied. "I caught a glimpse of him this morning." "Curious," Morriston remarked. "I came across the fellow yesterday afternoon in the big plantation here. He was mooning about and didn't seem best pleased to see me, but he was quite duly apologetic, said he was puzzling over the tragedy and hoped I didn't mind his trespassing on my property. Of course I told him he was free to come and go as he liked, but it did strike me as peculiar that he should be thinking out the case in that plantation which has no possible connexion with the scene of the crime." "Yes, it was curious," Gifford agreed reflectively. "Did he tell you what he was doing about the business?" "Perhaps it is as well you didn't," Gifford replied. "He is suspicious enough to imagine you might have a motive in wanting to get rid of him." He had accordingly to be content with the resolve to keep a wary eye on Henshaw's movements. He was now pretty free to do this. The Tredworths had ended their visit at Wynford and had returned home, and naturally Kelson spent much of his time over there, leaving Gifford to his own devices. It had, in view of Gifford's commission from Miss Morriston, been arranged that he should share Kelson's rooms at the _Golden Lion_, no longer as a guest, so that both men were now independent of each other. The date of Kelson's wedding seemed now likely to be put off for some months, as his friend had suggested. The unpleasant episode of the stains on Muriel Tredworth's dress had, although there was no indication of attaching serious importance to them, nevertheless cast an uncomfortable shadow over the happiness of her betrothal, and without giving any specific reason she had declared for a postponement of the wedding, for which there was, after all, a quite natural reason. GIFFORD'S PERPLEXITY Next moment Gifford had instinctively sprung back into the covert of the trees, almost dazed by what he had seen. Henshaw and Edith Morriston! Could it be possible? His eyes must have deceived him. About the girl there could be no doubt. Her tall, graceful figure was unmistakable. But the man. Surely he had been mistaken there; it must have been her brother, or perhaps a friend who had been lunching with them. Had Gifford, his mind obsessed by Henshaw, jumped to a false conclusion? He stooped, and creeping warily beyond the fringe of trees looked after the pair. They had stopped now, at the end of the ride; the man talking earnestly, it seemed; Miss Morriston standing with head bent down and scoring the grass with her walking-stick as though in doubt or consideration. Would they turn and put the man's identity beyond uncertainty? Gifford had not long to wait. Miss Morriston seemed to draw off and began to walk back down the ride; her companion turned and promptly put himself by her side. There was no doubt now as to who he was. Gervase Henshaw. As Gifford stayed, hesitating between a breach of good form and a legitimate desire to learn whether the girl was being subjected to unfair treatment, the sound of Henshaw's rather penetrating voice came into earshot, and a few seconds later they passed across the line of Gifford's sight. Gifford recalled Morriston's story of having met Henshaw hanging about more or less mysteriously in the plantation, and the annoyance he had expressed at the encounter. The reason was plain enough now. Of course the man was waiting either to waylay Edith Morriston or to meet her by appointment. It was not a pleasant reflection; since the fact showed that these clandestine meetings had probably been going on for some days past. That Henshaw's object was more or less disreputable could not be doubted, and to Gifford the amazing and troubling part of it was that Edith Morriston, the very last woman he would have suspected of consenting to such a course, who had professed an absolute dislike and repugnance to Henshaw, and fear of his annoying presence, should be meeting him thus willingly. Had he not seen them with his own eyes he would have scoffed at the idea as something inconceivable. Kelson was in their sitting-room reading the _Field_. He started up as Gifford entered, and flung away the paper. "My dear Hugh, I've been waiting for you," he exclaimed. "What's the matter? Anything wrong?" Gifford asked with a certain apprehensive curiosity, as he noticed signs of suppressed excitement in his friend's face. "I don't know whether it's all wrong or whether it is all right," Kelson replied. "Anyhow it has relieved my mind a good deal." Controlling his own tendency to excitement, Gifford put aside his hat and stick and sat down. "Let's hear it," he said quietly. "Well, another unaccountable thing has, it appears, happened at Wynford Place. A pendant, or whatever you call it, to that which has been troubling Muriel. What do you think? As I was riding along the Loxford road this afternoon I met Dick Morriston, and he told me that another discovery of blood-stains has been made at Wynford. On a girl's ball-dress too. And on whose do you suppose it is?" "Not Miss Morriston's?" Gifford suggested breathlessly. Kelson nodded, with a slight look of surprise at the correctness of the guess. "Yes. Isn't it queer? Poor old Dick is in rather a way about it, and I must say the whole business is decidedly mysterious." Gifford was thinking keenly. "How did it come out? Who found the marks?" he asked. "And what are they doing about it?" Gifford asked. "Yes," Gifford responded mechanically, "of course it removes any serious suspicion from Miss Tredworth." "And," said Kelson eagerly, "it divides the odium, if there is any. In fact, to my mind, it reduces the whole suspicion to an absurdity. For that both girls could have been concerned in Henshaw's death is absolutely incredible." "Yes," Gifford agreed thoughtfully; "they could not both have had a hand in it." "Or either, for that matter," Kelson returned with a laugh. "Don't you admit that the idea is in the highest degree ridiculous?" he added more sharply as Gifford remained silent. "It is--inconceivable," he admitted abstractedly. Kelson, who had taken up his hat and crop and was turning to the door, wheeled round quickly. "My dear Hugh," he exclaimed impatiently, "what is the matter with you? What monstrous idea have you got in your head? You owe it to me, and I really must ask you, to speak out plainly. It seems almost an insult to Muriel to ask the question, but do you still persist in the notion that she had, even in the most innocent way, anything to do with Henshaw's death? Because I have her positive assurance that she knows nothing of it, beyond what is common knowledge." "I too am quite certain of that now," Gifford answered. "Why do you say now?" Kelson demanded sourly. "Surely you never seriously entertained such an abominable idea." "On your honour that is your opinion?" "This new discovery has changed your opinion?" "It has at least shown me how dangerous it may be to jump to conclusions." Kelson drew in a breath. "Yes, indeed. Poor Muriel has suffered from the suspicion as well as from the horrible shock of the discovery. Still, this new development, though it acquits her, does nothing towards solving the mystery. I wonder whether Edith Morriston has any idea as to how her dress got marked." "I wonder," Gifford responded abstractedly. Thinking out the situation strenuously Gifford determined to seek a private interview with Edith Morriston and offer himself as her protector. At the worst she could but snub him, and the chances were, he thought, greatly in favour of her accepting his offer of help. For from her character he judged she was not a girl to make a stronger appeal to him than the casual invoking of his assistance which had already taken place. He had a very cogent reason for believing that he could be of assistance, although there were certain elements in the mystery which might, in his ignorance of them, upset his calculations. Anyhow in consideration of the trust Edith Morriston had shown in him he would seek an interview with her and chance what it might bring forth. In pursuance of this plan Gifford proposed to his friend that they should call at Wynford Place on the next day. Kelson had returned from the Tredworths in high spirits, the news he carried there having lifted a weight off his fiancee's mind and indeed restored the happiness of the whole family. There was no cloud over the engagement now, and they could all look forward to the marriage without a qualm. If Kelson might, in ordinary circumstances, have wondered at the motive for his friend's proposal, which was but thinly disguised, he was in too happy a state of preoccupation to trouble his head about it. "I'm your man," he responded promptly. "It so happens that Muriel is lunching at Wynford to-morrow, so it will suit me well enough. I shouldn't be surprised if we get a note in the morning asking us to lunch there too." The morning, however, brought no note of invitation; a failure which rather surprised Kelson, although Gifford thought he could account for it. "Could I speak to you, sir?" the man said, stopping short a little distance away. Morriston went forward to him, and after they had spoken together he turned round, and with an "Excuse me for a few minutes," went off towards the house with the butler. So at last the opportunity had come. Gifford glanced at his companion and noticed that her face had gone a shade paler than before the interruption. "I wonder what can be the matter," she observed, a little anxiously Gifford thought. Then she laughed. "I dare say it is nothing; Stent is becoming absurdly fussy; and all the alarms and discoveries we have had lately have not diminished the tendency." "The latest discovery must have come rather as a relief," Gifford ventured tentatively. "Hardly that," Gifford replied with a smile. "There can be no cause for that fear. By the way," he added more seriously, "I owe you an account of my failure to gain any information for you with regard to Mr. Gervase Henshaw's plans." "He is not communicative?" Miss Morriston suggested casually. Gifford shook his head. "No, I am never able to get hold of him. In fact, it seems as though he rather makes a point of avoiding us. And if we do meet, he is vagueness and reticence personified." They were walking slowly back along the shrubbery path. The girl turned to him for an instant, her expression softened in a look of gratitude. "It is very kind of you, Mr. Gifford, to take all this trouble for us. And I am sure it is not your fault that the result is not what you might wish. It was rather absurd of me to set you the task. But I am none the less grateful. Please think that, and do not bother about it any more." "But if the man is likely to annoy you," he urged. "Have you longer any reason to fear him?" "We thought he might be unscrupulous and might make himself objectionable." She shrugged. "I dare say it is possible." He thought the blood left her face for an instant, but otherwise she showed no sign of discomposure. "How did he account for his being there?" she asked calmly. "Unsatisfactorily enough. I forget his actual excuse." "Was that all?" she demanded coldly. "I believe so. But it is hardly desirable, as your brother said, to have the man prowling about the property." For a moment she was silent. "No," she said as though by an afterthought. Her manner troubled him. "I hope he is not attempting to annoy you," he said searchingly. She looked surprised and, he thought, a little resentful at his question. "Me?" she returned coldly. "By hanging about in the plantation?" "Why should he?" she demanded in the same rather chilling tone. "I don't know," Gifford replied, set back by her manner. "Except that I have no high opinion of the fellow. It occurred to me he might possibly attempt to persecute you." She glanced round at him curiously with a little disdainful smile. "What makes you think he would do that?" she returned. Her attitude was to him not convincing. He felt there was a certain reservation beneath the rather cutting tone. "I am glad to know there is no question of that," he replied with quiet earnestness. "I hope if anything of the kind should occur and you should need a friend you will not overlook me." "You are very kind," she responded, but without turning towards him. He thought, however, that her low tone had softened, and it gave him hope. His companion had glanced round now, keenly, as though to probe for the meaning which might lie beneath his words. He speculated whether she might be wondering how much he knew; was he cognisant of her meeting with Henshaw? But, whatever her thought, she answered in the same even voice, "There is nothing to forgive. On the contrary I am most grateful." They were nearing the house, and Gifford was debating whether he dared suggest another turn along the shrubbery path, when Richard Morriston appeared at the hall door, beckoned to them, and went in again. "I wonder what Dick wants. Has anything more come to light?" Miss Morriston observed with a rather bored laugh as she slightly quickened her pace. As they went in she called, "Dick!" and he answered her from the library. There they found him with Kelson and Muriel Tredworth. A glance at their faces told Gifford that they were all in a state of scarcely suppressed excitement. "I say, Edith, what do you think?" her brother exclaimed. "We've made a rather important discovery. Were you in the middle room of the tower during the dance?" For a moment his sister did not answer. "No; I don't think I was," she said, with what seemed to Gifford a certain amount of apprehension in her eyes, although her expression was calm enough. "Oh, but, my dear girl, you must have been," Morriston insisted vehemently. "We have found the explanation of the stains on Miss Tredworth's dress and on yours." "You have?" his sister replied, looking at him curiously. "Yes; beyond all doubt. The mystery is made clear. Come and see." "Muriel was sitting just at that end of the sofa when I proposed to her," Kelson said in a low voice to Gifford. "I am delighted the matter is so completely accounted for," his friend returned. "What fools we were ever to have taken it so tragically." But his expression changed as he glanced at Edith Morriston; she had denied that she had been in the room. "I have sent down to the police to tell them of the discovery," Morriston was saying. "The fact is that since the tragedy the servants appear to have rather shunned this part of the house, or at any rate to have devoted as little time to it as possible. Otherwise this would have come to light sooner. Anyhow it is a source of congratulation to Miss Tredworth and you, Edith. Of course you must have been in here." "I remember sitting just there; ugh!" Miss Tredworth said with a shudder. "I can swear to that," Kelson corroborated with a knowing smile. "You must have done the same or brushed against the sofa, Edith," Morriston said cheerfully. "Well, I'm glad that's settled, although it brings us no nearer towards solving the mystery of what happened overhead." "No," Kelson remarked. "It looks as though that was going to remain a mystery." The butler came in. "Major Freeman is here, sir," he said, "with Mr. Henshaw, and would like to speak to you." "Alfred met Major Freeman and Mr. Henshaw with the detective just beyond the lodge gates, sir." "Then they were coming up here independently of my message?" "Yes, sir. Alfred gave Major Freeman the message and came back." "In the library, sir." Involuntarily Gifford had glanced at Edith Morriston. She was standing impassively with set face; and at his glance she turned away to the window. But not before he had caught in her eyes a look which he hated to see, a look which seemed to confirm a suspicion already in his mind. "I wonder what these fellows have come to say," he observed as he paced the room. "Let's hope to announce that at last they are going to leave you in peace, Edith," Miss Tredworth said. Edith Morriston did not alter her position as she stood looking out of the window. "Thank you for your kind wish, Muriel," she responded in a cold voice; "but I'm afraid that is too much to hope for just yet." Gifford was looking, held by the grip of his imagination, at the tall figure by the window; wondering what was passing behind that veil of impassiveness. "I don't see what they can have found out away from this house," he said, rousing himself by an effort to answer; "and they don't seem to have been here lately." "Well, we shall see," Kelson said casually. "Ah, here comes Dick back again." Morriston hurried in with a serious face. In answer to Kelson's, "Well, Dick?" he said. "Very well, dear; you shall hear all about it later on," her brother responded, and led the way down to the library. Gifford was the last to leave the room, and his glance back showed him that Edith Morriston had turned again to the window and resumed her former attitude. In the library were the chief constable, Gervase Henshaw and a local detective. "Now, Major Freeman," Morriston said as he closed the door, "we shall be glad to hear this new piece of evidence." Major Freeman bowed. "Shortly, it comes to this," he began. "A young woman named Martha Haynes, belonging to Branchester, called at my office this morning and made a statement which, if reliable, must have an important bearing on this mysterious case. "She says she had stood there for some little time when her attention was suddenly diverted to what seemed a mysterious movement on the outside of the tower. A dark body, presumably a human being, appeared to be slowly sliding down the wall from the topmost window. Unfortunately before she could quite realize what she was looking at--and we may imagine that a country girl would take some little time to grasp so unusual a situation--a cloud drifted across the moon and threw the tower into shadow. "It appears that she had taken cold by her loitering and soon after reaching her destination became so ill that she had to keep her bed, and it was only on her recovery a few days ago that she heard what had happened here that night. Directly she could get away she came over and told her story to us." "A pity she could not have come before," Morriston remarked as the chief constable paused. "Her evidence is highly important, disposing as it does of the mystery of the locked door." "Yes," Major Freeman agreed, "and also of the suicide theory. The question now is--who was the person who was seen descending from the window?" "Could this girl tell whether it was a man or a woman?" The question came from Henshaw, who had hitherto kept silent. "No," Gifford agreed. "And there would seem little chance of identifying the person." "None at all so far as the girl Haynes is concerned," Major Freeman replied. "But we have something to go upon; a starting point for a new line of inquiry. The person seen escaping must have lowered himself by a rope from that top window and a considerable length would be required. I have taken the liberty, Mr. Morriston, of setting a party of my men to search the grounds for the rope; they will begin by dragging the little lake." "By all means," Morriston assented. "Detective Sprules," the chief proceeded, "would like to make another examination of the ironwork of the window. May he go up now?" "Certainly," Morriston answered, and the detective left the room. Gifford spoke. "The girl saw nothing of the escaping person after he reached the ground?" "Nothing, she says," Major Freeman answered. "But the base of the tower was in deep shadow, which would prevent that." "A pity her curiosity was not a little more practical," Henshaw observed. "There must have been a motive for the act," Kelson observed. "Unless it was a sudden quarrel." "There appears," Major Freeman put in, "to be no evidence whatever of anything leading up to that." "No; the cause is so far quite mysterious," Henshaw said. It seemed to Gifford that there was something of undisclosed knowledge behind his words, and he fell to wondering how far the motive was mysterious to him. Morriston proceeded to acquaint Major Freeman with the discovered cause of the marks on the ladies' dresses, and they all went off to the lower room where the position of the stains was pointed out. Edith Morriston was no longer there. "Miss Tredworth sat at this end of the sofa," Morriston explained, "and so the marks on her dress are clearly accounted for." "And Miss Morriston?" Henshaw put the question in a tone which had in it, Gifford thought, a touch of scepticism. "Oh, my sister must have been in here too," Morriston replied. "Or how could her dress have been stained? Unless, indeed, she brushed against Miss Tredworth's or someone else's. That's clear." There seemed no alacrity in Henshaw to accept the conclusion and he did not respond. "I am glad this part of the mystery is so satisfactorily settled," the chief constable remarked. "Now we have the issue narrowed. Well, Sprules?" The detective had appeared at the door. "I have examined the ironwork of the window, sir," he said, "and have found under the magnifying-glass traces of the fraying of a rope as though caused by friction against the iron staple." "Sufficient signs to bear out the young woman's statement?" "Quite, sir. There is upon close examination distinct evidence of a rope having been worked against the hinge of the window." "Very good, Sprules. We may consider that point settled," Major Freeman said. Having finally satisfied themselves as to the cause of the stains on the floor and sofa, the chief constable and his subordinate proposed to go to the lake and see whether the men who were dragging it had had any success. Morriston and Henshaw with Kelson and Gifford accompanied them. As they came in sight of the boat the detective exclaimed, "They have found it!" and the men were seen hauling up a rope out of the water. "Sooner than I expected," Major Freeman observed as they hurried towards the nearest point to the boat. "The escaping person," Henshaw said, "must have slid down the doubled rope which had been passed through the staple of the window, and then when the ground was reached have pulled it away, coiled it up, carried it to the lake, and thrown it in. Obviously that was the procedure and it accounts completely for the locked door." The chief constable and the detective agreed. "A man would want some nerve to come down from that height," the latter remarked. "Any man, or woman either for that matter," Henshaw returned dogmatically, "would not hesitate to take the risk as an alternative to being trapped up there with his victim." "You are not suggesting it might have been a woman who was seen sliding down the rope?" Gifford asked pointedly. Henshaw shrugged. "I suggest nothing as to the person's identity," he replied in a sharply guarded tone. "That is now what remains to be discovered." The police authorities with Henshaw and Morriston went off with the rope to experiment in the room of the tragedy. "I don't suppose we are wanted," Kelson said quietly to Gifford; "let's go for a turn round the garden. I wonder where Muriel has got to." They found Miss Tredworth on the lawn. "I am waiting for Edith," she said. "We'll stroll on and Gifford can bring Miss Morriston after us," Kelson suggested, and the lovers moved away, leaving Gifford, much to his satisfaction, waiting for Edith Morriston. In a few minutes she made her appearance. Gifford mentioned the arrangement and they strolled off by the path the others had taken. It seemed to Gifford that his companion's manner was rather abnormal; unlike her usual cold reserve there were signs of a certain suppressed excitement. "I hope," she said, "that Major Freeman and his people are satisfied with our discovery that the marks on Muriel's dress and mine came there by accident." "Evidently quite convinced," Gifford answered. "That's well," she responded with a rather forced laugh. "It was rather too bad to suspect us, on that evidence, of knowing anything about the affair." "I don't suppose for a moment they did," Gifford assured her. "I don't know," the girl returned. "Anyhow it was rather an embarrassing, not to say painful, position for us to be in. But that is at an end now." Nevertheless Gifford could tell that she was not so thoroughly relieved as her words implied. "Completely," he declared. "You have heard of the new piece of evidence?" he added casually. For a moment she stopped with a start, instantly recovering herself. "No; what is that?" in a tone almost of unconcern. Gifford told her of the statement made by the country girl and its corroboration in the finding of the rope. As he continued he felt sure that the story was gripping his companion more and more closely. At last she stopped dead and turned to him with eyes which had in them intense mystification as well as fear. "Mr. Gifford, do you believe that story?" "I see no reason for disbelieving it," he answered quietly. "It is practically the only conceivable solution of the mystery of the locked door." "But," Gifford argued gently, "her statement is confirmed by the finding of the rope." Edith Morriston was thinking strenuously, desperately, he could see that. The words she spoke were but mechanical, the mere froth of a seething brain. Yet her splendid self-command--and he recognized it with admiration--never deserted her, however supreme the struggle may have been to retain it. A seat was by them; she went across the path to it and sat down. Gifford saw that she was deadly pale. "I fear this wretched business is upsetting you, Miss Morriston," he said gently. "Let me run to the house and fetch something to revive you." "No, no; of course not," she responded. "And, after all, I am bound to hear all about it sooner or later. Sit down and tell me your opinion of the affair. Supposing the girl was not mistaken who do you think the person seen escaping from the window could have been?" "That is difficult to say." "A thief, no doubt." "That is a natural conclusion." "Have the police any idea?" "Not that I know of. I should say decidedly no definite idea." "Whatever Mr. Henshaw's ideas may be he keeps them to himself." Miss Morriston checked the remark she had seemed about to make, and for a few minutes there was an awkward silence. Gifford broke it. "I am so sorry that I have been unable to get any hint of his intentions. Believe me, it has not been for want of trying. But the man, for reasons best known to himself, seems determined to remain inscrutable." The girl was staring in front of her. "Yes," she responded, with a catch of her breath; "that is evident. But it does not much matter. I know you have tried your best to do what I was foolish enough to ask you. And now please do not think any more of it. In my ignorance of the man's character I set you an impossible task. All I can do now is to thank you for your sympathy and devotion." Her tone pained him horribly. "I hope, Miss Morriston," he replied warmly, "you are not asking me to end my devotion." She gave a little bitter laugh. "Seeing that it is useless I have no right to ask its continuance," she replied almost coldly, "nor to expect you to involve yourself in my--in our worries." "But if I ask to be allowed that privilege?" he urged. She shook her head. "No, no, my friend," she insisted, with less warmth than the words implied, "it can lead to no good and would be a mistake. Let the man alone. To involve yourself with him can bring you nothing but trouble. Promise me you will take no further heed of this unhappy business." She turned to him as she spoke the last words, and there seemed less trouble in her face than in his. For at his heart there was a sickening fear and suspicion of what the words portended. "I can't promise that," he objected. "But I ask you; it is my wish," she returned with a touch of command. "For my sake, or yours?" he rejoined. "For both. Give me your promise. You must if we are to remain friends." Her look and the fascination in her voice seemed to pull the very heart out of him. "No, you don't understand," she interrupted quickly. "It is enough to know that you have taken a girl's foolish commission too seriously, so seriously as to run the risk of making things even worse than they threatened to be. Now I ask you to leave well alone." "If it is well," he said doubtfully. "Of course. Why should it not be?" she rejoined, in a not very convincing tone. "Now I shall rely on you--and I am sure it will not be in vain--to respect my wishes. Things seem to be in a horrible muddle," she added with a rather dreary laugh, "but let's hope they will right themselves before long." She rose, compelling him to rise too. Something in the tone and manner of her last speech made him quite unwilling to end their conference, and desperately anxious to speak out everything that was in his mind and try to bring matters to a crisis. "Don't go for a moment," he said as she began to move away towards the house. "I have something to say to you." She turned quickly and faced him with a suggestion of displeasure in her eyes. "What is it?" she said with a touch of impatience. "Only this," he answered quietly. "Have you lost a brooch, Miss Morriston?" At the question the blood left her cheeks as it had done a little while before; then surged back till her face was suffused. "I think so," he answered, taking out his letter-case. "A pearl, set in diamonds mounted on a safety-pin?" He opened the case and showed it pinned into the soft lining. Gifford bent his head over the case as he unfastened the brooch and took it out. "Where--where did you find it?" Something in the girl's voice made him glad that he was not looking at her. "In the garden," he said. "In the garden?" she repeated. He was looking up now and saw the intense relief in her face. "To-day?" It was plain she divined what he meant, but her cold manner came to the aid of her embarrassment. "I am only too glad to have it again. I am so glad you found it." "So am I," he responded with a touch of fervour. "I wish I could relieve your mind of everything else as easily." He caught it as she was in the act of checking the action and drawing it back. "You may be sure--quite sure, of my devotion," he said, and raised her hand to his lips. An exclamation and a sudden start as the hand was quickly withdrawn made him look up. Edith Morriston's eyes were fixed with something like fear on an object behind him. An intuition told him what it was before he looked round to see Henshaw, with his characteristic, rather stealthy walk, coming towards them. "This man shall not annoy you," he said in an undertone. "Don't quarrel with him, for heaven's sake," she entreated in the same tone, under her breath, as the disturbing presence drew near. There was a strange excitement in her voice, though none in the set face. "I was just going to look for him," the girl replied in a voice strangely changed from that in which she had talked with Gifford. "Isn't it lucky? Mr. Gifford has picked up in the garden a brooch I lost some days ago. I did not dare to tell Dick, as it was his gift." Henshaw gave a casual glance at the ornament. "I congratulate you," he responded coolly. Then Gifford saw his eyes seek hers as he added: "Where was it found? Near the tower?" The covert malice of the insinuation was plain in the questioner's look, although the tone was casual enough. "No. On the lawn," Gifford replied quietly. Gifford on his part determined that this intolerable state of things must come to an end, and that in spite of the command laid upon him by the girl, he would now pit himself against her persecutor. He had given no actual promise, and even if he had it would have been drawn from him in ignorance of certain means which he possessed of help in this crisis. Naturally Gifford's suspicions connected Edith Morriston with the circumstance, and yet he told himself the idea was monstrously improbable. It was more likely that Henshaw was bound upon some search with the police. His movements were and had been for some time mysterious enough. Gifford's impulse as he turned into the high road was to stay there in concealment and watch for the upshot of Henshaw's presence. The suggestion did not, however, altogether commend itself to him. He disliked the idea of spying even upon such a man as Henshaw, whom he had good reason to suspect of playing a dastardly game. It was probable, too, that Henshaw had recognized him and might be on the look-out; it would be intensely humiliating to be caught watching. So, turning the pros and cons over in his mind, Gifford walked slowly on in a state of irresolution till he came to a wicket-gate which admitted from the road to a path which ran through the churchyard. There he stopped, debating with himself whether he should turn back and keep an eye on Henshaw or go on into the church where service was just beginning. It did seem absurd to imagine that Henshaw with his conveyance could be waiting there by appointment for a girl of the character and position of Edith Morriston. True, he had seen them walking together in secret, which was strange enough, but that need not necessarily have been a planned meeting. Such an urgent curiosity had hold of him at the bare possibility of something wrong that he, temporizing with his scruples, was about to turn back to the lane, when he saw the figure of a woman coming towards him along the churchyard path. She was tall and so far as he could make out, muffled in a cloak and veil. His heart gave a leap, for although the woman's face and figure were indistinguishable the height and gait corresponded with those of Edith Morriston. As she came near the little gate where he stood she stopped dead, seemed to hesitate a moment, and then turned as though to go back. Determined to set his doubts at rest Gifford passed quickly through the gate and followed her at an overtaking pace. Evidently sensible of her pursuit, the woman quickened her steps and, as Gifford gained on her, turned quickly from the path, threading her way among the graves to escape him. She had gone but a few steps when in her hurry she tripped over the mound of a small, unmarked grave and fell to the ground. Gifford ran to her and taking her arm assisted her to rise. "Miss Morriston!" he exclaimed, for he now was sure of her identity. "I hope you are not hurt," he added mechanically, his mind full of a greater and more critical contingency. "I was," he answered. "And you?" "I was too," she said, conquering her embarrassment, "but I have a headache, and prefer the fresh air. Don't let me keep you," she held out her hand. "Service has begun." He took her hand. "Miss Morriston," he said gravely, "don't think me very unmannerly, but I am not going to leave you here." In the bright moonlight he could see her expression of rather haughty surprise. "I think you are unmannerly, Mr. Gifford," she retorted defiantly. "May I ask why you are not going to leave me here?" "Because," he answered with quiet decision, "Mr. Henshaw is waiting just there in Turner's Lane." "Is he?" The same defiant note; but there was anxiety behind the cold pretence. "Yes. And pardon me, I have an idea he is waiting there for you." His firm tone and manner baffled equivocation. "What is it to you if he is?" she returned with a brave attempt to suggest cold displeasure. But her lip trembled and her voice was scarcely steady. He held up his hand. "Please let me finish, Miss Morriston. I can convince you that I am not taking too much upon myself. I am no fool and am not interfering without warrant. This man Henshaw has succeeded in persuading you that you are in his power. That is very far from being the case, and I can prove it." "I don't understand you, Mr. Gifford." The tone of cold annoyance was gone now. Relief and a vague hope seemed to be struggling with an almost overwhelming anxiety. For a while she was silent, her breath coming quickly, as she hesitated how to meet the direct question. Gifford hated, yet somehow rejoiced, to see this proud, cold-mannered girl brought to this pass, and the reason he rejoiced lay in the knowledge that he could help her out of it. At length she spoke. "Mr. Gifford, I trust you as a man of honour. Your conjecture is right, but unhappily there is no help for it." "There is help," he declared reassuringly. "Can this man prove that you are in any way guilty of his brother's death?" The girl gave a shiver. "He can by implication," she admitted in a low voice. "Not actually, perhaps. But far enough to disgrace me and mine for ever," she said with a sob. "And with that idea he terrorizes you?" The question was put with quiet sternness. "Yes, yes; but I cannot help it! I cannot bear it. Oh, let me go." She seemed now in an agony of fear. Gifford laid his hand on her as she sought to move away towards the gate and the waiting enemy. "Miss Morriston," he said with decision, "you must not go; you must have no more communication with this man Henshaw. He can prove nothing against you, while I can prove everything in your favour." "Exactly what I say," he returned decisively, "I can prove, if need be, that you had no hand in that cowardly ruffian's death." "You? How?" the girl gasped, staring at him with dilated eyes. "I will convince you," he answered quietly. "When I told you the other day that I had found your brooch on the lawn I said, for an obvious reason, what was not true. I found it in the room where Clement Henshaw died." "You did," the girl gasped almost in terror. "When?" "A few minutes after his death," Gifford replied calmly. "I happened to be present in the room when he came by his fatal wound." AN INVOLUNTARY EAVESDROPPER As she heard the words Edith Morriston stood for a moment as though transfixed, and then staggered back grasping at a tombstone for support. Gifford took a quick step forward, but before he could be of help she had recovered from the shock, and motioning him back, was looking at him with incredulous eyes. "You were there?" she repeated, with more suspicion now than unbelief. "In that room at the top of the tower; yes; by accident," he answered in a tone calculated to reassure her. "Then you know--you saw what happened?" He bowed his head in assent. "Enough to be sure that Mr. Clement Henshaw was a great scoundrel, and that his fate was not altogether unmerited. Now," he added in a tone of decision, "you will have nothing more to do with this Gervase Henshaw, or he with you." It was good to see the eager relief in Edith Morriston's eyes. "And you never told me this before," she said. "I could not very well," he replied. "And I should not have told you now had I not been forced to protect you from this man. It is a dangerous position for me to stand in, and I should in ordinary circumstances have let the affair remain a mystery." "I understand your position," she responded, with a look of gratitude. "But you can trust me." "Indeed I can," he assured her with infinite content. "I don't realize it now," the girl said, with signs that she was fighting against the effect of the reaction. "Can you trust me enough to tell me how it all happened?" "Dick is at church," she said, a little shamefacedly, it seemed. "I gave him the slip." "Oh, don't talk of that now," she entreated. "I knew it meant horrible misery for the rest of my life, but anything seemed better than the terrible scandal which threatened us." "With which Henshaw threatened you, the scoundrel," Gifford corrected. "Now you shall see how little he really had to go upon." "And yet," she murmured, "it seemed overwhelming. I can scarcely believe even now that the danger is past." "Wait till you hear my story," he said with a reassuring smile. They had entered the enclosed path, called Church Walk, and passing the branch which led to the drive, kept on between the tall laurel hedges. "We shall be quite undisturbed here," the girl said. "Dick is sure to turn off and go in by the drive. Now, Mr. Gifford, do trust me and tell me everything." "I hope it is not necessary to talk of trust between us," he replied, with as much tenderness as his chivalry permitted. "No; forgive me; I hope not," she responded quietly. "Now please tell me, Mr. Gifford, what I am longing to hear." "Yes; I remember he arrived quite early," Edith Morriston murmured. As he paused, his companion looked round at him inquiringly. "Yes," she said, with a certain suggestion of reticence; "I remember that too." Gifford continued. "Having seen Kelson off, I went up to our sitting-room to wait till my kit should arrive. I was very keen on seeing again the old place where in my young days I used to spend such happy months, and my enforced waiting soon became almost intolerable boredom. The result was that I got a fit of the fidgets; I could not settle down to read, and at last, having still an hour to spare, I resolved in my restlessness to stroll out and take a preliminary look from outside at what was practically my old home." "Yes." There was a catch of growing excitement in Edith Morriston's voice, which was scarcely above a whisper. "The couple had now reached the landing below and, so far as I could tell, went into the room. I was just about to make a quick descent, hoping to get past that and other awkward points unnoticed, when to my dismay I became aware that the people whom I had thought safely settled in the room below had come out and were beginning to mount the topmost flight of stairs. This was indeed a most awkward predicament for me, and I debated for a moment whether my best course would not be to go boldly down the stairs and pass them, rather than retreat to the top room. If I had chosen the former course how differently things might have turned out; at any rate, for better or worse, the situation as it exists to-day might have presented itself in quite another form." Edith Morriston glanced quickly at Gifford as he uttered the reflection. She seemed about to speak, but checked the impulse, and he continued: "Treading noiselessly, I bolted up the remaining stairs and went into the dark room at the top. At the door, which stood open, I stopped and listened. To my intense vexation, for the situation was becoming decidedly unpleasant, the pair were still coming up. In silence now, but I could hear their approaching footsteps and the rustle of the lady's dress. Unfortunately, there was no corner on the top landing where I could stand hidden, so I was forced to draw back into the room. GIFFORD CONTINUES HIS STORY "The lady's reply was given in a tone so low that at the distance I stood the words were indistinguishable. "It was more than clear to me now that I was to be the witness of a very hateful piece of business. The man's tone, even more than his words, made my blood boil, and I began to congratulate myself on being thus accidentally in a position to protect, if need be, the girl whom this fellow was evidently bullying. With the utmost care I crept nearer to the small curtained arch which admitted to the larger room. The pitch darkness of the little turret chamber in which I stood made me feel quite safe from observation. And I had no qualms now about eavesdropping; the situation surely justified it. "You had no idea who the lady was?" Edith Morriston interrupted him to ask. "Naturally not the vaguest," Gifford answered. "When I had gone as far as was safe, I set myself to listen again. "'I don't know what your game is or whether you think you can play the fool with me,' Henshaw was saying in an ugly tone. 'But I warn you not to try it; I am not a man to be fooled. Now let us be friends again,' he added in a softer tone. "It seemed as though he put out his hand for a caress, for the girl started back and I heard her say 'Never!' "'Folly!' he exclaimed. Then took a step forward. 'You are in love with another man?' he demanded. I could hear the hiss of the question. "'If I were I should not tell you,' was the defiant reply in a low voice. "'You would not?' he snapped viciously. 'Let me tell you this, then. You shall never marry another man while I live. I hold the bar to that, as you will find.' "'Fair?' the girl echoed in scorn. "'Yes, fair,' Henshaw insisted with some heat. 'I saved you from a scandal that would have ruined you, and it was natural I should ask my reward. But your notions of gratitude, which had led me on to love you, soon evaporated; but I am not so easily dismissed.' "'Don't touch me!' she said hoarsely as he approached her. "He had driven her to the other corner on the window side of the room. As I leaned forward ready to fasten on the man when he should offer violence I heard a peculiar sound as of a loose piece of wood or iron striking the sill. "'Keep away!' the girl said in a hoarse whisper. 'If you drive me to desperation I swear I will kill you.' "There followed a vicious laugh from Henshaw and I could tell from the panting which followed that a struggle was going on. Just then the moon came out and I could see that Henshaw was trying to get some object--a weapon, I guessed--away from the girl. It is a wonder that neither of them saw me. In the dark opening I must have still been practically hidden, and they too intent on their struggle to notice anything beyond. "He must have been most horribly surprised, for he uttered a gasping cry as he spun round, and instead of keeping his feet and rushing at me as I expected he went down with a thud by the window." They had stopped in their walk now, and Edith Morriston was listening almost breathlessly to Gifford's graphic story. Never for a moment had he suggested the lady's identity; for all that had passed neither of them might have known it. "I turned quickly to the door," Gifford continued, "but to my surprise the lady whom I expected to find there had disappeared. I could neither see nor hear any sign of her. "I took a step back into the room, fully expecting an onslaught from the infuriated Henshaw. 'You cowardly brute!' I exclaimed in the heat of my anger and excitement. But no reply came, and to my wonder he lay still on the floor where he had fallen." "'You had better get up and clear out of this house,' I said wrathfully, 'before you get the thrashing you so richly deserve.' "Naturally I was not greatly concerned at the fellow's condition, whichever it was; still it would, I concluded, be well to settle the matter, and if he was merely skulking see that he cleared out of the house. I shut the door, and then crossing to where the man lay, struck a match and held it out to get a view of him. "He lay on his face with his arms bent under him. I prodded him with my foot, but he did not stir; he lay absolutely, rather uncannily still. The match burned out; I struck another and leaned over to get a sight of his face. To my horror there met my eyes a dark wet patch on the floor which I instinctively felt must be blood. You may imagine the terrible thrill the conviction gave me. Yet I could not believe even then that anything really serious had happened. "Then you know it was an accident?" Edith Morriston drew a great breath of relief from the painful tension with which she had listened. "I can see it was a pure accident," Gifford answered. "All the same it was an accident with an ugly look about it, and I quickly realized that I was in an equivocal--not to say dangerous, situation." "It was a terrible predicament for you," the girl said sympathetically. "I went out to the landing, closing the door after me, with the idea of getting down the stairs and escaping into the garden as secretly as I had come in. I had crept down a very few stairs when I found this was not to be. A chatter of voices just below told me that people were in the tower, and leaning over I could see couples passing between the passage to the hall and the room below me. "At any moment, I realized, some of them might take it into their heads to explore the topmost room, when the result would be disastrous. Certainly in my mufti I could not get past the next floor just then without exciting fatal notice, and to wait for an opportunity when the coast might be clear was too dangerous, seeing the risk of someone coming up. He stopped awkwardly, just as by inadvertence he was about to say that which all along he had studiously refrained from suggesting. "To suspect me," Edith Morriston completed his sentence with a smile. Edith Morriston drew in a deep breath as Gifford ceased speaking. "It is very kind and chivalrous of you, Mr. Gifford," she said in a low voice, "to run this risk for me, although your telling me the story shall never involve you in danger." "I am ready for your sake to face any danger the telling of my secret may hold for me," he responded firmly. "I am sure of that, as I am sure of you," she replied. Then added with a change of tone, "You were certain for a while that Muriel Tredworth had not only been guilty of something discreditable in her past but had stabbed to death in your presence the man who knew her secret." "I'm afraid there seemed to me no alternative but to believe it," he acknowledged. The question was put searchingly and was not to be evaded. "That would be a natural consequence," Gifford admitted frankly. "But there was in my mind always a growing doubt whether the wound had not been given accidentally. And that doubt became almost certainty when the real identity of Henshaw's victim became apparent." Edith Morriston looked at him steadily. "You know it--for certain?" she asked almost coldly. "Naturally I cannot fail to know it now," he answered sympathetically. She gave a rather bitter laugh. "I shall not deny it to you, Mr. Gifford, even if I thought it could be of any use. But, knowing so much, you owe it to me to hear my explanation of matters which look so black against me, and above all to accept my absolute assurance that so far as I am concerned Clement Henshaw's wound was quite accidental. Indeed I never dreamt that he had been hurt until his body was found." Gifford seized her hand by an irresistible impulse. "Miss Morriston, if you only knew how glad and relieved I am to hear you say that!" he exclaimed. "When you hear my story," she said, composedly but with an underlying bitterness which was hardly to be concealed, "the story of a long martyrdom of persecution--for it has been nothing less--you will acquit me of being guilty of anything disreputable. What I did was innocent enough and it moreover was forced upon me." "Tell me," he urged tenderly. "Well. I will be there." "It is rather a long way for you to come," she said, "but there are reasons for avoiding the big wood with the rides." "Ah, yes," she admitted with a shudder, "I will tell you about that." "I think I can guess," he said quietly. "Now in the meantime you will take no notice of this man if he writes or tries to see you. He will probably be exasperated by your not keeping the appointment this evening and may determine to put the screw on." "Yes," she agreed with a lingering fear in her voice. "Leave him to me to deal with," Gifford said reassuringly. "And do make up your mind that all will be well." "I will, thanks to you, my friend in need." And so, with a warm pressure of the hands, they parted. EDITH MORRISTON'S STORY Next morning Gifford was in good time at the rendezvous, a sequestered corner of the park, and Edith Morriston soon joined him. "Let us come into the summer-house," she suggested; "it will be more convenient for my long story." She took out a note and handed it to him. "Only that," she said with an uneasy laugh. "A thinly veiled threat," Gifford observed. "The man in his way seems as great a bully as his brother. May I keep this? I am going to see Mr. Henshaw presently, and have a serious talk with him. After which I shall hope to be able to convince you that your troubles are at an end." "The knowledge that I have been of service to you will be my great reward. I hope I am sufficiently a gentleman not to ask or expect any other." She made no reply. They had entered the little rustic summer-house, and sat down. "Dick has driven into Branchester," Edith Morriston said, perhaps to end an embarrassing pause. "He will not be back till luncheon, so we are not likely to be interrupted." "That's well," Gifford answered. "Now please begin what I am most anxious to hear." "You can rely upon my honour to respect your confidence," Gifford responded warmly. "Well, Archie Jolliffe fell in love with me and in his impetuous way made no secret of it. I need not say it did not take long for my step-mother to become aware of it, and with the idea that I was encouraging him she became furious. Except that poor Archie was a welcome change from the atmosphere of my home and the hateful attentions of the man who was always being left alone with me, I did not really care for him, and but for Mrs. Morriston's attitude I should have told him it was no use his thinking of me. Considering the sequel, I wish I had done so; but it is too late now for regrets. His love-making gave me a chance of defying my stepmother, and I rather enjoyed baulking her plans to keep Archie and me apart. If I did not encourage him--indeed, I refused him every time he proposed--I did not dismiss him as I ought to have done, and he evidently had an idea that perseverance would win the day. And so, after a fashion, it did. "'You must not marry that man,' he said 'It is an outrage for your people to suggest such a thing. He is a big swell and all that, with heaps of money, but any man in town who knows anything will tell you he is quite impossible,' "I had heard that, and had told my stepmother, but of course it did not suit her to heed me. She cared for nothing beyond the fact that I should be a countess, and said so. "Archie and I talked together for a long time and with the result that in my longing for protection from the powers against me and my indignation at the way I was being treated I had promised when we parted to marry him, and we had planned to elope together that very night. "My companion had the tact not to talk much, and I was glad to think he could realize the seriousness of the step he had persuaded me to take. But the little he did say was affectionately sympathetic and, now that the die was cast, it comforted me to indulge hopes of him. "I was not much hurt, for my fall was broken, and I soon scrambled to my feet. But Archie lay there motionless. The man who was the only occupant of the other dog-cart had pulled into the hedge and alighted. He came up to offer his help, and to express his sorrow at the accident, which he said, doubtless with truth, was not his fault. I dare say you will have guessed that the man was Clement Henshaw. Between us we raised Archie and carried him to the side of the road. He was quite insensible, and breathing heavily. "'I am afraid he is rather seriously hurt,' the man said sympathetically. 'We ought to get him to Branchester Hospital as soon as possible.' "I was so overwhelmed by the sudden and terrible end to our adventure that I could think of nothing. By a great piece of luck a belated dray came along on its way to Branchester. Into this, with the driver's help, we lifted poor Archie; and then Henshaw and I drove on in his trap to prepare the hospital authorities for the patient's arrival. The doctor after a cursory examination gave very little hope, and I left the hospital in a most wretched state of mind, feeling more than indirectly responsible for the end of that bright young life. Henshaw arranged for the horse and smashed dogcart to be fetched from the scene of the accident, and then he asked where in the town he should escort me. "I thanked him and said, a good deal to his surprise, that I was not going to stop in Branchester, but would hire a fly and drive to my destination. I stood, of course, in a hideously false position, and that he very soon began to divine; he would not hear of my getting a fly at that hour of the night, but insisted on driving me in his trap to wherever I wished to go. "Unhappily I had no idea of the man's character, or I should never have dreamt of accepting his offer; but I was then in no state of mind to judge his nature or question his motives; he had proved himself infinitely kind and resourceful, so in my lonely and agitated condition I consented, little imagining what the dire result to me would be. "'Can't you trust me to drive you to your home?'" he said insinuatingly. "I replied that I preferred to get down where we were, and thanked him as warmly as I was able for all his services. "'You haven't even told me your name,' he protested, 'Mine is Clement Henshaw; I am staying at Flinton for hunting.' "My answer was that he must not think me ungrateful, but that I would rather not tell him my name. It could be of no consequence to him. "I thanked him, made the best excuse I could for refusing, got down from the trap and hurried off through the dark village street, thankful to get away from those awkward questions. "But if I thought I had finally got rid of Mr. Clement Henshaw I was, in my ignorance of the man, woefully mistaken." "Naturally I anticipated a continuation of my stepmother's attempts to force me into the marriage she had in view, and it rather puzzled me to understand why they seemed to be dropped. The prospective bridegroom did not come to the house, and, stranger still, his name was not mentioned. The explanation was soon forthcoming. I did not see the newspapers just then, in fact I have an idea they were purposely kept away from me; but some people who were calling mentioned a big society-scandal coming on in the Law Courts in which this precious peer was desperately involved. The relief with which I heard the news was unbounded considering all it meant for me, but my joy was turned to bitter grief by the news that Archie Jolliffe after lying unconscious for nearly a week had died of his injury. I had contrived, during the days he lingered, to make secret inquiries as to his condition, and so knew that what would have seemed my heartless absence from his bedside had made no difference to him." "Poor fellow," Gifford commented. "After this long preface, I come to the most unpleasant episode of Henshaw and his persecution. "'I am sorry to be the bearer of sad news, Miss Morriston,' he said. "So he had found out my name, assuredly not by accident, and the fact angered me, perhaps unreasonably. "'I have heard of Mr. Jolliffe's death,' I replied coldly, 'if that is what you have to tell me.' "'I thought,' he rejoined, with assurance, 'it quite possible you might not have heard so soon.' "From his manner I began to see that the man was likely to become an annoyance if he were not snubbed, but soon discovered that it was not so easily done. I thanked him coldly enough, and tried to dismiss him, but he insisted on walking with me. What could I do? He seemed determined to force his company upon me and I could not run away. He tried to get out of me how I had come to be driving with Archie that night, and although I evaded his questions it was plain that he had a shrewd inkling of the reason. Not to weary you with a long account of this disagreeable and humiliating affair, I will only say that from that day forward I became subject to a determined system of persecution from Clement Henshaw. He waylaid me on every possible occasion, holding over me a covert threat of the exposure of my escapade, till at last I was absolutely afraid to go outside the house for fear of meeting him." "He wanted to marry you?" Gifford suggested. "In the midst of my worry my father fell into a state of bad health and we took him down to the Devonshire coast for change of air. Needless to say Henshaw soon found out our retreat, and to my dismay appeared there. His persecution went on with renewed vigour and I, having less chance there of escaping it, was nearly at my wits' end, when fate curiously enough again intervened. We were caught in a storm on a long country excursion, my stepmother got a severe chill and within a week was dead. We returned to Haynthorpe, my father being now in a very precarious state of health, Henshaw followed us with a pertinacity that was almost devilish. But I now ventured to defy his threats of exposing me; he strenuously denied any such intention and declared himself madly in love with me. I had now taken courage enough to reject him uncompromisingly; I forbade him ever to speak to me again, and, as after that he disappeared from the village, began to flatter myself that I had got rid of him. "My father grew worse now from day to day; he lingered through the summer and with the chill days of autumn the end came. Dick hurried home and arrived just in time to see him alive. He left a much larger fortune than we had supposed him to possess, and Dick, always fond of sport, was soon in negotiation for this place which had come into the market. "But Clement Henshaw heard the rumour and it had naturally the effect of rousing his wretched pursuit of me to greater activity. He vowed with brutal vehemence that I should not marry Painswick, and declared that when our engagement was announced he would tell him the story he had against me. That in itself did not trouble me much since I had no intention of marrying Painswick; still the man's relentless persecution was getting more than I could bear. "I now come to the night of the Hunt Ball. For some days previously I had seen or heard nothing of Henshaw, and had even begun to hope that something might have happened to make the man abandon his line of conduct. I might have known him better. To my intense annoyance and dismay I saw him come into the ballroom with all the hateful assurance that was so familiar to me. I could not well escape, seeing that I was acting as hostess. For a while he, beyond a formal greeting, let me alone. But I felt what was surely coming, and it was almost a relief when he took an opportunity of asking for a dance. "He must have seen the hate in my eyes as in my hesitation they met his, for he said with a forced laugh, 'You need not do violence to your feelings by dancing with me, Miss Morriston, if you don't care to, but there is something I must say to you. Let us come out of the crowd to where we shall not be overheard.' "I had never felt so madly furious with the man as at that moment; and it was with a reckless desire to tell him in strong language my opinion of his tactics, to insult him, if that were possible, to declare that I would die rather than yield to him, that I led the way to the tower. My desire to get out of the crowd was even greater than his, for a mad hope possessed me that in some desperate way I might bring our relations to a final issue. "You know what happened, Mr. Gifford, so I need not go through that. The man showed himself the cowardly bully that he was. Somehow up there alone with him, as at least I thought, in the dark, my courage gave way, and it was only when the man sought in his vehemence to take hold of me that anger and disgust cast out fear. It was quite by accident that I touched and caught up the chisel lying on the window-sill. As the man's hand sought me it struck the edge of the chisel, and got a wound; that must have been how the blood came upon my dress. He seized my arm, and after a struggle wrenched the implement away. But I never struck him with it, far from giving him his death-blow. The chisel was never in my hand afterwards. When I rushed for the door in a sudden panic, for, knowing that I had hurt him, I believed the man in his rage might be capable of anything, and when in springing after me he stumbled and fell, the chisel must have been held by him edge upwards, and so pierced him to his death." "That, I am certain now," Gifford said, "is what must have happened." "And you thought I had stabbed him?" the girl said with a reproachful smile. An elongated shadow shot forward on the ground in front of them. Gifford stopped abruptly, and with an involuntary action his companion clutched his arm as both looked up expectantly. Next moment Gervase Henshaw stood before them. "I did not expect to find you here, Miss Morriston." The words came sharply and wrathfully, when the man had found his glib tongue. Gifford answered. "Miss Morriston and I have been enjoying the view and the air of the pines." The commonplace remark naturally, as it was intended, went for nothing. Henshaw affected not to notice it. "I am glad I have come across you, Miss Morriston," he said, with an evident curbing of his chagrin, "as I have something rather important to say to you." "I am afraid I cannot hear it now, Mr. Henshaw," the girl returned coldly. "Mr. Gifford will do nothing of the sort," came the bold and rather startling reply from the person alluded to. "As a friend of Miss Morriston's I do not intend to allow you to hold any more private conversations with her." No doubt with his knowledge of the world and of his own advantage Henshaw put down Gifford's resolute speech to mere bluff. And Gervase Henshaw was too old a legal practitioner to be bluffed. "I do not for a moment admit your right to interfere," he retorted with an assumption of calm superiority. "I am addressing myself to Miss Morriston, who does not, I hope, approve of your somewhat singular manners." Henshaw was looking at him steadfastly through eyes that blazed with hate. "I wonder if you quite know whom and what you are trying to champion," he snarled. "Perfectly," was the cool reply. "A much wronged and cruelly persecuted lady. You had better postpone what you have to say till this afternoon, when we will come to an understanding as to your conduct. Now, as you are on private land, you had better take the nearest way to the public road." Henshaw looked as though he would have liked to bring the dispute to the issue of a physical encounter, had but the coward in him dared. "I am here by permission," he returned, standing his ground. "Which has been rescinded by the vile use to which you have chosen to put it," Gifford rejoined. "I have Miss Morriston's authority to treat you as a trespasser, and to order you off her brother's land." Henshaw fell back a step. "Very well, Mr. Gifford," he returned with an ugly sneer. "You talk with great confidence now, but we shall see. You will be wiser by this time tomorrow." With that he turned and walked off; Gifford, after watching him for a while, went back to the summer-house. "I have put things in the right train there," he remarked with a confident laugh. "I hope to be able to tell you this evening that Mr. Henshaw is a thing of the past." "You are very sanguine," she said, a little doubtfully. "I am afraid you do not know the man." "I'm afraid I do," he replied. "He is obviously not an easy person to deal with. But I think I see my way. Tell me. He has threatened you in order to induce you to elope with him?" "Yes. He has found evidence among his brother's correspondence of the hold he had over me and of his persecution. That would afford a sufficient motive for my killing him; and how could I prove that I did not strike the blow?" "It might be difficult," Gifford answered thoughtfully. "But I may be able to do it. Of course he knows you to be an heiress." "Yes. This man must be something of an adventurer, as his brother was. We shall see," Gifford said with a grim touch. "Now, I must not keep you any longer. I am so grateful for the confidence you have given me. May I call later on and tell you the result?" Her eyes were on him in an almost piteous searching for hope in his resolute face. "Of course," she responded. "I shall be so terribly anxious to know." Chivalrously avoiding any suggestion of tenderness, he shook hands and went off towards the town. Punctually at the appointed time Gervase Henshaw was shown into Gifford's room. Kelson had received from his friend a hint of what was afoot and had naturally offered his services to back Gifford up, but they were refused. So Kelson went off to spend the afternoon at the Tredworths'. "Miss Morriston authorizes you to tell me that?" The question was put with something like a sneer. "Why yours?" Henshaw interrupted coolly. He saw Henshaw flush and dart a glance of hate at him. It was plain he had misinterpreted the reply. But the exhibition was only momentary. "Admitting in the meantime your right to interfere," Henshaw said, now with perfect coolness, "allow me to tell you that you are taking a very foolish course." "I shall be glad to know how." "The reason is, that if you have any regard, as you suggest, for Miss Morriston, you are going the right way to do her a terrible injury." For an instant Henshaw seemed taken aback by the other's directness. "There can be no doubt, holding the evidence I do, that she was guilty of it," he retorted uncompromisingly. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Henshaw," Gifford objected with decision, "there can be, and is, a very great deal more than a doubt of it." Henshaw shot a searching glance at the man who spoke so confidently, as though trying to probe what, if anything, was behind his words. "Perhaps you know then," he returned with his sneering smile, "how otherwise, if the lady had no hand in it, my brother came by his death?" "I do," was the quiet answer. "Then," still the smile of sneering incredulity, "it is clearly your duty to make it known." "Clearly," Gifford assented in a calm tone. "That is why I asked you to come here this afternoon." Henshaw was looking at him with a sort of malicious curiosity. In spite of his smartness he seemed at a loss to divine what the other was driving at, unless it were a well-studied line of bluff. But that Gifford could have, apart from what Edith Morriston might have told him, any intimate knowledge of the tragedy was inconceivable. "I shall be glad to hear what you have to say, Mr. Gifford," he responded, in perhaps much greater curiosity than he chose to show. "Then I have to inform you positively," Gifford answered, "that your brother's fatal wound was the result of a pure accident." Coming from Edith Morriston's champion, there was nothing surprising in that assertion. Certainly if that were the other's strong suit he could easily beat it. It was therefore in a tone of confidence and relief that he demanded, "You can prove it?" "By Miss Morriston's testimony?" "Not at all. By my own." "Your own?" Henshaw's question was put with a curling lip. "My own," Gifford repeated steadfastly. Henshaw's contemptuous incredulity was by no means diminished even by the other's confident attitude. Gifford gave a short laugh. "Naturally you do not take my meaning. Obviously you think I am not a competent witness, that I know nothing except by hearsay. You are, extraordinary as it may seem, quite wrong. My testimony would be of nothing but what I myself saw and heard." Henshaw had started to his feet, his face working with an almost passionate astonishment. "You--you tell me all that," he cried, "and expect me to believe it?" "I have told you and shall tell you nothing," was the cool reply, "that I am not prepared to state on oath in the witness-box." For a while Henshaw seemed without the power to reply, dumbfounded, as his active brain tried to realize the probabilities of the declaration. "It seems to me," he said at length in a voice of which he was scarcely master, "that, whether your statement is true or otherwise, you are placing yourself in an uncommonly dangerous position, Mr. Gifford." "I am aware that I am inviting a certain amount of ugly suspicion," Gifford agreed, "but the truth, which might have remained a mystery, has been forced from me by the necessity of protecting Miss Morriston. Perhaps you had better hear a frank account of the whole story, and the explanation of what I admit you are so far justified in setting down as concocted and wildly improbable." "I should very much like to hear it," Henshaw returned in a tone which held out no promise of credence. Thereupon Gifford gave him a terse account of the events and the chance which had led him into the tower and to be a secret witness of what happened there. Remembering that he was addressing the dead man's brother, he recounted the details of the interview without feeling; indeed he threw no more colour into it than if he had been opening a case in court. He simply stated the facts without comment. Henshaw listened to the singular story in an attitude of doggedly unemotional attention. Lawyer-like he restrained all tendency to interrupt the narrative and asked no question as it proceeded. Nevertheless it was clear he was thinking keenly, eager to note any weak points which he could turn to use. "As I have already said," Gifford replied, "my story is calculated to suggest suspicion against me. But I am prepared to risk that consequence." "In court," Henshaw observed, with a malicious smile, "handled by a counsel who knew his business, your statement could be given a very ugly turn indeed." "As I have just told you," Gifford returned quietly, "I would take that risk rather than allow Miss Morriston to remain longer under suspicion. As for myself I should have every confidence in the result." "It is well to be sanguine," Henshaw sneered. "If you have not already done so, are you prepared to repeat your story to the police?" "Most certainly I am, if necessary," was the prompt answer. "But I do not fancy you will wish me to do so." He waited for Henshaw's answer. The man was plainly cornered and seemed to be divided between a desire to let Gifford go on and place himself in a dangerous situation, and the more expedient course of raising a scandal which would touch him as well as disgrace his dead brother. "This is a very fine piece of bravado, Mr. Gifford. But I am not such a fool as it pleases you to think me. It is very good of you to explain to me my position in this affair; I am, however, quite capable of seeing that for myself. And you can hardly expect me to look upon your gratuitous advice as disinterested." The man was talking to gain time; Gifford shrewdly guessed that. "I might be pardoned for supposing you do not altogether realize how you stand," he replied quietly. "But, after all, that is, as you suggest, your affair." Henshaw forced a smile. "The point of view is everything," he said in a preoccupied tone; "and ours, yours and mine, are diametrically opposed." Henshaw interrupted him with a wave of the hand. "You may apply that to yourself and to your friend, Miss Morriston," he said sharply. "I can take care of myself, thank you." It seemed clear that the rather foxy Gervase Henshaw had really more than suspected a studied game of bluff. But now Gifford's attitude tended to put that out of the question. "In the circumstances, as your statement will consist mainly of a slander against me and my dead brother," Henshaw replied sullenly, "I prefer to keep out of the business for the present. I fancy," he added with an ugly significance, "that the police will be quite equal to dealing with the situation without any assistance or intervention from me." Gifford ignored the covert threat. "Very well, then," he said, throwing open the door and standing aside for Henshaw to pass out; "I will go alone. Yes; it will be better." But Henshaw did not move. "I don't quite gather," he said in answer to Gifford's glance of inquiry, "exactly what your object is in taking this step." "Why do you say by me, of all people?" "You who profess an affection for her." So Gifford realized with a thrill of pleasure that he had won. He felt that in much of his speech the man was lying; that no consideration of mere unrequited affection had induced him to abandon his design. "I am glad to hear you have come to a sensible conclusion," he said as coolly as the sense of triumph would let him. "Whatever happened you could hardly have expected your--plans to succeed." "I don't know that," Henshaw retorted, with a touch of a beaten man's malice. "Anyhow I have my own ideas on the subject. But looking into the future with my brother's blood between us I think it might have turned out a hideous mistake." "A safe conjecture," Gifford commented, between indignation and amusement at the cool way the man was now trying to save his face. As he walked towards the door Gifford intercepted him. "Not quite so fast, Mr. Henshaw," he said resolutely. "We can't leave the affair like this." "You have heard my story," Gifford pursued with steady decisiveness, "and have, I presume, accepted it." "For what it is worth." The smart of defeat prompted the futile reply. "That won't do at all," Gifford returned with sternness. "You either accept the account I have just given you, or you do not." There was something like murder in Henshaw's eyes as he replied, "This bullying attitude is what I might expect from you. To put an end, however, to this most unpleasant interview you may take it that I accept your statement." "To the absolute exoneration of Miss Morriston?" "I must have your assurance in writing." Henshaw fell back a step and for a moment showed signs of an uncompromising refusal. "You are going a little too far, Mr. Gifford," he said doggedly. "Not at all," Gifford retorted. "It is imperatively necessary." "Is it?" Henshaw sneered. "For what purpose?" "For Miss Morriston's protection." "Yes, that will do," Gifford answered curtly when he had read the few lines. Henshaw rose with a rather mocking smile. "I congratulate you on your--luck, Mr. Gifford," he said with a studied emphasis, and so left the room. "I bring you good news, Miss Morriston. You have nothing more to fear from Gervase Henshaw." "Ah!" She caught her breath, and for a moment seemed unable to respond. "Tell me," she said at length, almost breathlessly. "I have had a long and, as you may imagine, not very pleasant interview with the fellow," he answered quietly; "and am happy to say I won all along the line." He had taken the declaration from his pocket-book and for answer handed it to her. With a manifest effort to control her feelings she read it eagerly. Then her voice trembled as she spoke. "Mr. Gifford, what can I say? I wish I knew how to thank you." "Please don't try," he replied lightly. "If you only knew the pleasure it has given me to get the better of this fellow you would hardly consider thanks necessary. Would you care to hear a short account of what happened?" he added tactfully, with the intention, seeing how painful the revulsion was, of giving her time to recover from her agitation. "Please; do tell me." She spoke mechanically, still hardly able to trust her voice above a whisper. They sat down and he related the salient points of his interview with Henshaw. "It was lucky that I happened to have something of a hold over him," he concluded with a laugh; "Mr. Gervase Henshaw is not wanting in determination, and it took a long time to persuade him that he could not possibly win the game he was playing; but he stood to lose more heavily than he could afford. The conclusion, however, was at last borne in upon him that the position he had taken up was untenable, and that paper is the result." "That paper," she said in a low voice, "means life to me instead of a living death; it means more than I can tell you, more than even you can understand." He had risen, but before he could speak she had come to him and impulsively taken his hand. "Mr. Gifford," she said, "tell me how I can repay you." Her eyes met his; they were full of gratitude and something more. But he resisted the temptation to answer her question in the way it was plain to him he was invited to do. "It is reward enough for me to have served you," he responded steadily. "Seeing that chance gave me the power, I could do no less." "You would have risked your life for mine," she persisted, her eyes still on him. "Hardly that," he returned, with an effort to force a smile. "But had it been necessary, I should have been quite content to do so." "And you will not tell me how I can show my gratitude?" "I did not do it for reward," he murmured, scarcely able to restrain himself. There could be no pretence of ignoring her meaning now. Still he felt that chivalry forbade his acceptance. "I was wrong," he replied with an effort, "and most unfair if I suggested a bargain." "Have you repented the suggestion?" she asked almost quizzingly and with a curious absence of her characteristic pride. "Only in a sense," he answered. "I hope I am too honourable to take an unfair advantage." She laughed now; joyously, it seemed. "If your scruples are so strong there will be nothing for it but for me to throw away mine and offer myself to you." "Edith," he exclaimed in a flash of rapture, then, checked the passionate impulse to take her in his arms. "You must not; not now, not now. It is not fair to yourself. At the moment of your release from this horrible danger you cannot be master of yourself. You must not mistake gratitude for love." Edith drew back with a touch of resentful pride. "Very well," she returned simply, "I understand. I am sorry for my mistake." She gave a little sigh of contentment. "Very well," she said, "if that will satisfy you." "And so," he said, "you are free, unless you call me back to you." "That is understood," she said with a smile. He might have kissed her lips, her look into his eyes was almost an invitation, but, having steeled himself to be scrupulously fair, he refrained and contented himself with kissing her hand. On reaching the hotel he heard with satisfaction that Henshaw had gone off by the late afternoon train and had suggested the unlikelihood of his returning. "So I suppose he is content to let the mystery remain a mystery," the landlord remarked. And the Coroner's jury subsequently had perforce to come to the same conclusion. "I had something to do in the town and thought I might as well come on to the station," Edith said with a lurking smile. "It has been long," she murmured. "Long enough to set our doubts at rest." "I never had any," she replied quietly. He drew her to him and kissed her. End of Project Gutenberg's The Hunt Ball Mystery, by Magnay, William	redpajama-book	40,253
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Please refer to Project Gutenberg's e-text listings for other editions or translations of 'The Divine Comedy.' Please refer to the end of this file for supplemental materials. The Divine Comedy translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (e-text courtesy ILT's Digital Dante Project) Within that heaven which most his light receives Was I, and things beheld which to repeat Nor knows, nor can, who from above descends; Because in drawing near to its desire Our intellect ingulphs itself so far, That after it the memory cannot go. Truly whatever of the holy realm I had the power to treasure in my mind Shall now become the subject of my song. O good Apollo, for this last emprise Make of me such a vessel of thy power As giving the beloved laurel asks! Enter into my bosom, thou, and breathe As at the time when Marsyas thou didst draw Out of the scabbard of those limbs of his. O power divine, lend'st thou thyself to me So that the shadow of the blessed realm Stamped in my brain I can make manifest, Thou'lt see me come unto thy darling tree, And crown myself thereafter with those leaves Of which the theme and thou shall make me worthy. So seldom, Father, do we gather them For triumph or of Caesar or of Poet, (The fault and shame of human inclinations,) A little spark is followed by great flame; Perchance with better voices after me Shall prayer be made that Cyrrha may respond! With better course and with a better star Conjoined it issues, and the mundane wax Tempers and stamps more after its own fashion. Almost that passage had made morning there And evening here, and there was wholly white That hemisphere, and black the other part, When Beatrice towards the left-hand side I saw turned round, and gazing at the sun; Never did eagle fasten so upon it! Thus of her action, through the eyes infused In my imagination, mine I made, And sunward fixed mine eyes beyond our wont. There much is lawful which is here unlawful Unto our powers, by virtue of the place Made for the human species as its own. Not long I bore it, nor so little while But I beheld it sparkle round about Like iron that comes molten from the fire; And suddenly it seemed that day to day Was added, as if He who has the power Had with another sun the heaven adorned. With eyes upon the everlasting wheels Stood Beatrice all intent, and I, on her Fixing my vision from above removed, Such at her aspect inwardly became As Glaucus, tasting of the herb that made him Peer of the other gods beneath the sea. To represent transhumanise in words Impossible were; the example, then, suffice Him for whom Grace the experience reserves. If I was merely what of me thou newly Createdst, Love who governest the heaven, Thou knowest, who didst lift me with thy light! When now the wheel, which thou dost make eternal Desiring thee, made me attentive to it By harmony thou dost modulate and measure, Then seemed to me so much of heaven enkindled By the sun's flame, that neither rain nor river E'er made a lake so widely spread abroad. The newness of the sound and the great light Kindled in me a longing for their cause, Never before with such acuteness felt; Whence she, who saw me as I saw myself, To quiet in me my perturbed mind, Opened her mouth, ere I did mine to ask, And she began: "Thou makest thyself so dull With false imagining, that thou seest not What thou wouldst see if thou hadst shaken it off. Thou art not upon earth, as thou believest; But lightning, fleeing its appropriate site, Ne'er ran as thou, who thitherward returnest." And said: "Already did I rest content From great amazement; but am now amazed In what way I transcend these bodies light." Whereupon she, after a pitying sigh, Her eyes directed tow'rds me with that look A mother casts on a delirious child; And she began: "All things whate'er they be Have order among themselves, and this is form, That makes the universe resemble God. Here do the higher creatures see the footprints Of the Eternal Power, which is the end Whereto is made the law already mentioned. In the order that I speak of are inclined All natures, by their destinies diverse, More or less near unto their origin; This bears away the fire towards the moon; This is in mortal hearts the motive power This binds together and unites the earth. Nor only the created things that are Without intelligence this bow shoots forth, But those that have both intellect and love. The Providence that regulates all this Makes with its light the heaven forever quiet, Wherein that turns which has the greatest haste. And thither now, as to a site decreed, Bears us away the virtue of that cord Which aims its arrows at a joyous mark. True is it, that as oftentimes the form Accords not with the intention of the art, Because in answering is matter deaf, So likewise from this course doth deviate Sometimes the creature, who the power possesses, Though thus impelled, to swerve some other way, Thou shouldst not wonder more, if well I judge, At thine ascent, than at a rivulet From some high mount descending to the lowland. Marvel it would be in thee, if deprived Of hindrance, thou wert seated down below, As if on earth the living fire were quiet." Thereat she heavenward turned again her face. O Ye, who in some pretty little boat, Eager to listen, have been following Behind my ship, that singing sails along, Turn back to look again upon your shores; Do not put out to sea, lest peradventure, In losing me, you might yourselves be lost. Well may you launch upon the deep salt-sea Your vessel, keeping still my wake before you Upon the water that grows smooth again. Those glorious ones who unto Colchos passed Were not so wonder-struck as you shall be, When Jason they beheld a ploughman made! The con-created and perpetual thirst For the realm deiform did bear us on, As swift almost as ye the heavens behold. Upward gazed Beatrice, and I at her; And in such space perchance as strikes a bolt And flies, and from the notch unlocks itself, Arrived I saw me where a wondrous thing Drew to itself my sight; and therefore she From whom no care of mine could be concealed, It seemed to me a cloud encompassed us, Luminous, dense, consolidate and bright As adamant on which the sun is striking. Into itself did the eternal pearl Receive us, even as water doth receive A ray of light, remaining still unbroken. More the desire should be enkindled in us That essence to behold, wherein is seen How God and our own nature were united. I made reply: "Madonna, as devoutly As most I can do I give thanks to Him Who has removed me from the mortal world. But tell me what the dusky spots may be Upon this body, which below on earth Make people tell that fabulous tale of Cain?" Somewhat she smiled; and then, "If the opinion Of mortals be erroneous," she said, "Where'er the key of sense doth not unlock, Certes, the shafts of wonder should not pierce thee Now, forasmuch as, following the senses, Thou seest that the reason has short wings. But tell me what thou think'st of it thyself." And I: "What seems to us up here diverse, Is caused, I think, by bodies rare and dense." And she: "Right truly shalt thou see immersed In error thy belief, if well thou hearest The argument that I shall make against it. Besides, if rarity were of this dimness The cause thou askest, either through and through This planet thus attenuate were of matter, Or else, as in a body is apportioned The fat and lean, so in like manner this Would in its volume interchange the leaves. Were it the former, in the sun's eclipse It would be manifest by the shining through Of light, as through aught tenuous interfused. This is not so; hence we must scan the other, And if it chance the other I demolish, Then falsified will thy opinion be. But if this rarity go not through and through, There needs must be a limit, beyond which Its contrary prevents the further passing, And thence the foreign radiance is reflected, Even as a colour cometh back from glass, The which behind itself concealeth lead. Now thou wilt say the sunbeam shows itself More dimly there than in the other parts, By being there reflected farther back. From this reply experiment will free thee If e'er thou try it, which is wont to be The fountain to the rivers of your arts. Though in its quantity be not so ample The image most remote, there shalt thou see How it perforce is equally resplendent. Now, as beneath the touches of warm rays Naked the subject of the snow remains Both of its former colour and its cold, Thee thus remaining in thy intellect, Will I inform with such a living light, That it shall tremble in its aspect to thee. Within the heaven of the divine repose Revolves a body, in whose virtue lies The being of whatever it contains. The following heaven, that has so many eyes, Divides this being by essences diverse, Distinguished from it, and by it contained. The other spheres, by various differences, All the distinctions which they have within them Dispose unto their ends and their effects. Thus do these organs of the world proceed, As thou perceivest now, from grade to grade; Since from above they take, and act beneath. Observe me well, how through this place I come Unto the truth thou wishest, that hereafter Thou mayst alone know how to keep the ford The power and motion of the holy spheres, As from the artisan the hammer's craft, Forth from the blessed motors must proceed. The heaven, which lights so manifold make fair, From the Intelligence profound, which turns it, The image takes, and makes of it a seal. And even as the soul within your dust Through members different and accommodated To faculties diverse expands itself, So likewise this Intelligence diffuses Its virtue multiplied among the stars. Itself revolving on its unity. Virtue diverse doth a diverse alloyage Make with the precious body that it quickens, In which, as life in you, it is combined. From the glad nature whence it is derived, The mingled virtue through the body shines, Even as gladness through the living pupil. From this proceeds whate'er from light to light Appeareth different, not from dense and rare: This is the formal principle that produces, According to its goodness, dark and bright." That Sun, which erst with love my bosom warmed, Of beauteous truth had unto me discovered, By proving and reproving, the sweet aspect. And, that I might confess myself convinced And confident, so far as was befitting, I lifted more erect my head to speak. But there appeared a vision, which withdrew me So close to it, in order to be seen, That my confession I remembered not. Such as through polished and transparent glass, Or waters crystalline and undisturbed, But not so deep as that their bed be lost, Come back again the outlines of our faces So feeble, that a pearl on forehead white Comes not less speedily unto our eyes; Such saw I many faces prompt to speak, So that I ran in error opposite To that which kindled love 'twixt man and fountain. As soon as I became aware of them, Esteeming them as mirrored semblances, To see of whom they were, mine eyes I turned, "Marvel thou not," she said to me, "because I smile at this thy puerile conceit, Since on the truth it trusts not yet its foot, But turns thee, as 'tis wont, on emptiness. True substances are these which thou beholdest, Here relegate for breaking of some vow. Therefore speak with them, listen and believe; For the true light, which giveth peace to them, Permits them not to turn from it their feet." "O well-created spirit, who in the rays Of life eternal dost the sweetness taste Which being untasted ne'er is comprehended, Grateful 'twill be to me, if thou content me Both with thy name and with your destiny." Whereat she promptly and with laughing eyes: I was a virgin sister in the world; And if thy mind doth contemplate me well, The being more fair will not conceal me from thee, But thou shalt recognise I am Piccarda, Who, stationed here among these other blessed, Myself am blessed in the slowest sphere. All our affections, that alone inflamed Are in the pleasure of the Holy Ghost, Rejoice at being of his order formed; And this allotment, which appears so low, Therefore is given us, because our vows Have been neglected and in some part void." Therefore I was not swift in my remembrance; But what thou tellest me now aids me so, That the refiguring is easier to me. But tell me, ye who in this place are happy, Are you desirous of a higher place, To see more or to make yourselves more friends?" "Brother, our will is quieted by virtue Of charity, that makes us wish alone For what we have, nor gives us thirst for more. If to be more exalted we aspired, Discordant would our aspirations be Unto the will of Him who here secludes us; Which thou shalt see finds no place in these circles, If being in charity is needful here, And if thou lookest well into its nature; So that, as we are station above station Throughout this realm, to all the realm 'tis pleasing, As to the King, who makes his will our will. And his will is our peace; this is the sea To which is moving onward whatsoever It doth create, and all that nature makes." E'en thus did I; with gesture and with word, To learn from her what was the web wherein She did not ply the shuttle to the end. "A perfect life and merit high in-heaven A lady o'er us," said she, "by whose rule Down in your world they vest and veil themselves, That until death they may both watch and sleep Beside that Spouse who every vow accepts Which charity conformeth to his pleasure. To follow her, in girlhood from the world I fled, and in her habit shut myself, And pledged me to the pathway of her sect. Then men accustomed unto evil more Than unto good, from the sweet cloister tore me; God knows what afterward my life became. This other splendour, which to thee reveals Itself on my right side, and is enkindled With all the illumination of our sphere, What of myself I say applies to her; A nun was she, and likewise from her head Was ta'en the shadow of the sacred wimple. But when she too was to the world returned Against her wishes and against good usage, Of the heart's veil she never was divested. Thus unto me she spake, and then began "Ave Maria" singing, and in singing Vanished, as through deep water something heavy. My sight, that followed her as long a time As it was possible, when it had lost her Turned round unto the mark of more desire, And this in questioning more backward made me. Hence, if I held my peace, myself I blame not, Impelled in equal measure by my doubts, Since it must be so, nor do I commend. I held my peace; but my desire was painted Upon my face, and questioning with that More fervent far than by articulate speech. Beatrice did as Daniel had done Relieving Nebuchadnezzar from the wrath Which rendered him unjustly merciless, Thou arguest, if good will be permanent, The violence of others, for what reason Doth it decrease the measure of my merit? Again for doubting furnish thee occasion Souls seeming to return unto the stars, According to the sentiment of Plato. He of the Seraphim most absorbed in God, Moses, and Samuel, and whichever John Thou mayst select, I say, and even Mary, Have not in any other heaven their seats, Than have those spirits that just appeared to thee, Nor of existence more or fewer years; But all make beautiful the primal circle, And have sweet life in different degrees, By feeling more or less the eternal breath. They showed themselves here, not because allotted This sphere has been to them, but to give sign Of the celestial which is least exalted. To speak thus is adapted to your mind, Since only through the sense it apprehendeth What then it worthy makes of intellect. On this account the Scripture condescends Unto your faculties, and feet and hands To God attributes, and means something else; And Holy Church under an aspect human Gabriel and Michael represent to you, And him who made Tobias whole again. That which Timaeus argues of the soul Doth not resemble that which here is seen, Because it seems that as he speaks he thinks. He says the soul unto its star returns, Believing it to have been severed thence Whenever nature gave it as a form. Perhaps his doctrine is of other guise Than the words sound, and possibly may be With meaning that is not to be derided. The other doubt which doth disquiet thee Less venom has, for its malevolence Could never lead thee otherwhere from me. That as unjust our justice should appear In eyes of mortals, is an argument Of faith, and not of sin heretical. But still, that your perception may be able To thoroughly penetrate this verity, As thou desirest, I will satisfy thee. If it be violence when he who suffers Co-operates not with him who uses force, These souls were not on that account excused; Hence, if it yieldeth more or less, it seconds The force; and these have done so, having power Of turning back unto the holy place. If their will had been perfect, like to that Which Lawrence fast upon his gridiron held, And Mutius made severe to his own hand, It would have urged them back along the road Whence they were dragged, as soon as they were free; But such a solid will is all too rare. But now another passage runs across Before thine eyes, and such that by thyself Thou couldst not thread it ere thou wouldst be weary. I have for certain put into thy mind That soul beatified could never lie, For it is near the primal Truth, And then thou from Piccarda might'st have heard Costanza kept affection for the veil, So that she seemeth here to contradict me. E'en as Alcmaeon (who, being by his father Thereto entreated, his own mother slew) Not to lose pity pitiless became. At this point I desire thee to remember That force with will commingles, and they cause That the offences cannot be excused. Will absolute consenteth not to evil; But in so far consenteth as it fears, If it refrain, to fall into more harm. Hence when Piccarda uses this expression, She meaneth the will absolute, and I The other, so that both of us speak truth." My own affection is not so profound As to suffice in rendering grace for grace; Let Him, who sees and can, thereto respond. Well I perceive that never sated is Our intellect unless the Truth illume it, Beyond which nothing true expands itself. It rests therein, as wild beast in his lair, When it attains it; and it can attain it; If not, then each desire would frustrate be. Therefore springs up, in fashion of a shoot, Doubt at the foot of truth; and this is nature, Which to the top from height to height impels us. This doth invite me, this assurance give me With reverence, Lady, to inquire of you Another truth, which is obscure to me. I wish to know if man can satisfy you For broken vows with other good deeds, so That in your balance they will not be light." Beatrice gazed upon me with her eyes Full of the sparks of love, and so divine, That, overcome my power, I turned my back And almost lost myself with eyes downcast. "If in the heat of love I flame upon thee Beyond the measure that on earth is seen, So that the valour of thine eyes I vanquish, Marvel thou not thereat; for this proceeds From perfect sight, which as it apprehends To the good apprehended moves its feet. Well I perceive how is already shining Into thine intellect the eternal light, That only seen enkindles always love; And if some other thing your love seduce, 'Tis nothing but a vestige of the same, Ill understood, which there is shining through. Thou fain wouldst know if with another service For broken vow can such return be made As to secure the soul from further claim." This Canto thus did Beatrice begin; And, as a man who breaks not off his speech, Continued thus her holy argument: "The greatest gift that in his largess God Creating made, and unto his own goodness Nearest conformed, and that which he doth prize Most highly, is the freedom of the will, Wherewith the creatures of intelligence Both all and only were and are endowed. Now wilt thou see, if thence thou reasonest, The high worth of a vow, if it he made So that when thou consentest God consents: For, closing between God and man the compact, A sacrifice is of this treasure made, Such as I say, and made by its own act. What can be rendered then as compensation? Think'st thou to make good use of what thou'st offered, With gains ill gotten thou wouldst do good deed. Now art thou certain of the greater point; But because Holy Church in this dispenses, Which seems against the truth which I have shown thee, Behoves thee still to sit awhile at table, Because the solid food which thou hast taken Requireth further aid for thy digestion. Open thy mind to that which I reveal, And fix it there within; for 'tis not knowledge, The having heard without retaining it. This last for evermore is cancelled not Unless complied with, and concerning this With such precision has above been spoken. Therefore it was enjoined upon the Hebrews To offer still, though sometimes what was offered Might be commuted, as thou ought'st to know. But let none shift the burden on his shoulder At his arbitrament, without the turning Both of the white and of the yellow key; Therefore whatever thing has so great weight In value that it drags down every balance, Cannot be satisfied with other spending. Whom more beseemed to say, 'I have done wrong, Than to do worse by keeping; and as foolish Thou the great leader of the Greeks wilt find, Whence wept Iphigenia her fair face, And made for her both wise and simple weep, Who heard such kind of worship spoken of.' Christians, be ye more serious in your movements; Be ye not like a feather at each wind, And think not every water washes you. Ye have the Old and the New Testament, And the Pastor of the Church who guideth you Let this suffice you unto your salvation. If evil appetite cry aught else to you, Be ye as men, and not as silly sheep, So that the Jew among you may not mock you. Be ye not as the lamb that doth abandon Its mother's milk, and frolicsome and simple Combats at its own pleasure with itself." Thus Beatrice to me even as I write it; Then all desireful turned herself again To that part where the world is most alive. Her silence and her change of countenance Silence imposed upon my eager mind, That had already in advance new questions; My Lady there so joyful I beheld, As into the brightness of that heaven she entered, More luminous thereat the planet grew; And if the star itself was changed and smiled, What became I, who by my nature am Exceeding mutable in every guise! As, in a fish-pond which is pure and tranquil, The fishes draw to that which from without Comes in such fashion that their food they deem it; Think, Reader, if what here is just beginning No farther should proceed, how thou wouldst have An agonizing need of knowing more; And of thyself thou'lt see how I from these Was in desire of hearing their conditions, As they unto mine eyes were manifest. "O thou well-born, unto whom Grace concedes To see the thrones of the eternal triumph, Or ever yet the warfare be abandoned With light that through the whole of heaven is spread Kindled are we, and hence if thou desirest To know of us, at thine own pleasure sate thee." "Well I perceive how thou dost nest thyself In thine own light, and drawest it from thine eyes, Because they coruscate when thou dost smile, But know not who thou art, nor why thou hast, Spirit august, thy station in the sphere That veils itself to men in alien rays." Even as the sun, that doth conceal himself By too much light, when heat has worn away The tempering influence of the vapours dense, By greater rapture thus concealed itself In its own radiance the figure saintly, And thus close, close enfolded answered me In fashion as the following Canto sings. "After that Constantine the eagle turned Against the course of heaven, which it had followed Behind the ancient who Lavinia took, And under shadow of the sacred plumes It governed there the world from hand to hand, And, changing thus, upon mine own alighted. Caesar I was, and am Justinian, Who, by the will of primal Love I feel, Took from the laws the useless and redundant; But blessed Agapetus, he who was The supreme pastor, to the faith sincere Pointed me out the way by words of his. Him I believed, and what was his assertion I now see clearly, even as thou seest Each contradiction to be false and true. As soon as with the Church I moved my feet, God in his grace it pleased with this high task To inspire me, and I gave me wholly to it, And to my Belisarius I commended The arms, to which was heaven's right hand so joined It was a signal that I should repose. In order that thou see with how great reason Men move against the standard sacrosanct, Both who appropriate and who oppose it. Behold how great a power has made it worthy Of reverence, beginning from the hour When Pallas died to give it sovereignty. Thou knowest what it achieved, borne by the Romans Illustrious against Brennus, against Pyrrhus, Against the other princes and confederates. Torquatus thence and Quinctius, who from locks Unkempt was named, Decii and Fabii, Received the fame I willingly embalm; It struck to earth the pride of the Arabians, Who, following Hannibal, had passed across The Alpine ridges, Po, from which thou glidest; Beneath it triumphed while they yet were young Pompey and Scipio, and to the hill Beneath which thou wast born it bitter seemed; Then, near unto the time when heaven had willed To bring the whole world to its mood serene, Did Caesar by the will of Rome assume it. What it achieved from Var unto the Rhine, Isere beheld and Saone, beheld the Seine, And every valley whence the Rhone is filled; What it achieved when it had left Ravenna, And leaped the Rubicon, was such a flight That neither tongue nor pen could follow it. Round towards Spain it wheeled its legions; then Towards Durazzo, and Pharsalia smote That to the calid Nile was felt the pain. Antandros and the Simois, whence it started, It saw again, and there where Hector lies, And ill for Ptolemy then roused itself. From thence it came like lightning upon Juba; Then wheeled itself again into your West, Where the Pompeian clarion it heard. From what it wrought with the next standard-bearer Brutus and Cassius howl in Hell together, And Modena and Perugia dolent were; Still doth the mournful Cleopatra weep Because thereof, who, fleeing from before it, Took from the adder sudden and black death. With him it ran even to the Red Sea shore; With him it placed the world in so great peace, That unto Janus was his temple closed. But what the standard that has made me speak Achieved before, and after should achieve Throughout the mortal realm that lies beneath it, Because the living Justice that inspires me Granted it, in the hand of him I speak of, The glory of doing vengeance for its wrath. Now here attend to what I answer thee; Later it ran with Titus to do vengeance Upon the vengeance of the ancient sin. And when the tooth of Lombardy had bitten The Holy Church, then underneath its wings Did Charlemagne victorious succor her. Now hast thou power to judge of such as those Whom I accused above, and of their crimes, Which are the cause of all your miseries. Let, let the Ghibellines ply their handicraft Beneath some other standard; for this ever Ill follows he who it and justice parts. And let not this new Charles e'er strike it down, He and his Guelfs, but let him fear the talons That from a nobler lion stripped the fell. Already oftentimes the sons have wept The father's crime; and let him not believe That God will change His scutcheon for the lilies. This little planet doth adorn itself With the good spirits that have active been, That fame and honour might come after them; And whensoever the desires mount thither, Thus deviating, must perforce the rays Of the true love less vividly mount upward. But in commensuration of our wages With our desert is portion of our joy, Because we see them neither less nor greater. Herein doth living Justice sweeten so Affection in us, that for evermore It cannot warp to any iniquity. Voices diverse make up sweet melodies; So in this life of ours the seats diverse Render sweet harmony among these spheres; And in the compass of this present pearl Shineth the sheen of Romeo, of whom The grand and beauteous work was ill rewarded. But the Provencals who against him wrought, They have not laughed, and therefore ill goes he Who makes his hurt of the good deeds of others. Then he departed poor and stricken in years, And if the world could know the heart he had, In begging bit by bit his livelihood, Though much it laud him, it would laud him more." "Osanna sanctus Deus Sabaoth, Superillustrans claritate tua Felices ignes horum malahoth!" And to their dance this and the others moved, And in the manner of swift-hurrying sparks Veiled themselves from me with a sudden distance. Doubting was I, and saying, "Tell her, tell her," Within me, "tell her," saying, "tell my Lady," Who slakes my thirst with her sweet effluences; "According to infallible advisement, After what manner a just vengeance justly Could be avenged has put thee upon thinking, But I will speedily thy mind unloose; And do thou listen, for these words of mine Of a great doctrine will a present make thee. By not enduring on the power that wills Curb for his good, that man who ne'er was born, Damning himself damned all his progeny; Whereby the human species down below Lay sick for many centuries in great error, Till to descend it pleased the Word of God To where the nature, which from its own Maker Estranged itself, he joined to him in person By the sole act of his eternal love. Now unto what is said direct thy sight; This nature when united to its Maker, Such as created, was sincere and good; But by itself alone was banished forth From Paradise, because it turned aside Out of the way of truth and of its life. Therefore the penalty the cross held out, If measured by the nature thus assumed, None ever yet with so great justice stung, And none was ever of so great injustice, Considering who the Person was that suffered, Within whom such a nature was contracted. It should no longer now seem difficult To thee, when it is said that a just vengeance By a just court was afterward avenged. But now do I behold thy mind entangled From thought to thought within a knot, from which With great desire it waits to free itself. Goodness Divine, which from itself doth spurn All envy, burning in itself so sparkles That the eternal beauties it unfolds. Whate'er from this immediately distils Has afterwards no end, for ne'er removed Is its impression when it sets its seal. Whate'er from this immediately rains down Is wholly free, because it is not subject Unto the influences of novel things. The more conformed thereto, the more it pleases; For the blest ardour that irradiates all things In that most like itself is most vivacious. 'Tis sin alone which doth disfranchise him, And render him unlike the Good Supreme, So that he little with its light is blanched, And to his dignity no more returns, Unless he fill up where transgression empties With righteous pains for criminal delights. Your nature when it sinned so utterly In its own seed, out of these dignities Even as out of Paradise was driven, Either that God through clemency alone Had pardon granted, or that man himself Had satisfaction for his folly made. Fix now thine eye deep into the abyss Of the eternal counsel, to my speech As far as may be fastened steadfastly! Man in his limitations had not power To satisfy, not having power to sink In his humility obeying then, Far as he disobeying thought to rise; And for this reason man has been from power Of satisfying by himself excluded. But since the action of the doer is So much more grateful, as it more presents The goodness of the heart from which it issues, Goodness Divine, that doth imprint the world, Has been contented to proceed by each And all its ways to lift you up again; For God more bounteous was himself to give To make man able to uplift himself, Than if he only of himself had pardoned; And all the other modes were insufficient For justice, were it not the Son of God Himself had humbled to become incarnate. Thou sayst: 'I see the air, I see the fire, The water, and the earth, and all their mixtures Come to corruption, and short while endure; And these things notwithstanding were created;' Therefore if that which I have said were true, They should have been secure against corruption. The Angels, brother, and the land sincere In which thou art, created may be called Just as they are in their entire existence; But all the elements which thou hast named, And all those things which out of them are made, By a created virtue are informed. Created was the matter which they have; Created was the informing influence Within these stars that round about them go. The soul of every brute and of the plants By its potential temperament attracts The ray and motion of the holy lights; But your own life immediately inspires Supreme Beneficence, and enamours it So with herself, it evermore desires her. And thou from this mayst argue furthermore Your resurrection, if thou think again How human flesh was fashioned at that time Paradiso: Canto VIII Wherefore not only unto her paid honour Of sacrifices and of votive cry The ancient nations in the ancient error, And they from her, whence I beginning take, Took the denomination of the star That woos the sun, now following, now in front. I was not ware of our ascending to it; But of our being in it gave full faith My Lady whom I saw more beauteous grow. Within that light beheld I other lamps Move in a circle, speeding more and less, Methinks in measure of their inward vision. From a cold cloud descended never winds, Or visible or not, so rapidly They would not laggard and impeded seem And behind those that most in front appeared Sounded "Osanna!" so that never since To hear again was I without desire. After these eyes of mine themselves had offered Unto my Lady reverently, and she Content and certain of herself had made them, Back to the light they turned, which so great promise Made of itself, and "Say, who art thou?" was My voice, imprinted with a great affection. O how and how much I beheld it grow With the new joy that superadded was Unto its joys, as soon as I had spoken! Thus changed, it said to me: "The world possessed me Short time below; and, if it had been more, Much evil will be which would not have been. My gladness keepeth me concealed from thee, Which rayeth round about me, and doth hide me Like as a creature swathed in its own silk. Much didst thou love me, and thou hadst good reason; For had I been below, I should have shown thee Somewhat beyond the foliage of my love. That left-hand margin, which doth bathe itself In Rhone, when it is mingled with the Sorgue, Me for its lord awaited in due time, And that horn of Ausonia, which is towned With Bari, with Gaeta and Catona, Whence Tronto and Verde in the sea disgorge. Already flashed upon my brow the crown Of that dominion which the Danube waters After the German borders it abandons; And beautiful Trinacria, that is murky 'Twixt Pachino and Peloro, (on the gulf Which greatest scath from Eurus doth receive,) Not through Typhoeus, but through nascent sulphur, Would have awaited her own monarchs still, Through me from Charles descended and from Rudolph, If evil lordship, that exasperates ever The subject populations, had not moved Palermo to the outcry of 'Death! death!' And if my brother could but this foresee, The greedy poverty of Catalonia Straight would he flee, that it might not molest him; For verily 'tis needful to provide, Through him or other, so that on his bark Already freighted no more freight be placed. His nature, which from liberal covetous Descended, such a soldiery would need As should not care for hoarding in a chest." "Because I do believe the lofty joy Thy speech infuses into me, my Lord, Where every good thing doth begin and end Thou seest as I see it, the more grateful Is it to me; and this too hold I dear, That gazing upon God thou dost discern it. Glad hast thou made me; so make clear to me, Since speaking thou hast stirred me up to doubt, How from sweet seed can bitter issue forth." This I to him; and he to me: "If I Can show to thee a truth, to what thou askest Thy face thou'lt hold as thou dost hold thy back. The Good which all the realm thou art ascending Turns and contents, maketh its providence To be a power within these bodies vast; And not alone the natures are foreseen Within the mind that in itself is perfect, But they together with their preservation. For whatsoever thing this bow shoots forth Falls foreordained unto an end foreseen, Even as a shaft directed to its mark. If that were not, the heaven which thou dost walk Would in such manner its effects produce, That they no longer would be arts, but ruins. Wilt thou this truth have clearer made to thee?" And I: "Not so; for 'tis impossible That nature tire, I see, in what is needful." Whence he again: "Now say, would it be worse For men on earth were they not citizens?" "Yes," I replied; "and here I ask no reason." "And can they be so, if below they live not Diversely unto offices diverse? No, if your master writeth well for you." So came he with deductions to this point; Then he concluded: "Therefore it behoves The roots of your effects to be diverse. Thence happens it that Esau differeth In seed from Jacob; and Quirinus comes From sire so vile that he is given to Mars. A generated nature its own way Would always make like its progenitors, If Providence divine were not triumphant. Now that which was behind thee is before thee; But that thou know that I with thee am pleased, With a corollary will I mantle thee. Evermore nature, if it fortune find Discordant to it, like each other seed Out of its region, maketh evil thrift; And if the world below would fix its mind On the foundation which is laid by nature, Pursuing that, 'twould have the people good. But you unto religion wrench aside Him who was born to gird him with the sword, And make a king of him who is for sermons; Therefore your footsteps wander from the road." Beautiful Clemence, after that thy Charles Had me enlightened, he narrated to me The treacheries his seed should undergo; But said: "Be still and let the years roll round;" So I can only say, that lamentation Legitimate shall follow on your wrongs. And of that holy light the life already Had to the Sun which fills it turned again, As to that good which for each thing sufficeth. Ah, souls deceived, and creatures impious, Who from such good do turn away your hearts, Directing upon vanity your foreheads! And now, behold, another of those splendours Approached me, and its will to pleasure me It signified by brightening outwardly. The eyes of Beatrice, that fastened were Upon me, as before, of dear assent To my desire assurance gave to me. "Within that region of the land depraved Of Italy, that lies between Rialto And fountain-heads of Brenta and of Piava, Rises a hill, and mounts not very high, Wherefrom descended formerly a torch That made upon that region great assault. But gladly to myself the cause I pardon Of my allotment, and it does not grieve me; Which would perhaps seem strong unto your vulgar. Of this so luculent and precious jewel, Which of our heaven is nearest unto me, Great fame remained; and ere it die away And thus thinks not the present multitude Shut in by Adige and Tagliamento, Nor yet for being scourged is penitent. But soon 'twill be that Padua in the marsh Will change the water that Vicenza bathes, Because the folk are stubborn against duty; Feltro moreover of her impious pastor Shall weep the crime, which shall so monstrous be That for the like none ever entered Malta. Ample exceedingly would be the vat That of the Ferrarese could hold the blood, And weary who should weigh it ounce by ounce, Of which this courteous priest shall make a gift To show himself a partisan; and such gifts Will to the living of the land conform. Above us there are mirrors, Thrones you call them, From which shines out on us God Judicant, So that this utterance seems good to us." Here it was silent, and it had the semblance Of being turned elsewhither, by the wheel On which it entered as it was before. The other joy, already known to me, Became a thing transplendent in my sight, As a fine ruby smitten by the sun. Through joy effulgence is acquired above, As here a smile; but down below, the shade Outwardly darkens, as the mind is sad. "God seeth all things, and in Him, blest spirit, Thy sight is," said I, "so that never will Of his can possibly from thee be hidden; Wherefore does it not satisfy my longings? Indeed, I would not wait thy questioning If I in thee were as thou art in me." "The greatest of the valleys where the water Expands itself," forthwith its words began, "That sea excepted which the earth engarlands, Between discordant shores against the sun Extends so far, that it meridian makes Where it was wont before to make the horizon. I was a dweller on that valley's shore 'Twixt Ebro and Magra that with journey short Doth from the Tuscan part the Genoese. For more the daughter of Belus never burned, Offending both Sichaeus and Creusa, Than I, so long as it became my locks, Nor yet that Rodophean, who deluded was by Demophoon, nor yet Alcides, When Iole he in his heart had locked. Yet here is no repenting, but we smile, Not at the fault, which comes not back to mind, But at the power which ordered and foresaw. Here we behold the art that doth adorn With such affection, and the good discover Whereby the world above turns that below. But that thou wholly satisfied mayst bear Thy wishes hence which in this sphere are born, Still farther to proceed behoveth me. Thou fain wouldst know who is within this light That here beside me thus is scintillating, Even as a sunbeam in the limpid water. Then know thou, that within there is at rest Rahab, and being to our order joined, With her in its supremest grade 'tis sealed. Brings forth and scatters the accursed flower Which both the sheep and lambs hath led astray Since it has turned the shepherd to a wolf. For this the Evangel and the mighty Doctors Are derelict, and only the Decretals So studied that it shows upon their margins. On this are Pope and Cardinals intent; Their meditations reach not Nazareth, There where his pinions Gabriel unfolded; But Vatican and the other parts elect Of Rome, which have a cemetery been Unto the soldiery that followed Peter Shall soon be free from this adultery." Looking into his Son with all the Love Which each of them eternally breathes forth, The Primal and unutterable Power Whate'er before the mind or eye revolves With so much order made, there can be none Who this beholds without enjoying Him. And there begin to contemplate with joy That Master's art, who in himself so loves it That never doth his eye depart therefrom. Behold how from that point goes branching off The oblique circle, which conveys the planets, To satisfy the world that calls upon them; And if their pathway were not thus inflected, Much virtue in the heavens would be in vain, And almost every power below here dead. If from the straight line distant more or less Were the departure, much would wanting be Above and underneath of mundane order. Remain now, Reader, still upon thy bench, In thought pursuing that which is foretasted, If thou wouldst jocund be instead of weary. I've set before thee; henceforth feed thyself, For to itself diverteth all my care That theme whereof I have been made the scribe. The greatest of the ministers of nature, Who with the power of heaven the world imprints And measures with his light the time for us, With that part which above is called to mind Conjoined, along the spirals was revolving, Where each time earlier he presents himself; And Beatrice, she who is seen to pass From good to better, and so suddenly That not by time her action is expressed, How lucent in herself must she have been! And what was in the sun, wherein I entered, Apparent not by colour but by light, And if our fantasies too lowly are For altitude so great, it is no marvel, Since o'er the sun was never eye could go. Never was heart of mortal so disposed To worship, nor to give itself to God With all its gratitude was it so ready, As at those words did I myself become; And all my love was so absorbed in Him, That in oblivion Beatrice was eclipsed. Nor this displeased her; but she smiled at it So that the splendour of her laughing eyes My single mind on many things divided. Lights many saw I, vivid and triumphant, Make us a centre and themselves a circle, More sweet in voice than luminous in aspect. Thus girt about the daughter of Latona We sometimes see, when pregnant is the air, So that it holds the thread which makes her zone. Within the court of Heaven, whence I return, Are many jewels found, so fair and precious They cannot be transported from the realm; And of them was the singing of those lights. Who takes not wings that he may fly up thither, The tidings thence may from the dumb await! Ladies they seemed, not from the dance released, But who stop short, in silence listening Till they have gathered the new melody. Within thee multiplied is so resplendent That it conducts thee upward by that stair, Where without reascending none descends, Who should deny the wine out of his vial Unto thy thirst, in liberty were not Except as water which descends not seaward. Fain wouldst thou know with what plants is enflowered This garland that encircles with delight The Lady fair who makes thee strong for heaven. He who is nearest to me on the right My brother and master was; and he Albertus Is of Cologne, I Thomas of Aquinum. If thou of all the others wouldst be certain, Follow behind my speaking with thy sight Upward along the blessed garland turning. That next effulgence issues from the smile Of Gratian, who assisted both the courts In such wise that it pleased in Paradise. The other which near by adorns our choir That Peter was who, e'en as the poor widow, Offered his treasure unto Holy Church. Thou seest next the lustre of that taper, Which in the flesh below looked most within The angelic nature and its ministry. Within that other little light is smiling The advocate of the Christian centuries, Out of whose rhetoric Augustine was furnished. By seeing every good therein exults The sainted soul, which the fallacious world Makes manifest to him who listeneth well; The body whence 'twas hunted forth is lying Down in Cieldauro, and from martyrdom And banishment it came unto this peace. See farther onward flame the burning breath Of Isidore, of Beda, and of Richard Who was in contemplation more than man. This, whence to me returneth thy regard, The light is of a spirit unto whom In his grave meditations death seemed slow. It is the light eternal of Sigier, Who, reading lectures in the Street of Straw, Did syllogize invidious verities." Then, as a horologe that calleth us What time the Bride of God is rising up With matins to her Spouse that he may love her, Thus I beheld the glorious wheel move round, And render voice to voice, in modulation And sweetness that can not be comprehended, Excepting there where joy is made eternal. O Thou insensate care of mortal men, How inconclusive are the syllogisms That make thee beat thy wings in downward flight! When I, from all these things emancipate, With Beatrice above there in the Heavens With such exceeding glory was received! "Even as I am kindled in its ray, So, looking into the Eternal Light, The occasion of thy thoughts I apprehend. Thou doubtest, and wouldst have me to resift In language so extended and so open My speech, that to thy sense it may be plain, The Providence, which governeth the world With counsel, wherein all created vision Is vanquished ere it reach unto the bottom, (So that towards her own Beloved might go The bride of Him who, uttering a loud cry, Espoused her with his consecrated blood, From which Perugia feels the cold and heat Through Porta Sole, and behind it weep Gualdo and Nocera their grievous yoke. Therefore let him who speaketh of that place, Say not Ascesi, for he would say little, But Orient, if he properly would speak. He was not yet far distant from his rising Before he had begun to make the earth Some comfort from his mighty virtue feel. And was before his spiritual court 'Et coram patre' unto her united; Then day by day more fervently he loved her. Naught it availed to hear, that with Amyclas Found her unmoved at sounding of his voice He who struck terror into all the world; Naught it availed being constant and undaunted, So that, when Mary still remained below, She mounted up with Christ upon the cross. Their concord and their joyous semblances, The love, the wonder, and the sweet regard, They made to be the cause of holy thoughts; O wealth unknown! O veritable good! Giles bares his feet, and bares his feet Sylvester Behind the bridegroom, so doth please the bride! Then goes his way that father and that master, He and his Lady and that family Which now was girding on the humble cord; Nor cowardice of heart weighed down his brow At being son of Peter Bernardone, Nor for appearing marvellously scorned; But regally his hard determination To Innocent he opened, and from him Received the primal seal upon his Order. After the people mendicant increased Behind this man, whose admirable life Better in glory of the heavens were sung, And when he had, through thirst of martyrdom, In the proud presence of the Sultan preached Christ and the others who came after him, And, finding for conversion too unripe The folk, and not to tarry there in vain, Returned to fruit of the Italic grass, When He, who chose him unto so much good, Was pleased to draw him up to the reward That he had merited by being lowly, Unto his friars, as to the rightful heirs, His most dear Lady did he recommend, And bade that they should love her faithfully; And from her bosom the illustrious soul Wished to depart, returning to its realm, And for its body wished no other bier. Think now what man was he, who was a fit Companion over the high seas to keep The bark of Peter to its proper bearings. And this man was our Patriarch; hence whoever Doth follow him as he commands can see That he is laden with good merchandise. But for new pasturage his flock has grown So greedy, that it is impossible They be not scattered over fields diverse; Verily some there are that fear a hurt, And keep close to the shepherd; but so few, That little cloth doth furnish forth their hoods. Now if my utterance be not indistinct, If thine own hearing hath attentive been, If thou recall to mind what I have said, In part contented shall thy wishes be; For thou shalt see the plant that's chipped away, And the rebuke that lieth in the words, Soon as the blessed flame had taken up The final word to give it utterance, Began the holy millstone to revolve, And in its gyre had not turned wholly round, Before another in a ring enclosed it, And motion joined to motion, song to song; Song that as greatly doth transcend our Muses, Our Sirens, in those dulcet clarions, As primal splendour that which is reflected. And make the people here, through covenant God set with Noah, presageful of the world That shall no more be covered with a flood, In such wise of those sempiternal roses The garlands twain encompassed us about, And thus the outer to the inner answered. After the dance, and other grand rejoicings, Both of the singing, and the flaming forth Effulgence with effulgence blithe and tender, And it began: "The love that makes me fair Draws me to speak about the other leader, By whom so well is spoken here of mine. The soldiery of Christ, which it had cost So dear to arm again, behind the standard Moved slow and doubtful and in numbers few, When the Emperor who reigneth evermore Provided for the host that was in peril, Through grace alone and not that it was worthy; And, as was said, he to his Bride brought succour With champions twain, at whose deed, at whose word The straggling people were together drawn. Within that region where the sweet west wind Rises to open the new leaves, wherewith Europe is seen to clothe herself afresh, Not far off from the beating of the waves, Behind which in his long career the sun Sometimes conceals himself from every man, Is situate the fortunate Calahorra, Under protection of the mighty shield In which the Lion subject is and sovereign. Therein was born the amorous paramour Of Christian Faith, the athlete consecrate, Kind to his own and cruel to his foes; And when it was created was his mind Replete with such a living energy, That in his mother her it made prophetic. As soon as the espousals were complete Between him and the Faith at holy font, Where they with mutual safety dowered each other, The woman, who for him had given assent, Saw in a dream the admirable fruit That issue would from him and from his heirs; And that he might be construed as he was, A spirit from this place went forth to name him With His possessive whose he wholly was. Dominic was he called; and him I speak of Even as of the husbandman whom Christ Elected to his garden to assist him. Silent and wakeful many a time was he Discovered by his nurse upon the ground, As if he would have said, 'For this I came.' O thou his father, Felix verily! O thou his mother, verily Joanna, If this, interpreted, means as is said! Not for the world which people toil for now In following Ostiense and Taddeo, But through his longing after the true manna, He in short time became so great a teacher, That he began to go about the vineyard, Which fadeth soon, if faithless be the dresser; Then with the doctrine and the will together, With office apostolical he moved, Like torrent which some lofty vein out-presses; And in among the shoots heretical His impetus with greater fury smote, Wherever the resistance was the greatest. Of him were made thereafter divers runnels, Whereby the garden catholic is watered, So that more living its plantations stand. Truly full manifest should be to thee The excellence of the other, unto whom Thomas so courteous was before my coming. His family, that had straight forward moved With feet upon his footprints, are turned round So that they set the point upon the heel. And soon aware they will be of the harvest Of this bad husbandry, when shall the tares Complain the granary is taken from them. Yet say I, he who searcheth leaf by leaf Our volume through, would still some page discover Where he could read, 'I am as I am wont.' Bonaventura of Bagnoregio's life Am I, who always in great offices Postponed considerations sinister. Here is Rabanus, and beside me here Shines the Calabrian Abbot Joachim, He with the spirit of prophecy endowed. To celebrate so great a paladin Have moved me the impassioned courtesy And the discreet discourses of Friar Thomas, And with me they have moved this company." Paradiso: Canto XIII Let him imagine, who would well conceive What now I saw, and let him while I speak Retain the image as a steadfast rock, Let him the Wain imagine unto which Our vault of heaven sufficeth night and day, So that in turning of its pole it fails not; Because it is as much beyond our wont, As swifter than the motion of the Chiana Moveth the heaven that all the rest outspeeds. The singing and the dance fulfilled their measure, And unto us those holy lights gave need, Growing in happiness from care to care. Then broke the silence of those saints concordant The light in which the admirable life Of God's own mendicant was told to me, Into that bosom, thou believest, whence Was drawn the rib to form the beauteous cheek Whose taste to all the world is costing dear, And into that which, by the lance transfixed, Before and since, such satisfaction made That it weighs down the balance of all sin, Whate'er of light it has to human nature Been lawful to possess was all infused By the same power that both of them created; Now ope thine eyes to what I answer thee, And thou shalt see thy creed and my discourse Fit in the truth as centre in a circle. That which can die, and that which dieth not, Are nothing but the splendour of the idea Which by his love our Lord brings into being; Because that living Light, which from its fount Effulgent flows, so that it disunites not From Him nor from the Love in them intrined, Thence it descends to the last potencies, Downward from act to act becoming such That only brief contingencies it makes; And these contingencies I hold to be Things generated, which the heaven produces By its own motion, with seed and without. Neither their wax, nor that which tempers it, Remains immutable, and hence beneath The ideal signet more and less shines through; Therefore it happens, that the selfsame tree After its kind bears worse and better fruit, And ye are born with characters diverse. If in perfection tempered were the wax, And were the heaven in its supremest virtue, The brilliance of the seal would all appear; But nature gives it evermore deficient, In the like manner working as the artist, Who has the skill of art and hand that trembles. If then the fervent Love, the Vision clear, Of primal Virtue do dispose and seal, Perfection absolute is there acquired. Thus was of old the earth created worthy Of all and every animal perfection; And thus the Virgin was impregnate made; But, that may well appear what now appears not, Think who he was, and what occasion moved him To make request, when it was told him, 'Ask.' I've not so spoken that thou canst not see Clearly he was a king who asked for wisdom, That he might be sufficiently a king; 'Twas not to know the number in which are The motors here above, or if 'necesse' With a contingent e'er 'necesse' make, 'Non si est dare primum motum esse,' Or if in semicircle can be made Triangle so that it have no right angle. Whence, if thou notest this and what I said, A regal prudence is that peerless seeing In which the shaft of my intention strikes. And if on 'rose' thou turnest thy clear eyes, Thou'lt see that it has reference alone To kings who're many, and the good are rare. And lead shall this be always to thy feet, To make thee, like a weary man, move slowly Both to the Yes and No thou seest not; Because it happens that full often bends Current opinion in the false direction, And then the feelings bind the intellect. Far more than uselessly he leaves the shore, (Since he returneth not the same he went,) Who fishes for the truth, and has no skill; And in the world proofs manifest thereof Parmenides, Melissus, Brissus are, And many who went on and knew not whither; Thus did Sabellius, Arius, and those fools Who have been even as swords unto the Scriptures In rendering distorted their straight faces. Nor yet shall people be too confident In judging, even as he is who doth count The corn in field or ever it be ripe. And I have seen a ship direct and swift Run o'er the sea throughout its course entire, To perish at the harbour's mouth at last. From centre unto rim, from rim to centre, In a round vase the water moves itself, As from without 'tis struck or from within. Into my mind upon a sudden dropped What I am saying, at the moment when Silent became the glorious life of Thomas, Because of the resemblance that was born Of his discourse and that of Beatrice, Whom, after him, it pleased thus to begin: Declare unto him if the light wherewith Blossoms your substance shall remain with you Eternally the same that it is now; And if it do remain, say in what manner, After ye are again made visible, It can be that it injure not your sight." As by a greater gladness urged and drawn They who are dancing in a ring sometimes Uplift their voices and their motions quicken; So, at that orison devout and prompt, The holy circles a new joy displayed In their revolving and their wondrous song. Whoso lamenteth him that here we die That we may live above, has never there Seen the refreshment of the eternal rain. And, in the lustre most divine of all The lesser ring, I heard a modest voice, Such as perhaps the Angel's was to Mary, Answer: "As long as the festivity Of Paradise shall be, so long our love Shall radiate round about us such a vesture. When, glorious and sanctified, our flesh Is reassumed, then shall our persons be More pleasing by their being all complete; For will increase whate'er bestows on us Of light gratuitous the Good Supreme, Light which enables us to look on Him; Therefore the vision must perforce increase, Increase the ardour which from that is kindled, Increase the radiance which from this proceeds. But even as a coal that sends forth flame, And by its vivid whiteness overpowers it So that its own appearance it maintains, Thus the effulgence that surrounds us now Shall be o'erpowered in aspect by the flesh, Which still to-day the earth doth cover up; Nor can so great a splendour weary us, For strong will be the organs of the body To everything which hath the power to please us." Nor sole for them perhaps, but for the mothers, The fathers, and the rest who had been dear Or ever they became eternal flames. And lo! all round about of equal brightness Arose a lustre over what was there, Like an horizon that is clearing up. And as at rise of early eve begin Along the welkin new appearances, So that the sight seems real and unreal, O very sparkling of the Holy Spirit, How sudden and incandescent it became Unto mine eyes, that vanquished bore it not! But Beatrice so beautiful and smiling Appeared to me, that with the other sights That followed not my memory I must leave her. Then to uplift themselves mine eyes resumed The power, and I beheld myself translated To higher salvation with my Lady only. Well was I ware that I was more uplifted By the enkindled smiling of the star, That seemed to me more ruddy than its wont. With all my heart, and in that dialect Which is the same in all, such holocaust To God I made as the new grace beseemed; And not yet from my bosom was exhausted The ardour of sacrifice, before I knew This offering was accepted and auspicious; For with so great a lustre and so red Splendours appeared to me in twofold rays, I said: "O Helios who dost so adorn them!" Thus constellated in the depths of Mars, Those rays described the venerable sign That quadrants joining in a circle make. Here doth my memory overcome my genius; For on that cross as levin gleamed forth Christ, So that I cannot find ensample worthy; But he who takes his cross and follows Christ Again will pardon me what I omit, Seeing in that aurora lighten Christ. From horn to horn, and 'twixt the top and base, Lights were in motion, brightly scintillating As they together met and passed each other; Thus level and aslant and swift and slow We here behold, renewing still the sight, The particles of bodies long and short, Across the sunbeam move, wherewith is listed Sometimes the shade, which for their own defence People with cunning and with art contrive. And as a lute and harp, accordant strung With many strings, a dulcet tinkling make To him by whom the notes are not distinguished, So from the lights that there to me appeared Upgathered through the cross a melody, Which rapt me, not distinguishing the hymn. Well was I ware it was of lofty laud, Because there came to me, "Arise and conquer!" As unto him who hears and comprehends not. So much enamoured I became therewith, That until then there was not anything That e'er had fettered me with such sweet bonds. Perhaps my word appears somewhat too bold, Postponing the delight of those fair eyes, Into which gazing my desire has rest; But who bethinks him that the living seals Of every beauty grow in power ascending, And that I there had not turned round to those, Can me excuse, if I myself accuse To excuse myself, and see that I speak truly: For here the holy joy is not disclosed, Because ascending it becomes more pure. A will benign, in which reveals itself Ever the love that righteously inspires, As in the iniquitous, cupidity, Silence imposed upon that dulcet lyre, And quieted the consecrated chords, That Heaven's right hand doth tighten and relax. 'Tis well that without end he should lament, Who for the love of thing that doth not last Eternally despoils him of that love! As through the pure and tranquil evening air There shoots from time to time a sudden fire, Moving the eyes that steadfast were before, And seems to be a star that changeth place, Except that in the part where it is kindled Nothing is missed, and this endureth little; So from the horn that to the right extends Unto that cross's foot there ran a star Out of the constellation shining there; Nor was the gem dissevered from its ribbon, But down the radiant fillet ran along, So that fire seemed it behind alabaster. Thus piteous did Anchises' shade reach forward, If any faith our greatest Muse deserve, When in Elysium he his son perceived. "O sanguis meus, O superinfusa Gratia Dei, sicut tibi, cui Bis unquam Coeli janua reclusa?" Thus that effulgence; whence I gave it heed; Then round unto my Lady turned my sight, And on this side and that was stupefied; For in her eyes was burning such a smile That with mine own methought I touched the bottom Both of my grace and of my Paradise! Then, pleasant to the hearing and the sight, The spirit joined to its beginning things I understood not, so profound it spake; Nor did it hide itself from me by choice, But by necessity; for its conception Above the mark of mortals set itself. And when the bow of burning sympathy Was so far slackened, that its speech descended Towards the mark of our intelligence, And it continued: "Hunger long and grateful, Drawn from the reading of the mighty volume Wherein is never changed the white nor dark, Thou hast appeased, my son, within this light In which I speak to thee, by grace of her Who to this lofty flight with plumage clothed thee. And therefore who I am thou askest not, And why I seem more joyous unto thee Than any other of this gladsome crowd. Thou think'st the truth; because the small and great Of this existence look into the mirror Wherein, before thou think'st, thy thought thou showest. But that the sacred love, in which I watch With sight perpetual, and which makes me thirst With sweet desire, may better be fulfilled, Now let thy voice secure and frank and glad Proclaim the wishes, the desire proclaim, To which my answer is decreed already." To Beatrice I turned me, and she heard Before I spake, and smiled to me a sign, That made the wings of my desire increase; For in the Sun, which lighted you and burned With heat and radiance, they so equal are, That all similitudes are insufficient. But among mortals will and argument, For reason that to you is manifest, Diversely feathered in their pinions are. Whence I, who mortal am, feel in myself This inequality; so give not thanks, Save in my heart, for this paternal welcome. Truly do I entreat thee, living topaz! Set in this precious jewel as a gem, That thou wilt satisfy me with thy name." "O leaf of mine, in whom I pleasure took E'en while awaiting, I was thine own root!" Such a beginning he in answer made me. A son of mine and thy great-grandsire was; Well it behoves thee that the long fatigue Thou shouldst for him make shorter with thy works. Florence, within the ancient boundary From which she taketh still her tierce and nones, Abode in quiet, temperate and chaste. No golden chain she had, nor coronal, Nor ladies shod with sandal shoon, nor girdle That caught the eye more than the person did. Not yet the daughter at her birth struck fear Into the father, for the time and dower Did not o'errun this side or that the measure. No houses had she void of families, Not yet had thither come Sardanapalus To show what in a chamber can be done; Not yet surpassed had Montemalo been By your Uccellatojo, which surpassed Shall in its downfall be as in its rise. Bellincion Berti saw I go begirt With leather and with bone, and from the mirror His dame depart without a painted face; And him of Nerli saw, and him of Vecchio, Contented with their simple suits of buff And with the spindle and the flax their dames. Another, drawing tresses from her distaff, Told o'er among her family the tales Of Trojans and of Fesole and Rome. As great a marvel then would have been held A Lapo Salterello, a Cianghella, As Cincinnatus or Cornelia now. To such a quiet, such a beautiful Life of the citizen, to such a safe Community, and to so sweet an inn, Moronto was my brother, and Eliseo; From Val di Pado came to me my wife, And from that place thy surname was derived. I followed afterward the Emperor Conrad, And he begirt me of his chivalry, So much I pleased him with my noble deeds. I followed in his train against that law's Iniquity, whose people doth usurp Your just possession, through your Pastor's fault. There by that execrable race was I Released from bonds of the fallacious world, The love of which defileth many souls, And came from martyrdom unto this peace." O thou our poor nobility of blood, If thou dost make the people glory in thee Down here where our affection languishes, A marvellous thing it ne'er will be to me; For there where appetite is not perverted, I say in Heaven, of thee I made a boast! Truly thou art a cloak that quickly shortens, So that unless we piece thee day by day Time goeth round about thee with his shears! And I began: "You are my ancestor, You give to me all hardihood to speak, You lift me so that I am more than I. So many rivulets with gladness fill My mind, that of itself it makes a joy Because it can endure this and not burst. Then tell me, my beloved root ancestral, Who were your ancestors, and what the years That in your boyhood chronicled themselves? Tell me about the sheepfold of Saint John, How large it was, and who the people were Within it worthy of the highest seats." As at the blowing of the winds a coal Quickens to flame, so I beheld that light Become resplendent at my blandishments. And as unto mine eyes it grew more fair, With voice more sweet and tender, but not in This modern dialect, it said to me: "From uttering of the 'Ave,' till the birth In which my mother, who is now a saint, Of me was lightened who had been her burden, Suffice it of my elders to hear this; But who they were, and whence they thither came, Silence is more considerate than speech. But the community, that now is mixed With Campi and Certaldo and Figghine, Pure in the lowest artisan was seen. O how much better 'twere to have as neighbours The folk of whom I speak, and at Galluzzo And at Trespiano have your boundary, Than have them in the town, and bear the stench Of Aguglione's churl, and him of Signa Who has sharp eyes for trickery already. Had not the folk, which most of all the world Degenerates, been a step-dame unto Caesar, But as a mother to her son benignant, Some who turn Florentines, and trade and discount, Would have gone back again to Simifonte There where their grandsires went about as beggars. At Montemurlo still would be the Counts, The Cerchi in the parish of Acone, Perhaps in Valdigrieve the Buondelmonti. Ever the intermingling of the people Has been the source of malady in cities, As in the body food it surfeits on; If Luni thou regard, and Urbisaglia, How they have passed away, and how are passing Chiusi and Sinigaglia after them, To hear how races waste themselves away, Will seem to thee no novel thing nor hard, Seeing that even cities have an end. All things of yours have their mortality, Even as yourselves; but it is hidden in some That a long while endure, and lives are short; And as the turning of the lunar heaven Covers and bares the shores without a pause, In the like manner fortune does with Florence. Therefore should not appear a marvellous thing What I shall say of the great Florentines Of whom the fame is hidden in the Past. I saw the Ughi, saw the Catellini, Filippi, Greci, Ormanni, and Alberichi, Even in their fall illustrious citizens; And saw, as mighty as they ancient were, With him of La Sannella him of Arca, And Soldanier, Ardinghi, and Bostichi. Near to the gate that is at present laden With a new felony of so much weight That soon it shall be jetsam from the bark, The Ravignani were, from whom descended The County Guido, and whoe'er the name Of the great Bellincione since hath taken. He of La Pressa knew the art of ruling Already, and already Galigajo Had hilt and pommel gilded in his house. Mighty already was the Column Vair, Sacchetti, Giuochi, Fifant, and Barucci, And Galli, and they who for the bushel blush. The stock from which were the Calfucci born Was great already, and already chosen To curule chairs the Sizii and Arrigucci. O how beheld I those who are undone By their own pride! and how the Balls of Gold Florence enflowered in all their mighty deeds! So likewise did the ancestors of those Who evermore, when vacant is your church, Fatten by staying in consistory. The insolent race, that like a dragon follows Whoever flees, and unto him that shows His teeth or purse is gentle as a lamb, Already rising was, but from low people; So that it pleased not Ubertin Donato That his wife's father should make him their kin. Already had Caponsacco to the Market From Fesole descended, and already Giuda and Infangato were good burghers. Knighthood and privilege from him received; Though with the populace unites himself To-day the man who binds it with a border. Already were Gualterotti and Importuni; And still more quiet would the Borgo be If with new neighbours it remained unfed. The house from which is born your lamentation, Through just disdain that death among you brought And put an end unto your joyous life, Was honoured in itself and its companions. O Buondelmonte, how in evil hour Thou fled'st the bridal at another's promptings! But it behoved the mutilated stone Which guards the bridge, that Florence should provide A victim in her latest hour of peace. With all these families, and others with them, Florence beheld I in so great repose, That no occasion had she whence to weep; With all these families beheld so just And glorious her people, that the lily Never upon the spear was placed reversed, Nor by division was vermilion made." Paradiso: Canto XVII As came to Clymene, to be made certain Of that which he had heard against himself, He who makes fathers chary still to children, Therefore my Lady said to me: "Send forth The flame of thy desire, so that it issue Imprinted well with the internal stamp; Not that our knowledge may be greater made By speech of thine, but to accustom thee To tell thy thirst, that we may give thee drink." While I was with Virgilius conjoined Upon the mountain that the souls doth heal, And when descending into the dead world, Were spoken to me of my future life Some grievous words; although I feel myself In sooth foursquare against the blows of chance. On this account my wish would be content To hear what fortune is approaching me, Because foreseen an arrow comes more slowly." Thus did I say unto that selfsame light That unto me had spoken before; and even As Beatrice willed was my own will confessed. Not in vague phrase, in which the foolish folk Ensnared themselves of old, ere yet was slain The Lamb of God who taketh sins away, But with clear words and unambiguous Language responded that paternal love, Hid and revealed by its own proper smile: "Contingency, that outside of the volume Of your materiality extends not, Is all depicted in the eternal aspect. Necessity however thence it takes not, Except as from the eye, in which 'tis mirrored, A ship that with the current down descends. From thence, e'en as there cometh to the ear Sweet harmony from an organ, comes in sight To me the time that is preparing for thee. As forth from Athens went Hippolytus, By reason of his step-dame false and cruel, So thou from Florence must perforce depart. Already this is willed, and this is sought for; And soon it shall be done by him who thinks it, Where every day the Christ is bought and sold. The blame shall follow the offended party In outcry as is usual; but the vengeance Shall witness to the truth that doth dispense it. And that which most shall weigh upon thy shoulders Will be the bad and foolish company With which into this valley thou shalt fall; For all ingrate, all mad and impious Will they become against thee; but soon after They, and not thou, shall have the forehead scarlet. Thine earliest refuge and thine earliest inn Shall be the mighty Lombard's courtesy, Who on the Ladder bears the holy bird, But ere the Gascon cheat the noble Henry, Some sparkles of his virtue shall appear In caring not for silver nor for toil. So recognized shall his magnificence Become hereafter, that his enemies Will not have power to keep mute tongues about it. On him rely, and on his benefits; By him shall many people be transformed, Changing condition rich and mendicant; Then added: "Son, these are the commentaries On what was said to thee; behold the snares That are concealed behind few revolutions; Yet would I not thy neighbours thou shouldst envy, Because thy life into the future reaches Beyond the punishment of their perfidies." When by its silence showed that sainted soul That it had finished putting in the woof Into that web which I had given it warped, Began I, even as he who yearneth after, Being in doubt, some counsel from a person Who seeth, and uprightly wills, and loves: "Well see I, father mine, how spurreth on The time towards me such a blow to deal me As heaviest is to him who most gives way. Therefore with foresight it is well I arm me, That, if the dearest place be taken from me, I may not lose the others by my songs. Down through the world of infinite bitterness, And o'er the mountain, from whose beauteous summit The eyes of my own Lady lifted me, And afterward through heaven from light to light, I have learned that which, if I tell again, Will be a savour of strong herbs to many. And if I am a timid friend to truth, I fear lest I may lose my life with those Who will hereafter call this time the olden." Then made reply: "A conscience overcast Or with its own or with another's shame, Will taste forsooth the tartness of thy word; But ne'ertheless, all falsehood laid aside, Make manifest thy vision utterly, And let them scratch wherever is the itch; This cry of thine shall do as doth the wind, Which smiteth most the most exalted summits, And that is no slight argument of honour. Therefore are shown to thee within these wheels, Upon the mount and in the dolorous valley, Only the souls that unto fame are known; Because the spirit of the hearer rests not, Nor doth confirm its faith by an example Which has the root of it unknown and hidden, Or other reason that is not apparent." Paradiso: Canto XVIII Now was alone rejoicing in its word That soul beatified, and I was tasting My own, the bitter tempering with the sweet, And the Lady who to God was leading me Said: "Change thy thought; consider that I am Near unto Him who every wrong disburdens." Unto the loving accents of my comfort I turned me round, and then what love I saw Within those holy eyes I here relinquish; Not only that my language I distrust, But that my mind cannot return so far Above itself, unless another guide it. Thus much upon that point can I repeat, That, her again beholding, my affection From every other longing was released. While the eternal pleasure, which direct Rayed upon Beatrice, from her fair face Contented me with its reflected aspect, Conquering me with the radiance of a smile, She said to me, "Turn thee about and listen; Not in mine eyes alone is Paradise." Even as sometimes here do we behold The affection in the look, if it be such That all the soul is wrapt away by it, So, by the flaming of the effulgence holy To which I turned, I recognized therein The wish of speaking to me somewhat farther. Are blessed spirits that below, ere yet They came to Heaven, were of such great renown That every Muse therewith would affluent be. Therefore look thou upon the cross's horns; He whom I now shall name will there enact What doth within a cloud its own swift fire." I saw athwart the Cross a splendour drawn By naming Joshua, (even as he did it,) Nor noted I the word before the deed; And at the name of the great Maccabee I saw another move itself revolving, And gladness was the whip unto that top. William thereafterward, and Renouard, And the Duke Godfrey, did attract my sight Along upon that Cross, and Robert Guiscard. Then, moved and mingled with the other lights, The soul that had addressed me showed how great An artist 'twas among the heavenly singers. To my right side I turned myself around, My duty to behold in Beatrice Either by words or gesture signified; And so translucent I beheld her eyes, So full of pleasure, that her countenance Surpassed its other and its latest wont. And as, by feeling greater delectation, A man in doing good from day to day Becomes aware his virtue is increasing, So I became aware that my gyration With heaven together had increased its arc, That miracle beholding more adorned. And such as is the change, in little lapse Of time, in a pale woman, when her face Is from the load of bashfulness unladen, Within that Jovial torch did I behold The sparkling of the love which was therein Delineate our language to mine eyes. And even as birds uprisen from the shore, As in congratulation o'er their food, Make squadrons of themselves, now round, now long, So from within those lights the holy creatures Sang flying to and fro, and in their figures Made of themselves now D, now I, now L. O divine Pegasea, thou who genius Dost glorious make, and render it long-lived, And this through thee the cities and the kingdoms, Illume me with thyself, that I may bring Their figures out as I have them conceived! Apparent be thy power in these brief verses! And other lights I saw descend where was The summit of the M, and pause there singing The good, I think, that draws them to itself. Then, as in striking upon burning logs Upward there fly innumerable sparks, Whence fools are wont to look for auguries, He who there paints has none to be his guide; But Himself guides; and is from Him remembered That virtue which is form unto the nest. O gentle star! what and how many gems Did demonstrate to me, that all our justice Effect is of that heaven which thou ingemmest! Wherefore I pray the Mind, in which begin Thy motion and thy virtue, to regard Whence comes the smoke that vitiates thy rays; O soldiery of heaven, whom I contemplate, Implore for those who are upon the earth All gone astray after the bad example! Yet thou, who writest but to cancel, think That Peter and that Paul, who for this vineyard Which thou art spoiling died, are still alive! Well canst thou say: "So steadfast my desire Is unto him who willed to live alone, And for a dance was led to martyrdom, That I know not the Fisherman nor Paul." Appeared before me with its wings outspread The beautiful image that in sweet fruition Made jubilant the interwoven souls; Appeared a little ruby each, wherein Ray of the sun was burning so enkindled That each into mine eyes refracted it. And what it now behoves me to retrace Nor voice has e'er reported, nor ink written, Nor was by fantasy e'er comprehended; For speak I saw, and likewise heard, the beak, And utter with its voice both 'I' and 'My,' When in conception it was 'We' and 'Our.' And it began: "Being just and merciful Am I exalted here unto that glory Which cannot be exceeded by desire; And upon earth I left my memory Such, that the evil-minded people there Commend it, but continue not the story." So doth a single heat from many embers Make itself felt, even as from many loves Issued a single sound from out that image. Exhaling, break within me the great fast Which a long season has in hunger held me, Not finding for it any food on earth. Well do I know, that if in heaven its mirror Justice Divine another realm doth make, Yours apprehends it not through any veil. You know how I attentively address me To listen; and you know what is the doubt That is in me so very old a fast." Even as a falcon, issuing from his hood, Doth move his head, and with his wings applaud him, Showing desire, and making himself fine, Saw I become that standard, which of lauds Was interwoven of the grace divine, With such songs as he knows who there rejoices. Then it began: "He who a compass turned On the world's outer verge, and who within it Devised so much occult and manifest, Could not the impress of his power so make On all the universe, as that his Word Should not remain in infinite excess. And hence appears it, that each minor nature Is scant receptacle unto that good Which has no end, and by itself is measured. In consequence our vision, which perforce Must be some ray of that intelligence With which all things whatever are replete, Cannot in its own nature be so potent, That it shall not its origin discern Far beyond that which is apparent to it. Therefore into the justice sempiternal The power of vision that your world receives, As eye into the ocean, penetrates; Which, though it see the bottom near the shore, Upon the deep perceives it not, and yet 'Tis there, but it is hidden by the depth. There is no light but comes from the serene That never is o'ercast, nay, it is darkness Or shadow of the flesh, or else its poison. Amply to thee is opened now the cavern Which has concealed from thee the living justice Of which thou mad'st such frequent questioning. For saidst thou: 'Born a man is on the shore Of Indus, and is none who there can speak Of Christ, nor who can read, nor who can write; And all his inclinations and his actions Are good, so far as human reason sees, Without a sin in life or in discourse: He dieth unbaptised and without faith; Where is this justice that condemneth him? Where is his fault, if he do not believe?' Truly to him who with me subtilizes, If so the Scripture were not over you, For doubting there were marvellous occasion. O animals terrene, O stolid minds, The primal will, that in itself is good, Ne'er from itself, the Good Supreme, has moved. So much is just as is accordant with it; No good created draws it to itself, But it, by raying forth, occasions that." Even as above her nest goes circling round The stork when she has fed her little ones, And he who has been fed looks up at her, So lifted I my brows, and even such Became the blessed image, which its wings Was moving, by so many counsels urged. Circling around it sang, and said: "As are My notes to thee, who dost not comprehend them, Such is the eternal judgment to you mortals." Those lucent splendours of the Holy Spirit Grew quiet then, but still within the standard That made the Romans reverend to the world. But look thou, many crying are, 'Christ, Christ!' Who at the judgment shall be far less near To him than some shall be who knew not Christ. What to your kings may not the Persians say, When they that volume opened shall behold In which are written down all their dispraises? There shall be seen, among the deeds of Albert, That which ere long shall set the pen in motion, For which the realm of Prague shall be deserted. There shall be seen the woe that on the Seine He brings by falsifying of the coin, Who by the blow of a wild boar shall die. There shall be seen the pride that causes thirst, Which makes the Scot and Englishman so mad That they within their boundaries cannot rest; Be seen the luxury and effeminate life Of him of Spain, and the Bohemian, Who valour never knew and never wished; Be seen the avarice and poltroonery Of him who guards the Island of the Fire, Wherein Anchises finished his long life; And to declare how pitiful he is Shall be his record in contracted letters Which shall make note of much in little space. And he of Portugal and he of Norway Shall there be known, and he of Rascia too, Who saw in evil hour the coin of Venice. O happy Hungary, if she let herself Be wronged no farther! and Navarre the happy, If with the hills that gird her she be armed! Who from the others' flank departeth not." When he who all the world illuminates Out of our hemisphere so far descends That on all sides the daylight is consumed, And came into my mind this act of heaven, When the ensign of the world and of its leaders Had silent in the blessed beak become; Because those living luminaries all, By far more luminous, did songs begin Lapsing and falling from my memory. O gentle Love, that with a smile dost cloak thee, How ardent in those sparks didst thou appear, That had the breath alone of holy thoughts! I seemed to hear the murmuring of a river That clear descendeth down from rock to rock, Showing the affluence of its mountain-top. And as the sound upon the cithern's neck Taketh its form, and as upon the vent Of rustic pipe the wind that enters it, Even thus, relieved from the delay of waiting, That murmuring of the eagle mounted up Along its neck, as if it had been hollow. There it became a voice, and issued thence From out its beak, in such a form of words As the heart waited for wherein I wrote them. "The part in me which sees and bears the sun In mortal eagles," it began to me, "Now fixedly must needs be looked upon; For of the fires of which I make my figure, Those whence the eye doth sparkle in my head Of all their orders the supremest are. Now knoweth he the merit of his song, In so far as effect of his own counsel, By the reward which is commensurate. Now knoweth he how dearly it doth cost Not following Christ, by the experience Of this sweet life and of its opposite. He who comes next in the circumference Of which I speak, upon its highest arc, Did death postpone by penitence sincere; Now knoweth he that the eternal judgment Suffers no change, albeit worthy prayer Maketh below to-morrow of to-day. The next who follows, with the laws and me, Under the good intent that bore bad fruit Became a Greek by ceding to the pastor; Now knoweth he how all the ill deduced From his good action is not harmful to him, Although the world thereby may be destroyed. And he, whom in the downward arc thou seest, Guglielmo was, whom the same land deplores That weepeth Charles and Frederick yet alive; Now knoweth he how heaven enamoured is With a just king; and in the outward show Of his effulgence he reveals it still. Now knoweth he enough of what the world Has not the power to see of grace divine, Although his sight may not discern the bottom." Such seemed to me the image of the imprint Of the eternal pleasure, by whose will Doth everything become the thing it is. And notwithstanding to my doubt I was As glass is to the colour that invests it, To wait the time in silence it endured not, But forth from out my mouth, "What things are these?" Extorted with the force of its own weight; Whereat I saw great joy of coruscation. Thereafterward with eye still more enkindled The blessed standard made to me reply, To keep me not in wonderment suspended: "I see that thou believest in these things Because I say them, but thou seest not how; So that, although believed in, they are hidden. Thou doest as he doth who a thing by name Well apprehendeth, but its quiddity Cannot perceive, unless another show it. 'Regnum coelorum' suffereth violence From fervent love, and from that living hope That overcometh the Divine volition; Not in the guise that man o'ercometh man, But conquers it because it will be conquered, And conquered conquers by benignity. They passed not from their bodies, as thou thinkest, Gentiles, but Christians in the steadfast faith Of feet that were to suffer and had suffered. The glorious soul concerning which I speak, Returning to the flesh, where brief its stay, Believed in Him who had the power to aid it; Set all his love below on righteousness; Wherefore from grace to grace did God unclose His eye to our redemption yet to be, Whence he believed therein, and suffered not From that day forth the stench of paganism, And he reproved therefor the folk perverse. And you, O mortals! hold yourselves restrained In judging; for ourselves, who look on God, We do not know as yet all the elect; And sweet to us is such a deprivation, Because our good in this good is made perfect, That whatsoe'er God wills, we also will." After this manner by that shape divine, To make clear in me my short-sightedness, Was given to me a pleasant medicine; And as good singer a good lutanist Accompanies with vibrations of the chords, Whereby more pleasantness the song acquires, So, while it spake, do I remember me That I beheld both of those blessed lights, Even as the winking of the eyes concords, Moving unto the words their little flames. Already on my Lady's face mine eyes Again were fastened, and with these my mind, And from all other purpose was withdrawn; And she smiled not; but "If I were to smile," She unto me began, "thou wouldst become Like Semele, when she was turned to ashes. Because my beauty, that along the stairs Of the eternal palace more enkindles, As thou hast seen, the farther we ascend, If it were tempered not, is so resplendent That all thy mortal power in its effulgence Would seem a leaflet that the thunder crushes. Fix in direction of thine eyes the mind, And make of them a mirror for the figure That in this mirror shall appear to thee." He who could know what was the pasturage My sight had in that blessed countenance, When I transferred me to another care, Within the crystal which, around the world Revolving, bears the name of its dear leader, Under whom every wickedness lay dead, like gold, on which the sunshine gleams, A stairway I beheld to such a height Uplifted, that mine eye pursued it not. Likewise beheld I down the steps descending So many splendours, that I thought each light That in the heaven appears was there diffused. And as accordant with their natural custom The rooks together at the break of day Bestir themselves to warm their feathers cold; Then some of them fly off without return, Others come back to where they started from, And others, wheeling round, still keep at home; Such fashion it appeared to me was there Within the sparkling that together came, As soon as on a certain step it struck, And that which nearest unto us remained Became so clear, that in my thought I said, "Well I perceive the love thou showest me; But she, from whom I wait the how and when Of speech and silence, standeth still; whence I Against desire do well if I ask not." She thereupon, who saw my silentness In the sight of Him who seeth everything, Said unto me, "Let loose thy warm desire." And I began: "No merit of my own Renders me worthy of response from thee; But for her sake who granteth me the asking, Thou blessed life that dost remain concealed In thy beatitude, make known to me The cause which draweth thee so near my side; And tell me why is silent in this wheel The dulcet symphony of Paradise, That through the rest below sounds so devoutly." "Thou hast thy hearing mortal as thy sight," It answer made to me; "they sing not here, For the same cause that Beatrice has not smiled. Thus far adown the holy stairway's steps Have I descended but to give thee welcome With words, and with the light that mantles me; Nor did more love cause me to be more ready, For love as much and more up there is burning, As doth the flaming manifest to thee. But the high charity, that makes us servants Prompt to the counsel which controls the world, Allotteth here, even as thou dost observe." "I see full well," said I, "O sacred lamp! How love unfettered in this court sufficeth To follow the eternal Providence; But this is what seems hard for me to see, Wherefore predestinate wast thou alone Unto this office from among thy consorts." No sooner had I come to the last word, Than of its middle made the light a centre, Whirling itself about like a swift millstone. When answer made the love that was therein: "On me directed is a light divine, Piercing through this in which I am embosomed, Of which the virtue with my sight conjoined Lifts me above myself so far, I see The supreme essence from which this is drawn. Hence comes the joyfulness with which I flame, For to my sight, as far as it is clear, The clearness of the flame I equal make. But that soul in the heaven which is most pure, That seraph which his eye on God most fixes, Could this demand of thine not satisfy; Because so deeply sinks in the abyss Of the eternal statute what thou askest, From all created sight it is cut off. And to the mortal world, when thou returnest, This carry back, that it may not presume Longer tow'rd such a goal to move its feet. The mind, that shineth here, on earth doth smoke; From this observe how can it do below That which it cannot though the heaven assume it?" Such limit did its words prescribe to me, The question I relinquished, and restricted Myself to ask it humbly who it was. And form a ridge that Catria is called, 'Neath which is consecrate a hermitage Wont to be dedicate to worship only." That feeding only on the juice of olives Lightly I passed away the heats and frosts, Contented in my thoughts contemplative. That cloister used to render to these heavens Abundantly, and now is empty grown, So that perforce it soon must be revealed. I in that place was Peter Damiano; And Peter the Sinner was I in the house Of Our Lady on the Adriatic shore. Little of mortal life remained to me, When I was called and dragged forth to the hat Which shifteth evermore from bad to worse. Came Cephas, and the mighty Vessel came Of the Holy Spirit, meagre and barefooted, Taking the food of any hostelry. At this voice saw I many little flames From step to step descending and revolving, And every revolution made them fairer. Distinguished it, the thunder so o'ercame me. Paradiso: Canto XXII Oppressed with stupor, I unto my guide Turned like a little child who always runs For refuge there where he confideth most; And she, even as a mother who straightway Gives comfort to her pale and breathless boy With voice whose wont it is to reassure him, Said to me: "Knowest thou not thou art in heaven, And knowest thou not that heaven is holy all And what is done here cometh from good zeal? After what wise the singing would have changed thee And I by smiling, thou canst now imagine, Since that the cry has startled thee so much, In which if thou hadst understood its prayers Already would be known to thee the vengeance Which thou shalt look upon before thou diest. The sword above here smiteth not in haste Nor tardily, howe'er it seem to him Who fearing or desiring waits for it. But turn thee round towards the others now, For very illustrious spirits shalt thou see, If thou thy sight directest as I say." And now the largest and most luculent Among those pearls came forward, that it might Make my desire concerning it content. Within it then I heard: "If thou couldst see Even as myself the charity that burns Among us, thy conceits would be expressed; But, that by waiting thou mayst not come late To the high end, I will make answer even Unto the thought of which thou art so chary. And such abundant grace upon me shone That all the neighbouring towns I drew away From the impious worship that seduced the world. Here is Macarius, here is Romualdus, Here are my brethren, who within the cloisters Their footsteps stayed and kept a steadfast heart." And I to him: "The affection which thou showest Speaking with me, and the good countenance Which I behold and note in all your ardours, In me have so my confidence dilated As the sun doth the rose, when it becomes As far unfolded as it hath the power. Therefore I pray, and thou assure me, father, If I may so much grace receive, that I May thee behold with countenance unveiled." He thereupon: "Brother, thy high desire In the remotest sphere shall be fulfilled, Where are fulfilled all others and my own. For it is not in space, nor turns on poles, And unto it our stairway reaches up, Whence thus from out thy sight it steals away. Up to that height the Patriarch Jacob saw it Extending its supernal part, what time So thronged with angels it appeared to him. The walls that used of old to be an Abbey Are changed to dens of robbers, and the cowls Are sacks filled full of miserable flour. But heavy usury is not taken up So much against God's pleasure as that fruit Which maketh so insane the heart of monks; The flesh of mortals is so very soft, That good beginnings down below suffice not From springing of the oak to bearing acorns. Peter began with neither gold nor silver, And I with orison and abstinence, And Francis with humility his convent. In verity the Jordan backward turned, And the sea's fleeing, when God willed were more A wonder to behold, than succour here." Thus unto me he said; and then withdrew To his own band, and the band closed together; Then like a whirlwind all was upward rapt. The gentle Lady urged me on behind them Up o'er that stairway by a single sign, So did her virtue overcome my nature; O glorious stars, O light impregnated With mighty virtue, from which I acknowledge All of my genius, whatsoe'er it be, And then when grace was freely given to me To enter the high wheel which turns you round, Your region was allotted unto me. To you devoutly at this hour my soul Is sighing, that it virtue may acquire For the stern pass that draws it to itself. "Thou art so near unto the last salvation," Thus Beatrice began, "thou oughtest now To have thine eves unclouded and acute; So that thy heart, as jocund as it may, Present itself to the triumphant throng That comes rejoicing through this rounded ether." And that opinion I approve as best Which doth account it least; and he who thinks Of something else may truly be called just. The aspect of thy son, Hyperion, Here I sustained, and saw how move themselves Around and near him Maia and Dione. Thence there appeared the temperateness of Jove 'Twixt son and father, and to me was clear The change that of their whereabout they make; The threshing-floor that maketh us so proud, To me revolving with the eternal Twins, Was all apparent made from hill to harbour! Then to the beauteous eyes mine eyes I turned. Paradiso: Canto XXIII Even as a bird, 'mid the beloved leaves, Quiet upon the nest of her sweet brood Throughout the night, that hideth all things from us, Who, that she may behold their longed-for looks And find the food wherewith to nourish them, In which, to her, grave labours grateful are, Anticipates the time on open spray And with an ardent longing waits the sun, Gazing intent as soon as breaks the dawn: Even thus my Lady standing was, erect And vigilant, turned round towards the zone Underneath which the sun displays less haste; So that beholding her distraught and wistful, Such I became as he is who desiring For something yearns, and hoping is appeased. And Beatrice exclaimed: "Behold the hosts Of Christ's triumphal march, and all the fruit Harvested by the rolling of these spheres!" It seemed to me her face was all aflame; And eyes she had so full of ecstasy That I must needs pass on without describing. As when in nights serene of the full moon Smiles Trivia among the nymphs eternal Who paint the firmament through all its gulfs, And through the living light transparent shone The lucent substance so intensely clear Into my sight, that I sustained it not. O Beatrice, thou gentle guide and dear! To me she said: "What overmasters thee A virtue is from which naught shields itself. There are the wisdom and the omnipotence That oped the thoroughfares 'twixt heaven and earth, For which there erst had been so long a yearning." As fire from out a cloud unlocks itself, Dilating so it finds not room therein, And down, against its nature, falls to earth, So did my mind, among those aliments Becoming larger, issue from itself, And that which it became cannot remember. "Open thine eyes, and look at what I am: Thou hast beheld such things, that strong enough Hast thou become to tolerate my smile." When I this invitation heard, deserving Of so much gratitude, it never fades Out of the book that chronicles the past. If at this moment sounded all the tongues That Polyhymnia and her sisters made Most lubrical with their delicious milk, To aid me, to a thousandth of the truth It would not reach, singing the holy smile And how the holy aspect it illumed. And therefore, representing Paradise, The sacred poem must perforce leap over, Even as a man who finds his way cut off; But whoso thinketh of the ponderous theme, And of the mortal shoulder laden with it, Should blame it not, if under this it tremble. It is no passage for a little boat This which goes cleaving the audacious prow, Nor for a pilot who would spare himself. "Why doth my face so much enamour thee, That to the garden fair thou turnest not, Which under the rays of Christ is blossoming? There is the Rose in which the Word Divine Became incarnate; there the lilies are By whose perfume the good way was discovered." As in the sunshine, that unsullied streams Through fractured cloud, ere now a meadow of flowers Mine eyes with shadow covered o'er have seen, So troops of splendours manifold I saw Illumined from above with burning rays, Beholding not the source of the effulgence. O power benignant that dost so imprint them! Thou didst exalt thyself to give more scope There to mine eyes, that were not strong enough. The name of that fair flower I e'er invoke Morning and evening utterly enthralled My soul to gaze upon the greater fire. And when in both mine eyes depicted were The glory and greatness of the living star Which there excelleth, as it here excelled, Athwart the heavens a little torch descended Formed in a circle like a coronal, And cinctured it, and whirled itself about it. Whatever melody most sweetly soundeth On earth, and to itself most draws the soul, Would seem a cloud that, rent asunder, thunders, Compared unto the sounding of that lyre Wherewith was crowned the sapphire beautiful, Which gives the clearest heaven its sapphire hue. "I am Angelic Love, that circle round The joy sublime which breathes from out the womb That was the hostelry of our Desire; And I shall circle, Lady of Heaven, while Thou followest thy Son, and mak'st diviner The sphere supreme, because thou enterest there." Thus did the circulated melody Seal itself up; and all the other lights Were making to resound the name of Mary. The regal mantle of the volumes all Of that world, which most fervid is and living With breath of God and with his works and ways, Extended over us its inner border, So very distant, that the semblance of it There where I was not yet appeared to me. Therefore mine eyes did not possess the power Of following the incoronated flame, Which mounted upward near to its own seed. And as a little child, that towards its mother Stretches its arms, when it the milk has taken, Through impulse kindled into outward flame, Each of those gleams of whiteness upward reached So with its summit, that the deep affection They had for Mary was revealed to me. Thereafter they remained there in my sight, 'Regina coeli' singing with such sweetness, That ne'er from me has the delight departed. O, what exuberance is garnered up Within those richest coffers, which had been Good husbandmen for sowing here below! There they enjoy and live upon the treasure Which was acquired while weeping in the exile Of Babylon, wherein the gold was left. There triumpheth, beneath the exalted Son Of God and Mary, in his victory, Both with the ancient council and the new, He who doth keep the keys of such a glory. Paradiso: Canto XXIV "O company elect to the great supper Of the Lamb benedight, who feedeth you So that for ever full is your desire, If by the grace of God this man foretaste Something of that which falleth from your table, Or ever death prescribe to him the time, Direct your mind to his immense desire, And him somewhat bedew; ye drinking are For ever at the fount whence comes his thought." Thus Beatrice; and those souls beatified Transformed themselves to spheres on steadfast poles, Flaming intensely in the guise of comets. So in like manner did those carols, dancing In different measure, of their affluence Give me the gauge, as they were swift or slow. Therefore the pen skips, and I write it not, Since our imagination for such folds, Much more our speech, is of a tint too glaring. "O holy sister mine, who us implorest With such devotion, by thine ardent love Thou dost unbind me from that beautiful sphere!" Thereafter, having stopped, the blessed fire Unto my Lady did direct its breath, Which spake in fashion as I here have said. And she: "O light eterne of the great man To whom our Lord delivered up the keys He carried down of this miraculous joy, If he love well, and hope well, and believe, From thee 'tis hid not; for thou hast thy sight There where depicted everything is seen. But since this kingdom has made citizens By means of the true Faith, to glorify it 'Tis well he have the chance to speak thereof." As baccalaureate arms himself, and speaks not Until the master doth propose the question, To argue it, and not to terminate it, So did I arm myself with every reason, While she was speaking, that I might be ready For such a questioner and such profession. "Say, thou good Christian; manifest thyself; What is the Faith?" Whereat I raised my brow Unto that light wherefrom was this breathed forth. Then turned I round to Beatrice, and she Prompt signals made to me that I should pour The water forth from my internal fountain. "May grace, that suffers me to make confession," Began I, "to the great centurion, Cause my conceptions all to be explicit!" And I continued: "As the truthful pen, Father, of thy dear brother wrote of it, Who put with thee Rome into the good way, Faith is the substance of the things we hope for, And evidence of those that are not seen; And this appears to me its quiddity." Then heard I: "Very rightly thou perceivest, If well thou understandest why he placed it With substances and then with evidences." And I thereafterward: "The things profound, That here vouchsafe to me their apparition, Unto all eyes below are so concealed, That they exist there only in belief, Upon the which is founded the high hope, And hence it takes the nature of a substance. And it behoveth us from this belief To reason without having other sight, And hence it has the nature of evidence." Then heard I: "If whatever is acquired Below by doctrine were thus understood, No sophist's subtlety would there find place." Thus was breathed forth from that enkindled love; Then added: "Very well has been gone over Already of this coin the alloy and weight; But tell me if thou hast it in thy purse?" And I: "Yes, both so shining and so round That in its stamp there is no peradventure." Thereafter issued from the light profound That there resplendent was: "This precious jewel, Upon the which is every virtue founded, Whence hadst thou it?" And I: "The large outpouring Of Holy Spirit, which has been diffused Upon the ancient parchments and the new, A syllogism is, which proved it to me With such acuteness, that, compared therewith, All demonstration seems to me obtuse." And then I heard: "The ancient and the new Postulates, that to thee are so conclusive, Why dost thou take them for the word divine?" And I: "The proofs, which show the truth to me, Are the works subsequent, whereunto Nature Ne'er heated iron yet, nor anvil beat." 'Twas answered me: "Say, who assureth thee That those works ever were? the thing itself That must be proved, nought else to thee affirms it." Because that poor and fasting thou didst enter Into the field to sow there the good plant, Which was a vine and has become a thorn!" And then that Baron, who from branch to branch, Examining, had thus conducted me, Till the extremest leaves we were approaching, Again began: "The Grace that dallying Plays with thine intellect thy mouth has opened, Up to this point, as it should opened be, So that I do approve what forth emerged; But now thou must express what thou believest, And whence to thy belief it was presented." "O holy father, spirit who beholdest What thou believedst so that thou o'ercamest, Towards the sepulchre, more youthful feet," Began I, "thou dost wish me in this place The form to manifest of my prompt belief, And likewise thou the cause thereof demandest. And of such faith not only have I proofs Physical and metaphysical, but gives them Likewise the truth that from this place rains down Through Moses, through the Prophets and the Psalms, Through the Evangel, and through you, who wrote After the fiery Spirit sanctified you; With the profound condition and divine Which now I touch upon, doth stamp my mind Ofttimes the doctrine evangelical. This the beginning is, this is the spark Which afterwards dilates to vivid flame, And, like a star in heaven, is sparkling in me." Even as a lord who hears what pleaseth him His servant straight embraces, gratulating For the good news as soon as he is silent; I spoken had, in speaking I so pleased him. If e'er it happen that the Poem Sacred, To which both heaven and earth have set their hand, So that it many a year hath made me lean, O'ercome the cruelty that bars me out From the fair sheepfold, where a lamb I slumbered, An enemy to the wolves that war upon it, With other voice forthwith, with other fleece Poet will I return, and at my font Baptismal will I take the laurel crown; Because into the Faith that maketh known All souls to God there entered I, and then Peter for her sake thus my brow encircled. And then my Lady, full of ecstasy, Said unto me: "Look, look! behold the Baron For whom below Galicia is frequented." In the same way as, when a dove alights Near his companion, both of them pour forth, Circling about and murmuring, their affection, Smiling thereafterwards, said Beatrice: "Illustrious life, by whom the benefactions Of our Basilica have been described, "Since, through his grace, our Emperor wills that thou Shouldst find thee face to face, before thy death, In the most secret chamber, with his Counts, So that, the truth beholden of this court, Hope, which below there rightfully enamours, Thereby thou strengthen in thyself and others, And the Compassionate, who piloted The plumage of my wings in such high flight, Did in reply anticipate me thus: "No child whatever the Church Militant Of greater hope possesses, as is written In that Sun which irradiates all our band; Therefore it is conceded him from Egypt To come into Jerusalem to see, Or ever yet his warfare be completed. To him I leave; for hard he will not find them, Nor of self-praise; and let him answer them; And may the grace of God in this assist him!" As a disciple, who his teacher follows, Ready and willing, where he is expert, That his proficiency may be displayed, "Hope," said I, "is the certain expectation Of future glory, which is the effect Of grace divine and merit precedent. 'Sperent in te,' in the high Theody He sayeth, 'those who know thy name;' and who Knoweth it not, if he my faith possess? Thou didst instil me, then, with his instilling In the Epistle, so that I am full, And upon others rain again your rain." While I was speaking, in the living bosom Of that combustion quivered an effulgence, Sudden and frequent, in the guise of lightning; Then breathed: "The love wherewith I am inflamed Towards the virtue still which followed me Unto the palm and issue of the field, Wills that I breathe to thee that thou delight In her; and grateful to me is thy telling Whatever things Hope promises to thee." And I: "The ancient Scriptures and the new The mark establish, and this shows it me, Of all the souls whom God hath made his friends. Thy brother, too, far more explicitly, There where he treateth of the robes of white, This revelation manifests to us." And as uprises, goes, and enters the dance A winsome maiden, only to do honour To the new bride, and not from any failing, Into the song and music there it entered; And fixed on them my Lady kept her look, Even as a bride silent and motionless. My Lady thus; but therefore none the more Did move her sight from its attentive gaze Before or afterward these words of hers. Even as a man who gazes, and endeavours To see the eclipsing of the sun a little, And who, by seeing, sightless doth become, So I became before that latest fire, While it was said, "Why dost thou daze thyself To see a thing which here hath no existence? Earth in the earth my body is, and shall be With all the others there, until our number With the eternal proposition tallies. And at this utterance the flaming circle Grew quiet, with the dulcet intermingling Of sound that by the trinal breath was made, As to escape from danger or fatigue The oars that erst were in the water beaten Are all suspended at a whistle's sound. Ah, how much in my mind was I disturbed, When I turned round to look on Beatrice, That her I could not see, although I was Close at her side and in the Happy World! Paradiso: Canto XXVI While I was doubting for my vision quenched, Out of the flame refulgent that had quenched it Issued a breathing, that attentive made me, Saying: "While thou recoverest the sense Of seeing which in me thou hast consumed, 'Tis well that speaking thou shouldst compensate it. Begin then, and declare to what thy soul Is aimed, and count it for a certainty, Sight is in thee bewildered and not dead; Because the Lady, who through this divine Region conducteth thee, has in her look The power the hand of Ananias had." I said: "As pleaseth her, or soon or late Let the cure come to eyes that portals were When she with fire I ever burn with entered. The Good, that gives contentment to this Court, The Alpha and Omega is of all The writing that love reads me low or loud." The selfsame voice, that taken had from me The terror of the sudden dazzlement, To speak still farther put it in my thought; And said: "In verity with finer sieve Behoveth thee to sift; thee it behoveth To say who aimed thy bow at such a target." And I: "By philosophic arguments, And by authority that hence descends, Such love must needs imprint itself in me; For Good, so far as good, when comprehended Doth straight enkindle love, and so much greater As more of goodness in itself it holds; Then to that Essence (whose is such advantage That every good which out of it is found Is nothing but a ray of its own light) Such truth he to my intellect reveals Who demonstrates to me the primal love Of all the sempiternal substances. The voice reveals it of the truthful Author, Who says to Moses, speaking of Himself, 'I will make all my goodness pass before thee.' Thou too revealest it to me, beginning The loud Evangel, that proclaims the secret Of heaven to earth above all other edict." And I heard say: "By human intellect And by authority concordant with it, Of all thy loves reserve for God the highest. But say again if other cords thou feelest, Draw thee towards Him, that thou mayst proclaim With how many teeth this love is biting thee." The holy purpose of the Eagle of Christ Not latent was, nay, rather I perceived Whither he fain would my profession lead. Therefore I recommenced: "All of those bites Which have the power to turn the heart to God Unto my charity have been concurrent. The being of the world, and my own being, The death which He endured that I may live, And that which all the faithful hope, as I do, With the forementioned vivid consciousness Have drawn me from the sea of love perverse, And of the right have placed me on the shore. The leaves, wherewith embowered is all the garden Of the Eternal Gardener, do I love As much as he has granted them of good." As soon as I had ceased, a song most sweet Throughout the heaven resounded, and my Lady Said with the others, "Holy, holy, holy!" And he who wakes abhorreth what he sees, So all unconscious is his sudden waking, Until the judgment cometh to his aid, Even as the bough that downward bends its top At transit of the wind, and then is lifted By its own virtue, which inclines it upward, Likewise did I, the while that she was speaking, Being amazed, and then I was made bold By a desire to speak wherewith I burned. And I began: "O apple, that mature Alone hast been produced, O ancient father, To whom each wife is daughter and daughter-in-law, Devoutly as I can I supplicate thee That thou wouldst speak to me; thou seest my wish; And I, to hear thee quickly, speak it not." Sometimes an animal, when covered, struggles So that his impulse needs must be apparent, By reason of the wrappage following it; And in like manner the primeval soul Made clear to me athwart its covering How jubilant it was to give me pleasure. Then breathed: "Without thy uttering it to me, Thine inclination better I discern Than thou whatever thing is surest to thee; For I behold it in the truthful mirror, That of Himself all things parhelion makes, And none makes Him parhelion of itself. Thou fain wouldst hear how long ago God placed me Within the lofty garden, where this Lady Unto so long a stairway thee disposed. And how long to mine eyes it was a pleasure, And of the great disdain the proper cause, And the language that I used and that I made. Now, son of mine, the tasting of the tree Not in itself was cause of so great exile, But solely the o'erstepping of the bounds. The language that I spake was quite extinct Before that in the work interminable The people under Nimrod were employed; For nevermore result of reasoning (Because of human pleasure that doth change, Obedient to the heavens) was durable. A natural action is it that man speaks; But whether thus or thus, doth nature leave To your own art, as seemeth best to you. Ere I descended to the infernal anguish, 'El' was on earth the name of the Chief Good, From whom comes all the joy that wraps me round 'Eli' he then was called, and that is proper, Because the use of men is like a leaf On bough, which goeth and another cometh. Paradiso: Canto XXVII "Glory be to the Father, to the Son, And Holy Ghost!" all Paradise began, So that the melody inebriate made me. What I beheld seemed unto me a smile Of the universe; for my inebriation Found entrance through the hearing and the sight. O joy! O gladness inexpressible! O perfect life of love and peacefulness! O riches without hankering secure! And even such in semblance it became As Jupiter would become, if he and Mars Were birds, and they should interchange their feathers. That Providence, which here distributeth Season and service, in the blessed choir Had silence upon every side imposed. When I heard say: "If I my colour change, Marvel not at it; for while I am speaking Thou shalt behold all these their colour change. He who usurps upon the earth my place, My place, my place, which vacant has become Before the presence of the Son of God, With the same colour which, through sun adverse, Painteth the clouds at evening or at morn, Beheld I then the whole of heaven suffused. And as a modest woman, who abides Sure of herself, and at another's failing, From listening only, timorous becomes, Even thus did Beatrice change countenance; And I believe in heaven was such eclipse, When suffered the supreme Omnipotence; Thereafterward proceeded forth his words With voice so much transmuted from itself, The very countenance was not more changed. "The spouse of Christ has never nurtured been On blood of mine, of Linus and of Cletus, To be made use of in acquest of gold; But in acquest of this delightful life Sixtus and Pius, Urban and Calixtus, After much lamentation, shed their blood. Our purpose was not, that on the right hand Of our successors should in part be seated The Christian folk, in part upon the other; Nor that the keys which were to me confided Should e'er become the escutcheon on a banner, That should wage war on those who are baptized; Nor I be made the figure of a seal To privileges venal and mendacious, Whereat I often redden and flash with fire. In garb of shepherds the rapacious wolves Are seen from here above o'er all the pastures! O wrath of God, why dost thou slumber still? To drink our blood the Caorsines and Gascons Are making ready. O thou good beginning, Unto how vile an end must thou needs fall! But the high Providence, that with Scipio At Rome the glory of the world defended, Will speedily bring aid, as I conceive; And thou, my son, who by thy mortal weight Shalt down return again, open thy mouth; What I conceal not, do not thou conceal." As with its frozen vapours downward falls In flakes our atmosphere, what time the horn Of the celestial Goat doth touch the sun, Upward in such array saw I the ether Become, and flaked with the triumphant vapours, Which there together with us had remained. My sight was following up their semblances, And followed till the medium, by excess, The passing farther onward took from it; Whereat the Lady, who beheld me freed From gazing upward, said to me: "Cast down Thy sight, and see how far thou art turned round." So that I saw the mad track of Ulysses Past Gades, and this side, well nigh the shore Whereon became Europa a sweet burden. And of this threshing-floor the site to me Were more unveiled, but the sun was proceeding Under my feet, a sign and more removed. And if or Art or Nature has made bait To catch the eyes and so possess the mind, In human flesh or in its portraiture, All joined together would appear as nought To the divine delight which shone upon me When to her smiling face I turned me round. The virtue that her look endowed me with From the fair nest of Leda tore me forth, And up into the swiftest heaven impelled me. Its parts exceeding full of life and lofty Are all so uniform, I cannot say Which Beatrice selected for my place. But she, who was aware of my desire, Began, the while she smiled so joyously That God seemed in her countenance to rejoice: "The nature of that motion, which keeps quiet The centre and all the rest about it moves, From hence begins as from its starting point. And in this heaven there is no other Where Than in the Mind Divine, wherein is kindled The love that turns it, and the power it rains. Within a circle light and love embrace it, Even as this doth the others, and that precinct He who encircles it alone controls. And in what manner time in such a pot May have its roots, and in the rest its leaves, Now unto thee can manifest be made. Full fairly blossoms in mankind the will; But the uninterrupted rain converts Into abortive wildings the true plums. Fidelity and innocence are found Only in children; afterwards they both Take flight or e'er the cheeks with down are covered. Another, while he prattles, loves and listens Unto his mother, who when speech is perfect Forthwith desires to see her in her grave. Ere January be unwintered wholly By the centesimal on earth neglected, Shall these supernal circles roar so loud The tempest that has been so long awaited Shall whirl the poops about where are the prows; So that the fleet shall run its course direct, And the true fruit shall follow on the flower." Paradiso: Canto XXVIII After the truth against the present life Of miserable mortals was unfolded By her who doth imparadise my mind, As in a looking-glass a taper's flame He sees who from behind is lighted by it, Before he has it in his sight or thought, And turns him round to see if so the glass Tell him the truth, and sees that it accords Therewith as doth a music with its metre, In similar wise my memory recollecteth That I did, looking into those fair eyes, Of which Love made the springes to ensnare me. And as I turned me round, and mine were touched By that which is apparent in that volume, Whenever on its gyre we gaze intent, A point beheld I, that was raying out Light so acute, the sight which it enkindles Must close perforce before such great acuteness. Perhaps at such a distance as appears A halo cincturing the light that paints it, When densest is the vapour that sustains it, Thus distant round the point a circle of fire So swiftly whirled, that it would have surpassed Whatever motion soonest girds the world; My Lady, who in my anxiety Beheld me much perplexed, said: "From that point Dependent is the heaven and nature all. Behold that circle most conjoined to it, And know thou, that its motion is so swift Through burning love whereby it is spurred on." And I to her: "If the world were arranged In the order which I see in yonder wheels, What's set before me would have satisfied me; But in the world of sense we can perceive That evermore the circles are diviner As they are from the centre more remote Wherefore if my desire is to be ended In this miraculous and angelic temple, That has for confines only love and light, "If thine own fingers unto such a knot Be insufficient, it is no great wonder, So hard hath it become for want of trying." My Lady thus; then said she: "Do thou take What I shall tell thee, if thou wouldst be sated, And exercise on that thy subtlety. The circles corporal are wide and narrow According to the more or less of virtue Which is distributed through all their parts. The greater goodness works the greater weal, The greater weal the greater body holds, If perfect equally are all its parts. On which account, if thou unto the virtue Apply thy measure, not to the appearance Of substances that unto thee seem round, Thou wilt behold a marvellous agreement, Of more to greater, and of less to smaller, In every heaven, with its Intelligence." Even as remaineth splendid and serene The hemisphere of air, when Boreas Is blowing from that cheek where he is mildest, Because is purified and resolved the rack That erst disturbed it, till the welkin laughs With all the beauties of its pageantry; Thus did I likewise, after that my Lady Had me provided with her clear response, And like a star in heaven the truth was seen. And soon as to a stop her words had come, Not otherwise does iron scintillate When molten, than those circles scintillated. Their coruscation all the sparks repeated, And they so many were, their number makes More millions than the doubling of the chess. I heard them sing hosanna choir by choir To the fixed point which holds them at the 'Ubi,' And ever will, where they have ever been. And she, who saw the dubious meditations Within my mind, "The primal circles," said, "Have shown thee Seraphim and Cherubim. Thus rapidly they follow their own bonds, To be as like the point as most they can, And can as far as they are high in vision. Those other Loves, that round about them go, Thrones of the countenance divine are called, Because they terminate the primal Triad. And thou shouldst know that they all have delight As much as their own vision penetrates The Truth, in which all intellect finds rest. From this it may be seen how blessedness Is founded in the faculty which sees, And not in that which loves, and follows next; And of this seeing merit is the measure, Which is brought forth by grace, and by good will; Thus on from grade to grade doth it proceed. Then in the dances twain penultimate The Principalities and Archangels wheel; The last is wholly of angelic sports. These orders upward all of them are gazing, And downward so prevail, that unto God They all attracted are and all attract. And Dionysius with so great desire To contemplate these Orders set himself, He named them and distinguished them as I do. But Gregory afterwards dissented from him; Wherefore, as soon as he unclosed his eyes Within this heaven, he at himself did smile. And if so much of secret truth a mortal Proffered on earth, I would not have thee marvel, For he who saw it here revealed it to him, With much more of the truth about these circles." Paradiso: Canto XXIX At what time both the children of Latona, Surmounted by the Ram and by the Scales, Together make a zone of the horizon, As long as from the time the zenith holds them In equipoise, till from that girdle both Changing their hemisphere disturb the balance, So long, her face depicted with a smile, Did Beatrice keep silence while she gazed Fixedly at the point which had o'ercome me. Then she began: "I say, and I ask not What thou dost wish to hear, for I have seen it Where centres every When and every 'Ubi.' Not to acquire some good unto himself, Which is impossible, but that his splendour In its resplendency may say, 'Subsisto,' In his eternity outside of time, Outside all other limits, as it pleased him, Into new Loves the Eternal Love unfolded. Nor as if torpid did he lie before; For neither after nor before proceeded The going forth of God upon these waters. And as in glass, in amber, or in crystal A sunbeam flashes so, that from its coming To its full being is no interval, So from its Lord did the triform effect Ray forth into its being all together, Without discrimination of beginning. Order was con-created and constructed In substances, and summit of the world Were those wherein the pure act was produced. Pure potentiality held the lowest part; Midway bound potentiality with act Such bond that it shall never be unbound. Jerome has written unto you of angels Created a long lapse of centuries Or ever yet the other world was made; But written is this truth in many places By writers of the Holy Ghost, and thou Shalt see it, if thou lookest well thereat. And even reason seeth it somewhat, For it would not concede that for so long Could be the motors without their perfection. The rest remained, and they began this art Which thou discernest, with so great delight That never from their circling do they cease. Those whom thou here beholdest modest were To recognise themselves as of that goodness Which made them apt for so much understanding; On which account their vision was exalted By the enlightening grace and their own merit, So that they have a full and steadfast will. I would not have thee doubt, but certain be, 'Tis meritorious to receive this grace, According as the affection opens to it. Now round about in this consistory Much mayst thou contemplate, if these my words Be gathered up, without all further aid. But since upon the earth, throughout your schools, They teach that such is the angelic nature That it doth hear, and recollect, and will, More will I say, that thou mayst see unmixed The truth that is confounded there below, Equivocating in such like prelections. These substances, since in God's countenance They jocund were, turned not away their sight From that wherefrom not anything is hidden; Hence they have not their vision intercepted By object new, and hence they do not need To recollect, through interrupted thought. So that below, not sleeping, people dream, Believing they speak truth, and not believing; And in the last is greater sin and shame. And even this above here is endured With less disdain, than when is set aside The Holy Writ, or when it is distorted. They think not there how much of blood it costs To sow it in the world, and how he pleases Who in humility keeps close to it. Each striveth for appearance, and doth make His own inventions; and these treated are By preachers, and the Evangel holds its peace. And lies; for of its own accord the light Hid itself; whence to Spaniards and to Indians, As to the Jews, did such eclipse respond. Florence has not so many Lapi and Bindi As fables such as these, that every year Are shouted from the pulpit back and forth, In such wise that the lambs, who do not know, Come back from pasture fed upon the wind, And not to see the harm doth not excuse them. And this so loudly sounded from their lips, That, in the warfare to enkindle Faith, They made of the Evangel shields and lances. Now men go forth with jests and drolleries To preach, and if but well the people laugh, The hood puffs out, and nothing more is asked. But in the cowl there nestles such a bird, That, if the common people were to see it, They would perceive what pardons they confide in, By this Saint Anthony his pig doth fatten, And many others, who are worse than pigs, Paying in money without mark of coinage. But since we have digressed abundantly, Turn back thine eyes forthwith to the right path, So that the way be shortened with the time. And if thou notest that which is revealed By Daniel, thou wilt see that in his thousands Number determinate is kept concealed. The primal light, that all irradiates it, By modes as many is received therein, As are the splendours wherewith it is mated. Hence, inasmuch as on the act conceptive The affection followeth, of love the sweetness Therein diversely fervid is or tepid. The height behold now and the amplitude Of the eternal power, since it hath made Itself so many mirrors, where 'tis broken, When the mid-heaven begins to make itself So deep to us, that here and there a star Ceases to shine so far down as this depth, And as advances bright exceedingly The handmaid of the sun, the heaven is closed Light after light to the most beautiful; Not otherwise the Triumph, which for ever Plays round about the point that vanquished me, Seeming enclosed by what itself encloses, Little by little from my vision faded; Whereat to turn mine eyes on Beatrice My seeing nothing and my love constrained me. If what has hitherto been said of her Were all concluded in a single praise, Scant would it be to serve the present turn. Not only does the beauty I beheld Transcend ourselves, but truly I believe Its Maker only may enjoy it all. Vanquished do I confess me by this passage More than by problem of his theme was ever O'ercome the comic or the tragic poet; For as the sun the sight that trembles most, Even so the memory of that sweet smile My mind depriveth of its very self. But now perforce this sequence must desist From following her beauty with my verse, As every artist at his uttermost. Such as I leave her to a greater fame Than any of my trumpet, which is bringing Its arduous matter to a final close, With voice and gesture of a perfect leader She recommenced: "We from the greatest body Have issued to the heaven that is pure light; Light intellectual replete with love, Love of true good replete with ecstasy, Ecstasy that transcendeth every sweetness. Even as a sudden lightning that disperses The visual spirits, so that it deprives The eye of impress from the strongest objects, Thus round about me flashed a living light, And left me swathed around with such a veil Of its effulgence, that I nothing saw. "Ever the Love which quieteth this heaven Welcomes into itself with such salute, To make the candle ready for its flame." No sooner had within me these brief words An entrance found, than I perceived myself To be uplifted over my own power, And I with vision new rekindled me, Such that no light whatever is so pure But that mine eyes were fortified against it. Out of this river issued living sparks, And on all sides sank down into the flowers, Like unto rubies that are set in gold; "The high desire, that now inflames and moves thee To have intelligence of what thou seest, Pleaseth me all the more, the more it swells. But of this water it behoves thee drink Before so great a thirst in thee be slaked." Thus said to me the sunshine of mine eyes; And added: "The river and the topazes Going in and out, and the laughing of the herbage, Are of their truth foreshadowing prefaces; Not that these things are difficult in themselves, But the deficiency is on thy side, For yet thou hast not vision so exalted." There is no babe that leaps so suddenly With face towards the milk, if he awake Much later than his usual custom is, As I did, that I might make better mirrors Still of mine eyes, down stooping to the wave Which flows that we therein be better made. And even as the penthouse of mine eyelids Drank of it, it forthwith appeared to me Out of its length to be transformed to round. Then as a folk who have been under masks Seem other than before, if they divest The semblance not their own they disappeared in, Thus into greater pomp were changed for me The flowerets and the sparks, so that I saw Both of the Courts of Heaven made manifest. O splendour of God! by means of which I saw The lofty triumph of the realm veracious, Give me the power to say how it I saw! There is a light above, which visible Makes the Creator unto every creature, Who only in beholding Him has peace, And it expands itself in circular form To such extent, that its circumference Would be too large a girdle for the sun. The semblance of it is all made of rays Reflected from the top of Primal Motion, Which takes therefrom vitality and power. And as a hill in water at its base Mirrors itself, as if to see its beauty When affluent most in verdure and in flowers, And if the lowest row collect within it So great a light, how vast the amplitude Is of this Rose in its extremest leaves! My vision in the vastness and the height Lost not itself, but comprehended all The quantity and quality of that gladness. Into the yellow of the Rose Eternal That spreads, and multiplies, and breathes an odour Of praise unto the ever-vernal Sun, Behold how vast the circuit of our city! Behold our seats so filled to overflowing, That here henceforward are few people wanting! On that great throne whereon thine eyes are fixed For the crown's sake already placed upon it, Before thou suppest at this wedding feast Shall sit the soul (that is to be Augustus On earth) of noble Henry, who shall come To redress Italy ere she be ready. Blind covetousness, that casts its spell upon you, Has made you like unto the little child, Who dies of hunger and drives off the nurse. And in the sacred forum then shall be A Prefect such, that openly or covert On the same road he will not walk with him. But long of God he will not be endured In holy office; he shall be thrust down Where Simon Magus is for his deserts, And make him of Alagna lower go!" Paradiso: Canto XXXI In fashion then as of a snow-white rose Displayed itself to me the saintly host, Whom Christ in his own blood had made his bride, But the other host, that flying sees and sings The glory of Him who doth enamour it, And the goodness that created it so noble, Sank into the great flower, that is adorned With leaves so many, and thence reascended To where its love abideth evermore. Their faces had they all of living flame, And wings of gold, and all the rest so white No snow unto that limit doth attain. From bench to bench, into the flower descending, They carried something of the peace and ardour Which by the fanning of their flanks they won. Nor did the interposing 'twixt the flower And what was o'er it of such plenitude Of flying shapes impede the sight and splendour; Because the light divine so penetrates The universe, according to its merit, That naught can be an obstacle against it. O Trinal Light, that in a single star Sparkling upon their sight so satisfies them, Look down upon our tempest here below! If the barbarians, coming from some region That every day by Helice is covered, Revolving with her son whom she delights in, With what amazement must I have been filled! Truly between this and the joy, it was My pleasure not to hear, and to be mute. And as a pilgrim who delighteth him In gazing round the temple of his vow, And hopes some day to retell how it was, So through the living light my way pursuing Directed I mine eyes o'er all the ranks, Now up, now down, and now all round about. Faces I saw of charity persuasive, Embellished by His light and their own smile, And attitudes adorned with every grace. The general form of Paradise already My glance had comprehended as a whole, In no part hitherto remaining fixed, And round I turned me with rekindled wish My Lady to interrogate of things Concerning which my mind was in suspense. O'erflowing was he in his eyes and cheeks With joy benign, in attitude of pity As to a tender father is becoming. And "She, where is she?" instantly I said; Whence he: "To put an end to thy desire, Me Beatrice hath sent from mine own place. Without reply I lifted up mine eyes, And saw her, as she made herself a crown Reflecting from herself the eternal rays. Not from that region which the highest thunders Is any mortal eye so far removed, In whatsoever sea it deepest sinks, As there from Beatrice my sight; but this Was nothing unto me; because her image Descended not to me by medium blurred. "O Lady, thou in whom my hope is strong, And who for my salvation didst endure In Hell to leave the imprint of thy feet, Of whatsoever things I have beheld, As coming from thy power and from thy goodness I recognise the virtue and the grace. Thou from a slave hast brought me unto freedom, By all those ways, by all the expedients, Whereby thou hadst the power of doing it. Preserve towards me thy magnificence, So that this soul of mine, which thou hast healed, Pleasing to thee be loosened from the body." And said the Old Man holy: "That thou mayst Accomplish perfectly thy journeying, Whereunto prayer and holy love have sent me, Fly with thine eyes all round about this garden; For seeing it will discipline thy sight Farther to mount along the ray divine. And she, the Queen of Heaven, for whom I burn Wholly with love, will grant us every grace, Because that I her faithful Bernard am." As he who peradventure from Croatia Cometh to gaze at our Veronica, Who through its ancient fame is never sated, But says in thought, the while it is displayed, "My Lord, Christ Jesus, God of very God, Now was your semblance made like unto this?" Even such was I while gazing at the living Charity of the man, who in this world By contemplation tasted of that peace. "Thou son of grace, this jocund life," began he, "Will not be known to thee by keeping ever Thine eyes below here on the lowest place; But mark the circles to the most remote, Until thou shalt behold enthroned the Queen To whom this realm is subject and devoted." I lifted up mine eyes, and as at morn The oriental part of the horizon Surpasses that wherein the sun goes down, Thus, as if going with mine eyes from vale To mount, I saw a part in the remoteness Surpass in splendour all the other front. And even as there where we await the pole That Phaeton drove badly, blazes more The light, and is on either side diminished, So likewise that pacific oriflamme Gleamed brightest in the centre, and each side In equal measure did the flame abate. I saw there at their sports and at their songs A beauty smiling, which the gladness was Within the eyes of all the other saints; And if I had in speaking as much wealth As in imagining, I should not dare To attempt the smallest part of its delight. Bernard, as soon as he beheld mine eyes Fixed and intent upon its fervid fervour, His own with such affection turned to her That it made mine more ardent to behold. Paradiso: Canto XXXII Absorbed in his delight, that contemplator Assumed the willing office of a teacher, And gave beginning to these holy words: Sarah, Rebecca, Judith, and her who was Ancestress of the Singer, who for dole Of the misdeed said, 'Miserere mei,' Because, according to the view which Faith In Christ had taken, these are the partition By which the sacred stairways are divided. Upon the other side, where intersected With vacant spaces are the semicircles, Are those who looked to Christ already come. And as, upon this side, the glorious seat Of the Lady of Heaven, and the other seats Below it, such a great division make, Well canst thou recognise it in their faces, And also in their voices puerile, If thou regard them well and hearken to them. Now doubtest thou, and doubting thou art silent; But I will loosen for thee the strong bond In which thy subtile fancies hold thee fast. Within the amplitude of this domain No casual point can possibly find place, No more than sadness can, or thirst, or hunger; For by eternal law has been established Whatever thou beholdest, so that closely The ring is fitted to the finger here. And therefore are these people, festinate Unto true life, not 'sine causa' here More and less excellent among themselves. The King, by means of whom this realm reposes In so great love and in so great delight That no will ventureth to ask for more, In his own joyous aspect every mind Creating, at his pleasure dowers with grace Diversely; and let here the effect suffice. And this is clearly and expressly noted For you in Holy Scripture, in those twins Who in their mother had their anger roused. According to the colour of the hair, Therefore, with such a grace the light supreme Consenteth that they worthily be crowned. 'Tis true that in the early centuries, With innocence, to work out their salvation Sufficient was the faith of parents only. But after that the time of grace had come Without the baptism absolute of Christ, Such innocence below there was retained. Look now into the face that unto Christ Hath most resemblance; for its brightness only Is able to prepare thee to see Christ." On her did I behold so great a gladness Rain down, borne onward in the holy minds Created through that altitude to fly, That whatsoever I had seen before Did not suspend me in such admiration, Nor show me such similitude of God. Unto the canticle divine responded From every part the court beatified, So that each sight became serener for it. "O holy father, who for me endurest To be below here, leaving the sweet place In which thou sittest by eternal lot, Who is the Angel that with so much joy Into the eyes is looking of our Queen, Enamoured so that he seems made of fire?" And he to me: "Such gallantry and grace As there can be in Angel and in soul, All is in him; and thus we fain would have it; But now come onward with thine eyes, as I Speaking shall go, and note the great patricians Of this most just and merciful of empires. He who upon the left is near her placed The father is, by whose audacious taste The human species so much bitter tastes. Upon the right thou seest that ancient father Of Holy Church, into whose keeping Christ The keys committed of this lovely flower. And he who all the evil days beheld, Before his death, of her the beauteous bride Who with the spear and with the nails was won, Beside him sits, and by the other rests That leader under whom on manna lived The people ingrate, fickle, and stiff-necked. Opposite Peter seest thou Anna seated, So well content to look upon her daughter, Her eyes she moves not while she sings Hosanna. And opposite the eldest household father Lucia sits, she who thy Lady moved When to rush downward thou didst bend thy brows. But since the moments of thy vision fly, Here will we make full stop, as a good tailor Who makes the gown according to his cloth, Truly, lest peradventure thou recede, Moving thy wings believing to advance, By prayer behoves it that grace be obtained; And he began this holy orison. Paradiso: Canto XXXIII "Thou Virgin Mother, daughter of thy Son, Humble and high beyond all other creature, The limit fixed of the eternal counsel, Within thy womb rekindled was the love, By heat of which in the eternal peace After such wise this flower has germinated. Here unto us thou art a noonday torch Of charity, and below there among mortals Thou art the living fountain-head of hope. Lady, thou art so great, and so prevailing, That he who wishes grace, nor runs to thee, His aspirations without wings would fly. Not only thy benignity gives succour To him who asketh it, but oftentimes Forerunneth of its own accord the asking. In thee compassion is, in thee is pity, In thee magnificence; in thee unites Whate'er of goodness is in any creature. Supplicate thee through grace for so much power That with his eyes he may uplift himself Higher towards the uttermost salvation. And I, who never burned for my own seeing More than I do for his, all of my prayers Proffer to thee, and pray they come not short, That thou wouldst scatter from him every cloud Of his mortality so with thy prayers, That the Chief Pleasure be to him displayed. Still farther do I pray thee, Queen, who canst Whate'er thou wilt, that sound thou mayst preserve After so great a vision his affections. The eyes beloved and revered of God, Fastened upon the speaker, showed to us How grateful unto her are prayers devout; Then unto the Eternal Light they turned, On which it is not credible could be By any creature bent an eye so clear. And I, who to the end of all desires Was now approaching, even as I ought The ardour of desire within me ended. Bernard was beckoning unto me, and smiling, That I should upward look; but I already Was of my own accord such as he wished; Because my sight, becoming purified, Was entering more and more into the ray Of the High Light which of itself is true. From that time forward what I saw was greater Than our discourse, that to such vision yields, And yields the memory unto such excess. Even as he is who seeth in a dream, And after dreaming the imprinted passion Remains, and to his mind the rest returns not, Even such am I, for almost utterly Ceases my vision, and distilleth yet Within my heart the sweetness born of it; Even thus the snow is in the sun unsealed, Even thus upon the wind in the light leaves Were the soothsayings of the Sibyl lost. O Light Supreme, that dost so far uplift thee From the conceits of mortals, to my mind Of what thou didst appear re-lend a little, And make my tongue of so great puissance, That but a single sparkle of thy glory It may bequeath unto the future people; For by returning to my memory somewhat, And by a little sounding in these verses, More of thy victory shall be conceived! I think the keenness of the living ray Which I endured would have bewildered me, If but mine eyes had been averted from it; And I remember that I was more bold On this account to bear, so that I joined My aspect with the Glory Infinite. O grace abundant, by which I presumed To fix my sight upon the Light Eternal, So that the seeing I consumed therein! The universal fashion of this knot Methinks I saw, since more abundantly In saying this I feel that I rejoice. My mind in this wise wholly in suspense, Steadfast, immovable, attentive gazed, And evermore with gazing grew enkindled. Because the good, which object is of will, Is gathered all in this, and out of it That is defective which is perfect there. Shorter henceforward will my language fall Of what I yet remember, than an infant's Who still his tongue doth moisten at the breast. O how all speech is feeble and falls short Of my conceit, and this to what I saw Is such, 'tis not enough to call it little! O Light Eterne, sole in thyself that dwellest, Sole knowest thyself, and, known unto thyself And knowing, lovest and smilest on thyself! That circulation, which being thus conceived Appeared in thee as a reflected light, When somewhat contemplated by mine eyes, Within itself, of its own very colour Seemed to me painted with our effigy, Wherefore my sight was all absorbed therein. As the geometrician, who endeavours To square the circle, and discovers not, By taking thought, the principle he wants, Even such was I at that new apparition; I wished to see how the image to the circle Conformed itself, and how it there finds place; But my own wings were not enough for this, Had it not been that then my mind there smote A flash of lightning, wherein came its wish. Here vigour failed the lofty fantasy: But now was turning my desire and will, Even as a wheel that equally is moved, The Love which moves the sun and the other stars. Oft have I seen at some cathedral door A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat, Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er; Far off the noises of the world retreat; The loud vociferations of the street Become an undistinguishable roar. So, as I enter here from day to day, And leave my burden at this minster gate, Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, The tumult of the time disconsolate To inarticulate murmurs dies away, While the eternal ages watch and wait. How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers! This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers, And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers! But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves, And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers! Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain, What exultations trampling on despair, What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong, What passionate outcry of a soul in pain, Uprose this poem of the earth and air, This mediaeval miracle of song! I enter, and I see thee in the gloom Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine! And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine. The air is filled with some unknown perfume; The congregation of the dead make room For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine; Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine, The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb. From the confessionals I hear arise Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies, And lamentations from the crypts below And then a voice celestial that begins With the pathetic words, "Although your sins As scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow." With snow-white veil, and garments as of flame, She stands before thee, who so long ago Filled thy young heart with passion and the woe From which thy song in all its splendors came; And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name, The ice about thy heart melts as the snow On mountain heights, and in swift overflow Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs of shame. Thou makest full confession; and a gleam As of the dawn on some dark forest cast, Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase; Lethe and Eunoe--the remembered dream And the forgotten sorrow--bring at last That perfect pardon which is perfect peace. I Lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze With forms of saints and holy men who died, Here martyred and hereafter glorified; And the great Rose upon its leaves displays Christ's Triumph, and the angelic roundelays, With splendor upon splendor multiplied; And Beatrice again at Dante's side No more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise. And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirs Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love And benedictions of the Holy Ghost; And the melodious bells among the spires O'er all the house-tops and through heaven above Proclaim the elevation of the Host! O star of morning and of liberty! O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines Above the darkness of the Apennines, Forerunner of the day that is to be! The voices of the city and the sea, The voices of the mountains and the pines, Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines Are footpaths for the thought of Italy! Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights, Through all the nations; and a sound is heard, As of a mighty wind, and men devout, Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes, In their own language hear thy wondrous word, And many are amazed and many doubt. End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Dante's Paradise [Divine Comedy] as translanted by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow	redpajama-book	38,109
Produced by Papeters, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team THE LIFE OF HON. WILLIAM F. CODY KNOWN AS BUFFALO BILL THE FAMOUS HUNTER, SCOUT AND GUIDE. To GENERAL PHILIP H. SHERIDAN, THIS BOOK IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. [Illustration: Yours Sincerely, W. F. Cody] "Mr. Cody seemed never to tire and was always ready to go, in the darkest night or the worst weather, and usually volunteered, knowing what the emergency required. His trailing, when following Indians or looking for stray animals or game, is simply wonderful. He is a most extraordinary hunter. I could not believe that a man could be certain to shoot antelope running till I had seen him do it so often. "In a fight Mr. Cody is never noisy, obstreperous or excited. In fact, I never hardly noticed him in a fight, unless I happened to want him, or he had something to report, when he was always in the right place, and his information was always valuable and reliable. "Mr. Cody has since served with me as post guide and scout at Fort McPherson, where he frequently distinguished himself. THE AUTHOR, PORTRAIT, ON STEEL SAMUEL'S FATAL ACCIDENT BILLINGS AS A BOCARRO BILLINGS RIDING LITTLE GRAY WILD BILL (PORTRAIT) CAMPING IN A SEPULCHRE RAFTING OS THE PLATTE SAVED BY CHIEF RAIN IN-THE-FACE ATTACK ON STAGE COACH ALF. SLADE KILLING THE DRIVER THE HORSE THIEVES DEN MY ESCAPE FROM THE HORSE THIEVES BOB SCOTT'S FAMOUS COACH HIDE WILD BILL AND THE OUTLAWS GENERAL GEO. A. CUSTER (Portrait) TONGUES AND TENDERLOINS THE INDIAN HORSE THIEVES THE MAN WHO FIRED THE GUN "DOWN WENT HIS HORSE" KIT CARSON (Portrait) AMBUSHING THE INDIANS DELIVERING DISPATCHES TO GENERAL SHERIDAN GEN'L PHIL. SHERIDAN (PORTRAIT) BATTLE ON THE ARICKAREE BRINGING MEAT INTO CAMP GENERAL E. A. CARR (PORTRAIT) THE RECAPTURE OF BEVINS ROBBING A STAGE COACH THE KILLING OF TALL BULL FINDING THE REMAINS OF THE BUCK PARTY SPOTTED TAIL (PORTRAIT) GRAND DUKE ALEXIS (PORTRAIT) AN EMBARRASSING SITUATION? TEXAS JACK (PORTRAIT) BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS GETTING SATISFACTION A DUEL WITH CHIEF YELLOW HAND SCOUTING ON A STEAMBOAT Early Days in Iowa--A Brother's Death--The Family Move to a New Country--Incidents on the Road--The Horse Race--Our "Little Gray" Victorious--A Pleasant Acquaintance--Uncle Elijah Cody--Our New Home--My Ponies. My Indian Acquaintances--An Indian Barbecue--Beginning of the Kansas Troubles--An Indiscreet Speech by my Father, who is Stabbed for his Boldness--Persecutions at the Hands of the Missourians--A Strategic Escape--A Battle at Hickory Point--A Plan to Kill Father is Defeated by Myself--He is Elected to the Lecompton Legislature--I Enter the Employ of William Russell--Herding Cattle--A Plot to Blow Up our House--A Drunken Missourian on the War-Path. YOUTHFUL EXPERIENCES. ACCIDENTS AND ESCAPES. ADVENTURES ON THE OVERLAND ROAD. Introduction to Alf. Slade--He Employs me as a Pony Express Rider--I Make a Long Ride--Indians Attack an Overland Stage Coach--Wild Bill Leads a Successful Expedition against the Indians--A Grand Jollification at Sweetwater Bridge--Slade Kills a Stage Driver--The End of the Spree--A Bear Hunt--I fall among Horse Thieves--My Escape--I Guide a Party to Capture the Gang. Bob Scott, the Stage Driver--The Story of the Most Reckless Piece of Stage Driving that ever Occurred on the Overland Road. QUESTIONABLE PROCEEDINGS. The Civil War--Jayhawking--Wild Bill's Fight with the McCandless Gang of Desperadoes--I become Wild Bill's Assistant Wagon-Master--We Lose our Last Dollar on a Horse Race--He becomes a Government Scout--He has a Duel at Springfield. CHAMPION BUFFALO KILLER. A Buffalo Killing Match with Billy Comstock--An Excursion party from St. Louis come out to Witness the Sport--I win the Match, and am declared the Champion Buffalo Killer of the Plains. Scouting--Captured by Indians--A Strategic Escape--A Hot Pursuit--The Indians led into an Ambush--Old Satanta's Tricks and Threats--Excitement at Fort Larned--Herders and Wood-Choppers Killed by the Indians--A Perilous Ride--I get into the wrong Pew--Safe, arrival at Fort Hays--Interview with General Sheridan--My ride to Fort Dodge--I return to Fort Larned--My Mule gets away from me--A long Walk--The Mule Passes In his Chips. A Winter's Campaign in the Canadian River Country--Searching for Penrose's Command--A Heavy Snow-Storm--Taking the Wagon Train down a Mountain Side--Camp Turkey--Darkey Deserters from Penrose's Command--Starvation in Penrose's Camp--We reach the Command with Timely Relief--Wild Bill--A Beer Jollification--Hunting Antelopes--Return to Fort Lyon. A Difficulty with a Quartermaster's Agent--I give him a Severe Pounding--Stormy Interview with General Bankhead and Captain Laufer--I put another "Head" on the Quartermaster's Agent--I am Arrested--In the Guard-House--General Bankhead Releases me--A Hunt after Horse Thieves--Their Capture--Escape of Bevins--His Recapture--Escape of Williams--Bevins Breaks Out of Jail--His Subsequent Career. A MILITARY EXPEDITION. ADMINISTERING JUSTICE. I make my Home at Fort McPherson--Arrival of my Family--Hunting and Horse Racing--An Indian Raid--Powder Face Stolen--A Lively Chase--An Expedition to the Republican River Country--General Duncan--A Skirmish with the Indians--A Stern Chase--An Addition to my Family--Kit Carson Cody--I am made a Justice of the Peace--A Case of Replevin--I perform a Marriage Ceremony--Professor Marsh's Fossil-Hunting Expedition. HUNTING EXPEDITIONS. HUNTING WITH A GRAND DUKE. A RETURN TO THE PLAINS. Scouting on a Steamboat--Captain Grant Marsh--A Trip down the Yellowstone River--Acting as Dispatch Carrier--I Return East and open my Theatrical Season with a New Play--Immense Audiences--I go into the Cattle Business in company with Major Prank North--My Home at North Platte. THE LIFE OF HON. WILLIAM F. CODY [Illustration: YOUTHFUL ADVENTURES.] My father at the time, being considerable of a politician as well as a farmer, was attending a political convention; for he was well known in those days as an old line Whig. He had been a member of the Iowa legislature, was a Justice of the Peace, and had held other offices. He was an excellent stump speaker and was often called upon to canvass the country round about for different candidates. The convention which he was attending at the time of the accident was being held at a cross-road tavern called "Sherman's," about a mile away. Samuel and I had gone out together on horseback for the cows. He rode a vicious mare, which mother had told him time and again not to ride, as it had an ugly disposition. We were passing the school house just as the children were being dismissed, when Samuel undertook to give an exhibition of his horsemanship, he being a good rider for a boy. The mare, Betsy, became unmanageable, reared and fell backward upon him, injuring him internally. He was picked up and carried amid great excitement to the house of a neighbor. My brother was a great favorite with everybody, and his death cast a gloom upon the whole neighborhood. It was a great blow to all of the family, and especially to father who seemed to be almost heart broken over it. [Illustration: SAMUEL'S FATAL ACCIDENT.] Father had a brother, Elijah Cody, living at Weston, Platte county, Missouri. He was the leading merchant of the place. As the town was located near the Kansas line father determined to visit him, and thither our journey was directed. Our route lay across Iowa and Missouri, and the trip proved of interest to all of us, and especially to me. There was something new to be seen at nearly every turn of the road. At night the family generally "put up" at hotels or cross-road taverns along the way. The stranger seemed to be very frank in his statements, and appeared to be very anxious to get rid of the animal, and as we were going to Kansas where there would be plenty of room for the horse to run as far as he pleased, father concluded to make a trade for him; so an exchange of animals was easily and satisfactorily effected. The new horse being a small gray, we named him "Little Gray." The Missourians matched their fastest horse against him and were confident of cleaning out "the emigrant," as they called father. They were a hard looking crowd. They wore their pantaloons in their boots; their hair was long, bushy and untrimmed; their faces had evidently never made the acquaintance of a razor. They seemed determined to win the race by fair means or foul. They did a great deal of swearing, and swaggered about in rather a ruffianly style. "Hi! yer boys, give the stranger a chance. Don't scare him out of his boots," said a man who evidently was afraid that my father might back out. "Gentlemen, I am only racing my horse for sport," said he, "and am only betting enough to make it interesting. I have never seen Little Gray run, and therefore don't know what he can do;" at the same time he was confident that his horse would come in the winner, as he had chosen an excellent rider for him. Finally all the preliminaries of the contest were arranged. The judges were chosen and the money was deposited in the hands of a stake-holder. The race was to be a single dash, of a mile. The horses were brought side by side and mounted by their riders. The affair created a great deal of enthusiasm; but the race was conducted with honor and fairness, which was quite an agreeable surprise to my father, who soon found the Missourians to be at heart very clever men--thus showing that outside appearances are sometimes very deceptive; they nearly all came up and congratulated him on his success, asked him why he had not bet more money on the race, and wanted to buy Little Gray. "Gentlemen," said he, "when I drove up here and arranged for this race, I felt confident that my horse would win it. I was among entire strangers, and therefore I only bet a small amount. I was afraid that you would cheat me in some way or other. I see now that I was mistaken, as I have found you to be honorable men." During our stay in the place they treated us very kindly, and continued to try to purchase Little Gray. My father, however, remained firm in his determination not to part with him. We drove up to the house and learned that it was owned and occupied by Mrs. Burns; mother of a well-known lawyer of that name, who is now living in Leavenworth. She was a wealthy lady, and gave us to understand in a pleasant way, that she did not entertain travelers. My father, in the course of the conversation with her, said: "Do you know Elijah Cody?" "Indeed, I do," said she; "he frequently visits us, and we visit him; we are the best of friends." "He is a brother of mine," said father. The kind invitation was accepted, and we remained there over night. As father had predicted, we found plenty of white bread at this house, and it proved quite a luxurious treat. While this beautiful valley greatly interested me, yet the most novel sight, of an entirely different character, which met my enraptured gaze, was the vast number of white-covered wagons, or "prairie-schooners," which were encamped along the different streams. I asked my father what they were and where they were going; he explained to me that they were emigrant wagons bound for Utah and California. While we were looking at the Mormons they were holding a funeral service over the remains of some of their number who had died. Their old cemetery is yet indicated by various land-marks, which, however, with the few remaining head-boards, are fast disappearing. We passed on through this "Valley of Death," as it might then have been very appropriately called, and after riding for some time, my father pointed out a large hill and showed me his camp, which afterwards became our home. At some little distance from the store I noticed a small party of dark-skinned and rather fantastically dressed people, whom I ascertained were Indians, and as I had never before seen a real live Indian, I was much interested in them. I went over and endeavored to talk to them, but our conversation was very limited. All the buildings were whitewashed, and looked neat and clean. The Kickapoos were very friendly Indians, and we spent much of our time among them, looking about and studying their habits. I had been petting Dolly and trying to break her, when my father called me to come and look at the Californian. "Well, I'll ride him for you;" and springing lightly to his feet, he continued: "come on. Where is the animal?" The Californian rode the pony until it was completely mastered, then coming up to me, jumped to the ground, handed me the rope, and said: "Here's your pony. He's all right now." I led Prince away, while father and the stranger sat down in the shade of a tent, and began talking about the latter's horsemanship, which father considered very remarkable. [Illustration: BILLINGS AS A BOCARRO] "I am acquainted in Weston," said father, "and perhaps I can tell you about your uncle. What is his name?" "Elijah Cody," said the Californian. "Elijah Cody!" exclaimed father, in great surprise; "why Elijah Cody is my brother. I am Isaac Cody. Who are you?" "My name is Horace Billings," was the reply. "And you are my nephew. You are the son of my sister Sophia." Both men sprang to their feet and began shaking hands in the heartiest manner possible. As I approached he introduced us. "Horace, this is my only son. We call him little Billy;" and turning to me said: "Billy, my boy, this is a cousin of yours, Horace Billings, whom you've often heard me speak of." Horace Billings had never been heard of from the day he ran away from home, and his relatives had frequently wondered what had become of him. His appearance, therefore, in our camp in the guise of a Californian was somewhat of a mystery to me, and I could hardly comprehend it until I had heard his adventurous story and learned the accidental manner in which he and father had made themselves known to each other. Neither father nor myself would be satisfied until he had given us a full account of his wanderings and adventures, which were very exciting to me. Late in the afternoon and just before the sun sank to rest, the conversation again turned upon horses and horsemanship. Father told Billings all about Little Gray, and his great fault of running away. Billings laughed and said Little Gray could not run away with him. [Illustration: BILLINGS RIDING LITTLE GRAY.] "That's a pretty good horse," said Billings. Next morning he walked over to his own camp, but soon returned, mounted on a beautiful horse, with a handsome saddle, bridle and lariat. I thought he was a magnificent looking man. I envied his appearance, and my ambition just then was to become as skillful a horseman as he was. He had rigged himself out in his best style in order to make a good impression on his uncle at Weston, whither father and I accompanied him on horseback. He was cordially received by Uncle Elijah, who paid him every possible attention, and gave me a handsome saddle and bridle for my pony, and in the evening when we rode out to the farm to see my mother and sisters, I started ahead to show them my present, as well as to tell them who was coming. They were delighted to see the long-lost Horace, and invited him to remain with us. When we returned to camp next day, Horace settled up with the proprietor of the horses, having concluded to make his home with us for that summer at least. [Illustration: EXCITING SPORT.] Everything that he did, I wanted to do. He was a sort of hero in my eyes, and I wished to follow in his footsteps. At my request and with father's consent, he took me with him, and many a wild and perilous chase he led me over the prairie. I made rapid advances in the art of horsemanship, for I could have had no better teacher than Horace Billings. He also taught me how to throw the lasso, which, though it was a difficult thing to learn, I finally became, quite skillful in. My Uncle Elijah and quite a large number of gentlemen and ladies came over from Weston to attend the entertainment. The Indians returned to their homes well satisfied. My uncle at that time owned a trading post at Silver Lake, in the Pottawattamie country, on the Kansas river, and he arranged an excursion to that place. Among the party were several ladies from Weston, and father, mother and myself. Mr. McMeekan, my uncle's superintendent, who had come to Weston for supplies, conducted the party to the post. During the latter part of the summer father filled a hay contract at Fort Leavenworth. I passed much of my time among the campers, and spent days and days in riding over the country with Mr. William Russell, who was engaged in the freighting business and who seemed to take a considerable interest in me. In this way I became acquainted with many wagon-masters, hunters and teamsters, and learned a great deal about the business of handling cattle and mules. It was an excellent school for me, and I acquired a great deal of practical knowledge, which afterwards I found to be of invaluable service, for it was not long before I became employed by Majors & Russell, remaining with them in different capacities, for several years. The summer of that year was an exciting period in the history of the new territory. Thousands and thousands of people, seeking new homes, flocked thither, a large number of the emigrants coming over from adjoining states. The Missourians, some of them, would come laden with bottles of whisky, and after drinking the liquor would drive the bottles into the ground to mark their land claims, not waiting to put up any buildings. The Missourians, mostly, were pro-slavery men, and held enthusiastic meetings at which they expressed their desire that Kansas should be a slave state and did not hesitate to declare their determination to make it so. Rively's store was the headquarters for these men, and there they held their meetings. [Illustration: STAKING OUT LOTS.] He never finished this sentence, or his speech. His expressions were anything but acceptable to the rough-looking crowd, whose ire had been gradually rising to fever heat, and at this point they hooted and hissed him, and shouted, "You black abolitionist, shut up!" "Get down from that box!" "Kill him!" "Shoot him!" and so on. Father, however, maintained his position on the dry-goods box, notwithstanding the excitement and the numerous invitations to step down, until a hot-headed pro-slavery man, who was in the employ of my Uncle Elijah, crowded up and said: "Get off that box, you black abolitionist, or I'll pull you off." [Illustration: MY FATHER STABBED] [Illustration: MY FATHER'S ESCAPE] [Illustration: LIFE OR DEATH.] That same night father and I rode to Lawrence, which had become the headquarters of the Free State men. There he met Jim Lane and several other leading characters, who were then organizing what was known as the Lecompton Legislature. "He is not in this house, and has not been here for a long time," said my mother. "That's a lie! We know he is in the house, and we are bound to have him," said the spokesman of the party. I afterwards learned they had mistaken the herder, who had ridden home with me, for my father for whom they had been watching. The party outside heard him, as it was intended they should, and they supposed that my mother really had quite a force at her command. While this little by play was being enacted, she stepped to the open window again and said: "John Green, you and your friends had better go away or the men will surely fire on you." At this, point the herder, myself and my sisters commenced stamping on the floor in imitation of a squad of soldiers, and the herder issued his orders in a loud voice to his imaginary troops, who were apparently approaching the window preparatory to firing a volley at the enemy. This little stratagem proved eminently successful. The cowardly villains began retreating, and then my mother fired an old gun into the air which greatly accelerated their speed, causing them to break and run. They soon disappeared from view in the darkness. "What is your business here to-day?" asked mother. "I am looking for the old man," he replied. "I am going to search the house, and if I find him I am going to kill him. Here, you girls," said he, addressing my sisters, "get me some dinner, and get it quick, too, for I am as hungry as a wolf." He sat down, and while they were preparing a dinner for him, he took out a big knife and sharpened it on a whetstone, repeating his threat of searching the house and killing my father. The brute was considerably intoxicated when he came to the house, and the longer he sat still the more his brain became muddled with liquor, and he actually forgot what he had come there for. After he had eaten his dinner, he mounted his horse and rode off, and it was a fortunate thing for him that he did. Father soon recovered and returned to Grasshopper Falls, while I resumed my cattle herding. YOUTHFUL EXPERIENCES. "Steve Gobel, the next time you do that, I'll hurt you." And I meant it, too; but he laughed and called me names. "I am killed! O, I am killed!" The school children all rushed to the spot and were terrified at the scene. "Bill Cody has killed Steve Gobel," replied another. "Served him right, Billy," said he, "and what's more, we'll go over and clean out the teacher." "Oh, no; don't do that," said I, for I was afraid that I might fall into the hands of the wounded boy's friends, who I knew would soon be looking for me. "All right," I replied, "but I must go home and tell mother about it, and get some clothes." "Well then, to-night after we make our camp, I'll go back with you." "Mr. Willis, there comes old Gobel, with Frank and somebody else, and they are after me--what am I going to do?" I asked. I obeyed his orders and felt much easier. Old Gobel, Frank and the neighbor soon came up and inquired for me. "He's around here somewhere," said Mr. Willis. "We want him," said Gobel; "he stabbed my son a little while ago, and I want to arrest him." "Well, you can't get him; that settles it; so you needn't waste any of your time around here," said Willis. Gobel continued to talk for a few minutes, but getting no greater satisfaction, the trio returned home. We made a run for the slough which was only a short distance off, and succeeded in safely reaching it, bringing with us the wounded man. The bank proved to be a very effective breast-work, affording us good protection. We had been there but a short time when Frank McCarthy, seeing that the longer we were corraled the worse it would be for us, said: "Well, boys, we'll try to make our way back to Fort Kearney by wading in the river and keeping the bank for a breast-work." Occasionally the water would be too deep for us to wade, and we were obliged to put our weapons on the raft and swim. The Indians followed us pretty close, and were continually watching for an opportunity to get a good range and give us a raking fire. Covering ourselves by keeping well under the bank, we pushed ahead as rapidly as possible, and made pretty good progress, the night finding us still on the way and our enemies still on our track. "Who fired that shot?" cried Frank McCarthy. "I did," replied I, rather proudly, as my confidence returned and I saw the men coming up. The company's agent, seeing that there was no further use for us in that vicinity--as we had lost our cattle and mules--sent us back to Fort Leavenworth. The company, it is proper to state, did not have to stand the loss of the expedition, as the government held itself responsible for such depredations by the Indians. The wagon-master, in the language of the plains, was called the "bull-wagon boss"; the teamsters were known as "bull-whackers"; and the whole train was denominated a "bull-outfit." Everything at that time was called an "outfit." The men of the plains were always full of droll humor and exciting stories of their own experiences, and many an hour I spent in listening to the recitals of thrilling adventures and hair-breadth escapes. [Illustration: A PRAIRIE SCHOONER.] [Illustration: WILD BILL.] Such is the faithful picture of Wild Bill as drawn by General Custer, who was a close observer and student of personal character, and under whom Wild Bill served as a scout. "How are you, Mr. Simpson?" "You've got the best of me, sir," said Simpson, who did not know him. "I'll give 'em to you in a way you don't want," replied Simpson. Simpson saw that he was taken at a great disadvantage, and thinking it advisable not to risk the lives of the party by any rash act on his part, he said: "I see now that you have the best of me, but who are you, anyhow?" "I am Joe Smith," was the reply. "What! the leader of the Danites?" asked Simpson. "You are correct," said Smith, for he it was. "Yes," said Simpson, "I know you now; you are a spying scoundrel." "Ride back with us and I'll soon show you," said Smith. "How is this?" inquired Simpson. "How did you surprise my camp without a struggle? I can't understand it." "Easily enough," said Smith; "your men were all asleep under the wagons, except the cooks, who saw us coming and took us for returning Californians or emigrants, and paid no attention to us until we rode up and surrounded your train. With our arms covering the men, we woke them up, and told them that all they had to do was to walk out and drop their pistols--which they saw was the best thing they could do under circumstances over which they had no control--and you can just bet they did it." "And what do you propose to do with us now?" asked Simpson. "I intend to burn your train," said he; "you are loaded with supplies and ammunition for Sidney Johnson, and as I have no way to convey the stuff to my own people, I'll see that it does not reach the United States troops." "Are you going to turn us adrift here?" asked Simpson, who was anxious to learn what was to become of himself and his men. "No; I hardly am as bad as that. I'll give you enough provisions to last you until you can reach Fort Bridger," replied Smith; "and as soon as your cooks can get the stuff out of the wagons, you can start." "On foot?" was the laconic inquiry of Simpson. "Yes sir," was the equally short reply. The cattle and the wagon were brought up according to his orders, and the clothing and provisions were loaded on. "Now you can go," said Smith, after everything had been arranged. The Indians finally galloped off to a safe distance, where our bullets could not reach them, and seemed to be holding a council. This was a lucky move for us, for it gave us an opportunity to reload our guns and pistols, and prepare for the next charge of the enemy. During the brief cessation of hostilities, Simpson extracted the arrow from Wood's shoulder, and put an immense quid of tobacco on the wound. Wood was then ready for business again. [Illustration: HOLDING THE FORT.] Our hopes of escape from this unpleasant and perilous situation now depended upon the arrival of the rear train, and when we saw that the Indians were going to besiege us instead of renewing their attacks, we felt rather confident of receiving timely assistance. We had expected that the train would be along late in the afternoon of the previous day, and as the morning wore away we were somewhat anxious and uneasy, at its non-arrival. The light of the match died out, but we had seen enough to convince us that we were in a large grave, into which, perhaps, some unfortunate emigrants, who had been killed by the Indians, had been thrown; or, perhaps, seeking refuge there, they had been corraled and then killed on the spot. If such was the case, they had met the fate of thousands of others, whose friends have never heard of them since they left their eastern homes to seek their fortunes in the Far West. However, we did not care to investigate this mystery any further, but we hustled out of that chamber of death and informed Scott of our discovery. Most of the plains-men are very superstitious, and we were no exception to the general rule. We surely thought that this incident was an evil omen, and that we would be killed if we remained there any longer. [Illustration: CAMPING IN A SEPULCHRE.] [Illustration: RAFTING ON THE PLATTE.] When we got near old Julesburg, we met with a serious mishap. Our raft ran into an eddy, and quick as lightning went to pieces, throwing us all into the stream, which was so deep that we had to swim ashore. We lost everything we had, which greatly discouraged us, and we thereupon abandoned the idea of rafting it any farther. We then walked over to Julesburg, which was only a few miles distant. This ranch, which became a somewhat famous spot, had been established by "Old Jules," a Frenchman, who was afterwards killed by the notorious Alf. Slade. ACCIDENTS AND ESCAPES. We would probably have pulled through the winter all right had it not been for a very serious accident which befell me just at that time. Spying a herd of elk, we started in pursuit of them, and creeping up towards them as slyly as possible, while going around the bend of a sharp bluff or bank of the creek I slipped and broke my leg just above the ankle. Notwithstanding the great pain I was suffering, Harrington could not help laughing when I urged him to shoot me, as he had the ox, and thus end my misery. He told me to "brace up," and that he would bring me out "all right." "I am not much of a surgeon," said he, "but I can fix that leg of yours, even if I haven't got a diploma." [Illustration: SAVED BY CHIEF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE.] By this time the little dug-out was nearly filled with other Indians, who had been peeping in at the door, and I could hear voices of still more outside as well as the stamping of horses. I began to think that my time had come, as the saying is, when into the cabin stepped an elderly Indian, whom I readily recognized as old Rain-in-the-Face, a Sioux chief from the vicinity of Fort Laramie. I rose up as well as I could and showed him my broken leg. I told him where I had seen him, and asked him if he remembered me. He replied that he knew me well, and that I used to come to his lodge at Fort Laramie to visit him. I then managed to make him understand that I was there alone and having broken my leg, I had sent my partner off for a team to take me away. I asked him if his young men intended to kill me, and he answered, that was what they had proposed to do, but he would see what they had to say. I was glad enough to see them leave, as my life had undoubtedly hung by a thread during their presence. I am confident that had it not been for my youth and the timely recognition and interference of old Rain-in-the-Face they would have killed me without any hesitation or ceremony. I was continually thinking of all these possibilities, and I must say that my outlook seemed desperate. At last the twentieth day arrived--the day on which Harrington was to return--and I counted the hours from morning till night, but the day passed away with no signs of Harrington. The wolves made the night hideous with their howls; they gathered around the dug-out; ran over the roof; and pawed and scratched as if trying to get in. Several days and nights thus wore away, the monotony all the time becoming greater, until at last it became almost unendurable. Some days I would go without any fire at all, and eat raw frozen meat and melt snow in my mouth for water. I became almost convinced that Harrington had been caught in the storm and had been buried under the snow, or was lost. Many a time during that dreary period of uncertainty, I made up my mind that if I ever got out of that place alive, I would abandon the plains and the life of a trapper forever. I had nearly given up all hopes of leaving the dug-out alive. "Hello! Billy!" he sang out in a loud voice as he came up, he evidently being uncertain as to my being alive. "All right, Dave," was my reply. "Well, old boy, you're alive, are you?" said he. "Yes; and that's about all. I've had a tough siege of it since you've been away, and I came pretty nearly passing in my chips. I began to think you never would get here, as I was afraid you had been snowed under," said I. I questioned Harrington as to his trip, and learned all the details. He had passed through hardships which but few men could have endured. Noble fellow, that he was. He had risked his own life to save mine. ADVENTURES ON THE OVERLAND ROAD. "Come along with me, Billy," said he, "I'll give you a good lay-out. I want you with me." "Yes, that's so; but it will soon shake the life out of you," said he. "However, if that's what you've got your mind set on, you had better come to Atchison with me and see Mr. Russell, who I'm pretty certain, will give you a situation." I replied that I would do that. I then went home and informed mother of my intention, and as her health was very poor I had great difficulty in obtaining her consent. I finally convinced her that as I was of no use on the farm, it would be better and more profitable for me to return to the plains. So after giving her all the money I had earned by trapping, I bade her good-bye and set out for Atchison. "My boy, you are too young for a pony express-rider. It takes men for that business." "What! are you the boy that was riding there, and was called the youngest rider on the road?" "I am the same boy," I replied, confident that everything was now all right for me. "I have heard of you before. You are a year or so older now, and I think you can stand it. I'll give you a trial anyhow and if you weaken you can come back to Horseshoe Station and tend stock." [Illustration: I IMMEDIATELY CHANGED HORSES] [Illustration: ATTACK ON STAGE COACH.] It was supposed that the stolen stock had been taken to the head of Powder River and vicinity, and the party, of which I was a member, started out for that section in high hopes of success. [Illustration: ALF. SLADE KILLING THE DRIVER.] "A friend and a white man," I replied. The door opened, and a big, ugly-looking fellow stepped, forth and said: They were charged with the murdering and robbing of a ranchman; and having stolen his horses it was supposed that they had left the country. I gave them no signs of recognition however, deeming it advisable to let them remain in ignorance as to who I was. It was a hard crowd, and I concluded that the sooner I could get away from them the better it would be for me. I felt confident that they were a band of horse-thieves. [Illustration: THE HORSE THIEVES' DEN.] I was thus explicit in my statement in order, if possible to satisfy the cut-throats that I was not spying upon them, but that my intrusion was entirely accidental. "Where's your horse?" demanded the boss thief. "I left him down the creek," I answered. They proposed going after the horse, but I thought that that would never do, as it would leave me without any means of escape, and I accordingly said, in hopes to throw them off the track, "Captain, I'll leave my gun here and go down and get my horse, and come back and stay all night." "Jim and I will go down with you after your horse, and you can leave your gun here all the same, as you'll not need it." "Very well," said I, "I've got a couple of sage-hens here. Lead on." I picked up the sage-hens, which I had killed a few hours before, and followed the man who was leading the horse, while his companion brought up the rear. The nearer we approached the dug-out the more I dreaded the idea of going back among the villainous cut-throats. [Illustration: MY ESCAPE FROM THE HORSE THIEVES.] The other outlaws in the dug-out, having heard the shot which I had fired, knew there was trouble, and they all came rushing down the creek. I suppose, by the time they reached the man whom I had knocked down, that he had recovered and hurriedly told them of what had happened. They did not stay with the man whom I had shot, but came on in hot pursuit of me. They were not mounted, and were making better time down the rough canon than I was on horseback. From time to time I heard them gradually gaining on me. We found a new-made grave, where they had evidently buried the man whom I had shot. We made a thorough search of the whole vicinity, and finally found their trail going southeast in the direction of Denver. As it would have been useless to follow them, we rode back to the station; and thus ended my eventful bear-hunt. We had no more trouble for some time from horse-thieves after that. "Blarst me bloody heyes! they cawn't stage in this country as we do in Hingland, you know," said another. "By Jove! those are the kind of 'orses they hought to 'ave on hall the teams," remarked another. "Are you the lad who is going to drive to-day?" asked another of Bob. "Yes, gentlemen," answered Bob, "I'll show you how we stage it in this country." Bob mounted the box, gathered the lines, and pulling the horses strongly by the bits, he sang out to the Englishmen, "All aboard!" Bob's companion on the box was Capt. Cricket; a little fellow who was the messenger of the coach. After everybody was seated, Bob told the stock-tenders to "turn 'em loose." [Illustration: BOB SCOTT'S FAMOUS COACH RIDE.] By this time the Englishmen had become thoroughly frightened, as they saw the lines flying wildly in every direction and the team running away. They did not know whether to jump out or remain in the coach. Bob would occasionally look down from his seat, and, seeing their frightened faces, would ask, "Well, how do you like staging in this country now?" The Englishmen stuck to the coach, probably thinking it would be better to do so than to take the chances of breaking their necks by jumping. Bob waited a few minutes to give them an opportunity to take their seats in the coach, but they told him most emphatically that he could drive on without them, as they intended to wait there for the next stage. Their traps were taken off, and Bob drove away without a single passenger. He made his usual time into Fort Laramie, which was the end of his run. The Englishmen came through on the next day's coach, and proceeded on to Atchison, where they reported Bob to the superintendent of the line, who, however, paid little or no attention to the matter, as Bob remained on the road. Such is the story of the liveliest and most reckless piece of stage-driving that ever occurred on the Overland stage road. QUESTIONABLE PROCEEDINGS. Some of the parties boldly took their confiscated horses into Leavenworth, while others rode them to their homes. This action may look to the reader like horse-stealing, and some people might not hesitate to call it by that name; but Chandler plausibly maintained that we were only getting back our own, or the equivalent, from the Missourians, and as the government was waging war against the South, it was perfectly square and honest, and we had a good right to do it. So we didn't let our consciences trouble us very much. We continued to make similar raids upon the Missourians off and on during the summer, and occasionally we had running fights with them; none of the skirmishes, however, amounting to much. The government officials hearing of our operations, put detectives upon our track, and several of the party were arrested. My mother, upon learning that I was engaged in this business, told me it was neither honorable nor right, and she would not for a moment countenance any such proceedings. Consequently I abandoned the jay-hawking enterprise, for such it really was. The affair occurred while Wild Bill was riding the pony express in western Kansas. "Bill, Bill! Help! Help! save me!" Such was the cry that Bill now heard. It was the shrill and pitiful voice of the dead stock-tender's wife, and it came from a window of the house. She had heard the exchange of shots, and knew that Wild Bill had arrived. [Illustration: WILD BILL AND THE OUTLAWS.] I happened to meet Wild Bill at Leavenworth as he was about to depart for Rolla; he wished me to take charge of the government trains as a sort of assistant under him, and I gladly accepted the offer. Arriving at Rolla, we loaded the trains with freight and took them to Springfield, Missouri. On our return to Rolla we heard a great deal of talk about the approaching fall races at St. Louis, and Wild Bill having brought a fast running horse from the mountains, determined to take him to that city and match him against some of the high-flyers there; and down to St. Louis we went with this running horse, placing our hopes very high on him. Before the race it had been "make or break" with us, and we got "broke." We were "busted" in the largest city we had ever been in, and it is no exaggeration to say that we felt mighty blue. On the morning after the race we went to the military headquarters, where Bill succeeded in securing an engagement for himself as a government scout, but I being so young failed in obtaining similar employment. Wild Bill, however, raised some money, by borrowing it from a friend, and then buying me a steamboat ticket he sent me back to Leavenworth, while he went to Springfield, which place he made his headquarters while scouting in southeastern Missouri. Bill then said to Tutt that if he attempted anything of the kind, he would kill him. Nothing of course was ever done to Bill for the killing of Tutt. Previous to this said event my sister Julia had been married to a gentleman named J.A. Goodman, and they now came to reside at our house and take charge of the children, as my mother had desired that they should not be separated. Mr. Goodman became the guardian of the minor children. "You little rascal, what are you doing in those 'secesh' clothes?" Judge of my surprise when I recognized in the stranger my old friend and partner, Wild Bill, disguised as a Confederate officer. "I ask you the same question, sir," said I without the least hesitation. "Hush! sit down and have some bread and milk, and we'll talk it all over afterwards," said he. I accepted the invitation and partook of the refreshments. Wild Bill paid the woman of the house, and we went out to the gate where my horse was standing. "Billy, my boy," said he, "I am mighty glad to see you. I haven't seen or heard of you since we got busted on that St. Louis' horse-race." "What are you doing out here?" I asked. "I am a scout under General McNiel. For the last few days I have been with General Marmaduke's division of Price's army, in disguise as a southern officer from Texas, as you see me now," said he. "That's exactly the kind of business that I am out on to-day," said I; "and I want to get some information concerning Price's movements." "Here are some letters which I want you to give to General McNiel." "All right," said I as I took them, "but where will I meet you again?" "Never mind that," he replied; "I am getting so much valuable information that I propose to stay a little while longer in this disguise." Thereupon we shook hands and parted. "Halt!" I shouted; "I have been placed here by the commanding officer as a guard over this house, and no man must enter it." The guns were lowered, and then the men, who were the father and brothers of the young ladies, were informed of what I had done for them. It appeared that they had been concealed in the woods near by while the army was passing, and on coming into the house and finding a Yankee there, they determined to shoot him. Upon learning the facts, the old man extended his hand to me, saying: "I would not harm a hair of your head for the world; but it is best that you stay here no longer, as your command is some distance from here now, and you might be cut off by bushwhackers before reaching it." Bidding them all good-bye, and with many thanks from the mother and daughters, I mounted my horse and soon overtook the column, happy in the thought that I had done a good deed, and with no regrets that I had saved from pillage and destruction the home and property of a confederate and his family. Our command kept crowding against Price and his army until they were pushed into the vicinity of Kansas City, where their further advance was checked by United States troops from Kansas; and then was begun their memorable and extraordinary retreat back into Kansas. At last the day arrived, and the wedding ceremony was performed at the residence of the bride's parents, in the presence of a large number of invited friends, whose hearty congratulations we received. I was certainly to be congratulated, for I had become possessed of a lovely and noble woman, and as I gazed upon her as she stood beside me arrayed in her wedding costume, I indeed felt proud of her; and from that time to this I have always thought that I made a most fortunate choice for a life partner. An hour after the ceremony we--my bride and myself--were on board of a Missouri river steamboat, bound for our new home in Kansas. My wife's parents had accompanied us to the boat, and had bidden us a fond farewell and a God-speed on our journey. During the trip up the river several very amusing, yet awkward incidents occurred, some of which I cannot resist relating. There happened to be on board the boat an excursion party from Lexington, Missouri, and those comprising it seemed to shun me, for some reason which I could not then account for. They would point at me, and quietly talk among themselves, and eye me very closely. Their actions seemed very strange to me. After the boat had proceeded some little distance, I made the acquaintance of several families from Indiana, who were _en route_ to Kansas. A gentleman, who seemed to be the leader of these colonists, said to me, "The people of this excursion party don't seem to have any great love for you." In the evening the Lexington folks got up a dance, but neither the Indiana people, my wife or myself were invited to join them. My new-found friend thereupon came to me and said: "Mr. Cody, let us have a dance of our own." "Very well," was my reply. "We have some musicians along with us, so we can have plenty of music," remarked the gentleman. "Where is the black abolition jay-hawker?" shouted the leader. "Show him to us, and we'll shoot him," yelled another. But as the boat had got well out in the river by this time, they could not board us, and the captain ordering a full head of steam, pulled out and left them. I afterwards ascertained that some of the Missourians, who were with the excursion party, were bushwhackers themselves, and had telegraphed to their friends from some previous landing that I was on board, telling them to come to the landing which we had just left, and take me off. Had the villains captured me they would have undoubtedly put an end to my career, and the public would never have had the pleasure of being bored by this autobiography. I noticed that my wife felt grieved over the manner in which these people had treated me. Just married, she was going into a new country, and seeing how her husband was regarded, how he had been shunned, and how his life had been threatened, I was afraid she might come to the conclusion too soon that she had wedded a "hard customer." So when the boat landed at Kansas City I telegraphed to some of my friends in Leavenworth that I would arrive there in the evening. My object was to have my acquaintances give me a reception, so that my wife could see that I really did have some friends, and was not so bad a man as the bushwhackers tried to make out. "Cody, I want to travel fast and go through as quickly as possible, and I don't think that mule of yours is fast enough to suit me." "Very well; go ahead, then," said he, though he looked as if he thought I would delay the party on the road. "General, how about this mule, anyhow?" I asked, at last. "Cody, you have a better vehicle than I thought you had," was his reply. [Illustration: GENERAL CUSTER] Orders were accordingly given by Major Arms for a retreat, the cannon being left behind. During the movement several of our men were killed, but as night came and dense darkness prevailed, we succeeded in making good headway, and got into Fort Hays just at daylight next morning, in a very played-out condition. "Gentlemen, you've got a very flourishing little town here. Wouldn't you like to have a partner in your enterprise?" "No, thank you," said I, "we have too good a thing here to whack up with anybody." My partner agreed with me, but the conversation was continued, and at last the stranger said: "Gentlemen, I am the agent or prospector of the Kansas Pacific Railroad, and my business is to locate towns for the company along the line." "We think we have the only suitable town-site in this immediate locality," said Mr. Rose, "and as a town is already started, we have saved the company considerable expense." "You know as well as I do," said Dr. Webb, "that the company expects to make money by selling lands and town lots; and as you are not disposed to give the company a show, or share with me, I shall probably have to start another town near you. Competition is the life of trade, you know." "Start your town, if you want to. We've got the 'bulge' on you, and can hold it," said I, somewhat provoked at his threat. We visited the new town of Hays almost daily, to see how it was progressing, and in a short time we became much better acquainted with Dr. Webb, who had reduced us from our late independent to our present dependent position. We found him a perfect gentleman--a whole-souled, genial-hearted fellow, whom everybody liked and respected. Nearly every day, "Doc." and I would take a ride over the prairie together and hunt buffalo. The Doctor thought this glorious sport, and wanted to organize a party to go in pursuit of them, but I induced him to give up this idea, although he did so rather reluctantly. The Doctor soon became quite an expert hunter, and before he had remained on the prairie a year there were but few men in the country who could kill more buffaloes on a hunt than he. "Hello! may friend," sang out the captain, "I see you are after the same game we are." "Yes, sir; I saw those buffaloes coming over the hill, and as we were about out of fresh meat I thought I would go and get some," said I. They scanned my cheap-looking outfit pretty closely, and as my horse was not very prepossessing in appearance, having on only a blind bridle, and otherwise looking like a work-horse they evidently considered me a green hand at hunting. "Do you expect to catch those buffaloes on that Gothic steed?" laughingly asked the captain. "I hope so, by pushing on the reins hard enough," was my reply. "You'll never catch them in the world, my fine fellow," said the captain. "It requires a fast horse to overtake the animals on these prairies." "Does it?" asked I as if I didn't know it. "Yes; but come along with us as we are going to kill them more for pleasure than anything else. All we want are the tongues and a piece of tender loin, and you may have all that is left," said the generous man. "Now, gentlemen, allow me to present to you all the tongues and tender-loins you wish from these buffaloes." [Illustration: TONGUES AND TENDER LOINS.] Captain Graham, for such I soon learned was his name, replied: "Well, I never saw the like before. Who under the sun are you, anyhow?" "My name is Cody," said I. Captain Graham, who was considerable of a horseman, greatly admired Brigham, and said: "That horse of yours has running points." "Yes, sir; he has not only got the points, he is a runner and knows how to use the points," said I. "So I noticed," said the captain. Our conversation was interrupted in a little while by the arrival of the wagon which I had ordered out; I loaded the hind-quarters of the youngest buffaloes on it, and then cut out the tongues and tender loins, and presented them to the officers, after which I rode towards the fort with them, while the wagon returned to camp. Captain Graham told me that he expected to be stationed at Fort Hays during the summer, and would probably be sent out on a scouting expedition, and in case he was he would like to have me accompany him as scout and guide. I replied that notwithstanding I was very busy with my railroad contract I would go with him if he was ordered out. I then left the officers and returned to our camp. At last we reached the Saline river, where we found the Indians had only stopped to feed and water the animals, and had then pushed on towards the Solomon. After crossing the Saline they made no effort to conceal their trail, thinking they would not be pursued beyond that point--consequently we were able to make excellent time. We reached the Soloman before sunset, and came to a halt; we surmised that if the Indians were camped on this river, that they had no suspicion of our being in the neighborhood. I advised Captain Graham to remain with the company where it was, while I went ahead on a scout to find the Indians, if they were in the vicinity. [Illustration: THE INDIAN HORSE THIEVES.] Leaving my partner, Rose, to complete our grading contract, I immediately began my career as a buffalo hunter for the Kansas Pacific Railroad, and it was not long before I acquired considerable notoriety. It was at this time that the very appropriate name of "Buffalo Bill," was conferred upon me by the road-hands. It has stuck to me ever since, and I have never been ashamed of it. The only chance I had for my life was to make a run for it, and I immediately wheeled and started back towards the railroad. Brigham seemed to understand what was up, and he struck out as if he comprehended that it was to be a run for life. He crossed a ravine in a few jumps, and on reaching a ridge beyond, I drew rein, looked back and saw the Indians coming for me at full speed and evidently well-mounted. I would have had little or no fear of being overtaken if Brigham had been fresh; but as he was not, I felt uncertain as to how he would stand a long chase. [Illustration: BUFFALO BILL.] [Illustration: DOWN WENT HIS HORSE.] When we got back to camp I found old Brigham grazing quietly and contentedly on the grass. He looked up at me as if to ask if we had got away with any of those fellows who had chased us. I believe he read the answer in my eyes. This was the kind of fighting we had been expecting for a long time, as we knew that sooner or later we would be "jumped" by Indians while we were out buffalo hunting. I had an understanding with the officers who commanded the troops at the end of the track, that in case their pickets should at any time notice a smoke in the direction of our hunting ground, they were to give the alarm, so that assistance might be sent to us for the smoke was to indicate that we were in danger. [Illustration: THE FIRE SIGNAL.] [Illustration: KIT CARSON] CHAMPION BUFFALO KILLER. At last the time came to begin the match. Comstock and I dashed into a herd, followed by the referees. The buffaloes separated; Comstock took the left bunch and I the right. My great _forte_ in killing buffaloes from horseback was to get them circling by riding my horse at the head of the herd, shooting the leaders, thus crowding their followers to the left, till they would finally circle round and round. "That's nothing at all," said I; "I have done it many a time, and old Brigham knows as well as I what I am doing, and sometimes a great deal better." As it was now late in the afternoon, Comstock and his backers gave up the idea that he could beat me, and thereupon the referees declared me the winner of the match, as well as the champion buffalo-hunter of the plains.[A] [Illustration: A BIG JOKE.] The savages were all singing, yelling and whooping, as only Indians can do, when they are having their little game all their own way. While looking towards the river I saw, on the opposite side, an immense village moving down along the bank, and then I became convinced that the Indians had left the post and were now starting out on the war-path. My captors crossed the stream with me, and as we waded through the shallow water they continued to lash the mule and myself. Finally they brought me before an important looking body of Indians, who proved to be the chiefs and principal warriors. I soon recognized old Satanta among them, as well as others whom I knew, and I supposed it was all over with me. The Indians were jabbering away so rapidly among themselves that I could not understand what they were saying. Satanta at last asked me where I had been; and, as good luck would have it, a happy thought struck me. I told him I had been after a herd of cattle or "whoa-haws," as they called them. It so happened that the Indians had been out of meat for several weeks, as the large herd of cattle which had been promised them had not yet arrived, although expected by them. The moment that I mentioned that I had been searching for the "whoa-haws," old Satanta began questioning me in a very eager manner. He asked me where the cattle were, and I replied that they were back only a few miles, and that I had been sent by General Hazen to inform him that the cattle were coming, and that they were intended for his people. This seemed to please the old rascal, who also wanted to know if there were any soldiers with the herd, and my reply was that there were. Thereupon the chiefs held a consultation, and presently Satanta asked me if General Hazen had really said that they should have the cattle. I replied in the affirmative, and added that I had been directed to bring the cattle to them. I followed this up with a very dignified inquiry, asking why his young men had treated me so. The old wretch intimated that it was only "a freak of the boys"; that the young men had wanted to see if I was brave; in fact, they had only meant to test my bravery, and that the whole thing was a joke. The veteran liar was now beating me at my own game of lying; but I was very glad of it, as it was in my favor. I did not let him suspect that I doubted his veracity, but I remarked that it was a rough way to treat friends. He immediately ordered his young men to give me back my arms, and scolded them for what they had done. Of course, the sly old dog was now playing it very fine, as he was anxious to get possession of the cattle, with which he believed "there was a heap of soldiers coming." He had concluded it was not best to fight the soldiers if he could get the cattle peaceably. Another council was held by the chiefs, and in a few minutes old Satanta came and asked me if I would go over and bring the cattle down to the opposite side of the river, so that they could get them. I replied, "Of course; that's my instruction from General Hazen." Satanta said I must not feel angry at his young men, for they had only been acting in fun. He then inquired if I wished any of his men to accompany me to the cattle herd. I replied that it would be better for me to go alone, and then the soldiers could keep right on to Fort Larned, while I could drive the herd down on the bottom. So, wheeling my mule around, I was soon re-crossing the river, leaving old Satanta in the firm belief that I had told him a straight story, and was going for the cattle, which only existed in my imagination. [Illustration: AMBUSHING THE INDIANS.] The soldiers with the wagon--whom I had met at the crossing of the Pawnee Fork--had been out for the bodies of the men. Under the circumstances it was no wonder that the garrison, upon hearing the reports of our guns when we fired upon the party whom we ambushed, should have thought the Indians were coming back to give them another "turn." "You was very fortunate, Cody, in thinking of that cattle story; but for that little game your hair would now be an ornament to a Kiowa's lodge," said he. Just then Dick Curtis spoke up and said: "Cody, the Captain is anxious to send some dispatches to General Sheridan, at Fort Hays, and none of the scouts here seem to be very willing to undertake the trip. They say they are not well enough acquainted with the country to find the way at night." As a storm was coming up it was quite dark, and the scouts feared that they would lose the way; besides it was a dangerous ride, as a large party of Indians were known to be camped on Walnut Creek, on the direct road to Fort Hays. It was evident that Curtis was trying to induce me to volunteer. I made some evasive answer to Curtis, for I did not care to volunteer after my long day's ride. But Curtis did not let the matter drop. Said he: "I wish, Bill, that you were not so tired by your chase of to-day, for you know the country better than the rest of the boys, and I am certain that you could go through." "As far as the ride to Fort Hays is concerned, that alone would matter but little to me," I said, "but it is a risky piece of work just now, as the country is full of hostile Indians; still if no other scout is willing to volunteer, I will chance it. I'll go, provided I am furnished with a good horse. I am tired of being chased on a government mule by Indians." At this Captain Nolan, who had been listening to our conversation, said: "Bill, you may have the best horse in my company. You can take your choice if you will carry these dispatches. Although it is against regulations to dismount an enlisted man, I have no hesitancy in such a case of urgent necessity as this is, in telling you that you may have any horse you may wish." "Good enough, Bill; you shall have the horse; but are you sure you can find your way on such a dark night as this?" "I have hunted on nearly every acre of ground between here and Fort Hays, and I can almost keep my route by the bones of the dead buffaloes." I confidently replied. "Never fear, Captain, about Cody not finding the way; he is as good in the dark as he is in the daylight," said Curtis. [Illustration: WHOA THERE!] I urged my horse to his full speed, taking the chances of his falling into holes, and guided him up the creek bottom. The Indians followed me as fast as they could by the noise I made, but I soon distanced them; and then crossed the creek. My horse did not seem much fatigued, and being anxious to make good time and get as near the post as possible before it was fairly daylight as there might be bands of Indians camped along Big Creek, I urged him forward as fast as he could go. As I had not "lost" any Indians, I was not now anxious to make their acquaintance, and shortly after _reveille_ rode into the post. I proceeded directly to General Sheridan's headquarters, and, was met at the door, by Colonel Moore, _aid-de-camp_ on General Sheridan's staff who asked me on what business I had come. "I have dispatches for General Sheridan, and my instructions from Captain Parker, commanding Fort Larned, are that they shall be delivered to the General as soon as possible," said I. [Illustration: DELIVERING DISPATCHES TO SHERIDAN.] The General, who was sleeping in the same building, hearing our voices, called out, "Send the man in with the dispatches." I was ushered into the General's presence, and as we had met before he recognized me and said: "Hello, Cody, is that you?" "Yes, sir; I have some dispatches here for you, from Captain Parker," said I, as I handed the package over to him. He hurriedly read them, and said they were important; and then he asked me all about General Hazen and where he had gone, and about the breaking out of the Kiowas and Comanches. I gave him all the information that I possessed, and related the events and adventures of the previous day and night. "Bill," said he, "you must have had a pretty lively ride. You certainly had a close call when you ran into the Indians on Walnut Creek. That was a good joke that you played on old Satanta. I suppose you're pretty tired after your long journey?" "I am rather weary, General, that's a fact, as I have been in the saddle since yesterday morning;" was my reply, "but my horse is more tired than I am, and needs attention full as much if not more," I added. Thereupon the General called an orderly and gave instructions to have my animal well taken care of, and then he said, "Cody, come in and have some breakfast with me." "Very well; do as you please, and come to the post afterwards as I want to see you," said he. "I had not thought of asking you to do this duty, Cody, as you are already pretty hard worked. But it is really important that these dispatches should go through," said the General. "You can start as soon as you wish--the sooner the better; and good luck go with you, my boy." In about an hour afterwards I was on the road, and just before dark I crossed Smoky Hill River. I had not yet urged my horse much, as I was saving his strength for the latter end of the route, and for any run that I might have to make in case the "wild-boys" should "jump" me. So far I had not seen a sign of Indians, and as evening came on I felt comparatively safe. The commanding officer at Fort Dodge was anxious to send some dispatches to Fort Larned, but the scouts, like those at Fort Hays, were rather backward about volunteering, as it was considered a very dangerous undertaking to make the trip. As Fort Larned was my post, and as I wanted to go there anyhow, I said to Austin that I would carry the dispatches, and if any of the boys wished to go along, I would like to have them for company's sake. Austin reported my offer to the commanding officer, who sent for me and said he would be happy to have me take his dispatches, if I could stand the trip on top of all that I had already done. "All I want is a good fresh horse, sir," said I. "I am sorry to say that we haven't a decent horse here, but we have a reliable and honest government mule, if that will do you," said the officer. "Trot out your mule," said I, "that's good enough for me. I am ready at any time, sir." The troops, hearing the reports of the gun, came rushing out to see what was the matter. They found that the mule had passed in his chips, and when they learned the cause they all agreed that I had served him just right. Taking the saddle and bridle from the dead body, I proceeded into the post and delivered the dispatches to Captain Parker. I then went over to Dick Curtis' house, which was headquarters for the scouts, and there put in several hours of solid sleep. During the day General Hazen returned from Fort Harker, and he also had some important dispatches to send to General Sheridan. I was feeling quite elated over my big ride; and seeing that I was getting the best of the other scouts in regard to making a record, I volunteered to carry General Hazen's dispatches to Fort Hays. The General accepted my services, although he thought it was unnecessary for me to kill myself. I told him that I had business at Fort Hays, and wished to go there anyway, and it would make no difference to the other scouts, for none of them appeared willing to undertake the trip. "Cody," continued he, "I have decided to appoint you as guide and chief of scouts with the command. How does that suit you?" [Illustration: GENERAL PHIL. SHERIDAN.] During the night the besieged scouts threw up their breastworks considerably higher and piled the dead animals on top. They dug down to water, and also stored away a lot of horse and mule meat in the sand to keep it fresh as long as possible. The Indians renewed their firing next morning, and kept it up all day, doing but little injury, however, as the scouts were now well entrenched; but many an Indian was sent to his happy hunting ground. [Illustration: BATTLE ON THE ARICKAREE] "I didn't care about asking for any wagons this time, Colonel; so I thought I would make the buffaloes furnish their own transportation," was my reply. The Colonel saw the point in a moment, and had no more to say on the subject. [Illustration: BRINGING MEAT INTO CAMP.] [Illustration: "INDIANS!"] "But you must be mistaken," said Colonel Royal. While waiting for supplies we received a new commanding officer, Brevet Major-General E.A. Carr, who was the senior major of the regiment, and who ranked Colonel Royal. He brought with him the now celebrated Forsyth scouts, who were commanded by Lieutenant Pepoon, a regular army officer. [Illustration: GEN'L E.A. CARR.] It was also while waiting in this camp that Major Brown received a new lieutenant to fill a vacancy in his company. On the day that this officer was to arrive, Major Brown had his private ambulance brought out, and invited me to accompany him to the railroad station to meet his lieutenant, whose name was A.B. Bache. He proved to be a fine gentleman, and a brave, dashing officer. On the way to the depot Major Brown had said, "Now, Cody, when we come back we'll give Bache a lively ride and shake him up a little." "Is this the way you break in all your Lieutenants, Major?" "Oh, no; I don't do this as a regular thing, but it's the way we frequently ride in this country," said the Major; "just keep your seat, Mr. Bache, and we'll take you through on time." The Major appropriated the reply of the old California stage driver, Hank Monk, to Horace Greely. We were now rattling down a steep hill at full speed, and just as we reached the bottom, the front wheels struck a deep ditch over which the mules had jumped. We were all brought up standing by the sudden stoppage of the ambulance. Major Brown and myself were nearly pitched out on the wheels, while the Lieutenant came flying headlong from the back seat to the front of the vehicle. "Take a back seat, Lieutenant," coolly said Major Brown. "Major, I have just left that seat," said Bache. Next morning at an early hour, the command started out on a hunt for Indians. General Carr having a pretty good idea where he would be most likely to find them, directed me to guide him by the nearest route to Elephant Rock on Beaver Creek. The Indians soon scattered in every direction, but we followed the main trail to the Republican river, where we made a cut-off, and then went north towards the Platte river. We found, however, that the Indians by traveling night and day had got a long start, and the General concluded that it was useless to follow them any further, as we had pushed them so hard, and given them such a scare that they would leave the Republican country and go north across the Union Pacific railroad. Most of the Indians, as he had predicted, did cross the Platte river, near Ogallala, on the Union Pacific, and thence continued northward. That night we returned to the Republican river and camped in a grove of cottonwoods, which I named Carr's Grove, in honor of the commanding officer. "General, I think the scouts are mistaken," said I, "for the Beaver has more water near its head than it has below; and at the place where we will strike the stream we will find immense beaver dams, large enough and strong enough to cross the whole command, if you wish." "Well, Cody, go ahead," said he, "I'll leave it to you, but remember that I don't want a dry camp." The Indians, seeing that I was alone, turned and charged down the hill, and were about to re-cross the creek to corral me, when the advance guard of the command put in an appearance on the ridge, and dashed forward to my rescue. The red-skins whirled and made off. When General Carr came up, he ordered Company I to go in pursuit of the band. I accompanied Lieutenant Brady, who commanded, and we had a running fight with the Indians, lasting several hours. We captured several head of their horses and most of their lodges. At night we returned to the command, which by this time had crossed the creek on the beaver dam. [Illustration: A HARD CROWD.] [Illustration: CAMPING IN THE SNOW.] "Cody, we're in a nice fix now," said General Carr. "Oh, that's nothing," was my reply. "But you can never take the train down," said he. "Never you mind the train, General. You say you are looking for a good camp. How does that beautiful spot down in the valley suit you?" I asked him. "That will do. I can easily descend with the cavalry, but how to get the wagons down there is a puzzler to me," said he. "By the time you've located your camp, your wagons shall be there," said I. "Run down, slide down or fall down--any way to get down," said I. "We never can do it; it's too steep; the wagons will run over the mules," said another wagon-master. "I guess not; the mules have got to keep out of the way," was my reply. "Nary a hard tack; but the wagons will be along presently, and then you can get all you want," said I. "I dunno," said the darkey; "we got lost, and we's been a starvin' eber since." [Illustration: A WELCOME VISITOR] For several days we scouted along the Canadian River, but found no signs of Indians. General Carr then went back to his camp, and soon afterwards our wagon train came in from Fort Lyon with a fresh load of provisions. Our animals being in poor condition, we remained in different camps along San Francisco Creek and the north fork of the Canadian, until Wild Bill and his scouts returned from Camp Supply. General Carr, upon hearing of the row, sent for Wild Bill and myself, he having concluded, from the various statements which had been made to him, that we were the instigators of the affair. But after listening to what we had to say, he thought that the Mexicans were as much to blame as we were. It is not to be denied that Wild Bill and myself had been partaking too freely of "tanglefoot" that evening; and General Carr said to me: "Cody, there are plenty of antelopes in the country, and you can do some hunting for the camp while we stay here." "All right, General, I'll do it." It seems that the quartermaster's agent at Sheridan had reported to General Bankhead, commanding Fort Wallace, and to Captain Laufer, the quartermaster, that I had left the country and had sold a government horse and mule to Mr. Perry, and of course Captain Laufer took possession of the animals and threatened to have Perry arrested for buying government property. Perry explained to him the facts in the case and said that I would return in a few days; but the captain would pay no attention to his statements. He then mounted a horse, rode to Fort Wallace, and reported me to General Bankhead and Captain Laufer, and obtained a guard to return with and protect him. "Now look a-heah, Massa Bill, ef you makes a move we'll blow you off de farm, shuah!" Just then Captain Ezekiel entered and ordered the soldiers to stand back. "I am sorry, Bill, but I have been ordered by General Bankhead to arrest you and bring you to Fort Wallace," said he. "Bill, I am really sorry," said Captain Ezekiel, as we alighted, "but I have orders to place you in the guard-house, and I must perform my duty." Shortly after _reveille_ Captain Graham called to see me. He thought it was a shame for me to be in the guard-house, and said that he would interview General Bankhead in my behalf as soon as he got up. The Captain had a nice breakfast prepared for me, and then departed. At guard-mount I was not sent for, contrary to my expectations, and thereupon I had word conveyed to Captain Graham, who was officer of the day, that I wanted to see General Bankhead. The Captain informed me that the General absolutely refused to hold any conversation whatever with me. I re-wrote my dispatch and handed it to him, accompanied with the money to pay for the transmission, saying, as I did so: "Young man, I wish that telegram sent direct to Chicago. You know it is your duty to send it, and it must go." "No, sir;" I replied, "I'll do nothing of the kind. I'll remain in the guard-house until I receive an answer from General Sheridan." "No, sir; I have some bills to settle at Sheridan and some other business to transact," replied I. "Well, sir; will you at least agree not to interfere any further with the quartermaster's agent at Sheridan?" "I shall not bother him any more, sir, as I have had all I want from him," was my answer. Green, who had been summoned, said that he had discovered fresh trails before striking the heavy timber opposite old Fort Lyon, but that in the tall grass he could not follow them. He had marked the place where he had last seen fresh mule tracks, so that he could find it again. "Now, Cody, you're just the person we want," said the General. "Very well, I'll get a fresh mount, and to-morrow I'll go down and see what I can discover," said I. Presently the black mule belonging to Forbush was put up at auction. Now, thought I, is the time to do my work. So, walking through the crowd, who were bidding for the mule, I approached the man who had offered him for sale. He recognized me and endeavored to escape, but I seized him by the shoulder, saying: "I guess, my friend, that you'll have to go with me. If you make any resistance, I'll shoot you on the spot." He was armed with a pair of pistols, which I took away from him. Then informing the auctioneer that I was a United States detective, and showing him--as well as an inquisitive officer--my commission as such, I told him to stop the sale, as the mule was stolen property, and that I had arrested the thief, whose name was Williams. "Bevins, you've given us a good run," said I. "Bevins, I have got to take you back," said I, "but as you can't walk with that foot, you can ride my horse and I'll foot it." [Illustration: THE RECAPTURE OF BEVINS.] [Illustration: ROBBING A STAGE COACH.] A MILITARY EXPEDITION. "No," said the General; "he has not yet recovered from the beating that you gave him." From Fort Wallace we moved down to Sheridan, where the command halted for us to lay in a supply of forage which was stored there. I was still messing with Major Brown, with whom I went into the village to purchase a supply of provisions for our mess; but unfortunately we were in too jolly a mood to fool away money on "grub." We bought several articles, however, and put them into the ambulance and sent them back to the camp with our cook. The Major and myself did not return until _reveille_ next morning. Soon afterwards the General sounded "boots and saddles," and presently the regiment was on its way to McPherson. It was very late before we went into camp that night, and we were tired and hungry. Just as Major Brown was having his tent put up, his cook came to us and asked where the provisions were that we had bought the day before. "Why, did we not give them to you--did you not bring them to camp in the ambulance?" asked Major Brown. "The mischief!" I exclaimed; "didn't we spend any money on grub at all?" "No, sir," replied the cook. "Well, that will do for the present," said Major Brown. At this juncture Captain Denny came up, and the Major apologized for not being able to invite him to take supper with us; but we did the next best thing, and asked him to take a drink. He remarked that that was what he was looking for, and when he learned of our being out of commissary supplies, and that we had bought nothing except whiskey, brandy and gin, he said, joyously: "Boys, as we have an abundance, you can eat with us, and we will drink with you." It was a satisfactory arrangement, and from that time forward we traded our liquids for their solids. When the rest of the officers heard of what Brown and I had done, they all sent us invitations to dine with them at any time. We returned the compliment by inviting them to drink with us whenever they were dry. Although I would not advise anybody to follow our example, yet it is a fact that we got more provisions for our whiskey than the same money, which we paid for the liquor, would have bought; so after all it proved a very profitable investment. "This is no place for us, Lieutenant," said I; "I think we have important business at the camp to attend to as soon as possible." "I agree with you," said he, "and the quicker we get there the better it will be for us." We quickly descended the hill and joined the men below. Lieutenant Ward hurriedly wrote a note to General Carr, and handing it to a corporal, ordered him to make all possible haste back to the command and deliver the message. The man started off on a gallop, and Lieutenant Ward said: "We will march slowly back until we meet the troops, as I think the General will soon be here, for he will start immediately upon receiving my note." "This will not do," said Lieutenant Ward, "the whole Indian village will now know that soldiers are near by. "Lieutenant, give me that note, and I will take it to the General," said I. I made the acquaintance of Major Frank North,[B] and I found him, and his officers, perfect gentlemen, and we were all good friends from the very start. The Pawnee scouts had made quite a reputation for themselves as they had performed brave and valuable services, in fighting against the Sioux, whose bitter enemies they were; being thoroughly acquainted with the Republican and Beaver country, I was glad that they were to be with the expedition, and they did good service. [Footnote B: Major North is now my partner in a cattle ranch in Nebraska.] After the chase was over I rode up to Major North and inquired about the buckskin horse. "What chance is there to trade for him?" I asked. "It is a government horse," said he, "and the Indian who is riding him is very much attached to the animal." "I have fallen in love with the horse myself," said I, "and I would like to know if you have any objections to my trading for him if I can arrange it satisfactorily with the Indian?" He said: "None whatever, and I will help you to do it; you can give the Indian another horse in his place." "General, those are our men who are coming, and they have had a fight. That is the way they act when they come back from a battle and have taken any scalps." By this manoeuver we had avoided discovery by the Sioux scouts, and we were confident of giving them a complete surprise. Keeping the command wholly out of sight, until we were within a mile of the Indians, the General halted the advance guard until all closed up, and then issued an order, that, when he sounded the charge, the whole command was to rush into the village. [Illustration: INDIAN VILLAGE.] I noticed that the Indian, as he rode around the skirmish line, passed the head of a ravine not far distant, and it occurred to me that if I could dismount and creep to the ravine I could, as he passed there, easily drop him from his saddle without danger of hitting the horse. Accordingly I crept into and secreted myself in the ravine, reaching the place unseen by the Indians, and I waited there until Mr. Chief came riding by. [Illustration: THE KILLING OF TALL BULL.] The wounded white woman was cared for in the hospital at this post, and after her recovery she soon married the hospital steward, her former husband having been killed by the Indians. Our prisoners were sent to the Whetstone Agency, on the Missouri River, where Spotted Tail and the friendly Sioux were then living. The captured horses and mules were distributed among the officers, scouts and soldiers. Among the animals that I thus obtained were my Tall Bull horse, and a pony which I called "Powder Face," and which afterwards became quite celebrated, as he figured prominently in the stories of Ned Buntline. "By the way, Cody, we are going to have quite an important character with us as a guest on this scout. It's old Ned Buntline, the novelist." "He has a good mark to shoot at on the left breast," said I to Major Brown, "but he looks like a soldier." As he came up, Major Brown said: "Cody, allow me to introduce you to Colonel E.B.O. Judson, otherwise known as Ned Buntline." "Colonel Judson, I am glad to meet you," said I; "the Major tells me that you are to accompany us on the scout." "Yes, my boy, so I am," said he; "I was to deliver a temperance lecture to-night, but no lectures for me when there is a prospect for a fight. The Major has kindly offered me a horse, but I don't know how I'll stand the ride, for I haven't done any riding lately; but when I was a young man I spent several years among the fur companies of the Northwest, and was a good rider and an excellent shot." "The Major has given you a fine horse, and you'll soon find yourself at home in the saddle," said I. During this short scout, Buntline had asked me a great many questions, and he was determined to go out on the next expedition with me, providing he could obtain permission from the commanding officer. I introduced him to the officers--excepting those he already knew--and invited him to become my guest while he remained at the post, and gave him my pony Powder Face to ride. As we had no wagons with us at the time this large and heavy bone was found, we were obliged to leave it. ADMINISTERING JUSTICE. [Footnote C: Since traveled with me in my Dramatic Combination as interpreter for Sioux Indians.] We started out from the post with the regimental band playing the lively air of "The Girl I Left Behind Me." We made but a short march that day, and camped at night at the head of Fox Creek. Next morning General Duncan sent me word by his orderly that I was to bring up my gun and shoot at a mark with him; but I can assure the reader that I did not feel much like shooting anything except myself, for on the night before, I had returned to Fort McPherson and spent several hours in interviewing the sutler's store, in Company with Major Brown. I looked around for my gun, and found that I had left it behind. The last I could remember about it was that I had it at the sutler's store. I informed Major Brown of my loss, who said that I was a nice scout to start out without a gun. I replied that that was not the worst of it, as General Duncan had sent for me to shoot a match with him, and I did not know what to do; for if the old gentleman discovered my predicament, he would very likely severely reprimand me. "Well, Cody," said he, "the best you can do is to make some excuse, and then go and borrow a gun from some of the men, and tell the General that you lent yours to some man to go hunting with to-day. While we are waiting here, I will send back to the post and get your rifle for you." I succeeded in obtaining a gun from John Nelson, and then marching up to the General's headquarters I shot the desired match with him, which resulted in his favor. This system was really so ridiculous and amusing that the General had to give it up, and the order was accordingly countermanded. [Footnote D: Near the lonely camp where I had so long been laid up with a broken leg, when trapping years before with Dave Harrington.] During my absence, my wife had given birth to a son, and he was several weeks old when I returned. No name had yet been given him and I selected that of Elmo Judson, in honor of Ned Buntline; but this the officers and scouts objected to. Major Brown proposed that we should call him Kit Carson, and it was finally settled that that should be his name. "General, you compliment me rather too highly, for I don't know any more about law than a government mule does about book-keeping," said I. "That doesn't make any difference," said he, "for I know that you will make a good 'Squire." He accordingly had the county commissioners appoint me to the office of justice of the peace, and I soon received my commission. "Where is the fellow who has got your horse?" I saddled up my horse, and then taking my old reliable gun, "Lucretia," I said to the man: "That's the best writ of replevin that I can think of; come along, and we'll get that horse, or know the reason why." We soon overtook the stranger who was driving a herd of horses, and as we came up to him, I said: "Hello, sir; I am an officer, and have an attachment for that horse," and at the same time I pointed out the animal. "Well, sir, what are you going to do about it?" he inquired. "I propose to take you and the horse back to the post," said I. "You can take the horse," said he, "but I haven't the time to return with you." "You'll have to take the time, or pay the costs here and now," said I. "How much are the costs?" "Here's your money," said he, as he handed me the greenbacks. "Do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife, to support and love her through life?" "I do," was the reply. Then addressing myself to the bride, I said, "Do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband through life, to love, honor and obey him?" [Illustration: A WEDDING CEREMONY.] "I do," was her response. "Then join hands," said I to both of them; "I now pronounce you to be man and wife, and whomsoever God and Buffalo Bill have joined together let no man put asunder. May you live long and prosper. Amen." This concluded the interesting ceremony, which was followed by the usual festivities on such occasions. I was highly complimented for the elegant and eloquent manner in which I had tied the matrimonial knot. [Illustration: A RIDE FOR LIFE.] However, I had the opportunity to make the acquaintance of the eminent Professor, whom I found to be not only a well-posted person but a very entertaining gentleman. He gave me a geological history of the country; told me in what section fossils were to be found; and otherwise entertained me with several scientific yarns, some of which seemed too complicated and too mysterious to be believed by an ordinary man like myself; but it was all clear to him. I rode out with him several miles, as he was starting on his bone-hunting expedition, and I greatly enjoyed the ride. His party had been provided with Government transportation and his students were all mounted on Government horses. As we rode along he delivered a scientific lecture, and he convinced me that he knew what he was talking about. I finally bade him good-bye, and returned to the post. While the fossil-hunters were out on their expedition, we had several lively little skirmishes with the Indians. After having been absent some little time Professor Marsh and his party came back with their wagons loaded down with all kinds of bones, and the Professor was in his glory. He had evidently struck a bone-yard, and "gad!"[E] wasn't he happy! But they had failed to find the big bone which the Pawnees had unearthed the year before. [Footnote E: A favorite expression of the Professor's.] During the afternoon and evening the gentlemen were all entertained at the post in a variety of ways, including dinner and supper parties, and music and dancing; at a late hour they retired to rest in their tents at the camp which they occupied outside the post--named Camp Rucker in honor of General Rucker. The hunt being over, the column moved forward on its march passing through a prairie-dog town, several miles in extent. These animals are found throughout the plains, living together in a sort of society; their numberless burrows in their "towns" adjoin each other, so that great care is necessary in riding through these places, as the ground is so undermined as often to fall in under the weight of a horse. Around the entrance to their holes the ground is piled up almost a foot high; on these little elevations the prairie-dogs sit upon their hind legs, chattering to each other and observing whatever passes on the plains. They will permit a person to approach quite near, but when they have viewed him closely, they dive into their dens with wonderful quickness. They are difficult to kill, and if hit, generally succeed in crawling underground before they can be captured. Rattlesnakes and small owls are generally found in great numbers in the prairie-dog towns, and live in the same holes with the dogs on friendly terms. A few of the prairie-dogs were killed, and were found to be very palatable eating. [Illustration: PRAIRIE-DOG VILLAGE.] Lawrence Jerome persuaded me to let him ride Buckskin Joe, the best buffalo horse in the whole outfit, and on his back he did wonders among the buffaloes. Leonard Jerome, Bennett and Rogers also were very successful in buffalo hunting. Our camp of this night was named Camp Asch to commemorate our surgeon, Dr. Asch. The evening was pleasantly spent around the camp fires in relating the adventures of the day. The next day was spent in hunting jack-rabbits, coyotes, elks, antelopes and wild turkeys. We had a splendid dinner as will be seen from the following: FISH. Cisco broiled, fried Dace. ENTREES. Salmi of Prairie Dog, Stewed Rabbit, Fillet of Buffalo, Aux Champignons. ROAST. Elk, Antelope, Black-tailed Deer, Wild Turkey. BROILED. Teal, Mallard, Antelope Chops, Buffalo-Calf Steaks, Young Wild Turkey. VEGETABLES. Sweet Potatoes, Mashed Potatoes, Green Peas. DESSERT. Tapioca Pudding. WINES. Champagne Frappe, Champagne au Naturel, Claret, Whiskey, Brandy, Bass' Ale. This I considered a pretty square meal for a party of hunters, and everybody did ample justice to it. The accused made a feeble defense as to the pistol, and claimed that instead of losing a government horse, the fact was that the horse had lost him. His statements were all regarded as "too thin," and finally failing to prove good character, he confessed all, and threw himself upon the mercy of the court. The culprit was Lawrence Jerome. As chief justice I delivered the opinion of the court, which my modesty does not prevent me from saying, was done in an able and dignified manner; as an act of clemency I suspended judgment for the time being, remarking that while the camp fire held out to burn, the vilest sinner might return; and in hope of the accused's amendment, I would defer pronouncing sentence. The trial afforded its considerable amusement, and gave me a splendid opportunity to display the legal knowledge which I had acquired while acting as justice of the peace at Fort McPherson. In the evening we gathered around the camp-fire for the last time. The duty of naming the camp, which was called Camp Davies, having been duly performed, we all united in making that night the pleasantest of all that we had spent together. We had eloquent speeches, songs, and interesting anecdotes. I was called upon, and entertained the gentlemen with some lively Indian stories. "McCarthy, shall we dismount and fight, or run?" said I. [Illustration: MCCARTHY'S FRIGHT.] [Illustration: FINDING THE REMAINS OF THE BUCK PARTY.] HUNTING WITH A GRAND DUKE. [Illustration: SPOTTED TAIL.] Next morning the chiefs and warriors assembled according to orders, and to them was stated the object of my visit. They were asked: "Do you know who this man is?" "That is he," said Spotted Tail. "I want all my people to be kind to him and treat him as my friend." [Illustration: GRAND DUKE ALEXIS.] [Illustration: INDIAN EXERCISES.] General Sheridan directed me to take care of the hides and heads of the buffaloes which Alexis had killed, as the Duke wished to keep them as souvenirs of the hunt. I also cut out the choice meat from the cow and brought it into camp, and that night at supper Alexis had the pleasure of dining on broiled buffalo steak obtained from the animal which he had shot himself. General Sheridan informed the Duke that I also had been a stage-driver in the Rocky Mountains, and thereupon His Royal Highness expressed a desire to see me drive. I was in advance at the time, and General Sheridan sang out to me: "Cody, get in here and show the Duke how you can drive. Mr. Reed will exchange places with you and ride your horse." On arriving at the railroad, the Duke invited me into his car, and made me some valuable presents, at the same time giving me a cordial invitation to visit him, if ever I should come to his country. General Sheridan took occasion to remind me of an invitation to visit New York which I had received from some of the gentlemen who accompanied the General on the hunt from Fort McPherson to Hays City, in September of the previous year. Said he: "You will never have a better opportunity to accept that invitation than now. I have had a talk with General Ord concerning you, and he will give you a leave of absence whenever you are ready to start. Write a letter to General Stager, of Chicago, that you are now prepared to accept the invitation, and he will send you a pass." Thanking the General for his kindness, I then bade him and the Grand Duke good-bye, and soon their train was out of sight. [Illustration: AN EMBARRASSING SITUATION] "Never mind, gentlemen, I'll give Cody a dinner at my house." "Thank you, sir," said I; "I see you are determined that I shall not run short of rations while I am in the city. I'll be there, sure." Both Mr. Jerome and Mr. Hecksher told me that I must not disappoint Mr. Belmont, for his dinners were splendid affairs. I made a note of the date, and at the appointed time I was promptly at Mr. Belmont's mansion, where I spent a very enjoyable evening. Mr. Bennett, who was among the guests, having forgiven my carelessness, invited me to accompany him to the Liederkranz masked ball, which was to take place in a few evenings, and would be a grand spectacle. Together we attended the ball, and during the evening I was well entertained. The dancers kept on their masks until midnight, and the merry and motley throng presented a brilliant scene, moving gracefully beneath the bright gas-light to the inspiriting music. To me it was a novel and entertaining sight, and in many respects reminded me greatly of an Indian war-dance. Acting upon the suggestion of Mr. Bennett, I had dressed myself in my buckskin suit, and I naturally attracted considerable attention; especially when I took part in the dancing and exhibited some of my backwoods steps, which, although not as graceful as some, were a great deal more emphatic. But when I undertook to do artistic dancing, I found I was decidedly out of place in that crowd, and I accordingly withdrew from the floor. I occasionally passed an evening at Niblo's Garden, viewing the many beauties of "The Black Crook," which was then having its long run, under the management of Jarrett & Palmer, whose acquaintance I had made, and who extended to me the freedom of the theater. At Westchester, Pennsylvania, I had some relatives living whom I had never seen, and now being so near, I determined to make them a visit. Upon mentioning the matter to Buntline, he suggested that we should together take a trip to Philadelphia, and thence run out to Westchester. Accordingly the next day found us in the "City of Brotherly Love," and in a few hours we arrived at the home of my uncle, General Henry R. Guss, the proprietor of the Green Tree Hotel, who gave us a cordial reception. The time soon arrived for my departure for the West; so packing up my traps I started for home, and on the way thither I spent a day with my Westchester relatives, who did everything in their power to entertain me during my brief stay with them. By this time the soldiers had crossed the creek to assist me, and were blazing away at the other Indians. Urging Buckskin Joe forward, I was soon alongside of the chap who had wounded me, when raising myself in the stirrups I shot him through the head. [Illustration: TEXAS JACK] "Milligan, here's what you've been wanting for some time," said I, "for yonder is a war party of Indians and no mistake; and they'll come for us, you bet." "Cody, what's making my hat raise up so. I can hardly keep it on my head." Sample, who was as cool as a cucumber, said to Milligan: "There must be something wrong with your hair. It must be trying to get on end." "It's all very fine for you fellows to stand here and talk," replied Milligan, "but I am not doing justice to my family by remaining. Sample, I think we are a couple of old fools to have come out here, and I never would have done so if it had not been for you." While we were riding along with the company Milligan said to Sample: "Now, Alick, let them come on. We may yet go back to Chicago covered with glory." We struck the trail going north, but as we had not come out on a scout for Indians, we concluded not to follow them; although Milligan was now very anxious to proceed and clean them out. Soon after this I had the pleasure of guiding a party of gentlemen from Omaha on a buffalo hunt. Among the number were Judge Dundy, Colonel Watson B. Smith, and U.S. District Attorney Neville. We left Fort McPherson in good trim. I was greatly amused at the "style" of Mr. Neville, who wore a stove-pipe hat and a swallow-tail coat, which made up a very comical rig for a buffalo hunter. As we galloped over the prairie, he jammed his hat down over his ears to keep it from being shaken off his head, and in order to stick to his horse, he clung to the pommel of his saddle. He was not much of a rider, and he went bouncing up and down, with his swallow-tails flopping in the air. The sight I shall never forget, for it was enough to make a "horse laugh," and I actually believe old Buckskin Joe did laugh. A few days after my election to the legislature a happy event occurred in my family circle, in the birth of a daughter whom we named Ora; about the same time I received another letter from Buntline, in which he requested me to appear on the stage for a few months as an experiment; and he said that if I made a failure or did not like the business, I could easily return to my old life. "Boys, are you ready for business?" "I can't answer that," replied I, "for we don't know what we are going to do." "It's all arranged," said he, "and you'll have no trouble whatever. Come with me. We'll go and see Nixon, manager of the Amphitheatre. That's the place where we are to play. We'll open there next Monday night." Jack and myself accordingly accompanied him to manager Nixon's office without saying a word, as we didn't know what to say. "Here we are, Mr. Nixon," said Buntline; "here are the stars for you. Here are the boys; and they are a fine pair to draw too. Now, Nixon, I am prepared for business." "I am ready for you, Buntline. Have you got your company yet?" asked Nixon. "You haven't much time to spare, if you open on Monday night," said Nixon. "If you will allow me to look at your drama, to see what kind of people you want, I'll assist you in organizing your company." "I have not yet written the drama," said Buntline. This little speech was delivered in rather an excited manner by Mr. Nixon. Buntline said that he would write the drama that day and also select his company and have them at the theater for rehearsal next morning. Nixon laughed at him, and said that there was no use of trying to undertake anything of the kind in so short a time--it was utterly impossible to do it. Buntline, whose ire was rising, said to Nixon: "What rent will you ask for your theater for next week?" Nixon took the money, gave a receipt for it, and had nothing more to say. "Hurrah for 'The Scouts of the Plains!' That's the name of the play. The work is done. Hurrah!" The parts were then all copied off separately by the clerks, and handing us our respective portions Buntline said: [Illustration: STUDYING THE PARTS.] I looked at my part and then at Jack; and Jack looked at his part and then at me. Then we looked at each other, and then at Buntline. We did not know what to make of the man. "How long will it take you to commit your part to memory, Bill?" asked Jack. "This is dry business," finally remarked Jack. "Boys, how are you getting along?" "I guess we'll have to go back on this studying business as it isn't our _forte_" said I. "Don't weaken now, Bill; you'll come out on the top of the heap yet. Let me hear you recite your part," said Buntline. I began "spouting" what I had learned, but was interrupted by Buntline: "Tut! tut! you're not saying it right. You must stop at the cue." "Jack, I think we had better back out and go to hunting again," said I. "See here, boys; it won't do to go back on me at this stage of the game. Stick to it, and it may be the turning point in your lives and lead you on to fortune and to fame." When, at length the curtain arose, our courage had returned, so that we thought we could face the immense crowd; yet when the time came for us to go on, we were rather slow in making our appearance. As we stepped forth we were received with a storm of applause, which we acknowledged with a bow. [Illustration: BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS.] Buntline, who was taking the part of "Cale Durg," appeared, and gave me the "cue" to speak "my little piece," but for the life of me I could not remember a single word. Buntline saw I was "stuck," and a happy thought occurred to him. He said--as if it were in the play: "Where have you been, Bill? What has kept you so long?" "I have been out on a hunt with Milligan." This proved to be a big hit. The audience cheered and applauded; which gave me greater confidence in my ability to get through the performance all right. Buntline, who is a very versatile man, saw that it would be a good plan to follow this up, and he said: "Well, Bill, tell us all about the hunt." Our engagement proved a decided success financially, if not artistically. Nixon was greatly surprised at the result, and at the end of the week he induced Buntline to take him in as a partner in the company. Wild Bill accepted our offer, and came on to New York; though he told us from the start that we could never make an actor out of him. Although he had a fine stage appearance and was a handsome fellow, and possessed a good strong voice, yet when he went upon the stage before an audience, it was almost impossible for him to utter a word. He insisted that we were making a set of fools of ourselves, and that we were the laughing-stock of the people. I replied that I did not care for that, as long as they came and bought tickets to see us. My company, known as the "Buffalo Bill Combination," did a fine business, all through the East. Wild Bill continued his pranks, which caused us considerable annoyance, but at the same time greatly amused us. "Hello, Buffalo Bill! we have been looking for you all day." "My name is not Buffalo Bill; you are mistaken in the man," was the reply. "You are a liar!" said the bruiser. "Well!" said he, "I have been interviewing that party who wanted to clean us out." "I thought you promised to come into the Opera House by the private entrance?" "I did try to follow that trail, but I got lost among the canons, and then I ran in among the hostiles," said he; "but it is all right now. They won't bother us any more. I guess those fellows have found us." And sure enough they had. We heard no more of them after that. [Illustration: LEARNING THE GAME.] "That long-haired gentleman, who passed out a few minutes ago, requested me to tell you that you could go to thunder with your old show." Bill went to New York the next day, intending to start west from there. Several days afterwards I learned that he had lost all his money in New York by playing faro; also that a theatrical manager had engaged him to play. A company was organized and started out, but as a "star" Wild Bill was not a success; the further he went the poorer he got. This didn't suit Bill by any means, and he accordingly retired from the stage. The company, however, kept on the road, using Bill's name, and employing an actor to represent him not only on the stage but on the street and elsewhere. Bill heard of this deception and sent word to the manager to stop it, but no attention was paid to his message. [Illustration: GETTING SATISFACTION.] Wild Bill retired from the stage in good order, resumed his seat, and told them to go on with their show. A policeman now appearing, Bill was pointed out as the disturber of the peace; the officer tapping him on the shoulder, said: "I'll have to arrest you, sir." "How many of you are there?" asked Bill. "Only myself," said the policeman. "You had better get some help," said Bill. The officer then called up another policeman, and Bill again asked: "How many of you are there now?" "Then I advise you to go out and get some more reinforcements," said Bill, very coolly. The policemen thereupon spoke to the sheriff, who was dressed in citizen's clothes. The sheriff came up and said he would have to take him into custody. "Well you needn't make any more such bets, as I will not go above my limit," replied Boulder. "I am running this game, and I want no talk from you, sir," said Boulder. "Look out boys--that's Wild Bill you've run against." Poor Bill was afterwards killed at Deadwood, in the Black Hills, in a cowardly manner, by a desperado who sneaked up behind him while he was playing a game of cards in a saloon, and shot him through the back of the head, without the least provocation. The murderer, Jack McCall, was tried and hung at Yankton, Dakotah, for the crime. Thus ended the career of a life-long friend of mine who, in spite of his many faults, was a noble man, ever brave and generous hearted. When we reached the hunting ground in Nebraska, he informed me, somewhat to my surprise, that he did not want to go out as Alexis did, with carriages, servants, and other luxuries, but that he wished to rough it just as I would do--to sleep on the ground in the open air, and kill and cook his own meat. We started out from North Platte, and spent several weeks in hunting all over the county. Dr. W. F. Carver, who then resided at North Platte, and who has recently acquired considerable notoriety as a rifle-shot, hunted with us for a few days. Mr. Medley proved to be a very agreeable gentleman and an excellent hunter. While in camp he busied himself in carrying wood and water, attending to the fire, and preparing and cooking the meals, never asking me to do a thing. He did not do this to save expenses, but because he wanted to do as the other hunters in the party were doing. After spending as much time as he wished, we returned to the railroad, and he took the train for the East. Everything that was required on this hunt was paid for in the most liberal manner by Mr. Medley, who also gave the members of the party several handsome presents. I RETURN TO THE PLAINS. The next morning the command pulled out for Fort Laramie, and on reaching that post we found General Sheridan there, accompanied by General Frye and General Forsyth, _en route_ to Red Cloud agency. As the command was to remain here a few days, I accompanied General Sheridan to Red Cloud and back, taking a company of cavalry as escort. "All right, Cody," said the General, "if you can do that, go ahead." "Go in now, Cody, and be quick about it. They are going to charge on the couriers." "I know you, Pa-he-haska; if you want to fight, come ahead and fight me." [Illustration: A DUEL WITH CHIEF YELLOW HAND.] At this point we were overtaken by Jack Crawford, familiarly known as "Captain Jack, the Poet Scout of the Black Hills," and right here I will insert the following lines, written by him, just after the "Custer Massacre," upon receiving from me the following dispatch: "Jack, old boy, have you heard of the death of Custer?" Did I hear the news from Custer? Well, I reckon I did, old pard; It came like a streak of lightnin', And, you bet, it hit me hard. I ain't no hand to blubber, And the briny ain't run for years; But chalk me down for a lubber, If I didn't shed regular tears. He always thought well of you, pard, And had it been heaven's will, In a few more days you'd met him, And he'd welcome his old scout Bill. For if ye remember at Hat Creek, I met ye with General Carr; We talked of the brave young Custer, And recounted his deeds of war. I served with him in the army, In the darkest days of the war: And I reckon ye know his record, For he was our guiding star; And the boys who gathered round him To charge in the early morn, War just like the brave who perished With him on the Little Horn. And where is the satisfaction, And how will the boys get square? By giving the reds more rifles? Invite them to take more hair? We want no scouts, no trappers, Nor men who know the frontier; Phil, old boy, you're mistaken, _We must have the volunteer_. They talk of peace with these demons By feeding and clothing them well: I'd as soon think an angel from Heaven Would reign with contentment in H--l And I will be with you, friend Cody, My weight will go in with the boys; I shared all their hardships last winter, I shared all their sorrows and joys; Tell them I'm coming, friend William, I trust I will meet you ere long; Regards to the boys in the mountains; Yours, ever; in friendship still strong. While we were conversing, Jack informed me that he had brought me a present from Colonel Jones of Cheyenne, and that he had it in his saddle-pockets. Asking the nature of the gift, he replied that it was only a bottle of good whiskey. I placed my hand over his mouth and told him to keep still, and not to whisper it even to the winds, for there were too many dry men around us; and only when alone with him did I dare to have him take the treasure from his saddle-pockets. But shortly afterwards my attention was attracted by the appearance of a body of soldiers, who were forming into a skirmish line, and then I became convinced that it was General Terry's command after all, and that the red-skins whom I had seen were some of his friendly Indian scouts, who had mistaken me for a Sioux, and fled back to their command terribly excited, shouting, "The Sioux are coming!" While Richard and myself were at our stations on the pilot house, the steamer with a full head of steam went flying past islands, around bends, over sand bars, at a rate that was exhilarating. Presently I thought I could see horses grazing in a distant bend of the river and I reported the fact to General Mills, who asked Captain Marsh if he could land the boat near a large tree which he pointed out to him. [Illustration: SCOUTING ON A STEAMBOAT.] "Yes, sir; I can land her there, and make her climb the tree if necessary," said he. It was a false alarm, however, as the objects we had seen proved to be Indian graves. Quite a large number of braves who had probably been killed in some battle, had been buried on scaffolds, according to the Indian custom, and some of their clothing had been torn loose from the bodies by the wolves and was waving in the air. There being but little prospect of any more fighting, I determined to go East as soon as possible to organize a new "Dramatic Combination," and have a new drama written for me, based upon the Sioux war. This I knew would be a paying investment as the Sioux campaign had excited considerable interest. So I started down the river on the steamer Yellowstone _en route_ to Fort Beauford. On the same morning Generals Terry and Crook pulled out for Powder river, to take up the old Indian trail which we had recently left. General Whistler, upon learning that General Terry had left the Yellowstone, asked me to carry to him some important dispatches from General Sheridan, and although I objected, he insisted upon my performing this duty, saying that it would only detain me a few hours longer; as an extra inducement he offered me the use of his own thorough-bred horse, which was on the boat. I finally consented to go, and was soon speeding over the rough and hilly country towards Powder river; and I delivered the dispatches to General Terry that same evening. General Whistler's horse, although a good animal, was not used to such hard riding, and was far more exhausted by the journey than I was. General Terry, after reading the dispatches, halted his command, and then rode on and overtook General Crook, with whom he held a council; the result was that Crook's command moved on in the direction which they had been pursuing, while Terry's forces marched back to the Yellowstone and crossed the river on steamboats. At the urgent request of General Terry I accompanied the command on a scout in the direction of the Dry Fork of the Missouri, where it was expected we would strike some Indians. [Illustration: CLOSE QUARTERS] I accordingly unsaddled my animal, and ate a hearty breakfast of bacon and hard tack which I had stored in the saddle-pockets; then, after taking a smoke, I lay down to sleep, with my saddle for a pillow. In a few minutes I was in the land of dreams. I waited till nightfall before resuming my journey, and then I bore off to the east for several miles, and by making a semi-circle to avoid the Indians, I got back on my original course, and then pushed on rapidly to Colonel Rice's camp, which I reached just at daylight. On arriving at Glendive I bade good-bye to the General and his officers and took passage on the steamer Far West, which was on her way down the Missouri. At Bismarck I left the steamer, and proceeded by rail to Rochester, New York, where I met my family. Mr. J. Clinton Hall, manager of the Rochester Opera House, was very anxious to have me play an engagement at his theatre. I agreed to open the season with him as soon as I had got my drama written; and I did so, meeting with an enthusiastic reception. On my way East, I met my family at Denver, where they were visiting my sisters Nellie and May who were then residing there. After my arrival at North Platte, I found that the ranchmen or cattle-men, had organized a regular annual "round-up," to take place in the spring of the year. In this cattle driving business is exhibited some most magnificent horsemanship, for the "cow-boys," as they are called, are invariably skillful and fearless horsemen--in fact only a most expert rider could be a cow-boy, as it requires the greatest dexterity and daring in the saddle to cut a wild steer out of the herd. Major North was awaiting me, upon my arrival at North Platte, having with him our own horses and men. Other cattle owners, such as Keith and Barton, Coe and Carter, Jack Pratt, the Walker Brothers, Guy and Sim Lang, Arnold and Ritchie and a great many others with their outfits, were assembled and were ready to start on the round-up. My old friend Dave Perry, who had presented Buckskin Joe to me, and who resided at North Platte, was most anxious to go with us for pleasure, and Frank North told him he could, and have plenty of fun, provided he would furnish his own horses, provisions and bedding, and do the usual work required of a cow-boy. This, Dave was willing to undertake. We found him to be a good fellow in camp, and excellent company. _En route_ to the Territory, I paid a long promised visit to my sisters, Julia--Mrs. J.A. Goodman--and Eliza--Mrs. George M. Myers--who reside in Kansas, the state which the reader will remember was my boyhood home. Having secured my Indian actors, and along with them Mr. O. A. Burgess, a government interpreter, and Ed. A. Burgess, known as the "Boy Chief of the Pawnees," I started for Baltimore, where I organized my combination, and which was the largest troupe I had yet had on the road; opening in that city at the Opera House, under the management of Hon. John T. Ford, and then started on a southern tour, playing in Washington, Richmond and as far south as Savannah, Georgia, where we were brought to a sudden halt, owing to the yellow fever which was then cruelly raging in the beautiful cities of the "Land of the cotton and the cane." I told the Commissioner that the Indians were frequently off of their reservations out west, as I had a distinct remembrance of meeting them upon several occasions "on the war path," and furthermore I thought I was benefitting the Indians as well as the government, by taking them all over the United States, and giving them a correct idea of the customs, life, etc., of the pale faces, so that when they returned to their people they could make known all they had seen. After a conversation with the Secretary of the Interior, the Commissioner concluded to allow me to retain the Indians, by appointing me Indian Agent, provided I would give the necessary bonds, and pledge myself to return them in safety to their agency--which terms I agreed to. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Life of Hon. William F. Cody by William F. Cody	redpajama-book	28,236
Produced by Clytie Siddall, Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS In addition to the new poetical matter included in this volume, attention should, also, be solicited on behalf of the notes, which will be found to contain much matter, interesting both from biographical and bibliographical points of view. SCENES FROM "POLITIAN" Note DOUBTFUL POEMS: Alone To Isadore The Village Street The Forest Reverie Notes PROSE POEMS: The Island of the Fay The Power of Words The Colloquy of Monos and Una The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion Shadow--A Parable Silence--A Fable ESSAYS: The Poetic Principle The Philosophy of Composition Old English Poetry MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Under the Rev. Dr. Bransby, the future poet spent a lustrum of his life neither unprofitably nor, apparently, ungenially. Dr. Bransby, who is himself so quaintly portrayed in Poe's tale of 'William Wilson', described "Edgar Allan," by which name only he knew the lad, as "a quick and clever boy," who "would have been a very good boy had he not been spoilt by his parents," meaning, of course, the Allans. They "allowed him an extravagant amount of pocket-money, which enabled him to get into all manner of mischief. Still I liked the boy," added the tutor, "but, poor fellow, his parents spoiled him." Poe has described some aspects of his school days in his oft cited story of 'William Wilson'. Probably there is the usual amount of poetic exaggeration in these reminiscences, but they are almost the only record we have of that portion of his career and, therefore, apart from their literary merits, are on that account deeply interesting. The description of the sleepy old London suburb, as it was in those days, is remarkably accurate, but the revisions which the story of 'William Wilson' went through before it reached its present perfect state caused many of the author's details to deviate widely from their original correctness. His schoolhouse in the earliest draft was truthfully described as an "old, irregular, and cottage-built" dwelling, and so it remained until its destruction a few years ago. The 'soi-disant' William Wilson, referring to those bygone happy days spent in the English academy, says, "In the simple school athletics of those days, when a gymnasium had not been heard of, he was 'facile princeps'," is the reminiscence of his fellow pupil, Colonel T. L. Preston. Poe he remembers as "a swift runner, a wonderful leaper, and, what was more rare, a boxer, with some slight training He would allow the strongest boy in the school to strike him with full force in the chest. He taught me the secret, and I imitated him, after my measure. It was to inflate the lungs to the uttermost, and at the moment of receiving the blow to exhale the air. It looked surprising, and was, indeed, a little rough; but with a good breast-bone, and some resolution, it was not difficult to stand it. For swimming he was noted, being in many of his athletic proclivities surprisingly like Byron in his youth." _'Jam satis terris nivis atque dirce Grandinis misit Pater, et rubente,'_ _'Non ebur neque aureum Mea renidet in dono lacu ar,_' etc. The poet is generally remembered at this part of his career to have been slight in figure and person, but to have been well made, active, sinewy, and graceful. Despite the fact that he was thus noted among his schoolfellows and indulged at home, he does not appear to have been in sympathy with his surroundings. Already dowered with the "hate of hate, the scorn of scorn," he appears to have made foes both among those who envied him and those whom, in the pride of intellectuality, he treated with pugnacious contempt. Beneath the haughty exterior, however, was a warm and passionate heart, which only needed circumstance to call forth an almost fanatical intensity of affection. A well-authenticated instance of this is thus related by Mrs. Whitman: When Edgar was unhappy at home, which, says his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, "was very often the case, he went to Mrs. Stannard for sympathy, for consolation, and for advice." Unfortunately, the sad fortune which so frequently thwarted his hopes ended this friendship. The lady was overwhelmed by a terrible calamity, and at the period when her guiding voice was most requisite, she fell a prey to mental alienation. She died, and was entombed in a neighboring cemetery, but her poor boyish admirer could not endure to think of her lying lonely and forsaken in her vaulted home, so he would leave the house at night and visit her tomb. When the nights were drear, "when the autumnal rains fell, and the winds wailed mournfully over the graves, he lingered longest, and came away most regretfully." These statements of Poe's classmate are confirmed by Dr. Harrison, chairman of the Faculty, who remarks that the poet was a great favorite with his fellow-students, and was noted for the remarkable rapidity with which he prepared his recitations and for their accuracy, his translations from the modern languages being especially noteworthy. Mr. Wertenbaker, in his interesting reminiscences of the poet, says: This appears to have been Poe's last night at the university. He left it never to return, yet, short as was his sojourn there, he left behind him such honorable memories that his 'alma mater' is now only too proud to enrol his name among her most respected sons. Poe's adopted father, however, did not regard his 'protege's' collegiate career with equal pleasure: whatever view he may have entertained of the lad's scholastic successes, he resolutely refused to discharge the gambling debts which, like too many of his classmates, he had incurred. A violent altercation took place between Mr. Allan and the youth, and Poe hastily quitted the shelter of home to try and make his way in the world alone. Again the young man turned to poetry, not only as a solace but as a means of earning a livelihood. Again he printed a little volume of poems, which included his longest piece, "Al Aaraaf," and several others now deemed classic. The book was a great advance upon his previous collection, but failed to obtain any amount of public praise or personal profit for its author. Feeling the difficulty of living by literature at the same time that he saw he might have to rely largely upon his own exertions for a livelihood, Poe expressed a wish to enter the army. After no little difficulty a cadetship was obtained for him at the West Point Military Academy, a military school in many respects equal to the best in Europe for the education of officers for the army. At the time Poe entered the Academy it possessed anything but an attractive character, the discipline having been of the most severe character, and the accommodation in many respects unsuitable for growing lads. The outcome of this exhaustive and unprofitable labor was the fascinating story of "The Gold Bug," a story in which the discovery of hidden treasure is brought about by the unriddling of an intricate cipher. The poet at this period was residing in a small but elegant little home, superintended by his ever-faithful guardian, his wife's mother--his own aunt, Mrs. Clemm, the lady whom he so gratefully addressed in after years in the well-known sonnet, as "more than mother unto me." But a change came o'er the spirit of his dream! His severance from 'Graham's', owing to we know not what causes, took place, and his fragile schemes of happiness faded as fast as the sunset. His means melted away, and he became unfitted by mental trouble and ill-health to earn more. The terrible straits to which he and his unfortunate beloved ones were reduced may be comprehended after perusal of these words from Mr. A. B. Harris's reminiscences. Referring to the poet's residence in Spring Gardens, Philadelphia, this writer says: Is it to be wondered at, should it not indeed be forgiven him, if, impelled by the anxieties and privations at home, the unfortunate poet, driven to the brink of madness, plunged still deeper into the Slough of Despond? Unable to provide for the pressing necessities of his beloved wife, the distracted man "would steal out of the house at night, and go off and wander about the street for hours, proud, heartsick, despairing, not knowing which way to turn, or what to do, while Mrs. Clemm would endure the anxiety at home as long as she could, and then start off in search of him." A few weeks before Poe relinquished his laborious and ill-paid work on the 'Evening Mirror', his marvellous poem of "The Raven" was published. The effect was magical. Never before, nor, indeed, ever since, has a single short poem produced such a great and immediate enthusiasm. It did more to render its author famous than all his other writings put together. It made him the literary lion of the season; called into existence innumerable parodies; was translated into various languages, and, indeed, created quite a literature of its own. Poe was naturally delighted with the success his poem had attained, and from time to time read it in his musical manner in public halls or at literary receptions. Nevertheless he affected to regard it as a work of art only, and wrote his essay entitled the "Philosophy of Composition," to prove that it was merely a mechanical production made in accordance with certain set rules. Although our poet's reputation was now well established, he found it still a difficult matter to live by his pen. Even when in good health, he wrote slowly and with fastidious care, and when his work was done had great difficulty in getting publishers to accept it. Since his death it has been proved that many months often elapsed before he could get either his most admired poems or tales published. Poe left the 'Evening Mirror' in order to take part in the 'Broadway Journal', wherein he re-issued from time to time nearly the whole of his prose and poetry. Ultimately he acquired possession of this periodical, but, having no funds to carry it on, after a few months of heartbreaking labor he had to relinquish it. Exhausted in body and mind, the unfortunate man now retreated with his dying wife and her mother to a quaint little cottage at Fordham, outside New York. Here after a time the unfortunate household was reduced to the utmost need, not even having wherewith to purchase the necessities of life. At this dire moment, some friendly hand, much to the indignation and dismay of Poe himself, made an appeal to the public on behalf of the hapless family. The story of that "fitful fever" which constituted the life of Edgar Poe leaves upon the reader's mind the conviction that he was, indeed, truly typified by that: MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT, I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND WITH THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM. These trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected while going at random the "rounds of the press." I am naturally anxious that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence: they must not--they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of mankind. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this and nothing more. Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he: not an instant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door- Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, _She_ shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee Respite--respite aad nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted--nevermore! Hear the sledges with the bells- Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In their icy air of night! While the stars, that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells- From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten golden-notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells- To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells- Brazen bells! What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now--now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells- Of the bells- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells- In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells- Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people--ah, the people- They that dwell up in the steeple. All alone, And who toiling, toiling, toiling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone- They are neither man nor woman- They are neither brute nor human- They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells- Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells- Of the bells, bells, bells- To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells- Of the bells, bells, bells- To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells- To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. The skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped and sere- The leaves they were withering and sere; It was night in the lonesome October Of my most immemorial year; It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, In the misty mid region of Weir- It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. And now as the night was senescent And star-dials pointed to morn- As the sun-dials hinted of morn- At the end of our path a liquescent And nebulous lustre was born, Out of which a miraculous crescent Arose with a duplicate horn- Astarte's bediamonded crescent Distinct with its duplicate horn. But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didst glide away. _Only thine eyes remained._ They _would not_ go--they never yet have gone. Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, _They_ have not left me (as my hopes have) since. They follow me--they lead me through the years. It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of ANNABEL LEE; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. _I_ was a child and _she_ was a child, In this kingdom by the sea: But we loved with a love that was more than love- I and my ANNABEL LEE; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful ANNABEL LEE; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we- Of many far wiser than we- And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE; And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea- In her tomb by the side of the sea. [See note after previous poem.] Thank Heaven! the crisis- The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last- And the fever called "Living" Is conquered at last. And I rest so composedly, Now in my bed, That any beholder Might fancy me dead- Might start at beholding me Thinking me dead. The sickness--the nausea- The pitiless pain- Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain- With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain. And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed- For man never slept In a different bed; And, to _sleep_, you must slumber In just such a bed. My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Regretting its roses- Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses: And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie- Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie. She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast- Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast. When the light was extinguished, She covered me warm, And she prayed to the angels To keep me from harm- To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm. And I lie so composedly, Now in my bed (Knowing her love) That you fancy me dead- And I rest so contentedly, Now in my bed, (With her love at my breast) That you fancy me dead- That you shudder to look at me. Thinking me dead. But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie- It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie- With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie. TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD. Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old- This knight so bold- And o'er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow- "Shadow," said he, "Where can it be- This land of Eldorado?" "Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride," The shade replied, "If you seek for Eldorado!" I dwelt alone In a world of moan, And my soul was a stagnant tide, Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride- Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride. Ah, less--less bright The stars of the night Than the eyes of the radiant girl! And never a flake That the vapor can make With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl- Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl. Now Doubt--now Pain Come never again, For her soul gives me sigh for sigh, And all day long Shines, bright and strong, Astarte within the sky, While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye- While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye. A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM. Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream: Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision or in none, Is it therefore the less _gone_? _All_ that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep While I weep--while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save _One_ from the pitiless wave? Is _all_ that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW). TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW). THE CITY IN THE SEA. Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers and tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. No rays from the holy Heaven come down On the long night-time of that town; But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently- Gleams up the pinnacles far and free- Up domes--up spires--up kingly halls- Up fanes--up Babylon-like walls- Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers- Up many and many a marvellous shrine Whose wreathed friezes intertwine The viol, the violet, and the vine. Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down. There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves; But not the riches there that lie In each idol's diamond eye- Not the gaily-jewelled dead Tempt the waters from their bed; For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass- No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea- No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene. Oh, lady bright! can it be right- This window open to the night! The wanton airs, from the tree-top, Laughingly through the lattice-drop- The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully--so fearfully- Above the closed and fringed lid 'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid, That, o'er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? Why and what art thou dreaming here? Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas, A wonder to these garden trees! Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress! Strange, above all, thy length of tress, And this all-solemn silentness! My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, As it is lasting, so be deep; Soft may the worms about her creep! Far in the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfold- Some vault that oft hath flung its black And winged panels fluttering back, Triumphant, o'er the crested palls, Of her grand family funerals- Some sepulchre, remote, alone, Against whose portal she hath thrown, In childhood many an idle stone- Some tomb from out whose sounding door She ne'er shall force an echo more, Thrilling to think, poor child of sin! It was the dead who groaned within. The ring is on my hand, And the wreath is on my brow; Satins and jewels grand Are all at my command. And I am happy now. But he spoke to reassure me, And he kissed my pallid brow, While a reverie came o'er me, And to the churchyard bore me, And I sighed to him before me, Thinking him dead D'Elormie, "Oh, I am happy now!" And thus the words were spoken, And thus the plighted vow, And, though my faith be broken, And, though my heart be broken, Behold the golden keys That _proves_ me happy now! In the February number of the 'American Review' the poem was published as by "Quarles," and it was introduced by the following note, evidently suggested if not written by Poe himself. _Peccavimus;_ but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong! The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride- For her, the fair and _debonnaire_, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes- The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes. Thou wast that all to me, love, For which my soul did pine- A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine, All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine. And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams- In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams! Alas! for that accursed time They bore thee o'er the billow, From love to titled age and crime, And an unholy pillow! From me, and from our misty clime, Where weeps the silver willow! Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length--at length--after so many days Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) I kneel, an altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! I feel ye now--I feel ye in your strength- O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones! But stay! these walls--these ivy-clad arcades- These mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened shafts- These vague entablatures--this crumbling frieze- These shattered cornices--this wreck--this ruin- These stones--alas! these gray stones--are they all- All of the famed, and the colossal left By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me? Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow, (This--all this--was in the olden Time long ago), And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody, While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh--but smile no more. Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly- Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo! That motley drama--oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. Out--out are the lights--out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm. By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only, Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have reached these lands but newly From an ultimate dim Thule- From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime, Out of SPACE--out of TIME. Bottomless vales and boundless floods, And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods, With forms that no man can discover For the dews that drip all over; Mountains toppling evermore Into seas without a shore; Seas that restlessly aspire, Surging, unto skies of fire; Lakes that endlessly outspread Their lone waters--lone and dead, Their still waters--still and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily. For the heart whose woes are legion 'Tis a peaceful, soothing region- For the spirit that walks in shadow 'Tis--oh, 'tis an Eldorado! But the traveller, travelling through it, May not--dare not openly view it; Never its mysteries are exposed To the weak human eye unclosed; So wills its King, who hath forbid The uplifting of the fringed lid; And thus the sad Soul that here passes Beholds it but through darkened glasses. By a route obscure and lonely, Haunted by ill angels only. Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT, On a black throne reigns upright, I have wandered home but newly From this ultimate dim Thule. _No more!_ alas, that magical sad sound Transforming all! Thy charms shall please _no more_- Thy memory _no more!_ Accursed ground Henceforward I hold thy flower-enamelled shore, O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante! "Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!" At morn--at noon--at twilight dim- Maria! thou hast heard my hymn! In joy and wo--in good and ill- Mother of God, be with me still! When the Hours flew brightly by, And not a cloud obscured the sky, My soul, lest it should truant be, Thy grace did guide to thine and thee Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast Darkly my Present and my Past, Let my future radiant shine With sweet hopes of thee and thine! SCENES FROM "POLITIAN." AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA. _Alessandra_. Thou art sad, Castiglione. _Aless_. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing Thy happiness--what ails thee, cousin of mine? Why didst thou sigh so deeply? _Cas_. Did I sigh? I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion, A silly--a most silly fashion I have When I am _very_ happy. Did I sigh? (_sighing._) _Cas. (musing_ ). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing- Not even deep sorrow- Wears it away like evil hours and wine. I will amend. _Aless_. Do it! I would have thee drop Thy riotous company, too--fellows low born Ill suit the like of old Di Broglio's heir And Alessandra's husband. _Cas_. I will drop them. _Aless_. Thou wilt--thou must. Attend thou also more To thy dress and equipage--they are over plain For thy lofty rank and fashion--much depends Upon appearances. _Cas_. I'll see to it. _Cas_. Much, much, oh, much I want In proper dignity. _Aless. (haughtily_). Thou mockest me, sir! _Cos. (abstractedly_). Sweet, gentle Lalage! _Aless_. Heard I aright? I speak to him--he speaks of Lalage? Sir Count! (_places her hand on his shoulder_) what art thou dreaming? He's not well! What ails thee, sir? _Aless_. What! Politian Of Britain, Earl of Leicester? _Di Brog_. The same, my love. We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young In years, but gray in fame. I have not seen him, But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth, And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding. _Aless_. I have heard much of this Politian. Gay, volatile and giddy--is he not, And little given to thinking? _Di Brog_. Far from it, love. No branch, they say, of all philosophy So deep abstruse he has not mastered it. Learned as few are learned. _Cas_. Ridiculous! Now _I_ have seen Politian And know him well--nor learned nor mirthful he. He is a dreamer, and shut out From common passions. _Di Brog_. Children, we disagree. Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear Politian was a _melancholy_ man? _Lalage_. Jacinta! is it thou? _Jacinta (pertly_). Yes, ma'am, I'm here. _Jac. (aside_). 'Tis time. (_Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous look. Lalage continues to read._) _Lal_. "It in another climate, so he said, Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!" (_pauses--turns over some leaves and resumes_.) (_Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes_.) _Jac_. (_pettishly_). Madam, what is it? _Lal_. Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind As go down in the library and bring me The Holy Evangelists? (_re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table_.) There, ma'am, 's the book. (_aside_.) Indeed she is very troublesome. _Jac_. (_aside_.) I can't believe She has any more jewels--no--no--she gave me all. _Jac_. (_aside_.) Is there no _further_ aid! That's meant for me. I'm sure, madam, you need not Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth. _Jac_. Oh, perhaps not! But then I might have sworn it. After all, There's Ugo says the ring is only paste, For he's sure the Count Castiglione never Would have given a real diamond to such as you; And at the best I'm certain, madam, you cannot Have use for jewels _now_. But I might have sworn it. (_Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table--after a short pause raises it_.) (_While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches unobserved_) _Monk_. Refuge thou hast, Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things! Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray! _Monk_. Think of thy precious soul! _Lal_. 'Tis well. There _is_ a vow 'twere fitting should be made- A sacred vow, imperative and urgent, A solemn vow! _Monk_. Daughter, this zeal is well! An Apartment in a Palace. POLITIAN and BALDAZZAR. _Baldazzar_. Arouse thee now, Politian! Thou must not--nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not Give way unto these humors. Be thyself! Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee And live, for now thou diest! _Politian_. Not so, Baldazzar! _Surely_ I live. _Bal_. Politian, it doth grieve me To see thee thus! _Pol_. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend. Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do? At thy behest I will shake off that nature Which from my forefathers I did inherit, Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe, And be no more Politian, but some other. Command me, sir! _Bal_. To the field then--to the field- To the senate or the field. _Pol_. Alas! alas! There is an imp would follow me even there! There is an imp _hath_ followed me even there! There is--what voice was that? _Bal_. I heard it not. I heard not any voice except thine own, And the echo of thine own. _Pol_. Then I but dreamed. _Bal_. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp--the court Befit thee--Fame awaits thee--Glory calls- And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear In hearkening to imaginary sounds And phantom voices. _Pol_. It _is_ a phantom voice! Didst thou not hear it _then_? _Bal_ I heard it not. _Bal_. Thou speakest a fearful riddle I _will_ not understand. _Bal_. Indeed I hear not. _Bal_. The song is English, and I oft have heard it In merry England--never so plaintively- Hist! hist! it comes again! _Voice (more loudly_). "Is it so strong As for to leave me thus, That have loved thee so long, In wealth and woe among? And is thy heart so strong As for to leave me thus? Say nay! say nay!" _Bal_. 'Tis hushed and all is still! _Pol_. All _is not_ still. _Bal_. Let us go down. _Pol_. Go down, Baldazzar, go! _Voice_ (_distinctly_). "Who have loved thee so long, In wealth and woe among, And is thy heart so strong? Say nay! say nay!" _Bal_. Let me beg you, sir, Descend with me--the Duke may be offended. Let us go down, I pray you. _Bal_. Your lordship's pleasure Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian. _Pol_. Good-night, my friend, good-night. The Gardens of a Palace--Moonlight. LALAGE and POLITIAN. _Lal_. Alas, proud Earl, Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me! How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens Pure and reproachless of thy princely line, Could the dishonored Lalage abide? Thy wife, and with a tainted memory- My seared and blighted name, how would it tally With the ancestral honors of thy house, And with thy glory? _Pol_. Speak not to me of glory! I hate--I loathe the name; I do abhor The unsatisfactory and ideal thing. Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian? Do I not love--art thou not beautiful- What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it: By all I hold most sacred and most solemn- By all my wishes now--my fears hereafter- By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven- There is no deed I would more glory in, Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory And trample it under foot. What matters it- What matters it, my fairest, and my best, That we go down unhonored and forgotten Into the dust--so we descend together? Descend together--and then--and then perchance- _Lal_. Why dost thou pause, Politian? _Pol_. And then perchance _Arise_ together, Lalage, and roam The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest, And still- _Lal_. Why dost thou pause, Politian? _Pol_. And still _together_--_together_. _Lal_. Now, Earl of Leicester! Thou _lovest_ me, and in my heart of hearts I feel thou lovest me truly. _Pol_. O Lalage! (_throwing himself upon his knee_.) And lovest thou _me_? _Pol_. My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved? Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience self, Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it, Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs Throw over all things a gloom. _Lal_. A deed is to be done- Castiglione lives! _Pol_. And he shall die! The Suburbs. POLITIAN alone. _Baldazzar_. That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud Between the Earl Politian and himself, He doth decline your cartel. _Bal_. That he, Castiglione, not being aware Of any feud existing, or any cause Of quarrel between your lordship and himself, Cannot accept the challenge. _Bal_. No more, my lord, than I have told you: The Count Castiglione will not fight. Having no cause for quarrel. _Pol_. At the Vatican. _Enter Castiglione_. _Cas_. The Earl of Leicester here! _Pol_. I _am_ the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest, Dost thou not, that I am here? _Pol_. Draw, villain, and prate no more! _Pol_. (_drawing_.) Thus to the expiatory tomb, Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee In the name of Lalage! _Cas_. I dare not--dare not- Hold off thy hand--with that beloved name So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee- I cannot--dare not. _Cas_. It needeth not be--thus--thus--Oh, let me die Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting That in this deep humiliation I perish. For in the fight I will not raise a hand Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home- (_baring his bosom_.) Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon- Strike home. I _will not_ fight thee. _Cas_. Now this indeed is just! Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven! _Duke_. Why do you laugh? _Castiglione_. Indeed. I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl? Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday. Alessandra, you and I, you must remember! We were walking in the garden. _Duke_. Perfectly. I do remember it--what of it--what then? _Cas_. O nothing--nothing at all. _Duke_. Nothing at all! It is most singular that you should laugh At nothing at all! _Cas_. Most singular--singular! _Cas_. Was it not so? We differed in opinion touching him. _Cas_. Why, sir, the Earl Politian. _Duke_. That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time You were wrong, it being not the character Of the Earl--whom all the world allows to be A most hilarious man. Be not, my son, Too positive again. _Cas_. You did--and yet 'tis strange! but true, as strange, How much I was mistaken! I always thought The Earl a gloomy man. _Duke_. So, so, you see! Be not too positive. Whom have we here? It cannot be the Earl? _Cas_. What ho! Benito! Rupert! His lordship's chambers--show his lordship to them! His lordship is unwell. _Ben_. This way, my lord! (_Exit, followed by Politian_.) _Duke_. Retire! Unwell! _Bal_. So please you, sir. I fear me 'Tis as you say--his lordship is unwell. The damp air of the evening--the fatigue Of a long journey--the--indeed I had better Follow his lordship. He must be unwell. I will return anon. "I dare say Milton preferred 'Comus' to either--if so--justly. "As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon the most singular heresy in its modern history--the heresy of what is called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so prosaically exemplified. "To proceed: _ceteris paribus_, he who pleases is of more importance to his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the means of obtaining. "'Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls must dive below,' "are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths, men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought--not in the palpable palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith--that moral mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom of a man. "Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be Ossian's or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, in order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in the controversy. 'Tantaene animis?' Can great minds descend to such absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathise. It is the beginning of the epic poem 'Temora.' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty heads in the breeze.' And this--this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where all is alive and panting with immortality--this, William Wordsworth, the author of 'Peter Bell,' has 'selected' for his contempt. We shall see what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis: "'And now she's at the pony's tail, And now she's at the pony's head, On that side now, and now on this; And, almost stifled with her bliss, A few sad tears does Betty shed She pats the pony, where or when She knows not happy Betty Foy! Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!' "Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we _will_ believe it, indeed we will, Mr, W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite? I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart. "'Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers, if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (_impossible!_) will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have been permitted to assume that title.' Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! "Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys. "Of Coleridge, I cannot speak but with reverence. His towering intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself, '_J'ai trouve souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne partie de ce qu'elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu'elles nient_;' "A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for its _immediate_ object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for its object, an _indefinite_ instead of a _definite_ pleasure, being a poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting perceptible images with definite, poetry with _in_definite sensations, to which end music is an _essential_, since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music; the idea, without the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness. "What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his soul? "'No Indian prince has to his palace More followers than a thief to the gallows.'" SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing! Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree? O! nothing earthly save the ray (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye, As in those gardens where the day Springs from the gems of Circassy- O! nothing earthly save the thrill Of melody in woodland rill- Or (music of the passion-hearted) Joy's voice so peacefully departed That like the murmur in the shell, Its echo dwelleth and will dwell- O! nothing of the dross of ours- Yet all the beauty--all the flowers That list our Love, and deck our bowers- Adorn yon world afar, afar- The wandering star. Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth, Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth, (Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star, Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar, It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt), She look'd into Infinity--and knelt. Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled- Fit emblems of the model of her world- Seen but in beauty--not impeding sight- Of other beauty glittering thro' the light- A wreath that twined each starry form around, And all the opal'd air in color bound. The breath of those kisses That cumber them too- (O! how, without you, Love! Could angels be blest?) Those kisses of true love That lull'd ye to rest! Up! shake from your wing Each hindering thing: The dew of the night- It would weigh down your flight; And true love caresses- O! leave them apart! They are light on the tresses, But lead on the heart. He was a goodly spirit--he who fell: A wanderer by mossy-mantled well- A gazer on the lights that shine above- A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love: What wonder? for each star is eye-like there, And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair- And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy To his love-haunted heart and melancholy. The night had found (to him a night of wo) Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo- Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky, And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie. Here sate he with his love--his dark eye bent With eagle gaze along the firmament: Now turn'd it upon her--but ever then It trembled to the orb of EARTH again. Thus in discourse, the lovers whiled away The night that waned and waned and brought no day. They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts Who hear not for the beating of their hearts. Among Milton's minor poems are these lines: Dicite sacrorum praeesides nemorum Dese, etc., Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine Natura solers finxit humanum genus? Eternus, incorruptus, aequaevus polo, Unusque et universus exemplar Dei. Non cui profundum Caecitas lumen dedit Dircaeus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, etc.] Seltsamen Tochter Jovis Seinem Schosskinde Der Phantasie. Some star which, from the ruin'd roof Of shak'd Olympus, by mischance did fall. "Je connais bien l'admiration qu'inspirent ces ruines--mais un palais erige au pied d'une chaine de rochers steriles--peut-il etre un chef d'oeuvre des arts!"] Fairies use flowers for their charactery. 'Merry Wives of Windsor'.] "The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the moon by night." It is, perhaps, not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed to its rays, to which circumstances the passage evidently alludes.] "The verie essence and, as it were, springe heade and origine of all musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest do make when they growe."] O! were there an island, Tho' ever so wild, Where woman might smile, and No man be beguil'd, etc. ] Un no rompido sueno- Un dia puro--allegre--libre Quiera- Libre de amor--de zelo- De odio--de esperanza--de rezelo. 'Luis Ponce de Leon.' Sorrow is not excluded from "Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow which the living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles the delirium of opium. The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures--the price of which, to those souls who make choice of "Al Aaraaf" as their residence after life, is final death and annihilation.] There be tears of perfect moan Wept for thee in Helicon. Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows Than have the white breasts of the queen of love. Kind solace in a dying hour! Such, father, is not (now) my theme- I will not madly deem that power Of Earth may shrive me of the sin Unearthly pride hath revelled in- I have no time to dote or dream: You call it hope--that fire of fire! It is but agony of desire: If I _can_ hope--O God! I can- Its fount is holier--more divine- I would not call thee fool, old man, But such is not a gift of thine. Know thou the secret of a spirit Bowed from its wild pride into shame O yearning heart! I did inherit Thy withering portion with the fame, The searing glory which hath shone Amid the Jewels of my throne, Halo of Hell! and with a pain Not Hell shall make me fear again- O craving heart, for the lost flowers And sunshine of my summer hours! The undying voice of that dead time, With its interminable chime, Rings, in the spirit of a spell, Upon thy emptiness--a knell. The rain came down upon my head Unsheltered--and the heavy wind Rendered me mad and deaf and blind. It was but man, I thought, who shed Laurels upon me: and the rush- The torrent of the chilly air Gurgled within my ear the crush Of empires--with the captive's prayer- The hum of suitors--and the tone Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne. O, she was worthy of all love! Love as in infancy was mine- 'Twas such as angel minds above Might envy; her young heart the shrine On which my every hope and thought Were incense--then a goodly gift, For they were childish and upright- Pure--as her young example taught: Why did I leave it, and, adrift, Trust to the fire within, for light? I spoke to her of power and pride, But mystically--in such guise That she might deem it nought beside The moment's converse; in her eyes I read, perhaps too carelessly- A mingled feeling with my own- The flush on her bright cheek, to me Seemed to become a queenly throne Too well that I should let it be Light in the wilderness alone. I wrapped myself in grandeur then, And donned a visionary crown- Yet it was not that Fantasy Had thrown her mantle over me- But that, among the rabble--men, Lion ambition is chained down- And crouches to a keeper's hand- Not so in deserts where the grand- The wild--the terrible conspire With their own breath to fan his fire. O, human love! thou spirit given, On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven! Which fall'st into the soul like rain Upon the Siroc-withered plain, And, failing in thy power to bless, But leav'st the heart a wilderness! Idea! which bindest life around With music of so strange a sound And beauty of so wild a birth- Farewell! for I have won the Earth. Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece, To the grandeur that was Rome. Lo! in yon brilliant window niche, How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land! THE VALLEY OF UNREST. In Heaven a spirit doth dwell "Whose heart-strings are a lute;" None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, And the giddy Stars (so legends tell), Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute. And they say (the starry choir And the other listening things) That Israfeli's fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings- The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings. But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty- Where Love's a grow-up God- Where the Houri glances are Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star. Therefore, thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest An unimpassioned song; To thee the laurels belong, Best bard, because the wisest! Merrily live and long! The ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit- Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervor of thy lute- Well may the stars be mute! Yes, Heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely--flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours. If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky. And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures. The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see The wantonest singing birds, Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow Of crystal, wandering water, Thou art an emblem of the glow Of beauty--the unhidden heart- The playful maziness of art In old Alberto's daughter; But when within thy wave she looks- Which glistens then, and trembles- Why, then, the prettiest of brooks Her worshipper resembles; For in his heart, as in thy stream, Her image deeply lies- His heart which trembles at the beam Of her soul-searching eyes. I saw thee on thy bridal day- When a burning blush came o'er thee, Though happiness around thee lay, The world all love before thee: And in thine eye a kindling light (Whatever it might be) Was all on Earth my aching sight Of Loveliness could see. That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame- As such it well may pass- Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame In the breast of him, alas! Who saw thee on that bridal day, When that deep blush _would_ come o'er thee, Though happiness around thee lay, The world all love before thee. SPIRITS OF THE DEAD. In visions of the dark night I have dreamed of joy departed- But a waking dream of life and light Hath left me broken-hearted. Ah! what is not a dream by day To him whose eyes are cast On things around him with a ray Turned back upon the past? That holy dream--that holy dream, While all the world were chiding, Hath cheered me as a lovely beam, A lonely spirit guiding. What though that light, thro' storm and night, So trembled from afar- What could there be more purely bright In Truth's day star? Romance, who loves to nod and sing, With drowsy head and folded wing, Among the green leaves as they shake Far down within some shadowy lake, To me a painted paroquet Hath been--a most familiar bird- Taught me my alphabet to say- To lisp my very earliest word While in the wild wood I did lie, A child--with a most knowing eye. Of late, eternal Condor years So shake the very Heaven on high With tumult as they thunder by, I have no time for idle cares Though gazing on the unquiet sky. And when an hour with calmer wings Its down upon my spirit flings- That little time with lyre and rhyme To while away--forbidden things! My heart would feel to be a crime Unless it trembled with the strings. In spring of youth it was my lot To haunt of the wide world a spot The which I could not love the less- So lovely was the loneliness Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, And the tall pines that towered around. But when the Night had thrown her pall Upon the spot, as upon all, And the mystic wind went by Murmuring in melody- Then--ah, then, I would awake To the terror of the lone lake. Yet that terror was not fright, But a tremulous delight- A feeling not the jewelled mine Could teach or bribe me to define- Nor Love--although the Love were thine. Death was in that poisonous wave, And in its gulf a fitting grave For him who thence could solace bring To his lone imagining- Whose solitary soul could make An Eden of that dim lake. 'Twas noontide of summer, And midtime of night, And stars, in their orbits, Shone pale, through the light Of the brighter, cold moon. 'Mid planets her slaves, Herself in the Heavens, Her beam on the waves. I gazed awhile On her cold smile; Too cold--too cold for me- There passed, as a shroud, A fleecy cloud, And I turned away to thee, Proud Evening Star, In thy glory afar And dearer thy beam shall be; For joy to my heart Is the proud part Thou bearest in Heaven at night, And more I admire Thy distant fire, Than that colder, lowly light. A dark unfathomed tide Of interminable pride- A mystery, and a dream, Should my early life seem; I say that dream was fraught With a wild and waking thought Of beings that have been, Which my spirit hath not seen, Had I let them pass me by, With a dreaming eye! Let none of earth inherit That vision on my spirit; Those thoughts I would control, As a spell upon his soul: For that bright hope at last And that light time have past, And my wordly rest hath gone With a sigh as it passed on: I care not though it perish With a thought I then did cherish. I. The happiest day--the happiest hour My seared and blighted heart hath known, The highest hope of pride and power, I feel hath flown. II. Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween But they have vanished long, alas! The visions of my youth have been- But let them pass. III. And pride, what have I now with thee? Another brow may ev'n inherit The venom thou hast poured on me- Be still my spirit! IV. The happiest day--the happiest hour Mine eyes shall see--have ever seen The brightest glance of pride and power I feel have been: V. But were that hope of pride and power Now offered with the pain Ev'n _then_ I felt--that brightest hour I would not live again: VI. For on its wing was dark alloy And as it fluttered--fell An essence--powerful to destroy A soul that knew it well. Translation from the Greek. HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS. I. Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal, Like those champions devoted and brave, When they plunged in the tyrant their steel, And to Athens deliverance gave. II. Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam In the joy breathing isles of the blest; Where the mighty of old have their home- Where Achilles and Diomed rest. III. In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine, Like Harmodius, the gallant and good, When he made at the tutelar shrine A libation of Tyranny's blood. IV. Ye deliverers of Athens from shame! Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs! Endless ages shall cherish your fame, Embalmed in their echoing songs! _How often we forget all time, when lone Admiring Nature's universal throne; Her woods--her wilds--her mountains--the intense Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!_ IV. Of what in other worlds shall be--and given In beauty by our God, to those alone Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone, That high tone of the spirit which hath striven Though not with Faith--with godliness--whose throne With desperate energy 't hath beaten down; Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown. I. How shall the burial rite be read? The solemn song be sung? The requiem for the loveliest dead, That ever died so young? III. They loved her for her wealth- And they hated her for her pride- But she grew in feeble health, And they _love_ her--that she died. IV. They tell me (while they speak Of her "costly broider'd pall") That my voice is growing weak- That I should not sing at all- V. Or that my tone should be Tun'd to such solemn song So mournfully--so mournfully, That the dead may feel no wrong. VIII. Thus on the coffin loud and long I strike--the murmur sent Through the gray chambers to my song, Shall be the accompaniment. IX. Thou diedst in thy life's June- But thou didst not die too fair: Thou didst not die too soon, Nor with too calm an air. XI. Therefore, to thee this night I will no requiem raise, But waft thee on thy flight, With a Paean of old days. Mysterious star! Thou wert my dream All a long summer night- Be now my theme! By this clear stream, Of thee will I write; Meantime from afar Bathe me in light! Thy world has not the dross of ours, Yet all the beauty--all the flowers That list our love or deck our bowers In dreamy gardens, where do lie Dreamy maidens all the day; While the silver winds of Circassy On violet couches faint away. Little--oh! little dwells in thee Like unto what on earth we see: Beauty's eye is here the bluest In the falsest and untruest- On the sweetest air doth float The most sad and solemn note- If with thee be broken hearts, Joy so peacefully departs, That its echo still doth dwell, Like the murmur in the shell. Thou! thy truest type of grief Is the gently falling leaf- Thou! thy framing is so holy Sorrow is not melancholy. Succeeding years, too wild for song, Then rolled like tropic storms along, Where, though the garish lights that fly Dying along the troubled sky, Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven, The blackness of the general Heaven, That very blackness yet doth fling Light on the lightning's silver wing. For being an idle boy lang syne, Who read Anacreon and drank wine, I early found Anacreon rhymes Were almost passionate sometimes- And by strange alchemy of brain His pleasures always turned to pain- His naivete to wild desire- His wit to love--his wine to fire- And so, being young and dipt in folly, I fell in love with melancholy. And used to throw my earthly rest And quiet all away in jest- I could not love except where Death Was mingling his with Beauty's breath- Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny, Were stalking between her and me. But _now_ my soul hath too much room- Gone are the glory and the gloom- The black hath mellow'd into gray, And all the fires are fading away. My draught of passion hath been deep- I revell'd, and I now would sleep- And after drunkenness of soul Succeeds the glories of the bowl- An idle longing night and day To dream my very life away. From childhood's hour I have not been As others were--I have not seen As others saw--I could not bring My passions from a common spring- From the same source I have not taken My sorrow--I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone- And all I loved--_I_ loved alone- _Thou_--in my childhood--in the dawn Of a most stormy life--was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still- From the torrent, or the fountain- From the red cliff of the mountain- From the sun that round me roll'd In its autumn tint of gold- From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by- From the thunder and the storm- And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view. I. Beneath the vine-clad eaves, Whose shadows fall before Thy lowly cottage door- Under the lilac's tremulous leaves- Within thy snowy clasped hand The purple flowers it bore. Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand, Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land- Enchantress of the flowery wand, Most beauteous Isadore! II. And when I bade the dream Upon thy spirit flee, Thy violet eyes to me Upturned, did overflowing seem With the deep, untold delight Of Love's serenity; Thy classic brow, like lilies white And pale as the Imperial Night Upon her throne, with stars bedight, Enthralled my soul to thee! III. Ah! ever I behold Thy dreamy, passionate eyes, Blue as the languid skies Hung with the sunset's fringe of gold; Now strangely clear thine image grows, And olden memories Are startled from their long repose Like shadows on the silent snows When suddenly the night-wind blows Where quiet moonlight lies. Slowly, silently we wandered From the open cottage door, Underneath the elm's long branches To the pavement bending o'er; Underneath the mossy willow And the dying sycamore. With the myriad stars in beauty All bedight, the heavens were seen, Radiant hopes were bright around me, Like the light of stars serene; Like the mellow midnight splendor Of the Night's irradiate queen. Audibly the elm-leaves whispered Peaceful, pleasant melodies, Like the distant murmured music Of unquiet, lovely seas; While the winds were hushed in slumber In the fragrant flowers and trees. Wondrous and unwonted beauty Still adorning all did seem, While I told my love in fables 'Neath the willows by the stream; Would the heart have kept unspoken Love that was its rarest dream! Instantly away we wandered In the shadowy twilight tide, She, the silent, scornful maiden, Walking calmly at my side, With a step serene and stately, All in beauty, all in pride. Vacantly I walked beside her. On the earth mine eyes were cast; Swift and keen there came unto me Bitter memories of the past- On me, like the rain in Autumn On the dead leaves, cold and fast. Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper Mad, discordant melodies, And keen melodies like shadows Haunt the moaning willow trees, And the sycamores with laughter Mock me in the nightly breeze. Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight Through the sighing foliage streams; And each morning, midnight shadow, Shadow of my sorrow seems; Strive, O heart, forget thine idol! And, O soul, forget thy dreams! 'Tis said that when The hands of men Tamed this primeval wood, And hoary trees with groans of wo, Like warriors by an unknown foe, Were in their strength subdued, The virgin Earth Gave instant birth To springs that ne'er did flow- That in the sun Did rivulets run, And all around rare flowers did blow- The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale, And the queenly lily adown the dale (Whom the sun and the dew And the winds did woo), With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew. THE ISLAND OF THE FAY. "Nullus enim locus sine genio est." The other or eastern end of the isle was whelmed in the blackest shade. A sombre, yet beautiful and peaceful gloom, here pervaded all things. The trees were dark in color and mournful in form and attitude-wreathing themselves into sad, solemn, and spectral shapes, that conveyed ideas of mortal sorrow and untimely death. The grass wore the deep tint of the cypress, and the heads of its blades hung droopingly, and hither and thither among it were many small unsightly hillocks, low and narrow, and not very long, that had the aspect of graves, but were not, although over and all about them the rue and the rosemary clambered. The shades of the trees fell heavily upon the water, and seemed to bury itself therein, impregnating the depths of the element with darkness. I fancied that each shadow, as the sun descended lower and lower, separated itself sullenly from the trunk that gave it birth, and thus became absorbed by the stream, while other shadows issued momently from the trees, taking the place of their predecessors thus entombed. And again the boat appeared and the Fay, but about the attitude of the latter there was more of care and uncertainty and less of elastic joy. She floated again from out the light and into the gloom (which deepened momently), and again her shadow fell from her into the ebony water, and became absorbed into its blackness. And again and again she made the circuit of the island (while the sun rushed down to his slumbers), and at each issuing into the light there was more sorrow about her person, while it grew feebler and far fainter and more indistinct, and at each passage into the gloom there fell from her a darker shade, which became whelmed in a shadow more black. But at length, when the sun had utterly departed, the Fay, now the mere ghost of her former self, went disconsolately with her boat into the region of the ebony flood, and that she issued thence at all I cannot say, for darkness fell over all things, and I beheld her magical figure no more. "Either the world is a great animal, or," etc.] "Florem putares nare per liquidum aethera." Pardon, Agathos, the weakness of a spirit new-fledged with immortality! You have spoken nothing, my Oinos, for which pardon is to be demanded. Not even here is knowledge a thing of intuition. For wisdom, ask of the angels freely, that it may be given! Ah, not in knowledge is happiness, but in the acquisition of knowledge! In forever knowing, we are forever blessed; but to know all, were the curse of a fiend. But does not The Most High know all? _That_ (since he is The Most Happy) must be still the _one_ thing unknown even to HIM. But, since we grow hourly in knowledge, must not _at last_ all things be known? I clearly perceive that the infinity of matter is no dream. In the beginning only, he created. The seeming creatures which are now throughout the universe so perpetually springing into being can only be considered as the mediate or indirect, not as the direct or immediate results of the Divine creative power. Among men, my Agathos, this idea would be considered heretical in the extreme. Among the angels, my Oinos, it is seen to be simply true. I can comprehend you thus far--that certain operations of what we term Nature, or the natural laws, will, under certain conditions, give rise to that which has all the _appearance_ of creation. Shortly before the final overthrow of the earth, there were, I well remember, many very successful experiments in what some philosophers were weak enough to denominate the creation of animalculae. Are not the starry worlds that, from the abyss of nonentity, burst hourly forth into the heavens--are not these stars, Agathos, the immediate handiwork of the King? And why, Agathos, should they have proceeded? But you speak merely of impulses upon the air. In speaking of the air, I referred only to the earth: but the general proposition has reference to impulses upon the ether--which, since it pervades, and alone pervades all space, is thus the great medium of _creation_. Then all motion, of whatever nature, creates? It must: but a true philosophy has long taught that the source of all motion is thought--and the source of all thought is- I have spoken to you, Oinos, as to a child, of the fair Earth which lately perished--of impulses upon the atmosphere of the earth. And while I thus spoke, did there not cross your mind some thought of the _physical power of words_? Is not every word an impulse on the air? But why, Agathos, do you weep--and why, oh, why do your wings droop as we hover above this fair star--which is the greenest and yet most terrible of all we have encountered in our flight? Its brilliant flowers look like a fairy dream--but its fierce volcanoes like the passions of a turbulent heart. THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA. [Greek: Mellonta sauta'] These things are in the future. Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, "born again." These were the words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the explanations of the priesthood, until Death itself resolved for me the secret. How strangely, sweet _Una_, you echo my words! I observe, too, a vacillation in your step, a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You are confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal. Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts, throwing a mildew upon all pleasures! Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una--mine, mine forever now! But the memory of past sorrow, is it not present joy? I have much to say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I burn to know the incidents of your own passage through the dark Valley and Shadow. And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in vain? I will be minute in relating all, but at what point shall the weird narrative begin? Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the propensity of man to define the indefinable. I will not say, then, commence with the moment of life's cessation--but commence with that sad, sad instant when, the fever having abandoned you, you sank into a breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed down your pallid eyelids with the passionate fingers of love. Say, rather, a point in the vague infinity. Unquestionably, it was in the Earth's dotage that I died. Wearied at heart with anxieties which had their origin in the general turmoil and decay, I succumbed to the fierce fever. After some few days of pain, and many of dreamy delirium replete with ecstasy, the manifestations of which you mistook for pain, while I longed but was impotent to undeceive you--after some days there came upon me, as you have said, a breathless and motionless torpor; and this was termed _Death_ by those who stood around me. Words are vague things. My condition did not deprive me of sentience. It appeared to me not greatly dissimilar to the extreme quiescence of him, who, having slumbered long and profoundly, lying motionless and fully prostrate in a mid-summer noon, begins to steal slowly back into consciousness, through the mere sufficiency of his sleep, and without being awakened by external disturbances. "It will be hard to discover a better [method of education] than that which the experience of so many ages has already discovered; and this may be summed up as consisting in gymnastics for the body, and _music_ for the soul." "For this reason is a musical education most essential; since it causes Rhythm and Harmony to penetrate most intimately into the soul, taking the strongest hold upon it, filling it with _beauty_ and making the man _beautiful-minded_. He will praise and admire _the beautiful_, will receive it with joy into his soul, will feed upon it, and _assimilate his own condition with it_." THE CONVERSATION OF EIROS AND CHARMION. I will bring fire to thee. Why do you call me Eiros? So henceforward will you always be called. You must forget, too, _my_ earthly name, and speak to me as Charmion. This is indeed no dream! True--I feel no stupor--none at all. The wild sickness and the terrible darkness have left me, and I hear no longer that mad, rushing, horrible sound, like the "voice of many waters." Yet my senses are bewildered, Charmion, with the keenness of their perception of _the new_. Grapple not now with such thoughts. To-morrow we will speak of this. Your mind wavers, and its agitation will find relief in the exercise of simple memories. Look not around, nor forward--but back. I am burning with anxiety to hear the details of that stupendous event which threw you among us. Tell me of it. Let us converse of familiar things, in the old familiar language of the world which has so fearfully perished. Dreams are no more. Was I much mourned, my Eiros? And that last hour--speak of it. Remember that, beyond the naked fact of the catastrophe itself, I know nothing. When, coming out from among mankind, I passed into Night through the Grave--at that period, if I remember aright, the calamity which overwhelmed you was utterly unanticipated. But, indeed, I knew little of the speculative philosophy of the day. The individual calamity was, as you say, entirely unanticipated; but analogous misfortunes had been long a subject of discussion with astronomers. I need scarce tell you, my friend, that, even when you left us, men had agreed to understand those passages in the most holy writings which speak of the final destruction of all things by fire as having reference to the orb of the earth alone, But in regard to the immediate agency of the ruin, speculation had been at fault from that epoch in astronomical knowledge in which the comets were divested of the terrors of flame. The very moderate density of these bodies had been well established. They had been observed to pass among the satellites of Jupiter without bringing about any sensible alteration either in the masses or in the orbits of these secondary planets. We had long regarded the wanderers as vapory creations of inconceivable tenuity, and as altogether incapable of doing injury to our substantial globe, even in the event of contact. But contact was not in any degree dreaded; for the elements of all the comets were accurately known. That among _them_ we should look for the agency of the threatened fiery destruction had been for many years considered an inadmissible idea. But wonders and wild fancies had been of late days strangely rife among mankind; and, although it was only with a few of the ignorant that actual apprehension prevailed, upon the announcement by astronomers of a _new_ comet, yet this announcement was generally received with I know not what of agitation and mistrust. What minor evils might arise from the contact were points of elaborate question. The learned spoke of slight geological disturbances, of probable alterations in climate, and consequently in vegetation; of possible magnetic and electric influences. Many held that no visible or perceptible effect would in any manner be produced. While such discussions were going on, their subject gradually approached, growing larger in apparent diameter, and of a more brilliant lustre. Mankind grew paler as it came. All human operations were suspended. There was an epoch in the course of the general sentiment when the comet had attained, at length, a size surpassing that of any previously recorded visitation. The people now, dismissing any lingering hope that the astronomers were wrong, experienced all the certainty of evil. The chimerical aspect of their terror was gone. The hearts of the stoutest of our race beat violently within their bosoms. A very few days suffered, however, to merge even such feelings in sentiments more unendurable. We could no longer apply to the strange orb any _accustomed_ thoughts. Its _historical_ attributes had disappeared. It oppressed us with a hideous _novelty_ of emotion. We saw it not as an astronomical phenomenon in the heavens, but as an incubus upon our hearts and a shadow upon our brains. It had taken, with unconceivable rapidity, the character of a gigantic mantle of rare flame, extending from horizon to horizon. Yet a day, and men breathed with greater freedom. It was clear that we were already within the influence of the comet; yet we lived. We even felt an unusual elasticity of frame and vivacity of mind. The exceeding tenuity of the object of our dread was apparent; for all heavenly objects were plainly visible through it. Meantime, our vegetation had perceptibly altered; and we gained faith, from this predicted circumstance, in the foresight of the wise. A wild luxuriance of foliage, utterly unknown before, burst out upon every vegetable thing. Yea! though I walk through the valley of the _Shadow_. Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be some to disbelieve and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron. The mountain pinnacles slumber; valleys, crags, and caves _are silent_. "LISTEN to _me_," said the Demon, as he placed his hand upon my head. "The region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders of the river Zaeire. And there is no quiet there, nor silence. "And I looked upwards, and there stood a man upon the summit of the rock; and I hid myself among the water-lilies that I might discover the action of the man. And the man was tall and stately in form, and wrapped up from his shoulders to his feet in the toga of old Rome. And the outlines of his figure were indistinct--but his features were the features of a deity; for the mantle of the night, and of the mist, and of the moon, and of the dew, had left uncovered the features of his face. And his brow was lofty with thought, and his eye wild with care; and in the few furrows upon his cheek, I read the fables of sorrow, and weariness, and disgust with mankind, and a longing after solitude. "And mine eyes fell upon the countenance of the man, and his countenance was wan with terror. And, hurriedly, he raised his head from his hand, and stood forth upon the rock and listened. But there was no voice throughout the vast illimitable desert, and the characters upon the rock were SILENCE. And the man shuddered, and turned his face away, and fled afar off, in haste, so that I beheld him no more." Now there are fine tales in the volumes of the Magi--in the iron-bound, melancholy volumes of the Magi. Therein, I say, are glorious histories of the Heaven, and of the Earth, and of the mighty Sea--and of the Genii that overruled the sea, and the earth, and the lofty heaven. There was much lore, too, in the sayings which were said by the sybils; and holy, holy things were heard of old by the dim leaves that trembled around Dodona--but, as Allah liveth, that fable which the demon told me as he sat by my side in the shadow of the tomb, I hold to be the most wonderful of all! And as the Demon made an end of his story, he fell back within the cavity of the tomb and laughed. And I could not laugh with the Demon, and he cursed me because I could not laugh. And the lynx which dwelleth forever in the tomb, came out therefrom, and lay down at the feet of the Demon, and looked at him steadily in the face. THE POETIC PRINCIPLE. On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief. Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A _very_ short poem, while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerable things, pungent and spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too imponderous to stamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and thus, as so many feathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be whistled down the wind. A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the following exquisite little Serenade: The wandering airs they faint On the dark the silent stream- The champak odors fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, O, beloved as thou art! O, lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast: O, press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last! The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight-tide- And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly Walk'd spirits at her side. Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet, And honor charm'd the air; And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good as fair- For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care. She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true- For heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo- But honor'd well her charms to sell, If priests the selling do. In this composition we find it difficult to recognise the Willis who has written so many mere "verses of society." The lines are not only richly ideal but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the other works of this author. With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man, I would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation. The demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles. All _that_ which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all _that_ with which _she_ has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a truth we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word, we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the poetical. _He_ must be blind indeed who does not perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and the poetical modes of inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption who, in spite of these differences, shall still persist in attempting to reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth. The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes--in Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance--very especially in Music--and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in Poetry as never to be wisely rejected--is so vitally important an adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired by the poetic Sentiment, it struggles--the creation of supernal Beauty. It _may_ be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and, then, attained in _fact._ We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight, that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which _cannot_ have been unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in the union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers had advantages which we do not possess--and Thomas Moore, singing his own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems. I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your consideration, than by the citation of the Proeem to Longfellow's "Waif": The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist; A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day, Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective. Nothing can be better than There, through the long, long summer hours, The golden light should lie, And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale, close beside my cell; The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife-bee and humming bird. And what, if cheerful shouts at noon, Come, from the village sent, Or songs of maids, beneath the moon, With fairy laughter blent? And what if, in the evening light, Betrothed lovers walk in sight Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around Might know no sadder sight nor sound. I know, I know I should not see The season's glorious show, Nor would its brightness shine for me; Nor its wild music flow; But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep, They might not haste to go. Soft airs and song, and light and bloom, Should keep them lingering by my tomb. A feeling of sadness and longing That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full of brilliancy and spirit as "The Health" of Edward Coote Pinkney: Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. O saw ye not fair Ines? She's gone into the West, To dazzle when the sun is down And rob the world of rest She took our daylight with her, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast. O turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the moon should shine alone, And stars unrivall'd bright; And blessed will the lover be That walks beneath their light, And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write! Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, Who rode so gaily by thy side, And whisper'd thee so near! Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear? I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore, With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners-waved before; And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore; It would have been a beauteous dream, If it had been no more! Alas, alas, fair Ines, She went away with song, With Music waiting on her steps, And shoutings of the throng; But some were sad and felt no mirth, But only Music's wrong, In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell, To her you've loved so long. Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing. Touch her not scornfully Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful; Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night. The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurl'd- Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world! Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly, Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity. The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which is the thesis of the poem. Though the day of my destiny's over, And the star of my fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, It shrunk not to share it with me, And the love which my spirit hath painted It never hath found but in _thee._ Then when nature around me is smiling, The last smile which answers to mine, I do not believe it beguiling, Because it reminds me of thine; And when winds are at war with the ocean, As the breasts I believed in with me, If their billows excite an emotion, It is that they bear me from _thee._ Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is delivered To pain--it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me: They may crush, but they shall not contemn- They may torture, but shall not subdue me- 'Tis of _thee_ that I think--not of them. From the wreck of the past, which hath perished, Thus much I at least may recall, It hath taught me that which I most cherished Deserved to be dearest of all: In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of _thee_. A steed! a steed! of matchless speede! A sword of metal keene! Al else to noble heartes is drosse- Al else on earth is meane. The neighynge of the war-horse prowde. The rowleing of the drum, The clangor of the trumpet lowde- Be soundes from heaven that come. And oh! the thundering presse of knightes, When as their war-cryes welle, May tole from heaven an angel bright, And rowse a fiend from hell, THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION. I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner. We commence, then, with this intention. The question now arose as to the _character_ of the word. Having made up my mind to a _refrain_, the division of the poem into stanzas was of course a corollary, the _refrain_ forming the close to each stanza. That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these considerations inevitably led me to the long _o_ as the most sonorous vowel in connection with _r_ as the most producible consonant. "Prophet," said I, "thing of evil! prophet still if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore, Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber--in a chamber rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The room is represented as richly furnished--this in mere pursuance of the ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole true poetical thesis. About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For example, an air of the fantastic--approaching as nearly to the ludicrous as was admissible--is given to the Raven's entrance. He comes in "with many a flirt and flutter." Not the _least obeisance made he_--not a moment stopped or stayed he, _But with mien of lord or lady_, perched above my chamber door. Then this ebony bird beguiling my _sad fancy_ into smiling By the _grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore_, "Though thy _crest be shorn and shaven_, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the nightly shore- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore?" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." Much I marvelled _this ungainly fowl_ to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being _Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door_, With such name as "Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc. "Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!" And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul _from out that shadow_ that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted--nevermore! In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with "The Shepherd's Hunting" by Withers--a poem partaking, in a remarkable degree, of the peculiarities of 'Il Penseroso'. Speaking of Poesy, the author says: "By the murmur of a spring, Or the least boughs rustleling, By a daisy whose leaves spread, Shut when Titan goes to bed, Or a shady bush or tree, She could more infuse in me Than all Nature's beauties con In some other wiser man. By her help I also now Make this churlish place allow Something that may sweeten gladness In the very gall of sadness- The dull loneness, the black shade, That these hanging vaults have made The strange music of the waves Beating on these hollow caves, This black den which rocks emboss, Overgrown with eldest moss, The rude portals that give light More to terror than delight, This my chamber of neglect Walled about with disrespect; From all these and this dull air A fit object for despair, She hath taught me by her might To draw comfort and delight." But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the general character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found in Corbet's "Farewell to the Fairies!" We copy a portion of Marvell's "Maiden lamenting for her Fawn," which we prefer--not only as a specimen of the elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in pathos, exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness--to anything of its species: "And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold," and these things being its "chief" delights--and then the pre-eminent beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperbole only renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence, the artlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and more passionate admiration of the bereaved child: "Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Edgar Allan Poe's Complete Poetical Works, by Edgar Allan Poe	redpajama-book	23,556
Produced by Joel Erickson, Dave Avis and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. A BEAUTIFUL POSSIBILITY EDITH FERGUSON BLACK A BEAUTIFUL POSSIBILITY. Behind the jalousies of the library the owner of the villa sat at a desk, busily writing. He was a slight, delicate looking man, with an expression of careless good humor upon his face and an easy air of assurance according with the interior of the room which bespoke a cultured taste and the ability to gratify it. Books were everywhere, rare bits of china, curios and exquisitely tinted shells lay in picturesque confusion upon tables and wall brackets of native woods; soft silken draperies fell from the windows and partially screened from view a large alcove where microscopes of different sizes stood upon cabinets whose shelves were filled with a miscellaneous collection of rare plants and beautiful insects, specimens from the agate forest of Arizona, petrified remains from the 'Bad Lands' of Dakota, feathery fronded seaweed, skeletons of birds and strange wild creatures, and all the countless curiosities in which naturalists delight. "After all, I may be fighting windmills, and years hence may laugh at this morning's work as an example of the folly of yielding to unnecessary alarm. Danvers is getting childish. All physicians get to be old fogies, I fancy, a natural sequence to a life spent in hunting down germs I suppose. They grow to imagine them where none exist." "Well, Methusaleh, where are you off to now?" and Lenox Hildreth leaned against a flower wreathed pillar in lazy amusement. His master laughed with the easy indulgence which made his servants impose upon him. "You seem to have taken it, you rascal. It is rather late in the day to ask for permission when you and your store clothes are all ready for a start." "'Scuse me, Mass Hildreff," with another deprecating wave of the palm-leaf hat, "but yer see I knowed yer wouldn't dissapint me of de priv'lege uv goin' ter camp-meetin' nohow." Lenox Hildreth held his cigar between his slender fingers and watched the tiny wreaths of smoke as they circled about his head. "So camp-meeting is a privilege, is it?" he said carelessly. "How much more good will it do you to go there than to stay at home and hoe my corn?" The eyes were rolled up until only the whites were visible. "Powerful sight more good, Mass Hildreff. De preacher's 'n uncommon relijus man, an' de 'speriences uv de bredren is mighty upliftin'. Yes, sah!" "Well, see that they don't lift you up so high that you'll forget to come down again. I suppose you have an experience in common with the rest?" "Yes, Mass Hildreff," and the palm-leaf made another gyration through the air. "I'se got a powerful 'sperience, sah." "Well, off you go. It would be a pity to deprive the assembly of such an edifying specimen of sanctimoniousness." "Yes, sah, I'se bery sanktimonyus. I'se 'bliged to you, sah." "Yes, sah," and the servant retraced his steps. "What about that turkey of mine that you stole last week? You can't go to camp-meeting with that on your conscience. Come, now, better take off your finery and repent in sackcloth and ashes." His master turned on his heel with a low laugh. "Of a piece with the whole of them!" he said bitterly. "Hypocrites and shams!" "Why, dearest, you frighten me!" and the girl slipped her hand through his arm with a low, sweet laugh. "I never saw you look so solemn before." "Hypocrisy, Vad, is the meanest thing on earth! The pious people at the church yonder call me an unbeliever, but they've got themselves to thank for it. I may be a good-for-nothing but at least I will not preach what I do not practise." Her father put his hand under her chin, and, lifting her face towards his, looked long and earnestly at the pure brow, about which the brown hair clustered in natural curls, the clear-cut nose, the laughing lips parted over a row of pearls, and the wonderful deep gray eyes. "Happy!" the girl echoed the word with an incredulous smile. "Why, dearest, what has come to you? You never needed to ask me such a question before! Don't you know there isn't a girl in Barbadoes who has been so thoroughly spoiled, and has found the spoiling so sweet? Do I look more than usually mournful to-day that you should think I am pining away with grief?" She looked up at him with a roguish laugh. Her color glowed softly through the olive skin. She threw her arms around his neck and laid her face against his breast. "You know better!" she exclaimed passionately. "You know I wouldn't leave you for all the 'some ones' in the world!" Her father caught her close. "Poor little lass!" he said with a sigh. The girl lifted her head and looked at him anxiously. "Dearest, what _is_ the matter? I am sure you are not well! You have been sitting too long at that tiresome writing." "Yes, that is it, darling," he said with a sudden change of tone. "Writing always does give me the blues. I think the man who invented the art should have been put in a pillory for the rest of his natural life. Blow your whistle for Sam to bring the horses and we will go for a ride along the beach." Evadne lifted the golden whistle which hung at her girdle and blew the call which the well-trained servant understood. "Fi, dearest!" she said, "if there were no writing there would be no books, and what would become of our beautiful evenings then? But I am glad you do not have to write much, since it tires you so. What has it all been about, dear? Am I never to know?" "Some day, perhaps, little Vad. But do not indulge in the besetting sin of your sex, or, like the mother of the race, you may find your apple choke you in the chewing." "Dearest, how pale you look! Are you very tired?" "It is only the heat," he answered lightly. "We had a pretty stiff walk this morning, you know." "Let Dinah do it and you stay here with me." He lay very still after she had left him, looking dreamily through the vines at the silver spray of the fountain. The air had grown oppressively sultry; no breath of wind stirred the heavily drooping leaves, no sound except the rhythmic splash of the fountain and the soft lapping of the waves upon the beach. He closed his eyes while their ceaseless monotone seemed to beat upon his brain. "Forever! Forever! Forever!" A spasm of pain crossed his face as Evadne's voice woke the echoes with a merry song. "Poor little lass!" he murmured. Then he smiled as she came towards him, quaffed off the beverage she had prepared with loving skill, and called her the best cook in all the Indies. "Has it refreshed you, dearest?" she asked anxiously. "Immensely! Now you shall read me some of Lalla Rookh, and after dinner I will set about making a Mecca for your crab." The evening drew on, hot and breathless. Low growls of distant thunder were heard at intervals, and in the eastern sky the lightning played. Evadne watched it, sitting on the top step of the veranda, her white muslin dress in happy contrast with the deep green of the vines which clustered thickly about the pillar against which she leaned. On the step below her a young man sat. He too was clad in white and the rich crimson of the silken scarf which he wore about his waist enhanced his Spanish beauty. A zither lay across his knees over which his hands wandered skilfully as he made the air tremble with dreamy music. Mr. Hildreth paced slowly up and down the veranda behind them. "What is the news from the great world, Geoff? I saw a troop ship signaled this morning. Have you been on board yet?" "No, sir, I have been looking over the plantation with my father all day, and only got home in time for dinner." "You chose a cool time for it!" and Mr. Hildreth laughed. "Yes, it is a mistake I think. Will Drewson have to go? He has been on this Station longer than any of the others." "Yes, his company has marching orders for Malta. He told me last night he was coming to take leave of you next week." "The law of progression, Vad darling." "How I hate it!" she cried, while her lips trembled. "Why can't we just live on in the old happy way? You will be going next, Geoff, and the Hamiltons and the Vandervoorts. Does nothing last?" "Oh yes, Evadne," Geoffrey said with a laugh: "we are very lasting. It is only the unfortunate people under military rule who prove unreliable. Let me sing you my latest song to cheer your spirits. I only learned it last week." He struck a few chords and was beginning his song when a low groan made him spring to his feet. Evadne passed him like a flash of light and flew to her father's side. He was leaning heavily against a pillar with his handkerchief, already showing crimson stains, pressed tightly against his lips. "Vad, darling, I have made an awful mistake! I thought everything a sham. I know better now. Make it the business of your life, little Vad, to find Jesus Christ." Again the red stream stained his lips, and Dr. Danvers came swiftly forward, but Lenox Hildreth was forever beyond all need of human care. A week passed, and day after day Evadne sat by her window, speaking no word. Outdoors the fountain still sparkled in the sunshine and the birds sang, but for her the foundations of life had been shaken to their center. Her friends tried in vain to break up her unnatural calm. "If you would only have a good cry, Evadne," Geoffrey Chittenden said at last, "you would feel better, dear. That is what all girls do, you know." She turned upon him a pair of solemn eyes, out of which the merry sparkle had faded. "Will crying give me back my father?" "'The law of progression,'" she said with a dreary laugh. "I wish the world would stop for good!" When the clergyman came she met him quietly, and he found himself not a little disconcerted by the steady gaze of the mournful grey eyes. He was not accustomed to dealing with such wordless grief, and he found his favorite phrases sadly inadequate to the occasion. There was an awkward pause. "Dr. Danvers says your father told him some time ago that, in the event of his death, he wished you to make your home with your uncle in America?" he said at length. "Well, my dear young lady, you will find it in all respects a most desirable home, I feel confident. Judge Hildreth holds a position of great trust in the church, and is universally esteemed as a Christian gentleman of sterling character." The grey eyes were lifted to his face. "Shall I find Jesus Christ there?" "Jesus Christ?" The clergyman echoed her words with a start. "I beg your pardon, my dear. The Lord sitteth upon his throne in the heavens. We must approach him reverently, with humble fear." "That seems a long way off," said Evadne in a disappointed tone. "There must be some mistake. My father told me to make it the business of my life to find him." "Your father, my dear! Oh, ah, ahem!" An indignant flash leaped into the grey eyes. Evadne rose and faced him. "You must excuse me, sir," she said quietly. Then she left the room. "Your Uncle Lenox is dead," he said briefly, as the girls plied him with questions. "Dead!" Mrs. Hildreth's voice broke the hush which had fallen in the room. "Why, Lawrence, this is very sudden! We have looked upon Lenox as being perfectly well." "And what will become of Evadne?" Again Mrs. Hildreth's voice broke the silence. "Hardly a child, mamma," pouted Marion. "Evadne must be as old as I." Isabelle tossed her head. "I am not anxious for the opportunity," she said coldly. "Likely the child will be a perfect heathen after running wild among savages all her life." Louis whistled. "A little less Grundy and a little more geography would be to your advantage, Isabelle! Barbadoes happens to be the creme de la creme of the British Indies. I would not advise you to display your ignorance before Evadne, or your future lecturettes on the conventionalities may prove lacking in vital force." "When, did she die, mamma?" asked Marion. "The house of Hildreth cannot claim to be well posted in the matter of blood relations," said Louis carelessly, as he helped himself to olives. "My dear, you have a great sorrow?" she said gently. "I hope you have the consolations of our holy religion to help you bear it." Evadne turned towards her eagerly. Her husband was the head of the church. Surely _she_ would know. "Can you help me to find him?" she asked abruptly. "Find whom, my dear? Have you a friend among the passengers?" Evadne smiled drearily. "Oh, yes, I am terribly in earnest. My father said I was to make it the business of my life." "Oh, ah, yes, to be sure," said the lady a trifle absently. "That is very proper. Christianity should be the great purpose of our life." "I do not want Christianity," said Evadne impatiently, "I want Christ." "Do you believe in him?" asked Evadne, interrupting her. Aghast, the Bishop's lady crossed herself and began repeating the Apostles' Creed. "That makes him seem so far away," said Evadne sadly. "I do not want him in heaven if I have to live upon earth. Have _you_ found him?" she asked eagerly. "Are you on intimate terms with him? Is he your friend?" The Bishop's lady gasped for breath. That she, a member of the Church of the Holy Communion of All Saints should be interrogated in such a fashion as this! "I think you do not quite understand," she said coldly. "I will lend you a treatise on Church Doctrine. You had better study that." "Charlotte," said her husband when she reached her stateroom, "I have arrived at an important decision this afternoon. I have finally concluded to take the Socinian Heresy as my theme for the noon lectures. The subject will admit of elaborate treatment and afford ample scope for scholarship." "Heresy!" echoed his wife, who had not yet recovered her equanimity; "why, Bertram, I have just been talking to a young person who asked me if I was on intimate terms with Jesus Christ!" "Ah, yes," said the Bishop absently, "the radical tendencies of the present day are to be deplored. Have you seen that my vestments are in order, Charlotte? I shall hold Divine service on board to-morrow." In a neighboring stateroom a lonely soul, bewildered and despairing, struggled through the darkness towards the light. The last snow of the winter lay in soft beauty upon the streets of Marlborough as Evadne's train drew into the railway station. Instantly all was bustle and confusion throughout the cars. Evadne shrank back in her seat and waited. Instinctively she felt that for her there would be no joyous welcome. Inexpressibly dreary as the journey had been she was sorry it was at an end. An overwhelming embarrassment of shyness seized upon her, and the chill desolation of loneliness seemed to shut down about her like a cloud. A young man sauntered past her with his hands in his pockets. When he reached the end of the car he turned and surveyed the passengers leisurely, then he came back to her seat. He lifted his hat with lazy politeness. "Miss Hildreth, I believe?" Evadne bowed. He shook hands coolly. "I have the honor of introducing myself as your cousin Louis." He made no attempt to give her a warmer greeting, and Evadne was glad, but how dreary it was! Louis led the way out of the station to where a pair of magnificent horses stood, tossing their regal heads impatiently. A coachman stood beside them, clad in fur. "Pompey," he said, "this is Miss Evadne Hildreth from Barbadoes." The man bent his head low over the little hand which was instantly stretched out to him. "I'se very glad to see Miss 'Vadney," he said with simple fervor. "I was powerful fond of Mass Lennux;" and Evadne felt she had received her warmest welcome. She nestled down among the soft robes of the sleigh while the silver bells rang merrily through the frosty air. It was all so new and strange. A leaden weight seemed to be settling down upon her heart and she felt as if she were choking, but she threw it off. She dared not let herself think. She began to talk rapidly. "What splendid horses you have! Surely they must be thoroughbreds? No ordinary horses could ever hold their heads like that." Louis nodded. "You have a quick eye," he said approvingly. "Most girls would not know a thoroughbred from a draught horse. You have hit upon the surest way to get into my father's good graces. His horses are his hobby." "What are their names?" "Brutus and Caesar. The Judge is nothing if not classical." As they mounted the front steps the faint notes of a guitar sounded from the front room. "Confound Isabelle and her eternal twanging!" muttered Louis, as he fumbled for his latch-key. "It would be a more orthodox welcome if you found your relations waiting for you with open arms, but the Hildreth family is not given to gush. Isabelle will tell you it is not good form. So we keep our emotions hermetically sealed and stowed away under decorous lock and key, polite society having found them inconvenient things to handle, partaking of the nature of nitroglycerine, you know, and liable to spontaneous combustion." He opened the door as he spoke and Evadne followed him into the hall. She shivered, although a warm breath of heated air fanned her cheek. The atmosphere was chilly. Marion, hurried forward to greet her, followed more leisurely by Isabelle and her mother, who touched her lips lightly to her forehead. "Where is the Judge?" inquired Louis. "Detained again at the office. He has just telephoned not to wait for him. He is killing himself with overwork." To Evadne the dinner seemed interminable and she found herself contrasting the stiff formality with the genial hospitality of her father's table. She saw again the softly lighted room with its open windows through which the flowers peeped, and heard his gay badinage and his low, sweet laugh. Could she be the same Evadne, or was it all a dream? Isabelle started. "My goodness, Evadne, what a strange question! You took my breath away." "Is it a strange question?" she asked wistfully. "Everyone seems to think so, and yet--my father said I was to make it the business of my life to find him." Instantly a pair of small hands were held like a vice against her lips. Isabelle threw them off angrily. "You are polite, I must say! Is this a specimen of West Indian manners?" "You were going to say something I could not hear," said Evadne quietly, "there was nothing else to do." Isabelle left the room, and, returning, threw a book carelessly upon the table. "You had better study that," she said. "It will answer your questions better than I can." A day full of light--warm and brilliant. The sun flooding the wide fields of timothy and clover and fresh young grain with glory; falling with a soft radiance upon the comfortable mansion of the master of Hollywood Farm, with its spacious barns and long stretches of stabling, and throwing loving glances among the leaves of its deep belt of woodland where the river sparkled and soft rugs of moss spread their rich luxuriance over an aesthetic carpet of resinous pine needles. Near the limits of Hollywood the forest made a sudden curve to the right, and the river, turned from its course, rushed, laughing and eager, over a ridge of rocks which tossed it in the air in sheets of silver spray. He began to speak, and his voice fell clear and distinct through the silence. "And you call this sport?" There was no answer save the soft gurgle of the river as it splashed merrily over the stones. "You are a brute, John Randolph!" And the wind sighed a plaintive echo among the trees. "It is the privilege of everyone to become an exact copy of Jesus Christ." "Well, John Randolph, can you picture to yourself Jesus Christ shooting a squirrel for sport?" He tossed aside the weapon he had been leaning upon with a gesture of disgust, and, folding his arms, looked up at the cloud-flecked sky. Stooping suddenly he laid the squirrel upon his open palm and gently stroked the long, silky fur. He lifted the tiny paws with their perfect equipment for service and looked remorsefully at the eyes whose light was dimmed, and the mouth which had forever ceased its merry chatter. A great tenderness sprang up in his heart toward all living things and, lifting his right hand to heaven, he exclaimed, "Poor little squirrel, I cannot give you back your happy life, but, I will never take another!" Then he knelt, and scooping out a grave, laid the little creature to rest at the foot of a tree in whose trunk the remnant of its winter store of nuts was carefully garnered. When at length he turned to leave the spot the tiny grave was marked by a pine slab, on which was pencilled, He walked slowly along the fragrant wood-path, looking thoughtfully at the shadows as they played hide and seek upon the moss, while through the trees he caught glimpses of the sparkling river which sang as it rolled along. When he reached the border of the woodland he stood still and his eyes swept over the landscape. Hollywood was the finest stock farm in the country. After his father's death he had come, a little lad, to live with Mr. Hawthorne, and every year which had elapsed since then made it grow more dear. He loved its rolling meadows, its breezy pastures and its fragrant orchards. Its beautifully kept grounds and outbuildings appealed to his innate sense of the fitness of things, while its air of abundant comfort made it difficult to realize that the world was full of hunger and woe. He loved the green road where the wild roses blushed and the honeysuckle drooped its fragrant petals, but most of all he loved the graceful horses and sleek cows which just now were grazing in the fields on either side; and the shy creatures, with the subtle instinct by which all animals test the quality of human friendship, took him into their confidence and came gladly at his call and did his bidding. When he reached the end of the road he stopped again, and, leaning against the fence adjoining the broad gate which led to the house, gave a low whistle. A thoroughbred Jersey, feeding some distance away, lifted her head and listened. Again he whistled, and with soft, slow tread the cow came towards him and rubbed her nose against his arm. He took her head between his hands, her clover-laden breath fanning his cheeks, and looked at the dark muzzle and the large eyes, almost human in their tenderness. He vaulted over the gate, and whistling to a fine collie who came bounding to meet him, walked slowly on towards the stables. John Randolph looked indignantly at the handsome horse, as he stood with drooping head and wide distended nostrils, while the white foam dripped over his delicate legs. "Serve you right if there were!" and his voice was full of scorn. "You're about as fit to handle horseflesh as an Esquimaux." "Oh, pish! You're a regular old grandmother, John. There's nothing to make such a row about." And Reginald Hawthorne turned upon his heel. John threw off coat and vest, and, rolling up his sleeves, led the exhausted horse to the currying ground. Reginald followed slowly, his hands in his pockets. "How did you get him into such a mess?" he asked shortly. "I don't know, I didn't do anything to him," and Reginald kicked the gravel discontentedly. "I believe he's getting lazy." "Sultan lazy!" and John laughed incredulously. "That's a good joke! Why, he is the freest horse on the place!" "Why, John, what has come to you? You're the last fellow in the world to want me to be churlish." "Well for you he didn't," and John smoothed the delicate limbs with his firm hand, "these knees are too pretty for a scar. Go into the vet room, Rege, and bring me out a roll of bandage." "Hulloa! That will give me away to the governor with a vengeance! What are you going to bandage him for?" "He is badly strained, and if I don't his legs will be all puffed by the morning. It will be lucky if it is nothing worse. He looks to me as if he was in for a touch of distemper, but I'll give him a powder and perhaps we can stave it off." Reginald wrenched himself free. "Pshaw!" he said contemptuously, "it's only a beetle." But he did as he was told. Then he stood silently watching as with swift skilfulness John swathed the horse's limbs in flannel. "I guess Sultan misses you, John. Over at the college livery their fingers are all thumbs." "Poor Sultan!" was all John's answer, as he led the horse into a large paddock thickly strewn with fresh straw. A night full of stars--silent and sweet. John Randolph leaned on the broad gate which opened into the green road where he had lingered in the afternoon. The thoughts which surged through his brain made sleep impossible, and so, lighting his bull's-eye, he had gone to the stables to see how Sultan was faring, and then wandered on under the mystery of the stars. The night was warm. A breeze heavy with perfume lifted the hair from his brow. He heard the low breathing of the cattle as they dozed in the fields on either side, and the soft whirr of downy plumage as the great owl which had built its nest among the eaves of the new barn flew past him. Suddenly a warm nose was thrust against his shoulder and, with the assurance of a spoilt beauty, the cow laid her head upon his arm. He lifted his other hand and stroked it gently. "'I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.' "'The light of life,'" he repeated slowly. "Why, to most people life seems all darkness! What is 'the light of life'?" A great light flooded John Randolph's soul. "'I' and 'me,'" he whispered. "Why, it is a personality. It is Jesus himself! He is the way to the kingdom, the truth of the kingdom and the life of it. The kingdom of heaven, not far away in space, but set up here and now in the hearts of men who live the life hid with Christ in God. I see it all! Jesus Christ is the light of the life which God gives us through his Son." He stretched his hands up towards the glistening sky. "Jesus Christ," he cried eagerly, "come into my life and make it light. I take thee for my Master, my Friend. I give myself away to thee. I will follow wherever thou dost lead. Jesus Christ, help me to grow like thee!" The hush of a great peace fell upon his soul, while through the listening night an angel stooped and traced upon his brow the kingly motto, 'Ich Dien.' "Don, Don, me's tumin'," and the baby of the farm, a little child with sunny curls and laughing eyes, ran past the great barns of Hollywood. John Randolph was swinging along the green road with a bridle over his arm, whistling softly. He turned as the childish voice was borne to him on the breeze. "All right, Nansie, wait for me at the gate." Then he sprang over the fence and crossed the field to where a group of horses were feeding. The child climbed up on the gate beside a saddle which John had placed there and waited patiently. He soon came back, leading a magnificent bay horse, and began to adjust the saddle. "Now, Nan, I'll give you a ride to the house. Can't go any further to-day, for I have to cross the river." The child shook her head confidently. "Me 'll go too, Don." "I'm afraid not, Nan. The river is so deep, we'll have to swim for it. That is why I chose Neptune, you see." "Me's not 'fraid, wiv 'oo, Don." "Better wait, Baby, till the river is low. Well, come along then," as the wily schemer drew down her pretty lips into the aggrieved curve which always conquered his big, soft heart. She clapped her hands with glee, as he lifted her in front of him and started Neptune into a brisk trot, and made a bridle for herself out of the horse's silky mane. "Gee, gee, Nepshun. Nan loves you, dear." "Are you afraid, Nansie?" She twined her arms more tightly about his neck until the sunny curls brushed his cheek. "Me'll do anywhere, wiv 'oo, Don." Just as the gallant horse reached the opposite bank Reginald galloped down to the ford on his way home for Sunday. "Upon my word, John, you're a perfect slave to that youngster! What mad thing will you be doing next, I wonder?" "The next thing will be to go back again," said John with a smile, while Nan clung fast to his neck and peeped shyly through her curls at her brother. "Where are you off to?" Reginald turned his horse's head. "I might as well go along. A man's a fool to ride alone when he can have company." John gave him a swift, comprehensive glance. "How are things going, Rege? You're not looking very fit." Reginald yawned and drew his hand across his heavy eyes. "Oh, all right. Oyster suppers and that sort of thing are apt to make a fellow drowsy." "Don't go too fast, Rege." "Why not?" said Reginald carelessly. "It suits the governor, and that book you're so fond of says children should obey their parents." "I declare, John, you're a regular algebraic puzzle!" he exclaimed later in the day, as he stood beside John in the carpenter's shop, watching the curling strips of wood which his plane was tossing off with sweeping strokes. "You put all there is of you into everything you do. You take as much pains over a plough handle as you would over a buggy!" "Why not? God takes as much pains with a humming-bird as an elephant. Mere size doesn't count." "Nan loves you, Reggie," and a tiny hand was slipped shyly into her brother's. "All right, Magpie," he said carelessly. "You had better run home now to mother. Your chatter makes my head ache." The laughing lips quivered and the child turned away from him to John and hid her face against his knee. He lifted her up on the bench beside him and gave her a handful of shavings to play with. "I _do_ love it, Rege. Jesus Christ was a carpenter, you know. I get very near to him out here." "Jesus Christ!" echoed Reginald with a puzzled stare. "What is coming to you, John?" "It has come, Rege," John said with a great light in his face. "I have found my Master." "Upon my word, John, you are the queerest fellow! What next, I wonder?" "The next thing, Rege," and John laid his hand affectionately upon his friend's shoulder, "is for you to find him too." "Don't believe it. How can life be worth living when you're drivelling psalm tunes all day long?" John laughed, and there was a new note of gladness in his voice which Reginald was quick to notice. "I haven't begun to drivel yet, Rege; and life counts for a good deal more when a man has an object than when he is living just to please himself." "And who should a man please but himself, I should like to know?" "Upon my word!" said Reginald some weeks later, as he came upon John sitting astride a cobbler's bench busily mending a pair of shoes, while Nan looked on admiringly. "Do you learn a new trade every month?" There was a quizzical look about his mouth as he spoke. Reginald caught the look and answered hotly. "The governor ought to be ashamed of himself! Why don't you strike, John?" "Why should I? Knowledge is power, Rege." "Never can tell," said John sententiously. "You remember that lame fellow saved a battle for us by knowing how to shoe the general's horse." "Next thing you'll be going in for a blacksmith's diploma!" "I'm thinking of it," said John coolly. "That fellow at the Forks has no more sense than a hen. He pared so much off Neptune's hoof last week that he has been limping ever since. I had to take him this morning and have the shoes removed." "I wish you'd do some shirking, John, like the rest of us." "Jesus Christ never shirked, Rege." "Pshaw! You're so ridiculous!" and Reginald walked discontentedly away. John's face flushed. This boy was younger than himself, and his father had been Mr. Hawthorne's friend. "Do you hear what I say, John?" demanded Reginald. "You're only here as a servant any way, and I'll be master some day, so you might as well learn to obey me now." "All right," he said quietly, and started for the field. "I declare!" muttered Reginald, as he watched the tall, lithe form cross the field with springing step, "you might as well try to make the fellow mad now, as to storm Gibraltar! What has come to him?" "Here you are, Sir Reginald," said John good-humoredly, as he led the freshly groomed horse to the riding-block. Reginald's voice choked. "Shake hands, John," he said huskily. "I am a brute! There must be something in this new fad of yours after all. If you had spoken to me as I did to you just now, I should have knocked you down." "Sultan, old boy, we seem down on our luck this morning. We had better take a speeder to raise our spirits. It is hardly the thing for Judge Hawthorne of Hollywood to envy John Randolph his humdrum life of mending rakes and shoes," and he urged his horse into a mad gallop. "Yes," said John simply, "Jesus Christ was poor." "Look here, John. If you don't stop that nonsense, people will be dubbing you a crank." "I am ready!" he cried, and there was a strange, exulting ring in his voice. "They called him mad, you know." It had been decided that after the summer holidays, she should become a member of the fashionable school which Isabelle and Marion attended. In the meantime she was left almost entirely to her own devices. Her uncle was away all day, Louis at College, and her aunt busy with social duties. Her cousins had their own particular friends, who were not slow to vote the silent girl with the mournful grey eyes, full of dumb questioning, a bore; while Evadne, accustomed to being her father's companion in all his scientific researches, found their vapid chatter wearisome in the extreme. Horses were a passion with her, and she noted with pleased interest Pompey's deft manipulations. She stood for a long time in silence. Pompey had saluted her respectfully then kept on steadily with his work. Dexterously he swept the curry-comb over the shining coats and then drew it through the brush in his left hand with a curious vocal accompaniment, something between a long-drawn whistle and a sigh, and the horses laid their heads against his shoulder affectionately and looked wonderingly at the stranger out of their large, bright eyes. "Did you really know my father?" she asked at length. "Were these the horses my father used to ride?" "Laws, no, Missy. Dey wuz ez black ez night. Mass Lennux use ter call 'em Egyp an' Erybus." Pompey's face softened. Evadne's eyes shone. That was just like her father! "'Specs little Miss is powerful lonesum 'thout Mass Lennux?" The soft voice was full of a genuine regret. Evadne sank down on a bench which stood near by and burst into tears. "Oh, Pompey, I wish I could die!" "'Specs little Miss hez no call ter wish dat," said Pompey gently. "'Specs de Lord Jesus wants her to live fer him." Evadne opened her eyes in wonder. "'The Lord Jesus,'" she repeated. "Why, Pompey, do you know him?" A great joy transfigured the black face. "He is my Frien'," he said simply. Evadne leaned forward eagerly. "Oh, Pompey, if that is true, then you can help me find him." Pompey smiled joyously. "Miss 'Vadney don't need ter go far away fer dat. He is right here." "Here!" echoed Evadne faintly. "Lo, I am wid you all de days'" Pompey repeated softly. "De Lord Jesus don't leave no gaps in his promises, Miss 'Vadney. He's allers wid me wherever I is workin', an' when I is up on my box a drivin' troo de streets, he's dere. He's wid me continuous. Dere's nuthin can seprate Pompey from de Lord," he added with a sweet reverence. "How can you be so sure?" she asked wistfully. "I hez his word, Missy. You allers b'lieved your father? 'I will not leave you orphuns, I will cum ter you.' I 'specs dat verse is meant speshully fer you, Miss 'Vadney." "But we can't see him," said Evadne. "Only wid de eye of faith, Missy. We trusts our friens in de dark. You didn't need ter see your father ter know he wuz in de house?" "Oh, no!" Evadne's voice trembled. "It's jes' de same wid my Father, Miss 'Vadney." "How can you call God so, Pompey?" A great sweetness came over the homely face. "I don't know where to look for him!" Evadne cried disconsolately. Pompey laid aside his curry-comb and brush and folded his toil-worn hands. "Lord Jesus," he said quietly, "here is thy little lamb. She's out in de dark mountain, an' she's lonesum an' hungry, an' de col' rain of sorrow is beatin' on her head. Lord, thou is de good Shepherd. Let her hear thy voice a callin' her. Carry this little lamb in thy bosom an' giv her de joy of thy love." Judge Hildreth sat in his library far into the night. He was reading for the twentieth time the letter which Evadne had placed in his hands the morning after her arrival, and as he read, he frowned. "It is ridiculous, absurd!" he exclaimed impatiently. "Just of a piece with all of Len's quixotic theories. By what possible chance could a child of that age know how to manage money? She would make ducks and drakes of the whole business in less than a year!" A letter addressed to Evadne lay upon the pile of age-worn papers in an open drawer at his side. "I enclose herewith a letter to Evadne," his brother had written, "giving full and minute explanations as to her best course in the matter. These she will follow implicitly, under your supervision, and I feel confident the result will be a well-developed character along the lines on which women, through no fault of their own, are so lamentably deficient, namely, the proper conduct of business and management of money." Judge Hildreth looked again at the envelope with its clear, bold address. "That is not the handwriting of a fool," he muttered. "I wish I could make up my mind what to do." "It is not a question to be decided by your judgment. There is no other course left open to you." Mockingly the other answered. "It is a most unprecedented proceeding. You should have been appointed her guardian, with sole control." "It is your brother's last will and testament." "It is the only honorable thing to do." "It is unnecessary. The child need not know, and, if she did, would thank you for saving her from care." "It is your brother's money. He had a right to do as he will with his own." "If he had known to what straits this year's speculations have brought you, he would be glad to give you a lift. If you do not have money now what are you going to do? This has come just in time, for you know your credit is already strained to its utmost." "Your niece will be anxious to have your advice as to profitable investments. You can borrow the money from her." "That would be awkward, in case the bottom fell out of the mine. A little capital in hand would give you a chance to water the Panhattan stock and develop a new lead in the Silverwing." "If you use money that does not belong to you, you will be a thief!" "What right had you to put yourself in the way of ruin?" "You did it to advance the interests of your family. The Bible says, 'If any provide not for his own, especially his own kindred, he is worse than an infidel.'[Footnote: Marginal rendering A. V.]" "If you do this thing you will be dishonored in the sight of God." "If you do not save yourself from this temporary embarrassment, you will be disgraced in the eyes of the world. You owe it to your position in society, and the church, to keep above the waves." The listening spirits heard a low, malicious laugh of triumph and the white-robed angel turned sadly away. Sometimes she would sit for hours with the stately cat upon her knee, thinking, thinking, thinking, while Pompey sang his favorite hymns about his work and the mellow strains floated up the stairway and soothed her lonely heart. His childlike faith became to her a tower of refuge, and often, when bewildered by life's inconsistencies, she felt as if the eternal realities were vanishing into mist, she was calmed and comforted by his happy trust. "Christ was born in a stable, Isabelle." "What in the world has that to do with you?" "I am beginning to think he has everything to do with me," answered her cousin quietly. "Well," said Isabelle with a toss of her head, "we are known by the company we keep. I should imagine Pompey's curriculum of manners was not on a very elevated plane." "Pompey! Isabelle," said Judge Hildreth suddenly. "Why, my dear, Pompey is a modern Socrates, bound in ebony. There is no danger to be apprehended from him." "Well, it is a peculiar companionship for Judge Hildreth's niece, that is all I have to say," said Isabelle coldly, "but _chacun a son gout_." "Really, Evadne, we shall have to send you to live with Doctor Jerome!" said her aunt, with a careless laugh. "You are getting to be a regular interrogation point. We are not Bible commentators, child, you cannot expect us to explain all the difficult passages. "The Embroidery Club meets here tomorrow, Evadne," exclaimed Marion, "and I don't believe you have touched your table scarf since they were here before. What will Celeste Follingsby think? She works so rapidly, and her drawn work is a perfect poem." "No, I have not," confessed Evadne. "It seems such silly work, to draw threads apart and then sew them together again." Isabelle elevated her eyebrows with a look of horror. Louis laughed. "She's a hopeless case, Isabelle. You'll never convert her into an elegant trifler. You might as well throw up the contract." "It seems to me, Evadne," said his sister icily, "that you might have a little regard for the decorums of society. Don't, I beg of you, give utterance to such heresies before the girls. And I wish you would not call it _my_ Bible. I did not make it." "That is quite true, Evadne," said Louis gravely. "If she had, there would have been a good deal left out." Isabella shot an angry glance at him but made no remark. Her brother's sarcasms were always received in silence. "Wings, Isabelle! What in the world are you up to now?" "A Butterfly Social, Papa. We must raise money in some way. The church is frightfully in debt." "That is a deplorable fact, but I did not know butterflies were famed as financiers." "Oh, of course it is just for the novelty of the thing. The last social we had was a Mother Goose, and we have had Brownie suppers and Pink teas and everything else we could think of. We must have something to attract, you know." "I wonder if it really pays?" ventured Marion. "It never seems to me there is much left, after you deduct the cost of the preparation. People might as well give the money outright. It would save them a world of trouble." "Why, you silly child, it is to promote sociability in the church. As to the trouble, of course we do not count that. We must expect to make sacrifices." "But they do not make the church any more sociable," said Marion boldly, who, having struck for freedom of thought, was following up her advantage. "The same people take part every time and the others are left outside." "Nonsense!" said Isabelle hotly. "It is only those who cannot afford to take part, and think what a treat it is for them to look on!" "I don't believe they find the looking on such fun as you think," said Marion, who was astonished at herself. "Suppose you try if they wouldn't like to take part and offer your place in the Cantata to Jemima Dobbs." "Well done, Sis!" and Louis applauded softly. "It is a most unaccountable thing, Lawrence," said Mrs. Hildreth, "why the church should be so heavily encumbered. I am sure you contribute handsomely and the pew rents are high. There is always a large congregation. I cannot understand." "It is largely composed of transients though, my dear, and they never carry more than a nickel in their pockets, so the weight of the burden falls upon a few. The expenses are very heavy. Jerome wants to make it the most popular church in the city, and the new quartette proves an extravagant luxury." "Well," said Isabelle, "I don't think there is any doubt that Doctor Jerome is the most popular preacher in the city. He is going to preach next Sunday on the moral progress of social sciences, and next month he commences his series of sermons on the social problems of the day. He does take such an interest in sociology." "But why doesn't he preach Jesus Christ?" asked Evadne wonderingly. "You will get to be a regular fanatic, Evadne, if you ring the changes on that subject so often. Doctor Jerome says he wants his people to have an intelligent idea of the progress of events. Of course everyone understands the Bible. "I do think he is the loveliest man!" she continued rapturously, "he is so sympathetic; and Celeste Follingsby says he is 'perfectly heavenly in affliction.' Her little sister died last week, you know. It is so awkward that it should have happened just now. She will not be able to take any part in the Cantata, and she had the sweetest dress!" "Very ill-timed of Providence!" said Louis gravely. "What a pity it is, Isabelle, that you couldn't have the regulation of affairs." He yawned and strolled lazily towards the fireplace. When he looked round again, Evadne was the only other occupant of the room. "Well, coz, what do you think of the situation? I belong to the worldlings, of course, but I confess the idea of Jesus Christ at a Butterfly Social is tremendously incongruous. We have the best of it, Evadne, for we live up to our theories. Give it up, coz. You'll find it a hopeless task to make the Bible and modern Christianity agree." He looked at his watch. "I say, Evadne, Jefferson is playing at the Metropolitan in Richard III. to-night. Let us go and hear him." And Evadne went, and enjoyed it immensely. Evadne gave a glad assent. After her beautiful tropical life, it seemed to her as if she should choke, shut away from the wide expanse of sky which she loved, among monotonous rows of houses and dingy streets. As they left the city behind them and the road swept out into the open, she gave a long sigh of delight. Her uncle laughed. "Well, Evadne, does it please you?" "So you don't take kindly to Marlborough? Well, I suppose it is a rude awakening from your sunny land, but you will get used to it. We grow accustomed to all life's disagreeable surprises as time rolls on." Evadne shivered. "I do not think I shall ever grow accustomed to it, Uncle Lawrence." "Ah, you are young. We grow wiser as our hair turns grey." "If that is wisdom, I do not care to grow wise." "Not grow wise, Evadne!" said her uncle quizzically. "In this age, when women claim a surplusage of all the brain power bestowed upon the race! What will you do when you have to attend to business?" "Business," echoed Evadne, "I have never thought about it, Uncle Lawrence." "No turn for dollars and cents, eh? Did your father never consult you about his affairs?" Evadne's lip quivered. "Oh, yes," she said, and her words were a cry of pain, "he consulted me about everything, but I do not think there was ever any mention of money. Does money constitute business, Uncle Lawrence?" Evadne turned her head away and clenched her hands tightly as the flood of bitter-sweet memories threatened to engulf her. "Papa always went with me," she said slowly, "whatever he liked I chose." When they reached Hollywood, where Judge Hildreth had business with Mr. Hawthorne, Evadne was in an ecstasy of silent rapture. She had never dreamed what a New England farm might be. Its varied beauty, clad in the dazzling robes of early summer, came upon her with the suddenness of a revelation. She begged to be allowed to wait for her uncle out of doors, and wandered slowly on past the great barns to where the wide gate stretched across the green road. When she reached it she stopped and looked with keen delight at the beautiful creatures in the fields on either side. The sunshine fell upon her with loving warmth; in the distance she could hear the whirr of a mowing machine and the shouts of the men at work. A magnificent young horse thrust his head familiarly over the fence near by, and under the shade of a great tree Primrose, with her graceful calf beside her, was lazily chewing her cud. Everything spoke of contentment and comfort and peace. An unutterable longing seized upon the lonely girl. Here at least she would have God's creatures to love, and his woods and the sky! She laid her head down upon the gate with a smothered cry. Startled by the sweet, baby voice, Evadne looked up to find a pair of laughing blue eyes peeping sympathetically at her. The sun-bonnet had fallen back and the golden curls were tossed in luxurious confusion over the little head. Evadne caught the child in her arms. "You little darling!" "Yes, me is," said the child, resting contentedly within Evadne's embrace, as if, with the mysterious telepathy of childhood, she recognized a spiritual affinity which she was bound to help. "Me's very nice. Don says so." "And who is Don?" asked Evadne. "Halloo, Nansie!" Evadne heard his cheery greeting, saw him stoop and lift the child on to the horse's back, and was so interested in the pretty scene that she forgot she was a stranger. When she came to herself with a start the little cavalcade had reached the gate and John Randolph stood before her with his hat in his hand. Evadne bowed. "It is so beautiful!" she said. "I have been waiting for my uncle and lost myself among the harmonies of Nature." John Randolph's eyes lightened. "It is God's world," he answered with a sweet reverence. Evadne looked full into the shining face. "Do you know Jesus Christ?" she asked impulsively. The face softened into a great tenderness. "He is my King." "And do you love him?" "With all there is of me." A servant came just then to say the Judge was waiting. "Life!" he said, and there was a strange, exultant ring in his voice. "Life is a beautiful possibility." Instinctively Evadne held out her hand to John. Spiritual ethics laugh at the conventionalities of time. "Good-bye," she said, "and thank you." "It fits her," he said to himself. "There's a sweet elusiveness about her. She makes me think of a bird. She'll let you come just so far, until she gets to trust you, and then you'll have all her sweetness." He drew a long breath which was strangely like a sigh, and, folding the handkerchief carefully, put it in his pocket. "Oh, it is that doleful algebra," sighed Marion. "It is utterly impossible for me to get it into my head, and Dorothy takes to it like a duck to water, and she is a born teacher. Madame Castle says her aptitude for imparting knowledge amounts to genius. You must allow it was kind of her, Isabelle." Isabelle shrugged her shoulders. "Self-interested, most likely. That sort of people would do anything to obtain a foothold." "Oh, Isabelle!" cried Evadne. "Do have a little faith in your fellow-man! Why should you set yourself up on a pinnacle and despise everyone who is poor, when the father of us all hoed for a living?" "Louis, I do wish you would not be so radical!" Isabelle said, peevishly. "You must admit there is such a thing as culture and refinement." "Certainly I admit it. The only thing I object to is that you talk as if you possessed a monopoly of the article, whereas I hold that it is just a question of environment. It is no thanks to you that you were not born a Hottentot or a Choctaw. Give yourself the same ancestors and surroundings as your chimney-sweep and wherein would you be superior to him? And when it comes to ancestry, by the way, probably Miss Bruce can trace back to some of the grand old Highland chiefs who covered themselves with glory long before the lineage of Hildreth had emerged from obscurity." "I don't know anyone who likes to choose his company better than you!" observed Isabelle sarcastically. "That is all very well," said Isabelle, "but I believe the instinct of culture will be dormant somewhere." "Then why do you not recognize it in your chimney-sweep? For all you know he may be the descendant of some impecunious sire of a lordly house. Probably plenty of them are." Louis rose and tossed the paper carelessly to his mother, who had been an amused listener to the discussion. It never occurred to him to do so before. What did women want to know about politics or the turf? "Jesus Christ never seemed to care about externals," said Evadne softly. "He chose his friends among the common people." "For pity's sake, Evadne!" cried Isabelle. "When will you learn that the Bible is not to be taken literally?" "Not to be taken literally!" echoed Evadne in wonderment. "How is it to be taken then?" "Isabelle means that we have to make allowances," said her aunt. "Christ could do a great many things that you cannot." Evadne was silent, while the words of Jesus kept ringing in her ears: "For I have given you an example, that ye also should do as I have done to you." If only she could understand! "By the way, Evadne," said Mrs. Hildreth, "I beg you will not repeat your mistake of yesterday." "Bringing such a disreputable character into the house. When I came in and found her sitting in the hall and you talking to her I was perfectly paralyzed. Horrible! Why her rags were abominable, and her feet were bare!" "But she had no shoes, Aunt Kate, and she was just my height. I was so glad that my clothes would fit her." "A pretty thing to have your clothes paraded through the streets by such a creature! Most likely she would pawn them for gin. I am sure she was an improper character." "But, Aunt Kate," pleaded Evadne, "Jesus Christ says we must clothe the naked and feed the hungry if we would be his followers. I must do as he tells me for I am going to follow him." "Your uncle does enough of that for the family," said her aunt coldly. "I do not wish you to try any such experiments again." Puzzled and chilled, Evadne left the room. Was obeying the commands of Christ only an "experiment" after all? She crept up to her favorite retreat and threw herself upon her gayly covered couch. "Oh, Jesus Christ!" she cried passionately, "I am _glad_ I did not live in Galilee when you were there! Aunt Kate and Isabelle would have thought it bad form for me to follow you in the crowd where the sinners were. But they can't keep me from doing so now! She buried her head in her hands while wave after wave of desolation broke over the lonely soul. "A beautiful possibility" her knight of the gate had said. Could life become that to her? The rich vibrations rolled up and trembled about her. She held out her arms and her voice broke in a cry of triumphant faith, "Yes, we _shall_ meet, Lord Jesus, face to face!" The black face beamed with satisfaction. "Dyee'll be mighty uplifted, Miss 'Vadney. She think a powerful sight o' Mass Lennux." Evadne stood watching him as he gave finishing touches to the silver mountings of the handsome harness. "I don't believe there is another harness in Marlborough that shines like yours, Pompey," she said with a laugh. "You are as particular with it as though every day was a special occasion." "So 'tis, Miss 'Vadney," said Pompey simply. "Can't slight nuthin' when de Lord's lookin' on. Whoa, Brutis! Dere's goin' ter be Holiness to de Lord written on de bells ob de horses bimeby, Missy. I'se got it writ dere now." "I believe you have, Pompey," said Evadne soberly, "for you do your work just as perfectly whether Uncle Lawrence is going to see it or not. It almost seems as if you were trying to please someone out of sight." Pompey drew himself up to his full height. "I'se a frien' ob de Lord Jesus, Miss 'Vadney. I'se got ter do everything perfect 'cause ob dat. Couldn't bring no disgrace on my Lord." "But would that disgrace him?" asked Evadne in wonderment. "That is lovely!" said Evadne softly. "But don't you get dreadfully tired doing the same work over and over? Every day you have to do exactly the same things. It is as bad as a tread-mill. You just keep on going round and round." "Why don't you blacken their hoofs, Pompey? They used to do it in Barbadoes." Pompey's eyes twinkled. "Dat's a no 'count livery notion, Miss 'Vadney, a coverin' up de cracks an' makin' de horse's hufs look better dan dey is. De King's chillens can't stoop ter any sech decepshuns. De Lord Jesus says, 'Pompey, I is de truff. You's got ter speak de truff an' live de truff ef you belongs ter me.' We ain't got no call ter cover up anything, Miss 'Vadney, ef we'se livin' ez de Lord wants us to. 'Sides, der ain't no 'cashun fer it. Ef we keeps de stable pure an' de food good an' gives de horse de right kind of exercise an' plenty of 'tention, de hufs will take care ob demselves," and he held Caesar's foot up for her inspection. "Halloo, Evadne, are you taking lessons in farriery? What's the matter, Pompey? Has Caesar got a sand crack?" and Louis sauntered up, the inevitable cigar between his lips. "I don't 'low my horses ever hez sech things, Mass Louis," said Pompey grandly. "Ha, ha! what a conceited old beggar you are. But I'll give the devil his due and acknowledge the horses are a credit to you." He held a dollar towards him balanced on his forefinger. "Here, take this and fill your pipe with it." "Don't want no pay fer doin' my dooty, Mass Louis." "Pshaw, man! Take a tip, can't you?" Pompey shook his head. "I don't smoke, Mass Louis." "You's mistaken, Mass Louis," said Pompey quietly. "'Pon my word! And why don't you smoke, Pomp? You don't know what you're missing. It is the greatest comfort on earth." "'Specs I don't need sech poor comfort, Mass Louis. I takes my comfort wid de Lord." Pompey's voice was low and sweet. Evadne felt her heart glow. "But come now, Pomp," persisted Louis, "that's all nonsense. You must have some reason for not smoking. Everybody does. Come, I insist on your telling me." Pompey was silent for a moment. "'The pure in heart shall see God,'" he said slowly. "I 'low, Mass Louis, de King's chillen's got ter be pure in body too."' Louis strode out of the coach-house. Evadne followed him, her eyes blazing. "You are a coward!" she cried passionately. "You would not have dared to do that to a man who could hit you back. You forced him to tell you and then struck him for doing it! If this is your culture and refinement, I despise it! I am going to be a Christian, like Pompey. That is grand!" "Well done, coz!" and Louis affected a laugh. "There's not much of the 'meek and lowly' in evidence just now at any rate." He looked after her as she walked away, her indignant tones still lingered in his ears. "By Jove! there's something to her though she is so quiet! I must cultivate the child." "Thank you, Missy. Walk right in, I'se proper glad ter see Mass Lennux's chile." "Why, how did you know me?" asked Evadne wonderingly. The woman laughed softly. "Laws, honey, you'se de livin' image of yer Pa." "I did not know anything could taste quite so good!" Evadne said when she had finished, "you must be a wonderful cook." Dyce laughed, well pleased. "When de Lord gives us everything in perfecshun, 'specs it would be terrible shifles' of me ter spoil it in de cookin', Miss 'Vadney." "The Lord," repeated Evadne. "You know him too, then? You must, if you live with Pompey." Dyce's face grew luminous. "He is my joy!" she said softly. "And does he make you happy all the time?" asked the girl wistfully. "You seem to have to work as hard as Pompey. What is it makes you so glad?" "Laws, honey, how kin I help bein' glad? De chile o' de King, on de way ter my Father's palace. Ain't dat enuff 'cashun ter keep a poor cullered woman rejoicin' all de day long? I'se so happy I'se a singin' all de time over my work, an' in de street; it don't matter where I be." "But you can't sing in the streets, Dyce!" "Laws, chile, don't yer know de heart kin sing when de lips is silent? It's de heart songs dat de King tinks de most of, but when de heart gits too full, den de lips hez ter do deir share." Evadne looked again at the exquisitely laundered dresses. "Why do you work so hard?" she asked. "Doesn't Pompey get enough to live on?" "Oh, yes, honey; de Jedge gives good wages; but yer see, we wants to do so much fer Jesus dat de wages don't hold out." "So much for Jesus!" "Why, yes, Missy. He says ef we loves him we'll do what he tells us, an' he's tol' us ter feed de hungry, an' clothe de naked, an' go preach de gospel. So, when we cum ter talk it ober, it seem drefful shifles' in me ter be doin' nothin' when de Lord worked night an' day, so I begun ter take in laundry work an' now we hev more money ter spen' on de Lord. But we never hez enuff. De worl's so full o' perishin' souls an' starvin' bodies. I tells Pompey I never wanted ter be rich till I began ter do de King's bizniss. It's drefful comfortin' work, Miss 'Vadney." "I don't see what you find to look so pleased about, Evadne," grumbled Isabelle, as they drove homeward. "For my part I think the whole thing was a fizzle." "I was thinking," said Evadne slowly, "of the power of a laugh." "Evadne will not be down," announced Marion the next morning as she entered the breakfast room. "She caught a dreadful cold at the concert yesterday and she can't lift her head from the pillow. Celestine thinks she is sickening for a fever." "It is no use, Mamma. She says she does not want anything." "But that is nonsense. The child must eat. If it is fever, she will need a nurse, and nurses always make such an upheaval in a house." "You had better go up, my dear, and see for yourself," said Judge Hildreth. "Celestine may be mistaken." "Oh, of course if there is the slightest danger, you and Marion will have to go to Madame Castle's to board," said her mother. "It is very provoking that Evadne should have chosen to be sick just now." "Not likely the poor girl had much choice in the matter," laughed Louis. "There are a few things, lady mother, over which the best of us have no control." Evadne's eyes were closed and she took no notice of her aunt's entrance. Mrs. Hildreth spoke to her and then left the room hurriedly to summon her husband. Even her unpractised eyes showed her that her niece was very ill. Pompey, waiting to drive the doctor home, caught the words, spoken as he descended the steps to enter the carriage, and came forward eagerly. "If you please, Missus," he said, touching his hat, "Dyce would come. She's hed a powerful sight of 'sperience nussin' fevers in New Orleans. She'd be proper glad ter tend Miss 'Vadney." So Dyce came, and into her sympathetic ears were poured the delirious ravings of the lonely heart which had been so suddenly torn from its genial surroundings of love and happiness and thrust into the chilling atmosphere of misunderstanding and neglect. Every day the patient grew weaker and after each visit the doctor looked graver. Mrs. Hildreth began to feel the gnawings of remorse, as she thought of the lonely girl to whom she had so coldly refused a daughter's place; and the Judge's thoughts grew unbearable as he remembered his broken trust; even Louis missed the earnest face which he had grown to watch with a curious sense of pleasure; while the girls at school felt their hearts grow warm as they thought of the young cousin so soon to pass through the valley of the shadow. "Dyce!" she cried softly. "I have found Jesus Christ!" Long days and nights of pain had followed, when John and Mrs. Hawthorne were at their wits' end to alleviate the sufferings of the unfortunate boy. Now the pain had resolved itself into a dull aching but Reginald would never walk without a crutch again. The mortification to his father was extreme. A passionate man, he had centred all his hopes upon his son, whose position in life he fondly expected to repay him for his years of unremitting toil, and this was the end of it all! He grew daily more overbearing and hard to please, and his ebullitions of disappointment and rage were terrible to witness. He vented his anger most frequently upon John, the sight of whose superb strength goaded the unhappy man into a frenzy, and John's forbearance was tried to the utmost, but there was a sweet patience growing in his soul which made it possible to endure in silence, however capricious or unreasonable the commands of his master might be, and Reginald, watching him critically, marvelled at the mysterious inner strength of his friend. He came along now with his quick, light step and drew a chair up beside Reginald's couch. He planned his work so as to be with the invalid as much as possible, and his constant sympathy and cheer were all that made the days bearable to him. "Well, Rege, how goes it?" he asked in tones as tender as a woman's. Reginald looked up at him with envious eyes. There was such a freshness about this strong young life, as if every moment were a separate joy. "I wish I was dead!" he answered moodily. "Don't dare to wish that!" said John quickly, "until you have made the most of your life." "The most of my life!" echoed Reginald contemptuously. "That's well put, John, I must say! What is my life worth to me now? You see what my father thinks of it. A useless log, as valuable as a piece of waste paper. I believe it would have pleased him better if I had been killed outright. He wouldn't have had the humiliation of it always before his eyes. If it had been any sort of a decent accident, I believe I could bear it better, but to be knocked over in a football match, like the precious duffer that I am--bah!" The concentrated bitterness of the last words made John's heart ache. "Looking backward, Rege," he said quietly, "will never make a man of you. It is only a waste of time and vital tissue. But there are lots of noble lives in spite of limitations. Paul had his thorn in the flesh, you know, and Milton his blindness. Difficulties are a spur to the best that is in us." "Difficulties, John. You never look at them, do you?" John laughed. "It is not worth while except to see how to surmount them." "I wish you could be idle just for an hour," said Reginald peevishly, "you make me nervous." John took another stitch in the halter he was mending. "Old Father Time's spoiling tooth is never still, Rege. I have to work to keep pace with it." Reginald groaned. "Your pluck is worth a king's ransom, John. I wish I had it." John began to whistle softly as he drew his waxed ends in and out. "It means," said John softly, "that I am a Christ's man, and he has lifted me above the power of circumstances. Jesus is centre and circumference with me now, Rege. "There's been no end of a row this time," he soliloquized. "It is a mystery to me why John puts up with it. He's free to go when he chooses. I'm sure I'd clear out if I wasn't such a good-for-nothing. The governor is getting to be more like a bear than a human being, it's a dog's life for everybody unlucky enough to be under the same roof with him." Down at the bend of the river a tall figure lay stretched upon the moss. The river laughed and the birds sang, but John Randolph's face was buried in his arms. To leave Hollywood--that very night! The place whose very stones were dear to him, where he had learned all he knew of home. To be turned off like a beggar, without a moment's warning, after all his years of toil! To say good-bye forever to the human friends who loved him, and the dear, dumb friends whom he had fondled and tended with such constant care. Never again to swing along through the sweet freshness of the morning before the sun was up to find the earliest snowdrops for Mrs. Hawthorne, or take a spin in the moonlight with every nerve a-tingle across the frozen bosom of the lake, or wander in delight along the wood roads when every tree was clad in the witching beauty of a silver thaw, or sweep across the wide stretching country in the very poetry of motion, or hear the soft swish of the tall grass as it fell in fragrant rows before the mower, or the creak of the vans as they bore its ripened sweetness towards the great barns, while bird and bee and locust joined in the harmony of the Harvest Home, until the sun sank to rest amidst cloud draperies of royal purple and crimson and gold and the sweet-voiced twilight soothed the world into peace. On and on the hours swept while John fought his battle. At length he rose, and with long, lingering glances of good-bye to every tree and rock and flower, began his homeward way. He would think of it so while he could. In a few short hours he would be a wanderer upon the face of the earth. A sudden joy crept into the weary eyes. So was Jesus Christ! "Why, John, what has happened!" cried Reginald, as his faithful nurse came to make him comfortable for the night. "You look like a ghost, and you have had no dinner! What the mischief is to pay? You must have been precious busy to leave me alone the whole afternoon." "I have been, Rege," said John quietly, "very busy." "I declare, John, I'd make tracks for freedom if I were in your shoes. You're a regular convict, and, since you've had me on your hands, a galley slave is a gentleman of leisure in comparison! Why don't you go, John? You've had nothing but injustice at Hollywood." John fell on his knees beside the bed. "I am going, Rege. Your father has ordered me away." When the thought which has floated--nebulous--across our mental vision, suddenly resolves itself into tangible form and becomes a solid fact to be confronted and battled with, the shock is greater than if no shadowy premonition had ever haunted the dreamland of our fancy. Reginald gave a low cry, then he lay looking at John with eyes full of a blank horror. His mind utterly refused to grasp the situation. "They pitched on Neptune at last, and asked if he had been registered. I said 'No,' so then they refused to pay the price your father asked, and he had to come down on him. He was furious, and, as soon as the men's backs were turned, he ordered me out of his sight forever. He says I have ruined the reputation of Hollywood," John's voice broke. "But, John, you mustn't go!" cried Reginald. "You cannot! My father is out of his mind. People don't pay any attention to the ravings of a lunatic." John shook his head sadly. "He is master here, Rege. There is nothing else for me to do." "But, John, it is impossible--preposterous! Why, everything will go to ruin without you, and I will take the lead." "No, no!" said John quickly. "You will be a rich man some day, Rege. Wealth is a wonderful opportunity. Prepare yourself to use it well." "I tell you I can't do anything without you, John. I am like a ship without a rudder. It is no use talking. I cannot spare you. You must not go!" "If you take the great Pilot aboard, Rege, you will be in no danger of drifting. It is only when we choose Self for our Captain that the ship runs on the rocks." "Don, Don!" The child heard his step in the hall long before he reached the door. He was coming, as he did every night, to give her a ride in his arms before she went to by-by. She held out her little arms from which the loose sleeves had fallen back. John lifted her up, for the last time. He laid his strong, set face against the rosy cheek, and looked into the laughing eyes which the sand man had already sprinkled with his magic powder. "Nansie, baby, I have come to say good-bye." "Not dood-bye, Don, oo always say dood-night." A bewildered look swept over the child's face. "Away!" she echoed, "to leave Nan an' Pwimwose an' the horsies? Me'll do too, Don. He'll do anywhere wid oo, Don." "My nice Nepshun!" The child's lip quivered, but something in the suffering face above her made her say quickly, "Me'll be dood, Don, an' when oo turn back, me'll be waitin' at de gate." She patted his cheek confidingly. "Nice Don! Nan loves oo, dear, an' Desus. Nan loves Desus 'cause oo do, Don." John's voice choked. "Keep on loving, Nansie." "Yes, me will. Does Desus carry de little chil'en in his arms like oo do, Don? Me's so comf'able. Me loves Desus." The little arm, soft and warm, crept closer around his neck, while the golden curls swept his cheek. "Oo's my bootiful man, Don. Me'll marry oo when me gets big," and then, all unconscious of the sorrow which should greet her in the morning, the baby slept. [Illustration: 'ME'LL DO ANYWHERE, WIV OO, DON.] Reginald lay as John had left him with his face buried in the pillows and utterly refused to be comforted. What comfort could there be if John was going away? It never occurred to him that his mother needed cheer as much as he. Like all selfish souls his own pain completely filled his horizon. "I don't see what we are to do about Evadne!" and Mrs. Hildreth sighed disconsolately. "She looks like a walking shadow. I should not be surprised if she had inherited her father's disease, and they say now that consumption is as contagious as diphtheria." "Horrors!" cried Isabelle. "Do quarantine her somewhere, Mamma, until you are quite sure there is no danger. I haven't the faintest aspirations to martyrdom." "It is a great care," sighed Mrs. Hildreth. "All of you children have always been so healthy. I don't believe Doctor Russe will listen to her going to the seaside, and the mountains are so monotonous! Other people's children are a great responsibility." Suddenly Isabelle clapped her hands. "I have it!" she cried. "Send her up to Aunt Marthe, and then we can tease Papa to let us go to Newport. Marion is going to spend the summer with Christine Drayton, you know, and Papa does not intend to leave the city, so we can persuade him that it is our duty to seize such a golden opportunity of doing things economically. I am sure I don't know what people must think of us, never going to any of the fashionable places. For my part I think we owe it to Papa's position to keep up with the world." "I believe it might be managed," said Mrs. Hildreth after some consideration. "It was very clever of you to think of it, Isabelle. You ought to be a diplomat, my dear," and she smiled approvingly on her daughter. The train swept along through the picturesque Vermont scenery and Evadne looked out of her window with never ending delight. Mr. Everidge came to meet her as the train steamed into the little station, and Evadne soon found herself seated in a comfortable carriage behind a handsome chestnut mare, bowling along a fragrant country road, catching glimpses at every turn of the verdure-clad hills. She found her new uncle very pleasant. There was a silver-tongued suavity about him in striking contrast to the growing preoccupation of Judge Hildreth, and a sort of airy self complaisance which took it for granted that he should be well treated by the world. "Ah, Squire Higgins, good-evening. My niece by marriage, Miss Hildreth of Barbadoes." The Squire lifted his hat, there was a little desultory conversation, then the carriages went on their separate ways, and soon Evadne found herself at her destination. She looked eagerly at the pretty house with its _entourage_ of flowers and lawns, grand old trees and distance-purpled hills, then Aunt Marthe appeared in the doorway and she saw nothing else. "You dear child!" The soft arms held her close, the sweet lips caught hers in a kiss, and Evadne felt with a great throb of joy that the weary bird had found a resting-place at last. She led her into a cool, tastefully furnished room, drew her down beside her on the couch and took off her hat and gloves, then she handed her a fan and went to make her a lemon soda. The early supper was soon announced and Evadne found herself in a cozy dining-room seated near a window which opened into a bewildering vista of summer beauty. There were flowers beside each plate as well as in the quaintly carved bowl in the centre of the table. Evadne caught herself smiling. That had always been a conceit of hers in Barbadoes. Everything was simple but delicious. The tender, juicy chicken, the delicate pink ham, the muffins browned to a turn, the Jersey butter moulded into a sheaf of wheat, and moist brown bread of Aunt Marthe's own making, the blocks of golden sponge cake, the crisp lettuce, the fragrant strawberries, the cool jelly frosted with snow. Evadne drank her tea out of a chocolate tinted cup, fluted like the bell of a flower, and felt as if she were feasting on the nectar of the gods, while Mr. Everidge's silvery tones kept up a constant stream of talk and Aunt Marthe's beautiful hospitality made her feel perfectly at home. "See to it also, my dear, that I am not disturbed at such an unearthly hour again as I was this morning. Tesla, the great electrician, has put himself on record as intimating that the want of sleep is a potent factor in the deplorably heavy death rate of the present day. He thinks sleep and longevity are synonymous, therefore it becomes us to bend every effort to attain that desirable consummation." Immediately after supper Mrs. Everidge persuaded Evadne to go to her room. The long journey had been a great strain upon her strength and she was very tired. "I wish you a good night, Uncle Horace," she said as she passed him in the doorway. She lay for a long time wakeful, revelling in the strange sense of peace which seemed to enfold her, while the evening breeze blew through the room and the twilight threw weird shadows among the dainty draperies. At length there came a low knock and Mrs. Everidge opened the door. Evadne stretched out her hands impulsively. "Oh, this beautiful stillness!" she exclaimed. "In Marlborough there is the clang of the car gongs and the rumble of cabs and the tramp of feet upon the pavement until it seems as if the weary world were never to be at rest, but this house is so quiet I could almost hear a pin drop." She drew a low chair up beside the bed. "Now we must begin to get acquainted," she said. "Dear Aunt Marthe!" cried Evadne, "I feel as if I had known you all my life." She gave her a swift caress. "You dear child! Then tell me about your father." "And now, oh, Aunt Marthe, life is so desperately lonely!" she said at last with a sobbing sigh. "The Fatherliness of God," repeated Evadne. "That sounds lovely, but people do not think of him so. God is someone very terrible and far away." Evadne caught her breath in a great gladness. "I believe you are his angel of consolation," she said in a hushed voice. "What is your favorite verse in all the Bible?" asked Evadne after a pause. "Aunt Marthe," said Evadne, after a long silence, in which they had been tasting the sweetness of it, "I do not need to ask if you know Jesus Christ?" The lovely face took on an added beauty. "He is my life," she said. "How do?" she said briskly, as she took the chair Evadne offered. "I hope you're feelin' better sence you've cum?" "Much better, thank you. I am very sorry my aunt is not at home." "I'm sorry likewise, though it don't make as much difference as it might have done, as I'm callin' a purpose to see you." "That is very good of you," said Evadne with a laugh. There was a spicy flavor about this child of the mountains which she found refreshing. "It's a bit awkward," continued her visitor with a twinkle in her eye, "as we'll have to do our own introducin'. My name's Penelope Riggs, Penel for brevity. What's yours?" "Evadne. That's uncommon and pretty. I'm goin' to call you so if you're not objectionable to it. Life's too short for handles." Evadne laughed merrily. "I'm not in the least objectionable," she said. "No, that's a fact," said her visitor after a moment's kindly scrutiny. "You're true and thorough. I knew I was goin' to like you when I saw you in meetin'." Evadne flushed with pleasure. "Why, that is a beautiful character! I only wish I deserved it. But I fear you are very much mistaken in me, though it is very kind in you to think such nice things." "Their shoes, Miss Riggs," laughed Evadne, "why they might not fit." "Penelope," corrected her visitor, "Penel for brevity. Yes, they will too, that kind of shoe leather is elastic. It's the old Bible doctrine, 'never do anything to others that you wouldn't like others to do to you.' If people got the shoes well fitted before they let their tongues loose, there would be a deal less sorrow and heartburn in the world." "'Love thy neighbor as thyself,'" said Evadne. "I never thought of it in that way before." "Well," said Miss Riggs briskly, "I'm dredful glad you've cum, Evadne. It'll do Mis' Everidge a sight of good to have you, though Marthe Everidge is raised above the need of humans as far as any mortal can be on this earth. With all their inventions there ain't nobody discovered how to make spiritual photographs yet, or I would have the picture of _her_ character in all the windows of the land. 'Twould do more good than miles of tracts. I agree with Paul that livin' epistles make the best readin' an' it don't seem fittin' that she should be shut up in this little place where only a few of us have the right kind of spectacles to see her through. Most of the folks just allow it's Mis' Everidge's way, and would as soon think of tryin' to imitate her as a tadpole would a star." "But we are to imitate Christ," said Evadne. Evadne's eyes shone. "You make me feel," she cried, "as if I would rather live a beautiful life than do the most magnificent thing in the world!" "That's a safe feelin' to tie to," said Penelope with an approving smile; "for character is the only thing we've got to carry with us when we go." "Well," she continued, "I must be goin'. I did think I'd be forehanded in callin', but mother's been dredful wakeful lately, and when daylight comes, it don't seem as if I had the ambition of a snail. She don't like to be left alone for a minit, mother don't, so it's a bit of a puzzle to keep up with society." She laughed cheerily as she held out her hand. "Well, I'm dredful pleased to have met you. I'll be more than glad to have you come in whenever you're down our way." "Aunt Marthe, what _is_ culture?" she asked suddenly, as later in the afternoon Mrs. Everidge sat beside her hammock. "Is Louis right? Is it just the veneer of education and travel and environment?" "Why that must be what Penelope Riggs meant by her 'elastic shoe leather,'" said Evadne with a laugh, and then she repeated the conversation. "Oh, she has been here! I am glad. It will do you good to know her. She is the cheeriest soul, and the busiest. She always acts upon me as a tonic, for I know just how much she has had to give up and how hard her life has been." "Why, Aunt Marthe, she says when she gets to heaven she will have to thank you for showing her the way. She thinks you are perfection." "'Not I, but Christ,'" said Aunt Marthe with a happy smile. She went into the house and returned with a book in her hand. "You asked what culture really was. This writer says 'Drudgery.' Listen while I give you a few snatches, then you shall have the book for your own. "'How do we get them? High school and college can give much, but these are never on their programmes. All the book processes that we go to the schools for and commonly call our 'education' give no more than opportunity to win the indispensables of education. We must get them somewhat as the fields and valleys get their grace. Whence is it that the lines of river and meadow and hill and lake and shore conspire to-day to make the landscape beautiful? Only by long chiselings and steady pressures. Only by ages of glacier crush and grind, by scour of floods, by centuries of storm and sun. These rounded the hills and scooped the valley-curves and mellowed the soil for meadow-grace. It was 'drudgery' all over the land. Mother Nature was down on her knees doing her early scrubbing work! That was yesterday, to-day--result of scrubbing work--we have the laughing landscape. "Oh!" cried Evadne, drawing a long breath, "that is beautiful! I feel as if I had been lifted up until I touched the sky." "Marthe," exclaimed Mr. Everidge reproachfully, suddenly appearing in the doorway with a sock drawn over each arm, "it is incomprehensible to me you do not remember that my physical organism and darns have absolutely no affinity." Mrs. Everidge laughed brightly. "If you will make holes, Horace, I must make darns," she said. "Not a natural sequence at all!" he retorted testily. "When the wear and tear of time becomes visible in my underwear it must be relegated to Reuben." "But Reuben's affinity for patches may be no stronger than your own, Uncle Horace," said Evadne mischievously. Evadne looked at Mrs. Everidge. A deep flush of shame had dyed her cheeks and her lips were quivering. "Oh, Horace," she cried, "Reuben is such a faithful boy!" "My dear," said her husband airily, "I make no aspersions against his moral character, but he certainly cannot be classed among the velvet-skinned aristocracy. By the way, I wish you would see in future that my undergarments are of a silken texture. My flesh rebels at anything approaching to harshness," and then he went complacently back to his library to weave and fashion the graceful phrases which flowed from his facile pen. "Why should he go clothed in silk and you in cotton!" cried Evadne, jealous for the rights of her friend. Evadne threw her arms around her impulsively. "But why, oh, Aunt Marthe, why should not Uncle Horace learn it too?" "We do not see things through the same window," she answered with a smile and a sigh. John Randolph walked slowly through the soft dawning. It had been a brilliant night. The late moon had risen as he was bidding good-bye to the graceful creatures he should never see again, and Hollywood had been clad in a bewitching beauty which made it all the harder to say farewell. Far into the night he had lingered, visiting every corner of the dearly loved home, then at last he had turned away and walked steadily along the road which led to Marlborough. The sun rose in a blaze of splendor and the birds began to twitter. The gripsack which he carried grew strangely heavy, and he felt faint and weary. The long strain of the day before was beginning to tell upon him, and it was many hours since he had tasted food. "Why, John, lad!" he cried, "thou art a welcome sight on this fair morning. Come in, come in. Breakfast will soon be ready and thou art in sore need of it by the look of thy face." He gave John's hand a mighty grasp and took his gripsack from him. "Why, John, hast thou walked far with this load? Where were all the horses of Hollywood? Is anything wrong, John? I don't like thy looks, lad." John's voice trembled. "I have left Hollywood" he said. "Mr. Hawthorne has turned me off." He entered the spotless kitchen where his wife was moving blithely to and fro. "Thee has another 'unawares angel' to breakfast, Ruth. It's a grand thing being on the public road!" "So, so, thee didst promise to forget that, Ruth, if I replace them next time I go to Marlborough." "Well, so I do, except when thee does remind me. Is this a very hungry angel, Joseph? Does thee think I'd better cook another chicken?" "He ought to be hungry, poor lad, but I doubt if he eats much. Does thee remember friend Randolph, Ruth?" Her husband put his hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. Then he kissed her. "Thee is fractious this morning, Ruth. Friend Randolph had a son, thee dost mind, whom Robert Hawthorne took to live at Hollywood. It is he whom the good Lord has sent to us to care for, Ruth. He's just been turned adrift." "If thee wasn't so big I would shake thee, Joseph! The idea of John Randolph being in this house and thee beating round the bush with thine angels!" and with all her motherhood shining in her eyes, Ruth Makepeace started for the parlor. "When thee is rested we'll have a talk, lad," said his host, as they rose from the table; "but thee'd better bide with us for the summer and not fret about the future: thee dost need a holiday." "Of course thee dost, John!" said blithe little Mrs. Makepeace. "I wish thee would bide for good." Her husband laid his hand upon his shoulder. "Thou knowest, lad, there is the little grave out yonder. Thee should'st have his place in our hearts and home. Would'st thee be content to bide, John?" "Why, John, lad, the Steel Works shut down yesterday afternoon." For an instant the brave spirit quailed, only for an instant. "Then I must find something else," he said quietly. "Why, he wants men to pile wood," exclaimed his wife. "Thee would'st not set John at that!" "Lincoln split rails," said John with a smile, "why should not I pile them? It's clean work, and honest, Mrs. Makepeace." "He has a logging camp in the winter. Thee would'st have good pay then, John." "I am not afraid of work, Mrs. Makepeace, and I can never be lonely with Jesus Christ." "Surely, dear child. Love is the fulfilling of the law, you know. When we love God with our whole heart, and our neighbor as ourselves, there is no danger of our breaking the Decalogue. 'He who loveth knoweth God,' and 'to know him is life eternal.'" "Just love," said Evadne musingly. "It seems so simple." "Do you think so?" said Aunt Marthe with a smile. "Yet people find it the hardest thing to do, as it is surely the noblest. Drummond calls it 'the greatest thing in the world' and you have Paul's definition of it in Corinthians. Did you ever study that to see how perfect love would make us? "'Love suffereth long,' that does away with impatience; 'and is kind,' that makes us neighborly; 'love envieth not,' that saves from covetousness; 'vaunteth not itself,' that does away with self-conceit; 'seeketh not its own,' that kills selfishness; 'is not provoked,' that shows we are forgiving; 'rejoiceth not in unrighteousness,' makes us love only what is pure; 'covereth [Footnote: Marginal rendering.] all things,' that leaves no room for scandal; 'believeth all things,' that does away with doubt; 'hopeth all things,' that is the antithesis of distrust; 'endureth all things,' proves that we are strong; and then the beautiful summing up of the whole matter, 'love never faileth.' If that is true of us, it can only be as we are filled with the spirit of the Christ of God, 'whose nature and whose name is love.'" "You see such beautiful things in the Bible!" said Evadne despairingly, "why cannot I get below the surface?" "You will, dearie. You forget I have been digging nuggets from this precious mine for years and you have just begun to search for them. Would you like another drive, or do you feel too tired?" "Not in the least. What can I do for you?" "I would like to send some of that currant jelly I made yesterday to old Mrs. Riggs, if you are sure you would like to take it?" "As sure as sure can be, dear," said Evadne with a kiss, "Where shall I find it?" "In the King's corner." "'The King's corner?'" echoed Evadne with a puzzled look. "Oh, Aunt Marthe!" cried Evadne, as she drove slowly under the trees, "shall I ever, ever learn to be like you?" She found the old lady sitting by the fire wrapped up in a shawl, although the day was sultry. "Good-morning," said Evadne, as she deposited her parcels on the table. "I come from Mrs. Everidge. She thought you would fancy some of her fresh brown bread and currant jelly." "Hum!" said the old lady ungraciously, "I hope it's better than the last wuz. Guess Mis' Everidge ain't ez pertickler ez she used ter be." "Aunt Marthe!" cried Evadne indignantly. "Why, everything she does is perfection!" "There isn't any worm about Aunt Marthe," cried Evadne with a laugh. "I think you must be looking through a wrong pair of spectacles, Mrs. Riggs." "But you can get them mended," said Evadne. "Sakes alive! There ain't much hope o' gettin' them mended, with Penel behindhand on the rent, an' the firin' an' the land knows what else. I don't see why Penel ain't more forehanded. I tell her ef I wuz ez young an' ez spry ez she be, I guess I'd hev things different, but, la! that's Penel's way. She's terrible sot in her own way, Penel is. She's not willin' ter take my advice. Children now-a-days allers duz know more than their mothers." "Where is Penelope?" asked Evadne. "But she has left a nice pile of wood close beside you, Mrs. Riggs." "But there are no bears in Vernon, Mrs. Riggs," laughed Evadne. "Land, child! you never know what there might be!" said the old lady testily. "Be you a' stayin' at Mis' Everidge's?" "Yes," said Evadne, "she is my aunt." "I am their cousin, Mrs. Riggs. I used to live in Barbadoes." "But I didn't want to travel, Mrs. Riggs," said Evadne gently. "I would so much rather have stayed at home." "There you go!" grumbled the old lady. "Folks ain't never satisfied with their mercies. Allers a' flyin' in the face uv Providence. I tell you we'se wurms, child; miserable, shiftless wurms, a' crawlin' down in this walley of humiliation, with our faces ter the dust." "But you've got a great deal to be thankful for, Mrs. Riggs," ventured Evadne, "in having such a daughter. Aunt Marthe thinks she is a splendid character." "So she oughter be!" retorted the old lady, "with sech a bringin' up ez she's hed. But land! childern's dretful disappointin' ter a pusson. There ain't a selfish bone in _my_ body, but Penel's ez full uv 'em. She'll let me lie awake by the hour at a time while she's a' snoozin' on the sofy beside me. She don't sleep in her own bed any more because I hev ter hev her handy ter rub me when the rheumatiz gits ter jumpin'. She sez she can't help bein' drowsy when she's workin' through the day, but land! she'd manage ter keep awake ef she hed any sympathy! She ain't got no sympathy, Penel ain't; an' she ain't a bit forehanded. "But I don't 'spect nuthin' else in this world. It's a wale o' tears an' we ain't got nuthin' else ter look fer but triberlation an' woe. Man ez born ter trouble ez the sparks fly upward, an' a woman allers hez the lion's share." Evadne burst into the sitting-room with flashing eyes. "Aunt Marthe, if I were Penelope Riggs, I would shoot her mother! She's just a crooked old bundle of unreasonableness and ingratitude!" Mrs. Everidge laughed. "No, you wouldn't dear, not if you _were_ Penelope." "But, Aunt Marthe, how does she stand it? Why, it would drive me crazy in a week! To think of that poor soul, working like a slave all day, and then grudged the few winks of sleep she gets on a hard old sofa. I declare, it makes me feel hopeless!" "An Alpine Christian!" cried Evadne. "Oh, Aunt Marthe, that is beautiful!" "Why, certainly, Uncle Horace," said Evadne merrily. "I am quite ready to become a vegetarian, if you will set me the example. The feminine mind, you know, is popularly supposed to be only fitted to follow a masculine lead." "Professor Trenton coming here in August!" cried Mrs. Everidge in dismay. "Why, Horace, you never told me you had invited him!" "My dear, I am telling you now." "But I meant to take Evadne up to our mountain camp in August. I am sure the resinous air would make her strong. I had my plans all laid." "'The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley,'" said her husband suavely. "Evadne's mental strength cannot fail to be developed by intercourse with such a clever man. We must not allow the culture of the body to occupy so prominent a place in our thoughts that we forget the mind, you know." "A fusty old Professor!" pouted Evadne. "Oh, Uncle Horace, why didn't you leave him among his tomes and his theories and let us be free to enjoy?" "Mere sensual gratification, Evadne," said Mr. Everidge, as he replenished his plate with some dainty pickings, "is not the true aim of life. I consider it a high honor that the Professor should consent to devote a month of his valuable time to my edification, for he is getting to be quite a lion in the literary world. You had better have your chamber prepared for his occupancy, Marthe. As I remember him at college he had a fondness amounting almost to a craze for rooms with a western aspect." Joanna came in to announce the arrival of a visitor whom Evadne had already learned to dread on account of her continual depression. "Oh, Aunt Marthe!" she exclaimed, "must you waste this beautiful afternoon listening to her dolorosities. I wanted you to go for a drive!" "You go, dearie, and take Penelope Riggs. It will be a treat to her and you ought to be out in the open air as much as possible." Evadne went out on the veranda. Through the open window she could hear the visitor's ceaseless monotone of complaint mingled with the soft notes of Mrs. Everidge's cheery sympathy. "Oh, dearest," she murmured, "if you had seen this beautiful life, you would have known that there is no sham in the religion of Jesus!" She waited long, in the hope that Mrs. Everidge would be able to accompany her, then she started for the Eggs cottage. She found the old lady alone. "Where is Penelope, Mrs. Riggs?" "Oh, skykin' round ez usual," was the peevish response. "It's church work this time. When I wuz young, folks got along 'thout sech an everlastin' sight uv meetins, but nowadays there's Convenshuns, an' Auxils an' Committees, an' the land knows what, till a body's clean distracted. Fer my part I hate ter see wimmen a' wallerin' round in the mud till it takes 'em the best part uv the next day ter git their skirts clean." "But there is no mud now, Mrs. Riggs," laughed Evadne. "Land alive, child! There will be sometime. In my day folks used ter stay ter hum an' mind their childern, but now they've all took ter soarin' an' it don't matter how many ends they leave flyin' loose behind 'era." "But Penelope has no children to mind, Mrs. Riggs." "Well, Evadne, how do you do, child? I'm dretful glad to see you," and Penelope, breezy and keen as a March wind, came bustling into the room. "Why, yes, I'm well, child, if it wasn't for bein' so tumbled about in my mind." "What has tumbled you, Penelope?" asked Evadne with a merry laugh. "But what did they say to her?" asked Evadne. "I was so uplifted in my mind with righteous indignation that I felt called upon to let it loose, so I begun in a musin' tone, as ef I was havin' a solil." "'A solil?'" said Evadne in a mystified tone. "'Clicks,' Penelope?" "Sakes alive, child! Haven't you read your Bible? and don't you know the ravens fed the old gentleman in the desert, an' that folks now say they were Arabs, because the ravens are dirty birds an' live on carrion, an' it stands to reason Elija couldn't touch that if he hed an ordinary stumach. As if the Lord couldn't hev made 'em bring food from the king's table if he hed chosen to do it! It's all of a piece with the way folks hev now of twistin' the Bible inside out till nobody knows what it means. For my part I believe if the Lord hed meant Arabs he would hev said Arabs an' not hev deceived us by callin' 'em birds uv prey. Folks is so set against allowin' anything that looks like a meracle that they'll go all the way round the barn an' creep through a snake fence if they can prove it's jest an ordinary piece of business. They do say there are some things the Lord can't do, but I'm free to confess I've never found them out." "Now I see!" exclaimed Evadne. "It means the beautiful patience with which you bear aggravating things and the gentle courtesy with which you treat all sorts of troublesome people. Oh, my Princess, I envy you your altitude!" Professor Trenton had come and gone and the glory of the autumn was over the land. The early supper was ended and Evadne had ensconced herself in her favorite window to catch the sun's last smile before he fell asleep. In the room across the hall Mr. Everidge reclined in his luxurious arm-chair and leisurely turned the pages of the last "North American Review." It was Saturday evening. "Why, Horace, can this be possible?" Mrs. Everidge entered the room quickly and stood before her husband. Neither of them noticed Evadne. "My dear, many things are possible in this terrestrial sphere. What particular possibility do you refer to?" "That you have discharged Reuben?" The sweet voice trembled. Mr. Everidge's tones kept their usual complacent calm. "That possibility, my dear, has taken definite form in fact." "But, Horace, the boy is heart-broken." "Time is a mighty healer, my love. He will recover his mental equipoise in due course." "But you might have given him a month's warning. Where is the poor boy to find another place? It is cruel to turn him off like this!" "Really, my dear Marthe, I do not feel myself competent to solve all the problems of the labor question," said Mr. Everidge carelessly. "Reuben must take his chances in common with the rest of his class." "But, Horace, I cannot imagine what your reason for this can be! Where will you find so good a boy?" "I am not aware that Socrates thought it necessary to acquaint the worthy Xantippe with the reasons for his conduct," remarked Mr. Everidge suavely. "The feminine mind is too much disposed to jump to hasty conclusions to prove of any assistance in deciding matters of importance. The masculine brain, on the contrary, takes time for calm deliberation and weighs the pros and cons in the scale of a well balanced judgment before arriving at any definite decision. But my reason in this case will soon become apparent to you. I do not intend to keep a boy at all." "But who will take care of Atalanta? Are you going to forsake your cherished books for a curry-comb?" "But that will make it very awkward, Horace. I so often have to use the carriage in the morning." "But, Horace, if Reuben goes, Joanna will go too. You know she promised her mother she would never leave him." "In that event, my dear, you will have an opportunity to become more intimately acquainted with the mysteries of the culinary art," observed Mr. Everidge cheerfully. "It will be a splendid chance to evolve that finest of character combinations, Spartan endurance coupled with American progressiveness." Mrs. Everidge smiled. "But what if I do not have the Spartan strength, Horace?" "That is merely a matter of imagination, my love. It proves the truth of my theory that necessity develops capacity. A woman of leisure, for want of suitable mental pabulum, grows to fancy she has every ill that flesh is heir to, whereas, when she is obliged by compelling circumstances to put her muscles into practice, her mind acquires a more healthy tone. Self-contemplation is a most enervating exercise and involves a tremendous drain on the moral forces." "Do you think I waste much time in that way, Horace?" Mrs. Everidge spoke wistfully, and Evadne, forced to be an unwilling listener to the conversation, felt her cheeks grow hot with indignation. Upstairs in her own room Evadne paced the floor with tightly clenched hands. "Oh!" she cried, "what shall I do? I hate him! I hate him! How dare he! He ought to be glad to go down on his knees to serve her, she is so sweet, so dear! Oh, I cannot bear it! That she should be compelled to endure such servitude, and I can do nothing to help, nothing! nothing!" She threw herself across the bed and burst into a passion of tears. Was this the silent girl whom Isabelle had voted tiresome and slow? A little later than usual she heard the low knock which always preceded the visit which she looked forward to as the sweetest part of the day. Could it be possible she would come to-night? Was no thought of self ever permitted to enter that brave, suffering heart? She rose and opened the door. The dear face was paler than usual but there was no shadow upon the smooth brow. Marthe Everidge had crossed the tempest-tossed ocean of human passion into the sun-kissed calm of Christ's perfect peace. Evadne threw her arms around her neck and laid her storm-swept face upon her shoulder. "Forgive me!" she cried, "I heard it all. I could not help it. I think my heart is breaking. Do not be angry, you see I love you so! How can I bear to have you subjected to this? You are so tender, so true. There is such a charm about you! You are so beautifully unselfish! Oh, my dear, my dear, how can you, do you bear it?" Mrs. Everidge lifted her face tenderly and kissed the quivering lips. "It is 'not I but Christ,' dear child. That makes it possible." Then she drew her over to the lounge and began to undress her as if she had been a baby. "My dear little sister. You are utterly exhausted. You are not strong enough to suffer so." When she was comfortably settled for the night Mrs. Everidge drew her low chair up beside the bed. Evadne caught her hand in hers and kissed it reverently. "I wish I could make you understand how I honor you!" she said. "You must not do it, dear!" said Aunt Marthe quickly. "Honor the King." "'Love, joy, peace,'" Evadne repeated slowly, "'long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith.' But those belong to the Spirit, Aunt Marthe." "Yes, dear child, the Spirit of Jesus. The Spirit whom he sent to comfort his people when he took his bodily presence from the earth. The holy, indwelling presence which is to reveal the Christ to us and prepare us for the abiding of the Father and the Son. It is the beautiful mystery of the Trinity." "But we cannot have the Trinity abiding in our hearts!" said Evadne in an awestruck voice. "The Bible teaches us so." "Not God, Aunt Marthe!" "I do not understand, Aunt Marthe." "No, dear, we never shall, down here. Thomas wanted to do that and Christ said 'Blessed are they that have not seen and yet have believed.' The Spirit is continually giving us deeper insight into the love of the Son, just as the Son came to make known to the world the wonderful love of the Father." "But 'be filled,'" said Evadne. "That looks as if we had something to do with it." Mrs. Everidge spoke the last words softly and Evadne, looking at her uplifted face, shining now with the radiance which always filled it when she spoke of her Lord, saw again that glowing face which she had watched across the gate at Hollywood and heard the strange, exultant tones, 'He is my King!' Ah, that was beautiful! That was what Aunt Marthe meant, and Pompey and Dyce. "You talk of the cross, Aunt Marthe, and other people talk of crosses. Aunt Kate and Isabelle are always talking about the sacrifices they have to make, and Mrs. Rivers carries a perfect bundle of crosses on her back. She is wealthy and has everything she wants, and yet she is always wailing, while Dyce is as happy as the day is long. Do the poor Christians always do the singing while the rich ones sigh?" Mrs. Everidge smiled. "We make our crosses, dear child, when we put our wishes at right angles to God's will. When we only care to please him everything that he chooses for us seems just right. I have heard people speak as if it were a cross to mention the name of Christ. How could it be if they loved him? Do you find it a cross to talk to me about your father? People make a terrible mistake about this. The only cross we are commanded to carry is the cross of Christ." "And what is that, Aunt Marthe?" "Self renunciation," said Aunt Marthe softly, "the secret of peace. Evadne looked wistfully at the rapt face, irradiated now by the moonlight which was streaming in through the window. "_How_ you love him, Aunt Marthe!" Evadne sighed. "You make it seem a wonderful thing to be a Christian," she said. [Illustration: THE SILENT FIGURE WITH THE AWFUL ENTREATY IN ITS STARING EYES] God so loved that he gave his Son, the essence of himself. Jesus gave his life, not only in the final agony of the crucifixion, but all through the beautiful years of ministry in Nazareth and Galilee. There is a truer giving than of our temporal goods. Our friends, if they really love us, want most of all what we can give them of ourselves. It is those who give themselves to the world's need who come nearest to the divine pattern Christ has set for us to copy, and, if we truly love him, we shall want not his gifts but himself. "People seek after holy living instead of perfect loving, they do not realize that we can be truly holy only as we love, for 'love is the great reality of the spiritual world.'" Evadne laid her cheek caressingly against Mrs. Everidge's. "If it were only you, dear, how delightfully easy it would be, but do you suppose it is possible for me to love Aunt Kate and Isabelle?" "Yes, dear child, with the love of God." "You can't imagine how I dread the idea of going back!" Evadne said with a sigh. "This summer has been like a lovely dream. How shall I endure the cold reality of my waking?" "Joy, Aunt Marthe!" exclaimed Evadne drearily, "why, I haven't got any apart from you. Just the mere thought of the separation makes my heart ache." Evadne took a long, yearning look at the dear face, as if she would imprint it upon her memory forever. "He _is_ with you," she said softly. "_You_ will never be a puzzle to the angels." "Why, Penelope, what are you doing?" cried Evadne in amaze. "'Look on the bright side,' sez she in her cheery way when I had finished drinkin'." "'Sakes alive, Mis' Everidge,' sez I, 'there isn't any bright side!'" "You dear Penelope!" exclaimed Evadne, "I think you have!" and Evadne knew that in the brave heart the voice of Christ had made the storm a calm. "You dear Aunt Marthe! How am I ever going to thank you for all you have been to me; and what shall I do without you?" Evadne spoke the words wistfully. They were making the most of their last evening. "Board!" The conductor's cry of warning smote the air and the train passengers made a final bustle of preparation for a start. Mrs. Everidge caught Evadne close in a last embrace. "My precious little sister, I shall miss you every day!" Then she was gone, and Evadne, looking eagerly out of her window, saw the dear face, from which the tears had been swept away, smiling brightly at her from the platform. "You magnificent Christian!" she cried. "You will give others the sunshine always!" The train steamed into the station at Marlborough and again Louis came forward to greet her with a look of admiration on his unusually animated face. Evadne laughed merrily. "Thank you. The atmosphere of Vernon has a wonderful power," but it was not of the material ozone she was thinking as she spoke. "I believe I will try it. My constitution is running down at the rate of an alarm clock. I must take my choice between a tonic and an early grave. Will you vouch for like good results in my case?" Evadne shook her head. "I do not believe it would have the same effect upon everyone," she said. "Ah, then I shall be compelled to go to Europe." Evadne looked at him. "Yes," she said, "I think Europe would suit you better." "She is well," she answered with a sudden stillness in her voice. She could not trust herself to talk about this friend of hers to careless questioners. "How is Uncle Lawrence, and all the others?" "The Judge is in his usual state of health, I fancy. We rarely meet except at the table and then you know personal questions are not considered in good form. The others are well, and Isabelle, having just returned from the metropolis of Fashion, is more than ever _au fait_ in the usages of polite society. But none of them have improved like you, little coz. What has changed you so?" "Oh, Aunt Kate, he sent you a large bundle of fraternal greetings. He says that, 'viewed through the glamour of memory, you impress him like an Alpine landscape, when the sun is rising, and he hopes the soft brilliance of prosperity will ever envelop you in its radiance and serve to enhance the beauty of your stately calm.'" Mrs. Hildreth smiled, well pleased. "Horace is so poetical," she said, "but all the Everidges are clever. What a shame it seems that a man of his talent should be forced by ill health to exist in a place where there is not a single soul capable of appreciating his rare qualities. Even his wife does not begin to understand him. It seems like casting pearls before swine." Evadne's eyes flashed and her lips pressed themselves tightly together, but Mrs. Hildreth's gaze was fixed intently upon the lace shawl she was knitting and Louis just then gave a sudden turn to the conversation. She went up to her room with a great homesickness surging at her heart. Only last night all had been lightsome and happy, now the old darkness seemed to have settled down about her again. She knelt before her window and looked at the strip of sky which was all a Marlborough residence allowed her. "Happy stars!" she murmured, "for you are shining on Aunt Marthe!" Far into the night she knelt there, until a great peace flooded her soul. She raised her hands towards the sparkling sky. "To make the world brighter, to make the world better, to lift the world nearer to God. Blessed Christ, that was thy mission. I will make it mine!" The next morning Louis drew her aside. "So, little coz, you did not coincide with the lady mother's eulogium of our respected collateral last night?" "Why, I said nothing!" cried Evadne in astonishment. Louis laughed. "Have you never heard of eyes that speak and faces that tell tales?" he said. "I will just whisper a word of warning before you play havoc with your web of destiny. Don't let a suspicion of your dislike cross the lady mother's mind, for Uncle Horace is her beau-ideal of a man. I agree with you. I think he is a cad." "An invitation to Professor Joliette's," and Isabelle tossed a gilt-edged card across the table to Marion; "Wednesday evening. It's not a very long invitation. What dress will you wear?" "But you are engaged, Marion," said Evadne; "Wednesday evening, you know." "Yes," said Marion with a sigh, "it is awkward. I do wish they would choose some other night for prayer meeting. Wednesday seems such a favorite with everybody." "What a little prig you are getting to be, Evadne!" said Isabelle with a sneer. "Your only diversion seems to be prayer meeting and church. You are as bad as Aunt Marthe." "Not binding!" echoed Evadne. "So Christ is not of as much importance as the President of the United States!" "You do have such a way of putting things, Evadne!" said Marion thoughtfully. "I expect we had better refuse, Isabelle." "Why should they run the risk of offending you, by choosing a night they know you cannot come?" asked Evadne. "Ridiculous! What do they care about our church concerns? The Joliettes are foreigners. People in polite society do not give religion such an unpleasant prominence as you delight in, Evadne. For my part, I consider it very bad form." "Breakers ahead, Evadne," said Louis with his cynical laugh. "Good form is Isabelle's fetich. Woe betide the unlucky wight who dares to hold an opinion of his own." "But," said Evadne, the old puzzled look coming into her eyes, "I wish I could understand. Are Christians ashamed of the religion of Jesus?" "That's about the amount of it, little coz. It is a sort of kedge anchor which they keep on board in case of danger. For my part I think it is better to sail clear. It is only an uncomfortable addition which spoils the trim of the ship." "Oh, Louis, don't!" exclaimed Marion with a sigh. "It is so hard to know what is right! Sometimes I wish I were a nun, shut up in a convent, and then I should have nothing else to do." "Doubtless the Lord would appreciate that sort of faithfulness," said Louis gravely, "although I notice Christianity seems to be a sort of Sing-Sing arrangement with the majority. Everything is done under a sense of compulsion, and the air is lurid with trials and lamentations and woe. It is not an alluring life, and, in my opinion, the jolly old world shows its sense in steering clear of it." "'I determined not to know anything among you, save Jesus Christ, and him crucified,'" quoted Evadne. "Was Paul mistaken then?" "It is so provoking that we cannot have the carriage," grumbled Isabelle, as, when Wednesday evening came, they waited for Louis in the dining-room. "At the Joliettes' of all places! I am sure I don't see, Papa, why you cannot insist upon Pompey's taking some other night off when we need him on Wednesdays. It is horribly awkward!" "Exactly so," said Louis from the doorway, where he stood leisurely buttoning his gloves. "You will never pose as the goddess of liberty, _ma belle soeur_. It is a good thing that Lincoln got the Emancipation bill signed before you came into power, or dusky millions might still be weeping tears of blood." Isabelle swept past him with an indignant toss of her head, and the front door closed after the trio with a metallic clang. "I don't wonder the poor child is annoyed," said Mrs. Hildreth as she played with her grapes. "It is very embarrassing when people know that we keep a carriage; and the Joliettes are such sticklers in the matter of etiquette. It is a ridiculous fad of yours, Lawrence, to be so punctilious." "But, my dear, I gave him my word of honor!" "What if you did? There are exceptions to every rule." "Not in the Hildreth code of honor, Kate." "Nonsense! What does a coachman understand about that! Why, Evadne, you cannot go to prayer meeting alone!" she exclaimed, as Evadne came into the room with her hat on. "Your uncle is busy and I am too tired, so there is no way for you to get home." "I am going to Dyce's church, Aunt Kate. Pompey will bring me home." "Their souls are white, Aunt Kate, and there is no color line on the Rock of Ages." "Oh, well, tastes differ," said her aunt carelessly, "but it is a strange fancy for Judge Hildreth's niece. Next thing you will suggest going to board with Pompey." "I might fare a good deal worse," said Evadne with her soft laugh. "Dyce keeps her rooms like waxwork and she is a capital cook." "Really, Evadne, I am in despair! You have not an iota of proper pride. How are you going to maintain your position in society?" "I don't believe I care to test the question, Aunt Kate; but I think my position will maintain itself." "Well said, Evadne," said her uncle, looking up from his paper. "You will never forget you are a Hildreth, eh?" "Higher than that, uncle," said Evadne softly. "I am a sister of Jesus Christ." "I do not think Evadne will ever come to any harm," the Judge said slowly. "The Lord takes pretty good care of his own." "A Shakespearean Club!" and Judge Hildreth smiled incredulously. "Why, my dear, I never knew you and the immortal Will had much affinity for each other!" "What other answer but 'yes' can Petruchio make to 'the prettiest Kate in Christendom'?" replied the Judge, bowing gallantly to the face in the mirror as he came up and stood beside his wife. It was a handsome face but there was a hardness about it, and the lines around the mouth which bespoke an indomitable will, had deepened with the years. "How absurd you are, Lawrence! When shall I make you understand that there are sacrifices that must be made. We owe a duty to society. We cannot afford to let ourselves drop wholly out of the world." A little later Judge Hildreth entered his library with a heavy sigh. He had attained the ends he had striven for, he was respected alike in the church and the world, he held a high and lucrative position, he had a well appointed home, over which his handsome wife presided with dignity and grace, and yet, as he took his seat before his desk in the lofty room whose shelves were lined with gems of thought in fragrant, costly bindings, life seemed to have missed its sweetness to Lawrence Hildreth. Evadne's words haunted him, and, like an accusing angel, the letter which still lay hidden under the mass of papers in the drawer which he never opened, seemed to look at him reproachfully. "So, my dear brother," the letter ran, "I am giving you this responsibility as only a brother can. I have left Evadne absolutely untrammelled. I have no fear that my little girl will abuse the trust. She is wise beyond her years, with a sense of honor as keen as your own." "Woe unto you hypocrites! for ye tithe mint and anise and cummin, and have left undone the weightier matters of the law, justice and mercy and faith." "Woe unto you hypocrites! for ye cleanse the outside of the cup and of the platter, but within they are full from extortion and excess." "Woe unto you hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchres which outwardly appear beautiful, but inwardly are full of dead men's bones." Lower and lower sank the Judge's head, until at last it rested upon the desk with a groan. The soft, deep notes of the weird melody ended in a burst of triumph, and Evadne bent her head while her tired heart thrilled with joy. When she looked up again Dyce was speaking. "We'se not payin' much complimen' ter Jesus, friens, when we 'low dat de good tings of dis worl' kin make people happier dan he kin, an' 'pears like we ought ter be 'shamed of ourselves. De Bible sez we'se ter 'live an' move an' hev our bein' in God,' an' it don't 'pear becomin' when we hev such a home pervided fer us, ter be allers grumblin' 'cause we can't live in de brown stone fronts an' keep a kerridge. We don't begin ter understan' how ter live up ter our privilegus, friens, an' I'se bowed in shame as I tink how de dear Lord's heart must ache as he sees how little we'se appresheatin' his lovin' kindness." Then the congregation dispersed to the humble homes, glorified now by the possibility of being made the dwelling-place of the King of kings. It was intensely warm in the Marlborough Steel Works. Outdoors the sun beat fiercely upon the heads of toiling men and horses while the heat waves danced with a dazzling shimmer along the brick pavements. Indoors there was the steady thud of the engine, and the great hammers clanked and the belts swept through the air with a deafening whirr, while the workmen drew blackened hands across their grimy foreheads and John Randolph gave a sigh of longing for the cool forest chambers of Hollywood, as he leaned over to exchange a cheery word with Richard Trueman, beside whom he had been working for over a year and for whom he had come to entertain a strong feeling of affection. When evening came he would stride cheerily along the dingy street to the house where he and his fellow-workman lodged, refresh himself with a hot bath, don what he called his dress suit, and after their simple meal and a frolic with little Dick, the motherless boy who was the joy of Richard Trueman's heart, he would settle down for a long evening of study among his cherished books. John Randolph never lost sight of the fact that he was to be a physician by and by. The work was passed upon by the foreman and the Company's certificate attached. The man chuckled, "Hooray! Now that it's out from under old Daggett's eyes nobody'll ever be able to lay the blame on me!" and he had gone home whistling. He forgot God! The dying man opened his eyes suddenly and looked full at John Randolph, who knelt beside him supporting his head on his arm. "Little Dick," he murmured. "All right, Trueman, I will take care of him." "God bless you, John!" and with the fervid benediction, the breath ceased and the spirit flew away. The body was prepared for the inquest, and through the gathering dusk John, strangely white and silent, entered the house he called home, gathered the fatherless boy into his arms and let him sob out his grief upon his shoulder. Some days after the funeral the Manager sent for John to come to his private office. He was a pleasant man and had taken a kindly interest in the capable young workman from the start. "Yes, sir," said John simply; "I have taken him to live with me." John laughed. "There was nothing else to do," he said. "H'm. Most fellows in your position would have thought it was the last thing possible. Have you any idea what it means to saddle yourself with a child like this? Whatever put such an idea into your head?" "Jesus Christ," answered John quietly. "Well, well, you're a queer fellow, Randolph. But how are you going to make the wages spin out? A boy is 'a growing giant of wants whom the coat of Have is never large enough to cover.'" "His father managed, so can I." John's voice shook a little. "His father! But he _was_ his father, you see. That makes a mighty difference. Well, Randolph, I give you up. You are beyond me." John rose. "Was that all you wished to say to me, Mr. Branford?" "Sit down, man! What the mischief are you in such a hurry for? It stands to reason the Company can't let you bear the brunt of this most deplorable occurrence, though I don't believe we could have found a better guardian for the poor little lad. But guardians expect to be paid for their trouble. What price do you set, Randolph?" "I don't want any pay for obeying my Master, Mr. Branford." "Your Master, Randolph?" said the Manager with a puzzled stare. "Yes, sir, Jesus Christ." "Now you can go, if you are in such a tremendous hurry, Randolph: only don't try any more of such toploftiness with me. It won't go down, you see;" and the Manager chuckled softly, as John, with broken thanks, left the room. "I rather think I got the better of him that time!" he said to himself. Judge Hildreth sat in his private office, immersed in anxious thought. Every day brought new difficulties to be wrestled with in connection with the multitudinous schemes which were making an old man of him while he was still in his prime. His hair was grey, his hands trembled, his eyes were bloodshot, and his face had the unhealthy pallor which accompanies intense nervous pressure and excitement. The Consolidated Provident Savings Company was a popular institution in Marlborough. There were conservative financiers who shook their heads and feared that its methods were not based on sound business principles and savored too much of wild-cat schemes and fraudulent speculations, but they were voted cranks by the majority, and the Consolidated Provident Savings Company grew and flourished. It paid large dividends, and its stockholders were duly impressed with the magnificence of its buildings and the grandiose tone of its officials. The man who obeyed the invitation bowed deferentially to his chief and then took a chair in front of him, with the table between. He was elaborately dressed, and the shiny silk hat which he deposited on the table looked aggressively prosperous. His manner betokened a man suddenly inflated with a sense of his own importance. His hair was sandy, and the thin moustache and beard failed to cover the pitifully weak lines of his mouth and chin. "Good-morning, Peters." The Judge nodded carelessly as he spoke, but he moved uneasily in his chair. Of late the sight of this man fretted him. It seemed as if he always saw him accompanied by a ghostly form. He tried to shake off the impression, and told himself angrily that he was falling into his dotage; but his memory would not yield. He saw again the pleading, trustful face of the man's mother as, years ago, she had besought him to do what he could for her son. "Just make a man of him, like yourself, Judge Hildreth," she had pleaded. "I will be more than satisfied then. I want my boy to be respected and to have a place in the world. Folks needn't know how hard his mother had to work." The boy had a surface smartness, and he had proved himself an apt scholar. The Judge had found him a willing tool in many of his deep laid schemes to get money for less than money's worth. But within the last few months there had been a change. A spark of manhood had asserted itself, and in the presence of his minion the Judge found himself upon the rack. "It is the same old trouble about bonds, Judge Hildreth. There are not enough of them to go round." The Judge rubbed his hands in simulated pleasure. "Well, that shows good management, Peters, if the public are hungry for our stock." "The public are fools!" said the young man, hotly. "It seems to me we've been using the watering-pot rather too frequently." The Judge started. Had he detected a menace in the tone? He temporized. His plans were not sufficiently matured yet. When they were he would crush this tool of his as surely and as carelessly as he would have crushed a fly. "Nonsense, Peters!" he said pleasantly; "that is only a little clever financing to tide us over the hard places. Of course we will make it all good to the public--by and bye." "How?" The question rang out through the office like a pistol shot. "Do you know where I've been these last months? I've been in hell, sir; in hell, I tell you! Every night I've dreamed of my mother and every day I've bamboozled the public and sold bonds that weren't worth the paper they were written on, and paid big dividends that were just some of their own money returned. And now you tell me to keep on watering the stock when you know we haven't a dollar put towards the 'Rest' and the money is just pouring out for expenses and directors' fees. There's barely enough left over to keep up the sham of dividends. You know it as well as I do. I've been an ass and an idiot, but I'm done with living a lie. Judge Hildreth, I came to tell you that if you don't do the square thing by these people who have trusted us, I'll expose you!" His vehemence was tremendous and the words poured out in a torrent which never checked its flow. He had risen and in his excitement paced up and down the room. Now, overcome by his effort, he sank exhausted into a chair. Judge Hildreth rose suddenly and locked the office door. When he turned again his face was not a pleasant sight to see. "President Peters," he said sternly, "this is not the age of heroics nor the place for them. In future I beg you to remember our relative positions. You seem to forget that I am the direct cause of your present prosperity, but that is an omission which men of your stamp are liable to make. I never expect gratitude from those whom I have befriended. "But when you come to threats, that is another matter. You say you will expose me. To whom, if you please? _You_ are the President of the Consolidated Company. Your name is associated with its business. Mine does not appear in any way, shape or form. You sign all papers, and it is you whom the public hold accountable for all moneys deposited in the institution. Any attempt which you might make to connect me with the enterprise would be futile, utterly futile. The public would not believe you, and you could not prove it in any court of law." The man, worn and spent with his emotion, lifted his head and looked at the Judge with dazed, lack-luster eyes. "I have simply given advice," interrupted the Judge haughtily. "Advice!" echoed the man, "and doesn't advice count in law?" "If you can prove it;" said the Judge with a cold smile. "Do you ever remember having any of my opinions in writing, President Peters? The law takes cognizance only of black and white, you know." The victim writhed in his chair, as the trap in which he was caught revealed itself. Heavily his eyes searched Judge Hildreth's face for some sign of pity or relenting, but in vain. "And if there should come a run on the funds?" he questioned dully. "If there should come a run on the funds," answered the Judge, "_you_ would be underneath." The man's head fell forward upon the table, and the Judge, with a cruel smile, left the room. "Gee!" exclaimed the younger boy in delight. "You're a buster, Joe, and no mistake. The president himself couldn't have rolled that sentence off better, or that old piece of pomposity who conies to the secret meetings with the gold-headed cane." "You won't do it long then, you mark my words. Did you see the president when he came into the office this morning? He looked as if he'd been gagged. I went into his office for something in a hurry afterwards and he was head over ears in Railway Time Tables. He jumped as if he'd been caught poaching. It's my belief he means to skip across the border. It's the only way for him to get out of the mess, unless he takes a dose of lead, you see. "Well, here goes. I'm going to write my resignation with the president's best gold pen. You can do as you like, but it's slow and honest for me." She wore a morning dress of soft pearl grey, over which she had tied an apron of white lawn with a dainty ruffle of embroidery below its hem. The peas danced merrily against the sides of an old-fashioned china bowl. Miss Diana had an aesthetic repugnance to the use of tin utensils in the preparation of food. "The sweet-breads hez cum, Miss Di-an," she said, appearing in the porch before her mistress. "Well, Unavella," said Miss Diana, with a pleasant smile, "you expected them, did you not? We ordered them, you know. They are very nutritious, I think." "Hum! There's some news cum along with 'em that ain't likely to prove ez nourishin'. Tummas sez the Provident Savings Company hez busted an' the president's vamoosed." "Dear me! I wish Thomas would not use such very forceful language," said Miss Diana. "Do you think he finds it necessary? Being a butcher, you know? I hardly understand the words. Do you think you would find them defined in Webster?" "Dear me! How very grieved I am. But a dictionary, Unavella, is the basis of all education. Thomas ought to appreciate that. 'Busted,'" she repeated the word slowly, with an instinctive shrinking from its sound, "that is a vulgar corruption of the verb to burst; but 'vamoosed,' I do not think I ever heard the term before." "Tummas says it means to show the under side of your shoe leather." "The under side of your shoe leather, Unavella?" Miss Diana lifted her pretty shoe and held it up for inspection. "Do you see anything wrong with that?" The faithful soul threw her apron over her head with a sob. "Oh, Miss Di-an!" she wailed, "it means the company's all a set of cheats, an' the biggest rogue of the lot hez lit out--run away--an' taken the money the Gin'rel left you along with him." Miss Diana received the news in absolute silence. The brave daughter of a brave father, she would make no moan, but the sweetness seemed to have suddenly gone from the flowers and the light out of the sky. Unavella looked at her in amazement. She was used to the stormy grief which finds vent in tears and groans. "It beats me how different folks takes things!" she ejaculated mentally. "Well, she'll need suthin' to keep her strength up all the more now she ain't got nuthin' to support her;" and, gathering peas and pods into her apron with a mighty sweep of her arm, she marched into her kitchen in a fever of sympathetic indignation and evolved a dinner which was a masterpiece of culinary skill. Miss Diana forced herself to eat something. She knew if she did not, Unavella would be worried, and she possessed that peculiar regard for the feelings of others which would not allow her to consider her own. "You are a wonderful cook, Unavella," she said, with a pathetic cheerfulness which did not deceive her faithful handmaiden, who, as she confided afterwards to a friend, wuz weepin' bitter gall tears in her mind, though she kep' a calm front outside, for she wuzn't goin' ter be outdid in pluck by that little bit of sweetness. "I shall be able to give you a beautiful character." She lifted her hand with a deprecating gesture as Unavella was about to burst forth with a stormy denial. "You, you--angul!" exclaimed Unavella, as soon as she had regained the privacy of her kitchen, while a briny crystal of genuine affection rolled down her cheek and splashed unceremoniously into the gravy. Miss Diana knelt beside the couch, comfortable as only old-fashioned couches know how to be. "Dear Christ," she cried, "I am thy follower and I have gone shod with velvet while thy feet were travel-stained, and I have slept upon eider-down while thou hadst not where to lay thine head!" She knelt on, motionless, until the twilight fell and the stars began to peep out in the sky. Then she went down-stairs and there was a strange, exalted look upon her sweet face. "Unavella," she cried softly, "I have found the sunlight, for I can say 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD.'" "Oh, Miss Di-an!" wailed Unavella, "I b'lieve you're goin' ter die an' be an angul afore the moon changes!" When she reached home that night she looked very white and weary, but her smile was all the sweeter because of the unshed tears. Unavella had spread her supper in the porch. She ate but little, however. "I am sorry I cannot do more justice to your skill, Unavella," she said with her gentle courtesy, "but I do not seem to feel hungry lately." "It's that li-yar!" muttered Unavella grimly, as she cleared the things away. "I never knowed a li-yar yit that didn't scare all the appetite away from a body." When her work was finished she came back to the porch where Miss Diana was sitting very still in the moonlight. "Miss Di-an!" she exclaimed impetuously, "don't you go fer to be thinkin' of sellin'! I've got a plan that beats the li-yar's all holler, ef he duz wear a wig." "Sit down, Unavella," said her mistress kindly, "and tell me what it is." Miss Diana smiled. "Well, Unavella." she said. "You decide ter leave yer hum, with all there is to it, an' me inter the bargain, an' go ter board with folks what don't know yer likins nor understan' yer feelin's, an' the end on it'll be that you'll jest wilt away wuss than a mornin' glory. I never did think folks sarved the Lord by dyin' afore their time comes. "I decide to hev you keep yer hum, an' the things in it, an' me too. The hull on it is, Miss Di-an, _I won't be left_!" and Unavella buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud. "You dear Unavella!" Miss Diana laid her soft hand upon the toil-roughened ones. "If you only knew how I dread the thought of leaving you! But what else is there for me to do?" "Gentlemen boarders," was the terse reply. "Gentlemen boarders!" echoed Miss Diana in bewilderment. She rose as she spoke and bade her a gentle good-night, and Unavella walked slowly back to her kitchen again. "Ef the angul Gabriel," she soliloquized, "starts in ter searchin' the earth this night fer the Lord's chosen ones, there ain't no fear but what he'll cum ter this house, the fust thing." Up-stairs Miss Diana was whispering softly, as she looked up at the stars with a trustful smile. "Oh, my Father, if it is thy will that I should do this thing, thou wilt send me the right ones." John Randolph did some hard thinking during the weeks which followed Richard Trueman's death. It was no light task which he had so cheerfully imposed upon himself. The boy was constitutionally delicate and fretted so constantly after his father that his health began to suffer, and it grew to be a very pale face which welcomed John with a smile when he returned from the office. The style of living was bad for him. He was alone all day, except for an occasional visit from the good-natured German woman who kept their rooms, and, although he was a voracious reader, the doctor had forbidden all thought of study for a year, even had there been a school near enough for him to attend, where John would have been willing to send him. He ought to be where the air was pure and the surroundings cheerful. John would have preferred to put up with the discomfort of his present quarters and lay by the addition to his salary towards the more speedy realization of his day-dream, but John Randolph had never found much time to think of himself; there were always so many other people in the world to be attended to. The boy's sad eyes grew wide with wonder. The pale face brightened. "Why do you keep calling me Dick True all the time?" John laughed. "Just to remind you that you must be a true boy before you can really be a True-man, Dick. I want you to be in the best company. Jesus Christ is the truth, you know, Dick." "Jesus Christ," repeated the boy thoughtfully. "I wish I knew him, John, as well as you do." "If you love, you will know," said John, the light which the boy loved to watch creeping into his eyes. "He is the best friend we will ever have, Dick, you and I." "Dick, Dick True, we've found it at last! Listen: The boy clapped his hands. "When can we go, John?" "But, John," said the boy, ruefully, "we're not gentlemen. You don't wear a silk hat, you know, and I have no white shirts--nothing but these paper fronts. I hate paper fronts! They're such shams! "Oh, ho! Dick, so you're pining for frills, eh? Well, if it will make you feel more comfortable, we'll go down to Stewart's and get fitted out to your satisfaction. But don't forget that you can be a gentleman in homespun as well as broadcloth, Dick. Real diamonds don't need to borrow any luster from their setting; only the paste do that." He was ushered into Miss Diana's presence, and on the instant forgot everything but Miss Diana herself. Before he realized what he was doing he had explained the reason of his seeking a suburban home, and, drawn on by her gentle sympathy, was telling her the story of his life. Miss Diana had a way of compelling confidence, and the people who gave it to her never afterwards regretted the gift. With the straightforwardness which was a part of his nature he told his story. It never occurred to him that there was anything peculiar about it, yet when he had finished there were tears in his listener's eyes. When at length he rose to go, everything was settled between them. John's eyes wandered round the room and then rested again with a curious sense of pleasure upon Miss Diana's face. "I cannot begin to thank you," he said, gratefully, "for allowing us to come here. I never dared to hope that my poor little Dick would have such an education as this home will be to him, but I feel sure you will learn to like Dick True." Miss Diana held out her hand, with a smile. "I think I shall like you as well as Dick," she said. "A knight?" suggested her friend, who had just indulged a literary taste by purchasing a paper covered edition of Sir Walter Scott. "Lady Di! Lady Di!" and little Dick came hurrying into the library where Miss Diana was sitting in the gloaming. "John wants you to come out and see if you like the new flowers he is planting. He says I must be sure to put your shawl on, for the dew is falling." "What? Lady Di?" answered the boy. "Oh, we always call you that, John and I. Our Lady Di. John says you make him think of the elect lady, in the Bible, you know." And Miss Diana, as she passed the shelves, laid her hand caressingly upon the beloved books with a happy smile. God had sent her the right ones! "I don't see how you do it!" she exclaimed. "Do what?" asked Evadne. "She is good discipline." Marion gave her an impetuous hug. "You dear Evadne! I believe you take us all as that! But I don't think the rest of us can be quite as trying as Isabelle. She does seem to delight in saying such horrid things. She was abominably rude to you this morning at breakfast and yet you were just as polite as ever. I couldn't have done it. I should have sulked for a week. I know you feel it, for I see your lips quiver--you are as susceptible to a rude touch as a sensitive plant--but it is beautiful to be able to keep sweet outside." Evadne looked out at the street where the fresh fallen snow had spread a dazzling carpet of virgin white. "He is going to let me give an afternoon's amusement to Gretchen and little Hans," she said. "Uncle Lawrence has promised me the sleigh and I am going to take them to the Park. Won't it be beautiful to see them enjoy! Hans has never seen the trees after a snowstorm." "That is you all over, Evadne. It is always other people's pleasure, while I think of my own! Oh, dear! I seem to do nothing but get savage and then sigh over it. I know it is dreadful to talk about my own sister as I have been doing--they say you ought to hide the faults of your relations--but it is only to you, you know. Do you suppose there is any hope for me, Evadne?" she asked disconsolately. Evadne drew her head down until it was on a level with her own. "Let Christ teach you to love, dear," she whispered, "Then, 'charity will cover the multitude of sins.'" She opened the book she had been reading when her cousin entered and took from it a newspaper clipping. "Read this," she said. "Aunt Marthe sent it in her last letter. If we follow its teachings I think all the fret and worry will go out of our lives for good." When, some hours later, Evadne went down-stairs to luncheon, she felt strangely happy. Marion had said Louis must confess there was something in Christianity when he looked at her. That was what she longed to do--to prove to him the reality of the religion of Jesus. And that afternoon she was going to give such a pleasure to Gretchen and little Hans. It was beautiful to be able to give pleasure to people. She could just fancy how Gretchen's eyes would glisten as she talked to her in her mother tongue, while little Hans' shyness would vanish under the genial influence of Pompey's sympathetic companionship, and he would clap his hands with delight as Brutus and Caesar drew them under the arches of evergreen beauty, bending low beneath their ermine robes, while the silver bells broke the hush of silence which dwelt among the forest halls with a subdued melody and then rang out joyously as they emerged into the open, where the sun shone bright and clothed denuded twigs and trees in the bewitching beauty of a silver thaw. It would always seem to little Hans like a dream of fairyland and she would be remembered as his fairy godmother. It was a pleasant role--that of a fairy godmother. "Why, Louis!" she spoke as if in a dream, "I am going to have the sleigh this afternoon." "That is unfortunate, coz," said Louis lightly, "as probably we are going in different directions." "I am going to the Park," stammered Evadne, "with little Hans and Gretchen." "Exactly, and I to the Club grounds. Diametrically opposite, you see." "The Judge should not allow himself to jump at such hasty conclusions before hearing the decision of the Foreman of the Jury. It is an unwise procedure for his Lordship." "But poor little Hans will be so disappointed! He has been looking forward to it for weeks." "Disappointed! My dear coz, the placid Teutonic mind is impervious to anything so unphilosophical. It will teach him the truth of the adage that 'there is many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,' and in the future he will not be so foolish as to look forward to anything." Evadne's lips quivered. "You are cruel," she said, "to shut out the sunlight from a poor little crippled child!" "My dear coz, I give you my word of honor, I am sorry. But there is nothing to make a fuss about. Any other day will suit your little beggar just as well. I promised some of the fellows to drive them out and a Hildreth cannot break his word, you know." "You have made me break mine," said Evadne sadly, as she passed him to go upstairs. "Ah, you are a woman," said Louis coolly, "that alters everything." His sorrowful tones seemed to crush her into the earth. Was this her Christ-likeness? And she had let Marion say she was better than them all! What if she or Louis were to see her now? He would say again, as he had said before, "There is not much of the 'meek and lowly' in evidence at present." "And he would be right," she cried remorsefully. "Oh, Jesus Christ, is this the way I am following thee!" "You do right to feel annoyed," argued self. "It hurts you to disappoint Gretchen and Hans." "It is your own pride that is hurt," answered her inexorable conscience. "You wanted to pose as a Lady Bountiful. It is humiliating to let these poor people see that you are of no consequence in your uncle's house. Christ kept no carriage. It is not what you do but what you are, that proves your kinship with the Lord." And they put their own disappointment out of sight, these kindly German folk, and tried to make her think they cared as little as if they were used to driving every day. "Did you notice, Gretchen," said Hans, after Evadne had left them, "how sweet our Fraulein was this afternoon? But her eyes looked as if she had been crying. Do you suppose she had?" "I think, Hans," said Gretchen slowly, "our Fraulein is learning to dwell where God wipes all the tears away." "Are your eyes no better, Frau Himmel?" Evadne was saying as she shook hands with another friend who was patiently learning the bitter truth that she would never be able to see her beloved Fatherland again. "Are the doctors quite sure that nothing can be done?" "A hope, Frau Himmel, when you are blind! What can it be?" "This, dear Fraulein," and the look on the patient face was beautiful to see. "'Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty; they shall behold the land that is very far off.'" And Evadne, walking homeward, repeated the words which she had read that morning with but a dim perception of their meaning. 'If limitation is power that shall be, if calamities, opposition and weights are wings and means--we are reconciled.' "Uncle Lawrence, with your permission, I am going to study to be a nurse." Judge Hildreth started. So light had been the footsteps and so deeply had he been absorbed in thought, he had not heard his niece enter the library and cross the room until she stood before his desk. Very fair was the picture which his eyes rested upon. What made his brows contract as if something hurt him in the sight? Evadne Hildreth was in all the sweetness of her young womanhood. She was not beautiful, not even pretty, Isabelle said, but there was a strange fascination about her earnest face, and the wonderful grey eyes possessed a charm that was all their own. She had graduated with honors. Now she stood upon the threshold of the unknown, holding her life in her hands. Louis was traveling in Europe. Isabelle and Marion were at a fashionable French Conservatory, for the perfecting of their Parisian accent. Evadne was alone. She had chosen to have it so. She wanted to follow up a special course in physiology which was her favorite study. "A nurse, Evadne! My dear, you are beside yourself. 'Much learning hath made you mad.'" "'I am not mad, most noble Festus, but speak the words of truth and soberness.' I feel called to do this thing." "Who has called you, pray? We do not deal in supernaturalisms in this prosaic century." The lovely eyes glowed. "Jesus Christ." What an exultant ring there was in her voice, and how tenderly she lingered over the name! "Jesus Christ!" Judge Hildreth repeated the words in an awestruck tone. Did she see him cower in his chair? It must have been an optical illusion. The storm outside was making the house shiver and the lights dance. "You must consult your aunt," he said in a changed voice. She noticed with a pang how old and careworn he looked. "Kate," he called, as just then he heard his wife's step in the hall, "come here." "What do you wish, Lawrence?" and there was a soft _frou frou_ of silken draperies as Mrs. Hildreth's dress swept over the carpet. "Evadne wishes to become a nurse." "Are you crazy?" There was a steely glitter in Mrs. Hildreth's eyes, and her tone fell cold and measured through the room. "She says not," said the Judge with a feeble smile. "Why should you think so, Aunt Kate?" asked Evadne gently. "Look how the world honors Florence Nightingale, and think how many splendid women have followed her example." "To earn your own living by the labor of your hands. A Hildreth!" "All the people who amount to anything in the world have to work, Aunt Kate. There is nothing degrading in it." "Just try it and you will soon find out your mistake. If you do this thing you will be ostracized by the world. People make a great talk about the dignity of labor, but a girl who works has no footing in polite society." Evadne's sweet laugh fell softly through the silence. "I don't believe I have any time for society, Aunt Kate. Life seems too real to be frittered away over afternoon teas." "Are you mad, Lawrence, to let her take this step? Think of the Hildreth honor!" Again Judge Hildreth laughed--that strange, feeble laugh. "Evadne is of age, Kate; she must do as she thinks right. As to the rest--I think the less we say about the Hildreth honor now the better for us all." He was alone. Mrs. Hildreth had swept away in a storm of wrath. Evadne had followed her, leaving a soft kiss upon his brow. He lifted his hand to the place her lips had touched--he felt as if he had been stung--but there was no outward wound. She saw but little of her cousins. They passed their days in pleasure, she in work; but Marion, in her rare moments of reflection, as she thought of the strangely peaceful face of the young nurse, wondered sadly whether Evadne had not chosen the better part after all. Louis stretched himself lazily in his arm-chair and clasped his hands behind his head. "Thanks for your high opinion, coz. Of what special crime do I stand accused before the bar of your judgment?" "Oh, it is nothing special, but you are just frittering away the days that might be filled with such noble work, and you have nothing to show for them but--smoke!" She swept her hand through the filmy cloud which Louis just then blew into the air, with a gesture of disdain. "Now you will think I am preaching, but indeed, indeed I am not, only, it hurts me so!" Louis laughed and threw away his cigar. "No, I will not charge you with belonging to the cloth, but I confess I should like you better if you had not entrenched yourself behind such a high wall of prejudice against all the good things of this life. You are too narrow, Evadne." Evadne folded her hands together as if she were holding a strange, sweet comfort against her heart. "The Jews said the same about Jesus Christ," she said, "why should the servant be judged more kindly than her Lord?" "But there is no harm in these things, Evadne." "There is no good in them. Life is so real, Louis!" "But, Louis, it is dreadful to have no purpose in life!" "The Judge has enough of that for us both," said Louis carelessly. "Why should I choke my brains with musty law when his are charged to repletion?" "Think how it would please Uncle Lawrence!" urged Evadne. "True," said Louis gravely, "but that is an argument which will bear future consideration." "Oh, Louis," and Evadne's voice was choked with tears, "the time may come when you would give the whole world to be able to please your father!" "But, Evadne," said Louis gently, "a man must have freedom of choice in his vocation. My father chose the law for his profession, why should he rebel if I choose dilettanteism?" "Because it is no profession at all. I am sure he would not mind what you did, if it were only real work." [Illustration: 'TAKE HER, RANDOLF, SHE IS WORTHY OF YOU.'] "Oh, pshaw! Always work, Evadne. I tell you I prefer to play. Miss Angel told me at the General's ball last night that she liked a man who took his glass and smoked and did all the rest of the naughty things." "She is an angel of darkness, luring you on to ruin." Louis shrugged his shoulders. "Possibly. If so, she is disguised as an angel of light. She sings divinely." "So did the Sirens." Louis laughed. "She has promised to go for a sail with me to-morrow. Better come along, coz, and keep us off the rocks." "I like such a girl as that," he continued. "She has common sense and makes a fellow feel comfortable. These moral altitudes of yours are all very fine in theory, but the atmosphere is too rare for me." "It is no real kindness to make you satisfied with your lowest. I want you to rise to your best. Oh, Louis, won't you let Christ make your life grand? It would be such a happiness to me!" She laid her hand upon his shoulder. Louis caught it in his and drew her round in front of his chair. "I do wish you would not ride such wild horses, Louis," said Mrs. Hildreth, as she stood beside her son in the front doorway, looking disapprovingly as she spoke at the horse who was champing his bit viciously on the sidewalk below. "It keeps me in a perfect fever of anxiety all the time." "Whoa, Polyphemus! Stand still, sir! Pompey, have you tightened that girth up to its last hole? Better do it then. Don't mind his kicking. It doesn't hurt him. It's just his way. "My dear lady mother, if you knew what a pleasure it is to find something untamable where everything is so confoundedly slow you would not wonder at my fondness for the brute. As to your anxiety, that is ridiculous. A Hildreth has too much sense to be conquered by a horse and make a spectacle of himself into the bargain. _Au revoir_. Better take a dose of lavender to calm your nerves," and Louis waved his hand to her with careless grace, as he gathered up the reins. It was late in the afternoon when Pompey went up town on an errand for Judge Hildreth. The street was full of men and horses hurrying to and fro but Pompey paid them but little attention. He was busy with his Lord. Hark! What was that? The sound of a horse's hoofs ringing with a sharp, metallic clatter upon the paved street while children screamed and men turned white faces towards the sound and hurriedly sought the sidewalk. On they came, the horse and his rider. Louis pale as death, Polyphemus mad with sudden fear and his own ungovernable temper. The bit was between his teeth, his iron-shod feet were thrown out in vengeful fury. Pompey sprang forward. "You can't stop him!" shouted the men. "It would be certain death!" But just beyond the street took a sharp turn to the right and a deep chasm, where extensive excavations for a sewer were being made, yawned hungrily. The horse plunged and reared. Pompey had caught hold of the reins and was clinging to them with all his might. Mrs. Hildreth leaned over her son in an agony of fear. Louis was her idol. He opened his eyes wearily. His cheeks were as white as the pillow. "Oh, Louis!" she wailed, "I knew that wretched horse would bring you to your death!" "I am not dead yet," he said, with a shadow of his old mocking smile, "although I _have_ succeeded in making a fool of myself. How is Pompey?" Evadne stood in Dyce's little room, beside the bed with its gay patchwork cover. The iron-shod hoofs had done their cruel work only too well! "Pompey," she said wistfully, "dear Pompey, is the pain terrible to bear?" The faithful eyes looked up at her, the brave lips tried to smile. "De Lord Jesus is a powerful help in de time of trubble, Miss 'Vadney; I'se leanin' on his arm." Evadne repeated, as well as she could for tears. "'Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God; I will strengthen thee, yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.'" "De Jedge is powerful kind, Missy. He say he'll look out fer Dyce ez long ez he live," the husband's voice broke, "I don't care nuthin' 'bout dat!" and Dyce turned away with a choking sob; "but I'se proud to hev him see what kind of a man you is." The night drew on. No sound was to be heard in the little cottage except the ticking of the wheezy clock, as Dyce kept her solitary vigil by the side of the man she loved. She knelt beside his pillow, and, for her sake, Pompey made haste to die. As the shadows of the night were fleeing before the heralds of the dawn, she saw the gray shadow which no earthly light has power to chase away fall swiftly over his face. He opened his eyes and spoke in a rapturous whisper. "Dyce! Dyce! I see de Lord!" The morning broke. Dyce still knelt on with her face buried in the pillow; the asthmatic clock still kept on its tireless race; but Pompey's happy spirit had forever swept beyond the bounds of time. The humble funeral was over. The Hildreth carriage, behind whose curtained windows sat Dyce and Evadne, had followed close after the hearse. The Judge had walked behind. "So uncalled for!" Mrs. Hildreth said in an annoyed tone when, she heard of it. Your father never _will_ learn to have a proper regard for _les convenances_." "Uncalled for!" ejaculated Louis. "I'll venture to say the Judge will never have a chance to follow such a brave man again." "He sent his carriage. That was all that was necessary." "Doubtless Dyce finds that superlative honor a perfect panacea for her grief," said Louis sarcastically. "It is eminently fitting that Brutus and Caesar should have walked as chief mourners for they have lost the truest friend they ever had." "I'm afraid poor Evadne will be worn out with such constant attendance upon Louis," said Marion some weeks after Pompey's death. "I don't see how she stands it." "It is hardly worth her while to undertake nursing," said Isabelle coldly, "if she cannot stand such a trifle as this." "Of course _I_ could not stand being broken of my rest," rejoined Isabelle, "it is hard enough for me to get any under the most favorable circumstances, but probably Evadne sleeps like a log in the daytime. It is the least return she can make for having disgraced the family, to be of some use in it now." "Mamma says this nursing fad of hers upset Papa completely. He said the Hildreth honor had better not be mentioned any more." "Don't you think Papa looks very badly, Isabelle? And he seems so absent, as if he had something on his mind. I noticed it long before this happened." Isabelle laughed carelessly. "What a girl you are, Marion! You are always imagining things about people. For my part I have too many worries of my own." "Do you never think about him, Louis?" "A 'nebulous faith' will not save you, Louis," Evadne answered sadly. "God expects us to believe his word when he tells us that he has opened a way for us into the Holiest by the blood of his Son." "That atonement theory is an uncanny doctrine." "It is not philosophical." "I read this morning that 'the moving energy in the world's history to-day is not a philosophy, but a cross.'" "The God of the present is humanitarianism." "When Jesus told his disciples to follow, he meant them to be with him. I do not think we can ever hope to be like Christ unless we believe him to be God and walk with him every day. If we have the spirit of Jesus in our hearts, we shall be model humanitarians, for we shall love our neighbor as ourselves." Louis caught her hand in his. "Begin by loving me!" he cried suddenly. "I love you, dear! These long days of watching have taught me that, although I began to suspect it some time ago. It is no use saying anything," he went on hurriedly, as Evadne began to protest, "you must be my wife, for I cannot live without you!" He drew a handsome ring, of quaint and curious workmanship which he had bought in Venice, from his finger, and before Evadne could recover from her astonishment, had thrust it upon hers. "See, you are mine, darling. Now let us seal the compact with a kiss." "Louis, you are dreaming! This can never be!" She struggled to free her hand but he held her fingers in a grasp of steel. "It shall be, my sweet little Puritan! Do you suppose I will ever give you up now? I tell you I love you, Evadne! Love you as I never thought I should ever love a woman. Why, you can twist me around your finger. I am like water in your hands." "Louis, please listen!" implored Evadne, with a white, strained face. "This is utterly impossible, for--I do not love you." "I will teach you, dear," said Louis cheerfully. "I know I have been a brute, but I will show you how gentle I can be." "Louis!" cried Evadne desperately, "you must let me go! I will _never_ do this thing!" She pulled vainly at the ring as she spoke. Louis' grasp never relaxed. When he spoke she was frightened at the recklessness of his tone. "Take that ring off your finger and I go straight to the devil! You say you want to win my soul. Here is your chance. You can make of me what you will. I own there is something in your Christianity. I can't help sneering when I see Isabelle and Marion playing at it, but I have never sneered at you. Now, take your choice. Shall the devil have his own?" He looked up at her, his face pallid with exhaustion, "Promise me," he said faintly, "that the ring shall stay on your finger until I take it off." And Evadne promised. Isabelle had been intensely curious but her questions had elicited no satisfaction from her brother, and Evadne had answered simply, "Louis took a fancy to put it on my finger: I am wearing it to please him, that is all:" and even Isabelle found her cousin's sweet dignity an effectual bar against her morbid inquisitiveness. "By Jove! Can it be that I am a victim of it too? It looks confoundedly like it, although even my sweet little Puritan has not felt it a sin against her conscience to keep me in the dark." He stopped suddenly and bit his lips in pain. Would he not follow his grandfather's example--if he had the chance? "What in the world is the meaning of all this?" Louis had arrived by an earlier train than he was expected and only his mother was at home to greet him. The hall was in confusion, workmen's tools lay about and ladders stood against the walls. Mrs. Hildreth laughed lightly, as she laid her hand within her son's arm. "Oh, they are only getting ready for the floral decorations," she said, "we give a reception to-morrow in honor of your return. How well you are looking, Louis. I am so delighted to have you at home." His mother laughed again as she drew him on the sofa beside her. She seemed in wonderfully good humor. "Rather a comprehensive question," she said. "Sit down and we will have a comfortable talk before the others get home. Your father looks wretchedly but he says there is nothing the matter. I suppose it is just overwork and the usual money strain. Isabelle too is not as well as I should like her to be. Suffers from nervousness a great deal, and depression. There is a new physician here now, a Doctor Randolph, who we think is going to help her, although he is very young; but she took a dislike to Doctor Russe because he belongs to the old school. And now I have a surprise for you. Marion is engaged!" "Engaged! Why, you never hinted at it in your letters!" "It has all been very sudden. I wrote you there was a young New Yorker very attentive to her." "Just a week ago to-night: and they are so devoted!" "Brother Simp! Rich, I suppose?" "Oh, yes, very. In fact he is eligible in every way." "I see," yawned Louis, "Possessed of all the cardinal virtues. It is a good thing his wealth is not all in his pockets, for they are apt to spring a leak. But Evadne--how is she?" "Oh, she is always well, you know," said his mother carelessly. "There they come now." "These Indian famines are a terrible business," said Judge Hildreth as they lingered over their dessert that evening. It was pleasant to have Louis and Evadne back again. He too was glad to see his son so well. "I don't see what the end is going to be." "People say that about every calamity, Papa," said Isabelle, "but the world goes on just the same." "Of course it does, Isabelle," said her brother. "You see we can't waste time over a few dying millions when we have to give a reception for instance." "But that is a necessity, Louis," said Mrs. Hildreth, "we must pay our debts to society, you know." "I am sure I don't see where I could economize," sighed Marion. "That lecturer last night was splendid and I would like to have given him thousands but I hadn't a dollar in my purse. I never have. I spent my last cent for chocolates yesterday." Evadne smiled and sighed but said nothing. The lecturer the night before had felt his soul strangely stirred at the sight of her glowing face, and the plate when it passed her seat had borne a shining gold piece, but perhaps she had not as many temptations as Marion and Isabelle. "I would have willingly filled you up a check with the cost of the floral decorations, Marion," said her father with a twinkle in his eye. "They would have purchased a good many bags of corn." "Of course, sis," said Louis gravely, "it was a most imperative expenditure. It is a strange coincidence that you should have chosen that particular make though. It has always been a fancy of mine that the Levite was robed in a Worth gown when he passed by on the other side." "You forget, Mamma," said Isabelle with a laugh, "that Evadne revels in horrors. What would be torture to our quivering nerves, to her atrophied sensibilities is merely an occurrence of every day." Louis gave a sudden start in his chair, but on the instant Evadne laid her hand upon his arm, and its light touch soothed his anger as it had been wont to soothe his pain. Evadne Hildreth was climbing the heights of victory. She had learned to cover her wounds with a smile. "Who is that calf, Evadne, standing by the piano?" Louis put the question to his cousin the next evening, as he sought a few moments' respite from his duties as host at her side. "That is Mr. Simpson Kennard." Louis surveyed the fashionably dressed, weak-faced, sandy-haired young man from head to foot. "He will never get above his collar!" he said in a tone of infinite scorn. Evadne laughed. "You must confess it is high enough to limit the aspirations of an ordinary mortal." Marion fluttered up to them, her cheeks aglow with excitement. "Louis, where are you? I want to introduce you to Simpsey. He has just arrived." And John Randolph answered with his strong, sweet faith. "God understands, _we_ do not need to." "Did you leave nothing behind you at Hollywood that day?" he asked gently. "My handkerchief!" she cried. "I missed it before we reached Marlborough. I must have left it at the gate." But Evadne had left more behind her than she knew. "I will keep it still," he said, "with your permission. Will you give it to me?" "Oh, Doctor Randolph!" Isabelle's voice fell shrill upon Evadne's silence, "they are calling for you in the other room to decide a knotty question--something about microbes. I told them I was sure you would know. Will you come?" John Randolph put the case quickly in his pocket and smiled as he turned away. He thought he had read consent in her lovely eyes. "Give that to me!" Isabella spoke imperiously to the servant, who was passing through the hall with a note in her hand. From where she stood she had recognized the clear handwriting of the prescriptions which the new doctor wrote. Her demon of curiosity overcame her. The tempter was very near. The girl held the note towards her. "It is for Miss Evadne," she said. "Miss E. Hildreth, you see." Isabelle gave a careless laugh. "Did you not know I had an E in my name also? Evelyn Isabelle. I know the writing. The note is meant for me." So the truth and the lie mingled! When John Randolph called that evening he was ushered into the presence of Isabelle. "I am so sorry about Evadne!" she exclaimed, before he had time to speak. "She had an engagement with my brother. He monopolizes her whenever he is at home." She laughed affectedly. "Oh, I cannot tell you when it is coming off, but she has worn his ring for years. They will not give us any satisfaction--deep as the sea, you know. It seems so strange to me, but then I am so transparent. She is a clever girl, but very peculiar. Does not seem to have much natural feeling, you know, but I suppose I am not fitted to judge, I am so emotional!" John Randolph bit his lip hard. It startled him to find how sharp a pain could be. The surgical ward in the new Hospital at Marlborough was filled to its utmost capacity and Evadne found her work no sinecure. The force of nurses was inadequate to the demand. Often she would be called from her rest to minister to the critical cases which were her special care, and she would go down to the ward saying softly, "The Master is come and calleth for thee," and bending tenderly over the sufferers, would behold as in a vision the face of Christ. Evadne laughed merrily. "If they do," she said, "it must be because of my love for them." And the Superintendent answered in a hushed voice, "Why, _that_ is the Gospel!" They called her 'Sister,' these rough men. She liked it so. She felt herself a sister to the world. "She gives herself!" cried John Randolph with a great throb of longing. "It is what Jesus did, in Galilee." A wave of passion broke over him. It was not true, this story. It could not be! How could her nature, sweet as light, ever be attuned to that of her cynical cousin? She was coming nearer, nearer. He would stay and meet her. He thought he had read his answer in her eyes. Now he would have it from her lips as well. "Sister, Sister, won't you sing before you go?" The men raised themselves on their elbows in pleading entreaty, and Evadne stood in all her sweet unconsciousness before him and began to do their will. Soft and clear the music fell about him. The air was 'The last Rose of Summer' but the words were 'Jesus, Lover of my soul.' When the song was ended, John Randolph, hushed and comforted, walked noiselessly down the stairway and out into the quiet street. Evadne had sung her message, while she folded its leaves of healing down over her own sore heart, and human love had paled before the exquisite beauty of the love of God! "Where did you come from?" "Where have you been?" John laughed. "In and around Marlborough all the time, except when I went to New York for my degree." "And never let us hear a word from you all these years!" "You forget, Rege, your father forbade me to hold any communication with Hollywood." Reginald's face grew grave. "Poor father. Well he's done with it all now." "Yes--and little Nan." "Oh!" The exclamation was sharp with pain. "I think she fretted for you, John. She just seemed to pine away. Every day we missed her about the same time, and they always found her in the same place, down by the green road. Then scarlet fever came. She never spoke of getting well--didn't seem to want to. The night she died she put her arms around mother's neck and whispered. 'Tell Don me'll be waitin' at the gate.' That was all." "And your father, Rege?" John was calm again. "Not your mother too, Rege!" Reginald's voice broke. "Yes, they are all gone. It was a great deal to happen in a few years. I am a wealthy man, John, but I am all alone in the world, except for Elise. Well," he added more lightly, "I have learned not to rebel at the inevitable. It is only what we have to expect." "Not just yet, Rege I must pay a visit to Mrs. O'Flannigan, then there is the hospital, and the dispensary, and I promised to concoct a bed for a poor fellow in the last stages of heart trouble. But I will come to-night." "Always helping somewhere, John. What a grand fellow you are!" "We are in the world to help the world, else what were the use of living?" "I can't do anything," said Reginald, "with this clog." He looked contemptuously at his ebony crutch as he spoke. John laid his hand upon his arm. "Rege," he said in his old, tender way. "I think this very 'clog' as you call it, is a preparation to help those who are passing through the baptism of pain." Mrs. Reginald Hawthorne welcomed her husband's friend with a winning charm. She was very pretty, very graceful and very young. Reginald idolized her. John saw that as he looked around the sumptuous home whose every fitting was a tribute to her taste. They had just finished unpacking the things they had brought from Europe. "Strangely enough," said Reginald with a laugh, "I told Elise this morning that now I was going to start out in search of you!" He had developed wonderfully. John saw that too. Travel and trial had brought out the good that was in him--but not the best. The evening passed pleasantly. Mrs. Hawthorne played beautifully, and Reginald had kept ears and eyes open and talked well. "All a humbug, John. You Christians are chasing a will o' the wisp, a jack o' lantern. You remember my fad for mathematics? I have followed it up, and I find your theory a 'reductio ad absurdum.' I must have everything demonstrable and clear. This is neither." Reginald shook his head. "I have nothing to do with this faith business. I go as far as I see, no further." "God calls our wisdom foolishness, Rege. Jesus Christ put a tremendous premium upon the faith of a little child." "Things must be tangible for me to believe in them. Reason is king with me." "Without faith in your fellow man--and your wife--you would have a poor time of it, Rege; why should you refuse to have faith in your God? Is your will tangible, and can you demonstrate the mysterious forces of nature? You know you can't, Rege, you have to take them on trust; and if you had seen what I have, you would know that poor human reason is a pitiful thing! But I won't argue with you. Some day you will understand." And Reginald Hawthorne counted himself a perfectly happy man. Judge Hildreth sat in his library, alone. He had left home immediately after dinner, ostensibly to catch the evening train for New York, and had sent the carriage back from the station to take his family to the Choral Festival which was the event of the year in Marlborough, and then returning in a hired conveyance, had let himself into his house like a thief. When we sacrifice principle upon the altar of expediency, truth and honor, like twin victims, stand bound at its foot. He wanted to be undisturbed, to have time to think, and God granted his wish, until his reeling brain prayed for oblivion! No sound broke the stillness. With the exception of the servants in a distant part of the house, he was absolutely alone. But the letters must be destroyed. He had come to a decision at last. It was an imperative necessity. His hesitancy had been only the foolish scruples of an over sensitive conscience. The tremendous pressure of the age made things permissible. He was "torn by the tooth of circumstance" and "necessity knows no law." So he entrenched himself behind a breastwork of sophisms. Long familiarity with the suggestions of evil had bred a contempt for the good! He stretched out his hand towards the drawer. There should be no more weak delay. If a thing were to be done, 'twere well it were done quickly. The horror of a great fear fell upon him. Again his hand had fallen, and this time he was powerless to lift it up! The hours passed and he sat helpless, bound in that awful chain of frozen horror. In vain he struggled in a wild rage for freedom. No muscle stirred. Where was his boasted will power now? Hand and foot, faithful, uncomplaining slaves for so many years, had rebelled at last! His brain seemed on fire and the flashing thoughts blinded him with their glare. The letters rose from their sepulchre and, clothed in the majesty of a dead man's faith, looked at him with an awful reproach, until his very soul bowed in the dust with shame. His will still lay upon the desk, open at the paragraph "to my dear niece, Evadne," and the words "in trust," like red hot irons, branded him a felon in the sight of God and men! The others returned from the Festival, and Louis passed the door whistling. He had had a rare evening of pleasure with Evadne. Towards its close, under cover of the rolling harmonies, he had leaned over and whispered "I love you, dear!" and Evadne had held out her hand to him with the low pleading cry, "Oh, Louis, if you really do, then set me free!" but he had only smiled and taken the hand, on which his ring was gleaming, into his, and settled his arm more securely upon the back of her chair; and John Randolph, sitting opposite with Dick and Miss Diana, had watched the little scene and drawn his own conclusions with a sigh. The night drew on. The electric lights which it was Judge Hildreth's fancy to have ablaze in every room downstairs until the central current was shut off, still gleamed steadily upon the rigid figure before the desk, with the white, drawn face and the awful look of horror in its staring eyes. In an agony he tried to call, but no sound escaped the lips, set in a sphinx-like silence. In the morning a servant found him, when she came to clean the room, and fled screaming from the presence of the silent figure with the awful entreaty in its staring eyes. Shivering with horror the family gathered in the beautiful room which had been so suddenly turned into a death chamber, the servants weeping boisterously, Isabella and her mother in violent hysterics, and Marion clinging with wide, frightened eyes to Louis, who found himself thrust into a man's place of responsibility and did not know what to do! And in the midst of all the wild commotion his father sat, unmoved and silent, his agonized face lifted in an attitude of supplication, his lifeless hands lying heavily upon the now worthless papers, since for him there would be no to-morrow! The stately obsequies were ended. The paid quartette had sung their sweetest, while Doctor Jerome, standing beside the frozen face in the massive coffin, had delivered an eloquent eulogium, and Mrs. Hildreth, clad in her costly robes of mourning, had been led to her carriage by her son. Everything had been conducted in a manner befitting the Hildreth honor. "Evadne!" Louis turned a white, scared face towards his cousin, who stood beside him as he sat at his father's desk. Upstairs Mrs. Hildreth and Isabelle were in solemn consultation with a dressmaker. In the drawing-room Marion was being consoled by Simpson Kennard. "Well, Louis?" She laid her hand on his shoulder gently. She was very sorry for him. Louis shook his head. "Everywhere, but in this drawer. I opened it but there is nothing but musty old letters. I haven't time to go into them now. Oh, little coz, I don't dare to look you in the face. All the money that was left you by your father is gone!" "Don't tell Aunt Kate and the girls, Louis, There is no need that they should ever know. I have my profession and I am strong. Uncle Lawrence never meant to do anything except what was right, I know." Louis looked up at her and there was a strange reverence in his cynical face. He was in the presence of a Christliness which he had never dreamed of. "I am not worthy to touch the hem of your garment," he said humbly. But he did not offer to release her from her promise. He had not learned to be generous--yet. She had never questioned the terms of her father's will--if there was a will. She had supposed when she became of age there would be some change, but her uncle had made no reference to the subject and she had not liked to ask. He was always kind--he would do what was best. Some day she would be free to carry out this beautiful dream of hers. She could afford to wait. Now there was nothing to wait for any more! "Mrs. Reginald Hawthorne is very ill. Can you, will you come?" Her voice died away in a low wail of terror and the delicate blue veins in her temples throbbed with feverish excitement. Reginald Hawthorne had crouched down in his chair and buried his face in his hands. The pitiful cry began again. "To die, when life is so sweet! To be shut up in a coffin and buried in a cold, dark grave! You don't love me, Reginald. If you did, you would die too--with a laugh on your lips you know--then I should have that to cheer me, and we should be together, and I should not be afraid. But now you look so strangely, Reginald. Don't you care for me any more? Can you let them take me away from this beautiful world and stay in it all by yourself? "I suppose you will give me a splendid funeral--you are so generous you know--but I will not care whether the prison is pine or mahogany if I am to be shut up in it all alone! And you will have a long procession, with plumes and flowers and show, but you will leave me in the dreary cemetery and you will come back to our home, where we have been so happy together--so happy, just you and I--but you see you are a philosopher and I do not know how to die! "And some day you will forget me--men do such things they say--and another woman will be your wife and I will be all alone!" "Sister!" The abject man in the chair held out his hands in an agony of entreaty, "Come here and help us--if you can!" and Evadne came swiftly into the room, and, sitting down on the side of the bed, gathered the pitiful little figure to her heart. "It is not death but life," she said gently. "This body is not _you_. The home of the soul is more beautiful than, any earthly home can ever be. It is those who are left behind dear, who mourn, not those who go." Elise Hawthorne laid her head on Evadne's shoulder like a tired child. "But I am afraid," she whispered. "If this is true, and God is holy, I am not fit, you know." "Your Father loves you dear, for he sent his Son to die. The thief on the cross was a sinner, yet Christ took him to Paradise. The fitness must come from Jesus. His blood washes whiter than snow." "But I have done nothing to earn it. I have lived for myself alone." Mrs. Hawthorne looked wonderingly at her nurse. "Treat him the same as I do my husband!" she exclaimed. "Why, with Reginald, I believe every word he says." "And I with God," said Evadne reverently. Evadne looked up at him, and over her face a light was breaking, "I have led her to Jesus, the Mighty to save." Evadne looked at the pleading eyes with which Elise Hawthorne seconded her husband's wish and her lips trembled. "How rich God is making me in friends!" she said. "I shall never forget that this thing has been in your hearts, but I must be about my Father's business." "Doctor Randolph," Elise asked suddenly, "what is your conception of prayer? Evadne says it means to her communion and companionship with Jesus. She says it is 'the practice of the presence of God.'" John Randolph's face grew luminous. "To me it means a great stillness," he said. "Did you ever think of the silences of God? 'Be still, and know that I am God,' 'Stand still, and see his salvation.'" "But are we not to ask for what we want?" asked Mrs. Hawthorne wonderingly. "Oh, yes, but we learn to ask so little for ourselves when we love our Father's will. The trouble is, we, want to do the talking. God would have us listen while he speaks." John Randolph smiled. "We do not need to be. If our hearts are all on fire with the love of God, we worship him continually." When he rose to go he turned towards Evadne. "How goes life with you now, dear friend?" The grey eyes, full of a clear shining, were lifted to his, "I am absolutely satisfied with Jesus Christ." Marion was married and living in New York. Louis had taken a small house, where he lived with his mother and Isabelle. He spent his days in the monotonous routine of a hank, and to his pleasure-loving nature the drudgery seemed intolerable, but he said little. Evadne never complained! "Louis!" she cried in alarm, "what is the matter?" He took a letter from his pocket and held it toward her. It bore her own name, and the writing was her father's! "Can you _ever_ forgive?" Then he buried his face in his arms and groaned aloud. The awful disgrace and shame of it seemed more than he could bear. Interminable seemed the hours after Louis had left her, walking slowly, with that strange, grey shadow upon his face, and stooping as if some unseen burden were crushing him to the earth. She dared not let herself think. She must wait until she was alone. At last she was free to go to her room. Down on her knees she read the passionate farewell words, which made her heart thrill, so full of tender advice and loving thought for her comfort. Through streaming tears she looked at the closely written pages of instructions, so minute that she could not err--and he had disliked writing so much! This was the weary task which had tried him so! And all these years she had never known. She had been robbed of her birthright! Fierce and long the battle raged. When it was ended God heard his child cry softly, "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us." Mrs. Simpson Kennard was sitting in her pretty morning room with her baby on her knee. She looked across the room at her sister who was paying her a visit. "I wish you had a little child to love, Isabelle. It makes life so different. I am just wrapped up in Florimel." "Broaden your fiddlesticks!" said Isabelle contemptuously. "Easy for you to talk when you have everything you want! If you had to live in that poky little house in Marlborough, I guess you would not find anything very broadening about them! "But you and Mamma are comfortable, Isabelle. It is not as if you were forced to do anything." "Do anything!" echoed Isabelle. "Are you going crazy?" "Well, see how hard Evadne has to work? and she is a Hildreth as well as you." "Evadne!" said Isabelle sarcastically, "with her nerves of steel and spine of adamant! Evadne will never kill herself with work. She is too much taken up with her wealthy private patients. You should have seen her driving round with the Hawthornes in their elegant carriage And I reduced to dependence upon the electric cars! I don't see how she manages to worm her way into people's confidence as she seems to do. I couldn't, but then I have such a horror of being forward." "'All doors are open to those who smile.' I believe that is the reason, Isabelle." "Stuff and nonsense!" was Miss Hildreth's inelegant reply. "She is a dear girl, Isabelle. Why will you persist in disliking her so?" "How is Louis?" asked Mrs. Kennard, finding she was treading on dangerous ground. "If Evadne is so anxious to work, why doesn't she come and help mamma and me? It is the least she could do after all we have done for her, but as mamma says, 'It is just a specimen of the ingratitude there is in the world.'" She had seen but little of Mrs. Everidge through the years which followed her graduation. She had been constantly busy and her aunt's hands had been full, for her husband's health had failed utterly and he demanded continual care. Now her long, beautiful ministry was over, for Horace Everidge, serenely selfish to the last, had fallen into the slumber which knows no earthly waking, and Aunt Marthe was free. "I do not know what it means," she wrote, "but something tells me I shall not be long in Vernon. I am just waiting to see what work the King has for me to do." Evadne pressed the letter to her lips. "Dear Aunt Marthe! If the majority had had your 'tribulum' they would think they had earned the right to play!" She looked up. John Randolph was standing before her with a package in his hands. "I have been commissioned by the Hawthornes to give this into your own possession," he said with a smile. "You cannot think what long consultations we have held on the subject of what you would like," he said, "you seemed to have no wishes of your own. At last a happy thought struck Reginald, and he sent me a power of attorney to make the transfer of these bonds and stocks to you. It is a Trust Fund to be used to help souls. We all thought that would please you best of all. You are a rich woman, Miss Hildreth." A great wave of joy swept over her bewildered face. "So God has sent me the fulfilment of my dream!" she said softly. And John Randolph understood. That evening she wrote to Mrs. Everidge. "Why should you not come to 'The Willows'?" He looked round upon them, this man who found his joy in helping others, and waited for their answer. "Nothing easier than to build an addition," said John, with the quiet reserve of power which always made his patients believe in the impossible. Miss Diana looked at the sparkling face and then at Mrs. Everidge with her gentle smile. "I find myself _very_ glad," she said, "since I have to lose my boys, but do you think we had better make any definite plans, dear, until we have talked it over with the Lord?" And John Randolph said to Evadne with eyes that were suspiciously bright; "It is impossible for anyone to get very far from the Kingdom, when they live with our Lady Di." The talk had wandered then to different subjects, and John Randolph listened to the soft play of Evadne's fancy and watched the light in her wonderful eyes. Her nature, so long repressed in an uncongenial environment, in this new soil of love and sympathy was blossoming richly and he found her very fair. He had rarely seen her resting. Now the shapely hands were folded together in a beautiful stillness--and then the breeze had waved aside a flower, and a sunbeam, darting through the trellis, fell upon the stone in her ring and made it sparkle with a baleful fire! "Poor Louis!" Isabelle had said, the last time he had been called to prescribe for her frequently recurring attacks of indisposition, "he will have to wait for promotion now before he can think of marriage. It is very hard for him." So again the truth and the lie had mingled. Very sweet grew the life at 'The Willows' and Mrs. Everidge and Evadne and Miss Diana found their hands full of happy work. Dyce kept the rooms in spotless order and waited upon the guests. "So I does, Miss 'Vadney," she answered simply, "I never feels comfortable 'cept when dere's a place fer de Lord," and Evadne answered, "Dear Dyce, you make me feel ashamed!" Many and varied were the guests who partook of their hospitality. The famine which no material wealth can alleviate is not confined to the dwellings of the poor. Hearts starve beneath coverings of velvet and loneliness often rides in a carriage. Many were the patients whom the world counted "well to do" that John Randolph sent to Evadne to be comforted. There was nothing to make them suspect that the keen intuition of the young physician had read their secret. 'The Willows' was simply a charming retreat where he sent them to try his favorite tonics of sunlight and oxygen; they never dreamed they were to be the recipients of favors which would not be rendered in the bill. It was a beautiful fellowship in which they were banded together, for the Hawthornes had returned and were learning to find their pleasure in doing their Father's will. Dick True was in the brotherhood also, and never came home for his vacations without bringing with him "some fellow who needed a taste of love," and the overgrown boys would glory in their strength as they lifted Miss Diana from the carriage after a delightful drive, and learn a strange gentleness as they were unconsciously trained in the little deeds of chivalry which bespeak a true man. Soon after Evadne's dream had materialized John Randolph had sent her a dainty little equipage to help on the work. "You are too kind!" she cried, as she thanked him, "too generous!" "Can we be that?" he asked, "when we are giving to a King? It is a theory of mine that a drive in the country with the right companion is better than exordiums. These poor souls have never learned to see 'sermons in stones, books in the running brooks, and God in everything.' You must give me the pleasure of a little share in your beautiful work, my friend." "A little share!" echoed Evadne. "Is it possible that you do not know, Doctor Randolph, how much of it belongs to you!" The beauty of the life was that the guests were taken into the heart of the living and felt themselves a part of the home. They never preached, these wise, tender women, but the beautiful incidental teachings sank deep into hearts that would have been closed fast against sermons. There was no stereotyped effort to do them good, they simply lived as Christ did, and the world-tired souls looked on and marveled, and rejoiced in the sunlight of the present and the afterglow which made the memory of their visit a delight. "'We are not to be anxious about living but about living well,'" said Miss Diana to a young man who prided himself upon being a philosopher "that is a maxim of Plato's but we can only carry it out by the help of the Lord, my boy." And he listened to Evadne's merry laugh as she pelted Hans with cherries while Gretchen dreamed of the Fatherland under the trees by the brook, and wondered whether after all the men who had made it their aim to stifle every natural inclination, had learned the true secret of living as well as these happy souls who laid their cares down at the feet of their Father, and gave their lives into Christ's keeping day by day. "Some of your griefs you have cured, And the sharpest you still have survived, But what torments of pain you endured, From evils that never arrived!" Evadne quoted the words from a book of old French poems she had found in the library. Then she asked gently, "Why should you worry about the future, dear Mrs. Greyson, when it is such a waste of time? Don't you believe our Father loves his children? "A waste of time." That was a new way of looking at it! Mrs. Greyson had always prided herself upon being thrifty, and, if God loved, would he let any real harm happen? She knew she would shield her children. How blind she had been! Mrs. Everidge laughed brightly. She had never pined to pose as a martyr before the world. "Not quite everything I wanted, dear," said Miss Diana softly, "but I have come to know that God himself is sufficient for all our needs." Then through the open window they heard Evadne singing, "Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness, Round our restlessness, his rest." And the weary soul folded its tired wings, all wounded with vain beatings against the prison bars of circumstance, and was hushed into a great stillness against the heart of its Father. John Randolph sought Evadne in the familiar porch which had grown to be to him the sweetest spot on earth. "But, oh, Doctor Randolph, what a drop in the bucket all our doing seems, when we think of the need of the world!" "Yet without the drops the bucket would be empty, dear friend. God never expects the impossible from us, you know. I think Christ's highest commendation will always be, 'She hath done what she could.' It is when we neglect the doing that he is wounded." After a pause he spoke again. "With your permission I am going to send you a new patient." There was no trace of the struggle through which he had passed. This brave soul had learned to do the right and leave the rest with God. Evadne laughed. "Still they come! Is it man, woman or child. Doctor Randolph?" "Your cousin Louis." His voice was very still. "Poor Louis! Is it more serious then? He has been looking wretchedly for months." John Randolph examined her face critically. Could she call him "poor Louis" if she loved? "His present trouble is nervous strain, aggravated by the unaccustomed confinement, and some mental excitement under which he is laboring. He must have a long rest, with a complete change of environment. If anyone can lift the cloud which seems to be hanging over him, I think it is you." Louis Hildreth lay upon a couch in the cool library the morning after his arrival at 'The Willows.' Evadne had been shocked at the change in him since she had seen him last. His eyes were sunken, while underneath purple shadows fell upon his pallid cheeks. He touched Evadne's hand as she sat beside him. It was his hand! "What a splendid fellow Randolph is!" he exclaimed suddenly. "He is making himself felt in Marlborough, I tell you. Strange, how some men forge their way to the front, while the rest of us just float down the stream of mediocrity. No wonder we are not missed, when we drop out of the babbling conglomerate of humanity into silence," he added bitterly. "Who would miss a single pair of fins from amidst a shoal of herring!" "I think it is because Doctor Randolph is not content to float, Louis," Evadne answered gently. "He must always be climbing higher. Like Paul, he is 'pressing towards the mark.'" "He is a grand fellow! And the beauty of it is he never seems to think of himself at all. Most men would get to be top-lofty if they accomplished as much as he does every day." Evadne's lips parted in a happy smile. "I think Doctor Randolph is too much occupied with Jesus to have time to waste upon himself." "Upon my word, coz, you're a puzzle! You talk in an unknown tongue. Don't you know Self is the god we worship, and the aim of our existence is to have it wear purple and fine linen, and fare sumptuously every day?" "When we love our Father it is our joy to do his will," she answered softly. "If I could live like you and Randolph I should be perfectly satisfied. I wish I had the courage to try." "Mere outward living cannot save us, Louis. Nothing can but faith in the atoning blood and the name and the love of Christ. Then--when we believe, you know--all things become possible. We make an awful mistake when we think we know better than the Bible. Nicodemus lived a perfect outward life, yet Christ said to him, 'Except ye be born again--of the Word and the Spirit--ye cannot see the Kingdom of God.' We are running a terrible risk when we try to live without Jesus." What meant that sudden start and then the blush which flamed up over cheek and brow? Louis Hildreth closed his thin fingers over Evadne's ring with a long drawn sigh. He was beginning to realize that a hand, without a heart, is an empty thing. Long after she had left him he lay motionless. This knowledge which had come to him so suddenly had a bitter taste. "You ought to get well, Hildreth, and you ought to be a very happy man," John Randolph spoke the words suddenly as he rose to take his leave. "I never expect to be either. When a man has all he has prided himself upon swept away from him, and all that he longs for denied him, how can it be possible?" "Did you ever love--a woman?" Louis put the question suddenly, watching his friend's face with a jealous scrutiny. "Yes." The answer was as simple and straightforward as the man. He knew of nothing to be ashamed of in this beautiful love of his life. "Knocking, knocking, who is there? Waiting, waiting, oh, how fair! 'T is a pilgrim, strange and kingly, Never such was seen before. Ah, my soul, for such a wonder, Wilt thou not undo the door?" Evadne sang the words softly in the twilight: sang them with a great note of longing in her pleading voice. She and her cousin were alone. "Evadne, come here." She crossed the room and knelt beside his couch. "Little coz, I have let the Pilgrim in." And Evadne buried her face in the cushions with a low cry. The crown of rejoicing was hers--at last! "And what is that?" Doctor Randolph asked the question with a smile. Louis drew his ring from Evadne's finger and laid her hand in that of his friend. "Take her, Randolph, she is worthy of you. I would not say that of any other woman." With a great joy surging in his heart, John Randolph held out his other hand. She must give herself. He could not take her from another's giving. A lovely shyness flushed into the pure face, their eyes met, and Evadne laid her hand in his without a word. "Evadne!" The rich, tender tones fell throbbing through the silence, enwrapping the name in a sweet protectiveness. "Life is--for us--to do the will of God!" End of Project Gutenberg's A Beautiful Possibility, by Edith Ferguson Black	redpajama-book	47,730
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Anita Paque, Shawn Wheeler, David Schaal, Anuradha Valsa Raj and PG Distributed Proofreaders (C. E. Raimond) Author of "The Open Question," "Below the Salt," etc. _With a Map_ I. WINTER CAMP IN THE YUKON VI. A PENITENTIAL JOURNEY IX. A CHRISTIAN AGNOSTIC X. PRINCESS MUCKLUCK XII. THE GREAT WHITE SILENCE XV. THE ESQUIMAUX HORSE XVII. THE GREAT STAMPEDE XVIII. A MINERS' MEETING XIX. THE ICE GOES OUT XXII. THE GOING HOME WINTER CAMP ON THE YUKON Some distance this side of the Arctic Circle, on the right bank of the Yukon, a little detachment of that great army pressing northward, had been wrecked early in the month of September. "Protected!" snapped out an anxious, cast-iron-looking man at the rudder. "Yes, protected. How's water to get through the ice-coat that's over everything?" But they sat as before, stiff, alert, each man in his ice jacket that cracked and crunched as he bent to his oar. Now right, now left, again they eyed the shore. Would it be--could it be there they would have to land? And if they did ? "Hard a-port!" called out the steersman. There, just ahead, was a great white-capped "roller" coming--coming, the biggest wave they had encountered since leaving open sea. While he was pouring out the words, the steersman sprang from the tiller, and seized Potts' oar just in time to save the boat from capsizing. Then he and the big Kentuckian both turned on the distracted Potts. "It ain't a river, anyhow, this ain't," he said. "It's plain, simple Hell and water." The others had no time to realise that Potts was clean out of his senses for the moment, and the Kentuckian, still pulling like mad, faced the "quitter" with a determination born of terror. Blindly, Potts obeyed. Farther on they could see other white-caps bringing other ice masses down. But there was no time for terrors ahead. The gale was steadily driving them in shore again. Boat and oars alike were growing unwieldy with their coating of ever-increasing ice, and human strength was no match for the storm that was sweeping down from the Pole. "There's a cove!" called out the Kentuckian. "Throw her in!" he shouted to Potts. Sullenly the new steersman obeyed. Where was the _Mary C._? Well, she was at the bottom of the Yukon, and her crew would like some supper. But people get over being glad about almost anything, unless misfortune again puts an edge on the circumstance. The next day, not being in any immediate danger, the boon of mere life seemed less satisfying. In detachments they went up the river several miles, and down about as far. They looked in vain for any sign of the _Mary C._. They prospected the hills. From the heights behind the camp they got a pretty fair idea of the surrounding country. It was not reassuring. "As to products, there seems to be plenty of undersized timber, plenty of snow and plenty of river, and, as far as I can see, just nothing else." "Oh, yes," returned the other, "it's a sort of garden of Eden!" But if their side seemed cheerless, what of the land on the left bank? A swamp stretching endlessly on either hand, and back from the icy flood as far as eye could see, broken only by sloughs and an occasional ice-rimmed tarn. These unenlivening calculations were catching. They had seen no sign of even savage life, no white trader, nothing to show that any human foot had ever passed that way before. Colonel George Warren and Morris Burnet, the Boy, had the best outfits; but this fact was held to be more than counter-balanced by the value of the schoolmaster's experience at Caribou, and by the extraordinary handiness of Potts, the Denver clerk, who had helped to build the shelter on deck for the disabled sick on the voyage up. This young man with the big mouth and lazy air had been in the office of a bank ever since he left school, and yet, under pressure, he discovered a natural neat-handedness and a manual dexterity justly envied by some of his fellow-pioneers. His outfit was not more conspicuously meagre than O'Flynn's, yet the Irishman was held to be the moneyed man of his party. Just why was never fully developed, but it was always said, "O'Flynn represents capital"; and O'Flynn, whether on that account, or for a subtler and more efficient reason, always got the best of everything that was going without money and without price. In a situation like this, the strongest lean on the man who has ever seen "anything like it" before. It was a comfort that anybody even _thought_ he knew what to do under such new conditions. So the others looked on with admiration and a pleasant confidence, while Mac boldly cut a hole in the brand-new tent, and instructed Potts how to make a flange out of a tin plate, with which to protect the canvas from the heat of the stove-pipe. No more cooking now in the bitter open. Everyone admired Mac's foresight when he said: It was known that Mac had a very dacint little medicine-chest. Of course, if any fellow was ill, Mac wasn't the man to refuse him a little cold pizen; but he must be allowed to keep his own medicine chest--and that little pot o' Dundee marmalade. As for O'Flynn, he would look after the "dimmi-john." They had cut into the mountain-side for a level foundation, and were hard at it now hauling logs. "Oh, sure to," Mac thought; "Indians, anyhow." "Well, I begin to wish they'd mosy along," said Potts; and the sociable O'Flynn backed him up. "_Land_ in that place! What you take us for? Not much! We're going to St. Michael's." "Got any grub?" Mac called out. "You're not going to try to live through the winter _there?_" "Lord! you _are_ in a fix!" "That's we thought about you." The weather was growing steadily colder; the ice was solid now many feet out from each bank of the river. In the middle of the flood the clotted current still ran with floe-ice, but it was plain the river was settling down for its long sleep. Mac had happened to say that he believed the fellow in furs was an Englishman--a Canadian, at the very least. The Americans chaffed him, and said, "That accounts for it," in a tone not intended to flatter. Mac hadn't thought of it before, but he was prepared to swear now that if an Englishman--they were the hardiest pioneers on earth--or a Canadian was in favour of lighting out, "it must be for some good reason." "Oh yes; we all know that reason." The Americans laughed, and Mac, growing hot, was goaded into vaunting the Britisher and running down the Yankee. "Yankee!" echoed the Kentuckian. "And up in Nova Scotia they let this man teach school! Doesn't know the difference yet between the little corner they call New England and all the rest of America." But if the Boy attended the Bible-class with fervour and aired his heresies with uncommon gusto, if he took with equal geniality Colonel Warren's staid remonstrance and Mac's fiery objurgation, Sunday morning invariably found him more "agnostic" than ever, stoutly declining to recognise the necessity for "service." For this was an occasion when you couldn't argue or floor anybody, or hope to make Mac "hoppin' mad," or have the smallest kind of a shindy. The Colonel read the lessons, Mac prayed, and they all sang, particularly O'Flynn. Now, the Boy couldn't sing a note, so there was no fair division of entertainment, wherefore he would go off into the woods with his gun for company, and the Catholic O'Flynn, and even Potts, were in better odour than he "down in camp" on Sundays. So far you may travel, and yet not escape the tyranny of the "outworn creeds." "Hello!" says he more pleasantly than his Sunday gloom usually permitted. "Back in time for service?" The Boy was feverishly overhauling the provisions behind the stove. "Look here," says Mac, "hold on there. I don't know that we've come all this way to feed a lot o' dirty savages." Mac was slowly bringing out a small panful of cold boiled beans. Mac looked at the handful of beans and then at the small sheet-iron stove. "There are more cooking," says he not over-cordially. "We know how to snow-shoe." Mac began measuring out some tea. "He's got a team of Esquimaux dogs--calls 'em Mahlemeuts, and he's got a birch-bark canoe, and a skin kyak from the coast." Then with an inspiration: "His people are the sort of Royal Family down there," added the Boy, thinking to appeal to the Britisher's monarchical instincts. Mac had meditatively laid his hand on a side of bacon, the Boy's eyes following. "No, they can't," said Mac firmly; "they're lucky to get bacon." The Boy's face darkened ominously. When he looked like that the elder men found it was "healthiest to give him his head." But the young face cleared as quickly as it had clouded. After all, the point wasn't worth fighting for, since grouse would take time to cook, and--here were the natives coming painfully along the shore. The Boy ran out and shouted and waved his cap. The other men of the camp, who had gone in the opposite direction, across the river ice to look at an air-hole, came hurrying back and reached camp about the same time as the visitors. "Well, so they are!" "The Colonel! Oh well, you can't expect anybody else to be quite as big as that. I was in a hurry, but I suppose what I meant was, they could eat as much as the Colonel." "Well, just look how broad they are. It doesn't matter to your stomach whether you're big up and down, or big to and fro." "It's their furs make 'em look like that. They're the most awful little runts I ever saw!" They were quite near now. "How do," said the foremost native affably. "Where do you come from?" inquired the Colonel of the man nearest him, who simply blinked and was dumb. "How far is Pymeut?" "We sleep Pymeut to-night," says Nicholas. The native jerked his head up the river. "Many people there?" "How far to the nearest white men?" Nicholas's mind wandered from the white man's catechism and fixed itself on his race's immemorial problem: how far it was to the nearest thing to eat. "I thought you said he could speak English." "He'll talk all right," said the Boy, "when he's had some breakfast." Mac had finished the cutting, and now put the frying-pan on an open hole in the little stove. "Cook him?" inquired Nicholas. "Yes. Don't you cook him?" "Take heap time, cook him." "You couldn't eat it raw!" Nicholas nodded emphatically. Mac said "No," but the Boy was curious to see if they would really eat it uncooked. "Let them have _some_ of it raw while the rest is frying"; and he beckoned the visitors to the deal box. They made a dart forward, gathered up the fat bacon several slices at a time, and pushed it into their mouths. "Ugh!" said the Colonel under his breath. Mac quickly swept what was left into the frying-pan, and began to cut a fresh lot. The Boy divided the cold beans, got out biscuits, and poured the tea, while silence and a strong smell of ancient fish and rancid seal pervaded the little tent. After a good feed they sat stolidly by the fire, with no sign of consciousness, save the blinking of beady eyes, till the Colonel suggested a smoke. Then they all grinned broadly, and nodded with great vigour. Even those who had no other English understood "tobacco." When he had puffed awhile, Nicholas took his pipe out of his mouth, and, looking at the Boy, said: "You no savvy catch fish in winter?" "Through the ice? No. How you do it?" "Make hole--put down trap--heap fish all winter." "You get enough to live on?" asked the Colonel. "They must have dried fish, too, left over from the summer," said Mac. "What do you get there?" Mac was becoming interested. "Lynx, too, I suppose, and fox?" Nicholas nodded. "All kinds. Wolf--muskrat, otter--wolverine--all kinds." "You got some skins now?" asked the Nova Scotian. "Y--yes. More when snow get soft. You come Pymeut--me show." "Where have ye been just now?" asked O'Flynn. "How long since ye left there?" "Oh yes," says the Boy; "they don't follow the windings of the river, they cut across the portage, you know." "Snow come--no trail--big mountains--all get lost." "What did you go to St. Michael's for?" "Oh, me pilot. Me go all over. Me leave N. A. T. and T. boat St. Michael's last trip." "Then you're in the employ of the great North American Trading and Transportation Company?" Nicholas gave that funny little duck of the head that meant yes. "That's how you learnt English," says the Colonel. "No; me learn English at Holy Cross. Me been baptize." "At that Jesuit mission up yonder?" Nicholas seemed not to follow this observation. The Boy interpreted: "You heap tired, eh? You no go any more long walk till ice go out, eh?" "Me go Ikogimeut--all Pymeut go." "Oh, the Russian mission there gives a feast?" "No. Big Innuit feast." "Pretty quick. Every year big feast down to Ikogimeut when Yukon ice get hard, so man go safe with dog-team." "Do many people go?" "All Innuit go, plenty Ingalik go." "How far do they come?" "All over; come from Koserefsky, come from Anvik--sometime Nulato." "Why, Nulato's an awful distance from Ikogimeut." "You make a feast and have a dance when a friend dies?" "If no priests. Priests no like. Priests say, 'Man no dead; man gone up.'" Nicholas pondered the strange saying, and slowly shook his head. "In that the priests are right," said Mac grudgingly. It was anything but politic, but for the life of him the Boy couldn't help chipping in: "You think when man dead he stay dead, eh, and you might as well make a feast?" Nicholas gave his quick nod. "We got heap muskeetah, we cold, we hungry. We here heap long time. Dead man, he done. Why no big feast? Oh yes, heap big feast." The Boy was enraptured. He would gladly have encouraged these pagan deliverances on the part of the converted Prince, but the Colonel was scandalised, and Mac, although in his heart of hearts not ill-satisfied at the evidence of the skin-deep Christianity of a man delivered over to the corrupt teaching of the Jesuits, found in this last fact all the stronger reason for the instant organisation of a good Protestant prayer-meeting. Nicholas of Pymeut must not be allowed to think it was only Jesuits who remembered the Sabbath day to keep it holy. The Boy did his stoking gloomily, reading aright these portents. Almost eclipsed was joy in this "find" of his (for he regarded the precious Nicholas as his own special property). It was all going to end in his--the Boy's--being hooked in for service. As long as the Esquimaux were there _he_ couldn't, of course, tear himself away. And here was the chance they'd all been waiting for. Here was a native chock-full of knowledge of the natural law and the immemorial gospel of the North, who would be gone soon--oh, very soon, if Mac and the Colonel went on like this--and they were going to choke off Nicholas's communicativeness with--a service! "It's Sunday, you know," says the Colonel to the Prince, laying open his book, "and we were just going to have church. You are accustomed to going to church at Holy Cross, aren't you?" "When me kid me go church." "You haven't gone since you grew up? They still have church there, don't they?" "Oh, Father Brachet, him have church." Nicholas was vaguely conscious of threatened disapproval. "Me me must take up fish-traps." "Can't you do that another day?" It seemed not to have occurred to Nicholas before. He sat and considered the matter. "He take care him church; him know me take care me fish-trap." "Me bring fish to Father Brachet and to Mother Aloysius and the Sisters." Mac and the Colonel exchanged dark glances. "Do Mother Aloysius and the Sisters live where Father Brachet does?" "I thought," says Mac, "we'd be hearing of a convent convenient." "Me help Father Brachet," observed Nicholas proudly. "Me show him boys how make traps, show him girls how make mucklucks." "_What_!" gasps the horrified Mac, "Father Brachet has got a family?" "Famly?" inquired Nicholas. "Kaiomi"; and he shook his head uncertainly. Nicholas, though greatly mystified, nodded firmly. "I suppose he thinks away off up here nobody will ever know. Oh, these Jesuits!" "How many children has this shameless priest?" The Boy, who had been splitting with inward laughter, exploded at this juncture. "He keeps a native school, Mac." "Yes," says Nicholas, "teach boy make table, chair, potatoes grow--all kinds. Sisters teach girl make dinner, wash--all kinds. Heap good people up at Holy Cross." "Divil a doubt of it," says O'Flynn. Well, they must try to have a truly impressive service. Mac and the Colonel telegraphed agreement on this head. Savages were said to be specially touched by music. "I suppose when you were a kid the Jesuits taught you chants and so on," said the Colonel, kindly. "Kaiomi," answered Nicholas after reflection. "You can sing, can't you?" asks O'Flynn. "Sing? No, me dance!" The Boy roared with delight. "Why, yes, I never thought of that. You fellows do the songs, and Nicholas and I'll do the dances." Mac glowered angrily. "Look here: if you don't mind being blasphemous for yourself, don't demoralise the natives." "Well, I like that! Didn't Miriam dance before the Lord? Why shouldn't Nicholas and me?" The Colonel cleared his throat, and began to read the lessons for the day. The natives sat and watched him closely. They really behaved very well, and the Boy was enormously proud of his new friends. There was a great deal at stake. The Boy felt he must walk warily, and he already regretted those light expressions about dancing before the Lord. All the fun of the winter might depend on a friendly relation between Pymeut and the camp. It was essential that the Esquimaux should not only receive, but make, a good impression. "No," said Mac sternly, "they mustn't go in the middle of the meeting"; and he proceeded to kneel down. "Oh no," remonstrated Nicholas. "Very well. These friends o' mine no like man go home in the middle. They heap mad at me when I no stay. You savvy?" "Me savvy," says Nicholas slowly and rather depressed. Alternately they looked in the Boy's corner where the grub was, and then over their shoulders at the droning Mac and back, catching the Boy's eye, and returning his reassuring nods and grins. Mac, who had had no innings up to this point, was now embarked upon a most congenial occupation. Wrestling with the Lord on behalf of the heathen, he lost count of time. On and on the prayer wound its slow way; involution after involution, coil after coil, like a snake, the Boy thought, lazing in the sun. Unaccustomed knees grew sore. O'Flynn was not deeply concerned about religious questions, but "there were limits." The problem was how to rouse the Lord without rousing O'Flynn--a piece of negotiation so delicate, calling for a skill in pious invective so infinitely absorbing to Mac's particular cast of mind, that he was quickly stone-blind and deaf to all things else. "Not all the heathen are sunk in iniquity; but they are weak, tempted, and they weary, Lord!" The Boy winked at Nicholas, made a gesture, "Catch!" and fired a bit of dried apple at him, at the same time putting a piece in his own mouth to show him it was all right. The Colonel had "caught on," and was making horrible frowns at the Boy. Potts and O'Flynn looked up, and in dumbshow demanded a share. No? Very well, they'd tell Mac. So the Boy had to feed them, too, to keep them quiet. And still Mac prayed the Lord to catch up this slip he had made here on the Yukon with reference to the natives. In the midst of a powerful peroration, he happened to open his eyes a little, and they fell on the magnificent great sable collar of Prince Nicholas's coat. Without any of the usual slowing down, without the accustomed warning of a gradual descent from the high themes of heaven to the things of common earth, Mac came down out of the clouds with a bump, and the sudden, business-like "Amen" startled all the apple-chewing congregation. Mac stood up, and says he to Nicholas: "Where did you get that coat?" Nicholas, still on his knees, stared, and seemed in doubt if this were a part of the service. "Where did you get that coat?" repeated Mac. The Boy had jumped up nimbly. "I told you his father has a lot of furs." "No," says Nicholas; "this belong white man." "Ha," says Mac excitedly, "I thought I'd seen it before. Tell us how you got it." "But how did he get the coat?" "And the other white man--what became of him?" Nicholas shrugged: "Kaiomi," though it was plain he knew well enough the other lay under the Yukon ice. "And that--_that_ was the end of the fellows who went by jeering at us!" "We'd better not crow yet," said Mac. And they bade Prince Nicholas and his heathen retinue good-bye in a mood chastened not by prayer alone. No idle ceremony this, but the great problem of the dwellers in the country of the Yukon. The Colonel and the Boy made up their minds that, whatever else they had or had not, they would have a warm house to live in. And when they had got it, they would have a "Blow-out" to celebrate the achievement. "We'll invite Nicholas," says the Boy. "I'll go to Pymeut myself, and let him know we are going to have 'big fire, big feed. Oh, heap big time!'" If the truth were told, it had been a difficult enough matter to keep away from Pymeut since the hour Nicholas had vanished in that direction; but until winter quarters were made, and until they were proved to be warm, there was no time for the amenities of life. "Sorry we forgot the plate-glass," says Mac. "Wudn't ye like a grrand-piana?" asks O'Flynn. "What's the use of goin' all the way from Nova Scotia to Caribou," says the Boy to the Schoolmaster-Miner, "if you haven't learned the way to make a window like the Indians, out of transparent skin?" Mac assumed an air of elevated contempt. "I went to mine, not to learn Indian tricks." "When the door's shut it'll be dark as the inside of a cocoa-nut." "You ought to have thought of that before you left the sunny South," said Potts. "It'll be dark all winter, window or no window," Mac reminded them. "Never mind," said the Colonel, "when the candles give out we'll have the fire-light. Keep all the spruce knots, boys!" "Wait an' see." He went to O'Flynn, who was dish-washer that week, got him to melt a couple of buckets of snow over the open-air campfire and wash the fruit-jars clean. "Now, Colonel," says the Boy, "bring along that buck-saw o' yours and lend a hand." The Boy was immensely pleased. "Oh, that's an old dodge," said Mac depreciatingly. "Why, they did that at Caribou!" "Then, why in--Why didn't you suggest it?" "You wait till you know more about this kind o' life, and you won't go in for fancy touches." When the shelf was nailed up, its maker brought forth out of his medicine-chest a bottle of Perry Davis's Pain-killer. "Now at Caribou," says he, "they haven't got any more thermometers kicking round than we have here, but they discovered that when Perry Davis congeals you must keep a sharp look-out for frost-bite, and when Perry Davis freezes solid, you'd better mind your eye and stay in your cabin, if you don't want to die on the trail." With which he tied a string round Perry Davis's neck, set the bottle up on the shelf, and secured it firmly in place. They all agreed it was a grand advantage to have been to Caribou! From the time he set foot on the volcanic shore of St Michael's Island, Mac had begun his "collection." Nowadays, when he would spend over "that truck of his" hours that might profitably (considering his talents) be employed in helping to fortify the camp against the Arctic winter, his companions felt it little use to remonstrate. Over all they laid a thick blanket of the earth which had been dug out to make a level foundation. The cracks in the walls were chinked with moss and mud-mortar. The floor was the naked ground, "to be carpeted with skins by-and-by," so Mac said; but nobody believed Mac would put a skin to any such sensible use. For some time after rigging this contrivance, whenever anyone reported "tracks," Mac and the Boy would hasten to the scene of action, and set a new snare, piling brush on each side of the track that the game had run in, so barring other ways, and presenting a line of least resistance straight through the loop. In the early days Mac would come away from these preparations saying with dry pleasure: "Now, with luck, we may get a _Xema Sabinii_," or some such fearful wildfowl. "No, you don't _eat_ Sabine gulls," Mac would answer pityingly. "Knows a darned sight too much? No, he _don't_, sir; that's just the remarkable thing about Mac. He isn't trying to carry any more than he can swing." At the same time it is to be feared that none of his companions really appreciated the pedagogue's learning. Nor had anyone but the Boy sympathised with his resolution to make a Collection. What they wanted was eatable game, and they affected no intelligent interest in knowing the manners and customs of the particular species that was sending up appetising odours from the pot. And when anybody after that was indisposed, they said he might be sickening for an attack of Parus Hudsonicus, and in that case it was a bad look-out. Well for Mac that he wouldn't have cared a red cent to impress the greatest naturalist alive, let alone a lot of fellows who didn't know a titmouse from a disease. Spurred on partly by the increased intensity of the cold, partly by the Colonel's nonsense about the way they did it "down South," Mac roused himself, and turned out a better piece of masonry for the Big Cabin than he had thought necessary for his own. But everybody had a share in the glory of that fireplace. The Colonel, Potts, and the Boy selected the stone, and brought it on a rude litter out of a natural quarry from a place a mile or more away up on the bare mountain-side. O'Flynn mixed and handed up the mud-mortar, while Mac put in some brisk work with it before it stiffened in the increasing cold. "What! You cold?" inquired the usual culprit. The Boy had come in to put an edge on his chopper. "It's stopped snowin', an' you better come along with me, Potts. Swing an axe for a couple of hours--that'll warm you." "I've got rheumatism in my shoulder to-day," says Potts, hugging the huge fire closer. "And you've got something wrong with your eyes, eh, Mac?" Potts narrowed his and widened the great mouth; but he had turned his head so Mac couldn't see him. The Nova Scotian only growled and refilled his pipe. Up in the woods the Boy repeated the conversation to the Colonel, who looked across at O'Flynn several yards away, and said: "Hush!" "Why must I shut up? Mac's _eyes_ do look rather queer and bloodshot. I should think he'd rather feel we lay it to his eyes than know we're afraid he's peterin' out altogether." "No, you haven't _said_ much." "I haven't opened my head about it." "Until Mac's eyes get all right. I understand." Again the Colonel had made a sound like "Sh!" and went on swinging his axe. They worked without words till the Boy's tree came down. Then he stopped a moment, and wiped his face. "It isn't so cold to-day, not by a long shot, for all Potts's howling about his rheumatics." "It isn't cold that starts that kind of pain." "No, siree. I'm not much of a doctor, but I can see Potts's rheumatism doesn't depend on the weather." "Never you mind Potts." "I don't mind Potts. I only mind Mac. What's the matter with Mac, anyway?" "Oh, he's just got cold feet. Maybe he'll thaw out by-and-by." No response from the Colonel, who was making the chips fly. It had cost his great body a good many aches and bruises, but he was a capital axeman now, and not such a bad carpenter, though when the Boy said as much he had answered: "Carpenter! I'm just a sort of a well-meanin' wood-butcher"; and deeply he regretted that in all his young years on a big place in the country he had learnt so little about anything but horses and cattle. On the way back to dinner they spoke again of this difficulty of the boards. O'Flynn whistled "Rory O'More" with his pleasant air of detachment. "You and the others would take more interest in the subject," said the Boy a little hotly, "if we hadn't let you fellows use nearly all the boat-planks for _your_ bunks, and now we haven't got any for our own." "_Let_ us use 'em! Faith! we had a right to'm." "To boards out of _our_ boat!" "And ye can have the loan o' the whip-saw to make more, whenever the fancy takes ye." "Loan o' the whip-saw! Why, it's mine," says the Colonel. The Colonel turned and frowned at the proprietor of the dimmi-john. The Boy had dropped behind to look at some marten tracks in the fresh-fallen snow. "I'll follow that trail after dinner," says he, catching up the others in time to hear O'Flynn say: "If it wusn't that ye think only a feller that's been to Caribou can teach ye annything it's Jimmie O'Flynn that 'ud show ye how to play a chune on that same whip-saw." "Will you show us after dinner?" And he was as good as his word. This business of turning a tree into boards without the aid of a saw-mill is a thing many placer-miners have to learn; for, even if they are disposed to sleep on the floor, and to do without shelves, they can't do sluicing without sluice-boxes, and they can't make those long, narrow boxes without boards. So every party that is well fitted out has a whip-saw. "Now ye sling a couple o' saplings acrost the durrt ye've chucked out. R-right! Now ye roll yer saw-timber inter the middle. R-right! An' on each side ye want a log to stand on. See? Wid yer 'guide-man' on top sthradlin' yer timberr, watchin' the chalk-line and doin' the pull-up, and the otherr fellerr in the pit lookin' afther the haul-down, ye'll be able to play a chune wid that there whip-saw that'll make the serryphims sick o' plain harps." O'Flynn superintended it all, and even Potts had the curiosity to come out and see what they were up to. Mac was "kind o' dozin'" by the fire. "An' _that's_ how it's done, wid bits of yer arrums and yer back that have niver been called on to wurruk befure. An' whin ye've been at it an hour ye'll find it goes betther wid a little blasphemin';" and he gave his end of the saw to the reluctant Potts. Potts was about this time as much of a problem to his pardners as was the ex-schoolmaster. If the bank clerk had surprised them all by his handiness on board ship, and by making a crane to swing the pots over the fire, he surprised them all still more in these days by an apparent eclipse of his talents. It was unaccountable. Potts's carpentering, Potts's all-round cleverness, was, like "payrock in a pocket," as the miners say, speedily worked out, and not a trace of it afterwards to be found. More boards were laboriously turned out to make the great swing-shelf to hang up high in the angle of the roof, where the provisions might be stored out of reach of possible marauders. Nobody heard much in those days of Caribou. The Colonel had gradually slipped into the position of Boss of the camp. The Trio were still just a trifle afraid of him, and he, on his side, never pressed a dangerous issue too far. But this is a little to anticipate. "Is that a beast or a human?" said he. "I had heard some white men had camped hereabouts," says he. "I am glad to see we have such substantial neighbours." He was looking up at the stone chimney, conspicuous a long way off. "We didn't know we had any white neighbours," said the Colonel in his most grand and gracious manner. "How far away are you, sir?" "We aren't quite fixed yet," said the Colonel, "but you must come in and have some dinner with us. We can promise you a good fire, anyhow." "Thank you. You have chosen a fine site." And the bright eyes with the deep crow's-feet raying out from the corners scanned the country in so keen and knowing a fashion that the Boy, with hope reviving, ventured: "Are--are you a prospector?" "No. I am Father Wills from Holy Cross." "Oh!" And the Boy presently caught up with the Indian, and walked on beside him, looking back every now and then to watch the dogs or examine the harness. The driver spoke English, and answered questions with a tolerable intelligence. "Are dogs often driven without reins?" The Colonel, after the stranger had introduced himself, was just a shade more reserved, but seemed determined not to be lacking in hospitality. O'Flynn was overflowing, or would have been had the Jesuit encouraged him. He told their story, or, more properly, his own, and how they had been wrecked. "And so ye're the Father Superior up there?" says the Irishman, pausing to take breath. "No. Our Superior is Father Brachet. That's a well-built cabin!" "_Mush!_" shouted the Indian. The dogs cleared the ice-reef, and went spinning along so briskly over the low hummocks that the driver had to run to keep up with them. The Boy was flying after when the priest, having caught sight of his face, called out: "Here! Wait! Stop a moment!" and hurried forward. He kicked through the ice-crust, gathered up a handful of snow, and began to rub it on the Boy's right cheek. "Thank you," said the Boy, a little shame-faced. "It's all right now, I suppose?" "I think so," said the priest. "You'll lose the skin, and you may be a little sore--nothing to speak of," with which he fell back to the Colonel's side. The dogs had settled down into a jog-trot now, but were still well on in front. "Is 'mush' their food?" asked the Boy. "Why does your Indian go on like that about mush, then?" "Oh, that's the only word the dogs know, except--a--certain expressions we try to discourage the Indians from using. In the old days the dog-drivers used to say 'mahsh.' Now you never hear anything but swearing and 'mush,' a corruption of the French-Canadian _marche_." He turned to the Colonel: "You'll get over trying to wear cheechalko boots here--nothing like mucklucks with a wisp of straw inside for this country." "I agree wid ye. I got me a pair in St. Michael's," says O'Flynn proudly, turning out his enormous feet. "Never wore anything so comf'table in me life." "You ought to have drill parkis too, like this of mine, to keep out the wind." Father Wills stooped and gathered up some moss that the wind had swept almost bare of snow. "You see that?" he said to O'Flynn, while the Boy stopped, and the Colonel hurried on. "Wherever you find that growing no man need starve." The Colonel looked back before entering the cabin and saw that the Boy seemed to have forgotten not alone the Indian, but the dogs, and was walking behind with the Jesuit, face upturned, smiling, as friendly as you please. Within a different picture. Potts and Mac were having a row about something, and the Colonel struck in sharply on their growling comments upon each other's character and probable destination. "A _what_?" Mac raised his heavy eyes with fight in every wooden feature. "A Jesuit priest is what I said." "He won't eat his dinner here." "That is exactly what he will do." "That means, then, that you'll eat alone." "Mind what you're about, Mac," growled Potts. "You know he could lick the stuffin' out o' you." The ex-schoolmaster produced some sort of indignant sound in his throat and turned, as if he meant to go out. The Colonel came a little nearer. Mac flung up his head and squared for battle. Mac seemed in a haze. He sat down heavily on some beanbags in the corner; and when the newcomers were brought in and introduced, he "did the honours" by glowering at them with red eyes, never breaking his surly silence. "No, no," said Father Wills firmly. "You shall sit as far away from this splendid blaze as you can get, or you will have trouble with that cheek." So the Boy had to yield his place to O'Flynn, and join Mac over on the bean-bags. "Why didn't you get a parki when you were at St. Michael's?" said the priest as this change was being effected. "We had just as much--more than we could carry. Besides, I thought we could buy furs up river; anyway, I'm warm enough." "No you are not," returned the priest smiling. "You must get a parki with a hood." "I've got an Arctic cap; it rolls down over my ears and goes all round my neck--just leaves a little place in front for my eyes." While the only object in the room that he didn't seem to see was Mac, he was most taken up with the fireplace. The Colonel laid great stress on the enormous services of the delightful, accomplished master-mason over there on the beanbags, who sat looking more than ever like a monkey-wrench incarnate. But whether that Jesuit was as wily as the Calvinist thought, he had quite wit enough to overlook the great chimney-builder's wrathful silence. "You must all come and see our schools," he wound up. "We'd like to awfully," said the Boy, and all but Mac echoed him. "We were so afraid," he went on, "that we mightn't see anybody all winter long." "Oh, you'll have more visitors than you want." "_Shall_ we, though?" Then, with a modified rapture: "Indians, I suppose, and--and missionaries." "Oh yes; we all know Nicholas"; and the priest smiled. "We _like_ him," returned the Boy as if some slighting criticism had been passed upon his friend. "Of course you do; so do we all"; and still that look of quiet amusement on the worn face and a keener twinkle glinting in the eyes. "We're afraid he's sick," the Boy began. Before the priest could answer, "He was educated at Howly Cross, he _says_," contributed O'Flynn. "Oh, he's been to Holy Cross, among other places." Father Wills saw that the Colonel, to whom he most frequently addressed himself, took his pleasantry gravely. "Nicholas is not a bad fellow," he added. "He told me you had been kind to him." "If you believe that about his insincerity," said the Colonel, "are you not afraid the others you spend your life teaching may turn out as little credit to you--to Christianity?" "Come, Andrew," he said; "we must push on." The Indian repeated the priest's action, and went out to see to the dogs. "Oh, are you going right away?" said the Colonel politely, and O'Flynn volubly protested. The Father smiled and shook his head. "Another time I would stay gladly." "Where are you going now?" "Andrew and I are on our way to the _Oklahoma_, the steamship frozen in the ice below here." "How far?" asked the Boy. "Oh no. Gone into winter quarters." "In a slew?" for it was so Father Wills pronounced s-l-o-u-g-h. "Why, then, it's the very boat that'll be takin' us to the Klondyke." "You just goin' down to have a look at her?" asked Potts enviously. "No. I go to get relief for the Pymeuts." "What's the matter with 'em?" "Epidemic all summer, starvation now." "Guess you won't find _any_body's got such a lot he wants to give it away to the Indians." "Our Father Superior has given much," said the priest gently; "but we are not inexhaustible at Holy Cross. And the long winter is before us. Many of the supply steamers have failed to get in, and the country is flooded with gold-seekers. There'll be wide-spread want this year--terrible suffering all up and down the river." "The more reason for people to hold on to what they've got. A white man's worth more 'n an Indian." The priest's face showed no anger, not even coldness. "White men have got a great deal out of Alaska and as yet done little but harm here. The government ought to help the natives, and we believe the Government will. All we ask of the captain of the _Oklahoma_ is to sell us, on fair terms, a certain supply, we assuming part of the risk, and both of us looking to the Government to make it good." "Reckon you'll find that steamer-load down in the ice is worth its weight in gold," said Potts. He left the doorpost, straightened his bowed back, and laid a hand on the wooden latch. "Oh, he is all right," the Father smiled and nodded. "Brother Paul has been looking after Nicholas's father. The old chief has enough food, but he has been very ill. By the way, have you any letters you want to send out?" The Boy had thoughtlessly opened the door to have a look at the dogs. "With all our trouble, the cabin isn't really warm," said the Colonel apologetically. "In a wind like this, if the door is open, we have to hold fast to things to keep them from running down the Yukon. It's a trial to anybody's temper." "Why don't you build a false wall?" "Well, I don't know; we hadn't thought of it." "You'd find it correct this draught"; and the priest explained his views on the subject while Potts's letter was being addressed. Andrew put his head in. As the priest was pocketing the letter the Boy dashed in, put on the Arctic cap he set such store by, and a fur coat and mittens. "Do you mind if I go a little way with you?" he said. It was curious how already he had divined the relation of the elder man to the youngest of that odd household. The moment they had gone Mac, with an obvious effort, pulled himself up out of his corner, and, coming towards the Colonel at the fireplace, he said thickly: "You've put an insult upon me, Warren, and that's what I stand from no man. Come outside." The Colonel looked at him. Mac was in a haze again, and allowed himself to be insinuated into bed. The others got rid of the dinner things, and "sat round" for an hour. O'Flynn was not very keen about it; but the Jesuit's visit had stirred him up, and he offered less opposition to the unusual call to activity than the Colonel expected. "Potts," he said huskily. Mac roused himself, muttering compliments for Potts. When he had bundled himself out over the side of the bunk, he saw the Colonel seemingly dozing by the fire. He waited a moment. Then, very softly, he made his way to the farther end of the swing-shelf. The Colonel opened his eyes and yawned. "I made some cawfee a little while back. Have some?" "Gone out for a little. Back soon." He poured out some of the strong, black decoction, and presented it to his companion. "Just try it. Finest cawfee in the world, sir." Mac poured it down without seeming to bother about tasting it. They sat quite still after that, till the Colonel said meditatively: "You and I had a little account to settle, didn't we?" But neither moved for several moments. "See here, Mac: you haven't been ill or anything like that, have you?" "No." There was no uncertain note in the answer; if anything, there was in it more than the usual toneless decision. Mac's voice was machine-made--as innocent of modulation as a buzz-saw, and with the same uncompromising finality as the shooting of a bolt. "I'm ready to stand up against any man." Mac was on his feet in a flash. He pushed back the stools. "Come on! I'm in no mood for monkeyin'!" "Nor I. I realise, MacCann, we've come to a kind of a crisis. Things in this camp are either going a lot better, or a lot worse, after to-day." "There's nothing wrong, if you quit asking dirty Jesuits to sit down with honest men." "Yes; there's something worse out o' shape than that." Mac stood as expressionless as the wooden crane. "A man we all believed in, who was going to help us pull through." "That was you, I s'pose." Mac's hard voice chopped out the sarcasm. Mac put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall. His face began to look a little more natural. The long sleep or the coffee had cleared his eyes. "Shall I tell you what I heard about that man last night?" asked the Colonel gravely. Mac looked up, but never opened his lips. "The Boy was always in and out. The cabin was cold." "Well, all right--maybe I was spying, too. Incidentally I wanted to tell you the cabin was hot as blazes, and get you to come to supper. I met Potts hurrying up for his grub, and I said, 'Where's Mac? Isn't he coming?' and your pardner's answer was: 'Oh, let him alone. He's got a flask in his bunk, swillin' and gruntin'; he's just in hog-heaven.'" "The man he was talkin' about, Mac, was the man we had all built our hopes on." "You can't, Mac. Potts has got to die and go to heaven--perhaps to hell, before he'll learn any good. But you're a different breed. Teach MacCann." Mac suddenly sat down on the stool with his head in his hands. "The Boy hasn't caught on," said the Colonel presently, "but he said something this morning to show he was wondering about the change that's come over you." "That I don't split wood all day, I suppose, when we've got enough for a month. Potts doesn't either. Why don't you go for Potts?" "As the Boy said, I don't care about Potts. It's Mac that matters." "Did the Boy say that?" He looked up. "After you had made that chimney, you know, you were a kind of hero in his eyes." Mac looked away. "The cabin's been cold," he muttered. "We are going to remedy that." "And when O'Flynn said that about keeping his big demijohn out of the inventory and apart from the common stores, I sat on him." "I knew it was safest to act on the 'medicinal purposes' principle." "But I wasn't thinking so much of O'Flynn. I was thinking of things that had happened before for I'd had experience. Drink was the curse of Caribou. It's something of a scourge up in Nova Scotia I'd had experience." "Don't you want to seal it up?" "I haven't got any wax." "I have an inch or so." The Colonel produced out of his pocket the only piece in camp. "Give me your wax. What's for a seal?" They looked about. Mac's eye fell on a metal button that hung by a thread from the old militia jacket he was wearing. He put his hand up to it, paused, glanced hurriedly at the Colonel, and let his fingers fall. "Yes, yes," said the Kentuckian, "that'll make a capital seal." "No; something of yours, I think, Colonel. The top of that tony pencil-case, hey?" The Colonel produced his gold pencil, watched Mac heat the wax, drop it into the neck of the demijohn, and apply the initialled end of the Colonel's property. While Mac, without any further waste of words, was swinging the wicker-bound temptation up on the shelf again, they heard voices. "They're coming back," says the Kentuckian hurriedly. "But we've settled our little account, haven't we, old man?" Mac jerked his head in that automatic fashion that with him meant genial and whole-hearted agreement. "I'll call 'em down," says Mac. And the Colonel knew the seal was safe. "By-the-by, Colonel," said the Boy, just as he was turning in that night, "I--a--I've asked that Jesuit chap to the House-Warming." "Oh, you did, did you?" "Well, you'd just better have a talk with Mac about it." "Yes. I've been tryin' to think how I'd square Mac. Of course, I know I'll have to go easy on the raw." "I reckon you just will." "If Monkey-wrench screws down hard on me, you'll come to the rescue, won't you, Colonel?" "No I'll side with Mac on that subject. Whatever he says, goes!" "Humph! _that_ Jesuit's all right." Not a word out of the Colonel. Medwjedew (zu Luka). Tag' mal--wer bist du? Ich kenne dich nicht. Luka. Kennst du denn sonst alle Leute? Medwjedew. In meinem Revier muss ich jeden kennen und dich kenn'ich nicht Luka. Das kommt wohl daher Onkelchen, dass dein Revier nicht die ganze Erde umfasst 's ist da noch ein Endchen draussen geblieben The evergreen wall with the big stone chimney shouldering itself up to look out upon the frozen highway, became a conspicuous feature in the landscape, welcome as the weeks went on to many an eye wearied with long looking for shelter, and blinded by the snow-whitened waste. No, he hadn't time to look at it. He had promised to "mush." He wasn't even hungry. It did little credit to his heart, but he seemed more in haste to leave his new friends than the least friendly of them would have expected. "Oh, wait a sec.," urged the deeply disappointed Boy. "I wanted awf'ly to see how your sled is made. It's better 'n Father Wills'." "Humph!" grunted Nicholas scornfully; "him no got Innuit sled." "Goo'-bye," interrupted Nicholas. But the Boy paid no attention to the word of farewell. He knelt down in the snow and examined the sled carefully. "Nail?" says Nicholas. "Huh, no _nail!_" as contemptuously as though the Boy had said "bread-crumbs." "Well, she's a daisy! When you comin' back?" "Comin' pretty quick; goin' pretty quick. Goo'-bye! _Mush!_" shouted Nicholas to his companion, and the dogs got up off their haunches. But the Boy only laughed at Nicholas's struggles to get started. He hung on to the loaded sled, examining, praising, while the dogs, after the merest affectation of trying to make a start, looked round at him over their loose collars and grinned contentedly. "Me got to mush. Show nex' time. Mush!" "What's here?" the Boy shouted through the "mushing"; and he tugged at the goodly load, so neatly disposed under an old reindeer-skin sleeping-bag, and lashed down with raw hide. That? Oh, that was fish. _"Fish!_ Got so much fish at starving Pymeut you can go hauling it down river? Well, sir, _we_ want fish. We _must_ have fish. Hey?" The Boy appealed to the others. "I reckon we just do!" But Nicholas had other views. "Bless my soul! you've got enough there for a regiment. You goin' to sell him? Hey?" Nicholas shook his head. "Oh, come off the roof!" advised the Boy genially. "You ain't carryin' it about for your health, I suppose?" said Potts. "The people down at Ikogimeut don't need it like us. We're white duffers, and can't get fish through the ice. You sell _some_ of it to us." But Nicholas shook his head and shuffled along on his snow-shoes, beckoning the dog-driver to follow. "Or trade some fur--fur tay," suggested O'Flynn. "Or for sugar," said Mac. "Or for tobacco," tempted the Colonel. And before that last word Nicholas's resolve went down. Up at the cabin he unlashed the load, and it quickly became manifest that Nicholas was a dandy at driving a bargain. He kept on saying shamelessly: "More--more shuhg. Hey? Oh yes, me give heap fish. No nuff shuhg." If it hadn't been for Mac (his own clear-headed self again, and by no means to be humbugged by any Prince alive) the purchase of a portion of that load of frozen fish, corded up like so much wood, would have laid waste the commissariat. "Good! We'll have the stockade done by then. What do you say to our big chimney, Nicholas?" He emitted a scornful "Peeluck!" "What! Our chimney no good?" He shrugged: "Why you have so tall hole your house? How you cover him up?" "We don't want to cover him up." "Humph! winter fin' you tall hole. Winter come down--bring in snow--drive fire out." He shivered in anticipation of what was to happen. "Peeluck!" The white men laughed. "What you up to now? Where you going?" Well, the fact was, Nicholas had been sent by his great ally, the Father Superior of Holy Cross, on a mission, very important, demanding despatch. "Father Brachet--him know him heap better send Nicholas when him want man go God-damn quick. Me no stop--no--no stop." He drew on his mittens proudly, unjarred by remembrance of how his good resolution had come to grief. "Where you off to now?" "Me ketchum Father Wills--me give letter." He tapped his deerskin-covered chest. "Ketchum _sure_ 'fore him leave Ikogimeut." "You come back with Father Wills?" Nicholas rolled his single eye in joyful anticipation, and promised faithfully to grace the scene. But it was only when the daring giver of invitations was safely in bed, and Mac equally safe down in the Little Cabin, that it seemed possible to broach the subject. He devised scenes in which, airily and triumphantly, he introduced Father Wills, and brought Mac to the point of pining for Jesuit society; but these scenes were actable only under conditions of darkness and of solitude. The Colonel refused to have anything to do with the matter. It was pretty late when he got back to camp, and the men were at supper. No, he hadn't shot anything. "What's that bulging in your pocket?" "Don't give me any chin-music, boys; give me tea. I'm dog-tired." He helped to revive the failing fire, and then, dropping on the section of sawed wood that did duty for a chair, with some difficulty and a deal of tugging he pulled "the sort o' stone" out of the pocket of his duck shooting-jacket. Mac bent down, shading his eyes from the faint flame flicker. "What is it?" "Piece o' tooth." "By the Lord Harry! so it is." He took the thing nearer the faint light. "Fossil! Where'd you get it?" "Over yonder--by a little frozen river." "How far? Any more? Only this?" The Boy didn't answer. He went outside, and returned instantly, lugging in something brown and whitish, weather-stained, unwieldy. "I dropped this at the door as I came along home. Thought it might do for the collection." Mac stared with all his eyes, and hurriedly lit a candle. The Boy dropped exhausted on a ragged bit of burlap by the bunks. Mac knelt down opposite, pouring liberal libation of candle-grease on the uncouth, bony mass between them. "Part of the skull!" he rasped out, masking his ecstasy as well as he could. "Mastodon?" inquired the Boy. "I'll bet my boots," says Mac, "it's an _Elephas primigenius;_ and if I'm right, it's 'a find,' young man. Where'd you stumble on him?" "Over yonder." The Boy leaned his head against the lower bunk. No answer from the Boy. "Well--a--it's a good ways." "Oh, I don't mind. I'd do more 'n that for you, Mac." There was something unnatural in such devotion. Mac looked up. But the Boy was too tired to play the big fish any longer. "I wonder if you'll do something for me." He watched with a sinking heart Mac's sharp uprising from the worshipful attitude. It was not like any other mortal's gradual, many-jointed getting-up; it was more like the sudden springing out of the big blade of a clasp-knife. "What's your game?" repeated Mac sternly, as the Boy reached the door. "What's the good o' talkin'?" he answered; but he paused, turned, and leaned heavily against the rude lintel. "Course, I know you'd be shot before you'd do it, but what I'd _like_, would be to hear you say you wouldn't kick up a hell of a row if Father Wills happens in to the House-Warmin'." Mac jerked his set face, fire-reddened, towards the fossil-finder; and he, without waiting for more, simply opened the door, and heavily footed it back to the Big Cabin. O'Flynn came in with a dripping bucket, and sat down to breakfast shivering. "Which way'd he go?" "The Boy? Down river." O'Flynn was sure. He'd just been down to the water-hole, and in the faint light he'd seen the Boy far down on the river-trail "leppin" like a hare in the direction of the Roosian mission." "Goin' to meet a Nicholas?" "Reckon so," said the Colonel, a bit ruffled. "Don't believe he'll run like a hare very far with his feet all blistered." "Did you know he'd discovered a fossil elephant?" "Well, he has. I must light out, too, and have a look at it." Nicholas's dog-driver stared, winked, and wiped his weeping, smoke-reddened eyes. "Is he in there?" Mac looked towards the tent. Andrew nodded between coughs. "What's he doing in there? Call him out," ordered Mac. Mac's hard face took on a look of cast-iron tragedy. The wind, veering round again, had brought the last words to the priest on the other side of the fire. "Oh, it'll be all right by-and-by," he said cheerfully. "But knocking up like that just for blisters?" Without waiting to hear more Mac strode over to the tent, and as he went in, Nicholas came out. No sign of the Boy--nobody, nothing. What? Down in the corner a small, yellow face lying in a nest of fur. Bright, dark eyes stared roundly, and as Mac glowered astonished at the apparition, a mouth full of gleaming teeth opened, smiling, to say in a very small voice: "I'm not your father," he said stiffly. "Who're you? Hey? You speak English?" The child stared at him fixedly, but suddenly, for no reason on earth, it smiled again. Mac stood looking down at it, seeming lost in thought. Presently the small object stirred, struggled about feebly under the encompassing furs, and, freeing itself, held out its arms. The mites of hands fluttered at his sleeve and made ineffectual clutches. "What do you want?" To his own vast astonishment Mac lifted the little thing out of its warm nest. It was woefully thin, and seemed, even to his inexperience, to be insufficiently clothed, though the beaded moccasins on its tiny feet were new and good. "Why, you're only about as big as a minute," he said gruffly. "What's the matter--sick?" It suddenly struck him as very extraordinary that he should have taken up the child, and how extremely embarrassing it would be if anyone came in and caught him. Clutching the small morsel awkwardly, he fumbled with the furs preparatory to getting rid, without delay, of the unusual burden. While he was straightening the things, Father Wills appeared at the flap, smoking saucepan in hand. The instant the cold air struck the child it began to cough. But the priest, without so much as a glance at the new-comer, proceeded to feed Kaviak out of the saucepan, blowing vigorously at each spoonful before administering. "He's pretty hungry," commented Mac. "Where'd you find him?" "In a little village up on the Kuskoquim. Kaviak's an Esquimaux from Norton Sound, aren't you, Kaviak?" But the child was wholly absorbed, it seemed, in swallowing and staring at Mac. "His family came up there from the coast in a bidarra only last summer--all dead now. Everybody else in the village--and there isn't but a handful--all ailing and all hungry. I was tramping across an igloo there a couple of days ago, and I heard a strange little muffled sound, more like a snared rabbit than anything else. But the Indian with me said no, everybody who had lived there was dead, and he was for hurrying on. They're superstitious, you know, about a place where people have died. But I crawled in, and found this little thing lying in a bundle of rags with its hands bound and dried grass stuffed in its mouth. It was too weak to stir or do more than occasionally to make that muffled noise that I'd heard coming up through the smoke-hole." "What you goin' to do with him?" "Well, I hardly know. The Sisters will look after him for a while, if I get him there alive." "Why shouldn't you?" Kaviak supplied the answer straightway by choking and falling into an appalling fit of coughing. "I've got some stuff that'll be good for that," said Mac, thinking of his medicine-chest. "I'll give you some when we get back to camp." The priest nodded, taking Mac's unheard of civility as a matter of course. "The ice is very rough; the jolting makes him cough awfully." The Jesuit had fastened his eyes on Mac's woollen muffler, which had been loosened during the ministering to Kaviak and had dropped on the ground. "Do you need that scarf?" he asked, as though he suspected Mac of wearing it for show. "Because if you didn't you could wrap it round Kaviak while I help the men strike camp." And without waiting to see how his suggestion was received, he caught up the saucepan, lifted the flap, and vanished. "Farva," remarked Kaviak, fixing melancholy eyes on Mac. "I ain't your father," muttered the gentleman so addressed. He picked up his scarf and hung it round his own neck. "Farva!" insisted Kaviak. They looked at each other. "Oh, oh! Too tight? Beg your pardon," said Mac hastily, as though not only English, but punctilious manners were understanded of Kaviak. He relaxed the woollen bandage till the morsel lay contented again within its folds. Nicholas came in for Kaviak, and for the furs, that he might pack them both in the Father's sled. Already the true son of the Church was undoing the ropes that lashed firm the canvas of the tent. Nicholas paused an instant with Kaviak on his shoulder. "You not seen him to-day?" "No, he came down this morning to meet you." The only sounds were the _Mush! Mush!_ of the drivers, the grate and swish of the runners over the ice, and Kaviak's coughing. By-and-by the order of march was disturbed. Kaviak's right runner, catching at some obstacle, swerved and sent the sled bumping along on its side, the small head of the passenger narrowly escaping the ice. Mac caught hold of the single-tree and brought the racing dogs to an abrupt halt. The priest and he righted the sled, and Mac straddling it, tucked in a loosened end of fur. When all was again in running order, Mac was on the same side as Father Wills. He still wore that look of dour ill-temper, and especially did he glower at the unfortunate Kaviak, seized with a fresh fit of coughing that filled the round eyes with tears. It was only when Mac had marched off, glowering still, and sternly refusing to meet Kaviak's tearful but grateful eyes--it was only then, bending over the sled and making fast the furs, that Father Wills, all to himself, smiled a little. It wasn't until they were in sight of the smoke from the Little Cabin that Mac slackened his pace. He had never for a moment found the trail so smooth that he could return his burden to the sled. Now, however, he allowed Nicholas and the priest to catch up with him. "You carry him the rest of the way," he commanded, and set his burden in Nicholas's arms. Kaviak was ill-pleased, but Mac, falling behind with the priest, stalked on with eyes upon the ground. "I've got a boy of my own," he jerked out presently, with the air of a man who accounts confidentially for some weakness. "Really!" returned the priest; "they didn't tell me." "I haven't told them yet." "Why is he called that heathen name?" "Kaviak? Oh, it's the name of his tribe. His people belong to that branch of the Innuits known as Kaviaks." "Humph! Then he's only Kaviak as I'm MacCann. I suppose you've christened him?" "Well, not yet--no. What shall we call him? What's your boy's name?" "Robert Bruce." They went on in silence till Mac said, "It's on account of my boy I came up here." "It didn't use to matter if a man _was_ poor and self-taught, but in these days of competition it's different. A boy must have chances if he's going to fight the battle on equal terms. Of course, some boys ain't worth botherin' about. But my boy--well, he seems to have something in him." The priest listened silently, but with that look of brotherliness on his face that made it so easy to talk to him. "In the United States?" The priest smiled, but almost imperceptibly. "Oh, 'bout as old as this youngster." Mac spoke with calculated indifference. "And you can see already--he's got a lot in him." Father Wills nodded with a conviction that brought Mac nearer confession than he had ever been in his life. "Well, I believe you will, if you feel like that." "What! You goin' straight on? Nonsense!" Mac interrupted, and began to shout to the Indians. "Ah yes, but we are more accustomed to--it's hardly fair to burden a neighbour. No, we'll be getting on." "Hi!" Mac called between his hands to the Indians, who had gone some distance ahead. "Hi!" He motioned them back up the hill trail. "Faith, look at 'im! Sure, that fossle can't resthrain his j'y at seein' ye back. Mac, it's yer elephunt. I was takin' him in to the sate of honour be the foir. We thought it 'ud be a pleasant surprise fur ye. Sure, ye'r more surprised to see 'im leppin' down the hill to meet ye, like a rale Irish tarrier." Mac was angry, and didn't conceal the fact. As he ran to stop the thing before it should be dashed to pieces, the priest happened to glance back, and saw coming slowly along the river trail a solitary figure that seemed to make its way with difficulty. "It looks as though you'd have more than you bargained for at the House-Warming," he said. O'Flynn came down the hill babbling like a brook. "Good-day to ye, Father. The blessin's o' Heaven on ye fur not kapin' us starvin' anny longer. There's Potts been swearin', be this and be that, that yourself and the little divvle wudn't be at the Blow-Out at ahl, at ahl." "Who's this?" They all stood and watched the limping traveller. "Why it's--of course. I didn't know him with that thing tied over his cap"; and Mac went to meet him. The Boy bettered his pace. "How did I miss you?" demanded Mac. "Well," said the Boy, looking rather mischievous, "I can't think how it happened on the way down, unless you passed when I 'd gone uphill a piece after some tracks. I was lyin' under the Muff a few miles down when you came back, and you--well, I kind o' thought you seemed to have your hands full." Mac looked rigid and don't-you-try-to-chaff-me-sir. "Besides," the Boy went on, "I couldn't cover the ground like you and Father Wills." "What's the matter with you?" "Oh, nothin' to howl about. But see here, Mac." "Soon's I can walk I'll go and get you the rest o' that elephant." There was no more said till they got up to the others, who had waited for the Indians to come back, and had unpacked Kaviak to spare him the jolting uphill. "The saints in glory be among us! What's that? Man alive, what _is_ it, be the Siven?" "That," answered Mac with a proprietary air, "is a little Esquimaux boy, and I'm bringing him in to doctor his cold." "How good it is to invite men to the pleasant feast." Comfortable as rock fireplace and stockade made the cabin now, the Colonel had been feeling all that morning that the official House-Warming was fore-doomed to failure. Nevertheless, as he was cook that week, he could not bring himself to treat altogether lightly his office of Master of the Feast. There would probably be no guests. Even their own little company would likely be incomplete, but t here was to be a spread that afternoon, "anyways." Even had the Colonel needed any keeping up to the mark, the office would have been cheerfully undertaken by O'Flynn or by Potts, for whom interest in the gustatory aspect of the occasion was wholly undimmed by the threatened absence of Mac and the "little divvle." "There'll be the more for us," said Potts enthusiastically. O'Flynn's argument seemed to halt upon a reservation. He looked over the various contributions to the feast, set out on a board in front of the water-bucket, and, "It's mate I'm wishin' fur," says he. "No scurvy in this camp for a while yet," said the Colonel, throwing some heavy objects into a pan and washing them vigorously round and round. "Pitaties!" O'Flynn's eyes dwelt lovingly on the rare food. "Ye've hoarded 'em too long, man, they've sprouted." "That won't prevent you hoggin' more'n your share, I'll bet," said Potts pleasantly. "Waste 'em with scurvy staring us in the face? Should think not. Mix 'em with cold potaters in a salad." "No. Make slumgullion," commanded O'Flynn. "What's that?" quoth the Colonel. "Well, an' that's slumgullion." "Don't sound heady enough for a 'Blow-Out,'" said the Colonel. "We'll sober up on slumgullion to-morrow." "Anyhow, it's mate I'm wishin' fur," sighed O'Flynn, subsiding among the tin-ware. "What's the good o' the little divvle and his thramps, if he can't bring home a burrud, or so much as the scut iv a rabbit furr the soup?" "Well, he's contributed a bottle of California apricots, and we'll have boiled rice." "An' punch, glory be!" "Y-yes," answered the Colonel. "I've been thinkin' a good deal about the punch." "So's myself," said O'Flynn frankly; but Potts looked at the Colonel suspiciously through narrowed eyes. "To hell with your mild bowls!" Whereupon, having cut the ground from under their feet, he turned decisively, and stirred the mush-pot with a magnificent air and a newly-whittled birch stick. When the door opened the next time, it was to admit Mac, Nicholas with Kaviak in his arms, O'Flynn gesticulating like a windmill, and, last of all, the Boy. Kaviak was formally introduced, but instead of responding to his hosts' attentions, the only thing he seemed to care about, or even see, was something that in the hurly-burly everybody else overlooked--the decorations. Mac's stuffed birds and things made a remarkably good show, but the colossal success was reserved for the minute shrunken skin of the baby white hare set down in front of the great fire for a hearthrug. If the others failed to appreciate that joke, not so Kaviak. He gave a gurgling cry, struggled down out of Nicholas's arms, and folded the white hare to his breast. "Where are the other Indians?" said Mac. "Mate? Arre ye sayin' mate, or is an angel singin'?" "Now I _know_ that man's a Christian," soliloquised Potts. "Look here: it'll take a little time to cook," said Mac, "and it's worth waitin' for. Can you let us have a pail o' hot water in the meantime?" "Y-yes," said the Colonel, looking as if he had enough to think about already. "And where's the liniment I lent you that you're so generous with?" Mac arraigned O'Flynn. "Go and get it." Under Nicholas's hands Kaviak was forced to relinquish not only the baby hare, but his own elf locks. He was closely sheared, his moccasins put off, and his single garment dragged unceremoniously wrong side out over his head and bundled out of doors. "Be the Siven! he's got as manny bones as a skeleton!" "Poor little codger!" The Colonel stood an instant, skillet in hand staring. "What's that he's got round his neck?" said the Boy, moving nearer. Kaviak, seeing the keen look menacing his treasure, lifted a shrunken yellow hand and clasped tight the dirty shapeless object suspended from a raw-hide necklace. Nicholas seemed to hesitate to divest him of this sole remaining possession. "You must get him to give it up," said Father Wills, "and burn it." Kaviak flatly declined to fall in with as much as he understood of this arrangement. "What is it, anyway?" the Boy pursued. "His amulet, I suppose." As Father Wills proceeded to enforce his order, and pulled the leather string over the child's head, Kaviak rent the air with shrieks and coughs. He seemed to say as well as he could, "I can do without my parki and my mucklucks, but I'll take my death without my amulet." Mac insinuated himself brusquely between the victim and his persecutors. He took the dirty object away from the priest with scant ceremony, in spite of the whisper, "Infection!" and gave it back to the wrathful owner. "You talk his language, don't you?" Mac demanded of Nicholas. The Pymeut pilot nodded. "Tell him, if he'll lend the thing to me to wash, he shall have it back." Kaviak, with streaming eyes and quivering lips, reluctantly handed it over, and watched Mac anxiously till overwhelmed by a yet greater misfortune in the shape of a bath for himself. "How shall I clean this thing thoroughly?" Mac condescended to ask Father Wills. The priest shrugged. "He'll have forgotten it to-morrow." "He shall have it to-morrow," said Mac. "What's it for?" "Same as the rest. It's an amulet; only as it's used to stop the flow of blood from the wound of a captive seal, it is supposed to be the best of all charms for anyone who spits blood." "I'll clean 'em all after the Blow-Out," said Mac, and he went out, buried the charms in the snow, and stuck up a spruce twig to mark the spot. "Sorry we've got so few dishes, gentlemen," the Colonel had said. "We'll have to ask some of you to wait till others have finished." "Farva," remarked Kaviak, leaning out of the bunk and sniffing the savoury steam. "He takes you for a priest," said Potts, with the cheerful intention of stirring Mac's bile. But not even so damning a suspicion as that could cool the collector's kindness for his new Spissimen. "You come here," he said. Kaviak didn't understand. The Boy got up, limped over to the bunk, lifted the child out, and brought him to Mac's side. The next course was fish a la Pymeut. "You're lucky to be able to get it," said the Father, whether with suspicion or not no man could tell. "I had to send back for some by a trader and couldn't get enough." "We didn't see any trader," said the Boy to divert the current. "He may have gone by in the dusk; he was travelling hotfoot." "Thought that steamship was chockful o' grub. What did you want o' fish?" "They don't relish parting with it," suggested Potts. "So you didn't do much for the Pymeuts after all?" "I did something," he said almost shortly. Then, with recovered serenity, he turned to the Boy: "I promised I'd bring back any news." "Yes." Everybody stopped eating and hung on the priest's words. "On the American side this time." "At a place called Minook." "Up the river by the Ramparts." "And very probably isn't a bona-fide strike at all," said the priest, "but just a stampede--a very different matter." "Well, I tell you straight: I got no use for a gold-mine in Minook at this time o' year." "Nop! Venison steak's more in my line than grub-stake just about now." Potts had to bestir himself and wash dishes before he could indulge in his "line." When the grilled reindeer did appear, flanked by really-truly potatoes and the Colonel's hot Kentucky biscuit, there was no longer doubt in any man's mind but what this Blow-Out was being a success. "Colonel's a daisy cook, ain't he?" the Boy appealed to Father Wills. The Jesuit assented cordially. "My family meant _me_ for the army," he said. "Seen much service, Colonel?" The Kentuckian laughed. "Never wasted a day soldiering in my life." "Maybe you're wonderin'," said Potts, "why he's a Colonel!" The Jesuit made a deprecatory gesture, politely disclaiming any such rude curiosity. "He's from Kentucky, you see;" and the smile went round. "Beyond that, we can't tell you why he's a Colonel unless it's because he ain't a Judge;" and the boss of the camp laughed with the rest, for the Denver man had scored. Potts and O'Flynn waited anxiously to sample the punch before giving way to complete satisfaction, and Kaviak was impervious to considerations either of punch or conviviality, being wrapped in slumber on a corner of the buffalo-skin, between Mac's stool and the natives, who also occupied places on the floor. "Potts, me bhoy, 'tain't s' bad." "Begob, I'm happy enough! Gentlemen, wud ye like I should sing ye a song?" "Yes," and the Colonel thumped the table for order, infinitely relieved that the dinner was done, and the punch not likely to turn into a _casus belli_. O'Flynn began a ditty about the Widdy Malone that woke up Kaviak and made him rub his round eyes with astonishment. He sat up, and hung on to the back of Mac's coat to make sure he had some anchorage in the strange new waters he had so suddenly been called on to navigate. When the Colonel sat down there was much applause, and O'Flynn, who had lent his cup to Nicholas, and didn't feel he could wait till it came back, began to drink punch out of the dipper between shouts of: "Hooray! Brayvo! Here's to the Kurrnul! God bless him! That's rale oratry, Kurrnul! Here's to Kentucky--and ould Ireland." Father Wills stood up, smiling, to reply. "They'll be there before us, boys!" "Anyways, they'll get to Minook." "Then if grub gives out they'll be comin' back here?" suggested Potts. "Gosh! Wonder if any of 'em were on our ship?" But quickly, as though conscious that, if he had raised the moral tone of the company, he had not raised its spirits, he hurried on: While O'Flynn howled with delight, the priest wound up: _"Gentlemen, if we find monotony up here, it's not the country's fault, but a defect in our own civilisation."_ Wherewith he sat down amid cheers. "Now, Colonel, is Mac goin' to recite some Border ballads?" inquired the Boy, "or will he make a speech, or do a Highland fling?" The Colonel called formally upon Mr. MacCann. Everybody laughed but Mac, who pretended not to know what was going on behind his back. "Where's the coal, then?" sneered Potts. "It's bein' discovered all over ask him" (indicating Father Wills, who smiled assent). "Tropical forests grew where there are glayshers now, and elephants and mastodons began life here." "Jimminy Christmas!" interrupted the Boy, sitting up very straight. "Is that Buffer you quoted a good authority?" "Good Lord! then the Garden o' Eden was up here." "That don't follow. Read your Bible." "Mac's got the floor." "Now, Mac, I put it to you as a man o' science: if the race had got a foothold in any other part o' the world, what in Sam Hill could make 'em come up here?" "Yes, yes, Mac, and the hares got white, and the men, playin' a losin' game for centuries, got dull in their heads and stunted in their legs--always cramped up in a kaiak like those fellas at St. Michael's. And, why, it's clear as crystal--they're survivals! The Esquimaux are the oldest race in the world." "Who's makin' this speech?" "Well, see here: _do_ you admit it, Mac? Don't you see there were just a few enterprisin' ones who cleared out, or, maybe, got carried away in a current, and found better countries and got rich and civilised, and became our forefathers? Hey, boys, ain't I right?" "You'll get chucked out." "Why, it goes on still," the Boy roared above the din. "People who stick at home, and are patient, and put up with things, they're doomed. But look at the fellas that come out o' starvin' attics and stinkin' pigsties to America. They live like lords, and they look at life like men." The Colonel came round and hauled the Boy down. Potts was egging the miscreant on. O'Flynn, poorly disguising his delight in a scrimmage, had been shouting: "Ye'll spoil the Blow-Out, ye meddlin' jackass! Can't ye let Mac make his spache? No; ye must ahlways be huntin' round fur harrum to be doin' or throuble to make." In the turmoil and the contending of many voices Nicholas began to explain to his friends that it wasn't a real fight, as it had every appearance of being, and the visitors were in no immediate danger of their lives. But Kaviak feared the worst, and began to weep forlornly. "The world is dyin' at top and bottom!" screamed the Boy, writhing under the Colonel's clutch. "The ice will spread, the beasts will turn white, and we'll turn yella, and we'll all dress in skins and eat fat and be exactly like Kaviak, and the last man'll be found tryin' to warm his hands at the Equator, his feet on an iceberg and his nose in a snowstorm. Your old Buffer's got a long head, Mac. Here's to Buffer!" Whereupon he subsided and drank freely of punch. "Well," said the Colonel, severely, "you've had a Blow-Out if nobody else has!" "Feel better?" inquired Potts, tenderly. "I'll punch 'im," promised O'Flynn, replenishing the disturber's cup. But Mac wouldn't be drawn. Besides, he was feeding Kaviak. So the Colonel filled in the breach with "My old Kentucky Home," which he sang with much feeling, if not great art. This performance restored harmony and a gentle reflectiveness. "But Nicholas knows more about the native life and legends than anyone I ever met, except, of course, Yagorsha." "Oh, that's the Village Story-teller." He was about to speak of something else, but, lifting his eyes, he caught Mac's sudden glance of grudging attention. The priest looked away, and went on: "There's a story-teller in every settlement. He has always been a great figure in the native life, I believe, but now more than ever." "Tell them 'The White Crow's Last Flight,'" urged the priest. But Nicholas was not in the vein, and when they all urged him overmuch, he, in self-defence, pulled a knife out of his pocket and a bit of walrus ivory about the size of his thumb, and fell to carving. "Button," says Nicholas; "me heap hurry get him done." "It looks more like a bird than a button," remarked the Boy. "I used to know how it went." He began in a deep voice: "Who's 'Kuskokala the Shaman'?" the Boy inquired. "Ah, better ask Nicholas," answered the priest. But Nicholas was absorbed in his carving. Again Mr. O'Flynn obliged, roaring with great satisfaction: "'I'm a stout rovin' blade, and what matther my name, For I ahlways was wild, an' I'll niver be tame; An' I'll kiss putty gurrls wheriver I go, An' what's that to annyone whether or no. "'Ogedashin, den thashin, come, boys! let us drink; 'Tis madness to sorra, 'tis folly to think. For we're ahl jolly fellows wheriver we go- Ogedashin, den thashin, na boneen sheen lo!'" Again the Boy pressed Nicholas to dance. "No, no;" and under his breath: "You come Pymeut." Meanwhile, O'Flynn, hugging the pleasant consciousness that he had distinguished himself--his pardner, too--complained that the only contribution Mac or the Boy had made was to kick up a row. What steps were they going to take to retrieve their characters and minister to the public entertainment? "I've supplied the decorations," said Mac in a final tone. "Well, and the Bhoy? What good arre ye, annyway?" "Hard to say," said the person addressed; but, thinking hard: "Would you like to see me wag my ears?" Some languid interest was manifested in this accomplishment, but it fell rather flat after Potts' splendid achievements with the euchre-deck. "No, ye ain't good fur much as an enthertainer," said O'Flynn frankly. Kaviak had begun to cry for more punch, and Mac was evidently growing a good deal perplexed as to the further treatment for his patient. "Did ye be tellin' some wan, Father, that when ye found that Esquimer he had grass stuffed in his mouth? Sure, he'll be missin' that grass. Ram somethin' down his throat." "Was it done to shorten his sufferings?" the Colonel asked in an undertone. "No," answered the priest in the same low voice; "if they listen long to the dying, the cry gets fixed in their imagination, and they hear it after the death, and think the spirit haunts the place. Their fear and horror of the dead is beyond belief. They'll turn a dying man out of his own house, and not by the door, but through a hole in the roof. Or they pull out a log to make an opening, closing it up quick, so the spirit won't find his way back." Kaviak continued to lament. "Sorry we can't offer you some blubber, Kaviak." "'Tain't that he's missin'; he's got an inexhaustible store of his own. His mistake is offerin' it to us." "I know what's the matter with that little shaver," said the Boy. "He hasn't got any stool, and you keep him standin' on those legs of his like matches." "Let him sit on the buffalo-skin there," said Mac gruffly. "Don't you s'pose he's thought o' the buffalo-skin? But he'd hate it. A little fella likes to be up where he can see what's goin' on. He'd feel as lost 'way down there on the buffalo as a puppy in a corn-brake." The Boy was standing up, looking round. "I know. Elephas! come along, Jimmie!" In spite of remonstrance, they rushed to the door and dragged in the "fossle." When Nicholas and his friends realised what was happening, they got up grunting and protesting. "Lend a hand, Andrew," the Boy called to the man nearest. "No--no!" objected the true son of the Church, with uncommon fervour. "You, then, Nicholas." _"Oo,_ ha, _oo!_ No touch! No touch!" "What's up? You don't know what this is." He stopped as suddenly as he'd begun. "_Now_, will you be good?" Kaviak drew a breath with a catch in it, looked round, and began as firmly as ever: "Sh--sh!" The Boy clapped his hands, and lugubriously intoned: "'Dey's de badger and de bah, En de funny lil hah, En de active lil flea, En de lil armadillah Dat sleeps widouter pillah, An dey all gottah mate but me--ee--ee!' "Farva!" Kaviak gasped. "Ain't room; besides, I can't do it with blisters." "Do you remember the thing about the screech-owl and the weather signs?" said the Colonel, roused at last by the jig on his toes and the rattle of improvised "bones" almost in his face. "Reckon I do, honey," said the Boy, his feet still flying and flapping on the hard earthen floor. "_'Wen de screech-owl light on de gable en' En holler, Who--ool oh--oh!'_" He danced up and hooted in Kaviak's face. "_'Den yo' bettah keep yo eyeball peel, Kase 'e bring bad luck t' yo'. Oh--oh! oh-oh!'_" Then, sinking his voice, dancing slowly, and glancing anxiously under the table: "_'Wen de ole black cat widdee yalla eyes Slink round like she atterah mouse, Den yo' bettah take keer yo'self en frien's, Kase deys sholy a witch en de house.'_" An awful pause, a shiver, and a quick change of scene, indicated by a gurgling whoop, ending in a quacking: "_'Wen de puddle-duck'e leave de pon', En start t' comb e fedder, Den yo' bettah take yo' omberel, Kase deys gwine tubbee wet wedder.'_" "Now comes the speckly rooster," the Colonel prompted. The Boy crowed long and loud: "_'Effer ole wile rooster widder speckly tail Commer crowin' befoh de do', En yo got some comp'ny a'ready, Yo's gwinter have some mo'.'_" Look here: Kaviak's never seen a pig! I call it a shame. _"'Wen yo' see a pig agoin' along Widder straw en de sider 'is mouf, It'll be a tuhble winter, En yo' bettuh move down Souf.'"_ He jumped up and dashed into a breakdown, clattering the bones, and screeching: The group on the floor, undoubtedly, liked that part of the entertainment that involved the breakdown, infinitely the best of all, but simultaneously, at its wildest moment, they all turned their heads to the door. Mac noticed the movement, listened, and then got up, lifted the latch, and cautiously looked out. The Boy caught a glimpse of the sky over Mac's shoulder. "Jimminy Christmas!" He stopped, nearly breathless. "It can't be a fire. Say, boys! they're havin' a Blow-Out up in heaven." The company crowded out. The sky was full of a palpitant light. An Indian appeared from round the stockade; he was still staring up at the stone chimney. "How-do." He handed Father Wills a piece of dirty paper. "Hah! Yes. All right. Andrew!" Andrew needed no more. He bustled away to harness the dogs. The white men were staring up at the sky. "What's goin' on in heaven, Father? S'pose you call this the Aurora Borealis--hey?" "Yes," said the priest; "and finer than we often get it. We are not far enough north for the great displays." He went in to put on his parki. Mac, after looking out, had shut the door and stayed behind with Kaviak. On Father Will's return Farva, speaking apparently less to the priest than to the floor, muttered: "Better let him stop where he is till his cold's better." The Colonel came in. "Leave the child here!" ejaculated the priest. "Why not?" said the Colonel promptly. "Well, it would be a kindness to keep him a few days. I'll _have_ to travel fast tonight." "Then it's settled." Mac bundled Kaviak into the Boy's bunk. When the others were ready to go out again, Farva caught up his fur coat and went along with them. "Wonder what makes it," said the Colonel. "Electricity," Mac snapped out promptly. He turned to the Boy, and they went on together, preceding the others, a little, on the way down the trail towards the river. The others trooped down-hill, dogs, sleds, and all. There was a great hand-shaking and good-byeing. "I should just pretty nearly think I would." "Mighty fine!" The Boy examined them by the strange glow that brightened in the sky. "Oh no, can't do that." "_Yes!_" Nicholas spoke peremptorily. "Yukon men have big feast, must bring present. Me no got reindeer, me got button." He grinned. "Goo'-bye." And the last of the guests went his way. It was only habit that kept the Colonel toasting by the fire before he turned in, for the cabin was as warm to-night as the South in mid-summer. _"Grasshoppah sett'n on a swee' p'tater vine,"_ The Boy was turning back the covers, and balancing a moment on the side of the bunk. "Great Caesar's ghost!" He jumped up, and stood staring down at the sleeping Kaviak. "Ah--a--didn't you know? He's been left behind for a few days." "Yes, I can see he's left behind. No, Colonel, I reckon we're in the Arctic regions all right when it comes to catchin' Esquimers in your bed!" He pulled the furs over Kaviak and himself, and curled down to sleep. The Boy had hoped to go to Pymeut the next day, but his feet refused to carry him. Mac took a diagram and special directions, and went after the rest of elephas, conveying the few clumsy relics home, bit by bit, with a devotion worthy of a pious pilgrim. "_Rush!_ Good Lord! it's 'most a week since they were here. And it's stopped snowin', and hasn't thought of sleetin' yet or anything else rambunksious. Come on, Colonel." But Father Wills had shown the Colonel the piece of dirty paper the Indian had brought on the night of the Blow-Out. "Reckon we'd better hold our horses till we hear from Holy Cross." The Colonel didn't answer, but the Boy didn't wait to listen. He swallowed his coffee scalding hot, rolled up some food and stuff for trading, in a light reindeer skin blanket, lashed it packwise on his back, shouldered his gun, and made off before the Trio came in to breakfast. "Why, if it doesn't make me think of John Fox's cabin on Cypress Creek!" he said to himself, formulating an impression that had vaguely haunted him on the Lower River in September; wondering if the Yukon flooded like the Caloosahatchee, and if the water could reach as far up as all that. "Hi, hi!" he shouted, and as the figure turned he made signs. It stopped. "How-do?" the Boy called out when he got nearer. "You talk English?" The native laughed. A flash of fine teeth and sparkling eyes lit up a young, good-looking face. This boy seemed promising. "How d'ye do? You know Nicholas?" The laugh was even gayer. It seemed to be a capital joke to know Nicholas. The figure turned and pointed, and then: "Come. I show you." This was a more highly educated person than Nicholas, thought the visitor, remarking the use of the nominative scorned of the Prince. They walked on to the biggest of the underground dwellings. "Is this where the King hangs out? Nicholas' father lives here?" "No. This is the Kazhga." "Oh, the Kachime. Ain't you comin' in?" His guide had a fit of laughter, and then turned to go. "Say, what's your name?" The answer sounded like "Muckluck." And just then Nicholas crawled out of the tunnel-like opening leading into the council-house. He jumped up, beaming at the sight of his friend. "Say, Nicholas, who's this fella that's always laughing, no matter what you say? Calls himself 'Muckluck.'" The individual referred to gave way to another spasm of merriment, which infected Nicholas. "Oh-h!" The Boy joined in the laugh, and pulled off his Arctic cap with a bow borrowed straight from the Colonel. "Princess Muckluck, I'm proud to know you." "Mac? Nonsense! Mac's a man's name--she's Princess Muckluck. Only, how's a fella to tell, when you dress her like a man?" The Princess still giggled, while her brother explained. "No like man. See?" He showed how the skirt of her deerskin parki, reaching, like her brother's, a little below the knee, was shaped round in front, and Nicholas's own--all men's parkis were cut straight across. "I see. How's your father?" Nicholas looked grave; even Princess Muckluck stopped laughing. "Come," said Nicholas, and the Boy followed him on all fours into the Kachime. He gasped, and was for getting out again as fast as possible, when the bearskin flap fell behind him over the Kachime end of the entrance-tunnel. "Who built this?" he inquired of Nicholas. "Ol' father, an' heap ol' men gone dead." "Gee! Well, whoever did it was on to his job," he said. "I don't seen a nail in the whole sheebang." "What's it all about?" the Boy asked. "Ol' Chief heap sick," said the buck on the Boy's right. "Ol' Chief, ol' father, b'long me," Nicholas observed with pride. "Yes; but aren't the Holy Cross people nursing him?" "Brother Paul gone; white medicine no good." They all shook their heads and coughed despairingly. "Then try s'm' other--some yella-brown, Esquimaux kind," hazarded the Boy lightly, hardly noticing what he was saying till he found nearly all the eyes of the company fixed intently upon him. Nicholas was translating, and it was clear the Boy had created a sensation. "Oh yes, medicine-man," said the Boy, following the narrative eagerly. "Father Wills come." Nicholas took up the tale afresh. "Shaman come. Father Wills heap mad. He no let Shaman stay." "No; him say, 'Go! plenty quick, plenty far. Hey, you! _Mush!_'" They smoked awhile in silence broken only by coughs. "Shaman say, 'Yukon Inua plenty mad.'" "Who is Yukon Inua? Where does he live?" "Unner Yukon ice," whispered Nicholas. "Oh, the river spirit? Of course." "No tell Father Wills?" Then in a low guttural voice: "Shaman come again." "Jiminny Christmas!" They sat and smoked and coughed. By-and-by, as if wishing thoroughly to justify their action, Nicholas resumed: The entire company grunted in unison. "You no tell?" Nicholas added with recurrent anxiety. "No, no; they shan't hear through me. I'm safe." As soon as it began to blaze, Yagorsha the Story-teller took the cover off the smoke-hole, so the company was not quite stifled. A further diversion was created by several women crawling in, bringing food for the men-folk, in old lard-cans or native wooden kantaks. These vessels they deposited by the fire, and with an exchange of grunts went out as they had come. Nicholas wouldn't let the Boy undo his pack. The Boy was glad to see approaching, at last, a human figure. It came shambling through the snow, with bent head and swaying, jerking gait, looked up suddenly and sheered off, flitting uncertainly onward, in the dim light, like a frightened ghost. "Shaman. Him see in dark all same owl. Him know you white man." The Boy stared after him. The bent figure of the Shaman looked like a huge bat flying low, hovering, disappearing into the night. "Those your dogs howling?" the visitor asked, thinking that for sheer dismalness Pymeut would be hard to beat. Nicholas kicked, but to no purpose; he could make only such progress as his guest permitted. Presently a gleam. Nicholas had thrust away the flap at the tunnel's end, and they stood in the house of the Chief of the Pymeuts, that native of whom Father Wills had said, "He is the richest and most intelligent man of his tribe." The single room seemed very small after the spaciousness of the Kachime, but it was the biggest ighloo in the settlement. A fire burnt brightly in the middle of the earthen floor, and over it was bending Princess Muckluck, cooking the evening meal. She nodded, and her white teeth shone in the blaze. Over in the corner, wrapped in skins, lay a man on the floor groaning faintly. The salmon, toasting on sticks over wood coals, smelt very appetising. "No," said Nicholas; "him better no cut." They sat down by the fire, and the Princess waited on them. The Boy discovered that it was perfectly true. Yukon salmon broiled in their skins over a birch fire are the finest eating in the world, and any "other way" involves a loss of flavour. Nicholas understood, at least, that politeness was being offered, and he grinned. "I've got a sister myself. I'll show you her picture some day. I care about her a lot. I've come up here to make a pile so that we can buy back our old place in Florida." He said this chiefly to the Princess, for she evidently had profited more by her schooling, and understood things quite like a Christian. "Did you ever eat an orange, Princess?" he continued. "No, fruit; a yella ball that grows on a tree." "Me know," said Nicholas; "me see him in boxes St. Michael's. Him bully." "Yes. Well, we had a lot of trees all full of those yella balls, and we used to eat as many as we liked. We don't have much winter down where I live--summer pretty nearly all the time." "I'd like go there," said the girl. "Well, will you come and see us, Muckluck? When I've found a gold-mine and have bought back the Orange Grove, my sister and me are goin' to live together, like you and Nicholas." "She look like you?" "No; and it's funny, too, 'cause we're twins." "Twins! What's twins?" "No!" ejaculated Nicholas. "Why, yes, and they always care a heap about each other when they're twins." But Muckluck stared incredulously. "_Two_ at the same time!" she exclaimed. "It's like that, then, in your country?" The Boy saw not astonishment alone, but something akin to disgust in the face of the Princess. He felt, vaguely, he must justify his twinship. "Of course; there's nothing strange about it; it happens quite often." The old man in the corner began to moan and mutter feverishly. Nicholas went to him, bent down, and apparently tried to soothe him. Muckluck gathered up the supper-things and set them aside. "You were at the Holy Cross school?" asked the Boy. "So you're a Catholic, then?" "You speak the best English I've heard from a native." The sick man began to talk deliriously, and lifted up a terrible old face with fever-bright eyes glaring through wisps of straight gray hair. No voice but his was heard for some time in the ighloo, then, "I fraid," said Muckluck, crouching near the fire, but with head turned over shoulder, staring at the sick man. "No wonder," said the Boy, thinking such an apparition enough to frighten anybody. "Nicholas 'fraid, too," she whispered, "when the devil talks." "Yes. Sh! You hear?" The delirious chatter went on, rising to a scream. Nicholas came hurrying back to the fire with a look of terror in his face. "No; he come soon." Muckluck clung to him. They both crouched down by the fire. "You 'fraid he'll die before the Shaman gets here?" "Oh no," said Muckluck soothingly, but her face belied her words. The sick man called hoarsely. Nicholas got him some water, and propped him up to drink. He glared over the cup with wild eyes, his teeth chattering against the tin. The Boy, himself, felt a creep go down his spine. Muckluck moved closer to him. "Mustn't say he die," she whispered. "If Nicholas think he die, he drag him out--leave him in the snow." "Never!" "Sh!" she made him a sign to be quiet. The rambling fever-talk went on, Nicholas listening fascinated. "No Pymeut," she whispered, "like live in ighloo any more if man die there." "If not, how get him out after?" "Why, carry him out." "_Touch_ him? Touch _dead_ man?" She shuddered. "Oh, no. Bad, bad! I no think he die," she resumed, raising her voice. But Nicholas rejoined them, silent, looking very grave. Was he contemplating turning the poor old fellow out? The Boy sat devising schemes to prevent the barbarism should it come to that. The wind had risen; it was evidently going to be a rough night. With imagination full of sick people turned out to perish, the Boy started up as a long wail came, muffled, but keen still with anguish, down through the snow and the earth, by way of the smoke-hole, into the dim little room. "Oh, Nicholas! what was that?" "Wait! Listen! There, that! Why, it's a child crying." "Let's go and bring him in." "Bring dog in here?" "Dog! That's no dog." "Yes, him dog; him my Chee." "Making a human noise like that?" Nicholas nodded. The only sounds for some time were the doleful lamenting of the Mahlemeut without, and the ravings of the Pymeut Chief within. Nicholas had risen again, his mouth set hard, his small hands shaking. He unrolled an old reindeer-skin full of holes, and examined it. At this the girl, who had been about to make up the fire, threw down the bit of driftwood and hid her face. The sick man babbled on. The Boy, feeling he would need an interpreter, signed to Muckluck to come and sit by him. Grave as a judge she got up, and did as she was bid. "That the Shaman?" whispered the Boy. She nodded. It was plain that this apparition, however hideous, had given her great satisfaction. "Any more people coming?" "Got no more now in Pymeut." "Where is everybody?" "Some sick, some dead." The old Chief rambled on, but not so noisily. "See," whispered Muckluck, "devil 'fraid already. He begin to speak small." Nicholas edged towards the Shaman, presenting something in a birch-bark dish. "A deer's tongue," whispered Muckluck. The Boy remembered the Koyukun song, "Thanks for a good meal to Kuskokala, the Shaman." "Nuh! nuh!" interrupted Muckluck, chattering volubly, and evidently commending the Boy to the Shaman. Several of the old bucks laughed. "He say Yukon Inua no like you." "He think white men bring plague, bring devils." "Got some money?" whispered Muckluck. "Tell him I'm all right, and he can give this to Yukon Inua with my respects." Turning round to the dying fire, he took a stick, and with Nicholas's help gathered the ashes up and laid them over the smouldering brands. The Boy felt rather than saw that the Shaman had lain down between the ivory wand and the eagle's feather. Each man sat as still as death, listening, staring, waiting. Presently a little jet of flame sprang up out of the ashes. The Shaman lifted his head angrily, saw it was no human hand that had dared turn on the light, growled, and pulled something else from under his inexhaustible parki. The Boy peered curiously. The Shaman seemed to be shutting out the offensive light by wrapping himself up in something, head and all. "What's he doing now?" the Boy ventured to whisper under cover of the devil's sudden loud remonstrance, the sick man at this point breaking into ghastly groans. "He puts on the Kamlayka. Sh!" _"Ung hi yah! ah-ha-yah! yah-yah-yah!"_ was the chorus to that deep, recurrent cry of the Shaman. Its accompanying drum-note was muffled like far-off thunder, conjured out of the earth by the ivory wand. Presently a scream of terror from the bundle of skins and bones in the corner. "Ha!" Muckluck clasped her hands and rocked back and forth. She pulled him down. "No, no; frighten devil." She was shaking with excitement and with ecstacy. The sick man cried aloud. A frenzy seemed to seize the Shaman. He raised his voice in a series of blood-curdling shrieks, then dropped it, moaning, whining, then bursting suddenly into diabolic laughter, bellowing, whispering, ventriloquising, with quite extraordinary skill. The dim and foetid cave might indeed be full of devils. If the hideous outcry slackened, but an instant, you heard the sick man raving with the preternatural strength of delirium, or of mad resentment. For some time it seemed a serious question as to who would come out ahead. Just as you began to feel that the old Chief was at the end of his tether, and ready to give up the ghost, the Shaman, rising suddenly with a demoniac yell, flung himself down on the floor in a convulsion. His body writhed horribly; he kicked and snapped and quivered. The Boy was for shielding Muckluck from the crazy flinging out of legs and arms; but she leaned over, breathless, to catch what words might escape the Shaman during the fit, for these were omens of deep significance. The silence was more horrible than the hell-let-loose of a few minutes before. The dim group sat there, motionless, under the spell of the stillness even more than they had been under the spell of the noise. At last a queer, indescribable scratching and scraping came up out of the bowels of the earth. How does the old devil manage to do that? thought the Boy. But the plain truth was that his heart was in his mouth, for the sound came from the opposite direction, behind the Boy, and not near the Shaman at all. It grew louder, came nearer, more inexplicable, more awful. He felt he could not bear it another minute, sprang up, and stood there, tense, waiting for what might befall. Were _all_ the others dead, then? Not a sound in the place, only that indescribable stirring of something in the solid earth under his feet. The Shaman had his knife. A ghastly sensation of stifling came over the Boy as he thought of a struggle down there under the earth and the snow. On came the horrible underground thing. Desperately the Boy stirred the almost extinct embers with his foot, and a faint glow fell on the terror-frozen faces of the natives, fell on the bear-skin flap. _It moved!_ A huge hand came stealing round. A hand? The skeleton of a hand--white, ghastly, with fingers unimaginably long. No mortal in Pymeut had a hand like that--no mortal in all the world! A crisp, smart sound, and a match blazed. A tall, lean figure rose up from behind the bear-skin and received the sudden brightness full in his face, pale and beautiful, but angry as an avenging angel's. For an instant the Boy still thought it a spectre, the delusion of a bewildered brain, till the girl cried out, "Brother Paul!" and fell forward on the floor, hiding her face in her hands. "Light! make a light!" he commanded. Nicholas got up, dazed but obedient, and lit the seal-oil lamp. The voice of the white man, the call for light, reached the Shaman. He seemed to shiver and shrink under the folds of the Kamlayka. But instead of getting up and looking his enemy in the face, he wriggled along on his belly, still under cover of the Kamlayka, till he got to the bear-skin, pushed it aside with a motion of the hooded head, and crawled out like some snaky symbol of darkness and superstition fleeing before the light. "Brother Paul!" sobbed the girl, "don't, _don't_ tell Sister Winifred." He took no notice of her, bending down over the motionless bundle in the corner. "You've killed him, I suppose?" "Oh, I heard the pandemonium." He lifted his thin white face to the smoke-hole. "It's all useless, useless. I might as well go and leave you to your abominations. But instead, go _you_, all of you--go!" He flung out his long arms, and the group broke and scuttled, huddling near the bear-skin, fighting like rats to get out faster than the narrow passage permitted. The Boy turned from watching the instantaneous flight, the scuffle, and the disappearance, to find the burning eyes of the Jesuit fixed fascinated on his face. If Brother Paul had appeared as a spectre in the ighloo, it was plain that he looked upon the white face present at the diabolic rite as dream or devil. The Boy stood up. The lay-brother started, and crossed himself. "In Christ's name, what--who are you?" "And you were _here_--you allowed this? Ah-h!" He flung up his arms, the pale lips moved convulsively, but no sound came forth. "I--you think I ought to have interfered?" began the Boy. Nicholas at the bear-skin was making the Boy signs to come. The girl was sobbing with her face on the ground. Again Nicholas beckoned, and then disappeared. There seemed to be nothing to do but to follow his host. When the bear-skin had dropped behind the Boy, and he crawled after Nicholas along the dark passage, he heard the muffled voice of the girl praying: "Oh, Mary, Mother of God, don't let him tell Sister Winifred." A PENITENTIAL JOURNEY Nicholas and all the rest who shared the bench at night, and the fire in the morning, seemed desperately depressed and glum. A heavy cloud hung over Pymeut, for Pymeut was in disgrace. About sunset the women came in with the kantaks and the lard-cans. Yagorsha sat up and rubbed his eyes. He listened eagerly, while the others questioned the women. The old Chief wasn't dead at all. No, he was much better. Brother Paul had been about to all the house-bound sick people, and given everybody medicine, and flour, and a terrible scolding. Oh yes, he was angrier than anybody had ever been before. Some natives from the school at Holy Cross were coming for him tomorrow, and they were all going down river and across the southern portage to the branch mission at Kuskoquim. Yes, sure. Brother Paul had not waited to come with those others, being so anxious to bring medicine and things to Ol' Chief quick; and this was how he was welcomed back to the scene of his labours. A Devil's Dance was going on! That was what he called it. "You savvy?" said Nicholas to his guest. "Brother Paul go plenty soon. You wait." They found Muckluck subdued but smiling, and the old man astonishingly better. It looked almost as if he had turned the corner, and was getting well. There was certainly something very like magic in such a recovery, but it was quickly apparent that this aspect of the case was not what occupied Nicholas, as he sat regarding his parent with a keen and speculative eye. He asked him some question, and they discussed the point volubly, Muckluck following the argument with close attention. Presently it seemed that father and son were taking the guest into consideration. Muckluck also turned to him now and then, and by-and-by she said: "I think he go." "Holy Cross," said the old man eagerly. "Brother Paul," Nicholas explained. "He go _down_ river. We get Holy Cross--more quick." "I see. Before he can get back. But why do you want to go?" "See Father Brachet." "Sister Winifred say: 'Always tell Father Brachet; then everything all right,'" contributed Muckluck. "You tell Pymeut belly solly," the old Chief said. "Nicholas know he not able tell all like white man," Muckluck continued. "Nicholas say you good--hey? you good?" "Well--a--pretty tollable, thank you." "You think we can explain it all away, hey?" He made a gesture of happy clearance. "Shaman and everything, hey?" "Well, I'll be jiggered if I don't try. How far is it?" "Well, we won't go slow. We've got to do penance. When shall we start?" "Too late now. Tomalla," said the Ol' Chief. Not only Muckluck was up and doing, but the Ol' Chief seemed galvanised into unwonted activity. He was doddering about between his bed and the fire, laying out the most imposing parkis and fox-skins, fur blankets, and a pair of seal-skin mittens, all of which, apparently, he had had secreted under his bed, or between it and the wall. They made a sumptuous breakfast of tea, the last of the bacon the Boy had brought, and slapjacks. The Boy kept looking from time to time at the display of furs. Father Wills was right; he ought to buy a parki with a hood, but he had meant to have the priest's advice, or Mac's, at least, before investing. Ol' Chief watching him surreptitiously, and seeing he was no nearer making an offer, felt he should have some encouragement. He picked up the seal-skin mittens and held them out. "Present," said Ol' Chief. "You tell Father Brachet us belly solly." "You go sleep on trail," said Nicholas, rising briskly. "You die, no parki." The Boy laughed and shook his head, but still Ol' Chief held out the deer-skin shirt, and caressed the wolf-fringe of the hood. "Don't know as I call that cheap." The Boy looked doubtful. "Me come white camp," Nicholas volunteered. "Me get more fi' dollah." "Oh, will you? Now, that's very kind of you." But Nicholas, impervious to irony, held out the parki. The Boy laughed, and took it. Nicholas stooped, picked up the fur mittens, and, laying them on the Boy's arm, reiterated his father's "Present!" and then departed to the Kachime to bring down the Boy's pack. The Princess meanwhile had withdrawn to her own special corner, where in the daytime appeared only a roll of plaited mats, and a little, cheap, old hat-box, which she evidently prized most of all she had in the world. The Boy expressed surprise and admiration. "No! Really! I call that fine." "It's fine," said the Boy, "but--a--what's it for? Just look pretty?" "Wait, I show you." She dived into the hat-box, and fished up a bit of battered pencil. With an air of pride, she placed the pencil across the outstretched hands of the ivory suppliant, asking the Boy in dumb-show, was not this a pen-rest that might be trusted to melt the heart of the Holy Father? "I call that scrumptious! And he looks as if he was saying he was sorry all the time." She nodded, delighted that the Boy comprehended the subtle symbolism. "_Sure_," said the Boy. The Ol' Chief was pulling the other parki over his head. Nicholas reappeared with the visitor's effects. Under the Boy's eyes, he calmly confiscated all the tea and tobacco. But nothing had been touched in the owner's absence. "Look here: just leave me enough tea to last till I get home. I'll make it up to you." Nicholas, after some reflection, agreed. Then he bustled about, gathered together an armful of things, and handed the Boy a tea-kettle and an axe. "You bring--dogs all ready. Mush!" and he was gone. To the Boy's surprise, while he and Muckluck were getting the food and presents together, the lively Ol' Chief--so lately dying--made off, in a fine new parki, on all fours, curious, no doubt, to watch the preparations without. But not a bit of it. The Ol' Chief's was a more intimate concern in the expedition. When the Boy joined him, there he was sitting up in Nicholas's sled, appallingly emaciated, but brisk as you please, ordering the disposition of the axe and rifle along either side, the tea-kettle and grub between his feet, showing how the deer-skin blankets should be wrapped, and especially was he dictatorial about the lashing of the mahout. "How far's he comin'?" asked the Boy, astonished. "All the way," said Muckluck. "He want to be _sure_." Several bucks came running down from the Kachime, and stood about, coughed and spat, and offered assistance or advice. When at last Ol' Chief was satisfied with the way the raw walrus-hide was laced and lashed, Nicholas cracked his whip and shouted, "Mush! God-damn! Mush!" "Good-bye, Princess. We'll take care of your father, though I'm sure he oughtn't to go." "Oh yes," answered Muckluck confidently; then lower, "Shaman make all well quick. Hey? Goo'-bye." For some time he kept watching the Ol' Chief with unabated astonishment, wondering if he'd die on the way. But, after all, the open-air cure was tried for his trouble in various other parts of the world--why not here? "Nicholas, what'll you take for a couple o' your dogs?" "Pay you a good long price." "Well, will you help me to get a couple?" "Me try"; but he spoke dubiously. "What do they cost?" "Come off the roof!" But Nicholas seemed to think there was no need. "No, no take," said the Prince, stolidly. However, it was stinging cold, and running after those expensive dogs was an occupation that palled. By-and-by, "How much is your sled worth?" he asked Ol' Chief. It was a comfort to sight a settlement off there on the point. "What's this place?" "No, all gone. Come back when salmon run." Not a creature there, as Nicholas had foretold--a place built wilfully on the most exposed point possible, bleak beyond belief. If you open your mouth at this place on the Yukon, you have to swallow a hurricane. The Boy choked, turned his back to spit out the throttling blast, and when he could catch his breath inquired: "This a good place for a village?" Nicholas signified a remote destination with his whip. "B'lieve you! This kind o' thing would discourage even a mosquito." In the teeth of the blast they went past the Pymeut Summer Resort. Unlike Pymeut proper, its cabins were built entirely above ground, of logs unchinked, its roofs of watertight birch-bark. A couple of hours farther on Nicholas permitted a halt on the edge of a struggling little grove of dwarfed cotton-wood. Nicholas chopped down enough green wood to make a hearth. "What! bang on the snow?" Nicholas nodded, laid the logs side by side, and on them built a fire of the seasoned wood the Boy had gathered. They boiled the kettle, made tea, and cooked some fish. Ol' Chief waked up just in time to get his share. The Boy, who had kept hanging about the dogs with unabated interest, had got up from the fire to carry them the scraps, when Nicholas called out quite angrily, "No! no feed dogs," and waved the Boy off. "What! It's only some of my fish. Fish is what they eat, ain't it?" "No feed now; wait till night." "What for? They're hungry." "You give fish--dogs no go any more." Peremptorily he waved the Boy off, and fell to work at packing up. Not understanding Nicholas's wisdom, the Boy was feeling a little sulky and didn't help. He finished up the fish himself, then sat on his heels by the fire, scorching his face while his back froze, or wheeling round and singeing his new parki while his hands grew stiff in spite of seal-skin mittens. The dogs, hardly yet broken in to the winter's work, were growing discouraged, travelling so long in the eye of the wind. And Nicholas, in the kind of stolid depression that had taken possession of him, seemed to have forgotten even to shout "Mush!" for a very long time. By-and-by Ol' Chief called out sharply, and Nicholas seemed to wake up. He stopped, looked back, and beckoned to his companion. The Boy came slowly on. "Me gottah drive, you gottah push. Dogs heap tired." Nicholas spoke severely. The Boy stared a moment at what he mentally called "the nerve of the fella," laughed, and took hold, swallowing Nicholas's intimation that he, after all, was far more considerate of the dogs than the person merely sentimental, who had been willing to share his dinner with them. "Oh, pretty quick now." Far off, out of the dimness, came a sound--welcome because it was something to break the silence but hardly cheerful in itself. "Hear that, Nicholas?" Their own had already thrown up their noses and bettered the pace. The barking of the dogs had not only announced the mission to the travellers, but to the mission a stranger at the gates. He gave another thundering knock, and then nearly fell backwards into the snow, for Brother Paul stood on the threshold holding up a lamp. "I--a--oh! How do you do? Can I come in?" Brother Paul, still with the look of the Avenging Angel on his pale, young face, held the door open to let the Boy come in. Then, leaning out into the night and lifting the lamp high, "Is that Nicholas?" he said sternly. But the Pymeuts and the school-boys had vanished. He came in and set down the lamp. "We--a--we heard you were going down river," said the Boy, tamely, for he had not yet recovered himself after such an unexpected blow. "Are you cold? Are you wet?" demanded Brother Paul, standing erect, unwelcoming, by the table that held the lamp. The Boy pulled himself together. Such scorn you would hardly expect from a follower of the meek Galilean. "You? Yes, it amuses you." The sombre eyes shone with a cold, disconcerting light. "Well, to tell you the truth, I've been better amused." The Boy looked down at his weary, wounded feet. And the others--where were his fellow pilgrims? It struck him as comic that the upshot of the journey should be that he was doing penance for the Pymeuts, but he couldn't smile with that offended archangel in front of him. He flung up his head, but his heart failed him even while he made the boast. Silently, for a moment, they confronted each other. "Where are you bound for?" "Are you on your way up the river?" The frozen river and the wind-racked wood were as hospitable as the beautiful face of the brother. Involuntarily the Boy shivered. "I came to see the Father Superior." He dropped back into a chair. "The Father Superior is busy." "I shall tell the Father Superior what I heard and saw. He will agree that, for the sake of others who are trying to resist temptation, an example should be made of Nicholas and of his father." "And yet you nursed the old man and were kind to him, I believe, after the offense." "We spend a life-time making Christians of these people; and such as you come here, and in a week undo the work of years." "Great Caesar! _I_ don't." But vain was protest. For Brother Paul the visitor was not a particular individual. He stood there for the type of the vicious white adventurer. The sunken eyes of the lay-brother, burning, impersonal, saw not a particular young man and a case compounded of mixed elements, but--The Enemy! against whom night and day he waged incessant warfare. The Boy wheeled round. "Yes, and to swear and get drunk, and so find the shortest way to hell." "Father Brachet! Father Wills!" a voice called without. The Boy sat down by the stove, cogitating how he should best set about finding Nicholas to explain the failure of their mission What was that? Voices from the other side. The opposite door opened and a man appeared, with Nicholas and his father close behind, looking anything but cast down or decently penitential. "How do you do?" The white man's English had a strong French accent. He shook hands with great cordiality. "We have heard of you from Father Wills also. These Pymeut friends of ours say you have something to tell me." He spoke as though this something were expected to be highly gratifying, and, indeed, the cheerfulness of Nicholas and his father would indicate as much. As the Boy, hesitating, did not accept the chair offered, smiling, the Jesuit went on: "No, thank you--a--Are you the Father Superior?" He bowed a little ceremoniously, but still smiling. "I am Father Brachet." Was it the heat of the stove after the long hours of cold that made him feel a little dizzy? He put up his hand to his head. "I have told zem to take hot water upstairs," the Father was saying, "and I zink a glass of toddy would be a good sing for you." He slightly emphasised the "you," and turned as if to supplement the original order. "Yes, we're all desperately wicked." "No, no," objected Nicholas, ready to go back on so tactless an advocate. "What is it, what is it?" The Father Superior spoke a little sharply, and himself sat down in the wooden armchair he before had placed for his white guest. "Yes; he--a--his spirits have been raised by--a--what you will think an unwarrantable and wicked means." Nicholas understood, at least, that objectionable word "wicked" cropping up again, and he was not prepared to stand it from the Boy. He grunted with displeasure, and said something low to his father. "Brother Paul found them--found _us_ having a seance with the Shaman." Father Brachet turned sharply to the natives. "Ha! you go back to zat." Nicholas came a step forward, twisting his mittens and rolling his eye excitedly. "Maybe the old Orang Outang's right." "Hein!" said Father Brachet, "what is it!" "Yansey?" said the priest quickly. "Well, what about Yansey?" "But no! Wiz zose ozzers?" "No, I think they took the dogs and deserted him. He's just been brought in by our boys; they are back with the moose-meat. Sore heart worse. He will die." "Who's looking after him?" "Brother Paul"; and he padded out of the room in his soft native shoes. "Then Brother Paul has polished off Catherine," thought the Boy, "and he won't waste much time over a sore heart. It behoves us to hurry up with our penitence." This seemed to be Nicholas's view as well. He was beginning again in his own tongue. "You know we like best for you to practise your English," said the priest gently; "I expect you speak very well after working so long on ze John J. Healy." "Yes," Nicholas straightened himself. "Me talk all same white man now." (He gleamed at the Boy: "Don't suppose I need you and your perfidious tongue.") "No; us Pymeuts no wicked!" Again he turned away from the priest, and challenged the Boy to repeat the slander. Then with an insinuating air, "Shaman no say you wicked," he reassured the Father. "Shaman say Holy Cross all right. Cheechalko no good; Cheechalko bring devils; Cheechalko all same _him_," he wound up, flinging subterfuge to the winds, and openly indicating his faithless ambassador. "Strikes me I'm gettin' the worst of this argument all round. Brother Paul's been sailing into me on pretty much the same tack." Nicholas gave the ghost of a shrug, adding the damaging fact: "Sickness come to Holy Cross." "We've had to turn ze schools into wards for our patients," he explained to the stranger. "We do little now but nurse ze sick and prepare ze dying. Ze Muzzer Superieure has broken down after heroic labours. Paul, I fear, is sickening too. Yes, it's true: ze disease came to us from Pymeut." In the Father's mind was the thought of contagion courageously faced in order to succour "the least of these my brethren." In Nicholas's mind was the perplexing fact that these white men could bring sickness, but not stay it. Even the heap good people at Holy Cross were not saved by their deaf and impotent God. "Nicholas," the priest spoke wearily, "I am ashamed of you. I sought you had learned better. Zat old Shaman--he is a rare old rogue. What did you give him?" Nicholas' mental processes may not have been flattering, but their clearness was unmistakable. If Father Brachet was jealous of the rival holy man's revenue, it was time to bring out the presents. Ol' Chief had a fine lynx-skin over his arm. He advanced at a word from Nicholas, and laid it down before the Father. "No!" said Father Brachet, with startling suddenness; "take it away and try to understand." Ol' Chief wiped his eyes pathetically. Nicholas, the picture of despair, turned in a speechless appeal to his despised ambassador. Before anyone could speak, the door-knob rattled rudely, and the big bullet-head of a white man was put in. "Pardon, mon Pere; cet homme qui vient de Minook--faudrait le coucher de suite--mais ou, mon Dieu, ou?" While the Superior cogitated, "How-do, Brother Etienne?" said Nicholas, and they nodded. "Ses compagnons l'ont laisse, la, je crois. Mais ca ne durera pas longtemps." "Faudra bien qu'il reste ici--je ne vois pas d'autre moyen," said the Father. "Enfin--on verra. Attendez quelques instants." "C'est bien." Brother Etienne went out. "Oh yes," said Father Brachet, smiling, and arresting the impetuous movement. "Ziz is--part of it." "Well," said the Boy, still hesitating, "they _are_ sorry, you know, _really_ sorry." "You sink so?" The question rang a little sceptically. "No, I--I'm afraid I'm not of any Church." "Sister Winifred would be disappointed in her." "Ah, it is not just zere Paul comes in. But I tell you, my son, Paul does a work here no ozzer man has done so well." "He is a flint--a fanatic." "Fanatique!" He flung out an expressive hand. "It is a name, my son. It often means no more but zat a man is in earnest. Out of such a 'flint' we strike sparks, and many a generous fire is set alight. We all do what we can here at Holy Cross, but Paul will do what we cannot." "I!" the Boy broke in. "You are pretty wide of the mark this time." "Ah, perhaps! But zere are more trails zan ze Yukon for a fanatique. You have zere somesing to show me?" "I promised the girl that cried so--I promised her to bring the Sister this." He had pulled out the picture. In spite of the careful wrapping, it had got rather crumpled. The Father looked at it, and then a swift glance passed between him and the Boy. "You could see it was like pulling out teeth to part with it. Can it go up there till the Sister sends for it?" The priest grasped the offering with an almost convulsive joy, and instantly turned his back that the Pymeuts might not see the laugh that twisted up his humorous old features. The penitents looked at each other, and telegraphed in Pymeut that after all the Boy had come up to time. The Father had refused the valuable lynx-skin and Nicholas' superior spoon, but was ready, it appeared, to look with favour on anything the Boy offered. But very seriously the priest turned round upon the Pymeuts. "I will just say a word to you before we wash and go in to supper." With a kindly gravity he pronounced a few simple sentences about the gentleness of Christ with the ignorant, but how offended the Heavenly Father was when those who knew the true God descended to idolatrous practices, and how entirely He could be depended upon to punish wicked people. Ol' Chief nodded vigorously and with sudden excitement. "Me jus' like God." "Father Brachet," a weak voice came up from the floor. Brother Paul hurried out, calling Brother Etienne softly from the door. "I am here." The Superior came from the foot of the pallet, and knelt down near the head. "You--remember what you said last July?" "About making restitution." "Well, I can do it now." The Boy got up and stood near. The man from Minook opened his eyes. "Here!" The priest had got writing materials, and put a pen into the slack hand, with a block of letter-paper under it. And the voice fell away into silence. They waited a moment, and the Superior whispered: Father Brachet held him up; the Boy gave him the pen and steadied the paper. "Thank you, Father. Obliged to you, too." He turned his dimming eyes upon the Boy, who wrote his name in witness. "You--going to Minook?" The Father went to the writing-table, where he tied up and sealed the packet. "Anybody that's going to Minook will have to hustle." The slang of everyday energy sounded strangely from dying lips--almost a whisper, and yet like a far-off bugle calling a captive to battle. The Boy leaned down to catch the words, yet fainter: "Good claims going like hot cakes." "How much," the Boy asked, breathless, "did you get out of yours?" "So it isn't a fake after all." The Boy stood up. "The camp's all right!" "You'll see. It will out-boom the Klondyke." "Ha! How long have you been making the trip?" The wild flame of enterprise sunk in the heart of the hearer. "But there is gold at Minook, you're sure? You've seen it?" The Father Superior locked away the packet and stood up. But the Boy was bending down fascinated, listening at the white lips. "There is gold there?" he repeated. Out of the gulf came faintly back like an echo: "Plenty o' gold there--plenty o' gold." "Jee-rusalem!" He stood up and found himself opposite the contemplative face of the priest. "We have neglected you, my son. Come upstairs to my room." On the stairs they passed Brother Paul and the native. The Superior nodded. "And this man from Minook," agreed Paul, pausing with his hand on the door. Even with the plague and Brother Paul raging at the mission--even with everyone preoccupied by the claims of dead and dying, the Boy would have been glad to prolong his stay had it not been for "nagging" thoughts of the Colonel. As it was, with the mercury rapidly rising and the wind fallen, he got the Pymeuts on the trail next day at noon, spent what was left of the night at the Kachime, and set off for camp early the following day. He arrived something of a wreck, and with an enormous respect for the Yukon trail. It did him good to sight the big chimney, and still more to see the big Colonel putting on his snow-shoes near the bottom of the hill, where the cabin trail met the river trail. When the Boss o' the camp looked up and saw the prodigal coming along, rather groggy on his legs, he just stood still a moment. Then he kicked off his web-feet, turned back a few paces uphill, and sat down on a spruce stump, folded his arms, and waited. Was it the knapsack on his back that bowed him so? But the Colonel didn't look up till the Boy got quite near, chanting in his tuneless voice: "What's the matter, hey, Colonel? Sorry as all that to see me back?" "Reckon it's the kind o' sorrah I can bear," said the Colonel. "We thought you were dead." The Colonel nodded. "That party would have started before, but I cut my foot with the axe the day you left. Where have you been, in the name o' the nation?" "Pymeut an' Holy Cross." "Holy Cross? Holy Moses! _You?_" "That don't surprise me. What was it?" "Sheets. When I came to go to bed--a real bed, Colonel, on legs--I found I was expected to sleep between sheets, and I just about fainted." "That the only shock you had?" "Oh, you think so?" The rejoinder came a little sharply. "Yes, sir, I just do. I think I'd be bigoted not to admit it." "So, you'll be thick as peas in a pod with the priests now?" The Colonel's only answer was to plunge obliquely uphill. "Say, Boss, wait for me." The Colonel looked back. The Boy was holding on to a scrub willow that put up wiry twigs above the snow. "Feel as if I'd never get up the last rungs o' this darn ice-ladder!" "Tired? H'm! Something of a walk to Holy Cross even on a nice mild day like this." The Colonel made the reflection with obvious satisfaction, took off his knapsack, and sat down again. The Boy did the same. "The very day you lit out Father Orloff came up from the Russian mission." "Pymeut. Any news about the strike?" "B'lieve you, sonny." "Ain't to be had now for love or money." "Yes, I know. We'll probably owe our lives to the fact that we haven't." "Oh, I s'pose we might all of us be worse off." "What's the matter?" "This," said the Colonel. "It's the awful stillness." The Colonel arraigned the distant ice-plains. "It's the kind of thing that gets on a fella's nerves," said the Colonel. "I don't know as I ever felt helpless in any part of the world before. But a man counts for precious little up here. Do you notice how you come to listen to the silence?" "Oh, yes, I've noticed." "Stop." Again he lifted his hand, and they strained their ears. "I've done that by the hour since you left and the daft gold-diggers went up trail after you. The other fellas feel it, too. Don't know what we'd have done without Kaviak. Think we ought to keep that kid, you know." The elder man nodded. "Big game, big stakes. It's all right." It was the base Byron, tipping the wink to Mac out of the back of the bunk, that betrayed Kaviak. After breakfast came the clearing up. It should have been done (under this regime) by the Little Cabin men, but it seldom was. O'Flynn was expected to keep the well-hole in the river chopped open and to bring up water every day. This didn't always happen either, though to drink snow-water was to invite scurvy, Father Wills said. There was also a daily need, if the Colonel could be believed, for everybody to chop firewood. "We got enough," was Potts' invariable opinion. "For how long? S'pose we get scurvy and can't work; we'd freeze to death in a fortnight." "But you got no objection to sittin' by while the log-swallerin' goes on." But, for the most part, as winter darkened round them, they lounged from morning till night about the big fireplace, and smoked, and growled, and played cards, and lived as men do, finding out a deal about each other's characters, something about each other's opinions, and little or nothing about each other's history. In a depressed sort of way Mac was openly teaching Kaviak his letters, and surreptitiously, down in the Little Cabin, his prayers. He was very angry when Potts and O'Flynn eavesdropped and roared at Kaviak's struggles with "Ow Farva." In fact, Kaviak did not shine as a student of civilisation, though that told less against him with O'Flynn, than the fact that he wasn't "jolly and jump about, like white children." Moreover, Jimmie, swore there was something "bogey" about the boy's intermittent knowledge of English. Often for days he would utter nothing but "Farva" or "Maw" when he wanted his plate replenished, then suddenly he would say something that nobody could remember having taught him or even said in his presence. The motion was excessively unpopular, but it was carried by a plain, and somewhat alarming, exposition of the state of supplies. "We oughtn't to need as much food when we lazy round the fire all day," said the Colonel. But Potts retorted that they'd need a lot more if they went on adoptin' the aborigines. They knocked off supper, and all but the aborigine knew what it meant sometimes to go hungry to bed. "Haven't you had enough?" asked the Colonel mildly, surprised at Kaviak's bottomless capacity. "Maw." Still the plate was extended. "There isn't a drop of syrup left," said Potts, who had drained the can, and even wiped it out carefully with halves of hot biscuit. "He don't really want it." "Mustn't open a fresh can till to-morrow." "Besides, he'll bust." Kaviak meanwhile, during this paltry discussion, had stood up on the high stool "Farva" had made for him, and personally inspected the big mush-pot. Then he turned to Mac, and, pointing a finger like a straw (nothing could fatten those infinitesimal hands), he said gravely and fluently: "Maw in de plenty-bowl." "Yes, maw mush, but no maw syrup." The round eyes travelled to the store corner. "We'll have to open a fresh can some time--what's the odds?" Mac got up, and not only Kaviak watched him--for syrup was a luxury not expected every day--every neck had craned, every pair of eyes had followed anxiously to that row of rapidly diminishing tins, all that was left of the things they all liked best, and they still this side of Christmas! "What you rubber-neckin' about?" Mac snapped at the Boy as he came back with the fresh supply. This unprovoked attack was ample evidence that Mac was uneasy under the eyes of the camp, angry at his own weakness, and therefore the readier to dare anybody to find fault with him. "That's enough, greedy." "Now go away and gobble." But Kaviak daintily skimmed off the syrupy top, and left his mush almost as high a hill as before. It wasn't long after the dinner, things had been washed up, and the Colonel settled down to the magazines--he was reading the advertisements now--that Potts drew out his watch. "Golly! do you fellers know what o'clock it is?" He held the open timepiece up to Mac. "Hardly middle o' the afternoon. All these hours before bedtime, and nothin' to eat till to-morrow!" "But look at the _time!_" The Colonel said nothing. Maybe he had been a little previous with dinner today; it was such a relief to get it out of the way. Oppressive as the silence was, the sound of Potts's voice was worse, and as he kept on about how many hours it would be till breakfast, the Colonel said to the Boy: "'Johnny, get your gun,' and we'll go out." In these December days, before the watery sun had set, the great, rich- moon arose, having now in her resplendent fulness quite the air of snuffing out the sun. The pale and heavy-eyed day was put to shame by this brilliant night-lamp, that could cast such heavy shadows, and by which men might read. They had been out about an hour when the Colonel brought down a ptarmigan, and said he was ready to go home. The Boy hesitated. "Going to give in, and cook that bird for supper?" It was a tempting proposition, but the Colonel said, rather sharply: "No, sir. Got to keep him for a Christmas turkey." "Well, I'll just see if I can make it a brace." Just before dinner the next day the Boy called out: "See here! who's spilt the syrup?" "No; it don't seem to be spilt, either." He patted the ground with his hand. "Not a drop in it." He turned it upside down. Every eye went to Kaviak. He was sitting on his cricket by the fire waiting for dinner. He returned the accusing looks of the company with self-possession. "Come here." He got up and trotted over to "Farva." "Have you been to the syrup?" Kaviak shook his head. "You _must_ have been." "How did it go--all away--Do you know?" Again the silent denial. Kaviak looked over his shoulder at the dinner preparations, and then went back to his cricket. It was the best place from which to keep a strict eye on the cook. "The gintlemin don't feel conversaytional wid a pint o' surrup in his inside." "Well," said O'Flynn hopefully, "bide a bit. He ain't lookin' very brash." "Have you got a pain?" "Does it hurt you there?" Kaviak doubled up suddenly. "He's awful ticklish," said the Boy. Mac frowned with perplexity, and Kaviak retired to the cricket. "Does the can leak anywhere?" "That excuse won't hold water 'cause the can will." The Colonel had just applied the test. "Besides, it would have leaked on to something," Mac agreed. "Oh, well, let's mosy along with our dinner," said Potts. "It's gettin' pretty serious," remarked the Colonel. "We can't afford to lose a pint o' syrup." Kaviak's air of profound meditation seemed to fill every requirement. "Did you take the awful good syrup and eat it up?" Kaviak was in the middle of a head-shake when he stopped abruptly. The Boy had said he wasn't to do that. Nobody had seemed pleased when he said "No." "I b'lieve we're on the right track. He's remembering. Think again. You are a tip-top man at finding sugar, aren't you?" "Yes, fin' shugh." Kaviak modestly admitted his prowess in that direction. "And you get hungry in the early morning?" Yes, he would go so far as to admit that he did. "You go skylarkin' about, and you remember--the syrup can! And you get hold of it--didn't you?" "Wait and think. Yesterday this was full. You remember Mac opened it for you?" "Oh-h!" murmured Kaviak with an accent of polite regret. Then, with recovered cheerfulness, he pointed to the store corner: "Maw!" Potts laughed in his irritating way, and Mac's face got red. Things began to look black for Kaviak. The company looked at the small hands doubtfully. They were none too little for many a forbidden feat. How had he got on the swing-shelf? How- "Ye see, crayther, it must uv been yersilf, becuz there isn't annybuddy else." "Kaviak!" Again that journey from the cricket to the judgment-seat. But Kaviak turned away. Mac seized him by the shoulder and jerked him round. Kaviak stared, drew a long breath, and seemed to retire within himself. Kaviak, recalled from internal communing, studied "Farva" a moment, and then retreated to the cricket, as to a haven now, hastily and with misgiving, tripping over his trailing coat. Mac stood up. "Wait, old man." The Colonel stooped his big body till he was on a level with the staring round eyes. "Yo' see, child, yo' can't have any dinnah till we find out who took the syrup." The little yellow face was very serious. He turned and looked at the still smoking plenty-bowl. He nodded, got up briskly, held up his train, and dragged his high stool to the table, scrambled up, and established himself. "Look at that!" said the Colonel triumphantly. "That youngster hasn't just eaten a pint o' syrup." Mac was coming slowly up behind Kaviak with a face that nobody liked looking at. "Oh, let the brat alone, and let's get to our grub!" said Potts, with an extreme nervous irritation. Mac swept Kaviak off the stool. "You come with me!" "Stir your stumps, Jimmie," said the Colonel, "and get us a bucket of water." Sleepily O'Flynn gave it as his opinion that he'd be damned if he did. With unheard-of alacrity, "I'll go," said Potts. The Colonel stared at him, and, by some trick of the brain, he had a vision of Potts listening at the door the night before, and then resuming that clinking, scratching sound in the corner--the store corner. "Hand me over my parki, will you?" Potts said to the Boy. He pulled it over his head, picked up the bucket, and went out. "Seems kind o' restless, don't he?" "Funny Mac don't come for his dinner, isn't it? S'pose I go and look 'em up?" Not far from the door he met Mac coming in. "Well?" said the Boy, meaning, Where's the kid? "Well?" Mac echoed defiantly. "I lammed him, as I'd have lammed Robert Bruce if he'd lied to me." The Boy stared at this sudden incursion into history, but all he said was: "Your dinner's waitin'." The minute Mac got inside he looked round hungrily for the child. Not seeing him, he went over and scrutinised the tumbled contents of the bunks. "P'raps you'll tell us." "He didn't come back here for his dinner?" "Haven't seen him since you took him out." Mac made for the door. The Boy followed. "Do you see anything?" whispered Mac. "Who's that yonder?" "Potts gettin' water." The Boy was bending down looking for tracks. Mac looked, too, but ineffectually, feverishly. "Isn't Potts calling?" "I knew he would if he saw us. He's never carried a bucket uphill yet without help. See, there are the Kid's tracks going. We must find some turned the other way." They were near the Little Cabin now. "Here!" shouted the Boy; "and yes, here again!" And so it was. Clean and neatly printed in the last light snowfall showed the little footprints. "We're on the right trail now. Kaviak!" Through his parki the Boy felt a hand close vise-like on his shoulder, and a voice, not like MacCann's: "Goin' straight down to the fish-trap hole!" He had vanished, but there was no time to consider how or where. "Kaviak!" And as they got to the river: "Coming! coming! Hold on tight! Coming, Kaviak!" The sound was unmistakable now--a faint, choked voice calling out of the hole, "Help!" Mac picked the body up and held it head downwards; laid it flat again, and, stripping off the great sodden jacket, already beginning to freeze, fell to putting Kaviak through the action of artificial breathing. But Mac seemed not to hear. "Don't you see Kaviak's face is freezing?" Still Mac paid no heed. Potts lifted a stiff, uncertain hand, and, with a groan, let it fall heavily on his own cheek. "Come on; I'll help you in, anyhow, Potts." "Can't walk in this damned wet fur." With some difficulty having dragged off Potts' soaked parki, already stiffening unmanageably, the Boy tried to get him on his feet. But the benumbed and miserable Potts kept his eyes on Kaviak, as if hypnotised by the strange new death-look in the little face. "H'ray! my man's comin' round. How's yours?" No answer, but he could see that the sweat poured off Mac's face as he worked unceasingly over the child. The Boy pulled Potts into a sitting posture. It was then that Mac, without looking up, said: "Run and get whiskey. Run like hell!" When he got back with the Colonel and the whiskey, O'Flynn floundering in the distance, Potts was feebly striking his breast with his arms, and Mac still bent above the motionless little body. They tried to get some of the spirit down the child's throat, but the tight-clenched teeth seemed to let little or nothing pass. The stuff ran down towards his ears and into his neck. But Mac persisted, and went on pouring, drop by drop, whenever he stopped trying to restore the action of the lungs. O'Flynn just barely managed to get "a swig" for Potts in the interval, though they all began to feel that Mac was working to bring back something that had gone for ever. The Boy went and bent his face down close over the rigid mouth to feel for the breath. When he got up he turned away sharply, and stood looking through tears into the fish-hole, saying to himself, "Yukon Inua has taken him." "He was in too long." Potts' teeth were chattering, and he looked unspeakably wretched. "When my arm got numb I couldn't keep his head up;" and he swallowed more whiskey. "You fellers oughtn't to have left that damn trap up!" "What's that got to do with it?" said the Boy guiltily. "Kaviak knew it ought to be catchin' fish. When I came down he was cryin' and pullin' the trap backwards towards the hole. Then he slipped." "Come, Mac," said the Colonel quietly, "let's carry the little man to the cabin." "No, no, not yet; stuffy heat isn't what he wants;" and he worked on. They got Potts up on his feet. "I called out to you fellers. Didn't you hear me?" "Y-yes, but we didn't understand." "What can we do, Colonel?" "Nothing. It's not a bit o' use." They turned to go back. "Well, the duckin' will be good for Potts' parki, anyhow," said the Boy in an angry and unsteady voice. "When he asked me to hand it to him I nearly stuck fast to it. It's all over syrup; and we don't wear furs at our meals." "Tchah!" The Colonel stopped with a face of loathing. "Couldn't go _that_ far, but couldn't own up." "Yes, sah." Then, after an instant's reflection: "But he's a cur that can risk his life to save a kid he don't care a damn for." A few minutes after, Kaviak's eyelids fluttered, and came down over the upturned eyeballs. Mac, with a cry that brought a lump to the Colonel's throat, gathered the child up in his arms and ran with him up the hill to the cabin. "I'm George Benham." They had all heard of the Anvik trader, a man of some wealth and influence, and they made him welcome. "Stop on the way! I should think so." "We were goin' to have supper to-night, anyhow, and you'll stay and sleep here." All Mac's old suspicions of the Jesuits seemed to return with the advent of that letter. "Fine lot o' pelts you have there," said the Colonel. Benham didn't answer. He seemed to be a close-mouthed kind of a chap. As the Indian sorted and piled the stuff in the corner, Potts said: "Got any furs you want to sell?" "Where you takin' 'em?" "Down to the _Oklahoma_." "All this stuff for Cap'n Rainey?" "I reckon there's a mistake about the name, and he's Cap'n Tom Thumb or Commodore Nutt." The Boy had picked up a little parki made carefully of some very soft dark fur and trimmed with white rabbit, the small hood bordered with white fox. "That's a neat piece of work," said the Colonel. "What's the market price of a coat like that?" Mac said suddenly. "That isn't a 'market' coat. It's for a kid of Rainey's back in the States." Still Mac eyed it enviously. "What part of the world are you from, sir?" said the Colonel when they had drawn up to the supper table. "San Francisco. Used to teach numskulls Latin and mathematics in the Las Palmas High School." "The Shageluks ask that much?" "You've been some time in this part of the world, I understand," said the Colonel. "Without going home?" Benham shook his head. Mac couldn't keep his eyes off the little coat. Finally, to enable him to forget it, as it seemed, he got up and opened Father Wills' letter, devoured its contents in silence, and flung it down on the table. The Colonel took it up, and read aloud the Father's thanks for all the white camp's kindness to Kaviak, and now that the sickness was about gone from Holy Cross, how the Fathers felt that they must relieve their neighbours of further trouble with the little native. "I've said I'd take him back with me when I come up river about Christmas." "We'd be kind o' lost, now, without the little beggar," said the Boy, glancing sideways at Mac. "There's nothin' to be got by luggin' him off to Holy Cross," answered that gentleman severely. "Unless it's clo'es," said Potts. "You ain't goin' to bed this early?" said Potts, quite lively and recovered from his cold bath. That was the worst of sleeping in the Little Cabin. Bedtime broke the circle; you left interesting visitors behind, and sometimes the talk was better as the night wore on. "Well, someone ought to wood up down yonder. O'Flynn, will you go?" O'Flynn was in the act of declining the honour. But Benham, who had been saying, "It takes a year in the Yukon for a man to get on to himself," interrupted his favourite theme to ask: "Your other cabin like this?" Whereon, O'Flynn, shameless of the contrast in cabins, jumped up, and said: "Come and see, while I wood up." There was a general movement to the door, of which Benham was the centre. "I tell you a lump of sour dough, kept over to raise the next batch, is worth more in this country than a pocket full of gold." Benham turned, stared back at him a moment, and then laughed. "Then is it on account o' the bread," the Colonel was saying, "that the old-timer calls himself a Sour-dough?" "All on account o' the bread." They crowded out after Benham. "Coming?" The Boy, who was last, held the door open. Mac shook his head. Alone with him at last, Mac kept his eyes religiously turned away, sat down by the fire, and watched the sparks. By-and-by a head was put up over the board of the lower bunk. Mac saw it, but sat quite still. Kaviak climbed timidly, shakily out, and stood in the middle of the floor in his bare feet. Mac gave out a sound between a cough and a snort, and wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. Kaviak had started nervously. "You cold?" asked Mac. He nodded again, and fell to coughing. Mac got up and brought the newly purchased coat to the fire. "It's for you," he said, as the child's big eyes grew bigger with admiration. "Me? Me own coat?" He stood up, and his bare feet fluttered up and down feebly, but with huge delight. As the parki was held ready the child tumbled dizzily into it, and Mac held him fast an instant. When he had finished, he set the bowl down, and, as a puppy might, he pushed at Mac's arm till he found a way in, laid his head down on "Farva's" knee with a contented sigh, and closed his heavy eyes. Mac put his hand on the cropped head and began: Kaviak started up, shaking from head to foot. Was the obscure nightmare coming down to crush him again? Mac tried to soothe him. But Kaviak, casting about for charms to disarm the awful fury of the white man--able to endure with dignity any reverse save that of having his syrup spilt--cried out: "I'm sorry, too, Kaviak," Mac interrupted, gathering the child up to him; "and we won't either of us do it any more." "Himlen morkner, mens Jordens Trakt Straaler lys som i Stjernedragt. Himlen er bleven Jordens Gjaest Snart er det Julens sode Fest." It had been moved, seconded, and carried by acclamation that they should celebrate Christmas, not so much by a feast of reason as by a flow of soul and a bang-up dinner, to be followed by speeches and some sort of cheerful entertainment. "We're goin' to lay ourselves out on this entertainment," said the Boy, with painful misgivings as to the "bang-up dinner." "But we'll have a high old time, and if the bill o' fare is a little restricted, there's nothin' to prevent our programme of toasts, songs, and miscellaneous contributions from bein' rich and varied." "Y-yes," said Potts, "you can get a little tree, but you can't get the smallest kind of a little thing to hang on it." "Sh!" said the Boy, "it must be a surprise." "That's all very well," said the stranger, who shouted when he talked at all, "but how's a man to know his feet are going to freeze?" "Ye see, sorr," O'Flynn explained absent-mindedly, "Misther MacCann didn't know yer pardner was deaf." "Theyse a quare noise without." "It's the wind knockin' down yer chimbly," says Mr. Hardy encouragingly. "It don't sound like Nich'las, annyhow. May the divil burrn him in tarment and ile fur disappoyntin' th' kid." A rattle at the latch, and the Pymeut opened the door. "But it isn't really dark." "Pretty soon heap dark." "Why, I thought you natives could find your way day or night?" "Then what's the matter?" "Pymeut no like dark;" and it was not until Mac put on his own snow-shoes and offered to go part of the way with him that Nicholas was at last induced to return home. "Divil a doubt Kaviak'll take it kindly, but furr mesilf I'm thinkin' a pitaty's a dale tastier." "Sure, the little haythen'll have a foine Christian Christmas wid that same to roast in the coals, begorra!" and they all went to bed save Mac, who had not returned, and the Boy, who put on his furs, and went up the hill to the place where he kept the Christmas-tree lodged in a cotton-wood. He shook the snow off its branches, brought it down to the cabin, decorated it, and carried it back. Mac, Salmon P. Hardy, and the frost-bitten Schiff were waked, bright and early Christmas morning, by the Boy's screaming with laughter. "Keep the rest of it to roast, anyhow, or O'Flynn's heart will be broken." So they deprived Kaviak of the gnawed fragment, and consoled him by helping him to put on his new boots. When the Little Cabin contingent came in to breakfast, "Hello! what you got up on the roof?" says Potts. "But what's in the bundle!" "Bundle?" echoes the Boy. "If you put a bundle on the roof, I s'pose you know what's in it," says the Colonel severely. "Thank you," says the Boy, "but we're not takin' any bundles to-day." "Call next door," advised the Colonel. "No, sir, you've waked the wrong passenger!" "They're tryin' it on _us_," said Potts, and subsided into his place at the breakfast-table. Whatever it was, it seemed to be done up in sacking, for a bit stuck out at the corner where the wind struck keen. The Boy walked round the cabin looking, listening. Nobody had followed him, or nothing would have induced him to risk the derision of the camp. As it was, he would climb up very softly and lightly, and nobody but himself would be the wiser even if it was a josh. He brushed away the snow, touching the thing with a mittened hand and a creepy feeling at his spine. It was precious heavy, and hard as iron. He tugged at the sacking. "Jee! if I don't b'lieve it's meat." The lid of an old cardboard box was bound round the frozen mass with a string, and on the cardboard was written: "Moose and Christmas Greeting from Kaviak's friends at Holy Cross to Kaviak's friends by the Big Chimney." "H'ray! h'ray! Come out, you fellas! Hip! hip! hurrah!" and the Boy danced a breakdown on the roof till the others had come out, and then he hurled the moose-meat down over the stockade, and sent the placard flying after. They all gathered round Mac and read it. "Don't forget, Boy, you're not takin' any." "Just remember, if it hadn't been for me it might have stayed up there till spring." "You run in, Kaviak, or you'll have no ears." But that gentleman pulled up his hood and stood his ground. "How did it get on the roof, in the name o' the nation?" asked the Colonel, stamping his feet. "Never hear of Santa Claus? Didn't I tell you, Kaviak, he drove his reindeer team over the roofs?" "Did you hear any dogs go by in the night?" "I didn't; Nicholas brought it, I s'pose, and was told to cache it up there. Maybe that's why he came late to give us a surprise." "And it'll take a month to thaw!" They tried chopping it, but you could more easily chop a bolt of linen sheeting. The axe laboriously chewed out little bits and scattered shreds. "Stop! We'll lose a lot that way." While they were lamenting this fact, and wondering what to do, the dogs set up a racket, and were answered by some others. Benham was coming along at a rattling pace, his dogs very angry to find other dogs there, putting on airs of possession. "We got all this moose-meat," says Potts, when Benham arrived on the scene, "but we can't cut it." "Of course not. Where's your hand-saw?" "I'm not going that way." "No. I'm satisfied enough with the country," said the trader quietly, and acknowledged the introduction to Mr. Schiff, sitting in bandages by the fire. Benham turned back and called out something to his guide. "I thought maybe you'd like some oysters for your Christmas dinner," he said to the Colonel when he came in again, "so I got a couple o' cans from the A. C. man down below;" and a mighty whoop went up. The great rapture of that moment did not, however, prevent O'Flynn's saying under his breath: "No," says Benham a little shortly. "Huh! Ye say that like's if ye wuz a taytotlerr?" "Not me. But I find it no good to drink whiskey on the trail." "Ah!" says Salmon P. with interest, "you prefer brandy?" "No," says Benham, "I prefer tea." "Lorrd, now! look at that!" "Drink spirit, and it's all very fine and reviving for a few minutes; but a man can't work on it." "Not in this climate; and you're safe to take cold in the reaction." "Cowld is ut? Faith, ye'll be tellin' us Mr. Schiff got his toes froze wid settin' too clost be the foire." "No, I don't go without, but I keep it on the outside of me, unless I have an accident." "Gosh! then you've been in the Klondyke?" "Not since the gold was found." "And got a team like that 'n outside, and not even goin' to Minook?" The soup was too absorbingly delicious to admit of conversation. The moose-steaks had vanished like the "snaw-wreath in the thaw" before anything much was said, save: "Nothin' th' matter with moose, hey?" "Nop! Bet your life." The "Salmi of ptarmigan" appeared as a great wash of gravy in which portions of the much cut-up bird swam in vain for their lives. But the high flat rim of the dish was plentifully garnished by fingers of corn-bread, and the gravy was "galoppshus," so Potts said. Salmon P., having appeased the pangs of hunger, returned to his perplexed study of Benham. "Did I understand you to say you came into this country to _prospect_?" "What river did you come by?" "Same as you go by--the Yukon. Indians up yonder call it the Never-Know-What, and the more you find out about it, the better you think the name." "Not enough to turn my head, so I tried the Koyukuk--and other diggins too." Schiff lit up and pulled hard at the cutty. Schiff poured out a cloud of rank smoke. "Gen'lemen," he said, "the best Klondyke claims'll be potted. Minook's the camp o' the future. You'd better come along with us." Benham sat and idly watched preparations for the next course. "Say, a nabob like you might give us a tip. How did you do the trick?" "That's it! work like the devil for a couple o' years and then live like a lord for ever after." "What had you done with the rest?" The announcement fell chill on the company. "I was dead broke and I had no credit. I went home." "You came back," says Salmon P., impatient of generalities. "And won this time," whispered Schiff. For that is how every story must end. The popular taste in fiction is universal. "A friend at home grub-staked me, and I came in again--came down on the high water in June. Prospected as long as my stuff lasted, and then--well, I didn't care about starving, I became an A. C. Trader." A long pause. This was no climax; everybody waited. "And now I'm on my own. I often make more money in a day trading with the Indians in furs, fish, and cord-wood, than I made in my whole experience as a prospector and miner." A frost had fallen on the genial company. "Oh, I saw some washing gravel that kept body and soul together, and I saw some that didn't." In the pause he added, remorseless: "I helped to bury some of them." "Your experience was unusual, or why do men come back year after year?" "Did you ever hear of a thing called Hope?" They moved uneasily on their stools, and some rubbed stubbly chins with perplexed, uncertain fingers, and they all glowered at the speaker. He was uncomfortable, this fellow. "Well, there mayn't be as much gold up here as men think, but there's more hope than anywhere on earth." "To hell with hope; give me certainty," says Salmon P. "Cheerful cuss, ain't he?" whispered Schiff. "They say we're a nation of gamblers. Well, sir, the biggest game we play is the game that goes on near the Arctic Circle." "What's the matter with Wall Street?" "'Tisn't such a pretty game, and they don't play for their lives. I tell you it's love of gambling brings men here, and it's the splendid stiff game they find going on that keeps them. There's nothing like it on earth." His belated enthusiasm deceived nobody. "It don't seem to have excited you much," said Mac. "Oh, I've had my turn at it. And just by luck I found I could play another--a safer game, and not bad fun either." He sat up straight and shot his hands down deep in the pockets of his mackinaws. "I've got a good thing, and I'm willing to stay with it." The company looked at him coldly. "Well," drawled Potts, "you can look after the fur trade; give me a modest little claim in the Klondyke." "Oh, Klondyke! Klondyke!" Benham got up and stepped over Kaviak on his way to the fire. He lit a short briarwood with a flaming stick and turned about. "Shall I tell you fellows a little secret about the Klondyke?" He held up the burning brand in the dim room with telling emphasis. The smoke and flame blew black and orange across his face as he said: A sense of distinct dislike to Benham had spread through the company--a fellow who called American enterprise love of gambling, for whom heroism was foolhardy, and hope insane. Where was a pioneer so bold he could get up now and toast the Klondyke? Who, now, without grim misgiving, could forecast a rosy future for each man at the board? And that, in brief, had been the programme. But they sat chilled and moody, eating plum-pudding as if it had been so much beans and bacon. Mac felt Robert Bruce's expensive education slipping out of reach. Potts saw his girl, tired of waiting, taking up with another fellow. The Boy's Orange Grove was farther off than Florida. Schiff and Hardy wondered, for a moment, who was the gainer for all their killing hardship? Not they, at present, although there was the prospect--the hope--oh, damn the Trader! Kaviak's demand for some of the beverage reminded the Boy of the Christmas-tree. It had been intended as a climax to wind up the entertainment, but to produce it now might save the situation. He got up and pulled on his parki. "Back 'n a minute." But he was gone a long time. Benham looked down the toast-list and smiled inwardly, for it was Klondyked from top to bottom. The others, too, stole uneasy glances at that programme, staring them in the face, unabashed, covertly ironic--nay, openly jeering. They actually hadn't noticed the fact before, but every blessed speech was aimed straight at the wonderful gold camp across the line--not the Klondyke of Benham's croaking, but the Klondyke of their dreams. Even the death's head at the feast regretted the long postponement of so spirited a programme, interspersed, as it promised to be, with songs, dances, and "tricks," and winding up with an original poem, "He won't be happy till he gets it." Benham's Indian had got up and gone out. Kaviak had tried to go too, but the door was slammed in his face. He stood there with his nose to the crack exactly as a dog does. Suddenly he ran back to Mac and tugged at his arm. Even the dull white men could hear an ominous snarling among the Mahlemeuts. "Reckon our dogs are gettin' into trouble," said Salmon P. anxiously to his deaf and crippled partner. "It's nothing," says the Trader. "A Siwash dog of any spirit is always trailing his coat"; and Salmon P. subsided. Not so Kaviak. Back to the door, head up, he listened. They had observed the oddity before. The melancholy note of the Mahlemeut never yet had failed to stir his sombre little soul. He was standing now looking up at the latch, high, and made for white men, eager, breathing fast, listening to that dismal sound that is like nothing else in nature--listening as might an exiled Scot to the skirl of bagpipes; listening as a Tyrolese who hears yodelling on foreign hills, or as the dweller in a distant land to the sound of the dear home speech. The noise outside grew louder, the air was rent with howls of rage and defiance. "You set still." His pardner pushed him down on his stool. "Mr. Benham and I'll see what's up." "There's your Christmas-tree!" and the bringer, who had carried the tree so that no little puff of snow or delicate crystal should fall off, having made a successful entrance and dazzled the child, gave way to the strong excitement that shot light out of his eyes and brought scarlet into his cheeks. "Here, take it!" He dashed the tree down in front of Kaviak, and a sudden storm agitated its sturdy branches; it snowed about the floor, and the strange fruit whirled and spun in the blast. Kaviak clutched it, far too dazed to do more than stare. The Boy stamped the snow off his mucklucks on the threshold, and dashed his cap against the lintel, calling out: Millionaires or not, they'll never, either of them, create a greater sensation than they did that Christmas Day, in the Big Chimney Cabin, on the bleak hillside, up above the Never-Know-What. Here was Certainty at last! Here was Justification! Schiff had tottered forward on bandaged feet, hand round ear, mouth open, as if to swallow whole whatever he couldn't hear. The Colonel kept on bowing magnificently at intervals and pressing refreshment, O'Flynn slapping his thigh and reiterating, "Be the Siven!" Potts not only widened his mouth from ear to ear, but, as O'Flynn said after, "stretched it clane round his head and tyed it up furr jy in a nate knot behind." Benham took a back seat, and when anybody remembered him for the next hour it was openly to gloat over his discomfiture. It was the other man--the western towns are full of General Lighters--who did the talking. An attorney from Seattle, he had come up in the July rush with very little but boundless assurance, fell in with an old miner who had been grubstaked by Captain Rainey out of the _Oklahoma's_ supplies, and got to Minook before the river went to sleep. "Little Minook's as rich a camp as Dawson, and the gold's of higher grade--isn't it, Dillon?" "What advantage is that?" Mac grated out. "Just the advantage of not having all your hard earnings taken away by an iniquitous tax." Dillon backed him up. "Then it isn't shortage in provisions that takes you outside," said the Boy. "Plenty of food at Rampart City; that's the name o' the town where the Little Minook meets the Yukon." "Food at gold-craze prices, I suppose." "No. Just about the same they quote you in Seattle." "Because the A. C. and N. A. T. and T. boats got frozen in this side of Dawson. They know by the time they get there in June a lot of stuff will have come in by the short route through the lakes, and the town will be overstocked. So there's flour and bacon to burn when you get up as far as Minook. It's only along the Lower River there's any real scarcity." The Big Chimney men exchanged significant looks. "And there are more supply-boats wintering up at Fort Yukon and at Circle City," the General went on. "I tell you on the Upper River there's food to burn." "And you're going away from it as hard as you can pelt." The General turned moist eyes upon him. "Are you a man of family, sir?" "Then I cannot expect you to understand." His eyes brimmed at some thought too fine and moving for public utterance. Each member of the camp sat deeply cogitating. Not only gold at Minook, but food! In the inner vision of every eye was a ship-load of provisions "frozen in" hard by a placer claim; in every heart a fervid prayer for a dog-team. The Boy jumped up, and ran his fingers through his long wild hair. He panted softly like a hound straining at a leash. Then, with an obvious effort to throw off the magic of Minook, he turned suddenly about, and "Poor old Kaviak!" says he, looking round and speaking in quite an everyday sort of voice. "Look here, we'll set the tree up where you can see it better." He put an empty bucket on the table, and with Mac's help, wedged the spruce in it firmly, between some blocks of wood and books of the law. "Those things are good to eat, you know," said the Colonel kindly. Mac cut down a gingerbread man and gave it into the tiny hands. "What wind blew that thing into your cabin?" asked the General, squinting up his snow-blinded eyes at the dim corner where Kaviak sat. There wasn't a man in the camp who didn't resent the millionaire's tone. Several cups were held out, but Mac motioned them back. And a roar went up at the Colonel's expense. General Lighter pulled himself to his feet, saying there was a little good Old Rye left outside, and he could stock up again when he got to the _Oklahoma_. "Oh, and it's yersilf that don't shoy off from a dthrop o' the craythur whin yer thravellin' the thrail." Everybody looked at Benham. He got up and began to put on his furs; his dog-driver, squatting by the door, took the hint, and went out to see after the team. "Oh, well," said the General to O'Flynn, "it's Christmas, you know"; and he picked his way among the closely-packed company to the door. "Look here, didn't you hear me saying it was Christmas?" "What did they say?" "Weren't as good an audience as the General's used to; that's why we pushed on. We'd heard about your camp, and the General felt a call to preach the Gospel accordin' to Minook down this way." "He don't seem to be standin' the racket as well as you," said Schiff. Dillon moved away from the fire; the crowded cabin was getting hot. In the general movement from the fire, Benham, putting on his cap and gloves, had got next to Dillon. "Look here," said the Trader, under cover of the talk about candles, "what sort of a trip have you had?" The Yukon pioneer looked at him a moment, and then took his pipe out of his mouth to say: "That's right." He restored the pipe, and drew gently. "He's got plenty o' grit, the General has." Dillon nodded. "Or will have." "In a sort of a kind of a way. I think I understand." Benham wagged his head. "He's talkin' for a market." "Goin' out to stir up a boom, and sell his claim to some sucker." The General reappeared with the whisky, stamping the snow off his feet before he joined the group at the table, where the Christmas-tree was seasonably cheek by jowl with the punch-bowl between the low-burnt candles. Mixing the new brew did not interrupt the General's ecstatic references to Minook. Mac stuck out his jaw. "I'd like to take a look at the country before I deal." "Well, see here. When will you go?" "How many miles did you travel a day?" "Oh Lord!" ejaculated Benham, and hurriedly he made his good-byes. "What's the matter with _you?_" demanded the General with dignity. "Travelin' depends on the weather." Dillon helped him out. "How are you to know?" whispered Schiff. "Tie a little bottle o' quick to your sled," answered Dillon. "Bottle o' what?" asked the Boy. "Quicksilver--mercury," interpreted the General. "No dog-puncher who knows what he's about travels when his quick goes dead." "Well, what do you do when the mercury freezes?" asked the Boy. "Camp," said Dillon impassively, resuming his pipe. "Only on this last lap." "They don't get far, most of 'em." "But but it's worth trying!" the Boy hurried to bridge the chasm. The General smacked his lips, and set down the granite cup. "_That's_ the argument," he said. "Got a noospaper?" The Colonel looked about in a flustered way for the tattered San Francisco _Examiner_; Potts and the Boy hustled the punch-bowl on to the bucket board, recklessly spilling some of the precious contents. O'Flynn and Salmon P. whisked the Christmas tree into the corner, and not even the Boy remonstrated when a gingerbread man broke his neck, and was trampled under foot. The right candle had given out, and O'Flynn, blowing with impatience like a walrus, had simultaneously extinguished the other. For an instant a group of men with strained and dazzled eyes still bent above the blackness on the boards. "Stir the fire," called the Colonel, and flew to do it himself. "I'll light a piece of fat pine," shouted the Boy, catching up a stick, and thrusting it into the coals. "Where's your bitch?" said Dillon calmly. "Haven't you got a condensed milk can with some bacon grease in it, and a rag wick? Makes a good enough light." But the fire had been poked up, and the cabin was full of dancing lights and shadows. Besides that, the Boy was holding a resinous stick alight over the table, and they all bent down as before. "It was passin' a bank in 'Frisco wid a windy full o' that stuff that brought me up here," said O'Flynn. "It was hearin' about that winder brought _me_" added Potts. "Lots of the little fellas are like melon-seeds"; and the Boy pointed a shaking finger, longing and still not daring to touch the treasure. Each man had a dim feeling in the back of his head that, after all, the hillock of gold was an illusion, and his own hand upon the dazzling pile would clutch the empty air. "Where's your dust?" asked the Boy. "This is all nuggets and grains." "Well, what more do you want?" "Oh, it'd do well enough for me, but it ain't dust." "It's what we call dust." "As coarse as this?" The Sour-dough nodded, and Lighter laughed. "There's a fox's mask," said the Colonel at the bottom of the table, pointing a triangular bit out. "Let me look at it a minute," begged the Boy. "Hand it round," whispered Schiff. The rude bit of metal bred a glorious confidence. Under the magic of its touch Robert Bruce's expensive education became a simple certainty. In Potts's hand the nugget gave birth to a mighty progeny. He saw himself pouring out sackfuls before his enraptured girl. The Boy lifted his flaring torch with a victorious sense of having just bought back the Orange Grove; and Salmon P. passed the nugget to his partner with a blissful sigh. "Well, I'm glad we didn't get cold feet," says he. "Yes," whispered Schiff; "it looks like we goin' to the right place." The sheen of the heap of yellow treasure was trying even to the nerves of the Colonel. Dillon leisurely gathered it up and dropped the nuggets, with an absent-minded air, into the pouch which Lighter held. But the San Francisco _Examiner_ had been worn to the softness of an old rag and the thinness of tissue. Under Dillon's sinewy fingers pinching up the gold the paper gave way. "Wait!" said Mac, with the explosiveness of a firearm, and O'Flynn jumped. "You ain't got it all," whispered Schiff hurriedly. "Oh, I'm leavin' the fox-face for luck," Dillon nodded at the Colonel. "Now look what you've done!" Mac pointed out a rough knot-hole, too, that slyly held back a pinch of gold. Dillon slapped his hip, and settled into his place. But the men nearest the crack and the knot-hole fell to digging out the renegade grains, and piously offering them to their lawful owner. "That ain't worth botherin' about," laughed Dillon; "you always reckon to lose a little each time, even if you got a China soup-plate." "Plenty more where that came from," said the General, easily. "We cut across to Kuskoquim. Take on an Indian guide there to Nushagak, and from there with dogs across the ocean ice to Kadiak." "Oh! the way the letters go out." Dillon went out and roused up the dogs, asleep in the snow, with their bushy tails sheltering their sharp noses. "Outside? No, sir! _Inside_." Dillon swore a blood-curdling string of curses and cracked his whip over the leader. "Why, you comin' back?" And nobody who looked at the face of the Yukon pioneer could doubt he meant what he said. "It's been a different sort of Christmas from what we planned," observed the Colonel, not quite as gaily as you might expect. "Colonel," interrupts the Boy, throwing the Programme in the fire, "let's look at your nugget again." And they all took turns. Except Potts. He was busy digging the remaining gold-grains out of the crack and the knothole. A CHRISTIAN AGNOSTIC It was a good many days before they got the dazzle of that gold out of their eyes. They found their tongues again, and talked "Minook" from morning till night among themselves and with the rare passer up or down the trail. "After all, _they_ can do it." "So can we if we've a mind to," said Mac. "Anvik? You don't suppose we got to Anvik in weather like this!" "How far _did_ you get?" Mac didn't answer. Potts only groaned. He had frozen his cheek and his right hand. They were doctored and put to bed. "Did you see my friends at Holy Cross?" the Boy asked Potts when he brought him a bowl of hot bean-soup. "Well, where _did_ you get to? Where you been?" Potts breathed long and deep between hot and comforting swallows. "Where's the Boy's sled?" said the Colonel, coming in hurriedly. "We cached it," answered Potts feebly. "Couldn't even bring his sled home! _Where've_ you cached it?" "It's all right--only a few miles back." Potts relinquished the empty soup-bowl, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again late in the evening it was to say: "Then, badly off as we are here," says the Colonel to the Boy, "it's lucky for us we didn't join the procession." Apart from the question of drinking raised again by the "hootch," it is perhaps possible that, having so little else to do, they were ready to eat the more; it is also true that, busy or idle, the human body requires more nourishment in the North than it does in the South. "Can't say I like the office," quoth he, "but here goes!" and he cut the bacon with an anxious hand, and spooned out the beans solemnly as if he weighed each "go." And the Trio presently retired to the Little Cabin to discuss whether the Colonel didn't show favouritism to the Boy, and, when Mac was asleep, how they could get rid of Kaviak. So presently another council was called, and the Colonel resigned his office, stipulating that each man in turn should hold it for a week, and learn how ungrateful it was. Moreover, that whoever was, for the nonce, occupying the painful post, should be loyally upheld by all the others, which arrangement was in force to the end. The morning after the ejection of Potts, and his unwilling reception at the Big Cabin, Mac and O'Flynn failed to appear for breakfast. "Guess they're huffy," says Potts, stretching out his feet, very comfortable in their straw-lined mucklucks, before the big blaze. "Bring on the coffee, Kaviak." "No," says the Colonel, "we won't begin without the other fellows." "By the living Jingo, _I_ will then!" says Potts, and helps himself under the Colonel's angry eyes. "Look! isn't that a curl of smoke?" said the Boy. "Yes, by George! they're snowed under!" A heavy sigh from the Colonel. "Yes, but _we'll_ have to dig 'em out!" "Right you are!" laughed the Colonel; and they went in. It was that day, after the others had been released and fed, that the Boy fell out with Potts concerning who had lost the hatchet--and they came to blows. A black eye and a bloody nose might not seem an illuminating contribution to the question, but no more was said about the hatchet after the Colonel had dragged the Boy off the prostrate form of his adversary. "It's my whisky, I tell you! I bought it and paid furr it, and but for me it would be at the bottom o' the Yukon now." "Yes, and you'd be at the bottom of the Yukon yourself if you hadn't been dragged out by the scruff o' your neck. And you'd be in a pretty fix now, if we left you alone with your whisky, which is about all you've got." "We agreed," Potts chipped in, "that it should be kept for medicinal purposes only." Sullenly O'Flynn sipped at his grog. Potts had "hogged most of the hootch." "Look here, Boy," said Mac at supper, "I said I wouldn't eat off this plate again." "Are you reflecting on the washer-up, Mr. MacCann?" asked Potts. "I'm saying what I've said before--that I've scratched my name on my plate, and I won't eat off this rusty, battered kettle-lid." He held it up as if to shy it at the Boy. The young fellow turned with a flash in his eye and stood taut. Then in the pause he said quite low: "Let her fly, MacCann." But MacCann thought better of it. He threw the plate down on the table with a clatter. The Colonel jumped up and bent over the mush-pot at the fire, beside the Boy, whispering to him. "Maybe you can't hand it up for more as often as you like, but you'll always find it there," he said when McCann came back. And the laugh went against the dainty pioneer, who to the end of the chapter ate from a plate nailed fast to the table. "I begin to understand," says the Colonel to the Boy, under cover of the others' talk, "why it's said to be such a devil of a test of a fellow's decency to winter in this infernal country." "They say it's always a man's pardner he comes to hate most," returned the Boy, laughing good-humouredly at the Colonel. "Naturally. Look at the row in the Little Cabin." "I know it," said the Colonel very gravely. "Was there a miscalculation?" "Growin' on the trees, boys; a forest full." "Oh, timber." Enthusiasm cooled. "Look at what they say about those fellows up at Anvik, what they made last year." "They've got a saw-mill." "And an agnostic," smiled the older man. "Oh, I'm an agnostic all right, now and for ever. But this winter has cured my faith in Communism." Few things in nature so surely stir the pulse of man as the untimely coming of a few spring days, that have lost their way in the calendar, and wandered into winter. No trouble now to get the Big Chimney men away from the fireside. They held up their bloodless faces in the faint sunshine, and their eyes, with the pupils enlarged by the long reign of night, blinked feebly, like an owl's forced to face the morning. There were none of those signs in the animal world outside, of premature stir and cheerful awaking, that in other lands help the illusion that winter lies behind, but there was that even more stimulating sweet air abroad, that subtle mixture of sun and yielding frost, that softened wind that comes blowing across the snow, still keen to the cheek, but subtly reviving to the sensitive nostril, and caressing to the eyes. The Big Chimney men drew deep breaths, and said in their hearts the battle was over and won. Kaviak, for ever following at Mac's heels "like a rale Irish tarrier," found his allegiance waver in these stirring, blissful days, if ever Farva so belied character and custom as to swing an axe for any length of time. Plainly out of patience, Kaviak would throw off the musk-rat coat, and run about in wet mucklucks and a single garment--uphill, downhill, on important errands which he confided to no man. It is part of the sorcery of such days that men's thoughts, like birds', turn to other places, impatient of the haven that gave them shelter in rough weather overpast. The Big Chimney men leaned on their axes and looked north, south, east, west. "Haven't you got the sense to see we've cut all the good timber just round here?" and again he turned his eyes to the horizon line. "Mac's right," said the Boy; and even the Colonel stood still a moment, and they all looked away to that land at the end of the world where the best materials are for the building of castles--it's the same country so plainly pointed out by the Rainbow's End, and never so much as in the springtime does it lure men with its ancient promise. "And let's find it nearer water-level--where the steamers can see it right away." "What about the kid?" "Me come," said Kaviak, with a highly obliging air. "No; you stay at home." "Go too, thou babbler! Kaviak's a better trail man than some I could mention." "We'll have to carry him home," objected Potts. "Now don't tell us you'll do any of the carryin', or we'll lose confidence in you, Potts." "Why, this is quite like real spruce," said the Boy, and O'Flynn admitted that even in California "these here would be called 'trees' wid no intintion o' bein' sarcaustic." So they cut holes in the ice, and sounded for the channel. "Yes, sir, the steamers can make a landin' here, and here's where we'll have our wood-rack." They went home in better spirits than they had been in since that welter of gold had lain on the Big Cabin table. "You let the kid alone." "Well, it's mesilf that'll take the liberty o' mintionin' that I ain't goin' to stand furr another minyit an Esquimer's cuttin' down _my_ rations. Sure it's a fool I've been!" "You can't help that," Mac chopped out. "Say Mac," said Potts in a drunken voice, "I'm talkin' to you like a friend. You want to get a move on that kid." "Kaviak's goin' won't make any more difference than a fly's." "It's a bad business." "It can't go on," says the Colonel; "but Mac's right: Kaviak's being here isn't to blame. They--we, too--are like a lot of powder-cans." The Boy nodded. "Any day a spark, and _biff!_ some of us are in a blaze, and wh-tt! bang! and some of us are in Kingdom Come." "I begin to be afraid to open my lips," said the Colonel. "We all are; don't you notice?" "Yes. I wonder why we came." "_You_ had no excuse," said the elder man almost angrily. "Same excuse as you." The Colonel shook his head. "Yes." The Colonel stood up. "Did you know Father Wills went by, last night, when those fellows began to row about getting out the whisky?" "He says there's another stampede on." "Koyukuk this time." "Why didn't he come in?" "Awful hurry to get to somebody that sent for him. Funny fellas these Jesuits. They _believe_ all those odd things they teach." "So do other men," said the Colonel, curtly. "Well, I've lived in a Christian country all my life, but I don't know that I ever saw Christianity _practised_ till I went up the Yukon to Holy Cross." "I must say you're complimentary to the few other Christians scattered about the world." "Don't get mifft, Colonel. I've known plenty of people straight as a die, and capital good fellows. I've seen them do very decent things now and then. But with these Jesuit missionaries--Lord! there's no let up to it." No answer from the Protestant Colonel. Presently the Boy in a sleepy voice added elegantly: "No Siree! The Jesuits go the whole hog!" He leaned far down over the side and saw distinctly by the fire-light there was nobody but Kaviak in the under bunk. The Colonel was on his legs in a flash, putting his head through his parki and drawing on his mucklucks. He didn't wait to cross and tie the thongs. A presentiment of evil was strong upon him. Outside in the faint star-light he thought a dim shape was passing down towards the river. "Who's that? Hi, there! Stop, or I'll shoot!" He hadn't brought his gun, but the ruse worked. "Don't shoot!" came back the voice of the Boy. "What in hell are you doing?" "The devil you are!" "Yes, the devil I am!" They stood measuring each other in the dim light, till the Colonel's eyes fell on the loaded sled. The Boy's followed. "What are you goin' for?" The Colonel laid a rough hand on the Boy's shoulder. He shook it off impatiently, and before the older man could speak: He pulled up the rope of the sled, and his little cargo lurched towards him. The Colonel stepped in front of him. "I'm the youngest," boasted the other, "and I'm the strongest, and--I'm the hungriest." The Colonel found a perturbed and husky voice in which to say: "I didn't know you were such a Christian." "Nothin' o' the sort." "Why, it's just--just my little scheme." "You're no fool. You know as well as I do you've got the devil's own job in hand." "Somebody's got to go," he repeated doggedly. "Look here," said the Colonel, "you haven't impressed me as being tired of life." "Tired of life!" The young eyes flashed in that weird aureole of long wolf-hair. "Tired of life! Well, I should just pretty nearly think I wasn't." "H'm! Then if it isn't Christianity, it must be because you're young." "Golly, man! it's because I'm hungry--HUNGRY! Great Jehosaphat! I could eat an ox!" "Come back into the cabin." "Come with me, I say; I've got something to propose." Again the Colonel stood in front, barring the way. "Look here," he went on gently, "are you a friend of mine?" "Now see here: if you've made up your mind to light out, I'm not going to oppose you." "Why didn't you say anything as sensible as that out yonder?" "Because I won't be ready to go along till to-morrow." There was a little silence. "I wish you wouldn't, Colonel." "Yes, it IS dangerous, and you know it." "I'm goin' along, laddie." Seeing the Boy look precious grave and harassed: "What's the matter?" "I'd hate awfully for anything to happen to you." The Colonel laughed. "Much obliged, but it matters uncommon little if I do drop in my tracks." "You see I've got a pretty bad kind of a complaint, anyhow." The Boy leaned over in the firelight and scanned the Colonel's face. "That religion of yours is makin' you morbid, Colonel." The Boy spoke with the detached and soothing air of a sage. "You don't know what you're talking about." He turned sharply away. The Boy relapsed into silence. The Colonel in his renewed prowling brought up against the wooden crane. He stood looking down into the fire. Loud and regular sounded the sleeping man's breathing in the quiet little room. "You can't find her?" "Nobody can find her." The Boy involuntarily shrank back; the Colonel looked ready to smash him. The action recalled the older man to himself. And the Boy obeyed without a word. O'Flynn was moved to make several touching remonstrances. It was a sign of unwonted emotion on Mac's part that he gave up arguing (sacrificing all the delight of a set debate), and simply begged and prayed them not to be fools, not to fly in the face of Providence. But Potts was made of sterner stuff. Besides, the thing was too good to be true. O'Flynn, when he found they were not to be dissuaded, solemnly presented each with a little bottle of whisky. Nobody would have believed O'Flynn would go so far as that. Nor could anyone have anticipated that close-fisted Mac would give the Boy his valuable aneroid barometer and compass, or that Potts would be so generous with his best Virginia straight-cut, filling the Colonel's big pouch without so much as a word. "Call it an expedition to Anvik," urged Mac. "Load up there with reindeer meat, and come back. If we don't get some fresh meat soon, we'll be having scurvy." "What you're furr doin'," says O'Flynn for the twentieth time, "has niver been done, not ayven be Indians. The prastes ahl say so." "So do the Sour-doughs," said Mac. "It isn't as if you had dogs." "Good-bye," said the Colonel, and the men grasped hands. "Good-bye, Kiddie. I bequeath you my share o' syrup." "Good-bye; meet you in the Klondyke!" "Good-bye. Hooray for the Klondyke in June!" "Klondyke in June! Hoop-la!" Still, as they went forward, they looked back. The Big Chimney wore an air wondrous friendly, and the wide, white world looked coldly at them, with small pretence of welcome or reward. "I don't believe I ever really knew how awful jolly the Big Chimney was--till this minute." The Colonel smiled. "Hardly like myself, to think whatever else I see, I'll never see that again." "They look as if they thought it'd be a picnic," says Mac, grimly. "I wonder be the Siven Howly Pipers! will we iver see ayther of 'em again." "If they only stay a couple o' nights at Anvik," said Potts, with gloomy foreboding, "they could get back here inside a week." And Potts felt his anxiety eased. A man who had mined at Caribou ought to know. The Colonel and the Boy took no tent, no stove, not even a miner's pick and pan. These last, General Lighter had said, could be obtained at Minook; and "there isn't a cabin on the trail," Dillon had added, "without 'em." "We've got no time to waste at Pymeut," observes the Colonel significantly. "I ain't achin' to stop at Pymeut," says his pardner with a superior air, standing up, as he swallowed his last mouthful of cold bacon and corn-bread, and cheerfully surveyed the waste. "Who says it's cold, even if the wind is up? And the track's bully. But see here, Colonel, you mustn't go thinkin' it's smooth glare-ice, like this, all the way." "Oh, I was figurin' that it would be." But the Boy paid no heed to the irony. "And it's a custom o' the country to get the wind in your face, as a rule, whichever way you go." "Well, I'm not complainin' as yet." "Reckon you needn't if you're blown like dandelion-down all the way to Minook. Gee! the wind's stronger! Say, Colonel, let's rig a sail." "No, sir. We'll go by Pymeut in an ice-boat, lickety split. And it'll be a good excuse for not stopping, though I think we ought to say good-bye to Nicholas." While he was wondering the Boy unlashed the sled-load, and pulled off the canvas cover as the Colonel came back with his mast. Between them, with no better tools than axe, jack-knives, and a rope, and with fingers freezing in the south wind, they rigged the sail. The words hadn't left his lips when he saw, a few yards in front of them, a faint cloud of steam rising up from the ice--that dim danger-signal that flies above an air-hole. The Colonel, never noticing, was heading straight for the ghastly trap. "God, Colonel! Blow-hole!" gasped the Boy. The Colonel simply rolled off the pack turning over and over on the ice, but keeping hold of the rope. The sled swerved, turned on her side, and slid along with a sound of snapping and tearing. While they were still headed straight for the hole, the Boy had gathered himself for a clear jump to the right, but the sled's sudden swerve to the left broke his angle sharply. He was flung forward on the new impetus, spun over the smooth surface, swept across the verge and under the cloud, clutching wildly at the ragged edge of ice as he went down. All Pymeut had come rushing pell-mell. "Anything the matter with you, Colonel?" His tone was so angry that, as they stared at each other, they both fell to laughing. "Well, I rather thought that was what _I_ was going to say"; and Kentucky heaved a deep sigh of relief. The Pymeuts knew that the great thing was to get the ice-stiffened clothes off as quickly as might be, and that is to be done expeditiously only by cutting them off. In vain the Boy protested. Recklessly they sawed and cut and stripped him, rubbed him and wrapped him in a rabbit-blanket, the fur turned inside, and a wolverine skin over that. The Colonel at intervals poured small doses of O'Flynn's whisky down the Boy's throat in spite of his unbecoming behaviour, for he was both belligerent and ungrateful, complaining loudly of the ruin of his clothes with only such intermission as the teeth-chattering, swallowing, and rude handling necessitated. "I didn't like--bein' in--that blow-hole. (Do you know--it was so cold--it burnt!) But I'd rather--be--in a blow-hole--than--br-r-r! Blow-hole isn't so s-s-melly as these s-s-kins!' Nicholas was conferring with the Colonel and offering to take him to Ol' Chief's. "That's right. Who are you, anyway?" "Me Anna--Yagorsha's daughter." Here she was, crawling in with a tin can. "Got something there to eat?" "Too soon," she said, showing her brilliant teeth in the fire-light. She set the tin down, looked round, a little embarrassed, and stirred the fire, which didn't need it. She flashed her quick smile again and nodded reassuringly. "You stay here now?" "No; goin' up river." "What for?" She spoke disapprovingly. "Want to get an Orange Grove." "Find him up river?" "I think I go, too"; and all the grave folk, sitting so close on the sleeping-bench, stretched their wide mouths wider still, smiling good-humouredly. "You better wait till summer." "Well, summer's the time for squaws to travel." "I come nex' summer," she said. By-and-by Nicholas returned with a new parki and a pair of wonderful buckskin breeches--not like anything worn by the Lower River natives, or by the coast-men either: well cut, well made, and handsomely fringed down the outside of the leg where an officer's gold stripe goes. "Chaparejos!" screamed the Boy. "Where'd you get 'em?" "Ol' Chief--he ketch um." "Oh, your pardner--he pay." "Humph! I s'pose I'll know the worst on settlin'-day." Then, after a few moments, making a final clutch at economy before the warmth and the whisky subdued him altogether: "Say, Nicholas, have you got--hasn't the Ol' Chief got any--less glorious breeches than those?" "Anything little cheaper?" "Nuh," says Nicholas. The Boy closed his eyes, relieved on the whole. Fate had a mind to see him in chaparejos. Let her look to the sequel, then! When consciousness came back it brought the sound of Yagorsha's yarning by the fire, and the occasional laugh or grunt punctuating the eternal "Story." The Colonel was sitting there among them, solacing himself by adding to the smoke that thickened the stifling air. Presently the Story-teller made some shrewd hit, that shook the Pymeut community into louder grunts of applause and a general chuckling. The Colonel turned his head slowly, and blew out a fresh cloud: "Good joke?" All the Pymeuts chuckled afresh. The Boy listened eagerly. Usually Yagorsha's stories were tragic, or, at least, of serious interest, ranging from bereaved parents who turned into wolverines, all the way to the machinations of the Horrid Dwarf and the Cannibal Old Woman. The Colonel looked at Nicholas. He seemed as entertained as the rest, but quite willing to leave his family history in professional hands. "Ol' Chief's father, Glovotsky, him Russian," Yagorsha began again, laying down his sinew-thread a moment and accepting some of the Colonel's tobacco. "Heap got Russian blood," interrupted Joe. As the Story-teller seemed to be about to repeat the enlivening tradition concerning the almost mythical youth of Ol' Chief's father, that subject of the great Katharine's, whose blood was flowing still in Pymeut veins, just then in came Yagorsha's daughter with some message to her father. He grunted acquiescence, and she turned to go. Joe called something after her, and she snapped back. He jumped up to bar her exit. She gave him a smart cuff across the eyes, which surprised him almost into the fire, and while he was recovering his equilibrium she fled. Yagorsha and all the Pymeuts laughed delightedly at Joe's discomfiture. The Boy had been obliged to sit up to watch this spirited encounter. The only notice the Colonel took of him was to set the kettle on the fire. While he was dining his pardner gathered up the blankets and crawled out. But the Boy bolted the last of his meal, gathered up the kettle, mug, and frying-pan, which had served him for plate as well, and wormed his way out as fast as he could. There was the sled nearly packed for the journey, and watching over it, keeping the dogs at bay, was an indescribably dirty little boy in a torn and greasy denim parki over rags of reindeer-skin. Nobody else in sight but Yagorsha's daughter down at the water-hole. "Where's my pardner gone?" The child only stared, having no English apparently. While the Boy packed the rest of the things, and made the tattered canvas fast under the lashing, Joe came out of the Kachime. He stood studying the prospect a moment, and his dull eyes suddenly gleamed. Anna was coming up from the river with her dripping pail. He set off with an affectation of leisurely indifference, but he made straight for his enemy. She seemed not to see him till he was quite near, then she sheered off sharply. Joe hardly quickened his pace, but seemed to gain. She set down her bucket, and turned back towards the river. "Idiot!" ejaculated the Boy; "she could have reached her own ighloo." The dirty child grinned, and tore off towards the river to watch the fun. Anna was hidden now by a pile of driftwood. The Boy ran down a few yards to bring her within range again. For all his affectation of leisureliness and her obvious fluster, no doubt about it, Joe was gaining on her. She dropped her hurried walk and frankly took to her heels, Joe doing the same; but as she was nearly as fleet of foot as Muckluck, in spite of her fat, she still kept a lessening distance between herself and her pursuer. "Stop that! You hear? _Stop_ it!" the Boy called out. But Joe seemed not to hear. Anna had fallen face downward on the ice this time, and lay there as if stunned. Her enemy caught hold of her, pulled her up, and dragged her along in spite of her struggles and cries. It occurred to him that the girl, her lip bleeding, her parki torn, seemed more surprised than grateful; and when he said, "You come back with me; he shan't touch you," she did not show the pleased alacrity that you would expect. But she was no doubt still dazed. They all stood looking rather sheepish, and like actors "stuck" who cannot think of the next line, till Joe turned on the girl with some mumbled question. She answered angrily. He made another grab at her. She screamed, and got behind the Boy. Very resolutely he widened his bold buck-skin legs, and dared Joe to touch the poor frightened creature cowering behind her protector. Again silence. They looked at each other, and then away. Joe turned unexpectedly, and shambled off in the direction of the village. Not a word out of Anna as she returned by the side of her protector, but every now and then she looked at him sideways. The Boy felt her inexpressive gratitude, and was glad his journey had been delayed, or else, poor devil- Joe had stopped to speak to- "Who on earth's that white woman?" "What's she dressed like that for?" "Often like that in summer. Me, too--me got Holy Cross clo'es." Muckluck went slowly up towards the Kachime with Joe. When the others got to the water-hole, Anna turned and left the Boy without a word to go and recover her pail. The Boy stood a moment, looking for some sign of the Colonel, and then went along the river bank to Ol' Chief's. No, the Colonel had gone back to the Kachime. The Boy came out again, and to his almost incredulous astonishment, there was Joe dragging the unfortunate Anna towards an ighloo. As he looked back, to steer straight for the entrance-hole, he caught sight of the Boy, dropped his prey, and disappeared with some precipitancy into the ground. When Anna had gathered herself up, the Boy was standing in front of her. "Why should he want to kill you, then?" The Boy fell back an astonished step. "Jee-rusalem! He's got a pretty way o' sayin' so. Why don't you tell your father?" "Tell--father?" It seemed never to have occurred to her. "Yes; can't Yagorsha protect you?" She looked about doubtfully and then over her shoulder. "That Joe's ighloo," she said. He pictured to himself the horror that must assail her blood at the sight. Yes, he was glad to have saved any woman from so dreadful a fate. Did it happen often? and did nobody interfere? Muckluck was coming down from the direction of the Kachime. The Boy went to meet her, throwing over his shoulder, "You'd better stick to me, Anna, as long as I'm here. I don't know, I'm sure, _what'll_ happen to you when I'm gone." Anna followed a few paces, and then sat down on the snow to pull up and tie her disorganized leg-gear. She nodded. "See that any day." The Boy stopped, appalled at the thought of woman in a perpetual state of siege. "Brute! hound!" he flung out towards Joe's ighloo. "No," says Muckluck firmly; "Joe all right." "You say that, after what's happened this morning?" Muckluck declined to take the verdict back. "Did you see him strike her?" "Oh, didn't it? He threw her down, as hard as he could, on the ice." He despised Muckluck in that moment. "You weren't sorry to see another girl treated so?" "What if it had been you?" "Oh, he not do that to _me_." "Why not? You can't tell." "Oh, yes." She spoke with unruffled serenity. "No," she returned unmoved. "Joe savvy I no marry Pymeut." The Boy stared, mystified by the lack of sequence. "Poor Anna doesn't want to marry _that_ Pymeut." The Boy gave her up. Perversity was not confined to the civilized of her sex. He walked on to find the Colonel. Muckluck followed, but the Boy wouldn't speak to her, wouldn't look at her. "You like my Holy Cross clo'es?" she inquired. "Me--I look like your kind of girls now, huh?" No answer, but she kept up with him. "See?" She held up proudly a medallion, or coin of some sort, hung on a narrow strip of raw-hide. He meant not to look at it at all, and he jerked his head away after the merest glance that showed him the ornament was tarnished silver, a little bigger than an American dollar, and bore no device familiar to his eyes. He quickened his pace, and walked on with face averted. The Colonel appeared just below the Kachime. "Well, aren't you _ever_ comin'?" he called out. Muckluck chuckled. The Boy turned on her angrily, and saw her staring back at Joe's ighloo. There, sauntering calmly past the abhorred trap, was the story-teller's daughter. Past it? No. She actually halted and busied herself with her legging thong. "That girl must be an imbecile!" Or was it the apparition of her father, up at the Kachime entrance, that inspired such temerity? "Yagorsha know. Joe give him nice mitts--sealskin--_new_ mitts." "Hear that, Colonel? For a pair of mitts he sells his daughter to that ruffian." Without definite plan, quite vaguely and instinctively, he shook himself free from Muckluck, and rushed down to the scene of the tragedy. Muffled screams and yells issued with the smoke. Muckluck turned sharply to the Colonel, who was following, and said something that sent him headlong after the Boy. He seized the doughty champion by the feet just as he was disappearing in the tunnel, and hauled him out. "Don't be a fool. You've been interruptin' the weddin' ceremonies." Muckluck had caught up with them, and Yagorsha was advancing leisurely across the snow. "She no want _you_," whispered Muckluck to the Boy. "She _like_ Joe--like him best of all." Then, as the Boy gaped incredulously: "She tell me heap long time ago she want Joe." "That's just part of the weddin' festivity," says the Colonel, as renewed shrieks issued from under the snow. "You've been an officious interferer, and I think the sooner I get you out o' Pymeut the healthier it'll be for you." The Boy was too flabbergasted to reply, but he was far from convinced. The Colonel turned back to apologise to Yagorsha. "No like this in your country?" inquired Muckluck of the crestfallen champion. "N-no--not exactly." "When you like girl--what you do?" "Tell her so," muttered the Boy mechanically. "Well--Joe been tellin' Anna--all winter." "And she hated him." "No. She like Joe--best of any." "What did she go on like that for, then?" "Oh-h! She know Joe savvy." The Boy felt painfully small at his own lack of _savoir_, but no less angry. "I no marry Pymeut." "In your country when girl marry--she no scream?" "Well, no; not usually, I believe." "They agree," he answered irritably. "They don't go on like wild beasts." Muckluck pondered deeply this matter of supreme importance. "When you--get you squaw, you no _make_ her come?" The Boy shook his head, and turned away to cut short these excursions into comparative ethnology. But Muckluck was athirst for the strange new knowledge. He declined to betray his plan of action. "When you--all same Joe? Hey?" "When you _know_--girl like you best--you no drag her home?" _"No?_ How you marry you self, then?" The conversation would be still more embarrassing before the Colonel, so he stopped, and said shortly: "In our country nobody beats a woman because he likes her." "How she know, then?" "They _agree_, I tell you." "Oh--an' girl--just come--when he call? Oh-h!" She dropped her jaw, and stared. "No fight a _little?"_ she gasped. "No scream quite _small?"_ _"No_, I tell you." He ran on and joined the Colonel. Muckluck stood several moments rooted in amazement. Yagorsha had called the rest of the Pymeuts out, for these queer guests of theirs were evidently going at last. They all said "Goo'-bye" with great goodwill. Only Muckluck in her chilly "Holy Cross clo'es" stood sorrowful and silent, swinging her medal slowly back and forth. Suddenly Muckluck broke away from the group, and ran briskly down to the river trail. "Fact is, Muckluck," answered the Boy, disengaging himself with embarrassment, "my pardner here can hold up that end. Don't you think you'd better square Yukon Inua? Don't b'lieve he likes me." And they left her, shivering in her "Holy Cross clo'es," staring after them, and sadly swinging her medal on its walrus-string. "I don't mind sayin' I'm glad to leave Pymeut behind," said the Colonel. "You're safe to get into a muss if you mix up with anything that has to do with women. That Muckluck o' yours is a minx." "She ain't my Muckluck, and I don't believe she's a minx, not a little bit." Not wishing to be too hard on his pardner, the Colonel added: "I lay it all to the chaparejos myself." Then, observing his friend's marked absence of hilarity, "You're very gay in your fine fringes." "Well, now, I'm glad to hear you say that. I think myself we've had adventures enough right here at the start." "I b'lieve you. But there's something in that idea o' yours. Other fellas have noticed the same tendency in chaparejos." "Well, if the worst comes to the worst," drawled the Colonel, "we'll change breeches." The suggestion roused no enthusiasm. "B'lieve I'd have a cammin' influence. Yes, sir, I reckon I could keep those fringes out o' kinks." "Oh, I think they'll go straight enough after this"; and the Boy's good spirits returned before they passed the summer village. "What in thunder!" he began. "Wh-what is it?" "I can see that much. But what brings you here?" Shivering with cold, she crouched close to the fire, dressed, as he could see now, in her native clothes again, and it was her parki that had scorched--was scorching still. "I think I come help you find that Onge Grove." "I think you'll do nothing of the kind." He also spoke with a deliberate lowering of the note. His great desire not to wake the Colonel gave an unintentional softness to his tone. He was so appalled for the moment, at the thought of having her on their hands, all this way from Pymeut, on a snowy night, that words failed him. As she watched him she, too, grew grave. "You say me nice girl." "When did I say that?" He clutched his head in despair. "I don't remember it." "I think you misunderstood me, Muckluck." "Heh?" Her countenance fell, but more puzzled than wounded. "That is--oh, yes--of course--you're a nice girl." "I think--Anna, too--you like me best." She helped out the white man's bashfulness. But as her interlocutor, appalled, laid no claim to the sentiment, she lifted the mittened hand to her eyes, and from under it scanned the white face through the lightly falling snow. The other hand, still held out to the comfort of the smoke, was trembling a little, perhaps not altogether with the cold. "Say? You say you no like girl scream, no like her fight like Anna. Heh? So, me--I come like your girls--quite, quite good Heh?" "You don't understand, Muckluck. I--you see, I could never find that Orange Grove if you came along." "Well--a--no woman ever goes to help to find an Orange Grove. Th-there's a law against it." Alas! she knew too little to be impressed by the Majesty invoked. "You see, women, they--they come by-and-by--when the Orange Grove's all--all ready for 'em. No man _ever_ takes a woman on that kind of hunt." Her saddened face was very grave. The Boy took heart. "But they won't take you to hunt caribou. No; they leave you at home. It's exactly the same with Orange Groves. No nice girl _ever_ goes hunting." "Course you can." His spirits were reviving. "You can do anything--except hunt." As she lifted her head with an air of sudden protest he quashed her. "From the beginning there's been a law against that. Squaws must stay at home and let the men do the huntin'." He shook his head solemnly. "Can help pull sled," she suggested, looking round a little wildly as if instantly to illustrate. "Never tired," she added, sobbing, and putting her hands up to her face. Again she hid her eyes. Go home? How could he send her home all that way at this time of night? It was a bothering business! Again her hands fell from the wet unhappy face. She shivered a little when she met his frowning looks, and turned away. He stooped and picked up her mitten. Why, you couldn't turn a dog away on a night like this- Plague take the Pymeuts, root and branch! She had shuffled her feet into her snow-shoe straps, and moved off in the dimness. But for the sound of sobbing, he could not have told just where, in the softly-falling snow, Muckluck's figure was fading into the dusk. He hurried after her, conscience-stricken, but most unwilling. "Look here," he said, when he had caught up with her, "I'm sorry you came all this way in the cold--very sorry." Her sobs burst out afresh, and louder now, away from the Colonel's restraining presence. "But, see here: I can't send you off like this. You might die on the trail." "Yes, I think me die," she agreed. "No, don't do that. Come back, and we'll tell the Colonel you're going to stay by the fire till morning, and then go home." She walked steadily on. "No, I go now." "But you can't, Muckluck. You can't find the trail." "He soon stop. Goo'-bye." Never word of sweeter import in his ears than that. But he was far from satisfied with his conduct all the same. It was quite possible that the Pymeuts, discovering her absence, would think he had lured her away, and there might be complications. So it was with small fervour that he said: "Muckluck, I wish you'd come back and wait till morning." "But how the devil do you do it?" She paid no heed to the interruption, seeming busy in taking something over her head from round her neck. Her Yukon subjects must have wondered that she wore no parki--this lady who had claimed sole right to all the finest sables found in her new American dominions. On the other side of the medal, Minerva, with a Gorgon-furnished shield and a beautiful bone-tipped harpoon, as it looked, with a throwing-stick and all complete. But she, too, would strike the Yukon eye as lamentably chilly about the legs. How had these ladies out of Russia and Olympus come to lodge in Ol' Chief's ighloo? Had Glovotsky won this guerdon at Great Katharine's hands? Had he brought it on that last long journey of his to Russian America, and left it to his Pymeut children with his bones? Well, Yukon Inua should not have it yet. The Boy thrust the medal into a pocket of his chaparejos, and crawled into his snow-covered bed. "Raise the stone, and ye shall find me; cleave the wood, and there am I." The stars were shining frostily, in a clear sky, when the Boy crawled out from under his snow-drift in the morning. He built up the fire, quaking in the bitter air, and bustled the breakfast. "You seem to be in something of a hurry," said the Colonel, with a yawn stifled in a shiver. "We haven't come on this trip to lie abed in the morning," his pardner returned with some solemnity. "I don't care how soon I begin caperin' ahead with that load again." "Well, it'll be warmin', anyway," returned the Colonel, "and I can't say as much for your fire." The Boy spoke with the old-timer's superiority, of his own experience, and was so puffed up, at the bare thought of having hardened his feet, that he concealed without a qualm the fact of a brand-new blister on his heel. A mere nothing that, not worth mentioning to anyone who remembered the state he was in at the end of that awful journey of penitence. It was well on in the afternoon before it began to snow again, and they had reached the frozen lake. The days were lengthening, and they still had good light by which to find the well-beaten trail on the other side. "Hey?" inquired the Boy, straining at his sled-rope and bending before the blast. "What's that?" "Don't you know what makes snow?" said Henry. "Ivory whittlings. When they get to their carving up yonder then we have snow." What was happening to the Colonel? The mere physical comfort of riding, instead of serving as packhorse, great as it was, not even that could so instantly spirit away the weariness, and light up the curious, solemn radiance that shone on the Colonel's face. It struck the Boy that good old Kentucky would look like that when he met his dearest at the Gate of Heaven--if there was such a place. The Colonel was aware of the sidelong wonder of his comrade's glance, for the sleds, abreast, had come to a momentary halt. But still he stared in front of him, just as a sailor in a storm dares not look away from the beacon-light an instant, knowing all the waste about him abounds in rocks and eddies and in death, and all the world of hope and safe returning is narrowed to that little point of light. After the moment's speculation the Boy turned his eyes to follow the Colonel's gaze into space. "The Cross! the Cross!" said the man on the sled. "Don't you see it?" "Huh!" says the Boy. "Stars and Stripes tell of an ideal of united states. That up there tells of an ideal of United Mankind. It's the great Brotherhood Mark. There isn't any other standard that men would follow just to build a hospice in a place like this." _"Glass!"_ ejaculated the Colonel. Father Brachet put the Colonel on his right and the Boy on his left, introducing: "Fazzer Richmond, my predecessor as ze head of all ze Alaskan missions," calmly eliminating Greek, Episcopalian, and other heretic establishments. "Fazzer Richmond you must have heard much of. He is ze great ausority up here. He is now ze Travelling Priest. You can ask him all. He knows everysing." In no wise abashed by this flourish, Father Richmond shook hands with the Big Chimney men, smiling, and with a pleasant ease that communicated itself to the entire company. He claimed instant kinship with the Colonel on the strength of their both being Southerners. "I'm a Baltimore man," he said, with an accent no Marylander can purge of pride. "How long since you've been home?" "Oh, I go back every year." And to collect funds! the Colonel rightly divined, little guessing how triumphantly he achieved that end. "You travel about up here a good deal?" The Boy looked at him with something very like reverence. Here was a man who could give you tips! "You have travelled abroad, too," the Colonel rather stated than asked. "I spent a good deal of my youth in France and Germany." "Educated over there?" "That is the best man on snow-shoes in Central Alaska," said Father Richmond low to the Colonel, nodding at the Kuskoquim priest. "You must forgive our speaking much of the Indian tongues," said Father Richmond. "We are all making dictionaries and grammars; we have still to translate much of our religious instruction, and the great variety in dialect of the scattered tribes keeps us busy with linguistic studies." "Tomorrow you must see our schools," said Father Brachet. But the Boy answered quickly that they could not afford the time. He was surprised at the Colonel's silence; but the Boy didn't know what the Colonel's feet felt like. Kentucky ain't sorry, he said to himself, to have a back to his chair, and to eat off china again. Kentucky's a voluptuary! I'll have to drag him away by main force; and the Boy allowed Father Richmond to help him yet more abundantly to the potatoes and cabbage grown last summer in the mission garden! Father Brachet answered, "Morning will bring counsel, my son. I sink ze bleezzar-r will not let us lose you so soon." They overslept themselves, and they knew it, in that way the would-be early riser does, before ever he looks into the accusing face of his watch. The Boy leapt out of bed. "Hear that?" The wind was booming among the settlement buildings. "Sounds as if there was weather outside." A glance between the curtains showed the great gale at its height. The snow blew level in sheets and darkened the air. A hurried toilet and they went downstairs, sharp-set for breakfast after the long, refreshing sleep. Father Richmond was writing on his knee by the stove in the reception-room. "Good-morning--good-morning." He rang the bell. "_You are_ not going out in such weather!" the Colonel called after him incredulously. "Only as far as the church." The Colonel started and made a signal for discretion. "Blest if it isn't Sunday!" he said under his breath. "He doesn't seem dead-set on our observing it," whispered the Boy. The Colonel warmed himself luxuriously at the stove, and seemed to listen for that summons from the entry that never came. Was Father Richmond out there still, or had he gone? "Do they think we are heathens because we are not Jesuits?" he said under his breath, suddenly throwing out his great chest. "Perhaps we ought to Hey? They've been awfully considerate of _us--_" The Colonel went to the door. Father Richmond was struggling with his snow-boots. "With your permission, sir," says the Colonel in his most magnificent manner, "we will accompany you, or follow if you are in haste." "With all my heart. Come," said the priest, "if you will wait and breakfast with us after Mass." It was agreed, and the immediate order was countermanded. The sound of a bell came, muffled, through the storm. With thoughts turning reluctantly from breakfast, "What's that?" asked the Boy. "That is our church bell." The Father had helped the Colonel to find his parki. The Colonel sat in a rural church and looked at the averted face of a woman. Only to the priest was the sound all music. He opened the door, and the gale rushed in. "Beautiful creature!" ejaculated the Colonel under his breath, glancing back. His companion turned his head sharply just in time to see Sister Winifred come last into the church, holding by either hand a little child. Both men watched her as she knelt down. Between the children's sallow, screwed-up, squinting little visages the calm, unconscious face of the nun shone white like a flower. The strangers glanced discreetly about the rude little church, with its pictures and its modest attempt at stained glass. "No wonder all this impresses the ignorant native," whispered the Colonel, catching himself up suddenly from sharing in that weakness. Without, the wild March storm swept the white world; within another climate reigned--something of summer and the far-off South, of Italy herself, transplanted to this little island of civilisation anchored in the Northern waste. "S'pose you've seen all the big cathedrals, eh?" There was still a subdued rustling in the church, and outside, still the clanging bell contended with the storm. "And this--makes you smile?" "N--no," returned the older man with a kind of reluctance. "I've seen many a worse church; America's full of 'em." "_We_ do in our prairie and Southern country churches." "I know. But look at those altar lights." The Boy was too busy looking at Sister Winifred. "I tell you, sir, a man never made a finer thing than a tall wax candle." "Sh! Mustn't talk in church." The Colonel stared a moment at the Boy's presumption, drew himself up a little pompously, and crossed his arms over his huge chest. The native choir, composed entirely of little dark-faced boys, sang their way truly through the service, Father Brachet celebrating Mass. Coming out, they were in time to confront Sister Winifred, holding back the youngest children, eager to anticipate their proper places in the procession. The Boy looked fixedly at her, wondering. Suddenly meeting The clear eyes, he smiled, and then shrank inwardly at his forwardness. He could not tell if she remembered him. The Colonel, finding himself next her at the door, bowed, and stood back for her to pass. "No," she said gently; "my little children must wait for the older ones." "You have them under good discipline, madam." He laid his hand on the furry shoulder of the smallest. "Sir," he said in his florid but entirely sincere fashion, "I should like to thank you for the pleasure of hearing that music to-day. We were much impressed, sir, by the singing. How old is the boy who played the organ?" "And how well _all_ your choir has the service by heart! Their unison is perfect." "Except music, apparently." "Except music--and games. Brother Vincent teaches them football and baseball, and plays with them and works with them. Part of each day is devoted to manual training and to sport." He led the way to the workshop. "Yes," said the lad, "that kind better. Your kind no good." He had evidently made intimate acquaintance with the Boy's masterpiece. "Yours is splendid," admitted the unskilled workman. "Will you sell it?" the Colonel asked Brother Paul. "They make them to sell," was the answer, and the transaction was soon effected. "It has stopped snowing and ze wind is fallen," said Father Brachet, going to the reception-room window an hour or so after they had come in from dinner. The Colonel exchanged looks with the Boy, and drew out his watch. "Later than I thought." "Much," the Colonel agreed, and sat considering, watch in hand. "I sink our friends must see now ze girls' school, and ze laundry, hein?" "To be sure," agreed Father Richmond. "I will take you over and give you into the hands of our Mother Superior." "Friends of ours from the White Camp below." She acknowledged the nameless introduction, smiling; but at the request that followed, "Ah, it is too bad that just to-day--the Mother Superior--she is too faint and weak to go about. Will you see her, Father?" "Oh, yes, I will show them." "And they are taught most particularly of all," she hastened to say, "cooking, housekeeping, and sewing." Whereupon specimens of needlework were brought out and cast like pearls before the swine's eyes of the ignorant men. But they were impressed in their benighted way, and said so. "And we teach them laundry-work." She led the way, with the children trooping after, to the washhouse. "No, run back. You'll take cold. Run back, and you shall sing for the strangers before they go." The Boy vaguely thought it looked familiar, before the Sister, blushing faintly, said: "We hope you won't go before we have time to repair it." "Why, it's our old sled-cover!" "Oh! Father Brachet thought you would stay for a few days, at least." "You go, like the rest, for gold?" "But you came before to help poor Nicholas out of his trouble." "He was quite able to help himself, as it turned out." "Why will you go so far, and at such risk?" she said, with a suddenness that startled them both. "I--I--well, I think I go chiefly because I want to get my home back. I lost my home when I was a little chap. Where is your home?" "How long have you been here?" "Then how can you call it home?" "I do that only that I may--speak your language. Of course, it is not my real home." "Where is the real home?" "I hope it is in heaven," she said, with a simplicity that took away all taint of cant or mere phrase-making. "But where do you come from?" "I come from Montreal." "Oh! and don't you ever go back to visit your people?" "No, I never go back." "But you will some time?" "No; I shall never go back." "Don't you _want_ to?" She dropped her eyes, but very steadfastly she said: "But you are young, and you may live a great, great many years." She nodded, and looked out of the open door. The Colonel and the Travelling Priest were walking in Indian file the new-made, hard-packed path. "Yes," she said in a level voice, "I shall grow old here, and here I shall be buried." "I shall never understand it. I have such a longing for my home. I came here ready to bear anything that I might be able to get it back." She looked at him steadily and gravely. "I may be wrong, but I doubt if you would be satisfied even if you got it back--now." "What makes you think that?" he said sharply. "Oh, it's plain I am very different from you," but he said it with a kind of uneasy defiance. "Besides, in any case, I shall do it for my sister's sake." "Oh, you have a sister?" "How long since you left her?" "It's a good while now." "He's not odd, I assure you." "He called me 'madam.'" She spoke with a charming piqued childishness. "You see, he didn't know your name. What is your name?" "But your real name?" he said, with the American's insistence on his own point of view. "That is my only name," she answered with dignity, and led the way back into the schoolroom. Another, older, nun was there, and when the others rejoined them they made the girls sing. "Now we have shown you enough," said Father Richmond, rising; "boasted to you enough of the very little we are able to accomplish here. We must save something for to-morrow." "Ah, to-morrow we take to the trail again," said the Colonel, and added his "Good-bye, madam." Sister Winifred, seeing he expected it, gave him her hand. "Good-bye, and thank you for coming." "For your poor," he said shyly, as he turned away and left a gift in her palm. "Thank you for showing us all this," the Boy said, lingering, but not daring to shake hands. "It--it seems very wonderful. I had no idea a mission meant all this." "Oh, it means more--more than anything you can _see_." In the early evening the reception-room was invaded by the lads' school for their usual Sunday night entertainment. Very proudly these boys and young men sang their glees and choruses, played the fiddle, recited, even danced. "Pity Mac isn't here!" "Awful pity. Sunday, too." Brother Etienne sang some French military songs, and it came out that he had served in the French army. Father Roget sang, also in French, explaining himself with a humourous skill in pantomime that set the room in a roar. "Well," said the Colonel when he stood up to say good-night, "I haven't enjoyed an evening so much for years." "It is very early still," said Father Brachet, wrinkling up his face in a smile. "Ah, but we have to make such an early start." The Colonel went up to bed, leaving the Boy to go to Father Richmond's room to look at his Grammar of the Indian language. The instant the door was shut, the priest set down the lamp, and laid his hands on the young man's shoulders. "My son, you must not go on this mad journey." "You must _not_. Sit there." He pushed him into a chair. "Let me tell you. I do not speak as the ignorant. I have in my day travelled many hundreds of miles on the ice; but I've done it in the season when the trail's at its best, with dogs, my son, and with tried native servants." "Pleasanter? It is the way to keep alive." "But the Indians travel with hand-sleds." "For short distances, yes, and they are inured to the climate. You? You know nothing of what lies before you." "But we'll find out as other people have." The Boy smiled confidently. "Be persuaded, my son." "We've lost so much time already. We couldn't possibly turn back--now." "Then here's my Grammar." With an almost comic change of tone and manner the priest turned to the table where the lamp stood, among piles of neatly tied-up and docketed papers. "Brother Paul's got it in the schoolhouse." "How did Sister Winifred know?" asked another voice. "Old Maria told her." Father Richmond got up and opened the door. "It's a new-born Indian baby." The Father looked down as if it might be on the threshold. "Brother Paul found it below at the village all done up ready to be abandoned." "Tell Sister Winifred I'll see about it in the morning." Father Richmond laughed. "Good-night, my son"; and he went downstairs with the others. "Colonel, you asleep?" the Boy asked softly. He struggled in silence with his mucklucks. Presently, "Isn't it frightfully strange," he mused aloud. "Doesn't it pull a fella up by the roots, somehow, to see Americans on this old track?" The Colonel had the bedclothes drawn up to his eyes. Under the white quilt he made some undistinguishable sound, but he kept his eyes fastened on his pardner. "I wonder, Colonel, if it _satisfies_ anybody to be a hustler and a millionaire." "Satisfies?" echoed the Colonel, pushing his chin over the bed-clothes. "Who expects to be satisfied?" "Why, every man, woman and child on the top o' the earth; and it just strikes me I've never, personally, known anybody get there but these fellas at Holy Cross." The Colonel pushed back the bedclothes a little farther with his chin. Silence still reigned supreme, when at last he got up, washed and dressed, and went downstairs. An irresistible restlessness had seized hold of him. That window! That was where a light had shone the evening they arrived, and a nun--Sister Winifred--had stood drawing the thick curtains, shutting out the world. He thought, in the intense stillness, that he heard sounds from that upper room. Yes, surely an infant's cry. A curious, heavy-hearted feeling came upon him, as he turned away, and went slowly back towards the other house. He halted a moment under the Cross, and stared up at it. The door of the Fathers' House opened, and the Travelling Priest stood on the threshold. The Boy went over to him, nodding good-morning. "So you are all ready--eager to go from us?" He held the door open, and the Boy went in. "I don't believe the Colonel's awake yet," he said, as he took off his furs. "I'll just run up and rouse him." The Boy sat down, stretched his legs out straight towards the fire, and lifting his hands, clasped them behind his head. The priest read the homesick face like a book. "Why are you up here?" Before there was time for reply he added: "Surely a young man like you could find, nearer home, many a gate ajar. And you must have had glimpses through of--things many and fair." "Oh, yes, I've had glimpses of those things." "What I wanted most I never saw." The Boy never saw the smile. "Which does she love best, the old place or the young brother?" "Oh, she cares about me--no doubt o' that." He smiled the smile of faith. "Has she an understanding heart?" "Then she would be glad to know you had found a home for the spirit. A home for the body, what does it matter?" In the pause, Father Brachet opened the door, but seemed suddenly to remember some imperative call elsewhere. The Boy jumped up, but the Superior had vanished without even "Good-morning." The Boy sat down again. "We can take little credit for that; it is the outcome of our Order." The Boy failed to catch the effect of the capital letter. "Yes, it's just that--the order, the good government! A fella would be a bigot if he couldn't see that the system is as nearly perfect as a human institution can be." "That has been said before of the Society of Jesus." But he spoke with the wise man's tolerance for the discoveries of the young. Still, it was not to discuss the merits of his Order that he had got up an hour before his time. "I understand, maybe better than yourself, something of the restlessness that drove you here." The Boy sat up suddenly, a little annoyed. The priest kept on: "But you felt a great longing to make a breach in the high walls that shut you in. You wanted to fare away on some voyage of discovery. Wasn't that it?". He paused now in his turn, but the Boy looked straight before him, saying nothing. The priest leaned forward with a deeper gravity. The Boy pricked his ears. Wasn't this heresy? They were silent awhile, and still the young face gave no sign. They were silent a moment, and then the same musical voice tolled out the words like a low bell: "But with all your journeying, my son, you will come to no Continuing City." A heavy step on the stair, and the Boy seemed to wake from a dream. "Good-morning," said the Colonel, coming in cheerily, rubbing his hands. "I am very jealous!" He glanced at the Boy's furs on the floor. "You have been out, seeing the rest of the mission without me." "No--no, we will show you the rest--as much as you care for, after breakfast." While Father Brachet looked in the bunch for the key he wanted, a native came by with a pail. He entered the low building on the left, leaving wide the door. "What? No! Is it really? No, not _really!_" The Colonel was more excited than the Boy had ever seen him. Without the smallest ceremony he left the side of his obliging host, strode to the open door, and disappeared inside. "What on earth's the matter?" "I cannot tell. It is but our cow-house." "My name is Sebastian." "Oh, all right; reckon you can milk her under that name, too." When they came back, the Colonel was still there exchanging views about Alaska with Sukey, and with Sebastian about the bull. Sister Winifred came hurrying over the snow to the cow-house with a little tin pail in her hand. "Ah, there is very little now." "Very little, Father," said Sebastian, returning to the task from which the Colonel's conversation had diverted him. "Give me your can." The Boy took it from her, and held it inside the big milk-pail, so that the thin stream struck it sharply. "There; it is enough." Her shawl had fallen. The Colonel gathered it up. "I will carry the milk back for you," said the Boy, noticing how red and cold the slim hands were. "Your fingers will be frostbitten if you don't wrap them up." She pulled the old shawl closely round her, and set a brisk pace back to the Sisters' House. "Oh, you mustn't do that!" "Oh--a--I'm not religious like the Colonel." She smiled, and walked on. At the door, as she took the milk, instead of "Thank you," "Wait a moment." She was back again directly. "You are going far beyond the mission so carry this with you. I hope it will guide you as it guides us." As he came near to where the Colonel and his hosts were, he slipped the cross into his pocket. His fingers encountered Muckluck's medal. Upon some wholly involuntary impulse, he withdrew Sister Winifred's gift, and transferred it to another pocket. But he laughed to himself. "Both sort o' charms, after all." And again he looked at the big cross and the heaven above it, and down at the domain of the Inua, the jealous god of the Yukon. "Oh, it is not we," said Father Brachet; "it is made by ze Sisters. Zey shall know zat you were pleased." Father Richmond held the Boy's hand a moment. "I see you go, my son, but I shall see you return." "No, Father, I shall hardly come this way again." Father Brachet, smiling, watched them start up the long trail. "I sink we shall meet again," were his last words. "Same plan as you've got, I s'pose. I believe you both call it 'Heaven.'" Directly they had swallowed supper the Colonel remarked: "I feel as ready for my bed as I did Saturday night." Ah! Saturday night--that was different. They looked at each other with the same thought. "Well, that bed at Holy Cross isn't any whiter than this," laughed the Boy. But the Colonel was not to be deceived by this light and airy reference. His own unwilling sentiments were a guide to the Boy's, and he felt it incumbent upon him to restore the Holy Cross incident to its proper proportions. Those last words of Father Brachet's bothered him. Had they been "gettin' at" the Boy? "You think all that mission business mighty wonderful--just because you run across it in Alaska." "And isn't it wonderful at all?" The Boy spoke dreamily, and, from force of old habit, held out his mittened hands to the unavailing fire. The Colonel gave a prefatory grunt of depreciation, but he was pulling his blankets out from under the stuff on the sled. "So they are--most of 'em." "Well, I don't know about 'most of 'em.' You and Mac used to talk a lot about the 'motives' of the few I do know. But as far as I can see, every creature who comes up to this country comes to take something out of it--except those Holy Cross fellas. They came to bring something." The Colonel had got the blankets out now, but where was the rubber sheet? He wouldn't sleep on it in this weather, again, for a kingdom, but when the thaws came, if those explorer fellas were right- In his sense of irritation at a conscientious duty to perform and no clear notion of how to discharge it, he made believe it was the difficulty in finding the rubber sheet he didn't want that made him out of sorts. "It's bitter work, anyhow, this making beds with your fingers stiff and raw," he said. Dignity looked at Impudence sitting in the shelter, smiling. "Humph! Just try it," growled the Colonel. "I s'pose the man over the fire cookin' supper does _look_ better off than the 'pore pardner' cuttin' down trees and makin' beds in the snow. But he isn't." "Oh, isn't he?" It was all right, but the Big Chimney boss felt he had chosen the lion's share of the work in electing to be woodman; still, it wasn't _that_ that troubled him. Now, what was it he had been going to say about the Jesuits? Something very telling. "Well, you start in to-morrow, and see if you're so agreeable." But still the Colonel frowned. He couldn't remember that excellent thing he had been going to say about Romanists. But he sniffed derisively, and flung over his shoulder: "Oh, yes, Christians with gold shovels and Winchester rifles. I know 'em. But if gold hadn't been found, how many of the army that's invaded the North--how many would be here, if it hadn't been for the gold? But all this Holy Cross business would be goin' on just the same, as it has done for years and years." With a mighty tug the Colonel dragged out the rubber blanket, flung it down on the snow, and squared himself, back to the fire, to make short work of such views. "I'd no notion you were such a sucker. You can bet," he said darkly, "those fellas aren't making a bad thing out of that 'Holy Cross business,' as you call it." "What else could they do if they didn't do this?" "Ask the same of any parson." But the Colonel didn't care to. "I suppose," he said severely, "you could even make a hero out of that hang-dog Brother Etienne." "No, but he _could_ do something else, for he's served in the French army." "Then there's that mad Brother Paul. What good would he be at anything else?" "Well, I don't know." "Brachet and Wills are decent enough men, but where else would they have the power and the freedom they have at Holy Cross? Why, they live there like feudal barons." "Father Richmond could have done anything he chose." "Well?" insisted the Boy. "Oh, Father Richmond must have seen a ghost." "Take my word for it. _He_ got frightened somehow. A man like Father Richmond has to be scared into a cassock." "Wouldn't care for the job myself," the Boy was saying. "Scarin' Father Richmond." The Boy sat watching the slow wet snow-flakes fall and die in the fire. His clothes were pretty damp, but he was warm after a chilly fashion, as warmth goes on the trail. The Colonel suddenly put his head out from under the marmot-skin to say discontentedly, "What you sittin' up for?" "Can't think how it is," the Colonel growled, "that you don't see that their principle is wrong. Through and through mediaeval, through and through despotic. They make a virtue of weakness, a fetich of vested authority. And it isn't American authority, either." "I said last night, you know," the Boy put in quite meekly, "that it all seemed very un-American." "Huh! Glad you can see that much." The Colonel drove his huge fist at the provision-bag, as though to beat the stiffnecked beans into a feathery yielding. "Blind submission don't come easy to most Americans. The Great Republic was built upon revolt;" and he pulled the covers over his head. "I know, I know. We jaw an awful lot about freedom and about what's American. There's plenty o' free speech in America and plenty o' machinery, but there's a great deal o' human nature, too, I guess." The Boy looked out of the corner of his eye at the blanketed back of his big friend. "And maybe there'll always be some people who--who think there's something in the New Testament notion o' sacrifice and service." The Colonel rolled like an angry leviathan, and came to the surface to blow. But the Boy dashed on, with a fearful joy in his own temerity. "The difference between us, Colonel, is that I'm an unbeliever, and I know it, and you're a cantankerous old heathen, and you _don't_ know it." The Colonel sat suddenly bolt upright. "Needn't look at me like that. You're as bad as anybody--rather worse. Why are you _here?_ Dazzled and lured by the great gold craze. An' you're not even poor. You want _more_ gold. You've got a home to stay in; but you weren't satisfied, not even in the fat lands down below." "Church of England can't manage it, hey?" "Church of England's got nothing to do with it. It's a question o' character. Satisfied! We're little enough, God knows, but we're too big for that." The Boy stood up, back to the fire, eyes on the hilltops whitening in the starlight. "Perhaps--not--all of us." The Colonel turned about, wagged his head defiantly at the icy hills and the night, and in the after-stillness fell sound asleep in the snow. THE GREAT WHITE SILENCE The Colonel made much of the pleasant and excellent man at the head of the Episcopal mission there, and the Boy haunted Benham's store, picking up a little Ingalik and the A. C. method of trading with the Indians, who, day and night, with a number of stranded Klondykers, congregated about the grateful warmth of the big iron stove. "Can't make fire with green cotton-wood," was the Colonel's rejoiner. "Then let's stop and rest, anyhow." "Nuh! We know where that would land us. Men who stop to rest, go to sleep in the snow, and men who go to sleep in the snow on empty stomachs don't wake up." They pushed on another mile. When the Colonel at last called the halt, the Boy sank down on the sled too exhausted to speak. But it had grown to be a practice with them not to trust themselves to talk at this hour. The Colonel would give the signal to stop, simply by ceasing to push the sled that the boy was wearily dragging. The Boy had invariably been feeling (just as the Colonel had before, during his shift in front) that the man behind wasn't helping all he might, whereupon followed a vague, consciously unreasonable, but wholly irresistible rage against the partner of his toil. But however much the man at the back was supposed to spare himself, the man in front had never yet failed to know when the impetus from behind was really removed. The Boy sat now on the sled, silent, motionless, while the Colonel felled and chopped and brought the wood. Then the Boy dragged himself up, made the fire and the beef-tea. But still no word even after that reviving cup--the usual signal for a few remarks and more social relations to be established. Tonight no sound out of either. The Colonel changed his footgear and the melted snow in the pot began to boil noisily. But the Boy, who had again betaken himself to the sled, didn't budge. No man who really knows the trail would have dared, under the circumstances, to remind his pardner that it was now his business to get up and fry the bacon. But presently, without looking up, the hungry Colonel ventured: "Get your dry things!" "Not wet," repeated the Boy. "Could go through water in these mucklucks." "I'm not saying the wet has come in from outside; but you know as well as I do a man sweats like a horse on the trail." Still the Boy sat there, with his head sunk between his shoulders. "No, no, old man. It isn't as bad as that." "I say, Kentucky, aren't you _ever_ goin' to get up?" "Get up?" said the Colonel. "Why should I, when it's pitch-dark?" "Fire clean out, eh?" But he smelt the tea and bacon, and sat up bewildered, with a hand over his smarting eyes. The Boy went over and knelt down by him, looking at him curiously. "Guess you're a little snow-blind, Colonel; but it won't last, you know." "No, no, only _snow_-blind. Big difference;" and he took out his rag of a handkerchief, got some water in a tin cup, and the eyes were bathed and bandaged. "It won't last, you know. You'll just have to take it easy for a few days." The Colonel groaned. Now, snow-blindness is not usually dangerous, but it is horribly painful while it lasts. Your eyes swell up and are stabbed continually by cutting pains; your head seems full of acute neuralgia, and often there is fever and other complications. The Colonel's was a bad case. But he was a giant for strength and "sound as a dollar," as the Boy reminded him, "except for this little bother with your eyes, and you're a whole heap better already." At a very slow rate they plodded along. "No, we can't," says the Boy; "there isn't a tree in sight." "Oh, no," says the Boy, a little frightened; "we'll camp the minute we come to wood." But the Colonel stood as if rooted. The Boy took his arm and led him on a few paces to the sled. "You needn't push hard, you know. Just keep your hand there so, without looking, you'll know where I'm going." This was very subtle of the Boy. For he knew the Colonel was blind as a bat and as sensitive as a woman. "We'll get through all right yet," he called back, as he stooped to take up the sledrope. "I bet on Kentucky." Like a man walking in his sleep, the Colonel followed, now holding on to the sled and unconsciously pulling a little, and when the Boy, very nearly on his last legs, remonstrated, leaning against it, and so urging it a little forward. Oh, but the wood was far to seek that night! "Ha! you haven't seen a wood like this since we left 'Frisco. It's all right now, Kentucky;" and he bent to his work with a will. When he got to the edge of the wood, he flung down the rope and turned--to find himself alone. "Colonel! Colonel! Where are you? _Colonel!_" He stood an instant after his voice died, and listened to the quiet. Yes, the people were right who said nothing was so hard to bear in this country of hardship--nothing ends by being so ghastly--as the silence. No bird stirs. The swift-flashing fish are sealed under ice, the wood creatures gone to their underground sleep. No whispering of the pointed firs, stiff, snowclotted; no swaying of the scant herbage sheathed in ice or muffled under winter's wide white blanket. No greater hush can reign in the interstellar spaces than in winter on the Yukon. Silence--like a negation of all puny things, friendship, human life- "Colonel!" Silence. No wonder men went mad up here, when they didn't drown this silence in strong drink. On and on he ran, till he felt sure he must have passed the Colonel, unless--yes, there were those air-holes in the river ice He felt choked and stopped to breathe. Should he go back? It was horrible to turn. It was like admitting that the man was not to be found--that this was the end. "Thank God! Colonel! Colonel! wake up!" At last, on there in front, the cliff! Below it, the sharp bend in the river, and although he couldn't see it yet, behind the cliff the forest, and a little hand-sled bearing the means of life. The Colonel was down again, but it wasn't safe to go near him just yet. The Boy ran on, unpacked the sled, and went, axe in hand, along the margin of the wood. Never before was a fire made so quickly. Then, with the flask, back to the Colonel, almost as sound asleep as before. The Boy never could recall much about the hours that followed. There was nobody to help, so it must have been he who somehow got the Colonel to the fire, got him to swallow some food, plastered his wounded face over with the carbolic ointment, and got him into bed, for in the morning all this was seen to have been done. They stayed in camp that day to "rest up," and the Boy shot a rabbit. The Colonel was coming round; the rest, or the ointment, or the tea-leaf poultice, had been good for snowblindness. The generous reserve of strength in his magnificent physique was quick to announce itself. He was still "frightfully bunged up," but "I think we'll push on to-morrow," he said that night, as he sat by the fire smoking before turning in. "Right you are!" said the Boy, who was mending the sled-runner. Neither had referred to that encounter on the river-ice, that had ended in bringing the Colonel where there was succour. Nothing was said, then or for long after, in the way of deliberate recognition that the Boy had saved his life. It wasn't necessary; they understood each other. But in the evening, after the Boy had finished mending the sled, it occurred to him he must also mend the Colonel before they went to bed. He got out the box of ointment and bespread the strips of torn handkerchief. "Don't know as I need that to-night," says the Colonel. "Musn't waste ointment." But the Boy brought the bandages round to the Colonel's side of the fire. For an instant they looked at each other by the flickering light, and the Colonel laid his hand on the Boy's arm. His eyes looked worse for the moment, and began to water. He turned away brusquely, and knocked the ashes out of his pipe on a log. "What in hell made you think of it?" "Jesuits and George Warren! Humph! precious little we'd agree about." "You would about this. It flashed over me when I looked back and saw you peltin' after me." "Small wonder I made for you! I'm not findin' fault, but what on earth put it into your head to go at me with your fists like that?" "You'll never prove it by me. But when I saw you comin' at me like a mad bull, I thought to myself, thinks I, the Colonel and the Jesuits, they'd both of 'em say this was a direct answer to prayer." An old story now, these days of silent plodding through the driving snow. But if outward conditions lacked variety, not so their cumulative effect upon poor human nature. A change was going on in the travellers that will little commend them to the sentimentalist. But it wasn't easy to see immediate need for either. Never was country so bare of game, they thought, not considering how little they hunted, and how more and more every faculty, every sense, was absorbed in the bare going forward. This was a new tone for the Boy to use to the Colonel. "A gun's a necessity. I haven't brought along any whim-whams." "Well, it wasn't me that went loadin' up at Anvik with fool thermometers and things." A morning came when the Colonel, packing hurriedly in the biting cold, forgot to shove his pardner's gun into its accustomed place. The Boy, returning from trail-breaking to the river, kicked at the butt to draw attention to the omission. The Colonel flung down the end of the ice-coated rope he had lashed the load with, and, "Pack it yourself," says he. The Boy let the rifle lie. But all day long he felt the loss of it heavy on his heart, and no reconciling lightness in the sled. "What!" ejaculated the Boy, aghast; then quickly, to keep a good face: "You take my life when you do take the beans, whereby I live." When the Colonel had disposed of his strawberries, "Lord!" he sighed, trying to rub the stiffness out of his hands over the smoke, "the appetite a fella can raise up here is something terrible. You eat and eat, and it doesn't seem to make any impression. You're just as hungry as ever." _"And the stuff a fella can eat!"_ By the time the rice and bacon were done, and the flap-jack, still raw in the middle, was burnt to charcoal on both sides, the Colonel's eyes were smarting, in the acrid smoke, and the tears were running down his cheeks. "Maybe you'll think the fire isn't thoroughly distributed, but _that's _got to do for bread," he remarked severely, as if in reply to some objection. The Boy saw that something he had said or looked had been misinterpreted. When the Colonel, mollified, said something about cinders in the rice, the Boy, with his mouth full of grit, answered: "I'm pretendin' it's sugar." Not since the episode of the abandoned rifle had he shown himself so genial. "And it's quantity, not quality." The Boy turned his head sharply away from the fire. "Hear that?" "You stay right where you are!" ordered the Colonel, quite in the old way. "That's a bird-song." "Seems a lot quieter than it did," observed the Colonel by-and-bye. Again in the distance that hollow baying. "Food, warmth, sleep," repeated the Colonel. "We've about got down to the wolf basis." "Took good care to hang on to his own shootin'-iron. Suppose anything should happen"; and he said it over and over. Now, it had long been understood that the woodman is lord of the wood. When it came to the Colonel's giving unasked advice about the lumber business, the Boy turned a deaf ear, and thought well of himself for not openly resenting the interference. "The Colonel talks an awful lot, anyway. He has more hot air to offer than muscle." When they sighted timber that commended itself to the woodman, if _he_ thought well of it, why, he just dropped the sled-rope without a word, pulled the axe out of the lashing, trudged up the hillside, holding the axe against his shirt underneath his parki, till he reached whatever tree his eye had marked for his own. Off with the fur mitt, and bare hand protected by the inner mitt of wool, he would feel the axe-head, for there was always the danger of using it so cold that the steel would chip and fly. As soon as he could be sure the proper molecular change had been effected, he would take up his awkward attitude before the selected spruce, leaning far forward on his snow-shoes, and seeming to deliver the blows on tip-toe. But the real trouble came when, after felling the dead tree, splitting an armful of fuel and carrying it to the Colonel, he returned to the task of cutting down the tough green spruce for their bedding. Many strained blows must be delivered before he could effect the chopping of even a little notch. Then he would shift his position and cut a corresponding notch further round, so making painful circuit of the bole. To-night, what with being held off by his snow-shoes, what with utter weariness and a dulled axe, he growled to himself that he was "only gnawin' a ring round the tree like a beaver!" But if it happens on a pitch-dark night, and your pardner has chosen camp out of earshot, you feel that you have looked close at the end of the Long Trail. And they ate in silence. "Now I'm going to bed," said the Boy, rising stiffly. "You just wait a minute." But the Colonel was angry. You can't move away in a sleeping-bag. In a city you may be alone, free. On the trail, you walk in bonds with your yoke-fellow, make your bed with him, with him rise up, and with him face the lash the livelong day. "Well," sighed the Colonel, after toiling onward for a couple of hours the next morning, "this is the worst yet." But by the middle of the afternoon, "What did I say? Why, this morning--_everything_ up till now has been child's play." He kept looking at the Boy to see if he could read any sign of halt in the tense, scarred face. "Wish I knew the way we _could_ go on," returned the Colonel, stopping with an air of utter helplessness, and forcing his rigid hands into his pockets. The Boy looked at him. The man of dignity and resource, who had been the boss of the Big Chimney Camp--what had become of him? Here was only a big, slouching creature, with ragged beard, smoke-blackened countenance, and eyes that wept continually. "Come on," said his equally ruffianly-looking pardner, "we'll both go ahead." "What's the matter now?" The Boy was too tired to turn his head round and look back, but he knew that the other man wasn't doing his share. He remembered that other time when the Colonel had fallen behind. It seemed years ago, and even further away was the vague recollection of how he'd cared. How horribly frightened he'd been! Wasn't he frightened now? No. It was only a dull curiosity that turned him round at last to see what it was that made the Colonel peg out this time. He was always peggin' out. Yes, there he was, stoppin' to stroke himself. Trail-man? An old woman! Fit only for the chimney-corner. And even when they went on again he kept saying to himself as he bent to the galling strain, "An old woman--just an old woman!" till he made a refrain of the words, and in the level places marched to the tune. After that, whatever else his vague thought went off upon, it came back to "An old woman--just an old woman!" It was at a bad place towards the end of that forced march that the Colonel, instead of lifting the back of the sled, bore hard on the handle-bar. With a vicious sound it snapped. The Boy turned heavily at the noise. When he saw the Colonel standing, dazed, with the splintered bar in his hand, his dull eyes flashed. With sudden vigour he ran back to see the extent of the damage. "Well, it's pretty discouragin'," says the Colonel very low. The Boy gritted his teeth with suppressed rage. It was only a chance that it hadn't happened when he himself was behind, but he couldn't see that. No; it was the Colonel's bungling--tryin' to spare himself; leanin' on the bar instead o' liftin' the sled, as he, the Boy, would have done. With stiff hands they tried to improvise a makeshift with a stick of birch and some string. "Don't know what you think," says the Colonel presently, "but I call this a desperate business we've undertaken." The Boy didn't trust himself to call it anything. With a bungled job they went lamely on. The loose snow was whirling about so, it was impossible to say whether it was still falling, or only hurricane-driven. To the Colonel's great indignation it was later than usual before they camped. "Lord! That's all there is." "But no! you knew so much better." "I thought I knew the more we took off the damn sled the lighter it'd be. 'Tisn't so." Now this was treason. Only that morning the Boy had gone a long way when mentally he called the boss of the Big Chimney Camp "an old woman." By night he was saying in his heart, "The Colonel's a fool." His pardner caught the look that matched the thought. When they crouched down again, with the damped-out fire between them, a sense of utter loneliness fell upon each man's heart. The next morning, when they came to digging the sled out of the last night's snow-drift, the Boy found to his horror that he was weaker--yes, a good deal. As they went on he kept stumbling. The Colonel fell every now and then. Sometimes he would lie still before he could pull himself on his legs again. Apart from partial snow-blindness, which fell at intervals upon the Colonel, the tiredness of the eyes was like a special sickness upon them both. For many hours together they never raised their lids, looking out through slits, cat-like, on the world. "You've got to have a face-guard. Those frostbites are eating in." "You ought to stop it. Make a guard." "Out of a snow-ball, or chunk o' ice?" "Cut a piece out o' the canvas o' the bag." But he didn't. The old habit of looking after the Boy died hard. The Colonel hesitated. For the last time he would remonstrate. "I used to think frost_bite_ was a figure o' speech," said he, "but the teeth were set in _your_ face, sonny, and they've bitten deep; they'll leave awful scars." The Colonel had come to that point where he resented the Boy's staying power, terrified at the indomitable young life in him. Yes, the Colonel began to feel old, and to think with vague wrath of the insolence of youth. Each man fell to considering what he would do, how he would manage if he were alone. And there ceased to be any terror in the thought. This obsession ended on the late afternoon when the Colonel broke silence by saying suddenly: "We must camp; I'm done." He flung himself down under a bare birch, and hid his face. The Boy remonstrated, grew angry; then, with a huge effort at self-control, pointed out that since it had stopped snowing this was the very moment to go on. But Arctic meteorological phenomena had long since ceased to interest the Kentuckian. Parhelia were less to him than covered eyes, and the perilous peace of the snow. It seemed a long time before he sat up, and began to beat the stiffness out of his hands against his breast. But when he spoke, it was only to say: "Till a team comes by--or something." As he took Mac's aneroid barometer out of his pocket, a sudden gust cut across his raw and bleeding cheek. He turned abruptly; the barometer slipped out of his numb fingers. He made a lunge to recover it, clutched the air, and, sliding suddenly forward, over he went, flying headlong down the steep escarpment. Then it was, that a great tide of longing swept over him--a flood of passionate desire for more of this doubtful blessing, life. All the bitter hardship--why, how sweet it was, after all, to battle and to overcome! It was only this lying helpless, trapped, that was evil. The endless Trail? Why, it was only the coming to the end that a man minded. Suddenly the beauty that for days had been veiled shone out. Nothing in all the earth was glorious with the glory of the terrible white North. And he had only just been wakened to it. Here, now, lying in his grave, had come this special revelation of the rapture of living, and the splendour of the visible universe. With a sharp contraction of the heart he shut his eyes again. When he opened them they rested on the alder-twig, a couple of yards above, holding out mocking finger-tips, and he turned his head in the snow till again he could see the mock-suns looking down. Crack, crack! warned the ice-crust between him and that long fall to the river. With horror at his heart he shrank away and hugged the face of the precipice. Presently he put out his hand and broke the ice-crust above. With mittened fists and palms he pounded firm a little ledge of snow. Reaching out further, he broke the crust obliquely just above, and having packed the snow as well as he could immediately about, and moving lengthwise with an infinite caution, he crawled up the few inches to the narrow ledge, balancing his stiff body with a nicety possible only to acrobat or sleep-walker. At last he was on the jutting rock, and could stand secure. But here he could see that the top of the bluff really did shelve over. To think so is so common an illusion to the climber that the Boy had heartened himself by saying, when he got there he would find it like the rest, horribly steep, but not impossible. Well, it _was_ impossible. After all his labour, he was no better off on the rock than in the snow-hole below the alder, down there where he dared not look. The sun and his dogs had travelled down, down. They touched the horizon while he sat there; they slipped below the world's wide rim. He said in his heart, "I'm freezing to death." Unexpectedly to himself his despair found voice: He started violently. Had he really heard that, or was imagination playing tricks with echo? A man's head appeared out of the sky. "Got the axe? Let her down." The night was bright with moonlight when the Boy stood again on the top of the bluff. "Humph!" says the Colonel, with agreeable anticipation; "you'll be glad to camp for a few days after this, I reckon." In spite of a sensation as of many broken bones, the Boy put on the Colonel's snow-shoes, and went off looking along the foot of the cliff for his own. No luck, but he brought back some birch-bark and a handful of willow-withes, and set about making a rude substitute. Before they had despatched breakfast the great red moon arose, so it was not morning, but evening. So much the better. The crust would be firmer. The moon was full; it was bright enough to travel, and travel they must. "No!" said the Colonel, with a touch of his old pompous authority, "we'll wait awhile." The Boy simply pointed to the flour-bag. There wasn't a good handful left. A mighty river-jam had forced them up on the low range of hills. It was about midnight to judge by the moon--clear of snow and the wind down. The Boy straightened up at a curious sight just below them. Something black in the moonlight. The Colonel paused, looked down, and passed his hand over his eyes. When he saw the Colonel stop and stare, he threw down his rope and began to laugh, for there below were the blackened remains of a big fire, silhouetted sharply on the snow. "Looks like we've come to a camp, Boss!" He hadn't called the Colonel by the old nickname for many a day. He stood there laughing in an idiotic kind of way, wrapping his stiff hands in his parki, Indian fashion, and looking down to the level of the ancient river terrace, where the weather-stained old Indian sled was sharply etched on the moonlit whiteness. Just a sled lying in the moonlight. But the change that can be wrought in a man's heart upon sight of a human sign! it may be idle to speak of that to any but those who have travelled the desolate ways of the North. "Indians!" said the Colonel. "Hello!" he called. No sound. Again: "Hello!" "Fiftee dolla." As the Colonel hesitated, the old fellow added: "Bohf eightee dolla." "Well, where's the other?" "Yes. Yes," he said angrily, "heap good dog." For answer, a head-shake, the outstretched hand, and the words, "Eightee dolla--tabak--tea." "Wait," interrupted the Boy, turning to the group of children; "where's the other dog?" The old man began to chatter angrily, and abuse the lad for introducing a rival on the scene. The strangers hailed the new-comer. "How much is your dog?" Peetka stopped, considered, studied the scene immediately before him, and then the distant prospect. "My dog--him Leader." After some further conversation, "Where is your dog?" demanded the Colonel. The new-comer whistled and called. After some waiting, and well-simulated anger on the part of the owner, along comes a dusky Siwash, thin, but keen-looking, and none too mild-tempered. The children all brightened and craned, as if a friend, or at least a highly interesting member of the community, had appeared on the scene. "Him bully," said the lad, and seemed about to pat him, but the Siwash snarled softly, raising his lip and showing his Gleaming fangs. The lad stepped back respectfully, but grinned, reiterating, "Bully dog." When the Leader looked at the Colonel with that indescribably horrid smile, the owner's approval of the proud beast seemed to overcome his avarice. "Me no sell," he decided abruptly, and walked off in lordly fashion with his dusky companion at his side, the Leader curling his feathery tail arc-like over his back, and walking with an air princes might envy. "But dogs are no good to us without something to feed 'em." "No, sir. To-day's the only day in my calendar. No buy dogs till we get fish." "Oh, beaten be blowed! We'll toddle along somehow." "Yes, we'll toddle along _if_ we get dogs." And the Boy knew the Colonel was right. They inquired about Kaltag. As it was late, and trading with the natives, even for a fish, was a matter of much time and patience, they decided not to hurry the dog deal. It was bound to take a good part of the evening, at any rate. Well, another night's resting up was welcome enough. The old fellow shook his head. "You cheechalko person, you look as if you're actually offering me that fish in good faith. But I'd be a fool to think so." The stranger spoke low and quietly. They talked for some time. The Leader came quite near, looking almost docile; but he snapped suddenly at the fish with an ugly gleam of eye and fang. The Boy nearly made the fatal mistake of jumping, but he controlled the impulse, and merely held tight to what was left of the salmon. He stood quite still, offering it with fair words. The Leader walked all round him, and seemed with difficulty to recover from his surprise. The Boy felt that they were just coming to an understanding, when up hurries Peetka, suspicious and out of sorts. _"My dog!"_ he shouted. "No sell white man my dog. Huh! ho--_oh_ no!" He kicked the Leader viciously, and drove him home, abusing him all the way. The wonder was that the wolfish creature didn't fly at his master's throat and finish him. "So would I," was the dry rejoinder, "if I were a millionaire like you." After supper, their host, who had been sent out to bring in the owner of Red and Spotty, came back saying, "He come. All come. Me tell--you from below Holy Cross!" He laughed and shook his head in a well-pantomimed incredulity, representing popular opinion outside. Some of the bucks, he added, who had not gone far, had got back with small game. "No. Dogs in the mountains. Hunt moose--caribou." The old Ingalik came in, followed by others. "Some" of the bucks? There seemed no end to the throng. Opposite the white men the Indians sat in a semicircle, with the sole intent, you might think, of staring all night at the strangers. Yet they had brought in Arctic hares and grouse, and even a haunch of venison. But they laid these things on the floor beside them, and sat with grave unbroken silence till the strangers should declare themselves. They had also brought, or permitted to follow, not only their wives and daughters, but their children, big and little. "Oh, if they worked together they'd be all right," answered the Boy. "I've noticed that before." But the Leader, meanwhile, was flatly refusing to stay in the same room with Red. He howled and snapped and raged. So poor Red was turned out, and the little boy mourned loudly. Anyhow, these men with their sack of tea and magnificent bundle of matches, above all with their tobacco--they could buy out the town--everything except Peetka's dog. By-and-by, in spite of the limited English of the community, certain facts stood out: that Peetka held the white man in avowed detestation, that he was the leading spirit of the place, that they had all been suffering from a tobacco famine, and that much might be done by a judicious use of Black Jack and Long Green. The Colonel set forth the magnificent generosity of which he would be capable, could he secure a good Leader. But Peetka, although he looked at his empty pipe with bitterness, shook his head. Everybody in the village would profit, the Colonel went on; everybody should have a present if- Peetka interrupted with a snarl, and flung out low words of contemptuous refusal. "Belly far," said a young hunter, placing ostentatiously in front his brace of grouse. "We're used to going belly far. Take all your game away, and go home." Peetka burst into voluble defence of his position. Casting occasional looks of disdain upon the strangers, he addressed most of his remarks to the owner of Red and Spotty. Although the Colonel could not understand a word, he saw the moment approaching when that person would go back on his bargain. With uncommon pleasure he could have throttled Peetka. "Where is him?" asked the Boy. The Boy held out his hand. "How do you do?" echoed the new-comer, and he also shook hands with the Colonel before he sat down. "Yes. How far you come?" Peetka said something rude, before the strangers had time to answer, and all the room went into titters. But Unookuk listened with dignity while the Colonel repeated briefly the story already told. Plainly it stumped Unookuk. "Come from Anvik?" he repeated. "Yes; stayed with Mr. Benham." "Oh, Benham!" The trader's familiar name ran round the room with obvious effect. "It is good to have A. C. Agent for friend," said Unookuk guardedly. "Everybody know Benham." "He is not A. C. Agent much longer," volunteered the Boy. "No; he will go 'on his own' after the new agent gets in this spring." "It was good you get to Holy Cross before the big storm," he said, with a faint smile of tolerance for the white man's tall story. But Peetka laughed aloud. "What good English you speak!" said the Boy, determined to make friends with the most intelligent-appearing native he had seen. "Me; I am Kurilla!" said Unookuk, with a quiet magnificence. Then, seeing no electric recognition of the name, he added: "You savvy Kurilla!" The Colonel with much regret admitted that he did not. "But I am Dall's guide--Kurilla." "Oh, Dall's guide, are you," said the Boy, without a glimmer of who Dall was, or for what, or to what, he was "guided." "Well, Kurilla, we're pleased and proud to meet you," adding with some presence of mind, "And how's Dall?" "It is long I have not hear. We both old now. I hurt my knee on the ice when I come down from Nulato for caribou." "Unookuk, Nulato name. My father big Nulato Shaman. Him killed, mother killed, everybody killed in Koyukuk massacre. They forget kill me. Me kid. Russians find Unookuk in big wood. Russians give food. I stay with Russians--them call Unookuk 'Kurilla.' Dall call Unookuk 'Kurilla.'" Fortunately the Boy was saved from need to answer. "Oh, wrote a book, didn't he? Name's familiar somehow," said the Colonel. Kurilla bore him out. "Of course. I've heard about that." The Colonel turned to the Boy. "It was just before the Russians sold out. And when a lot of exploring and surveying and pole-planting was done here and in Siberia, the Atlantic cable was laid and knocked the overland scheme sky-high." Kurilla gravely verified these facts. Kurilla looked at the Colonel with dignified reproach. Why did he go on lying about his journey like that to an expert? Peetka made remarks in Ingalik. "Father MacManus, him all right?" asked Kurilla, politely cloaking his cross-examination. "Oh yes! MacManus at Tanana." He spoke as though inadvertently he had confused the names. As the strangers gave him the winter's news from Holy Cross, his wonder and astonishment grew. Presently, "Do you know my friend Nicholas of Pymeut?" asked the Boy. Kurilla took his empty pipe out of his mouth and smiled in broad surprise. "Nicholas!" repeated several others. It was plain the Pymeut pilot enjoyed a wide repute. The Boy spoke of the famine and Ol' Chief's illness. When he lifted his head there was a rustle of expectation and a craning forward. "No liars. Sell dog," adding, with regretful eye on the apostate Leader, "Him bully dog!" And that was how the tobacco famine ended, and how the white men got their team. "Think how well they went for Peetka." Here, having at last come into the region of settlements, they agreed never again to overtax the dogs. They "travelled light" out of Nulato towards the Koyukuk. The dogs simply flew over those last miles. It was glorious going on a trail like glass. While the Colonel and the Boy were staking out this future stronghold of trade and civilisation it came on to snow; but "Can't last this time o' year," the Colonel consoled himself, and thanked God "the big, unending snows are over for this season." So they pushed on. But the Colonel seemed to have thanked God prematurely. Down the snow drifted, soft, sticky, unending. The evening was cloudy, and the snow increased the dimness overhead as well as the heaviness under foot. They never knew just where it was in the hours between dusk and dark that they lost the trail. The Boy believed it was at a certain steep incline that Nig did his best to rush down. "I thought he was at his tricks," said the Boy ruefully some hours after. "I believe I'm an ass, and Nig is a gentleman and a scholar. He knew perfectly what he was about." "Reckon we'll camp, pardner." "Reckon we might as well." After unharnessing the dogs, the Boy stood an instant looking enviously at them as he thawed out his stiff hands under his parki. Exhausted and smoking hot, the dogs had curled down in the snow as contented-looking as though on a hearth-rug before a fire, sheltering their sharp noses with their tails. "You don't need any shelter _now_," answered the Colonel. He might be too tired to answer the Colonel; he was seldom too tired to talk nonsense to Nig, never too tired to say, "Well, old boy," or even "Well, _pardner_," to the dumb brute. It was, perhaps, this that the Colonel disliked most of all. The Colonel preserved a reticent air. "You'll come to my way of thinking yet. The Indian dog--he's a daisy." "Yes, pulls you off your legs or pulls you the way you don't want to go." "Oh, that's when you rile him! He's just like any other American gentleman: he's got his feelin's. Ain't you got feelin's, Nig? Huh! rather. I tell you what, Colonel, many a time when I'm pretty well beat and ready to snap at anybody, I've looked at Nig peggin' away like a little man, on a rotten trail, with a blizzard in his eyes, and it's just made me sick after that to hear myself grumblin'. Yes, sir, the Indian dog is an example to any white man on the trail." The Boy seemed not to relinquish the hope of stirring the tired Colonel to enthusiasm. "Don't you like the way, after the worst sort of day, when you stop, he just drops down in the snow and rolls about a little to rest his muscles, and then lies there as patient as anything till you are ready to unharness him and feed him?" "When he doesn't howl all night." "Yes; when they were wolves and made us run instead of our making them. Make any fellow howl. Instead of carrying our food about we used to carry theirs, and run hard to keep from giving it up, too." "Nig's at it again," said the Colonel. "Give us your whip." "No," said the Boy; "I begin to see now why he stops and goes for Red like that. Hah! Spot's gettin it, too, this time. They haven't been pullin' properly. You just notice: if they aren't doin' their share Nig'll turn to every time and give 'em 'Hail, Columbia!' You'll see, when he's freshened 'em up a bit we'll have 'em on a dead run." The Boy laughed and cracked his whip. "They've got keen noses. _I_ don't smell the village this time. Come on, Nig, Spot's had enough; he's sorry, good and plenty. Cheer up, Spot! Fish, old man! You hear me talkin' to you, Red? _Fish!_ Caches full of it. Whoop!" and down they rushed, pell-mell, men and dogs tearing along like mad across the frozen river, and never slowing till it came to the stiff pull up the opposite bank. "Funny I don't hear any dogs," panted the Boy. They came out upon a place silent as the dead--a big deserted village, emptied by the plague, or, maybe, only by the winter; caches emptied, too; not a salmon, not a pike, not a lusk, not even a whitefish left behind. A bitter howling broke the stillness. The Boy came tearing up with a look that lifted the Colonel off the sled, and there was Nig trying to get away from the axe-head, his tongue frozen fast to the steel, and pulled horribly long out of his mouth like a little pink rope. The Boy had fallen upon the agonized beast, and forced him down close to the steel. Holding him there between his knees, he pulled off his outer mits and with hands and breath warmed the surface of the axe, speaking now and then to the dog, who howled wretchedly, but seemed to understand something was being done for him, since he gave up struggling. When at last the Boy got him free, the little horse pressed against his friend's legs with a strange new shuddering noise very pitiful to hear. "An' you say that dog hasn't got feelin's!" They hitched the team and pushed on. In the absence of a trail, the best they could do was to keep to the river ice. By-and-bye: "Can you see the river bank?" "I'm not sure," said the Boy. "I thought you were going it blind." "I believe I'd better let Nig have his head," said the Boy, stopping; "he's the dandy trail-finder. Nig, old man, I takes off my hat to you!" The next morning dawned clear and warm. The Colonel managed to get a little wood and started a fire. There were a few spoonfuls of meal in the bottom of the bag and a little end of bacon, mostly rind. The sort of soup the dogs had had yesterday was good enough for men to-day. The hot and watery brew gave them strength enough to strike camp and move on. The elder man began to say to himself that he would sell his life dearly. He looked at the dogs a good deal, and then would look at the Boy, but he could never catch his eye. At last: "They say, you know, that men in our fix have sometimes had to sacrifice a dog." "Ugh!" The Boy's face expressed nausea at the thought. "Yes, it is pretty revolting." "We could never do it." "N-no," said the Colonel. An hour or so later: "Better men than we," says the Colonel significantly, "have had to put their feelings in their pockets." As if he found the observation distinctly discouraging, Nig at this moment sat down in the melting snow, and no amount of "mushing" moved him. "Eh? What?" The Boy stared as if afraid his partner's brain had given way. "When the horses gave out they had to eat dogs, cats, rats even. Think of it--rats!" The men stood silent for a moment; then the Colonel remarked: "Me?" He looked up like a man who has been dreaming and is just awake. "Oh, I should say our friend Nig here has had to stand more than his share of the racket." "Poor old Nig!" said the Colonel, with a somewhat guilty air. "Look here: what do you say to seeing whether they can go if we help 'em with that load?" "Good for you, Colonel!" said the Boy, with confidence wonderfully restored. "I was just thinking the same." "Haven't you had about enough of this?" the Colonel sang out at dusk. "Pretty nearly," said the Boy in a rather weak voice. He flung off the pack, and sat on it. "Get up," says the Colonel; "give us the sleepin'-bag." When it was undone, the Norfolk jacket dropped out. He rolled it up against the sled, flung himself down, and heavily dropped his head on the rough pillow. But he sprang up. "What? Yes. By the Lord!" He thrust his hand into the capacious pocket of the jacket, and pulled out some broken ship's biscuit. "Hard tack, by the living Jingo!" He was up, had a few sticks alight, and the kettle on, and was melting snow to pour on the broken biscuit. "It swells, you know, like thunder!" The Boy was still sitting on the bundle of "trade" tea and tobacco. He seemed not to hear; he seemed not to see the Colonel, shakily hovering about the fire, pushing aside the green wood and adding a few sticks of dry. There was a mist before the Colonel's eyes. Reaching after a bit of seasoned spruce, he stumbled, and unconsciously set his foot on Nig's bleeding paw. The dog let out a yell and flew at him. The Colonel fell back with an oath, picked up a stick, and laid it on. The Boy was on his feet in a flash. "Here! stop that!" He jumped in between the infuriated man and the infuriated dog. "Stand back!" roared the Colonel. "Stand back, damn you! or you'll get hurt." The stick would have fallen on the Boy; he dodged it, calling excitedly, "Come here, Nig! Here!" "Oh yes," the Boy's voice rang passionately out of the gloom, "I know you want him killed." "Good old Nig! You feel lonesome, too?" He gathered the rough beast up closer to him. Just then the Colonel called, "Nig!" "Sh! sh! Lie quiet!" whispered the Boy. "Nig!" and the treacherous Colonel gave the peculiar whistle both men used to call the dogs to supper. The dog struggled to get away, the Boy's stiff fingers lost their grip, and "the best leader in the Yukon" was running down the bank as hard as he could pelt, to the camp fire--to the cooking-pot. The Boy got up and floundered away in the opposite direction. He must get out of hearing. He toiled on, listening for the expected gunshot--hearing it, too, and the yawp of a wounded dog, in spite of a mitten clapped at each ear. He dashed into the circle of firelight, and beheld Nig standing with a bandaged paw, placidly eating softened biscuit out of the family frying-pan. In the biggest of the huts, nearly full of men, women, and children, coughing, sickly-looking, dejected, the natives made room for the strangers. When the white men had supped they handed over the remains of their meal (as is expected) to the head of the house. This and a few matches or a little tobacco on parting, is all he looks for in return for shelter, room for beds on the floor, snow-water laboriously melted, use of the fire, and as much wood as they like to burn, even if it is a barren place, and fuel is the precious far-travelled "drift." [Footnote: Siwash, corruption of French-Canadian _sauvage_, applied all over the North to the natives, their possessions and their customs.] Nothing would have seemed stranger now, or more inhuman, than the civilized point of view. The Colonel and the Boy had flung themselves down on top of their sleeping-bag, fed and warmed and comforted. Only the old squaw was still up. She had been looking over the travellers' boots and "mitts," and now, without a word or even a look being exchanged upon the subject, she sat there in the corner, by the dim, seal-oil light, sewing on new thongs, patching up holes, and making the strange men tidy--men she had never seen before and would never see again. And this, no tribute to the Colonel's generosity or the youth and friendly manners of the Boy. They knew the old squaw would have done just the same had the mucklucks and the mitts belonged to "the tramp of the Yukon," with nothing to barter and not a cent in his pocket. This, again, is a Siwash custom. The old squaw coughed and wiped her eyes. The children coughed in their sleep. The dogs outside were howling like human beings put to torture. But the sound no longer had power to freeze the blood of the trail-men. The Colonel merely damned them. The Boy lifted his head, and listened for Nig's note. The battle raged nearer; a great scampering went by the tent. A scuffling and snuffing round the bottom of the tent. The Boy, on a sudden impulse, reached out and lifted the flap. "Got your bandage on? Come here." "Lord! I should think you'd be glad to lie down. _I_ am. Let's see your paw. Here, come over to the light." He stepped very carefully over the feet of the other inhabitants till he reached the old woman's corner. Nig, following calmly, walked on prostrate bodies till he reached his friend. "Now, your paw, pardner. F-ith! Bad, ain't it?" he appealed to the toothless squaw. Her best friend could not have said her wizened regard was exactly sympathetic, but it was attentive. She seemed intelligent as well as kind. She nodded at last, and made a queer wheezy sound, whether friendly laughing or pure scorn, the Boy wasn't sure. But she set about the task. "Come 'long, Nig," he whispered. "You just see if I don't shoe my little horse." And he sneaked back to bed, comfortable in the assurance that the Colonel was asleep. Nig came walking after his friend straight over people's heads. "You black devil!" admonished the Boy under his breath. "Look what you're about. Come here, sir." He pushed the devil down between the sleeping-bag and the nearest baby. The Colonel gave a distinct grunt of disapproval, and then, "Keepin' that brute in here?" "Right," said the Colonel with conviction. His pardner was instantly mollified. "If you wake another baby, you'll get a lickin'," he said genially to the dog; and then he stretched out his feet till they reached Nig's back, and a feeling of great comfort came over the Boy. "Say, Colonel," he yawned luxuriously, "did you know that--a--to-night--when Nig flared up, did you know you'd trodden on his paw?" "Didn't know it till you told me," growled the Colonel. "I thought you didn't. Makes a difference, doesn't it?" "You needn't think," says the Colonel a little defiantly, "that I've weakened on the main point just because I choose to give Nig a few cracker crumbs. If it's a question between a man's life and a dog's life, only a sentimental fool would hesitate." "I'm not talking about that; we can get fish now. What I'm pointin' out is that Nig didn't fly at you for nothin'." "He's got a devil of a temper, that dog." "It's just like Nicholas of Pymeut said." The Boy sat up, eager in his advocacy and earnest as a judge. "Nicholas of Pymeut said: 'You treat a Siwash like a heathen, and he'll show you what a hell of a heathen he can be.'" "I'm goin', Colonel." It was a great moment. "Shake, pardner," said the Boy. The Colonel and he grasped hands. Only towering good spirits prevented their being haughty, for they felt like conquerors, and cared not a jot that they looked like gaol-birds. "Hello!" said a middle-aged man in mackinaws, smoking near the door-end of the bar. "Hello! Is Blandford Keith here? There are some letters for him." "Say, boys!" the man in mackinaws shouted above the pianola, "Windy Jim's got in with the mail." The miners lounging at the bar and sitting at the faro-tables looked up laughing, and seeing the strangers through the smoke-haze, stopped laughing to stare. "No, t'other way about. Up from the Lower River." "Oh! May West or Muckluck crew? Anyhow, I guess you got a thirst on you," said the man in the mackinaws. "Come and licker up." The bartender mixed the drinks in style, shooting the liquor from a height into the small gin-sling glasses with the dexterity that had made him famous. When their tired eyes had got accustomed to the mingled smoke and glare, the travellers could see that in the space beyond the card tables, in those back regions where the pianola reigned, there were several couples twirling about--the clumsily-dressed miners pirouetting with an astonishing lightness on their moccasined feet. And women! White women! They stopped dancing and came forward to see the new arrivals. The mackinaw man was congratulating the Colonel on "gettin' back to civilization." "See that plate-glass mirror?" He pointed behind the bar, below the moose antlers. "See them ladies? You've got to a place where you can rake in the dust all day, and dance all night, and go buckin' the tiger between whiles. Great place, Minook. Here's luck!" He took up the last of the gin slings set in a row before the party. "Have you got some property here?" asked the Boy. "We've heard some bad accounts of these diggin's," said the Colonel. "I ain't sayin' there's millions for _every_body. You've got to get the inside track. See that feller talkin' to the girl? Billy Nebrasky tipped him the wink in time to git the inside track, just before the Fall Stampede up the gulch." "Then there _is_ gold about here?" She laughed. "Guess he ain't been here long." "Minook's all right. No josh about that," she said, setting down her glass. Then to the Boy, "Have a dance?" Maudie laid her hand on the Colonel's arm, and the diamond twitched the light. "_You_ will," she said. She laughed good-naturedly. "Pity you're tired," said the mackinaw man. "There's a pretty good thing goin' just now, but it won't be goin' long." The Boy turned his head round again with reviving interest in his own group. "Look here, Si," Maudie was saying: "if you want to let a lay on your new claim to _anybody_, mind it's got to be me." But the mackinaw man was glancing speculatively over at another group. In haste to forestall desertion, the Boy inquired: "Do you know of anything good that isn't staked yet?" "Well, mebbe I don't--and mebbe I do." Then, as if to prove that he wasn't overanxious to pursue the subject: "Say, Maudie, ain't that French Charlie over there?" Maudie put her small nose in the air. "Ain't you made it up with Charlie yet?'" "Then we'll have another drink all round." The pianola picked out a polka. The man Si McGinty had called French Charlie came up behind the girl and said something. She shook her head, turned on her heel, and began circling about in the narrow space till she found another partner, French Charlie scowling after them, as they whirled away between the faro-tables back into the smoke and music at the rear. McGinty was watching Jimmie, the man at the gold scales, pinch up some of the excess dust in the scale-pan and toss it back into the brass blower. "Where did that gold come from?" asked the Colonel. "Off a claim o' mine"; and he lapsed into silence. You are always told these fellows are so anxious to rope in strangers. This man didn't seem to be. It made him very interesting. The Boy acted strictly on the woman's hint, and kept an eye on the person who had a sure thing up on Glory Hallelujah. But when the lucky man next opened his mouth it was to say: "Why, there's Butts down from Circle City." "Butts?" repeated the Boy, with little affectation of interest. "Yep. Wonder what the son of a gun is after here." But he spoke genially, even with respect. "Butts? Ah--well--a--Butts is the smartest fellow with his fingers in all 'laska"; and McGinty showed his big yellow teeth in an appreciative smile. "Smart at washin' gold out?" "Smarter at pickin' it out." The bartender joined in Si's laugh as that gentleman repeated, "Yes, sir! handiest feller with his fingers I ever seen." "What does he do with his fingers?" asked the Boy, with impatient suspicion. "Well, he don't dare do much with 'em up here. 'Tain't popular." "Butts's little game. But Lord! he is good at it." Butts had been introduced as a stalking-horse, but there was no doubt about Si's admiration of his "handiness." "Butts is wasted up here," he sighed. "There's some chance for a murderer in Alaska, but a thief's a goner." "Poor old Butts! Bright feller, too." "I tell you, sir, Butts is brains to his boots. Course you know Jack McQuestion?" "Guess not," said the bartender. "How far out are the diggin's?" "Oh--a--my gulch ain't fur." There was a noise about the door. Someone bustled in with a torrent of talk, and the pianola was drowned in a pandemonium of shouts and laughter. "Windy Jim's reely got back!" Everybody crowded forward. Maudie was at the Colonel's elbow explaining that the little yellow-bearded man with the red nose was the letter-carrier. He had made a contract early in the winter to go to Dawson and bring down the mail for Minook. His agreement was to make the round trip and be back by the middle of February. Since early March the standing gag in the camp had been: "Well, Windy Jim got in last night." "Got anything fur--what's yer names?" says the mackinaw man, who seemed to have adopted the Colonel and the Boy. He presented them without embarrassment to "Windy Jim Wilson, of Hog'em Junction, the best trail mail-carrier in the 'nited States." Those who had already got letters were gathered in groups under the bracket-lights reading eagerly. In the midst of the lull of satisfaction or expectancy someone cried out in disgust, and another threw down a letter with a shower of objurgation. "Guess you got the mate to mine, Bonsor," said a bystander with a laugh, slowly tearing up the communication he had opened with fingers so eager that they shook. "You pay a dollar apiece for letters from folks you never heard of, asking you what you think of the country, and whether you'd advise 'em to come out." "Huh! don't I wish they would!" "It's all right. _They will._" "And then trust Bonsor to git even." "What makes you so polite to that dance-hall girl?" muttered the Boy aside. "She's no good." "Reckon it won't make her any better for me to be impolite to her," returned the Colonel calmly. But finding she could not detach the Kentuckian from his pardner, Maudie bestowed her attention elsewhere. French Charlie was leaning back against the wall, his hands jammed in his pockets, and his big slouch-hat pulled over his brows. Under the shadow of the wide brim furtively he watched the girl. Another woman came up and asked him to dance. He shook his head. "Reckon we'd better go and knock up Blandford Keith and get a bed," suggested the Boy regretfully, looking round for the man who had a cinch up on Glory Hallelujah, and wouldn't tell you how to get there. "Reckon we'd better," agreed the Colonel. But they halted near Windy Jim, who was refreshing himself, and at the same time telling Dawson news, or Dawson lies, as the company evidently thought. And still the men crowded round, listening greedily, just as everybody devours certain public prints without ceasing to impeach their veracity. Lacking newspapers at which to pish! and pshaw! they listened to Windy Jim, disbelieving the only unvarnished tale that gentleman had ever told. For Windy, with the story-teller's instinct, knew marvellous enough would sound the bare recital of those awful Dawson days when the unprecedented early winter stopped the provision boats at Circle, and starvation stared the over-populated Klondyke in the face. "Yes, sir," McGinty had explained, "we Minook boys was all in that picnic. But we give our bond to pay up at mid-summer, and after the fun was over we dropped down here." But too many of these men had put everything they had on earth into getting here; too many had abandoned costly outfits on the awful Pass, or in the boiling eddies of the White Horse Rapids, paying any price in money or in pain to get to the goldfields before navigation closed. And now! here was Hansen, with all the authority of the A. C., shouting wildly: "Quick, quick! go up or down. It's a race for life!" "Lord! it was better, after all, at the Big Chimney." But no matter what befell at Dawson, business must be kept brisk at Minook. The pianola started up, and Buckin' Billy, who called the dances, began to bawl invitations to the company to come and waltz. Windy interrupted his own music for further refreshment, pausing an instant, with his mouth full of dried-apple pie to say: "Congress has sent out a relief expedition to Dawson." "Haw, haw! Good old Congress!" "Well, did you find any o' them reindeer doin' any relievin' round Dawson?" "Naw! What do _you_ think? Takes more'n Congress to git over the Dalton Trail"; and Windy returned to his pie. Talking earnestly with Mr. Butts, French Charlie pushed heavily past the Boy on his way to the bar. From his gait it was clear that he had made many similar visits that evening. In his thick Canadian accent Charlie was saying: He came up with her presently and ordered some wine. "Wine, b-gosh!" muttered Charlie in drunken appreciation, propping himself against the wall again, and always slipping sideways. "Y' tink he's d' fines' sor' fella, don't you? Hein? Wai' 'n see!" "Weigh out twen' dollars dis gen'man," he ordered. Charlie straightened up and grinned, almost sobered in excess of joy and satisfied revenge. The Woodworth gentleman is searched and presently exonerated. Everybody is told of the loss, every nook and corner investigated. Maudie goes down on hands and knees, even creeping behind the bar. "I know'd she go on somethin' awful," said Charlie, so gleefully that Bonsor, the proprietor of the Gold Nugget, began to look upon him with suspicion. When Maudie reappeared, flushed, and with disordered hair, after her excursion under the counter, French Charlie confronted her. "Reward! A healthy lot o' good that would do." He hammered on the bar. "Dat look anyt'in' like it?" She looked the gratitude she could not on the instant speak. In the midst of the noise and movement the mackinaw man said to the Boy: "Don't know as you'd care to see my new prospect hole?" "Course I'd like to see it." The Boy could have hugged that mackinaw man. Outside it was broad day, but still the Gold Nugget lights were flaring and the pianola played. "That's the pup where my claim is." "Little creek; call 'em pups here." Down in the desolate hollow a ragged A tent, sagged away from the prevailing wind. Inside, they found that the canvas was a mere shelter over a prospect hole. A rusty stove was almost buried by the heap of earth and gravel thrown up from a pit several feet deep. "This is a winter diggins y' see," observed the mackinaw man with pride. "It's only while the ground is froze solid you can do this kind o' minin'. I've had to burn the ground clean down to bed-rock. Yes, sir, thawed my way inch by inch to the old channel." "Well, and what have you found?" "S'pose we pan some o' this dirt and see." The Colonel and the Boy took turns. They were much longer at it than they ever were again, but the mackinaw man seemed not in the least hurry. The impatience was all theirs. When they had got down to fine sand, "Look!" screamed the Boy. "By the Lord!" said the Colonel softly. "Looks like you got some colours there. Gosh! Then I ain't been dreamin' after all." "Hey? Dreamin'? What? Look! Look!" "That's why I brought you gen'l'men out," says the mackinaw man. "I was afraid to trust my senses--thought I was gettin' wheels in my head." "Lord! look at the gold!" "Oh, that's all right," said the mackinaw man, with an air of princely generosity. "And I don't mind if you like to let in a few of your particular pals, if you'll agree to help me organise a district. An' I'll do the recordin' fur ye." "Oh!" laughed the mackinaw man, "_that's_ all right," and indifferently he tucked the bills into his baggy trousers. "Fact is, it's kind of upsettin' to find it so rich here." "Give you leave to upset me that way all day." "Y' see, I bought another claim over yonder where I done a lot o' work last summer and fall. Built a cabin and put up a sluice. I _got_ to be up there soon as the ice goes out. Don't see how I got time to do my assessment here too. Wish I was twins." "Why don't you sell this?" "Guess I'll have to part with a share in it." He sighed and looked lovingly into the hole. "Minin's an awful gamble," he said, as though admonishing Si McGinty; "but we _know_ there's gold just there." The Colonel and the Boy looked at their claims and felt the pinch of uncertainty. "What do you want for a share in your claim, Mr. McGinty?" Not until Glory Hallelujah Gulch was a full-fledged mining district did Minook in general know what was in the wind. The next day the news was all over camp. "How do you know it's for me?" "She said it was for the Big Chap," answered Blandford Keith. So he had stayed away, having plenty to occupy him in helping to organise the new district. He was strolling past the saloon the morning after the Secret Meeting, when down into the street, like a kingfisher into a stream, Maudie darted, and held up the Colonel. "Ain't you had my letter?" "Oh--a--yes--but I've been busy." "Guess so!" she said with undisguised scorn. "Where's Si McGinty?" "Reckon he's out at the gulch. I've got to go down to the A. C. now and buy some grub to take out." He was moving on. "Take where?" She followed him up. "To McGinty's gulch." "Why, to live on, while my pardner and I do the assessment work." "Then it's true! McGinty's been fillin' you full o' guff." The Colonel looked at her a little haughtily. She chaffed the bartender, and leaned idly against the counter. When a group of returned stampeders came in, she sat down at a rough little faro-table, leaned her elbows on it, sipped the rest of the stuff in her tumbler through a straw, and in the shelter of her arms set the straw in a knot-hole near the table-leg, and spirited the bad liquor down under the board. "Don't give me away," she said. The Colonel knew she got a commission on the drinks, and was there to bring custom. He nodded. "Tellin" you a ghost story." The Colonel pulled up his great figure with some pomposity. "I don't understand." "Any feller can see that. You're just the kind the McGintys are layin' for." She looked round to see that nobody was within earshot. "Si's been layin' round all winter waitin' for the spring crop o' suckers." He paused. She, sweeping the Gold Nugget with vigilant eye, went on in a voice of indulgent contempt. The Colonel moved uneasily, but faith with him died hard. Maudie made a low sound of impatience, and pushed her empty glass aside. Her jaw fell as she saw the Colonel's expression. "He's got you too!" she exclaimed. "Well, didn't you say yourself that night you'd be glad if McGinty'd let you a lay?" "Pshaw! I was only givin' you a song and dance. Not you neither, but that pardner o' yours. I thought I'd learn that young man a lesson. But I didn't know you'd get flim-flammed out o' your boots. Thought you looked like you got some sense." Unmoved by the Colonel's aspect of offended dignity, faintly dashed with doubt, she hurried on: "Before you go shellin' out any more cash, or haulin' stuff to Glory Hallelujah, just you go down that prospect hole o' McGinty's when McGinty ain't there, and see how many colours you can ketch." The Colonel looked at her. She stuck her nose in the air, and waved her hand to French Charlie, who had just then opened the door and put his head in. He came straight over to her, and she made room for him on the bench. The Colonel stayed in Minook till the recording was all done, and McGinty got tired of living on flap-jacks at the gulch. The night McGinty arrived in town the Colonel, not even taking the Boy into his confidence, hitched up and departed for the new district. He came back the next day a sadder and a wiser man. They had been sold. McGinty was quick to gather that someone must have given him away. It had only been a question of time, after all. He had lined his pockets, and could take the new turn in his affairs with equanimity. "Wait till the steamers begin to run," Maudie said; "McGinty'll play that game with every new boat-load. Oh, McGinty'll make another fortune. Then he'll go to Dawson and blow it in. Well, Colonel, sorry you ain't cultivatin' rheumatism in a damp hole up at Glory Hallelujah?" She cut him short. "You see you've got time now to look about you for something really good, if there _is_ anything outside of Little Minook." "No it wasn't," she said shortly. "Oh, I don't want that." "You've done me a very good turn; saved me a lot of time and expense." "Where do you come from?" he asked suddenly. "'Frisco. I was in the chorus at the Alcazar." "What made you go into the chorus?" "Got tired o' life on a sheep-ranch. All work and no play. Never saw a soul. Seen plenty since." "Got any people belonging to you?" "Got a kind of a husband." "A kind of a husband?" "Yes--the kind you'd give away with a pound o' tea." The little face, full of humourous contempt and shrewd scorn, sobered; she flung a black look round the saloon, and her eyes came back to the Colonel's face. They had heard a great deal about the dark, keen-looking young Oregon lawyer, for Salaman was the most envied man in Minook. "Come over to my dump and get some nuggets," says Mr. Salaman, as in other parts of the world a man will say, "Come into the smoking-room and have a cigar." The snow was melted from the top of Salaman's dump, and his guests had no difficulty in picking several rough little bits of gold out of the thawing gravel. It was an exhilarating occupation. "Come down my shaft and see my cross-cuts"; and they followed him. He pointed out how the frozen gravel made solid wall, or pillar, and no curbing was necessary. With the aid of a candle and their host's urging, they picked out several dollars' worth of coarse gold from the gravel "in place" at the edge of the bed-rock. When he had got his guests thoroughly warmed up: "I'm surprised to hear _you_ talking like that, sah." "Well, your ground was worth looking after, and John Dillon's. Which is his claim?" "Oh, yes, Dillon and I, and a few others, have come out of it all right, but Lord! it's a gamble." Dillon's pardner, Kennedy, did the honours, showing the Big Chimney men the very shaft out of which their Christmas heap of gold had been hoisted. It was true after all. For the favoured there _was_ "plenty o' gold--plenty o' gold." "And how much have they taken out?" With index-finger and thumb Salaman made an "O," and looked shrewdly through it. "It's an awful gamble," he repeated solemnly. "It doesn't seem possible there's _nothing_ left," reiterated the Boy, incredulous of such evil luck. "Oh, I'm not saying you may not make something by getting on some other fellow's property, if you've a mind to pay for it. But you'd better not take anything on trust. I wouldn't trust my own mother in Alaska. Something in the air here that breeds lies. You can't believe anybody, yourself included." He laughed, stooped, and picked a little nugget out of the dump. "You'll have the same man tell you an entirely different story about the same matter within an hour. Exaggeration is in the air. The best man becomes infected. You lie, he lies, they all lie. Lots of people go crazy in Alaska every year--various causes, but it's chiefly from believing their own lies." They returned to Rampart. "Well," said the Colonel in the morning, "we've got to live somehow till the ice goes out." The Boy sat thinking. The Colonel went on: "And we can't go to Dawson cleaned out. No tellin' whether there are any proper banks there or whether my Louisville instructions got through. Of course, we've got the dogs yet." "Don't care how soon we sell Red and Spot." After breakfast the Boy tied Nig up securely behind Keith's shack, and followed the Colonel about with a harassed and watchful air. But the next day a man, very splashed and muddy, and obviously just in from the gulches, stopped, in going by Keith's, and looked at Nig. "Dog market's down," quoted the Boy internally to hearten himself. "That mahlemeut's for sale," observed the Colonel to the stranger. "These are." The Boy hastily dragged Red and Spot upon the scene. The man laughed. "Ain't you heard the dog season's over?" "Well, don't you count on livin' to the next?" The man pushed his slouch over his eyes and scratched the back of his head. "Unless I can git 'em reasonable, dogs ain't worth feedin' till next winter." "I suppose not," said the Boy sympathetically; "and you can't get fish here." "Guess you'll get tired o' that." The Colonel had untied Nig, and the Leader, unmindful of the impending change in his fortunes, dashed past the muddy man from the gulch with such impetuosity that he knocked that gentleman off his legs. He picked himself up scowling, and was feeling for his gold sack. The stranger was very angry at this new turn in the dog deal. He had seen that Siwash out at the gulch, heard he was for sale, and came in "a purpose to git him." "The dog season's over," said the Boy, pulling Nig's ears and smiling. "Oh, _is_ it? Well, the season for eatin' meals ain't over. How'm I to git grub out to my claim without a dog?" "We are offerin' you a couple o' capital draught dogs." The big Colonel stepped in and tried to soothe the stranger, as well as to convince him that this was not the party to try bullying on. "I ain't sellin' dogs." "Can't you see I _mean_ it? I'm goin' to keep that dog--awhile." "S'pose you think you'll make a good thing o' hirin' him out?" He hadn't thought of it, but he said: "Why not? Best dog in the Yukon." "How much'll you give?" "Everything's at a standstill." "Just keepin' body and soul together myself till the boats come in." They splashed out to the gulch on the same errand. "Should think it was pretty thorough without any waitin'." Salaman shook his head. "Only in the town and tundra. The frost holds on to the deep gulch gravel like grim death. And the diggin's were already full of men ready to work for their keep-at least, they say so," Salaman added. "Die Menchen suchen und suchen, wollen immer was Besseres finden Gott geb' ihnen nur Geduld!" Men in the Gold Nugget were talking about some claims, staked and recorded in due form, but on which the statutory work had not been done. "They're jumpable at midnight." French Charlie invited the Boy to go along, but neither he nor the Colonel felt enthusiastic. "They're no good, those claims, except to sell to some sucker, and we're not in that business _yet_, sah." "So if work does turn up we won't have to worry about usin' up his firin'." In the chill of the next evening they were cording the results of the day's chopping, when Maudie, in fur coat, skirts to the knee, and high rubber boots, appeared behind Keith's shack. Without deigning to notice the Boy, "Ain't seen you all day," says she to the Colonel. "Busy," he replied, scarcely looking up. "Did you do any jumpin' last night?" "_That's_ all right." She seated herself with satisfaction on a log. She looked at the Boy impudently, as much as to say, "When that blot on the landscape is removed, I'll tell you something." The Boy had not the smallest intention of removing the blot. Grudgingly he admitted to himself that, away from the unsavory atmosphere of the Gold Nugget, there was nothing in Maudie positively offensive. At this moment, with her shrewd little face peering pertly out from her parki-hood, she looked more than ever like an audacious child, or like some strange, new little Arctic animal with a whimsical human air. "Look here, Colonel," she said presently, either despairing of getting rid of the Boy or ceasing to care about it: "you got to get a wiggle on to-morrow." The Kentuckian nodded. But she winked her blue eyes suspiciously at the Boy. "Oh, _he's_ all right." "Well, you been down to Little Minook, ain't you?" "That's what everybody'd like to know." "Then let 'em ask Pitcairn." "What's Pitcairn say?" She got up briskly, moved to another log almost at the Colonel's feet, and sat looking at him a moment as if making up her mind about something serious. The Colonel stood, fists at his sides, arrested by that name Pitcairn. "You know Pitcairn's the best all-round man we got here," she asserted rather than asked. "He's an Idaho miner, Pitcairn is!" "And above the pup, on the right, there's a bed of gravel." "Couldn't see much of that for the snow." "Well, sir, that bed o' gravel's an old channel." "Well, well! Good Lord! Hey, Boy, what we goin' to do?" She came up very brisk and businesslike. To their good-mornings she only nodded in a funny, preoccupied way, never opening her lips. "Charlie gone on?" inquired the Colonel presently. She shook her head. "Knocked out." "No; ran a race to Hunter." "To jump that claim?" "It's got out," she exploded indignantly. "They're comin', too!" She turned, flew down the steep incline, and then settled into a steady, determined gait, that made her gain on the men who had got so long a start. Her late companions stood looking back in sheer amazement, for the town end of the trail was black with figures. The Boy began to laugh. "Look! if there isn't old Jansen and his squaw wife." The Colonel and the Boy hurried after Maudie. It was some minutes before they caught up. The Boy, feeling that he couldn't be stand-offish in the very act of profiting by her acquaintance, began to tell her about the crippled but undaunted Swede. She made no answer, just trotted steadily on. The Boy hazarded another remark--an opinion that she was making uncommon good time for a woman. "You'll want all the wind you got before you get back," she said shortly, and silence fell on the stampeders. Some of the young men behind were catching up. Maudie set her mouth very firm and quickened her pace. This spectacle touched up those that followed; they broke into a canter, floundered in a drift, recovered, and passed on. Maudie pulled up. The sun was hotter, the surface less good. She loosened her shoulder-straps, released her snow-shoes, and put them on. As she tightened her little pack the ex-Governor came puffing up with apoplectic face. "Why, she can throw the diamond hitch!" he gasped with admiration. "S'pose you thought the squaw hitch would be good enough for me." "Well, it is for me," he laughed breathlessly. "That's 'cause you're an ex-Governor"; and steadily she tramped along. Maudie wasted not a syllable. Her mouth began to look drawn. There were violet shadows under the straight-looking eyes. "Come on, Colonel!" she commanded, with a new sharpness. "Keep up your lick." But the Colonel had had about enough of this gait. From now on he fell more and more behind. But the Boy was with her neck and neck. "Guess you're goin' to get there." Some men behind them began to run. They passed. They had pulled off their parkis, and left them where they fell. They threw off their caps now, and the sweat rolled down their faces. Not a countenance but wore that immobile look, the fixed, unseeing eye of the spent runner, who is overtaxing heart and lungs. Not only Maudie now, but everyone was silent. Occasionally a man would rouse himself out of a walk, as if out of sleep, and run a few yards, going the more weakly after. Several of the men who had been behind caught up. If Maudie wondered, she wasted no time over the speculation. For his own good she had admonished him to keep up his lick, but of course the main thing was that Maudie should keep up hers. Not much use, in her opinion, "except that with gold, it's where you find it, and that's all any man can tell you." "Hold on!" said the spokesman hurriedly. "Can't you take a joke?" "No; this ain't my day for jokin'. You want to put them stakes o' mine back." She stood on guard till it was done. "And now I'd advise you, like a mother, to back-track home. You'll find this climate very tryin' to your health." Suddenly she saw the Big Chap turn away, and, with his back to her, pretend to read the notice on the wall, written in charcoal on a great sheet of brown wrapping-paper: "To who it may concern: He had read so far when Maudie, having jumped down off the bar with her fists full of nuggets, and dodging her admirers, wormed her way to the Colonel. She thrust her small person in between the notice and the reader, and scrutinised the tanned face, on which the Rochester burners shed a flood of light. "You lookin' mighty serious," she said. "M-hm! Thinkin' 'bout home sweet home?" "N-no--not just then." He seemed not to know the answer to that, and pulled at his ragged beard. She leaned back against McGinty's notice, and blurred still more the smudged intention "by virtue of the statue." "Married, o' course," she said. "Never hitched up yet?" "Never goin' to, I s'pose." "Oh, I don't know," he laughed, and turned his head over his shoulder to the curious scene between them and the bar. It was suddenly as if he had never seen it before; then, while Maudie waited, a little scornful, a little kind, his eyes went through the window to the pink and orange sunrise. As some change came over the Colonel's face, "She died!" said Maudie. He stood, looking past the ugliness within to the morning majesty without. But it was not either that he saw. Maudie studied him. "Guess you ain't give up expectin' to find her some day?" "No--no, not quite." "Humph! Did you guess you'd find her here?" "No," and his absent smile seemed to remove him leagues away. "No, not here." "When do you leave for home, Maudie?" he said gently. "There's a good many here." "They'll keep comin' as long as a lean man can scrouge in." "Yes," said Keith, "everybody's got to come, even if it's only the usual row between pardners, who want to part and can't agree about dividing the outfit." Keith laughed. "That's the way everybody feels. There'll be a debate and a chance to cast a vote. Isn't your true-born American always itching to hold a meeting about something?" "Don't know about that," said McGinty, "but I do know there's more things happens in a minute to make a man mad in Alaska, than happens in a year anywhere else." And his sentiment was loudly applauded. The plaintiff had scored a hit. They all admitted that the trail was the final test. While they smoked and spat into or at the stove, and told trail yarns, the chief magistrate arranged papers, conferred with the clerk and another man, wrinkled deeply his leathery forehead, consulted his Waterbury, and shot tobacco-juice under the table. "Ain't Bonsor late?" asked someone. "Why do they want Bonsor?" "His case on the docket--McGinty v. Burt Bonsor, proprietor of the Gold Nugget." "If they got a row? Course they got a row. Weren't they pardners?" "But McGinty spends all his time at the Gold Nugget." "Well, where would he spend it?" "A Miners' Meetin's a pretty poor machine," McGinty was saying to the ex-Governor, "but it's the best we got." "Did she? Good old 'laska." "Yer forgittin' them reindeer!" And the court-room rang with derisive laughter. "Congress started that there Relief Expedition all right," the josher went on, "only them blamed reindeer had got the feed habit, and when they'd et up everything in sight they set down on the Dalton Trail--and there they're settin' yit, just like they was Congress. But I don't like to hear no feller talkin' agin' the Gover'ment." "No, sir! we don't wait, and we don't go trav'lin'. We stay at home and call a meetin'." The door opened, and Bonsor and the bar-tender, with great difficulty, forced their way in. They stood flattened against the wall. During the diversion McGinty was growling disdainfully, "Rubbidge!" "Rubbidge? Reckon it's pretty serious rubbidge." "Did you ever know a Miners' Meetin' to make a decision that didn't become law, with the whole community ready to enforce it if necessary? Rubbidge! "No, sir! No funny business about our law! This tribunal's final." "I ain't disputin' that it's final. I ain't talkin' about law. I was mentionin' Justice." "The feller that loses is always gassin' 'bout Justice. When you win you don't think there's any flies on the Justice." "Ain't had much experience with winnin'. We all knows who wins in these yere Meetin's." "Who?" But they turned their eyes on Mr. Bonsor, over by the door. "Who wins?" repeated a Circle City man. "The feller that's got the most friends." "It's so," whispered Keith. McGinty looked at him. Was this a possible adherent? "You got a Push at Circle?" he inquired, but without genuine interest in the civil administration up the river. "Why, 'fore this yere town was organised, when we hadn't got no Court of Arbitration to fix a boundary, or even to hang a thief, we had our 'main Push,' just like we was 'Frisco." He lowered his voice, and leaned towards his Circle friend. "With Bonsor's help they 'lected Corey Judge o' the P'lice Court, and Bonsor ain't never let Corey forgit it." "What about the other?" inquired a Bonsorite, "the shifty Push that got you in for City Marshal?" "What's the row on to-night?" inquired the Circle City man. There was unseemly laughter behind the stove-pipe. "Didn't he tell you you could keep all the rest o' Lawrence's stuff?" asked the Bonsorite. McGinty disdained to answer this thrust. "An' McGinty weakens," laughed the mocker behind the stove-pipe. "Bonsor jest pockets the pore dead man's cash," says McGinty, with righteous indignation, "and I've called this yer meetin' t' arbitrate the matter." "Boys!" said she, on the top of a scream, "I been robbed." "Maudie robbed?" They spoke all together. Everybody had jumped up. "Where did you have 'em?" "In a little place under--in a hole." Her face twitched, and she put her hand up to hide it. "We'll find him, Maudie." "An' when we do, we'll hang him on the cottonwood." "But who do you suspect?" persisted the Judge. "How do I know?" she retorted angrily. "I suspect everybody till--till I know." She clenched her hands. Clutching Judge Corey by the arm, Maudie pulled him after her into the narrow space behind the head-board and the wall. "It was here--see?" She stooped down. Some of the men pulled the bed farther out, so that they, too, could pass round and see. "This piece o' board goes down so slick you'd never know it lifted out." She fitted it in with shaking hands, and then with her nails and a hairpin got it out. "And way in, underneath, I had this box. I always set it on a flat stone." She spoke as if this oversight were the thief's chief crime. "See? Like that." She fitted the cigar-box into unseen depths of space and then brought it out again, wet and muddy. The ground was full of springs hereabouts, and the thaw had loosed them. "Boys!" She stood up and held out the box. "Boys! it was full." Eloquently she turned it upside down. "How much do you reckon you had?" She handed the muddy box to the nearest sympathiser, sat down on the fur-covered bed, and wiped her eyes. "I weighed it all over again after I got in from the Gold Nugget the night we went on the stampede." As she sobbed out the list of her former possessions, Judge Corey took it down on the back of a dirty envelope. So many ounces of dust, so many in nuggets, so much in bills and coin, gold and silver. Each item was a stab. "Yes, all that--all that!" she jumped up wildly, "and it's gone! But we got to find it. What you hangin' round here for? Why, if you boys had any natchral spunk you'd have the thief strung up by now." "We got to find him fust." "You won't find him standin' here." They conferred afresh. "It must have been somebody who knowed where you kept the stuff." Maudie's face darkened as she caught sight of the Canadian. "Yes, it's true; but I ain't askin' your sympathy!" He stopped short and frowned. "Course not, when you can get his." Under his slouch-hat he glowered at the Colonel. Maudie broke into a volley of abuse. The very air smelt of brimstone. When finally, through sheer exhaustion, she dropped on the side of the bed, the devil prompted French Charlie to respond in kind. She jumped up and turned suddenly round upon Corey, speaking in a voice quite different, low and hoarse: "You asked me, Judge, if anybody knew where I kept my stuff. Charlie did." The Canadian stopped in the middle of a lurid remark and stared stupidly. The buzz died away. The cabin was strangely still. "Wasn't you along with the rest up to Idaho Bar?" inquired the Judge in a friendly voice. "Not when we all were! No!" Maudie's tear-washed eyes were regaining a dangerous brightness. "I wanted him to come with me. He wouldn't, and we quarrelled." "You didn't quarrel?" put in the Judge. "We did," said Maudie, breathless. "Not about that. It was because she wanted another feller to come, too." Again he shot an angry glance at the Kentuckian. "And Charlie said if I gave the other feller the tip, he wouldn't come. And he'd get even with me, if it took a leg!" "Well, it looks like he done it." "Can't you prove an alibi? Thought you said you was along with the rest to Idaho Bar?" suggested Windy Jim. "I didn't see you," Maudie flashed. "When were you there?" asked the Judge. "Oh, yes! When everybody else was comin' home. You all know if that's the time Charlie usually goes on a stampede!" The Judge seemed to be taking down damning evidence on the dirty envelope. Some were suggesting: "Bring him over to the court." "Yes, try him straight away." "Me? Me tief? You--let me alone!" He began to struggle. His terrified eyes rolling round the little cabin, fell on Butts. "You know what Butts done to Jack McQuestion. You ain't forgot how he sneaked Jack's watch!" The incident was historic. Every eye on Butts. Charlie caught up breath and courage. "You didn't!" shouted Maudie. With a shaking finger Charlie pointed out Jimmie, the cashier. "Right," says Jimmie. "It was to square Butts fur gittin' that ring away from Maudie." "You put up a job like that on me?" To be fooled publicly was worse than being robbed. Charlie paid no heed to her quivering wrath. The menace of the cotton-wood gallows outrivalled even Maudie and her moods. The centre of gravity had shifted. It was very grave indeed in the neighbourhood of Mr. Butts. "Hold on," said the Judge, forcing his way nearer to the man whose fingers had a renown so perilous. "'Cause a man plays a trick about a girl's ring don't prove he stole her money. This thing happened while the town was emptied out on the Little Minook trail. Didn't you go off with the rest yesterday morning?" Mr. Butts declined to answer. "You thought the gold-mine out on the gulch could wait--and the gold-mine in my cabin couldn't." "You lie!" remarked Mr. Butts. "What time did you get to Idaho Bar?" asked Corey. "Didn't get there at all." "Wait! Wait!" commanded the Judge, as the crowd rocked towards Butts: "P'raps you'll tell us what kept you at home?" Butts shut his mouth angrily, but a glance at the faces nearest him made him think an answer prudent. The men, many of them ailing, who had nearly killed themselves to get to Idaho Bar, sneered openly. "I'd been jumpin' a claim up at Hunter." "So had Charlie. But he joined the new stampede in the afternoon." "Mr. Butts, you're the only able-bodied white man in the district that stayed at home." Corey spoke in his, most judicial style. Mr. Butts must have felt the full significance of so suspicious a fact, but all he said was: "No tellin' what else he's got!" "Likely he'd be carrying my stuff about on him!" said she, contemptuous of her own keen interest. "Get out a warrant to search Butts' premises," said a voice in the crowd. "McGinty and Johnson are down there now!" "Think he'd leave anything layin' round?" Maudie pressed still closer to the beleaguered Butts. "Say, if I make the boys let you go back to Circle, will you tell me where you've hid my money?" "Ain't got your money!" "Look at 'im," whispered Charlie, still so terrified he could hardly stand. "Butts ain't borrowin' no trouble." The miners were hustling him to the door--to the Court House or to the cotton-wood--a toss-up which. "Look here!" cried out the Colonel; "McGinty and Johnson haven't got back!" Nobody listened. Justice had been sufficiently served in sending them. They had forced Butts out across the threshold, the crowd packed close behind. The only men who had not pressed forward were Keith, the Colonel, and the Boy, and No-Thumb-Jack, still standing by the oil-tank. "What are they going to do with him?" The Colonel turned to Keith with horror in his face. Keith's eyes were on the Boy, who had stooped and picked up the block of wood that had fitted over the treasure-hole. He was staring at it with dilated eyes. Sharply he turned his head in the direction where No-Thumb-Jack had stood. Jack was just making for the door on the heels of the last of those pressing to get out. The Boy's low cry was drowned in the din. He lunged forward, but the Colonel gripped him. Looking up, he saw that Kentucky understood, and meant somehow to manage the business quietly. Jack was trying, now right, now left, to force his way through the congestion at the door, like a harried rabbit at a wattled fence. A touch on the shoulder simultaneously with the click of a trigger at his ear brought his face round over his shoulder. He made the instinctive pioneer motion to his hip, looked into the bore of the Colonel's pistol, and under Keith's grip dropped his "gun-hand" with a smothered oath. The last of the crowd were over the threshold now, and still no word was spoken by those who stayed behind, till the Colonel said to the Boy: He laid the block on a cracker-box, and, keeping pistol and eye still on the thief, took his watch in his left hand, as the Boy shot through the door. Butts was making a good fight for his life, but he was becoming exhausted. The leading spirits were running him down the bank to where a crooked cotton-wood leaned cautiously over the Never-Know-What, as if to spy out the river's secret. But after arriving there, they were a little delayed for lack of what they called tackle. They sent a man off for it, and then sent another to hurry up the man. The Boy stood at the edge of the crowd, a little above them, watching Maudie's door, and with feverish anxiety turning every few seconds to see how it was with Butts. Keith, his revolver still at full cock, had picked up a trampled bit of paper near the stove. Corey's list. Left-handedly he piled up the money, counting, comparing. "That's mine," said Jack, and made a motion to recover. "Let it alone. Turn out everything. Nuggets!" A miner's chamois belt unbuckled and flung heavily down. The scales jingled and rocked; every pocket in the belt was stuffed. "There ain't any rest. That's every damned pennyweight." "Maybe we ought to weigh it, and see if he's lying?" "'Fore God it's all! Let me go!" He had kept looking through the crack of the door. "Reckon it's about right," said Keith. "'Tain't right! There's more there'n I took. My stuff's there too. For Christ's sake, let me go!" "Look here, Jack, is the little bag yours?" Jack wet his dry lips and nodded "Yes." The Colonel snatched up the smaller bag and thrust it into the man's hands. Jack made for the door. The Colonel stopped him. "Will you stay with this?" the Colonel had asked Keith hurriedly, nodding at the treasure-covered table, and catching up the finger-marked block before Jack was a yard from the window. "Yes," Keith had said, revolver still in hand and eyes on the man Minook was to see no more. The Colonel met the Boy running breathless up the bank. "Can't hold 'em any longer," he shouted; "you're takin' it pretty easy while a man's gettin' killed down here." "Stop! Wait!" The Colonel floundered madly through the slush and mud, calling and gesticulating, "I've got the thief!" Presto all the backs of heads became faces. "Oh, you had it, did you?" called out McGinty with easy insolence. "Look here!" The Colonel held up the bit of flooring with rapid explanation. "Got him locked up?" "Reckon he's lit out." And then the Colonel got it hot and strong for his clumsiness. "Which way'd he go?" The Colonel turned his back to the North Pole, and made a fine large gesture in the general direction of the Equator. "Up in your cabin. Better go and count it." A good many were willing to help since they'd been cheated out of a hanging, and even defrauded of a shot at a thief on the wing. Nobody seemed to care to remain in the neighbourhood of the crooked cotton-wood. The crowd was dispersing somewhat sheepishly. Nobody looked at Butts, and yet he was a sight to see. His face and his clothes were badly mauled. He was covered with mud and blood. When the men were interrupted in trying to get the noose over his head, he had stood quite still in the midst of the crowd till it broke and melted away from him. He looked round, passed his hand over his eyes, threw open his torn coat, and felt in his pockets. "Who's got my tobacco?" says he. Several men turned back suddenly, and several pouches were held out, but nobody met Butts' eyes. He filled his pipe, nor did his hand shake any more than those that held the tobacco-bags. When he had lit up, "Who's got my Smith and Wesson?" he called out to the backs of the retiring citizens. Windy Jim stood and delivered. Butts walked away to his cabin, swaying a little, as if he'd had more hootch than he could carry. "What would you have said," demanded the Boy, "if you'd hung the wrong man?" "Said?" echoed McGinty. "Why, we'd 'a' said that time the corpse had the laugh on us." A couple of hours later Keith put an excited face into his shack, where the Colonel and the Boy were just crawling under their blankets. "Thought you might like to know, that Miners' Meeting that was interrupted is having an extra session." They followed him down to the Court through a fine rain. The night was heavy and thick. As they splashed along Keith explained: "Of course, Charlie knew there wasn't room enough in Alaska now for Butts and him; and he thought he'd better send Butts home. So he took his gun and went to call." "Don't tell me that poor devil's killed after all." "So Butts'll have to swing after all. Is he in Court?" "Yes--been a busy day for Butts." "Oh, that kind o' case don't take a feller like Corey long." "What's the decision?" "Prisoner discharged. Charlie Le Gros committed suicide." "I am apart of all that I have seen." The slush was waist-deep in the gulches. On the benches, in the snow, holes appeared, as though red-hot stones had been thrown upon the surface. The little settlement by the mouth of the Minook sat insecurely on the boggy hillside, and its inhabitants waded knee-deep in soaking tundra moss and mire. As silence had been the distinguishing feature of the winter, so was noise the sign of the spring. No ear so dull but now was full of it. All the brooks on all the hills, tinkling, tumbling, babbling of some great and universal joy, all the streams of all the gulches joining with every little rill to find the old way, or to carve a new, back to the Father of Waters. In some men's hearts the ice "went out" at the sound, and the melting welled up in their eyes. Summer and liberty were very near. "Oh, hurry, Yukon Inua; let the ice go out and let the boats come in." But the next few days hung heavily. The river-ice humped its back still higher, but showed no disposition to "git." The wonder was it did not crack under the strain; but Northern ice ahs the air of being strangely flexile. Several feet in depth, the water ran now along the margin. More geese and ducks appeared, and flocks of little birds--Canada jays, robins, joined the swelling chorus of the waters. The Colonel had bought and donned a new suit of "store clothes," and urged on his companion the necessity of at least a whole pair of breeches in honour of his entrance into the Klondyke. But the Boy's funds were low and his vanity chastened. Besides, he had other business on his mind. After sending several requests for the immediate return of his dog, requests that received no attention, the Boy went out to the gulch to recover him. Nig's new master paid up all arrears of wages readily enough, but declined to surrender the dog. "Oh, no, the ice wasn't thinkin' o' goin' out yit." "You'll git him sure." "I'm glad you understand that much." No answer. The Boy whistled. No Nig. Dread masked itself in choler. He jumped on the fellow, forced him down, and hammered him till he cried for mercy. "Where's my dog, then?" "The ice is goin' out!" In a flash the sleepers stood at the door. "Well, it's true what I'm tellin' yer," persisted Saunders seriously: "the ice is goin' out, and it's goin' soon, and when you're washed out o' yer bunks ye needn't blame me, fur I warned yer." "Mebbe you've arranged so she won't this year." When the business was ended, Minook self-control gave way. The cheechalkos found themselves the laughing-stock of the town. The others, who had dared to build down on the bank, but who "hadn't scared worth a cent," sauntered up to the Gold Nugget to enjoy the increased esteem of the Sour-doughs, and the humiliation of the men who had thought "the Yukon was goin' over the Ramparts this year--haw, haw!" Keith had been saying that the old miners had nearly all got "squawed." He had spoken almost superstitiously of the queer, lasting effect of the supposedly temporary arrangement. "No, they don't leave their wives as often as you'd expect, but in most cases it seems to kill the pride of the man. He gives up all idea of ever going home, and even if he makes a fortune, they say, he stays on here. And year by year he sinks lower and lower, till he's farther down in the scale of things human than his savage wife." "Yes, it's awful to think how the life up here can take the stiffening out of a fella." "Strong men have lain down on the trail this winter and cried." But it wasn't that sort of thing the other meant. Keith followed his new friend's glowering looks. "Yes. That's just the kind of man that gets taken in." "What?" said the Boy brusquely. "Just the sort that goes and marries some flighty creature." "Well," said his pardner haughtily, "he could afford to marry 'a flighty creature.' The Colonel's got both feet on the ground." And Keith felt properly snubbed. But what Maudie was saying to the Colonel was: "Looks like I'll be the only person left in Minook." "I don't imagine you'll be quite alone." "Does everybody want to go to Dawson?" The Colonel looked a trifle anxious. "I hadn't thought of that. I suppose there will be a race for the boat." The door of the cabin next the saloon opened suddenly. A graybeard with a young face came out rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He stared interrogatively at the river, and then to the world in general: Maudie lowered her voice. "The ice! the ice! It's moving!" "The ice is going out!" The people waited breathless. Again the ice-mass trembled. But the watchers lifted their eyes to the heights above. Was that thunder in the hills? No, the ice again; again crushing, grinding, to the low accompaniment of thunder that seemed to come from far away. Birds are singing everywhere. Between the white snowdrifts the Arctic moss shows green and yellow, white flowers star the hills. "When we started out that day from the Big Chimney, we thought we'd be made if only we managed to reach Minook." "Well, we've got what we came for--each got a claim." "A good claim, too." "Don't you know the gold's there?" "No; but there are plenty who would if we gave 'em the chance. All we have to do is to give the right ones the chance." The Colonel wore an air of reflection. "The district will be opened up," the Boy went on cheerfully, "and we'll have people beggin' us to let 'em get out our gold, and givin' us the lion's share for the privilege." "Do you altogether like the sound o' that?" "I expect, like other people, I'll like the result." "We ought to see some things clearer than other people. We had our lesson on the trail," said the Colonel quietly. "Nobody ought ever to be able to fool us about the power and the value of the individual apart from society. Seems as if association did make value. In the absence of men and markets a pit full of gold is worth no more than a pit full of clay." "Oh, yes; I admit, till the boats come in, we're poor men." "Nobody will stop here this summer--they'll all be racing on to Dawson." "Dawson's 'It,' beyond a doubt." The Colonel laughed a little ruefully. "We used to say Minook." "I said Minook, just to sound reasonable, but, of course, I meant Dawson." And they sat there thinking, watching the ice-blocks meet, crash, go down in foam, and come up again on the lower reaches, the Boy idly swinging the great Katharine's medal to and fro. In his buckskin pocket it has worn so bright it catches at the light like a coin fresh from the mint. Sitting there together, they saw the last stand made by the ice, and shared that moment when the final barrier, somewhere far below, gave way with boom and thunder. The mighty flood ran free, tearing up trees by their roots as it ran, detaching masses of rock, dissolving islands into swirling sand and drift, carving new channels, making and unmaking the land. The water began to fall. It had been a great time: it was ended. "Pardner," says the Colonel, "we've seen the ice go out." "No fella can call you and me cheechalkos after to-day." "No, sah. We've travelled the Long Trail, we've seen the ice go out, and we're friends yet." "Something has happened," the Colonel said quite low. "We aren't the same men who left the Big Chimney." "Right!" said the Boy, with a laugh, unwilling as yet to accept his own personal revelation, preferring to put a superficial interpretation on his companion's words. He glanced at the Colonel, and his face changed a little. But still he would not understand. Looking down at the chaparejos that he had been so proud of, sadly abbreviated to make boots for Nig, jagged here and there, and with fringes now not all intentional, it suited him to pretend that the "shaps" had suffered most. "Yes, the ice takes the kinks out." "Whether the thing that's happened is good or evil, I don't pretend to say," the other went on gravely, staring at the river. "I only know something's happened. There were possibilities--in me, anyhow--that have been frozen to death. Yes, we're different." The Boy roused himself, but only to persist in his misinterpretation. "Amen. But if I had to, you're the only man in Alaska--in the world--I'd want for my pardner." There was war in the world down yonder--war had been formally declared between America and Spain. Windy slapped his thigh in humourous despair. "Why hadn't he thought o' gettin' off a josh like that?" More little boats going down, and still nothing going up. Men said gloomily: He had not been gone an hour, rumour said--had taken a scow and provisions, and dropped down the river. Utterly desperate, the Boy seized his new Nulato gun and somebody else's canoe. Without so much as inquiring whose, he shot down the swift current after the dog-thief. He roared back to the remonstrating Colonel that he didn't care if an up-river steamer did come while he was gone--he was goin' gunnin'. Down there, on the left, a man was standing knee-deep in the water, trying to free his boat from a fallen tree; a Siwash dog watched him from the bank. The Boy whistled. The dog threw up his nose, yapped and whined. The man had turned sharply, saw his enemy and the levelled gun. He jumped into the boat, but she was filling while he bailed; the dog ran along the island, howling fit to raise the dead. When he was a little above the Boy's boat he plunged into the river. Nig was a good swimmer, but the current here would tax the best. The Boy found himself so occupied with saving Nig from a watery grave, while he kept the canoe from capsizing, that he forgot all about the thief till a turn in the river shut him out of sight. The canoe was moored, and while trying to restrain Nig's dripping caresses, his master looked up, and saw something queer off there, above the tops of the cottonwoods. As he looked he forgot the dog--forgot everything in earth or heaven except that narrow cloud wavering along the sky. He sat immovable in the round-shouldered attitude learned in pulling a hand-sled against a gale from the Pole. If you are moderately excited you may start, but there is an excitement that "nails you." "They see! They see! Hooray!" The Boy waved his arms, embraced Nig, then snatched up the oars. The steamer's engines were reversed; now she was still. The Boy pulled lustily. A crowded ship. Crew and passengers pressed to the rails. The steamer canted, and the Captain's orders rang out clear. Several cheechalkos laid their hands on their guns as the wild fellow in the ragged buckskins shot round the motionless wheel, and brought his canoe 'long-side, while his savage-looking dog still kept the echoes of the Lower Ramparts calling. At the sound of the Boy's voice a red face hanging over the stern broke into a broad grin. "Be the Siven! Air ye the little divvle himself, or air ye the divvle's gran'fatherr?" The apparition in the canoe was making fast and preparing to board the ship. "Can't take another passenger. Full up!" said the Captain. He couldn't hear what was said in reply, but he shook his head. "Been refusin' 'em right along." Then, as if reproached by the look in the wild young face, "We thought you were in trouble." "I tell you we got every ounce we can carry." "Oh, take me back to Minook, anyway!" "Well, got a gold-mine?" asked Potts. "Where's the Colonel?" Mac rasped out, with his square jaw set for judgment. "Colonel's all right--at Minook. We've got a gold-mine apiece." "Anny gowld in 'em?" "Yes, sir, and no salt, neither." "Sorry to see success has gone to your head," drawled Potts, eyeing the Boy's long hair. "I don't see any undue signs of it elsewhere." "Faith! I do, thin. He's turned wan o' thim hungry, grabbin' millionaires." "What makes you think that?" laughed the Boy, poking his brown fingers through the knee-hole of his breeches. "Arre ye contint wid that gowld-mine at Minook? No, be the Siven! What's wan gowld-mine to a millionaire? What forr wud ye be prospectin that desert oiland, you and yer faithful man Froyday, if ye wasn't rooned intoirely be riches?" The Boy tore himself away from his old friends, and followed the arbiter of his fate. The engines had started up again, and they were going on. "I'm told," said the Captain rather severely, "that Minook's a busted camp." "Just my luck," said the Captain gloomily, going a little for'ard, as though definitely giving up mining and returning to his own proper business. "But the rest o' the Mother Lode, the gold and magnetic iron, was too heavy to travel. That's what's linin' the gold basins o' the North--linin' Idaho Bar thick." But his ragged companion turned suddenly, and while the sparks fell in a fresh shower, "Well, Captain," says he, "you've got the chance of your life right now." "Just what they've all said. Wish I had the money I've wasted on grub-stakin'." "I grub-staked myself, and I'm very glad I did." "Nobody in with you?" "Pitcairn says, somehow or other, there's been gold-washin' goin' on up here pretty well ever since the world began." The Captain looked at him, trying to conceal the envy in his soul. They were sounding low water, but he never heard. He looked round sharply as the course changed. "I've done my assessment," the ragged man went on joyously, "and I'm going to Dawson." "But I've got a fortune on the Bar. I'm not a boomer, but I believe in the Bar." Again the steamer swung out, hunting a new channel. They stared at the Ramparts growing bolder, the river hurrying like a mill-race, the steamer feeling its way slow and cautiously like a blind man with a stick. "Pitcairn says gold is always thickest on the inside of an elbow or turn in the stream. It's in a place like that my claim is." The steamer swerved still further out from the course indicated on the chart. The pilot was still hunting a new channel, but still the Captain stood and listened, and it was not to the sounding of the Yukon Bar. "They say there's no doubt about the whole country being glaciated." "Signs of glacial erosion everywhere." The Captain looked sharply about as if his ship might be in some new danger. "No doubt the gold is all concentrates." "Oh, is that so?" He seemed relieved on the whole. But Rainey was what he called "an old bird." His squinted pilot-eye came back from the glacier track and fell on the outlandish figure of his passenger. And with an inward admiration of his quality of extreme old-birdness, the Captain struggled against the trance. "Didn't I hear you say something about going to Dawson?" "Y-yes. I think Dawson'll be worth seeing." "Holy Moses, yes! There's never been anything like Dawson before." "You had any proposition yet?" The Captain led the way to his private room. So full was he of a scheme of his own he failed to see that he had no need to go to Dawson for a buyer. The Captain set out drinks, and still the talk was of the Bar. It had come now to seem impossible, even to an old bird, that, given those exact conditions, gold should not be gathered thick along that Bar. "I regard it as a sure thing. Anyhow, it's recorded, and the assessment's done. All the district wants now is capital to develop it." "Thought you didn't have a pardner," snapped the other, hot over such duplicity. The Captain stood on his legs and roared: "I can't, I tell you!" "You can if you will--you will if you want that farm!" John R. Rainey gaped the more, and then finding his tongue: "Oh, come! you stopped for me." The Captain smiled shrewdly. "I didn't think it necessary at the time to explain. We'd struck bottom just then--new channel, you know; it changes a lot every time the ice goes out and the floods come down. I reversed our engines and went up to talk to the pilot. We backed off just after you boarded us. I must have been rattled to take you even to Minook." "No. It was the best turn you've done yourself in a long while." "I'll get into trouble for overloading as it is." "God bless my soul! where'd I put you? There ain't a bunk." "I've slept by the week on the ice." "There ain't room to lie down." "Then we'll stand up." "Can we come if we find our own place, and don't trouble you?" "Oh, pardner's got to come too." Whatever the Captain said the nerve-tearing shriek of the whistle drowned. It was promptly replied to by the most horrible howls. "Reckon that's Nig! He's got to come too," said this dreadful ragged man. "God bless me, this must be Minook!" The harassed Captain hustled out. "You must wait long enough here to get that deed drawn, Captain!" called out the other, as he flew down the companionway. Potts and O'Flynn had spotted the man they were looking for, and called out "Hello! Hello!" as the big fellow on the pile of gunnies got up and waved his hat. "How's the gowld? How's yersilf?" The gangway began its slow swing round preparatory to lowering into place. The mob on shore caught up boxes, bundles, bags, and pressed forward. "No, no! Stand back!" ordered the Captain. "Take your time!" said people trembling with excitement. "There's no rush." "There's no room!" called out the purser to a friend. "Stand back there! Can't take even a pound of freight. Loaded to the guards!" A whirlwind of protest and appeal died away in curses. Women wept, and sick men turned away their faces. The dogs still howled, for nothing is so lacerating to the feelings of your Siwash as a steam-whistle blast. The memory of it troubles him long after the echo of it dies. Suddenly above the din Maudie's shrill voice: "I thought that was Nig!" Before the gangway had dropped with a bang her sharp eyes had picked out the Boy. "How do you do, Captain?" The man addressed never turned his head. He was forcing his way through the jam up to the A. C. Store. "If you are a man wantin' to go to Dawson, it doesn't matter who you are. I can't take you." Never a word for his pardner, not so much as a look. Bitterness fell upon the Colonel's heart. Maudie called to him, and he went back to his seat on the gunny-sacks. "He's in with the Captain now," she said; "he's got no more use for us." But there was less disgust than triumph in her face. "Kaviak? Well, I'll tell you." He shouldered Potts out of his way, and while the talk and movement went on all round Maudie's throne, Mac, ignoring her, set forth grimly how, after an awful row with Potts, he had adventured with Kaviak to Holy Cross. "An awful row, indeed," thought the Colonel, "to bring Mac to that;" but the circumstances had little interest for him, beside the fact that his pardner would be off to Dawson in a few minutes, leaving him behind and caring "not a sou markee." "When will that be?" "Just as soon as I've put through the job up yonder." He jerked his head up the river, indicating the common goal. "Oh, we done a lot." "Och, yes; them burruds was foine!" "Money-bags, me bhoy! Made out o' the fut o' the 'Lasky swan, God bless 'em! Mac cahls 'em some haythen name, but everybuddy else cahls 'em illegant money-bags!" The Boy followed the Captain out of the A. C. store. All the motley crew that had swarmed off to inspect Minook, swarmed back upon the Oklahoma. The Boy left the Captain this time, and came briskly over to his friends, who were taking leave of the Colonel. "So you're all goin' on but me!" said the Colonel very sadly. The Colonel's pardner stopped short, and looked at the pile of baggage. "Got your stuff all ready!" he said. "Yes." The answer was not free from bitterness. "I'll have the pleasure of packin' it back to the shack after you're gone." "So you were all ready to go off and leave me," said the Boy. "What? you were goin' to carry off my things too?" exclaimed the Boy. Mac, O'Flynn, and Potts condoled with the Colonel, while the fire of the old feud flamed and died. "Look here!" the Colonel burst out. "That's my stuff." "It's all the same. You bring mine. I've got the tickets. You and me and Nig's goin' to the Klondyke." They got their effects off the boat, and pitched the old tent up on the Moosehide; then followed days full to overflowing, breathless, fevered, yet without result beyond a general stringing up of nerves. The special spell of Dawson was upon them all--the surface aliveness, the inner deadness, the sense of being cut off from all the rest of the world, as isolated as a man is in a dream, with no past, no future, only a fantastic, intensely vivid Now. This was the summer climate of the Klondyke. The Colonel, the Boy, and Captain Rainey maintained the illusion of prosecuting their affairs by frequenting the offices, stores, and particularly saloons, where buyers and sellers most did congregate. Frequent mention was made of a certain valuable piece of property. "Down yonder at Minook;" and then nobody cared a straw. Meanwhile, many of those already there were wondering why they came and how they could get home. In the tons of "mail matter" for Dawson, stranded at Skaguay, must be those "instructions" from the Colonel's bank, at home, to the Canadian Bank of Commerce, Dawson City. He agreed with the Boy that if--very soon now--they had not disposed of the Minook property, they would go to the mines. "For my part," admitted the Boy, "I'm less grand than I was. I meant to make some poor devil dig out my Minook gold for me. It'll be the other way about: I'll dig gold for any man on Bonanza that'll pay me wages." "What special brand of fool am I to be here?" "That was the Weare we heard whistlin'," said the Boy, breathless. "And who d'you think's aboard?" "Nicholas a' Pymeut, pilot. An' he's got Princess Muckluck along." "No," laughed the Colonel, following the Boy to the tent. "What's the Princess come for?" "How should I know?" "Didn't stop to hear." "Reckon she was right glad to see you," chaffed the Colonel. "Hey? Wasn't she?" "I--don't think she noticed I was there." "What! you bolted?" No reply. "See here, what you doin'?" "Been thinkin' for some time I ain't wealthy enough to live in this metropolis. There may be a place for a poor man, but Dawson isn't It." "Well, I didn't think you were that much of a coward--turnin' tail like this just because a poor little Esquimaux--Besides, she may have got over it. Even the higher races do." And he went on poking his fun till suddenly the Boy said: "You're in such high spirits, I suppose you must have heard Maudie's up from Minook. "It ain't my idea of a joke. She's comin' up here soon's she's landed her stuff." "She's not comin' up here!" "Why not? Anybody can come up on the Moosehide, and everybody's doin' it. I'm goin' to make way for some of 'em." "Well, she's seen Potts, anyhow." "You're right about Dawson," said the Colonel suddenly; "it's too rich for my blood." They pinned a piece of paper on the tent-flap to say they were "Gone prospecting: future movements uncertain." "Yes, he felt the heat," he said, as he passed the time of day with other men going by with packs, pack-horses, or draught-dogs, cursing at the trail and at the Government that taxed the miners so cruelly and then did nothing for them, not even making a decent highway to the Dominion's source of revenue. But out of the direct rays of the sun the traveller found refreshment, and the mosquitoes were blown away by the keen breeze that seemed to come from off some glacier. And the birds sang loud, and the wild-flowers starred the birch-grove, and the briar-roses wove a tangle on either side the swampy trail. On again, dipping to a little valley--Bonanza Creek! They stood and looked. "Well, here we are." "Yes, this is what we came for." "Then, damn you! shut the door." "Where is the Superintendent?" "That's Seymour in the straw hat." It was felt that even the broken and dilapidated article mentioned was a distinction and a luxury. Yes, it was too hot up here in the Klondyke. Having read Ryan's letter and slowly scanned the applicants: "What do you know about it?" He nodded at the sluice. "All of nothing," said the Boy. "Does it call for any particular knowing?" asked the Colonel. "Calls for muscle and plenty of keep-at-it." His voice was soft, but as the Colonel looked at him he realized why a hard fellow like Scoville Austin had made this Southerner Superintendent. "Better just try us." "All right," said the Boy. The Colonel looked at him. "Is this job yours or mine?" The Superintendent had gone up towards the dam. "Whichever you say." The Boy did not like to suggest that the Colonel seemed little fit for this kind of exercise. They had been in the Klondyke long enough to know that to be in work was to be in luck. "I'll tell you," the younger man said quickly, answering something unspoken, but plain in the Colonel's face; "I'll go up the gulch and see what else there is." It crossed his mind that there might be something less arduous than this shovelling in the wet thaw or picking at frozen gravel in the hot sun. If so, the Colonel might be induced to exchange. It was obvious that, like so many Southerners, he stood the sun very ill. While they were agreeing upon a rendezvous the Superintendent came back. "Our bunk-house is yonder," he said, pointing. A kind of sickness came over the Kentuckian as he recalled the place. He turned to his pardner. "Wish we'd got a pack-mule and brought our tent out from Dawson." Then, apologetically, to the Superintendent: "You see, sah, there are men who take to bunk-houses just as there are women who want to live in hotels; and there are others who want a place to call home, even if it's a tent." "Now, that's mighty good of you, sah. Next whose cabin did you say?" As the Boy tramped about looking for work he met a great many on the same quest. It seemed as if the Colonel had secured the sole job on the creek. Still, vacancies might occur any hour. In the big new tent the Colonel lay asleep on a little camp-bed, (mercifully left there by the rich Englishmen), "gettin' ready for the night-shift." As he stood looking down upon him, a sudden wave of pity came over the Boy. He knew the Colonel didn't "really and truly have to do this kind of thing; he just didn't like givin' in." But behind all that there was a sense in the younger mind that here was a life unlike his own, which dimly he foresaw was to find its legitimate expression in battle and in striving. Here, in the person of the Colonel, no soldier fore-ordained, but a serene and equable soul wrenched out of its proper sphere by a chance hurt to a woman, forsooth! an imagination so stirred that, if it slept at all, it dreamed and moaned in its sleep, as now; a conscience wounded and refusing to heal. Had he not said himself that he had come up here to forget? It was best to let him have the job that was too heavy for him--yes, it was best, after all. And so they lived for a few days, the Boy chafing and wanting to move on, the Colonel very earnest to have him stay. The Colonel was always ready with pretended admiration of such bric-a-brac, but the truth was he cared very little about this gold he had come so far to find. His own wages, paid in dust, were kept in a jam-pot the Boy had found "lyin' round." The growing store shone cheerfully through the glass, but its value in the Colonel's eyes seemed to be simply as an argument to prove that they had enough, and "needn't worry." When the Boy said there was no doubt this was the district in all the world the most overdone, the Colonel looked at him with sun-tired, reproachful eyes. "You want to dissolve the pardnership--I see." Then came the evening when the Boy was so late the Colonel got his own breakfast; and when the recreant did get home, it was to announce that a man over at the Buckeyes' had just offered him a job out on Indian River. The Colonel set down his tea-cup and stared. His face took on an odd, rigid look. But almost indifferently he said: The Kentuckian raised his heavy eyes to the jam-jar. "Oh, help yourself." The Boy laughed, and shook his head. "I wish you wouldn't go," the other said very low. "You see, I've got to. Why, Nig and I owe you for a week's grub already." Then the Colonel stood up and swore--swore till he was scarlet and shaking with excitement. "If the life up here has brought us to 'Scowl' Austin's point of view, we are poorly off." And he spoke of the way men lived in his part of Kentucky, where the old fashion of keeping open house survived. And didn't he know it was the same thing in Florida? "Wouldn't you do as much for me?" The Colonel had stumbled back into his seat, and now across the deal table he put out his hand. "Oh, yes, I will. You'll see." "I know the kind," the other went on, as if there had been no interruption. "They never come back. I don't know as I ever cared quite as much for my brother--little fella that died, you know." Then, seeing that his companion did not instantly iterate his determination to go, "That's right," he said, getting up suddenly, and leaving his breakfast barely touched. "We've been through such a lot together, let's see it out." Without waiting for an answer, he went off to his favourite seat under the little birch-tree. But the incident had left him nervous. He would come up from his work almost on the run, and if he failed to find his pardner in the tent there was the devil to pay. The Boy would laugh to himself to think what a lot he seemed able to stand from the Colonel; and then he would grow grave, remembering what he had to make up for. Still, his sense of obligation did not extend to giving up this splendid chance down on Indian River. On Wednesday, when the fellow over at the Buckeyes' was for going back, the Boy would go along. On Sunday morning he ran a crooked, rusty nail into his foot. Clumsily extracted, it left an ugly wound. Walking became a torture, and the pain a banisher of sleep. It was during the next few days that he found out how much the Colonel lay awake. Who could sleep in this blazing sun? Black tents were not invented then, so they lay awake and talked of many things. The others were men more accustomed to work with their hands, but, in spite of the conscious superiority of your experienced miner, a very good feeling prevailed in the gang--a general friendliness that presently centred about the Colonel, for even in his present mood he was far from disagreeable, except now and then, to the man he cared the most for. "Vich von is gone?" asked the Silesian, who heard the end of the conversation. The Boy, since this trouble with his foot, had fallen into the way of turning night into day. The Colonel liked to have him down there at the sluice, and when he thought about it, the Boy marvelled at the hours he spent looking on while others worked. Various stories were afloat about Austin. Oh, yes, Scowl Austin was a hard man--the only owner on the creek who wouldn't even pay the little subscription every poor miner contributed to keep the Dawson Catholic Hospital going. The women, too, had grievances against Austin, not only "the usual lot" up at the Gold Belt, who sneered at his close fist, but some of the other sort--those few hard-working wives or "women on their own," or those who washed and cooked for this claim or that. They had stories about Austin that shed a lurid light. And so by degrees the gathered experience, good and ill, of "the greatest of all placer diggin's" flowed by the idler on the bank. "You seem to have a lot to do," Seymour would now and then say with a laugh. "What do you call it?" "Of things in general." The shovelling in was done for the time being. The water was to be regulated, and then the clean-up as soon as the owner came down. "Better not let Austin hear you say you're takin' stock. He'll run you out o' the creek." The Boy only smiled, and went on fillipping little stones at Nig. "Oh, nothin'. I'm only thinkin' out things." "Your future, I suppose?" he said testily. "Mine and other men's. The Klondyke's a great place to get things clear in your head." "Don't find it so." The Colonel put up his hand with that now familiar action as if to clear away a cloud. "It's days since I had anything clear in my head, except the lesson we learned on the trail." The Boy stopped throwing stones, and fixed his eyes on his friend, as the Colonel went on: "We had that hammered into us, didn't we?" "Don't," said the Boy. "I've always known I should have to tell you some time. I won't be able to put it off if I stay and I hate tellin' you now. See here: I b'lieve I'll get a pack-mule and go over to Indian River." The Colonel looked round angrily. Standing high against the sky, Seymour, with the gateman up at the lock, was moderating the strong head of water. It began to flow sluggishly over the gravel-clogged riffles, and Scowl Austin was coming down the hill. "Here's Austin," whispered the Colonel. The Silesian philosopher stood in his "gum-boots" in the puddling-box as on a rostrum; but silent now, as ever, when Scowl Austin was in sight. With the great sluice-fork, the philosopher took up, washed, and threw out the few remaining big stones that they might not clog the narrow boxes below. Seymour had so regulated the stream that, in place of the gush and foam of a few minutes before, there was now only a scant and gently falling veil of water playing over the bright gravel caught in the riffle-lined bottoms of the boxes. "Don't your riffles do the trick all right?" asked the Boy. "If you're in any doubt, come and see," he said. There, under where the stones had been, neatly caught in the lattice of the riffle, lying thick and packed by the water action, a heavy ridge of black and yellow--magnetic sand and gold. "Riffles out!" called Seymour, and the men, who had been extracting the rusty nails that held them firm, lifted out from the bottom of each box a wooden lattice, soused it gently in the water, and laid it on the bank. Meanwhile, Seymour had called to the gateman for more water, and himself joining the gang, armed now with flat metal scoops, they all began to turn over and throw back against the stream the debris in the bottom of the boxes, giving the water another chance to wash out the lighter stuff and clean the gold from all impurity. Away went the last of the sand, and away went the pebbles, dark or bright, away went much of the heavy magnetic iron. Scowl Austin, at the end of the line, had a corn-whisk with which he swept the floor of the box, always upstream, gathering the contents in a heap, now on this side, now on that, letting the water play and sort and carry away, condensing, hastening the process that for ages had been concentrating gold in the Arctic placers. "Say, look here!" shouted Austin to the Boy, already limping up the hill. When he had reached the sluice again he found that all Scowl Austin wanted, apparently, was to show him how, when he held the water back with the whisk, it eddied softly at each side of the broad little broom, leaving exposed the swept-up pile. "What do you think?" "Looks like a heap o' sawdust." Austin actually laughed. "See if it feels like sawdust. Take it up like this," he ordered. Scowl Austin's grim gratification was openly heightened with the rich man's sense of superiority, but his visitor seemed to have forgotten him. "Colonel! here a minute. We thought it looked wonderful enough on the Big Chimney table--but Lord! to see it like this, out o' doors, mixed with sunshine and water!" Still he stood there fascinated, leaning heavily against the sluice-box, still with his dripping hands full, when, after a hurried glance, the Colonel returned to his own box. None of the gang ever talked in the presence of the owner. "Yes, it looks good!" But he had lifted his eyes, and seemed to be studying the man more than the metal. A couple of newcomers, going by, halted. "Christ!" said the younger, "look at that!" At sound of the strange voice Austin had wheeled about with a fierce look, and heavily the strangers plodded by. The owner turned again to the gold. "Yes," he said curtly, "there's something about that that looks good to most men." "What I was thinkin'," replied the Boy slowly, "was that it was the only clean gold I'd ever seen--but it isn't so clean as it was." Austin had stared, and then turned his back with a blacker look than even "Scowl" had ever worn before. It was morning, and the night-shift might go to bed; but in the absent Englishmen's tent there was little sleep and less talk that day. The Boy, in an agony, with a foot on fire, heard the Colonel turning, tossing, growling incoherently about "the light." It seemed unreasonable, for a frame had been built round his bed, and on it thick gray army blankets were nailed--a rectangular tent. Had he cursed the heat now? But no: "light," "God! the light, the light!" just as if he were lying as the Boy was, in the strong white glare of the tent. But hour after hour within the stifling fortress the giant tossed and muttered at the swords of sunshine that pierced his semi-dusk through little spark-burnt hole or nail-tear, torturing sensitive eyes. "You'll come down to the sluice to-night, won't you?" "No reason on earth, only I was afraid you were broodin' over what you said to Austin." "Austin? Oh, I'm not thinkin' about Austin." "What, then? What makes you so quiet?" "I thought there was." "No. What's the reason you want me to stay here?" His companion's grave face showed no lightening. "Why do you want me round more than someone else?" "Haven't got anyone else." "Oh, yes, you have! Every man on Bonanza's a friend o' yours, or would be." "It isn't just that; we understand each other." No answer. The Boy looked through the door across Bonanza to the hills. "That's just it, Colonel. We know such a lot more than men do who haven't travelled the Trail, and some of the knowledge isn't oversweet." A shadow crossed the kind face opposite. "But it's always just as it was that day on the Oklahoma, when the captain swore he wouldn't take on another pound. I was awfully happy thinkin' if I made him bring you it might kind o' make up, but it didn't." "Made a big difference to me," the Colonel said, still not able to see the drift, but patiently brushing now and then at the dazzling mist and waiting for enlightenment. The Colonel interrupted him, "That's right!" "If any other fella said so, I'd knock him down." "That night before we got to Snow Camp, when you wouldn't--couldn't go any farther, I meant to go and leave you--take the sled, and take--I guess I meant to take everything and leave you to starve." The Kentuckian turned quickly as if to avoid the stab of the other's eye, and sat hunched together, elbows on knees, head in hands. "I knew you didn't." The Boy answered his own question. He limped over to his side of the tent, picked up some clothes, his blanket and few belongings, and made a pack. Not a word, not a sound, but some birds twittering outside in the sun and a locust making that frying sound in the fire-weed. The pack was slung on the Boy's back, and he was throwing the diamond hitch to fasten it when the Colonel at last looked round. "Lord, what you doin'?" "Guess I'm goin' on." "I'll write you when I know; maybe I'll even send you what I owe you, but I don't feel like boastin' at the moment. Nig!" The Boy frowned a little, but rested his pack against the table in that way in which the Klondyker learns to make a chair-back of his burden. "You seem to think you've been tellin' me news," said the Colonel. "When you said that about goin' on, the night before we got to Snow Camp, I knew you simply meant you still intended to come out alive. I had thrown up my hands--at least, I thought I had. The only difference between us--I had given in and you hadn't." The other shook his head. "There was a lot more in it than that." The Boy nodded, tightening his lips. "You wouldn't have left me--if I'd had my gun." The Boy remembered that he had more than suspected that at the time, but the impression had by-and-by waxed dim. It was too utterly unlike the Colonel--a thing dreamed. He had grown as ashamed of the dream as of the thing he knew was true. The egotism of memory absorbed itself in the part he himself had played--that other, an evil fancy born of an evil time. And here was the Colonel saying it was true. The Boy dropped his eyes. It had all happened in the night. There was something in the naked truth too ghastly for the day. But the Colonel went on in a harsh whisper: "I looked round for my gun; if I'd found it I'd have left you behind." And the Boy kept looking down at Nig, and the birds sang, and the locust whirred, and the hot sun filled the tent as high-tide flushes a sea-cave. "Makin' me admit that before I would have let you go on I'd have shot you!" "Colonel!" He loosed his hold of Nig. "Don't, for the Lord's sake, don't!" said the younger, and neither dared look at the other. A scratching on the canvas, the Northern knock at the door. "You fellers sound awake?" A woman's voice. Under his breath, "Who the devil's that?" inquired the Colonel, brushing his hand over his eyes. Before he got across the tent Maudie had pushed the flap aside and put in her head. "Hell-o! How d'e do?" He shook hands, and the younger man nodded, "Hello." "When did you come to town?" asked the Colonel mendaciously. "I put that job through at the Road House. Got to rustle around now and get my tent up. Where's a good place?" "Well, I--I hardly know. Goin' to stay some time?" The Boy slipped off his pack. "They've got rooms at the Gold Belt," he said. "Oh, it ain't so far. I remember you can walk." "Yes. Bein' so hospittable. The way you're pressin' me to settle right down here, near's possible--why, it's real touchin'." He laughed, and went to the entrance to tic back the door-flap, which was whipping and snapping in the breeze. Heaven be praised! the night was cooler. Nig had been perplexed when he saw the pack pushed under the table. He followed his master to the door, and stood looking at the flap-tying, ears very pointed, critical eye cocked, asking as plain as could be, "You wake me up and drag me out here into the heat and mosquitoes just to watch you doin' that? Well, I've my opinion of you." "Colonel gone down?" inquired the Silesian, passing by. "Anything I can do?" the gentleman inside was saying with a sound of effort in his voice. The lady was not even at the pains to notice the perfunctory civility. "Well, Colonel, now you're here, what do you think o' the Klondyke?" "Think? Well, there's no doubt they've taken a lot o' gold out o' here." "Reg'lar old Has Been, hey?" "Oh, I don't say it hasn't got a future." "What! Don't you know the boom's busted?" "Has. Tax begun it. Too many cheechalkos are finishing it. Klondyke?" She laughed. "The Klondyke's goin' to hell down-grade in a hand-car." "Perhaps it is a little," though the lame man had no reason to think so. "Well, since you're on time, you better come on the night shift, instead o' that lazy friend o' yours." "Oh, he ain't lazy--been up hours. An old acquaintance dropped in; he'll be down in a minute." "'Tisn't only his bein' late. You better come on the shift." "Don't think I could do that. What's the matter?" "Don't say there's anything very much the matter yet. But he's sick, ain't he?" "Sick? No, except as we all are--sick o' the eternal glare." The Colonel was coming slowly down the hill. Of course, a man doesn't look his best if he hasn't slept. The Boy limped a little way back to meet him. "Anything the matter with you, Colonel?" "Well, my Bonanza headache ain't improved." "Oh, I was just thinkin' about the sun." "Well, when I want to go in out of the sun, I'll say so." And, walking more quickly than he had done for long, he left his companion, marched down to the creek, and took his place near the puddling-box. By the time the Boy got to the little patch of shade, offered by the staging, Austin had turned his back on the gang, and was going to speak to the gateman at the locks. He had evidently left the Colonel very much enraged at some curt comment. "He meant it for us all," the Dublin gentleman was saying soothingly. By-and-by, as they worked undisturbed, serenity returned. Oh, the Colonel was all right--even more chipper than usual. What a good-looking fella he was, with that clear skin and splendid colour! A curt voice behind said: "Looks like you've got a deal to attend to to-day, beside your work." They looked round, and there was Austin. As the Colonel saw who it was had spoken, the clear colour in the tan deepened; he threw back his shoulders, hesitated, and then, without a word, went and took up his shovel. Like so many on Bonanza, the Superintendent could not always sleep when the time came. He was walking about "showing things" to a stranger, "a newspaper woman," it was whispered--at all events, a lady who, armed with letters from the highest British officials, had come to "write up the Klondyke." Seymour had left her at his employer's call. The lady, thin, neat, alert, with crisply curling iron-gray hair, and pleasant but unmistakably dignified expression, stood waiting for him a moment on the heap of tailings, then innocently followed her guide. Although Austin lowered his voice, she drew nearer, prepared to take an intelligent interest in the "new riffles up on Skookum." "See here, Austin: if you've any complaints to make, sah, you'd better make them to my face, sah." The conversation about riffles thus further interrupted, a little silence fell. The Superintendent stood in evident fear of his employer, but he hastened to speak conciliatory words. "May be so when he ain't sick," said Austin contemptuously. "Sick!" the Boy called out. "Why, you're dreamin'. He's our strong man--able to knock spots out of anyone on the creek, ain't he?" appealing to the gang. "I shall be able to spare him from my part of the creek after to-night." "Do I understand you are dismissing me?" The Colonel dropped his shovel and clenched his hands. "Get the woman out o' the way," said the owner; "there's goin' to be trouble with this fire-eating Southerner." The woman turned quickly. The Colonel, diving under the sluice-box for a plunge at Austin, came up face to face with her. Misunderstanding Austin's jibe at the official, the lady stood her ground, smiling into the face of the excited Kentuckian. "Several people have asked me if I was not afraid to be alone here, and I've said no. It's quite true. I've travelled so much that I came to know years ago, it's not among men like you a woman has anything to fear." "At home, in the streets of London, I have been rudely spoken to; I have been greatly annoyed in Paris; in New York I have been subject to humorous impertinence; but in the great North-West every man has seemed to be my friend. In fact, wherever our English tongue is spoken," she wound up calmly, putting the great Austin in his place, "a woman may go alone." The gang watched the Boy dodge under the sluice and hobble hurriedly over the chaos of stones towards the owner. Before he reached him he called breathless, but trying to laugh: "You think the Colonel's played out, but, take my word for it, he ain't a man to fool with." The owner stood there smoking while the night gang knocked off work under his nose and helped the Boy to get the Colonel on his feet. It was no use. Either he had struck his head or he was dazed--unable, at all events, to stand. They lifted him up and started for the big tent. The Superintendent and several of the day gang got the wounded man into bed. He revived sufficiently to say he had not seen the man that shot him, but he guessed he knew him all the same. Then he turned on his side, swore feebly at the lawlessness of the South, and gave up the ghost. Not a man on the creek but understood who Scowl Austin meant. "Them hot-headed Kentuckians, y' know, they'd dowse a feller's glim for less 'n that." "Little doubt the Colonel done it all right. Why, his own pardner says to Austin's face, says he, 'The Colonel's a bad man to fool with,' and just then the big chap plunged at Austin like a mad bull." But they were sorry to a man, and said among themselves that they'd see he was defended proper even if he hadn't nothin' but a little dust in a jam-pot. "Hah!" said the constable, with some relief, "they both in there?" "With that lame leg?" "Went on horseback." "Funny nobody saw him." "When'd he light out?" "But how'd the young feller get such a thing as a horse?" "Hired it off a stranger out from Dawson yesterday," Maudie answered shortly. "Oh, that Frenchman--Count--a--Whirligig?" "Yes, that French feller came in with a couple o' fusst-class horses. He's camped away over there beyond Muskeeter." He pointed down Bonanza. "P'raps you won't mind just mentionin'," said Maudie with growing irritation, "why you're makin' yourself so busy about my friends?" (Only strong resentment could have induced the plural.) When she heard what had happened and what was suspected she uttered a contemptuous "Tschah!" and made for the tent. The constable followed. She wheeled fiercely round. "The man in there hasn't been out o' this tent since he was carried up from the creek last night. I can swear to it." "Can you swear the other was here all the time?" "Did he say what he went to Dawson for?" "And do you know what it costs to have a doctor come all the way out here?" "Did your friend mention how he meant to raise the dust?" "He's got it," she said curtly. "Why, he was livin' off his pardner. Hadn't a red cent." "She's shieldin' him," the men about the door agreed. That evening the Boy, riding hard, came into camp with a doctor, followed discreetly in the rear by an N. W. M. P., really mounted this time. It had occurred to the Boy that people looked at him hard, and when he saw the groups gathered about the tent his heart contracted sharply. Had the Colonel died? He flung himself off the horse, winced as his foot cried out, told Joey Bludsoe to look after both beasts a minute, and led the Dawson doctor towards the tent. The constable followed. Maudie, at the door, looked at her old enemy queerly, and just as, without greeting, he pushed by, "S'pose you've heard Scowl Austin's dead?" she said in a low voice. The constable stopped him with a touch on the shoulder: "We have a warrant for you." The Colonel lifted his head and stared about, in a dazed way, as the Boy stopped short and stammered, "Warr--what for?" He stood there with the Buckeyes, the police, and the various day gangs that were too excited to go to bed. And he asked them where Austin was found, and other details of the murder, wearily conscious that the friendliest there felt sure that the man who questioned could best fill in the gaps in the story. When the doctor came out, Maudie at his heels firing off quick questions, the Boy hobbled forward. "Oh, is--is that much or little?" "Well, it's more than most of us go in for." "Can you tell what's the matter with him?" "Oh, typhoid, of course." The Boy pulled his hat over his eyes. "Guess you won't mind my stayin' now?" said Maudie at his elbow, speaking low. He looked up. "You goin' to take care of him? Good care?" he asked harshly. But Maudie seemed not to mind. The tears went down her cheeks, as, with never a word, she nodded, and turned towards the tent. "I'll do my darnedest." He held out his hand. He had never given it to her before, and he forgot that few people would care now to take it. But she gave him hers with no grudging. Then, on a sudden, impulse, "You ain't takin' him to Dawson to-night?" she said to the constable. "I can do it again well enough." "Then you got to wait a minute." She spoke to the constable as if she had been Captain Constantine himself. "Better just go in and see the Colonel," she said to the Boy. "He's been askin' for you." "N-no, Maudie; I can go to Dawson all right, but I don't feel up to goin' in there again." He went back into the tent, dreading to face the Colonel more than he had ever dreaded anything in his life. "Why, that's good news. Then you--you won't mind my goin' off to--to do a little prospectin'?" The sick man frowned: "You stay right where you are. There's plenty in that jampot." "Yes, yes! jampot's fillin' up fine." "Besides," the low voice wavered on, "didn't we agree we'd learned the lesson o' the North?" "The lesson o' the North?" repeated the other with filling eyes. "Yes, sah. A man alone's a man lost. We got to stick together, Boy." The eyelids fell heavily. "Yes, yes, Colonel." He pressed the big hand. His mouth made the motion, not the sound, "Good-bye, pardner." "But the Boy's a long time," the Colonel would say wistfully. Before this quieter phase set in, Maudie had sent into Dawson for Potts, O'Flynn and Mac, that they might distract the Colonel's mind from the pardner she knew could not return. But O'Flynn, having married the girl at the Moosehorn Cafe, had excuse of ancient validity for not coming; Potts was busy breaking the faro bank, and Mac was waiting till an overdue Lower River steamer should arrive. "You goin' to marry Skookum Bill, as they say?" Muckluck only laughed, but the Indian hung about waiting the Princess's pleasure. "When your pardner come back?" she would indiscreetly ask the Colonel. "Why he goes to Dawson?" And every few hours she would return: "Why he stay so long?" At last Maudie took her outside and told her. Muckluck gaped, sat down a minute, and rocked her body back and forth with hidden face, got up and called sharply: "Skookum!" They took the trail for town. Potts said, when he passed them, they were going as if the devil were at their heels--wouldn't even stop to say how the Colonel was. So Potts had come to see for himself--and to bring the Colonel some letters just arrived. Mac was close behind but the Boy? No-no. They wouldn't let anybody see him; and Potts shook his head. "Well, you can come in," said Maudie, "if you keep your head shut about the Boy." The Colonel was lying flat, with that unfaltering ceiling-gaze of the sick. Now his vision dropped to the level of faces at the door. "Hello!" But as they advanced he looked behind them anxiously. Only Mac--no, Kaviak at his heels! and the sick man's disappointment lightened to a smile. He would have held out a hand, but Maudie stopped him. She took the little fellow's fingers and laid them on the Colonel's. "Now sit down and be quiet," she said nervously. "How did you get to the Klondyke, Kaviak?" said the Colonel in a thin, breathy voice. "Came up with Sister Winifred," Farva answered for him. "She was sent for to help with the epidemic. Dyin' like flies in Dawson--h'm--ahem!" (Apologetic glance at Maudie.) "Sister Winifred promised to keep Kaviak with her. Woman of her word." "Well, what you think o' Dawson?" the low voice asked. Kaviak understood the look at least, and smiled back, grew suddenly grave, intent, looked sharply round, loosed his hold of the Colonel, bent down, and retired behind the bed. That was where Nig was. Their foregathering added nothing to the tranquility of the occasion, and both were driven forth by Maudie. Potts read the Colonel his letters, and helped him to sign a couple of cheques. The "Louisville instructions" had come through at last. That same evening, as they sat in the tent in an interval of relief from the Colonel's muttering monotone, they heard Nig making some sort of unusual manifestation outside; heard the grunting of those pioneer pigs; heard sounds of a whispered "Sh! Kaviak. Shut up, Nig!" Then a low, tuneless crooning: "Wen yo' see a pig a-goin' along Widder straw in de sider 'is mouf, It'll be er tuhble wintuh, En yo' bettah move down Souf." "Why, the Boy's back!" said the Colonel suddenly in a clear, collected voice. Maudie had jumped up, but the Boy put his head in the tent, smiling, and calling out: "They told me he was getting on all right, but I just thought maybe he was asleep." He came in and bent over his pardner. "Hello, everybody! Why, you got it so fine and dark in here, I can hardly see how well you're lookin', Colonel!" And he dropped into the nurse's place by the bedside. "Maudie's lined the tent with black drill," said the Colonel. "You brought home anything to eat?" "Oh, well, that's the main thing," said the Colonel, battling with disappointment. Pricked by some quickened memory of the Boy's last home-coming: "I've had pretty queer dreams about you: been givin' Maudie the meanest kind of a time." "Don't go gassin', Colonel," admonished the nurse. "Mustn't talk!" ordered Mac. The Colonel raised his head with sudden anger. It did not mend matters that Maudie was there to hold him down before a lot of men. "You go to Halifax," said the Boy to Mac, blustering a trifle. "The Colonel may stand a little orderin' about from Maudie--don't blame him m'self. But Kentucky ain't going to be bossed by any of us." The Colonel lay quite still again, and when he spoke it was quietly enough. "Reckon I'm in the kind of a fix when a man's got to take orders." "Foolishness! Don't let him jolly you, boys. The Colonel's always sayin' he ain't a soldier, but I reckon you better look out how you rile Kentucky!" The sick man ignored the trifling. "The worst of it is bein' so useless." "It's quite true," said Mac harshly; "we all kind of look to you still." "Course we do!" The Boy turned to the others. "The O'Flynns comin' all the way out from Dawson to-morrow to get Kentucky's opinion on a big scheme o' theirs. Did you ever hear what that long-headed Lincoln said when the Civil War broke out? 'I would like to have God on my side, but I must have Kentucky.'" "I've been so out o' my head, I thought you were arrested." "No 'out of your head' about it--was arrested. They thought I'd cleared Scowl Austin off the earth." "Do they know who did?" Potts and Maudie asked in a breath. "That Klondyke Indian that's sweet on Princess Muckluck." "What had Austin done to him?" "Nothin'. Reckon Skookum Bill was about the only man on Bonanza who had no objection to the owner of o. Said so in Court." "What did he kill him for?" "Why didn't he own up, then, and get his reward?" "Muckluck knew better--made him hold his tongue about it." "What's goin' to happen?" "Oh, he'll swing to-morrow instead o' me. By the way, Colonel, a fella hunted me up this mornin' who'd been to Minook. Looked good to him. I've sold out Idaho Bar." "'Nough to buy back your Orange Grove?" He shook his head. "'Nough to pay my debts and start over again." When the Dawson doctor left that night Maudie, as usual, followed him out. They waited a long time for her to come back. "Perhaps she's gone to her own tent;" and the Boy went to see. He found her where the Colonel used to go to smoke, sitting, staring out to nowhere. As the boy looked closer he saw she had been crying, for even in the midst of honest service Maudie, like many a fine lady before her, could not forego the use of cosmetic. Her cheeks were streaked and stained. "What's the matter?" "It's all up," she answered. "Not with him?" He motioned towards the tent. "How soon?" he said, without raising his eyes. Kaviak was sent after him in the morning, but only to say, "Breakfast, Maudie's tent." Towards noon the O'Flynns came up the creek, and were stopped near the tent by the others. They all stood talking low till a noise of scuffling broke the silence within. They drew nearer, and heard the Colonel telling Maudie not to turn out Nig and Kaviak. "I like seein' my friends. Where's the Boy?" "Had a job in your line " Then suddenly: "Maudie's worth the whole lot of you." They knew it was his way of saying "She's told me." They all sat and looked at the floor. Nothing happened for a long time. At last: "Well, you all know what my next move is; what's yours?" There was another silence, but not nearly so long. "What prospects, pardners?" he repeated. The Boy looked at Maudie. She made a little gesture of "I've done all the fightin' I'm good for." The Colonel's eyes, clear again and tranquil, travelled from face to face. O'Flynn cleared his throat, but it was Mac who spoke. "Yes, you might just--a--start us as well as you can," says Potts. Mac was in the act of changing his place to be nearer the Colonel, when Potts adroitly forestalled him. The others drew off a little and made desultory talk, while Potts in an undertone told how he'd had a run of bad luck. No doubt it would turn, but if ever he got enough again to pay his passage home, he'd put it in the bank and never risk it. He showed a picture. The Colonel studied it. "I believe she'll come," he said. And Potts was so far from clairvoyance that he laughed, awkwardly flattered; then anxiously: "Wish I was sure o' my passage money." "Oh, you're going outside too?" "In the fahll--yes, yes. Ye see, I ain't like the rest. I've got Mrs. O'Flynn to consider. Dawson's great, but it ain't the place to start a famully." "I didn't know you had boys." "I guess you've jawed enough," said Maudie, leaving the others and coming to the foot of the bed. "And Maudie's goin' back, too," said the sick man. "And you're never goin' to leave her again?" "Maudie's a little bit of All Right," said the patient. The Big Chimney men assented, but with sudden misgiving. "What was that job ye said ye were wantin' me forr?" "Oh, Maudie's got a friend of hers to fix it up." "Fix what up?" demanded Potts. "Little postscript to my will." Mac jerked his head at the nurse. With that clear sight of dying eyes the Colonel understood. A meaner spirit would have been galled at the part those "Louisville Instructions" had been playing, but cheap cynicism was not in the Colonel's line. He knew the awful pinch of life up here, and he thought no less of his comrades for asking that last service of getting them home. But it was the day of the final "clean-up" for the Colonel; he must not leave misapprehension behind. "Got a Minook claim o' my own." "Mac thought he'd go over to the other tent and cook some dinner. There was a general movement. As they were going out: "Don't you go wastin' any more time huntin' gold-mines." "Go back to your own work; go back to your own people." The Boy listened and looked away. "Home doesn't seem so important as it did when I came up here." "I've been afraid of that. It's magic; break away. Promise me you'll go back and stay. Lord, Lord!" he laughed feebly, "to think a fella should have to be urged to leave the North alone. Wonderful place, but there's Black Magic in it. Or who'd ever come--who'd ever stay?" He looked anxiously into the Boy's set face. "I'm not saying the time was wasted," he went on; "I reckon it was a good thing you came." "Yes, it was a good thing I came." "Specially on the Long Trail." "Most of all on the Long Trail." The Colonel shut his eyes. Maudie came and held a cup to his lips. "Thank you. I begin to feel a little foggy. What was it we learned on the Trail, pardner?" But the Boy had turned away. "Wasn't it--didn't we learn how near a tolerable decent man is to bein' a villain?" "We learned that a man can't be quite a brute as long as he sticks to another man." In the night Maudie went away to sleep. The Boy watched. "Do you know what I'm thinking about?" the sick man said suddenly. "About--that lady down at home?" "About--those fellas at Holy Cross?" "Yes, goin' to get it off. I ain't goin' home till next year." And the face above the moose-skin shirt was stricken with a sudden envy. Without any telling, he knew just how his pardner's heart had failed him, when it came to turning his tattered back on the possibilities of the Klondyke. "Oh, I'm comin' back soon's I get a grub-stake." Among the hundreds running about, talking, bustling, hauling heterogeneous luggage, sending last letters, doing last deals, a score of women either going by this boat or saying good-bye to those who were; and Potts, the O'Flynns, and Mac waiting to hand over Kaviak to Sister Winifred. "Good-bye, Muckluck." "Goo'-bye? Boat Canada way no go till Thursday." "Thursday, yes," he said absently, eyes still on the American ship. "Then why you say goo'-bye to-day?" "Lot to do. I just wanted to make sure you were all right." Her creamy face was suddenly alight, but not with gratitude. And at the prospect her head drooped heavily. "Then you'll want to wear this at your wedding." The Boy drew his hand out of his pocket, threw a walrus-string over her bent head, and when she could see clear again, her Katharine medal was swinging below her waist, and "the Boston man" was gone. "Mustn't cry," he said to Muckluck. "You'll see Sister Winifred again." "Not for that I cry. Ah, I never shall have happiness!" "Yes, that trunk!" he called. In the babel of voices shouting from ship and shore, the Boy heard Princess Muckluck saying, with catches in her breath: "I always knew I would get no luck!" "Ah! I was a bad child. The baddest of all the Pymeut children." "Yes, yes, they've got it now!" the Boy shouted up to the Captain. Then low, and smiling absently: "What did you do that was so bad. Princess?" "Me? I--I mocked at the geese. It was the summer they were so late; and as they flew past Pymeut I--yes, I mocked at them." A swaying and breaking of the crowd, the little trunk flung on board, the men rushing back to the wharf, the gang lifted, and the last Lower River boat swung out into the ice-flecked stream. Keen to piercing a cry rang out--Muckluck's: "Stop! They carry him off! It is meestake! Oh! Oh!" The Boy was standing for'ard, Nig beside him. O'Flynn rushed to the wharf's edge and screamed at the Captain to "Stop, be the Siven!" Mac issued orders most peremptory. Muckluck wept as excitedly as though there had never been question of the Boy's going away. But while the noise rose and fell, Potts drawled a "Guess he means to go that way!" "Well," said a bystander, "I never seen any feller as calm as that who was bein' took the way he didn't want to go." The suggestion flashed electric through the crowd. It was the only possible explanation. "He knows what he's about." "Lord! I wish I'd 'a' froze to him!" As O'Flynn, back from his chase, hoarse and puffing, stopped suddenly: "Be the Siven! Father Brachet said the little divil 'd be coming back to Howly Cross!" "Then you're talking through your hat!" "Say, Potts, where in hell is he goin'?" End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Magnetic North by Elizabeth Robins (C. E. Raimond)	redpajama-book	94,239
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Tapio Riikonen and PG Distributed Proofreaders THE WORKS OF APHRA BEHN, VOL. III EDITED BY MONTAGUE SUMMERS So a young Poet, who had never been Dabling beyond the Height of Ballading; Who, in his brisk Essays, durst ne'er excel The lucky Flight of rhyming Doggerel, Sets up with this sufficient Stock on Stage, And has, perchance, the luck to please the Age. He draws you in, like cozening Citizen; Cares not how bad the Ware, so Shop be fine. SCENE, _Covent-Garden_. SCENE I. _The Street_. _Enter Sir_ Timothy Tawdrey, Sham, _and_ Sharp. _Sham_. A Pox upon him for his Pains- Sir _Tim_. So say I--But my Comfort is, I shall be as weary of her, as the best Husband of 'em all. But there's Conveniency in it; besides, the Match being as good as made up by the old Folks in the Country, I must submit--The Wench I never saw yet, but they say she's handsom--But no matter for that, there's Money, my Boys. _Sharp_. Well, Sir, we will follow you--but as dolefully as People do their Friends to the Grave, from whence they're never to return, at least not the same Substance; the thin airy Vision of a brave good Fellow, we may see thee hereafter, but that's the most. Sir _Tim_. Your Pardon, sweet _Sharp_, my whole Design in it is to be Master of my self, and with part of her Portion to set up my Miss, _Betty Flauntit_; which, by the way, is the main end of my marrying; the rest you'll have your shares of--Now I am forc'd to take you up Suits at treble Prizes, have damn'd Wine and Meat put upon us, 'cause the Reckoning is to be book'd: But ready Money, ye Rogues! What Charms it has! makes the Waiters fly, Boys, and the Master with Cap in Hand--excuse what's amiss, Gentlemen--Your Worship shall command the best--and the rest--How briskly the Box and Dice dance, and the ready Money submits to the lucky Gamester, and the gay Wench consults with every Beauty to make her self agreeable to the Man with ready Money! In fine, dear Rogues, all things are sacrific'd to its Power; and no Mortal conceives the Joy of Argent Content. 'Tis this powerful God that makes me submit to the Devil, Matrimony; and then thou art assur'd of me, my stout Lads of brisk Debauch. _Sham_. And is it possible you can be ty'd up to a Wife? Whilst here in _London_, and free, you have the whole World to range in, and like a wanton Heifer, eat of every Pasture. Sir _Tim_. What, thou meanest a Cuckold, I warrant. God help thee! But a Monster is only so from its Rarity, and a Cuckold is no such strange thing in our Age. _Enter_ Bellmour _and_ Friendlove. _Friend_. Sir _Timothy Tawdrey!_- Sir _Tim_. The same, by Fortune, dear _Ned_: And how, and how, Man, how go Matters? _Friend_. Between who, Sir? Sir _Tim_. Why, any Body, Man; but, by Fortune, I'm overjoy'd to meet thee: But where dost think I was going? Sir _Tim_. Is't possible you shou'd not, and meet me so near your Sister's Lodgings? Faith, I was coming to pay my Respects and Services, and the rest--Thou know'st my meaning--The old Business of the Silver-World, _Ned_; by Fortune, it's a mad Age we live in, _Ned_; and here be so many--wicked Rogues, about this damn'd leud Town, that, 'faith, I am fain to speak in the vulgar modish Style, in my own Defence, and railly Matrimony and the rest. Sir _Tim_. Who, I, Sir? You do me much Honour: I must confess I do not find the softer Sex cruel; I am received as well as another Man of my Parts. Sir _Tim_. Why, 'faith, _Ned_, thou art i'th' right; I love to buy my Pleasure: for, by Fortune, there's as much pleasure in Vanity and Variety, as any Sins I know; What think'st thou, _Ned?_ _Friend_. I am not of your Mind, I love to love upon the square; and that I may be sure not to be cheated with false Ware, I present 'em nothing but my Heart. Sir _Tim_. Yes, and have the Consolation of seeing your frugal huswifery Miss in the Pit, at a Play, in a long Scarf and Night-gown, for want of Points, and Garniture. _Friend_. If she be clean, and pretty, and drest in Love, I can excuse the rest, and so will she. _Friend_. Sir, I assure you, it shall be so great a Secret for me, that I will never ask you who the happy Woman is, that's chosen for this great Work of your Conversion. Sir _Tim_. Ask me--No, you need not, because you know already. _Friend_. Who, I? I protest, Sir _Timothy_- Sir _Tim_. No Swearing, dear _Ned_, for 'tis not such a Secret, but I will trust my Intimates: these are my Friends, _Ned_; pray know them--This Mr. _Sham_, and this--by Fortune, a very honest Fellow [_Bows to 'em_] Mr. _Sharp_, and may be trusted with a Bus'ness that concerns you as well as me. _Friend_. Not I, Sir. Sir _Tim_. What, not that I am to marry your Sister _Celinda_? _Friend_. Not at all. _Bel_. O, this insufferable Sot! [_Aside_. _Friend_. My Sister, Sir, is very nice. _Friend_. That the old People have agreed the matter, is more than I know. _Friend_. Prithee let him alone. [_Aside_. Sir _Tim_. To which he answer'd--I have a good Fortune--have but my Son _Ned_, and this Girl, call'd _Celinda_, whom I will make a Fortune, sutable to yours; your honoured Mother, the Lady _Tawdrey_, and I, have as good as concluded the Match already. To which I (who, though I say it, am well enough bred for a Knight) answered the Civility thus--I vow to Fortune, Sir--I did not swear, but cry'd--I protest, Sir, _Celinda_, deserves--no, no, I lye again, 'twas merits--Ay, _Celinda_--merits a much better Husband than I. _Friend_. You speak more Truth than you are aware of. [_Aside_.] Well, Sir, I'll bring you to my Sister; and if she likes you, as well as My Father does, she's yours; otherwise, I have so much Tenderness for her, as to leave her Choice free. Sir _Tim_. Oh, Sir, you compliment. _Alons, Entrons. SCENE II. _A Chamber_. _Enter_ Celinda, _and_ Nurse. _Cel_. I wonder my Brother stays so long: sure Mr. _Bellmour_ is not yet arriv'd, yet he sent us word he would be here to day. Lord, how impatient I grow! _Nur_. Ay, so methinks; if I had the hopes of enjoying so sweet a Gentleman as Mr. _Bellmour_, I shou'd be so too--But I am past it--Well, I have had my Pantings, and Heavings, my Impatience, and Qualms, my Heats, and my Colds, and my I know not whats--But I thank my Stars, I have done with all those Fooleries. _Cel_. Fooleries!-Is there any thing in Life but Love? Wou'dst thou praise Heaven for thy Being, Without that grateful part of it? For I confess I love. _Nur_. You need not, your Sighs, and daily (nay, and nightly too) Disorders, plainly enough betray the Truth. _Cel_. Thou speak'st as if it were a Sin: But if it be so, you your self help'd to make me wicked. For e'er I saw Mr. _Bellmour_, you spoke the kindest things of him, As would have mov'd the dullest Maid to love; And e'er I saw him, I was quite undone. _Nur_. Quite undone! Now God forbid it; what, for loving? You said but now there was no Life without it. _Cel_. But since my Brother came from _Italy_, And brought young _Bellmour_ to our House, How very little thou hadst said of him! How much above thy Praise, I found the Youth! _Nur_. Very pretty! You are grown a notable Proficient in Love--And you are resolv'd (if he please) to marry him? _Cel_. Or I must die. _Nur_. Ay, but you know the Lord _Plotwell_ has the Possession of all his Estate, and if he marry without his liking, has Power to take away all his Fortune, and then I think it were not so good marrying him. _Cel_. There we wou'd practise such degrees of Love, Such lasting, innocent, unheard of Joys, As all the busy World should wonder at, And, amidst all their Glories, find none such. _Nur_. Good lack! how prettily Love teaches his Scholars to prattle.-But hear ye, fair Mrs. _Celinda_, you have forgot to what end and purpose you came to Town; not to marry Mr. _Bellmour_, as I take it--but Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_, that Spark of Men. _Nur_. Faith, Mistress, I took pity of thee, I saw you so elevated with Thoughts of Mr. _Bellmour_, I found it necessary to take you down a degree lower. _Cel_. Why did not Heaven make all Men like lo _Bellmour_? So strangely sweet and charming! _Nur_. Marry come up, you speak well for your self; Oh intolerable loving Creature! But here comes the utmost of your Wishes. _Cel_. My Brother, and _Bellmour_! with strange Men! _Enter_ Friendlove, Bellmour, _Sir_ Timothy, Sham, _and_ Sharp. _Friend_. Sister, I've brought you here a Lover, this is the worthy Person you have heard of, Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_. Sir _Tim_. Yes, faith, Madam, I am Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_, at your Service--Pray are not you Mrs. _Celinda Dresswell_? _Cel_. The same, but cannot return your Compliment. Sir _Tim_. Oh Lord, oh Lord, not return a Compliment. Faith, _Ned_, thy Sister's quite spoil'd, for want of Town-Education; 'tis pity, for she's devilish pretty. _Friend_. She's modest, Sir, before Company; therefore these Gentlemen and I will withdraw into the next Room. _Cel_. Inhuman Brother! Will you leave me alone with this Sot? _Bel_. 'Sdeath! Must she be blown upon by that Fool? _Friend_. Patience, dear _Frank_, a little while. [_Exeunt_ Friend. Bell. Sham _and_ Sharp. [Sir Timothy _walks about the Room, expecting when_ Celinda _should speak_. _Cel_. Oh, dear Nurse, what shall I do? _Nur_. I that ever help you at a dead Lift, will not fail you now. Sir _Tim_. What a Pox, not a Word? _Cel_. Sure this Fellow believes I'll begin. Sir _Tim_. Not yet--sure she has spoke her last- _Nur_. The Gentleman's good-natur'd, and has took pity on you, and will not trouble you, I think. Sir _Tim_. So I should, if I were to look in thy mouldy Chaps, good Matron--Can your Lady speak? Sir _Tim_. Which way? Sir _Tim_. I never knew a Woman want a Cue for that; but all that I Have met with were still before-hand with me in tittle tattle. _Nur_. Likely those you have met with may, but this is no such Creature, Sir. _Cel_. If I can, Sir. _Cel_. And if I cannot, how will you be answer'd? Sir _Tim_. Faith, that's right; why, then you must do't by signs. _Cel_. But grant I can speak, what is't you'll ask me? Sir _Tim_. Can you love? _Cel_. Oh, yes, Sir, many things; I love my Meat, I love abundance of Adorers, I love choice of new Clothes, new Plays; and, like a right Woman, I love to have my Will. Sir _Tim_. Spoke like a well-bred Person, by Fortune: I see there's hopes of thee, Celinda; thou wilt in time learn to make a very fashionable Wife, having so much Beauty too. I see Attracts, and Allurements, wanton Eyes, the languishing turn of the Head, and all That invites to Temptation. _Cel_. Would that please you in a Wife? Sir _Tim_. Wit! Oh la, O la, Wit! as if there were any Wit requir'd in a Woman when she talks; no, no matter for Wit, or Sense: talk but loud, and a great deal to shew your white Teeth, and smile, and be very confident, and 'tis enough--Lord, what a Sight 'tis to see a pretty Woman Stand right up an end in the middle of a Room, playing with her Fan, for want of something to keep her in Countenance. No, she that is mine, I will teach to entertain at another rate. _Nur_. How, Sir? Why, what do you take my young Mistress to be? Sir _Tim_. Prithee, good Matron, Peace; I'll compound with thee. Sir _Tim_. Hold, hold thy eternal Clack. Sir _Tim_. Why, thou damnable confounded Torment, wilt thou never cease? _Nur_. No, not till you raise your Siege, and be gone; go march to your Lady of Love, and Debauch--go--You get no _Celinda_ here. Sir _Tim_. The Devil's in her Tongue. _Cel_. Good gentle Nurse, have Mercy upon the poor Knight. Sir _Tim_. Will she never end? _Cel_. Prithee forbear. Sir _Tim_. The Devil's in her Tongue, and so 'tis in most Women's of her Age; for when it has quitted the Tail, it repairs to her upper Tire. _Nur_. Do not persuade me, Madam, I am resolv'd to make him weary of his Wooing. Sir _Tim_. So, God be prais'd, the Storm is laid--And now, Mrs. _Celinda_, give me leave to ask you, if it be with your leave, this Affront is put on a Man of my Quality? _Nur_. Thy Quality- Sir _Tim_. Yes; I am a Gentleman, and a Knight. _Nur_. Yes, Sir, Knight of the ill-favour'd Countenance is it? Sir _Tim_. You are beholding to _Don Quixot_ for that, and 'tis so many Ages since thou couldst see to read, I wonder thou hast not forgot all that ever belong'd to Books. _Nur_. My Eye-sight is good enough to see thee in all thy Colours, thou Knight of the burning Pestle thou. Sir _Tim_. Agen, that was out of a Play--Hark ye, Witch of _Endor_, hold your prating Tongue, or I shall most well-favour'dly cudgel ye. _Nur_. As your Friend the Hostess has it in a Play too, I take it, Ends which you pick up behind the Scenes, when you go to be laught at even by the Player-Women. Sir _Tim_. Wilt thou have done? By Fortune, I'll endure no more- _Nur_. Murder, Murder! _Enter_ Friendlove, Bellmour, Sham _and_ Sharp. Sir _Tim_. Oh, Ned, I'm glad thou'rt come--never was _Tom Dove_ baited as I have been. _Friend_. By whom? my Sister? Sir _Tim_. No, no, that old Mastiff there--the young Whelp came not on, thanks be prais'd. _Bel_. I can endure no more--How, Sir--You marry fair _Celinda!_ Sir _Tim_. Ay, _Frank_, ay--is she not a pretty little plump white Rogue, hah? Sir _Tim_. Oh, I had forgot thou art a modest Rogue, and to thy eternal Shame, hadst never the Reputation of a Mistress--Lord, Lord, that I could see thee address thy self to a Lady--I fancy thee a very ridiculous Figure in that Posture, by Fortune. _Bel_. Why, Sir, I can court a Lady- Sir _Tim_. No, no, thou'rt modest; that is to say, a Country Gentleman; that is to say, ill-bred; that is to say, a Fool, by Fortune, as the World goes. _Bel_. Neither, Sir--I can love--and tell it too--and that you may believe me--look on this Lady, Sir. _Bel_. Nay, view her well, Sir- Sir. _Tim_. Pleasant this--Well, _Frank_, I do--And what then? _Bel_. Is she not charming fair--fair to a wonder! Sir _Tim_. Well, Sir, 'tis granted- _Bel_. And canst thou think this Beauty meant for thee, for thee, dull common Man? Sir _Tim_. Very well, what will he say next? _Bel_. I say, let me no more see thee approach this Lady. Sir _Tim_. How, Sir, how? _Bel_. Not speak to her, not look on her--by Heaven--not think of her. Sir _Tim_. How, _Frank_, art in earnest? _Bel_. Try, if thou dar'st. Sir _Tim_. Is he in earnest, Mr. _Friendlove_? _Friend_. I doubt so, Sir _Timothy_. Sir _Tim_. What, does he then pretend to your Sister? _Bel_. Yes, and no Man else shall dare do so. _Bel_. 'Tis well--there we will dispute our Title to _Celinda_. [_Exit Sir_ Tim. _Dull Animal! The Gods cou'd ne'er decree So bright a Maid shou'd be possest by thee_. SCENE I. _A Palace_. _Enter_ Nurse _with a Light_. _Bel_. I could not get from _Friendlove_--Thou hast not told _Celinda_ of my coming? _Nur_. No, no, e'en make Peace for me, and your self too. _Bel_. I warrant thee, Nurse--Oh, how I hope and fear this Night's Success! SCENE II. _A Chamber_. Celinda _in her Night-Attire, leaning on a Table. Enter to her_ Bellmour _and_ Nurse. _Cel_. Oh Heavens! Mr. _Bellmour_ at this late Hour in my Chamber! _Bel_. Yes, Madam; but will approach no nearer till you permit me; And sure you know my Soul too well to fear. _Cel_. I do, Sir, and you may approach yet nearer, And let me know your Business. _Bel_. Love is my bus'ness, that of all the World; Only my Flame as much surmounts the rest, As is the Object's Beauty I adore. _Cel_. If this be all, to tell me of your Love, To morrow might have done as well. _Cel_. Oh, if I am so wretched to be his, Surely I cannot live; For, Sir, I must confess I cannot love him. _Bel_. In earnest? Yes, by all that's good, I am; I love you more than I do Life, or Heaven! _Nur_. Come, come, ne'er stand asking of Questions, But follow your Inclinations, and take him at his Word. _Bel_. Celinda, take her Counsel, Perhaps this is the last opportunity; Nay, and, by Heaven, the last of all my Life, If you refuse me now-Say, will you never marry Man but me? _Cel_. Pray give me till to morrow, Sir, to answer you; For I have yet some Fears about my Soul, That take away my Rest. _Bel_. To morrow! You must then marry--Oh fatal Word! Another! a Beast, a Fool, that knows not how to value you. _Cel_. Is't possible my Fate shou'd be so near? _Nur_. Nay, then dispose of your self, I say, and leave dissembling; 'tis high time. _Bel_. This Night the Letter came, the dreadful News Of thy being married, and to morrow too. Oh, answer me, or I shall die with Fear. _Cel_. I must confess it, Sir, without a blush, (For 'tis no Sin to love) that I cou'd wish-Heaven and my Father were inclin'd my way: But I am all Obedience to their Wills. _Bel_. That Sigh was kind, But e'er to morrow this time, You'll want this pitying Sense, and feel no Pantings, But those which Joys and Pleasures do create. _Cel_. Alas, Sir! what is't you'd have me do? _Bel_. Why--I wou'd have you love, and after that You need not be instructed what to do. Give me your Faith, give me your solemn Vow To be my Wife, and I shall be at Peace. _Cel_. Part! Oh, 'tis a fatal Word! I will do any thing to save that Life, To which my own so nearly is ally'd. _Friend_. So, forward Sister! _Bel_. Ha, _Friendlove!_ _Friend_. Was it so kindly done, to gain my Sister Without my knowledge? _Bel_. Ah, Friend! 'Twas from her self alone That I wou'd take the Blessing which I ask. _Friend_. And I'll assist her, Sir, to give it you. Here, take him as an Honour, and be thankful. _Bel_. I as a Blessing sent from Heaven receive her, And e'er I sleep will justify my Claim, And make her mine. _Bel_. By such Delays we're lost: Hast thou forgot? To morrow she's design'd another's Bride! _Friend_. For that let me alone t'evade. _Bel_. If you must yet delay me, Give me leave not to interest such Wealth without Security. And I, _Celinda_, will instruct you how to satisfy my Fears. [_Kneels, and takes her by the Hand_. Bear witness to my Vows-May every Plague that Heaven inflicts on Sin, Fall down in Thunder on my Head, If e'er I marry any but _Celinda_ Or if I do not marry thee, fair Maid. _Nur_. Heartily sworn, as I vow. _Friend_. But now, my Friend, I'd have you take your leave; the day comes on apace, and you've not seen your Uncle since your Arrival. _Bel_. I will--but 'tis as Misers part with Gold, Or People full of Health depart from Life. _Friend_. Go, Sister, to your Bed, and dream of him. [_Ex_. Cel. _and_ Nurse. _Friend_. Hang him, he'll ne'er meet thee; to beat a Watch, or kick a Drawer, or batter Windows, is the highest pitch of Valour he e'er arriv'd to. _Bel_. However, I'll expect him, lest he be fool-hardy enough to keep his Word. _Friend_. Shall I wait on thee? _Bel_. No, no, there's no need of that--Good-morrow, my best Friend. _Friend_. But e'er you go, my dearest Friend and Brother, Now you are sure of all the Joys you wish From Heaven, do not forgetful grow of that great Trust I gave you of all mine; but, like a Friend, Assist me in my great Concern of Love With fair Diana, your lovely Cousin. You know how long I have ador'd that Maid; But still her haughty Pride repell'd my Flame, And all its fierce Efforts. SCENE III. _Sir_ Timothy's _House_. _Enter Sir_ Timothy, Sham, Sharp, _and_ Boy. _Sham_. Well, Sir _Timothy_, I have most excellent News for you, that will do as well; I have found out- Sir _Tim_. A new Wench, I warrant--But prithee, _Sham_, I have other matters in hand; 'Sheart, I am so mortify'd with this same thought of Fighting, that I shall hardly think of Womankind again. _Sharp_. And you were so forward, Sir Timothy- Sir _Tim_. Ay, _Sharp_, I am always so when I am angry; had I been but A little more provok'd then, that we might have gone to't when the heat was brisk, I had done well--but a Pox on't, this fighting in cool Blood I hate. _Sham_. 'Shaw, Sir, 'tis nothing, a Man wou'd do't for Exercise in a Morning. Sir _Tim_. Ay, if there were no more in't than Exercise; if a Man cou'd take a Breathing without breathing a Vein--but, _Sham_, this Wounds, and Blood, sounds terribly in my Ears; but since thou say'st 'tis nothing, prithee do thou meet _Bellmour_ in my stead; thou art a poor Dog, and 'tis no matter if the World were well rid of thee. _Sham_. I must confess I am of your mind, and therefore have been studying a Revenge, sutable to the Affront: and if I can judge any thing, I have hit it. Sir _Tim_. Hast thou? dear _Sham_, out with it. _Sham_. Why, Sir--what think you of debauching his Sister? Sir _Tim_. Why, is there such a thing in Nature? _Sham_. You know he has a Sister, Sir. Sir _Tim_. Yes, rich, and fair. _Sham_. Both, or she were not worthy of your Revenge. _Sham_. In being, Sir--but _Sharp_ here, and I, have been at some cost in finding her out. Sir _Tim_. Ye shall be overpaid--there's Gold, my little _Maquere_--but she's very handsom? _Sharp_. As a Goddess, Sir. Sir _Tim_. And art thou sure she will be leud? _Sham_. What, Sir, then it seems you doubt us? _Sharp_. How, Sir, doubt our Honesty! Sir _Tim_. Yes--why, I hope neither of you pretend to either, do you? _Sham_. Why, Sir, what, do you take us for Cheats? Sir _Tim_. As errant, as any's in Christendom. Sir _Tim_. Why, how now--what, fly in my Face? Are your Stomachs so queasy, that Cheat won't down with you? _Sham_. Yes, but we knew not that you were a Coward before. You talkt big, and huft where-e'er you came, like an errant Bully; and so long we reverenc'd you--but now we find you have need of our Courage, we'll stand on our own Reputations. _Sharp_. Why, Sir, who dares question either? Sir _Tim_. He that dares try it. [Kicks 'em. _Sharp_. Hold, Sir, hold. _Sham_. Enough, enough, we are satisfy'd. Sir _Tim_. So am not I, ye mangy Mungrels, till I have kickt Courage and Reputation out of ye. _Sham_. Hold there, Sir, 'tis enough, we are satisfy'd, that you have Courage. Sir _Tim_. Oh, are you so? then it seems I was not to be believ'd--I told you I had Courage when I was angry. Sir _Tim_. And all you did, was but to try my Courage, hah! _Sharp_. On our Honours, nothing else, Sir _Timothy_. _Sham_. 'Tis an Honour we are proud of, Sir. Sir _Tim_. Oh, is it so, Rascallians? then I hope I am to see the Lady without Indentures. _Sharp_. Oh Lord, Sir, any thing we can serve you in. _Sham_. And I have brib'd her Maid to bring her this Morning into the _Mall_. Sir _Tim_. Well, let's about it then; for I am for no fighting to day--D'ye hear, Boy--Let the Coach be got ready whilst I get my self drest. _Boy_. The Coach, Sir! Why, you know Mr. _Shatter_ has pawn'd the Horses. SCENE IV. Lord Plotwell's House. Enter Charles Bellmour, and Trusty. _Trusty_. Mr. _Charles_, your Brother, my young Master _Bellmour_, is come. _Char_. I'm glad on't; my Uncle began to be impatient that he came not, you saying you left him but a day's Journey behind you yesterday. My Uncle has something of importance to say to him, I fancy it may be about A Marriage between him and my Lady _Diana_--such a Whisper I heard- _Trusty_. Ay, marry, Sir, that were a Match indeed, she being your Uncle's only Heir. _Char_. Ay, but they are Sisters Children, and too near a-kin to be happy. _Char_. Yes, that he can't deny us the very Day after his Marriage. _Enter_ _Lord_ Plotwell, _and_ Bellmour. _Bel_. And therefore, Sir, ought the less to be a Slave. _Lord_. But, _Frank_, you do not know what a Wife I have provided for you. _Bel_. 'Tis enough I know she's a Woman, Sir. _Lord_. A Woman! why, what should she be else? _Bel_. An Angel, Sir, e'er she can be my Wife. _Lord_. In good time: but this is a Mortal, Sir--and must serve your turn--but, _Frank_, she is the finest Mortal- _Bel_. I humbly beg your Pardon, if I tell you, That had she Beauty such as Heav'n ne'er made, Nor meant again t'inrich a Woman with, It cou'd not take my Heart. _Lord_. But, Sir, perhaps you do not guess the Lady. _Bel_. Or cou'd I, Sir, it cou'd not change my Nature. _Lord_. But, Sir, suppose it be my Niece _Diana_. _Bel_. How, Sir, the fair _Diana_! _Lord_. I thought thou'dst come about again; What think you now of Woman-kind, and Wedlock? _Bel_. As I did before, my Lord. _Lord_. What, thou canst not think I am in earnest; I confess, _Frank_, she is above thee in point of Fortune, she being my only Heir--but suppose 'tis she. _Lord_. But, _Frank_, you must needs suppose- _Bel_. Oh, I am ruin'd, lost, for ever lost. _Lord_. Death! how's this? _Bel_. She is a thing above my humble wishes- _Lord_. Is that all? Take you no care for that; for she loves you already, and I have resolv'd it, which is better yet. _Bel_. Love me, Sir! I know she cannot, And Heav'n forbid that I should injure her. _Lord_. Sir, this is a Put-off: resolve quickly, or I'll compel you. _Bel_. You wou'd not use Extremity; What is the Forfeit of my Disobedience? _Lord_. The loss of all your Fortune, If you refuse the Wife I have provided-Especially a handsom Lady, as she is, _Frank_. _Bel_. Oh me, unhappy! What cursed Laws provided this Severity? _Lord_. Even those of your Father's Disposal, who seeing so many Examples in this leud Age, of the ruin of whole Families by imprudent Marriages, provided otherwise for you. _Bel_. But, Sir, admit _Diana_ be inclin'd, And I (by my unhappy Stars so curs'd) Should be unable to accept the Honour. _Bel_. Sir, can you think a Blessing e'er can fall Upon that Pair, whom Interest joins, not Love? _Lord_. Why, what's in _Diana_, that you shou'd not love her? _Lord_. Indeed, Sir, but I will not; love me this Lady, and marry me this Lady, or I will teach you what it is to refuse such a Lady. _Bel_. Sir, 'tis not in my power to obey you. _Lord_. How! not in your pow'r? _Bel_. O hear me, Sir! I came with Hopes to have found you merciful. _Lord_. Expect none from me; no, thou shalt not have So much of thy Estate, as will afford thee Bread: By Heav'n, thou shalt not. _Bel_. Yes, Sir, and dread your Anger worse than Death. _Lord_. Oh Villain! thus to dash my Expectation! _Bel_. Sir, on my bended Knees, thus low I fall To beg your mercy. _Lord_. Yes, Sir, I will have mercy; I'll give you Lodging--but in a Dungeon, Sir, Where you shall ask your Food of Passers by. _Bel_. All this, I know, you have the Pow'r to do; But, Sir, were I thus cruel, this hard Usage Would give me Cause to execute it. I wear a Sword, and I dare right my self; And Heaven wou'd pardon it, if I should kill you: But Heav'n forbid I shou'd correct that Law, Which gives you Power, and orders me Obedience. _Lord_. Very well, Sir, I shall tame that Courage, and punish that Harlot, whoe'er she be, that has seduc'd ye. _Lord_. Who waits there? Enter Trusty and Servants. _Trusty_. My Lord, 'tis my young Master _Bellmour_. _Lord_. Ye all doat upon him, but he's not the Man you take him for. _Trusty_. How, my Lord! not this Mr. _Bellmour_! _Lord_. Dogs, obey me. [_Offers to go_. _Lord_. Was I call'd back for this? Yes, I shall take it, Sir; do not fear. [_Offers to go_. _Bel_. Yet, stay, Sir--Have you lost all Humanity? Have you no Sense of Honour, nor of Horrors? _Lord_. Away with him--go, be gone. _Lord_. 'Tis well you will; had I not been good-natur'd now, You had been undone, and miss'd _Diana_ too. _Bel_. But must I marry--needs marry, Sir? Or lose my Fortune, and my Liberty, Whilst all my Vows are given to another? _Lord_. Heart and Faith, I am glad 'tis no worse; if the Ceremony of the Church has not past, 'tis well enough. _Bel_. All, Sir, that Heaven and Love requires, is past. _Lord_. Thou art a Fool, _Frank_, come--dry thy Eyes. And receive _Diana_--_Trusty_, call in my Niece. _Bel_. Yet, Sir, relent, be kind, and save my Soul. _Lord_. No more--by Heaven, if you resist my Will, I'll make a strange Example of thee, and of that Woman, whoe'er she be, that drew you to this Folly. Faith and Vows, quoth ye! _Enter_ Trusty _and_ Diana. _Lord_. Look ye here, _Frank_; Is this a Lady to be dislik'd? Come hither, _Frank--Trusty_, haste for Dr. _Tickletext_, my Chaplain's not in Town; I'll have them instantly married--Come hither, _Diana_--will you marry your Cousin, _Frank Bellmour_? _Dia_. Yes, if it be your pleasure; Heaven cou'd not let fall a greater Blessing. [_Aside_. _Lord_. And you, _Frank_, will you marry my Niece _Diana_? _Bel_. Since you will have it so. _Lord_. Come, follow me then, and you shall be both pleas'd. SCENE V. _The Street_. _Enter Sir_ Timothy Tawdrey, Sham _and_ Sharp. Sir _Tim_. Now, _Sham_, art not thou a damn'd lying Rogue, to make me saunter up and down the _Mall_ all this Morning, after a Woman that thou know'st in thy Conscience was not likely to be there? _Sharp_. Ay, ay, Sir: But the Devil a Maid we saw. [_Aside_. _Sham_. Sir, it may be Things have so fallen out, that she could not possibly come. Sir _Tim_. Things! a Pox of your Tricks--Well, I see there's no trusting a poor Devil--Well, what Device will your Rogueship find out to cheat me next? _Sham_. Prithee help me out at a dead lift, _Sharp_. [_Aside_. Sir _Tim_. Nay, nay, no threatning, _Sharp_; it may be she's innocent yet--Give her t'other Bribe, and try what that will do. [_Gives him Money_. _Sham_. No, Sir, I'll have no more to do with frail Woman, in this Case; I have a surer way to do your Business. _Enter_ Page _with a Letter_. Sir _Tim_. Is not that _Bellmour's_ Page? _Sharp_. It is, Sir. Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, the Rogue's looking for me; he has a Challenge in his hand too. _Sham_. No matter, Sir, huff it out. Sir _Tim_. Prithee do thee huff him, thou know'st the way on't. _Sham_. What's your Bus'ness with Sir _Timothy_, Sir? _Page_. Mine, Sir, I don't know the Gentleman; pray which is he? Sir _Tim_. I, I, 'tis so--Pox on him. _Sharp_. Well, Boy, I am he--What--Your Master. _Page_. My Master, Sir- _Sharp_. Are not you _Bellmour's_ Page? _Sharp_. Well, your News. _Page_. News, Sir? I know of none, but of my Master's being this Morning- Sir _Tim_. Ay, there it is--behind _Southampton_ House. _Page_. Married this Morning. Sir _Tim_. How! Married! 'Slife, has he serv'd me so? _Sham_. The Boy is drunk--_Bellmour_ married! _Page_. Yes, indeed, to the Lady _Diana_. Sir _Tim_. _Diana!_ Mad, by Fortune; what _Diana_? _Page_. Niece to the Lord _Plotwell_. Sir _Tim_. Come hither, Boy--Art thou sure of this? _Page_. Sir, I am sure of it; and I am going to bespeak Musick for the Ball anon. Sir _Tim_. What hast thou there--a Letter to the Divine _Celinda_? A dainty Boy--there's Money for to buy thee Nickers. _Page_. I humbly thank you. [_Exit_. _Sharp_. Well, Sir, if this be true, _Celinda_ will be glad of you again. _Sham_. Faith, Sir, I have thought of a thing, that may both clear your doubt, and give us a little Mirth. Sir _Tim_. I conceive thee. _Sham_. I know y'are quick of Apprehension, Sir _Timothy_. Sir _Tim_. O, your Servant, dear _Sham_--But to let thee see, I am none of the dullest, we are to Jig it in Masquerade this Evening, hah. _Sham_. Faith, Sir, you have it, and there you may have an Opportunity to court _Bellmour's_ Sister. Sir _Tim_. 'Tis a good Motion, and we will follow it; send to the Duke's House, and borrow some Habits presently. _Sham_. I'll about it, Sir. _Tho Whores in all things else the Mastery get, In this alone, like Wives, they must submit_. SCENE I. _A Room in Lord_ Plotwell's _House_. _Enter Lord_ Plotwell, Bellmour _leading in_ Diana, _follow'd by _Charles Bellmour, Phillis, _and other Ladies and Gentlemen_. [_Musick plays, till they are all seated_. _Lord_. Here, Nephew, I resign that Trust, which was repos'd in me by your dead Father; which was, that on your Wedding-Day I should thus-make you Master of your whole Fortune, you being married to my liking-And now, _Charles_, and you, my Niece _Phillis_, you may demand your Portions to morrow, if you please, for he is oblig'd to pay you the Day after that of his Marriage. _Phil_. There's time enough, my Lord. _Lord_. Come, come, Ladies, in troth you must take but little Rest to Night, in complaisance to the Bride and Bridegroom, who, I believe, will take but little--_Frank_--why, _Frank_--what, hast thou chang'd thy Humour with thy Condition? Thou wert not wont to hear the Musick play in vain. _Bel_. My Lord, I cannot dance. _Dia_. Indeed, you're wondrous sad, And I, methinks, do bear thee Company, I know not why; and yet excess of Joy Have had the same Effects with equal Grief. _Bel_. 'Tis true, and I have now felt the Extremes of both. _Lord_. Why, Nephew _Charles_--has your Breeding at the Academy instructed your Heels in no Motion? _Phil_. And I another, for Joy that my Brother's made happy in so fair a Bride. _Bel_. Hell take your Ignorance, for thinking I am happy,-Wou'd Heaven wou'd strike me dead, That by the loss of a poor wretched Life I might preserve my Soul--But Oh, my Error! That has already damn'd it self, when it consented To break a Sacred Vow, and Marry here. _Lord_. Come, come, begin, begin, Musick to your Office. _Bel_. Why does not this hard Heart, this stubborn Fugitive, Break with this Load of Griefs? but like ill Spirits It promis'd fair, till it had drawn me in, And then betray'd me to Damnation. _Dia_. There's something of disorder in his Soul, Which I'm on fire to know the meaning of. _Enter Sir_ Timothy, Sham, _and_ Sharp, _in Masquerade_. Sir _Tim_. The Rogue is married, and I am so pleas'd, I can forgive him our last Night's Quarrel. Prithee, _Sharp_, if thou canst learn that young Thing's Name, 'tis a pretty airy Rogue, whilst I go talk to her. _Sharp_. I will, Sir, I will. [_One goes to take out a Lady_. _Char_. Nay, Madam, you must dance. [_Dance_. _Bel_. I hope you will not call it Rudeness, Madam, if I refuse you here. [_The Lady that danced goes to take out the Bridegroom. After the Dance she takes out Sir_ Timothy, _they walk to a Courant_. Am I still tame and patient with my Ills? Gods! what is Man, that he can live and bear, Yet know his Power to rid himself of Grief? I will not live; or if my Destiny Compel me to't, it shall be worse than dying. _Enter_ Page _with a Table-Book_. _Page_. The Answer of a Letter, Sir, you sent the divine _Celinda_; for so it was directed. _Page_. How scorn, Sir! _Bel_. Or she was angry--call'd me perjur'd Villain, False, and forsworn--nay, tell me truth. _Bel_. Thou dost delay me--say she did, and please me. _Bel_. Again--tell me, what answer, Rascal, did she send me? _Page_. You have it, Sir, there in the Table-Book. _Page_. Yes, e'er she read the Letter, ask'd your Health, And Joy dispers'd it self in Blushes through her Cheeks. _Bel_. Her Beauty makes the very Boy adore it. _Page_. And having read it, She drew her Tablets from her Pocket, And trembling, writ what I have brought you, Sir. _Enter_ Friendlove _in Masquerade. A Jigg_. Sir _Tim_. Fair Maid- _Phil_. How do you know that, Sir? Sir _Tim_. I see y'are fair, and I guess you're a Maid. _Phil_. Your Guess is better than your Eye-sight, Sir. Sir _Tim_. Whate'er you are, by Fortune, I wish you would permit me to love you with all your Faults. _Phil_. You? Pray who are you? Sir _Tim_. A Man, a Gentleman--and more, a Knight too, by Fortune. _Phil_. Then 'twas not by Merit, Sir--But how shall I know you are either of these? Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, I love thee for thy Pertness. _Phil_. Is it possible you can love at all? Sir _Tim_. As much as I dare. _Enter_ Celinda _like a Boy_. _Phil_. I find, Sir, you and I shall never agree upon this matter; But see, Sir, here's more Company. _Lord_. Enough, enough at this time, let's see the Bride to bed, the Bridegroom thinks it long. _Bel_. Who art thou that dar'st lay a Claim to ought that's here? _Friend_. This Sword shall answer ye. [_Draws_. _Bel_. Though I could spare my Life, I'll not be robb'd of it. [_Draws_. _Dia_. Oh, my dear _Bellmour_! [_All draw on_ Bellmour's side_--Diana _holds_ Bellmour, Celinda _runs between their Swords, and defends_ Bellmour; _Sir_ Tim. Sham, _and_ Sharp _draw, and run into several Corners, with signs of Fear_. _Cel_. That thou mayst do through mine, but no way else. _Friend_. Here are too many to encounter, and I'll defer my Vengeance. _Char_. Stay, Sir, we must not part so. [_Ex. Drawing at the same Door, that Sir_ Tim. _is sneaking out at_. _Char_. Villain, defend thy Life. Sir _Tim_. Who, I, Sir? I have no quarrel to you, nor no man breathing, not I, by Fortune. _Cel_. This Coward cannot be my Brother. [_Aside_. _Char_. What made thee draw upon my Brother? Sir _Tim_. Who, I, Sir? by Fortune, I love him--I draw upon him! _Char_. I do not wonder thou canst lye, for thou'rt a Coward! Didst not thou draw upon him? Is not thy Sword yet out? Did I not see thee fierce, and active too, as if thou hadst dar'd? Sir _Tim_. Why, he's gone, Sir; a Pox of all Mistakes and Masqueradings I say--this was your Plot, _Sham_. _Char_. Coward! Shew then thy Face. _Char_. Shew thy Face without delay, or- Sir _Tim_. My Face, Sir! I protest, by Fortune, 'tis not worth seeing. _Char_. Then, Sirrah, you are worth a kicking--take that--and that- [_Kicks him_. Sir _Tim_. How, Sir? how? _Char_. So, Sir, so. [_Kicks him again_. Sir _Tim_. Have a care, Sir--by Fortune, I shall fight with a little more. _Char_. Take that to raise you. [_Strikes him_. Sir _Tim_. Nay, then I am angry, and I dare fight. _Lord_. Go, Ladies, see the Bride to her Chamber. _Cel_. Sir, I believe those happy ones that know you Had been far kinder, but I'm indeed a Stranger. _Enter_ Charles Bellmour. _Char_. The Rogue took Courage, when he saw there was no Remedy; but there's no hurt done on either side. _Lord_. 'Tis fit such as he shou'd be chastis'd, that do abuse Hospitality. Come, come, to Bed; the Lady, Sir, expects you. _Bel_. Gentlemen, good Night. SCENE II_. A Bed Chamber_. _Dia_. I long to know the Cause of _Bellmour's_ Disorder to Night, and here he comes. _Enter_ Bellmour, Lord, Charles, _and the rest_. _Char_. Shan't we see you laid, Brother? _Bel_. Yes, in my Grave, dear _Charles_; But I'll excuse that Ceremony here. _Char_. Good Night, and no Rest to you, Brother. [_Ex. all but_ Bellmour _and_ Diana. _Dia_. Till now, my _Bellmour_, I wanted Opportunity To ask the Cause, why on a joyful Day, When Heav'n has join'd us by a sacred Tie, Thou droop'st like early Flowers with Winter-storms. _Bel_. Thou art that Winter-storm that nips my Bud; All my young springing Hopes, my gay Desires, The prospect of approaching Joys of Love, Thou in a hapless Minute hast took from me, And in its room, Hast given me an eternal Desperation. _Dia_. Have you then given me Vows ye can repent of? _Bel_. I given ye Vows! be witness, ye just Pow'rs, How far I was from giving any Vows: No, no, _Diana_, I had none to give. _Dia_. No Vows to give! What were they which unto the Holy Man Thou didst repeat, when I was made all thine? _Bel_. The Effects of low Submission, such as Slaves Condemn'd to die, yield to the angry Judge. _Dia_. Dost thou not love me then? _Bel_. Love thee! No, by Heaven: yet wish I were so happy, For thou art wondrous fair and wondrous good. _Bel_. Because I was a Beast, a very Villain! That stak'd a wretched Fortune to all my Joys of Life, And like a prodigal Gamester lost that all. _Dia_. How durst you, Sir, knowing my Quality, Return me this false Pay, for Love so true? Was this a Beauty, Sir, to be neglected? _Bel_. Fair angry Maid, frown on, frown till you kill, And I shall dying bless those Eyes that did so. For shou'd I live, I shou'd deprive the happier World Of Treasures, I'm too wretched to possess. And were't not pity that vast store of Beauty Shou'd, like rich Fruit, die on the yielding Boughs? _Dia_. And are you then resolved to be a Stranger to me? _Bel_. For ever! for a long Eternity! _Dia_. O thou'st undone me then; hast thou found out A Maid more fair, more worthy of thy Love? Look on me well. _Bel_. What Bliss on me insensibly you throw! I'd rather hear thee swear, thou art my Foe, And like some noble and romantick Maid With Poniards wou'd my stubborn Heart invade; And whilst thou dost the faithful Relique tear, In every Vein thoud'st find _Celinda_ there. _Dia_. Come, Sir, you must forget _Celinda's_ Charms, And reap Delights within my circling Arms, Delights that may your Errors undeceive, When you find Joys as great as she can give. _Dia_. Dull Man! Dost think a feeble vain Excuse Shall satisfy me for this Night's abuse? No, since my Passion thou'st defeated thus, And robb'd me of my long-wish'd Happiness, I'll make thee know what a wrong'd Maid can do, Divided 'twixt her Love and Injuries too. _Dia_. The rest I'd have thee know I do despise, I better understand my conquering Eyes; Those Eyes that shall revenge my Love and Shame, I'll kill thy Reputation and thy Name. [_Exit_. _Bel_. My Honour! and my Reputation, now! They both were forfeit, when I broke my Vow, Nor cou'd my Honour with thy Fame decline; Whoe'er profanes thee, injures nought of mine. This Night upon the Couch my self I'll lay, And like _Franciscans_, let th'ensuing Day Take care for all the Toils it brings with it; Whatever Fate arrives, I can submit. SCENE III. _A Street_. _Enter_ Celinda, _drest as before_. _Enter Sir_ Timothy, Sham _and_ Sharp, _with Fidlers and Boy_. Sir _Tim_. I believe this is the Bed-chamber Window where the Bride and Bridegroom lies. _Sham_. Well, and what do you intend to do, if it be, Sir? _Sharp_. Faith, Sir, that's but a poor Revenge, and which every Footman may take of his Lady, who has turn'd him away for filching--You know, Sir, Windows are frail, and will yield to the lusty Brickbats; 'tis an Act below a Gentleman. _Sham_. Ay, Sir, 'tis a Revenge fit only for a Whore to take--And the Affront you receiv'd to Night, was by mistake. Sir _Tim_. Mistake! how can that be? _Sham_. Why, Sir, did you not mind, that he that drew upon _Bellmour_, was in the same Dress with you. Sir _Tim_. How shou'd his be like mine? _Sham_. Why, by the same Chance, that yours was like his--I suppose sending to the Play-house for them, as we did, they happened to send him such another Habit, for they have many such for dancing Shepherds. Sir _Tim_. Well, I grant it a Mistake, and that shall reprieve the Windows. _Sharp_. Then, Sir, you shew'd so much Courage, that you may bless the Minute that forc'd you to fight. _Sham_. With Honour, Sir, I protest. Sir _Tim_. Come then, we'll serenade him. Come, Sirrah, tune your Pipes, and sing. _Boy_. What shall I sing, Sir? Sir _Tim_. Any thing sutable to the Time and Place. _The happy Minute's come, the Nymph is laid, Who means no more to rise a Maid. Blushing, and panting, she expects th'Approach Of Joys that kill with every touch: Nor can her native Modesty and Shame Conceal the Ardour of her Virgin Flame_. Good morrow, Mr. _Bellmour_, and to your lovely Bride, long may you live and love. _Enter_ Bellmour _above_. _Bel_. Who is't has sent that Curse? Sir _Tim_. What a Pox, is that _Bellmour_? The Rogue's in choler, the Bride has not pleas'd him. _Bel_. Dogs! Do you upbraid me? I'll be with you presently. _Cel_. But you shall, Sir. _Bel_. Turn, Villains! [_Sir_ Tim. _&c. offers to go off_, Celinda _steps forth, and draws, they draw, and set upon her. Enter_ Bellmour _behind them: They turn, and_ Celinda _sides with_ Bellmour, _and fights. Enter_ Diana, Bellmour _fights 'em out, and leaves_ Celinda _breathless, leaning on her Sword_. _Dia_. I'll ne'er demand the cause of this disorder, But take this opportunity to fly To the next hands will take me up--who's here? _Cel_. Not yet, my sullen Heart! _Enter_ Bellmour, _Sir_ Tim. Sham, _and_ Sharp. Sir _Tim_. Lord, Lord, that you should not know your Friend and humble Servant, _Tim. Tawdrey_--But thou look'st as if thou hadst not been a-bed yet. _Bel_. No more I have. Sir _Tim_. Nay, then thou losest precious time, I'll not detain thee. [_Offers to go_. _Bel_. Thou art mistaken, I hate all Woman-kind- Sir _Tim_. How, how! _Bel_, Above an Hour--hark ye, Knight--I am as leud, and as debaucht as thou art. Sir _Tim_. Bless me! _Bel_. From such a Villian, hah! Sir _Tim_. No, but that thou should'st hide it all this while. _Bel_. Till I was married only, and now I can dissemble it no longer-come--let's to a Baudy-House. Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, _Frank_, I do not like these Arts. _Bel_. Then thou'rt a Fool--I'll teach thee to be rich too. Sir _Tim_. Ay, that I like. Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, a thriving Sin. _Bel_. And we will live in Sin while this holds out. _And then to my cold Home--Come let's be gone: Oh, that I ne'er might see the rising Sun_. SCENE I. Celinda's _Chamber_. _Discovers_ Celinda _as before sitting in a Chair_, Diana _by her in another, who sings_. Celinda, _who did Love disdain, For whom had languished many a Swain, Leading her bleating Flocks to drink, She spy'd upon the River's brink A Youth, whose Eyes did well declare How much he lov'd, but lov'd not her_. _Dia_. I owe much to your Goodness, Sir--but- _Cel_. I am too young, you think, to hear a Secret; Can I want Sense to pity your Misfortunes, Or Passion to incite me to revenge 'em? _Dia_. Oh, would he were in earnest! _Dia_. The Treatment you this night have given a distressed Maid, enough obliges me; nor need I tell you, I'm nobly born; something about my Dress, my Looks and Mien, will doubtless do me reason. _Cel_. Sufficiently- _Dia_. But in the Family where I was educated, a Youth of my own Age, a Kinsman too, I chanc'd to fall in love with, but with a Passion my Pride still got the better of; and he, I thought, repaid my young Desires. But Bashfulness on his part, did what Pride had done on mine, And kept his too conceal'd--At last my Uncle, who had the absolute Dominion of us both, thought good to marry us together. _Dia_. Why is there Terror in that Word? _Cel_. By all that's Sacred, 'tis a Word that kills me. Oh, say thou art not; And I thus low will fall, and pay thee Thanks. [_Kneels_. _Dia_. You'll wish indeed I were not, when you know How very, very wretched it has made me. _Cel_. Shou'd you be telling me a Tale all day, Such as would melt a Heart that ne'er could love, 'Twould not increase my Reason for the wish That I had dy'd e'er known you had been married. _Dia_. Kind! yes, as Blasts to Flow'rs, or early Fruit; All gay I met him full of youthful Heat: But like a Damp, he dasht my kindled Flame, And all his Reason was--he lov'd another, A Maid he call'd _Celinda_. _Cel_. Oh blessed Man! _Cel_. To leave thee free, to leave thee yet a Virgin. _Dia_. Yes, I have vow'd he never shall possess me. _Cel_. Or may I still prove wretched. _Dia_. And can you think there are no ways For me to gratify that Love? What ways am I constrain'd to use to work out my Revenge! [_Aside_. _Cel_. She'll ravish me--let me not understand you. _Cel_. Hah- _Dia_. Art thou so young, thou canst not apprehend me? Fair bashful Boy, hast thou the Power to move, And yet not know the Bus'ness of thy Love? _Cel_. I think the Gods wou'd hardly be ador'd, If they their Blessings shou'd, unask'd, afford; And I that Beauty can no more admire, Who ere I sue, can yield to my Desire. _Dia_. Dull Youth, farewel: For since 'tis my Revenge that I pursue Less Beauty and more Man as well may do. [_Offers to go_. _Cel_. Madam, you must not go with this Mistake. [_Holds her_. _Cel_. O, my Brother's come, and luckily relieves me. [_Aside_. _Friend_. Lady, I am a Soldier--yet in my gentlest Terms I humbly beg to kiss your lovely Hands-Death! there's Magick in the Touch. By Heaven, you carry an Artillery in every part. _Dia_. This is a Man indeed fit for my purpose. [_Aside_. _Friend_. Why--I cou'd die for you. _Dia_. I need the Service of the living, Sir. But do you love me, Sir? _Friend_. Or let me perish, flying from a single Enemy. I am a Gentleman, and may pretend to love you; And what you can command, I can perform. _Dia_. Take heed, Sir, what you say, for I'm in earnest. _Friend_. Command me any thing that's just and brave; And, by my Eyes, 'tis done. _Dia_. I know not what you call just or brave; But those whom I do the Honour to command, Must not capitulate. _Friend_. Let him be blasted with the Name of Coward, That dares dispute your Orders. _Dia_. Dare you fight for me? _Friend_. With a whole Army; 'tis my Trade to fight. _Dia_. Nay, 'tis but a single Man. _Friend_. Of _Yorkshire_? Companion to young _Friendlove_, that came lately from _Italy_? _Dia_. Yes, do you know him? _Friend_. I do, who has oft spoke of _Bellmour_; We travel'd into _Italy_ together--But since, I hear, He fell in love with a fair cruel Maid, For whom he languishes. _Dia_. Heard you her Name? _Friend_. How, Madam! _Dia_. I am that Maid he loves, and who hates him. _Friend_. Oh, me unhappy! [_Aside_. _Dia_. He sighs and turns away--am I again defeated? Surely I am not fair, or Man's insensible. _Dia_. The way to gain me, is to fight with _Bellmour_. Tell him from me you come, the wrong'd _Diana_; Tell him you have an Interest in my Heart, Equal to that which I have made in yours. _Friend_. I'll do't; I will not ask your Reason, but obey. Swear e'er I go, that when I have perform'd it, You'll render me Possession of your Heart. _Dia_. By all the Vows that Heaven ties Hearts together with, I'll be entirely yours. _Friend_. And I'll not be that conscientious Fool, To stop at Blessings 'cause they are not lawful; But take 'em up, when Heaven has thrown 'em down, Without the leave of a Religious Ceremony. [_Aside_. Madam, this House, which I am Master of, You shall command; whilst I go seek this _Bellmour_. _Dia_. But e'er you go, I must inform you why I do pursue him with my just Revenge. _Friend_. I will attend, and hear impatiently. SCENE II. _A Baudy House_. _Enter Mrs_. Driver _and_ Betty Flauntit. Lord, Mrs. _Driver_, I wonder you shou'd send for me, when other Women are in Company; you know of all things in the World, I hate Whores, they are the pratingst leudest poor Creatures in Nature; and I wou'd not, for any thing, Sir _Timothy_ shou'd know that I keep Company, 'twere enough to lose him. _Flaunt_. _Driver_, though I do recreate my self a little sometimes, yet you know I value my Reputation and Honour. _Jenny_. Mrs. _Driver_, why shou'd you send for us where _Flauntit_ is? a stinking proud Flirt, who because she has a tawdry Petticoat, I warrant you, will think her self so much above us, when if she were set out in her own natural Colours, and her original Garments, wou'd be much below us in Beauty. Mrs. _Driv_. Look ye, Mrs. _Jenny_, I know you, and I know Mrs. _Flauntit_; but 'tis not Beauty or Wit that takes now-a-days; the Age is altered since I took upon me this genteel Occupation: but 'tis a fine Petticoat, right Points, and clean Garnitures, that does me Credit, and takes the Gallant, though on a stale Woman. And again, Mrs. _Jenny_, she's kept, and Men love as much for Malice, as for Lechery, as they call it. Oh, 'tis a great Mover to Joy, as they say, to have a Woman that's kept. Mrs. _Driv_. Well, well, get your selves in order to go up to the Gentlemen. _Flaunt_. _Driver_, what art thou talking to those poor Creatures? Lord, how they stink of Paint and Pox, faugh- Mrs. _Driv_. They were only complaining that you that were kept, shou'd intrude upon the Privileges of the Commoners. _Flaunt_. Lord, they think there are such Joys in Keeping, when I vow, _Driver_, after a while, a Miss has as painful a Life as a Wife; our Men drink, stay out late, and whore, like any Husbands. _Driv_. But I hope in the Lord, Mrs. _Flauntit_, yours is no such Man; I never saw him, but I have heard he's under decent Correction. _Flaunt_. Thou art mistaken, _Driver_, I can keep him within no moderate Bounds without Blows; but for his filthy Custom of Wenching, I have almost broke him of that--but prithee, _Driver_, who are these Gentlemen? _Flaunt_. No matter for his Handsomness, let me have him that has most Money. SCENE III. _Another Chamber in the Brothel, a Table with Box and Dice_. _Enter_ Bellmour, _Sir_ Timothy, Sham _and_ Sharp. Sir _Tim_. Faith, _Frank_, I'm a little maukish with sitting up all Night, and want a small refreshment this Morning--Did we not send for Whores? _Bel_. No, I am not in humour for a Wench-By Heaven, I hate the Sex. All but divine _Celinda_, Appear strange Monsters to my Eyes and Thoughts. Sir _Tim_. What, art Italianiz'd, and lovest thy own Sex? _Bel_. I'm for any thing that's out of the common Road of Sin; I love a Man that will be damn'd for something: to creep by slow degrees to Hell, as if he were afraid the World shou'd see which way he went, I scorn it, 'tis like a Conventicler--No, give me a Man, who to be certain of's Damnation, will break a solemn Vow to a contracted Maid. _Bel_. Well said, my Boy! A Man of Honour! And will be ready whene'er the Devil calls for thee--So--ho--more Wine, more Wine, and Dice. _Enter a Servant with Dice and Wine_. Come, Sir, let me- [_Throws and loses_. Sir _Tim_. What will you set me, Sir? Sir _Tim_. By Fortune, I'll do thee reason--give me the Glass, and, _Sham_, to thee--Confusion to the musty Lord. Sir _Tim_. Why, how now, _Frank_--by Fortune, the Rogue is Maudlin--So, ho, ho, so ho. Sir _Tim_. Oh, art awake--What a Devil ail'st thou, _Frank_? _Bel_. A Wench, or any thing--come, let's drink a round. _Sham_. They're come as wisht for. _Enter_ Flauntit, Driver, Doll _and_ Jenny _mask'd_. _Bel_. Oh, damn 'em! What shall I do? Yet it would look like Virtue to avoid 'em. No, I must venture on--Ladies, y'are welcome. _Flaunt_. How, Sir _Timothy_! What Devil ow'd me a spite. [_Aside_. _Flaunt_. Wou'd she so, Impudence! [_Pulls off her Mask_. Sir _Tim_. How, my _Betty_! Sir _Tim_. Nay, dear Betty! _Flaunt_. 'Tis here you spend that which shou'd buy me Points and Petticoats, whilst I go like no body's Mistress; I'd as live be your Wife at this rate, so I had: and I'm in no small danger of getting the foul Disease by your Leudness. Sir _Tim_. Victorious _Betty_, be merciful, and do not ruin my Reputation amongst my Friends. Sir _Tim_. Nay, triumphant _Betty_, hear thy poor _Timmy_. _Flaunt_. My poor _Ninny_, I'm us'd barbarously, and won't endure it. _Flaunt_. The Devil confound him, what a Prize have I lost by his being here--my Comfort is, he has not found me out though, but thinks I came to look for him, and accordingly I must dissemble. _Bel_. What's here? A Lady all in Tears! Sir _Tim_. An old Acquaintance of mine, that takes it unkindly that I am for Change--_Betty_, say so too, you know I can settle nothing till I'm marry'd; and he can do it swingingly, if we can but draw him in. _Flaunt_. This mollifies something, do this, and you'll make your Peace; if not, you Rascal, your Ears shall pay for this Night's Transgression. Sir _Tim_. Come hither, _Frank_, is not this a fine Creature? _Bel_. By Heaven, a very Devil! _Flaunt_. You see, Sir, how miserable we Women are that love you Men. _Bel_. How, did you love him? Love him against his Will? _Flaunt_. So it seems, Sir. _Bel_. Oh, thou art wretched then indeed; no wonder if he hate thee-Does he not curse thee? Curse thee till thou art damn'd, as I do lost _Diana_. [_Aside_. _Flaunt_. Curse me! He were not best in my hearing; Let him do what he will behind my Back. What ails the Gentleman? _Bel_. Gods! what an odious thing mere Coupling is! A thing which every sensual Animal Can do as well as we--but prithee tell me, Is there nought else between the nobler Creatures? _Flaunt_. Not that I know of, Sir-Lord, he's very silly, or very innocent, I hope he has his Maidenhead; if so, and rich too. Oh, what a booty were this for me! [_Aside_. _Bel_. 'Tis wondrous strange; Why was not I created like the rest, Wild, and insensible, to fancy all? _Flaunt_. Come, Sir, you must learn to be gay, to sing, to dance, and talk of any thing, and fancy any thing that's in your way too. _Bel_. Oh, I can towse, and ruffle, like any Leviathan, when I begin-Come, prove my Vigor. [_Towses her_. _Flaunt_. Oh, Lord, Sir! You tumble all my Garniture. _Flaunt_. The Man's extasy'd, sure, I shall take him. Come, Sir, you're sad. _Flaunt_. The Man is in love, that's certain--as I was saying, Sir- _Bel_. Be gone, Repentance! Thou needless Goodness, Which if I follow, canst lead me to no Joys. Come, tell me the Price of all your Pleasures. Sir _Tim_. Ay, she: she's tearing fine, by Fortune. _Driv_. I'll assure you, Sir, she's kept, and is a great Rarity, but to a Friend, or so- Sir _Tim_. Hum--kept--pray, by whom? Sir _Tim_. Ay, so methinks--but she's kind, and will do reason for all him. _Driv_. To a Friend, a Man of Quality--or so. Sir _Tim_. Ay, she blinds the Knight. _Driv_. Alas, Sir, easily--he, poor Cully, thinks her a very Saint--but when he's out of the way, she comes to me to pleasure a Friend. Sir _Tim_. But what if the Fool miss her? _Driv_. How, Sir? then I'm undone, she's the Upholder of my Calling, the very Grace of my Function. _Enter_ Charles Bellmour, _and_ Trusty. Hark ye, Mistress, what was your Bus'ness here? Sir _Tim_. Nay, never be surpriz'd, for your Intrigues are discover'd, the good Matron of the House (against her Will) has done me that kindness--you know how to live without your Keeper, and so I'll leave you. _Flaunt_. You're too serviceable a Fool to be lost so. [_Aside_. _Bel_. Who knows this bold Intruder? _Bel_. Take hence that prating Boy. _Char_. How, Sir--You are my elder Brother, yet I may be allow'd to do the Business that I came for, and from my Uncle to demand your Wife. _Bel_. You may return, and tell him that she's dead. _Char_. Dead! sure, Sir, you rave. [_Turns him about_. _Bel_. Indeed I do--but yet she's dead, they say. _Char_. How came she dead? _Bel_. I kill'd her--ask no more, but leave me. [_Turns him about again_. _Char_. Sir, this is Madman's Language, and not to be believed. _Bel_. Go to--y'are a saucy Boy. _Char_. Sir, I'm an angry Boy-But yet can bear much from a Brother's Mouth; Y'ave lost your sleep: pray, Sir, go home and seek it. _Bel_. Do so, and I'll order him to get it ready. _Char_. A Settlement! On whom? This Woman, Sir? _Bel_. Yes, on this Woman, Sir. _Bel_. Yes, in a Baudy-house. _Char_. And can you love her, Sir? _Bel_. No, if I did, I wou'd not gratify her. _Char_. What, is't in Charity to keep her honest? _Char_. I wear a Sword, but not to draw on Mad-men. But since y'are so free, Sir, I demand that Fortune, which by my Father's Will y'are bound to pay the day after your Wedding-Day; my Sister's too is due. Sir _Tim_. A Fidler, perhaps--let him play in the next Room. _Bel_. No, my Brother--come to demand his Portion of me; he says I am in leud Company, and, like a Boy, he wou'd correct me. Sir _Tim_. Why, this comes of Idleness; thou should'st have bound him Prentice in time, the Boy would have made a good saucy Taylor. _Char_. Sirrah, y'are a Rascal, whom I must thus chastise. [_Kicks him_. [_They all draw, and_ Bellmour _stands foremost, and fights with_ Charles; _the Women run squeaking out, Sir_ Tim. Sham, _and_ Sharp _sneak behind_; Trusty _interposes_. _Bel_. Why, then his Portion's paid. [Charles _wounded_. Sir _Tim_. How, kill'd! Nay, 'tis time we departed then, and shifted for ourselves. [_Ex. Sir_ Tim. Sham _and_ Sharp. _Trust_. Oh, Sir, shall I send for a Chyrurgion? _Char_. No, for a Coach rather, I am not wounded much. _Bel_. How dar'st thou trust thy self alone with me? _Char_. Why should I fear thee? _Bel_. Because I'm mad, Mad as a Tygress rob'd of her dear Young. _Char_. What is't that makes you so? _Bel_. My Uncle's Politicks, Hell take him for't, Has ruin'd me, thou and my Sister too, By marrying me to a fair hated Maid, When I had plighted all my Faith before. _Trust_. Sir, here's a Coach. _Char_. Come, Brother, will you go home with me? SCENE I. _Covent Garden_. _Enter_ Betty Flauntit _alone_. _Enter Sir_ Timothy. Sir _Tim_. Lord, Lord, how ye look now, as if you had committed no Misdemeanour: Alas, good Innocent, what canst thou say for thy self, thou Renegado thou, for being false to my Bosom, say? _Flaunt_. False to your Bosom! You silly impudent Sot you--who dares accuse me? Sir _Tim_. E'en your trusty and well-beloved Friend, Mrs. _Driver_ the Baud. _Flaunt_. She! She's an impudent confounded Lyar--and because she wou'd have your worshipful Custom--scandaliz'd me, to breed a difference between us. Sir _Tim_. Ay, if you could make me believe that indeed, when she knew Me not, nor ever saw me all the Days of her Life before. _Flaunt_. I know that, Simpleton; but when I went to enquire for you by your Name, and told her my Bus'ness, our Amours are not kept so secret, nor was she so dull, as not to understand how matters went between us. Sir _Tim_. Now though I know this to be a damn'd Lye, yet the Devil has assisted her to make it look so like Truth, that I cannot in Honour but forgive her. Sir _Tim_. Just as the Baud said; yet I am mollify'd--nay, dear _Betty_, forgive me, and I'll be very good for the future. _Flaunt_. Will you swear to be so? Sir _Tim_. Ay, by Fortune, I will. _Flaunt_. Come, what will you give me then to be Friends? for you won Money last Night. _Flaunt_. Have you sunk none indeed and indeed, my _Timmy?_ Sir _Tim_. No, I need not, you sink mine fast enough, I thank ye. [_Aside_. _Flaunt_. Well, get your self ready to go abroad with me. _Enter_ Sham _and_ Sharp. _Sham_. Ay, Sir, with News worth the hearing; I have been diligent, Sir, and got my self acquainted with the old Steward of the Family, an avaricious _Judas_, that will betray for Gold. Sir _Tim_. And that we'll furnish him with--his Master's Gold, like all other mortal things, must return from whence it came. _Sharp_. Not all, Sir; for _Sham_ and I have dispos'd of part. Sir _Tim_. Indeed you are a little shabby. _Sham_. Ay, Sir, Fools were made to repair the Breaches of us that have Wit enough to manage 'em. Sir _Tim_. What--the Goldsmith paid the Money at sight, without demanding why? _Sharp_. Readily, Sir--he's a brave Fellow, and must not be lost so. _Sham_. By no means, we must make use of him whilst he is hot; for I doubt the Humour is not natural, and I fear he may cool. Sir _Tim_. But to our Business. Sir _Tim_. Ay, but art thou sure there is no danger in this Enterprize? Shall I not have my Throat cut? and the rest. _Sham_. We have none of that _Italian_ Humour now-a-days, I can assure ye; they will sooner, with a brotherly kindness, assist the yielding Sister to the willing Gallant. Sir _Tim_. A good thriving Inclination, by Fortune. _Sham_. And, Sir, you have all Encouragement; her Brother, you heard, refus'd to pay her Portion, and you know the Fate of a handsom young Wench in this Town, that relies on weak Virtue--Then because she is in The House with her Uncle, this same Steward has contriv'd matters so, to bring you in at the Back-door, her Lodgings being in the Garden. Sir _Tim_. This is something--Oh, I'm impatient to be with her--Well, I must in, and make some Lye to _Betty_ for my Absence, and be with you presently. [_Exit Sir_ Tim. _Sharp_. What Design hast thou in hand? for I suppose there is no such real thing as debauching of this Lady. _Sham_. Look ye, _Sharp_, take to thee an implicit Faith, and believe Impossibilities; for thou and I must cozen this Knight. _Sharp_. What, our Patron? _Sham_. Ay, _Sharp_, we are bound to labour in our Callings, but mum-here he comes. _Enter Sir_ Timothy. _Flaunt_. He is gone, and I believe [Betty Flauntit _peeping out_.] for no Goodness; I'll after him, and watch him. [_Exit cross the Stage_. SCENE II. _Lord_ Plotwell's _House_. _Lord_. In a Baudy-house, with Whores, Hectors, and Dice! Oh, that I should be so deceiv'd in Mankind, he whom I thought all Virtue and Sobriety! But go some of you immediately, and take Officers along with you, and remove his Quarters from a Baudy-house to a Prison: charge him with the Murder of his Wife. _Char_. My Lord, when I demanded her, he said indeed that she was dead, and kill'd by him; but this I guess was the Effects of Madness, which Debauchery, and want of Sleep has brought him to. _Lord_. That shall be try'd; go to the Place where _Charles_ has directed you, and do as I command you. _Char_. My Lord, I hope, 'tis not his natural Temper; For e'er we parted, from a brutal Rudeness, He grew to all the Softness Grief could dictate. He talkt of breach of Vows, of Death, and Ruin, And dying at the Feet of a wrong'd Maid; I know not what he meant. _Lord_. Ay, there's his Grief; there is some jilting Hussy has drawn him in; but I'll revenge my self on both. _Page_. A Letter for your Lordship. _As your Goodness has been ever great towards me, so I humbly beseech you to continue it; and the greatest Proofs you can give me of it, is to use all your Interest to undo that tye between_ Bellmour _and my self, which with such Joy you knit. I will say no more, but as you love my Life, and my dearer Honour, get a Divorce, or you will see both ruin'd in Your_ Diana. [_Gives_ Charles _the Letter_. _Lord_. A Divorce! yes, if all my Interest or Estate can purchase it-some Joy yet that thou art well. _Char_. Doubtless her Reasons must be great for this Request. _Char_. Persons so near of Kin do seldom prosper in the Marriage-Bed. _Lord_. However 'tis, I now think fit to unmarry 'em; And as for him, I'll use him with what Rigor The utmost Limits of the Law allows me. _Char_. Sir, how, have I offended? _Lord_. Yes, Sir, you have offended me, and Nature has offended me; you are his Brother, and that's an Offence to me. _Char_. Is that a Fault, my Lord? _Page_. Without, my Lord. [_Ex_. Lord _and_ Page. _Trust_. Here's like to be a hopeful end of a noble Family. My Comfort is, I shall die with Grief, and not see the last of ye. [_Weeps_. _Char_. No, _Trusty_, I have not been so meanly educated, but I know how to live, and like a Gentleman: All that afflicts me in this Misfortune, is my dear Sister _Phillis_, she's young; and to be left poor in this loose Town, will ruin her for ever. _Trust_. Sir, I think we were best to marry her out of the way. _Char_. Marry her! To whom? who is't regards poor Virtue? _Char_. Prithee how wilt do this? _Char_. Do what thou wilt, for I am sure thou'rt honest, And I'll resign my Sister to thy Conduct, Whilst I endeavour the Conversion of my Brother. [_Exit_ Charles. _Phil_. No News yet of my Brother? _Trust_. None: The Next you'll hear is, that he's undone, and that you must go without your Portions; and worse than that, I can tell you, your Uncle designs to turn you out of Doors. _Phil_. Alas! what shou'd I do, if he shou'd be so cruel? Wou'd I were in _Flanders_ at my Monastery again, if this be true. _Trust_. I have better Bus'ness for you, than telling of Beads--No, Mrs. _Phillis_, you must be married. _Phil_. Alas! I am too young, and sad for Love. _Trust_. The younger, and the less Love, the better. _Page_. Mr. _Trusty_, here's a Gentleman would speak with you, he says his Name's Mr. _Sham_. _Trust_. Gud's me, Mistress, put on all your Holiday Looks; for this is the little Merchant of Love by Retail, that brings you the Husband I promis'd you. _Sham_. Well, Mr. _Trusty_, I have brought Sir _Timothy_ as I promis'd, he is at the Garden-door. _Trust_. The best time in the World, my Lord's out of the way. _Sham_. But you know our Conditions. _Trust_. Yes, that if he marry her, you are to have all the Money that he offers to debauch her. _Trust_. Bring him in then, and I'll civilly withdraw. [_Exit_ Trusty. _Enter_ Sham, _bringing in Sir_ Timothy. Sir _Tim_. Well, _Sham_, thou hast prepar'd all things, and there needs no Ceremony. _Sham_. None, none, Sir; you may fall down-right to the Business. [_Exit_. _Come, my_ Phillis, _let us improve Both our Joys of equal Love; Whilst we in yonder shady Grove, Count Minutes by our Kisses_. _Phil_. What sort of Courtship's this? 'tis very odd! _Phil_. What means this Rudeness? I'll tell my Brother. Sir _Tim_. Your Brother! by Fortune, he's so leud, that should I he so unconscionable to leave thee a Virgin but this Night, he wou'd ravish thee himself, and that at cheaper Rates than I design to do it. _Phil_. How dare you talk to me at this rate? Sir _Tim_. Talk to thee--by Fortune, I'll play the _Tarquin_ with thee, if thou yieldest not quickly--for thou hast set me all on fire. _Phil_. Defend me, Heaven, from such a Man. Sir _Tim_. Then it must defend you from all the Sex; for all Mankind are like me, nay, and all Womankind are, or wou'd be, what I must make thee. _Phil_. What's that, a Wench? _Phil_. That, Sir, you'll never hear me say to any thing but a Husband, if I must say it then. _Phil_. Unhand me, or I'll call out. I assure you, this is not the way to gain me. Sir _Tim_. I know there is a way to gain all mortal Womankind; but how to hit the critical Minute of the Berjere- _Phil_. It is past your Politicks at this time, Sir. Sir _Tim_. I'll try all ways, and the Devil's in it, if I don't hit upon the right at last. [_Aside_. All the soft things I've said- _Phil_. That a Knight of your Parts ought to say. Sir _Tim_. Yet still y'are impregnable--I'll make another Proposition to you, which is both reasonable and modish--if it prove a Boy--I'll marry you--the Devil's in't, if that be not fair. _Phil_. You get no earnest of me, Sir, and so farewel to you. [_Ex_. Phillis. Sir _Tim_. Oh, _Sham_, I am all over fire, mad to enjoy. I have done what Man can do (without doing what I wou'd do) and still she's Flint; nothing will down with her but Matrimony--what shall I do? for thou know'st I cannot marry a Wife without a Fortune. _Sham_. Sir, you know the old Cheat; hire a Lay Rascal in a Canonical Habit, and put a false Marriage upon her. _Sham_. And I will fit you with a Parson presently. SCENE III. _A Street_. _Enter_ Friendlove _disguis'd as before_. _Enter_ Bellmour _sad_. _Friend_. Traitor! thou know'st me, and my bus'ness.-Look on this Face, if thou dar'st look on him Whom thou hast doubly wrong'd--and draw thy Sword. _Bel_. Thou should'st be _Friendlove_, Brother to _Celinda_. _Friend_. And Lover of _Diana_ too--Oh, quickly draw, Or I shall leave thee, like a Coward, dead. _Bel_. No, rather like a Sacrifice, [_Offers to embrace him_. And thou should'st be the Priest should offer it; But that I have yet, For some few moments, business for my Life. _Friend_. I can allow no time for business now, My Injuries are in haste, and so am I. _Bel_. Those I have done to thee, though foul and barbarous, May plead the Excuse of Force--but those to her, Not thou, nor I, nor she, or Heav'n can pardon. _Bel_. I ask not thine, but mine lies only this way. [_Offers to go in again_. _Friend_. By Heav'n, you shall not enter here. _Bel_. Who dares deny thy Reasons? _Friend_. Sh'has made me take an Oath, to fight with thee; And every Wound my lucky Sword shou'd make, She bad me say, was sent thee from her Hate. _Bel_. Oh, I believe thee: prithee tell on, young Man, That I may die without the aid of Wounds. _Friend_. To break thy Heart, know then, she loves another, And has took back the Vows she made to thee, And given 'em to a Man more worthy of 'em. _Friend_. And so you shall, Sir. [_They fight_, Bellmour disarms Friend, and runs in_. SCENE IV. _Changes to the Inside of_ Friendlove's _Lodgings_. _Enter_ Celinda, _as before, met by_ Nurse. _Nur_. Oh, Madam, here's Mr. Bellmour; he has wounded my young Master, who deny'd him Entrance, and is come into the House, and all in Rage demands his Wife. _Nur_. Whither do you press, Sir? and what's your business? _Bel_. To see my Wife, my Wife, Impertinence; And must I meet with nought but Opposition? [_Pushes her roughly away_. _Cel_. Let him come in. _Nur_. Marry, he lets himself in, I thank him. _Cel_. What Man art thou thus cover'd o'er with Horror? _Cel_. Sir, in Obedience to your Commands, I've brought the Lady. _Dia_. How! The perfidious _Bellmour_! The only Object of my Hate and Scorn. _Cel_. Can I hear this, and yet retain my Life? _Cel_. Oh, hold, my dearest Brother. [Bellmour _rises, and turns about_. _Bel_. Nay, now I'm ready for the welcome Sword, Since my _Celinda's_ false, and cannot pardon. _Cel_. Oh, do not die with that profane Opinion. _Celinda_ false! or cannot pardon thee! _Dia_. Stay, generous Sir, my Pity has forgiven him. _Bel_. Thou! Why, who art thou--_Diana_? _Dia_. Yes, that _Diana_, Whom, maugre all the Penitence thou shew'st, Can scarce forgive the Injuries thou hast done her. _Friend_. He's stark mad! [_Aside_. _Bel_. But since she cannot pardon, I can die. [_Offers to fall on his Sword_. _Cel_. Canst thou not credit me? She pardons thee. Live--and enjoy--_Diana_. [_Turns her Face from him_. _Cel_. Do, whilst I meet thy Sword. [_Opens her Arms_, Diana _stays him; he lets fall his Sword, and gazes_. _Bel_, Dull--dull Adorer! Not to know my Saint. Oh, how I have profan'd! To what strange Idol Was that I kneel'd, Mistaking it for a Divinity? _Cel_. To your fair Wife _Diana_. _Bel_. Oh cruel Maid! Has Heav'n design'd me any but _Celinda_? _Bel_. If all our Laws can do't, I will--for here Ends all my Claim. [_To_ Celinda. _Friend_. Was this the Wife you did demand of me? _Bel_. Yes, I had no other. _Dia_. Fair Maid! forgive me all my shameful Passion, And charge my Fault upon your Beauty only. _Cel_. Excellent Creature! I shou'd sue for that, Which my Deceit will never make me hope. _Dia_. What was't you said, Sir? _Friendlove_! _Friend_. Yes, Madam, I hope the Name can make no difference; Or hate that still, so you but love the Man. _Dia_. Though I'm again defeated, yet this last Proves least offensive; nor shall an empty Word Alter my fix'd Resolves, to love you still. _Friend_. Then I am blest! _Bel_. But yet the Office of the Priest has past: What Remedy for that? _Dia_. My Uncle's Pow'r, the Nearness of our Blood, The Contradiction of our Circumstances. _Cel_. I do believe thee; for by Sympathy, Mine takes new Fire and Hope. _Dia_. I have already writ to my Uncle, and the Messenger assur'd me, he would gratify my Desires; that done, I will be yours. [_To_ Friendlove. _Bel_. But why thus drest? it might have led my Rage, Full of Despair and Jealousy to have hurt thee. _Friend_. And so it had, hadst thou not hinder'd me; For I, Sir, was the Man who drew on you. _Bel_. And was it thou that didst defend my Heart, That I might live to pay thy Goodness back? _Cel_. It was to save your Life, and to expose my own. _Dia_. Come, let's in, and consult what's best for us to do. _Bel_. Come, my _Celinda_. Let us no longer doubt, the Pow'rs above Will be propitious to united Love. _Serv_. Sir, my Lord Plotwell is at the Door in his Coach. _Dia_. My Uncle come! Sir, we will not doubt our Fortune. But how came he to know of my being here? _Serv_. Madam, I fear he follow'd me after I had given him the Letter. _Enter Lord_ Plotwell, Charles, Trusty. _Bel_. Be not so hasty in your Goodness, Sir, Lest you repent as fast. _Dia_. Sir, we have an humble Suit to you. _Lord_. What is it ye can jointly ask, I will not grant? _Dia_. By all that Love you ever had for me, By all those Infant Charms which us'd to please you, When on your Lap you taught my Tongue that Art Which made those dear Impressions on your Heart, Which ever since to my Advantage grew, I do conjure you hear me now I sue, And grant the mighty Grace I beg of you. _Lord_. What is it you wou'd ask? _Bel_. Oh, dress your Face and Eyes in gentler Looks, If you wou'd have us hope for any Mercy. _Lord_. Rise, and whate'er you ask, I'll freely grant. _Lord_. Too virtuous Maid, I know thou dost but feign, His Wickedness has forc'd thee to this change. _Lord_. Well, and you, Sir, that are the cause of this, What canst thou say to move me for thy Pardon? _Bel_. I am so guilty in your Opinion, My Prayers wou'd but make you merciless; I only say _Celinda_ is my Wife, And I shou'd injure this too generous Maid, Not to adore her equal to her Merit. [Bellmour _goes out, and brings in_ Celinda. _Dia_. This, Sir, is she who merits more than I. _Lord_. She's fair indeed; here, _Frank_, I give thee thy _Celinda_, whose Beauty Excuses all thy Faults of Disobedience. _Bel_. Thus low, I thank you for this Goodness, Sir. [_Kneels_. _Lord_. There only wants the Ceremony of the Law to undo what's between you and _Diana_, if she remain a Virgin. _Bel_. For me, by Heav'n she is; And for the rest, I do not doubt her Virtue. _Dia_. You may believe him, Sir; and this alone's the Man, in whom I will, or never will be happy. _Lord_. Mr. _Friendlove_! I give Consent to't, he has a noble Character; and what he wants in Fortune, has in Virtue--take her, young Man. _Friend_. 'Tis such an Honour, Sir, that my Gratitude, without the mighty Passion I have for her, would make me ever thankful. _Lord_. This Term, we shall make the former Marriage void; till then love on, and fear no Frowns from Fortune--but Nephew--now I hope your Brother shall have his Portion. _Bel_. My dearest _Charles_, forgive me all that's past, And share the Fortune Heaven has given thy Brother. _Char_. The Joy I have, Sir, to be undeceived, Is much the greatest Blessing Heav'n can send me. _Enter Sir_ Timothy, _follow'd by_ Phillis, Sham, Sharp, _and_ Betty Flauntit. _Lord_. What's the News here? Sir _Tim_. How, _Celinda_ here, and _Bellmour_ too! Nay, now wou'd I compound for my Life, at any rate, by Fortune. _Phil_. Sir, this Villain here has abus'd me, and with a false Marriage has rob'd me of my Honour. Sir _Tim_. My Lord, I say this young Jilt would have rob'd me of my self; and courting her, and enjoying her only for a Miss, would persuade me I am married to her. _Bel_. What means all this? Speak some of ye that know. _Flaunt_. Oh Lord! Who's here? The fine Squire? [_Aside_. _Trust_. Sir _Timothy Tawdry_, Sir, is married to Mrs. _Phillis_. Sir _Tim_. How can that be a Marriage, when he who join'd us, was but a hired Fellow, dress'd like a Parson? _Trust_. Sir, 'twas Parson _Tickletext_ that marry'd 'em. _Sham_. But you'd meet with none; and because you said you shou'd die if you enjoy'd her not presently, and that she would not yield on any other Terms, but those of Marriage, I e'en brought the Parson that _Trusty_ had provided for you. Sir _Tim_. Oh Villain, to betray me! and for no Reward! Sir _Tim_. What's my Money gone! and I am marry'd too! This 'tis not to use to go to Church; for then I might have chanc'd to know the Parson. _Bel_. Death, you Dog! you deserve to die, for your base Designs upon a Maid of her Quality--How durst you, Sister, without my leave, marry that Rascal? _Phil_. Sir, you deny'd me my Portion, and my Uncle design'd to turn me out of doors, and in my Despair I accepted of him. _Flaunt_. Married! and to a Wife of no Fortune! that's the worst part on't--what shall I do? _Bel_. Renounce this leud Fool, and I'll make thee a Fortune suitable to thy Quality. _Lord_. Well, Sir _Timothy_, since my Niece has done amiss, 'tis too late to mend it--and that you may not repent, I'll take care her Fortune shall be suitable to the Jointure you'll make her. _Lord_. This Day we'll set apart for Mirth, And all must make my House their happy home. _Bel_. To thee, _Celinda_! all my Good I owe, My Life, my Fortune, and my Honour too, Since all had perish'd by a broken Vow. _Flaunt_. What, am I like to lose my _Timmy_? Canst thou have the Heart to leave me for ever? I who have been true and constant to you? Spoken by Sir _Timothy Tawdrey_. Written by Mr. _E.R_. In the Epilogue Mrs. Behn asserts that she wrote _The False Count_ with ease in something less than a week. This may be a pardonable exaggeration; but there are certainly distinct marks of haste in the composition of the play. In Act iii, I, she evidently intended Francisco and his party to be seized as they were returning home by sea, at the end of the act she arranges their sea trip as an excursion on a yacht. THE FALSE COUNT: or, A New Way to play an old Game. Spoken by Mr. _Smith_. _Julia_, Wife to _Francisco_, young and handsom, in love with _Carlos_, Mrs. _Davis_. _Clara_, Sister to _Julia_, in love with _Antonio_, Mrs. _Petty_. _Isabella_, Daughter to _Francisco_; proud, vain and foolish, despising all Men under the degree of Quality, and falls in love with _Guiliom_, Mrs. _Corror_. _Jacinta_, Woman to _Julia_, Mrs. _Osborne_. Wife to _Petro_. Dancers, Singers, &c. SCENE I. _The Street_. _Enter_ Carlos, Antonio _and_ Guzman. _Ant_. And old _Francisco_, without the expence of an hour's Courtship, a _Billet-Doux_, or scarce a sight of her, could gain her in a day; and yet 'tis wonder, your Fortune and your Quality, should be refus'd by Don _Baltazer_ her Father. _Ant_. Did she not tell you of this Marriage with old _Francisco_? _Car_. The night before, she did; but only by a Letter from her Window dropt; which when by the help of a dark Lanthorn, I had read, I was struck dead with Grief. [_Gives him the Letter_. _Expect to morrow night to hear I'm dead, since the next Sun will guide me to a fatal Marriage with old_ Francisco. _Your_ Julia. _Ant_. And she accordingly next day was married. _Ant_. I hope you are mistaken, Sir. _Car_. How, are you not to marry his Daughter, _Isabella_? _Car_. Prithee, what was her Birth? _Ant_. She does, and makes me think my Love return'd. _Car_. Then know, _Antonio_, I must be your Rival. _Car_. You said but now you were my Friend, _Antonio_; If true, you must assist in my design. _Ant_. I listen, Sir, impatiently. _Car_. Then thus; before I knew she was your Mistress, I had resolv'd upon Addresses to her, in order to't, have treated with her Father about a Marriage. _Ant_. How! and wou'd the false, forsworn, receive your Vows? _Car_. No; but with Tears implores her Father daily, whene'er he speaks to her about my Passion; nor can I undeceive her, for indeed I have but feign'd a Love, (she living in the same house with _Julia_ whilst here at _Cadiz_) to get an opportunity with that dear, charming Creature; for, coming as a Brother, sure they'll admit me kindly; nor will _Francisco_, who has heard of what has past 'twixt me and _Julia_, suspect me any more. _Ant_. I knew I had a Rival, Sir, whom _Clara_ lov'd not; but ne'er cou'd get it from her who he was, for fear of mischief: I have often the Liberty to see her, under the name and pretence of _Isabella's_ Lover. _Car_. And I visit her only to get a sight of _Julia_, which hitherto has been impossible, though I have oft endeavour'd it. I beg you'll not be jealous; for this, by Heav'n, is only my Design. _Ant_. I'll trust my Life, my Honour and my Mistress in so good hands at any time. _Car_. And would you do it home and handsomly, and have a good occasion of being disengaged from her, and make her self the instrument? _Ant_. Ay, such a Plot were worth the Prosecution. _Ant_. On, Sir, I beseech you. _Ant_. Most excellent. _Car_. _Guzman_, have you not observ'd this Fellow I am speaking of. _Guz_. Observ'd him, Sir! I know him particularly, I'll fetch him to you now, Sir; he always stands for new Imployment with the rest of his Gang under St. _Jago's_ Church-wall. _Car_. Bring him anon to my Lodgings, where we'll prepare him for the Adventure. _Ant_. And if the proud _Isabella_ bite not at so gay a bait, I'll be bound to be married to her. _Car_. And if she do not, possibly that may be your Fate--but in return, you must let _Clara_ know the Design I have, and, undeceiving her opinion of my Love, make her of our Party. _Ant_. Trust my Friendship, Sir, and Management. I'll to her instantly, that is, make a visit to _Isabella_, and get an opportunity to speak with _Clara_. _Car_. And I must write a Letter to _Julia_, to undeceive her Fears too, could I but get it to her. _Guz_. For that let me alone. [_Exeunt severally, bowing_. SCENE II. _A Chamber_. _Enter_ Julia _and_ Jacinta. _Jac_. Lord, Madam, you are as melancholy as a sick Parrot. _Jac_. Wou'd I were in your room, Madam, I'd cut him out work enough, I'd warrant him; and if he durst impose on me, i'faith, I'd transform both his Shape and his Manners; in short, I'd try what Woman-hood cou'd do. And indeed, the Revenge wou'd be so pleasant, I wou'd not be without a jealous Husband for all the World; and really, Madam, Don _Carlos_ is so sweet a Gentleman. _Jul_. Ay, but the Sin, _Jacinta_! _Jac_. O' my Conscience, Heav'n wou'd forgive it; for this match of yours, with old _Francisco_, was never made there. _Jul_. I might, with some excuse, give my self away to _Carlos_--But oh, he's false, he takes unjustly all the Vows he paid me, and gives 'em to my Sister _Clara_ now. _Jac_. Indeed that's something uncivil, Madam, if it be true. _Jul_. True! my Father has with joy consented to it, and he has leave to visit her; and can I live to see't? No, Mischief will ensue, my Love's too high, too nicely true to brook Affronts like that. _Jul_. Not I; be witness, Heav'n, with what reluctancy I forc'd my breaking heart; and can I see that charming Body in my Sister's Arms! that Mouth that has so oft sworn Love to me kist by another's Lips! no, _Jacinta_, that night that gives him to another Woman, shall see him dead between the Charmer's Arms. My Life I hate, and when I live no more for _Carlos_, I'll cease to be at all; it is resolv'd. _Jac_. Faith, Madam, I hope to live to see a more comical end of your Amours--but see where your amiable Spouse comes with Don _Baltazer_ your Father. _Enter_ Francisco _and_ Baltazer. _Jac_. Meaning me, Sir? _Bal_. Barring your Compliments, good Son, give me leave to speak. _Fran_. Shaw, I know as well as your self what you wou'd say now; you wou'd assure me I am sole Master of your House, and may command; that you are heartily glad to see me at _Cadiz_, and that you desire I wou'd resolve upon a Week's stay, or so; that you'll spare nothing for my entertainment: why, I know all this, and therefore pray take my word, good Father-in-Law, without any more ado. _Bal_. Pray, why so? _Bal_. If this be your Affliction, you may avoid it. _Fran_. No, no, I'll try to force Nature a little, and be civil, or so; but as soon as the Ceremony's over, I'll steal out of Town, whip a way, presto, i'faith. _Bal_. But shou'd you do so rude a thing to your new Brother, your Wife wou'd think you were jealous of her. No, dissemble that Fault, I beseech you, 'twill make you odious to her and all the world, when 'tis needless, 'tis natural for Women to hate what they fear. _Fran_. Say you so, then I will hide it as much as I can in words, I can dissemble too upon occasion. _Bal_. Let her remain awhile amongst us. _Fran_. The Devil a bit she shall, good Father mine, no, no, I have more years than you, Sir Father, and understand what Women are, especially when married to ancient Men, and have the Conversation of young Men--whose Eyes like Basilisks destroy Modesty with looking on 'em; the very Thought on't has rais'd a Bump in my Forehead already. _Bal_. I am sorry you should suspect my Daughter's Virtue. _Fran_. May be you are, Sir--but Youth you know-Opportunity--Occasion--or so--there are Winks, and Nods, and Signs, and Twirs--and--well--in short I am satisfied, and they that are not may go whistle: and so I'll to my Wife, whom I have left too long alone, evil thoughts will grow upon her--Wife, Love--Duckling- [_Calls her_. _Enter_ Julia _and_ Jacinta. _Bal_. Wou'd I had never married her to this Sot. _Jul_. Your pleasure, Sir. _Fran_. Only to see thee, Love. _Jul_. I have a Suit to you. _Fran_. What is't, my Chicken. _Jul_. I wou'd go make a Visit to my Aunt, my Sister _Clara's_ there, and I'll go fetch her home. _Fran_. Hum--perhaps the Governor's there too? _Jul_. What if he be? we ought to make him a visit too, who so kindly sent for us to _Cadiz_. _Fran_. How! Make a visit to the Governor? What have I to do with the Governor, or what have you to do with the Governor? you are no Soldier, Love. As for a Visit to your Aunt, there's some reason in't; but for the Governor, think no more upon him, I say no more. _Jul_. Since he's to marry my Sister, why shou'd you refuse him that Civility. _Fran_. Your Sister, so much the worse. _Jul_. So much the worse? _Bal_. So, you are at your Jealousy again. _Fran_. Come, come, I love plain dealing; besides, when she named the Governor, Flesh and Blood could not contain. _Jul_. I spoke in reference to his Quality. _Fran_. A Pox of your Civility; I tell you, I scorn my Wife should be civil. Why, what a Coil's here about a Governor! I'll stand to't, a Man had better have a Mule to his Wife than a Woman, and 'twere easier govern'd. _Bal_. But hear reason, Son. _Fran_. What, from a Woman and a Wife? Lord, Lord, where are your Wits, good Father-in-Law? Why, what a Devil, shall I be made ridiculous, a Coxcomb, Cuckold, to shew my Wife? No, no, there's no Necessity of your Civility, Mistress; leave that to me who understand the due Punctilios of it. _Bal_. Harkye, Son, Harkye! _Fran_. Father mine, every Man to his business, I say, therefore say no more of this; for I'll give my Mother's Son to the Devil, when any Wife of mine ever makes a Visit to the Governor; and there's an end on't. Was ever so horrid a Plot contriv'd against her own lawful Husband? Visit the Governor with a Pox! _Bal_. 'Tis an Honour due to all Men of his Rank. _Fran_. I care not for that, my opinion is, my Wife's my Slave, and let him keep his Rank to himself. [Fran. _gets his Wife behind him, and fences her with his Cloke_. _Guz_. Farther, Sir, he kisses your hand, with a more than ordinary friendship. _Guz_. But he charg'd me, Sir, most passionately to present his Service to your Lady. _Fran_. Yes, yes; I thought as much. _Fran_. Friend, my Wife, or Lady, has no need of his Service in a more particular manner, and so you may return it. _Jac_. Indeed, but she has great need of his service in a very particular manner. _Fran_. How strong this _Carlos_ smells of the Devil--Friend, tell your Master she's very well, but since she was married, she has forgot her gentile Civility and good Manners, and never returns any Compliments to Men. _Fran_. Friend, let your Master know we are here in very good quarters already, and he does us both too much honour; and that if we have notice of the Wedding-day, and I have nothing else to do, we'll certainly wait on him, and the next morning we intend to take our leaves, which I send him word of beforehand to prevent surprize. _Guz_. But, Sir- [_Approaching him, he puts his Wife farther_. _Fran_. Go, Sir, and deliver your Message. _Guz_. But I have order, Sir- _Fran_. There's no such thing in this World. _Guz_. Agues, Sir, are kind Diseases, they allow of Truces and Cessations. _Fran_. No, no; she has no Cessation, Friend, her Ague takes her night and day, it shakes her most unmercifully, and it shall shake her till the Wedding-day. [_Goes to whisper him, and gives Julia the Letter over his Shoulder_. _Fran_. Is he so, pray tell him he need not take that pains; there's no occasion for't; besides 'twill be but in vain; for the Doctors have prescribed her Silence and Loneliness, 'tis good against the Fit; how this damn'd Fellow of a Rival torments me! honest Friend, adieu. _Guz_. Now is this Fellow so afraid of being made a Cuckold that he fears his own Shadow, and dares not go into his Wife's Chamber if the Sun do but shine into the room- [_Ex_. Guz. _Fran_. So, your Mercury's gone; Lord, how simply you look now, as if you knew nothing of the matter! _Jul_. Matter! what matter? I heard the civil Message the Governor sent, and the uncivil Answer you return'd back. _Jac_. Well said, Madam. _Jul_. I find no fault with your sleeping, 'tis the best quality you have a-bed. _Jul_. Well, I am a wicked Creature to teaze thee so, Dear; but I'll do what thou wilt; come, come, be friends, I vow, I care not for the Governor, not I, no more than I do for my--own Soul. _Jul_. Yes, up to my Chamber, to write an answer to this dear Letter. [_Ex_ Julia. _Fran_. No, 'tis not a Man, but my Daughter _Isabella_. _Jac_. Now will I stay, and set her on to teaze the Dotard: wou'd I could teaze him to Death, that my Mistress might be rid of him. _Isa_. Young and handsome; is there no more than that goes to the making up of a Husband--Yes, there's Quality. _Jac_. Have a care of a Nunnery, lest he take you at your word. _Isa_. I would not for the world; no, _Jacinta_, when ever thou seest me in holy Orders, the World will be at an end. _Fran_. Merchant! why, what Husband do you expect? _Isa_. A Cavalier at least, if not a Nobleman. _Jac_. Who, I, Sir? No, no, I am for marrying her out of hand to any reasonable Husband, except a Merchant; for Maids will long, and that's _Probatum est_ against the prevailing distemper of Longing. Hitherto I dare answer for her, but Batteries will be made, and I dare not be always responsible for frail Mortality. _Fran_. Dear me no Dears: wou'd your old Mother were alive, she wou'd have strapt your Just-au-corps, for puleing after Cavaliers and Nobleman, i'faith, that wou'd she; a Citizen's Daughter, and would be a _Madona_--in good time. _Isa. Why, Father, the Gentry and Nobility now-a-days frequently marry Citizens Daughters. _Enter_ Antonio. Isabella _weeps_. _Ant_. What, in Tears, _Isabella?_ what is't can force that tribute from your Eyes? _Isa_. Saucy Impertinent, you shew your City breeding; you understand what's due to Ladys! you understand your Pen and Ink, how to count your dirty Money, trudge to and fro chaffering of base commodities, and cozening those you deal with, till you sweat and stink again like an o'er heated Cook, faugh, I smell him hither. _Ant_. I must confess I am not perfum'd as you are, to stifle Stinks you commonly have by Nature; but I have wholesom, cleanly Linen on; and for my Habit wore I but a Sword, I see no difference between your Don and me, only, perhaps, he knows less how to use it. _Isa_. Ah, name not a Don, the very sound from the Mouth of a little Cit is disagreeable--Bargain and Sale, Bills, Money, Traffick, Trade, are words become you better. _Jac_. Well said, use him scurvily that Mrs. _Clara_ may have him. [_Aside_. _Ant_. The best of those you think I should not name, dare hardly tell me this. _Isa_. Good Lord, you think your self a very fine Fellow now, and finical your self up to be thought so; but there's as much difference between a Citizen and a true bred Cavalier- _Ant_. As between you and a true bred Woman of Honour. _Ant_. Farewel, proud Fool. _Jac_. Sir, be this Evening at the Door, Donna _Clara_ has something to say to you. _Ant_. Bless thee for this Tidings, dear _Jacinta_. SCENE I. _A Chamber_. _Enter_ Jacinta _with a Light, and_ Julia. _Jac_. Well, Madam, have you writ to Don _Carlos_? _Jul_. All that a Man inspir'd with Love cou'd say, all that was soft and charming. _Jac_. Nay, I believe his Art. _Jul_. Judge then what my Heart feels, which like a Fire but lightly cover'd o'er with the cold Ashes of Despair, with the least blast breaks out into a Flame; I burn, I burn, _Jacinta_, and only charming _Carlos_ can allay my Pain--but how? Ay, there's the question. _Cla_. 'Tis pity she that thinks it so shou'd want him; the Blessing's thrown away on me, but we are both unhappy to be match'd to those we cannot love. _Carlos_, though young, gay, handsom, witty, rich, I hate as much as you the old _Francisco_; for since I cannot marry my _Antonio_, both Youth and Beauty are but lost on me, and Age decrepid would be equal torment. _Jul_. Wou'd _Carlos_ knew your heart, sure he'd decline; for he has too much Honor to compel a Maid to yield that loves him not. _Cla_. 'Tis true, he is above me every way, and the Honor my Father thinks to do our Family by this Match, makes him resolve upon't; but I have given my Vows to young _Antonio_. _Jul_. And young _Antonio_ you are like to have, for any thing that _Carlos_ cares; for know, to thy eternal joy, my _Clara_, he has but feigned to thee, as much as thy _Antonio_ to _Isabella_. _Cla_. But are you sure of this? _Jul_. Most certain; this Night if you can let _Antonio_ see you, he'll tell you all the Cheat, and beg your Pardon. _Cla_. Which he will soon obtain, and in return, what Service I can render him in your behalf he shall not want. _Jul_. _Antonio_ will engage you they are Friends. _Cla_. You amaze me. _Jac_. I have appointed him this night to wait, and, if possible, I would get him a Minute's time with you. _Jul_. No more, here comes the Dragon. _Fran_. So, together consulting and contriving. _Jac_. What, are you jealous of the Petticoat? _Jac_. No, the Market's well enough stored, thanks be praised, might every Woman be afforded a reasonable Allowance. I have a high commendation of your fine Behaviour, Gentlewoman, to _Antonio_; his Father has sent for me, and I shall know all anon, this shall but hasten your Wedding, Huswise, I tell you that, and so farewel to you- [_Ex_. Isabella _crying_. _Cla_. Say you so, then 'tis time for me to look about me. _Jul_. But will you go out so late, Love? indeed some hurt will come to thee. _Fran_. No, look ye, I go arm'd. [_Shews his Girdle round with Pistols_. Go, get you to your Chambers. [_He goes out, they go in_. SCENE II. _Changes to the Street_. _Enter_ Carlos, Antonio. _Car_. I wonder where this Man of mine should be, whom I sent this Evening with my Letter to _Julia_. What art thou? _Enter_ Guzman, _runs against_ Carlos. _Car_. To wait my Doom; what Tidings hast thou, _Guzman_? _Guz_. Why, Sir, I went as you directed me, to Don _Baltazer's_. _Car_. And didst thou deliver it? _Guz_. Finding out the Chimney-sweeper you spoke of, Sir, and whom you ordered me to bring this Evening. _Car_. And hast thou found him? _Guz_. He's here, at the corner of the Street, I'll call him. [Ex. Guz. _Enter_ Guzman _and_ Guiliom. Page _holding his lanthorn to his face_. _Guz_. Here's the Fellow, Sir. _Ant_. Fellow! he may be the Devil's Fellow by his countenance. _Car_. Come nearer, Friend; dost think thou canst manage a Plot well? _Guil_. As any Man in _Cadiz_, Sir, with good instructions. _Car_. That thou shalt have, thou art apprehensive. _Guil_. So, so, I have a pretty memory for mischief. _Ant_. Hast thou Assurance and Courage? _Guil_. To kill the honestest Man in _Spain_, if I be well paid. _Car_. That thou shalt be. _Guil_. I'll do't, say no more, I'll do't. _Car_. But canst thou swear stoutly, and lye handsomely. _Guil_. Prettily, by Nature, Sir, but with good instructions I shall improve; I thank Heaven I have Docity, or so. _Car_. Thou want'st not Confidence. _Guil_. No, nor Impudence neither; how should a man live in this wicked world without that Talent? _Ant_. Then know our Design is only comical, though if you manage not Matters well, it may prove tragical to you; in fine, dost think thou canst personate a Lord? _Guil_. A Lord! marry, that's a hard question: but what sort of a Lord? _Car_. Why, any Lord. _Guil_. And if I do not fit you with a Don better than _Don Del Phobos_, or _Don Quixote_, let me be hang'd up for the Sign of the Black Boy on my own Poles at a _Spanish_ Inn door. _Ant_. We'll be with you presently. [_Ex_. Guz. _and_ Page, _and_ Guil. _Enter, opening the door_, Jacinta. _Jac_. Hah, if it should be old _Francisco_ now. _Jul_. All that the kindest Mistress can bestow, If _Carlos_ loves, and still will keep his Vows. _Car_. _Julia_, my Life, my Soul, what happy Stars Conspir'd to give me this dear lucky minute? _Jul_. Those that conducted old _Francisco_ out, And will too soon return him back again; I dare not stay to hear thy love or chiding, Both which have power to charm, since both proceed From a kind heart, that's mine. _Car_. Oh, take not this dear Body from my Arms, For if you do, my Soul will follow it. _Jul_. What would'st thou have me do? _Car_. Be wondrous kind, be lavish of thy Heart, Be generous in thy Love, and give me all. _Car_. Fear! let coward Lovers fear, who love by halves, We that intirely love are bold in Passion, Like Soldiers fir'd with glory dread no Danger. _Car_. When then, my _Julia_, shall we meet again? _Jul_. You _Spaniards_ are a jealous Nation, But in this _English Spaniard_ Old _Francisco_, That mad Passion's doubled; wholly deprives him of his Sense, and turns his Nature Brute; wou'd he but trust me only with my Woman, I wou'd contrive some way to see my _Carlos_. _Car_. 'Tis certain, _Julia_, that thou must be mine. _Jul_. Or I must die, my _Carlos_. [Ant. _listning advances_. _Jul_. Oh Heavens! Sir, here's _Francisco_; step aside, Lest mischief shou'd befall you. [_Runs in_. _Ant_. The same; may I not speak with _Clara_? _Car_. Who's here? sure this is he indeed; I'll step aside, lest my being seen give him an occasion of jealousy, and make him affront his Wife. [_Goes aside as_ Fran. _was going in_. _Fran_. Hum, what have we here, a Woman? _Jul_. Heavens! what, not gone yet, my Dear? _Fran_. So, so, 'tis my confounded Wife, who expecting some body wou'd have me gone now. _Jul_. Are you not satisfied with all I've said, With all the Vows I've made, Which here anew, in sight of Heaven, I breathe? _Fran_. Yes, yes, you can promise fair, but hang him that trusts ye. _Fran_. The wicked Dissimulation of villainous Woman. [_Aloud to her_. [_Goes just to the door_, Fran. _bolts out on him_. _Car_. _Francisco_, let me embrace you, my noble Brother, and chide you, that you wou'd not visit me. [_Going to embrace him, he flies off_. _Fran_. And bring my Wife along with me. _Car_. Both had been welcome--and all I have, you shou'd command. _Car_. Methinks you make not so kind returns as my Friendship to you, and the Alliance shall be between us, deserves. _Car_. I fear there's some Misunderstanding between us, pray let us go in a while, I'll talk you from your error. [_Offers to go, he gets between him and the door_. _Fran_. Between us, Sir! oh Lord, not in the least, Sir, I love and honour you so heartily--I'd be content to give you to the Devil, but the noise of the Pistol wou'd discover the business. [_Aside_. _Car_. Come, let's in, and talk a while. _Fran_. I'm sorry I cannot do't, Sir, we are something incommoded being not at our own house. _Car_. That makes a Hell of the Heav'n of Love, and those very Pains you fear, are less tormenting than that Fear; what say you, Brother, is't not so with you? _Fran_. What, do you laugh, Sir? _Car_. Who can chuse, to hear your Suspicions, your needless Fears. Come, come, trust your Wife's Discretion, and Modesty--and I doubt not but you will find your self- _Fran_. In the Road to Heaven, whither they say all Cuckolds go--I thank you for your advice; I perceive you wou'd willingly help me onwards of my Journey. _Fran_. No matter for that, so you know not my Wife--and so farewel to you, Sir, and, the Devil take all Cuckoldmakers. SCENE III. _The inside of the House_. _Enter_ Clara, Julia, Antonio, Jacinta _running to 'em_. _Cla_. Heavens, he must not see you here. [_To_ Ant. _Jac_. Here, step into _Clara's_ Bed-chamber. [_He goes in_. _Jul_. Who speak you of? _Fran_. Only the Governor, the fine young Governor, I deliver'd him the message, told him my mind and the like. _Jul_. So kind to visit us, and have you sent him away already? _Fran_. Ah, Witch; already! why, have I any lodging for him? _Jul_. But I am glad you brought him not in, I being so unready. _Fran_. But you are always ready for him, my dear victorious Man-slayer. _Jul_. What means he, sure he has a Gad-bee in his Brain. _Jul_. Send him! I'll answer no such idle questions. _Jul_. I say you're an old jealous Fool; have I seen Don _Carlos_, or heard from Don _Carlos_, or sent to Don _Carlos_? here's a-do indeed. _Fran_. And so, Mistress, come your ways to your Chamber. _Jul_. And study how to prevent this cruel separation. [_Aside, goes out with him and_ Jacinta. _Cla_. Ah, _Antonio_, I find by that sad look of yours, you have over-heard our hasty Doom. _Cla_. What shall we do? I'm sure thou wilt not marry her, thou canst not do't and hope to go to Heaven. _Cla_. I know thou wilt be true, and I'll not doubt it. _Jac_. Ah! Madam, the saddest news- _Cla_. Hah! what? _Ant_. Alas, how shall I endure so great an Affliction? _Cla_. _So large a Freedom shall my Virtue prove, I'll trust my Honour with_ Antonio's _Love_. [_Ex_. Jacinta _laughing_. SCENE I. _Don_ Carlos' _house_. _Enter Don_ Carlos _in his Night-gown_, Antonio, _and_ Guzman _with Clothes_. _Car_. All night with _Clara_ say'st thou? that was lucky; But was she kind, my friend? _Ant_. As I desir'd, or Honour wou'd permit her; Nor wou'd I press her farther. _Car_. A very moderate Lover. _Car_. By Heaven, and so will _Carlos_ then; for I'm so resolutely bent to possess that dear Creature, That I will do't with hazard of my Life, Expence of Fortune, or what's dear to me. _Car_. But how? Thou talkest of Impossibilities. _Ant_. Dost think she'll e'er consent to quit her Husband? _Car_. Thou amazest me. _Car_. By what strange Witchcraft shall this be brought to pass? _Ant_. Right, I heard him say so; in the Galley that lies in the Port. _Car_. Ah, Rogue, I begin to apprehend already. _Guz_. Our _Turkish_ Galley thus man'd, I'll put to Sea, and about a League from Land, with a sham-fight set on that of Old _Francisco_, take it, make 'em all Slaves, clap the Old Fellow under hatches, and then you may deal with the fair Slave his Wife, as _Adam_ did with _Eve_. _Car_. I'm ravish'd with the thought. _Ant_. But what will be the event of this? _Car_. I will not look so far, but stop at the dear Joys, and fear no Fate beyond 'em. _Ant_. 'Tis yours, Sir. _Car_. But the distance of Place and Time allow not such a Fallacy. _Guz_. Why he never read in's life; knows neither Longitude nor Latitude, and _Constantinople_ may be in the midst of _Spain_ for any thing he knows; besides, his Fear will give him little leisure for thinking. _Ant_. But how shall we do with the Seamen of this other Gally? _Ant_. But possibly his mind may alter upon the Arrival of this False Count of ours? _Car_. No matter, make sure of those Seamen however; that they may be ready upon occasion. _Ant_. 'Tis high time for me that your Count were arriv'd, for this morning is destin'd the last of my Liberty. _Guz_. Coming to give you the good morrow, Sir; And shew you how well he looks the Part. _Guil_. Morrow, morrow, Friend. _Ant_. My Lord, your most humble Servant. _Guil_. Thank you, Friend, thank you; Page, Boy--what's a-Clock, Sirrah? _Ant_. Your Lordship's early up. _Page_. What will your Honour please to have? _Ant_. But you must study to refine your Manners a little. _Guil_. Manners! you shall pardon me for that; as if a Lord had not more privilege to be more saucy, more rude, impertinent, slovenly and foolish than the rest of his Neighbours, or Mankind. _Car_. Ay, ay, 'tis great. _Guil_. Your saucy Rudeness, in a Grandee, is Freedom; your Impertinence, Wit; your Sloven, careless; and your Fool, good natur'd; as least they shall pass so in me, I'll warrant ye. _Car_. Well, you have your full Instructions; your Baggage, Bills and Letters, from _Octavio_ the _Sevilian_ Merchant. _Guz_. All, all, Sir, are ready, and his Lordship's breakfast waits. _Car_. Which ended, we advance, Just when _Aurora_ rose from _Thetis'_ Bed, Where he had wantoned a short Summer's night, Harness'd his bright hoov'd Horses to begin His gilded course above the Firmament, Out sallied Don _Gulielmo Rodorigo de Chimney Sweperio_, and so forth. Gad, this adventure of ours will be worthy to be sung in Heroick Rhime Doggerel, before we have finisht it; Come- [_Goes out_. _Guil_. Hey, Rogues, Rascals, Boys, follow me just behind. SCENE II. Francisco's _house_. _Enter_ Clara _and_ Jacinta. _Cla_. And to see the Governor his Man? _Jac_. Ah, what a Jest that would be too--Ha, ha, ha! but here comes _Isabella_; let's puff up her Pride with Flatteries on her Beauty. _Enter_ Isabella _looking in a Glass, and seeing her Face_. _Cla_. Only those Friends that wish you better Fortune than this day promises. _Jac_. Look on that Face; are there not Lines that foretel a world of Greatness, and promise much Honour? _Cla_. Her Face, her Shape, her Mein, her every part declares her Lady--or something more. _Isa_. Why, so, and yet this little Creature of a Father, ridiculously and unambitious, would spoil this Lady, to make up a simple Citizen's Wife--in good time. _Jac_. That very look had some presaging Grandeur. _Isa_. Do you think so, _Jacinta_? Ha, ha, ha. _Jac_. That Laugh again, oh Heavens, how it charms! _Cla_. And how graceful 'tis! _Jac_. Ah, nothing but a great gilt Coach will become it. _Jac_. And a Page at the tail on't. _Cla_. She's evidently design'd for a Person of Quality. _Isa_. Besides I have so natural an Inclination for a Don, that if my Father do force me to marry this small Creature of a Merchant, I shall make an Intrigue with some body of Quality. _Cla_. Cou'd you but manage it well, and keep it from _Antonio_. _Enter_ Francisco, _and_ Lopez. _Lop_. A Count, Sir, and to speak with you. _Lop_. Governor, Sir! No, no, 'tis a mere Stranger, Sir, a rare Count whom I never saw all days of my life before. _Fran_. And with me wou'd he speak? I hope he comes not to my Wife. _Jul_. Oh Husband, the delicatest fine Person of Quality, just alighted at the Door, Husband. _Isa_. And will Men eat us? _Fran_. No, but they may do worse, they may look on ye, and Looking breeds Liking; and Liking, Love; and Love a damn'd thing, call'd Desire; and Desire begets the Devil and all of Mischief to young Wenches--Get ye gone in, I say--here's a Lord coming--and Lords are plaguy things to Women. _Enter_ Guiliom, Carlos, _and_ Pages, _&c_. _Gull_. How now, Fellow, where's this old Don _Francisco_? _Fran_. I'm the Person, Sir. _Isa_. Heavens, what an Air he has! _Guil_. Art thou he? Old Lad, how dost thou do? Hah! _Fran_. I don't know. _Guil_. Thou knowest me not it seems, old Fellow, hah! _Guil_. By Instinct; such as you ought to know a Person of Quality, and pay your Civilities naturally; in _France_, where I have travel'd, so much good manners is used, your Citizen pulls off his hat, thus--to every Horse of Quality, and every Coach of Quality; and do you pay my proper Person no more respect, hah! _Isa_. What a Dishonour's this to me, to have so dull a Father, that needs to be instructed in his Duty. _Guil_. But, Sir, to open the eyes of your understanding--here's a Letter to you, from your Correspondent a Merchant of _Sevil_. [_Gives him a dirty Letter which he wipes on his Cloke and reads, and begins to pull off his hat, and reading on bows lower and lower till he have finisht it_. _Guil_. I have Bills of Exchange too, directed to thee, old Fellow, at _Sevil_; but finding thee not there, and I (as most Persons of my Quality are) being something idle, and never out of my way, came to this Town, to seek thee, Fellow--being recommended as thou seest here, old Vermin--here- [_Gives him Bills_. _Isa_. Ah, what a graceful Mein he has! how fine his Conversation! ah, the difference between him and a filthy Citizen! _Fran_. Bills for so many thousands. _Jac_. He has you in his eye already. _Isa_. Ah, _Jacinta_, thou flatterest me. _Jac_. Return him some kind looks in pity. [_She sets her Eyes, and bows, &c_. _Car_. Dear _Julia_, let's retire, our time's but short. _Jul_. I dare not with you, the venture wou'd be too bold in a young beginner in the Thefts of Love. _Guil_. Her Eyes are Suns, by _Jove_. _Car_. Oh, nothing is so ventrous as Love, if it be true. _Fran_. Um--my Wife here still, must I begin to thunder. _Fran_. Person of Quality! alas, my Lord, 'tis a silly Citizen's Daughter. _Guil_. A Citizen's! what clod of Earth cou'd bring forth such a Beauty? _Fran_. Alas, my Lord, I am that clod of Earth, and to Earth, if you call it so, she must return again, for she's to be married to a Citizen this Morning. _Isa_. Ah, my Lord, name it not, I'm this day to be married. _Fran_. Bless me, what a furious thing this Love is? _Guil_. By this bright Sword, that is so used to slaughter, he dies; [_Draws_.] old Fellow, say--the Poltroon's name. _Fran_. Oh, fearful--alas, dread Sir! _Isa_. Ah! sheath your Sword, and calm your generous Rage. _Guil_. I cannot brook a Rival in my Love, the rustling Pole of my Affection is too strong to be resisted. _Runs raging up and down the Stage with his Sword in his hand_. _Guil_. Oh! you're mistaken, as soon as I cast my eyes upon the Full-moon of your Countenance, I was struck blind and dumb. _Fran_. Ay, and deaf too, I'll be sworn, he cou'd neither hear, see nor understand; this Love's a miraculous thing. _Isa_. I am in Heaven, ah! I die, _Jacinta_. How can I credit this, that am so much unworthy? _Guil_. I'll do't, say no more, I'll do't. _Fran_. Do't, but, my Lord, and with what face can I put off Signior _Antonio_, hum. _Fran_. Oh, hold, hold, my Lord! run through the Lungs! _Page_. It shall be done, my Lord! but what _Antonio_? _Guil_. Why, any _Antonio_; all the _Antonio's_ that you find in _Cadiz_. _Guil_. All, all; sa, sa, quoth I, sa, sa, sa, sa, sa, sa. [_Fences him round the Stage_. _Fran_. Hold, hold, my Lord, I am none of the sixscore. _Guil_. And run 'em all through the Body! _Fran_. Oh Heavens! and kill'd 'em all. _Isa_. Is it the fashion, Sir, to be attended by Pages so big? _Fran_. I am so frighted with this relation, that I must up to my Wife's Chamber for a little of that strong Cordial that recovered her this morning. [_Going out_ Guil. _stays him_. _Page_. Shew a Wound behind, Sir! the Ladies will think you are a Coward. _Guil_. Peace, Child, peace, the Ladies understand Dueling as little as my self; but, since you are so tender-hearted, Ladies, I'll not shew you my wound; but faith, it spoiled my dancing. _Page_. My Lord, now you talk of dancing, here's your Baggage brought from a-board the Gally by your Seamen, who us'd to entertain you with their rustick Sports. Come, sit down by me. _Fran_. 'Tis my duty to stand, my Lord. _Guil_. Nay, you shall sit. _Isa_. No marrying to day, Sir. _Fran_. No, Sir, no marrying to day. _Ant_. How, do I dream, or hear this from _Francisco_? _Guil_. How now, Fellow, what art thou? _Ant_. The Husband of that proud disdainful Woman. _Guil_. Another word like that--and thou art- _Ant_. What, Sir? _Fran_. Oh, hold, hold, my Lord! _Antonio_, I must tell you, you're uncivil. _Guil_. Dost know, dull Mortal, that I am a Lord, And _Isabella_ my adopted Lady. _Ant_. I beg your pardon, Sir, if it be so, poor Mortals can but grieve in silence. _Guil_. Alas, poor Mortal! _Ant_. But, for you, _Francisco_. _Fran_. Ah, dear _Antonio_, I vow and swear I cannot chuse but weep to lose thee; but my Daughter was born for a Lady, and none can help their destiny. _Ant_. And is it possible thou canst use me thus? [_To_ Isa. _Isa_. Take away that little Fellow; in pity of your life, I deign to bid you withdraw and be safe. _Ant_. Beg'd my Life! _Guil_. Vile Wretch, dar'st thou retort? [Draws, the Women hold him. _Isa_. For my sake spare him, and be Friends with him, as far as you may deign to be with a little Citizen. _Guil_. So, now Peace is concluded on, on all sides, what shall we do to day besides eating and drinking in abundance; for to morrow I shall get my self in order for my Marriage. _Guil_. With Fiddles, Drums and Trumpets, Westphalia hams and Pidgeons, and the like: Hey, Rogues, Scoundrels, Dogs. _Isa_. Ah, how fine is every Action of a great Man! _Fran_. Alas, I must stay at home with my Wife, my Lord. _Car_. Yes, and thank thee for the best moment of my Life--Hast thou contrived the Voyage then? _Page_. At your heels, my Lord- [_Exeunt_. Enter, _as aboard the Ship_, Guiliom, Isabella, Francisco, Julia, Antonio, Clara, Jacinta, Pedro _and his Wife_, Pages. _Isa_. Heav'ns, what a peculiar Grace there is in every word that comes from the Mouth of a Cavalier. _Guil_. By _Mars_, the God of Love! _Page_. By _Cupid_, Sir. [Aside to him. _Isa_. He is a delicate fine Person, _Jacinta_; but, methinks he does not make Love enough to me. _Jac_. Oh, Madam, Persons of his Quality never make Love in Words, the greatness of their Actions show their Passion. _Jac_. Ay, 'tis true all the little Fellows talk of Love. _Isa_. Ah, Heav'ns, a Beer-glass. _Isa_. What a misfortune it was, that I should not know this before, but shou'd discover my want of so necessary a piece of Grandeur. _Jac_. And nothing, but being fuddled, will redeem her Credit. _Ant_. Oh Sir, we have an Artist aboard I'll assure you; Signior _Cashier_, shall I beg the favour of you to shew your Skill? _Pet_. Sir, my Wife and I'm at your service. _Guil_. Friend, what Language can you sing? _Pet_. Oh, Sir, your Singers speak all Languages. _Guil_. Say'st thou so, prithee then let's have a touch of Heathen _Greek_. _Pet_. That you shall, Sir, Sol la me fa sol, &c. _Fran_. Hum, I think this is indeed Heathen _Greek_, I'm sure 'tis so to me. _Guil_. Ay, that may be, but I understand every word on't. _Fran_. Good lack, these Lords are very learned Men. _Enter the_ Captain. _Capt_. Well, Gentlemen, though the news be something unpleasant that I bring, yet to noble minds 'tis sport and pastime. _Guil_. Hah, Fellow! What's that that's sport and pastime to noble minds. _Fran_. Oh Lord, no goodness, I'll warrant. _Capt_. But, Gentlemen, pluck up your Spirits, be bold and resolute. _Fran_. Oh Lord, bold and resolute! why, what's the matter, Captain? _Capt_. You are old, Signior, and we expect no good from you but Prayers to Heaven? _Fran_. Oh Lord, Prayers to Heaven! Why, I hope, Captain, we have no need to think of Heaven. _Capt_. At your own Peril be it then, Signior, for the _Turks_ are coming upon us. _Fran_. Oh Lord, Turks, Turks! _Guil_. Turks, oh, is that all? [_Falls to eating_. _Fran_. All--why, they'll make Eunuchs of us, my Lord, Eunuchs of us poor men, and lie with all our Wives. _Fran_. Ay, 'twill make you sing another note, I'll warrant you. _Fran_. Draw! I never drew any thing in my Life, but my Purse, and that most damnably against my will; oh, what shall I do? _Capt_. Ah, my Lord, they bear up briskly to us, with a fresh Gale and full Sails. _Fran_. Oh, dear Captain, let us tack about and go home again. _Capt_. 'Tis impossible to scape, we must fight it out. _Guil_. Why, where be these _Turks_? set me to 'em, I'll make 'em smoke, Dogs, to dare attack a man of Quality. _Isa_. Oh, the Insolence of these _Turks_! do they know who's aboard? for Heaven's sake, my Lord, do not expose your noble Person. [_Seamen shout within_. _Fran_. Ay, I dare swear. _Ant_. My Lord, let us not tamely fall, there's danger near. [_Draws_. _Guil_. Ay, ay, there's never smoke, but there's some fire--Come, let's away--ta la, tan ta la, la la, &c. [Draws. [Exit _singing, and_ Antonio _and_ Pet. _Isa_. Dear Father, be not so frighted. [_Weeps_. _Fran_. Ah, Crocodile, wou'd thou hadst wept thy Eyes out long ago, that thou hadst never seen this Count; then he had never lov'd thee, and then we had never been invited a ship-board. [_A noise of fighting_. _Enter_ Guiliom, Pet. _and_ Antonio, driven in fighting by Guzman _and other_ Turks. _Ant_. Ah, Sir, the _Turks_ have boarded us, we're lost, we're lost. _Fran_. Oh, I am slain, I'm slain. [_Falls down_. _Guil_. Hold, hold, I say, you are now in the presence of Ladies, and 'tis uncivil to fight before Ladies. _Guz_. Yield then, you are our Slaves. _Guil_. Slaves, no Sir, we're Slaves to none but the Ladies. [_Offers to fight_. _Guz_. Or, if he be not, he's old, and past service, we'll kill the Christian Dog out of the way. _Fran_. Oh, hold, hold, I'm no Christian, Gentlemen; but as errant a Heathen as your selves. _Guz_. Bind him strait, neck and heels, and clap him under hatches. _Jul_. Oh, spare him, Sir, look on his Reverend Age. _Guz_. For your sake, Lady, much may be done, we've need of handsom Women. [_Gives her to some Turks that are by_. _Jul_. Fear not, my dear, I'll rather die than do thee wrong. _Guil_. Alas! this Separation's worse than Death. _Guil_. But should the _Grand Seignior_ behold thy Beauty, thou wou'dst despise thine own dear hony Viscount to be a _Sultana_. _Isa_. A _Sultana_, what's that? _Guil_. Why, 'tis the great _Turk_, a Queen of _Turkey_. _Guz_. Come, come, we can't attend your amorous Parleys. [_Parts 'em_. _Jul_. Alas, what shall we poor Women do? _Isa_. We must e'en have patience, Madam, and be ravisht. _Cla_. Ravisht! Heavens forbid. _Jac_. An please the Lord, I'll let my nails grow against that direful day. _Isa_. And so will I, for I'm resolv'd none should ravish me but the great _Turk_. _Guz_. Come, Ladies, you are Dishes to be serv'd up to the board of the _Grand Seignior_. _Isa_. Why, will he eat us all? _Guz_. A slice of each, perhaps, as he finds his Appetite inclin'd. SCENE II. _A Garden_. _Enter Don Carlos and_ Lopez. _Car_. But, why so near the Land? by Heaven, I saw each action of the Fight, from yonder grove of Jessamine; and doubtless all beheld it from the Town. _Car_. Well, have we all things in readiness? _Lop_. All, Sir, all. _Page_. My Lord, a Barge from the Galley is just arriv'd at the Garden-Stairs. _Car_. I'll retire then, and fit me for my part of this Farce. _Guz_. My Lord, you must retire, they're just bringing the Old Gentleman ashore. _Car_. Prithee how does he take his Captivity? _Car_. Whatever you do, have a care you do not overfright the Coxcomb, and make a Tragedy of our Comedy. _Enter some _Turks _with the body of _Francisco _in chains, and lay him down on a Bank_. _Fran_. Do you know me, Friend? _Fran_. Is she dead? That wou'd be some comfort. _Fran_. Patience, good Lord. _Enter_ Carlos _and_ Guzman _as_ Turks _with Followers_. Most mighty Emperor, behold your Captive. _Fran_. Is this the Great _Turk_? _Guz_. Of what Nation art thou, Slave? speak to the Emperor, he understands thee, though he deign not to hold discourse with Christian Dogs. _Guz_. By _Mahomet_, he'll make a reverend Eunuch. _Fran_. An Eunuch! oh, Lord! _Turk_. Ay, Sir, to guard his Mistresses, 'tis an honour. _Fran_. Oh! Mercy, Sir, that honour you may spare, Age has done my business already. _Guz_. Fellow, what art? _Fran_. An't please your Worship, I cannot tell. _Guz_. How, not tell? _Fran_. An't please your Lordship, my Fears have so transform'd me, I cannot tell whether I'm any thing or nothing. _Guz_. Thy name, dull Mortal, know'st thou not that? _Fran_. An't please your Grace, now I remember me, methinks I do. _Guz_. Dog, how art thou call'd? _Fran_. An't like your Excellence, Men call'd me Signior Don _Francisco_, but now they will call me Coxcomb. _Guz_. Of what Trade? _Fran_. An't please your Highness, a Gentleman. _Guz_. How much dost thou get a day by that Trade? Hah! _Fran_. A good Cudgelling, an't please your Illustriousness. _Car_. _Baridama, Dermack_. _Fran_. Heavens, what says he? _I Turk_. He means to have you castrated. _Fran_. Castrated! Oh, that's some dreadful thing, I'll warrant,-Gracious Great Turk, for Mahomet's sake, excuse me; alas, I've lost my wits. _Car_. _Galero Gardines_? _Guz_. The Emperor asks if thou art married, Fellow. _Fran_. Hah--Married--I was, an't like your Monsterousness, but, I doubt, your People have spoiled my Property. _Guz_. His Wife, with other Ladies, in a Pavillion in the Garden, attend your Royal pleasure. _Car_. Go, fetch her hither presently. _Fran_. Yes, by the height of a pair of Horns. _Car_. Is she handsom? _Car_. Is she young? _Fran_. Young, what shou'd such an old doting Coxcomb as I do with a young Wife? Pox on him for a Heathen Whoremaster. _Car_. Old is she then? _Fran_. Ay, very old, an't please your Gloriousness. _Car_. Is she not capable of Love? _Car_. Is she witty? _Enter_ Guzman, _bringing in_ Julia, Clara, Isabella, Jacinta, Guiliom, Antonio, &c. _Women veil'd_. _Car_. These, Sir, are all the Slaves of Note are taken. _Isa_. Dost think, _Jacinta_, he'll chuse me? _Jac_. I'll warrant you, Madam, if he looks with my Eyes. _Guz_. Stand forth. [_To the Men_. _Guil_. Stand forth, Sir! why, so I can, Sir, I dare show my Face, Sir, before any Great _Turk_ in Christendom. _Car_. What are you, Sir? _Guil_. What am I, Sir? Why, I'm a Lord, a Lord. _Fran_. What, are you mad to own your Quality, he'll ask the Devil and all of a ransom. _Guil_. No matter for that, I'll not lose an Inch of my Quality for a King's ransom; disgrace my self before my fair Mistress! _Isa_. That's as the _Great Turk_ and I shall agree. [_Scornfully_. _Car_. What are you, Sir? _Ant_. A Citizen of _Cadiz_. _Car_. Set 'em by, we'll consider of their ransoms--now unveil the Ladies. [Guzman _unveils_ Jacinta. _Guil_. Oh, dear _Isabella_, do thee look like a Dog too. _Isa_. No, Sir, I'm resolv'd I'll not lose an Inch of my Beauty, to save so trifling a thing as a Maiden head. _Car_. Very agreeable, pretty and chearful- [_She is veil'd and set by: Then Clara is unveil'd_. _Cla_. Sir, I'm a Maid. _Fran_. So, I hope he will pitch upon her. _Cla_. Only, by promise, Sir, I've given my self away. _Car_. What happy Man cou'd claim a title in thee, And trust thee to such danger? _Cla_. I dare not name him, Sir, lest this small Beauty which you say adorns me, shou'd gain him your displeasure; he's in your presence, Sir, and is your Slave. _Car_. Such Innocence this plain Confession shows, name me the man, and I'll resign thee back to him. _Fran_. A Pox of his Civility. _Ant_. This Mercy makes me bold to claim my right. [_Kneels_. _Car_. Take her, young Man, and with it both your Ransoms. _Guil_. Hum--hum--very noble, i'faith, we'll e'en confess our loves too, _Isabella_. [Guzman _unveils her, and leads her to_ Carlos, _she making ridiculous actions of Civility_. _Car_. What aukard, fond, conceited thing art thou? Veil her, and take the taudry Creature hence. _Guil_. Hum--your Majesty's humble Servant. [_Putting off his Hat ridiculously_. _Fran_. How! refuse my Daughter too! I see the Lot of a Cuckold will fall to my share. _Guz_. This is the Wife, Great Sir, of this old Slave. [_Unveils_ Julia. _Car_. Hah! what do I see, by _Mahomet_, she's fair. _Fran_. So, so, she's condemn'd; oh, damn'd _Mahometan_ Cannibal! will nothing but raw flesh serve his turn. _Fran_. Oh, Monster of a _Grand Seignior_! _Guz_. Have you a mind to be flead, Sir? _Car_. Receive my Handkerchief. [_Throws it to her_. _Guz_. To do her the honour to lie with her to night. _Fran_. Oh, hold, most mighty _Turk_. [_Kneeling_. _Fran_. Hold, hold, I'm silent. _Fran_. Oh, damn'd circumcised _Turk_. _Car_. You shall be call'd the beautiful _Sultana_, And rule in my Seraglio drest with Jewels. _Fran_. Sure, I shall burst with Vengeance. _Jul_. Sir, let your Virtue regulate your Passions; For I can ne'er love any but my Husband. _Fran_. Ah, dissembling Witch! _Jul_. And wou'd not break my Marriage Vows to him, For all the honour you can heap upon me. _Guz_. Dog, do you mutter? _Fran_. Oh! nothing, nothing, but the Palsy shook my Lips a little. _Guz_. Slave, go, and on your knees resign your Wife. _Fran_. She's of years of discretion, and may dispose of her self; but I can hold no longer: and is this your _Mahometan_ Conscience, to take other Mens Wives, as if there were not single Harlots enough in the World? [_In rage_. _Guz_. Peace, thou diminutive Christian. _Fran_. I say, Peace thou over-grown _Turk_. _Guz_. Thou _Spanish_ Cur. _Fran_. Why, you're a _Mahometan_ Bitch, and you go to that. _Guz_. Death, I'll dissect the bald-pated Slave. _Fran_. I defy thee, thou foul filthy Cabbage-head, for I am mad, and will be valiant. [Guz. _throws his Turbant at him_. _Jul_. Mercy, dread Sir, I beg my Husband's life. _Jul_. Go, and be satisfied, I'll die before I'll yield. _When ill success shall make thee idle lie, Mayst thou in bed be impotent as I_. _Car_. Command our Slaves to give us some diversion; Dismiss his Chains, and use him with respect, because he was the Husband of our beloved _Sultana_. _Fran_. I see your Cuckold might have a life good enough if he cou'd be contented. [_They pull off his Chains_. [Carlos _and_ Julia _sit under an Umbrella_. _How strangely does my Passion grow, Divided equally twixt two_? Damon _had ne'er subdued my Heart, Had not_ Alexis _took his part: Nor cou'd_ Alexis_ powerful prove, Without my_ Damon's _aid, to gain my Love. When my_ Alexis _present is, Then I for_ Damon _sigh and mourn; But when_ Alexis _I do miss_, Damon _gains nothing but my Scorn: And, if it chance they both are by, For both, alas! I languish, sigh, and die. _Enter Dancers, which dance an Antick_. [_Ex. all but _Isa_. who stays_ Guil. _Guil_. What wou'd the Great _Sultana_? _Isa_. Ah! do not pierce my Heart with this unkindness. _Isa_. Ah, cruel Count! _Guil_. Die, die, then; for your Betters must be served before you. _Isa_. Oh! I shall rave; false and lovely as you are, did you not swear to marry me, and make me a Viscountess. _Isa_. Ah! name it not; will you be still hard-hearted? _Guil_. As a Flint, by _Jove_. _Isa_. Have you forgot your Love? _Guil_. I've a bad memory. _Isa_. And will you let me die? _Guil_. I know nothing of the matter. _Isa_. Oh Heavens! and shall I be no Viscountess? _Isa_. Ah, hold! your Anger's just, I must confess: yet pardon the frailty of my Sex's vanity; behold my Tears that sue for pity to you. [_She weeps, he stands looking on her_. _Guil_. My rage dissolves. _Isa_. I ask but Death, or Pity. [_He weeps_. _Isa_. Break not my heart with such suspicions of me. _Gull_. And is it pure and tender Love for my Person, And not for my glorious Titles? _Isa_. Name not your Titles, 'tis your self I love, Your amiable, sweet and charming self, And I cou'd almost wish you were not great, To let you see my Love. _Guil_. I am confirm'd- _'Tis no respect of Honour makes her weep_; _Her Loves the same shou'd I cry--Chimney Sweep. SCENE I. _A Garden_. _Enter_ Francisco _alone_. _Fran_. Now am I afraid to walk in this Garden, lest I shou'd spy my own natural Wife lying with the Great _Turk_ in Fresco, upon some of these fine fiowry Banks, and learning how to make Cuckolds in _Turkey_. _Enter_ Guzman _and_ Jacinta. _Jac_. When you are honest _Guzman_ again, I'll tell you a piece of my mind. _Guz_. But opportunity will not be kind to _Guzman_, as to the Grand _Bassa_; therefore, dear Rogue, let's retire into these kind shades, or, if foolish Virtue be so squeamish, and needless Reputation so nice, that Mr. _Vicar_ must say _Amen_ to the bargain, there is an old lousy Frier, belonging to this _Villa_, that will give us a cast of his Office; for I am a little impatient about this business, Greatness having infus'd a certain itch in my Blood, which I felt not whilst a common Man. _Fran_. Um, why, what have we here, pert Mrs. _Jacinta_ and the _Bassa_? I hope the Jade will be Turkefied with a vengeance, and have Circumcision in abundance; and the Devil shall ransom her for old _Francisco_. _Jac_. Hah, the old Gentleman! _Fran_. What, the Frolick is to go round, I see, you Women have a happy time on't. _Guz_. Men that have kind Wives may be as happy; you'll have the honour of being made a Cuckold, Heaven be prais'd. _Guz_. Murmuring again, thou Slave. _Fran. Who_, I? O Lord, Sir! not I, why, what hurt is there in being a Cuckold? _Guz_. Hurt, Sirrah, you shall be swinged into a belief, that it is an honour for the Great _Turk_ to borrow your Wife. _Enter_ Carlos, _and Mutes attending_. _Fran_. For love of my Wife, and't please your Barbarousness. _Car_. Gave you free leave to range the Palace round, excepting my Apartment only? _Fran_. Still for my Wife's sake, I say, and't like your Hideousness. _Car_. And yet this Wife, this most ungrateful Wife of yours, again wou'd put your Chains on, expose your Life to Dangers and new Torments, by a too stubborn Virtue, she does refuse my Courtship, and foolishly is chaste. _Fran_. Alas! what pity's that! _Car_. I offer'd much, lov'd much, but all in vain; Husband and Honour still was the reply. _Fran_. Good lack! that she shou'd have no more Grace before her Eyes. _Car_. But, Slave, behold these Mutes; that fatal Instrument of Death behold too, and in 'em read thy doom, if this coy Wife of yours be not made flexible to my Addresses. _Fran_. O Heavens! I make her. _Fran_. I pimp for my own Wife! I hold the door to my own Flesh and Blood! _monstrum horrendum_! _Guz_. Nay, do't, and do't handsomly too, not with a snivelling Countenance, as if you were compell'd to't; but with the face of Authority, and the awful command of a Husband--or thou dyest. _Enter_ Turk _and_ Julia. _Fran_. My dear _Julia_, you are a Fool, my Love. _Jul_. For what, dear Husband? _Fran_. I say, a silly Fool, to refuse the Love of so great a _Turk_; why, what a Pox makes you so coy? [_Angrily_. _Jul_. How! this from you, _Francisco_. _Fran_. Now does my Heart begin to fail me; and yet I shall ne'er endure strangling neither; why, am not I your Lord and Master, hah? _Jul_. Heavens! Husband, what wou'd you have me do? _Jul_. This from my Husband, old _Francisco_! he advise me to part with my dear Honour. _Fran_. Rather than part with his dear Life, I thank ye. [_Aside_. _Jul_. Have you considered the Virtue of a Wife? _Fran_. No, but I have considered the Neck of a Husband. [_Aside_. _Jul_. And rob my Husband of his right! _Fran_. Shaw, Exchange is no Robbery. _Jul_. And forsake my Virtue, and make nown Dear a Cuckold. _Jul_. Are you in earnest? _Jul_. And would it not displease you? _Fran_. I say, no; had it been _Aquinius_ his Case, to have sav'd the pinching of his Gullet he wou'd have been a Cuckold. [_Aside_. _Jul_. Fear has made you mad, or you're bewitcht; and I'll leave you to recover your Wits again. [_Going out_. _Jul_. Since you've lost your Honour with your wits, I'll try what mine will do. _Enter_ Carlos, Turks. _Car_. Fair Creature- _Jul_. Do you believe my Husband, Sir? he's mad. _Car_. Dog. [_Offers to kill him_. _Jac_. Hark you, Sir, are you possest, or is it real reformation in you? what mov'd this kind fit? _Turk_. Sir, boast the honour of the News I bring you. _Fran_. Oh, my Head! how my Brows twinge. _Fran_. Some Comfort, I shall be Father to a Viscount, and for the rest--Patience- _All Nations Cuckolds breed, but I deny They had such need of Cuckolding as I_. [_Goes out with the_ Turk. _Enter_ Antonio, _and_ Clara _to_ Jacinta. _Jac_. Madam, the rarest sport--Ha, ha, ha. _Ant_. You need not tell us, we have been witness to all. But to our own Affairs, my dearest _Clara_, Let us not lose this blessed opportunity, Which Art nor Industry can give again if this be idly lost. _Cla_. Nay, hang me if it be my fault, _Antonio_: Charge it to the number of your own Sins; it shall not lie at my door. _Ant_. 'Tis generously said, and take notice, my little dear Virago, _Guzman_ has a Priest ready to tie you to your word. _Cla_. As fast as you please; hang her that fears the conjuring knot for me: But what will our Fathers say--mine who expects me to be the Governor's Lady; and yours, who designs _Isabella_ for a Daughter-in-Law? _Ant_. Mine will be glad of the Change; and, for yours, if he be not pleased, let him keep his Portion to himself--that's the greatest mischief he can do us: and for my Friend, the Governor, he's above their Anger. _Ant_. No power of Man can do't, thou art so guarded; but now the Priest is employed in clapping up the honourable Marriage between the False Count and Isabella. _Jac_. Lord, what a jest 'twill be to see 'em coupled, ha, ha. _Cla_. Unmerciful _Antonio_, to drive the Jest so far; 'tis too unconscionable! _Cla_. Cruel _Antonio_, come, lets go give 'em Joy. _Ant_. And finish our Affair with Mr. Vicar. _Enter_ Isabella, _her Train borne by the great_ Page, Guiliom, _with the other great_ Page, _and_ Francisco _bare_. _Cla_. Your Honour I hope will pardon him. _Isa_. How now, _Clara_! [_Nodding to her_. _Jac_. I give your Honour joy. _Fran_. How generous these Lords are; nay, my Lord, you must not refuse a Father's Love, if I may presume to call you Son--I shall find enough besides for my Ransom, if the Tyrant be so unmerciful to ask more than my Wife pays him. _Guil_. Nay, if you will force it upon me. _Ant_. Well, Sir, since you will force it on him, my Cashier shall draw the Writings. _Guil_. And have 'em signed by a publick Notary. [_Aside_. _Fran_. With all my Soul, Sir, I'll go to give him order, and subscribe. [_Ex_. Francisco. _Guil_. Let him make 'em strong and sure--you shall go halves. [_Aside_. _Guil_. Shaw, Conditions, any Conditions, noble _Antonio_. _Ant_. You must disrobe anon, and do'n your native Habiliments--and in the Equipage give that fair Viscountess to understand the true quality of her Husband. _Guil_. Hum--I'm afraid, 'tis a harder task to leap from a Lord to a Rogue, than 'tis from a Rogue to a Lord. _Ant_. Not at all, we have examples of both daily. _Ant_. You have the Freedom to do so--the Writings I'll provide. _Jac_. I know not, this noise of Weddings has set me agog, and I'll e'en in, and try what 'tis. [_Ex_. Antonio, Clara, _and_ Jacinta. _Guil_. Come, Madam, your Honour and I have something else to do, before I have fully dub'd you a Viscountess. _Isa_. Ah, Heav'ns, what's that? _Isa_. Till Night, no; whate'er it be, I wou'd not be without an Inch of that Ceremony, that may compleat my Honour for the World; no, for Heaven's sake, let's retire, and dub me presently. _Guil_. Time enough, time enough. _Isa_. You love me not, that can deny me this. _Guil_. Love--no, we are married now, and People of our Quality never Love after Marriage; 'tis not great. _Fran_. Whither away? _Isa_. Only to consummate a little, pray keep your distance. [_She pulls off his hat_. _Isa_. Ay, Sir, that is to make me an absolute Viscountess--we cannot stay--farewel. [Guiliom _leads her out_. _Fran_. Hum--this _Turkey_ Air has a notable faculty, where the Women are all plaguy kind. _Enter_ Carlos _and_ Julia. _Car_. By Heav'n, each Moment makes me more your Slave. _Fran_. The Business is done. _Jul_. My Husband! [_Aside_. _Car_. And all this constant love to old _Francisco_ has but engaged me more. _Fran_. Ha, Love to me? [_Aside_. _Jul_. Sir, if this Virtue be but real in you, how happy I shou'd be; but you'll relapse again, and tempt my virtue, which if you do- _Fran_. I'll warrant she wou'd kill herself. [_Aside_. _Jul_. I should be sure to yield. [_In a soft tone to him_. _Car_. No, thou hast made an absolute Conquest o'er me--and if that Beauty tempt me every hour, I shall still be the same I was the last. _Fran_. Pray Heaven he be _John_. _Car_. Conduct him in; in this retreat of ours we use no State. _Enter_ Guzman, _as himself, gives_ Carlos _Letters_. _Guz_. Don _Carlos_, Governor of _Cadiz_, greets your Highness. _Car_. Go, let the Christian Governor understand his Request is granted. _Guz_. The Slaves are ready, Sir, and a Galley to carry off the Christians. _Jul_. How shall we make this Governor amends? _Fran_. I do even weep for joy; alas, I must leave it to thee, Love. _Jul_. To me, Sir? do you mock me? _Fran_. Mock thee! no; I know thy Virtue, and will no more be jealous, believe me, Chicken, I was an old Fool. _Car_. Your Wife is chaste--she overcame my unruly Passion with her Prayers and Tears. _Isa_. You still forget your Duty and your Distance. _Fran_. A pox of your troublesom Honour; a man can't be overjoy'd in quiet for't. _Enter_ Baltazer _and_ Sebastian. _Seb_. Sure, I am not mistaken, this is the House of my Son _Antonio_. _Bal_. Let it be whose house 'twill, I think the Devil's broke loose in't. _Ant_. My Father here? _Car_. _Baltazer_! [_Aside_. _Bal_. Son _Francisco_, why do you gaze on me so? _Fran_. Bless me, Sir, are you taken by the Great _Turk_ too? _Bal_. Sure, Jealousy has crack'd his brains. _Ant_. To day has done as well, Sir, I have only chang'd _Isabella_ for _Clara_. _Seb_. How, _Francisco_, have you juggled with me? _Fran_. My Daughter's a Lady, Sir. _Bal_. And you, Mistress, you have married _Antonio_, and left the Governor. _Cla_. I thought him the fitter Match, Sir, and hope your Pardon. _Jul_. We cannot scape. _Fran_. But how came you hither, Gentlemen, how durst you venture? _Fran_. Is the Devil in you, or me, or both? Am not I in the Possession of _Turks_ and Infidels? _Bal_. No, Sir; safe in _Antonio Villa_, within a League of _Cadiz_. _Fran_. Why, what a Pox, is not this the Great _Turk_ himself? _Car_. Well, Sir, since you have found it out, I'll own my Passion. _Jul_. Well, if I have been kind you forced me to't, nay, begged on your knees, to give my self away. _Jul_. And was the Sin the greater? _Fran_. No, but the Honour was less. _Bal_. Oh horrid! What, intreat his Wife to be a Whore? _Car_. Sir, you're mistaken, she was my Wife in sight of Heaven before; and I but seiz'd my own. _Car_. I thank you, Sir, and take her as my own. _Bal_. Hold, my Honour's concerned. _Enter_ Guiliom _in his own dress; crying Chimney-Sweep_. _Ant_. Whither away, Sirrah? _Guil_. What's that to you, Sir? why, what a Pox, may not a man speak with his own Lady and Wife? _Cla_. Heavens! his Wife! to look for his Wife amongst Persons of Quality! _Car_. Kick out the Rascal. _Guil_. As soon as you please, my Lord; but let me take my Wife along with me. [_Takes_ Isa. _by the hand_. _Isa_. Faugh! what means the Devil? _Guil_. Devil; 'twas not long since you found me a human creature within there. _Isa_. Villain, Dog; help me to tear his Eyes out. _Guil_. What, those Eyes, those lovely Eyes, that wounded you so deeply? _Fran_. What's the meaning of all this? why, what, am I cozen'd? and is my Daughter cozen'd? _Guil_. Cozen'd! why, I am a Man, Sir. _Fran_. The Devil you are, Sir, how shall I know that? _Isa_. Oh! I'm undone; am I no Viscountess then. _Fran_. I'll not give her a farthing. _Isa_. Ah! I die, I die. _Guil_. What, and I so kind? [_Goes and kisses her, and blacks her face_. _Isa_. Help! murder, murder! _Guil_. Well, Gentlemen, I am something a better fortune than you believe me, by some thousands. [_Shows_ Car. _his Writings_. _Car_. Substantial and good! faith, Sir, I know not where you'll find a better fortune for your Daughter, as cases stand. [_To_ Francisco. _Car_. Faith, Sir, he's i'th' right; take him home to _Sevil_, your Neighbours know him not, and he may pass for what you please to make him; the Fellow's honest, witty and handsom. _Car_. As Love and Beauty can make me. _Fran_. And I, as no damn'd Wife, proud Daughter, or tormenting Chamber-maid can make me. _Ant_. And I, as Heaven and _Clara_ can. _--You base-born Beauties, whose ill-manner'd Pride, Th'industrious noble Citizens deride. May you all meet with_ Isabella's _doom_. _Guil_. _--And all such Husbands as the Count_ Guiliome. Spoken by Mrs. Barry, made by a Person of Quality. THE LUCKY CHANCE; OR, AN ALDERMAN'S BARGAIN. When I consider how Ancient and Honourable a Date Plays have born, how they have been the peculiar Care of the most Illustrious Persons of _Greece_ and _Rome_, who strove as much to outdoe each other in Magnificence, (when by Turns they manag'd the great Business of the Stage, as if they had contended for the Victory of the Universe;) I say, my Lord, when I consider this, I with the greater Assurance most humbly address this Comedy to your Lordship, since by right of Antient Custom, the Patronage of Plays belong'd only to the great Men, and chiefest Magistrates. Cardinal _Richelieu_, that great and wise Statesman, said, That there was no surer Testimony to be given of the flourishing Greatness of a State, than publick Pleasures and Divertisements--for they are, says he--the Schools of Vertue, where Vice is always either punish't, or disdain'd. They are secret Instructions to the People, in things that 'tis impossible to insinuate into them any other Way. 'Tis Example that prevails above Reason or DIVINE PRECEPTS. (Philosophy not understood by the Multitude;) 'tis Example alone that inspires Morality, and best establishes Vertue, I have my self known a Man, whom neither Conscience nor Religion cou'd perswade to Loyalty, who with beholding in our Theatre a Modern Politician set forth in all his Colours, was converted, renounc'd his opinion, and quitted the Party. The Abbot of _Aubignac_ to show that Plays have been ever held most important to the very Political Part of Government, says, The Phylosophy of _Greece_, and the Majesty and Wisdom of the Romans, did equally concern their Great Men in making them Venerable, Noble, and Magnificent: Venerable, by their Consecration to their Gods: Noble, by being govern'd by their chiefest Men; and their Magnificency was from the publick Treasury, and the liberal Contributions of their Noble Men. Long may your Lordship live to remain in this most Honourable Station, that his Majesty may be serv'd with an entire Fidelity, and the Nation be render'd perfectly Happy. Since from such Heads and Hearts, the Monarch reaps his Glory, and the Kingdom receives its Safety and Tranquility. This is the unfeign'd Prayer of, My Lord, Your Lordships most Humble And most Obedient Servant A. Behn or, An Alderman's Bargain. Spoken by Mr. _Jevon_. Such will with any kind of Puppies play; \| But we must better know for what we pay: \| We must not purchase such dull Fools as they. \| Shou'd we shew each her own partic'lar Dear, What they admire at home, they wou'd loath here. Thus, though the Mall, the Ring, the Pit is full, And every Coffee-House still swarms with Fool; Though still by Fools all other Callings live, Nay our own Women by fresh Cullies thrive, Though your Intrigues which no Lampoon can cure, Promise a long Succession to ensure; And all your Matches plenty do presage: Dire is the Dearth and Famine on the Stage. Our Store's quite wasted, and our Credit's small, Not a Fool left to bless our selves withal. We re forc't at last to rob, (which is great pity, Though 'tis a never-failing Bank) the City. Lady _Fulbank_, in love with _Gayman_, honest and generous, Mrs. _Barry_. _Leticia_. contracted to _Bellmour, married to Sir _Feeble_, young and virtuous, Mrs. _Cook_. _Diana_, Daughter to Sir _Feeble_, in love with Bredwel; virtuous, Mrs. _Mountford_. _Pert_, Lady _Fulbank's_ Woman. Gammer _Grime_, Landlady to _Gayman_, a Smith's Wife in _Alsatia_, Mrs. _Powell_. _Susan_, Servant to Sir _Feeble_. _Phillis, Leticia's_ Woman. A Parson, Fidlers, Dancers and Singers. _The Scene_, LONDON. SCENE I. _The Street, at break of Day_. _Enter_ Bellmour _disguis'd in a travelling Habit_. _Enter Mr_. Gingle _and several with Musick_. _Fid_. But hark ye, Mr. _Gingle_, is it proper to play before the Wedding? [_They play and sing_. _Enter_ Phillis _in the Balcony, throws 'em Money_. _Rise_, Cloris, _charming Maid, arise! And baffle breaking Day, Shew the adoring World thy Eyes Are more surprizing gay; The Gods of Love are smiling round, And lead the Bridegroom on, And_ Hymen _has the Altar crown'd. While all thy sighing Lovers are undone. To see thee pass they throng the Plain; The Groves with Flowers are strown, And every young and envying Swain Wishes the hour his own. Rise then, and let the God of Day, When thou dost to the Lover yield, Behold more Treasure given away Than he in his vast Circle e'er beheld_. _Bel_. Hah, _Phillis, Leticia's_ Woman! _Ging_. Fie, Mrs. _Phillis_, do you take us for Fiddlers that play for Hire? I came to compliment Mrs. _Leticia_ on her Wedding-Morning because she is my Scholar. _Phil_. She sends it only to drink her Health. _Ging_. Come, Lads, let's to the Tavern then- [_Ex. Musick_. _Enter_ Gayman _wrapt in his Cloke_. _Gay_. 'Tis yet too early, but my Soul's impatient, And I must see _Leticia_. [_Goes to the door_. _Bel_. Death and the Devil--the Bridegroom! Stay, Sir, by Heaven, you pass not this way. [_Goes to the door as he is knocking, pushes him away, and draws_. [_They fight a little, and closing view each other_. _Gay_. My dearest _Bellmour_! _Bel_. Oh thou false Friend, thou treacherous base Deceiver! _Gay_. Hah, this to me, dear _Harry_? _Bel_. Whither is Honour, Truth and Friendship fled? _Gay_. Why, there ne'er was such a Virtue, 'Tis all a Poet's Dream. _Bel_. I thank you, Sir. _Gay_. I'm sorry for't, or that ever I did any thing that could deserve it: put up your Sword--an honest man wou'd say how he's offended, before he rashly draws. _Bel_. Are not you going to be married, Sir? _Gay_. No, Sir, as long as any Man in _London_ is so, that has but a handsom Wife, Sir. _Bel_. Are you not in love, Sir? _Bel_. Hah, who would you lie with, Sir? _Gay_. Faith, to do you service. Your damn'd little Jade of a Mistress has learned of her Neighbours the Art of Swearing and Lying in abundance, and is- _Bel_. To be married! [Sighing. _Gay_. Why, thy Cuckold that shall be, if thou be'st wise. _Bel_. Away; Who is this Man? thou dalliest with me. _Gay_. Why, an old Knight, and Alderman here o'th' City, Sir _Feeble Fainwou'd_, a jolly old Fellow, whose Activity is all got into his Tongue, a very excellent Teazer; but neither Youth nor Beauty can grind his Dudgeon to an Edge. _Bel_. Fie, what Stuff's here! _Gay_. Very excellent Stuff, if you have but the Grace to improve it. _Bel_. You banter me--but in plain _English_, tell me, What made you here thus early, Entring yon House with such Authority? _Gay_. Why, your Mistress _Leticia_, your contracted Wife, is this Morning to be married to old Sir _Feeble Fainwou'd_, induc'd to't I suppose by the great Jointure he makes her, and the improbability of your ever gaining your Pardon for your high Duel--Do I speak _English_ now, Sir? _Bel_. Too well, would I had never heard thee. _Gay_. Now I being the Confident in your Amours, the Jack-go-between-the civil Pimp or so--you left her in charge with me at your Departure. _Gay_. I saw her every day; and every day she paid the Tribute of a shower of Tears, to the dear Lord of all her Vows, young _Bellmour_: Till faith at last, for Reasons manifold, I slackt my daily Visits. _Bel_. And left her to Temptation--was that well done? _Gay_. Now must I afflict you and my self with a long tale of Causes why; Or be charg'd with want of Friendship. _Bel_. You will do well to clear that Point to me. _Bel_. Well, that Design I left thee hot upon. _Bel_. This is the Course you'd have me steer, I thank you. _Bel_. But what's all this to being here this Morning? _Gay_. Thus have I lain conceal'd like a Winter-Fly, hoping for some blest Sunshine to warm me into life again, and make me hover my flagging Wings; till the News of this Marriage (which fills the Town) made me crawl out this silent Hour, to upbraid the fickle Maid. _Gay_. For your sake, though the day be broke upon us, And I'm undone, if seen--I'll venture in- [_Throws his Cloke over_. _Enter Sir_ Feeble Fainwou'd, _Sir_ Cautious Fulbank, Bearjest _and_ Noisey. [_Pass over the Stage, and go in_. _Bel_. The Bridegroom! Like _Gorgon's_ Head he'as turned me into Stone. _Bel_. By Heaven, I'll seize her even at the Altar, And bear her thence in Triumph. _Bel_. What wouldst thou have me do? _Gay_. As many an honest Man has done before thee--Cuckold him-cuckold him. _Bel_. What--and let him marry her! She that's mine by sacred Vows already! By Heaven, it would be flat Adultery in her! _Gay_. She'll learn the trick, and practise it the better with thee. _Bel_. Oh Heavens! _Leticia_ marry him! and lie with him!-Here will I stand and see this shameful Woman, See if she dares pass by me to this Wickedness. _Gay_. Hark ye, _Harry_--in earnest have a care of betraying your self; and do not venture sweet Life for a fickle Woman, who perhaps hates you. _Bel_. You counsel well--but yet to see her married! How every thought of that shocks all my Resolution!-But hang it, I'll be resolute and saucy, Despise a Woman who can use me ill, And think my self above her. _Gay_. Why, now thou art thy self--a Man again. But see, they're coming forth, now stand your ground. _Enter Sir_ Feeble, _Sir_ Cautious, Bearjest, Noisey, Leticia _sad_, Diana, Phillis. [_Pass over the Stage_. _Gay_. Hold, remember you're proscribed, And die if you are taken. _Ral_. Hang'd, Sir, hang'd--at the _Hague_ in _Holland_. _Gay_. I heard some such News, but did not credit it. _Bel_. For what, said they, was he hang'd? _Gay_. Holland's a Commonwealth, and is not rul'd by Kings. _Bel_. And did the young Lady believe this? _Ral_. Yes, and took on most heavily--the Doctors gave her over--and there was the Devil to do to get her to consent to this Marriage--but her Fortune was small, and the hope of a Ladyship, and a Gold Chain at the Spittal Sermon, did the Business--and so your Servant, Sir. [_Ex_. Ralph. _Bel_. So, here's a hopeful Account of my sweet self now. _Enter Post-man with Letters_. _Post_. Pray, Sir, which is Sir _Feeble Fainwou'd's_? _Bel_. What wou'd you with him, Friend? _Post_. I have a Letter here from the _Hague_ for him. _According to your desire I have sent for my Son from _St. Omer's_, whom I have sent to wait on you in_ England; _he is a very good Accountant, and fit for Business, and much pleased he shall see that Uncle to whom he's so obliged, and which is so gratefully acknowledged by--Dear Brother, your affectionate Brother_, Francis Fainwou'd. _Gay_. Why, I hope a very honest Friend of mine, _Harry Bellmour_. _Bel_. No, Sir, you are mistaken in your Man. _Gay_. It may be so. _Gay_. I know you are, and will swear't upon occasion. _Bel_. This lucky Thought has almost calm'd my mind. And if I don't fit you, my dear Uncle, May I never lie with my Aunt. _Gay_. Ah, Rogue--but prithee what care have you taken about your Pardon? 'twere good you should secure that. SCENE II. _Sir_ Cautious Fulbank's _House_. _Enter Lady_ Fulbank, Pert _and_ Bredwel. Bredwel _gives her a Letter_. _Lady_ Fulbank _reads_. L. _Ful_. I prize my Honour more than Life, Yet I had rather have given him all he wish'd of me, Than be guilty of his Undoing. _Pert_. And I think the Sin were less. L. _Ful_. I must confess, such Jewels, Rings and Presents as he made me, must needs decay his Fortune. _Bred_. Madam, I'll die to serve you. _Pert_. Nor will I be behind in my Duty. _Bred_. You are my Lady, and the best of Mistresses-Therefore I would not grieve you, for I know You love this best--but most unhappy Man. L. _Ful_. You shall not grieve me--prithee on. L. _Ful_. That is to say, a Knave, according to his Notion of a wise Man. _Bred_. Mr. _Crap_, being busy with a borrowing Lord, sent me to Mr. _Wasteall_, whose Lodging is in a nasty Place called _Alsatia_, at a Black-Smith's. L. _Ful_. But what's all this to _Gayman_? _Bred_. Madam, this _Wasteall_ was Mr. _Gayman_. L. _Ful_. _Gayman_! Saw'st thou _Gayman_? _Bred_. Madam, Mr. _Gayman_, yesterday. L. _Ful_. When came he to Town? _Bred_. Madam, he has not been out of it. L. _Ful_. Not at his Uncle's in _Northamptonshire_? _Bred_. Your Ladyship was wont to credit me. L. _Ful_. Forgive me--you went to a Black-Smith's- _Bred_. Yes, Madam; and at the door encountred the beastly thing he calls a Landlady; who lookt as if she had been of her own Husband's making, compos'd of moulded Smith's Dust. I ask'd for Mr. _Wasteall_, and she began to open--and did so rail at him, that what with her _Billinsgate_, and her Husband's hammers, I was both deaf and dumb--at last the hammers ceas'd, and she grew weary, and call'd down Mr. _Wasteall_; but he not answering--I was sent up a Ladder rather than a pair of Stairs; at last I scal'd the top, and enter'd the inchanted Castle; there did I find him, spite of the noise below, drowning his Cares in Sleep. L. _Ful_. Whom foundst thou? _Gayman_? _Bred_. He, Madam, whom I waked--and seeing me, Heavens, what Confusion seiz'd him! which nothing but my own Surprize could equal. Asham'd--he wou'd have turn'd away; But when he saw, by my dejected Eyes, I knew him, He sigh'd, and blusht, and heard me tell my Business: Then beg'd I wou'd be secret; for he vow'd his whole Repose and Life depended on my silence. Nor had I told it now, But that your Ladyship may find some speedy means to draw him from this desperate Condition. L. _Ful_. Heavens, is't possible? _Bred_. He's driven to the last degree of Poverty-Had you but seen his Lodgings, Madam! L. _Ful_. What were they? L. _Ful_. What a leud Description hast thou made of his Chamber? L. _Ful_. But what said he to the Forfeiture of his Land? _Bred_. He sigh'd and cry'd, Why, farewel dirty Acres; It shall not trouble me, since 'twas all but for Love! L. _Ful_. How much redeems it? L. _Ful_. Enough--you shall in some disguise convey this Money to him, as from an unknown hand: I wou'd not have him think it comes from me, for all the World: That Nicety and Virtue I've profest, I am resolved to keep. _Pert_. If I were your Ladyship, I wou'd make use of Sir _Cautious's_ Cash: pay him in his own Coin. _Bred_. Your Ladyship wou'd make no Scruple of it, if you knew how this poor Gentleman has been us'd by my unmerciful Master. L. _Ful_. I have a Key already to his Counting-House; it being lost, he had another made, and this I found and kept. _Bred_. Madam, this is an excellent time for't, my Master being gone to give my Sister _Leticia_ at Church. L. _Ful_. 'Tis so, I'll go and commit the Theft, whilst you prepare to carry it, and then we'll to dinner with your Sister the Bride. SCENE III. _The House of Sir_ Feeble. _Enter Sir_ Feeble, Leticia, _Sir_ Cautious, Bearjest, Diana, Noisey. _Sir_ Feeble _sings and salutes 'em_. Sir _Feeb_. Welcome, _Joan Sanderson_, welcome, welcome. [_Kisses the Bride_. Ods bobs, and so thou art, Sweet-heart. [_So to the rest_. _Bear_. Methinks my Lady Bride is very melancholy. Sir _Cau_. Ay, ay, Women that are discreet, are always thus upon their Wedding-day. Sir _Feeb_. Always by day-light, Sir _Cautious_. _But when bright_ Phoebus _does retire, To_ Thetis' _Bed to quench his fire. And do the thing we need not name, We Mortals by his influence do the same. Then then the blushing Maid lays by Her simpering, and her Modesty; And round the Lover clasps and twines Like Ivy, or the circling Vines_. _Bear_. Away with it, to the Bride's _Haunce in Kelder_. Sir _Feeb_. Gots so, go to, Rogue, go to, that shall be, Knave, that shall be the morrow morning; he--ods bobs, we'll do't, Sweet heart; here's to't. [_Drinks again_. _Let_. I die but to imagine it, wou'd I were dead indeed. Sir _Cau_. A wise discreet Lady, I'll warrant her; my Lady would prodigally have took it off all. Sir _Feeb_. Dear's its nown dear Fubs; buss again, buss again, away, away--ods bobs, I long for Night--look, look, Sir _Cautious_, what an Eye's there! Sir _Cau_. Ay, so there is, Brother, and a modest Eye too. Sir _Feeb_. Adad, I love her more and more, _Ralph_--call old _Susan_ hither--come, Mr. _Bearjest_, put the Glass about. Ods bobs, when I was a young Fellow, I wou'd not let the young Wenches look pale and wan--but would rouse 'em, and touse 'em, and blowze 'em, till I put a colour in their Cheeks, like an Apple _John_, affacks--Nay, I can make a shift still, and Pupsey shall not be jealous. _Enter_ Susan, _Sir_ Feeble _whispers her, she goes out_. _Let_. Indeed, not I; Sir. I shall be all Obedience. Sir _Cau_. A most judicious Lady; would my _Julia_ had a little of her Modesty; but my Lady's a Wit. _Enter_ Susan _with a Box_. Sir _Feeb_. Look here, my little Puskin, here's fine Playthings for its nown little Coxcomb--go--get you gone--get you gone, and off with this St. _Martin's_ Trumpery, these Play-house Glass Baubles, this Necklace, and these Pendants, and all this false Ware; ods bobs, I'll have no Counterfeit Geer about thee, not I. See--these are right as the Blushes on thy Cheeks, and these as true as my Heart, my Girl. Go, put'em on, and be fine. [_Gives 'em her_. _Let_. Believe me, Sir, I shall not merit this kindness. Sir _Feeb_. Go to--More of your Love, and less of your Ceremony--give the old Fool a hearty buss, and pay him that way--he, ye little wanton Tit, I'll steal up--and catch ye and love ye--adod, I will--get ye gone--get ye gone. _Let_. Heavens, what a nauseous thing is an old Man turn'd Lover! [_Ex_. Leticia _and_ Diana. Sir _Cau_. How, steal up, Sir _Feeble_--I hope not so; I hold it most indecent before the lawful hour. Sir _Feeb_. Lawful hour! Why, I hope all hours are lawful with a Man's own Wife. Sir _Feeb_. Wise young Men, Sir _Cautious_; but wise old Men must nick their Inclinations; for it is not as 'twas wont to be, for it is not as 'twas wont to be- [_Singing and Dancing_. _Ral_. Sir, here's a young Gentleman without wou'd speak with you. _Bear_. Pray, Sir, use mine, it is a travell'd Blade I can assure you, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. I thank you, Sir. _Enter_ Ralph _and_ Bellmour _disguised, gives him a Letter, he reads_. How--my Nephew! _Francis Fainwou'd_! [_Embraces him_. _Bel_. I am glad he has told me my Christian name. Sir _Cau_. Marry, Sir, and the wiser he; for they got nothing by't. _Bea_. Sir, I love and honour you, because you are a Traveller. _Bel_. That's been my study, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. And you will not be proud, but will be commanded by me, _Francis_? _Bel_. I desire not to be favour'd as a Kinsman, Sir, but as your humblest Servant. _Bea_. You are a Traveller, I understand. _Bel_. I have seen a little part of the World, Sir. _Bea_. So have I, Sir, I thank my Stars, and have performed most of my Travels on Foot, Sir. _Bel_. You did not travel far then, I presume, Sir? _Bea_. No, Sir, it was for my diversion indeed; but I assure you, I travell'd into _Ireland_ a-foot, Sir. _Bel_. Sure, Sir, you go by shipping into _Ireland_? _Bel_. Was that your farthest Travel, Sir? _Bea_. Farthest--why, that's the End of the World--and sure a Man can go no farther. _Bel_. Sure, there can be nothing worth a Man's Curiosity? _Bel_. This is a swinging Wonder--but are there store of Mad-men there, Sir? _Bea_. That's another Rarity to see a Man run out of his Wits. _Noi_. Marry, Sir, the wiser they I say. _Bea_. Pray, Sir, what store of Miracles have you at _St. Omers?_ _Bel_. None, Sir, since that of the wonderful _Salamanca_ Doctor, who was both here and there at the same Instant of time. _Bea_. How, Sir? why, that's impossible. _Bel_. That was the Wonder, Sir, because 'twas impossible. _Noi_. But 'twas a greater, Sir, that 'twas believed. _Enter L_. Fulb. _and_ Pert, _Sir_ Cau. _and Sir_ Feeb. _Bea_. Does he so, Sir? I'm beholding to him; then 'tis not a Pin matter whether I like or not, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. How, Sir, not like my Daughter _Dye_? _Pert_. Will you so, Sir? you'll have very good luck if you do. [_Aside_. _Bea_. Prithee hold thy Peace, my Lady's Woman. L. _Ful_. Sir, I beg your pardon for not waiting on you to Church-I knew you wou'd be private. _Enter_ Let_. fine in Jewels_. Sir _Feeb_. You honour us too highly now, Madam. [_Presents his Wife, who salutes her_. L. _Ful_. Give you Joy, my dear _Leticia_! I find, Sir, you were resolved for Youth, Wit and Beauty. L. _Ful_. How, Sir, not to Church, the chiefest Recreation of a City Lady? Sir _Cau_. Hah, ha, ha, he tickles ye, i'faith, Ladies. [_To his Lady_. _Let_. There's something in his Face so like my _Bellmour_, it calls my Blushes up, and leaves my Heart defenceless. _Ralph_. Sir, Dinner's on the Table. Sir _Feeb_. Come, come--let's in then--Gentlemen and Ladies, And share to day my Pleasures and Delight, But-Adds bobs, they must be all mine own at Night. SCENE I. Gayman's _Lodging_. _Enter _Gayman_ in a Night-Cap, and an old Campaign Coat tied about him, very melancholy_. _Gay_. Curse on my Birth! Curse on my faithless Fortune! Curse on my Stars, and curst be all--but Love! That dear, that charming Sin, though t'have pull'd Innumerable Mischiefs on my head, I have not, nor I cannot find Repentance for. Nor let me die despis'd, upbraided, poor: Let Fortune, Friends and all abandon me-But let me hold thee, thou soft smiling God, Close to my heart while Life continues there. Till the last pantings of my vital Blood, Nay, the last spark of Life and Fire be Love's! _Rag_. My Belly can inform you better than my Tongue. _Rag_. Alas, Sir, that's all gone long since. _Gay_. You gutling Rascal, you are enough to breed a Famine in a Land. I have known some industrious Footmen, that have not only gotten their own Livings, but a pretty Livelihood for their Masters too. _Rag_. Ay, till they came to the Gallows, Sir. _Rag. Julia_, who's that? my Lady _Fulbank_, Sir? _Gay_. Peace, Sirrah--and call--a--no--Pox on't, come back--and yet--yes--call my fulsome Landlady. Sir _Cautious_ knows me not by Name or Person. And I will to this Wedding, I'm sure of seeing _Julia_ there. And what may come of that--but here's old Nasty coming. I smell her up--hah, my dear Landlady. _Enter _Rag_ and _Landlady. Quite out of breath--a Chair there for my Landlady. _Land_. More of your Money and less of your Civility, good Mr. _Wasteall_. _Gay_. Ay, but your Husband don't; speak softly. _Gay_. Hear me, good Landlady. _Gay_. Here, _Rag_, run and fetch her a Pint of Sack--there's no other way of quenching the Fire in her flabber Chops. _Land_. Patience! I scorn your Words, Sir--is this a place to trust in? tell me of Patience, that us'd to have my money before hand; come, come, pay me quickly--or old _Gregory Grimes_ house shall be too hot to hold you. _Gay_. Is't come to this, can I not be heard? _Gay_. How, Landlady! nay then, i'faith, no wonder if you rail so. _Gay_. Well, Landlady--if we must part--let's drink at parting; here, Landlady, here's to the Fool--that shall love you better than I have done. [_Sighing, drinks_. _Land_. Rot your Wine--dy'e think to pacify me with Wine, Sir? [_She refusing to drink, he holds open her Jaws_, Rag _throws a Glass of Wine into her Mouth_. [_She drinks, he, embracing her, sings_. _Ah_, Cloris, _'tis in vain you scold, Whilst your Eyes kindle such a Fire. Tour Railing cannot make me cold, So fast as they a Warmth inspire_. _Land_. Well, Sir, you have no reason to complain of my Eyes nor my Tongue neither, if rightly understood. [_Weeps_. _Land_. I am a little hasty sometimes, but you know my good Nature. _Gay_. I do, and therefore trust my little wants with you. I shall be rich again--and then, my dearest Landlady- _Land_. Wou'd this Wine might ne'er go through me, if I wou'd not go, as they say, through Fire and Water--by Night or by Day for you. [_She drinks_. _Gay_. And as this is Wine I do believe thee. [_He drinks_. _Gay_. I cannot in Conscience take it, good Faith, I cannot--besides, the next Quarrel you'll hit me in the Teeth with it. _Land_. Nay, pray no more of that; forget it, forget it. I own I was to blame--here, Sir, you shall take it. _Gay_. None--none--I'll e'en lay me down and die. _Land_. Die--marry, Heavens forbid--I would not for the World--let me see--hum--what does it lie for? _Land_. Well, say no more, I'll lay about me. _Gay_. By this kiss but you shall not--_Assafetida_, by this Light. [_Ex_. Landlady _and_ Rag. _Gay_. Was ever man put to such beastly shifts? 'Sdeath, how she stunk-my senses are most luxuriously regal'd--there's my perpetual Musick too- [_Knocking of Hammers on a Anvil_. The ringing of Bells is an Ass to't. _Gay_. With me, and in a Coach! who can it be? _Rag_. The Devil, I think, for he has a strange Countenance. _Gay_. The Devil! shew your self a Rascal of Parts, Sirrah, and wait on him up with Ceremony. _Rag_. Who, the Devil, Sir? _Enter_ Bredwel _drest like a Devil_. _Bred_. I come to bring you this- [_Gives him a Letter_. _Receive what Love and Fortune present you with, be grateful and be silent, or 'twill vanish like a dream, and leave you more wretched that it found You_. Adieu. _Bred_. Nay, view it, Sir, 'tis all substantial Gold. _Bred_. Sir, all the Pay is Secrecy- _Gay_. And is this all that is required, Sir? _Bred_. No, you're invited to the Shades below. _Gay_. Yes, sure, on such substantial security. [_Hugs the Bag_. _And for the Price of the dull drudging Night, All Day I'll purchase new and fresh Delight_. SCENE II. _Sir_ Feeble's _House_. _Enter_ Leticia, _pursu'd by_ Phillis. _Phil_. Why, Madam, do you leave the Garden, For this retreat to Melancholy? _Let_. Because it suits my Fortune and my Humour; And even thy Presence wou'd afflict me now. _Let_. Tell him I wish him Luck in every thing, But in his Love to me-Go tell him I am viewing of the Garden. _Enter_ Bellmour _at a distance behind her_. _Bel_. And doubly blest be all the Powers of Love, That give me this dear Opportunity. _Bel_. Oh- [_She starts, and pauses_. _Let_. Where were you now? When this unequal Marriage Gave me from all my Joys, gave me from _Bellmour_; Your Wings were flag'd, your Torches bent to Earth, And all your little Bonnets veil'd your Eyes; You saw not, or were deaf and pitiless. _Bel_. Oh my _Leticia_! _Bel_. Thy constant true Adorer, Who all this fatal Day has haunted thee To ease his tortur'd Soul. [_Approaching nearer_. _Let_. My Heart is well acquainted with that Voice, But Oh, my Eyes dare not encounter thee. [_Speaking with signs of fear_. _Bel_. Oh my _Leticia_! _Let_. I'm sure I grasp not Air; thou art no Fantom: Thy Arms return not empty to my Bosom, But meet a solid Treasure. _Bel_. A Treasure thou so easily threw'st away; A Riddle simple Love ne'er understood. _Let_. Alas, I heard, my _Bellmour_, thou wert dead. _Bel_. And was it thus you mourn'd my Funeral? _Let_. I will not justify my hated Crime: But Oh! remember I was poor and helpless, And much reduc'd, and much impos'd upon. _Bel_. And Want compell'd thee to this wretched Marriage--did it? _Let_. 'Tis not a Marriage, since my _Bellmour_ lives; The Consummation were Adultery. I was thy Wife before, wo't thou deny me? _Bel_. No, by those Powers that heard our mutual Vows, Those Vows that tie us faster than dull Priests. _Let_. But oh my _Bellmour_, thy sad Circumstances Permit thee not to make a publick Claim: Thou art proscribed, and diest if thou art seen. _Let_. Yet I wou'd wander with thee o'er the World, And share thy humblest Fortune with thy Love. _Bel_. Is't possible, _Leticia_, thou wou'dst fly To foreign Shores with me? _Let_. Can _Bellmour_ doubt the Soul he knows so well? _Let_. But how 'twixt this and that can I defend My self from the loath'd Arms of an impatient Dotard, That I may come a spotless Maid to thee? _Let_. Thus then, and hear me, Heaven! [_Kneels_. _Bel_. And thus--I'll listen to thee. [_Kneels_. _Enter Sir_ Feeble, _L_. Fulbank, _Sir_ Cautious. _Bel_. Oh Heavens, she's gone, she's gone! _Bel_. She's gone to Heaven, Sir, for ought I know. Sir _Cau_. She was resolv'd to go in a young Fellow's Arms, I see. Sir _Feeb_. Go to, _Francis_--go to. L. _Ful_. Stand back, Sir, she recovers. Sir _Feeb_. Alas, poor Pupsey--was it sick--look here--here's a fine thing to make it well again. Come, buss, and it shall have it--oh, how I long for Night. _Ralph_, are the Fidlers ready? _Ral_. They are tuning in the Hall, Sir. Sir _Cau_. A prudent Man would reserve himself--Good-facks, I danc'd so on my Wedding-day, that when I came to Bed, to my Shame be it spoken, I fell fast asleep, and slept till morning. L. _Ful_. Where was your Wisdom then, Sir _Cautious_? But I know what a wise Woman ought to have done. Sir _Feeb_. Odsbobs, that's Wormwood, that's Wormwood--I shall have my young Hussey set a-gog too; she'll hear there are better things in the World than she has at home, and then odsbobs, and then they'll ha't, adod, they will, Sir _Cautious_. Ever while you live, keep a Wife ignorant, unless a Man be as brisk as his Neighbours. Sir _Cau_. A wise Man will keep 'em from baudy Christnings then, and Gossipings. Sir _Feeb_. Christnings and Gossipings! why, they are the very Schools that debauch our Wives, as Dancing-Schools do our Daughters. L. _Ful_. Wise Men knowing this, should not expose their Infirmities, by marrying us young Wenches; who, without Instruction, find how we are impos'd upon. _Enter Fiddles playing, Mr_. Bearjest _and_ Diana _dancing_; Bredwel, Noisey, &c. L. _Ful_. So, Cousin, I see you have found the way to Mrs. _Dy's_ Heart. _Dia_. And are you sure, Sir, you will venture on me? _Dia_. How, Sir, scurvily? _Dia_. And do you expect I shou'd be honest the while? _Bea_. Heaven forbid, not I, I have not met with that Wonder in all my Travels. L. _Ful_. How, Sir, not an honest Woman? _Enter_ Gayman _richly drest_. L. _Ful_. Oh, Sir, you're welcome from _Northamptonshire_. _Gay_. Hum--surely she knows the Cheat. [_Aside_. L. _Ful_. You are so gay, you save me, Sir, the labour of asking if your Uncle be alive. L. _Ful_. Rail on, till you have made me think my Virtue at so low Ebb, it should submit to you. _Gay_. What--I'm not discreet enough; I'll babble all in my next high Debauch, Boast of your Favours, and describe your Charms To every wishing Fool. L. _Ful_. Or make most filthy Verses of me-Under the name of _Cloris_--you _Philander_, Who in leud Rhimes confess the dear Appointment; What Hour, and where, how silent was the Night, How full of Love your Eyes, and wishing mine. Faith, no; if you can afford me a Lease of your Love, Till the old Gentleman my Husband depart this wicked World, I'm for the Bargain. Sir _Cau_. Hum--what's here, a young Spark at my Wife? [_Goes about 'em_. _Gay_. Unreasonable _Julia_, is that all, My Love, my Sufferings, and my Vows must hope? Set me an Age--say when you will be kind, And I will languish out in starving Wish: But thus to gape for Legacies of Love, Till Youth be past Enjoyment, The Devil I will as soon--farewel. [_Offers to go_. L. _Ful_. Stay, I conjure you stay. _Gay_. And lose my Assignation with my Devil. [_Aside_. Sir _Cau_. 'Tis so, ay, ay, 'tis so--and wise Men will perceive it; 'tis here--here in my forehead, it more than buds; it sprouts, it flourishes. Sir _Feeb_. So, that young Gentleman has nettled him, stung him to the quick: I hope he'll chain her up--the Gad-Bee's in his Quonundrum--in Charity I'll relieve him--Come, my Lady _Fulbank_, the Night grows old upon our hands; to dancing, to jiggiting--Come, shall I lead your Ladyship? L. _Ful_. No, Sir, you see I am better provided- [_Takes_ Gayman's _hand_. Sir _Cau_. Ay, no doubt on't, a Pox on him for a young handsome Dog. Sir _Feeb_. Very well, very well, now the Posset; and then--ods bobs, and then- _Dia_. And then we'll have t'other Dance. [_Exeunt all but L_. Ful. Bred, _who are talking, and_ Gayman. L. _Ful_. But dost thou think he'll come? _Bred_. I do believe so, Madam- L. _Ful_. Be sure you contrive it so, he may not know whither, or to whom he comes. _Bred_. I warrant you, Madam, for our Parts. [_Exit_ Bredwel, _stealing out_ Gayman. L. _Ful_. How now, what, departing? _Gay_. You are going to the Bride-Chamber. L. _Ful_. No matter, you shall stay- _Gay_. I hate to have you in a Croud. _Gay_. Where we shall only tantalize each other with dull kissing, and part with the same Appetite we met--No, Madam; besides, I have business- L. _Ful_. Some Assignation--is it so indeed? _Gay_. Away, you cannot think me such a Traitor; 'tis more important business- L. _Ful_. Oh, 'tis too late for business--let to morrow serve. _Gay_. By no means--the Gentleman is to go out of Town. _Gay_. Hum- L. _Ful_. The Gentleman a dying, and to go out of Town to morrow? L. _Ful_. So may your change of Mistress do me, Sir--farewel. [_Goes out_. _Gay_. Stay, _Julia_--Devil, be damn'd--for you shall tempt no more, I'll love and be undone--but she is gone-And if I stay, the most that I shall gain Is but a reconciling Look, or Kiss. No, my kind Goblin- _I'll keep my Word with thee, as the least Evil; A tantalizing Woman's worse than Devil_. SCENE I. _Sir_ Feeble's _House_. A SONG made by Mr. _Cheek_. _No more, Lucinda, ah! expose no more To the admiring World those conquering Charms: In vain all day unhappy Men adore, What the kind Night gives to my longing Arms. Their vain Attempts can ne'er successful prove, Whilst I so well maintain the Fort of Love. Yet to the World with so bewitching Arts, Your dazling Beauty you around display, And triumph in the Spoils of broken Hearts, That sink beneath your feet, and croud your Way. Ah! suffer now your Cruelty to cease, And to a fruitless War prefer a Peace_. _Enter_ Ralph _with Light, Sir_ Feeble, _and_ Bellmour _Bel_. Hell take him, how he teazes me! [_Undressing all the while_. Sir _Feeb_. But is the young Rogue laid, _Francis_--is she stoln to Bed? What Tricks the young Baggages have to whet a man's Appetite? _Bel_. Ay, Sir--Pox on him--he will raise my Anger up to Madness, and I shall kill him to prevent his going to Bed to her. [_Aside_. Sir _Feeb_. A pise of those Bandstrings--the more haste the less speed. _Bel_. Be it so in all things, I beseech thee, _Venus_. _Bel_. You had so hamper'd 'em, Sir--the Devil's very mischievous in me. [_Aside_. Sir _Feeb_. Come, come, quick, good _Francis_, adod, I'm as yare as a Hawk at the young Wanton--nimbly, good _Francis_, untruss, untruss. _Bel_. Cramps seize ye--what shall I do? the near Approach distracts me. [_Aside_. Sir _Feeb_. So, so, my Breeches, good _Francis_. But well, _Francis_, how dost think I got the young Jade my Wife? Sir _Feeb_. No, that wou'd not do, the Baggage was damnably in love with a young Fellow they call _Bellmour_, a handsome young Rascal he was, they say, that's truth on't; and a pretty Estate: but happening to kill a Man he was forced to fly. _Bel_. That was great pity, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. Pity! hang him, Rogue, 'sbobs, and all the young Fellows in the Town deserve it; we can never keep our Wives and Daughters honest for rampant young Dogs; and an old Fellow cannot put in amongst 'em, under being undone, with Presenting, and the Devil and all. But what dost think I did? being damnably in love--I feign'd a Letter as from the _Hague_, wherein was a Relation of this same _Bellmour's_ being hang'd. _Bel_. Is't possible, Sir, you cou'd devise such News? Sir _Feeb_. Possible, Man! I did it, I did it; she swooned at the News, shut her self up a whole Month in her Chamber; but I presented high: she sigh'd and wept, and swore she'd never marry: still I presented; she hated, loathed, spit upon me; still, adod, I presented, till I presented my self effectually in Church to her; for she at last wisely considered her Vows were cancell'd, since _Bellmour_ was hang'd. _Bel_. Faith, Sir, this was very cruel, to take away his Fame, and then his Mistress. Sir _Feeb_. Cruel! thou'rt an Ass, we are but even with the brisk Rogues, for they take away our Fame, cuckold us, and take away our Wives: so, so, my Cap, _Francis_. _Bel_. And do you think this Marriage lawful, Sir? _Bel_. If he gets his Pardon, Sir- Sir _Feeb_. Pardon! no, no, I have took care for that, for I have, you must know, got his Pardon already. _Bel_. How, Sir! got his Pardon, that's some amends for robbing him of his Wife. Sir _Feeb_. Hold, honest _Francis_: What, dost think 'twas in kindness to him! No, you Fool, I got his Pardon my self, that no body else should have it, so that if he gets any body to speak to his Majesty for it, his Majesty cries he has granted it; but for want of my appearance, he's defunct, trust up, hang'd, _Francis_. _Bel_. This is the most excellent revenge I ever heard of. _Bel_. This was a lucky hit--and if it scape me, let me be hang'd by a Trick indeed. [_Aside_. _Bel_. Safe, I'll warrant you, Sir. _Bel_. He's gone, quickly, oh Love inspire me! _Foot_. Sir, my Master, Sir _Cautious Fulbank_, left his Watch on the little Parlor-Table to night, and bid me call for't. _Bel_. Hah--the Bridegroom has it, Sir, who is just gone to Bed, it shall be sent him in the Morning. _Foot_. 'Tis very well, Sir--your Servant- [_Exit_ Footman. _Bel_. Let me see--here is the Watch, I took it up to keep for him--but his sending has inspir'd me with a sudden Stratagem, that will do better than Force, to secure the poor trembling _Leticia_--who, I am sure, is dying with her Fears. SCENE II. _Changes to the Bed-chamber; _Leticia_ in an undressing by the Women at the Table_. _Enter to them Sir_ Feeble Fainwou'd. Sir _Feeb_. What's here? what's here? the prating Women still. Ods bobs, what, not in Bed yet? for shame of Love, _Leticia_. _Let_. For shame of Modesty, Sir; you wou'd not have me go to Bed before all this Company. Sir _Feeb_. What, the Women! why, they must see you laid, 'tis the fashion. _Let_. What, with a Man? I wou'd not for the World. Oh, _Bellmour_, where art thou with all thy promised aid? [_Aside_. _Dia_. Nay, Madam, we shou'd see you laid indeed. Sir _Feeb_. Ods bobs, here's a Compact amongst the Women--High Treason against the Bridegroom--therefore, Ladies, withdraw, or, adod, I'll lock you all in. [_Throws open his Gown, they run all away, he locks the Door_. Sir _Feeb_. Why, what's the matter, is the House o-fire? _Bel_. [_Within_.] Worse, Sir, worse- [_He opens the door, _Bellmour_ enters with the Watch in his hand_. _Let_. 'Tis _Bellmour's_ Voice! _Bel_. Oh, Sir, do you know this Watch? Sir _Feeb_. This Watch! _Bel_. Ay, Sir, this Watch? _Bel_. 'Tis indeed his Watch, Sir, and by this Token he has sent for you, to come immediately to his House, Sir. _Bel_. To morrow, Sir! why all our Throats may be cut before to morrow. Sir _Feeb_. What sayst thou, Throat cut? _Bel_. Why, the City's up in Arms, Sir, and all the Aldermen are met at _Guild-Hall_; some damnable Plot, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. Hah--Plot--the Aldermen met at _Guild-Hall!_--hum--why, let 'em meet, I'll not lose this Night to save the Nation. _Let_. Wou'd you to bed, Sir, when the weighty Affairs of State require your Presence? _Let_. For shame, Sir, shall the Reverend Council of the City debate without you? Sir _Feeb_. Ay, that's true, that's true; come truss again, _Francis_, truss again--yet now I think on't, _Francis_, prithee run thee to the Hall, and tell 'em 'tis my Wedding-night, d'ye see, _Francis_; and let some body give my Voice for- _Bel_. What, Sir? Sir _Feeb_. Adod, I cannot tell; up in Arms, say you! why, let 'em fight Dog, fight Bear; mun, I'll to Bed--go- _Let_. And shall his Majesty's Service and his Safety lie unregarded for a slight Woman, Sir? _Bel_. Now, my _Leticia_, if thou e'er didst Love, If ever thou design'st to make me blest--Without delay fly this adulterous Bed. Sir _Feeb_. Why, _Francis_, where are you, Knave? [_Sir _Feeb_. within_. _Old Man forgive me--thou the Aggressor art, Who rudely forc'd the Hand without the Heart. She cannot from the Paths of Honour rove, Whose Guide's Religion, and whose End is Love_. SCENE III. _Changes to a Wash-house, or Out-House_. _Enter with a Dark-lanthorn_ Bredwel _disguis'd like a Devil, leading_ Gayman. _Bred_. Stay here till I give notice of your coming. [_Exit_ Bredwel, _leaves his Dark-Lanthorn_. _Gay_. Kind Light, a little of your aid--now must I be peeping, though my Curiosity should lose me all--hah--Zouns, what here--a Hovel or a Hog-sty? hum, see the Wickedness of Man, that I should find no time to swear in, but just when I'm in the Devil's Clutches. _Enter_ Pert, _as an old Woman, with a Staff_. _Old W_. Good Even to you, fair Sir. _Gay_. Ha--defend me; if this be she, I must rival the Devil, that's certain. _Old W_. Come, young Gentleman, dare not you venture? _Gay_. He must be as hot as _Vesuvius_ that does--I shall never earn my Morning's Present. _Old W_. What, do you fear a longing Woman, Sir? _Gay_. The Devil I do--this is a damn'd Preparation to Love. _Old W_. Why stand you gazing, Sir? A Woman's Passion is like the Tide, it stays for no man when the hour is come- _Gay_. I'm sorry I have took it at its Turning; I'm sure mine's ebbing out as fast. _Old W_. Will you not speak, Sir--will you not on? _Old W_. You know too much Curiosity lost Paradise. _Gay_. Why, there's it now. _Old W_. Fortune and Love invite you, if you dare follow me. SCENE IV. _A Chamber in the Apartments of L. _Fulbank. _Enter_ Old Woman _followed by_ Gayman _in the dark_. [_Soft Musick plays, she leaves him_. _Oh! Love, that stronger art than Wine, Pleasing Delusion, Witchery divine, Want to be prized above all Wealth, Disease that has more Joys than Health; Though we blaspheme thee in our Pain, And of thy Tyranny complain, We all are bettered by thy Reign. _Gay_. Ah, _Julia, Julia!_ if this soft Preparation Were but to bring me to thy dear Embraces; What different Motions wou'd surround my Soul, From what perplex it now. _Enter Nymphs and Shepherds, and dance_. _Cease your Wonder, cease your Guess, Whence arrives your happiness. Cease your Wonder, cease your Pain, Human Fancy is in vain_. By the Lustre, which is true, Ne'er to break your sacred Vow. Lastly, by the Gold that's try'd, For Love all Dangers to abide_. Man. _Once about him let us move, To confirm him true to Love_. [bis. Pert. _Twice with mystick turning Feet, Make him silent and discreet_. [bis. Man. _Thrice about him let us tread, To keep him ever young in Bed_. [bis. Gives him another part. Man. _Forget_ Aminta's _proud Disdain; Haste here, and sigh no more in vain, The Joy of Love without the Pain_. Pert. _That God repents his former Slights, And Fortune thus your Faith requites_. Both. _Forget_ Aminta's _proud Disdain; Then taste, and sigh no more in vain, The Joy of Love without the Pain, The Joy of Love without the Pain_. [_Exeunt_ all Dancers. Looks on himself, and feels about him. _Well--be she young or old, Woman or Devil, She pays, and I'll endeavour to be civil_. SCENE V. _In the same House. The flat Scene of the Hall_. _Bred_. Hah, knocking so late at our Gate- [_Opens the door_. Sir _Feeb_. How now, how now, what's the matter here? _Bred_. Matter, what, is my Lady's innocent Intrigue found out?-Heavens, Sir, what makes you here in this warlike Equipage? Sir _Feeb_. What makes you in this showing Equipage, Sir? _Bred_. I have been dancing among some of my Friends. Sir _Feeb_. And I thought to have been fighting with some of my Friends. Where's Sir _Cautious_, where's Sir _Cautious_? _Bred_. Sir _Cautious_--Sir, in Bed. Sir _Feeb_. Call him, call him--quickly, good _Edward_. _Bred_. Sure my Lady's Frolick is betray'd, and he comes to make Mischief. However, I'll go and secure Mr. _Gayman_. [_Exit_ Bredwel. _Enter Sir_ Cautious _and_ Dick _his Boy with Light_. _Dick_. Pray, Sir, go to Bed, here's no Thieves; all's still and well. Sir _Feeb_. Why, what a Pox, are you mad? 'Tis I, 'tis I, man. Sir _Cau_. I, who am I? Speak--declare--pronounce. Sir _Feeb_. Your Friend, old _Feeble Fainwou'd_. Sir _Feeb_. A Mistake, a Mistake, proceed to the business, good Brother, for time you know is precious. Sir _Feeb_. So, Sir. Sir _Cau_. How strangely he stares and gapes--some deep concern. Sir _Feeb_. Hum--hum- Sir _Cau_. I listen to you, advance- Sir _Feeb_. Sir? Sir _Cau_. A very distracted Countenance--pray Heaven he be not mad, and a young Wife is able to make an old Fellow mad, that's the Truth on't. [_Aside_. Sir _Cau_. No disturbance to serve a Friend- Sir _Feeb_. I think I am your Friend indeed, Sir _Cautious_, or I wou'd not have been here upon my Wedding-Night. Sir _Cau_. Troubles me--why, knows he I am robb'd? [_Aside_. Sir _Feeb_. I may perhaps restore you to the Rest you've lost. Sir _Cau_. Alas, I know not whom to suspect, I wou'd I did; but if you cou'd discover him--I wou'd so swinge him- Sir _Feeb_. I know him--what, do you take me for a Pimp, Sir? I know him--there's your Watch again, Sir; I'm your Friend, but no Pimp, Sir- [_Rises in Rage_. Sir _Cau_. My Watch; I thank you, Sir--but why Pimp, Sir? Sir _Feeb_. I grant it, Sir--but to the business, Sir, I came for. Sir _Cau_. With all my Soul- [_They sit gaping, and expecting when either should speak. Enter_ Bredwel _and_ Gayman _at the door_. Bredwel _sees them, and puts_ Gayman_ back again_. _Bred_. Hah--Sir _Feeble_, and Sir _Cautious_ there--what shall I do? For this way we must pass, and to carry him back wou'd discover my Lady to him, betray all, and spoil the Jest--retire, Sir, your Life depends upon your being unseen. [_Go out_. Sir _Feeb_. Well, Sir, do you not know that I am married, Sir? and this my Wedding Night? Sir _Cau_. Very good, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. And that I long to be in bed? Sir _Cau_. Very well, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. Very good, Sir, and very well, Sir--why then what the Devil do I make here, Sir? [_Rises in a rage_. Sir _Cau_. Patience, Brother--and forward. Sir _Feeb_. Forward! lend me your hand, good Brother; let's feel your Pulse; how has this Night gone with you? Sir _Cau_. Ha, ha, ha--this is the oddest Quonudrum--sure he's mad--and yet now I think on't, I have not slept to night, nor shall I ever sleep again, till I have found the Villain that robb'd me. [_Weeps_. Sir _Feeb_. So, now he weeps--far gone--this Laughing and Weeping is a very bad sign! [_Aside_.] Come, let me lead you to your Bed. Sir _Cau_. Mad, stark mad--no, now I'm up 'tis no matter--pray ease your troubled Mind--I am your Friend--out with it--what, was it acted? or but designed? Sir _Feeb_. How, Sir? Sir _Cau_. Be not asham'd, I'm under the same Premunire I doubt, little better than a--but let that pass. Sir _Feeb_. Of what! why, that you're a Cuckold; Sir, a Cuckold, if you'll ha't. Sir _Cau_. Cuckold! Sir, do ye know what ye say? Sir _Feeb_. What I say? Sir _Cau_. Ay, what you say, can you make this out? Sir _Feeb_. I make it out! Sir _Cau_. Ay, Sir--if you say it, and cannot make it out, you're a- Sir _Feeb_. What am I, Sir? What am I? Sir _Cau_. A Cuckold as well as my self, Sir; and I'll sue you for _Scandalum Magnatum_; I shall recover swinging Damages with a City-Jury. Sir _Feeb_. I know of no such thing, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. No, Sir. Sir _Cau_. Then what wou'd you be at, Sir? Sir _Feeb_. I be at, Sir! what wou'd you be at, Sir? Sir _Feeb_. Why, what the Devil's your Business, and you go to that? Sir _Cau_. My Business, with whom? Sir _Feeb_. With me, Sir, with me; what a Pox do you think I do here? Sir _Cau_. 'Tis that I wou'd be glad to know, Sir. Sir _Feeb_. Here, _Dick_, remember I've brought back your Master's Watch; next time he sends for me o'er Night, I'll come to him in the Morning. Sir _Cau_. Ha, ha, ha, I send for you! Go home and sleep, Sir--Ad, and ye keep your Wife waking to so little purpose, you'll go near to be haunted with a Vision of Horns. Sir _Feeb_. Roguery, Knavery, to keep me from my Wife--Look ye, this was the Message I receiv'd. [_Tells him seemingly_. _Enter_ Bredwel _to the Door in a white Sheet like a Ghost, speaking to_ Gayman _who stands within_. _Gay_. A brave kind Fellow this. _Enter_ Bredwel _stalking on as a Ghost by them_. _Bred_. As I could wish. [_Aside, turns_. Come on, thou ghastly thing, and follow me. _Enter_ Gayman _like a Ghost, with a Torch_. Sir _Cau_. Oh Lord, oh Lord! _Gay_. Thou call'st in vain, fond Wretch--for I am _Bellmour_, [_Goes out, shaking his Torch at him_. Sir _Cau_. Oh Lord--oh Lord! _Enter L_. Fulbank _in an undress, and_ Pert _undrest. Sir _Feeb_. Ay, and he was as tall as the Monument. Sir _Feeb_. Ay, and roar'd as loud. L. _Ful_. Idle Fancies, what makes you from your Bed? and you, Sir, from your Bride? _Enter_ Dick _with Sack_. Sir _Feeb_. Oh! that's the business of another day, a mistake only, Madam. L. _Ful_. Away, I'm asham'd to see wise Men so weak; the Fantoms of the Night, or your own Shadows, the Whimseys of the Brain for want of Rest, or perhaps _Bredwel_, your Man--who being wiser than his Master, play'd you this Trick to fright you both to Bed. L. _Ful_. Ay, Sir _Feeble_, go home to your Wife. SCENE VI. _The Street_. _Enter_ Bellmour _at the door, knocks, and enter to him from the House_, Phillis. _Phil_. Oh, are you come, Sir? I'll call my Lady down. Ay, 'tis he, and I'm undone--what shall I do to kill him now? besides, the Sin wou'd put me past all Hopes of pardoning. _Enter_ Leticia _and_ Phillis _softly, undrest, with a Box_. _Let_. Where are you, my best Wishes? Lord of my Vows--and Charmer of my Soul? Where are you? Sir _Feeb_. Hum, who's here? My Gentlewoman--she's monstrous kind of the sudden. But whom is't meant to? [_Aside_. _Let_. Give me your hand, my Love, my Life, my All--Alas! where are you? _Let_. Oh, are you here? indeed you frighted me with your Silence--here, take these Jewels, and let us haste away. Sir _Feeb_. Hum, before Enjoyment--that must be me. Before Injoyment-Ay, ay, 'tis I--I see a little Prolonging a Woman's Joy, sets an Edge upon her Appetite. [_Merrily_. _Let_. What means my Dear? shall we not haste away? _Let_. Oh _Bellmour, Bellmour_. [_Sir _Feeb_. starts back from her hands_. Sir _Feeb_. Hum--what's that--_Bellmour_! Sir _Feeb_. Oh--I'm glad 'tis no worse--_Bellmour_, quoth a! I thought the Ghost was come again. Sir _Feeb_. I did but hold my peace, to hear how prettily she prattled Love: But, fags, you are naught to think of a young Fellow--ads bobs, you are now. _Let_. I only say--he wou'd not have been so unkind to me. Sir _Feeb_. But what makes ye out at this Hour, and with these Jewels? Sir _Feeb_. Ads bobs, and so they would--but there was no Arms, nor Mutiny--where's _Francis_? Sir _Feeb_. Embraces, in a Fiddlestick; why, are we not married? _Let_. 'Tis true, Sir, and Time will make me more familiar with you, but yet my Virgin Modesty forbids it. I'll to _Diana's_ Chamber, the Night will come again. SCENE I. _Sir _Feeble's_ House_. _Enter Lady_ Fulbank, Gayman _fine, gently pulling her back by the hand; and_ Ralph _meets 'em_. L. _Ful_. How now, _Ralph_--Let your Lady know I am come to wait on her. L. _Ful_. You are at leisure now, I thank you, Sir. Last Night when I with all Love's Rhetorick pleaded, And Heaven knows what last Night might have produced, You were engag'd! False Man, I do believe it, And I am satisfied you love me not. [_Walks away in scorn_. _Gay_. Not love you! Why do I waste my Youth in vain pursuit, Neglecting Interest, and despising Power? Unheeding and despising other Beauties. Why at your feet are all my Fortunes laid, And why does all my Fate depend on you? L. _Ful_. I'll not consider why you play the Fool, Present me Rings and Bracelets; why pursue me; Why watch whole Nights before my senseless Door, And take such Pains to shew your self a Coxcomb. _Gay_. Oh! why all this? By all the Powers above, by this dear Hand, And by this Ring, which on this Hand I place, On which I've sworn Fidelity to Love; I never had a Wish or soft Desire To any other Woman, Since _Julia_ sway'd the Empire of my Soul. _Gay_. To strengthen the weak Arguments of Love. L. _Ful_. And leave your self undone? _Gay_. Impossible, if I am blest with _Julia_. L. _Ful_. Love's a thin Diet, nor will keep out Cold. You cannot satisfy your Dunning Taylor, To cry--I am in Love! Though possible you may your Seamstress. _Gay_. Does ought about me speak such Poverty? L. _Ful_. I am sorry that it does not, since to maintain This Gallantry, 'tis said you use base means, Below a Gentleman. _Gay_. Who dares but to imagine it's a Rascal, A Slave, below a beating--what means my _Julia_? _Gay_. Hah--I hope 'tis no stol'n Goods; [_Aside_. Why on the sudden all this nice examining? L. _Ful_. You trifle with me, and I'll plead no more. _Gay_. Stay--why--I bought it, Madam- L. _Ful_. Where had you Money, Sir? You see I am No Stranger to your Poverty. _Gay_. This is strange--perhaps it is a secret. L. _Ful_. So is my Love, which shall be kept from you. [_Offers to go_. _Gay_. Stay, _Julia_--your Will shall be obey'd, [_Sighing_. Though I had rather die than be obedient, Because I know you'll hate me when 'tis told. L. _Ful_. By all my Vows, let it be what it will, It ne'er shall alter me from loving you. _Gay_. I have--of late--been tempted-With Presents, Jewels, and large Sums of Gold. L. _Ful_. Tempted! by whom? _Gay_. The Devil, for ought I know. L. _Ful_. Defend me, Heaven! the Devil? I hope you have not made a Contract with him. _Gay_. No, though in the Shape of Woman it appear'd. L. _Ful_. Where met you with it? _Gay_. By Magick Art I was conducted--I know not how, To an inchanted Palace in the Clouds, Where I was so attended-Young dancing, singing Fiends innumerable. L. _Ful_. Imagination all! L. _Ful_. And sure that undeceiv'd him. [_Aside_. _Gay_. But such a Carcase 'twas--deliver me--so rivell'd, lean and rough--a Canvas Bag of wooden Ladles were a better Bed-fellow. L. _Ful_. Now though I know that nothing is more distant than I from such a Monster--yet this angers me. Death! cou'd you love me and submit to this? L. _Ful_. 'Slife, after all to seem deform'd, old, ugly- [_Walking in a fret_. _Gay_. I knew you would be angry when you heard it. [_He pursues her in a submissive posture_. _Enter Sir_ Cautious, Bearjest, Noisey _and_ Bredwel. Sir _Cau_. Me his Story! I hope he will not tell me he'as a mind to cuckold me. _Gay_. A Devil on him, what shall I say to him? L. _Ful_. What, so excellent at Intrigues, and so dull at an Excuse? [_Aside_. _Gay_. Yes, Madam, I shall tell him- _Enter _Bellmour. _Bel_. Always to receive your Ladyship. Sir _Cau_. With me, Sir, wou'd you speak? _Gay_. With you, Sir, if your name be _Fulbank_. Sir _Cau_. Plain _Fulbank_! methinks you might have had a Sirreverence, under your Girdle, Sir; I am honoured with another Title, Sir- [_Goes talking to the rest_. _Gay_. With many, Sir, that very well become you- [_Pulls him a little aside_. I've something to deliver to your Ear. _Gay_. I wou'd not be so uncivil, Sir, before all this Company. Sir _Cau_. Uncivil! Ay, ay, 'tis so, he cannot be content to cuckold, but he must tell me so too. _Gay_. But since you will have it, Sir--you are--a Rascal--a most notorious Villain, Sir, d'ye hear- Sir _Cau_. Yes, yes, I do hear--and am glad 'tis no worse. [_Laughing_. Sir _Cau_. Pray, under favour, Sir, who are you? [_Pulling off his Hat_. _Gay_. Racking me up to a starving Want and Misery, Then took advantages to ruin me. _Enter_ Ralph _with Wine, sets it on a Table_. _Gay_. Very well, Sir, and is this your Conscience? _Gay_. I do believe thee--and am come to tell you--I'll be none of that Number--for this Minute I'll go and redeem it--and free myself from the Hell of your Indentures. _Gay_. Your Servant, Sir. Wou'd I cou'd come to speak to _Bellmour_, which I dare not do in publick, lest I betray him. I long to be resolv'd where 'twas Sir _Feeble_ was last night--if it were he--by which I might find out my invisible Mistress. _Noi_. Noble Mr. _Wasteall_- [_Salutes him, so does_ Bearjest. _Bel_. Will you please to sit, Sir? _Gay_. I have a little business, Sir--but anon I'll wait on you--your Servant, Gentlemen--I'll to _Crap_ the Scrivener's. [_Goes out_. _Noi_. Know him, Sir! ay, too well- _Bea_. The World's well amended with him, Captain, since I lost my Money to him and you at the _George_ in _White-Fryers_. _Bel_. Were you so cruel, Sir, to take it? _Noi_. Then he keeps a private Press, and prints your _Amsterdam_ and _Leyden_ Libels. Sir _Cau_. Ay, and makes 'em too, I'll warrant him; a dangerous Fellow- _Noi_. Sometimes he begs for a lame Soldier with a wooden Leg. _Bea_. Sometimes as a blind Man, sells Switches in _New-Market_ Road. _Bel_. How, Sir, the Devil! Sir _Cau_. I say the Devil; Heaven bless every wise Man from the Devil. _Bea_. The Devil, sha! there's no such Animal in Nature; I rather think he pads. _Noi_. Oh, Sir, he has not Courage for that--but he's an admirable Fellow at your Lock. Sir _Feeb_. In Imagination, Sir. _Bel_. How, Sir, a Devil? Sir _Feeb_. Ay, or a Ghost. _Bel_. Where, good Sir? [_Exeunt all but_ Bellmour. L. _Ful_. I was sick to know with what Christian Patience you bore the Martyrdom of this Night. _Dia_. And I wish for your Repose you ne'er had seen my Father. [_Weeps_. _Dia_. I know his Virtue justifies my Choice: But Pride and Modesty forbids I shou'd unlov'd pursue him. _Let_. Wrong not my Brother so, who dies for you- _Dia_. Cou'd he so easily see me given away, Without a Sigh at parting? For all the day a Calm was in his Eyes, And unconcern'd he look'd and talk'd to me; In dancing never prest my willing Hand, Nor with a scornful Glance reproach'd my Falshood. _Let_. Believe me, that Dissembling was his Master-piece. _Dia_. Why should he fear, did not my Father promise him? _Let_. Ay, that was in his wooing time to me: But now 'tis all forgotten- [_Musick at the door_. _After which enter_ Bearjest _and_ Bredwel. L. _Ful_. How now, Cousin! Is this high piece of Gallantry from you? _Dia_. Come, he speaks for you, Sir. _Bea_. He, Madam! though he be but a Banker's Prentice, Madam, he's as pretty a Fellow of his Inches as any i'th' City--he has made love in Dancing-Schools, and to Ladies of Quality in the middle Gallery, and shall joke ye--and repartee with any Fore-man within the Walls--prithee to her--and commend me, I'll give thee a new Point Crevat. _Dia_. He looks as if he cou'd not speak to me. _Bea_. Not speak to you! yes, Gad, Madam, and do any thing to you too. _Dia_. Are you his Advocate, Sir? [_In scorn_. _Bea_. For want of a better- [_Stands behind him, pushing him on_. _Bred_. An Advocate for Love I am, And bring you such a Message from a Heart- _Bea_. Meaning mine, dear Madam. _Bred_. That when you hear it, you will pity it. _Bea_. Or the Devil's in her- _Dia_. Sir, I have many Reasons to believe, It is my Fortune you pursue, not Person. _Bea_. There is something in that, I must confess. [_Behind him_. But say what you will, _Ned_. _Bred_. May all the Mischiefs of despairing Love Fall on me if it be. _Bea_. Ay, if you were me--you might do what you pleas'd; but I'm of another mind. _Dia_. Shou'd I consent, my Father is a Man whom Interest sways, not Honour; and whatsoever Promises he 'as made you, he means to break 'em all, and I am destin'd to another. _Dia_. But I, by Heaven, will never be that Victim: But where my Soul is vow'd, 'tis fix'd for ever. _Bred_. Are you resolv'd, are you confirm'd in this? Oh my _Diana_, speak it o'er again. [_Runs to her, and embraces her_. Bless me, and make me happier than a Monarch. _Bea_. Hold, hold, dear _Ned_--that's my part, I take it. _Bea_. Done! I'll enter the House with Fire and Sword, d'ye see, not that I care this--but I'll not be fob'd off--what, do they take me for a Fool--an Ass? _Bred_. Madam, dare you run the risk of your Father's Displeasure, and run away with the Man you love? _Bea_. Good--Mun, here's Company- _Enter_ Gayman _with his Hat and Money in't, Sir_ Cautious _in a rage, Sir_ Feeble, _Lady_ Fulbank, Leticia, _Captain_ Noisey, Bellmour. L. _Ful_. Why, you made a shift to lose, Sir? And where's the harm of that? We have lost, and he has won; anon it may be your Fortune. _Gay_. Oh, the Devil will not lose a Gamester of me, you see, Sir. _Gay_. Most assuredly, unless you have the courage to retrieve it. I'll set it at a Throw, or any way: what say you, Gentlemen? Sir _Feeb_. Ods bobs, you young Fellows are too hard for us every way, and I'm engag'd at an old Game with a new Gamester here, who will require all an old Man's stock. L. _Ful_. Come, Cousin, will you venture a Guinea? Come, Mr. _Bredwel_. _Gay_. Well, if no body dare venture on me, I'll send away my Cash- [_They all go to play at the Table, but Sir_ Cau. _Sir_ Feeb. _and_ Gay. _Gay_. Then I wou'd set all this against that Nothing. Sir _Cau_. What, set it against my Wife? _Gay_. All your Wife! Why, Sir, some part of her wou'd serve my turn. Sir _Cau_. Hum--my Wife--why, if I shou'd lose, he cou'd not have the Impudence to take her. [Aside. Sir _Feeb_. You are not mad, Brother. Sir _Cau_. Under favour, you're an Ass, Brother; this is the discreetest way of doing it, I take it. Sir _Feeb_. But wou'd a wise man expose his Wife? Sir _Cau_. Why, _Cato_ was a wiser Man than I, and he lent his Wife to a young Fellow they call'd _Hortensius_, as Story says; and can a wise Man have a better Precedent than _Cato_? Sir _Feeb_. I say, _Cato_ was an Ass, Sir, for obliging any young Rogue of 'em all. Sir _Cau_. But I am of _Cato's_ mind. Well, a single Night you say. _Gay_. A single Night--to have--to hold--possess--and so forth, at discretion. Sir _Cau_. A Night--I shall have her safe and sound i'th' Morning. _Gay_. Done--Sir Feeble shall be witness--and there stands my Hat. [_Puts down his Hat of Money, and each of em take a Box and Dice, and kneel on the Stage, the rest come about 'em_. L. _Ful_. What are you playing for? Sir _Feeb_. Nothing, nothing--but a Trial of Skill between an old Man and a Young--and your Ladyship is to be Judge. L. _Ful_. I shall be partial, Sir. L. _Ful_. How now? what's the matter you look so like an Ass, what have you lost? _Gay_. But I shall improve 'em, Madam, I'll warrant you. L. _Ful_. Well, since 'tis no worse, bring in your fine Dancer, Cousin, you say you brought to entertain your Mistress with. [Bearjest _goes out_. _Gay_. Sir, you'll take care to see me paid to Night? Sir _Cau_. Well, Sir--but my Lady, you must know, Sir, has the common frailties of her Sex, and will refuse what she even longs for, if persuaded to't by me. Sir _Cau_. Procure her! with all my soul, Sir; alas, you mistake my honest meaning, I scorn to be so unjust as not to see you a-bed together; and then agree as well as you can, I have done my part--In order to this, Sir--get but your self conveyed in a Chest to my house, with a Direction upon't for me; and for the rest- _Gay_. I understand you. Sir _Feeb_. _Ralph_, get supper ready. _Enter_ Bea. _with Dancers; all go out but Sir_ Cautious. SCENE I. _Sir_ Cautious _his House_. _Enter_ Bellmour _alone, sad_. Sir _Feeb_. Lights there, _Ralph_. And my Lady's Coach there- [Bearjest _goes to_ Gayman. _Bea_. Well, Sir, remember you have promised to grant me my diabolical Request, in shewing me the Devil- _Gay_. I will not fail you, Sir. L. _Ful_. Madam, your Servant; I hope you'll see no more Ghosts, Sir _Feeble_. _Enter_ Diana, _puts on her Hood and Scarf_. _Father, farewell--if you dislike my course, Blame the old rigid Customs of your Force_. SCENE II. _A Bed-chamber_. _Enter Sir_ Feeble, Leticia, _and_ Phillis. _Let_. Ah, _Phillis_! I am fainting with my Fears, Hast thou no comfort for me? [_He undresses to his Gown_. Sir _Feeb_. Why, what art doing there--fiddle fadling--adod, you young Wenches are so loth to come to--but when your hand's in, you have no mercy upon us poor Husbands. _Let_. Why do you talk so, Sir? Sir _Feeb_. Was it anger'd at the Fool's Prattle? tum a-me, tum a-me, I'll undress it, effags, I will--Roguy. _Let_. You are so wanton, Sir, you make me blush--I will not go to bed, unless you'll promise me- Sir _Feeb_. No bargaining, my little Hussey--what, you'll tie my hands behind me, will you? [_She goes to the Table_. _Phil_. Take Courage, Madam--you guess right--be confident. Sir _Feeb_. No whispering, Gentlewoman--and putting Tricks into her head; that shall not cheat me of another Night--Look on that silly little round Chitty-face--look on those smiling roguish loving Eyes there--look--look how they laugh, twire, and tempt--he, Rogue--I'll buss 'em there, and here, and every where--ods bods--away, this is fooling and spoiling of a Man's Stomach, with a bit here, and a bit there--to Bed--to Bed- [_As she is at the Toilet, he looks over her shoulder, and sees her Face in the Glass_. _Bel_. Go not to Bed, I guard this sacred Place, And the Adulterer dies that enters here. _Bel_. I am the wrong'd, the lost and murder'd _Bellmour_. _Bel_. I'th' utmost Borders of the Earth I'll find thee-Seas shall not hide thee, nor vast Mountains guard thee: Even in the depth of Hell I'll find thee out, And lash thy filthy and adulterous Soul. Sir _Feeb_. Oh Lord! oh! I'm glad he's dead though. _Let_. Oh, hide that fatal Wound, my tender Heart faints with a Sight so horrid! [_Seems to Weep_. Sir _Feeb_. So, she'll clear her self, and leave me in the Devil's Clutches. _Bel_. You've both offended Heaven, and must repent or die. _Bel_. No, you had rather yet go on in Sin: Thou wou'dst live on, and be a baffled Cuckold. Sir _Feeb_. Oh, not for the World, Sir! I am convinc'd and mortifi'd. Sir _Feeb_. I see my Folly--and my Age's Dotage--and find the Devil was in me--yet spare my Age--ah! spare me to repent. _Bel_. If thou repent'st, renounce her, fly her sight;-Shun her bewitching Charms, as thou wou'dst Hell, Those dark eternal Mansions of the dead-Whither I must descend. _Let_. Blest be this kind Release, and yet methinks it grieves me to consider how the poor old Man is frighted. [Bellmour _re-enters, puts on his Coat_. SCENE III. _Sir_ Cautious _his Garden_. _Gay_. Set down the Chest behind yon hedge of Roses--and then put on those Shapes I have appointed you--and be sure you well-favour'dly bang both _Bearjest_ and _Noisey_, since they have a mind to see the Devil. _Rag_. Oh, Sir, leave 'em to us for that; and if we do not play the Devil with 'em, we deserve they shou'd beat us. But, Sir, we are in Sir _Cautious_ his Garden, will he not sue us for a Trespass? _Gay_. I'll bear you out; be ready at my Call. _Bred_. Oh, are you come, Sir--and can you be so kind to a poor Youth, to favour his Designs, and bless his Days? _Gay_. Yes, I am ready here with all my Devils, both to secure you your Mistress, and to cudgel your Captain and Squire, for abusing me behind my Back so basely. _Bred_. 'Twas most unmanly, Sir, and they deserve it--I wonder that they come not. _Gay_. How durst you trust her with him? _Bred_. Because 'tis dangerous to steal a City-Heiress, and let the Theft be his--so the dear Maid be mine--Hark--sure they come- _Enter_ Bearjest, _runs against_ Bredwel. _Bea_. Who's that? _Ned_? Well, I have brought my Mistress, hast thou got a Parson ready, and a License? _Bred_. Ay, ay, but where's the Lady? _Bea_. In the Coach, with the Captain at the Gate. I came before, to see if the Coast be clear. _Bred_. Ay, Sir; but what shall we do? here's Mr. _Gayman_ come on purpose to shew you the Devil, as you desir'd. _Bea_. Sho! a Pox of the Devil, Man--I can't attend to speak with him now. _Gay_. How, Sir! D'ye think my Devil of so little Quality, to suffer an Affront unrevenged? _Bea_. Sir, I cry his Devilship's Pardon: I did not know his Quality. I protest, Sir, I love and honour him, but I am now just going to be married, Sir; and when that Ceremony's past, I'm ready to go to the Devil as soon as you please. _Gay_. I have told him your Desire of seeing him, and shou'd you baffle him? _Bea_. Who, I, Sir! Pray, let his Worship know, I shall be proud of the Honour of his Acquaintance; but, Sir, my Mistress and the Parson wait in _Ned's_ Chamber. _Gay_. If all the World wait, Sir, the Prince of Hell will stay for no Man. _Bred_. Oh, Sir, rather than the Prince of the Infernals shall be affronted, I'll conduct the Lady up, and entertain her till you come, Sir. _Bea_. Nay, I have a great mind to kiss his--Paw, Sir; but I cou'd wish you'd shew him me by day-light, Sir. _Enter_ Noisey _and_ Diana. _Bred_. Haste, Dear; the Parson waits, To finish what the Powers design'd above. _Dia_. Sure nothing is so bold as Maids in Love! [_They go out_. _Noi_. Psho! he conjure--he can flie as soon. _Gay_. Gentlemen, you must be sure to confine your selves to this Circle, and have a care you neither swear, nor pray. _Bea_. Pray, Sir! I dare say neither of us were ever that way gifted. _Cease your Horror, cease your Haste. And calmly as I saw you last, Appear! Appear! By thy Pearls and Diamond Rocks, By thy heavy Money-Box, By thy shining Petticoat, That hid thy cloven Feet from Note; By the Veil that hid thy Face, Which else had frighten'd humane Race_: [Soft Musick ceases. _Appear, that I thy Love may see, Appear, kind Fiends, appear to me_. A Pox of these Rascals, why come they not? _Bea_. Oh, enough, enough! Good Sir, lay 'em, and I'll pay the Musick- _Gay_. I wonder at it--these Spirits are in their Nature kind, and peaceable--but you have basely injur'd some body--confess, and they will be satisfied- _Bea_. Oh, good Sir, take your _Cerberuses_ off--I do confess, the Captain here, and I have violated your Fame. _Bea_. But it seems your Friend the Devil does. SCENE IV. _Lady_ Fulbank's _Anti-chamber_. _She discover'd undrest at her Glass; Sir_ Cautious _undrest_. L. _Ful_. But why to Night? indeed you're wondrous kind methinks. Sir _Cau_. Why, I don't know--a Wedding is a sort of an Alarm to Love; it calls up every Man's courage. L. _Ful_. Ay, but will it come when 'tis call'd? Sir _Cau_. Ay, ay, no doubt on't. L. _Ful_. Yet you may take my word without an Oath, Were you as old as Time, and I were young and gay As _April_ Flowers, which all are fond to gather; My Beauties all should wither in the Shade, E'er I'd be worn in a dishonest Bosom. Sir _Cau_. Ay, but you're wondrous free methinks, sometimes, which gives shreud suspicions. Sir _Cau_. How, wou'd, what cuckold me? L. _Ful_. Yes, if it pleas'd me better than Vertue, Sir. But I'll not change my Freedom and my Humour, To purchase the dull Fame of being honest. Sir _Cau_. Ay, but the World, the World- L. _Ful_. I value not the Censures of the Croud. Sir _Cau_. But I am old. L. _Ful_. That's your fault, Sir, not mine. Sir _Cau_. But being so, if I shou'd be good-natur'd, and give thee leave to love discreetly- L. _Ful_. I'd do't without your leave, Sir. Sir _Cau_. Do't--what, cuckold me? L. _Ful_. No, love discreetly, Sir, love as I ought, love honestly. Sir _Cau_. What, in love with any body, but your own Husband? Sir _Cau_. Yes, quoth a--is that your loving as you ought? L. _Ful_. We cannot help our Inclinations, Sir, No more than Time, or Light from coming on-But I can keep my Virtue, Sir, intire. L. _Ful_. I'll not deny that Truth, though even to you. Sir _Cau_. Why, in consideration of my Age, and your Youth, I'd bear a Conscience--provided you do things wisely. L. _Ful_. Do what thing, Sir? Sir _Cau_. Why--truly in a civil way--or so. Sir _Cau_. Nay, and she be thereabouts, there's no discovering. L. _Ful_. But leave this fond discourse, and, if you must, Let us to Bed. Sir _Cau_. Ay, ay, I did but try your Virtue, mun--dost think I was in earnest? _Serv_. Sir, here's a Chest directed to your Worship. L. _Ful_. What, into my Apartment, Sir, a nasty Chest! _Enter with the Chest_. [Gayman _peeps out of the Chest, and looks round him wondring_. _Enter Sir_ Cautious. Sir _Cau_. [_Lifting up the Chest-lid_.] So, you are come, I see- [_Goes, and locks the door_. _Gay_. Hah--he here! nay then, I was deceiv'd, and it was _Julia_ that last night gave me the dear Assignation. [_Aside_. [_Sir_ Cautious _peeps into the Bed-chamber_. L. _Ful_. [_Within_.] Come, Sir _Cautious_, I shall fall asleep, and then you'll waken me. Sir _Cau_. Ay, my Dear, I'm coming--she's in Bed--I'll go put out the Candle, and then- _Gay_. Ay, I'll warrant you for my part- Sir _Cau_. Ay, but you may over-act your part, and spoil all--But, Sir, I hope you'll use a Christian Conscience in this business. _Gay_. Oh, doubt not, Sir, but I shall do you Reason. Sir _Cau_. I'm gone--I'm gone--but harkye, Sir, you'll rise before day? [_Going out, returns_. _Gay_. Yet again- Sir _Cau_. I vanish, Sir--but harkye--you'll not speak a word, but let her think 'tis I? _Enter softly Sir_ Cautious. Sir _Cau_. So, the Candle's out--give me your hand. [_Leads him softly in_. SCENE V. _Changes to a Bed-chamber_. _Lady_ Fulbank _suppos'd in Bed. Enter Sir_ Cautious _and_ Gayman _by dark_. Sir _Cau_. Where are you, my Dear? [_Leads him to the bed_. L. _Ful_. Where shou'd I be--in Bed; what, are you by dark? Sir _Cau_. Ay, the Candle went out by Chance. [Gayman _signs to him to be gone; he makes grimaces as loath to go, and Exit_. SCENE VI. _Draws over, and represents another Room in the same House_. _Enter_ Parson, Diana, _and_ Pert _drest in_ Diana's _Clothes_. _Dia_. I'll swear, Mrs. _Pert_, you look very prettily in my Clothes; and since you, Sir, have convinc'd me that this innocent Deceit is not unlawful, I am glad to be the Instrument of advancing Mrs. _Pert_ to a Husband, she already has so just a Claim to. _Par_. Since she has so firm a Contract, I pronounce it a lawful Marriage--but hark, they are coming sure- _Dia_. Pull your Hoods down, and keep your Face from the Light. [_Diana runs out_. _Enter_ Bearjest _and_ Noisey _disordered_. _Par_. If I do, Sir, I shall keep Counsel. _Bea_. _And that's civil, Sir--Come, lead the way, With such a Guide, the Devil's in't if we can go astray_. SCENE VII. _Changes to the Anti-chamber_. _Enter Sir_ Cautious. _Enter Lady_ Fulbank _undrest_, Gayman, _half undrest upon his Knees, following her, holding her Gown_. _Gay_. Can you be angry, _Julia_? Because I only seiz'd my Right of Love. Sir _Cau_. Ay, ay, that was my Fear. Sir _Cau_. So--I have brought an old House upon my Head, Intail'd Cuckoldom upon my self. Sir _Cau_. Ay, ay, she's well enough pleas'd, I fear, for all. _Gay_. Base as he is, 'twas he expos'd this Treasure; Like silly Indians barter'd thee for Trifles. _Gay_. He, by Love, he was the kind Procurer, Contriv'd the means, and brought me to thy Bed. L. _Ful_. My Husband! My wise Husband! What fondness in my Conduct had he seen, To take so shameful and so base Revenge? L. _Ful_. If he cou'd be so barbarous to expose me, Cou'd you who lov'd me--be so cruel too? _Gay_. What--to possess thee when the Bliss was offer'd? Possess thee too without a Crime to thee? Charge not my Soul with so remiss a flame, So dull a sense of Virtue to refuse it. L. _Ful_. I am convinc'd the fault was all my Husband's-And here I vow--by all things just and sacred, To separate for ever from his Bed. [_Kneels_. Sir _Cau_. Oh, I am not able to indure it-Hold--oh, hold, my Dear- [_He kneels as she rises_. L. _Ful_. Stand off--I do abhor thee- Sir _Cau_. With all my Soul--but do not make rash Vows. They break my very Heart--regard my Reputation. L. _Ful_. Which you have had such care of, Sir, already-Rise, 'tis in vain you kneel. Sir _Cau_. No--I'll never rise again--Alas! Madam, I was merely drawn in; I only thought to sport a Dye or so: I had only an innocent design to have discover'd whether this Gentleman had stoln my Gold, that so I might have hang'd him- _Gay_. A very innocent Design indeed! _Enter_ Leticia, Bellmour, _and_ Phillis. Sir _Cau_. So, here's another sad Catastrophe! L. _Ful_. Hah--does _Bellmour_ live? is't possible? Believe me, Sir, you ever had my Wishes; And shall not fail of my Protection now. _Bel_. I humbly thank your Ladyship. _Gay_. I'm glad thou hast her, _Harry_; but doubt thou durst not own her; nay dar'st not own thy self. _Bel_. Yes, Friend, I have my Pardon-But hark, I think we are pursu'd already-But now I fear no force. [_A noise of some body coming in_. L. _Ful_. However, step into my Bed-chamber. [_Exeunt_ Leticia, Gayman _and_ Phillis. _Enter Sir_ Feeble _in an Antick manner_. Sir _Feeb_. Hell shall not hold thee--nor vast Mountains cover thee, but I will find thee out--and lash thy filthy and Adulterous Carcase. [_Coming up in a menacing manner to Sir _Cau. Sir _Cau_. Let who's will say it, he lies in's Throat. Sir _Cau_. Ay, ay, she's gone, she's gone indeed. [_Sir_ Cau. _weeps_. Sir _Feeb_. Hast thou? Divorce her--flie her, quick--depart--be gone, she'll cuckold thee--and still she'll cuckold thee. Sir _Feeb_. Mum--no words on't, unless you'll have the Ghost about your Ears; part with your Wife, I say, or else the Devil will part ye. L. _Ful_. Pray go to Bed, Sir. _Enter_ Leticia, Bellmour, _and_ Phillis. Sir _Feeb_. Hah, Ghost--another Sight would make me mad indeed. _Bel_. Behold me, Sir, I have no Terror now. Sir _Feeb_. Hah--who's that, _Francis!_--my Nephew _Francis_? _Bel_. _Bellmour_, or _Francis_, chuse you which you like, and I am either. Sir _Feeb_. Hah, _Bellmour!_ and no Ghost? _Bel. Bellmour_--and not your Nephew, Sir. _Bel_. As sure as I'm no Ghost. _Gay_. We all can witness for him, Sir. _Bel_. You are so generous, Sir, that 'tis almost with grief I receive the Blessing of _Leticia_. _Bea_. Justice, Sir, Justice--I have been cheated--abused--assassinated and ravisht! Sir _Cau_. Hum--my Heir marry a Chamber-maid! _Bea_. Sir, you must know I stole away Mrs. _Dy_, and brought her to _Ned's_ Chamber here--to marry her. Sir _Feeb_. My Daughter _Dy_ stoln- _Bea_. But I being to go to the Devil a little, Sir, whip--what does he, but marries her himself, Sir; and fob'd me off here with my Lady's cast Petticoat- _Noi_. Sir, she's a Gentlewoman, and my Sister, Sir. _All_. A plain Case, a plain Case. Sir _Feeb_. Harkye, Sir, have you had the Impudence to marry my Daughter, Sir? [_To_ Bredwel, _who with_ Diana _kneels_. _Bred_. Yes, Sir, and humbly ask your Pardon, and your Blessing- Sir _Feeb_. You will ha't, whether I will or not--rise, you are still too hard for us: Come, Sir, forgive your Nephew- Sir _Cau_. Well, Sir, I will--but all this while you little think the Tribulation I am in, my Lady has forsworn my Bed. Sir _Feeb_. Indeed, Sir, the wiser she. Sir _Cau_. For only performing my Promise to this Gentleman. Sir _Feeb_. Ay, you showed her the Difference, Sir; you're a wise man. Come, dry your Eyes--and rest your self contented, we are a couple of old Coxcombs; d'ye Hear, Sir, Coxcombs. Sir _Cau_. I grant it, Sir; and if I die, Sir, I bequeath my Lady to you--with my whole Estate--my Nephew has too much already for a Fool. [_To_ Gayman. _Gay_. I thank you, Sir--do you consent, my _Julia_? L. _Ful_. No, Sir--you do not like me--a canvas Bag of wooden Ladles were a better Bed-fellow. _Gay_. Cruel Tormenter! Oh, I could kill myself with shame and anger! L. _Ful_. Come hither, _Bredwel_--witness for my Honour--that I had no design upon his Person, but that of trying his Constancy. _Bred_. Believe me, Sir, 'tis true--I feigned a danger near--just as you got to bed--and I was the kind Devil, Sir, that brought the Gold to you. _Gay_. No truly, Sir, those were some I hired--to beat you for abusing me to day. _The Warrior needs must to his Rival yield, Who comes with blunted Weapons to the Field_. Written by a Person of Quality, Spoken by Mr. _Betterton_. THE FORC'D MARRIAGE; OR, THE JEALOUS BRIDEGROOM. THE FORC'D MARRIAGE; or, the Jealous Bridegroom. _Va mon enfant! prends ta fortune_. [Woman pointing to the ladies. _A Woman shall not Victor prove to day? Who is't that to their Beauty would submit, And yet refuse the Fetters of their Wit? He tells you tales of Stratagems and Spies; Can they need Art that have such powerful Eyes? Believe me, Gallants, he'as abus'd you all; There's not a Vizard in our whole Cabal: Those are but Pickeroons that scour for prey And catch up all they meet with in their way; Who can no Captives take, for all they do Is pillage ye, then gladly let you go. Ours scorns the petty Spoils, and do prefer The Glory not the Interest of the War: But yet our Forces shall obliging prove, Imposing nought but Constancy in Love: That's all our Aim, and when we have, it too, We'll sacrifice it all to pleasure you_. King, Mr. _Westwood_. _Philander_, his Son, betrothed to _Erminia_, Mr. _Smith_. _Alcippus_, Favourite, in love with _Erminia_, Mr. _Betterton_. _Orgulius_, late General, Father to _Erminia_, Mr. _Norris_. _Alcander_, Friend to the Prince, in love with _Aminta_, Mr. _Young_. _Pisaro_, Friend to the young General _Alcippus_, Mr. _Cademan_. _Falatius_, a fantastick Courtier, Mr. _Angel_. _Labree_, his Man. _Cleontius_, Servant to the Prince, and Brother Mr. _Crosby_. to _Isillia_, Page to _Pisaro_. _Galatea_, Daughter to the King, Mrs. _Jennings_. _Erminia_, Daughter to _Orgulius_, espous'd to the Mrs. _Betterton_. Prince, _Aminta_, Sister to _Pisaro_, in love with _Alcander_, Mrs. _Wright_. _Olinda_, Sister to _Alcander_, Maid of Honour to Mrs. _Lee_. the Princess, _Isillia_, Sister to _Cleontius_, Woman to _Erminia_, Mrs. _Clough_. _Lysette_, Woman to _Aminta_. Clergy, Officers, Pages and Attendants. _Scene within the Court of_ FRANCE. SCENE I. _The Palace_. _Enter_ King, Philander, Orgulius, Alcippus, Alcander, Pisaro, Cleontius, Falatius; _and Officers_. _Phil_. Believe me, Sir, he merits all your Bounty, I only took example by his Actions; And all the part o'th' Victory which I gain'd, Was but deriv'd from him. _King_. Brave Youth, whose Infant years did bring us Conquests; And as thou grew'st to Man, thou grew'st in Glory, And hast arriv'd to such a pitch of it, As all the slothful Youth that shall succeed thee, Shall meet reproaches of thy early Actions: When Men shall say, thus did the brave _Alcippus_; And that great Name shall every Soul inspire With Emulation to arrive at something, That's worthy of Example. _King_. I do believe _Philander_ wants no courage; But what he did was to preserve his own. But thine the pure effects of highest Valour; For which, if ought below my Crown can recompense, Name it, and take it, as the price of it. _Alcip_. The Duty which we pay your Majesty, Ought to be such, as what we pay the Gods; Which always bears its Recompence about it. _King_. Yet suffer me to make thee some return, Though not for thee, yet to incourage Bravery. I know thy Soul is generous enough, To think a glorious Act rewards it self. But those who understand not so much Virtue, Will call it my neglect, and want of Gratitude; In this thy Modesty will wrong thy King. _Alcippus_, by this pause you seem to doubt My Power or Will; in both you are to blame. _Alcip_. Your pardon, Sir; I never had a thought That could be guilty of so great a Sin. That I was capable to do you service, Was the most grateful Bounty Heaven allow'd me, And I no juster way could own that Blessing, Than to imploy the Gift for your repose. _King_. I shall grow angry, and believe your Pride Would put the guilt off on your Modesty, Which would refuse what that believes below it. _Phil_. Your Majesty thinks too severely of him; Permit me, Sir, to recompense his Valour, I saw the wonders on't, and thence may guess In some Degree, what may be worthy of it. _King_. I like it well, and till thou hast perform'd it, I will divest my self of all my Power, And give it thee, till thou hast made him great. _Phil_. I humbly thank you, Sir- [_Bows to the_ King, _takes the Staff from_ Orgulius, _and gives it to_ Alcippus, _who looks amazedly_. And here I do create him General. You seem to wonder, as if I dispossess'd The brave _Orgulius_; but be pleas'd to know, Such Reverence and Respect I owe that Lord, As had himself not made it his Petition, I sooner should have parted with my Right, Than have discharg'd my debt by injuring him. _King_. _Orgulius_, are you willing to resign it? _Org_. With your permission, Sir, most willingly; His vigorous Youth is fitter for't than Age, Which now has render'd me uncapable Of what that can with more success perform. My Heart and Wishes are the same they were, But Time has quite depriv'd me of that power That should assist a happy Conqueror. _King_. Yet Time has added little to your years, Since I restor'd you to this great Command, And then you thought it not unfit for you. _Org_. Sir, was it fit I should refuse your Grace? That was your act of Mercy: and I took it To clear my Innocence, and reform the Errors Which those receiv'd who did believe me guilty, Or that my Crimes were greater than that Mercy. I took it, Sir, in scorn of those that hated me, And now resign it to the Man you love. _Org_. I humbly beg your Majesty's consent to't, If you believe _Alcippus_ worthy of it; The generous Youth I have bred up to Battles, Taught him to overcome, and use that Conquest As modestly as his submissive Captive, His Melancholy, (but his easy Fetters) To meet Death's Horrors with undaunted looks: How to despise the Hardships of a Siege; To suffer Cold and Hunger, want of Sleep. Nor knew he other rest than on his Horse-back, Where he would sit and take a hearty Nap; And then too dreamt of fighting. I could continue on a day in telling The Wonders of this Warrior. _King_. I credit all, and do submit to you. But yet _Alcippus_ seems displeas'd with it. _Alcip_. Ah, Sir! too late I find my Confidence Has overcome my unhappy Bashfulness; I had an humbler Suit to approach you with; But this unlook'd for Honour Has soon confounded all my lesser aims, As were they not essential to my Being, I durst not name them after what y'have done. _King_. _Alcippus_, with her Father's leave, she's thine. _Org_. Sir, 'tis my Aim and Honour. _Phi. Alcippus_, is't a time to think of Weddings, When the disorder'd Troops require your Presence? You must to the Camp to morrow. _Alcip_. You need not urge that Duty to me, Sir. [_They all go out, but_ Alcan. Pisa, _and_ Fal. _Pis. Falatio_, you are a swift Horseman; I believe you have a Mistress at Court, You made such haste this Morning. _Fal_. By _Jove_, _Pisaro_, I was weary enough of the Campaign; and till I had lost sight of it, I clapt on all my Spurs-But what ails _Alcander_? _Pis_. What, displeas'd? _Alcan_. It may be so, what then? _Pis_. Then thou mayst be pleas'd again. _Alcan_. Why the Devil should I rejoice? Because I see another rais'd above me; Let him be great, and damn'd with all his Greatness. _Alcan_. What is't that thou cal'st Merit? He fought, it's true, so did you, and I, And gain'd as much as he o'th' Victory, But he in the Triumphal Chariot rode, Whilst we ador'd him like a Demi-God. He with the Prince an equal welcome found, Was with like Garlands, though less Merit, crown'd. _Fal_. He's in the right for that, by _Jove_. _Pis_. Nay, now you wrong him. _Alcan_. What's he I should not speak my sense of him? _Pis_. He is our General. _Fal_. Can you or he do so? _Alcan_. I do not say I can; but tell me then, Where be the Virtues of this mighty Man, That he should brave it over all the rest? _Pis_. Faith, he has many Virtues, and much Courage; And merits it as well as you or I: _Orgulius_ was grown old. _Pis_. Why then he was unfit for't, But that he had a Daughter that was young. _Alcan_. Yes, he might have lain by, Like rusty Armour, else, Had she not brought him into play again; The Devil take her for't. _Fal_. By _Jove_, he's dissatisfy'd with every thing. _Alcan_. She has undone my Prince, And he has most unluckily disarm'd himself, And put the Sword into his Rival's hand, Who will return it to his grateful Bosom. _Phi_. Why, you believe _Alcippus_ honest- _Alcan_. Yes, in your sense, _Pisaro_, But do not like the last demand he made; 'Twas but an ill return upon his Prince, To beg his Mistress, rather challeng'd her. _Pis_. His ignorance that she was so, may excuse him. _Alcan_. The Devil 'twill, dost think he knew it not? _Pis. Orgulius_ still design'd him for _Erminia_; And if the Prince be disoblig'd from this, He only ought to take it ill from him. _Alcan_. Too much, _Pisaro_, you excuse his Pride, But 'tis the Office of a Friend to do so. _Pis_. 'Tis true, I am not ignorant of this, That he despises other Recompence For all his Services, but fair _Erminia_, I know 'tis long since he resign'd his Heart, Without so much as telling her she conquer'd; And yet she knew he lov'd; whilst she, ingrate, Repay'd his Passion only with her Scorn. _Pis_. For that, _Alcander_, you know more than I. _Fal_. Why sure _Aminta_ will instruct her better, She's as inconstant as the Seas and Winds, Which ne'er are calm but to betray Adventurers. _Alcan_. How came you by that knowledg, Sir? _Fal_. What a Pox makes him ask me that question now? [_Aside_. _Pis_. Prithee, _Alcander_, now we talk of her, How go the Amours 'twixt you and my wild Sister? Can you speak yet, or do you tell your tale With Eyes and Sighs, as you were wont to do? _Alcan_. Faith, much at that old rate, _Pisaro_, I yet have no incouragement from her To make my Court in any other language. _Pis_. You'll bring her to't, she must be overcome, And you're the fittest for her fickle Humour. [_They go out_. Fal. _stays_. _Lab_. I shall, Sir, 'tis truth. _Lab_. I warrant you, Sir, for a Speech. _Fal_. Nay, thou mayst speak as well too much As too little; have a care of that, dost hear? And if she ask what Wounds I have, dost mind me? Tell her I have many, very many. _Lab_. But whereabouts, Sir? _Fal_. Let me see--let me see; I know not where To place them--I think in my Face. _Lab_. By no means, Sir, you had much better Have them in your Posteriors: for then the Ladies Can never disprove you; they'll not look there. _Fal_. The sooner, you Fool, for the Rarity on't. _Lab_. Sir, the Novelty is not so great, I assure you. _Fal_. Go to, y'are wicked; But I will have them in my Face. _Lab_. With all my heart, Sir, but how? _Lab_. That, Sir, will all that know you, both in the Court and Camp. _Lab_. Nay, Sir, I have done, and do believe 'tis only I dare say you are a man of Prowess. _Fal_. Leave thy simple fancies, and go about thy business. _Lab_. I am gone; but hark, my Lord, If I should say your Face were wounded, The Ladies would fear you had lost your Beauty. _Fal_. O, never trouble your head for that, _Aminta_ Is a Wit, and your Wits care not how ill-favour'd Their Men be, the more ugly the better. _Lab_. An't be so, you'll fit them to a hair. _Fal_. Thou art a Coxcomb, to think a man of my Quality needs the advantage of Handsomness: A trifle as insignificant as Wit or Valour; poor Nothings, which Men of Fortune ought to despise. _Lab_. Why do you then keep such a stir, to gain The reputation of this thing you so despise? _Fal_. To please the peevish humour of a Woman, Who in that point only is a Fool. _Lab_. Faith, Sir, I am only fearful you will never Pass with those Patches you speak of. [_Exeunt severally_. SCENE II. Galatea's _Apartments_. _Enter_ Galatea, Aminta, _and_ Olinda. _Gal_. Will _Erminia_ come? _Oli_. Madam, I thought she'd been already here. _Gal_. But prithee how does she support this news? _Oli_. Madam, as those unreconciled to Heaven Would bear the pangs of death. _Am_. Time will convince her of that foolish error, Of thinking a brisk young Husband a torment. _Gal_. What young Husband? _Am_. The General, Madam. _Gal_. Why, dost thou think she will consent to it? _Am_. Madam, I cannot tell, the World's inconstant. _Gal_. Ay, _Aminta_, in every thing but Love; And sure they cannot be in that: What say'st thou, _Olinda_? _Oli_. Madam, my Judgment's naught. Love I have treated as a stranger Guest, Receiv'd him well, not lodg'd him in my Breast. I ne'er durst give the unknown Tyrant room; Lest he should make his resting place his home. _Gal_. Then thou art happy; but if _Erminia_ fail, I shall not live to reproach her. _Am_. Nay, Madam, do not think of dying yet: There is a way, if we could think of it. _Gal. Aminta_, when will thou this Humour lose? _Am_. Faith, never, if I might my Humour chuse. _Gal_. Methinks thou now should'st blush to bid me live. _Am_. Madam, 'tis the best counsel I can give. _Gal_. Thy Counsel! Prithee, what dost counsel now? _Am_. What I would take my self I counsel you. _Gal_. You must my Wounds and my Misfortunes bear Before you can become my Counsellor. You cannot guess the Torments I endure: Not knowing the Disease you'll miss the Cure. _Am_. Physicians, Madam, can the Patient heal Although the Malady they ne'er did feel; But your Disease is epidemical, Nor can I that evade that conquers all. I lov'd, and never did like pleasure know, Which Passion did with time less vigorous grow. _Gal_. Why, hast thou lost it? _Gal_. My Heart, _Aminta_, is not like to thine. _Gal_. Art thou a Lover then, and look'st so gay, But thou hast ne'er a Father to obey. [_Sighing_. _Am_. Why, if I had I would obey him too. _Gal_. 'Tis more than I can do. _Enter_ Erminia _weeping_. _Gal_. Indeed I dare not say my cause of grief Does yours exceed, since both are past relief. But if your Fates unequal do appear, _Erminia_, 'tis my heart that odds must bear. _Er_. Madam, 'tis just I should to you resign, But here you challenge what is only mine: My Fate so cruel is, it will not give Leave to _Philander_ (if I die) to live: Might I but suffer all, 'twere some content, But who can live and see this languishment? You, Madam, do alone your Sorrows bear, Which would be less, did but _Alcippus_ share; As Lovers we agree, I'll not deny, But thou art lov'd again, so am not I. _Am_. Madam, that grief the better is sustain'd, That's for a loss that never yet was gain'd; You only lose a man that does not know How great the honour is which you bestow; Who dares not hope you love, or if he did, Your Greatness would his just return forbid; His humble thoughts durst ne'er to you aspire, At most he would presume but to admire; Or if it chanc'd he durst more daring prove, You still must languish and conceal your Love. _Gal_. This which you argue lessens not my Pain, My Grief's the same were I belov'd again. The King my Father would his promise keep, And thou must him enjoy for whom I weep. _Er_. Ah, would I could that fatal gift deny; Without him you; and with him, I must die; My Soul your royal Brother does adore, And I, all Passion, but from him, abhor; But if I must th'unsuit _Alcippus_ wed, I vow he ne'er shall come into my Bed. _Er_. Madam, it is unkind, though but to fear Ought but _Philander_ can inhabit here. [_Lays her hand on her heart_. _Gal_. Ah, that _Alcippus_ did not you approve, We then might hope these mischiefs to remove; The King my Father might be won by Prayer, And my too powerful Brother's sad despair, To break his word, which kept will us undo: And he will lose his dear _Philander_ too, Who dies and can no remedies receive: But vows that 'tis for you alone he'll live. SCENE III. _A room in the house of_ Orgulius. _Enter_ Orgulius, Erminia _weeping, and_ Isillia. _Er_. Sir, does your fatal resolution hold? _Org_. Away, away, you are a foolish Girl, And look with too much pride upon your Beauty; Which like a gaudy flower that springs too soon, Withers e'er fully blown. Your very Tears already have betray'd Its weak inconstant nature; _Alcippus_, should he look upon thee now, would swear thou wert not that fine thing he lov'd. _Er_. Why should that blessing turn to my despair? Curse on his Faith that told him I was fair. _Org_. 'Tis strange to me you shou'd despise this Fortune, I always thought you well inclin'd to love him, I would not else have thus dispos'd of you. _Org. Erminia_, thou art young, and canst not see The advantage of the Fortune offer'd thee. _Er_. Alas, Sir, there is something yet behind. [_Sighs_. _Org_. What is't, _Erminia_? freely speak thy mind. _Er_. Ah, Sir, I dare not, you inrag'd will grow. _Er_. No, Sir, it is no crime, or if it be, Let Prince _Philander_ make the Peace for me; He 'twas that taught the Sin (if Love be such.) _Org. Erminia_, peace, he taught you then too much. _Er_. Nay, Sir, you promis'd me you wou'd not blame My early Love, if 'twere a noble Flame. _Org_. Than this a more unhappy could not be; Destroy it, or expect to hear of me. [_Offers to go out_. _Er_. Alas, I know 'twould anger you, when known. [_She stays him_. _Org. Erminia_, you are wondrous daring grown. Where got you courage to admit his Love, Before the King or I did it approve? _Er_. I borrow'd Courage from my Innocence, And my own Virtue, Sir, was my defence. _Philander_ never spoke but from a Soul, That all dishonest Passions can controul; With Flames as chaste as Vestals that did burn, From whence I borrow'd mine, to make return. _Org_. Your Love from Folly, not from Virtue grew; You never could believe he'd marry you. _Er_. Upon my life no other thing he spoke, But those from dictates of his Honour took. _Org_. Preserve my Credit, and thy Honour too. _Er_. By such resolves you me to ruin bring. _Org_. That's better than to disoblige my King. _Er_. But if the King his liking do afford, Would you not with _Alcippus_ break your word? Or would you not to serve your Prince's life, Permit your Daughter to become his Wife? _Org_. His Wife, _Erminia_! if I did believe Thou could'st to such a thought a credit give, I would the interest of a Father quit, And you, _Erminia_, have no need of it: Without his aid you can a Husband chuse; Gaining the Prince you may a Father lose. _Er_. Ungrateful Duty, whose uncivil Pride By Reason is not to be satisfy'd; Who even Love's Almighty Power o'erthrows, Or does on it too rigorous Laws impose; Who bindest up our Virtue too too strait, And on our Honour lays too great a weight. Coward, whom nothing but thy power makes strong; Whom Age and Malice bred t'affright the young; Here thou dost tyrannize to that degree, That nothing but my Death will set me free. [_Ex_. Erm. _and_ Isil. SCENE IV. Philander's _Apartments_. _Enter_ Philander _and_ Alcander. _Alcan_. It was somewhat strange, Sir; But yet perhaps he knew not that you lov'd her. _Alcan_. Then 'twas a flame conceal'd from you alone, To the whole Court, besides, 'twas visible. He knew you would not suffer it to burn out; And therefore waited till his services Might give encouragement to's close design. If that could do't he nobly has endeavour'd it, But yet I think you need not yield her, Sir. _Phi_. _Alcippus_, I confess, is brave enough, And by such ways I'll make him quit his claim; He shall to morrow to the Camp again, And then I'll own my Passion to the King; He loves me well, and I may hope his pity. _Till then be calm, my Heart, for if that fail_, [_Points to his Sword_. _This is the argument that will prevail_. THE REPRESENTATION OF THE WEDDING. _The Curtain must be let down, and soft Musick must play: The Curtain being drawn up, discovers a scene of a Temple: The_ King _sitting on a Throne, bowing down to join the hands_ Alcippus _and_ Erminia, _who kneel on the steps of the Throne; the Officers of the Court and Clergy standing in order by, with_ Orgulius. _This within the Scene. SCENE I. _The Palace_. _Enter_ Philander _and_ Galatea _inrag'd_. _Phi_. 'Tis done, 'tis done, the fatal knot is ty'd, _Erminia_ to _Alcippus_ is a Bride; Methinks I see the Motions of her Eyes, And how her Virgin Breasts do fall and rise: Her bashful Blush, her timorous Desire, Adding new Flame to his too vigorous Fire; Whilst he the charming Beauty must embrace, And shall I live to suffer this Disgrace? Shall I stand tamely by, and he receive That Heaven of bliss, defenceless she can give? No, Sister, no, renounce that Brother's name, Suffers his Patience to surmount his Flame; I'll reach the Victor's heart, and make him see, That Prize he has obtain'd belongs to me. _Gal_. Ah, dear _Philander_, do not threaten so, Whilst him you wound, you kill a Sister too. _Phi_. Though all the Gods were rallied on his side, They should too feeble prove to guard his Pride. Justice and Honour on my Sword shall sit, And my Revenge shall guide the lucky hit. _Gal_. Consider but the danger and the crime, And, Sir, remember that his life is mine. _Phi_. Peace, Sister, do not urge it as a sin, Of which the Gods themselves have guilty been: The Gods, my Sister, do approve Revenge By Thunder, which th'Almighty Ports unhinge, Such is their Lightning when poor Mortals fear, And Princes are the Gods inhabit here; Revenge has charms that do as powerful prove As those of Beauty, and as sweet as Love, The force of Vengeance will not be withstood, Till it has bath'd and cool'd it self in Blood. _Erminia_, sweet _Erminia_, thou art lost, And he yet lives that does the conquest boast. _Gal_. Brother, that Captive you can ne'er retrieve More by the Victor's death, than if he live, For she in Honour cannot him prefer, Who shall become her Husband's Murderer; By safer ways you may that blessing gain, When venturing thus through Blood and Death prove vain. _Gal_. Brother, if you can so inhuman prove To me your Sister, Reason, and to Love: I'll let you see that I have sentiments too, Can love and be reveng'd as well as you; That hour that shall a death to him impart, Shall send this Dagger to _Erminia's_ heart. [_Shews a Dagger_. _Phi_. Ah, Coward, how these words have made thee pale, And Fear above thy Courage does prevail: Ye Gods, why did you such a way invent? _Gal_. None else was left thy madness to prevent. _Gal_. The highest Love no Reason will admit, And Passion is above my Friendship yet. _Phi_. Then since I cannot hope to alter thee, Let me but beg that thou wouldst set me free; Free this poor Soul that such a coil does keep; 'Twill neither let me wake in Peace, nor sleep. Comfort I find a stranger to my heart, Nor canst thou ought of that but thus impart; Thou shouldst with joy a death to him procure, Who by it leaves _Alcippus'_ life secure. _Phi_. Though Hope be faithless, yet I cannot chuse, Coming from thee, but credit the abuse. _Gal. Philander_, do not your Hope's power distrust, 'Tis time enough to die, when that's unjust. SCENE II. _The Court Gallery_. _Enter_ Aminta _as passing over the Stage, is stayed by_ Olinda. _Oli_. Why so hasty, _Aminta_? _Am_. The time requires it, _Olinda_. _Oli_. But I have an humble suit to you. _Am_. You shall command me any thing. _Oli_. Pray Heaven you keep your word. _Am_. That sad tone of thine, _Olinda_, has almost Made me repent of my promise; but come, what is't? _Oli_. My Brother, Madam. _Am_. Now fie upon thee, is that all thy business? [_Offers to go off_. _Oli_. Stay, Madam, he dies for you. _Am_. He cannot do't for any Woman living; But well--it seems he speaks of Love to you; To me he does appear a very Statue. _Oli_. He nought but sighs and calls upon your name, And vows you are the cruell'st Maid that breathes. _Am_. Thou can'st not be in earnest sure. _Oli_. I'll swear I am, and so is he. _Am_. Nay, thou hast a hard task on't, to make Vows to all the Women he makes love to; Indeed I pity thee; ha, ha, ha. _Oli_. You should not laugh at those you have undone. _Hang Love, for I will never pine For any Man alive; Nor shall this jolly Heart of mine The thoughts of it receive; I will not purchase Slavery At such a dangerous rate; But glory in my Liberty, And laugh at Love and Fate_. _Oli_. You'll kill him by this cruelty. _Am_. What is't thou call'st so? For I have hitherto given no denials, Nor has he given me cause; I have seen him wildly gaze upon me often, And sometimes blush and smile, but seldom that; And now and then found fault with my replies, And wonder'd where the Devil lay that wit, Which he believ'd no Judge of it could find. _Oli_. Faith, Madam, that's his way of making love. _Am_. It will not take with me, I love a Man Can kneel, and swear, and cry, and look submiss, As if he meant indeed to die my Slave: Thy Brother looks--but too much like a Conqueror. [_Sighs_. _Oli_. How, _Aminta_, can you sigh in earnest? _Oli_. May I believe this? _Falatius_, welcome from the Wars; I'm glad to see y'ave scap'd the dangers of them. _Fal_. Not so well scap'd neither, Madam, but I Have left still a few testimonies of their Severity to me. [_Points to his face_. _Oli_. That's not so well, believe me. _Fal_. Nor so ill, since they be such as render us No less acceptable to your fair Eyes, Madam! But had you seen me when I gain'd them, Ladies, In that heroick posture. _Fal_. In that of fighting, Madam; You would have call'd to mind that antient story Of the stout Giants that wag'd War with Heaven; Just so I fought, and for as glorious prize, Your excellent Ladiship. _Am_. For me, was it for me you ran this hazard then? _Enter to them_ Alcander, _who seeing them would turn back, but_ Olinda _stays him_. _Oli_. Brother, come back. _Fal_. Advance, advance, what, Man, afraid of me? _Alcan_. How can she hold discourse with that Fantastick. [_Aside_. _Fal_. Come forward, and be complaisant. [_Pulls him again_. _Alcan_. That's most proper for your Wit, _Falatius_. _Alcan_. Away, thou art deceiv'd. _Am_. You've lost your sleep, which puts you out of humour. _Alcan_. He's damn'd will lose a moment on't for you. _Am_. Who is't that has displeas'd you? _Alcan_. You have, and took my whole repose away, And more than that, which you ne'er can restore; I can do nothing as I did before. When I would sleep, I cannot do't for you, My Eyes and Fancy do that form pursue; And when I sleep, you revel in my Dreams, And all my Life is nothing but extremes. When I would tell my love, I seem most rude, For that informs me how I am subdu'd. Gods, you're unjust to tyrannize o'er me, When thousands fitter for't than I go free. [_Ex_. _Fal_. Why, what the Devil has possest _Alcander_? _Oli_. How like you this, _Aminta_? _Am_. Better and better, he's a wondrous man. [_Exeunt_ Am. _and_ Oli. _Fal_. 'Tis the most unjanty humour that ever I saw; Ay, ay, he is my Rival, No marvel an he look'd so big upon me; He is damnable valiant, and as jealous as He is valiant; how shall I behave my Self to him, and these too idle humours of his I cannot yet determine; the comfort is, He knows I am a Coward whatever face I set upon it. Well, I must either resolve never to provoke His Jealousy, or be able to rencounter his Other fury, his Valour; that were a good Resolve if I be not past all hope. _Enter_ Alcippus _and_ Erminia, _as in a Bed-Chamber_. _Alcip_. But still methinks, _Erminia_, you are sad, A heaviness appears in those fair Eyes, As if your Soul were agitating something Contrary to the pleasure of this night. _Alcip_. You strangely bless me in but saying so. _Er. Alcippus_, I've an humble suit to you. _Alcip_. All that I have is so intirely thine, And such a Captive thou hast made my Will, Thou needst not be at the expence of wishing For what thou canst desire that I may grant; Why are thy Eyes declin'd? _Er_. To satisfy a little modest scruple; I beg you would permit me, Sir- _Alcip_. To lie alone to night, is it not so, _Erminia_? _Er_. It is- _Alcip_. That's too severe, yet I will grant it thee? But why, _Erminia_, must I grant it thee? _Er_. The Princess, Sir, questions my Power, and says, I cannot gain so much upon your Goodness. _Alcip_. I could have wish'd some other had oblig'd thee to't. _Er_. You would not blame her if you knew her reason. _Er_. What did he own? _Alcip. Erminia_, is this brave or just in you, To pay his score of Love with what's my due? What's your design to treat me in this sort? Are sacred Vows of Marriage made your sport? Regard me well, _Erminia_, what am I? _Alcip_. But why, _Erminia_, did you give it so? _Er_. T'obey a King and cruel Father too. A Friendship, Sir, I can on you bestow, But that will hardly into Passion grow; And 'twill an Act below your Virtue prove, To force a Heart you know can never love. _Alcip_. Am I the mask to hide your Blushes in, I the contented Fool to veil your Sin? Have you already learnt that trick at Court, Both how to practise and secure your sport? Brave Mistress of your Art, is this the way, My Service and my Passion to repay? Will nothing but a Prince your pleasure fit, And could you think that I would wink at it? Recal that Folly, or by all that's good, I'll free the Soul that wantons in thy Blood. [_He in rage takes her by the arm, shews a dagger_. [_He holds her still and gazes on her_. _Alcip_. Where dost thou think thy ungrateful Soul will go, Loaded with wrongs to me, should I strike now? _Er_. To some blest place, where Lovers do reside, Free from the noise of Jealousy and Pride; Where we shall know no other Power but Love, And where even thou wilt soft and gentle prove; So gentle, that if I should meet thee there, Thou would'st allow, what thou deny'st me here. _Er_. I must confess your Fears are seeming just, But here to free you from the least mistrust, I swear, whilst I'm your Wife I'll not allow Birth to a Thought that tends to injuring you. _Alcip_. Madam, you strangely do improve my pain, To give me hopes you must recal again. _Er. Alcippus_, you this language will forbear, When you shall know how powerful you are; For whilst you here endeavour to subdue, The best of Women languishes for you. _Er. Alcippus_, you mistake me every where. _Alcip_. To whom, _Erminia_, do I owe this Fate? _Er_. To morrow all her story I'll relate. Till then the promise I the Princess made, I beg you would permit might be obey'd. _Alcip_. You, Madam, with so many charms assail, You need not question but you shall prevail; Thy power's not lessen'd in thy being mine, But much augmented in my being thine, The glory of my chains may raise me more, But I am still that Slave I was before. [_Exeunt severally_. SCENE IV. Philander's _Bed-chamber_. _Phi_. What's a Clock, _Alcander_? _Alcan_. 'Tis midnight, Sir, will you not go to bed? _Phi_. To bed, Friend; what to do? _Alcan_. To sleep, Sir, as you were wont to do. _Phi_. Sleep, and _Erminia_ have abandon'd me; I'll never sleep again. _Alcan_. This is an humour, Sir, you must forsake. _Phi_. Never, never, oh _Alcander_. Dost know where my _Erminia_ lies to night? _Alcan_. I guess, Sir. _Phi_. Where? Nay, prithee speak, Indeed I shall not be offended at it. _Alcan_. I know not why you should, Sir; She's where she ought, abed with young _Alcippus_. _Phi_. Thou speak'st thy real Thoughts. _Alcan_. Why should your Highness doubt it? _Phi_. By Heaven, there is no faith in Woman-kind; _Alcander_, dost thou know an honest Woman? _Phi_. I do not think it, 'tis impossible; _Erminia_, if it could have been, were she, But she has broke her Vows, which I held sacred, And plays the wanton in another's arms. _Alcan_. Sir, do you think it just to wrong her so? _Phi_. Oh, would thou couldst persuade me that I did so. Thou know'st the Oaths and Vows she made to me, Never to marry other than my self, And you, _Alcander_, wrought me to believe them. But now her Vows to marry none but me, Are given to _Alcippus_, and in his bosom breath'd, With balmy whispers, whilst the ravisht Youth For every syllable returns a kiss, And in the height of all his extasy, _Philander's_ dispossess'd and quite forgotten. Ah, charming Maid, is this your Love to me? Yet now thou art no Maid, nor lov'st not me, And I the fool to let thee know my weakness. _Alcan_. Why do you thus proceed to vex your self? To question what you list, and answer what you please? Sir, this is not the way to be at ease. _Phi_. Ah, dear _Alcander_, what would'st have me do? _Alcan_. Do that which may preserve you; Do that which every Man in love would do; Make it your business to possess the object. _Phi_. Pray Heaven I do not think too well of thee: What means all this discourse, art thou honest? _Alcan_. As most Men of my Age. _Phi_. And wouldst thou counsel me to such a Sin? For--I do understand--thee. _Alcan_. I know not what you term so. _Phi_. I never thought thou'dst been so great a Villain, To urge me to a crime would damn us all; Why dost thou smile, hast thou done well in this? _Alcan_. I thought so, or I'ad kept it to my self. Sir, e'er you grow in rage at what I've said, Do you think I love you, or believe my life Were to be valued more than your repose? You seem to think it is not. _Phi_. Possibly I may. _Phi_. And canst thou have so poor a thought of her? _Alcan_. I hope you'll find her, Sir, as willing to't As I am to suppose it; nay, believe't, She'll look upon't as want of Love and Courage Should you not now attempt it; You know, Sir, there's no other remedy, Take no denial, but the Game pursue, For what she will refuse, she wishes you. _Phi_. With such pretensions--she may angry grow. _Alcan_. I never heard of any that were so, For though the will to do't, and power they want, They love to hear of what they cannot grant. _Phi_. No more, Is this your duty to your Prince, _Alcander_? You were not wont to counsel thus amiss, 'Tis either Disrespect or some Design; I could be wondrous angry with thee now, But that my Grief has such possession here, 'Twill make no room for Rage. _Alcan_. I cannot, Sir, repent of what I've said, Since all the errors which I have committed Are what my passion to your interest led me to, But yet I beg your Highness would recal That sense which would persuade you 'tis unjust. _Phi_. Name it no more, and I'll forgive it thee. _Alcan_. I can obey you, Sir. _Phi_. What shall we do to night, I cannot sleep. _Alcan_. I'm good at watching, and doing any thing. _Enter a_ Page _of the_ Prince's. _Phi_. How now, Boy, Is the Musick ready which I spoke for? _Page_. They wait your Highness's command. _Phi_. Bid them prepare, I'm coming. [_Ex. Page_. Soft touches may allay the Discords here, And sweeten, though not lessen my Despair. SCENE V. _The Court Gallery_. _Enter_ Pisaro _alone_. _Pis_. Ha! who's that? a Lover, on my life, This amorous malady reigns every where; Nor can my Sister be an ignorant Of what I saw this night in _Galatea_: I'll question her--Sister, _Aminta_, Sister. [_Calls as at her Lodgings_. _Lys_. Who calls my Lady? _Pis_. Where's my Sister? _Lys_. I cry your Lordship's mercy; My Lady lies not in her Lodgings to night; The Princess sent for her, Her Highness is not well. [_She goes in_. _Pis_. I do believe it, good night, _Lysette_. _Page_. Your Lordship's Page. _Pis_. Where hast thou been? I wanted thee but now. _Page_. I fell asleep i'th' Lobby, Sir, and had not waken'd Yet, but for the Musick which plays at the Lodgings Of my Lady _Erminia_. _Well, Friend, thou hast a sure defence of me, My Love is yet below my Amity_. SCENE VI. _Draws off, discovers_ Philander_ and_ Alcander _with Musick at the Chamber-door of_ Erminia; _to them_ Pisaro, _who listens whilst the Song is sung_. The Song for the _Page_ to sing at _Erminia's_ Chamber-door. Amintas _that true-hearted Swain Upon a River's bank was laid, Where to the pitying streams he did complain Of_ Sylvia _that false charming Maid, But she was still regardless of his pain: Oh faithless_ Sylvia! _would he cry, And what he said the Echoes would reply_. Be kind or else I die, _E_. I die. Be kind or else I die, _E_. I die. _A shower of tears his eyes let fall, Which in the River made impress, Then sigh'd, and_ Sylvia _false again would call, A cruel faithless Shepherdess. Is Love with you become a criminal? Ah lay aside this needless scorn, Allow your poor Adorer some return_, Consider how I burn, _E_. I burn. Consider, &c. _Those Smiles and Kisses which you give. Remember_, Sylvia, _are my due; And all the Joys my Rival does receive He ravishes from me, not you. Ah_ Sylvia, _can I live and this believe? Insensibles are touched to see My languishments, and seem to pity me_. Which I demand of thee, _E_. of thee, Which I demand, &c. _Pis_. What's all this? _Pis_. A Man, a Friend to the General. _Phi_. Then thou'rt an Enemy to all good Men. Does the ungrateful Wretch hide his own head, And send his Spies abroad? _Pis_. He is too great to fear, and needs them not: And him thou termest so, scorns the Office too. _Phi_. What makest thou here then, when the whole World's asleep? Be gone, there lies thy way, where'er thy business be. _Pis_. It lies as free for thee, and here's my business. _Phi_. Thou lyest, rude man. _Pis_. Why, what art thou darest tell me so i'th' dark? Day had betray'd thy blushes for this Boldness. _Phi_. Tell me who 'tis that dares capitulate? _Phi_. Draw then, and keep thy word. _Phi_. Hast thou no hurt? _Alcan_. I think not much, yet somewhere 'tis I bleed. _Pis_. What a dull beast am I! [_Exeunt_ Prince _and_ Alcan. _Page_. My Lord, is't you are fallen? Help, Murder! Murder! _Pis_. Hold, bawling Dog. _Enter_ Alcippus _in a Night-gown, with a Sword in his hand, a_ Page _with Lights_. _Alcip_. 'Twas hereabouts--who's this, _Pisaro_ wounded? [_He looks up_. How cam'st thou thus? Come up into my Arms. _Pis_. 'Twill be unkind both to your self and me. SCENE VII. The Court Gallery. _Enter_ Philander _and_ Alcander _with a Light_. _Alcan_. He's gone, whoe'er he be. _Phi_. It could not be _Alcippus_. _Enter_ Erminia _in her Night-gown, and_ lsillia _with Lights_. _Phi_. Ah, Madam, cease that fear, they both are safe From all but from the Wounds which you have given them. _Er_. Oh Gods, what make you here! and where's _Alcippus_? _Phi_. Where I had been had Heaven been bountiful. _Phi_. Why all this high concern, _Erminia_? Has he so reconcil'd you to him since I saw you last? This is not kind to me. _Er_. Oh, tell me not of kindness, where's _Alcippus_? _Alcan_. Madam, of whom do you demand _Alcippus_? Neither of us have seen him. _Phi_. Go, you are a Woman, a vain peevish Creature. _Er_. Sir, 'tis but just you should excuse my Fear, _Alcippus_ is my Husband, and his Safety Ought to become my care. _Phi_. How, _Erminia_! Can you so soon yield up my right to him, And not blush whilst you own your Perjury? _Er_. Now, Sir, you are much to blame; I could have borne the rest, but this concerns me: I fear I have but too well kept my Vows with you, Since you are grown but to suspect I have not. _Phi_. Pardon me, Dear, the errors of my Passion; It was a Sin so natural, That even thy unkindly taking it Approach'd too near it, not to gain my Pardon; But tell me why you askt me for _Alcippus_? _Phi_. Thou hast restor'd me to a world of Joys, By what thou now hast said. _Enter_ Alcippus, _his Sword in his Hand, a_ Page _with Light, he stands a while_. _Er. Alcippus_, oh my fears! [_Goes to them, takes her by the hand_. _Alcip_. Yes, Madam, Too soon arriv'd for his and your repose. _Phi. Alcippus_, touch her not. _Alcip_. Not touch her! by Heaven, I will, And who shall hinder me? Who is't dares say I shall not touch my Wife? _Phi_. Villain, thou ly'st. _Alcip_. That y'are my Prince shall not defend you here. Draw, Sir, for I have laid respect aside. [_Strikes, they fight a little_, Alcippus _is wounded_, Alcander _supports him_. _Phi_. Life of my Soul, retire, I cannot hear that Voice and disobey; And you must needs esteem him at low rates, Who sells thee and his Honour for a Tear. _Phi_. You are too great a Tyrant where you may. [_Exeunt_ Erminia _and_ Alcippus. _Phi_. Force the bold Ravisher to resign my Right. _Alcander_, is not she my Wife, and I his Prince? _Phi_. Fitter than this, _Alcander_? _Alcan_. This night _Erminia's_ Promise may repose you; To morrow is your own-Till then I beg you'd think your interest safe. _Phi. Alcander_, thou hast peace about thee, and canst judge Better than I, 'twixt what is just and fit. [_Puts up his Sword_. I hitherto believ'd my Flame was guided By perfect Reason: so we often find Vessels conducted by a peaceful Wind, And meet no opposition in their way, Cut a safe passage through the flattering Sea: But when a Storm the bounding Vessel throws, It does each way with equal rage oppose; For when the Seas are mad, could that be calm Like me, it wou'd be ruin'd in the Storm. SCENE I. _The apartments of_ Alcippus. _Enter_ Alcippus _and_ Pisaro. _Pis_. 'Tis much, my Lord, you'll not be satisfy'd. _Pis_. Nay, now you urge me to impossibility: Good faith, I cannot tell, but guess the Prince. _Alcip_. 'Tis true, _Pisaro_, 'twas indeed the Prince. But what was th'occasion? _Pis_. He call'd me Spy, and I return'd th'affront, But took no notice that he was my Prince: It was a Folly I repented of; But 'twas in a damn'd melancholy Mood. _Alcip_. Was it a going in or coming out? _Alcip. Erminia's_ Chamber; prithee let me know, For I have fears that take away my sleep, Fears that will make me mad, stark mad, _Pisaro_. _Pis_. You do not well to fear without a cause. _Alcip_. O Friend, I saw what thou canst ne'er conceive; Last night I saw it when I came from thee: And if thou go'st about t'impose upon me, I'll cast thee from my Soul. Come out with it, I see thy breast heave with a generous ardour, As if it scorn'd to harbour a reserve, Which stood not with its Amity to me. Could I but know my Fate, I could despise it: But when 'tis clad in Robes of Innocence, The Devil cannot 'scape it: Something Was done last night that gnaws my heart-strings; And many things the Princess too let fall, Which, Gods! I know not how to put together. And prithee be not thou a Ridler too: But if thou knew'st of ought that may concern me, Make me as wise as thou art. _Pis_. Sir, you are of so strange a jealous Humour, And I so strangely jealous of your Honour, That 'twixt us both we may make work enough; But on my Soul I know no wrong you have. _Alcip_. I must believe thee, yet methinks thy Face Has put on an unwonted gravity. _Pis_. That, _Alcippus_, you'll not wonder at, When you shall know you are my Rival. _Alcip_. Nay, why shouldst thou delay me thus with stories? This shall not put me off. _Alcip_. Thou hast amaz'd me, prithee speak more clearly. _Pis_. My Lord, the Princess has a passion for you, Have I not reason now to be your Enemy? _Alcip_. Not till I make returns: But now I'm past redemption miserable. 'Twas she _Erminia_ told me dy'd for me; And I believ'd it but a slight of hers, To put me from my Courtship. _Pis_. No, 'twas a fatal Truth: _Alcippus_, hadst thou seen her, whilst the Priest Was giving thee to fair _Erminia_, What languishment appear'd upon her Eyes, Which never were remov'd from thy lov'd Face, Through which her melting Soul in drops distill'd, As if she meant to wash away thy Sin, In giving up that Right belong'd to her, Thou hadst without my aid found out this truth: A sweet composure dwelt upon her looks, Like Infants who are smiling whilst they die; Nor knew she that she wept, so unconcern'd And freely did her Soul a passage find; Whilst I transported had almost forgot The Reverence due t'her sacred self and Place, And every moment ready was to kneel, And with my lips gather the precious drops, And rob the Holy Temple of a Relick, Fit only there t'inhabit. _Alcip_. I never thought thou'dst had this Softness in thee. How cam'st thou, Friend, to hide all this from me? _Pis_. My Lord, I knew not that I was a Lover; I felt no flame, but a religious Ardour, That did inspire my Soul with adoration; And so remote I was from ought but such, I knew not Hope, nor what it was to wish For other blessings than to gaze upon her: Like Heaven I thought she was to be possess'd, Where carnal Thoughts can no admittance find; And had I not perceiv'd her Love to you, I had not known the nature of my flame: But then I found it out by Jealousy, And what I took for a Seraphick motion, I now decline as criminal and earthly. _Pis_. I have nought to say to her dishonour, Sir, But something may be done may give you cause To stand upon your Guard; And if your Rage do not the mastery get, I cannot doubt but what you'll be happy yet. _Alcip_. I do believe thee, and will tell thee something That past between the Prince and I last night; And then thou wilt conclude me truly miserable. SCENE II. _The Palace_. _Enter_ Falatius, Labree, _as passing by they meet_ Cleontius. [Fal. _puts off his Hat a little, and passes on_. _Cle_. Do you not know me? _Fal_. Yes, I have seen you, and think you are _Cleontius_, A Servant of the Prince's; wert i'th' Campania too, If I mistake not. _Cle_. Can you recal me by no better instances? _Fal_. What need of any, pray? _Cle_. I am a Gentleman. _Fal_. Ha, _Labree_, what means he now? By _Jove_, I do not question it, _Cleontius_: What need this odd Punctilio? I call thee to no account. _Cle_. That's more than I can say to you, Sir. _Fal_. I'll excuse you for that. _Cle_. But shall not need, Sir; stay, I have a Sister. _Fal_. Oh, the Devil, now he begins. _Cle_. A handsome Sister too, or you deceiv'd her. _Lab_. Bear up, Sir, be not huft. [_Aside_. _Fal_. It may be so, but is she kind, _Cleontius_? [Fal. _bears up_. _Fal_. Will she do reason, or so? you understand me. _Cle_. I understand that thou'rt an impudent fellow, Whom I must cudgel into better manners. _Fal_. Pox on't, who bears up now, _Labree_? _Cle_. Beat thee till thou confess thou art an Ass, And on thy knees confess it to _Isillia_, Who after that shall scorn thee. _Lab_. Railly with him, Sir, 'tis your only way, and put it Off with a jest; for he's in fury, but dares not Strike i'th' Court. _Fal_. But must you needs do this, needs fight, _Cleontius_? _Cle_. Yes, by all means, I find my self inclin'd to't. _Fal_. You shall have your desire, Sir, farewel. _Cle_. When, and where? _Fal_. Faith, very suddenly, for I think it will not be Hard to find men of your trade, Men that will fight as long as you can do, And Men that love it much better than I, Men that are poor and damn'd, fine desperate Rogues, Rascals that for a Pattacoon a Man Will fight their Fathers, And kiss their Mothers into peace again: Such, Sir, I think will fit you. _Cle_. Abusive Coward, hast thou no sense of honour? _Fal_. Sense of honour! ha, ha, ha, poor _Cleontius_. _Enter_ Aminta _and_ Olinda. _Am_. How now, Servant, why so jovial? _Fal_. I was laughing, Madam--at- _Cle_. At what, thou thing of nothing- _Am_. Cousin _Cleontius_, you are angry. _Cle_. Madam, it is unjustly then, for Fools Should rather move the Spleen to Mirth than Anger. _Am_. You've too much wit to take ought ill from him: Let's know your quarrel. _Fal_. By _Jove, Labree_, I am undone again. _Cle_. Madam, it was about- _Fal_. Hold, dear _Cleontius_, hold, and I'll do any thing. [_Aside_. _Cle_. Just nothing- _Fal_. He was a little too familiar with me. _Cle_. Madam, my Sister _Isillia_- _Fal_. A curse, he will out with it- [_Aside, pulls him by the Arm_. _Cle_. Confess she is your Mistress. [_Aside_. _Fal_. I call my Mistress, Madam. _Am_. My Cousin _Isillia_ your Mistress! Upon my word, you are a happy Man. _Fal_. By _Jove_, if she be your Cousin, Madam, I love her much the better for't. _Am_. I am beholding to you, But then it seems I have lost a Lover of you. _Cle_. Confess she has, or I'll so handle you. _Fal_. That's too much, _Cleontius_--but I will, By _Jove_, Madam, I must not have a Mistress that Has more Wit than my self, they ever require More than a Man's able to give them. _Oli_. Is this your way of Courtship to _Isillia_? _Fal_. By _Jove_, Ladies, you get no more of that from me, 'Tis that has spoiled you all; I find _Alcander_ can Do more with a dumb show, than I with all my Applications and Address. _Oli_. Why, my Brother can speak. _Am_. Why should you think I do? _Fal_. Devil, I see't well enough by your continual Quarrels with him. _Fal_. Ever while you live, you treat me too Well ever to hope. _Enter_ Alcander, _kneels, offers his Sword to_ Aminta. _Am_. What have you done to merit it? _Alcan_. Do not ask, but do't. _Alcan_. I think I've kill'd _Pisaro_. _Am_. My Brother dead! [_She falls into the arms of_ Oli. _Fal_. Madam, look up, 'tis I that call. _Am_. I care not who thou beest, but if a Man, Revenge me on _Alcander_. [_She goes out with_ Oli. _Alcan_. Come back and do your duty e'er you go. [_Pulls him_. _Fal_. I owe you much, _Alcander_. _Alcan. Amimta_ said you should revenge her on me. _Fal_. Her Word's not Law I hope. _Alcan_. And I'll obey- _Fal_. That may do much indeed. [Fal. _answers with great signs of fear_. _Alcan_. This, if thou wert a Man, she bad thee do, Why dost thou shake? _Fal_. No, no, Sir, I am not the man she meant. _Alcan_. No matter, thou wilt serve as well. A Lover! and canst disobey thy Mistress? _Fal_. I do disown her, since she is so wicked To bid me kill my Friend. Why, thou'rt my Friend, _Alcander_. _Alcan_. I'll forgive thee that. _Fal_. So will not his Majesty: I may be hang'd for't. _Alcan_. Thou should'st be damn'd e'er disobey thy Mistress. _Fal_. These be degrees of Love I am not yet arriv'd at; When I am, I shall be as ready to be damn'd In honour as any Lover of you all. _Alcan_. Ounds, Sir, d'ye railly with me? _Fal_. Your pardon, sweet _Alcander_, I protest I am Not in so gay an humour. _Alcan_. Farewell, I had forgot my self. [_Exit_. _Fal_. Stark mad, by _Jove_--yet it may be not, for _Alcander_ has many unaccountable humours. Well, if this be agreeable to _Aminta_, she's e'en as mad As he, and 'twere great pity to part them. _Enter_ Pisaro, Aminta, _and_ Olinda. _Am_. Well, have you kill'd him? _Am_. Oh, dear _Falatius_, run and fetch him back. _Fal_. Madam, I have so lately 'scap'd a scouring, That I wish you would take it for a mark Of my Passion to disobey you; For he is in a damn'd humour. _Am_. He's out of it by this, I warrant you; But do not tell him that _Pisaro_ lives. _Fal_. That's as I shall find occasion. [_Exit_ Fal. _Pis. Alcander_ is a worthy Youth and brave, I wish you would esteem him so; 'Tis true, there's now some difference between us, Our Interests are dispos'd to several ways, But Time and Management will join us all: I'll leave you; but prithee make it thy business To get my Pardon for last night's rudeness. _Am_. I shall not fail. _Re-enter_ Falatius, _with_ Alcander _melancholy_. _Fal_. Here, Madam, here he is. _Am_. Tell me, _Alcander_, why you treat me thus? You say you love me, if I could believe you. _Alcan_. Believe a Man! away, you have no wit, I'll say as much to every pretty Woman. _Am_. But I have given you no cause to wrong me. _Alcan_. That was my Fate, not Fault, I knew him not: But yet to make up my offence to you, I offer you my life; for I'm undone, If any faults of mine should make you sad. _Am_. Here, take your Sword again, my Brother's well. [_She gives him his Sword again_. _Fal_. Yes, by _Jove_, as I am: you had been finely serv'd, If I had kill'd you now. _Am_. What, sorry for the news? ha, ha, ha. _Alcan_. No, sorry y'are a Woman, a mere Woman. _Am_. Why, did you ever take me for a Man? ha, ha. _Fal_. By Jove, there is no truth in them, that's flat. [_She looks sad_. _Fal_. Here's he that fits you, Ladies. _Am_. Nay, now y'are too unjust, and I will leave you. _Alcan_. Ah, do not go, I know not by what Magick, [_Holds her_. But as you move, my Soul yields that way too. _Fal_. The truth on't is, she has a strong magnetick Power, that I find. _Alcan_. But I would have none find it but my self, No Soul but mine shall sympathize with hers. _Fal_. Nay, that you cannot help. _Alcan_. Yes, but I can, and take it from thee, if I thought it did so. _Oli_. No quarrels here, I pray. _Fal_. Madam, I owe a Reverence to the Place. _Alcan_. I'll scarce allow thee that; Madam, I'll leave you to your Lover. _Am_. I hate thee but for saying so. _Alcan_. Quit him then. _Am_. So I can and thee too. [_Offers to go out_. _Alcan_. The Devil take me if you escape me so. [_Goes after her_. _Fal_. And I'll not be out-done in importunity. SCENE III. Galatea's _Apartments_. _Enter_ Galatea _and_ Erminia. _Er_. And 'tis an act below my Quality, Which, Madam, will not suffer me to fly. _Er_. Madam, in this your Bounty is severe, Be pleas'd to spare that repetition here. I hope no Action of my Life should be So rude to charge your Generosity: But, Madam, do you think it just to pay Your great Obligements by so false a way? _Alcippus'_ Passion merits some return, And should that prove but an ingrateful scorn? Alas, I am his Wife; to disobey, My Fame as well as Duty I betray. _Gal_. Perfidious Maid, I might have thought thou'dst prove False to thy Prince, and Rival in my Love. I thought too justly he that conquer'd me Had a sufficient power to captive thee; Thou'st now reveng'd thy Father's shame and thine, In taking thus _Philander's_ Life and mine. _Er_. Ah, Madam, that you would believe my tears, Or from my Vows but satisfy your Fears. By all the Gods, _Alcippus_ I do hate, And would do any thing to change my fate; Ought that were just and noble I dare do. _Er_. To your command should I submit to yield, Where could I from _Alcippus_ be conceal'd? What could defend me from his jealous Rage? _Gal_. Trust me, _Erminia_, I'll for that engage. _Er_. And then my Honour by that flight's o'erthrown. _Gal_. That being _Philander's_, he'll preserve his own; And that, _Erminia_, sure you'll ne'er distrust. _Er_. Ah, Madam, give me leave to fear the worst. _Am_. Madam, _Alcippus_ waits for your Commands, He's going to the Camp. _Enter_ Alcippus _and_ Pisaro. _Gal. Alcippus_, 'tis too soon to leave _Erminia_. _Alcip_. I wish she thought so, Madam, Or could believe with what regret I do so; She then would think the fault were much too small For such a Penance as my Soul must suffer. _Am_. No matter, Sir, you have the Year before you. _Gal_. I'ad rather you should treat me as a Mortal, Rise and begin to do so. [_He rises and bows_. _Alcip_. Now, Madam, what must I expect from you? _Er. Alcippus_, all that's to your Virtue due. _Alcip_. In that but common Justice you allow. _Er_. That Justice, Sir, is all I can bestow. _Pis_. You do forget your promise, and this Presence. [_Aside to_ Alcip. _Alcip_. 'Twas kindly urg'd, prithee be near me still, And tell me of the faults that look unmanly. _Gal_. Dear, if thou lov'st me, flatter him a little. [_To_ Er. _aside_. _Er_. 'Tis hard to do, yet I will try it, Madam. _Alcip_. Can you forgive the rashness of a Man, That knows no other Laws but those of Passion? _Alcip_. A few more syllables express'd like these, Will raise my Soul up to the worst extreme, And give me with your Scorn an equal torment. _Er_. See what power your language has upon me. [_Weeps_. _Er_. A Fate more glorious does that Life attend, And does preserve you for a nobler end. _Alcip. Erminia_, do not sooth my easy Heart, For thou my Fate, and thou my Fortune art; Whatever other blessings Heaven design, Without my dear _Erminia_, I'll decline. Yet, Madam, let me hope before I go, In pity that you ought to let me do: 'Tis all you shall allow m'impatient heart. _Er_. That's what against my will I must impart: But wish it please the Gods, when next we meet, We might as Friends, and not as Lovers greet. SCENE I. _The Palace_. _Enter_ Galatea _and_ Aminta, _met by_ Philander _and_ Alcander. _Phi_. So hasty, Sister! _Gal_. Brother, I am glad to meet you. _Aminta_ has some welcome News for you. _Am_. My Lord! _Erminia_ yet is hardly brought to yield; She wants but some encouragement from you, That may assist her weakness to subdue, And 'twas but faintly she deny'd to see you. _Phi_. However, I will venture, She can but chide, and that will soon be past: A Lover's Anger is not long to last. _Am. Isillia_ I have won to give you entrance. _Phi_. Love furnish me with powerful Arguments: Direct my Tongue, that my disorder'd Sense May speak my Passion more than Eloquence. [_Aside_. _Gal_. But is _Alcippus_ gone? _Alcan_. Madam, an hour since. _Gal_. 'Twas thither I was going. _Phi_. May'st thou be prosperous. [_Exeunt_ Phi. _and_ Gal. Aminta _and_ Alcander _stay_. _Am_. What now, _Alcander_? _Alcan_. As 'twas, _Aminta_. _Alcan_. Such a distracted Lover as you left me. _Am_. Such as I found you too, I fear, _Alcander_. _Am_. This will not serve to convince me, But you have lov'd before. _Alcan_. And will you never quit that error, Madam? _Am_. 'Tis what I've reason to believe, _Alcander_, And you can give me none for loving me: I'm much unlike _Lucinda_ whom you sigh'd for, I'm not so coy, nor so reserv'd as she; Nor so designing as _Florana_ your next Saint, Who starv'd you up with hope, till you grew weary; And then _Ardelia_ did restore that loss, The little soft _Ardelia_, kind and fair too. _Alcan_. You think you're wondrous witty now, _Aminta_, But hang me if you be. _Am_. Indeed, _Alcander_, no, 'tis simple truth: Then for your bouncing Mistress, long _Brunetta_, O that majestick Garb, 'tis strangely taking, That scornful Look, and Eyes that strike all dead That stand beneath them. _Alcander_, I have none of all these Charms: But well, you say you love me; could you be Content to dismiss these petty sharers in your Heart, And give it all to me; on these conditions I may do much. _Alcan. Aminta_, more perhaps than I may like. _Am_. Do not fear that, _Alcander_. _Alcan_. Your Jealousy incourages that Fear. _Am_. If I be so, I'm the fitter for your humour. _Am_. Nay, you shall not go, _Alcander_. _Alcan_. Fy on't, those Looks have lost their wonted Force, I knew you'd call me back to smile upon me, And then you have me sure; no, no, Aminta, I'll no more of that. [_Goes out_. SCENE II. _The Apartments of_ Alcippus. _Enter_ Alcippus _and_ Pisaro. _Pis_. You seem'd then to be pleas'd with what she said. _Alcip_. No, I'll let it run to its extent, And see what then 'twill do. Perhaps 'twill make me mad, or end my life, Either of which will ease me. _Pis_. Neither of these, _Alcippus_; It will unman you, make you too despis'd; And those that now admire will pity you. _Alcip_. What wouldst thou have me do? Am I not ty'd a Slave to follow Love, Whilst at my back Freedom and Honour waits, And I have lost the power to welcome them? Like those who meet a Devil in the night, And all afrighted gaze upon the Fury, But dare not turn their backs to what they fear, Though safety lie behind them. Alas! I would as willingly as those Fly from this Devil, Love. _Pis_. You may, like those afrighted, by degrees Allay your sense of terror in the Object, And then its Power will lesson with your Fear, And 'twill be easy to forgo the Fantasm. _Alcip_. No, then like the damn'd Ghost it follows me. _Pis_. Let Reason then approach it, and examine it. _Alcip_. Love is a surly and a lawless Devil, And will not answer Reason. I must encounter it some other way, For I will lay the Fiend. _Pis_. What would you have, _Alcippus_? _Pis_. Pardon me, Sir, if I refuse you here; I find you're growing up to Jealousies, Which I'll not trust alone with you. _Alcip_. Thou know'st perhaps of something worthy it. _Pis_. I must confess, your Passions give me cause, If I had any Secrets, to conceal them; But 'tis no time nor place to make disputes in: Will you to Horse? _Alcip_. Will you not think fit I should return then? I can be calm. _Pis_. But, Sir, suppose you find _Philander_ there? _Alcip_. Then I suppose I shall not much approve on't. _Alcip_. I am resolv'd I will not to the Camp, A secret inclination does persuade me To visit my _Erminia_ to night. _Pis_. Comes it from Love or Jealousy? _Pis_. Give me your hand, and promise to be calm. _Alcip_. By all our Friendships, as the Western Winds, [_Gives his hand_. Nothing that's done shall e'er inrage me more, Honour's the Mistress I'll henceforth adore. [_Exit_. _Pis_. I will not trust you though. [_Goes out another way_. SCENE III. _The Court Gallery_. _Enter_ Philander _and_ Alcander _in their Clokes muffled as in the dark_. _Alcan_. _Isillia_. [_Calls at the lodgings of_ Erminia. _Isil_. [_Entering_.] Who's there? _Isil_. My Lord _Alcander_? _Isil_. Where's the Prince? _Phi_. Here, _Isillia_. _Isil_. Give me your hand, my Lord, and follow me. _Phi_. To such a Heaven as thou conduct'st me to, Though thou should'st traverse Hell, I'd follow thee. _Alcan_. You'll come back in charity, _Isillia_? _Isil_. Yes, if I dare trust you alone with me. _Draws off, a Chamber, discovers_ Erminia _in a dishabit, sitting; to her_ Philander, _who falls at her feet, on his knees_. _Er_. My Lord the Prince, what makes your Highness here? _Phi. Erminia_, why do ask that needless question? 'Twas Love, Love that's unsatisfied, which brought me hither. [_Kneels_. _Er_. Rise, Sir, this posture would become me better. _Er_. Dear Sir, retire into this inner room, And there repose awhile: Alas, I see disorder in your Face. _Phi_. This confidence of me, is generous in thee. [_They go into the Scene which draws over_. SCENE V. _The Court Gallery_. _Alcan_. Who's there? _Isil_. [_Within_.] Oh Heavens! it is my Lord _Alcippus'_ voice. _Alcan_. Peace, _Isillia_. _Alcan_. This were an opportunity indeed To do my Prince a service, but I dare not. _Alcip_. What darest not do? _Alcan_. Not kill thee. _Alcip_. Is that thy business then? have at thee, Slave? I'll spoil your keeping doors. [_Runs at him_. [_They fight, and grapling_, Alcander _gets the Sword of_ Alcippus. He'as got my Sword, however, I'll lose no time: It may be 'tis his office to detain me. [_He goes in_. _Alcan_. I'm wounded, yet I will not leave him so; There may be Mischief in him, though unarm'd. SCENE VI. A Bed-chamber. _Discovers_ Erminia, Philander _sitting on the Bed, to them_ Isillia, _a Sword and Hat on the Table_. _Isil_. Ah, Madam, _Alcippus_. _Er. Alcippus_, where? _Isil_. I left him in a quarrel with _Alcander_, And hear him coming up. _Er_. For Heaven's sake, Sir, submit to be conceal'd. _Phi_. Not for the world, _Erminia_, My Innocence shall be my guard and thine. _Er_. Upon my knees I'll beg you'll be conceal'd, [_A noise_. He comes; _Philander_, for my safety go. _Phi_. I never did obey with more regret. [_He hides himself behind the Bed, and in haste leaves his Sword and Hat on the Table_; Alcippus _comes in_. _Alcip_. How now, _Erminia_? How comes it you are up so late? _Er_. I found my self not much inclin'd to sleep; I hope 'tis no offence. Why do you look so wildly round about you? _Alcip_. Methinks, _Erminia_, you are much confus'd. _Er_. Alas, you cannot blame me; _Isillia_ tells me you were much inrag'd Against a Lover she was entertaining. _Alcip_. A Lover--was that a time for Courtship? Such Actions, Madam, will reflect on you. [Isillia _goes to take the Hat and Sword and slide into her lap, which he sees, calls to her_. _Er_. Why do you ask- _Alcip_. To be inform'd, is that so great a wonder? _Er_. What is't you would know? _Phi_. Yes, base _Alcippus_, I have still that Courage, Th'effects of which thou hast beheld with wonder; And now being fortified by Innocence, Thou't find sufficient to chastise thy boldness: Restore my Sword, and prove the truth of this. _Phi_. Gods, am I tame, and hear the Traytor brave me? [_Offers to run into him_. I have resentment left, though nothing else. _Alcip_. Stand off, by all that's good, I'll kill thee else. [Er. _puts her self between_. _Phi_. Alas, I dare not leave thee here with him. _Er_. Trust me, Sir, I can make him calm again. _Alcip_. She counsels well, and I advise you take it. _Phi_. I will, but not for fear of thee or Death, But from th'assurance that her Power's sufficient To allay this unbecoming Fury in thee, And bring thee to repentance. [_He gives him his Sword_; Philander _goes out_, Alcippus _locks the door after him_. _Alcip_. To know where 'twas you learn'd this Impudence? Which you're too cunning in, Not to have been a stale practitioner. _Er_. Alas, what will you do? _Alcip_. Preserve thy Soul, if thou hast any sense Of future Joys, after this vile damn'd Action. _Er_. Ah, what have I done? [_He strangles her with a Garter, which he snatches from his Leg, or smothers her with a pillow_. _Er_. Hold, hold, and hear my Vows of Innocence. _Page_. My Lord, he's here. [Page _goes out_. _Pis_. Not speak with me! nay then I fear the worst. _Alcip_. Not for the world, _Pisaro_- [_Hides his face with his hand_, Pis. _sees_ Erminia. _Pis_. Thy guilt is here too plain, I need not read it in thy blushing face, She's dead and pale: Ah, sweet _Erminia_! _Alcip_. If she be dead, the fitter she's for me, She'll now be coy no more, nor cry I cannot love, And frown and blush, when I but kiss her hand: Now I shall read no terror in her Eyes, And what is better yet, shall ne'er be jealous. _Alcip. Pisaro_, do not err; I found the Prince and she alone together, He all disorder'd like a Ravisher, Loose and unbutton'd for the amorous play; O that she had another Life to lose! _Pis_. Sir, 'tis no time to talk in, come with me, For here's no safety for a Murderer. _Alcip_. I will not go, alas I seek no Safety. _Pis_. I will not now dispute that vain reply, But force you to security. [Pisaro _draws him out, the Scene closes_. SCENE VII. _The Palace_. _Enter_ Philander, Alcander, Galatea, Aminta, _and_ Falatius. _Fal_. Ah, fly, Sir, fly from what I have to tell you. _Alcan_. What's the news? _Fal_. Ah, Sir, the dismal'st heavy news that e'er was told or heard. _Gal_. No matter, out with it. _Fal. Erminia_, Madam- _Phi. Erminia_, what of her? _Fal_. Is dead, Sir. _Alcan_. What, hast thou lost thy Wits? _Fal_. I had them not about me at the sight, I else had been undone: Alas, _Erminia's_ dead, Murder'd, and dead. _Alcan_. It cannot be, thou ly'st. _Fal_. By _Jove_, I do not, Sir, I saw her dead: Alas, I ran as I was wont to do, Without demanding licence, to her Chamber, But found her not, as I was wont to do, [_The Women weep_. In a gay humour, but stone-dead and cold. _Enter the_ King _and_ Orgulius. _Org_. If murder'd Innocence do cry for Justice, Can you, great Sir, make a defence against it? _King_. I think I cannot. _Org_. Sir, as you are pious, as you are my King, The Lover and Protector of your People, Revenge _Erminia's_ Murder on _Alcippus_. _Gal_. If e'er my Mother, Sir, were dear to you, As from your Tears I guest whene'er you nam'd her; If the remembrance of those Charms remain, Whose weak resemblance you have found in me, For which you oft have said you lov'd me dearly; Dispense your mercy, and preserve this Copy, Which else must perish with th'Original. _King_. Why all this Conjuration, _Galatea_? _Gal_. To move you, Sir, to spare _Alcippus'_ Life. _King_. You are unjust, if you demand a Life Must fall a Sacrifice to _Erminia's_ Ghost, That is a debt I have ingag'd to pay. _Gal_. Sir, if that Promise be already past, And that your Word be irrevocable, I vow I will not live a moment after him. _King_. How, _Galatea_! I'd rather hop'd you'd join'd Your Prayers with his. _Gal_. Ah, Sir, the late Petition which I made you Might have inform'd you why these Knees are bow'd; 'Twas but this night I did confess I lov'd him, And you would have allow'd that Passion in me, Had he not been _Erminia's_: And can you question now what this Address meant? _Org_. Remember, Sir, _Erminia_ was my Daughter. _Gal_. And, Sir, remember that I am your Daughter. _Org_. And shall the Traitor live that murder'd her? _Org_. Ah, Sir, to let him live's unjust in you. _Gal_. And killing me, you more injustice do. _Org. Alcippus_, Madam, merits not your Love, That could so cruel to _Erminia_ prove. _Org_. That was a fault of duty to your Majesty. _King_. Though that were honest, 'twere not wisely done; For had I known the passion of my Son, And how essential 'twas to his content I willingly had granted my consent; Her Worth and Beauty had sufficient been T'ave rais'd her to the Title of a Queen. Did not my glorious Father, great _Gonzal_, Marry the Daughter of his Admiral? And I might to my Son have been as kind, As then my Father did my Grandsire find. _King_. How did _Philander_ take _Erminia's_ death? _Gal_. My own surprize and grief was so extream, I know not what effects it had in him; But this account of him, I'm forc'd to give, Since she is dead, I know he cannot live. _King_. I'll know _Philander's_ fate e'er I proceed; And if he die, _Alcippus_ too shall bleed. SCENE VIII. _The Gallery_. _Enter_ Falatius _and_ Labree. _Fal_. Wert thou never valiant, _Labree_? _Lab_. Yes, Sir, before I serv'd you, and since too: I Am provok'd to give you proofs on't sometimes; For when I am angry I am a very Hector. _Lab_. Ay, Sir, those are Men that despise their lives. _Fal_. Why, that's it, _Labree_, that I would learn to do, And which I fear, nothing but Poverty will make me do; _Jove_ defend me from that experiment. _Enter_ Erminia _veil'd with a thin Tiffany_. _Lab_. What's the matter, Sir? Does the fit take you now? _Fal_. Save us, save us, from the Fiend. _Lab_. A Ghost, a Ghost! O, O, O! [_They fall shaking on the ground_. _Er_. This was a happy mistake, Now I may pass with safety. [_Ex_. _Fal_. Look up, _Labree_, if thou hast any of that Courage thou spakest of but now. _Lab_. I dare not, Sir, experience yours I pray. _Fal_. Alas, alas, I fear we are both rank Cowards. _Lab_. Rise, Sir, 'tis gone. _Fal_. This was worse than the fright _Alcander_ put Me into by much. [_They rise and go out_. SCENE IX. Philander's _Apartments_. _Enter_ Philander _and_ Cleontius. _Phi_. I know he's fled to the Camp, For there he only can secure himself. _Cle_. I do not think it, Sir. He's too brave to justify an Action Which was the Outrage only of his Passion, That soon will toil it self into a Calm, And then will grow considerate again, And hate the Rashness it provok'd him to. _Enter _Erminia, _calls him_. _Er_. Return, Philander, whither wouldst thou fly? _Phi_. What Voice is that? [_Turns, sees her, and is frighted_. _Er_. 'Tis I, my Prince, 'tis I. _Phi_. Thou--Gods--what art thou--in that lovely shape? _Er_. A Soul that from Elysium made escape, [_As she comes towards him, he goes back in great amaze_. To visit thee; why dost thou steal away? I'll not approach thee nearer than I may. _Alcan_. [_Within_.] My Lord the Prince! _Phi_. Ha--Oh Gods, I charge thee not to vanish yet! I charge thee by those Powers thou dost obey, Not to deprive me of thy blessed sight. _Er_. I will revisit thee. [_Ex_. _Phi_. _Alcander_, look, look, how she glides away, Dost thou not see't? _Alcan_. Nothing, Sir, not I. _Phi_. No, now she's gone again. _Alcan_. You are disorder'd, pray sit down a while. _Alcan_. 'Twas this _Aminta_ would persuade me to, And, faith, I laught at her, And wish I might have leave to do so now. _Phi_. You do displease me with your Unbelief. _Alcan_. Why, Sir, do you think there can indeed be Ghosts? _Phi_. Pray do not urge my Sense to lose its nature. _Er_. It is _Alcander_, I may trust him too. [_She peeps in on them, and comes out_. _Phi_. Look where she comes again, credit thy Eyes, Which did persuade thee that they saw her dead. _Phi_. And yet thou shakest. _Phi_. From Gods and Men, _Erminia_, thou art safe, My best and blest _Erminia_. _Enter_ Galatea _and_ Aminta _lighted_. _Gal_. Ah, Brother, there's such news abroad- _Phi_. What, dear Sister, for I am here confin'd, And cannot go to meet it? _Gal_. _Erminia's_ Ghost is seen, and I'm so frighted- _Phi_. You would not fear it though it should appear. _Gal_. Oh, do not say so; For though the World had nought I held more dear, I would not see her Ghost for all the World. _Alcan_. But, Madam, 'tis so like _Erminia_- _Am_. Why, have you seen it too? _Alcan_. Yes, _Aminta_. _Am_. Then there be Ghosts, _Alcander_. _Phi_. _Aminta_, we'll convince him. [Phi. _leads out_ Er. _who comes smiling to the_ Princess. _Gal_. But how, dear Creature, wert thou thus preserv'd? _Phi_. Another time for that, but now let's think [Aminta _embraces her_. How to preserve her still. Since all believe her dead, but who are present, And that they may remain in that blest error, I will consult with you; but you, my dearest, Shall as the Spirit of _Erminia_ act, And reap the glory of so good a part: It will advance the new design I have; And, Sister, to your care I must commit the Treasure of my Life. _Er_. Madam, I fear'd the safety of my Prince, And every moment that I found I liv'd, Were more tormenting than those of death, Till I had undeceiv'd his Apprehensions. _Phi_. 'Twas like thy self, generous and kind, my Dear, Thou mightst have come too late else. _Er_. But, Sir, pray where's my Murderer? for yet A better name I cannot well afford him. _Gal_. All that we know of him, _Pisaro_ now inform'd me, Who came just as he thought he had murder'd thee, And begg'd he would provide for his own safety. But he who gave him sober promises, No sooner found himself out of his arms, But frantick and i'th' dark he got away. But out o'th' Court he knows he cannot pass At this dead time of night; But he believes he is i'th' Groves or Gardens, And thither he is gone to find him out. _Alcan_. This is no place to make a longer stay in, The King has many Spies about the Prince, 'Twere good you would retire to your Apartment. _Phi_. _Erminia_, may thy Dreams be calm and sweet, As thou hast made my Soul; May nothing of the Cruelty that's past, Approach thee in a rude uneasy thought; Remember it not so much as in thy Prayers, Let me alone to thank the Gods for thee, To whom that Blessing only was ordain'd. _And when I lose my Gratitude to Heaven, May they deprive me of the Joys they've given_. SCENE I. Galatea's _Apartments_. _Enter_ Galatea, Erminia, Pisaro, Aminta. _Gal_. And hast thou found him? Ease my misery. _Gal_. And all this while did he ne'er mention me? _Gal_. _Pisaro_, 'twas the office of a Friend, And thou'st perform'd it to a generous end: Go on and prosper in this new design, And when thou'st done, the glory shall be thine. SCENE II. _The Bedchamber of_ Alcippus. _Draws off, discovers_ Alcippus _rising from the Couch_. _Enter_ Pisaro, _and_ Erminia _drest like an Angel with Wings_. _Pis_. Look where he is. _Er_. Alas, I tremble at the sight of him. _Pis_. Fear nothing, Madam, I'll be near you still. _Er_. Pray stay a little longer. [_He looks in the glass_, Erminia _steals behind him, and looks into it over his shoulder; he is frighted_. _Er_. Sit down and hear me- [_In a tone like a Spirit, and points to a Chair; soft Musick begins to play, which continues all this Scene_. To disobey, thy punishment shall be; To live in endless torments, but ne'er die. _Alcip_. Thou threatnest high, bold Rebel, [_He sits within the Scene, bows_. Er. Alcippus, _tell me what you see, What is't that I appear to be_? _Alcip_. My blest _Erminia_ deify'd. Er. Alcippus, _you inform me true; I am thus deify'd by you; To you I owe this blest abode, For I am happy as a God; I only come to tell thee so, And by that tale to end thy Woe; Know, Mighty Sir, your Joy's begun, From what last night to me was done; In vain you rave, in vain you weep, For what the Gods must ever keep; In vain you mourn, in vain deplore A loss which tears can ne'er restore. The Gods their Mercies will dispense, In a more glorious Recompence; A World of Blessings they've in store, A World of Honours, Vict'ries more; Thou shalt the Kingdom's Darling be, And Kings shall Homage pay to thee; Thy Sword no bounds to Conquest set, And thy Success that Sword shall whet; Princes thy Chariot-wheel shall grace, Whilst thou in Triumph bring'st home Peace. This will the Gods; thy King yet more Will give thee what those Gods adore; And what they did create for thee_, Alcippus, _look, for that is she_. _Enter the_ Princess, _who goes over the Stage as a Spirit, bows a little to_ Alcippus, _and goes off_. _Alcip_. The Princess! [_He offers to rise_. Er. _Be still; 'tis she you must possess, 'Tis she must make your happiness; 'Tis she must lead you on to find Those Blessings Heaven has design'd: 'Tis she'll conduct you, where you'll prove The perfect Joys of grateful Love_. Enter _Aminta_ like Glory, _Alcander_ representing _Honour_. They pass over and bow, and go out. _Glory and Honour wait on her_. _With_ Pallas _and the God of War_, Enter _Olinda_ like _Fortune_, a _Page_ like _Cupid_, bow and go out. [All the Disguis'd enter again and dance, with _Love_ in the midst, to whom as they dance, they in order make an offer of what they carry, which must be something to represent them by; which _Love_ refuses with Nods, still pointing to _Alcippus_: the Dance done, they lay them at his feet, or seem to do so, and go out. _What think'st thou of thy Destiny, Is't not agreeable to thee? Tell me_, Alcippus, _is't not brave? Is it not better than a Grave? Cast off your Tears, abandon Grief, And give what you have seen belief. Dress all your Looks, and be as gay As Virgins in the Month of_ May; _Deck up that Face where Sorrow grows, And let your Smiles adorn your brows; Recal your wonted Sweetness home, And let your Eyes all Love become: For what the Gods have willed and said, Thou hast no power to evade. What they decree none can withstand, You must obey what they command_. [She goes out, he remains immoveable for a while. _Pis_. I left thee on the Bed, how camest thou here? _Alcip_. I know not. _Pis_. Have you slept? _Alcip_. Yes, ever since you left me; And 'twas a kindness in thee now to wake me; For Sleep had almost flatter'd me to Peace, Which is a vile injustice. Hah, _Pisaro_, I had such a Dream, Such a fine flattering Dream- _Pis_. How was it, pray? _Alcip_. Nay, I will forget it; I do not merit so much peace of mind, As the relation of that Dream will give me: Oh, 'twas so perfect, too, I hardly can persuade my self I slept! Dost thou believe there may be Apparitions? _Pis_. Doubtless, my Lord, there be. _Alcip_. I never could believe it till this hour, By Heavens, I think I saw them too, _Pisaro_. _Pis_. 'Tis very possible you're not deceiv'd. _Alcip_. _Erminia's_ Spirit, in a glorious form. _Pis_. I do believe you. _Alcip_. Why, is't not strange? _Pis_. You are too obstinate, and must submit. _Alcip_. It cannot be, and yet methinks I give A strange and sudden credit to this Spirit, It beckon'd me into another room; I'll follow it, and know its business there. [_Aside_. _Pis_. Come, Sir, I am a kind of Prophet, And can interpret Dreams too. We'll walk a while, and you shall tell me all, And then I would advise you what to do. SCENE III. _The King's Chamber_. _Enter_ Philander _with the_ King. _Phi_. This Goodness, Sir, resembles that of Heaven, Preserving what it made, and can be paid Only with grateful Praise as we do that. _King_. Go, carry on your innocent design, And when you've done, the last act shall be mine. SCENE IV. _The Court Gallery_. _Enter_ Aminta _followed by_ Alcander, Erminia _and_ Galatea; _they go out: re-enter_ Alcander, _and stays_ Aminta. _Alcan_. Stay, dear _Aminta_, do not fly so fast. _Am_. Methinks, _Alcander_, you should shun that Maid, Of whose too much of kindness you're afraid. 'Twas not long since you parted in such feud, And swore my treatment of you was too rude; You vow'd you found no Beauty in my eyes, And can you now pursue what you despise? [_Offers to go_. _Alcan_. Nay, do not leave me yet, for still your Scorn Much better than your Absence may be borne. _Am_. Well, Sir, your business, for mine requires haste. _Alcan_. Say, fair _Aminta_, shall I never find You'll cease this Rigour, and be kind? Will that dear Breast no Tenderness admit? And shall the Pain you give no Pity get? Will you be never touch'd with what I say? And shall my Youth and Vows be thrown away? You know my Passion and my Humour too, And how I die, though do not tell you so. _Am_. What arguments will you produce to prove You love? for yet I'll not believe you love. _Alcan_. Since, fair _Aminta_, I did thee adore, Alas, I am not what I was before: My Thoughts disorder'd from my Heart do break; And Sighs destroy my Language when I speak. My Liberty and my Repose I gave, To be admitted but your Slave; And can you question such a Victory? Or must I suffer more to make it sure? It needs not, since these Languishments can be Nought but the Wounds which you alone can cure. _Alcan_. Farewel, _Aminta_, mayst thou want a Lover, When I shall hate both thee and thy whole Sex; I can endure your sober Cruelty, But do despise it clad in Jollity. [_Exeunt severally_. _Discovers a Room hung with Black, a Hearse standing in it with Tapers round about it_, Alcippus _weeping at it, with_ Isillia, _and other Women with long black Veils round about the Hearse_. _Isil_. I humbly beg, my Lord, you would forbear. How, the Prince! How suddenly my Grief submits to Rage. _Phi. Alcippus_, why dost thou gaze thus on me? What Horror have I in my looks that frights thee? _Alcip_. Why, Sir, what makes you here? I have no more Wives, no more _Erminias_; Alas, she is dead-Will you not give her leave to rest in peace? _Phi_. Is this the Gratitude you pay my Favours, That gave ye life, after your wrongs to me? But 'twas my Sister's Kindness that preserv'd thee And I prefer'd my Vengeance to the Gods. _Alcip_. Your Sister is a Saint whom I adore; But I refuse a Life that comes from you. _Alcip_. To speak a truth, as dying Men should do. _Phi. Alcippus_, for my Sister's sake who loves you, I can bear more than this--you know my power, And I can make you fear. [_Offers to go out_. _Alcip_. No, Prince, not whilst I am in love with dying. _Phi_. Your love to that I see has made you impudent. _Isil_. The Storm comes on, your Highness should avoid it. _Phi_. Let him give place, I'll keep possession here. _Isil_. It is the Prince's pleasure, Sir, you quit the Presence. _Alcip_. No, this I call my Home; And since _Erminia's_ here that does entitle it so, I will not quit the Presence. _Phi_. Gave thee a Title to't, _Alcippus_? _Alcip_. Me, _Philander_! [_They come to each other's breast, and so draw_. _Alcip_. Me, what dare you now? _Phi_. I dare declare that I can hear no more; Be witness, Heaven, how justly I'm compell'd. _Alcip_. Now, Sir, you are brave and love _Erminia_ too. _Phi_. We are here not safe, these Women will betray us. _Alcip_. Sir, 'tis a work that will soon be dispatcht, And this a place and time most proper for't. [_A pass or two_. Fal. _peeps in and runs away. Enter_ Pisaro, _runs between_. _Pis_. Hold, Sir, are you grown desperate? What means your Highness? [_To the_ Prince. _Alcippus_, what is't you design in this? _Alcip_. To fight, _Pisaro_, and be kill'd. _Pis_. By Heaven, you shall not fight, unless with me, And you have so anger'd me with this rash action, I could almost provoke you to it. _Alcan_. Gods, Sir, that you should thus expose your self, The World's great Heir, against a desperate Madman! _Pis_. Have you forgot your Apparition, Sir? _To them_ Galatea, Aminta, _and_ Olinda. _Gal_. Ah, Brother, why so cruel to your Sister? _Phi_. Here, _Galatea_, punish my misfortune, For yet I want the will to injure thee. Heaven knows what provocations I receiv'd E'er I would draw a Sword on him you lov'd. _Gal_. Unjust _Alcippus_, how dost thou reward me? _Alcip_. Ah, Madam, I have too much shame to live. Had Heaven preserv'd my Innocence intire, That I with confidence might have ador'd you, Though I had been successless; Yet I had liv'd and hop'd, and aim'd to merit you: But since all hopes of that are taken from me, My Life is but too poor a Sacrifice, To make atonement for my Sins to you. _Gal_. I will not answer thee to what thou hast said, But only beg thou wilt preserve thy life, Without which mine will be of little use to me. _Alcip_. Might I without a sin believe this Blessing, Sure I should be immortal. Falatio _peeps in again_. _Fal_. I think I may venture, the fury is past, and the great shot spent, the mad Captain General's wounded; so, I hope 'twill let out some of his hot blood- _Enter the_ King, Cleontius, _and Attendants_. _Alcip_. Sir, I confess I'm culpable, And were it not a sin equal to that, To doubt you could forgive me, I durst not hope your mercy after it. _King_. I think with all the Tenderness I'm guilty of, I hardly shall be brought to pardon thee. _Phi_. I humbly beg you will forgive him, Sir, I drew him to it against his will; I forc'd him, And gave him language not to be indur'd By any gallant man. _Alcip_. It were not just to contradict my Prince, A Prince to whom I've been so late a Traitor; But, Sir, 'tis I alone am criminal, And 'twas I, Justly I thought provok'd him to this hazard: 'Tis I was rude, impatient, insolent, Did like a Madman animate his Anger, Not like a generous Enemy. Sir, when you weigh my Sorrows with this Action, You'll find no base Design, no Villany there; But being weary of a Life I hated, I strove to put it off, and missing that way, I come to make an offer of it here. _Phi. Alcippus_, may I credit what thou'st said, Or do you feign repentance to deceive me? _Alcip_. I never could dissemble at my best, And now methinks your Highness should believe me, When my despairs and little love to life Make me despise all ways that may preserve it. _Alcip_. Your Pardon, Sir, I must refuse your bounty, till I know By what strange turn of Fate I came thus blest. To you, my Prince, I've done unheard-of injuries, And though your Mercy do afford me life, With this rich present too; Till I could know I might deserve them both, That Life will prove a Plague, and this great Gift Turn to the torment of it. _Phi. Alcippus_, 'tis not kind to doubt me still, Is this a present for a Man I hate? _Alcip_. 'Tis true, Sir, and your bounty does amaze me; Can I receive a blessing of this magnitude With hands, yet have not wash'd away the sin Of your _Erminia's_ murder? think of that, Sir; For though to me it did appear most just, Yet you must hate the Man that has undone you. _Gal_. I see _Erminia_ still usurps your thoughts. _Alcip_. I must confess my Soul is scarce diverted Of that fond Passion which I had for her; But I protest before the Gods and you, Did she still live, and I might still possess her, I would refuse it, though I were ignorant Of what the Gods and your fair self design me. _Phi_. To doubt thee were a sin below my nature, And to declare my faith above my fear, Behold what I present thee with. [_Goes out, and enters again with_ Erminia. _Phi_. Approach her, Sir, 'tis no fantasm. _Er_. Rise, I forgive thee, from my soul I do; Mayst thou be happier In thy more glorious Passion for the Princess, And all the Joys thou e'er couldst hope from me, Mayst thou find there repeated. _Enter_ King, Orgulius, _and the rest_. [_Gives him_ Erminia, _she kneels_. _Er_. Can you forgive the Griefs I've made you suffer? _Org_. I can forgive, though 'twas not kind To let me languish in a desperate Error; Why was this Blessing hid from me alone? _Er_. Ah, Sir, so well I knew you lov'd _Alcippus_, That had you known it e'er the Prince had own'd me, I fear you had restor'd me back again, A Sin too great to load your Soul withal. _King_. My Lord _Alcippus_, are you pleas'd with this? _Alcip_. Sir, I am so pleas'd, so truly pleas'd with it, That Heaven, without this Blessing on my Prince, Had found but little trouble from my thanks, For all they have shower'd on me; 'Twas all I wisht, next my Pretensions here. _King_. Then to compleat thy happiness, Take _Galatea_, since her Passion merits thee, As do thy Virtues her. [_Gives him_ Gal. _they both bow_. _Er_. Sir, I've an humble suit t'your Majesty. _King_. Conclude it granted then. _Er. Falatius_, Sir, has long made love t' _Isillia_, And now he'as gain'd her Heart, he slights the Conquest, Yet all the fault he finds is that she's poor. _King. Isillia's_ Beauty can supply that want; _Falatius_, what d'ye say to't? _Fal_. By _Jove_, Sir, I'll agree to any thing; for I believe a handsome young Wife at Court may bring a Man a greater Fortune than he can in Conscience desire. [_Takes_ Isillia. _Er. Aminta_, be persuaded. [_Aside to_ Am. _Am_. He'd use me scurvily then. _Alcan_. That's according as you behav'd yourself, _Aminta_. _Am_. I should domineer. _Alcan_. I then should make love elsewhere. _Am_. Well, I find we shall not agree then. _Alcan_. Faith--now we have disputed a point I never thought on before, I would willingly pursue it for the humour on't, not that I think I shall much approve on't. _Pis_. Give him your hand, _Aminta_, and conclude, 'Tis time this haughty humour were subdu'd. By your submission, whatsoe'er he seem, In time you'll make the greater Slave of him. _Am_. Well--not from the hope of that, but from my Love, His change of humour I'm content to prove. Here take me, _Alcander_; Whilst to Inconstancy I bid adieu, I find variety enough in you. [_He takes her and bows_. _King_. Come my brave Youths, we'll toil our selves with Joys, And when we're weary of the lazy play, We'll search abroad to find new Conquests out, And get fresh Appetites to new Delights: It will redouble your vast stock of Courage, And make th'uneasy Humour light and gentle; When you remember even in heat of Battle, That after all your Victories and Spoil, You'll meet calm Peace at home in soft Embraces. Thus may you number out your happy years, _Till Love and Glory no more proofs can give Of what they can bestow, or you receive_. _Like them our Heat as soon abated too; Alas we could not vanquish with a Show, Much more than that goes to the conquering you. The Trial though will recompense the Pain, It having wisely taught us how to reign; 'Tis Beauty only can our Power maintain. But yet, as tributary Kings, we own It is by you that we possess that Throne, Where had we Victors been, we'ad reign'd alone. And we have promised what we could not do; A fault, methinks, might be forgiven too, Since 'tis but what we learnt of some of you. But we are upon equal treatment yet, For neither conquer, since we both submit; You to our Beauty bow, we to your Wit_. THE EMPEROR OF THE MOON. Of course much was bound to become stereotyped and fixed, but much was ever fluctuating and new. TO THE LORD MARQUESS OF WORCESTER, &. It is a common Notion, that gathers as it goes, and is almost become a vulgar Error, That Dedications in our Age, are only the effects of Flattery, a form of Complement, and no more; so that the Great, to whom they are only due, decline those Noble Patronages that were so generally allow'd the Ancient Poets; since the Awful Custom has been so scandaliz'd by mistaken Addresses, and many a worthy piece is lost for want of some Honourable Protection, and sometimes many indifferent ones traverse the World with that advantagious Pasport only. I am sensible, my Lord, how far the Word Farce might have offended some, whose Titles of Honour, a Knack in dressing, or his Art in writing a Billet Doux, had been his chiefest Talent, and who, without considering the Intent, Character, or Nature of the thing, wou'd have cry'd out upon the Language, and have damn'd it (because the Persons in it did not all talk like Heros) as too debas'd and vulgar as to entertain a Man of Quality; but I am secure from this Censure, when your Lordship shall be its Judge, whose refin'd Sence, and Delicacy of Judgment, will, thro' all the humble Actions and trivialness of Business, find Nature there, and that Diversion which was not meant for the Numbers, who comprehend nothing beyond the Show and Buffoonry. My Lord, Your Lordship's Most Humble, and Most Obedient Servant, A. BEHN. THE EMPEROR OF THE MOON. Spoken by Mr. _Jevern_. Our next Recourse was dwindling down to Farce, Then--Zounds, what Stuff's here? 'tis all o'er my-Well, Gentlemen, since none of these has sped, Gad, we have bought a Share i'th' speaking Head. So there you'll save a Sice, \| You love good Husbandry in all but Vice; \| Whoring and drinking only bears a Price. \|_ [The Head rises upon a twisted Post, on a Bench from under the Stage. After _Jevern_ speaks to its Mouth. [After this it sings _Sawny_, laughs, crys God bless the King in order. _Doctor_ Baliardo, Mr. _Underhill_. Scaramouch, _his Man_, Mr. _Lee_. Pedro, _his Boy_. Don Cinthio, Don Charmante, _both Nephews_ Young Mr. _Powel_. _to the Vice-Roy, and Lovers of_ Elaria _and_ Mr. _Mumford_. Bellemante, Harlequin, Cinthio's _Man_, Mr. _Jevern_. _Officer and Clerk_. _Page_. The SCENE, _NAPLES_. SCENE I. _A Chamber_. _Enter_ Elaria _and_ Mopsophil. _From Love our Fetters never sprung; That smiling God, all wanton, gay and young, Shows by his Wings he cannot be Confined to a restless Slavery; But here and there at random roves, Not fix'd to glittering Courts, or shady Groves_. _Then she that Constancy profess'd Was but a well Dissembler at the best; And that imaginary Sway She feign'd to give, in seeming to obey, Was but the height of prudent Art, To deal with greater liberty her Heart_. [After the Song _Elaria_ gives her Lute to _Mopsophil_. _Ela_. This does not divert me; Nor nothing will, till _Scaramouch_ return, And bring me News of _Cinthio_. _Mop_. Truly I was so sleepy last Night, I know nothing of the Adventure, for which you are kept so close a Prisoner to day, and more strictly guarded than usual. _Ela. Cinthio_ came with Musick last Night under my Window, which my Father hearing, sallied out with his _Mirmidons_ upon him; and clashing of Swords I heard, but what hurt was done, or whether _Cinthio_ were discovered to him, I know not; but the Billet I sent him now by _Scaramouch_ will occasion me soon Intelligence. _Mop_. And see, Madam, where your trusty _Roger_ comes. _Enter_ Scaramouch, _peeping on all sides before he enters_. You may advance, and fear none but your Friends. _Scar_. Away, and keep the door. _Ela_. Oh, dear _Scaramouch_! hast thou been at the Vice-Roy's? _Scar_. Yes, yes. [_In heat_. _Ela_. And hast thou delivered my Letter to his Nephew, Don _Cinthio_? _Scar_. Yes, yes, what should I deliver else? _Ela_. Well--and how does he? _Scar_. Lord, how should he do? Why, what a laborious thing it is to be a Pimp? [_Fanning himself with his Cap_. _Ela_. Why, well he shou'd do. _Ela_. How! wounded say you? Oh Heavens! 'tis not mortal. _Scar_. Why, I have no great skill; but they say it may be dangerous. _Ela_. I die with Fear, where is he wounded? _Ela_. Thou please! torment me not with Riddles. _Scar_. Why, Madam, there is a certain cordial Balsam, call'd a Fair Lady; which outwardly applied to his Bosom, will prove a better cure than all your Weapon or sympathetick Powder, meaning your Ladyship. _Ela_. Is _Cinthio_ then not wounded? _Scar_. No otherwise than by your fair Eyes, Madam; he got away unseen and unknown. _Ela_. Dost know how precious time is, and dost thou fool it away thus? What said he to my Letter? _Scar_. What should he say? _Scar_. Why, so he did. _Ela_. Expressing all the kind concern Love cou'd inspire, for the Punishment my Father has inflicted on me, for entertaining him at my Window last night. _Scar_. All this he did. _Ela_. And for my being confin'd a Prisoner to my Apartment, without the hope or almost possibility of seeing him any more. _Scar_. You must know, Madam, your Father (my Master, the Doctor) is a little whimsical, romantick, or Don-Quicksottish, or so. _Ela_. Or rather mad. _Scar_. That were uncivil to be supposed by me; but lunatic we may call him, without breaking the Decorum of good Manners; for he is always travelling to the Moon. _Ela_. And so religiously believes there is a World there, that he Discourses as gravely of the People, their Government, Institutions, Laws, Manners, Religion, and Constitution, as if he had been bred a _Machiavel_ there. _Ela_. I cannot conceive thee, but the Design must be good, since _Cinthio_ and _Charmante_ own it. _Ela_. But the Farce, where is it to be acted? _Scar_. Here, here, in this very House; I am to order the Decorations, adorn a Stage, and place Scenes proper. _Ela_. How can this be done without my Father's Knowledge? _Scar_. You know the old Apartment next the great Orchard, and the Worm-eaten Gallery that opens to the River; which place for several Years no body has frequented; there all things shall be acted proper for our purpose. _Enter_ Mopsophil _running_. _Mop_. Run, run, _Scaramouch_, my Master's conjuring for you like mad below, he calls up all his little Devils with horrid Names, his Microscope, his Horoscope, his Telescope, and all his Scopes. _Enter_ Bellemante _with a Book_. _Bell_. Here, take my Prayer-Book, _Oh Ma tres chere_. [_Embraces her_. _Ela_. Thy Eyes are always laughing, _Bellemante_. _Bell_. And so would yours, had they been so well employ'd as mine, this morning. I have been at the Chapel, and seen so many Beaus, such a number of Plumeys, I cou'd not tell which I should look on most; sometimes my Heart was charm'd with the gay Blonding, then with the melancholy Noire, anon the amiable Brunet; sometimes the bashful, then again the bold; the little now, anon the lovely tall: In fine, my Dear, I was embarass'd on all sides, I did nothing but deal my Heart _tout autour_. _Ela_. Oh, there was then no danger, Cousin. _Bell_. No, but abundance of pleasure. _Ela_. Why, this is better than sighing for _Charmante_. _Ela_. Oh, you had great devotion to Heaven then! _Bell_. And so I had; for I did nothing but admire its Handy-work, but I cou'd not have pray'd heartily, if I had been dying; but a duce on't, who shou'd come in and spoil all but my Lover _Charmante_, so dress'd, so gallant, that he drew together all the scatter'd fragments of my Heart, confin'd my wandering Thoughts, and fixt 'em all on him: Oh, how he look'd, how he was dress'd! _Ela_. Thou'rt still in Tune, when wilt thou be tame, _Bellemante_? _Bell_. When I am weary of loving, _Elaria_. _Ela_. To keep up your Humour, here's a Letter from your _Charmante_. _Malicious Creature, when wilt thou cease to torment me, and either appear less charming, or more kind? I languish when from you, and am wounded when I see you, and yet I am eternally courting my Pain. _Cinthio_ and I, are contriving how we shall see you to Night. Let us not toil in vain; we ask but your consent; the Pleasure will be all ours, 'tis therefore fit we suffer all the Fatigue. Grant this, and love me, if you will save the Life of_ Your _Charmante_. _Bell_. Who, if he had no more Honesty and Conscience than my Uncle, wou'd let us pine for want of Lovers: but thanks be prais'd, the Generosity of our Cavaliers has open'd their obdurate Hearts with a Golden Key, that lets 'em in at all Opportunities. Come, come, let's in, and answer their Billet-Doux. SCENE II. _A Garden_. _Doct_. Then 'tis about the Hour that the great Monarch of the Upper World enters into his Closet; Mount, mount the Telescope. _Scar_. What to do, Sir? _Scar_. How, Sir, peep into the King's Closet! under favour, Sir, that will be something uncivil. _Doct_. Uncivil! it were flat Treason if it should be known; but thus unseen, and as wise Politicians shou'd, I take survey of all: This is the Statesman's Peeping-hole, thorow which he steals the Secrets of his King, and seems to wink at distance. [_A knocking at the Garden-gate_. _Doct_. Take care none enter. [Scar. _goes to the Door_. _Scar_. Oh, Sir, Sir, here's some strange great Man come to wait on you. _Doct_. Great Man! from whence? _Scar_. Nay, from the Moon-World, for ought I know, for he looks not like the People of the lower Orb. _Doct_. Ha! and that may be; wait on him in. _Enter_ Scaramouch _bare, bowing before_ Charmante, _dress'd in a strange fantastical Habit, with_ Harlequin; _salutes the_ Doctor. _Char_. Doctor _Baliardo_, most learned Sir, all Hail! Hail from the great Caballa of _Eutopia_. _Char_. The Fame of your great Learning, Sir, and Virtue is known with Joy to the renown'd Society. _Doct_. Fame, Sir, has done me too much Honour, to bear my Name to the renown'd _Caballa_. _Char_. You must not attribute it all to Fame, Sir, they are too learned and wise to take up things from Fame, Sir: our Intelligence is by ways more secret and sublime, the Stars, and little Daemons of the Air inform us all things, past, present, and to come. _Doct_. I must confess the Count of _Gabalis_ renders it plain, from Writ divine and humane, there are such friendly and intelligent Daemons. _Doct_. I am of that opinion, Sir; Man was not made for Woman. _Char_. Most certain, Sir, Man was to have been immortaliz'd by the Love and Conversation of these charming Sylphs and Nymphs, and Women by the Gnomes and Salamanders, and to have stock'd the World with Demi-Gods, such as at this Day inhabit the Empire of the Moon. _Char_. An absolute abstinence from carnal thought, devout and pure of Spirit; free from Sin. _Doct_. I dare not boast my Virtues, Sir; Is there no way to try my Purity? _Char_. Are you very secret? _Doct_. As how, Sir, I beseech you? _Doct_. Sir, you oblige profoundly. [_While he is looking_, Charmante _goes to the Door to_ Scaramouch, _who waited on purpose without, and takes a Glass with a Picture of a Nymph on it, and a Light behind it; that as he brings it, it shews to the Audience. Goes to the end of the Telescope_. _Doct_. Methinks, I see a kind of glorious Cloud drawn up--and now, 'tis gone again. _Char_. Saw you no Fuger? _Char_. Then make a short Prayer to _Alikin_, the Spirit of the East; shake off all earthly Thoughts, and look again. [_He prays_. Charmante _puts the Glass into the Mouth of the Telescope_. _Char_. Seems she on a Bed? then she's reposing, and you must not gaze. _Doct_. Now a Cloud veils her from me. _Char_. She saw you peeping then, and drew the Curtain of the Air between. _Doct_. I am all Rapture, Sir, at this rare Vision--is't possible, Sir, that I may ever hope the Conversation of so divine a Beauty? _Char_. Most possible, Sir; they will court you, their whole delight is to immortalize--_Alexander_ was begot by a Salamander, that visited his Mother in the form of a Serpent, because he would not make King _Philip_ jealous; and that famous Philosopher _Merlin_ was begotten on a Vestal Nun, a certain King's Daughter, by a most beautiful young Salamander; as indeed all the Heroes, and Men of mighty Minds are. _Doct_. Most excellent! _Char_. The Nymph _Egeria_, inamour'd on _Numa Pompilius_, came to him invisible to all Eyes else, and gave him all his Wisdom and Philosophy. _Zoroaster, Trismegistus, Apuleius, Aquinius, Albertus Magnus, Socrates_ and _Virgil_ had their Zilphid, which the Foolish call'd their Daemon or Devil. But you are wise, Sir. _Doct_. But do you imagine, Sir, they will fall in love with an old Mortal? _Char_. They love not like the Vulgar, 'tis the immortal Part they doat upon. _Doct_. But, Sir, I have a Niece and Daughter which I love equally, were it not possible they might be immortaliz'd? _Char_. No doubt on't, Sir, if they be pure and chaste. _Doct_. I think they are, and I'll take care to keep 'em so; for I confess, Sir, I would fain have a Hero to my Grandson. _Char_. You never saw the Emperor of the Moon, Sir, the mighty _Iredonozar_? _Doct_. Never, Sir; his Court I have, but 'twas confusedly too. _Char_. Refine your Thoughts, Sir, by a Moment's Prayer, and try again. [_He prays_. Char. _claps the Glass with the Emperor on it, he looks in and sees it_. _Doct_. It is too much, too much for mortal Eyes! I see a Monarch seated on a Throne--but seems most sad and pensive. _Char_. Forbear then, Sir; for now his Love-Fit's on, and then he wou'd be private. _Doct_. His Love-Fit, Sir! _Char_. Ay, Sir, the Emperor's in love with some fair Mortal. _Doct_. And can he not command her? _Doct_. It were too much to know the Mortal, Sir? _Char_. 'Tis yet unknown, Sir, to the Caballists, who now are using all their Arts to find her, and serve his Majesty; but now my great Affair deprives me of you: To morrow, Sir, I'll wait on you again; and now I've try'd your Virtue, tell you Wonders. _Doct_. I humbly kiss your Hands, most learned Sir. [Charmante _goes out_. Doctor _waits on him to the Door, and returns: to him_ Scaramouch. _All this while_ Harlequin _was hid in the Hedges, peeping now and then, and when his Master went out he was left behind_. _Doct. Scaramouch_, I have, for thy singular Wit and Honesty, always had a Tenderness for thee above that of a Master to a Servant. _Scar_. I must confess it, Sir. _Doct_. Thou hast Virtue and Merit that deserves much. _Scar_. Oh Lord, Sir! _Scar_. The sight of Man, Sir! _Doct_. Ay, and the very Thoughts of Man. _Scar_. What Antidote is there to be given to a young Wench, against the Disease of Love and Longing? _Doct_. Do you your Part, and because I know thee discreet and very secret, I will hereafter discover Wonders to thee. On pain of Life, look to the Girls; that's your Charge. _Scar_. Doubt me not, Sir, and I hope your Reverence will reward my faithful Services with _Mopsophil_, your Daughter's Governante, who is rich, and has long had my Affection, Sir. [Harlequin _peeping, cries Oh Traitor_! [_Ex_. Doctor _and_ Scaramouch. Harlequin _comes out on the Stage_. [_He falls to tickle himself, his Head, his Ears, his Armpits, Hands, Sides, and Soles of his Feet; making ridiculous Cries and Noises of Laughing several ways, with Antick Leaps and Skips, at last falls down as dead. _Scar. Harlequin_ was left in the Garden, I'll tell him the News of _Mopsophil_. [Going forward, tumbles over him. Ha, what's here? _Harlequin_ dead! [_Heaving him up, he flies into a Rage_. _Har_. Who is't that thus wou'd rob me of my Honour? _Scar_. Honour, why I thought thou'dst been dead. _Ha_. Why, so I was, and the most agreeably dead. _Scar_. I came to bemoan with thee the mutual loss of our Mistress. _Har_. I know it, Sir, I know it, and that thou art as false as she: Was't not a Covenant between us, that neither shou'd take advantage of the other, but both shou'd have fair play, and yet you basely went to undermine me, and ask her of the Doctor; but since she's gone, I scorn to quarrel for her--But let's like loving Brothers, hand in hand, leap from some Precipice into the Sea. _Scar_. Well, I'll not stand with you for a Trifle--Being come up, I'll open the Casement, take you by the Heels, and sling you out into the Street; after which, you have no more to do, but to come up and throw me down in my turn. _Har_. The Atchievement's great and new; but now I think on't, I'm resolv'd to hear my Sentence from the Mouth of the perfidious Trollop, for yet I cannot credit it. I'll to the Gipsy, though I venture banging, To be undeceiv'd, 'tis hardly worth the hanging. SCENE III. _The Chamber of_ Bellemante. _Enter_ Scaramouch _groping_. _Scar_. So, I have got rid of my Rival, and shall here get an Opportunity to speak with _Mopsophil_; for hither she must come anon, to lay the young Lady's Night-things in order; I'll hide my self in some Corner till she come. [_Goes on to the further side of the Stage_. _Enter_ Harlequin _groping_. _Har_. So, I made my Rival believe I was gone, and hid my self till I got this Opportunity to steal to _Mopsophil's_ Apartment, which must be hereabouts; for from these Windows she us'd to entertain my Love. [_Advances_. [Harlequin _advancing runs against a Table, and almost strikes himself backwards_. [_He puts himself into a Posture ridiculous, his Arms a-kimbo, his Knees wide open, his Backside almost touching the Ground, his Mouth stretched wide, and Eyes staring_. Har. _groping thrusts his Hand into his Mouth, he bites him, the other dares not cry out_. [_Making damnable Faces and signs of Pain, he draws a Dagger_. Scar. _feels the Point of it, and shrinks back, letting go his Hand_. _Scar_. Who the Devil can this be? I felt a Poniard, and am glad I sav'd my Skin from pinking. [_Steals out_. [Harlequin _groping about, finds the Table, on which there is a Carpet, and creeps under it, listening_. [Harlequin _peeps from under the Table, takes the Book, writes in it, and lays it up before she can turn_. _Enter_ Charmante. _She hides the Tablet, he steps to her, and snatches it from her and reads_. _Out of a great Curiosity, A Shepherd this implor'd of me. Tell me, said he, my_ Bellemante, _Will you be kind to your_ Charmante? _I blush'd, and veil'd my wishing Eyes, And answer'd only with my Sighs. Cou'd I a better way my Love impart? And without speaking, tell him all my Heart_. _Char_. Whose is this different Character? [_Looks angry_. _Bell_. 'Tis yours for ought I know. _Bell_. Some kind assisting Deity, for ought I know. _Enter_ Scaramouch _running_. _Sea_. Oh Madam! hide your Lover, or we are all undone. _Char_. I will not hide, till I know the thing that made the Verses. [_The Doctor calling as on the Stairs_. [_She looks on_ Scaramouch, _and makes pitiful Signs, and goes out_. _Enter_ Mopsophil. Har. _peeps from under the Table_. _Har_. Ha! _Mopsophil_, and alone! _Har_. Ay, him wou'd I be glad to know. [_Peeping_. _Mop_. But of all my Lovers, I am for the Farmer's Son, because he keeps a Calash--and I'll swear a Coach is the most agreeable thing about a Man. [_He answers in a shrill Voice_. _Har_. The Ghost of a poor Lover, dwindled into a Heyho. [_He rises from under the Table, and falls at her Feet_. Scaramouch _enters. She runs off squeaking_. _Har_. Advantages are lawful in Love and War. _Scar_. 'Twas contrary to our League and Covenant; therefore I defy thee as a Traytor. _Scar_. Then thou art a Poltroon, that's to say, a Coward. _Har_. Coward! nay, then I am provok'd, come on. _Scar_. Pardon me, Sir, I gave the Coward, and you ought to strike. [_They go to fight ridiculously, and ever as_ Scaramouch _passes_, Harlequin _leaps aside, and skips so nimbly about, he cannot touch him for his Life; which after a while endeavouring in vain, he lays down his Sword_. [Scar. _pulls out a Flute Doux, and falls to playing_. Har. _throws down his, and falls a dancing; after the Dance, they shake hands_. _Scar_. But not altogether so heroick, Sir. Well, for the future, let us have fair play; no Tricks to undermine each other, but which of us is chosen to be the happy Man, the other shall be content. _Ela_. [_Within_.] Cousin _Bellemante_, Cousin. _Scar_. 'Slife, let's be gone, lest we be seen in the Ladies Apartment. [Scar. _slips_ Harlequin _behind the Door_. _Scar_. If we be, I have taken order against a Discovery. I'll go see if the old Gentleman be gone, and return with your Lover. [_Goes out_. _Ela_. I tremble, but know not whether 'tis with Fear or Joy. _Ela_. Heavens! Why did you come so soon? _Cin_. Is it too soon, whene'er 'tis safe, _Elaria_? _Ela_. I die with Fear--Met you not _Scaramouch_? He went to bid you wait a while; what shall I do? _Cin_. Why this Concern? none of the House has seen me. I saw your Father taking Horse. _Ela_. Sure you mistake, methinks I hear his Voice. _Enter the_ Doctor. _She gets round the Chamber to the Door, and as he advances in, she steals out_. _Doct_. Here I must have dropt it; a Light, a Light there. _Enter_ Cinthio, _from the Closet, pulls_ Charmante _out, they not knowing each other_. _Cin_. Oh, this perfidious Woman! No marvel she was so surpriz'd and angry at my Approach to Night. _Doct_. Why, _Scaramouch_, Knave, a Light! [_Turns to the Door to call_. _Ela_. Oh Heavens! a Mad-man, Sir. [_While the_ Doctor _turns to_ Scaramouch, Cinthio _speaks softly to_ Elaria. _Cin_. Oh, thou perfidious Maid! Who hast thou hid in yonder conscious Closet? [_Aside to her_. _Scar_. Why, Sir, he was brought in a Chair for your Advice; but how he rambled from the Parlour to this Chamber, I know not. _Doct_. That's well; I must be gone--Bar up the Doors, and upon Life or Death let no man enter. [_Exit_ Doctor, _and all with him, with the Light_. Charmante _peeps out--and by degrees comes all out, listning every step_. _Char_. Who the Devil cou'd that be that pull'd me from the Closet? but at last I'm free, and the Doctor's gone; I'll to _Cinthio_, and bring him to pass this Night with our Mistresses. [_Exit_. _As he is gone off, enter_ Cinthio _groping_. _Cin_. Now for this lucky Rival, if his Stars will make this last part of his Adventure such. I hid my self in the next Chamber, till I heard the Doctor go, only to return to be reveng'd. [_He gropes his way into the Closet, with his Sword drawn_. _Enter_ Elaria _with a Light_. _Cin_. Yes, Madam, to your shame: Now your Perfidiousness is plain, false Woman, 'Tis well your Lover had the dexterity of escaping, I'ad spoil'd his making Love else. [_Goes from her, she holds him_. _Ela_. Prithee hear me. _Cin_. But since my Ignorance of his Person saves his Life, live and possess him, till I can discover him. [_Goes out_. _Ela_. Go, peevish Fool-Whose Jealousy believes me given to change, Let thy own Torments be my just Revenge. SCENE I. _A Chamber in the_ Doctor's _House_. _After the Musick has plaid, enter_ Elaria; _to her_ Bellemante. _Ela_. Heavens, _Bellemante_! Where have you been? _Ela_. Nay, Heaven knows. _Bell_. How! I hope not so; I left _Charmante_ confin'd to my Closet, when my Uncle had like to have surpriz'd us together: Is he not here? _Ela_. No, he's escap'd, but he has made sweet doings. _Bell_. Heavens, Cousin! What? _Ela_. My Father was coming into the Chamber, and had like to have taken _Cinthio_ with me, when, to conceal him, I put him into your Closet, not knowing of _Charmante's_ being there, and which, in the dark, he took for a Gallant of mine; had not my Father's Presence hinder'd, I believe there had been Murder committed; however they both escap'd unknown. _Scar_. Pshaw, is that all? Lovers Quarrels are soon Adjusted; I'll to 'em, unfold the Riddle, and bring 'em back--take no care, but go in and dress you for the Ball; _Mopsophil_ has Habits which your Lovers sent to put on: the Fiddles, Treat, and all are prepar'd. [_Exit_. _Mop_. Madam, your Cousin _Florinda_, with a Lady, are come to visit you. _Bell_. I'm glad on't, 'tis a good Wench, and we'll trust her with our Mirth and Secret. SCENE II. _Changes to the Street_. _Enter Page with a Flambeaux, followed by_ Cinthio; _passes over the Stage_. Scaramouch _follows_ Cinthio _in a Campaign Coat_. _Cin_. You may inform your self I believe, for these close Intrigues cannot be carried on without your Knowledge. _Scar_. What Intrigues, Sir? be quick, for I'm in haste. _Cin_. Who was the Lover I surpriz'd i'th' Closet? _Scar. Deceptio visus_, Sir; the Error of the Eyes. _Cin_. Thou Dog, I felt him too; but since the Rascal 'scaped me, I'll be reveng'd on thee. [_Goes to beat him; he running away, runs against_ Harlequin, _who is entering with_ Charmante, _and like to have thrown 'em both down_. _Scar_. Seignior Don _Charmante_. [_Then he struts courageously in with 'em_. _Char_. What, _Cinthio_ in a Rage! Who's the unlucky Object? _Cin_. All Man and Woman Kind: _Elaria's_ false. _Har_. I doubt you are mistaken in that, Sir, for 'twas I was the Spark that writ the proper Stuff To do you service. _Scar_. Well, well, dispute no more this clear Case, but let's hasten to your Mistresses. _Cin_. I'm asham'd to appear before _Elaria_. _Char_. And I to _Bellemante_. _Scar_. Come, come, take Heart of Grace; pull your Hats down over your Eyes; put your Arms across; sigh and look scurvily; your simple Looks are ever a Token of Repentance: come--come along. SCENE III. _Changes to the Inside of the House. The Front of the Scene is only a Curtain or Hangings, to be drawn up at Pleasure_. _Enter_ Elaria, Bellemante, Mopsophil, Florinda, _and Ladies, dress'd in Masking Habits_. _Ela_. I am extremely pleas'd with these Habits, Cousin. _Bell_. They are _a la Gothic_ and _Uncommune_. _Flor_. Your Lovers have a very good Fancy, Cousin, I long to see 'em. _Ela_. And so do I. I wonder _Scaramouch_ stays so, and what Success he has. _Bell_. You have no cause to doubt, you can so easily acquit your self; but I, what shall I do? who can no more imagine who shou'd write those Boremes, than who I shall love next, if I break off with _Charmante_. _Flor_. If he be a Man of Honour, Cousin, when a Maid protests her Innocence- _Bell_. Ay, but he's a Man of Wit too, Cousin, and knows when Women protest most, they likely lye most. _Ela_. Most commonly, for Truth needs no asseveration. _Bell_. That's according to the Disposition of your Lover, for some believe you most, when you most abuse and cheat 'em; some are so obstinate, they wou'd damn a Woman with Protesting, before she can convince 'em. _Bell_. Nay, he shall e'en remain as Heaven made him for me, since there are Men enough for all uses. _Enter_ Charmante _and_ Cinthio, _dress'd in their Gothic Habits_, Scaramouch, Harlequin _and Musick_. Charmante _and_ Cinthio _kneel_. _Cin_. Can you forgive us? [Elaria _takes him up_. _Bell_. That, _Cinthio_, you're convinc'd, I do not wonder; but how _Charmante_ is inspir'd, I know not. _Char_. Let it suffice, I'm satisfy'd, my _Bellemante_. _Ela_. Pray know my Cousin _Florinda_. [_They salute the Lady_. _Bell_. Come, let us not lose time, since we are all Friends. _Char_. The best use we can make of it, is to talk of Love. _Bell_. Oh! we shall have time enough for that hereafter; besides, you may make Love in Dancing as well as in Sitting; you may gaze, sigh, and press the Hand, and now and then receive a Kiss, what wou'd you more? _Char_. Yes, wish a little more. _Bell_. We were unreasonable to forbid you that cold Joy, nor shall you wish long in vain, if you bring Matters so about, to get us with my Uncle's Consent. _Ela_. Our Fortunes depending solely on his Pleasure, which are too considerable to lose. _Cin_. All things are order'd as I have written you at large; our Scenes and all our Properties are ready; we have no more to do but to banter the old Gentleman into a little more Faith, which the next Visit of our new Cabalist _Charmante_ will complete. [_The Musick plays_. _Enter some Anticks, and dance. They all sit the while_. _Ela_. Your Dancers have performed well, but 'twere fit we knew who we have trusted with this Evening's Intrigue. _Cin_. Those, Madam, who are to assist us in carrying on a greater Intrigue, the gaining of you. They are our Kinsmen. _Ela_. Then they are doubly welcome. [_Here is a Song in Dialogue, with Flute Doux and Harpsicals, between a Shepherd and Shepherdess; which ended, they all dance a Figure Dance_. _Cin_. Hark, what Noise is that? sure 'tis in the next Room. _Doctor [Within.] Scaramouch, Scaramouch_! [Scaramouch _runs to the Door, and holds it fast_. _Char_. If it be he, how got he in? did you not secure the Doors? _Ela_. He always has a Key to open 'em. Oh! what shall we do? there's no escaping him; he's in the next Room, through which you are to pass. _Doct. [Within.] Scaramouch_, Knave, where are you? _Scar_. 'Tis he, 'tis he, follow me all- [_He goes with all the Company behind the Front Curtain_. _Doct. [Within.]_ I tell you, Sirrah, I heard the noise of Fiddles. _Peter. [_Within.]_ No surely, Sir, 'twas a Mistake. [_Knocking at the Door_. [Scaramouch _having placed them all in the Hanging, in which they make the Figures, where they stand without Motion in Postures, he comes out. He opens the Door with a Candle in his Hand_. _Enter the_ Doctor _and_ Peter _with a Light_. _Scar_. Bless me, Sir! Is it you--or your Ghost? _Doct_. 'Twere good for you, Sir, if I were a thing of Air; but as I am a substantial Mortal, I will lay it on as substantially- [_Canes him. He cries_. _Doct_. Sirrah, must I stand waiting your Leisure, while you are roguing here? I will reward ye. [_Beats him_. _Scar_. Ay, and I shall deserve it richly, Sir, when you know all. _Doct_. I guess all, Sirrah, and I heard all, and you shall be rewarded for all. Where have you hid the Fiddles, you Rogue? _Scar_. Fiddles, Sir! _Doct_. Ay, Fiddles, Knave. _Doct_. Here, here I heard 'em, thou false Steward of thy Master's Treasure. _Scar_. Fiddles, Sir! Sure 'twas Wind got into your Head, and whistled in your Ears, riding so late, Sir. _Doct_. Ay, thou false Varlet, there's another debt I owe thee, for bringing me so damnable a Lye: my Brother's well--I met his Valet but a League from Town, and found thy Roguery out. [_Beats him. He cries_. _Scar_. Is this the Reward I have for being so diligent since you went? _Doct_. In what, thou Villain? in what? [_The Curtain is drawn up, and discovers the Hangings where all of them stand_. _Scar_. Why, look you, Sir, I have, to surprize you with Pleasure, against you came home, been putting up this Piece of Tapestry, the best in Italy, for the Rareness of the Figures, Sir. _Doct_. Ha! hum--It is indeed a Stately Piece of Work; how came I by 'em? _Scar_. 'Twas sent your Reverence from the _Virtuoso_, or some of the Cabalists. _Scar_. 'Twas then the tuning of the Spheres, some Serenade, Sir, from the Inhabitants of the Moon. _Scar_. Lord, d'ye think I wou'd deceive your Reverence? [Peter _and_ Scaramouch _hold Candles near. He takes a Perspective, and looks through it; and coming nearer_ Harlequin, _who is placed on a Tree in the Hangings, hits him on the Head with his Trunchion. He starts and looks about_. Harlequin _sits still. _Scar_. Sir- _Doct_. What was that struck me? _Scar_. Struck you, Sir! Imagination. _Doct_. Can my Imagination feel, Sirrah? _Doct_. Hum--that may be. _Scar_. Are you a great Philosopher, and know not that, Sir? _Scar_. You will, when you see 'em by Day-light, Sir. [Har. _hits him again. The_ Doctor _sees him_. [_Runs out with_ Peter. Scaramouch _puts out the Candle, they come out of the Hanging, which is drawn away. He places 'em in a Row just at the Entrance_. _Scar_. Here, here, fear nothing, hold by each other, that when I go out, all may go; that is, slip out, when you hear the Doctor is come in again, which he will certainly do, and all depart to your respective Lodgings. _Cin_. And leave thee to bear the Brunt? _Scar_. Take you no care for that, I'll put it into my Bill of Charges, and be paid all together. _Enter the_ Doctor _with Pistols, and_ Peter. [_They all slip out_. _Pet_. I'll warrant you, Sir. [Doctor _gropes about, stamps and calls_. _Doct_. Lights there--Lights--I'm sure they cou'd not 'scape. _Pet_. Impossible, Sir. _Enter_ Scaramouch _undress'd in his Shirt, with a Light; he starts_. _Doct_. Ha--Who art thou? [_Amaz'd to see him enter so_. _Doct_. Return'd! [_Looking sometimes on him, sometimes about_. _Scar_. Ay, Sir, did you not go out of Town last night, to your Brother the Advocate? _Doct_. Thou Villain, thou question'st me, as if thou knew'st not that I was return'd. [Mopsophil _listning all the while_. _Doct_. Yes, Rogue, yes, for which I'll have thy Life. [_Offering a Pistol_. _Scar_. Are you stark mad, Sir? or do I dream still? _Doct_. Tell me, and tell me quickly, Rogue, who were those Traitors that were hid but now in the Disguise of a piece of Hangings. [_Holds the Pistol to his Breast_. _Doct_. You shall feel I am, Sirrah, if thou confess not. [_This while the_ Doctor _lessens his signs of Rage by degrees, and at last stands in deep Contemplation_. _Doct_. May I credit this? _Scar_. Credit it! By all the Honour of your House, by my unseparable Veneration for the Mathematicks, 'tis true, Sir. _Mop_. Will you so? I'll secure you, the Frolick shall go round. [_Aside, and Exit_. _Doct. Scaramouch_, if you have not deceiv'd me in this Matter, time will convince me farther; if it rest here, I shall believe you false. _Scar_. Good Sir, suspend your Judgment and your Anger till then. _Doct_. I'll do't, go back to bed. [_Ex_. Doct. _and_ Peter. Well, Doctor, if thou canst be madder yet, We'll find a Medicine that shall cure your Fit, SCENE IV. _Draws off to_ Bellemante's _Chamber, discovers_ Elaria, Bellemante _and_ Mopsophil _in Night-Gowns_. _Mop_. You have your Lessons, stand to it bravely, and the Town's our own, Madam. [_They put themselves in Postures of Sleeping, leaning on the Table_, Mopsophil _lying at their Feet. Enter_ Doctor _softly_. _Doct_. Ha, not in Bed! this gives me mortal Fears. _Doct_. Ha, Prince! [_Goes nearer, and listens_. _Bell_. How little Faith I give to all your Courtship, who leaves our Orb so soon. [_In a feign'd Voice_. _Doct_. Ha, said she Orb? [_Goes nearer_. [_Rises and runs to the_ Doctor; _kneels, and holds him fast. He shews signs of Joy_. _Doct_. I am ravish'd! _Bell_. Ah, Prince Divine, take pity on a Mortal. _Bell_. And take me with you to the World above! _Doct_. The Moon, the Moon she means; I am transported, over-joy'd, and ecstasyd! [_Leaping and jumping from her Hands, she seems to wake_. _Bell_. Ha, my Uncle come again to interrupt us! _Doct_. Hide nothing from me, my dear _Bellemante_, since all already is discover'd to me--and more. _Ela_. Oh, why have you wak'd me from the softest Dream that ever Maid was blest with? _Doct_. What--what, my best _Elaria_? [_With over-joy_. _Bell_. I'm sure mine was no Dream--I wak'd, I heard, I saw, I spoke--and danc'd to the Musick of the Spheres; and methought my glorious Lover ty'd a Diamond Chain about my Arm--and see 'tis all substantial. [_Shows her Arm_. _Ela_. And mine a Ring, of more than mortal Lustre. [_Ex. very gravely_. SCENE V. _The Garden_. _Enter_ Scaramouch _with a Ladder_. _Scar_. Though I am come off _en Cavalier_ with my Master, I am not with my Mistress, whom I promised to console this Night, and 'tis but just I shou'd make good this Morning; 'twill be rude to surprize her sleeping, and more gallant to wake her with a Serenade at her Window. [_Sets the Ladder to her Window, fetches his Lute and goes up the ladder_. He plays and sings this Song. Then_ Silvia _be wise--be wise--be wise, Though Painting and Dressing for awhile are Supplies, And may--surprise- But when the Fire's going out in your Eyes, It twinkles, it twinkles, it twinkles, and dies. And then to hear Love, to hear Love from you, I'd as live hear an Owl cry--Wit to woo, Wit to woo, wit to woo_. _Enter _Mopsophil_ above_. _Mop_. What woful Ditty-making Mortal's this, That e'er the Lark her early Note has sung, Does doleful Love beneath my Casement thrum? -Ah, Seignior _Scaramouch_, is it you? _Scar_. Who shou'd it be that takes such pains to sue! _Mop_. Ah, Lover most true blue. _Enter_ Harlequin _in Woman's Clothes_. _Scar_. But we lose precious time, since you design me a kind Hour in your Chamber. _Mop_. You'll be sure to keep it from _Harlequin_. _Har_. Ah yes, he, hang him, Fool, he takes you for a Saint. _Scar. Harlequin_! Hang him, shotten Herring. _Har_. Ay, a Cully, a Noddy. _Har_. Ah, hard-hearted _Turk_. _Mop_. Fit for nothing but a Cuckold. _Har_. Come down, come down, thou false perfidious Wretch. _Scar_. Who in the Devil's Name, art thou? And to whom dost thou speak? _Har_. To thee, that false Deceiver, thou hast broke thy Vows, thy lawful Vows of Wedlock. [_Bawling out_. Oh, oh, that I shou'd live to see the Day. [_Crying_. [Scar, _comes down, as_ Mopsophil _flings out of the Balcony_. _Scar_. The Woman's mad--hark ye, Jade, how long have you been thus distracted? [_Bawls, and points to her Belly. Just then_ Mopsophil _enters_. _Mop_. How! with Child! Out, Villain! was I made a Property? _Mop_. Ay, Sirrah, answer to that. _Scar_. I shall be sacrific'd. _Mop_. I am resolv'd to marry to morrow--either to the Apothecary or the Farmer, Men I never saw, to be reveng'd on thee, thou termagant Infidel. _Doct_. What Noise, what Out-cry, what Tumult's this? _Har_. I came, an't like your Seigniorship, to Madam the Governante here, to serve her in the Quality of a _Fille de Chambre_ to the young Ladies. _Doct_. A _Fille de Chambre_! 'tis so, a she Pimp. _Har_. Ah, Seignior- [_Makes his little dapper Leg, instead of a Curt'sy_. _Doct_. How now, what, do you mock me? _Har_. Oh Seignior! [_Gets nearer the Door_. _Mop_. Stay, stay, Mistress; and what Service are you able to do the Seignior's Daughters? _Har_. Is this Seignior Doctor _Baliardo_, Madam? _Har_. Oh! he's a very handsome Gentleman--indeed. _Doct_. Ay, ay, what Service can you do, Mistress? _Har_. Why, Seignior, I can tie a Crevat the best of any Person in _Naples_, and I can comb a Periwig--and I can- _Doct_. Very proper Service for young Ladies; you, I believe, have been _Fille de Chambre_ to some young Cavaliers? _Har_. Most true, Seignior; why shou'd not the Cavaliers keep _Filles de Chambre_, as well as great Ladies _Valets de Chambre_? _Har_. Oh yes, I serv'd a Parson's Wife? _Doct_. Is that a great Lady? _Har_. Ay, surely, Sir, what is she else? for she wore her Mantuas of _Brocade d'or_, Petticoats lac'd up to the Gathers, her Points, her Patches, Paints and Perfumes, and sat in the uppermost place in the Church too. _Mop_. But have you never serv'd Countesses and Dutchesses? _Har_. Oh, yes, Madam; the last I serv'd, was an Alderman's Wife in the City. _Mop_. Was that a Countess or a Dutchess? _Har_. Ay, certainly--for they have all the Money; and then for Clothes, Jewels, and rich Furniture, and eating, they out-do the very _Vice-Reine_ her self. [Scar. _searches him, finds Letters_. _Har_. If you have, 'tis but Trick for your Trick, Seignior _Scaramouch_, and you may spare the Pumping. _Scar_. A Mungrel Dancing-Master; therefore, Sir, since all the Injury's mine, I'll pardon him for a Dance, and let the Agility of his Heels save his Bones, with your Permission, Sir. _Doct_. With all my Heart, and am glad he comes off so comically. [Harlequin _dances_. [_A knocking at the Gate_. Scar. _goes and returns_. _Scar_. Sir, Sir, here's the rare Philosopher who was here yesterday. _Doct_. Give him Entrance, and all depart. _Char_. After long searching, watching, fasting, praying, and using all the virtuous means in Nature, whereby we solely do attain the highest Knowledge in Philosophy; it was resolv'd, by strong Intelligence--you were the happy Sire of that bright Nymph, that had infascinated, charm'd, and conquer'd the mighty Emperor _Iredonozor_, the Monarch of the Moon. _Char_. Receive the Blessing, Sir, with Moderation. _Doct_. I do, Sir, I do. _Char_. Oh! yes, Sir, often in Disguise, in several Shapes and Forms, which did of old occasion so many fabulous Tales of all the Shapes of _Jupiter_--but never in their proper Glory, Sir, as Emperors. This is an Honour only design'd to you. _Doct_. And will his Grace--be here in Person, Sir? [_Joyful_. _Char_. In Person--and with him, a Man of mighty Quality, Sir, 'tis thought, the Prince of _Thunderland_--but that's but whisper'd, Sir, in the Cabal, and that he loves your Niece. _Doct_. About what Hour, Sir? _Doct_. This I believe, Sir. _Doct_. May I communicate a Secret of that nature? _Char_. To any of the Cabalists, but none else. _Doct_. Then know--last Night, my Daughter and my Niece were entertain'd by those illustrious Heroes. _Char_. Who, Sir, the Emperor, and Prince his Cousin? _Doct_. Most certain, Sir. But whether they appear'd in solid Bodies, or Fantomical, is yet a Question; for at my unlucky approach, they all transform'd themselves into a Piece of Hangings. _Char_. 'Tis frequent, Sir, their Shapes are numerous; and 'tis also in their power to transform all they touch, by virtue of a certain Stone they call the _Ebula_. _Doct_. That wondrous _Ebula_, which _Gonzales_ had? _Doct_. No wonder, Sir, Oh happy great _Gonzales_! _Char_. Your Virtue, Sir, will render you as happy--but I must haste-this Night prepare your Daughter and your Niece, and let your House be dress'd, perfum'd, and clean. _Doct_. It shall be all perform'd, Sir. _Doct_. I humbly thank your Admonition, Sir, and shall, in all I can, struggle with human Frailty. [_Brings_ Char. _to the Door bare. Exeunt_. _Enter_ Scaramouch, _peeping at the other Door_. SCENE I. _The Street, with the Town-Gate, where an Officer stands with a Staff like a_ London _Constable_. _Enter_ Harlequin _riding in a Calash, comes through the Gate towards the Stage, dress'd like a Gentleman sitting in it. The_ Officer _lays hold of his Horse_. _Off_. Hold, hold, Sir, you I suppose know the Customs that are due to this City of _Naples_, from all Persons that pass the Gates in Coach, Chariot, Calash, or _Siege Volant_. _Har_. I am not ignorant of the Custom, Sir, but what's that to me. _Off_. Not to you, Sir! why, what Privilege have you above the rest? _Har_. Privilege, for what, Sir? _Off_. Why, for passing, Sir, with any of the before-named Carriages. _Off_. Are you mad, Sir, to think I cannot see a Gentleman Farmer and a Calash, from a Baker and a Cart. _Har_. Drunk by this Day--and so early too? Oh, you're a special Officer? unhand my Horse, Sirrah, or you shall pay for all the Damage you do me. _Cler_. What's the matter here? _Off_. Here's a Fellow, Sir, will persuade me, his Calash is a Cart, and refuses the Customs for passing the Gate. [_The_ Officer _looks on him_. _Off_. Ha, what a Devil, was I blind? _Har_. Mr. Clerk, I am a Baker, that came with Bread to sell, and this Fellow here has stopt me this Hour, and made me lose the sale of my Ware; and being drunk, will out-face me I am a Farmer, and this Cart a Calash. _Cler_. He's in an Error, Friend, pass on. _Cler_. What do you demand, Friend? _Off_. This is very hard--Mr. Clerk--If ever I saw in my Life, I thought I saw a Gentleman and a Calash. _Cler_. Come, come, gratify him, and see better hereafter. _Cler_. Pass on, Friend. [_Ex_. Clerk. [Har. _unseen, puts up the back of his Calash, and whips off his Frock, and goes to drive on. The_ Officer _looks on him, and stops him again_. _Off_. Hum, I'll swear it is a Calash--Mr. Clerk--Mr. Clerk, come back, come back. [_Runs out to call him. He changes as before_. _Enter_ Officer _and_ Clerk. _Cler_. Convince me, of what, you Sot? _Off_. This is a Gentleman, and that a--ha- [_Looks about on_ Har. _Cler_. Stark drunk! Sirrah, if you trouble me at every Mistake of yours thus, you shall quit your Office. [_The_ Clerk _goes out_. [Har. _puts up his Calash again, and pulls off his Frock and drives out_. SCENE II. _Changes to the_ Doctor's _House. The Hall_. _Enter_ Scaramouch _in a Chair, which is set down and open'd on all sides, and on the top represents an Apothecary's Shop, the Inside being painted with Shelves, and rows of Pots and Bottles_; Scaramouch _sitting in it dress'd in Black, with a short black Cloke, a Ruff, and little Hat_. _Enter the_ Doctor. Scaramouch _salutes him gravely_. _Scar_. And though I am at present busied in writing--those few Observations I have accumulated in my Peregrinations, Sir; yet the Ambition I aspir'd to, of being an ocular and aurial Witness of your Singularity, made me trespass on your sublimer Affairs. _Scar_. Without Circumlocutions, Sir, I have seen all the Regions beneath the Sun and Moon. _Doct_. Moon, Sir! You never travell'd thither, Sir? _Scar_. Not in _Propria Persona, Seignior_, but by Speculation, I have, and made most considerable Remarks on that incomparable _Terra Firma_, of which I have the compleatest Map in Christendom--and which _Gonzales_ himself omitted in his _Cosmographia_ of the _Lunar Mundus_. _Doct_. A Map of the _Lunar Mundus_, Sir! may I crave the Honour of seeing it? _Scar_. You shall, Sir, together with a Map of _Terra Incognita_; a great Rarity, indeed, Sir. _Doct_. Jewels, Sir, worth a King's Ransom! _Doct_. Let it wait, I am employ'd- [_She creeps to the other side of_ Scaramouch, _who makes Signs with his Hand to her_. _Doct_. But this Map, Seignior; I protest you have fill'd me with Curiosity. Has it signify'd all things so exactly, say you? _Scar_. Omitted nothing, Seignior, no City, Town, Village, or Villa; no Castle, River, Bridge, Lake, Spring, or Mineral. _Doct_. Are any, Sir, of those admirable Mineral Waters there, so frequent in our World? _Scar_. In abundance, Sir: the Famous _Garamanteen_, a young _Italian_, Sir, lately come from thence, gives an account of an excellent _Scaturigo_, that has lately made an Ebulation there, in great Reputation with the Lunary Ladies. _Doct_. Indeed, Sir! be pleas'd, Seignior, to 'solve me some Queries that may enode some appearances of the Virtue of the Water you speak of. _Doct_. Seignior- _Scar_. For, Sir, upon the Infusion, the Crows Head immediately procures the Seal of _Hermes_; and had not _Lac Virginis_ been too soon suck'd up, I believe we might have seen the Consummation of _Amalgama_. [Bellemante _having got her Letters, goes off. She makes Signs to him to stay a little. He nods_. _Doct_. Most likely, Sir. _Scar_. But, Sir, this _Garamanteen_ relates the strangest Operation of a Mineral in the Lunar World, that ever I heard of. _Doct_. As how, I pray, Sir? _Scar_. Why, Sir, a Water impregnated to a Circulation with _prima Materia_; upon my Honour, Sir, the strongest I ever drank of. _Doct_. How, Sir! did you drink of it? _Doct_. How, Sir, grown rich by drinking the Waters, and to your Knowledge? _Scar_. The Devil's in my Tongue. To my Knowledge, Sir; for what a Man of Honour relates, I may safely affirm. _Doct_. Excuse me, Seignior- [_Puts off his Hat again gravely_. _Scar_. For, Sir, conceive me how he grew rich! since he drank those Waters he never buys any Iron, but hammers it out of _Stercus Proprius_. _Enter_ Bellemante _with a Billet_. [_Goes behind_ Scaramouch, _and gives him the Note and goes out_. _Doct_. I come, Sweet-heart; but this is wonderful. _Scar_. Ay, Sir, and if at any time Nature be too infirm, and he prove Costive, he has no more to do, but apply a Load-stone _ad Anum_. _Doct_. Is't possible? _Doct_. Sir, she shall wait on you, and I shall be proud of the Honour of your Conversation. [_Ex_. Doctor. _Enter to him_ Harlequin, _dress'd like a Farmer, as before_. _Har_. Hum--What have we here, a Taylor or a Tumbler? _Scar_. Have you Affairs with Seignor Doctor, Sir? _Har_. It may be I have, it may be I have not. What then, Sir? _While they seem in angry Dispute, enter_ Mopsophil. _Scar_. My Mistress here! [_They both bow, and advance, putting each other by_. _Both_. I, I, I, Madam- _Mop_. Both of you? _Both_. No, Madam, I, I. _Mop_. If both Lovers, you are both welcome; but let's have fair Play, and take your turns to speak. _Har_. Ay, Seignior, 'tis most uncivil to interrupt me. _Scar_. And disingenuous, Sir, to intrude on me. _Scar_. I acquiesce. _Mop_. I was inform'd there was a Person here had Propositions of Marriage to make me. _Har_. That's I, that's I- [_Shoves_ Scar. _away_. _Scar_. And I attend to that consequential _Finis_. [_Shoves_ Har. _away_. _Scar_. Him I pronounce a Paltroon, and an ignominious Utensil, that dare lay claim to the renowned Lady of my _Primum Mobile_; that is, my best Affections. [_In Rage_. _Har_. I fear not your hard Words, Sir, but dare aloud pronounce, if _Donna Mopsophil_ like me, the Farmer, as well as I like her, 'tis a Match, and my Chariot's ready at the Gate to bear her off, d'ye see. _Mop_. Ah, how that Chariot pleads. [_Aside_. _Scar_. And I pronounce, that being intoxicated with the sweet Eyes of this refulgent Lady, I come to tender her my noblest Particulars, being already most advantageously set up with the circumstantial Implements of my Occupation. [_Points to the Shop_. _Scar_. Incomparable Lady, the Elegancy of your Repartees most excellently denotes the Profundity of your Capacity. _Har_. What the Devil's all this? Good Mr. Conjurer, stand by--and don't fright the Gentlewoman with your elegant Profundities. [_Puts him by_. _Scar_. How, a Conjurer! I will chastise thy vulgar Ignorance, that yclepes a Philosopher a Conjurer. [_In Rage_. _Scar_. Why, what do I speak like? what do I speak like? _Mop_. That's well, Gentlemen, let's have all Peace, while I survey you both, and see which likes me best. [_She goes between 'em, and surveys 'em both, they making ridiculous bows on both sides, and Grimaces the while_. _Scar_. So she's considering still, I shall be the happy Dog. [_Aside_. _Har_. She's taking aim, she cannot chuse but like me best. [_Aside_. _Scar_. Well, Madam, how does my Person propagate? [_Bowing and smiling_. _Mop_. Faith, Seignior, now I look better on you, I do not like your Phisnomy so well as your Intellects; you discovering some circumstantial Symptoms that ever denote a villanous Inconstancy. _Scar_. Ah, are you pleas'd, Madam. _Mop_. You are mistaken, Seignior. I am displeas'd at your Grey-Eyes, and black Eye-brows, and Beard; I never knew a Man with those Signs, true to his Mistress or his Friend. And I wou'd sooner wed that Scoundrel _Scaramouch_, that very civil Pimp, that mere pair of chymical Bellows that blow the Doctor's projecting Fires, that Deputy-urinal Shaker, that very Guzman of _Salamanca_. than a Fellow of your infallible _Signum Mallis_. _Scar_. Hum, sure the Jade knows me. [_Aside_. _Mop_. And as for you, Seignior- _Har_. Ha, Madam. [_Bowing and smiling_. _Mop_. Those Lanthorn Jaws of yours, with that most villanous Sneer and Grin, and a certain fierce Air of your Eyes, looks altogether most fanatically--which with your notorious Whey Beard, are certain Signs of Knavery and Cowardice; therefore I'ad rather wed that Spider _Harlequin_, that Sceleton Buffoon, that Ape of Man, that Jack of Lent, that very Top, that's of no use, but when 'tis whip'd and lash'd, that piteous Property I'ad rather wed than thee. _Har_. A very fair Declaration. _Mop_. You understand me--and so adieu, sweet Glisterpipe, and Seignior Dirty-Boots, Ha, ha, ha. [_Runs out_. [_They stand looking simply on each other, without speaking a while_. _Scar_. That I shou'd not know that Rogue _Harlequin_. [_Aside_. _Har_. And are not you a dam'd Son of a--something--to break Articles with me? _Scar_. No more Words, Sir, no more Words, I find it must come to Actions, draw. [_Draws_. [_They make a ridiculous cowardly Fight. Enter the Doctor, which they seeing, come on with more Courage. He runs between, and with his Cane beats the Swords down_. _Scar_. Let me go, Sir, I am provok'd beyond measure, Sir. _Doct_. You must excuse me, Seignior. [_Parlies with Harlequin_. [_The_ Doctor _comes to appease_ Scaramouch. _Har_. Shou'd I discover this Rascal, he wou'd tell the old Gentleman I was the same that attempted his House to day in Woman's Clothes, and I should be kick'd and beaten most insatiably. [Har. _going to creep away_, Scar, _holds him_. _Har_. Hark ye, bring me off, or I'll discover all your Intrigue. [Aside to _him_. _Scar_. Let me alone. _Doct_. I'll warrant you some Rogue that has some Plot on my Niece and Daughter. _Scar_. No, no, Sir, he comes to impose the grossest Lye upon you, that ever was heard of. _Enter_ Pedro _with others, with a Blanket. They put_ Harlequin _into it, and toss him_. _Har_. Hold, hold, I'll confess all, rather than indure it. _Doct_. Hold, what will you confess, Sir. [_He comes out, makes sick Faces_. _Doct_. Ha, Ambassador from the Emperor of the Moon! [_Pulls off his Hat_. _Scar_. Ay, Sir, thereupon I laugh'd, thereupon he grew angry--I laugh'd at his Resentment, and thereupon we drew, and this was the high Quarrel, Sir. _Doct_. Hum--Ambassador from the Moon. [_Pauses_. _Scar_. I have brought you off, manage him as well as you can. _Har_. Brought me off, yes, out of the Frying-pan into the Fire. Why, how the Devil shall I act an Ambassador? [_Aside_. _Doct_. It must be so, for how shou'd either of these know I expected that Honour? [_He addresses him with profound Civility to_ Har. Sir, if the Figure you make, approaching so near ours of this World, have made us commit any undecent Indignity to your high Character, you ought to pardon the Frailty of our mortal Education and Ignorance, having never before been bless'd with the Descension of any from your World. _Scar_. I'll leave the Rogue to his own Management. I presume, by your whispering, Sir, you wou'd be private, and humbly begging pardon, take my leave. [_Exit_. _Har_. You have it, Friend. Does your Niece and Daughter drink, Sir? _Har_. Ay, Sir, drink hard? _Doct_. Do the Women of your World drink hard, Sir? _Har_. According to their Quality, Sir, more or less; the greater the Quality, the more profuse the Quantity. _Doct_. Why, that's just as 'tis here; but your Men of Quality, your Statesmen, Sir, I presume they are sober, learned, and wise. _Har_. Faith, no, Sir; but they are, for the most part, what's as good, very proud and promising, Sir, most liberal of their Word to every fauning Suiter, to purchase the state of long Attendance, and cringing as they pass; but the Devil of a Performance, without you get the Knack of bribing in the right Place and Time; but yet they all defy it, Sir. _Doct_. Good lack! just as 'tis here. _Har_. As for the young Fellows that have Money, they have no Mercy upon their own Persons, but wearing Nature off as fast as they can, Swear, and Whore and Drink, and borrow as long as any Rooking Citizen will lend till, having dearly purchased the heroick Title of a Bully or a Sharper, they live pity'd of their Friends, and despis'd by their Whores, and depart this Transitory World, diverse and sundry ways. _Doct_. Just, just as 'tis here! _Har_. As for the Citizen, Sir, the Courtier lies with his Wife; he in revenge, cheats him of his Estate, till rich enough to marry his Daughter to a Courtier, again gives him all--unless his Wife's over-gallantry breaks him; and thus the World runs round. _Doct_. The very same 'tis here--Is there no preferment, Sir, for Men of Parts and Merit? _Har_. Parts and Merit! what's that? a Livery, or the handsome tying a Cravat; for the great Men prefer none but their Foot-men and Valets. _Doct_. Sir, I Honour you; good luck, my Countryman! How got you to the Region of the Moon, Sir? _Har_. In this Fog, or Mist, Sir, I was exhal'd. _Doct_. The Exhalations of the Sun draw you to the Moon, Sir? _Doct_. How, Sir, into the Sea? _Har_. What did me I, Sir (Life being sweet) but fall on my Knees, and besought his Gloriousness not to eat me, for I was no Fish, but a Man; he ask'd me of what Country, I told him of _Naples_; whereupon the Emperor overjoy'd ask'd me if I knew that most reverend and learned Doctor _Baliardo_, and his fair Daughter. I told him I did: whereupon he made me his Bed-fellow, and the Confident to his Amour to Seigniora _Elaria_. _Doct_. Bless me, Sir! how came the Emperor to know my Daughter? _Doct_. My Daughter never goes abroad, Sir, farther than our Garden. [_A strange Noise is heard of Brass Kettles, and Pans, and Bells, and many tinkling things_. _Har_. Sir, as an Honour done the Emperor, I take your Ring and Gold. I must go meet his Highness. [_Takes leave_. _Enter to him_ Scaramouch, _as himself_. _Scar_. Oh, Sir! we are astonish'd with the dreadful sound of the sweetest Musick that ever Mortal heard, but know not whence it comes. Have you not heard it, Sir? _Scar_. How, Sir, no marvel then, that looking towards the South, I saw such splendid Glories in the Air. _Doct_. Ha, saw'st thou ought descending in the Air? _Scar_. Oh, yes, Sir, Wonders! haste to the old Gallery, whence, with the help of your Telescope, you may discover all. _Doct_. I would not lose a moment for the lower Universe. _Enter_ Elaria, Bellemante, Mopsophil, _dressed in rich Antick Habits_. _Ela_. Sir, we are dress'd as you commanded us, what is your farther Pleasure? [_Ex_. Doctor _and_ Scar. _Ela_. Bless me! My Father, in all the rest of his Discourse shows so much Sense and Reason, I cannot think him mad, but feigns all this to try us. SCENE III. _The Last. The Gallery richly adorn'd with Scenes and Lights_. _Enter_ Doctor, Elaria, Bellemante, _and_ Mopsophil. _Soft Musick is heard_. _Ela_. 'Tis rather the Apartment of some Monarch. _Bell_. Are you sure on't, Sir? are we not, think you, in that World above, I often heard you speak of? in the Moon, Sir? _Doct_. How shall I resolve her--For ought I know, we are. [_Aside_. _Ela_. Sure, Sir, 'tis some Inchantment. _Bell_. Whence comes this charming Sound, Sir? _Doct_. From the Spheres--it is familiar to me. _Ela_. I thought so too, but they are disappear'd, and the wing'd Chariot's fled. _Enter_ Keplair _and_ Galileus. _Bell_. See, Sir, they approach. [_The_ Doctor _rises and bows_. _Kep_. Most reverend Sir, we, from the upper World, thus low salute you--_Keplair_ and _Galileus_ we are call'd, sent as Interpreters to Great _Iredonozor_, the Emperor of the Moon, who is descending. _Doct_. Most reverend Bards--profound Philosophers--thus low I bow to pay my humble Gratitude. _Kep_. The Emperor, Sir, salutes you, and your fair Daughter. _Gal_. And, Sir, the Prince of _Thunderland_ salutes you, and your fair Neice. _Doct_. Thus low I fall to thank their Royal Goodness. [_Kneels. They take him up_. _Bell_. Came you, most reverend Bards, from the Moon World? _Kep_. Most lovely Maid, we did. _Doct_. May I presume to ask the manner how? _Doct_. Sir, are there store of our World inhabiting the Moon? A Song for the Zodiack. _Let murmuring Lovers no longer repine, But their Hearts and their Voices advance; Let the Nymphs and the Swains in the kind Chorus join, And the Satyrs and Fauns in a Dance. Let Nature put on her Beauty of May, And the Fields and the Meadows adorn; Let the Woods and the Mountains resound with the Joy, And the Echoes their Triumph return_. _For since Love wore his Darts, And Virgins grew Coy; Since these wounded Hearts, And those cou'd destroy, There ne'er was more Cause for your Triumphs and Joy. _For since Love wore his Darts And Virgins grew coy; Since these wounded Hearts, And those cou'd destroy, There ne'er was more Cause for your Triumphs and Joy. _For since Love wore his Darts, And Virgins grew coy; Since these wounded Hearts, And those you'd destroy, There ne'er was more Cause for Triumphs and Joy_. _Doct_. 'Tis all amazing, Sir. _All Joy to Mortals, Joy and Mirth, Eternal_ IO'S _sing; The Gods of Love descend to Earth, Their Darts have lost the Sting. The Youth shall now complain no more Of_ Sylvia's _needless Scorn, But she shall love, if he adore, And melt when he shall burn. The Nymph no longer shall be shy, But leave the jilting Road; And_ Daphne _now no more shall fly The wounded panting God; But all shall be serene and fair, No sad Complaints of Love Shall fill the gentle whispering Air, No echoing Sighs the Grove. Beneath the Shades young_ Strephon _lies, Of all his Wish possess'd; Gazing on_ Sylvia's _charming Eyes, Whose Soul is there confessed. All soft and sweet the Maid appears, With Looks that know no Art, And though she yields with trembling Fears, She yields with all her Heart_. _Kep_. The Emperor wou'd have you rise, Sir, he will expect no Ceremony from the Father of his Mistress. [_Takes him up_. _Doct_. I cannot, Sir, behold his Mightiness--the Splendor of his Majesty confounds me. _Kep_. You must be moderate, Sir, it is expected. _Doct_. Shall I not have the Joy to hear their heavenly Voices, Sir? _Kep_. They never speak to any Subject, Sir, when they appear in Royalty, but by Interpreters, and that by way of Stentraphon, in manner of the Delphick Oracles. _Doct_. Any way, so I may hear the Sense of what they wou'd say. _Kep_. No doubt you will--But see the Emperor commands by Signs his Foreigners to dance. [_Soft Musick changes_. _Doct_. The Glory is too great for Mortal Wife. [_Kneels with Transport_. _Sten_. What then remains, but that we consummate This happy Marriage in our splendid State? _Doct_. Thus low I kneel, in thanks for this great Blessing. _Scar_. Stay, mighty Emperor, and vouchsafe to be the Umpire of our Difference. [Cinthio _signs to_ Keplair. _Kep_. What are you? _Har_. Knights of the Sun, our honourable Titles, And fight for that fair Mortal, _Mopsophil_. _Kep_. The Emperor gives Consent. _Doct_. Receive your Mistress, Sir, as the Reward of your undoubted Valour- [_Presents_ Mopsophil. _Scar_. Your humble Servant, Sir, and _Scaramouch_ returns you humble Thanks. [_Puts off his Helmet_. _Kep_. Be patient, Sir, and call up all your Virtue, You're only cur'd, Sir, of a Disease That long has reign'd over your nobler Faculties. Sir, I am your Physician, Friend and Counsellor; It was not in the Power of Herbs or Minerals, Of Reason, common Sense, and right Religion, To draw you from an Error that unmann'd you. _Cin_. Sir, I beseech you, mitigate your Grief, Although indeed we are but mortal Men, Yet we shall love you, serve you, and obey you. _Doct_. Are not you then the Emperor of the Moon? And you the Prince of _Thunderland_? _Cin_. There's no such Person, Sir. These Stories are the Fantoms of mad Brains, To puzzle Fools withal--the Wise laugh at 'em-Come, Sir, you shall no longer be impos'd upon. _Doct_. No Emperor of the Moon, and no Moon World! _Char_. Ridiculous Inventions. If we 'ad not lov'd you you'ad been still impos'd on; You had brought a Scandal on your learned Name, And all succeeding Ages had despis'd it. To be spoken by _Mrs. Cooke_. Look back on flourishing_ Rome, _ye proud Ingrates, And see how she her thriving Poets treats: Wisely she priz'd 'em at the noblest Rate, \| As necessary Ministers of State, \| And Contributions rais'd to make 'em great. \| They from the publick Bank she did maintain, And freed from want, they only writ for Fame; And were as useful in a City held, As formidable Armies in the Field. They but a Conquest over Men pursued, While these by gentle force the Soul subdu'd. Not_ Rome _in all her happiest Pomp cou'd show \| A greater_ Caesar _than we boast of now_; \| Augustus _reigns, but Poets still are low. \| May Caesar live, and while his mighty Hand Is scattering Plenty over all the Land; With God-like Bounty recompensing all, Some fruitful drops may on the Muses fall; Since honest Pens do his just cause afford Equal Advantage with the useful Sword_. THE FORC'D MARRIAGE. 'none for loving me, for I'm much unlike Lucinda whom you ey'd.' THE EMPEROR OF THE MOON. NOTES: CRITICAL AND EXPLANATORY. Tom Dove has been wrongly described as 'a bearward.' A Jigge shall be clapt at, and every rhime Prais'd and applauded by a clam'rous chyme. The Jig introduced in _Sir Timothy Tawdrey_ would seem to have been the simple dance although not improbably an epithalamium was also sung. A panegyric on the return of the Duke and Duchess of York from Scotland says of Shaftesbury's medal that 'Twas coined by stealth, like groats at Birmingham. Let Whig and Bromingham repine, They show their teeth in vain; The glory of the British line, Old Jemmy's come again. Dryden in his Preface to _Absalom and Achitophel_, I, speaks of 'an Anti-Bromingham', i.e. a Tory. That witty recreation, called dumfounding. Whence Does all this mighty mass of dullness spring, Which in such loads thou to the stage dost bring? Is't all thine own? Or hast thou from _Snow Hill_ The assistance of some ballad-making quill? THE FORC'D MARRIAGE. THE EMPEROR OF THE MOON. End of Project Gutenberg's The Works of Aphra Behn, Vol. III, by Aphra Behn	redpajama-book	88,116
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Please refer to Project Gutenberg's e-text listings for other editions or translations of 'The Divine Comedy.' Please refer to the end of this file for supplemental materials. Incipit Comoedia Dantis Alagherii, Florentini natione, non moribus. The Divine Comedy translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (e-text courtesy ILT's Digital Dante Project) Midway upon the journey of our life I found myself within a forest dark, For the straightforward pathway had been lost. Ah me! how hard a thing it is to say What was this forest savage, rough, and stern, Which in the very thought renews the fear. So bitter is it, death is little more; But of the good to treat, which there I found, Speak will I of the other things I saw there. I cannot well repeat how there I entered, So full was I of slumber at the moment In which I had abandoned the true way. But after I had reached a mountain's foot, At that point where the valley terminated, Which had with consternation pierced my heart, Upward I looked, and I beheld its shoulders, Vested already with that planet's rays Which leadeth others right by every road. Then was the fear a little quieted That in my heart's lake had endured throughout The night, which I had passed so piteously. And even as he, who, with distressful breath, Forth issued from the sea upon the shore, Turns to the water perilous and gazes; So did my soul, that still was fleeing onward, Turn itself back to re-behold the pass Which never yet a living person left. And lo! almost where the ascent began, A panther light and swift exceedingly, Which with a spotted skin was covered o'er! The time was the beginning of the morning, And up the sun was mounting with those stars That with him were, what time the Love Divine The hour of time, and the delicious season; But not so much, that did not give me fear A lion's aspect which appeared to me. He seemed as if against me he were coming With head uplifted, and with ravenous hunger, So that it seemed the air was afraid of him; And a she-wolf, that with all hungerings Seemed to be laden in her meagreness, And many folk has caused to live forlorn! She brought upon me so much heaviness, With the affright that from her aspect came, That I the hope relinquished of the height. And as he is who willingly acquires, And the time comes that causes him to lose, Who weeps in all his thoughts and is despondent, E'en such made me that beast withouten peace, Which, coming on against me by degrees Thrust me back thither where the sun is silent. When I beheld him in the desert vast, "Have pity on me," unto him I cried, "Whiche'er thou art, or shade or real man!" 'Sub Julio' was I born, though it was late, And lived at Rome under the good Augustus, During the time of false and lying gods. A poet was I, and I sang that just Son of Anchises, who came forth from Troy, After that Ilion the superb was burned. But thou, why goest thou back to such annoyance? Why climb'st thou not the Mount Delectable, Which is the source and cause of every joy?" "Now, art thou that Virgilius and that fountain Which spreads abroad so wide a river of speech?" I made response to him with bashful forehead. "O, of the other poets honour and light, Avail me the long study and great love That have impelled me to explore thy volume! Behold the beast, for which I have turned back; Do thou protect me from her, famous Sage, For she doth make my veins and pulses tremble." "Thee it behoves to take another road," Responded he, when he beheld me weeping, "If from this savage place thou wouldst escape; And has a nature so malign and ruthless, That never doth she glut her greedy will, And after food is hungrier than before. Many the animals with whom she weds, And more they shall be still, until the Greyhound Comes, who shall make her perish in her pain. He shall not feed on either earth or pelf, But upon wisdom, and on love and virtue; 'Twixt Feltro and Feltro shall his nation be; Of that low Italy shall he be the saviour, On whose account the maid Camilla died, Euryalus, Turnus, Nisus, of their wounds; Therefore I think and judge it for thy best Thou follow me, and I will be thy guide, And lead thee hence through the eternal place, And thou shalt see those who contented are Within the fire, because they hope to come, Whene'er it may be, to the blessed people; To whom, then, if thou wishest to ascend, A soul shall be for that than I more worthy; With her at my departure I will leave thee; Because that Emperor, who reigns above, In that I was rebellious to his law, Wills that through me none come into his city. He governs everywhere, and there he reigns; There is his city and his lofty throne; O happy he whom thereto he elects!" And I to him: "Poet, I thee entreat, By that same God whom thou didst never know, So that I may escape this woe and worse, Thou wouldst conduct me there where thou hast said, That I may see the portal of Saint Peter, And those thou makest so disconsolate." Then he moved on, and I behind him followed. Made myself ready to sustain the war, Both of the way and likewise of the woe, Which memory that errs not shall retrace. O Muses, O high genius, now assist me! O memory, that didst write down what I saw, Here thy nobility shall be manifest! And I began: "Poet, who guidest me, Regard my manhood, if it be sufficient, Ere to the arduous pass thou dost confide me. Thou sayest, that of Silvius the parent, While yet corruptible, unto the world Immortal went, and was there bodily. But if the adversary of all evil Was courteous, thinking of the high effect That issue would from him, and who, and what, To men of intellect unmeet it seems not; For he was of great Rome, and of her empire In the empyreal heaven as father chosen; The which and what, wishing to speak the truth, Were stablished as the holy place, wherein Sits the successor of the greatest Peter. Upon this journey, whence thou givest him vaunt, Things did he hear, which the occasion were Both of his victory and the papal mantle. Thither went afterwards the Chosen Vessel, To bring back comfort thence unto that Faith, Which of salvation's way is the beginning. But I, why thither come, or who concedes it? I not Aeneas am, I am not Paul, Nor I, nor others, think me worthy of it. Therefore, if I resign myself to come, I fear the coming may be ill-advised; Thou'rt wise, and knowest better than I speak." And as he is, who unwills what he willed, And by new thoughts doth his intention change, So that from his design he quite withdraws, Such I became, upon that dark hillside, Because, in thinking, I consumed the emprise, Which was so very prompt in the beginning. "If I have well thy language understood," Replied that shade of the Magnanimous, "Thy soul attainted is with cowardice, Among those was I who are in suspense, And a fair, saintly Lady called to me In such wise, I besought her to command me. Her eyes where shining brighter than the Star; And she began to say, gentle and low, With voice angelical, in her own language: 'O spirit courteous of Mantua, Of whom the fame still in the world endures, And shall endure, long-lasting as the world; And may, I fear, already be so lost, That I too late have risen to his succour, From that which I have heard of him in Heaven. Bestir thee now, and with thy speech ornate, And with what needful is for his release, Assist him so, that I may be consoled. Beatrice am I, who do bid thee go; I come from there, where I would fain return; Love moved me, which compelleth me to speak. When I shall be in presence of my Lord, Full often will I praise thee unto him.' Then paused she, and thereafter I began: 'O Lady of virtue, thou alone through whom The human race exceedeth all contained Within the heaven that has the lesser circles, So grateful unto me is thy commandment, To obey, if 'twere already done, were late; No farther need'st thou ope to me thy wish. But the cause tell me why thou dost not shun The here descending down into this centre, From the vast place thou burnest to return to.' 'Since thou wouldst fain so inwardly discern, Briefly will I relate,' she answered me, 'Why I am not afraid to enter here. God in his mercy such created me That misery of yours attains me not, Nor any flame assails me of this burning. A gentle Lady is in Heaven, who grieves At this impediment, to which I send thee, So that stern judgment there above is broken. Lucia, foe of all that cruel is, Hastened away, and came unto the place Where I was sitting with the ancient Rachel. "Beatrice" said she, "the true praise of God, Why succourest thou not him, who loved thee so, For thee he issued from the vulgar herd? Dost thou not hear the pity of his plaint? Dost thou not see the death that combats him Beside that flood, where ocean has no vaunt?" Never were persons in the world so swift To work their weal and to escape their woe, As I, after such words as these were uttered, Came hither downward from my blessed seat, Confiding in thy dignified discourse, Which honours thee, and those who've listened to it.' After she thus had spoken unto me, Weeping, her shining eyes she turned away; Whereby she made me swifter in my coming; And unto thee I came, as she desired; I have delivered thee from that wild beast, Which barred the beautiful mountain's short ascent. What is it, then? Why, why dost thou delay? Why is such baseness bedded in thy heart? Daring and hardihood why hast thou not, Even as the flowerets, by nocturnal chill, Bowed down and closed, when the sun whitens them, Uplift themselves all open on their stems; Such I became with my exhausted strength, And such good courage to my heart there coursed, That I began, like an intrepid person: "O she compassionate, who succoured me, And courteous thou, who hast obeyed so soon The words of truth which she addressed to thee! I entered on the deep and savage way. "Through me the way is to the city dolent; Through me the way is to eternal dole; Through me the way among the people lost. Justice incited my sublime Creator; Created me divine Omnipotence, The highest Wisdom and the primal Love. Before me there were no created things, Only eterne, and I eternal last. All hope abandon, ye who enter in!" These words in sombre colour I beheld Written upon the summit of a gate; Whence I: "Their sense is, Master, hard to me!" We to the place have come, where I have told thee Thou shalt behold the people dolorous Who have foregone the good of intellect." And after he had laid his hand on mine With joyful mien, whence I was comforted, He led me in among the secret things. There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud Resounded through the air without a star, Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat. Languages diverse, horrible dialects, Accents of anger, words of agony, And voices high and hoarse, with sound of hands, Made up a tumult that goes whirling on For ever in that air for ever black, Even as the sand doth, when the whirlwind breathes. And I, who had my head with horror bound, Said: "Master, what is this which now I hear? What folk is this, which seems by pain so vanquished?" Commingled are they with that caitiff choir Of Angels, who have not rebellious been, Nor faithful were to God, but were for self. The heavens expelled them, not to be less fair; Nor them the nethermore abyss receives, For glory none the damned would have from them." And I: "O Master, what so grievous is To these, that maketh them lament so sore?" He answered: "I will tell thee very briefly. These have no longer any hope of death; And this blind life of theirs is so debased, They envious are of every other fate. No fame of them the world permits to be; Misericord and Justice both disdain them. Let us not speak of them, but look, and pass." And I, who looked again, beheld a banner, Which, whirling round, ran on so rapidly, That of all pause it seemed to me indignant; And after it there came so long a train Of people, that I ne'er would have believed That ever Death so many had undone. When some among them I had recognised, I looked, and I beheld the shade of him Who made through cowardice the great refusal. Forthwith I comprehended, and was certain, That this the sect was of the caitiff wretches Hateful to God and to his enemies. These miscreants, who never were alive, Were naked, and were stung exceedingly By gadflies and by hornets that were there. These did their faces irrigate with blood, Which, with their tears commingled, at their feet By the disgusting worms was gathered up. And when to gazing farther I betook me. People I saw on a great river's bank; Whence said I: "Master, now vouchsafe to me, That I may know who these are, and what law Makes them appear so ready to pass over, As I discern athwart the dusky light." And he to me: "These things shall all be known To thee, as soon as we our footsteps stay Upon the dismal shore of Acheron." Then with mine eyes ashamed and downward cast, Fearing my words might irksome be to him, From speech refrained I till we reached the river. And lo! towards us coming in a boat An old man, hoary with the hair of eld, Crying: "Woe unto you, ye souls depraved! Hope nevermore to look upon the heavens; I come to lead you to the other shore, To the eternal shades in heat and frost. And thou, that yonder standest, living soul, Withdraw thee from these people, who are dead!" But when he saw that I did not withdraw, He said: "By other ways, by other ports Thou to the shore shalt come, not here, for passage; A lighter vessel needs must carry thee." And unto him the Guide: "Vex thee not, Charon; It is so willed there where is power to do That which is willed; and farther question not." Thereat were quieted the fleecy cheeks Of him the ferryman of the livid fen, Who round about his eyes had wheels of flame. But all those souls who weary were and naked Their colour changed and gnashed their teeth together, As soon as they had heard those cruel words. God they blasphemed and their progenitors, The human race, the place, the time, the seed Of their engendering and of their birth! Thereafter all together they drew back, Bitterly weeping, to the accursed shore, Which waiteth every man who fears not God. Charon the demon, with the eyes of glede, Beckoning to them, collects them all together, Beats with his oar whoever lags behind. So they depart across the dusky wave, And ere upon the other side they land, Again on this side a new troop assembles. "My son," the courteous Master said to me, "All those who perish in the wrath of God Here meet together out of every land; And ready are they to pass o'er the river, Because celestial Justice spurs them on, So that their fear is turned into desire. This way there never passes a good soul; And hence if Charon doth complain of thee, Well mayst thou know now what his speech imports." This being finished, all the dusk champaign Trembled so violently, that of that terror The recollection bathes me still with sweat. The land of tears gave forth a blast of wind, And fulminated a vermilion light, Which overmastered in me every sense, And as a man whom sleep hath seized I fell. Broke the deep lethargy within my head A heavy thunder, so that I upstarted, Like to a person who by force is wakened; And round about I moved my rested eyes, Uprisen erect, and steadfastly I gazed, To recognise the place wherein I was. True is it, that upon the verge I found me Of the abysmal valley dolorous, That gathers thunder of infinite ululations. Obscure, profound it was, and nebulous, So that by fixing on its depths my sight Nothing whatever I discerned therein. And I, who of his colour was aware, Said: "How shall I come, if thou art afraid, Who'rt wont to be a comfort to my fears?" And he to me: "The anguish of the people Who are below here in my face depicts That pity which for terror thou hast taken. Let us go on, for the long way impels us." Thus he went in, and thus he made me enter The foremost circle that surrounds the abyss. There, as it seemed to me from listening, Were lamentations none, but only sighs, That tremble made the everlasting air. And this arose from sorrow without torment, Which the crowds had, that many were and great, Of infants and of women and of men. To me the Master good: "Thou dost not ask What spirits these, which thou beholdest, are? Now will I have thee know, ere thou go farther, That they sinned not; and if they merit had, 'Tis not enough, because they had not baptism Which is the portal of the Faith thou holdest; And if they were before Christianity, In the right manner they adored not God; And among such as these am I myself. For such defects, and not for other guilt, Lost are we and are only so far punished, That without hope we live on in desire." Great grief seized on my heart when this I heard, Because some people of much worthiness I knew, who in that Limbo were suspended. "Tell me, my Master, tell me, thou my Lord," Began I, with desire of being certain Of that Faith which o'ercometh every error, Abraham, patriarch, and David, king, Israel with his father and his children, And Rachel, for whose sake he did so much, And others many, and he made them blessed; And thou must know, that earlier than these Never were any human spirits saved." We ceased not to advance because he spake, But still were passing onward through the forest, The forest, say I, of thick-crowded ghosts. Not very far as yet our way had gone This side the summit, when I saw a fire That overcame a hemisphere of darkness. We were a little distant from it still, But not so far that I in part discerned not That honourable people held that place. "O thou who honourest every art and science, Who may these be, which such great honour have, That from the fashion of the rest it parts them?" And he to me: "The honourable name, That sounds of them above there in thy life, Wins grace in Heaven, that so advances them." Because to each of these with me applies The name that solitary voice proclaimed, They do me honour, and in that do well." Thus I beheld assemble the fair school Of that lord of the song pre-eminent, Who o'er the others like an eagle soars. When they together had discoursed somewhat, They turned to me with signs of salutation, And on beholding this, my Master smiled; Thus we went on as far as to the light, Things saying 'tis becoming to keep silent, As was the saying of them where I was. People were there with solemn eyes and slow, Of great authority in their countenance; They spake but seldom, and with gentle voices. There opposite, upon the green enamel, Were pointed out to me the mighty spirits, Whom to have seen I feel myself exalted. I saw Electra with companions many, 'Mongst whom I knew both Hector and Aeneas, Caesar in armour with gerfalcon eyes; I saw Camilla and Penthesilea On the other side, and saw the King Latinus, Who with Lavinia his daughter sat; I saw that Brutus who drove Tarquin forth, Lucretia, Julia, Marcia, and Cornelia, And saw alone, apart, the Saladin. When I had lifted up my brows a little, The Master I beheld of those who know, Sit with his philosophic family. All gaze upon him, and all do him honour. There I beheld both Socrates and Plato, Who nearer him before the others stand; Democritus, who puts the world on chance, Diogenes, Anaxagoras, and Thales, Zeno, Empedocles, and Heraclitus; Of qualities I saw the good collector, Hight Dioscorides; and Orpheus saw I, Tully and Livy, and moral Seneca, Euclid, geometrician, and Ptolemy, Galen, Hippocrates, and Avicenna, Averroes, who the great Comment made. And to a place I come where nothing shines. There standeth Minos horribly, and snarls; Examines the transgressions at the entrance; Judges, and sends according as he girds him. I say, that when the spirit evil-born Cometh before him, wholly it confesses; And this discriminator of transgressions "O thou, that to this dolorous hostelry Comest," said Minos to me, when he saw me, Leaving the practice of so great an office, "Look how thou enterest, and in whom thou trustest; Let not the portal's amplitude deceive thee." And unto him my Guide: "Why criest thou too? Do not impede his journey fate-ordained; It is so willed there where is power to do That which is willed; and ask no further question." And now begin the dolesome notes to grow Audible unto me; now am I come There where much lamentation strikes upon me. I came into a place mute of all light, Which bellows as the sea does in a tempest, If by opposing winds 't is combated. The infernal hurricane that never rests Hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine; Whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them. When they arrive before the precipice, There are the shrieks, the plaints, and the laments, There they blaspheme the puissance divine. I understood that unto such a torment The carnal malefactors were condemned, Who reason subjugate to appetite. And as the wings of starlings bear them on In the cold season in large band and full, So doth that blast the spirits maledict; It hither, thither, downward, upward, drives them; No hope doth comfort them for evermore, Not of repose, but even of lesser pain. And as the cranes go chanting forth their lays, Making in air a long line of themselves, So saw I coming, uttering lamentations, Shadows borne onward by the aforesaid stress. Whereupon said I: "Master, who are those People, whom the black air so castigates?" To sensual vices she was so abandoned, That lustful she made licit in her law, To remove the blame to which she had been led. She is Semiramis, of whom we read That she succeeded Ninus, and was his spouse; She held the land which now the Sultan rules. The next is she who killed herself for love, And broke faith with the ashes of Sichaeus; Then Cleopatra the voluptuous." Helen I saw, for whom so many ruthless Seasons revolved; and saw the great Achilles, Who at the last hour combated with Love. After that I had listened to my Teacher, Naming the dames of eld and cavaliers, Pity prevailed, and I was nigh bewildered. And, he to me: "Thou'lt mark, when they shall be Nearer to us; and then do thou implore them By love which leadeth them, and they will come." As turtle-doves, called onward by desire, With open and steady wings to the sweet nest Fly through the air by their volition borne, So came they from the band where Dido is, Approaching us athwart the air malign, So strong was the affectionate appeal. "O living creature gracious and benignant, Who visiting goest through the purple air Us, who have stained the world incarnadine, If were the King of the Universe our friend, We would pray unto him to give thee peace, Since thou hast pity on our woe perverse. Of what it pleases thee to hear and speak, That will we hear, and we will speak to you, While silent is the wind, as it is now. Sitteth the city, wherein I was born, Upon the sea-shore where the Po descends To rest in peace with all his retinue. As soon as I had heard those souls tormented, I bowed my face, and so long held it down Until the Poet said to me: "What thinkest?" When I made answer, I began: "Alas! How many pleasant thoughts, how much desire, Conducted these unto the dolorous pass!" Then unto them I turned me, and I spake, And I began: "Thine agonies, Francesca, Sad and compassionate to weeping make me. But tell me, at the time of those sweet sighs, By what and in what manner Love conceded, That you should know your dubious desires?" And she to me: "There is no greater sorrow Than to be mindful of the happy time In misery, and that thy Teacher knows. But, if to recognise the earliest root Of love in us thou hast so great desire, I will do even as he who weeps and speaks. Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating. Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it. That day no farther did we read therein." And fell, even as a dead body falls. New torments I behold, and new tormented Around me, whichsoever way I move, And whichsoever way I turn, and gaze. Huge hail, and water sombre-hued, and snow, Athwart the tenebrous air pour down amain; Noisome the earth is, that receiveth this. Red eyes he has, and unctuous beard and black, And belly large, and armed with claws his hands; He rends the spirits, flays, and quarters them. When Cerberus perceived us, the great worm! His mouths he opened, and displayed his tusks; Not a limb had he that was motionless. And my Conductor, with his spans extended, Took of the earth, and with his fists well filled, He threw it into those rapacious gullets. Such as that dog is, who by barking craves, And quiet grows soon as his food he gnaws, For to devour it he but thinks and struggles, The like became those muzzles filth-begrimed Of Cerberus the demon, who so thunders Over the souls that they would fain be deaf. We passed across the shadows, which subdues The heavy rain-storm, and we placed our feet Upon their vanity that person seems. "O thou that art conducted through this Hell," He said to me, "recall me, if thou canst; Thyself wast made before I was unmade." And I to him: "The anguish which thou hast Perhaps doth draw thee out of my remembrance, So that it seems not I have ever seen thee. But tell me who thou art, that in so doleful A place art put, and in such punishment, If some are greater, none is so displeasing." And he to me: "Thy city, which is full Of envy so that now the sack runs over, Held me within it in the life serene. You citizens were wont to call me Ciacco; For the pernicious sin of gluttony I, as thou seest, am battered by this rain. I answered him: "Ciacco, thy wretchedness Weighs on me so that it to weep invites me; But tell me, if thou knowest, to what shall come The citizens of the divided city; If any there be just; and the occasion Tell me why so much discord has assailed it." And he to me: "They, after long contention, Will come to bloodshed; and the rustic party Will drive the other out with much offence. High will it hold its forehead a long while, Keeping the other under heavy burdens, Howe'er it weeps thereat and is indignant. Here ended he his tearful utterance; And I to him: "I wish thee still to teach me, And make a gift to me of further speech. Say where they are, and cause that I may know them; For great desire constraineth me to learn If Heaven doth sweeten them, or Hell envenom." And he: "They are among the blacker souls; A different sin downweighs them to the bottom; If thou so far descendest, thou canst see them. But when thou art again in the sweet world, I pray thee to the mind of others bring me; No more I tell thee and no more I answer." Then his straightforward eyes he turned askance, Eyed me a little, and then bowed his head; He fell therewith prone like the other blind. And the Guide said to me: "He wakes no more This side the sound of the angelic trumpet; When shall approach the hostile Potentate, So we passed onward o'er the filthy mixture Of shadows and of rain with footsteps slow, Touching a little on the future life. Wherefore I said: "Master, these torments here, Will they increase after the mighty sentence, Or lesser be, or will they be as burning?" And he to me: "Return unto thy science, Which wills, that as the thing more perfect is, The more it feels of pleasure and of pain. Albeit that this people maledict To true perfection never can attain, Hereafter more than now they look to be." Round in a circle by that road we went, Speaking much more, which I do not repeat; We came unto the point where the descent is; There we found Plutus the great enemy. "Pape Satan, Pape Satan, Aleppe!" Thus Plutus with his clucking voice began; And that benignant Sage, who all things knew, Said, to encourage me: "Let not thy fear Harm thee; for any power that he may have Shall not prevent thy going down this crag." Then he turned round unto that bloated lip, And said: "Be silent, thou accursed wolf; Consume within thyself with thine own rage. Not causeless is this journey to the abyss; Thus is it willed on high, where Michael wrought Vengeance upon the proud adultery." Even as the sails inflated by the wind Involved together fall when snaps the mast, So fell the cruel monster to the earth. Justice of God, ah! who heaps up so many New toils and sufferings as I beheld? And why doth our transgression waste us so? As doth the billow there upon Charybdis, That breaks itself on that which it encounters, So here the folk must dance their roundelay. Thus they returned along the lurid circle On either hand unto the opposite point, Shouting their shameful metre evermore. Exclaimed: "My Master, now declare to me What people these are, and if all were clerks, These shaven crowns upon the left of us." Clerks those were who no hairy covering Have on the head, and Popes and Cardinals, In whom doth Avarice practise its excess." And I: "My Master, among such as these I ought forsooth to recognise some few, Who were infected with these maladies." And he to me: "Vain thought thou entertainest; The undiscerning life which made them sordid Now makes them unto all discernment dim. Ill giving and ill keeping the fair world Have ta'en from them, and placed them in this scuffle; Whate'er it be, no words adorn I for it. Now canst thou, Son, behold the transient farce Of goods that are committed unto Fortune, For which the human race each other buffet; "Master," I said to him, "now tell me also What is this Fortune which thou speakest of, That has the world's goods so within its clutches?" And he to me: "O creatures imbecile, What ignorance is this which doth beset you? Now will I have thee learn my judgment of her. He whose omniscience everything transcends The heavens created, and gave who should guide them, That every part to every part may shine, Distributing the light in equal measure; He in like manner to the mundane splendours Ordained a general ministress and guide, Your knowledge has no counterstand against her; She makes provision, judges, and pursues Her governance, as theirs the other gods. Her permutations have not any truce; Necessity makes her precipitate, So often cometh who his turn obtains. And this is she who is so crucified Even by those who ought to give her praise, Giving her blame amiss, and bad repute. But she is blissful, and she hears it not; Among the other primal creatures gladsome She turns her sphere, and blissful she rejoices. Let us descend now unto greater woe; Already sinks each star that was ascending When I set out, and loitering is forbidden." We crossed the circle to the other bank, Near to a fount that boils, and pours itself Along a gully that runs out of it. The water was more sombre far than perse; And we, in company with the dusky waves, Made entrance downward by a path uncouth. A marsh it makes, which has the name of Styx, This tristful brooklet, when it has descended Down to the foot of the malign gray shores. And I, who stood intent upon beholding, Saw people mud-besprent in that lagoon, All of them naked and with angry look. They smote each other not alone with hands, But with the head and with the breast and feet, Tearing each other piecemeal with their teeth. Said the good Master: "Son, thou now beholdest The souls of those whom anger overcame; And likewise I would have thee know for certain Beneath the water people are who sigh And make this water bubble at the surface, As the eye tells thee wheresoe'er it turns. Fixed in the mire they say, 'We sullen were In the sweet air, which by the sun is gladdened, Bearing within ourselves the sluggish reek; Now we are sullen in this sable mire.' This hymn do they keep gurgling in their throats, For with unbroken words they cannot say it." Thus we went circling round the filthy fen A great arc 'twixt the dry bank and the swamp, With eyes turned unto those who gorge the mire; Unto the foot of a tower we came at last. I say, continuing, that long before We to the foot of that high tower had come, Our eyes went upward to the summit of it, And, to the sea of all discernment turned, I said: "What sayeth this, and what respondeth That other fire? and who are they that made it?" And he to me: "Across the turbid waves What is expected thou canst now discern, If reek of the morass conceal it not." Cord never shot an arrow from itself That sped away athwart the air so swift, As I beheld a very little boat Come o'er the water tow'rds us at that moment, Under the guidance of a single pilot, Who shouted, "Now art thou arrived, fell soul?" As he who listens to some great deceit That has been done to him, and then resents it, Such became Phlegyas, in his gathered wrath. My Guide descended down into the boat, And then he made me enter after him, And only when I entered seemed it laden. Soon as the Guide and I were in the boat, The antique prow goes on its way, dividing More of the water than 'tis wont with others. And I to him: "With weeping and with wailing, Thou spirit maledict, do thou remain; For thee I know, though thou art all defiled." Then stretched he both his hands unto the boat; Whereat my wary Master thrust him back, Saying, "Away there with the other dogs!" Thereafter with his arms he clasped my neck; He kissed my face, and said: "Disdainful soul, Blessed be she who bore thee in her bosom. That was an arrogant person in the world; Goodness is none, that decks his memory; So likewise here his shade is furious. How many are esteemed great kings up there, Who here shall be like unto swine in mire, Leaving behind them horrible dispraises!" And I: "My Master, much should I be pleased, If I could see him soused into this broth, Before we issue forth out of the lake." And he to me: "Ere unto thee the shore Reveal itself, thou shalt be satisfied; Such a desire 'tis meet thou shouldst enjoy." A little after that, I saw such havoc Made of him by the people of the mire, That still I praise and thank my God for it. They all were shouting, "At Philippo Argenti!" And that exasperate spirit Florentine Turned round upon himself with his own teeth. We left him there, and more of him I tell not; But on mine ears there smote a lamentation, Whence forward I intent unbar mine eyes. And the good Master said: "Even now, my Son, The city draweth near whose name is Dis, With the grave citizens, with the great throng." And I: "Its mosques already, Master, clearly Within there in the valley I discern Vermilion, as if issuing from the fire They were." And he to me: "The fire eternal That kindles them within makes them look red, As thou beholdest in this nether Hell." Then we arrived within the moats profound, That circumvallate that disconsolate city; The walls appeared to me to be of iron. Goes through the kingdom of the people dead?" And my sagacious Master made a sign Of wishing secretly to speak with them. A little then they quelled their great disdain, And said: "Come thou alone, and he begone Who has so boldly entered these dominions. Let him return alone by his mad road; Try, if he can; for thou shalt here remain, Who hast escorted him through such dark regions." Think, Reader, if I was discomforted At utterance of the accursed words; For never to return here I believed. Do not desert me," said I, "thus undone; And if the going farther be denied us, Let us retrace our steps together swiftly." And that Lord, who had led me thitherward, Said unto me: "Fear not; because our passage None can take from us, it by Such is given. But here await me, and thy weary spirit Comfort and nourish with a better hope; For in this nether world I will not leave thee." So onward goes and there abandons me My Father sweet, and I remain in doubt, For No and Yes within my head contend. I could not hear what he proposed to them; But with them there he did not linger long, Ere each within in rivalry ran back. They closed the portals, those our adversaries, On my Lord's breast, who had remained without And turned to me with footsteps far between. His eyes cast down, his forehead shorn had he Of all its boldness, and he said, with sighs, "Who has denied to me the dolesome houses?" And unto me: "Thou, because I am angry, Fear not, for I will conquer in the trial, Whatever for defence within be planned. O'er it didst thou behold the dead inscription; And now this side of it descends the steep, Passing across the circles without escort, That hue which cowardice brought out on me, Beholding my Conductor backward turn, Sooner repressed within him his new colour. He stopped attentive, like a man who listens, Because the eye could not conduct him far Through the black air, and through the heavy fog. But none the less his saying gave me fear, Because I carried out the broken phrase, Perhaps to a worse meaning than he had. Naked of me short while the flesh had been, Before within that wall she made me enter, To bring a spirit from the circle of Judas; That is the lowest region and the darkest, And farthest from the heaven which circles all. Well know I the way; therefore be reassured. This fen, which a prodigious stench exhales, Encompasses about the city dolent, Where now we cannot enter without anger." And more he said, but not in mind I have it; Because mine eye had altogether drawn me Tow'rds the high tower with the red-flaming summit, And with the greenest hydras were begirt; Small serpents and cerastes were their tresses, Wherewith their horrid temples were entwined. And he who well the handmaids of the Queen Of everlasting lamentation knew, Said unto me: "Behold the fierce Erinnys. This is Megaera, on the left-hand side; She who is weeping on the right, Alecto; Tisiphone is between;" and then was silent. "Medusa come, so we to stone will change him!" All shouted looking down; "in evil hour Avenged we not on Theseus his assault!" "Turn thyself round, and keep thine eyes close shut, For if the Gorgon appear, and thou shouldst see it, No more returning upward would there be." Thus said the Master; and he turned me round Himself, and trusted not unto my hands So far as not to blind me with his own. O ye who have undistempered intellects, Observe the doctrine that conceals itself Beneath the veil of the mysterious verses! And now there came across the turbid waves The clangour of a sound with terror fraught, Because of which both of the margins trembled; Not otherwise it was than of a wind Impetuous on account of adverse heats, That smites the forest, and, without restraint, The branches rends, beats down, and bears away; Right onward, laden with dust, it goes superb, And puts to flight the wild beasts and the shepherds. Mine eyes he loosed, and said: "Direct the nerve Of vision now along that ancient foam, There yonder where that smoke is most intense." From off his face he fanned that unctuous air, Waving his left hand oft in front of him, And only with that anguish seemed he weary. Ah! how disdainful he appeared to me! He reached the gate, and with a little rod He opened it, for there was no resistance. "O banished out of Heaven, people despised!" Thus he began upon the horrid threshold; "Whence is this arrogance within you couched? What helpeth it to butt against the fates? Your Cerberus, if you remember well, For that still bears his chin and gullet peeled." Than that of him who in his presence is; And we our feet directed tow'rds the city, After those holy words all confident. Within we entered without any contest; And I, who inclination had to see What the condition such a fortress holds, Soon as I was within, cast round mine eye, And see on every hand an ample plain, Full of distress and torment terrible. Even as at Arles, where stagnant grows the Rhone, Even as at Pola near to the Quarnaro, That shuts in Italy and bathes its borders, The sepulchres make all the place uneven; So likewise did they there on every side, Saving that there the manner was more bitter; For flames between the sepulchres were scattered, By which they so intensely heated were, That iron more so asks not any art. All of their coverings uplifted were, And from them issued forth such dire laments, Sooth seemed they of the wretched and tormented. And I: "My Master, what are all those people Who, having sepulture within those tombs, Make themselves audible by doleful sighs?" And he to me: "Here are the Heresiarchs, With their disciples of all sects, and much More than thou thinkest laden are the tombs. Here like together with its like is buried; And more and less the monuments are heated." And when he to the right had turned, we passed Between the torments and high parapets. Now onward goes, along a narrow path Between the torments and the city wall, My Master, and I follow at his back. "O power supreme, that through these impious circles Turnest me," I began, "as pleases thee, Speak to me, and my longings satisfy; And he to me: "They all will be closed up When from Jehoshaphat they shall return Here with the bodies they have left above. Their cemetery have upon this side With Epicurus all his followers, Who with the body mortal make the soul; But in the question thou dost put to me, Within here shalt thou soon be satisfied, And likewise in the wish thou keepest silent." And I: "Good Leader, I but keep concealed From thee my heart, that I may speak the less, Nor only now hast thou thereto disposed me." "O Tuscan, thou who through the city of fire Goest alive, thus speaking modestly, Be pleased to stay thy footsteps in this place. And unto me he said: "Turn thee; what dost thou? Behold there Farinata who has risen; From the waist upwards wholly shalt thou see him." I had already fixed mine eyes on his, And he uprose erect with breast and front E'en as if Hell he had in great despite. And with courageous hands and prompt my Leader Thrust me between the sepulchres towards him, Exclaiming, "Let thy words explicit be." As soon as I was at the foot of his tomb Somewhat he eyed me, and, as if disdainful, Then asked of me, "Who were thine ancestors?" I, who desirous of obeying was, Concealed it not, but all revealed to him; Whereat he raised his brows a little upward. Then there uprose upon the sight, uncovered Down to the chin, a shadow at his side; I think that he had risen on his knees. Weeping, he said to me: "If through this blind Prison thou goest by loftiness of genius, Where is my son? and why is he not with thee?" And I to him: "I come not of myself; He who is waiting yonder leads me here, Whom in disdain perhaps your Guido had." When he became aware of some delay, Which I before my answer made, supine He fell again, and forth appeared no more. But the other, magnanimous, at whose desire I had remained, did not his aspect change, Neither his neck he moved, nor bent his side. Whence I to him: "The slaughter and great carnage Which have with crimson stained the Arbia, cause Such orisons in our temple to be made." After his head he with a sigh had shaken, "There I was not alone," he said, "nor surely Without a cause had with the others moved. "Ah! so hereafter may your seed repose," I him entreated, "solve for me that knot, Which has entangled my conceptions here. "We see, like those who have imperfect sight, The things," he said, "that distant are from us; So much still shines on us the Sovereign Ruler. When they draw near, or are, is wholly vain Our intellect, and if none brings it to us, Not anything know we of your human state. Hence thou canst understand, that wholly dead Will be our knowledge from the moment when The portal of the future shall be closed." And if just now, in answering, I was dumb, Tell him I did it because I was thinking Already of the error you have solved me." And now my Master was recalling me, Wherefore more eagerly I prayed the spirit That he would tell me who was with him there. Thereon he hid himself; and I towards The ancient poet turned my steps, reflecting Upon that saying, which seemed hostile to me. He moved along; and afterward thus going, He said to me, "Why art thou so bewildered?" And I in his inquiry satisfied him. "Let memory preserve what thou hast heard Against thyself," that Sage commanded me, "And now attend here;" and he raised his finger. "When thou shalt be before the radiance sweet Of her whose beauteous eyes all things behold, From her thou'lt know the journey of thy life." Unto the left hand then he turned his feet; We left the wall, and went towards the middle, Along a path that strikes into a valley, Which even up there unpleasant made its stench. Upon the margin of a lofty bank Which great rocks broken in a circle made, We came upon a still more cruel throng; And there, by reason of the horrible Excess of stench the deep abyss throws out, We drew ourselves aside behind the cover Of a great tomb, whereon I saw a writing, Which said: "Pope Anastasius I hold, Whom out of the right way Photinus drew." The Master thus; and unto him I said, "Some compensation find, that the time pass not Idly;" and he: "Thou seest I think of that. They all are full of spirits maledict; But that hereafter sight alone suffice thee, Hear how and wherefore they are in constraint. Of every malice that wins hate in Heaven, Injury is the end; and all such end Either by force or fraud afflicteth others. But because fraud is man's peculiar vice, More it displeases God; and so stand lowest The fraudulent, and greater dole assails them. To God, to ourselves, and to our neighbour can we Use force; I say on them and on their things, As thou shalt hear with reason manifest. A death by violence, and painful wounds, Are to our neighbour given; and in his substance Ruin, and arson, and injurious levies; Whoever of your world deprives himself, Who games, and dissipates his property, And weepeth there, where he should jocund be. Violence can be done the Deity, In heart denying and blaspheming Him, And by disdaining Nature and her bounty. And for this reason doth the smallest round Seal with its signet Sodom and Cahors, And who, disdaining God, speaks from the heart. Fraud, wherewithal is every conscience stung, A man may practise upon him who trusts, And him who doth no confidence imburse. Hypocrisy, flattery, and who deals in magic, Falsification, theft, and simony, Panders, and barrators, and the like filth. Hence in the smallest circle, where the point is Of the Universe, upon which Dis is seated, Whoe'er betrays for ever is consumed." And I: "My Master, clear enough proceeds Thy reasoning, and full well distinguishes This cavern and the people who possess it. But tell me, those within the fat lagoon, Whom the wind drives, and whom the rain doth beat, And who encounter with such bitter tongues, Wherefore are they inside of the red city Not punished, if God has them in his wrath, And if he has not, wherefore in such fashion?" And unto me he said: "Why wanders so Thine intellect from that which it is wont? Or, sooth, thy mind where is it elsewhere looking? If thou regardest this conclusion well, And to thy mind recallest who they are That up outside are undergoing penance, Clearly wilt thou perceive why from these felons They separated are, and why less wroth Justice divine doth smite them with its hammer." "O Sun, that healest all distempered vision, Thou dost content me so, when thou resolvest, That doubting pleases me no less than knowing! From Intellect Divine, and from its art; And if thy Physics carefully thou notest, After not many pages shalt thou find, That this your art as far as possible Follows, as the disciple doth the master; So that your art is, as it were, God's grandchild. And since the usurer takes another way, Nature herself and in her follower Disdains he, for elsewhere he puts his hope. But follow, now, as I would fain go on, For quivering are the Fishes on the horizon, And the Wain wholly over Caurus lies, And far beyond there we descend the crag." The place where to descend the bank we came Was alpine, and from what was there, moreover, Of such a kind that every eye would shun it. Such as that ruin is which in the flank Smote, on this side of Trent, the Adige, Either by earthquake or by failing stay, For from the mountain's top, from which it moved, Unto the plain the cliff is shattered so, Some path 'twould give to him who was above; Even such was the descent of that ravine, And on the border of the broken chasm The infamy of Crete was stretched along, My Sage towards him shouted: "Peradventure Thou think'st that here may be the Duke of Athens, Who in the world above brought death to thee? As is that bull who breaks loose at the moment In which he has received the mortal blow, Who cannot walk, but staggers here and there, The Minotaur beheld I do the like; And he, the wary, cried: "Run to the passage; While he wroth, 'tis well thou shouldst descend." Thus down we took our way o'er that discharge Of stones, which oftentimes did move themselves Beneath my feet, from the unwonted burden. Thoughtful I went; and he said: "Thou art thinking Perhaps upon this ruin, which is guarded By that brute anger which just now I quenched. Now will I have thee know, the other time I here descended to the nether Hell, This precipice had not yet fallen down. But truly, if I well discern, a little Before His coming who the mighty spoil Bore off from Dis, in the supernal circle, Upon all sides the deep and loathsome valley Trembled so, that I thought the Universe Was thrilled with love, by which there are who think The world ofttimes converted into chaos; And at that moment this primeval crag Both here and elsewhere made such overthrow. But fix thine eyes below; for draweth near The river of blood, within which boiling is Whoe'er by violence doth injure others." O blind cupidity, O wrath insane, That spurs us onward so in our short life, And in the eternal then so badly steeps us! And between this and the embankment's foot Centaurs in file were running, armed with arrows, As in the world they used the chase to follow. My Master said: "Our answer will we make To Chiron, near you there; in evil hour, That will of thine was evermore so hasty." And he in the midst, who at his breast is gazing, Is the great Chiron, who brought up Achilles; That other Pholus is, who was so wrathful. Thousands and thousands go about the moat Shooting with shafts whatever soul emerges Out of the blood, more than his crime allots." Near we approached unto those monsters fleet; Chiron an arrow took, and with the notch Backward upon his jaws he put his beard. After he had uncovered his great mouth, He said to his companions: "Are you ware That he behind moveth whate'er he touches? Replied: "Indeed he lives, and thus alone Me it behoves to show him the dark valley; Necessity, and not delight, impels us. Upon his right breast Chiron wheeled about, And said to Nessus: "Turn and do thou guide them, And warn aside, if other band may meet you." We with our faithful escort onward moved Along the brink of the vermilion boiling, Wherein the boiled were uttering loud laments. People I saw within up to the eyebrows, And the great Centaur said: "Tyrants are these, Who dealt in bloodshed and in pillaging. Here they lament their pitiless mischiefs; here Is Alexander, and fierce Dionysius Who upon Sicily brought dolorous years. That forehead there which has the hair so black Is Azzolin; and the other who is blond, Obizzo is of Esti, who, in truth, A little farther on the Centaur stopped Above a folk, who far down as the throat Seemed from that boiling stream to issue forth. Then people saw I, who from out the river Lifted their heads and also all the chest; And many among these I recognised. Thus ever more and more grew shallower That blood, so that the feet alone it covered; And there across the moat our passage was. "Even as thou here upon this side beholdest The boiling stream, that aye diminishes," The Centaur said, "I wish thee to believe That on this other more and more declines Its bed, until it reunites itself Where it behoveth tyranny to groan. Justice divine, upon this side, is goading That Attila, who was a scourge on earth, And Pyrrhus, and Sextus; and for ever milks The tears which with the boiling it unseals In Rinier da Corneto and Rinier Pazzo, Who made upon the highways so much war." Then back he turned, and passed again the ford. Not yet had Nessus reached the other side, When we had put ourselves within a wood, That was not marked by any path whatever. Not foliage green, but of a dusky colour, Not branches smooth, but gnarled and intertangled, Not apple-trees were there, but thorns with poison. Such tangled thickets have not, nor so dense, Those savage wild beasts, that in hatred hold 'Twixt Cecina and Corneto the tilled places. There do the hideous Harpies make their nests, Who chased the Trojans from the Strophades, With sad announcement of impending doom; Broad wings have they, and necks and faces human, And feet with claws, and their great bellies fledged; They make laments upon the wondrous trees. Thou comest out upon the horrible sand; Therefore look well around, and thou shalt see Things that will credence give unto my speech." I heard on all sides lamentations uttered, And person none beheld I who might make them, Whence, utterly bewildered, I stood still. I think he thought that I perhaps might think So many voices issued through those trunks From people who concealed themselves from us; Therefore the Master said: "If thou break off Some little spray from any of these trees, The thoughts thou hast will wholly be made vain." Then stretched I forth my hand a little forward, And plucked a branchlet off from a great thorn; And the trunk cried, "Why dost thou mangle me?" After it had become embrowned with blood, It recommenced its cry: "Why dost thou rend me? Hast thou no spirit of pity whatsoever? So from that splinter issued forth together Both words and blood; whereat I let the tip Fall, and stood like a man who is afraid. "Had he been able sooner to believe," My Sage made answer, "O thou wounded soul, What only in my verses he has seen, Not upon thee had he stretched forth his hand; Whereas the thing incredible has caused me To put him to an act which grieveth me. But tell him who thou wast, so that by way Of some amends thy fame he may refresh Up in the world, to which he can return." And the trunk said: "So thy sweet words allure me, I cannot silent be; and you be vexed not, That I a little to discourse am tempted. That from his secrets most men I withheld; Fidelity I bore the glorious office So great, I lost thereby my sleep and pulses. The courtesan who never from the dwelling Of Caesar turned aside her strumpet eyes, Death universal and the vice of courts, Inflamed against me all the other minds, And they, inflamed, did so inflame Augustus, That my glad honours turned to dismal mournings. My spirit, in disdainful exultation, Thinking by dying to escape disdain, Made me unjust against myself, the just. I, by the roots unwonted of this wood, Do swear to you that never broke I faith Unto my lord, who was so worthy of honour; Waited awhile, and then: "Since he is silent," The Poet said to me, "lose not the time, But speak, and question him, if more may please thee." Whence I to him: "Do thou again inquire Concerning what thou thinks't will satisfy me; For I cannot, such pity is in my heart." Therefore he recommenced: "So may the man Do for thee freely what thy speech implores, Spirit incarcerate, again be pleased To tell us in what way the soul is bound Within these knots; and tell us, if thou canst, If any from such members e'er is freed." Then blew the trunk amain, and afterward The wind was into such a voice converted: "With brevity shall be replied to you. It falls into the forest, and no part Is chosen for it; but where Fortune hurls it, There like a grain of spelt it germinates. It springs a sapling, and a forest tree; The Harpies, feeding then upon its leaves, Do pain create, and for the pain an outlet. Here we shall drag them, and along the dismal Forest our bodies shall suspended be, Each to the thorn of his molested shade." We were attentive still unto the trunk, Thinking that more it yet might wish to tell us, When by a tumult we were overtaken, In the same way as he is who perceives The boar and chase approaching to his stand, Who hears the crashing of the beasts and branches; Those legs of thine at joustings of the Toppo!" And then, perchance because his breath was failing, He grouped himself together with a bush. Behind them was the forest full of black She-mastiffs, ravenous, and swift of foot As greyhounds, who are issuing from the chain. On him who had crouched down they set their teeth, And him they lacerated piece by piece, Thereafter bore away those aching members. Thereat my Escort took me by the hand, And led me to the bush, that all in vain Was weeping from its bloody lacerations. "O Jacopo," it said, "of Sant' Andrea, What helped it thee of me to make a screen? What blame have I in thy nefarious life?" When near him had the Master stayed his steps, He said: "Who wast thou, that through wounds so many Art blowing out with blood thy dolorous speech?" And he to us: "O souls, that hither come To look upon the shameful massacre That has so rent away from me my leaves, Forever with his art will make it sad. And were it not that on the pass of Arno Some glimpses of him are remaining still, Those citizens, who afterwards rebuilt it Upon the ashes left by Attila, In vain had caused their labour to be done. Of my own house I made myself a gibbet." Because the charity of my native place Constrained me, gathered I the scattered leaves, And gave them back to him, who now was hoarse. Clearly to manifest these novel things, I say that we arrived upon a plain, Which from its bed rejecteth every plant; The dolorous forest is a garland to it All round about, as the sad moat to that; There close upon the edge we stayed our feet. Of naked souls beheld I many herds, Who all were weeping very miserably, And over them seemed set a law diverse. Supine upon the ground some folk were lying; And some were sitting all drawn up together, And others went about continually. Those who were going round were far the more, And those were less who lay down to their torment, But had their tongues more loosed to lamentation. O'er all the sand-waste, with a gradual fall, Were raining down dilated flakes of fire, As of the snow on Alp without a wind. As Alexander, in those torrid parts Of India, beheld upon his host Flames fall unbroken till they reached the ground. Whence he provided with his phalanxes To trample down the soil, because the vapour Better extinguished was while it was single; Thus was descending the eternal heat, Whereby the sand was set on fire, like tinder Beneath the steel, for doubling of the dole. Without repose forever was the dance Of miserable hands, now there, now here, Shaking away from off them the fresh gleeds. "Master," began I, "thou who overcomest All things except the demons dire, that issued Against us at the entrance of the gate, And he himself, who had become aware That I was questioning my Guide about him, Cried: "Such as I was living, am I, dead. If Jove should weary out his smith, from whom He seized in anger the sharp thunderbolt, Wherewith upon the last day I was smitten, And if he wearied out by turns the others In Mongibello at the swarthy forge, Vociferating, 'Help, good Vulcan, help!' Even as he did there at the fight of Phlegra, And shot his bolts at me with all his might, He would not have thereby a joyous vengeance." Then did my Leader speak with such great force, That I had never heard him speak so loud: "O Capaneus, in that is not extinguished Thine arrogance, thou punished art the more; Not any torment, saving thine own rage, Would be unto thy fury pain complete." God in disdain, and little seems to prize him; But, as I said to him, his own despites Are for his breast the fittest ornaments. Now follow me, and mind thou do not place As yet thy feet upon the burning sand, But always keep them close unto the wood." Speaking no word, we came to where there gushes Forth from the wood a little rivulet, Whose redness makes my hair still stand on end. As from the Bulicame springs the brooklet, The sinful women later share among them, So downward through the sand it went its way. The bottom of it, and both sloping banks, Were made of stone, and the margins at the side; Whence I perceived that there the passage was. Nothing has been discovered by thine eyes So notable as is the present river, Which all the little flames above it quenches." These words were of my Leader; whence I prayed him That he would give me largess of the food, For which he had given me largess of desire. "In the mid-sea there sits a wasted land," Said he thereafterward, "whose name is Crete, Under whose king the world of old was chaste. A grand old man stands in the mount erect, Who holds his shoulders turned tow'rds Damietta, And looks at Rome as if it were his mirror. His head is fashioned of refined gold, And of pure silver are the arms and breast; Then he is brass as far down as the fork. From that point downward all is chosen iron, Save that the right foot is of kiln-baked clay, And more he stands on that than on the other. Each part, except the gold, is by a fissure Asunder cleft, that dripping is with tears, Which gathered together perforate that cavern. From rock to rock they fall into this valley; Acheron, Styx, and Phlegethon they form; Then downward go along this narrow sluice Unto that point where is no more descending. They form Cocytus; what that pool may be Thou shalt behold, so here 'tis not narrated." And I to him: "If so the present runnel Doth take its rise in this way from our world, Why only on this verge appears it to us?" And he to me: "Thou knowest the place is round, And notwithstanding thou hast journeyed far, Still to the left descending to the bottom, Thou hast not yet through all the circle turned. Therefore if something new appear to us, It should not bring amazement to thy face." Thou shalt see Lethe, but outside this moat, There where the souls repair to lave themselves, When sin repented of has been removed." Then said he: "It is time now to abandon The wood; take heed that thou come after me; A way the margins make that are not burning, And over them all vapours are extinguished." Even as the Flemings, 'twixt Cadsand and Bruges, Fearing the flood that tow'rds them hurls itself, Their bulwarks build to put the sea to flight; And as the Paduans along the Brenta, To guard their villas and their villages, Or ever Chiarentana feel the heat; In such similitude had those been made, Albeit not so lofty nor so thick, Whoever he might be, the master made them. Now were we from the forest so remote, I could not have discovered where it was, Even if backward I had turned myself, To eye each other under a new moon, And so towards us sharpened they their brows As an old tailor at the needle's eye. And I, when he stretched forth his arm to me, On his baked aspect fastened so mine eyes, That the scorched countenance prevented not His recognition by my intellect; And bowing down my face unto his own, I made reply, "Are you here, Ser Brunetto?" And he: "May't not displease thee, O my son, If a brief space with thee Brunetto Latini Backward return and let the trail go on." I said to him: "With all my power I ask it; And if you wish me to sit down with you, I will, if he please, for I go with him." Therefore go on; I at thy skirts will come, And afterward will I rejoin my band, Which goes lamenting its eternal doom." And he began: "What fortune or what fate Before the last day leadeth thee down here? And who is this that showeth thee the way?" "Up there above us in the life serene," I answered him, "I lost me in a valley, Or ever yet my age had been completed. And he to me: "If thou thy star do follow, Thou canst not fail thee of a glorious port, If well I judged in the life beautiful. And if I had not died so prematurely, Seeing Heaven thus benignant unto thee, I would have given thee comfort in the work. But that ungrateful and malignant people, Which of old time from Fesole descended, And smacks still of the mountain and the granite, Will make itself, for thy good deeds, thy foe; And it is right; for among crabbed sorbs It ill befits the sweet fig to bear fruit. Old rumour in the world proclaims them blind; A people avaricious, envious, proud; Take heed that of their customs thou do cleanse thee. Their litter let the beasts of Fesole Make of themselves, nor let them touch the plant, If any still upon their dunghill rise, In which may yet revive the consecrated Seed of those Romans, who remained there when The nest of such great malice it became." "If my entreaty wholly were fulfilled," Replied I to him, "not yet would you be In banishment from human nature placed; For in my mind is fixed, and touches now My heart the dear and good paternal image Of you, when in the world from hour to hour You taught me how a man becomes eternal; And how much I am grateful, while I live Behoves that in my language be discerned. What you narrate of my career I write, And keep it to be glossed with other text By a Lady who can do it, if I reach her. This much will I have manifest to you; Provided that my conscience do not chide me, For whatsoever Fortune I am ready. Such handsel is not new unto mine ears; Therefore let Fortune turn her wheel around As it may please her, and the churl his mattock." My Master thereupon on his right cheek Did backward turn himself, and looked at me; Then said: "He listeneth well who noteth it." Nor speaking less on that account, I go With Ser Brunetto, and I ask who are His most known and most eminent companions. And he to me: "To know of some is well; Of others it were laudable to be silent, For short would be the time for so much speech. Priscian goes yonder with that wretched crowd, And Francis of Accorso; and thou hadst seen there If thou hadst had a hankering for such scurf, More would I say, but coming and discoursing Can be no longer; for that I behold New smoke uprising yonder from the sand. A people comes with whom I may not be; Commended unto thee be my Tesoro, In which I still live, and no more I ask." Then he turned round, and seemed to be of those Who at Verona run for the Green Mantle Across the plain; and seemed to be among them Now was I where was heard the reverberation Of water falling into the next round, Like to that humming which the beehives make, Ah me! what wounds I saw upon their limbs, Recent and ancient by the flames burnt in! It pains me still but to remember it. Unto their cries my Teacher paused attentive; He turned his face towards me, and "Now wait," He said; "to these we should be courteous. And if it were not for the fire that darts The nature of this region, I should say That haste were more becoming thee than them." As champions stripped and oiled are wont to do, Watching for their advantage and their hold, Before they come to blows and thrusts between them, Let the renown of us thy mind incline To tell us who thou art, who thus securely Thy living feet dost move along through Hell. He in whose footprints thou dost see me treading, Naked and skinless though he now may go, Was of a greater rank than thou dost think; He was the grandson of the good Gualdrada; His name was Guidoguerra, and in life Much did he with his wisdom and his sword. The other, who close by me treads the sand, Tegghiaio Aldobrandi is, whose fame Above there in the world should welcome be. And I, who with them on the cross am placed, Jacopo Rusticucci was; and truly My savage wife, more than aught else, doth harm me." Could I have been protected from the fire, Below I should have thrown myself among them, And think the Teacher would have suffered it; But as I should have burned and baked myself, My terror overmastered my good will, Which made me greedy of embracing them. Then I began: "Sorrow and not disdain Did your condition fix within me so, That tardily it wholly is stripped off, As soon as this my Lord said unto me Words, on account of which I thought within me That people such as you are were approaching. I of your city am; and evermore Your labours and your honourable names I with affection have retraced and heard. "So may the soul for a long while conduct Those limbs of thine," did he make answer then, "And so may thy renown shine after thee, Valour and courtesy, say if they dwell Within our city, as they used to do, Or if they wholly have gone out of it; For Guglielmo Borsier, who is in torment With us of late, and goes there with his comrades, Doth greatly mortify us with his words." "The new inhabitants and the sudden gains, Pride and extravagance have in thee engendered, Florence, so that thou weep'st thereat already!" Therefore, if thou escape from these dark places, And come to rebehold the beauteous stars, When it shall pleasure thee to say, 'I was,' See that thou speak of us unto the people." Then they broke up the wheel, and in their flight It seemed as if their agile legs were wings. Not an Amen could possibly be said So rapidly as they had disappeared; Wherefore the Master deemed best to depart. I followed him, and little had we gone, Before the sound of water was so near us, That speaking we should hardly have been heard. Which is above called Acquacheta, ere It down descendeth into its low bed, And at Forli is vacant of that name, Thus downward from a bank precipitate, We found resounding that dark-tinted water, So that it soon the ear would have offended. I had a cord around about me girt, And therewithal I whilom had designed To take the panther with the painted skin. After I this had all from me unloosed, As my Conductor had commanded me, I reached it to him, gathered up and coiled, Whereat he turned himself to the right side, And at a little distance from the verge, He cast it down into that deep abyss. "It must needs be some novelty respond," I said within myself, "to the new signal The Master with his eye is following so." Ah me! how very cautious men should be With those who not alone behold the act, But with their wisdom look into the thoughts! He said to me: "Soon there will upward come What I await; and what thy thought is dreaming Must soon reveal itself unto thy sight." Aye to that truth which has the face of falsehood, A man should close his lips as far as may be, Because without his fault it causes shame; But here I cannot; and, Reader, by the notes Of this my Comedy to thee I swear, So may they not be void of lasting favour, Athwart that dense and darksome atmosphere I saw a figure swimming upward come, Marvellous unto every steadfast heart, Even as he returns who goeth down Sometimes to clear an anchor, which has grappled Reef, or aught else that in the sea is hidden, Who upward stretches, and draws in his feet. "Behold the monster with the pointed tail, Who cleaves the hills, and breaketh walls and weapons, Behold him who infecteth all the world." Thus unto me my Guide began to say, And beckoned him that he should come to shore, Near to the confine of the trodden marble; And that uncleanly image of deceit Came up and thrust ashore its head and bust, But on the border did not drag its tail. The face was as the face of a just man, Its semblance outwardly was so benign, And of a serpent all the trunk beside. With colours more, groundwork or broidery Never in cloth did Tartars make nor Turks, Nor were such tissues by Arachne laid. As sometimes wherries lie upon the shore, That part are in the water, part on land; And as among the guzzling Germans there, The beaver plants himself to wage his war; So that vile monster lay upon the border, Which is of stone, and shutteth in the sand. His tail was wholly quivering in the void, Contorting upwards the envenomed fork, That in the guise of scorpion armed its point. The Guide said: "Now perforce must turn aside Our way a little, even to that beast Malevolent, that yonder coucheth him." And after we are come to him, I see A little farther off upon the sand A people sitting near the hollow place. Then said to me the Master: "So that full Experience of this round thou bear away, Now go and see what their condition is. There let thy conversation be concise; Till thou returnest I will speak with him, That he concede to us his stalwart shoulders." Out of their eyes was gushing forth their woe; This way, that way, they helped them with their hands Now from the flames and now from the hot soil. Not otherwise in summer do the dogs, Now with the foot, now with the muzzle, when By fleas, or flies, or gadflies, they are bitten. That from the neck of each there hung a pouch, Which certain colour had, and certain blazon; And thereupon it seems their eyes are feeding. And as I gazing round me come among them, Upon a yellow pouch I azure saw That had the face and posture of a lion. Proceeding then the current of my sight, Another of them saw I, red as blood, Display a goose more white than butter is. Now get thee gone; and since thou'rt still alive, Know that a neighbour of mine, Vitaliano, Will have his seat here on my left-hand side. A Paduan am I with these Florentines; Full many a time they thunder in mine ears, Exclaiming, 'Come the sovereign cavalier, And fearing lest my longer stay might vex Him who had warned me not to tarry long, Backward I turned me from those weary souls. I found my Guide, who had already mounted Upon the back of that wild animal, And said to me: "Now be both strong and bold. Now we descend by stairways such as these; Mount thou in front, for I will be midway, So that the tail may have no power to harm thee." Such as he is who has so near the ague Of quartan that his nails are blue already, And trembles all, but looking at the shade; Even such became I at those proffered words; But shame in me his menaces produced, Which maketh servant strong before good master. I seated me upon those monstrous shoulders; I wished to say, and yet the voice came not As I believed, "Take heed that thou embrace me." And said: "Now, Geryon, bestir thyself; The circles large, and the descent be little; Think of the novel burden which thou hast." Even as the little vessel shoves from shore, Backward, still backward, so he thence withdrew; And when he wholly felt himself afloat, There where his breast had been he turned his tail, And that extended like an eel he moved, And with his paws drew to himself the air. A greater fear I do not think there was What time abandoned Phaeton the reins, Whereby the heavens, as still appears, were scorched; Nor when the wretched Icarus his flanks Felt stripped of feathers by the melting wax, His father crying, "An ill way thou takest!" Than was my own, when I perceived myself On all sides in the air, and saw extinguished The sight of everything but of the monster. Onward he goeth, swimming slowly, slowly; Wheels and descends, but I perceive it only By wind upon my face and from below. I heard already on the right the whirlpool Making a horrible crashing under us; Whence I thrust out my head with eyes cast downward. Then was I still more fearful of the abyss; Because I fires beheld, and heard laments, Whereat I, trembling, all the closer cling. I saw then, for before I had not seen it, The turning and descending, by great horrors That were approaching upon divers sides. As falcon who has long been on the wing, Who, without seeing either lure or bird, Maketh the falconer say, "Ah me, thou stoopest," Even thus did Geryon place us on the bottom, Close to the bases of the rough-hewn rock, And being disencumbered of our persons, He sped away as arrow from the string. Inferno: Canto XVIII There is a place in Hell called Malebolge, Wholly of stone and of an iron colour, As is the circle that around it turns. Right in the middle of the field malign There yawns a well exceeding wide and deep, Of which its place the structure will recount. As where for the protection of the walls Many and many moats surround the castles, The part in which they are a figure forms, Just such an image those presented there; And as about such strongholds from their gates Unto the outer bank are little bridges, So from the precipice's base did crags Project, which intersected dikes and moats, Unto the well that truncates and collects them. Within this place, down shaken from the back Of Geryon, we found us; and the Poet Held to the left, and I moved on behind. Upon my right hand I beheld new anguish, New torments, and new wielders of the lash, Wherewith the foremost Bolgia was replete. Down at the bottom were the sinners naked; This side the middle came they facing us, Beyond it, with us, but with greater steps; This side and that, along the livid stone Beheld I horned demons with great scourges, Who cruelly were beating them behind. Therefore I stayed my feet to make him out, And with me the sweet Guide came to a stand, And to my going somewhat back assented; If false are not the features which thou bearest, Thou art Venedico Caccianimico; But what doth bring thee to such pungent sauces?" And he to me: "Unwillingly I tell it; But forces me thine utterance distinct, Which makes me recollect the ancient world. Not the sole Bolognese am I who weeps here; Nay, rather is this place so full of them, That not so many tongues to-day are taught While speaking in this manner, with his scourge A demon smote him, and said: "Get thee gone Pander, there are no women here for coin." I joined myself again unto mine Escort; Thereafterward with footsteps few we came To where a crag projected from the bank. This very easily did we ascend, And turning to the right along its ridge, From those eternal circles we departed. When we were there, where it is hollowed out Beneath, to give a passage to the scourged, The Guide said: "Wait, and see that on thee strike The vision of those others evil-born, Of whom thou hast not yet beheld the faces, Because together with us they have gone." From the old bridge we looked upon the train Which tow'rds us came upon the other border, And which the scourges in like manner smite. Still what a royal aspect he retains! That Jason is, who by his heart and cunning The Colchians of the Ram made destitute. He by the isle of Lemnos passed along After the daring women pitiless Had unto death devoted all their males. There did he leave her pregnant and forlorn; Such sin unto such punishment condemns him, And also for Medea is vengeance done. Thence we heard people, who are making moan In the next Bolgia, snorting with their muzzles, And with their palms beating upon themselves The margins were incrusted with a mould By exhalation from below, that sticks there, And with the eyes and nostrils wages war. The bottom is so deep, no place suffices To give us sight of it, without ascending The arch's back, where most the crag impends. Thither we came, and thence down in the moat I saw a people smothered in a filth That out of human privies seemed to flow; He screamed to me: "Wherefore art thou so eager To look at me more than the other foul ones?" And I to him: "Because, if I remember, I have already seen thee with dry hair, And thou'rt Alessio Interminei of Lucca; Therefore I eye thee more than all the others." And he thereon, belabouring his pumpkin: "The flatteries have submerged me here below, Wherewith my tongue was never surfeited." Then said to me the Guide: "See that thou thrust Thy visage somewhat farther in advance, That with thine eyes thou well the face attain Of that uncleanly and dishevelled drab, Who there doth scratch herself with filthy nails, And crouches now, and now on foot is standing. And herewith let our sight be satisfied." O Simon Magus, O forlorn disciples, Ye who the things of God, which ought to be The brides of holiness, rapaciously We had already on the following tomb Ascended to that portion of the crag Which o'er the middle of the moat hangs plumb. Wisdom supreme, O how great art thou showest In heaven, in earth, and in the evil world, And with what justice doth thy power distribute! To me less ample seemed they not, nor greater Than those that in my beautiful Saint John Are fashioned for the place of the baptisers, In all of them the soles were both on fire; Wherefore the joints so violently quivered, They would have snapped asunder withes and bands. Even as the flame of unctuous things is wont To move upon the outer surface only, So likewise was it there from heel to point. And he to me: "If thou wilt have me bear thee Down there along that bank which lowest lies, From him thou'lt know his errors and himself." And I: "What pleases thee, to me is pleasing; Thou art my Lord, and knowest that I depart not From thy desire, and knowest what is not spoken." And the good Master yet from off his haunch Deposed me not, till to the hole he brought me Of him who so lamented with his shanks. "Whoe'er thou art, that standest upside down, O doleful soul, implanted like a stake," To say began I, "if thou canst, speak out." I stood even as the friar who is confessing The false assassin, who, when he is fixed, Recalls him, so that death may be delayed. And he cried out: "Dost thou stand there already, Dost thou stand there already, Boniface? By many years the record lied to me. Art thou so early satiate with that wealth, For which thou didst not fear to take by fraud The beautiful Lady, and then work her woe?" Such I became, as people are who stand, Not comprehending what is answered them, As if bemocked, and know not how to answer. Then said Virgilius: "Say to him straightway, 'I am not he, I am not he thou thinkest.'" And I replied as was imposed on me. Whereat the spirit writhed with both his feet, Then, sighing, with a voice of lamentation Said to me: "Then what wantest thou of me? If who I am thou carest so much to know, That thou on that account hast crossed the bank, Know that I vested was with the great mantle; And truly was I son of the She-bear, So eager to advance the cubs, that wealth Above, and here myself, I pocketed. Beneath my head the others are dragged down Who have preceded me in simony, Flattened along the fissure of the rock. But longer I my feet already toast, And here have been in this way upside down, Than he will planted stay with reddened feet; For after him shall come of fouler deed From tow'rds the west a Pastor without law, Such as befits to cover him and me. I do not know if I were here too bold, That him I answered only in this metre: "I pray thee tell me now how great a treasure Nor Peter nor the rest asked of Matthias Silver or gold, when he by lot was chosen Unto the place the guilty soul had lost. Therefore stay here, for thou art justly punished, And keep safe guard o'er the ill-gotten money, Which caused thee to be valiant against Charles. And were it not that still forbids it me The reverence for the keys superlative Thou hadst in keeping in the gladsome life, I would make use of words more grievous still; Because your avarice afflicts the world, Trampling the good and lifting the depraved. The Evangelist you Pastors had in mind, When she who sitteth upon many waters To fornicate with kings by him was seen; And while I sang to him such notes as these, Either that anger or that conscience stung him, He struggled violently with both his feet. I think in sooth that it my Leader pleased, With such contented lip he listened ever Unto the sound of the true words expressed. Therefore with both his arms he took me up, And when he had me all upon his breast, Remounted by the way where he descended. There tenderly he laid his burden down, Tenderly on the crag uneven and steep, That would have been hard passage for the goats: Thence was unveiled to me another valley. I was already thoroughly disposed To peer down into the uncovered depth, Which bathed itself with tears of agony; And people saw I through the circular valley, Silent and weeping, coming at the pace Which in this world the Litanies assume. For tow'rds the reins the countenance was turned, And backward it behoved them to advance, As to look forward had been taken from them. As God may let thee, Reader, gather fruit From this thy reading, think now for thyself How I could ever keep my face unmoistened, When our own image near me I beheld Distorted so, the weeping of the eyes Along the fissure bathed the hinder parts. Truly I wept, leaning upon a peak Of the hard crag, so that my Escort said To me: "Art thou, too, of the other fools? Here pity lives when it is wholly dead; Who is a greater reprobate than he Who feels compassion at the doom divine? Lift up, lift up thy head, and see for whom Opened the earth before the Thebans' eyes; Wherefore they all cried: 'Whither rushest thou, Amphiaraus? Why dost leave the war?' And downward ceased he not to fall amain As far as Minos, who lays hold on all. See, he has made a bosom of his shoulders! Because he wished to see too far before him Behind he looks, and backward goes his way: Behold Tiresias, who his semblance changed, When from a male a female he became, His members being all of them transformed; That Aruns is, who backs the other's belly, Who in the hills of Luni, there where grubs The Carrarese who houses underneath, Among the marbles white a cavern had For his abode; whence to behold the stars And sea, the view was not cut off from him. And she there, who is covering up her breasts, Which thou beholdest not, with loosened tresses, And on that side has all the hairy skin, Was Manto, who made quest through many lands, Afterwards tarried there where I was born; Whereof I would thou list to me a little. After her father had from life departed, And the city of Bacchus had become enslaved, She a long season wandered through the world. Above in beauteous Italy lies a lake At the Alp's foot that shuts in Germany Over Tyrol, and has the name Benaco. Midway a place is where the Trentine Pastor, And he of Brescia, and the Veronese Might give his blessing, if he passed that way. Sitteth Peschiera, fortress fair and strong, To front the Brescians and the Bergamasks, Where round about the bank descendeth lowest. There of necessity must fall whatever In bosom of Benaco cannot stay, And grows a river down through verdant pastures. Soon as the water doth begin to run, No more Benaco is it called, but Mincio, Far as Governo, where it falls in Po. Not far it runs before it finds a plain In which it spreads itself, and makes it marshy, And oft 'tis wont in summer to be sickly. Passing that way the virgin pitiless Land in the middle of the fen descried, Untilled and naked of inhabitants; There to escape all human intercourse, She with her servants stayed, her arts to practise And lived, and left her empty body there. The men, thereafter, who were scattered round, Collected in that place, which was made strong By the lagoon it had on every side; Therefore I caution thee, if e'er thou hearest Originate my city otherwise, No falsehood may the verity defraud." And I: "My Master, thy discourses are To me so certain, and so take my faith, That unto me the rest would be spent coals. Then said he to me: "He who from the cheek Thrusts out his beard upon his swarthy shoulders Was, at the time when Greece was void of males, Eryphylus his name was, and so sings My lofty Tragedy in some part or other; That knowest thou well, who knowest the whole of it. The next, who is so slender in the flanks, Was Michael Scott, who of a verity Of magical illusions knew the game. Behold Guido Bonatti, behold Asdente, Who now unto his leather and his thread Would fain have stuck, but he too late repents. Behold the wretched ones, who left the needle, The spool and rock, and made them fortune-tellers; They wrought their magic spells with herb and image. But come now, for already holds the confines Of both the hemispheres, and under Seville Touches the ocean-wave, Cain and the thorns, And yesternight the moon was round already; Thou shouldst remember well it did not harm thee From time to time within the forest deep." Thus spake he to me, and we walked the while. From bridge to bridge thus, speaking other things Of which my Comedy cares not to sing, We came along, and held the summit, when We halted to behold another fissure Of Malebolge and other vain laments; And I beheld it marvellously dark. As in the Arsenal of the Venetians Boils in the winter the tenacious pitch To smear their unsound vessels o'er again, Thus, not by fire, but by the art divine, Was boiling down below there a dense pitch Which upon every side the bank belimed. I saw it, but I did not see within it Aught but the bubbles that the boiling raised, And all swell up and resubside compressed. The while below there fixedly I gazed, My Leader, crying out: "Beware, beware!" Drew me unto himself from where I stood. Who, while he looks, delays not his departure; And I beheld behind us a black devil, Running along upon the crag, approach. Ah, how ferocious was he in his aspect! And how he seemed to me in action ruthless, With open wings and light upon his feet! His shoulders, which sharp-pointed were and high, A sinner did encumber with both haunches, And he held clutched the sinews of the feet. Unto that town, which is well furnished with them. All there are barrators, except Bonturo; No into Yes for money there is changed." He hurled him down, and over the hard crag Turned round, and never was a mastiff loosened In so much hurry to pursue a thief. The other sank, and rose again face downward; But the demons, under cover of the bridge, Cried: "Here the Santo Volto has no place! Not otherwise the cooks their scullions make Immerse into the middle of the caldron The meat with hooks, so that it may not float. Said the good Master to me: "That it be not Apparent thou art here, crouch thyself down Behind a jag, that thou mayest have some screen; With the same fury, and the same uproar, As dogs leap out upon a mendicant, Who on a sudden begs, where'er he stops, They issued from beneath the little bridge, And turned against him all their grappling-irons; But he cried out: "Be none of you malignant! "Thinkest thou, Malacoda, to behold me Advanced into this place," my Master said, "Safe hitherto from all your skill of fence, Without the will divine, and fate auspicious? Let me go on, for it in Heaven is willed That I another show this savage road." Then was his arrogance so humbled in him, That he let fall his grapnel at his feet, And to the others said: "Now strike him not." And unto me my Guide: "O thou, who sittest Among the splinters of the bridge crouched down, Securely now return to me again." Wherefore I started and came swiftly to him; And all the devils forward thrust themselves, So that I feared they would not keep their compact. Close did I press myself with all my person Beside my Leader, and turned not mine eyes From off their countenance, which was not good. But the same demon who was holding parley With my Conductor turned him very quickly, And said: "Be quiet, be quiet, Scarmiglione;" And if it still doth please you to go onward, Pursue your way along upon this rock; Near is another crag that yields a path. Come forward, Libicocco and Draghignazzo, And tusked Ciriatto and Graffiacane, And Farfarello and mad Rubicante; Search ye all round about the boiling pitch; Let these be safe as far as the next crag, That all unbroken passes o'er the dens." "O me! what is it, Master, that I see? Pray let us go," I said, "without an escort, If thou knowest how, since for myself I ask none. If thou art as observant as thy wont is, Dost thou not see that they do gnash their teeth, And with their brows are threatening woe to us?" And he to me: "I will not have thee fear; Let them gnash on, according to their fancy, Because they do it for those boiling wretches." And he had made a trumpet of his rump. I have erewhile seen horsemen moving camp, Begin the storming, and their muster make, And sometimes starting off for their escape; Vaunt-couriers have I seen upon your land, O Aretines, and foragers go forth, Tournaments stricken, and the joustings run, Sometimes with trumpets and sometimes with bells, With kettle-drums, and signals of the castles, And with our own, and with outlandish things, But never yet with bagpipe so uncouth Did I see horsemen move, nor infantry, Nor ship by any sign of land or star. Ever upon the pitch was my intent, To see the whole condition of that Bolgia, And of the people who therein were burned. Even as the dolphins, when they make a sign To mariners by arching of the back, That they should counsel take to save their vessel, As on the brink of water in a ditch The frogs stand only with their muzzles out, So that they hide their feet and other bulk, So upon every side the sinners stood; But ever as Barbariccia near them came, Thus underneath the boiling they withdrew. And Graffiacan, who most confronted him, Grappled him by his tresses smeared with pitch, And drew him up, so that he seemed an otter. I knew, before, the names of all of them, So had I noted them when they were chosen, And when they called each other, listened how. "O Rubicante, see that thou do lay Thy claws upon him, so that thou mayst flay him," Cried all together the accursed ones. And I: "My Master, see to it, if thou canst, That thou mayst know who is the luckless wight, Thus come into his adversaries' hands." Near to the side of him my Leader drew, Asked of him whence he was; and he replied: "I in the kingdom of Navarre was born; My mother placed me servant to a lord, For she had borne me to a ribald knave, Destroyer of himself and of his things. Then I domestic was of good King Thibault; I set me there to practise barratry, For which I pay the reckoning in this heat." Among malicious cats the mouse had come; But Barbariccia clasped him in his arms, And said: "Stand ye aside, while I enfork him." And Libicocco: "We have borne too much;" And with his grapnel seized him by the arm, So that, by rending, he tore off a tendon. Eke Draghignazzo wished to pounce upon him Down at the legs; whence their Decurion Turned round and round about with evil look. When they again somewhat were pacified, Of him, who still was looking at his wound, Demanded my Conductor without stay: He of Gallura, vessel of all fraud, Who had the enemies of his Lord in hand, And dealt so with them each exults thereat; And the grand Provost, turned to Farfarello, Who rolled his eyes about as if to strike, Said: "Stand aside there, thou malicious bird." "If you desire either to see or hear," The terror-stricken recommenced thereon, "Tuscans or Lombards, I will make them come. But let the Malebranche cease a little, So that these may not their revenges fear, And I, down sitting in this very place, Cagnazzo at these words his muzzle lifted, Shaking his head, and said: "Just hear the trick Which he has thought of, down to throw himself!" Whence he, who snares in great abundance had, Responded: "I by far too cunning am, When I procure for mine a greater sadness." Alichin held not in, but running counter Unto the rest, said to him: "If thou dive, I will not follow thee upon the gallop, But I will beat my wings above the pitch; The height be left, and be the bank a shield To see if thou alone dost countervail us." The Navarrese selected well his time; Planted his feet on land, and in a moment Leaped, and released himself from their design. Not otherwise the duck upon a sudden Dives under, when the falcon is approaching, And upward he returneth cross and weary. Infuriate at the mockery, Calcabrina Flying behind him followed close, desirous The other should escape, to have a quarrel. And when the barrator had disappeared, He turned his talons upon his companion, And grappled with him right above the moat. But sooth the other was a doughty sparhawk To clapperclaw him well; and both of them Fell in the middle of the boiling pond. A sudden intercessor was the heat; But ne'ertheless of rising there was naught, To such degree they had their wings belimed. This side and that they to their posts descended; They stretched their hooks towards the pitch-ensnared, Who were already baked within the crust, And in this manner busied did we leave them. Inferno: Canto XXIII Upon the fable of Aesop was directed My thought, by reason of the present quarrel, Where he has spoken of the frog and mouse; Thus did I ponder: "These on our account Are laughed to scorn, with injury and scoff So great, that much I think it must annoy them. If anger be engrafted on ill-will, They will come after us more merciless Than dog upon the leveret which he seizes," I felt my hair stand all on end already With terror, and stood backwardly intent, When said I: "Master, if thou hidest not Thyself and me forthwith, of Malebranche I am in dread; we have them now behind us; I so imagine them, I already feel them." And he: "If I were made of leaded glass, Thine outward image I should not attract Sooner to me than I imprint the inner. Not yet he finished rendering such opinion, When I beheld them come with outstretched wings, Not far remote, with will to seize upon us. My Leader on a sudden seized me up, Even as a mother who by noise is wakened, And close beside her sees the enkindled flames, Who takes her son, and flies, and does not stop, Having more care of him than of herself, So that she clothes her only with a shift; Ne'er ran so swiftly water through a sluice To turn the wheel of any land-built mill, When nearest to the paddles it approaches, As did my Master down along that border, Bearing me with him on his breast away, As his own son, and not as a companion. Hardly the bed of the ravine below His feet had reached, ere they had reached the hill Right over us; but he was not afraid; A painted people there below we found, Who went about with footsteps very slow, Weeping and in their semblance tired and vanquished. They had on mantles with the hoods low down Before their eyes, and fashioned of the cut That in Cologne they for the monks are made. Without, they gilded are so that it dazzles; But inwardly all leaden and so heavy That Frederick used to put them on of straw. O everlastingly fatiguing mantle! Again we turned us, still to the left hand Along with them, intent on their sad plaint; But owing to the weight, that weary folk Came on so tardily, that we were new In company at each motion of the haunch. Perhaps thou'lt have from me what thou demandest." Whereat the Leader turned him, and said: "Wait, And then according to his pace proceed." When they came up, long with an eye askance They scanned me without uttering a word. Then to each other turned, and said together: "He by the action of his throat seems living; And if they dead are, by what privilege Go they uncovered by the heavy stole?" Then said to me: "Tuscan, who to the college Of miserable hypocrites art come, Do not disdain to tell us who thou art." And I to them: "Born was I, and grew up In the great town on the fair river of Arno, And with the body am I've always had. But who are ye, in whom there trickles down Along your cheeks such grief as I behold? And what pain is upon you, that so sparkles?" Frati Gaudenti were we, and Bolognese; I Catalano, and he Loderingo Named, and together taken by thy city, When me he saw, he writhed himself all over, Blowing into his beard with suspirations; And the Friar Catalan, who noticed this, And thereupon I saw Virgilius marvel O'er him who was extended on the cross So vilely in eternal banishment. Then he made answer: "Nearer than thou hopest There is a rock, that forth from the great circle Proceeds, and crosses all the cruel valleys, The Leader stood awhile with head bowed down; Then said: "The business badly he recounted Who grapples with his hook the sinners yonder." Thereat my Leader with great strides went on, Somewhat disturbed with anger in his looks; Whence from the heavy-laden I departed After the prints of his beloved feet. What time the hoar-frost copies on the ground The outward semblance of her sister white, But little lasts the temper of her pen, The husbandman, whose forage faileth him, Rises, and looks, and seeth the champaign All gleaming white, whereat he beats his flank, Returns in doors, and up and down laments, Like a poor wretch, who knows not what to do; Then he returns and hope revives again, Seeing the world has changed its countenance In little time, and takes his shepherd's crook, And forth the little lambs to pasture drives. Thus did the Master fill me with alarm, When I beheld his forehead so disturbed, And to the ailment came as soon the plaster. And even as he who acts and meditates, For aye it seems that he provides beforehand, So upward lifting me towards the summit And had it not been, that upon that precinct Shorter was the ascent than on the other, He I know not, but I had been dead beat. But because Malebolge tow'rds the mouth Of the profoundest well is all inclining, The structure of each valley doth import Withouten which whoso his life consumes Such vestige leaveth of himself on earth, As smoke in air or in the water foam. And therefore raise thee up, o'ercome the anguish With spirit that o'ercometh every battle, If with its heavy body it sink not. A longer stairway it behoves thee mount; 'Tis not enough from these to have departed; Let it avail thee, if thou understand me." Then I uprose, showing myself provided Better with breath than I did feel myself, And said: "Go on, for I am strong and bold." Upward we took our way along the crag, Which jagged was, and narrow, and difficult, And more precipitous far than that before. Speaking I went, not to appear exhausted; Whereat a voice from the next moat came forth, Not well adapted to articulate words. I know not what it said, though o'er the back I now was of the arch that passes there; But he seemed moved to anger who was speaking. I was bent downward, but my living eyes Could not attain the bottom, for the dark; Wherefore I: "Master, see that thou arrive At the next round, and let us descend the wall; For as from hence I hear and understand not, So I look down and nothing I distinguish." "Other response," he said, "I make thee not, Except the doing; for the modest asking Ought to be followed by the deed in silence." And I beheld therein a terrible throng Of serpents, and of such a monstrous kind, That the remembrance still congeals my blood Let Libya boast no longer with her sand; For if Chelydri, Jaculi, and Phareae She breeds, with Cenchri and with Amphisbaena, Neither so many plagues nor so malignant E'er showed she with all Ethiopia, Nor with whatever on the Red Sea is! Among this cruel and most dismal throng People were running naked and affrighted. Without the hope of hole or heliotrope. They had their hands with serpents bound behind them; These riveted upon their reins the tail And head, and were in front of them entwined. Nor 'O' so quickly e'er, nor 'I' was written, As he took fire, and burned; and ashes wholly Behoved it that in falling he became. And when he on the ground was thus destroyed, The ashes drew together, and of themselves Into himself they instantly returned. On herb or grain it feeds not in its life, But only on tears of incense and amomum, And nard and myrrh are its last winding-sheet. And as he is who falls, and knows not how, By force of demons who to earth down drag him, Or other oppilation that binds man, When he arises and around him looks, Wholly bewildered by the mighty anguish Which he has suffered, and in looking sighs; Such was that sinner after he had risen. Justice of God! O how severe it is, That blows like these in vengeance poureth down! The Guide thereafter asked him who he was; Whence he replied: "I rained from Tuscany A short time since into this cruel gorge. A bestial life, and not a human, pleased me, Even as the mule I was; I'm Vanni Fucci, Beast, and Pistoia was my worthy den." And the sinner, who had heard, dissembled not, But unto me directed mind and face, And with a melancholy shame was painted. Then said: "It pains me more that thou hast caught me Amid this misery where thou seest me, Than when I from the other life was taken. What thou demandest I cannot deny; So low am I put down because I robbed The sacristy of the fair ornaments, Mars draws a vapour up from Val di Magra, Which is with turbid clouds enveloped round, And with impetuous and bitter tempest Over Campo Picen shall be the battle; When it shall suddenly rend the mist asunder, So that each Bianco shall thereby be smitten. And this I've said that it may give thee pain." At the conclusion of his words, the thief Lifted his hands aloft with both the figs, Crying: "Take that, God, for at thee I aim them." And round his arms another, and rebound him, Clinching itself together so in front, That with them he could not a motion make. Pistoia, ah, Pistoia! why resolve not To burn thyself to ashes and so perish, Since in ill-doing thou thy seed excellest? Through all the sombre circles of this Hell, Spirit I saw not against God so proud, Not he who fell at Thebes down from the walls! He fled away, and spake no further word; And I beheld a Centaur full of rage Come crying out: "Where is, where is the scoffer?" I do not think Maremma has so many Serpents as he had all along his back, As far as where our countenance begins. Upon the shoulders, just behind the nape, With wings wide open was a dragon lying, And he sets fire to all that he encounters. He goes not on the same road with his brothers, By reason of the fraudulent theft he made Of the great herd, which he had near to him; Until what time they shouted: "Who are you?" On which account our story made a halt, And then we were intent on them alone. Exclaiming: "Where can Cianfa have remained?" Whence I, so that the Leader might attend, Upward from chin to nose my finger laid. If thou art, Reader, slow now to believe What I shall say, it will no marvel be, For I who saw it hardly can admit it. Ivy was never fastened by its barbs Unto a tree so, as this horrible reptile Upon the other's limbs entwined its own. E'en as proceedeth on before the flame Upward along the paper a brown colour, Which is not black as yet, and the white dies. Even as a lizard, under the great scourge Of days canicular, exchanging hedge, Lightning appeareth if the road it cross; Henceforth be silent Lucan, where he mentions Wretched Sabellus and Nassidius, And wait to hear what now shall be shot forth. Be silent Ovid, of Cadmus and Arethusa; For if him to a snake, her to fountain, Converts he fabling, that I grudge him not; Together they responded in such wise, That to a fork the serpent cleft his tail, And eke the wounded drew his feet together. The legs together with the thighs themselves Adhered so, that in little time the juncture No sign whatever made that was apparent. I saw the arms draw inward at the armpits, And both feet of the reptile, that were short, Lengthen as much as those contracted were. He who was standing drew it tow'rds the temples, And from excess of matter, which came thither, Issued the ears from out the hollow cheeks; What did not backward run and was retained Of that excess made to the face a nose, And the lips thickened far as was befitting. He who lay prostrate thrusts his muzzle forward, And backward draws the ears into his head, In the same manner as the snail its horns; And so the tongue, which was entire and apt For speech before, is cleft, and the bi-forked In the other closes up, and the smoke ceases. The soul, which to a reptile had been changed, Along the valley hissing takes to flight, And after him the other speaking sputters. Then did he turn upon him his new shoulders, And said to the other: "I'll have Buoso run, Crawling as I have done, along this road." And notwithstanding that mine eyes might be Somewhat bewildered, and my mind dismayed, They could not flee away so secretly The other was he whom thou, Gaville, weepest. Rejoice, O Florence, since thou art so great, That over sea and land thou beatest thy wings, And throughout Hell thy name is spread abroad! But if when morn is near our dreams are true, Feel shalt thou in a little time from now What Prato, if none other, craves for thee. And if it now were, it were not too soon; Would that it were, seeing it needs must be, For 'twill aggrieve me more the more I age. We went our way, and up along the stairs The bourns had made us to descend before, Remounted my Conductor and drew me. And following the solitary path Among the rocks and ridges of the crag, The foot without the hand sped not at all. Then sorrowed I, and sorrow now again, When I direct my mind to what I saw, And more my genius curb than I am wont, That it may run not unless virtue guide it; So that if some good star, or better thing, Have given me good, I may myself not grudge it. As many as the hind (who on the hill Rests at the time when he who lights the world His countenance keeps least concealed from us, While as the fly gives place unto the gnat) Seeth the glow-worms down along the valley, Perchance there where he ploughs and makes his vintage; And such as he who with the bears avenged him Beheld Elijah's chariot at departing, What time the steeds to heaven erect uprose, For with his eye he could not follow it So as to see aught else than flame alone, Even as a little cloud ascending upward, I stood upon the bridge uprisen to see, So that, if I had seized not on a rock, Down had I fallen without being pushed. And the Leader, who beheld me so attent, Exclaimed: "Within the fires the spirits are; Each swathes himself with that wherewith he burns." "My Master," I replied, "by hearing thee I am more sure; but I surmised already It might be so, and already wished to ask thee Who is within that fire, which comes so cleft At top, it seems uprising from the pyre Where was Eteocles with his brother placed." He answered me: "Within there are tormented Ulysses and Diomed, and thus together They unto vengeance run as unto wrath. And there within their flame do they lament The ambush of the horse, which made the door Whence issued forth the Romans' gentle seed; Therein is wept the craft, for which being dead Deidamia still deplores Achilles, And pain for the Palladium there is borne." That thou make no denial of awaiting Until the horned flame shall hither come; Thou seest that with desire I lean towards it." And he to me: "Worthy is thy entreaty Of much applause, and therefore I accept it; But take heed that thy tongue restrain itself. Leave me to speak, because I have conceived That which thou wishest; for they might disdain Perchance, since they were Greeks, discourse of thine." When now the flame had come unto that point, Where to my Leader it seemed time and place, After this fashion did I hear him speak: Then of the antique flame the greater horn, Murmuring, began to wave itself about Even as a flame doth which the wind fatigues. Thereafterward, the summit to and fro Moving as if it were the tongue that spake, It uttered forth a voice, and said: "When I From Circe had departed, who concealed me More than a year there near unto Gaeta, Or ever yet Aeneas named it so, Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence For my old father, nor the due affection Which joyous should have made Penelope, Could overcome within me the desire I had to be experienced of the world, And of the vice and virtue of mankind; Both of the shores I saw as far as Spain, Far as Morocco, and the isle of Sardes, And the others which that sea bathes round about. I and my company were old and slow When at that narrow passage we arrived Where Hercules his landmarks set as signals, That man no farther onward should adventure. On the right hand behind me left I Seville, And on the other already had left Ceuta. Which is remaining of your senses still Be ye unwilling to deny the knowledge, Following the sun, of the unpeopled world. Consider ye the seed from which ye sprang; Ye were not made to live like unto brutes, But for pursuit of virtue and of knowledge.' So eager did I render my companions, With this brief exhortation, for the voyage, That then I hardly could have held them back. And having turned our stern unto the morning, We of the oars made wings for our mad flight, Evermore gaining on the larboard side. Already all the stars of the other pole The night beheld, and ours so very low It did not rise above the ocean floor. Joyful were we, and soon it turned to weeping; For out of the new land a whirlwind rose, And smote upon the fore part of the ship. Until the sea above us closed again." Inferno: Canto XXVII Already was the flame erect and quiet, To speak no more, and now departed from us With the permission of the gentle Poet; When yet another, which behind it came, Caused us to turn our eyes upon its top By a confused sound that issued from it. Bellowed so with the voice of the afflicted, That, notwithstanding it was made of brass, Still it appeared with agony transfixed; But afterwards, when they had gathered way Up through the point, giving it that vibration The tongue had given them in their passage out, We heard it said: "O thou, at whom I aim My voice, and who but now wast speaking Lombard, Saying, 'Now go thy way, no more I urge thee,' Because I come perchance a little late, To stay and speak with me let it not irk thee; Thou seest it irks not me, and I am burning. If thou but lately into this blind world Hast fallen down from that sweet Latian land, Wherefrom I bring the whole of my transgression, Say, if the Romagnuols have peace or war, For I was from the mountains there between Urbino and the yoke whence Tiber bursts." And I, who had beforehand my reply In readiness, forthwith began to speak: "O soul, that down below there art concealed, Romagna thine is not and never has been Without war in the bosom of its tyrants; But open war I none have left there now. Ravenna stands as it long years has stood; The Eagle of Polenta there is brooding, So that she covers Cervia with her vans. Verrucchio's ancient Mastiff and the new, Who made such bad disposal of Montagna, Where they are wont make wimbles of their teeth. The cities of Lamone and Santerno Governs the Lioncel of the white lair, Who changes sides 'twixt summer-time and winter; And that of which the Savio bathes the flank, Even as it lies between the plain and mountain, Lives between tyranny and a free state. Now I entreat thee tell us who thou art; Be not more stubborn than the rest have been, So may thy name hold front there in the world." After the fire a little more had roared In its own fashion, the sharp point it moved This way and that, and then gave forth such breath: I was a man of arms, then Cordelier, Believing thus begirt to make amends; And truly my belief had been fulfilled But for the High Priest, whom may ill betide, Who put me back into my former sins; And how and wherefore I will have thee hear. While I was still the form of bone and pulp My mother gave to me, the deeds I did Were not those of a lion, but a fox. The machinations and the covert ways I knew them all, and practised so their craft, That to the ends of earth the sound went forth. That which before had pleased me then displeased me; And penitent and confessing I surrendered, Ah woe is me! and it would have bestead me; The Leader of the modern Pharisees Having a war near unto Lateran, And not with Saracens nor with the Jews, Nor the high office, nor the sacred orders, In him regarded, nor in me that cord Which used to make those girt with it more meagre; To cure him of the fever of his pride. Counsel he asked of me, and I was silent, Because his words appeared inebriate. And then he said: 'Be not thy heart afraid; Henceforth I thee absolve; and thou instruct me How to raze Palestrina to the ground. Then urged me on his weighty arguments There, where my silence was the worst advice; And said I: 'Father, since thou washest me Of that sin into which I now must fall, The promise long with the fulfilment short Will make thee triumph in thy lofty seat.' He must come down among my servitors, Because he gave the fraudulent advice From which time forth I have been at his hair; O miserable me! how I did shudder When he seized on me, saying: 'Peradventure Thou didst not think that I was a logician!' Said: 'Of the thievish fire a culprit this;' Wherefore, here where thou seest, am I lost, And vested thus in going I bemoan me." When it had thus completed its recital, The flame departed uttering lamentations, Writhing and flapping its sharp-pointed horn. Onward we passed, both I and my Conductor, Up o'er the crag above another arch, Which the moat covers, where is paid the fee By those who, sowing discord, win their burden. Inferno: Canto XXVIII Each tongue would for a certainty fall short By reason of our speech and memory, That have small room to comprehend so much. If were again assembled all the people Which formerly upon the fateful land Of Puglia were lamenting for their blood Shed by the Romans and the lingering war That of the rings made such illustrious spoils, As Livy has recorded, who errs not, With those who felt the agony of blows By making counterstand to Robert Guiscard, And all the rest, whose bones are gathered still At Ceperano, where a renegade Was each Apulian, and at Tagliacozzo, Where without arms the old Alardo conquered, Between his legs were hanging down his entrails; His heart was visible, and the dismal sack That maketh excrement of what is eaten. While I was all absorbed in seeing him, He looked at me, and opened with his hands His bosom, saying: "See now how I rend me; How mutilated, see, is Mahomet; In front of me doth Ali weeping go, Cleft in the face from forelock unto chin; And all the others whom thou here beholdest, Disseminators of scandal and of schism While living were, and therefore are cleft thus. But who art thou, that musest on the crag, Perchance to postpone going to the pain That is adjudged upon thine accusations?" "Nor death hath reached him yet, nor guilt doth bring him," My Master made reply, "to be tormented; But to procure him full experience, Me, who am dead, behoves it to conduct him Down here through Hell, from circle unto circle; And this is true as that I speak to thee." "Now say to Fra Dolcino, then, to arm him, Thou, who perhaps wilt shortly see the sun, If soon he wish not here to follow me, So with provisions, that no stress of snow May give the victory to the Novarese, Which otherwise to gain would not be easy." Staying to look in wonder with the others, Before the others did his gullet open, Which outwardly was red in every part, Cast over from their vessel shall they be, And drowned near unto the Cattolica, By the betrayal of a tyrant fell. Between the isles of Cyprus and Majorca Neptune ne'er yet beheld so great a crime, Neither of pirates nor Argolic people. Will make them come unto a parley with him; Then will do so, that to Focara's wind They will not stand in need of vow or prayer." And I to him: "Show to me and declare, If thou wouldst have me bear up news of thee, Who is this person of the bitter vision." O how bewildered unto me appeared, With tongue asunder in his windpipe slit, Curio, who in speaking was so bold! Cried out: "Thou shalt remember Mosca also, Who said, alas! 'A thing done has an end!' Which was an ill seed for the Tuscan people." "And death unto thy race," thereto I added; Whence he, accumulating woe on woe, Departed, like a person sad and crazed. If it were not that conscience reassures me, That good companion which emboldens man Beneath the hauberk of its feeling pure. I truly saw, and still I seem to see it, A trunk without a head walk in like manner As walked the others of the mournful herd. And by the hair it held the head dissevered, Hung from the hand in fashion of a lantern, And that upon us gazed and said: "O me!" When it was come close to the bridge's foot, It lifted high its arm with all the head, To bring more closely unto us its words, Which were: "Behold now the sore penalty, Thou, who dost breathing go the dead beholding; Behold if any be as great as this. And so that thou may carry news of me, Know that Bertram de Born am I, the same Who gave to the Young King the evil comfort. I made the father and the son rebellious; Achitophel not more with Absalom And David did with his accursed goadings. Because I parted persons so united, Parted do I now bear my brain, alas! From its beginning, which is in this trunk. Thus is observed in me the counterpoise." The many people and the divers wounds These eyes of mine had so inebriated, That they were wishful to stand still and weep; But said Virgilius: "What dost thou still gaze at? Why is thy sight still riveted down there Among the mournful, mutilated shades? And now the moon is underneath our feet; Henceforth the time allotted us is brief, And more is to be seen than what thou seest." "If thou hadst," I made answer thereupon, "Attended to the cause for which I looked, Perhaps a longer stay thou wouldst have pardoned." Meanwhile my Guide departed, and behind him I went, already making my reply, And superadding: "In that cavern where I held mine eyes with such attention fixed, I think a spirit of my blood laments The sin which down below there costs so much." Then said the Master: "Be no longer broken Thy thought from this time forward upon him; Attend elsewhere, and there let him remain; For him I saw below the little bridge, Pointing at thee, and threatening with his finger Fiercely, and heard him called Geri del Bello. So wholly at that time wast thou impeded By him who formerly held Altaforte, Thou didst not look that way; so he departed." "O my Conductor, his own violent death, Which is not yet avenged for him," I said, "By any who is sharer in the shame, Made him disdainful; whence he went away, As I imagine, without speaking to me, And thereby made me pity him the more." When we were now right over the last cloister Of Malebolge, so that its lay-brothers Could manifest themselves unto our sight, Divers lamentings pierced me through and through, Which with compassion had their arrows barbed, Whereat mine ears I covered with my hands. What pain would be, if from the hospitals Of Valdichiana, 'twixt July and September, And of Maremma and Sardinia We had descended on the furthest bank From the long crag, upon the left hand still, And then more vivid was my power of sight Down tow'rds the bottom, where the ministress Of the high Lord, Justice infallible, Punishes forgers, which she here records. I do not think a sadder sight to see Was in Aegina the whole people sick, (When was the air so full of pestilence, The animals, down to the little worm, All fell, and afterwards the ancient people, According as the poets have affirmed, Were from the seed of ants restored again,) Than was it to behold through that dark valley The spirits languishing in divers heaps. We step by step went onward without speech, Gazing upon and listening to the sick Who had not strength enough to lift their bodies. And never saw I plied a currycomb By stable-boy for whom his master waits, Or him who keeps awake unwillingly, And the nails downward with them dragged the scab, In fashion as a knife the scales of bream, Or any other fish that has them largest. Tell me if any Latian is with those Who are herein; so may thy nails suffice thee To all eternity unto this work." Wholly to me did the good Master gather, Saying: "Say unto them whate'er thou wishest." And I began, since he would have it so: Say to me who ye are, and of what people; Let not your foul and loathsome punishment Make you afraid to show yourselves to me." 'Tis true I said to him, speaking in jest, That I could rise by flight into the air, And he who had conceit, but little wit, And to the Poet said I: "Now was ever So vain a people as the Sienese? Not for a certainty the French by far." Whereat the other leper, who had heard me, Replied unto my speech: "Taking out Stricca, Who knew the art of moderate expenses, And Niccolo, who the luxurious use Of cloves discovered earliest of all Within that garden where such seed takes root; And taking out the band, among whom squandered Caccia d'Ascian his vineyards and vast woods, And where his wit the Abbagliato proffered! And thou shalt see I am Capocchio's shade, Who metals falsified by alchemy; Thou must remember, if I well descry thee, How I a skilful ape of nature was." So reft of reason Athamas became, That, seeing his own wife with children twain Walking encumbered upon either hand, He cried: "Spread out the nets, that I may take The lioness and her whelps upon the passage;" And then extended his unpitying claws, Hecuba sad, disconsolate, and captive, When lifeless she beheld Polyxena, And of her Polydorus on the shore And the Aretine, who trembling had remained, Said to me: "That mad sprite is Gianni Schicchi, And raving goes thus harrying other people." "O," said I to him, "so may not the other Set teeth on thee, let it not weary thee To tell us who it is, ere it dart hence." And he to me: "That is the ancient ghost Of the nefarious Myrrha, who became Beyond all rightful love her father's lover. She came to sin with him after this manner, By counterfeiting of another's form; As he who goeth yonder undertook, That he might gain the lady of the herd, To counterfeit in himself Buoso Donati, Making a will and giving it due form." The heavy dropsy, that so disproportions The limbs with humours, which it ill concocts, That the face corresponds not to the belly, "O ye, who without any torment are, And why I know not, in the world of woe," He said to us, "behold, and be attentive Unto the misery of Master Adam; I had while living much of what I wished, And now, alas! a drop of water crave. The rivulets, that from the verdant hills Of Cassentin descend down into Arno, Making their channels to be cold and moist, Ever before me stand, and not in vain; For far more doth their image dry me up Than the disease which strips my face of flesh. The rigid justice that chastises me Draweth occasion from the place in which I sinned, to put the more my sighs in flight. There is Romena, where I counterfeited The currency imprinted with the Baptist, For which I left my body burned above. But if I here could see the tristful soul Of Guido, or Alessandro, or their brother, For Branda's fount I would not give the sight. "I found them here," replied he, "when I rained Into this chasm, and since they have not turned, Nor do I think they will for evermore. It gave a sound, as if it were a drum; And Master Adam smote him in the face, With arm that did not seem to be less hard, Saying to him: "Although be taken from me All motion, for my limbs that heavy are, I have an arm unfettered for such need." Whereat he answer made: "When thou didst go Unto the fire, thou hadst it not so ready: But hadst it so and more when thou wast coining." The dropsical: "Thou sayest true in that; But thou wast not so true a witness there, Where thou wast questioned of the truth at Troy." "Remember, perjurer, about the horse," He made reply who had the swollen belly, "And rueful be it thee the whole world knows it." "Rueful to thee the thirst be wherewith cracks Thy tongue," the Greek said, "and the putrid water That hedges so thy paunch before thine eyes." Then the false-coiner: "So is gaping wide Thy mouth for speaking evil, as 'tis wont; Because if I have thirst, and humour stuff me Thou hast the burning and the head that aches, And to lick up the mirror of Narcissus Thou wouldst not want words many to invite thee." In listening to them was I wholly fixed, When said the Master to me: "Now just look, For little wants it that I quarrel with thee." When him I heard in anger speak to me, I turned me round towards him with such shame That still it eddies through my memory. And as he is who dreams of his own harm, Who dreaming wishes it may be a dream, So that he craves what is, as if it were not; Such I became, not having power to speak, For to excuse myself I wished, and still Excused myself, and did not think I did it. "Less shame doth wash away a greater fault," The Master said, "than this of thine has been; Therefore thyself disburden of all sadness, And make account that I am aye beside thee, If e'er it come to pass that fortune bring thee Where there are people in a like dispute; For a base wish it is to wish to hear it." We turned our backs upon the wretched valley, Upon the bank that girds it round about, Going across it without any speech. There it was less than night, and less than day, So that my sight went little in advance; But I could hear the blare of a loud horn, After the dolorous discomfiture When Charlemagne the holy emprise lost, So terribly Orlando sounded not. Short while my head turned thitherward I held When many lofty towers I seemed to see, Whereat I: "Master, say, what town is this?" And he to me: "Because thou peerest forth Athwart the darkness at too great a distance, It happens that thou errest in thy fancy. Well shalt thou see, if thou arrivest there, How much the sense deceives itself by distance; Therefore a little faster spur thee on." Then tenderly he took me by the hand, And said: "Before we farther have advanced, That the reality may seem to thee As, when the fog is vanishing away, Little by little doth the sight refigure Whate'er the mist that crowds the air conceals, So, piercing through the dense and darksome air, More and more near approaching tow'rd the verge, My error fled, and fear came over me; Because as on its circular parapets Montereggione crowns itself with towers, E'en thus the margin which surrounds the well Certainly Nature, when she left the making Of animals like these, did well indeed, By taking such executors from Mars; And if of elephants and whales she doth not Repent her, whosoever looketh subtly More just and more discreet will hold her for it; For where the argument of intellect Is added unto evil will and power, No rampart can the people make against it. So that the margin, which an apron was Down from the middle, showed so much of him Above it, that to reach up to his hair "Raphael mai amech izabi almi," Began to clamour the ferocious mouth, To which were not befitting sweeter psalms. And unto him my Guide: "Soul idiotic, Keep to thy horn, and vent thyself with that, When wrath or other passion touches thee. Search round thy neck, and thou wilt find the belt Which keeps it fastened, O bewildered soul, And see it, where it bars thy mighty breast." Here let us leave him and not speak in vain; For even such to him is every language As his to others, which to none is known." Therefore a longer journey did we make, Turned to the left, and a crossbow-shot oft We found another far more fierce and large. In binding him, who might the master be I cannot say; but he had pinioned close Behind the right arm, and in front the other, Ephialtes is his name; he showed great prowess. What time the giants terrified the gods; The arms he wielded never more he moves." And I to him: "If possible, I should wish That of the measureless Briareus These eyes of mine might have experience." Whence he replied: "Thou shalt behold Antaeus Close by here, who can speak and is unbound, Who at the bottom of all crime shall place us. There never was an earthquake of such might That it could shake a tower so violently, As Ephialtes suddenly shook himself. Then was I more afraid of death than ever, For nothing more was needful than the fear, If I had not beheld the manacles. "O thou, who in the valley fortunate, Which Scipio the heir of glory made, When Hannibal turned back with all his hosts, The sons of Earth the victory would have gained: Place us below, nor be disdainful of it, There where the cold doth lock Cocytus up. Still in the world can he restore thy fame; Because he lives, and still expects long life, If to itself Grace call him not untimely." As seems the Carisenda, to behold Beneath the leaning side, when goes a cloud Above it so that opposite it hangs; Such did Antaeus seem to me, who stood Watching to see him stoop, and then it was I could have wished to go some other way. But lightly in the abyss, which swallows up Judas with Lucifer, he put us down; Nor thus bowed downward made he there delay, But, as a mast does in a ship, uprose. Inferno: Canto XXXII If I had rhymes both rough and stridulous, As were appropriate to the dismal hole Down upon which thrust all the other rocks, I would press out the juice of my conception More fully; but because I have them not, Not without fear I bring myself to speak; For 'tis no enterprise to take in jest, To sketch the bottom of all the universe, Nor for a tongue that cries Mamma and Babbo. But may those Ladies help this verse of mine, Who helped Amphion in enclosing Thebes, That from the fact the word be not diverse. O rabble ill-begotten above all, Who're in the place to speak of which is hard, 'Twere better ye had here been sheep or goats! When we were down within the darksome well, Beneath the giant's feet, but lower far, And I was scanning still the lofty wall, I heard it said to me: "Look how thou steppest! Take heed thou do not trample with thy feet The heads of the tired, miserable brothers!" Whereat I turned me round, and saw before me And underfoot a lake, that from the frost The semblance had of glass, and not of water. So thick a veil ne'er made upon its current In winter-time Danube in Austria, Nor there beneath the frigid sky the Don, As there was here; so that if Tambernich Had fallen upon it, or Pietrapana, E'en at the edge 'twould not have given a creak. "Ye who so strain your breasts together, tell me," I said, "who are you;" and they bent their necks, And when to me their faces they had lifted, So with his head I see no farther forward, And bore the name of Sassol Mascheroni; Well knowest thou who he was, if thou art Tuscan. And that thou put me not to further speech, Know that I Camicion de' Pazzi was, And wait Carlino to exonerate me." And while we were advancing tow'rds the middle, Where everything of weight unites together, And I was shivering in the eternal shade, Weeping he growled: "Why dost thou trample me? Unless thou comest to increase the vengeance of Montaperti, why dost thou molest me?" And I: "My Master, now wait here for me, That I through him may issue from a doubt; Then thou mayst hurry me, as thou shalt wish." "Now who art thou, that goest through Antenora Smiting," replied he, "other people's cheeks, So that, if thou wert living, 'twere too much?" "Living I am, and dear to thee it may be," Was my response, "if thou demandest fame, That 'mid the other notes thy name I place." And he to me: "For the reverse I long; Take thyself hence, and give me no more trouble; For ill thou knowest to flatter in this hollow." Then by the scalp behind I seized upon him, And said: "It must needs be thou name thyself, Or not a hair remain upon thee here." When cried another: "What doth ail thee, Bocca? Is't not enough to clatter with thy jaws, But thou must bark? what devil touches thee?" "Now," said I, "I care not to have thee speak, Accursed traitor; for unto thy shame I will report of thee veracious news." "Begone," replied he, "and tell what thou wilt, But be not silent, if thou issue hence, Of him who had just now his tongue so prompt; He weepeth here the silver of the French; 'I saw,' thus canst thou phrase it, 'him of Duera There where the sinners stand out in the cold.' If thou shouldst questioned be who else was there, Thou hast beside thee him of Beccaria, Of whom the gorget Florence slit asunder; Gianni del Soldanier, I think, may be Yonder with Ganellon, and Tebaldello Who oped Faenza when the people slep." And even as bread through hunger is devoured, The uppermost on the other set his teeth, There where the brain is to the nape united. "O thou, who showest by such bestial sign Thy hatred against him whom thou art eating, Tell me the wherefore," said I, "with this compact, That if thou rightfully of him complain, In knowing who ye are, and his transgression, I in the world above repay thee for it, If that wherewith I speak be not dried up." Inferno: Canto XXXIII His mouth uplifted from his grim repast, That sinner, wiping it upon the hair Of the same head that he behind had wasted. Then he began: "Thou wilt that I renew The desperate grief, which wrings my heart already To think of only, ere I speak of it; But if my words be seed that may bear fruit Of infamy to the traitor whom I gnaw, Speaking and weeping shalt thou see together. That, by effect of his malicious thoughts, Trusting in him I was made prisoner, And after put to death, I need not say; But ne'ertheless what thou canst not have heard, That is to say, how cruel was my death, Hear shalt thou, and shalt know if he has wronged me. A narrow perforation in the mew, Which bears because of me the title of Famine, And in which others still must be locked up, Had shown me through its opening many moons Already, when I dreamed the evil dream Which of the future rent for me the veil. With sleuth-hounds gaunt, and eager, and well trained, Gualandi with Sismondi and Lanfianchi He had sent out before him to the front. After brief course seemed unto me forespent The father and the sons, and with sharp tushes It seemed to me I saw their flanks ripped open. When I before the morrow was awake, Moaning amid their sleep I heard my sons Who with me were, and asking after bread. Cruel indeed art thou, if yet thou grieve not, Thinking of what my heart foreboded me, And weep'st thou not, what art thou wont to weep at? And I heard locking up the under door Of the horrible tower; whereat without a word I gazed into the faces of my sons. I wept not, I within so turned to stone; They wept; and darling little Anselm mine Said: 'Thou dost gaze so, father, what doth ail thee?' Still not a tear I shed, nor answer made All of that day, nor yet the night thereafter, Until another sun rose on the world. Both of my hands in agony I bit; And, thinking that I did it from desire Of eating, on a sudden they uprose, And said they: 'Father, much less pain 'twill give us If thou do eat of us; thyself didst clothe us With this poor flesh, and do thou strip it off.' I calmed me then, not to make them more sad. That day we all were silent, and the next. Ah! obdurate earth, wherefore didst thou not open? When he had said this, with his eyes distorted, The wretched skull resumed he with his teeth, Which, as a dog's, upon the bone were strong. Ah! Pisa, thou opprobrium of the people Of the fair land there where the 'Si' doth sound, Since slow to punish thee thy neighbours are, Let the Capraia and Gorgona move, And make a hedge across the mouth of Arno That every person in thee it may drown! For if Count Ugolino had the fame Of having in thy castles thee betrayed, Thou shouldst not on such cross have put his sons. We passed still farther onward, where the ice Another people ruggedly enswathes, Not downward turned, but all of them reversed. Weeping itself there does not let them weep, And grief that finds a barrier in the eyes Turns itself inward to increase the anguish; Because the earliest tears a cluster form, And, in the manner of a crystal visor, Fill all the cup beneath the eyebrow full. And notwithstanding that, as in a callus, Because of cold all sensibility Its station had abandoned in my face, Still it appeared to me I felt some wind; Whence I: "My Master, who sets this in motion? Is not below here every vapour quenched?" Whence he to me: "Full soon shalt thou be where Thine eye shall answer make to thee of this, Seeing the cause which raineth down the blast." Lift from mine eyes the rigid veils, that I May vent the sorrow which impregns my heart A little, e'er the weeping recongeal." Whence I to him: "If thou wouldst have me help thee Say who thou wast; and if I free thee not, May I go to the bottom of the ice." Then he replied: "I am Friar Alberigo; He am I of the fruit of the bad garden, Who here a date am getting for my fig." "O," said I to him, "now art thou, too, dead?" And he to me: "How may my body fare Up in the world, no knowledge I possess. Such an advantage has this Ptolomaea, That oftentimes the soul descendeth here Sooner than Atropos in motion sets it. And, that thou mayest more willingly remove From off my countenance these glassy tears, Know that as soon as any soul betrays As I have done, his body by a demon Is taken from him, who thereafter rules it, Until his time has wholly been revolved. Itself down rushes into such a cistern; And still perchance above appears the body Of yonder shade, that winters here behind me. This thou shouldst know, if thou hast just come down; It is Ser Branca d' Oria, and many years Have passed away since he was thus locked up." "I think," said I to him, "thou dost deceive me; For Branca d' Oria is not dead as yet, And eats, and drinks, and sleeps, and puts on clothes." "In moat above," said he, "of Malebranche, There where is boiling the tenacious pitch, As yet had Michel Zanche not arrived, And still above in body seems alive! Inferno: Canto XXXIV "'Vexilla Regis prodeunt Inferni' Towards us; therefore look in front of thee," My Master said, "if thou discernest him." As, when there breathes a heavy fog, or when Our hemisphere is darkening into night, Appears far off a mill the wind is turning, Methought that such a building then I saw; And, for the wind, I drew myself behind My Guide, because there was no other shelter. Now was I, and with fear in verse I put it, There where the shades were wholly covered up, And glimmered through like unto straws in glass. He from before me moved and made me stop, Saying: "Behold Dis, and behold the place Where thou with fortitude must arm thyself." How frozen I became and powerless then, Ask it not, Reader, for I write it not, Because all language would be insufficient. I did not die, and I alive remained not; Think for thyself now, hast thou aught of wit, What I became, being of both deprived. The Emperor of the kingdom dolorous From his mid-breast forth issued from the ice; And better with a giant I compare Than do the giants with those arms of his; Consider now how great must be that whole, Which unto such a part conforms itself. To him in front the biting was as naught Unto the clawing, for sometimes the spine Utterly stripped of all the skin remained. "That soul up there which has the greatest pain," The Master said, "is Judas Iscariot; With head inside, he plies his legs without. And the other, who so stalwart seems, is Cassius. But night is reascending, and 'tis time That we depart, for we have seen the whole." As seemed him good, I clasped him round the neck, And he the vantage seized of time and place, And when the wings were opened wide apart, He laid fast hold upon the shaggy sides; From fell to fell descended downward then Between the thick hair and the frozen crust. When we were come to where the thigh revolves Exactly on the thickness of the haunch, The Guide, with labour and with hard-drawn breath, Then through the opening of a rock he issued, And down upon the margin seated me; Then tow'rds me he outstretched his wary step. I lifted up mine eyes and thought to see Lucifer in the same way I had left him; And I beheld him upward hold his legs. And if I then became disquieted, Let stolid people think who do not see What the point is beyond which I had passed. "Rise up," the Master said, "upon thy feet; The way is long, and difficult the road, And now the sun to middle-tierce returns." It was not any palace corridor There where we were, but dungeon natural, With floor uneven and unease of light. "Ere from the abyss I tear myself away, My Master," said I when I had arisen, "To draw me from an error speak a little; And he to me: "Thou still imaginest Thou art beyond the centre, where I grasped The hair of the fell worm, who mines the world. That side thou wast, so long as I descended; When round I turned me, thou didst pass the point To which things heavy draw from every side, And now beneath the hemisphere art come Opposite that which overhangs the vast Dry-land, and 'neath whose cope was put to death The Man who without sin was born and lived. Thou hast thy feet upon the little sphere Which makes the other face of the Judecca. Here it is morn when it is evening there; And he who with his hair a stairway made us Still fixed remaineth as he was before. Upon this side he fell down out of heaven; And all the land, that whilom here emerged, For fear of him made of the sea a veil, And came to our hemisphere; and peradventure To flee from him, what on this side appears Left the place vacant here, and back recoiled." A place there is below, from Beelzebub As far receding as the tomb extends, Which not by sight is known, but by the sound Of a small rivulet, that there descendeth Through chasm within the stone, which it has gnawed With course that winds about and slightly falls. The Guide and I into that hidden road Now entered, to return to the bright world; And without care of having any rest Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars. The Divine Comedy translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (e-text courtesy ILT's Digital Dante Project) To run o'er better waters hoists its sail The little vessel of my genius now, That leaves behind itself a sea so cruel; But let dead Poesy here rise again, O holy Muses, since that I am yours, And here Calliope somewhat ascend, My song accompanying with that sound, Of which the miserable magpies felt The blow so great, that they despaired of pardon. Unto mine eyes did recommence delight Soon as I issued forth from the dead air, Which had with sadness filled mine eyes and breast. The beauteous planet, that to love incites, Was making all the orient to laugh, Veiling the Fishes that were in her escort. Rejoicing in their flamelets seemed the heaven. O thou septentrional and widowed site, Because thou art deprived of seeing these! When from regarding them I had withdrawn, Turning a little to the other pole, There where the Wain had disappeared already, I saw beside me an old man alone, Worthy of so much reverence in his look, That more owes not to father any son. "Who are you? ye who, counter the blind river, Have fled away from the eternal prison?" Moving those venerable plumes, he said: "Who guided you? or who has been your lamp In issuing forth out of the night profound, That ever black makes the infernal valley? The laws of the abyss, are they thus broken? Or is there changed in heaven some council new, That being damned ye come unto my crags?" Then did my Leader lay his grasp upon me, And with his words, and with his hands and signs, Reverent he made in me my knees and brow; But since it is thy will more be unfolded Of our condition, how it truly is, Mine cannot be that this should be denied thee. As I have said, I unto him was sent To rescue him, and other way was none Than this to which I have myself betaken. I've shown him all the people of perdition, And now those spirits I intend to show Who purge themselves beneath thy guardianship. How I have brought him would be long to tell thee. Virtue descendeth from on high that aids me To lead him to behold thee and to hear thee. Now may it please thee to vouchsafe his coming; He seeketh Liberty, which is so dear, As knoweth he who life for her refuses. Thou know'st it; since, for her, to thee not bitter Was death in Utica, where thou didst leave The vesture, that will shine so, the great day. Eyes of thy Marcia, who in looks still prays thee, O holy breast, to hold her as thine own; For her love, then, incline thyself to us. Permit us through thy sevenfold realm to go; I will take back this grace from thee to her, If to be mentioned there below thou deignest." "Marcia so pleasing was unto mine eyes While I was on the other side," then said he, "That every grace she wished of me I granted; Now that she dwells beyond the evil river, She can no longer move me, by that law Which, when I issued forth from there, was made. But if a Lady of Heaven do move and rule thee, As thou dost say, no flattery is needful; Let it suffice thee that for her thou ask me. This little island round about its base Below there, yonder, where the billow beats it, Doth rushes bear upon its washy ooze; No other plant that putteth forth the leaf, Or that doth indurate, can there have life, Because it yieldeth not unto the shocks. Thereafter be not this way your return; The sun, which now is rising, will direct you To take the mount by easier ascent." With this he vanished; and I raised me up Without a word, and wholly drew myself Unto my Guide, and turned mine eyes to him. And he began: "Son, follow thou my steps; Let us turn back, for on this side declines The plain unto its lower boundaries." The dawn was vanquishing the matin hour Which fled before it, so that from afar I recognised the trembling of the sea. As soon as we were come to where the dew Fights with the sun, and, being in a part Where shadow falls, little evaporates, Both of his hands upon the grass outspread In gentle manner did my Master place; Whence I, who of his action was aware, Extended unto him my tearful cheeks; There did he make in me uncovered wholly That hue which Hell had covered up in me. Then came we down upon the desert shore Which never yet saw navigate its waters Any that afterward had known return. There he begirt me as the other pleased; O marvellous! for even as he culled The humble plant, such it sprang up again Suddenly there where he uprooted it. Purgatorio: Canto II Already had the sun the horizon reached Whose circle of meridian covers o'er Jerusalem with its most lofty point, And night that opposite to him revolves Was issuing forth from Ganges with the Scales That fall from out her hand when she exceedeth; So that the white and the vermilion cheeks Of beautiful Aurora, where I was, By too great age were changing into orange. We still were on the border of the sea, Like people who are thinking of their road, Who go in heart and with the body stay; From which when I a little had withdrawn Mine eyes, that I might question my Conductor, Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. Then on each side of it appeared to me I knew not what of white, and underneath it Little by little there came forth another. He cried: "Make haste, make haste to bow the knee! Behold the Angel of God! fold thou thy hands! Henceforward shalt thou see such officers! See how he scorneth human arguments, So that nor oar he wants, nor other sail Than his own wings, between so distant shores. See how he holds them pointed up to heaven, Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, That do not moult themselves like mortal hair!" Then as still nearer and more near us came The Bird Divine, more radiant he appeared, So that near by the eye could not endure him, But down I cast it; and he came to shore With a small vessel, very swift and light, So that the water swallowed naught thereof. Then made he sign of holy rood upon them, Whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, And he departed swiftly as he came. On every side was darting forth the day. The sun, who had with his resplendent shafts From the mid-heaven chased forth the Capricorn, When the new people lifted up their faces Towards us, saying to us: "If ye know, Show us the way to go unto the mountain." And answer made Virgilius: "Ye believe Perchance that we have knowledge of this place, But we are strangers even as yourselves. Just now we came, a little while before you, Another way, which was so rough and steep, That mounting will henceforth seem sport to us." The souls who had, from seeing me draw breath, Become aware that I was still alive, Pallid in their astonishment became; So at the sight of me stood motionless Those fortunate spirits, all of them, as if Oblivious to go and make them fair. I think with wonder I depicted me; Whereat the shadow smiled and backward drew; And I, pursuing it, pressed farther forward. Gently it said that I should stay my steps; Then knew I who it was, and I entreated That it would stop awhile to speak with me. It made reply to me: "Even as I loved thee In mortal body, so I love thee free; Therefore I stop; but wherefore goest thou?" Whence I, who now had turned unto that shore Where salt the waters of the Tiber grow, Benignantly by him have been received. Unto that outlet now his wing is pointed, Because for evermore assemble there Those who tow'rds Acheron do not descend." And I: "If some new law take not from thee Memory or practice of the song of love, Which used to quiet in me all my longings, Thee may it please to comfort therewithal Somewhat this soul of mine, that with its body Hitherward coming is so much distressed." "Love, that within my mind discourses with me," Forthwith began he so melodiously, The melody within me still is sounding. My Master, and myself, and all that people Which with him were, appeared as satisfied As if naught else might touch the mind of any. We all of us were moveless and attentive Unto his notes; and lo! the grave old man, Exclaiming: "What is this, ye laggard spirits? What negligence, what standing still is this? Run to the mountain to strip off the slough, That lets not God be manifest to you." Even as when, collecting grain or tares, The doves, together at their pasture met, Quiet, nor showing their accustomed pride, If aught appear of which they are afraid, Upon a sudden leave their food alone, Because they are assailed by greater care; Nor was our own departure less in haste. Purgatorio: Canto III Inasmuch as the instantaneous flight Had scattered them asunder o'er the plain, Turned to the mountain whither reason spurs us, I pressed me close unto my faithful comrade, And how without him had I kept my course? Who would have led me up along the mountain? He seemed to me within himself remorseful; O noble conscience, and without a stain, How sharp a sting is trivial fault to thee! After his feet had laid aside the haste Which mars the dignity of every act, My mind, that hitherto had been restrained, Let loose its faculties as if delighted, And I my sight directed to the hill That highest tow'rds the heaven uplifts itself. The sun, that in our rear was flaming red, Was broken in front of me into the figure Which had in me the stoppage of its rays; "Why dost thou still mistrust?" my Comforter Began to say to me turned wholly round; "Dost thou not think me with thee, and that I guide thee? 'Tis evening there already where is buried The body within which I cast a shadow; 'Tis from Brundusium ta'en, and Naples has it. To suffer torments, both of cold and heat, Bodies like this that Power provides, which wills That how it works be not unveiled to us. Mortals, remain contented at the 'Quia;' For if ye had been able to see all, No need there were for Mary to give birth; And ye have seen desiring without fruit, Those whose desire would have been quieted, Which evermore is given them for a grief. We came meanwhile unto the mountain's foot; There so precipitate we found the rock, That nimble legs would there have been in vain. 'Twixt Lerici and Turbia, the most desert, The most secluded pathway is a stair Easy and open, if compared with that. And while he held his eyes upon the ground Examining the nature of the path, And I was looking up around the rock, On the left hand appeared to me a throng Of souls, that moved their feet in our direction, And did not seem to move, they came so slowly. "Lift up thine eyes," I to the Master said; "Behold, on this side, who will give us counsel, If thou of thine own self can have it not." Then he looked at me, and with frank expression Replied: "Let us go there, for they come slowly, And thou be steadfast in thy hope, sweet son." When they all crowded unto the hard masses Of the high bank, and motionless stood and close, As he stands still to look who goes in doubt. "O happy dead! O spirits elect already!" Virgilius made beginning, "by that peace Which I believe is waiting for you all, As sheep come issuing forth from out the fold By ones and twos and threes, and the others stand Timidly, holding down their eyes and nostrils, And what the foremost does the others do, Huddling themselves against her, if she stop, Simple and quiet and the wherefore know not; So moving to approach us thereupon I saw the leader of that fortunate flock, Modest in face and dignified in gait. As soon as those in the advance saw broken The light upon the ground at my right side, So that from me the shadow reached the rock, They stopped, and backward drew themselves somewhat; And all the others, who came after them, Not knowing why nor wherefore, did the same. "Without your asking, I confess to you This is a human body which you see, Whereby the sunshine on the ground is cleft. Marvel ye not thereat, but be persuaded That not without a power which comes from Heaven Doth he endeavour to surmount this wall." The Master thus; and said those worthy people: "Return ye then, and enter in before us," Making a signal with the back o' the hand When with humility I had disclaimed E'er having seen him, "Now behold!" he said, And showed me high upon his breast a wound. Then said he with a smile: "I am Manfredi, The grandson of the Empress Costanza; Therefore, when thou returnest, I beseech thee Go to my daughter beautiful, the mother Of Sicily's honour and of Aragon's, And the truth tell her, if aught else be told. Horrible my iniquities had been; But Infinite Goodness hath such ample arms, That it receives whatever turns to it. Had but Cosenza's pastor, who in chase Of me was sent by Clement at that time, In God read understandingly this page, The bones of my dead body still would be At the bridge-head, near unto Benevento, Under the safeguard of the heavy cairn. Now the rain bathes and moveth them the wind, Beyond the realm, almost beside the Verde, Where he transported them with tapers quenched. By malison of theirs is not so lost Eternal Love, that it cannot return, So long as hope has anything of green. True is it, who in contumacy dies Of Holy Church, though penitent at last, Must wait upon the outside this bank See now if thou hast power to make me happy, By making known unto my good Costanza How thou hast seen me, and this ban beside, For those on earth can much advance us here." Purgatorio: Canto IV Whenever by delight or else by pain, That seizes any faculty of ours, Wholly to that the soul collects itself, And hence, whenever aught is heard or seen Which keeps the soul intently bent upon it, Time passes on, and we perceive it not, A greater opening ofttimes hedges up With but a little forkful of his thorns The villager, what time the grape imbrowns, Than was the passage-way through which ascended Only my Leader and myself behind him, After that company departed from us. With the swift pinions and the plumes I say Of great desire, conducted after him Who gave me hope, and made a light for me. We mounted upward through the rifted rock, And on each side the border pressed upon us, And feet and hands the ground beneath required. And he to me: "No step of thine descend; Still up the mount behind me win thy way, Till some sage escort shall appear to us." The summit was so high it vanquished sight, And the hillside precipitous far more Than line from middle quadrant to the centre. Spent with fatigue was I, when I began: "O my sweet Father! turn thee and behold How I remain alone, unless thou stay!" "O son," he said, "up yonder drag thyself," Pointing me to a terrace somewhat higher, Which on that side encircles all the hill. These words of his so spurred me on, that I Strained every nerve, behind him scrambling up, Until the circle was beneath my feet. Thereon ourselves we seated both of us Turned to the East, from which we had ascended, For all men are delighted to look back. The Poet well perceived that I was wholly Bewildered at the chariot of the light, Where 'twixt us and the Aquilon it entered. Whereon he said to me: "If Castor and Pollux Were in the company of yonder mirror, That up and down conducteth with its light, Thou wouldst behold the zodiac's jagged wheel Revolving still more near unto the Bears, Unless it swerved aside from its old track. How that may be wouldst thou have power to think, Collected in thyself, imagine Zion Together with this mount on earth to stand, "Truly, my Master," said I, "never yet Saw I so clearly as I now discern, There where my wit appeared incompetent, That the mid-circle of supernal motion, Which in some art is the Equator called, And aye remains between the Sun and Winter, For reason which thou sayest, departeth hence Tow'rds the Septentrion, what time the Hebrews Beheld it tow'rds the region of the heat. But, if it pleaseth thee, I fain would learn How far we have to go; for the hill rises Higher than eyes of mine have power to rise." Therefore, when it shall seem so pleasant to thee, That going up shall be to thee as easy As going down the current in a boat, Then at this pathway's ending thou wilt be; There to repose thy panting breath expect; No more I answer; and this I know for true." And as he finished uttering these words, A voice close by us sounded: "Peradventure Thou wilt have need of sitting down ere that." "O my sweet Lord," I said, "do turn thine eye On him who shows himself more negligent Then even Sloth herself his sister were." Then he turned round to us, and he gave heed, Just lifting up his eyes above his thigh, And said: "Now go thou up, for thou art valiant." Then knew I who he was; and the distress, That still a little did my breathing quicken, My going to him hindered not; and after I came to him he hardly raised his head, Saying: "Hast thou seen clearly how the sun O'er thy left shoulder drives his chariot?" His sluggish attitude and his curt words A little unto laughter moved my lips; Then I began: "Belacqua, I grieve not For thee henceforth; but tell me, wherefore seated In this place art thou? Waitest thou an escort? Or has thy usual habit seized upon thee?" And he: "O brother, what's the use of climbing? Since to my torment would not let me go The Angel of God, who sitteth at the gate. Unless, e'er that, some prayer may bring me aid Which rises from a heart that lives in grace; What profit others that in heaven are heard not?" Meanwhile the Poet was before me mounting, And saying: "Come now; see the sun has touched Meridian, and from the shore the night Covers already with her foot Morocco." I had already from those shades departed, And followed in the footsteps of my Guide, When from behind, pointing his finger at me, Mine eyes I turned at utterance of these words, And saw them watching with astonishment But me, but me, and the light which was broken! "Why doth thy mind so occupy itself," The Master said, "that thou thy pace dost slacken? What matters it to thee what here is whispered? Come after me, and let the people talk; Stand like a steadfast tower, that never wags Its top for all the blowing of the winds; What could I say in answer but "I come"? I said it somewhat with that colour tinged Which makes a man of pardon sometimes worthy. Meanwhile along the mountain-side across Came people in advance of us a little, Singing the Miserere verse by verse. When they became aware I gave no place For passage of the sunshine through my body, They changed their song into a long, hoarse "Oh!" If they stood still because they saw his shadow, As I suppose, enough is answered them; Him let them honour, it may profit them." Vapours enkindled saw I ne'er so swiftly At early nightfall cleave the air serene, Nor, at the set of sun, the clouds of August, But upward they returned in briefer time, And, on arriving, with the others wheeled Tow'rds us, like troops that run without a rein. "This folk that presses unto us is great, And cometh to implore thee," said the Poet; "So still go onward, and in going listen." "O soul that goest to beatitude With the same members wherewith thou wast born," Shouting they came, "a little stay thy steps, Look, if thou e'er hast any of us seen, So that o'er yonder thou bear news of him; Ah, why dost thou go on? Ah, why not stay? Long since we all were slain by violence, And sinners even to the latest hour; Then did a light from heaven admonish us, So that, both penitent and pardoning, forth From life we issued reconciled to God, Who with desire to see Him stirs our hearts." Speak ye, and I will do it, by that peace Which, following the feet of such a Guide, From world to world makes itself sought by me." Whence I, who speak alone before the others, Pray thee, if ever thou dost see the land That 'twixt Romagna lies and that of Charles, Thou be so courteous to me of thy prayers In Fano, that they pray for me devoutly, That I may purge away my grave offences. From thence was I; but the deep wounds, through which Issued the blood wherein I had my seat, Were dealt me in bosom of the Antenori, There where I thought to be the most secure; 'Twas he of Este had it done, who held me In hatred far beyond what justice willed. But if towards the Mira I had fled, When I was overtaken at Oriaco, I still should be o'er yonder where men breathe. I ran to the lagoon, and reeds and mire Did so entangle me I fell, and saw there A lake made from my veins upon the ground." Then said another: "Ah, be that desire Fulfilled that draws thee to the lofty mountain, As thou with pious pity aidest mine. I was of Montefeltro, and am Buonconte; Giovanna, nor none other cares for me; Hence among these I go with downcast front." And I to him: "What violence or what chance Led thee astray so far from Campaldino, That never has thy sepulture been known?" "Oh," he replied, "at Casentino's foot A river crosses named Archiano, born Above the Hermitage in Apennine. There where the name thereof becometh void Did I arrive, pierced through and through the throat, Fleeing on foot, and bloodying the plain; There my sight lost I, and my utterance Ceased in the name of Mary, and thereat I fell, and tenantless my flesh remained. Truth will I speak, repeat it to the living; God's Angel took me up, and he of hell Shouted: 'O thou from heaven, why dost thou rob me? Well knowest thou how in the air is gathered That humid vapour which to water turns, Soon as it rises where the cold doth grasp it. He joined that evil will, which aye seeks evil, To intellect, and moved the mist and wind By means of power, which his own nature gave; Thereafter, when the day was spent, the valley From Pratomagno to the great yoke covered With fog, and made the heaven above intent, So that the pregnant air to water changed; Down fell the rain, and to the gullies came Whate'er of it earth tolerated not; And as it mingled with the mighty torrents, Towards the royal river with such speed It headlong rushed, that nothing held it back. My frozen body near unto its outlet The robust Archian found, and into Arno Thrust it, and loosened from my breast the cross I made of me, when agony o'ercame me; It rolled me on the banks and on the bottom, Then with its booty covered and begirt me." Espousing me, my finger with his gem." Purgatorio: Canto VI Whene'er is broken up the game of Zara, He who has lost remains behind despondent, The throws repeating, and in sadness learns; Even such was I in that dense multitude, Turning to them this way and that my face, And, promising, I freed myself therefrom. There was the Aretine, who from the arms Untamed of Ghin di Tacco had his death, And he who fleeing from pursuit was drowned. I saw Count Orso; and the soul divided By hatred and by envy from its body, As it declared, and not for crime committed, Pierre de la Brosse I say; and here provide While still on earth the Lady of Brabant, So that for this she be of no worse flock! Began I: "It appears that thou deniest, O light of mine, expressly in some text, That orison can bend decree of Heaven; And ne'ertheless these people pray for this. Might then their expectation bootless be? Or is to me thy saying not quite clear?" And he to me: "My writing is explicit, And not fallacious is the hope of these, If with sane intellect 'tis well regarded; And there, where I affirmed that proposition, Defect was not amended by a prayer, Because the prayer from God was separate. Verily, in so deep a questioning Do not decide, unless she tell it thee, Who light 'twixt truth and intellect shall be. I know not if thou understand; I speak Of Beatrice; her shalt thou see above, Smiling and happy, on this mountain's top." And I: "Good Leader, let us make more haste, For I no longer tire me as before; And see, e'en now the hill a shadow casts." "We will go forward with this day" he answered, "As far as now is possible for us; But otherwise the fact is than thou thinkest. Ere thou art up there, thou shalt see return Him, who now hides himself behind the hill, So that thou dost not interrupt his rays. But yonder there behold! a soul that stationed All, all alone is looking hitherward; It will point out to us the quickest way." We came up unto it; O Lombard soul, How lofty and disdainful thou didst bear thee, And grand and slow in moving of thine eyes! Nothing whatever did it say to us, But let us go our way, eying us only After the manner of a couchant lion; Still near to it Virgilius drew, entreating That it would point us out the best ascent; And it replied not unto his demand, Ah! servile Italy, grief's hostelry! A ship without a pilot in great tempest! No Lady thou of Provinces, but brothel! That noble soul was so impatient, only At the sweet sound of his own native land, To make its citizen glad welcome there; What boots it, that for thee Justinian The bridle mend, if empty be the saddle? Withouten this the shame would be the less. Ah! people, thou that oughtest to be devout, And to let Caesar sit upon the saddle, If well thou hearest what God teacheth thee, Behold how fell this wild beast has become, Being no longer by the spur corrected, Since thou hast laid thy hand upon the bridle. O German Albert! who abandonest Her that has grown recalcitrant and savage, And oughtest to bestride her saddle-bow, May a just judgment from the stars down fall Upon thy blood, and be it new and open, That thy successor may have fear thereof; Because thy father and thyself have suffered, By greed of those transalpine lands distrained, The garden of the empire to be waste. Come and behold Montecchi and Cappelletti, Monaldi and Fillippeschi, careless man! Those sad already, and these doubt-depressed! Come and behold thy Rome, that is lamenting, Widowed, alone, and day and night exclaims, "My Caesar, why hast thou forsaken me?" Come and behold how loving are the people; And if for us no pity moveth thee, Come and be made ashamed of thy renown! And if it lawful be, O Jove Supreme! Who upon earth for us wast crucified, Are thy just eyes averted otherwhere? Or preparation is 't, that, in the abyss Of thine own counsel, for some good thou makest From our perception utterly cut off? For all the towns of Italy are full Of tyrants, and becometh a Marcellus Each peasant churl who plays the partisan! My Florence! well mayst thou contented be With this digression, which concerns thee not, Thanks to thy people who such forethought take! Many at heart have justice, but shoot slowly, That unadvised they come not to the bow, But on their very lips thy people have it! Many refuse to bear the common burden; But thy solicitous people answereth Without being asked, and crieth: "I submit." Now be thou joyful, for thou hast good reason; Thou affluent, thou in peace, thou full of wisdom! If I speak true, the event conceals it not. Athens and Lacedaemon, they who made The ancient laws, and were so civilized, Made towards living well a little sign Compared with thee, who makest such fine-spun Provisions, that to middle of November Reaches not what thou in October spinnest. How oft, within the time of thy remembrance, Laws, money, offices, and usages Hast thou remodelled, and renewed thy members? And if thou mind thee well, and see the light, Thou shalt behold thyself like a sick woman, Who cannot find repose upon her down, But by her tossing wardeth off her pain. Purgatorio: Canto VII "Or ever to this mountain were directed The souls deserving to ascend to God, My bones were buried by Octavian. I am Virgilius; and for no crime else Did I lose heaven, than for not having faith;" In this wise then my Leader made reply. So he appeared; and then bowed down his brow, And with humility returned towards him, And, where inferiors embrace, embraced him. "O glory of the Latians, thou," he said, "Through whom our language showed what it could do O pride eternal of the place I came from, What merit or what grace to me reveals thee? If I to hear thy words be worthy, tell me If thou dost come from Hell, and from what cloister." "Through all the circles of the doleful realm," Responded he, "have I come hitherward; Heaven's power impelled me, and with that I come. I by not doing, not by doing, lost The sight of that high sun which thou desirest, And which too late by me was recognized. A place there is below not sad with torments, But darkness only, where the lamentations Have not the sound of wailing, but are sighs. There dwell I with the little innocents Snatched by the teeth of Death, or ever they Were from our human sinfulness exempt. But if thou know and can, some indication Give us by which we may the sooner come Where Purgatory has its right beginning." He answered: "No fixed place has been assigned us; 'Tis lawful for me to go up and round; So far as I can go, as guide I join thee. But see already how the day declines, And to go up by night we are not able; Therefore 'tis well to think of some fair sojourn. Souls are there on the right hand here withdrawn; If thou permit me I will lead thee to them, And thou shalt know them not without delight." And on the ground the good Sordello drew His finger, saying, "See, this line alone Thou couldst not pass after the sun is gone; Not that aught else would hindrance give, however, To going up, save the nocturnal darkness; This with the want of power the will perplexes. We might indeed therewith return below, And, wandering, walk the hill-side round about, While the horizon holds the day imprisoned." Thereon my Lord, as if in wonder, said: "Do thou conduct us thither, where thou sayest That we can take delight in tarrying." Little had we withdrawn us from that place, When I perceived the mount was hollowed out In fashion as the valleys here are hollowed. "Thitherward," said that shade, "will we repair, Where of itself the hill-side makes a lap, And there for the new day will we await." Gold and fine silver, and scarlet and pearl-white, The Indian wood resplendent and serene, Fresh emerald the moment it is broken, "Salve Regina," on the green and flowers There seated, singing, spirits I beheld, Which were not visible outside the valley. "Before the scanty sun now seeks his nest," Began the Mantuan who had led us thither, "Among them do not wish me to conduct you. Better from off this ledge the acts and faces Of all of them will you discriminate, Than in the plain below received among them. He who sits highest, and the semblance bears Of having what he should have done neglected, And to the others' song moves not his lips, Rudolph the Emperor was, who had the power To heal the wounds that Italy have slain, So that through others slowly she revives. The other, who in look doth comfort him, Governed the region where the water springs, The Moldau bears the Elbe, and Elbe the sea. His name was Ottocar; and in swaddling-clothes Far better he than bearded Winceslaus His son, who feeds in luxury and ease. And the small-nosed, who close in council seems With him that has an aspect so benign, Died fleeing and disflowering the lily; Father and father-in-law of France's Pest Are they, and know his vicious life and lewd, And hence proceeds the grief that so doth pierce them. And if as King had after him remained The stripling who in rear of him is sitting, Well had the valour passed from vase to vase, Which cannot of the other heirs be said. Frederick and Jacomo possess the realms, But none the better heritage possesses. Not oftentimes upriseth through the branches The probity of man; and this He wills Who gives it, so that we may ask of Him. Eke to the large-nosed reach my words, no less Than to the other, Pier, who with him sings; Whence Provence and Apulia grieve already The plant is as inferior to its seed, As more than Beatrice and Margaret Costanza boasteth of her husband still. Behold the monarch of the simple life, Harry of England, sitting there alone; He in his branches has a better issue. He who the lowest on the ground among them Sits looking upward, is the Marquis William, For whose sake Alessandria and her war Make Monferrat and Canavese weep." Purgatorio: Canto VIII 'Twas now the hour that turneth back desire In those who sail the sea, and melts the heart, The day they've said to their sweet friends farewell, And the new pilgrim penetrates with love, If he doth hear from far away a bell That seemeth to deplore the dying day, It joined and lifted upward both its palms, Fixing its eyes upon the orient, As if it said to God, "Naught else I care for." "Te lucis ante" so devoutly issued Forth from its mouth, and with such dulcet notes, It made me issue forth from my own mind. And then the others, sweetly and devoutly, Accompanied it through all the hymn entire, Having their eyes on the supernal wheels. Here, Reader, fix thine eyes well on the truth, For now indeed so subtile is the veil, Surely to penetrate within is easy. I saw that army of the gentle-born Thereafterward in silence upward gaze, As if in expectation, pale and humble; Green as the little leaflets just now born Their garments were, which, by their verdant pinions Beaten and blown abroad, they trailed behind. Clearly in them discerned I the blond head; But in their faces was the eye bewildered, As faculty confounded by excess. "From Mary's bosom both of them have come," Sordello said, "as guardians of the valley Against the serpent, that will come anon." Whereupon I, who knew not by what road, Turned round about, and closely drew myself, Utterly frozen, to the faithful shoulders. Already now the air was growing dark, But not so that between his eyes and mine It did not show what it before locked up. Tow'rds me he moved, and I tow'rds him did move; Noble Judge Nino! how it me delighted, When I beheld thee not among the damned! No greeting fair was left unsaid between us; Then asked he: "How long is it since thou camest O'er the far waters to the mountain's foot?" And on the instant my reply was heard, He and Sordello both shrank back from me, Like people who are suddenly bewildered. When thou shalt be beyond the waters wide, Tell my Giovanna that she pray for me, Where answer to the innocent is made. I do not think her mother loves me more, Since she has laid aside her wimple white, Which she, unhappy, needs must wish again. Through her full easily is comprehended How long in woman lasts the fire of love, If eye or touch do not relight it often. So fair a hatchment will not make for her The Viper marshalling the Milanese A-field, as would have made Gallura's Cock." In this wise spake he, with the stamp impressed Upon his aspect of that righteous zeal Which measurably burneth in the heart. My greedy eyes still wandered up to heaven, Still to that point where slowest are the stars, Even as a wheel the nearest to its axle. As he was speaking, to himself Sordello Drew him, and said, "Lo there our Adversary!" And pointed with his finger to look thither. Upon the side on which the little valley No barrier hath, a serpent was; perchance The same which gave to Eve the bitter food. I did not see, and therefore cannot say How the celestial falcons 'gan to move, But well I saw that they were both in motion. Hearing the air cleft by their verdant wings, The serpent fled, and round the Angels wheeled, Up to their stations flying back alike. The shade that to the Judge had near approached When he had called, throughout that whole assault Had not a moment loosed its gaze on me. "So may the light that leadeth thee on high Find in thine own free-will as much of wax As needful is up to the highest azure," Currado Malaspina was I called; I'm not the elder, but from him descended; To mine I bore the love which here refineth." "O," said I unto him, "through your domains I never passed, but where is there a dwelling Throughout all Europe, where they are not known? That fame, which doeth honour to your house, Proclaims its Signors and proclaims its land, So that he knows of them who ne'er was there. And, as I hope for heaven, I swear to you Your honoured family in naught abates The glory of the purse and of the sword. It is so privileged by use and nature, That though a guilty head misguide the world, Sole it goes right, and scorns the evil way." Before that such a courteous opinion Shall in the middle of thy head be nailed With greater nails than of another's speech, Unless the course of justice standeth still." Purgatorio: Canto IX The concubine of old Tithonus now Gleamed white upon the eastern balcony, Forth from the arms of her sweet paramour; With gems her forehead all relucent was, Set in the shape of that cold animal Which with its tail doth smite amain the nations, Just at the hour when her sad lay begins The little swallow, near unto the morning, Perchance in memory of her former woes, And when the mind of man, a wanderer More from the flesh, and less by thought imprisoned, Almost prophetic in its visions is, In dreams it seemed to me I saw suspended An eagle in the sky, with plumes of gold, With wings wide open, and intent to stoop, And this, it seemed to me, was where had been By Ganymede his kith and kin abandoned, When to the high consistory he was rapt. I thought within myself, perchance he strikes From habit only here, and from elsewhere Disdains to bear up any in his feet. Then wheeling somewhat more, it seemed to me, Terrible as the lightning he descended, And snatched me upward even to the fire. Therein it seemed that he and I were burning, And the imagined fire did scorch me so, That of necessity my sleep was broken. Not otherwise Achilles started up, Around him turning his awakened eyes, And knowing not the place in which he was, What time from Chiron stealthily his mother Carried him sleeping in her arms to Scyros, Wherefrom the Greeks withdrew him afterwards, Than I upstarted, when from off my face Sleep fled away; and pallid I became, As doth the man who freezes with affright. "Be not intimidated," said my Lord, "Be reassured, for all is well with us; Do not restrain, but put forth all thy strength. Thou hast at length arrived at Purgatory; See there the cliff that closes it around; See there the entrance, where it seems disjoined. Whilom at dawn, which doth precede the day, When inwardly thy spirit was asleep Upon the flowers that deck the land below, Sordello and the other noble shapes Remained; she took thee, and, as day grew bright, Upward she came, and I upon her footsteps. So did I change; and when without disquiet My Leader saw me, up along the cliff He moved, and I behind him, tow'rd the height. Reader, thou seest well how I exalt My theme, and therefore if with greater art I fortify it, marvel not thereat. And as I opened more and more mine eyes, I saw him seated on the highest stair, Such in the face that I endured it not. And in his hand he had a naked sword, Which so reflected back the sunbeams tow'rds us, That oft in vain I lifted up mine eyes. "Tell it from where you are, what is't you wish?" Began he to exclaim; "where is the escort? Take heed your coming hither harm you not!" "A Lady of Heaven, with these things conversant," My Master answered him, "but even now Said to us, 'Thither go; there is the portal.'" "And may she speed your footsteps in all good," Again began the courteous janitor; "Come forward then unto these stairs of ours." Both of his feet was holding upon this The Angel of God, upon the threshold seated, Which seemed to me a stone of diamond. "Whenever faileth either of these keys So that it turn not rightly in the lock," He said to us, "this entrance doth not open. From Peter I have them; and he bade me err Rather in opening than in keeping shut, If people but fall down before my feet." Then pushed the portals of the sacred door, Exclaiming: "Enter; but I give you warning That forth returns whoever looks behind." And when upon their hinges were turned round The swivels of that consecrated gate, Which are of metal, massive and sonorous, Roared not so loud, nor so discordant seemed Tarpeia, when was ta'en from it the good Metellus, wherefore meagre it remained. Exactly such an image rendered me That which I heard, as we are wont to catch, When people singing with the organ stand; For now we hear, and now hear not, the words. When we had crossed the threshold of the door Which the perverted love of souls disuses, Because it makes the crooked way seem straight, Re-echoing I heard it closed again; And if I had turned back mine eyes upon it, What for my failing had been fit excuse? We mounted upward through a rifted rock, Which undulated to this side and that, Even as a wave receding and advancing. "Here it behoves us use a little art," Began my Leader, "to adapt ourselves Now here, now there, to the receding side." And this our footsteps so infrequent made, That sooner had the moon's decreasing disk Regained its bed to sink again to rest, Than we were forth from out that needle's eye; But when we free and in the open were, There where the mountain backward piles itself, I wearied out, and both of us uncertain About our way, we stopped upon a plain More desolate than roads across the deserts. And far as eye of mine could wing its flight, Now on the left, and on the right flank now, The same this cornice did appear to me. Thereon our feet had not been moved as yet, When I perceived the embankment round about, Which all right of ascent had interdicted, To be of marble white, and so adorned With sculptures, that not only Polycletus, But Nature's self, had there been put to shame. The Angel, who came down to earth with tidings Of peace, that had been wept for many a year, And opened Heaven from its long interdict, In front of us appeared so truthfully There sculptured in a gracious attitude, He did not seem an image that is silent. And in her mien this language had impressed, "Ecce ancilla Dei," as distinctly As any figure stamps itself in wax. Whereat I moved mine eyes, and I beheld In rear of Mary, and upon that side Where he was standing who conducted me, Another story on the rock imposed; Wherefore I passed Virgilius and drew near, So that before mine eyes it might be set. Likewise unto the smoke of the frankincense, Which there was imaged forth, the eyes and nose Were in the yes and no discordant made. Preceded there the vessel benedight, Dancing with girded loins, the humble Psalmist, And more and less than King was he in this. Opposite, represented at the window Of a great palace, Michal looked upon him, Even as a woman scornful and afflicted. I moved my feet from where I had been standing, To examine near at hand another story, Which after Michal glimmered white upon me. There the high glory of the Roman Prince Was chronicled, whose great beneficence Moved Gregory to his great victory; 'Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking; And a poor widow at his bridle stood, In attitude of weeping and of grief. Around about him seemed it thronged and full Of cavaliers, and the eagles in the gold Above them visibly in the wind were moving. The wretched woman in the midst of these Seemed to be saying: "Give me vengeance, Lord, For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking." Return?" And he: "Who shall be where I am Will give it thee." And she: "Good deed of others What boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?" Whence he: "Now comfort thee, for it behoves me That I discharge my duty ere I move; Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me." He who on no new thing has ever looked Was the creator of this visible language, Novel to us, for here it is not found. While I delighted me in contemplating The images of such humility, And dear to look on for their Maker's sake, "Behold, upon this side, but rare they make Their steps," the Poet murmured, "many people; These will direct us to the lofty stairs." Mine eyes, that in beholding were intent To see new things, of which they curious are, In turning round towards him were not slow. But still I wish not, Reader, thou shouldst swerve From thy good purposes, because thou hearest How God ordaineth that the debt be paid; Attend not to the fashion of the torment, Think of what follows; think that at the worst It cannot reach beyond the mighty sentence. "Master," began I, "that which I behold Moving towards us seems to me not persons, And what I know not, so in sight I waver." But look there fixedly, and disentangle By sight what cometh underneath those stones; Already canst thou see how each is stricken." O ye proud Christians! wretched, weary ones! Who, in the vision of the mind infirm Confidence have in your backsliding steps, Do ye not comprehend that we are worms, Born to bring forth the angelic butterfly That flieth unto judgment without screen? Why floats aloft your spirit high in air? Like are ye unto insects undeveloped, Even as the worm in whom formation fails! As to sustain a ceiling or a roof, In place of corbel, oftentimes a figure Is seen to join its knees unto its breast, Which makes of the unreal real anguish Arise in him who sees it, fashioned thus Beheld I those, when I had ta'en good heed. True is it, they were more or less bent down, According as they more or less were laden; And he who had most patience in his looks Weeping did seem to say, "I can no more!" Purgatorio: Canto XI Praised be thy name and thine omnipotence By every creature, as befitting is To render thanks to thy sweet effluence. Come unto us the peace of thy dominion, For unto it we cannot of ourselves, If it come not, with all our intellect. Even as thine own Angels of their will Make sacrifice to thee, Hosanna singing, So may all men make sacrifice of theirs. Give unto us this day our daily manna, Withouten which in this rough wilderness Backward goes he who toils most to advance. This last petition verily, dear Lord, Not for ourselves is made, who need it not, But for their sake who have remained behind us." Thus for themselves and us good furtherance Those shades imploring, went beneath a weight Like unto that of which we sometimes dream, Unequally in anguish round and round And weary all, upon that foremost cornice, Purging away the smoke-stains of the world. If there good words are always said for us, What may not here be said and done for them, By those who have a good root to their will? Well may we help them wash away the marks That hence they carried, so that clean and light They may ascend unto the starry wheels! "Ah! so may pity and justice you disburden Soon, that ye may have power to move the wing, That shall uplift you after your desire, For he who cometh with me, through the burden Of Adam's flesh wherewith he is invested, Against his will is chary of his climbing." The words of theirs which they returned to those That he whom I was following had spoken, It was not manifest from whom they came, But it was said: "To the right hand come with us Along the bank, and ye shall find a pass Possible for living person to ascend. And were I not impeded by the stone, Which this proud neck of mine doth subjugate, Whence I am forced to hold my visage down, Him, who still lives and does not name himself, Would I regard, to see if I may know him And make him piteous unto this burden. A Latian was I, and born of a great Tuscan; Guglielmo Aldobrandeschi was my father; I know not if his name were ever with you. The ancient blood and deeds of gallantry Of my progenitors so arrogant made me That, thinking not upon the common mother, All men I held in scorn to such extent I died therefor, as know the Sienese, And every child in Campagnatico. I am Omberto; and not to me alone Has pride done harm, but all my kith and kin Has with it dragged into adversity. And here must I this burden bear for it Till God be satisfied, since I did not Among the living, here among the dead." And looked at me, and knew me, and called out, Keeping his eyes laboriously fixed On me, who all bowed down was going with them. "O," asked I him, "art thou not Oderisi, Agobbio's honour, and honour of that art Which is in Paris called illuminating?" "Brother," said he, "more laughing are the leaves Touched by the brush of Franco Bolognese; All his the honour now, and mine in part. In sooth I had not been so courteous While I was living, for the great desire Of excellence, on which my heart was bent. Here of such pride is paid the forfeiture; And yet I should not be here, were it not That, having power to sin, I turned to God. O thou vain glory of the human powers, How little green upon thy summit lingers, If't be not followed by an age of grossness! In painting Cimabue thought that he Should hold the field, now Giotto has the cry, So that the other's fame is growing dim. Naught is this mundane rumour but a breath Of wind, that comes now this way and now that, And changes name, because it changes side. What fame shalt thou have more, if old peel off From thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been dead Before thou left the 'pappo' and the 'dindi,' With him, who takes so little of the road In front of me, all Tuscany resounded; And now he scarce is lisped of in Siena, Where he was lord, what time was overthrown The Florentine delirium, that superb Was at that day as now 'tis prostitute. Your reputation is the colour of grass Which comes and goes, and that discolours it By which it issues green from out the earth." And I: "Thy true speech fills my heart with good Humility, and great tumour thou assuagest; But who is he, of whom just now thou spakest?" "That," he replied, "is Provenzan Salvani, And he is here because he had presumed To bring Siena all into his hands. He has gone thus, and goeth without rest E'er since he died; such money renders back In payment he who is on earth too daring." And I: "If every spirit who awaits The verge of life before that he repent, Remains below there and ascends not hither, (Unless good orison shall him bestead,) Until as much time as he lived be passed, How was the coming granted him in largess?" "When he in greatest splendour lived," said he, "Freely upon the Campo of Siena, All shame being laid aside, he placed himself; And there to draw his friend from the duress Which in the prison-house of Charles he suffered, He brought himself to tremble in each vein. I say no more, and know that I speak darkly; Yet little time shall pass before thy neighbours Will so demean themselves that thou canst gloss it. This action has released him from those confines." Purgatorio: Canto XII Abreast, like oxen going in a yoke, I with that heavy-laden soul went on, As long as the sweet pedagogue permitted; But when he said, "Leave him, and onward pass, For here 'tis good that with the sail and oars, As much as may be, each push on his barque;" Upright, as walking wills it, I redressed My person, notwithstanding that my thoughts Remained within me downcast and abashed. I had moved on, and followed willingly The footsteps of my Master, and we both Already showed how light of foot we were, When unto me he said: "Cast down thine eyes; 'Twere well for thee, to alleviate the way, To look upon the bed beneath thy feet." As, that some memory may exist of them, Above the buried dead their tombs in earth Bear sculptured on them what they were before; Whence often there we weep for them afresh, From pricking of remembrance, which alone To the compassionate doth set its spur; So saw I there, but of a better semblance In point of artifice, with figures covered Whate'er as pathway from the mount projects. I saw Briareus smitten by the dart Celestial, lying on the other side, Heavy upon the earth by mortal frost. I saw Thymbraeus, Pallas saw, and Mars, Still clad in armour round about their father, Gaze at the scattered members of the giants. I saw, at foot of his great labour, Nimrod, As if bewildered, looking at the people Who had been proud with him in Sennaar. O Saul! how fallen upon thy proper sword Didst thou appear there lifeless in Gilboa, That felt thereafter neither rain nor dew! O Rehoboam! no more seems to threaten Thine image there; but full of consternation A chariot bears it off, when none pursues! Displayed moreo'er the adamantine pavement How unto his own mother made Alcmaeon Costly appear the luckless ornament; Displayed how his own sons did throw themselves Upon Sennacherib within the temple, And how, he being dead, they left him there; Displayed the ruin and the cruel carnage That Tomyris wrought, when she to Cyrus said, "Blood didst thou thirst for, and with blood I glut thee!" I saw there Troy in ashes and in caverns; O Ilion! thee, how abject and debased, Displayed the image that is there discerned! Whoe'er of pencil master was or stile, That could portray the shades and traits which there Would cause each subtile genius to admire? Dead seemed the dead, the living seemed alive; Better than I saw not who saw the truth, All that I trod upon while bowed I went. Now wax ye proud, and on with looks uplifted, Ye sons of Eve, and bow not down your faces So that ye may behold your evil ways! More of the mount by us was now encompassed, And far more spent the circuit of the sun, Than had the mind preoccupied imagined, When he, who ever watchful in advance Was going on, began: "Lift up thy head, 'Tis no more time to go thus meditating. With reverence thine acts and looks adorn, So that he may delight to speed us upward; Think that this day will never dawn again." I was familiar with his admonition Ever to lose no time; so on this theme He could not unto me speak covertly. Towards us came the being beautiful Vested in white, and in his countenance Such as appears the tremulous morning star. His arms he opened, and opened then his wings; "Come," said he, "near at hand here are the steps, And easy from henceforth is the ascent." At this announcement few are they who come! O human creatures, born to soar aloft, Why fall ye thus before a little wind? He led us on to where the rock was cleft; There smote upon my forehead with his wings, Then a safe passage promised unto me. As on the right hand, to ascend the mount Where seated is the church that lordeth it O'er the well-guided, above Rubaconte, The bold abruptness of the ascent is broken By stairways that were made there in the age When still were safe the ledger and the stave, As we were turning thitherward our persons, "Beati pauperes spiritu," voices Sang in such wise that speech could tell it not. We now were hunting up the sacred stairs, And it appeared to me by far more easy Than on the plain it had appeared before. Whence I: "My Master, say, what heavy thing Has been uplifted from me, so that hardly Aught of fatigue is felt by me in walking?" Thy feet will be so vanquished by good will, That not alone they shall not feel fatigue, But urging up will be to them delight." Then did I even as they do who are going With something on the head to them unknown, Unless the signs of others make them doubt, Wherefore the hand to ascertain is helpful, And seeks and finds, and doth fulfill the office Which cannot be accomplished by the sight; Upon beholding which my Leader smiled. Purgatorio: Canto XIII Shade is there none, nor sculpture that appears; So seems the bank, and so the road seems smooth, With but the livid colour of the stone. "If to inquire we wait for people here," The Poet said, "I fear that peradventure Too much delay will our election have." Then steadfast on the sun his eyes he fixed, Made his right side the centre of his motion, And turned the left part of himself about. Thou warmest the world, thou shinest over it; If other reason prompt not otherwise, Thy rays should evermore our leaders be!" As much as here is counted for a mile, So much already there had we advanced In little time, by dint of ready will; And tow'rds us there were heard to fly, albeit They were not visible, spirits uttering Unto Love's table courteous invitations, And ere it wholly grew inaudible Because of distance, passed another, crying, "I am Orestes!" and it also stayed not. And the good Master said: "This circle scourges The sin of envy, and on that account Are drawn from love the lashes of the scourge. The bridle of another sound shall be; I think that thou wilt hear it, as I judge, Before thou comest to the Pass of Pardon. And when we were a little farther onward, I heard a cry of, "Mary, pray for us!" A cry of, "Michael, Peter, and all Saints!" I do not think there walketh still on earth A man so hard, that he would not be pierced With pity at what afterward I saw. For when I had approached so near to them That manifest to me their acts became, Drained was I at the eyes by heavy grief. So that in others pity soon may rise, Not only at the accent of their words, But at their aspect, which no less implores. And as unto the blind the sun comes not, So to the shades, of whom just now I spake, Heaven's light will not be bounteous of itself; For all their lids an iron wire transpierces, And sews them up, as to a sparhawk wild Is done, because it will not quiet stay. To me it seemed, in passing, to do outrage, Seeing the others without being seen; Wherefore I turned me to my counsel sage. Upon the other side of me I had The shades devout, who through the horrible seam Pressed out the tears so that they bathed their cheeks. To them I turned me, and, "O people, certain," Began I, "of beholding the high light, Which your desire has solely in its care, So may grace speedily dissolve the scum Upon your consciences, that limpidly Through them descend the river of the mind, Tell me, for dear 'twill be to me and gracious, If any soul among you here is Latian, And 'twill perchance be good for him I learn it." By way of answer this I seemed to hear A little farther on than where I stood, Whereat I made myself still nearer heard. "Spirit," I said, "who stoopest to ascend, If thou art he who did reply to me, Make thyself known to me by place or name." "Sienese was I," it replied, "and with The others here recleanse my guilty life, Weeping to Him to lend himself to us. Sapient I was not, although I Sapia Was called, and I was at another's harm More happy far than at my own good fortune. And that thou mayst not think that I deceive thee, Hear if I was as foolish as I tell thee. The arc already of my years descending, My fellow-citizens near unto Colle Were joined in battle with their adversaries, And I was praying God for what he willed. Routed were they, and turned into the bitter Passes of flight; and I, the chase beholding, A joy received unequalled by all others; So that I lifted upward my bold face Crying to God, 'Henceforth I fear thee not,' As did the blackbird at the little sunshine. Peace I desired with God at the extreme Of my existence, and as yet would not My debt have been by penitence discharged, Had it not been that in remembrance held me Pier Pettignano in his holy prayers, Who out of charity was grieved for me. But who art thou, that into our conditions Questioning goest, and hast thine eyes unbound As I believe, and breathing dost discourse?" "Mine eyes," I said, "will yet be here ta'en from me, But for short space; for small is the offence Committed by their being turned with envy. Far greater is the fear, wherein suspended My soul is, of the torment underneath, For even now the load down there weighs on me." And she to me: "Who led thee, then, among us Up here, if to return below thou thinkest?" And I: "He who is with me, and speaks not; And living am I; therefore ask of me, Spirit elect, if thou wouldst have me move O'er yonder yet my mortal feet for thee." "O, this is such a novel thing to hear," She answered, "that great sign it is God loves thee; Therefore with prayer of thine sometimes assist me. And I implore, by what thou most desirest, If e'er thou treadest the soil of Tuscany, Well with my kindred reinstate my fame. Them wilt thou see among that people vain Who hope in Talamone, and will lose there More hope than in discovering the Diana; But there still more the admirals will lose." Purgatorio: Canto XIV "I know not who, but know he's not alone; Ask him thyself, for thou art nearer to him, And gently, so that he may speak, accost him." Whence comest and who art thou; for thou mak'st us As much to marvel at this grace of thine As must a thing that never yet has been." From thereupon do I this body bring. To tell you who I am were speech in vain, Because my name as yet makes no great noise." And thus the shade that questioned was of this Himself acquitted: "I know not; but truly 'Tis fit the name of such a valley perish; For from its fountain-head (where is so pregnant The Alpine mountain whence is cleft Peloro That in few places it that mark surpasses) To where it yields itself in restoration Of what the heaven doth of the sea dry up, Whence have the rivers that which goes with them, Virtue is like an enemy avoided By all, as is a serpent, through misfortune Of place, or through bad habit that impels them; On which account have so transformed their nature The dwellers in that miserable valley, It seems that Circe had them in her pasture. Curs findeth it thereafter, coming downward, More snarling than their puissance demands, And turns from them disdainfully its muzzle. It goes on falling, and the more it grows, The more it finds the dogs becoming wolves, This maledict and misadventurous ditch. Descended then through many a hollow gulf, It finds the foxes so replete with fraud, They fear no cunning that may master them. Nor will I cease because another hears me; And well 'twill be for him, if still he mind him Of what a truthful spirit to me unravels. Thy grandson I behold, who doth become A hunter of those wolves upon the bank Of the wild stream, and terrifies them all. He sells their flesh, it being yet alive; Thereafter slaughters them like ancient beeves; Many of life, himself of praise, deprives. As at the announcement of impending ills The face of him who listens is disturbed, From whate'er side the peril seize upon him; So I beheld that other soul, which stood Turned round to listen, grow disturbed and sad, When it had gathered to itself the word. But since God willeth that in thee shine forth Such grace of his, I'll not be chary with thee; Know, then, that I Guido del Duca am. My blood was so with envy set on fire, That if I had beheld a man make merry, Thou wouldst have seen me sprinkled o'er with pallor. From my own sowing such the straw I reap! O human race! why dost thou set thy heart Where interdict of partnership must be? And not alone his blood is made devoid, 'Twixt Po and mount, and sea-shore and the Reno, Of good required for truth and for diversion; For all within these boundaries is full Of venomous roots, so that too tardily By cultivation now would they diminish. Where is good Lizio, and Arrigo Manardi, Pier Traversaro, and Guido di Carpigna, O Romagnuoli into bastards turned? When in Bologna will a Fabbro rise? When in Faenza a Bernardin di Fosco, The noble scion of ignoble seed? Be not astonished, Tuscan, if I weep, When I remember, with Guido da Prata, Ugolin d' Azzo, who was living with us, The dames and cavaliers, the toils and ease That filled our souls with love and courtesy, There where the hearts have so malicious grown! O Brettinoro! why dost thou not flee, Seeing that all thy family is gone, And many people, not to be corrupted? Bagnacaval does well in not begetting And ill does Castrocaro, and Conio worse, In taking trouble to beget such Counts. Will do well the Pagani, when their Devil Shall have departed; but not therefore pure Will testimony of them e'er remain. But go now, Tuscan, for it now delights me To weep far better than it does to speak, So much has our discourse my mind distressed." We were aware that those beloved souls Heard us depart; therefore, by keeping silent, They made us of our pathway confident. When we became alone by going onward, Thunder, when it doth cleave the air, appeared A voice, that counter to us came, exclaiming: "Shall slay me whosoever findeth me!" And fled as the reverberation dies If suddenly the cloud asunder bursts. As soon as hearing had a truce from this, Behold another, with so great a crash, That it resembled thunderings following fast: "I am Aglaurus, who became a stone!" And then, to press myself close to the Poet, I backward, and not forward, took a step. Already on all sides the air was quiet; And said he to me: "That was the hard curb That ought to hold a man within his bounds; But you take in the bait so that the hook Of the old Adversary draws you to him, And hence availeth little curb or call. The heavens are calling you, and wheel around you, Displaying to you their eternal beauties, And still your eye is looking on the ground; Whence He, who all discerns, chastises you." Purgatorio: Canto XV So much it now appeared, towards the night, Was of his course remaining to the sun; There it was evening, and 'twas midnight here; And the rays smote the middle of our faces, Because by us the mount was so encircled, That straight towards the west we now were going Whereat towards the summit of my brow I raised my hands, and made myself the visor Which the excessive glare diminishes. As when from off the water, or a mirror, The sunbeam leaps unto the opposite side, Ascending upward in the selfsame measure That it descends, and deviates as far From falling of a stone in line direct, (As demonstrate experiment and art,) So it appeared to me that by a light Refracted there before me I was smitten; On which account my sight was swift to flee. "What is that, Father sweet, from which I cannot So fully screen my sight that it avail me," Said I, "and seems towards us to be moving?" "Marvel thou not, if dazzle thee as yet The family of heaven," he answered me; "An angel 'tis, who comes to invite us upward. Soon will it be, that to behold these things Shall not be grievous, but delightful to thee As much as nature fashioned thee to feel." When we had reached the Angel benedight, With joyful voice he said: "Here enter in To stairway far less steep than are the others." We mounting were, already thence departed, And "Beati misericordes" was Behind us sung, "Rejoice, thou that o'ercomest!" Whence he to me: "Of his own greatest failing He knows the harm; and therefore wonder not If he reprove us, that we less may rue it. Because are thither pointed your desires Where by companionship each share is lessened, Envy doth ply the bellows to your sighs. But if the love of the supernal sphere Should upwardly direct your aspiration, There would not be that fear within your breast; "I am more hungering to be satisfied," I said, "than if I had before been silent, And more of doubt within my mind I gather. How can it be, that boon distributed The more possessors can more wealthy make Therein, than if by few it be possessed?" And he to me: "Because thou fixest still Thy mind entirely upon earthly things, Thou pluckest darkness from the very light. That goodness infinite and ineffable Which is above there, runneth unto love, As to a lucid body comes the sunbeam. So much it gives itself as it finds ardour, So that as far as charity extends, O'er it increases the eternal valour. And if my reasoning appease thee not, Thou shalt see Beatrice; and she will fully Take from thee this and every other longing. Even as I wished to say, "Thou dost appease me," I saw that I had reached another circle, So that my eager eyes made me keep silence. There it appeared to me that in a vision Ecstatic on a sudden I was rapt, And in a temple many persons saw; And at the door a woman, with the sweet Behaviour of a mother, saying: "Son, Why in this manner hast thou dealt with us? Then I beheld another with those waters Adown her cheeks which grief distils whenever From great disdain of others it is born, And saying: "If of that city thou art lord, For whose name was such strife among the gods, And whence doth every science scintillate, Avenge thyself on those audacious arms That clasped our daughter, O Pisistratus;" And the lord seemed to me benign and mild To answer her with aspect temperate: "What shall we do to those who wish us ill, If he who loves us be by us condemned?" Then saw I people hot in fire of wrath, With stones a young man slaying, clamorously Still crying to each other, "Kill him! kill him!" And him I saw bow down, because of death That weighed already on him, to the earth, But of his eyes made ever gates to heaven, Imploring the high Lord, in so great strife, That he would pardon those his persecutors, With such an aspect as unlocks compassion. Soon as my soul had outwardly returned To things external to it which are true, Did I my not false errors recognize. My Leader, who could see me bear myself Like to a man that rouses him from sleep, Exclaimed: "What ails thee, that thou canst not stand? "O my sweet Father, if thou listen to me, I'll tell thee," said I, "what appeared to me, When thus from me my legs were ta'en away." What thou hast seen was that thou mayst not fail To ope thy heart unto the waters of peace, Which from the eternal fountain are diffused. I did not ask, 'What ails thee?' as he does Who only looketh with the eyes that see not When of the soul bereft the body lies, But asked it to give vigour to thy feet; Thus must we needs urge on the sluggards, slow To use their wakefulness when it returns." We passed along, athwart the twilight peering Forward as far as ever eye could stretch Against the sunbeams serotine and lucent; This of our eyes and the pure air bereft us. Purgatorio: Canto XVI Darkness of hell, and of a night deprived Of every planet under a poor sky, As much as may be tenebrous with cloud, Ne'er made unto my sight so thick a veil, As did that smoke which there enveloped us, Nor to the feeling of so rough a texture; For not an eye it suffered to stay open; Whereat mine escort, faithful and sagacious, Drew near to me and offered me his shoulder. E'en as a blind man goes behind his guide, Lest he should wander, or should strike against Aught that may harm or peradventure kill him, So went I through the bitter and foul air, Listening unto my Leader, who said only, "Look that from me thou be not separated." "Master," I said, "are spirits those I hear?" And he to me: "Thou apprehendest truly, And they the knot of anger go unloosing." After this manner by a voice was spoken; Whereon my Master said: "Do thou reply, And ask if on this side the way go upward." And I: "O creature that dost cleanse thyself To return beautiful to Him who made thee, Thou shalt hear marvels if thou follow me." "Thee will I follow far as is allowed me," He answered; "and if smoke prevent our seeing, Hearing shall keep us joined instead thereof." Thereon began I: "With that swathing band Which death unwindeth am I going upward, And hither came I through the infernal anguish. And if God in his grace has me infolded, So that he wills that I behold his court By method wholly out of modern usage, Conceal not from me who ere death thou wast, But tell it me, and tell me if I go Right for the pass, and be thy words our escort." For mounting upward, thou art going right." Thus he made answer, and subjoined: "I pray thee To pray for me when thou shalt be above." And I to him: "My faith I pledge to thee To do what thou dost ask me; but am bursting Inly with doubt, unless I rid me of it. The world forsooth is utterly deserted By every virtue, as thou tellest me, And with iniquity is big and covered; Ye who are living every cause refer Still upward to the heavens, as if all things They of necessity moved with themselves. If this were so, in you would be destroyed Free will, nor any justice would there be In having joy for good, or grief for evil. The heavens your movements do initiate, I say not all; but granting that I say it, Light has been given you for good and evil, To greater force and to a better nature, Though free, ye subject are, and that creates The mind in you the heavens have not in charge. Hence, if the present world doth go astray, In you the cause is, be it sought in you; And I therein will now be thy true spy. Forth from the hand of Him, who fondles it Before it is, like to a little girl Weeping and laughing in her childish sport, Issues the simple soul, that nothing knows, Save that, proceeding from a joyous Maker, Gladly it turns to that which gives it pleasure. Hence it behoved laws for a rein to place, Behoved a king to have, who at the least Of the true city should discern the tower. Wherefore the people that perceives its guide Strike only at the good for which it hankers, Feeds upon that, and farther seeketh not. Clearly canst thou perceive that evil guidance The cause is that has made the world depraved, And not that nature is corrupt in you. In the land laved by Po and Adige, Valour and courtesy used to be found, Before that Frederick had his controversy; Now in security can pass that way Whoever will abstain, through sense of shame, From speaking with the good, or drawing near them. Currado da Palazzo, and good Gherardo, And Guido da Castel, who better named is, In fashion of the French, the simple Lombard: "O Marco mine," I said, "thou reasonest well; And now discern I why the sons of Levi Have been excluded from the heritage. But what Gherardo is it, who, as sample Of a lost race, thou sayest has remained In reprobation of the barbarous age?" "Either thy speech deceives me, or it tempts me," He answered me; "for speaking Tuscan to me, It seems of good Gherardo naught thou knowest. By other surname do I know him not, Unless I take it from his daughter Gaia. May God be with you, for I come no farther. Behold the dawn, that through the smoke rays out, Already whitening; and I must depart- Yonder the Angel is--ere he appear." Thus did he speak, and would no farther hear me. Purgatorio: Canto XVII Remember, Reader, if e'er in the Alps A mist o'ertook thee, through which thou couldst see Not otherwise than through its membrane mole, How, when the vapours humid and condensed Begin to dissipate themselves, the sphere Of the sun feebly enters in among them, Thus, to the faithful footsteps of my Master Mating mine own, I issued from that cloud To rays already dead on the low shores. Who moveth thee, if sense impel thee not? Moves thee a light, which in the heaven takes form, By self, or by a will that downward guides it. Of her impiety, who changed her form Into the bird that most delights in singing, In my imagining appeared the trace; And hereupon my mind was so withdrawn Within itself, that from without there came Nothing that then might be received by it. Around him were the great Ahasuerus, Esther his wife, and the just Mordecai, Who was in word and action so entire. And even as this image burst asunder Of its own self, in fashion of a bubble In which the water it was made of fails, There rose up in my vision a young maiden Bitterly weeping, and she said: "O queen, Why hast thou wished in anger to be naught? Thou'st slain thyself, Lavinia not to lose; Now hast thou lost me; I am she who mourns, Mother, at thine ere at another's ruin." As sleep is broken, when upon a sudden New light strikes in upon the eyelids closed, And broken quivers ere it dieth wholly, So this imagining of mine fell down As soon as the effulgence smote my face, Greater by far than what is in our wont. I turned me round to see where I might be, When said a voice, "Here is the passage up;" Which from all other purposes removed me, And made my wish so full of eagerness To look and see who was it that was speaking, It never rests till meeting face to face; But as before the sun, which quells the sight, And in its own excess its figure veils, Even so my power was insufficient here. "This is a spirit divine, who in the way Of going up directs us without asking, And who with his own light himself conceals. He does with us as man doth with himself; For he who sees the need, and waits the asking, Malignly leans already tow'rds denial. Accord we now our feet to such inviting, Let us make haste to mount ere it grow dark; For then we could not till the day return." Near me perceived a motion as of wings, And fanning in the face, and saying, "'Beati Pacifici,' who are without ill anger." Already over us were so uplifted The latest sunbeams, which the night pursues, That upon many sides the stars appeared. "O manhood mine, why dost thou vanish so?" I said within myself; for I perceived The vigour of my legs was put in truce. We at the point were where no more ascends The stairway upward, and were motionless, Even as a ship, which at the shore arrives; And I gave heed a little, if I might hear Aught whatsoever in the circle new; Then to my Master turned me round and said: "Say, my sweet Father, what delinquency Is purged here in the circle where we are? Although our feet may pause, pause not thy speech." And he to me: "The love of good, remiss In what it should have done, is here restored; Here plied again the ill-belated oar; But still more openly to understand, Turn unto me thy mind, and thou shalt gather Some profitable fruit from our delay. Neither Creator nor a creature ever, Son," he began, "was destitute of love Natural or spiritual; and thou knowest it. The natural was ever without error; But err the other may by evil object, Or by too much, or by too little vigour. But when to ill it turns, and, with more care Or lesser than it ought, runs after good, 'Gainst the Creator works his own creation. Hence thou mayst comprehend that love must be The seed within yourselves of every virtue, And every act that merits punishment. Now inasmuch as never from the welfare Of its own subject can love turn its sight, From their own hatred all things are secure; There are, who, by abasement of their neighbour, Hope to excel, and therefore only long That from his greatness he may be cast down; There are, who power, grace, honour, and renown Fear they may lose because another rises, Thence are so sad that the reverse they love; And there are those whom injury seems to chafe, So that it makes them greedy for revenge, And such must needs shape out another's harm. This threefold love is wept for down below; Now of the other will I have thee hear, That runneth after good with measure faulty. If languid love to look on this attract you, Or in attaining unto it, this cornice, After just penitence, torments you for it. There's other good that does not make man happy; 'Tis not felicity, 'tis not the good Essence, of every good the fruit and root. I say not, that thou seek it for thyself." Purgatorio: Canto XVIII An end had put unto his reasoning The lofty Teacher, and attent was looking Into my face, if I appeared content; And I, whom a new thirst still goaded on, Without was mute, and said within: "Perchance The too much questioning I make annoys him." But that true Father, who had comprehended The timid wish, that opened not itself, By speaking gave me hardihood to speak. Whence I: "My sight is, Master, vivified So in thy light, that clearly I discern Whate'er thy speech importeth or describes. Therefore I thee entreat, sweet Father dear, To teach me love, to which thou dost refer Every good action and its contrary." "Direct," he said, "towards me the keen eyes Of intellect, and clear will be to thee The error of the blind, who would be leaders. The soul, which is created apt to love, Is mobile unto everything that pleases, Soon as by pleasure she is waked to action. Your apprehension from some real thing An image draws, and in yourselves displays it So that it makes the soul turn unto it. And if, when turned, towards it she incline, Love is that inclination; it is nature, Which is by pleasure bound in you anew Then even as the fire doth upward move By its own form, which to ascend is born, Where longest in its matter it endures, So comes the captive soul into desire, Which is a motion spiritual, and ne'er rests Until she doth enjoy the thing beloved. Now may apparent be to thee how hidden The truth is from those people, who aver All love is in itself a laudable thing; Because its matter may perchance appear Aye to be good; but yet not each impression Is good, albeit good may be the wax." "Thy words, and my sequacious intellect," I answered him, "have love revealed to me; But that has made me more impregned with doubt; For if love from without be offered us, And with another foot the soul go not, If right or wrong she go, 'tis not her merit." And he to me: "What reason seeth here, Myself can tell thee; beyond that await For Beatrice, since 'tis a work of faith. Every substantial form, that segregate From matter is, and with it is united, Specific power has in itself collected, Which without act is not perceptible, Nor shows itself except by its effect, As life does in a plant by the green leaves. Now, that to this all others may be gathered, Innate within you is the power that counsels, And it should keep the threshold of assent. This is the principle, from which is taken Occasion of desert in you, according As good and guilty loves it takes and winnows. Those who, in reasoning, to the bottom went, Were of this innate liberty aware, Therefore bequeathed they Ethics to the world. Supposing, then, that from necessity Springs every love that is within you kindled, Within yourselves the power is to restrain it. The noble virtue Beatrice understands By the free will; and therefore see that thou Bear it in mind, if she should speak of it." The moon, belated almost unto midnight, Now made the stars appear to us more rare, Formed like a bucket, that is all ablaze, And counter to the heavens ran through those paths Which the sun sets aflame, when he of Rome Sees it 'twixt Sardes and Corsicans go down; And that patrician shade, for whom is named Pietola more than any Mantuan town, Had laid aside the burden of my lading; Whence I, who reason manifest and plain In answer to my questions had received, Stood like a man in drowsy reverie. But taken from me was this drowsiness Suddenly by a people, that behind Our backs already had come round to us. And as, of old, Ismenus and Asopus Beside them saw at night the rush and throng, If but the Thebans were in need of Bacchus, So they along that circle curve their step, From what I saw of those approaching us, Who by good-will and righteous love are ridden. "Mary in haste unto the mountain ran, And Caesar, that he might subdue Ilerda, Thrust at Marseilles, and then ran into Spain." "Quick! quick! so that the time may not be lost By little love!" forthwith the others cried, "For ardour in well-doing freshens grace!" "O folk, in whom an eager fervour now Supplies perhaps delay and negligence, Put by you in well-doing, through lukewarmness, So full of longing are we to move onward, That stay we cannot; therefore pardon us, If thou for churlishness our justice take. I was San Zeno's Abbot at Verona, Under the empire of good Barbarossa, Of whom still sorrowing Milan holds discourse; Because his son, in his whole body sick, And worse in mind, and who was evil-born, He put into the place of its true pastor." If more he said, or silent was, I know not, He had already passed so far beyond us; But this I heard, and to retain it pleased me. In rear of all they shouted: "Sooner were The people dead to whom the sea was opened, Than their inheritors the Jordan saw; And those who the fatigue did not endure Unto the issue, with Anchises' son, Themselves to life withouten glory offered." Then when from us so separated were Those shades, that they no longer could be seen, Within me a new thought did entrance find, And meditation into dream transmuted. Purgatorio: Canto XIX It was the hour when the diurnal heat No more can warm the coldness of the moon, Vanquished by earth, or peradventure Saturn, When geomancers their Fortuna Major See in the orient before the dawn Rise by a path that long remains not dim, There came to me in dreams a stammering woman, Squint in her eyes, and in her feet distorted, With hands dissevered and of sallow hue. I looked at her; and as the sun restores The frigid members which the night benumbs, Even thus my gaze did render voluble Her tongue, and made her all erect thereafter In little while, and the lost countenance As love desires it so in her did colour. When in this wise she had her speech unloosed, She 'gan to sing so, that with difficulty Could I have turned my thoughts away from her. "I am," she sang, "I am the Siren sweet Who mariners amid the main unman, So full am I of pleasantness to hear. I drew Ulysses from his wandering way Unto my song, and he who dwells with me Seldom departs so wholly I content him." Her mouth was not yet closed again, before Appeared a Lady saintly and alert Close at my side to put her to confusion. She seized the other and in front laid open, Rending her garments, and her belly showed me; This waked me with the stench that issued from it. I rose; and full already of high day Were all the circles of the Sacred Mountain, And with the new sun at our back we went. When I heard say, "Come, here the passage is," Spoken in a manner gentle and benign, Such as we hear not in this mortal region. He moved his pinions afterwards and fanned us, Affirming those 'qui lugent' to be blessed, For they shall have their souls with comfort filled. "What aileth thee, that aye to earth thou gazest?" To me my Guide began to say, we both Somewhat beyond the Angel having mounted. And I: "With such misgiving makes me go A vision new, which bends me to itself, So that I cannot from the thought withdraw me." "Didst thou behold," he said, "that old enchantress, Who sole above us henceforth is lamented? Didst thou behold how man is freed from her? Suffice it thee, and smite earth with thy heels, Thine eyes lift upward to the lure, that whirls The Eternal King with revolutions vast." Such I became, and such, as far as cleaves The rock to give a way to him who mounts, Went on to where the circling doth begin. "Adhaesit pavimento anima mea," I heard them say with sighings so profound, That hardly could the words be understood. "O ye elect of God, whose sufferings Justice and Hope both render less severe, Direct ye us towards the high ascents." "If ye are come secure from this prostration, And wish to find the way most speedily, Let your right hands be evermore outside." Thus did the Poet ask, and thus was answered By them somewhat in front of us; whence I In what was spoken divined the rest concealed, And unto my Lord's eyes mine eyes I turned; Whence he assented with a cheerful sign To what the sight of my desire implored. When of myself I could dispose at will, Above that creature did I draw myself, Whose words before had caused me to take note, Saying: "O Spirit, in whom weeping ripens That without which to God we cannot turn, Suspend awhile for me thy greater care. Who wast thou, and why are your backs turned upwards, Tell me, and if thou wouldst that I procure thee Anything there whence living I departed." And he to me: "Wherefore our backs the heaven Turns to itself, know shalt thou; but beforehand 'Scias quod ego fui successor Petri.' Between Siestri and Chiaveri descends A river beautiful, and of its name The title of my blood its summit makes. A month and little more essayed I how Weighs the great cloak on him from mire who keeps it, For all the other burdens seem a feather. Tardy, ah woe is me! was my conversion; But when the Roman Shepherd I was made, Then I discovered life to be a lie. Until that time a wretched soul and parted From God was I, and wholly avaricious; Now, as thou seest, I here am punished for it. What avarice does is here made manifest In the purgation of these souls converted, And no more bitter pain the Mountain has. Even as our eye did not uplift itself Aloft, being fastened upon earthly things, So justice here has merged it in the earth. As avarice had extinguished our affection For every good, whereby was action lost, So justice here doth hold us in restraint, Bound and imprisoned by the feet and hands; And so long as it pleases the just Lord Shall we remain immovable and prostrate." I on my knees had fallen, and wished to speak; But even as I began, and he was 'ware, Only by listening, of my reverence, "What cause," he said, "has downward bent thee thus?" And I to him: "For your own dignity, Standing, my conscience stung me with remorse." If e'er that holy, evangelic sound, Which sayeth 'neque nubent,' thou hast heard, Well canst thou see why in this wise I speak. Now go; no longer will I have thee linger, Because thy stay doth incommode my weeping, With which I ripen that which thou hast said. On earth I have a grandchild named Alagia, Good in herself, unless indeed our house Malevolent may make her by example, And she alone remains to me on earth." Purgatorio: Canto XX Ill strives the will against a better will; Therefore, to pleasure him, against my pleasure I drew the sponge not saturate from the water. Onward I moved, and onward moved my Leader, Through vacant places, skirting still the rock, As on a wall close to the battlements; For they that through their eyes pour drop by drop The malady which all the world pervades, On the other side too near the verge approach. Accursed mayst thou be, thou old she-wolf, That more than all the other beasts hast prey, Because of hunger infinitely hollow! O heaven, in whose gyrations some appear To think conditions here below are changed, When will he come through whom she shall depart? Onward we went with footsteps slow and scarce, And I attentive to the shades I heard Piteously weeping and bemoaning them; And I by peradventure heard "Sweet Mary!" Uttered in front of us amid the weeping Even as a woman does who is in child-birth; And in continuance: "How poor thou wast Is manifested by that hostelry Where thou didst lay thy sacred burden down." Thereafterward I heard: "O good Fabricius, Virtue with poverty didst thou prefer To the possession of great wealth with vice." So pleasurable were these words to me That I drew farther onward to have knowledge Touching that spirit whence they seemed to come. He furthermore was speaking of the largess Which Nicholas unto the maidens gave, In order to conduct their youth to honour. "O soul that dost so excellently speak, Tell me who wast thou," said I, "and why only Thou dost renew these praises well deserved? Not without recompense shall be thy word, If I return to finish the short journey Of that life which is flying to its end." And he: "I'll tell thee, not for any comfort I may expect from earth, but that so much Grace shines in thee or ever thou art dead. I was the root of that malignant plant Which overshadows all the Christian world, So that good fruit is seldom gathered from it; But if Douay and Ghent, and Lille and Bruges Had Power, soon vengeance would be taken on it; And this I pray of Him who judges all. Hugh Capet was I called upon the earth; From me were born the Louises and Philips, By whom in later days has France been governed. I found me grasping in my hands the rein Of the realm's government, and so great power Of new acquest, and so with friends abounding, That to the widowed diadem promoted The head of mine own offspring was, from whom The consecrated bones of these began. So long as the great dowry of Provence Out of my blood took not the sense of shame, 'Twas little worth, but still it did no harm. Then it began with falsehood and with force Its rapine; and thereafter, for amends, Took Ponthieu, Normandy, and Gascony. Charles came to Italy, and for amends A victim made of Conradin, and then Thrust Thomas back to heaven, for amends. A time I see, not very distant now, Which draweth forth another Charles from France, The better to make known both him and his. Unarmed he goes, and only with the lance That Judas jousted with; and that he thrusts So that he makes the paunch of Florence burst. He thence not land, but sin and infamy, Shall gain, so much more grievous to himself As the more light such damage he accounts. The other, now gone forth, ta'en in his ship, See I his daughter sell, and chaffer for her As corsairs do with other female slaves. What more, O Avarice, canst thou do to us, Since thou my blood so to thyself hast drawn, It careth not for its own proper flesh? That less may seem the future ill and past, I see the flower-de-luce Alagna enter, And Christ in his own Vicar captive made. I see him yet another time derided; I see renewed the vinegar and gall, And between living thieves I see him slain. I see the modern Pilate so relentless, This does not sate him, but without decretal He to the temple bears his sordid sails! When, O my Lord! shall I be joyful made By looking on the vengeance which, concealed, Makes sweet thine anger in thy secrecy? What I was saying of that only bride Of the Holy Ghost, and which occasioned thee To turn towards me for some commentary, So long has been ordained to all our prayers As the day lasts; but when the night comes on, Contrary sound we take instead thereof. At that time we repeat Pygmalion, Of whom a traitor, thief, and parricide Made his insatiable desire of gold; Then we accuse Sapphira with her husband, We laud the hoof-beats Heliodorus had, And the whole mount in infamy encircles Polymnestor who murdered Polydorus. Here finally is cried: 'O Crassus, tell us, For thou dost know, what is the taste of gold?' But in the good that here by day is talked of, Erewhile alone I was not; yet near by No other person lifted up his voice." From him already we departed were, And made endeavour to o'ercome the road As much as was permitted to our power, When I perceived, like something that is falling, The mountain tremble, whence a chill seized on me, As seizes him who to his death is going. Then upon all sides there began a cry, Such that the Master drew himself towards me, Saying, "Fear not, while I am guiding thee." "Gloria in excelsis Deo," all Were saying, from what near I comprehended, Where it was possible to hear the cry. Then we resumed again our holy path, Watching the shades that lay upon the ground, Already turned to their accustomed plaint. No ignorance ever with so great a strife Had rendered me importunate to know, If erreth not in this my memory, As meditating then I seemed to have; Nor out of haste to question did I dare, Nor of myself I there could aught perceive; So I went onward timorous and thoughtful. Purgatorio: Canto XXI The natural thirst, that ne'er is satisfied Excepting with the water for whose grace The woman of Samaria besought, Put me in travail, and haste goaded me Along the encumbered path behind my Leader And I was pitying that righteous vengeance; A shade appeared to us, and came behind us, Down gazing on the prostrate multitude, Nor were we ware of it, until it spake, Saying, "My brothers, may God give you peace!" We turned us suddenly, and Virgilius rendered To him the countersign thereto conforming. Thereon began he: "In the blessed council, Thee may the court veracious place in peace, That me doth banish in eternal exile!" "How," said he, and the while we went with speed, "If ye are shades whom God deigns not on high, Who up his stairs so far has guided you?" His soul, which is thy sister and my own, In coming upwards could not come alone, By reason that it sees not in our fashion. Whence I was drawn from out the ample throat Of Hell to be his guide, and I shall guide him As far on as my school has power to lead. But tell us, if thou knowest, why such a shudder Erewhile the mountain gave, and why together All seemed to cry, as far as its moist feet?" In asking he so hit the very eye Of my desire, that merely with the hope My thirst became the less unsatisfied. "Naught is there," he began, "that without order May the religion of the mountain feel, Nor aught that may be foreign to its custom. Free is it here from every permutation; What from itself heaven in itself receiveth Can be of this the cause, and naught beside; Dense clouds do not appear, nor rarefied, Nor coruscation, nor the daughter of Thaumas, That often upon earth her region shifts; Lower down perchance it trembles less or more, But, for the wind that in the earth is hidden I know not how, up here it never trembled. It trembles here, whenever any soul Feels itself pure, so that it soars, or moves To mount aloft, and such a cry attends it. Therefore thou heardst the earthquake, and the pious Spirits along the mountain rendering praise Unto the Lord, that soon he speed them upwards." So said he to him; and since we enjoy As much in drinking as the thirst is great, I could not say how much it did me good. And the wise Leader: "Now I see the net That snares you here, and how ye are set free, Why the earth quakes, and wherefore ye rejoice. Now who thou wast be pleased that I may know; And why so many centuries thou hast here Been lying, let me gather from thy words." "In days when the good Titus, with the aid Of the supremest King, avenged the wounds Whence issued forth the blood by Judas sold, Under the name that most endures and honours, Was I on earth," that spirit made reply, "Greatly renowned, but not with faith as yet. My vocal spirit was so sweet, that Rome Me, a Thoulousian, drew unto herself, Where I deserved to deck my brows with myrtle. Of the Aeneid speak I, which to me A mother was, and was my nurse in song; Without this weighed I not a drachma's weight. These words towards me made Virgilius turn With looks that in their silence said, "Be silent!" But yet the power that wills cannot do all things; For tears and laughter are such pursuivants Unto the passion from which each springs forth, In the most truthful least the will they follow. And, "As thou well mayst consummate a labour So great," it said, "why did thy face just now Display to me the lightning of a smile?" "Speak," said my Master, "and be not afraid Of speaking, but speak out, and say to him What he demands with such solicitude." Whence I: "Thou peradventure marvellest, O antique spirit, at the smile I gave; But I will have more wonder seize upon thee. If other cause thou to my smile imputedst, Abandon it as false, and trust it was Those words which thou hast spoken concerning him." Already he was stooping to embrace My Teacher's feet; but he said to him: "Brother, Do not; for shade thou art, and shade beholdest." Treating a shadow as substantial thing." Purgatorio: Canto XXII And those who have in justice their desire Had said to us, "Beati," in their voices, With "sitio," and without more ended it. And I, more light than through the other passes, Went onward so, that without any labour I followed upward the swift-footed spirits; When thus Virgilius began: "The love Kindled by virtue aye another kindles, Provided outwardly its flame appear. Hence from the hour that Juvenal descended Among us into the infernal Limbo, Who made apparent to me thy affection, But tell me, and forgive me as a friend, If too great confidence let loose the rein, And as a friend now hold discourse with me; How was it possible within thy breast For avarice to find place, 'mid so much wisdom As thou wast filled with by thy diligence?" Verily oftentimes do things appear Which give fallacious matter to our doubts, Instead of the true causes which are hidden! Thy question shows me thy belief to be That I was niggard in the other life, It may be from the circle where I was; Therefore know thou, that avarice was removed Too far from me; and this extravagance Thousands of lunar periods have punished. And were it not that I my thoughts uplifted, When I the passage heard where thou exclaimest, As if indignant, unto human nature, 'To what impellest thou not, O cursed hunger Of gold, the appetite of mortal men?' Revolving I should feel the dismal joustings. Then I perceived the hands could spread too wide Their wings in spending, and repented me As well of that as of my other sins; How many with shorn hair shall rise again Because of ignorance, which from this sin Cuts off repentance living and in death! And know that the transgression which rebuts By direct opposition any sin Together with it here its verdure dries. Therefore if I have been among that folk Which mourns its avarice, to purify me, For its opposite has this befallen me." "Now when thou sangest the relentless weapons Of the twofold affliction of Jocasta," The singer of the Songs Bucolic said, "From that which Clio there with thee preludes, It does not seem that yet had made thee faithful That faith without which no good works suffice. If this be so, what candles or what sun Scattered thy darkness so that thou didst trim Thy sails behind the Fisherman thereafter?" Thou didst as he who walketh in the night, Who bears his light behind, which helps him not, But wary makes the persons after him, When thou didst say: 'The age renews itself, Justice returns, and man's primeval time, And a new progeny descends from heaven.' Through thee I Poet was, through thee a Christian; But that thou better see what I design, To colour it will I extend my hand. Already was the world in every part Pregnant with the true creed, disseminated By messengers of the eternal kingdom; And thy assertion, spoken of above, With the new preachers was in unison; Whence I to visit them the custom took. Then they became so holy in my sight, That, when Domitian persecuted them, Not without tears of mine were their laments; And all the while that I on earth remained, Them I befriended, and their upright customs Made me disparage all the other sects. And ere I led the Greeks unto the rivers Of Thebes, in poetry, I was baptized, But out of fear was covertly a Christian, Thou, therefore, who hast raised the covering That hid from me whatever good I speak of, While in ascending we have time to spare, Tell me, in what place is our friend Terentius, Caecilius, Plautus, Varro, if thou knowest; Tell me if they are damned, and in what alley." "These, Persius and myself, and others many," Replied my Leader, "with that Grecian are Whom more than all the rest the Muses suckled, Euripides is with us, Antiphon, Simonides, Agatho, and many other Greeks who of old their brows with laurel decked. There some of thine own people may be seen, Antigone, Deiphile and Argia, And there Ismene mournful as of old. There she is seen who pointed out Langia; There is Tiresias' daughter, and there Thetis, And there Deidamia with her sisters." What time my Guide: "I think that tow'rds the edge Our dexter shoulders it behoves us turn, Circling the mount as we are wont to do." Thus in that region custom was our ensign; And we resumed our way with less suspicion For the assenting of that worthy soul They in advance went on, and I alone Behind them, and I listened to their speech, Which gave me lessons in the art of song. But soon their sweet discourses interrupted A tree which midway in the road we found, With apples sweet and grateful to the smell. On that side where our pathway was enclosed Fell from the lofty rock a limpid water, And spread itself abroad upon the leaves. The Poets twain unto the tree drew near, And from among the foliage a voice Cried: "Of this food ye shall have scarcity." Then said: "More thoughtful Mary was of making The marriage feast complete and honourable, Than of her mouth which now for you responds; And for their drink the ancient Roman women With water were content; and Daniel Disparaged food, and understanding won. The primal age was beautiful as gold; Acorns it made with hunger savorous, And nectar every rivulet with thirst. Honey and locusts were the aliments That fed the Baptist in the wilderness; Whence he is glorious, and so magnified As by the Evangel is revealed to you." Purgatorio: Canto XXIII The while among the verdant leaves mine eyes I riveted, as he is wont to do Who wastes his life pursuing little birds, My more than Father said unto me: "Son, Come now; because the time that is ordained us More usefully should be apportioned out." I turned my face and no less soon my steps Unto the Sages, who were speaking so They made the going of no cost to me; And lo! were heard a song and a lament, "Labia mea, Domine," in fashion Such that delight and dolence it brought forth. "O my sweet Father, what is this I hear?" Began I; and he answered: "Shades that go Perhaps the knot unloosing of their debt." In the same way that thoughtful pilgrims do, Who, unknown people on the road o'ertaking, Turn themselves round to them, and do not stop, Even thus, behind us with a swifter motion Coming and passing onward, gazed upon us A crowd of spirits silent and devout. Each in his eyes was dark and cavernous, Pallid in face, and so emaciate That from the bones the skin did shape itself. I do not think that so to merest rind Could Erisichthon have been withered up By famine, when most fear he had of it. Thinking within myself I said: "Behold, This is the folk who lost Jerusalem, When Mary made a prey of her own son." Their sockets were like rings without the gems; Whoever in the face of men reads 'omo' Might well in these have recognised the 'm.' Who would believe the odour of an apple, Begetting longing, could consume them so, And that of water, without knowing how? I still was wondering what so famished them, For the occasion not yet manifest Of their emaciation and sad squalor; And lo! from out the hollow of his head His eyes a shade turned on me, and looked keenly; Then cried aloud: "What grace to me is this?" Never should I have known him by his look; But in his voice was evident to me That which his aspect had suppressed within it. This spark within me wholly re-enkindled My recognition of his altered face, And I recalled the features of Forese. "Ah, do not look at this dry leprosy," Entreated he, "which doth my skin discolour, Nor at default of flesh that I may have; But tell me, for God's sake, what thus denudes you? Make me not speak while I am marvelling, For ill speaks he who's full of other longings." And he to me: "From the eternal council Falls power into the water and the tree Behind us left, whereby I grow so thin. All of this people who lamenting sing, For following beyond measure appetite In hunger and thirst are here re-sanctified. Desire to eat and drink enkindles in us The scent that issues from the apple-tree, And from the spray that sprinkles o'er the verdure; If sooner were the power exhausted in thee Of sinning more, than thee the hour surprised Of that good sorrow which to God reweds us, How hast thou come up hitherward already? I thought to find thee down there underneath, Where time for time doth restitution make." And he to me: "Thus speedily has led me To drink of the sweet wormwood of these torments, My Nella with her overflowing tears; So much more dear and pleasing is to God My little widow, whom so much I loved, As in good works she is the more alone; For the Barbagia of Sardinia By far more modest in its women is Than the Barbagia I have left her in. O brother sweet, what wilt thou have me say? A future time is in my sight already, To which this hour will not be very old, When from the pulpit shall be interdicted To the unblushing womankind of Florence To go about displaying breast and paps. What savages were e'er, what Saracens, Who stood in need, to make them covered go, Of spiritual or other discipline? But if the shameless women were assured Of what swift Heaven prepares for them, already Wide open would they have their mouths to howl; For if my foresight here deceive me not, They shall be sad ere he has bearded cheeks Who now is hushed to sleep with lullaby. O brother, now no longer hide thee from me; See that not only I, but all these people Are gazing there, where thou dost veil the sun." Whence I to him: "If thou bring back to mind What thou with me hast been and I with thee, The present memory will be grievous still. Thence his encouragements have led me up, Ascending and still circling round the mount That you doth straighten, whom the world made crooked. He says that he will bear me company, Till I shall be where Beatrice will be; There it behoves me to remain without him. Your realm, that from itself discharges him." Purgatorio: Canto XXIV Nor speech the going, nor the going that Slackened; but talking we went bravely on, Even as a vessel urged by a good wind. And shadows, that appeared things doubly dead, From out the sepulchres of their eyes betrayed Wonder at me, aware that I was living. And I, continuing my colloquy, Said: "Peradventure he goes up more slowly Than he would do, for other people's sake. "My sister, who, 'twixt beautiful and good, I know not which was more, triumphs rejoicing Already in her crown on high Olympus." This," pointing with his finger, "is Buonagiunta, Buonagiunta, of Lucca; and that face Beyond him there, more peaked than the others, Has held the holy Church within his arms; From Tours was he, and purges by his fasting Bolsena's eels and the Vernaccia wine." I saw for hunger bite the empty air Ubaldin dalla Pila, and Boniface, Who with his crook had pastured many people. He murmured, and I know not what Gentucca From that place heard I, where he felt the wound Of justice, that doth macerate them so. "O soul," I said, "that seemest so desirous To speak with me, do so that I may hear thee, And with thy speech appease thyself and me." "A maid is born, and wears not yet the veil," Began he, "who to thee shall pleasant make My city, howsoever men may blame it. Thou shalt go on thy way with this prevision; If by my murmuring thou hast been deceived, True things hereafter will declare it to thee. But say if him I here behold, who forth Evoked the new-invented rhymes, beginning, 'Ladies, that have intelligence of love?'" "O brother, now I see," he said, "the knot Which me, the Notary, and Guittone held Short of the sweet new style that now I hear. I do perceive full clearly how your pens Go closely following after him who dictates, Which with our own forsooth came not to pass; Even as the birds, that winter tow'rds the Nile, Sometimes into a phalanx form themselves, Then fly in greater haste, and go in file; In such wise all the people who were there, Turning their faces, hurried on their steps, Both by their leanness and their wishes light. And as a man, who weary is with trotting, Lets his companions onward go, and walks, Until he vents the panting of his chest; So did Forese let the holy flock Pass by, and came with me behind it, saying, "When will it be that I again shall see thee?" "How long," I answered, "I may live, I know not; Yet my return will not so speedy be, But I shall sooner in desire arrive; Because the place where I was set to live From day to day of good is more depleted, And unto dismal ruin seems ordained." "Now go," he said, "for him most guilty of it At a beast's tail behold I dragged along Towards the valley where is no repentance. Faster at every step the beast is going, Increasing evermore until it smites him, And leaves the body vilely mutilated. Not long those wheels shall turn," and he uplifted His eyes to heaven, "ere shall be clear to thee That which my speech no farther can declare. Now stay behind; because the time so precious Is in this kingdom, that I lose too much By coming onward thus abreast with thee." And when before us he had gone so far Mine eyes became to him such pursuivants As was my understanding to his words, Appeared to me with laden and living boughs Another apple-tree, and not far distant, From having but just then turned thitherward. People I saw beneath it lift their hands, And cry I know not what towards the leaves, Like little children eager and deluded, Who pray, and he they pray to doth not answer, But, to make very keen their appetite, Holds their desire aloft, and hides it not. Then they departed as if undeceived; And now we came unto the mighty tree Which prayers and tears so manifold refuses. Thus said I know not who among the branches; Whereat Virgilius, Statius, and myself Went crowding forward on the side that rises. And of the Jews who showed them soft in drinking, Whence Gideon would not have them for companions When he tow'rds Midian the hills descended." I raised my head to see who this might be, And never in a furnace was there seen Metals or glass so lucent and so red And as, the harbinger of early dawn, The air of May doth move and breathe out fragrance, Impregnate all with herbage and with flowers, So did I feel a breeze strike in the midst My front, and felt the moving of the plumes That breathed around an odour of ambrosia; And heard it said: "Blessed are they whom grace So much illumines, that the love of taste Excites not in their breasts too great desire, Purgatorio: Canto XXV Now was it the ascent no hindrance brooked, Because the sun had his meridian circle To Taurus left, and night to Scorpio; Wherefore as doth a man who tarries not, But goes his way, whate'er to him appear, If of necessity the sting transfix him, And as the little stork that lifts its wing With a desire to fly, and does not venture To leave the nest, and lets it downward droop, Even such was I, with the desire of asking Kindled and quenched, unto the motion coming He makes who doth address himself to speak. Not for our pace, though rapid it might be, My father sweet forbore, but said: "Let fly The bow of speech thou to the barb hast drawn." "If thou wouldst call to mind how Meleager Was wasted by the wasting of a brand, This would not," said he, "be to thee so sour; And wouldst thou think how at each tremulous motion Trembles within a mirror your own image; That which seems hard would mellow seem to thee. But that thou mayst content thee in thy wish Lo Statius here; and him I call and pray He now will be the healer of thy wounds." "If I unfold to him the eternal vengeance," Responded Statius, "where thou present art, Be my excuse that I can naught deny thee." Then he began: "Son, if these words of mine Thy mind doth contemplate and doth receive, They'll be thy light unto the How thou sayest. The perfect blood, which never is drunk up Into the thirsty veins, and which remaineth Like food that from the table thou removest, Takes in the heart for all the human members Virtue informative, as being that Which to be changed to them goes through the veins Again digest, descends it where 'tis better Silent to be than say; and then drops thence Upon another's blood in natural vase. The active virtue, being made a soul As of a plant, (in so far different, This on the way is, that arrived already,) Then works so much, that now it moves and feels Like a sea-fungus, and then undertakes To organize the powers whose seed it is. Now, Son, dilates and now distends itself The virtue from the generator's heart, Where nature is intent on all the members. So far, that in his doctrine separate He made the soul from possible intellect, For he no organ saw by this assumed. Open thy breast unto the truth that's coming, And know that, just as soon as in the foetus The articulation of the brain is perfect, The primal Motor turns to it well pleased At so great art of nature, and inspires A spirit new with virtue all replete, And that thou less may wonder at my word, Behold the sun's heat, which becometh wine, Joined to the juice that from the vine distils. Whenever Lachesis has no more thread, It separates from the flesh, and virtually Bears with itself the human and divine; The other faculties are voiceless all; The memory, the intelligence, and the will In action far more vigorous than before. Soon as the place there circumscribeth it, The virtue informative rays round about, As, and as much as, in the living members. And even as the air, when full of rain, By alien rays that are therein reflected, With divers colours shows itself adorned, So there the neighbouring air doth shape itself Into that form which doth impress upon it Virtually the soul that has stood still. And then in manner of the little flame, Which followeth the fire where'er it shifts, After the spirit followeth its new form. Since afterwards it takes from this its semblance, It is called shade; and thence it organizes Thereafter every sense, even to the sight. Thence is it that we speak, and thence we laugh; Thence is it that we form the tears and sighs, That on the mountain thou mayhap hast heard. According as impress us our desires And other affections, so the shade is shaped, And this is cause of what thou wonderest at." And now unto the last of all the circles Had we arrived, and to the right hand turned, And were attentive to another care. There the embankment shoots forth flames of fire, And upward doth the cornice breathe a blast That drives them back, and from itself sequesters. "Summae Deus clementiae," in the bosom Of the great burning chanted then I heard, Which made me no less eager to turn round; And spirits saw I walking through the flame; Wherefore I looked, to my own steps and theirs Apportioning my sight from time to time. After the close which to that hymn is made, Aloud they shouted, "Virum non cognosco;" Then recommenced the hymn with voices low. This also ended, cried they: "To the wood Diana ran, and drove forth Helice Therefrom, who had of Venus felt the poison." Then to their song returned they; then the wives They shouted, and the husbands who were chaste. As virtue and the marriage vow imposes. That the last wound of all should be closed up. Purgatorio: Canto XXVI On the right shoulder smote me now the sun, That, raying out, already the whole west Changed from its azure aspect into white. And with my shadow did I make the flame Appear more red; and even to such a sign Shades saw I many, as they went, give heed. This was the cause that gave them a beginning To speak of me; and to themselves began they To say: "That seems not a factitious body!" Then towards me, as far as they could come, Came certain of them, always with regard Not to step forth where they would not be burned. "O thou who goest, not from being slower But reverent perhaps, behind the others, Answer me, who in thirst and fire am burning. Nor to me only is thine answer needful; For all of these have greater thirst for it Than for cold water Ethiop or Indian. Tell us how is it that thou makest thyself A wall unto the sun, as if thou hadst not Entered as yet into the net of death." For through the middle of the burning road There came a people face to face with these, Which held me in suspense with gazing at them. The new-come people: "Sodom and Gomorrah!" The rest: "Into the cow Pasiphae enters, So that the bull unto her lust may run!" Then as the cranes, that to Riphaean mountains Might fly in part, and part towards the sands, These of the frost, those of the sun avoidant, And close to me approached, even as before, The very same who had entreated me, Attent to listen in their countenance. Neither unripe nor ripened have remained My members upon earth, but here are with me With their own blood and their articulations. I go up here to be no longer blind; A Lady is above, who wins this grace, Whereby the mortal through your world I bring. But as your greatest longing satisfied May soon become, so that the Heaven may house you Which full of love is, and most amply spreads, Tell me, that I again in books may write it, Who are you, and what is that multitude Which goes upon its way behind your backs?" Not otherwise with wonder is bewildered The mountaineer, and staring round is dumb, When rough and rustic to the town he goes, Than every shade became in its appearance; But when they of their stupor were disburdened, Which in high hearts is quickly quieted, Our own transgression was hermaphrodite; But because we observed not human law, Following like unto beasts our appetite, In our opprobrium by us is read, When we part company, the name of her Who bestialized herself in bestial wood. Now knowest thou our acts, and what our crime was; Wouldst thou perchance by name know who we are, There is not time to tell, nor could I do it. Thy wish to know me shall in sooth be granted; I'm Guido Guinicelli, and now purge me, Having repented ere the hour extreme." The moment I heard name himself the father Of me and of my betters, who had ever Practised the sweet and gracious rhymes of love; And without speech and hearing thoughtfully For a long time I went, beholding him, Nor for the fire did I approach him nearer. When I was fed with looking, utterly Myself I offered ready for his service, With affirmation that compels belief. And he to me: "Thou leavest footprints such In me, from what I hear, and so distinct, Lethe cannot efface them, nor make dim. But if thy words just now the truth have sworn, Tell me what is the cause why thou displayest In word and look that dear thou holdest me?" And I to him: "Those dulcet lays of yours Which, long as shall endure our modern fashion, Shall make for ever dear their very ink!" "O brother," said he, "he whom I point out," And here he pointed at a spirit in front, "Was of the mother tongue a better smith. Verses of love and proses of romance, He mastered all; and let the idiots talk, Who think the Lemosin surpasses him. To clamour more than truth they turn their faces, And in this way establish their opinion, Ere art or reason has by them been heard. Thus many ancients with Guittone did, From cry to cry still giving him applause, Until the truth has conquered with most persons. Now, if thou hast such ample privilege 'Tis granted thee to go unto the cloister Wherein is Christ the abbot of the college, To him repeat for me a Paternoster, So far as needful to us of this world, Where power of sinning is no longer ours." I moved a little tow'rds him pointed out, And said that to his name my own desire An honourable place was making ready. He of his own free will began to say: 'Tan m' abellis vostre cortes deman, Que jeu nom' puesc ni vueill a vos cobrire; Jeu sui Arnaut, que plor e vai chantan; Consiros vei la passada folor, E vei jauzen lo jorn qu' esper denan. Then hid him in the fire that purifies them. Purgatorio: Canto XXVII As when he vibrates forth his earliest rays, In regions where his Maker shed his blood, (The Ebro falling under lofty Libra, And waters in the Ganges burnt with noon,) So stood the Sun; hence was the day departing, When the glad Angel of God appeared to us. Outside the flame he stood upon the verge, And chanted forth, "Beati mundo corde," In voice by far more living than our own. When we were close beside him thus he said; Wherefore e'en such became I, when I heard him, As he is who is put into the grave. Towards me turned themselves my good Conductors, And unto me Virgilius said: "My son, Here may indeed be torment, but not death. Remember thee, remember! and if I On Geryon have safely guided thee, What shall I do now I am nearer God? Believe for certain, shouldst thou stand a full Millennium in the bosom of this flame, It could not make thee bald a single hair. Now lay aside, now lay aside all fear, Turn hitherward, and onward come securely;" And I still motionless, and 'gainst my conscience! Seeing me stand still motionless and stubborn, Somewhat disturbed he said: "Now look thou, Son, 'Twixt Beatrice and thee there is this wall." As at the name of Thisbe oped his lids The dying Pyramus, and gazed upon her, What time the mulberry became vermilion, Even thus, my obduracy being softened, I turned to my wise Guide, hearing the name That in my memory evermore is welling. Then into the fire in front of me he entered, Beseeching Statius to come after me, Who a long way before divided us. When I was in it, into molten glass I would have cast me to refresh myself, So without measure was the burning there! And my sweet Father, to encourage me, Discoursing still of Beatrice went on, Saying: "Her eyes I seem to see already!" A voice, that on the other side was singing, Directed us, and we, attent alone On that, came forth where the ascent began. "Venite, benedicti Patris mei," Sounded within a splendour, which was there Such it o'ercame me, and I could not look. "The sun departs," it added, "and night cometh; Tarry ye not, but onward urge your steps, So long as yet the west becomes not dark." Straight forward through the rock the path ascended In such a way that I cut off the rays Before me of the sun, that now was low. And of few stairs we yet had made assay, Ere by the vanished shadow the sun's setting Behind us we perceived, I and my Sages. Each of us of a stair had made his bed; Because the nature of the mount took from us The power of climbing, more than the delight. Even as in ruminating passive grow The goats, who have been swift and venturesome Upon the mountain-tops ere they were fed, Hushed in the shadow, while the sun is hot, Watched by the herdsman, who upon his staff Is leaning, and in leaning tendeth them; And as the shepherd, lodging out of doors, Passes the night beside his quiet flock, Watching that no wild beast may scatter it, Little could there be seen of things without; But through that little I beheld the stars More luminous and larger than their wont. Youthful and beautiful in dreams methought I saw a lady walking in a meadow, Gathering flowers; and singing she was saying: "Know whosoever may my name demand That I am Leah, and go moving round My beauteous hands to make myself a garland. To please me at the mirror, here I deck me, But never does my sister Rachel leave Her looking-glass, and sitteth all day long. To see her beauteous eyes as eager is she, As I am to adorn me with my hands; Her, seeing, and me, doing satisfies." And now before the antelucan splendours That unto pilgrims the more grateful rise, As, home-returning, less remote they lodge, The darkness fled away on every side, And slumber with it; whereupon I rose, Seeing already the great Masters risen. "That apple sweet, which through so many branches The care of mortals goeth in pursuit of, To-day shall put in peace thy hungerings." Speaking to me, Virgilius of such words As these made use; and never were there guerdons That could in pleasantness compare with these. Such longing upon longing came upon me To be above, that at each step thereafter For flight I felt in me the pinions growing. When underneath us was the stairway all Run o'er, and we were on the highest step, Virgilius fastened upon me his eyes, And said: "The temporal fire and the eternal, Son, thou hast seen, and to a place art come Where of myself no farther I discern. By intellect and art I here have brought thee; Take thine own pleasure for thy guide henceforth; Beyond the steep ways and the narrow art thou. Behold the sun, that shines upon thy forehead; Behold the grass, the flowerets, and the shrubs Which of itself alone this land produces. Until rejoicing come the beauteous eyes Which weeping caused me to come unto thee, Thou canst sit down, and thou canst walk among them. Expect no more or word or sign from me; Free and upright and sound is thy free-will, And error were it not to do its bidding; Thee o'er thyself I therefore crown and mitre!" Purgatorio: Canto XXVIII Eager already to search in and round The heavenly forest, dense and living-green, Which tempered to the eyes the new-born day, Withouten more delay I left the bank, Taking the level country slowly, slowly Over the soil that everywhere breathes fragrance. A softly-breathing air, that no mutation Had in itself, upon the forehead smote me No heavier blow than of a gentle wind, Yet not from their upright direction swayed, So that the little birds upon their tops Should leave the practice of each art of theirs; But with full ravishment the hours of prime, Singing, received they in the midst of leaves, That ever bore a burden to their rhymes, Such as from branch to branch goes gathering on Through the pine forest on the shore of Chiassi, When Eolus unlooses the Sirocco. Already my slow steps had carried me Into the ancient wood so far, that I Could not perceive where I had entered it. And lo! my further course a stream cut off, Which tow'rd the left hand with its little waves Bent down the grass that on its margin sprang. All waters that on earth most limpid are Would seem to have within themselves some mixture Compared with that which nothing doth conceal, Although it moves on with a brown, brown current Under the shade perpetual, that never Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon. With feet I stayed, and with mine eyes I passed Beyond the rivulet, to look upon The great variety of the fresh may. And there appeared to me (even as appears Suddenly something that doth turn aside Through very wonder every other thought) A lady all alone, who went along Singing and culling floweret after floweret, With which her pathway was all painted over. "Ah, beauteous lady, who in rays of love Dost warm thyself, if I may trust to looks, Which the heart's witnesses are wont to be, May the desire come unto thee to draw Near to this river's bank," I said to her, "So much that I might hear what thou art singing. Thou makest me remember where and what Proserpina that moment was when lost Her mother her, and she herself the Spring." On the vermilion and the yellow flowerets She turned towards me, not in other wise Than maiden who her modest eyes casts down; And my entreaties made to be content, So near approaching, that the dulcet sound Came unto me together with its meaning As soon as she was where the grasses are. Bathed by the waters of the beauteous river, To lift her eyes she granted me the boon. I do not think there shone so great a light Under the lids of Venus, when transfixed By her own son, beyond his usual custom! Erect upon the other bank she smiled, Bearing full many colours in her hands, Which that high land produces without seed. More hatred from Leander did not suffer For rolling between Sestos and Abydos, Than that from me, because it oped not then. "Ye are new-comers; and because I smile," Began she, "peradventure, in this place Elect to human nature for its nest, Some apprehension keeps you marvelling; But the psalm 'Delectasti' giveth light Which has the power to uncloud your intellect. And thou who foremost art, and didst entreat me, Speak, if thou wouldst hear more; for I came ready To all thy questionings, as far as needful." "The water," said I, "and the forest's sound, Are combating within me my new faith In something which I heard opposed to this." Whence she: "I will relate how from its cause Proceedeth that which maketh thee to wonder, And purge away the cloud that smites upon thee. The Good Supreme, sole in itself delighting, Created man good, and this goodly place Gave him as hansel of eternal peace. By his default short while he sojourned here; By his default to weeping and to toil He changed his innocent laughter and sweet play. That the disturbance which below is made By exhalations of the land and water, (Which far as may be follow after heat,) Might not upon mankind wage any war, This mount ascended tow'rds the heaven so high, And is exempt, from there where it is locked. Now since the universal atmosphere Turns in a circuit with the primal motion Unless the circle is broken on some side, Upon this height, that all is disengaged In living ether, doth this motion strike And make the forest sound, for it is dense; And so much power the stricken plant possesses That with its virtue it impregns the air, And this, revolving, scatters it around; And yonder earth, according as 'tis worthy In self or in its clime, conceives and bears Of divers qualities the divers trees; It should not seem a marvel then on earth, This being heard, whenever any plant Without seed manifest there taketh root. And thou must know, this holy table-land In which thou art is full of every seed, And fruit has in it never gathered there. The water which thou seest springs not from vein Restored by vapour that the cold condenses, Like to a stream that gains or loses breath; Upon this side with virtue it descends, Which takes away all memory of sin; On that, of every good deed done restores it. This every other savour doth transcend; And notwithstanding slaked so far may be Thy thirst, that I reveal to thee no more, I'll give thee a corollary still in grace, Nor think my speech will be to thee less dear If it spread out beyond my promise to thee. Then backward did I turn me wholly round Unto my Poets, and saw that with a smile They had been listening to these closing words; Then to the beautiful lady turned mine eyes. Purgatorio: Canto XXIX Singing like unto an enamoured lady She, with the ending of her words, continued: "Beati quorum tecta sunt peccata." She then against the stream moved onward, going Along the bank, and I abreast of her, Her little steps with little steps attending. Nor even thus our way continued far Before the lady wholly turned herself Unto me, saying, "Brother, look and listen!" And lo! a sudden lustre ran across On every side athwart the spacious forest, Such that it made me doubt if it were lightning. But since the lightning ceases as it comes, And that continuing brightened more and more, Within my thought I said, "What thing is this?" And a delicious melody there ran Along the luminous air, whence holy zeal Made me rebuke the hardihood of Eve; For there where earth and heaven obedient were, The woman only, and but just created, Could not endure to stay 'neath any veil; Underneath which had she devoutly stayed, I sooner should have tasted those delights Ineffable, and for a longer time. In front of us like an enkindled fire Became the air beneath the verdant boughs, And the sweet sound as singing now was heard. O Virgins sacrosanct! if ever hunger, Vigils, or cold for you I have endured, The occasion spurs me their reward to claim! Now Helicon must needs pour forth for me, And with her choir Urania must assist me, To put in verse things difficult to think. But when I had approached so near to them The common object, which the sense deceives, Lost not by distance any of its marks, The faculty that lends discourse to reason Did apprehend that they were candlesticks, And in the voices of the song "Hosanna!" Above them flamed the harness beautiful, Far brighter than the moon in the serene Of midnight, at the middle of her month. I turned me round, with admiration filled, To good Virgilius, and he answered me With visage no less full of wonderment. Then back I turned my face to those high things, Which moved themselves towards us so sedately, They had been distanced by new-wedded brides. The lady chid me: "Why dost thou burn only So with affection for the living lights, And dost not look at what comes after them?" Then saw I people, as behind their leaders, Coming behind them, garmented in white, And such a whiteness never was on earth. The water on my left flank was resplendent, And back to me reflected my left side, E'en as a mirror, if I looked therein. When I upon my margin had such post That nothing but the stream divided us, Better to see I gave my steps repose; And I beheld the flamelets onward go, Leaving behind themselves the air depicted, And they of trailing pennons had the semblance, So that it overhead remained distinct With sevenfold lists, all of them of the colours Whence the sun's bow is made, and Delia's girdle. They all of them were singing: "Blessed thou Among the daughters of Adam art, and blessed For evermore shall be thy loveliness." After the flowers and other tender grasses In front of me upon the other margin Were disencumbered of that race elect, Reader! to trace their forms no more I waste My rhymes; for other spendings press me so, That I in this cannot be prodigal. But read Ezekiel, who depicteth them As he beheld them from the region cold Coming with cloud, with whirlwind, and with fire; And such as thou shalt find them in his pages, Such were they here; saving that in their plumage John is with me, and differeth from him. So high they rose that they were lost to sight; His limbs were gold, so far as he was bird, And white the others with vermilion mingled. And now they seemed conducted by the white, Now by the red, and from the song of her The others took their step, or slow or swift. Contrary care the other manifested, With sword so shining and so sharp, it caused Terror to me on this side of the river. But of the rose, and other flowers vermilion; At little distance would the sight have sworn That all were in a flame above their brows. And when the car was opposite to me Thunder was heard; and all that folk august Seemed to have further progress interdicted, There with the vanward ensigns standing still. Purgatorio: Canto XXX When the Septentrion of the highest heaven (Which never either setting knew or rising, Nor veil of other cloud than that of sin, They all were saying, "Benedictus qui venis," And, scattering flowers above and round about, "Manibus o date lilia plenis." Ere now have I beheld, as day began, The eastern hemisphere all tinged with rose, And the other heaven with fair serene adorned; And the sun's face, uprising, overshadowed So that by tempering influence of vapours For a long interval the eye sustained it; Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers Which from those hands angelical ascended, And downward fell again inside and out, Over her snow-white veil with olive cinct Appeared a lady under a green mantle, Vested in colour of the living flame. And my own spirit, that already now So long a time had been, that in her presence Trembling with awe it had not stood abashed, Without more knowledge having by mine eyes, Through occult virtue that from her proceeded Of ancient love the mighty influence felt. As soon as on my vision smote the power Sublime, that had already pierced me through Ere from my boyhood I had yet come forth, To the left hand I turned with that reliance With which the little child runs to his mother, When he has fear, or when he is afflicted, To say unto Virgilius: "Not a drachm Of blood remains in me, that does not tremble; I know the traces of the ancient flame." But us Virgilius of himself deprived Had left, Virgilius, sweetest of all fathers, Virgilius, to whom I for safety gave me: Nor whatsoever lost the ancient mother Availed my cheeks now purified from dew, That weeping they should not again be darkened. "Dante, because Virgilius has departed Do not weep yet, do not weep yet awhile; For by another sword thou need'st must weep." E'en as an admiral, who on poop and prow Comes to behold the people that are working In other ships, and cheers them to well-doing, Upon the left hand border of the car, When at the sound I turned of my own name, Which of necessity is here recorded, I saw the Lady, who erewhile appeared Veiled underneath the angelic festival, Direct her eyes to me across the river. Although the veil, that from her head descended, Encircled with the foliage of Minerva, Did not permit her to appear distinctly, "Look at me well; in sooth I'm Beatrice! How didst thou deign to come unto the Mountain? Didst thou not know that man is happy here?" Mine eyes fell downward into the clear fountain, But, seeing myself therein, I sought the grass, So great a shame did weigh my forehead down. As to the son the mother seems superb, So she appeared to me; for somewhat bitter Tasteth the savour of severe compassion. Silent became she, and the Angels sang Suddenly, "In te, Domine, speravi:" But beyond 'pedes meos' did not pass. Even as the snow among the living rafters Upon the back of Italy congeals, Blown on and drifted by Sclavonian winds, And then, dissolving, trickles through itself Whene'er the land that loses shadow breathes, So that it seems a fire that melts a taper; E'en thus was I without a tear or sigh, Before the song of those who sing for ever After the music of the eternal spheres. But when I heard in their sweet melodies Compassion for me, more than had they said, "O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus upbraid him?" The ice, that was about my heart congealed, To air and water changed, and in my anguish Through mouth and eyes came gushing from my breast. She, on the right-hand border of the car Still firmly standing, to those holy beings Thus her discourse directed afterwards: Not only by the work of those great wheels, That destine every seed unto some end, According as the stars are in conjunction, But by the largess of celestial graces, Which have such lofty vapours for their rain That near to them our sight approaches not, But so much more malignant and more savage Becomes the land untilled and with bad seed, The more good earthly vigour it possesses. Some time did I sustain him with my look; Revealing unto him my youthful eyes, I led him with me turned in the right way. When from the flesh to spirit I ascended, And beauty and virtue were in me increased, I was to him less dear and less delightful; And into ways untrue he turned his steps, Pursuing the false images of good, That never any promises fulfil; Nor prayer for inspiration me availed, By means of which in dreams and otherwise I called him back, so little did he heed them. So low he fell, that all appliances For his salvation were already short, Save showing him the people of perdition. For this I visited the gates of death, And unto him, who so far up has led him, My intercessions were with weeping borne. God's lofty fiat would be violated, If Lethe should be passed, and if such viands Should tasted be, withouten any scot Of penitence, that gushes forth in tears." Purgatorio: Canto XXXI "O thou who art beyond the sacred river," Turning to me the point of her discourse, That edgewise even had seemed to me so keen, She recommenced, continuing without pause, "Say, say if this be true; to such a charge, Thy own confession needs must be conjoined." My faculties were in so great confusion, That the voice moved, but sooner was extinct Than by its organs it was set at large. Awhile she waited; then she said: "What thinkest? Answer me; for the mournful memories In thee not yet are by the waters injured." Confusion and dismay together mingled Forced such a Yes! from out my mouth, that sight Was needful to the understanding of it. Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 'tis discharged Too tensely drawn the bowstring and the bow, And with less force the arrow hits the mark, So I gave way beneath that heavy burden, Outpouring in a torrent tears and sighs, And the voice flagged upon its passage forth. Whence she to me: "In those desires of mine Which led thee to the loving of that good, Beyond which there is nothing to aspire to, What trenches lying traverse or what chains Didst thou discover, that of passing onward Thou shouldst have thus despoiled thee of the hope? And what allurements or what vantages Upon the forehead of the others showed, That thou shouldst turn thy footsteps unto them?" After the heaving of a bitter sigh, Hardly had I the voice to make response, And with fatigue my lips did fashion it. Weeping I said: "The things that present were With their false pleasure turned aside my steps, Soon as your countenance concealed itself." And she: "Shouldst thou be silent, or deny What thou confessest, not less manifest Would be thy fault, by such a Judge 'tis known. But still, that thou mayst feel a greater shame For thy transgression, and another time Hearing the Sirens thou mayst be more strong, Cast down the seed of weeping and attend; So shalt thou hear, how in an opposite way My buried flesh should have directed thee. Never to thee presented art or nature Pleasure so great as the fair limbs wherein I was enclosed, which scattered are in earth. And if the highest pleasure thus did fail thee By reason of my death, what mortal thing Should then have drawn thee into its desire? Thou oughtest not to have stooped thy pinions downward To wait for further blows, or little girl, Or other vanity of such brief use. Even as children silent in their shame Stand listening with their eyes upon the ground, And conscious of their fault, and penitent; So was I standing; and she said: "If thou In hearing sufferest pain, lift up thy beard And thou shalt feel a greater pain in seeing." With less resistance is a robust holm Uprooted, either by a native wind Or else by that from regions of Iarbas, Than I upraised at her command my chin; And when she by the beard the face demanded, Well I perceived the venom of her meaning. And as my countenance was lifted up, Mine eye perceived those creatures beautiful Had rested from the strewing of the flowers; Beneath her veil, beyond the margent green, She seemed to me far more her ancient self To excel, than others here, when she was here. Such self-conviction stung me at the heart O'erpowered I fell, and what I then became She knoweth who had furnished me the cause. Then, when the heart restored my outward sense, The lady I had found alone, above me I saw, and she was saying, "Hold me, hold me." Up to my throat she in the stream had drawn me, And, dragging me behind her, she was moving Upon the water lightly as a shuttle. When I was near unto the blessed shore, "Asperges me," I heard so sweetly sung, Remember it I cannot, much less write it. The beautiful lady opened wide her arms, Embraced my head, and plunged me underneath, Where I was forced to swallow of the water. 'We here are Nymphs, and in the Heaven are stars; Ere Beatrice descended to the world, We as her handmaids were appointed her. Thus singing they began; and afterwards Unto the Griffin's breast they led me with them, Where Beatrice was standing, turned towards us. "See that thou dost not spare thine eyes," they said; "Before the emeralds have we stationed thee, Whence Love aforetime drew for thee his weapons." Think, Reader, if within myself I marvelled, When I beheld the thing itself stand still, And in its image it transformed itself. While with amazement filled and jubilant, My soul was tasting of the food, that while It satisfies us makes us hunger for it, O splendour of the living light eternal! Who underneath the shadow of Parnassus Has grown so pale, or drunk so at its cistern, He would not seem to have his mind encumbered Striving to paint thee as thou didst appear, Where the harmonious heaven o'ershadowed thee, When in the open air thou didst unveil? Purgatorio: Canto XXXII So steadfast and attentive were mine eyes In satisfying their decennial thirst, That all my other senses were extinct, And upon this side and on that they had Walls of indifference, so the holy smile Drew them unto itself with the old net When forcibly my sight was turned away Towards my left hand by those goddesses, Because I heard from them a "Too intently!" And that condition of the sight which is In eyes but lately smitten by the sun Bereft me of my vision some short while; But to the less when sight re-shaped itself, I say the less in reference to the greater Splendour from which perforce I had withdrawn, I saw upon its right wing wheeled about The glorious host returning with the sun And with the sevenfold flames upon their faces. As underneath its shields, to save itself, A squadron turns, and with its banner wheels, Before the whole thereof can change its front, That soldiery of the celestial kingdom Which marched in the advance had wholly passed us Before the chariot had turned its pole. Then to the wheels the maidens turned themselves, And the Griffin moved his burden benedight, But so that not a feather of him fluttered. The lady fair who drew me through the ford Followed with Statius and myself the wheel Which made its orbit with the lesser arc. So passing through the lofty forest, vacant By fault of her who in the serpent trusted, Angelic music made our steps keep time. I heard them murmur altogether, "Adam!" Then circled they about a tree despoiled Of blooms and other leafage on each bough. Its tresses, which so much the more dilate As higher they ascend, had been by Indians Among their forests marvelled at for height. "Blessed art thou, O Griffin, who dost not Pluck with thy beak these branches sweet to taste, Since appetite by this was turned to evil." After this fashion round the tree robust The others shouted; and the twofold creature: "Thus is preserved the seed of all the just." And turning to the pole which he had dragged, He drew it close beneath the widowed bough, And what was of it unto it left bound. In the same manner as our trees (when downward Falls the great light, with that together mingled Which after the celestial Lasca shines) Less than of rose and more than violet A hue disclosing, was renewed the tree That had erewhile its boughs so desolate. I never heard, nor here below is sung, The hymn which afterward that people sang, Nor did I bear the melody throughout. Had I the power to paint how fell asleep Those eyes compassionless, of Syrinx hearing, Those eyes to which more watching cost so dear, Even as a painter who from model paints I would portray how I was lulled asleep; He may, who well can picture drowsihood. Therefore I pass to what time I awoke, And say a splendour rent from me the veil Of slumber, and a calling: "Rise, what dost thou?" As to behold the apple-tree in blossom Which makes the Angels greedy for its fruit, And keeps perpetual bridals in the Heaven, Peter and John and James conducted were, And, overcome, recovered at the word By which still greater slumbers have been broken, And saw their school diminished by the loss Not only of Elias, but of Moses, And the apparel of their Master changed; And all in doubt I said, "Where's Beatrice?" And she: "Behold her seated underneath The leafage new, upon the root of it. Behold the company that circles her; The rest behind the Griffin are ascending With more melodious song, and more profound." And if her speech were more diffuse I know not, Because already in my sight was she Who from the hearing of aught else had shut me. Alone she sat upon the very earth, Left there as guardian of the chariot Which I had seen the biform monster fasten. "Short while shalt thou be here a forester, And thou shalt be with me for evermore A citizen of that Rome where Christ is Roman. Therefore, for that world's good which liveth ill, Fix on the car thine eyes, and what thou seest, Having returned to earth, take heed thou write." Thus Beatrice; and I, who at the feet Of her commandments all devoted was, My mind and eyes directed where she willed. Never descended with so swift a motion Fire from a heavy cloud, when it is raining From out the region which is most remote, As I beheld the bird of Jove descend Down through the tree, rending away the bark, As well as blossoms and the foliage new, And he with all his might the chariot smote, Whereat it reeled, like vessel in a tempest Tossed by the waves, now starboard and now larboard. Thereafter saw I leap into the body Of the triumphal vehicle a Fox, That seemed unfed with any wholesome food. But for his hideous sins upbraiding him, My Lady put him to as swift a flight As such a fleshless skeleton could bear. Then by the way that it before had come, Into the chariot's chest I saw the Eagle Descend, and leave it feathered with his plumes. And such as issues from a heart that mourns, A voice from Heaven there issued, and it said: "My little bark, how badly art thou freighted!" Methought, then, that the earth did yawn between Both wheels, and I saw rise from it a Dragon, Who through the chariot upward fixed his tail, And as a wasp that draweth back its sting, Drawing unto himself his tail malign, Drew out the floor, and went his way rejoicing. That which remained behind, even as with grass A fertile region, with the feathers, offered Perhaps with pure intention and benign, Reclothed itself, and with them were reclothed The pole and both the wheels so speedily, A sigh doth longer keep the lips apart. Firm as a rock upon a mountain high, Seated upon it, there appeared to me A shameless whore, with eyes swift glancing round, And, as if not to have her taken from him, Upright beside her I beheld a giant; And ever and anon they kissed each other. But because she her wanton, roving eye Turned upon me, her angry paramour Did scourge her from her head unto her feet. Then full of jealousy, and fierce with wrath, He loosed the monster, and across the forest Dragged it so far, he made of that alone A shield unto the whore and the strange beast. Purgatorio: Canto XXXIII And Beatrice, compassionate and sighing, Listened to them with such a countenance, That scarce more changed was Mary at the cross. But when the other virgins place had given For her to speak, uprisen to her feet With colour as of fire, she made response: "'Modicum, et non videbitis me; Et iterum,' my sisters predilect, 'Modicum, et vos videbitis me.'" And with a tranquil aspect, "Come more quickly," To me she said, "that, if I speak with thee, To listen to me thou mayst be well placed." As soon as I was with her as I should be, She said to me: "Why, brother, dost thou not Venture to question now, in coming with me?" As unto those who are too reverential, Speaking in presence of superiors, Who drag no living utterance to their teeth, It me befell, that without perfect sound Began I: "My necessity, Madonna, You know, and that which thereunto is good." Know that the vessel which the serpent broke Was, and is not; but let him who is guilty Think that God's vengeance does not fear a sop. Without an heir shall not for ever be The Eagle that left his plumes upon the car, Whence it became a monster, then a prey; For verily I see, and hence narrate it, The stars already near to bring the time, From every hindrance safe, and every bar, But soon the facts shall be the Naiades Who shall this difficult enigma solve, Without destruction of the flocks and harvests. Note thou; and even as by me are uttered These words, so teach them unto those who live That life which is a running unto death; Whoever pillages or shatters it, With blasphemy of deed offendeth God, Who made it holy for his use alone. Thy genius slumbers, if it deem it not For special reason so pre-eminent In height, and so inverted in its summit. And if thy vain imaginings had not been Water of Elsa round about thy mind, And Pyramus to the mulberry, their pleasure, Thou by so many circumstances only The justice of the interdict of God Morally in the tree wouldst recognize. But since I see thee in thine intellect Converted into stone and stained with sin, So that the light of my discourse doth daze thee, I will too, if not written, at least painted, Thou bear it back within thee, for the reason That cinct with palm the pilgrim's staff is borne." And I: "As by a signet is the wax Which does not change the figure stamped upon it, My brain is now imprinted by yourself. But wherefore so beyond my power of sight Soars your desirable discourse, that aye The more I strive, so much the more I lose it?" "That thou mayst recognize," she said, "the school Which thou hast followed, and mayst see how far Its doctrine follows after my discourse, And mayst behold your path from the divine Distant as far as separated is From earth the heaven that highest hastens on." Whence her I answered: "I do not remember That ever I estranged myself from you, Nor have I conscience of it that reproves me." "And if thou art not able to remember," Smiling she answered, "recollect thee now That thou this very day hast drunk of Lethe; And if from smoke a fire may be inferred, Such an oblivion clearly demonstrates Some error in thy will elsewhere intent. Truly from this time forward shall my words Be naked, so far as it is befitting To lay them open unto thy rude gaze." And more coruscant and with slower steps The sun was holding the meridian circle, Which, with the point of view, shifts here and there When halted (as he cometh to a halt, Who goes before a squadron as its escort, If something new he find upon his way) The beautiful lady: "This and other things Were told to him by me; and sure I am The water of Lethe has not hid them from him." And Beatrice: "Perhaps a greater care, Which oftentimes our memory takes away, Has made the vision of his mind obscure. Like gentle soul, that maketh no excuse, But makes its own will of another's will As soon as by a sign it is disclosed, Even so, when she had taken hold of me, The beautiful lady moved, and unto Statius Said, in her womanly manner, "Come with him." If, Reader, I possessed a longer space For writing it, I yet would sing in part Of the sweet draught that ne'er would satiate me; From the most holy water I returned Regenerate, in the manner of new trees That are renewed with a new foliage, Pure and disposed to mount unto the stars. The Divine Comedy translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (e-text courtesy ILT's Digital Dante Project) Within that heaven which most his light receives Was I, and things beheld which to repeat Nor knows, nor can, who from above descends; Because in drawing near to its desire Our intellect ingulphs itself so far, That after it the memory cannot go. Truly whatever of the holy realm I had the power to treasure in my mind Shall now become the subject of my song. O good Apollo, for this last emprise Make of me such a vessel of thy power As giving the beloved laurel asks! Enter into my bosom, thou, and breathe As at the time when Marsyas thou didst draw Out of the scabbard of those limbs of his. O power divine, lend'st thou thyself to me So that the shadow of the blessed realm Stamped in my brain I can make manifest, Thou'lt see me come unto thy darling tree, And crown myself thereafter with those leaves Of which the theme and thou shall make me worthy. So seldom, Father, do we gather them For triumph or of Caesar or of Poet, (The fault and shame of human inclinations,) A little spark is followed by great flame; Perchance with better voices after me Shall prayer be made that Cyrrha may respond! With better course and with a better star Conjoined it issues, and the mundane wax Tempers and stamps more after its own fashion. Almost that passage had made morning there And evening here, and there was wholly white That hemisphere, and black the other part, When Beatrice towards the left-hand side I saw turned round, and gazing at the sun; Never did eagle fasten so upon it! Thus of her action, through the eyes infused In my imagination, mine I made, And sunward fixed mine eyes beyond our wont. There much is lawful which is here unlawful Unto our powers, by virtue of the place Made for the human species as its own. Not long I bore it, nor so little while But I beheld it sparkle round about Like iron that comes molten from the fire; And suddenly it seemed that day to day Was added, as if He who has the power Had with another sun the heaven adorned. With eyes upon the everlasting wheels Stood Beatrice all intent, and I, on her Fixing my vision from above removed, Such at her aspect inwardly became As Glaucus, tasting of the herb that made him Peer of the other gods beneath the sea. To represent transhumanise in words Impossible were; the example, then, suffice Him for whom Grace the experience reserves. If I was merely what of me thou newly Createdst, Love who governest the heaven, Thou knowest, who didst lift me with thy light! When now the wheel, which thou dost make eternal Desiring thee, made me attentive to it By harmony thou dost modulate and measure, Then seemed to me so much of heaven enkindled By the sun's flame, that neither rain nor river E'er made a lake so widely spread abroad. The newness of the sound and the great light Kindled in me a longing for their cause, Never before with such acuteness felt; Whence she, who saw me as I saw myself, To quiet in me my perturbed mind, Opened her mouth, ere I did mine to ask, And she began: "Thou makest thyself so dull With false imagining, that thou seest not What thou wouldst see if thou hadst shaken it off. Thou art not upon earth, as thou believest; But lightning, fleeing its appropriate site, Ne'er ran as thou, who thitherward returnest." And said: "Already did I rest content From great amazement; but am now amazed In what way I transcend these bodies light." Whereupon she, after a pitying sigh, Her eyes directed tow'rds me with that look A mother casts on a delirious child; And she began: "All things whate'er they be Have order among themselves, and this is form, That makes the universe resemble God. Here do the higher creatures see the footprints Of the Eternal Power, which is the end Whereto is made the law already mentioned. In the order that I speak of are inclined All natures, by their destinies diverse, More or less near unto their origin; This bears away the fire towards the moon; This is in mortal hearts the motive power This binds together and unites the earth. Nor only the created things that are Without intelligence this bow shoots forth, But those that have both intellect and love. The Providence that regulates all this Makes with its light the heaven forever quiet, Wherein that turns which has the greatest haste. And thither now, as to a site decreed, Bears us away the virtue of that cord Which aims its arrows at a joyous mark. True is it, that as oftentimes the form Accords not with the intention of the art, Because in answering is matter deaf, So likewise from this course doth deviate Sometimes the creature, who the power possesses, Though thus impelled, to swerve some other way, Thou shouldst not wonder more, if well I judge, At thine ascent, than at a rivulet From some high mount descending to the lowland. Marvel it would be in thee, if deprived Of hindrance, thou wert seated down below, As if on earth the living fire were quiet." Thereat she heavenward turned again her face. O Ye, who in some pretty little boat, Eager to listen, have been following Behind my ship, that singing sails along, Turn back to look again upon your shores; Do not put out to sea, lest peradventure, In losing me, you might yourselves be lost. Well may you launch upon the deep salt-sea Your vessel, keeping still my wake before you Upon the water that grows smooth again. Those glorious ones who unto Colchos passed Were not so wonder-struck as you shall be, When Jason they beheld a ploughman made! The con-created and perpetual thirst For the realm deiform did bear us on, As swift almost as ye the heavens behold. Upward gazed Beatrice, and I at her; And in such space perchance as strikes a bolt And flies, and from the notch unlocks itself, Arrived I saw me where a wondrous thing Drew to itself my sight; and therefore she From whom no care of mine could be concealed, It seemed to me a cloud encompassed us, Luminous, dense, consolidate and bright As adamant on which the sun is striking. Into itself did the eternal pearl Receive us, even as water doth receive A ray of light, remaining still unbroken. More the desire should be enkindled in us That essence to behold, wherein is seen How God and our own nature were united. I made reply: "Madonna, as devoutly As most I can do I give thanks to Him Who has removed me from the mortal world. But tell me what the dusky spots may be Upon this body, which below on earth Make people tell that fabulous tale of Cain?" Somewhat she smiled; and then, "If the opinion Of mortals be erroneous," she said, "Where'er the key of sense doth not unlock, Certes, the shafts of wonder should not pierce thee Now, forasmuch as, following the senses, Thou seest that the reason has short wings. But tell me what thou think'st of it thyself." And I: "What seems to us up here diverse, Is caused, I think, by bodies rare and dense." And she: "Right truly shalt thou see immersed In error thy belief, if well thou hearest The argument that I shall make against it. Besides, if rarity were of this dimness The cause thou askest, either through and through This planet thus attenuate were of matter, Or else, as in a body is apportioned The fat and lean, so in like manner this Would in its volume interchange the leaves. Were it the former, in the sun's eclipse It would be manifest by the shining through Of light, as through aught tenuous interfused. This is not so; hence we must scan the other, And if it chance the other I demolish, Then falsified will thy opinion be. But if this rarity go not through and through, There needs must be a limit, beyond which Its contrary prevents the further passing, And thence the foreign radiance is reflected, Even as a colour cometh back from glass, The which behind itself concealeth lead. Now thou wilt say the sunbeam shows itself More dimly there than in the other parts, By being there reflected farther back. From this reply experiment will free thee If e'er thou try it, which is wont to be The fountain to the rivers of your arts. Though in its quantity be not so ample The image most remote, there shalt thou see How it perforce is equally resplendent. Now, as beneath the touches of warm rays Naked the subject of the snow remains Both of its former colour and its cold, Thee thus remaining in thy intellect, Will I inform with such a living light, That it shall tremble in its aspect to thee. Within the heaven of the divine repose Revolves a body, in whose virtue lies The being of whatever it contains. The following heaven, that has so many eyes, Divides this being by essences diverse, Distinguished from it, and by it contained. The other spheres, by various differences, All the distinctions which they have within them Dispose unto their ends and their effects. Thus do these organs of the world proceed, As thou perceivest now, from grade to grade; Since from above they take, and act beneath. Observe me well, how through this place I come Unto the truth thou wishest, that hereafter Thou mayst alone know how to keep the ford The power and motion of the holy spheres, As from the artisan the hammer's craft, Forth from the blessed motors must proceed. The heaven, which lights so manifold make fair, From the Intelligence profound, which turns it, The image takes, and makes of it a seal. And even as the soul within your dust Through members different and accommodated To faculties diverse expands itself, So likewise this Intelligence diffuses Its virtue multiplied among the stars. Itself revolving on its unity. Virtue diverse doth a diverse alloyage Make with the precious body that it quickens, In which, as life in you, it is combined. From the glad nature whence it is derived, The mingled virtue through the body shines, Even as gladness through the living pupil. From this proceeds whate'er from light to light Appeareth different, not from dense and rare: This is the formal principle that produces, According to its goodness, dark and bright." That Sun, which erst with love my bosom warmed, Of beauteous truth had unto me discovered, By proving and reproving, the sweet aspect. And, that I might confess myself convinced And confident, so far as was befitting, I lifted more erect my head to speak. But there appeared a vision, which withdrew me So close to it, in order to be seen, That my confession I remembered not. Such as through polished and transparent glass, Or waters crystalline and undisturbed, But not so deep as that their bed be lost, Come back again the outlines of our faces So feeble, that a pearl on forehead white Comes not less speedily unto our eyes; Such saw I many faces prompt to speak, So that I ran in error opposite To that which kindled love 'twixt man and fountain. As soon as I became aware of them, Esteeming them as mirrored semblances, To see of whom they were, mine eyes I turned, "Marvel thou not," she said to me, "because I smile at this thy puerile conceit, Since on the truth it trusts not yet its foot, But turns thee, as 'tis wont, on emptiness. True substances are these which thou beholdest, Here relegate for breaking of some vow. Therefore speak with them, listen and believe; For the true light, which giveth peace to them, Permits them not to turn from it their feet." "O well-created spirit, who in the rays Of life eternal dost the sweetness taste Which being untasted ne'er is comprehended, Grateful 'twill be to me, if thou content me Both with thy name and with your destiny." Whereat she promptly and with laughing eyes: I was a virgin sister in the world; And if thy mind doth contemplate me well, The being more fair will not conceal me from thee, But thou shalt recognise I am Piccarda, Who, stationed here among these other blessed, Myself am blessed in the slowest sphere. All our affections, that alone inflamed Are in the pleasure of the Holy Ghost, Rejoice at being of his order formed; And this allotment, which appears so low, Therefore is given us, because our vows Have been neglected and in some part void." Therefore I was not swift in my remembrance; But what thou tellest me now aids me so, That the refiguring is easier to me. But tell me, ye who in this place are happy, Are you desirous of a higher place, To see more or to make yourselves more friends?" "Brother, our will is quieted by virtue Of charity, that makes us wish alone For what we have, nor gives us thirst for more. If to be more exalted we aspired, Discordant would our aspirations be Unto the will of Him who here secludes us; Which thou shalt see finds no place in these circles, If being in charity is needful here, And if thou lookest well into its nature; So that, as we are station above station Throughout this realm, to all the realm 'tis pleasing, As to the King, who makes his will our will. And his will is our peace; this is the sea To which is moving onward whatsoever It doth create, and all that nature makes." E'en thus did I; with gesture and with word, To learn from her what was the web wherein She did not ply the shuttle to the end. "A perfect life and merit high in-heaven A lady o'er us," said she, "by whose rule Down in your world they vest and veil themselves, That until death they may both watch and sleep Beside that Spouse who every vow accepts Which charity conformeth to his pleasure. To follow her, in girlhood from the world I fled, and in her habit shut myself, And pledged me to the pathway of her sect. Then men accustomed unto evil more Than unto good, from the sweet cloister tore me; God knows what afterward my life became. This other splendour, which to thee reveals Itself on my right side, and is enkindled With all the illumination of our sphere, What of myself I say applies to her; A nun was she, and likewise from her head Was ta'en the shadow of the sacred wimple. But when she too was to the world returned Against her wishes and against good usage, Of the heart's veil she never was divested. Thus unto me she spake, and then began "Ave Maria" singing, and in singing Vanished, as through deep water something heavy. My sight, that followed her as long a time As it was possible, when it had lost her Turned round unto the mark of more desire, And this in questioning more backward made me. Hence, if I held my peace, myself I blame not, Impelled in equal measure by my doubts, Since it must be so, nor do I commend. I held my peace; but my desire was painted Upon my face, and questioning with that More fervent far than by articulate speech. Beatrice did as Daniel had done Relieving Nebuchadnezzar from the wrath Which rendered him unjustly merciless, Thou arguest, if good will be permanent, The violence of others, for what reason Doth it decrease the measure of my merit? Again for doubting furnish thee occasion Souls seeming to return unto the stars, According to the sentiment of Plato. He of the Seraphim most absorbed in God, Moses, and Samuel, and whichever John Thou mayst select, I say, and even Mary, Have not in any other heaven their seats, Than have those spirits that just appeared to thee, Nor of existence more or fewer years; But all make beautiful the primal circle, And have sweet life in different degrees, By feeling more or less the eternal breath. They showed themselves here, not because allotted This sphere has been to them, but to give sign Of the celestial which is least exalted. To speak thus is adapted to your mind, Since only through the sense it apprehendeth What then it worthy makes of intellect. On this account the Scripture condescends Unto your faculties, and feet and hands To God attributes, and means something else; And Holy Church under an aspect human Gabriel and Michael represent to you, And him who made Tobias whole again. That which Timaeus argues of the soul Doth not resemble that which here is seen, Because it seems that as he speaks he thinks. He says the soul unto its star returns, Believing it to have been severed thence Whenever nature gave it as a form. Perhaps his doctrine is of other guise Than the words sound, and possibly may be With meaning that is not to be derided. The other doubt which doth disquiet thee Less venom has, for its malevolence Could never lead thee otherwhere from me. That as unjust our justice should appear In eyes of mortals, is an argument Of faith, and not of sin heretical. But still, that your perception may be able To thoroughly penetrate this verity, As thou desirest, I will satisfy thee. If it be violence when he who suffers Co-operates not with him who uses force, These souls were not on that account excused; Hence, if it yieldeth more or less, it seconds The force; and these have done so, having power Of turning back unto the holy place. If their will had been perfect, like to that Which Lawrence fast upon his gridiron held, And Mutius made severe to his own hand, It would have urged them back along the road Whence they were dragged, as soon as they were free; But such a solid will is all too rare. But now another passage runs across Before thine eyes, and such that by thyself Thou couldst not thread it ere thou wouldst be weary. I have for certain put into thy mind That soul beatified could never lie, For it is near the primal Truth, And then thou from Piccarda might'st have heard Costanza kept affection for the veil, So that she seemeth here to contradict me. E'en as Alcmaeon (who, being by his father Thereto entreated, his own mother slew) Not to lose pity pitiless became. At this point I desire thee to remember That force with will commingles, and they cause That the offences cannot be excused. Will absolute consenteth not to evil; But in so far consenteth as it fears, If it refrain, to fall into more harm. Hence when Piccarda uses this expression, She meaneth the will absolute, and I The other, so that both of us speak truth." My own affection is not so profound As to suffice in rendering grace for grace; Let Him, who sees and can, thereto respond. Well I perceive that never sated is Our intellect unless the Truth illume it, Beyond which nothing true expands itself. It rests therein, as wild beast in his lair, When it attains it; and it can attain it; If not, then each desire would frustrate be. Therefore springs up, in fashion of a shoot, Doubt at the foot of truth; and this is nature, Which to the top from height to height impels us. This doth invite me, this assurance give me With reverence, Lady, to inquire of you Another truth, which is obscure to me. I wish to know if man can satisfy you For broken vows with other good deeds, so That in your balance they will not be light." Beatrice gazed upon me with her eyes Full of the sparks of love, and so divine, That, overcome my power, I turned my back And almost lost myself with eyes downcast. "If in the heat of love I flame upon thee Beyond the measure that on earth is seen, So that the valour of thine eyes I vanquish, Marvel thou not thereat; for this proceeds From perfect sight, which as it apprehends To the good apprehended moves its feet. Well I perceive how is already shining Into thine intellect the eternal light, That only seen enkindles always love; And if some other thing your love seduce, 'Tis nothing but a vestige of the same, Ill understood, which there is shining through. Thou fain wouldst know if with another service For broken vow can such return be made As to secure the soul from further claim." This Canto thus did Beatrice begin; And, as a man who breaks not off his speech, Continued thus her holy argument: "The greatest gift that in his largess God Creating made, and unto his own goodness Nearest conformed, and that which he doth prize Most highly, is the freedom of the will, Wherewith the creatures of intelligence Both all and only were and are endowed. Now wilt thou see, if thence thou reasonest, The high worth of a vow, if it he made So that when thou consentest God consents: For, closing between God and man the compact, A sacrifice is of this treasure made, Such as I say, and made by its own act. What can be rendered then as compensation? Think'st thou to make good use of what thou'st offered, With gains ill gotten thou wouldst do good deed. Now art thou certain of the greater point; But because Holy Church in this dispenses, Which seems against the truth which I have shown thee, Behoves thee still to sit awhile at table, Because the solid food which thou hast taken Requireth further aid for thy digestion. Open thy mind to that which I reveal, And fix it there within; for 'tis not knowledge, The having heard without retaining it. This last for evermore is cancelled not Unless complied with, and concerning this With such precision has above been spoken. Therefore it was enjoined upon the Hebrews To offer still, though sometimes what was offered Might be commuted, as thou ought'st to know. But let none shift the burden on his shoulder At his arbitrament, without the turning Both of the white and of the yellow key; Therefore whatever thing has so great weight In value that it drags down every balance, Cannot be satisfied with other spending. Whom more beseemed to say, 'I have done wrong, Than to do worse by keeping; and as foolish Thou the great leader of the Greeks wilt find, Whence wept Iphigenia her fair face, And made for her both wise and simple weep, Who heard such kind of worship spoken of.' Christians, be ye more serious in your movements; Be ye not like a feather at each wind, And think not every water washes you. Ye have the Old and the New Testament, And the Pastor of the Church who guideth you Let this suffice you unto your salvation. If evil appetite cry aught else to you, Be ye as men, and not as silly sheep, So that the Jew among you may not mock you. Be ye not as the lamb that doth abandon Its mother's milk, and frolicsome and simple Combats at its own pleasure with itself." Thus Beatrice to me even as I write it; Then all desireful turned herself again To that part where the world is most alive. Her silence and her change of countenance Silence imposed upon my eager mind, That had already in advance new questions; My Lady there so joyful I beheld, As into the brightness of that heaven she entered, More luminous thereat the planet grew; And if the star itself was changed and smiled, What became I, who by my nature am Exceeding mutable in every guise! As, in a fish-pond which is pure and tranquil, The fishes draw to that which from without Comes in such fashion that their food they deem it; Think, Reader, if what here is just beginning No farther should proceed, how thou wouldst have An agonizing need of knowing more; And of thyself thou'lt see how I from these Was in desire of hearing their conditions, As they unto mine eyes were manifest. "O thou well-born, unto whom Grace concedes To see the thrones of the eternal triumph, Or ever yet the warfare be abandoned With light that through the whole of heaven is spread Kindled are we, and hence if thou desirest To know of us, at thine own pleasure sate thee." "Well I perceive how thou dost nest thyself In thine own light, and drawest it from thine eyes, Because they coruscate when thou dost smile, But know not who thou art, nor why thou hast, Spirit august, thy station in the sphere That veils itself to men in alien rays." Even as the sun, that doth conceal himself By too much light, when heat has worn away The tempering influence of the vapours dense, By greater rapture thus concealed itself In its own radiance the figure saintly, And thus close, close enfolded answered me In fashion as the following Canto sings. "After that Constantine the eagle turned Against the course of heaven, which it had followed Behind the ancient who Lavinia took, And under shadow of the sacred plumes It governed there the world from hand to hand, And, changing thus, upon mine own alighted. Caesar I was, and am Justinian, Who, by the will of primal Love I feel, Took from the laws the useless and redundant; But blessed Agapetus, he who was The supreme pastor, to the faith sincere Pointed me out the way by words of his. Him I believed, and what was his assertion I now see clearly, even as thou seest Each contradiction to be false and true. As soon as with the Church I moved my feet, God in his grace it pleased with this high task To inspire me, and I gave me wholly to it, And to my Belisarius I commended The arms, to which was heaven's right hand so joined It was a signal that I should repose. In order that thou see with how great reason Men move against the standard sacrosanct, Both who appropriate and who oppose it. Behold how great a power has made it worthy Of reverence, beginning from the hour When Pallas died to give it sovereignty. Thou knowest what it achieved, borne by the Romans Illustrious against Brennus, against Pyrrhus, Against the other princes and confederates. Torquatus thence and Quinctius, who from locks Unkempt was named, Decii and Fabii, Received the fame I willingly embalm; It struck to earth the pride of the Arabians, Who, following Hannibal, had passed across The Alpine ridges, Po, from which thou glidest; Beneath it triumphed while they yet were young Pompey and Scipio, and to the hill Beneath which thou wast born it bitter seemed; Then, near unto the time when heaven had willed To bring the whole world to its mood serene, Did Caesar by the will of Rome assume it. What it achieved from Var unto the Rhine, Isere beheld and Saone, beheld the Seine, And every valley whence the Rhone is filled; What it achieved when it had left Ravenna, And leaped the Rubicon, was such a flight That neither tongue nor pen could follow it. Round towards Spain it wheeled its legions; then Towards Durazzo, and Pharsalia smote That to the calid Nile was felt the pain. Antandros and the Simois, whence it started, It saw again, and there where Hector lies, And ill for Ptolemy then roused itself. From thence it came like lightning upon Juba; Then wheeled itself again into your West, Where the Pompeian clarion it heard. From what it wrought with the next standard-bearer Brutus and Cassius howl in Hell together, And Modena and Perugia dolent were; Still doth the mournful Cleopatra weep Because thereof, who, fleeing from before it, Took from the adder sudden and black death. With him it ran even to the Red Sea shore; With him it placed the world in so great peace, That unto Janus was his temple closed. But what the standard that has made me speak Achieved before, and after should achieve Throughout the mortal realm that lies beneath it, Because the living Justice that inspires me Granted it, in the hand of him I speak of, The glory of doing vengeance for its wrath. Now here attend to what I answer thee; Later it ran with Titus to do vengeance Upon the vengeance of the ancient sin. And when the tooth of Lombardy had bitten The Holy Church, then underneath its wings Did Charlemagne victorious succor her. Now hast thou power to judge of such as those Whom I accused above, and of their crimes, Which are the cause of all your miseries. Let, let the Ghibellines ply their handicraft Beneath some other standard; for this ever Ill follows he who it and justice parts. And let not this new Charles e'er strike it down, He and his Guelfs, but let him fear the talons That from a nobler lion stripped the fell. Already oftentimes the sons have wept The father's crime; and let him not believe That God will change His scutcheon for the lilies. This little planet doth adorn itself With the good spirits that have active been, That fame and honour might come after them; And whensoever the desires mount thither, Thus deviating, must perforce the rays Of the true love less vividly mount upward. But in commensuration of our wages With our desert is portion of our joy, Because we see them neither less nor greater. Herein doth living Justice sweeten so Affection in us, that for evermore It cannot warp to any iniquity. Voices diverse make up sweet melodies; So in this life of ours the seats diverse Render sweet harmony among these spheres; And in the compass of this present pearl Shineth the sheen of Romeo, of whom The grand and beauteous work was ill rewarded. But the Provencals who against him wrought, They have not laughed, and therefore ill goes he Who makes his hurt of the good deeds of others. Then he departed poor and stricken in years, And if the world could know the heart he had, In begging bit by bit his livelihood, Though much it laud him, it would laud him more." "Osanna sanctus Deus Sabaoth, Superillustrans claritate tua Felices ignes horum malahoth!" And to their dance this and the others moved, And in the manner of swift-hurrying sparks Veiled themselves from me with a sudden distance. Doubting was I, and saying, "Tell her, tell her," Within me, "tell her," saying, "tell my Lady," Who slakes my thirst with her sweet effluences; "According to infallible advisement, After what manner a just vengeance justly Could be avenged has put thee upon thinking, But I will speedily thy mind unloose; And do thou listen, for these words of mine Of a great doctrine will a present make thee. By not enduring on the power that wills Curb for his good, that man who ne'er was born, Damning himself damned all his progeny; Whereby the human species down below Lay sick for many centuries in great error, Till to descend it pleased the Word of God To where the nature, which from its own Maker Estranged itself, he joined to him in person By the sole act of his eternal love. Now unto what is said direct thy sight; This nature when united to its Maker, Such as created, was sincere and good; But by itself alone was banished forth From Paradise, because it turned aside Out of the way of truth and of its life. Therefore the penalty the cross held out, If measured by the nature thus assumed, None ever yet with so great justice stung, And none was ever of so great injustice, Considering who the Person was that suffered, Within whom such a nature was contracted. It should no longer now seem difficult To thee, when it is said that a just vengeance By a just court was afterward avenged. But now do I behold thy mind entangled From thought to thought within a knot, from which With great desire it waits to free itself. Goodness Divine, which from itself doth spurn All envy, burning in itself so sparkles That the eternal beauties it unfolds. Whate'er from this immediately distils Has afterwards no end, for ne'er removed Is its impression when it sets its seal. Whate'er from this immediately rains down Is wholly free, because it is not subject Unto the influences of novel things. The more conformed thereto, the more it pleases; For the blest ardour that irradiates all things In that most like itself is most vivacious. 'Tis sin alone which doth disfranchise him, And render him unlike the Good Supreme, So that he little with its light is blanched, And to his dignity no more returns, Unless he fill up where transgression empties With righteous pains for criminal delights. Your nature when it sinned so utterly In its own seed, out of these dignities Even as out of Paradise was driven, Either that God through clemency alone Had pardon granted, or that man himself Had satisfaction for his folly made. Fix now thine eye deep into the abyss Of the eternal counsel, to my speech As far as may be fastened steadfastly! Man in his limitations had not power To satisfy, not having power to sink In his humility obeying then, Far as he disobeying thought to rise; And for this reason man has been from power Of satisfying by himself excluded. But since the action of the doer is So much more grateful, as it more presents The goodness of the heart from which it issues, Goodness Divine, that doth imprint the world, Has been contented to proceed by each And all its ways to lift you up again; For God more bounteous was himself to give To make man able to uplift himself, Than if he only of himself had pardoned; And all the other modes were insufficient For justice, were it not the Son of God Himself had humbled to become incarnate. Thou sayst: 'I see the air, I see the fire, The water, and the earth, and all their mixtures Come to corruption, and short while endure; And these things notwithstanding were created;' Therefore if that which I have said were true, They should have been secure against corruption. The Angels, brother, and the land sincere In which thou art, created may be called Just as they are in their entire existence; But all the elements which thou hast named, And all those things which out of them are made, By a created virtue are informed. Created was the matter which they have; Created was the informing influence Within these stars that round about them go. The soul of every brute and of the plants By its potential temperament attracts The ray and motion of the holy lights; But your own life immediately inspires Supreme Beneficence, and enamours it So with herself, it evermore desires her. And thou from this mayst argue furthermore Your resurrection, if thou think again How human flesh was fashioned at that time Paradiso: Canto VIII Wherefore not only unto her paid honour Of sacrifices and of votive cry The ancient nations in the ancient error, And they from her, whence I beginning take, Took the denomination of the star That woos the sun, now following, now in front. I was not ware of our ascending to it; But of our being in it gave full faith My Lady whom I saw more beauteous grow. Within that light beheld I other lamps Move in a circle, speeding more and less, Methinks in measure of their inward vision. From a cold cloud descended never winds, Or visible or not, so rapidly They would not laggard and impeded seem And behind those that most in front appeared Sounded "Osanna!" so that never since To hear again was I without desire. After these eyes of mine themselves had offered Unto my Lady reverently, and she Content and certain of herself had made them, Back to the light they turned, which so great promise Made of itself, and "Say, who art thou?" was My voice, imprinted with a great affection. O how and how much I beheld it grow With the new joy that superadded was Unto its joys, as soon as I had spoken! Thus changed, it said to me: "The world possessed me Short time below; and, if it had been more, Much evil will be which would not have been. My gladness keepeth me concealed from thee, Which rayeth round about me, and doth hide me Like as a creature swathed in its own silk. Much didst thou love me, and thou hadst good reason; For had I been below, I should have shown thee Somewhat beyond the foliage of my love. That left-hand margin, which doth bathe itself In Rhone, when it is mingled with the Sorgue, Me for its lord awaited in due time, And that horn of Ausonia, which is towned With Bari, with Gaeta and Catona, Whence Tronto and Verde in the sea disgorge. Already flashed upon my brow the crown Of that dominion which the Danube waters After the German borders it abandons; And beautiful Trinacria, that is murky 'Twixt Pachino and Peloro, (on the gulf Which greatest scath from Eurus doth receive,) Not through Typhoeus, but through nascent sulphur, Would have awaited her own monarchs still, Through me from Charles descended and from Rudolph, If evil lordship, that exasperates ever The subject populations, had not moved Palermo to the outcry of 'Death! death!' And if my brother could but this foresee, The greedy poverty of Catalonia Straight would he flee, that it might not molest him; For verily 'tis needful to provide, Through him or other, so that on his bark Already freighted no more freight be placed. His nature, which from liberal covetous Descended, such a soldiery would need As should not care for hoarding in a chest." "Because I do believe the lofty joy Thy speech infuses into me, my Lord, Where every good thing doth begin and end Thou seest as I see it, the more grateful Is it to me; and this too hold I dear, That gazing upon God thou dost discern it. Glad hast thou made me; so make clear to me, Since speaking thou hast stirred me up to doubt, How from sweet seed can bitter issue forth." This I to him; and he to me: "If I Can show to thee a truth, to what thou askest Thy face thou'lt hold as thou dost hold thy back. The Good which all the realm thou art ascending Turns and contents, maketh its providence To be a power within these bodies vast; And not alone the natures are foreseen Within the mind that in itself is perfect, But they together with their preservation. For whatsoever thing this bow shoots forth Falls foreordained unto an end foreseen, Even as a shaft directed to its mark. If that were not, the heaven which thou dost walk Would in such manner its effects produce, That they no longer would be arts, but ruins. Wilt thou this truth have clearer made to thee?" And I: "Not so; for 'tis impossible That nature tire, I see, in what is needful." Whence he again: "Now say, would it be worse For men on earth were they not citizens?" "Yes," I replied; "and here I ask no reason." "And can they be so, if below they live not Diversely unto offices diverse? No, if your master writeth well for you." So came he with deductions to this point; Then he concluded: "Therefore it behoves The roots of your effects to be diverse. Thence happens it that Esau differeth In seed from Jacob; and Quirinus comes From sire so vile that he is given to Mars. A generated nature its own way Would always make like its progenitors, If Providence divine were not triumphant. Now that which was behind thee is before thee; But that thou know that I with thee am pleased, With a corollary will I mantle thee. Evermore nature, if it fortune find Discordant to it, like each other seed Out of its region, maketh evil thrift; And if the world below would fix its mind On the foundation which is laid by nature, Pursuing that, 'twould have the people good. But you unto religion wrench aside Him who was born to gird him with the sword, And make a king of him who is for sermons; Therefore your footsteps wander from the road." Beautiful Clemence, after that thy Charles Had me enlightened, he narrated to me The treacheries his seed should undergo; But said: "Be still and let the years roll round;" So I can only say, that lamentation Legitimate shall follow on your wrongs. And of that holy light the life already Had to the Sun which fills it turned again, As to that good which for each thing sufficeth. Ah, souls deceived, and creatures impious, Who from such good do turn away your hearts, Directing upon vanity your foreheads! And now, behold, another of those splendours Approached me, and its will to pleasure me It signified by brightening outwardly. The eyes of Beatrice, that fastened were Upon me, as before, of dear assent To my desire assurance gave to me. "Within that region of the land depraved Of Italy, that lies between Rialto And fountain-heads of Brenta and of Piava, Rises a hill, and mounts not very high, Wherefrom descended formerly a torch That made upon that region great assault. But gladly to myself the cause I pardon Of my allotment, and it does not grieve me; Which would perhaps seem strong unto your vulgar. Of this so luculent and precious jewel, Which of our heaven is nearest unto me, Great fame remained; and ere it die away And thus thinks not the present multitude Shut in by Adige and Tagliamento, Nor yet for being scourged is penitent. But soon 'twill be that Padua in the marsh Will change the water that Vicenza bathes, Because the folk are stubborn against duty; Feltro moreover of her impious pastor Shall weep the crime, which shall so monstrous be That for the like none ever entered Malta. Ample exceedingly would be the vat That of the Ferrarese could hold the blood, And weary who should weigh it ounce by ounce, Of which this courteous priest shall make a gift To show himself a partisan; and such gifts Will to the living of the land conform. Above us there are mirrors, Thrones you call them, From which shines out on us God Judicant, So that this utterance seems good to us." Here it was silent, and it had the semblance Of being turned elsewhither, by the wheel On which it entered as it was before. The other joy, already known to me, Became a thing transplendent in my sight, As a fine ruby smitten by the sun. Through joy effulgence is acquired above, As here a smile; but down below, the shade Outwardly darkens, as the mind is sad. "God seeth all things, and in Him, blest spirit, Thy sight is," said I, "so that never will Of his can possibly from thee be hidden; Wherefore does it not satisfy my longings? Indeed, I would not wait thy questioning If I in thee were as thou art in me." "The greatest of the valleys where the water Expands itself," forthwith its words began, "That sea excepted which the earth engarlands, Between discordant shores against the sun Extends so far, that it meridian makes Where it was wont before to make the horizon. I was a dweller on that valley's shore 'Twixt Ebro and Magra that with journey short Doth from the Tuscan part the Genoese. For more the daughter of Belus never burned, Offending both Sichaeus and Creusa, Than I, so long as it became my locks, Nor yet that Rodophean, who deluded was by Demophoon, nor yet Alcides, When Iole he in his heart had locked. Yet here is no repenting, but we smile, Not at the fault, which comes not back to mind, But at the power which ordered and foresaw. Here we behold the art that doth adorn With such affection, and the good discover Whereby the world above turns that below. But that thou wholly satisfied mayst bear Thy wishes hence which in this sphere are born, Still farther to proceed behoveth me. Thou fain wouldst know who is within this light That here beside me thus is scintillating, Even as a sunbeam in the limpid water. Then know thou, that within there is at rest Rahab, and being to our order joined, With her in its supremest grade 'tis sealed. Brings forth and scatters the accursed flower Which both the sheep and lambs hath led astray Since it has turned the shepherd to a wolf. For this the Evangel and the mighty Doctors Are derelict, and only the Decretals So studied that it shows upon their margins. On this are Pope and Cardinals intent; Their meditations reach not Nazareth, There where his pinions Gabriel unfolded; But Vatican and the other parts elect Of Rome, which have a cemetery been Unto the soldiery that followed Peter Shall soon be free from this adultery." Looking into his Son with all the Love Which each of them eternally breathes forth, The Primal and unutterable Power Whate'er before the mind or eye revolves With so much order made, there can be none Who this beholds without enjoying Him. And there begin to contemplate with joy That Master's art, who in himself so loves it That never doth his eye depart therefrom. Behold how from that point goes branching off The oblique circle, which conveys the planets, To satisfy the world that calls upon them; And if their pathway were not thus inflected, Much virtue in the heavens would be in vain, And almost every power below here dead. If from the straight line distant more or less Were the departure, much would wanting be Above and underneath of mundane order. Remain now, Reader, still upon thy bench, In thought pursuing that which is foretasted, If thou wouldst jocund be instead of weary. I've set before thee; henceforth feed thyself, For to itself diverteth all my care That theme whereof I have been made the scribe. The greatest of the ministers of nature, Who with the power of heaven the world imprints And measures with his light the time for us, With that part which above is called to mind Conjoined, along the spirals was revolving, Where each time earlier he presents himself; And Beatrice, she who is seen to pass From good to better, and so suddenly That not by time her action is expressed, How lucent in herself must she have been! And what was in the sun, wherein I entered, Apparent not by colour but by light, And if our fantasies too lowly are For altitude so great, it is no marvel, Since o'er the sun was never eye could go. Never was heart of mortal so disposed To worship, nor to give itself to God With all its gratitude was it so ready, As at those words did I myself become; And all my love was so absorbed in Him, That in oblivion Beatrice was eclipsed. Nor this displeased her; but she smiled at it So that the splendour of her laughing eyes My single mind on many things divided. Lights many saw I, vivid and triumphant, Make us a centre and themselves a circle, More sweet in voice than luminous in aspect. Thus girt about the daughter of Latona We sometimes see, when pregnant is the air, So that it holds the thread which makes her zone. Within the court of Heaven, whence I return, Are many jewels found, so fair and precious They cannot be transported from the realm; And of them was the singing of those lights. Who takes not wings that he may fly up thither, The tidings thence may from the dumb await! Ladies they seemed, not from the dance released, But who stop short, in silence listening Till they have gathered the new melody. Within thee multiplied is so resplendent That it conducts thee upward by that stair, Where without reascending none descends, Who should deny the wine out of his vial Unto thy thirst, in liberty were not Except as water which descends not seaward. Fain wouldst thou know with what plants is enflowered This garland that encircles with delight The Lady fair who makes thee strong for heaven. He who is nearest to me on the right My brother and master was; and he Albertus Is of Cologne, I Thomas of Aquinum. If thou of all the others wouldst be certain, Follow behind my speaking with thy sight Upward along the blessed garland turning. That next effulgence issues from the smile Of Gratian, who assisted both the courts In such wise that it pleased in Paradise. The other which near by adorns our choir That Peter was who, e'en as the poor widow, Offered his treasure unto Holy Church. Thou seest next the lustre of that taper, Which in the flesh below looked most within The angelic nature and its ministry. Within that other little light is smiling The advocate of the Christian centuries, Out of whose rhetoric Augustine was furnished. By seeing every good therein exults The sainted soul, which the fallacious world Makes manifest to him who listeneth well; The body whence 'twas hunted forth is lying Down in Cieldauro, and from martyrdom And banishment it came unto this peace. See farther onward flame the burning breath Of Isidore, of Beda, and of Richard Who was in contemplation more than man. This, whence to me returneth thy regard, The light is of a spirit unto whom In his grave meditations death seemed slow. It is the light eternal of Sigier, Who, reading lectures in the Street of Straw, Did syllogize invidious verities." Then, as a horologe that calleth us What time the Bride of God is rising up With matins to her Spouse that he may love her, Thus I beheld the glorious wheel move round, And render voice to voice, in modulation And sweetness that can not be comprehended, Excepting there where joy is made eternal. O Thou insensate care of mortal men, How inconclusive are the syllogisms That make thee beat thy wings in downward flight! When I, from all these things emancipate, With Beatrice above there in the Heavens With such exceeding glory was received! "Even as I am kindled in its ray, So, looking into the Eternal Light, The occasion of thy thoughts I apprehend. Thou doubtest, and wouldst have me to resift In language so extended and so open My speech, that to thy sense it may be plain, The Providence, which governeth the world With counsel, wherein all created vision Is vanquished ere it reach unto the bottom, (So that towards her own Beloved might go The bride of Him who, uttering a loud cry, Espoused her with his consecrated blood, From which Perugia feels the cold and heat Through Porta Sole, and behind it weep Gualdo and Nocera their grievous yoke. Therefore let him who speaketh of that place, Say not Ascesi, for he would say little, But Orient, if he properly would speak. He was not yet far distant from his rising Before he had begun to make the earth Some comfort from his mighty virtue feel. And was before his spiritual court 'Et coram patre' unto her united; Then day by day more fervently he loved her. Naught it availed to hear, that with Amyclas Found her unmoved at sounding of his voice He who struck terror into all the world; Naught it availed being constant and undaunted, So that, when Mary still remained below, She mounted up with Christ upon the cross. Their concord and their joyous semblances, The love, the wonder, and the sweet regard, They made to be the cause of holy thoughts; O wealth unknown! O veritable good! Giles bares his feet, and bares his feet Sylvester Behind the bridegroom, so doth please the bride! Then goes his way that father and that master, He and his Lady and that family Which now was girding on the humble cord; Nor cowardice of heart weighed down his brow At being son of Peter Bernardone, Nor for appearing marvellously scorned; But regally his hard determination To Innocent he opened, and from him Received the primal seal upon his Order. After the people mendicant increased Behind this man, whose admirable life Better in glory of the heavens were sung, And when he had, through thirst of martyrdom, In the proud presence of the Sultan preached Christ and the others who came after him, And, finding for conversion too unripe The folk, and not to tarry there in vain, Returned to fruit of the Italic grass, When He, who chose him unto so much good, Was pleased to draw him up to the reward That he had merited by being lowly, Unto his friars, as to the rightful heirs, His most dear Lady did he recommend, And bade that they should love her faithfully; And from her bosom the illustrious soul Wished to depart, returning to its realm, And for its body wished no other bier. Think now what man was he, who was a fit Companion over the high seas to keep The bark of Peter to its proper bearings. And this man was our Patriarch; hence whoever Doth follow him as he commands can see That he is laden with good merchandise. But for new pasturage his flock has grown So greedy, that it is impossible They be not scattered over fields diverse; Verily some there are that fear a hurt, And keep close to the shepherd; but so few, That little cloth doth furnish forth their hoods. Now if my utterance be not indistinct, If thine own hearing hath attentive been, If thou recall to mind what I have said, In part contented shall thy wishes be; For thou shalt see the plant that's chipped away, And the rebuke that lieth in the words, Soon as the blessed flame had taken up The final word to give it utterance, Began the holy millstone to revolve, And in its gyre had not turned wholly round, Before another in a ring enclosed it, And motion joined to motion, song to song; Song that as greatly doth transcend our Muses, Our Sirens, in those dulcet clarions, As primal splendour that which is reflected. And make the people here, through covenant God set with Noah, presageful of the world That shall no more be covered with a flood, In such wise of those sempiternal roses The garlands twain encompassed us about, And thus the outer to the inner answered. After the dance, and other grand rejoicings, Both of the singing, and the flaming forth Effulgence with effulgence blithe and tender, And it began: "The love that makes me fair Draws me to speak about the other leader, By whom so well is spoken here of mine. The soldiery of Christ, which it had cost So dear to arm again, behind the standard Moved slow and doubtful and in numbers few, When the Emperor who reigneth evermore Provided for the host that was in peril, Through grace alone and not that it was worthy; And, as was said, he to his Bride brought succour With champions twain, at whose deed, at whose word The straggling people were together drawn. Within that region where the sweet west wind Rises to open the new leaves, wherewith Europe is seen to clothe herself afresh, Not far off from the beating of the waves, Behind which in his long career the sun Sometimes conceals himself from every man, Is situate the fortunate Calahorra, Under protection of the mighty shield In which the Lion subject is and sovereign. Therein was born the amorous paramour Of Christian Faith, the athlete consecrate, Kind to his own and cruel to his foes; And when it was created was his mind Replete with such a living energy, That in his mother her it made prophetic. As soon as the espousals were complete Between him and the Faith at holy font, Where they with mutual safety dowered each other, The woman, who for him had given assent, Saw in a dream the admirable fruit That issue would from him and from his heirs; And that he might be construed as he was, A spirit from this place went forth to name him With His possessive whose he wholly was. Dominic was he called; and him I speak of Even as of the husbandman whom Christ Elected to his garden to assist him. Silent and wakeful many a time was he Discovered by his nurse upon the ground, As if he would have said, 'For this I came.' O thou his father, Felix verily! O thou his mother, verily Joanna, If this, interpreted, means as is said! Not for the world which people toil for now In following Ostiense and Taddeo, But through his longing after the true manna, He in short time became so great a teacher, That he began to go about the vineyard, Which fadeth soon, if faithless be the dresser; Then with the doctrine and the will together, With office apostolical he moved, Like torrent which some lofty vein out-presses; And in among the shoots heretical His impetus with greater fury smote, Wherever the resistance was the greatest. Of him were made thereafter divers runnels, Whereby the garden catholic is watered, So that more living its plantations stand. Truly full manifest should be to thee The excellence of the other, unto whom Thomas so courteous was before my coming. His family, that had straight forward moved With feet upon his footprints, are turned round So that they set the point upon the heel. And soon aware they will be of the harvest Of this bad husbandry, when shall the tares Complain the granary is taken from them. Yet say I, he who searcheth leaf by leaf Our volume through, would still some page discover Where he could read, 'I am as I am wont.' Bonaventura of Bagnoregio's life Am I, who always in great offices Postponed considerations sinister. Here is Rabanus, and beside me here Shines the Calabrian Abbot Joachim, He with the spirit of prophecy endowed. To celebrate so great a paladin Have moved me the impassioned courtesy And the discreet discourses of Friar Thomas, And with me they have moved this company." Paradiso: Canto XIII Let him imagine, who would well conceive What now I saw, and let him while I speak Retain the image as a steadfast rock, Let him the Wain imagine unto which Our vault of heaven sufficeth night and day, So that in turning of its pole it fails not; Because it is as much beyond our wont, As swifter than the motion of the Chiana Moveth the heaven that all the rest outspeeds. The singing and the dance fulfilled their measure, And unto us those holy lights gave need, Growing in happiness from care to care. Then broke the silence of those saints concordant The light in which the admirable life Of God's own mendicant was told to me, Into that bosom, thou believest, whence Was drawn the rib to form the beauteous cheek Whose taste to all the world is costing dear, And into that which, by the lance transfixed, Before and since, such satisfaction made That it weighs down the balance of all sin, Whate'er of light it has to human nature Been lawful to possess was all infused By the same power that both of them created; Now ope thine eyes to what I answer thee, And thou shalt see thy creed and my discourse Fit in the truth as centre in a circle. That which can die, and that which dieth not, Are nothing but the splendour of the idea Which by his love our Lord brings into being; Because that living Light, which from its fount Effulgent flows, so that it disunites not From Him nor from the Love in them intrined, Thence it descends to the last potencies, Downward from act to act becoming such That only brief contingencies it makes; And these contingencies I hold to be Things generated, which the heaven produces By its own motion, with seed and without. Neither their wax, nor that which tempers it, Remains immutable, and hence beneath The ideal signet more and less shines through; Therefore it happens, that the selfsame tree After its kind bears worse and better fruit, And ye are born with characters diverse. If in perfection tempered were the wax, And were the heaven in its supremest virtue, The brilliance of the seal would all appear; But nature gives it evermore deficient, In the like manner working as the artist, Who has the skill of art and hand that trembles. If then the fervent Love, the Vision clear, Of primal Virtue do dispose and seal, Perfection absolute is there acquired. Thus was of old the earth created worthy Of all and every animal perfection; And thus the Virgin was impregnate made; But, that may well appear what now appears not, Think who he was, and what occasion moved him To make request, when it was told him, 'Ask.' I've not so spoken that thou canst not see Clearly he was a king who asked for wisdom, That he might be sufficiently a king; 'Twas not to know the number in which are The motors here above, or if 'necesse' With a contingent e'er 'necesse' make, 'Non si est dare primum motum esse,' Or if in semicircle can be made Triangle so that it have no right angle. Whence, if thou notest this and what I said, A regal prudence is that peerless seeing In which the shaft of my intention strikes. And if on 'rose' thou turnest thy clear eyes, Thou'lt see that it has reference alone To kings who're many, and the good are rare. And lead shall this be always to thy feet, To make thee, like a weary man, move slowly Both to the Yes and No thou seest not; Because it happens that full often bends Current opinion in the false direction, And then the feelings bind the intellect. Far more than uselessly he leaves the shore, (Since he returneth not the same he went,) Who fishes for the truth, and has no skill; And in the world proofs manifest thereof Parmenides, Melissus, Brissus are, And many who went on and knew not whither; Thus did Sabellius, Arius, and those fools Who have been even as swords unto the Scriptures In rendering distorted their straight faces. Nor yet shall people be too confident In judging, even as he is who doth count The corn in field or ever it be ripe. And I have seen a ship direct and swift Run o'er the sea throughout its course entire, To perish at the harbour's mouth at last. From centre unto rim, from rim to centre, In a round vase the water moves itself, As from without 'tis struck or from within. Into my mind upon a sudden dropped What I am saying, at the moment when Silent became the glorious life of Thomas, Because of the resemblance that was born Of his discourse and that of Beatrice, Whom, after him, it pleased thus to begin: Declare unto him if the light wherewith Blossoms your substance shall remain with you Eternally the same that it is now; And if it do remain, say in what manner, After ye are again made visible, It can be that it injure not your sight." As by a greater gladness urged and drawn They who are dancing in a ring sometimes Uplift their voices and their motions quicken; So, at that orison devout and prompt, The holy circles a new joy displayed In their revolving and their wondrous song. Whoso lamenteth him that here we die That we may live above, has never there Seen the refreshment of the eternal rain. And, in the lustre most divine of all The lesser ring, I heard a modest voice, Such as perhaps the Angel's was to Mary, Answer: "As long as the festivity Of Paradise shall be, so long our love Shall radiate round about us such a vesture. When, glorious and sanctified, our flesh Is reassumed, then shall our persons be More pleasing by their being all complete; For will increase whate'er bestows on us Of light gratuitous the Good Supreme, Light which enables us to look on Him; Therefore the vision must perforce increase, Increase the ardour which from that is kindled, Increase the radiance which from this proceeds. But even as a coal that sends forth flame, And by its vivid whiteness overpowers it So that its own appearance it maintains, Thus the effulgence that surrounds us now Shall be o'erpowered in aspect by the flesh, Which still to-day the earth doth cover up; Nor can so great a splendour weary us, For strong will be the organs of the body To everything which hath the power to please us." Nor sole for them perhaps, but for the mothers, The fathers, and the rest who had been dear Or ever they became eternal flames. And lo! all round about of equal brightness Arose a lustre over what was there, Like an horizon that is clearing up. And as at rise of early eve begin Along the welkin new appearances, So that the sight seems real and unreal, O very sparkling of the Holy Spirit, How sudden and incandescent it became Unto mine eyes, that vanquished bore it not! But Beatrice so beautiful and smiling Appeared to me, that with the other sights That followed not my memory I must leave her. Then to uplift themselves mine eyes resumed The power, and I beheld myself translated To higher salvation with my Lady only. Well was I ware that I was more uplifted By the enkindled smiling of the star, That seemed to me more ruddy than its wont. With all my heart, and in that dialect Which is the same in all, such holocaust To God I made as the new grace beseemed; And not yet from my bosom was exhausted The ardour of sacrifice, before I knew This offering was accepted and auspicious; For with so great a lustre and so red Splendours appeared to me in twofold rays, I said: "O Helios who dost so adorn them!" Thus constellated in the depths of Mars, Those rays described the venerable sign That quadrants joining in a circle make. Here doth my memory overcome my genius; For on that cross as levin gleamed forth Christ, So that I cannot find ensample worthy; But he who takes his cross and follows Christ Again will pardon me what I omit, Seeing in that aurora lighten Christ. From horn to horn, and 'twixt the top and base, Lights were in motion, brightly scintillating As they together met and passed each other; Thus level and aslant and swift and slow We here behold, renewing still the sight, The particles of bodies long and short, Across the sunbeam move, wherewith is listed Sometimes the shade, which for their own defence People with cunning and with art contrive. And as a lute and harp, accordant strung With many strings, a dulcet tinkling make To him by whom the notes are not distinguished, So from the lights that there to me appeared Upgathered through the cross a melody, Which rapt me, not distinguishing the hymn. Well was I ware it was of lofty laud, Because there came to me, "Arise and conquer!" As unto him who hears and comprehends not. So much enamoured I became therewith, That until then there was not anything That e'er had fettered me with such sweet bonds. Perhaps my word appears somewhat too bold, Postponing the delight of those fair eyes, Into which gazing my desire has rest; But who bethinks him that the living seals Of every beauty grow in power ascending, And that I there had not turned round to those, Can me excuse, if I myself accuse To excuse myself, and see that I speak truly: For here the holy joy is not disclosed, Because ascending it becomes more pure. A will benign, in which reveals itself Ever the love that righteously inspires, As in the iniquitous, cupidity, Silence imposed upon that dulcet lyre, And quieted the consecrated chords, That Heaven's right hand doth tighten and relax. 'Tis well that without end he should lament, Who for the love of thing that doth not last Eternally despoils him of that love! As through the pure and tranquil evening air There shoots from time to time a sudden fire, Moving the eyes that steadfast were before, And seems to be a star that changeth place, Except that in the part where it is kindled Nothing is missed, and this endureth little; So from the horn that to the right extends Unto that cross's foot there ran a star Out of the constellation shining there; Nor was the gem dissevered from its ribbon, But down the radiant fillet ran along, So that fire seemed it behind alabaster. Thus piteous did Anchises' shade reach forward, If any faith our greatest Muse deserve, When in Elysium he his son perceived. "O sanguis meus, O superinfusa Gratia Dei, sicut tibi, cui Bis unquam Coeli janua reclusa?" Thus that effulgence; whence I gave it heed; Then round unto my Lady turned my sight, And on this side and that was stupefied; For in her eyes was burning such a smile That with mine own methought I touched the bottom Both of my grace and of my Paradise! Then, pleasant to the hearing and the sight, The spirit joined to its beginning things I understood not, so profound it spake; Nor did it hide itself from me by choice, But by necessity; for its conception Above the mark of mortals set itself. And when the bow of burning sympathy Was so far slackened, that its speech descended Towards the mark of our intelligence, And it continued: "Hunger long and grateful, Drawn from the reading of the mighty volume Wherein is never changed the white nor dark, Thou hast appeased, my son, within this light In which I speak to thee, by grace of her Who to this lofty flight with plumage clothed thee. And therefore who I am thou askest not, And why I seem more joyous unto thee Than any other of this gladsome crowd. Thou think'st the truth; because the small and great Of this existence look into the mirror Wherein, before thou think'st, thy thought thou showest. But that the sacred love, in which I watch With sight perpetual, and which makes me thirst With sweet desire, may better be fulfilled, Now let thy voice secure and frank and glad Proclaim the wishes, the desire proclaim, To which my answer is decreed already." To Beatrice I turned me, and she heard Before I spake, and smiled to me a sign, That made the wings of my desire increase; For in the Sun, which lighted you and burned With heat and radiance, they so equal are, That all similitudes are insufficient. But among mortals will and argument, For reason that to you is manifest, Diversely feathered in their pinions are. Whence I, who mortal am, feel in myself This inequality; so give not thanks, Save in my heart, for this paternal welcome. Truly do I entreat thee, living topaz! Set in this precious jewel as a gem, That thou wilt satisfy me with thy name." "O leaf of mine, in whom I pleasure took E'en while awaiting, I was thine own root!" Such a beginning he in answer made me. A son of mine and thy great-grandsire was; Well it behoves thee that the long fatigue Thou shouldst for him make shorter with thy works. Florence, within the ancient boundary From which she taketh still her tierce and nones, Abode in quiet, temperate and chaste. No golden chain she had, nor coronal, Nor ladies shod with sandal shoon, nor girdle That caught the eye more than the person did. Not yet the daughter at her birth struck fear Into the father, for the time and dower Did not o'errun this side or that the measure. No houses had she void of families, Not yet had thither come Sardanapalus To show what in a chamber can be done; Not yet surpassed had Montemalo been By your Uccellatojo, which surpassed Shall in its downfall be as in its rise. Bellincion Berti saw I go begirt With leather and with bone, and from the mirror His dame depart without a painted face; And him of Nerli saw, and him of Vecchio, Contented with their simple suits of buff And with the spindle and the flax their dames. Another, drawing tresses from her distaff, Told o'er among her family the tales Of Trojans and of Fesole and Rome. As great a marvel then would have been held A Lapo Salterello, a Cianghella, As Cincinnatus or Cornelia now. To such a quiet, such a beautiful Life of the citizen, to such a safe Community, and to so sweet an inn, Moronto was my brother, and Eliseo; From Val di Pado came to me my wife, And from that place thy surname was derived. I followed afterward the Emperor Conrad, And he begirt me of his chivalry, So much I pleased him with my noble deeds. I followed in his train against that law's Iniquity, whose people doth usurp Your just possession, through your Pastor's fault. There by that execrable race was I Released from bonds of the fallacious world, The love of which defileth many souls, And came from martyrdom unto this peace." O thou our poor nobility of blood, If thou dost make the people glory in thee Down here where our affection languishes, A marvellous thing it ne'er will be to me; For there where appetite is not perverted, I say in Heaven, of thee I made a boast! Truly thou art a cloak that quickly shortens, So that unless we piece thee day by day Time goeth round about thee with his shears! And I began: "You are my ancestor, You give to me all hardihood to speak, You lift me so that I am more than I. So many rivulets with gladness fill My mind, that of itself it makes a joy Because it can endure this and not burst. Then tell me, my beloved root ancestral, Who were your ancestors, and what the years That in your boyhood chronicled themselves? Tell me about the sheepfold of Saint John, How large it was, and who the people were Within it worthy of the highest seats." As at the blowing of the winds a coal Quickens to flame, so I beheld that light Become resplendent at my blandishments. And as unto mine eyes it grew more fair, With voice more sweet and tender, but not in This modern dialect, it said to me: "From uttering of the 'Ave,' till the birth In which my mother, who is now a saint, Of me was lightened who had been her burden, Suffice it of my elders to hear this; But who they were, and whence they thither came, Silence is more considerate than speech. But the community, that now is mixed With Campi and Certaldo and Figghine, Pure in the lowest artisan was seen. O how much better 'twere to have as neighbours The folk of whom I speak, and at Galluzzo And at Trespiano have your boundary, Than have them in the town, and bear the stench Of Aguglione's churl, and him of Signa Who has sharp eyes for trickery already. Had not the folk, which most of all the world Degenerates, been a step-dame unto Caesar, But as a mother to her son benignant, Some who turn Florentines, and trade and discount, Would have gone back again to Simifonte There where their grandsires went about as beggars. At Montemurlo still would be the Counts, The Cerchi in the parish of Acone, Perhaps in Valdigrieve the Buondelmonti. Ever the intermingling of the people Has been the source of malady in cities, As in the body food it surfeits on; If Luni thou regard, and Urbisaglia, How they have passed away, and how are passing Chiusi and Sinigaglia after them, To hear how races waste themselves away, Will seem to thee no novel thing nor hard, Seeing that even cities have an end. All things of yours have their mortality, Even as yourselves; but it is hidden in some That a long while endure, and lives are short; And as the turning of the lunar heaven Covers and bares the shores without a pause, In the like manner fortune does with Florence. Therefore should not appear a marvellous thing What I shall say of the great Florentines Of whom the fame is hidden in the Past. I saw the Ughi, saw the Catellini, Filippi, Greci, Ormanni, and Alberichi, Even in their fall illustrious citizens; And saw, as mighty as they ancient were, With him of La Sannella him of Arca, And Soldanier, Ardinghi, and Bostichi. Near to the gate that is at present laden With a new felony of so much weight That soon it shall be jetsam from the bark, The Ravignani were, from whom descended The County Guido, and whoe'er the name Of the great Bellincione since hath taken. He of La Pressa knew the art of ruling Already, and already Galigajo Had hilt and pommel gilded in his house. Mighty already was the Column Vair, Sacchetti, Giuochi, Fifant, and Barucci, And Galli, and they who for the bushel blush. The stock from which were the Calfucci born Was great already, and already chosen To curule chairs the Sizii and Arrigucci. O how beheld I those who are undone By their own pride! and how the Balls of Gold Florence enflowered in all their mighty deeds! So likewise did the ancestors of those Who evermore, when vacant is your church, Fatten by staying in consistory. The insolent race, that like a dragon follows Whoever flees, and unto him that shows His teeth or purse is gentle as a lamb, Already rising was, but from low people; So that it pleased not Ubertin Donato That his wife's father should make him their kin. Already had Caponsacco to the Market From Fesole descended, and already Giuda and Infangato were good burghers. Knighthood and privilege from him received; Though with the populace unites himself To-day the man who binds it with a border. Already were Gualterotti and Importuni; And still more quiet would the Borgo be If with new neighbours it remained unfed. The house from which is born your lamentation, Through just disdain that death among you brought And put an end unto your joyous life, Was honoured in itself and its companions. O Buondelmonte, how in evil hour Thou fled'st the bridal at another's promptings! But it behoved the mutilated stone Which guards the bridge, that Florence should provide A victim in her latest hour of peace. With all these families, and others with them, Florence beheld I in so great repose, That no occasion had she whence to weep; With all these families beheld so just And glorious her people, that the lily Never upon the spear was placed reversed, Nor by division was vermilion made." Paradiso: Canto XVII As came to Clymene, to be made certain Of that which he had heard against himself, He who makes fathers chary still to children, Therefore my Lady said to me: "Send forth The flame of thy desire, so that it issue Imprinted well with the internal stamp; Not that our knowledge may be greater made By speech of thine, but to accustom thee To tell thy thirst, that we may give thee drink." While I was with Virgilius conjoined Upon the mountain that the souls doth heal, And when descending into the dead world, Were spoken to me of my future life Some grievous words; although I feel myself In sooth foursquare against the blows of chance. On this account my wish would be content To hear what fortune is approaching me, Because foreseen an arrow comes more slowly." Thus did I say unto that selfsame light That unto me had spoken before; and even As Beatrice willed was my own will confessed. Not in vague phrase, in which the foolish folk Ensnared themselves of old, ere yet was slain The Lamb of God who taketh sins away, But with clear words and unambiguous Language responded that paternal love, Hid and revealed by its own proper smile: "Contingency, that outside of the volume Of your materiality extends not, Is all depicted in the eternal aspect. Necessity however thence it takes not, Except as from the eye, in which 'tis mirrored, A ship that with the current down descends. From thence, e'en as there cometh to the ear Sweet harmony from an organ, comes in sight To me the time that is preparing for thee. As forth from Athens went Hippolytus, By reason of his step-dame false and cruel, So thou from Florence must perforce depart. Already this is willed, and this is sought for; And soon it shall be done by him who thinks it, Where every day the Christ is bought and sold. The blame shall follow the offended party In outcry as is usual; but the vengeance Shall witness to the truth that doth dispense it. And that which most shall weigh upon thy shoulders Will be the bad and foolish company With which into this valley thou shalt fall; For all ingrate, all mad and impious Will they become against thee; but soon after They, and not thou, shall have the forehead scarlet. Thine earliest refuge and thine earliest inn Shall be the mighty Lombard's courtesy, Who on the Ladder bears the holy bird, But ere the Gascon cheat the noble Henry, Some sparkles of his virtue shall appear In caring not for silver nor for toil. So recognized shall his magnificence Become hereafter, that his enemies Will not have power to keep mute tongues about it. On him rely, and on his benefits; By him shall many people be transformed, Changing condition rich and mendicant; Then added: "Son, these are the commentaries On what was said to thee; behold the snares That are concealed behind few revolutions; Yet would I not thy neighbours thou shouldst envy, Because thy life into the future reaches Beyond the punishment of their perfidies." When by its silence showed that sainted soul That it had finished putting in the woof Into that web which I had given it warped, Began I, even as he who yearneth after, Being in doubt, some counsel from a person Who seeth, and uprightly wills, and loves: "Well see I, father mine, how spurreth on The time towards me such a blow to deal me As heaviest is to him who most gives way. Therefore with foresight it is well I arm me, That, if the dearest place be taken from me, I may not lose the others by my songs. Down through the world of infinite bitterness, And o'er the mountain, from whose beauteous summit The eyes of my own Lady lifted me, And afterward through heaven from light to light, I have learned that which, if I tell again, Will be a savour of strong herbs to many. And if I am a timid friend to truth, I fear lest I may lose my life with those Who will hereafter call this time the olden." Then made reply: "A conscience overcast Or with its own or with another's shame, Will taste forsooth the tartness of thy word; But ne'ertheless, all falsehood laid aside, Make manifest thy vision utterly, And let them scratch wherever is the itch; This cry of thine shall do as doth the wind, Which smiteth most the most exalted summits, And that is no slight argument of honour. Therefore are shown to thee within these wheels, Upon the mount and in the dolorous valley, Only the souls that unto fame are known; Because the spirit of the hearer rests not, Nor doth confirm its faith by an example Which has the root of it unknown and hidden, Or other reason that is not apparent." Paradiso: Canto XVIII Now was alone rejoicing in its word That soul beatified, and I was tasting My own, the bitter tempering with the sweet, And the Lady who to God was leading me Said: "Change thy thought; consider that I am Near unto Him who every wrong disburdens." Unto the loving accents of my comfort I turned me round, and then what love I saw Within those holy eyes I here relinquish; Not only that my language I distrust, But that my mind cannot return so far Above itself, unless another guide it. Thus much upon that point can I repeat, That, her again beholding, my affection From every other longing was released. While the eternal pleasure, which direct Rayed upon Beatrice, from her fair face Contented me with its reflected aspect, Conquering me with the radiance of a smile, She said to me, "Turn thee about and listen; Not in mine eyes alone is Paradise." Even as sometimes here do we behold The affection in the look, if it be such That all the soul is wrapt away by it, So, by the flaming of the effulgence holy To which I turned, I recognized therein The wish of speaking to me somewhat farther. Are blessed spirits that below, ere yet They came to Heaven, were of such great renown That every Muse therewith would affluent be. Therefore look thou upon the cross's horns; He whom I now shall name will there enact What doth within a cloud its own swift fire." I saw athwart the Cross a splendour drawn By naming Joshua, (even as he did it,) Nor noted I the word before the deed; And at the name of the great Maccabee I saw another move itself revolving, And gladness was the whip unto that top. William thereafterward, and Renouard, And the Duke Godfrey, did attract my sight Along upon that Cross, and Robert Guiscard. Then, moved and mingled with the other lights, The soul that had addressed me showed how great An artist 'twas among the heavenly singers. To my right side I turned myself around, My duty to behold in Beatrice Either by words or gesture signified; And so translucent I beheld her eyes, So full of pleasure, that her countenance Surpassed its other and its latest wont. And as, by feeling greater delectation, A man in doing good from day to day Becomes aware his virtue is increasing, So I became aware that my gyration With heaven together had increased its arc, That miracle beholding more adorned. And such as is the change, in little lapse Of time, in a pale woman, when her face Is from the load of bashfulness unladen, Within that Jovial torch did I behold The sparkling of the love which was therein Delineate our language to mine eyes. And even as birds uprisen from the shore, As in congratulation o'er their food, Make squadrons of themselves, now round, now long, So from within those lights the holy creatures Sang flying to and fro, and in their figures Made of themselves now D, now I, now L. O divine Pegasea, thou who genius Dost glorious make, and render it long-lived, And this through thee the cities and the kingdoms, Illume me with thyself, that I may bring Their figures out as I have them conceived! Apparent be thy power in these brief verses! And other lights I saw descend where was The summit of the M, and pause there singing The good, I think, that draws them to itself. Then, as in striking upon burning logs Upward there fly innumerable sparks, Whence fools are wont to look for auguries, He who there paints has none to be his guide; But Himself guides; and is from Him remembered That virtue which is form unto the nest. O gentle star! what and how many gems Did demonstrate to me, that all our justice Effect is of that heaven which thou ingemmest! Wherefore I pray the Mind, in which begin Thy motion and thy virtue, to regard Whence comes the smoke that vitiates thy rays; O soldiery of heaven, whom I contemplate, Implore for those who are upon the earth All gone astray after the bad example! Yet thou, who writest but to cancel, think That Peter and that Paul, who for this vineyard Which thou art spoiling died, are still alive! Well canst thou say: "So steadfast my desire Is unto him who willed to live alone, And for a dance was led to martyrdom, That I know not the Fisherman nor Paul." Appeared before me with its wings outspread The beautiful image that in sweet fruition Made jubilant the interwoven souls; Appeared a little ruby each, wherein Ray of the sun was burning so enkindled That each into mine eyes refracted it. And what it now behoves me to retrace Nor voice has e'er reported, nor ink written, Nor was by fantasy e'er comprehended; For speak I saw, and likewise heard, the beak, And utter with its voice both 'I' and 'My,' When in conception it was 'We' and 'Our.' And it began: "Being just and merciful Am I exalted here unto that glory Which cannot be exceeded by desire; And upon earth I left my memory Such, that the evil-minded people there Commend it, but continue not the story." So doth a single heat from many embers Make itself felt, even as from many loves Issued a single sound from out that image. Exhaling, break within me the great fast Which a long season has in hunger held me, Not finding for it any food on earth. Well do I know, that if in heaven its mirror Justice Divine another realm doth make, Yours apprehends it not through any veil. You know how I attentively address me To listen; and you know what is the doubt That is in me so very old a fast." Even as a falcon, issuing from his hood, Doth move his head, and with his wings applaud him, Showing desire, and making himself fine, Saw I become that standard, which of lauds Was interwoven of the grace divine, With such songs as he knows who there rejoices. Then it began: "He who a compass turned On the world's outer verge, and who within it Devised so much occult and manifest, Could not the impress of his power so make On all the universe, as that his Word Should not remain in infinite excess. And hence appears it, that each minor nature Is scant receptacle unto that good Which has no end, and by itself is measured. In consequence our vision, which perforce Must be some ray of that intelligence With which all things whatever are replete, Cannot in its own nature be so potent, That it shall not its origin discern Far beyond that which is apparent to it. Therefore into the justice sempiternal The power of vision that your world receives, As eye into the ocean, penetrates; Which, though it see the bottom near the shore, Upon the deep perceives it not, and yet 'Tis there, but it is hidden by the depth. There is no light but comes from the serene That never is o'ercast, nay, it is darkness Or shadow of the flesh, or else its poison. Amply to thee is opened now the cavern Which has concealed from thee the living justice Of which thou mad'st such frequent questioning. For saidst thou: 'Born a man is on the shore Of Indus, and is none who there can speak Of Christ, nor who can read, nor who can write; And all his inclinations and his actions Are good, so far as human reason sees, Without a sin in life or in discourse: He dieth unbaptised and without faith; Where is this justice that condemneth him? Where is his fault, if he do not believe?' Truly to him who with me subtilizes, If so the Scripture were not over you, For doubting there were marvellous occasion. O animals terrene, O stolid minds, The primal will, that in itself is good, Ne'er from itself, the Good Supreme, has moved. So much is just as is accordant with it; No good created draws it to itself, But it, by raying forth, occasions that." Even as above her nest goes circling round The stork when she has fed her little ones, And he who has been fed looks up at her, So lifted I my brows, and even such Became the blessed image, which its wings Was moving, by so many counsels urged. Circling around it sang, and said: "As are My notes to thee, who dost not comprehend them, Such is the eternal judgment to you mortals." Those lucent splendours of the Holy Spirit Grew quiet then, but still within the standard That made the Romans reverend to the world. But look thou, many crying are, 'Christ, Christ!' Who at the judgment shall be far less near To him than some shall be who knew not Christ. What to your kings may not the Persians say, When they that volume opened shall behold In which are written down all their dispraises? There shall be seen, among the deeds of Albert, That which ere long shall set the pen in motion, For which the realm of Prague shall be deserted. There shall be seen the woe that on the Seine He brings by falsifying of the coin, Who by the blow of a wild boar shall die. There shall be seen the pride that causes thirst, Which makes the Scot and Englishman so mad That they within their boundaries cannot rest; Be seen the luxury and effeminate life Of him of Spain, and the Bohemian, Who valour never knew and never wished; Be seen the avarice and poltroonery Of him who guards the Island of the Fire, Wherein Anchises finished his long life; And to declare how pitiful he is Shall be his record in contracted letters Which shall make note of much in little space. And he of Portugal and he of Norway Shall there be known, and he of Rascia too, Who saw in evil hour the coin of Venice. O happy Hungary, if she let herself Be wronged no farther! and Navarre the happy, If with the hills that gird her she be armed! Who from the others' flank departeth not." When he who all the world illuminates Out of our hemisphere so far descends That on all sides the daylight is consumed, And came into my mind this act of heaven, When the ensign of the world and of its leaders Had silent in the blessed beak become; Because those living luminaries all, By far more luminous, did songs begin Lapsing and falling from my memory. O gentle Love, that with a smile dost cloak thee, How ardent in those sparks didst thou appear, That had the breath alone of holy thoughts! I seemed to hear the murmuring of a river That clear descendeth down from rock to rock, Showing the affluence of its mountain-top. And as the sound upon the cithern's neck Taketh its form, and as upon the vent Of rustic pipe the wind that enters it, Even thus, relieved from the delay of waiting, That murmuring of the eagle mounted up Along its neck, as if it had been hollow. There it became a voice, and issued thence From out its beak, in such a form of words As the heart waited for wherein I wrote them. "The part in me which sees and bears the sun In mortal eagles," it began to me, "Now fixedly must needs be looked upon; For of the fires of which I make my figure, Those whence the eye doth sparkle in my head Of all their orders the supremest are. Now knoweth he the merit of his song, In so far as effect of his own counsel, By the reward which is commensurate. Now knoweth he how dearly it doth cost Not following Christ, by the experience Of this sweet life and of its opposite. He who comes next in the circumference Of which I speak, upon its highest arc, Did death postpone by penitence sincere; Now knoweth he that the eternal judgment Suffers no change, albeit worthy prayer Maketh below to-morrow of to-day. The next who follows, with the laws and me, Under the good intent that bore bad fruit Became a Greek by ceding to the pastor; Now knoweth he how all the ill deduced From his good action is not harmful to him, Although the world thereby may be destroyed. And he, whom in the downward arc thou seest, Guglielmo was, whom the same land deplores That weepeth Charles and Frederick yet alive; Now knoweth he how heaven enamoured is With a just king; and in the outward show Of his effulgence he reveals it still. Now knoweth he enough of what the world Has not the power to see of grace divine, Although his sight may not discern the bottom." Such seemed to me the image of the imprint Of the eternal pleasure, by whose will Doth everything become the thing it is. And notwithstanding to my doubt I was As glass is to the colour that invests it, To wait the time in silence it endured not, But forth from out my mouth, "What things are these?" Extorted with the force of its own weight; Whereat I saw great joy of coruscation. Thereafterward with eye still more enkindled The blessed standard made to me reply, To keep me not in wonderment suspended: "I see that thou believest in these things Because I say them, but thou seest not how; So that, although believed in, they are hidden. Thou doest as he doth who a thing by name Well apprehendeth, but its quiddity Cannot perceive, unless another show it. 'Regnum coelorum' suffereth violence From fervent love, and from that living hope That overcometh the Divine volition; Not in the guise that man o'ercometh man, But conquers it because it will be conquered, And conquered conquers by benignity. They passed not from their bodies, as thou thinkest, Gentiles, but Christians in the steadfast faith Of feet that were to suffer and had suffered. The glorious soul concerning which I speak, Returning to the flesh, where brief its stay, Believed in Him who had the power to aid it; Set all his love below on righteousness; Wherefore from grace to grace did God unclose His eye to our redemption yet to be, Whence he believed therein, and suffered not From that day forth the stench of paganism, And he reproved therefor the folk perverse. And you, O mortals! hold yourselves restrained In judging; for ourselves, who look on God, We do not know as yet all the elect; And sweet to us is such a deprivation, Because our good in this good is made perfect, That whatsoe'er God wills, we also will." After this manner by that shape divine, To make clear in me my short-sightedness, Was given to me a pleasant medicine; And as good singer a good lutanist Accompanies with vibrations of the chords, Whereby more pleasantness the song acquires, So, while it spake, do I remember me That I beheld both of those blessed lights, Even as the winking of the eyes concords, Moving unto the words their little flames. Already on my Lady's face mine eyes Again were fastened, and with these my mind, And from all other purpose was withdrawn; And she smiled not; but "If I were to smile," She unto me began, "thou wouldst become Like Semele, when she was turned to ashes. Because my beauty, that along the stairs Of the eternal palace more enkindles, As thou hast seen, the farther we ascend, If it were tempered not, is so resplendent That all thy mortal power in its effulgence Would seem a leaflet that the thunder crushes. Fix in direction of thine eyes the mind, And make of them a mirror for the figure That in this mirror shall appear to thee." He who could know what was the pasturage My sight had in that blessed countenance, When I transferred me to another care, Within the crystal which, around the world Revolving, bears the name of its dear leader, Under whom every wickedness lay dead, like gold, on which the sunshine gleams, A stairway I beheld to such a height Uplifted, that mine eye pursued it not. Likewise beheld I down the steps descending So many splendours, that I thought each light That in the heaven appears was there diffused. And as accordant with their natural custom The rooks together at the break of day Bestir themselves to warm their feathers cold; Then some of them fly off without return, Others come back to where they started from, And others, wheeling round, still keep at home; Such fashion it appeared to me was there Within the sparkling that together came, As soon as on a certain step it struck, And that which nearest unto us remained Became so clear, that in my thought I said, "Well I perceive the love thou showest me; But she, from whom I wait the how and when Of speech and silence, standeth still; whence I Against desire do well if I ask not." She thereupon, who saw my silentness In the sight of Him who seeth everything, Said unto me, "Let loose thy warm desire." And I began: "No merit of my own Renders me worthy of response from thee; But for her sake who granteth me the asking, Thou blessed life that dost remain concealed In thy beatitude, make known to me The cause which draweth thee so near my side; And tell me why is silent in this wheel The dulcet symphony of Paradise, That through the rest below sounds so devoutly." "Thou hast thy hearing mortal as thy sight," It answer made to me; "they sing not here, For the same cause that Beatrice has not smiled. Thus far adown the holy stairway's steps Have I descended but to give thee welcome With words, and with the light that mantles me; Nor did more love cause me to be more ready, For love as much and more up there is burning, As doth the flaming manifest to thee. But the high charity, that makes us servants Prompt to the counsel which controls the world, Allotteth here, even as thou dost observe." "I see full well," said I, "O sacred lamp! How love unfettered in this court sufficeth To follow the eternal Providence; But this is what seems hard for me to see, Wherefore predestinate wast thou alone Unto this office from among thy consorts." No sooner had I come to the last word, Than of its middle made the light a centre, Whirling itself about like a swift millstone. When answer made the love that was therein: "On me directed is a light divine, Piercing through this in which I am embosomed, Of which the virtue with my sight conjoined Lifts me above myself so far, I see The supreme essence from which this is drawn. Hence comes the joyfulness with which I flame, For to my sight, as far as it is clear, The clearness of the flame I equal make. But that soul in the heaven which is most pure, That seraph which his eye on God most fixes, Could this demand of thine not satisfy; Because so deeply sinks in the abyss Of the eternal statute what thou askest, From all created sight it is cut off. And to the mortal world, when thou returnest, This carry back, that it may not presume Longer tow'rd such a goal to move its feet. The mind, that shineth here, on earth doth smoke; From this observe how can it do below That which it cannot though the heaven assume it?" Such limit did its words prescribe to me, The question I relinquished, and restricted Myself to ask it humbly who it was. And form a ridge that Catria is called, 'Neath which is consecrate a hermitage Wont to be dedicate to worship only." That feeding only on the juice of olives Lightly I passed away the heats and frosts, Contented in my thoughts contemplative. That cloister used to render to these heavens Abundantly, and now is empty grown, So that perforce it soon must be revealed. I in that place was Peter Damiano; And Peter the Sinner was I in the house Of Our Lady on the Adriatic shore. Little of mortal life remained to me, When I was called and dragged forth to the hat Which shifteth evermore from bad to worse. Came Cephas, and the mighty Vessel came Of the Holy Spirit, meagre and barefooted, Taking the food of any hostelry. At this voice saw I many little flames From step to step descending and revolving, And every revolution made them fairer. Distinguished it, the thunder so o'ercame me. Paradiso: Canto XXII Oppressed with stupor, I unto my guide Turned like a little child who always runs For refuge there where he confideth most; And she, even as a mother who straightway Gives comfort to her pale and breathless boy With voice whose wont it is to reassure him, Said to me: "Knowest thou not thou art in heaven, And knowest thou not that heaven is holy all And what is done here cometh from good zeal? After what wise the singing would have changed thee And I by smiling, thou canst now imagine, Since that the cry has startled thee so much, In which if thou hadst understood its prayers Already would be known to thee the vengeance Which thou shalt look upon before thou diest. The sword above here smiteth not in haste Nor tardily, howe'er it seem to him Who fearing or desiring waits for it. But turn thee round towards the others now, For very illustrious spirits shalt thou see, If thou thy sight directest as I say." And now the largest and most luculent Among those pearls came forward, that it might Make my desire concerning it content. Within it then I heard: "If thou couldst see Even as myself the charity that burns Among us, thy conceits would be expressed; But, that by waiting thou mayst not come late To the high end, I will make answer even Unto the thought of which thou art so chary. And such abundant grace upon me shone That all the neighbouring towns I drew away From the impious worship that seduced the world. Here is Macarius, here is Romualdus, Here are my brethren, who within the cloisters Their footsteps stayed and kept a steadfast heart." And I to him: "The affection which thou showest Speaking with me, and the good countenance Which I behold and note in all your ardours, In me have so my confidence dilated As the sun doth the rose, when it becomes As far unfolded as it hath the power. Therefore I pray, and thou assure me, father, If I may so much grace receive, that I May thee behold with countenance unveiled." He thereupon: "Brother, thy high desire In the remotest sphere shall be fulfilled, Where are fulfilled all others and my own. For it is not in space, nor turns on poles, And unto it our stairway reaches up, Whence thus from out thy sight it steals away. Up to that height the Patriarch Jacob saw it Extending its supernal part, what time So thronged with angels it appeared to him. The walls that used of old to be an Abbey Are changed to dens of robbers, and the cowls Are sacks filled full of miserable flour. But heavy usury is not taken up So much against God's pleasure as that fruit Which maketh so insane the heart of monks; The flesh of mortals is so very soft, That good beginnings down below suffice not From springing of the oak to bearing acorns. Peter began with neither gold nor silver, And I with orison and abstinence, And Francis with humility his convent. In verity the Jordan backward turned, And the sea's fleeing, when God willed were more A wonder to behold, than succour here." Thus unto me he said; and then withdrew To his own band, and the band closed together; Then like a whirlwind all was upward rapt. The gentle Lady urged me on behind them Up o'er that stairway by a single sign, So did her virtue overcome my nature; O glorious stars, O light impregnated With mighty virtue, from which I acknowledge All of my genius, whatsoe'er it be, And then when grace was freely given to me To enter the high wheel which turns you round, Your region was allotted unto me. To you devoutly at this hour my soul Is sighing, that it virtue may acquire For the stern pass that draws it to itself. "Thou art so near unto the last salvation," Thus Beatrice began, "thou oughtest now To have thine eves unclouded and acute; So that thy heart, as jocund as it may, Present itself to the triumphant throng That comes rejoicing through this rounded ether." And that opinion I approve as best Which doth account it least; and he who thinks Of something else may truly be called just. The aspect of thy son, Hyperion, Here I sustained, and saw how move themselves Around and near him Maia and Dione. Thence there appeared the temperateness of Jove 'Twixt son and father, and to me was clear The change that of their whereabout they make; The threshing-floor that maketh us so proud, To me revolving with the eternal Twins, Was all apparent made from hill to harbour! Then to the beauteous eyes mine eyes I turned. Paradiso: Canto XXIII Even as a bird, 'mid the beloved leaves, Quiet upon the nest of her sweet brood Throughout the night, that hideth all things from us, Who, that she may behold their longed-for looks And find the food wherewith to nourish them, In which, to her, grave labours grateful are, Anticipates the time on open spray And with an ardent longing waits the sun, Gazing intent as soon as breaks the dawn: Even thus my Lady standing was, erect And vigilant, turned round towards the zone Underneath which the sun displays less haste; So that beholding her distraught and wistful, Such I became as he is who desiring For something yearns, and hoping is appeased. And Beatrice exclaimed: "Behold the hosts Of Christ's triumphal march, and all the fruit Harvested by the rolling of these spheres!" It seemed to me her face was all aflame; And eyes she had so full of ecstasy That I must needs pass on without describing. As when in nights serene of the full moon Smiles Trivia among the nymphs eternal Who paint the firmament through all its gulfs, And through the living light transparent shone The lucent substance so intensely clear Into my sight, that I sustained it not. O Beatrice, thou gentle guide and dear! To me she said: "What overmasters thee A virtue is from which naught shields itself. There are the wisdom and the omnipotence That oped the thoroughfares 'twixt heaven and earth, For which there erst had been so long a yearning." As fire from out a cloud unlocks itself, Dilating so it finds not room therein, And down, against its nature, falls to earth, So did my mind, among those aliments Becoming larger, issue from itself, And that which it became cannot remember. "Open thine eyes, and look at what I am: Thou hast beheld such things, that strong enough Hast thou become to tolerate my smile." When I this invitation heard, deserving Of so much gratitude, it never fades Out of the book that chronicles the past. If at this moment sounded all the tongues That Polyhymnia and her sisters made Most lubrical with their delicious milk, To aid me, to a thousandth of the truth It would not reach, singing the holy smile And how the holy aspect it illumed. And therefore, representing Paradise, The sacred poem must perforce leap over, Even as a man who finds his way cut off; But whoso thinketh of the ponderous theme, And of the mortal shoulder laden with it, Should blame it not, if under this it tremble. It is no passage for a little boat This which goes cleaving the audacious prow, Nor for a pilot who would spare himself. "Why doth my face so much enamour thee, That to the garden fair thou turnest not, Which under the rays of Christ is blossoming? There is the Rose in which the Word Divine Became incarnate; there the lilies are By whose perfume the good way was discovered." As in the sunshine, that unsullied streams Through fractured cloud, ere now a meadow of flowers Mine eyes with shadow covered o'er have seen, So troops of splendours manifold I saw Illumined from above with burning rays, Beholding not the source of the effulgence. O power benignant that dost so imprint them! Thou didst exalt thyself to give more scope There to mine eyes, that were not strong enough. The name of that fair flower I e'er invoke Morning and evening utterly enthralled My soul to gaze upon the greater fire. And when in both mine eyes depicted were The glory and greatness of the living star Which there excelleth, as it here excelled, Athwart the heavens a little torch descended Formed in a circle like a coronal, And cinctured it, and whirled itself about it. Whatever melody most sweetly soundeth On earth, and to itself most draws the soul, Would seem a cloud that, rent asunder, thunders, Compared unto the sounding of that lyre Wherewith was crowned the sapphire beautiful, Which gives the clearest heaven its sapphire hue. "I am Angelic Love, that circle round The joy sublime which breathes from out the womb That was the hostelry of our Desire; And I shall circle, Lady of Heaven, while Thou followest thy Son, and mak'st diviner The sphere supreme, because thou enterest there." Thus did the circulated melody Seal itself up; and all the other lights Were making to resound the name of Mary. The regal mantle of the volumes all Of that world, which most fervid is and living With breath of God and with his works and ways, Extended over us its inner border, So very distant, that the semblance of it There where I was not yet appeared to me. Therefore mine eyes did not possess the power Of following the incoronated flame, Which mounted upward near to its own seed. And as a little child, that towards its mother Stretches its arms, when it the milk has taken, Through impulse kindled into outward flame, Each of those gleams of whiteness upward reached So with its summit, that the deep affection They had for Mary was revealed to me. Thereafter they remained there in my sight, 'Regina coeli' singing with such sweetness, That ne'er from me has the delight departed. O, what exuberance is garnered up Within those richest coffers, which had been Good husbandmen for sowing here below! There they enjoy and live upon the treasure Which was acquired while weeping in the exile Of Babylon, wherein the gold was left. There triumpheth, beneath the exalted Son Of God and Mary, in his victory, Both with the ancient council and the new, He who doth keep the keys of such a glory. Paradiso: Canto XXIV "O company elect to the great supper Of the Lamb benedight, who feedeth you So that for ever full is your desire, If by the grace of God this man foretaste Something of that which falleth from your table, Or ever death prescribe to him the time, Direct your mind to his immense desire, And him somewhat bedew; ye drinking are For ever at the fount whence comes his thought." Thus Beatrice; and those souls beatified Transformed themselves to spheres on steadfast poles, Flaming intensely in the guise of comets. So in like manner did those carols, dancing In different measure, of their affluence Give me the gauge, as they were swift or slow. Therefore the pen skips, and I write it not, Since our imagination for such folds, Much more our speech, is of a tint too glaring. "O holy sister mine, who us implorest With such devotion, by thine ardent love Thou dost unbind me from that beautiful sphere!" Thereafter, having stopped, the blessed fire Unto my Lady did direct its breath, Which spake in fashion as I here have said. And she: "O light eterne of the great man To whom our Lord delivered up the keys He carried down of this miraculous joy, If he love well, and hope well, and believe, From thee 'tis hid not; for thou hast thy sight There where depicted everything is seen. But since this kingdom has made citizens By means of the true Faith, to glorify it 'Tis well he have the chance to speak thereof." As baccalaureate arms himself, and speaks not Until the master doth propose the question, To argue it, and not to terminate it, So did I arm myself with every reason, While she was speaking, that I might be ready For such a questioner and such profession. "Say, thou good Christian; manifest thyself; What is the Faith?" Whereat I raised my brow Unto that light wherefrom was this breathed forth. Then turned I round to Beatrice, and she Prompt signals made to me that I should pour The water forth from my internal fountain. "May grace, that suffers me to make confession," Began I, "to the great centurion, Cause my conceptions all to be explicit!" And I continued: "As the truthful pen, Father, of thy dear brother wrote of it, Who put with thee Rome into the good way, Faith is the substance of the things we hope for, And evidence of those that are not seen; And this appears to me its quiddity." Then heard I: "Very rightly thou perceivest, If well thou understandest why he placed it With substances and then with evidences." And I thereafterward: "The things profound, That here vouchsafe to me their apparition, Unto all eyes below are so concealed, That they exist there only in belief, Upon the which is founded the high hope, And hence it takes the nature of a substance. And it behoveth us from this belief To reason without having other sight, And hence it has the nature of evidence." Then heard I: "If whatever is acquired Below by doctrine were thus understood, No sophist's subtlety would there find place." Thus was breathed forth from that enkindled love; Then added: "Very well has been gone over Already of this coin the alloy and weight; But tell me if thou hast it in thy purse?" And I: "Yes, both so shining and so round That in its stamp there is no peradventure." Thereafter issued from the light profound That there resplendent was: "This precious jewel, Upon the which is every virtue founded, Whence hadst thou it?" And I: "The large outpouring Of Holy Spirit, which has been diffused Upon the ancient parchments and the new, A syllogism is, which proved it to me With such acuteness, that, compared therewith, All demonstration seems to me obtuse." And then I heard: "The ancient and the new Postulates, that to thee are so conclusive, Why dost thou take them for the word divine?" And I: "The proofs, which show the truth to me, Are the works subsequent, whereunto Nature Ne'er heated iron yet, nor anvil beat." 'Twas answered me: "Say, who assureth thee That those works ever were? the thing itself That must be proved, nought else to thee affirms it." Because that poor and fasting thou didst enter Into the field to sow there the good plant, Which was a vine and has become a thorn!" And then that Baron, who from branch to branch, Examining, had thus conducted me, Till the extremest leaves we were approaching, Again began: "The Grace that dallying Plays with thine intellect thy mouth has opened, Up to this point, as it should opened be, So that I do approve what forth emerged; But now thou must express what thou believest, And whence to thy belief it was presented." "O holy father, spirit who beholdest What thou believedst so that thou o'ercamest, Towards the sepulchre, more youthful feet," Began I, "thou dost wish me in this place The form to manifest of my prompt belief, And likewise thou the cause thereof demandest. And of such faith not only have I proofs Physical and metaphysical, but gives them Likewise the truth that from this place rains down Through Moses, through the Prophets and the Psalms, Through the Evangel, and through you, who wrote After the fiery Spirit sanctified you; With the profound condition and divine Which now I touch upon, doth stamp my mind Ofttimes the doctrine evangelical. This the beginning is, this is the spark Which afterwards dilates to vivid flame, And, like a star in heaven, is sparkling in me." Even as a lord who hears what pleaseth him His servant straight embraces, gratulating For the good news as soon as he is silent; I spoken had, in speaking I so pleased him. If e'er it happen that the Poem Sacred, To which both heaven and earth have set their hand, So that it many a year hath made me lean, O'ercome the cruelty that bars me out From the fair sheepfold, where a lamb I slumbered, An enemy to the wolves that war upon it, With other voice forthwith, with other fleece Poet will I return, and at my font Baptismal will I take the laurel crown; Because into the Faith that maketh known All souls to God there entered I, and then Peter for her sake thus my brow encircled. And then my Lady, full of ecstasy, Said unto me: "Look, look! behold the Baron For whom below Galicia is frequented." In the same way as, when a dove alights Near his companion, both of them pour forth, Circling about and murmuring, their affection, Smiling thereafterwards, said Beatrice: "Illustrious life, by whom the benefactions Of our Basilica have been described, "Since, through his grace, our Emperor wills that thou Shouldst find thee face to face, before thy death, In the most secret chamber, with his Counts, So that, the truth beholden of this court, Hope, which below there rightfully enamours, Thereby thou strengthen in thyself and others, And the Compassionate, who piloted The plumage of my wings in such high flight, Did in reply anticipate me thus: "No child whatever the Church Militant Of greater hope possesses, as is written In that Sun which irradiates all our band; Therefore it is conceded him from Egypt To come into Jerusalem to see, Or ever yet his warfare be completed. To him I leave; for hard he will not find them, Nor of self-praise; and let him answer them; And may the grace of God in this assist him!" As a disciple, who his teacher follows, Ready and willing, where he is expert, That his proficiency may be displayed, "Hope," said I, "is the certain expectation Of future glory, which is the effect Of grace divine and merit precedent. 'Sperent in te,' in the high Theody He sayeth, 'those who know thy name;' and who Knoweth it not, if he my faith possess? Thou didst instil me, then, with his instilling In the Epistle, so that I am full, And upon others rain again your rain." While I was speaking, in the living bosom Of that combustion quivered an effulgence, Sudden and frequent, in the guise of lightning; Then breathed: "The love wherewith I am inflamed Towards the virtue still which followed me Unto the palm and issue of the field, Wills that I breathe to thee that thou delight In her; and grateful to me is thy telling Whatever things Hope promises to thee." And I: "The ancient Scriptures and the new The mark establish, and this shows it me, Of all the souls whom God hath made his friends. Thy brother, too, far more explicitly, There where he treateth of the robes of white, This revelation manifests to us." And as uprises, goes, and enters the dance A winsome maiden, only to do honour To the new bride, and not from any failing, Into the song and music there it entered; And fixed on them my Lady kept her look, Even as a bride silent and motionless. My Lady thus; but therefore none the more Did move her sight from its attentive gaze Before or afterward these words of hers. Even as a man who gazes, and endeavours To see the eclipsing of the sun a little, And who, by seeing, sightless doth become, So I became before that latest fire, While it was said, "Why dost thou daze thyself To see a thing which here hath no existence? Earth in the earth my body is, and shall be With all the others there, until our number With the eternal proposition tallies. And at this utterance the flaming circle Grew quiet, with the dulcet intermingling Of sound that by the trinal breath was made, As to escape from danger or fatigue The oars that erst were in the water beaten Are all suspended at a whistle's sound. Ah, how much in my mind was I disturbed, When I turned round to look on Beatrice, That her I could not see, although I was Close at her side and in the Happy World! Paradiso: Canto XXVI While I was doubting for my vision quenched, Out of the flame refulgent that had quenched it Issued a breathing, that attentive made me, Saying: "While thou recoverest the sense Of seeing which in me thou hast consumed, 'Tis well that speaking thou shouldst compensate it. Begin then, and declare to what thy soul Is aimed, and count it for a certainty, Sight is in thee bewildered and not dead; Because the Lady, who through this divine Region conducteth thee, has in her look The power the hand of Ananias had." I said: "As pleaseth her, or soon or late Let the cure come to eyes that portals were When she with fire I ever burn with entered. The Good, that gives contentment to this Court, The Alpha and Omega is of all The writing that love reads me low or loud." The selfsame voice, that taken had from me The terror of the sudden dazzlement, To speak still farther put it in my thought; And said: "In verity with finer sieve Behoveth thee to sift; thee it behoveth To say who aimed thy bow at such a target." And I: "By philosophic arguments, And by authority that hence descends, Such love must needs imprint itself in me; For Good, so far as good, when comprehended Doth straight enkindle love, and so much greater As more of goodness in itself it holds; Then to that Essence (whose is such advantage That every good which out of it is found Is nothing but a ray of its own light) Such truth he to my intellect reveals Who demonstrates to me the primal love Of all the sempiternal substances. The voice reveals it of the truthful Author, Who says to Moses, speaking of Himself, 'I will make all my goodness pass before thee.' Thou too revealest it to me, beginning The loud Evangel, that proclaims the secret Of heaven to earth above all other edict." And I heard say: "By human intellect And by authority concordant with it, Of all thy loves reserve for God the highest. But say again if other cords thou feelest, Draw thee towards Him, that thou mayst proclaim With how many teeth this love is biting thee." The holy purpose of the Eagle of Christ Not latent was, nay, rather I perceived Whither he fain would my profession lead. Therefore I recommenced: "All of those bites Which have the power to turn the heart to God Unto my charity have been concurrent. The being of the world, and my own being, The death which He endured that I may live, And that which all the faithful hope, as I do, With the forementioned vivid consciousness Have drawn me from the sea of love perverse, And of the right have placed me on the shore. The leaves, wherewith embowered is all the garden Of the Eternal Gardener, do I love As much as he has granted them of good." As soon as I had ceased, a song most sweet Throughout the heaven resounded, and my Lady Said with the others, "Holy, holy, holy!" And he who wakes abhorreth what he sees, So all unconscious is his sudden waking, Until the judgment cometh to his aid, Even as the bough that downward bends its top At transit of the wind, and then is lifted By its own virtue, which inclines it upward, Likewise did I, the while that she was speaking, Being amazed, and then I was made bold By a desire to speak wherewith I burned. And I began: "O apple, that mature Alone hast been produced, O ancient father, To whom each wife is daughter and daughter-in-law, Devoutly as I can I supplicate thee That thou wouldst speak to me; thou seest my wish; And I, to hear thee quickly, speak it not." Sometimes an animal, when covered, struggles So that his impulse needs must be apparent, By reason of the wrappage following it; And in like manner the primeval soul Made clear to me athwart its covering How jubilant it was to give me pleasure. Then breathed: "Without thy uttering it to me, Thine inclination better I discern Than thou whatever thing is surest to thee; For I behold it in the truthful mirror, That of Himself all things parhelion makes, And none makes Him parhelion of itself. Thou fain wouldst hear how long ago God placed me Within the lofty garden, where this Lady Unto so long a stairway thee disposed. And how long to mine eyes it was a pleasure, And of the great disdain the proper cause, And the language that I used and that I made. Now, son of mine, the tasting of the tree Not in itself was cause of so great exile, But solely the o'erstepping of the bounds. The language that I spake was quite extinct Before that in the work interminable The people under Nimrod were employed; For nevermore result of reasoning (Because of human pleasure that doth change, Obedient to the heavens) was durable. A natural action is it that man speaks; But whether thus or thus, doth nature leave To your own art, as seemeth best to you. Ere I descended to the infernal anguish, 'El' was on earth the name of the Chief Good, From whom comes all the joy that wraps me round 'Eli' he then was called, and that is proper, Because the use of men is like a leaf On bough, which goeth and another cometh. Paradiso: Canto XXVII "Glory be to the Father, to the Son, And Holy Ghost!" all Paradise began, So that the melody inebriate made me. What I beheld seemed unto me a smile Of the universe; for my inebriation Found entrance through the hearing and the sight. O joy! O gladness inexpressible! O perfect life of love and peacefulness! O riches without hankering secure! And even such in semblance it became As Jupiter would become, if he and Mars Were birds, and they should interchange their feathers. That Providence, which here distributeth Season and service, in the blessed choir Had silence upon every side imposed. When I heard say: "If I my colour change, Marvel not at it; for while I am speaking Thou shalt behold all these their colour change. He who usurps upon the earth my place, My place, my place, which vacant has become Before the presence of the Son of God, With the same colour which, through sun adverse, Painteth the clouds at evening or at morn, Beheld I then the whole of heaven suffused. And as a modest woman, who abides Sure of herself, and at another's failing, From listening only, timorous becomes, Even thus did Beatrice change countenance; And I believe in heaven was such eclipse, When suffered the supreme Omnipotence; Thereafterward proceeded forth his words With voice so much transmuted from itself, The very countenance was not more changed. "The spouse of Christ has never nurtured been On blood of mine, of Linus and of Cletus, To be made use of in acquest of gold; But in acquest of this delightful life Sixtus and Pius, Urban and Calixtus, After much lamentation, shed their blood. Our purpose was not, that on the right hand Of our successors should in part be seated The Christian folk, in part upon the other; Nor that the keys which were to me confided Should e'er become the escutcheon on a banner, That should wage war on those who are baptized; Nor I be made the figure of a seal To privileges venal and mendacious, Whereat I often redden and flash with fire. In garb of shepherds the rapacious wolves Are seen from here above o'er all the pastures! O wrath of God, why dost thou slumber still? To drink our blood the Caorsines and Gascons Are making ready. O thou good beginning, Unto how vile an end must thou needs fall! But the high Providence, that with Scipio At Rome the glory of the world defended, Will speedily bring aid, as I conceive; And thou, my son, who by thy mortal weight Shalt down return again, open thy mouth; What I conceal not, do not thou conceal." As with its frozen vapours downward falls In flakes our atmosphere, what time the horn Of the celestial Goat doth touch the sun, Upward in such array saw I the ether Become, and flaked with the triumphant vapours, Which there together with us had remained. My sight was following up their semblances, And followed till the medium, by excess, The passing farther onward took from it; Whereat the Lady, who beheld me freed From gazing upward, said to me: "Cast down Thy sight, and see how far thou art turned round." So that I saw the mad track of Ulysses Past Gades, and this side, well nigh the shore Whereon became Europa a sweet burden. And of this threshing-floor the site to me Were more unveiled, but the sun was proceeding Under my feet, a sign and more removed. And if or Art or Nature has made bait To catch the eyes and so possess the mind, In human flesh or in its portraiture, All joined together would appear as nought To the divine delight which shone upon me When to her smiling face I turned me round. The virtue that her look endowed me with From the fair nest of Leda tore me forth, And up into the swiftest heaven impelled me. Its parts exceeding full of life and lofty Are all so uniform, I cannot say Which Beatrice selected for my place. But she, who was aware of my desire, Began, the while she smiled so joyously That God seemed in her countenance to rejoice: "The nature of that motion, which keeps quiet The centre and all the rest about it moves, From hence begins as from its starting point. And in this heaven there is no other Where Than in the Mind Divine, wherein is kindled The love that turns it, and the power it rains. Within a circle light and love embrace it, Even as this doth the others, and that precinct He who encircles it alone controls. And in what manner time in such a pot May have its roots, and in the rest its leaves, Now unto thee can manifest be made. Full fairly blossoms in mankind the will; But the uninterrupted rain converts Into abortive wildings the true plums. Fidelity and innocence are found Only in children; afterwards they both Take flight or e'er the cheeks with down are covered. Another, while he prattles, loves and listens Unto his mother, who when speech is perfect Forthwith desires to see her in her grave. Ere January be unwintered wholly By the centesimal on earth neglected, Shall these supernal circles roar so loud The tempest that has been so long awaited Shall whirl the poops about where are the prows; So that the fleet shall run its course direct, And the true fruit shall follow on the flower." Paradiso: Canto XXVIII After the truth against the present life Of miserable mortals was unfolded By her who doth imparadise my mind, As in a looking-glass a taper's flame He sees who from behind is lighted by it, Before he has it in his sight or thought, And turns him round to see if so the glass Tell him the truth, and sees that it accords Therewith as doth a music with its metre, In similar wise my memory recollecteth That I did, looking into those fair eyes, Of which Love made the springes to ensnare me. And as I turned me round, and mine were touched By that which is apparent in that volume, Whenever on its gyre we gaze intent, A point beheld I, that was raying out Light so acute, the sight which it enkindles Must close perforce before such great acuteness. Perhaps at such a distance as appears A halo cincturing the light that paints it, When densest is the vapour that sustains it, Thus distant round the point a circle of fire So swiftly whirled, that it would have surpassed Whatever motion soonest girds the world; My Lady, who in my anxiety Beheld me much perplexed, said: "From that point Dependent is the heaven and nature all. Behold that circle most conjoined to it, And know thou, that its motion is so swift Through burning love whereby it is spurred on." And I to her: "If the world were arranged In the order which I see in yonder wheels, What's set before me would have satisfied me; But in the world of sense we can perceive That evermore the circles are diviner As they are from the centre more remote Wherefore if my desire is to be ended In this miraculous and angelic temple, That has for confines only love and light, "If thine own fingers unto such a knot Be insufficient, it is no great wonder, So hard hath it become for want of trying." My Lady thus; then said she: "Do thou take What I shall tell thee, if thou wouldst be sated, And exercise on that thy subtlety. The circles corporal are wide and narrow According to the more or less of virtue Which is distributed through all their parts. The greater goodness works the greater weal, The greater weal the greater body holds, If perfect equally are all its parts. On which account, if thou unto the virtue Apply thy measure, not to the appearance Of substances that unto thee seem round, Thou wilt behold a marvellous agreement, Of more to greater, and of less to smaller, In every heaven, with its Intelligence." Even as remaineth splendid and serene The hemisphere of air, when Boreas Is blowing from that cheek where he is mildest, Because is purified and resolved the rack That erst disturbed it, till the welkin laughs With all the beauties of its pageantry; Thus did I likewise, after that my Lady Had me provided with her clear response, And like a star in heaven the truth was seen. And soon as to a stop her words had come, Not otherwise does iron scintillate When molten, than those circles scintillated. Their coruscation all the sparks repeated, And they so many were, their number makes More millions than the doubling of the chess. I heard them sing hosanna choir by choir To the fixed point which holds them at the 'Ubi,' And ever will, where they have ever been. And she, who saw the dubious meditations Within my mind, "The primal circles," said, "Have shown thee Seraphim and Cherubim. Thus rapidly they follow their own bonds, To be as like the point as most they can, And can as far as they are high in vision. Those other Loves, that round about them go, Thrones of the countenance divine are called, Because they terminate the primal Triad. And thou shouldst know that they all have delight As much as their own vision penetrates The Truth, in which all intellect finds rest. From this it may be seen how blessedness Is founded in the faculty which sees, And not in that which loves, and follows next; And of this seeing merit is the measure, Which is brought forth by grace, and by good will; Thus on from grade to grade doth it proceed. Then in the dances twain penultimate The Principalities and Archangels wheel; The last is wholly of angelic sports. These orders upward all of them are gazing, And downward so prevail, that unto God They all attracted are and all attract. And Dionysius with so great desire To contemplate these Orders set himself, He named them and distinguished them as I do. But Gregory afterwards dissented from him; Wherefore, as soon as he unclosed his eyes Within this heaven, he at himself did smile. And if so much of secret truth a mortal Proffered on earth, I would not have thee marvel, For he who saw it here revealed it to him, With much more of the truth about these circles." Paradiso: Canto XXIX At what time both the children of Latona, Surmounted by the Ram and by the Scales, Together make a zone of the horizon, As long as from the time the zenith holds them In equipoise, till from that girdle both Changing their hemisphere disturb the balance, So long, her face depicted with a smile, Did Beatrice keep silence while she gazed Fixedly at the point which had o'ercome me. Then she began: "I say, and I ask not What thou dost wish to hear, for I have seen it Where centres every When and every 'Ubi.' Not to acquire some good unto himself, Which is impossible, but that his splendour In its resplendency may say, 'Subsisto,' In his eternity outside of time, Outside all other limits, as it pleased him, Into new Loves the Eternal Love unfolded. Nor as if torpid did he lie before; For neither after nor before proceeded The going forth of God upon these waters. And as in glass, in amber, or in crystal A sunbeam flashes so, that from its coming To its full being is no interval, So from its Lord did the triform effect Ray forth into its being all together, Without discrimination of beginning. Order was con-created and constructed In substances, and summit of the world Were those wherein the pure act was produced. Pure potentiality held the lowest part; Midway bound potentiality with act Such bond that it shall never be unbound. Jerome has written unto you of angels Created a long lapse of centuries Or ever yet the other world was made; But written is this truth in many places By writers of the Holy Ghost, and thou Shalt see it, if thou lookest well thereat. And even reason seeth it somewhat, For it would not concede that for so long Could be the motors without their perfection. The rest remained, and they began this art Which thou discernest, with so great delight That never from their circling do they cease. Those whom thou here beholdest modest were To recognise themselves as of that goodness Which made them apt for so much understanding; On which account their vision was exalted By the enlightening grace and their own merit, So that they have a full and steadfast will. I would not have thee doubt, but certain be, 'Tis meritorious to receive this grace, According as the affection opens to it. Now round about in this consistory Much mayst thou contemplate, if these my words Be gathered up, without all further aid. But since upon the earth, throughout your schools, They teach that such is the angelic nature That it doth hear, and recollect, and will, More will I say, that thou mayst see unmixed The truth that is confounded there below, Equivocating in such like prelections. These substances, since in God's countenance They jocund were, turned not away their sight From that wherefrom not anything is hidden; Hence they have not their vision intercepted By object new, and hence they do not need To recollect, through interrupted thought. So that below, not sleeping, people dream, Believing they speak truth, and not believing; And in the last is greater sin and shame. And even this above here is endured With less disdain, than when is set aside The Holy Writ, or when it is distorted. They think not there how much of blood it costs To sow it in the world, and how he pleases Who in humility keeps close to it. Each striveth for appearance, and doth make His own inventions; and these treated are By preachers, and the Evangel holds its peace. And lies; for of its own accord the light Hid itself; whence to Spaniards and to Indians, As to the Jews, did such eclipse respond. Florence has not so many Lapi and Bindi As fables such as these, that every year Are shouted from the pulpit back and forth, In such wise that the lambs, who do not know, Come back from pasture fed upon the wind, And not to see the harm doth not excuse them. And this so loudly sounded from their lips, That, in the warfare to enkindle Faith, They made of the Evangel shields and lances. Now men go forth with jests and drolleries To preach, and if but well the people laugh, The hood puffs out, and nothing more is asked. But in the cowl there nestles such a bird, That, if the common people were to see it, They would perceive what pardons they confide in, By this Saint Anthony his pig doth fatten, And many others, who are worse than pigs, Paying in money without mark of coinage. But since we have digressed abundantly, Turn back thine eyes forthwith to the right path, So that the way be shortened with the time. And if thou notest that which is revealed By Daniel, thou wilt see that in his thousands Number determinate is kept concealed. The primal light, that all irradiates it, By modes as many is received therein, As are the splendours wherewith it is mated. Hence, inasmuch as on the act conceptive The affection followeth, of love the sweetness Therein diversely fervid is or tepid. The height behold now and the amplitude Of the eternal power, since it hath made Itself so many mirrors, where 'tis broken, When the mid-heaven begins to make itself So deep to us, that here and there a star Ceases to shine so far down as this depth, And as advances bright exceedingly The handmaid of the sun, the heaven is closed Light after light to the most beautiful; Not otherwise the Triumph, which for ever Plays round about the point that vanquished me, Seeming enclosed by what itself encloses, Little by little from my vision faded; Whereat to turn mine eyes on Beatrice My seeing nothing and my love constrained me. If what has hitherto been said of her Were all concluded in a single praise, Scant would it be to serve the present turn. Not only does the beauty I beheld Transcend ourselves, but truly I believe Its Maker only may enjoy it all. Vanquished do I confess me by this passage More than by problem of his theme was ever O'ercome the comic or the tragic poet; For as the sun the sight that trembles most, Even so the memory of that sweet smile My mind depriveth of its very self. But now perforce this sequence must desist From following her beauty with my verse, As every artist at his uttermost. Such as I leave her to a greater fame Than any of my trumpet, which is bringing Its arduous matter to a final close, With voice and gesture of a perfect leader She recommenced: "We from the greatest body Have issued to the heaven that is pure light; Light intellectual replete with love, Love of true good replete with ecstasy, Ecstasy that transcendeth every sweetness. Even as a sudden lightning that disperses The visual spirits, so that it deprives The eye of impress from the strongest objects, Thus round about me flashed a living light, And left me swathed around with such a veil Of its effulgence, that I nothing saw. "Ever the Love which quieteth this heaven Welcomes into itself with such salute, To make the candle ready for its flame." No sooner had within me these brief words An entrance found, than I perceived myself To be uplifted over my own power, And I with vision new rekindled me, Such that no light whatever is so pure But that mine eyes were fortified against it. Out of this river issued living sparks, And on all sides sank down into the flowers, Like unto rubies that are set in gold; "The high desire, that now inflames and moves thee To have intelligence of what thou seest, Pleaseth me all the more, the more it swells. But of this water it behoves thee drink Before so great a thirst in thee be slaked." Thus said to me the sunshine of mine eyes; And added: "The river and the topazes Going in and out, and the laughing of the herbage, Are of their truth foreshadowing prefaces; Not that these things are difficult in themselves, But the deficiency is on thy side, For yet thou hast not vision so exalted." There is no babe that leaps so suddenly With face towards the milk, if he awake Much later than his usual custom is, As I did, that I might make better mirrors Still of mine eyes, down stooping to the wave Which flows that we therein be better made. And even as the penthouse of mine eyelids Drank of it, it forthwith appeared to me Out of its length to be transformed to round. Then as a folk who have been under masks Seem other than before, if they divest The semblance not their own they disappeared in, Thus into greater pomp were changed for me The flowerets and the sparks, so that I saw Both of the Courts of Heaven made manifest. O splendour of God! by means of which I saw The lofty triumph of the realm veracious, Give me the power to say how it I saw! There is a light above, which visible Makes the Creator unto every creature, Who only in beholding Him has peace, And it expands itself in circular form To such extent, that its circumference Would be too large a girdle for the sun. The semblance of it is all made of rays Reflected from the top of Primal Motion, Which takes therefrom vitality and power. And as a hill in water at its base Mirrors itself, as if to see its beauty When affluent most in verdure and in flowers, And if the lowest row collect within it So great a light, how vast the amplitude Is of this Rose in its extremest leaves! My vision in the vastness and the height Lost not itself, but comprehended all The quantity and quality of that gladness. Into the yellow of the Rose Eternal That spreads, and multiplies, and breathes an odour Of praise unto the ever-vernal Sun, Behold how vast the circuit of our city! Behold our seats so filled to overflowing, That here henceforward are few people wanting! On that great throne whereon thine eyes are fixed For the crown's sake already placed upon it, Before thou suppest at this wedding feast Shall sit the soul (that is to be Augustus On earth) of noble Henry, who shall come To redress Italy ere she be ready. Blind covetousness, that casts its spell upon you, Has made you like unto the little child, Who dies of hunger and drives off the nurse. And in the sacred forum then shall be A Prefect such, that openly or covert On the same road he will not walk with him. But long of God he will not be endured In holy office; he shall be thrust down Where Simon Magus is for his deserts, And make him of Alagna lower go!" Paradiso: Canto XXXI In fashion then as of a snow-white rose Displayed itself to me the saintly host, Whom Christ in his own blood had made his bride, But the other host, that flying sees and sings The glory of Him who doth enamour it, And the goodness that created it so noble, Sank into the great flower, that is adorned With leaves so many, and thence reascended To where its love abideth evermore. Their faces had they all of living flame, And wings of gold, and all the rest so white No snow unto that limit doth attain. From bench to bench, into the flower descending, They carried something of the peace and ardour Which by the fanning of their flanks they won. Nor did the interposing 'twixt the flower And what was o'er it of such plenitude Of flying shapes impede the sight and splendour; Because the light divine so penetrates The universe, according to its merit, That naught can be an obstacle against it. O Trinal Light, that in a single star Sparkling upon their sight so satisfies them, Look down upon our tempest here below! If the barbarians, coming from some region That every day by Helice is covered, Revolving with her son whom she delights in, With what amazement must I have been filled! Truly between this and the joy, it was My pleasure not to hear, and to be mute. And as a pilgrim who delighteth him In gazing round the temple of his vow, And hopes some day to retell how it was, So through the living light my way pursuing Directed I mine eyes o'er all the ranks, Now up, now down, and now all round about. Faces I saw of charity persuasive, Embellished by His light and their own smile, And attitudes adorned with every grace. The general form of Paradise already My glance had comprehended as a whole, In no part hitherto remaining fixed, And round I turned me with rekindled wish My Lady to interrogate of things Concerning which my mind was in suspense. O'erflowing was he in his eyes and cheeks With joy benign, in attitude of pity As to a tender father is becoming. And "She, where is she?" instantly I said; Whence he: "To put an end to thy desire, Me Beatrice hath sent from mine own place. Without reply I lifted up mine eyes, And saw her, as she made herself a crown Reflecting from herself the eternal rays. Not from that region which the highest thunders Is any mortal eye so far removed, In whatsoever sea it deepest sinks, As there from Beatrice my sight; but this Was nothing unto me; because her image Descended not to me by medium blurred. "O Lady, thou in whom my hope is strong, And who for my salvation didst endure In Hell to leave the imprint of thy feet, Of whatsoever things I have beheld, As coming from thy power and from thy goodness I recognise the virtue and the grace. Thou from a slave hast brought me unto freedom, By all those ways, by all the expedients, Whereby thou hadst the power of doing it. Preserve towards me thy magnificence, So that this soul of mine, which thou hast healed, Pleasing to thee be loosened from the body." And said the Old Man holy: "That thou mayst Accomplish perfectly thy journeying, Whereunto prayer and holy love have sent me, Fly with thine eyes all round about this garden; For seeing it will discipline thy sight Farther to mount along the ray divine. And she, the Queen of Heaven, for whom I burn Wholly with love, will grant us every grace, Because that I her faithful Bernard am." As he who peradventure from Croatia Cometh to gaze at our Veronica, Who through its ancient fame is never sated, But says in thought, the while it is displayed, "My Lord, Christ Jesus, God of very God, Now was your semblance made like unto this?" Even such was I while gazing at the living Charity of the man, who in this world By contemplation tasted of that peace. "Thou son of grace, this jocund life," began he, "Will not be known to thee by keeping ever Thine eyes below here on the lowest place; But mark the circles to the most remote, Until thou shalt behold enthroned the Queen To whom this realm is subject and devoted." I lifted up mine eyes, and as at morn The oriental part of the horizon Surpasses that wherein the sun goes down, Thus, as if going with mine eyes from vale To mount, I saw a part in the remoteness Surpass in splendour all the other front. And even as there where we await the pole That Phaeton drove badly, blazes more The light, and is on either side diminished, So likewise that pacific oriflamme Gleamed brightest in the centre, and each side In equal measure did the flame abate. I saw there at their sports and at their songs A beauty smiling, which the gladness was Within the eyes of all the other saints; And if I had in speaking as much wealth As in imagining, I should not dare To attempt the smallest part of its delight. Bernard, as soon as he beheld mine eyes Fixed and intent upon its fervid fervour, His own with such affection turned to her That it made mine more ardent to behold. Paradiso: Canto XXXII Absorbed in his delight, that contemplator Assumed the willing office of a teacher, And gave beginning to these holy words: Sarah, Rebecca, Judith, and her who was Ancestress of the Singer, who for dole Of the misdeed said, 'Miserere mei,' Because, according to the view which Faith In Christ had taken, these are the partition By which the sacred stairways are divided. Upon the other side, where intersected With vacant spaces are the semicircles, Are those who looked to Christ already come. And as, upon this side, the glorious seat Of the Lady of Heaven, and the other seats Below it, such a great division make, Well canst thou recognise it in their faces, And also in their voices puerile, If thou regard them well and hearken to them. Now doubtest thou, and doubting thou art silent; But I will loosen for thee the strong bond In which thy subtile fancies hold thee fast. Within the amplitude of this domain No casual point can possibly find place, No more than sadness can, or thirst, or hunger; For by eternal law has been established Whatever thou beholdest, so that closely The ring is fitted to the finger here. And therefore are these people, festinate Unto true life, not 'sine causa' here More and less excellent among themselves. The King, by means of whom this realm reposes In so great love and in so great delight That no will ventureth to ask for more, In his own joyous aspect every mind Creating, at his pleasure dowers with grace Diversely; and let here the effect suffice. And this is clearly and expressly noted For you in Holy Scripture, in those twins Who in their mother had their anger roused. According to the colour of the hair, Therefore, with such a grace the light supreme Consenteth that they worthily be crowned. 'Tis true that in the early centuries, With innocence, to work out their salvation Sufficient was the faith of parents only. But after that the time of grace had come Without the baptism absolute of Christ, Such innocence below there was retained. Look now into the face that unto Christ Hath most resemblance; for its brightness only Is able to prepare thee to see Christ." On her did I behold so great a gladness Rain down, borne onward in the holy minds Created through that altitude to fly, That whatsoever I had seen before Did not suspend me in such admiration, Nor show me such similitude of God. Unto the canticle divine responded From every part the court beatified, So that each sight became serener for it. "O holy father, who for me endurest To be below here, leaving the sweet place In which thou sittest by eternal lot, Who is the Angel that with so much joy Into the eyes is looking of our Queen, Enamoured so that he seems made of fire?" And he to me: "Such gallantry and grace As there can be in Angel and in soul, All is in him; and thus we fain would have it; But now come onward with thine eyes, as I Speaking shall go, and note the great patricians Of this most just and merciful of empires. He who upon the left is near her placed The father is, by whose audacious taste The human species so much bitter tastes. Upon the right thou seest that ancient father Of Holy Church, into whose keeping Christ The keys committed of this lovely flower. And he who all the evil days beheld, Before his death, of her the beauteous bride Who with the spear and with the nails was won, Beside him sits, and by the other rests That leader under whom on manna lived The people ingrate, fickle, and stiff-necked. Opposite Peter seest thou Anna seated, So well content to look upon her daughter, Her eyes she moves not while she sings Hosanna. And opposite the eldest household father Lucia sits, she who thy Lady moved When to rush downward thou didst bend thy brows. But since the moments of thy vision fly, Here will we make full stop, as a good tailor Who makes the gown according to his cloth, Truly, lest peradventure thou recede, Moving thy wings believing to advance, By prayer behoves it that grace be obtained; And he began this holy orison. Paradiso: Canto XXXIII "Thou Virgin Mother, daughter of thy Son, Humble and high beyond all other creature, The limit fixed of the eternal counsel, Within thy womb rekindled was the love, By heat of which in the eternal peace After such wise this flower has germinated. Here unto us thou art a noonday torch Of charity, and below there among mortals Thou art the living fountain-head of hope. Lady, thou art so great, and so prevailing, That he who wishes grace, nor runs to thee, His aspirations without wings would fly. Not only thy benignity gives succour To him who asketh it, but oftentimes Forerunneth of its own accord the asking. In thee compassion is, in thee is pity, In thee magnificence; in thee unites Whate'er of goodness is in any creature. Supplicate thee through grace for so much power That with his eyes he may uplift himself Higher towards the uttermost salvation. And I, who never burned for my own seeing More than I do for his, all of my prayers Proffer to thee, and pray they come not short, That thou wouldst scatter from him every cloud Of his mortality so with thy prayers, That the Chief Pleasure be to him displayed. Still farther do I pray thee, Queen, who canst Whate'er thou wilt, that sound thou mayst preserve After so great a vision his affections. The eyes beloved and revered of God, Fastened upon the speaker, showed to us How grateful unto her are prayers devout; Then unto the Eternal Light they turned, On which it is not credible could be By any creature bent an eye so clear. And I, who to the end of all desires Was now approaching, even as I ought The ardour of desire within me ended. Bernard was beckoning unto me, and smiling, That I should upward look; but I already Was of my own accord such as he wished; Because my sight, becoming purified, Was entering more and more into the ray Of the High Light which of itself is true. From that time forward what I saw was greater Than our discourse, that to such vision yields, And yields the memory unto such excess. Even as he is who seeth in a dream, And after dreaming the imprinted passion Remains, and to his mind the rest returns not, Even such am I, for almost utterly Ceases my vision, and distilleth yet Within my heart the sweetness born of it; Even thus the snow is in the sun unsealed, Even thus upon the wind in the light leaves Were the soothsayings of the Sibyl lost. O Light Supreme, that dost so far uplift thee From the conceits of mortals, to my mind Of what thou didst appear re-lend a little, And make my tongue of so great puissance, That but a single sparkle of thy glory It may bequeath unto the future people; For by returning to my memory somewhat, And by a little sounding in these verses, More of thy victory shall be conceived! I think the keenness of the living ray Which I endured would have bewildered me, If but mine eyes had been averted from it; And I remember that I was more bold On this account to bear, so that I joined My aspect with the Glory Infinite. O grace abundant, by which I presumed To fix my sight upon the Light Eternal, So that the seeing I consumed therein! The universal fashion of this knot Methinks I saw, since more abundantly In saying this I feel that I rejoice. My mind in this wise wholly in suspense, Steadfast, immovable, attentive gazed, And evermore with gazing grew enkindled. Because the good, which object is of will, Is gathered all in this, and out of it That is defective which is perfect there. Shorter henceforward will my language fall Of what I yet remember, than an infant's Who still his tongue doth moisten at the breast. O how all speech is feeble and falls short Of my conceit, and this to what I saw Is such, 'tis not enough to call it little! O Light Eterne, sole in thyself that dwellest, Sole knowest thyself, and, known unto thyself And knowing, lovest and smilest on thyself! That circulation, which being thus conceived Appeared in thee as a reflected light, When somewhat contemplated by mine eyes, Within itself, of its own very colour Seemed to me painted with our effigy, Wherefore my sight was all absorbed therein. As the geometrician, who endeavours To square the circle, and discovers not, By taking thought, the principle he wants, Even such was I at that new apparition; I wished to see how the image to the circle Conformed itself, and how it there finds place; But my own wings were not enough for this, Had it not been that then my mind there smote A flash of lightning, wherein came its wish. Here vigour failed the lofty fantasy: But now was turning my desire and will, Even as a wheel that equally is moved, The Love which moves the sun and the other stars. Oft have I seen at some cathedral door A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat, Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er; Far off the noises of the world retreat; The loud vociferations of the street Become an undistinguishable roar. So, as I enter here from day to day, And leave my burden at this minster gate, Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, The tumult of the time disconsolate To inarticulate murmurs dies away, While the eternal ages watch and wait. How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers! This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers, And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers! But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves, And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers! Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain, What exultations trampling on despair, What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong, What passionate outcry of a soul in pain, Uprose this poem of the earth and air, This mediaeval miracle of song! I enter, and I see thee in the gloom Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine! And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine. The air is filled with some unknown perfume; The congregation of the dead make room For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine; Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine, The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb. From the confessionals I hear arise Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies, And lamentations from the crypts below And then a voice celestial that begins With the pathetic words, "Although your sins As scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow." With snow-white veil, and garments as of flame, She stands before thee, who so long ago Filled thy young heart with passion and the woe From which thy song in all its splendors came; And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name, The ice about thy heart melts as the snow On mountain heights, and in swift overflow Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs of shame. Thou makest full confession; and a gleam As of the dawn on some dark forest cast, Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase; Lethe and Eunoe--the remembered dream And the forgotten sorrow--bring at last That perfect pardon which is perfect peace. I Lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze With forms of saints and holy men who died, Here martyred and hereafter glorified; And the great Rose upon its leaves displays Christ's Triumph, and the angelic roundelays, With splendor upon splendor multiplied; And Beatrice again at Dante's side No more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise. And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirs Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love And benedictions of the Holy Ghost; And the melodious bells among the spires O'er all the house-tops and through heaven above Proclaim the elevation of the Host! O star of morning and of liberty! O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines Above the darkness of the Apennines, Forerunner of the day that is to be! The voices of the city and the sea, The voices of the mountains and the pines, Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines Are footpaths for the thought of Italy! Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights, Through all the nations; and a sound is heard, As of a mighty wind, and men devout, Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes, In their own language hear thy wondrous word, And many are amazed and many doubt. End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of The Divine Comedy of Dante as translanted by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow	redpajama-book	110,189
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Dave Morgan and PG Distributed Proofreaders THE RIVET IN GRANDFATHER'S NECK A Comedy of Limitations "_To this new South, who values her high past in chief, as fit foundation of that edifice whereon she labors day by day, and with augmenting strokes_." PRISCILLA BRADLEY CABELL "Daily I find some gallant dream that ranges The heights of heaven; and as others do, I serve my dream until my dream estranges Its errant bondage, and I note anew That nothing dims, nor shakes, nor mars, nor changes, Fond faith in you and in my love of you." In the middle of the cupboard door was the carved figure of a man He had goat's legs, little horns on his head, and a long beard; the children in the room called him, "Major-General-field-sergeant -commander-Billy-goat's-legs" He was always looking at the table under the looking-glass where stood a very pretty little shepherdess made of china Close by her side stood a little chimney-sweep, as black as coal and also made of china Near to them stood another figure He was an old Chinaman who could nod his head, and used to pretend he was the grandfather of the shepherdess, although he could not prove it. He, however, assumed authority over her, and therefore when "Major-general-field-sergeant-commander-Billy-goat's -legs" asked for the little shepherdess to be his wife, he nodded his head to show that he consented. And so the little china people remained together and were thankful for the rivet in grandfather's neck, and continued to love each other until they were broken to pieces. _"A singer, eh? Well, well! but when he sings Take jealous heed lest idiosyncrasies Entinge and taint too deep his melodies; See that his lute has no discordant strings To harrow us; and let his vaporings Be all of virtue and its victories, And of man's best and noblest qualities, And scenery, and flowers, and similar things_. "Thus bid our paymasters whose mutterings Some few deride, and blithely link their rhymes At random; and, as ever, on frail wings Of wine-stained paper scribbled with such rhymes Men mount to heaven, and loud laughter springs From hell's midpit, whose fuel is such rhymes." PAUL VERVILLE. _Nascitur_. And Colonel Rudolph Musgrave had very narrowly escaped being named as the co-respondent. This much, at least, all Lichfield knew when George Pendomer--evincing unsuspected funds of generosity--permitted his wife to secure a divorce on the euphemistic grounds of "desertion." John Charteris, acting as Rudolph Musgrave's friend, had patched up this arrangement; and the colonel and Mrs. Pendomer, so rumor ran, were to be married very quietly after a decent interval. Remained only to deliberate whether this sop to the conventions should be accepted as sufficient. Her friend seemed dubious, and hazarded something concerning "the merest sense of decency." "Well, after all, she was born a Bellingham. We must remember that." "Wasn't I saying I knew my Lichfield?" Mrs. Ashmeade placidly observed. And time, indeed, attested her to be right in every particular. These details, indeed, were never officially made public, since a discreet police force "found no clues"; for Fred Musgrave (of King's Garden), as befitted the dead man's well-to-do brother, had been at no little pains to insure constabulary shortsightedness, in preference to having the nature of Scott Musgrave's recreations unsympathetically aired. Fred Musgrave thereby afforded Lichfield a delectable opportunity (conversationally and abetted by innumerable "they _do_ say's") to accredit the murder, turn by turn, to every able-bodied person residing within stone's throw of its commission. So that few had time, now, to talk of Rudolph Musgrave and Clarice Pendomer; for it was not in Lichfieldian human nature to discuss a mere domestic imbroglio when here, also in the Musgrave family, was a picturesque and gory assassination to lay tongue to. So Colonel Musgrave was duly reelected that spring to the librarianship of the Lichfield Historical Association, and the name of Mrs. George Pendomer was not stricken from the list of patronesses of the Lichfield German Club, but was merely altered to "Mrs. Clarice Pendomer." At the bottom of his heart Colonel Musgrave was a trifle irritated that his self-sacrifice should be thus unrewarded by martyrdom. Circumstances had enabled him to assume, and he had gladly accepted, the blame for John Charteris's iniquity, rather than let Anne Charteris know the truth about her husband and Clarice Pendomer. The truth would have killed Anne, the colonel believed; and besides, the colonel had enjoyed the performance of a picturesque action. And having acted as a hero in permitting himself to be pilloried as a libertine, it was preferable of course not to have incurred ostracism thereby. His common-sense conceded this; and yet, to Colonel Musgrave, it could not but be evident that Destiny was hardly rising to the possibilities of the situation. His "Library manner" was modeled upon that which an eighteenth century portrait would conceivably possess, should witchcraft set the canvas breathing. Yet, for all this, the colonel was ill-at-ease; and care was on his brow, and venom in his speech. "But, Rudolph," his sister protested, "you forget she is engaged to the Earl of Pevensey. An engaged girl naturally wouldn't care about meeting any young men." "H'm!" said the colonel, drily. Ensued a pause, during which the colonel lighted yet another cigarette. Miss Musgrave was somewhat ruffled. She was a homely little woman with nothing of the ordinary Musgrave comeliness. Candor even compels the statement that in her pudgy swarthy face there was a droll suggestion of the pug-dog. "I am sure," Miss Musgrave remonstrated, with placid dignity, "that you know nothing whatever about her, and that the reports about the earl have probably been greatly exaggerated, and that her picture shows her to be an unusually attractive girl. Though it is true," Miss Musgrave conceded after reflection, "that there are any number of persons in the House of Lords that I wouldn't in the least care to have in my own house, even with the front parlor all in linen as it unfortunately is. So awkward when you have company! And the Bible does bid us not to put our trust in princes, and, for my part, I never thought that photographs could be trusted, either." But at this point, his sister interrupted him. For no apparent reason, Rudolph Musgrave flushed. The colonel spoke with emphasis, and flung away his cigarette, and took up his hat to go. And then, "I suppose," said Miss Musgrave, absently, "you will be falling in love with her, just as you did with Anne Charteris and Aline Van Orden and all those other minxes. I _would_ like to see you married, Rudolph, only I couldn't stand your having a wife." "I! I!" sputtered the colonel. "I think you must be out of your head! I fall in love with that chit! Good Lord, Agatha, you are positively idiotic!" "I beg your pardon, Agatha," he said, contritely, "it was not my intention to be discourteous. But somehow--somehow, dear, I don't quite see the necessity for my falling in love with anybody, so long as I have you." "She would be a very lucky girl if he did," said Miss Musgrave, apropos of nothing in particular; and tossed her grizzly head. "An earl, indeed!" said Miss Musgrave And this is how it came about: Indisputably the man was well-to-do already; and from this nightmarish topsy-turvidom of Reconstruction the fellow visibly was plucking wealth. Also young Stapylton was well enough to look at, too, as Lichfield flurriedly conceded. And then, little by little, a new generation sprang up, and, little by little, the interest these rumors waked became more lax; and it was brought about, at last, by the insidious transitions of time, that Patricia Vartrey was forgotten in Lichfield. Only a few among the older men remembered her; some of them yet treasured, as these fogies so often do, a stray fan or an odd glove; and in bycorners of sundry time-toughened hearts there lurked the memory of a laughing word or of a glance or of some such casual bounty, that Patricia Vartrey had accorded these hearts' owners when the world was young. And so he fretted all that afternoon. "At worst," he was reflecting, "I can make love to her. They, as a rule, take kindlily enough to that; and in the exercise of hospitality a host must go to all lengths to divert his guests. Failure is not permitted " Then She came to him. "Failure is not permitted," he was repeating in his soul "You're Cousin Rudolph, aren't you?" she asked. "How perfectly entrancing! You see until to-day I always thought that if I had been offered the choice between having cousins or appendicitis I would have preferred to be operated on." Then he observed that his own mouth was giving utterance to divers irrelevant and foolish sounds, which eventually resolved themselves into the statement he was glad to see her. And immediately afterward the banality of this remark brought the hot blood to his face and, for the rest of the day, stung him and teased him, somewhere in the background of his mind, like an incessant insect. Before he had finished shaking hands with Patricia Stapylton, it was all over with the poor man. "Er--h'm!" quoth he. "You impertinent minx!" cried he, in his soul; "I should rather think it would be!" Then, "I have no admiration for the Northmen," Rudolph Musgrave declared, stiffly. "They were a rude and barbarous nation, proverbially addicted to piracy and intemperance." "Dear me!" said Miss Stapylton; "how interesting!" Then she yawned with deliberate cruelty. "However," she concluded, "I shall call you Olaf, just the same." "Er--h'm!" said the colonel. And this stuttering boor (he reflected) was Colonel Rudolph Musgrave, confessedly the social triumph of his generation! This imbecile, without a syllable to say for himself, without a solitary adroit word within tongue's reach, wherewith to annihilate the hussy, was a Musgrave of Matocton! And she did. To her he was "Olaf" from that day forth. So Colonel Rudolph Musgrave, without understanding what had happened to him, on a sudden was strangely content with life. It was a delicate question, an affair of nuances, of almost imperceptible graduations; and in debating a matter of such nicety, a man must necessarily lay aside all petty irritation, such as being nettled by an irrational nickname, and approach the question with unbiased mind. He did. And when, at last, he had come warily to the verge of decision, Miss Musgrave in all innocence announced that they would excuse him if he wished to get back to his work. Came a tap on the door. Followed a vision of soft white folds and furbelows and semi-transparencies and purple eyes and a pouting mouth. "I was rather afraid of disturbing you." She hesitated; and a lucent mischief woke in her eyes. "You are so patriarchal, Olaf," she lamented. "I felt like a lion venturing into a den of Daniels. But if you cross your heart you aren't really busy--why, then, you can show me the Stuart, Olaf." "Why, he took after me!" said Miss Stapylton. "How thoughtful of him, Olaf!" "It is true," he conceded, "that there is a certain likeness." "And he is a very beautiful boy," said Miss Stapylton, demurely. "Thank you, Olaf; I begin to think you are a dangerous flatterer. But he is only a boy, Olaf! And I had always thought of Gerald Musgrave as a learned person with a fringe of whiskers all around his face--like a centerpiece, you know." "Oh, yes!" Miss Stapylton assented, hastily; "I remember perfectly. I know all about him, thank you. And it was that beautiful boy, Olaf, that young-eyed cherub, who developed into a musty old man who wrote musty old books, and lived a musty, dusty life all by himself, and never married or had any fun at all! How _horrid_, Olaf!" she cried, with a queer shrug of distaste. "I fail," said Colonel Musgrave, "to perceive anything--ah--horrid in a life devoted to the study of anthropology. His reputation when he died was international." "But he never had any fun, you jay-bird! And, oh, Olaf! Olaf! that boy could have had so much fun! The world held so much for him! Why, Fortune is only a woman, you know, and what woman could have refused him anything if he had smiled at her like that when he asked for it?" Miss Stapylton gazed up at the portrait for a long time now, her hands clasped under her chin. Her face was gently reproachful. "Oh, boy dear, boy dear!" she said, with a forlorn little quaver in her voice, "how _could_ you be _so_ foolish? _Didn't_ you know there was something better in the world than grubbing after musty old tribes and customs and folk-songs? Oh, precious child, how could you?" She looked up at him, with a wan smile. "A barren life!" she said: "ah, yes, his was a wasted life! His books are all out-of-date now, and nobody reads them, and it is just as if he had never been. A barren life, Olaf! And that beautiful boy might have had so much fun--Life is queer, isn't it, Olaf?" Again he laughed, "The criticism," he suggested, "is not altogether original. And Science, no less than War, must have her unsung heroes. You must remember," he continued, more seriously, "that any great work must have as its foundation the achievements of unknown men. I fancy that Cheops did not lay every brick in his pyramid with his own hand; and I dare say Nebuchadnezzar employed a few helpers when he was laying out his hanging gardens. But time cannot chronicle these lesser men. Their sole reward must be the knowledge that they have aided somewhat in the unending work of the world." Her face had altered into a pink and white penitence which was flavored with awe. Long after Miss Stapylton had left him, the colonel sat alone in his study, idle now, and musing vaguely. There were no more addenda concerning the descendants of Captain Thomas Osborne that night. At last, the colonel rose and threw open a window, and stood looking into the moonlit garden. The world bathed in a mist of blue and silver. There was a breeze that brought him sweet, warm odors from the garden, together with a blurred shrilling of crickets and the conspiratorial conference of young leaves. "Of course, it is tremendously fine and--and nice, if you like it," he said, with a faint chuckle. "I wonder, now, if I do like it?" At this time he heard a moaning noise. The colonel gave a shrug, sighed, and ascended to his sister's bedroom. He knew that Agatha must be ill; and that there is no more efficient quietus to wildish meditations than the heating of hot-water bottles and the administration of hypnotics he had long ago discovered. "Phyllis, I am not worthy of thy love. I pray thee let no kindly word be said Of me at all, for in the train thereof, Whenas yet-parted lips, sigh-visited, End speech and wait, mine when I will to move, Such joy awakens that I grow afraid." THOMAS ROWLAND. _Triumphs of Phyllis_. You felt, for the most part of your stay in this country, flushed and hot and uncomfortable and unbelievably awkward, and you were mercilessly bedeviled there; but not for all the accumulated wealth of Samarkand and Ind and Ophir would you have had it otherwise. Ah, no, not otherwise in the least trifle. For now uplifted to a rosy zone of acquiescence, you partook incuriously at table of nectar and ambrosia, and noted abroad, without any surprise, that you trod upon a more verdant grass than usual, and that someone had polished up the sun a bit; and, in fine, you snatched a fearful joy from the performance of the most trivial functions of life. "I will let you into a secret--er--Patricia. That rivet was made out of the strongest material in the whole universe. And the old grandfather was glad, at bottom, he had it in his neck so that he couldn't nod and separate the shepherdess from the chimney-sweep." Miss Stapylton was moved to mirth. "Fancy your noticing a thing like that!" said she. "I didn't know you were even aware I had a blue hat." "I am no judge," he conceded, gravely, "of such fripperies. I don't pretend to be. But, on the other hand, I must plead guilty to deriving considerable harmless amusement from your efforts to dress as an example and an irritant to all Lichfield." "You wouldn't have me a dowd, Olaf?" said she, demurely. "I have to be neat and tidy, you know. You wouldn't have me going about in a continuous state of unbuttonedness and black bombazine like Mrs. Rabbet, would you?" He inspected her critically, and was confirmed in his opinion. "Pouf!" said the colonel airily; "I dare say you are well enough." "I don't admire any of them," said Colonel Musgrave, stoutly. "They are too vain and frivolous--especially the pink-and-white ones," he added, unkindlily. "Cousin Agatha has told me all about your multifarious affairs of course. She depicts you as a sort of cardiacal buccaneer and visibly gloats over the tale of your enormities. She is perfectly dear about it. But have you never--_cared_--for any woman, Olaf?" Precarious ground, this! His eyes were fixed upon her now. And hers, for doubtless sufficient reasons, were curiously intent upon anything in the universe rather than Rudolph Musgrave. "And--she cared?" asked Miss Stapylton. She happened, even now, not to be looking at him. "She!" Rudolph Musgrave cried, in real surprise. "Why, God bless my soul, of course she didn't! She didn't know anything about it." And Colonel Musgrave laughed aloud. She smiled at this. "You should have told her, Olaf," said Miss Stapylton. "You should have told her that you cared." And Rudolph Musgrave laughed again, though not mirthfully. But the girl was staring at him, with a vague trouble in her eyes. "You should have told her, Olaf," she repeated. "You are just like the rest of them, Olaf," she lamented, with a hint of real sadness. "You imagine you are in love with a girl because you happen to like the color of her eyes, or because there is a curve about her lips that appeals to you. That isn't love, Olaf, as we women understand it. Ah, no, a girl's love for a man doesn't depend altogether upon his fitness to be used as an advertisement for somebody's ready-made clothing." "You fancy you know what you are talking about," said Rudolph Musgrave, "but you don't. You don't realize, you see, how beautiful she--was." And this time, he nearly tripped upon the tense, for her hand was on his arm, and, in consequence, a series of warm, delicious little shivers was running about his body in a fashion highly favorable to extreme perturbation of mind. "You should have told her, Olaf," she said, wistfully. "Oh, Olaf, Olaf, why didn't you tell her?" She did not know, of course, how she was tempting him; she did not know, of course, how her least touch seemed to waken every pulse in his body to an aching throb, and set hope and fear a-drumming in his breast. Obviously, she did not know; and it angered him that she did not. "She would have laughed at me," he said, with a snarl; "how she would have laughed!" "She wouldn't have laughed, Olaf." And, indeed, she did not look as if she would. And here the colonel set his teeth for a moment, and resolutely drew back from the abyss. "You should have told her, Olaf," Miss Stapylton persisted; and then she asked, in a voice that came very near being inaudible: "Is it too late to tell her now, Olaf?" The stupid man opened his lips a little, and stood staring at her with hungry eyes, wondering if it were really possible that she did not hear the pounding of his heart; and then his teeth clicked, and he gave a despondent gesture. "Yes," he said, wearily, "it is too late now." Then Miss Stapylton went into the house, and slammed the door after her. And there she remained for the rest of the evening. It was an unusually long evening. Nor did he see her at breakfast--nor at dinner. Then, as he came up the orderly graveled walk, he heard, issuing from the little vine-covered summer-house, a loud voice. It was a man's voice, and its tones were angry. "No! no!" the man was saying; "I'll agree to no such nonsense, I tell you! What do you think I am?" "I think you are a jackass-fool," Miss Stapylton said, crisply, "and a fortune-hunter, and a sot, and a travesty, and a whole heap of other things I haven't, as yet had time to look up in the dictionary. And I think--I think you call yourself an English gentleman? Well, all I have to say is God pity England if her gentlemen are of your stamp! There isn't a costermonger in all Whitechapel who would dare talk to me as you've done! I would like to snatch you bald-headed, I would like to kill you--And do you think, now, if you were the very last man left in all the _world_ that I would--No, don't you try to answer me, for I don't wish to hear a single word you have to say. Oh, oh! how _dare_ you!" "Well, I've had provocation enough," the man's voice retorted, sullenly. "Perhaps, I have cut up a bit rough, Patricia, but, then, you've been talkin' like a fool, you know. But what's the odds? Let's kiss and make up, old girl." "Don't touch me!" she panted; "ah, don't you _dare!_" "You little devil! you infernal little vixen? You'll jilt me, will you?" "Let me go!" the girl cried, sharply. Rudolph Musgrave went into the summer-house. There was in Colonel Musgrave's voice a curious tremor, when he spoke; but to the eye he was unruffled, even faintly amused. "I am the owner of this garden," he enunciated, with leisurely distinctness, "and it is not my custom to permit gentlewomen to be insulted in it. So I am afraid I must ask you to leave it." But when they had reached the side-entrance, he paused and opened it, and then shoved his companion into an open field, where a number of cows, fresh from the evening milking, regarded them with incurious eyes. It was very quiet here, save for the occasional jangle of the cow-bells and the far-off fifing of frogs in the marsh below. "It would have been impossible, of course," said Colonel Musgrave, "for me to have offered you any personal violence as long as you were, in a manner, a guest of mine. This field, however, is the property of Judge Willoughby, and here I feel at liberty to thrash you." Then he thrashed the man who had annoyed Patricia Stapylton. That thrashing was, in its way, a masterpiece. There was a certain conscientiousness about it, a certain thoroughness of execution--a certain plodding and painstaking carefulness, in a word, such as is possible only to those who have spent years in guiding fat-witted tourists among the antiquities of the Lichfield Historical Association. Then he went back into the garden. In the shadow of a white lilac-bush, Colonel Musgrave paused with an awed face. "Good Lord!" said he, aghast at the notion; "what would Agatha say if she knew I had been fighting like a drunken truck-driver! Or, rather, what would she refrain from saying! Only, she wouldn't believe it of me. And, for the matter of that," Rudolph Musgrave continued, after a moment's reflection, "I wouldn't have believed it of myself a week ago. I think I am changing, somehow. A week ago I would have fetched in the police and sworn out a warrant; and, if the weather had been as damp as it is, I would have waited to put on my rubbers before I would have done that much." "What have you done with him, Olaf?" the girl breathed, quickly. "I reasoned with him," said Colonel Musgrave. "Oh, I found him quite amenable to logic. He is leaving Lichfield this evening, I think." Thereupon Miss Stapylton began to laugh. "Yes," said she, "you must have remonstrated very feelingly. Your tie's all crooked, Olaf dear, and your hair's all rumpled, and there's dust all over your coat. You would disgrace a rag-bag. Oh, I'm glad you reasoned--that way! It wasn't dignified, but it was dear of you, Olaf. Pevensey's a beast." "You--you have broken your engagement," he echoed, dully; and continued, with a certain deficiency of finesse, "But I thought you wanted to be a countess?" "Oh, you boor, you vulgarian!" the girl cried, "Oh, you do put things so crudely, Olaf! You are hopeless." She shook an admonitory forefinger in his direction, and pouted in the most dangerous fashion. "Ah!" said Rudolph Musgrave. But he knew. He had seen her face grave and tender in the twilight, and he knew. Thus the stupid man reflected, and made himself very unhappy over it. Then, after a little, the girl threw back her head and drew a deep breath, and flashed a tremulous smile at him. "Ah, yes," said she; "there are better things in life than coronets, aren't there, Olaf?" You should have seen how he caught up the word! "Life!" he cried, with a bitter thrill of speech; "ah, what do I know of life? I am only a recluse, a dreamer, a visionary! You must learn of life from the men who have lived, Patricia. I haven't ever lived. I have always chosen the coward's part. I have chosen to shut myself off from the world, to posture in a village all my days, and to consider its trifles as of supreme importance. I have affected to scorn that brave world yonder where a man is proven. And, all the while, I was afraid of it, I think. I was afraid of you before you came." At the thought of this Rudolph Musgrave laughed as he fell to pacing up and down before her. He paused. It is debatable if he had spoken wisely, or had spoken even in consonance with fact, but his outburst had, at least, the saving grace of sincerity. He was pallid now, shaking in every limb, and in his heart was a dull aching. She seemed so incredibly soft and little and childlike, as she looked up at him with troubled eyes. "I?" she breathed; and now the flush of her cheeks had widened, wondrously. "You! you!" he cried, and gave a wringing motion of his hands, for the self-esteem of a complacent man is not torn away without agony. "Who else but you? I had thought myself brave enough to be silent, but still I must play the coward's part! That woman I told you of--that woman I loved--was you! Yes, you, you!" he cried, again and again, in a sort of frenzy. And then, on a sudden, Colonel Musgrave began to laugh. But she came to him, with a wonderful gesture of compassion, and caught his great, shapely hands in hers. Rudolph Musgrave smiled now, though he found it a difficult business. "Yes," he assented, gravely, "I know, dear. If it were not for the other man--that lucky devil! Yes, he is a very, very lucky devil, child, and he constitutes rather a big 'if,' doesn't he?" Miss Stapylton, too, smiled a little. "No," said she, "that isn't quite the reason. The real reason is, as I told you yesterday, that I quite fail to see how you can expect any woman to marry you, you jay-bird, if you won't go to the trouble of asking her to do so." And, this time, Miss Stapylton did not go into the house. His sister burst into tears. "I--I am so sorry, Olaf," said a remote and tiny voice. And Patricia brazenly confessed that it did not. She also made a face at him, and accused Rudolph Musgrave of trying to crawl out of marrying her, which proceeding led to frivolities unnecessary to record, but found delectable by the participants. Colonel Musgrave was alone. He had lifted his emptied coffee-cup and he swished the lees gently to and fro. He was curiously intent upon these lees, considered them in the light of a symbol "Virginia," said Colonel Musgrave, "don't forget to make up a fire in the kitchen-stove before you go to bed. And please fill the kettle before you go upstairs, and leave it on the stove. Miss Agatha is not well to-night." "Yaas, suh. I unnerstan', suh," Virginia said, sedately. Virginia filled her tray, and went away quietly, her pleasant yellow face as imperturbable as an idol's. Horace Symonds. _Civic Voluntaries_. In fact, the matter had been settled; and Colonel Musgrave had received from Roger Stapylton an exuberantly granted charter of courtship. He had tolerated Pevensey, had indeed been prepared to purchase him much as he would have ordered any other expensive trinket or knickknack which Patricia desired. But he had never viewed the match with enthusiasm. For about the Musgraves of Matocton there could be no question. It was the old man's delight to induce Rudolph Musgrave to talk concerning his ancestors; and Stapylton soon had their history at his finger-tips. He could have correctly blazoned every tincture in their armorial bearings and have explained the origin of every rampant, counter-changed or couchant beast upon the shield. In a word, Roger Stapylton had acquiesced to the transferal of his daughter's affections with the peculiar equanimity of a properly reared American parent. He merely stipulated that, since his business affairs prevented an indefinite stay in Lichfield, Colonel Musgrave should presently remove to New York City, where the older man held ready for him a purely ornamental and remunerative position with the Insurance Company of which Roger Stapylton was president. But upon this point Rudolph Musgrave was obdurate. But here Patricia broke in. Patricia agreed with Colonel Musgrave in every particular. Indeed, had Colonel Musgrave proclaimed his intention of setting up in life as an assassin, Patricia would readily have asserted homicide to be the most praiseworthy of vocations. As it was, she devoted no little volubility and emphasis and eulogy to the importance of a genealogist in the eternal scheme of things; and gave her father candidly to understand that an inability to appreciate this fact was necessarily indicative of a deplorably low order of intelligence. Colonel Musgrave was, in a decorous fashion, the happiest of living persons. Colonel Musgrave was, in a decorous fashion, the happiest of living persons This was the evening during which Roger Stapylton had favorably received his declaration; and Colonel Musgrave was remembering the time that he and Anne had last spoken with a semblance of intimacy--that caustic time when Anne Charteris had interrupted him in high words with her husband, and circumstances had afforded to Rudolph Musgrave no choice save to confess, to this too-perfect woman, of all created beings, his "true relations" with Clarice Pendomer. Even as yet the bitterness of that humiliation was not savorless It had been very hard to bear. But it seemed necessary. The truth would have hurt Anne too much But Anne was different, and in the nature of things must always be a little different, from all other people--even Patricia Stapylton. Gradually, there awoke an uneasy self-conscious interest as to all matters that concerned her, a mental pricking up of the ears when her name was mentioned. Upon reflection, Colonel Musgrave was quite sure that he was happy; and that it was only his liver or something which was upset. But, at all events, the colonel's besetting infirmity was always to shrink from making changes; instinctively he balked against commission of any action which would alter his relations with accustomed circumstances or persons. It was very like Rudolph Musgrave that even now, for all the glow of the future's bright allure, his heart should hark back to the past and its absurd dear memories, with wistfulness. Amaryllis is dead, too. Perhaps, you drop in of an afternoon to talk over old happenings. She is perfectly affable. She thinks it is time you were married. She thinks it very becoming, the way you have stoutened. And, no, they weren't at the Robinsons'; that was the night little Amaryllis was threatened with croup. Then, after a little, the lamps of welcome are lighted in her eyes, her breath quickens, her cheeks mount crimson flags in honor of her lord, her hero, her conqueror. It is Mr. Grundy, who is happy to meet you, and hopes you will stay to dinner. He patronizes you a trifle; his wife, you see, has told him all about that boy who is as dead as Hannibal. You don't mind in the least; you dine with Mr. and Mrs. Grundy, and pass a very pleasant evening. Colonel Musgrave had dined often with the Charterises. And then some frolic god, _en route_ from homicide by means of an unloaded pistol in Chicago for the demolishment of a likely ship off Palos, with the cooeperancy of a defective pistonrod, stayed in his flight to bring Joe Parkinson to Lichfield. It was Roger Stapylton who told the colonel of this advent, as the very apex of jocularity. "For you remember the Parkinsons, I suppose?" "The ones that had a cabin near Matocton? Very deserving people, I believe." It was a treat to see him shake his head in deprecation of such anarchy. "Why, no," said Colonel Musgrave. "She did not mention it this afternoon. She was not feeling very well. A slight headache. I noticed she was not inclined to conversation." "Though, mind you, I don't say anything against Joe. He's a fine young fellow. Paid his own way through college. Done good work in Panama and in Alaska too. But--confound it, sir, the boy's a fool! Now I put it to you fairly, ain't he a fool?" said Mr. Stapylton. Yes, that was it undoubtedly. Patricia had too high a sense of honor to exhibit these defeated rivals in a ridiculous light, even to him. It was a revelation of an additional and as yet unsuspected adorability. Meanwhile Joe Parkinson, a young man much enamored, who fought the world by ordinary like Hal o' the Wynd, "for his own hand," was seeing Patricia every day. He spent much time before this portrait. Yes, yes! this woman had been lovely in her day. And this bright, roguish shadow of her was lovely, too, eternally postured in white patnet, trimmed with a vine of rose- satin leaves, a pink rose in her powdered hair and a huge ostrich plume as well. Yet it was an adamantean colonel that remarked: Let us leave him to his roseate meditations. Questionless, in the woman he loved there was much of his own invention: but the circumstance is not unhackneyed; and Colonel Musgrave was in a decorous fashion the happiest of living persons. Meanwhile Joe Parkinson, a young man much enamored, who fought the world by ordinary, like Hal o' the Wynd "for his own hand," was seeing Patricia every day. This was on the evening Roger Stapylton gave the long-anticipated dinner at which he was to announce his daughter's engagement. As much indeed was suspected by most of his dinner-company, so carefully selected from the aristocracy of Lichfield; and the heart of the former overseer, as these handsome, courtly and sweet voiced people settled according to their rank about his sumptuous table, was aglow with pride. Then Rudolph Musgrave turned to his companion and said softly: "My dear, you are like a wraith. What is it?" "I have a headache," said Patricia. "It is nothing." She faced him. Desperation looked out of her purple eyes. "It is," the girl said swiftly. "Remember that these people are your guests," he said, in perfect earnest. But here Judge Allardyce broke in, to tell Miss Stapylton of the pleasure with which he had _nolle prosequied_ the case against Tom Bellingham. "A son of my old schoolmate, ma'am," the judge explained. "A Bellingham of Assequin. Oh, indiscreet of course--but, God bless my soul! when were the Bellinghams anything else? The boy regretted it as much as anybody." And she listened with almost morbid curiosity concerning the finer details of legal intricacy. Colonel Musgrave was mid-course in an anecdote which the lady upon the other side of him found wickedly amusing. "Grinning old popinjay!" thought Mr. Parkinson; and envied him and internally noted, and with an unholy fervor cursed, the adroitness of intonation and the discreetly modulated gesture with which the colonel gave to every point of his merry-Andrewing its precise value. The colonel's mind was working busily on matters oddly apart from those of which he talked. He wanted this girl next to him--at whom he did not look. He loved her as that whippersnapper yonder was not capable of loving anyone. Young people had these fancies; and they outlived them, as the colonel knew of his own experience. Let matters take their course unhindered, at all events by him. For it was less his part than that of any other man alive to interfere when Rudolph Musgrave stood within a finger's reach of, at worst, his own prosperity and happiness. He would convey no note to Roger Stapylton. Let the banker announce the engagement. Let the young fellow go to the devil. Colonel Musgrave would marry the girl and make Patricia, at worst, content. To do otherwise, even to hesitate, would be the emptiest quixotism Ensued a felicitous speech. Rudolph Musgrave was familiar with his audience. And therefore: And theirs, too, was the blood of those heroic men who fought more recently beneath the stars and bars, as bravely, he would make bold to say, as Leonidas at Thermopylae, in defense of their loved Southland. Right, he conceded, had not triumphed here. For hordes of brutal soldiery had invaded the fertile soil, the tempest of war had swept the land and left it desolate. The South lay battered and bruised, and pros trate in blood, the "Niobe of nations," as sad a victim of ingratitude as King Lear. The colonel touched upon the time when buzzards, in the guise of carpet-baggers, had battened upon the recumbent form; and spoke slightingly of divers persons of antiquity as compared with various Confederate leaders, whose names were greeted with approving nods and ripples of polite enthusiasm. It may conservatively be stated that everyone was surprised. The colonel viewed him with a look of bland interrogation. There was silence for a heart-beat. Old Roger Stapylton cleared his throat. So the colonel continued in time-hallowed form, with happy allusions to Mr. Parkinson's anterior success as an engineer before he came "like a young Lochinvar to wrest away his beautiful and popular fiancee from us fainthearted fellows of Lichfield"; touched of course upon the colonel's personal comminglement of envy and rage, and so on, as an old bachelor who saw too late what he had missed in life; and concluded by proposing the health of the young couple. This was drunk with all the honors. Upon what Patricia said to the colonel in the drawing-room, what Joe Parkinson blurted out in the hall, and chief of all, what Roger Stapylton asseverated to Rudolph Musgrave in the library, after the other guests had gone, it is unnecessary to dwell in this place. To each of these in various fashions did Colonel Musgrave explain such reasons as, he variously explained, must seem to any gentleman sufficient cause for acting as he had done; but most candidly, and even with a touch of eloquence, to Roger Stapylton. And Rudolph Musgrave gave a little bowing gesture, with an entire gravity. He knew it was the highest tribute that Stapylton could pay to any man. So that, all in all, Colonel Musgrave returned homeward not entirely dissatisfied. He had flung away a deal of money that evening, with something which to him was dearer. Had you attempted to condole with him he would not have understood you. "But what would you have had a gentleman do, sir?" Colonel Musgrave would have said, in real perplexity. Besides, it was, in fact, not sorrow that he felt, rather it was contentment, when he remembered the girl's present happiness; and what alone depressed the colonel's courtly affability toward the universe at large was the queer, horrible new sense of being somehow out of touch with yesterday's so comfortable world, of being out-moded, of being almost old. "Eh, well!" he said; "I am of a certain age undoubtedly." By an odd turn the colonel thought of how his friends of his own class and generation had honestly admired the after-dinner speech which he had made that evening. And he smiled, but very tenderly, because they were all men and women whom he loved. "The most of us have known each other for a long while. The most of us, in fact, are of a certain age I think no people ever met the sorry problem that we faced. For we were born the masters of a leisured, ordered world; and by a tragic quirk of destiny were thrust into a quite new planet, where we were for a while the inferiors, and after that just the competitors of yesterday's slaves. There was upon the table a large photograph in sepia of Patricia Stapylton. He studied this now. She was very beautiful, he thought. Colonel Musgrave was intent upon the portrait So! she had chosen at last between himself and this young fellow, a workman born of workmen, who went about the world building bridges and canals and tunnels and such, in those far countries which were to Colonel Musgrave just so many gray or pink or fawn- splotches on the map. It seemed to Colonel Musgrave almost an allegory. So Colonel Musgrave filled a glass with the famed Lafayette madeira of Matocton, and solemnly drank yet another toast. He loved to do, as you already know, that which was colorful. "To this new South," he said. "To this new South that has not any longer need of me or of my kind. "To this new South! She does not gaze unwillingly, nor too complacently, upon old years, and dares concede that but with loss of manliness may any man encroach upon the heritage of a dog or of a trotting-horse, and consider the exploits of an ancestor to guarantee an innate and personal excellence. "For to her all former glory is less a jewel than a touchstone, and with her portion of it daily she appraises her own doing, and without vain speech. And her high past she values now, in chief, as fit foundation of that edifice whereon she labors day by day, and with augmenting strokes." The man was destined to remember that utterance--and, with the recollection, to laugh not altogether in either scorn or merriment. R.E. TOWNSEND. _Sonnets for Elena._ He could hear a huckster outside on Regis Avenue. The colonel never forgot the man was crying "Fresh oranges!" Patricia was horribly frightened. "And afterwards the jackass-fool made matters worse by calling me 'his darling.' There is no more hateful word in the English language than 'darling.' It sounds like castor-oil tastes, or a snail looks after you have put salt on him." The colonel deliberated this information; and he appeared to understand. Then composedly he took up the telephone upon his desk and called Roger Stapylton. The colonel hung up the receiver. "And now," he said, "we are going to the City Hall." "Are you?" said Patricia, with courteous interest. "Well, my way lies uptown. I have to stop in at Greenberg's and get a mustard plaster for the parrot." He had his hat by this. "It isn't cool enough for me to need an overcoat, is it?" "I think you must be crazy," she said, sharply. "Of course I am. So I am going to marry you." "I fear that at present I am simply masculine." He became aware that his hands, in gripping both her shoulders, were hurting the girl. "Come now," he continued, "will you go quietly or will I have to carry you?" His hands went under her arm-pits and he lifted her like a feather. He held her thus at arm's length. "In wanting you, my dear?" "Please put me down." She thoroughly enjoyed her helplessness. He saw it, long before he lowered her. "Why, not so much in that," said Miss Stapylton, "because inasmuch as I am a woman of superlative charm, of course you can't help yourself. But how do you know that Dr. Rabbet may not be somewhere else, harrying a defenseless barkeeper, or superintending the making of dress-shirt protectors for the Hottentots, or doing something else clerical, when we get to the rectory?" After an irrelevant interlude she stamped her foot. Patricia spoke the truth. By supper-time Lichfield had so industriously embroidered the Stapylton dinner and the ensuing marriage with hypotheses and explanations and unparented rumors that none of the participants in the affair but could advantageously have exchanged reputations with Benedict Arnold or Lucretia Borgia, had Lichfield believed a tithe of what Lichfield was repeating. A duel was of course anticipated between Mr. Parkinson and Colonel Musgrave, and the colonel indeed offered, through Major Wadleigh, any satisfaction which Mr. Parkinson might desire. The engineer, with garnishments of profanity, considered dueling to be a painstakingly-described absurdity and wished "the old popinjay" joy of his bargain. But indeed it were irreverent even to try to express the happiness of their earlier married life In this case the axiom seemed, after the manner of all general rules, to bulwark itself with an exception. Colonel Musgrave continued to emanate an air of contentment which fell perilously short of fatuity; and that Patricia was honestly fond of him was evident to the most impecunious of Lichfield's bachelors. Then, too, Patricia would have preferred to have been rid of the old mulatto woman Virginia, because it was through Virginia that Miss Agatha furtively procured intoxicants. But Rudolph Musgrave would not consider Virginia's leaving. "Virginia's faithfulness has been proven by too many years of faithful service" was the formula with which he dismissed the suggestion Afterward Patricia learned from Miss Agatha of the wrong that had been done Virginia by Olaf's uncle, Senator Edward Musgrave, the noted ante-bellum orator, and understood that Olaf--without, of course, conceding it to himself, because that was Olaf's way--was trying to make reparation. Patricia respected the sentiment, and continued to fret under its manifestation. Patricia refrained from comment, not being willing to consider the deduction strained. For love is a contagious infection; and loving Rudolph Musgrave so much, Patricia must perforce love any person whom he loved as conscientiously as she would have strangled any person with whom he had flirted. It may be remembered that Lichfield had asked long ago, "But who, pray, are the Stapyltons?" It was characteristic of Colonel Musgrave that he went about answering the question without delay. The Stapletons--for "Stapylton" was a happy innovation of Roger Stapylton's dead wife--the colonel knew to have been farmers in Brummell County, and Brummell Courthouse is within an hour's ride, by rail, of Lichfield. So he set about his labor of love. She read the book. "It is perfectly superb," was her verdict. "It is as dear as remembered kisses after death and as sweet as a plaintiff in a breach-of-promise suit. Only I would have preferred it served with a few kings and dukes for parsley. The Stapletons don't seem to have been anything but perfectly respectable mediocrities." The colonel smiled. At the bottom of his heart he shared Patricia's regret that the Stapylton pedigree was unadorned by a potentate, because nobody can stay unimpressed by a popular superstition, however crass the thing may be. But for all this, an appraisal of himself and his own achievements profusely showed high lineage is not invariably a guarantee of excellence; and so he smiled and said: Patricia fluttered, and as lightly and irresponsibly as a wren might have done, perched on his knee. "I am glad of that," she said. She snuggled so close he could not see her face now. She was to all appearances attempting to twist the top-button from his coat. She, too, was silent. Presently she nodded. It was a moment to look back upon always. There was no period in Rudolph Musgrave's life when he could not look back upon this instant and exult because it had been his. Only, Patricia found out afterward, with an inexplicable disappointment, that her husband had not been talking extempore, but was freely quoting his "Compiler's Foreword" just as it figured in the printed book. And even now the Stapylton blood that was in her pulled Patricia through long weeks of anguish. Surgeons dealt with her very horribly in a famed Northern hospital, whither she had been removed. By her obdurate request--and secretly, to his own preference, since it was never in his power to meet discomfort willingly--Colonel Musgrave had remained in Lichfield. Patricia knew that officious people would tell him her life could be saved only by the destruction of an unborn boy. She never questioned her child would be a boy. She knew that Olaf wanted a boy. "Oh, even more than he does me, daddy. And so he mustn't know, you see, until it is all over. Because Olaf is such an ill-informed person that he really believes he prefers me." "Pat," her father inconsequently said, "I'm proud of you! And--and, by God, if I _want_ to cry, I guess I am old enough to know my own mind! And I'll help you in this if you'll only promise not to die in spite of what these damn' doctors say, because you're _mine_, Pat, and so you realize a bargain is a bargain." "Yes--I am really yours, daddy. It is just my crazy body that is a Musgrave," Patricia explained. "The real me is an unfortunate Stapylton who has somehow got locked up in the wrong house. It is not a desirable residence, you know, daddy. No modern improvements, for instance. But I have to live in it! Still, I have not the least intention of dying, and I solemnly promise that I won't." Patricia had not been well since little Roger's birth. It was a peaked and shrewish Patricia, rather than Rudolph Musgrave, who fought out the long and obstinate battle with Roger Stapylton. She was jealous at the bottom of her heart. She would not have anyone, not even her father, be too fond of what was preeminently hers; the world at large, including Rudolph Musgrave, was at liberty to adore her boy, as was perfectly natural, but not to meddle: and in fine, Patricia was both hysterical and vixenish whenever a giving up of the Library work was suggested. "It isn't fair!" she said. "It's monstrous! And all because you were so obstinate about your picayune Library!" "Oh, I tell you it's absurd, Olaf! The money logically ought to have been left to me. And here I will have to come to you for every penny of _my_ money. And Heaven knows I have had to scrimp enough to support us all on what I used to have--Olaf," Patricia said, in another voice, "Olaf! why, what is it, dear?" It must be enregistered, not to the man's credit, but rather as a simple fact, that it was never within Colonel Musgrave's power to forget the incident immediately recorded. He forgave; when Patricia wept, seeing how leaden- his handsome face had turned, he forgave as promptly and as freely as he was learning to pardon the telling of a serviceable lie, or the perpetration of an occasional barbarism in speech, by Patricia. For he, a Musgrave of Matocton, had married a Stapylton; he had begun to comprehend that their standards were different, and that some daily conflict between these standards was inevitable. Oddly enough, his ventures were through a long while--for the most part--successful. Here he builded a desperate edifice whose foundations were his social talents; and it was with quaint self-abhorrence he often noted how the telling of a smutty jest or the insistence upon a manifestly superfluous glass of wine had purchased from some properly tickled magnate a much desiderated "tip." And presently these tips misled him. So the colonel borrowed from "Patricia's account." And on this occasion he guessed correctly. And then he stumbled upon such a chance for reinvestment as does not often arrive. And so he borrowed a trifle more in common justice to Patricia _Agatha very ill come to me roger in perfect health._ PATRICIA. Rudolph Musgrave was not thinking of anything. Presently he went around through the side entrance, and thus came into the kitchen, where the old mulattress, Virginia, was sitting alone. The room was very hot In Agatha's time supper would have been cooked upon the gas-range in the cellar, he reflected Virginia had risen and made as though to take his dress-suit case, her pleasant yellow face as imperturbable as an idol's. "No--don't bother, Virginia," said Colonel Musgrave. He met Patricia in the dining-room, on her way to the kitchen. She had not chosen--as even the most sensible of us will instinctively decline to do--to vex the quiet of a house wherein death was by ringing a bell. Rudolph Musgrave did not say anything. Without any apparent emotion he put Patricia aside, much as he did the dress-suit case which he had forgotten to lay down until Patricia had ended her recital. He went upstairs--to the front room, Patricia's bedroom. Patricia followed him. Agatha's body lay upon the bed, with a sheet over all. The undertaker's skill had arranged everything with smug and horrible tranquillity. "I trust you enjoyed your whist-game, Patricia." "Well, I couldn't help it. I'm not running a sanitarium. I wasn't responsible for her eternal drinking." The words skipped out of either mouth like gleeful little devils. He spoke, still staring at the clock, his back turned to Patricia. "You must be utterly worn out. You had better go to bed." He shifted by the fraction of an inch the old-fashioned "hand-" daguerreotype of his father in Confederate uniform. "Please don't wear that black dress again. It is no cause for mourning that we are rid of an encumbrance." He touched the dead hand now. "Please go!" he said, and he did not look toward Patricia. "For Agatha loved me better than she did God, you know. The curse was born in her. She had to pay for what those dead, soft-handed Musgraves did. That is why her hands are so cold now. She had to pay for the privilege of being a Musgrave, you see. But then we cannot always pick and choose as to what we prefer to be." "Please leave," he said. Patricia tossed her head. "Yes, and you needn't look at me as if I were some sort of a bug you hadn't ever seen before and didn't approve of, because I've seen you try that high-and-mighty trick too often for it to work with me." "I think you had better go," said Colonel Musgrave. "Please go, Patricia, before I murder you." She saw that he was speaking in perfect earnest. Rudolph Musgrave sat all night beside the body. He had not any strength for anger now, and hardly for grief, Agatha had been his charge; and the fact that he had never plucked up courage to allude to her practises was now an enormity in which he could not quite believe. His cowardice and its fruitage confronted him, and frightened him into a panic frenzy of remorse. And chance reserved for him more poignant torture. Next day, while Rudolph Musgrave was making out the list of honorary pall-bearers, the postman brought a letter which had been forwarded from Chicago. It was from Agatha, written upon the morning of that day wherein later she had been, as Patricia phrased it, "queer, you know." "Selina Brice & the Rev'd Henry Anstruther, who now has a church in Seattle, have announced their engagement. Stanley Haggage has gone to Alabama to marry Leonora Bright, who moved from here a year ago. They are both as poor as church mice, & I think marriage in such a case an unwise step for anyone. It brings cares & anxieties enough any way, without starting out with poverty to increase and render deeper every trouble " Such was the tenor of Agatha's last letter, of the last self-expression of that effigy upstairs who (you could see) knew everything and was not discontent. Here the dead spoke, omniscient; and told you that Stanley Haggage had gone to Alabama, and that marriage brought new cares and anxieties. "I cannot laugh," said Rudolph Musgrave, aloud. "I know the jest deserves it. But I cannot laugh, because my upper lip seems to be made of leather and I can't move it. And, besides, I loved Agatha to a degree which only You and I have ever known of. She never understood quite how I loved her. Oh, won't You make her understand just how I loved her? For Agatha is dead, because You wanted her to be dead, and I have never told her how much I loved her, and now I cannot ever tell her how much I loved her. Oh, won't You please show me that You have made her understand? or else have me struck by lightning? or do _anything_ ?" She called him "Rudolph" now. The colonel negligently said that he supposed it did sound odd. "And for heaven's sake, why not? We always have her to everything." He was staring at her so oddly that she paused. So Patricia was familiar with that old scandal which linked his name with Clarice Pendomer's! He was wondering if Patricia had married him in the belief that she was marrying a man who, appraised by any standards, had acted infamously. "It looks so silly," as Patricia pointed out. "So we will invite Judge Allardyce, of course," said Patricia. "I had forgotten his court met in June. Oh, and Peter Blagden too. It had slipped my mind his uncle was dead " "Why--er--yes, dear?" This was after supper, and Patricia was playing solitaire. Her husband was reading the paper. Here Colonel Musgrave frowned. "It is not a pleasant topic." "Now, really, Patricia! Surely there are other matters which may be more profitably discussed." "Of course. She is an invaluable nurse." "And nobody else was here when Agatha went out into the rain. Now, what if she had just let Agatha go, without trying to stop her? It would have been perfectly simple. So is this. All I have to do is to take them off now." Colonel Musgrave negligently returned to his perusal of the afternoon paper. "You are suggesting--if you will overlook my frankness--the most deplorable sort of nonsense, Patricia." "I know exactly how Balaam felt," she said, irrelevantly, and fell to shuffling the cards. "You don't, and you won't, understand that Virginia is a human being. In any event, I wish you would get rid of her." "Now you are going to quote a paragraph or so from your Gracious Era. As if I hadn't read everything you ever wrote! You are a fearful humbug in some ways, Rudolph." "Because it isn't lady-like? But, Rudolph, you know perfectly well that I am not a lady." "Oh, not a syllable; it isn't at all the sort of thing that your sort _says_ And I am not your sort. I don't know that I altogether wish I were. But _if_ I were, it would certainly make things easier," Patricia added sharply. She nodded, mischief in her brightly- tiny face. "Yes, that is just your attitude, you beautiful idiot." She said, with utter solemnity, "Anathema maranatha! oh, hell to damn! may the noses of all respectable people be turned upside down and jackasses dance eternally upon their grandmothers' graves!" He could not help but laugh, much as he disapproved. Patricia fluttered and, as a wren might have done, perched presently upon his knee. She took his meaning. Each was aware of an odd sense of intimacy. "Everything we have to be glad for now, Rudolph, is the rivet in grandfather's neck. It is rather a fiasco, isn't it?" It was excellent to see Jack Charteris again, as Colonel Musgrave did within a few days of this. Musgrave was unreasonably fond of the novelist and frankly confessed it would be as preposterous to connect Charteris with any of the accepted standards of morality as it would be to judge an artesian-well from the standpoint of ethics. Anne was not yet in Lichfield. She had broken the journey to visit a maternal grand-aunt and some Virginia cousins, in Richmond, Charteris explained, and was to come thence to Matocton. "And so you have acquired a boy and, by my soul, a very handsome wife, Rudolph?" "Please don't be quite so brutal, Rudolph. It is not becoming in a Musgrave of Matocton to speak of women in any tone other than the most honeyed accents of chivalry." "I rejoice in her good luck," said Charteris, equably. "I can assure you that there will be no--trouble. That skeleton is safely locked in its closet, and the key to that closet is missing--more thanks to you. You acted very nobly in the whole affair, Rudolph. I wish I could do things like that. As it is, of course, I shall always detest you for having been able to do it." Charteris said, thereafter: "I shall always envy you, though, Rudolph. No other man I know has ever attained the good old troubadourish ideal of _domnei_--that love which rather abhors than otherwise the notion of possessing its object. I still believe it was a distinct relief to a certain military officer, whose name we need not mention, when Anne decided not to marry you." "Don't be an ass!" the colonel pleaded; and then observed, inconsequently: "I can't somehow quite realize Aline is dead. Lord, Lord, the letters that I wrote to her! She sent them all back, you know, in genuine romantic fashion, after we had quarreled. I found those boyish ravings only the other day in my father's desk at Matocton, and skimmed them over. I shall read them through some day and appropriately meditate over life's mysteries that are too sad for tears." "That heaven is necessarily run on a Mohammedan basis? Why, of course," said Mr. Charteris. "Heaven, as I apprehend it, is a place where we shall live eternally among those ladies of old years who never condescended actually to inhabit any realm more tangible than that of our boyish fancies. It is the obvious definition; and I defy you to evolve a more enticing allurement toward becoming a deacon." "Ah, but I never wrote a line concerning Lichfield. I only wrote about the Lichfield whose existence you continue to believe in, in spite of the fact that you are actually living in the real Lichfield," Charteris returned. "The vitality of the legend is wonderful." "Jack, Jack!" the colonel cried, "it is an ill bird that fouls its own nest." The colonel did not interrupt his brief pause of meditation. Then the novelist said: "Why, no; if I were ever really to attempt a tale of Lichfield, I would not write a romance but a tragedy. I think that I would call my tragedy _Futility_, for it would mirror the life of Lichfield with unengaging candor; and, as a consequence, people would complain that my tragedy lacked sustained interest, and that its participants were inconsistent; that it had no ordered plot, no startling incidents, no high endeavors, and no especial aim; and that it was equally deficient in all time-hallowed provocatives of either laughter or tears. For very few people would understand that a life such as this, when rightly viewed, is the most pathetic tragedy conceivable." "We don't do anything whatever in especial, Rudolph. That would be precisely the theme of my story of the real Lichfield if I were ever bold enough to write it. There seems to be a sort of blight upon Lichfield. Oh, yes! it would be unfair, perhaps, to contrast it with the bigger Southern cities, like Richmond and Atlanta and New Orleans; but even the inhabitants of smaller Southern towns are beginning to buy excursion tickets, and thereby ascertain that the twentieth century has really begun. Yes, it is only in Lichfield I can detect the raw stuff of a genuine tragedy; for, depend upon it, Rudolph, the most pathetic tragedy in life is to get nothing in particular out of it." "But, for my part, I don't see what you are driving at," the colonel stoutly said. And Charteris only laughed. "And I hardly expected you to do so, Rudolph--or not yet, at least." "Thus, having come to naked bankruptcy, Let us part friends, as thrifty tradesmen do When common ventures fail, for it may be These battered oaths and rhymes may yet ring true To some fair woman's hearing, so that she Will listen and think of love, and I of you." F. Ashcroft Wheeler. _Revisions_. And at this period Colonel Musgrave noted and admired the apparent unconcern with which John Charteris and Clarice Pendomer encountered at Matocton. And at this period Colonel Musgrave noted with approval the intimacy which was, obviously, flourishing between the little novelist and Patricia. Also Colonel Musgrave had presently good reason to lament a contretemps, over which he was sulking when Mrs. Pendomer rustled to her seat at the breakfast-table, with a shortness of breath that was partly due to the stairs, and in part attributable to her youthful dress, which fitted a trifle too perfectly. "It is neither," said Colonel Musgrave, and almost snappishly. Colonel Musgrave frowned disapprovingly at her frivolity; he swallowed his coffee, and buttered a superfluous potato. "H'm!" said he; "then you know?" "I know," sighed she, "that a sleeping past frequently suffers from insomnia." "And in that case," said he, darkly, "it is not the only sufferer." "And Patricia?" she queried, with a mental hiatus. Colonel Musgrave flushed. There was another silence. The colonel desperately felt that matters were not advancing. "H'm!" said she, with something of interrogation in her voice. "A man," Mrs. Pendomer lamented, parenthetically, "never suspects a woman of discretion, until she begins to lose her waist." Mrs. Pendomer ate on, in an exceedingly noncommittal fashion, as he paused, inquiringly. "She has been reading some letters," said he, at length; "some letters that I wrote a long time ago." "In the case of so young a girl," observed Mrs. Pendomer, with perfect comprehension, "I should have undoubtedly recommended a judicious supervision of her reading-matter." He paused, for Mrs. Pendomer appeared on the verge of a question. "And it was years ago--and just the usual sort of thing, though it may have seemed from the letters--Why, I hadn't given the girl a thought," he cried, in virtuous indignation, "until Patricia found the letters--and read them!" "I had destroyed the envelopes when she returned them," continued Colonel Musgrave, with morose confusion of persons. "Patricia doesn't even know who the girl was--her name, somehow, was not mentioned." Mrs. Pendomer's penciled eyebrows rose, and her lips--which were quite as red as there was any necessity for their being--twitched. "Hysterics?" she asked. "Worse!" groaned Colonel Musgrave; "patient resignation under unmerited affliction!" He had picked up a teaspoon, and he carefully balanced it upon his forefinger. "There were certain phrases in these letters which were, somehow, repeated in certain letters I wrote to Patricia the summer we were engaged, and--not to put too fine a point upon it--she doesn't like it." Mrs. Pendomer smiled, as though she considered this not improbable; and he continued, with growing embarrassment and indignation: He drummed his fingers, for a moment, on the table. "Taking leave?" Mrs. Pendomer suggested. "Er--that was mentioned, I believe," said Colonel Musgrave. "But of course she was only talking." Mrs. Pendomer looked about her; and, without, the clean-shaven lawns and trim box-hedges were very beautiful in the morning sunlight; within, the same sunlight sparkled over the heavy breakfast service, and gleamed in the high walnut panels of the breakfast-room. She viewed the comfortable appointments about her a little wistfully, for Mrs. Pendomer's purse was not over-full. "Of course," said she, as in meditation, "there was the money." "Yes," said Rudolph Musgrave, slowly; "there was the money." He sprang to his feet, and drew himself erect. Here was a moment he must give its full dramatic value. Mrs. Pendomer's foot tapped the floor whilst he spoke. When he had made an ending, she inclined her head toward him. "Thank you!" said Mrs. Pendomer. Colonel Musgrave bit his lip; and he flushed. "That," said he, hastily, "was different." But the difference, whatever may have been its nature, was seemingly a matter of unimportance to Mrs. Pendomer, who was in meditation. She rested her ample chin on a much-bejeweled hand for a moment; and, when Mrs. Pendomer raised her face, her voice was free from affectation. "You will probably never understand that this particular July day is a crucial point in your life. You will probably remember it, if you remember it at all, simply as that morning when Patricia found some girl-or-another's old letters, and behaved rather unreasonably about them. It was the merest trifle, you will think John Charteris understands women better than you do, Rudolph." "I need not pretend at this late day to be as clever as Jack," the colonel said, in some bewilderment. "But why not more succinctly state that the Escurial is not a dromedary, although there are many flies in France? For what on earth has Jack to do with crucial points and July mornings?" "Ah, she hungers for those dead years, Rudolph, and, though you devote your whole remaining life to her, nothing can ever make up for them; and she always hates those shadowy women who have stolen them from her. A woman never, at heart, forgives the other women who have loved her husband, even though she cease to care for him herself. For she remembers--ah, you men forget so easily, Rudolph! God had not invented memory when he created Adam; it was kept for the woman." Then ensued a pause, during which Rudolph Musgrave smiled down upon her, irresolutely; for he abhorred "a scene," as his vernacular phrased it, and to him Clarice's present manner bordered upon both the scenic and the incomprehensible. There was a glance from eyes whose luster time and irregular living had conspired to dim. Silence lasted for a while. The colonel was finding this matutinal talk discomfortably opulent in pauses. "Rudolph, and has it never occurred to you that in marrying Patricia you swindled her?" And naturally his eyebrows lifted. "Because a woman wants love." "Well, well! and don't I love Patricia?" "I wish I didn't have to. For I would get far more comfort out of crying, and I don't dare to, because of my complexion. It comes in a round pasteboard box nowadays, you know, Rudolph, with French mendacities all over the top--and my eyebrows come in a fat crayon, and the healthful glow of my lips comes in a little porcelain tub." Mrs. Pendomer was playing with a teaspoon now, and a smile hovered about the aforementioned lips. Mrs. Pendomer majestically rose to her feet. "It was pink! And it was at the Whitebrier you said--what you said! And--and you don't deserve anything but what you are getting," she concluded, grimly. "I--it was so long ago," Rudolph Musgrave apologized, with mingled discomfort and vagueness. Thus it shortly came about that Mrs. Pendomer mounted, in meditative mood, to Mrs. Musgrave's rooms; and that Mrs. Pendomer, recovering her breath, entered, without knocking, into a gloom where cologne and menthol and the odor of warm rubber contended for mastery. For Patricia had decided that she was very ill indeed, and was sobbing softly in bed. Very calmly, Mrs. Pendomer opened a window, letting in a flood of fresh air and sunshine; very calmly, she drew a chair--a substantial arm-chair--to the bedside, and, very calmly, she began: "My dear, Rudolph has told me of this ridiculous affair, and--oh, you equally ridiculous girl!" She removed, with deft fingers, a damp and clinging bandage from about Patricia's head, and patted the back of Patricia's hand, placidly. Patricia was by this time sitting erect in bed, and her coppery hair was thick about her face, which was colorless; and, altogether, she was very rigid and very indignant and very pretty, and very, very young. "How dare he tell you--or anybody else!" she cried. "We are such old friends, remember," Mrs. Pendomer pleaded, and rearranged the pillows, soothingly, about her hostess; "and I want to talk to you quietly and sensibly." Her face sobered, and she added, pensively: "We might contrive a better universe, we sister women, but this is not permitted us. So we must take it as it is." Patricia stirred, as talking died away. "I don't believe it," said she; and she added, with emphasis: "And, anyhow, I hate that nasty trollop!" "Ah, but you do believe it." Mrs. Pendomer's voice was insistent. "You knew it years before you went into long frocks. That knowledge is, I suppose, a legacy from our mothers." There was an interval, during which Mrs. Pendomer smiled crookedly, and Patricia continued to sob, although at lengthening intervals. Then, Mrs. Pendomer lifted the packet of letters lying on the bed, and cleared her throat. "H'm!" said she; "so this is what caused all the trouble? You don't mind?" And, considering silence as equivalent to acquiescence, she drew out a letter at hazard, and read aloud: "Why, yes." Mrs. Pendomer replaced the letter, carefully, almost caressingly, among its companions. "My dear, it was years ago. I think time has by this wreaked a vengeance far more bitter than you could ever plan on the woman who, after all, never thought to wrong you. For the bitterest of all bitter things to a woman--to some women, at least--is to grow old." She sighed, and her well-manicured fingers fretted for a moment with the counterpane. "Such a woman," said Patricia, with distinctness, "deserves no pity." "Well," Mrs. Pendomer conceded, drily, "she doesn't get it. Probably, because she always grows fat, from sheer lack of will-power to resist sloth and gluttony--the only agreeable vices left her; and by no stretch of the imagination can a fat woman be converted into either a pleasing or heroic figure." Mrs. Pendomer paused for a breathing-space, and smiled, though not very pleasantly. Patricia regarded her for a moment. The purple eyes were alert, their glance was hard. "You seem to know all about this woman," Patricia began, in a level voice. "I have heard, of course, what everyone in Lichfield whispers about you and Rudolph. I have even teased Rudolph about it, but until to-day I had believed it was a lie." "It is often a mistake to indulge in uncommon opinions," said Mrs. Pendomer. "You get more fun and interest out of it, I don't deny, but the bill, my dear, is unconscionable." "So! you confess it!" Patricia regarded her with deliberation. "No," answered Mrs. Pendomer, to her unspoken thought; "no woman could be seriously jealous of me. Yes, I dare say, I am _passee_ and vain and frivolous and--harmless. But," she added, meditatively, "you hate me, just the same." "So sorry to lose you," cooed Patricia; "but, of course, you know best. I believe some very good people are visiting the Ullwethers nowadays?" She extended the letters, blandly. "May I restore your property?" she queried, with utmost gentleness. "Why, do people really find Mr. Charteris particularly attractive?" Patricia demanded, so quickly and so innocently that Mrs. Pendomer could not deny herself the glance of a charlatan who applauds his fellow's legerdemain. Colonel Musgrave had smoked a preposterous number of unsatisfying cigarettes on the big front porch of Matocton whilst Mrs. Pendomer was absent on her mission; and on her return, flushed and triumphant, he rose in eloquent silence. "I've done it, Rudolph," said Mrs. Pendomer. "Done what?" he queried, blankly. "Restored what my incomprehensible lawyers call the _status quo_; achieved peace with honor; carried off the spoils of war; and--in short--arranged everything," answered Mrs. Pendomer, and sank into a rustic chair, which creaked admonishingly. "And all," she added, bringing a fan into play, "without a single falsehood. _I_ am not to blame if Patricia has jumped at the conclusion that these letters were written to me." "My word!" said Rudolph Musgrave, "your methods of restoring domestic peace to a distracted household are, to say the least, original!" He seated himself, and lighted another cigarette. "Please don't," said Colonel Musgrave, "for I would inevitably beard you on my own porch and smite you to the door-mat. And I am hardly young enough for such adventures." Rudolph Musgrave, however, had not honored her with much attention, and was puzzling over the more or less incomprehensible situation; and, perceiving this, she ran on, after a little: "Oh, it worked--it worked beautifully! You see, she would always have been very jealous of that other woman; but with me it is different. She has always known that scandalous story about you and me. And she has always known me as I am--a frivolous and--say, corpulent, for it is a more dignified word--and generally unattractive chaperon; and she can't think of me as ever having been anything else. Young people never really believe in their elders' youth, Rudolph; at heart, they think we came into the world with crow's-feet and pepper-and-salt hair, all complete. So, she is only sorry for you now--rather as a mother would be for a naughty child; as for me, she isn't jealous--but," sighed Mrs. Pendomer, "she isn't over-fond of me." Colonel Musgrave rose to his feet. "It isn't fair," said he; "the letters were distinctly compromising. It isn't fair you should shoulder the blame for a woman who was nothing to you. It isn't fair you should be placed in such a false position." "But you don't have to understand," she pleaded. "Nonsense!" And he was conscious, with vexation, that he had undeniably flushed. But Colonel Musgrave's handsome face declared very plainly that he did not. "Cry _Kismet!_ and take heart. Eros is gone, Nor may we follow to that loftier air Olympians breathe. Take heart, and enter where A lighter Love, vine-crowned, laughs i' the sun, Oblivious of tangled webs ill-spun By ancient wearied weavers, for it may be His guidance leads to lovers of such as we And hearts so credulous as to be won. "Cry _Kismet!_ Put away vain memories Of all old sorrows and of all old joys, And learn that life is never quite amiss So long as unreflective girls and boys Remember that young lips were meant to kiss, And hold that laughter is a seemly noise." PAUL VANDERHOFFEN. _Egeria Answers._ Patricia sat in the great maple-grove that stands behind Matocton, and pondered over a note from her husband, who was in Lichfield superintending the appearance of the July number of the _Lichfield Historical Association's Quarterly Magazine_. Mr. Charteris lay at her feet, glancing rapidly over a lengthy letter, which was from his wife, in Richmond. The morning mail was just in, and Patricia had despatched Charteris for her letters, on the plea that the woods were too beautiful to leave, and that Matocton, in the unsettled state which marks the end of the week in a house-party, was intolerable. "Heigho!" Patricia said, at length, with a little laugh; "it is very strange that both of our encumbrances should arrive on the same day!" Patricia communed with herself, and to Charteris seemed, as she sat in the chequered sunlight, far more desirable than a married woman has any right to be. He drew a key-ring from his pocket, and pondered over it. "Or would you prefer that I whistle into the opening of this door-key, to the effect that we must gather our rose-buds while we may, for Time is still a-flying, fa-la, and that a drear old age, not to mention our spouses, will soon descend upon us, fa-la-di-leero? A door-key is not Arcadian, Patricia, but it makes a very creditable noise." "Don't be foolish, _mon ami_!" she protested, with an indulgent smile. "I am unhappy." "Unhappy that I have chanced to fall in love with you, Patricia? It is an accident which might befall any really intelligent person." She shrugged her shoulders, ruefully. "I have done wrong to let you talk to me as you have done of late. I--oh, Jack, I am afraid!" "Of your husband, Patricia?" he queried. "I--Rudolph doesn't bother about me nowadays sufficiently to--notice anything." Mr. Charteris smiled. "Of my wife, Patricia?" "Good gracious, no! I have not the least doubt you will explain matters satisfactorily to your wife, for I have always heard that practise makes perfect." Mr. Charteris laughed--a low and very musical laugh. "Of me, then, Patricia?" Charteris gave vent to a chuckle, and raised the door-key to his lips. Mr. Charteris, at this point, dropped the key-ring, and drew nearer to her; his voice sank to a pleading cadence. She heard him with downcast eyes; and her cheeks flushed a pink color that was agreeable to contemplation. "Do--do you really care for me, Jack?" she asked, softly; then cried, "No, no, you needn't answer--because, of course, you worship me madly, unboundedly, distractedly. They all do, but you do it more convincingly. You have been taking lessons at night-school, I dare say, at all sorts of murky institutions. And, Jack, really, cross my heart, I always stopped the others when they talked this way. I tried to stop you, too. You know I did?" She raised her lashes, a trifle uncertainly, and withdrew her hand from his, a trifle slowly. "It is wrong--all horribly wrong. I wonder at myself, I can't understand how in the world I can be such a fool about you. I must not be alone with you again. I must tell my husband--everything," she concluded, and manifestly not meaning a word of what she said. "By all means," assented Mr. Charteris, readily. "Let's tell my wife, too. It will make things so very interesting." "Rudolph would be terribly unhappy," she reflected. "He would probably never smile again," said Mr. Charteris. "And my wife--oh, it would upset Anne, quite frightfully! It is our altruistic, nay, our bounden duty to save them from such misery." "I--I don't know what to do!" she wailed. "The obvious course," said he, after reflection, "is to shake off the bonds of matrimony, without further delay. So let's elope, Patricia." Patricia, who was really unhappy, took refuge in flippancy, and laughed. "I make it a rule," said she, "never to elope on Fridays. Besides, now I think of it, there is, Rudolph--Ah, Rudolph doesn't care a button's worth about me, I know. The funny part is that he doesn't know it. He has simply assumed he is devoted to me, because all respectable people are devoted to their wives. I can assure you, _mon ami_, he would be a veritable Othello, if there were any scandal, and would infinitely prefer the bolster to the divorce-court. He would have us followed and torn apart by wild policemen." Mr. Charteris meditated for a moment. Patricia paused, and laughed. "But we were talking of Rudolph," she said, with a touch of weariness. "Rudolph has all the virtues that a woman most admires until she attempts to live in the same house with them." "I thank you," said Mr. Charteris, "for the high opinion you entertain of my moral character." He bestowed a reproachful sigh upon her, and continued: "At any rate, Rudolph Musgrave has been an unusually lucky man--the luckiest that I know of." Patricia had risen as if to go. She turned her big purple eyes on him for a moment. "You--you think so?" she queried, hesitatingly. Afterward she spread out her hands in a helpless gesture, and laughed for no apparent reason, and sat down again. "Why?" said Patricia. It took Charteris fully an hour to point out all the reasons. Patricia told him very frankly that she considered him to be talking nonsense, but she seemed quite willing to listen. Colonel Musgrave threw back his shoulders, and drew a deep breath. Subsequently, with a fine air of unconcern, he inspected the view from the porch, which was, in fact, quite worthy of his attention. Interesting things have happened at Matocton--many events that have been preserved in the local mythology, not always to the credit of the old Musgraves, and a few which have slipped into a modest niche in history. It was, perhaps, on these that Colonel Musgrave pondered so intently. In the main hall, you may still see the stairs up which he rode on horseback, and the slashes which his saber hacked upon the hand-rail. She looked up from her reading. "Dear Rudolph," she said, as simply as though they had parted yesterday, "it's awfully good to see you again." Colonel Musgrave cleared his throat, and sat down beside her. Then Mrs. Charteris laughed. It was a pleasant laugh--a clear, rippling carol of clean mirth that sparkled in her eyes, and dimpled in her wholesome cheeks. "So! do you find it very, very awkward?" "Awkward!" he cried. Their glances met in a flash of comprehension which seemed to purge the air. Musgrave was not in the least self-conscious now. He laughed, and lifted an admonitory forefinger. "You brute!" she cried--not looking irreparably angry, yet not without a real touch of vexation; "don't you know that every woman cherishes the picture of her former lovers sitting alone in the twilight, and growing lackadaisical over undying memories and faded letters? And you--you approach me, after I don't dare to think how many years, as calmly as if I were an old schoolmate of your mother's, and attempt to talk to me about mutton-chops! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Rudolph Musgrave. You might, at least, have started a little at seeing me, and have clasped your hand to your heart, and have said, 'You, you!' or something of the sort. I had every right to expect it." Mrs. Charteris pouted, and then trifled for a moment with the pages of her book. She looked up, saying impulsively, "Rudolph, you don't know how happy he makes me." "If you continue in that heartless strain, I shall go into the house," Mrs. Charteris protested. Her indignation was exaggerated, but it was not altogether feigned; women cannot quite pardon a rejected suitor who marries and is content. They wish him all imaginable happiness and prosperity, of course; and they are honestly interested in his welfare; but it seems unexpectedly callous in him. And besides his wife is so perfectly commonplace. Mrs. Charteris, therefore, added, with emphasis: "I am really disgracefully happy." "Glad to hear it," said Musgrave, placidly. "So am I." "Oh, Rudolph, Rudolph, you are hopeless!" she sighed. "And you used to make such a nice lover!" Mrs. Charteris looked out over the river, which was like melting gold, and for a moment was silent. "H'm!" said Colonel Musgrave; "yes, I see." Musgrave cast about vainly for an appropriate speech. Then he compromised with his conscience, and said: "Your husband is a very clever man." "Isn't he?" She had flushed for pleasure at hearing him praised. Oh, yes, Anne loved Jack Charteris! There was no questioning that; it was written in her face, was vibrant in her voice as she spoke of him. Musgrave was hardly conscious of what she was saying. She was not particularly intelligent, this handsome, cheery woman, but her voice, and the richness and sweetness of it, and the vitality of her laugh, contented his soul. Anne was different; the knowledge came again to him quite simply that Anne was different, and in the nature of things must always be a little different from all other people--even Patricia Musgrave. He had no desire to tell Anne Charteris of this, no idea that it would affect in any way the tenor of his life. He merely accepted the fact that she was, after all, Anne Willoughby, and that her dear presence seemed, somehow, to strengthen and cheer and comfort and content beyond the reach of expression. Yet Musgrave recognized her lack of cleverness, and liked and admired her none the less. A vision of Patricia arose--a vision of a dainty, shallow, Dresden-china face with a surprising quantity of vivid hair about it. Patricia was beautiful; and Patricia was clever, in her pinchbeck way. But Rudolph Musgrave doubted very much if her mocking eyes now ever softened into that brooding, sacred tenderness he had seen in Anne's eyes; and he likewise questioned if a hurried, happy thrill ran through Patricia's voice when Patricia spoke of her husband. "You have unquestionably married an unusual man," Musgrave said. "I--by Jove, you know, I fancy my wife finds him almost as attractive as you do." "Ah, Rudolph, I can't fancy anyone whom--whom you loved caring for anyone else. Don't I remember, sir, how irresistible you can be when you choose?" Anne laughed, and raised plump hands to heaven. "Utterly so," Musgrave assented, gravely. He was feeling a thought uncomfortable. To him the place had grown portentous. The sun was low, and the long shadows of the trees were black on the dim lawn. People were assembling for supper, and passing to and fro under low-hanging branches; and the gaily- gowns of the women glimmered through a faint blue haze like that with which Boucher and Watteau and Fragonard loved to veil, and thereby to make wistful, somehow, the antics of those fine parroquet-like manikins who figure in their _fetes galantes._ Inside the house, someone was playing an unpleasant sort of air on the piano--an air which was quite needlessly creepy and haunting and insistent. It all seemed like a grim bit out of a play. The tenderness and pride that shone in Anne's eyes as she boasted of her happiness troubled Rudolph Musgrave. He had a perfectly unreasonable desire to carry her away, by force, if necessary, and to protect her from clever people, and to buy things for her. "My wife," Colonel Musgrave said, "is in my partial opinion, a very clever and very beautiful woman." "Yes; cleverness and beauty are sufficient to make any man happy, I suppose," Anne hazarded. "Jack says, though--_Are_ cleverness and beauty the main things in life, Rudolph?" "Undoubtedly," he protested. "Now, that," she said, judicially, "shows the difference in men. Jack says a man loves a woman, not for her beauty or any other quality she possesses, but just because she is the woman he loves and can't help loving." Anne clapped her hands. "Ah, so I have penetrated your indifference at last, sir!" Thus it befell that all passed smoothly with Rudolph Musgrave and Anne Charteris, with whom he was not in the least in love any longer (he reflected), although in the nature of things she must always seem to him a little different from all other people. And so Anne made for Roger--as she had learned to do for her dead son--in addition to a respectable navy of paper boats, a vast number of "boxes" and "Nantucket sinks" and "picture frames" and "footballs." She had used up the greater part of a magazine before the imp grew tired of her novel accomplishments. "Good heavens, no!" said Anne. "How dare you leave us in such harrowing suspense?" So Colonel Musgrave gave his son a well-earned coin, as the colonel considered, and it having been decreed, "Now, father, _you_ tell a story," obediently read aloud from a fat red-covered book. The tale was of the colonel's selecting, and it dealt with a shepherdess and a chimney-sweep. "And so," the colonel perorated, "the little china people remained together, and were thankful for the rivet in grandfather's neck, and continued to love each other until they were broken to pieces--And the tale is a parable, my son. You will find that out some day. I wish you didn't have to." "But is that all, father?" "You will find it rather more than enough, sonnikins, when you begin to interpret. Yes, that is all. Only you are to remember always that they climbed to the very top of the chimney, where they could see the stars, before they decided to go back and live upon the parlor table under the brand-new looking-glass. For the stars are disconcertingly unconcerned when you have climbed to them, and so altogether unimpressed by your achievement that it is the nature of all china people to slink home again, precisely as your Rachel did--and as Mrs. Charteris will assure you." Anne broke off short. "Was I being inadequate again? I am sorry, but with children you never know what a cold may lead to, and I really do not believe it good for him to sit in this damp grass." "Sonnikins," said Rudolph Musgrave, "you had better climb up into my lap, before you and I are Podsnapped from the universe by the only embodiment of common-sense just now within our reach." He patted the boy's head and latterly resumed: "I am afraid of you, Anne. Whenever I am imagining vain things or stitching romantic possibilities, like embroideries, about the fabric of my past, I always find the real you in my path, as undeniable as a gas-bill. I don't believe you ever dare to think, because there is no telling what it might lead to. You are simply unassailably armored by the courage of other people's convictions." Her candid eyes met his over the boy's bright head. "And what in the world are you talking about?" But the great gong, booming out for luncheon, interrupted him at this point, and Colonel Musgrave was never permitted to finish his complaint against Anne's unimaginativeness. It was a curious accident, though. It really seemed, now that Patricia had put an ending to their meetings in the maple-grove, Fate was conspiring to bring them together. However, as Mr. Charteris pointed out, there could be no possible objection to this conspiracy, since they had decided that their friendship was to be of a purely platonic nature. It was a severe trial to him, he confessed, to be forced to put aside certain dreams he had had of the future--mad dreams, perhaps, but such as had seemed very dear and very plausible to his impractical artistic temperament. Still, it heartened him to hope that their friendship--since it was to be no more--might prove a survival, or rather a veritable renaissance, of the beautiful old Greek spirit in such matters. And, though the blind chance that mismanaged the world had chained them to uncongenial, though certainly well-meaning, persons, this was no logical reason why he and Patricia should be deprived of the pleasures of intellectual intercourse. Their souls were too closely akin. "Elevators?" Mr. Charteris suggested. "Pray, don't think, _mon ami_," she said very earnestly, "that I am blaming Rudolph! I suppose no wife can ever hope to have any part in her husband's inner life." "Not in her own husband's, of course," said Charteris, cryptically. "Pray, where did you read that?" said Charteris. "I didn't read it anywhere. It was simply a thought that came to me," Patricia lied, gently. "But don't let's try to be clever. Cleverness is always a tax, but before luncheon it is an extortion. Personally, it makes me feel as if I had attended a welsh-rabbit supper the night before. Your wife must be very patient." "Oh, but, of course!" Patricia said impatiently. "I don't for a moment question that your wife is an angel." "And why?" His eyebrows lifted, and he smiled. Therefore Patricia cast down her eyes again, and said: "Men of genius are so rarely understood by their wives." "We will waive the question of genius." Mr. Charteris laughed heartily, but he had flushed with pleasure. Mr. Charteris caught his breath in shuddering fashion, and he paused before Patricia. After a moment he grasped her by both wrists. "Ah, Patricia," he murmured, as he knelt beside her, "how can you hope to have a man ever talk to you in a sane fashion? You shouldn't have such eyes, Patricia! They are purple and fathomless like the ocean, and when a man looks into them too long his sanity grows weak, and sinks and drowns in their cool depths, and the man must babble out his foolish heart to you. Oh, but indeed, you shouldn't have such eyes, Patricia! They are dangerous, and to ask anybody to believe in their splendor is an insult to his intelligence, and besides, they are much too bright to wear in the morning. They are bad form, Patricia." "We must be sensible," she babbled. "Your wife is here; my husband is here. And we--we aren't children or madmen, Jack dear. So we really must be sensible, I suppose. Oh, Jack," she cried, upon a sudden; "this isn't honorable!" "Why, no! Poor little Anne!" Mr. Charteris's eyes grew tender for a moment, because his wife, in a fashion, was dear to him. Then he laughed, very musically. "And how can a man remember honor, Patricia, when the choice lies between honor and you? You shouldn't have such hair, Patricia! It is a net spun out of the raw stuff of fire and blood and of portentous sunsets; and its tendrils have curled around what little honor I ever boasted, and they hold it fast, Patricia. It is dishonorable to love you, but I cannot think of that when I am with you and hear you speak. And when I am not with you, just to remember that dear voice is enough to set my pulses beating faster. Oh, Patricia, you shouldn't have such a voice!" Charteris broke off in speech. "'Scuse me for interruptin'," the old mulattress Virginia was saying, "but Mis' Pilkins sen' me say lunch raydy, Miss Patrisy." Virginia seemed to notice nothing out-of-the-way. Having delivered her message, she went away quietly, her pleasant yellow face as imperturbable as an idol's. But Patricia shivered. "She frightens me, _mon ami_. Yes, that old woman always gives me gooseflesh, and I don't know why--because she is as deaf as a post--and I simply can't get rid of her. She is a sort of symbol--she, and how many others, I wonder! Oh, well, let's hurry." So Mr. Charteris was never permitted to finish his complaint against Patricia's voice. It was absolutely imperative they should be on time for luncheon; for, as Patricia pointed out, the majority of people are censorious and lose no opportunity for saying nasty things. They are even capable of sneering at a purely platonic friendship which is attempting to preserve the beautiful old Greek spirit. She was chattering either of her plans for the autumn, or of Dante and the discovery of his missing cantos, or else of how abominably Bob Townsend had treated Rosalind Jemmett, and they had almost reached the upper terrace--little Roger, indeed, his red head blazing in the sunlight, was already sidling by shy instalments toward them--when Patricia moaned inconsequently and for no ascertainable cause fainted. "Just look at that, Rudolph! you've spilt it all over your coat sleeve. I do wish you would try to be a little less clumsy. Oh, well, I'm spruce as a new penny now. So let's all go to luncheon." "Good Lord!" as she herself declared, "it has reached the point that when I see a turkey coming to the dinner-table to be carved I can't help treating it as an ingenue." Now they alarmed her; and in consequence she took the next morning's train to Lichfield. She is like the watchman who announces the coming of Agamemnon; Clytemnestra sharpens her ax at the news, and the fatal bath is prepared for the _anax andron_. The tragedy moves on; the house of Atreus falls, and the wrath of implacable gods bellows across the heavens; meanwhile, the watchman has gone home to have tea with his family, and we hear no more of him. There are any number of morals to this. And the Musgraves' house-party was no exception. Mrs. Ashmeade, for reasons of her own, took daily note of this. The others were largely engrossed by their own affairs; they did not seriously concern themselves about the doings of their fellow-guests. And, besides, if John Charteris manifestly sought the company of Patricia Musgrave, her husband did not appear to be exorbitantly dissatisfied or angry or even lonely; and, be this as it might, the fact remained that Celia Reindan was at this time more than a little interested in Teddy Anstruther; and Felix Kennaston was undeniably very attentive to Kathleen Saumarez; and Tom Gelwix was quite certainly devoting the major part of his existence to sitting upon the beach with Rosalind Jemmett. For, in Lichfield at all events, everyone's house has at least a pane or so of glass in it; and, if indiscriminate stone-throwing were ever to become the fashion, there is really no telling what damage might ensue. And so had Mrs. Ashmeade been a younger woman--had time and an adoring husband not rendered her as immune to an insanity _a deux_ as any of us may hope to be upon this side of saintship or senility--why, Mrs. Ashmeade would most probably have remained passive, and Mrs. Ashmeade would never have come into this story at all. As it was, she approached Rudolph Musgrave with a fixed purpose this morning as he smoked an after-breakfast cigarette on the front porch of Matocton. And, "Rudolph," said Mrs. Ashmeade, "are you blind?" If ever amazement showed in a man's eyes, it shone now in Rudolph Musgrave's. After a little, the pupils widened in a sort of terror. So this was what Clarice Pendomer had been hinting at. Mrs. Ashmeade paused, and her eyes were full of memories, and very wise. "I am only a looker-on at the tragic farce that is being played here," she continued, after a little, "but lookers-on, you know, see most of the game. They are not playing fairly with you, Rudolph. When people set about an infringement of the Decalogue they owe it to their self-respect to treat with Heaven as a formidable antagonist. To mark the cards is not enough. They are not playing fairly, my dear, and you ought to know it." The fan continued its majestic sweep from the shade into the sunlight, and back again into the shadow. Without, many locusts shrilled monotonously. "Rudolph, I know what you meant by saying that Fate hadn't such a fine sense of humor." For a moment the fan paused; then went on as before. It was never charged against Pauline Ashmeade, whatever her shortcomings, that she was given to unnecessary verbiage. Nevertheless, he paused after a while, and laughed, with a tolerable affectation of mirth. "I say--I--and what in heaven's name, Polly, prompted you to bring me this choice specimen of a mare's-nest?" Mrs. Ashmeade was looking out over the river now, but she seemed to see a great way, a very great way, beyond its glaring waters, and to be rather uncertain as to whether what she beheld there was of a humorous or pathetic nature. Mrs. Ashmeade rose from her chair. Her fan shut with a snap. "Wouldn't it have been ridiculous, Rudolph?" she demanded, suddenly. She caught her skirts in her left hand, preparatory to going, and her right hand rested lightly on his arm. She spoke in a rather peculiar voice. "Yes," she said, "the boy was a very, very dear boy, and I want the man to be equally brave and--sensible." "There must be some preposterous situations that don't come about." And afterward he strolled across the lawn, where the locusts were shrilling, as if in a stubborn prediction of something which was inevitable, and he meditated upon a great number of things. There were a host of fleecy little clouds in the sky. He looked up at them, interrogatively. And then he smiled and shook his head. "Yet I don't know," said he; "for I am coming to the conclusion that the world is run on an extremely humorous basis." And oddly enough, it was at the same moment that Patricia--in Lichfield--reached the same conclusion. "We are as time moulds us, lacking wherewithal To shape out nobler fortunes or contend Against all-patient Fates, who may not mend The allotted pattern of things temporal Or alter it a jot or e'er let fall A single stitch thereof, until at last The web and its drear weavers be overcast And predetermined darkness swallow all. "They have ordained for us a time to sing, A time to love, a time wherein to tire Of all spent songs and kisses; caroling Such elegies as buried dreams require, Love now departs, and leaves us shivering Beside the embers of a burned-out fire." PAUL VANDERHOFFEN. _Egeria Answers._ She started when the door of the consultation-room opened. The doctor was patting the silk glove of a harassed-looking woman in black as he escorted her to the outer door, and was assuring her that everything was going very well indeed, and that she was not to worry, and so on. And presently he spoke with Patricia, for a long while, quite levelly, of matters which it is not suitable to record. Discreet man that he was, Wendell Pemberton could not entirely conceal his wonder that Patricia should have remained so long in ignorance of her condition. He spoke concerning malformation and functional weaknesses and, although obscurely because of the bugbear of professional courtesy, voiced his opinion that Patricia had not received the most adroit medical treatment at the time of little Roger's birth. She was dividedly conscious of a desire to laugh and of the notion that she must remain outwardly serious, because though this horrible Pemberton man was talking abject nonsense, she would presently be having him as a dinner-guest. But what if he were not talking nonsense? The possibility, considered, roused a sensation of falling through infinity. The doctor went on talking. Patricia did not listen. The man was talking, she comprehended, but to her his words seemed blurred and indistinguishable. "Like a talking-machine when it isn't wound up enough," she decided. The dahlia leaves, she noticed, were edged with yellow. She must look to it that the place was more frequently watered; and that the bulbs were dug up in September. Next year she meant to set the dahlias thinly, like a hedge "Oh, yes, I meant to. Only I won't be alive next year," she recollected. She went about the garden to see if Ned had weeded out the wild-pea vines--a pest which had invaded the trim place lately. Only a few of the intruders remained, burnt-out and withered as they are annually by the mid-summer sun. There would be no more fight until next April. "Oh, and I have prayed to You, I have always tried to do what You wanted, and I never asked You to let me be born locked up in a good-for-nothing Musgrave body! And You won't even let me see a wild-pea vine again! That isn't much to ask, I think. But You won't let me do it. You really do have rather funny notions about Your jokes." "Oh, very well!" Patricia said aloud. "It is none of my affair that You elect to run Your world on an extremely humorous basis." She was at Matocton in good time for luncheon. Colonel Musgrave had a brief interview with his wife after luncheon. He began with quiet remonstrance, and ended with an unheard extenuation of his presumption. Patricia's speech on this occasion was of an unfettered and heady nature. There was a rustle of skirts, and the door slammed. Colonel Musgrave went to his own room, where he spent an interval in meditation. He opened his desk and took out a small packet of papers, some of which he read listlessly. How curiously life re-echoed itself! he reflected, for here, again, were castby love-letters potent to breed mischief; and his talk with Polly Ashmeade had been peculiarly reminiscent of his more ancient talk with Clarice Pendomer. Everything that happened seemed to have happened before. But presently he shook his head, sighing. Chance had put into his hands a weapon, and a formidable weapon, it seemed to him, but the colonel did not care to use it. He preferred to strike with some less grimy cudgel. "Oh," said John Charteris, "so it was you, Rudolph? I could not imagine who it was that called." "Yes--I wanted a word with you, Jack." "A beautiful evening," said Mr. Charteris. Musgrave lighted a cigarette. "Jack, I have something rather difficult to say to you--yes, it is deuced difficult, and the sooner it is over the better. I--why, confound it all, man! I want you to stop making love to my wife." "Now, you are about to make a scene, you know," said Musgrave, raising his hand in protest, "and we are not here for that. We are not going to tear any passions to tatters; we are not going to rant; we are simply going to have a quiet and sensible talk. We don't happen to be characters in a romance; for you aren't Lancelot, you know, and I am not up to the part of Arthur by a great deal. I am not angry, I am not jealous, nor do I put the matter on any high moral grounds. I simply say it won't do--no, hang it, it won't do!" And so what Colonel Musgrave said was: "Put it that a burnt child dreads the fire--is that a reason he should not warn his friends against it?" Musgrave blew out a puff of smoke. "I don't especially mind," he said, slowly. "According to tradition, of course, I ought to spring at your throat with a smothered curse. But, as a matter of fact, I don't see why I should be irritated. No, in common reason," he added, upon consideration, "I am only rather sorry for you both." Mr. Charteris sprang to his feet, and walked up and down the beach. "Ah, you hide your feelings well," he cried, and his laughter was a trifle unconvincing and a bit angry. "But it is unavailing with me. I know! I know the sick and impotent hatred of me that is seething in your heart; and I feel for you the pity you pretend to entertain toward me. Yes, I pity you. But what would you have? Frankly, while in many ways an estimable man, you are no fit mate for Patricia. She has the sensitive, artistic temperament, poor girl; and only we who are cursed with it can tell you what its possession implies. And you--since frankness is the order of the day, you know--well, you impress me as being a trifle inadequate. It is not your fault, perhaps, but the fact remains that you have never amounted to anything personally. You have simply traded upon the accident of being born a Musgrave of Matocton. In consequence you were enabled to marry Patricia's money, just as the Musgraves of Matocton always marry some woman who is able to support them. Ah, but it was her money you married, and not Patricia! Any community of interest between you was impossible, and is radically impossible. Your marriage was a hideous mistake, just as mine was. For you are starving her soul, Rudolph, just as Anne has starved mine. And now, at last, when Patricia and I have seen our single chance of happiness, we cannot--no! we cannot and we will not--defer to any outworn tradition or to fear of Mrs. Grundy's narrow-minded prattle!" Charteris swept aside the dogmas of the world with an indignant gesture of somewhat conscious nobility; and he turned to his companion in an attitude of defiance. Musgrave was smiling. He smoked and seemed to enjoy his cigarette. In Colonel Musgrave's face, the primal peace was mirrored. "May I ask," said he at length, "what you propose doing?" "A euphemism, as I take it, for an elopement. I hardly thought you intended going so far." The colonel shrugged his shoulders. "I presuppose you have counted the cost--and estimated the necessary breakage?" "True love," the novelist declared, in a hushed, sweet voice, "is above such considerations." "I think," said Musgrave slowly, "that any love worthy of the name will always appraise the cost--to the woman. It is of Patricia I am thinking." "Ah, you are right!" said Charteris, and his eyes grew tender. "She must have what she most desires; and all must be sacrificed to that." He turned and spoke as simply as a child. "Of course, you know, I shall be giving up a great deal for love of her, but--I am willing." "No; the question is whether it is absolutely necessary to make the omelet. I say no." "And I," quoth Charteris smiling gently, "say yes." Mr. Charteris was frankly surprised. "Patricia has--nothing?" "Bless your soul, of course not! Her father left the greater part of his money to our boy, you know. Most of it is still held in trust for our boy, who is named after him. Not a penny of it belongs to Patricia, and even I cannot touch anything but a certain amount of interest." Mr. Charteris looked at the colonel with eyes that were sad and hurt and wistful. "I am perfectly aware of your reason for telling me this," he said, candidly. "I know I have always been thought a mercenary man since my marriage. At that time I fancied myself too much in love with Anne to permit any sordid considerations of fortune to stand in the way of our union. Poor Anne! she little knows what sacrifices I have made for her! She, too, would be dreadfully unhappy if I permitted her to realize that our marriage was a mistake." "God help her--yes!" groaned Musgrave. "And as concerns Patricia, you are entirely right. It would be hideously unfair to condemn her to a life of comparative poverty. My books sell better than you think, Rudolph, but still an author cannot hope to attain affluence so long as he is handicapped by any reverence for the English language. Yes, I was about to do Patricia a great wrong. I rejoice that you have pointed out my selfishness. For I have been abominably selfish. I confess it." "I think so," assented Musgrave, calmly. "But, then, my opinion is, naturally, rather prejudiced." "Word of honor?" queried Colonel Musgrave, with an odd quizzing sort of fondness for the little novelist, as the colonel took the proffered hand. "Why, then, that is settled, and I am glad of it. I told you, you know, it wouldn't do. See you at supper, I suppose?" And Rudolph Musgrave glanced at the bath-house, turned on his heel, and presently plunged into the beech plantation, whistling cheerfully. The effect of the melody was somewhat impaired by the apparent necessity of breaking off, at intervals, in order to smile. The comedy had been admirably enacted, he considered, on both sides; and he did not object to Jack Charteris's retiring with all the honors of war. Thereupon, he retraced his steps. When he had come to the thin spot in the thicket, Rudolph Musgrave left the path, and entered the shrubbery. There he composedly sat down in the shadow of a small cedar. The sight of his wife upon the beach in converse with Mr. Charteris did not appear to surprise Colonel Musgrave. "Indeed," protested Mr. Charteris, "he saw nothing. I was too quick for him." "Oh, Rudolph is just a jackass-fool, anyway." She was not particularly interested in the subject. "He can't help that, you know," Charteris reminded her, gently; then, he asked, after a little: "I suppose it is all true?" "That what is true?" "About your having no money of your own?" He laughed, but she could see how deeply he had been pained by Musgrave's suspicions. "I ask, because, as your husband has discovered, I am utterly sordid, my lady, and care only for your wealth." "Ah, how can you expect a man like that to understand--you? Why, Jack, how ridiculous in you to be hurt by what the brute thinks! You're as solemn as an owl, my dear. Yes, it's true enough. My father was not very well pleased with us--and that horrid will--Ah, Jack, Jack, how grotesque, how characteristic it was, his thinking such things would influence you--you, of all men, who scarcely know what money is!" "You--you are going to leave me?" "Yes; and I pray that I may be strong enough to relinquish you forever, because your welfare is more dear to me than my own happiness. No, I do not pretend that this is easy to do. But when my misery is earned by serving you I prize my misery." Charteris tried to smile. "What would you have? I love you," he said, simply. "Ah, my dear!" she cried. Musgrave's heart was sick within him as he heard the same notes in her voice that echoed in Anne's voice when she spoke of her husband. This was a new Patricia; her speech was low and gentle now, and her eyes held a light Rudolph Musgrave had not seen there for a long while. For a moment Charteris was silent. The nostrils of his beak-like nose widened a little, and a curious look came into his face. He discovered something in the sand that interested him. "After all," he demanded, slowly, "is it necessary--to go away--to be happy?" "I don't understand." Her hand lifted from his arm; then quick remorse smote her, and it fluttered back, confidingly. Charteris rose to his feet. "It is, doubtless, a very spectacular and very stirring performance to cast your cap over the wind-mill in the face of the world; but, after all, is it not a bit foolish, Patricia? Lots of people manage these things--more quietly." "Oh, Jack!" Patricia's face turned red, then white, and stiffened in a sort of sick terror. She was a frightened Columbine in stone. "I thought you cared for me--really, not--that way." Patricia rose and spoke with composure. "I think I'll go back to the house, Mr. Charteris. It's a bit chilly here. You needn't bother to come." Then Mr. Charteris laughed--a choking, sobbing laugh. He raised his hands impotently toward heaven. "And to think," he cried, "to think that a man may love a woman with his whole heart--with all that is best and noblest in him--and she understand him so little!" "Forgive me!" she wailed; "oh, forgive me!" "You have pained me beyond words, Patricia," he repeated. He was not angry--only sorrowful and very much hurt. "Ah, Jack! dear Jack, forgive me!" Mr. Charteris sighed. "But, of course, I forgive you, Patricia," he said. "I cannot help it, though, that I am foolishly sensitive where you are concerned. And I had hoped you knew as much." She was happy now. "Dear boy," she murmured, "don't you see it's just these constant proofs of the greatness and the wonderfulness of your love--Really, though, Jack, wasn't it too horrid of me to misunderstand you so? Are you quite sure you're forgiven me entirely--without any nasty little reservations?" Mr. Charteris was quite sure. His face was still sad, but it was benevolent. "You forget that Rudolph has my word of honor," said Mr. Charteris, in indignation. Then presently, sighing, he was grave again. "But, no! Rudolph has my word of honor," Mr. Charteris repeated, and with unconcealed regret. She laughed to think how true this was. Rudolph Musgrave sat in the shadow of the cedar with fierce and confused emotions whirling in his soul. He certainly had never thought of this contingency. When Patricia and Charteris had left the beach, Colonel Musgrave parted the underbrush and stepped down upon the sand He must have air--air and an open place wherein to fight this out. He paced up and down the beach Musgrave laughed in the darkness. His heart was racing, racing in him, and his thoughts were blown foam. He raised his hat and bowed fantastically in the darkness, because the colonel loved his gesture. "Signor Lucifer, I present my compliments. You have discoursed with me very plausibly. I honor your cunning, signor, but if you are indeed a gentleman, as I have always heard, you will now withdraw and permit me to regard the matter from a standpoint other than my own. For the others are weak, signor; as you have doubtless discovered, good women and bad men are the weakest of their sex. I am the strongest among them, for all that I am no Hercules; and the outcome of this matter must rest with me." So he sat presently upon the log, where Charteris had sat when Musgrave came to this beach at sunset. Very long ago that seemed now. For now the colonel was tired--physically outworn, it seemed to him, as if after prolonged exertion--and now the moon looked down upon him, passionless, cold, inexorable, and seemed to await the colonel's decision. And it was woefully hard to come to any decision. For, as you know by this, it was the colonel's besetting infirmity to shrink from making changes; instinctively he balked--under shelter of whatever grandiloquent excuse--against commission of any action which would alter his relations with accustomed circumstances or persons. To guide events was never his forte, as he forlornly knew; and here he was condemned perforce to play that uncongenial role, with slender chances of reward. Yet always Anne's face floated in the darkness. Always Anne's voice whispered through the lisping of the beeches, through the murmur of the water He sat thus for a long while. Musgrave was, not unnaturally, late for supper. It is not to be supposed that at this meal the colonel faltered in his duties as a host, for, to the contrary, he narrated several anecdotes in his neatest style. It was with him a point of honor always to be in company the social triumph of his generation. He observed with idle interest that Charteris and Patricia avoided each other in a rather marked manner. Both seemed a trifle more serious than they were wont to be. Mrs. Charteris looked up with a puckered brow. "Rudolph," said she, "haven't you an account at the Occidental Bank?" He returned in rather less than that time, with the cheque. Anne was alone now. She was gowned in some dull, soft, yellow stuff, and sat by a small, marble-topped table, twiddling a fountain-pen. Involuntarily, Musgrave had seen the cheque. It was for a considerable amount, and it was made out to John Charteris. "Beyond doubt," said Musgrave, in his soul, "Jack is colossal! He is actually drawing on his wife for the necessary expenses for running away with another woman!" The colonel sat down abruptly before the great, open fireplace, and stared hard at the pine-boughs which were heaped up in it. "A penny," said she, at length. He glanced up with a smile. "My dear madam, it would be robbery! For a penny, you may read of the subject of my thoughts in any of the yellow journals, only far more vividly set forth, and obtain a variety of more or less savory additions, to boot. I was thinking of the Lethbury case, and wondering how we could have been so long deceived by the man." "Ah, poor Mrs. Lethbury!" Anne sighed, "I am very sorry for her, Rudolph; she was a good woman, and was always interested in charitable work." Musgrave was looking at Anne very intently as he ended. She was entirely in earnest; Colonel Musgrave could see it plainly. Mrs. Charteris raised her eyebrows; she was really surprised. "Naturally, she must stand by her husband when he is in trouble; why, if his own wife didn't, who would, Rudolph? It is just now that he needs her most. It would be abominable to desert him now." Anne paused and thought. "Depend upon it, she knows a better side of his nature than we can see; she knows him, possibly, to have been misled, or to have acted thoughtlessly; because otherwise, she would not stand by him so firmly." Having reached this satisfactory conclusion, Anne began to laugh--at Musgrave's lack of penetration, probably. "So, you see, Rudolph, in either case, her conduct is perfectly natural." "And this," he cried, "this is how women reason!" The colonel pondered over this. "Women are different," he said. Anne nodded, very wisely; then, she began to laugh, but this time at herself. "I am talking quite like a book," she said. "Really, I had no idea I was so clever. But I have thought of this before, Rudolph, and been sorry for those poor women who--who haven't found the right sort of man to care for." "Yes." Musgrave's face was alert. "You have been luckier than most, Anne," he said. "My dear," he said, "I assure you, the emotion you raise in me is very far from resembling that of anger." Musgrave rose and laughed. "I fear, you know, we will create a scandal if we sit here any longer. Let's see what the others are doing." That night, after his guests had retired, Colonel Musgrave smoked a cigarette on the front porch of Matocton. The moon, now in the zenith, was bright and chill. After a while, Musgrave raised his face toward it, and laughed. "Isn't it--isn't it funny?" he demanded, echoing Anne's query ruefully. The night was well advanced when Charteris stepped noiselessly into the room. The colonel was then sedately writing amid a host of motionless mute watchers, for at Matocton most of the portraits hang in the East Drawing-room. So quietly did Charteris come that the colonel was not aware of his entrance until the novelist had coughed gently. He was in a dressing-gown, and looked unusually wizened. "I saw your light," he said. "I don't seem to be able to sleep, somehow. It is so infernally hot and still. I suppose there is going to be a thunderstorm. I hate thunderstorms. They frighten me." The little man was speaking like a peevish child. "No, thanks." Charteris had gone to the bookshelves and was gently pushing and pulling at the books so as to arrange their backs in a mathematically straight line. "I thought I would borrow something to read--Why, this is the Tennyson you had at college, isn't it? Yes, I remember it perfectly." "Yes; it is the old Tennyson. And yonder is the identical Swinburne you used to spout from, too. Lord, Jack, it seems a century since I used to listen by the hour to _The Triumph of Time and Dolores!_" "Ah, but you didn't really care for them--not even then." Charteris reached up, his back still turned, and moved a candlestick the fraction of an inch. "There is something so disgustingly wholesome about you, Rudolph. And it appears to be ineradicable. I can't imagine how I ever came to be fond of you." The colonel was twirling his pen, his eyes intent upon it. "And yet--we _were_ fond of each other, weren't we, Jack?" "Why, I positively adored you. You were such a strong and healthy animal. Upon my word, I don't believe I ever missed a single football game you played in. In fact, I almost learned to understand the game on your account. You see--it was so good to watch you raging about with touzled hair, like the only original bull of Bashan, and the others tumbling like ninepins. It used to make me quite inordinately proud." The colonel smoked. "But, Lord! how proud _I_ was when you got medals!" "Even if I did bully you sometimes. Remember how I used to twist your arm to make you write my Latin exercises, Jack?" "I liked to have you do that," Charteris said, simply. "It hurt a great deal, but I liked it." The colonel was aware of the odor of myrrh which always accompanied Charteris and felt that the little man was trembling. "Isn't there--anything you want to tell me, Jack?" the colonel said. He sat quite still. "Why, only _au revoir_, I believe. I am leaving at a rather ungodly hour to-morrow and won't see you, but I hope to return within the week." "And, after all, it is too late to be reading. I shall go back to bed and take more trional. And then, I dare say, I shall sleep. So good-by, Rudolph." The colonel sighed; then he spoke abruptly: "No, just a moment, Jack. I didn't ask you to come here to-night; but since you have come, by chance, I am going to follow the promptings of that chance, and strike a blow for righteousness with soiled weapons. Jack, do you remember suggesting that my father's correspondence during the War might be of value, and that his desk ought to be overhauled?" "Why, yes, of course. Mrs. Musgrave was telling me she began the task," said Charteris, and smiled a little. "What! and is 'Wild Will's' love-correspondence still extant? I fancy it made interesting reading, Rudolph." "Perhaps I should have kept that knowledge to myself. I know it would have been kinder. I had meant to be kind. I loathe myself for dabbling in this mess. But, in view of all things, it seemed necessary to let you know I am your own brother in the flesh, and that Patricia is your brother's wife." "And doesn't that make it all the more our duty to live clean and honest lives? to make the debt no greater than it is?" Both men were oddly quiet. "I am not sure, though. We can only guess where Jack is concerned. He goes his own way always, tricky and furtive and lonelier than any other human being I have ever known. It is loneliness that looks out of his eyes, really, even when he is mocking and sneering," the colonel meditated. Then he sighed and went back to the tabulation of his lists of wills. Rudolph Musgrave sat on a stone beside the road that winds through the woods toward the railway station, and smoked, nervously. He was disheartened of the business of living, and, absurdly enough, as it seemed to him, he was hungry. "Ah," said Colonel Musgrave, "so you have come at last. I have been expecting you for some time." Patricia dropped her portmanteau, sullenly. Mr. Charteris placed his with care to the side of the road, and said, "Oh!" It was perhaps the only observation that occurred to him. Musgrave shook himself all over, rather like a Newfoundland dog coming out of the water, and the grave note died from his voice. He smiled, and rubbed his hands together. "And now," said he, "I will stop talking like a problem play, and we will say no more about it. Give me your portmanteau, my dear, and upon my word of honor, you will never hear a word further from me in the matter. Jack, here, can take the train, just as he intended. And--and you and I will go back to the house, and have a good, hot breakfast together. Eh, Patricia?" She was thinking, unreasonably enough, how big and strong and clean her husband looked in the growing light. It was a pity Jack was so small. However, she faced Musgrave coldly, and thought how ludicrously wide of the mark were all these threats of ostracism. She shudderingly wished he would not talk of soil and taking root and hideous things like that, but otherwise the colonel left her unmoved. He was certainly good-looking, though. Charteris was lighting a cigarette, with a queer, contented look. He knew the value of Patricia's stubbornness now; still, he appeared to be using an unnecessary number of matches. "I should have thought you would have perceived the lack of dignity, as well as the utter uselessness, in making such a scene," Patricia said. "We aren't suited for each other, Rudolph; and it is better--far better for both of us--to have done with the farce of pretending to be. I am sorry that you still care for me. I didn't know that. But, for the future, I intend to live my own life." Patricia's voice faltered, and she stretched out her hands a little toward her husband in an odd gust of friendliness. He looked so kind; and he was not smiling in that way she never liked. "Surely that isn't so unpardonable a crime, Rudolph?" she asked, almost humbly. And wildly hideous and sad, it seemed to Colonel Musgrave--this dreary parody of their old love-talk. Only, he dimly knew that she had forgotten John Charteris existed, and that to her this moment seemed no less sardonic. Charteris inhaled, lazily; yet, he did not like the trembling about Patricia's mouth. Her hands, too, opened and shut tight before she spoke. "It is too late now," she said, dully. "I gave you all there was to give. You gave me just what Grandma Pendomer and all the others had left you able to give. That remnant isn't love, Olaf, as we women understand it. And, anyhow, it is too late now." He had found the right chord at last. It quivered and thrilled under his touch; and the sense of mastery leaped in his blood. Of a sudden, he knew himself dominant. Her face was red, then white, and her eyes wavered before the blaze of his, that held her, compellingly. She struggled under his look. She had an absurd desire to cry, just that he might console her. She knew he would. Why was it so hard to remember that she hated Rudolph! Of course, she hated him; she loved that other man yonder. His name was Jack. She turned toward Charteris, and the reassuring smile with which he greeted her, impressed Patricia as being singularly nasty. She hated both of them; she wanted--in that brief time which remained for having anything--only her boy, her soft, warm little Roger who had eyes like Rudolph's. "I--Jack, Jack, take me away!" she wailed helplessly. Charteris came forward with a smile. He was quite sure of Patricia now. "Colonel Musgrave," he said, with a faint drawl, "if you have entirely finished your edifying and, I assure you, highly entertaining monologue, I will ask you to excuse us. I--oh, man, man!" Charteris cried, not unkindly, "don't you see it is the only possible outcome?" Musgrave faced him. The glow of hard-earned victory was pulsing in the colonel's blood, but his eyes were chill stars. "Now, Jack," he said, equably, "I am going to talk to you. In fact, I am going to discharge an agreeable duty toward you." Musgrave drew close to him. Charteris shrugged his shoulders; his smile, however, was not entirely satisfactory. It did not suggest enjoyment. "I don't blame you for being what you are," Musgrave went on, curtly. "You were born so, doubtless. I don't blame a snake for being what it is. But, when I see a snake, I claim the right to set my foot on its head; when I see a man like you--well, this is the right I claim." "Now," Musgrave concluded, "you are going away from this place very quickly, and you are going alone. You will do this because I tell you to do so, and because you are afraid of me. Understand, also--if you will be so good--that the only reason I don't give you a thorough thrashing is that I don't think you are worth the trouble. I only want Patricia to perceive exactly what sort of man you are." The blow staggered Charteris. He seemed to grow smaller. His clothes seemed to hang more loosely about him. His face was paper-white, and the red mark showed plainly upon it. She shrank from him. She drew away from him, without any vehemence, as if he had been some slimy, harmless reptile. A woman does not like to see fear in a man's eyes; and there was fear in Mr. Charteris's eyes, for all that he smiled. Patricia's heart sickened. She loathed him, and she was a little sorry for him. "Oh, you cur, you cur!" she gasped, in a wondering whisper. Patricia went to her husband, and held out her hands. She was afraid of him. She was proud of him, the strong animal. "Take me away, Rudolph," she said, simply; "take me away from that--that coward. Take me away, my dear. You may beat me, too, if you like, Rudolph. I dare say I have deserved it. But I want you to deal brutally with me, to carry me away by force, just as you threatened to do the day we were married--at the Library, you remember, when the man was crying 'Fresh oranges!' and you smelt so deliciously of soap and leather and cigarette smoke." Musgrave took both her hands in his. He smiled at Charteris. The novelist returned the smile, intensifying its sweetness. "I fancy, Rudolph," he said, "that, after all, I shall have to take that train alone." Mr. Charteris continued, with a grimace: "You have no notion, though, how annoying it is not to possess an iota of what is vulgarly considered manliness. But what am I to do? I was not born with the knack of enduring physical pain. Oh, yes, I am a coward, if you like to put it nakedly; but I was born so, willy-nilly. Personally, if I had been consulted in the matter, I would have preferred the usual portion of valor. However! the sanctity of the hearth has been most edifyingly preserved--and, after all, the woman is not worth squabbling about." "Rudolph, I had a trifle underrated your resources. For you are a brave man--we physical cowards, you know, admire that above all things--and a strong man and a clever man, in that you have adroitly played upon the purely brutal traits of women. Any she-animal clings to its young and looks for protection in its mate. Upon a higher ground I would have beaten you, but as an animal you are my superior. Still, a thing done has an end. You have won back your wife in open fight. I fancy, by the way, that you have rather laid up future trouble for yourself in doing so, but I honor the skill you have shown. Colonel Musgrave, it is to you that, as the vulgar phrase it, I take off my hat." Thereupon, Mr. Charteris uncovered his head with perfect gravity, and turned on his heel, and went down the road, whistling melodiously. Musgrave stared after him, for a while. The lust of victory died; the tumult and passion and fervor were gone from Musgrave's soul. He could very easily imagine the things Jack Charteris would say to Anne concerning him; and the colonel knew that she would believe them all. He had won the game; he had played it, heartily and skilfully and successfully; and his reward was that the old bickerings with Patricia should continue, and that Anne should be taught to loathe him. He foresaw it all very plainly as he stood, hand in hand with his wife. But Anne would be happy. It was for that he had played. They came back to Matocton almost silently. The spell of the dawn was broken; it was honest, garish day now, and they were both hungry. Patricia's spirits were rising, as a butterfly's might after a thunderstorm. Since she had only a few months to live, she would at least not waste them in squabbling. She would be conscientiously agreeable to everybody. "Ah, Rudolph, Rudolph!" she cooed, "if I had only known all along that you loved me!" "My dear," he protested, fondly, "it seemed such a matter of course." He was a little tired, perhaps; the portmanteau seemed very heavy. "A woman likes to be told--a woman likes to be told every day. Otherwise, she forgets," Patricia murmured. Then her face grew tenderly reproachful. "Ah, Rudolph, Rudolph, see what your carelessness and neglect has nearly led to! It nearly led to my running away with a man like--like that! It would have been all your fault, Rudolph, if I had. You know it would have been, Rudolph." "Yes--yes, after all, you are the boy's father." She smiled up at him kindly and indulgently. "I forgive you, Rudolph," said Patricia. Aloud she said: "Oh, well! let's go and get some breakfast." "And, besides, if he had never been born I would quite probably have lived to keep my teeth in a glass of water at night. And I can't help thinking of that privilege being denied me whenever I look at him." She told Rudolph Musgrave nothing. She was finding it mildly amusing to note how people came and went at Matocton, and to appraise these people disinterestedly, because she would never see them again. Patricia was drawing her own conclusions as to Lichfield's aristocracy. These people--for the most part a preposterously handsome race--were the pleasantest of companions and their manners were perfection; but there was enough of old Roger Stapylton's blood in Patricia's veins to make her feel, however obscurely, that nobody is justified in living without even an attempt at any personal achievement. The younger men evinced a marked tendency to leave Lichfield, to make their homes elsewhere, she noted, and they very often attained prominence; there was Joe Parkinson, for instance, who had lunched at Oyster Bay only last Thursday, according to the _Lichfield Courier-Herald_. And, meanwhile, the men of her husband's generation clung to their old mansions, and were ornamental, certainly, and were, very certainly, profoundly self-satisfied; for they adhered to the customs of yesterday under the comfortable delusion that this was the only way to uphold yesterday's ideals. But what, in heaven's name, had any of these men of Rudolph Musgrave's circle ever done beyond enough perfunctory desk-work, say, to furnish him food and clothes? For Charteris was important. Patricia was rereading all the books that Charteris had published, and they engrossed her with an augmenting admiration. Patricia was not a little puzzled by these books. The traditional Lichfield, she decided in the outcome, may very possibly have been just the trick-work of a charlatan's cleverness; but, even in that event, here were the tales of life in Lichfield--ardent, sumptuous and fragrant throughout with the fragrance of love and roses, of rhyme and of youth's lovely fallacies; and for the pot-pourri, if it deserved no higher name, all who believed that living ought to be a uniformly noble transaction could not fail to be grateful eternally. Esthetic values apart--and, indeed, to all such values Patricia accorded a provisional respect--what most impressed her Stapyltonian mind was the fact that these books represented, in a perfectly tangible way, success. Patricia very heartily admired success when it was brevetted as such by the applause of others. And while to be a noted stylist, and even to be reasonably sure of annotated reissuement for the plaguing of unborn schoolchildren, was all well enough, in an unimportant, high-minded way, Patricia was far more vividly impressed by the blunt figures which told how many of John Charteris's books had been bought and paid for. She accepted these figures as his publishers gave them forth, implicitly; and she marveled over and took odd joy in these figures. They enabled her to admire Charteris's books without reservation. By this time Mrs. Ashmeade had managed, in the most natural manner, to tell Patricia a deal concerning Charteris. No halo graced the portrait Mrs. Ashmeade painted But, indeed, Patricia now viewed John Charteris, considered as a person, without any particular bias. She did not especially care--now--what the man had done or had omitted to do. But the venerable incongruity of the writer and his work confronted her intriguingly. A Charteris writes _In Old Lichfield;_ a Cockney drug-clerk writes _The Eve of St. Agnes;_ a genteel printer evolves a Lovelace; and a cutpurse pens the _Ballad of Dead Ladies_ in a brothel. It is manifestly impossible; and it happens. So here, then, was a knave who held, somehow, the keys to a courtlier and nobler world. These tales made living seem a braver business, for all that they were written by a poltroon. Was it pure posturing? Patricia, at least, thought it was not. At worst, such dexterous maintenance of a pose was hardly despicable, she considered. And, anyhow, she preferred to believe that Charteris had by some miracle put the best of himself into these books, had somehow clarified the abhorrent mixture of ability and evil which was John Charteris; and the best in him she found, on this hypothesis, to be a deal more admirable than the best in Rudolph Musgrave. The world knows how Charteris was killed in Fairhaven by Jasper Hardress--the husband of "that flighty Mrs. Hardress" Anne had spoken of. "And I hardly know," said Mrs. Ashmeade, "whether more to admire the justice or the sardonic humor of the performance. Here after hundreds of entanglements with women, John Charteris manages to be shot by a jealous maniac on account of a woman with whom--for a wonder--his relations were proven to be innocent. The man needed killing, but it is asking too much of human nature to put up with his being made a martyr of." But with the horror and irony of John Charteris's assassination the biographer of Rudolph Musgrave has really nothing to do save in so far as this event influenced the life of Rudolph Musgrave. "I wish I could be with Anne," thought Colonel Musgrave. "It may be I could make things easier." But Anne was in Lichfield now He had just finished dressing for supper when it occurred to him that since their return from the river he had not seen Patricia. He was afraid that Patricia, also, would be upset by this deplorable news. As he crossed the hall Virginia came out of Patricia's rooms. The colonel raised his voice in speaking to her, for with age Virginia was growing very deaf. "Yaas, suh," she said, "I'm doin' middlin' well, suh, thank yeh, suh. Jus' took the evenin' mail to Miss Patricy, like I always do, suh." She went away quietly, her pleasant yellow face as imperturbable as an idol's. There was a newspaper in her right hand, with flamboyant headlines, because to Lichfield the death of John Charteris was an event of importance. Patricia seemed very young. You saw that she had suffered. You knew it was not fair to hurt a child like that. "This same Patricia!" he said, aloud. "You have chosen the love 'that lives sans murmurings, Sans passion,' and incuriously endures The gradual lapse of time. You have chosen as yours A level life of little happenings; And through the long autumnal evenings Lord Love, no doubt, is of the company, And hugs your ingleside contentedly, Smiles at old griefs, and rustles needless wings. ALLEN ROSSITER. _Two in October._ To those who knew John Charteris only through the medium of the printed page it must have appeared that the novelist was stayed in mid-career by an accident of unrelieved and singular brutality. And truly, thus extinguished by the unfounded jealousy of a madman, the force of Charteris's genius seemed, and seems to-day, as emphasized by that sinister caprice of chance which annihilated it. But people in Lichfield, after the manner of each prophet's countrymen, had their own point of view. The artist always stood between these people and the artist's handiwork, in part obscuring it. "Jack didn't approve of mourning. He said it was a heathen survival." That was the only explanation she offered. "Why, but of course. It is the last thing I will ever be allowed to do for him," she had said, in innocent surprise. "Why shouldn't I?" Her air was such that you were both to talk to her about appearances. Mrs. Ashmeade meditated and appeared dissatisfied. "And John Charteris of all people!" Into Colonel Musgrave's mental processes during this period it will not do to pry too closely. The man had his white nights and his battles, in part with real grief and regret, and in part with sundry emotions which he took on faith as the emotions he ought to have, and, therefore, manifestly, suffered under "Patricia was my wife, Jack was my brother," ran his verdict in the outcome; and beyond that he did not care to go. Patricia and Jack were as a matter of course "better off," then--and, miraculously purged of faults, with all their defects somehow remedied, the colonel's wife and brother, with Agatha and the colonel's other interred relatives, were partaking of dignified joys in bright supernal iridescent realms, which the colonel resignedly looked forward to entering, on some comfortably remote day or another, and thus rejoining his transfigured kindred Such was the colonel's charitable decision, in the forming whereof logic was in no way implicated. For religion, as the colonel would have told you sedately, was not a thing to be reasoned about. Attempting to do that, you became in Rudolph Musgrave's honest eyes regrettably flippant. But of Anne Charteris he saw very little nowadays. And, indeed, it was of her own choice that Anne lived apart from Lichfieldian junketings, contented with her dreams and her pride therein, and her remorseful tender memories of the things she might have done for Jack and had not done--lived upon exalted levels nowadays, to which the colonel's more urbane bereavement did not aspire. "Charteris" was engraved in large, raised letters upon the granite coping over which Anne stepped to enter the trim burial-plot wherein her dead lay. Now Anne spoke, as the phrase runs, before she thought. "She came with you!" And he answered, as from the depths of an uncalled-for comprehension which was distinctly irritating: Anne said, and again, as she perceived within the moment, a thought too expeditiously: "I wish you wouldn't bring them here, Colonel Musgrave." Indeed, it seemed to her flat desecration that Musgrave should have brought his former mistress into this hallowed plot of ground. She did not mind--illogically, perhaps--his bringing the child. So he had been at pains to spy upon her! Anne phrased it thus in her soul, being irritated, and crisply answered: "I am leaving Lichfield to-morrow. I had meant this to be my farewell to them until October." "Yes," he said. "Well, I shall not intrude." "No--wait," she dissented. Her voice was altered now, for there had come into it a marvelous gentleness. And Colonel Musgrave remained motionless. The whole world was motionless, ineffably expectant, as it seemed to him. Some of these thronged memorials were tinged with violet, and others were a-glitter like silver, just as the ordered trees shaded them or no from the low sun. The disposition of all worldly affairs, the man dimly knew, was very anciently prearranged by an illimitable and, upon the whole, a kindly wisdom. She was considering the change in him. Anne was recollecting that Colonel Musgrave had somewhat pointedly avoided her since her widowhood. He seemed almost a stranger nowadays. But Rudolph Musgrave was uncanny in some respects. For he said within the moment, "I am not a bit like John Charteris, am I?" "No," she answered, quietly. It had been her actual thought. Anne was happy. It was for that he had played. "I got lost, Colonel Musgrave," the child composedly announced. "I walked ever so far, and the gate wasn't where we left it. And the roads kept turning and twisting so, it seemed I'd never get anywhere. I don't like being lost when it's getting dark and there's so many dead people 'round, do you?" The colonel was moved to disapproval. "Young man, I suppose your poor deserted mother is looking for you everywhere, and has probably torn out every solitary strand of hair she possesses by this time." "I reckon she is," the boy assented. The topic did not appear to be in his eyes of preeminent importance. Then Anne Charteris said, "Harry," and her voice was such that Rudolph Musgrave wheeled with amazement in his face. "You are Mrs. Pendomer's boy, aren't you?" said Anne Charteris, in a while. She had some difficulty in articulation. "Yes'm," Harry assented, "and we come here 'most every Wednesday, and, please, ma'am, you're hurtin' me." The woman gave an odd, unhuman sound. "Not until April!" And Harry strolled resignedly toward the fence. Harry Pendomer did not like this funny lady who had hurt, frightened eyes. He did not believe in the whale, of course, any more than he did in Santa Claus. But like most children, he patiently accepted the fact that grown people are unaccountable overlords appointed by some vast _betise_, whom, if only through prudential motives, it is preferable to humor. Colonel Musgrave stood now upon the other side of John Charteris's grave--just in the spot that was reserved for her own occupancy some day. "You are ill, Anne. You are not fit to be out. Go home." You could hear the far-off river, now, faint as the sound of boiling water. After a few pacings Colonel Musgrave turned upon her. He spoke with a curious simplicity. "A great many of these stories," Anne repeated, "aren't true! A great many aren't! That ought to be consoling, oughtn't it?" She spoke without a trace of bitterness. Anne was not angry. It had come to her, quite as though she were considering some other woman, that what the man said was, in a fashion, true. "There is sunlight and fresh air in the street," John Charteris had been wont to declare, "and there is a culvert at the corner. I think it is a mistake for us to emphasize the culvert." So he had trained her to disbelieve in its existence. She saw this now. It did not matter. It seemed to her that nothing mattered any more. "Oh, my dear, my dear!" he seriocomically deplored. "Why, because it was such a noble thing to do. It was so like the estimable young man in a play, you know, who acknowledges the crime he never committed and takes a curtain-call immediately afterwards. In fine, I simply observed to myself, with the late Monsieur de Bergerac, 'But what a gesture!'" And he parodied an actor's motion in this role. She stayed unsmiling and patiently awaiting veracity. Anne did not understand that Colonel Musgrave was telling the absolute truth. And so, "You haven't _any_ sense of humor," he lamented. "You used to have a deal, too, before you took to being conscientiously cheerful, and diffusing sweetness and light among your cowering associates. Well, it was because it helped him a little. Oh, I am being truthful now. I had some reason to dislike Jack Charteris, but odd as it is, I know to-day I never did. I ought to have, perhaps. But I didn't." "My friend, you are being almost truthful. But I want the truth entire." "It isn't polite to disbelieve people," he reproved her; "or at the very least, according to the best books on etiquette, you ought not to do it audibly. Would you mind if I smoked? I could be more veracious then. There is something in tobacco that makes frankness a matter of course. I thank you." Anne understood him now, as with a great drench of surprise. And fear was what she felt in chief when she saw for just this moment as though it had lightened, the man's face transfigured, and tender, and strange to her. "I tried to buy your happiness, to--yes, just to keep you blind indefinitely. Had the price been heavier, I would have paid it the more gladly. Fate has played a sorry trick. _You_ would never have seen through him. My dear, I have wanted very often to shake you," he said. And she knew, in a glorious terror, that she desired him to shake her, and as she had never desired anything else in life. She did not say anything. A certain new discovery obsessed her like a piece of piercing music. Anne very carefully arranged her roses on the ivy-covered grave. "I do not know--meanwhile, I give these to our master. And my real widowhood begins to-day." He grimaced and gave a bantering flirt of his head. He said, with quizzing eyes: Their eyes met warily; and for no reason which they shared in common they smiled together. He stayed to puff his cigarette. "Oh, Rudolph dear, don't--don't be just a merry-Andrew!" she cried impulsively, before he had time to continue, which she perceived he meant to do, as if it did not matter. "It does tell." Anne was thinking it would always tell. And that, too, would be John Charteris's handiwork. Ensued a silence. Rudolph Musgrave was painstakingly intent upon his cigarette. A nestward-plunging bird called to his mate impatiently. Then Anne shook her head impatiently. "Come, while I'm thinking, I will drive you back to Lichfield." "Oh, no; that wouldn't do at all," he said, with absolute decision. "No, you see I have to return the boy. And I can't quite imagine your carriage waiting at the doors of 'that Mrs. Pendomer.'" "Oh," Anne fleetingly thought, "_he_ would have understood." But aloud she only said: "And do you think I hate her any longer? Yes, it is true I hated her until to-day, and now I'm just sincerely sorry for her. For she and I--and you and even the child yonder--and all that any of us is to-day--are just so many relics of John Charteris. Yet he has done with us--at last!" She said this with an inhalation of the breath; but she did not look at him. "Take care!" he said, with an unreasonable harshness. "For I forewarn you I am imagining vain things." "I'm not afraid, somehow." But Anne did not look at him. He saw as with a rending shock how like the widow of John Charteris was to Anne Willoughby; and unforgotten pulses, very strange and irrational and dear, perplexed him sorely. He debated, and flung aside the cigarette as an out-moded detail of his hobbling part. "You say I did a noble thing for you. I tried to. But quixotism has its price. To-day I am not quite the man who did that thing. John Charteris has set his imprint too deep upon us. We served his pleasure. We are not any longer the boy and girl who loved each other." She waited in the rising twilight with a yet averted face. The world was motionless, ineffably expectant, as it seemed to him. And the disposition of all worldly affairs, the man dimly knew, was very anciently prearranged by an illimitable and, upon the whole, a kindly wisdom. Then he was silent for a heart-beat, appraising her. His hands lifted toward her and fell within the moment, as if it were in impotence. Anne spoke at last, and the sweet voice of her was very glad and proud and confident. "My friend, remember that I have not thanked you. You have done the most foolish and--the manliest thing I ever knew a man to do, just for my sake. And I have accepted it as if it were a matter of course. And I shall always do so. Because it was your right to do this very brave and foolish thing for me. I know you joyed in doing it. Rudolph you cannot understand how glad I am you joyed in doing it." Their eyes met. It is not possible to tell you all they were aware of through that moment, because it is a knowledge so rarely apprehended, and even then for such a little while, that no man who has sensed it can remember afterward aught save the splendor and perfection of it. "Come," she quickly said to Rudolph Musgrave; "come, for I am afraid." "That you belong to Jack in spite of everything?" the colonel said. "Why, but of course! I might have known that Jack would never have allowed any simple incidental happening such as his death to cause his missing a possible trick." Anne would have comforted Rudolph Musgrave; but, to her discomfiture, the colonel was grinning, however ruefully. "But that--that's foolish. Why, it's unreasonable," Anne pointed out. "Of course it is. And that is why I am proud of Lichfield. And that is why you are to-day Jack's wife and always will be just Jack's wife--and why to-day I am Patricia's husband--and why Lichfield to-day is Lichfield. There is something braver in life than to be just reasonable, thank God! And so, we keep the faith, my dear, however obsolete we find fidelity to be. We keep to the old faith--we of Lichfield, who have given hostages to the past. We remember even now that we gave freely in an old time, and did not haggle And so, we are proud--yes! we are consumedly proud, and we know that we have earned the right to be proud." A little later Colonel Musgrave said: And to the colonel's discomfort Anne began to cry. "There, there!" he said, "so the real truth is out at last. And tears don't help very much. It does seem a bit unfair, my dear, I know. But that is simply because you and I are living in a universe which has never actually committed itself, under any penalizing bond, to be entirely candid as to the laws by which it is conducted." But it may be that Rudolph Musgrave voiced quite obsolete views. For he said this at a very remote period--when the Beef Trust was being "investigated" in Washington; when an excited Iberian constabulary was still hunting the anarchists who had attempted to assassinate the young King and Queen of Spain upon their wedding-day; when the rebuilding of an earthquake-shattered San Francisco was just beginning to be talked of as a possibility; and when editorials were mostly devoted to discussion of what Mr. Bryan would have to say about bi-metallism when he returned from his foreign tour. LIONEL CROCHARD. _Palinodia_. So weeks and months, and presently irrevocable years, passed tranquilly; and nothing very important seemed to happen nowadays, either for good or ill; and Rudolph Musgrave was content enough. And it seemed to Rudolph Musgrave that Patricia was tired of pacing before the row of houses, each so like the other, and compared herself to Gulliver astray upon a Brobdingnagian bookshelf which held a "library set" of some huge author. She had lost interest, too, in the new house upon the other side. "If things were different I would have to call on them. But as it is, I am spared that bother at least," said Patricia, just as if being dead did not change people at all. And it seemed to Rudolph Musgrave, now in the full flow of this droll dream, that Patricia resentfully noted her front-hall had been "meddled with." This much alone might Patricia observe in a swift transit to the parlor. She waited there until the maid returned; and registered to the woman's credit the discreet soft closing of the front-door and afterward the well-nigh inaudible swish of the rear door of the dining-room as the maid went back into the kitchen. "In any event," Patricia largely conceded, "she probably doesn't clash the knives and forks in the pantry after supper, like she was hostile armaments with any number of cutlasses apiece. I remember Rudolph simply couldn't stand it when we had Ethel." So much was satisfactory. Only--her parlor was so altered! Patricia looked in vain for her grandiose plush-covered chairs, her immaculate "tidies," and the proud yellow lambrequin, embroidered in high relief with white gardenias, which had formerly adorned the mantelpiece. The heart of her hungered for her unforgotten and unforgettable "watered-silk" papering wherein white roses bloomed exuberantly against a yellow background--which deplorably faded if you did not keep the window-shades down, she remembered--and she wanted back her white thick comfortable carpet which hid the floor completely, so that everywhere you trod upon the buxomest of stalwart yellow roses, each bunch of which was lavishly tied with wind-blown ribbons. She entered the front room. It had been her bedroom ever since her marriage. She remembered this as with a gush of defiant joy. So it seemed to Rudolph Musgrave that Patricia came actually into the room that had been hers A canary was singing there, very sweet and shrill and as in defiant joy. Its trilling seemed to fill the room. In the brief pauses of his song the old clock, from which Rudolph had removed the pendulum on the night of Agatha's death would interpose an obstinate slow ticking; and immediately the clock-noise would be drowned in melody. Otherwise the room was silent. Rudolph Musgrave stayed motionless. He comprehended that he was dying. The greatest of all changes was at hand; and he, who had always shrunk from making changes, was now content enough Indeed, with Rudolph Musgrave living had always been a vaguely dissatisfactory business, a hand-to-mouth proceeding which he had scrambled through, as he saw now, without any worthy aim or even any intelligible purpose. He had nothing very heinous with which to reproach himself; but upon the other side, he had most certainly nothing of which to be particularly proud. "To this new South, that has not any longer need of me or of my kind. "To this new South! She does not gaze unwillingly, nor too complacently, upon old years, and dares concede that but with loss of manliness may any man encroach upon the heritage of a dog or of a trotting-horse, and consider the exploits of an ancestor to guarantee an innate and personal excellence. "For to her all former glory is less a jewel than a touchstone, and with her portion of it daily she appraises her own doing, and without vain speech. And her high past she values now, in chief, as fit foundation of that edifice whereon she labors day by day, and with augmenting strokes." Yes, that was it. And it was true. Yet Rudolph Musgrave's life on earth was ending now--the only life that he would ever have on earth--and it had never risen to the plane of seeming even to Rudolph Musgrave a really important transaction on Rudolph Musgrave's part Then Patricia spoke. Low and very low she called to Olaf, and the dim, wistful eyes of Rudolph Musgrave lifted, and gazed full upon her standing there, and were no longer wistful. And the man made as though to rise, and could not, and his face was very glad. But he did not say this aloud, for it seemed to him that he stood in a cool, pleasant garden, and that Patricia came toward him through the long shadows of sunset. The lacy folds and furbelows and semi-transparencies that clothed her were now tinged with gold and now, as a hedge or a flower bed screened her from the level rays, were softened into multitudinous graduations of grays and mauves and violets. "_Failure is not permitted_" he was saying "_You're Cousin Rudolph, aren't you?_" she asked End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Rivet in Grandfather's Neck by James Branch Cabell	redpajama-book	36,392
Produced by PG Distributed Proofreaders A Brief Description of the Great Gold Regions in the Northwest Territories and Alaska Founder of Dawson City, N.W.T. Explorer, Miner and Prospector Having recently returned for a temporary stay, after a somewhat successful experience, I have received applications for information in numbers so great that it far exceeds my ability and the time at my disposal to make direct replies. Klondyke! The word and place that has startled the civilized world is to-day a series of thriving mining camps on the Yukon River and its tributaries in the Canadian Northwest Territories. It is at Dawson City that the prospector files his claims with the Government Gold Commissioner, in the recording offices. I have asked old and experienced miners at Dawson City who mined through California in Bonanza days, and some who mined in Australia, what they thought of the Klondyke region, and their reply has invariably been, "The world never saw so vast and rich a find of gold as we are working now." Dawson City is destined to be the greatest mining camp in the history of mining operations. There is a great popular error in reference to the climate of the gold regions. Many reports have appeared in the newspapers which are misleading. It has been even stated that the cold is excessive almost throughout the year. This is entirely a mis-statement. I have found I have suffered more from winter cold in Northern New York than I ever did in Alaska or the Canadian Northwest. There is a wide difference in the quantity of snow that accumulates on the coast and the ranges in the interior where the principal mining claims are located. While the fall of snow on the coast is heavy the depth of snow as far down as the Yukon, Stewart and Klondyke rivers is inconsiderable. In my new work on this territory entitled "Klondyke Facts" I deal more largely on the climate of this region. There will undoubtedly be new and valuable diggings discovered very quickly along this region as it is certain that this enormous territory is rich in gold-bearing districts. The entire country is teeming with mineral wealth. When mining operations commence on coal it will be specially valuable for steamers on the various rivers and greatly assist transportation facilities. In the next few years there will certainly be recorded the most marvellous discoveries in this territory, usually thought to be only a land of snow and ice and fit only to be classed with the Arctic regions. It is marvellous to state that for some years past we have been finding gold in occasional places in this territory, but from the poverty of the people no effort was made to prospect among the places reported. The great mass of the work has been done on the Northwest territory, which is under the Canadian Government. It is possible however that further discoveries will be made on American soil, but it is my opinion that the most valuable discoveries will be further east and south of the present claims, and would advise prospectors to work east and south of Klondyke. THE YUKON RIVER AND ITS TRIBUTARIES. "We have described some of the beauties of the Yukon basin in the summer season, but this radiant picture has its obverse side. "The mosquitoes according to the same authority are equally distressing. They are especially fond of cattle, but without any reciprocity of affection. 'According to the general terms of the survival of the fittest and the growth of muscles most used to the detriment of others,' says the lieutenant in an unusual burst of humor, 'a band of cattle inhabiting this district, in the far future, would be all tail and no body, unless the mosquitoes should experience a change of numbers.'" I am indebted to Wm. Ogilvie, Esq., for the following valuable information relative to The Yukon District. ROUTES, DISTANCES, AND TRANSPORTATION. After considerable experience I have decided that the best route for a man to take to the gold regions is from Seattle, Washington, to Juneau, Alaska, and then to Dawson City, by the pass and waterways, and I will therefore describe this route more in detail than any of the others. I am devoting a special chapter to the outfit for travellers, and will therefore deal in this chapter with the route only. All through this trip you have been going through a mountainous country, the trees there being pine, a small amount of spruce, cottonwood and birch. You have not seen much game, if any, as it is growing scarce along that line of river, and very hard to find. The traveller had therefore better make preparation to depend on the provisions he has brought with him. If he has stopped to fish, he may have been successful in catching whitefish, grayling and lake trout, along the lakes and rivers. If you take this trip in winter, however, you have to purchase a sled at Juneau, and sled it over the frozen waterways to Dawson City. "The details of the information in the following article are given by Mr. A.H.H. Heming, the artist who accompanied Mr. Whitney in his journey towards the Barren Lands, and the data may be accepted as correct, as they were secured from the Hudson Bay officials. "Parties travelling alone will not need to employ guides until they get near Fort Macpherson, and from there on to the Klondyke, as the rest of the route from Edmonton is so well defined, having been travelled for years, that no guides are required. The return trip to the United States is usually made by the Yukon steamers from Dawson City direct to St. Michael via the Yukon and Anvik River, thence by ocean steamer from St. Michael to San Francisco." The following letter is interesting to the prospector as showing the difficulties to overcome up the Taiya Pass to Lake Lindeman. I think it specially valuable for the reader to give him the approximate distances to Fort Cudahy, which is below Dawson City via the various routes. This table of distances has been prepared by Mr. James Ogilvie, and I also give a number of his notes which will be of great value to the traveller when making the trip from Juneau to Dawson City. APPROXIMATE DISTANCES TO FORT CUDAHY. DISTANCES FROM HEAD OF TAIYA INLET. "It is proposed to establish a winter road somewhere across the country travelled over by Dalton and Bounds. The Yukon cannot be followed, the ice being too much broken, so that any winter road will have to be overland. A thorough exploration is now being made of all the passes at the head of Lynn Canal and of the upper waters of the Yukon. In a few months it is expected that the best routes for reaching the district from Lynn Canal will be definitely known. "In Chilkat Inlet there is not much shelter from the south wind, which renders it unsafe for ships calling there. Capt. Hunter told me he would rather visit any other part of the coast than Chilkat. "While making the survey from the head of tide water I took the azimuths and altitudes of several of the highest peaks around the head of the inlet, in order to locate them, and obtain an idea of the general height of the peaks in the coast range. As it does not appear to have been done before, I have taken the opportunity of naming all the peaks, the positions of which I fixed in the above way. The names and altitudes appear on my map. "Capt. Moore has had considerable experience in building roads in mountainous countries. He considers that this would be an easy route for a wagon road compared with some roads he has seen in British Columbia. Assuming his distances to be correct, and the height of the pass to be probably about correctly indicated, the grades would not be very steep, and a railroad could easily be carried through if necessary. "After getting all my outfit over to the foot of Lake Lindeman I set some of the party to pack it to the head of Lake Bennet. DESCRIPTION OF THE YUKON, ITS AFFLUENT STREAMS, AND THE ADJACENT COUNTRY. "I will now give, from my own observation and from information received, a more detailed description of the Lewes River, its affluent streams, and the resources of the adjacent country. "The hills at the upper end of Lake Lindeman rise abruptly from the water's edge. At the lower end they are neither so steep nor so high. "No streams of any consequence empty into either of these lakes. A small river flows into Lake Bennet on the west side, a short distance north of the fork, and another at the extreme north-west angle, but neither of them is of any consequence in a navigable sense. "I afterwards met Mr. T. Boswell, his brother, and another miner, who had spent most of the summer on the river prospecting, and from them I gathered the following: "Mr. Campbell went on down the river until he met the outfit for his post on its way up from Fort Yukon, which he turned back. He then ascended the Pelly, crossed to the Liard, and reached Fort Simpson, on the Mackenzie, late in October. "In our own time, after the intercourse that there has been between them and the whites, more than a suspicion of such unknown, cruel people lurks in the minds of many of the Indians. It would be futile for me to try to ascribe an origin for these fears, my knowledge of their language and idiosyncrasies being so limited. "On many maps of Alaska a place named 'Reed's House' is shown on or near the upper waters of Stewart River. I made enquiries of all whom I thought likely to know anything concerning this post, but failed to elicit any information showing that there ever had been such a place. I enquired of Mr. Reid, who was in the Company's service with Mr. Campbell at Fort Selkirk, and after whom I thought, possibly, the place had been called, but he told me he knew of no such post, but that there was a small lake at some distance in a northerly direction from Fort Selkirk, where fish were procured. A sort of shelter had been made at that point for the fishermen, and a few furs might have been obtained there, but it was never regarded as a trading post. "On the west side of this range he found a river flowing out of what he called Mayhew Lake, and crossing this got to the head of Beaver River, which he descended as before mentioned. "It is probable the river flowing northwards, on which he made a journey and returned, was a branch of Peel River. He described the timber on the gravel terraces of the watershed as small and open. He was alone in this unknown wilderness all summer, not seeing even any of the natives. There are few men so constituted as to be capable of isolating themselves in such a manner. Judging from all I could learn it is probable a light-draught steamboat could navigate nearly all of Stewart Iver and its tributaries. "It appears that the Indians go up this stream a long distance to hunt, but I could learn nothing definite as to their statements concerning it. "The length of the so-called canon is about a mile. Above it the river up to the boundary is generally smooth, with swift current and an occasional ripple. The amount of water discharged by this stream is considerable; but there is no prospect of navigation, it being so swift and broken by small rapids. "Such legends as this would be of interest to ethnologists if they could be procured direct from the Indians, but repeated by men who have little or no knowledge of the utility of legendary lore, and less sympathy with it, they lose much of their value. "The river above this for some miles was no better for the purpose of cross-section measurement. At the boundary it is narrow and clear of bars and islands for some miles, but here I did not have an opportunity to determine the rate of the current before the river froze up, and after it froze the drift ice was jammed and piled so high that it would have been an almost endless task to cut holes through it. ADVICE TO BEGINNERS. You will find a list of the implements for the miner in the chapter on "Outfit for Miners." The miners here are a very mixed class of people. They represent many nationalities and come from all climates. Their lives are certainly not enviable. This manner of living is quite common amongst beginners, and soon leads to debility and sometimes to scurvy. Old miners have learned from experience to value health more than gold, and they therefore spare no expense in procuring the best and most varied outfit of food that can be obtained. In a cold climate such as this, where it is impossible to get fresh vegetables and fruits, it is most important that the best substitutes for these should be provided. Nature helps to supply these wants by growing cranberries and other wild fruits in abundance, but men in summer are usually too busy to avail themselves of these. The diseases met with in this country are dyspepsia, anaemia, scurvy caused by improperly cooked food, sameness of diet, overwork, want of fresh vegetables, overheated and badly ventilated houses; rheumatism, pneumonia, bronchitis, enteritis, cystitis and other acute diseases, from exposure to wet and cold; debility and chronic diseases, due to excesses. Men coming to Klondyke should be sober, strong and healthy. They should be practical men, able to adapt themselves quickly to their surroundings. Special care should be taken to see that their lungs are sound, that they are free from rheumatism and rheumatic tendency, and that their joints, especially knee joints, are strong and have never been weakened by injury, synovitis or other disease. It is also very important to consider their temperaments. Men should be of cheerful, hopeful dispositions and willing workers. Those of sullen, morose natures, although they may be good workers, are very apt, as soon as the novelty of the country wears off, to become dissatisfied, pessimistic and melancholy. If you have any delay at Juneau, you will, probably, be asked to take trips to the Giant Glaciers, but my advice is to stay in Juneau until the steamer is ready to start for Dyea. You will need all the rest you can get before starting up the Pass. A good piece of mosquito netting will not be heavy and will also be very great comfort on the trip. Do not forget to put in a good supply of matches, and take a small supply of fishing tackle, hooks, etc. It is very important that you have a pair of snow glasses to guard against snow blindness. It will be interesting to know the prices at Dawson City for supplies: It is well perhaps to advise the traveller to supply himself with a small medicine box which can be purchased in Juneau, but it is not necessary if he enjoys good rugged health. The demand for medicine is very light, but the local traders carry a small stock of patent and proprietary medicines. People in the East or elsewhere can hardly realize what a small space a mining claim is in this vast and comparatively unexplored territory. This is a brief description of the gold region in the Northwest. The author of this work has designed it for the use of teachers and scholars. A large number of simple experiments have been added, with notes relative to the work. It is the primary book for school use. _A Most Important Work of General Interest_. _Any of the above books sent, postpaid, on receipt of price_ End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Klondyke Nuggets, by Joseph Ladue	redpajama-book	3,490
This etext was produced by Gardner Buchanan. THE FATHER OF BRITISH CANADA A Chronicle of Carleton BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE Both armies spent a terrible winter after the Battle of the Plains. There was better shelter for the French in Montreal than for the British among the ruins of Quebec. But in the matter of food the positions were reversed. Nevertheless the French gallantly refused the truce offered them by Murray, who had now succeeded Wolfe. They were determined to make a supreme effort to regain Quebec in the spring; and they were equally determined that the habitants should not be free to supply the British with provisions. In forwarding this document Murray poured out the vials of his wrath on 'the Licentious Fanaticks Trading here,' while he boldly championed the cause of the French Canadians, 'a Race, who, could they be indulged with a few priveledges which the Laws of England deny to Roman Catholicks at home, would soon get the better of every National Antipathy to their Conquerors and become the most faithful and most useful set of Men in this American Empire.' But before this bench of bumbles started some masked men seized Walker in his own house and gave him a good sound thrashing. Unfortunately they spoilt the fair reprisal by cutting off his ear. That very night the news had run round Montreal and made a start for Boston and Quebec. Feeling ran high; and higher still when, a few weeks later, the civil magistrates vented their rage on several redcoats by imposing sentences exceeding even the utmost limits of their previous vindictive action. Montreal became panic-stricken lest the soldiers, baited past endurance, should break out in open violence. Murray drove up, post-haste, from Quebec, ordered the affected regiment to another station, reproved the offending magistrates, and re-established public confidence. Official and private rewards were offered to any witnesses who would identify Walker's assailants. But in vain. The smouldering fire burst out again under Carleton. But the mystery was never cleared up. The Council, the magistrates, and the traders each presented. the new governor with an address containing the usual professions of loyal devotion. Carleton remarked in his dispatch that these separate addresses, and the marked absence of any united address, showed how much the population was divided. He also noted that a good many of the English-speaking minority had objected to the addresses on account of their own opposition to the Stamp Act, and that there had been some broken heads in consequence. Troubles enough soon engaged his anxious attention--troubles over the Indian trade, the rights and wrongs of the Canadian Jesuits, the wounded dignity of some members of the Council, and the still smouldering and ever mysterious Walker affair. The Jesuits pressed their claims for recognition, for their original estates, and for compensation. But their order had fallen on evil days all over the world. It was not popular even in Canada. And the arrangement was that while the existing members were to be treated with every consideration the Society itself was to be allowed to die out. Though Montgomery wrote bunkum like the common politician of that and many a later age, he was really a brave soldier. What galled him into fury was 'grave Carleton's' quiet refusal to recognize either him or any other rebel commander as the accredited leader of a hostile army. It certainly must have been exasperating for the general of the Continental Congress to be reduced to such expedients as tying a grandiloquent ultimatum to an arrow and shooting it into the beleaguered town. The charge of firing on flags of truce was another instance of 'talking for Buncombe.' Carleton never fired on any white flag. But he always sent the same answer: that he could hold no communication with any rebels unless they came to implore the king's pardon. This, of course, was an aggravation of his offensive calmness in the face of so much revolutionary rage. To individual rebels of all sorts he was, if anything, over-indulgent. He would not burn the suburbs of Quebec till the enemy forced him to it, though many of the houses that gave the Americans the best cover belonged to rebel Canadians. He went out of his way to be kind to all prisoners, especially if sick or wounded. And it was entirely owing to his restraining influence that the friendly Indians had not raided the border settlements of New England during the summer. Nor was he animated only by the very natural desire of bringing back rebellious subjects to what he thought their true allegiance, as his subsequent actions amply proved. He simply acted with the calm dignity and impartial justice which his position required. Another week passed; and Montgomery had not eaten his Christmas dinner either in Quebec or in the other place. But both sides knew the crisis must be fast approaching; for the New Yorkers had sworn that they would not stay a minute later than the end of the year, when their term of enlistment was up. Thus every day that passed made an immediate assault more likely, as Montgomery had to strike before his own men left him. Yet New Year's Eve itself began without the sign of an alarm. Burgoyne had spent the winter in London and had arrived at Quebec about the same time as Germain's dispatches. He had loyally represented Carleton's plans at headquarters. But he did not know America and he was not great enough to see the weak points in the plan which Germain proposed to carry out with wholly inadequate means. 'I have long looked out for the arrival of a successor. Happy at last to learn his near approach, I resign the important commands with which I have been entrusted into hands less obnoxious to your Lordship. Thus, for the King's service, as willingly I lay them down as, for his service, I took them up.' Thus, after an unadventurous youth and early manhood, he spent his long maturity steering the ship of state through troublous seas abroad; then passed life's evening in the quiet haven of his home. BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE The present Chronicle is based on the original evidence of both sides. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Father of British Canada: A Chronicle of Carleton, by William Wood	redpajama-book	1,370
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Dave Morgan and PG Distributed Proofreaders [Illustration: Darrin's Blow Knocked the Midshipman Down] H. IRVING HANCOCK Illustrated I. A QUESTION OF MIDSHIPMAN HONOR II. DAVE'S PAP-SHEET ADVICE III. MIDSHIPMAN PENNINGTON GOES TOO FAR IV. A LITTLE MEETING ASHORE V. WHEN THE SECONDS WONDERED VI. IN TROUBLE ON FOREIGN SOIL VII. PENNINGTON GETS HIS WISH VIII. THE TRAGEDY OF THE GALE IX. THE DESPAIR OF THE "RECALL" X. THE GRIM WATCH FROM THE WAVES XI. MIDSHIPMAN PENNINGTON'S ACCIDENT XII. BACK IN THE HOME TOWN XIII. DAN RECEIVES A FEARFUL FACER XVI. HOW DAN FACED THE BOARD XVII. LOSING THE TIME-KEEPER'S COUNT XIX. THE OFFICER IN CHARGE IS SHOCKED A QUESTION OF MIDSHIPMAN HONOR "How can a midshipman and gentleman act in that way?" The voice of Midshipman David Darrin, United States Navy, vibrated uneasily as he turned to his comrades. "But the question is," propounded Midshipman Dan Dalzell, "what are we going to do about it?" Now Farley was rather hot-tempered, though he was "all there" in points that involved the honor of the brigade of midshipmen. He lay in a sleep too deep for stirring. On the still, foul air floated fumes that were new to those of his comrades who now gazed down on him. "And on the morning of the very day we're to ship for the summer cruise," uttered Farley angrily. "Oh, well" growled Hallam, "why not let this animal of lower grade sleep just where he is? Let him take what he has fairly brought upon himself!" Dave had became a leader through suffering. It was now only the day after the events whose narration closed the preceding volume. With the young midshipmen it was different. These young men were officially and actually gentlemen, and could be trusted. This young midshipman's name was Pennington, and the fact was that he lay in deep stupor from the effects of smoking opium! Such had been the storekeeper's careful statement. The merchants of Annapolis always have a kindly feeling toward these fine young midshipmen. The storekeeper's purpose was to enable them to help their comrade out. But Dave had seized the yellow man and had flung him aside. The reader already knows what they discovered, and how it affected these young men. "Bring that copper- chink in here, if you'll be so good," directed Dave. Dan and Hallam departed on the quest. "You're wanted in there," proclaimed Dalzell, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "Me no sabby," replied Chow Hop, looking up briefly from his ironing board. "Get in there--do you hear?" commanded Hallam, gripping the other's arm with all his force. "You lemme go chop-chop (quickly), or you get alle samee hurt--you sabby?" scowled Chow Hop, using his free hand to raise a heavy flat-iron menacingly. But Dan Dalzell jumped in, giving the Chinaman's wrist a wrench that caused him to drop the iron. At this summary proceeding both the Chinese helpers gripped their flat-irons firmly; and leaped forward to fight. In an ugly temper the Chinaman is a bad man to oppose. But now this pair were faced by a pair of quietly smiling midshipmen who were also dangerous when angry. "Oh, that no maller," replied Chow, with a sullen grin. "Him plenty 'shipmen come here and smoke." "You lie!" hissed Dave, grasping the heathen by the collar and shaking him until the latter's teeth rattled. Then Dave gave him a brief rest, though he still retained his hold on the Chinaman's collar. But the yellow man began struggling again, and Dave repeated the shaking. Chow Hop had kept his hands up inside his wide sleeves. Now Farley leaped forward as he shouted: "Look out, Darry! He has a knife!" Farley attempted to seize the Chinaman's wrist, for the purpose of disarming the yellow man, but Dave swiftly threw the Chinaman around out of Farley's reach. Then, with a lightning-like move, Dave knocked the knife from Chow Hop's hand. "Pick that up and keep it for a curio, Farley," directed Dave coolly. In another twinkling Darrin had run the Chinaman up against the wall. With increasing force Dave's hard fist struck the heathen in the face. "Now stand there and behave yourself," admonished Midshipman Dave, dropping his hold on the yellow man's collar, "or we'll stop playing with you and hurt you some." The scowl on Chow Hop's face was ominous, but he stood still, glaring at Dave. "Chow, what can we do to bring this man out of his sleep!" asked Dave coolly, and almost in a friendly tone. "Me no sabby," sulked the Chinaman. "Yes, you do," retorted Dave warningly. "Now, what can we do to get our friend out of this!" "You allee same cally (carry) him out," retorted Chow, with a suspicion of a sulky grin. "None of that, now, you yellow-face!" glared Dave. "How shall we get our comrade out of this opium sleep!" "Me no sabby no way," insisted Chow. "Oh, yes, you do!" snapped Dave. "But you won't tell. All right; we'll find the way, and we'll punish you into the bargain. Dan, get a piece of paper from the other room." Dalzell was quickly back with the desired item. On the paper Dave wrote a name and a telephone number. "It's near the end of the doctor's office hours," murmured Dave. "Go to a telephone and ask the doctor to meet you at the corner above. Tell him it's vastly important, and ask him to meet you on the jump." "Shall I tell him what's up!" asked Dan cautiously. "Yes; you'd better. Then he'll be sure to bring the necessary remedies with him." Dan Dalzell was off like a shot. Chow tried to edge around toward the door. "Here, you get back there," cried Dave, seizing the Chinaman and slamming him back against the wall. "Don't you move again, until we tell you that you may--or it will be the worse for you." "You see the job that's cut out for you," said Darrin, pointing to the unconscious figure in the bunk. "Can you do it, Doctor?" The medical man made a hasty examination of the unconscious midshipman before he answered briefly: "Will it be a long job, Doctor?" "Oh, good, if you can do it in that time!" "Me go now?" asked Chow, with sullen curiosity, as the medical man opened his medicine-case. "Yes; if you don't try to leave the joint," agreed Dave. "And I'm going outside with you." Chow looked very much as though he did not care for company, but Midshipman Darrin kept at his side. "Now, see here, Chow," warned Dave, "this is the last day you sell opium for white men to smoke!" "You heap too flesh (fresh)" growled the Chinaman. "You alle same tell cop?" grinned Chow, green hatred showing through his skin. "Then I tell evelybody about you fliend in there." "Oh, yes, I do," swaggered Chow impudently. "Know heap 'bout him. His name alle same Pen'ton." "Look out, old man, or you will get Pen into an awful scrape!" "I shan't do it," maintained Darrin. "If it happens it will have been Pen's own work." "Is a fellow who has turned opium fiend worth saving to the class!" demanded Dave, looking straight into Hallam's eyes. "You see," smiled Dave, "the doubt hits you just as hard as it does me!" "But that would ruin him!" protested Hallam, aghast. "He wouldn't even be allowed to start on the cruise. He'd be railroaded home without loss of a moment." "Yet you've just said that an opium-user isn't fit to go on in the brigade," retorted Darrin. "Hang it, it's hard to know what to do," rejoined Hallam, wrinkling his forehead. "Of course we want to be just to Pen." "It doesn't strike me as being just exactly a question of justice to Pennington," Darrin went on earnestly. "If this is anything it's a question of midshipman honor. We fellows are bound to see that all the unworthy ones are dropped from the service. Now, a fellow who has fastened the opium habit on himself isn't fit to go on, is he?" "Then I'll take all the responsibility upon myself," said Dave promptly. "I don't want to make any mistake, and I don't believe I'm going to. Wait just a moment." "Yes," nodded Dan. "What's up?" "Hallam and I are going for a brief walk." Then, stepping back into the front room, Darrin nodded to his classmate, who followed him outside. "Just come along, and say nothing about the matter on the street," requested Dave. "It might be overheard." "Where are you going?" questioned Hallam wonderingly. "Wait and see, please." From Chow Hop's wretched establishment it was not far to the other building that Dave had in mind as a destination. But when they arrived, and stood at the foot of the steps, Hallam clutched Darrin's arm, holding him back. "Why, see here, this is the police station!" "I know it," Dave replied calmly. "I'm not going to drag you into anything that you'd object to," Darrin continued. "Come along; all I want you for is as a witness to what I am going to say." "I've thought that over, and I feel that I must," replied Dave firmly. "Come along. Don't attract attention by standing here arguing." "Darrin is my name, sir," replied Dave quietly. "So, Mr. Darrin, I give you my word that I won't even start my investigations before this evening. And I'll keep all quiet about the midshipman end of it." "Thank you very much, sir," said Dave gratefully. "Now, you see why I took this step?" "I'm afraid not very clearly," replied Midshipman Hallam. "I guess, Darry, you come pretty near being right," assented Hallam, after thinking for a few moments. By the time they reached Chow Hop's again they found that Dr. Lawrence had brought the unfortunate Pennington to. And a very scared and humiliated midshipman it was who now stood up, a bit unsteadily, and tried to smooth down his uniform. "How do you feel now?" asked Dave. "Awful!" shuddered Pennington. "And now see here, what are you fellows going to do? Blab, and see me driven out of the Navy?" "Don't do any talking in here," advised Dave, with a meaning look over his shoulder at the yellow men in the outer room. "Doctor, is our friend in shape to walk along with us now?" "Never before to-day," replied Midshipman Pennington quickly. "Pen, will you tell me that on your honor?" asked Dave gravely. The other midshipman flared up. "Why must I give you my word of honor?" he demanded defiantly. "Isn't my plain word good enough?" "Your word of honor that you had never smoked opium before to-day would help to ease my mind a whole lot," replied Darrin. "Come, unburden yourself, won't you, Pen?" "Yes, I do," nodded Darrin. "If a fellow is too much on the medical report for trouble with his teeth, then it makes the surgeons look his mouth over with all the more caution, and in the end a fellow may get dropped from the brigade just because he has invited over zeal from the dentist. But what has all this to do with opium smoking?" "Just this," replied Pennington, hanging his head. "I went into a drug store and asked a clerk that I know what was the best thing for toothache. He told me the best he knew was to smoke a pipe of opium, and told me where to find Chow Hop, and what to say to the chink. And it's all a lie about opium helping a sore tooth," cried the wretched midshipman, clapping a hand to his jaw, "for there goes that fiendish tooth again! But say! You fellows are not going to leak about my little mishap?" "No," replied Darrin with great promptness. "You're going to do that yourself." "What?" gasped Midshipman Pennington in intense astonishment. "What are you talking about?" "Why is it likely to reach official ears, if you fellows keep your mouths shut?" "You--you--bag of wind!" exploded Midshipman Pennington. "I'll accept your apology when you've had time to think it all over," replied Dave, with a smile, though there was a brief flash in his eyes. "I'll make no apology to you--at any time, you--you--greaser!" Marks for efficiency or good conduct, which increase a midshipman's standing, are called "grease-marks" or "grease" in midshipman slang. Hence a midshipman who is accused of currying favor with his officers in order to win "grease" is contemptuously termed a "greaser." "I don't want to talk with you any more, Mr. Darrin," Pennington went on bitterly, "or walk with you, either. When I get over this toothache I'll call you out--you greaser!" Burning with indignation, Midshipman Pennington fell back to walk with Hallam. DAVE'S PAP-SHEET ADVICE When our party reached the landing a lively scene lay before them. Several launches were darting back and forth over the water. The baggage of the midshipmen had already been taken aboard the battleships. Only the young men themselves were now awaited. Near-by stood a lieutenant of the Navy, who was directing the embarkation of the midshipmen of the different classes. Turning his eyes over the squad that had moved forward, the officer continued: In another couple of minutes the puffing launch was steaming away to the massive battleship that lay out in the stream. "The rascally greaser!" "That means me," Dave muttered under his breath. "I won't take it up now, or in any hurry. I'll wait until Pen has had time to see things straight." As soon as the launch lay alongside, the young midshipmen clambered nimbly up the side gangway, each raising his cap to the flag at the stern as he passed through the opening in the rail. Here stood an officer with an open book in his hand. To him each midshipman reported, saluting, stated his name, and received his berthing. The latest arrivals saluted. Then, under the guidance of messengers chosen from among the apprentice members of the crew, the young men located their berthings. "I'm going to get mine changed, if I can," growled Pennington, wheeling upon Dave Darrin. "I'm much too close to a greaser. I'm afraid I may get my uniforms spotted, as well as my character." "Stop that, Pen!" warned Dave, stationing himself squarely before the angry Pennington. "I don't know just how far you're responsible for what you're saying now. To-morrow, if you make any such remarks to me, you'll have to pay a mighty big penalty for them." "You'll make me pay by going to the commandant and telling him all you know, I suppose?" sneered Pennington. "You know better, Pen! Now, begin to practise keeping a civil tongue behind your teeth!" With that, Darrin turned on his heel, seeking the deck. This left "Pen" to conjecture as to whether he should report his misadventure, and, if so, how best to go about it. "See here, Hallam," began the worried midshipman, "I begin to feel that it will be safer to turn in some kind of report on myself." "Much safer," agreed Hallam. "It will show good faith on your part if you report yourself." "Hang it," groaned Pennington, "I wish I could think, but my head aches as though it would split and my tooth is putting up more trouble than I ever knew there was in the world. And, in this racked condition, I'm to go and put myself on the pap-sheet. In what way shall I do it, Hallam? Can't you suggest something?" "Yes," retorted Hallam with great energy. "Go to the medical officer and tell him how your tooth troubles you. Tell him what you tried on shore. I'll go with you, if you want." "Have you tried to treat this tooth yourself, in any way?" queried the ship's surgeon. "Yes, sir; I was so crazy with the pain, while in Annapolis, that I am afraid I did something that will get me into trouble," replied Pennington, with a quiver in his voice. "What was that?" asked Dr. Mackenzie, glancing at him sharply. "Did you try the aid of liquor?" "Worse, I'm afraid, sir." Pennington told of his experience with the opium pipe. "That's no good whatever for a toothache, sir," growled Dr. Mackenzie. "Besides, it's a serious breach of discipline. I shall have to report you, Mr. Pennington." "I expected it, sir," replied Pennington meekly. The surgeon busied himself with dissolving a drug in a small quantity of water. This he took up in a hypodermic needle and injected into the lower jaw. After that the surgeon called up the ship's commander over the 'phone, and made known Pennington's report. "Mr. Pennington, Captain Scott directs that you report at his office immediately," said the surgeon, as he turned away from the telephone. "Very good, sir. Thank you, sir." Both midshipmen saluted, then left the sick-bay. "This is where you have to go up alone, I guess," hinted Midshipman Hallam. "I'm afraid so," sighed Pennington. "Thank you, old man. You're worth a brigade of Darrins--confound the greasing meddler!" "Darrin acted according to his best lights on the subject of duty," remonstrated Mr. Hallam mildly. "His best lights--bah!" snarled Pennington. "I'll take this all out of him before I'm through with him!" "I am in possession of all the facts relating to the unfortunate affair of Midshipman Pennington, Mr. Darrin," began Captain Scott, after the interchange of salutes. "Will you tell me why you reported the affair to the police?" "A very excellent reason, Mr. Darrin, and I commend you heartily for it. I shall also report your exemplary conduct to the commandant of midshipmen. You have, in my opinion, Mr. Darrin, displayed very good judgment, and you acted upon that judgment with promptness and decision. But I am afraid," continued the Navy captain dryly, "that you have done something that will make you highly unpopular, for a while, with some of the members of your class." "I hope not, sir," replied Dave. "So do I," smiled Captain Scott "I am willing to find myself a poor prophet. That is all, Mr. Darrin." Darrin repeated the interview that he had just had. "I'm afraid, Dave, little giant, that you've planted something of a mine under yourself," murmured Dalzell. "I feel as much convinced as ever, Danny boy, that I did just what I should have done," replied Darrin seriously. "And so does Captain Scott, and so will the commandant," replied Dan. "But winning the commendation of your superior officers doesn't always imply that you'll get much praise from your classmates." "Unfortunately, you are quite right," smiled Dave. "Still, I'd do the same thing over again." "Oh, of course you would," assented Dan. "That's because you're Dave Darrin." Here a voice like a bass horn was heard. The same section was also designated for steam instruction, Dalzell being made leader of the section in this branch. The class was then dismissed. Somewhat later Pennington and Hallam returned from their interview with the commandant. "What did Pen get?" queried Dave. "He's lucky," declared Dave promptly. "Had the report come from other sources, he would have been dismissed from the service." "If Pen's lucky," rejoined Hallam, "he doesn't seem to realize the fact. He's calling you about everything." Not much later a call sounded summoning the youngsters to the midshipmen's mess. Dave was glad to note that Pennington sat at some distance from him at table. While the meal was in progress the "Massachusetts" and the other battleships got under way. The midshipmen were on deck, an hour later, when the fleet came to anchor for the night, some miles down Chesapeake Bay. Pennington was determined to stir up a hornet's nest for Dave Darrin. MIDSHIPMAN PENNINGTON GOES TOO FAR The chief electrician was now summoned, and to him the section was turned over. This young man, Whittam, by name, was an enlisted man, but a bright young sample of what the Navy can do for the boy who enlists as an apprentice. "You will take your orders from Mr. Whittam as though he were an officer," directed the officer, his words intended for all members of the section, though he looked only at Darrin. Dave saluted, then, as Chief Electrician Whittam turned to lead the way, Dave called quietly: "Section, left wheel--march!" They followed Whittam down into the dynamo room, an interesting spot for a machinist. "Silence in the section," commanded Dave, turning around upon his chum. Whittam now began a short, preliminary talk upon the subjects in which the midshipmen would be required to qualify. "It's pretty cheeky for an enlisted man to talk to midshipmen about ignorance," whispered Pennington to Farley. "Cease talking in section." Farley knew this to be a merited rebuke, and accepted it as such, but Pennington's face went violently red. "Confound that grease-spot-chaser," growled Pen. "He'll be bound to take it out of me as long as the cruise lasts. But I'll get even with him. No cheap greaser is going to ride over me!" "This is a shame, to set an enlisted man up over us as quiz-master, just to see how little we know," growled Pennington; but this time he had the good sense not to address his remark to anyone. Pennington was not yet in good shape, after his harrowing experiences of the day before. Ere the tour of instruction was over, he began to shift somewhat uneasily. Then his attention began to wander. A brilliantly shining brass rod near him caught his eye. Something about the glossy metal fascinated him. "Here, sir, don't handle that!" rasped in the voice of Whittam. Pennington drew back his hand, a flush mounting to his face. "The fellow has no right to talk to a midshipman in that fashion!" quivered Pennington to himself. "But it was the fault of that low-minded greaser Darrin, anyway. Darrin saw me, and he glanced swiftly at the chief electrician to draw attention to me." It is only just to Pennington to state that he actually believed he had seen Dave do this. Darrin, however, was not guilty of the act. He had in no way sought to direct attention at Pennington. Towards the close of the tour the officer in whose department this instruction fell passed through the dynamo room. "Are there any breaches of conduct to be reported, Whittam?" inquired the officer, halting. "Nothing worth mentioning, sir," replied the chief electrician. "I asked you, Whittam, whether there had been any breaches of conduct," retorted the officer with some asperity. "I don't know the names of many of the young gentlemen yet, sir, so I don't know the particular midshipman's name, sir." "Then point him out to me," insisted the officer. "This is the young gentleman, sir." "Your name, sir?" demanded the officer. "Mr. Pennington, you will place yourself on the report, sir, for disobedience of orders," commanded the officer. "Is this the only case, Whittam?" "The only case, sir." The recall sounding, Dave turned to Whittam, saying crisply but pleasantly: "Thank you for our instruction." "He's thanking the fellow for my new scrape," growled Pennington inwardly. Dave marched his section back to deck and dismissed it. Dan Dalzell, as section leader in steam instruction, immediately re-formed it. "You will report in the engine-room, Mr. Dalzell, to Lieutenant-Commander Forman, who is chief engineer of this ship. He will assign you to an instructor." "Aye, aye, sir," Dan replied, saluting. "Section, right wheel--march!" Dan already knew where, down in the bowels of the great battleship, to find the engine room. Reaching that department, Dan halted his section. "Section all present, sir," reported Dan, saluting a strange officer, who, however, wore the insignia of a lieutenant-commander. "Your name, sir?" inquired the officer. "Aye, aye, sir. Section break ranks." Descending lower into the ship, the chief engineer led the young middies over a grating, and paused at the head of an iron ladder. Just as they were near the bottom Dave felt a foot descend upon his shoulder, almost with a kick, and then rest there with a crushing pressure. It hurt keenly until Darrin was able to dodge out from under and hurriedly reach the bottom. "Pardon, whoever you are," came a gruff voice. Dave, with his shoulder crippled a good deal, and paining keenly, halted as soon as his foot had touched bottom. It was dark down there, though some reflected light came from an incandescent light at a distance. Dave waited, to peer into the face of the man who had stepped on his shoulder. It was Pennington, of course! "I'll take pains not to go down ahead of you again, or to follow you up a ladder," grunted Darrin suspiciously. "Oh, are you the man on whose shoulder my foot rested?" asked Pennington, with apparent curiosity. "Didn't you know it!" questioned Darrin, looking straight into the other's eyes. Instead of answering intelligibly, Pennington turned and walked away a few feet. Following the last midshipman came Lieutenant-Commander Forman. "After me, gentlemen," directed the chief engineer. He turned down a narrow passage, only a few feet long, and came out in the furnace room. "Aye, aye, sir," replied the chief water tender, saluting. "Heistand's orders are mine, Mr. Dalzell," continued the lieutenant-commander, facing Dan. "Preserve order in your section." "Aye, aye, sir," replied Dan, saluting. Acknowledging this courtesy in kind, the chief engineer turned and left the furnace room. Heistand was presumably of German parentage, though he had no accent. He struck the midshipmen as being a pleasant, wholesome fellow, though the water tenders and firemen of the "Massachusetts" knew that he could be extremely strict and grim at need. "The idea of making coal heavers out of us!" growled a much-disgusted voice. Dan did not see who the speaker was, but his eyes flashed as he turned and rasped out: "Silence in the section! Speak only to ask for information, and then at the proper time." "Another young autocrat!" muttered a voice. "If there's any more unauthorized talking I shall feel obliged to pass the word above that discipline is in a bad way in this section." "Now, young gentlemen," resumed the chief water tender, "take your shovels and fill in lively under boilers B and D." Dan appointed himself, Darrin, Farley and Pennington. Burning coals were brought and thrown into each furnace, and in a little while roaring fires were going. These, though not needed for the handling of the battleship, were permitted to burn for a while, Heistand explaining to the section practically the uses of the water gauges and the test cocks. By this time the midshipmen's white working clothes were liberally sprinkled with coal dust and somewhat smeared with oils. "And now, young gentlemen, as we have no further use for these fires, you will next learn how to haul them," announced Heistand. This was interesting work, but hot and fast. The implements with which the middies worked soon became red-hot at the end. Yet, as all entered into this novel work with zest, the fires had soon been hauled out on to the floor plates. Just as the last of this work was being done Pennington, as an apparent accident due to excess of zeal, dropped the red-hot end of his implement across the toe of Darrin's left shoe. But he was "mad clean through." "See here, Pen," he muttered, in a low voice, his eyes blazing fiercely into the other midshipman's, "that is the last piece of impudence that will be tolerated from you." Midshipman Pennington's lip curled disdainfully. Dan had not seen the "accident," but he was near enough to hear the talking, and he caught Dave at it. So Dan ordered, impartially: "Mr. Darrin, you will place yourself on report for unauthorized talking in section!" Dave flushed still more hotly, but said nothing. Midshipman Dalzell now marched the section from the furnace room, and dismissed it. It was near noon, and would soon be time for the middies to eat. Dave hurried away, washed, changed his uniform, and then stepped away swiftly to place himself on the report. "I was sorry to do that, old chum," murmured Dan, as he met Dave returning. "But of course I couldn't play favorites. What made you so far forget yourself?" "Humph!" muttered Dalzell. "That fellow Pen is bound to go the whole limit with you." "He won't go much further," declared Dave, his eyes flashing. "And the chump ought to know it, too," mused Dan. "The class history of the last year should have taught him that. But see here, Dave, I don't believe Pen will do anything openly. He will construct a series of plausible accidents." "I hope I see that when it happens," grinned Dalzell. "It's bound to be entertaining!" Pennington, in his immaculate blue uniform, like the chums, came strolling along the passageway between decks. "Mr. Pennington, I wish an understanding with you." "I don't want any with you," replied Pennington insolently, as he stared at Dave from under much-raised eyebrows. He would have gone by, but Dave sprang squarely in front of him. "Just wait a moment!" warned Dave rather imperiously, for he was aglow with justifiable indignation. "Well?" demanded Pennington halting. "Out with it, whatever you may think you have to say." "Well!" insisted Pennington coldly. "Well?" insisted Pennington more coldly. But he found himself obliged to pause for a moment in order to steady his voice. "Well?" asked Pennington with more insolence than ever. "If you make such pretense in either case," tittered Dave Darrin, "then you're a liar!" "Fellow!" sputtered Pennington, turning white with anger. "Then I'll make you eat your words!" roared Pennington. Neither blow reached, however, for Dave dodged out of the way. Then Darrin struck back, a straight, true, forceful blow that landed on the other midshipman's nose, knocking him down. Pennington staggered somewhat when he rose, but he was quickly up, none the less, and ready for anything that might happen. A LITTLE MEETING ASHORE "Stop it, both of you," whispered Dan. "Stand at attention, ready to salute the officer." Pennington, with the blood flowing from his damaged nose, would have made a most ludicrous figure saluting! The instant that he saw such evidence as Pen's nose presented the officer would be bound to make inquiries. Fighting carries with it a severe penalty. Even Dan was certain to be reported, through the mere fact of his presence there, as aiding in a fight. And those who aid are punished as severely as the principals themselves. It was a tense, fearsome instant, for midshipmen have been dismissed from the Naval Academy for this very offense. The passage was not brilliantly lighted. The on-coming officer, a lieutenant, junior grade, was looking at the floor as he came along. Suddenly he paused, seemed lost in thought, then wheeled and walked back whence he had come. Dan breathed more easily. Dave heaved a sigh of relief. As for Pennington, that midshipman had wheeled and was stealing rapidly down the passageway, intent only on escape. "That was the closest squeak we'll ever have without being ragged cold," murmured Dalzell tremulously. "Where is Pennington?" demanded Dave, wheeling about after he had watched the Naval lieutenant out of sight. "Ducked out of sight, like a submarine," chuckled Dan. At that moment the call for midshipmen's dinner formation sounded. Dave and Dan were ready. Pennington showed up just after the line had started to march into the midshipmen's mess tables. To the inquiry of the officer in charge, Pen lamely explained that he had bumped his nose into something hard in a poorly lighted passageway. Though the officer accepted the excuse, he smiled within himself. "It wasn't iron or steel that bumped that young man's nose," thought the officer. "Oh, the middies haven't changed a lot since I boned at Annapolis!" Pennington's nose was no very lovely member of his face at that moment. It had been struck hard, mashed rather flat, and now looked like a red bulb. "Meet with an accident, Pen?" asked Hallam curiously at table. "Quit your kidding, please," requested Pennington sulkily. That directed the curious glances of other middies at Pennington's new bulbous nose. The young man was so brusque about it, however, that other table mates ceased quizzing him. Yet, as soon as the meal was over, many a youngster asked others of his class for news regarding Pen. But none possessed it. During the brief rest that followed the meal, however, Midshipman Pennington made it his business to try to meet Dave Darrin alone. He succeeded, finding Dave staring off across the water at the port rail. "Of course, Mr. Darrin," began the other midshipman, in a voice suggestive of ice, "you are aware that the incident of an hour ago cannot be allowed to pass unnoticed." "I don't believe there's any danger of that," retorted Darrin, with an ironical glance at Pennington's damaged-looking nose. "Confound you, sir," hissed the other midshipman, "don't you dare to be insolent with me." "Why, I had thought," observed Dave, "that, of your own choice, the period of courtesies between us had passed." "I shall call you out, Mr. Darrin!" "I'll do you the favor of asking what that stipulation is," sneered Pennington. "Why, after the narrow escape we had from being caught and reported, an hour or so ago, I shall ask that the fight be held where we are not so likely to be caught at it. I don't care about being dropped from the Naval Academy, nor do I believe you do." "Yes! Oh, well, you can easily procure writing materials from the captain's clerk," volunteered Dave generously. "On a cruise, I believe, a resignation is sent direct to the commandant of midshipmen." This ridicule served only to fan the flame of Pennington's wrath. "Darrin," he hissed, "the Academy isn't big enough to hold us both!" "But I've already told you how to get out," protested Dave coolly. "I don't intend to get out!" "No more do I," rejoined Dave. "I won't even toss pennies with you to find out who quits the service." "Mr. Darrin, you are merely seeking to divert my mind from what I have said." "What did you say--particularly?" "That you would have to fight me." "I will send a friend to meet you," Pennington continued. "Why, I thought," bantered Darrin ironically, "that you were going to fight me yourself." "Save time by sending him to Dalzell." "Very good, Mr. Darrin." "Is that all you wished to say to me?" "Very good, Mr. Pennington." "Will you serve me, old man?" queried Pennington. "Well, you see, Pen, not knowing all the facts of the case, I must admit that all my sympathies are with Darrin." "All your sympathies?" echoed Pen, frowning. "He called me a liar," protested Pennington. "Did he?" gasped Hallam. "Well, he qualified the statement, but his way of saying it was as offensive as the direct lie could have been." "So you're bent on fighting Darry?" "Too bad!" muttered Hallam, shaking his head. "Are you anxious for your idol?" asked Pen in a disagreeable tone. "No, Penny; it's you that I'm concerned about in my own mind. You're going next to a very hard proposition. Darry is patient--almost as patient as the proverbial camel--but when he fights he fights! You'll be hammered to a pulp, Pen." "And you think you're It?" "As far as Darrin is concerned--yes." "Too bad--too bad!" sighed Hallam. "I'm afraid, Penny, that the heat in the furnace room was too much for you this morning." "The honor is most regretfully declined," replied Hallam in a tone of mock sadness. "You want to see Darrin win?" "If there has to be a fight, I do," replied Midshipman Hallam. "Don't bet your money on him, anyway." "I'm not a gambler, Penny, and I don't bet," replied Hallam, with a dignity that, somehow, ended the conversation. "Wait until I send for Mr. Farley," proposed Dalzell. He soon had that midshipman, who was wholly willing to serve Darrin in any capacity. "We're ready to have the fight this evening," proposed Midshipman Decker. "We're not," retorted Dan, with vigor. "This forenoon Pennington deliberately stepped on Darrin's shoulder, with such force as to lame it a good deal," replied Dan. "Our man insists that he has a right to rest his shoulder, and to wait until to-morrow." "But to-morrow we have a short shore liberty at Hampton Roads," remonstrated Briggs. "Yes; and during that shore liberty we can have the fight more safely than on board ship," insisted Dalzell. "But we intended to devote our shore leave to pleasure," objected Decker. "You'll find plenty of pleasure, if you accept our proposition," urged Dan dryly. "At any rate, we won't hear of Darrin fighting before to-morrow. He must have to-night to rest that shoulder." "All right; so be it," growled Decker, after a side glance at Briggs. "On shore, at some point to be selected by the seconds?" asked Dan Dalzell. "Yes; that's agreed." Details as to whom to invite as referee and time-keeper were also arranged. "I suppose we'll have to use up our shore leave that way, then," grunted Pennington, when told of the arrangement. "But Darrin is a very able man with his fists," observed Pennington. "Yes; but you're a mile bigger and heavier, and you're spry, too. You ought to handle him with all the ease in the world." "I don't know," muttered Pennington, who didn't intend to make the mistake of bragging in advance. "I'll do my best, of course." "Oh, you'll win out, if you're awake," predicted Midshipman Briggs confidently. When the cadets were called, the following morning, they found the battleship fleet at anchor in Hampton Roads. WHEN THE SECONDS WONDERED "Decker," proposed Dan, "you and I can skip away and find a good place in no time. Then we can come back after the others." "That's agreeable to me," nodded Midshipman Decker. "How do you like it, Darry?" asked Dan anxiously. "It will suit me as well as any other place," responded Dave, slipping off his blouse, folding it neatly and putting it aside, his uniform cap following. "And you?" asked Decker of his man. "The floor's hard, but I don't expect to be the man to hit it," replied Pennington. Darrin and Pennington nodded their assent. "Take your places, gentlemen," ordered the referee quickly. "Are you ready, gentlemen?" "Yes," came from both principals. Then Dave ducked, darted, dodged and wheeled about. Pennington had to follow him, and it made the latter angry. "Stand up and fight, can't you," hissed Pen. "Silence during the rounds, Mr. Pennington," admonished the referee quietly. "Let the officials do all the talking that may be necessary." Dave, as he dodged again, and came up unscathed, grinned broadly over this rebuke. That grin made Pen angrier than anything else could have done. "I'll wipe that grin off his face!" muttered Pennington angrily. And this very thing Pennington tried hard to do. He was quick on his own feet, and for a few seconds he followed the dodging Darrin about, raining in blows that required all of Dave's adroitness to escape. Dave's very success, however, made his opponent all the angrier. From annoyance, followed by excessive irritation, Pennington went into almost blind rage--and the man who does that, anywhere in life, must always pay for it. Suddenly Dave swung his right in on the point of Pen's chin with a force that jolted the larger midshipman. As part of the same movement, Darrin's left crashed against Pennington's nose. Then, out of chivalry, Dave dropped back, to give Pen a few moments, in case he needed them, to get his wits back. "Time!" roared Dawley, and Pennington's seconds pounced upon him and bore him away to his corner. "Now I know how that fellow Darrin wins his fights," growled Pennington in an undertone. "He keeps on running away until he has the other man gasping for breath. Then Darrin jumps in and wins." "The method doesn't much matter," commented Briggs dryly, as he and Decker worked over their man. "It's the result that counts. Rush Darry into a tight corner, Pen, and then slam him hard and sufficiently." In a few seconds more Dave and his opponent were hard at work. Now, suddenly, Darrin seemed to change not only his tactics, but his whole personality. To his opponent Dave seemed suddenly transformed into a dancing demon. It was about the same old footwork, but it was aggressive now, instead of being defensive. "None of that, Mr. Pennington! Break away fast!" ordered Midshipman Remington quickly. Dave took a fair get away, not attempting to strike as the clinch was broken. But an instant later Dave came back, dancing all around his dazed opponent, landing on the short ribs, on the breast bone, under either ear and finally on the tip of the chin. Pen was sure that none of these blows had been delivered with the force that Darrin could have sent in. "Time!" shouted Midshipman Dawley. The principals retired to their corners, Pennington almost wholly afraid from the conviction that his antagonist was now merely playing with him to keep the interest going. Pen started by putting more steam behind every blow. Dave, who had used up so much of his wind by his brilliant footwork, began to find it harder to keep the upper hand. Instantly Dawley began to count off the seconds. Dave was up on his feet. Pen tried to make a quick rush, but Darrin dodged cleverly, them wheeled and faced his opponent as the latter wheeled about. After that there was less footwork. Both men stood up to it, as keenly alert as they could be, each trying to drive home heavy blows. While they were still at it the call of time sounded. "Don't let him put it over you, David, little giant!" warned Dan, as the latter and Farley vigorously massaged Darrin's muscles. "He all but had you, and there isn't any need of making Pen a present of the meeting." "I tried to get him," muttered Dave in an undertone, "and I shall go on trying to the last. But Pennington is pretty nearly superior to anyone in my class." "Just waltz in and show him," whispered Dalzell, as the call sounded. Down went the larger midshipman again. This time he moaned. His eyes were open, though they had a somewhat glassy look in them. Dawley was counting off the seconds in measured tones. Pen had struggled to rise to his feet, but sank back with a gasp of despair and rage. "Mr. Pennington loses the count and the fight," announced Referee Remington coolly. "I don't believe we're needed here, Dawley. The seconds can handle the wreck. Come along." "You had him whipped from the start," murmured Dan confidently, as he sprayed, then rubbed Dave's chest and arms. "Oh, fairy tales!" grunted Dan. "Have it your own way, then, Danny boy!" When Darrin and his seconds left the barn they went off to enjoy what remained of the shore leave. Pennington's seconds finally, at his own request, left him at an ice cream parlor, where he proposed to remain until he could return to the big, steel "Massachusetts" without exciting any wonder over the little time he had remained ashore. Pennington had strength to walk about, but he was far from being in really good shape, and preferred to keep quiet. IN TROUBLE ON FOREIGN SOIL From Hampton Roads the Battleship Squadron, with the midshipmen on board, sailed directly for Plymouth, England. They had served as firemen; they had mastered many of the electrical details of a battleship; they had received instruction and had "stood trick" by the engines; there had been some drill with the smaller, rapid-fire guns, and finally, they had learned at least the rudiments of "wig-wagging," as signaling by means of signal flags is termed. It was just before the call to supper formation when England's coast loomed up. Most of the midshipmen stood at the rail, watching eagerly for a better glimpse at the coast. Some of the midshipmen, especially those who came from wealthier families, had been in England before entering the Naval Academy. These fortunate ones were questioned eagerly by their comrades. The battleships were well in sight of Eastern King Point when the midshipmen's call for supper formation sounded. Feeling that they would much have preferred to wait for their supper, the young men hastened below. After the line was formed it seemed to the impatient young men as though it had never taken so long to read the orders. "Say, but we're slackening speed!" quivered Dalzell, when the meal was nearly finished. "Headway has stopped," declared Darrin a few moments later. "Listen, everyone!" called Farley. "Don't you hear the rattle of the anchor chains?" Rising in his place, Dan raised his hand aloft, and brought it down, as his lips silently formed a "hurrah!" Then Dan, with a mighty swoop of his right arm, let his lips form the word that everyone knew to be "tiger!" "Ugh-h-h!" groaned Midshipman Reilly. "Throw that irresponsible Fenian out!" directed Dan, grinning. Then the midshipmen turned their attention to the remnants of the meal. Boom! sounded sharply overhead. "Oh, if we were only going ashore to-night!" murmured Hallam. There were many others to echo the thought, but all knew that it could not be done. "Couldn't we find a trick for slipping ashore after lights out?" eagerly queried Dickey, who was not noted as a "greaser." "Could we?" quivered Hallam, who, with few demerits against him, felt inclined to take a chance. But Pennington, to whom he appealed, shook his head. "Too big a risk, Hally," replied Pen. "And trebly dangerous, with that greaser, Darrin, in the class." "Oh, stow that," growled Hallam. "Darrin is no greaser. You've got him on your black books--that's all." "He is a greaser, I tell you," cried Pennington fiercely. There were a score of midshipmen in this group, and many of them nodded approvingly at Pennington's statement. Though still a class leader, Dave had lost some of his popularity since his report to the police of Annapolis. So the middies turned in, that night, with unsatisfied dreams of shore life in England. As fast as possible the launches ranged alongside at the side gangway, taking off groups of midshipmen, everyone of whom had been cautioned to be at dock in time to board a launch in season for supper formation. "Are we going to take a cab and get more quickly and intelligently to the best part of the town to see?" asked Farley. "Come on, then," approved Dan. Plymouth is an old-fashioned English seaport that has been rather famous ever since the thirteenth century. Many parts of the town, including whole streets, look as though the houses had been built since that time. This is especially true of many of the streets near the water front. "We don't seem to run across Pen's gang anywhere," remarked Farley at last. "Oh, no," smiled Dave. "That's a capitalistic crowd. They'll hit only the high spots." "I wish we could slip some of these little mutton pies back with us!" sighed Dan wistfully. The guild hall and some of the other famous buildings were visited. "No need for us to worry, with Dave's eye glued to his watch," laughed Dan. "Come on, fellows," summoned Darrin finally. "We haven't more than time now to make the dock and get back to supper formation." "Take a cab?" asked Farley. "You know, we've found that they're vastly cheaper than American cabs." "No-o-o, not for me," decided Dave. "We'll need the rest of our shore money to-morrow, and our legs are good and sturdy." Among these were Pennington and his party, all looking highly satisfied with their day's sport, as indeed they were. Pennington's eyes gleamed when he caught sight of Darrin, Dalzell and Farley--for Pen had a scheme of his own in mind. Not far from Pennington stood a little Englishman with keen eyes and a jovial face. Pen stepped over to him. "Don't h'I, though--just, sir!" laughed the undersized Englishman, and strolled away. Darrin and his friends were soon informed by classmates that the launches now making shore-ward were coming in on their last trip for midshipmen. "Well, we're here in plenty of time," sighed Dave contentedly. "Oh, I knew we'd be, with you holding the watch," laughed Dan in his satisfied way. "Young gentlemen," he inquired, "h'I suppose, h'of course, you've 'ad a look h'at the anchor h'of Sir Francis Drake's flagship, the time 'e went h'out h'and sank the great Spanish h'Armada?" "Why, no, my friend," replied Dave, looking at the man with interest. "Is that here at Plymouth?" With only a single backward glance at the young midshipmen, the undersized Englishman was already leading the way. At quickened pace the young midshipmen reached the shed that had been indicated. Their guide had already drawn a key from a pocket, and had unsnapped the heavy padlock. "Step right in, young gentlemen, h'and h'I'll follow h'and show h'it to you." "Big trouble!" spoke Dave Darrin seriously and with a face from which the color was fast receding. PENNINGTON GETS HIS WISH "The scoundrel!" gasped Farley, his face whiter than any of the others. "We're locked in--that's sure!" gasped Dalzell, almost dazed by the catastrophe. "And what's more, we won't get out in a hurry, unless we can make some of our classmates hear," declared Dave. "What could have been that little cockney's purpose in playing this shabby trick on us?" demanded Farley. "Perhaps the cockney thinks we're admirals, with our pockets lined with gold. Perhaps he and some of his pals intend to rob us, later in the evening," proposed Dan, with a ghastly grin. "Any gang would find something of a fight on their hands, then," muttered Dave Darrin grimly. "Another good old yell," proposed Darrin. "We don't take the last launch back to ship," declared Farley, wild with rage. "Which means a long string of demerits," said Dan. "No shore leave to-morrow, either," groaned Darrin. "Fellows, this mishap will affect our shore leave throughout all the cruise." "We can explain it," suggested Farley with a hopefulness that he did not feel at all. "Drake's anchor, indeed!" exclaimed Dan in deep self disgust. "We ought to have known better," grunted Farley, equally enraged with himself. "What on earth made us so absent-minded as to believe that a priceless relic would be kept in an old shed like this?" "We're sure enough idiots!" groaned Dan. "Hold on there, fellows," interrupted Dave Darrin. "Vent all your anger right on me. I'm the great and only cause of this misfortune. It was I who proposed that we take up that cockney's invitation. I'm the real and only offender against decent good sense, and yet you both have to suffer with me." "Let's give another yell, bigger than before," suggested Dan weakly. They did, but with no better result than before. "The launches are away now, anyway, I guess," groaned Farley, after consulting his watch. "Yes, and we're up the tree with the commandant," grunted Dalzell bitterly. "Yell again?" asked Farley. "No," retorted Dave, shaking his head. "We've seen the uselessness of asking help from outside. Let's supply our own help. Now, then--altogether! Shoulder the door!" A savage assault they hurled upon the door. But they merely caused it to vibrate. "Let's explore this old place in search of hope," begged Dave. Together they started back, looking about keenly in what appeared to be an empty room. "Say! Look at that!" cried Dave suddenly. He pointed to a solid looking, not very heavy ship's spar. "What good will that thing do us?" asked Farley rather dubiously. "Let's see if we can raise it to our shoulders," proposed Dave Darrin radiantly. "Then well find out!" "Hurrah!" quivered Dan Dalzell, bending over the spar at the middle. "Up with it!" commanded Darrin, placing himself at the head of the spar. Farley took hold at the further end. "Up with it!" heaved Midshipman Darrin. "Now, then--a fast run and a hard bump!" called Darrin. At the door they rushed, bearing the spar as a battering ram. Bump! The door shook and shivered. Again they dashed the head of their battering ram against the door. It gave way, and, climbing through, they raced back to the pier. But Dan, who had secured the lead, stopped with a groan, pointing out over the water. "Not a bit of good, fellows! There go the launches, and we're the only fellows left! It's all up with our summer's fun!" "Is it, though?" shouted Dave, spurting ahead. "Come on and find out!" As they reached the front of the piers, down at the edge of a landing stage they espied a little steam tender. "Who's the captain here?" called Dave, racing across the landing stage to the tender's gangplank. "I am, sir," replied a portly, red-faced Englishman, leaning out of the wheel-house window. "What'll you charge to land us in haste aboard the American battleship 'Massachusetts'?" asked Darrin eagerly. "Good enough," glowed Dave, leaping aboard. "Cast off as quickly as you can, captain, or we'll be in a heap of trouble with our discipline officers." The skipper's own bronzed cheeks burned to a deeper color. "Not on this craft you can't, sir," replied the skipper firmly. "What craft is that, and what do you want?" hailed the officer of the deck, from above. "Very good, then. Come alongside," directed the officer of the deck. Midshipman Pennington was chuckling deeply over the supposed fact that he had at last succeeded in bringing Darrin in for as many demerits as Darrin had helped heap upon him. "That'll break his heart as an avowed greaser," Pen told himself. "With all the demerits Darrin will get, he'll have no heart for greasing the rest of this year. It's rough on Farley, but I'm not quite as sorry for Dalzell, who, in his way, is almost as bad as Darrin. He's Darrin's cuckoo and shadow, anyway. Oh, I wish I could see Darrin's face now!" This last was uttered just as Midshipman Pennington stepped into line at the supper formation. "I wish I could see Darrin's face now!" Pen repeated to himself. Seldom has a wish been more quickly gratified. For, just in the nick of time to avoid being reported, Midshipmen Darrin, Dalzell and Farley came into sight, falling into their respective places. At that instant it was Midshipman Pennington's face, not Dave Darrin's, that was really worth studying. "Now how did the shameless greaser work this!" Pennington pondered uneasily. But, of course, he couldn't ask. He could only hope that, presently, he would hear the whole story from some other man in the class. THE TRAGEDY OF THE GALE There is altogether too much to the summer practice cruise for it to be related in detail. It is no life for the indolent young man. He is routed out early in the morning and put at hard work. Yet he must learn every phase of all this work thoroughly, for some day, before he becomes an officer, he must be examined as to his knowledge of all this great mass of detail. Always, at home and abroad, the "middy" must maintain his own dignity and that of his country and service. Should he fail seriously, he is regarded by his superiors and by the Navy Department as being unfit to defend the honor of his flag. The wildest group from the summer practice fleet was that made up of Pennington and his friends. Pen received more money in France from his fond but foolish father. Wherever Pennington's group went, they cut a wide swath of "sport," though they did nothing actually dishonorable. Yet they were guilty of many pranks which, had the midshipmen been caught, would have resulted in demerits. Ports in France, Spain, Portugal and Italy were touched briefly. At some of these ports the midshipmen received much attention. But at last the fleet turned back past Gibraltar, and stood on for the Azores, the last landing point before reaching home. She was in the same position when the morning broke. The midshipmen, after breakfast, enjoyed a few minutes on the deck before going below for duty in the engine rooms, the dynamo room, the "stoke hole" and other stations. Suddenly, from the stern rail, there went up the startled cry: With almost the swiftness of telegraphy the cry had reached the bridge. Without stopping to back the engine the big battleship's helm was thrown hard over, and the great steel fighting craft endeavored to find her own wake in the angry waters with a view to going back over it. It seemed almost as though the entire fleet had been swung out of its course by pressure on an electric button. "Who's overboard!" demanded the commanding officer. "How many?" demanded the captain sharply. "How did so many fall overboard?" "Mr. Hallam was frolicking, sir," reported Midshipman Farley, "and lost his footing." "But Mr. Darrin and Mr. Dalzell?" inquired the captain sharply. "As soon as they realized it, sir, Darrin and Dalzell leaped overboard to go to Hallam's rescue, sir." "It's a wonder," muttered the captain, glancing shrewdly at the bronzed, fine young fellows around him, "that not more of you went overboard as well." "Many of them would, sir," replied Farley, "but an officer forward shouted: 'No more midshipmen go overboard,' So we stopped, sir." Modest Mr. Farley did not mention the fact that he was running toward the stern, intent on following his chums into the rough sea at the very instant when the order reached him. The captain, however, paused for no more information. He was now running forward to take the bridge beside the watch officer. The midshipmen, too, hurried forward, mingling with the crew, as the big battleship swung around and tried to find her wake. The flagship had crowded on extra steam, and was fast coming over the seas. With such a sea running, it was well nigh impossible to make out so small a thing as a head or a life-preserver, unless it could be observed at the instant when it crested a wave. Marine glasses were in use by every officer who had brought his pair to the deck. Others rushed back to their cabins to get them. A lieutenant of the marine corps stood forward, close to a big group of sorrowing midshipmen. Several of the mute, anxious midshipmen shook their heads. "You'll realize the difficulties of the situation within the next few minutes," remarked the lieutenant. "I am sorry to crush your hopes for your classmates, but this is all a part of the day's work in the Navy." "Stop all unnecessary noise!" bellowed the watch officer from the bridge of the "Massachusetts." "You may drown out calls for help with your racket." "Stow all talk of that sort," ordered Farley angrily. Other midshipmen joined in with their protests. When a man is overboard in an angry sea all hands left behind try to be optimists. Then, indeed, all hope was given up. In an utter human silence, save for the husky voicing of the necessary orders, the launches were hoisted on board. Then the flagship flew the signal for resuming the voyage. As a result of more signals flown from the flagship, all unnecessary duties of midshipmen for the day were ordered suspended. THE DESPAIR OF THE "RECALL" Dave's spring to the stern rail was all but instantaneous. He was overboard, after his classmate, ere the marine had had time to leap to the life buoys. Both daring midshipmen sank beneath the surface as they struck. "Now, where's David, that little giant?" muttered Dalzell, striving hard to see through the seething waters and over the tops of foam-crested waves. After a few minutes Dan began to feel decidedly nervous. "Yet Dave can't have gone down, for he's a better swimmer than I am," was Dan's consoling thought. At last Dalzell caught sight of another head. He could have cheered, but he expended his breath on something more sensible. "Dave!" he shouted. "Old Darry! This way! I have the life buoys." At the same time, holding to both of them, but kicking frantically with his feet, Dalzell managed slowly to push the buoys toward Dave. Soon after he had started, Dan did utter a cheer, even though it was checked by an inrush of salt water that nearly strangled him. The wind carried the cheer faintly to Dave. He raised his head a little in the water, and caught sight of Dan and the buoys. As Darrin clutched at the buoy he tried to shout, though the voice came weakly: Now, it was Darrin who, with both arms, contrived to link the buoys together. At last the youngsters had a chance to observe the fact that the battleships had put about and were coming back. From where they lay as they hung to the buoys the chums could even see the launches lowered. "Now," declared Dave, "we can't lose. We can hang on and be safe here for hours, if need be." "But what a thundering long time it takes them to bring the battleships around to get to us!" murmured Midshipman Dalzell in wonder. "I wonder if Hally's a goner?" murmured Dan in an awe-struck voice. Then they fell silent, for, with the roar of wind and waters, it was necessary for them to shout when they talked. "No!" gasped Dave incredulously. "They've failed and have given up the search," spoke Dan rather despairingly. "We may as well face it," muttered Dan brokenly. "They don't believe that any of us has survived, and we've been abandoned." "Then," spoke Dave Darrin very coolly, "there's nothing left for us but to die like men of the American Navy." "It seems heartless, needless," protested Dan. Dan said nothing, but tugged until he succeeded in bringing his watch up to the light. "The blamed thing is water-logged," he uttered disgustedly. Darrin managed to get at his own watch. "Yes; the time has only seemed longer, I reckon," observed Dalzell. "Well, we'll face it like men," proposed Dave. "Poor old Hally won't know much about it, anyway, I guess," remarked Darrin, who seemed unnaturally cool. Possibly he was a bit dazed by the stunning nature of the fate that seemed about to overtake them. "Maybe the ships will go by us in their final get-away," proposed Dan Dalzell very soberly. "Not if I'm seaman enough to read the compass by what's visible of the sun," returned Midshipman Darrin. "Then there's no help for it," answered Dan, choking slightly. "I wonder if we could do anything for Hallam?" "Maybe he's dead already, anyway," proposed Dan, now hopefully. "I hope so," came from Darrin. Now they saw the not very distant battleships alter their courses and steam slowly away. THE GRIM WATCH FROM THE WAVES By the time that little more than the mastheads of the departing battleships were visible, Hallam opened his eyes. It would have seemed a vastly kinder fate had he been allowed to remain unconscious to the last. Hallam had not been strangled by the inrush of water. In going overboard, this midshipman had struck the water with the back of his head and had been stunned. In the absence of attention he had remained a long time unconscious. Even now the hapless midshipman whose frollicking had been the cause of the disaster, did not immediately regain his full senses. "Why, we're all in the water," he remarked after a while. "Yes," assented Darrin, trying to speak cheerfully. Midshipman Hallam remained silent for some moments before he next asked: "How did it happen?" "Fell overboard," replied Dan laconically, failing to mention who it was who had fallen over the stern. Again a rather long silence on Hallam's part. Then, at last, he observed: "Funny how we all fell over at the same time." To this neither of his classmates made any rejoinder. "See here," shouted Hallam, after a considerable period of silent wondering, "I remember it all now. I was fooling at the stern rail and I toppled overboard." Dan nodded without words. "And you fellows jumped in after me," roared Hallam, both his mental and bodily powers now beginning to return. "Didn't you?" "Of course," assented Darrin rather reluctantly. "And what became of the fleet!" Dave and Dan looked at each other before the former replied: "Would you have done a thing like that?" demanded Dave dryly. Hallam could go no further. He was choking up with honest emotion. "Don't bother about it, Hally," urged Dave. "It's all in the day's work for a sailor. We'll just take it as it comes, old fellow." "None of you happened to hide any food in his pockets at breakfast, I take it?" asked Dan grimly, at last. Of course they hadn't. "Too bad," sighed Dan. "I'm growing terribly hungry." "Catch a fish," smiled back Darrin. "And eat it raw?" gasped Dalzell. "Darry, you know my tastes better than that." "Then wait a few hours longer," proposed Dave, "until even raw fish will be a delicacy." Hallam took no part in the chaffing. He was miserably conscious, all the while, that his own folly had been solely responsible for the present plight of these noble messmates. Thus the time passed on. None kept any track of it; they realized only that it was still daylight. "They may see us!" cried Hallam eagerly. As the vessel came nearer and the hull became visible, it took on the appearance of a liner. "Why, it looks as though she'd run right over us when she gets nearer," cried Dave, his eyes kindling with hope. "Don't get too excited over it," urged Dan. "For my part, I'm growing almost accustomed to disappointments." [Illustration: "Look! They See Us!"] At last, however, the craft was passing, showing her port side, not very far distant, to be sure. Boom! That shot came from the liner, and now her port rail was black with people. "They see us!" cried Hallam joyously. "Look! That craft is slowing up!" Unable to see for himself, the officer in the launch depended wholly on those masthead signals. So the launch steamed a somewhat zig-zag course over the waves. Yet, at last, it bore down straight upon the midshipmen. Darrin, Dalzell and Hallam now came very near to closing their eyes, to lessen the suspense. "Get those life buoys in, if you can," begged Dave, as he sank in the bottom of the launch. "They are United States property entrusted to our care." From officer and seamen alike a laugh went up at this request, but the life buoys were caught with a boathook and drawn aboard. As soon as the medical man had examined them, the steamship's captain began to question them. "Headed for the Azores, eh?" demanded the ship's master. "We ought to be able to sight your squadron before long." He hastened out, to give orders to the deck officer. By the time that the young midshipmen had been satisfactorily warmed, and their clothing had been dried, the ship's surgeon consented to their dressing. After this they were led to a private cabin where a satisfying meal was served them. "Oh, I don't know," murmured Dan, leaning back, with a contented sigh, after the meal was over; "there are worse things than what happened to us to-day!" The deck officers of the liner sent their heavy overcoats for the use of the midshipmen, who, enveloped in these roomy garments, went out on deck to watch the pursuit of their own comrades. Within another hour it was possible to signal, and from the "Princess Irene's" masthead the signal flags were broken out. "Now, watch for excitement on board your own craft," smiled the liner's commander, an Englishman. As soon as the liner's signal had been read by the vessels of the squadron a wild display of signal bunting swiftly broke out. "We have officially buried the young men, but ask them to go on living," read another. While the most practical signal of all was: "The 'Massachusetts' will fall astern of the squadron. Kindly stand by to receive her launch." "Kindly lower that United States property that was in our care, sir!" Dave Darrin called up. "When your time comes you will make a very capable officer, I believe, Mr. Darrin, judging by your care of government property," remarked Ensign White, working hard to keep down the laughter. "I hope to do so, sir," Dave replied, saluting. Then away to the "Massachusetts" the launch bore, while the whole battleship squadron cheered itself hoarse over the happy outcome of the day. To the captain the trio recounted what had befallen them, as matter for official record. "Mr. Darrin and Mr. Dalzell," announced the battleship's captain, "I must commend you both for wholly heroic conduct in going to the aid of your classmate. And, Mr. Darrin, I am particularly interested in your incidental determination to preserve government property--the life buoys that you brought back with you." "It's possible I may need them again, sir," returned Dave, with a smile, though he had no notion of prophetic utterance. MIDSHIPMAN PENNINGTON'S ACCIDENT The stop at the Azores was uneventful. It remained in the minds of the midshipmen only as a pleasant recollection of a quaint and pretty place. Darkness had fallen when Dave, Dan, Farley and several other midshipmen gathered to talk in low tones at the stern rail. Presently, thinking he saw a light astern, he raised himself, peering astern. Another group of restless middies had sauntered up. Pennington, after a swift look at the pacing officer in charge here, and discovering that the officer's back was turned, executed a series of swift cartwheels. "Look out, Pen!" called Midshipman Dwight, in a low, though sharp voice. Just too late the warning came. Then, instantly, on top of it, came the rousing hail: "Man overboard--astern!" That held the middies in check, for in no place, more than in the Navy, are orders orders. As the night buoy struck the water a long-burning red light was fused by contact. The glow shone out over the waters. In the meantime, the "Massachusetts's" speed was being slowed rapidly, and a boat's crew stood at quarters. The boat put off quickly, guided by the glow of the red signal light on the buoy. Ere the boat reached the buoy the coxswain made out the head and shoulders of a young man above the rim of the floating buoy. Soon after the boat lay alongside. Dave, with the coxswain's aid, pulled himself into the small craft. In the meantime, however, while the boat was on its way to the buoy, a pulsing scene had been enacted on board. Farley went straight up to Midshipman Pennington. "Sir," demanded Farley hotly, "why did you push Mr. Darrin over the rail." "I--I did push Darrin over," admitted Pennington, "but it was an accident." "It was pure accident," contended Pennington, paling. "Until it happened I hadn't the least idea in the world that I was going to send Mr. Darrin or anyone else overboard." "Huh!" returned Farley dubiously. "Huh!" quoth Hallam. Dan Dalzell uttered not a word, but the gaze of his eyes was fixed angrily on Pennington. That latter midshipman turned as white as a sheet. His hands worked as though he were attempting to clutch at something to hold himself up. "Mr. Pennington, I haven't the patience to talk with you now," rejoined Farley, turning on his heel. At that moment the yell started among the midshipmen nearer the rail. Farley, Dan, Hallam and others joined in the yell and rushed to better points of vantage. Pennington tried to join in the cheer, but his tongue seemed fixed to the roof of his mouth. He stood clenching and unclenching his hands, his face an ashen gray in his deep humiliation. He was the most miserable man on board as the small boat came alongside. The boat, occupants and all, was hoisted up to the davits and swung in-board. To the officer of the deck, who stood near-by, Dave turned, with a brisk salute. "I beg to report that I've come aboard, sir," Darrin uttered. "And very glad we are of it, Mr. Darrin," replied the officer. "You will go to your locker, change your clothing and then report to the captain, sir." With another salute, Dave hastened below, followed by Dan Dalzell, who was intent on attending him. A crowd gathered about him, expressing their congratulations. "Thank you all," laughed Dave, "but don't make so much over a middy getting a bath outside of the schedule." To the rear hung Pennington, waiting his chance. At last, as the crowd thinned, Pennington made his way up to Dave. "Of course I believe it, Mr. Pennington," answered Darrin, opening his eyes. "Some of your friends--I won't name them--insisted, or at least let me feel the force of their suspicions." "If any of my friends hinted at such a thing, it was done in the heat of the moment," replied Dave heartily. "Why, Mr. Pennington, such an act of dishonor is impossible to a man bred at Annapolis." Darrin fully believed what he said. On the spur of the moment he held out his hand to his enemy. Pennington flushed deeply, for a moment, then put out his own hand, giving Dave's a hearty, straightforward grasp. There was more handshaking. During the next few days, while Darry and Pen did not become by any means intimate, they no longer made any effort to avoid each other, but spoke frankly when they met. The remaining days of the voyage passed uneventfully enough, except for a great amount of hard work that the middies performed as usual. BACK IN THE HOME TOWN Back in the old, well-known streets of their home town, Gridley! Dave and Dan, enjoying every minute of their month's leave, had already greeted their parents, and had told them much of their life as midshipmen. What hurt was the fact that the skipper of the "Princess Irene" had already told the marine reporters in New York the thrilling story of how Dave and Dan had nearly come to their own deaths rescuing Midshipman Hallam. "But what's the matter with Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes? They're at West Point." It was the old circumstance of being "the lions of the minute" and of being on the spot. Dan, having no particular associations with the gentler sex, took a stroll around town to meet any old friends who might care to see him again. Dave was shown into the parlor at the Meade home. Soon after Belle came swiftly in, her face beaming with delight. Belle, too, through Laura Bentley, had some much later news of the old chums, Dick and Greg, now cadets at West Point. "What are your plans for this afternoon?" Belle asked at last. "That's what I want your help in making," Dave answered. "Can you get hold of Dan?" "No trouble about that. But keeping hold of him may be more difficult," laughed Dave. "I was going to propose that you get Dan, call here and then we'll all go over to Laura Bentley's. I know she'll be anxious to see us." "Nothing could be better in the way of a plan," assented Dave. "I'll pin Danny boy down to that. It would really seem like a slight on good old Dick if we didn't make Laura an early call." "I'll go to the telephone, now, and tell her that we're coming," cried Belle, rising quickly. "Laura is delighted," she reported, on her return to the room. "But Dave, didn't you at least bring along a uniform, so that we could see what it looks like?" "I didn't," replied Dave, soberly, then added, quizzically: "You've seen the district messenger boys on the street, haven't you?" "Our uniforms look very much like theirs," declared Dave. "I'm afraid I can't undertake to believe you," Belle pouted. "Well, anyway, you girls will soon have a chance to see our uniforms. Just as soon as our hops start, this fall, you and Laura will come down and gladden our hearts by letting us drag you, won't you!" "Drag us?" repeated Belle, much mystified. "Oh, that's middies' slang for escorting a pretty girl to a midshipman hop." "You have a lot of slang, then, I suppose." "Considerable," admitted Dave readily. "What, then, is your slang for a pretty girl?" "Oh, we call her a queen." "And a girl who is--who isn't--pretty?" "A gold brick," answered Dave unblushingly. "A gold brick?" gasped Belle. "Dear me! 'Dragging a gold brick' to a hop doesn't sound romantic, does it?" "It isn't," Darrin admitted. "Our class hasn't started in with its course of social compliments yet," laughed Dave. "Please go look in the glass. Or, if you won't believe the glass, then just wait and see how proud Dan and I are if we can lead you and Laura out on the dancing floor." "But what horrid slang!" protested Belle. "The idea of calling a homely girl a gold brick! And I thought you young men received more or less training in being gracious to the weaker sex." "But why must you have to have such horrid names for girls who have not been greatly favored in the way of looks? It doesn't sound exactly gallant." "Oh, well, you know," laughed Dave, "we poor, despised, no-account middies must have some sort of sincere language to talk after we get our masks off for the day. I suppose we like the privilege, for a few minutes in each day, of being fresh, like other young folks." "What is your name for 'fresh' down at Annapolis!" Belle wanted to know. "And for being a bit worse than touge?" "Which did they call you?" demanded Belle. Dave started, then sat up straight, staring at Miss Meade. "I see that your tongue hasn't lost its old incisiveness," he laughed. "Not among my friends," Belle replied lightly. "But I can't get my mind off that uniform of yours that you didn't bring home. What would have happened to you if you had been bold enough to do it?" "I guess I'd have 'frapped the pap,'" hazarded Dave. "And what on earth is 'frapping the pap'?" gasped Belle. "Oh, that's a brief way of telling about it when a midshipman gets stuck on the conduct report." "I'm going to buy a notebook," asserted Belle, "and write down and classify some of this jargon. I'd hate to visit a strange country, like Annapolis, and find I didn't know the language. And, Dave, what sort of place is Annapolis, anyway?" "Oh, it's a suburb of the Naval Academy," Dave answered. "Gracious! What sort of explosion is 'busting cold'?" "Stop!" begged Belle. "Wait!" "What's the cruise?" asked Darrin, rising. "I'm going out to get that notebook, now. Please don't talk any more 'midshipman' to me until I get a chance to set the jargon down." "What are you thinking of?" asked Belle. "What a pity it is that I am doomed to a short life," sighed Darrin. "So I'm a gold brick, am I?" frowned Belle. "You--a--gold brick?" stammered Dave. "Why, you--oh, go look in the glass!" "Who will assassinate you?" "A committee made up from among the fellows whose names I don't write down on your dance card. And there are hundreds of them at Annapolis. You can't dance with them all." "Dear girl, I'm afraid you don't understand our way of making up dance cards at Crabtown." "Crabtown. That's our local name for Annapolis." "Gracious! Let me get out quickly and get that notebook!" "Gold brick," supplied Belle, resignedly. "'Femme' stands for girl. The fellow who drags any femme makes up her dance card for her." "And she hasn't a word to say about it?" "Oh!" cried Belle, dramatically. She moved toward the door. Dave, who could not take his eyes from her pretty face, managed, somehow, to delay her. "Good gracious! Where? What?" she cried, looking about her keenly. "It's something I want to say--must say," Dave went on with more of an effort than anyone but himself could guess. "Tell me, as we're going down the street," invited Belle. "_Wha-a-at?_" choked Dave. "Well, I guess not!" He faced her, resting both hands lightly on her shoulders. "Poor boy!" murmured Belle, looking at him fully. "You've been a plebe until lately, and you haven't been allowed to see any girls. I'm not going to take advantage of you as heartlessly as that." Yet something in her eyes gave the midshipman hope. "Belle," he continued eagerly, "don't trifle with me. Tell me--will you marry me some day?" "But we're not so formally engaged," Belle warned him, "that you can't write me and draw out of the snare if you wish when you're older. And I'm not going to wear any ring until you've graduated from the Naval Academy. Do you understand that, Mr. David Darrin?" "It shall be as you say, either way," Dave replied happily. "And now, let us get started, or we shan't get out on the street to-day," urged Belle. Then they passed out on the street, and no ordinarily observant person would have suspected them of being anything more than school friends. Dave tried to pay for that purchase, but Belle forestalled him. "Why didn't you allow me to make you that little gift?" he asked in a low tone, when they had reached the street. "Wait," replied Belle archly. "Some day you may find your hands full in that line." "The instructor in boxing?" asked Belle. It was a wonderfully delightful stroll that the middy and his sweetheart enjoyed that September forenoon. "Tired of our understanding already?" she demanded. "No; I was thinking how sorry I am for Danny boy! He doesn't know the happiness of having a real sweetheart." "How do you know he doesn't?" asked Belle quickly. "Does he tell you everything?" "No; but I know Danny's sea-going lines pretty well. I'd suspect, at least, if he had a sweetheart." "Are you sure that you would?" "Oh, yes! By gracious! There's Danny going around the corner above at this very moment." Belle had looked in the same instant. "Yes; and a skirt swished around the corner with him," declared Belle impressively. "It would be funny, wouldn't it, if you didn't happen to know all about Dan Dalzell?" In the early afternoon, however, the mystery was cleared up. On the street Dalzell had encountered Laura Bentley. Both were full of talk and questions concerning Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes, at West Point, for which reason Dan had strolled home with Miss Bentley without any other thought, on the midshipman's part, than playing substitute gallant for his chum, Cadet Richard Prescott, U.S. Military Academy. These were the forerunners of other afternoons. Belle and Laura, however, were not able to keep their midshipmen to themselves. Dave's happiest moments were when he had Belle to himself, for a stroll or chat. Day by day Belle jotted down in her notebook more specimens of midshipman slang. "I shall soon feel that I can reel off the language like a native of Crabtown," she confided laughingly to Dare. Dan had a happy enough time of it, even though Dave's suspicion was true in that Dan had no sweetheart. That, however, was Dan's fault entirely, as several of the former High School girls would have been willing to assure him. Then came the day when Dave and Dan met at the railway station. A host of others were there to see them off, for the midshipmen still had crowds of friends in the good old home town. "You need a vast amount of cheering up, David, little giant!" exclaimed Dalzell. "Oh, I guess not," smiled Dave Darrin quietly, adding to himself, under his breath: "I carry my own good cheer with me, now." Lightly his hand touched a breast pocket that carried the latest, sweetest likeness of Miss Belle Meade. DAN RECEIVES A FEARFUL FACER "Oh, you heap!" sighed Dan Dalzell dismally. He sat in his chair, in their new quarters in Bancroft Hall, United States Naval Academy, gazing in mock despair at the pile of new books that he had just drawn. "Some of 'em," admitted Dalzell. "I'm afraid to glance into the others." "I've looked in all of my books," continued Darrin, "and I've just come to a startling conclusion." "No such luck!" grunted Dan, getting up and going over to his chum. "Let me see if you got all the books I did." Before Dave could prevent it, Dan started a determined over-tossing of the book pile. As he did so, Dan suddenly uncovered a photograph from which a fair, sweet, laughing face gazed up at him. "You needn't," came Dave's frank answer. "I'm proud of that treasure and of all it means to me." "And I'm glad for you, David, little giant." Their hands met in hearty clasp, and that was all that was said on that subject at the time. "Aren't you getting a big head, Danny?" queried Darrin, looking up with a smile. "Davy, I don't see how we are ever going to make it, this year," Dalzell gasped, while they were making ready for supper formation. "We'll bilge this year without a doubt." "Others have done it, before us, and many more are going to do it this year," replied Dave slowly, as he laid comb and brush away and drew on his uniform blouse. "Oh, we'll do it," declared Darrin confidently. "I shall, anyway--for I've got to!" As he spoke he was thinking of Belle Meade, and of her prospects in life as well as his own. "Other men have gone through, every year." "And still other men have been dropped every year," Dalzell dolefully reminded him. "We're among those who are going to stay," Dave contended stubbornly. "Then I'm afraid we'll be among those who are dropped after Christmas and come back, next year, as bilgers," Dalzell groaned. Before the month was over the football games began in earnest on the athletic field. Darrin and Dalzell, however, missed every game. They were too busy poring over their text-books. Fortunately for them their drills, parades and gym. work furnished them enough exercise. "It's a pity my father never taught me to swear," grumbled Dalzell, in the privacy of their room. "Stow that talk," ordered Darrin, "and shove off into the deeper waters of greater effort." "Greater effort?" demanded Dan, in a rage. "Why I study, now, every possible moment of the time allowed for such foolishness. And we can't run a light. Right after taps the electric light is turned off at the master switch." "Got any money, Darry?" asked Dalzell suddenly. "Yes; are you broke?" Almost at the sound of the release there came a knock at the door. Farley and his roommate, Page, came bounding in. "It is tough," agreed Dave. "But what can we do about it, except fight it out?" "What is this--a despair meeting?" he called cheerily. "Yes," groaned Page. "We're in a blue funk over the way recitations are going." "Oh, buck up, kiddies!" called Freeman cheerily, as he crossed the floor. "Youngsters always get in the doldrums at the beginning of the year." "And did you come through the course easily?" asked Page. "At present it seems more like suffering from delirium," sighed Dave. "Here it is, right here," continued Dave, opening his text-book. "Here's the very proposition." The others crowded about, nodding. "It was rightly named," grumbled Farley. "Oh, we all know how it runs, Mr. Freeman," protested Page. "Nevertheless, listen, while I read it." "Why, it does seem easy," confessed Farley. "It sounds foolish, now," grinned Darrin. "I'm beginning to feel ashamed of myself." "Mr. Freeman," protested Page, "you've saved us from suicide, or some other gruesome fate." "But that will take time from your own studies," remonstrated Darrin generously. "Did you have any assistance with this problem, Mr. Darrin?" asked Dave's instructor. "He appears to have succeeded," remarked the instructor dryly. There was, however, no discredit attached to having received proper assistance before coming into section. Even when Thanksgiving came, Dave Darrin did not go to Philadelphia, but remained at the Academy, devoting his time to study. Dan, in sheer desperation, took in the trip to Philadelphia. He hoped to meet Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes, but they did not come down from West Point. Poor Dan. It was a staggering blow. Yet it struck Dave Darrin just about as hard. That report was allowed to reach Dan's ears on a Friday. On the evening of the day following there was to be a midshipman hop on the floor of the great gym. Moreover, it was the very hop that Belle Meade and Laura Bentley had finally selected to attend. Mrs. Meade was coming with the girls as chaperon. "Oh, but I shall feel fine and light hearted for going to the dance!" muttered Dan miserably. "Facing the kick-off from the Academy, and doing the light hearted and the fantastic toe with the girls." "I shan't feel a whole lot more merry myself," sighed Dave, as he gazed affectionately, wistfully at his chum. "Danny, this has hit me about as hard as it has you. And it warns me, too, that my turn will probably come next. I don't stand an awful lot higher in my markings than you do." "Doesn't it feel fine to be a bilger?" gulped Dalzell, staring at the floor. A "bilger," as has been already explained, is a midshipman who has failed and has been dropped. "Oh, but you're not a bilger, yet!" cried Darrin, leaping up and resting both hands on his chum's shoulder. "Nonsense! Not if you make a good fight!" If it hadn't been for the pride he felt in still having the uniform on, Dalzell might not have been able to check the tears that tried to flow. "Come on," commanded Dave, leaping up, "we'll run up to the deck above, and see if we can't find Mr. Freeman in." "It won't do any harm, anyway, for us to have a talk with an older classman," argued Dave. "Button your blouse, straighten your hair and come along." "So it's as bad as that, is it!" asked Freeman sympathetically, after his cheery "come in" had admitted the unhappy youngsters. "Yes," replied Dave incisively. "Now, the question is, what can be done about it?" "I got easier questions than usual, I guess," he said to Dave, with a mournful smile. After Saturday dinner, Dave and Dan, having secured permission to visit in Annapolis, steered their course through the gate, straight up Maryland Avenue, through State Circle and around into Main Street, to the Maryland House. At the desk they sent up their cards to Mrs. Meade, then stepped into the parlor. "Mother says she'll be down as soon as she fancies you'll care about seeing her," laughed Belle. "And how are you getting on in your classes?" asked Laura Bentley, glancing straight at unhappy Dan. Both midshipmen had agreed not to mention a word of Dan's heartache to either of the girls. Dan gulped hard, though he managed to conceal the fact. Darrin, however, was ready with the answer: "Oh, we're having pretty rough sailing, but we're both still in our class." Which statement was wholly truthful. After that, the conversation was shifted to lighter subjects. "Wouldn't you like us to escort you through the Academy grounds, so that you can get a good idea of the place in daylight?" "We've been waiting only for you to invite us," rejoined Belle. But Belle, behind all her light chatter, was unusually keen and observing. "Is anything wrong with either of you?" she asked Dave suddenly, when this pair were out of easy hearing of the others. "Why do you ask that?" inquired Dave, looking at her in his direct fashion. "Why, I may be unnecessarily sensitive, but I can't help feeling that some sort of disaster is hanging over either you or Dan." "I hope not," replied Darrin evasively. "Yes. What's the question?" "Are you in any trouble here?" "No, I'm thankful to say." "Belle, I'd rather not answer that." "Well, because, if he is, I'd rather not discuss it." "Has Dan been caught in any scrape?" "No. His conduct record is fine." "Then it must be failure in his studies." Dave did not answer. "Why don't you tell me?" insisted Belle. "If anything were in the wind, Belle, we'd rather not tell you and spoil your visit. And don't ask Dan anything about it." "There are no better made," retorted Dave promptly. "If anything happens to Dan here, dear, I know you will feel just as unhappy about it as if it happened to yourself." "On account of the future I've planned for you, Belle." "You're the real kind of sweetheart, Belle!" murmured Dave, gazing admiringly at her flushed face. "Did you ever suspect that I wasn't?" asked Miss Meade demurely. As for Belle, she was not likely to have eyes for anyone in particular, save Dave. "Right!" nodded Dave. "You'll present me, won't you?" "Assuredly, as soon as I come back. I have a little commission to attend to." "Miss Meade is the young lady's name." "Then delight me by writing down a couple of reservations for me on Miss Meade's card." Darrin's face clouded slightly. "I will, then, if there's a space to be left, and if Miss Meade is agreeable," promised Dave, as he hurried away. "I'm waiting for you to keep your engagement with me," Midshipman Treadwell murmured. "Come along; I shall be delighted to present you to Miss Meade." Since every midshipman is granted to be a gentleman, midshipman etiquette does not require that the lady be consulted about the introduction. "Miss Meade," began Dave, bowing before his sweetheart, "I wish to present Mr. Treadwell" As he left, Treadwell murmured in Dave's ear: Midshipman Darrin nodded slightly. As he turned to Belle, that young lady demanded lightly: "Not more so than any other comrades in the brigade," Darrin answered. "Why?" "That was when he was asking me to present him." "Then, after you left him," continued Belle, in a low voice, "Mr. Treadwell scowled after you as though he could have demolished you." "Please don't," begged Belle suddenly, gripping her dance card tightly. "I hope you don't mind, Dave," she added in a whisper, "but I've taken just a shadow of a dislike to Mr. Treadwell, after the way that he scowled after you. I--I really don't want to dance with him." Dave could only bow, which he did. Then other midshipmen were presented. Belle's card was quickly filled, without the appearance of Midshipman Treadwell's name on it. "Will you get me a glass of water, Dave?" Laura asked, fanning herself. "Oh, I'm sorry," Dave replied. "But there had been many other applicants. By the time that Miss Meade's card was filled there were many disappointed ones." "Very good, sir," replied Treadwell coldly, and moved away. It was a particularly gay and pleasant hop. When it was over Dave and Dan escorted the girls and Mrs. Meade back to the hotel. The little room in Bancroft Hall seemed especially small and dingy to the returning midshipmen. Especially was Dan Dalzell in the blues. Though he had been outwardly gay with the girls, he now suffered a re-action. Dave, too, shivered for his friend. On Sunday, Dave went at his books with a dogged air, after morning chapel and dinner. "Cut it!" begged Dan dolefully. "Don't try to jolly me along like that." "You're down in the dumps, just now, Danny boy," smiled Darrin wistfully. "Just bombard the Board with rapid-fire talk to-morrow, and you'll pull through all right." Later in the afternoon Dave, feeling the need of fresh air, closed his books. "Come for a walk, Danny boy?" "Don't dare to," replied Dalzell morosely. So, though Darrin went out, he resolved not to remain long away from his moody chum. "Mr. Darrin!" called a voice. Dave turned, to behold Mr. Treadwell coming at a fast stride with a scowl on his face. "What?" gasped Dave, astonished, for this was not in line with the usual conversation of midshipmen. "You're wrong there," retorted Dave coldly and truthfully "I didn't." "Then how did it happen?" "I can't discuss that with you," Darrin rejoined. "I didn't make any effort, though, to spoil your chance of a dance with the young lady." "Mr. Darrin, I don't choose to believe you, sir!" Dave's face went crimson, then pale. "Do you realize what you're saying, Mr. Treadwell?" "Are you trying to pick trouble with me?" demanded Dave, his eyes flashing with spirit. "I repeat that I don't choose to believe your explanation, sir." "Then you pass me the lie?" "If you do not retract what you just said," pursued Dave Darrin, growing cooler now that he realized the deliberate nature of the affront that had been put upon him, "I shall have no choice but to send my friends to you." It was too big a puzzle. After thinking it over for some time Dave turned and strolled back to Bancroft Hall. "You didn't stay out long!" remarked Dan, looking up with a weary smile as his chum re-entered their room. "No," admitted Dave. "There wasn't much fun in being out alone." With a sigh, Dan turned back to his book, while Dave seated himself at his own study table, in a brown daze. HOW DAN FACED THE BOARD "We trust, Mr. Dalzell, that you can make some statement or explanation that will show that we shall be justified in retaining you as a midshipman in the Naval Academy." It was the superintendent of the United States Naval Academy who was speaking. Dan's hour of great ordeal had come upon him. That young midshipman found himself in the Board Room, facing the entire Academic Board, trying to remember what Freeman had told him the night before. Midshipman Dalzell appeared to be collected, but he was also very certainly white-faced. Dan swallowed at something hard in his throat, then opened his lips to speak. "You have thought the matter carefully out in making this statement, have you, Mr. Dalzell?" asked the superintendent. "Have you any explanation to offer for falling below the standards so far this year, Mr. Dalzell?" [Illustration: "Have You Any Explanation to Offer, Mr. Dalzell?"] The superintendent turned to a printed pamphlet in which were set forth the records of the midshipmen for the year before. "Mr. Dalzell," asked another member of the Board, "do you feel that you are really suited for the life of the Navy? Is it your highest ambition to become an officer of the Navy?" "It's my only ambition, sir, in the way of a career," Dan answered solemnly. "As to my being suited for the Navy, sir, I can't make a good answer to that. But I most earnestly hope that I shall have an opportunity, for the present, to try to keep myself in the service." "And you feel convinced that you need only to be carried for the balance of the term to enable you to make good, and to justify any action that we may take looking to that end?" asked another member of the Board. "That is my firm conviction, sir." Silence fell upon the room while Dan's printed record was being read. "Have you anything else that you wish to say, Mr. Dalzell?" asked the superintendent at last. "Only this, sir and gentlemen," replied Dan promptly. "If I am permitted to go on with the brigade, I promise, as far as any human being may promise, that I will not only be found to have passed at the end of this term, but that I will also have a higher marking after the annual examinations than after the semi-annuals." These last few words Dan spoke with his whole soul thrown into the words. How he longed to remain in the Navy, now that he stood at the threshold of the life, uncertain whether he was about to be kicked across it into the outer world! "That will be all, at present, Mr. Dalzell." Saluting briskly, crisply, Dan wheeled about, marching from the room. He was in time to make a section recitation before dinner. "I wish I knew," replied Dalzell wistfully. "I said all that I could say without being everlastingly fresh." After the brigade had been formed for dinner, and the brigade adjutant had reported the fact, the command was given: "Publish the orders!" This the brigade adjutant did rapidly, and in perfunctory tones. Dalzell jumped, however, when he heard his own name pronounced. He strained his ears as the brigade adjutant read: "In the matter of Daniel Dalzell, summoned before the Academic Board to determine his fitness and aptitude for continuing in the brigade, the Board has granted Midshipman Dalzell's urgent request that he be continued as a midshipman for the present." There was a great lump, instantly, in Dan's throat. It was a reprieve, a chance for official life--but that was all. "I'll make good--I'll make good!" he told himself, with a violent gulp. The orders were ringing out sharply now. The midshipmen were being marched in to dinner. Hardly a word did Dalzell speak as he ate. As for Dave Darrin, he was too happy over his chum's respite to want to talk. Yet, when they strolled together in the open air during the brief recreation period following the meal, Dalzell suddenly asked: "Dave when do you fight with Treadwell?" "To-night, I hope," replied Darrin. "Oh, then I must get busy!" "But Dave, I've never been out of your fights!" "You will be this time, Danny. Don't worry about it, either. Farley and Page are going to stand by me. In fact, I think that even now they are talking with Treadwell's friends." "You're wrong," murmured Dalzell, looking very solemn. "Here come Farley and Page right now." In another moment the seconds had reached Darrin and his chum. "To-night?" asked Dave quietly. "Just after recall." "Maybe," smiled Dave quietly. "I'll do all I can, anyway." "And to think," almost moaned Dan Dalzell, "that you're to be in a scrap, David, little giant, and I'm not to be there to see!" "There'll be other fights, I'm afraid," sighed Darry. "I seem destined to displease quite a few of the fellows here at Annapolis." Dan tried to study, that night, after Darrin had left the room in the company of his seconds. Certainly Dan, in the light of his promise made to the Board that morning, had need to study. Yet he found it woefully hard to settle his mind on mathematics while Dave was fighting the fight of his Naval Academy career. LOSING THE TIME-KEEPER'S COUNT Conners and Brayton were Treadwell's seconds. All of the young men were early at the usual fighting ground. The fall air was cool and crisp, but it was not yet considered cold enough to justify the extra risk of holding a fight in-doors. Dave was quickly stripped and made ready by his seconds. His well-developed chest bespoke fine powers in the way of "wind" and endurance. His smooth, hard, trim muscles stood out distinctly. "It looks like a shame to take the money, Tread," murmured referee Edgerton. "I don't want to pound the youngster hard," explained Midshipman Treadwell, in an undertone. "Yet I've got to teach him both to respect my class and myself." On this point, as an official of the fight, Referee Edgerton did not feel called upon to express an opinion. "Page," he growled, "that huge top-classman makes our Darry look like a creeping infant." "Darry will take care of himself," retorted Midshipman Page in an undertone. "Do you believe it?" "But Treadwell looks a whole lot more vast now that he's stripped." "I hope you're right," sighed Farley. Dave, in the meantime, to keep himself from being chilled by the frosty air, was running lightly about, swinging his arms. "Are you both ready, gentlemen?" inquired Midshipman Edgerton, while Time-keeper Wheeler drew out his stop watch. Both stepped to toe the scratch. "Ready!" rumbled Treadwell. As Treadwell leaped forward, both fists in battery, Dave took a swift, nimble sidestep. He felt that he had to study this big fellow carefully before doing more than keep on the defensive. Despite his greater size, Treadwell was himself nimble and an adept at footwork. Then there came an almost crunching sound. Treadwell's right fist had landed, almost dazing the youngster with its weight against his nose. "I've got to dodge more, and not let myself be cornered," Darrin told himself, keeping his fists busy in warding off blows. Then, of a sudden, Dave turned on the aggressive. He struck fast and furiously, but Treadwell, with a grin, beat down his attack, then soon landed a swinging hook on Dave's neck that sent him spinning briefly. "He expects to finish this fight for his own amusement," flashed angrily through Darrin's mind. "I'll get in something that hurts before I toss the sponge." "Work for more strategy," whispered Page, as he held a sponge to Dave's battered nose, while Farley rubbed the muscles of his right arm. "Oh, you'll get him yet," spoke Page confidently. Neither, however, was a knockout blow. Dave took plenty of time, within his rights, about leaping to his feet, and in each instance got away from Treadwell's leaping assault. "You'll get him yet, Darry," was Page's prediction, but he did not speak as hopefully as before. Farley, too, was full of loyalty for his friend and fellow-classman, but he did not allow this to blind his judgment. Farley's opinion was that Dave was done for, unless he could land some lucky fluke in a knockout blow. "Do you think that little teaser is as easy as he looks?" growled Treadwell. "Oh, Darrin is all right at his own weight," admitted Midshipman Conners. "But he has no business with you, Tread. You're quick enough, too, when you exert yourself. So jump right in and finish it before this round is over." "I'll try it, then," nodded Treadwell. Though he had not the slightest notion that he was to be defeated, this big top classman was learning a new respect for Darrin's prowess. He could thrash Dave, of course, but Treadwell did not expect to do it easily. Dave, however, used his feet well enough to get away from the follow-up. "Are you getting tired?" Darrin shot back at his opponent. "Silence, both of you," commanded Referee Edgerton. "Do all your talking with your fists!" Just then Treadwell saw an opening, and followed the referee's advice by aiming a blow at Dave's left jaw. It landed just back of the ear, instead, yet with such force that Dave sank dizzily to the ground, while Treadwell drew back from the intended follow-up. Farley and Page looked on anxiously from their corner. Midshipman Wheeler, scanning his watch, was counting off the seconds. Yet he had swayed, fallen back slightly, then forced himself with a rush to his feet. "Mr. Darrin required more than the full count to come back. The fight is therefore awarded to Mr. Treadwell." "It wasn't fair," hissed Midshipman Page hotly. "It was by a mighty small margin, anyway," quivered Farley. "I don't feel whipped yet," remarked Dave quietly. "Oh, well, Darry," urged Farley, "don't feel humiliated over being thrashed by such a human mountain of a top classer." "Mr. Treadwell, sir, will you come over here a moment?" he called. "And also the officials of the fight?" Treadwell, with a self-satisfied leer on his face, stepped away from his seconds coming jauntily over. Midshipman Edgerton and Wheeler followed in some wonder. "Mr. Treadwell," began Dave, looking full into the eyes of his late antagonist, "I have no fault, sir, to find with your style of fighting. You behaved fairly at every point." "Thank you, sir," interjected the big midshipman grimly. "The verdict was also fair enough," Dave continued, "for I am aware that I took a hair's-breadth more than the count. Still, I do not feel, Mr. Treadwell, that the result was decisive. Therefore I have to ask of you the favor of another early meeting, for a more definite try-out." Treadwell gasped. So did his recent seconds and the late officials of the fight. Even Farley's jaw dropped just a trifle, but Page's face flushed with new-found pleasure. "Another fight, sir?" demanded Midshipman Treadwell. "Yes, sir," replied Darrin quietly. "Oh, very well," agreed Treadwell, nonchalantly. "At any time that you wish, Mr. Darrin--any time." Treadwell fairly gasped, though only from sheer astonishment. "Why, if your seconds and the officials think that fair to you, Mr. Darrin," replied Treadwell in another moment, "I am sure that I have no objection to remaining around here a little longer." "For my own part, I do," replied Dave quietly; "I leave the decision to Mr. Treadwell's courtesy." "Darry," demanded the agitated Farley, "are you plumb, clean crazy?" "Do you know what we're fighting about, Farley, old man?" asked Dave very quietly. "No; of course not." "It's a personal matter." "It's a matter in which I can't accept an imitation whipping." "But surely you don't expect to whip Treadwell in your present condition?" "I very likely shall get a thorough trouncing," smiled Darrin. "It's madness," broke in Page worriedly. "I told you it was a personal matter," laughed Dave softly. "I shan't mind getting whacked if it is done up in good shape. It's only this near-whipping to which I object." "Well--great Scott!" gasped Page. "Hush!" warned Farley. "Here comes Edgerton." Midshipman Edgerton, looking very much puzzled, stepped over to Dave Darrin's corner. "Darrin," began the referee in a friendly tone, "Tread doesn't like the idea of fighting you again to-night." "Didn't he say he would?" demanded Darrin. "I hold him to his word, Mr. Edgerton." "I have my own reasons, sir," Darrin interposed quietly. "I think it very likely, too, that Mr. Treadwell will comprehend my reasons." "Will it get on his nerves and unsteady him?" asked Dave ironically. "Are you bound to fight to-night, Mr. Darrin?" "Just what I said, sir," nodded Page. "Darry is a fool--and a wonder!" ejaculated Edgerton under his breath, as he walked away. "I'm sorry, Darry," murmured Farley mournfully, "but--well, beat your way to it!" "I intend to," retorted Dave doggedly. Rubbed down by his seconds, Dave drew on his blouse, without a shirt. Quitting the others, Dave walked briskly back and forth. At last he broke into a jog-trot. At last he halted, inflating and emptying his lungs with vigorous breathing. "I feel just about as good as ever," he declared, nodding cheerily to his seconds. "I'll go forward at the scratch, then," nodded Dave. Treadwell, in the meantime, had pulled on his outer clothing and had stood moodily by, watching Dave's more workmanlike preparations with a disdainful smile. "I'll get the fellow going quickly this time," Mr. Treadwell told Conners. "As soon as I get him going I'll dive in with a punch that will wind up the matter in short order. I've planned to do considerable reviewing of navigation to-night." "I hope you have your wish," murmured Conners. "Do you think I'm going to have any trouble whatever about finishing up that touge youngster!" demanded Tread well sarcastically. "No; I don't imagine you will. But at the same time, Tread, I tell you I don't care about having enemies among fellows who come back as swiftly, strongly and as much like a bulldog as Darry does." Seeing Dave pull off his blouse, Treadwell slowly removed his own clothing above the waist. "Rub me down along the arms a bit," said Midshipman Treadwell, after he had exercised his arms a moment. "I reckon we'd better," nodded Conners. "You must have got stiff from standing still after the late mix-up." "Are you ready, gentlemen?" called Midshipman Edgerton. Both men stepped quickly forward, but all of the onlookers thought they saw rather more spring in Dave Darrin than in his more bulky opponent. The preliminaries were announced in a few words. Of course, there was no handshaking. "Time!" sounded the call. That cry came simultaneously from Treadwell and from all the spectators. Dave's right fist had landed crushingly on the top classman's left eye, almost instantly closing that organ. Darrin leaped nimbly back, both from a chivalrous impulse to give Treadwell a chance to recover his steadiness and to save himself from any sudden rush and clinch by his big opponent. "Mix it up, gentlemen--mix it!" called Midshipman Edgerton impatiently. At that command from the referee Dave Darrin sprang forward. Whenever the big fellow's undamaged eye caught sight of the cool, hostile smile on Darrin's face, Treadwell muttered savage words. Some hard body blows were parried and others exchanged. "Darry, you nervy little rascal, waltz in and put that other eye up in black clothes!" begged Page ecstatically, as he and Farley worked over their principal. Treadwell, however, took his full time in responding. At the last moment he took another dab with the wet sponge against his swollen left eye. With a suppressed yell Treadwell rushed at his opponent. Dave had to sidestep to his own right, out of range of Treadwell, to save himself. Then at it they went, all around the ring. Darrin had determined to keep himself out of the way of those sledge-hammer fists until he saw his own clear opening. Darrin's hard-clenched left fist dropped in on Treadwell's right eye. Down in a heap sank the top classman. He was unconscious before his body struck the ground. Wheeler counted off the seconds. Still Mr. Treadwell lay motionless. Dave, a satisfied look on his face, stepped back to his seconds. By this time Mr. Treadwell, under the ministrations of his seconds and of the late officials, was just coming back to consciousness. "Something happened, eh?" asked the top classman drowsily. "Rather!" murmured Mr. Edgerton dryly. "Did I--did I--lose the fight?" "You did," Edgerton assented. "But don't let that disturb you. You went down before the best man in the Naval Academy." Treadwell sighed gloomily. It was a hard blow to his pride--much harder than any that Dave had landed on his head. "Mr. Treadwell," inquired Dave, stepping over, "we are comrades, even if we had a slight disagreement. Do you care to shake hands?" His seconds complied. Then Midshipman Treadwell held out his hand. "Here's my hand," he said rather thickly. "And I apologize, too, Mr. Darrin." "Then say no more about it, please," begged Dave, as their hands met in a strong clasp. "How did it come out?" demanded Dan Dalzell eagerly, as soon as his chum entered their quarters. "David, little giant," exclaimed Dalzell, leaping about him, "that fight will become historic here! Oh, how I regret having missed it. Don't you ever dare to leave me out again!" "It wasn't such a much," smiled Dave rather wearily, as he went over to his study desk. "The nerve!" ejaculated Dan in disgust. "And then he accused me of lying when I declared I had done my best for him," continued Dave. "I feel that I'd like to fight the fellow myself!" declared Dan Dalzell hotly. "Oh, no, you don't; for Treadwell apologized to-night, and we have shaken hands. We're all comrades, you know, Danny boy." Not until the last midshipman had left the ground did the sailor and marine emerge from their hiding place. "Well, of all the game fights!" muttered the marine. "Me? I'm hoping that some day I fight under that gallant middy," cried the sailor. "Who is this Mr. Darrin?" asked the marine, as the pair strolled away. "There must be fine stuff in Mr. Darrin," murmured the marine. In their enthusiasm over the spectacle they had seen, the sailor and the marine talked rather too much. In the shadow of this building, not far away, stood an officer whom neither of the enlisted men of the Navy saw; else they would have saluted him. That officer, Lieutenant Willow, U.S. Navy, listened with a good deal of interest. Regretting the necessity, yet full of the idea of doing his duty, Lieutenant Willow wended his way promptly towards the office of the officer in charge. THE OFFICER IN CHARGE IS SHOCKED Through the main entrance of Bancroft Hall, into the stately corridor, Lieutenant Willow picked his way. He looked solemn--unusually so, even for Lieutenant Willow, U.S.N. He had the air of a man who hates to do his duty, but who is convinced that the heavens would fall if he didn't. To his left he turned, acknowledging smartly the crisp salute given him by the midshipman assistant officer of the day. Into the outer office of the officer in charge stepped Mr. Willow, and thence on into the smaller room where Lieutenant-Commander Stearns sat reading. "Oh, good evening, Willow," hailed Lieut. Stearns heartily. "Good evening, Stearns," was the almost moody reply. "Sit down and let's have a chat. I'm glad to see you," urged Lieutenant-Commander Stearns. Mr. Stearns, he of the round, jovial face, gazed at his junior with twinkling eyes. "I guess I have," nodded Lieutenant Willow. "And against some unfortunate midshipman, at that!" "It must be something fearful," said Mr. Stearns, who knew the junior officer's inclination to be duty-mad. "But, see here, if you make an official report you'll force me to take action, even though it's something that I'd secretly slap a midshipman on the shoulder for doing. No--don't begin to talk yet, Willow. Try a cigar and then tell me, personally, what's worrying you. Then perhaps it won't be altogether needful to make an official report." "I never was able to take you--er--somewhat jovial views of an officer's duty, Stearns," sighed Lieutenant Willow. Nevertheless, he selected a cigar, bit off the end, lighted it and took a few whiffs, Lieutenant-Commander Stearns all the while regarding his comrade in arms with twinkling eyes. Lieutenant-Commander Stearns struck his fist rather heavily against the desk. "Yes, I do," rejoined the junior officer rather stiffly. "Oh, dear, what is the service coming to?" gasped Stearns ironically. "Why, Willow, we never heard of such things when we were midshipmen here. Now, did we?" "Bully!" chuckled the officer in charge. "Whew, but I wish I had been there!" "You're quite right, Willow. No; I certainly don't want to be a spoilsport, and I'm glad I wasn't there--in my official capacity. But I'd like to have been divested of my rank for just an hour so that I could have taken in such a scene as that." "I'm--I'm just a bit astonished at your saying it, Stearns," rejoined Lieutenant Willow. "But then, you're always joking." "What?" almost exploded the officer in charge. "Did you say that Mr. Darrin fought with Mr. Treadwell, that husky top classman, and, losing the decision on the count, insisted on fighting again the same evening? Oh, say, what a fellow misses by being cooped up in an office like this!" "But--but the breach of regulations!" stammered the duty-mad lieutenant. "My dear fellow, neither you nor I know anything about this fight--officially. The Navy, after all, is a fighting machine. Do you feel that the Navy can afford to lose a fighting man like that youngster?" So Lieutenant Willow left Lieutenant-Commander Stearns' presence, not quite convinced he was performing his whole duty, but glad to bow to the decision of a ranking officer. "Good afternoon, Mr. Darrin," came the pleasant greeting. "Good afternoon, Mr. Dalzell. Mrs. Stearns and I would be greatly pleased if you could take dinner with us. Couldn't you come next Sunday?" "He's handsome," thought the girl, "and he's brave and dashing. He'll make his mark in the Navy. He doesn't know it yet, but he'll become mine, and mine alone." She exerted herself all through the Stearns' dinner to captivate Dave Darrin. He, without diminution of love and loyalty to Belle Mead, was glad to be on friendly terms with this dashing and sprightly girl. "Mr. Stearns, do the regulations make it improper for Flora and me to ask Mr. Darrin and Mr. Dalzell to take us for a stroll about the yard?" she asked with a pretty air of deference. The "yard" includes all the grounds belonging to the Naval Academy. "They do not, Miss Marian," was the smiling response. "With our hostess's approval we shall be charmed to grant any request the young ladies make," ventured Dave, as Marian smiled into his eyes. But Marian, the wily and experienced, found herself baffled during this walk. Using all her cajoleries, she could bring him to a certain point beyond which he would not go. As a matter of fact, Dave Darrin, secure in his loyalty to Belle, did not perceive what Maid Marian was striving to lead up to, but saw in her only a lively and interesting girl. "I'll get you yet, Midshipman Darrin," she vowed to herself after they had parted. The gossip of a sweetheart in his home town which in time reached her ears only made the girl more determined to get her way. Looking in the mirror with satisfaction, she murmured: "There'll be the added zest of making Midshipman Darrin forget the distant face of that home girl." Christmas came and went, and soon after this the semi-annual examinations were on in earnest. Some of the midshipmen failed and sadly turned their faces homeward to make a place for themselves in some other lane of life. Dan Dalzell, however, made good his promise, and by a better margin than he had dared hope. Dave came through the examination somewhat better than his chum. Both felt assured now that they would round out the year with fair credit to themselves. "I wonder if you know, Mr. Darrin, how much I enjoy dancing with you." "Not as much as I enjoy dancing with you," he replied smilingly. Just then the music stopped suddenly and an officer called in a voice that carried over the great floor of the gymnasium and over all the chatter: In an instant all was still. "Ladies and gentlemen," continued the officer, "official permission has been granted for taking a flashlight photograph of the scene to-night. Will everybody please remain where he is until after the exposure has been made?" Dave and Marian had paused directly in front of the lens of the camera. Maid Marian looked up and made a light, jesting remark, gazing straight into the midshipman's eyes. Dave, smiling, bent forward to hear what she said. Just then came the flash, and the photographer, his work finished for the time, gathered his paraphernalia together and left. The music recommenced and the dancing proceeded. The day the magazine was on the newsstands Dan Dalzell bought a copy. Entering their quarters with it in his hand he opened it at the illustration and handed it to Dave. "The photograph is a good piece of work," was Dave's only comment. He did not wish to express the annoyance he felt when he noted the appearance of intimacy between him and Marian, whose beauty showed, even in this reproduction. "I'd a bit rather Belle shouldn't see this paper," he admitted to himself. "David, old boy, this picture would make a good exhibit in a breach-of-promise suit." "That's an unkind remark to make about a fine girl like Miss Stevens," said Dave coldly. Dan stared, then went off, pondering. "Your affair of the heart will bear close watching if you still cherish!" This was signed, contemptibly and untruthfully, "A Friend." "Uh!" murmured Belle in hurt pride and loyalty. Then she said resolutely to herself: "I will pay no attention to this. An anonymous communication is always meant to hurt and to give a false impression." But there was the picture before her eyes of Dave and the pretty girl in seemingly great intimacy. So though she continued to write to the midshipman and tried hard to make her letters sound as usual, in spite of herself a coldness crept into them that Dave felt. "She must have seen that pictorial weekly," thought the boy miserably. But as Belle said nothing of this, he could not write of it. "I wonder if she'll come or if she's tiring of me," thought Dave Darrin bitterly. But Belle answered, accepting the invitation for Laura and herself. When Saturday afternoon came both midshipmen hurried to the hotel in the town and sent up their cards. Mrs. Meade soon appeared, saying the girls would be down shortly. "Well, yes. But Belle has been moping around the house a great deal, Dave, rather unlike her usual self," replied Mrs. Meade slowly. If Mrs. Meade deplored this, Dave Darrin did not. It showed him at least that the girl's apparent coldness was not caused by her interest in some other young man. But when the girls came in and Belle greeted him cordially, to be sure, but with something of restraint, his heart sank again. "What's the matter, Belle? Has something gone wrong?" asked Dave when Dan was engaging the attention of Mrs. Meade and Laura. "Nothing. Is all right with you?" "Dave, when we're alone I have something to show you. I fear you have an enemy here." "An enemy! Oh, no. But I shall be glad to see what you have to show me." "I don't know who it could be. My, how angry Miss Stevens would be if she knew of this!" "Miss Stevens? Is that the girl?" "Yes. She's visited here often this year. She knows a number of the officers' wives. She's vivacious and always has a good time, but she's nothing to me, Belle. You know that, don't you?" "Belle, you're a thoroughbred!" and here the matter dropped as far as it was between Dave Darrin and Belle Meade. Miss Stevens was at the dance that evening. Though she tried hard to make that impossible, Dave did not dance with her, nor did he introduce her to Belle, though there again Marian tried to force this. It would have been well for Marian if Dan Dalzell had been equally circumspect. This time it was Belle who contrived and got the introduction to the other girl, but Marian was by no means reluctant, so it was that they managed to get a few moments alone together when they had sent their dance partners to get something for them. "You are a friend of Dave's, aren't you?" asked Marian. "Of Mr. Darrin's? Oh, yes, we've always known each other." "Then you've been here to many of these dances?" "Too bad you could not have been here oftener. This has been an unusually brilliant season. Really, many of the young people have lost their heads--or their hearts. I often wonder if these midshipmen have sweethearts at home." This daring--and impertinent--remark was made musingly but smilingly. "These Annapolis affairs are never very serious, I imagine," Belle observed calmly. "Then you think it well to come often?" Marian gasped, realizing she was out-maneuvered. "Here's Mr. Sanderson back. Will you excuse me, Miss Meade?" and Marian fairly fled. Belle told Dave she had found out who had sent the photograph, but added: The annual examinations were approaching. Dan Dalzell was buried deep in gloom. Dave Darrin kept cheerful outwardly, but doubts crept into his heart. "Why, why, I'm not there!" he muttered. "Look at the passing list, Danny," laughed Dave. Unbelieving, Dan turned his eyes on the list and to his utter astonishment found his name posted. True, in "skinny" he had a bare passing mark. But in other subjects he was somewhat above the minimum.	redpajama-book	27,731
Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Aldarondo, Carol David and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. SALUTE TO ADVENTURERS TO MAJOR-GENERAL THE HON. SIR REGINALD TALBOT, K.C.B. I tell of old Virginian ways; And who more fit my tale to scan Than you, who knew in far-off days The eager horse of Sheridan; Who saw the sullen meads of fate, The tattered scrub, the blood-drenched sod, Where Lee, the greatest of the great, Bent to the storm of God? I tell lost tales of savage wars; And you have known the desert sands, The camp beneath the silver stars, The rush at dawn of Arab bands, The fruitless toil, the hopeless dream, The fainting feet, the faltering breath, While Gordon by the ancient stream Waited at ease on death. And now, aloof from camp and field, You spend your sunny autumn hours Where the green folds of Chiltern shield The nooks of Thames amid the flowers: You who have borne that name of pride, In honour clean from fear or stain, Which Talbot won by Henry's side In vanquished Aquitaine. _The reader is asked to believe that most of the characters in this tale and many of the incidents have good historical warrant. The figure of Muckle John Gib will be familiar to the readers of Patrick Walker_. SALUTE TO ADVENTURERS. When I was a child in short-coats a spaewife came to the town-end, and for a silver groat paid by my mother she riddled my fate. It came to little, being no more than that I should miss love and fortune in the sunlight and find them in the rain. The woman was a haggard, black-faced gipsy, and when my mother asked for more she turned on her heel and spoke gibberish; for which she was presently driven out of the place by Tarn Roberton, the baillie, and the village dogs. But the thing stuck in my memory, and together with the fact that I was a Thursday's bairn, and so, according to the old rhyme, "had far to go," convinced me long ere I had come to man's estate that wanderings and surprises would be my portion. My mother besought me to leave her. "What," she would say, "has young blood to do with this bickering of kirks and old wives' lamentations? You have to learn and see and do, Andrew. And it's time you were beginning." But I would not listen to her, till by the mercy of God we got my father safely forth of Scotland, and heard that he was dwelling snugly at Leyden in as great patience as his nature allowed. Thereupon I bethought me of my neglected colleging, and, leaving my books and plenishing to come by the Lanark carrier, set out on foot for Edinburgh. "My dear and only love, I pray That little world of thee Be governed by no other sway Than purest monarchy." "For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more." So she sang, like youth daring fortune to give it aught but the best. The thing thrilled me, so that I stood gaping. Then she looked aside and saw me. "Your business, man?" she cried, with an imperious voice. I took off my bonnet, and made an awkward bow. "Madam, I am on my way to Edinburgh," I stammered, for I was mortally ill at ease with women. "I am uncertain of the road in this weather, and come to beg direction." "But I am for crossing the moors," I said. She pushed back her hood and looked at me with laughing eyes, I saw how dark those eyes were, and how raven black her wandering curls of hair. "You have come to the right place," she cried. "I can direct you as well as any Jock or Sandy about the town. Where are you going to?" I said Kirknewton for my night's lodging. "I'll serve thee in such noble ways, As never man before; I'll deck and crown thy head with bays, And love thee more and more." The encounter cheered me greatly, and lifted the depression which the eternal drizzle had settled on my spirits. That bold girl singing a martial ballad to the storm and taking pleasure in the snellness of the air, was like a rousing summons or a cup of heady wine. The picture ravished my fancy. The proud dark eye, the little wanton curls peeping from the hood, the whole figure alert with youth and life--they cheered my recollection as I trod that sour moorland. I tried to remember her song, and hummed it assiduously till I got some kind of version, which I shouted in my tuneless voice. For I was only a young lad, and my life had been bleak and barren. Small wonder that the call of youth set every fibre of me a-quiver. I climbed the hill above the Howe burn-head, keeping the wind on my right cheek as the girl had ordered. That took me along a rough ridge of mountain pitted with peat-bogs into which I often stumbled. Every minute I expected to descend and find the young Water of Leith, but if I held to my directions I must still mount. I see now that the wind must have veered to the south-east, and that my plan was leading me into the fastnesses of the hills; but I would have wandered for weeks sooner than disobey the word of the girl who sang in the rain. Presently I was on a steep hill-side, which I ascended only to drop through a tangle of screes and jumper to the mires of a great bog. When I had crossed this more by luck than good guidance, I had another scramble on the steeps where the long, tough heather clogged my footsteps. I began to run, to loosen my numbed limbs, and presently fell headlong over a little scaur into a moss-hole. When I crawled out, with peat plastering my face and hair, I found I had lost my notion of the light's whereabouts. I strove to find another hillock, but I seemed now to be in a flat space of bog. I could only grope blindly forwards away from the moss-hole, hoping that soon I might come to a lift in the hill. I would have fled if I could; but Providence willed it otherwise. The edge of the bank on which I stood had been rotted by the rain, and the whole thing gave under my feet. I slithered down into the sheepfold, and pitched headforemost among the worshipping women. And at that, with a yell, the long man leaped over the fire and had me by the throat. My bones were too sore and weary to make resistance. He dragged me to the ground before the tent, while the rest set up a skirling that deafened my wits. There he plumped me down, and stood glowering at me like a cat with a sparrow. "Who are ye, and what do ye here, disturbing the remnant of Israel?" says he. "Some gangrel body, precious Mr. John," he said. "Nay," said another; "it's a spy o' the Amalekites." But I saw it was time for me to be speaking up. "I am neither gangrel, nor spy, nor Amalekite, nor yet am I Zebedee Linklater. My name is Andrew Garvald, and I have to-day left my home to make my way to Edinburgh College. I tried a short road in the mist, and here I am." "I go to finish my colleging," I said. He laughed a harsh, croaking laugh. "Little ye ken, young man. We travel to watch the surprising judgment which is about to overtake the wicked city of Edinburgh. An angel hath revealed it to me in a dream. Fire and brimstone will descend upon it as on Sodom and Gomorrah, and it will be consumed and wither away, with its cruel Ahabs and its painted Jezebels, its subtle Doegs and its lying Balaams, its priests and its judges, and its proud men of blood, its Bible-idolaters and its false prophets, its purple and damask, its gold and its fine linen, and it shall be as Tyre and Sidon, so that none shall know the site thereof. But we who follow the Lord and have cleansed His word from human abominations, shall leap as he-goats upon the mountains, and enter upon the heritage of the righteous from Beth-peor even unto the crossings of Jordan." In reply to this rigmarole I asked for food, since my head was beginning to swim from my long fast. This, to my terror, put him into a great rage. "Ye are carnally minded, like the rest of them. Ye will get no fleshly provender here; but if ye be not besotted in your sins ye shall drink of the Water of Life that floweth freely and eat of the honey and manna of forgiveness." And then he appeared to forget my very existence. He fell into a sort of trance, with his eyes fixed on vacancy. There was a dead hush in the place, nothing but the crackle of the fire and the steady drip of the rain. I endured it as well as I might, for though my legs were sorely cramped, I did not dare to move an inch. OF A HIGH-HANDED LADY. The storm died away in the night, and I awoke to a clear, rain-washed world and the chill of an autumn morn. I was as stiff and sore as if I had been whipped, my clothes were sodden and heavy, and not till I had washed my face and hands in the burn and stretched my legs up the hill-side did I feel restored to something of my ordinary briskness. It was time that I was cutting loose from this ill-omened company and continuing my road Edinburgh-wards. We were lying in a wide trough of the Pentland Hills, which I well remembered. The folk of the plains called it the Cauldstaneslap, and it made an easy path for sheep and cattle between the Lothians and Tweeddale. The camp had been snugly chosen, for, except by the gleam of a fire in the dark, it was invisible from any distance. Muckle John was so filled with his vapourings that I could readily slip off down the burn and join the southern highway at the village of Linton. I was on the verge of going when I saw that which pulled me up. A rider was coming over the moor. The horse leaped the burn lightly, and before I could gather my wits was in the midst of the camp, where Muckle John was vociferating to heaven. My heart gave a great bound, for I saw it was the girl who had sung to me in the rain. She rode a fine sorrel, with the easy seat of a skilled horsewoman. She was trimly clad in a green riding-coat, and over the lace collar of it her hair fell in dark, clustering curls. Her face was grave, like a determined child's; but the winds of the morning had whipped it to a rosy colour, so that into that clan of tatterdemalions she rode like Proserpine descending among the gloomy Shades. In her hand she carried a light riding-whip. A scream from the women brought Muckle John out of his rhapsodies. He stared blankly at the slim girl who confronted him with hand on hip. "What seekest thou here, thou shameless woman?" he roared. "Come out of it, silly Janet," said she on the horse; "you'll never make a Sweet-Singer, for there's not a notion of a tune in your head." "It's not singing that I seek, my leddy," said the woman, blushing. "I follow the call o' the Lord by the mouth o' His servant, John Gib." "You'll follow the call of your mother by the mouth of me, Elspeth Blair. Forget these havers, Janet, and come back like a good Christian soul. Mount and be quick. There's room behind me on Bess." The words were spoken in a kindly, wheedling tone, and the girl's face broke into the prettiest of smiles. Perhaps Janet would have obeyed, but Muckle John, swift to prevent defection, took up the parable. "Begone, ye daughter of Heth!" he bellowed, "ye that are like the devils that pluck souls from the way of salvation. Begone, or it is strongly borne in upon me that ye will dree the fate of the women of Midian, of whom it is written that they were slaughtered and spared not." The girl did not look his way. She had her coaxing eyes on her halting maid. "Come, Janet, woman," she said again. "It's no job for a decent lass to be wandering at the tail of a crazy warlock." The word roused Muckle John to fury. He sprang forward, caught the sorrel's bridle, and swung it round. The girl did not move, but looked him square in the face, the young eyes fronting his demoniac glower. Then very swiftly her arm rose, and she laid the lash of her whip roundly over his shoulders. Muckle John let the thing fall into the moss, and plucked another weapon from his belt. This was an ugly knife, such as a cobbler uses for paring hides. I knew the seaman's trick of throwing, having seen their brawls at the pier of Leith, and I had no notion for the steel in my throat. The man was far beyond me in size and strength, so I dared not close with him. Instead, I gave him the point of my staff with all my power straight in the midriff. The knife slithered harmlessly over my shoulder, and he fell backwards into the heather. I got her bridle, tumbled over the countryman with a kick, and forced her to the edge of the sheepfold. But she wheeled round again, crying, "I must have Janet," and faced the crowd with her whip. That was well enough, but I saw Muckle John staggering to his feet, and I feared desperately for his next move. The girl was either mad or extraordinarily brave. "Get back, you pitiful knaves," she cried. "Lay a hand on me, and I will cut you to ribbons. Make haste, Janet, and quit this folly." "Ye beldame," he said, with many oaths, "I'll pare your talons for ye." Now I, who a minute before had been in danger from this very crew, was smitten with a sudden compunction. Except for Muckle John, they were so pitifully feeble, a pack of humble, elderly folk, worn out with fasting and marching and ill weather. I had been sickened by their crazy devotions, but I was more sickened by this man's barbarity. It was the woman, too, who had given me food the night before. So I stepped out, and bade the man release her. He was a huge, sunburned ruffian, and for answer aimed a clour at my head. "Take that, my mannie," he said. "I'll learn ye to follow the petticoats." His scorn put me into a fury, in which anger at his brutishness and the presence of the girl on the sorrel moved my pride to a piece of naked folly. I flew at his throat, and since I had stood on a little eminence, the force of my assault toppled him over. My victory lasted scarcely a minute. He flung me from him like a feather, then picked me up and laid on to me with the flat of his sword. "Ye thrawn jackanapes," he cried, as he beat me. "Ye'll pay dear for playing your pranks wi' John Donald." I was a child in his mighty grasp, besides having no breath left in me to resist. He tied my hands and legs, haled me to his horse, and flung me sack-like over the crupper. There was no more shamefaced lad in the world than me at that moment, for coming out of the din I heard a girl's light laughter. THE CANONGATE TOLBOOTH. They took us down from the hill to the highroad a little north of Linton village, where I was dumped on the ground, my legs untied, and my hands strapped to a stirrup leather. The women were given a country cart to ride in, and the men, including Muckle John, had to run each by a trooper's leg. The girl on the sorrel had gone, and so had the maid Janet, for I could not see her among the dishevelled wretches in the cart. The thought of that girl filled me with bitter animosity. She must have known that I was none of Gib's company, for had I not risked my life at the muzzle of his pistol? I had taken her part as bravely as I knew how, but she had left me to be dragged to Edinburgh without a word. Women had never come much my way, but I had a boy's distrust of the sex; and as I plodded along the highroad, with every now and then a cuff from a trooper's fist to cheer me, I had hard thoughts of their heartlessness. He asked me for my story, and when he heard it looked curiously at Muckle John, who was now reciting gibberish in a corner. When he heard it he asked for my father, whom he had known in old days at Edinburgh College. Then he inquired into my religious condition with so much fatherly consideration that I could take no offence, but told him honestly that I was little of a partisan, finding it hard enough to keep my own feet from temptation without judging others. "I am weary," I said, "of all covenants and resolutions and excommunications and the constraining of men's conscience either by Government or sectaries. Some day, and I pray that it may be soon, both sides will be dead of their wounds, and there will arise in Scotland men who will preach peace and tolerance, and heal the grievously irritated sores of this land." Such blasphemy on the open hill-side had been shocking enough, but in that narrow room it was too horrid to be borne. The minister stuck his fingers in his ears, and, advancing to the maniac, bade him be silent before God should blast him. But what could his thin old voice do against Gib's bellowing? The mariner went on undisturbed, and gave the old man a blow with his foot which sent him staggering to the floor. The thing had become too much for my temper. I cried on the other men to help me, but none stirred, for Gib seemed to cast an unholy spell on ordinary folk. But my anger and discomfort banished all fear, and I rushed at the prophet in a whirlwind. He had no eyes for my coming till my head took him fairly in the middle, and drove the breath out of his chest. That quieted his noise, and he turned on me with something like wholesome human wrath in his face. When the gaoler came with food, we all wakened up, and Gib asked very peaceably to be released. The gaoler laughed at his predicament, and inquired the tale of it; and when he heard the truth, called for a vote as to what he should do. I was satisfied, from the look of Muckle John, that his dangerous fit was over, so I gave my voice for release. Gib shook himself like a great dog, and fell to his breakfast without a word. I found the thin brose provided more palatable than the soup of the evening before, and managed to consume a pannikin of it. As I finished, I perceived that Gib had squatted by my side. There was clearly some change in the man, for he gave the woman Isobel some very ill words when she started ranting. "Can ye whistle 'Jenny Nettles,' sir?" he asked me civilly. It was surely a queer request in that place and from such a fellow. But I complied, and to the best of my skill rendered the air. He listened greedily. "Ay, you've got it," he said, humming it after me. "I aye love the way of it. Yon's the tune I used to whistle mysel' on shipboard when the weather was clear." "The wind's to the east," he said. "I could wish I were beating down the Forth in the _Loupin' Jean._ She was a trim bit boat for him that could handle her." "Man," I said, "what made you leave a clean job for the ravings of yesterday?" "What will they do with us all?" said I. "The Plantations maybe, or the Bass! It's a bonny creel you've landed me in, for I'm as innocent as a newborn babe." But I got no more of Muckle John's travels, for the door opened on that instant, and the gaoler appeared. He looked at our heads, then singled me out, and cried on me to follow. "Come on, you," he said. "Ye're wantit in the captain's room." The little gentleman looked at me severely, and then turned to his companion. "Is this the fellow, Elspeth?" he inquired. "He looks a sorry rascal." The minx pretended to examine me carefully. Her colour was high with the fresh morning, and she kept tapping her boot with her whip handle. "Why, yes, Uncle Gregory," she said, "It is the very man, though none the better for your night's attentions." "And you say he had no part in Gib's company, but interfered on your behalf when the madman threatened you?" "Maybe, maybe," said the gentleman. "Your illustrations, Elspeth, would do credit to His Majesty's advocate. Your plea is that this young man, whose name I do not know and do not seek to hear, should be freed or justice will miscarry? God knows the law has enough to do without clogging its wheels with innocence." The girl nodded. Her wicked, laughing eyes roamed about the apartment with little regard for my flushed face. "Then the Crown assoilzies the panel and deserts the diet," said the little gentleman. "Speak, sir, and thank His Majesty for his clemency and this lady for her intercession." "Through the door, down the left stairway, and you will be in the street," said the gentleman. I made some sort of bow and moved to the door. "Farewell, Mr. Whiggamore," the girl cried, "Keep a cheerful countenance, or they'll think you a Sweet-Singer. Your breeches will mend, man." And with her laughter most unpleasantly in my ears I made my way into the Canongate, and so to my lodgings at Mrs. Macvittie's. I asked him if I could do him any service. "There's a woman at Cramond," he began timidly. "She might like to ken what had become o' me. Would ye carry a message?" I did better, for at Gib's dictation I composed for her a letter, since he could not write. I wrote it on some blank pages from my pocket which I used for College notes. It was surely the queerest love-letter ever indited, for the most part of it was theology, and the rest was instructions for the disposing of his scanty plenishing. I have forgotten now what I wrote, but I remember that the woman's name was Alison Steel. OF A STAIRHEAD AND A SEA-CAPTAIN. I went into the business with the monstrous solemnity of youth, and took stock of my equipment as if I were casting up an account. Many a time in those days I studied my appearance in the glass like a foolish maid. I was not well featured, having a freckled, square face, a biggish head, a blunt nose, grey, colourless eyes, and a sandy thatch of hair, I had great square shoulders, but my arms were too short for my stature, and--from an accident in my nursing days--of indifferent strength. All this stood on the debit side of my account. On the credit side I set down that I had unshaken good health and an uncommon power of endurance, especially in the legs. There was no runner in the Upper Ward of Lanark who was my match, and I had travelled the hills so constantly in all weathers that I had acquired a gipsy lore in the matter of beasts and birds and wild things, I had long, clear, unerring eyesight, which had often stood me in good stead in the time of my father's troubles. Of moral qualities, Heaven forgive me, I fear I thought less; but I believed, though I had been little proved, that I was as courageous as the common run of men. "See, Andrew," he would cry, "this is the true leveller of mankind. It will make the man his master's equal, for though your gentleman may cock on a horse and wave his Andrew Ferrara, this will bring him off it. Brains, my lad, will tell in coming days, for it takes a head to shoot well, though any flesher may swing a sword." He begged for a look at it, and examined it long and carefully. But I told him that the offer of Strathendrick itself would not buy it. "No?" said he. "Well, I won't say ye're wrong. A man should cherish his weapon like his wife, for it carries his honour." "Why should I tell you?" I said, a little nettled. Now I was flushed with pride, and in no mood for a stranger's patronage. So I told him roundly that it was none of his business, and pushed by him to Parlane's back-door. But my brusqueness gave no offence to this odd being. He only laughed and cried after me that, if my manners were the equal of my marksmanship, I would be the best lad he had seen since his home-coming. The ribald chorus echoed from the close mouth. The thing looked ugly, and, while I had no love for the red-haired man, I did not wish to see murder or robbery committed and stand idly by. The match of the afternoon had given me a fine notion of my prowess, though. Had I reflected, my pistol was in its case at home, and I had no weapon but a hazel staff. Happily in youth the blood is quicker than the brain, and without a thought I ran into the close and up the long stairway. The chorus was still being sung ahead of me, and then it suddenly ceased. In dead silence and in pitchy darkness I struggled up the stone steps, wondering what I should find at the next turning. The place was black as night, the steps were uneven, and the stairs corkscrewed most wonderfully. I wished with all my heart that I had not come, as I groped upwards hugging the wall. Then a cry came and a noise of hard breathing. At the same moment a door opened somewhere above my head, and a faint glow came down the stairs. Presently with a great rumble a heavy man came rolling past me, butting with his head at the stair-side. He came to anchor on a landing below me, and finding his feet plunged downwards as if the devil were at his heels. He left behind him a short Highland knife, which I picked up and put in my pocket. On his heels came another with his hand clapped to his side, and he moaned as he slithered past me. Something dripped from him on the stone steps. Above me as I blinked stood my red-haired friend on the top landing. He had his sword drawn, and was whistling softly through his teeth, while on the right hand was an open door and an old man holding a lamp. I did not like that naked bit of steel, but there was nothing for it but to see the thing through. When he saw that I was unarmed he returned his weapon to its sheath, and smiled broadly down on me. "What brings my proud gentleman up these long stairs?" he asked. "Did ye so? And a very pretty intention, Mr. What's-your-name. But ye needna have fashed yourself. Did ye see any of our friends on the stairs?" "I met a big man rolling down like a football," I said. "Ay, that would be Angus. He's a clumsy stot, and never had much sense." "And I met another with his hand on his side," I said. "That would be little James. He's a fine lad with a skean-dhu on a dark night, but there was maybe too much light here for his trade." "Ay," said he meditatively, "that was Long Colin. He's the flower o' the flock, and I had to pink him. At another time and in a better place I would have liked a bout with him, for he has some notion of sword-play." "Who were the men?" I asked, in much confusion, for this laughing warrior perplexed me. "Who but just my cousins from Glengyle. There has long been a sort of bicker between us, and they thought they had got a fine chance of ending it." "And who, in Heaven's name, are you," I said, "that treats murder so lightly?" "Me?" he repeated. "Well, I might give ye the answer you gave me this very day when I speired the same question. But I am frank by nature, and I see you wish me well. Come in bye, and we'll discuss the matter." He led me into a room where a cheerful fire crackled, and got out from a press a bottle and glasses. He produced tobacco from a brass box and filled a long pipe. What could I do after that but make him a present of the trivial facts about myself and my doings? There was a look of friendly humour about this dare-devil which captured my fancy. I saw in him the stuff of which adventurers are made, and though I was a sober merchant, I was also young. For days I had been dreaming of foreign parts and an Odyssey of strange fortunes, and here on a Glasgow stairhead I had found Ulysses himself. "Is it not the pity," he cried, "that such talents as yours should rust in a dark room in the Candleriggs? Believe me, Mr. Garvald, I have seen some pretty shots, but I have never seen your better." Then I told him that I was sailing within a month for Virginia, and he suddenly grew solemn. He fell to giving me such advice as a traveller gives to a novice. It was strange hearing for an honest merchant, for much of it was concerned with divers ways of outwitting the law. By and by he was determined to convoy me to my lodgings, for he pointed out that I was unarmed; and I think, too, he had still hopes of another meeting with Long Colin, his cousin. "I leave Glasgow the morrow's morn," he said, "and it's no likely we'll meet again in Scotland. Out in Virginia, no doubt, you'll soon be a great man, and sit in Council, and hob-nob with the Governor. But a midge can help an elephant, and I would gladly help you, for you had the goodwill to help me. If ye need aid you will go to Mercer's Tavern at James Town down on the water front, and you will ask news of Ninian Campbell. The man will say that he never heard tell of the name, and then you will speak these words to him. You will say 'The lymphads are on the loch, and the horn of Diarmaid has sounded.' Keep them well in mind, for some way or other they will bring you and me together." You are to remember that I was a country lad who had never set foot forth of Scotland. I was very young, and hot on the quest of new sights and doings. As I walked down the unpaven street and through the narrow tobacco-grown lanes, the strange smell of it all intoxicated me like wine. But as I was mooning along there came a sudden interruption on my dreams. I was beyond the houses, in a path which ran among tobacco-sheds and little gardens, with the river lapping a stone's-throw off. Down a side alley I caught a glimpse of a figure that seemed familiar. I cried on him, and ran down the side alley. But it seemed that he did not want company, for he broke into a run. Now in those days I rejoiced in the strength of my legs, and I was determined not to be thus balked. So I doubled after him into a maze of tobacco and melon beds. But it seemed he knew how to run. I caught a glimpse of his hairy legs round the corner of a shed, and then lost him in a patch of cane. Then I came out on a sort of causeway floored with boards which covered a marshy sluice, and there I made great strides on him. He was clear against the sky now, and I could see that he was clad only in shirt and cotton breeches, while at his waist flapped an ugly sheath-knife. Rounding the hut corner I ran full into a man. The next I knew we were out on the river bank on a shore of hard clay which the tides had created. Here I saw him more clearly, and I began to doubt. I might be chasing some river-side ruffian, who would give me a knife in my belly for my pains. The doubt slackened my pace, and he gained on me. Then I saw his intention. There was a flat-bottomed wherry tied up by the bank, and for this he made. He flung off the rope, seized a long pole, and began to push away. The last rays of the westering sun fell on his face, and my hesitation vanished. For those pent-house brows and deep-set, wild-cat eyes were fixed for ever in my memory. The water was only up to my middle, but before I could clamber back he had shipped his oars, and was well into the centre of the stream. "This is a bonny beginning!" thought I, as I waded through the mud to the shore. I was wearing my best clothes in honour of my arrival, and they were all fouled and plashing. Then on the bank above me I saw the fellow who had run into me and hindered my catching Muckle John on dry land. He was shaking with laughter. "Easy, my lad," he said. "It's a free country, and there's no statute against mirth." "I'll have you before the sheriff," I cried. "You tripped me up when I was on the track of the biggest rogue in America." This was more than I could stand. I was carrying a pistol in my hand, and I stuck it to his ear. "March, my friend," I said. "You'll walk before me to a Justice of the Peace, and explain your doings this night." I had never threatened a man with a deadly weapon before, and I was to learn a most unforgettable lesson. A hand shot out, caught my wrist, and forced it upwards in a grip of steel. And when I would have used my right fist in his face another hand seized that, and my arms were padlocked. Cool, ironical eyes looked into mine. He pressed my wrist back till my fingers relaxed, and he caught my pistol in his teeth. With a quick movement of the head he dropped it inside his shirt. "There's some would have killed you for that trick, young sir," he said. "It's trying to the temper to have gunpowder so near a man's brain. But you're young, and, by your speech, a new-comer. So instead I'll offer you a drink." "He was a man I knew in Scotland," I said grumpily. "Likely enough. There's a heap of Scots redemptioners hereaways. I'm out of Scotland myself, or my forbears were, but my father was settled in the Antrim Glens. There's wild devils among them, and your friend looked as if he had given the slip to the hounds in the marshes. There was little left of his breeches Drink, man, or you'll get fever from your wet duds." I drank, and the strong stuff mounted to my unaccustomed brain; my tongue was loosened, my ill-temper mellowed, and I found myself telling this grim fellow much that was in my heart. "So you're a merchant," he said. "It's not for me to call down an honest trade, but we could be doing with fewer merchants in these parts. They're so many leeches that suck our blood. Are you here to make siller?" I said I was, and he laughed. "I never heard of your uncle's business, Mr. Garvald, but you'll find it a stiff task to compete with the lads from Bristol and London. They've got the whole dominion by the scruff of the neck." I replied that I was not in awe of them, and that I could hold my own with anybody in a fair trade. "Fair trade!" he cried scornfully. "That's just what you won't get. That's a thing unkenned in Virginia. Look you here, my lad. The Parliament in London treats us Virginians like so many puling bairns. We cannot sell our tobacco except to English merchants, and we cannot buy a horn spoon except it comes in an English ship. What's the result of that? You, as a merchant, can tell me fine. The English fix what price they like for our goods, and it's the lowest conceivable, and they make their own price for what they sell us, and that's as high as a Jew's. There's a fine profit there for the gentlemen-venturers of Bristol, but it's starvation and damnation for us poor Virginians." "Remember you're speaking to a merchant," I said. "You've told me the very thing to encourage me. If prices are high, it's all the better for me." "It would be," he said grimly, "if your name werena what it is, and you came from elsewhere than the Clyde. D'you think the proud English corporations are going to let you inside? Not them. The most you'll get will be the scraps that fall from their table, my poor Lazarus, and for these you'll have to go hat in hand to Dives." His face grew suddenly earnest, and he leaned on the table and looked me straight in the eyes. "You're a young lad and a new-comer, and the accursed scales of Virginia are not yet on your eyes. Forbye, I think you've spirit, though it's maybe mixed with a deal of folly. You've your choice before you, Mr. Garvald. You can become a lickspittle like the rest of them, and no doubt you'll gather a wheen bawbees, but it will be a poor shivering soul will meet its Maker in the hinder end. Or you can play the man and be a good Virginian. I'll not say it's an easy part. You'll find plenty to cry you down, and there will be hard knocks going; but by your face I judge you're not afraid of that. Let me tell you this land is on the edge of hell, and there's sore need for stout men. They'll declare in this town that there's no Indians on this side the mountains that would dare to lift a tomahawk. Little they ken!" In his eagerness he had gripped my arm, and his dark, lean face was thrust close to mine. "But they tell me the Indians are changed nowadays," I put in. "They say they've settled down to peaceful ways like any Christian." "What think you of that?" he asked, as I kept silent, "I've been warned. A man I know on the Rappahannock passed the word that the Long House was stirring. Tell that to the gentry in James Town. What side are you going for, young sir?" He laughed loud. "A very proper answer for a Scot," he cried. "See for yourself, travel the country, and use the wits God gave you to form your judgment." He paid the lawing, and said he would put me on the road back. "These alleys are not very healthy at this hour for a young gentleman in braw clothes." "Good-night to you," he said at length. "And when you have finished your travels come west to the South Fork River and ask for Simon Frew, and I'll complete your education." I went to bed in a glow of excitement. On the morrow I should begin a new life in a world of wonders, and I rejoiced to think that there was more than merchandise in the prospect. TELLS OF MY EDUCATION. In these months my thoughts were chiefly of trade, and I saw enough to prove the truth of what the man Frew had told me. This richest land on earth was held prisoner in the bonds of a foolish tyranny. The rich were less rich than their estates warranted, and the poor were ground down by bitter poverty. There was little corn in the land, tobacco being the sole means of payment, and this meant no trade in the common meaning of the word. The place was slowly bleeding to death, and I had a mind to try and stanch its wounds. The firm of Andrew Sempill was looked on jealously, in spite of all the bowings and protestations of Mr. Lambie. If we were to increase our trade, it must be at the Englishman's expense, and that could only be done by offering the people a better way of business. The upshot was that I paid a visit to the Governor, Mr. Francis Nicholson, whom my lord Howard had left as his deputy. Governor Nicholson had come from New York not many months before with a great repute for ill-temper and harsh dealing; but I liked the look of his hard-set face and soldierly bearing, and I never mind choler in a man if he have also honesty and good sense. So I waited upon him at his house close by Middle Plantation, on the road between James Town and York River. "What do you seek from me?" he shouted. "If it is some merchants' squabble, you can save your breath, for I am sick of the Shylocks." "Go to the Council," he rasped; "go to that silken fool, His Majesty's Attorney. My politics are not those of the leather-jaws that prate in this land." "That is why I came to you," I said. Then without more ado I gave him my notions on the defence of the colony, for from what I had learned I judged that would interest him most. He heard me with unexpected patience. Now I did not think much of the French danger being far more concerned with the peril in the West; but I held my peace on that subject. It was not my cue to cross his Excellency in his present humour. "That's true," said he, "and it's a damned disgrace. But how am I to better it?" "Clap a tax on every ship that passes Point Comfort outward bound," I said. "The merchants can well afford to pay it." "Listen to him!" he laughed. "And what kind of answer would I get from my lord Howard and His Majesty? Every greasy member would be on his feet in Parliament in defence of what he called English rights. Then there would come a dispatch from the Government telling the poor Deputy-Governor of Virginia to go to the devil!" He looked at me curiously, screwing up his eyes. "By the way, Mr. Garvald, what is your trade?" "I am a merchant like the others," I said; "only my ships run from Glasgow instead of Bristol." "A very pretty merchant," he said quizzically. "I have heard that hawks should not pick out hawks' eyes. What do you propose to gain, Mr. Garvald?" Then I told him something of my scheme, and he heard me out with a puzzled face. "Scot yourself," I laughed, for his face and speech betrayed him. "I'll not deny that there's glimmerings of sense in you, Mr. Garvald. But how do you, a lad with no backing, propose to beat a strong monopoly buttressed by the whole stupidity and idleness of Virginia? You'll be stripped of your last farthing, and you'll be lucky if it ends there. Don't think I'm against you. I'm with you in your principles, but the job is too big for you." "We will see," said I. "But I can take it that, provided I keep within the law, His Majesty's Governor will not stand in my way?" "I can promise you that. I'll do more, for I'll drink success to your enterprise." He filled me a great silver tankard of spiced sack, and I emptied it to the toast of "Honest Men." All the time at the back of my head were other thoughts than merchandise. The picture which Frew had drawn of Virginia as a smiling garden on the edge of a burning pit was stamped on my memory. I had seen on my travels the Indians that dwelled in the Tidewater, remnants of the old great clans of Doeg and Powhatan and Pamunkey. They were civil enough fellows, following their own ways, and not molesting their scanty white neighbours, for the country was wide enough for all. But so far as I could learn, these clanlets of the Algonquin house were no more comparable to the fighting tribes of the West than a Highland caddie in an Edinburgh close is to a hill Macdonald with a claymore. But the common Virginian would admit no peril, though now and then some rough landward fellow would lay down his spade, spit moodily, and tell me a grim tale. I had ever the notion to visit Frew and finish my education. It was not till the tobacco ships had gone and the autumn had grown late that I got the chance. The trees were flaming scarlet and saffron as I rode west through the forests to his house on the South Fork River. There, by a wood fire in the October dusk, he fed me on wild turkey and barley bread, and listened silently to my tale. "Where?" I cried, all else forgotten. "Where did he go, think you?" I asked. "To the hills. To the refuge of every ne'er-do-weel. Belike the Indians have got his scalp, and I'm not regretting it." In a hollow among the woods we came to a place which sent him on his knees, peering and sniffing like a wild-cat. "What make you of that?" he asked. I saw nothing but a bare patch in the grass, some broken twigs, and a few ashes. "It's an old camp," I said. "Ay," said he. "Nothing more? Use your wits, man." I used them, but they gave me no help. He took me homeward at a speed which well-nigh foundered me, and, when I questioned him, he told me where he got his knowledge. "But how could you know how long back this had happened?" I asked. "The sap was still wet in the twigs, so it could not have been much above an hour since they left. Besides, the smoke had blown south, for the grass smelt of it that side. Now the wind was more to the east when we left, and, if you remember, it changed to the north about midday." I said it was a marvel, and he grunted. "The marvel is what they've been doing in the Tidewater, for from the Tidewater I'll swear they came." Next day he led me eastward, away back in the direction of the manors. This was an easier day, for he went slow, as if seeking for something. He picked up some kind of a trail, which we followed through the long afternoon. Then he found something, which he pocketed with a cry of satisfaction. We were then on the edge of a ridge, whence we looked south to the orchards of Henricus. I was prepared for the wild Cherokees on our journey of yesterday, but it amazed me that the savages should come scouting into the Tidewater itself. He smiled grimly when I said this, and took from his pocket a crumpled feather. "That's a Cherokee badge," he said. "I found that a fortnight back on the river-side an hour's ride out of James Town. And it wasna there when I had passed the same place the day before. The Tidewater thinks it has put the fear of God on the hill tribes, and here's a red Cherokee snowking about its back doors." The last day he took me north up a stream called the North Fork, which joined with his own river. I had left my musket behind, for this heavy travel made me crave to go light, and I had no use for it. But that day it seemed we were to go hunting. He carried an old gun, and slew with it a deer in a marshy hollow--a pretty shot, for the animal was ill-placed. We broiled a steak for our midday meal, and presently clambered up a high woody ridge which looked down on a stream and a piece of green meadow. Suddenly he stopped. "A buck," he whispered. "See what you can do, you that were so ready with your pistol." And he thrust his gun into my hand. I handed it back to him. "It throws high, and you did not warn me. Load quick, and I'll try again." I heard the deer crashing through the hill-side thicket, and guessed that presently it would come out in the meadow. I was right, and before the gun was in my hands again the beast was over the stream. Frew looked at me with sincere respect. "That's braw shooting," he said. "I can't say I ever saw its equal." I BECOME AN UNPOPULAR CHARACTER. "What's this I hear, Sawney?" he cried. "You're setting up as a pedlar, and trying to cut in on our trade. Od twist me, but we'll put an end to that, my bully-boy. D'you think the King, God bless him, made the laws for a red-haired, flea-bitten Sawney to diddle true-born Englishmen? What'll the King's Bench say to that, think ye?" He was very abusive, but very uncertain on his legs. I said good-humouredly that I welcomed process of law, and would defend my action. He shook his head, and said something about law not being everything, and England being a long road off. He had clearly some great threat to be delivered of, but just then he sat down so heavily that he had no breath for anything but curses. Then we fell upon them, and the hindquarters of all bore witness to our greeting. I caught the fellow who had laid the fuse, tied the whole thing round his neck, clapped a pistol to his ear, and marched him before me into the town. "If you are minded to bolt," I said, "remember you have a charge of gunpowder lobbing below your chin. I have but to flash my pistol into it, and they will be picking the bits of you off the high trees." "Gentlemen," said I, "I restore you your property. This is a penitent thief who desires to make a confession." My pistol was at his temple, the powder was round his neck, and he must have seen a certain resolution in my face. Anyhow, sweating and quaking, he blurted out his story, and when he offered to halt I made rings with the barrel on the flesh of his neck. All this made me feel pretty solemn. My uncle was a rich man, but no firm could afford these repeated losses. I was the most unpopular figure in Virginia, hated by many, despised by the genteel, whose only friends were my own servants and a few poverty-stricken landward folk. I had found out a good way of trade, but I had set a hornet's nest buzzing about my ears, and was on the fair way to be extinguished. This alliance between my rivals and the Free Companions was the last straw to my burden. If the sea was to be shut to him, then a merchant might as well put up his shutters. It made me solemn, but also most mightily angry. If the stars in their courses were going to fight against Andrew Garvald, they should find him ready. I went to the Governor, but he gave me no comfort. Indeed, he laughed at me, and bade me try the same weapon as my adversaries. I left him, very wrathful, and after a night's sleep I began to see reason in his words. Clearly the law of Virginia or of England would give me no redress. I was an alien from the genteel world; why should I not get the benefit of my ungentility? If my rivals went for their weapons into dark places, I could surely do likewise. A line of Virgil came into my head, which seemed to me to contain very good counsel: "_Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo_", which means that if you cannot get Heaven on your side, you had better try for the Devil. But how was I to get into touch with the Devil? And then I remembered in a flash my meeting with the sea-captain on the Glasgow stairhead and his promise to help me, I had no notion who he was or how he could aid, but I had a vague memory of his power and briskness. He had looked like the kind of lad who might conduct me into the wild world of the Free Companions. I sought Mercer's tavern by the water-side, a melancholy place grown up with weeds, with a yard of dark trees at the back of it. Old Mercer was an elder in the little wooden Presbyterian kirk, which I had taken to attending since my quarrels with the gentry. He knew me and greeted me with his doleful smile, shaking his foolish old beard. "What's your errand this e'en, Mr. Garvald?" he said in broad Scots. "Will you drink a rummer o' toddy, or try some fine auld usquebaugh I hae got frae my cousin in Buchan?" I sat down on the settle outside the tavern door. "This is my errand. I want you to bring me to a man or bring that man to me. His name is Ninian Campbell." Mercer looked at me dully. His eyes showed no recognition. He repeated the name to himself, mumbling it toothlessly. "It sticks i' my memory," he said, "but when and where I canna tell. Certes, there's no man o' the name in Virginia." I was beginning to think that my memory had played me false, when suddenly the whole scene in the Saltmarket leaped vividly to my brain. Then I remembered the something else I had been enjoined to say. "Ninian Campbell," I went on, "bade me ask for him here, and I was to tell you that the lymphads are on the loch and the horn of Diarmaid has sounded." In a twinkling his face changed from vacancy to shrewdness and from senility to purpose. He glanced uneasily round. "For God's sake, speak soft," he whispered. "Come inside, man. We'll steek the door, and then I'll hear your business." "What seek ye with Ringan?" Mercer asked, when we had sat down inside with locked doors. "The man's name is Ninian Campbell," I said, somewhat puzzled. "Well, it's the same thing. What did they teach you at Lesmahagow if ye don't know that Ringan is the Scots for Ninian? Lord bless me, laddie, don't tell me ye've never heard of Red Ringan?" I was at the water-side next day at cock-crow, while the mist was still low on the river. Mercer was busy putting food and a keg of water into a light sloop, and a tall Indian was aboard redding out the sails. My travels had given me some knowledge of the red tribes, and I spoke a little of their language, but this man was of a type not often seen in the Virginian lowlands. He was very tall, with a skin clear and polished like bronze, and, unlike the ordinary savage, his breast was unmarked, and his hair unadorned. He was naked to the waist, and below wore long leather breeches, dyed red, and fringed with squirrels' tails. In his wampum belt were stuck a brace of knives and a tomahawk. It seemed he knew me, for as I approached he stood up to his full height and put his hands on his forehead. "Brother," he said, and his grave eyes looked steadily into mine. On the Surrey shore we picked up a breeze, and with the ebbing tide made good speed down the estuary. Shalah the Indian had the tiller, and I sat luxuriously in the bows, smoking my cob pipe, and wondering what the next week held in store for me. The night before I had had qualms about the whole business, but the air of morning has a trick of firing my blood, and I believe I had forgotten the errand which was taking me to the Carolina shores. It was enough that I was going into a new land and new company. Last night I had thought with disfavour of Red Ringan the buccaneer; that morning I thought only of Ninian Campbell, with whom I had forgathered on a Glasgow landing. He stepped from the boat to the hill-side, and with incredible speed and stillness began to ascend. His long, soft strides were made without noise or effort, whether the ground were moss, or a tangle of vines, or loose stones, or the trunks of fallen trees, I had prided myself on my hill-craft, but beside the Indian I was a blundering child, I might have made shift to travel as fast, but it was the silence of his progress that staggered me, I plunged, and slipped, and sprawled, and my heart was bursting before the ascent ceased, and we stole to the left along the hill shoulder. Shalah touched my hand, and I followed him into the wood. We climbed again, and from the tinkle of the stream on my left I judged that we were ascending to a higher shelf in the glen. The Indian moved very carefully, as noiseless as the flight of an owl, and I marvelled at the gift. In after days I was to become something of a woodsman, and track as swiftly and silently as any man of my upbringing. But I never mastered the Indian art by which the foot descending in the darkness on something that will crackle checks before the noise is made. I could do it by day, when I could see what was on the ground, but in the dark the thing was beyond me. It is an instinct like a wild thing's, and possible only to those who have gone all their days light-shod in the forest. "What is the judgment," he was saying, "of the Free Companions? By the old custom of the Western Seas I call upon you, gentlemen all, for your decision." Another exclaimed against this. "Old wives' folly," he cried, with an oath. "Let Cosh go his ways, and swear to amend them. The Brethren of the Coast cannot be too nice in these little matters. We are not pursy justices or mooning girls." But he had no support. The verdict was for the dice, and a seaman brought Ringan a little ivory box, which he held out to the prisoner. The latter took it with shaking hand, as if he did not know how to use it. In that wild place, in the black heart of night, the terror of the thing fell on my soul. The savage faces, the deadly purpose in Ringan's eyes, the fumbling miscreant before him, were all heavy with horror. I had no doubt that Cosh was worthy of death, but this cold and merciless treatment froze my reason. I watched with starting eyes the last throw, and I could not hear Ringan declare it. But I saw by the look on Cosh's face what it had been. "It is your privilege to choose your manner of death and to name your successor," I heard Ringan say. Perhaps he expected it, perhaps he had learned the art of the wild beast so that his body was answerable to his swiftest wish. I do not know, but I saw Cosh's knife crash on the stone and splinter, while Ringan stood by his side. I shut my eyes as I heard the steel clash. Then very soon came silence. I looked again, and saw Ringan wiping his blade on a bunch of grass, and a body lying before him. "Ninian," I cried, "Ninian Campbell! I'm here to claim your promise." Bit by bit my senses came back to me, and I caught hold of my vagrant courage. "I won't run away," I said, "so you might slacken these ropes and let me breathe easy." Apparently he was an accommodating gaoler, for he did as I wished. "And give me a drink," I said, "for my tongue's like a stick." VARIOUS DOINGS IN THE SAVANNAH. I awoke in broad daylight, and when my wits came back to me, I saw I was in a tent of skins, with my limbs unbound, and a pitcher of water beside me placed by some provident hand. Through the tent door I looked over a wide space of green savannah. How I had got there I knew not; but, as my memory repeated the events of the night, I knew I had travelled far, for the sea showed miles away at a great distance beneath me. On the water I saw a ship in full sail, diminished to a toy size, careering northward with the wind. Outside a man was seated whistling a cheerful tune. I got to my feet and staggered out to clear my head in the air, and found the smiling face of Ringan. "Good-morning, Andrew," he cried, as I sat down beside him. "Have you slept well?" I rubbed my eyes and took long draughts of the morning breeze. "Are you a warlock, Mr. Campbell, that you can spirit folk about the country at your pleasure? I have slept sound, but my dreams have been bad." "Yes," he said; "what sort of dreams, maybe?" "I dreamed I was in a wild place among wild men, and that I saw murder done. The look of the man who did it was not unlike your own." "You have dreamed true," he said gravely; "but you have the wrong word for it. Others would call it justice." "What sort of justice?" said I, "when you had no court or law but just what you made yourself." "You gave me a rough handling," I said, "Where was the need of it?" "And you showed very little sense in bursting in on us the way you did! Could you not have bided quietly till Shalah gave the word? I had to be harsh with you, or they would have suspected something and cut your throat. Yon gentry are not to take liberties with. What made you do it, Andrew?" "Just that I was black afraid. That made me more feared of being a coward, so I forced myself to yon folly." "A very honourable reason," he said. "Are you the leader of those men?" I asked. "They looked a scurvy lot. Do you call that a proper occupation for the best blood in Breadalbane?" "I allow no man to slight my race," he said in a harsh voice. "It's the truth whether you like it or not. And you that claimed to be a gentleman! What is it they say about the Highlands?" And I quoted a ribald Glasgow proverb. What moved me to this insolence I cannot say, I was in the wrong, and I knew it, but I was too much of a child to let go my silly pride. "I'm ready," said I, with the best bravado I could muster, though the truth is I was sick at heart. I had forced a quarrel like an ill-mannered boy on the very man whose help I had come to seek. And I saw, too, that I had gone just that bit too far for which no recantation would win pardon. "What sort of way are you ready?" he asked politely. "You would fight me with your pistols, but you haven't got them, and this is no a matter that will wait. I could spit you in a jiffy with my sword, but it wouldna be fair. It strikes me that you and me are ill matched. We're like a shark and a wolf that cannot meet to fight in the same element." Then he ran his finger down the buttons of his coat, and his eyes were smiling. "We'll try the old way that laddies use on the village green. Man, Andrew, I'm going to skelp you, as your mother skelped you when you were a breechless bairn," And he tossed his coat on the grass. I could only follow suit, though I was black ashamed at the whole business. I felt the disgrace of my conduct, and most bitterly the disgrace of the penalty. My arm was too short to make a fighter of me, and I could only strive to close, that I might get the use of my weight and my great strength of neck and shoulder. Ringan danced round me, tapping me lightly on nose and cheek, but hard enough to make the blood flow, I defended myself as best I could, while my temper rose rapidly and made me forget my penitence. Time and again I looked for a chance to slip in, but he was as wary as a fox, and was a yard off before I could get my arm round him. At last in extreme vexation, I lowered my head and rushed blindly for his chest. Something like the sails of a windmill smote me on the jaw, and I felt myself falling into a pit of great darkness where little lights twinkled. The next I knew I was sitting propped against the tent-pole with a cold bandage round my forehead, and Ringan with a napkin bathing my face. "Cheer up, man," he cried; "you've got off light, for there's no a scratch on your lily-white cheek, and the blood-letting from the nose will clear out the dregs of Moro's hocus." I blinked a little, and tried to recall what had happened. All my ill-humour had gone, and I was now in a hurry to set myself right with my conscience. He heard my apology with an embarrassed face. "Say no more, Andrew. I was as muckle to blame as you, and I've been giving myself some ill names for that last trick. It was ower hard, but, man, the temptation was sore." He elbowed me to the open air. There was a kind of boastful sincerity about the man which convinced me. But his words put me in mind of my own business. "I came seeking you to ask help. Your friends have been making too free with my belongings. I would never complain if it were the common risk of my trade, but I have a notion that there's some sort of design behind it." Then I told him of my strife with the English merchants. "What are your losses?" he asked. "The Ayr brig was taken off Cape Charles, and burned to the water. God help the poor souls in her, for I fear they perished." He laughed. "I did that myself," he said. Astonishment and wrath filled me, but I finished my tale. "Yes," he said; "but the money's safe. I'll give you a line to Mercer, and he'll pay it you." "I'm much obliged to you, Mr. Campbell," I said, choking with anger. "But who, in Heaven's name, asked you to manage my business? I thought you were my friend, and I came to you as such, and here I find you the chief among my enemies." "You took a roundabout road," said I, by no means appeased. "It had to be. D'you think I could come marching into James Town and collogue with you in your counting-house? Now that you're here, you have my sworn word that the Free Companions will never lay hand again on your ventures. Will that content you?" "It will," I said; "but you spoke of a bigger thing before me." "Yes, and that's the price you are going to pay me for my goodwill. It's what the lawyers call _consideratio_ for our bargain, and it's the reason I brought you here. Tell me, Andrew, d'you ken a man Frew who lives on the South Fork River?" "A North Ireland fellow, with a hatchet face and a big scar? I saw him a year ago." "It stuck in my mind that you had. And d'you mind the advice he gave you?" I remembered it very well, for it was Frew who had clinched my views on the defencelessness of our West. "He spoke God's truth," I said, "but I cannot get a Virginian to believe it." "They'll believe in time," he said, "though maybe too late to save some of their scalps. Come to this hillock, and I will show you something." From the low swell of ground we looked west to some little hills, and in the hollow of them a spire of smoke rose into the blue. "I'm going to take you there, that you may hear and see something to your profit. Quick, Moro," he cried to a servant. "Bring food, and have the horses saddled." We breakfasted on some very good beefsteaks, and started at a canter for the hills. My headache had gone, and I was now in a contented frame of mind; for I saw the purpose of my errand accomplished, and I had a young man's eagerness to know what lay before me. As we rode Ringan talked. Ringan spoke to the chief in his own tongue, but the Sioux language was beyond me. Mr. Lawrence joined in, and I saw the Indian's eyes kindle. He shook his head, and seemed to deny something. Then he poured forth a flood of talk, and when he had finished Ringan spoke to me. "He says that the Tuscaroras are stirring. Word has come down from the hills to be ready for a great ride between the Moon of Stags and the Corngathering." "Is it the fighting in Canada?" I asked. Lawrence turned to me briskly. "You see the case, sir. There's trouble brewing in the hills, black trouble for Virginia, but we've some months' breathing space. For Nat Bacon's sake, I'm loath to see the war paint at James Town. The question is, are you willing to do your share?" "I'm willing enough," I said, "but what can I do? I'm not exactly a popular character in the Tidewater. If you want me to hammer sense into the planters, you could not get a worse man for the job. I have told Governor Nicholson my fears, and he is of my opinion, but his hands are tied by a penurious Council. If he cannot screw money for troops out of the Virginians, it's not likely that I could do much." I was greatly flattered, but a little perplexed. "I'm a law-abiding citizen," I said, "and I can have no hand in rebellions. I've no ambition to play Bacon's part." "So be it," I said, "I will do what I can." "God be praised," said Mr. Lawrence, "I have here certain secret papers which Will give you the names of the men we can trust. Messages will come to you, which I trust you to find the means of sending on. Mercer has our confidence, and will arrange with you certain matters of arms. He will also supply you with what money is needed. There are many in the Tidewater who would look askance at this business, so it must be done in desperate secrecy; but if there should be trouble I counsel you to play a bold hand with the Governor. They tell me that you and he are friendly, and, unless I mistake the man, he can see reason if he is wisely handled. If the worst comes to the worst, you can take Nicholson into your confidence." "How long have we to prepare?" I asked. "The summer months, according to my forecast. It may be shorter or longer, but I will know better when I get nearer the hills." "And what about the Carolina tribes?" I asked. "If we are to hold the western marches of Virginia, we cannot risk being caught on the flank." "That can be arranged," he said. "Our friends the Sioux are not over-fond of the Long House. If the Tuscaroras ride, I do not think they will ever reach the James." The afternoon was now ending, and we were given a meal of corn-cakes and roast deer's flesh. Then we took our leave, and Mr. Lawrence's last word to me was to send him any English books of a serious cast which came under my eye. This request he made with so much hesitation, but with so hungry a desire in his face, that I was moved to pity this ill-fated scholar, wandering in Indian lodges, and famished for lack of the society of his kind. "Good-bye to you, Andrew," cried Ringan. "You'll be getting news of me soon, and maybe see me in the flesh on the Tidewater. Remember the word I told you in the Saltmarket, for I never mention names when I take the road." "I am storm-stayed," I said humbly, "and I left my boat on the shore and came inland to look for a supper." "You shall get it," he said heartily. "Sit down, and my servants will bring you what you need." "But I am not fit to intrude, sir. A weary traveller is no guest for such a table." "Tush, man," he cried, "when did a Virginian think the worse of a man for his clothes? Sit down and say no more. You are heartily welcome." Then a voice said louder than the rest, "Dulcinea will sing to us. She promised this morning in the garden." At this there was a ripple of "Bravas," and presently I heard the tuning of a lute. The low twanging went on for a little, and suddenly I was seized with a presentiment. I set down my tankard, and waited with my heart in my mouth. Servants set on the table a massive silver dish, into which sundry bottles of wine and spirits were poured. A mass of cut fruit and sugar was added, and the whole was set alight, and leaped almost to the ceiling in a blue flame. Colonel Beverley, with a long ladle, filled the array of glasses on a salver, which the servants carried round to the guests. Large branching candelabra had meantime been placed on the table, and in a glow of light we stood to our feet and honoured the toast. At the mention of my name every eye turned towards me, and I felt, rather than saw, the disfavour of the looks. No doubt they resented a storekeeper's intrusion into well-bred company, and some were there who had publicly cursed me for a meddlesome upstart. But I was not looking their way, but at the girl who sat on my host's right hand, and in whose dark eyes I thought I saw a spark of recognition. She was clad in white satin, and in her hair and bosom spring flowers had been set. Her little hand played with the slim glass, and her eyes had all the happy freedom of childhood. But now she was a grown woman, with a woman's pride and knowledge of power. Her exquisite slimness and grace, amid the glow of silks and silver, gave her the air of a fairy-tale princess. There was a grave man in black sat next her, to whom she bent to speak. Then she looked towards me again, and smiled with that witching mockery which had pricked my temper in the Canongate Tolbooth. The Governor's voice recalled me from my dream. "How goes the Indian menace, Mr. Garvald?" he cried. "You must know," and he turned to the company, "that our friend combines commerce with high policy, and shares my apprehensions as to the safety of the dominion." I could not tell whether he was mocking at me or not. I think he was, for Francis Nicholson's moods were as mutable as the tides. In every word of his there lurked some sour irony. "A merchant's nerves are delicate things," he said, as he fingered his cravat. "I would have said 'like a woman's,' had I not seen this very day Miss Elspeth's horsemanship." And he bowed to her very neatly. Now I was never fond of being quizzed, and in that company I could not endure it. "We have a saying, sir," I said, "that the farmyard fowl does not fear the eagle. The men who look grave just now are not those who live snugly in coast manors, but the outland folk who have to keep their doors with their own hands." "I thank you, George, for a timely reminder," said my gentleman, and he turned away his head with a motion of sovereign contempt. "Come, come, sirs," Colonel Beverley cried, "remember the sacred law of hospitality. You are all my guests, and you have a lady here, whose bright eyes should be a balm for controversies." The Governor had sat with his lips closed and his eyes roving the table. He dearly loved a quarrel, and was minded to use me to bait those whom he liked little. "What is all this talk about gentility?" he said. "A man is as good as his brains and his right arm, and no better. I am of the creed of the Levellers, who would have a man stand stark before his Maker." He could not have spoken words better calculated to set the company against me. My host looked glum and disapproving, and all the silken gentlemen murmured. The Virginian cavalier had as pretty a notion of the worth of descent as any Highland land-louper. Indeed, to be honest, I would have controverted the Governor myself, for I have ever held that good blood is a mighty advantage to its possessor. Suddenly the grave man who sat by Miss Elspeth's side spoke up. By this time I had remembered that he was Doctor James Blair, the lately come commissary of the diocese of London, who represented all that Virginia had in the way of a bishop. He had a shrewd, kind face, like a Scots dominie, and a mouth that shut as tight as the Governor's. "Your tongue proclaims you my countryman, sir," he said. "Did I hear right that your name was Garvald?" "Of Auchencairn?" he asked, when I had assented. "Of Auchencairn, or what is left of it," I said. "Then, gentlemen," he said, addressing the company, "I can settle the dispute on the facts, without questioning his Excellency's dogma. Mr. Garvald is of as good blood as any in Scotland. And that," said he firmly, "means that in the matter of birth he can hold up his head in any company in any Christian land." I do not think this speech made any man there look on me with greater favour, but it enormously increased my own comfort. I have never felt such a glow of gratitude as then filled my heart to the staid cleric. That he was of near kin to Miss Elspeth made it tenfold sweeter. I forgot my old clothes and my uncouth looks; I forgot, too, my irritation with the brocaded gentleman. If her kin thought me worthy, I cared not a bodle for the rest of mankind. "What is this story, sir, of Indian dangers? You are new to the country, or you would know that it is the old cry of the landless and the lawless. Every out-at-elbows republican makes it a stick to beat His Majesty." "Are you a republican, Mr. Garvald?" she asked. "Now that I remember, I have seen you in Whiggamore company." "Why, no," I said. "I do not meddle with politics. I am a merchant, and am well content with any Government that will protect my trade and my person." A sudden perversity had taken me to show myself at my most prosaic and unromantic. I think it was the contrast with the glamour of those fine gentlemen. I had neither claim nor desire to be of their company, and to her I could make no pretence. I was determined not to be provoked, so I answered nothing. But Miss Elspeth opened her eyes and smiled sweetly upon the speaker. "La, Mr. Grey, I protest you are too severe. Busybody--well, it may be. I have found Mr. Garvald very busy in other folks' affairs. But I do assure you he is no house-keeper, I have seen him in desperate conflict with savage men, and even with His Majesty's redcoats. If trouble ever comes to Virginia, you will find him, I doubt not, a very bold moss-trooper." It was the, light, laughing tone I remembered well, but now it did not vex me. Nothing that she could say or do could break the spell that had fallen on my heart, "I pray it may be so," said Mr. Grey as he turned aside. By this time the Governor had come forward, and I saw that my presence was no longer desired. I wanted to get back to Shalah and solitude. The cold bed on the shore would be warmed for me by happy dreams. So I found my host, and thanked him for my entertainment. He gave me good-evening hastily, as if he were glad to be rid of me. I looked him square in the eyes. He was maybe an inch taller than me, a handsome fellow, with a flushed, petulant face and an overweening pride in his arched brows. "By all means let us understand each other," I said. "I have no wish to quarrel with you. Go your way and I will go mine, and there need be no trouble." "That is precisely the point," said he. "I do not choose that your way should take you again to the side of Miss Elspeth Blair. If it does, we shall quarrel." It was the height of flattery. At last I had found a fine gentleman who did me the honour to regard me with jealous eyes. I laughed loudly with delight. He turned and strolled back to the company. Still laughing, I passed from the house, lit my lantern, and plunged into the sombre woods. "Are you sure of all these?" I asked. "Sure as death," he said. "I'm not saying that they're all friends of yours, Mr. Garvald. Ye've trampled on a good wheen toes since you came to these parts. But they're all men to ride the ford with, if that should come which we ken of." "Can ye trust your men?" Mercer asked, and I replied that Faulkner was as staunch as cold steel, and that he had picked the others. "Well, let's see your accommodation," and the old fellow hopped to his feet, and was out of doors before I could get the lantern. I asked him a question which had long puzzled me, why the natural defence of a country should be kept so secret. "The Governor, at any rate," I said, "would approve, and we are not asking the burgesses for a single guinea." "There is blood in the West," he said, pointing like a prophet with his long arm, "There is blood in the hills which is flowing to the waters. At the Moon of Stags it will flow, and by the Moon of Wildfowl it will have stained the sea." "The _Manitou_ in the hills is calling," he said abruptly. "I wait a little, but not long. You too will follow, brother, to where the hawks wheel and the streams fall in vapour. There we shall find death or love, I know not which, but it will be a great finding. The gods have written it on my heart." Then he turned and strode away, and I did not dare to question him. There was that about him which stirred my prosaic soul into a wild poetry, till for the moment I saw with his eyes, and heard strange voices in the trees. Apart from these uncanny moods he was the most faithful helper in my task. Without him I must have been a mere child. I could not read the lore of the forest; I could not have found my way as he found it through pathless places. From him, too, I learned that we were not to make our preparations unwatched. "Who did it?" I asked, with a very sick stomach. He showed me a fir-cone he had picked up from the path, with the sharp end cut short and a thorn stuck in the middle. The thing disquieted me horribly, for we had heard no word yet of any movement from the West. And yet it seemed that our enemy's scouts had come far down into the Tidewater, and knew enough to single out for death a man we had enrolled for service. Shalah slipped off without a word, and I was left to continue my journey alone. I will not pretend that I liked the business. I saw an Indian in every patch of shadow, and looked pretty often to my pistols before I reached the security of Aird's house. After that we sent out warnings, and kept a close eye on the different lodges of the Algonquins. But nothing happened till weeks later, when the tragedy on the Rapidan fell on us like a thunderclap. The Doctor had a kindness for me, and was eager to talk of his doings. He was almost as great a moss-trooper as myself, and, with Elspeth for company, had visited near every settlement in the dominion. Education and Christian privileges were his care, and he deplored the backward state of the land. I remember that even then he was full of his scheme for a Virginian college to be established at Middle Plantation, and he wrote weekly letters to his English friends soliciting countenance and funds. Of the happy issue of these hopes, and the great college which now stands at Williamsburg, there is no need to remind this generation. But in that hour I thought little of education. The Doctor boomed away in his deep voice, and I gave him heedless answers. My eyes were ever wandering to the slim figure at my side. She wore a broad hat of straw, I remember, and her skirt and kirtle were of green, the fairies' colour. I think she was wearied with the sun, for she spoke little; but her eyes when they met mine were kind. That day I was not ashamed of my plain clothes or my homely face, for they suited well with the road. My great boots of untanned buckskin were red with dust, I was bronzed like an Indian, and the sun had taken the colour out of my old blue coat. But I smacked of travel and enterprise, which to an honest heart are dearer than brocade. Also I had a notion that my very homeliness revived in her the memories of our common motherland. I had nothing to say, having acquired the woodland habit of silence, and perhaps it was well. My clumsy tongue would have only broken the spell which the sunlit forests had woven around us. As we reached my house a cavalier rode up with a bow and a splendid sweep of his hat. 'Twas my acquaintance, Mr. Grey, come to greet the travellers. Elspeth gave me her hand at parting, and I had from the cavalier the finest glance of hate and jealousy which ever comforted the heart of a backward lover. A WORD AT THE HARBOUR-SIDE. It was a day of blistering heat. The river lay still as a lagoon, and the dusty red roads of the town blazed like a furnace. Before I had got to the church door I was in a great sweat, and stopped in the porch to fan myself. Inside 'twas cool enough, with a pleasant smell from the cedar pews, but there was such a press of a congregation that many were left standing. I had a good place just below the choir, where I saw the Governor's carved chair, with the Governor's self before it on his kneeling-cushion making pretence to pray. Round the choir rail and below the pulpit clustered many young exquisites, for this was a sovereign place from which to show off their finery. I could not get a sight of Elspeth. "I thought that Sawney wore bare knees on his dirty hills," said another. "Ho, ho, such finery!" cried another. "See how he struts like a gamecock." Then he did a wild thing. He flung the remnant at my face, so that the ragged end scratched my cheek. When I turned wrathfully I found a circle of grinning faces. It is queer how a wound, however slight, breaks a man's temper and upsets his calm resolves, I think that then and there I would have been involved in a mellay, had not a voice spoke behind me. "Mr. Garvald," it said, "will you give me the favour of your arm? We dine to-day with his Excellency." I turned to find Elspeth, and close behind her Doctor Blair and Governor Nicholson. None were left, however, and as I walked homewards I reflected very seriously that the baiting of Andrew Garvald could not endure for long. Pretty soon I must read these young gentry a lesson, little though I wanted to embroil myself in quarrels. I called them "young" in scorn, but few of them, I fancy, were younger than myself. He was sitting on the low wall smoking a pipe, and had by him a very singular gentleman. Never have I set eyes on a more decorous merchant. He was habited neatly and soberly in black, with a fine white cravat and starched shirt-bands. He wore a plain bob-wig below a huge flat-brimmed hat, and big blue spectacles shaded his eyes. His mouth was as precise as a lawyer's, and altogether he was a very whimsical, dry fellow to find at a Virginian port. The Receiver called me to him and asked after a matter which we had spoken of before. Then he made me known to his companion, who was a Mr. Fairweather, a merchant out of Boston. "The Lord hath given thee a pleasant dwelling, friend," said the stranger, snuffling a little through his nose. From his speech I knew that Mr. Fairweather was of the sect of the Quakers, a peaceable race that Virginia had long ill-treated. "The land is none so bad," said the Receiver, "but the people are a perverse generation. Their hearts are set on vanity, and puffed up with pride. I could wish, Mr. Fairweather, that my lines had fallen among your folk in the north, where, I am told, true religion yet flourisheth. Here we have nothing but the cold harangues of the Commissary, who seeketh after the knowledge that perisheth rather than the wisdom which is eternal life." "Patience, friend," said the stranger. "Thee is not alone in thy crosses. The Lord hath many people up Boston way, but they are sore beset by the tribulations of Zion. On land there is war and rumour of war, and on the sea the ships of the godly are snatched by every manner of ocean thief. Likewise we have dissension among ourselves, and a constant strife with the froward human heart. Still is Jerusalem troubled, and there is no peace within her bulwarks." "Do the pirates afflict you much in the north?" asked the Receiver with keen interest. The stranger turned his large spectacles upon him, and then looked blandly at me. Suddenly I had a notion that I had seen that turn of the neck and poise of the head before. "There be many strange ships," said the Receiver, "for this dominion is the goal for all the wandering merchantmen of the earth. What was the name of yours?" "A square-rigged schooner out of Bristol, painted green, with a white figurehead of a winged heathen god." "No such name is known to me," and the Receiver shook his head. "But I will remember it, and send you news." Presently the Receiver's sloop arrived to carry him to Point Comfort. He nodded to me, and took an affectionate farewell of the Boston man. I heard some good mouth-filling texts exchanged between them. Then, when we were alone, the Quaker turned to me. "Man, Andrew," he said, "it was a good thing that I had a Bible upbringing. I can manage the part fine, but I flounder among the 'thees' and 'thous.' I would be the better of a drink to wash my mouth of the accursed pronouns. Will you be alone to-night about the darkening? Then I'll call in to see you, for I've much to tell you." "How about that tobacco-shed?" he asked. "Is it well guarded?" Then he gave me the news. Lawrence had been far inland with the Monacans, and had brought back disquieting tales. The whole nation of the Cherokees along the line of the mountains was unquiet. Old family feuds had been patched up, and there was a coming and going of messengers from Chickamauga to the Potomac. "Well, we're ready for them," I said, and I told him the full story of our preparations. "The French?" I asked. "Great God, what a villain!" I cried, "But how do you know?" "Just this way. The Monacans put an arrow through the neck of a young brave, and they found this in his belt." "I cannot, nor could the Monacans. But look at the printed part." "The underlining may have been done long ago," I hazarded. "No, the ink is not a month old," he said, and I could do nothing but gape. "Well what's your plan?" I said at last. "What about Shalah?" I asked. "Can you spare him?" he replied; and I knew I could not. He nodded, and at that moment came the growling of dogs from the sheds. Instantly his face lost its heavy preoccupation, and under his Quaker's mask became the mischievous countenance of a boy. "That's your friends," he said. "Now for a merry meeting." "Hullo, old Square-Toes," he hiccupped; "what the devil are you?" "Friend, thee is shaky on thy legs," said Ringan, in a mild voice, "It were well for thee to be in bed." "Bed," cried the roysterer; "no bed for me this night! Where is that damnable Scots packman?" I rose very quietly, and lit another lamp. Then I shut the window, and closed the shutters. "Here I am," I said, "very much at your service, gentlemen." "The gentlemen of Virginia," he said loudly, "being resolved that the man Garvald is an offence to the dominion, have summoned the Free Companions to give him a lesson. If he will sign a bond to leave the country within a month, we are instructed to be merciful. If not, we have here tar and feathers and sundry other adornments, and to-morrow's morn will behold a pretty sight. Choose, you Scots swine." In the excess of his zeal, he smashed with the handle of his sword a clock I had but lately got from Glasgow. Ringan signed to me to keep my temper. He pretended to be in a great taking. "I am a man of peace," he cried, "but I cannot endure to see my friend outraged. Prithee, good folk, go away. See, I will give thee a guinea each to leave us alone." "I had thought thee a pirate," said the mild Quaker, "but thee tells me thee is a gentleman." "Hold your peace, Square-Toes," cried the leader, "and let's get to business." "But if ye be gentlefolk," pleaded Ringan, "ye will grant a fair field. I am no fighter, but I will stand by my friend." I, who had said nothing, now broke in. "It is a warm evening for sword-play, but if it is your humour, so be it." Nothing loath he engaged, and the others stood back expecting a high fiasco. They saw it. Ringan's sword played like lightning round the wretched youth, it twitched the blade from his grasp, and forced him back with a very white face to the door. In less than a minute, it seemed, he was there, and as he yielded so did the door, and he disappeared into the night. He did not return, so I knew that Ringan must have spoke a word to Faulkner. I STUMBLE INTO A GREAT FOLLY. I never breathed a word about the night's doings, nor for divers reasons did Ringan; but the story got about, and the young fools were the laughing-stock of the place. But there was a good deal of wrath, too, that a trader should have presumed so far, and I felt that things were gathering to a crisis with me. Unless I was to suffer endlessly these petty vexations, I must find a bold stroke to end them. It annoyed me that when so many grave issues were in the balance I should have these troubles, as if a man should be devoured by midges when waiting on a desperate combat. I saw his purpose well enough. He loved to make mischief, and knew that the sight of me among the Virginian gentry would infuriate my unfriends. But I took him at his word and elbowed my way into the enclosure. I stood gloomily by the rail at the edge of the ladies' awning, acutely conscious of my loneliness. Presently Mr. Grey, whose racing was over, came to us, and had a favour pinned in his coat by Elspeth's fingers. He was evidently high in her good graces, for he sat down by her and talked gleefully. I could not but admire his handsome eager face, and admit with a bitter grudge that you would look long to find a comelier pair. All this did not soothe my temper, and after an hour of it I was in desperate ill-humour with the world. I had just reached the conclusion that I had had as much as I wanted, when I heard Elspeth's voice calling me. I used my eyes, which are very sharp, and had no doubt of it. "That is a matter for the Master of the Course," said Mr. Grey. "Will you uphold your view before him, sir?" I said that I knew too little of the sport to be of much weight as a witness. To this he said nothing, but offered to wager with me on the result of the race, which was now all but ending. "Or no," said he, "I should not ask you that. A trader is careful of his guineas." Elspeth did not hear, being intent on other things, and I merely shrugged my shoulders, though my fingers itched for the gentleman's ears. In a little the racing ceased, and the ladies made ready to leave. Doctor Blair appeared, protesting that the place was not for his cloth, and gave Elspeth his arm to escort her to his coach. She cried a merry good-day to us, and reminded Mr. Grey that he had promised to sup with them on the morrow. When she had gone I spied a lace scarf which she had forgotten, and picked it up to restore it. This did not please the other. He snatched it from me, and when I proposed to follow, tripped me deftly, and sent me sprawling among the stools. As I picked myself up, I saw him running to overtake the Blairs. This time there was no discreet girl to turn the edge of my fury. All the gibes and annoyances of the past months rushed into my mind, and set my head throbbing. I was angry, but very cool with it all, for I saw that the matter had now gone too far for tolerance. Unless I were to be the butt of Virginia, I must assert my manhood. I nicked the dust from my coat, and walked quietly to where Mr. Grey was standing amid a knot of his friends, who talked of the races and their losses and gains. He saw me coming, and said something which made them form a staring alley, down which I strolled. He kept regarding me with bright, watchful eyes. "I have been very patient, sir," I said, "but there is a limit to what a man may endure from a mannerless fool." And I gave him a hearty slap on the face. Instantly there was a dead silence, in which the sound seemed to linger intolerably. He had grown very white, and his eyes were wicked. "I am obliged to you, sir," he said. "You are some kind of ragged gentleman, so no doubt you will give me satisfaction." "When and where you please," I said sedately. "Will you name your friend now?" he asked. "These matters demand quick settlement." To whom was I to turn? I knew nobody of the better class who would act for me. For a moment I thought of Colonel Beverley, but his age and dignity were too great to bring him into this squabble of youth. Then a notion struck me. "If you will send your friend to my man, John Faulkner, he will make all arrangements. He is to be found any day in my shop." With this defiance, I walked nonchalantly out of the dumbfoundered group, found my horse, and rode homewards. My coolness did not last many minutes, and long ere I had reached James Town I was a prey to dark forebodings. Here was I, a peaceful trader, who desired nothing more than to live in amity with all men, involved in a bloody strife. I had sought it, and yet it had been none of my seeking. I had graver thoughts to occupy my mind than the punctilios of idle youth, and yet I did not see how the thing could have been shunned. It was my hard fate to come athwart an obstacle which could not be circumvented, but must be broken. No friend could help me in the business, not Ringan, nor the Governor, nor Colonel Beverley. It was my own affair, which I must go through with alone. I felt as solitary as a pelican. Remember, I was not fighting for any whimsy about honour, nor even for the love of Elspeth. I had openly provoked Grey because the hostility of the young gentry had become an intolerable nuisance in my daily life. So, with such pedestrian reasons in my mind, I could have none of the heady enthusiasm of passion. I wanted him and his kind cleared out of my way, like a noisome insect, but I had no flaming hatred of him to give me heart. The consequence was that I became a prey to dismal fear. That bravery which knows no ebb was never mine. Indeed, I am by nature timorous, for my fancy is quick, and I see with horrid clearness the incidents of a peril. Only a shamefaced conscience holds me true, so that, though I have often done temerarious deeds, it has always been because I feared shame more than the risk, and my knees have ever been knocking together and my lips dry with fright. I tried to think soberly over the future, but could get no conclusion save that I would not do murder. My conscience was pretty bad about the whole business. I was engaged in the kind of silly conflict which I had been bred to abhor; I had none of the common gentleman's notions about honour; and I knew that if by any miracle I slew Grey I should be guilty in my own eyes of murder. I would not risk the guilt. If God had determined that I should perish before my time, then perish I must. This despair brought me a miserable kind of comfort. When I reached home I went straight to Faulkner. He opened his eyes very wide. "Who is it, then?" he asked. This made him whistle low, "He's a fine swordsman," he said. "I never heard there was any better in the dominion. You'll be to fight with swords?" I thought hard for a minute. I was the challenged, and so had the choice of weapons. "No," said I, "you are to appoint pistols, for it is my right." At this Faulkner slowly grinned. "It's a new weapon for these affairs. What if they'll not accept? But it's no business of mine, and I'll remember your wishes." And the strange fellow turned again to his accounts. I spent the evening looking over my papers and making various appointments in case I did not survive the morrow. Happily the work I had undertaken for Lawrence was all but finished, and of my ordinary business Faulkner knew as much as myself. I wrote a letter to Uncle Andrew, telling him frankly the situation, that he might know how little choice I had. It was a cold-blooded job making these dispositions, and I hope never to have the like to do again. Presently I heard voices outside, and Faulkner came to the door with Mr. George Mason, the younger, of Thornby, who passed for the chief buck in Virginia. He gave me a cold bow. "I have settled everything with this gentleman, but I would beg of you, sir, to reconsider your choice of arms. My friend will doubtless be ready enough to humour you, but you have picked a barbarous weapon for Christian use." "It's my only means of defence," I said. "Then you stick to your decision?" "Assuredly," said I, and, with a shrug of the shoulders, he departed. My tremors had all gone by now, and I was in a mood of cold, thoughtless despair. The earth had never looked so bright as we rode through the green aisles all filled with the happy song of birds. Often on such a morning I had started on a journey, with my heart grateful for the goodness of the world. Could I but keep the road, I should come in time to the swampy bank of the York; and then would follow the chestnut forest: and the wide marshes towards the Rappahannock; and everywhere I should meet friendly human faces, and then at night I should eat a hunter's meal below the stars. But that was all past, and I was moving towards death in a foolish strife in which I had no heart, and where I could find no honour, I think I laughed aloud at my exceeding folly. I deadened my heart to memories, took my courage in both hands, and forced myself to the ordeal. For it is an ordeal to face powder if you have not a dreg of passion in you, and are resolved to make no return. I am left-handed, and so, in fronting my opponent, I exposed my heart. If Grey were the marksman I thought him, now was his chance for revenge. Then I looked away, for the signal mattered nothing to me. I suddenly caught Grey's eyes, and something whistled past my ear, cutting the lobe and shearing off a lock of hair. I did not heed it. What filled my mind was the sight of my enemy, very white and drawn in the face, holding a smoking pistol and staring at me. I emptied my pistol among the tree-tops. "Mr. Grey," I cried, "I would not have you think that I cannot shoot." I pointed to it with my right hand, flung forward my pistol, and fired. It rolled over as dead as stone, and Faulkner walked to pick it up. He put back my pistols in the box, and we turned to seek the horses Then Grey came up to me. His mouth was hard-set, but the lines were not of pride. I saw that he too had been desperately afraid, and I rejoiced that others beside me had been at breaking-point. "Our quarrel is at an end, sir?" he said, and his voice was hesitating. "Why, yes," I said. "It was never my seeking, though I gave the offence." "I have behaved like a cub, sir," and he spoke loud, so that all could hear. "You have taught me a lesson in gentility. Will you give me your hand?" I could find no words, and dumbly held out my right hand. I had been tried too hard, and was all but proving my bravery by weeping like a bairn. My days were so busy that I had little leisure for brooding, but at odd moments I would fall into a deep melancholy. She had lived so constantly in my thoughts that without her no project charmed me. What mattered wealth or fame, I thought, if she did not approve? What availed my striving, if she were not to share in the reward? I was in this mood when I was bidden by Doctor Blair to sup at his house. I asked her bluntly wherein I had offended. "You are never out of mine," I said dismally. At this she laughed, something of the old elfin laughter which I had heard on the wet moors. "A compliment!" she cried, "To be mixed up eternally with the weights of tobacco and the prices of Flemish lace. You are growing a very pretty courtier, sir." She stopped in an alley of roses and looked me in the face. In the dusk I could not see her eyes. "Fine words," she said. "Yet I hear that you have been wrangling over me with Mr. Charles Grey, and exchanging pistol shots. Is that your reverence?" In a sentence I told her the truth. "They forced my back to the wall," I said, "and there was no other way. I have never uttered your name to a living soul." Was it my fancy that when she spoke again there was a faint accent of disappointment? "You are an uncomfortable being, Mr. Garvald. It seems you are predestined to keep Virginia from sloth. For myself I am for the roses and the old quiet ways." "I pardon you," she said, "and for token I will give you a rose. It is red, for that is your turbulent colour. The white flower of peace shall be mine." I took the gift, and laid it in my bosom. "Be it known, gentlemen, and you, fair ladies," he cried, "that to-day is a more auspicious occasion than any Royal festival or Christian holy day. To-day is Dulcinea's birthday. I summon you to drink to the flower of the West, the brightest gem in Virginia's coronal." At that we were all on our feet. The gentlemen snapped the stems of their glasses to honour the sacredness of the toast, and there was such a shouting and pledging as might well have turned a girl's head. Elspeth sat still and smiling. The mockery had gone out of her eyes, and I thought they were wet. No Queen had ever a nobler salutation, and my heart warmed to the generous company. Whatever its faults, it did due homage to beauty and youth. Governor Francis was again on his feet. At this there was a great crying out and some laughter, which died away when it appeared that the Governor spoke in all seriousness. Still the company sat silent. 'Twas as if the shadow of a sterner life had come over their young gaiety. Elspeth did not look at me, but sat with cast-down eyes, plucking feverishly at a rose. The Governor laughed out loud. "Brave hearts!" he cried. "Will you travel together?" I looked at Grey. "That can hardly be," he said. "Well, we must spin for it," said Nicholson, taking a guinea from his pocket. "Royals for Mr. Garvald, quarters for Mr. Grey," he cried as he spun it. It fell Royals. We had both been standing, and Grey now bowed to me and sat down. His face was very pale and his lips tightly shut. The Governor gave a last toast "Let us drink," he called, "to Dulcinea's champion and the fortunes of his journey." At that there was such applause you might have thought me the best-liked man in the dominion. I looked at Elspeth, but she averted her eyes. I got to my house at the darkening, and found Ringan waiting for me. This time he had not sought a disguise, but he kept his fiery head covered with a broad hat, and the collar of his seaman's coat enveloped his lower face. To a passer-by in the dusk he must have seemed an ordinary ship's captain stretching his legs on land. He asked for food and drink, and I observed that his manner was very grave. "Are things in train, Andrew?" he asked. I told him "to the last stirrup buckle." "It's as well," said he, "for the trouble has begun." A week ago tragedy had come like a thunderbolt. At night the stockade was broke, and the family woke from sleep to hear the war-whoop and see by the light of their blazing byres a band of painted savages. It seems that no resistance was possible, and they were butchered like sheep. The babes were pierced with stakes, the grown folk were scalped and tortured, and by sunrise in that peaceful clearing there was nothing but blood-stained ashes. Word had come down the Rappahannock. Ringan said he had heard it in Accomac, and had sailed to Sabine to make sure. Men had ridden out from Stafford county, and found no more than a child's toy and some bloody garments. "Who did it?" I asked, with fury rising in my heart. "We're on the way to get news," I said, and I told him of my wager that evening. I said I thought he would. I said I would try, but I was far from certain. It was hard to forecast the mind of Governor Francis. "Well, Lawrence will come whether or no. You can sound the man, and if he's dour let the matter be. Lawrence is now on the Roanoke, and his plan is to send out the word to-morrow and gather in the posts. He'll come to Frew's place on the South Fork River, which is about the middle of the frontier line. To-day is Monday, to-morrow the word will go out, by Friday the men will be ready, and Lawrence will be in Virginia. The sooner you're off the better, Andrew. What do you say to Wednesday?" "That day will suit me fine," I said; "but what about my company?" "The fewer the better. Who were you thinking of?" "Yes," I said. "There's a gentleman of the Tidewater, Mr. Charles Grey, that I've bidden to the venture." Ringan whistled. "Are you sure that's wise? There'll be little use for braw clothes and fine manners in the hills." "All the same there'll be a use for Mr. Grey. When will you join us?" "I've a bit of business to do hereaways, but I'll catch you up. Look for me at Aird's store on Thursday morning." I was at the Governor's house next day before he had breakfasted. He greeted me laughingly. "Has the champion come to cry forfeit?" he asked. "It is a long, sore road to the hills, Mr. Garvald." "I've come to make confession," I said, and I plunged into my story of the work of the last months. He heard me with lowering brows, "Who the devil made you Governor of this dominion, sir? You have been levying troops without His Majesty's permission. Your offence is no less than high treason. I've a pretty mind to send you to the guard-house." "I implore you to hear me patiently," I cried. Then I told him what I had learned in the Carolinas and at the outland farms. "You yourself told me it was hopeless to look for a guinea from the Council. I was but carrying out your desires. Can you blame me if I've toiled for the public weal and neglected my own fortunes?" He was scarcely appeased. "You're a damnable kind of busybody, sir, the breed of fellow that plunges states into revolutions. Why, in Heaven's name, did you not consult me?" He said nothing, but knit his brows. My words were too much in tune with his declared opinions for him to gainsay them. "It comes to this, then," he said at length. "You have raised a body of men who are waiting marching orders. What next, Mr. Garvald?" "The next thing is to march. After what befell on the Rapidan, we cannot sit still." He started. "I have heard nothing of it." Then I told him the horrid tale. He got to his feet and strode up and down the room, with his dark face working. "God's mercy, what a calamity! I knew the folk. They came here with letters from his Grace of Shrewsbury. Are you certain your news is true?" "Alas! there is no doubt. Stafford county is in a ferment, and the next post from the York will bring you word." "Then, by God, it is for me to move. No Council or Assembly will dare gainsay me. I can order a levy by virtue of His Majesty's commission." "I have come to pray you to hold your hand till I send you better intelligence," I said. His brows knit again. "But this is too much. Am I to refrain from doing my duty till I get your gracious consent, sir?" "Nay, nay," I cried. "Do not misunderstand me. This thing is far graver than you think, sir. If you send your levies to the Rapidan, you leave the Tidewater defenceless, and while you are hunting a Cherokee party in the north, the enemy will be hammering at your gates." "What enemy?" he asked. "I do not know, and that is what I go to find out." Then I told him all I had gathered about the unknown force in the hills, and the apparent strategy of a campaign which was beyond an Indian's wits. "There is a white man at the back of it," I said, "a white man who talks in Bible words and is mad for devastation." His face had grown very solemn. He went to a bureau, unlocked it, and took from a drawer a bit of paper, which he tossed to me. "I had that a week past to-morrow. My servant got it from an Indian in the woods." "It looks not unlike it," he said grimly. "Now let's hear what you propose." "I can have my men at their posts by the week end. We will string them out along the frontier, and hold especially the river valleys. If invasion comes, then at any rate the Tidewater will get early news of it. Meantime I and my friends, looking for Studd's powder-horn, with a mind to confirm your birthday gift to Miss Elspeth Blair, will push on to the hills and learn what is to be learned there." "You will never come back," he said tartly. "An Indian stake and a bloody head will be the end of all of you." "Who will be in command there when you are gallivanting in the hills?" he asked. He pulled out a chart of Virginia, and I marked for him our posts, and indicated the line of my own journey. "Have you ever been in the wars, Mr. Garvald?" he asked. "Well, you have a very pretty natural gift for the military art. Your men will screen the frontier line, and behind that screen I will get our militia force in order, while meantime you are reconnoitring the enemy. It's a very fair piece of strategy. But I am mortally certain you yourself will never come back." "It is a gamble," I said, "but the stakes are noble, and I have a private pride in its success." We spoke of many things, and I gave him a full account of the composition and strength of our levies. When I left he paid me a compliment, which, coming from so sardonic a soul, gave me peculiar comfort. "I have seen something of men and cities, sir," he said, "and I know well the foibles and the strength of my countrymen; but I have never met your equal for cold persistence. You are a trader, and have turned war into a trading venture. I do believe that when you are at your last gasp you will be found calmly casting up your accounts with life. And I think you will find a balance on the right side. God speed you, Mr. Garvald. I love your sober folly." "We have been enemies," I said, "and now, though there may be no friendship, at any rate there is a truce to strife. Last night I begged of you to come with me on this matter of the Governor's wager, but 'twas not the wager I thought of." Then I told him the whole tale. "The stake is the safety of this land, of which you are a notable citizen. I ask you, because I know you are a brave man. Will you leave your comfort and your games for a season, and play for higher stakes at a more desperate hazard?" I told him everything, even down to my talk with the Governor. I did not lessen the risks and hardships, and I gave him to know that his companions would be rough folk, whom he may well have despised. He heard me out with his eyes fixed on the ground. Then suddenly he raised a shining face. "You are a generous enemy, Mr. Garvald. I behaved to you like a peevish child, and you retaliate by offering me the bravest venture that man ever conceived. I am with you with all my heart. By God, sir, I am sick of my cushioned life. This is what I have been longing for in my soul since I was born " THE FORD OF THE RAPIDAN. 'Twas the same high summer weather through which I had ridden a fortnight ago with a dull heart on my way to the duel. Now Grey rode by my side, and my spirits were as light as a bird's. I had forgotten the grim part of the enterprise, the fate that might await me, the horrors we should certainly witness. I thought only of the joys of movement into new lands with tried companions. These last months I had borne a pretty heavy weight of cares. Now that was past. My dispositions completed, the thing was in the hands of God, and I was free to go my own road. Mocking-birds and thrushes cried in the thickets, squirrels flirted across the path, and now and then a shy deer fled before us. There come moments to every man when he is thankful to be alive, and every breath drawn is a delight; so at that hour I praised my Maker for His good earth, and for sparing me to rejoice in it. "Yet this inconstancy is such As thou too shalt adore: I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more." And that, I think, is the truth. But at the time I was feeling pretty youthful, too, though my dour face and hard voice were a bad clue to my sentiments. I asked him what he said. "Just that he was the happy man to have kind hearts to weep for him. A fine thing for a landless, childless fellow like me to say! But it's gospel truth, Andrew. I told him that his bairns would be great folks some day, and that their proudest boast would be that their father had ridden on this errand. Oh, and all the rest of the easy consolations. If it had been me, I would not have been muckle cheered. It's well I never married, for I would not have had the courage to leave my fireside." Then suddenly our mood changed. Nothing that we could do could help the poor souls whose bones lay among the ashes. But we could bring their murderers to book, and save others from a like fate. We moved away from the shattered place to the ford in the river where the road ran north. There we looked back. A kind of fury seized me as I saw that cruel defacement. In a few hours we ourselves should be beyond the pale, among those human wolves who were so much more relentless than any beasts of the field. As I looked round our little company, I noted how deep the thing had bitten into our souls. Ringan's eyes still danced with that unholy blue light. Grey was very pale, and his jaw was set grimly. Bertrand had ceased from sobbing, and his face had the far-away wildness of the fanatic, such a look as his forbears may have worn at the news of St. Bartholomew. The big man Donaldson looked puzzled and sombre. Only Shalah stood impassive and aloof, with no trace of feeling on the bronze of his countenance. "How will we find them?" quoth Ringan. "To sift a score of murderers out of a murderous nation will be like searching the ocean for a wave." "All in good time," I said. "Retribution must wait till we have finished our task. Can you find the Meebaw men again?" "Yea," said Shalah, "though they took wings and flew over the seas I should find them." Here we halted in a thick clump of cedars, while he and Ringan went forward to spy out the land. In that green darkness, save by folk travelling along the ridge, we could not be detected, and I knew enough of Indian ways to believe that any large party would keep the stream sides. We lit a fire without fear, for the smoke was hid in the cedar branches, and some of us roasted corn-cakes. Our food in the saddle-bags would not last long, and I foresaw a ticklish business when it came to hunting for the pot. A gunshot in these narrow glens would reverberate like a cannon. We dozed peacefully in the green shade, and smoked our pipes, waiting for the return of our envoys. They came towards sundown, slipping among us like ghosts. Ringan signalled to me, and we put our coats over the horses' heads to prevent their whinnying. He stamped out the last few ashes of the fire, and Shalah motioned us all flat on our faces. Then I crawled to the edge of the ridge, and looked down through a tangle of vines on the little valley. When the last man had gone we crawled back to the clump, now gloomy with the dusk of evening. I saw that Ringan was very weary, but Shalah, after stretching his long limbs, seemed fresh as ever. "Will you come with me, brother?" he said. "We must warn the Rappahannock." "Who are they?" I asked. "Cherokees. More follow them. The assault is dearly by the line of the Rappahannock. If we hasten we may yet be in time." At last we struck a little stream, and followed its course between high banks of pine. Suddenly Shalah's movements became stealthy. Crouching in every patch of shade, and crossing open spaces on our bellies, we turned from the stream, surmounted a knoll, and came down on a wooded valley. Shalah looked westwards, held up his hand, and stood poised for a minute like a graven image. Then he grunted and spoke. "We are safe," he said. "They are behind us, and are camped for the night," How he knew that I cannot tell; but I seemed to catch on the breeze a whiff of the rancid odour of Indian war-paint. For another mile we continued our precautions, and then moved more freely in the open. Now that the chief peril was past, my fatigue came back to me worse than ever. I think I was growing leg-weary, as I had seen happen to horses, and from that ailment there is no relief. My head buzzed like a beehive, and when the moon set I had no power to pick my steps, and stumbled and sprawled in the darkness. I had to ask Shalah for help, though it was a sore hurt to my pride, and, leaning on his arm, I made the rest of the journey. I found myself splashing in a strong river. We crossed by a ford, so we had no need to swim, which was well for me, for I must have drowned. The chill of the water revived me somewhat, and I had the strength to climb the other bank. And then suddenly before me I saw a light, and a challenge rang out into the night. The voice was a white man's, and brought me to my bearings. Weak as I was, I had the fierce satisfaction that our errand had not been idle. I replied with the password, and a big fellow strode out from a stockade. "Mr. Garvald!" he said, staring. "What brings you here? Where are the rest of you?" He looked at Shalah and then at me, and finally took my arm and drew me inside. "The Cherokees are on us," I said, and I told them of the army we had followed. "How many?" they asked. "What scalps?" I asked, dumbfoundered. Somehow the news gave me intense joy. I thought nothing of the barbarity of it, or that white men should demean themselves to the Indian level. I remembered only the meadow by the Rapidan, and the little lonely water-wheel. Our vow was needless, for others had done our work. The man called Simpson got up, saddled his beast, and waited my bidding. "This is the word to send," said I. "Say that the Cherokees are attacking by the line of the Rappahannock. Say that I am going into the hills to find if my fears are justified. Never mind what that means. Just pass on the words. They will understand them at James Town. So much for the Governor. Now I want word sent to Frew's homestead on the South Fork. Who is to carry it?" "Just that we are attacked," I said. I recognized old Lawrence's hand in this. It was just the kind of device that he would contrive. I hoped it would not miscarry, for I would have preferred a messenger; but after all the Border line was his concern. Then I spoke aside to Shalah. In his view the Cherokees would not attack at dawn. They were more likely to wait till their supports overtook them, and then, to make a dash for the Rappahannock farms. Plunder was more in the line of these gentry than honest fighting. I spoke to the leader of the post, and he was for falling upon them in the narrows of the Rapidan. Their victory over the Meebaws had fired the blood of the Borderers, and made them contemptuous of the enemy. Still, in such a predicament, when we had to hold a frontier with a handful, the boldest course was likely to be the safest. I could only pray that Nicholson's levies would turn up in time to protect the valley. "What parson?" I asked. "The man they call Doctor Blair." "Great God!" I cried, "what about him?" "He was in Stafford county when I left, hunting for schoolmasters. Ay, and he had a girl with him." I sat upright with a start. "Where is he now?" I asked. "I saw him last at Middleton's Ford. I think he was going down the river. I warned him this was no place for parsons and women, but he just laughed at me. It's time he was back in the Tidewater." So long as they were homeward-bound I did not care; but it gave me a queer fluttering of the heart to think that Elspeth but yesterday should have been near this perilous Border. I soon fell asleep, for I was mighty tired, but I dreamed evilly. I seemed to see Doctor Blair hunted by Cherokees, with his coat-tails flying and his wig blown away, and what vexed me was that I could not find Elspeth anywhere in the landscape. OUR ADVENTURE RECEIVES A RECRUIT. Presently I myself found a clue. I picked up from a clump of wild onions a thread of wool. This was my own trade, where I knew more than Shalah. I tested the thing in my mouth and between my fingers. "This is London stuff," I said. "The man who had this on his person bought his clothes from the Bristol merchants, and paid sweetly for them. He was no Rappahannock farmer." Shalah trailed like a bloodhound, following the hoof-marks out of the valley meadow to a ridge of sparse cedars where they showed clear on the bare earth, and then to a thicker covert where they were hidden among strong grasses. Suddenly he caught my shoulder, and pulled me to the ground. We crawled through a briery place to where a gap opened to the vale on our left. A party of Indians were passing. They were young men with the fantastic markings of young braves. All were mounted on the little Indian horses. They moved at leisure, scanning the distance with hands shading eyes. "I saw no fresh scalps," I said, "so they seem to have missed our man on the horse." I was proud of my simple logic. All that Shalah replied was, "The rider was a woman.' "How, in Heaven's name, can you tell?" I asked. He held out a long hair. "I found it among the vines at the level of a rider's head." There was no help for it, and as swiftly as possible and with all circumspection Shalah trailed the horse's prints. They kept the high ground, in very broken country, which was the reason why the rider had escaped the Indians' notice. Clearly they were moving slowly, and from the frequent halts and turnings I gathered that the rider had not much purpose about the road. Then we came on a glade where the rider had dismounted and let the beast go. The horse had wandered down the ridge to the right in search of grazing, and the prints of a woman's foot led to the summit of a knoll which raised itself above the trees. There, knee-deep in a patch of fern, I saw what I had never dreamed of, what sent the blood from my heart in a cold shudder of fear: a girl, pale and dishevelled, was trying to part some vines. A twig crackled and she looked round, showing a face drawn with weariness and eyes large with terror. At the sight of Shalah she made to scream, but checked herself. It was well, for a scream would have brought all of us to instant death. As we lay there, scarce daring to breathe, I saw that we were in deadly peril. The host was so great that some marched on the very edge of our thicket. I could see through the leaves the brown Skins not a yard away. The slightest noise would bring the sharp Indian eyes peering into the gloom, and we must be betrayed. Those were nightmare minutes. The girl was very quiet, in a stupor of fatigue and fear. Shalah was a graven image, and I was too tensely strung to have any of the itches and fervours which used to vex me in hunting the deer when stillness was needful. Through the fretted greenery, I saw the dim shadows of men passing swiftly. The thought of the horse worried me. If the confounded beast grazed peaceably down the other side of the hill, all might be well. So long as he was out of sight any movement he made would be set down by the Indians to some forest beast, for animals' noises are all alike in a wood. But if he returned to us, there would be the devil to pay, for at a glimpse of him our thicket would be alive with the enemy. He was on his feet and walking freely. He had found the horse, too, and had it by the bridle. "The danger is past," he said gravely. "Let us go back to the glade and rest." I helped Elspeth to her feet, and on my arm she clambered to the grassy place in the woods. I searched my pockets, and gave her the remnants of the bread and bacon I had brought from the Rappahannock post. Better still, I remembered that I had in my breast a little flask of eau-de-vie, and a mouthful of it revived her greatly. She put her hands to her head, and began to tidy her dishevelled hair, which is a sure sign in a woman that she is recovering her composure. "What brought you here?" I asked gently. She had forgotten that I was in her black books, and that in her letter she forbade my journey. Indeed, she looked at me as a child in a pickle may look at an upbraiding parent. "But how did you get here?" I asked, still hopelessly puzzled. I comforted her as best I could, telling her that her troubles were over now, and that I should look after her. "You might have met with us in the woods last night," I said, "so you see you were not far from friends." But the truth was that her troubles were only beginning, and I was wretchedly anxious. My impulse was to try to get her back to the Rappahannock; but, on putting this to Shalah, he shook his head. "It is too late," he said. "If you seek certain death, go towards the Rappahannock. She must come with us to the mountains. The only safety is in the hill-tops." This seemed a mad saying. To be safe from Indians we were to go into the heart of Indian country. But Shalah expounded it. The tribes, he said, dwelt only in the lower glens of the range, and never ventured to the summits, believing them to be holy land where a great _manitou_ dwelt. The Cherokees especially shunned the peaks. If we could find a way clear to the top we might stay there in some security, till we learned the issue of the war, and could get word to our friends. "Moreover," he said, "we have yet to penetrate the secret of the hills. That was the object of our quest, brother." Besides--and this was the best reason--there was no other way. We had gone too far to turn back, and, as our proverb says, "It is idle to swallow the cow and choke on the tail." I put it all to Elspeth. She looked very scared. "But my uncle will go mad if he does not find me." "It will be worse for him if he is never to find you again. Shalah says it would be as easy to get you back over the Rappahannock as for a child to cross a winter torrent. I don't say it's pleasant either way, but there's a good hope of safety in the hills, and there's none anywhere else." She sat for a little with her eyes downcast. "I am in your hands," she said at last, "Oh, the foolish girl I have been! I will be a drag and a danger to you all." Then I took her hand. "Elspeth," I said, "it's me will be the proud man if I can save you. I would rather be the salvation of you than the King of the Tidewater. And so says Shalah, and so will say all of us." All that afternoon we stole from covert to covert. It was hot and oppressive in the dense woods, where the breeze could not penetrate. Shalah's eagle eyes searched every open space before we crossed, but we saw nothing to alarm us. In time we came to the place where we had left our party, and it was easy enough to pick up their road. They had travelled slowly, keeping to the thickest trees, and they had taken no pains to cover their tracks, for they had argued that if trouble came it would come from the front, and that it was little likely that any Indian would be returning thus soon and could take up their back trail. The sight of the girl held them staring. Grey grew pale and then flushed scarlet. He came forward and asked me abruptly what it meant. When I told him he bit his lips. I nodded to Shalah. "Tell him," I said, and Shalah spoke with him. He took long to convince, but at, the end he said no more, and went to speak to Elspeth. I could see that she lightened his troubled mind a little, for, having accepted her fate, she was resolute to make the best of it, I even heard her laugh. Next morning we came into Clearwater Glen. This was an occasion when Ringan showed at his best. He had lost his awe of Elspeth, and devoted himself to making the road easy for her. Grey, who would fain have done the same, was no match for the seafarer, and had much ado to keep going himself. Ringan's cheery face was better than medicine. His eyes never lost their dancing light, and he was ready ever with some quip or whimsy to tide over the worst troubles. We kept very still, but now and again Elspeth's laugh rang out at his fooling, and it did my heart good to hear it. After midday the glen seemed to grow darker, and I saw that the blue sky, which I had thought changeless, was becoming overcast. As I looked upwards I saw the high ridge blotted out and a white mist creeping down. I had noticed for some time that Shalah was growing uneasy. He would halt us often, while he went a little way on, and now he turned with so grim a look that we stopped without bidding. He slipped into the undergrowth, while we waited in that dark, lonesome place. Even Ringan was sober now. Elspeth asked in a low voice what was wrong, and I told her that the Indian was uncertain of the best road. "Best road!" she laughed. "Then pray show me what you call the worst." Ringan grinned at me ruefully. "Where do you wish yourself at this moment, Andrew?" "On the top of this damned mountain," I grunted. "Not for me," he said. "Give me the Dry Tortugas, on a moonlight night when the breaming fires burn along the shore, and the lads are singing 'Spanish Ladies.' Or, better still, the little isle of St. John the Baptist, with the fine yellow sands for careening, and Mother Daria brewing bobadillo and the trades blowing fresh in the tops of the palms. This land is a gloomy sort of business. Give me the bright, changeful sea." Ringan's face changed. "You are right, my lady. No Tortugas or Spanish isles for Ninian Campbell. Give him the steeps of Glenorchy on an October morn when the deer have begun to bell. My sorrow, but we are far enough from our desires--all but Andrew, who is a prosaic soul. And here comes Shalah with ugly news!" "The men?" I gasped. "Cherokees?" "Nay," he said, "not Cherokees. I think they are those you seek from beyond the mountains." It was an Indian arrow. We would have reined up if Shalah had not cried on us to keep on. I do not think the arrow was meant to strike us. 'Twas a warning, a grim jest of the savages in the wood. Still Shalah cried us on. I fell back to the rear, for if we were to escape I thought there might be need of fighting there. I felt in my belt for my loaded pistols. "On, on," I cried, for we were past the need for silence, and when I looked again, the kindly fog had swallowed up the van of the party. "Will they follow?" I asked Shalah. "I do not think so. They are not hill-men, and fear the high places where the gods smoke. Further-more, there is no need." "We have escaped, then?" I asked, with a great relief in my voice. "Say rather we have been shepherded by them into a fold. They will find us when they desire us." It was a perturbing thought, but at any rate we were safe for the moment, and I resolved to say nothing to alarm the others. We overtook them presently, and Shalah became our guide. Not that more guiding was needed than Ringan or I could have given, for the lift of the ground gave us our direction, and there was the sound of a falling stream. To an upland-bred man mist is little of a hindrance, unless on a featureless moor. Ever as we jogged upward the air grew colder. Rain was blowing in our teeth, and the ferny grass and juniper clumps dripped with wet. Almost it might have been the Pentlands or the high mosses between Douglas Water and Clyde. To us coming fresh from the torrid plains it was bitter weather, and I feared for Elspeth, who was thinly clad for the hill-tops. Ringan seemed to feel the cold the worst of us, for he had spent his days in the hot seas of the south. He put his horse-blanket over his shoulders, and cut a comical figure with his red face peeping from its folds. "Lord," he would cry, "I wish I was in the Dry Tortugas or snug in the beach-house at the Isle o' Pines. This minds me painfully of my young days, when I ran in a ragged kilt in the cold heather of Cruachan. I must be getting an old man, Andrew, for I never thought the hills could freeze my blood." Below us lay a swimming hollow of white mist, hiding I knew not what strange country. "Studd had a poor notion of a cairn," he said, as he kicked them down. There was nothing beneath but bare soil. But the hunter had spoken the truth. A little digging in the earth revealed the green metal of an old powder-flask with a wooden stopper. I forced it open, and shook from its inside a twist of very dirty paper. There were some rude scratchings on it with charcoal, which I read with difficulty. Somehow in that bleak place this scrap of a human message wonderfully uplifted our hearts. Before we had thought only of our danger and cares, but now we had a vision of the reward. Down in the mists lay a new world. Studd had seen it, and we should see it; and some day the Virginian people would drive a road through Clearwater Gap and enter into possession. It is a subtle joy that which fills the heart of the pioneer, and mighty unselfish too. He does not think of payment, for the finding is payment enough. He does not even seek praise, for it is the unborn generations that will call him blessed. He is content, like Moses, to leave his bones in the wilderness if his people may pass over Jordan. We ran down the hill, and came to the encampment at the darkening. Ringan, who had retained the flask, presented it to Elspeth with a bow. "There, mistress," he says, "there's the key of your new estate." THE STOCKADE AMONG THE PINES. Our plan was to make this stockade the centre for exploring the hills and ascertaining the strength and purposes of the Indian army. We hoped, and so did Shalah, that our enemies would have no leisure to follow us to the high ridges; that what risk there was would be run by the men on their spying journeys; but that the stockade would be reasonably safe. It was my intention, as soon as I had sufficient news, to send word to Lawrence, and we thought that presently the Rappahannock forces would have driven the Cherokees southward, and the way would be open to get Elspeth back to the Tidewater. "Athwart the moor, adown the hill, Across the world away! The path is long for happy hearts That sing to greet the day, My love, That sing to greet the day." Then we fell to talking about the things in the West that no man had yet discovered, and Shalah, to whom our songs were nothing, now lent an ear. "And what was that?" asked Ringan, with eager eyes. "He told of plains so great that it is a lifetime to travel over them, and of deserts where the eagle flying from the dawn dies of drought by midday, and of mountains so high that birds cannot cross them but are changed by cold into stone, and of rivers to which our little waters are as reeds to a forest cedar. But especially he spoke of the fierce warriors that ride like the wind on horses. It seems, brother, that he who would reach that land must reach also the Hereafter." "That's the place for me," Ringan cried. "What say you, Andrew? When this affair is over, shall we make a bid for these marvels? I can cull some pretty adventurers from the Free Companions." Ringan shook his head. "That was never the way of the Highlands, 'Better a bone on the far-away hills than a fat sheep in the meadows,' says the Gael. What say you, mistress?" and he turned to Elspeth. "I think you are the born poet," said she, smiling, "and that Mr. Garvald is the sober man of affairs. You will leap for the top of the wall and get a prospect while Mr. Garvald will patiently pull it down." "Oh, I grant that Andrew has the wisdom," said Ringan. "That's why him and me's so well agreed. It's because we differ much, and so fit together like opposite halves of an apple Is your traveller still in the land of the living?" he asked Shalah. But the Indian had slipped away from the fireside circle, and I saw him without in the moonlight standing rigid on a knoll and gazing at the skies. "What is it?" I asked unthinkingly. "The Shenandoah," Shalah said, and I never stopped to ask how he knew the name. He was gazing at the sight with hungry eyes, he whose gaze was, for usual, so passionless. That prospect gave me a happy feeling of comfort; why, I cannot tell, except that the place looked so bright and habitable. Here was no sour wilderness, but a land made by God for cheerful human dwellings. Some day there would be orchards and gardens among those meadows, and miles of golden corn, and the smoke of hearth fires. Some day I would enter into that land of Canaan which now I saw from Pisgah. Some day--and I scarcely dared the thought--my children would call it home. A HAWK SCREAMS IN THE EVENING The day before, Shalah and I had explored the range to the south, keeping on the west side where we thought the enemy were likely to gather. This day we looked to the side facing the Tidewater, a difficult job, for it was eaten into by the upper glens of many rivers. The weather grew hot and oppressive, and over the lowlands of Virginia there brooded a sullen thundercloud. It oppressed my spirits, and I found myself less able to keep up with Shalah. The constant sight of the lowlands filled me with anxiety for what might be happening in those sullen blue flats. Gone was the glad forgetfulness of yesterday. The Promised Land might smile as it pleased, but we were still on the flanks of Pisgah with the Midianites all about us. Then from a high place he saw something which sent us both crawling into the thicket. We made a circuit of several miles round the head of a long ravine, and came to a steep bank of red screes. Up this we wormed our way, as flat as snakes, with our noses in the dusty earth. I was dripping with sweat, and cursing to myself this new madness of Shalah's. Then I found a cooler air blowing on the top of my prostrate skull, and I judged that we were approaching the scarp of a ridge. Shalah's hand held me motionless. He wriggled on a little farther, and with immense slowness raised his head. His hand now beckoned me forward, and in a few seconds I was beside him and was lifting my eyes over the edge of the scarp. I tried to keep my eyes steady, though my heart was beating like a fanner. The men were of the same light colour and slimness as those I had seen on the edge of the mist in Clearwater Glen. Indeed, they were not unlike Shalah, except that he was bigger than the most of them. I was not learned in Indian ways, but a glance told me that these folk never came out of the Tidewater, and were no Cherokees of the hills or Tuscaroras from the Carolinas. They were a new race from the west or the north, the new race which had so long been perplexing us. Somewhere among them was the brain which had planned for the Tidewater a sudden destruction. Ringan gave his orders. The big log gate was barred, the fire trampled out, and we waited in that thunderous darkness. A long draught of cold water had revived me, and I could think clearly of Elspeth. Her bower was in the safest part of the stockade, but she would not stay there, I could see terror in her eyes, but she gave no sign of it. She made ready our supper of cold meat as if she had no other thought in the world. Presently in the lowering silence came the scream of a hawk. "That hawk never flew on wings," he said. Then an owl hooted, and from near at hand came the cough of a deer. The thicket was alive with life, which mimicked the wild things of the woods. Something was crouching and shivering at my side. I found it was Elspeth, whose courage was no match for the terrors of the heavens. She snuggled against me for companionship, and hid her face in the sleeve of my coat. Suddenly came a cry from Shalah on my left. He pointed his hand to the glade, and in it I saw a man running. A new burst of light sprang up, for some dry tindery creepers had caught fire, and were blazing to heaven. It lit a stumbling figure which I saw was Grey, and behind him was a lithe Indian running on his trail. "Open the gate," I cried, and I got my musket in the loophole. The fugitive was all but spent. He ran, bowed almost to the ground, with a wild back glance ever and again over his shoulder. His pursuer gained on him with great strides, and in his hand he carried a bare knife. I dared not shoot, for Grey was between me and his enemy. Ringan took stock of our defences, and doled out to each a portion of sodden meat. Grey had found his breath by this time, and had got a spare musket, for his own had been left in the woods. Elspeth had had her wits sorely jangled by the storm, and in the revulsion was on the brink of tears. She was very tender towards Grey's condition, and the sight gave me no jealousy, for in that tense hour all things were forgotten but life and death. Donaldson, at Ringan's bidding, saw to the feeding of the horses as if he were in his own stable on the Rappahannock. It takes all sorts of men to make a world, but I thought at the time that for this business the steel nerves of the Borderer were worth many quicker brains and more alert spirits. It must have been an hour after midnight when we got our next warning of the enemy. Suddenly a firebrand leaped from farther up the hill, and flew in a wide curve into the middle of the stockade. It fell on the partition between the horses and ourselves and hung crackling there. A shower of arrows followed it, which missed us, for we were close to the edges of the palisade. But the sputtering torch was a danger, for presently it would show our position; so Bertrand very gallantly pulled it down, stamped it out, and got back to his post unscathed. Yet the firebrand had done its work, for it had showed the savages where the horses stood picketed. Another followed, lighting in their very midst, and setting them plunging at their ropes. Elspeth was busy among the startled beasts. She had a passion for horses, and had, as we say, the "cool" hand with them, for she would soothe a frightened stallion by rubbing his nose and whispering in his ear. By the time I got to her she had stamped out the torch, and was stroking Grey's mare, which was the worst scared. Her own fear had gone, and in that place of plunging hooves and tossing manes she was as calm as in a summer garden. "Let me be, Andrew," she said. "I am better at this business than you." She had the courage of a lion, but 'twas a wild courage, without foresight. Another firebrand came circling through the darkness, and broke on the head of Donaldson's pony. I caught the girl and swung her off her feet into safety. And then on the heels of the torch came a flight of arrows, fired from near at hand. They saw it too--Ringan and the rest--and it did not need his cry to keep our posts to tell us the right course. The inner palisade which shut off the horses must now be our line of defence, and the poor beasts must be left to their fate. But Elspeth and I had still to get inside it. But they would not move. Perhaps the rain had swollen the logs, and they had jammed too tightly to let the bar slide in the groove. So I found myself in that gate, the mad horses and the savages before me, and my friends at my back, with only my arm to hold the post. Then a hand--Donaldson's, I think--clutched me and pulled me back. With a great effort the bars were brought down, and I found myself beside Elspeth. All her fortitude had gone now, and she was sobbing like a child. Gradually the moaning of the horses ceased, and the whole world seemed cold and silent as a stone. We stood our watch till a wan sunrise struggled up the hill-side. HOW A FOOL MUST GO HIS OWN ROAD. Our eyes were hollow with suspense, and all but Shalah had the hunted look of men caught in a trap. Not till the sun had got above the tree-tops did we venture to leave our posts and think of food. It was now that Elspeth's spirit showed supreme. The courage of that pale girl put us all to the blush. She alone carried her head high and forced an air of cheerfulness. She lit the fire with Donaldson's help, and broiled some deer's flesh for our breakfast, and whistled gently as she wrought, bringing into our wild business a breath of the orderly comfort of home. I had seen her in silk and lace, a queen among the gallants, but she never looked so fair as on that misty morning, her hair straying over her brow, her plain kirtle soiled and sodden, but her eyes bright with her young courage. There was the chance, to be sure, that the Indians would be drawn off in the advance towards the east. But here came in a worse anxiety. I had come to get news to warn the Tidewater. That news I had got. The mighty gathering which Shalah's eyes and mine had beheld in that upland glen was the peril we had foreseen. What good were easy victories over raiding Cherokees when this deadly host waited on the leash? I had no doubt that the Cherokees were now broken. Stafford county would be full of Nicholson's militia, and Lawrence's strong hand lay on the line of the Borders. But what availed it? While Virginia was flattering herself that she had repelled the savages, and the Rappahannock men were notching their muskets with the tale of the dead, a wave was gathering to sweep down the Pamunkey or the James, and break on the walls of James Town. I did not think that Nicholson, forewarned and prepared, could stem the torrent; and if it caught him unawares the proud Tidewater would break like a rotten reed. I had been sent to scout. Was I to be false to the word I had given, and let any risk to myself or others deter me from taking back the news? The Indian army tarried; why, I did not know--perhaps some mad whim of their soothsayers, perhaps the device of a wise general; but at any rate they tarried. If a war party could spend a night in baiting us and slaying our horses, there could be no very instant orders for the road. If this were so, a bold man might yet reach the Border line. At that moment it seemed to me a madman's errand. Even if I slipped past the watchers in the woods and the glens, the land between would be strewn with fragments of the Cherokee host, and I had not the Indian craft. But it was very seriously borne in upon me that 'twas my duty to try. God might prosper a bold stroke, and in any case I should be true to my trust. We wrought in a dogged silence, and Elspeth's cheery whistling was the only sound in that sullen morning. It fairly broke my heart. She was whistling the old tune of "Leezie Lindsay," a merry lilt with the hill wind and the heather in it. The bravery of the poor child was the hardest thing of all to bear when I knew that in a few hours' time the end might come. The others were only weary and dishevelled and ill at ease, but on me seemed to have fallen the burden of the cares of the whole earth. Then I announced my plan. "I am going to try to reach Lawrence," I said. "Does any man object?" I asked sharply, for my temper was all of an edge. "It's not like you to give such counsel," I said sadly. "A man cannot think whether his duty will succeed as long as it's there for him to do it. Maybe my news would make all the differ. Maybe there would be time to get Nicholson's militia to the point of danger. God has queer ways of working, if we trust Him with honest hearts. Besides, a word on the Border would save the Tidewater folk, for there are ships on the James and the York to flee to if they hear in time. Let Virginia go down and be delivered over to painted savages, and some day soon we will win it back; but we cannot bring life to the dead. I want to save the lowland manors from what befell the D'Aubignys on the Rapidan, and if I can only do that much I will be content. Will you counsel me, Ringan, to neglect my plain duty?" "I gave no counsel," said Ringan hurriedly. "I was only putting the common sense of it. It's for you to choose." I turned to Shalah. "Is there any hope of getting to the South Fork?" He looked me very full in the face. "As much hope as a dove has who falls broken-winged into an eyrie of falcons! As much hope as the deer when the hunter's knife is at its throat! Yet the dove may escape, and the deer may yet tread the forest. While a man draws breath there is hope, brother." "And leave the stockade defenceless," I cried. "It's because he stays behind that I dare to go. Without him we are all bairns in the dark." "That's true, anyway," said Ringan, and fell to whittling a stick. "That can hardly be," he said, "because I'm coming with you now." I could only stare blankly. But when. I looked at Elspeth her eyes were so full of grief and care that my spirits sank again. "Tell me," I cried, "that you think I am doing right, God knows it is hard to leave you, and I carry the sorest heart in Virginia. But you would not have me stay idle when my plain duty commands. Say that you bid me go, Elspeth." "I bid you go," she said bravely, "and I will pray God to keep you safe." But her eyes belied her voice, for they were swimming with tears. At that moment I got the conviction that I was more to her than a mere companion, that by some miracle I had won a place in that proud and loyal heart. It seemed a cruel stroke of fate that I should get this hope at the very moment when I was to leave her and go into the shadow of death. But that was no hour to think of love, I took every man apart and swore him, though there was little need, to stand by the girl at all costs. To Grey I opened my inmost thoughts. He flushed deeply and gave me his hand. "Go in peace, sir," he said. "If God wills that we perish, my last act will be to assure an easy passage to heaven for her we worship. If we meet again, we meet as honourable rivals, and may that day come soon." So with pistols in belt, and a supply of cartouches and some little food in our pockets, Ringan and I were enfolded in the silence of the woods. THE HORN OF DIARMAID SOUNDS. We reached the gap, and made slantwise across the farther hill. I did not dare to go clown Clearwater Glen, and, besides, I was aiming for a point farther south than the Rappahannock. In my wanderings with Shalah I had got a pretty good idea of the lie of the mountains on their eastern side, and I had remarked a long ridge which flung itself like a cape far into the lowlands. If we could leave the hills by this, I thought we might strike the stream called the North Fork, which would bring us in time to the neighbourhood of Frew's dwelling. The ridges were our only safe path, for they were thickly overgrown with woods, and the Indian bands were less likely to choose them for a route. The danger was in the glens, where the trees were sparser and the broad stretches of meadow made better going for horses. By midday we had mounted to the crest of a long scarp which fell away in a narrow and broken promontory towards the plains. So far we had seen nothing to give us pause, and the only risk lay in some Indian finding and following our trail. We lay close in a scrubby wood, and rested for a little, while we ate some food. Everything around us dripped with moisture, and I could have wrung pints from my coat and breeches. "Oh for the Dry Tortugas!" Ringan sighed. "What I would give for a hot sun and the kindly winds o' the sea! I thought I pined for the hills, Andrew, but I would not give a clean beach and a warm sou'-wester for all the mountains on earth." Then again: "Yon's a fine lass," he would say. I did not reply, for I had no heart to speak of what I had left behind. "Man, Ringan," I said, "I see your kindly purpose. But tell me, did ever you hear of such a tangle as ours being straightened out? "Ay, Ringan, but that was only the risk of your own neck. I think I could endure that. But was there ever another you liked far better than yourself, that you had to see in deadly peril?" At that I cried out in expostulation, but Ringan was firm. "Ay, the braver by far, and I'll say it again. I'm a man of the dancing blood, with a rare appetite for frays and forays. You are the sedate soul that would be happier at home in the chimney corner. And yet you are the most determined of the lot of us, though you have no pleasure in it. Why? Just because you are the bravest. You can force yourself to a job when flesh and spirit cry out against it. I let no man alive cry down my courage, but I say freely that it's not to be evened with yours." I was not feeling very courageous. As we sped along the ridge in the afternoon I seemed to myself like a midge lost in a monstrous net. The dank, dripping trees and the misty hills seemed to muffle and deaden the world. I could not believe that they ever would end; that anywhere there was a clear sky and open country. And I had always the feeling that in those banks of vapour lurked deadly enemies who any moment might steal out and encompass us. Ringan, too, was disturbed. "Twould be wiser like to wait for darkness before trying that bit," he said. "We'll be terrible kenspeckle to the gentry we ken of." I looked at my pistols to see if the damp woods had spoiled the priming. "Well, here's for fortune," said Ringan, and we scrambled off the ridge, and plunged into the lush grasses of the meadow. Had we kept our heads and crossed as prudently as we had made the morning's journey, all might have been well. But a madcap haste seemed to possess us. We tore through the herbage as if we had been running a race in the yard of a peaceful manor. The stream stayed us a little, for it could not be forded without a wetting, and I went in up to the waist. As we scrambled up the far bank some impulse made me turn my head. There, coming down the water, was a band of Indians. We got what we wanted earlier than we had hoped. The woods in front rose in a high bluff, and down a little ravine a burn trickled. The sides were too steep and matted for horses to travel, and he who stood in the ravine had his back and flanks defended. "Now for a fight, Andrew lad," cried Ringan, his eyes dancing. "Stick you to the pistols, and I'll show them something in the way of sword-play." The Indians wheeled up to the edge of the ravine, and I saw to my joy that they did not carry bows. They were gone in an instant. "That looks bad for us, Andrew," Ringan said. "If they had come down on us yelling for our scalps, we would have had a merry meeting. But they're either gone to bring their friends or they're trying to take us in the back. I'll guard the front, and you keep your eyes on the hinder parts, though a jackdaw could scarcely win over these craigs." The mind in a close watch falls under a spell, so that while the senses are alert the thoughts are apt to wander. As I have said before, I have the sharpest sight, and as I watched a point of rock it seemed to move ever so slightly. I rubbed my eyes and thought it fancy, and a sudden noise above made me turn my head. It was only a bird, and as I looked again at the rock it seemed as if a spray of vine had blown athwart it, which was not there before. I gazed intently, and, following the spray into the shadow, I saw something liquid and mottled like a toad's skin. As I stared it flickered and shimmered. 'Twas only the light on a wet leaf, I told myself; but surely it had not been there before. A sudden suspicion seized me, and I lifted my pistol and fired. There was a shudder in the thicket, and an Indian, shot through the head, rolled into the burn. What happened next is all confusion in my mind. I dodged the fall of the knife, and struck hard with my pistol butt at the uplifted arm. I felt no fear, only intense anger at my folly in not having looked better to my priming. But the shock of the man's charge upset me, and the next I knew of it we were wrestling on the ground. I thought that all was over. He pushed back his hair from his eyes, and the steel quivered. And then something thrust between me and the point, there was a leap and a shudder, and I was gazing at emptiness. I lay gazing, for I seemed bereft of wits. Then a voice cried, "Are you hurt, Andrew?" and I got to my feet. Ringan had sheathed his blade, and was looking at me with a queer smile on his face. "Yon was a merry bout, Andrew," he said, and his voice sounded very far away. Then he swayed into my arms, and I saw that his vest was dark with blood. "What is it?" I cried in wild fear. "Are you hurt, Ringan?" I laid him on a bed of moss, and opened his shirt. In his breast was a gaping wound from which the bright blood was welling. He lay with his eyes closed while I strove to stanch the flow. Then he choked, and as I raised his head there came a gush of blood from his lips. "That man of yours " he whispered. "I got his knife before he got my sword I doubt it went deep " "O Ringan," I cried, "it's me that's to blame. You got it trying to save me. You're not going to leave me, Ringan?" "I've got my call," he said faintly. "Who would have thought that Ninian Campbell would meet his death from an Indian shabble? They'll no believe it at Tortuga. Still and on " I brought him water in my hat, and for a moment he breathed freely. He motioned me to put my ear close. "You'll send word to the folk in Breadalbane Just say that I came by an honest end Cheer up, lad. You'll live to see happy days yet But keep mind of me, Andrew Man, I liked you well, and would have been blithe to keep you company a bit longer " I was crying like a child. There was a little gold charm on a cord round his neck, now dyed with his blood. He motioned me to look at it. As well as I could, I repeated that Psalm I had said over the graves by the Rapidan. He looked at me with eyes as clear and honest as a child's. "'In death's dark vale I will fear no ill,'" he repeated after me. "That minds me of lang syne. I never feared muckle on earth, and I'll not begin now." I saw that the end was very near. The pain had gone, and there was a queer innocence in his lean face. His eyes shut and opened again, and each time the light was dimmer. Suddenly he lifted himself. "The Horn of Diarmaid has sounded," he cried, and dropped back in my arms. That was the last word he spoke. I watched by him till the dark fell, and long after. Then as the moon rose I bestirred myself, and looked for a place of burial. I would not have him lie in that narrow ravine, so I carried him into the meadow, and found a hole which some wild beast had deserted. Painfully and slowly with my knife I made it into a shallow grave, where I laid him, with some boulders above. Then I think I flung myself on the earth and wept my fill. I had lost my best of friends, and the ache of regret and loneliness was too bitter to bear. I asked for nothing better than to join him soon on the other side. After a while I forced myself to rise. He had praised my courage that very day, and if I was to be true to him I must be true to my trust. I told myself that Ringan would never have countenanced this idle grief. I girt on his sword, and hung the gold charm round my neck. Then I took my bearings as well as I could, re-loaded my pistols, and marched into the woods, keeping to the course of the little river. As I went I remember that always a little ahead I seemed to hear the merry lilt of Ringan's whistling. I SUFFER THE HEATHEN'S RAGE My senses were blunted, and I took no note of the noises of the forest. As I passed down a ravine a stone dropped behind me, but I did not pause to wonder why. A twig crackled on my left, but it did not disquiet me, and there was a rustling in the thicket which was not the breeze. I marked nothing, as I plodded on with vacant mind and eye. So when I tripped on a vine and fell, I was scarcely surprised when I found I could not rise. Men had sprung up silently around me, and I was pinned by many hands. They trussed me with ropes, binding my hands cruelly behind my back, and swathing my legs till not a muscle could move. My pistols hung idle, and the ropes drove the hafts into my flesh. This is the end, thought I, and I did not even grieve at my impotence. My courage now was of the passive kind, not to act but to endure. Always I kept telling myself that I must be brave, for Ringan had praised my courage, and I had a conviction that nothing that man could do would shake me. Thanks be to God, my quick fancy was dulled, and I did not try to look into the future. I lived for the moment, and I was resolved that the moment should find me unmoved. I was in a crook of a hill glen, lit with a great radiance of moonlight. Fires dotted the flat, and Indian tents, and there seemed to me hundreds of savages crowding in on me. I do not suppose that I showed any fear, for my bodily weakness had made me as impassive as any Indian. There was a tall man wearing in his hair a single great feather, whom I took to be the chief. He spoke to me through the interpreter, and asked me whence I came. I told him I was a hunter who had strayed in the hills. He asked where the other was. "Be it so," said I stoutly, though I felt a dreadful nausea coming over me. I was determined to keep my head high, if only my frail body would not fail me. "Does the eagle make terms with the kite?" I asked, "and fly with them to raid his own eyrie? Yes, I will join with you, and march with you till I have delivered you to, perhaps, a score of the warriors of my own people. Then I will aid them in making carrion of you." "My brother speaks bold words," he said. "The spirits of his fathers cry out for the companionship of such a hero. When the wrongs of our race have been avenged, I wish him good hunting in the Kingdom of the Sunset." They took me and stripped me mother naked. Has any man who reads this tale ever faced an enemy in his bare feet? If so, he will know that the heart of man is more in his boots than philosophers wot of. Without them he feels lost and unprepared, and the edge gone from his spirit. But without his clothes he is in a far worse case. The winds of heaven play round his nakedness; every thorn and twig is his assailant, and the whole of him seems a mark for the arrows of his foes. That stripping was the thing that brought me to my senses. I recognized that I was to be the subject of those hellish tortures which the Indians use, the tales of which are on every Borderer's lips. And yet I did not recognize it fully, or my courage must have left me then and there. My imagination was still limping, and I foresaw only a death of pain, not the horrid incidents of its preparation. Death I could face, and I summoned up every shred of my courage. Ringan's voice was still in my ear, his airy songs still sang themselves in my brain. I would not shame him, but oh! how I envied him lying, all troubles past, in his quiet grave! Then I was lifted up and carried to a flat space beside the stream, where the trunk of a young pine had been set upright in the ground. A man, waving a knife, and singing a wild song, danced towards me. He seized me by the hair, and I actually rejoiced, for I knew that the pain of scalping would make me oblivious of all else. But he only drew the sharp point of the knife in a circle round my head, scarce breaking the skin. I had grace given me to keep a stout face, mainly because I was relieved that this was to be my fate. He put the knife back in his girdle, and others laid hold on me. They lashed me to the stake with ropes of green vine. Then they piled dry hay a foot deep around me, and laid above it wood and green branches. To make the fuel still greener, they poured water on it. At the moment I did not see the object of these preparations, but now I can understand it. The dry hay would serve to burn my legs, which had already been anointed with the inflammable grease. So I should suffer a gradual torture, for it would be long ere the flames reached a vital part. I think they erred, for they assumed that I had the body of an Indian, which does not perish till a blow is struck at its heart; whereas I am confident that any white man would be dead of the anguish long ere the fire had passed beyond his knees. "_Nevermore the deep fern_," it ran, "_or the bell of the dun deer, far my castle is wind-blown sands, and my homelands are a stranger's."_ Then came a sharp burst of pain as a tongue of flame licked on my anointed ankles. Anguish like hell-fire ran through my frame. I think I would have cried out if my tongue had had the power. Suddenly I envisaged the dreadful death which was coming. All was wiped from my mind, all thought of Ringan, and home, and honour; everything but this awful fear. Happily the smoke hid my face, which must have been distraught with panic. The seconds seemed endless. I prayed that unconsciousness would come. I prayed for death, I prayed for respite. I was mad with the furious madness of a tortured animal, and the immortal soul had fled from me and left only a husk of pitiful and shrinking flesh. The chief spoke, and asked me if my purpose still held. I could not believe my own voice. But I rejoice to say that my reply was to consign every Indian in America to the devil. The pain of my cramped and scorched limbs was horrible, but I had just enough sense left to shut my teeth and make no sound. The chief looked at me long and calmly as I drooped before him, for there was no power in my legs. He was an eagle-faced savage, with the most grave and searching eyes. "Sleep, brother," he said. "At dawn we will take further counsel." I forced some kind of lightness into my voice, "Sleep will be grateful," I said, "for I have come many miles this day, and the welcome I have got this evening has been too warm for a weary man." The Indian nodded. The jest was after his own taste. I was carried to a teepee and shown a couch of dry fern. A young man rubbed some oil on my scorched legs, which relieved the pain of them. But no pain on earth could have kept me awake. I did not glide but pitched headforemost into sleep. EVENTS ON THE HILL-SIDE. My body was too sore to suffer me to sleep dreamlessly, but my dreams were pleasant. I thought I was in a sunny place with Elspeth, and that she had braided a coronet of wild flowers for her hair. They were simple flowers, such as I had known in childhood and had not found in Virginia--yarrow, and queen of the meadow, and bluebells, and the little eyebright. A great peace filled me, and Ringan came presently to us and spoke in his old happy speech. 'Twas to the accompaniment of Elspeth's merry laughter that I wakened, to find myself in a dark, strange-smelling place, with a buffalo robe laid over me, and no stitch of clothing on my frame. I felt my body over, and made out that I had taken no very desperate hurt. My joints were swollen with the bonds, and every sinew seemed as stiff as wire. The skin had been scorched on my shins and feet, and was peeling off in patches, but the ointment which had been rubbed on it had taken the worst ache out of the wounds. I tottered to my feet, and found that I could stand, and even move slowly like an old man. My clothes had been brought back and laid beside me, and with much difficulty I got into them; but I gave up the effort to get my stockings and boots over my scorched legs. My pistols, too, had been restored, and Ringan's sword, and the gold amulet he had entrusted to me. Somehow, in the handling of me, my store of cartouches had disappeared from my pockets. My pistols were loaded and ready for use, but that was the extent of my defences, for I was no more good with Ringan's sword than with an Indian bow. A young lad brought me some maize porridge and a skin of water. I could eat little of the food, but I drank the water to the last drop, for my throat was as dry as the nether pit. After that I lay down on my couch again, for it seemed to me that I would need to treasure every atom of my strength. The meal had put a little heart in me--heart enough to wait dismally on the next happening. Presently the chief whom they called Onotawah stood at the tent door, and with him a man who spoke the Powhatan tongue. "Greeting, brother," he said. "Greeting," I answered, in the stoutest tone I could muster. "I come from the council of the young men, where the blood of our kin cries for the avenger. The Sons of the West Wind have seen the courage of the stranger, and would give him the right of combat as a free man and a brave. Is my brother ready to meet our young men in battle?" I was about as fit to right as an old horse to leap a fence, but I had the wit to see that my only hope lay in a bold front. At any rate, a clean death in battle was better than burning, and my despair was too deep to let me quibble about the manner of leaving this world. It was childish brag, but I think I must have delivered it with some spirit, for I saw approbation in his eye. "I am content," I said, though I was very little content. What earthly chance stood I against a lithe young brave, accustomed from his childhood to war? I thought of a duel hand-to-hand with knives or tomahawks, for I could not believe that I would be allowed to keep my pistols. It was a very faint-hearted combatant who rose and staggered after Onotawah into the clear morning. The cloudy weather had gone, and the glen where we lay was filled with sun and bright colours. Even in my misery I saw the fairness of the spectacle, and the cool plunge of the stream was grateful to my throbbing eyes. A man stood out from the others, a tall savage with a hard face, who looked at me with eyes of hate. I recognized my opponent, whom the chief called by some name like Mayoga. "What, are the weapons?" I asked. "What you please. You have a sword and your little guns." Mayoga laughed loud. "My bow is sufficient," he cried. "See, I leave knife and tomahawk behind," and he cast them on the grass. Not to be outdone, I took off my sword, though that was more an encumbrance than a weapon. I bade him take a quiverful. "You will need them," said I, looking as truculent as my chicken heart would permit me. The wood was thinner here, and the ground less cumbered. I moved from tree to tree, crawling in the open bits, and scanning each circle of green dusk before I moved. A red-bird fluttered on my right, and I lay long watching its flight. Something moved ahead of me, but 'twas only a squirrel. I went on a little, and then turned up the hill to where a clump of pines made a darker patch in the woodland. All was quiet again, and my eyes searched the dusk for the sign of human life. Then suddenly I saw something which stiffened me against a trunk. I could hear the plunge of it, and struggled towards it. I was long past taking any care. I stumbled and slipped along the hill-side, my breath labouring, and a moaning at my lips from sheer agony and weakness. If an arrow sped between my ribs I would still reach the water, for I was determined to die with my legs in its flow. Suddenly it was before me. I came out on a mossy rock above a deep, clear pool, into which a cascade tumbled. I knelt feebly on the stone, gazing at the blue depths, and then I lifted my eyes. There on a rock on the other side stood my enemy. He had an arrow fitted to his bow, and as I looked he shot. It struck me on the right arm, pinning it just above the elbow. The pistol, which I had been carrying aimlessly, slipped from my nerveless hand to the moss on which I kneeled. Yet in that fell predicament God gave me back my courage. But I took a queer way of showing it. I began to whimper as if in abject fear. Every limb was relaxed in terror, and I grovelled on my knees before him. I made feeble plucks at the arrow in my right arm, and my shoulder drooped almost to the sod. But all the time my other hand was behind my back, edging its way to the pistol. My fingers clutched at the butt, and slowly I began to withdraw it till I had it safe in the shadow of my pocket. My enemy did not know that I was left-handed. At last he made his choice, and so did I. I never thought that I could miss, for if I had had any doubt I should have failed. I was as confident in my sureness as any saint in the mercy of God. He raised his bow, but it never reached his shoulder. My left arm shot out, and my last bullet went through his brain. He toppled forward and plunged into the pool. The grease from his body floated up, and made a scum on the surface. Then I broke off the arrow and pulled it out of my arm, putting the pieces in my pocket. The water cleared, and I could see him lying in the cool blue depths, his eyes staring, his mouth open, and a little dark eddy about his forehead. I came out of the wood a new being. My wounded arm and my torn and inflamed limbs were forgotten. I held my head high, and walked like a free man. It was not that I had slain my enemy and been delivered from deadly peril, nor had I any clearer light on my next step. But I had suddenly got the conviction that God was on my side, and that I need not fear what man could do unto me. You may call it the madness of a lad whose body and spirit had been tried to breaking-point. But, madness or no, it gave me infinite courage, and in that hour I would have dared every savage on earth. "That is my token," I said. "You will find the other in the pool below the cascade." I reached the teepee in which I had spent the night, and flung myself down on the rude couch. In a minute I was sunk in a heavy sleep. They squatted on a heap of skins and spoke in their own tongue. Then Shalah addressed me in English. "The maiden is safe, brother. There will be no more fighting at the stockade. Those who assaulted us were of my own tribe, and yesterday I reasoned with them." Then he spoke to the chief, and translated for me. "He says that you have endured the ordeal of the stake, and have slain your enemy in fight, and that now you will go before the great Sachem for his judgment. That is the custom of our people." He turned to Onotawah again, and his tone was high and scornful. He spoke as if he were the chief and the other were the minion, and, what was strangest of all, Onotawah replied meekly. Shalah rose to his feet and strode to the door, pointing down the glen with his hand. He seemed to menace the other, his nostrils quivered with contempt, and his voice was barbed with passion. Onotawah bowed his head and said nothing. Then he seemed to dismiss him, and the proud chief walked out of the teepee like a disconsolate schoolboy. Instantly Shalah turned to me and inquired about my wounds. He looked at the hole in my arm and at my scorched legs, and from his belt took a phial of ointment, which he rubbed on the former. He passed his cool hands over my brow, and felt the beating of my heart. "You are weary, brother, and somewhat scarred, but there is no grave hurt. What of the Master?" I told him of Ringan's end. He bent his head, and then sprang up and held his hands high, speaking in a strange tongue. I looked at his eyes, and they were ablaze with fire. "My people slew him," he cried. "By the shades of my fathers, a score shall keep him company as slaves in the Great Hunting-ground." "Talk no more of blood," I said. "He was amply avenged. 'Twas I who slew him, for he died to save me. He made a Christian end, and I will not have his memory stained by more murders. But oh, Shalah, what a man died yonder!" He made me tell every incident of the story, and he cried out, impassive though he was, at the sword-play in the neck of the gorge. "I have seen it," he cried. "I have seen his bright steel flash and men go down like ripe fruit. Tell me, brother, did he sing all the while, as was his custom? Would I had been by his side!" Then he told me of what had befallen at the stockade. "The dead man told me a tale, for by the mark on his forehead I knew that he was of my own house. When you and the Master had gone I went into the woods and picked up the trail of our foes. I found them in a crook of the hills, and went among them in peace. They knew me, and my word was law unto them. No living thing will come near the stockade save the wild beasts of the forest. Be at ease in thy mind, brother." The news was a mighty consolation, but I was still deeply mystified. "You speak of your tribe. But these men were no Senecas." He smiled gravely. "Listen, brother," he said. "The white men of the Tidewater called me Seneca, and I suffered the name. But I am of a greater and princelier house than the Sons of the Cat. Some little while ago I spoke to you of the man who travelled to the Western Seas, and of his son who returned to his own people. I am the son of him who returned. I spoke of the doings of my own kin." "But what is your nation, then?" I cried. I remembered that smiling Eden I had seen from that hill-top, and how Shalah had spoken that very name. "We dwelt there," he continued, "while I grew to manhood, living happily in peace, hunting the buffalo and deer, and tilling our cornlands. Then the time came when the Great Spirit called for my father, and I was left with the kingship of the tribe. Strange things meantime had befallen our nation in the West. Broken clans had come down from the north, and there had been many battles, and there had been blight, and storms, and sickness, so that they were grown poor and harassed. Likewise men had arisen who preached to them discontent, and other races of a lesser breed had joined themselves to them. My own tribe had become fewer, for the young men did not stay in our valley, but drifted back to the West, to that nation we had come from, or went north to the wars with the white man, or became lonely hunters in the hills. Then from the south along the mountain crests came another people, a squat and murderous people, who watched us from the ridges and bided their chance." "The Cherokees?" I asked. "Tell me, what is the invasion which threatens the Tidewater?" "Is that the crazy white man we have heard of?" "He is of your race, brother. What his spell is I know not, but it works mightily among my people. They tell me that he hath bodily converse with devils, and that God whispers His secrets to him in the night-watches. His God hath told him--so runs the tale--that He hath chosen the Children of the Sun for His peculiar people, and laid on them the charge of sweeping the white men off the earth and reigning in their stead from the hills to the Great Waters." "Do you believe in this madman, Shalah?" I asked. "Will your tribe ally themselves with Cherokee murderers?" "I asked that question of this man Onotawah, and he liked it little. He says that his people distrust this alliance with a race they scorn, and I do not think they pine for the white man's war. But they are under the magic of this prophet, and presently, when blood begins to flow, they will warm to their work. In time they will be broken, but that time will not be soon, and meanwhile there will be nothing left alive between the hills and the bay of Chesapeake." "Do you know their plans?" I asked. "The Cherokees have served their purpose," he said. "Your forecast was right, brother. They have drawn the fire of the Border, and been driven in a rabble far south to the Roanoke and the Carolina mountains. That is as the prophet planned. And now, while the white men hang up their muskets and rejoice heedlessly in their triumph, my nation prepares to strike. To-night the moon is full, and the prophet makes intercession with his God. To-morrow at dawn they march, and by twilight they will have swarmed across the Border." "Have you no power over your own people?" I arose, stretched my arms, and yawned. "They carry me to this Sachem," I said. "Well and good. I will outface this blasphemous liar, whoever he may be. If he makes big magic, I will make bigger. The only course is the bold course. If I can humble this prophet man, will you dissuade your nation from war and send them back to the sunset?" "Assuredly," he said wonderingly. "But what is your plan, brother?" "None," I answered. "God will show me the way. Honesty may trust in Him as well as madness." "By my father's shade, you are a man, brother," and he gave me the Indian salute. HOW I STROVE ALL NIGHT WITH THE DEVIL. It was late in the evening ere we reached the shelf in the high glens which was the headquarters of the Indian host. I rode on a horse, between Onotawah and Shalah, as if I were a chief and no prisoner. On the road we met many bands of Indians hastening to the trysting-place, for the leader had flung his outposts along the whole base of the range, and the chief warriors returned to the plateau for the last ritual. No man spoke a word, and when we met other companies the only greeting was by uplifted hands. I waited with an awe on my spirits against which I struggled in vain. The silence of so vast a multitude, the sputtering torches, lighting the wild amphitheatre of the hills, the strange clearing with its altar, the mystery of the immense dusky sky, and the memory of what I had already endured--all weighed on me with the sense of impending doom. I summoned all my fortitude to my aid. I told myself that Ringan believed in me, and that I had the assurance that God would not see me cast down. But such courage as I had was now a resolve rather than any exhilaration of spirits. A brooding darkness lay on me like a cloud. Presently the hush grew deeper, and from the tent a man came. I could not see him clearly, but the flickering light told me that he was very tall, and that, like the Indians, he was naked to the middle. He stood behind the altar, and began some incantation. It was in the Indian tongue which I could not understand. The voice was harsh and discordant, but powerful enough to fill that whole circle of hill. It seemed to rouse the passion of the hearers, for grave faces around me began to work, and long-drawn sighs came from their lips. The figure raised a knife and plunged it into the throat of the great cat. The slow lapping of blood broke in on the stillness. Then the voice shrilled high and wild. I could see that the man had marked his forehead with blood, and that his hands were red and dripping. He seemed to be declaiming some savage chant, to which my neighbours began to keep time with their bodies. Wilder and wilder it grew, till it ended in a scream like a seamew's. Whoever the madman was, he knew the mystery of Indian souls, for in a little he would have had that host lusting blindly for death. I felt the spell myself, piercing through my awe and hatred of the spell-weaver, and I won't say but that my weary head kept time with the others to that weird singing. A man brought a torch and lit the brushwood on the altar. Instantly a flame rose to heaven, through which the figure of the magician showed fitfully like a mountain in mist. That act broke the wizardry for me. To sacrifice a cat was monstrous and horrible, but it was also uncouthly silly. I saw the magic for what it was, a maniac's trickery. In the revulsion I grew angry, and my anger heartened me wonderfully. Was this stupendous quackery to bring ruin to the Tidewater? Though I had to choke the life with my own hands out of that warlock's throat, I should prevent it. Then from behind the fire the voice began again. But this time I understood it. The words were English. I was amazed, for I had forgotten that I knew the wizard to be a white man. "_Thus saith the Lord God_," it cried, "_Woe to the bloody city! I will make the pile great for fire. Heap on wood, kindle the fire, consume the flesh, and spice it well, and let the bones be burned_." He poked the beast on the altar, and a bit of burning yellow fur fell off and frizzled on the ground. It was horrid beyond words, lewd and savage and impious, and desperately cruel. And the strange thing was that the voice was familiar. "_O thou that dwellest upon many waters_," it went on again, "_abundant in treasures, thine end is come, and the measure of thy covetousness. The Lord of Hosts hath sworn by Himself, saying, Surely I will fill thee with men as with caterpillars_ " "_A Sword is upon her horses, and upon her chariots, and upon all the mingled people that are in the midst of her, and they shall become as women. A Sword is upon her treasures, and they shall be robbed; a drought is upon her waters, and they shall be dried up; for it is the land of graven images, and they are mad upon their idols_." Every syllable brought back some memory. He had the whine and sough in his voice that our sectaries prized, and I could shut my eyes and imagine I was back in the little kirk of Lesmahagow on a hot summer morn. And then would come the scream of madness, the high wail of the Sweet-Singer. "_Thus saith the Lord God: Behold, I will bring a King of kings from the north, with horses and with chariots, and with horsemen and companies and muck people. He shall slay with the sword thy daughters in the field_ " "Fine words," I thought; "but Elspeth laid her whip over your shoulders, my man." " _With the hoofs of his horses shall he tread down all thy streets. He shall slay thy people by the sword, and thy strong garrisons shall go down to the ground And I will cause the music of thy songs to cease, and the sound of thy harps shall no more be heard."_ I had a vision of Elspeth's birthday party when we sat round the Governor's table, and I had wondered dismally how long it would be before our pleasant songs would be turned to mourning. The fires died down, the smoke thinned, and the full moon rising over the crest of the hills poured her light on us. The torches flickered insolently in that calm radiance. The voice, too, grew lower and the incantation ceased. Then it began again in the Indian tongue, and the whole host rose to their feet. Muckle John, like some old priest of Diana, flung up his arms to the heavens, and seemed to be invoking his strange gods. Or he may have been blessing his flock--I know not which. Then he turned and strode back to his tent, just as he had done on that night in the Cauldstaneslap A hand was laid on my arm and Onotawah stood by me. He motioned me to follow him, and led me past the smoking altar to a row of painted white stones around the great wigwam. This he did not cross, but pointed to the tent door, I pushed aside the flap and entered. An Indian lamp--a wick floating in oil--stood on a rough table. But its thin light was unneeded, for the great flood of moonshine, coming through the slits of the skins, made a clear yellow twilight. By it I marked the figure of Muckle John on his knees. "Good evening to you, Mr. Gib," I said. The figure sprang to its feet and strode over to me. "Who are ye," it cried, "who speaks a name that is no more spoken on earth?" "Just a countryman of yours, who has forgathered with you before. Have you no mind of the Cauldstaneslap and the Canongate Tolbooth?" He snatched up the lamp and peered into my face, but he was long past recollection. "That's too long a word for me to remember, Mr. Gib, so by your leave I'll call you as you were christened." I had forced myself to a slow coolness, and my voice seemed to madden him. "Ye would outface me," he cried. "I see ye are an idolater from the tents of Shem, on whom judgment will be speedy and surprising. Know ye not what the Lord hath prepared for ye? Down in your proud cities ye are feasting and dicing and smiling on your paramours, but the writing is on the wall, and in a little ye will be crying like weaned bairns for a refuge against the storm of God. Your strong men shall be slain, and your virgins shall be led captive, and your little children shall be dashed against a stone. And in the midst of your ruins I, even I, will raise a temple to the God of Israel, and nations that know me not will run unto me because of the Lord my God." I had determined on my part, and played it calmly. "And what will you do with your Indian braves?" I asked. "Sharon shall be a fold of flocks, and the valley of Achor a place to lie down in, for my people that have sought me," he answered. "A bonny spectacle," I said. "Man, if you dare to cross the Border you will be whipped at a cart-tail and clapped into Bedlam as a crazy vagabond." "Blasphemer," he shrieked, and ran at me with the knife he had used on the panther. It took all my courage to play my game. I stood motionless, looking at him, and his head fell. Had I moved he would have struck, but to his mad eyes my calmness was terrifying. "It sticks in my mind," I said, "that there is a commandment, Do no murder. You call yourself a follower of the Lord. Let me tell you that you are no more than a bloody-minded savage, a thousandfold more guilty than those poor creatures you are leading astray. You serve Baal, not God, John Gib, and the devil in hell is banking his fires and counting on your company." He gibbered at me like a bedlamite, but I knew what I was doing. I raised my voice, and spoke loud and clear, while my eyes held his in that yellow dusk. "Priest of Baal," I cried, "lying prophet! Go down on your knees and pray for mercy. By the living God, the flames of hell are waiting for you. The lightnings tremble in the clouds to scorch you up and send your black soul to its own place." His hands pawed at my throat, but the horror was descending on him. He shrieked like a wild beast, and cast fearful eyes behind him. Then he rushed into the dark corners, stabbing with his knife, crying that the devils were loosed. I remember how horribly he frothed at the mouth. "Avaunt," he howled. "Avaunt, Mel and Abaddon! Avaunt, Evil-Merodach and Baal-Jezer! Ha! There I had ye, ye muckle goat. The stink of hell is on ye, but ye shall not take the elect of the Lord." He crawled on his belly, stabbing his knife into the ground. I easily avoided him, for his eyes saw nothing but his terrible phantoms. Verily Shalah had spoken truth when he said that this man had bodily converse with the devils. Then I threw him--quite easily, for his limbs were going limp in the extremity of his horror. He lay gasping and foaming, his eyes turning back in his head, while I bound his arms to his sides with my belt. I found some cords in the tent, and tied his legs together. He moaned miserably for a little, and then was silent. I had no thoughts, being oppressed with a great stupor of weariness. I may have dozed a little, but the pain of my legs kept me from slumbering. By and by, as I held the lamp close, I observed that his eyes were open. It was now time for the gamble I had resolved on. I remembered that morning in the Tolbooth, and how the madness had passed, leaving him a simple soul. I unstrapped the belt, and cut the cords about his legs. "Do you feel better now, Mr. Gib?" I asked, as if it were the most ordinary question in the world. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Was it a dwam?" he inquired. "I get them whiles." "It was a dwam, but I think it has passed." He still rubbed his eyes, and peered about him, like a big collie dog that has lost its master. "Who is it that speirs?" he said. "I ken the voice, but I havena heard it this long time." I spoke in the accent of his own country-side, and it must have woke some dim chord in his memory, I made haste to strike while the iron was hot. "There was a woman at Cramond " I began. He got to his feet and looked me in the face. "Ay, there was," he said, with an odd note in his voice. "What about her?" I could see that his hand was shaking. "I think her name was Alison Steel." "What ken ye of Alison Steel?" he asked fiercely. "Quick, man, what word have ye frae Alison?" "You sent me with a letter to her. D'you not mind your last days in Edinburgh, before they shipped you to the Plantations?" "It comes back to me," he cried. "Ay, it comes back. To think I should live to hear of Alison! What did she say?" "Just this. That John Gib was a decent man if he would resist the devil of pride. She charged me to tell you that you would never be out of her prayers, and that she would live to be proud of you. 'John will never shame his kin,' quoth she." "Said she so?" he said musingly. "She was aye a kind body. We were to be married at Martinmas, I mind, if the Lord hadna called me." "You've need of her prayers," I said, "and of the prayers of every Christian soul on earth. I came here yestereen to find you mouthing blasphemies, and howling like a mad tyke amid a parcel of heathen. And they tell me you're to lead your savages on Virginia, and give that smiling land to fire and sword. Think you Alison Steel would not be black ashamed if she heard the horrid tale?" "'Twas the Lord's commands," he said gloomily, but there was no conviction in his words. I changed my tone. "Do you dare to speak such blasphemy?" I cried. "The Lord's commands! The devil's commands! The devil of your own sinful pride! You are like the false prophets that made Israel to sin. What brings you, a white man, at the head of murderous savages?" "Israel would not hearken, so I turned to the Gentiles," said he. "And what are you going to make of your Gentiles? Do you think you've put much Christianity into the heart of the gentry that were watching your antics last night?" "They have glimmerings of grace," he said. "Glimmerings of moonshine! They are bent on murder, and so are you, and you call that the Lord's commands. You would sacrifice your own folk to the heathen hordes. God forgive you, John Gib, for you are no Christian, and no Scot, and no man." "Virginia is an idolatrous land," said he; but he could not look up at me. "And are your Indians not idolaters? Are you no idolater, with your burnt offerings and heathen gibberish? You worship a Baal and a Moloch worse than any Midianite, for you adore the devils of your own rotten heart." The big man, with all the madness out of him, put his towsy head in his hands, and a sob shook his great shoulders. The man was fairly broken down. "What must I do?" he cried. "I'm all in a creel. I'm but a pipe for the Lord to sound through." "Take not that Name in vain, for the sounding is from your own corrupt heart. Mind what Alison Steel said about the devil of pride, for it was that sin by which the angels fell." "But I've His plain commands," he wailed. "He hath bidden me cast down idolatry, and bring the Gentiles to His kingdom." "Did He say anything about Virginia? There's plenty idolatry elsewhere in America to keep you busy for a lifetime, and you can lead your Gentiles elsewhere than against your own kin. Turn your face westward, John Gib. I, too, can dream dreams and see visions, and it is borne in on me that your road is plain before you. Lead this great people away from the little shielings of Virginia, over the hills and over the great mountains and the plains beyond, and on and on till you come to an abiding city. You will find idolaters enough to dispute your road, and you can guide your flock as the Lord directs you. Then you will be clear of the murderer's guilt who would stain his hands in kindly blood." He lifted his great head, and the marks of the sacrifice were still on his brow. "D'ye think that would be the Lord's will?" he asked innocently. "Ay," he said. "We will march in the morning." "Can you lead them where you will?" His back stiffened, and the spirit of a general looked out of his eyes. "They will follow where I bid. There's no a man of them dare cheep at what I tell them." "My work is done," I said. "I go to whence I came. And some day I shall go to Cramond and tell Alison that John Gib is no disgrace to his kin." "Lord," I prayed, "Thou seest Thy creature, John Gib, who by the perverseness of his heart has come to the edge of grievous sin. Take the cloud from his spirit, arrange his disordered wits, and lead him to a wiser life. Keep him in mind of his own land, and of her who prays for him. Guide him over hills and rivers to an enlarged country, and make his arm strong against his enemies, so be they are not of his own kin. And if ever he should hearken again to the devil, do Thou blast his body with Thy fires, so that his soul may be saved." "Amen," said he, and I went out of the tent to find the grey dawn beginning to steal up the sky. "What fortune, brother?" he asked, and his teeth chattered. "The Tidewater is safe. This day they march westwards to look for their new country." "Thy magic is as the magic of Heaven," he said reverently. "My heart all night has been like water, for I know no charm which hath prevailed against the mystery of the Panther." "'Twas no magic of mine," said I. "God spoke to him through my lips in the night watches." We took our way unchallenged through the sleeping host till we had climbed the scarp of the hills. "What brought you to the tent door?" I asked. "I abode there through the night, I heard the strife with the devils, and my joints were loosened. Also I heard thy voice, brother, but I knew not thy words." "It was in my mind to do my little best to see that no harm befell thee. And if harm came, I had the thought of trying my knife on the ribs of yonder magician." In that hour I had none of the exhilaration of success. So strangely are we mortals made that, though I had won safety for myself and my people, I could not get the savour of it. I had passed too far beyond the limits of my strength. Now that the tension of peril was gone, my legs were like touchwood, which a stroke would shatter, and my foolish head swam like a merry-go-round. Shalah's arm was round me, and he lifted me up the steep bits till we came to the crown of the ridge. There we halted, and he fed me with sops of bread dipped in eau-de-vie, for he had brought Ringan's flask with him. The only result was to make me deadly sick. I saw his eyes look gravely at me, and the next I knew I was on his back. I begged him to set me down and leave me, and I think I must have wept like a bairn. All pride of manhood had flown in that sharp revulsion, and I had the mind of a lost child. "Your magic hath prevailed, brother," Shalah said. "In an hour's time they will have crossed the Shenandoah, and at nightfall they will camp on the farther mountains." And yet my strongest feeling was a wild regret. These folk were making for the untravelled lands of the sunset. You would have said I had got my bellyful of adventure, and should now have sought only a quiet life. But in that moment of bodily weakness and mental confusion I was shaken with a longing to follow them, to find what lay beyond the farthest cloud-topped mountain, to cross the wide rivers, and haply to come to the infinite and mystic Ocean of the West. "Would to God I were with them!" I sighed. "Will you come, brother?" Shalah whispered, a strange light in his eyes. "If we twain joined the venture, I think we should not be the last in it. Shalah would make you a king. What is your life in the muddy Tidewater but a thing of little rivalries and petty wrangles and moping over paper? The hearth will soon grow cold, and the bright eyes of the fairest woman will dull with age, and the years will find you heavy and slow, with a coward's shrinking from death. What say you, brother? While the blood is strong in the veins shall we ride westward on the path of a king?" His eyes were staring like a hawk's over the hills, and, light-headed as I was, I caught the infection of his ardour. For, remember, I was so low in spirit that all my hopes and memories were forgotten, and I was in that blank apathy which is mastered by another's passion. For a little the life of Virginia seemed unspeakably barren, and I quickened at the wild vista which Shalah offered. I might be a king over a proud people, carving a fair kingdom out of the wilderness, and ruling it justly in the fear of God. These western Indians were the stuff of a great nation. I, Andrew Garvald, might yet find that empire of which the old adventurers dreamed. With shame I set down my boyish folly. It did not last, long, for to my dizzy brain there came the air which Elspeth had sung, that song of Montrose's which had been, as it were, the star of all my wanderings. Surely it was confusion that had now overtaken me. Elspeth's clear voice, her dark, kind eyes, her young and joyous grace, filled again my memory. Was not such a lady better than any savage kingdom? Was not the service of my own folk nobler than any principate among strangers? Could the rivers of Damascus vie with the waters of Israel? "Nay, Shalah," I said. "Mine is a quieter destiny. I go back to the Tidewater, but I shall not stay there. We have found the road to the hills, and in time I will plant the flag of my race on the Shenandoah." He bowed his head. "So be it. Each man to his own path, but I would ours had run together. Your way is the way of the white man. You conquer slowly, but the line of your conquest goes not back. Slowly it eats its way through the forest, and fields and manors appear in the waste places, and cattle graze in the coverts of the deer. Listen, brother. Shalah has had his visions when his eyes were unsealed in the night watches. He has seen the white man pressing up from the sea, and spreading over the lands of his fathers. He has seen the glens of the hills parcelled out like the meadows of Henricus, and a great multitude surging ever on to the West. His race is doomed by God to perish before the stranger; but not yet awhile, for the white man comes slowly. It hath been told that the Children of the West Wind must seek their cradle, and while there is time he would join them in that quest. The white men follow upon their heels, but in his day and in that of his son's sons they will lead their life according to the ancient ways. He hath seen the wisdom of the stranger, and found among them men after his own heart; but the Spirit of his fathers calls, and now he returns to his own people." "What will you do there?" I asked. "I know not. I am still a prince among them, and will sway their councils. It may be fated that I slay yonder magician and reign in his stead." He got to his feet and looked proudly westward. "In a little I shall overtake them. But I would my brother had been of my company." Long ere we got to the Gap I was clean worn out. I remember that I fell constantly, and could scarcely rise. Then I stumbled, and the last power went out of will and sinew. I had a glimpse of Shalah's grave face as I slipped into unconsciousness. I woke in a glow of firelight. Faces surrounded me, dim wraith-like figures still entangled in the meshes of my dreams. Slowly the scene cleared, and I recognized Grey's features, drawn and constrained, and yet welcoming. Bertrand was weeping after his excitable fashion. But there was a face nearer to me, and with that face in my memory I went off into pleasant dreams. Somewhere in them mingled the words of the old spaewife, that I should miss love and fortune in the sunshine and find them in the rain. There was the true gentleman for you, and I sorrowed that I should ever have misjudged him. He shook my hand in all brotherliness, and went down the glen with Bertrand, who longed to see his children again. Soon the great valley lay below us, running out in a golden haze to the far blue mountains. "That is your heritage, Elspeth. That is the birthday gift to which old Studd's powder-flask is the key." "Nay, yours," she said, "for you won it." The words died on her lips, for her eyes were abstracted. My legs were still feeble, and I had leaned a little on her strong young arm as we came up the hill, but now she left me and climbed on a rock, where she sat like a pixie. The hardships of the past had thinned her face and deepened her eyes, but her grace was the more manifest. Fresh and dewy as morning, yet with a soul of steel and fire--surely no lovelier nymph ever graced a woodland. I felt how rough and common was my own clay in contrast with her bright spirit. Her face grew grave. "And have you not seen what is in mine?" she asked. "I have seen and rejoiced, and yet I doubt." "But why?" she asked again. "My life is yours, for you have preserved it. I would be graceless indeed if I did not give my best to you who have given all for me." She looked down on me from the rock with the old quizzing humour in her eyes. "If gratitude irks you, sir, what would you have?" "What does a woman desire?" she asked, as if from herself, and her voice was very soft as she gazed over the valley. "Men think it is a handsome face or a brisk air or a smooth tongue. And some will have it that it is a deep purse or a high station. But I think it is the honest heart that goes all the way with a woman's love. We are not so blind as to believe that the glitter is the gold. We love romance, but we seek it in its true home. Do you think I would marry you for gratitude, Andrew?" "Or for admiration?" "Yes," I said, with a sudden joy. That is the fancy at the back of both our heads. But I am very sure that our sons will be Virginians. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Salute to Adventurers, by John Buchan	redpajama-book	50,216
Produced by Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team A STORY OF THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. By Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant "It is a very simple thing to do," the lawyer said. "I will save you all trouble; nothing but your signature will be wanted--and that you give every day." "Oh, I should think nothing of the trouble!" she said. "And it would liberate your mind from all care, and leave you free to think of things more important still," said the clergyman. "I think I am very free of care," she replied. Then the doctor added bluntly, "And you will not die an hour the sooner for having made your will." "Die!" said Lady Mary, surprised. And then she added, with a smile, "I hope you don't think so little of me as to believe I would be kept back by that?" "People think it is so troublesome a business," he said, "when it is nothing at all--the most easy matter in the world. We are getting so much less particular nowadays about formalities. So long as the testator's intentions are made quite apparent--that is the chief matter, and a very bad thing for us lawyers." "I dare say," said Lady Mary, "it is unpleasant for a man to think of himself as 'the testator.' It is a very abstract title, when you come to think of it." "Pooh'" said Mr. Furnival, who had no sense of humor. Lady Mary put up her hand defensively, with a laugh. It was still a most delicate hand, like ivory, a little yellowed with age, but fine, the veins standing out a little upon it, the finger-tips still pink. "You speak," she said, "as if you expected me to take the law in my own hands. No, no, my old friend; never fear, you shall have the doing of it." "Whenever you please, my dear lady--whenever you please. Such a thing cannot be done an hour too soon. Shall I take your instructions now?" Lady Mary laughed, and said, "You were always a very keen man for business. I remember your father used to say, Robert would never neglect an opening." "Very good care," said Lady Mary; and then she bade her young companion bring that book she had been reading, where there was something she wanted to show Mr. Furnival. "It is only a case in a novel, but I am sure it is bad law; give me your opinion," she said. He was obliged to be civil, very civil. Nobody is rude to the Lady Marys of life; and besides, she was old enough to have an additional right to every courtesy. But while he sat over the novel, and tried with unnecessary vehemence to make her see what very bad law it was, and glanced from her smiling attention to the innocent sweetness of the girl beside her, who was her loving attendant, the good man's heart was sore. He said many hard things of her in his own mind as he went away. "She will die," he said bitterly. "She will go off in a moment when nobody is looking for it, and that poor child will be left destitute." "Now I will go to bed," Lady Mary said, when Brown had left the room. "And Jervis, you must go to bed too." "Yes, my lady," said Jervis. "I don't approve of courtship at this hour." "No, my lady," Jervis replied, deprecating and disappointed. "Why cannot he tell his tale in daylight?" But what a pity! oh, what a pity, that she had not died that night! "To do," she said, "for me?" and then she looked round upon them with that charming smile which had subjugated so many. "I am afraid," she said, "you will find me of very little use. I am too old now, if ever I could have done much, for work." "The fact is, I feel a great deal better and stronger," she said. "Quite well, Mary, and stronger than ever you were before?" "Who is it that calls me Mary? I have had nobody for a long time to call me Mary; the friends of my youth are all dead. I think that you must be right, although the doctor, I feel sure, thought me very bad last night. I should have got alarmed if I had not fallen asleep again." "And then woke up well?" "Quite well: it is wonderful, but quite true. You seem to know a great deal about me." "I know everything about you. You have had a very pleasant life, and do you think you have made the best of it? Your old age has been very pleasant." "Ah! you acknowledge that I am old, then?" cried Lady Mary with a smile. "You are old no longer, and you are a great lady no longer. Don't you see that something has happened to you? It is seldom that such a great change happens without being found out." "This is not all, however," her friend said; "you have an ordeal before you which you will not find pleasant. You are going to think about your life, and all that was imperfect in it, and which might have been done better." "For a time," he said, "you will have enough to do, without troubling yourself about that." This naturally produced an uneasy sensation in her mind. "I suppose," she said, rather timidly, "that we are not in--what we have been accustomed to call heaven?" "That is a word," he said, "which expresses rather a condition than a place." "You were always fond of the oracular," she said. She was conscious that on former occasions, if he made such a speech to her, though she would have felt the same amusement, she would not have expressed it so frankly. But he did not take it at all amiss. And her thoughts went on in other directions. She felt herself saying over to herself the words of the old north-country dirge, which came to her recollection she knew not how- If hosen and shoon thou gavest nane, The whins shall prick thee intil the bane. When she saw that her companion heard her, she asked, "Is that true?" He shook his head a little. "It is too matter of fact," he said, "as I need hardly tell you. Hosen and shoon are good, but they do not always sufficiently indicate the state of the heart." "Where?" he said, stopping and listening; so that it began to seem possible to her that some such expedient might still be within her reach. "Ah," he said, shaking his head, "I fear that it is impossible." "Ah!" cried Lady Mary, "but that would be only for the tenderness; whereas this is for justice and for pity, and to do away with a great wrong which I did before I came here." "There is nothing I would not do," he said, "for you and for love." And then they all sighed, surrounding her, and added, "But it is impossible--impossible!" They gathered closer and closer round her, full of compassion. "It is easy to come," they said, "but not to go." She remembered then that this was a man who had neglected all lawful affections, and broken the hearts of those who trusted him for her sake; and for a moment she forgot her own burden in sorrow for his. "Permission will not be refused," he said, "for a worthy cause." "Do not go," they said; "do not go. We have endured like you. We wait till all things are made clear." And another said, "All will be made clear. It is but for a time." "I will try," Lady Mary said. "Oh no! we must not say that. I dare say, as my son says, she always meant to do it sometime-" "Sometime! how long did she expect to live, I wonder?" She could not finish her sentence, for it was very bitter to her, as may be supposed. "There is nobody," said Mary, who, in the shock of the calamity which had so suddenly changed the world to her, was perfectly calm. She did not feel at all disposed to cry or "give way." It went to her head with a thrill of pain, which was excitement as well, like a strong stimulant suddenly applied; and she added, "I should like to go out a little, if you don't mind, just to get used to the idea." It was winter, and snow was on the ground. "I never had that confidence in my lady to expect anything," Prentiss said. "And we've all said it," said Jervis. "I can't think how she did it, nor why she did it; for she was a kind lady, though appearances is against her." "Oh, you are hard upon my lady!" cried Jervis, "and I can't bear to hear a word against her, though it's been an awful disappointment to me." "But what is the matter with baby?" the mother said, rising hastily. It was with no servile intention of securing a look from that little prince of life that she who was not of this world had stepped aside forlorn, and looked at him in his cradle. Though she was not of this world, she was still a woman, and had nursed her children in her arms. She bent over the infant by the soft impulse of nature, tenderly, with no interested thought. But the child saw her; was it possible? He turned his head towards her, and flickered his baby hands, and cooed with that indescribable voice that goes to every woman's heart. Lady Mary felt such a thrill of pleasure go through her, as no incident had given her for long years. She put out her arms to him as his mother snatched him from his little bed; and he, which was more wonderful, stretched towards her in his innocence, turning away from them all. "I am Lady Mary's goddaughter," said the girl. "I have lived here all my life." "Oh, my dear, I have heard all about you," the lady cried. The people who had taken the house were merely rich people; they had no other characteristic; and in the vicarage, as well as in the other houses about, it was said, when they were spoken of, that it was a good thing they were not people to be visited, since nobody could have had the heart to visit strangers in Lady Mary's house. And Mary could not but feel a keen resentment to think that her story, such as it was, the story which she had only now heard in her own person, should be discussed by such people. But the speaker had a look of kindness, and, so far as could be seen, of perplexity and fretted anxiety in her face, and had been in a hurry, but stopped herself in order to show her interest. "I wonder," she said impulsively, "that you can come here and look at the place again, after all that has passed." "I never thought," said Mary, "that there could be--any objection." "I don't know you," cried Mary, breathless with quick rising passion. "I don't know what right you can have to meddle with my affairs." In your time! Poor Mary had scarcely realized yet that her time was over. Her heart refused to allow it when it was thus so abruptly brought before her, but she obliged herself to subdue these rising rebellions, and to answer, though with some _hauteur_, "There is nothing of the kind that I ever heard of. There is no superstition or ghost in our house." "An old lady!" said Mary, with an involuntary smile. "Miss Vivian," said Mrs. Turner, "will you come back with me and speak to the child?" At this Mary faltered a little. "I have never been there--since the--funeral," she said. The good woman laid a kind hand upon her shoulder, caressing and soothing. "You were very fond of her--in spite of the way she has used you?" "Tell the young lady all about it, Connie," said her mother. "I thought it might be--the ghost. Oh, please, don't be angry. I thought I heard this door open, but it is locked. Oh! perhaps it is very silly, but I am so frightened, Miss Vivian." "Go back to bed," said Mary; "there is no--ghost. I am going to sit up and write some--letters. You will see my light under the door." "Oh, thank you," cried the girl. "There can be no need for troubling Miss Vivian about it," he said, in a tone which was almost rude. But Mrs. Turner was not sensitive. "When Miss Vivian has just come like a dear, to help us with Connie!" the good woman cried. "Of course she must hear it, doctor, for otherwise, how could she know what to do?" "Is it true that you have come here--_here?_ to help--Good heavens, Miss Mary, _here?_" "Why not here?" Mary said, smiling as but she could. "I am Connie's governess, doctor." He burst out into that suppressed roar which serves a man instead of tears, and jumped up from his seat, clenching his fist. The clenched fist was to the intention of the dead woman whose fault this was; and if it had ever entered the doctor's mind, as his mother supposed, to marry this forlorn child, and thus bestow a home upon her whether she would or no, no doubt he would now have attempted to carry out that plan. But as no such thing had occurred to him, the doctor only showed his sense of the intolerable by look and gesture. "I must speak to the vicar. I must see Furnival. It can't be permitted," he cried. "Oh, my dear, I don't make any pretensions," the good woman cried, but with a little shock of pleasure which brought the tears to her eyes. "Oh no. I never saw a picture that was so pretty," said the child. "Miss Mary, for God's sake, hold your tongue; it is folly, you know. Now, my little girl, tell me. I know this old lady is the very image of that pretty old lady with the toys for good children, who was in the last Christmas number?" "Doctor, I can't bear any more." "Doctor," cried Mary, "how can you speak so to me? You dare not look me in the face. You know you dare not: as if you did not know as well as I do! Oh, why does that child see her, and not me?" "There it is," he said, with a broken laugh. "Could anything show better that it is a mere delusion? Why, in the name of all that is reasonable, should this stranger child see her, if it was anything, and not you?" "Doctor, don't go away, tell me rather what I must do--if she is looking for something! Oh, doctor, think if she were unhappy, if she were kept out of her sweet rest!" "Miss Mary, for God's sake, be reasonable. You ought never to have heard a word." "Doctor, think! if it should be anything we can do. Oh, tell me, tell me! Don't go away and leave me; perhaps we can find out what it is." "What is it?" cried Connie's mother; "is it a warning! Oh, for the love of God, tell me, is that what comes before a death?" "Don't ask me any questions just now," said Mary, clasping almost hysterically her friend's hand. "It was providential. Come and hear what the child has seen." Mrs. Turner, though she was so anxious, was too polite not to make a fuss about getting chairs for all her visitors. She postponed her own trouble to this necessity, and trembling, sought the most comfortable seat for Mrs. Bowyer, the largest and most imposing for the vicar himself. When she had established them in a little circle, and done her best to draw Mary, too, into a chair, she sat down quietly, her mind divided between the cares of courtesy and the alarms of an anxious mother. Mary stood at the table and waited till the commotion was over. The new-comers thought she was going to explain her conduct in leaving them; and Mrs. Bowyer, at least, who was critical in point of manners, shivered a little, wondering if perhaps (though she could not find it in her heart to blame Mary) her proceedings were in perfect taste. "Mary, Mary!" Mrs. Bowyer had risen and stood behind the girl, in whose slender throat the climbing sorrow was almost visible, supporting her, trying to stop her. "Mary, Mary!" she cried; "oh, my darling, what are you thinking of? Francis! doctor! make her stop, make her stop." Now the others looked at each other, exchanging a startled look. "This is very strange," the vicar said. "How could the child know what we have been saying, Francis?" "My dear lady, you hear what the doctor says. If there is no picture, and she has heard nothing, I suppose, then, your premises are gone, and the conclusion falls to the ground." "What does it matter about premises?" cried the vicar's wife; "here is something dreadful that has happened. Oh, what nonsense that is about imagination; children have no imagination. A dreadful thing has happened. In heaven's name, Francis, tell this poor child what she is to do." "I can see by her eyes that she did not sleep last night," the doctor said, relieved. "We shall have her seeing visions too, if we don't take care." "Instead of," said the vicar, with a slight tremor, "making herself known, if that was permitted, to--to me, for example, or our friend here." "That is true," said the vicar, "and all the associations of the place must be overwhelming. My dear, we must take her away with us. Mrs. Turner, I am sure, is very kind, but it cannot be good for Mary to be here." On the other side, however, visions which had nothing sacred in them began to be heard of, and "Connie's ghost," as it was called in the house, had various vulgar effects. A housemaid became hysterical, and announced that she too had seen the lady, of whom she gave a description, exaggerated from Connie's, which all the household were ready to swear she had never heard. The lady, whom Connie had only seen passing, went to Betsey's room in the middle of the night, and told her, in a hollow and terrible voice, that she could not rest, opening a series of communications by which it was evident all the secrets of the unseen world would soon be disclosed. And following upon this, there came a sort of panic in the house; noises were heard in various places, sounds of footsteps pacing, and of a long robe sweeping about the passages; and Lady Mary's costumes, and the head-dress which was so peculiar, which all her friends had recognized in Connie's description, grew into something portentous under the heavier hand of the foot-boy and the kitchen-maid. Mrs. Prentiss, who had remained, as a special favor to the new people, was deeply indignant and outraged by this treatment of her mistress. She appealed to Mary with mingled anger and tears. "I would have sent the hussy away at an hour's notice, if I had the power in my hands," she cried, "but, Miss Mary, it's easily seen who is a real lady and who is not. Mrs. Turner interferes herself in everything, though she likes it to be supposed that she has a housekeeper." "Dear Prentiss, you must not say Mrs. Turner is not a lady. She has far more delicacy of feeling than many ladies," cried Mary. "Yes, Miss Mary, dear, I allow that she is very nice to you; but who could help that? and to hear my lady's name--that might have her faults, but who was far above anything of the sort--in every mouth, and her costume, that they don't know how to describe, and to think that _she_ would go and talk to the like of Betsy Barnes about what is on her mind! I think sometimes I shall break my, heart, or else throw up my place, Miss Mary," Prentiss said, with tears. "Oh, don't do that; oh, don't leave me, Prentiss!" Mary said, with an involuntary cry of dismay. The household, however, was agitated by all these rumors and inventions. Alice, Connie's elder sister, declined to sleep any longer in that which began to be called the haunted room. She, too, began to think she saw something, she could not tell what, gliding out of the room as it began to get dark, and to hear sighs and moans in the corridors. The servants, who all wanted to leave, and the villagers, who avoided the grounds after nightfall, spread the rumor far and near that the house was haunted. "Who? little Connie?" "We had better not discuss that subject. Of course I don't put a moment's faith in any such nonsense. But girls are full of fancies. I want you to find out for me whether she has begun to think she sees anything. She looks like it; and if something isn't done she will soon do so, if not now." "You think, then, my dear," said the vicar, "that Lady Mary, an old friend, who was as young in her mind as any of us, lies body and soul in that old dark hole of a vault?" The vicar had a gentle professional laugh over the confusion of his wife's mind. But the doctor took the matter more seriously. "Lady Mary is safely buried and done with, I am not thinking of her," he said; "but I am thinking of Mary Vivian's senses, which will not stand this much longer. Try and find out from her if she sees anything: if she has come to that, whatever she says we must have her out of there." But Mrs. Bowyer had nothing to report when this conclave of friends met again. Mary would not allow that she had seen anything. She grew paler every day, her eyes grew larger, but she made no confession; and Connie bloomed and grew, and met no more old ladies upon the stairs. "Everything!" cried Mary, with a full heart. "Oh yes, and better than ever," said Mary; "for often you do not know how you loved them, or what they were to you, till they are gone away." "My dear," cried Mary, "do not repeat what ignorant people say, because it is not true." "But mamma said it, Miss Vivian." "You must never, never say it again. There is nothing I mind so much," Mary said. "Oh," said Connie, with mild surprise. Then, as Mary's hold relaxed, she put her arms round her beloved companion's neck. "I will tell them all you don't like it. I will tell them they must not--oh!" cried Connie again, in a quick astonished voice. She clutched Mary round the neck, returning the violence of the grasp which had hurt her, and with the other hand pointed to the door. "The lady! the lady! oh, come and see where she is going!" Connie cried. Mary felt as if the child in her vehemence lifted her from her seat. She had no sense that her own limbs or her own will carried her, in the impetuous rush with which Connie flew. The blood mounted to her head. She felt a heat and throbbing as if her spine were on fire. Connie holding by her skirts, pushing her on, went along the corridor to the other door, now deserted, of Lady Mary's room. "There, there! don't you see her? She is going in!" the child cried, and rushed on, clinging to Mary, dragging her on, her light hair streaming, her little white dress waving. Among the articles given away was the Italian cabinet, which the vicar had always had a fancy for; and naturally it had not been in the vicarage a day, before the boys insisted on finding out the way of opening the secret drawer. And there the paper was found, in the most natural way, without any trouble or mystery at all. "But that is impossible," said the man who had loved her. She had come to herself by this time, and the dark lines were melting from her face. "I am forgiven," she said, with a low cry of happiness. "She whom I wronged, loves me and blessed me; and we saw each other face to face. I know nothing more." "There is no more," said all together. For everything is included in pardon and love. End of Project Gutenberg's Old Lady Mary, by Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant	redpajama-book	5,375
Produced by Judith Smith and Natalie Salter OR THE INFERNO FROM THE DIVINE COMEDY THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. Then was a little respite to the fear, That in my heart's recesses deep had lain, All of that night, so pitifully pass'd: And as a man, with difficult short breath, Forespent with toiling, 'scap'd from sea to shore, Turns to the perilous wide waste, and stands At gaze; e'en so my spirit, that yet fail'd Struggling with terror, turn'd to view the straits, That none hath pass'd and liv'd. My weary frame After short pause recomforted, again I journey'd on over that lonely steep, The hinder foot still firmer. Scarce the ascent Began, when, lo! a panther, nimble, light, And cover'd with a speckled skin, appear'd, Nor, when it saw me, vanish'd, rather strove To check my onward going; that ofttimes With purpose to retrace my steps I turn'd. Onward he mov'd, I close his steps pursu'd. NOW was the day departing, and the air, Imbrown'd with shadows, from their toils releas'd All animals on earth; and I alone Prepar'd myself the conflict to sustain, Both of sad pity, and that perilous road, Which my unerring memory shall retrace. Revisited with joy. Love brought me thence, Who prompts my speech. When in my Master's sight I stand, thy praise to him I oft will tell." She then was silent, and I thus began: "O Lady! by whose influence alone, Mankind excels whatever is contain'd Within that heaven which hath the smallest orb, So thy command delights me, that to obey, If it were done already, would seem late. No need hast thou farther to speak thy will; Yet tell the reason, why thou art not loth To leave that ample space, where to return Thou burnest, for this centre here beneath." She then: "Since thou so deeply wouldst inquire, I will instruct thee briefly, why no dread Hinders my entrance here. Those things alone Are to be fear'd, whence evil may proceed, None else, for none are terrible beside. I am so fram'd by God, thanks to his grace! That any suff'rance of your misery Touches me not, nor flame of that fierce fire Assails me. In high heaven a blessed dame Besides, who mourns with such effectual grief That hindrance, which I send thee to remove, That God's stern judgment to her will inclines." To Lucia calling, her she thus bespake: "Now doth thy faithful servant need thy aid And I commend him to thee." At her word Sped Lucia, of all cruelty the foe, And coming to the place, where I abode Seated with Rachel, her of ancient days, She thus address'd me: "Thou true praise of God! Beatrice! why is not thy succour lent To him, who so much lov'd thee, as to leave For thy sake all the multitude admires? Dost thou not hear how pitiful his wail, Nor mark the death, which in the torrent flood, Swoln mightier than a sea, him struggling holds?" "Ne'er among men did any with such speed Haste to their profit, flee from their annoy, As when these words were spoken, I came here, Down from my blessed seat, trusting the force Of thy pure eloquence, which thee, and all Who well have mark'd it, into honour brings." So spake I; and when he had onward mov'd, I enter'd on the deep and woody way. "THROUGH me you pass into the city of woe: Through me you pass into eternal pain: Through me among the people lost for aye. Justice the founder of my fabric mov'd: To rear me was the task of power divine, Supremest wisdom, and primeval love. Before me things create were none, save things Eternal, and eternal I endure. "All hope abandon ye who enter here." Here sighs with lamentations and loud moans Resounded through the air pierc'd by no star, That e'en I wept at entering. Various tongues, Horrible languages, outcries of woe, Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse, With hands together smote that swell'd the sounds, Made up a tumult, that for ever whirls Round through that air with solid darkness stain'd, Like to the sand that in the whirlwind flies. I then, with error yet encompass'd, cried: "O master! What is this I hear? What race Are these, who seem so overcome with woe?" He thus to me: "This miserable fate Suffer the wretched souls of those, who liv'd Without or praise or blame, with that ill band Of angels mix'd, who nor rebellious prov'd Nor yet were true to God, but for themselves Were only. From his bounds Heaven drove them forth, Not to impair his lustre, nor the depth Of Hell receives them, lest th' accursed tribe Should glory thence with exultation vain." I then: "Master! what doth aggrieve them thus, That they lament so loud?" He straight replied: "That will I tell thee briefly. These of death No hope may entertain: and their blind life So meanly passes, that all other lots They envy. Fame of them the world hath none, Nor suffers; mercy and justice scorn them both. Speak not of them, but look, and pass them by." And I, who straightway look'd, beheld a flag, Which whirling ran around so rapidly, That it no pause obtain'd: and following came Such a long train of spirits, I should ne'er Have thought, that death so many had despoil'd. When some of these I recogniz'd, I saw And knew the shade of him, who to base fear Yielding, abjur'd his high estate. Forthwith I understood for certain this the tribe Of those ill spirits both to God displeasing And to his foes. These wretches, who ne'er lived, Went on in nakedness, and sorely stung By wasps and hornets, which bedew'd their cheeks With blood, that mix'd with tears dropp'd to their feet, And by disgustful worms was gather'd there. Then looking farther onwards I beheld A throng upon the shore of a great stream: Whereat I thus: "Sir! grant me now to know Whom here we view, and whence impell'd they seem So eager to pass o'er, as I discern Through the blear light?" He thus to me in few: "This shalt thou know, soon as our steps arrive Beside the woeful tide of Acheron." Then with eyes downward cast and fill'd with shame, Fearing my words offensive to his ear, Till we had reach'd the river, I from speech Abstain'd. And lo! toward us in a bark Comes on an old man hoary white with eld, Straightway in silence fell the shaggy cheeks Of him the boatman o'er the livid lake, Around whose eyes glar'd wheeling flames. Meanwhile Those spirits, faint and naked, color chang'd, And gnash'd their teeth, soon as the cruel words They heard. God and their parents they blasphem'd, The human kind, the place, the time, and seed That did engender them and give them birth. Thus go they over through the umber'd wave, And ever they on the opposing bank Be landed, on this side another throng Still gathers. "Son," thus spake the courteous guide, "Those, who die subject to the wrath of God, All here together come from every clime, And to o'erpass the river are not loth: For so heaven's justice goads them on, that fear Is turn'd into desire. Hence ne'er hath past Good spirit. If of thee Charon complain, Now mayst thou know the import of his words." Then I his alter'd hue perceiving, thus: "How may I speed, if thou yieldest to dread, Who still art wont to comfort me in doubt?" "Only so far afflicted, that we live Desiring without hope." So grief assail'd My heart at hearing this, for well I knew Suspended in that Limbo many a soul Of mighty worth. "O tell me, sire rever'd! Tell me, my master!" I began through wish Of full assurance in that holy faith, Which vanquishes all error; "say, did e'er Any, or through his own or other's merit, Come forth from thence, whom afterward was blest?" We, while he spake, ceas'd not our onward road, Still passing through the wood; for so I name Those spirits thick beset. We were not far On this side from the summit, when I kenn'd A flame, that o'er the darken'd hemisphere Prevailing shin'd. Yet we a little space Were distant, not so far but I in part Discover'd, that a tribe in honour high That place possess'd. "O thou, who every art And science valu'st! who are these, that boast Such honour, separate from all the rest?" There dwelt a race, who slow their eyes around Majestically mov'd, and in their port Bore eminent authority; they spake Seldom, but all their words were tuneful sweet. Electra there I saw accompanied By many, among whom Hector I knew, Anchises' pious son, and with hawk's eye Caesar all arm'd, and by Camilla there Penthesilea. On the other side Old King Latinus, seated by his child Lavinia, and that Brutus I beheld, Who Tarquin chas'd, Lucretia, Cato's wife Marcia, with Julia and Cornelia there; And sole apart retir'd, the Soldan fierce. Then when a little more I rais'd my brow, I spied the master of the sapient throng, Seated amid the philosophic train. Him all admire, all pay him rev'rence due. There Socrates and Plato both I mark'd, Nearest to him in rank; Democritus, Who sets the world at chance, Diogenes, With Heraclitus, and Empedocles, And Anaxagoras, and Thales sage, Zeno, and Dioscorides well read In nature's secret lore. Orpheus I mark'd And Linus, Tully and moral Seneca, Euclid and Ptolemy, Hippocrates, Galenus, Avicen, and him who made That commentary vast, Averroes. Now 'gin the rueful wailings to be heard. Now am I come where many a plaining voice Smites on mine ear. Into a place I came Where light was silent all. Bellowing there groan'd A noise as of a sea in tempest torn By warring winds. The stormy blast of hell With restless fury drives the spirits on Whirl'd round and dash'd amain with sore annoy. When they arrive before the ruinous sweep, There shrieks are heard, there lamentations, moans, And blasphemies 'gainst the good Power in heaven. "Then by that love which carries them along, Entreat; and they will come." Soon as the wind Sway'd them toward us, I thus fram'd my speech: "O wearied spirits! come, and hold discourse With us, if by none else restrain'd." As doves By fond desire invited, on wide wings And firm, to their sweet nest returning home, Cleave the air, wafted by their will along; Thus issu'd from that troop, where Dido ranks, They through the ill air speeding; with such force My cry prevail'd by strong affection urg'd. "O gracious creature and benign! who go'st Visiting, through this element obscure, Us, who the world with bloody stain imbru'd; If for a friend the King of all we own'd, Our pray'r to him should for thy peace arise, Since thou hast pity on our evil plight. ()f whatsoe'er to hear or to discourse It pleases thee, that will we hear, of that Freely with thee discourse, while e'er the wind, As now, is mute. The land, that gave me birth, Is situate on the coast, where Po descends To rest in ocean with his sequent streams. "Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt, Entangled him by that fair form, from me Ta'en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still: Love, that denial takes from none belov'd, Caught me with pleasing him so passing well, That, as thou see'st, he yet deserts me not. E'en as a dog, that yelling bays for food His keeper, when the morsel comes, lets fall His fury, bent alone with eager haste To swallow it; so dropp'd the loathsome cheeks Of demon Cerberus, who thund'ring stuns The spirits, that they for deafness wish in vain. We, o'er the shades thrown prostrate by the brunt Of the heavy tempest passing, set our feet Upon their emptiness, that substance seem'd. "Thy city heap'd with envy to the brim, Ay that the measure overflows its bounds, Held me in brighter days. Ye citizens Were wont to name me Ciacco. For the sin Of glutt'ny, damned vice, beneath this rain, E'en as thou see'st, I with fatigue am worn; Nor I sole spirit in this woe: all these Have by like crime incurr'd like punishment." This said, his fixed eyes he turn'd askance, A little ey'd me, then bent down his head, And 'midst his blind companions with it fell. He then: "Consult thy knowledge; that decides That as each thing to more perfection grows, It feels more sensibly both good and pain. Though ne'er to true perfection may arrive This race accurs'd, yet nearer then than now They shall approach it." Compassing that path Circuitous we journeyed, and discourse Much more than I relate between us pass'd: Till at the point, where the steps led below, Arriv'd, there Plutus, the great foe, we found. "AH me! O Satan! Satan!" loud exclaim'd Plutus, in accent hoarse of wild alarm: And the kind sage, whom no event surpris'd, To comfort me thus spake: "Let not thy fear Harm thee, for power in him, be sure, is none To hinder down this rock thy safe descent." Then to that sworn lip turning, "Peace!" he cried, As sails full spread and bellying with the wind Drop suddenly collaps'd, if the mast split; So to the ground down dropp'd the cruel fiend. "My guide! of thee this also would I learn; This fortune, that thou speak'st of, what it is, Whose talons grasp the blessings of the world?" "There on the filthy waters," he replied, "E'en now what next awaits us mayst thou see, If the marsh-gender'd fog conceal it not." I answer'd: "Though I come, I tarry not; But who art thou, that art become so foul?" To which I thus: "In mourning and in woe, Curs'd spirit! tarry thou.g I know thee well, E'en thus in filth disguis'd." Then stretch'd he forth Hands to the bark; whereof my teacher sage Aware, thrusting him back: "Away! down there; I then: "Master! him fain would I behold Whelm'd in these dregs, before we quit the lake." He thus: "Or ever to thy view the shore Be offer'd, satisfied shall be that wish, Which well deserves completion." Scarce his words Were ended, when I saw the miry tribes Set on him with such violence, that yet For that render I thanks to God and praise "To Filippo Argenti:" cried they all: And on himself the moody Florentine Turn'd his avenging fangs. Him here we left, Nor speak I of him more. But on mine ear Sudden a sound of lamentation smote, Whereat mine eye unbarr'd I sent abroad. And thus the good instructor: "Now, my son! Draws near the city, that of Dis is nam'd, With its grave denizens, a mighty throng." I thus: "The minarets already, Sir! There certes in the valley I descry, Gleaming vermilion, as if they from fire Had issu'd." He replied: "Eternal fire, That inward burns, shows them with ruddy flame Illum'd; as in this nether hell thou seest." My liege, who thither had conducted me, Replied: "Fear not: for of our passage none Hath power to disappoint us, by such high Authority permitted. But do thou Expect me here; meanwhile thy wearied spirit Comfort, and feed with kindly hope, assur'd I will not leave thee in this lower world." This said, departs the sire benevolent, And quits me. Hesitating I remain At war 'twixt will and will not in my thoughts. He knowing well the miserable hags Who tend the queen of endless woe, thus spake: And now there came o'er the perturbed waves Loud-crashing, terrible, a sound that made Either shore tremble, as if of a wind Impetuous, from conflicting vapours sprung, That 'gainst some forest driving all its might, Plucks off the branches, beats them down and hurls Afar; then onward passing proudly sweeps Its whirlwind rage, while beasts and shepherds fly. "Outcasts of heav'n! O abject race and scorn'd!" Began he on the horrid grunsel standing, "Whence doth this wild excess of insolence Lodge in you? wherefore kick you 'gainst that will Ne'er frustrate of its end, and which so oft Hath laid on you enforcement of your pangs? What profits at the fays to but the horn? Your Cerberus, if ye remember, hence Bears still, peel'd of their hair, his throat and maw." This said, he turn'd back o'er the filthy way, And syllable to us spake none, but wore The semblance of a man by other care Beset, and keenly press'd, than thought of him Who in his presence stands. Then we our steps Toward that territory mov'd, secure After the hallow'd words. We unoppos'd There enter'd; and my mind eager to learn What state a fortress like to that might hold, I soon as enter'd throw mine eye around, And see on every part wide-stretching space Replete with bitter pain and torment ill. As where Rhone stagnates on the plains of Arles, Or as at Pola, near Quarnaro's gulf, That closes Italy and laves her bounds, The place is all thick spread with sepulchres; So was it here, save what in horror here Excell'd: for 'midst the graves were scattered flames, Wherewith intensely all throughout they burn'd, That iron for no craft there hotter needs. Their lids all hung suspended, and beneath From them forth issu'd lamentable moans, Such as the sad and tortur'd well might raise. I thus: "Master! say who are these, interr'd Within these vaults, of whom distinct we hear The dolorous sighs?" He answer thus return'd: "The arch-heretics are here, accompanied By every sect their followers; and much more, Than thou believest, tombs are freighted: like With like is buried; and the monuments Are different in degrees of heat." This said, He to the right hand turning, on we pass'd Betwixt the afflicted and the ramparts high. "O Tuscan! thou who through the city of fire Alive art passing, so discreet of speech! Here please thee stay awhile. Thy utterance Declares the place of thy nativity To be that noble land, with which perchance I too severely dealt." Sudden that sound Forth issu'd from a vault, whereat in fear I somewhat closer to my leader's side Approaching, he thus spake: "What dost thou? Turn. Lo, Farinata, there! who hath himself Uplifted: from his girdle upwards all Expos'd behold him." On his face was mine Already fix'd; his breast and forehead there Erecting, seem'd as in high scorn he held E'en hell. Between the sepulchres to him My guide thrust me with fearless hands and prompt, This warning added: "See thy words be clear!" He, soon as there I stood at the tomb's foot, Ey'd me a space, then in disdainful mood Address'd me: "Say, what ancestors were thine?" Then, peering forth from the unclosed jaw, Rose from his side a shade, high as the chin, Leaning, methought, upon its knees uprais'd. It look'd around, as eager to explore If there were other with me; but perceiving That fond imagination quench'd, with tears Thus spake: "If thou through this blind prison go'st. Led by thy lofty genius and profound, Where is my son? and wherefore not with thee?" "So may thy lineage find at last repose," I thus adjur'd him, "as thou solve this knot, Which now involves my mind. If right I hear, Ye seem to view beforehand, that which time Leads with him, of the present uninform'd." Then conscious of my fault, and by remorse Smitten, I added thus: "Now shalt thou say To him there fallen, that his offspring still Is to the living join'd; and bid him know, That if from answer silent I abstain'd, 'Twas that my thought was occupied intent Upon that error, which thy help hath solv'd." But now my master summoning me back I heard, and with more eager haste besought The spirit to inform me, who with him Partook his lot. He answer thus return'd: "When thou shalt stand before her gracious beam, Whose bright eye all surveys, she of thy life The future tenour will to thee unfold." Forthwith he to the left hand turn'd his feet: We left the wall, and tow'rds the middle space Went by a path, that to a valley strikes; Which e'en thus high exhal'd its noisome steam. UPON the utmost verge of a high bank, By craggy rocks environ'd round, we came, Where woes beneath more cruel yet were stow'd: And here to shun the horrible excess Of fetid exhalation, upward cast From the profound abyss, behind the lid Of a great monument we stood retir'd, THE place where to descend the precipice We came, was rough as Alp, and on its verge Such object lay, as every eye would shun. To him my guide exclaim'd: "Perchance thou deem'st The King of Athens here, who, in the world Above, thy death contriv'd. Monster! avaunt! He comes not tutor'd by thy sister's art, But to behold your torments is he come." Like to a bull, that with impetuous spring Darts, at the moment when the fatal blow Hath struck him, but unable to proceed Plunges on either side; so saw I plunge The Minotaur; whereat the sage exclaim'd: "Run to the passage! while he storms, 't is well That thou descend." Thus down our road we took Through those dilapidated crags, that oft Mov'd underneath my feet, to weight like theirs Unus'd. I pond'ring went, and thus he spake: "Perhaps thy thoughts are of this ruin'd steep, Guarded by the brute violence, which I Have vanquish'd now. Know then, that when I erst Hither descended to the nether hell, This rock was not yet fallen. But past doubt (If well I mark) not long ere He arrived, Who carried off from Dis the mighty spoil Of the highest circle, then through all its bounds Such trembling seiz'd the deep concave and foul, I thought the universe was thrill'd with love, Whereby, there are who deem, the world hath oft Been into chaos turn'd: and in that point, Here, and elsewhere, that old rock toppled down. But fix thine eyes beneath: the river of blood Approaches, in the which all those are steep'd, Who have by violence injur'd." O blind lust! O foolish wrath! who so dost goad us on In the brief life, and in the eternal then Thus miserably o'erwhelm us. I beheld An ample foss, that in a bow was bent, As circling all the plain; for so my guide Had told. Between it and the rampart's base On trail ran Centaurs, with keen arrows arm'd, As to the chase they on the earth were wont. To whom my guide: "Our answer shall be made To Chiron, there, when nearer him we come. Ill was thy mind, thus ever quick and rash." Then me he touch'd, and spake: "Nessus is this, Who for the fair Deianira died, And wrought himself revenge for his own fate. He in the midst, that on his breast looks down, Is the great Chiron who Achilles nurs'd; That other Pholus, prone to wrath." Around The foss these go by thousands, aiming shafts At whatsoever spirit dares emerge From out the blood, more than his guilt allows. Then on his right breast turning, Chiron thus To Nessus spake: "Return, and be their guide. And if ye chance to cross another troop, Command them keep aloof." Onward we mov'd, The faithful escort by our side, along The border of the crimson-seething flood, Whence from those steep'd within loud shrieks arose. A race I next espied, who held the head, And even all the bust above the stream. 'Midst these I many a face remember'd well. Thus shallow more and more the blood became, So that at last it but imbru'd the feet; And there our passage lay athwart the foss. "As ever on this side the boiling wave Thou seest diminishing," the Centaur said, "So on the other, be thou well assur'd, It lower still and lower sinks its bed, Till in that part it reuniting join, Where 't is the lot of tyranny to mourn. There Heav'n's stern justice lays chastising hand On Attila, who was the scourge of earth, On Sextus, and on Pyrrhus, and extracts Tears ever by the seething flood unlock'd From the Rinieri, of Corneto this, Pazzo the other nam'd, who fill'd the ways With violence and war." This said, he turn'd, And quitting us, alone repass'd the ford. ERE Nessus yet had reach'd the other bank, We enter'd on a forest, where no track Of steps had worn a way. Not verdant there The foliage, but of dusky hue; not light The boughs and tapering, but with knares deform'd And matted thick: fruits there were none, but thorns Instead, with venom fill'd. Less sharp than these, Less intricate the brakes, wherein abide Those animals, that hate the cultur'd fields, Betwixt Corneto and Cecina's stream. Here the brute Harpies make their nest, the same Who from the Strophades the Trojan band Drove with dire boding of their future woe. Broad are their pennons, of the human form Their neck and count'nance, arm'd with talons keen The feet, and the huge belly fledge with wings These sit and wail on the drear mystic wood. Thereat a little stretching forth my hand, From a great wilding gather'd I a branch, And straight the trunk exclaim'd: "Why pluck'st thou me?" "That pleasant word of thine," the trunk replied "Hath so inveigled me, that I from speech Cannot refrain, wherein if I indulge A little longer, in the snare detain'd, Count it not grievous. I it was, who held Both keys to Frederick's heart, and turn'd the wards, Opening and shutting, with a skill so sweet, That besides me, into his inmost breast Scarce any other could admittance find. The faith I bore to my high charge was such, It cost me the life-blood that warm'd my veins. The harlot, who ne'er turn'd her gloating eyes From Caesar's household, common vice and pest Of courts, 'gainst me inflam'd the minds of all; And to Augustus they so spread the flame, That my glad honours chang'd to bitter woes. My soul, disdainful and disgusted, sought Refuge in death from scorn, and I became, Just as I was, unjust toward myself. By the new roots, which fix this stem, I swear, That never faith I broke to my liege lord, Who merited such honour; and of you, If any to the world indeed return, Clear he from wrong my memory, that lies Yet prostrate under envy's cruel blow." He thus resum'd; "So may he do for thee Freely what thou entreatest, as thou yet Be pleas'd, imprison'd Spirit! to declare, How in these gnarled joints the soul is tied; And whether any ever from such frame Be loosen'd, if thou canst, that also tell." Thereat the trunk breath'd hard, and the wind soon Chang'd into sounds articulate like these; When o'er it he had paus'd, my master spake: "Say who wast thou, that at so many points Breath'st out with blood thy lamentable speech?" Vengeance of Heav'n! Oh! how shouldst thou be fear'd By all, who read what here my eyes beheld! Of naked spirits many a flock I saw, All weeping piteously, to different laws Subjected: for on the' earth some lay supine, Some crouching close were seated, others pac'd Incessantly around; the latter tribe, More numerous, those fewer who beneath The torment lay, but louder in their grief. O'er all the sand fell slowly wafting down Dilated flakes of fire, as flakes of snow On Alpine summit, when the wind is hush'd. As in the torrid Indian clime, the son Of Ammon saw upon his warrior band Descending, solid flames, that to the ground Came down: whence he bethought him with his troop To trample on the soil; for easier thus The vapour was extinguish'd, while alone; So fell the eternal fiery flood, wherewith The marble glow'd underneath, as under stove The viands, doubly to augment the pain. Unceasing was the play of wretched hands, Now this, now that way glancing, to shake off The heat, still falling fresh. I thus began: "Instructor! thou who all things overcom'st, Except the hardy demons, that rush'd forth To stop our entrance at the gate, say who Is yon huge spirit, that, as seems, heeds not The burning, but lies writhen in proud scorn, As by the sultry tempest immatur'd?" Straight he himself, who was aware I ask'd My guide of him, exclaim'd: "Such as I was When living, dead such now I am. If Jove Weary his workman out, from whom in ire He snatch'd the lightnings, that at my last day Transfix'd me, if the rest be weary out At their black smithy labouring by turns In Mongibello, while he cries aloud; "Help, help, good Mulciber!" as erst he cried In the Phlegraean warfare, and the bolts Launch he full aim'd at me with all his might, He never should enjoy a sweet revenge." So spake my guide; and I him thence besought, That having giv'n me appetite to know, The food he too would give, that hunger crav'd. Then I to him: "If from our world this sluice Be thus deriv'd; wherefore to us but now Appears it at this edge?" He straight replied: "The place, thou know'st, is round; and though great part Thou have already pass'd, still to the left Descending to the nethermost, not yet Hast thou the circuit made of the whole orb. Wherefore if aught of new to us appear, It needs not bring up wonder in thy looks." And I, when he to me outstretch'd his arm, Intently fix'd my ken on his parch'd looks, That although smirch'd with fire, they hinder'd not But I remember'd him; and towards his face My hand inclining, answer'd: "Sir! Brunetto! "And art thou here?" He thus to me: "My son! Oh let it not displease thee, if Brunetto Latini but a little space with thee Turn back, and leave his fellows to proceed." "What chance or destiny," thus he began, "Ere the last day conducts thee here below? And who is this, that shows to thee the way?" "Were all my wish fulfill'd," I straight replied, "Thou from the confines of man's nature yet Hadst not been driven forth; for in my mind Is fix'd, and now strikes full upon my heart The dear, benign, paternal image, such As thine was, when so lately thou didst teach me The way for man to win eternity; And how I priz'd the lesson, it behooves, That, long as life endures, my tongue should speak, What of my fate thou tell'st, that write I down: And with another text to comment on For her I keep it, the celestial dame, Who will know all, if I to her arrive. This only would I have thee clearly note: That so my conscience have no plea against me; Do fortune as she list, I stand prepar'd. Not new or strange such earnest to mine ear. Speed fortune then her wheel, as likes her best, The clown his mattock; all things have their course." Thereat my sapient guide upon his right Turn'd himself back, then look'd at me and spake: "He listens to good purpose who takes note." I not the less still on my way proceed, Discoursing with Brunetto, and inquire Who are most known and chief among his tribe. Ah me! what wounds I mark'd upon their limbs, Recent and old, inflicted by the flames! E'en the remembrance of them grieves me yet. Attentive to their cry my teacher paus'd, And turn'd to me his visage, and then spake; "Wait now! our courtesy these merit well: And were 't not for the nature of the place, Whence glide the fiery darts, I should have said, That haste had better suited thee than them." This said, they broke the circle, and so swift Fled, that as pinions seem'd their nimble feet. I had a cord that brac'd my girdle round, Wherewith I erst had thought fast bound to take The painted leopard. This when I had all Unloosen'd from me (so my master bade) I gather'd up, and stretch'd it forth to him. Then to the right he turn'd, and from the brink Standing few paces distant, cast it down Into the deep abyss. "And somewhat strange," Thus to myself I spake, "signal so strange Betokens, which my guide with earnest eye Thus follows." Ah! what caution must men use With those who look not at the deed alone, But spy into the thoughts with subtle skill! "LO! the fell monster with the deadly sting! Who passes mountains, breaks through fenced walls And firm embattled spears, and with his filth Taints all the world!" Thus me my guide address'd, And beckon'd him, that he should come to shore, Near to the stony causeway's utmost edge. My guide already seated on the haunch Of the fierce animal I found; and thus He me encourag'd. "Be thou stout; be bold. Down such a steep flight must we now descend! Mount thou before: for that no power the tail May have to harm thee, I will be i' th' midst." I settled me upon those shoulders huge, And would have said, but that the words to aid My purpose came not, "Look thou clasp me firm!" As a small vessel, back'ning out from land, Her station quits; so thence the monster loos'd, And when he felt himself at large, turn'd round There where the breast had been, his forked tail. Thus, like an eel, outstretch'd at length he steer'd, Gath'ring the air up with retractile claws. Not greater was the dread when Phaeton The reins let drop at random, whence high heaven, Whereof signs yet appear, was wrapt in flames; Nor when ill-fated Icarus perceiv'd, By liquefaction of the scalded wax, The trusted pennons loosen'd from his loins, His sire exclaiming loud, "Ill way thou keep'st!" Than was my dread, when round me on each part The air I view'd, and other object none Save the fell beast. He slowly sailing, wheels His downward motion, unobserv'd of me, But that the wind, arising to my face, Breathes on me from below. Now on our right I heard the cataract beneath us leap With hideous crash; whence bending down to' explore, New terror I conceiv'd at the steep plunge: For flames I saw, and wailings smote mine ear: So that all trembling close I crouch'd my limbs, And then distinguish'd, unperceiv'd before, By the dread torments that on every side Drew nearer, how our downward course we wound. As falcon, that hath long been on the wing, But lure nor bird hath seen, while in despair The falconer cries, "Ah me! thou stoop'st to earth!" Wearied descends, and swiftly down the sky In many an orbit wheels, then lighting sits At distance from his lord in angry mood; So Geryon lighting places us on foot Low down at base of the deep-furrow'd rock, And, of his burden there discharg'd, forthwith Sprang forward, like an arrow from the string. Him speaking thus, a demon with his thong Struck, and exclaim'd, "Away! corrupter! here Women are none for sale." Forthwith I join'd My escort, and few paces thence we came To where a rock forth issued from the bank. That easily ascended, to the right Upon its splinter turning, we depart From those eternal barriers. When arriv'd, Where underneath the gaping arch lets pass The scourged souls: "Pause here," the teacher said, "And let these others miserable, now Strike on thy ken, faces not yet beheld, For that together they with us have walk'd." "Because if true my mem'ry," I replied, "I heretofore have seen thee with dry locks, And thou Alessio art of Lucca sprung. Therefore than all the rest I scan thee more." Then beating on his brain these words he spake: "Me thus low down my flatteries have sunk, Wherewith I ne'er enough could glut my tongue." My leader thus: "A little further stretch Thy face, that thou the visage well mayst note Of that besotted, sluttish courtezan, Who there doth rend her with defiled nails, Now crouching down, now risen on her feet. Wisdom Supreme! how wonderful the art, Which thou dost manifest in heaven, in earth, And in the evil world, how just a meed Allotting by thy virtue unto all! "Master! say who is he, than all the rest Glancing in fiercer agony, on whom A ruddier flame doth prey?" I thus inquir'd. There stood I like the friar, that doth shrive A wretch for murder doom'd, who e'en when fix'd, Calleth him back, whence death awhile delays. He shouted: "Ha! already standest there? Already standest there, O Boniface! By many a year the writing play'd me false. So early dost thou surfeit with the wealth, For which thou fearedst not in guile to take The lovely lady, and then mangle her?" I felt as those who, piercing not the drift Of answer made them, stand as if expos'd In mockery, nor know what to reply, When Virgil thus admonish'd: "Tell him quick, I am not he, not he, whom thou believ'st." And I, as was enjoin'd me, straight replied. Meanwhile, as thus I sung, he, whether wrath Or conscience smote him, violent upsprang Spinning on either sole. I do believe My teacher well was pleas'd, with so compos'd A lip, he listen'd ever to the sound Of the true words I utter'd. In both arms He caught, and to his bosom lifting me Upward retrac'd the way of his descent. Thence to my view another vale appear'd "Aruns, with more his belly facing, comes. On Luni's mountains 'midst the marbles white, Where delves Carrara's hind, who wons beneath, A cavern was his dwelling, whence the stars And main-sea wide in boundless view he held. I answer'd: "Teacher, I conclude thy words So certain, that all else shall be to me As embers lacking life. But now of these, Who here proceed, instruct me, if thou see Any that merit more especial note. For thereon is my mind alone intent." "Guido Bonatti see: Asdente mark, Who now were willing, he had tended still The thread and cordwain; and too late repents. "See next the wretches, who the needle left, The shuttle and the spindle, and became Diviners: baneful witcheries they wrought With images and herbs. But onward now: For now doth Cain with fork of thorns confine On either hemisphere, touching the wave Beneath the towers of Seville. Yesternight The moon was round. Thou mayst remember well: For she good service did thee in the gloom Of the deep wood." This said, both onward mov'd. THUS we from bridge to bridge, with other talk, The which my drama cares not to rehearse, Pass'd on; and to the summit reaching, stood To view another gap, within the round Of Malebolge, other bootless pangs. Marvelous darkness shadow'd o'er the place. E'en thus the cook bestirs him, with his grooms, To thrust the flesh into the caldron down With flesh-hooks, that it float not on the top. "Believ'st thou, Malacoda! I had come Thus far from all your skirmishing secure," My teacher answered, "without will divine And destiny propitious? Pass we then For so Heaven's pleasure is, that I should lead Another through this savage wilderness." Forthwith so fell his pride, that he let drop The instrument of torture at his feet, And to the rest exclaim'd: "We have no power To strike him." Then to me my guide: "O thou! Who on the bridge among the crags dost sit Low crouching, safely now to me return." I then: "O master! what a sight is there! Ah! without escort, journey we alone, Which, if thou know the way, I covet not. Unless thy prudence fail thee, dost not mark How they do gnarl upon us, and their scowl Threatens us present tortures?" He replied: "I charge thee fear not: let them, as they will, Gnarl on: 't is but in token of their spite Against the souls, who mourn in torment steep'd." IT hath been heretofore my chance to see Horsemen with martial order shifting camp, To onset sallying, or in muster rang'd, Or in retreat sometimes outstretch'd for flight; Light-armed squadrons and fleet foragers Scouring thy plains, Arezzo! have I seen, And clashing tournaments, and tilting jousts, Now with the sound of trumpets, now of bells, Tabors, or signals made from castled heights, And with inventions multiform, our own, Or introduc'd from foreign land; but ne'er To such a strange recorder I beheld, In evolution moving, horse nor foot, Nor ship, that tack'd by sign from land or star. Still earnest on the pitch I gaz'd, to mark All things whate'er the chasm contain'd, and those Who burn'd within. As dolphins, that, in sign To mariners, heave high their arched backs, That thence forewarn'd they may advise to save Their threaten'd vessels; so, at intervals, To ease the pain his back some sinner show'd, Then hid more nimbly than the lightning glance. Then I: "Inform thee, master! if thou may, What wretched soul is this, on whom their hand His foes have laid." My leader to his side Approach'd, and whence he came inquir'd, to whom Was answer'd thus: "Born in Navarre's domain My mother plac'd me in a lord's retinue, For she had borne me to a losel vile, A spendthrift of his substance and himself. The good king Thibault after that I serv'd, To peculating here my thoughts were turn'd, Whereof I give account in this dire heat." Cagnazzo at that word deriding grinn'd, Then wagg'd the head and spake: "Hear his device, Mischievous as he is, to plunge him down." Whereto he thus, who fail'd not in rich store Of nice-wove toils; "Mischief forsooth extreme, Meant only to procure myself more woe!" No longer Alichino then refrain'd, But thus, the rest gainsaying, him bespake: "If thou do cast thee down, I not on foot Will chase thee, but above the pitch will beat My plumes. Quit we the vantage ground, and let The bank be as a shield, that we may see If singly thou prevail against us all." Now, reader, of new sport expect to hear! Them quick resentment stung, but him the most, Who was the cause of failure; in pursuit He therefore sped, exclaiming; "Thou art caught." Already I perceiv'd my hair stand all On end with terror, and look'd eager back. "Teacher," I thus began, "if speedily Thyself and me thou hide not, much I dread Those evil talons. Even now behind They urge us: quick imagination works So forcibly, that I already feel them." Never ran water with such hurrying pace Adown the tube to turn a landmill's wheel, When nearest it approaches to the spokes, As then along that edge my master ran, Carrying me in his bosom, as a child, Not a companion. Scarcely had his feet Reach'd to the lowest of the bed beneath, There in the depth we saw a painted tribe, Who pac'd with tardy steps around, and wept, Faint in appearance and o'ercome with toil. Caps had they on, with hoods, that fell low down Before their eyes, in fashion like to those Worn by the monks in Cologne. Their outside Was overlaid with gold, dazzling to view, But leaden all within, and of such weight, That Frederick's compar'd to these were straw. Oh, everlasting wearisome attire! Whence I my guide address'd: "See that thou find Some spirit, whose name may by his deeds be known, And to that end look round thee as thou go'st." Whereat my leader, turning, me bespake: "Pause, and then onward at their pace proceed." Then thus to me: "Tuscan, who visitest The college of the mourning hypocrites, Disdain not to instruct us who thou art." To whom the friar: At Bologna erst "I many vices of the devil heard, Among the rest was said, 'He is a liar, And the father of lies!'" When he had spoke, My leader with large strides proceeded on, Somewhat disturb'd with anger in his look. I therefore left the spirits heavy laden, And following, his beloved footsteps mark'd. At length the point of our descent we reach'd From the last flag: soon as to that arriv'd, So was the breath exhausted from my lungs, I could no further, but did seat me there. "Now needs thy best of man;" so spake my guide: "For not on downy plumes, nor under shade Of canopy reposing, fame is won, Without which whosoe'er consumes his days Leaveth such vestige of himself on earth, As smoke in air or foam upon the wave. Thou therefore rise: vanish thy weariness By the mind's effort, in each struggle form'd To vanquish, if she suffer not the weight Of her corporeal frame to crush her down. A longer ladder yet remains to scale. From these to have escap'd sufficeth not. If well thou note me, profit by my words." Oh! how severe God's judgment, that deals out Such blows in stormy vengeance! Who he was My teacher next inquir'd, and thus in few He answer'd: "Vanni Fucci am I call'd, Not long since rained down from Tuscany To this dire gullet. Me the beastial life And not the human pleas'd, mule that I was, Who in Pistoia found my worthy den." But if our minds, when dreaming near the dawn, Are of the truth presageful, thou ere long Shalt feel what Prato, (not to say the rest) Would fain might come upon thee; and that chance Were in good time, if it befell thee now. Would so it were, since it must needs befall! For as time wears me, I shall grieve the more. We from the depth departed; and my guide Remounting scal'd the flinty steps, which late We downward trac'd, and drew me up the steep. Pursuing thus our solitary way Among the crags and splinters of the rock, Sped not our feet without the help of hands. Then sorrow seiz'd me, which e'en now revives, As my thought turns again to what I saw, And, more than I am wont, I rein and curb The powers of nature in me, lest they run Where Virtue guides not; that if aught of good My gentle star, or something better gave me, I envy not myself the precious boon. Upon the bridge I forward bent to look, And grasp'd a flinty mass, or else had fall'n, Though push'd not from the height. The guide, who mark'd How I did gaze attentive, thus began: He thus: "Thy prayer is worthy of much praise, And I accept it therefore: but do thou Thy tongue refrain: to question them be mine, For I divine thy wish: and they perchance, For they were Greeks, might shun discourse with thee." NOW upward rose the flame, and still'd its light To speak no more, and now pass'd on with leave From the mild poet gain'd, when following came Another, from whose top a sound confus'd, Forth issuing, drew our eyes that way to look. Leaning I listen'd yet with heedful ear, When, as he touch'd my side, the leader thus: "Speak thou: he is a Latian." My reply Was ready, and I spake without delay: "The' old mastiff of Verruchio and the young, That tore Montagna in their wrath, still make, Where they are wont, an augre of their fangs. "Lamone's city and Santerno's range Under the lion of the snowy lair. Inconstant partisan! that changeth sides, Or ever summer yields to winter's frost. And she, whose flank is wash'd of Savio's wave, As 'twixt the level and the steep she lies, Lives so 'twixt tyrant power and liberty. "Now tell us, I entreat thee, who art thou? Be not more hard than others. In the world, So may thy name still rear its forehead high." Then, yielding to the forceful arguments, Of silence as more perilous I deem'd, And answer'd: "Father! since thou washest me Clear of that guilt wherein I now must fall, Large promise with performance scant, be sure, Shall make thee triumph in thy lofty seat." When he had thus fulfill'd his words, the flame In dolour parted, beating to and fro, And writhing its sharp horn. We onward went, I and my leader, up along the rock, Far as another arch, that overhangs The foss, wherein the penalty is paid Of those, who load them with committed sin. Whilst eagerly I fix on him my gaze, He ey'd me, with his hands laid his breast bare, And cried; "Now mark how I do rip me! lo! "Declare, as thou dost wish that I above May carry tidings of thee, who is he, In whom that sight doth wake such sad remembrance?" I added: "Ay, and death to thine own tribe." When at the bridge's foot direct he stood, His arm aloft he rear'd, thrusting the head Full in our view, that nearer we might hear The words, which thus it utter'd: "Now behold This grievous torment, thou, who breathing go'st To spy the dead; behold if any else Be terrible as this. And that on earth Thou mayst bear tidings of me, know that I Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John The counsel mischievous. Father and son I set at mutual war. For Absalom And David more did not Ahitophel, Spurring them on maliciously to strife. For parting those so closely knit, my brain Parted, alas! I carry from its source, That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the law Of retribution fiercely works in me." SO were mine eyes inebriate with view Of the vast multitude, whom various wounds Disfigur'd, that they long'd to stay and weep. We on the utmost shore of the long rock Descended still to leftward. Then my sight Was livelier to explore the depth, wherein The minister of the most mighty Lord, All-searching Justice, dooms to punishment The forgers noted on her dread record. Then started they asunder, and each turn'd Trembling toward us, with the rest, whose ear Those words redounding struck. To me my liege Address'd him: "Speak to them whate'er thou list." And I therewith began: "So may no time Filch your remembrance from the thoughts of men In th' upper world, but after many suns Survive it, as ye tell me, who ye are, And of what race ye come. Your punishment, Unseemly and disgustful in its kind, Deter you not from opening thus much to me." Then to the bard I spake: "Was ever race Light as Sienna's? Sure not France herself Can show a tribe so frivolous and vain." "And a false shape assuming, so perform'd The deed of sin; e'en as the other there, That onward passes, dar'd to counterfeit Donati's features, to feign'd testament The seal affixing, that himself might gain, For his own share, the lady of the herd." "Though my o'erweighty limbs have ta'en from me The power to move," said he, "I have an arm At liberty for such employ." To whom Was answer'd: "When thou wentest to the fire, Thou hadst it not so ready at command, Then readier when it coin'd th' impostor gold." And thus the dropsied: "Ay, now speak'st thou true. But there thou gav'st not such true testimony, When thou wast question'd of the truth, at Troy." "To thine," return'd the Greek, "witness the thirst Whence thy tongue cracks, witness the fluid mound, Rear'd by thy belly up before thine eyes, A mass corrupt." To whom the coiner thus: "Thy mouth gapes wide as ever to let pass Its evil saying. Me if thirst assails, Yet I am stuff'd with moisture. Thou art parch'd, Pains rack thy head, no urging would'st thou need To make thee lap Narcissus' mirror up." I was all fix'd to listen, when my guide Admonish'd: "Now beware: a little more. And I do quarrel with thee." I perceiv'd How angrily he spake, and towards him turn'd With shame so poignant, as remember'd yet Confounds me. As a man that dreams of harm Befall'n him, dreaming wishes it a dream, And that which is, desires as if it were not, Such then was I, who wanting power to speak Wish'd to excuse myself, and all the while Excus'd me, though unweeting that I did. "More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame," My master cried, "might expiate. Therefore cast All sorrow from thy soul; and if again Chance bring thee, where like conference is held, Think I am ever at thy side. To hear Such wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds." Then tenderly he caught me by the hand; "Yet know," said he, "ere farther we advance, That it less strange may seem, these are not towers, But giants. In the pit they stand immers'd, Each from his navel downward, round the bank." COULD I command rough rhimes and hoarse, to suit That hole of sorrow, o'er which ev'ry rock His firm abutment rears, then might the vein Of fancy rise full springing: but not mine Such measures, and with falt'ring awe I touch The mighty theme; for to describe the depth Of all the universe, is no emprize To jest with, and demands a tongue not us'd To infant babbling. But let them assist My song, the tuneful maidens, by whose aid Amphion wall'd in Thebes, so with the truth My speech shall best accord. Oh ill-starr'd folk, Beyond all others wretched! who abide In such a mansion, as scarce thought finds words To speak of, better had ye here on earth Been flocks or mountain goats. As down we stood In the dark pit beneath the giants' feet, But lower far than they, and I did gaze Still on the lofty battlement, a voice Bespoke me thus: "Look how thou walkest. Take Good heed, thy soles do tread not on the heads Of thy poor brethren." Thereupon I turn'd, And saw before and underneath my feet A lake, whose frozen surface liker seem'd To glass than water. Not so thick a veil In winter e'er hath Austrian Danube spread O'er his still course, nor Tanais far remote Under the chilling sky. Roll'd o'er that mass Had Tabernich or Pietrapana fall'n, Not e'en its rim had creak'd. As peeps the frog Croaking above the wave, what time in dreams The village gleaner oft pursues her toil, So, to where modest shame appears, thus low Blue pinch'd and shrin'd in ice the spirits stood, Moving their teeth in shrill note like the stork. His face each downward held; their mouth the cold, Their eyes express'd the dolour of their heart. "Wherefore dost bruise me?" weeping, he exclaim'd, "Unless thy errand be some fresh revenge For Montaperto, wherefore troublest me?" I thus: "Instructor, now await me here, That I through him may rid me of my doubt. Thenceforth what haste thou wilt." The teacher paus'd, And to that shade I spake, who bitterly Still curs'd me in his wrath. "What art thou, speak, That railest thus on others?" He replied: "Now who art thou, that smiting others' cheeks Through Antenora roamest, with such force As were past suff'rance, wert thou living still?" "And I am living, to thy joy perchance," Was my reply, "if fame be dear to thee, That with the rest I may thy name enrol." "The contrary of what I covet most," Said he, "thou tender'st: hence; nor vex me more. Ill knowest thou to flatter in this vale." Then seizing on his hinder scalp, I cried: "Name thee, or not a hair shall tarry here." "O thou who show'st so beastly sign of hate 'Gainst him thou prey'st on, let me hear," said I "The cause, on such condition, that if right Warrant thy grievance, knowing who ye are, And what the colour of his sinning was, I may repay thee in the world above, If that, wherewith I speak be moist so long." "Now," answer'd I, "methinks thou mockest me, For Branca Doria never yet hath died, But doth all natural functions of a man, Eats, drinks, and sleeps, and putteth raiment on." "THE banners of Hell's Monarch do come forth Towards us; therefore look," so spake my guide, "If thou discern him." As, when breathes a cloud Heavy and dense, or when the shades of night Fall on our hemisphere, seems view'd from far A windmill, which the blast stirs briskly round, Such was the fabric then methought I saw, To shield me from the wind, forthwith I drew Behind my guide: no covert else was there. "Lo!" he exclaim'd, "lo Dis! and lo the place, Where thou hast need to arm thy heart with strength." I clipp'd him round the neck, for so he bade; And noting time and place, he, when the wings Enough were op'd, caught fast the shaggy sides, And down from pile to pile descending stepp'd Between the thick fell and the jagged ice. "Expect that by such stairs as these," thus spake The teacher, panting like a man forespent, "We must depart from evil so extreme." Then at a rocky opening issued forth, And plac'd me on a brink to sit, next join'd With wary step my side. I rais'd mine eyes, Believing that I Lucifer should see Where he was lately left, but saw him now With legs held upward. Let the grosser sort, Who see not what the point was I had pass'd, Bethink them if sore toil oppress'd me then. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Hell, by Dante Alighieri	redpajama-book	12,506
Produced by Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. By Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant "Yes," said the other voice, echoing that gentle laugh of hers, "you have died too." "Were you afraid of it?" the other said. There was a little agitation for the moment in her heart. She was so glad, so relieved and thankful, that it took away her breath. She could not get over the wonder of it. "Ah, but the angel was very gentle with you," said the young woman; "you were so tender and worn, that he only smiled and took you sleeping. There are other ways. But it is always wonderful to think it is over, as you say." "I never thought of it at all," the beautiful stranger said; "I did not think it would come to me. But I was very sorry for the others to whom it came, and grudged that they should lose the beautiful earth, and life, and all that was so sweet." "My dear!" cried the Pilgrim, as if she had never died, "oh, but this is far sweeter! And the heart is so light, and it is, happiness only to breathe. Is it heaven here? It must be heaven." The heavenly stranger shook her head. The other smiled upon her with a wonderful smile. "Oh, take me to him!" the little Pilgrim cried. "Let me see his face! I have so many things to say to him. I want to ask him--Oh, take me to where I can see his face!" "And don't you wonder too?" she said to her companion, which was a speech such as she used to make upon the earth, when people thought her little remarks disjointed, and did not always see the connection of them. But her friend of heaven knew what she meant. "I do nothing but wonder," she said, "for it is all so natural, not what we thought." "Is it long since you have been here?" the Pilgrim said. "Is it possible to live ill--in heaven?" The little Pilgrim's eyes grew large, as if they were going to have tears in them, and a little shadow seemed to come over her. But the other laughed softly, and restored all her confidence. "I was not clever," said the little Pilgrim, wistfully; "no, I never read it. I wish I had known more." "Then your mother came here long ago?" said the Pilgrim. "Ah, then I shall see my mother too." "Oh, very soon, as soon as she can come; but there are so many things to do. Sometimes we can go and meet those who are coming; but it is not always so. I remember that she had a message. She could not leave her business, you may be sure, or she would have been here." "Then you know my mother? Oh, and my dearest father too?" "We all know each other," the lady said with a smile. "And you? did you come to meet me--only out of kindness, though I do not know you?" the little Pilgrim said. "I am nothing but an idler," said the beautiful lady, "making acquaintance. I am of little use as yet. I was very hard worked before I came here, and they think it well that we should sit in the sun and take a little rest, and find things out." "Oh," she said, "I never thought we should cry when we came here. I thought there were no tears in heaven." "Did you think, then, that we were all turned into stone?" cried the beautiful lady. "It says God shall wipe away all tears from our faces, which is not like saying there are to be no tears." "Have you left many there?" she said. "And you cannot go? you cannot go to him and tell him? Oh, I wish," cried the little Pilgrim; but then she paused, for the wish died all away in her heart into a tender love for this poor, sorrowful man whom she did not know. This gave her the sweetest pang she had ever felt, for she knew that all was well, and yet was so sorry, and would have willingly given up her happiness for his. All this the lady read in her eyes or her heart, and loved her for it; and they took hands and were silent together, thinking of those they had left, as we upon earth think of those who have gone from us, but only with far more understanding and far greater love. "And have you never been able to do anything for him?" our Pilgrim said. Then the beautiful lady's face flushed all over with the most heavenly warmth and light. Her smile ran over like the bursting out of the sun. "I begin to understand," said the little Pilgrim. "But why should they not see us, and why should not we tell them? It would seem so natural. If they saw us, it would make them so happy and so sure." Upon this the lady shook her head. "You make it so clear, and your face is so bright," said our little Pilgrim gratefully, "you must have known a great deal, and understood even when you were in the world." "I was as foolish as I could be," said the other, with her laugh that was as sweet as music; "yet thought I knew, and they thought I knew. But all that does not matter now." Her face grew so bright that all the past brightness was as a dull sky to this. It gave out such a light of happiness, that the little Pilgrim was dazzled. "And what did he say to you?" cried the little Pilgrim, her heart almost aching, it beat so high with sympathy and expectation. The lady looked at her for a little without saying anything. "I cannot tell you," she said, "any more than I can tell if this is heaven. It is a mystery. When you see him you will know. It will be all you have ever hoped for, and more besides, for he understands everything. He knows what is in our hearts about those we have left, and why he sent for us before them. There is no need to tell him anything, he knows. He will come when it is time; and after you have seen him you will know what to do." Then the beautiful lady turned her eyes toward the gate, and while the little Pilgrim was still gazing, disappeared from her, and went to comfort some other stranger. They were dear friends always, and met often, but not again in the same way. When she was thus left alone again, the little Pilgrim sat still upon the grassy mound, quite tranquil and happy, without wishing to move. There was such a sense of well-being in her, that she liked to sit there and look about her, and breathe the delightful air, like the air of a summer morning, without wishing for anything. "I knew you were coming," said the maiden; "when my mother has wanted me I have seen you there. And you were thinking of her now that was how I found you." "It is in the air; and when it concerns us it comes to us like the breeze. But we who are the children here, we feel it more quickly than you." "Are you a child?" said the little Pilgrim, "or are you an angel? Sometimes you are like a child; but then your face shines, and you are like--You must have some name for it here; there is nothing among the words I know." And then she paused a little, still looking at her, and cried, "Oh, if she could but see you, little Margaret! That would do her most good of all." Then the maiden Margaret shook her lovely head. "What does her most good is the will of the Father," she said. And the other smiled. "Have you forgotten who they are that always behold his face? We have never had any fear or trembling. We are not angels, and there is no other name; we are the children. There is something given to us beyond the others. We have had no other home." "Oh, tell me, tell me!" the little Pilgrim cried. Upon this Margaret kissed her, putting her soft cheek against hers, and said; "It is a mystery; it cannot be put into words; in your time you will know." "When you touch me you change me, and I grow like you," the Pilgrim said. "Ah, if she could see us together, you and me! And will you go to her soon again? And do you see them always, what they are doing? and take care of them?" "It is our Father who takes cares of them, and our Lord who is our Brother. I do his errands when I am able. Sometimes he will let me go, sometimes another, according as it is best. Who am I that I should take care of them? I serve them when I may." "But you do not forget them?" the Pilgrim said, with wistful eyes. "But it is hard for them sometimes," said the little Pilgrim, who could not withdraw her thoughts from those she had left. "They are never forsaken," said the angel maiden. "But oh! there are worse things than sorrow," the little Pilgrim said; "there is wrong, there is evil, Margaret. Will not he send you to step in before them, to save them from wrong?" The little Pilgrim covered her eyes with her hands. "I could not--I could not; unless I knew they were to win the day!" "They will win the day in the end. But sometimes, when it was being lost, I have seen in his face a something--I cannot tell--more love than before. Something that seemed to say, 'My child, my child, would that I could do it for thee, my child!'" "Listen!" said the other; "I hear his step on the way." This was very strange to the little Pilgrim, and went to her heart. She soothed the stranger, holding her hands warm and light, and stooping over her. "Dear," she said, "you must try and not be afraid." "You say so," said the woman, "because you are well and strong. You don't know what it is to be seized in the middle of your life, and told that you've got to die. Oh, I have been a sinful creature! I am not fit to die. Can't you give me something that will cure me? What is the good of doctors and nurses if they cannot save a poor soul that is not fit to die?" The woman raised her head to see who it was who put such a strange question to her. "But you have had time to prepare," said the Pilgrim. Then the little Pilgrim bent over her and soothed her. "You must not be so much afraid of dying; that is all over. You need not fear that any more," she said softly; "for here where you now are we have all died." The woman started up out of her arms, and then she gave a great shriek that made the air ring, and cried out, "Dead! am I dead?" with a shudder and convulsion, throwing herself again wildly with outstretched hands upon the ground. "Try," she said, in a soft voice, "and think a little. Do you feel now so ill as you were? Do not be frightened, but think a little. I will hold your hand. And look at me; you are not afraid of me?" "You do repent," the Pilgrim said. "I am quite well," she said. "I could walk a mile. I could walk any distance. What was that you said? Oh, I tell you I am better! I am not going to die." "You will never, never die," said the little Pilgrim; "are you not glad it is all over? Oh, I was so glad! And all the more you should be glad if you were so much afraid." But this woman was not glad. She shrank away from her companion, then came close to her again, and gripped her with her hands. But though she spoke like this, she did not convince herself; her eyes were wild with wondering and fear. She gripped the Pilgrim's arm more and more closely, and trembled, leaning upon her. And here she went off into a murmur of questions. Why? why? always holding fast by the little Pilgrim, always gazing round her, groping as it were in the dimness with her great eyes. "I have come because our dear Lord who is our Brother sent me to meet you, and because I love you," the little Pilgrim said. "What way?" cried the little Pilgrim; for her strength was gone from her, and she had no word to say to him. He looked at her with that bewilderment on his face, and said, "I find myself strange, strange. I ought to know where I am; but it is scarcely daylight yet. It is perhaps foolish to come out so early in the morning." This he said in his confusion, not knowing where he was, nor what he said. "I think all the ways lead to our Father," said the little Pilgrim (though she had not known this till now). "And the dear Lord walks about them all. Here you never go astray." Upon this the stranger looked at her, and asked in a faltering voice, "Are you an angel?" still not knowing what he said. "Oh, no, no; I am only a Pilgrim," she replied. "May I sit by you a little?" said the man. He sat down, drawing long breaths, as though he had gone through great fatigue; and looked about with wondering eyes. "You will wonder, but I do not know where I am," he said. "I feel as if I must he dreaming. This is not where I expected to come. I looked for something very different; do you think there can have been any--mistake?" "Oh, never that," she said; "there are no mistakes here." "Do you know that you have died?" "What does it matter how many people there are if you know none of them?" he said. "I think," said the Pilgrim, "that yesterday is the other side; there is no yesterday here." He had an uneasy look as he said this, and looked at her with an anxious curiosity, which the little Pilgrim did not understand. "I do not know," she said softly, shaking her head. "I have so little experience. I have not been told of an appointed place." The man looked at her very strangely. "I did not think," he said, "that I should have found such ignorance here. Is it not well known that we must all appear before the judgment-seat of God?" There words seemed to cause a trembling on the still air, and the woman on the other side raised herself suddenly up, clasping her hands and some of those who had just entered heard the words, and came and crowded about the little Pilgrim, some standing, some falling down upon their knee, all with their faces turned towards her. She who had always been so simple and small, so little used to teach; she was frightened with the sight of all these strangers crowding, hanging upon her lips, looking to her for knowledge. She knew not what to do or what to say. The tears came into her eyes. And then there was a murmur of voices about her, some saying that was best, and some wondering if that were all, and some crying if he would but come now--while the little Pilgrim stood among them with her face shining, and they all looked at her, asking her to tell them more, to show them how to find him. But this was far above what she could do, for she too was not much more than a stranger, and had little strength. She would not go back a step, nor desert those who were so anxious to know, though her heart fluttered almost as it had used to do before she died, what with her longing to tell them, and knowing that she had no more to say. "But," she said, "you are not to fear or be cast down, because he goes likewise by these ways, and there is not a corner in all this land but he is to be seen passing by; and he will come and speak to you, and lay his hand upon you; and afterwards everything will be clear, and you will know what you are to do." "Unless another is sent," the little Pilgrim said. And it was nothing to her that the air was less bright there, for her mind was full of light, so that, though her heart still fluttered a little with all that had passed, she had no longing to return, nor to shorten the way, but went by the lower road sweetly, with the stranger hanging upon her, who was stronger and taller than she. Thus they went on, and the Pilgrim told her all she knew, and everything that came into her heart. And so full was she of the great things she had to say, that it was a surprise to her, and left her trembling, when suddenly the woman took away her clinging hand, and flew forward with arms out-spread and a cry of joy. The little Pilgrim stood still to see, and on the path before them was a child, coming towards them singing, with a look such as is never seen but upon the faces of children who have come here early, and who behold the face of the Father, and have never known fear nor sorrow. The woman flew and fell at the child's feet, and he put his hand upon her, and raised her up, and called her "mother." Then he smiled upon the little Pilgrim, and led her away. "I am sent," he said, "little sister, to take you to the Father; because you have been very faithful, and gone beyond your strength." And he took the little Pilgrim by the hand, and she knew he was an angel; and immediately the sweet air melted about them into light, and a hush came upon her of all thought and all sense, attending till she should receive the blessing, and her new name, and see what is beyond telling, and hear and understand. THE LITTLE PILGRIM GOES UP HIGHER. The little Pilgrim looked up at him and said, "That is very beautiful to say. And do you never wish to be like him--to make the lovely, living faces as well as the other parts?" "Not everybody," he said, and smiled upon her like a brother; "for we are not all alike even here." "It is long since then?" she said with some wistfulness; upon which he smiled again. "So long," he said, "that we have worn out most of our links to the world below. We have all come away, and those who were after us for generations. But you are a new-comer." "And are they all with you? are you all--together? do you live--as in the old time?" Upon this the painter smiled, but not so brightly as before. "Not as in the old time," he said, "nor are they all here. Some are still upon the way, and of some we have no certainty, only news from time to time. The angels are very good to us. They never miss an occasion to bring us news; for they go everywhere, you know." "Yes," said the little Pilgrim, though indeed she had not known it till now; but it seemed to her as if it had come to her mind by nature and she had never needed to be told. "Not always there. We in this city have been long separated from that country, for all that we love are out of it." "But not here?" the little Pilgrim cried again, with a little sorrow--a pang that she knew was going to be put away--in her heart. "But coming! coming!" said the painter, cheerfully; "and some were here before us, and some have arrived since. They are everywhere." "But some in trouble--some in trouble!" she cried, with the tears in her eyes. "Well!" said her new friend, "and what then? The Father sees through and through it as he does here; they cannot escape him: so that there is Love near them always. I have a son," he said, then sighed a little, but smiled again, "who is there." The little Pilgrim at this clasped her hands with a piteous cry. She paused a little before she replied. "I had children in love," she said, "but none that were born mine." "Oh!" said the little Pilgrim again, with a vivid light of memory coming into her face, which showed she had no need to think of this as a thing that might have happened, but knew. "I brought him home. I nursed him well again. I prayed for him night and day. Did you say cast him off? when he had most need of me? then I never could have loved him," she cried. The painter nodded his head, and his hand with the pencil in it, for he had turned from his picture to look at her. "Then you think you love better than our Father?" he said; and turned to his work, and painted a new fold in the robe, which looked as if a soft air had suddenly blown into it, and not the touch of a skilful hand. The painter shook his head and said, "It is not permitted to you and me to know such great things. Perhaps the wise will tell you if you ask them: but for me I ask the Father in my heart and listen to what he says." "And do you get it out of books?" she asked; for she was not learned, nor wise, and knew but little, though she always loved to know. The historian smiled. "It was my brother," he said. The Pilgrim looked at him with great wonder. "Your brother, and you did not know him!" And then he turned over the pages and showed her where the story was. "I have seen such a child," the little Pilgrim said. "But we made no account of him," said the historian. "The Lord of the place came past him every day, and always saw him singing in the sun by his father's door. And it was a wonder then, and it has been a wonder ever since, why, having resolved upon it, that prince did not abandon the town, which would have changed all his fortune after. Much had been made clear to me since I began to study, but not this: till the Lord himself came to me and told me. The prince looked at the child till he loved him, and he reflected how many children there were like this that would be murdered, or starved to death, and he could not give up the little singing boy to the sword. So he remained; and the town was saved, and he became a great king. It was so secret that even the angels did not know it. But without that child the history would not have been complete." "And is he here?" the little Pilgrim said. "Ah," said the historian, "that is more strange still; for that which saved him was also to his harm. He is not here. He is Elsewhere." The little Pilgrim's face grew sad; but then she remembered what she had been told. "But you know," she said, "that he is coming?" "I know that our Father will never forsake him, and that everything that is being accomplished in him is well." "Is it well to suffer? Is it well to live in that dark stormy country? Oh, that they were all here, and happy like you!" She looked at him with such wondering eyes that he answered her without a word. "Yes," he said, "I have been there." And then it seemed to her that there was something in his eyes which she had not remarked before. Not only the great content that was everywhere, but a deeper light, and the air of a judge who knew both good and evil, and could see both sides, and understood all, both to love and to hate. "Little sister," he said, "you have never wandered far; it is not needful for such as you. Love teaches you, and you need no more; but when we have to be trained for an office like this, to make the way of the Lord clear through all the generations, reason is that we should see everything, and learn all that man is and can be. These things are too deep for us; we stumble on, and know not till after. But now to me it is all clear." She looked at him again and again while he spoke, and it seemed to her that she saw in him such great knowledge and tenderness as made her glad; and how he could understand the follies that men had done, and fathom what real meaning was in them, and disentangle all the threads. He smiled as she gazed at him, and answered as if she had spoken. "What was evil perishes, and what was good remains; almost everywhere there is a little good. We could not understand all if we had not seen all and shared all." "And the punishment too," she said, wondering more and more. He smiled so joyfully that it was like laughter. "It is not to be happy that we live," said he; and then, "We are all happy so soon as we have found the way." "Is it for punishment?" she said. "But oh, forgive me," cried the little Pilgrim, "you had some who were more dear to you than all the world in the old time?" "Oh," said the little Pilgrim, "but how then do you bear it, to be parted so long--so long?" "Do you like," she said, "to think of the old time?" "She has a face full of the morning," the poet said. It did the little Pilgrim good to feel the touch of the warm, soft hand; and she was not afraid, but lifted her eyes and spoke to the lady and to the poet. "It is beautiful what you said to us. Sometimes in the old time we used to look up to the beautiful skies and wonder what there was above the clouds; but we never thought that up here in this great city you would be thinking of what we were doing, and making beautiful poems all about us. We thought that you would sing wonderful psalms, and talk of things high, high above us." "The little sister does not know what the meaning of the earth is," the poet said. "It is but a little speck, but it is the centre of all. Let her walk with us, and we will go home, and you will tell her, Ama, for I love to hear you talk." "Will you come with us?" the lady said. "But, oh," said the little Pilgrim, "what can there be on earth so beautiful as the meanest thing that is here?" Upon this the poet rose and lifted up his hands and sang again a great song; it was in the other language which the little Pilgrim still did not understand, but she could make out that it sounded like a great proclamation that He was wise as he was good, and called upon all to see that the Lord had chosen the only way: and the sound of the poet's voice was like a great trumpet sounding bold and sweet, as if to tell this to those who were far away. "For you must know," said the Lady Ama, who all the time held the Pilgrim's hand, "that it is permitted to all to judge according to the wisdom that has been given them. And there are some who think that our dear Lord might have found another way, and that wait, sometimes with trembling, lest he should fail; but not among us who have lived on earth, for we know. And it is our work to show to all the worlds that his way never fails, and how wonderful it is, and beautiful above all that heart has conceived. And thus we justify the ways of God, who is our Father. But in the other worlds there are many who will continue to fear until the history of the earth is all ended and the chronicles are made complete." "And will that be long?" the little Pilgrim cried, feeling in her heart that she would like to go to all the worlds and tell them of our Lord, and of his love, and how the thought of him makes you strong; and it troubled her a little to hear her friends speak of the low skies, and the short days, and the dimness of that dear country which she had left behind, in which there were so many still whom she loved. "You are a great deal wiser than I am," said the little Pilgrim; "but, though our hearts had fainted, how could we have been overcome? For He was on our side." She would have said the children, but stopped, not knowing if perhaps it might be unkind to speak of the children when she saw none there. "And you are always among those you love?" the Pilgrim said; upon which they smiled again and said, "We all love each other;" and the lady held her hand in both of hers, and caressed it, and softly laughed and said, "You know only the little language. When you have been taught the other you will learn many beautiful things." "Whatever is your work is the best," the lady said; "but though you are so little you are in the Father's secret too, for it is nature to you to know what the others cannot be sure of, that we must have the victory at the last: so that we have this between us, the Father and we. And though all are his children, we are of the kindred of God, because of our Lord who is our Brother." And then the Lady Ama kissed her, and bade her when she returned to the great city, either for rest or for love, or because the Father sent for her, that she should come to the house by the river. "For we are friends for ever," she said, and so threw her white veil over her head, and was gone upon her mission, whither the little Pilgrim did not know. "I am little and weak, and I cannot do much," the little Pilgrim said. "It is nothing but pleasure. It is to welcome those that are coming, and tell them. Sometimes they are astonished and do not know. I was so myself. I came in my sleep, and understood nothing. But now that I know, it is sweet to tell them that they need not fear." The woman stood for a little without saying a word, and then very softly, in a voice which only the heart heard, she called the little Pilgrim by her name. Then the Pilgrim lifted her head from her mother's bosom, and looked in her face with eyes full of longing. "You said 'we,'" she said. The little Pilgrim was tired with happiness and all the wonder and pleasure; and as she sat there in the silence; leaning upon those who were so dear to her, the soft air grew sweeter and sweeter about her, and the light faded softly into a dimness of tender indulgence and privilege for her, because she was still little and weak. And whether that heavenly suspense of all her faculties was sleep or not she knew not, but it was such as in all her life she had never known. When she came back to herself, it was by the sound of many voices calling her, and many people hastening past and beckoning to her to join them. End of Project Gutenberg's A Little Pilgrim, by Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant	redpajama-book	7,047
Produced by Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team THE OPEN DOOR, AND THE PORTRAIT Stories of the Seen and the Unseen By Margaret O. Wilson Oliphant The summer was a very happy period of repose for us all. The warmth of Indian suns was still in our veins. It seemed to us that we could never have enough of the greenness, the dewiness, the freshness of the northern landscape. Even its mists were pleasant to us, taking all the fever out of us, and pouring in vigor and refreshment. In autumn we followed the fashion of the time, and went away for change which we did not in the least require. It was when the family had settled down for the winter, when the days were short and dark, and the rigorous reign of frost upon us, that the incidents occurred which alone could justify me in intruding upon the world my private affairs. These incidents were, however, of so curious a character, that I hope my inevitable references to my own family and pressing personal interests will meet with a general pardon. "Yes, yes, my boy, I know. But you are ill, and quiet is so necessary. You are not only not a fool, Roland, but you are reasonable and understand. When you are ill you must deny yourself; you must not do everything that you might do being well." "Which is the best place for you at present, my dear boy." His eyes shone so wildly, his face was so swept with strong feeling, that my heart sank within me. It could be nothing but fever that did it, and fever had been so fatal. I got him into my arms to put him back into bed. "Roland," I said, humoring the poor child, which I knew was the only way, "if you are going to tell me this secret to do any good, you know you must be quite quiet, and not excite yourself. If you excite yourself, I must not let you speak." "To be sure, my boy. Now keep quiet, and tell it all out like a man." To think I was telling lies to my own child! for I did it only to humor him, thinking, poor little fellow, his brain was wrong. "Hush, my dear; you remember there is to be no excitement. Well, who is this somebody, and who has been ill-using him? We will soon put a stop to that." "All," cried Roland, "but it is not so easy as you think. I don't know who it is. It is just a cry. Oh, if you could hear it! It gets into my head in my sleep. I heard it as clear--as clear; and they think that I am dreaming, or raving perhaps," the boy said, with a sort of disdainful smile. This look of his perplexed me; it was less like fever than I thought. "Are you quite sure you have not dreamed it, Roland?" I said. "No shame to you, my boy," said I, though I scarcely knew why. Was it a hallucination? Was it the fever of the brain? Was it the disordered fancy caused by great bodily weakness? How could I tell? I thought it wisest to accept it as if it were all true. "This is very touching, Roland," I said. "Oh, if you had just heard it, father! I said to myself, if father heard it he would do something; but mamma, you know, she's given over to Simson, and that fellow's a doctor, and never thinks of anything but clapping you into bed." "We must not blame Simson for being a doctor, Roland." "No, no," said my boy, with delightful toleration and indulgence; "oh, no; that's the good of him; that's what he's for; I know that. But you--you are different; you are just father; and you'll do something--directly, papa, directly; this very night." "Surely," I said. "No doubt it is some little lost child." "My dear boy, how then could you have heard it?" I said. "Do you want to tell me it is a ghost?" I said. Roland withdrew his hand; his countenance assumed an aspect of great dignity and gravity; a slight quiver remained about his lips. "Whatever it was--you always said we were not to call names. It was something--in trouble. Oh, father, in terrible trouble!" "But, my boy," I said (I was at my wits' end), "if it was a child that was lost, or any poor human creature--but, Roland, what do you want me to do?" I do not know that I ever was in a greater perplexity, in my life; and afterwards, when I thought of it, there was something comic in it too. It is bad enough to find your child's mind possessed with the conviction that he has seen, or heard, a ghost; but that he should require you to go instantly and help that ghost was the most bewildering experience that had ever come my way. I am a sober man myself, and not superstitious--at least any more than everybody is superstitious. Of course I do not believe in ghosts; but I don't deny, any more than other people, that there are stories which I cannot pretend to understand. My blood got a sort of chill in my veins at the idea that Roland should be a ghost-seer; for that generally means a hysterical temperament and weak health, and all that men most hate and fear for their children. But that I should take up his ghost and right its wrongs, and save it from its trouble, was such a mission as was enough to confuse any man. I did my best to console my boy without giving any promise of this astonishing kind; but he was too sharp for me: he would have none of my caresses. With sobs breaking in at intervals upon his voice, and the rain-drops hanging on his eyelids, he yet returned to the charge. "But, Roland, what can I do?" "I think you are trifling with me, Jarvis," I said. "Sandy, hold your peace!" cried his wife imperatively. "Eh, Cornel," said the coachman's wife, "wha would investigate, as ye call it, a thing that nobody believes in? Ye would be the laughin'-stock of a' the country-side, as my man says." "But you believe in it," I said, turning upon her hastily. The woman was taken by surprise. She made a step backward out of my way. "Well, sir, if _I_ do it," said I tartly, "why shouldn't you?" "He believes in it, Cornel, and you dinna believe in it," the woman said. "Will you come with me?" I said, turning to her. She jumped back, upsetting her chair in her bewilderment. "Me!" with a scream, and then fell into a sort of hysterical laugh. "I wouldna say but what I would go; but what would the folk say to hear of Cornel Mortimer with an auld silly woman at his heels?" "Poachers, Colonel?" he said, a gleam of pleasure running all over him. "No, Bagley; a great deal worse," I cried. "Yes, Colonel; at what hour, sir?" the man said; but then I had not told him what it was. "You've got an epidemic in your house, Colonel," Simson said to me next morning. "What's the meaning of it all? Here's your butler raving about a voice. This will never do, you know; and so far as I can make out, you are in it too." "Yes, I am in it, Doctor. I thought I had better speak to you. Of course you are treating Roland all right, but the boy is not raving, he is as sane as you or me. It's all true." "As sane as--I--or you. I never thought the boy insane. He's got cerebral excitement, fever. I don't know what you've got. There's something very queer about the look of your eyes." "Come," said I, "you can't put us all to bed, you know. You had better listen and hear the symptoms in full." "Then how do you account for it?" I said. "Come with me to-night, and judge for yourself," I said. Upon this he laughed aloud, then said, "That's not such a bad idea; but it would ruin me forever if it were known that John Simson was ghost-hunting." "There it is," said I; "you dart down on us who are unlearned with your phonetic disturbances, but you daren't examine what the thing really is for fear of being laughed at. That's science!" He stopped to get his breath; and the voice had stopped, not as it had done before, when its time was exhausted and all its repetitions said, but with a sobbing catch in the breath as if overruled. Then the minister spoke again, "Are you hearing me, Will? Oh, laddie, you've liked the beggarly elements all your days. Be done with them now. Go home to the Father--the Father! Are you hearing me?" Here the old man sank down upon his knees, his face raised upwards, his hands held up with a tremble in them, all white in the light in the midst of the darkness. I resisted as long as I could, though I cannot tell why; then I, too, dropped upon my knees. Simson all the time stood in the door-way, with an expression in his face such as words could not tell, his under lip dropped, his eyes wild, staring. It seemed to be to him, that image of blank ignorance and wonder, that we were praying. All the time the voice, with a low arrested sobbing, lay just where he was standing, as I thought. "But not alone. I am going with you, Doctor." I pressed his hand on my arm, not feeling able to speak. But Simson, who turned with us, and who had gone along all this time with his taper flaring, in entire unconsciousness, came to himself, apparently at the sound of our voices, and put out that wild little torch with a quick movement, as if of shame. "Let me carry your lantern," he said; "it is heavy." He recovered with a spring; and in a moment, from the awe-stricken spectator he had been, became himself, sceptical and cynical. "I should like to ask you a question," he said. "Do you believe in Purgatory, Doctor? It's not in the tenets of the Church, so far as I know." "Sir," said the old man again, with a tremor in him which I could feel going over all his frame, "if I saw a friend of mine within the gates of hell, I would not despair but his Father would take him by the hand still, if he cried like _you_." "I allow it is very strange, very strange. I cannot see through it. That there must be human agency, I feel sure. Doctor, what made you decide upon the person and the name?" The minister put out his hand with the impatience which a man might show if he were asked how he recognized his brother. "Tuts!" he said, in familiar speech; then more solemnly, "How should I not recognize a person that I know better--far better--than I know you?" "Then you saw the man?" "Far from that--better. God bless him!" Dr. Moncrieff said. He smiled, and shook his head. "It is true enough," he said; "after we have reached a certain age we seem to go on for a long time on a plane, and feel no great difference from year to year; but it is an inclined plane, and the longer we go on the more sudden will be the fall at the end. But at all events it will be a great comfort to me to have you here." "It is as well, then, that it has interrupted itself," I said rather bitterly; for disappointment is hard to bear. "A deal too busy, sir, if you take my opinion," he said. "Mr. Philip," said Morphew, "a thing 'as 'appened as 'appens more often than it ought to. Master has got awful keen about money in his old age." "That's a new thing for him," I said. I felt more disposed to be angry than disturbed by this. "You must be making some ridiculous mistake," I said. "And if you were not so old a friend as you are, Morphew, I should not have allowed my father to be so spoken of to me." "What do you want with me?" I said. "My good woman," I said, "who can have taken all that from you? Surely nobody can be so cruel?" "To whom am I to speak? Who is it that has done this to you?" I said. The woman hesitated again, looking keenly in my face, then repeated with a slight faltering, "It's Mr. Philip?" as if that made everything right. "Yes; I am Philip Canning," I said; "but what have I to do with this? and to whom am I to speak?" She began to whimper, crying and stopping herself. "Oh, please, sir! it's Mr. Canning as owns all the house property about; it's him that our court and the lane and everything belongs to. And he's taken the bed from under us, and the baby's cradle, although it's said in the Bible as you're not to take poor folks' bed." "My agent? Who is that?" said my father quietly. "No doubt she was behind with her rent." "Very likely, sir. She seemed very poor," said I. "Certainly, sir," I replied, "when they have got anything to pay." "I don't allow the reservation," he said. But he was not angry, which I had feared he would be. "Not to let you be taken in by men without pity," I said. "My mother!" the reference was so unusual--nay, so unprecedented--that I was greatly startled. It seemed to me like the sudden introduction of a quite new element in the stagnant atmosphere, as well as a new party to our conversation. My father looked across the table, as if with some astonishment at my tone of surprise. "Is that so very extraordinary?" he said. "No; of course it is not extraordinary that I should resemble my mother. Only--I have heard very little of her--almost nothing." This the old man got out in a great hurry, as if afraid that his master would stop him. My father did so with a wave of his hand. "That's enough. I asked no information. You can go now." The door closed upon us, and there was again a pause. My subject had floated away altogether like a mist, though I had been so concerned about it. I tried to resume, but could not. Something seemed to arrest my very breathing; and yet in this dull, respectable house of ours, where everything breathed good character and integrity, it was certain that there could be no shameful mystery to reveal. It was some time before my father spoke, not from any purpose that I could see, but apparently because his mind was busy with probably unaccustomed thoughts. "You scarcely know the drawing-room, Phil," he said at last. "Very little. I have never seen it used. I have a little awe of it, to tell the truth." "That should not be. There is no reason for that. But a man by himself, as I have been for the greater part of my life, has no occasion for a drawing-room. I always, as a matter of preference, sat among my books; however, I ought to have thought of the impression on you." "Oh, it is not important," I said; "the awe was childish. I have not thought of it since I came home." I turned round to look at him with profound astonishment, but he turned away from my look. A sort of quiver passed over his face. "That is your mother," he said, and walked suddenly away, leaving me there. "I cannot understand it," I said. I was too much startled by this strange complaint to know what to say. It was not my own trouble, and I answered it in the conventional way. "They are not as we are, sir," I said; "they look upon us with larger, other eyes than ours." His voice broke and ended for a moment then while, surprised and almost shocked by what he said, I cast about in my mind what to reply, he withdrew his arm suddenly from mine, and said in his usual tone, "Where shall we hang the picture, Phil? It must be here in this room. What do you think will be the best light?" This sudden alteration took me still more by surprise, and gave me almost an additional shock; but it was evident that I must follow the changes of his mood, or at least the sudden repression of sentiment which he originated. We went into that simpler question with great seriousness, consulting which would be the best light. "You know I can scarcely advise," I said; "I have never been familiar with this room. I should like to put off, if you don't mind, till daylight." No need to ask what they were. No woman's work had been seen in the house since I could recollect it. I gathered them up reverently and put them back. I could see, ignorant as I was, that the bit of knitting was something for an infant. What could I do less than put it to my lips? It had been left in the doing--for me. "Yes, I think this is the best place," my father said a minute after, in his usual tone. "That looks like kindness," said I. "Ah!" she said, with a little cry of disappointment, "my man said not to make too sure, and that the ways of the gentlefolks is hard to know." "I cannot explain to you," I said, as gently as I could, "what it is that has made me forget you. It was an event that can only do you good in the end. Go home now, and see the man that took your things from you, and tell him to come to me. I promise you it shall all be put right." "I am going to be the agent myself, Morphew, and manage for my father; and we'll soon put a stop to that," I said, more cheerfully than I felt. "Manage for--master," he said, with a face of consternation. "You, Mr. Philip!" "You seem to have a great contempt for me, Morphew." "There are no evil chances," he said; "there is no bad luck; they reap as they sow. No, I don't go among them to be cheated by their stories, and spend quite unnecessary emotion in sympathizing with them. You will find it much better for you that I don't. I deal with them on a general rule, made, I assure you, not without a great deal of thought." "And must it always be so?" I said. "Is there no way of ameliorating or bringing in a better state of things?" "It seems not," he said; "we don't get 'no forrarder' in that direction so far as I can see." And then he turned the conversation to general matters. He was still sitting there at his writing-table; he looked up astonished to see me hurrying in with my light. "Phil!" he said, surprised. I remember that I shut the door behind me, and came up to him, and set down the lamp on his table. My sudden appearance alarmed him. "What is the matter?" he cried. "Philip, what have you been doing with yourself?" "Certainly," he said; "I take as much trouble about their drains as I do about my own." "That is always something, I suppose." "Something! it is a great deal; it is more than they get anywhere else. I keep them clean, as far as that's possible. I give them at least the means of keeping clean, and thus check disease, and prolong life, which is more, I assure you, than they've any right to expect." He was seated there at his table as usual, the light of the lamp falling on his white hair; he looked up with some surprise at the sound of the opening door. "Phil," he said, and with a look of wondering apprehension on his face, watched my approach. I went straight up to him and put my hand on his shoulder. "Phil, what is the matter? What do you want with me? What is it?" he said. "Philip," he said, pushing back his chair, "you must be ill, my poor boy. Evidently we have not been treating you rightly; you have been more ill all through than I supposed. Let me persuade you to go to bed." He turned round squarely in his chair, with a spark in his blue eyes. He was not a man to be meddled with. "I have yet to learn what can give my son a right to interfere. I am in possession of all my faculties, I hope." There was silence between us for some time; then he said, but with a voice slightly broken, "I don't understand you, Phil. You must have taken some fancy into your mind which my slower intelligence--Speak out what you want to say. What do you find fault with? Is it all--all that woman Jordan?" He gave a short, forced laugh as he broke off, and shook me almost roughly by the shoulder, saying, "Speak out! what--what do you want to say?" "Thank you," I said; "but, father, that is not what it is." "What end," he said, with again the tremble in his voice, "is to be served by that?" "I don't very well know; but to look at her, you and I together, will always do something for us, sir. As for breach, there can be no breach when we stand there." "At least," I said, "I will trouble you no more, father, to-night. So long as you understand, there need be no more to say." My father returned to his seat. He was much agitated too, though doing all that was possible to conceal it. My inopportune arrival was evidently a great and unlooked-for vexation to him. He gave me the only look of passionate displeasure I have ever had from him, as he sat down again; but he said nothing more. "You must understand," he said, addressing the woman, "that I have said my last words on this subject. I don't choose to enter into it again in the presence of my son, who is not well enough to be made a party to any discussion. I am sorry that you should have had so much trouble in vain, but you were warned beforehand, and you have only yourself to blame. I acknowledge no claim, and nothing you can say will change my resolution. I must beg you to go away. All this is very painful and quite useless. I acknowledge no claim." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Open Door, and the Portrait. by Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant	redpajama-book	5,010
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Tam and PG Distributed Proofreaders THE ANALECTS OF CONFUCIUS, THE SAYINGS OF MENCIUS, THE SHI-KING, THE TRAVELS OF FA-HIEN, AND THE SORROWS OF HAN WITH CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES BY EPIPHANIUS WILSON, A.M. THE ANALECTS OF CONFUCIUS I. On Learning--Miscellaneous Sayings II. Good Government--Filial Piety--The Superior Man III. Abuse of Proprieties in Ceremonial and Music IV. Social Virtue--Superior and Inferior Man V. A Disciple and the Golden Rule--Miscellaneous VI. More Characteristics--Wisdom--Philanthropy VII. Characteristics of Confucius--An Incident VIII. Sayings of Tsang--Sentences of the Master IX. His Favorite Disciple's Opinion of Him X. Confucius in Private and Official Life XI. Comparative Worth of His Disciples XII. The Master's Answers--Philanthropy--Friendships XIII. Answers on the Art of Governing--Consistency XIV. Good and Bad Government--Miscellaneous Sayings XV. Practical Wisdom--Reciprocity the Rule of Life XVI. Against Intestine Strife--Good and Bad Friendships XVII. The Master Induced to Take Office--Nature and Habit XVIII. Good Men in Seclusion--Duke of Chow to His Son XIX. Teachings of Various Chief Disciples XX. Extracts from the Book of History THE SAYINGS OF MENCIUS [_Books II., III., and IV. are omitted_] [_Books IV., V., and VI. are omitted_] [_Book II. is omitted_] [_Translated into English by William Jennings_] PRONUNCIATION OF PROPER NAMES The strangest figure that meets us in the annals of Oriental thought is that of Confucius. To the popular mind he is the founder of a religion, and yet he has nothing in common with the great religious teachers of the East. We think of Siddartha, the founder of Buddhism, as the very impersonation of romantic asceticism, enthusiastic self-sacrifice, and faith in the things that are invisible. Zoroaster is the friend of God, talking face to face with the Almighty, and drinking wisdom and knowledge from the lips of Omniscience. Mohammed is represented as snatched up into heaven, where he receives the Divine communication which he is bidden to propagate with fire and sword throughout the world. These great teachers lived in an atmosphere of the supernatural. They spoke with the authority of inspired prophets. They brought the unseen world close to the minds of their disciples. They spoke positively of immortality, of reward or punishment beyond the grave. The present life they despised, the future was to them everything in its promised satisfaction. The teachings of Confucius were of a very different sort. Throughout his whole writings he has not even mentioned the name of God. He declined to discuss the question of immortality. When he was asked about spiritual beings, he remarked, "If we cannot even know men, how can we know spirits?" The Analects of Confucius contain the gist of his teachings, and is worthy of study. We find in this work most of the precepts which his disciples have preserved and recorded. They form a code remarkable for simplicity, even crudity, and we are compelled to admire the force of character, the practical sagacity, the insight into the needs of the hour, which enabled Confucius, without claiming any Divine sanction, to impose this system upon his countrymen. "And are not those who, while not comprehending all that is said, still remain not unpleased to hear, men of the superior order?" "Let young people," said he, "show filial piety at home, respectfulness towards their elders when away from home; let them be circumspect, be truthful; their love going out freely towards all, cultivating good-will to men. And if, in such a walk, there be time or energy left for other things, let them employ it in the acquisition of literary or artistic accomplishments." "Give prominent place to loyalty and sincerity. "Have no associates in study who are not advanced somewhat like yourself. "When you have erred, be not afraid to correct yourself." Tsz-k'in put this query to his fellow disciple Tsz-kung: said he, "When our Master comes to this or that State, he learns without fail how it is being governed. Does he investigate matters? or are the facts given him?" Tsz-kung answered, "Our Master is a man of pleasant manners, and of probity, courteous, moderate, and unassuming: it is by his being such that he arrives at the facts. Is not his way of arriving at things different from that of others?" "It is not, however, always practicable; and it is not so in the case of a person who does things naturally, knowing that he should act so, and yet who neglects to regulate his acts according to the Rules. "When truth and right are hand in hand, a statement will bear repetition. When respectfulness and propriety go hand in hand, disgrace and shame are kept afar-off. Remove all occasion for alienating those to whom you are bound by close ties, and you have them still to resort to." Tsz-kung asked, "What say you, sir, of the poor who do not cringe and fawn; and what of the rich who are without pride and haughtiness?" "They are passable," the Master replied; "yet they are scarcely in the same category as the poor who are happy, and the rich who love propriety." Polished, as by the knife and file, The graving-tool, the smoothing-stone. Does that coincide with your remark?" "It does not greatly concern me," said the Master, "that men do not know me; my great concern is, my not knowing them." Good Government--Filial Piety--The Superior Man "To govern simply by statute, and to reduce all to order by means of pains and penalties, is to render the people evasive, and devoid of any sense of shame. "To govern upon principles of virtue, and to reduce them to order by the Rules of Propriety, would not only create in them the sense of shame, but would moreover reach them in all their errors. To a question of Mang-i, as to what filial piety consisted in, the master replied, "In not being perverse." Afterwards, when Fan Ch'i was driving him, the Master informed him of this question and answer, and Fan Ch'i asked, "What was your meaning?" The Master replied, "I meant that the Rules of Propriety should always be adhered to in regard to those who brought us into the world: in ministering to them while living, in burying them when dead, and afterwards in the offering to them of sacrificial gifts." To a like question of Tsz-hia, he replied: "The manner is the difficulty. If, in the case of work to be done, the younger folks simply take upon themselves the toil of it; or if, in the matter of meat and drink, they simply set these before their elders--is this to be taken as filial piety?" "Be versed in ancient lore, and familiarize yourself with the modern; then may you become teachers. "The great man is not a mere receptacle." "Learning, without thought, is a snare; thought, without learning, is a danger. "Where the mind is set much upon heterodox principles--there truly and indeed is harm." To the disciple Tsz-lu the Master said, "Shall I give you a lesson about knowledge? When you know a thing, maintain that you know it; and when you do not, acknowledge your ignorance. This is characteristic of knowledge." Tsz-chang was studying with an eye to official income. The Master addressed him thus: "Of the many things you hear hold aloof from those that are doubtful, and speak guardedly with reference to the rest; your mistakes will then be few. Also, of the many courses you see adopted, hold aloof from those that are risky, and carefully follow the others; you will then seldom have occasion for regret. Thus, being seldom mistaken in your utterances, and having few occasions for regret in the line you take, you are on the high road to your preferment." Abuse of Proprieties in Ceremonial and Music "Harmoniously the Princes Draw near with reverent tread, Assisting in his worship Heaven's Son, the great and dread." On a question being put to him by Lin Fang, a disciple, as to what was the radical idea upon which the Rules of Propriety were based, the Master exclaimed, "Ah! that is a large question. As to some rules, where there is likelihood of extravagance, they would rather demand economy; in those which relate to mourning, and where there is likelihood of being easily satisfied, what is wanted is real sorrow." Of "the superior man," the Master observed, "In him there is no contentiousness. Say even that he does certainly contend with others, as in archery competitions; yet mark, in that case, how courteously he will bow and go up for the forfeit-cup, and come down again and give it to his competitor. In his very contest he is still the superior man." "Coloring," replied the Master, "requires a pure and clear background." "Then," said the other, "rules of ceremony require to have a background!" "Ah!" exclaimed the Master, "you are the man to catch the drift of my thought. Such as you may well introduce a discussion on the Odes." Said the Master, "As regards the ceremonial adopted and enforced by the Hia dynasty, I am able to describe it, although their own descendants in the State of Ki can adduce no adequate testimony in favor of its use there. So, too, I am able to describe the ceremonial of the Yin dynasty, although no more can the Sung people show sufficient reason for its continuance amongst themselves. And why cannot they do so? Because they have not documents enough, nor men learned enough. If only they had such, I could refer them to them in support of their usages. "When I am present at the great quinquennial sacrifice to the _manes_ of the royal ancestors," the Master said, "from the pouring-out of the oblation onwards, I have no heart to look on." When he offered sacrifices to his ancestors, he used to act as if they were present before him. In offering to other spirits it was the same. He would say, "If I do not myself take part in my offerings, it is all the same as if I did not offer them." "In archery," he said, "the great point to be observed is not simply the perforation of the leather; for men have not all the same strength. That was the fashion in the olden days." When Duke Ting questioned him as to how a prince should deal with his ministers, and how they in turn should serve their prince, Confucius said in reply, "In dealing with his ministers a prince should observe the proprieties; in serving his prince a minister should observe the duty of loyalty." Duke Ngai asked the disciple Tsai Wo respecting the places for sacrificing to the Earth. The latter replied, "The Family of the Great Yu, of the Hia dynasty, chose a place of pine trees; the Yin founders chose cypresses; and the Chow founders chestnut trees, solemn and majestic, to inspire, 'tis said, the people with feelings of awe." The Master on hearing of this exclaimed, "Never an allusion to things that have been enacted in the past! Never a remonstrance against what is now going on! He has gone away without a word of censure." "He knew the Rules of Propriety, I suppose?" The warden of the border-town of I requested an interview with Confucius, and said, "When great men have come here, I have never yet failed to obtain a sight of them." The followers introduced him; and, on leaving, he said to them, "Sirs, why grieve at his loss of office? The empire has for long been without good government; and Heaven is about to use your master as its edict-announcer." Comparing the music of the emperor Shun with the music of King Wu, the Master said, "That of Shun is beautiful throughout, and also good throughout. That of Wu is all of it beautiful, but scarcely all of it good." Social Virtue--Superior and Inferior Man "Those who are without it cannot abide long, either in straitened or in happy circumstances. Those who possess it find contentment in it. Those who are wise go after it as men go after gain. "Only they in whom it exists can have right likings and dislikings for others. "Where the will is set upon it, there will be no room for malpractices. "Riches and honor are what men desire; but if they arrive at them by improper ways, they should not continue to hold them. Poverty and low estate are what men dislike; but if they arrive at such a condition by improper ways, they should not refuse it. "If the 'superior man' make nought of social good feeling, how shall he fully bear that name? "Not even whilst he eats his meal will the 'superior man' forget what he owes to his fellow-men. Even in hurried leave-takings, even in moments of frantic confusion, he keeps true to this virtue. "The scholar who is intent upon learning the right way, and who is yet ashamed of poor attire and poor food, is not worthy of being discoursed with. "The masterly man's attitude to the world is not exclusively this or that: whatsoever is right, to that he will be a party. "The masterly man has an eye to virtue, the common man, to earthly things; the former has an eye to penalties for error--the latter, to favor. "Where there is habitual going after gain, there is much ill-will. "When there is ability in a ruler to govern a country by adhering to the Rules of Propriety, and by kindly condescension, what is wanted more? Where the ability to govern thus is wanting, what has such a ruler to do with the Rules of Propriety? When the Master was gone out the other disciples asked what was the purport of this remark. Tsang's answer was, "The principles of our Master's teaching are these--whole-heartedness and kindly forbearance; these and nothing more." "When you meet with men of worth, think how you may attain to their level; when you see others of an opposite character, look within, and examine yourself. "A son, in ministering to his parents, may (on occasion) offer gentle remonstrances; when he sees that their will is not to heed such, he should nevertheless still continue to show them reverent respect, never obstinacy; and if he have to suffer, let him do so without murmuring. "Whilst the parents are still living, he should not wander far; or, if a wanderer, he should at least have some fixed address. "Those who keep within restraints are seldom losers. "To be slow to speak, but prompt to act, is the desire of the 'superior man.' "Virtue dwells not alone: she must have neighbors." A Disciple and the Golden Rule--Miscellaneous The Master pronounced Kung-ye Ch'ang, a disciple, to be a marriageable person; for although lying bound in criminal fetters he had committed no crime. And he gave him his own daughter to wife. Of Tsz-tsien, a disciple, he remarked, "A superior man indeed is the like of him! But had there been none of superior quality in Lu, how should this man have attained to this excellence?" When the Master proposed that Tsi-tiau K'ai should enter the government service, the latter replied, "I can scarcely credit it." The Master was gratified. "What say you then of Yen Yu?" "Take Tsz-hwa, then; what of him?" "Tsz-hwa," said he, "with a cincture girt upon him, standing as attendant at Court, might be charged with the addressing of visitors and guests; but as to his good-naturedness I cannot answer." "You are not a match for him, I grant you," said the Master. "You are not his match." Tsz-kung made the remark: "That which I do not wish others to put upon me, I also wish not to put upon others." "Nay," said the Master, "you have not got so far as that." Tsz-kung asked how it was that Kung Wan had come to be so styled Wan (the talented). The Master's answer was, "Because, though a man of an active nature, he was yet fond of study, and he was not ashamed to stoop to put questions to his inferiors." "That he was a loyal man," said the Master. "But was he a man of fellow-feeling?" said the disciple. "Of that I am not sure," he answered; "how am I to get at that?" "That he was a pure-minded man," answered the Master. "But was he a man of fellow-feeling?" urged the disciple. "Of that I am not sure," he replied; "how am I to get at that?" Of Ning Wu, the Master said that when matters went well in the State he used to have his wits about him: but when they went wrong, he lost them. His intelligence might be equalled, but not his witlessness! Of Peh-I and Shuh Ts'i he said, "By the fact of their not remembering old grievances, they gradually did away with resentment." "Fine speech," said he, "and studied mien, and superfluous show of deference--of such things Tso-k'iu Ming was ashamed, I too am ashamed of such things. Also of hiding resentment felt towards an opponent and treating him as a friend--of this kind of thing he was ashamed, and so too am I." "I should like," said Tsz-lu, "for myself and my friends and associates, carriages and horses, and to be clad in light furs! nor would I mind much if they should become the worse for wear." "And I should like," said Yen Yuen, "to live without boasting of my abilities, and without display of meritorious deeds." Tsz-lu then said, "I should like, sir, to hear what your heart is set upon." "In a small cluster of houses there may well be," said he, "some whose integrity and sincerity may compare with mine; but I yield to none in point of love of learning." More Characteristics--Wisdom--Philanthropy Of Yen Yung, a disciple, the Master said, "Yung might indeed do for a prince!" On being asked by this Yen Yung his opinion of a certain individual, the Master replied, "He is passable. Impetuous, though." "But," argued the disciple, "if a man habituate himself to a reverent regard for duty--even while in his way of doing things he is impetuous--in the oversight of the people committed to his charge, is he not passable? If, on the other hand, he habituate himself to impetuosity of mind, and show it also in his way of doing things, is he not then over-impetuous?" "You are right," said the Master. Speaking of Yen Yung again, the Master said, "If the offspring of a speckled ox be red in color, and horned, even though men may not wish to take it for sacrifice, would the spirits of the hills and streams reject it?" When asked by Ki K'ang whether Tsz-lu was fit to serve the government, the Master replied, "Tsz-lu is a man of decision: what should prevent him from serving the government?" When the head of the Ki family sent for Min Tsz-k'ien to make him governor of the town of Pi, that disciple said, "Politely decline for me. If the offer is renewed, then indeed I shall feel myself obliged to go and live on the further bank of the Wan." Peh-niu had fallen ill, and the Master was inquiring after him. Taking hold of his hand held out from the window, he said, "It is taking him off! Alas, his appointed time has come! Such a man, and to have such an illness!" Addressing Tsz-hia, the Master said, "Let your scholarship be that of gentlemen, and not like that of common men." When Tsz-yu became governor of Wu-shing, the Master said to him, "Do you find good men about you?" The reply was, "There is Tan-t'ai Mieh-ming, who when walking eschews by-paths, and who, unless there be some public function, never approaches my private residence." "Mang Chi-fan," said the Master, "is no sounder of his own praises. During a stampede he was in the rear, and as they were about to enter the city gate he whipped up his horses, and said, 'Twas not my daring made me lag behind. My horses would not go.'" "Where plain naturalness is more in evidence than polish, we have--the man from the country. Where polish is more in evidence than naturalness, we have--the town scribe. It is when naturalness and polish are equally evident that we have the ideal man. "The life of a man is--his rectitude. Life without it--such may you have the good fortune to avoid! "They who know it are not as those who love it, nor they who love it as those who rejoice in it--that is, have the fruition of their love for it. "Men of practical knowledge," he said, "find their gratification among the rivers of the lowland, men of sympathetic social feeling find theirs among the hills. The former are active and bustling, the latter calm and quiet. The former take their day of pleasure, the latter look to length of days." Tsai Wo, a disciple, put a query. Said he, "Suppose a philanthropic person were told, 'There's a fellow-creature down in the well!' Would he go down after him?" "Why should he really do so?" answered the Master. "The good man or, a superior man might be induced to go, but not to go down. He may be misled, but not befooled." "The superior man," said he, "with his wide study of books, and hedging himself round by the Rules of Propriety, is not surely, after all that, capable of overstepping his bounds." Characteristics of Confucius--An Incident "The things which weigh heavily upon my mind are these--failure to improve in the virtues, failure in discussion of what is learnt, inability to walk according to knowledge received as to what is right and just, inability also to reform what has been amiss." In his hours of recreation and refreshment the Master's manner was easy and unconstrained, affable and winning. "Concentrate the mind," said he, "upon the Good Way. "Maintain firm hold upon Virtue. "Rely upon Philanthropy. "I have never withheld instruction from any, even from those who have come for it with the smallest offering. If the Master was taking a meal, and there were any in mourning beside him, he would not eat to the full. Addressing his favorite disciple, he said, "To you only and myself it has been given to do this--to go when called to serve, and to go back into quiet retirement when released from office." As to wealth, he remarked, "If wealth were an object that I could go in quest of, I should do so even if I had to take a whip and do grooms' work. But seeing that it is not, I go after those objects for which I have a liking." When he was in the State of Ts'i, and had heard the ancient Shau music, he lost all perception of the taste of his meat. "I had no idea," said he, "that music could have been brought to this pitch." In the course of conversation Yen Yu said, "Does the Master take the part of the Prince of Wei?" "Ah yes!" said Tsz-kung, "I will go and ask him that." "With a meal of coarse rice," said the Master, "and with water to drink, and my bent arm for my pillow--even thus I can find happiness. Riches and honors without righteousness are to me as fleeting clouds." The Master's regular subjects of discourse were the "Books of the Odes" and "History," and the up-keeping of the Rules of Propriety. On all of these he regularly discoursed. The Duke of Shih questioned Tsz-lu about Confucius, and the latter did not answer. Hearing of this, the Master said, "Why did you not say, He is a man with a mind so intent on his pursuits that he forgets his food, and finds such pleasure in them that he forgets his troubles, and does not know that old age is coming upon him?" "As I came not into life with any knowledge of it," he said, "and as my likings are for what is old, I busy myself in seeking knowledge there." Strange occurrences, exploits of strength, deeds of lawlessness, references to spiritual beings--such-like matters the Master avoided in conversation. "It is not given to me," he said, "to meet with a sage; let me but behold a man of superior mind, and that will suffice. Neither is it given to me to meet with a good man; let me but see a man of constancy, and it will suffice. It is difficult for persons to have constancy, when they pretend to have that which they are destitute of, to be full when they are empty, to do things on a grand scale when their means are contracted!" When the Master fished with hook and line, he did not also use a net. When out with his bow, he would never shoot at game in cover. "Is the philanthropic spirit far to seek, indeed?" the Master exclaimed; "I wish for it, and it is with me!" The Minister of Crime in the State of Ch'in asked Confucius whether Duke Ch'an, of Lu was acquainted with the Proprieties; and he answered, "Yes, he knows them." When Confucius had withdrawn, the minister bowed to Wu-ma K'i, a disciple, and motioned to him to come forward. He said, "I have heard that superior men show no partiality; are they, too, then, partial? That prince took for his wife a lady of the Wu family, having the same surname as himself, and had her named 'Lady Tsz of Wu, the elder,' If he knows the Proprieties, then who does not?" The disciple reported this to the Master, who thereupon remarked, "Well for me! If I err in any way, others are sure to know of it." "Although in letters," he said, "I may have none to compare with me, yet in my personification of the 'superior man' I have not as yet been successful." "My praying has been going on a long while," said the Master. "Lavish living," he said, "renders men disorderly; miserliness makes them hard. Better, however, the hard than the disorderly." Again, "The man of superior mind is placidly composed; the small-minded man is in a constant state of perturbation." The Master was gentle, yet could be severe; had an over-awing presence, yet was not violent; was deferential, yet easy. Sayings of Tsang--Sentences of the Master "When men of rank show genuine care for those nearest to them in blood, the people rise to the duty of neighborliness and sociability. And when old friendships among them are not allowed to fall off, there will be a cessation of underhand practices among the people." Again, during an illness of his, Mang King, an official, went to ask after him. The Scholar had some conversation with him, in the course of which he said- "'Doleful the cries of a dying bird, Good the last words of a dying man,' Again he said: "The man that is capable of being intrusted with the charge of a minor on the throne, and given authority over a large territory, and who, during the important term of his superintendence cannot be forced out of his position, is not such a 'superior man'? That he is, indeed." "The people may be put into the way they should go, though they may not be put into the way of understanding it. "The man who likes bravery, and yet groans under poverty, has mischief in him. So, too, has the misanthrope, groaning at any severity shown towards him. "Even if a person were adorned with the gifts of the Duke of Chow, yet if he were proud and avaricious, all the rest of his qualities would not indeed be worth looking at. "The really faithful lover of learning holds fast to the Good Way till death. "If not occupying the office, devise not the policy. "I cannot understand persons who are enthusiastic and yet not straightforward; nor those who are ignorant and yet not attentive; nor again those folks who are simple-minded and yet untrue. "Learn, as if never overtaking your object, and yet as if apprehensive of losing it. "How great was Yau as a prince! Was he not sublime! Say that Heaven only is great, then was Yau alone after its pattern! How profound was he! The people could not find a name for him. How sublime in his achievements! How brilliant in his scholarly productions!" "As to Yu," added the Master, "I can find no flaw in him. Living on meagre food and drink; yet providing to the utmost in his filial offerings to the spirits of the dead! Dressing in coarse garments; yet most elegant when vested in his sacrificial apron and coronet! Dwelling in a poor palace; yet exhausting his energies over those boundary-ditches and watercourses! I can find no flaw in Yu." His Favorite Disciple's Opinion of Him Topics on which the Master rarely spoke were--Advantage, and Destiny, and Duty of man to man. The Master heard of this, and mentioning it to his disciples he said, "What then shall I take in hand? Shall I become a carriage driver, or an archer? Let me be a driver!" "The Rule says, 'Make your bow when at the lower end of the hall'; but nowadays the bowing is done at the upper part. This is great freedom; and I, though I go in opposition to the crowd, bow when at the lower end." A high State official, after questioning Tsz-kung, said, "Your Master is a sage, then? How many and what varied abilities must be his!" The disciple replied, "Certainly Heaven is allowing him full opportunities of becoming a sage, in addition to the fact that his abilities are many and varied." When the Master heard of this he remarked, "Does that high official know me? In my early years my position in life was low, and hence my ability in many ways, though exercised in trifling matters. In the gentleman is there indeed such variety of ability? No." From this, the disciple Lau used to say, "'Twas a saying of the Master: 'At a time when I was not called upon to use them, I acquired my proficiency in the polite arts.'" "Am I, indeed," said the Master, "possessed of knowledge? I know nothing. Let a vulgar fellow come to me with a question--a man with an emptyish head--I may thrash out with him the matter from end to end, and exhaust myself in doing it!" "What rudeness would there be," he replied, "if a 'superior man' was living in their midst?" "Alas for Hwui! I saw him ever making progress. I never saw him stopping short. "Blade, but no bloom--or else bloom, but no produce; aye, that is the way with some! "Can any do otherwise than assent to words said to them by way of correction? Only let them reform by such advice, and it will then be reckoned valuable. Can any be other than pleased with words of gentle suasion? Only let them comply with them fully, and such also will be accounted valuable. With those who are pleased without so complying, and those who assent but do not reform, I can do nothing at all. "Give prominent place to loyalty and sincerity. "Have no associates in study who are not advanced somewhat like yourself. "When you have erred, be not afraid to correct yourself. Tsz-lu used always to be humming over the lines- "From envy and enmity free, What deed doth he other than good?" "When the year grows chilly, we know the pine and cypress are the last to fade. "The wise escape doubt; the good-hearted, trouble; the bold, apprehension. "Some may study side by side, and yet be asunder when they come to the logic of things. Some may go on together in this latter course, but be wide apart in the standards they reach in it. Some, again, may together reach the same standard, and yet be diverse in weight of character." "The blossom is out on the cherry tree, With a flutter on every spray. Dost think that my thoughts go not out to thee? Ah, why art thou far away!" Commenting on these lines the Master said, "There can hardly have been much 'thought going out,' What does distance signify?" Confucius in Private and Official Life In his own village, Confucius presented a somewhat plain and simple appearance, and looked unlike a man who possessed ability of speech. But in the ancestral temple, and at Court, he spoke with the fluency and accuracy of a debater, but ever guardedly. At Court, conversing with the lower order of great officials, he spoke somewhat firmly and directly; with those of the higher order his tone was somewhat more affable. When the prince was present he was constrainedly reverent in his movements, and showed a proper degree of grave dignity in demeanor. Whenever the prince summoned him to act as usher to the Court, his look would change somewhat, and he would make as though he were turning round to do obeisance. He would salute those among whom he took up his position, using the right hand or the left, and holding the skirts of his robe in proper position before and behind. He would make his approaches with quick step, and with elbows evenly bent outwards. When the visitor withdrew, he would not fail to report the execution of his commands, with the words, "The visitor no longer looks back." When he entered the palace gate, it was with the body somewhat bent forward, almost as though he could not be admitted. When he stood still, this would never happen in the middle of the gateway; nor when moving about would he ever tread on the threshold. When passing the throne, his look would change somewhat, he would turn aside and make a sort of obeisance, and the words he spoke seemed as though he were deficient in utterance. When holding the sceptre in his hand, his body would be somewhat bent forward, as if he were not equal to carrying it; wielding it now higher, as in a salutation, now lower, as in the presentation of a gift; his look would also be changed and appear awestruck; and his gait would seem retarded, as if he were obeying some restraining hand behind. When he presented the gifts of ceremony, he would assume a placid expression of countenance. At the private interview he would be cordial and affable. At his meals he would not enter into discussions; and when reposing (afterwards) he would not utter a word. Even should his meal consist only of coarse rice and vegetable broth or melons, he would make an offering, and never fail to do so religiously. He would never sit on a mat that was not straight. After a feast among his villagers, he would wait before going away until the old men had left. When the village people were exorcising the pests, he would put on his Court robes and stand on the steps of his hall to receive them. When unwell, and the prince came to see him, he would arrange his position so that his head inclined towards the east, would put over him his Court robes, and draw his girdle across them. When summoned by order of the prince, he would start off without waiting for his horses to be put to. On his entry into the Grand Temple, he inquired about everything connected with its usages. If a friend died, and there were no near relatives to take him to, he would say, "Let him be buried from my house." For a friend's gift--unless it consisted of meat that had been offered in sacrifice--he would not bow, even if it were a carriage and horses. In saluting any person wearing mourning he would bow forwards towards the front bar of his carriage; in the same manner he would also salute the bearer of a census-register. When a sumptuous banquet was spread before him, a different expression would be sure to appear in his features, and he would rise up from his seat. At a sudden thunder-clap, or when the wind grew furious, his look would also invariably be changed. Comparative Worth of His Disciples On the death of Yen Yuen the Master exclaimed, "Ah me! Heaven is ruining me, Heaven is ruining me!" Tsz-lu propounded a question about ministering to the spirits of the departed. The Master replied, "Where there is scarcely the ability to minister to living men, how shall there be ability to minister to the spirits?" On his venturing to put a question concerning death, he answered, "Where there is scarcely any knowledge about life, how shall there be any about death?" Some persons in Lu were taking measures in regard to the Long Treasury House. Min Tsz-k'ien observed, "How if it were repaired on the old lines?" The Master upon this remarked, "This fellow is not a talker, but when he does speak he is bound to hit the mark!" "To go too far," he replied, "is about the same as to fall short." The Chief of the Ki family was a wealthier man than the Duke of Chow had been, and yet Yen Yu gathered and hoarded for him, increasing his wealth more and more. "He is no follower of mine," said the Master. "It would serve him right, my children, to sound the drum, and set upon him." Tsz-chang wanted to know some marks of the naturally Good Man. "He does not walk in others' footprints," said the Master; "yet he does not get beyond the hall into the house." When, however, the same question was put to him by Yen Yu, his reply was, "Yes; do so." The Master replied, "Yen Yu backs out of his duties; therefore I push him on. Tsz-lu has forwardness enough for them both; therefore I hold him back." On the occasion of that time of fear in K'wang, Yen Yuen having fallen behind, the Master said to him (afterwards), "I took it for granted you were a dead man." "How should I dare to die," said he, "while you, sir, still lived?" "Well, are they then," he asked, "such as will follow their leader?" "They would not follow him who should slay his father and his prince!" was the reply. Through the intervention of Tsz-lu, Tsz-kau was being appointed governor of Pi. "You are spoiling a good man's son," said the Master. Tsz-lu rejoined, "But he will have the people and their superiors to gain experience from, and there will be the altars; what need to read books? He can become a student afterwards." "Here is the reason for my hatred of glib-tongued people," said the Master. The Master smiled at him. "Yen," said he, "how would it be with you?" "And with you, Kung-si, how would it be?" This disciple's reply was, "I have nothing to say about my capabilities for such matters; my wish is to learn. I should like to be a junior assistant, in dark robe and cap, at the services of the ancestral temple, and at the Grand Receptions of the Princes by the Sovereign." "And with you, Tsang Sin?" The Master drew in his breath, sighed, and exclaimed, "Ah, I take with you!" "Why did you smile at Tsz-lu, sir?" "I smiled at him because to have the charge of a State requires due regard to the Rules of Propriety, and his words betrayed a lack of modesty." "But Yen, then--he had a State in view, had he not?" "I should like to be shown a territory such as he described which does not amount to a State." "But had not Kung-si also a State in view?" The Master's Answers--Philanthropy--Friendships "I wanted you to be good enough," said Yen Yuen, "to give me a brief synopsis of it." Then said the Master, "Without Propriety use not your eyes; without it use not your ears, nor your tongue, nor a limb of your body." "I may be lacking in diligence," said Yen Yuen, "but with your favor I will endeavor to carry out this advice." Chung-kung asked about man's proper regard for his fellows. To him the Master replied thus: "When you go forth from your door, be as if you were meeting some guest of importance. When you are making use of the common people (for State purposes), be as if you were taking part in a great religious function. Do not set before others what you do not desire yourself. Let there be no resentful feelings against you when you are away in the country, and none when at home." "I may lack diligence," said Chung-kung, "but with your favor I will endeavor to carry out this advice." Sz-ma Niu asked the like question. The answer he received was this: "The words of the man who has a proper regard for his fellows are uttered with difficulty." "Where there is difficulty in doing," the Master replied, "will there not be some difficulty in utterance?" The same disciple put a question about the "superior man." "Superior men," he replied, "are free from trouble and apprehension." "'Free from trouble and apprehension!'" said he. "Does that make them 'superior men'?" The Master added, "Where there is found, upon introspection, to be no chronic disease, how shall there be any trouble? how shall there be any apprehension?" The same disciple, being in trouble, remarked, "I am alone in having no brother, while all else have theirs--younger or elder." Tsz-chang asked what sort of man might be termed "enlightened." The Master replied, "That man with whom drenching slander and cutting calumny gain no currency may well be called enlightened. Ay, he with whom such things make no way may well be called enlightened in the extreme." "The armament," he replied. "The food," said he. "Death has been the portion of all men from of old. Without the people's trust nothing can stand." Duke Ngai was consulting Yu Joh. Said he, "It is a year of dearth, and there is an insufficiency for Ways and Means--what am I to do?" "Why not apply the Tithing Statute?" said the minister. The minister replied, "So long as the people have enough left for themselves, who of them will allow their prince to be without enough? But--when the people have not enough, who will allow their prince all that he wants?" Duke King of Ts'i consulted Confucius about government. His answer was, "Let a prince be a prince, and ministers be ministers; let fathers be fathers, and sons be sons." "Good!" exclaimed the duke; "truly if a prince fail to be a prince, and ministers to be ministers, and if fathers be not fathers, and sons not sons, then, even though I may have my allowance of grain, should I ever be able to relish it?" Tsz-lu never let a night pass between promise and performance. "In hearing causes, I am like other men," said the Master. "The great point is--to prevent litigation." Tsz-chang having raised some question about government, the Master said to him, "In the settlement of its principles be unwearied; in its administration--see to that loyally." "The man of wide research," said he, "who also restrains himself by the Rules of Propriety, is not likely to transgress." Again, "The noble-minded man makes the most of others' good qualities, not the worst of their bad ones. Men of small mind do the reverse of this." Ki K'ang was consulting him about the direction of public affairs. Confucius answered him, "A director should be himself correct. If you, sir, as a leader show correctness, who will dare not to be correct?" Ki K'ang, being much troubled on account of robbers abroad, consulted Confucius on the matter. He received this reply: "If you, sir, were not covetous, neither would they steal, even were you to bribe them to do so." Ki K'ang, when consulting Confucius about the government, said, "Suppose I were to put to death the disorderly for the better encouragement of the orderly--what say you to that?" "Sir," replied Confucius, "in the administration of government why resort to capital punishment? Covet what is good, and the people will be good. The virtue of the noble-minded man is as the wind, and that of inferior men as grass; the grass must bend, when the wind blows upon it." Tsz-chang asked how otherwise he would describe the learned official who might be termed influential. Fan Ch'i, strolling with him over the ground below the place of the rain-dance, said to him, "I venture to ask how to raise the standard of virtue, how to reform dissolute habits, and how to discern what is illusory?" Asked by him again what was meant by wisdom, he replied, "It is knowledge of man." Fan Ch'i did not quite grasp his meaning. The Master went on to say, "Lift up the straight, set aside the crooked, so can you make the crooked straight." Fan Ch'i left him, and meeting with Tsz-hia he said, "I had an interview just now with the Master, and I asked him what wisdom was. In his answer he said, 'Lift up the straight, set aside the crooked, and so can you make the crooked straight.' What was his meaning?" "Ah! words rich in meaning, those," said the other. "When Shun was emperor, and was selecting his men from among the multitude, he 'lifted up' Kau-yau; and men devoid of right feelings towards their kind went far away. And when T'ang was emperor, and chose out his men from the crowd, he 'lifted up' I-yin--with the same result." Tsz-kung was consulting him about a friend. "Speak to him frankly, and respectfully," said the Master, "and gently lead him on. If you do not succeed, then stop; do not submit yourself to indignity." The learned Tsang observed, "In the society of books the 'superior man' collects his friends; in the society of his friends he is furthering good-will among men." Answers on the Art of Governing--Consistency Tsz-lu was asking about government. "Lead the way in it," said the Master, "and work hard at it." Requested to say more, he added, "And do not tire of it." "But," he asked, "how am I to know the sagacious and talented, before promoting them?" "Promote those whom you do know," said the Master. "As to those of whom you are uncertain, will others omit to notice them?" "That!" exclaimed Tsz-lu. "How far away you are, sir! Why such rectification?" Fan Ch'i requested that he might learn something of husbandry. "For that." said the Master, "I am not equal to an old husbandman." Might he then learn something of gardening? he asked. "I am not equal to an old gardener." was the reply. "Let a leader," said he, "show rectitude in his own personal character, and even without directions from him things will go well. If he be not personally upright, his directions will not be complied with." The Master was on a journey to Wei, and Yen Yu was driving him. "What multitudes of people!" he exclaimed. Yen Yu asked him, "Seeing they are so numerous, what more would you do for them?" "Enrich them," replied the Master. "And after enriching them, what more would you do for them?" Again, "How true is that saying, 'Let good men have the management of a country for a century, and they would be adequate to cope with evil-doers, and thus do away with capital punishments,'" Again, "Let a ruler but see to his own rectitude, and what trouble will he then have in the work before him? If he be unable to rectify himself, how is he to rectify others?" When the Duke of Sheh consulted him about government, he replied, "Where the near are gratified, the far will follow." When Tsz-hia became governor of Kue-fu, and consulted him about government, he answered, "Do not wish for speedy results. Do not look at trivial advantages. If you wish for speedy results, they will not be far-reaching; and if you regard trivial advantages you will not successfully deal with important affairs." The Duke of Sheh in a conversation with Confucius said, "There are some straightforward persons in my neighborhood. If a father has stolen a sheep, the son will give evidence against him." "Straightforward people in my neighborhood are different from those," said Confucius. "The father will hold a thing secret on his son's behalf, and the son does the same for his father. They are on their way to becoming straightforward." "May I presume," said his questioner, "to ask what sort you would put next to such?" "Him who is spoken of by his kinsmen as a dutiful son, and whom the folks of his neighborhood call' good brother.'" "May I still venture to ask whom you would place next in order?" "How would you describe those who are at present in the government service?" "The nobler-minded man," he remarked, "will be agreeable even when he disagrees; the small-minded man will agree and be disagreeable." Tsz-kung was consulting him, and asked, "What say you of a person who was liked by all in his village?" "That will scarcely do," he answered. "What, then, if they all disliked him?" "That, too," said he, "is scarcely enough. Better if he were liked by the good folk in the village, and disliked by the bad." Again, "The superior man can be high without being haughty. The inferior man can be haughty if not high." But, said he, "To lead an undisciplined people to war--that I call throwing them away." Good and Bad Government--Miscellaneous Sayings "Pay," said the Master; "pay--ever looking to that, whether the country be well or badly governed." "When imperiousness, boastfulness, resentments, and covetousness cease to prevail among the people, may it be considered that mutual good-will has been effected?" To this question the Master replied, "A hard thing overcome, it may be considered. But as to the mutual good-will--I cannot tell." "Learned officials," said he, "who hanker after a home life, are not worthy of being esteemed as such." Again, "In a country under good government, speak boldly, act boldly. When the land is ill-governed, though you act boldly, let your words be moderate." Again, "Men of virtue will needs be men of words--will speak out--but men of words are not necessarily men of virtue. They who care for their fellow-men will needs be bold, but the bold may not necessarily be such as care for their fellow-men." Nan-kung Kwoh, who was consulting Confucius, observed respecting I, the skilful archer, and Ngau, who could propel a boat on dry land, that neither of them died a natural death; while Yu and Tsih, who with their own hands had labored at husbandry, came to wield imperial sway. The Master gave him no reply. But when the speaker had gone out he exclaimed, "A superior man, that! A man who values virtue, that!" "There have been noble-minded men," said he, "who yet were wanting in philanthropy; but never has there been a small-minded man who had philanthropy in him." Speaking of the preparation of Government Notifications in his day he said, "P'i would draw up a rough sketch of what was to be said; the Shishuh then looked it carefully through and put it into proper shape; Tsz-yu next, who was master of the ceremonial of State intercourse, improved and adorned its phrases; and Tsz-ch'an of Tung-li added his scholarly embellishments thereto." "It is no light thing," said he, "to endure poverty uncomplainingly; and a difficult thing to bear wealth without becoming arrogant." Respecting Mang Kung-ch'oh, he said that, while he was fitted for something better than the post of chief officer in the Chau or Wei families, he was not competent to act as minister in small States like those of T'ang or Sieh. Respecting Kung-shuh Wan, the Master inquired of Kung-ming Kia, saying, "Is it true that your master never speaks, never laughs, never takes aught from others?" "Those who told you that of him," said he, "have gone too far. My master speaks when there is occasion to do so, and men are not surfeited with his speaking. When there is occasion to be merry too, he will laugh, but men have never overmuch of his laughing. And whenever it is just and right to take things from others, he will take them, but never so as to allow men to think him burdensome." "Is that the case with him?" said the Master. "Can it be so?" Respecting Tsang Wu-chung the Master said, "When he sought from Lu the appointment of a successor to him, and for this object held on to his possession of the fortified city of Fang--if you say he was not then using constraint towards his prince, I must refuse to believe it." Duke Wan of Tsin he characterized as "artful but not upright"; and Duke Hwan of Ts'i as "upright but not artful." Tsz-lu remarked, "When Duke Hwan caused his brother Kiu to be put to death, Shau Hwuh committed suicide, but Kwan Chung did not. I should say he was not a man who had much good-will in him--eh?" The Master replied, "When Duke Hwan held a great gathering of the feudal lords, dispensing with military equipage, it was owing to Kwan Chung's energy that such an event was brought about. Match such good-will as that--match it if you can." Tsz-kung then spoke up. "But was not Kwan Chung wanting in good-will? He could not give up his life when Duke Hwan caused his brother to be put to death. Besides, he became the duke's counsellor." Kung-shuh Wan's steward, who became the high officer Sien, went up accompanied by Wan to the prince's hall of audience. When Confucius heard of this he remarked, "He may well be esteemed a 'Wan,'" The Master having made some reference to the lawless ways of Duke Ling of Wei, Ki K'ang said to him, "If he be like that, how is it he does not ruin his position?" Ch'in Shing had slain Duke Kien. Hearing of this, Confucius, after performing his ablutions, went to Court and announced the news to Duke Ngai, saying, "Ch'in Hang has slain his prince. May I request that you proceed against him?" Tsz-lu was questioning him as to how he should serve his prince. "Deceive him not, but reprove him," he answered. "The minds of superior men," he observed, "trend upwards; those of inferior men trend downwards." Again, "Students of old fixed their eyes upon themselves: now they learn with their eyes upon others." Kue Pih-yuh despatched a man with a message to Confucius. Confucius gave him a seat, and among other inquiries he asked, "How is your master managing?" "My master," he replied, "has a great wish to be seldom at fault, and as yet he cannot manage it." "What a messenger!" exclaimed he admiringly, when the man went out. "What a messenger!" "When not occupying the office," was a remark of his, "devise not the policy." The Learned Tsang used to say, "The thoughts of the 'superior man' do not wander from his own office." "Superior men," said the Master, "are modest in their words, profuse in their deeds." "Sir," said Tsz-kung, "that is what you say of yourself." Whenever Tsz-kung drew comparisons from others, the Master would say, "Ah, how wise and great you must have become! Now I have no time to do that." Again, "My great concern is, not that men do not know me, but that they cannot." Again, "If a man refrain from making preparations against his being imposed upon, and from counting upon others' want of good faith towards him, while he is foremost to perceive what is passing--surely that is a wise and good man." Wi-shang Mau accosted Confucius, saying, "Kiu, how comes it that you manage to go perching and roosting in this way? Is it not because you show yourself so smart a speaker, now?" "I should not dare do that," said Confucius. "Tis that I am sick of men's immovableness and deafness to reason." "How then," he answered, "would you requite kindness? Requite enmity with straightforwardness, and kindness with kindness." "While I murmur not against Heaven," continued the Master, "nor cavil at men; while I stoop to learn and aspire to penetrate into things that are high; yet 'tis Heaven alone knows what I am." Liau, a kinsman of the duke, having laid a complaint against Tsz-lu before Ki K'ang, an officer came to Confucius to inform him of the fact, and he added, "My lord is certainly having his mind poisoned by his kinsman Liau, but through my influence perhaps we may yet manage to see him exposed in the marketplace or the Court." "If right principles are to have their course, it is so destined," said the Master; "if they are not to have their course, it is so destined. What can Liau do against Destiny?" "There are worthy men," said the Master, "fleeing from the world; some from their district; some from the sight of men's looks; some from the language they hear." Tsz-lu, having lodged overnight in Shih-mun, was accosted by the gate-keeper in the morning. "Where from?" he asked. "From Confucius," Tsz-lu responded. "That is the man," said he, "who knows things are not up to the mark, and is making some ado about them, is it not?" "What determination!" said the Master. "Yet it was not hard to do." "When their betters love the Rules, then the folk are easy tools," was a saying of the Master. Tsz-lu having asked what made a "superior man," he answered, "Self-culture, with a view to becoming seriously-minded." "Nothing more than that?" said he. "Self-culture with a view to the greater satisfaction of others," added the Master. "That, and yet no more?" "Self-culture with a view to the greater satisfaction of all the clans and classes," he again added. "Self-culture for the sake of all--a result that, that would almost put Yau and Shun into the shade!" Practical Wisdom--Reciprocity the Rule of Life Duke Ling of Wei was consulting Confucius about army arrangements. His answer was, "Had you asked me about such things as temple requisites, I have learnt that business, but I have not yet studied military matters." And he followed up this reply by leaving on the following day. "A gentleman," replied the Master, "will endure it unmoved, but a common person breaks out into excesses under it." To Tsz-lu he remarked, "They who know Virtue are rare." "A man of masterly mind, too, is Kue Pih-yuh! When the land is being rightly governed he will serve; when it is under bad government he is apt to recoil, and brood." Again, "The scholar whose heart is in his work, and who is philanthropic, seeks not to gain a livelihood by any means that will do harm to his philanthropy. There have been men who have destroyed their own lives in the endeavor to bring that virtue in them to perfection." "Ah, 'tis hopeless! I have not yet met with the man who loves Virtue as he loves Beauty. "Be generous yourself, and exact little from others; then you banish complaints. "If a number of students are all day together, and in their conversation never approach the subject of righteousness, but are fond merely of giving currency to smart little sayings, they are difficult indeed to manage. "When the 'superior man' regards righteousness as the thing material, gives operation to it according to the Rules of Propriety, lets it issue in humility, and become complete in sincerity--there indeed is your superior man! "The trouble of the superior man will be his own want of ability: it will be no trouble to him that others do not know him. "Such a man thinks it hard to end his days and leave a name to be no longer named. "The superior man is exacting of himself; the common man is exacting of others. "A superior man has self-respect, and does not strive; is sociable, yet no party man. "He does not promote a man because of his words, or pass over the words because of the man." "Artful speech is the confusion of Virtue. Impatience over little things introduces confusion into great schemes. "What is disliked by the masses needs inquiring into; so also does that which they have a preference for. "A man may give breadth to his principles: it is not principles (in themselves) that give breadth to the man. "Not to retract after committing an error may itself be called error. "If I have passed the whole day without food and the whole night without sleep, occupied with my thoughts, it profits me nothing: I were better engaged in learning. "The superior man deliberates upon how he may walk in truth, not upon what he may eat. The farmer may plough, and be on the way to want: the student learns, and is on his way to emolument. To live a right life is the concern of men of nobler minds: poverty gives them none. "Whatsoever the intellect may attain to, unless the humanity within is powerful enough to keep guard over it, is assuredly lost, even though it be gained. "If there be intellectual attainments, and the humanity within is powerful enough to keep guard over them, yet, unless (in a ruler) there be dignity in his rule, the people will fail to show him respect. "Again, given the intellectual attainments, and humanity sufficient to keep watch over them, and also dignity in ruling, yet if his movements be not in accordance with the Rules of Propriety, he is not yet fully qualified. "The superior man may not be conversant with petty details, and yet may have important matters put into his hands. The inferior man may not be charged with important matters, yet may be conversant with the petty details. "Good-fellowship is more to men than fire and water. I have seen men stepping into fire and into water, and meeting with death thereby; I have not yet seen a man die from planting his steps in the path of good-fellowship. "Rely upon good nature. 'Twill not allow precedence even to a teacher. "The superior man is inflexibly upright, and takes not things upon trust. "In serving your prince, make your service the serious concern, and let salary be a secondary matter. "Where instruction is to be given, there must be no distinction of persons. "In speaking, perspicuity is all that is needed." When the blind music-master Mien paid him a visit, on his approaching the steps the Master called out "Steps," and on his coming to the mat, said "Mat." When all in the room were seated, the Master told him "So-and-so is here, so-and-so is here." When the music-master had left, Tsz-chang said to him, "Is that the way to speak to the music-master?" "Well," he replied, "it is certainly the way to assist him." Against Intestine Strife--Good and Bad Friendships The Chief of the Ki family was about to make an onslaught upon the Chuen-yu domain. Yen Yu and Tsz-lu in an interview with Confucius told him, "The Ki is about to have an affair with Chuen-yu." "It is the wish of our Chief," said Yen Yu, "not the wish of either of us ministers." "But," said Yen Yu, "so far as Chuen-yu is concerned, it is now fortified, and it is close to Pi; and if he does not now take it, in another generation it will certainly be a trouble to his descendants." "When the empire is well-ordered, government is not left in the hands of high officials. "When the empire is well-ordered, the common people will cease to discuss public matters." 'E'en if not wealth thine object be, 'Tis all the same, thou'rt changed to me.' "Is not this apropos in such cases?" Tsz-k'in asked of Pih-yu, "Have you heard anything else peculiar from your father?" The wife of the ruler of a State is called by her husband "My helpmeet." She speaks of herself as "Your little handmaiden." The people of that State call her "The prince's helpmeet," but addressing persons of another State they speak of her as "Our little princess." When persons of another State name her they say also "Your prince's helpmeet." The Master Induced to Take Office--Nature and Habit Yang Ho was desirous of having an interview with Confucius, but on the latter's failing to go and see him, he sent a present of a pig to his house. Confucius went to return his acknowledgments for it at a time when he was not at home. They met, however, on the way. He said to Confucius, "Come, I want a word with you. Can that man be said to have good-will towards his fellow-men who hugs and hides his own precious gifts and allows his country to go on in blind error?" "He cannot," was the reply. "And can he be said to be wise who, with a liking for taking part in the public service, is constantly letting slip his opportunities?" "He cannot," was the reply again. "And the days and months are passing; and the years do not wait for us." "True," said Confucius; "I will take office." It was a remark of the Master that while "by nature we approximate towards each other, by experience we go far asunder." Again, "Only the supremely wise and the most deeply ignorant do not alter." Tsz-yu, the governor, replied, "In former days, sir, I heard you say, 'Let the superior man learn right principles, and he will be loving to other men; let the ordinary person learn right principles, and he will be easily managed.'" The Master (turning to his disciples) said, "Sirs, what he says is right: what I said just now was only in play." Having received an invitation from Kung-shan Fuh-jau, who was in revolt against the government and was holding to his district of Pi, the Master showed an inclination to go. Tsz-lu was averse to this, and said, "You can never go, that is certain; how should you feel you must go to that person?" "Well," said the Master, "he who has invited me must surely not have done so without a sufficient reason! And if it should happen that my services were enlisted, I might create for him another East Chow--don't you think so?" "May I ask, please, what these are?" said the disciple. "They are," he said, "dignity, indulgence, faithfulness, earnestness, kindness. If you show dignity you will not be mocked; if you are indulgent you will win the multitude; if faithful, men will place their trust in you; if earnest, you will do something meritorious; and if kind, you will be enabled to avail yourself amply of men's services." Pih Hih sent the Master an invitation, and he showed an inclination to go. "No," said he, "not so far." Again, "They who assume an outward appearance of severity, being inwardly weak, may be likened to low common men; nay, are they not somewhat like thieves that break through walls and steal?" Again, "The plebeian kind of respect for piety is the very pest of virtue." Again, "Listening on the road, and repeating in the lane--this is abandonment of virtue." Again, "Rarely do we find mutual good feeling where there is fine speech and studied mien." Again, "To me it is abhorrent that purple color should be made to detract from that of vermilion. Also that the Odes of Ch'ing should be allowed to introduce discord in connection with the music of the Festal Songs and Hymns. Also that sharp-whetted tongues should be permitted to subvert governments." "Sir," said Tsz-kung, "if you were never to speak, what should your pupils have to hand down from you?" The Master asked him, "Would it be a satisfaction to you--that returning to better food, that putting on of fine clothes?" "It would," said he. "Then if you can be satisfied in so doing, do so. But to a gentleman, who is in mourning for a parent, the choicest food will not be palatable, nor will the listening to music be pleasant, nor will comforts of home make him happy in mind. Hence he does not do as you suggest. But if you are now happy in your mind, then do so." "Ah, it is difficult," said he, "to know what to make of those who are all day long cramming themselves with food and are without anything to apply their minds to! Are there no dice and chess players? Better, perhaps, join in that pursuit than do nothing at all!" "Does a gentleman," asked Tsz-lu, "make much account of bravery?" "Righteousness he counts higher," said the Master. "A gentleman who is brave without being just may become turbulent; while a common person who is brave and not just may end in becoming a highwayman." Tsz-kung asked, "I suppose a gentleman will have his aversions as well as his likings?" "Yes," replied the Master, "he will dislike those who talk much about other people's ill-deeds. He will dislike those who, when occupying inferior places, utter defamatory words against their superiors. He will dislike those who, though they may be brave, have no regard for propriety. And he will dislike those hastily decisive and venturesome spirits who are nevertheless so hampered by limited intellect." "And you, too, Tsz-kung," he continued, "have your aversions, have you not?" "I dislike," said he, "those plagiarists who wish to pass for wise persons. I dislike those people who wish their lack of humility to be taken for bravery. I dislike also those divulgers of secrets who think to be accounted straightforward." "Of all others," said the Master, "women-servants and men-servants are the most difficult people to have the care of. Approach them in a familiar manner, and they take liberties; keep them at a distance, and they grumble." Good Men in Seclusion--Duke of Chow to His Son Confucius, hearing of this, went away. Confucius went away. Confucius alighted, wishing to enter into conversation with him; but the man hurried along and left him, and he was therefore unable to get a word with him. Ch'ang-tsue said, "Who is the person driving the carriage?" "Confucius," answered Tsz-lu. "He of Lu?" he asked. "The same," said Tsz-lu. "He knows then where the ford is," said he. Tsz-lu then put his question to Kieh-nih; and the latter asked, "Who are you?" Tsz-lu gave his name. "You are a follower of Confucius of Lu, are you not?" "You are right," he answered. "Ah, as these waters rise and overflow their bounds," said he, "'tis so with all throughout the empire; and who is he that can alter the state of things? And you are a follower of a learned man who withdraws from his chief; had you not better be a follower of such as have forsaken the world?" And he went on with his harrowing, without stopping. Tsz-lu brought his hands together on his breast and stood still. On the morrow Tsz-lu went on his way, and told all this to the Master, who said, "He is a recluse," and sent Tsz-lu back to see him again. But by the time he got there he was gone. Tsz-lu remarked upon this, "It is not right he should evade official duties. If he cannot allow any neglect of the terms on which elders and juniors should live together, how is it that he neglects to conform to what is proper as between prince and public servant? He wishes for himself personally a pure life, yet creates disorder in that more important relationship. When a gentleman undertakes public work, he will carry out the duties proper to it; and he knows beforehand that right principles may not win their way." Among those who have retired from public life have been Peh-I and Shuh-Ts'i, Yu-chung, I-yih, Chu-chang, Hwui of Liuhia, and Shau-lien. "Of these," said the Master, "Peh-I and Shuh-Ts'i may be characterized, I should say, as men who never declined from their high resolve nor soiled themselves by aught of disgrace. "Of Yu-chung and I-yih, if it be said that when they retired into privacy they let loose their tongues, yet in their aim at personal purity of life they succeeded, and their defection was also successful in its influence. "My own rule is different from any adopted by these: I will take no liberties, I will have no curtailing of my liberty." Fang-shuh, the drummer, withdrew into the neighborhood of the Ho. Wu the tambourer went to the Han. And Yang the junior music-master, and Siang who played on the musical stone, went to the sea-coast. Anciently the Duke of Chow, addressing his son the Duke of Lu, said, "A good man in high place is not indifferent about the members of his own family, and does not give occasion to the chief ministers to complain that they are not employed; nor without great cause will he set aside old friendships; nor does he seek for full equipment for every kind of service in any single man." Teachings of Various Chief Disciples "The learned official," said Tsz-chang, "who when he sees danger ahead will risk his very life, who when he sees a chance of success is mindful of what is just and proper, who in his religious acts is mindful of the duty of reverence, and when in mourning thinks of his loss, is indeed a fit and proper person for his place." Again he said, "If a person hold to virtue but never advance in it, and if he have faith in right principles and do not build himself up in them, how can he be regarded either as having such, or as being without them?" "The student who daily recognizes how much he yet lacks, and as the months pass forgets not what he has succeeded in learning, may undoubtedly be called a lover of learning. "Wide research and steadfast purpose, eager questioning and close reflection--all this tends to humanize a man. "As workmen spend their time in their workshops for the perfecting of their work, so superior men apply their minds to study in order to make themselves thoroughly conversant with their subjects. "When an inferior man does a wrong thing, he is sure to gloss it over. "Let such a man have the people's confidence, and he will get much work out of them; so long, however, as he does not possess their confidence they will regard him as grinding them down. "When confidence is reposed in him, he may then with impunity administer reproof; so long as it is not, he will be regarded as a detractor. "Where there is no over-stepping of barriers in the practice of the higher virtues, there may be freedom to pass in and out in the practice of the lower ones." Tsz-yu had said, "The pupils in the school of Tsz-hia are good enough at such things as sprinkling and scrubbing floors, answering calls and replying to questions from superiors, and advancing and retiring to and from such; but these things are only offshoots--as to the root of things they are nowhere. What is the use of all that?" "As to the duties of mourning, let them cease when the grief is past. "My friend Tsz-chang, although he has the ability to tackle hard things, has not yet the virtue of philanthropy." The learned Tsang observed, "How loftily Tsz-chang bears himself! Difficult indeed along with him to practise philanthropy!" Again he said, "I have heard this said by the Master, that 'though men may not exert themselves to the utmost in other duties, yet surely in the duty of mourning for their parents they will do so!'" Yang Fu, having been made senior Criminal Judge by the Chief of the Mang clan, consulted with the learned Tsang. The latter advised him as follows: "For a long time the Chiefs have failed in their government, and the people have become unsettled. When you arrive at the facts of their cases, do not rejoice at your success in that, but rather be sorry for them, and have pity upon them." Again he said, "Faults in a superior man are like eclipses of the sun or moon: when he is guilty of a trespass men all see it; and when he is himself again, all look up to him." Kung-sun Ch'an of Wei inquired of Tsz-kung how Confucius acquired his learning. Shuh-sun Wu-shuh, addressing the high officials at the Court, remarked that Tsz-kung was a greater worthy than Confucius. Tsz-fuh King-pih went and informed Tsz-kung of this remark. Tsz-kung said, "Take by way of comparison the walls outside our houses. My wall is shoulder-high, and you may look over it and see what the house and its contents are worth. My Master's wall is tens of feet high, and unless you should effect an entrance by the door, you would fail to behold the beauty of the ancestral hall and the rich array of all its officers. And they who effect an entrance by the door, methinks, are few! Was it not, however, just like him--that remark of the Chief?" Shuh-sun Wu-shuh had been casting a slur on the character of Confucius. "No use doing that," said Tsz-kung; "he is irreproachable. The wisdom and worth of other men are little hills and mounds of earth: traversible. He is the sun, or the moon, impossible to reach and pass. And what harm, I ask, can a man do to the sun or the moon, by wishing to intercept himself from either? It all shows that he knows not how to gauge capacity." Tsz-k'in, addressing Tsz-kung, said, "You depreciate yourself. Confucius is surely not a greater worthy than yourself." Extracts from the Book of History Shun also used the same language in handing down the appointment to Yu. The Emperor T'ang in his prayer, said, "I, the child Li, presume to avail me of an ox of dusky hue, and presume to manifestly announce to Thee, O God, the most high and Sovereign Potentate, that to the transgressor I dare not grant forgiveness, nor yet keep in abeyance Thy ministers. Judgment rests in Thine heart, O God. Should we ourself transgress, may the guilt not be visited everywhere upon all. Should the people all transgress, be the guilt upon ourself!" Chow possessed great gifts, by which the able and good were richly endowed. After Wu had given diligent attention to the various weights and measures, examined the laws and regulations, and restored the degraded officials, good government everywhere ensued. He caused ruined States to flourish again, reinstated intercepted heirs, and promoted to office men who had gone into retirement; and the hearts of the people throughout the empire drew towards him. Among matters of prime consideration with him were these--food for the people, the duty of mourning, and sacrificial offerings to the departed. He was liberal and large-hearted, and so won all hearts; true, and so was trusted by the people; energetic, and thus became a man of great achievements; just in his rule, and all were well content. Tsz-chang in a conversation with Confucius asked, "What say you is essential for the proper conduct of government?" "They are," he said, "Bounty without extravagance; burdening without exciting discontent; desire without covetousness; dignity without haughtiness; show of majesty without fierceness." The answer here was, "Omitting to instruct the people and then inflicting capital punishment on them--which means cruel tyranny. Omitting to give them warning and yet looking for perfection in them--which means oppression. Being slow and late in issuing requisitions, and exacting strict punctuality in the returns--which means robbery. And likewise, in intercourse with men, to expend and to receive in a stingy manner--which is to act the part of a mere commissioner." "None can be a superior man," said the Master, "who does not recognize the decrees of Heaven. "None can have stability in him without a knowledge of the proprieties. "None can know a man without knowing his utterances." THE SAYINGS OF MENICUS [Translated into English by James Legge_] THE SAYINGS OF MENCIUS "There never was a man trained to benevolence who neglected his parents. There never was a man trained to righteousness who made his ruler an after consideration. Let your Majesty likewise make benevolence and righteousness your only themes--Why must you speak of profit?" King Wan used the strength of the people to make his tower and pond, and the people rejoiced to do the work, calling the tower 'the Marvellous Tower,' and the pond 'the Marvellous Pond,' and being glad that he had his deer, his fishes and turtles. The ancients caused their people to have pleasure as well as themselves, and therefore they could enjoy it. "In the Declaration of T'ang it is said, 'O Sun, when wilt thou expire? We will die together with thee.' The people wished for Keeh's death, though they should die with him. Although he had his tower, his pond, birds and animals, how could he have pleasure alone?" King Hwuy of Leang said, "Small as my virtue is, in the government of my kingdom, I do indeed exert my mind to the utmost. If the year be bad inside the Ho, I remove as many of the people as I can to the east of it, and convey grain to the country inside. If the year be bad on the east of the river, I act on the same plan. On examining the governmental methods of the neighboring kingdoms, I do not find there is any ruler who exerts his mind as I do. And yet the people of the neighboring kings do not decrease, nor do my people increase--how is this?" "Your dogs and swine eat the food of men, and you do not know to store up of the abundance. There are people dying from famine on the roads, and you do not know to issue your stores for their relief. When men die, you say, 'It is not owing to me; it is owing to the year,' In what does this differ from stabbing a man and killing him, and then saying, 'It was not I; it was the weapon'? Let your Majesty cease to lay the blame on the year and instantly the people, all under the sky, will come to you." King Hwuy of Leang said, "I wish quietly to receive your instructions." Mencius replied, "Is there any difference between killing a man with a stick and with a sword?" "There is no difference," was the answer. Mencius continued, "Is there any difference between doing it with a sword and with governmental measures?" "There is not," was the answer again. "The rulers of those States rob their people of their time, so that they cannot plough and weed their fields in order to support their parents. Parents suffer from cold and hunger; elder and younger brothers, wives and children, are separated and scattered abroad. Those rulers drive their people into pitfalls or into the water; and your Majesty will go to punish them. In such a case, who will oppose your Majesty? In accordance with this is the saying, 'The benevolent has no enemy!' I beg your Majesty not to doubt what I said." "'Who can so unite it?' he asked. "I replied, 'He who has no pleasure in killing men can so unite it.' "'Who can give it to him?' he asked. King Seuen of Ts'e asked, saying, "May I be informed by you of the transactions of Hwan of Ts'e and Wan of Ts'in?" Mencius replied, "There were none of the disciples of Chung-ne who spoke about the affairs of Hwan and Wan, and therefore they have not been transmitted to these after-ages; your servant has not heard of them. If you will have me speak, let it be about the principles of attaining to the Royal sway." The king said, "Of what kind must his virtue be who can attain to the Royal sway?" Mencius said, "If he loves and protects the people, it is impossible to prevent him from attaining it." "It did," said the king, and Mencius replied, "The heart seen in this is sufficient to carry you to the Royal sway. The people all supposed that your Majesty grudged the animal, but your servant knows surely that it was your Majesty's not being able to bear the sight of the creature's distress which made you do as you did." The king said, "You are right; and yet there really was an appearance of what the people imagined. But though Ts'e be narrow and small, how should I grudge a bull? Indeed it was because I could not bear its frightened appearance, as if it were an innocent person going to the place of death, that therefore I changed it for a sheep." Mencius said, "There is no harm in their saying so. It was an artifice of benevolence. You saw the bull, and had not seen the sheep. So is the superior man affected towards animals, that, having seen them alive, he cannot bear to see them die, and, having heard their dying cries, he cannot bear to eat their flesh. On this account he keeps away from his stalls and kitchen." The king was pleased and said, "The Ode says, 'What other men have in their minds, I can measure by reflection,' This might be spoken of you, my Master. I indeed did the thing, but when I turned my thoughts inward and sought for it, I could not discover my own mind. When you, Master, spoke those words, the movements of compassion began to work in my mind. But how is it that this heart has in it what is equal to the attainment of the Royal sway?" The king asked, "How may the difference between him who does not do a thing and him who is not able to do it be graphically set forth?" Mencius replied, "In such a thing as taking the T'ae mountain under your arm, and leaping with it over the North Sea, if you say to people, 'I am not able to do it,' that is a real case of not being able. In such a matter as breaking off a branch from a tree at the order of a superior, if you say to people, 'I am not able to do it,' it is not a case of not being able to do it. And so your Majesty's not attaining to the Royal sway is not such a case as that of taking the T'ae mountain under your arm and leaping over the North Sea with it; but it is a case like that of breaking off a branch from a tree. "Treat with reverence due to age the elders in your own family, so that those in the families of others shall be similarly treated; treat with the kindness due to youth the young in your own family, so that those in the families of others shall be similarly treated--do this and the kingdom may be made to go round in your palm. It is said in the 'Book of Poetry,' 'His example acted on his wife, Extended to his brethren, And was felt by all the clans and States;' The king said, "No. How should I derive pleasure from these things? My object in them is to seek for what I greatly desire." Mencius said, "May I hear from you what it is that your Majesty greatly desires?" The king laughed, and did not speak. Mencius resumed, "Are you led to desire it because you have not enough of rich and sweet food for your mouth? or because you have not enough of light and warm clothing for your body? or because you have not enough of beautifully objects to satisfy your eyes? or because there are not voices and sounds enough to fill your ears? or because you have not enough of attendants and favorites to stand before you and receive your orders? Your Majesty's various officers are sufficient to supply you with all these things. How can your Majesty have such a desire on account of them?" "No," said the king, "my desire is not on account of them." Mencius observed, "Then what your Majesty greatly desires can be known. You desire to enlarge your territories, to have Ts'in and Ts'oo coming to your court, to rule the Middle States, and to attract to you the barbarous tribes that surround them. But to do what you do in order to seek for what you desire is like climbing a tree to seek for fish." "Now, if your Majesty will institute a government whose action shall all be benevolent, this will cause all the officers in the kingdom to wish to stand in your Majesty's court, the farmers all to wish to plough in your Majesty's fields, the merchants, both travelling and stationary, all to wish to store their goods in your Majesty's market-places, travellers and visitors all to wish to travel on your Majesty's roads, and all under heaven who feel aggrieved by their rulers to wish to come and complain to your Majesty. When they are so bent, who will be able to keep them back?" The king said, "I am stupid and cannot advance to this. But I wish you, my Master, to assist my intentions. Teach me clearly, and although I am deficient in intelligence and vigor, I should like to try at least to institute such a government." Mencius replied, "They are only men of education, who, without a certain livelihood, are able to maintain a fixed heart. As to the people, if they have not a certain livelihood, they will be found not to have a fixed heart. And if they have not a fixed heart, there is nothing which they will not do in the way of self-abandonment, of moral deflection, of depravity, and of wild license. When they have thus been involved in crime, to follow them up and punish them, is to entrap the people. How can such a thing as entrapping the people be done under the rule of a benevolent man?" "Therefore, an intelligent ruler will regulate the livelihood of the people, so as to make sure that, above, they shall have sufficient wherewith to serve their parents, and below, sufficient wherewith to support their wives and children; that in good years they shall always be abundantly satisfied, and that in bad years they shall not be in danger of perishing. After this he may urge them, and they will proceed to what is good, for in this case the people will follow after that with readiness. "But now the livelihood of the people is so regulated, that, above, they have not sufficient wherewith to serve their parents, and, below, they have not sufficient wherewith to support their wives and children; even in good years their lives are always embittered, and in bad years they are in danger of perishing. In such circumstances their only object is to escape from death, and they are afraid they will not succeed in doing so--what leisure have they to cultivate propriety and righteousness? "If your Majesty wishes to carry out a benevolent government, why not turn back to what is the essential step to its attainment? [NOTE: _Books II, III, and IV are omitted_] [_Metrical translation by James Legge_] _PART I--LESSONS FROM THE STATES_ THE ODES OF CHOW AND THE SOUTH ~Celebrating the Virtue of King Wan's Bride~ Hark! from the islet in the stream the voice Of the fish-hawks that o'er their nests rejoice! From them our thoughts to that young lady go, Modest and virtuous, loth herself to show. Where could be found to share our prince's state, So fair, so virtuous, and so fit a mate? Here long, there short, afloat the duckweed lies; But caught at last, we seize the longed-for prize. The maiden modest, virtuous, coy, is found; Strike every lute, and joyous welcome sound. Ours now, the duckweed from the stream we bear, And cook to use with other viands rare. He has the maiden, modest, virtuous, bright; Let bells and drums proclaim our great delight ~Celebrating the Industry of King Wan's Queen~ Sweet was the scene. The spreading dolichos Extended far, down to the valley's depths, With leaves luxuriant. The orioles Fluttered around, and on the bushy trees In throngs collected--whence their pleasant notes Resounded far in richest melody. The spreading dolichos extended far, Covering the valley's sides, down to its depths, With leaves luxuriant and dense. I cut It down, then boiled, and from the fibres spun Of cloth, both fine and coarse, large store, To wear, unwearied of such simple dress. Now back to my old home, my parents dear To see, I go. The matron I have told, Who will announcement make. Meanwhile my clothes, My private clothes I wash, and rinse my robes. Which of them need be rinsed? and which need not? My parents dear to visit, back I go. ~In Praise of a Bride~ Graceful and young the peach-tree stands; How rich its flowers, all gleaming bright! This bride to her new home repairs; Chamber and house she'll order right. Graceful and young the peach-tree stands; Large crops of fruit it soon will show. This bride to her new home repairs; Chamber and house her sway shall know. Graceful and young the peach-tree stands, Its foliage clustering green and full. This bride to her new home repairs; Her household will attest her rule. ~Celebrating T'ae-Sze's Freedom from Jealousy~ In the South are the trees whose branches are bent, And droop in such fashion that o'er their extent All the dolichos' creepers fast cling. See our princely lady, from whom we have got Rejoicing that's endless! May her happy lot And her honors repose ever bring! In the South are the trees whose branches are bent, And droop in such fashion that o'er their extent All the dolichos' creepers are spread. See our princely lady, from whom we have got Rejoicing that's endless! Of her happy lot And her honors the greatness ne'er fade! In the South are the trees whose branches are bent, And droop in such fashion that o'er their extent All the dolichos' creepers entwine. See our princely lady, from whom we have got Rejoicing that's endless! May her happy lot And her honors complete ever shine! ~The Fruitfulness of the Locust~ Ye locusts, winged tribes, Gather in concord fine; Well your descendants may In numerous bright hosts shine! Ye locusts, winged tribes, Your wings in flight resound; Well your descendants may In endless lines be found! Ye locusts, winged tribes, Together cluster strong; Well your descendants may In swarms forever throng! ~Lamenting the Absence of a Cherished Friend~ Though small my basket, all my toil Filled it with mouse-ears but in part. I set it on the path, and sighed For the dear master of my heart. My steeds, o'er-tasked, their progress stayed, When midway up that rocky height. Give me a cup from that gilt vase- When shall this longing end in sight? To mount that lofty ridge I drove, Until my steeds all changed their hue. A cup from that rhinoceros's horn May help my longing to subdue. ~Celebrating the Goodness of the Descendants of King Wan~ As the feet of the _lin_, which avoid each living thing, So our prince's noble sons no harm to men will bring. They are the _lin!_ As the front of the _lin_, never forward thrust in wrath, So our prince's noble grandsons of love tread the path. They are the _lin!_ As the horn of the _lin_, flesh-tipped, no wound to give, So our prince's noble kindred kindly with all live. They are the _lin!_ ~The Virtuous Manners of the Young Women~ ~Praise of a Rabbit-Catcher~ Careful he sets his rabbit-nets all round; _Chang-chang_ his blows upon the pegs resound. Stalwart the man and bold! his bearing all Shows he might be his prince's shield and wall. Careful he is his rabbit-nets to place Where many paths of rabbits' feet bear trace. Stalwart the man and bold! 'tis plain to see He to his prince companion good would be. Careful he is his rabbit-nets to spread, Where in the forest's depth the trees give shade. Stalwart the man and bold! fit his the part Guide to his prince to be, and faithful heart. ~The Song of the Plantain-Gatherers~ We gather and gather the plantains; Come gather them anyhow. Yes, gather and gather the plantains, And here we have got them now. We gather and gather the plantains; Now off the ears we must tear. Yes, gather and gather the plantains, And now the seeds are laid bare. We gather and gather the plantains, The seeds in our skirts are placed. Yes, gather and gather the plantains. Ho! safe in the girdled waist! ~The Affection of the Wives on the Joo~ Along the raised banks of the Joo, To hew slim stem and branch I wrought, My lord away, my husband true, Like hunger-pang my troubled thought! Along the raised banks of the Joo, Branch and fresh shoot confessed my art. I've seen my lord, my husband true, And still he folds me in his heart. THE ODES OF SHAOU AND THE SOUTH ~The Marriage of a Princess~ The nest magpie wove Now filled by the dove. This bride now takes to her home her way; And these numerous cars her state display. ~The Industry and Reverence of a Prince's Wife~ Around the pools, the islets o'er, Fast she plucks white Southern-wood, To help the sacrificial store; And for our prince does service good. Where streams among the valleys shine, Of Southern-woods she plucks the white; And brings it to the sacred shrine, To aid our prince in solemn rite. In head-dress high, most reverent, she The temple seeks at early dawn. The service o'er, the head-dress see To her own chamber slow withdrawn. ~The Wife of Some Great Officer Bewails His Absence~ Shrill chirp the insects in the grass; All about the hoppers spring. While I my husband do not see, Sorrow must my bosom wring. O to meet him! O to greet him! Then my heart would rest and sing. Ascending high that Southern hill, Turtle ferns I strove to get. While I my husband do not see, Sorrow must my heart beset. O to meet him! O to greet him! Then my heart would cease to fret. Ascending high that Southern hill, Spinous ferns I sought to find. While I my husband do not see, Rankles sorrow in my mind. O to meet him! O to greet him! In my heart would peace be shrined. ~The Diligence of the Young Wife of an Officer~ She gathers fast the large duckweed, From valley stream that southward flows; And for the pondweed to the pools Left on the plains by floods she goes. The plants, when closed her toil, she puts In baskets round and baskets square. Then home she hies to cook her spoil, In pans and tripods ready there. In sacred chamber this she sets, Where the light falls down through the wall. 'Tis she, our lord's young reverent wife, Who manages this service all. ~The Love of the People for the Duke of Shaou~ O fell not that sweet pear-tree! See how its branches spread. Spoil not its shade, For Shaou's chief laid Beneath it his weary head. O clip not that sweet pear-tree! Each twig and leaflet spare. 'Tis sacred now, Since the lord of Shaou, When weary, rested him there. O touch not that sweet pear-tree! Bend not a twig of it now. There long ago, As the stories show, Oft halted the chief of Shaou. ~The Easy Dignity of the Officers at Some Court~ Upon their skins of lamb or sheep Shines the white silk the seams to link. With easy steps and self-possessed, They go from court to eat and drink. ~Anxiety of a Young Lady to Get Married~ No more plums upon the bough! All are in my basket now! Ye who me with ardor seek, Need the word but freely speak! ~An Officer Bewails the Neglect with which He is Treated~ It floats about, that boat of cypress wood, Now here, now there, as by the current borne. Nor rest nor sleep comes in my troubled mood; I suffer as when painful wound has torn The shrinking body. Thus I dwell forlorn, And aimless muse, my thoughts of sorrow full. I might with wine refresh my spirit worn; I might go forth, and, sauntering try to cool The fever of my heart; but grief holds sullen rule. My mind resembles not a mirror plate, Reflecting all the impressions it receives. The good I love, the bad regard with hate; I only cherish whom my heart believes. Colleagues I have, but yet my spirit grieves, That on their honor I cannot depend. I speak, but my complaint no influence leaves Upon their hearts; with mine no feelings blend; With me in anger they, and fierce disdain contend. My mind is fixed, and cannot, like a stone, Be turned at will indifferently about; And what I think, to that, and that alone, I utterance give, alike within, without; Nor can like mat be rolled and carried out. With dignity in presence of them all, My conduct marked, my goodness who shall scout? My foes I boldly challenge, great and small, If there be aught in me they can in question call. Thy disc, O sun, should ever be complete, While thine, O changing moon, doth wax and wane. But now our sun hath waned, weak and effete, And moons are ever full. My heart with pain Is firmly bound, and held in sorrow's chain, As to the body cleaves an unwashed dress. Silent I think of my sad case; in vain I try to find relief from my distress. Would I had wings to fly where ills no longer press! ~A Wife Deplores the Absence of Her Husband~ The pheasant, though no more in view, His cry, below, above, forth sends. Alas! my princely lord, 'tis you- Your absence, that my bosom rends. At sun and moon I sit and gaze, In converse with my troubled heart. Far, far from me my husband stays! When will he come to heal its smart? ~The Plaint of a Rejected Wife~ The east wind gently blows, With cloudy skies and rain. 'Twixt man and wife should ne'er be strife, But harmony obtain. Radish and mustard plants Are used, though some be poor; While my good name is free from blame, Don't thrust me from your door. I go along the road, Slow, with reluctant heart. Your escort lame to door but came, There glad from me to part. Sow-thistle, bitter called, As shepherd's purse is sweet; With your new mate you feast elate, As joyous brothers meet. Part clear, the stream of King Is foul beside the Wei. You feast elate with your new mate, And take no heed of me. Loose mate, avoid my dam, Nor dare my basket move! Person slighted, life all blighted, What can the future prove? No cherishing you give, I'm hostile in your eyes. As pedler's wares for which none cares, My virtues you despise. When poverty was nigh, I strove our means to spare; You, now rich grown, me scorn to own; To poison me compare. The stores for winter piled Are all unprized in spring. So now, elate with your new mate, Myself away you fling. Your cool disdain for me A bitter anguish hath. The early time, our love's sweet prime, In you wakes only wrath. ~Soldiers of Wei Bewail Separation from Their Families~ List to the thunder and roll of the drum! See how we spring and brandish the dart! Some raise Ts'aou's walls; some do field work at home; But we to the southward lonely depart. Our chief, Sun Tsze-chung, agreement has made, Our forces to join with Ch'in and with Sung. When shall we back from this service be led? Our hearts are all sad, our courage unstrung. Here we are halting, and there we delay; Anon we soon lose our high-mettled steeds. The forest's gloom makes our steps go astray; Each thicket of trees our searching misleads. For death as for life, at home or abroad, We pledged to our wives our faithfulest word. Their hands clasped in ours, together we vowed, We'd live to old age in sweetest accord. This march to the South can end but in ill; Oh! never shall we our wives again meet. The word that we pledged we cannot fulfil; Us home returning they never will greet. With figure large I in the courtyard dance, And the duke smiles, when he beholds me prance. A tiger's strength I have; the steeds swift bound; The reins as ribbons in my hands are found. See how I hold the flute in my left hand; In right the pheasant's plume, waved like a wand; With visage red, where rouge you think to trace, While the duke pleased, sends down the cup of grace! ~An Officer Sets Forth His Hard Lot~ My way leads forth by the gate on the north; My heart is full of woe. I hav'n't a cent, begged, stolen, or lent, And friends forget me so. So let it be! 'tis Heaven's decree. What can I say--a poor fellow like me? Each thing of the King, and the fate of the State, On me come more and more. And when, sad and worn, I come back forlorn, They thrust me from the door. So let it be! 'tis Heaven's decree. What can I say--a poor fellow like me? ~The Complaint of a Neglected Wife~ When the upper robe is green, With a yellow lining seen, There we have a certain token, Right is wronged and order broken. How can sorrow from my heart In a case like this depart? Yes, 'twas you the green who dyed, You who fed the favorite's pride. Anger rises in my heart, Pierces it as with a dart. But on ancient rules lean I, Lest to wrong my thoughts should fly. Fine or coarse, if thin the dress, Cold winds always cause distress. Hard my lot, my sorrow deep, But my thoughts in check I keep. Ancient story brings to mind Sufferers who were resigned. ~In Praise of a Maiden~ O sweet maiden, so fair and retiring, At the corner I'm waiting for you; And I'm scratching my head, and inquiring What on earth it were best I should do. Oh! the maiden, so handsome and coy, For a pledge gave a slim rosy reed. Than the reed is she brighter, my joy; On her loveliness how my thoughts feed! In the pastures a _t'e_ blade she sought, And she gave it, so elegant, rare. Oh! the grass does not dwell in my thought, But the donor, more elegant, fair. As when the north winds keenly blow, And all around fast falls the snow, The source of pain and suffering great, So now it is in Wei's poor state. Let us join hands and haste away, My friends and lovers all. 'Tis not a time will brook delay; Things for prompt action call. As when the north winds whistle shrill, And drifting snows each hollow fill, The source of pain and suffering great, So now it is in Wei's poor state, Let us join hands, and leave for aye, My friends and lovers all, 'Tis not a time will brook delay; Things for prompt action call. We look for red, and foxes meet; For black, and crows our vision greet. The creatures, both of omen bad, Well suit the state of Wei so sad. Let us join hands and mount our cars, My friends and lovers all. No time remains for wordy jars; Things for prompt action call. ~Chwang Keang Bemoans Her Husband's Cruelty~ Fierce is the wind and cold; And such is he. Smiling he looks, and bold Speaks mockingly. Scornful and lewd his words, Haughty his smile. Bound is my heart with cords In sorrow's coil. As cloud of dust wind-blown, Just such is he. Ready he seems to own, And come to me. But he comes not nor goes, Stands in his pride. Long, long, with painful throes, Grieved I abide. Strong blew the wind; the cloud Hastened away. Soon dark again, the shroud Covers the day. I wake, and sleep no more Visits my eyes. His course I sad deplore, With heavy sighs. Cloudy the sky, and dark; The thunders roll. Such outward signs well mark My troubled soul. I wake, and sleep no more Comes to give rest. His course I sad deplore, In anguished breast. ~The People's Admiration for Duke Woo~ The black robes well your form befit; When they are worn we'll make you new. Now for your court! oh! there we'll sit, And watch how you your duties do. And when we to our homes repair, We'll send to you our richest fare, Such is the love to you we bear! Those robes well with your virtue match; When they are worn we'll make you new. Now for your court! There will we watch, Well pleased, how you your duties do. And when we to our homes repair, We'll send to you our richest fare, Such is the love to you we bear! Those robes your character beseem; When they are worn we'll make you new. Now for your court! oh! there we deem It pleasure great your form to view. And when we to our homes repair, We'll send to you our richest fare, Such is the love to you we bear! ~A Wife Consoled by Her Husband's Arrival~ Whistles the wind, patters the rain, The cock's crow far resounds. But I have seen my lord again, And healed are my heart's wounds. ~In Praise of Some Lady~ There by his side in chariot rideth she, As lovely flower of the hibiscus tree, So fair her face; and when about they wheel, Her girdle gems of _Ken_ themselves reveal. For beauty all the House of Keang have fame; Its eldest daughter--she beseems her name. There on the path, close by him, walketh she, Bright as the blossom of hibiscus tree, And fair her face; and when around they flit, Her girdle gems a tinkling sound emit. Among the Keang she has distinguished place, For virtuous fame renowned, and peerless grace. ~A Man's Praise of His Wife~ My path forth from the east gate lay, Where cloud-like moved the girls at play. Numerous are they, as clouds so bright, But not on them my heart's thoughts light. Dressed in a thin white silk, with coiffure gray Is she, my wife, my joy in life's low way. Forth by the covering wall's high tower, I went, and saw, like rush in flower, Each flaunting girl. Brilliant are they, But not with them my heart's thoughts stay. In thin white silk, with head-dress madder-dyed, Is she, my sole delight, 'foretime my bride. Along the great highway, I hold you by the cuff. O spurn me not, I pray, Nor break old friendship off. Along the highway worn, I hold your hand in mine. Do not as vile me scorn; Your love I can't resign. ~A Woman Scorning Her Lover~ O dear! that artful boy Refuses me a word! But, Sir, I shall enjoy My food, though you're absurd! O dear! that artful boy My table will not share! But, Sir, I shall enjoy My rest, though you're not there! ~A Lady Mourns the Absence of Her Student Lover~ You student, with the collar blue, Long pines my heart with anxious pain. Although I do not go to you, Why from all word do you refrain? O you, with girdle strings of blue, My thoughts to you forever roam! Although I do not go to you, Yet why to me should you not come? ~A Wife Urging Her Husband to Action~ His lady to the marquis says, "The cock has crowed; 'tis late. Get up, my lord, and haste to court. 'Tis full; for you they wait." She did not hear the cock's shrill sound, Only the blueflies buzzing round. Again she wakes him with the words, "The east, my lord, is bright. A crowded court your presence seeks; Get up and hail the light." 'Twas not the dawning light which shone, But that which by the moon was thrown. ~The Folly of Useless Effort~ The weeds will but the ranker grow, If fields too large you seek to till. To try to gain men far away With grief your toiling heart will fill, If fields too large you seek to till, The weeds will only rise more strong. To try to gain men far away Will but your heart's distress prolong. Things grow the best when to themselves Left, and to nature's vigor rare. How young and tender is the child, With his twin tufts of falling hair! But when you him ere long behold, That child shall cap of manhood wear! A grand man is the prince of Loo, With person large and high. Lofty his front and suited to The fine glance of his eye! Swift are his feet. In archery What man with him can vie? With all these goodly qualities, We see him and we sigh! Renowned through all the land is he, The nephew of our lord. With clear and lovely eyes, his grace May not be told by word. All day at target practice, He'll never miss the bird. Such is the prince of Loo, and yet With grief for him we're stirred! ~On the Misgovernment of the State~ Deep in my heart my sorrows lie, And none the cause may know. How can they know, who never try To learn whence comes our woe? Thin cloth of dolichos supplies the shoes, In which some have to brave the frost and cold. A bride, when poor, her tender hands must use, Her dress to make, and the sharp needle hold. This man is wealthy, yet he makes his bride Collars and waistbands for his robes provide. ~A Young Soldier on Service~ ~The King Goes to War~ The wild geese fly the bushy oaks around, With clamor loud. _Suh-suh_ their wings resound, As for their feet poor resting-place is found. The King's affairs admit of no delay. Our millet still unsown, we haste away. No food is left our parents to supply; When we are gone, on whom can they rely? O azure Heaven, that shinest there afar, When shall our homes receive us from the war? The bushy mulberry-trees the geese in rows Seek eager and to rest around them close- With rustling loud, as disappointment grows. The King's affairs admit of no delay; To plant our rice and maize we cannot stay. How shall our parents find their wonted food? When we are gone, who will to them be good? O azure Heaven, that shinest there afar, When shall our homes receive us from the war? ~Lament of a Bereaved Person~ ~The Drawbacks of Poverty~ On the left of the way, a russet pear-tree Stands there all alone--a fit image of me. There is that princely man! O that he would come, And in my poor dwelling with me be at home! In the core of my heart do I love him, but say, Whence shall I procure him the wants of the day? At the bend in the way a russet pear-tree Stands there all alone--a fit image of me. There is that princely man! O that he would come, And rambling with me be himself here at home! In the core of my heart I love him, but say, Whence shall I procure him the wants of the day? ~A Wife Mourns for Her Husband~ The dolichos grows and covers the thorn, O'er the waste is the dragon-plant creeping. The man of my heart is away and I mourn- What home have I, lonely and weeping? Covering the jujubes the dolichos grows, The graves many dragon-plants cover; But where is the man on whose breast I'd repose? No home have I, having no lover! Fair to see was the pillow of horn, And fair the bed-chamber's adorning; But the man of my heart is not here, and I mourn All alone, and wait for the morning. Through the long winter nights I am burdened with fears, Through the long summer days I am lonely; But when time shall have counted its hundreds of years I then shall be his--and his only! ~Celebrating the Opulence of the Lords of Ts'in~ The season's males, alarmed, arise- The season's males, of wondrous size. Driven by the beaters, forth they spring, Soon caught within the hunters' ring. "Drive on their left," the ruler cries; And to its mark his arrow flies. The hunting done, northward he goes; And in the park the driver shows The horses' points, and his own skill That rules and guides them at his will. Light cars whose teams small bells display, The long-and short-mouthed dogs convey. He lodged us in a spacious house, And plenteous was our fare. But now at every frugal meal There's not a scrap to spare. Alas! alas that this good man Could not go on as he began! ~A Wife's Grief Because of Her Husband's Absence~ The falcon swiftly seeks the north, And forest gloom that sent it forth. Since I no more my husband see, My heart from grief is never free. O how is it, I long to know, That he, my lord, forgets me so? The hills the bushy wild plums show, And pear-trees grace the ground below. But, with my husband from me gone, As drunk with grief, I dwell alone. O how is it, I long to know, That he, my lord, forgets me so? They flit about, the yellow birds, And rest upon the jujubes find. Who buried were in duke Muh's grave, Alive to awful death consigned? They flit about, the yellow birds, And on the mulberry-trees rest find. Who buried were in duke Muh's grave, Alive to awful death consigned? They flit about, the yellow birds, And rest upon the thorn-trees find. Who buried were in duke Muh's grave, Alive to awful death consigned? ~In Praise of a Ruler of Ts'in~ What trees grow on the Chung-nan hill? The white fir and the plum. In fur of fox, 'neath 'broidered robe, Thither our prince is come. His face glows with vermilion hue. O may he prove a ruler true! ~The Generous Nephew~ I escorted my uncle to Tsin, And I thought of him much in my heart. Pendent stones, and with them Of fine jasper a gem, I gave, and then saw him depart. ~The Contentment of a Poor Recluse~ My only door some pieces of crossed wood, Within it I can rest enjoy. I drink the water wimpling from the spring; Nor hunger can my peace destroy. Purged from ambition's aims I say, "For fish. We need not bream caught in the Ho; Nor, to possess the sweets of love, require To Ts'e, to find a Keang, to go. "The man contented with his lot, a meal Of fish without Ho carp can make; Nor needs, to rest in his domestic joy, A Tsze of Sung as wife to take." ~The Disappointed Lover~ Where grow the willows near the eastern gate, And 'neath their leafy shade we could recline, She said at evening she would me await, And brightly now I see the day-star shine! Here where the willows near the eastern gate Grow, and their dense leaves make a shady gloom, She said at evening she would me await. See now the morning star the sky illume! The moon comes forth, bright in the sky; A lovelier sight to draw my eye Is she, that lady fair. She round my heart has fixed love's chain, But all my longings are in vain. 'Tis hard the grief to bear. The moon comes forth, a splendid sight; More winning far that lady bright, Object of my desire! Deep-seated is my anxious grief; In vain I seek to find relief; While glows the secret fire. The rising moon shines mild and fair; More bright is she, whose beauty rare My heart with longing fills. With eager wish I pine in vain; O for relief from constant pain, Which through my bosom thrills! ~The Lament of a Lover~ All round the marsh's shores are seen Valerian flowers and rushes green. But lovelier is that Beauty rare, Handsome and large, and tall and fair, I wish and long to call her mine, Doomed with the longing still to pine. Nor day nor night e'er brings relief; My inmost heart is full of grief. Around the marsh, in rich display, Grow rush and lotus flowers, all gay. But not with her do they compare, So tall and large, majestic, fair. Both day and night, I nothing speed; Still clings to me the aching need. On side, on back, on face, I lie, But vain each change of posture. ~The Wish of an Unhappy Man~ Where the grounds are wet and low, There the trees of goat-peach grow, With their branches small and smooth, Glossy in their tender youth. Joy it were to me, O tree, Consciousness to want like thee. Where the grounds are wet and low, There the trees of goat-peach grow. Soft and fragrant are their flowers, Glossy from the vernal showers. Joy it were to me, O tree, Ties of home to want like thee. Where the grounds are wet and low, There the trees of goat-peach grow, What delicious fruits they bear, Glossy, soft, of beauty rare! Joy it were to me, O tree, Household cares to want like thee. ~Against Frivolous Pursuits~ Like splendid robes appear the wings Of the ephemeral fly; And such the pomp of those great men, Which soon in death shall lie! I grieve! Would they but come to me! To teach them I should try. The wings of the ephemeral fly Are robes of colors gay; And such the glory of those men, Soon crumbling to decay! I grieve! Would they but rest with me, They'd learn a better way! The ephemeral fly bursts from its hole, With gauzy wings like snow; So quick the rise, so quick the fall, Of those great men we know! I grieve! Would they but lodge with me, Forth they would wiser go. ~The Duke of Chow Tells of His Soldiers~ To the hills of the East we went, And long had we there to remain. When the word of recall was sent, Thick and fast came the drizzling rain. The heavenly gourds rise to the eye, With their fruit hanging under the eave. In our chambers the sow-bug we spy; Their webs on our doors spiders weave. Our paddocks seem crowded with deer, With the glow-worm's light all about. Such thoughts, while they filled us with fear, We tried, but in vain, to keep out. To the hills of the East we went, And long had we there to remain. When the word of recall was sent, Thick and fast came the drizzling rain. To the hills of the East we went, And long had we there to remain. When the word of recall was sent, Thick and fast came the drizzling rain. With its wings now here, and now there, Is the oriole sporting in flight. Those brides to their husbands repair, Their steeds red and bay, flecked with white. Each mother has fitted each sash; Their equipments are full and complete; But fresh unions, whatever their dash, Can ne'er with reunions compete. ~There is a Proper Way for Doing Everything~ In hewing an axe-shaft, how must you act? Another axe take, or you'll never succeed. In taking a wife, be sure 'tis a fact, That with no go-between you never can speed. In hewing an axe-shaft, hewing a shaft, For a copy you have the axe in your hand. In choosing a wife, you follow the craft, And forthwith on the mats the feast-vessels stand. With sounds of happiness the deer Browse on the celery of the meads. A nobler feast is furnished here, With guests renowned for noble deeds. The lutes are struck; the organ blows, Till all its tongues in movement heave. Each basket loaded stands, and shows The precious gifts the guests receive. They love me and my mind will teach, How duty's highest aim to reach. ~A Festal Ode Complimenting an Officer~ ~The Value of Friendship~ The woodmen's blows responsive ring, As on the trees they fall; And when the birds their sweet notes sing, They to each other call. From the dark valley comes a bird, And seeks the lofty tree. _Ying_ goes its voice, and thus it cries, "Companion, come to me." The bird, although a creature small, Upon its mate depends; And shall we men, who rank o'er all, Not seek to have our friends? All spirits love the friendly man, And hearken to his prayer. What harmony and peace they can Bestow, his lot shall share. On the hill-side the trees they fell, All working with good-will I labor too, with equal zeal. And the host's part fulfil. Spirits I've set in order meet, The dishes stand in rows. The guests are here; no vacant seat A brother absent shows. The loss of kindly feeling oft From slightest things shall grow, Where all the fare is dry and spare, Resentments fierce may glow. My store of spirits is well strained, If short prove the supply, My messengers I straightway send, And what is needed buy. I beat the drums, and in the dance Lead joyously the train. Oh! good it is, when falls the chance The sparkling cup to drain. ~The Response to a Festal Ode~ Heaven shields and sets thee fast. From it thou goodness hast; Right are thy ways. Its choicest gifts 'twill pour, That last for evermore, Nor time exhaust the store Through endless days. Heaven shields and sets thee fast, Makes thine endeavor last And prosper well. Like hills and mountains high, Whose masses touch the sky; Like streams aye surging by; Thine increase swell! The spirits of thy dead Pour blessings on thy head, Unnumbered sweet. Thy subjects, simple, good, Enjoy their drink and food. Our tribes of every blood Follow thy feet. Like moons that wax in light; Or suns that scale the height; Or ageless hill; Nor change, nor autumn know; As pine and cypress grow; The sons that from thee flow Be lasting still! ~An Ode of Congratulation~ The russet pear-tree stands there all alone; How dense the leafy shade all o'er it thrown! The King's affairs require no slackening hand, And our sad hearts their feelings can't command. The plants and trees in beauty shine; 'tis spring. From off my heart its gloom I fain would fling. This season well my warrior home may bring! ~An Ode on the Return of the Troops~ With anxious care looked on our leader brave; Watchful the carriage-officers appeared and grave. Nan Chung, our chief, had heard the royal call To go where inroad by Heen-yuns was made, And 'cross the frontier build a barrier wall. Numerous his chariots, splendidly arrayed! The standards--this where dragons were displayed, And that where snakes round tortoises were coiled- Terrific flew. "Northward our host," he said, "Heaven's son sends forth to tame the Heen-yun wild." Soon by this awful chief would all their tribes be foiled. THE DECADE OF PIH H'WA ~An Ode Appropriate to a Festivity~ The dew lies heavy all around, Nor, till the sun shines, leaves the ground. Far into night we feasting sit; We drink, and none his place may quit. The dew lies heavy, and its gems Stud the luxuriant, grassy stems. The happy night with wassail rings; So feasted here the former kings. The jujube and the willow-tree All fretted with the dew we see. Each guest's a prince of noble line, In whom the virtues all combine. The _t'ung_ and _e_ their fruits display, Pendant from every graceful spray. My guests are joyous and serene, No haggard eye, no ruffled mien. THE DECADE OF TUNG RUNG ~Celebrating a Hunting Expedition~ Our hunting cars were light and good, Each with its team of noble steeds. Still further east we took the way To Foo-mere's grassy plains that leads. Loud-voiced, the masters of the chase Arranged the huntsmen, high and low. While banners streamed, and ox-tails flew, We sought the prey on distant Gaou. Each with full team, the princes came, A lengthened train in bright array. In gold-wrought slippers, knee-caps red, They looked as on an audience day. Each right thumb wore the metal guard; On the left arm its shield was bound. In unison the arrows flew; The game lay piled upon the ground. The leaders of the tawny teams Sped on their course, direct and true. The drivers perfect skill displayed; Like blow well aimed each arrow flew. Neighing and pleased, the steeds returned; The bannered lines back slowly came. No jostling rude disgraced the crowd; The king declined large share of game. So did this famous hunt proceed! So free it was from clamorous sound! Well does our King become his place, And high the deeds his reign have crowned! ~The King's Anxiety for His Morning Levee~ How goes the night? For heavy morning sleep Ill suits the king who men would loyal keep. The courtyard, ruddy with the torch's light, Proclaims unspent the deepest hour of night. Already near the gate my lords appear; Their tinkling bells salute my wakeful ear. How goes the night? I may not slumber on. Although not yet the night is wholly gone, The paling torch-light in the court below Gives token that the hours swift-footed go. Already at the gate my lords appear; Their tinkling bells with measured sound draw near. How goes the night? I may not slumber now. The darkness smiles with morning on its brow. The courtyard torch no more gives forth its ray, But heralds with its smoke the coming day. My princes pass the gate, and gather there; I see their banners floating in the air. ~Moral Lessons from Natural Facts~ THE DECADE OF K'E-FOO ~On the Completion of a Royal Palace~ On yonder banks a palace, lo! upshoots, The tender blue of southern hill behind; Firm-founded, like the bamboo's clamping roots; Its roof made pine-like, to a point defined. Fraternal love here bears its precious fruits, And unfraternal schemes be ne'er designed! High pillars rise the level court around; The pleasant light the open chamber steeps; And deep recesses, wide alcoves, are found, Where our good king in perfect quiet sleeps. Then shall the chief diviner glad reply, "The bears foreshow that Heaven will send you sons. The snakes and cobras daughters prophesy. These auguries are all auspicious ones. "And daughters also to him shall be born. They shall be placed upon the ground to sleep; Their playthings tiles, their dress the simplest worn; Their part alike from good and ill to keep, And ne'er their parents' hearts to cause to mourn; To cook the food, and spirit-malt to steep." ~The Condition of King Seuen's Flocks~ These climb the heights, those drink the pool; Some lie at rest, while others roam. With rain-coats, and thin splint hats cool, And bearing food, your herdsmen come. In thirties, ranged by hues, the creatures stand; Fit victims they will yield at your command. Your herdsmen twigs and fagots bring, With prey of birds and beasts for food. Your sheep, untouched by evil thing, Approach, their health and vigor good. The herdsman's waving hand they all behold, And docile come, and pass into the fold. THE DECADE OF SEAOU MIN ~A Eunuch Complains of His Fate~ A few fine lines, at random drawn, Like the shell-pattern wrought in lawn To hasty glance will seem. My trivial faults base slander's slime Distorted into foulest crime, And men me worthless deem. A few small points, pricked down on wood, May be made out a picture good Of the bright Southern Sieve. Who planned, and helped those slanderers vile, My name with base lies to defile? Unpitied, here I grieve. With babbling tongues you go about, And only scheme how to make out The lies you scatter round. Hear me--Be careful what you say; People ere long your words will weigh, And liars you'll be found. Clever you are with changeful schemes! How else could all your evil dreams And slanders work their way? Men now believe you; by and by, The truth found out, each vicious lie Will ill for ill repay. The proud rejoice; the sufferer weeps. O azure Heaven, from out thy deeps Why look in silence down? Behold those proud men and rebuke; With pity on the sufferers look, And on the evil frown. Those slanderers I would gladly take, With all who help their schemes to make, And to the tigers throw. If wolves and tigers such should spare, Td hurl them 'midst the freezing air, Where the keen north winds blow. And should the North compassion feel I'd fling them to great Heaven, to deal On them its direst woe. ~An Officer Deplores the Misery of the Time~ In the cold of autumn days Each plant shrivels and decays. Nature then is hard and stern; Living things sad lessons learn. Friends dispersed, all order gone, Place of refuge have I none. Winter days are wild and fierce; Rapid gusts each crevice pierce. Such is my unhappy lot, Unbefriended and forgot! Others all can happy be; I from misery ne'er am free. Waters from that spring appear Sometimes foul, and sometimes clear, Changing oft as falls the rain, Or the sky grows bright again. New misfortunes every day Still befall me, misery's prey. Aid from mighty streams obtained, Southern States are shaped and drained. Thus the Keang and Han are thanked, And as benefactors ranked. Weary toil my vigor drains; All unnoticed it remains! Hawks and eagles mount the sky; Sturgeons in deep waters lie. Out of reach, they safely get, Arrow fear not, nor the net. Hiding-place for me there's none; Here I stay, and make my moan. Ferns upon the hills abound; _Ke_ and _e_ in marshy ground. Each can boast its proper place, Where it grows for use or grace. I can only sing the woe, Which, ill-starred, I undergo. ~On the Alienation of a Friend~ Gently and soft the east wind blows, And then there falls the pelting rain. When anxious fears pressed round you close, Then linked together were we twain. Now happy, and your mind at rest, You turn and cast me from your breast. Gently and soft the east wind blows, And then there comes the whirlwind wild. When anxious fears pressed round you close, Your bosom held me as a child. Now happy, and in peaceful state, You throw me off and quite forget. Gently and soft the east wind blows, Then round the rocky height it storms. Each plant its leaves all dying shows; The trees display their withered forms. My virtues great forgotten all, You keep in mind my faults, though small. THE DECADE OF PIH SHAN ~A Picture of Husbandry~ ~The Complaint of an Officer~ Ere we the royal city left, The sun and moon renewed the year. We marched in hope. Now to its close this year is near. Return deferred, of hope bereft, All mourn and mope. My lonesome state haunts aye my breast, While duties grow, and cares increase, Too hard to bear. Toils that oppress me never cease; Not for a moment dare I rest, Nigh to despair. I think with fond regard of those, Who in their posts at court remain, My friends of old. Fain would I be with them again, But fierce reproof return would cause. This post I hold. My honored friends, O do not deem Your rest which seems secure from ill Will ever last! Your duties quietly fulfil, And hold the upright in esteem, With friendship fast. So shall the Spirits hear your cry, You virtuous make, and good supply, In measure vast. My honored friends, O do not deem Repose that seems secure from ill Will lasting prove. Your duties quietly fulfil, And hold the upright in esteem, With earnest love. So shall the Spirits hear your prayer, And on you happiness confer, Your hopes above. ~The Rejoicings of a Bridegroom~ With axle creaking, all on fire I went, To fetch my young and lovely bride. No thirst or hunger pangs my bosom rent- I only longed to have her by my side. I feast with her, whose virtue fame had told, Nor need we friends our rapture to behold. The long-tailed pheasants surest covert find, Amid the forest on the plain. Here from my virtuous bride, of noble mind, And person tall, I wisdom gain. I praise her while we feast, and to her say, "The love I bear you ne'er will know decay. "I oft ascend that lofty ridge with toil, And hew large branches from the oaks; Then of their leafy glory them I spoil, And fagots form with vigorous strokes. Returning tired, your matchless grace I see, And my whole soul dissolves in ecstasy. "To the high hills I looked, and urged each steed; The great road next was smooth and plain. Up hill, o'er dale, I never slackened speed; Like lute-string sounded every rein. I knew, my journey ended, I should come To you, sweet bride, the comfort of my home." ~Against Listening to Slanderers~ Like the blueflies buzzing round, And on the fences lighting, Are the sons of slander found, Who never cease their biting. O thou happy, courteous king, To the winds their slanders fling. Buzzing round the blueflies hear, About the jujubes flocking! So the slanderers appear, Whose calumnies are shocking. By no law or order bound, All the kingdom they confound. THE DECADE OF TOO JIN SZE ~In Praise of By-gone Simplicity~ In the old capital they stood, With yellow fox-furs plain, Their manners all correct and good, Speech free from vulgar stain. Could we go back to Chow's old days, All would look up to them with praise. In the old capital they wore _T'ae_ hats and black caps small; And ladies, who famed surnames bore, Their own thick hair let fall. Such simple ways are seen no more, And the changed manners I deplore. Ear-rings, made of plainest gold, In the old days were worn. Each lady of a noble line A Yin or Keih seemed born. Such officers and ladies now I see not and my sorrows grow. With graceful sweep their girdles fell, Then in the days of old. The ladies' side-hair, with a swell, Like scorpion's tail, rose bold. Such, if I saw them in these days, I'd follow with admiring gaze. ~A Wife Bemoans Her Husband's Absence~ So full am I of anxious thought, Though all the morn king-grass I've sought, To fill my arms I fail. Like wisp all-tangled is my hair! To wash it let me home repair. My lord soon may I hail! When here we dwelt in union sweet, If the hunt called his eager feet, His bow I cased for him. Or if to fish he went away, And would be absent all the day, His line I put in trim. What in his angling did he catch? Well worth the time it was to watch How bream and tench he took. Men thronged upon the banks and gazed; At bream and tench they looked amazed, The triumphs of his hook. ~The Earl of Shaou's Work~ As the young millet, by the genial rain Enriched, shoots up luxuriant and tall, So, when we southward marched with toil and pain, The Earl of Shaou cheered and inspired us all. We did on plains and low lands what was meet; We cleared the springs and streams, the land to drain. The Earl of Shaou announced his work complete, And the King's heart reposed, at rest again. ~The Plaint of King Yew's Forsaken Wife~ Both rush and grass from the bright clouds The genial dew partake. Kind and impartial, nature's laws No odious difference make. But providence appears unkind; Events are often hard. This man, to principle untrue, Denies me his regard. Northward the pools their waters send, To flood each paddy field; So get the fields the sap they need, Their store of rice to yield. But that great man no deed of grace Deigns to bestow on me. My songs are sighs. At thought of him My heart aches wearily. The mulberry branches they collect, And use their food to cook; But I must use a furnace small, That pot nor pan will brook. So me that great man badly treats, Nor uses as his wife, Degrades me from my proper place, And fills with grief my life. The bells and drums inside the court Men stand without and hear; So should the feelings in my breast, To him distinct appear. All-sorrowful, I think of him, Longing to move his love; But he vouchsafes no kind response; His thoughts far from me rove. The marabow stands on the dam, And to repletion feeds; The crane deep in the forest cries, Nor finds the food it needs. So in my room the concubine By the great man is placed; While I with cruel banishment Am cast out and disgraced. The yellow ducks sit on the dam, With left wing gathered low; So on each other do they lean, And their attachment show. And love should thus the man and wife In closest concord bind; But that man turns away from me, And shows a fickle mind. ~On the Misery of Soldiers~ Yellow now is all the grass; All the days in marching pass. On the move is every man; Hard work, far and near, they plan. Not rhinoceroses we! Tigers do we care to be? Fields like these so desolate Are to us a hateful fate. ~Celebrating King Wan~ The royal Wan now rests on high, Enshrined in brightness of the sky. Chow as a state had long been known, And Heaven's decree at last was shown. Its lords had borne a glorious name; God kinged them when the season came. King Wan ruled well when earth he trod; Now moves his spirit near to God. More lustrous still from age to age, All reverent plans their zeal engage; And brilliant statesmen owe their birth To this much-favored spot of earth. They spring like products of the land- The men by whom the realm doth stand. Such aid their numerous bands supply, That Wan rests tranquilly on high. [Book II. is omitted] ~King Seuen on the Occasion of a Great Drought~ Grand shone the Milky Way on high, With brilliant span athwart the sky, Nor promise gave of rain. King Seuen long gazed; then from him broke, In anguished tones the words he spoke. Well might he thus complain! "O Heaven, what crimes have we to own, That death and ruin still come down? Relentless famine fills our graves. Pity the king who humbly craves! Our miseries never cease. To every Spirit I have vowed; The choicest victim's blood has flowed. As offerings I have freely paid My store of gems and purest jade. Hear me, and give release! "The drought consumes us. As on wing Its fervors fly, and torment bring. With purest mind and ceaseless care My sacrifices I prepare. At thine own border altars, Heaven, And in my father's fane, I've given What might relief have found. What Powers above, below, have sway, To all my precious gifts I pay, Then bury in the ground. Yes, every Spirit has received Due honor, and, still unrelieved, Our sufferings greater grow. How-tseih can't give the needed aid, And help from God is still delayed! The country lies a ruined waste. O would that I alone might taste This bitter cup of woe! "The drought consumes us. It keeps on Its fatal course. All hope is gone. The air more fierce and fiery glows. Where can I fly? Where seek repose? Death marks me for its prey. Above, no saving hand! Around, No hope, no comfort, can be found. The dukes and ministers of old Give us no help. Can ye withhold Your sympathy, who lately reigned? And parents, how are you restrained, In this so dreadful day? "The drought consumes us. There on high The hills are parched. The streams are dry. Drought's demon stalks abroad in ire, And scatters wide his flames and fire. Alas, my woful heart! The fires within its strength consume; The heat without creates a gloom That from it will not part. The dukes and ministers by-gone Respond not to my prayer and moan. God in great Heaven, permission give That I may in retirement live, And try to heal my smart! "The drought consumes us. Still I strive, And will not leave while I survive. Duty to shun I fear. Why upon me has come this drought? Vainly I try to search it out, Vainly, with quest severe. For a good harvest soon I prayed, Nor late the rites I duly paid, To Spirits of the air and land. There wanted nought they could demand, Their favor to secure. God in great heaven, be just, be kind! Thou dost not bear me in Thy mind. My cry, ye wisest Spirits, hear! Ye whom I constantly revere, Why do I this endure? SACRIFICIAL ODES OF CHOW ~Appropriate to a Sacrifice to King Wan~ My offerings here are given, A ram, a bull. Accept them, mighty Heaven, All-bountiful. Thy statutes, O great king, I keep, I love; So on the realm to bring Peace from above. From Wan comes blessing rich; Now on the right He owns those gifts to which Him I invite. Do I not night and day, Revere great Heaven, That thus its favor may To Chow be given? ~On Sacrificing to the Kings Woo, Ching, and K'ang~ The arm of Woo was full of might; None could his fire withstand; And Ching and K'ang stood forth to sight, As kinged by God's own hand. We err not when we call them sage. How grandly they maintained Their hold of all the heritage That Wan and Woo had gained! As here we worship, they descend, While bells and drums resound, And stones and lutes their music blend. With blessings we are crowned. The rites correctly we discharge; The feast we freely share. Those Sires Chow's glory will enlarge, And ever for it care. THE TRAVELS OF FA-HIEN [Translation by James Legge] TRANSLATOR'S INTRODUCTION When he had finished his novitiate and taken on him the obligations of the full Buddhist orders, his earnest courage, clear intelligence, and strict regulation of his demeanor, were conspicuous; and soon after, he undertook his journey to India in search of complete copies of the Vinaya-pitaka. What follows this is merely an account of his travels in India and return to China by sea, condensed from his own narrative, with the addition of some marvellous incidents that happened to him, on his visit to the Vulture Peak near Rajagriha. If there were ever another and larger account of Fa-hien's travels than the narrative of which a translation is now given, it has long ceased to be in existence. Much of what Fa-hien tells his readers of Buddhist miracles and legends is indeed unreliable and grotesque; but we have from him the truth as to what he saw and heard. In concluding this introduction I wish to call attention to some estimates of the number of Buddhists in the world which have become current, believing, as I do, that the smallest of them is much above what is correct. THE TRAVELS OF FA-HIEN ~From Ch'ang-gan to the Sandy Desert~ Le Hao, the prefect of Tun-hwang, had supplied them with the means of crossing the desert before them, in which there are many evil demons and hot winds. Travellers who encounter them perish all to a man. There is not a bird to be seen in the air above, nor an animal on the ground below. Though you look all round most earnestly to find where you can cross, you know not where to make your choice, the only mark and indication being the dry bones of the dead left upon the sand. ~On to Shen-shen and thence to Khoten~ ~Khoten--Processions of Images~ ~Through the Ts'ung Mountains to K'eech-ch'a~ ~Great Quinquennial Assembly of Monks~ ~North India--Image of Maitreya Bodhisattva~ ~The Perilous Crossing of the Indus~ ~Woo-chang, or Udyana--Traces of Buddha~ Hwuy-king, Hwuy-tah, and Tao-ching went on ahead towards the place of Buddha's shadow in the country of Nagara; but Fa-hien and the others remained in Woo-chang, and kept the summer retreat. That over, they descended south, and arrived in the country of Soo-ho-to. ~Soo-ho-to--Legends of Buddha~ ~Gandhara--Legends of Buddha~ ~Buddha's Alms-bowl--Death of Hwuy-king~ ~Festival of Buddha's Skull-bone~ ~Crossing the Indus to the East~ ~Sympathy of Monks with the Pilgrims~ After they had crossed the river, there was a country named Pe-t'oo, where Buddhism was very flourishing, and the monks studied both the mahayana and hinayana. When they saw their fellow-disciples from Ts'in passing along, they were moved with great pity and sympathy, and expressed themselves thus: "How is it that these men from a border-land should have learned to become monks, and come for the sake of our doctrines from such a distance in search of the Law of Buddha?" They supplied them with what they needed, and treated them in accordance with the rules of the Law. ~Condition and Customs of Central India~ All south from this is named the Middle Kingdom. In it the cold and heat are finely tempered, and there is neither hoarfrost nor snow. The people are numerous and happy; they have not to register their households, or attend to any magistrates and their rules; only those who cultivate the royal land have to pay a portion of the gain from it. If they want to go they go; if they want to stay on, they stay. The king governs without decapitation or other corporal punishments. Criminals are simply fined, lightly or heavily, according to the circumstances of each case. Even in cases of repeated attempts at wicked rebellion, they only have their right hands cut off. The king's body-guards and attendants all have salaries. Throughout the whole country the people do not kill any living creature, nor drink intoxicating liquor, nor eat onions or garlic. The only exception is that of the Chandalas. That is the name for those who are held to be wicked men, and live apart from others. When they enter the gate of a city or a market-place, they strike a piece of wood to make themselves known, so that men know and avoid them, and do not come into contact with them. In that country they do not keep pigs and fowls, and do not sell live cattle; in the markets there are no butchers' shops and no dealers in intoxicating drink. In buying and selling commodities they use cowries. Only the Chandalas are fishermen and hunters, and sell flesh meat. ~Legend of the Trayastrimsas Heaven~ ~Buddha's Subjects of Discourse~ ~Legend of Buddha's Danta-kashtha~ ~The Jetavana Vihara--Legends of Buddha~ ~Legends of Buddha's Birth~ Several li northeast from the city was the king's field, where the heir-apparent sat under a tree, and looked at the ploughers. ~Legends of Rama and its Tope~ ~Where Buddha Renounced the World~ In the city the inhabitants are few and far between, comprising only the families belonging to the different societies of monks. ~The Kingdom of Vaisali~ ~Remarkable Death of Ananda~ ~King Asoka's Spirit-built Palace and Halls~ Shamans of the highest virtue from all quarters, and students, inquirers wishing to find out truth and the grounds of it, all resort to these monasteries. There also resides in this monastery a Brahman teacher, whose name also is Manjusri, whom the Shamans of greatest virtue in the kingdom, and the mahayana Bhikshus honor and look up to. ~Rajagriha, New and Old--Legends Connected with It~ A yojana southwest from this place brought them to the village of Nala, where Sariputtra was born, and to which also he returned, and attained here his pari-nirvana. Over the spot where his body was burned there was built a tope, which is still in existence. ~Fa-Hien Passes a Night on Gridhra-kuta Hill~ ~Sakyamuni's Attaining to the Buddhaship~ ~Legend of King Asoka in a Former Birth~ ~Kasyapa Buddha's Skeleton on Mount Gurupada~ On this hill hazels grow luxuriantly; and there are many lions, tigers, and wolves, so that people should not travel incautiously. ~On the Way Returning to Patna~ ~Dakshina, and the Pigeon Monastery~ The kingdom of Dakshina is out of the way, and perilous to traverse. There are difficulties in connection with the roads; but those who know how to manage such difficulties and wish to proceed should bring with them money and various articles, and give them to the king. He will then send men to escort them. These will, at different stages, pass them over to others, who will show them the shortest routes. Fa-hien, however, was after all unable to go there; but having received the above accounts from men of the country, he has narrated them. ~Fa-Hien's Indian Studies~ ~Fa-hien's Stay in Champa and Tamalipti~ ~At Ceylon--Feats of Buddha--His Statue in Jade~ The country originally had no human inhabitants, but was occupied only by spirits and nagas, with which merchants of various countries carried on a trade. When the trafficking was taking place, the spirits did not show themselves. They simply set forth their precious commodities, with labels of the price attached to them; while the merchants made their purchases according to the price; and took the things away. Through the coming and going of the merchants in this way, when they went away, the people of their various countries heard how pleasant the land was, and flocked to it in numbers till it became a great nation. The climate is temperate and attractive, without any difference of summer and winter. The vegetation is always luxuriant. Cultivation proceeds whenever men think fit: there are no fixed seasons for it. ~Cremation of an Arhat--Sermon of a Devotee~ Such was the discourse, and Fa-hien wished to write it down as a portion of doctrine; but the man said, "This is taken from no Sutra, it is only the utterance of my own mind." The prefect Le E was a reverent believer in the Law of Buddha. When he heard that a Sramana had arrived in a ship across the sea, bringing with him books and images, he immediately came to the sea-shore with an escort to meet the traveller, and receive the books and images, and took them back with him to the seat of his government. On this the merchants went back in the direction of Yang-chow; but when Fa-hien arrived at Ts'ing-chow, the prefect there begged him to remain with him for a winter and a summer. After the summer retreat was ended, Fa-hien, having been separated for a long time from his fellows, wished to hurry to Ch'ang-gan; but as the business which he had in hand was important, he went south to the Capital; and at an interview with the masters there exhibited the Sutras and the collection of the Vinaya which he had procured. ~THE SORROWS OF HAN~ [Translated into English by John Francis Davis] TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE The moral of the piece is evidently to expose the evil consequences of luxury, effeminacy, and supineness in the sovereign. "When love was all an easy monarch's care, Seldom at council--never in a war." YUENTE, Emperor of China of the Dynasty Han. HANCHENYU, K'han of the Tartars. MAOUYENSHOW, a worthless Minister of the Emperor. SHANGSHOO (a title), President of the Imperial Council. CHANGSHEE (a title), Officer in waiting. FANSHE (a title), Envoy of the K'han. CHAOUKEUN, Lady, raised to be Princess of Han. Tartar Soldiers, Female Attendants, Eunuchs. The Scene is laid in the Tartar Camp on the Frontiers; and in the Palace of Han. K'HAN. The autumnal gale blows wildly through the grass, amidst our woolen tents. And the moon of night, shining on the rude huts, hears the lament of the mournful pipe: The countless hosts, with their bended horns, obey me as their leader. _Enter Minister of Han, reciting verses_. MINISTER. Let a man have the heart of a kite, and the talons of an eagle. Let him deceive his superiors, and oppress those below him; Let him enlist flattery, insinuation, profligacy, and avarice on his side, _Enter Emperor Yuente, attended by Eunuchs and Women_. MINISTER [_repeats verses_]. The huge ingots of yellow gold I appropriate to myself. I heed not the seas of blood which flow by perverting the laws. CHAOUKEUN [_recites verses_]. Though raised to be an inhabitant of the imperial dwelling I have long been here without the good fortune to see my prince. _Enter Emperor, attended by a Eunuch, carrying a light_. EMPEROR. Since the beauties were selected to grace our palace, we have not yet discovered a worthy object on whom to fix our preference. Vexed and disappointed, we pass this day of leisure roaming in search of her who may be destined for our imperial choice. [_Hears the lute._] Is not that some lady's lute? EMPEROR. No, hold! Keeper of the yellow gate, discover to what part of our palace that lady pertains; and bid her approach our presence; but beware lest you alarm her. ATTENDANT [_approaches in the direction of the sound, and speaks_]. What lady plays there? The Emperor comes! approach to meet him. [_Lady advances_. LADY _[approaching_]. Had your handmaid but known it was your Majesty, she would have been less tardy; forgive, then, this delay. LADY. My name is Chaoukeun: my father cultivates at Chingtoo the fields which he has derived from his family. Born in an humble station, I am ignorant of the manners that befit a palace. EMPEROR. But with such uncommon attractions, what chance has kept you from our sight? LADY. When I was chosen by the minister Maouyenshow, he demanded of my father an amount of treasure which our poverty could not supply; he therefore disfigured my portrait, by representing a scar under the eyes, and caused me to be consigned to seclusion and neglect. EMPEROR. Keeper of the yellow gate, bring us that picture, that we may view it. [_Sees the picture_.] Ah, how has he dimmed the purity of the gem, bright as the waves in autumn. [_To the attendant_] Transmit our pleasure to the officer of the guard, to behead Maouyenshow and report to us his execution. EMPEROR. That shall readily be done. Approach and hear our imperial pleasure. We create you a Princess of our palace. _Enter K'han of the Tartars, at the head of his Tribes_. _Enter Minister of Han_. MINISTER. The severity with which I extorted money, in the selection of beauties for the palace, led me to disfigure the picture of Chaoukeun, and consign her to neglected seclusion. But the Emperor fell in with her, obtained the truth, and condemned me to lose my head. I contrived to make my escape--though I have no home to receive me. I will take this true portrait of Chaoukeun and show it to the Tartar K'han, persuading him to demand her from the Emperor, who will no doubt be obliged to yield her up. A long journey has brought me to this spot, and from the troops of men and horses I conclude I have reached the Tartar camp. [_Addresses himself to somebody_] Leader, inform King Hanchenyu that a great minister of the empire of Han is come to wait on him. K'HAN [_on being informed_]. Command him to approach. [_Seeing Maouyenshow_] What person are you? K'HAN. Whence could so beautiful a female have appeared in the world! If I can only obtain her, my wishes are complete. Immediately shall an envoy be despatched, and my ministers prepare a letter to the Emperor of Han, demanding her in marriage as the condition of peace. Should he refuse, I will presently invade the South: his hills and rivers shall be exposed to ravage. Our warriors will commence by hunting, as they proceed on their way; and thus gradually entering the frontiers, I shall be ready to act as may best suit the occasion. [_Exit._ _The Palace of Han. Enter Lady, attended by females_. PRINCESS. A long period has elapsed since I had to thank his Majesty for his choice. The Emperor's fondness for me is so great, that he has still neglected to hold a court. I hear he is now gone to the hall of audience, and will therefore ornament myself at my toilet and be ready to wait on him at his return. [_Stands opposite a mirror_. _Enter President, and an Officer in waiting_. PRESIDENT [_recites verses._] Ministers should devote themselves to the regulation of the empire; They should be occupied with public cares in the hall of government. But they do nought but attend at the banquets in the palace. When have they employed a single day in the service of their prince? This day, when the audience was concluded, an envoy arrived from the Tartars to demand Chaoukeun in marriage, as the only condition of peace. It is my duty to report this to his Majesty, who has retired to his western palace. Here I must enter. [_Perceiving the Emperor._] I report to your Majesty that Hanchenyu, the leader of the northern foreigners, sends an envoy to declare that Maouyenshow has presented to him the portrait of the princess, and that he demands her in marriage as the only condition of peace. If refused, he will invade the South with a great power, and our rivers and hills will be exposed to rapine. EMPEROR. In vain do we maintain and send forth armies; vain are the crowds of civil and military officers about our palace! Which of them will drive back for us these foreign troops? They are all afraid of the Tartar swords and arrows! But if they cannot exert themselves to expel the barbarians, why call for the princess to propitiate them? OFFICER. The envoy waits without for an audience. EMPEROR. Well; command that he approach us. PRESIDENT. I entreat your Majesty to sacrifice your love, and think of the security of your Dynasty. Hasten, sir, to send the princess on her way! PRESIDENT. Alas! Sir, this may not be! It will draw on us the contempt of these barbarians. EMPEROR. We have complied with all our minister's propositions--shall they not, then, accede to ours? Be it as it may, we will witness her departure--and then return home to hate the traitor Maouyenshow! PRINCESS. Though I go into exile for the nation's good, yet ill can I bear to part from your Majesty! _[Exeunt._ _Enter Envoy, escorting the Princess, with a band of music_. PRINCESS. Thus was I, in spite of the treachery of Maouyenshow, who disfigured my portrait, seen and exalted by his Majesty; but the traitor presented a truer likeness to the Tartar king, who comes at the head of an army to demand me, with a threat of seizing the country. There is no remedy--I must be yielded up to propitiate the invaders! How shall I bear the rigors--the winds and frosts of that foreign land! It has been said of old, that "surpassing beauty is often coupled with an unhappy fate." Let me grieve, then, without entertaining fruitless resentment at the effects of my own attractions. _Enter Emperor, attended by his several officers_. EMPEROR. This day we take leave of the princess at Pahling bridge! [_To his ministers_.] Can ye not devise a way to send out these foreign troops, without yielding up the princess for the sake of peace? [_Descends from his horse and seems to grieve with Chaoukeun_.] Let our attendants delay awhile, till we have conferred the parting cup. ENVOY. Lady, let us urge you to proceed on your way--the sky darkens, and night is coming on. PRINCESS. Alas! when shall I again behold your Majesty? I will take off my robes of distinction and leave them behind me. To-day in the palace of Han--to-morrow I shall be espoused to a stranger. I cease to wear these splendid vestments--they shall no longer adorn my beauty in the eyes of men. ENVOY. Again let us urge you, princess, to depart; we have delayed but too long already! PRESIDENT. Let your Majesty cease to dwell with such grief upon this subject! PRESIDENT. Let your Majesty return to the palace--the princess is already far distant! [_Exeunt_. _The Tartar Camp. Enter K'han at the head of his tribes, leading in the Princess_. PRINCESS. What place is this? ENVOY. It is the River of the Black Dragon, the frontier of the Tartar territories and those of China. This southern shore is the Emperor's; on the northern side commences our Tartar dominion. [_Throws herself into the river. The K'han, in great consternation, endeavors to save her, but in vain_. _Enter Emperor, with an attendant_. PRINCESS. Delivered over as a captive to appease the barbarians, they would have conveyed me to their Northern country: but I took an occasion to elude them and have escaped back. Is not this the Emperor, my sovereign? Sir, behold me again restored. [_A Tartar soldier appears in the vision_.] [_Carries her off. The Emperor starts from his sleep_.] EMPEROR. My sorrows are beyond control. Cease to upbraid this excess of feeling, since ye are all subject to the same. Yon doleful cry is not the note of the swallow on the carved rafters, nor the song of the variegated bird upon the blossoming tree. The princess has abandoned her home! Know ye in what place she grieves, listening like me to the screams of the wild bird? EMPEROR. Then strike off the traitor's head, and be it presented as an offering to the shade of the princess! Let a fit banquet be got ready for the envoy, preparatory to his return. _[Recites these verses_. At the fall of the leaf, when the wild-fowl's cry was heard in the recesses of the palace. Sad dreams returned to our lonely pillow; we thought of her through the night: Her verdant tomb remains--but where shall we seek her self? The perfidious painter's head shall atone for the beauty which he wronged. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Chinese Literature, by Anonymous	redpajama-book	36,206
Produced by Afra Ullah, Brett Koonce and PG Distributed Proofreaders AUNT JANE'S NIECES ON VACATION I THE HOBO AT CHAZY JUNCTION II THE INVASION OF MILLVILLE III THE DAWN OF A GREAT ENTERPRISE IV THE WAY INTO PRINT V DIVIDING THE RESPONSIBILITIES VI MR. SKEELTY OF THE MILL VII THE SKETCH ARTIST VIII THE _Millville Daily Tribune_ IX TROUBLE X THURSDAY SMITH XI THE HONER'BLE OJOY BOGLIN XII MOLLY SIZER'S PARTY XIII BOB WEST INTERFERES XIV THE DANCER SIGNAL XV A CLEVER IDEA XVI LOCAL CONTRIBUTORS XVII THE PENALTIES OF JOURNALISM XVIII OPEN WARFARE XIX A MERE MATTER OF REVENGE XX DEFENDING THE PRESS XXI THE COMING OF FOGERTY XXII UNMASKED XXIII THE JOURNALISTS ABDICATE XXIV A CHEERFUL BLUNDER THE HOBO AT CHAZY JUNCTION "Ah," said he aloud; "the nabobs hev arrove." "Who are the nabobs?" asked a quiet voice beside him. Again Mr. Judkins started; he even stepped back a pace to get a better view of the stranger, who had approached so stealthily through the dim light that the agent was unaware of his existence until he spoke. "Who be you?" he demanded, eyeing the man suspiciously. "Never mind who I am," retorted the other in a grumpy tone; "the original question is 'who are the nabobs?'" "See here, young feller; this ain't no place fer tramps," observed Mr. Judkins, frowning with evident displeasure; "Chazy Junction's got all it kin do to support its reg'lar inhabitants. You'll hev to move on." Even tramps were unusual at Chazy Junction. The foothills were sparsely settled and the inhabitants too humble to be attractive to gentlemen of the road, while the rocky highways, tortuous and uneven, offered no invitation to the professional pedestrian. "You'll hev to move on!" repeated the agent, more sternly. "I can't," replied the other with a smile. "The car I was--er--attached to has come to a halt. The engine has left us, and--here we are, I and the nabobs." "Be'n ridin' the trucks, eh?" Mr. Judkins scowled but made no answer. He was wise enough to understand he was no match in conversation for this irresponsible outcast who knew the great world as perfectly as the agent knew his junction. He turned away and stared hard at the silent sleeper, the appearance of which was not wholly unexpected. "You haven't informed me who the nabobs are, nor why they choose to be sidetracked in this forsaken stone-quarry," remarked the stranger, eyeing the bleak hills around him in the growing light of dawn. "Where's Millville?" inquired the man. "How big is Millville?" "But about the nabob--Mr. Merrick, I think you called him?" "Yes. Clever gals, too. Stirred things up some at Millville, I kin tell you, stranger. Lib'ral an' good-natured, but able to hold their own with the natives. We missed 'em, last year; but t'other day I seen ol' Hucks, that keeps their house for 'em--he 'n' his wife--an' Hucks said they was cumin' to spend this summer at the farm an' he was lookin' fer 'em any day. The way they togged up thet farmhouse is somethin' won'erful, I'm told. Hain't seen it, myself, but a whole carload o' furnitoor--an' then some more--was shipped here from New York, an' Peggy McNutt, over t' Millville, says it must 'a' cost a for-tun'." The tramp nodded, somewhat listlessly. "I feel quite respectable this morning, having passed the night as the guest of a millionaire," he observed. "Mr. Merrick didn't know it, of course, or he would have invited me inside." "Like enough," answered the agent seriously. "The nabob's thet reckless an' unaccountable, he's likely to do worse ner that. That's what makes him an' his gals interestin'; nobody in quarries. How about breakfast, friend Judkins?" "That's my business an' not yourn. My missus never feeds tramps." "Rather ungracious to travelers, eh?" "Ef you're a traveler, go to the hoe-tel yonder an' buy your breakfas' like a man." "Thank you; I may follow your advice." The agent walked up the track and put out the semaphore lights, for the sun was beginning to rise over the hills. By the time he came back a colored porter stood on the platform of the private car and nodded to him. "Folks up yit?" asked Judkins. "Goin' ter feed 'em in there?" "Not dis mohnin'. Dey'll breakfas' at de hotel. Carriage here yit?" "Not yit. I s'pose ol' Hucks'll drive over for 'em," said the agent. "Heh!" retorted the agent, scornfully; "you won't git sick. You're too well paid fer that." The porter grinned, and just then a little old gentleman with a rosy, cheery face pushed him aside and trotted down the steps. "Mornin', Judkins!" he cried, and shook the agent's hand. "What a glorious sunrise, and what crisp, delicious air! Ah, but it's good to be in old Chazy County again!" The agent straightened up, his face wreathed with smiles, and cast an "I told you so!" glance toward the man on the truck. But the stranger had disappeared. THE INVASION OF MILLVILLE "Oh, Thomas Hucks--you dear, dear Thomas!" cried a clear, eager voice, and out from the car rushed Miss Patricia Doyle, to throw her arms about the neck of the old, stoop-shouldered and white-haired driver, whose face was illumined by a joyous smile. "Glad to see ye, Miss Patsy; right glad 'ndeed, child," returned the old man. But others were waiting to greet him; pretty Beth De Graf and dainty Louise Merrick--not Louise "Merrick" any longer, though, but bearing a new name she had recently acquired--and demure Mary, Patsy's little maid and an old friend of Thomas Hucks', and Uncle John with his merry laugh and cordial handshake and, finally, a tall and rather dandified young man who remained an interested spectator in the background until Mr. Merrick seized and dragged him forward. The aged servant, hat in hand, made a respectful bow to Mr. Weldon. His frank eyes swept the young man from head to foot but his smile was the same as before. "Miss Louise is wiser ner I be," said the old fellow simply; "I'm safe to trust to her jedgment, I guess." There was a general laugh, at this, and they began to clamber aboard the wagon and to stow away beneath the seats the luggage the colored porter was bringing out. "Stop at the Junction House, Thomas," said Mr. Merrick as they moved away. "Nora has the breakfast all ready at home, sir," replied Thomas. "Ned's on the way, sir; and he'll get the liveryman to help if he can't carry it all." "Mrs. Todd! Hey, Mrs. Todd!" called Uncle John. "Anybody milked the cow yet?" A frowsy looking woman came out, all smiles, and nodded pleasantly at the expectant group in the wagon. Behind her loomed the tall, lean form of Lucky Todd, the "proprietor," who was serious as a goat, which animal he closely resembled in feature. "Breakfas' all 'round, Mr. Merrick?" asked the woman. "Not this time, Mrs. Todd. Nora has our breakfast waiting for us. But we want some of your delicious milk to last us to the farm." The man at the table held out his empty glass. "Here; fill this up," he said to Lucky Todd. The somber-faced proprietor turned his gaze from the Merrick group to the stranger, eyed him pensively a moment and then faced the wagon again. The man in gray got up, placed the empty glass in Todd's hand, whirled him around facing the door and said sternly: The landlord walked in like an automaton, and a suppressed giggle came from the girls in the wagon. Uncle John was likewise amused, and despite the unknown's frazzled apparel the little millionaire addressed him in the same tone he would have used toward an equal. "Don't blame you, sir. Nobody ever tasted better milk than they have at the Junction House." The man, who had resumed his seat, stood up, took off his hat and bowed. But he made no reply. Out came Mrs. Todd, accompanied by another frowsy woman. Between them they bore a huge jug of milk, a number of thick glasses and a plate of crackers. "The crackers come extry, Mr. Merrick," said the landlady, "but seein' as milk's cheap I thought you might like 'em." "More!" he said, holding out the glass. Todd shook his head. "Ain't no more," he declared. His wife overheard him and pausing in her task of refilling the glasses for the rich man's party she looked over her shoulder and said: "Give him what he wants, Lucky." The landlord pondered. "Milk's cheap," remarked Mrs. Todd. "It's crackers as is expensive these days. Fill up his glass, Lucky." "Why is your husband called 'Lucky,' Mrs. Todd?" inquired Patsy, who was enjoying the cool, creamy milk. "'Cause he got me to manage him, I guess," was the laughing reply. "Todd ain't much 'count 'nless I'm on the spot to order him 'round." The landlord came out with the glass of milk but paused before he set it down. "Let's see your money," he said suspiciously. "'Nother cent," said Todd. Continued search seemed for a time hopeless, but at last, in quite an unexpected way, the man produced the final cent and on receiving it Todd set down the milk. "Anything more, yer honor?" he asked sarcastically. "Yes; you might bring me the morning paper," was the reply. "I dunno," remarked old Hucks, when they were out of earshot, "whether that feller's jest a common tramp or a workman goin' over to the paper mill at Royal. Jedgin' from the fact as he had money I guess he's a workman." "Wrong, Thomas, quite wrong," said Beth, seated just behind him. "Did you notice his hands?" "They were not rough and the fingers were slender and delicate." "That's the mark of a cracksman," said Arthur Weldon, with a laugh. "If there are any safes out here that are worth cracking, I'd say look out for the gentleman." "His face isn't bad at all," remarked Patsy, reflectively. "Isn't there any grade between a workman and a thief?" "Of course," asserted Mr. Merrick, in his brisk way. "This fellow, shabby as he looked, might be anything--from a strolling artist to a gentleman down on his luck. But what's the news, Thomas? How are Ethel and Joe?" "Mr. an' Mrs. Wegg is quite comf't'ble, sir, thank you," replied old Hucks, with a show of eagerness. "Miss Ethel's gran'ther, ol' Will Thompson, he's dead, you know, an' the young folks hev fixed up the Thompson house like a palace. Guess ye'd better speak to 'em about spendin' so much money, Mr. Merrick; I'm 'fraid they may need it some day." "Don't worry. They've a fine income for life, Thomas, and there will be plenty to leave to their children--if they have any. But tell me about the mill at Royal. Where _is_ Royal, anyhow?" "Goodness me!" cried Patsy; "this thing must have livened up sleepy old Millville considerably." "Why?" asked Louise. "They're a kinder tough lot, I guess. Turnin' pine trees inter paper mus' be a job thet takes more muscle than brains. I don't see how it's done, at all." "The bumps?" asked Arthur, as the wagon gave a jolt a bit more emphatic than usual; "yes, Patsy dear, I get them all; but I won't pass judgment on Millville and Uncle John's farm just yet. Are we 'most there?" "Rubbish!" said Uncle John. "You haven't known a strenuous moment, my dears, and you're all too young to need renewals, anyhow. But if you can find happiness here, my girls, our old farm will become a paradise." Topping the brow of a little hill the wagon came to a smooth downward grade where the road met the quaint old bridge that spanned Little Bill Creek, beside which stood the antiquated flour and feed mill that had given Millville its name. The horses were able to maintain their brisk trot across the bridge and through the main street of the town, which was merely a cluster of unimposing frame buildings, that lined either side of the highway for the space of an ordinary city block. Then they were in the wilds again and rattling over another cobblestone trail. "This 'ere country's nuth'n' but pine woods 'n' cobblestones," sighed old Hucks, as the horses subsided to a walk. "Lor' knows what would 'a' happened to us without the trees! They saves our grace, so's to speak." "I think the scenery is beautiful," observed Patsy. "It's so different from other country places." "Not much farming around here, I imagine," said Arthur Weldon. "More than you'd think, sir," replied Thomas. "There's certain crops as thrives in stony land, an' a few miles north o' here, towards Huntingdon, the soil's mighty rich 'n' productive. Things ain't never as bad as they seem in this world, sir," he added, turning his persistently smiling face toward the young man. Mr. Merrick sat beside the driver on the front seat. The middle seat was occupied by Patsy and Beth, between whom squeezed little Mary, the maid. Louise and Arthur had the back seat. Uncle John was all excitement over the arrival at his country home. An old fashioned stile was set in a rail fence which separated the grounds from the lane, and Hucks drew up the wagon so his passengers could all alight upon the step of the stile. Patsy was out at a bound. Louise followed more deliberately, assisted by her boy husband, and Beth came more sedately yet. But Uncle John rode around to the barn with Thomas, being eager to see the cows and pigs and poultry with which the establishment was liberally stocked. THE DAWN OF A GREAT ENTERPRISE The great enterprise was sprung on Mr. Merrick the very morning following his arrival at the farm. Breakfast was over and a group had formed upon the shady front lawn, where chairs, benches and hammocks were scattered in profusion. "Well, Uncle, how do you like it?" asked Louise. "Are you perfectly comfortable and happy, now we've escaped so far from the city that its humming life is a mere memory?" "Happy as a clam," responded Uncle John, leaning back in his chair with his feet on a foot rest. "If I only had the morning paper there would be nothing else to wish for." "Patsy's right," remarked Arthur Weldon. "The general intelligence and cosmopolitan knowledge of the people are best cultivated by the newspapers. The superiority of our newspapers has been a factor in making us the greatest nation on earth, for we are the best informed." "My, what big words!" exclaimed Louise. "Why not?" asked Patsy, with startling abruptness, while a queer expression--as of an inspiration--stole over her bright face. Louise laughed softly, Beth's lip curled and Arthur Weldon cast an amused glance at the girl; but Uncle John stared seriously into Patsy's questioning blue eyes. "How?" he asked in a puzzled tone. If anything could interest this eccentric little millionaire more than the usual trend of events it was an original proposition of this sort. He loved to do things that other people had not attempted, nor even thought of. He hated conversational platitudes and established conventions, and his nieces had endeared themselves to him more by their native originality and frank disregard of ordinary feminine limitations than in any other way. It was generally conceded that Patsy was his favorite because she could advance more odd suggestions than the other girls, and this niece had a practical aptitude for carrying out her whimsical ideas that had long since won her uncle's respect. Not that she could outdo Mr. Merrick in eccentricity: that was admitted to be his special province, in which he had no rival; but the girl was so clever a confederate that she gave her erratic uncle much happiness of the sort he most appreciated. "I can't write even a good letter," asserted that young lady; "but I'd dearly love to edit a newspaper." "Of course," agreed Louise; "we all would. And I think we could turn out a very creditable paper--for Millville. But wouldn't it cost a lot of money?" "All jabber, dear," exclaimed Beth. "I admit the fun, but where does the philanthropy come in?" "H-m," said Uncle John; "I scent a social revolution in the wilds of Chazy County." "Let's start it right away!" cried Patsy. "The 'Millville Tribune.' What do you say, girls?" "Why 'Tribune?'" asked Louise. "Very good!" said Uncle John, nodding approval. "A clever idea, Patsy." "But it's all nonsense, sir," observed Arthur Weldon, in astonishment. "Have you any idea of the details of this thing you are proposing?" "None whatever," said the little millionaire. "That's the beauty of the scheme, Arthur; it may lead us into a reg'lar complicated mix-up, and the joy of getting untangled ought to repay us for all our bother." "Perhaps so--if you ever untangle," said the young man, smiling at the whimsical speech. Then he turned to his young bride. "Do you want to go into this thing, Louise?" he asked. "Of course I do," she promptly replied. "It's the biggest thing in the way of a sensation that Patsy's crazy brain has ever evolved, and I'll stand by the _Millville Tribune_ to the last. You mustn't forget, Arthur, that I shall be able to publish all my verses and stories, which the Century and Harpers' so heartlessly turned down." "Oh, I'm in it too," declared Beth. "There's something so delightfully mysterious and bewildering in the idea of our editing and printing a daily paper here in Millville that I can hardly wait to begin the experiment." "Have you any notion of the cost of an outfit such as is required to print a modern daily?" asked Arthur. "You're crazy, child! That wouldn't buy the type." "Nevertheless," began Patsy, argumentatively, but her uncle stopped her. "You needn't figure on that," he said hastily. "The outfit shall be my contribution to the enterprise. If you girls say you're anxious and willing to run a newspaper, I'll agree to give you a proper start." "Oh, thank you, Uncle!" "Of course we're willing!" "It is all absolutely settled, so far as we are concerned," said Patsy, firmly. "How long will it take to get the things here, Uncle?" Mr. Merrick considered a moment. "Oh, no!" protested Patsy; "don't tell daddy of this plan, please. He'd think we were all fit subjects for the lunatic asylum." "Major Doyle wouldn't be far wrong in that conclusion," suggested Arthur. "We'll all go!" exclaimed Beth. "Of course," added Louise; "we are all equally interested in this venture." "That old man is as much a child as Beth or Patsy," he reflected. "It puzzles me to explain how he made all those millions with so little worldly wisdom." So, when Uncle John and the girls entered Cotting's store and the little gentleman shut himself up in the telephone booth, a ripple of excitement spread throughout the neighborhood. Skim Clark, the youthful hope of the Widow Clark, who "run the Emporium," happened to be in the store and he rushed out to spread the news that "the nabob's talkin' to New Yoruk!" "Talkin' to New Yoruk" was yet a marvelous thing to them, and much speculation was exchanged in low tones as to the probable cost of such a conversation as Mr. Merrick was now indulging in. "Meanin' you, Peggy?" asked Nib Corkins, with a chuckle. "He might do wuss ner that," retorted Peggy. "Lor' knows I'm poor enough. You don't ketch _me_ a-talkin' to New York at a dollar a throw, Nib, do ye?" Meantime Mr. Merrick had succeeded in getting Mr. Marvin, of the banking house of Isham, Marvin & Co., on the wire. "Do me a favor, Marvin," he said. "Hunt up the best supply house and have them send me a complete outfit to print a daily newspaper. Everything must be modern, you know, and don't let them leave out anything that might come handy. Then go to Corrigan, the superintendent of the railroad, and have him send the freight up here to Chazy Junction by a special engine, for I don't want a moment's delay and the regular freight takes a week or so. Charge everything to my account and impress upon the dealer the need of haste. Understand all that, Marvin?" "I think I do, sir," was the reply; "but that's a pretty big order, Mr. Merrick. The outfit for a modern daily will cost a small fortune." "Never mind; send it along." "Very well. But you'd better give me some details. How big a newspaper do you want to print?" "Hold the wire and I'll find out," said Uncle John. Then he opened the door of the booth and said: "Patsy, how big a thing do you want to print?" "Plenty, I should say, for this place," answered Louise. "And how many columns to a page?" asked Uncle John. "All right," said Uncle John, and closed the door again. The door opened again and Mr. Merrick protruded a puzzled countenance. "He wants to know about a stereotype plant, Patsy. What'll I tell him?" Patsy stared. Louise and Beth shook their heads. "If it belongs to the--the thing we want, Uncle, have 'em send it along," said Patsy in desperation. A few minutes later the little man again appealed to them. "How'll we run the thing, girls; steam or electricity?" Patsy's face was a blank. Beth giggled and Louise frowned. "Of course it'll have to be run," suggested Mr. Merrick; "but how? That's the question." "I--I hadn't given that matter thought," admitted Patsy. "What do you think, Uncle?" He considered, holding open the door while he thoughtfully regarded the silent but interested group of villagers that eagerly hung upon every word that passed. "Cotting," called Mr. Merrick, "how do they run the paper mill at Royal?" "Manager o' the mill, sir, an' part owner, he says." "Has he a telephone?" "What in blazes are ye up to now, John?" inquired the major, on receiving this order. "None of your business, Gregory. Obey orders." "Going to light the farm and turn night into day?" persisted the major. "This is Patsy's secret, and I'm not going to give it away," said Mr. Merrick. "Attend to this matter promptly, Major, and you'll see the result when you come to us in July for your vacation." "Don't anybody tell me talk is cheap, arter this. John Merrick may be a millionaire, but ef he keeps this thing up long he'll be a pauper. Thet's _my_ prophe-sigh." "Ye won't hev no call to stan' it, Peggy," pre-dcted Lon Tait. "Milyunhairs may spend money foolish, but they don't never give none away. I've done sev'ral odd jobs fer Mr. Merrick, but he's never give me more'n jest wages." "Well," said McNutt with a sigh, "while he's in easy reach there orter be _some_ sort o' pickings fer us, an' it's our duty to git all we can out'n him--short o' actoo-al robbery. What do ye s'pose this new deal means, boys? Sounds like printin' somethin', don't it?" "P'raps it's some letterheads fer the Wegg Farm," suggested Nib Corkins. "These Merricks do everything on a big scale." There was a moment's silence, during which they all stared at the speaker fearfully. Then said Skim Clark, in his drawling, halting way: "Ef thet's the case, an' there's goin' ter be a newspaper here in Millville, we may as well give up the struggle, fer the town'll be ruined!" DIVIDING THE RESPONSIBILITY The rest of that day and a good share of the night was devoted to an earnest consultation concerning the proper methods of launching the _Millville Daily Tribune_. "There is no society here," objected Louise. "Print its picture in the paper. Eh, Uncle John?" This from Beth. "Of course," said Mr. Merrick. "You must print all the home news, as well as the news of the world." "How are you going to get the news of the world?" asked Arthur. "That was my question." "Private wire from New York," said Mr. Merrick, as the girls hesitated how to meet this problem. "I'll arrange with the telegraph company to-morrow to have an extension of the wire run over from Chazy Junction. Then we'll hire an operator--a girl, of course--to receive the news in the office of the paper." "But who will send us the news?" asked Beth. "The Associated Press, I suppose, or some news agency in New York. I'll telegraph to-morrow to Marvin to arrange it." Arthur whistled softly. "That's what Marvin warned me yesterday, when I ordered the equipment," said he. "He told me that before I got through with this deal it would run up into the thousands. And he added that Millville wasn't worth it." "And what did you say to that, Uncle John?" asked Beth. "In that case, I said, I would be sure to get some pleasure and satisfaction out of your journalistic enterprise. My last financial statement showed a frightful condition of affairs. In spite of Major Doyle's reckless investments of my money, and--and the little we manage to give to deserving charities, I'm getting richer every day. When a small leak like this newspaper project occurs, it seems that Fortune is patting me on the back. I've no idea what a respectable newspaper will cost, but I hope it will cost a lot, for every dollar it devours makes my mind just that much easier." Arthur Weldon laughed. "In that case, sir," said he, "I can make no further protest. But I predict you will find the bills--eh--eh--entirely satisfactory." "You mentioned an office, just now, Uncle," observed Louise. "Must we have a business office?" "To be sure," Mr. Merrick replied. "We must find a proper location, where we can install the presses and all the type and machinery that go to making up a newspaper. I hadn't thought of this before, but it is a serious matter, my dears. We may have to build a place." "Oh, that would take too long, entirely," said Patsy. "Can't we put it in the barn, Uncle?" "What would happen to the horses and cows? No; we'll take a look over Millville and see what we can find there." "You won't find much," predicted Beth. "I can't think of a single unoccupied building in the town." "Then we'll put it in a tent," declared Patsy. "Ah; that's another thing I hadn't thought of," said Mr. Merrick. "How big a daily edition will you print, Patsy?" "Wait a moment!" cried Arthur, somewhat bewildered by this figuring. "Do you suppose every inhabitant--man, woman and child--will subscribe for your paper?" "Why, no, of course not," she acknowledged frankly. "How many do you think _will_ subscribe, Arthur? Remember, it's to be a great newspaper." "How much, Uncle?" asked Patsy, appealingly. "I think so too," replied the girl, seriously. "Do you think we can make it pay on that basis, Uncle?" asked Beth. Uncle John coughed to gain time while he thought of a suitable reply. "That, my dear," he informed his niece, "will depend upon how many subscribers you can get. Subscribers and advertisers are necessary to make any paper pay." "Of course," said practical Beth. "Every merchant in Millville and Huntingdon will naturally advertise in our paper, and we'll make the major get us a lot from New York." "Oh," said Patsy; "I see. So _that_ difficulty is settled." Arthur smiled, but held his peace. Uncle John's round face was growing merrier every minute. "Patsy, do you think we shall make any money from this venture?" asked Louise. "We don't especially care to make any profit, do we?" inquired Beth. "It's fun for us, you know, and a--a--great educational experience, and--and--a fine philanthropy--and all that. We don't need the money, so if the paper pays a profit at a cent a copy we'd better cut down the price." "Don't do that yet," advised Uncle John, soberly. "There will be expenses that as yet you don't suspect, and a penny for a paper is about as low as you can go." "What's to be my position on the staff, Patsy?" asked Beth, turning to her cousin. "You're a good mathematician, Beth, so I propose you act as secretary and treasurer, and keep the books." "No; that's too mechanical; no bookkeeping for me. I want something literary." "Then you can be sporting editor." "Goodness, Patsy! There will be no sporting news in Millville." "That will be fine," he agreed. "How about murders, crimes and divorces?" "All barred. Nothing that sends a cold chill down your back will be allowed in our paper. These people are delightfully simple; we don't want to spoil them." "Cut out the cold chills and you'll spoil your newspaper," suggested Arthur. "People like to read of other folks' horrors, for it makes them more contented with their own lot in life." "False philosophy, sir!" cried Fatsy firmly. "You can't educate people by retailing crimes and scandals, and the _Millville Tribune_ is going to be as clean as a prayer book, if I'm to be managing editor." "Is that to be your office, dear?" asked Louise. "I think so. I've a heap of executive ability, and I'm running over with literary--eh--eh--literary discrimination. In addition to running the thing, I'll be the general news editor, because I'm better posted on newspaper business than the other girls." "How does that happen?" inquired Louise, wonderingly. "Why, I--I _read_ the papers more than you or Beth. And I've set myself to master every detail of the business. No more crocheting or fancy work--no novel reading--no gossipy letter writing. From this day on we must attend strictly to business. If we're to become journalist, girls, we must be good ones--better than the ordinary--so that Uncle John may point to us with pride, and the columns of the _Millville Daily Tribune_ will be quoted by the New York and Chicago press. Only in that way can we become famous throughout the world!" "Pass me the bonbons, dear," sighed Louise. "It's a high ambition, isn't it?" "A very laudable ambition," added Uncle John approvingly. "I hope my clever nieces will be able to accomplish it." "How about pictures?" asked Beth. "Modern newspapers are illustrated, and have cartoons of the leading events of the day." "Can't we buy those things somewhere?" asked Patsy, appealing to Uncle John again. "There isn't an artist among us, of any account; and we shall be too busy to draw pictures." "We must hire an artist," said Mr. Merrick, adding the item to his memoranda. "I'll speak to Marvin about it." All these details were beginning to bewilder the embryo journalists. It is quite possible that had not Uncle John placed his order for presses and type so promptly the girls might have withdrawn from the proposition, but the die was now cast and they were too brave--perhaps too stubborn--to "back down" at this juncture. "Yes, the press must be powerful or it wouldn't print clearly," remarked Beth. "We are to become public mentors to the simple natives of Chazy County," continued Patsy, warming up to her subject and speaking oratorically. "We shall be the guiding star of the--er--er--the benighted citizens of Millville and Huntingdon. We must lead them in politics, counsel them in the management of their farms and educate them to the great World Movements that are constantly occurring." "Let's put all that rot in our prospectus," said Louise, looking at her cousin admiringly. "Can you remember it, Patsy, or had I better write it down now? I like that about teaching the farmers how to run their farms; it's so practical." "You wait," said Patsy unflinchingly. "I'll write 'em an editorial that will make their eyes roll. But it won't do a bit of harm for you and Beth to jot down all the brilliant thoughts you run across, for the benefit of our subscribers." "We haven't any subscribers yet," remarked Beth, placidly. This was certainly encouraging and Patsy smiled benignantly. "Oh, but you're going to be on the staff!" cried Patsy. "But you won't print my name?" "The Millville people may," said Arthur, slyly, "and perhaps the disguise will be penetrated by outsiders. That will depend on the paper." "I don't like that combination of sporting editor and secretary and treasurer," objected Beth. "It isn't the usual thing in journalism, I'm sure. Suppose you call me Editor of Special Features, and let it go at that?" "Have we any special features?" asked Louise. "Thank you, my dear," he said, grinning in an amused way. "You and Louise, who still like to be together, can drive all over the county getting subscriptions, and you can write letters on our new stationery to all the big manufacturers of soaps and breakfast foods and beauty powders and to all the correspondence schools and get their advertisements for the _Tribune_. If you get a good many, we may have to enlarge the paper." "Don't worry, Miss Doyle; I'll try to keep within bounds." And so they went on, laying plans and discussing details in such an earnest way that Uncle John became as enthusiastic as any of them and declared in no uncertain tone that the _Millville Daily Tribune_ was bound to be a "howling success." After the girls had retired for the night and the men sat smoking together in Uncle John's own room, Arthur said: "Tell me, sir, why you have encouraged this mad project." The little millionaire puffed his pipe in silence a moment. Then he replied: "I follow your line of reasoning, sir," observed Arthur Weldon; "but this absurd journalistic venture is bound to result in heavy financial loss." MR. SKEELTY OF THE MILL The next morning they drove to town again, passing slowly up the street of the little village to examine each building that might be a possible location for a newspaper office. Here is a map that Patsy drew of Millville, which gives a fair idea of its arrangement: [Illustration: Village Street] When they reached the hardware store, opposite Cotting's, Mr. West, the proprietor, was standing on the broad platform in front of it. In many respects Bob West was the most important citizen of Millville. Tall and gaunt, with great horn spectacles covering a pair of cold gray eyes, he was usually as reserved and silent as his neighbors were confiding and talkative. A widower of long standing, without children or near relatives, he occupied a suite of well-appointed rooms over the hardware store and took his meals at the hotel. Before Mr. Merrick appeared on the scene West had been considered a very wealthy man, as it was known he had many interests outside of his store; but compared with the multi-millionaire old Bob had come to be regarded more modestly, although still admitted to be the village's "warmest" citizen. He was an authority in the town, too, and a man of real importance. Mr. Merrick stopped his horse to speak with the hardware man, an old acquaintance. "West," said he, "my girls are going to start a newspaper in Millville." The merchant bowed gravely, perhaps to cover the trace of a smile he was unable to repress. "It's to be a daily paper, you know," continued Mr. Merrick, "and it seems there's a lot of machinery in the outfit. It'll need quite a bit of room, in other words, and we're looking for a place to install it." "Plenty of land, but no buildings," said he. "You might buy the old mill and turn it into a newspaper office. Caldwell isn't making much of a living and would be glad to sell out." "It's too dusty and floury," said Patsy. "We'd never get it clean, I'm sure." "What's in that shed of yours?" asked Uncle John, pointing to a long, low building' that adjoined the hardware store. West turned and looked at the shed reflectively. "That is where I store my stock of farm machinery," he said. "There's very little in there now, for it's a poor season and I didn't lay in much of a supply. In fact, I'm pretty well cleaned out of all surplus stock. But next spring I shall need the place again." "Good!" cried Mr. Merrick. "That solves our problem. Has it a floor?" West thought it over. "There is room on the rear platform, for all the farm machinery I now have on hand. All right, Mr. Merrick; I'll move the truck out and give you possession. It won't make a bad newspaper office. But of course you are to fit up the place at your own expense." "Playing billiards at the hotel, usually. I suppose he is there now." "Very good; I'll hunt him up. What do you think of our newspaper scheme, West?" The old merchant hesitated. Then he said slowly: "Whatever your charming and energetic nieces undertake, sir, will doubtless be well accomplished. The typical country newspaper groans under a load of debt and seldom gets a fair show to succeed; but in this case there will be no lack of money, and--why, that settles the question, I think. Money is the keystone to success." "Mr. West," said Louise, with dignity, "we are depending chiefly on the literary merit of our newspaper to win recognition." That speech pleased Uncle John, and as the hardware merchant bowed and turned away, Mr. Merrick said in his cheeriest tones: "He's quite right, my dears, and we're lucky to have found such a fine, roomy place for our establishment. Before we go after the carpenter to fix it up I must telephone to Marvin about the things we still need." Over the long-distance telephone Mr. Marvin reported that he had bought the required outfit and it was even then being loaded on the freight cars. "There are none at all," was the reply. "Better inquire how many we will need, Marvin, and send them down here. And, by the way, hire women or girls for every position they are competent to fill. This is going to be a girls' newspaper, so we'll have as few men around as possible." "I understand, sir." "You're Merrick, eh? I remember. You want to buy power, and we have it to sell. How much will you contract to take?" "I don't know just how much we need," answered Uncle John. "We want enough to run a newspaper plant at Millville, and will pay for whatever we use. I've ordered a meter, as you asked me to do, and my men are now stringing the cables to make the connection." "Pah! a newspaper. How absurd," said Mr. Skeelty with scornful emphasis. "Your name, Merrick, is not unknown to me. It stands for financial success, I understand; but I'll bet you never made your money doing such fool things as establishing newspapers in graveyards." Uncle John looked at the man attentively. "I shall refrain from criticising your conduct of this mill, Mr. Skeelty," he quietly observed, "nor shall I dictate what you may do with your money--provided you succeed in making any." The manager smiled broadly, as if the retort pleased him. "Give an' take, sir; that's my motto," he said. "But you prefer to take?" "I do," was the cheerful reply. "I'll take your paper, for instance--if it isn't too high priced." "In case it is, we will present you with a subscription," said Uncle John. "But that reminds me: as a part of our bargain I want you to allow my nieces, or any representative of the _Millville Tribune_, to take subscriptions among your workmen." Mr. Skeelty stared at him a moment. Then he laughed. "Very well, Mr. Skeelty. We're after subscriptions more than money, just now. Get all you can, at that rate." After signing a contract for the supply of electrical power, whereby he was outrageously robbed but the supply was guaranteed, Mr. Merrick and Arthur returned to the farm. "That man," said Louise's young husband, referring to the manager of the paper mill, "is an unmitigated scoundrel, sir." "I won't deny it," replied Mr. Merrick. "It occurs to me he is hiring those poor workmen at low wages and making a profit on all their living necessities, which he reserves the right of supplying from his own store. No wonder the poor fellows get dissatisfied." "It's a outrage, this thing," commented young Skim Clark despondently. "They're tryin' to run mother out o' business--an' she a widder with me to look after! Most o' the business at the Emporium is done in newspapers an' magazines an' sich; so these gals thought they'd cut under an' take the business away from her." "Can't the Widder Clark sell the new paper, then?" asked the blacksmith. "As fer that," remarked the druggist, "we'll get a cheap paper--if it's any good--an' that's somethin' to be thankful for." "'Twon't be any good," asserted Skim. "Ma says so." "It almost takes my breath away, Uncle," said Patsy. "You've given the _Tribune_ such a splendid start that we must hustle to make good and prove we are worthy your generosity." "It's called 'Ode to a Mignonette,'" answered Louise. "It begins this way: "Wee brown blossom, humble and sweet, Content on my bosom lying, Who would guess from your quiet dress The beauty there is lying Under the rust?" "Hm," said Patsy, "I don't see as there's any beauty under the rust, at all. There's no beauty about a mignonette, anyhow, suspected or unsuspected." "She means 'fragrance,'" suggested Beth. "Change it to: 'The fragrance there is lying under the rust.' That'll fix it all right, Louise." "It doesn't seem right, even then," remarked Uncle John. "If the fragrance lies under the rust, it can't be smelt, can it?" "You'll have all day to distribute a morning paper," Arthur pointed out, "whereas an evening paper couldn't get to your scattered subscribers until the next morning." "This job may not last long," she told herself, "but while it does it will be mighty amusing. I shall enjoy these weeks in a quiet country town after the bustle of the big city." She was admitted to Patsy's private room, where Beth and Louise were also sitting, and they looked upon their visitor in undisguised astonishment. "Tommy sent me here," said the newcomer, sinking wearily into a chair. "I'm hired for a month, on good behavior, with a chance to stay on if I conduct myself in a ladylike manner. I've been working on the _Herald_, you know; but there was no end of a row last week, and they fired me bodily. Any booze for sale in this town?" "It is a temperance community," answered Patsy, stiffly. "Hooray for me. There's a chance I'll keep sober. In that case you've acquired the best sketch artist in America." "Oh! Are you the artist, then?" asked Patsy, with doubtful intonation. "I don't like the word. I'm not a real artist--just a cartoonist and newspaper hack. Say, it's funny to see me in this jungle, isn't it? What joy I'll have in astonishing the natives! I s'pose a picture's a picture, to them, and Art an impenetrable mystery. What sort of stuff do you want me to turn out?" "That's all right," remarked the artist composedly. "I don't know that I blame you. I can see very well the atmosphere is not my atmosphere. When is the next train back to New York?" "They're no good to me now," she added. "Where's your waste basket?" "After much negotiation I have secured for you the best newspaper illustrator in New York, and a girl, too, which is an added satisfaction. For months I have admired the cartoons signed 'Het' in the New York papers, for they were essentially clever and droll. Miss Hewitt is highly recommended but like most successful artists is not always to be relied upon. I'm told if you can manage to win her confidence she will be very loyal to you." Silently Patsy passed the letters to Beth and Louise. After reading them there was a new expression on the faces they turned toward Hetty Hewitt. "Forgive me," said Patsy, abruptly. "I--I think I misjudged you. I was wrong in saying what I did." "No; you were quite right." She sat with downcast eyes a moment, musing deeply. Then she looked up with a smile that quite glorified her wan face. "I'd like to stay, you know," she said humbly. "I'm facing a crisis, just now, and on the whole I'd rather straighten up. If you feel like giving me a chance I--I'd like to see if I've any reserve force or whether the decency in me has all evaporated." "We'll try you; and I'm sure you have lots of reserve force, Hetty," cried Patsy, jumping up impulsively to take the artist's soiled, thin hand in her own. "Come with me to the hotel and I'll get you a room. Where is your baggage?" "Didn't bring it. I wasn't sure I'd like the country, or that you'd care to trust me. In New York they know me for what I'm worth, and I get lots of work and good advice--mixed with curses." "We'll send for your trunk," said Patsy, leading the girl up the street. "No; it's in hock. But I won't need it. With no booze to buy I can invest my earnings in wearing apparel. What a picturesque place this is! Way back in the primitive; no hint of those namby-pamby green meadows and set rows of shade trees that make most country towns detestable; rocks and boulders--boulders and rocks--and the scraggly pines for background. The wee brook has gone crazy. What do you call it?" "Little Bill Creek." "I'm going to stab it with my pencil. Where it bumps the rocks it's obstinate and pig-headed; where it leaps the little shelves of slate it's merry and playful; where it sweeps silently between the curving banks it is sulky and resentful. The Little Bill has moods, bless its heart! Moods betoken character." Patsy secured for Hetty a pleasant room facing the creek. "Where will you work, at the office or here?" she asked. "In the open, I guess. I'll run over the telegraph news to get a subject for the day's cartoon, and then take to the woods. Let me know what other pictures you want and I'll do 'em on the run. I'm a beast to work." To his astonishment the advertisements arrived, a great many from very prominent firms, who accepted his proposal with amusement at his originality and a desire to help the new venture along. "Our square statement of facts has given us a good start," he told the girls. "I'm really amazed at our success, and it's up to you to make a paper that will circulate and make trade for these trustful advertisers." "Some folks," he would say, "likes pretty neckties; an' some wears fancy socks; but fer my part I'd ruther show a han'some foot ner anything. It don't cost as much as wearin' socks an' neckties, an' it's more artistic like." THE MILLVILLE DAILY TRIBUNE Outside the brilliantly lighted windows, which were left open for air, congregated a wondering group of the Millville people, many of whom had never been up so late before in all their lives. But the event was too important to miss. The huge, complicated press had already inspired their awe, and they were eager to "see it work" as it printed the new paper. The girls tolerated this native curiosity with indulgent good humor and at midnight even passed out sandwiches to the crowd, a supply having been secured for the workmen. These were accepted silently, and as they munched the food all kept their eyes fixed upon the magicians within. Suddenly the press stopped. "What's wrong, McGaffey?" demanded Patsy, anxiously. "Nothing, miss. Edition off, that's all." And now a shriek of laughter came from the windows as the villagers, slowly opening the papers they held, came upon the caricature of Peggy McNutt. The subject of the cartoon had, with his usual aggressiveness, secured the best "standing room" available, and his contemplative, protruding eyes were yet fixed upon the interior of the workroom. But now, his curiosity aroused, he looked at the paper to see what his neighbors were laughing at, and his expression of wonder slowly changed to a broad grin. He straightened up, looked triumphantly around the circle and exclaimed: "By gum, folks, this 'ere paper's going to be a go! I didn't take no stock in it till now, but them fool gals seem to know their business, an' I'll back 'em to the last ditch!" Saturday night, when the pay roll had to be met, the girls consulted together seriously. In spite of the new subscriptions received, a deficiency must be supplied, and they quietly advanced the money from their private purses. This was no great hardship, for each had an ample allowance from Uncle John, as well as an income from property owned in her own name. On Saturday evening there was an invasion of workmen from Royal, many of whom we're rough foreigners who came to Millville in search of excitement, as a relief from their week's confinement at the pine woods settlement at the mill. Skeelty, who thought he knew how to manage these people, allowed every man, at the close of work on Saturday, to purchase a pint of whiskey from the company store, charging an exorbitant price that netted a huge profit. There was no strong drink to be had at Millville, so the workmen brought their bottles to town, carousing on the way, and thought it amusing to frighten the simple inhabitants of the village by their rude shouts and ribald songs. An instant later he received a swinging blow above the ear that sent him sprawling at full length upon the sidewalk, and a quiet voice said: "Pardon me, ladies; it seemed necessary." Beth managed to open the door of the office, through which Patsy and Louise slipped instantly, but the younger girl, always cool in emergencies, held the door ajar while she cried to the young man: "Quick, sir--come inside!" Then the young man turned, bowed gravely to the girls, who had now ventured forth again, and without waiting to receive their thanks marched calmly down the street. When Arthur reached home with the girls, Mr. Merrick was very indignant at his report of the adventure. He denounced Skeelty in unmeasured terms and declared he would find a way to protect Millville from further invasion by these rough and drunken workmen. There was no Sunday paper, so the girlish editors found the morrow a veritable day of rest. They all drove to Hooker's Falls to church and returned to find that old Nora had prepared a fine chicken dinner for them. Patsy had invited Hetty Hewitt, in whom she was now greatly interested, to dine with them, and to the astonishment of all the artist walked over to the farm arrayed in a new gown, having discarded the disreputable costume in which she had formerly appeared. The new dress was not in the best of taste and its loud checks made dainty Louise shudder, but somehow Hetty seemed far more feminine than before, and she had, moreover, washed herself carefully and tried to arrange her rebellious hair. "This place is doing me good," she confided to her girl employers, after dinner, when they were seated in a group upon the lawn. "I'm getting over my nervousness, and although I haven't drank a drop stronger than water since I arrived. I feel a new sort of energy coursing through my veins. Also I eat like a trooper--not at night, as I used to, but at regular mealtime. And I'm behaving quite like a lady. Do you know, I wouldn't be surprised to find it just as amusing to be respectable as to--to be--the other thing?" "You will find it far more satisfactory, I'm sure," replied Patsy encouragingly. "What most surprises me is that with your talent and education you ever got into such bad ways." "Haven't you a family to look after you--or for you to look after?" asked Beth. Monday morning, when Patsy, Louise and Beth drove to their office, Miss Briggs said nonchalantly: "Gone! Gone where?" asked Patsy. "Back to New York. Caught a freight from the Junction Saturday night." "Isn't he coming back?" inquired Beth. "Here's a letter he left," said Miss Briggs. They read it together. It was very brief; "Climate don't suit me. No excitement. I've quit. McGaffey." "I suppose," said Patsy, with indignation, "he intended to go, all the while, and only waited for his Saturday pay." Miss Briggs nodded. She was at the telegraph instrument. "What shall we do?" asked Louise. "Can anyone else work the press?" "I'll find out," said Patsy, marching into the workroom. Neither Fitz nor Larry would undertake to run the press. They said the machine was so complicated it required an expert, and unless an experienced pressman could be secured the paper must suspend publication. "These things always happen in the newspaper business," remarked Miss Briggs, when appealed to. "Can't you telegraph to New York for another pressman?" "Yes; but he can't get here in time," said Patsy. "There's no Monday train to Chazy Junction, at all, and it would be Wednesday morning before a man could possibly arrive. To shut down the paper would ruin it, for everyone would think we had failed in our attempt and it might take us weeks to regain public confidence." "I know," said Miss Briggs, composedly. "A paper never stops. Somehow or other it always keeps going--even if the world turns somersaults and stands on its head. You'll find a way, I'm sure." But the bewildered girls had no such confidence. They drove back to the farm to consult with Uncle John and Arthur. "Let's take a look at that press, my dears," said Mr. Merrick. "I'm something of a mechanic myself, or was in my young days, and I may be able to work this thing until we can get a new pressman." "I'll help you," said Arthur. "Anyone who can run an automobile ought to be able to manage a printing press." "Couldn't we print the paper on the job press?" asked the little millionaire, turning to Fitzgerald. "We'll try it," said Uncle John. "Do your best, my man, and if you can help us out of this bog you shall be amply rewarded." "Never knew of such a thing being done, sir," he remarked; "but that's no reason it's impossible." "'Twill be a horror of a make-up," added Larry, who did not relish his part in the experiment. Uncle John put on his coat and went into the front office, followed by Arthur and the girls in dismal procession. "A man to see the manager," announced Miss Briggs, nodding toward a quiet figure seated on the "waiting bench." The man stood up and bowed. It was the young bookkeeper from the paper mill, who had so bravely defended the girls on Saturday night. Uncle John regarded him with a frown. "I suppose Skeelty has sent you to apologize," he said. "No, sir; Skeelty is not in an apologetic mood," replied the man, smiling. "He has fired me." "Interfering with his workmen. The boys didn't like what I did the other night and threatened to strike unless I was put in the discard." "And now? asked Uncle John, looking curiously at the man. "I'm out of work and would like a job, sir." "That means nothing at all." "I beg your pardon. Let me say that I'm not afraid to tackle anything." "Can you run a power printing press?" "Ever had any experience?" The young man hesitated. "I'm not sure," he replied slowly; "but I think I have." This statement would not have been encouraging under ordinary circumstances, but in this emergency Uncle John accepted it. "What is your name?" he asked. Another moment's hesitation. "Call me Smith, please." "Thursday," he said. All his hearers seemed astonished at this peculiar name, but Mr. Merrick said abruptly: "Follow me, Thursday Smith." The man obeyed, and the girls and Arthur trotted after them back to the pressroom. "Our pressman has deserted us without warning," explained Mr. Merrick. "None of our other employees is able to run the thing. If you can master it so as to run off the paper tonight, the job is yours." Thursday Smith took off his jacket--a cheap khaki affair--and rolled up his sleeves. Then he carefully looked over the press and found the damaged nippers. Without a word he picked up a wrench, released the stub ends of the broken fingers, gathered the pieces in his hand and asked: "Where is there a carpenter shop?" "Can you operate this press?" asked Mr. Merrick. "The carpenter shop is a little shanty back of the hotel. You'll find Lon Taft there." Smith walked away, and Mr. Merrick drew a long breath of relief. "That's good luck," he said. "You may quit worrying, now, my dears." "Are you sure he's a good pressman, Uncle?" "No; but _he_ is sure. I've an idea he wouldn't attempt the thing, otherwise." Mr. Merrick returned to the farm, while Arthur drove Louise over to Huntingdon to gather items for the paper, and Patsy and Beth sat in the office arranging copy. In an hour Smith came back with new nippers, which he fitted to the steel frame. Then he oiled the press, started it going a few revolutions, to test its condition, and handled the machinery so dexterously and with such evident confidence that Larry nodded to Fitz and muttered, "He'll do." McGaffey, knowing he was about to decamp, had not kept the press very clean; but Thursday Smith put in the afternoon and evening removing grease, polishing and rubbing, until the huge machine shone resplendent. The girls went home at dinner time, but they sent Arthur to the office at midnight to see if the new pressman was proving capable. The Tuesday morning _Tribune_ greeted them at the breakfast table, and the presswork was remarkably clean and distinct. Mr. Merrick replied: "Shut off the power and I'll sue you for damages. My contract with you fully protects me. Permit me a request in turn: that you mind your own business. The _Millville Tribune_ will employ whomsoever it chooses." Uncle John said nothing to the girls concerning this correspondence, nor did he mention it to the new pressman. On Wednesday Larry and Fitz sent in their "resignations," to take effect Saturday night. They told Patsy, who promptly interviewed them, that the town was altogether too slow for men accustomed to the city, but to Smith they admitted they feared trouble from the men at the mill. "Come into the office," said Uncle John. "I am told, sir," Thursday began, "that the people at the mill have boycotted this paper." "They've cancelled all their subscriptions," replied Beth; "but as they had not paid for them it won't hurt us any." "It seems the trouble started through your employing me," resumed the young man; "so it will be best for you to let me go." "Never!" cried Mr. Merrick, firmly. "Do you suppose I'll allow that rascal Skeelty to dictate to us for a single minute? Not by a jug full! And the reason the men dislike you is because you pounded some of them unmercifully when they annoyed my girls. Where did you learn to use your fists so cleverly, Smith?" "I don't know, sir." "Well, you have earned our gratitude, and we're going to stand by you. I don't mind a bit of a row, when I'm on the right side of an argument. Do you?" "They're pretty good fighters, too; so don't worry." Thursday was silent a moment. Then he said: "Fitzgerald and Doane tell me they're going to quit, Saturday." "It is true," replied Patsy. "I'm sorry, for they seem good men and we may have trouble replacing them." "How about the make-up?" asked Uncle John. "I can manage that easily, sir. I've been watching the operation and understand it perfectly." They considered this advice seriously. "I think Mr. Smith is right," observed Patsy. "The girls have not seemed busy, at all, and spend most of their time laughing and talking together." "It will cut down expenses a lot," said Beth, "and I'm sure we ought to be able to run this paper more economically than we have been doing." Uncle John looked at the man thoughtfully. "Where did you learn the printing business?" he asked. "I--I don't know, sir." "What offices have you worked in?" "I cannot tell you that, sir." "You seem to answer all my questions with the statement that you 'don't know,'" asserted Mr. Merrick, with an annoyed frown. "Is there any reason you should refuse to tell us of your former life?" "None whatever, sir." "Who are you, Smith?" "I--I don't know, sir." Mr. Merrick was getting provoked. "This obstinacy is not likely to win our confidence," he said. "Under the circumstances I think we ought to know something more about you, before we allow you to undertake so much responsibility. You seem a bright, able young man, and I've no doubt you understand the work you're about to undertake, but if we have no knowledge of your antecedents you may cause us considerable future trouble." Smith bowed his head and his cheeks flamed red. "I have no knowledge of my antecedents to confide to you, sir," he said in a low voice. Uncle John sighed regretfully and turned away, but Patsy looked at the man with new interest. "Won't you please explain that a little more fully?" she gently inquired. "Were you injured?" he asked. "My right ankle was sprained and I had a cut under my left eye--you can see the scar still." "You have no idea how you came there?" "That was but natural," said Uncle John. "How wonderful!" exclaimed Louise. "How did you secure employment as a book-keeper for Skeelty?" asked Uncle John. "I heard a new mill had started at Royal and walked up there to inquire for work. The manager asked if I could keep books, and I said yes." "Have you ever kept books before?" "You did not retain any position for long, it seems," remarked Uncle John. "Why did you come to Millville?" asked Louise. "You brought me here," he answered, with a smile. "I caught a ride on your private car, when it left New York, not caring much where it might take me. When I woke up the next morning the car was sidetracked at Chazy Junction, and as this is a section I have never before explored I decided to stay here for a time. That is all of my story, I believe." "Quite remarkable!" declared Mr. Merrick, emphatically. The girls, too, had been intensely interested in the strange recital. "You seem educated," said Patsy thoughtfully; "therefore you must have come from a good family." "That does not seem conclusive," replied Thursday Smith, deprecatingly, "although I naturally hope my family was respectable. I have been inclined to resent the fact that none of my friends or relatives has ever inquired what became of me." "Are you sure they have not?" "What was the result?" asked Beth. "She said I was not her husband, but if he failed to come back I might take his place, provided I would guarantee to support her." During the laugh that followed, Thursday Smith went back to his work and an animated discussion concerning his strange story followed. "How?" inquired Patsy. "It is easy for us to criticise the man," remarked Beth, "and he may be sorry, now, that he did not act differently. But I think, in his place, I should have made the same attempt he did to unravel the mystery of his lost identity. So much depended upon that." "It's all very odd and incomprehensible," said Uncle John. "I wonder who he can be." "Yes; and Smith was the commonest name he could think of to go with it. The most surprising thing," added their uncle, "is the fact that a man of his standing was not missed or sought for." "Perhaps," suggested Louise, "he had been insane and escaped from some asylum." "Then how did he come to be lying in a ditch?" questioned Patsy; "and wouldn't an escaped maniac be promptly hunted down and captured?" "I think so," agreed Mr. Merrick. "For my part, I'm inclined to accept the man's theory that it was an automobile accident." "Then what became of the car, or of the others in it?" "It's no use," said Beth, shaking her head gravely. "If Thursday Smith, who is an intelligent young man, couldn't solve the mystery himself, it isn't likely we can do so." "We know as much as he does, as far as that is concerned," said Patsy, "and our combined intelligence ought at least to equal his. I'm sorry for the poor man, and wish we might help him to come to his own again." Just before reaching the farm Hetty Hewitt came out of the wood just in front of them. She was clothed in her short skirt and leggings and bore a fishing rod and a creel. "What luck?" asked Patsy, stopping the horse. Patsy looked at the girl musingly. "Jump in, Hetty," she said; "I'm going to take you with us for the night. The day's fishing has tired you; there are deep circles under your eyes; and that stuffy old hotel isn't home-like. Jump in." Hetty flushed with pleasure, but hesitated to accept the invitation. "You're all right," said Beth, supporting her cousin's proposition. "We'll lend you anything you need." "Do come, Miss Hewitt," added Louise. Hetty sighed, then smiled and finally climbed into the surrey. "In New York," she said, as they started on, "I've sometimes hobnobbed with editors; but this is somewhat different." "In what way?" asked Patsy casually. "Why aren't we journalists?" asked Louise. For a moment Hetty was puzzled how to reply. "You are doing very good editorial work," she said mendaciously, "but, after all, you are only playing at journalism. The real journalist--as I know him--is a Bohemian; a font of cleverness running to waste; a reckless, tender-hearted, jolly, careless ne'er-do-well who works like a Trojan and plays like a child. He is very sophisticated at his desk and very artless when he dives into the underworld for rest and recreation. He lives at high tension, scintillates, burns his red fire without discrimination and is shortly extinguished. You are not like that. You can't even sympathize with that sort of person. But I can, for I'm cut from a remnant of the same cloth." "Scintillate all you want to, Hetty," cried Patsy with a laugh; "but you're not going to be extinguished. For we, the imitation journalists, have taken you under our wings. There's no underworld at Millville, and the only excitement we can furnish just now is a night with us at the old farm." "That," replied Hetty, "is indeed a real excitement. You can't quite understand it, perhaps; but it's so--so very different from what I'm accustomed to." Uncle John welcomed the girl artist cordially and under his hospitable roof the waif soon felt at ease. At dinner the conversation turned upon Thursday Smith and his peculiar experience. Beth asked Hetty if she knew the man. "You have never seen him before you met him here?" "I wonder," said Louise musingly, "if he is quite right in his mind. All this story may be an hallucination, you know." "In the meantime," said Uncle John, "I'm going to make an effort to discover his identity." "In what way, Uncle?" asked Patsy. "I'll set Fogerty, who is a clever detective, at work. No man can disappear from his customary haunts without leaving some sort of a record behind him, and Fogerty may be able to uncover the mystery in a short time." "Then we'll lose our pressman," declared Beth; "for I'm positive that Thursday Smith was a person of some importance in his past life." THE HONER'BLE OJOY BOGLIN He was thin in form, leathery skinned and somewhat past the middle age of life. His clothing consisted of a rusty black Prince Albert coat, rusty trousers to match, which were carefully creased, cowhide shoes brilliant with stove polish, a tall silk hat of antiquated design, and a frayed winged collar decorated with a black tie on which sparkled a large diamond attached to a chain. He had chin whiskers of a sandy gray color and small gray eyes that were both shrewd and suspicious in expression. He stood in the doorway a moment, attentively eyeing the girl, while she in turn examined him with an amusement she could not quite suppress. Then he said, speaking in a low, diffident voice: "I'm lookin' for the editor." "I am the editor," asserted Patsy. He seemed disconcerted a moment, striving to regain his assurance. Then he took out a well-worn pocketbook and from its depths abstracted a soiled card which, leaning forward, he placed carefully upon the table before Patsy. She glanced at it and read: "Hon. Ojoy Boglin, Hooker's Falls, Chazy County." "Oh," said she, rather surprised; "are you Mr. Boglin?" "I am the Honer'ble Ojoy Boglin, miss," he replied, dwelling lovingly upon the "Honer'ble." "I have not had the honor of your acquaintance," said she, deciding she did not like her visitor. "What is your business, please?" The Hon. Ojoy coughed. Then he suddenly remembered he was in the presence of a lady and took off his hat. Next he slid slowly into the vacant chair at the end of the table. "Thank you," said the editor briefly, for the praise was given in a perfunctory way that irritated her. "What is the Kleppish gang?" she asked, wonderingly. "I fear I do not understand," remarked Patsy, really bewildered. "What was your berth, which Colonel Kleppish has--has usurped?" "See that 'Honer'ble' on the card?" "Oh, I see. But you're not state senator now?" "Did you?" asked the girl. He shuffled in his seat. "This is very interesting, I'm sure," remarked Patsy; "but our paper doesn't go much into local politics, Mr. Boglin, and I'm very busy to-day." "Honer'ble Ojoy Boglin," he said, correcting her; but he did not take the hint to leave. Patsy picked up her pencil as if to resume her work, while he eyed her with a countenance baffled and uncertain. Presently he asked: "Has Kleppish got this paper too?" "No," she coldly replied. "I am Miss Doyle, sir." "Glad to know you, Miss Doyle. What I was about to remark is this: The election for senator comes up agin in September and I want this paper to pull for me. Bein' as it's a daily it's got more power than all of Kleppish's weeklies put together, and if you work the campaign proper I'll win the nomination hands down. This is a strong Republican deestric', and to git nominated on the Republican ticket is the same as an election. So what I want is the nomination. What do you say?" Patsy glared at him and decided that as far as appearances went he was not a fit candidate for any office, however humble. But she answered diplomatically: "I will inquire into the condition of politics in this district, Mr. Boglin, and try to determine which candidate is the most deserving. Having reached a decision, the _Millville Tribune_ will espouse the cause of the best man--if it mentions local politics at all." The Hon. Ojoy gave a dissatisfied grunt. "Very well, sir. But I fear you have mistaken the character of our paper," said Patsy quietly. "We are quite independent, Mr. Boglin, and intend to remain so--even if we can't make the paper pay. In other words, the _Millville Daily Tribune_ can't be bought." He stared in amazement; then scratched his ear with a puzzled air. "Such talk as that means somethin'," he asserted, gropingly, "but what it means, blamed if I know! Newspapers never turn money down unless they're a'ready bought, or have got a grouch of their own Say!" he suddenly cried, as an inspiration struck him, "you ain't got anything agin the mill at Royal, or agin Skeelty, have you?" "I have, sir!" declared Patsy, raising her head to frown discouragingly upon the Honer'ble Ojoy. "Mr. Skeelty is acting in a very disagreeable manner. He has not only boycotted our paper and refused to pay for the subscriptions he engaged, but I understand he is encouraging his workmen to annoy the Millville people, and especially this printing office." Patsy's eyes were full of scorn. "I won't dicker with you an instant," she firmly declared. "I don't know Colonel Kleppish, or what his character is, but I'm very sure he's the better man and that the people have made no mistake in electing him in your place. No respectable candidate for office would attempt to buy the support of a newspaper, and I advise you to change the wording on your card. Instead of 'Honorable' it should read 'Dishonorable' Ojoy Boglin. Good day, sir!" "I've coaxed, so far, young woman," he said grimly, "but I guess it's time I showed my hand. You'll either run this paper in my interest or I'll push Skeelty on to make the town too hot to hold you. I've got power in this county, even if I ain't senator, and you'll feel that power if you dare oppose me. Take your choice, girl--either to make good money out o' this campaign, or be run out of town, neck an' crop! It's up to you to decide." The Honer'ble Ojoy slowly rose and put on his hat. "Look out!" he said warningly. "I will," snapped Patsy. "This ain't the end of it, girl!" He picked up his card, turned his back and walked out, leaving his opponent trembling betwixt agitation and righteous indignation. A few moments later Bob West came in and looked at the girl editor curiously. "Ojoy Boglin has been here," he said. "The Honer'ble Ojoy, if you please," answered Patsy, with a laugh that bordered on hysteria. The hardware man nodded, his eyes reading her face. "You were quite right to turn him down," he asserted. "It was the only thing to do," responded the girl, wondering how he knew. "But Boglin is a dangerous man," resumed West. "Look out for him. Miss Doyle." "Yes; he told me to do that, and I will," said she, more quietly. "He is Skeelty's partner." "And you're not afraid of him?" "Why should I be, Mr. West?" "I'm justice of the peace here. If there's a hint of trouble from Boglin or Skeelty, come directly to me." "Thank you, Mr. West. I will." With this he nodded cheerfully and went away. The people of Chazy County were very proud of the _Millville Tribune_, the only daily paper in that section of the state. It was really a very good newspaper, if small in size, and related the news of the day as promptly as the great New York journals did. Sometimes Louise would make her rounds alone, but often Arthur would join her for an afternoon drive to Huntingdon, and it greatly amused him to listen to his girl-wife's adroit manner of "pumping the natives." "I think I can write up the party without being present, Mollie," suggested Louise. "Well," said Louise, with a sigh, "I'll try to drive over for a little while. It is to be Saturday, you say?" "Yes; the birthday's Friday and the dance Saturday night, rain or shine. An' you might bring the chief editor, your husband, an' try a dance with us. It wouldn't hurt our reputation any to have you folks mingle with us on this festive occasion," she added airily. They had a good laugh over this invitation when it was reported at Mr. Merrick's dinner table, and Patsy insisted that Louise must write up the party. So on Saturday evening Arthur drove his wife over to the Sizer farm, and long before they reached there they heard the scraping of fiddles, mingled with shouts and boisterous laughter. It was a prohibition district, to be sure, but old Sizer had imported from somewhere outside the "dry zone" a quantity of liquors more remarkable for strength than quality, and with these the guests had been plied from the moment of their arrival. Most of them were wholly unused to such libations, so by the time Arthur and Louise arrived, the big living room of the farmhouse presented an appearance of wild revelry that was quite deplorable. Molly welcomed them with wild enthusiasm and big Bill, her adoring brother, demanded in a loud voice if Arthur did not consider her the "Belle of Chazy County." "They ain't a stunner in the state as kin hold a candle to our Molly," he added, and then with uncertain gait he left the "reporters" with the promise to "bring 'em a drink." "Come, Louise," said Arthur, quietly, "let's get out of here." He drew her to the door and as a dance was just starting they managed to escape without notice. "What a disgraceful scene!" cried Louise, when they were on their way home; "and to think of such a shocking carousal being held in good old Chazy County, where morals are usually irreproachable! I shall not mention the affair in the _Tribune_ at all." But Patsy, who had a managing editor's respect for news of any sort, combatted this determination and begged Louise to write up Molly Sizer's party without referring to its deplorable features. "It isn't policy to offend the Sizers," she said, "for although they are coarse and common they have shown a friendly spirit toward the paper. Moreover, the enmity of such people--which would surely result from our ignoring the birthday party--would keep us in hot water." So Louise, though reluctantly, wrote up the party and the manuscript was sent over to Miss Briggs Sunday afternoon, so it would get a place in Monday morning's _Tribune_. Uncle John had the paper at breakfast on Monday, and he gave an amused laugh as his eye caught the report of the Sizer party. "A what?" demanded Louise, horrified. "A 'roughish' smile." "Nevertheless," remarked Arthur, "the statement isn't far wrong. Everything was rough, including the smiles, as far as I noted that remarkable gathering." "But--see here!" cried Patsy; "that's a dreadful mistake. That spoils all the nice things you said about the girl, Louise. I hope the Sizers won't notice it." In marched Bill Sizer at the head of his following, cowhide in hand. Patsy, her face flushing scarlet, stood up and faced the intruders. "Stand back, girl!" cried Sizer in a fierce tone; "it's that coward editor I'm after," pointing his whip with trembling hand at Arthur. "My sister Molly may be rough, an' hev a rough smile, but I'll be dinged ef I don't skin the man thet prints it in a paper!" "Good fer you, Bill!" murmured his friends, approvingly. Arthur leaned back and regarded his accuser in wonder. The big table, littered with papers, was between them. "Come out o' there, ye measly city chap, an' take yer medicine," roared Bill, swinging his whip. "I'll larn ye to come inter a decent neighborhood an' slander its women. Come outer there!" West had sat quietly observing the scene. Now he inquired, in composed tones: "What's the trouble, Bill?" "Trouble? Trouble, West? Why, this lyin' scroundrel said in his paper thet our Molly had a rough smile. That's the trouble!" "Did he really say that?" asked West. "'Course he did. Printed it in the paper, for all to read. That's why I've come to cowhide the critter within an inch o' his life!" "Good fer you, Bill!" cried his friends, encouragingly. "Why ain't I, Bob West?" "Because," answered West, in calm, even tones, "this insult is too great to be avenged by a mere cowhiding. Nothing but blood will wipe away the dreadful stain on your sister's character." "Oh, Mr. West!" cried Patsy, horrified by such a statement. "Eh? Blood?" said Bill, stupefied by the suggestion. "Of course," returned West. "You mustn't thrash Mr. Weldon; you must kill him." A delighted chorus of approval came from Sizer's supporters. "All right, then," said the bully, glaring around, "I--I'll kill the scandler!" "Hold on!" counselled West, seizing his arm. "This affair must be conducted properly--otherwise the law might cause us trouble. No murder, mind you. You must kill Weldon in a duel." "A--a what? A duel!" gasped Sizer. "To be sure. That's the way to be revenged. Hetty," he added, turning to the artist, who alone of the observers had smiled instead of groaned at the old gentleman's startling suggestion, "will you kindly run up to my rooms and get a red leather case that lies under the shell cabinet? Thank you, my dear." Both Arthur and Bill Sizer, as well as the groups at the window, watched the loading of the pistols with fascinated gaze. "Mr. West," cried Patsy, suddenly rousing from her apathy, "I'll not allow this shameful thing! A duel is no better than murder, and I'm sure there is a law against it." "I--I guess so," stammered Sizer. "That's good. Weldon, I hear, is an expert with the pistol." "Now, then, are we ready?" staid West, rising. "Come with me, gentlemen." "What ye goin' to do, Bob?" asked Sizer, anxiously. "But--look a-here, Bob!" cried Sizer; "it ain't right fer him to take a shot at me. You said fer me to kill him, but ye didn't say nuth'n about _his_ shootin' at _me_." "That's all right, Bill," returned West. "You're in the right, and the right ought to win. But you must give the man a chance for his life, you know." "That weren't in the bargain." "It is now, by the laws of dueling." "He--he might shoot me," urged Bill. "It isn't likely. Although he's a dead shot, you have right on your side, and you must be sure to fire as soon as you get within good range. It won't be considered murder; it will only be a duel, and the law will deal lightly with you." "I do know," declared West gravely. He placed Arthur Weldon and Bill Sizer back to back in the middle of the street and handed each a pistol. Impressed by this speech, Sizer's friends began to shake hands with him. Footsteps followed him. In sudden panic he increased his run; but the other was faster. A heavy hand grasped his shoulder and swung him around, while old Bob West, panting for Breath, exclaimed: "Of course. Bill Sizer was sure to run; he's a coward, as all bullies are. Quick, Weldon, save the day and your reputation or I'll never stand your friend again." Arthur understood now. He turned and ran back faster than he had come, swung into the lane where the crowd was cautiously peering from the shelter of the buildings, and waving his pistol in a reckless way that made Bob West shudder, he cried out: "Where is he? Where's Sizer? Why don't he show up and be shot, like a man?" No Sizer appeared. He was even then headed cross-lots for home, leaving his friends to bemoan his cowardice. As for Arthur, the crowd gave him a cheer and condemned his opponent's conduct in no measured terms. They were terribly disappointed by Big Bill's defection, for while not especially bloodthirsty they hated to see the impending tragedy turn out a farce. In the printing office Patsy was laughing hysterically as her horror dissolved and allowed her to discover the comic phase of the duel. She literally fell on Arthur's neck as he entered, but the next moment pushed him away to face the hardware merchant. "I beg your pardon, Mr. West," said she with twinkling eyes. "I suspected you of being a cold-blooded ruffian, when you proposed this duel; but I now see that you understand human nature better than the whole caboodle of us put together! Arthur, thank Mr. West for saving you from a flogging." "I do, indeed!" said Arthur fervently. "But we are fast becoming educated," declared Patsy. "I'm not ashamed of the _Tribune_ now, even in comparison with the best New York dailies." Beth laughed, but Uncle John said judicially: To this, a mild protest for the major, Uncle John replied: "Dear Major Doyle: Yours received. Have you no business of your own to attend to? Affectionately yours, John Merrick." The major took the hint. He made no further complaint but read the paper religiously every day, gloating over Patsy's name as managing editor and preserving the files with great care. He really enjoyed, the _Millville Tribune_, and as his summer vacation was shortly due he anticipated with pleasure a visit to the farm and a peep at the workings of "our Patsy's" famous newspaper. The other girls he ignored. If Patsy was connected with the thing, her adoring parent was quite sure she was responsible for all the good there was in it. However, the bully received scant sympathy, even from his most intimate friends, and his prestige in the community was henceforth destroyed. Arthur did not crow, for his part. He told the girls frankly of his attempt to run away and evade the meeting, which sensible intention was only frustrated by Bob West's interference, and they all agreed he was thoroughly justified. The young man had proved to them his courage years before and none of the girls was disposed to accuse him of cowardice for not wishing to shoot or be shot by such a person as Bill Sizer. A few days following the duel another incident occurred which was of a nature so startling that it drove the Sizer comedy from all minds. This time Thursday Smith was the hero. Hetty Hewitt, it seems, was having a desperate struggle to quell the longings of her heart for the allurements of the great city. She had been for years a thorough Bohemienne, frequenting cafes, theatres and dance halls, smoking and drinking with men and women of her class and, by degrees, losing every womanly quality with which nature had generously endowed her. But the girl was not really bad. She was essentially nervous and craved excitement, so she had drifted into this sort of life because no counteracting influence of good had been injected into her pliable disposition. None, that is, until the friendly editor for whom she worked, anticipating her final downfall, had sought to save her by sending her to a country newspaper. He talked to the girl artist very frankly before she left for Millville, and Hetty knew he was right, and was truly grateful for the opportunity to redeem herself. The sweet girl journalists with whom she was thrown in contact were so different from any young women she had heretofore known, and proved so kindly sympathetic, that Hetty speedily became ashamed of her wasted life and formed a brave resolution to merit the friendship so generously extended her. "Can't I do something else?" she begged. "Let me set type, or run the ticker--I can receive telegrams fairly well--or even write a column of local comment. I'm no journalist, so you'll not be envious." But Patsy shook her head. "Really, Hetty, there's nothing else you can do, and your pictures are very important to us. Rest and enjoy yourself, and get strong and well. You are improving wonderfully in health since you came here." "If it don't, nothin' will," was the reply. They were gone, then, stealing across the road and beating a hasty retreat under the shadows of the houses. Hetty stood motionless a moment, wondering what to do. Then with sudden resolve she ran to Thorne's house and rapped sharply at the window of the wing where she knew Thursday Smith slept. She heard him leap from bed and open the blind. "What is it?" he asked. Even while she spoke he was rapidly dressing. "Wait!" he called to her. In a few moments he opened the door and joined her. Without hesitation he began walking rapidly toward the office, and the girl kept step with him. He asked no questions whatever, but us soon as she had led him to the open window he leaped through it and switched on an electric light. An instant later he cried aloud, in a voice of fear: "Get out, Hetty! Run--for your life!" "Run yourself, Thursday, if there's danger," she coolly returned. But he shouted "Run--run--run!" in such thrilling, compelling tones that the girl shrank away and dashed across the vacant lot to the hotel before she turned again in time to see Smith leap from the window and make a dash toward the rear. He was carrying something--something extended at arms' length before him--and he crossed the lane and ran far into the field before stooping to set down his burden. Now he was racing back again, running as madly as if a troop of demons was after him. A flash cleft the darkness; a deep detonation thundered and echoed against the hills; the building against which Hetty leaned shook as if an earthquake had seized it, and Thursday Smith was thrown flat on his face and rolled almost to the terrified girl's feet, where he lay motionless. Only the building saved her from pitching headlong too, but as the reverberations died away, to be followed by frantic screams from the rudely wakened population of Millville, Hetty sank upon her knees and turned the man over, so that he lay face up. "That was a close call, dear," he whispered; "but your timely discovery saved us from a terrible calamity. I--I don't believe there is much harm done, as it is." Hetty made no reply. She was thinking of the moments he had held that deadly Thing in his hands, while he strove to save lives and property from destruction. The inevitable crowd was gathering now, demanding in terrified tones what had happened. Men, women and children poured from the houses in scant attire, all unnerved and fearful, crying for an explanation of the explosion. "Keep mum, Hetty," said Smith, warningly. "It will do no good to tell them the truth." She nodded, realizing it was best the villagers did not suspect that an enemy of the newspaper had placed them all in dire peril. "Dynamite?" she asked in a whisper. "Yes; a bomb. But for heaven's sake don't mention it." Suddenly a man with a lantern discovered a great pit in the field behind the lane and the crowd quickly surrounded it. From their limited knowledge of the facts the explosion seemed unaccountable, but there was sufficient intelligence among them to determine that dynamite had caused it and dug this gaping hole in the stony soil. Bob West glanced at the printing office, which was directly in line with the explosion; then he cast a shrewd look into the white face of Thursday Smith; but the old hardware merchant merely muttered under his breath something about Ojoy Boglin and shook his head determinedly when questioned by his fellow villagers. Interest presently centered in the damage that had been done. Many window panes were shattered and the kitchen chimney of the hotel had toppled over; but no person had been injured and the damage could easily be repaired. While the excitement was at its height Thursday Smith returned to his room and went to bed; but long after the villagers had calmed down sufficiently to seek their homes Hetty Hewitt sat alone by the great pit, staring reflectively into its ragged depths. Quaint and curious were the thoughts that puzzled the solitary girl's weary brain, but prominent and ever-recurring was the sentence that had trembled upon Thursday Smith's lips: "It was a close call, _dear_!" The "close call" didn't worry Hetty a particle; it was the last word of the sentence that amazed her. That, and a new and wonderful respect for the manliness of Thursday Smith, filled her heart to overflowing. Neither Thursday nor Hetty allowed a word to escape concerning the placing of the bomb in the _Tribune_ office, but the explosion was public knowledge and many were bothering their heads to explain its meaning. Considering these facts, Mr. Merrick shrewdly suspected that the dynamite explosion had been the work of the mill hands, yet why it was harmlessly exploded in a field was a factor that puzzled him exceedingly. He concluded, from what information he possessed, that they had merely intended this as a warning, which if disregarded might be followed by a more serious catastrophe. The idea that such a danger threatened his nieces made the old gentleman distinctly nervous. There were ways to evade further molestation from the lawless element at the mill. The Hon. Ojoy could be conciliated; Thursday Smith discharged; or the girls could abandon their journalistic enterprise altogether. Such alternatives were mortifying to consider, but his girls must be protected from harm at any cost. "I'm sorry," said Joe, "they ever started that mill at Royal Falls. Most of the workmen are foreigners, and all of them rude and reckless. They have caused our quiet, law-abiding people no end of trouble and anxiety already. It is becoming a habit with them to haunt Millville on Saturday nights, when they are partly intoxicated, and they've even invaded some of the farmhouses and frightened the women and children. I've talked to Bob West about it and he has promised to swear in Lon Taft and Seth Davis as special constables, to preserve order; but he admits we are quite helpless to oppose such a gang of rowdies. I've also been to see Mr. Skeelty, to ask him to keep his men at home, but he answered gruffly that he had no authority over his employees except during working hours, and not much authority even then." "Skeelty doesn't seem the right man to handle those fellows," observed Mr. Merrick thoughtfully; "but as he owns the controlling interest in his company, and Boglin is fully as unreasonable, we cannot possibly oust him from control. If the men determined to blow up all Millville with dynamite I'm sure Skeelty would not lift a finger to prevent it." "No; he's deathly afraid of them, and that's a fact," said Joe. They sat in silence a while. "Your report of Skeelty's threat to cut off your electric power," said young Wegg, "reminds me of a plan I've had in mind for some time. I find I've too much time on my hands, Mr. Merrick, and I cannot be thoroughly happy unless I'm occupied. Ethel's farms are let on shares and I'm a drone in the world's busy hive. But we're anchored here at Millville, so I've been wondering what I could do to improve the place and keep myself busy. It has seemed to me that the same rush of water in Little Bill Creek that runs the dynamos at Royal is in evidence--to a lesser extent--at the old milldam. What would you think of my putting in an electric plant at the mill, and lighting both Millville and Huntingdon, as well as all the farmhouses?" "Not a bad idea, Joe," said Uncle John approvingly. "Do you think you could furnish enough power for our printing office?" asked Mr. Merrick. "Then get at it, Joe, and build it quick. I've a notion we shall have an open rupture with Skeelty before long." "You're going to accuse me, sir, of asking advice after I've made up my mind," said he; "but the fact is, I have bought the mill of Silas Caldwell already. He's been wanting to dispose of the property for some time." "Good!" exclaimed Uncle John. "Also I--I've ordered a dynamo and machinery. It all ought to be here in a few days." "Better yet!" cried Mr. Merrick. "You've relieved my mind of a great weight, Joe." "Now about Thursday Smith," said the young man. "Don't you think it would be policy for you to let him go, Mr. Merrick?" "He's a clever fellow. I can use him at my lighting plant." "Thank you, Joe; but that wouldn't help any. As long as he's in Millville he will be an object of vengeance to those anarchistic mill hands. The only way to satisfy them in to drive Smith out of town, and--I'll be hanged if I'll do it! He hasn't done anything wrong, and I'm interested in the fellow's curious history. I've put his case in the hands of a famous New York detective--Fogerty--with instructions to discover who he is, and I can't let a lot of rowdies force me to abandon the man for no reasonable cause." "Don't blame you, sir," said Joe. "If it wasn't this Thursday Smith, some other would incur the hatred of the Royal workmen, and as they're disposed to terrorize us we may as well fight it out on this line as any other. The whole county will stand by you, sir." "The only thing I dread is possible danger to my girls." "Keep 'em away from the office evenings," advised Joe. "During the day they are perfectly safe. If anything happens, it will be at night, and while the newspaper office may some time go flying skyward the girls will run no personal danger whatever." In furtherance of which assertion, Mr. Merrick went to town and wired a message to the great Fogerty. We hear considerable of the "conventional people" of this world, but seldom meet with them; for, as soon as we begin to know a person, we discover peculiarities that quite remove him from the ranks of the conventional--if such ranks exist at all. The remark of the old Scotch divine to his good wife: "Everybody's queer but thee and me, Nancy, and sometimes I think _thee_ a little queer," sums up human nature admirably. We seldom recognize our own queerness, but are prone to mark the erratic temperaments of others, and this is rather more comfortable than to be annoyed by a consciousness of our personal deficits. This was seriously considered the morning it appeared in the _Tribune_ by Peggy McNutt and Skim Clark, as they sat in the sunshine on the former's little front porch. Peggy had read it aloud in his laborious, halting way, and Skim listened with growing amazement. "Heh? Goin' into what?" asked Peggy, raising his eyes from the paper. "I kin write a story," declared Skim confidently. "I would, Skim," advised Peggy, nodding approval. "But make 'em put yer photygraf in the paper, besides. Say, it'll be a big thing fer Millville to turn out a author. I didn't think it were in you, Skim." "Make it someth'n' 'bout Injuns," suggested Peggy. "I ain't read a Injun story fer years." "By Jupe, thet's great!" cried Peggy admiringly. "Skim, ye're a wonder!" "Ma allus said I were good fer somethin', but she couldn't tell what." "What were it like?" asked Skim curiously. "It went someth'n' this way," said Peggy: "I sigh Ter fly Up high In the sky. But my Wings is shy, So I mus' cry Good-bye Ter fly in'." "Shoo!" said Skim disdainfully. "Thet ain't no real pome, Peggy." "It makes rhymes, don't it? All but the las' line." "It would ef I got paid fer it," observed Peggy. Skim went home to his mother's tiny "Emporium," took some note paper out of stock, opened a new bottle of ink and sat down at the sitting room table to write his story. The Widow Clark looked in and asked what he meant by "squanderin' profits that way." The widow sat down and wiped her damp hands on her apron, looking upon her hopeful with an expression of mingled awe and pride. "Kin ye do it, Skim?" she asked softly. "Sherholmes Locke," she said after some reflection. "No; this 'ere story's got ter be original. I thought o' callin' him Suspectin' Algernon. Detectives is allus suspectin' something." "Algernon's high-toned," mused the widow. "Let it go at that, Skim." All that day and far into the evening he sat at his task, pausing now and then for inspiration, but most of the time diligently pushing his pen over the strongly lined note paper and hopelessly straying from the lines. Meantime, Mrs. Clark walked around on tiptoe, so as not to disturb him, and was reluctant even to call him to his meals in the kitchen. When Skim went to bed his story had got into an aggravating muddle, but during the next forenoon he managed to bring it to a triumphant ending. The widow read the story carefully, guessing at the words that were hopelessly indistinct. "My! but it's a thriller, Skim," she said with maternal enthusiasm; "but ye don't say why he killed the girl." "That don't matter, so long's he did it." "The spellin' don't allus seem quite right," she added doubtfully. "I guess the spellin's as good as the readin'll be," he retorted, with evident irritation. "I bet I spell as well as any o' the folks thet takes the paper." "And some words I can't make out." "Oh, the edytur'll fix that. Say, air ye tryin' to queer my story, mar? Do ye set up to know more'n I do about story writin'?" "No," she said; "I ain't talented, Skim, an' you be." Skim put on a collar and necktie and took his story across to the newspaper office. "I got a conter-bution fer the paper," he said to Patsy, who asked him his business. "What, something original, Skim?" she asked in surprise. "Ye've hit it right, Miss Doyle; it's a story." "A detective story." "Dear me! Then you'll have to see Mrs. Weldon, who is our literary editor." Louise, who was sitting close by, looked up and held out her hand for the beribboned roll. Having forgotten Beth's editorial, Louise did not understand this remark, but she calmly unrolled Skim's manuscript and glanced at the scrawled heading with an amused smile. "'Suspecting Algernon,'" she read aloud. "'It were a dark and teedjus night in the erly springtime while the snow were falling soft over the moon litt lanskape.' Why, Skim, how came you to write this?" Patsy giggled, but Louise stared with a wondering, puzzled expression at the crabbed writing, the misspelled words and dreadful grammar. Indeed, she was a little embarrassed how to handle so delicate a situation. "I'm afraid we cannot use your story, Mr. Clark," she said gently, and remembering the formula that usually accompanied her own rejected manuscripts she added: "This does not necessarily imply a lack of merit in your contribution, but is due to the fact that it is at present unavailable for our use." Skim stared at her in utter dismay. "It's the bes' story I ever heard of!" declared Skim. "But we have no place for it in the _Millville Tribune,_" she added, handing him back the roll. Skim was terribly disappointed. Never, for a single moment, had he expected "sech a throwdown as this." "Stories," suggested Louise, "are of various qualities, depending on the experience and talent of the author. An excellent story is often refused because the periodical to which it is offered is overstocked with similar material. Such conditions are often trying, Skim; I've had a good many manuscripts rejected myself." But the boy would not be conciliated. "I'll send it to Munsey's, thet's what I'll do; an' then you'll be durn sorry," he said, almost ready to cry. "Oh, Louise," exclaimed Patsy, reproachfully, "why didn't you let me see the thing? It would have been better than a circus." "Poor boy!" said the literary editor, with a sigh. "I didn't want to humiliate him more than I could help. I wonder if he really will have the audacity to send it to Munsey's?" "I got a pome, Miss Patsy," he said, with unusual diffidence, for he was by no means sure the "gals" would not agree with Skim's criticism. "What! Another contributor?" she exclaimed playfully. "Has the whole town suddenly turned literary, Peggy?" "No; jest me 'n' Skim. Skim says my pome's no good; but I sort o' like it, myself." "Let me see it," said Patsy, ignoring this time the literary editor, who was glad to be relieved of the responsibility of disappointing another budding author. Peggy handed over the foolscap, and Patsy eagerly read the "pome." "Listen, Louise! Listen, Beth!" she called, delightedly. "Here is certainly a real 'pome,' and on aviation--the latest fad: "'SKY HIGH BY MARSHALL MCMAHON MCNUTT of Millville dealer in Real Estate Spring Chickens &c. A chorus of hilarious laughter followed the reading, and then Patsy wiped her eyes and exclaimed: "It's short 'cause I run out o' rhymes," admitted Peggy. "But it's a gem, what there is of it." "Don't, dear," remonstrated Louise; "don't poke fun at the poor man." "Poke fun? Why, I'm going to print that poem in the _Tribune_, as sure as my name's Patricia Doyle! It's too good for oblivion." "But it's like findin' it, for I didn't expect nuth'n'. I wish I could do more of 'em at the same price; but I did thet pome when I were young an' hed more ambition. I couldn't think of another like it to save my neck." "I shall print it just as it's written, advertisement and all." A few days later McNutt entered the printing office with an air of great importance. "Goodness me! I hope you haven't done it again, Peggy," cried Patsy, in alarm. "No; I got fame enough. What I want is to hev the wordin' on my business cards changed," said he. "What'll it cost?" "What change do you wish made?" asked Patsy, examining the sample card. "Instead of 'Marshall McMahon McNutt, dealer in Real Estate an' Spring Chickens,' I want to make it read: 'dealer in Real Estate, Spring Chickens an' Poetry.' What'll it cost. Miss Patsy?" "Nothing," she said, her eyes dancing; "We'll do that job free of charge, Peggy!" THE PENALTIES OF JOURNALISM Thursday worked a while in silence. "Mr. Merrick must have sent for them," he suggested. "Yes. I think he suspects about the bomb." "He ought to discharge me," said Thursday. "No; he's man enough to stand by his guns. I like Mr. Merrick. He didn't become a millionaire without having cleverness to back him and I imagine he is clever enough to thwart Skeelty and all his gang." "Perhaps I ought to go of my own accord," said Thursday. "Don't do that. When you've found a friend like Mr. Merrick, stick to him. I imagine those detectives are here to protect you, as well as the printing plant. It won't be so easy to set a bomb the next time." Smith looked at her with a smile. There was a glint of admiration in his eyes. "You're not a bad sleuth yourself, Hetty," he remarked. "No detective could have acted more wisely and promptly than you did that night." "It was an accidental discovery, Thursday. Sometimes I sleep." "Perhaps I'm homesick," she added. "It's dreadfully lonely here when I'm not at work, and for that reason I've tried to keep busy most of the time. Really, I'm astonished to think I've stood this isolation so long; but now that my mind is made up, I'm going, and it is useless to ask me to remain." They offered her higher wages, and Mr. Merrick himself had a long talk with her, but all arguments were unavailing. "What shall we do, Thursday?" asked Patsy in despair. "None of us understands telegraphy." "Hetty Hewitt does," he suggested. "Hetty! I'm afraid if I asked her to assume this work she also would leave us." "No; she'll stay," he said positively. "But she can't edit the telegraph news. Suppose she took the messages, who would get the night news in shape for the compositors? My uncle would not like to have me remain here until midnight, but even if he would permit it I have not yet mastered the art of condensing the dispatches and selecting just such items as are suitable for the _Tribune_." "I'll do that, Miss Doyle," promised Smith. "I've been paying especial attention to the work of Miss Briggs, for I had an idea she was getting uneasy. And I can take all the day messages, too. If Hetty will look after the wires evenings I can do the rest of the telegraph editor's work, and my own, too." "Good gracious, Thursday!" exclaimed Patsy; "you'll be running the whole paper, presently." "No; I can't do the typesetting. But if the Dwyer girls stick to their job--and they seem quite contented here--I'll answer for the rest of the outfit." "I'm glad the Dwyer girls seem contented," she answered; "but I'm afraid to depend upon anyone now--except you." He liked that compliment, but said nothing further. After consulting with Louise and Beth, Patsy broached the subject to Hetty, and the artist jumped at the opportunity to do something to occupy her leisure time. The work brought her in contact with Thursday Smith more than ever, and when Miss Briggs departed bag and baggage for New York, the paper suffered little through her defection. "Newspaper folk," remarked Major Doyle, who was now at the farm enjoying his vacation and worshipping at the shrine of the managing editor in the person of his versatile daughter, "are the most unreliable of any class in the world. So I've often been told, and I believe it. They come and go, by fits and starts, and it's a wonder the erratic rascals never put a paper out of business. But they don't. You never heard of a newspaper that failed to appear just because the mechanical force deserted and left it in the lurch. By hook or crook the paper must be printed--and it always is. So don't worry, mavourneen; when your sallow-faced artist and your hobo jack-of-all-trades desert you, there'll still be a way to keep the _Millville Tribune_ going, and therefore the world will continue to whirl on its axis." "I don't believe Thursday will ever desert, and Hetty likes us too well to leave us in the lurch; but suppose those typesetters take a notion to flit?" "Then," said matter-of-fact Beth, "we'll fill the paper with ready-made plate stuff and telegraph for more compositors." "It wasn't your grandfather who originated that remark," said Uncle John. "It was, sir! I defy you to prove otherwise." "I'm not certain you ever had a grandfather; and he wasn't a commodore, anyhow." "Sir!" cried the major, glaring at his brother-in-law, "I have his commission, somewhere--laid away." "Is the thing paying dividends?" inquired the major. "And what's the result?" asked the Major. There was a painful silence for a time, broken by the major's suggestive cough. "I hope," said the old soldier, solemnly, "that the paper's circulation is very small." "The smallest of any daily paper in all the civilized word, sir," declared the bookkeeper. "Of course," remarked Louise, with dignity; "that is what distinguishes it. We did not undertake this publication to make money, and it does not cost us more than we are willing to pay for the exceptional experiences we are gaining." A general discussion followed concerning the "doin's of Joe Wegg" and the prophecies he had made. Opinion seemed divided as to whether the promised "boom" was desirable for Millville or not. Some of the good villagers were averse to personal activity and feared the new order of things might disturb their comfort; in others a mild ambition had been awakened. But while they feasted at Mr. Merrick's expense and gravely canvassed the situation, the newly installed electric lights suddenly failed. Darkness fell upon the assemblage and there was an awed hush until Sam Cotting lighted the old reliable kerosene lamps. Joe Wegg was as much astonished as anyone. "There has been an accident to the machinery," he said to Mr. Merrick. "I'll run over to the mill and see what has happened." "I will go with you," said Arthur Weldon, and Major Doyle also decided to accompany the young man. He had scarcely finished this explanation when Arthur came running back into the hall in much excitement. He approached Mr. Merrick and said in a low voice: "Yes. Joe thinks it's the work of the mill hands. The wires are cut in all directions, and several of the men from Royal have been seen loitering around by Cox and Booth, the detectives." The girls overheard this assertion, and Patsy exclaimed: "I'm going to the office, to make sure our power hasn't been tampered with." "The power is off," said Smith quietly. "Then the wire from Royal has also been cut," said Patsy. "What shall we do? His paper must come out to-morrow morning, in spite of anything and everything!" "Do you know who cut the wires?" inquired Thursday. "We think the mill hands must have done it." "Not with Skeelty's consent, I'll be bound," said Mr. Merrick. "The manager is too fearful of a damage suit to play any tricks." They listened to this report in amazement. "I conjecture," said the major, "that the rascally manager has given his men too much leeway. He's encouraged them in mischief until they've taken the bit between their teeth and turned against even their master. I have no personal acquaintance with the villain, but I imagine it serves him right." Thursday turned to Joe Wegg. "Can't we connect our supply wire with your new plant, so as to use your power?" he asked. "Easily. An hour's work will serve to make the connection. But unless we watch the wire every minute those fellows will cut it again. The town's full of the rascals, and they're not exactly sober, either." "Watch the wire; that's the idea," said Uncle John. "It's only a short distance to the mill, and I'm sure the villagers will volunteer for this duty." "Of course," said Joe. "Major Doyle, will you mount guard over my men at the dynamos, to see they're not interfered with, while I look after the wire?" "Where is Arthur?" asked Louise. "We left him at the mill." A MERE MATTER OF REVENGE Hetty and Thursday continued to work on the paper. "We'll have everything ready by the time the line is connected," said the artist. "Then it will be but a few moments' work to run off the edition." Patsy and Beth held candles for them, for the electric lights had been cut off with the power; so, seeing them all busily engaged, Arthur Weldon decided to return to the mill to join the Major. Booth sat in the front office, near the door, and in the darkness Arthur nearly stumbled over him. "Going away, sir?" asked the man. "Yes; I'll see if I can be of any assistance at the mill." "Be careful. Those workmen have been drifting into town in squads, the last few minutes, and most of them are reckless with drink." "I'll watch out," said Arthur. "Who's this?" he demanded, holding the man in a firm grip. "Good. I could not recognize you in this darkness. Are you armed?" "Then you and I will defend this door. Who is inside?" "No; they've gone to the hotel. Miss Doyle, Miss DeGraf, and--Hetty Hewitt." West went into the hack room, which was faintly illumined by candles stuck here and there. The girls and Smith were all bending over the imposing stone, where the forms of the paper were being made up. "Here," said West, taking a revolver from his pocket and laying it on the table; "I'm afraid there may be an attack on this office in a few minutes, for I understand the language of those strikers and have been listening to them. If any of the mill hands attempt to break into this room don't be afraid to shoot." "Why should the men wish to attack us, sir?" asked Patsy wonderingly. Smith carelessly thrust the revolver into his hip pocket. "The paper will come out if Mr. Wegg gives us the power," he said. "Can you let me have a revolver, Mr. West?" asked Hetty. "I've robbed my hardware stock," he said with a smile. "But I advise you girls to keep your hands off the thing unless a crisis arises. I don't imagine the gang will get past me and Booth at the entrance, but if any stragglers come your way Smith has authority to drive them back. I'm justice of the peace, and I hereby appoint you all special officers of the law." He said this lightly, fearing to alarm the girls unnecessarily, and then passed through the doorway and joined Booth at the front. The telephone rang and Patsy answered it. "How soon will the forms be ready?" asked Arthur's voice. "All right," called Patsy; "just give us the power for a few minutes, and we'll be through for to-night." She went back to Thursday and reported. With mallet and shooting-stick he tightened the quoins, then lifted the heavy iron frames filled with type and slid them onto the bed of the press. They gave him all the light the flickering candles afforded as he adjusted the machinery, and all were bending over the press when a low, distant growl was heard, rising slowly to a frenzied shout. A revolver popped--another--followed by wild cries from the street. The girls grew a little pale, but Thursday Smith put his hand on the lever of the press and said: "All right. The moment they give us the current we're ready to run." "Stop that press!" yelled their spokesman excitedly. "Stop it, Smith, or we'll put both you and the machine out of business." Thursday paid no attention to anything but his press. The huge cylinder of white paper was unrolling, passing under the platen and emerging at the other end as neatly folded copies of the Millville Daily Tribune. With a roar of rage the big fellow leaped forward, but at the action a shot rang out and he fell headlong almost at the foot of the press. Beth and Patsy turned their heads an instant to glance at Hetty. The artist's face was white and set; her eyes sparkled brilliantly; she held the still smoking weapon in readiness for another shot. But the men were awed by the fall of their leader. They watched Beth leap to the platform beside Thursday Smith and draw his revolver from his pocket, where he had placed it. Hetty's courage had inspired her, and Beth had handled pistols before. The men read the determined eyes fixed upon them; they noted Smith's indifference to their threats. The defenders of the press and pressman were only girls, but they were girls evidently not afraid to shoot. No advance was made and the tableau was dramatic. Smith watched his press with undivided attention and it clattered away at full speed until the frail building shook with its powerful, steady motion. Then suddenly it began to slow down. The power was off, and the machine came to an abrupt stop. Thursday stepped from the platform and looked at the index of the counter. "That'll do, Thursday." He came to her side, then, facing the sullen, glowering group of mill hands. "Boys," said he, "it won't do you any good to interfere with us to-night. The paper for to-morrow morning is already printed, and Ojoy Boglin isn't a big enough man to stop it, now or ever. Better go back to Royal and settle your troubles with Skeelty, for if you stay here the citizens of Millville are in the mood to shoot you down like dogs." They stood undecided a moment, but the argument had evidently struck home. "I suppose so," answered Thursday coolly; but he stooped to examine Hetty's victim, rolling him over so that his face was upward. "No; he isn't hurt much, I'm sorry to say. The bullet glanced off his forehead and stunned him, that's all. Take the brute, if you want him, and go." They obeyed in silence. Several stepped forward and raised the unconscious Harris, bearing him to the window, where they passed him to those without. Then they also retreated through the windows and the room was cleared. Only then did Hetty and Beth venture to lower their weapons. "Oh, dear!" cried Patsy, in a low, agitated voice; "I'm so glad you didn't kill him, Hetty." "I'm not," returned the artist doggedly. "He deserved death, at the least, and by killing him I'd have cheated the gallows." Then she glanced around at the horrified faces of her friends and burst into tears. "Never mind," said Arthur to Joe, as they retreated fighting toward the printing office; "I think they've had time to run off the edition, provided Smith was ready with the forms." The mob was by this time in an ugly mood and the nearer Joe and Arthur edged toward the printing office the more numerous their enemies became. The Millville people were getting rather the worst of the scrimmage when out rushed Thursday Smith, swinging a stout iron bar he had taken from the press, and with this terrible weapon he struck out so vigorously that the diversion in their favor enabled the retreating villagers to gain the office, where Booth and Bob West fired several shots that effectually checked the mob. "Stand back, ye villains!" cried a loud voice, as Major Doyle marched calmly down the road from the mill; "how dare ye interfere with a gentleman?" "Didn't I say to get out o' my way?" he roared, and to the surprise of everyone--even the major, perhaps--they fell hack and allowed him to walk leisurely into the printing office. Having succeeded in their primary attempt to cut the wire, and finding the determined band of defenders more dangerous than they had thought, the workmen retreated in the direction of Royal, where there was more to be gained by rioting than in Millville. When at last the town was clear of them, Arthur, who was considerably battered and bruised but pleased with the triumphant ending of the adventure, drove the girls and the major to the farm. They urged Hetty to accompany them, but she declared she was not a bit nervous and preferred to sleep at the hotel. "I think the trouble is over for to-night," said West, and all agreed with him. Cox and Booth decided to sleep in the printing office, and after the girls had driven away with their escorts and the villagers had dispersed to their homes, Thursday put on his coat and walked to the hotel with Hetty. "All that row was about me," he remarked disconsolately. "But they didn't get you," said Hetty, triumph in her voice. He did not mention her bravery, or the loyal support of Beth and Patsy, but after a moment he added: "I'm not worth defending." "How do you know?" asked Hetty. "It occurs to me, Mr. Smith, that you are as much a stranger to yourself as to us." "You simply stood by a comrade. Thank you, Hetty." "Good night, Thursday." "Will you be able to sleep to-night?" "I'm going straight to bed. The rumpus has quieted my nerves." In the early morning Mr. Merrick was awakened by a red glare that flooded his bedroom. Going to the window he found the sky at the north full of flame. He threw on his bathrobe and went to the door of Arthur Weldon's room, arousing the young man with a rap on the panels. "The settlement at Royal is burning," he reported. Arthur came out, very weary and drowsy, for he had not been asleep long and the strenuous work of the night had tired him. "Let it burn," he said, glancing through a window at the lurid light of the conflagration. "We couldn't be of any use going over there and, after all, it isn't our affair to relieve Skeelty." Then he told Uncle John of the riot in the village, for the old gentleman had been sound asleep when the party returned to the farm. "The blaze is the work of those crazy strikers, I suppose," said Mr. Merrick. "It looks from here as if they had set fire to their own homes, as well as to the paper mills and office and store buildings. It will be fortunate if the forest does not also burn." "Don't worry, sir," advised Arthur. "We'll discover the extent of the fire by daylight. For my part, I'm going back to bed, and it will be well for you to follow my example." "Another item for the paper," whispered a soft voice, and there was Patsy beside them at the window. "I had no idea so much excitement could possibly happen at Millville," said he. "If this keeps on we'll have to go back to New York for quiet. But let us get to bed, my dear, for to-morrow is likely to be a busy day for us all." THE COMING OF FOGERTY Skeelty had watched the destruction of his plant with feelings of mingled glee and disgust. He was insured against loss, and his rash workmen, who had turned upon him so unexpectedly, had accidentally settled the strike and their own future by starting the fire during their drunken orgies. There being no longer a mill to employ them they went elsewhere for work, rather glad of the change and regretting nothing. As for the manager, he stood to lose temporary profits but was not wholly displeased by the catastrophe. Transportation of his manufactured products had been so irregular and undefendable that even while he watched the blaze he determined to rebuild his plant nearer the main line of a railway, for many such locations could be found where the pine was as plentiful as here. At dawn he entered the hotel at Millville with his arms full of books and papers which he had succeeded in saving from the fire, and securing a room went directly to bed. It was afternoon when he awoke and after obtaining a meal he strolled out into the village and entered the newspaper office. "Thank you, sir," said Patsy, brightly; "the Millville people will appreciate their good luck, I'm sure." Skeelty hung around the town for awhile, sneering at the new electric light plant and insolently railing at any of the natives who would converse with him. Then he hired Nick Thorne to drive him over to Chazy Junction, and that was the last Millville ever saw of him. During this day Joe Wegg's men succeeded in repairing all the wires which had been tampered with and in making a proper and permanent connection of the cable to the printing office. That evening the village was again brilliantly lighted and thereafter the big dynamos whirled peacefully and without interruption. The girls had a busy day, as Uncle John had predicted, for all the exciting incidents of the evening and night before had to be written up and the next day's paper teemed with "news" of a character to interest all its readers. Beth's editorial declared the neighborhood well rid of the paper mill, which had been of little advantage but had caused no end of annoyance because of the rough and mischievous character of the workmen employed. In this statement nearly everyone agreed with her. The girls, who had not yet gone to the office, awaited somewhat impatiently the result of this conference, for they already knew the red-headed youth to be the great Fogerty--admitted by even his would-be rivals, the king of New York detectives. Also they knew that Uncle John had employed him some time ago to ferret out the mystery of the identity of Thursday Smith, and the fact of Fogerty's presence indicated he had something to report. However, when Mr. Merrick came out of the private room his usually cheery countenance wore a troubled expression. Fogerty was invariably placid and inscrutable, so no explanation could be gleaned from his demeanor. "Ready for town, my dears?" asked Uncle John. "Yes; the surrey is waiting," answered Louise. "What's the news, Uncle?" demanded Patsy, impatiently. "You shall know in good time." "Who is Thursday Smith?" "By and by, dear. Don't bother me now. But that reminds me; you are to say nothing to--to--Thursday about Mr. Fogerty's arrival. Treat him--Thursday, you know--just as you have always done, for the present, at least. Whatever we determine on in regard to this man, during our conference, we must not forget that he has acted most gallantly since he came to Millville. We really owe him a debt of gratitude." With this somewhat incomprehensible statement the girls were forced to content themselves. Feeling quite helpless, they drove to the office and left the men to settle the fate of Thursday Smith. The "pressman" was now the man-of-all-work about the modest but trim little publishing plant. He attended to whatever job printing came in, made the etchings from Hetty's drawings, cast the stereotypes, made up the forms and operated the press. But aside from this mechanical work Smith took the telegraphic news received by Hetty, edited and condensed it and wrote the black-letter headings over the various items. All this, with a general supervision over the girl compositors, kept the man busy from daybreak to midnight. In spite of this, the Tribune was essentially a "girls' paper," since Thursday Smith was the only man employed on it--not counting the "dummy" editor, Arthur Weldon, who did nothing but keep the books, and found this not an arduous task. Hetty, at Miss Briggs' desk, attended the telegraph instrument and long-distance telephone, receiving news over both wires, and still found time to draw her daily cartoons and additional humorous sketches which she "worked in" whenever the mood seized her. The typesetting was done by the Dwyer sisters--a colorless pair but quite reliable--while the reportorial and editorial work was divided between Louise, Beth and Patsy, none of whom shirked a single duty. Indeed, they had come to love this work dearly and were enthusiastic over the _Tribune_, which they fondly believed was being watched with envious admiration by all the journalistic world. This belief was not wholly due to egotism. Their "exchanges," both city and country, had shown considerable interest in the "Millville Experiment," as they called it, and only a few days before the leading journal of a good-sized city had commented at length on the "girls' newspaper" and, after indulging in some humorous remarks, concluded quite seriously with the statement that "its evident sincerity, clean contents and typographical neatness render the _Millville Daily Tribune_ worthy a better setting than the somnolent country village whose census is too low to be officially recorded." "But that's all right," said Patsy, smiling at the praise; "we'd never have dared to start a newspaper anywhere else, because a journal that will do for Millville might not make a hit if it bumped against experienced competition." "We were woefully ignorant when we began, a few weeks ago," commented Beth, glancing with pride at her latest editorial, which she thought had caught the oracular tone of the big city newspapers. "And we're not expert journalists, even yet," added Louise, with a sigh. "We've improved, to be sure; but I imagine there is still lots of room for improvement." Hetty had overheard this conversation and now looked up with a smile. "Has your 'local happenings' column been prepared for to-morrow, Mrs. Weldon?" she inquired. "No; I'm about to start out to unearth some items," replied Louise, wearily. "Let me do it for you. I've an hour or so to spare and I won't need to leave my desk," suggested the artist. "It is my duty, you know, Hetty, and I've no right to evade it." "Evade it for to-day. Go home and rest. I'll do your column for to-morrow, and after the vacation you can tackle the thrilling situations with better courage." "Thank you, Hetty. But I won't go home. I'll wait here to see Fogerty." "Yes," said Louise, regretting she had inadvertently mentioned the name. "But what is there now to detect?" asked Hetty suspiciously. "Our troubles seem ended with the burning of the mill and the flitting of Skeelty and his workmen." Louise hardly knew how to reply; but Patsy, who trusted the queer girl artist, said quite frankly: "There remains the mystery of Thursday Smith to fathom, you know." Hetty flushed and an indignant look swept over her face. "What right has anyone to solve that mystery?" she asked defiantly. "Isn't that Thursday Smith's own business?" "Perhaps," returned Patsy, somewhat amused; "but Smith hasn't been able to discover who he is--or was, rather--and seems really anxious to know." Hetty bent over her desk for a time. Then she looked up and her thin features were white and drawn with anxiety. "When you discover who Thursday Smith is," said she, "the Millville Tribune will lose its right bower." "Before his accident, or whatever it was that made him lose his memory, he was an unusual man, a man of exceptional ability. You know that." "We are all inclined to admit it," answered Patsy. "But what then?" Even while the awkward silence that had fallen upon the group of girls continued, the door opened to admit Uncle John, Fogerty, Major Doyle and Arthur Weldon. Except for the detective they were stern-faced and uncompromising. The detective greeted the young ladies with polite bows, supplemented by an aimless compliment on the neatness of their office. "Never would have recognized it as a newspaper sanctum," said he in his thin, piping voice. "No litter, no stale pipes lying about, no cursing and quarreling, no excitement whatever. The editorial room is the index to the workshop; I'll see if the mechanical department is kept as neatly." He opened the door to the back room, passed through and closed it softly behind him. Mr. Merrick made a dive for the door and followed Fogerty. "What's the verdict, Arthur?" asked Louise curiously. "Why, I--I believe the verdict isn't rendered yet," he hastily replied, and followed Mr. Merrick into the pressroom. "Now, then," cried Patsy, grabbing the major firmly, "you'll not stir a step, sir, until you tell us the news!" "What news, Patricia?" Inquired the old gentleman blandly. "Who was Thursday Smith?" "The identical individual he is now," said the Major. "Don't prevaricate, sir! Who was he? What did he do? What is his right name?" "Is it because you are especially interested in this man, my dear, or are ye simply consumed with feminine curiosity?" "Be good, Daddy! Tell us all about it," said Patsy coaxingly. "The man Thursday, then, was likely enough the brother of Robinson Crusoe's man Friday." "Major, you're trifling!" He escaped and opened the door. Then, with his hand on the knob, he turned and added: "Why don't ye come in, me journalistic investigators, and see the fun for yerselves? I suspect there's an item in store for ye." While he spoke the Major led the way across the room to the stereotyping plant, which brought his party to a position near the press. Smith glanced at them and went on with his work. It was not unusual to have the pressroom thus invaded. Presently Fogerty strolled over, smoking his eternal cigarette, and stood watching the pressman, as if interested in the oiling of the complicated machine. Smith, feeling himself under observation, glanced up again in an unconcerned way, and as he faced the detective Fogerty gave a cleverly assumed start and exclaimed: Instantly Thursday Smith straightened up and looked at the man questioningly. Fogerty stretched out his hand and said, as if in wonder: "Why, Melville, old man, what are you doing here? We wondered what had become of you, all these months. Shake hands, my boy! I'm glad I've found you." Smith leaned against the press and stared at him with dilated eyes. Everyone in the room was regarding the scene with intense but repressed excitement. "What's wrong, Harold?" continued Fogerty, as if hurt by the other's hesitation to acknowledge their acquaintance. "You haven't forgotten me, have you? I'm McCormick, you know, and you and I have had many a good time together in the past." Smith passed his hand across his forehead with a dazed gesture. "What name did you call me, sir?" he asked. "And you--are--McCormick?" he faltered. Smith stared a moment and then shook his head. "H'm," muttered Fogerty; "you recall it now, don't you?" "That's queer," retorted Fogerty, his cold eyes fixed upon the man's face. "Pretty well," answered the detective, after a slight hesitation. "Then tell me something about myself. Tell me who I was." "Here--in public?" asked Fogerty, with a suggestive glance at the spectators, who had involuntarily crowded nearer. Smith flushed, but gazed firmly into the faces surrounding him. "Why not?" he returned. "These young ladies and Mr. Merrick accepted me without knowledge of my antecedents. They are entitled to as full an explanation as--as I am." "You place me, Melville, in a rather embarrassing position," declared Fogerty. "This is a queer case--the queerest in all my experience. Better let me post you in a private interview." Smith trembled a bit, from nervousness; but he persisted in his demand. "These people are entitled to the truth," said he. "Tell us frankly all you know about me, and do not mince words--whatever the truth may be." "Oh, it's not so bad," announced the detective, with a shrug; "or at least it wouldn't be in New York, among your old aristocratic haunts. But here, in a quiet country town, among these generous and simple-hearted folks who have befriended you, the thing is rather difficult to say." "Say it!" commanded Smith. "I will. Many New Yorkers remember the firm of Melville & Ford, the cleverest pair of confidence men who ever undertook to fleece the wealthy lambs of the metropolis." "Confidence men!" gasped Smith, in a voice of horror. During this recital Smith sat with his eyes eagerly fixed upon the speaker's face, dwelling upon every word. At the conclusion of the story he dropped his face in his hands a moment, visibly shuddering. Then again he looked up, and after reading the circle of pitying faces confronting him he bravely met Mr. Merrick's eyes. He rose, his face showing evidence of suffering, and bowed gravely. Hetty Hewitt walked over and stood by his side, laying her hand gently upon his arm. But Thursday Smith did not know John Merrick very well. The little gentleman had silently listened, observing meanwhile the demeanor of the accused, and now he smiled in his pleasant, whimsical way and caught Smith's hand in both his own. "Man, man!" he cried, "you're misjudging both me and yourself, I don't know this fellow Melville. You don't know him, either. But I do know Thursday Smith, who has won my confidence and by his manly acts, and I'll stand by him through thick and thin!" "I am Harold Melville--the gambler--the confidence man." "You're nothing of the sort, you're just Thursday Smith, and no more responsible for Harold Melville than I am." "Hooray!" exclaimed Patsy Doyle enthusiastically. "Uncle's right, Thursday. You're our friend, and the mainstay of the _Millville Daily Tribune_. We shall not allow you to desert us just because you've discovered that your--your--ancestor--wasn't quite respectable." "That's it, exactly," asserted Beth. "It's like hearing a tale of an ancestor, Thursday, or of some member of your family who lived before you. You cannot be responsible, in any way, for another man's wickedness." Hetty was crying softly, her cheek laid against Thursday's sleeve. The man stood as if turned to stone, but his cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkling, and his head proudly poised. Fogerty lighted a fresh cigarette, watching the scene with an imperturbable smile. Fogerty coughed. Uncle John jerked out his handkerchief and blew his nose like a bugle call. The major's eyes were moist, for the old soldier was sympathetic as a child. But Patsy, a little catch in her voice, impulsively put her arms around the unashamed pair and murmured: "I'm so glad, Hetty! I'm so glad, Thursday! But--dear me--aren't we going to have any paper to-morrow morning?" That relieved the tension and everybody laughed. Thursday released Hetty and shook Uncle John's hand most gratefully. Then they all wanted to shake hands, and did until it came to Fogerty's turn. But now Smith drew back and looked askance at the detective. "I do not know you, Mr. McCormick," he said with dignity. "My name's not McCormick; it's Fogerty," said the other, without malice. "I was simply testing your memory by claiming to be an old friend. Personally I never knew Harold Melville, but I'm mighty glad to make Thursday Smith's acquaintance and will consider it an honor if you'll shake my hand." Smith was too happy to refuse. He took Fogerty's hand. THE JOURNALISTS ABDICATE Thursday was too humble, by this time, and too grateful, besides, to resent Uncle John's interference. He admitted that, after all, it was better he should know the truth. After the interview he went about his duties as before and Hetty sat down at her desk and took the telegraphic news that came clicking over the wire as if nothing important in her life had occurred. But the girl journalists were all excitement and already were beginning to plan the things they might do to Make Hetty and Thursday happier. Cox and Booth had gone away and Mr. Merrick thanked Fogerty for his skillful service and gave him a fat check. "It's a mighty interesting case, sir," declared the detective, "and I'm as glad as any of you that it has ended so comfortably. Whatever Melville might have been--and his record is a little worse than I related it--there's no doubt of Thursday Smith's honesty. He's a mighty fine fellow, and Fate played a proper trick when she blotted out his unscrupulous mind and left him as innocent as an unborn babe. He will do well in his new life, I'm sure, and that girl of his, Hetty Hewitt--I've know of her reckless ways for years--has also redeemed herself and turned out a regular brick! All of which, Mr. Merrick is unusual in real life, more's the pity, and therefore it makes even a cold-blooded detective feel good to witness it." Mr. Merrick smiled benignantly and Fogerty drove over to the Junction to catch his train. After luncheon, Patsy, while arranging her galley proofs, inquired of Louise for the local column. "Hetty said she'd attend to it," was the reply; "but we are all upset to-day and things are at sixes and sevens." "The column is all prepared, Miss Doyle," announced Hetty. "Thursday has made it ready for the press. It's--illustrated," she confessed. "I'd rather you wouldn't see it until the paper is out, if you can trust me." The paper was a bit uneven in appearance next morning, but when Patsy came down to breakfast she found both Uncle John and the major roaring with laughter over Hetty's locals. The artist's cleverness became the subject of conversation at the breakfast table, and Arthur remarked: "You won't be able to hold Hetty in Millville long. Her talent enables her to draw big salaries in New York and it isn't likely she will consent to bury herself in this little town." "I'm not so sure," said Patsy. "If we can hold Thursday Smith we can hold Hetty, you know." "I've been thinking of that," said Uncle John. "So have I," declared Patsy. "For a long time I was puzzled what to do, for I hated dreadfully to kill our dear _Tribune_ after we've made it such a nice paper. Yet I knew very well we couldn't stay here all winter and run it. But last night I had an inspiration. Thursday will marry Hetty, I suppose, and they can both stay here and run the Tribune. They are doing most of the work now. If Uncle John agrees, we will sell out to them on 'easy terms.'" "They have no money, I know," she said, "except what they earn." "Quite true," agreed Arthur. "The days of the _Millville Tribune_ are numbered." "Let us not settle that question just yet," proposed Mr. Merrick, who had been deep in thought. "I'll consider Patsy's proposition for awhile and then talk with Thursday. The paper belongs to the girls, but the outfit is mine, and I suppose I may do what I please with it when my nieces retire from journalism." "I am in search of information, Thursday," said Uncle John in his pleasant way. "Will you permit me to question you a bit?" "Ask anything you like, sir." "Thank you. To begin with, what are your future plans? I understand, of course, you are to be married; but--afterward?" "I have been given to understand the young ladies plan to return to New York at the end of September, and in that case of course the paper will suspend." "My nieces will be obliged to abandon journalism, to be sure," said Mr. Merrick; "but I see no reason why the paper should suspend. How would you and Hetty like to remain in Millville and run it?" Both Thursday and Hetty smiled, but it was the man who answered; "We cannot afford such a luxury, sir." "Would you care to make your future home in Millville?" "Let us see about that," said Uncle John. "I will admit, in advance, that a daily paper in such a place is absurd. None of us quite understood that when we established the _Tribune_. My nieces thought a daily the only satisfactory sort of newspaper, because they were used to such, but it did not take long to convince me--and perhaps them--that in spite of all our efforts the _Millville Daily Tribune_ would never thrive. It is too expensive to pay its own way and requires too much work to be a pleasant plaything. Only unbounded enthusiasm and energy have enabled my clever nieces to avoid being swamped by the monster their ambition created." "That," said Patsy, with a laugh, "is very clearly and concisely put, my dear Uncle." "It was never intended to be a permanent thing, anyhow," continued Mr. Merrick; "yet I must express my admiration for the courage and talent my nieces have displayed in forcing a temporary success where failure was the logical conclusion. Shortly, however, they intend to retire gracefully from the field of journalism, leaving me with a model country newspaper plant on my hands. Therefore it is I, Thursday and Hetty, and not my nieces, who have a proposition to place before you. Thursday Smith looked his amazement. "That seems hardly business-like, sir," he protested. "I heard Mr. West say the other day that he would soon need the building we occupy to store his farm machinery in." Their faces were full of wonder and delight. "But, sir," suggested Thursday, "suppose no profits materialize?" "Then I have induced you to undertake a poor venture and must suffer the consequences, which to me will be no hardship at all. In that case I will agree to find some better business for you, but I am quite positive you will make a go of the _Millville Weekly Tribune_." "I think so, too, Mr. Merrick, or I would not accept your generous offer," replied Smith. "What do you think, Hetty?" "The idea pleases me immensely," she declared. "It is a splendid opportunity for us, and will enable us to live here quietly and forget the big outside world. New York has had a bad influence on both you and me, Thursday, and here we can begin a new life of absolute respectability." "When do you intend to be married?" asked Patsy. "We have scarcely thought of that, as yet, for until this evening we did not know what the future held in store for us." "Couldn't you arrange the wedding before we leave?" asked Beth. "It would delight us so much to be present at the ceremony." "I think we owe the young ladies that much, Thursday," said Hetty, after a brief hesitation. "Nothing could please me better," he asserted eagerly. "An act of legislature would render your new name legal, I believe," said Mr. Merrick; "but such an act could not be passed until after the date you have planned to be married." "But if it was made legal afterward it wouldn't matter greatly," suggested the major. "I do not think it matters at all," asserted Hetty. "It's the man I'm marrying, not his name. I don't much care what he calls himself." "Oh, but it must be legal, you know!" exclaimed Patsy. "You don't care now, perhaps, but you might in the future. We cannot be certain, you know, that Thursday is entirely free from his former connection with Harold Melville." "Quite true," agreed the major. "Then," said Smith, with evident disappointment, "I must use the hateful name of Melville for the wedding, and afterward abandon it for as long as possible." The nieces were greatly pleased with Uncle John's arrangement, which relieved them of the newspaper and also furnished Thursday and Hetty, of whom they had grown really fond, with a means of gaining a livelihood. Millville accepted the new arrangement with little adverse comment, the villagers being quite satisfied with a weekly paper, which would cost them far less than the daily had done. Everyone was pleased to know Thursday Smith had acquired the business, for both he and Hetty had won the cordial friendship of the simple-hearted people and were a little nearer to them than "the nabob's girls" could ever be. Preparations were speedily pushed forward for the wedding, which the nieces undertook to manage themselves, the prospective bride and groom being too busy at the newspaper office to devote much attention to the preliminaries of the great event. The ceremony was to take place at the farmhouse of Mr. Merrick, and every inhabitant of Millville was invited to be present. The minister would drive over from Hooker's Falls, and the ceremony was to be followed by a grand feast, for which delicacies were to be imported from New York. The girls provided a complete trousseau for Hetty, as their wedding present, while Arthur and the major undertook to furnish the new apartments, which were already under construction. Uncle John's gift was a substantial check that would furnish the newly married couple with modest capital to promote their business or which they could use in case of emergencies. It was the very day before the wedding that Fogerty gave them so great and agreeable a surprise that Uncle John called it "Fogerty's Wedding Present" ever afterward. In its physical form it was merely a telegram, but in its spiritual and moral aspect it proved the greatest gift Thursday and Hetty were destined to receive. The telegram was dated from New York and read as follows: Uncle John let Thursday and Hetty answer this question, and their reply was a positive "no!" "But, on the contrary, my dear, Fogerty might discover that Thursday was some eminent and good man--as I am firmly convinced is the truth," suggested Mr. Merrick. "He's that right now," asserted Hetty. "For my part, I prefer to know nothing of his former history, and Thursday says the present situation thoroughly contents him." "I am more than contented," said Thursday, with a happy smile. "Hetty has cured me of my desire to wander, and no matter what I might have been in the past I am satisfied to remain hereafter a country editor." End of Project Gutenberg's Aunt Jane's Nieces on Vacation, by Edith Van Dyne	redpajama-book	32,913
Produced by Judith Smith and Natalie Salter THE DIVINE COMEDY: PURGATORY "Say who are ye, that stemming the blind stream, Forth from th' eternal prison-house have fled?" He spoke and moved those venerable plumes. "Who hath conducted, or with lantern sure Lights you emerging from the depth of night, That makes the infernal valley ever black? Are the firm statutes of the dread abyss Broken, or in high heaven new laws ordain'd, That thus, condemn'd, ye to my caves approach?" My guide, then laying hold on me, by words And intimations given with hand and head, Made my bent knees and eye submissive pay Due reverence; then thus to him replied. "Not of myself I come; a Dame from heaven Descending, had besought me in my charge To bring. But since thy will implies, that more Our true condition I unfold at large, Mine is not to deny thee thy request. This mortal ne'er hath seen the farthest gloom. But erring by his folly had approach'd So near, that little space was left to turn. Then, as before I told, I was dispatch'd To work his rescue, and no way remain'd Save this which I have ta'en. I have display'd Before him all the regions of the bad; And purpose now those spirits to display, That under thy command are purg'd from sin. How I have brought him would be long to say. From high descends the virtue, by whose aid I to thy sight and hearing him have led. Now may our coming please thee. In the search Of liberty he journeys: that how dear They know, who for her sake have life refus'd. Thou knowest, to whom death for her was sweet In Utica, where thou didst leave those weeds, That in the last great day will shine so bright. For us the' eternal edicts are unmov'd: He breathes, and I am free of Minos' power, Abiding in that circle where the eyes Of thy chaste Marcia beam, who still in look Prays thee, O hallow'd spirit! to own her shine. Then by her love we' implore thee, let us pass Through thy sev'n regions; for which best thanks I for thy favour will to her return, If mention there below thou not disdain." "Marcia so pleasing in my sight was found," He then to him rejoin'd, "while I was there, That all she ask'd me I was fain to grant. Now that beyond the' accursed stream she dwells, She may no longer move me, by that law, Which was ordain'd me, when I issued thence. Not so, if Dame from heaven, as thou sayst, Moves and directs thee; then no flattery needs. Enough for me that in her name thou ask. Go therefore now: and with a slender reed See that thou duly gird him, and his face Lave, till all sordid stain thou wipe from thence. For not with eye, by any cloud obscur'd, Would it be seemly before him to come, Who stands the foremost minister in heaven. This islet all around, there far beneath, Where the wave beats it, on the oozy bed Produces store of reeds. No other plant, Cover'd with leaves, or harden'd in its stalk, There lives, not bending to the water's sway. After, this way return not; but the sun Will show you, that now rises, where to take The mountain in its easiest ascent." He disappear'd; and I myself uprais'd Speechless, and to my guide retiring close, Toward him turn'd mine eyes. He thus began; "My son! observant thou my steps pursue. We must retreat to rearward, for that way The champain to its low extreme declines." The dawn had chas'd the matin hour of prime, Which deaf before it, so that from afar I spy'd the trembling of the ocean stream. When we had come, where yet the tender dew Strove with the sun, and in a place, where fresh The wind breath'd o'er it, while it slowly dried; Both hands extended on the watery grass My master plac'd, in graceful act and kind. Whence I of his intent before appriz'd, Stretch'd out to him my cheeks suffus'd with tears. There to my visage he anew restor'd That hue, which the dun shades of hell conceal'd. Now had the sun to that horizon reach'd, That covers, with the most exalted point Of its meridian circle, Salem's walls, And night, that opposite to him her orb Sounds, from the stream of Ganges issued forth, Holding the scales, that from her hands are dropp'd When she reigns highest: so that where I was, Aurora's white and vermeil-tinctur'd cheek To orange turn'd as she in age increas'd. "Lo how all human means he sets at naught! So that nor oar he needs, nor other sail Except his wings, between such distant shores. Lo how straight up to heaven he holds them rear'd, Winnowing the air with those eternal plumes, That not like mortal hairs fall off or change!" As more and more toward us came, more bright Appear'd the bird of God, nor could the eye Endure his splendor near: I mine bent down. He drove ashore in a small bark so swift And light, that in its course no wave it drank. The heav'nly steersman at the prow was seen, Visibly written blessed in his looks. From every side the sun darted his beams, And with his arrowy radiance from mid heav'n Had chas'd the Capricorn, when that strange tribe Lifting their eyes towards us: "If ye know, Declare what path will Lead us to the mount." Then I: "If new laws have not quite destroy'd Memory and use of that sweet song of love, That while all my cares had power to 'swage; Please thee with it a little to console My spirit, that incumber'd with its frame, Travelling so far, of pain is overcome." "Love that discourses in my thoughts." He then Began in such soft accents, that within The sweetness thrills me yet. My gentle guide And all who came with him, so well were pleas'd, That seem'd naught else might in their thoughts have room. Fast fix'd in mute attention to his notes We stood, when lo! that old man venerable Exclaiming, "How is this, ye tardy spirits? What negligence detains you loit'ring here? Run to the mountain to cast off those scales, That from your eyes the sight of God conceal." Nor with less hurried step did we depart. Them sudden flight had scatter'd over the plain, Turn'd tow'rds the mountain, whither reason's voice Drives us; I to my faithful company Adhering, left it not. For how of him Depriv'd, might I have sped, or who beside Would o'er the mountainous tract have led my steps He with the bitter pang of self-remorse Seem'd smitten. O clear conscience and upright How doth a little fling wound thee sore! Soon as his feet desisted (slack'ning pace), From haste, that mars all decency of act, My mind, that in itself before was wrapt, Its thoughts expanded, as with joy restor'd: And full against the steep ascent I set My face, where highest to heav'n its top o'erflows. "Who knows on which hand now the steep declines?" My master said and paus'd, "so that he may Ascend, who journeys without aid of wine?" And while with looks directed to the ground The meaning of the pathway he explor'd, And I gaz'd upward round the stony height, Of spirits, that toward us mov'd their steps, Yet moving seem'd not, they so slow approach'd. I thus my guide address'd: "Upraise thine eyes, Lo that way some, of whom thou may'st obtain Counsel, if of thyself thou find'st it not!" Straightway he look'd, and with free speech replied: "Let us tend thither: they but softly come. And thou be firm in hope, my son belov'd." "O spirits perfect! O already chosen!" Virgil to them began, "by that blest peace, Which, as I deem, is for you all prepar'd, Instruct us where the mountain low declines, So that attempt to mount it be not vain. For who knows most, him loss of time most grieves." "Unask'd of you, yet freely I confess, This is a human body which ye see. That the sun's light is broken on the ground, Marvel not: but believe, that not without Virtue deriv'd from Heaven, we to climb Over this wall aspire." So them bespake My master; and that virtuous tribe rejoin'd; "Turn, and before you there the entrance lies," Making a signal to us with bent hands. When humbly I disclaim'd to have beheld Him ever: "Now behold!" he said, and show'd High on his breast a wound: then smiling spake. We through the broken rock ascended, close Pent on each side, while underneath the ground Ask'd help of hands and feet. When we arriv'd Near on the highest ridge of the steep bank, Where the plain level open'd I exclaim'd, "O master! say which way can we proceed?" "Of truth, kind teacher!" I exclaim'd, "so clear Aught saw I never, as I now discern Where seem'd my ken to fail, that the mid orb Of the supernal motion (which in terms Of art is called the Equator, and remains Ever between the sun and winter) for the cause Thou hast assign'd, from hence toward the north Departs, when those who in the Hebrew land Inhabit, see it tow'rds the warmer part. But if it please thee, I would gladly know, How far we have to journey: for the hill Mounts higher, than this sight of mine can mount." Before me now the Poet up the mount Ascending, cried: "Haste thee, for see the sun Has touch'd the point meridian, and the night Now covers with her foot Marocco's shore." What other could I answer save "I come?" I said it, somewhat with that colour ting'd Which ofttimes pardon meriteth for man. To them my guide. "Ye may return, and bear Tidings to them who sent you, that his frame Is real flesh. If, as I deem, to view His shade they paus'd, enough is answer'd them. Him let them honour, they may prize him well." Ne'er saw I fiery vapours with such speed Cut through the serene air at fall of night, Nor August's clouds athwart the setting sun, That upward these did not in shorter space Return; and, there arriving, with the rest Wheel back on us, as with loose rein a troop. "Many," exclaim'd the bard, "are these, who throng Around us: to petition thee they come. Go therefore on, and listen as thou go'st." Then I: "The visages of all I scan Yet none of ye remember. But if aught, That I can do, may please you, gentle spirits! Speak; and I will perform it, by that peace, Which on the steps of guide so excellent Following from world to world intent I seek." In answer he began: "None here distrusts Thy kindness, though not promis'd with an oath; So as the will fail not for want of power. Whence I, who sole before the others speak, Entreat thee, if thou ever see that land, Which lies between Romagna and the realm Of Charles, that of thy courtesy thou pray Those who inhabit Fano, that for me Their adorations duly be put up, By which I may purge off my grievous sins. From thence I came. But the deep passages, Whence issued out the blood wherein I dwelt, Upon my bosom in Antenor's land Were made, where to be more secure I thought. The author of the deed was Este's prince, Who, more than right could warrant, with his wrath Pursued me. Had I towards Mira fled, When overta'en at Oriaco, still Might I have breath'd. But to the marsh I sped, And in the mire and rushes tangled there Fell, and beheld my life-blood float the plain." Then said another: "Ah! so may the wish, That takes thee o'er the mountain, be fulfill'd, As thou shalt graciously give aid to mine. Of Montefeltro I; Buonconte I: Giovanna nor none else have care for me, Sorrowing with these I therefore go." I thus: "From Campaldino's field what force or chance Drew thee, that ne'er thy sepulture was known?" "Thou knowest how in the atmosphere collects That vapour dank, returning into water, Soon as it mounts where cold condenses it. That evil will, which in his intellect Still follows evil, came, and rais'd the wind And smoky mist, by virtue of the power Given by his nature. Thence the valley, soon As day was spent, he cover'd o'er with cloud From Pratomagno to the mountain range, And stretch'd the sky above, so that the air Impregnate chang'd to water. Fell the rain, And to the fosses came all that the land Contain'd not; and, as mightiest streams are wont, To the great river with such headlong sweep Rush'd, that nought stay'd its course. My stiffen'd frame Laid at his mouth the fell Archiano found, And dash'd it into Arno, from my breast Loos'ning the cross, that of myself I made When overcome with pain. He hurl'd me on, Along the banks and bottom of his course; Then in his muddy spoils encircling wrapt." We soon approach'd it. O thou Lombard spirit! How didst thou stand, in high abstracted mood, Scarce moving with slow dignity thine eyes! It spoke not aught, but let us onward pass, Eyeing us as a lion on his watch. But Virgil with entreaty mild advanc'd, Requesting it to show the best ascent. It answer to his question none return'd, But of our country and our kind of life Demanded. When my courteous guide began, "Mantua," the solitary shadow quick Rose towards us from the place in which it stood, And cry'd, "Mantuan! I am thy countryman Sordello." Each the other then embrac'd. My Florence! thou mayst well remain unmov'd At this digression, which affects not thee: Thanks to thy people, who so wisely speed. Many have justice in their heart, that long Waiteth for counsel to direct the bow, Or ere it dart unto its aim: but shine Have it on their lip's edge. Many refuse To bear the common burdens: readier thine Answer uneall'd, and cry, "Behold I stoop!" If thou remember'st well and can'st see clear, Thou wilt perceive thyself like a sick wretch, Who finds no rest upon her down, but oft Shifting her side, short respite seeks from pain. So answer'd him in few my gentle guide. He answer'd thus: "We have no certain place Assign'd us: upwards I may go or round, Far as I can, I join thee for thy guide. But thou beholdest now how day declines: And upwards to proceed by night, our power Excels: therefore it may be well to choose A place of pleasant sojourn. To the right Some spirits sit apart retir'd. If thou Consentest, I to these will lead thy steps: And thou wilt know them, not without delight." "How chances this?" was answer'd; "who so wish'd To ascend by night, would he be thence debarr'd By other, or through his own weakness fail?" The good Sordello then, along the ground Trailing his finger, spoke: "Only this line Thou shalt not overpass, soon as the sun Hath disappear'd; not that aught else impedes Thy going upwards, save the shades of night. These with the wont of power perplex the will. With them thou haply mightst return beneath, Or to and fro around the mountain's side Wander, while day is in the horizon shut." My master straight, as wond'ring at his speech, Exclaim'd: "Then lead us quickly, where thou sayst, That, while we stay, we may enjoy delight." A little space we were remov'd from thence, When I perceiv'd the mountain hollow'd out. Ev'n as large valleys hollow'd out on earth, "That way," the' escorting spirit cried, "we go, Where in a bosom the high bank recedes: And thou await renewal of the day." "Salve Regina," on the grass and flowers Here chanting I beheld those spirits sit Who not beyond the valley could be seen. "Before the west'ring sun sink to his bed," Began the Mantuan, who our steps had turn'd, "He, so robust of limb, who measure keeps In song, with him of feature prominent, With ev'ry virtue bore his girdle brac'd. And if that stripling who behinds him sits, King after him had liv'd, his virtue then From vessel to like vessel had been pour'd; Which may not of the other heirs be said. By James and Frederick his realms are held; Neither the better heritage obtains. Rarely into the branches of the tree Doth human worth mount up; and so ordains He who bestows it, that as his free gift It may be call'd. To Charles my words apply No less than to his brother in the song; Which Pouille and Provence now with grief confess. So much that plant degenerates from its seed, As more than Beatrice and Margaret Costanza still boasts of her valorous spouse. "Behold the king of simple life and plain, Harry of England, sitting there alone: He through his branches better issue spreads. "Te Lucis Ante," so devoutly then Came from its lip, and in so soft a strain, That all my sense in ravishment was lost. And the rest after, softly and devout, Follow'd through all the hymn, with upward gaze Directed to the bright supernal wheels. Here, reader! for the truth makes thine eyes keen: For of so subtle texture is this veil, That thou with ease mayst pass it through unmark'd. Well I descried the whiteness on their heads; But in their visages the dazzled eye Was lost, as faculty that by too much Is overpower'd. "From Mary's bosom both Are come," exclaim'd Sordello, "as a guard Over the vale, ganst him, who hither tends, The serpent." Whence, not knowing by which path He came, I turn'd me round, and closely press'd, All frozen, to my leader's trusted side. He spoke, and in his visage took the stamp Of that right seal, which with due temperature Glows in the bosom. My insatiate eyes Meanwhile to heav'n had travel'd, even there Where the bright stars are slowest, as a wheel Nearest the axle; when my guide inquir'd: "What there aloft, my son, has caught thy gaze?" While yet he spoke. Sordello to himself Drew him, and cry'd: "Lo there our enemy!" And with his hand pointed that way to look. The Spirit (who to Nino, when he call'd, Had come), from viewing me with fixed ken, Through all that conflict, loosen'd not his sight. Grasp'd in his hand a naked sword, glanc'd back The rays so toward me, that I oft in vain My sight directed. "Speak from whence ye stand:" He cried: "What would ye? Where is your escort? Take heed your coming upward harm ye not." "With humble heart, that he unbar the bolt." Then of that hallow'd gate he thrust the door, Exclaiming, "Enter, but this warning hear: He forth again departs who looks behind." When we had passed the threshold of the gate (Which the soul's ill affection doth disuse, Making the crooked seem the straighter path), I heard its closing sound. Had mine eyes turn'd, For that offence what plea might have avail'd? We mounted up the riven rock, that wound On either side alternate, as the wave Flies and advances. "Here some little art Behooves us," said my leader, "that our steps Observe the varying flexure of the path." The wretch appear'd amid all these to say: "Grant vengeance, sire! for, woe beshrew this heart My son is murder'd." He replying seem'd; He, whose ken nothing new surveys, produc'd That visible speaking, new to us and strange The like not found on earth. Fondly I gaz'd Upon those patterns of meek humbleness, Shapes yet more precious for their artist's sake, When "Lo," the poet whisper'd, "where this way (But slack their pace), a multitude advance. These to the lofty steps shall guide us on." Mine eyes, though bent on view of novel sights Their lov'd allurement, were not slow to turn. Christians and proud! poor and wretched ones! That feeble in the mind's eye, lean your trust Upon unstaid perverseness! now ye not That we are worms, yet made at last to form The winged insect, imp'd with angel plumes That to heaven's justice unobstructed soars? Why buoy ye up aloft your unfleg'd souls? Abortive then and shapeless ye remain, Like the untimely embryon of a worm! As, to support incumbent floor or roof, For corbel is a figure sometimes seen, That crumples up its knees unto its breast, With the feign'd posture stirring ruth unfeign'd In the beholder's fancy; so I saw These fashion'd, when I noted well their guise. Each, as his back was laden, came indeed Or more or less contract; but it appear'd As he, who show'd most patience in his look, Wailing exclaim'd: "I can endure no more." "O thou Almighty Father, who dost make The heavens thy dwelling, not in bounds confin'd, But that with love intenser there thou view'st Thy primal effluence, hallow'd be thy name: Join each created being to extol Thy might, for worthy humblest thanks and praise Is thy blest Spirit. May thy kingdom's peace Come unto us; for we, unless it come, With all our striving thither tend in vain. As of their will the angels unto thee Tender meet sacrifice, circling thy throne With loud hosannas, so of theirs be done By saintly men on earth. Grant us this day Our daily manna, without which he roams Through this rough desert retrograde, who most Toils to advance his steps. As we to each Pardon the evil done us, pardon thou Benign, and of our merit take no count. 'Gainst the old adversary prove thou not Our virtue easily subdu'd; but free From his incitements and defeat his wiles. This last petition, dearest Lord! is made Not for ourselves, since that were needless now, But for their sakes who after us remain." "Art thou not Oderigi, art not thou Agobbio's glory, glory of that art Which they of Paris call the limmer's skill?" "When at his glory's topmost height," said he, "Respect of dignity all cast aside, Freely He fix'd him on Sienna's plain, A suitor to redeem his suff'ring friend, Who languish'd in the prison-house of Charles, Nor for his sake refus'd through every vein To tremble. More I will not say; and dark, I know, my words are, but thy neighbours soon Shall help thee to a comment on the text. This is the work, that from these limits freed him." I now my leader's track not loth pursued; And each had shown how light we far'd along When thus he warn'd me: "Bend thine eyesight down: For thou to ease the way shall find it good To ruminate the bed beneath thy feet." O Niobe! in what a trance of woe Thee I beheld, upon that highway drawn, Sev'n sons on either side thee slain! Saul! How ghastly didst thou look! on thine own sword Expiring in Gilboa, from that hour Ne'er visited with rain from heav'n or dew! O Rehoboam! here thy shape doth seem Louring no more defiance! but fear-smote With none to chase him in his chariot whirl'd. Was shown beside upon the solid floor How dear Alcmaeon forc'd his mother rate That ornament in evil hour receiv'd: How in the temple on Sennacherib fell His sons, and how a corpse they left him there. Was shown the scath and cruel mangling made By Tomyris on Cyrus, when she cried: "Blood thou didst thirst for, take thy fill of blood!" Was shown how routed in the battle fled Th' Assyrians, Holofernes slain, and e'en The relics of the carnage. Troy I mark'd In ashes and in caverns. Oh! how fall'n, How abject, Ilion, was thy semblance there! What master of the pencil or the style Had trac'd the shades and lines, that might have made The subtlest workman wonder? Dead the dead, The living seem'd alive; with clearer view His eye beheld not who beheld the truth, Than mine what I did tread on, while I went Low bending. Now swell out; and with stiff necks Pass on, ye sons of Eve! veil not your looks, Lest they descry the evil of your path! Time's loss he had so often warn'd me 'gainst, I could not miss the scope at which he aim'd. The goodly shape approach'd us, snowy white In vesture, and with visage casting streams Of tremulous lustre like the matin star. His arms he open'd, then his wings; and spake: "Onward: the steps, behold! are near; and now Th' ascent is without difficulty gain'd." A scanty few are they, who when they hear Such tidings, hasten. O ye race of men Though born to soar, why suffer ye a wind So slight to baffle ye? He led us on Where the rock parted; here against my front Did beat his wings, then promis'd I should fare In safety on my way. As to ascend That steep, upon whose brow the chapel stands (O'er Rubaconte, looking lordly down On the well-guided city,) up the right Th' impetuous rise is broken by the steps Carv'd in that old and simple age, when still The registry and label rested safe; Thus is th' acclivity reliev'd, which here Precipitous from the other circuit falls: But on each hand the tall cliff presses close. Shadow nor image there is seen; all smooth The rampart and the path, reflecting nought But the rock's sullen hue. "If here we wait For some to question," said the bard, "I fear Our choice may haply meet too long delay." Then fixedly upon the sun his eyes He fastn'd, made his right the central point From whence to move, and turn'd the left aside. "O pleasant light, my confidence and hope, Conduct us thou," he cried, "on this new way, Where now I venture, leading to the bourn We seek. The universal world to thee Owes warmth and lustre. If no other cause Forbid, thy beams should ever be our guide." "This circuit," said my teacher, "knots the scourge For envy, and the cords are therefore drawn By charity's correcting hand. The curb Is of a harsher sound, as thou shalt hear (If I deem rightly), ere thou reach the pass, Where pardon sets them free. But fix thine eyes Intently through the air, and thou shalt see A multitude before thee seated, each Along the shelving grot." Then more than erst I op'd my eyes, before me view'd, and saw Shadows with garments dark as was the rock; And when we pass'd a little forth, I heard A crying, "Blessed Mary! pray for us, Michael and Peter! all ye saintly host!" So most to stir compassion, not by sound Of words alone, but that, which moves not less, The sight of mis'ry. And as never beam Of noonday visiteth the eyeless man, E'en so was heav'n a niggard unto these Of his fair light; for, through the orbs of all, A thread of wire, impiercing, knits them up, As for the taming of a haggard hawk. It were a wrong, methought, to pass and look On others, yet myself the while unseen. To my sage counsel therefore did I turn. He knew the meaning of the mute appeal, Nor waited for my questioning, but said: "Speak; and be brief, be subtle in thy words." On that part of the cornice, whence no rim Engarlands its steep fall, did Virgil come; On the' other side me were the spirits, their cheeks Bathing devout with penitential tears, That through the dread impalement forc'd a way. I turn'd me to them, and "O shades!" said I, "Assur'd that to your eyes unveil'd shall shine The lofty light, sole object of your wish, So may heaven's grace clear whatsoe'er of foam Floats turbid on the conscience, that thenceforth The stream of mind roll limpid from its source, As ye declare (for so shall ye impart A boon I dearly prize) if any soul Of Latium dwell among ye; and perchance That soul may profit, if I learn so much." So heard I answering, as appeal'd, a voice That onward came some space from whence I stood. She thus: "Who then amongst us here aloft Hath brought thee, if thou weenest to return?" "Say who is he around our mountain winds, Or ever death has prun'd his wing for flight, That opes his eyes and covers them at will?" "I know not who he is, but know thus much He comes not singly. Do thou ask of him, For thou art nearer to him, and take heed Accost him gently, so that he may speak." His visage and the other's speech did raise Desire in me to know the names of both, whereof with meek entreaty I inquir'd. We knew those gentle spirits at parting heard Our steps. Their silence therefore of our way Assur'd us. Soon as we had quitted them, Advancing onward, lo! a voice that seem'd Like vollied light'ning, when it rives the air, Met us, and shouted, "Whosoever finds Will slay me," then fled from us, as the bolt Lanc'd sudden from a downward-rushing cloud. When it had giv'n short truce unto our hearing, Behold the other with a crash as loud As the quick-following thunder: "Mark in me Aglauros turn'd to rock." I at the sound Retreating drew more closely to my guide. Now in mute stillness rested all the air: And thus he spake: "There was the galling bit. But your old enemy so baits his hook, He drags you eager to him. Hence nor curb Avails you, nor reclaiming call. Heav'n calls And round about you wheeling courts your gaze With everlasting beauties. Yet your eye Turns with fond doting still upon the earth. Therefore He smites you who discerneth all." Evening was there, and here the noon of night; and full upon our forehead smote the beams. For round the mountain, circling, so our path Had led us, that toward the sun-set now Direct we journey'd: when I felt a weight Of more exceeding splendour, than before, Press on my front. The cause unknown, amaze Possess'd me, and both hands against my brow Lifting, I interpos'd them, as a screen, That of its gorgeous superflux of light Clipp'd the diminish'd orb. As when the ray, Striking On water or the surface clear Of mirror, leaps unto the opposite part, Ascending at a glance, e'en as it fell, (And so much differs from the stone, that falls Through equal space, as practice skill hath shown); Thus with refracted light before me seemed The ground there smitten; whence in sudden haste My sight recoil'd. "What is this, sire belov'd! 'Gainst which I strive to shield the sight in vain?" Cried I, "and which towards us moving seems?" "Marvel not, if the family of heav'n," He answer'd, "yet with dazzling radiance dim Thy sense it is a messenger who comes, Inviting man's ascent. Such sights ere long, Not grievous, shall impart to thee delight, As thy perception is by nature wrought Up to their pitch." The blessed angel, soon As we had reach'd him, hail'd us with glad voice: "Here enter on a ladder far less steep Than ye have yet encounter'd." We forthwith Ascending, heard behind us chanted sweet, "Blessed the merciful," and "happy thou! That conquer'st." Lonely each, my guide and I Pursued our upward way; and as we went, Some profit from his words I hop'd to win, And thus of him inquiring, fram'd my speech: "What meant Romagna's spirit, when he spake Of bliss exclusive with no partner shar'd?" He straight replied: "No wonder, since he knows, What sorrow waits on his own worst defect, If he chide others, that they less may mourn. Because ye point your wishes at a mark, Where, by communion of possessors, part Is lessen'd, envy bloweth up the sighs of men. No fear of that might touch ye, if the love Of higher sphere exalted your desire. For there, by how much more they call it ours, So much propriety of each in good Increases more, and heighten'd charity Wraps that fair cloister in a brighter flame." Praying forgiveness of th' Almighty Sire, Amidst that cruel conflict, on his foes, With looks, that With compassion to their aim. Soon as my spirit, from her airy flight Returning, sought again the things, whose truth Depends not on her shaping, I observ'd How she had rov'd to no unreal scenes "Beloved father! so thou deign," said I, "To listen, I will tell thee what appear'd Before me, when so fail'd my sinking steps." So on we journey'd through the evening sky Gazing intent, far onward, as our eyes With level view could stretch against the bright Vespertine ray: and lo! by slow degrees Gath'ring, a fog made tow'rds us, dark as night. There was no room for 'scaping; and that mist Bereft us, both of sight and the pure air. "Long as 't is lawful for me, shall my steps Follow on thine; and since the cloudy smoke Forbids the seeing, hearing in its stead Shall keep us join'd." I then forthwith began "Yet in my mortal swathing, I ascend To higher regions, and am hither come Through the fearful agony of hell. And, if so largely God hath doled his grace, That, clean beside all modern precedent, He wills me to behold his kingly state, From me conceal not who thou wast, ere death Had loos'd thee; but instruct me: and instruct If rightly to the pass I tend; thy words The way directing as a safe escort." "O Marco!" I replied, shine arguments Convince me: and the cause I now discern Why of the heritage no portion came To Levi's offspring. But resolve me this Who that Gherardo is, that as thou sayst Is left a sample of the perish'd race, And for rebuke to this untoward age?" "Either thy words," said he, "deceive; or else Are meant to try me; that thou, speaking Tuscan, Appear'st not to have heard of good Gherado; The sole addition that, by which I know him; Unless I borrow'd from his daughter Gaia Another name to grace him. God be with you. I bear you company no more. Behold The dawn with white ray glimm'ring through the mist. I must away--the angel comes--ere he Appear." He said, and would not hear me more. Thus with my leader's feet still equaling pace From forth that cloud I came, when now expir'd The parting beams from off the nether shores. Now to such height above our heads were rais'd The last beams, follow'd close by hooded night, That many a star on all sides through the gloom Shone out. "Why partest from me, O my strength?" So with myself I commun'd; for I felt My o'ertoil'd sinews slacken. We had reach'd The summit, and were fix'd like to a bark Arriv'd at land. And waiting a short space, If aught should meet mine ear in that new round, Then to my guide I turn'd, and said: "Lov'd sire! Declare what guilt is on this circle purg'd. If our feet rest, no need thy speech should pause." The steep already turning, from behind, Rush'd on. With fury and like random rout, As echoing on their shores at midnight heard Ismenus and Asopus, for his Thebes If Bacchus' help were needed; so came these Tumultuous, curving each his rapid step, By eagerness impell'd of holy love. "O ye, in whom intenser fervency Haply supplies, where lukewarm erst ye fail'd, Slow or neglectful, to absolve your part Of good and virtuous, this man, who yet lives, (Credit my tale, though strange) desires t' ascend, So morning rise to light us. Therefore say Which hand leads nearest to the rifted rock?" I straightway rose. Now day, pour'd down from high, Fill'd all the circuits of the sacred mount; And, as we journey'd, on our shoulder smote The early ray. I follow'd, stooping low My forehead, as a man, o'ercharg'd with thought, Who bends him to the likeness of an arch, That midway spans the flood; when thus I heard, "Come, enter here," in tone so soft and mild, As never met the ear on mortal strand. With swan-like wings dispread and pointing up, Who thus had spoken marshal'd us along, Where each side of the solid masonry The sloping, walls retir'd; then mov'd his plumes, And fanning us, affirm'd that those, who mourn, Are blessed, for that comfort shall be theirs. "What aileth thee, that still thou look'st to earth?" Began my leader; while th' angelic shape A little over us his station took. "If ye approach secure from this our doom, Prostration--and would urge your course with speed, See that ye still to rightward keep the brink." So them the bard besought; and such the words, Beyond us some short space, in answer came. Ill strives the will, 'gainst will more wise that strives His pleasure therefore to mine own preferr'd, I drew the sponge yet thirsty from the wave. The words so pleas'd me, that desire to know The spirit, from whose lip they seem'd to come, Did draw me onward. Yet it spake the gift Of Nicholas, which on the maidens he Bounteous bestow'd, to save their youthful prime Unblemish'd. "Spirit! who dost speak of deeds So worthy, tell me who thou was," I said, "And why thou dost with single voice renew Memorial of such praise. That boon vouchsaf'd Haply shall meet reward; if I return To finish the Short pilgrimage of life, Still speeding to its close on restless wing." Now down he bent t' embrace my teacher's feet; But he forbade him: "Brother! do it not: Thou art a shadow, and behold'st a shade." He rising answer'd thus: "Now hast thou prov'd The force and ardour of the love I bear thee, When I forget we are but things of air, And as a substance treat an empty shade." To whom the sovran of the pastoral song: "While thou didst sing that cruel warfare wag'd By the twin sorrow of Jocasta's womb, From thy discourse with Clio there, it seems As faith had not been shine: without the which Good deeds suffice not. And if so, what sun Rose on thee, or what candle pierc'd the dark That thou didst after see to hoist the sail, And follow, where the fisherman had led?" They on before me went; I sole pursued, List'ning their speech, that to my thoughts convey'd Mysterious lessons of sweet poesy. But soon they ceas'd; for midway of the road A tree we found, with goodly fruitage hung, And pleasant to the smell: and as a fir Upward from bough to bough less ample spreads, So downward this less ample spread, that none. Methinks, aloft may climb. Upon the side, That clos'd our path, a liquid crystal fell From the steep rock, and through the sprays above Stream'd showering. With associate step the bards Drew near the plant; and from amidst the leaves A voice was heard: "Ye shall be chary of me;" And after added: "Mary took more thought For joy and honour of the nuptial feast, Than for herself who answers now for you. The women of old Rome were satisfied With water for their beverage. Daniel fed On pulse, and wisdom gain'd. The primal age Was beautiful as gold; and hunger then Made acorns tasteful, thirst each rivulet Run nectar. Honey and locusts were the food, Whereon the Baptist in the wilderness Fed, and that eminence of glory reach'd And greatness, which the' Evangelist records." On the green leaf mine eyes were fix'd, like his Who throws away his days in idle chase Of the diminutive, when thus I heard The more than father warn me: "Son! our time Asks thriftier using. Linger not: away." "Spirits," said he, "who as they go, perchance, Their debt of duty pay." As on their road The thoughtful pilgrims, overtaking some Not known unto them, turn to them, and look, But stay not; thus, approaching from behind With speedier motion, eyed us, as they pass'd, A crowd of spirits, silent and devout. The eyes of each were dark and hollow: pale Their visage, and so lean withal, the bones Stood staring thro' the skin. I do not think Thus dry and meagre Erisicthon show'd, When pinc'ed by sharp-set famine to the quick. "Lo!" to myself I mus'd, "the race, who lost Jerusalem, when Mary with dire beak Prey'd on her child." The sockets seem'd as rings, From which the gems were drops. Who reads the name Of man upon his forehead, there the M Had trac'd most plainly. Who would deem, that scent Of water and an apple, could have prov'd Powerful to generate such pining want, Not knowing how it wrought? While now I stood Wond'ring what thus could waste them (for the cause Of their gaunt hollowness and scaly rind Appear'd not) lo! a spirit turn'd his eyes In their deep-sunken cell, and fasten'd then On me, then cried with vehemence aloud: "What grace is this vouchsaf'd me?" By his looks I ne'er had recogniz'd him: but the voice Brought to my knowledge what his cheer conceal'd. Remembrance of his alter'd lineaments Was kindled from that spark; and I agniz'd The visage of Forese. "Ah! respect This wan and leprous wither'd skin," thus he Suppliant implor'd, "this macerated flesh. Speak to me truly of thyself. And who Are those twain spirits, that escort thee there? Be it not said thou Scorn'st to talk with me." Our journey was not slacken'd by our talk, Nor yet our talk by journeying. Still we spake, And urg'd our travel stoutly, like a ship When the wind sits astern. The shadowy forms, "Spirit!" said I, "it seems as thou wouldst fain Speak with me. Let me hear thee. Mutual wish To converse prompts, which let us both indulge." He, answ'ring, straight began: "Woman is born, Whose brow no wimple shades yet, that shall make My city please thee, blame it as they may. Go then with this forewarning. If aught false My whisper too implied, th' event shall tell But say, if of a truth I see the man Of that new lay th' inventor, which begins With 'Ladies, ye that con the lore of love'." Like as the bird, that winter near the Nile, In squared regiment direct their course, Then stretch themselves in file for speedier flight; Thus all the tribe of spirits, as they turn'd Their visage, faster deaf, nimble alike Through leanness and desire. And as a man, Tir'd With the motion of a trotting steed, Slacks pace, and stays behind his company, Till his o'erbreathed lungs keep temperate time; E'en so Forese let that holy crew Proceed, behind them lingering at my side, And saying: "When shall I again behold thee?" "How long my life may last," said I, "I know not; This know, how soon soever I return, My wishes will before me have arriv'd. Sithence the place, where I am set to live, Is, day by day, more scoop'd of all its good, And dismal ruin seems to threaten it." "Go now," he cried: "lo! he, whose guilt is most, Passes before my vision, dragg'd at heels Of an infuriate beast. Toward the vale, Where guilt hath no redemption, on it speeds, Each step increasing swiftness on the last; Until a blow it strikes, that leaveth him A corse most vilely shatter'd. No long space Those wheels have yet to roll" (therewith his eyes Look'd up to heav'n) "ere thou shalt plainly see That which my words may not more plainly tell. I quit thee: time is precious here: I lose Too much, thus measuring my pace with shine." When he beyond us had so fled mine eyes No nearer reach'd him, than my thought his words, The branches of another fruit, thick hung, And blooming fresh, appear'd. E'en as our steps Turn'd thither, not far off it rose to view. Beneath it were a multitude, that rais'd Their hands, and shouted forth I know not What Unto the boughs; like greedy and fond brats, That beg, and answer none obtain from him, Of whom they beg; but more to draw them on, He at arm's length the object of their wish Above them holds aloft, and hides it not. At length, as undeceiv'd they went their way: And we approach the tree, who vows and tears Sue to in vain, the mighty tree. "Pass on, And come not near. Stands higher up the wood, Whereof Eve tasted, and from it was ta'en 'this plant." Such sounds from midst the thickets came. Whence I, with either bard, close to the side That rose, pass'd forth beyond. "Remember," next We heard, "those noblest creatures of the clouds, How they their twofold bosoms overgorg'd Oppos'd in fight to Theseus: call to mind The Hebrews, how effeminate they stoop'd To ease their thirst; whence Gideon's ranks were thinn'd, As he to Midian march'd adown the hills." As when, to harbinger the dawn, springs up On freshen'd wing the air of May, and breathes Of fragrance, all impregn'd with herb and flowers, E'en such a wind I felt upon my front Blow gently, and the moving of a wing Perceiv'd, that moving shed ambrosial smell; And then a voice: "Blessed are they, whom grace Doth so illume, that appetite in them Exhaleth no inordinate desire, Still hung'ring as the rule of temperance wills." E'en as the young stork lifteth up his wing Through wish to fly, yet ventures not to quit The nest, and drops it; so in me desire Of questioning my guide arose, and fell, Arriving even to the act, that marks A man prepar'd for speech. Him all our haste Restrain'd not, but thus spake the sire belov'd: Fear not to speed the shaft, that on thy lip Stands trembling for its flight. Encourag'd thus I straight began: "How there can leanness come, Where is no want of nourishment to feed?" "If thou," he answer'd, "hadst remember'd thee, How Meleager with the wasting brand Wasted alike, by equal fires consum'd, This would not trouble thee: and hadst thou thought, How in the mirror your reflected form With mimic motion vibrates, what now seems Hard, had appear'd no harder than the pulp Of summer fruit mature. But that thy will In certainty may find its full repose, Lo Statius here! on him I call, and pray That he would now be healer of thy wound." "Open thy bosom to the truth that comes. Know soon as in the embryo, to the brain, Articulation is complete, then turns The primal Mover with a smile of joy On such great work of nature, and imbreathes New spirit replete with virtue, that what here Active it finds, to its own substance draws, And forms an individual soul, that lives, And feels, and bends reflective on itself. And that thou less mayst marvel at the word, Mark the sun's heat, how that to wine doth change, Mix'd with the moisture filter'd through the vine. Now the last flexure of our way we reach'd, And to the right hand turning, other care Awaits us. Here the rocky precipice Hurls forth redundant flames, and from the rim A blast upblown, with forcible rebuff Driveth them back, sequester'd from its bound. While singly thus along the rim we walk'd, Oft the good master warn'd me: "Look thou well. Avail it that I caution thee." The sun Now all the western clime irradiate chang'd From azure tinct to white; and, as I pass'd, My passing shadow made the umber'd flame Burn ruddier. At so strange a sight I mark'd That many a spirit marvel'd on his way. "Those dulcet lays," I answer'd, "which, as long As of our tongue the beauty does not fade, Shall make us love the very ink that trac'd them." I, to the spirit he had shown me, drew A little onward, and besought his name, For which my heart, I said, kept gracious room. He frankly thus began: "Thy courtesy So wins on me, I have nor power nor will To hide me. I am Arnault; and with songs, Sorely lamenting for my folly past, Thorough this ford of fire I wade, and see The day, I hope for, smiling in my view. I pray ye by the worth that guides ye up Unto the summit of the scale, in time Remember ye my suff'rings." With such words He disappear'd in the refining flame. So day was sinking, when the' angel of God Appear'd before us. Joy was in his mien. Forth of the flame he stood upon the brink, And with a voice, whose lively clearness far Surpass'd our human, "Blessed are the pure In heart," he Sang: then near him as we came, "Go ye not further, holy spirits!" he cried, "Ere the fire pierce you: enter in; and list Attentive to the song ye hear from thence." I would have cast me into molten glass To cool me, when I enter'd; so intense Rag'd the conflagrant mass. The sire belov'd, To comfort me, as he proceeded, still Of Beatrice talk'd. "Her eyes," saith he, "E'en now I seem to view." From the other side A voice, that sang, did guide us, and the voice Following, with heedful ear, we issued forth, There where the path led upward. "Come," we heard, "Come, blessed of my Father." Such the sounds, That hail'd us from within a light, which shone So radiant, I could not endure the view. "The sun," it added, "hastes: and evening comes. Delay not: ere the western sky is hung With blackness, strive ye for the pass." Our way Upright within the rock arose, and fac'd Such part of heav'n, that from before my steps The beams were shrouded of the sinking sun. And now as glimm'ring dawn appear'd, that breaks More welcome to the pilgrim still, as he Sojourns less distant on his homeward way, Darkness from all sides fled, and with it fled My slumber; whence I rose and saw my guide Already risen. "That delicious fruit, Which through so many a branch the zealous care Of mortals roams in quest of, shall this day Appease thy hunger." Such the words I heard From Virgil's lip; and never greeting heard So pleasant as the sounds. Within me straight Desire so grew upon desire to mount, Thenceforward at each step I felt the wings Increasing for my flight. When we had run O'er all the ladder to its topmost round, As there we stood, on me the Mantuan fix'd His eyes, and thus he spake: "Both fires, my son, The temporal and eternal, thou hast seen, And art arriv'd, where of itself my ken No further reaches. I with skill and art Thus far have drawn thee. Now thy pleasure take For guide. Thou hast o'ercome the steeper way, O'ercome the straighter. Lo! the sun, that darts His beam upon thy forehead! lo! the herb, The arboreta and flowers, which of itself This land pours forth profuse! Will those bright eyes With gladness come, which, weeping, made me haste To succour thee, thou mayst or seat thee down, Or wander where thou wilt. Expect no more Sanction of warning voice or sign from me, Free of thy own arbitrement to choose, Discreet, judicious. To distrust thy sense Were henceforth error. I invest thee then With crown and mitre, sovereign o'er thyself." My feet advanc'd not; but my wond'ring eyes Pass'd onward, o'er the streamlet, to survey The tender May-bloom, flush'd through many a hue, In prodigal variety: and there, As object, rising suddenly to view, That from our bosom every thought beside With the rare marvel chases, I beheld A lady all alone, who, singing, went, And culling flower from flower, wherewith her way Was all o'er painted. "Lady beautiful! Thou, who (if looks, that use to speak the heart, Are worthy of our trust), with love's own beam Dost warm thee," thus to her my speech I fram'd: "Ah! please thee hither towards the streamlet bend Thy steps so near, that I may list thy song. Beholding thee and this fair place, methinks, I call to mind where wander'd and how look'd Proserpine, in that season, when her child The mother lost, and she the bloomy spring." "Strangers ye come, and haply in this place, That cradled human nature in its birth, Wond'ring, ye not without suspicion view My smiles: but that sweet strain of psalmody, 'Thou, Lord! hast made me glad,' will give ye light, Which may uncloud your minds. And thou, who stand'st The foremost, and didst make thy suit to me, Say if aught else thou wish to hear: for I Came prompt to answer every doubt of thine." While through that wilderness of primy sweets That never fade, suspense I walk'd, and yet Expectant of beatitude more high, Before us, like a blazing fire, the air Under the green boughs glow'd; and, for a song, Distinct the sound of melody was heard. I turn'd me full of wonder to my guide; And he did answer with a countenance Charg'd with no less amazement: whence my view Reverted to those lofty things, which came So slowly moving towards us, that the bride Would have outstript them on her bridal day. The lady called aloud: "Why thus yet burns Affection in thee for these living, lights, And dost not look on that which follows them?" I straightway mark'd a tribe behind them walk, As if attendant on their leaders, cloth'd With raiment of such whiteness, as on earth Was never. On my left, the wat'ry gleam Borrow'd, and gave me back, when there I look'd. As in a mirror, my left side portray'd. And o'er my Spirit, that in former days Within her presence had abode so long, No shudd'ring terror crept. Mine eyes no more Had knowledge of her; yet there mov'd from her A hidden virtue, at whose touch awak'd, The power of ancient love was strong within me. No sooner on my vision streaming, smote The heav'nly influence, which years past, and e'en In childhood, thrill'd me, than towards Virgil I Turn'd me to leftward, panting, like a babe, That flees for refuge to his mother's breast, If aught have terrified or work'd him woe: And would have cried: "There is no dram of blood, That doth not quiver in me. The old flame Throws out clear tokens of reviving fire:" But Virgil had bereav'd us of himself, Virgil, my best-lov'd father; Virgil, he To whom I gave me up for safety: nor, All, our prime mother lost, avail'd to save My undew'd cheeks from blur of soiling tears. "Dante, weep not, that Virgil leaves thee: nay, Weep thou not yet: behooves thee feel the edge Of other sword, and thou shalt weep for that." As to the prow or stern, some admiral Paces the deck, inspiriting his crew, When 'mid the sail-yards all hands ply aloof; Thus on the left side of the car I saw, (Turning me at the sound of mine own name, Which here I am compell'd to register) The virgin station'd, who before appeared Veil'd in that festive shower angelical. "O Thou!" her words she thus without delay Resuming, turn'd their point on me, to whom They but with lateral edge seem'd harsh before, "Say thou, who stand'st beyond the holy stream, If this be true. A charge so grievous needs Thine own avowal." On my faculty Such strange amazement hung, the voice expir'd Imperfect, ere its organs gave it birth. A little space refraining, then she spake: "What dost thou muse on? Answer me. The wave On thy remembrances of evil yet Hath done no injury." A mingled sense Of fear and of confusion, from my lips Did such a "Yea" produce, as needed help Of vision to interpret. As when breaks In act to be discharg'd, a cross-bow bent Beyond its pitch, both nerve and bow o'erstretch'd, The flagging weapon feebly hits the mark; Thus, tears and sighs forth gushing, did I burst Beneath the heavy load, and thus my voice Was slacken'd on its way. She straight began: "When my desire invited thee to love The good, which sets a bound to our aspirings, What bar of thwarting foss or linked chain Did meet thee, that thou so should'st quit the hope Of further progress, or what bait of ease Or promise of allurement led thee on Elsewhere, that thou elsewhere should'st rather wait?" I stood, as children silent and asham'd Stand, list'ning, with their eyes upon the earth, Acknowledging their fault and self-condemn'd. And she resum'd: "If, but to hear thus pains thee, Raise thou thy beard, and lo! what sight shall do!" With less reluctance yields a sturdy holm, Rent from its fibers by a blast, that blows From off the pole, or from Iarbas' land, Than I at her behest my visage rais'd: And thus the face denoting by the beard, I mark'd the secret sting her words convey'd. Awhile my vision labor'd; as when late Upon the' o'erstrained eyes the sun hath smote: But soon to lesser object, as the view Was now recover'd (lesser in respect To that excess of sensible, whence late I had perforce been sunder'd) on their right I mark'd that glorious army wheel, and turn, Against the sun and sev'nfold lights, their front. As when, their bucklers for protection rais'd, A well-rang'd troop, with portly banners curl'd, Wheel circling, ere the whole can change their ground: E'en thus the goodly regiment of heav'n Proceeding, all did pass us, ere the car Had slop'd his beam. Attendant at the wheels The damsels turn'd; and on the Gryphon mov'd The sacred burden, with a pace so smooth, No feather on him trembled. The fair dame Who through the wave had drawn me, companied By Statius and myself, pursued the wheel, Whose orbit, rolling, mark'd a lesser arch. As when large floods of radiance from above Stream, with that radiance mingled, which ascends Next after setting of the scaly sign, Our plants then burgeon, and each wears anew His wonted colours, ere the sun have yok'd Beneath another star his flamy steeds; Thus putting forth a hue, more faint than rose, And deeper than the violet, was renew'd The plant, erewhile in all its branches bare. "A little while thou shalt be forester here: And citizen shalt be forever with me, Of that true Rome, wherein Christ dwells a Roman To profit the misguided world, keep now Thine eyes upon the car; and what thou seest, Take heed thou write, returning to that place." Thus Beatrice: at whose feet inclin'd Devout, at her behest, my thought and eyes, I, as she bade, directed. Never fire, With so swift motion, forth a stormy cloud Leap'd downward from the welkin's farthest bound, As I beheld the bird of Jove descending Pounce on the tree, and, as he rush'd, the rind, Disparting crush beneath him, buds much more And leaflets. On the car with all his might He struck, whence, staggering like a ship, it reel'd, At random driv'n, to starboard now, o'ercome, And now to larboard, by the vaulting waves. "The heathen, Lord! are come!" responsive thus, The trinal now, and now the virgin band Quaternion, their sweet psalmody began, Weeping; and Beatrice listen'd, sad And sighing, to the song', in such a mood, That Mary, as she stood beside the cross, Was scarce more chang'd. But when they gave her place To speak, then, risen upright on her feet, She, with a colour glowing bright as fire, Did answer: "Yet a little while, and ye Shall see me not; and, my beloved sisters, Again a little while, and ye shall see me." To such entreaty answer thus was made: "Entreat Matilda, that she teach thee this." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Divine Comedy of Dante: Purgatory by Dante Alighieri	redpajama-book	13,044
Produced by Imran Ghory, Stan Goodman, Richard Prairie and PG Distributed Proofreaders BIOLOGICAL & GEOLOGICAL On the contrary, I found that the task of putting the truths learned in the field, the laboratory and the museum, into language which, without bating a jot of scientific accuracy shall be generally intelligible, taxed such scientific and literary faculty as I possessed to the uttermost; indeed my experience has furnished me with no better corrective of the tendency to scholastic pedantry which besets all those who are absorbed in pursuits remote from the common ways of men, and become habituated to think and speak in the technical dialect of their own little world, as if there were no other. At the same time it must be admitted that the popularization of science, whether by lecture or essay, has its drawbacks. Success in this department has its perils for those who succeed. The "people who fail" take their revenge, as we have recently had occasion to observe, by ignoring all the rest of a man's work and glibly labelling him a more popularizer. If the falsehood were not too glaring, they would say the same of Faraday and Helmholtz and Kelvin. On the other hand, of the affliction caused by persons who think that what they have picked up from popular exposition qualifies them for discussing the great problems of science, it may be said, as the Radical toast said of the power of the Crown in bygone days, that it "has increased, is increasing, and ought to be diminished." The oddities of "English as she is spoke" might be abundantly paralleled by those of "Science as she is misunderstood" in the sermon, the novel, and the leading article; and a collection of the grotesque travesties of scientific conceptions, in the shape of essays on such trifles as "the Nature of Life" and the "Origin of All Things," which reach me, from time to time, might well be bound up with them. And I take the opportunity of repeating the opinion, that, whether what we call geological time has the lower limit assigned to it by Lord Kelvin, or the higher assumed by other philosophers; whether the germs of all living things have originated in the globe itself, or whether they have been imported on, or in, meteorites from without, the problem of the origin of those successive Faunae and Florae of the earth, the existence of which is fully demonstrated by paleontology remains exactly where it was. For I think it will be admitted, that the germs brought to us by meteorites, if any, were not ova of elephants, nor of crocodiles; not cocoa-nuts nor acorns; not even eggs of shell-fish and corals; but only those of the lowest forms of animal and vegetable life. Therefore, since it is proved that, from a very remote epoch of geological time, the earth has been peopled by a continual succession of the higher forms of animals and plants, these either must have been created, or they have arisen by evolution. And in respect of certain groups of animals, the wellestablished facts of paleontology leave no rational doubt that they arose by the latter method. HODESLEA, EASTBOURNE, If a well were sunk at our feet in the midst of the city of Norwich, the diggers would very soon find themselves at work in that white substance almost too soft to be called rock, with which we are all familiar as "chalk." What is this wide-spread component of the surface of the earth? and whence did it come? You may think this no very hopeful inquiry. You may not unnaturally suppose that the attempt to solve such problems as these can lead to no result, save that of entangling the inquirer in vague speculations, incapable of refutation and of verification. If such were really the case, I should have selected some other subject than a "piece of chalk" for my discourse. But, in truth, after much deliberation, I have been unable to think of any topic which would so well enable me to lead you to see how solid is the foundation upon which some of the most startling conclusions of physical science rest. The language of the chalk is not hard to learn, not nearly so hard as Latin, if you only want to get at the broad features of the story it has to tell; and I propose that we now set to work to spell that story out together. We all know that if we "burn" chalk the result is quicklime. Chalk, in fact, is a compound of carbonic acid gas, and lime, and when you make it very hot the carbonic acid flies away and the lime is left. By this method of procedure we see the lime, but we do not see the carbonic acid. If, on the other hand, you were to powder a little chalk and drop it into a good deal of strong vinegar, there would be a great bubbling and fizzing, and, finally, a clear liquid, in which no sign of chalk would appear. Here you see the carbonic acid in the bubbles; the lime, dissolved in the vinegar, vanishes from sight. There are a great many other ways of showing that chalk is essentially nothing but carbonic acid and quicklime. Chemists enunciate the result of all the experiments which prove this, by stating that chalk is almost wholly composed of "carbonate of lime." It is desirable for us to start from the knowledge of this fact, though it may not seem to help us very far towards what we seek. For carbonate of lime is a widely-spread substance, and is met with under very various conditions. All sorts of limestones are composed of more or less pure carbonate of lime. The crust which is often deposited by waters which have drained through limestone rocks, in the form of what are called stalagmites and stalactites, is carbonate of lime. Or, to take a more familiar example, the fur on the inside of a tea-kettle is carbonate of lime; and, for anything chemistry tells us to the contrary, the chalk might be a kind of gigantic fur upon the bottom of the earth-kettle, which is kept pretty hot below. Let us try another method of making the chalk tell us its own history. To the unassisted eye chalk looks simply like a very loose and open kind of stone. But it is possible to grind a slice of chalk down so thin that you can see through it--until it is thin enough, in fact, to be examined with any magnifying power that may be thought desirable. A thin slice of the fur of a kettle might be made in the same way. If it were examined microscopically, it would show itself to be a more or less distinctly laminated mineral substance, and nothing more. However, the important points for us are, that the living _Globigerinoe_ are exclusively marine animals, the skeletons of which abound at the bottom of deep seas; and that there is not a shadow of reason for believing that the habits of the _Globigerinoe_ of the chalk differed from those of the existing species. But if this be true, there is no escaping the conclusion that the chalk itself is the dried mud of an ancient deep sea. It may be worth while briefly to consider a few of these collateral proofs that the chalk was deposited at the bottom of the sea. The great mass of the chalk is composed, as we have seen, of the skeletons of _Globigerinoe_, and other simple organisms, imbedded in granular matter. Here and there, however, this hardened mud of the ancient sea reveals the remains of higher animals which have lived and died, and left their hard parts in the mud, just as the oysters die and leave their shells behind them, in the mud of the present seas. There is more curious evidence, again, that the process of covering up, or, in other words, the deposit of _Globigerina_ skeletons, did not go on very fast. It is demonstrable that an animal of the cretaceous sea might die, that its skeleton might lie uncovered upon the sea-bottom long enough to lose all its outward coverings and appendages by putrefaction; and that, after this had happened, another animal might attach itself to the dead and naked skeleton, might grow to maturity, and might itself die before the calcareous mud had buried the whole. The chalk, then, is certainly older than the boulder clay. If you ask how much, I will again take you no further than the same spot upon your own coasts for evidence. I have spoken of the boulder clay and drift as resting upon the chalk. That is not strictly true. Interposed between the chalk and the drift is a comparatively insignificant layer, containing vegetable matter. But that layer tells a wonderful history. It is full of stumps of trees standing as they grew. Fir-trees are there with their cones, and hazel-bushes with their nuts; there stand the stools of oak and yew trees, beeches and alders. Hence this stratum is appropriately called the "forest-bed." The longest line of human ancestry must hide its diminished head before the pedigree of this insignificant shell-fish. We Englishmen are proud to have an ancestor who was present at the Battle of Hastings. The ancestors of _Terebratulina caput serpentis_ may have been present at a battle of _Ichthyosauria_ in that part of the sea which, when the chalk was forming, flowed over the site of Hastings. While all around has changed, this _Terebratulina_ has peacefully propagated its species from generation to generation, and stands to this day, as a living testimony to the continuity of the present with the past history of the globe. Up to this moment I have stated, so far as I know, nothing but wellauthenticated facts, and the immediate conclusions which they force upon the mind. But the mind is so constituted that it does not willingly rest in facts and immediate causes, but seeks always after a knowledge of the remoter links in the chain of causation. Taking the many changes of any given spot of the earth's surface, from sea to land and from land to sea, as an established fact, we cannot refrain from asking ourselves how these changes have occurred. And when we have explained them--as they must be explained--by the alternate slow movements of elevation and depression which have affected the crust of the earth, we go still further back, and ask, Why these movements? THE PROBLEMS OF THE DEEP SEA The crew of the _Challenger_ match her fittings. Captain Nares, his officers and men, are ready to look after the interests of hydrography, work the ship, and, if need be, fight her as seamen should; while there is a staff of scientific civilians, under the general direction of Dr. Wyville Thomson, F.R.S. (Professor of Natural History in Edinburgh University by rights, but at present detached for duty _in partibus_), whose business it is to turn all the wonderfully packed stores of appliances to account, and to accumulate, before the ship returns to England, such additions to natural knowledge as shall justify the labour and cost involved in the fitting out and maintenance of the expedition. Under the able and zealous superintendence of the Hydrographer, Admiral Richards, every precaution which experience and forethought could devise has been taken to provide the expedition with the material conditions of success; and it would seem as if nothing short of wreck or pestilence, both most improbable contingencies, could prevent the _Challenger_ from doing splendid work, and opening up a new era in the history of scientific voyages. The dispatch of this expedition is the culmination of a series of such enterprises, gradually increasing in magnitude and importance, which the Admiralty, greatly to its credit, has carried out for some years past; and the history of which is given by Dr. Wyville Thomson in the beautifully illustrated volume entitled "The Depths of the Sea," published since his departure. Plain men may be puzzled to understand why Dr. Wyville Thomson, not being a cynic, should relegate the "Land of Promise" to the bottom of the deep sea, they may still more wonder what manner of "milk and honey" the _Challenger_ expects to find; and their perplexity may well rise to its maximum, when they seek to divine the manner in which that milk and honey are to be got out of so inaccessible a Canaan. I will, therefore, endeavour to give some answer to these questions in an order the reverse of that in which I have stated them. And now arises the next question. The means of exploration being fairly adequate, what forms of life may be looked for at these vast depths? In regard to matters of fact, Zimmermann's chief aim is to show that among terrestrial mammals, some occur all over the world, while others are restricted to particular areas of greater or smaller extent; and that the abundance of species follows temperature, being greatest in warm and least in cold climates. But marine animals, he thinks, obey no such law. The Arctic and Atlantic seas, he says, are as full of fishes and other animals as those of the tropics. It is, therefore, clear that cold does not affect the dwellers in the sea as it does land animals, and that this must be the case follows from the fact that sea water, "propter varias quas continet bituminis spiritusque particulas," freezes with much more difficulty than fresh water. On the other hand, the heat of the Equatorial sun penetrates but a short distance below the surface of the ocean. Moreover, according to Zimmermann, the incessant disturbance of the mass of the sea by winds and tides, so mixes up the warm and the cold that life is evenly diffused and abundant throughout the ocean. It is obvious that the _Challenger_ has the privilege of opening a new chapter in the history of the living world. She cannot send down her dredges and her trawls into these virgin depths of the great ocean without bringing up a discovery. Even though the thing itself may be neither "rich nor rare," the fact that it came from that depth, in that particular latitude and longitude, will be a new fact in distribution, and, as such, have a certain importance. But it may be confidently assumed that the things brought up will very frequently be zoological novelties; or, better still, zoological antiquities, which, in the tranquil and little-changed depths of the ocean, have escaped the causes of destruction at work in the shallows, and represent the predominant population of a past age. How did these isolated patches of a northern population get into these deep places? To explain the mystery, Forbes called to mind the fact that, in the epoch which immediately preceded the present, the climate was much colder (whence the name of "glacial epoch" applied to it); and that the shells which are found fossil, or sub-fossil, in deposits of that age are precisely such as are now to be met with only in the Scandinavian, or still more Arctic, regions. Undoubtedly, during the glacial epoch, the general population of our seas had, universally, the northern aspect which is now presented only by the "northern outliers"; just as the vegetation of the land, down to the sea-level, had the northern character which is, at present, exhibited only by the plants which live on the tops of our mountains. But, as the glacial epoch passed away, and the present climatal conditions were developed, the northern plants were able to maintain themselves only on the bleak heights, on which southern forms could not compete with them. And, in like manner, Forbes suggested that, after the glacial epoch, the northern animals then inhabiting the sea became restricted to the deeps in which they could hold their own against invaders from the south, better fitted than they to flourish in the warmer waters of the shallows. Thus depth in the sea corresponded in its effect upon distribution to height on the land. Professor Duncan finds "several corals from the coast of Portugal more nearly allied to chalk forms than to any others." How does this apparently anomalous state of things come about? If we suppose the globe to be covered with a universal ocean, it can hardly be doubted that the cold of the regions towards the poles must tend to cause the superficial water of those regions to contract and become specifically heavier. Under these circumstances, it would have no alternative but to descend and spread over the sea bottom, while its place would be taken by warmer water drawn from the adjacent regions. Thus, deep, cold, polar-equatorial currents, and superficial, warmer, equatorial-polar currents, would be set up; and as the former would have a less velocity of rotation from west to east than the regions towards which they travel, they would not be due southerly or northerly currents, but south-westerly in the northern hemisphere, and north-westerly in the southern; while, by a parity of reasoning, the equatorial-polar warm currents would be north-easterly in the northern hemisphere, and southeasterly in the southern. Hence, as a north-easterly current has the same direction as a south-westerly wind, the direction of the northern equatorial-polar current in the extra-tropical part of its course would pretty nearly coincide with that of the anti-trade winds. The freezing of the surface of the polar sea would not interfere with the movement thus set up. For, however bad a conductor of heat ice may be, the unfrozen sea-water immediately in contact with the undersurface of the ice must needs be colder than that further off; and hence will constantly tend to descend through the subjacent warmer water. In this way, it would seem inevitable that the surface waters of the northern and southern frigid zones must, sooner or later, find their way to the bottom of the rest of the ocean; and there accumulate to a thickness dependent on the rate at which they absorb heat from the crust of the earth below, and from the surface water above. It seems extremely difficult to account for this difference in any other way, than by adopting the views so strongly and ably advocated by Dr. Carpenter, that, in the existing distribution of land and water, such a circulation of the water of the ocean does actually occur, as theoretically must occur, in the universal ocean, with which we started. Dr. Carpenter adopts, without hesitation, the view that the cause of this indraught of Atlantic water is to be sought in the much more rapid evaporation which takes place from the surface of the Mediterranean than from that of the Atlantic; and thus, by lowering the level of the former, gives rise to an indraught from the latter. Again, if the Gibraltar indraught is the effect of evaporation, why does it go on in winter as well as in summer? All these are questions more easily asked than answered; but they must be answered before we can accept the Gibraltar stream as an example of a current produced by indraught with any comfort. ON SOME OF THE RESULTS OF THE EXPEDITION OF H.M.S. _CHALLLENGER_ Moreover, in the fresh-water rotten-stone beds of Bilin, Ehrenberg had traced out the metamorphosis, effected apparently by the action of percolating water, of the primitively loose and friable deposit of organized particles, in which the silex exists in the hydrated or soluble condition. The silex, in fact, undergoes solution and slow redeposition, until, in ultimate result, the excessively fine-grained sand, each particle of which is a skeleton, becomes converted into a dense opaline stone, with only here and there an indication of an organism. "The universal existence of such an invisible vegetation as that of the Antarctic Ocean, is a truly wonderful fact, and the more from its not being accompanied by plants of a high order. During the years we spent there, I had been accustomed to regard the phenomena of life as differing totally from what obtains throughout all other latitudes, for everything living appeared to be of animal origin. The ocean swarmed with _Mollusca_, and particularly entomostracous _Crustacea_, small whales, and porpoises; the sea abounded with penguins and seals, and the air with birds; the animal kingdom was ever present, the larger creatures preying on the smaller, and these again on smaller still; all seemed carnivorous. The herbivorous were not recognised, because feeding on a microscopic herbage, of whose true nature I had formed an erroneous impression. It is, therefore, with no little satisfaction that I now class the _Diatomaceoe_ with plants, probably maintaining in the South Polar Ocean that balance between the vegetable and the animal kingdoms which prevails over the surface of our globe. Nor is the sustenance and nutrition of the animal kingdom the only function these minute productions may perform; they may also be the purifiers of the vitiated atmosphere, and thus execute in the Antarctic latitudes the office of our trees and grass turf in the temperate regions, and the broad leaves of the palm, &c., in the tropics." There is no doubt that the constituent particles of this mud may agglomerate into a dense rock, such as that formed at Oran on the shores of the Mediterranean, which is made up of similar materials. Moreover, in the case of freshwater deposits of this kind it is certain that the action of percolating water may convert the originally soft and friable, fine-grained sandstone into a dense, semi-transparent opaline stone, the silicious organized skeletons being dissolved, and the silex re-deposited in an amorphous state. Whether such a metamorphosis as this occurs in submarine deposits, as well as in those formed in fresh water, does not appear; but there seems no reason to doubt that it may. And hence it may not be hazardous to conclude that very ordinary metamorphic agencies may convert these polar caps into a form of quartzite. "In specimens taken with the tow-net the spines are very usually absent; but that is probably on account of their extreme tenuity; they are broken off by the slightest touch. In fresh examples from the surface, the dots indicating the origin of the lost spines may almost always be made out with a high power. There are never spines on the _Globigerinoe_ from the bottom, even in the shallowest water." Contemporaneously with these observations, the indefatigable Ehrenberg had discovered that the "greensands" of the geologist were largely made up of casts of a similar character, and proved the existence of _Foraminifera_ at a very ancient geological epoch, by discovering such casts in a greensand of Lower Silurian age, which occurs near St. Petersburg. Subsequently, Messrs. Parker and Jones discovered similar casts in process of formation, the original shell not having disappeared, in specimens of the sea-bottom of the Australian seas, brought home by the late Professor Jukes. And the _Challenger_ has observed a deposit of a similar character in the course of the Agulhas current, near the Cape of Good Hope, and in some other localities not yet defined. Dr. Carpenter has discussed the significance of this remarkable fact, and he is disposed to attribute the absence of life at great depths, partly to the absence of any circulation of the water of the Mediterranean at such depths, and partly to the exhaustion of the oxygen of the water by the organic matter contained in the fine clay, which he conceives to be formed by the finest particles of the mud brought down by the rivers which flow into the Mediterranean. I cannot say that the theory put forward tentatively, and with much reservation by Professor Thomson, that the calcareous matter is dissolved out by the relatively fresh water of the deep currents from the Antarctic regions, appears satisfactory to me. Nor do I see my way to the acceptance of the suggestion of Dr. Carpenter, that the red clay is the result of the decomposition of previously-formed greensand. At present there is no evidence that greensand casts are ever formed at great depths; nor has it been proved that _Glauconite_ is decomposable by the agency of water and carbonic acid. I think it probable that we shall have to wait some time for a sufficient explanation of the origin of the abyssal red clay, no less than for that of the sublittoral greensand in the intermediate zone. But the importance of the establishment of the fact that these various deposits are being formed in the ocean, at the present day, remains the same; whether its _rationale_ be understood or not. The bearing of the conclusions which are now either established, or highly probable, respecting the origin of silicious, calcareous, and clayey rocks, and their metamorphic derivatives, upon the archaeology of the earth, the elucidation of which is the ultimate object of the geologist, is of no small importance. So long as the _Globigerinoe_;, actually collected at the surface, have not been demonstrated to contain the elements of clay, the _Challenger_ hypothesis, as I may term it, must be accepted with reserve and provisionally, but, at present, I cannot but think that it is more probable than any other suggestion which has been made. Accepting it provisionally, we arrive at the remarkable result that all the chief known constituents of the crust of the earth may have formed part of living bodies; that they may be the "ash" of protoplasm; that the "_rupes saxei_" are not only _"temporis,"_ but "_vitae filiae_"; and, consequently, that the time during which life has been active on the globe may be indefinitely greater than the period, the commencement of which is marked by the oldest known rocks, whether fossiliferous or unfossiliferous. Sir Charles Lyell long ago suggested that the azoic character of these ancient formations might be due to the fact that they had undergone extensive metamorphosis; and readers of the "Principles of Geology" will be familiar with the ingenious manner in which he contrasts the theory of the Gnome, who is acquainted only with the interior of the earth, with those of ordinary philosophers, who know only its exterior. Applied within the limits of the time registered by the known fraction of the crust of the earth, I believe that uniformitarianism is unassailable. The evidence that, in the enormous lapse of time between the deposition of the lowest Laurentian strata and the present day, the forces which have modified the surface of the crust of the earth were different in kind, or greater in the intensity of their action, than those which are now occupied in the same work, has yet to be produced. Such evidence as we possess all tends in the contrary direction, and is in favour of the same slow and gradual changes occurring then as now. But this conclusion in nowise conflicts with the deductions of the physicist from his no less clear and certain data. It may be certain that this globe has cooled down from a condition in which life could not have existed; it may be certain that, in so cooling, its contracting crust must have undergone sudden convulsions, which were to our earthquakes as an earthquake is to the vibration caused by the periodical eruption of a Geyser; but in that case, the earth must, like other respectable parents, have sowed her wild oats, and got through her turbulent youth, before we, her children, have any knowledge of her. The process which gives rise to alcohol in a saccharine fluid is known tones as "fermentation"; a term based upon the apparent boiling up or "effervescence" of the fermenting liquid, and of Latin origin. All these words are said by philologers to be derived from roots expressive of the intestine motion of a fermenting substance. Thus "hefe" is derived from "heben," to raise; "barm" from "beren" or "baeren," to bear up; "yeast," "yst," and "gist," have all to do with seething and foam, with "yeasty" waves, and "gusty" breezes. The same reference to the swelling up of the fermenting substance is seen in the Gallo-Latin terms "levure" and "leaven." But a century elapsed before the nature of this "gas sylvestre," or, as it was afterwards called, "fixed air," was clearly determined, and it was found to be identical with that deadly "choke-damp" by which the lives of those who descend into old wells, or mines, or brewers' vats, are sometimes suddenly ended; and with the poisonous aeriform fluid which is produced by the combustion of charcoal, and now goes by the name of carbonic acid gas. "We may lay it down as an incontestable axiom that, in all the operations of art and nature, nothing is created; an equal quantity of matter exists both before, and after the experiment: the quality and quantity of the elements remain precisely the same, and nothing takes place beyond changes and modifications in the combinations of these elements. Upon this principle the whole art of performing chemical experiments depends; we must always suppose an exact equality between the elements of the body examined and those of the products of its analysis. On the other hand, Schwann, Schroeder and Dutch, and Pasteur, have amply proved that air may be allowed to have free access to beer-wort, without exciting fermentation, if only efficient precautions are taken to prevent the entry of particles of yeast along with the air. Thus, the truth that the fermentation of a simple solution of sugar in water depends upon the presence of yeast, rests upon an unassailable foundation; and the inquiry into the exact nature of the substance which possesses such a wonderful chemical influence becomes profoundly interesting. It follows, therefore, that the _Toruloe_, or organisms of yeast, are veritable plants; and conclusive experiments have proved that the power which causes the rearrangement of the molecules of the sugar is intimately connected with the life and growth of the plant. In fact, whatever arrests the vital activity of the plant also prevents it from exciting fermentation. Now, if the vinegar plant gives rise to the oxidation of alcohol, on account of its merely physical constitution, it is at any rate possible that the physical constitution of the yeast plant may exert a decomposing influence on sugar. Almost at the same time, and, probably, equally guided by his study of yeast, Schwann was engaged in those remarkable investigations into the form and development of the ultimate structural elements of the tissues of animals, which led him to recognise their fundamental identity with the ultimate structural elements of vegetable organisms. The yeast plant is a mere sac, or "cell," containing a semi-fluid matter, and Schwann's microscopic analysis resolved all living organisms, in the long run, into an aggregation of such sacs or cells, variously modified; and tended to show, that all, whatever their ultimate complication, begin their existence in the condition of such simple cells. In other words, Schwann conceives that every cell of the living body exerts an influence on the matter which surrounds and permeates it, analogous to that which a _Torula_ exerts on the saccharine solution by which it is bathed. A wonderfully suggestive thought, opening up views of the nature of the chemical processes of the living body, which have hardly yet received all the development of which they are capable. Kant defined the special peculiarity of the living body to be that the parts exist for the sake of the whole and the whole for the sake of the parts. But when Turpin and Schwann resolved the living body into an aggregation of quasi-independent cells, each, like a _Torula_, leading its own life and having its own laws of growth and development, the aggregation being dominated and kept working towards a definite end only by a certain harmony among these units, or by the superaddition of a controlling apparatus, such as a nervous system, this conception ceased to be tenable. The cell lives for its own sake, as well as for the sake of the whole organism; and the cells which float in the blood, live at its expense, and profoundly modify it, are almost as much independent organisms as the _Toruloe_ which float in beer-wort. From purely morphological investigations, Turpin and Schwann, as we have seen, arrived at the notion of the fundamental unity of structure of living beings. And, before long, the researches of chemists gradually led up to the conception of the fundamental unity of their composition. ON THE FORMATION OF COAL Sometimes the faces along which the coal splits are not smooth, but exhibit a thin layer of dull, charred-looking substance, which is known as "mineral charcoal." When the coal burns, the chief ultimate products of its combustion are carbonic acid, water, and ammoniacal products, which escape up the chimney; and a greater or less amount of residual earthy salts, which take the form of ash. These products are, to a great extent, such as would result from the burning of so much wood. In favourable specimens, again, almost the whole ground substance appears to be made up of similar bodies--more or less carbonized or blackened-and, in these, there can be no doubt that, with the exception of patches of mineral charcoal, here and there, the whole mass of the coal is made up of an accumulation of the larger and of the smaller sacs. Thus, the singular conclusion is forced upon us, that the greater and the smaller sacs of the "Better-Bed" and other coals, in which the primitive structure is well preserved, are simply the sporangia and spores of certain plants, many of which were closely allied to the existing clubmosses. And if, as I believe, it can be demonstrated that ordinary coal is nothing but "saccular" coal which has undergone a certain amount of that alteration which, if continued, would convert it into anthracite; then, the conclusion is obvious, that the great mass of the coal we burn is the result of the accumulation of the spores and spore-cases of plants, other parts of which have furnished the carbonized stems and the mineral charcoal, or have left their impressions on the surfaces of the layer. At the same time, it is proper to remark that I do not presume to suggest that all coal must needs have the same structure; or that there may not be coals in which the proportions of wood and spores, or spore-cases, are very different from those which I have examined. All I repeat is, that none of the coals which have come under my notice have enabled me to observe such a difference. But, according to Principal Dawson, who has so sedulously examined the fossil remains of plants in North America, it is otherwise with the vast accumulations of coal in that country. In a tropical forest, at the present day, the trunks of fallen trees, and the stools of such trees as may have been broken by the violence of storms, remain entire for but a short time. Contrary to what might be expected, the dense wood of the tree decays, and suffers from the ravages of insects, more swiftly than the bark. And the traveller, setting his foot on a prostrate trunk, finds that it is a mere shell, which breaks under his weight, and lands his foot amidst the insects, or the reptiles, which have sought food or refuge within. But, in this case it may be asked, why does not our English coal consist of stems and leaves to a much greater extent than it does? What is the reason of the predominance of the spores and spore-cases in it? But this resinous matter, which lies in the walls of the spores and sporangia, is a substance not easily altered by air and water, and hence tends to preserve these bodies, just as the bituminized cerecloth preserves an Egyptian mummy; while, on the other hand, the merely woody stem and leaves tend to rot, as fast as the wood of the mummy's coffin has rotted. Thus the mixed heap of spores, leaves, and stems in the coalforest would be persistently searched by the long-continued action of air and rain; the leaves and stems would gradually be reduced to little but their carbon, or, in other words, to the condition of mineral charcoal in which we find them; while the spores and sporangia remained as a comparatively unaltered and compact residuum. There is, indeed, tolerably clear evidence that the coal must, under some circumstances, have been converted into a substance hard enough to be rolled into pebbles, while it yet lay at the surface of the earth; for in some seams of coal, the courses of rivulets, which must have been living water, while the stratum in which their remains are found was still at the surface, have been observed to contain rolled pebbles of the very coal through which the stream has cut its way. The structural facts are such as to leave no alternative but to adopt the view of the origin of such coal as I have described, which has just been stated; but, happily, the process is not without analogy at the present day. I possess a specimen of what is called "white coal" from Australia. It is an inflammable material, burning with a bright flame and having much the consistence and appearance of oat-cake, which, I am informed covers a considerable area. It consists, almost entirely, of a compacted mass of spores and spore-cases. But the fine particles of blown sand which are scattered through it, show that it must have accumulated, subaerially, upon the surface of a soil covered by a forest of cryptogamous plants, probably tree-ferns. I am almost disposed to doubt whether it is necessary to make the concession of "wet and swampy"; otherwise, there is nothing that I know of to be said against this excellent conspectus of the reasons for believing in the subaerial origin of coal. But we have the advantage over our shovel-headed predecessor--or possibly ancestor--and can perceive that a certain vein of thrift runs through this apparent prodigality. Nature is never in a hurry, and seems to have had always before her eyes the adage, "Keep a thing long enough, and you will find a use for it." She has kept her beds of coal many millions of years without being able to find much use for them; she has sent them down beneath the sea, and the sea-beasts could make nothing of them; she has raised them up into dry land, and laid the black veins bare, and still, for ages and ages, there was no living thing on the face of the earth that could see any sort of value in them; and it was only the other day, so to speak, that she turned a new creature out of her workshop, who by degrees acquired sufficient wits to make a fire, and then to discover that the black rock would burn. Thus, all this abundant wealth of money and of vivid life is Nature's interest upon her investment in club-mosses, and the like, so long ago. But what becomes of the coal which is burnt in yielding this interest? Heat comes out of it, light comes out of it; and if we could gather together all that goes up the chimney, and all that remains in the grate of a thoroughly-burnt coal-fire, we should find ourselves in possession of a quantity of carbonic acid, water, ammonia, and mineral matters, exactly equal in weight to the coal. But these are the very matters with which Nature supplied the club-mosses which made the coal She is paid back principal and interest at the same time; and she straightway invests the carbonic acid, the water, and the ammonia in new forms of life, feeding with them the plants that now live. Thrifty Nature! Surely no prodigal, but most notable of housekeepers! ON THE BORDER TERRITORY BETWEEN THE ANIMAL AND THE VEGETABLE KINGDOMS In the whole history of science there is nothing more remarkable than the rapidity of the growth of biological knowledge within the last halfcentury, and the extent of the modification which has thereby been effected in some of the fundamental conceptions of the naturalist. But has the advance of biology simply tended to break down old distinctions, without establishing new ones? The contractility which is the fundamental condition of locomotion, has not only been discovered to exist far more widely among plants than was formerly imagined; but, in plants, the act of contraction has been found to be accompanied, as Dr. Burdon Sanderson's interesting investigations have shown, by a disturbance of the electrical state of the contractile substance, comparable to that which was found by Du Bois Reymond to be a concomitant of the activity of ordinary muscle in animals. Again, I know of no test by which the reaction of the leaves of the Sundew and of other plants to stimuli, so fully and carefully studied by Mr. Darwin, can be distinguished from those acts of contraction following upon stimuli, which are called "reflex" in animals. The reflex action of the snail is the result of the presence of a nervous system in the animal. A molecular change takes place in the nerve of the tentacle, is propagated to the muscles by which the body is retracted, and causing them to contract, the act of retraction is brought about. Of course the similarity of the acts does not necessarily involve the conclusion that the mechanism by which they are effected is the same; but it suggests a suspicion of their identity which needs careful testing. The weight of the nitrogenous protein compounds, of the oily, starchy, saccharine and woody substances contained in the full-grown plant and its seeds, will be vastly greater than the weight of the same substances contained in the bean from which it sprang. But nothing has been supplied to the bean save water, carbonic acid, ammonia, potash, lime, iron, and the like, in combination with phosphoric, sulphuric, and other acids. Neither protein, nor fat, nor starch, nor sugar, nor any substance in the slightest degree resembling them, has formed part of the food of the bean. But the weights of the carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, phosphorus, sulphur, and other elementary bodies contained in the beanplant, and in the seeds which it produces, are exactly equivalent to the weights of the same elements which have disappeared from the materials supplied to the bean during its growth. Whence it follows that the bean has taken in only the raw materials of its fabric, and has manufactured them into bean-stuffs. Contrariwise, there is a no less wide foundation for the generalisation that animals, as Cuvier puts it, depend directly or indirectly upon plants for the materials of their bodies; that is, either they are herbivorous, or they eat other animals which are herbivorous. But for what constituents of their bodies are animals thus dependent upon plants? Certainly not for their horny matter; nor for chondrin, the proximate chemical element of cartilage; nor for gelatine; nor for syntonin, the constituent of muscle; nor for their nervous or biliary substances; nor for their amyloid matters; nor, necessarily, for their fats. It can be experimentally demonstrated that animals can make these for themselves. But that which they cannot make, but must, in all known cases, obtain directly or indirectly from plants, is the peculiar nitrogenous matter, protein. Thus the plant is the ideal _proletaire_ of the living world, the worker who produces; the animal, the ideal aristocrat, who mostly occupies himself in consuming, after the manner of that noble representative of the line of Zaehdarm, whose epitaph is written in "Sartor Resartus." I am not aware that the investigators from whom I have borrowed this history have endeavoured to ascertain whether their monads take solid nutriment or not; so that though they help us very much to fill up the blanks in the history of my _Heteromita_, their observations throw no light on the problem we are trying to solve--Is it an animal or is it a plant? Undoubtedly it is possible to bring forward very strong arguments in favour of regarding _Heteromita_ as a plant. For example, there is a Fungus, an obscure and almost microscopic mould, termed _Peronospora infestans_. Like many other Fungi, the _Peronosporoe_ are parasitic upon other plants; and this particular _Peronospora_ happens to have attained much notoriety and political importance, in a way not without a parallel in the career of notorious politicians, namely, by reason of the frightful mischief it has done to mankind. For it is this _Fungus_ which is the cause of the potato disease; and, therefore, _Peronospora infestans_ (doubtless of exclusively Saxon origin, though not accurately known to be so) brought about the Irish famine. The plants afflicted with the malady are found to be infested by a mould, consisting of fine tubular filaments, termed _hyphoe_, which burrow through the substance of the potato plant, and appropriate to themselves the substance of their host; while, at the same time, directly or indirectly, they set up chemical changes by which even its woody framework becomes blackened, sodden, and withered. The eminent botanist, De Bary, who was not thinking of our problem, tells us, in describing the movements of these "Zoospores," that, as they swim about, "Foreign bodies are carefully avoided, and the whole movement has a deceptive likeness to the voluntary changes of place which are observed in microscopic animals." Let us, therefore, take a case which is not open to these objections. If the whole history of the zoospores of _Peronospora_ and of _Coleochaete_ were unknown, they would undoubtedly be classed among "Monads" with the same right as _Heteromita_; why then may not _Heteromita_ be a plant, even though the cycle of forms through which it passes shows no terms quite so complex as those which occur in _Peronospora_ and _Coleochaete_? And, in fact, there are some green organisms, in every respect characteristically plants, such as _Chlamydomonas_, and the common _Volvox_, or so-called "Globe animalcule," which run through a cycle of forms of just the same simple character as those of _Heteromita_. Thus, so far as outward form and the general character of the cycle of modifications, through which the organism passes in the course of its life, are concerned, the resemblance between _Chlamydomonas_ and _Heteromita_ is of the closest description. And on the face of the matter there is no ground for refusing to admit that _Heteromita_ may be related to _Chlamydomonas_, as the colourless fungus is to the green alga. _Volvox_ may be compared to a hollow sphere, the wall of which is made up of coherent Chlamydomonads; and which progresses with a rotating motion effected by the paddling of the multitudinous pairs of cilia which project from its surface. Each _Volvox_-monad, moreover, possesses a red pigment spot, like the simplest form of eye known among animals. The methods of fissive multiplication and of conjugation observed in the monads of this locomotive globe are essentially similar to those observed in _Chlamydomonas_; and, though a hard battle has been fought over it, _Volvox_ is now finally surrendered to the Botanists. A LOBSTER; OR, THE STUDY OF ZOOLOGY Natural history is the name familiarly applied to the study of the properties of such natural bodies as minerals, plants, and animals; the sciences which embody the knowledge man has acquired upon these subjects are commonly termed Natural Sciences, in contradistinction to other socalled "physical" sciences; and those who devote themselves especially to the pursuit of such sciences have been and are commonly termed "Naturalists." However this may be, it is certain that the advance of knowledge has gradually widened the distance between mineralogy and its old associates, while it has drawn zoology and botany closer together; so that of late years it has been found convenient (and indeed necessary) to associate the sciences which deal with vitality and all its phenomena under the common head of "biology"; and the biologists have come to repudiate any blood-relationship with their foster-brothers, the mineralogists. For the purpose of the present discourse, however, I shall recognise none of these titles save the last, which I shall employ as the equivalent of botanist, and I shall use the term zoology is denoting the whole doctrine of animal life, in contradistinction to botany, which signifies the whole doctrine of vegetable life. Zoological distribution is the study of animals in relation to the terrestrial conditions which obtain now, or have obtained at any previous epoch of the earth's history. Such is the scope of zoology. But if I were to content myself with the enunciation of these dry definitions, I should ill exemplify that method of teaching this branch of physical science, which it is my chief business to-night to recommend. Let us turn away then from abstract definitions. Let us take some concrete living thing, some animal, the commoner the better, and let us see how the application of common sense and common logic to the obvious facts it presents, inevitably leads us into all these branches of zoological science. But I imagine I hear the question, How is all this to be tested? No doubt it is a pretty and ingenious way of looking at the structure of any animal; but is it anything more? Does Nature acknowledge, in any deeper way, this unity of plan we seem to trace? Those kinds which include no other subdivisions than the sexes, or various breeds, are called, in technical language, species. The English lobster is a species, our cray fish is another, our prawn is another. In other countries, however, there are lobsters, cray fish, and prawns, very like ours, and yet presenting sufficient differences to deserve distinction. Naturalists, therefore, express this resemblance and this diversity by grouping them as distinct species of the same "genus." But the lobster and the cray fish, though belonging to distinct genera, have many features in common, and hence are grouped together in an assemblage which is called a family. More distant resemblances connect the lobster with the prawn and the crab, which are expressed by putting all these into the same order. Again, more remote, but still very definite, resemblances unite the lobster with the woodlouse, the king crab, the water flea, and the barnacle, and separate them from all other animals; whence they collectively constitute the larger group, or class, _Crustacea_. But the _Crustacea_ exhibit many peculiar features in common with insects, spiders, and centipedes, so that these are grouped into the still larger assemblage or "province" _Articulata_; and, finally, the relations which these have to worms and other lower animals, are expressed by combining the whole vast aggregate into the sub-kingdom of _Annulosa_. Turning from these purely morphological considerations, let us now examine into the manner in which the attentive study of the lobster impels us into other lines of research. Again, if we examine the contents of the earth's crust, we shall find in the latter of those deposits, which have served as the great burying grounds of past ages, numberless lobster-like animals, but none so similar to our living lobster as to make zoologists sure that they belonged even to the same genus. If we go still further back in time, we discover, in the oldest rocks of all, the remains of animals, constructed on the same general plan as the lobster, and belonging to the same great group of _Crustacea_; but for the most part totally different from the lobster, and indeed from any other living form of crustacean; and thus we gain a notion of that successive change of the animal population of the globe, in past ages, which is the most striking fact revealed by geology. Consider, now, where our inquiries have led us. We studied our type morphologically, when we determined its anatomy and its development, and when comparing it, in these respects, with other animals, we made out its place in a system of classification. If we were to examine every animal in a similar manner, we should establish a complete body of zoological morphology. Again, we investigated the distribution of our type in space and in time, and, if the like had been done with every animal, the sciences of geographical and geological distribution would have attained their limit. Experiment, the great instrument for the ascertainment of truth in physical science, answers this question for us. In the head of the lobster there lies a small mass of that peculiar tissue which is known as nervous substance. Cords of similar matter connect his brain of the lobster, directly or indirectly, with the muscles. Now, if these communicating cords are cut, the brain remaining entire, the power of exerting what we call voluntary motion in the parts below the section is destroyed; and, on the other hand, if, the cords remaining entire, the brain mass be destroyed, the same voluntary mobility is equally lost. Whence the inevitable conclusion is, that the power of originating these motions resides in the brain and is propagated along the nervous cords. In the higher animals the phenomena which attend this transmission have been investigated, and the exertion of the peculiar energy which resides in the nerves has been found to be accompanied by a disturbance of the electrical state of their molecules. What books shall I read? is a question constantly put by the student to the teacher. My reply usually is, "None: write your notes out carefully and fully; strive to understand them thoroughly; come to me for the explanation of anything you cannot understand; and I would rather you did not distract your mind by reading." A properly composed course of lectures ought to contain fully as much matter as a student can assimilate in the time occupied by its delivery; and the teacher should always recollect that his business is to feed, and not to cram the intellect. Indeed, I believe that a student who gains from a course of lectures the simple habit of concentrating his attention upon a definitely limited series of facts, until they are thoroughly mastered, has made a step of immeasurable importance. But, however good lectures may be, and however extensive the course of reading by which they are followed up, they are but accessories to the great instrument of scientific teaching--demonstration. If I insist unweariedly, nay fanatically, upon the importance of physical science as an educational agent, it is because the study of any branch of science, if properly conducted, appears to me to fill up a void left by all other means of education. I have the greatest respect and love for literature; nothing would grieve me more than to see literary training other than a very prominent branch of education: indeed, I wish that real literary discipline were far more attended to than it is; but I cannot shut my eyes to the fact, that there is a vast difference between men who have had a purely literary, and those who have had a sound scientific, training. Therefore, the great business of the scientific teacher is, to imprint the fundamental, irrefragable facts of his science, not only by words upon the mind, but by sensible impressions upon the eye, and ear, and touch of the student, in so complete a manner, that every term used, or law enunciated, should afterwards call up vivid images of the particular structural, or other, facts which furnished the demonstration of the law, or the illustration of the term. Now this important operation can only be achieved by constant demonstration, which may take place to a certain imperfect extent during a lecture, but which ought also to be carried on independently, and which should be addressed to each individual student, the teacher endeavouring, not so much to show a thing to the learner, as to make him see it for himself. I am well aware that there are great practical difficulties in the way of effectual zoological demonstrations. The dissection of animals is not altogether pleasant, and requires much time; nor is it easy to secure an adequate supply of the needful specimens. The botanist has here a great advantage; his specimens are easily obtained, are clean and wholesome, and can be dissected in a private house as well as anywhere else; and hence, I believe, the fact, that botany is so much more readily and better taught than its sister science. But, be it difficult or be it easy, if zoological science is to be properly studied, demonstration, and, consequently, dissection, must be had. Without it, no man can have a really sound knowledge of animal organisation. The last implement of the teacher to which I have adverted is examination--a means of education now so thoroughly understood that I need hardly enlarge upon it. I hold that both written and oral examinations are indispensable, and, by requiring the description of specimens, they may be made to supplement demonstration. Such is the fullest reply the time at my disposal will allow me to give to the question--how may a knowledge of zoology be best acquired and communicated? But there is a previous question which may be moved, and which, in fact, I know many are inclined to move. It is the question, why should teachers be encouraged to acquire a knowledge of this, or any other branch of physical science? What is the use, it is said, of attempting to make physical science a branch of primary education? Is it not probable that teachers, in pursuing such studies, will be led astray from the acquirement of more important but less attractive knowledge? And, even if they can learn something of science without prejudice to their usefulness, what is the good of their attempting to instil that knowledge into boys whose real business is the acquisition of reading, writing, and arithmetic? But is it true that the acquisition of such a knowledge of science as is proposed, and the communication of that knowledge, are calculated to weaken your usefulness? Or may I not rather ask, is it possible for you to discharge your functions properly without these aids? A boy is taught to read his own and other languages, in order that he may have access to infinitely wider stores of knowledge than could ever be opened to him by oral intercourse with his fellow men; he learns to write, that his means of communication with the rest of mankind may be indefinitely enlarged, and that he may record and store up the knowledge he acquires. He is taught elementary mathematics, that he may understand all those relations of number and form, upon which the transactions of men, associated in complicated societies, are built, and that he may have some practice in deductive reasoning. All these operations of reading, writing, and ciphering, are intellectual tools, whose use should, before all things, be learned, and learned thoroughly; so that the youth may be enabled to make his life that which it ought to be, a continual progress in learning and in wisdom. But, in addition, primary education endeavours to fit a boy out with a certain equipment of positive knowledge. He is taught the great laws of morality; the religion of his sect; so much history and geography as will tell him where the great countries of the world are, what they are, and how they have become what they are. Without doubt all these are most fitting and excellent things to teach a boy; I should be very sorry to omit any of them from any scheme of primary intellectual education. The system is excellent, so far as it goes. Modern civilisation rests upon physical science; take away her gifts to our own country, and our position among the leading nations of the world is gone to-morrow; for it is physical science only that makes intelligence and moral energy stronger than brute force. But of all this your old stereotyped system of education takes no note. Physical science, its methods, its problems, and its difficulties, will meet the poorest boy at every turn, and yet we educate him in such a manner that he shall enter the world as ignorant of the existence of the methods and facts of science as the day he was born. The modern world is full of artillery; and we turn out our children to do battle in it, equipped with the shield and sword of an ancient gladiator. BIOGENESIS AND ABIOGENESIS It has long been the custom for the newly installed President of the British Association for the Advancement of Science to take advantage of the elevation of the position in which the suffrages of his colleagues had, for the time, placed him, and, casting his eyes around the horizon of the scientific world, to report to them what could be seen from his watch-tower; in what directions the multitudinous divisions of the noble army of the improvers of natural knowledge were marching; what important strongholds of the great enemy of us all, ignorance, had been recently captured; and, also, with due impartiality, to mark where the advanced posts of science had been driven in, or a long-continued siege had made no progress. It is a matter of everyday experience that it is difficult to prevent many articles of food from becoming covered with mould; that fruit, sound enough to all appearance, often contains grubs at the core; that meat, left to itself in the air, is apt to putrefy and swarm with maggots. Even ordinary water, if allowed to stand in an open vessel, sooner or later becomes turbid and full of living matter. "Linquitur, ut merito maternum nomen adepta Terra sit, e terra quoniam sunt cuncta creata. Multaque nunc etiam exsistant animalia terris Imbribus et calido solis concreta vapore." But would not the meaning of the last line be better rendered "Developed in rain-water and in the warm vapours raised by the sun"?] "Io m' immagino, che questo mio pensiero non vi parra totalmento un paradosso; mentro farete riflessione a quelle tanto sorte di galle, di gallozzole, di coccole, di ricci, di calici, di cornetti ed i lappole, che son produtte dalle quercel, dalle farnie, da' cerri, da' sugheri, da' leeci e da altri simili alberi de ghianda; imperciocche in quello gallozzole, e particolarmente nelle piu grosse, che si chiamano coronati, ne' ricci capelluti, che ciuffoli da' nostri contadini son detti; nei ricci legnosi del cerro, ne' ricci stellati della quercia, nelle galluzze della foglia del leccio si vede evidentissimamente, che la prima e principale intenzione della natura e formare dentro di quelle un animale volante; vedendosi nel centro della gallozzola un uovo, che col crescere e col maturarsi di essa gallozzola va crescendo e maturando anch' egli, e cresce altresi a suo tempo quel verme, che nell' uovo si racchiude; il qual verme, quando la gallozzola e finita di maturare e che e venuto il termine destinato al suo nascimento, diventa, di verme che era, una mosca Io vi confesso ingenuamente, che prima d'aver fatte queste mie esperienze intorno alla generazione degl' insetti mi dava a credere, o per dir meglio sospettava, che forse la gallozzola nascesse, perche arrivando la mosca nel tempo della primavera, e facendo una piccolissima fessura ne' rami piu teneri della quercia, in quella fessura nascondesse uno de suoi semi, il quale fosse cagione che sbocciasse fuora la gallozzola; e che mai non si vedessero galle o gallozzole o ricci o cornetti o calici o coccole, se non in que' rami, ne' quali le mosche avessero depositate le loro semenze; e mi dava ad intendere, che le gallozzole fossero una malattia cagionata nelle querce dalle punture delle mosche, in quella giusa stessa che dalle punture d'altri animaletti simiglievoli veggiamo crescere de' tumori ne' corpi degli animali."] Led by various theoretical considerations which I cannot now discuss, but which looked promising enough in the lights of their time, Buffon and Needham doubted the applicability of Redi's hypothesis to the infusorial animalcules, and Needham very properly endeavoured to put the question to an experimental test. He said to himself, If these infusorial animalcules come from germs, their germs must exist either in the substance infused, or in the water with which the infusion is made, or in the superjacent air. Now the vitality of all germs is destroyed by heat. Therefore, if I boil the infusion, cork it up carefully, cementing the cork over with mastic, and then heat the whole vessel by heaping hot ashes over it, I must needs kill whatever germs are present. Consequently, if Redi's hypothesis hold good, when the infusion is taken away and allowed to cool, no animalcules ought to be developed in it; whereas, if the animalcules are not dependent on pre-existing germs, but are generated from the infused substance, they ought, by and by, to make their appearance. Needham found that, under the circumstances in which he made his experiments, animalcules always did arise in the infusions, when a sufficient time had elapsed to allow for their development. In much of his work Needham was associated with Buffon, and the results of their experiments fitted in admirably with the great French naturalist's hypothesis of "organic molecules," according to which, life is the indefeasible property of certain indestructible molecules of matter, which exist in all living things, and have inherent activities by which they are distinguished from not living matter. Each individual living organism is formed by their temporary combination. They stand to it in the relation of the particles of water to a cascade, or a whirlpool; or to a mould, into which the water is poured. The form of the organism is thus determined by the reaction between external conditions and the inherent activities of the organic molecules of which it is composed; and, as the stoppage of a whirlpool destroys nothing but a form, and leaves the molecules of the water, with all their inherent activities intact, so what we call the death and putrefaction of an animal, or of a plant, is merely the breaking up of the form, or manner of association, of its constituent organic molecules, which are then set free as infusorial animalcules. It will be perceived that this doctrine is by no means identical with _Abiogenesis_, with which it is often confounded. On this hypothesis, a piece of beef, or a handful of hay, is dead only in a limited sense. The beef is dead ox, and the hay is dead grass; but the "organic molecules" of the beef or the hay are not dead, but are ready to manifest their vitality as soon as the bovine or herbaceous shrouds in which they are imprisoned are rent by the macerating action of water. The hypothesis therefore must be classified under Xenogenesis, rather than under Abiogenesis. Such as it was, I think it will appear, to those who will be just enough to remember that it was propounded before the birth of modern chemistry, and of the modern optical arts, to be a most ingenious and suggestive speculation. But the great tragedy of Science--the slaying of a beautiful hypothesis by an ugly fact--which is so constantly being enacted under the eyes of philosophers, was played, almost immediately, for the benefit of Buffon and Needham. The battle had to be fought again. It was needful to repeat the experiments under conditions which would make sure that neither the oxygen of the air, nor the composition of the organic matter, was altered in such a manner as to interfere with the existence of life. It is demonstrable that the great majority of these particles are destructible by heat, and that some of them are germs, or living particles, capable of giving rise to the same forms of life as those which appear when the fluid is exposed to unpurified air. It is demonstrable that inoculation of the experimental fluid with a drop of liquid known to contain living particles gives rise to the same phenomena as exposure to unpurified air. And it is further certain that these living particles are so minute that the assumption of their suspension in ordinary air presents not the slightest difficulty. On the contrary, considering their lightness and the wide diffusion of the organisms which produce them, it is impossible to conceive that they should not be suspended in the atmosphere in myriads. Thus the evidence, direct and indirect, in favour of _Biogenesis_ for all known forms of life must, I think, be admitted to be of great weight. On the other side, the sole assertions worthy of attention are that hermetically sealed fluids, which have been exposed to great and longcontinued heat, have sometimes exhibited living forms of low organisation when they have been opened. But though I cannot express this conviction of mine too strongly, I must carefully guard myself against the supposition that I intend to suggest that no such thing as Abiogenesis ever has taken place in the past, or ever will take place in the future. With organic chemistry, molecular physics, and physiology yet in their infancy, and every day making prodigious strides, I think it would be the height of presumption for any man to say that the conditions under which matter assumes the properties we call "vital" may not, some day, be artificially brought together. All I feel justified in affirming is, that I see no reason for believing that the feat has been performed yet. So much for the history of the progress of Redi's great doctrine of Biogenesis, which appears to me, with the limitations I have expressed, to be victorious along the whole line at the present day. But if we turn to pathology, it offers us some remarkable approximations to true Xenogenesis. As I have already mentioned, it has been known since the time of Vallisnieri and of Reaumur, that galls in plants, and tumours in cattle, are caused by insects, which lay their eggs in those parts of the animal or vegetable frame of which these morbid structures are outgrowths. Again, it is a matter of familiar experience to everybody that mere pressure on the skin will give rise to a corn. Now the gall, the tumour, and the corn are parts of the living body, which have become, to a certain degree, independent and distinct organisms. Under the influence of certain external conditions, elements of the body, which should have developed in due subordination to its general plan, set up for themselves and apply the nourishment which they receive to their own purposes. From such innocent productions as corns and warts, there are all gradations to the serious tumours which, by their mere size and the mechanical obstruction they cause, destroy the organism out of which they are developed; while, finally, in those terrible structures known as cancers, the abnormal growth has acquired powers of reproduction and multiplication, and is only morphologically distinguishable from the parasitic worm, the life of which is neither more nor less closely bound up with that of the infested organism. It is, at present, a well-established fact that certain diseases, both of plants and of animals, which have all the characters of contagious and infectious epidemics, are caused by minute organisms. The smut of wheat is a well-known instance of such a disease, and it cannot be doubted that the grape-disease and the potato-disease fall under the same category. Among animals, insects are wonderfully liable to the ravages of contagious and infectious diseases caused by microscopic _Fungi_. The silkworm has long been known to be subject to a very fatal and infectious disease called the _Muscardine_. Audouin transmitted it by inoculation. This disease is entirely due to the development of a fungus, _Botrytis Bassiana_, in the body of the caterpillar; and its contagiousness and infectiousness are accounted for in the same way as those of the fly-disease. But, of late years, a still more serious epizootic has appeared among the silkworms; and I may mention a few facts which will give you some conception of the gravity of the injury which it has inflicted on France alone. Such being the facts with respect to the Pebrine, what are the indications as to the method of preventing it? It is obvious that this depends upon the way in which the _Panhistophyton_ is generated. If it may be generated by Abiogenesis, or by Xenogenesis, within the silkworm or its moth, the extirpation of the disease must depend upon the prevention of the occurrence of the conditions under which this generation takes place. But if, on the other hand, the _Panhistophyton_ is an independent organism, which is no more generated by the silkworm than the mistletoe is generated by the apple-tree or the oak on which it grows, though it may need the silkworm for its development in the same way as the mistletoe needs the tree, then the indications are totally different. The sole thing to be done is to get rid of and keep away the germs of the _Panhistophyton_. As might be imagined, from the course of his previous investigations, M. Pasteur was led to believe that the latter was the right theory; and, guided by that theory, he has devised a method of extirpating the disease, which has proved to be completely successful wherever it has been properly carried out. There can be no reason, then, for doubting that, among insects, contagious and infectious diseases, of great malignity, are caused by minute organisms which are produced from pre-existing germs, or by homogenesis; and there is no reason, that I know of, for believing that what happens in insects may not take place in the highest animals. Indeed, there is already strong evidence that some diseases of an extremely malignant and fatal character to which man is subject, are as much the work of minute organisms as is the Pebrine. I refer for this evidence to the very striking facts adduced by Professor Lister in his various well-known publications on the antiseptic method of treatment. It appears to me impossible to rise from the perusal of those publications without a strong conviction that the lamentable mortality which so frequently dogs the footsteps of the most skilful operator, and those deadly consequences of wounds and injuries which seem to haunt the very walls of great hospitals, and are, even now, destroying more men than die of bullet or bayonet, are due to the importation of minute organisms into wounds, and their increase and multiplication; and that the surgeon who saves most lives will be he who best works out the practical consequences of the hypothesis of Redi. I commenced this Address by asking you to follow me in an attempt to trace the path which has been followed by a scientific idea, in its long and slow progress from the position of a probable hypothesis to that of an established law of nature. Our survey has not taken us into very attractive regions; it has lain, chiefly, in a land flowing with the abominable, and peopled with mere grubs and mouldiness. And it may be imagined with what smiles and shrugs, practical and serious contemporaries of Redi and of Spallanzani may have commented on the waste of their high abilities in toiling at the solution of problems which, though curious enough in themselves, could be of no conceivable utility to mankind. Nevertheless, you will have observed that before we had travelled very far upon our road, there appeared, on the right hand and on the left, fields laden with a harvest of golden grain, immediately convertible into those things which the most solidly practical men will admit to have value--viz., money and life. GEOLOGICAL CONTEMPORANEITY AND PERSISTENT TYPES OF LIFE Merchants occasionally go through a wholesome, though troublesome and not always satisfactory, process which they term "taking stock." After all the excitement of speculation, the pleasure of gain, and the pain of loss, the trader makes up his mind to face facts and to learn the exact quantity and quality of his solid and reliable possessions. The man of science does well sometimes to imitate this procedure; and, forgetting for the time the importance of his own small winnings, to reexamine the common stock in trade, so that he may make sure how far the stock of bullion in the cellar--on the faith of whose existence so much paper has been circulating--is really the solid gold of truth. The Anniversary Meeting of the Geological Society seems to be an occasion well suited for an undertaking of this kind--for an inquiry, in fact, into the nature and value of the present results of palaeontological investigation; and the more so, as all those who have paid close attention to the late multitudinous discussions in which palaeontology is implicated, must have felt the urgent necessity of some such scrutiny. Were such a thought justifiable, it could hardly expect to be received with favour by this assembly. But it is not justifiable. Your favourite science has her own great aims independent of all others; and if, notwithstanding her steady devotion to her own progress, she can scatter such rich alms among her sisters, it should be remembered that her charity is of the sort that does not impoverish, but "blesseth him that gives and him that takes." The reply to this question will become obvious as the inquiry into the results of palaeontology is pushed further. Those whose business it is to acquaint themselves specially with the works of palaeontologists, in fact, will be fully aware that very few, if any, would rest satisfied with such a statement of the conclusions of their branch of biology as that which has just been given. It may not be unprofitable to bestow on these professions a somewhat more critical examination than they have hitherto received, in order to ascertain how far they rest on an irrefragable basis; or whether, after all, it might not be well for palaeontologists to learn a little more carefully that scientific "ars artium," the art of saying "I don't know." And to this end let us define somewhat more exactly the extent of these pretensions of palaeontology. It is not now proposed to inquire whether these doctrines are true or false; but to direct your attention to a much simpler though very essential preliminary question--What is their logical basis? what are the fundamental assumptions upon which they all logically depend? and what is the evidence on which those fundamental propositions demand our assent? And yet there is no better evidence for the contemporaneity assumed by all who adopt the hypothesis of universal faunae and florae, of a universally uniform climate, and of a sensible cooling of the globe during geological time. For anything that geology or palaeontology are able to show to the contrary, a Devonian fauna and flora in the British Islands may have been contemporaneous with Silurian life in North America, and with a Carboniferous fauna and flora in Africa. Geographical provinces and zones may have been as distinctly marked in the Palaeozoic epoch as at present, and those seemingly sudden appearances of new genera and species, which we ascribe to new creation, may be simple results of migration. In commencing these remarks, mention was made of the great obligations under which the naturalist lies to the geologist and palaeontologist. Assuredly the time will come when these obligations will be repaid tenfold, and when the maze of the world's past history, through which the pure geologist and the pure palaeontologist find no guidance, will be securely threaded by the clue furnished by the naturalist. Turning to the animal kingdom, he affirmed the tabulate corals of the Silurian rocks to be wonderfully like those which now exist; while even the families of the Aporosa were all represented in the older Mesozoic rocks. Among the Mollusca similar facts were adduced. Let it be borne in mind that _Avicula, Mytilus, Chiton, Natica, Patella, Trochus, Discina, Orbicula, Lingula, Rhynchonclla_, and _Nautilus_, all of which are existing _genera_, are given without a doubt as Silurian in the last edition of "Siluria"; while the highest forms of the highest Cephalopods are represented in the Lias by a genus _Belemnoteuthis_, which presents the closest relation to the existing _Loligo_. Again, what can be more remarkable than the singular constancy of structure preserved throughout a vast period of time by the family of the Pycnodonts and by that of the true Coelacanths; the former persisting, with but insignificant modifications, from the Carboniferous to the Tertiary rocks, inclusive; the latter existing, with still less change, from the Carboniferous rocks to the Chalk, inclusive? Among Reptiles, the highest living group, that of the Crocodilia, is represented, at the early part of the Mesozoic epoch, by species identical in the essential characters of their organisation with those now living, and differing from the latter only in such matters as the form of the articular facets of the vertebral centra, in the extent to which the nasal passages are separated from the cavity of the mouth by bone, and in the proportions of the limbs. The _Mollusca_--In what sense is the living _Waldheimia_ less embryonic, or more specialised, than the palaeozoic _Spirifer_; or the existing _Rhynchonelloe, Cranioe, Discinoe, Linguloe_, than the Silurian species of the same genera? In what sense can _Loligo_ or _Spirula_ be said to be more specialised, or less embryonic, than _Belemnites_; or the modern species of Lamellibranch and Gasteropod genera, than the Silurian species of the same genera? Or among the Teleostei--in what respect is the _Beryx_ of the Chalk more embryonic, or less differentiated, than _Beryx lineatus_ of King George's Sound? Or to turn to the higher Vertebrata--in what sense are the Liassic Chelonia inferior to those which now exist? How are the Cretaceous Ichthyosauria, Plesiosauria, or Pterosauria less embryonic, or more differentiated, species than those of the Lias? Or lastly, in what circumstance is the _Phascolotherium_ more embryonic, or of a more generalised type, than the modern Opossum; or a _Lophiodon_, or a _Paloeotherium_, than a modern _Tapirus_ or _Hyrax_? These examples might be almost indefinitely multiplied, but surely they are sufficient to prove that the only safe and unquestionable testimony we can procure--positive evidence--fails to demonstrate any sort of progressive modification towards a less embryonic, or less generalised, type in a great many groups of animals of long-continued geological existence. In these groups there is abundant evidence of variation--none of what is ordinarily understood as progression; and, if the known geological record is to be regarded as even any considerable fragment of the whole, it is inconceivable that any theory of a necessarily progressive development can stand, for the numerous orders and families cited afford no trace of such a process. The Echinidea, again, are frequently quoted as exhibiting a gradual passage from a more generalised to a more specialised type, seeing that the elongated, or oval, Spatangoids appear after the spheroidal Echinoids. But here it might be argued, on the other hand, that the spheroidal Echinoids, in reality, depart further from the general plan and from the embryonic form than the elongated Spatangoids do; and that the peculiar dental apparatus and the pedicellariae of the former are marks of at least as great differentiation as the petaloid ambulacra and semitae of the latter. None of the cases of progressive modification which are cited from among the Invertebrata appear to me to have a foundation less open to criticism than these; and if this be so, no careful reasoner would, I think, be inclined to lay very great stress upon them. Among the Vertebrata, however, there are a few examples which appear to be far less open to objection. It is, in fact, true of several groups of Vertebrata which have lived through a considerable range of time, that the endoskeleton (more particularly the spinal column) of the older genera presents a less ossified, and, so far, less differentiated, condition than that of the younger genera. Thus the Devonian Ganoids, though almost all members of the same sub-order as _Polypterus_, and presenting numerous important resemblances to the existing genus, which possesses biconclave vertebrae, are, for the most part, wholly devoid of ossified vertebral centra. The Mesozoic Lepidosteidae, again, have, at most, biconcave vertebrae, while the existing _Lepidosteus_ has Salamandroid, opisthocoelous, vertebrae. So, none of the Palaeozoic Sharks have shown themselves to be possessed of ossified vertebrae, while the majority of modern Sharks possess such vertebrae. Again, the more ancient Crocodilia and Lacertilia have vertebrae with the articular facets of their centra flattened or biconcave, while the modern members of the same group have them procoelous. But the most remarkable examples of progressive modification of the vertebral column, in correspondence with geological age, are those afforded by the Pycnodonts among fish, and the Labyrinthodonts among Amphibia. The regularity and evenness of the dentition of the _Anoplotherium_, as contrasted with that of existing Artiodactyles, and the assumed nearer approach of the dentition of certain ancient Carnivores to the typical arrangement, have also been cited as exemplifications of a law of progressive development, but I know of no other cases based on positive evidence which are worthy of particular notice. What then does an impartial survey of the positively ascertained truths of palaeontology testify in relation to the common doctrines of progressive modification, which suppose that modification to have taken place by a necessary progress from more to less embryonic forms, or from more to less generalised types, within the limits of the period represented by the fossiliferous rocks? It negatives those doctrines; for it either shows us no evidence of any such modification, or demonstrates it to have been very slight; and as to the nature of that modification, it yields no evidence whatsoever that the earlier members of any long-continued group were more generalised in structure than the later ones. To a certain extent, indeed, it may be said that imperfect ossification of the vertebral column is an embryonic character; but, on the other hand, it would be extremely incorrect to suppose that the vertebral columns of the older Vertebrata are in any sense embryonic in their whole structure. "A great reform in geological speculation seems now to have become necessary." Nerved by such precedents, I proceed to put my pleading before you. The Mosaic cosmogony is, in this sense, catastrophic, because it assumes the operation of extra-natural power. The doctrine of violent upheavals, _debacles_, and cataclysms in general, is catastrophic, so far as it assumes that these were brought about by causes which have now no parallel. There was a time when catastrophism might, pre-eminently, have claimed the title of "British popular geology"; and assuredly it has yet many adherents, and reckons among its supporters some of the most honoured members of this Society. It is to this thorough scientific training that I ascribe Hutton's steady and persistent refusal to look to other causes than those now in operation, for the explanation of geological phenomena. Yet another influence worked strongly upon Hutton. Like most philosophers of his age, he coquetted with those final causes which have been named barren virgins, but which might be more fitly termed the _hetairoe_ of philosophy, so constantly have they led men astray. The final cause of the existence of the world is, for Hutton, the production of life and intelligence. "We have now considered the globe of this earth as a machine, constructed upon chemical as well as mechanical principles, by which its different parts are all adapted, in form, in quality, and in quantity, to a certain end; an end attained with certainty or success; and an end from which we may perceive wisdom, in contemplating the means employed. "But is this world to be considered thus merely as a machine, to last no longer than its parts retain their present position, their proper forms and qualities? Or may it not be also considered as an organised body? such as has a constitution in which the necessary decay of the machine is naturally repaired, in the exertion of those productive powers by which it had been formed. I have spoken of Uniformitarianism as the doctrine of Hutton and of Lyell. If I have quoted the older writer rather than the newer, it is because his works are little known, and his claims on our veneration too frequently forgotten, not because I desire to dim the fame of his eminent successor. Few of the present generation of geologists have read Playfair's "Illustrations," fewer still the original "Theory of the Earth"; the more is the pity; but which of us has not thumbed every page of the "Principles of Geology"? I think that he who writes fairly the history of his own progress in geological thought, will not be able to separate his debt to Hutton from his obligations to Lyell; and the history of the progress of individual geologists is the history of geology. I have shown how unjust was the insinuation that Hutton denied a beginning to the world. But it would not be unjust to say that he persistently in practice, shut his eyes to the existence of that prior and different state of things which, in theory, he admitted; and, in this aversion to look beyond the veil of stratified rocks, Lyell follows him. This attempt to limit, at a particular point, the progress of inductive and deductive reasoning from the things which are, to those which were-this faithlessness to its own logic, seems to me to have cost Uniformitarianism the place, as the permanent form of geological speculation, which it might otherwise have held. If I study a living being, under what heads does the knowledge I obtain fall? I can learn its structure, or what we call its ANATOMY; and its DEVELOPMENT, or the series of changes which it passes through to acquire its complete structure. Then I find that the living being has certain powers resulting from its own activities, and the interaction of these with the activities of other things--the knowledge of which is PHYSIOLOGY. Beyond this the living being has a position in space and time, which is its DISTRIBUTION. All these form the body of ascertainable facts which constitute the _status quo_ of the living creature. But these facts have their causes; and the ascertainment of these causes is the doctrine of AETIOLOGY. If we consider what is knowable about the earth, we shall find that such earth-knowledge--if I may so translate the word geology--falls into the same categories. What is termed stratigraphical geology is neither more nor less than the anatomy of the earth; and the history of the succession of the formations is the history of a succession of such anatomies, or corresponds with development, as distinct from generation. The internal heat of the earth, the elevation and depression of its crust, its belchings forth of vapours, ashes, and lava, are its activities, in as strict a sense as are warmth and the movements and products of respiration the activities of an animal. The phenomena of the seasons, of the trade winds, of the Gulf-stream, are as much the results of the reaction between these inner activities and outward forces, as are the budding of the leaves in spring and their falling in autumn the effects of the interaction between the organisation of a plant and the solar light and heat. And, as the study of the activities of the living being is called its physiology, so are these phenomena the subject-matter of an analogous telluric physiology, to which we sometimes give the name of meteorology, sometimes that of physical geography, sometimes that of geology. Again, the earth has a place in space and in time, and relations to other bodies in both these respects, which constitute its distribution. This subject is usually left to the astronomer; but a knowledge of its broad outlines seems to me to be an essential constituent of the stock of geological ideas. All that can be ascertained concerning the structure, succession of conditions, actions, and position in space of the earth, is the matter of fact of its natural history. But, as in biology, there remains the matter of reasoning from these facts to their causes, which is just as much science as the other, and indeed more; and this constitutes geological aetiology. Having regard to this general scheme of geological knowledge and thought, it is obvious that geological speculation may be, so to speak, anatomical and developmental speculation, so far as it relates to points of stratigraphical arrangement which are out of reach of direct observation; or, it may be physiological speculation so far as it relates to undetermined problems relative to the activities of the earth; or, it may be distributional speculation, if it deals with modifications of the earth's place in space; or, finally, it will be aetiological speculation if it attempts to deduce the history of the world, as a whole, from the known properties of the matter of the earth, in the conditions in which the earth has been placed. For the purposes of the present discourse I may take this last to be what is meant by "geological speculation." Now Uniformitarianism, as we have seen, tends to ignore geological speculation in this sense altogether. With as much truth as Hutton, Kant could say, "I take things just as I find them at present, and, from these, I reason with regard to that which must have been." Like Hutton, he is never tired of pointing out that "in Nature there is wisdom, system, and consistency." And, as in these great principles, so in believing that the cosmos has a reproductive operation "by which a ruined constitution may be repaired," he forestalls Hutton; while, on the other hand, Kant is true to science. He knows no bounds to geological speculation but those of the intellect. He reasons back to a beginning of the present state of things; he admits the possibility of an end. UNIFORMITARIANISM, on the other hand, has with equal justice insisted upon a practically unlimited bank of time, ready to discount any quantity of hypothetical paper. It has kept before our eyes the power of the infinitely little, time being granted, and has compelled us to exhaust known causes, before flying to the unknown. I do not know whether Evolutionism can claim that amount of currency which would entitle it to be called British popular geology; but, more or less vaguely, it is assuredly present in the minds of most geologists. Thus, if we accept the limitation of time placed before us by Sir W. Thomson, it is not obvious, on the face of the matter, that we shall have to alter, or reform, our ways in any appreciable degree; and we may therefore proceed with much calmness, and indeed much indifference, as to the result, to inquire whether that limitation is justified by the arguments employed in its support. But is the earth nothing but a cooling mass, "like a hot-water jar such as is used in carriages," or "a globe of sandstone," and has its cooling been uniform? An affirmative answer to both these questions seems to be necessary to the validity of the calculations on which Sir W. Thomson lays so much stress. Nevertheless it surely may be urged that such affirmative answers are purely hypothetical, and that other suppositions have an equal right to consideration. I do not think it can be denied that such conditions may exist, and may so greatly affect the supply, and the loss, of terrestrial heat as to destroy the value of any calculations which leave them out of sight. My functions as your advocate are at an end. I speak with more than the sincerity of a mere advocate when I express the belief that the case against us has entirely broken down. The cry for reform which has been raised without, is superfluous, inasmuch as we have long been reforming from within, with all needful speed. And the critical examination of the grounds upon which the very grave charge of opposition to the principles of Natural Philosophy has been brought against us, rather shows that we have exercised a wise discrimination in declining, for the present, to meddle with our foundations. PALAEONTOLOGY AND THE DOCTRINE OF EVOLUTION I think that I cannot employ my last opportunity of addressing you, officially, more properly--I may say more dutifully--than in revising these old judgments with such help as further knowledge and reflection, and an extreme desire to get at the truth, may afford me. Consider how long a time has elapsed since the Miocene epoch. Yet, at that time there is reason to believe that every important group in every order of the _Mammalia_ was represented. Even the comparatively scanty Eocene fauna yields examples of the orders _Cheiroptera, Insectivora, Rodentia_, and _Perissodactyla_; of _Artiodactyla_ under both the Ruminant and the Porcine modifications; of _Caranivora, Cetacea_, and _Marsupialia_. Thus far we have been concerned with the intercalary types which occupy the intervals between Families or Orders of the same class; but the investigations which have been carried on by Professor Gegenbaur, Professor Cope, and myself into the structure and relations of the extinct reptilian forms of the _Ornithoscelida_ (or _Dinosauria_ and _Compsognatha_) have brought to light the existence of intercalary forms between what have hitherto been always regarded as very distinct classes of the vertebrate sub-kingdom, namely _Reptilia_ and _Aves_. Whatever inferences may, or may not, be drawn from the fact, it is now an established truth that, in many of these _Ornithoscelida_, the hind limbs and the pelvis are much more similar to those of Birds than they are to those of Reptiles, and that these Bird-reptiles, or Reptile-birds, were more or less completely bipedal. After much search, however, I think that such a case is to be made out in favour of the pedigree of the Horses. The _Hipparion_ has large depressions on the face in front of the orbits, like those for the "larmiers" of many ruminants; but traces of these are to be seen in some of the fossil horses from the Sewalik Hills; and, as Leidy's recent researches show, they are preserved in _Anchitherium_. It would be hazardous to say that _Plagiolophus_ is the exact radical form of the Equine quadrupeds; but I do not think there can be any reasonable doubt that the latter animals have resulted from the modification of some quadruped similar to _Plagiolophus_. Another series of closely affiliated forms, though the evidence they afford is perhaps less complete than that of the Equine series, is presented to us by the _Dichobune_ of the Eocene epoch, the _Cainotherium_ of the Miocene, and the _Tragulidoe_, or so-called "Muskdeer," of the present day. Such is the further commentary which I have to offer upon the statement of the chief results of palaeontology which I formerly ventured to lay before you. I propose to lay before you, as briefly as I can, the ideas to which a long consideration of the subject has given rise in my mind. I propose to attempt to deal with this problem, so far as it is exemplified by the distribution of the terrestrial _Vertebrata_, and I shall endeavour to show you that it is capable of solution in a sense entirely favourable to the doctrine of evolution. But it is very remarkable that while the Miocene fauna of the Arctogaeal province, as a whole, is of the same character as the existing fauna of the same province, as a whole, the component elements of the fauna were differently associated. In the Miocene epoch, North America possessed Elephants, Horses, Rhinoceroses, and a great number and variety of Ruminants and Pigs, which are absent in the present indigenous fauna; Europe had its Apes, Elephants, Rhinoceroses, Tapirs, Musk-deer, Giraffes, Hyaenas, great Cats, Edentates, and Opossum-like Marsupials, which have equally vanished from its present fauna; and in Northern India, the African types of Hippopotamuses, Giraffes, and Elephants were mixed up with what are now the Asiatic types of the latter, and with Camels, and Semnopithecine and Pithecine Apes of no less distinctly Asiatic forms. It is unfortunate that we have no knowledge of the Miocene mammalian fauna of the Australian and Austro-Columbian provinces; but, seeing that not a trace of a Platyrrhine Ape, of a Procyonine Carnivore, of a characteristically South-American Rodent, of a Sloth, an Armadillo, or an Ant-eater has yet been found in Miocene deposits of Arctogaea, I cannot doubt that they already existed in the Miocene Austro-Columbian province. But Austro-Columbia presents difficulties from which Australia is free; _Cantelidoe_ and _Tapirdoe_ are now indigenous in South America as they are in Arctogaea; and, among the Pliocene Austro-Columbian mammals, the Arctogaeal genera _Equus, Mastodon,_ and _Machairodus_ are numbered. Are these Postmiocene immigrants, or Praemiocene natives? Still more perplexing are the strange and interesting forms _Toxodon, Macrauchenia, Typotherium_, and a new Anoplotherioid mammal (_Homalodotherhon_) which Dr. Cunningham sent over to me some time ago from Patagonia. I confess I am strongly inclined to surmise that these last, at any rate, are remnants of the population of Austro-Columbia before the Miocene epoch, and were not derived from Arctogaea by way of the north and east. Now, on the hypothesis of evolution, there is no sort of difficulty in admitting that the differences between the Miocene forms of the mammalian Fauna and those which exist at present are the results of gradual modification; and, since such differences in distribution as obtain are readily explained by the changes which have taken place in the physical geography of the world since the Miocene epoch, it is clear that the result of the comparison of the Miocene and present Faunae is distinctly in favour of evolution. Indeed I may go further. I may say that the hypothesis of evolution explains the facts of Miocene, Pliocene, and Recent distribution, and that no other supposition even pretends to account for them. It is, indeed, a conceivable supposition that every species of Rhinoceros and every species of Hyaena, in the long succession of forms between the Miocene and the present species, was separately constructed out of dust, or out of nothing, by supernatural power; but until I receive distinct evidence of the fact, I refuse to run the risk of insulting any sane man by supposing that he seriously holds such a notion. Let us now take a step further back in time, and inquire into the relations between the Miocene Fauna and its predecessor of the Upper Eocene formation. Here it is to be regretted that our materials for forming a judgment are nothing to be compared in point of extent or variety with those which are yielded by the Miocene strata. However, what we do know of this Upper Eocene Fauna of Europe gives sufficient positive information to enable us to draw some tolerably safe inferences. It has yielded representatives of _Insectivora_, of _Cheiroptera_, of _Rodentia_, of _Carnivora_, of artiodactyle and perissodactyle _Ungulata_, and of opossum-like Marsupials. No Australian type of Marsupial has been discovered in the Upper Eocene strata, nor any Edentate mammal. The genera (except perhaps in the case of some of the _Insectivora, Cheiroptera_, and _Rodentia_) are different from those of the Miocene epoch, but present a remarkable general similarity to the Miocene and recent genera. In several cases, as I have already shown, it has now been clearly made out that the relation between the Eocene and Miocene forms is such that the Eocene form is the less specialised; while its Miocene ally is more so, and the specialisation reaches its maximum in the recent forms of the same type. There is nothing, then, in what is known of the older Eocene mammals of the Arctogaeal province to forbid the supposition that they stood in an ancestral relation to those of the Calcaire Grossier and the Gypsum of the Paris basin, and that our present fauna, therefore, is directly derived from that which already existed in Arctogaea at the commencement of the Tertiary period. But if we now cross the frontier between the Cainozoic and the Mesozoic faunae, as they are preserved within the Arctogaeal area, we meet with an astounding change, and what appears to be a complete and unmistakable break in the line of biological continuity. It is this Mesozoic continent (which may well have lain in the neighbourhood of what are now the shores of the North Pacific Ocean) which I suppose to have been occupied by the Mesozoic _Monodelphia_; and it is in this region that I conceive they must have gone through the long series of changes by which they were specialised into the forms which we refer to different orders. I think it very probable that what is now South America may have received the characteristic elements of its mammalian fauna during the Mesozoic epoch; and there can be little doubt that the general nature of the change which took place at the end of the Mesozoic epoch in Europe was the upheaval of the eastern and northern regions of the Mesozoic sea-bottom into a westward extension of the Mesozoic continent, over which the mammalian fauna, by which it was already peopled, gradually spread. This invasion of the land was prefaced by a previous invasion of the Cretaceous sea by modern forms of mollusca and fish. How do similar reasonings apply to the other great change of life--that which took place at the end of the Palaeozoic period? For my part, I entertain no sort of doubt that the Reptiles, Birds, and Mammals of the Trias are the direct descendants of Reptiles, Birds, and Mammals which existed in the latter part of the Palaeozoic epoch, but not in any area of the present dry land which has yet been explored by the geologist. Let me now gather together the threads of my argumentation into the form of a connected hypothetical view of the manner in which the distribution of living and extinct animals has been brought about. I conceive that distinct provinces of the distribution of terrestrial life have existed since the earliest period at which that life is recorded, and possibly much earlier; and I suppose, with Mr. Darwin, that the progress of modification of terrestrial forms is more rapid in areas of elevation than in areas of depression. I take it to be certain that Labyrinthodont _Amphibia_ existed in the distributional province which included the dry land depressed during the Carboniferous epoch; and I conceive that, in some other distributional provinces of that day, which remained in the condition of stationary or of increasing dry land, the various types of the terrestrial _Sauropsida_ and of the _Mammalia_ were gradually developing. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Discourses, by Thomas H. Huxley	redpajama-book	23,127
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Virginia Paque and PG Distributed Proofreaders [Transcriber's Note: The spelling inconsistencies of the original have been retained in this etext.] "Heavy and solemn the cloudy column Over the green fields marching came, Measureless spread like a table bread For the cold grim dice of the iron game." BERNARD JOHN McGRANN WHOSE LIFE AND CONDUCT EMBODY AND ILLUSTRATE THE MANLINESS, MODESTY, AND WORTH THAT FANCY DELIGHTS TO EMBALM IN FICTION THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED All his young life Jack had dreamed of West Point and the years of training that were to fit him for the glories of war. He knew the battles of the Revolution as other boys knew the child-lore of the nursery. He had the campaigns of Marlborough, the strategy of Turenne, the inspirations of the great Frederick, and the prodigies of Napoleon, as readily on the end of his tongue as his comrades had the struggles of the Giant Killer or the tactics of Robinson Crusoe. When, inspired by the promise of West Point, he had mastered the repugnant rubrics of the village academy, the statesman of his district conferred the promised nomination upon his school rival, Wesley Boone, Jack passionately refused to pursue the arid paths of learning, and declared his purpose of becoming a pirate, a scout, or some other equally fascinating child of nature delightful to the boyish mind. When Jack Sprague entered Warchester College, he carried with him the light baggage of learning picked up at the Acredale Academy. At his entrance to the sequestered quadrangles of Dessau Hall, Jack's frame of mind was very much like the passionate discontent of the younger son of a feudal lord whose discrepant birthright doomed him to the gown instead of the sword. When, however, the stupefying news came that a national garrison had been fired upon by the South Carolinians, in Charleston Harbor, the college boys took sides strongly. There were many in the classes from Maryland and Virginia. These were as ardent in admiration of their Southern compatriots as the Northern boys were for the insulted Union. Months passed, and, although the forces of war were arraying themselves behind the thin veil of compromise and negotiation, the public mind only languidly convinced itself that actual war would come. "I have nothing to offer you, boys. I'm only sergeant; but if you will join now, I'm authorized to swear you in provisionally," Jack said, shrewdly, seizing the flood at high tide. The recitations were sadly disjointed that day, and the excited professors were glad when rest came. The humanities had received disjointed exposition during that session. Jack had been summoned to the president's sanctuary, where he had been received with a parental tenderness that brought the tears to his big brown eyes. "Ah, ha! soldiers mustn't know tears. You must be made of sterner stuff now, sergeant," the doctor cried, cheerily, as the culprit stood confusedly before him. "O Jack, Jack, why did you put this hard task upon me? Why make me drive from Dessau the brightest fellow in the classes? What will your mother say? I would as soon have lost my own child as be forced to put this mark on you? But you know I am bound by the laws of the college. You know I have time and again overlooked your wild pranks. We have already suffered a good deal from the press for winking at the sympathy the college has shown in this political quarrel." "Yes, professor, I haven't a word to say. You did your duty. Now I want you to bear witness how I do mine. I do not complain that I am condemned rather through the form than the fact. I was carried out of my senses by the sight of that rebel flag." The Warchester press, known for many years as the most sprightly and enterprising of the country, was too much taken up with the direful news from Baltimore to even make a note of Jack Sprague's expulsion, and the soldier boy was spared that mortification. Nor did he meet the tearful lament and heart-broken remonstrance at home, to which he had looked forward with lively dread. His friends in the village of Acredale were so astonished by his blue regimentals that he reached the homestead door unquestioned. His mother, at the dining-room window, caught sight of the uniform, and did not recognize her son until she was almost smothered in his hearty embrace. Mrs. Sprague, like millions of mothers in those days, was cruelly divided in mind. When the neighbors felicitated her on the valor and patriotism of Mr. Jack she was elated and fitfully reconciled. When, in the long watches of the night, she reflected on the hardships, temptations, the dreadful companions her darling must be thrown with, country, lineage, everything faded into the dreadful reality that her darling was in peril, body and soul. He was so like his father--gay, impressionable, easily influenced--he would be saint or sinner, just as his surroundings incited him. This was the woe that ate the mother's heart; this was the sorrow that clouded millions of homes when mothers saw their boys pranked out in the trappings of war. If Acredale had not been for a century the ancestral seat of the Spragues, and in its widest sense typical of the suburban Northern town, there would be merely an objective and extrinsic interest in portraying its sequestered life, its monotonous activities. But Acredale was not only a very complete reflex of Northern local sentiment; its war epoch represented the normal conduct of every hamlet in the land during the conflict with the South. Now that the war is becoming a memory, even to those who were actors in it, the facts distorted and the incidents warped to serve partisan ends or personal pique, the photograph of the time may have its value. Society in the place was patriarchal as an English shire town. The large Sprague mansion, about which the village clustered at a respectful distance, was the "Castle" of local phrase. Much of the glory of early days had departed, however, when the Senator--Jack's papa--died. The widow found herself unable to maintain the affluent state her lord had loved. His legal practice, rather than the wide acres of his domain, had supported a hospitality famous from Bucephalo to Washington. But with prudent management the family had abundance, and, as Jack often said, he was a fortune in himself. When the time came he would revive the splendors his father loved to associate with the home of his ancestors. "Oh, I'll bring home glory. Napoleon said that every soldier carried a marshal's _baton_ in his knapsack." "I'm afraid you won't have room for it if you carry all the things that I know of intended for you in this and other families." "Yes; but, Polly, you know, or perhaps you don't know, a _baton_ is like a college love--no matter how full your heart is, you can always find room for another!" "John," Mistress Sprague reproves mildly; "how can you? I don't like to hear my son talk like that even in jest. Don't get the idea that it is soldierly to treat sacred things with levity. Love is a very sacred thing; it ought to be part of a man's religion; it was of your father's." "Olympia, you are a baleful influence on your brother. If anything could reconcile me to his going it is the thought that he will escape the extraordinary speech and manners you have brought back from New York. Do the Misses Pomfret graduate all their young ladies with such a tone and laxity of speech as you have lately shown? Strangers would naturally think that you had no training at home." "Don't fear, mamma; strangers are not favored with my lighter vein; I assume that for you and Jack, to keep your minds from graver things. I preserve the senatorial suavity of speech and the Sprague austerity of manner 'before folks,' as Aunt Merry would say. Which reminds me, Jack, Kitty Moore declares that you are responsible for Barney's enlisting. The family look to you to bring him home safe--a colonel at least." "Is he?" She had turned swiftly to gather a ball of worsted, and when it was secured began to rummage in her work-basket for something that seemed from her intentness to be vitally necessary to her at the moment. "Yes, he wrote to President Grandison that he should go as soon as his passports and remittances came. He's promised a captain's commission. I'm very, very sorry. Vint is the noblest of fellows. I hate to think of him in the rebel army." "What, John, you've not been in a broil--fighting?" and Mistress Sprague could not, even in imagination, go further in such an odious direction, and let her eyes finish the interrogatory. Jack, a good deal subdued by what Olympia had left unsaid, rather than what she had said, blurted out: "It was a campus shindy: Vint led the rebel side and they got licked, that's all." "Oh, was that all?" Olympia had ended her search in the basket and fastened a glance of satiric good humor upon the culprit, which did not tend to relieve the awkwardness of the moment. Jack blushed under the glance and began to hum an air from Figaro, as if the conversation had ebbed into an impass from which it could only be rescued by a lively air. Mrs. Sprague looked at the uneasy warrior, then at her daughter, darting the crochet-needles placidly through the wool. "Well," she said, "never mind what's past; we must have Vincent out here for a visit before he goes. I must send Mrs. Atterbury a number of things. I hope she won't think that we intend to let the war make any difference in our feeling toward the family." "You mustn't tell me your army plans, Vint. I'm a soldier," and Jack drew himself up with martial pomposity, "and--and--perhaps I ought to arrest you now as an enemy, you know. I will look in the articles of war and find out my duty in such cases." Jack waved his arm reassuringly, as if to bid the rebel take heart for the moment--he would not hurry in the matter. Vincent eyed his comrade with such a woe-begone mingling of alarm and comic indignation that Jack forgot his possible part as agent of his country's laws, and said, soothingly: "Never mind, Vint, I'm not really a full soldier in the technical sense until the regiment is mustered in at Washington. After that, of course, you know very well it would he treason to give aid or comfort to the country's enemies." Vincent didn't leave next day, nor for a good many days. He seemed to get a good deal of "aid and comfort" from those who should have been his enemies. Mistress Sprague found that he was not in a fit state to travel; that he needed nursing to prepare him for his journey, and that no place was so fit as the great guest-chamber in the baronial Sprague mansion, near his friend Jack. Strange to say, Vincent's eagerness to get to Richmond and his shoulder-straps were forgotten in the agreeable pastimes of the big house, where he spent hours enlightening Olympia on the wonders the Southern soldiers were to perform and the glory that he (Vincent) was to win. He went of a morning to the post-office, where Jack was installed recruiting-agent for Acredale township, and made very merry over the homespun stuff enrolled in defense of the Union. "Our strapping cavaliers will make short work of your gawky bumpkins;" he remarked to Jack as the recruits loitered about the wide, shaded streets, waiting to be forwarded to the rendezvous. "Don't be too sure of that. These young, boyish-looking fellows are just the sort of men that met the British at Bunker Hill. They laughed too, when they saw them; but they didn't laugh after they met them, nor will your cavaliers," Jack cried, loftily. "But there's not a full-grown man among all these I've seen. How do you suppose they are to endure march and battle? None of them can ride. All our young men ride, and cavalry is the main thing in modern armies." But, now that there was to be a separation involving the unknown in its vaguest form, the lad was treated with a tenderness that made the swift days very sweet to the young rebel. It was from Olympia that he met the only distinct formality in the manners of his hosts. He had known and adored her in a boyish way for years, and now, as he contemplated going, he thought that she ought to exhibit something of the old-time warmth. In other days she had ridden, walked, and flirted to his heart's desire. Now she avoided him when Jack was not at hand, and when she talked it was in a flippant vein that drove him wild with baffled hope. The day before he was to bid the kind house adieu he had his wish. She was riding with him over the shaded roadway that curves in bewildering beauty toward the lake. She seemed in a gentler mood than he had lately seen her. They rode slowly side by side, but Vincent had a dismal awkwardness of speech in whimsical contrast to his habitual fluency. "That's a rather solemn view to take of what Jack regards as the path of glory." MALBROOK S'EN VA-T-EN GUERRE. Olympia had been jogging along, apparently oblivious to everything but the blazing vision of sun and cloud above the lake, purpling shapes of mirage, reflecting the smooth surface of the glowing water. But as the young man's voice--fallen into a melodious murmur--ceased, she took up the theme with unexpected earnestness. "But you need not turn. In battle do your duty like a man. If it should fall to you to do a kindness to the wounded, do it in memory of the friends you have here. War is less savage now than it was when your ancestors and mine tortured each other in the name of God and the king." "It is decided; I must go in the morning." As this had been the plan all along, she looked up at him in surprise, not knowing, of course, that he had been thinking of putting off the fixed time. "Yes, everything has been made ready; Jack will take you to Warchester, and we shall drive over to see you _en route_." "It is fortunate the letter from my mother came to-night." He stood quite, over her chair, his eyes glittering strangely, his manner excited. "Do you know what they think at home? They say that I--I am not true to my cause; that my heart is with the North--that I want to stay here." "They won't think that when they hear you, as we have, breathing fury and wrath against the Lincolnites," Olympia briskly replied, as if to proffer her services as witness to his misguided loyalty to the South. "Ah, don't be so ungenerous, now--at this time. I never talk like that now--here--never before you." He hesitated, and his voice dropped. "Why will you put a fellow in a ridiculous light? Your sneers almost make me ashamed of my honest pride in my State--my enthusiasm for our sacred cause." "Deep feeling isn't so easily shaken; true love should brave all things--even sneers and blows." "If I should tell you that I loved somebody, I am sure you would make me seem ridiculous or ignorant of my own mind." "Then pray be wise and don't tell me. It's bad enough to be in love, without being photographed in the agony." He looked at her in angry perplexity. Could she ever be serious? Was all the tenderness of the past only heedless coquetry? Had she danced with him, drove with him, sailed with him, walked in the moonlight and made much of him in mere wanton mischief? What right had she to be so pretty and so--without heart or sensibility? A Southern girl with the word love on a young man's lips would have become a Circe of seductive wooing until the tale were told, even though she could not give her heart in return. "Let me see," and she leaned on her elbow musingly, as if construing his words literally, and quite unaware of the tender intent of his prayer. "It ought to be a line to go on your sword--there's where you have the advantage of poor Jack, he has only a musket. But, no, you being a Southerner, have a coat of arms, and the line must go on that. I used to know plenty of stirring phrases suitable to young men setting out for the wars. Perhaps you know them, too; they are to be found in the copy-books. 'The pen is mightier than the sword' wouldn't do, would it? Pens are only fit for poets and men of peace? We should have something brief and epigrammatic. 'That hour is regal when the sentinel mounts on guard.' There is sublimity in that, but you won't go on guard, being an officer. 'No blood-stained woes in mankind's story Should daunt the heart that's set on glory.' "That's too trivial--the sort of doggerel for newspaper poets' corners rather than a warrior's shield. 'Think on the perils that environ The man that meddles with cold iron!' "That's too much like a caution, and a soldier's motto should urge to daring. So we'll none of that. What do you say to the distich in honor of your great ancestor, Pocahontas's husband, John Smith: 'I never yet knew a warrior but thee, From wine, tobacco, debt, and vice so free.' "Perhaps, however, that might be regarded as vaunting over your comrades, who, I've no doubt, relax the tedium of war in temperate indulgence of some of these vices. 'Put up thy sword; states may be saved without it,' would sound out of keeping for a warrior whose States drew the sword when the olive-branch was offered them. You see, I can not select any text quite suitable to your case?" "O Olympia, I did not believe you could be so heartless! Be serious." "Well, Mr. Soldier, if you insist, I know nothing better for a warrior to bear in mind in war than these simple lines: 'The bravest are the tenderest, The loving are the daring.'" "You are right, Olympia--those are noble lines. It gives me courage; the loving are the daring! I love you; I dare to tell you that I love you! Ah, Olympia, I love you so well that I have been traitor to my fatherland! I have loitered here in the hope that you would give me some sign--some word to take with me in the dark path Fate has set for me to follow." "I beg you to get up; we cold-blooded people up here don't understand that old-fashioned way." As he started back with something like a groan, she gave him a quick glance that electrified him. He seized her hand before she could snatch it away and pressed it to his lips. "Pray be serious. You are too young to talk of love." "No, dear Vincent, don't talk of this now. You don't know your own mind yet. I am sure that when you go home and think over the matter you will see that it would be impossible, but, even if you were sure of yourself, I never could think of it. You are going to take up arms against all I hold dear and sacred. If I were your affianced, with the love for you that you deserve, I would break the pledge when you joined in arms against my family and country." In a little glow of what was plainly not displeasure, the young woman "filed" this "writ of pre-emption," as Jack afterward called it, in careful hiding, and resumed meditation of the writer. It could not now be answered, for letters between the lines were subject to censorship, and Olympia perhaps shrank from adding to her lover's misery by exposing his rejection to the unfeeling eyes of the postal agents. There was pity in the resolve as well as prudence. Had Vincent been able to read the workings of the lady's mind, he would have donned his rebel gray with more buoyant joy that day in Richmond. Another ally of the absent came in the course of the day. Miss Boone, the daughter of the opulent contractor and chief local magnate, called to plan work for the soldiers. Vincent's name being mentioned, Miss Boone said, in the apparent effusion of girlish intimacy: "I like Mr. Atterbury very much. He is a charming fellow. But, for your family's sake, I am glad he is away from this house." At Olympia's surprised start she nodded as if to emphasize this, continuing: "Yes, and for good reasons. You know our house is the high court of abolitionism? Well, papa's cronies have made Mr. Atterbury's visit cause of suspicion." "And Jack isn't to have a commission?" "No, not now; only men of the war party are to be made officers." "Good heavens! Nobody could be more eager for the war than Jack. It is his passion. His delight in it shocks my mother, who hates war. What stronger evidence of sympathy for the cause could he show than joining the army before finishing college?" "Your brother has done wonders, everybody says; he has the finest fellows in the township, and he ought to be colonel, at least," Miss Boone said, rising to go. "Oh, I have no fear that he will not win his way," Olympia replied, cheerfully. "The brave in battle are captains, no matter what rank they hold." The odious partisanship and ready calumny of her own compatriots gave a strange bent to her mind in dealing with another problem. Vincent, too, had suffered from the wretched battle of his family's enemies. After all, might he not be right? Might the war not be a mere game of havoc played by the base and unscrupulous? Country, right or wrong, had been her family watchword since her ancestor flew to fight the British invaders. It was Jack's watchword, too, and his conduct in battle should put these wretches to shame. She thought more kindly of the rebel in this vengeful mood, and straightway ran up-stairs, where, sitting by the open window and lulled by the piping of the robins, she took the letter from its pretty covert, read it again with heightened color, and, smiling rosily at the face she saw in the mirror, raised it to her lips and sighed softly. GUELPH AND GHIBELLINE. "The time will come, Senator, that you'll be sorry for this hour's work," Boone said, joining Sprague at the door as he was leaving the hall. "How's that?" the other asked, with just the shade of superciliousness in the tone admired in the Senate for suavity. "I hope I am always sorry when I do wrong, in speech or act; I teach my children to be." "Well, if you think it right to run the party for a few lordly idlers too proud to mix with the people--men who think they are better born and better bred than the rest of us--I don't want to have anything more to do with it. I will go elsewhere." "I don't know whether I am to blame or the other fellow until Kate hears the story." "Education, after all, papa, is like a trade. A man may be able to handle all the tools and not know their names. Now, you are a well-informed man, but, because you didn't know logic, grammar, scientific terms, and the like, you thought yourself ignorant." "I'm not a liberal education to you, papa, as Steele said of the Duchess of Devonshire. That implies too much, but I am an index. You can find out what you need to know by keeping track of my ignorance." "We shall all have to live up to your shoulder-straps and brass buttons after this, Wesley," she cried, as the proud young dandy strutted over the arabesques of the library, where the delighted papa marched him, the better to survey the boy's splendor. "And think of the fate that awaits you if, in the esteem of Acredale, you should turn out less than a Napoleon." "Be serious, Kate, and don't tease the boy. Wesley knows what's expected of him; he has an opportunity to show what is in his stock. Thank God, men in the North can now come to their own without going down on their knees to the South!" "You're no more than a thief, Wes Boone; your father stole all he's got. Some day I'll make him give it back, or send him to jail, where he ought to be now." A NAPOLEONIC EPIGRAM. Promotion was quite openly held out as a reward for those who could influence most votes for the Administration candidates. At night the various companies were sent into the city to take part in the political propaganda; to march in processions or occupy conspicuous places at the party meetings. The private soldiers were almost to a man Democrats, but the chance to escape the long and irksome evenings of the camp and join the frolic and adventure of the street made most of them willing enough to play the part of claque or figurantes. Jack, of course, refused to take part in these scenic rallies, making known his sentiments in vehement disdain. He detested Oswald, who had quit his party, not on a question of principle, but merely for place, and Jack did not spare him in his satirical allusions to the new uses invented for the military. There were mutiny and desperation in the air. It needed but a spark to destroy the usefulness of the company. But, as is often the case with impetuous, hot-headed spirits, Jack cooled as his friends grew hot. He was the more patient that the injustice was his injury alone. He remained in his place at the right of the company, and confronted the rebellious group with amazing self-control. Then loud above the murmuring his voice rang out: Many a time afterward these angry mutineers heard that sonorous, clear, boyish treble in stern and determined command; but they never heard it signalize a more heroic temper than at that moment, when, himself deeply wronged, he forced them to go back in the ranks to receive the interloper. They "dressed up" sullenly as Jack called the roll for the last time, and received Trask, the new orderly, at a "present," which, though not in the tactics, Jack exacted as a penitence for the momentary revolt. Poor Trask looked very unhappy indeed as his displaced rival stepped back to the rear and left the new orderly to march the company out from the narrow way to take its place in the parade. It was easy to see that he would have been very glad to postpone or evade his new honors, on any pretext, for the time. He was so confused that Jack, from the flank, was obliged to repeat the few commands needed to get the company to the field. The men's backs bulged out with such a pack of supplies that when the regiment halted each man was forced to kneel and let a comrade take off or put on his knapsack. And then the march through the streets--every man known to scores in the throng! The brisk, high-stepping drum corps rat-a-tatting at intervals; then tempests of cheers, flashing banners and patriotic symbols at every window; tears, laughter, humorous cries, jokes, sobbing outbreaks. The whole city was in march as the Caribees reached the thronged main thoroughfare. Ready hands relieved the soldiers of their burden as the line filed in sight of the Governor, who had come to speed the parting braves. "Jack, what have you in your knapsack? Let me see." "O Polly, it's such a job to close it! What do you want? It is harder to manage than a Saratoga trunk. I can't really stuff another pin or needle in, so pray keep what you have for my furlough." "I wonder if the President just stands and throws the stars down from that balcony?" Jack said, as the crowd of brigadiers thickened before the hotel door. "What on earth are they all doing here?" "Oh, they come to make requisition on General Bacchus; he's the commissary-general of the brigadiers--don't you know?" Barney said, innocently. "Oh, no, I'm not mistaken--General Bacchus has been selected to deal out the _esprit de corps!_" "_L'esprit de corps_? Barney, you're certainly tipsy. I'm ashamed of you!" "And so you call that a joke?" "Well, it isn't a cough, a song, an oath, or--or anything old Oswald would say, so it must be a joke." "Well, in that sense it may pass, like a tipsy soldier without the countersign." "Oh, come now, Jack, these stars are really dazzling you!" "Not but I'll make you see some that will dazzle you, if you don't treat your superior more respectfully." "Oh, the punch you think of giving me wouldn't solve this star problem; it requires to be made in the old--the milky way." "It makes a fellow feel as Godfrey's hosts felt when they came in sight of the Bosporus, and the hordes of the Saracens on the plains of the Hellespont," Jack said, exultingly, as Barney stood on a pile of camp equipages above him, surveying the quickening spectacle. "I don't know how Godfrey's fellows felt, Jack, but it _do_ make a man feel kinder able to do something with so many near by to lend a hand. But, stars and garters! what a head it must take to manage all these! Fair and square, now, Jack, you feel the fires of military genius in your big head--do you think that you could disentangle this enormous coil--put each corps, division, and regiment, in its proper place--at a day's notice?" "Oh, I couldn't perhaps do it just to-day; but give me time!" "Yes, I'll give you to the age of Methuselah, and then if you can manage it I shall not lose faith in you." It was fully a week before the Caribees were installed ready for Sunday inspection, as no exigency was permitted to interfere with morning and afternoon drill, guard-mount, and parade. Battalion and brigade drill, too, were new diversions for the Caribees, as now, camped near other troops, these more complicated movements were part of the regiment's allotted duty. After they were sufficiently trained in this they were to take part in a grand review by the general-in-chief, when the President, the Secretary of War, and all the great folks in Washington rode out to witness the spectacle. "Sergeant, are you on duty?" "No, sir; I'm on leave for the day." "Ah, good; my orderly was here a moment ago, but I don't see him anywhere. Would you mind taking this telegram to the War Department, through the park yonder?" "I've seen that chap before, somewhere," Barney said, panting with the rapid pace. "Well, my man, what is it?" Without a word Jack handed him the envelope, and with a sort of reverence to the tall figure whose face was turned kindly toward him he backed to the door. "O Barney, I've seen the President!" "Seen the President! No? Oh! Why could not I have gone in with you? It's always my luck." "No: it was my luck. But take heart. He will come out pretty soon, and we'll loaf about here. Perhaps we can see him as he goes back to the White House yonder." THE STEP THAT COSTS. To feel that he was part of all this; that, at rest in the iron ring girdling the capital, he was might in leash; that to-morrow he would be vengeance let loose--this was the sustaining, exulting thought that made the volunteer the best of soldiers. His heart was all in the glorious ardor for action. Night and morning he looked proudly at the sacred ensign waving lightly in the summer breeze, and he remembered that the eyes of Washington had rested on the same standard at Valley Forge; that the sullen battalions of Cornwallis had saluted it at Yorktown. As July wore on, the signs of movement grew. Regiments were moved away mysteriously, and soon the Caribees were almost alone on Meridian Hill. Jack was filled with dire fears that the commanding officer, having discovered the incompetency of Oswald, feared to take the Caribees to the front. Something of the rumor spread through the regiment, and if, as reputed, "Old Sauerkraut" (this was the name he got behind his back) had spies in all the companies, the adage about listeners was abundantly confirmed. In the secrecy of Jack's tent, however, the subject was freely discussed. Nick Marsh, the poet of the class, as became the mystic tendencies of his tribe, was for poisoning the detested Pomeranian--Oswald was a compatriot of Bismarck, often boasting, as the then slowly emerging statesman became more widely known, that he lived in his near neighborhood. Marsh's suggestion fell upon fruitful perceptions. Bernard Moore--Barney, for short--was to be a physician, and had already passed an apprenticeship in a pharmacy, coincident with his college term in Jack's class. "By the powers of mud and blood, Nick, dear, I have it!" "Have what, Barney, me b'y?" Nick asked, mimicking Barney's quaintly displaced vowels. "Why, the way to get rid of Old Schnapps and Blitzen--more power to me!" "No; most fellows can consider themselves lucky if an angel touches their lips--or heart," Barney cried, naively. "We'll be satisfied if they'll have you, Barney. I'm sure that's magnanimous. But if your jalap takes as much time in working Old Schnapps as you take in explaining it, the war will be over, and we shall have seen none of it." "Yer acquaintances among females being chiefly of the silly sort, it's no wonder we remind you of the only things you can look back on without blushing," Barney retorted; and a neighbor poking his head in the door to learn the cause of the hilarity, the conspirators sallied out for a jaunt until parade-time. Now, what means Barney employed, or whether he had any handiwork in what befell, it does not fall to me to say, but this is what happened: A market hawker came into camp the next morning and went straight to the big marquee tent where Colonel Oswald stood, in all the bravery of a new broadcloth uniform with spreading eagles on the shoulders. The savory fumes of hot sauerkraut aroused the warrior from his reveries, and he asked, in vociferous delight: _"Was haben sie? Kohlen, nicht wahr--sauerkraut--das is aber schon?"_ Company K was drilling on the wide plateau between the camp and the highway when the ambulance bearing the afflicted officer came slowly over the road worn through the greensward. Hussey sat solemnly on the seat with the driver, and as the vehicle reached the company, standing at rest, Barney Moore in the rear rank spoke up: "Tim, is the poor colonel no better?" "Divil a betther; it's worse he's intirely. God be good till 'im!" Neither Jack nor Nick Marsh dared trust himself to meet the other's eyes as the helpless chief disappeared down the hillside, while Barney entered into an exhaustive treatise on the symptoms of cholera and the liability of the most robust to meet sudden disaster in this malarious upland, circumvailated by ages of decaying matter in the damp swamps on every hand. But when, an hour later, Company K's whole street was aroused by peal on peal of Abderian laughter, Jack and Nick were found helpless in their bunks, and Barney was engaged in presenting a potion to settle their collapsed nerves! "Don't say a word, Barney--to whom the medicos of mythology and all the wizards of antique story are clowns and mountebanks--you shall have the guinea or its equivalent." His gun was on his arm and his knapsack on his back, but only the realization that a score of eyes were upon him saved Jack from dropping limply on the ground, as, looking in the group, he saw Dick Perley and Tom Twigg grinning ingratiatingly at him. "Where--how in the name of all that's sacred did you get here?" he gasped. They looked him confidently in the face as Dick repeated this evidently long-practiced explanation. It would not do to take them to task before the company. Jack waited until the rest were scattered, and then, leading the boys aside, said, sternly: "Do they know at home what you have done?" Jack asked, doubtingly. "Yes," Dick said, noting with boyish quickness the indecision in Jack's troubled face. "I sent a letter to Aunt Pliny, from New York, telling her we were soldiers, and that we were happy and well." "You impudent young scamp--to write that to your best friend! Don't you know it will kill her?" Dick had no answer for this, and looked perplexedly at Tom, who was lost in admiration of a neighboring group engaged in athletic exercises. He felt rather than heard the question put by the Mentor, and observing Dick's discomfiture, stammered: "It didn't kill your mother when you went for a soldier, I guess." The astute young rascal had hit upon the weak place, and Jack stood in anxious doubt wondering what to do. An aide that he recognized from division headquarters rode past at the moment and Jack turned to watch him. He leaped from his horse at the colonel's tent. Jack again looked at the boys. They were lost in delight at the scene and oblivious of the debate going on in their guardian's mind. "Stay here till I come back," he said, authoritatively, and strode off to Grandison's tent. As he reached it the major, McGoyle, was entering, and Jack waited until that officer should come out. He came presently, and Colonel Grandison with him. Jack saluted, and stated his dilemma to the commander, who listened with amused interest. "I don't see that anything can be done now, Jack. I'm just about leaving the regiment. I have been assigned to General Tyler's staff during the campaign. McGoyle takes command of the regiment. He will need orderlies, and the boys can serve with him until we can get time to look into the business. I will settle the matter with him, and if you will write a telegram to the lad's family I will have it sent as I go to headquarters." The very possibility of being sent into some unknown regiment was a terror so great that the other alternative became less odious to the boys, and they trotted after Jack, as he stalked moody and distracted to Major Mike McGoyle's tent, now the only habitable spot left where a few hours before a symmetrical little city had stood. "And so ye want to be solgers, me foine b'yes? Well, well, 'tis litter for yer mothers' knees ye are, with yer rosy cheeks and curling locks. It's a poor place here for yer bright oies and soft hands, me lads; but I'm not the wan to throw the dish after th' milk when it's spilt!" He stroked the bared heads of the blushing lads, and, turning to their unhappy sponsor, he added with official brevity: "I will put Twiggs's son at me papers in the adjutant's office. Young Pearley can remain with your company until I make out a detail for him." AN ARMY WITH BANNERS. "Our soldiers are so green that I shall move with fear," McDowell said to the President. "Not by a long shot," Nick Marsh cried. "Davis's land begins and ends within cannon-shot of himself. He is like the Duke of Saxe-Meiningen--he has to beg his neighbor's permission to hold battalion drill." "He isn't so polite as the duke; he takes it without asking," Barney retorts. "Goodness, Jack, you ought to have been commander-in-chief! You talk war like a book!" Barney cried, in mock admiration. The war-talk went on late into the night, for the company, detached from camp, was not obliged to follow the signals of the bugles that came in melodious echoes over the fragrant fields. It was a thrilling sight as the lone watchers peered backward. The June fields for miles were dotted with blazing spires, as if the earth had opened to pour out columns of flame, guiding the wanderers on their trying way. The sleep of the night was desultory and fitful, excitement stimulating everybody to wakefulness. "THE ASSYRIAN CAME DOWN LIKE THE WOLF ON THE FOLD." "That chap is too lean and hungry to have much stomach for a fight; he looks better fitted for wielding the ferule than the sword. Schoolmaster is written in every line of his face and stamped in his pedagogue manner." "Hi, Jack!" Barney cries, catching his breath at the edge of a muddy stream, "what sort of a place must the rebels be in if they let us promenade through such a jungle as this unopposed?" "I say, reb, what place is this?" "Much of your army here?" "'Nuff to lick you uns out of your boots, I reckon." "What did they run across the ford for, then?" "Oh, you'll see soon enough--when our folks get ready." "Who's in command here?" "General Bonham, of South Carolina." "How many men, about?" The man's eyes twinkled as he gave this precise approximation; but Barney, who had brought the humorist in, whispered to the captain to let him have a moment's speech with the man before he was sent away. The captain nodded, and Barney said innocently: "Had anything to eat to-day?" "Not a mouthful. The trains were all taken up with soldiers coming from Richmond." "Old Longstreet himself would envy me now," the rebel cried, his mouth stuffed with the cold meat and hard-tack, almost as fresh and crisp as soda-crackers, for the contractors had not yet learned the trick of making them out of sawdust, white sand, and other inexpensive substitutes for flour. "Longstreet?" Barney said, carelessly. "Yes, that's the commander of the right wing, just below, at Blackburn's Ford." "Yes, that's a mile down, and really behind you uns, for the run makes a big elbow to the east. I tell you what it is, Yank, you'll see snakes right soon, for our folks are behind you." Dick came up to Jack out of breath with great news, just as the Caribees were aligning themselves to move forward. The officers had been dispirited. Major Mike had raged over the field, through the woods, a very angry man indeed, belaboring the fleeing men with his sword and imploring those he couldn't reach to "come to me here. Dress on me. There's no call to be afeard. We've more men than they have, and we'll soon wallop them." "Our time is out; we're going home." Then a derisive howl followed the line as it passed through the masses of the army, and remarks of an acrid nature were made that were not gratifying to the departing patriots: "Don't you want a guard to protect you?" "Does your mamma know you're out alone?" "Wait till to-morrow and we'll send Beauregard's forces to see you safe home." The men and officers looked very conscious and uncomfortable under the gamut of jeers, for word went along the line, and all along the route to the rear they passed through this clamor of contemptuous outcry. "Well, I thought we had reached the eminent deadly pinnacle of disgrace," Barney said, with a sigh, as a group of Company K watched the considerable number taken out of McDowell's small army, "but this sight makes me feel like the man on trial for murder who escapes with a verdict of manslaughter." Late at night Dick came down to Jack's bivouac with a strange tale. McDowell had come to Tyler's quarters storming with rage. He had accused that officer of disobeying orders in forcing a fight on the fords of Bull Run where he had been told to merely reconnoitre. "I believe we've got them on the run," Tyler said, exultingly, "from what we see here. I tell you the great man of this war is the man that plants the flag at Manassas, and I'm going through to Richmond to-night." The talk in the camp that night was of home--of anything and everything but the dreadful to-morrow, so long looked forward to with eager hope, now regarded with uncertainty that was not so much fear as the memory of the panic at Blackburn's Ford. Jack was provided with a large atlas map of Virginia, and with the bits of information given by Dick he was able to conjecture the probable plan of the next day. The cronies of Company K listened in delight to his exposition of the action. "What would Frederick the Great or Napoleon do?" Nick asked, absorbed in Jack's confident predications. "Which would be the better plan?" "Ah ha, Jack! It is the Napoleonic plan!" Barney cried, as the artillery took places in front of the masses lying on the ground. "Wait," Jack cried, owlishly. "The battle isn't fought always where the guns are loudest." "Ah ha, Jack; Frederick's on the other side, eh?" Barney said, as, standing near the group, these words reached their ears. Company K were now sent forward to the right to relieve a body of skirmishers that had been hidden on the margin of Bull Run, some distance to the westward of the stone bridge. Jack, going forward with his glass, noticed an officer among the men, but not catching sight of his face did not recognize him. "By George, it is the same man! I wonder how he crossed the stream? There must be a bridge down there among those thick trees and bushes," Jack said, excitedly. Jack turned; the officer was at his shoulder. He saluted respectfully, recognizing, with a thrill of joy, old Red Top, as the company called Sherman. "Yes, colonel, it's the same man. He was in his shirtsleeves and had a blue scarf tied about his arm. There can be no mistake; several of us saw him quite plainly." He scribbled a line on a sheet of his order-book, saying: "This will be your authority. It's better not to write the rest for fear you should be captured. In case you are in danger tell each man with you what to say, so that there will be more chances of getting the information where it will do good; and remember, sergeant, that this news in Hunter's hands will be almost equivalent to victory. Ah!" He paused again. Reverberating crashes came from the high grounds up the river. "You will have no trouble in finding him now. Those are Hunter's guns. Hurry." Glowing, grateful, big with the fate of the battle, Jack had Barney, Nick, and another, whom he charged with the duty of historian, detailed for this duty of glory. The group set off with a fervent Godspeed from the company sheltered among the thick pines and oaks. "What is it, old fellow?" Jack cries in alarm. "O Jack! I can't go a step farther. You go on and leave me. I shall follow when I get breath." He was white and gasping. Barney filled his canteen from the running water, and, wetting his handkerchief, laid it on Nick's parboiled head and temples. Yes, God be praised, there is the flag of stars, and there are blue uniforms! With a wild hurrah, drowned in the musketry to the left, they rush forward, are halted by a picket guard, exhibit Sherman's order, and are directed to the commanding-officer. That personage has no knowledge of General Hunter's whereabouts, but Colonel Andrew Porter is just beyond, commanding the brigade. To him Jack makes known Sherman's message, and is directed farther to the southwest, the Union right now facing nearly to the east in the execution of McDowell's admirable flank manoeuvre. "General Hunter?" Jack says, addressing an officer with a star. "My name is Franklin. General Hunter was wounded an hour ago. What's the matter?" Jack gave his message, and Franklin said, cheerfully: "That's good news. You're a very brave fellow. Go a few yards in the rear yonder and you'll find General McDowell. He'll enjoy your message." On the hill they halt electrified. The sun is now behind the halted line of blue; the bayonets, catching the light, make a sea of liquid, mirror-like rivulets hovering in the air, with the bushy branches of pine rising like green isles in the shimmering tide. The men are filling their cartridge-boxes; new regiments are gliding into the gaps where death has cut the widest swath. From the woods, cries, groans, commands, clashing steel as the men hustle against each other in the rush into line, prelude the Vulcan clamor soon to begin. Men, bent, sometimes crawling, with stretchers on their shoulders, glide through the maimed and shrieking fragments of bodies, picking out here and there those seeming capable of carriage. Other men, prone on their faces, hold canteens of tepid, muddy water--but ah! a draught to the feverish lips which seems godlike nectar. Against the stout bodies of the trees, armless men, legless trunks, the maimed in every condition of death's fantastic sport, hold themselves limply erect, to gain succor or save some of the vital stream pouring from their gaping wounds. Then a sudden inrush from the left of the broken gray, where smoke and space play fantastic tricks with the sunshine. Miraculously a dark mass is projected on the shimmering spectrum, and a ringing voice is heard: "We are saved; we are re-enforced. We will die here!" Then high above the din, in the exultant tumult of the deadly won ground, the nearest in blue hear a stentorian voice--grim, deliberate, exultant: "Look where Jackson stands like a stone-wall! At them, men! Let us determine to die here, and we will conquer." THE LEGIONS OF VARUS. "Barney, the army is ruined!" "Is the battle over?" "Oh, no, no, but it will be in a moment. Hark, hear that!" A roar of musketry--it seemed at their very feet. Then an outbreak of yells, so sharp, so piercing, so devilish the sound, that the marrow froze in their veins, arose, as if from the whole thicket about them. "Is it too late to warn General Franklin?" Barney asked, trembling. "Ah, Barney, we are as bad as traitors; we ought to have seen these rebels before they got near. If we had done our duty this would never have happened. Perhaps it is not too late to get back. Let me go up and see where we can find a way without running into the enemy." Reaching his perch again, Jack cast his despairing eyes toward the fatal hill. It was now clear of smoke, and there wasn't a regiment left on it. His heart leaped for an instant, the next it was lead, for the ranks that had disappeared were down on the brow of the hill--in the valley-rushing forward, unresisted, the red and blue of the Union, mixed with the stars and bars of the rebellion; but, worse than all, the ranks of gray were sweeping in overwhelming masses quite behind the lines of blue, cutting them down as a scythe when near the end of the furrow. To the eastward Sherman still clung desperately to the crests he had won, but Jack saw with agony that, slipping between him and the river, a great wedge of gray was hurrying forward. His last despairing glance caught a body of jet black horses galloping wildly into the dispersing ranks of blue. He came down from the tree limp, nerveless, unmanned. "Well?" Barney asked. "It's all over--we are ruined!" "Ah, yes! the army and we too." "But what's going to become of us?" "I don't much care what becomes of us--at least I don't care what becomes of me!" "But if we don't get back to our regiment, they'll think we're deserters." "Good God, yes! I forgot that; I think I can find the way back. But we'll have to be careful, the enemy are all around us. I can hear them plainly, very near. Follow me, and don't speak above a whisper." But near them, meanwhile, a sullen fire replies with desperate promptitude to the rebel shots. "If we can get over to the men fighting at the edge of the woods, we may be killed or captured, but we won't be disgraced!" Jack cries. "Steady, men, steady! We shall be at the water's edge, soon, and then we can give them hell!" Never music sounded sweeter in Jack's car than that jaunty epithet "hell"! How inspiring! How little of the ordinary association the word brought up! Now they were traversing slowly the very ground Jack and his comrades had flown over in the morning. Still firing--still working with all his heart in the deadly play, Jack sidles to the officer and cries out: "Captain, I know a ford that will take us across above the stone bridge. We discovered it this morning. Shall I guide that way?" "What regiment are you, sergeant?" the captain cries, looking for a moment at the tattered recruit. "Caribees of New York, Sherman's brigade." "And how came you off here? Your brigade was near the right of the line at the stone budge." The captain asked this with a shade of suspicion in his voice. Jack explained his mission, and the officer, who had been dealing out the timely windfall of ammunition, nodded. Now Jack understood the mysterious legions that seemed to spring from the earth. They were Johnston's army from the Shenandoah. "Keep up heart, men: Burnside and Schenck are near us somewhere. They are in reserve, and they'll give these devils a warm welcome, if they push far enough after us." "Ah! we're saved," a lieutenant cries, waving his cap like a madman. "Look! there are men in the wood yonder, to our right; they are coming this way!" "With all my heart," Jack cried, heartily. "What's your name and company?" "John Sprague, Caribees, Company K." "A Yank, by the Lord! Surrender, you damned mudsill!" "Ah, ha! me boy, the rear rank did the best work there," Barney cried, as Jack turned to see whence the timely aid had come, "A day after the fair's better than the fair itself, if the rain has kept the girls away," and Barney laughed good-humoredly. "Yes, I see; but there is no more news of the Caribees. We learn that the wounded have been sent to Richmond, and I shall set out for there to-morrow." Mrs. Sprague, with Olympia and Merry, drove to the house of a friend she had known years before, whose husband was a Senator. The Boones--or rather Kate--bade them a cordial adieu as they drove off to the National Hotel. "Send an orderly to those women and see what they want." She stepped in front of him in a desperate impulse, and, throwing up her veil, cried piteously: "O Mr. Lincoln, you are a father, you have a tender heart; you will listen to the bereaved!" He stopped, looking at her kindly, and put his left arm wearily on the desk by his side. "Yes, my poor girl, I am a father and have a heart; the more's the pity, for just now something else is needed in its place. I suppose your father is over yonder," and he nodded toward the Virginia shore. "Send you across the lines?" "Oh, if God would put it in your heart!" "Impossible, Mr. President! The enemy, as it is, can open a Sabine campaign on us, and tie our hands by stretching Northern women out in a line of battle between the ranks!" It was the weary, discouraging voice of the Secretary, imperiously implying that the Executive must not interpose weakness and mercy where Draconian rigor sat enthroned. The President smiled sadly. "Ah, Mr. Secretary, a sister--a mother--give a great deal for the country. We can not err much in granting their prayer. Make out an order--for whom?" Olympia, speechless with gratitude reverence could hardly articulate: "My mother, myself, and Miss Marcia Perley." "Her boy is not of age, and ran away to join my brother's company." She had a woman's presence of mind to answer with this diplomatic evasion. A gray-haired man in undress uniform presently appeared, and as he handed Olympia the large official envelope he said, respectfully: "Did Mr. Davis join in the battle?" Olympia asked, more to seem interested in the garrulous warrior's narrative than because she really had her mind on the story. "Oh, dear, no. Old Johnston had finished the job before the President (Olympia noticed that all Southerners dwelt upon this title with complacent insistence) could reach the field. He was barely in time to see the cavalry of 'Jeb' Stuart charge the regulars on the Warrenton road." The train came to a halt, and the young man said, cheerfully: "Here we are. The hospital's still right smart over yonder in the trees." "But you will go with us, will you not?" Olympia asked in alarm, for it was wearing toward night. "Oh, yes; I'm detailed to remain with you until you have found out about your kinsfolk." Mrs. Sprague's tears were falling softly as the orderly led them to the surgeon's office. They were there shown the records of all who had been buried on the field. Many, he informed them, sympathetically, had been buried where they fell, in great ditches dug by the sappers. In every case the garments had been stripped from the bodies before burial, so that there was absolutely no means of identification. Most of the wounded had, however, been sent to Richmond with the prisoners. "It would not do," he added, kindly, "to give up all hope of the lost ones, until they had seen the roster of the prisoners and the wounded in the Richmond prisons and hospitals." Olympia eagerly assented--anything was preferable to this mute misery of her mother and Merry's sepulchral struggles to be conversational and tearless. They drove through bewildering numbers of tents, most of them, Olympia's sharp eyes noted, marked "U.S.A.," and she reflected, almost angrily, that the chief part of war, after all, was pillage. The men looked shabby, and the uniforms were as varied as a carnival, though by no means so gay. Whenever they crossed a stream, which was not seldom, groups of men were standing in the water to their middle, washing their clothing, very much as Olympia had seen the washer-women on the Continent, in Europe. They were very merry, even boisterous in this unaccustomed work, responding to rough jests by resounding slashes of the tightly wrung garments upon the heads or backs of the unwary wags. The women were looking eagerly at the field of death. It was still as on the day of the battle, save that instead of the thousands of beating hearts, the flaunting flags, and roaring guns, there were countless ridges torn in the sod, as if a plow had run through at random, limbs and trees torn down and whirled across each other, broken wheels, musket stocks and barrels, twisted and sticking, gaunt and eloquent, in the tough, grassy fiber of the earth. "A ton of lead?" Olympia repeated. "Ah!" Olympia commented, thinking that, after all, Jack might not have been hit. "I ask your pardon, ladies; I forgot that these are not things for ladies to hear." He spoke in sincere contrition. To relieve him Olympia smiled sadly, saying, "Won't you take us back, please?" "Could we possibly get any water--my mother is very much overcome?" "Certainly, madam. There must be plenty of canteens on the train. I will bring you some in a moment." An officer who had been sharing the seat with Merry arose on hearing this and said, kindly: "Madam, if you will make use of your seat as a couch, perhaps your mother will feel more comfortable reclining. I will get a seat elsewhere." Olympia was too much distressed to think of acknowledging this courteous action, but Merry spoke up timidly: "We are most grateful to you, sir." "Yes, sir; we're from Acredale, near Warchester," Merry said, as though Acredale must be known even in this remote place, and that the knowing of it would bring a certain consideration to the travelers. "Oh, yes, Warchester. I fell in with an officer from there after the battle, a Captain Boone. Do you know him?" "Oh, as to that, ma'am, you know a soldier's life is hard, and a prisoner's is a good deal harder. Most of your men are in Castle Thunder--a large tobacco warehouse." He hesitated, and looked furtively at Olympia administering water to her mother. "Perhaps," he said, heartily, "if you would put a drop of whisky in the cup it would brace up your mother's nerves. We find it a good friend down here, when it isn't an enemy," he added, smiling as Olympia looked at the proffered flask hesitatingly. "I assure you, madam," (Southerners, in the old time at least, imitated the pleasant continental custom of addressing all women by this comprehensive term), "you will be the better for a sip yourself. It was upon that we did most of our fighting the other day, and it is a mighty good brace-up, I assure you." But Olympia shook her head, smiling. Her mother had taken a fair dose, and was, as she owned, greatly benefited by it. The young man sat on the arm of the opposite seat, anxious to continue the conversation, but divided in mind. Merry was trying to hide her tears, and kept her head obstinately toward the window. Olympia, with her mother's head pillowed on her lap, strove to fan a current of air into circulation. She gave the young man a reassuring glance, and he resumed his seat in front of her, beside the distracted Merry. "You are from Richmond?" Olympia asked as he sat puzzling for a pretext to renew the talk with her. "Oh, no; I am from Wilmington, but I have kinsfolk in Richmond, I am on General Beauregard's staff. My name is Ballman--Captain Ballman." She vaguely remembered that Vincent Atterbury was on staff duty. Perhaps this young man knew him. "Do you know a Mr. Atterbury in--in your army?" she asked, blushing foolishly. "Yes, that is he. We know him quite well." And she turned her head window-ward, with a feeling of confidence in the mission, heretofore so blank and wild. Vincent would aid them. He could bring official intervention to bear, without which Jack might, even though alive and well, be hidden from them. She whispered this confidence to her mother as the train jolted along noisily over the rough road, and, a good deal inspired by it, Mrs. Sprague began to take something like interest in the melancholy country that flew past the window, as if seeking a place to hide its bareness in the blue line of uplands that marked the receding mountain spurs. The captain was much more potential in providing a supper at the evening station than the orderly, who was looked upon with some suspicion when he told the story of his _proteges_. The zeal of the new Confederates did not extend to aiding the enemy, even though weak women and within the Confederate lines. It was nearly morning when the train finally drew up in the Richmond station, and the captain, with many protestations of being at their service, gave them his army address, and, relinquishing them to the orderly, withdrew. It had been decided that the party should not attempt to find quarters in the hotels, which their escort declared were crowded by the government and the thousands of curious flocking to the city since the battle. A COMEDY OF TERRORS. "We'll catch old Abe on our next trip ef we go on like this--eh, Ben?" "I reckon. I'm jess going to take a furlough now. Hain't seen my girl fo' foah months." "How much did you pick up?" "I got a heap of gold watches, jackknives, and sech. I don't know what in the land to do with 'em. Suppose we can sell 'em in Richmond?" "Yes--but how are we going to get to Richmond? We're ordered to dump these Yanks at Newmarket and go back. Ef we don't get to Richmond, our watches ain't worth a red cent. Jess like's not old Bory'll issue an order to turn everything in. I'm blamed if I will!" "Look yere, Ben, do you see that road off there to the right?" "Yes, I do, but I don't see that it's different from any other road." "Don't you? Well, honey, it's mitey sight different from all the roads you ever saw. It takes you where you don't want to go." "Bob Purvis, you are a general, suah," and then there followed low, rollicking laughter, mingled with a gurgling as of a liquid swallowed from a flask. "But how'll we manage at the junction? We can't go right on the cars? There is some hocus-pocus about everything you do in the army." "You are feeling better, aren't you, lieutenant?" "Lieutenant"? Why did she call him lieutenant? Had he been promoted on the battle-field? Was he in the Union lines? Oh, yes; else he would have been in a hospital, with moaning men all about him. He tried to speak. The woman put her finger to her lips, warningly. "The doctor says you must not speak or be spoken to until you get strong." "The provost guard has come to take your name. I don't know it, for when you were brought here my son only heard you called lieutenant." "Oh, how careless of me; how unthinking! There, lie perfectly still. I will send the guard away and come back." Mrs. Raines came in with tea and toast in the evening, and as she spread the napkin on the bed she prattled cheerily. Jack's eyes were so bright when Mrs. Raines looked at him, as she lowered the sheet, that she arose, exclaiming quickly: "There, I have brought the fever back! Your eyes are glittering and your cheeks are flushed. No, do not speak." "Oh, what has happened? You are worse!" "I am very comfortable; but, my kind friend, I must--I must let my mother know that I am alive; she will think me dead." "That's what I meant to ask you--just as soon as you seemed able to talk. I would have gladly sent her word and invited her to come here, but I didn't know the name nor the address. You didn't have a stitch of clothes when you came except your underwear; the rest had been taken off, the men said, because they were soiled and bloody, and there wasn't a clew of any sort to your identity, except that you were a lieutenant in a Virginia regiment. I thought we should find out when the provost came, but they have sent to Manassas, and no answer has come back yet." "The men who brought me here deceived you, Mrs. Raines. I do not belong to a Virginia regiment; I belong to a New York regiment, and I am a--a--Union soldier." "Yes, Mrs. Raines: if you prefer that name, I'm a Yankee--but we call only New-Englanders Yankees." He waited for her to speak, but as she sat dumb, helpless, overcome, he continued: "I tried to explain the mistake before, but your kindness cut me off. I can only say that, though you have given me a mother's care and a Christian's consideration under a misunderstanding, I trust you will not blame me for willful deception nor regret the goodness you have shown the stranger in your hands." "And those men that brought you here--were they Yankees, too?" she asked, her mind dwelling, womanlike, on the least essential factor of the problem in order to keep the grievous fact as far away as possible. "Oh, no! they were your own people. There was no collusion, I assure you." Jack almost laughed now, as the dialogue in the ambulance recurred to him, and the adroit use the men had made of their unconscious charges to secure a furlough. "No; I was more amazed than I can say when I came to myself in this charming chamber--a paradise it seemed to me, a home paradise--when your kind face bent over my pillow." "I can understand, believe me, Mrs. Raines, and I am going to propose a means to you whereby I shall be taken from here, and your neighbors shall never know that you entertained an enemy unawares, though God knows I don't see why we should be enemies when the battle is over. If your son were in my condition I should think very hard of my mother if she were not to him what you have been to me." Jack could scarcely keep a serious face, as this humorous lament displayed the pride of the Dominion and the unconscious Boeotianism of the provincial. "Now, Mrs. Raines, here is what I propose: Major Atterbury, of whom you read to me, is my nearest friend. We have been college comrades; he has passed weeks at my home, and I have been asked to his, and meant to come this autumn vacation, if the war had not broken out. I will write to his mother, and she will have me removed to her house, and it need never be known that you gave aid and comfort to the enemy." "Here is Miss Atterbury sent to fetch you, lieutenant," Mrs. Raines said, now very much relieved, and impressed, too, by the powerful friends her dangerous _protege_ was able to summon so promptly by a line. "You are Rosalind?" Jack said, smiling at a pair of the brownest and most bewitching eyes fixed soberly on him. "I should have known you if I had met you in the street, although you were a small girl when I saw you last." "You needn't take much credit for that, sir, since Vincent probably had my portrait in all his coat-pockets and his room frescoed with them--it's a trick of his. So you needn't pretend that it was family likeness--I know better. Vincent has all the good looks of the family, and I have all the good qualities." "That's why you've come to console the afflicted?" "Yes, duty--you know how disagreeable that is. Vincent declared he would come himself, if I didn't, and mamma wouldn't hear of your being moved by servants alone, so I am here. But I give you fair warning that I am a rebel of the most ferocious sort. You shall ride under the 'bonnie blue flag' to Rosedale, and you shall salute our flag every morning when it is hoisted." "I am the most docile of men and the easiest of invalids. I will ride under Captain Kidd's flag and salute the standard of the Grand Turk, to be near Vincent just now." "Please let the carriage stop a moment. I want to absorb that lovely view." He pointed to the James, debouching from the hills over which the carriage was slowly rolling. The afternoon sun was behind them; but far, far to the eastward the noble river wound through masses of dark, deep green until it was lost in a glow of shimmering mirage in the low horizon. "Carcassonne," Jack murmured. "Carcassonne--what's that?" "There, there--stop. You are talking again. You shall read the poem to me--that is, if it isn't a glorification of the North." "No; Carcassonne was a city of the South." "Really--you must not talk. I'm not going to open my lips again until we get to the boat." "How have you borne the fatigue? I hope Rosa hasn't let you talk?" "If I may speak now it will be to bear testimony that I have been made a mummy since noon. I haven't been permitted to ask the local habitation or name of the scenic delights that have made the journey a panorama of beauty and my guide a tyrant, to whom, by comparison, Caligula was a tender master!" "Your quarters are next to my son's, if you think you can endure the constant outbreaks of that locality. We are with him in all but his sleeping hours, so you will do well to reflect before you decide." "Oh, I shall insist on being near Vincent. He's too badly hurt to overcome me in case we are tempted to fight our battles over again." "Of course I can. Nothing easier. Write your telegram. I will send it under cover to General Early. He will forward it by flag of truce to Washington, and it will be sent North from there." But Jack's letter was never sent, for when the post came from Richmond the next day, Vincent read in the morning paper a surprising personal item: "'Among the distinguished arrivals in the city within the week, we have just learned of the presence of Mrs. Sprague, wife of the famous Senator, a contemporary with Clay and Webster. Mrs. Sprague has come to Richmond in search of her son, who was captured or killed on the field near the Henry House. She comes with her daughter under a safeguard from General Johnston, who knew the family when he was at West Point. Mrs. Sprague is stopping with Mrs. Bevan, on Vernon Street, and is under the escort of Private William Bevan of the general headquarters.'" "Here, you Towhead, you're company clerk; you read so that we can all hear." In response to this a stripling, in the most extraordinary costume, came out from the impedimenta of the company with a springy step and consequential air. You wouldn't have recognized the scapegrace, Dick Perley, in the carnival figure that came forward, for his curling blond hair was closely cropped, his face was smeared with the soilure of pots and pans, and it was evident that the eager warrior had exchanged the weapons of war for the utensils of the company kitchen. He read in a high, clear treble the telegraphic dispatches, the sanguinary editorial ratiocinations, Orphic in their prophetic sententiousness, and then turned to the local columns. "You are not Mrs. Sprague?" She arose and walked mysteriously to the door and looked into the hallway. "I know what the disease is your mother is suffering from." She couldn't resist prolonging the consequence of her mission. All women have the dramatic instinct. All love to intensify the unexpected. But Olympia's listless manner and touching desolation spurred her on. She put her fingers to her lips warningly, and coming quite near her whispered, as she had seen people do on the stage: "Don't make any disturbance; don't faint. Your brother is alive and well! There, there--I told you." Then the kind soul told the story, charging the sister never to reveal the facts. She withdrew very happy and contented, for Olympia had said many tender things; she almost felt that she had done the Confederacy a great service, to have laid so many people under an obligation that might in the future result in something remarkable for the cause. Olympia's purpose of breaking the news gradually to the invalid was frustrated by her tell-tale eyes and buoyant movements. "Is Mrs. Sprague, here?" "It is Miss Perley's nephew," Olympia said, joyously, to the amazed lady of the house, who stood speechless. "We had given up all hope of seeing him, as his name was not on our army list. He ran away to be with my brother, and we felt like murderers, as you may imagine, and are almost as much relieved to find him as our own flesh and blood." The subsequent conversation between the matron and the young girl seemed to put the mistress of the house in excellent humor, and when the carriage drove off she kissed all the ladies quite as rapturously as if she had never vowed undying hatred and vengeance upon the Yankee people. In the carriage the prodigal Dick rattled off the story of his adventures. He had come to Company K after Jack had been sent out on the skirmish-line. He had followed in wild despair the direction pointed out to him. He had lost his way until he met Colonel Sherman's orderlies. They had told him where the company was halted on the banks of the stream. "Hello! buster," a voice said near him. "What are you doin' away from yer mammy? Beckon she'll think the Yanks have got you if you ain't home for bedtime." The man who said this was lying peacefully under a laurel-bush. Others were sprawled about, feasting on the spoil of Union haversacks. "'They've routed us, Mr. President,' a wounded officer cried, as the stretcher upon which he was lying passed near Jeff Davis. "'What part of the field are you from?' Davis asked, huskily. "'The breeze is from the northwest; that dust is going toward the Warrenton Pike. Johnston has got up in time; we've won the day!' "'Is President Davis here?' he asked, riding close to me, but not halting. "'He has just ridden off yonder.' I pointed toward the cloud of dust east and north of us. "'Split your throats, boys! General Beauregard has just sent me to the President to welcome him with the news that the Yankees are licked and flying in all directions! Not a man of them can escape. General Longstreet is on their rear at Centreville.' "There were deafening, crazy shouts; hats, canteens, even muskets, were flung in the air, and the wounded, lying on the ground, were struck by some of these things as they fell, in a cloud, about them. The shouts grew louder and louder, they rose and fell, far, far away right and left. Everybody embraced everybody else. Men who had been limping and despondent before broke into wild dances of joy. Everybody wanted to go toward the field of battle now, but a provost guard filed down the road presently, and in a few minutes I saw a sight that made tears of rage and shame blind me. Whole regiments of blue-coats came at a quick-step through the dusty roadway, the rebel guards prodding them brutally with their bayonets. The fellows near me, who had been running from the fight, set up insulting cheers and cat-calls. "'Did you'ns leave a lock of your hair with old Mas'r Lincoln?' "That's a fact," Olympia exclaimed; "they left Washington before us. I wonder if they found Wesley?" "I don't know," Dick continued, "The officers were brought in a gang by themselves, and I didn't see them. Well, I hung about the town, visiting all the places I thought it likely Jack might be, and then I joined a cavalry company that belonged to Early's brigade, at Manassas. I was going there with them this morning to get back to our lines and find Jack, when I saw the paragraph in _The Examiner_, telling of your coming and whereabouts." "What an intrepid young brave you are, Dick!" Olympia cried, as the artless narrative came to an end. "What a cruel boy, to leave his family and--and--run into such dreadful danger!" Merry expostulated. "How did you know? When did you come?" "Jack, Jack! Where is he? How is he?" "Jack's able to eat," Rosa cried, darting down to embrace Mrs. Sprague, and starting with a little cry of wonder as Aunt Merry exclaimed, timidly: "We're all here. You've captured the best part of Acredale, though you haven't got Washington yet." "Why, how delightful! We shall think it is Acredale," Rosa cried, welcoming the blushing lady. "And--I should say, if he were not so much like--like 'we uns,' that this was my old friend, the naughty Richard," she said, welcoming the blushing youth cordially. (Dick avowed afterward, in confidence to Jack, that she would have kissed him if he hadn't held back, remembering his unkempt condition.) Mamma and Olympia were shown up to the door of Jack's room, where Rosalind very discreetly left them, to introduce the other guests to Mrs. Atterbury, attracted to the place by the unwonted sounds. When presently the visitors were shown into Vincent's room, Jack called out to them to come and see valor conquered by love; and, when they entered, mamma was brushing her eyes furtively, while she still held Jack's unwounded hand under the counterpane. Master Dick excited the maternal alarm by throwing himself rapturously on the wounded hero and giving him the kiss he had denied Rosalind. Indeed, he showered kisses on the abashed hero, whose eyes were suspiciously sparkling at the evidence of the boy's delight. He established himself in Jack's room, and no urging, prayer, or reproof could induce him to quit his hero's sight. "You shall, indeed, my dauntless Orestes; you shall share my fortunes, whatever they be." He insisted on a cot in the room, and there, during the convalescence of his idol, he persisted in sleeping--ruling all who had to do with the invalid in his own capricious humor, hardly excepting Mrs. Sprague, whom he tolerated with some impatience. Letters were dispatched northward to relieve the anxiety of Pliny and Phemie, as well as the Marshes. But it hung heavily on Jack's heart that no trace of Barney had been found. Advertisements were sent to the Richmond papers, and he waited in restless impatience for some sign of the kind lad's well-being. "Well, Jack, this isn't much like the pomp and circumstance of glorious war," Olympia cried, the next morning, coming in from an excursion about the "plantation," as she insisted on calling the estate, attended by Merry, Rosa, and Dick. "I never saw such foliage! The roses are as large as sunflowers, and there are whole fields of them!" "Yes; I believe the Atterburys make merchandise of them." "Oh, no; they are shipped North in the season for them; but I don't think the family has paid much attention to that branch of the business of late years. Their revenues come from tobacco and cotton. Their cotton-fields are in South Carolina and along the Atlantic coast." "They don't seem unhappy, that's a fact," Olympia said, reflectively, "but I should think ownership in flesh and blood would harden people; and yet the Atterburys are very kind and gentle. I saw tears in Mrs. Atterbury's eyes, yesterday, when mamma was sitting here with you." "You insufferable braggart, how dare you talk like that? Pray, what do you know about women's likes and dislikes?" "What about the war? No treason in Rosedale, remember!" Vincent shouted from the next room. "You pledged me that when you talked war you would talk in open assembly." The voice neared the open doorway as he spoke. The servant had moved the invalid's cot, where Vincent could look in on Jack. "I'll leave it to Vint: All women love babies; babies do nothing but cry; therefore, women love crying; there couldn't be a syllogism more irrefutable." "Unless it be that all women love liars," Vincent ventured, jocosely. "How do you prove that?" Rosa looked at Olympia, a little perplexed, and, seating herself on the cot with Vincent, where she could caress him furtively, said, with piquant deliberation: "I don't know about logic, but we've got everything needed to make us happy in the Montgomery Constitution." "Have you read it?" Jack asked, innocently. "Catch our Northern women doing that!" Jack interjected, loftily. "There is my learned sister, she doesn't know the Constitution from Plato's Dialogues." "Indeed, I do not; nor do I know Plato's Dialogues," Olympia returned, quite at ease in this state of ignorance. "Well, then, Lord High Chancellor, tell us the vital articles in the Montgomery document that have inspired you to arm Mars for the conflict, plunge millions into strife and thousands into hades, as Socrates would have said, employing his method?" Jack continued derisively. "Our Constitution assures us the eternal right to own our own property." "Come, Jack, I won't listen to politics," Olympia cried, with a warning look. "No, the time for talk is past; it is battle, and God defend the right!" Rosa said, solemnly. "And you may be sure he will," Jack added, softly, as though to himself. "But we've got far away from the crying and the babies," Vincent began, when Jack interrupted, fervently: "Really, Olympia, your Northern men are not what I fancied," Rosa cried, with a laugh. "What did you fancy them?" "Claim their due?" Jack added, slyly. "And to spare my feelings you won't name him now." "Exactly," said Rosa. "How touching!" exclaimed Vincent. "I left all my blood to enrich your soil, or I'd blush," replied Jack. "Oh, no; it won't enrich the soil; it will bring out a crop of Johnny Jump-ups, a weed that we don't relish in the South," retorted Rosa. "I fear you're not a botanist, Miss Rosa. It's 'Jack in the pulpit' that will spring from Northern blood, and they'll preach such truths that the very herbage will bring the lesson of liberty and toleration to you." "What is this very serious discussion, my children?" Mrs. Atterbury said, beaming sweetly upon the group. "I couldn't imagine what had started Vincent in such boisterous laughter; and now, that I come, Mr. Jack is as serious as we were at school when Madame Clarice told us of our sins." "But, to be serious a moment, I have written to my old friend General Robert Lee, of Arlington, about Miss Perley. I know that he will grant her permission to take Richard home with her, and the question now is whether it is safe to let them go together alone?" Mrs. Atterbury addressed the question to Olympia, making no account of Jack. "Oh, let us leave the decision until you get General Lee's answer. If they get the message in Acredale that Dick is safe and sound, I don't see why they need go back before we do. I shall be able to travel in a few weeks. If the roads were not so rickety I wouldn't be afraid to set out now," Jack answered. "This doesn't sound much like soldiering," Jack said, dreamily. "No. When in the field, let us fight; when at home, let us be merry." "A very proper sentiment, young men. We want you to be very merry, for you must remember the time comes when we can't be anything but sad--when you are away and the night of doubt settles upon our weak women's hearts." It was Mrs. Atterbury who spoke, and the sentence seemed to bring silence upon the group. Meanwhile, all the inquiries set on foot through the agency of the Atterburys failed to bring any tidings of Barney Moore. It suddenly occurred to Jack that the poor fellow was masquerading as a rebel in the bosom of some eager patriot like Mrs. Raines and he reluctantly consented to let Dick go to Richmond to investigate. Perhaps Mrs. Raines might know where the wounded men were taken that had come with him. Some of the stragglers could at least be found. The advertisement asking information concerning a wounded man arriving in Richmond with himself was kept in all the journals. But Merry wouldn't consent to let Dick go on the dangerous quest without her. She would never dare face her sisters if any mishap came to the lad, and though Vincent put him under the care of an experienced overseer, and ordered the town-house to be opened for his entertainment, the timorous aunt was immovable. "You must go and call on the President, Miss Merry. He receives Thursdays at the State House. Then you'll see a really great man in authority, not the backwoods clowns that have brought this country into ridicule--such a man as Virginia used to give the people for President," Rosa said in the tone a lady of Louis XVIII's court might have used to an adherent of the Bonapartes. "Lincoln?" Rosa asked, a little disdainfully. "Yes, Abraham Lincoln. We have all misunderstood him. Oh if you could have seen him as I saw him--so patient, so considerate: the sorrows of the nation in his heart and its burdens on his shoulders; but confident, calm, serene, with the benignant humility of a man sent by God," Olympia added almost reverently. "It was he who came to our aid and ordered the rules to be broken that our mother might seek Jack." Rosa was about to retort, but a warning glance from Vincent checked her, and she said nothing. "Above all, remember, Mr. Yankee, that you are in a certain sense a civilian now; you must not compromise us by free speech in Richmond," Rosa added. "Ah, I know very well there's none of that in the South: you folks object to free speech; they killed poor old Brown for it; that's what you made war for, to silence free speech," Dick cried hotly, while Merry pinched his arm in terror. Then he visited the provost headquarters, and was shown the complete list of names recorded in the books there; but Barney's was not among them. At the Spottswood Hotel, the day after his coming, he met Elisha Boone, haggard, depressed, almost despairing. Dick had no love for the hard-headed plutocrat, but he couldn't resist making himself known. "How d'ye do, Mr. Boone? I hope Wesley is coming on well, sir." Boone brought his wandering eyes down to the stripling in dull amazement. "Why, where on earth do you come from? How is it you are free and allowed in the streets?" "Oh, I am a privileged person, sir. I am looking up Company K. You haven't heard anything of young Moore, Barney, who lives on the Callao road south of Acredale?" "No, my mind has been taken up with my son"; his voice grew softer. "He is in a very bad way, and the worst is there is no decent doctor to be got here for love or money; all the capable ones are in the army, and those that are here refuse to take any interest in a Yankee." The father's grief and the unhappy situation of his whilom enemy touched the lad; forgetting Jack's and Vincent's warning, Dick said, impulsively: "Friends here? Union men have no friends here. There are men here with, whom I have done business for years, men that owe prosperity to me, but when I called on them they almost insulted me. If you have friends, you must have sympathies that they appreciate." Dick knew what this meant. To be a Democrat had been, in Acredale, to be charged with secret leanings to rebellion. He restrained his wrath manfully, and said, simply: "An old college friend of Jack's has been very kind to us." "You shouldn't talk that way, sir. Every man in the Caribees, except old Oswald's gang, is a Democrat, but they are for the country before party." "Yes, yes, it may be so--but, the North don't think that way. Well, I'm going to Washington to see if I can't get my boy out of this infernal place, where a man can't even get shaved decently." "And Miss Kate, Mr. Boone, where is she?" "She is nursing Wesley, poor girl. She is having a harder trial than any of us; for these devilish women fairly push into the sick-room to abuse the North and berate the soldiers that fought at Manassas." "I should like to call on Wesley--if you don't mind," Dick said, hesitatingly. "Thank you, Mr. Boone. I shouldn't care for promotion that I didn't win in war; and, as for money, I shall have enough when I need it. But any man in the Caribees shall have my help. Under the flag every man is a friend." "True. Yes; you are quite right. Kate will be very glad to see you." Kate had been called by the turbaned mistress, and came into the room with a little shriek of pleasure. "O, Richard, what a delightful surprise! Have you seen your aunt? Ah! I am so glad; she must be so relieved! And Mr. Sprague--have they found him?" Dick retailed as much of the story as he thought safe, but he had to say that the Spragues were all with the Atterburys in the country. Dick remained until late in the afternoon, sending word to Merry, who came promptly to the aid of the afflicted. The next day Dick left his aunt at the cottage with Kate, and warning them that he should be gone all day, and perhaps not see them until the next morning, he set off for Rosedale, where he told Jack Kate's plight. Vincent heard the story, too, and when it was ended he said, decisively: It was the very thought on Jack's mind, and straightway the carriage was made ready, with ample pillows and what not. Dick set out in great state, filled with the importance of his mission and the glory of Jack's cordial praises. He was to stop on the way through town and carry the Atterbury's family physician to direct the removal. When he appeared before Kate, with Mrs. Atterbury's commands that she and her brother should make Rosedale their home until the invalid could be removed North, the poor girl broke down in the sudden sense of relief--the certainty of salvation to the slowly dying brother. The physician spent many hours redressing the wounds. Gangrene had begun to eat away the flesh of the head above the temple, and poor Wesley was unrecognizable. He was quite unconscious of the burning bromine and the clipping of flesh that the skillful hand of the practitioner carried on. When the little group started on the long journey, the invalid looked more like himself than he had since Kate found him. The drive lasted many hours. Wesley was stretched in an ambulance, Kate sitting on the seat with the driver, the physician and Dick following in the carriage. Merry went back to the city house, where her nephew was to return as soon as Wesley had been delivered at Rosedale. Her charge placed in the hands of the kind hostess, Mrs. Atterbury, Kate broke down. She had borne up while her head and heart alone stood between her brother and death; but now, relieved of the strain, she fell into an alarming fever. A Williamsburg veteran, who had practiced in that ancient college town, since the early days of the century, took the Richmond surgeon's place, and the gay summer house became, for the time, a hospital. "Oh, we are proud and happy to have him here. Our only anxiety was lest he should die and his family remain in ignorance. But, now that you identify him, we hope that we may be permitted to keep him until his recovery." "I give you fair warning, Vint, if an exchange isn't arranged before you leave here, I shall cut stick: the best way I can." "I say, Jack, when Vincent goes, let us clear out!" "I don't see much chance of standing by the colors here," Dick retorted, wrathfully. "If you'll give me the word, I'll arrange a plan, and, as soon as Vincent goes--we'll be off." "I'm not your master, you young hornet; I can't see what you're doing all the time. All I can do is to approve or reject such doings of yours as you bring me to decide on." Dick's eyes sparkled. "All right, I'll keep you posted, never fear." "Oh, you'll hardly forget in this case," Rosa said, saucily; "it is for the blacks you are manoeuvring constantly." "I protest against politics," Mrs. Atterbury intervened, gently. "When I was a girl the young people found much more interesting subjects than politics." Rosa: "Crops, mamma?" Vincent: "A mistress's eyebrow?" Dick: "Some other fellow's sister?" Olympia: "Some other girl's brother?" Mrs. Sprague: "Giddy girls?" "I don't know how it is with you in the South; but we no longer have young people in the North. Our children bring us up now--we do not bring them up." "There, do you see?" Mrs. Sprague continues, with a smile, and in a tone that has none of the asperity the words might imply. "No reverence, no waiting for the elders, as we were taught." "It depends a good deal, does it not, whether the elders are lovers?" Vincent asked, innocently. "It was his reason that kept him faithful there," Rosa ventured, and catches Vincent dropping his eyes in confusion from the demure glances of Olympia. "Oh, no; pride. A Virginian is like a Roman, he is prouder to be a citizen in the Dominion than a king in another country," Mrs. Atterbury says, with stately decision. "No matter where his heart may be," and she glanced casually at Olympia, "his duty is to his State." "Politics, mamma, politics; remember your young days. Talk of kings, courts, romance, madrigals--but leave out politics," Rosa cried, remonstratingly. "Let's turn to political economy. How do you propose disposing of your tobacco and cotton this year?" Jack asked, gravely. "You're not in earnest?" Jack cried, aghast. "But who--who--is the miscreant that degrades his cause by such traffic?" "Oh, if you wait until you learn from me, you'll never be a dangerous accuser. I learn in letters from friends in the West that all the cotton crop has been contracted for by men either in the Northern army or high in the confidence of the Administration. You see, Jack, we are not the Arcadian simpletons you think us. This war is to be paid for out of Northern pockets, any way you look at it. We've got cotton and tobacco, you must have both; you've got money, we must have that. What we don't sell to you we'll send to England." All at the table had listened absorbedly to this strange revelation, and Jack rose from the table shocked and discouraged. "I say. Jack, I've found out something." "What have you found out, you young conspirator?" "'De Lor'! Will he take ev'ybody 'long, too, Clem?' "'Good Lor', no! He's goin' to get his army, and den he'll come an' fetch all de niggahs.' "Trying to get closer, I made a rustling of the bushes, and the young imps shot through them like weasles before I could lay hands on them. Now, what do you think of that?" "If it is only to escape, all right; but if it is an attempt to stir up insurrection, I will stop Wesley myself, rather than let him carry it out!" "Wouldn't it be the best thing to warn Vincent? It would be a dreadful thing to let him go and leave his poor mother and sister here unprotected." "Let me think it over. I will hit on some plan to keep Wesley from making an ingrate of himself without bringing danger on our benefactors." "Where shall it be?" she asked, readily, moving toward him. "The garden of the gods?" "That's true; a god's garden would be filled with thorns and warlike blossoms." "I don't know; a rose-garden grew the wars of the houses of York and Lancaster." "Do you remember the scene in Shakespeare where Bolingbroke and Gaunt pluck the roses?" "Quite well. There is always something pathetic to me in the fables historians invent to excuse or palliate, or, perhaps it would be juster to say, make tolerable, the stained pages of the past. It is brought doubly nearer and distinct by this miserable war, and the strange fate that has fallen upon us--to be the guests of a family whose hopes are fixed upon what would make us miserable if it ever happened." They walked on in silence a few paces, and Kate continued: "I don't know how you feel, Mr. Sprague, but I am wretched here. I feel like a traitor, receiving such kindness, treated with such guileless confidence, and yet my heart is filled with everything they abhor. It is not so hard for you, because you and Vincent have been close friends. He has made your house his home, but I certainly feel that Wesley and I should go elsewhere, now that he is able to be about." "Does Wesley feel this--this embarrassment?" "Passionately. He said, last night, he felt like a sneak. He would fly in an instant, if he could see any possible way to our lines." "Was there ever an Eden more perfect than this delicious place?" Kate cried, as the flaming sun sent banners of gold, mingled in a rainbow baldric with the blooming parterres of roses. "And yet we want to fly from it?" "Ah, yes; because the tree of our life, the volume of our knowledge, or, in plain prose, our hearts, are not here, and scenic beauty is a poor substitute for that. Duty, I am convinced, is the key of the best life. There are hearts here, noble ones--duties here, inspiring ones. But they do not satisfy us: they are become a torment to me. I feel like a soldier brought from duty; a priest fallen into the ways of the flesh." "It seems to me typical of the people--this curiously wild transition from blooming, well-kept gardens, to such still and solemn nature. The place might be called primeval: look at those gnarled roots, like prodigious serpents; see the shining bark of the larch--I think it is larch--I should call it 'slippery' elm if it were at Acredale; but see the fantastic effects of the little lances of sunlight breaking through! Isn't it the realization of all you ever read in 'Uncle Tom' or 'Dred'?" He gave her a quick glance, but her eyes were fastened on the dark recesses beyond. "Oh, as to that, I'll take the risk." "I don't know the habits of Southern snakes; but if they are as well-bred as ours, they retire from the ken of wicked men at sundown, so we needn't fear them, as the sun is too far down for the snake of tradition to see or molest us." "Yes; I was going to say," Jack continued, "this swift transposition from the cultivation of civilization to the handiwork of Nature is whimsically illustrative of the people. Did you ever see or hear or read of such open-handed, honest-hearted hospitality as theirs; such refinement of manners; such sincerity in speech and act? Contrast this with their fairly pagan creed as to the slaves; their intolerance of the Northern people; their clannish reverence for family." "But isn't the inequality of the Southern character due to their strange lack of education? Few of them are cultivated as we understand education. Do you notice that among the people we met at Williamsburg--officers as well as civilians--none of them were equal to even a very limited range of subjects? All who are educated have been in the North. Ah--good Heavens!" Kate's exclamation was due to a sudden sinking in the mossy causeway until she was almost buried in the tall ferns. Jack helped her out, shivered a moment, doubtingly, as he exclaimed: "The sun is nearly down now, though the air is transparent, or would be if we were in the free play of daylight. I think it would be better to go back." But they made no haste. Such trophies of ferns and lace-like mosses were not to be plucked in every walk, and they dawdled on and on skirmishing, with delighted hardihood, against the pitfalls of bog that covered morass and pitch-black mud. When the impulse finally came to hasten back, they were somewhat chagrined to discover that they had lost their own trail. The point where they had quit the stream could not be found. Clambering plants, burdened with blossoms, fragrant as honeysuckle, grew all along the bank, and the bush that had attracted them was no longer a landmark. They pushed on in that direction, but had only gone a few yards when the ground became a perfect quagmire of black loam, that looked like coal ground to powder, and was thin as mush. "This is a brilliant stroke on my part, I must say," Jack cried, facing Kate ruefully. "We must go back and examine the ground, as Indians do, and find our entrance trail in that way. I will watch the ground and you keep an eye on the shrubs. Wherever you see havoc among them you may be sure my manly foot has fallen there." Suddenly they were conscious of an indescribable change in the place. Neither knew what it was. It had come on in the excitement of their march into the morass--or it had come the instant they both became conscious of it. What was it? Kate turned and looked into Jack's blank face! "I'm blessed if I know what it is, but it seems as if something had suddenly gone out of the order of things! What is it? Do you feel it; do you notice it?" "Feel it--see it--why, it is as palpable, or, rather to speak accurately, it is as clearly absent as the color from an oil-painting, leaving mere black and white outlines." "How besotted I am!" Jack cried; "why, I know. The sun has wholly gone, and the birds and living things have ceased to sing and move." "That's it; could you believe that it would make such a change? Why, I thought, when we came in, the place was a temple of silence, but it was a mad world compared to this." "Yes, and we must hurry and get out while we have daylight to help us. I take it you wouldn't care to swim the lagoon. Let us call it lagoon, for this place makes the name appropriate." "Call it whatever you like, but don't ask me to swim it," Kate cried, pushing on. "Ah! I have our trail," Jack cries in triumph. "By George, it is wide enough!" he added, bending over where the thick grasses were crushed and broken. "See the advantage of large feet. Now, if you had been alone, 'twould have been as hard as to trace a bird's track." "Is that an implication that I have Chinese feet?" "No, too literal young woman. It was meant to show you that I am very much relieved, for, 'pon my soul, I was afraid we were in a very disagreeable scrape." "And you are now quite sure we are not?" "Quite sure. Don't you want to take my arm?" "Oh, no, thank you. I'm not at all tired. I'm used to longer walks than this." "Longer, possibly, but not over such trying ground." "Oh, yes. I've gone with Wesley and his friends to the lakes in the North Woods." "Ah! I've never been there. Are they as bad travel as this?" "Infinitely worse--Why, what was that?" "It sounded very like the report of a pistol." Both stopped, Kate coming quite close to the young man, who was bent over with his hand to his ear, trumpet-fashion. "Why, it's the throat interlude in the Magic Flute! How lovely it is!" Kate whispered. "If you were my knight, I should put on you the task of caging that lovely sound for me." The distant bird-note ceased, and then suddenly, from the bushes just ahead of them, it was caught up and answered, note for note, in a wild pibroch strain, harsher but inexpressibly moving. Jack turned to Kate, his face quite pale, and whispered: "I went to the cove for you--what was the matter?" "Well, the mokes consent to go, but they won't touch the ranch. You'll have to bring up a few hands; the fewer the better. If them damned feather-bed sojers wasn't there, we could do the job ourselves." "When, does the boss get out?" "Next week. I don't know what day. They'd pay high for him both ways." "No, we can't nibble there. The cap'n'll pay well. That's square. We can't afford to try the other now, at any rate. Is the skiff here?" "Yes; well, get in." There was a plash and the-receding sound of voices. Jack darted through the screen of branches, but he could not distinguish the figures, for it was growing every instant dimmer twilight. He turned to Kate. She was at his side. "Who were they--what were they planning? Were they soldiers?" she asked. "Never mind them now. We must find a way out of this. Our boat can't be far off. We must follow this line of bushes until we come to the spot we left. I know I can recognize it, for there was an enormous tree fallen a few steps from the sedge bank we landed on." It was a very toilsome journey now, obliged as they were to hug the obstinate growth of haws, wild alder, and dog roses, which tore flesh and garments in the hurried flight. They came to the dead tree finally, and Jack almost shouted in grateful relief: "You were a true prophet, Miss Boone. You gave utterance to some Druid-like remarks as we crossed the Stygian pool. The worst your fancy painted couldn't equal what we've seen and heard." "I have seen nothing dreadful, and I can't say that I understand very much of what we heard." "There is some 'caper' going on to give these cut-throats a chance to get booty or something of the sort." "They are probably rebel soldiers planning to sack the commissary." "I'm going up-stairs in a moment, Towhead. Come up after me." "No. I have kept an eye on him all day." "Where does he go at night?" "The doctor has forbidden him to be in the night air for the present." "Well, you keep an eye on Wesley," and then Jack narrated the strange scene in the swamp, the mysterious calls, and the conversation. Dick listened in awe, mingled with rapture. "Oh, why wasn't I there? Just my blamed luck! I would have followed them, and then we should have known what they were up to. Did you know that a company of cavalry had gone into camp just below the grove?" "This evening. Vincent is down there now." "Well, you may be sure they suspect something. I wonder if it wouldn't be better to speak to Vincent?" "Of course not! What have we to tell him? Simply my suspicions and Clem's chatter. The little moke may have been lying; I can't see that any of them do much else." Dick grinned deprecating. "I think you do, you unfledged Guy Fawkes. I know nothing would give you greater joy than to put on a mask, grasp a dagger in your hand, and go to Wesley, crying, 'Villain, your secret or your life!' Dick, you're a stage hero; you're a thing of sawdust and tinsel. Come to the parlor and hear Kate play the divine songs of Mendelssohn; perhaps, night-eyed conspirator, to whirl Polly or Miss Rosa in the delirium of the '_Blaue Donau_.' Come." "I don't know, Mrs. Atterbury," Mrs. Sprague ventured, mildly. "Gold is a mighty weight in an argument. I have known it to change the convictions of a lifetime in a moment. I have known it to make a man renounce his father, dishonor his name, belie his whole life, deny his family." She spoke with mild, high-bred dignity, not a particle of assertion or captious intolerance, but as a prelate might assert the majesty of the word on the altar, neither looking for dissent nor dreaming that the spirit of it could exist. "I'm glad to hear your mother express such confidence, Vint," Jack said as they walked out on the veranda to take a good-night smoke; "but just let me give you a maxim of my own, the lock's not sure unless the key is in your pocket." "I am heartily relieved to hear it," Jack cried, giving something too much fervor to his relief, for Vincent turned and looked at him in surprise, but it was too dark in the shadow of the clematis to see his face, and after a silence Vincent said: "Mamma has told you that the President is coming to Williamsburg to review Magruder's troops?" "No; she hadn't mentioned it. Is he?" "I will strive to bear my honors with humility," Jack said. "It befits the conquered to be humble." TREASON AND STRATAGEMS. The morning after the coming of the cavalry-troop, Wesley was discussing the never-ending theme of how he was going to get home--with Kate busy arranging the ferns she had brought from the swamp. "Really, Wesley, just now you ought to be content. There is no likelihood of any movement; besides, philosophy is as much a merit in a soldier as valor--it is valor, it is endurance. You complain of your unhappy fate, housed here with a lot of women and idlers. How would you bear up in Libby Prison? There are as good men as you there, my dear; shall I say better or older soldiers, Brutus? You may take your choice, and 'count on a sister's blind partiality to justify you!'" "Oh, don't always talk nonsense, Kate. You're worse than Jack Sprague. He doesn't seem to have a serious thought in his head from daylight till bedtime." "Perhaps he keeps all his sober thoughts for the night, to give them good company." "No, but do say what I ought to do." "You ought to study to make yourself tolerable to your sister, dear, and agreeable to the other fellows' sisters. I have remarked that the young man who does that, keeps out of despondency and other uncomfortable conditions that too much brooding on an empty head brings about." "I'd like to know what heart I can have to make myself agreeable to other fellows' sisters when you are always lampooning me; you delight in making me think I am nobody." "Don't fear, my dear; if that were my delight I should die an old maid, never having known delight, for it would need more force than I can muster to make Wesley Boone, captain U.S.A., anything else than he is--his father's pride and his sister's joy. No, dear, my delight is to see you gay and open and frank and manly, self-dependent, grateful for the consideration shown you, and recognizant of the constant admonition of your sagacious sister." "You talk exactly like the woman in George Sand's stupid stories; they always remind me of men in petticoats." "Do, Kate, for Heaven's sake, be serious for a moment! I have a chance to escape, no matter how, but I can make my way to our lines without running any great risk. Now, is it or is it not dishonorable for me to do it?" Wesley was even more afraid of Kate's strong sense of honor than of her biting sarcasm, and he ended the interview without daring to tell her how far he had compromised himself with the secret agents that were surrounding the plantation. Dick, running down-stairs in his wake, encountered Rosa, with her garden hat covering her like the roof of a disrupted pagoda. She arrested his stride as he was darting toward the door. "Here--you--Richard, just come and be of some use to me. I'm housekeeper to-day, and I want to go to the quarters. Come along." He stood rooted to the spot with indignant amazement. The heartless little minx! How dare she talk like that to a soldier? "I thought may be you had the toothache--you kept so quiet." "No; I haven't got the toothache." Poor Dick! He said, to himself, that he had much worse. But he wouldn't gratify her with the acknowledgment of her triumph, and he stalked along with the basket over his head, as he had often seen the darkeys in the sun. There was a faint little appealing cry from behind. "There is a crab thorn an inch long in my foot; it's gone through shoe and all. That wretched Sardanapalus never clears the limbs away when he cuts the hedge. I'll have him horsewhipped. Oh, dear!" "Let me hold you while I look for the thorn." Dick cleverly slipped his arm about her waist and set the basket endwise for her to sit on. Then kneeling, he picked out the thorn, which was a great deal less than the dimensions Rosa had described. But he said nothing to her about picking the torment out and slipping it in his vest pocket. He held the foot, examining the sole critically. Finally, as she moved impatiently, he asked: "Of course it does, you stupid fellow. Do you suppose I would sit here like a goose on a gridiron and let you hold my foot if it didn't hurt? Men never have any sense when they ought to." He affected to examine the sole of the thin leather of the upper still more minutely. As she gave no sign of ending the comedy, he said: She gave him a sudden push and darted away. He followed laughing, admonishing her against another thorn. But she deigned no answer. Coming to the bee-hives, she stopped a moment to watch the busy swarm, and Dick stole up beside her. She turned pettishly, and he said, insinuatingly: "You know, Dick, you're too trying for anything--holding my foot there like a ninny in the hot sun. You haven't a thimbleful of sense." "Well, now we'll test these propositions, as Jack does, by syllogisms. Let me see. All men are trying. Dick Perley is a man: therefore he is trying." "You can't imitate my father in that, at least." "You could help me, Rosa." "Would you if you could?" "Ah! she's a perfect girl, but she's very young," and Dick eyed Rosa with ineffable complacency. "But she's older than she looks." "That's worse; you'd grow tired of her." "Women with minds make troublesome wives. I have refused to let Vincent marry several of that kind." "Your girl? Who gave her to you?" "Love gave her to me." "Oh, well, since love gave her to you, I don't see how I can be of any service. Down here the mother always gives the girl, unless she have no mother; then some other kin gives her. But if your girl has all these qualities you describe, I advise you to get her into your own keeping just as soon as you can, for that's the sort of girl all the fellows about here are seeking." "Very well, I'm ready. Will you help me? It comes back where we started." "But you evaded my question." "What question did I evade? I answered like an encyclopedia!" Dick cried, immensely satisfied with his own readiness. "That convicts you; an encyclopedia has nothing about living people." "Oh, yes; the new ones do." Dick was now very near her as she stood contemplating the bees, swarming in the comb. "O Rosa--Rosa, you know I love you, and you know I can never love anybody else. Why will you pretend not to understand me? I don't want you to marry me now, but by and by, when I shall have made a name as a soldier, or--or something," he added in painful turbulence of joy and fear over the great words--which he had been racking his small wits to fashion for weeks past, and, now that they were spoken, were not nearly so impressive as he had intended they should be. "My dear Richard, you are a perfect boy--a very delightful boy, too, and I am extremely fond of you--oh, very, very fond of you--but you really must not make love to me. It isn't proper," and Rosa glanced into his eyes with a tender little gleam, that gave more encouragement than rebuff--for it came into her mind, in a moment, that it was not a time to hurt the bright, eager love--so winning, if boyish. "I'm not a boy, I'm a soldier. It isn't fair in you to call me a boy." "You're not a girl." "If I were I wouldn't be so heartless as some I know." "And if I were a boy I wouldn't be so silly as some I know." "Yes, I think Southern boys are quite soft." "Come, sir, my brother _was_ a Southern boy." "Yes, but he always lived North, and is like us." "How dare you, sir?" "You cost me enough to be dear and you are lovely enough to be 'Rosa' in Latin, Rose in English, and sweetheart in any tongue." "You're much too pert. Boys so glib as you never really love. They think they do and perhaps they do--just a little." "Ah! a 'little more than a little,' dear Rosa." "You're quoting Shakespeare, I suppose you know? I'll quote more: 'A little more than a little is much too much.'" "A little less than all is much too little for me. So, Rosa, give all or none." "I don't understand you." "Prove that I love you." "Well, you don't hate me. You don't hate Vincent. Therefore you love him. Ergo, you love me." "But the red rose is my favorite." "If you were a true lover you would wear my colors." "These white leaves will grow red resting on my heart." "When they do I will listen to you." "Will you, though? It is a promise; when this white rose is red you will love me?" "Oh, yes, I can promise that." "Dear Rosa!" He was very near her as she disentangled an obtruding vine from her garments, and before she was aware of his purpose he had audaciously snatched a kiss from her astonished lips. "You odious Yankee! I haven't words to express my disgust--abhorrence!" It was Wesley, coming from the lower garden, where the stream was narrowest beyond the high wall of hedge. "Oh, no, Mr. Boone; Richard here is studying the color in flowers. He has a theory that eclipses Goethe's 'Farbenlehre.'" "Oh, indeed!" Wesley was quite unconscious of what Goethe's doctrine of colors might be, so he prudently avoided urging fuller particulars regarding Dick's theory, and said, vaguely; "You have color enough here to theorize on, I'm sure." "Yes, we have had very satisfactory experiments," Dick assented naively, stealing a glance at Rosa. A CAMPAIGN OF PLOTS. "You surprise me, my son. Still, admitting all you say, the men who should surprise the North some fine morning with a present of Jeff Davis on their breakfast-plates, wouldn't be without honor, to say nothing of promotion and profit" "For a week, my son; wonders don't live long in these fast days. For a week the North will glorify us; then, if they find that we voted for Douglas, as I did, they will say we had some sinister design in bringing Davis North, and likely send us to Fort Lafayette." Barney stopped dead; they had come under a gas-lamp between Grace and Franklin Streets. He looked at the man. He was quite sober. His eyes answered the young man's indignant protesting glance, openly, unshrinkingly, humorously. "I should be sorry to think that, Mr. Jones." "Well, wait. When you get North you will see a mighty change in things. Sentiment, my boy, follows the main chance. It's money, my boy, money. Enough money would have made Judas respectable; he was fool enough to put his price too low." There were sedate, fatherly men among these rescued bands. There were men with gray hairs and sober behavior; men who could bow meekly under the chastening rod; but the antics of the juvenile group, in which we are mainly interested, were grave and decorous compared with the abandoned, delirious joy of these grave men as they reached the recesses of a swamp that denied admission to all save practiced explorers. Why, here they could subsist for weeks! The rebels might spy them, might surround them, but they need not starve--the buds were food, the bushes refreshment, the pellucid pools drink and life. Barney stared in speechless amazement at the unseemly gambols of the motley mass. "But is it certain that Davis is there?" asked the man Jones called Moon, who seemed to be his intimate. This good news was conveyed from man to man, and the toilsome movement briskly accelerated under the inspiring watchword. Shortly afterward the larger growth--cypress and oak--diminished, as the band straggled into the open, starry night at the margin of what they could tell was water by the croaking of frogs and plashing of night birds and reptiles. Then the train was halted. Jones left Nasmyd in command and plunged into a thick skirt of bushes. Now Barney, hot and dirty from the march, had shot ahead when he heard the ripple of the water. He had taken off his shoes to bathe his blistered and swollen feet, and sat quite still and restful under the leafy sprays of an odorous bush that even in the dark he knew to be honeysuckle. "Any cavalry at the house?" "A squadron; but they are ordered to be in saddle for their quarters at midnight. There's the bugle for boots and saddles now." "Yes; by the Eternal, what luck! Davis will sleep there." "So Clem says; the state chamber has been prepared for him; all the rest except Lee go back to Williamsburg." "We couldn't have arranged it better if we had been given the ordering of it. Are all the boats here?" "How many men are you going to take to the house?" Barney hurried on his shoes, crawled through the bushes, and was in his place when Jones presently appeared. The men, dead tired, were disposed about on the ground asleep, not minding the damp grass or the heavy dew that made the air fairly misty. "In de kitchen, massa." "Must I go alone, massa?" "Oh, de lor'! dey ain't no rope! It's done gone!" "Have you a match?" Barney asked. "No, massa, but dey is some yondah." The boy crept cautiously in the direction of the passage leading into the house; he fumbled about, an age, as it seemed to the impatient Barney, and at last uttered an exclamation: "No, massa, but Ise suah deys kep dar." "Take my hand and lead me." "Where are the matches?" "Under de clock, in a tin safe, massa--right da." "HE EITHER FEARS HIS FATE TOO MUCH." "Hah! glory to the Lord of hosts!" the exultant reader cried, as he passed to his mother a large official envelope at the breakfast-table. "I'm ordered to the field." he cried, as Jack looked inquiringly; "I'm to set out to-night and report for duty with General Johnston to-morrow at Manassas. No more loitering in my lady's bower; Jack, my boy, the carpet will be clear for your knightly pranks after to-night." "If it were Aladdin's magic rug, I should caper nimbly enough. I warrant you." "What would you wish--if it were under your feet, with its slaves at your command?" "I should whisk you all off--North--instanter." "The sun of the South is not the sun of York to us, you know; all the clouds that lower on our house are doubly darkened by this Southern sun; even the warmth of Rosedale hearts can not make up for our eclipsed Northern star," Jack said, sadly, with a wistful look at the rival warrior reading with sparkling eyes the instructions accompanying the order to march. "Since Vincent is going so far northward, I think it will be a good time for us to go home," Mrs. Sprague began, tentatively. "Why should you go?" Mrs. Atterbury asked. "Until Jack is exchanged, you've certainly no duty in the North so important as watching over this headstrong fellow. We can't think of your going--unless you are weary of us." "O Mrs. Atterbury, pray don't put it in that way! You know better. Our visit here has been perfect. But you can understand my anxiety to be at home; to be where I can aid my son's release. I have been anxious for some time to broach the subject, but I saw that our going would be a trouble to you; now, since fortune offers this chance, we must seize it--that is, those of us who feel it a duty to go"; and she looked meaningly at Merry and her daughter. "Nonsense! You are hostages for Vincent, in case he is captured, as long as you are here; I can't let you go--under the laws of war--I can not. Can I, Vincent?" Vincent looked at Jack solemnly, but made no answer. "Mamma is quite right. While you are with us no harm can come to Vincent; for, if he should be taken prisoner, we can threaten the Yankee Government to put you to torture unless he is well treated," Rosa interrupted, reassuringly. "We should be far more aid and comfort to Vincent if we were in the North than we could be here. If he were taken prisoner and wounded, we could return him the kindness we have received here. In any event, we could lessen the hardships of prison life." "Oh, you would have to minister to a mind diseased, if such a fate should befall me!" Vincent cried, sentimentally; with a glance into Olympia's eyes, which met his at the moment. Both blushed; and Olympia, to relieve the embarrassment, said, decisively: "I feel as if I were a rebel," she confided to Mrs. Sprague in the evening talks, when the piano sounded and the young people were making the hours pass in gayety. "It's a sin for us to laugh and be contented here, when our friends are bearing the burdens of war. I shall be ashamed to show my face in Acredale. Oh, I wish I could carry a musket!" "You might carry a canteen, my dear. I believe the regiments take out _vivandieres_--there would be an outlet for your warlike emotions," Mrs. Sprague said, with the purpose of cheering the unhappy spinster. "Ah, no; I must not give encouragement to that dreadful Richard. But we shall go now, thank Heaven, and it will comfort my sisters to have the boy back on Northern soil, even if he persists in being a soldier." She had a long talk with Jack on the subject. That tempest-tossed knight convinced her that it would only incite the boy to more unruliness to persist in his quitting the army, or to urge him northward now, before an exchange was properly arranged. Indeed, he was a prisoner--taken in battle--though his name did not appear on the lists. So Vincent's sudden going was welcomed as a stroke of good fortune. The Atterburys, understanding the natural feelings of the family, made only perfunctory opposition. Olympia and Kate were to remain until their brothers' fates were decided. Vincent, who had been for weeks wildly impatient to return to the field, was divided in mind now--by joy and despair. He had put off and put off a last appeal to Olympia. He had not had an opportunity, or rather had too much opportunity--and had, from day to day, deferred the longed-for yet dreaded decision. When ready to speak, prudence whispered that it would be better to leave the question open until it should come up of itself. She would learn every day to know him better in his own home, where all the artificialities of life are stripped from a man, by the concurrent abrasions of family love and domestic _devoirs_. She would see that, however unworthy of her love he might have seemed in the old boyish days at Acredale, now he could be a man when manliness was demanded; that he could be patient, reticent, humble in the trials her caprice or coquetry put upon him. She had, it seemed to him, deepened and broadened the current of his love during these blissful weeks of waiting. Her very reserve, under the new conditions surrounding her, had made more luminous the beauty of her heart and mind. She was no longer the airy, capricious Olympia of his college days. The pensive gravity of misfortune and premature responsibility had ennobled and made more tangible the traits that had won him in her Northern home. She had not avoided him during these weeks of purifying probation, as he feared she would. Of late--Jack's state being secure--she had revived much of the old vivacity, and deepened the thrall that held him. Kate, Jack, and Dick were pressed into the service of decorating the apartments. Olympia left the room with her mother to advise and assist in making ready for the journey North; and Vincent, aiding his mother with a sadly divided mind, kept furtive watch on the hallway. She held him hours in suspense, he thought, almost wrathfully, of deliberate purpose; for she must have read in his eyes that he wanted to talk with her. The artless Dick finally gave him a chance. "I say, Vint, get Polly to show you the roses needed for the tables; I'll be with you by-and-by to cut the ferns. Do you think you could make yourself of that much use? You're not worth a straw here" "Send for Miss Polly and I'll do my best," Vincent said, with a gulp, to conceal his joy. She appeared presently; and, as they were passing out of the door, Rosa cried, imperiously: "Oh, yes, Vint, we need ever so much honeysuckle; you know where it hangs thickest--in the Owl's Glen. Olympia will like to see that--the haunt of her favorite bird"; and the busy little maid laughed cheerily, like a disordered goddess, intoxicated by the exhaling odors of the floral chaos. "With such an instrument I should say it was the golden fleece you were after," Olympia cried, as he reached her side, "though I believe Jason didn't do the shearing." "No, the powers of air worked for him, and he found his quest ready to his hand." "I'm sure the powers of air have not denied you; look at those radiant ranks of blossoms bending to be gathered." "Ah, yes, beauty stoops sometimes to welcome the trembling hand of the suitor." "Your hand is rather unsteady--infirm of purpose; give me the blades." She took them laughingly, and snipped the green stems rapidly and dexterously. "Yes, I believe men are infirm in moral purposes, as compared to women. It is only in the brutalities of life that men are decisive." "Yes and no. The daring too much is always before a man; the daring too little is, I think, the only trouble a woman has." "There are enough roses; now we will go for the wild smilax and honeysuckle; perhaps the cool air of the pools will restore your mental activities." They left the dismembered roses scattered in fragrant heaps on the shaded path and walked slowly toward the dense hedge. "What a perfect fortress this green wall makes of the gardens!" Olympia said, glancing around the great square, where the solid green wall could be seen running up much higher than their heads. "Why do you say 'so-called'? To me they are the delight of the past--when men went to battle for the smile of the women they loved, when knights rode the world over in search of adventure, and my lady, in her donjon, listened with pleasure to the lover's roundelay. Ah, it was a perfect life, an enchanting time. We are living in a coarse, brutal age; chivalry was the creed of civilization, the knights the priesthood of the higher life." "There's the Southerner through and through in that sentimentality. To me chivalry means all that is narrow, cruel, and rapacious in man. The philandering knights were sensual boobies, the simpering dames soulless wantons. Life meant simply the rule of the strong, the slaughter of the weak. Servitude was its law and robbery its methods. Have you ever traveled in out-of-the-way places in Germany, Austria, or Italy?" "No, I've never been abroad." "But surely the great lords were not what you represent. They were gentle born, gentle bred. They could not be robbers; they lived from great estates." "They were the 'Knights of St. Nicholas,' which, in the slang of the middle ages, meant what they call in the West road agents; indeed, plain highwaymen they were called in England in Bacon's day." Vincent bent over discomfited, and held the little shallop until Olympia was seated, and then pushed off into the murky stream. "Do you see those streamers of loveliness waving welcome to you, fair damsel--Nature knows its kind?" "But that can never be!" "Wait! I have faith that it will be!" "I must distress you whatever I say, Vincent! Frankly, I don't think you can decide just now whether your heart is really engaged. I think you do not know me as a man should knows the woman he makes his wife. I am certain I do not know you. If you had been born and bred in the North, I should have no difficulty in deciding; but your ways are so different here: women are accorded so much before marriage, and made so little of a man's life after marriage, that I shrink from a promise which, if lightly or inconsiderately given, would bring the last misery a woman can confront." "What, Olympia! you think Southern men do not hold marriage to be sacred?" "I think that the Southern man has a good deal of the knight you spoke of in him, and, like the Frenchman, marries inconsiderately, and does penance in infidelity, at least to the form, if not the fact, of the relation." "O Olympia! where do you get such repulsive ideas of us; who has been traducing us to you?" "I judge from the Southern men I have seen North; pardon me, Vincent, I do not see how it can be otherwise in a society based upon human servitude. To live on the labors of a helot people blunts the finer sensibilities of men and women alike; when you can look unshrinkingly at the separation of husband and wife on the auction-block, when you can see innocent children taken from their mothers and sold into eternal separation, I think it is not unnatural in me to fear that a woman with my convictions would not be happy mated with a Southerner. All this is cruel, I fear you will think, but it would be crueller for me to encourage a love that, under present circumstances, would bring misery to both of us." "You are an abolitionist?" "Yes; every right-thinking person in the North is an abolitionist to this extent; we want the South to take the remedy into its own hands, to free its slaves voluntarily; the radical abolitionists prefer a violent means. That I do not seek or did not; but now, Vincent, it is bound to come." "And, if it should come, what would you answer to my question?" "Here is a white rose: I picked it with my hand, and, you see, a drop of my blood is on it; when you can give me a rose with a drop of your blood on it as free from taint as the stain mine makes, I shall have an answer that will not be unworthy your waiting for!" "Unworthy! I don't understand you. Surely, you don't think me a profligate?" "When the time comes that no human being acknowledges your ownership, perhaps you may receive a voluntary bond-maid, bound to you by stronger ties than the chattel of the slave." "But you love me, then, Olympia?" "I can not love where I do not reverence." "But it is not my fault that slaves are my inheritance!" "It will be your fault if they are your support when you are your own master." "You love an idea better than you love a man who would die for you!" "Would you ask a Jew to give up his synagogue to gain your hand?" "The synagogue is the temple of a creed as divine as my own, and the faith of the man I loved would never swerve me in accepting or refusing him." "The tribes in the Fiji Islands believe man-eating an ordinance of the gods!" "Ah! then, Vincent, you will find another!" He drew her hand from the clinging vines and kissed it. "I am very happy. I shall lose my world with a very light heart." "The world is a very tough brier; we sometimes bring it closer, when its thorns prick us more painfully in the struggles to cast it off." "Then I'll cut the brambles, and not risk tearing my flesh!" "That's the soldier's way--the heroic way; but wait for the future; I am young and you are not old." Vincent's gayety when they returned to the drawing-room attracted the observant Dick, and he slyly whispered to the warrior, "Been practicing the Roman strategy with the Sabines?" "No, I've been at the Temple of Minerva and taken a pledge to hold my tongue." "Ah! the goddess of the owls; but, as they see light only in darkness, I fear you groped in blackness." The whole household were to meet President Davis and his party in Williamsburg, assist at the review, and get back with the distinguished guests in time for a state dinner. Merry and Mrs. Sprague were reluctant to go, but they feared a refusal would be misunderstood. Poor Merry was very tearful and disconsolate at the thought of leaving Dick, but she strove heroically to hide her grief when the cavalcade set out, the elder ladies driving, the young people mounted. The ancient capital of Virginia was aflame with the new rebel bunting. President Davis, with Generals Lee and Magruder, were in place on the pretty green before the old colonial college edifice when the Rosedale people came up. Davis saluted Mrs. Atterbury with cordial urbanity; but, as the troops were already in column, there was only time for hasty presentation of the strangers. "Let me have the poor comfort of underrating my enemy, the thing above all others that a wise man shuns and a fool indulges." "Oh, on that theory revile them if you like." "No, indeed; I'm far from reviling them. The cavalry is magnificent. I don't think we have a regiment in our army that can compare with that brigade. Who commands it?" "Jeb Stuart--the Murat of the South," Vincent said, proudly. "I'm going to tell the President what you said of the brigade; you know he is passionately fond of the army, and really wanted to be the commander-in-chief, when they made him President at Montgomery." At sunset the President and General Lee entered the carriage with Mrs. Atterbury and Mrs. Sprague, Merry driving in a phaeton with Kate, who didn't enjoy so long a ride on the horse. "He certainly never would have consented to break up the Union," Mrs. Sprague said, in embarrassment. "Nor should I, madam, if there had been any further security in it. The truth is, there was nothing left for us but to go out or be kicked out. The leaders of the Abolition party long ago proclaimed that. However, war settles all such problems. When it is settled by the sword we shall be satisfied." Mrs. Atterbury changed the conversation by asking how Mrs. Davis liked Richmond. "I'm sure, I think we should," Mrs. Atterbury exclaimed, delightedly. "We are really as unlike the Northern people as the French or the Germans." "I doubt the wisdom of ever hinting such a thing," General Lee said, gravely. "We must show that we are able to act independently in selecting our form of government. I doubt very much whether the masses would listen favorably to an empire established by foreign aid." "Possibly, general, possibly. As I said before, there will be time enough for that when, like Napoleon, we have made our armies the masters of this continent. Then, with boundaries embracing Mexico, Canada, and the Western States--for they can never exist independent of us--we can choose empire, republic, or a Venetian oligarchy." As they came in sight of Rosedale, Davis stood up in the carriage to get a better view of the landscape, which showed swift alternations of dense thickets and wood and rolling acres of rich crops. Dinner was ready for the table when the guests came from their rooms. Davis excused his lack of ceremonial dress, saying pleasantly: "I am something of a soldier, you know, and travel with a light train. Lee, there, has the advantage of me. A soldier's uniform is court costume the world over." "But you are the commander-in-chief, Mr. President. Don't you have a uniform?" "No. I am commander-in-chief only in law. Congress is really the commander-in-chief. The man that assumes those duties can attend to them alone. He is, of course, subject to the executive; but only in general plans, rarely in details." "I don't remember Lincoln distinctly," he said, concluding a reminiscence, "but I think he's the man that used to be so popular in the House cloak-room, telling stories which were said to be extremely droll." "Mrs. Lincoln is in some sort kin to Mrs. Davis, isn't she?" Mrs. Atterbury asked. "I have read it somewhere." "Very distant. Mrs. Lincoln is of the Kentucky Tods, and they were in some way kin of my wife's family, the Howells. Not enough to put on mourning, if Mrs. Lincoln should become a widow." "Ah! the Yankee spoke there--nothing if not a bargain. Sir, you deserve your clearance papers, but I'm too good a friend of Mrs. Atterbury and her daughter to bring about the loss of company that I am sure must be agreeable. Then, too, there's no telling the miracles of conversion that may be brought about by such ministers as Miss Rosa there." Rosa blushed, Jack felt foolish, and everybody laughed except Dick, who looked unutterable things at his adored, and boldly entered the lists against the great personage by asking, in a quivering treble: "Doesn't the Bible say that the wife shall cleave to the husband; that his people shall be her people, his God her God, where he goes she goes?" Davis smiled, and his eyes twinkled kindly on his boyish inquisitor. At this moment there was a diversion. A soldier, booted and spurred, entered the room, walked to the head of the table, and bending deferentially to the President, said; "Pardon me a moment, madam." But he had no sooner ran over the lines than he turned to the courier, crying, in visible discomfiture: "When did you leave the war office?" "I wanted to tell you, Jack, what a great joy it has been to me--it has been to all of us--to have you in our home at this trying time. I can not tell you how much comfort it has been to me now, but some time you shall know," Vincent stammered, and began to open a drawer in the bureau. "Here is something I want you to accept as a keepsake from me." He drew forth a pistol-case and opened it. "It will be a melancholy pleasure for me to feel, in the dark days to come, that these weapons may prove your friend in battle, where I must be your enemy." "By George, they're beauties!" Jack cried, taking the weapons out. "What a kind fellow you are, Vint! I don't think I ought to take these." "Why not? I have others! I shall feel easier, knowing that you have them. You can stow them about you easily, they are so small." "But it's against the laws of war for a prisoner to be armed." "That's just the reason I haven't asked you to take them before. You can leave them here in my room until you are exchanged, and then you can carry them with impunity." The household assembled at the gate leading into the roadway as the cavalcade took up the march. There were sad, sobbing farewells spoken--the kindly night covering the tears, and the loud neighing of the horses drowning the sobs. The Northern group remained in the roadway, straining their eyes to catch the last glimpse of the wanderers as they disappeared in the misty foliage, far up the roadway. The horizon to the zenith was full of shimmering star-points, Olympia, with Jack, turned slowly toward the house, silent and not wholly sad. Dick, in a low treble, could be heard just behind them, quoting melancholy verses to Rosa; and the brother and sister returned slowly up the dewy, odorous path. At the porch Rosa exclaimed, in surprise: "I wonder where Pizarro is? I haven't seen him while we have been out. It can't be possible he has followed Vincent! What shall we do if he has?" "Make Dick take his place. A terrier is sometimes as faithful as a mastiff," Jack said, quickly. "Oh! Miss Atterbury wants something with a bite, rather than a bark, and a terrier wouldn't do," the boy answered. "I want Pizarro. I shall never sleep a wink all night if he isn't here," Rosa said, in consternation; "he is better than a regiment of soldiers, for he won't let a human being come near the house after the doors are closed, not even the servants." Rosedale had been a bed of thorns to Wesley Boone since his recovery. He felt that he was an incongruous visitor among the rest, as a hawk might feel in a dove-cote. He would have willingly returned to Richmond--even at the risk of re-entering the prison--if Kate had not been on his hands. The life of the place, the constant necessity of masking his aversion to the Spragues, his detestation of Dick, the simple merry-making and intimate amenities of such close quarters, tasked his small art of dissimulation beyond even the most practiced powers. The garment of duplicity was gossamer, he felt, after all, in such atmosphere of loyalty and trust as surrounded him at Rosedale. He knew that in the daily attrition and conventional intimacies of the table, the drawing-room, or the promenade, the cloak covering his resentful antipathy, his moral perversities, his thinly veiled impatience, was worn to such thin shreds that eyes keen as Jack's must see and know him as he was. What was hatefulest and most unendurable of all was the bondage of truce in which the Atterburys held him. Wesley was no coward, and he ached to meet Jack face to face, arm to arm, and settle with that thoughtless insubordinate a rankling list of griefs heaped up in moments of over-vivacious frankness. He would make Jack smart for his arrogance, his insolence, his cursed condescension so soon as they were back among the Caribees. But meanwhile, here, daily tortured by harmless things--tortured by his soul's imaginings--Wesley was becoming a burden to Kate, who saw too plainly that he was in misery, and realized that it was largely through his own inherent weakness and insincerity. He had all the coarse fiber of his father without the same force in its texture. With merely superficial good manners, he was never certain whether the punctilious niceties observed toward him by the Spragues and Atterburys were not a species of studied satire. Vincent, who had never shown him the slightest consideration in Acredale, treated him here with the chivalrous decorum that the code of the South demanded in those days to a guest. Wesley ground his teeth under the burden, not quite sure whether it was mockery or malevolence. He watched with malignant attentiveness the imperceptible change of tone and manner that marked the family's treatment of the Spragues. There was none of the grave ceremoniousness he resented in the Atterburys' behavior with them. "How absurd!" Rosa cried, with a laugh; "a boy like him! Why, he would be in school, if there were no war." "Well, Rosa, I fancy that Dick hasn't found war very much different from school, so far. He seems to recite a good deal to the mistress, and occupies the dunce's block quite regularly," Vincent retorted, with a provoking significance that set mamma in a brown study and suspended the comments on Kate's and Jack's probable sentiments. Mrs. Sprague and Wesley were the only people in the house who had no suspicion of a deeper feeling than mere passing goodfellowship between Jack and Kate. Both were blinded by the same confidence. The mother could never conceive a son of the house of Sprague making such a breach on the family traditions as a union with a Boone. Wesley could not conceive a sister of his giving her heart to the son of a family that had insolently refused to concede social equality to her father. Something of Wesley's miserable inner unrest could not fail to be visible to the Atterburys, but the less congenial he became the more watchfully considerate they made their treatment of him. He was their guest, with all the sacred rights and immunities that quality implies, in the exaggerated code of the Southern host. Kate was the single power that Wesley had bent his headstrong will before, ever since he was a boy. His father he obeyed, while in his presence, trusting to wheedling to make his peace in the event of disobedience. But Kate he couldn't wheedle. She was relentless in her scorn for his meannesses and follies, and, though he did not always heed her counsels, he proved their justness by finding his own course wrong. Kate, however, hesitated about remonstrating with him on his deepening moodiness, for she was not quite sure whether it was mad jealousy of Dick's favor in Rosa's eyes, or a secret purpose to attempt to fly from the gentle bondage of Rosedale. Wesley with Rosa it was remarked by Kate, was, or seemed to be, his better self, or rather better than the self with which others identified him. It was, however, she feared, more to torment Dick, than because she found Wesley to her liking, that the little maid often carried the moody captain off into the garden, pretending to teach him the varied flora of that blooming domain. Dick remarked these excursions with growing impatience, and visited his anger upon Rosa in protests so pungent and woe-begone that she was forced to own to him that she only pretended an interest in the captain, so that he might not think he was shut out of the confidence of the circle. "And who cares if he does think he is shut out, I should like to know? He is a sneak, and I don't like to have you talking with him alone," Dick cries, quite in the tone of the Benedict who has passed the marriage-portal and feels safe to make his will known. Dick pauses confused, and looks guiltily about at this. "Ah, if you put it that way I have no right except this: My whole heart is yours. You know that. You may not have given me all yours." (Protesting shrug from Rosa's shoulders.) "Well, all the same; if my heart is all your own you have a duty in the case. You ought to spare your own property from pain." (Rosa laughs softly.) "Of course you are right. You are always right. How could such a beautiful being be wrong!" The artful rogue slips his arm about her waist at this, and, after a feeble struggle, he is permitted to hold this outwork unprotested. "What a blarney you are! I must really get Vint to send you away, or he will have a Yankee brother-in-law." "And the Perleys will have a rebel at the head of the house." "Follow me, Pizarro, and you shall have it." He held up the packet, a red, glistening slice of raw beef. The dog whined ecstatically and Wesley, holding a morsel of it just out of his reach, retreated up the stairs. Pizarro bounded after him as if construing the by-play into a challenge, and frisking in all sorts of fantastic shapes to win the savory prize. The door of Wesley's room was open, and as the dog came abreast of it he flung a piece into the apartment. Pizarro, lowering his sniffing nose, looked at the tempting bit sidewise, and then wagging his tail in modest deprecation of his boldness, made a start inward. It was swallowed in an instant, and then, as Wesley entered, the door was closed. Pizarro, by the humility of his manner, the lowered head and sidelong glance, asked pardon for intruding upon the privacy of a guest, but argued with his ears and by short yelps, in extenuation, that such a feast as a bit of meat--after an active day, when the servants had forgotten to feed him--no dog with a healthy appetite could resist, no matter how perfect his breeding. He was ready for the larger ration Wesley held in his hand. "That danger's over," he muttered. "Now to see who is in the upper rooms." "Ah, captain, we are waiting for ropes to secure the prize." "Now, give me the exact situation here, that there may be no surprise. How many men are we likely to encounter in the event of a fracas?" "They sleep at this end of the house?" "Yes, and our work is at the other." "Yes; everybody in the house was taken to see it. It is the old lady's room, occupied by mother and daughter, generally; but given up to the President for the night." "Great God! What was that?" A sound as of a clattering troop of cavalry, the neighing of horses in the grounds! Wesley halted, trembling, dismayed. "It was a mistake; the horses will arouse the house. We must hurry." But there was no necessity for seeing. Mrs. Atterbury uttered a stifled cry: "Help! help! murder!" "You, Boone, know the place; stand by me and I'll see that we are not nabbed; but you've made a nice mess of the affair." "Get through the window; they're coming through the house!" "It's only a dog; come on." Then there was a sound of flying feet in the wide passage. "Are you hurt, Rosa? Tell me--did they hit you? Speak, oh, speak!" It was Dick's voice, in a convulsive sob. Now, the boy again, that danger was gone. "Barney!" he cried; "Barney Moore, is that you?" "How in Heaven's name did you get here?" "O my God! my God! Barney, Barney, tell me all, and tell me quickly!" THE STORY OF THE NIGHT. "He is gone! Come to my room. I know exactly where to locate them from my window; it is nearer the point they halted at than Wesley's." "They are mounted. There are a score of them!" Jack cried, desperately. "We can at least keep them out of the house." "We can, if Wesley hasn't opened the doors to them," Dick said, shrewdly. "That's a fact. But is it sure Wesley is not in his room? Bring matches and let us examine it." There was no sign of Wesley in the room. The cool night air poured in from the open window. "Draw the curtain before you strike the match," Jack whispered. "We must not let a light be seen from the outside." "But the curtains are thin, the light will shine through." "Set a basin of water down here. He may recover. Poor fellow! This was a cruel return for his kindness to Wesley," Jack said, forcing the dog's nose into the basin. He began to lap the cool water greedily. But now Dick, in the doorway, littered a cry. "We will wait until the new-comer or new-comers are abreast," Jack breathes in Dick's ear, "and then fire a volley into them point blank." "It is a dreadful game of cross-purposes. These unhappy men believed Mr. Davis to be in this room when they entered. They meant to capture him and carry him North." "Ah, thank God! thank God! who carried our President away in time," and the matron clasped her hands fervently as she sank in a chair. But the sight of Kate, woe-begone, feverishly caressing the dead brother, brought the tenderer instincts back. She rose again, and, clasping her arms about the poor girl, said pleadingly: "Let him be carried to his room; you are covered with blood." "Ah, it is his blood, his innocent blood! Murdered, when he should have found merry." Jack found tongue now. He was hideously calm--the frightful calm of great-hearted men, who use mirth, levity, and indolency to hide emotion. "O Richard! are you hurt? Great heavens! your face is all blood. You are wounded. O mamma, come--come--Richard is dying!" The boy tried his best to smile, holding his hand over his left side, as if stifling pain. He smiled--a bright, contented happy smile--as Rosa knelt, sobbing, by his side, and, opening his jacket, baring the blood-stained shirt, plucked a purplish rose from the bleeding bosom. "The white rose is red now, Rosa." "Oh, my darling! my darling!" Rosa sobbed; and the boy, smiling in the joy of it, tried to raise himself to fold her in his arms. But the long tension had been too much--he fell back unconscious. Jack saw the futility of further pleading. The officer was unquestionably right. Such scenes as Rosedale had witnessed would end in the desertion of the rural regions of the Confederacy. At Mrs. Atterbury's urgent intercession Kate was permitted to leave the lines with her dead. She was conducted to the rebel outposts in the Atterbury carriage, and under a flag of truce entered the Union lines near Hampton. Olympia accompanied her in the carriage, Jack riding with the escort. Kate refused every suggestion to see Jack; refused his own prayerful message, and sternly, solemnly with her dead passed from the scene of her sorrows. Youth and something else stronger than medicine, more tenacious than any other motive that keeps the life-current brisk and vigorous, made Dick's recovery swift and sure. Rosa had no torments for him now. The blood-red rose had proved a magician's amulet to confirm her mind in the sweet teachings of her heart. But the patrician mother was with difficulty brought to listen to the tying of this love-knot. She had looked forward to a grand alliance for the heiress of Rosedale--an alliance that should bring the family high up in the dominant hierarchy of the South. She listened silently to the young girl's pleading prattle of the boy's bravery, his wit, his manliness. She did not say no, but she hoped to find a way to distract her daughter from a _mesalliance_, which would not only diminish her child's rank, but compromise the family politically. Such a sacrifice could not be. Fortunately, both were mere children, and the knot would unravel itself without perplexities that maturer love would have involved. So the mother smiled on the happy girl, kissed Dick tenderly morning and night, for he had been a hero in their defense, and she was too kindly of heart, too loyal to obligation, to permit Dick's attitude of suitor to lessen her fondness and admiration for the bright, handsome lad. Olympia was the confidante of both the lovers, listened with her usual good-humor to the boy's raptures and the girl's panegyrics, and soon came to share Jack's high place in the happy lovers' devotion. When the sun accepted the wind's challenge to contest for the traveler's cloak, I dare say all the spectators of the novel highway robbery--the moon, the stars, the trees, birds and beasts, and others that the fable does not mention--took odds that the wind would snatch off the wayfarer's garment in triumph. However, the wind whipped and thrashed the poor man in vain. The stronger it blew and the more it walloped the cloak's folds, the tighter and more determinedly the traveler held on to it, as he plodded wearily over the hillside. But when the sun came caressingly, inspiring gentle confidence, bathing the body in warm moisture, the tenacious hold was relaxed, then the disputed coat was thrown over his arm, and as the vista spread far away in golden light, the victim cast the garment by the wayside and the sun came off victor. Youth is despoiled of the garment of grief in this sort. Congenial warmth, the sunshine of friendliness, soon relax the mantle of woe, and the path that looks wintry and hard becomes a way of light and gayety. It was at a reception given to the Cabinet by Mrs. Atterbury that the rumor of this accredited function came to Jack's ears. "All Richmond" was among the guests. Olympia, in spite of her abhorrence of the cause, couldn't resist a glow of sympathetic admiration of the women who, in dress, in speech, in tact, in all the artifices which make feminine diplomacy so potent an agency in statecraft, bent every faculty to inspire confidence in the new Administration. Mrs. Davis herself was not the least of the factors that made the President's policy the creed of the land. There was no elaboration of costume--no obtrusive jewels. The most richly dressed dame in the company was a Madame Gannat, the deity of the most charming drawing-room at the capital. At her house society was always sure to meet the European noblemen traveling in the country, the _quasi_ official agents of France, England, and Austria, accredited to the new Confederacy, the generals of the Southern armies on leave in the city, and the political leaders able to snatch an evening's relaxation. For some reason this potential personage let Olympia and Jack see that she was deeply interested in them. She took the young man's arm late in the evening, and whispering, "Find a place where we can have a little talk," accompanied him to a small apartment joining a conservatory, where Mrs. Atterbury transacted business with her agents. "You must take down a book, so that, in case the curious remark us, our _tete-a-tete_ may not be regarded as conspiracy." "I don't know. Like all conspiracies, this Confederate comedy is suspicious." "Comedy, Mrs. Gannat? Why, I never saw people so earnest! I can't imagine the surroundings of Cromwell more methodic." "I will cut out my tongue before a syllable from me shall bring danger to that noble fellow!" The warning and sudden change in topic were caused by the apparition of a dame who came rustling in, a vision of youthful charms and vivaciousness. "Mrs. Didier Rodney--Mr. Sprague," Mrs. Gannat said, cordially. "You are sent by inspiration, for I am doing my poor best to convince this obdurate Yankee to turn from evil courses and do a duty by the country that will in future make his name illustrious." "I take that as rather an admission of weakness on your President's part," Jack said, as the lady glanced inquiringly at him, "since it is a poor cause that requires the strongest advocates." "Ah! a Southern man would never have said a thing so uncivil as that," Mrs. Rodney cried, reproachfully. "You pay Mrs. Gannat a compliment at the cost of the Confederacy." "And Mr. Davis paid me a compliment at the expense of the truth, so the account is squared," the elder lady said, serenely. "We heard you were here, Madame Gannat," the President's wife murmured, graciously. "And since you wouldn't come to us, we have come to you." Mrs. Gannat arose to receive the great lady, and when she had exchanged salutations with the rest she presented Jack. This amusing pedantry rather taxed the historical knowledge of most of the ladies, and to divert the talk Mrs. Monteith, a Cabinet lady, said: "Who has read the account in the Yankee papers of Lincoln and his wife at a reception of the diplomatic corps? It is too funny. The Lincoln woman was a Southerner. She has some good blood, and ought to know better. She was dressed like a dowdy, and when the ministers bowed she gave them her hand and said, 'How d'ye do?'" "It will really be a liberal education, to the North to have a capital like ours near them, where their public men can learn manners, and where Northern ladies can see how to conduct themselves in public," Mrs. Rodney broke in, laughing. "It is not often a great people go to war for an idea, but we are taking up the gage of battle to teach our inferiors manners." "We taught them how to run at Manassas," Mrs. Starlow, a Senator's dame, remarked. "I'm afraid they have learned the lesson so well that we shall never teach them how to stand," Mrs. Davis added, gayly. "Ah! friends, we are teaching each other how to die--let us not forget that," Mrs. Gannat murmured, gently, and there was a sudden hush in the exchange of vivacities. Before the strain could he renewed, Mrs. Atterbury entered hastily, crying: "The gentlemen are all distracted. We are going to have an old-time minuet, such as my mother used to dance with Justice Marshall and Tom Mayo. The President is going to lead with Mistress Wendolph, and all the rest of you are assigned, by command of the Executive." "Oh, yes, sir; there is something humbler than the knees." "Repentance. Deny your name; no longer be a Montague--that is, a Yankee. Give me the hand of a rebel. Then I shall believe you." "Ah! you have been converted?" "I never was perverted." "You have been with us all the time?" "I have been here a long time!" "And you are a rebel. Oh, I must tell Mr. Davis!" "He knows it, I think." "Oh, no, he can not; for it was only a few moments since that he said to Mrs. Atterbury that the son of Senator Sprague, the friend of Calhoun and the comrade of Hayne, should be in the ranks of the young nobility upholding our sacred cause." "I am, however, a rebel--a rebel to all these fascinations I see about me, a rebel to your beauty, a rebel to all you desire." "Pah! you odious Yankee; I felt certain that you had not come to your senses." "I don't think I ever lost them--though I never had enough to make such a spirit as yours lament their loss." The rest of the ladies had passed out; and, as this repartee went on. Jack led his petulant companion into the large drawing-room, where he instantly recognized the President with Mrs. Wendolph on his arm. He towered above the mass of the dancers, eying the admiring groups with attentive scrutiny. He was in evening dress, but, unlike the larger number of the eminent partisans in the rooms, had no insignia, military or otherwise, to denote exalted rank. "Remember, every moment is precious. Many lives, perhaps a great campaign, depend upon your discretion, promptitude, and loyalty. Be ready when the signal reaches you, and remember you do not know me beyond the civility of a presentation, and do not like me." Jack had hardly turned as these words were whispered in his ear, and he gave the kind lady's hand a warm pressure, as she moved away unremarked in the throng. Jack, confiding Mrs. Gannat's disclosures to Olympia, was elated by his sister's enthusiasm, and was strengthened in his conviction that he was doing right by her approval. "But you know, Polly, that--I--I, too, must be of the party? I must fly to the Union lines." "Of course you will! I should be ashamed of you were you to let such a chance pass. It is the only thing to do; it is your duty as a soldier to be with your flag; any means to get to it is justified. The Atterburys will feel hurt, perhaps outraged, but I can soon convince them that you have only done what Vincent would do, and whatever he would do they will soon see is right for you to do, even though it may bring them into temporary disgrace with the authorities. Of late I have begun to suspect that the Atterburys are to blame for your detention." "No; but I'm convinced that they have given out hopes that you can be seduced into a soldier of secession. It is common talk in the drawing-rooms I have visited, where I was not always recognized as your sister. The silly tale has angered me, but for prudence sake I kept silent. I have heard in a score of places that the Atterburys were detaining you until another reverse to the Union arms should convince you of the uselessness of remaining in the service of the abolitionists." "O Polly, it must be a joke! They little know me, who could suspect me of such dishonor! Surely the Atterburys can't think me so base as that. What have I ever done to justify such a stigma?" "You wrong them there. They hold that you are wanting in loyalty to our father's memory in espousing the cause of men who were his enemies--men who strove to ruin his political life. It is in being a soldier of the Union that they look upon you as recreant to the traditions of your family and your party." "Well, I shall make a hard struggle for escape. If I fail, they will at least see that I am in earnest--that I put country before family or party, or anything else that men hold dear. Heavens! to think of being held in such bondage! I could stand it with more patience if I were in prison sharing the hard lines of the fellows. But to be here; to be hand in glove with these boasting, audacious coxcombs, and forced to listen to their callow banter of us and our army, it makes me feel like a sneak and a traitor, and I'm glad that I see the end." "By George, you're right! I hadn't thought of that. He must go with me. I had thought it better to leave him. He is so happy with Rosa that I fancied he would remain contentedly until the war ends. But he is in constant danger. He is forever tantalizing the people that visit the house, who make slighting allusions to the Northern armies, and very likely some rebel patriot will take the trouble to inquire about him." "But even if this were not a peril, he would never consent to remain here if you were gone. I think he would give up Rosa rather than be separated from you." "Yes, the impulsive little beggar, I believe he would," Jack said, his eyes glistening. "That will compel us to take him into the secret. In fact, I don't see how it can be managed without him; and then his testimony would convict the prisoners. I hadn't thought of that. But now, Polly, about yourself. What's to become of you?" "It isn't sense that wins in war; it is daring and resolution, and you have all that." "Rosa has promised to marry me as soon as the war is over. She can't expect me to hang around here like a peg-top on a string. Besides, I wouldn't stay where you are not, Jacko, even if I lost my sweetheart for good and all." There was a piteous quaver in the treble voice, and, forgetting that he was no longer a school-boy, he brushed his eyes furtively with his coat-sleeve, as Jack pretended preoccupation with his shoe-string. "Phew Jack! you talk like a college professor. You're deeper than a well; and what was the other thing Mercutio said?" "Ah! Mercutio said so much that Shakespeare got frightened and let Tybalt kill him. So beware of saying too much. That's your great danger, Dick; your tongue is terrible--mostly to your friends." "Is it, indeed? I have a friend who doesn't think so." "No, because she considers your tongue part of herself now." "I don't see why she should; she has enough of her own." "In wooing-time no woman ever had enough tongue." "How changed you are from what you were at Acredale, Jack! I never heard you talk so deep and bookish." Dick listened during this solemn comedy of immature doctrinal induction, his eyes dilating with wonder and admiration. Jack, in the _role_ of sage, delighted him, and he straightway confided to Rosa that he couldn't understand how any girl could love another man while Jack was to be had. "I think Jack's very nice, but I know somebody that's much nicer," Rosa replied, busy with a rough material that was plainly intended for the Southern warriors. "Ah! but if you really knew all about Jack, you wouldn't look at anybody else," Dick cried, pensively, tangling his long legs in the young girl's work. "There, you clumsy fellow; you've ruined this seam, and I must get this work done before noon. We're all going to the provost prison to take garments to the recruits. You may come if you'll be very good and help me with these supplies." "May I? I will sew on the buttons. Oh, you think I can't? Just give me a needle." And sure enough Dick, gravely arming himself from the store in Rosa's "catch-all," set to fastening the big buttons as composedly as if he had been brought up in a tailor's shop. It was in this sartorial industry that Jack, coming in, presently discovered the pair. "You've turned Dick into a seamstress, have you, Rosalind? You're an amazing little magician. Dick's sewing heretofore has been of the common boy-sort--wild oats." "No, Mr. Jack, I'm no magician. Dick is a very sensible fellow, and, like Richelieu in the play, he ekes out the lion's skin with the fox's." "Of course you are. We couldn't think of going without you. There, my work is done. We'll have lunch and then start," Rosa said, rising and directing Dick to fill the large wicker basket with the garments. Fashion and idleness make strange pastimes. The recreation to which Jack and Dick were bidden was a visit to the melancholy shambles where the heterogeneous mass of unclassified prisoners were detained. It was a long, gabled building on the brink of the river, from whose low, grated windows the culprits could catch glimpses of the James, tumbling over its sedgy, sometimes rocky bed. A few yards from it arose the grim walls of what had been a tobacco-factory, now the never-to-be forgotten Libby Prison. These words, begun in a low tone, were made clearer and louder by the sudden cessation of chatter among the visiting group. Jones, who seemed to have come to his grating when the suppressed laughter sounded in the dark corridor, heard every word of the official's speech. He was no longer the bearded desperado Jack had seen in the _melee_ at Rosedale--there was a certain distinction in the poise of the head, an inborn gentility in the impassive contemplation with which he met the furtive scrutiny of the curious visitors. Jack he eyed with something of surprise, but when Dick pushed suddenly in front of the timorous group of young women, he started, changed color, and averted his face; then, as if suddenly recalling himself, turned and devoured the lad with a strange, yearning tenderness. Dick met the gaze with his habitual easy gayety, and, turning to Jack, said, impulsively: "I should never recognize this man as the bandit who fired the shot that night--are you really the Jones that choked and wounded me at Rosedale?" Dick advanced quite close to the wicked as he asked this. "And who may you be, if I am permitted to ask a question?" the prisoner replied vaguely, all the time devouring the boy with his dilating eyes. "I am Richard Perley, of Acredale, a soldier of the Union and a friend of all who suffer in its cause." Dick murmured the last words so low that the group of visitors did not catch them, and, adding to them an emphasis of the eye that the prisoner seemed too agitated to notice, he continued, as Jack pushed nearer; "This is certainly not the man we saw at Rosedale. But I have seen you somewhere. Tell me, have I not?" "I can tell you nothing--I--I" As he said this Jones backed against the wall. The guard sprang forward in alarm. The women, of course, cried out in many keys, most of them skurrying away toward the staircase. "Water!" Jack cried. "Guard, have you no water handy?" "No, sir; the canteen was broken, and there is none nearer than the guard-room." "Run and get some. I will see that the prisoner does not get out. Run!" The aide had gallantly gone forward in the passage to reassure the ladies, and Jack, seizing the chance, for which the prisoner seemed to be prepared, whispered: "Here is an auger, a chisel, and a knife. Secrete them. Work straight out under your window. We shall be ready for you by Wednesday night. Don't fail to give a signal if anything happens that prevents your cutting through. There is only an old stone wall between you and the river. You must take precautions against the water, if it is high enough to reach your cut." Jones played his part admirably. He remained limp and stolid in the supporting arms of Jack, while Dick, hovering in the doorway, kept the prying remnant of the visitors, eager to witness the scene, at a safe distance. When the water came Jack yielded his place to the guard and the party moved on. "Do you know him, Mr. Sprague?" "Like a brother. He is from my town." "Ah, perhaps you can convince him that his best course is open confession?" "No, I fear not. He is very headstrong, and would rather have his joke on the gibbet than own himself in the wrong." "But, Mr. Jack, if you should talk to him, show him the wickedness of conspiring against a peaceful family, inciting a servile race to murder, I'm sure you could move him, and it would be such a comfort to have the criminals themselves expose the atrocious plot." This was said by Miss Delmayne, a niece of Mrs. Gannat. Jack caught her eye as she spoke, and instantly realized the covert meaning. How stupid he had been! Of course, Barney must be apprised of the rescue, and what time more propitious than the present? But, unfortunately, he had not provided himself with the tools for the emergency. What could be done? He suddenly remembered a bayonet he had seen near the guard-room. It was lying unnoticed on the bench. "I must have a drink before I answer a plea so urgent. Amuse the prisoner while I slake my thirst." Barney was lying at the far end of the narrow, boarded cage. He raised his head as the group halted before his door, but gave no sign of interest as this dialogue was carried on: "Prisoner," said the aide, magisterially, "come to the door." "Jailer, what shall I come to the door for?" Barney mimicked indolently. "Because I hid you, sir." "Not a reason in law, sir." "I'll have the guard haul you here." "Then he'll have a mighty poor haul, as King James said when he caught the Orange troopers in the Boyne." "I'll teach you, sir, to defy a commissioned officer!" "I've learned that already; but if you're a school-teacher I'll decline the verb 'will' for you." "Guard, hustle that beast forward." "Never mind, sir; be respectful, and wait till you're spoken to." "Then, captain, dear, do you profit by your own advice; let the ladies talk. I'm all ears, as the rabbit said to the weasel." But at this interesting point of the combat Jack returned, and, pushing-to the door, cried, as if in surprise, "Hello, Barney, boy, what are you doing here?" "You're the same old Barney. Marc Anthony gave up the world for a kiss, you'd capitulate a kingdom for a joke," Jack said, striving to catch Barney's eye and warn him to be prudent. "Well, Jack, dear, between the joke and the kiss, I think I'd go out of the world better satisfied with the kiss; at all events, it wouldn't be dacent to say less with so many red lips forninst me," and Barney winked untold admiration at the laughing group before him, all plainly delighted with his conquest of the captain. "But, Barney, you should be thinking of more serious things." "Poor fellow!" Rosa murmured in Dick's ear, who had not trusted himself in sight of his old comrade. "I don't believe he's a bad man; I don't believe he came to our house. Oh! pray, Mr. Jack, do talk with him. Encourage him to be frank, and we will get Mr. Davis to pardon him." "The captain, here, desires me to talk with you. He thinks that perhaps I can convince you of the wiser course to follow," Jack said, with a meaning light in his eye. "Oh, if that's what's wanted, I will listen to you 'till yer arms give out, as Judy McMoyne said, when Teddy tould his love, I promise, in advance, to do what you advise." The captain beckoned the guard, whispered a moment, and then said, exultingly: "The guard will stand in the passage until you have finished with the prisoner. We shall await you in the porch." "Now, Barney, I must be brief, and you must not lose a syllable I say. Here, sit on the cot, so that I may slip this bayonet under the blanket. You can work through this wall with that. You must do it to-night and to-morrow. Be ready Thursday at daylight. You will be met on the outside either by Dick or myself. We have the route all arranged, and friends in many places to lull suspicion." "But I won't stir a foot without Jones. Do you know who he is?" Barney whispered, eying Jack curiously. "No other than that he seems a very desperate devil-may-care fellow. Who is he?" "An agent and crony of Boone's." "It's a long story I can't tell it now, but if your plan takes him in, I'm ready, and will be on hand." "I have seen him, and have given him better tools than I have brought you for the work." "That's all right. I ask nothing better than the bayonet. The other fellows that got out of Libby didn't have nearly so good." "You know how I am fixed here. I have grown tired of this sort of hostage life, and I am going North with you. So, Barney, I beg of you to be careful, for other lives than your own are at stake. I should be specially hateful to the authorities if I were retaken--for the whole Southern people clamor to have an example made of the assassins of the President, as they call you." "Don't fear, Jack; I'll be quiet as a sucking pig in star light. I'll be yer shadow and never open me mouth, even if a jug, big as Teddy Fin's praty-patch, stud furninst me!" "It isn't your tongue I'm so much afraid of as your propensity to combat. You must resist that delight of yours--whacking stray heads and flourishing your big fists." "My fists, is it? Then I'll engage to keep them still as O'Connell's legs in Phoenix Square." "Now, I shall report that you are considering my advice. You must be very gentle and placating to the guard, and let on that you have something on your mind." "Indeed, I needn't let on at all. I have as much on me mind as Biddy McGinniss had on her back when she carried Mick home from the gallows." "O Barney, Barney, you would joke if the halter were about your neck!" "An' why wouldn't I, me bye? What chance would I have if I didn't? I couldn't joke when I was dead, could I?" This was said for the benefit of the guard, who had approached as Jack arose to take his leave. ALL'S FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR. Jack, however, was tortured by a doubt of Dick's constancy when it came to an abrupt quitting of his sweetheart. Poor lad, he fought the battle bravely, making no sign; and when Rosa, the picture of demure loveliness, in her girlish finery, asked him maliciously as the carriage drove toward the Executive Mansion- "Don't you feel like a traitor, you sly Yankee?" Dick gave a great groan and said: "O Rosa, Rosa, I can't go! I do feel like a traitor. I am a traitor." Jack, luckily, was sitting beside him, and brought his heel down on the lad's toes with such emphasis that he uttered a cry of pain. Rosa was all solicitude at this. Dick found means in the noise of the chariot, and the crush they presently came into, for saying something that seemed to lessen the self-reproachful tone of the penitent, and, when they entered the modest portals of the presidency, Rosa was radiant and Dick equable, but not in his usual chattering volubility. "You are sure you do not repent? You can stay if you choose," Jack said, as they entered the dressing-room. "Fortunes of war, my dear fellow--fortunes of war. You must lay siege to another fortress." "Dick," Jack whispered, "it's an omen. It will give us time to slip out and change our garments without the danger of excuses, for, though nothing is suspected, any incautious phrase may destroy us." "Now that you are among the friends of your youth, I will leave you; who knows whether I shall see you again?" he faltered, as she turned an affectionate glance upon him. "Oh, I know you're dying to get to the dancers." She had turned from the throng of ladies, who were discussing a political secret, and her eyes melted tenderly as Vincent's name passed Jack's lips. She touched his bowed head gently, saying: "You are right. It is a murderous ambush." "Well, if you regard it so seriously--God bless you in it." Her gentle eyes rested tenderly on him; he seized the kind hand, and, raising it to his lips in the gallant Southern fashion, turned and hurried away among the guests. "Ah, Mrs. Atterbury, conquests at your age, from hand to lip, there's but short interval," and the President held up a warning finger as he came closer to the lady. "It wasn't my fault that I didn't." "Nor your misfortune either," and Mrs. Atterbury glanced archly at her rival, Mrs. Davis, the mature beauty of the scene. Dick, meanwhile, not so dexterous in expedients or ready in speech as his mentor, became wedged in an eddy, just outside the main stream, pouring drawing-room ward, so that, returning to the spot where they had separated, Jack did not, for the moment, discover him. "For Heaven's sake, Rosa, don't wait here like the statue in St. Peter's, to be kissed by everybody on the way to the pope; it's simply sickening to stand here like a shrine to be slopped by girls that you see every day. Come away; I want to say something to you." Rosa turned her astonished eyes upon the railer, and, with a comic movement of immense dignity, drew her arm from his sheltering elbow, and, in tones of freezing _hauteur_ retorted: "And since when, sir, are you master of my conduct? I am my own mistress, I believe. I shall kiss whom I please." But Dick, now conscious that inquiring eyes were fastened upon them, curious ears listening, seized her arm, and, by main force, reached the hall doorway, now nearly deserted. "Yes, yes; that's right. I--I couldn't dance now. I shall be all right, presently if--if I see you happy. Ah, Rosa, if--if I should die--if I should be carried away, would you always love me, would you always believe in me?" "Why, Dick, you are really ill; let me feel your wrist." Rosa seized Dick's hand and began a convulsive squeezing. "Yes, you certainly have a fever. You must go home. I shall go with you. It is your wound. It has broken out again--I know it has. You shall go home this instant. I will send for the carriage. Come straight up-stairs, you wicked boy! To let me come here when you are so ill! I shall never forgive myself--never!" "A large vow for a small maid." "I will not take you. I am very experienced in Dick's ailments, and I have already summoned a physician, who is waiting for us. But he can not attend his patient if you are present." "I will stop for you at the door, Dick. You know the physician can not be kept waiting, so make your parting brief. Short shrift is the easiest in love and war." "I can't do it, Jack," Dick suddenly broke out, as they hurried through the dark street. "I must leave Rosa a line telling her my motive. What will she think of me sneaking away like this without a word? Now, you go on to Blake's cabin and change your clothes. I will get an old suit of Vint's. It will really make no difference in the time, and it will be safer for us to reach the prison separately than together." "I can't help it. I know you are right, but I must do it. I will be with you in less than an hour. I'm off." "Ah, if Dick were only here," Jack groaned, "we could go to the square and lead away enough staff or orderly horses to serve the purpose. The little wretch! It would serve him properly to leave him here mooning over his sweetheart." Then his heart took up a little tremor of protest. He sighed gently. He, too, had loitered when his heart pleaded. Why should Dick be firmer than he? It was after midnight when he reached the sheltering, broken, ground along the river. The provost prison fronted the water. It had been a tobacco warehouse, built long before, and hastily transformed into its present military purpose. It was set in what was called a "cut" in the heavy clay bank, thus bringing the lower windows below the level of the surrounding land. There were sentries stationed in front and rear, who walked at regular intervals from corner to corner. The sentinel on the high level to the rear could not see the ground along the wall, and it was this fact which Jack calculated upon to enable him to help the prisoners to remove the _debris_ of the wall through which they were to presently emerge. The night was pitchy dark. This had been taken into consideration long before. Heavy clouds hung over the river, throwing the prison and its environs into still more security for Jack's purpose. He reconnoitred every available point, searched every corner of possible danger, and as the time passed he began to rage with impatience against Dick, whose delay was now periling the success of the enterprise. "This is a bad place to swim, my friend! There ain't enough water to drown you, but if you stir you'll run against a bullet." "DARLING ROSA: You've often said that you would disown Vincent if he were not true to the South. Think of Vincent in my place--dawdling in Acredale or Washington while battles were going on. You would not hold him less contemptible that he was in love; that he let his love, or his life, for you are both to me, stand as a barrier to his duty. You can't love where you can't honor, and you can't hate where you know conscience rules. I go to my duty, that in the end I may come to you without shame. I ask no pledge other than comes to your heart when you read this; but whatever you may say, whatever you may decide, I am now and always shall be your devoted He sighed, casting a woe-begone glance into the mirror, dimly conscious that he was a very heroic young person. He kissed various objects dear to the little maid, and then, in lugubrious unrest, sallied out and mounted. Again under the calm sky--again the fleet limbs of the horse almost keeping time to his own inward impatience. He holds to the soft, unpaved, outlying streets, that his pace may not attract remark. He passes horsemen, like himself spurring fleetly in the darkness. He is near the river at last--dismounts and reconnoitres. He easily finds a place to tie the horse, and, familiar with every inch of the outlying ground about the prison, crawls close to the wall, listening intently. He can hear no sound save the weary clank of the sentry on the wooden walk. He reaches the wall where the prisoners Jones and Barney were to emerge. There is no sign of a break! Where can Jack be? Some disaster must have overtaken him, for it is past the hour set and soon it will be dawn, and then all action will be impossible. Perhaps Jack has been caught reconnoitring? Perhaps he has gone with the main body, not venturing to try for Jones and Dick without help? No, that was not like Jack. This was his special part in the plan--if it were not done, Jack was still about. He can find out readily--thanks to the countersign. He steals back over the low hillock, mounts the horse, and by a _detour_ reaches the sentry guarding the river front of the prison. He is challenged, but, possessed of the countersign, finds no difficulty in riding up to the guard-room doorway. "Has Lieutenant Hawkins been here within an hour, sentry?" he asks, in apparent haste. "No, sir. I think he has been sent for--leastwise, the sergeant went away about an hour ago to report the taking of a deserter, found prowling about the side of the prison." "Yes, sir. He had a brand-new uniform on and no company mark, nor no equipments." "I dunno, sir. He's in the lockup there. He was very violent, and the sergeant bound him with straps." "Here are the man's quarters, sir; but I'm out of matches. If you'll wait a minute I'll bring a candle." "All right," Dick responded, in a loud voice; "I'll stand here until you come back." The quest of the candle would take the guide to the closet in the guard-room, and, risking little to learn much, Dick struck a match and peered into the stuffy little room, more like a corn-crib than a prison-cell. "Hist, Jack! is it you?" he called. There was an exclamation from the farther end of the room, and then a fervent- "Heavens, Dick! is it really you?" The soldier's returning footfalls sounded in the passage-way; but, as he re-entered the hall where Dick stood shading the flickering light, he could not see the hastily extinguished match in Dick's hand. As the man came slowly along the winding passage-way, Dick whispered: "You are a recruit in Rickett's legion; you were drunk and lost your way, and I am your major; you are stationed at Fort Lee near Mechanicsville, and you belong to Company G." Jack pretended to be sound asleep when the soldier and Dick entered. He rubbed his eyes sleepily, and looked up in a vacant, tipsy way, leering knowingly at the soldier, who had caught him by the shoulder. "What are you doing here, Tarpey? Why aren't you with your company? You'll get ball and chain for this lark, or my name's not James Braine." "You drank too much and was caught where you had no business to be. However," Dick added, sternly, "the regiment marches in the morning--you must get out of here. Soldier, show me to Captain Payne's quarters. Say to him that Major Braine, of Rickett's Legion, desires to speak with him a moment." But he had no sooner said this than he realized the danger he was running. The captain might know Braine, and then how could he extricate himself from the dilemma? Luckily the captain was not in his quarters, and Dick, with calm effrontery, sat down and wrote out a statement of the case, where he was to be found, and his reasons for carrying the prisoner away. The sergeant, having read this, made no objection to releasing the alleged deserter, since there had been no orders concerning him, and, without more ado, Jack walked away with his captain, the picture of abashed valor and repentant tipsiness. "I have the countersign. How do you suppose I could have managed to get to you if I hadn't? It is 'Lafayette.'" "Glory! Now make all the clatter you can after I challenge." "Halt! Who comes there?" There was a sudden clash of steel as the group halted in a heap, and then a weary voice replied: "By George, Jack, what a, crafty plotter you are! Now we have a mount for the party, and I needn't take poor Warick's crack stallion." "Yes; we've doubled the chances of escape by this little stratagem; but we have lost time. Come. Have you tied the horses?" "I thought it was all up with me hopes, as Glory McNab said when her sweetheart ran away with the cobbler's daughter." Barney whispered, hugging Jack rapturously. "What can it be?" Jack asked, who had been the right wing to Jones's left. "It's certainly not the James, for the sun is setting at our back!" "Blest if I can tell. It looks very much like the Chesapeake, only the Chesapeake is wider." By this time Barney and Dick had ridden up, and began to admire the expanse of water spreading from the land before them to a green wilderness in the distance. "I don't see what better off we'll be on our hands and knees than we are in our saddles," Barney cried, guilelessly. "Sure we can go faster on the bastes than we can on our hands, and, as for me knees, 'tis only in prayer that I ever use them." "Not in love, Barney?" Dick asked, innocently. "No, me darlin'. The gurls I love think more of me arms than me knees, and I do all of me pleadin' with me lips." "I should think they could hold their own," Jones remarked, dryly. "Indeed, they can that, and a good deal more, as me best gurl'll tell you if she'll tell the truth, and no fear of her doing that, I'll go bail." "Fie! Barney, if she won't tell the truth you should have none of her," Dick cried in stage tones. "Indeed, it's little I have of her, for she's that set on Teddy Redmund that she leaves me to her mother, when Teddy comes to the porch of an evening." "Well, friends, your loves are, no doubt, adorable, and it is a pleasant thing to talk over, but just now what we want is a way out of this trap"; and Jack, saying this, slipped from his horse and led him into the shelter of a thick growth of scrub-pines. The rest followed his example. They tied their animals and held a council of war. It was resolved that Jack and Jones should make a reconnaissance to find out the route toward the Warrick; that Dick and Barney should secrete and guard the horses and do what they could to obtain some food. This decision was barely agreed upon, when the shrill call of a bugle sounded almost among the refugees, and they sprang to their horses, waiting in silence the next demonstration. Other bugles sounded farther away; a great cloud of dust arose in the direction of the water, and then Jack whispered: He was in the leafy boughs of a spreading pine in a few minutes, and could descry a broad plain, with tents scattered here and there; still farther on the broad uplands frame buildings with a red and white flag floating to the wind could be seen. Back of all this he could make out a broad expanse of water and a few ungainly craft, lazily moving to the current in the Yorktown roadstead. "Go on; leave me here. I am of no use at best. I should only be a drag on you. Perhaps you may find some darkey and send him back to give me a mouthful to eat. That would pick me up; nothing else can." "You command, Jack dear. What you say I'll do, as Molly Meginniss said to the priest when he told her to repent of her sins." "Ah! Jack! Jack! To start so well and end so miserably, I can't bear it--I can't stay here. You stay and let me go." "No, Dick, it can't be; you are already so worn out that we should have been obliged to halt for you if Jones hadn't broken down. It can't be that you would think of leaving a fellow-soldier in such extremity as this, Dick? I know you better." "But I don't know him. I have no interest in him. With you I'll face any danger--I'll die without a word; but to stay here in this awful place, with the black pools of water, like great dead eyes, glaring in their hideous light" (the pine-torch flaring in the wind filled the glade with vast ogreish shadows, as the clustering bushes were swayed in the night air) "and these hideous night-cries--O Jack, I can't--I can't--I must go!" "I will tell Rosa that you were the man she believed you were when the trial came," and with this Jack and Barney, with a flaming torch, set forward hastily through the fantastic curtain of foliage and night, which shut in the glimmering vista of specters, dark, sinister, and menacing. To say that night is a time of terror is a commonplace. Night is not terrible of itself. It is like the ocean--peace and repose if there be no storm. But of all terrors there are none, outside a guilty mind, so benumbing as night in the unknown. It does not lessen the horror of darkness that fear makes use of the imagination for its agencies. Fancy, intuition, and the train that follows the inner vision, these make of night a phantasmagoria, compared to which Milton's inferno is a place of comparative repose. If you would realize the wondrous necromancy of the sun, pass a night in some primeval forest, untouched by the hand of man. Until he stands in the awful silence of the midnight wood, or upon some vast waste of nature, no man can figure to himself the varied shapes the mind can give to terrors based upon the mysterious noises of nature, and the goblin motions of inanimate things. The lover thinking of his lass welcomes the night and the rapturous walks among well-known scenes and kindly objects. With glimmering lamps in the foliage and the not distant sounds of daily life, even the woods have nothing fearful to the meditative or the distraught. But in flight, with fear as a garment that can not be laid aside, the somber forms of the forest are more terrible than an army with banners, as a haunted house is a more unnerving dread than burglars or any form of night marauders. It was at night that the mutinous sailors of Columbus broke into decisive revolt; it was at night that the iron band of Cortes lost heart, and were routed on the lakes of Mexico; it was at night that the resolution of Brutus failed before the disaster at Philippi. Brave, even to recklessness, Dick was, as you have seen; but no sooner had the glimmer of Jack's torch flickered and fluttered into the black distance, making place for the monstrous shapes, the luring shadows, and threatening forms encompassing him, than Dick threw himself, with a wailing shriek, into the morass in a wild attempt to follow. "O my God! my God! have mercy!" Dick buries his face in his hands, as he clings desperately to the smooth white-oak trunk. A strange, wild strain, like a detached chord of a vesper melody, sounds above him! It is the whippoorwill--steadily, continuously, entrancingly the dulcet measure is taken up and echoed, until the slough of despond seems transformed into a varying diapason of melancholy minstrelsy. He dares not raise his head. It will vanish if he moves. He crouches, panting, almost exultant, in the sense of recovered faculties, or rather the suspension of numbing fear. How long will it last? He must move; his limbs are cramped and aching. He raises his head. Mortal powers! the torch is flickering into ashes! Another instant and he will be in the dark. Dare he move? Dare he seek the distant pine, between him and which the black surface of the murky sheet shines, dotted with uncanny growth and reptilian things? Yes; anything is better than the hideous darkness of this hideous place. The horse he rode has broken his leash and comes to him with a gentle whinny, as if asking why the delay in such a place. "Blessed, blessed God, that made a beast so human!" He caresses it, he clings to its neck and calls to it piteously. Ah, yes; the dying light. He must renew it. He slips down upon the bare back and urges the patient beast across the brackish morass. Ah, this is life again! He is not alone. This noble beast is human. It crops the tender leaves confidingly, and swings its head as much as to say: "Don't fear, Dick; Fin here. I'll stand by you; I don't forget the pains you took to get me water, and that particularly toothsome measure of oats you cribbed in the rebel barn near Williamsburg!" But the pine knot that will burn is not so easily found. Dick was forced to go a long way before he came upon the resinous sort. He brought back a supply, having taken the precaution to provide matches in order to secure his way back. The quest had to some extent lessened the morbid or supernatural forms of his terrors. They all returned, however, when, having dismounted, he forgot to tie the horse, and it wandered off in search of herbage. He called, but the beast made no sign of returning. Alone again. Alone in the night; spectral forms about him; the sleeping man adding to the ghostliness of the scene by his incoherent mutterings, his hideous, gulping breath, his ghastly, blood-curdling outcries. Then through the gloom the shining outlines of the white oak, like shreds of shrouds hung on funeral foliage. Ah! he would go mad--he must break the brutish sleep of the sick man. "Mr. Jones," he wails--and his own voice--the comically commonplace name, "Mr. Jones," even in the agony of his terror, the humor of the conjuncture glimmered in the boy's crazed intelligence, and he laughed a wild, maniacal laugh. But the laugh died out in a pulseless horror. The sick man uprose on his elbow. Dick, above him on the white-oak trunk, could see his very eyes bloodshot and wandering. He uprose, almost sitting. He passed his hand over his staring eyes, and began to murmur: "Did you bring me here to do murder, Elisha Boone? You have bought my body, but you never bought my soul. No, no! I will not. I say I will not. Do you hear? I will not!" The gibbering maniac, exhausted in body, still incoherently raving, sank back in piteous collapse, a terrifying gurgle breaking from his throat, while his tongue absolutely protruded from his jaws. "More, more; for God's sake, more!" Dick filled it again, and again it was emptied. "More--more--I'm burning--more!" The boy was cruelly perplexed. He remembered vaguely hearing that fever should be starved; that the thing craved was the dangerous thing; and he moved away in a sort of compunctious terror. "More--more! Oh, in the name of God, more!" The words came gaspingly. Dick thought of the death-rattle he had heard in Acredale when old man Nagle, the madman, died. He dared not give more water, but he gathered leaves from the aromatic bushes and pressed them to the fevered lips. Before he could withdraw them, the eager jaws closed upon the balsamic shrub. They answered the purpose better than the most scientific remedy in the pharmacopoeia, for the patient called for no further drink, and presently fell into profound and undisturbed sleep. Again the boy was alone with the daunting forces of the dark in its grimmest and most terrifying mood. Alone! No; his mind was now taken from all thought of self. He was with a fellow-townsman. The man had mentioned Boone; had referred to deeds that he had heard all his life associated with the father he had never seen. A wild thought flashed upon him. Was the collapsed body at his feet his father's? He could not see any resemblance in the dark, handsome face to the portrait at home, though all through the flight from Richmond something in the man's manner had seemed like a memory. He strove to recall the image his young mind had cherished, the personality he had heard whispered about in the gossiping groups of Acredale. This was not the gay, the brilliant, the fascinating _bon viveur_ who had been the life of society from Warchester to Bucephalo, from Pentica to New York. Ah! what were the mystic terrors of the night, what the oppressive surroundings of this charnel-house of Nature, to the awful spectacle of this unmanned mind, this delirious echo of past guilt, past cowardice, past shame? Dick, fascinated and inert, watched the snaky mass, squirming in hideous folds almost on the recumbent body. Then, aroused to the horror of their nearness, he seized a torch and made at the slimy heap. The fire conquered them. They slid off the ground, with forked tongues darting out in impotent malice. But others, squirming through the water, wriggled up; and the boy, maddened by the danger, stood his ground, torch in hand, defending the sleeper. Bevies of birds, supernaturally keen of sight, have dropped upon the twigs that lie on the glittering bosom of the water. Dick, in all the agonized uncertainty of that night of peril, thinks with wonder on the mysterious resources Nature provides its helpless outcasts. The hideous shallows, black, glistening, are now a belt of safety, not only for himself and the sleeper, but a refuge for all manner of whirring birds and crawling things, intimidated and harmless in the stifling breath of the fire. The flame, leaping from sedge to sedge, from trunk to trunk, seems to seek, with a human instinct, and more than human pertinacity, food for its ravening hunger; far upward, where festoons of moss hung from the sycamores in the day, airy banners of starry sparks, swayed, coiled, and flamed among the branches. But Dick was soon reminded that the scene was not for enjoyment, however fantastically fascinating. "For God's sake, Mr. Jones, wake up! We must go from here; the swamp is burning!" "Eh--who is it? Where am I? Was--I dreaming? I thought my boy was with me, and we were in the old home at Acredale." He lay quite still, staring upward with unseeing eyes. Dick's heart gave a great throb of grateful, devout thanksgiving. The madness and fever were gone. "You remember you were too worn out to go on, and Jack has gone to get food. But the swamp has caught fire, and we must move away." Jones had risen to his elbow; then, with an exclamation that sounded like an oath, to his feet, gazing on the flaming specters rising and falling, enlarging and shrinking, among the black tracery of limbs and trunks. "You ought to have waked me before," Jones said, when he had swept the scene, with sane realization in his eye. "I'm afraid we can never break through the fire. It reaches a mile or more all about us, and I--I am in no condition to move. I feel as if I had been down months with illness." "But if you could eat something you would be able to move," Dick ventured, cruelly hurt at the implied delinquency. "What better do we need? We have salt, water, and fire. I'll prepare them. Do you keep your face well bathed, and heap up embers at the foot of that ash." Sure enough, sometimes hidden by billows of smoke, rising lazily among the burning bushes, Jones stripped the birds, spitted them on his bayonet, and, holding them in the hot coals, soon presented a well-browned portion to his companion. "I have had a good deal worse fare than this, my young friend. I have been in the West, when fire, Indians, and hunger besieged us at the same time. But we should have a poor chance here if it were not for the wet grass and the everlasting water. If we can manage to keep clear of the smoke, we shall be all right, but the smoke seems to grow denser. Where can it come from?" Yes; the shots now sounded more frequently, but they seemed to be fired not far away. "It is Jack. I know it is Jack, and he is in peril. I must go to him. I can not stay here. Surely there is no danger in pushing toward the firing?" "Ah, now we are in luck!" Jones whispered. "We will walk to the right, on the edge of this lake, and keep it between us and the fire. We have got out of that purgatory; now if we could only signal our friends." They crouched down in the thick reeds and waited. The sky above was darkly overcast; an occasional burst of lightning revealed the dimensions of the pond, and they could see high ground on the eastern shore, covered by enormous pines. "If we can only reach the pines we shall be all right. There the ground will be dry and soft and you can get some rest. I'm afraid, my boy, it will go hard with you if you don't." "I don't mind what happens if we can only come up with Jack. There, do you hear that?" Yes, both could plainly hear voices ahead of them on the margin of the pond. They were talking in low tones, and the words were undistinguishable. "We must crawl back toward the bush, and get as near those folks as we can," Jones whispered. They made their way easily into the high bushes and stole forward in the direction of the voices. But as they had to guard against breaking twigs or hurtling branches, which would have betrayed them, their advance was slow. When they reached the vicinity where they had fancied the voices to be, all was silent. "Sound the call; perhaps that will lead to something," Jones whispered in Dick's ear. "Rebels!" Jones whispered. "Now we must be slippery as snakes. If they have no dogs, we are all right. If you hear the whimper of a hound, follow me like lightning and plunge into the water. That'll break the trail. Stay here and let me reconnoitre a bit. Have no fear. I'll go in no danger." Jones crept away, leaving Dick by no means easy in his mind, but he no longer felt the terror that numbed him in the deep wood. Here there was companionship. By pushing the branches aside he could see the figures lounging about the fire; he could see the dark vault of the sky, and was not oppressed by the hideous shapes and shadows of the dense jungle. Jones meanwhile had pushed within earshot of the group. He flattened his body against a friendly pine and listened. "If Jim gets here with the dogs in an hour, we can be back to the barracks for breakfast." "Ef it hadn't been for that blamed fire in the swamp, we should have had them before this. The rascal that fired at Tom wasn't a musket-shot from me when the smoke poured out and hid him." "All right, sergeant. You won't have more'n a cat-nap. Bilcox's dogs are over at the ford, I know, for they were brought there's soon as the news of the Yankee escape came." "I hope they are; but I'm afraid they are not. If they are, we shall soon hear them." Jones had heard enough. Hastening back to Dick, he asked: "Yes, I'm a good swimmer." "Very well; throw away everything--no, stay--that would betray us. When we reach the water bury all you can't carry in the sand and then follow me." "Now, youngster, we must keep all our wits at work. The dogs will push on to where we hid. They will follow to the stream, and I think I have given them the slip there. Then they will beat about and follow our trail into the cypress swamp. There the horses will mislead them, and if you can only hold out, so soon as daylight comes we can strike into the pines and make for the Union lines." Dick reeled helplessly and would have sunk under the water, if Jones had not caught him. "Courage, my boy, courage! Don't give up now, just as we are near rescue!" But Dick was unconscious, the strain of the early part of the night, the desperate fight through the brakes, all had told on the slight frame, and Jones stood up to his middle in the dark water, holding the fainting boy. If there is reason as well as rhyme in the old song that danger's a soldier's delight and a storm the sailor's joy, Jack and his comrade were in for all the delights that ever gladdened soldier or sailor boy. When they left Dick and Jones, the eager couriers tore through the marshy lowlands, the stubbly thickets and treacherous quagmires, poor Barney, panting and groaning in his docile desire to keep up with his leader, as he had done often in boyish bravado. "He was a very considerate fox, Barney. Most of the personages you select to illustrate your notions seem to me to be gifted with little touches of thoughtfulness. Barney, you ought to write a sequel to Aesop. There never was out of his list of animal friends such wise beasts, birds, and what not as you seem to have known." "Jack, dear, if a man lived on roses would the bees feed on him? If he ate honeysuckle instead of hard-tack would he be squeezed for his scents to fill ladies' smelling-bottles?" "I don't know that sense is always a recommendation to women," Jack shifts his burden to say tentatively, as Barney, involved in a more than commonly obstinate brier, loses the thread of this jocose induction. "Ah, Jack, dear, ye're weak in ye're mind when you fall to play on words like that." "Not that at all. Sure, it's a hero's mind ye show when you can find heart to make merry at a time like this!" "Come, come, Barney; it's dark, and I can't see the grin that saves this from fulsome blarney." Through the monotonous noises of the night the clanking of steel and the neighing of horses could be heard just ahead. "We must move cautiously now, Barney. Try to put a curb on your tongue, and let your reflections mature in your busy brain." "Put me tongue in bonds to keep the peace, as Lawyer Donigan cautioned Biddy Gavan when the doctor said she was driving the parish mad with her prate." "Sh! Come on. Bend low. Do as I do--if you can see me. If not, keep touch on my arm." "As the wolf said to the lamb when he bid him take a walk in the wather." They had now emerged on the reedy margin of the dark pool discovered by Dick and Jones later. All was silent. The sky was full of stars--so full that, even in the absence of the moon, there was a transparent clarity in the air that enabled Jack to take definite bearings. "This must be an outlet of the York River, the stream we saw this afternoon. If it be, then we are not far from our own outposts. The troopers we heard just now may be Union soldiers. We must wait patiently to let them discover themselves. Keep abreast of me, and don't, as you value your life, speak above a whisper--better not to speak at all." "Barney, I'll throttle you if you don't keep that mill you call your tongue still." "Ah, I'll hold it in me fist, as Mag Gleason held her jaw, for fear her tooth would lep out to get more room to ache." Jack laughed. "If we're caught it will be through your jokes, for bad as they are I must laugh at some of them." "Dear, oh dear no; you may save the laugh till a convenient time, as Hugh McGowen kept his penances, until his head was clear, and there was no whisky in the jar." They had been pushing on rapidly--noiselessly, during this whispered dispute, and now found themselves at the reedy margin of a wide inlet, where, from the swift motion of the water and the musical gurgling, they could tell they were by the side of a main channel. "You are not logical, Barney. If we find soldiers, we'll find rations; though I have my doubts about the sort of 'drop' you'll be apt to find down here." "There was enough corn in the field beyant to keep a still at work for a winter," Barney lamented with a sigh, recalling fields of grain they had passed near Williamsburg, which he vaguely alluded to as "beyant." "I wish some of the 'still' were on the end of your tongue at this moment." They had suddenly emerged in a cleared place. Against the horizon they could distinctly distinguish the outlines of a cabin, the "shebeen" Barney alluded to. "If the field was full of girruls, with ears as big as sunflowers, they wouldn't hear me breathe, so have no fear. A hill of potatoes all eyes couldn't see us in such darkness as this." For dense clouds had swiftly come up from the west, covering the horizon. After careful reconnoitring, requiring a circuit of the clearing, Jack ventured to make directly for the dark outlines of the cabin. War had obviously not visited the place, for as they passed a low outhouse the startled cackle of chickens sounded toothsomely, and Barney came to a delighted halt. "Sure we'd better get a bite to ate while we may, as th' ass said when he passed th' market car, for who knows what'll happen if we stop to ask by your lave?" "I say, wake up! or can you wake?" "What dat? Who's dar--you, Gabe? What you 'bout?" "Have you any food? We are Yankees, and want something for companions in the swamp. Are we in danger here? We heard cavalry-men on the other side of the pond; are they rebel or Yankee?" At this volley of questions the bewildered man turned piteously to the sleepers, and then stared at Jack in perplexity. "Can you lead us near the block-house?" Jack asked. "I reckon I can; but ef I do they'll shu' ah' find it out, and den I'se don, 'cos Marsa Hinton--he's in de cavalry--he'll guess dat it was me dat tuk you 'uns dar." "Do you want to be free? Do you want to go into the Union lines?" "Free! oh, de Lor', free! O marsa captain, don't fool a ole man. Free! I'd rudder be free dan--dan go to Jesus--almost." "Have you a wife--are these your children?" "My ole woman is up at Marsa Hinton's; she's de nuss gal. Dese is my boys; yes, sah." "Somebody comin' from de road." "Where can we hide? Don't put out the light; that will look suspicions!" Jack whispered, making for the window in the rear, "Is there a cellar, or can we get on the roof?" But the dark group were too terrified to speak. They ran in a mob to the doorway, luckily the most adroit manoeuvre they could hit upon, for with the dip flaring in the current of air, the room was left in darkness. Jack and Barney slipped through the low lattice, and by means of a narrow shed reached the low roof. They could hear the tramp of horses, how many they could not judge, and then a gruff voice demanding: "You, Rafe, what ye up to? What ye got a light burnin' this time o' night fo'?" How many dismounted Jack couldn't make out, but presently there was a heavy tramping in the cabin and then a ferocious oath. Jack listened breathlessly. Would the quavering slaves have presence of mind to divert suspicion? There was a pause, and then the old man cried, pleadingly: "We'se gwine to lebe dis place; we's gwine up to de house in de mornin'. My ole woman can't come down heah now, case de sojers is always firm', and Mars' Hinton told us to come to de quarters, sah." There was the sound of a sharp stroke, then a howl of pain and a boisterous laugh. "I'm up to anything, as the cat said when Biddy Hiks's plug ran her up the crab-tree." "Very well. Come after me." The sorghum, meanwhile, had been handed to the raiders in the cabin, and the men could be heard making merry. "You, Gabe, go out and mind the horses; see that they don't twist the bridles about their legs." "Have the soldiers' pistols?" "De put dem on de stool, neah de doah." "That will do; keep with the horses, and don't be frightened if you hear anything. We'll give you freedom yet, if you'll be prudent." He could hear the men grumbling because the food was not enough to go around. The liquor had begun to work in their systems, drinking so lavishly, and without nourishment to absorb its fiery quality. Jack let enough time pass to give this ally full play in disabling the troopers, then taking Barney to the rear of the cabin, whispered: "I will dash in at the door, seize the weapons, and demand surrender. You make a great ado here; give command, as if there were a squad. The boys will make a loud clatter with the horses, and we shall bag the game without a blow. Now, be prudent. Barney, and we will go into the Union lines in triumph." "Surrender, men! You are surrounded!" "Close up, there! Keep your guns on a line with the windows; don't fire till I give the order!" Barney could be heard at the window in suppressed tones, as he, too, covered the maudlin company. Gabe and his brother added to the effect of numbers by clattering the stirrups of the horses, so that the clearing seemed alive with armed men. "I don't see as we've much choice." "Gabe has shown sense and courage, and I shall be much more likely to reach Dick and extricate him and Jones, alone, than if I had this cavalcade at my heels." Rafe led the way in trembling triumph. He knew the ford, indeed, every foot of the country, and had no misgivings about reaching the Union lines. Jack watched the squad until it disappeared in the fringe of trees, and then, turning to the tearful Gabe, said, encouragingly: "Now, we must do as well when we go among the Union soldiers. You know the point in the swamp I have told about. How long will it take us to reach that the shortest way?" "Ef we had dad's dugout we could save right smart." "Yes, sah. We ken go all froo de swamp in a boat." "Dey ain't no odder swamp neah heah, sah." "Ober neah the blockhouse. De sogers done tuk it to fish." "Ah, yes, the blockhouse! I must look into that! Now, we must hurry. Skirt the edge of the water and make no noise." This was a needless warning to the boy, who, barefooted and scantily clad, gave Jack as much as he could do to keep up with him. They had left the cabin a mile or more behind them to the southeastward, and were somewhere near the spot Jack had emerged from the cypress swamp, when both were brought to a halt by shifting clouds of smoke pouring out from the underwood. "Where does that come from?" Jack asked, throwing himself flat to catch his breath. "Dunno, sah. Most likely de sojers sot de brush on fiah." When Jack was able to look again he saw far in among the trees a moving wave of light now and then, as the heavy curtain of smoke was lifted by the wind. "Good heavens!" he ejaculated; "it was in there I left my friends. Can we get to them?" "No, sah; der ain't no crick dah." The noise of whirring wings, the rush of startled animals, now drowned all other sounds, until, through the tumult from the copse far in front of them, they heard the clatter of swords, and then gigantic figures breaking toward them, along the edge of the pond. "Down, down; hug the ground!" Jack cried, pushing the boy down into the reeds. Almost as they sank, a group of troopers dashed by, talking excitedly. "Fire at random, men; that will force them into cover! If we can keep them in ambush till daylight, the dogs will be here, and we shall nab them," Jack heard a voice say as the men rode past. How could they have heard of the affair so quickly, for Jack took it for granted that it was his exploit that the troopers were afoot to balk? Still another group passed, and they were talking of the dogs that were expected. "You may depend upon it, they are in the swamp. They are making off that way and hope to mislead us by firing the place. We must keep our eyes peeled on the swamp. The creek will stop them down yonder, and we must watch this break in the brush. As soon as the dogs come we shall have no trouble. They'll run 'em down in no time." "Can you find the boat?" he asked Gabe, who chattered between his teeth. "Very well; we must find a small stream running into the pond, and then lead me to the boat." "Moccasin Brook is close yonder, sah. Shall I go dah?" "Yes, like lightning." In a few minutes they were in a sluggish current, running between masses of reeds and spreading lily-leaves, into the pond. Here Jack repeated Jones's manoeuvre, except that he was not wise enough in woodcraft to make use of a tree to get into the water, and thus leave the dogs at the end of the trail at a point far removed from his real entrance into it. When they had reached the pond, Jack bade the boy head to the boat. This they found moored under a bluff, and Gabe, pointing upward, said the blockhouse was there. "Very well, you stay here in the boat and wait for me. Don't stir, don't speak, no matter what you see or hear. Will you do this?" "Oh, yes, sah; 'deed, 'deed I will, sah!" "Well, that's what lead's for," a philosopher remarked, stirring the embers. "So it don't get under my skin, I don't care a cuss what they do with it." "Oh, your skin's safe enough, Ned. You may adorn a gallows yet." This facetious epigram was duly relished, and the sage was turning his toasted side from the fire to present the other, when the clatter of a horse coming up the hillside sent the group scouring toward their guns, stacked near the unfinished walls. "For God's sake, sentry, give me some water! I'm choking--oh--oh water! water!" He waited to see if the sentry would heed the call. He knew that the men inside could not betray him, for, if they were not asleep, they could not be sure that the voice was not from among themselves. Sure enough, the sentry's step ceased. Was he near the door? Jack crept to the corner. Yes, he had halted at the aperture. Would he enter? Jack stepped back to his post, as the guard called out: "Where are you? Which of you wants water? Sing out!" "Here!" Jack cried, "Here!" Then darting back to the corner, he was just in time to see the man lean his gun against the door-post, and disappear in the hut. In an instant the gun was in Jack's possession, and he was behind the Samaritan in quest of the suffering victim. It was dark as a tunnel. Jack's victim still gave him the aid he needed, for, as he groped along the wall, he said, good-humoredly: "Sing out again, my friend; I haven't got cat's eyes." Jack's grasp was on his throat and Jack's mouth was at his ear. "There's a horse or cow standing in the water yonder. I've seen it move; there, look!" Yes, outlined against the low horizon, a monstrous shape could be plainly seen. The yelp of the hounds suddenly broke through the air back of them toward the creek. The monstrous figure started, moved heavily forward, then seemed as if coming toward them. Both waited, wondering, curious, terrified. It was within a rod of them, staggering, gasping. "Oh, God help us! I can go no farther; better be taken than both drown together." Jack could hardly repress a cry: "Jones--Dick! Is it you?" But whoever it was or whatever it was had no speech to answer this eager inquiry. They would have sunk in the shallow water if Jack and Denby had not caught them. Jack had food with him, and, better than all, the bottle of sorghum whisky. With this restorative, both were soon able to sit upon the ground and eat. Jack left Denby to feed them, while he went in search of the boat. He found it just where he had left it, and in a few minutes, at the head of his little band, he was back at the blockhouse. The food and Jack's hastily told news had restored Dick to something like his old friskiness. "Jericho!" he cried, as the released prisoners, having held back warily until the color of the new-comers was known, ran forward. "The whole army is here. I feel as if I were in the Union lines." "Well, you ain't, by a long shot," Denby cried. "We've got a good hour's march, and if you're wise, Captain Sprague, you won't waste time for any frills." "Dar's whar de pickets fire across." As they passed the bridge a loud sound of rushing horses could be heard in the distance. "THE ABSENT ARE ALWAYS IN THE WRONG." Under Vincent's ardent escort Mrs. Sprague and Merry traveled from Richmond northward in something like haste and with as much comfort as was possible to the limited means of transportation at the command of the Confederate commissary. Even in those early days of the war, the railway system of the South was worn out and inadequate. Such a luxury as a parlor car was unknown. The trains were filled with military personages on their way to the field. Mrs. Sprague and Merry were the only women in the car in which they passed from Richmond to Fredericksburg. The route brought them through a land covered with hamlets of camps, drilling squadrons, and the panoply of war. While the elder lady gave a divided mind to the strange panorama, Merry watched everything eagerly, amused and interested by this spectacle of preparation. Such soldiers as she could see distinctly looked like farmers in holiday homespun; the cavalry like nondescript companies of backwoods hunters. There seemed to be no uniformity in infantry equipment or cavalry accoutrements, and the discipline struck her as in keeping with this diversity of dress and ornament. The men could be seen hurrying in boyish glee toward the train as it drew near the temporary station, where mail-bags were thrown out and sometimes supplies of food or munitions of war. Jocular remarks were passed between the soldiery at the windows when the wistful groups gathered along the railway line. "Send us a lock o' Lincoln's hair to poison blind adders, will you?" "No--promised his scalp to my sweetheart to cover the rocking-chair." Then, as the laugh that met this sally died away, another humorist piped, out: "Tell Uncle Joe Johnston we're just rustin' down here for a fight; ef he don't hurry up we'll go ahead ourselves. We're drilled down so fine now that we can't think 'cept by the rule o' tactics." "Jest you never mind, boys. Uncle Joe'll do enough thinkin' fur ye when he gets ready to tackle the Yanks." "Hurrah for Uncle Joe!" And as the cheery cry swelled farther and farther, the train drew out, everybody looking from the windows as the patient soldiery straggled back campward. "A wise commander will do all he can to keep his men gay; if they were not jovial they'd go mad. Think of it! Day after day, week after week, who knows but year after year, the wearisome monotony of camp and march! Where the men are educated, or at least readers, they make better soldiers, because they brood less. Brooding saps the best fiber of the army. Your Northern men ought to have an advantage there, for education is more general with you than it is with us. It is not bravery that makes a man eager for the campaign, it is unrest. As a rule, the best soldiers in action are those who have a mortal dread of battle." "That surprises me." "Jack himself was eager for battle," Mrs. Sprague said, sighing. "We in the North have heard more of Beauregard than Johnston, yet I never hear you mention him. Wasn't it he who commanded at Bull Run?" "Yes, Jack has described that. Battles, after all, are decided by luck." "Luck won Waterloo." "General Johnston was very considerate to us when we came down. I wish you would make him know how grateful we are." "Oh, he couldn't be anything else; he is the ideal of a chivalrous knight." "Yes, I believe you claim chivalry as your strong point in the South, and accuse us of being a race of sordid money-getters." "I don't, for I know better, but our people do. They will learn better in time. Men who fought as your army fought at Manassas must be more than mere sordid hucksters." "And yet it is curious," Mrs. Sprague continued, musingly, "it is we who are warring for an idea and you are warring for property." "You are fighting to continue slavery, to extend it; we to abolish it or limit it. But even I can see that slavery is doomed. No Northern party would ever venture to give it toleration after this." "But if we succeed, it will exist in our union at least." "Ah, Vincent, can't you see that such a people as ours may be checked, beaten even, but they will never give up the Union? Why, much as I love Jack, I would never let him leave the colors while there was an army in the field. Don't you know every Northern mother has the same feeling?" "And every Southern mother, too." "Yes, I believe that, but there's this difference: Your Southern mothers are counting on what doesn't exist--a higher physical courage--a prowess in battle, I may call it, that you must know the Southern soldier has not, as distinguished from the Northern. As time goes on and the war does not end; as our armies become disciplined, the confidence that supports your side will die, and then the struggle, though it may be prolonged, will end in our triumph." "If it depends on us, it shall never be otherwise." She gave the young man a kind, scrutinizing glance, which made his heart beat joyously and his handsome cheeks mount color. At Fairfax Court-House they said farewell, the ladies continuing the journey in an ambulance under Federal guard. Lincoln's Washington was to the capital of to-day what the Rome of Numa was to the imperial city of Augustus. Never, in its best days, more imposing than a wild Western metropolis of to-day, the sudden inrush of armies and the wherewithal to supply and house them, soon gave the vast spaces laid out for the capital the uncouthness and incompleteness of an exaggerated mining town or series of towns. Contrasted even with its rival on the James, Washington was raw, chaotic, squalid. She found a care-worn man, deeply harassed, standing in the low-ceiled room, in which the Cabinet had met a few moments before. A sweet, wan smile--the instinctive, inborn sensitiveness of a noble nature-flickered over the rugged lines of the face as the usher, retiring, said: "Mr. President, this is Mrs. Sprague, whom you ordered to be admitted." She was going to say different from what she expected, but bethought herself of the ungraciousness of this form, since at that time Mr. Lincoln was the object of almost universal misreport and caricature. "How can I say what a mother should say?" "You came through from Richmond last week? Have you heard nothing from your son since you saw him?" "Nothing. Oh, is there anything about him?" "You have not even read the newspapers, I see." "No, no; I have been so uncertain, so agitated, so constantly in attendance upon our members, that I have had no time to read or even talk. But, pray tell me! Your manner indicates that something has happened. O Mr. President, think of my anxiety! My only son!" "Ah, Mrs. Sprague! It is I that should be pitied here. You came to me for comfort. You came in reliance on my power to restore your son, and I--I have the burden of telling you very grievous news. No, no, your son is not dead, have no fear of that, if in the end it prove a comfort. Last night your townsman, Elisha Boone, came to me with his heart-broken daughter, demanding vengeance for his son's death, whom your boy had slain the very night you left him on the James. He shot Captain Boone in the house you visited, and defeated a well-arranged plan to capture the rebel chief, Davis. Not only this, but he endangered the escape of a number of sorely-worn prisoners who had succeeded in reaching the Rosedale place and halted only to make Davis's capture certain." "My son shot Wesley! oh no, no; it can not be; or, if he did, it was because his own life was in peril. Ah! no, no, Mr. President, do not believe this. I know my son. I know the misery he endured in Wesley's company; endured like a hero; endured like a Sprague. He must have been in peril of his life." "Dear madam, I feel for you. I feel with you, but these facts are all in the possession of the Secretary of War. Mr. Boone will no doubt give you all the details. If it can be made to seem as you say, have no fear that I will wink at mere revenge, or make the machinery of justice an instrument of family feuds. Get your lawyer; have the matter investigated, and rely upon me for every proper clemency and aid in your hard lot." "Captain, send an orderly to accompany this lady to her carriage." "I don't believe a word of it. If Jack shot Wesley, it was because he was in some sort of treacherous business. You may depend upon it, that, when we get the true story, Jack's part will prove him in the right. I am going this instant to Boone to learn his source of information. He can have nothing but rumors." "I will go. It is better for me to see Mr. Boone. He will not venture to misrepresent to me." "Papa begs to be excused. He supposes that you want to hear the particulars of the--the affair at Rosedale, and bids me tell you." "Yes, Mrs. Sprague, your son shot Wesley deliberately; shot him as deliberately as if I should draw a pistol and take your life now and here." "And--and killed him?" "He never spoke again. He--he--ah! I can not, I can not! We brought him here. His body is in the cemetery, waiting the military formalities." "But tell us how it happened, Kate," Merry sobbed, entreatingly. "We know nothing but what you have told us. Tell us all. It is so startling, so awful, that we can not comprehend such a thing happening where we left everybody in the most friendly spirit." "Oh, if Olympia were here! she has so much self-control! she would advise so well what should he done!" the mother moaned, as she passed down through the long, barrack-like parlor. "But, dear Mrs. Sprague, Olympia is just where her good sense is most needed. She is near Jack. He needs comfort and counsel. You can have your lawyer, and you shall see the case isn't so bad as we have heard. You must remember that the Boones are not likely to take an impartial view. It is only human nature that they should think the worst of the--the death of son and brother. Wait till we hear Jack's story, and you will see that it puts a different face on the matter." "But it's Jack's disgrace and death they want. That was what the President meant. I didn't understand it then: I do understand it now. They shall not murder him! I shall command him to remain in Richmond. I shall command him to join Vincent. The North is unworthy of such men as my son. He is too pure, too innocent, too high-minded to be understood by the coarse natures that have come to power in the country. I shall not let this odious Boone destroy him as he ruined your brother." "But what am I to do? I can get no assistance here. Every bureau containing documents bearing on the poor boy's case is either closed to me, or the officials so hostile that I can not work with or through them." "But why don't you expose it?" "Expose it? A word in the Senate against these villainies is set down as disloyalty. All that a rascal needs to gain any scope he pleases, is to say 'rebel sympathizer,' and Fort Warren or Lafayette is held up as a menace." "It's a bad fix--no mistake," he said, gravely; "but I suggest that your fiery young friend come home and shoot the father, marry the daughter, and, as a wife can't testify against the husband, your client is secure." "Ah, captain, it's not a matter for joking. Think of his wretched mother." "Well, well, let Boone go. It's Sprague I'm interested in." And with this cold comfort the disheartened lawyer betook himself to Acredale, where his report, guardedly given, brought no very strong hope to the anxious mother. THE WORLD WENT VERY ILL THEN. "I can vouch, my friends, for Mr. Brodie's patriotism. He is a Democrat, it is true; but he loves the Union. I know that to be a fact. You can do the Union no better service than listening to what he has to say." Brodie, who had held his place, calmly smiled as Boone sat down, and, surveying the audience from side to side, began: "The son has gone over to the rebels," a voice cried. "Stop a moment, if you please, friend Brodie; I protest against your making anything in common between my son and this young man. The matter is to be investigated, and then we can tell better." Boone spoke in great excitement, and the audience, now feverishly wrought up, urged the lawyer to say his say out. He continued in the trained, impassive tones of the advocate: "I--I--referred to their conduct as soldiers," Boone cried, hoarsely. "My son lost his life in the service of his country. I can't have his name coupled with a--murderer's--with a traitor's." Then he narrated rapidly, but tellingly, the substance of what has been already set down in this history--the facts taken from Jack's letters and attested by the corroboration of Barney, Dick, and the company's officers. There was a visible revulsion in the larger part of the audience as the tale went on; and when the lawyer wound up with the story of Mrs. Sprague's baffled efforts in Washington to have her boy brought North, there was an outburst of applause and a faint cheer from the younger men for "glorious old Jack." Merry, too, had seen the story, and came over to show it to Mrs. Sprague. "I have seen it, I have seen it. Who of the Caribees can these be? Who is Jacques? I never heard that name here." "That's better. Mr. Brodie can get at the men and you couldn't. I shall be in a fever until we have heard from them." "O my child! my child!" "Dearest, dearest Olympia," Merry splutters, wildly embracing both. "But, my child. Tell us--Jack!" "Surely you heard that a party had escaped from Libby and made their way to Fort Monroe?" Olympia cried, desperately. "Fort Monroe?" Mrs. Sprague echoed mechanically. "Yes, ah, yes. Merry, where's the paper?" She had often been startled by her father's far-seeing, malignantly planned vengeances, and, now that the rumor of Jack's death began to settle into belief, she was appalled by a sudden sense of complicity in a murderous plot. Not that she believed her father capable of murder or its procuration, but, knowing his potency with the authorities, she saw that there were many ways in which Jack might be sacrificed in the natural course of military duties. She had heard things of the sort discussed--how inconvenient men had been sent into pitfalls and never heard of again. Kate sighed wearily as her father left the room. If she could only be as well assured as her strong words implied! Ah! if she could fetch back her lover by getting at the truth, how willingly she would fly to Rosedale and learn all! But she dared not question, lest questioning should confirm, where she now at least had the miserable solace of doubt. Could it be true? Could Jack be the base schemer her father depicted him? Then her mind ran back to Rosedale. She lived again all the enchanting days of that earthly paradise. She saw Wesley's furtive starts, his strange disappearances, his growing melancholy, his moody reticence when she questioned him. Ah! if he had but confided to her! If she had but dreamed of the desperate purpose born of the loneliness he lived in! If Jack had been loyal to him, loyal to her, Wesley would have been warned that eager eyes were upon him, ready wits reading his purposes, and revengeful hatred ready to slaughter him. "O father, I think I see that our lives have been unworthy, if not altogether wrong. Surely such neighbors as ours could not all take sides against you, if you were in the right in all the feuds that have divided us as a family from the people of Acredale." Then, in an almost imploring tone of reproach, she retraced the harsh episodes in the father's dealings with the Perleys, with the community, and, finally, the quarrel with the Spragues, involving in it the lives of Wesley and Jack. Her voice softened into tremulousness. She arose, and in her old pleading way pulled the shaggy head down on her breast, pressing her lips on the high, bare forehead. "MY DAUGHTER: If what you said last night is true, you can not be the daughter to me that you have been. I am going to Washington, and when I come back you will know that your brother was deliberately murdered, and that his murderer, even in the grave, is held guilty before all men of the crime." "Ah, Miss Merry, I'm so glad to see you! I have been meaning to call on you ever since I heard of your return, but, what with sorrow and illness, I have put it off, and now I want you to take me home with you. Will you not?" The pleading tone, the caressing clasp of the hand, the sadly changed face, the somber black weeds, made the voice and figure so much unlike the old Kate, that Merry stood for an instant confused and blushing as she stammered: "Bless me, Miss Kate, I--I--shouldn't have known you. Ah, I am very glad to see you; sisters will be very glad to see you, too. Do, do come right along with me. I'm afraid the parlor won't be very sightly, but you won't mind, will you?" Kate squeezed the hand still resting in her own, and drawing the long veil back over face, she walked silently with the puzzled spinster, unable to broach the theme she had at heart. Merry spared her the torture of going at it obliquely. "And Olympia believes that Jack is alive?" "Where does she think he is?" "She believes that he is among a squad separated from the rest of the prisoners, near the Union lines. It was asserted in Richmond that many had crossed the James River, and were making for the Dismal Swamp, or into Burnside's lines in North Carolina." "Dear Miss Merry, I--I--think I won't go in now," Kate said, tremblingly. "I must see Olympia. Perhaps I can help them in the search for Jack, and you know there is no time to lose. I shall come and see you all soon." Meanwhile, Kate, with wild, throbbing hope in her heart that kindled color in her pale cheeks and light in her weary eyes, sped away to the Spragues. There was no tremor in the hand that raised the dragon-headed knocker, nor hesitancy in the voice that bade the servant say that "Miss Boone requested a few moments' conversation with Miss Sprague." Olympia came presently into the reception-room, and the girls met with a warm embrace. "Ah, Olympia, I have been made so--so--glad by what Merry tells me! You--do--not believe that your brother is dead?" Her voice faltered, and Olympia, gazing at her fixedly, said: "No, I shall not believe Jack is dead until I see his body. Poor mother, who believes the worst whenever we are out of her sight, has given up all but the faintest hope. I shall not. I know Jack so well. I know that it would take a good deal to kill him, young and strong as he is. Besides that, I know that the Atterburys would find means to let us know, if there were any certainty as to his fate. Poor Jack! It would be an unendurable calamity if he were to die before the monstrous calumnies that have been published about him are proved lies." "Oh, why didn't he tell me this at the time? It was not Jack's bullet that entered poor Wesley's body. Jack was at his right, at the side of the bed. Wesley's wound was on the left side, and the shot must have come from Jones's pistol!" "I'll get it to him if he's alive. I, or mine, have been his undoing! I shall make amends. Ah, Olympia, I--I am ashamed to feel so full of joy--forgive me." "It isn't your fault, dear, that you didn't know Jack as we do," Olympia said, tenderly. "What are your plans?" Kate asked, presently. She stopped and . Her father! What was she rashly promising for him? Dead, he was bent on Jack's dishonor; living, he would never rest until Jack's life was condemned. "I know the influences, I think, and I can discover the agencies. Take comfort. I believe Jack is alive. I promise you that I shall never rest until he is found, alive or dead." "O Kate, what an impulsive ally we have gained! I wish Jack could have heard that speech; it would have put power in his arm, as poor Barney used to say." Olympia said this with composure and a certain confidence in herself that struck Kate with admiration. She felt ashamed of herself. Here was Olympia, unconscious of Jack's real peril if living, the menace to his reputation if dead, planning as composedly as if it were an every-day thing to have a brother lost in the appalling mazes of war; and she had been weakly depending upon her father, Jack's most persevering enemy! She recoiled from herself in a shiver of self-reproach as she said: "Olympia, you have the good sense of a man in an emergency. I am ashamed of myself. I, who ought to do the thinking for you, am as helpless as a kitchen-maid set to playing lady in the parlor. I can at least help you; I can make my body follow you, if I haven't sense enough to suggest." "Dear Kate, it isn't sense, or insight, or any fine quality of mind that is needed here. All I ask is, that you won't get dispirited, or, if you do, don't let mamma see you are. Poor mamma! She is as easily influenced as a baby. Jack is her darling, remember. All the world is a small affair to her compared with our poor boy. I fancy, if we were as much wrapped up in him as she is, we should make poor pioneers in the wilderness before us." But Kate could stand no more of this. With a choking sob she turned and fled up the stairway, crying as she disappeared: "Wait--wait a moment; I must get my purse." When she reappeared, the heavy mourning-veil was drawn down, and Olympia, with a reassured glance, opened the door. "You must affect confidence, if you have it not--even gayety. I warn you not to be shocked at my conduct. I must keep up mamma's spirits, and to do it I must play indifference or confidence, and you must be careful to say nothing, to do nothing, to excite her suspicions." "It is more than likely that these names are wrong. This happens constantly. The operators are raw and some of them can barely read. The names are given hurriedly, and if not written plainly they make wretched work of them. The newspapers make many a fool famous, while neglecting many a hero who deserves fame, simply through the blundering or carelessness of the writers or operators. Here is an orderly who will take you to the surgeon-general. You will find in his books the names of all the wounded in hospital in the Eastern armies. But if your brother was wounded or brought in wounded at Fort Monroe, his name will be on the books of the Army of the Potomac or the Department of Eastern Virginia." "I wonder who this can be?" Kate said, returning to an entry made a month before: "Jones, Warchester; Caribee Regiment." The surgeon's clerk readily gave them Jones's address, reminding them that the hospital was in Georgetown, and that they would be too late to obtain entrance to the patient that day. Next morning Mrs. Sprague was too ill to rise from her bed, and Olympia could not leave her alone. Kate undertook the investigation into the Jones affair alone. When she reached the hospital there was some delay before she could see the personage intrusted with the admission of guests. She was shown into an office on the ground-floor and given a seat. As she sat, distraught and eager, she heard her own name in the next room, the door of which stood open: "It's at Boone's risk. He would have him moved, and the surgeon-general gave him _carte blanche_ with the patient." "Well, it will cost the man his life. I'll stake my diploma on that. Why, the journey to Warchester alone is enough to down the most vigorous convalescent." "Pray, madam, what is it; are you ill?" In an instant a goblet of cool water was at her lips. She drank slowly, deliberating all the time to recover her senses; the surgeons--both young men, mere lads--waiting respectfully, inferring much from the melancholy robes. The water cooled her head, and she began to be able to think coherently. "I have the surgeon-general's permit to visit a patient in your fever ward--Jones, the name is. Can I see him?" "Pray, let me see the permit, madam?" He glanced at it, looked significantly at his comrade, and said: "Ah!" Kate's veil, by an imperceptible gesture, fell over part of her face. A great trembling came upon her again. The young surgeons exchanged glances. "Who--who--did--who asked for his removal?" "A Mr. Boone, also of Warchester." "Thank you--I am too late--I wanted to--to ask this Mr. Jones some questions concerning a dear friend in his regiment. But I can write, if you will kindly give me the address." "I am very sorry--beyond Warchester we have no record here of his whereabouts. If he had been officially transferred to another government hospital, we should have all the facts. But the removal was a personal favor to Mr. Boone. He is well known both here and in Warchester, and you can have no difficulty in communicating with him." "Ah, true; I had forgotten that." "If we can be of any service to you, Miss Sprague," the young man said, handing Kate back the permit, made out in Olympia's name, which Kate had never thought of, "you can always reach us through the surgeon-general's office." He handed her a card with his own and his comrade's name in pencil. When she reached home, fortune had intervened to save her conscience from the falsehoods she feared she would have to employ. The landlady met her in the hallway with a white face. "O Miss Boone, Mrs. Sprague is taken very bad. The doctor's with her now. I think it is typhoid fever." Up-stairs misfortune gave her a further release. Olympia came into Kate's room, agitated and in tears. "All, Kate, mamma is suffering pitiably. The doctor thinks it is typhoid, and he ordered me to remain away from her. You must leave the house. It won't do for all of us to be ill together. I may not be able to see you for days, until the crisis is past. But you must continue the search, and you must let me know, from day to day, what you learn. There are letters for you--I hear mamma. I will be back in a moment." "My daughter: You are doing a foolish thing. The search you propose can lead to nothing. All that can be done has been done by his friends. They have found no trace of him. Women can not hope to succeed where so keen a man as Brodie has failed. I have every confidence that in good time the matter will be cleared up, but you must remember that the Government and its agents have all they can do to manage and keep track of the millions of soldiers in the field, and they can not be expected to take much interest in the fate of the wounded or dead. Always affectionately. All doubt of her father's sinister intervention in Jack's disappearance now took the form of certainty in the girl's mind. When Olympia came back, a few moments later, Kate said, tenderly: Olympia, who had been so strong, cheery, and masterful when it had been a question of reassuring her mother, was now the stricken spirit. She looked at Kate through swimming eyes, and her voice was lost in sobs as she tried to speak. The girls held each other in a tearful silence, neither able to say what was in the minds of both. Even the uncertainty had a sort of solace compared with the dreadful possibility of the worst. "Remember, dear, you have your mother. What is our poor grief to hers; what is our loss to hers? It ought to comfort you to know that whatever human thought, courage, love can do to recover Jack, I shall do, just as you would in my place. I am very strong and resolute now, and I am filled with hope--so filled that I can not talk to you. I dare not let you see how much I hope, lest if it be not fulfilled you will hate me for inspiring you with it." "I will hope. I do believe you will do better than I should. The loving are the daring--you will find Jack. I know it." "DEAREST PAPA: I am come all the way from Washington, leaving poor Mrs. Sprague very low with fever, and her daughter tormented and ill with anxiety. I feel, I know, that you can relieve the distress of this miserable mother and devoted sister. I must see you. I felt sure of seeing you in Washington, and you can imagine my surprise and grief when they told me at the hotel that you had gone. Do come to me, or let me come to you. Your daughter's place is with you or near you now. We have only each other in this world; pray, dear father, let nothing come between us; let nothing make you doubt the constant love of your daughter. "DEAR DAUGHTER: I am just now engaged in very important matters that require me to move about considerably. I shall not be home for some days. I am glad you have come home. That's the place for you. You had better let the matter you speak of alone. The mother and sister are enough in the business. I don't see how it concerns you or me. If the man is dead it will be known as soon as the commissioners of exchange hand in their lists. If he is not dead, it is certainly no business of yours or mine to bring him home. I will write you soon again. Love your father. Keep the house well till I come." "Yes'm. I'm Lee Elkins," he stammered, very much perplexed to find ease for his large hands and ample feet. "Are you--is Mr. Jones, who came from the Georgetown Hospital, in your case?" Kate had thought out her course in advance, and had decided that the direct way was the best. Unless the man had been charged to conceal facts, an apparent knowledge of Jones's movements would be the surest way of eliciting his whereabouts. "Yes, I should like very much to know. I am deeply interested in him, Did you have charge of him?" "I can't say I did. I was sent from Washington in the same train, but the old chap that got Jones removed did all the nussing. I only got a sight of him as he was lifted into the carriage." "Should you know him again if you saw him?" "Think I should. Yes'm, think I should. His head was about as big as a pumpkin." "He had been wounded?" "Well, I should say so." "Have you seen the gentleman that brought him on from Washington lately?" "Not here, mum; I did see him in the street the other day. He was in a wagon--leastwise, it looked mighty like him." Kate began to breathe more freely. Her father had, at least, avoided any collusion with inferiors. His handiwork had been natural, involving no conspiracy or bribing of menials. "Do you think you could find out for me where Mr. Jones is?" "Wall, I reckon it could be done. It may take some days, as I must trust to the luck of running upon old Dofunny again." "Never mind. I may be able to learn from some of his friends where he is. The gentleman you speak of does not live in this city, and you would hardly be able to find him. If I could, find him I could find Mr. Jones." "Ah, yes; jes' so. Wall, I think I can find him in another way. I remember the carriage that took him from the station, I can find out from the driver. 'T'wan't no mystery, I reckon." Kate looked into the innocent blue eyes as the young fellow scratched his tow head, wondering whether he was as simple-minded as he seemed. He stood the scrutiny with blushing restiveness, in which there was nothing of the malign, and she resolved that he was to be trusted. "Very well," she said, indifferently, "that does seem the shortest way to find out the poor fellow's whereabouts. Get the facts, and you shall be well paid for your trouble." "'Tain't no trouble, miss, if it's a service to you. It would make me powerful glad to do anything for a comrade or his sister." Kate smiled at the astute mingling of sly fun and questioning implied in the gently rising inflection in this query. "Yes," she said, "you will be relieving the anxious heart of a sister if you find what I am seeking." "Nuff said, miss. Just as soon as I get my relief I'm off like a shot. Where shall you be?" "Ah, yes; you can come to me at the Alburn House. Here is my card, and you will doubtless be at some expense. Here is money to pay--spare no expense." "Easy as rolling off a log." The hackman had taken him to the house where Jones was lying. It was on the outskirts of the city toward Acredale. He described the house. Kate knew it very well. It was the property of her father. "Did you see the patient?" "No, indeed. You didn't tell me to, and I had nothing, to see him for. Ef you had told me that you wanted I should see him, I'd have seen him as easy as greased lightning." "No, I shall feel distressed if you do not accept it. You can find use for it. It will bring you luck, for it is the reward of a very important service. Perhaps some time we may meet again, and then you shall know how important." The tow hair stood up in wild dismay, and the blue eyes were perfect saucepans, as Kate gently forced the money into the big palm. "Wall, I vum, miss, I feel like I was a-robbing you, but ef yeou deu want I should take it, why I will, and send it to my old mother, who will find plenty o' use for it. Good-by, miss. Ef you should want me again, I'm at the hospital. I shall be mitey tickled to do anything for yeou or your brother." "I want to see the sick man, Mr. Jones." "Yes'm, come right in. This way, please, ma'am." The girl led the way up a flight of stairs, but if she had been part of the balustrade Kate could not have been more immovable. Whom was she about to see? Jack, wan, emaciated, on the verge of the grave? They had said in Washington that the journey would kill him; was it to that end her relentless father had persisted in the removal? Was she about to see the dying brought to death's door by her own flesh and blood? She reeled against the stair-post and brought her veil over her face. The girl had turned above and was waiting in wonder. With a desperate gathering together of her relaxed forces, she mounted the stairway. In the corridor the girl turned to a closed doorway and knocked lightly. There was no sound within; but the door swung open, and Elisha Boone stood on the threshold. He did not in the dim light observe the figure in black, but, looking at the maid, said, softly: "What's wanted, Sarah?" "A young lady to see Mr. Jones, sir," and, stepping slightly aside for Kate to enter, the father recognized the visitor. "Ah, father, I'm so relieved, so glad! I was miserable, and did not know where you were. I--I will not let you leave me again." "But my child, you must not be here; this is a house of sickness; there is dangerous illness here." "It's no more dangerous for me than for you. I know who is here." She looked archly at him, as he started in surprise. "I will help nurse Mr. Jones." She said this with immense knowingness in her manner as she squeezed the astonished man to her heart. The maid meanwhile had retreated to a safe distance, where she lurked in covert to make report of the extraordinary goings on. "Impossible, Kate; you must not be here. I will not have it; you must go." His voice grew stern. "You must go, I say, Kate; you must go down-stairs this instant." "Come, Boone, I say, this isn't fair; let the lady come in if she wants to see valor laid low." Boone, who had been insensibly moving Kate from the open doorway, caught her eye fixed on the room, and looking over his shoulder at these jocular words he saw Jones leaning against the post, a wan smile on his face. Boone turned, almost flinging Kate from him, and, fairly lifting the invalid, carried him back into the room. "This is madness; you are in no condition to rise. I won't be responsible for your life if you persist in this course." "So much trouble off your hands, old man. I'll be more use to you dead than living. Better let me blow my own flame out. It won't burn long at best or worst." In the overwhelming revulsion of feeling brought about by the actual sight of Jones, Kate stood, interdicted, in the corridor, uncertain what to do. She heard the man's words and shuddered at the bantering levity with which he spoke of his own death. Who could it be? It was not Jack, as she had feared and hoped. But he must know something of Jack. She must speak with him. How? It would not do to irritate her father. She caught Boone's almost whispered words: "I tell you, Jones, you shall be brought about, but you know the danger of seeing any Acredale people. My daughter knows you--knows the Perleys. I should think that would be reason enough why you should not be seen by her." "Oh, I don't mind; the sight of a pretty girl is the best medicine I know of. I'd risk all Acredale for that." Kate turned softly and waited at the foot of the stairs for her father. He came presently, looking worried and embarrassed. "Now don't go to imagining mysteries here. This is a man who has been on my hands a good many years. He is an irreclaimable spendthrift. He was in other days a man of repute and station. I am interested in him, through old ties, since the days we were boys." "The carriage is here, papa; won't you come home with me?" "Yes; you get into the carriage." He reappeared presently, the face of a strange woman, that Kate had not seen, peering over his shoulder into the carriage as he came down the steps. Kate instantly divined that he had been warning the landlady against admitting strangers to the sick man's room. During the drive home Kate strove to reassert her old dominion over the moody figure at her side. It was useless. As the carriage stopped at the door he turned toward her and said, not unkindly: Nothing but the sense of having giving hostages to good behavior rather than honor upheld Kate in the line she had marked out for herself. She was not, in the modern sense of the word, a strong-minded young woman, this sorely beset champion of the overborne. She hadn't even the perversity of the sex in love. Chivalrously as she loved the lost soldier, she loved her father with that old-fashioned veneration which made her see all that he did with the moral indistinctness, without which there could not be the perfect filial devotion that makes the family a union in good report and evil. She had not even that, by no means repellent, secondary egoism which upholds us in doing ungrateful things that abstract good may follow. Opposition, which becomes delightful when we can call it persecution, had no charm for her. If her father had suddenly adopted the _role_ of the stern parent in novels and ordered her to her chamber, Kate would have regarded it as a joke, and felt rather relieved that she could thus escape the pledge given to the Spragues. But, as it was, she felt morally bound by her promise to Olympia; and, though she realized dimly that her instrumentality was slowly involving her father in a coil of unloveliness, she resolutely braced herself for the worst. In spite of herself she had believed in conquering her father's severity and changing his mind. She had rescued him from revenges quite as dear to him as this, at least so far as she understood it, forgetting that her father believed himself to be pursuing the deliberate murderer of his son. When we have achieved a victory over our own less noble impulses and put the sophistries that misled us behind us, it is impossible to realize that others have not the same vision, the same mind as our own. Kate had accused Jack of cold-blooded murder. She had reasoned herself out of that hateful spirit, and, forgetting that her father had not the vital force of love to act as a fulcrum, she could not quite comprehend how difficult it was to shift the wrathful burden in his mind. She had gone too far to recede now with honor. Olympia had trusted her, had indeed given over into her hands the active work of finding the strangely lost clew of Jack's whereabouts. Perhaps for her father's sake it was better that she should be the instrument. She might be able to dissemble his intervention, shield him from obloquy--if, as she feared, he was responsible for anything doubtful. "DEAR SIR: A mother and sister who have exhausted all official sources in vain to get trace of a lost son and brother, John Sprague of the Caribees, have reason to believe that you can give them a clew to his whereabouts. Will you therefore kindly confide in the bearer of this letter, giving him by word of mouth such facts as will enable John Sprague's relatives to work intelligently in the search for him, living or dead? It was hardly written when Elkins himself appeared, radiant with satisfaction and blushing like a peony under lamplight. "If you can spare me the day, I have a very important matter I think you can attend to for me. I want you to go to the sick man Jones. You must see before entering whether he is alone or not. I don't know how you can find out, but you can invent some way. If you see the man who brought him from Washington, you are not to enter. But if you find that he is not in the house, ask boldly for Jones, and when you reach him hand him this note. He will give you an answer, and you must be careful not to lose a word, for life depends on the accuracy of your report. I fancy that your regimentals and hospital badge can gain you admission, if, as I have reason to believe, there are orders to refuse strangers admission. I depend on you to overcome any difficulty you may meet. If you knew how much depends upon it, I'm sure you would not be baffled by anything less than force." "Ef I don't get thet 'ere letter into Jones's hands, you may have me drummed out o' camp by the mule-drivers." "I believe you, and trust you. I shall be here to-morrow morning early, and shall hope to hear something from you. Good-by." "Good-by, miss. Just you make up your mind I am goin' to do what you command." When she reached home she found her father in the library. He looked at her inquiringly as she came over and kissed him. "I have been in town all day, and am run out." "Yes, still plotting." "You're wasting your time, my dear. You'll know all you care to soon enough, if you'll just keep quiet." "Yes; but I can't. I want to know all you know, and I want to know it now." "All I know wouldn't be much, according to the Spragues, who gave me my status in this town, long ago, as an ignoramus." "Perhaps you were then, papa." "A lie is truth to those who only tell the truth." "It's simple enough--a home-made epigram. People who tell nothing but the truth are easiest made to believe a lie. The Spragues had heard of you as ignorant, and believed it. You can't blame them for that." "I don't blame them because it was a lie. I blame them because it was the truth. I don't care a straw how many lies are told about me--it's the ill-natured truth I object to." "I'm afraid that you will have a hard time in life if you like lies better than the truth." "I didn't say that." "Then I don't understand English." "You don't understand me." Kate sighed. She had hoped that the early banter was paving the way for a reconciliation. She took up some work and tried to busy her hands. "Suppose you read me something? You haven't read in an age." "Oh, something from Dickens--anything you like." "Very well, I shall show you a counterfeit presentment of yourself," and, with an arch-smile, she began to read from The Chimes. He listened soberly until the last page was turned, and then, rising, said abstractedly: "I sha'n't see you for a few days. I wish you would remain at home as much as possible. Get some of the neighbors' girls to keep you company, if you're lonesome." "Oh, I shall not be lonesome. I shall have too much to do--too much to think about." He laughed. "You are enough like your father, my girl, to pass for him. Very well, you'll be penitent enough when I come back." He was gone in the morning, as he had said, and she was free to keep her appointment with Elkins. He was waiting for her when she readied the hotel. "Well?" she cried, breathlessly. "He wrote this note for you," and he handed her an envelope with her own name written on it in an uneven, uncertain scrawl. She tore it open and read: "Did you get to him without trouble?" Kate asked, keenly, disappointed by the result of all this strategy. "I made them believe I was on hospital business. I showed them a large official envelope, and they let me go up. Jones told me to tell you that he would see you there in the parlor if you would come; that he is unable to leave the house, or he would come to see you." "Can you take me there now?" While he was gone, Kate read the note again. She was more puzzled than ever. The man wrote as if he had no idea that Jack was not easily traceable, yet all the Spragues' money and influence had been spent in vain. He expected her. Where could her father be? He wrote as though he had no idea that he had been virtually a prisoner. When she reached the house, the servant made no difficulty in admitting her. Elkins remained outside in the vehicle, with an admonition from Kate to remain unseen unless she called him. Jones, the shadow of the burly soldier we saw in the famous escape, was seated in a deep, reclining chair, and, as Kate entered, rose feebly. "Pray, don't rise, don't disturb yourself in the least. I will sit here near you, and we can talk, if it won't make you ill." "No. It isn't talking that troubles me--but never mind that. Your note has pulled me down a good deal. I was given to understand that the boys were home and all right." "Jack and young Perley." "Who gave you--who told you that?" "Your father. He is the only person I have talked with since I got my wits back." Kate drew back with a shuddering horror. "But why should papa tell you they were safe, when--when our hearts have been tortured? Ah! I see. He wanted to spare you the anxiety. Ah! yes. He knew that you would fret and worry, and that you could not recover under the strain." Kate's heart swelled with a triumphant revulsion. She had vilely suspected without cause. She must now do justice. Jones eyed her pensively, holding his head with both his hands. "Nothing has been heard of the boys since when?" "Nothing directly since the escape from Richmond. Miss Sprague brought that news, and about the same time a paragraph in the _Herald_ announced that prisoners from Richmond had reached the Union lines on the Warrick." "Not a line, not a word concerning them has been heard. Mrs. Sprague sent agents so soon as the _Herald_ paragraph was shown to Olympia. They are in Washington now on the quest. It was there we got track of you--before you were sent here,"' "Why was I sent here?" "I--I--don't know," she faltered. "Ah!" Jones's eyes were penetrating her now. She felt the questioning in them, and turned her face to the clinging folds of the veil. "Miss Boone, you seem to be deeply interested in these boys. Are you really their friend?" "Ah, believe me, I am heart and soul their friend!" "Does your father know it?" "Yes: he knows that I am seeking them." "Does he approve your search?" "Good. Now listen. We have short time to work in. You have a carriage outside. Your father will be here any moment. I could never keep from him my indignation and even distrust. I shall get into that carriage with you, and you must conceal me somewhere and give me time to set the proper machinery in motion to find these boys. There is no other way. Your father has some reason for keeping their whereabouts concealed. I may know the purpose and I may not. The boys may have been killed in the volley that struck me. It will require a mere telegram to find out. I know whom to address, but I must be where I can use trusted agents. I have no money. You can, I hope, provide me with that, or the Spragues if you can't." He spoke with a flush deepening on his face, and arose with something like vigor. "I will remain with our friend Elkins to-night, as you suggest," Jones said; "to-morrow I will send you word of my whereabouts, and you may expect to have news of the boys within the week." "You made no mistake. I shall find them. You can tell your friends that," and he added, with a gleam of savage malice, "God help the man that has raised the weight of a feather against them, for he has put a heavy hurt on me if he has harmed them!" Kate shuddered. Was she never to emerge from this hideous circle of vengeful hatred--this condition of passionate vendetta--where men were seeking each other's harm? On reaching home she addressed a note to her father explaining frankly that she had entered into communication with Jones; that who had been pained by all that she had heard; that the inquiry had now passed out of her hands and was in that of the authorities, and begging him to drop any participation he might have meditated In a late letter Olympia had given good news of her mother, saying that Kate could return with safety, and, informing her father of this, Kate bade him good-by for a time. "Why, I jast saw him at the desk, paying his bill. He is probably there still. Wait here until I see." "Madame, you must know this is highly disorderly and indecorous. The court can take no cognizance of this sort of testimony. Do you desire to be heard by counsel? If you do, the judge-advocate will give you all lawful assistance." "If the court please, this lady is my daughter. She is somewhat excited. I will take the necessary measures in the matter," Boone began. Kate pushed her father from before her and again addressed the president. "I refuse my father's aid in this case. I don't know what is necessary, but I ask this court, if it has anything to do with John Sprague, to give his friends an opportunity to present his story truthfully and without prejudice." "The judge-advocate will give you all necessary information. Meanwhile, the case will be adjourned until to-morrow." Elisha Boone stood beside his daughter, a figure of perplexity and chagrin. He dared not remonstrate openly. He was forced to hear the judge-advocate question this extraordinary witness, and instruct her on the steps necessary to be taken; worse than all, hear him inform Kate that the citations to John Sprague had been regularly issued, and that the evidence of his desertion rested wholly on the fact that he had put in no answer to the charges promulgated against him by his commanding officer; that the trial was proceeding on the ground that Sprague had deserted to the enemy, and refused to answer within the time allowed by law. "But he has never heard of the charges," Kate cried, indignantly. "He has not been heard of since he escaped from Richmond." "As we understand it, he reached the Union lines merely to ambuscade our outposts, and then returned to Richmond." "There is some extraordinary error in all this. If Sprague can be produced before the term fixed by the regulations, he can vindicate himself by establishing the facts you have told me. If not, we have no alternative but to condemn him to death as a spy and deserter. The testimony on these specifications is uncontradicted. The murder we may not be able to establish, though we have witnesses of the shooting." "Where are you going? I suppose I need not tell you that I was on my way home when I came here, for I suppose you have been spying on my movements." "Never. I feared you were acting unwisely, but I never dreamed of watching you. Providence has put your plans in my hands at nearly every step, but I was so ignorant that, of myself, the information would have done but little service to poor Jack. I came into the court by the merest chance. I saw you get into the cab at Willard's, and as I had only reached Washington, I wanted to see you before you went away. I drove after you--followed without the slightest suspicion of the place or your purpose in it." "Well, all your running about is useless. He will be sentenced to death and the family disgraced. Nothing can now prevent that." "Yes, Jack can prevent it! I can prevent it!" "Jack will be found. Surely they dare not commit such a monstrous crime against the absent, the undefended!" "Well, we won't talk of it. I suppose you are with the Spragues?" "Yes; I shall remain with them until this is ended." "What if I should tell you to come home with me?" "I should, of course, obey you if you commanded me. But before doing so I should have to put my statement in legal shape--that is, swear to it, and give my address to the court that I might be regularly summoned." "You know something of law, too, I see. I sha'n't ask you to go home, nor shall I go myself. I shall remain to see how this affair turns out." They were driving down Pennsylvania Avenue now. Kate, recalling her departure, asked, "You did not get the letter I left for you at home?" "No, I did not know you were gone." "I left a few lines to tell you that I had seen Jones." She watched him as she said this. He did not start, as she expected. His lips were suddenly compressed and his eye grew dark; then he smiled grimly. "I hope you felt repaid for your trouble." "Yes. I felt amply repaid. Jones has undertaken to find out what became of Jack after his arrival at the Union outposts." "Did you discuss the whole affair with him?" "Yes. I was greatly relieved by what I learned. I was afraid you had some sinister purpose in secreting him as the only link between Jack and his friends. It gave me new life to find that you had been so tender and thoughtful to Jones, for, as the event proved, he no sooner learned that there were apprehensions as to Jack's safety, than he set about his discovery." "Did Jones share your grateful sentiment?" "Ah!" And Elisha Boone sank far back in the cushion. The carriage stopped in front of Willard's; then he said: "I shall remain here now. I will order the driver to take you home. Come to me as often as you can." He kissed her in the old friendly way and hurried into the hotel. On reaching her lodgings she found a telegram waiting her. It read: "Jones gone South. He will advise you of his movements. ELKINS." "Major Atterbury? Oh, yes; he was removed to division D. You will find him in a separate tent. He has a woman nurse. I will send an orderly with you." "I am Major Atterbury's sister. My brother is unconscious. Can I attend to the business you have with him?" Jones turned and stopped, glancing in surprise at the girl. Jones, dismissing the orderly, told her the facts as we have already followed them. Leaving out all mention of Kate, he told her how he had hurried down to Newport News, and thence to the outposts on the Warrick. There he had learned that Jack and Dick had been wounded, fatally the story went, in the final volley fired by the pursuers. They had been carried to the hospital at Hampton. But there all trace had been lost. The steward who received them and the surgeon who had taken their descriptive list had been transferred to St. Louis. There was, however, no record of their deaths, and upon that he based the hope that they were either in hospital, or had been, through some strange confusion, assigned among rebel wounded, a thing that had frequently happened in the hurry of transporting large numbers of wounded men. "And does Mrs. Sprague know all this?" Rosa cried, understanding now why Vincent's letter and her own had not brought a response. "Partly, I think. Mrs. Sprague and her daughter are in Washington, in the state of mind you may imagine, and exhausting bales of red tape to reach the lost boys." Poor Rosa! She had thought her grief and terror too much to endure before. Now how trivial Vincent's fever in comparison with this appalling disappearance of Dick and Jack! She walked on over the sparse herbage, over her shoes in the soft sand, when Linda came running from the tent in joyous excitement. "De good Lord, Miss Rosa, she's here; she's done come!" "Who is here--who is come?" Rosa cried, impatiently; "not mamma?" "'Deed no, Miss Rosa; Miss Limpy." "Yes, indeedy; and, oh, bress de Lord, Massa Vint knows her, and is talkin' like a sweet dove!" "Now, you're not to talk, you know," Olympia said, with matronly decision, "I shall remain here to mesmerize you into repose. You know I am a magnetic person. Be perfectly quiet, and keep your eyes off me. They make me nervous." "I can only keep my eyes away on condition you put your hand in mine, Then the magnetic current can have full play." He moved impatiently, and said, beseechingly: "But tell me how you got here so soon. How did you learn I was here? Jack told you when he got my letter?" "I can't understand it. All these things are done with system in an army like yours. Men can't disappear like this, leaving no record. I'll stake my head there's foul play, if the boys can't be found. Have you made inquiry in the company on duty where Jack and his companions got into your lines?" She explained all the efforts that had been made--how Brodie had been baffled, and how letters had been sent to the commanding officer at Fort Monroe. "We had begun to think that Jack had been recaptured; but surely, if he were, you would have known of it." "Of course I should." "And young 'Perley'?" "He, too, we can get no trace of." "Good heavens! I'm glad Rosa doesn't know that; she'd be in every camp and hospital in the North until she had found her sweetheart." "That sounds something like a reflection on us--mamma and me." "Well, I began it yesterday morning. As I said, so soon as I read Rosa's letter, I went to headquarters, where we have a good friend and gave my word for your safe keeping. You are to be our prisoner; but if you escape you will get us into trouble, for we are none too well considered by the folks in power." "God forgive me, Olympia! escape is the last thing I think of now, when I am near you. I was going to say I should never care to go back, but I know you wouldn't think the better of me for that." "I don't know. Why should you go back? The South is sure to be beaten. We are conquering territory every day, from the armies at Donelson to the forts at New Orleans. We shall beat you in Virginia so soon as General McClellan gives the word." "I could not love you, dear, so much, loved I not honor more. You know you gave me that for a motto." He answered with a glance of pitying pleading. He looked so helpless--so woe-begone--that she bent over near his face to smooth his disordered bandages. When she withdrew she was blushing very prettily, and Vincent was smiling in triumph. "On these terms," the smile seemed to say, "I will be mute for an age." What an adroit ally war is to love! Here was the self-contained Olympia--so confident of herself--fond and yielding as Rosa; when war rushed in, infirmity came to the rescue of Vincent's despairing passion. "All have the small-pox?" she inquired, shuddering, as she glanced at the white screens, behind which an occasional plaintive groan could be heard. "Oh, no! there are some here that have no more small-pox than I have." "Then why do you keep them here?" Rosa asked, indignantly. "Why, this is infamous!" Rosa cried. "It is murder. Why don't you write to the--the--head man?" "And get myself in the guard-house for my trouble? No, thank you, miss. I wouldn't have spoken to you if it hadn't been for the sympathy you showed coming in, and to sort o' show you that you are not running so much danger as folks try to make you believe." "Certainly. I'll see that they're in shape for inspection, and call you." He disappeared behind the curtain and could be heard in a kindly, jovial tone: "There, sonny, keep kivered; the lady is coming to bring you something better than the doctor's gruel, so lie still." "O, my darling, my darling, I have found you!" It would have required the eyes of maternal love of Rosa's to recognize our jaunty Dick in the emaciated, fleshless face that lay imbedded in the disarray of the cot. Dick's blue eyes were sunken and dim, his lips chalky and parched. He made no sign of recognition when Rosa drew back with her arm under his head to scrutinize the disease-worn face. "Oh, yes--the other." Rosa started and hastened to the next cot. Yes, it was Jack--or a piteous ghost of him. He was sleeping, and she withdrew gently. "Please distribute the contents of the basket to the men I named. I will be back presently." With this she darted out, running at the top of her speed, heedless even of the peremptory challenge of the sentries, who thought her mad or stricken with the plague, and made no attempt to molest her. She ran straight to Jones's quarters. He was writing, and started in surprise as she entered panting and breathless. "Ah! I have found them; I have found them!" She could say no more. Jones helped her to a seat and held a glass of water to her lips. Then she regained breath. "Yes, ah, yes. Thank God! thank God! Ah! I could say prayers from now until my dying day. But, oh, Mr. Jones, do, do hurry; because they may die if we do not get them away from that dreadful pest-house." "It will take some time to get the order for the removal. Meanwhile, they will need good nursing. If you hope to help them you must be calm; you must keep well. Now go to your brother. It is just as well that Miss Sprague went away this morning. Before she comes back, her brother will be in a place she can visit with safety. You can not go back there. You must remain patient now until I get them away from that dangerous place." The dispersion of the rest of their companions from Richmond was accounted for by furloughs granted them so soon as they reached the provost-marshal's office. Just before leaving Point Lookout Jack received a much-directed letter that gave signs of having been in every mail-bag in the Army of the Potomac. It was from Barney Moore, bristling with wonder and turgid with woful lamentation at Jack's coldness in not writing him. He had been sent by mistake to Ship Island, near New Orleans, to join his regiment, and had only at the writing of the letter reached Washington, where the Caribees were expected every day to move to the Peninsula in McClellan's new campaign. So soon as he was sufficiently recovered to write, Jack reported by letter to the regiment. He had received no reply. The explanation was awaiting him so soon as he reached Washington. While seated with his mother in Willard's, a heavy knock came on the door. It was thrown open before the maid could reach it. A provost corporal stood on the threshold, a file of men behind him: "I have an order for the arrest of Sergeant John Sprague." "I am John Sprague. Of what am I accused?" "I have no orders to tell you. My orders are to deliver you at the provost prison. You will hear the charges there." "But I am still under the doctor's charge. I am on the hospital list." "I don't know what condition you are in. My orders are to arrest you, and you know I have no option. All can be remedied at the provost's office." "I will go with you, my son," Mrs. Sprague said, trying to look untroubled. "It is some error which can be explained." "No, mamma, you can't come. Send word to the counsel you engaged in the search. I fancy it is some mistake; but I wish it hadn't occurred just now. I wouldn't write Olympia about it." Olympia had gone on to Acredale with Kate, to set the house in order for a season of festivity. Jack, Vincent, Dick, and the rest, were to join them so soon as the invalid had taken rest in Washington. The guard indulged Jack in a carriage to headquarters. Here he was handed over to a lieutenant in charge, and conducted to a prison-like apartment in the rear. "What is the charge against me?" Jack asked, as the officer touched a bell. "Cheer up, Sprague; it's all a mistake." It was the voice of the lawyer. At this Jack started, his eyes gleaming wildly. "Ah, I thought so. I knew I could never have been disgraced like this in earnest. They have discovered the wrong done me?" "No, no; not exactly that, Jack, but we shall show them the mistake, I make no doubt." "Why am I dishonored? Of what am I accused? Why am I here?" Jack cried, shivering under the revulsion from despair to hope, and from hope back to horror. FATHER ABRAHAM'S JOKE. In her own mind, as the train rolled toward Acredale from Washington, Kate was enjoying in anticipation the victory she had to announce to her father. He had written her regularly from Warchester, where he was engaged in an important suit. She had written more frequently than he, but she had made no allusion to the happy ending of her troubles. It was partly dread that the knowledge of Jack's restoration might bring on more active hostility, as well as a whimsical feminine caprice to spring the great event upon him when all danger was over. She watched Dick and Rosa in the seat near her, for they, too, were of the advance guard to Acredale, where, when Olympia had arranged the house, Vincent and Jack were to come for final restoration to health. When the party arrived at the little Acredale Station there was a great crowd gathered. A company of the Caribees was just setting out for the front. Some of the old members recognized Dick, and then straightway went up a cheer that brought all the corner loiterers to the spot to learn the goings on. It was in consequence rather a triumphal procession that followed the carriage to the Sprague gateway, and even followed up the sanded road to the broad piazza. Rosa remained with Olympia, while Kate carried Dick off to commit him to the aunts waiting on the porch to welcome the prodigal. Kate had telegraphed her coming, and her father was at the door to meet her. He was plainly relieved and delighted to have her with him again, for he held her long and close in his arms. "Then all's forgiven; we're friends again," she said, laughing and crying together. "There is nothing to forgive. It may be a matter of regret that you are a Boone in blood rather than an Ovid, and that you imitate the Boones in obstinacy. But justice has been done, and there's no need to quarrel about strangers." She didn't understand in the least what he meant about justice being done. Remembering that all was well, she smiled as they entered the library, and when she had removed her wraps, said, in repressed triumph: "You need never attempt the role of Shylock again. I play Portia better than you play the Jew. You have lost your pound of flesh." "Well, be magnanimous. Don't abuse your victory. I shouldn't, in your place; but women are never merciful to the fallen." "I am to you. For, see, I kiss you as gayly as when I believed you all heart and goodness." "Now you believe me no heart and badness?" "I didn't say that, I say you are given over to sinful hates, and I must correct you." "Well, I'm willing now to be corrected." "Knowing you, I can foresee that you won't spare the rod. Very well, I'll try to get used to it." At this moment a servant came to the door. "A note for Miss Kate," she said. Kate tore it open and read: "Tell me what this means. I know that you know." He took the paper with leisurely unconcern, affecting not to remark Kate's flashing wrath; he read the lines, handed the paper back, or held it toward Kate, who put her hands behind her. "Since it concerns you, my child, suppose you go over and ask Miss Sprague. How should I know the affairs of such superior people?" "Certainly not. We're not play-actors. I think it best that you should not go to the neighbors to-night, and you, as a dutiful daughter, obey without murmur, because I have always been an indulgent parent and gratified every whim of yours, even to letting you consort with my bitterest enemies for months." As he spoke, there was a ring at the doorbell. Presently the servant entered the room and announced "Mr. Jones." Before Boone could direct him to be shown into another room Jones entered the library, fairly pushing the astonished menial aside. Boone held up his hand with a warning gesture, and nodded toward Kate; but, without halting, Jones advanced to Boone's chair, and, seizing him by the shoulder, held up a copy of the afternoon paper. Boone's eyes rested a moment on the paragraphs pointed out. Then, throwing the paper aside, he asked, coldly: "Why should you ask me what it means? If you are interested in the affair, you might find out by writing to the court." But Kate, at this hideous detail, fell with a low, wailing cry to the floor, happily dead to the woful consciousness of the scene and its meaning. Jones ran to the door, and, unlocking it, shouted for the servants. When they came, she was carried to her room and the physician summoned. Almost at the same time Olympia, in her traveling-dress, drove up. She was informed by the servants of Kate's state, and, without stopping to ask permission, ran up to the sick-room. Kate was now conscious, but at sight of Olympia she covered her face, shuddering. "Ah, Kate! Kate! what is it? Have you learned the dreadful news? I am going to take the train back this evening." "I, too, will go with you. Stay with me; don't leave me!" She stopped, put out her hand, as if to make sure of Olympia, then broke into low but convulsive sobs. Her father, with the doctor, entered the room; but at the sight Kate turned her head to the wall, crying, piteously: "I don't know about that," the doctor said, decisively. He felt her pulse, then with a quick start of surprise raised her head and examined the tongue and lining of the palate. A still graver look settled on his face as he tested the breath and action of the heart. When he had apparently satisfied himself he turned to Olympia with a perturbed air, and, beckoning her into the dressing-room, said: "Miss Sprague, this is no place for you. Miss Boone has every symptom of typhoid fever. She has evidently been exposed to a malarial air. Her complaint may be even worse than typhoid--I can't quite make out certain whitish blotches on her skin. I should suspect small-pox or varioloid, but that there has not been a case reported here for years. Where has she been of late?" Olympia turned ghastly white with horror. "O doctor, she has been nursing Jack, who was for weeks in the small-pox ward at Point Lookout!" He took her gently by the shoulders and pushed her out of the room. He was an old friend of the family, and she was accustomed to his tyrannical ways. He held her sternly under way until the front door closed and shut her out. Then, turning into the library, he saw that the host was alone. Closing the door, he said: "Mr. Boone, your daughter has been exposed to a great danger. We may be able to save her, but it will require great patience." "Your daughter has caught the most hideous of all diseases--small-pox!" Elisha Boone started to his feet. "Great God! where could she catch small-pox?" "What do you propose doing?" he finally asked, to get his thoughts from the torturing grip of conscience. So it was settled that Boone should take up his quarters in Warchester, coming out late every night for news. "O father, we have both been wicked! we have both been punished! Help me to do my part; help me to bear my burden." "I wish by such simple means as courts-martial we could find out more such soldiers as this; we need all of that sort we can get." He touched a bell, and, when a clerk appeared in response, he said, "Ask General McClellan to come in for a moment before he leaves." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Iron Game, by Henry Francis Keenan	redpajama-book	68,651
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sjaani and PG Proofreaders HAPPINESS AND MARRIAGE "The inner side of every cloud Is bright and shining; I therefore turn my clouds about, And always wear them inside out-To show the lining." "And I will show that there is no imperfection in the present, and can be none in the future, And I will show that whatever happens to anybody it may be turned to beautiful results." TO BE HAPPY THOUGH MARRIED. The above letter comes from a member of the Success Circle who is a highly cultured and interesting looking native East Indian. We have a full length photo of him in native costume. He asks if "this is the working of the Law of Attraction." Certainly it is. Just as the sun acts through a sheet of glass so the Law of Attraction acts through the conventionalities of a race. Whatever comes together is drawn together by the Law. Whatever is held together is held by that same Law of Attraction. When each has finished the work of helping the other to develop they will either find themselves _really_ in love with each other, or they will fall apart. _Some stronger attraction will separate them at the right time_--perhaps through divorce, perhaps through death. _All_ our goings and comings are due to the Law of Attraction. The Law of Attraction giveth, and it taketh away. _Blessed_ is the Law. _Let_ it work. And forget not that _all_ things are due to its working. "Tudor" says he "enters into the silence daily at a particular hour and enjoys the mental picture of how he desires to be when married." His success all depends upon the _equity_ in that picture; upon its truth to the law of being. An impractical idealist lives in the silence with beautiful pictures of "how he desires to be when married." When he gets married there isn't a single detail of his daily experience which is like his mental picture. He is sadly disappointed and perhaps embittered or discouraged. It all depends upon the picture. If Tudor's picture contains a benignant lord and master and a sweet little Alice Ben Bolt sort of wife who shall laugh with delight when he gives her a smile and wouldn't hurt his feelings for a farm; who does his bidding before he bids and is always content with what he is pleased, or able, to do for her; if this is the style of Tudor's mental picture he is certainly doomed to disappointment. I have a suspicion that Tudor is a natural born teacher. His mental pictures may represent himself as a dispenser of moral and mental blessings. He may see Ada sitting adoringly at his feet, ever eager to learn. If so there will certainly be disappointment. East Indian girls may be more docile than American girls; East Indian men may be better and wiser lords and masters; but "Ada" is a Human Being before she is an East Indian; and a Human Being instinctively revolts from a life passed in leading strings. If Tudor continues to remind her that he is her schoolmaster she will certainly revolt; inwardly if not outwardly. Whether the revolt comes inwardly or outwardly harmony is doomed. But all men and women are more or less unconscious, in spots at least, of this truth. They spend their lives "looking down" upon each other. Men "look down" upon their wives as "weak" or "inferior," and women look down upon their husbands as "animals" or "great brutes." Men are contemptuous of their wives visionariness, and women despise their husbands for "cold and calculating" tendencies. The real truth is that in marriage a man is schoolmaster to his wife _and she is equally schoolmistress to him._ This is true in a less degree, of _all_ the relationships of life. The Law of Attraction draws people together _that they may learn_. The Law of Attraction, or Love, almost invariably attracts opposites, and for their own good. A visionary, idealistic woman is drawn to a practical man, where, kick and fuss and despise each other as they will, she is bound to become more practical and he more idealistic. They exchange qualities in spite of themselves; each is an unconscious agent in rounding out the character and making more abundant the life of the other. Much of this blending of natures is accomplished through passion, the least understood of forces. And the children of a union of opposites, even where there is _great_ contempt and unhappiness between the parents, are almost invariably _better balanced_ than _either_ of the parents. I cannot believe that unhappy marriages are "mistakes" or that they serve no good purpose. The Law of Attraction draws together those who need each other at that particular stage of their growth. The unhappiness is due to their own foolish _refusal_ to learn; and this refusal is due to their contempt for each other. They are like naughty children at school, who cry or sulk and refuse to work out their problems. Like those same naughty children they _make themselves_ unhappy, and fail to "pass" as soon as they might. Remember, that contempt for each other is at the very bottom of all marital unhappiness. The practical man despises his wife's impulsive idealism and tries to make her over. The wife despises his "cold and calculating" tendencies and tries to make him over. That means war, for it is impossible to make over _anybody but yourself_. _Because_ the man despises his wife's tendencies and she despises his, it never occurs to either to try making over _themselves_, thus helping along the very thing they were drawn together for. Individual freedom is the _only_ basis for harmonious action; not only in marriage but in all other relationships of life. And individual freedom _cannot_ be granted by the man or woman who considers his or her judgments superior to the judgments of another. A man _must_ accord his wife _equal_ wisdom and power with himself, else he _cannot_ free her to act for herself. A woman must accord her husband that same equality, or she _cannot_ leave him free. It is human (and divine) nature to correct what we believe to be wrong. Only in believing that the other "king (or queen) can do no wrong," lies the possibility of individual freedom, in marriage or out. The man or woman who knows he or she is believed in and trusted is very careful to _deserve_ that trust. Did you know that? The sure way to have your wishes consulted is to exalt and appreciate the other party. Did you know that a man or woman will cheerfully sacrifice his or her own opinions in order to retain the respect and love of the other? But if he thinks the respect and love of the other party is growing less he will give free reign to his own desires. If you do this your wife will _rise fast_ in your esteem. And the higher she finds herself in your esteem the harder she will try to please you-and rise higher. A marriage without "even a pinhead of bitterness" is a marriage without a pin-point of fault-finding, mental or oral. People who don't think are ruled by _feeling_. Women feel. They feel not only for themselves but for other people. They shoulder the burdens of the whole family and a few outside the family. They do it themselves-because it is _easier_ to feel than to think. Nobody walks up to a woman and says, "Here--I have a burden that's very heavy--_you_ carry it whilst I go off and have a good time." No. The woman simply _takes_ the burden and hugs it and "feels" it--and _prides herself on doing it_. And maybe the thing _she_ hugs as a burden is no burden at all to the other people in the family. My dear, women as a rule are chumps. They'd rather feel _anything_ than to _think_ the right thing. Now I'd like to know if you think a woman who has made herself roundshouldered and wrinkled and sour-visaged over burdens--_anybody's_ burdens, real or fancied--is such a creature as attracts love or consideration from _anybody_. Of course she is not. It is no wonder she receives no love or consideration from her husband or anybody else. She has made a pack mule out of herself for the carrying of utterly useless burdens that nobody _wants_ carried and the carrying of which benefits nobody; and now that she has grown ugly and sour at the business she need not feel surprised at being slighted. And she need not blame folks for slighting her. _She_ assumed the burdens; _she_ carried them; _she_ wore herself out at it; it is all her own fault. It was _easier_ for her to feel, and grumble, than to wake up and THINK, and change things. Nobody who _thinks_ will carry a single burden for even a single day. He knows that fretting and worrying and grumbling only _double the burden_ and accomplish nothing. Woman has _built herself_ for bearing children and burdens. When she gets tired of her bargain she will _think her way out of the whole thing_. In the meantime the harder the burdens grow the more quickly she will revolt and make of herself something besides a burden bearer. It is all nonsense to talk about the men being "willfully blind or wholly and utterly selfish." No man _wants_ a burden-bearing, roundshouldered, wrinkled and fagged-out wife. No man respects or loves a woman who will "submit" to bearing unlimited burdens or babies either. And if a woman "submits" and yet keeps up a continual grumbling and nagging about it, a man simply despises her. The woman in such a case is apt to suffer most. Why not? _She makes it the business of her life to "suffer."_ She _prides_ herself on how much she has had to "suffer," and "bear." She cultivates her "feelings" to the limit. A man thinks it "unmanly" to _give way_ to "feelings." So he uses all his wits to keep from doing so, and to enable him to hide his own disappointment and make the best of life as he finds it. Of course there _are_ exceptions. I _have_ heard of men who wept and retailed their woes; and I have heard of women with gumption. The woman who wrote the letter at the head of this chapter is a feel-er, not a thinker. She looks at the forlorn, bedraggled specimens of her own sex and "_feels_" with them, never THINKING that the women themselves have anything to do with making their conditions. She "feels" with the woman because _she_ is a woman. Being an unthinking creature she cannot "feel" for the man at all. Woman is the weaker creature for no other reason than that she lives in her "feelings." "Feeling" is subject to the same law as water. Take away its banks and it spreads all over creation and becomes a stagnant slough of despond. Confine it by banks of _common-sense_ and _will_ and it grows deep and tender and powerful, and bears blessings on its bosom. The world is like "sweet Alice Ben Bolt"; it laughs with delight when you give it a smile, and gets out its pocket handkerchief to weep with you when you call it "Poor thing!" Then it cuts its call short and runs around the corner to tell your neighbor what a tiresome old thing you are anyway. Never you mind the tribulations you can't help, dearie. Just wake up and _be_ the brightest, happiest, sweetest thing you know how to be, and the world will-be that much better off. "I desire to attract love from the Infinite or somewhere, that I may not be starved for it, as I have been ever since I married. My husband sneers at the New Thought, and in fact at nearly all that is best in me." And yet this woman has children to love her. She thinks she is in need of being loved; but what she really needs is _to love_. Being loved is the _effect_ of loving. A loving man or woman can never want for love. Others turn to them in love as naturally as flowers turn to the sun. In order to be loved you must _radiate_ love. Instead of trying to attract the love of others, seek to _give_ your love to others, _expecting nothing in return_. After a time you will find the unexpected coming to you spontaneously. Learn to love by loving _all_ people and _things_, and especially all things you find to do. To love our work enlarges our capacity for loving people, and the more we love people, _and the more people we love_, the more radiant we become. Now _cultivate_ love by auto-suggestion. Keep saying, "I _like_ this," and "I like that." _Hunt_ for things to like, and even tell yourself you like things when you don't _feel_ that you like them at all. Feeling is a _result_ of suggestion. Nothing easier to prove than that. A hypnotist can, by suggestion, make you feel almost anything, whether it is true or not. He will say, "You feel sad," and straightway you will feel so. Then he will say, "You feel happy," and you do. Your feelings are like a harp, and your _statements_, or auto-suggestions, are the fingers which pick the strings. Take good care to play the tunes you _want_--to say you _like_ things, or love them. Then you will quickly respond and _feel_ that you like or love them. Keep _practicing_ until you love _all_ the time. Then you will _be_ loved to your heart's content. THE PHARISEE UP-TO-DATE. As long as you continue to hug the delusion that you are "not to blame" for the unpleasant things in your conditions you might just as well profess the old thought as the new. The very fundamental principle of mental science is the statement that _man is a magnet and able to attract what he will_. To repudiate this statement is to knock the props out from under the whole philosophy. Better stay an old-thoughter and let Jesus suffer for your sins and those of your relatives and friends. At least Jesus _took_ the sins of the world to bear, all of his own free will. There is some comfort in letting Jesus do what he chose to do. I wonder why they don't indeed! It is just because you are you, _and you attract your own particular kind of treatment_. To all intents and purposes Tom, Dick, Harry and Fan are a punch and Judy show and _you pull the strings_. When other people pull the strings there's a different sort of show. YOU are the motive power in _all their treatment of you_. Not a tone or look or act of theirs in your direction but _you_ are responsible for; it was _you_ and no other who drew them to you; and it is you and no other who hold them there. Now don't say, "I don't see _how_!" Of course not--_you haven't wanted to see how_--you've been too intent justifying yourself. And anyway, it takes an open mind, and some time, and much _faith_ to enable us to see the _principles_ of things. We have to _act_ as if they were so, a long time before we see that they are. If you had _acted_ upon the principle that you are a magnet and that _all_ that comes to you comes by your attraction, you'd have long ago had your eyes opened to "see how." And you'd have made progress and _changed your conditions_. _What you now are in essence and working principle you have always been, and you will always be--the same yesterday, today and forever--a self-made_ MAGNET, _working to the hair's breadth_. ONLY BY CHANGING THE QUALITY OF YOUR MAGNETISM CAN YOU CHANGE YOUR ENVIRONMENT AND ATTRACT DIFFERENT TREATMENT FROM TOM, DICK, HARRY AND FAN. Sweetness within brings sweetness without. You have been more or less bitter and self-justifying within, and Tom, Dick, Harry and Fan have danced to the strings you pulled. As long as you think _you_ try and they don't; as long as you think _your_ judgment superior to theirs; _your_ ideals loftier and worthier; _your_ ways better; you will get from them responses of carelessness, bitterness, lack of consideration, selfishness. _You_ are inconsiderate of _their_ ideas, ideals, judgments and ways; _in self-preservation_ they are inconsiderate of yours. If you had your way they'd be pretty little putty images of _your_ ideals, judgments, wishes, ways and feelings. The Law of Individuality prevents your imposing yourself on them. You think you are finding fault with _their_ "lack of consideration"; _you are really condemning the law of being_. Now don't let this homily slip off _your_ shoulders. We are _all_ self-righteous in spots, and none of us is so _very_ wise that he cannot by self-examination and readjustment learn a lot more. Each soul _in its place_ is wisest and best. Don't _you_ try to get into the pilot house and steer things for Tom, Dick, or Harry. Stay in your own and steer clear of the rocks of anger, malice, revenge, _resentment, re-sistance,_ INTERFERENCE and _immoderation_. SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR. Isn't that pitiful? And heaven knows--or ought to--how many poor women, _and men, too_, live with that same dumb longing to get nearer and be chums with somebody. That cry touches my heart, for I lived years in the same state. And, oh, how I struggled to draw others nearer to me. How I agonized and cried and prayed over it. How I worked to make home attractive. How I cooked and washed and scrubbed, sewed and patched and darned to please! How I quickly brushed my hair and hustled into a clean dress so as to be neat and ready when my husband came in! And how I ached and despaired inwardly because he frowned and found fault! How I studied books of advice to young wives! How their advice failed! How I _tried_ and TRIED to get him to confide in me and make a chum of me! And how the more I tried the more he had business downtown! Oh, the growing despair of it all! And the growing illnesses, too! Oh, the gulf that widened and widened between us! Oh, the _loneliness_! Oh, the _uselessness_ of life! I _had_ to give it up. I wasn't enough of a hanger-on to sink into a state of perpetual whining protest, or to commit suicide. When I was finally _convinced_ that I _couldn't_ draw him nearer I gave it up and began to take notice again, _of other things_. I _let_ him live his life and I took up the _"burden"_ of my own "lonely" existence. The _next_ thing I knew my husband didn't have so much business downtown, and he had more things he wanted to tell me. I found we were nearer than I ever dreamed we'd be. You see, I had become _more comfortable to live with._ I had quit _trying_ to draw him nearer, and behold, _he was already near_. But that mother did more for that family than all the others put together. _She made the atmosphere_, and she was the life-giving sun around which husband and children revolved, and from which they received the real Light of Life--the power which develops the good in us. And she is _up-to-date._ She has studied and read with her whole family and is interested with them in the world's present events, art, literature and religion. Ah, you see, we work from a false hypothesis. We are so concerned with the many things on the _outside_ that we lose sight of _inside truths_. _Take your husband's nearness for granted_. Be not troubled over the many things of appearance. _Have faith in him_. If there is any "drawing nearer" to be done see that _you_ draw near to him _in faith and love_. Instead of mentally or verbally sitting down on his motives, words or acts, _try to feel as he does, that you may understand him_. Every man is in embryo a good and thoughtful and loving husband. A wise wife will give him the loving, full-of-faith, appreciative atmosphere which encourages development. "We are all just as good as we know how to be, and as bad as we dare be." _And we are all growing better_. Why not chant the beauties of the good instead of imagining it our "duty" to eternally bark against the bad? It is said there cannot be a model husband without a model wife, and _vice versa_. True. Then if yours is not a model husband _don't assume that you are a model wife fitted to judge and admonish him_. Be still and get acquainted with him. Make it your _first_ object in life to cultivate a serene and faith-full heart and aura. As a means toward this end cultivate a _full_ appreciation of whatever and whoever comes near you. Cultivate the spirit of praise; and _trust_ where you cannot see. The wise woman thinks of comfort and allows time for the _joys_ of life, wherefore _all_ her life is a pleasure. The foolish woman is ground under the wheels of routine. To her, housework is a stern "duty" which comes _first_, and to which body, mind, personal appearance, happiness, the joy of living, all must be sacrificed. Lastly, firstly, and all the time, the wise woman is guided in what to do and in what to leave undone, by the Spirit of Love; whilst the foolish woman is guided by the Spirit of Appearances. Are you satisfied with yourself and your condition? Then pursue your old ways. Seek ye _first_ the kingdom of Good in yourself, _and to be right with it_; and all things shall be added. All things shall be added to YOU, not to _other things_. Be still until you find yourself--your wise, loving, joy-giving Self which dwells in the silence and is able to do whatsoever you desire. "I will say to such, live your own life as God intended you to, regardless of the fact of your husband. Be brave, hope, will and pray. Dress, look sweet. If your husband tells you he doesn't care how you look but to not come near him with your foolishness, as mine does, why, let him live his life in his own way, make home attractive for your own sake, read good books; and in time books will be your chum." Jane says my article was "cruel." Dearie, it was--as the surgeon's knife is cruel. But it is the truth, and it hurts but to make way for healing. The woman who blames has in her eye something worse than a cataract. The woman who sheds tears over her "fate" is moved by the "meanest of emotions." She attracts "cruelty," not only from that article, _but from her husband._ To me a divorce is not a disgrace, but a family row _is_. And I suspect that most divorce _rows_ are worked up to _drown guilty consciences_. Neither has done his best by the other, and he knows it; so he raises a great row to fix attention on the other's shortcomings that his own may escape observation. Until a man and woman have succeeded in living up to their home privileges in a manner befitting honest and intelligent man and woman, _they can't be sure that they are not fitted for a real loving union_. Friction over small things obscures vision and judgment, and hate hides the lovableness that _must_ lie in every being. Get rid of the rowing over little things of every day life, and you will be able to love as much as your marriage will permit; _and you will be free to dissolve the entire partnership if you desire_. Did I _really_ change anything? _Yes_. Is it "anything" to bring peace and quiet pleasure and comfort and appreciation where their opposites were wont to hold bacchanale? _Yes_. No woman who _honestly_ tries the course I have endeavored to outline will ever doubt that she really accomplishes _something_; neither will she regret. Here is a word every married woman will do well to heed as long as she lives with her husband: _If you can't have your way without a fuss, then try his with a good will_. Peace be unto you; peace, which is the foundation for _all you desire_. SOME HINTS AND A KICK. "And now, Elizabeth, let me suggest something. Punch up the _men_ a little in the matter of cultivating cleanly habits, etc. Women are preached to eternally on these matters and the men wholly neglected. It would be a 'new thought' to take to the men a little and might assist in making more of them fit companions for the sweet and cleanly women they delight in associating with. The absolute neglect of the masculine sex by writers on these subjects causes them to think that nothing in the way of the aesthetic is expected of them. It is a wrong to the men not to en-me and make me his chum as well as his wife. Help courage them to aspire to a common plane with woman in the matters of purity and cleanliness. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, but no more so in the case of woman than of man. It is time for equality to be recognized in this matter as in all others." Carrie. And Eve must not lose sight of the serpent, however far away the dove may fly. Eve must use wisdom and tact, as well as example; if she would have Adam accept her standard of cleanliness she must see to it that her example is _beautifully_ clean instead of _painfully_ so. There are men who are careless about their persons simply as a matter of relief from the painful cleanness of their surroundings. Then there are Adams who are careless for lack of interest in pleasing Eve. In these cases you will find that Eve has little or no interest in pleasing Adam; or that she overdoes the matter of trying to please, and frequently dissolves in tears and precipitates countless reproaches upon luckless Adam. Then there are Adams who are careless from petty spite--with shame I say it. And with greater shame I say, you will find their Eves are spiteful, too; probably more spiteful than the Adams; for Eve, you know, is generally smart enough and ambitious enough to outdo Adam in any line of endeavor--especially in the use or misuse of the tongue. In matters of niceness it is Eve who sets the pace. Adam is built for strength; Eve for beauty and adornment. It is _natural_ for Eve to set the pace and for Adam to follow, in all matters of detail and niceness. Whether Adam follows with good grace or ill depends upon Eve and the serpent. If Eve is wise as the serpent in her, and harmless as the dove in her, she can lead Adam a _willing_ captive to heaven or hell. If your Adam is _very_ careless about these matters you may depend upon it that when he was growing up his mother was either dead or careless or tactless; and you may safely suspect that Adam in his previous state of existence was a forlorn old bach. So be gentle with him, for it will take time to correct the faults of such an Adam. Attraction brings together opposites; the strong, steady man falls in love with a frivolous butterfly; a handsome woman attracts a homely man and _vice versa;_ a strong, capable woman marries a sickly, incompetent man--and supports him; a sentimental woman is attracted to a matter-of-fact man who develops her common sense by pruning her sentimentalities; an artistic temperament is drawn to a phlegmatic; a sanguine to a bilious; a mental to a vital; an active man marries a lazy wife, or _vice versa_; a bright man marries a stupid girl; and so on and on. The foolish Adams and Eves fret and strain against these processes of development, and bewail their "mistake" in marrying; not seeing that the association is really benefiting both. The wise Adams and Eves reduce the friction _by kindness_, by _co-operation with each other_; Adam _tries_ to please Eve, Eve tries to please Adam, and both are kind about it, wherefore in due time their _appreciation_ for each other grows, and mayhap their love grows with it. If love wanes instead of growing at least they are _friends_, and can _part_ as friends if they so desire. So when I speak to Eve about tact and kindness I speak to _the Eve in Adam_ as well as in Eve herself. And what I say of the attractions of man and wife applies equally well to other family relationships, to friendships, to acquaintanceships and even to our relationship to the people we pass on the street or _the heathen we never saw_. Every person who touches us even in the slightest degree, _is drawn by the law of attraction because we need him to bring out some latency in ourselves, and because HE needs us to help develop some latency in him_. IT IS OUR OWN HIGHEST DESIRES (the god in us) WHICH CONSTITUTE THE ATTRACTION. But it all resulted in your resolving that if ever you had another engagement with that man (you'd take good care not to if you could help it, though!) you'd be _on time_ if it killed you. Of course you didn't tell him so. And _he_ resolved that the next time he made an engagement with you he'd know it, but _if_ he did he would make up his mind to be _on_ time instead of ahead of time, and he'd not care if you _were_ late. You may set this down as a rule without exceptions: _That all the kicks you get from relatives or friends come after you have ignored repeated hints from your own inner consciousness and them_. You have gone on excusing yourself _without correcting the fault_ (perhaps without seeing it) until the Law of Attraction stopped hinting and administered a kick. And if _one_ kick will not cause you to develop that weak point the Law of Attraction will bring you other and yet harder kicks on the same line. _You will attract_ worse experiences of the same sort. Is Adam kicking, Eve? Take a hint before he kicks harder. Is Eve making things warm for you, Adam? Take care you jump not out of the frying pan into the fire. Are circumstances plaguing you, Everybody? Take the hint lest worse plagues arrive; learn wisdom and avoid the Red Sea. _Be still and know the Lord thy God, and learn from what He draws to thee_. In the truest sense there are _no_ mistakes; a mistake being simply a case where things failed to come out as we calculated. _They came out right nevertheless_. That is, they came out right for our enlightenment. By them we grew in wisdom and knowledge. Next time our judgment will be better. The wife in this case no doubt thinks just now that her marriage to A.J., was "all a terrible mistake." If so she is making another "mistake." That is, she is thinking what "ain't so." Whatever experiences she has had with A.J. were drawn to her by herself, for her own enlightenment and development. They were all _good_. It _may_ be that she and A.J. have gained from their association all there is in it. Doubtless the wife thinks a separation and a new marriage would make her supremely happy. May be it would. May be her judgment is right this time. And I must say that _not one_ who waited but has said to me, "I am _glad_ I waited"; _whilst many who did not wait have bitterly regretted_. A love affair is emotional insanity. Lovers are insane; not in fit condition to decide their own actions. The state of "falling in love" is moon-madness. For the time being the lover's sense of justice, his reason, his judgment, is distorted by _reflections from another personality_. This is especially so in the woman's case, for the reason that she is generally a creature of untrained impulse, instead of reasoning will. There is that recent case of the beautiful and beloved Princess Louise who ran away from her royal husband. She thought she loved Monsieur Giron so devotedly that she could bear anything for the sake of being with him. And surely she was miserable enough in her old environment. But when it came to the reality she could not bear the consequences. She wanted her children; her proud spirit winced at the snubs she got; she longed a little for the old life; and familiarity with her soul mate revealed the knowledge that he was not _all_ soul. She flunked miserably and went home to her sick child. You see, she was literally love-_sick_. Her mind was disordered; a life spent with her soul mate loomed to her so large and dazzling that all other things were as nothing. She couldn't for the time being see straight. She was literally insane. If she had only _waited_ until the new wore off her passion! Waited until she saw things in their proper proportions and relations to each other; until she was _sure_ she could _live the life_ made inevitable by her change. In spite of herself, in spite of her love for the new love, she finds he is not panning out as she supposed. She begins to see his other, his everyday side--_the side she will have to live with_ if she goes to him. Now is the husband's chance. She _knows his_ every-day side, from experience; she has tried it in weal and woe. If he rises to this occasion the Ideal Man, he stands a fair chance of winning from his wife a _deeper_ love than she has yet given any man. He may catch her _whole_ heart in its rebound from the idol with feet of clay. It is said that Robert Louis Stevenson fell in love with the wife of his best friend. He told his friend frankly, intending to leave the city. His friend questioned the wife and found she reciprocated Stevenson's love. Stevenson stayed with his friend in Paris and the wife went to her father's home in California. A year later, the attachment between his wife and Stevenson still remaining, the friend applied for a divorce. Then he and Stevenson journeyed all the way to California together, where Stevenson was married to the ex-wife. The ex-husband attended the wedding, and that same evening announced his engagement to a girl friend of Mrs. Stevenson. If I were a man in such a case as A. J.'s I should treat my wife as I would a daughter. I would treat her as an Individual with the right of choice. Many a daughter has rushed headlong into a marriage which her relatives opposed and she regretted at leisure. Remembering this I would _free_ daughter or wife and trust to the God in her to work out her highest good. I would _believe_ that whatever she chose to do was really for her highest good. If I _really_ loved _her_ I would _prefer_ her happiness to my own. And in it all I should be _deeply_ conscious that whatever is, is best, and that _all things worked together for_ MY _best good as well as for hers_. A man's "mental attitude" toward the other man in such cases as A.J.'s should be the same as toward other men--the attitude of real kindness toward an Individual who, like the rest of us, is being "as good as he knows how to be and as bad as he dare be." Love is the mightiest force in creation. It will not be gainsaid. But it can be controlled. To pen it up too completely brings explosion, devastation. To give it too free rein means madness with no less devastation. To _direct_ it within reasonable limits is the only safe way. THE LAW OF INDIVIDUALITY. All growth is by _learning_. What _is_ a bad desire, anyway? In the main "bad" desires are self-made or thoughtlessly accepted. Dancing is wicked to a Methodist and "good" to an Episcopalian. But aside from these personal standpoints which are legion there is an immutable Law, to which intelligence is conforming all action and thought--the Law of Individuality--the Law recognized and expressed by Confucius and Jesus in negative and positive forms of the "golden rule"; "Do not unto others what ye would not they should do unto you." This forcing of others, in mind or action, under the yoke of _our_ judgment is the only possible way we can break a _real_ Law. To be _ourselves_ and to leave others free is to "_be good_." Dancing will come and go, and come again; so will fashions of all kinds; conventionalities and creeds; but this Law remains an eternal chalk line to be toed. And eternal torments await him who does not toe it. The Law of Individuality is absolute, and in due time husbands will know better than to imagine they own wives; wives will know better than to be owned; and the other man will not imagine he can gain great pleasure from "running away" with anything. Each will be free and leave the others so. Never was a deeper, truer saying than Paul's "BLESSED is the man that _doubteth not_ in that thing which he alloweth." The man who _waits_, until he is "_fully persuaded_ in his own mind" will be blessed in following desire, and he will grow in wisdom thereby. There is no question of "ought" about it. The individual is free to follow desire or to crucify it. And the fact is, _he follows desire when he crucifies it_. He _desires_ to crucify desire, because he _is afraid_ to gratify it. The man who is not afraid follows desire and grows fast _in wisdom and in knowledge_. He may make mistakes and suffer all sorts of agonies as a result. But he learns from his misses as well as from his hits, and he progresses. The man who is afraid to follow desire crucifies _his life_ and stunts his growth. It were better for the individual to follow his desire and afterward repent, than to crush his desires and repent for a lifetime under the false impression that the universe unjustly gives to another that which should have belonged to him. This is the gist of several letters I have received from as many different women. I will answer them together. When you enter a new home the matter of importance is _not_ whether your new relatives harmonize with you, but whether _you_ harmonize with _them_. It is for _you_ to do _all_ the adjusting. But if you come into the family like a lump of sugar into a glass of water you will all, _in time_ melt together and the whole family will be the sweeter and better for your coming. Whatever there is in you which is better and sweeter than their own ideas and customs will in time be _absorbed_ by the family; for what is good is ever positive to the less good, and has a power of its own to convert; and every human soul, if left free, will eventually _choose_ the good. The only danger lies in your tilting your nose at _their_ ways and ideas, and insisting upon your own. That rouses the sense of _individuality_ in them and they then fight for _their_ ways and ideas--then there's boil and bubble and sputter and flying apart. Toleration is a great thing; but loving _willingness_ to _let_ God think out _all_ sides of a question through all sorts of brains, is a glorious thing. Let's stand for our point of view when it is called for, but don't let's insist upon it. Let's remember always to use God's "still, small voice." The thing for you to do is to recognize your husband's RIGHT to make and answer for his own mistakes. Then drop the whole thing from your mind and calculations. If not, why, no matter. Just you get interested in life on your own account and let him do as he will. If he does care for another woman he deserves credit for not deserting you, as many a man would have done. Just respect and honor him for the good that is in him, instead of condemning him mentally because the good does not show just according to your ideas of how it should. Love does not stay put, no matter how hard folks try to keep it put. All we can do is to be as lovable as possible and thus do our part to _attract_ love. It may be that you are simply a sentimental goose who imagines her husband is "influenced" away from her, because, forsooth, he does not pay her the attentions he used to. "If a man and woman love each other and are every way suited to marry should they yield to the opposition of his grown daughter?" M.A. Of course _not_. A man or woman old enough to have a grown daughter is old enough to know whether he wants to marry again. Not even the most precocious daughter is a better judge than her father as to what is best for his own happiness. Ah, there's the rub! It is not _his_ happiness she is concerned about. It is her own. A new marriage would interfere with the daughter's plans. She would have to give the chief place to the new wife. She would have to give up a share of the prospective inheritance she has more or less consciously been counting upon. So she opposes her father's re-marrying. The parent's "duty" to children is great; far greater than the child's duty to parent; but parental self-sacrifice should certainly _not_ be continued for life. A grown daughter is an Individual, who should stand on her own feet and make her own happiness _without_ curtailing the happiness of parents. A sensible, well trained, loving parent will consider his daughter's feelings and will do all he can to gain her _willingness_ before he marries; but he will not make a lasting sacrifice of his own and the other woman's happiness simply to please a selfish girl. If daughter and parent are not sensible, well trained and loving, it will be a case of frying pan or fire either way. The recognition of individual rights to the pursuit of happiness according to individual desire, is the only basis of happiness in family relations. The daughter who _helps_ her father do as he desires will find _him_ ready to help _her_ do as _she_ desires. And _vice versa_. The daughter who "opposes" her father's marriage is quite apt to be the daughter who has _been opposed by her father_; he reaps as he has sown. Or else she is the daughter who has been brought up with the idea that parents are a mere convenience for her use. The way out of the Family Jar is often labyrinthine; but the Loving Individual can always thread it. THE TRUTH ABOUT DIVORCE. In January _Psychic and Occult Views and Reviews_ the editor, M.T.C. Wing, presents a view of "Wives and Work" which is anything but an _occult_ view of the subject. He evidently still clings to the old notion that man was made for the family, and not the family for man. He inveighs against George D. Herron and Elbert Hubbard _et al_ because they permitted themselves to be separated from their wives. Apparently he thinks the chief end of man is to tote some woman around on a chip, and the fact that in his callow youth man picked out (or was picked out by) the wrong woman, cuts no figure in the matter. Man must keep on toting her even if he has to give up his life work by which he has been enabled to supply the chip, not to mention the other things the woman demands. All of which is the very superficial view of the world at large, and has no place among new thought, "occult" teachings. It is entirely too obvious--to the old-fashioned sentimentalist, who is blind to the real facts in cases of separation. Public opinion keeps many a family in the same house years after it really _knows_ it is separated widely as the poles. The dread of having to take care of herself keeps many a woman hanging like grim death to a man she knows she does not love, and who despises her. A man is held by the same sentimental notion that M.T.C. Wing has--that he must "protect" the woman. So he stays in hell to do it. He _has_ to stay in hell _until she gets out_. A man is an Individual; a woman is another Individual; and neither can make himself or herself over to please the other. I know well a couple who lived together long enough to have grown children. For nearly a score of years they pulled like a pair of balky horses--what time they were not doing the monkey and parrot act. The husband stayed out nights and tippled. The wife sat at home and felt virtuous. Finally the woman worked up spunk enough to do what she had been dying to do for years. She packed up and left. Now she is happily married to a man she can pull _with_, And he is married to another woman who pulls with him. She has quit feeling virtuous and he has quit tippling. They are both prospering financially. The children have _two_ pleasant homes, and more educational and other advantages than they ever dared hope for. Everyone of the family is _glad_ of that separation. The family is an institution of man's own making. It is a good and glorious thing so long as it serves to increase the happiness and health of its members. But whenever the family institution has to be maintained at the expense of the life, liberty or happiness of its members it is time to lay that particular institution on the shelf. What God does not hold together by LOVE let not man try to paste together by law. If the new thought means anything, Brother Wing, it means that every individual man or woman, has the RIGHT to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness wherever and with whom he chooses to seek it, so long as he or she does not attempt to abridge the same rights for others. It means that a woman is as much an Individual as a man, and must stand or fall, hold her husband or lose him, _on her own merits_. The new thought deals with Individuals regardless of sex. Marriage is a partnership, subject in the eyes of Justice to the same rules which govern other partnerships. Let us be just to the deserter, be he man or woman, before we are sentimentally generous to the deserted. And don't let us be _too_ sure that we know all the facts in these separation cases. It is human nature to fix up outward appearances for the benefit of the passer-by. Seek rather to _understand_. Condemn not. I hasten to inform you it is just as lucky to be divorced, and I know it. You know things today that you did not know yesterday, and tomorrow you will know things you "can't decide about" today. So attend strictly to business and keep still, and stiller yet, until you KNOW what is best to do. I have learned to smile at that experience as the bitterest and sweetest of my past life, and the source of volumes of wisdom. The _Law of Attraction knew_ and the Law kept him from me. I afterward found the real comrade, and _more_ than the joy I thought I had forever missed! "We are pretty silly children, dearie, without the child's best quality, TRUST." Just you _let go_ of everything and everybody and apply yourself to doing THIS hour, with _love_, what your _hands_ find to do; and trust the Law to bring you in due time ALL the good things you ever desired. ACCEPT what comes as _from_ the Law; meet it kindly and do your best. If you are ever freed from a husband you must _think_ yourself free--just as you must think yourself free from any other bondage. I thought myself free several years before I applied for a legal separation; so that when I did apply it was to me merely a technicality. Divorce or no divorce you are _tied_ to a man until you think yourself untied. Be still and find your mental freedom. Then you will know what to do. A year after I wrote the above letter to a young woman who wanted to leave her husband and go to her "soul mate," I received from her another letter in which she thanked me from her heart for my letter, which, she said, had saved her from a terrible mistake. She had let time try the new love; who was found sadly wanting. More than that she had come to love and respect her husband as never before. Many others, both men and women, have written me to the same effect. Can you learn from the experiences of others--learn _caution_ at least? I hope so. Be _sure_ you are right before you resort to separation. In the meantime make it the aspiration and business of your life to know _that_ ALL _things are_ NOW _working for good to you and your mate, and all you hold in common_. Keep sweet, dearie, and _let_ them work--at least until you know exactly _what_ to do, and _how_ to do it; and can feel _sure_ in your heart of hearts that, _whatever the consequences_, you will never regret your action. End of Project Gutenberg's Happiness and Marriage, by Elizabeth (Jones) Towne	redpajama-book	10,908
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Ginny Brewer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. THE MYSTERY OF THE BOULE CABINET With Illustrations by THOMAS FOGARTY A.B.M. Fellow-Sherlockian "I GRABBED HER AGAIN, AND JUST THEN MR. VANTINE OPENED THE DOOR AND CAME OUT INTO THE HALL." "A MOMENT LATER M. FELIX ARMAND WAS SHOWN IN" WITH HIS BACK TO THE DOOR, STOOD A MAN RIPPING SAVAGELY AWAY THE STRIPS OF BURLAP A CONNOISSEUR'S VAGARY "Hello!" I said, as I took down the receiver of my desk 'phone, in answer to the call. "Mr. Vantine wishes to speak to you, sir," said the office-boy. "All right," and I heard the snap of the connection. "Is that you, Lester?" asked Philip Vantine's voice. "Yes. So you're back again?" "Got in yesterday. Can you come up to the house and lunch with me to-day?" "I'll be glad to," I said, and meant it, for I liked Philip Vantine. And that is how it happened that, an hour later, I was walking over toward Washington Square, just above which, on the Avenue, the old Vantine mansion stood. It was almost the last survival of the old regime; for the tide of business had long since overflowed from the neighbouring streets into the Avenue and swept its fashionable folk far uptown. Tall office and loft buildings had replaced the brownstone houses; only here and there did some old family hold on, like a sullen and desperate rear-guard defying the advancing enemy. He came forward to meet me, as I gave his man my hat and stick, and we shook hands heartily. I was glad to see him, and I think he was glad to see me. He was looking in excellent health, and brown from the voyage over. "It's plain to see that the trip did you good," I said. "I can understand how you'd hate to move into a new house," I said. Vantine made a grimace. He paused and glanced about the room. Every piece of furniture in it was the work of a master. "I suppose you found some new things while you were away?" I said. "You always do. Your luck's proverbial." "No; and I don't know whose it is. If I did, I'd go buy it. That's what I want you to do for me. It's a Boule cabinet--the most exquisite I ever saw." "Where did it come from?" I questioned, more and more surprised. "Weren't they uncrated in the customs?" "No; I've been bringing things in for a good many years, and the customs people know I'm not a thief." "That's quite a compliment," I pointed out. "They've been tearing things wide open lately." "They've had a tip of some sort, I suppose. Come in," he added, answering a tap at the door. The door opened and Vantine's man came in. "A gentleman to see you, sir," he said, and handed Vantine a card. Vantine looked at it a little blankly. "I don't know him," he said. "What does he want?" "He wants to see you, sir; very bad, I should say." "Well, I couldn't just make out, sir; but it seems to be important." "I think he's a Frenchman, sir; anyway, he don't know much English. He ain't much of a looker, sir--I've seen hundreds like him sitting out in front of the cafes along the boulevards, taking all afternoon to drink a bock." Vantine seemed struck by a sudden idea, and he looked at the card again. Then he tapped it meditatively on the table. "Shall I show him out, sir?" asked Parks, at last. "No," said Vantine, after an instant's hesitation. "Tell him to wait," and he dropped the card on the table beside his plate. He paused and looked at me, his eyes bright with the enthusiasm of the connoisseur. "Precisely. And it's the original which has the real artistic value. Of course, the counterpart is often beautiful, too, but in a much lower degree." "I can understand that," I said. "And now, Lester," Vantine went on, his eyes shining more and more, "if my supposition is correct--if the Grand Louis was content with the counterpart of this cabinet for the long gallery at Versailles, who do you suppose owned the original?" I saw what he was driving at. I stared at him in astonishment, as he sat back in his chair, smiling across at me. "Of course I'm not sure," he agreed quickly. "That is to say, I couldn't prove it. But there is some--ah--contributory evidence, I think you lawyers call it Boule and the Montespan were in their glory at the same time, and I can imagine that flamboyant creature commissioning the flamboyant artist to build her just such a cabinet." "Really, Vantine," I exclaimed, "I didn't know you were so romantic. You quite take my breath away." He flushed a little at the words, and I saw how deeply in earnest he was. "The craze of the collector takes him a long way sometimes," he said. "But I believe I know what I'm talking about. I am going to make a careful examination of the cabinet as soon as I can. Perhaps I'll find something--there ought to be a monogram on it somewhere. What I want you to do is to cable my shippers, Armand et Fils, Rue du Temple, find out who owns this cabinet, and buy it for me." "Perhaps the owner won't sell," I suggested. "Oh yes, he will. Anything can be bought--for a price." "But, surely, there's a limit." "At least you'll tell me where to begin," I said. "I don't know anything of the value of such things." "And the other end?" "Maybe a little more. If the owner won't accept that, you must let me know before you break off negotiations. I'm a little mad about it, I fancy--all collectors are a little mad. But I want that cabinet, and I'm going to have it." I did not reply. I only looked at him. And he laughed as he caught my glance. "I can see you share that opinion, Lester," he said. "You fear for me. I don't blame you--but come and see it." He led the way out of the room and down the stairs; but when we reached the lower hall, he paused. I started on, and he turned through a doorway at the left. An instant later, I heard a sharp exclamation; then his voice calling me. "Lester! Come here!" he cried. I ran back along the hall, into the room which he had entered. He was standing just inside the door. "Look there," he said, with a queer catch in his voice, and pointed with a trembling hand to a dark object on the floor. I moved aside to see it better. Then my heart gave a sickening throb; for the object on the floor was the body of a man. It needed but a glance to tell me that the man was dead. There could be no life in that livid face, in those glassy eyes. "Don't touch him," I said, for Vantine had started forward. "It's too late." "Who is he?" I asked, at last. "I don't know," answered Vantine hoarsely. "I never saw him before." Then he strode to the bell and rang it violently. "Parks," he went on sternly, as that worthy appeared at the door, "what has been going on in here?" Then his glance fell upon the huddled body, and he stopped short, his eyes staring, his mouth open. "Well," said his master, sharply. "Who is he? What is he doing here?" "Why--why," stammered Parks, thickly, "that's the man who was waiting to see you, sir." "He was certainly alive when he came in, sir," said Parks, recovering something of his self-possession. "Maybe he was just looking for a quiet place where he could kill himself. He seemed kind of excited." "Of course," agreed Vantine, with a sigh of relief, "that's the explanation. Only I wish he had chosen some place else. I suppose we shall have to call the police, Lester?" "Yes," I said, "and the coroner. Suppose you leave it to me. We'll lock up this room, and nobody must leave the house until the police arrive." "Very well," assented Vantine, visibly relieved, "I'll see to that," and he hastened away, while I went to the 'phone, called up police headquarters, and told briefly what had happened. "Yes," said Godfrey, as we shook hands, "I happened to be talking to Simmonds when the call came in, and I thought I might as well come along. What is it?" "Just a suicide, I think," and I unlocked the door into the room where the dead man lay. Simmonds, Goldberger and Godfrey stepped inside. I followed and closed the door. The coroner glanced at Simmonds. "Not much question as to the cause," he said. "Poison of course." "Of course," nodded Simmonds. "But what kind?" asked Godfrey. "It will take a post-mortem to tell that," and Goldberger bent for another close look at the distorted face. "I'm free to admit the symptoms aren't the usual ones." Godfrey shrugged his shoulders. "I should say not," he agreed, and turned away to an inspection of the room. "What can you tell us about it, Mr. Lester?" Goldberger questioned. I told all I knew--how Parks had announced a man's arrival, how Vantine and I had come downstairs together, how Vantine had called me, and finally how Parks had identified the body as that of the strange caller. "Have you any theory about it?" Goldberger asked. "Only that the call was merely a pretext--that what the man was really looking for was a place where he could kill himself unobserved." "How long a time elapsed after Parks announced the man before you and Mr. Vantine came downstairs?" "Let's have Parks in," he said. I opened the door and called to Parks, who was sitting on the bottom step of the stair. "Do you know this man?" Goldberger asked, with a gesture toward the body. "No, sir," said Parks. "I never saw him till about an hour ago, when Rogers called me downstairs and said there was a man to see Mr. Vantine." "He's the footman, sir. He answered the door when the man rang." "Well, and then what happened?" "I took his card up to Mr. Vantine, sir." "Did Mr. Vantine know him?" "No, sir; he wanted to know what he wanted." "What _did_ he want?" "I don't know, sir; he couldn't speak English hardly at all--he was French, I think." Goldberger looked down at the body again and nodded. "Go ahead," he said. "And he was so excited," Parks added, "that he couldn't remember what little English he did know." "What made you think he was excited?" "The way he stuttered, and the way his eyes glinted. That's what makes me think he just come in here to kill hisself quiet like--I shouldn't be surprised if you found that he'd escaped from somewhere. I had a notion to put him out without bothering Mr. Vantine--I wish now I had--but I took his card up, and Mr. Vantine said for him to wait; so I come downstairs again, and showed the man in here, and said Mr. Vantine would see him presently, and then Rogers and me went back to our lunch and we sat there eating till the bell rang, and I came in and found Mr. Vantine here." "The servants' dining-room is right at the end of the hall, sir. We left the door open so that we could see right along the hall, clear to the front door. If he'd come out into the hall, we'd have seen him." "And he didn't come out into the hall while you were there?" "Did anybody come in?" "Oh, no, sir; the front door has a snap-lock. It can't be opened from the outside without a key." "Nor by the back door either, sir; to get out the back way, you have to pass through the room where we were." "Where were the other servants?" "The cook was in the kitchen, sir. This is the housemaid's afternoon out." The coroner paused. Godfrey and Simmonds had both listened to this interrogation, but neither had been idle. They had walked softly about the room, had looked through a door opening into another room beyond, had examined the fastenings of the windows, and had ended by looking minutely over the carpet. "What is the room yonder used for?" asked Godfrey, pointing to the connecting door. "It's a sort of store-room just now, sir," said Parks. "Mr. Vantine is just back from Europe, and we've been unpacking in there some of the things he bought while abroad." "I guess that's all," said Goldberger, after a moment. "Send in Mr. Vantine, please." "Here is the man's card," he said, and held out a square of pasteboard. Goldberger took the card, glanced at it, and passed it on to Simmonds. "That don't tell us much," said the latter, and gave the card to Godfrey. I looked over his shoulder and saw that it contained a single engraved line: M. THEOPHILE D'AURELLE "Except that he's French, as Parks suggested," said Godfrey. "That's evident, too, from the cut of his clothes." "Yes, and from the cut of his hair," added Goldberger. "You say you didn't know him, Mr. Vantine?" "I never before saw him, to my knowledge," answered Vantine. "The name is wholly unknown to me." "Well," said Goldberger, taking possession of the card again and slipping it into his pocket, "suppose we lift him onto that couch by the window and take a look through his clothes." The man was slightly built, so that Simmonds and Goldberger raised the body between them without difficulty and placed it on the couch. I saw Godfrey's eyes searching the carpet. "What I should like to know," he said, after a moment, "is this: if this fellow took poison, what did he take it out of? Where's the paper, or bottle, or whatever it was?" "Maybe it's in his hand," suggested Simmonds, and lifted the right hand, which hung trailing over the side of the couch. Then, as he raised it into the light, a sharp cry burst from him. "Look here," he said, and held the hand so that we all could see. It was swollen and darkly discoloured. With a little exclamation of surprise and excitement, Godfrey bent for an instant above the injured hand. Then he turned and looked at us. "This man didn't take poison," he said, in a low voice. "He was killed!" "He was killed!" repeated Godfrey, with conviction; and, at the words, we drew together a little, with a shiver of repulsion. Death is awesome enough at any time; suicide adds to its horror; murder gives it the final touch. So we all stood silent, staring as though fascinated at the hand which Simmonds held up to us; at those tiny wounds, encircled by discoloured flesh and with a sinister dash of clotted blood running away from them. Then Goldberger, taking a deep breath, voiced the thought which had sprung into my own brain. "Why, it looks like a snake-bite!" he said, his voice sharp with astonishment. "No, I don't think it was a snake," said Godfrey, and again bent close above the hand. "Smell it, Mr. Goldberger," he added. The coroner put his nose close to the hand and sniffed. "Bitter almonds!" he said. "Which means prussic acid," said Godfrey, "and not snake poison." He fell silent a moment, his eyes on the swollen hand. The rest of us stared at it too; and I suppose all the others were labouring as I was with the effort to find some thread of theory amid this chaos. "It might, of course, have been self-inflicted," Godfrey added, quite to himself. Goldberger sneered a little. No doubt he found the incomprehensibility of the problem rather trying to his temper. "A man doesn't usually commit suicide by sticking himself in the hand with a fork," he said. "No," agreed Godfrey, blandly; "but I would point out that we don't know as yet that it _is_ a case of suicide; and I'm quite sure that, whatever it may be, it isn't usual." Goldberger's sneer deepened. "Did any reporter for the _Record_ ever find a case that _was_ usual?" he queried. Please understand that I set this down in no spirit of criticism. I had known Godfrey rather intimately ever since the days when we were thrown together in solving the Holladay case, and I admired sincerely his ready wit, his quick insight, and his unshakable aplomb. He used his imagination in a way which often caused me to reflect that the police would be far more efficient if they possessed a dash of the same quality; and I had noticed that they were usually glad of his assistance, while his former connection with the force and his careful maintenance of the friendships formed at that time gave him an entree to places denied to less-fortunate reporters. I had never known him to do a dishonourable thing--to fight for a cause he thought unjust, to print a fact given to him in confidence, or to make a statement which he knew to be untrue. Moreover, a lively sense of humour made him an admirable companion, and it was this quality, perhaps, which enabled him to receive Goldberger's thrust with a good-natured smile. "We've got our living to make, you know," he said. "We make it as honestly as we can. What do _you_ think, Simmonds?" "What killed him, then?" Godfrey demanded. "Poison--and it's in his stomach. We'll find it there." "How about the odour?" Godfrey persisted. "He spilled some of the poison on his hand as he lifted it to his mouth. Maybe he had those cuts on his hand and the poison inflamed them. Or maybe he's got some kind of blood disease." Goldberger nodded his approval, and Godfrey smiled as he looked at him. "It's easy to find explanations, isn't it?" he queried. "Perhaps I was a little hasty," Godfrey admitted, and I suspected that, whatever his thoughts, he had made up his mind to keep them to himself. "I'm not going to theorise until I've got something to start with. The facts seem to point to suicide; but if he swallowed prussic acid, where's the bottle? He didn't swallow that too, did he?" "Maybe we'll find it in his clothes," suggested Simmonds. "We'll have to cable over to Paris," remarked Simmonds. "He's French, all right--that silk handkerchief proves it." "Yes--and his best girl proves it, too," put in Godfrey. For answer, Godfrey held up the watch, which he had been examining. He had opened the case, and inside it was a photograph--the photograph of a woman with bold, dark eyes and full lips and oval face--a face so typically French that it was not to be mistaken. Godfrey flushed a little at the words and laid down the watch. "How do you know that?" demanded Goldberger, incredulously. "By this," he said, and held it up. "You have already seen what is written on the back of it--Mr. Vantine's name and the number of this house. That proves, doesn't it, that this fellow came to New York expressly to see Mr. Vantine?" "Perhaps you think Mr. Vantine killed him," suggested Goldberger, sarcastically. "No," said Godfrey; "he didn't have time. You understand, Mr. Vantine," he added, smiling at that gentleman, who was listening to all this with perplexed countenance, "we are simply talking now about possibilities. You couldn't possibly have killed this fellow because Lester has testified that he was with you constantly from the moment this man entered the house until his body was found, with the exception of the few seconds which elapsed between the time you entered this room and the time he joined you here, summoned by your cry. So you are out of the running." "Thanks," said Vantine, drily. "I suppose, then, you think it was Parks," said Goldberger. "It may quite possibly have been Parks," agreed Godfrey, gravely. "I'll cable to Paris," said Simmonds. "If he belongs there, we'll soon find out who he is." "The _Record_, at least, will have a very full account," Godfrey assured him. "And I'll call the inquest for the day after," Goldberger continued. "I'll send my physician down to make a post-mortem right away. If there's any poison in this fellow's stomach, we'll find it." Godfrey did not speak; but I knew what was in his mind. He was thinking that, if such poison existed, the vessel which had contained it had not yet been found. The same thought, no doubt, occurred to Simmonds, for, after ordering the policeman in the hall to call the ambulance, he returned and began a careful search of the room, using his electric torch to illumine every shadowed corner. Godfrey devoted himself to a similar search; but both were without result. Then Godfrey made a minute inspection of the injured hand, while Goldberger looked on with ill-concealed impatience; and finally he moved toward the door. "I think I'll be going," he said. "But I'm interested in what your physician will find, Mr. Coroner." "He'll find poison, all right," asserted Goldberger, with decision. "Perhaps he will," admitted Godfrey. "Strange things happen in this world. Will you be at home to-night, Lester?" "Yes, I expect to be," I answered. "You're still at the Marathon?" "Perhaps I'll drop around to see you," he said, and a moment later we heard the door close behind him as Parks let him out. "How do you explain the address on the card, Mr. Goldberger?" I asked. "My theory is that this fellow really had some business with Mr. Vantine; probably he wanted to borrow some money, or ask for help; and then, while he was waiting, he suddenly gave the thing up and killed himself. The address has no bearing whatever, that I can see, on the question of suicide. And I'll say this, Mr. Lester, if this isn't suicide, it's the strangest case I ever had anything to do with." "Yes," I agreed, "if it isn't suicide, we come to a blank wall right away." "That's it," and Goldberger nodded emphatically. "Here's the ambulance," he added, as the bell rang. The bearers entered with the stretcher, placed the body on it, and carried it away. Goldberger paused to gather up the articles he had taken from the dead man's pockets. "Too late for the office," said Vantine. "Better come upstairs and have a drink. Besides, I want to talk with you." "At least, I'll let them know I'm still alive," I said, and I called up the office and allayed any anxiety that may have been felt there concerning me. I must admit that it did not seem acute. "Finding dead men lying around?" I queried, with a smile. "No--it's not so common as you seem to think." "Tell me, Lester," and he looked at me earnestly, "do you think that poor devil came in here just to get a chance to kill himself quietly?" "No, I don't," I said. "Then what did he come in for?" "And killed himself?" Vantine completed. I hesitated. I was astonished to find, at the back of my mind, a growing doubt. "See here, Lester," Vantine demanded, "if he didn't kill himself, what happened to him?" "Heaven only knows," I answered, in despair. "I've been asking myself the same question, without finding a reasonable answer to it. As I said to Goldberger, it's a blank wall. But if anybody can see through it, Jim Godfrey can." "It seems absurd, doesn't it? But Godfrey is a sort of genius at divining such things." "Then you _do_ believe it?" I asked myself the same question before I answered. "Yes, I do," I said, finally. Vantine walked up and down the room again, his eyes on the floor, his brows contracted. "Lester," he said, at last, "I have a queer feeling that the business which brought this man here in some way concerned the Boule cabinet I was telling you about. Perhaps it belonged to him." "Hardly," I protested, recalling his shabby appearance. "At any rate, I remember, as I was looking at his card, that some such thought occurred to me. It was for that reason I told Parks to ask him to wait." "It's possible, of course," I admitted. "But that wouldn't explain his excitement. And that reminds me," I added, "I haven't sent off that cable." "Any time to-night will do. It will be delivered in the morning. But you haven't seen the cabinet yet. Come down and look at it." He led the way down the stair. Parks met us in the lower hall. "There's a delegation of reporters outside, sir," he said. "They say they've got to see you." Vantine made a movement of impatience. "Tell them," he said, "that I positively refuse to see them or to allow my servants to see them. Let them get their information from the police." "Very well, sir," said Parks, and turned away grinning. I looked at it for some moments, for it was certainly a beautiful piece of work, with a wealth of inlay and incrustation little short of marvellous. But I may as well say here that I never really appreciated it. The florid style of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Louis is not at all to my taste; and I am too little of a connoisseur to admire a beauty which has no personal appeal for me. So I am afraid that Vantine found me a little cold. "You don't seem to care for it," he said, looking at me. "That's my fault and not the fault of the cabinet," I pointed out. "I'm not educated up to it; I'm too little of an artist, perhaps." "Remember, Lester," he said, a little sternly, pausing with his hand on the front door, "there is to be no foolishness about securing that cabinet for me. Don't you let it get away. I'm in deadly earnest." "I won't let it get away," I promised. "Perhaps it's just as well I'm not over-enthusiastic about it." "Let me know as soon as you have any news," he said, and opened the door for me. "I can't stay long," he said. "I've got to get down to the office and put the finishing touches on that story;" but nevertheless he took the cigar I proffered him and sank into the chair opposite my own. I knew Godfrey, so I waited patiently until the cigar was going nicely, then- "Well?" I asked. "You've been working on it, of course?" "Well?" I said again. "The stomach was absolutely normal. It showed no trace of poison of any kind." He stretched himself, lay back in his chair, sent a smoke-ring circling toward the ceiling, and watched it, smiling absently. "Rather a facer for our friend Goldberger," he added, after a minute. "What's the matter with Goldberger? He seemed rather peeved with you this afternoon." "No wonder. He's Grady's man, and we're after Grady. Grady isn't fit to head the detective bureau--he got the job through his pull with Tammany--he's stupid, and I suspect he's crooked. The _Record_ says he has got to go." "So, of course, he _will_ go," I commented, smiling. I wasn't interested in Grady, so I came back to the case in hand. "Look here, Godfrey," I said, "if it wasn't poison, what was it?" "But it _was_ poison." "Inserted at the hand?" "Goldberger says there's no poison known which could be used that way and which would act so quickly." "Goldberger is right in that," agreed Godfrey; "but there's a poison unknown that will--because it did." "It wasn't a snake bite?" "Oh, no; snake poison wouldn't kill a man that quickly--not even a fer-de-lance. That fellow practically dropped where he was struck." Godfrey was sitting erect again. He was not smiling now. His face was very stern. "But you've already said there's no poison so powerful as all that." "I said we didn't know of any. I wouldn't be so sure that Catherine de Medici didn't." "What has Catherine de Medici to do with it?" "Nothing--except that what has been done may always be done again. Those old stories are, no doubt, exaggerated; but it seems fairly certain that the Queen of Navarre was killed with a pair of poisoned gloves, the Duc d'Anjou with the scent of a poisoned rose, and the Prince de Porcian with the smoke of a poisoned lamp. This case isn't as extraordinary as those." "No," I agreed, and fell silent, shivering a little, for there is something horrible and revolting about the poisoner. "Have you found out who he is?" "Why not?" I demanded. "Because it is evident that that isn't his name." "Go ahead and tell me, Godfrey," I said, as he looked at me, smiling. "I don't see it." I saw it then, of course; and I felt a good deal as the Spanish savants must have felt when Columbus stood the egg on end. Godfrey smiled again at my expression. "The real d'Aurelle, whoever he may turn out to be, may be able to help us," he added. "If he can't, we may learn something from the Paris police. The dead man's Bertillon measurements have been cabled over to them. Even that won't help, if he has never been arrested. And, of course, we can't get at motives until we find out something about him." "But, Godfrey," I said, "suppose you knew who he was and what he wanted with Vantine--suppose you could make a guess at who killed him and why--how was it done? That is what stumps me. How was it done?" "Ah!" agreed Godfrey. "That's it! How was it done? I told you it was a pretty case, Lester. But wait till we hear from Paris." "That reminds me," I said, sitting up suddenly, "I've got to cable to Paris myself, on some business for Mr. Vantine." "Not connected with this affair?" "Oh, no; his shippers over there sent him a piece of furniture that doesn't belong to him. He asked me to straighten the matter out." I rang for the hall-boy, asked for a cable-blank, and sent off a message to Armand & Son, telling them of the mistake and asking them to cable the name of the owner of the cabinet now in Mr. Vantine's possession. Godfrey sat smoking reflectively while I was thus engaged, staring straight before him with eyes that saw nothing; but as I sat down again and took up my pipe, ready to continue the conversation, he gave himself a sort of shake, put on his hat, and got to his feet. "I must be moving along," he said. "There's no use sitting here theorising until we have some sort of foundation to build on." The ringing of my telephone stopped me. "Hello," I said, taking down the receiver. "Is that you, Mr. Lester?" asked a voice. "This is Parks," and I suddenly realised that his voice was unfamiliar because it was hoarse and quivering with emotion. "Could you come down to the house right away, sir?" "Why, yes," I said, wonderingly, "if it's important. Does Mr. Vantine need me?" "We all need you!" said the voice, and broke into a dry sob. "For God's sake, come quick, Mr. Lester!" "All right," I said without further parley, for evidently he had lost his self-control. "Something has happened down at Vantine's," I added to Godfrey, as I hung up the receiver. "Parks seems to be scared to death. He wants me to come down right away," and I reached for my hat and coat. "Shall I come, too?" asked Godfrey. Even under the stress of the moment, I could not but smile at the question and at the tone in which it was uttered. "Perhaps you'd better," I agreed. "It sounded pretty serious." Parks must have been on the front steps looking for me, for he came running down them almost before the car had stopped. I caught a glimpse of his face under the street lights, as I thrust a bill into the driver's hand, and it fairly startled me. I caught him by the arm. "Steady, man," I said. "Don't let yourself go to pieces. Now--what has happened?" He seemed to take a sort of desperate grip of himself. "I'll show you, sir," he said, and ran up the steps, along the hall, to the door of the ante-room where we had found the Frenchman's body. "In there, sir!" he sobbed. "In there!" and clung to the wall as I opened the door and stepped inside. The room was ablaze with light, and for an instant my eyes were so dazzled that I could distinguish nothing. Dimly I saw Godfrey spring forward and drop to his knees. Then my eyes cleared, and I saw, on the very spot where d'Aurelle had died, another body--or was it the same, brought back that the tragedy of the afternoon might, in some mysterious way, be re-enacted? I remember bending over and peering into the face- It was the face of Philip Vantine. A minute must have passed as I stood there dazed and shaken. I was conscious, in a way, that Godfrey was examining him. Then I heard his voice. "He's dead," he said. Then there was an instant's silence. "Lester, look here!" cried Godfrey's voice, sharp, insistent. "For God's sake, look here!" Godfrey was kneeling there holding something toward me. "Look here!" he cried again. And as I stared at this ghastly sight, scarce able to believe my eyes, I heard a choking voice behind me, saying over and over again: "It was that woman done it! It was that woman done it! Damn her! It was that woman done it!" I have no very clear remembrance of what happened after that. The shock was so great that I had just strength enough to totter to a chair and drop into it, and sit there staring vaguely at that dark splotch on the carpet. I told myself that I was the victim of a dreadful nightmare; that all this was the result of over-wrought nerves and that I should wake presently. No doubt I had been working too hard. I needed a vacation--well, I would take it And all the time I knew that it was not a nightmare, but grim reality; that Philip Vantine was dead--killed by a woman. Who had told me that? And then I remembered the sobbing voice "Feel better?" he asked. "I don't wonder it knocked you out," he went on. "I'm feeling shaky myself. I had them call Vantine's physician--but he can't do anything." "He's dead, then?" I murmured, my eyes on that dark and crumpled object which had been Philip Vantine. "Yes--just like the other." Then I remembered, and I caught his arm and drew him down to me. "You didn't dream it--it was Rogers--he's almost hysterical. We'll get the story, as soon as he quiets down." Someone called him from the door, and he turned away, leaving me staring blankly at nothing. So there had been a woman in Vantine's life! Perhaps that was why he had never married. What ugly skeleton was to be dragged from its closet? But if a woman killed Vantine, the same woman also killed d'Aurelle. Where was her hiding-place? From what ambush did she strike? "What is it, Lester?" he asked. "I can't stand it here," I gasped. "It's too horrible!" "Don't think about it. Come out here and have another drink." "Better take a drink yourself," I said. I heard the decanter rattle on the glass. "I don't know when I have been so shaken," he said, setting the glass down empty. "It was so gruesome--so unexpected--and then Rogers carrying on like a madman. Ah, here's the doctor," he added, as the front door opened and Parks showed a man in. I knew Dr. Hughes, of course, returned his nod, and followed him and Godfrey into the ante-room. But I had not yet sufficiently recovered to do more than sit and stare at him as he knelt beside the body and assured himself that life had fled. Then I heard Godfrey telling him all we knew, while Hughes listened with incredulous face. "But it's absurd, you know!" he protested, when Godfrey had finished. "Things like this don't happen here in New York. In Florence, perhaps, in the Middle Ages; but not here in the twentieth century!" "I can scarcely believe my own senses," Godfrey agreed. "But I saw the Frenchman lying here this afternoon; and now here's Vantine." "As nearly as I can tell." "And killed in the same way?" "Killed in precisely the same way." Hughes turned back to the body again, and looked long and earnestly at the injured hand. "What sort of instrument made this wound, would you say, Mr. Godfrey?" he questioned, at last. "But you are, of course, aware that no poison exists which would act so quickly?" Hughes inquired. Godfrey looked at him strangely. "Something of the sort, perhaps," agreed Hughes. "The words were purely instinctive, but I suppose some such thought was running through my head." Hughes drew a deep breath of wonder and horror. "But what sort of devilish instrument is it?" he cried, his nerves giving way for an instant, his voice mounting shrilly. "Above all, who wields it?" "I beg pardon," he said, mopping the sweat from his face; "but I'm not used to this sort of thing; and I'm frightened--yes, I really believe I'm frightened," and he laughed, a little unsteady laugh. "So am I," said Godfrey; "so is Lester; so is everybody. You needn't be ashamed of it." "What frightens me," went on Hughes, evidently studying his own symptoms, "is the mystery of it--there is something supernatural about it--something I can't understand. How does it happen that each of the victims is struck on the right hand? Why not the left hand? Why the hand at all?" Godfrey answered with a despairing shrug. "That is what we've got to find out," he said. "We shall have to call in the police," suggested Hughes. "Maybe they can solve it." Godfrey smiled, a little sceptical smile, quickly suppressed. "At least, they will have to be given the chance," he agreed. "Shall I attend to it?" "Yes," said Hughes; "and you would better do it right away. The sooner they get here the better." "Very well," assented Godfrey, and left the room. Hughes sat down heavily on the couch near the window, and mopped his face again, with a shaking hand. Death he was accustomed to--but death met decently in bed and resulting from some understood cause. Death in this horrible and mysterious form shook him; he could not understand it, and his failure to understand appalled him. He was a physician; it was his business to understand; and yet here was death in a form as mysterious to him as to the veriest layman. It compelled him to pause and take stock of himself--always a disconcerting process to the best of us! A woman! Always my mind came back to that. A woman! Poison was a woman's weapon. But who was she? How had she escaped? Where had she concealed herself? How was she able to strike so surely? Above all, why should she have chosen Philip Vantine, of all men, for her victim--Philip Vantine, who had never injured any woman--and then I paused. For I realised that I knew nothing of Vantine, except what he had chosen to tell me. Parks would know. And then I shrank from the thought. Must we probe that secret? Must we compel a man to betray his master? My face was burning. No, we could not do that--that would be abominable "This is Mr. Lester, Commissioner Grady," said Goldberger, and I realised that the chief of the detective bureau had come up from headquarters to take personal charge of the case. "Mr. Lester is Mr. Vantine's attorney," the coroner added, in explanation. "Glad to know you, Mr. Lester," said Grady, shortly. "And now, I guess, we're ready to begin," went on the coroner. I felt my own face flushing, and started to protest, but Godfrey silenced me with a little gesture. "It's all right, Lester," he said. "Mr. Grady is quite within his rights. I'll withdraw--until he sends for me." "You'll have a long wait, then!" retorted Grady, with a sarcastic laugh. "The longer I wait, the worse it will be for you, Mr. Grady," said Godfrey quietly, opened the door and closed it behind him. Grady stared after him for a moment in crimson amazement. Then, mastering himself with an effort, he turned to the coroner. "All right, Goldberger," he said, and sat down to watch the proceedings. "You've got a list of the servants here, of course, Simmonds," he said, when we had finished the story. "They've all been with Mr. Vantine a long time, sir," replied Simmonds. "So far as I've been able to judge, they're all right." "Parks, I think," I said. "It was he who called me." "Better have him in," said Grady, and doubled up the list and slipped it into his pocket. "Never mind what he told Rogers," broke in Grady. "Just tell us what you know." His voice choked at the words, but he managed to go on, after a moment. "Then I telephoned for Mr. Lester," he added, "and that's all I know." "Very well," said Grady. "That's all for the present. Send Rogers in." "It ain't that," gasped Rogers. "It ain't that--though I never saw a murdered man before." "What?" demanded Grady, sharply. "Didn't you see that fellow this afternoon?" "That was different," Rogers moaned. "I didn't know him. Besides, I thought he'd killed himself. We all thought so." "And you don't think Vantine did?" "I know he didn't," and Rogers's voice rose to a shrill scream. "It was that woman done it! Damn her! She done it! I knowed she was up to some crooked work when I let her in!" THE WOMAN IN THE CASE It was coming now; the secret, however sordid, however ugly, was to be unveiled. I saw Grady's face set in hard lines; I could hear the stir of interest with which the others leaned forward Grady took a flask from his pocket and opened it. "Take a drink of this," he said, and placed it in Rogers's hand. "Thank you, sir," he said, more steadily, and handed the flask back to its owner. A little colour crept into his face; but I fancied there was a new look in his eyes--for, as the horror faded, fear took its place. Grady screwed the cap on the flask with great deliberation, and returned it to his pocket. And all the time Rogers was watching him furtively, wiping his mouth mechanically with a trembling hand. "Now, Rogers," Grady began, "I want you to take your time and tell us in detail everything that happened here to-night. You say a woman did it. Well, we want to hear all about that woman. Now go ahead; and remember there's no hurry." "'I don't want to be disturbed, Rogers,' he said, and come in here and shut the door after him. "Did you know her?" questioned Grady. Rogers loosened his collar with a convulsive movement. "No, sir, I'd never seen her before," he answered hoarsely. Rogers closed his eyes, as though in an effort of recollection. "How was she dressed?" "In a dark gown, sir, cut so skimpy that I knowed she was French before she spoke." "Ah!" said Grady. "She was French, was she?" Rogers had regained his self-confidence, and he went ahead almost glibly. "'See here, madam,' says I, 'we've had enough trouble here to-day with Frenchies, and if you don't get out quietly, why, I'll have to put you out.' "'I must see Mistaire Vangtine,' she says, very fast. 'I must see Mistaire Vangtine. It is most necessaire that I see Mistaire Vangtine.' "'Then I'll have to put you out,' says I, and took hold of her arm. And at that she screamed and jerked herself away; and I grabbed her again, and just then Mr. Vantine opened the door there and came out into the hall. "'What's all this, Rogers?' he says. 'Who is this party?' "Maybe you hadn't latched it," suggested Grady. "It has a snap-lock, sir; when that woman slammed it shut, I heard it catch." "You're sure of that?" "What did you do then?" Rogers stopped suddenly, and caught at his throat again. "I'll be all right in a minute, sir," he gasped. "It takes me this way sometimes." "No hurry," Grady assured him, and then, when his breath was coming easier, "What did you do then?" "I was so scared I couldn't scarcely stand, sir; but I managed to get to the foot of the stairs and yell for Parks, and he come running down--and that's all I remember, sir." "The woman wasn't here?" "Did you look through the rooms?" "No, sir; when I found the front door open, I knowed she'd gone out. She hadn't shut the door because she was afraid I'd hear her." "That sounds probable," agreed Grady. "But what makes you think she killed Vantine?" "Well, sir," answered Rogers, slowly, "I guess I oughtn't to have said that; but finding the door open that way, and then coming on Mr. Vantine sort of upset me--I didn't know just what I was saying." "You don't think so now, then?" questioned Grady, sharply. "I don't know what to think, sir." "You say you never saw the woman before?" "Had she ever been here before?" "Very good, Rogers," he said. "I'll be offering you a place on the force next. Would you know this woman if you saw her again?" "I wouldn't like to say sure, sir," he answered, at last. "I might and I might not." "Red lips and a white face and bright eyes aren't much to go on," Grady pointed out. "Can't you give us a closer description?" "I'm afraid not, sir. I just got a general impression, like, of her face through her veil." "You say you didn't search these rooms?" "No, sir, I didn't come inside the door." "I was afraid to, sir." "Yes, sir; I'm afraid to be here now." "Did Parks come in?" "No, sir; I guess he felt the same way I did." "Then how did you know Vantine was dead? Why didn't you try to help him?" Grady looked at him keenly for a moment; but there seemed to be no reason to doubt his story. Then the detective looked about the room. Without a word, Grady arose and passed into the room adjoining, we after him; only Rogers remained seated where he was. I remember glancing back over my shoulder and noting how he huddled forward in his chair, as though crushed by a great weight, the instant our backs were turned. But I forgot Rogers in contemplation of the scene before me. It had been carried to the centre of the room, and placed in the full glare of the light from the chandelier. It stood there blazing with arrogant beauty, a thing apart. Who had helped Vantine place it there, I wondered? Neither Rogers nor Parks had mentioned doing so. I turned back to the outer room. Rogers was sitting crouched forward in his chair, his hands over his eyes, and I could feel him jerk with nervousness as I touched him on the shoulder. "Oh, is it you, Mr. Lester?" he gasped. "Pardon me, sir; I'm not at all myself, sir." "I can see that," I said, soothingly; "and no wonder. I just wanted to ask you--did you help move any of the furniture in the room yonder?" "Help move it, sir?" "Yes--help change the position of any of it since this afternoon?" "No, sir; I haven't touched any of it, sir." "That's all right, then," I said, and turned back into the inner room. Then he and the woman had entered the ante-room together; he had closed the door; and then Like a lightning-flash, a thought leaped into my brain--a reason--an explanation--wild, improbable, absurd, but still an explanation! I choked back the cry which rose to my lips; I gripped my hands behind me, in a desperate attempt to hold myself in check; and, fascinated as by a deadly serpent, I stood staring at the cabinet. For there, I felt certain, lay the clue to the mystery! "Nobody could raise these windows without alarming the house," Grady said, and pointed to a tiny wire running along the woodwork. "There's a burglar alarm." Simmonds assented, and finally the trio returned to the ante-room. That Philip Vantine should have been killed by enthusiasm for the hobby which had given him so much pleasure seemed the very irony of fate, yet such I believed to be the case. To be sure, there were various incidents which seemed to conflict with such a theory, and the theory itself seemed wild to the point of absurdity; but at least it was a ray of light in what had been utter darkness. I turned it over and over in my mind, trying to fit into it the happenings of the day--I must confess with very poor success. Freylinghuisen's voice brought me out of my reverie. "Can you make a guess as to the nature of the poison?" Hughes inquired. "Freylinghuisen thinks there is no necessity for a post-mortem," he said. "The symptoms are in every way identical with those of the other man who was killed here this afternoon. There can be no question that both of them died from the same cause. He is ready to make his return to that effect." "Very well," assented Grady. "The body can be turned over to the relatives, then." "There aren't any relatives," I said; "at least, no near ones. Vantine was the last of this branch of the family. I happen to know that our firm has been named as his executors in his will, so, if there is no objection, I'll take charge of things." "Very well, Mr. Lester," said Grady again; and then he looked at me. "Do you know the provisions of the will?" he asked. "I think I may tell you the provisions," I said, after a moment. "With the exception of a few legacies to his servants, his whole fortune is left to the Metropolitan Museum of Art." "You have been his attorney for some time?" "We have been his legal advisers for many years." "Have you ever learned that he had an enemy?" "No," I answered instantly; "so far as I know, he had not an enemy on earth." "He was never married, I believe?" "Was he ever, to your knowledge, involved with a woman?" "No," I said again. "I was astounded when I heard Rogers's story." "So you can give us no hint as to this woman's identity?" "I only wish I could!" I said, with fervour. "Oh, that isn't necessary," I broke in. "I will be responsible for their appearance at the inquest." Dr. Hughes lingered for a last word. I knew what he meant. Already the face of the dead man was showing certain ugly discolourations. "I can send him around on my way home," he added, and I thanked him for assuming this unpleasant duty. As the door closed behind him, I heard a step on the stair, and turned to see Godfrey calmly descending. "I came in a few minutes ago," he explained, in answer to my look, "and have been glancing around upstairs. Nothing there. How did our friend Grady get along?" "Fairly well; but if he guesses anything, his face didn't show it." "His face never shows anything, because there's nothing to show. He has cultivated that sibylline look until people think he's a wonder. But he's simply a stupid ignoramus." "Oh, come, Godfrey," I protested, "you're prejudiced. He went right to the point. Do you know Rogers's story?" "About the woman? Certainly. Rogers told it to me before Grady arrived." "Well," I commented, "you didn't lose any time." "I never do," he assented blandly. "And now I'm going to prove to you that Grady is merely a stupid ignoramus. He has heard all the evidence, but does he know who that woman was?" "My dear Lester," protested Godfrey, "you are not a detective--that's not your business; but it _is_ Grady's. At least, it is supposed to be, and the safety of this city as a place of residence depends more or less upon the truth of that assumption. On the strength of it, he has been made deputy police commissioner, in charge of the detective bureau." "I'm pretty sure I do--that is what I came back to prove. Where's Rogers?" "I'll ring for him," I said, and did so, and presently he appeared. "Did you ring, sir?" he asked. He was still miserably nervous, but much more self-controlled than he had been earlier in the evening. "Yes," I said. "Mr. Godfrey wishes to speak to you." It seemed to me that Rogers turned visibly paler; there was certainly fear in the glance he turned upon my companion. But Godfrey smiled reassuringly. "Which reporters?" I queried. "Yes, Ulysses," I agreed, smiling. "And now," continued Godfrey, watching Rogers keenly, "I have a photograph here that I want you to look at. Did you ever see that person before?" and he handed a print to Rogers. The latter hesitated an instant, and then took the print with a trembling hand. Stark fear was in his eyes again; then slowly he raised the print to the light, glanced at it "Catch him, Lester!" Godfrey cried, and sprang forward. "Get some water, quick!" Godfrey commanded sharply, as Parks came running up. "Rogers has been taken ill." And then, as Parks sped down the hall again, I saw Godfrey loosen the collar of the unconscious man and begin to chafe his temples fiercely. "I hope it isn't apoplexy," he muttered. "I oughtn't to have shocked him like that." At the words, I remembered; and, stooping, picked up the photograph which had fluttered from Rogers's nerveless fingers. And then I, too, uttered a smothered exclamation as I gazed at the dark eyes, the full lips, the oval face--the face which d'Aurelle had carried in his watch! "He has these spells," he said. "It's a kind of vertigo. Give him a whiff of this." He uncorked the phial and handed it to Godfrey, and I caught the penetrating fumes of ammonia. A moment later, Rogers gasped convulsively. "He'll be all right pretty soon," remarked Parks, with ready optimism. "Though I never saw him quite so bad." "We can't leave him lying here on the floor," said Godfrey. Then Godfrey and I sat down and waited, while he gasped his way back to life. "Though he can't really tell us much," Godfrey observed. "In fact, I doubt if he'll be willing to tell anything. But his face, when he looked at the picture, told us all we need to know." Thus reminded, I took the photograph out of the pocket into which I had slipped it, and looked at it again. "Where did you get it?" I asked. "I don't just know," answered Godfrey, reflectively. "They were both French--and Rogers spoke of the red lips; somehow it seemed probable. Mr. Grady will find some things he doesn't know in to-morrow's _Record_. But then he usually does. This time, I'm going to rub it in. Hello," he added, "our friend is coming around." I looked at Rogers and saw that his eyes were open. They were staring at us as though wondering who we were. Godfrey passed an arm under his head and held the glass of water to his lips. "Take a swallow of this," he said, and Rogers obeyed mechanically, still staring at him over the rim of the glass, "How do you feel?" "Pretty weak," Rogers answered, almost in a whisper. "Did I have a fit?" "Something like that," said Godfrey, cheerfully; "but don't worry. You'll soon be all right again." "What sent me off?" asked Rogers, and stared up at him. Then his face turned purple, and I thought he was going off again. But after a moment's heavy breathing, he lay quiet. "I remember now," he said. "Let me see that picture again." I passed it to him. His hand was trembling so he could hardly take it; but I saw he was struggling desperately to control himself, and he managed to hold the picture up before his eyes and look at it with apparent unconcern. "Do you know her?" Godfrey asked. To my infinite amazement, Rogers shook his head. Again Rogers shook his head. Godfrey made no reply; but he sat down and looked at Rogers, and Rogers lay and gazed at the picture, and gradually his face softened, as though at some tender memory. "Come, Rogers," I urged, at last. "You'd better tell us all you know. If this is the woman, don't hesitate to say so." "I've told you all I know, Mr. Lester," said Rogers, but he did not meet my eyes. "And I'm feeling pretty bad. I think I'd better be getting to bed." "Yes, that's best," agreed Godfrey promptly. "Parks will help you," and he held out his hand for the photograph. Rogers relinquished it with evident reluctance. He opened his lips as though to ask a question; then closed them again, and got slowly to his feet, Parks aiding him. "Good-night, gentlemen," he said weakly, and shuffled away, leaning heavily on Parks's shoulder. "Well!" said I, looking at Godfrey. "What do you think of that?" "I'll have him looked after," I promised. "But I fancy he'll be afraid to run away. Besides, it is possible he's telling the truth. I don't believe any woman had anything to do with either death." Godfrey turned, as he was starting away, and stopped to look at me. "Who did then?" he asked. "All right," I agreed. "If you see a light, come up. If there isn't any light, I'll be in bed, and I'll kill you if you wake me." "Conditions accepted," he laughed, as I opened the door for him. Parks joined me as I turned back into the house. "I got Rogers to bed, sir," he said. "He'll be all right in the morning. But he's a queer duck." "How long have you known him, Parks?" "Beg pardon, sir," said a voice at my elbow; "we have everything ready, sir." I turned with a start to see a little, clean-shaven man standing there, rubbing his hands softly together and gazing blandly up at me. "The undertaker's assistant, sir," explained Parks, seeing my look of astonishment. "He came while you and Mr. Godfrey were in the music-room. Dr. Hughes sent him." "Yes, sir," added the little man; "and we have the corpse ready for the coffin. Very nice it looks, too; though it was a hard job. Was it poison killed him, sir?" "Yes," I answered, with a feeling of nausea, "it was poison." "Very powerful poison, too, I should say, sir; we didn't get here none too soon. Where shall we put the body, sir?" "Why not leave it where it is?" I asked, impatiently. "Very good, sir," said the man, and presently he and his assistant took themselves off, to my intense relief. "And now, Parks," I began, "there is something I want to say to you. Let us go somewhere and sit down." "Suppose we go up to the study, sir. You're looking regularly done up, if you'll permit me to say so, sir. Shall I get you something?" "Very good, sir," and a few minutes later we were sitting opposite each other in the room where Vantine had offered me similar refreshment not many hours before. I looked at Parks as he sat there, and turned over in my mind what I had to say to him. I liked the man, and I felt he could be trusted. At any rate, I had to take the risk. "Now, Parks," I began again, setting down my glass, "what I have to say to you is very serious, and I want you to keep it to yourself: I know that you were devoted to Mr. Vantine--I may as well tell you that he has remembered you in his will--and I am sure you are willing to do anything in your power to help solve the mystery of his death." "That I am, sir," Parks agreed, warmly. "I was very fond of him, sir; nobody will miss him more than I will." I realised that the tragedy meant far more to Parks than it did even to me, for he had lost not only a friend, but a means of livelihood, and I looked at him with heightened sympathy. "Not very likely that anybody will want to enter them, sir," and Parks laughed a grim little laugh. "I am not so sure of that," I dissented, speaking very seriously. "In fact, I am of the opinion that there _is_ somebody who wants to enter those rooms very badly. I don't know who he is, and I don't know what he is after; but I am going to make it your business to keep him out, and to capture him if you catch him trying to get in." "Trust me for that, sir," said Parks promptly. "What is it you want me to do?" "I want you to put a cot in the hallway outside the door of the ante-room and sleep there to-night. To-morrow I will decide what further precautions are necessary." "Oh, yes, sir. I'll see they understand how important it is." "Rogers, especially," I added, looking at him. "I understand, sir," said Parks, quietly. "Very well. And now let us go down and lock up those rooms." They were still ablaze with light; but both of us faltered a little, I think, on the threshold of the ante-room. For in the middle of the floor stood a stretcher, and on it was an object covered with a sheet, its outlines horribly suggestive. But I took myself in hand and entered. Parks followed me and closed the door. "Aren't there some wooden shutters for these windows?" I asked. "Yes, sir; they were taken down yesterday and put in the basement. Shall I get them?" "I think you'd better," I said. "Will you need any help?" "No, sir; they're not heavy. If you'll wait here, you can snap the bolts into place when I lift them up from the outside." "Very well," I agreed, and Parks hurried away. Then, before extinguishing the lights, I approached that silent figure on the stretcher, lifted the sheet and looked for the last time upon the face of my dead friend. It was no longer staring and terrible, but calm and peaceful as in sleep--almost smiling. With wet eyes and contracted throat, I covered the face again, turned out the lights, and left the room. Parks met me in the hall, carrying a cot, which he placed close across the doorway. "There," he said; "nobody will get into that room without my knowing it." "No," I agreed; and then a sudden thought occurred to me. "Parks," I said, "is it true that there is a burglar-alarm on all the windows?" "Yes, sir. It rings a bell in Mr. Vantine's bedroom, and another in mine, and sends in a call to the police." "Yes, sir; Mr. Vantine himself tested it this evening just before dinner." "Then why didn't it work when I opened those windows just now?" I demanded. I breathed a sigh of relief. "Is it on again, now?" "It certainly is, sir. After what you told me, I'd not be likely to forget it." "You'd better have a weapon handy, too," I suggested. "I have a revolver, sir." "That's good. And don't hesitate to use it. I'm going home--I'm dead tired." "Shall I call a cab, sir?" "No, the walk will do me good. I'll see you to-morrow." Parks helped me into my coat and opened the door for me. Glancing back, after a moment, I saw that he was standing on the steps gazing after me. I could understand his reluctance to go back into that death-haunted house; and I found myself breathing deeply with the relief of getting out of it. GUESSES AT THE RIDDLE The walk uptown did me good. The rain had ceased, and the air felt clean and fresh as though it had been washed. I took deep breaths of it, and the feeling of fatigue and depression which had weighed upon me gradually vanished. I was in no hurry--went out of my way a little, indeed, to walk out into Madison Square and look back at the towering mass of the Flatiron building, creamy and delicate as carved ivory under the rays of the moon--and it was long past midnight when I finally turned in at the Marathon. Higgins, the janitor, was just closing the outer doors, and he joined me in the elevator a moment later. "That was right," I said, and reflected again upon Godfrey's exhaustless energy. I found him lolling in an easy chair, and he looked up with a smile at my entrance. "Higgins said you hadn't come in yet," he explained, "so I thought I'd wait a few minutes on the off chance that you mightn't be too tired to talk. If you are, say so, and I'll be moving along." "I'm not too tired," I said, hanging up my coat. "I feel a good deal better than I did an hour ago." "I saw that you were about all in." "How do you keep it up, Godfrey?" I asked, sitting down opposite him. "You don't seem tired at all." "You say you have a photograph?" I took the card, and, as I gazed at the face depicted upon it, I realised that the distorted countenance I had seen in the afternoon had given me no idea of the man's appearance. Now the eyes were closed and the features composed and peaceful, but even death failed to give them any dignity. It was a weak and dissipated face, the face of a hanger-on of cafes, as Parks had said--of a loiterer along the boulevards, of a man without ambition, and capable of any depth of meanness and deceit. At least, that is how I read it. "I think you are right," I agreed; "but, at the same time, if he was of that type, I don't see what business he could have had with Philip Vantine." "Neither do I; but there are a lot of other things I don't see, either. We're all in the dark, Lester; have you thought of that? Absolutely in the dark." "Yes, I have thought of it," I said, slowly. There was a moment's silence; then, I decided, the time had come for me to speak. "Godfrey," I said, "what I am about to tell you is told in confidence, and must be held in confidence until I give you permission to use it. Do you agree?" "Go on," he said, his eyes on my face. "Beautiful!" he murmured from time to time. "Immense! What a case it will make, Lester!" he cried, stopping before my chair and beaming down upon me, as I finished the story. "Unique, too; that's the beauty of it! As unique as this adorable Boule cabinet!" "Then you see it, too?" I questioned, a little disappointed that my theory should seem so evident. "You saw it, too," I pointed out, "as soon as I mentioned it." "Wonderfully right," I nodded. "I had not put it so clearly, even to myself. Go ahead." "We come to the conclusion, then," continued Godfrey, "that the business of this unknown Frenchman with Vantine in some way concerned this cabinet." "Vantine himself thought so," I broke in. "He told me afterwards that it was because he thought so he consented to see him." "Good! That would seem to indicate that we are on the right track. The Frenchman's business, then, had something to do with this cabinet, and with this secret drawer. Left to himself, he discovered the cabinet in the room adjoining the ante-room, attempted to open the drawer, and was killed." "Yes," I agreed; "and now how about Vantine?" "You still think it was her photograph he carried in his watch?" "I am sure of it. But how did it happen that it was Vantine who was killed? Did the woman, warned by the fate of the man, deliberately set Vantine to open the drawer in order that she might run no risk? Or was she also ignorant of the mechanism? Above all, did she succeed in getting away with the contents of the drawer?" "What _was_ the contents of the drawer?" I demanded. "Ah, if we only knew!" "Perhaps the woman had nothing to do with it. Vantine himself told me that he was going to make a careful examination of the cabinet. No doubt that is exactly what he was doing when the woman's arrival interrupted him. He might have let her out of the house himself, and then, returning to the cabinet, stumbled upon the secret drawer after she had gone." "Yes; that is quite possible, too. At any rate, you agree with me that both men were killed in some such way as I have described?" "Absolutely. I think there can be no doubt of it." "Perhaps it closed itself when he let go of it." "And closed again after Vantine opened it?" "It would take a very clever mechanism to do that." "But at least it's possible." "Well?" I asked, as he paused. That was an objection, truly, and the more I thought of it, the more serious it seemed. "Of course there is a gang. This thing has taken careful planning and concerted effort. And the leader of the gang is a genius! I wonder if you understand how great a genius? Think: he knows the secret of the drawer of Madame de Montespan's cabinet; but above all he knows the secret of the poison--the poison of the Medici! Do you know what that means, Lester?" "Then you don't believe it was by accident that cabinet was sent to Vantine?" "By accident? Not for an instant! It was part of a plot--and a splendid plot!" "Can you explain that to me, too?" I queried, a little ironically, for I confess it seemed to me that Godfrey was permitting his imagination to run away with him. He smiled good-naturedly at my tone. He stopped suddenly, and his face went white and then red. "What is it, Godfrey?" I cried, for his look frightened me. He lay back in his chair, his hands pressed over his eyes. I could see how they were trembling--how his whole body was trembling. "Wait!" he said, hoarsely. "Wait!" Then he sat upright, his face tense with anxiety. "Lester!" he cried, his voice shrill with fear. "The cabinet--it isn't guarded!" "Yes, it is," I said. "At least I thought of that!" And I told him of the precautions I had taken to keep it safe. He heard me out with a sigh of relief. "That's better," he said. "Parks wouldn't stand much show, I'm afraid, if worst came to worst; but I think the cabinet is safe--for to-night. And before another night, Lester, we will have a look for ourselves." "Yes; for the secret drawer!" I stared at him fascinated, shrinking. "And we shall find it!" he added. "D'Aurelle and Vantine found it," I muttered thickly. "And they're both dead!" "Don't!" I cried, and cowered back into my chair. "I--I can't do it, Godfrey. God knows, I'm no coward--but not that!" "You shall watch me do it!" he said. "That would be even worse!" His shrill laugh told how excited he was. He sprang from his chair, biting his lips, his whole frame quivering. But he was calmer in a moment. "Anyway, you will help me, Lester? You will come?" "Yes," I answered, with a quick intaking of the breath; "I'll come!" He clapped me on the shoulder, his face beaming. He caught up coat and hat and started for the door. "There are things to do," he said; "that armour to prepare--the plan of campaign to consider, you know. Good-night, then, till--this evening!" Dizzily I went to bed. But my sleep was broken by a fearful dream--a dream of a serpent, with blazing eyes and dripping fangs, poised to strike! "This is Mr. Lester," I said. "Is everything all right?" "Everything serene, sir," he answered. "It would take a mighty smooth burglar to get in here now, sir." "How is that?" I asked. "Reporters are camped all around the house, sir. They seem to think somebody else will be killed here to-day." "I hope not," I said, quickly. "And don't let any of the reporters in, nor talk to them. Tell them they must go to the police for their information. If they get too annoying, let me know, and I'll have an officer sent around." "Don't let anybody in the house--no matter what he wants--unless Mr. Grady or Mr. Simmonds or Mr. Goldberger accompanies him. Don't let anybody in you don't know. If there is any trouble, call me up. I want you to be careful about this." "I understand, sir." "How is Rogers?" I asked. "Much better, sir. He wanted to get up, but I told him he might as well stay in bed, and I'd look after things. I thought that was the best place for him, sir." "It is," I agreed. "Keep him there as long as you can. I'll come in during the day, if possible; in any event, Mr. Godfrey and I will be there this evening. Call me at the office, if you need me for anything." "Very good, sir," said Parks again, and I hung up. I glanced through Godfrey's account of the affair while I ate my breakfast, and noted with amusement the sly digs taken at Commissioner Grady. Under the photograph of the unknown woman was the legend: MR. VANTINE'S MYSTERIOUS CALLER (Grady Please Notice) And it was intimated that when Grady wanted any real information about an especially puzzling case, he had to go to the _Record_ to get it. It was evident enough that all these reporters had been compelled to go to Grady for their information, and I could fancy them damning him between their teeth as they penned these panegyrics. I could also fancy their city editors damning as they compared these incoherent imaginings with the admirable and closely-written story in the _Record_, and I suspected that it was the realisation of the _Record's_ triumph which had caused the descent of the phalanx of reporters upon the Vantine place. "Royce & Lester, New York. "Regret mistake in shipment exceedingly. Our representative will call to explain. So there was an end of the romance Godfrey had woven, and which I had been almost ready to believe--the romance of design, of a carefully laid plot, and all that. It had been merely accident, after all. And I smiled a little sarcastically at myself for my credulity. No doubt my own romance of a secret drawer and a poisoned mechanism would prove equally fabulous. In my over-wrought state of the night before, it had seemed reasonable enough; but here, in the cold light of day, it seemed preposterous. How Grady and Goldberger would have laughed at it! "I've engaged a table at a little place around the corner," he said. "It is managed by a friend of mine, and I think you'll like it." I did. Indeed, the dinner was so good that it demanded undivided attention, and not until the coffee was on the table and the cigars lighted did we speak of the business which had brought us together. "Anything new?" I asked, as we pushed back our chairs. "Then he's not a criminal?" "That _is_ peculiar, isn't it!" I commented. "Perhaps he hadn't rented a room," I suggested. "Perhaps he had just reached New York, and went direct to Vantine's." Godfrey's face lighted up. "Yes," I said, "I heard him say something of the sort last night." "Nothing can save a man, then?" I questioned. "Godfrey," I said, "are you still bent on fooling with that thing?" "More than ever; I'm going to find that secret drawer. And if the fangs strike--well, I'm ready for them. See here what I had made today." "Yes," I said, "I was wondering why you had it made in that shape." "Well, what is it?" he asked quietly. For answer, I got out the cablegram and passed it across to him. He read it with brows contracted. "That seems to put a puncture in our little romance, doesn't it?" I asked, at last. He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, it does," and he read the message again, word by word. "Armand's man hasn't called yet?" "You will have to turn the cabinet over to him, of course?" "Why, yes, it belongs to him. At least, it doesn't belong to Vantine." He slipped the message into its envelope and handed it back to me. I could see that he was perplexed and upset. "Well, in spite of this," he said finally, "I am still interested in that cabinet, Lester, and I wish you would keep possession of it as long as you can. At least, I wouldn't give it up until he delivered to you the other cabinet which Vantine really bought." "Oh, I'll make him do that," I agreed quickly. "That will no doubt take a few days--longer than that if Vantine's cabinet is in Paris." Godfrey raised a finger to the waiter, asked for the check, and paid it. "And all the rest?" I asked. "Yes," he answered slowly, "and all the rest." He said nothing more until we stopped before the Vantine house, but I could see, from his puckered brows, how desperately he was trying to untangle this quirk in the mystery. "The siege seems to have been lifted," I remarked, as we alighted. "Parks telephoned me that your esteemed contemporaries had the place surrounded. I told him to hold the fort!" "Poor boys!" he commented, smiling. "To think that all they know is what Grady is able to tell them!" Then he stopped before the house and made a careful survey of it. "Which room is the cabinet in?" he asked. "Wait till I take a look at them," he said, and, vaulting the low railing, he walked quickly along the front of the house and around the corner. He was gone only a minute. "They're all right," he said, in a tone of relief. "If that cabinet contains what I thought it did, Lester--yes," he added, a little savagely, as he saw my look, "and what I still think it does--it wouldn't be safe in the strongest vault of the National City Bank," and he motioned for me to ring the bell. I did so, in silence. Parks answered it almost instantly, and I could tell from the way his face changed how glad he was to see me. "Well, Parks," I said, as we stepped inside, "everything is all right, I hope?" "Yes, sir," he answered. "But--but it gets on the nerves a little, sir." I heard a movement behind me, as I gave Parks my coat, and turned to see Rogers sitting on the cot. "Hello," I said, "so you're able to be up, are you?" "Yes, sir," he answered, without looking at me. "I thought I'd come down and keep Parks company." Parks smiled a little sheepishly. "I asked him to, Mr. Lester," he said. "I got so lonesome and jumpy here by myself that I just had to have somebody to talk to. Especially, after the burglar-alarm rang." "Did you take a look at the windows?" I asked. "Yes, sir; a policeman came to see what was the matter and we went around and examined the windows, but they were all locked. It made me feel kind of scary for a while." "Does the alarm work now?" "No, sir; the policeman said there must be a short circuit somewhere, and that he'd notify the people who put it in; but nobody has come around yet to fix it." "We'd better take a look at the windows, ourselves," said Godfrey. "You stay here, Parks. We can find them, all right; and I don't want you to leave that door unguarded for a single instant." We went from window to window, and Godfrey examined each of them with a minuteness that astonished me, for I had no idea what he expected to find. But we completed the circuit of the ground floor without his apparently discovering anything out of the way. "Let's take a look at the basement," he said, and led the way downstairs with a readiness which told me that he had been over the house before. In the kitchen, we came upon the cook and housemaid sitting close together and talking in frightened whispers. They watched us apprehensively, and I stopped to reassure them, while Godfrey proceeded with his search. Then I heard him calling me. I found him in a kind of lumber-room, standing before its single small window, his electric torch in his hand. "Look there," he said, his voice quivering with excitement, and threw a circle of light on the jamb of the window at the spot where the upper and lower sashes met. "What is it?" I asked, after a moment. "I don't see anything wrong." With his finger-nail, he turned up the end of a small insulated wire. And then I saw that the wire had been cut. For an instant, I did not grasp the full significance of that severed wire. Then I understood. "He wasn't losing any time," I ventured. "Why can't we ambush him?" I suggested. "We might try, but it will be a mighty risky undertaking, Lester." "All right," Godfrey laughed. "But I'll fix this break." "There," he added, "that's done. If the invader tampers with the window again, he will set off the alarm. But I don't believe he'll touch it. I fancy he already knows his little game is discovered." "How would he know it?" I demanded, incredulously. "If he is keeping an eye on this window, as he naturally would do, he has seen my light. Perhaps he is watching us now." I glanced at the dark square of the window with a little shiver. This business was getting on my nerves again. But Godfrey turned away with a shrug of the shoulders. "Now for the cabinet," he said, and led the way back upstairs. Rogers was still sitting dejectedly on the cot, and, looking at him more closely, I could see that he was white and shaken. His trouble, whatever its nature, plainly lay heavy on his mind. "Have you anything to tell us, this evening, Rogers?" I asked, kindly, but he only shook his head. "I've told you everything I know, sir," he answered, in a low voice. "I'm not going to worry you, Rogers," I went on, "but I want you to think it over. You can rely upon me to help you, if I can." He looked up quickly, but caught himself, and turned his eyes away. "Thank you, sir," was all he said. "And now," I added, briskly, "I'll have to ask you to get up. Move the cot away from the door, Parks." Parks obeyed me with astonished face. "You're not going in there, sir!" he protested, as I turned the knob. "Yes, we are," I said, and opened the door. "Is--is " "No, sir," broke in Parks, understanding. "The undertakers brought the coffin and put him in it and moved him over to the drawing-room this afternoon, sir." "I'm glad of that. I want all the lights lit, Parks, just as they were last night." Parks reached inside the door and switched on the electrics. Then he went away, came back in a moment with a taper, and proceeded to light the gas-lights. A moment later, the lights in the inner room were also blazing. "There you are, sir," said Parks, and retreated to the door. "Will you need me?" "Not now. But wait in the hall outside. We may need you." I had a notion to tell him to have an axe handy, but I saw Godfrey smiling. "Very good, sir," said Parks, evidently relieved, and went out and closed the door. I led the way into the inner room. "Well, there it is," I said, and nodded toward the Boule cabinet, standing in the full glare of the light, every inlay and incrustation glittering like the eyes of a basilisk. "It isn't too late to give it up, Godfrey." "Oh, yes, it is," he said, coolly, removing his coat "It was too late the moment you told me that story. Why, Lester, if I gave it up, I should never sleep again!" "And if you don't, you may never wake again," I pointed out. "What a dismal prophet you are! Draw up a chair and watch me." He pulled back his shirt-sleeves, and placed his electric torch on the floor beside the cabinet. Then he paused with folded arms to contemplate this masterpiece of M. Boule. He adjusted the steel gauntlet carefully to his right hand and sat down on the floor before the cabinet. "I'll begin at the bottom," he said. "If there is any spot I miss, tell me of it." He ran his fingers up and down the graceful legs, carefully feeling every inequality of the elaborate bronze ornamentation. Particularly did his fingers linger on every boss and point, striving to push it in or move it up or down; but they were all immovable. Then he examined the bottom of the table minutely, using his torch to illumine every crevice; but again without result. "It's trying work," he said, sitting down again and mopping his face. "But isn't it a beauty, Lester? The more I look at it, the more wonderful it seems." "I told Philip Vantine I wasn't up to it, and I'm not," I said. "Nor I, but I can appreciate it to the extent of my capacity. It's the Louis Fourteenth ideal of beauty--splendour carried to the nth degree. Look at the arabesques along the front--can you imagine anything more graceful? And the engraving--nothing cut-and-dried about that. It was done by a burin in the hands of a master--perhaps by Boule himself. I don't wonder Vantine was rather mad about it. But we haven't found that drawer yet," and he drew his chair close to the cabinet. "That's true," he agreed. "Stop me if I forget." "Well," said Godfrey, sitting back in his chair at last, and wiping his face again, "there's so much done. If there is any secret drawer in the lower part of the cabinet, it is mighty cleverly concealed. Now we'll try the upper part." "If there is a secret drawer here," said Godfrey, "it is somewhere in the back, where there seems to be a hollow space. But to discover the combination " He ran his fingers over the inlay, and then, struck by a sudden thought, tested each of the little figures along the tympanum, but they were all set solidly in place. "I can't pretend I'm sorry," I said, with a sigh of relief. "As far as I am concerned, I'm perfectly willing that the drawer should go undiscovered." "Well, I am not!" retorted Godfrey, curtly, and he sat regarding the cabinet with puckered brows. Then he rose and began tapping at the back. They were fixed upon Godfrey with such feverish intentness that they did not see my glance, and I lowered my head instantly. Godfrey did not answer for quite a minute, but kept calmly on with his examination of the cabinet. "Did he see you look at him?" he asked, at last. "No, he was looking at you, with his eyes almost starting out of his head. I never saw such eyes!" "Did you see anything of his face?" "How high is the hole?" "Near the top of the window." Godfrey came back to his chair a moment later, sat down in it, and passed his handkerchief slowly over his face. Then he leaned forward, apparently to examine the legs of the cabinet. "I saw him," he said. "Or, rather, I saw his eyes. Rather fierce, aren't they?" "They're a tiger's eyes," I said, with conviction. "Well, there is no use going ahead with this while he is out there. Even if we found the drawer, we'd both be dead an instant later." "I'll seek fame in some other way," I said drily. "What are you going to do about it?" "We've got to try to capture him; and if we do--well, we shall have the fame all right! But it's a good deal like trying to pick up a scorpion--we're pretty sure to get hurt. If that fellow out there is who I think he is, he's about the most dangerous man on earth." He went on tapping the surface of the cabinet. As for me, I would have given anything for another look at those gleaming eyes. They seemed to be burning into me; hot flashes were shooting up and down my back. "Why can't I go out as though I were going after something," I suggested. "Then Parks and I could charge around the corner and get him." "That would be pretty cowardly, wouldn't it?" I suggested, mildly. "My dear Lester," Godfrey protested, "when you attack a poisonous snake, you don't do it with bare hands, do you?" I couldn't help it--I glanced again at the window "He's gone!" I cried. "Look at that!" he said, "and then tell me he isn't a genius!" I followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw that, just opposite the opening in the shutter, a little hole had been cut in the window-pane. "That fellow foresees everything," said Godfrey, with enthusiasm. "He probably cut that hole as soon as it was dark. He must have guessed we were going to examine the cabinet to-night--and he wanted not only to see, but to hear. He heard everything we said, Lester!" "Let's go after him!" I cried, and, without waiting for an answer, I sprang across the ante-room and snatched open the door which led into the hall. "For God's sake, Mr. Lester!" gasped Rogers, and stopped, his hand at his throat. "Is it Mr. Godfrey?" cried Parks. "There's a man outside. Got your pistol, Parks?" "Yes, sir," and he took it from his pocket. I snatched it from him, opened the front door, leaped the railing, and stole along the house to the corner. Then, taking my courage in both hands, I charged around it. GODFREY IS FRIGHTENED I was still staring about me, that mocking laughter in my ears, when Godfrey joined me. "He got away, of course," he said coolly. "Yes, and I heard him laugh!" I cried. Godfrey looked at me quickly. "Come, Lester," he said, soothingly, "don't let your nerves run away with you." "It wasn't my nerves," I protested, a little hotly. "I heard it quite plainly. He can't be far away." "Too far for us to catch him," Godfrey retorted, and, torch in hand, proceeded to examine the window-sill and the ground beneath it. "There is where he stood," he added, and the marks on the sill were evident enough. "Of course he had his line of retreat blocked out," and he flashed his torch back and forth across the grass, but the turf was so close that no trace of footsteps was visible. We went slowly back to the house, and Godfrey sat down again to a contemplation of the cabinet. "I should say not! It would be like smashing the Venus de Milo." "Hardly so bad as that. But we won't smash it yet awhile. I'm going to look up the subject of secret drawers--perhaps I'll stumble upon something that will help me." "And then, of course," I said, disconsolately, "it is quite possible that there isn't any such drawer at all." But Godfrey shook his head decidedly. "I don't agree with you there, Lester. I'll wager that fellow who was looking in at us could find it in a minute." "He seemed mighty frightened lest you should." "Those shutters are pretty strong," I pointed out. "And Parks is no fool." He went to the 'phone, while I sat down again and looked at the cabinet in a kind of stupefaction. What was the intrigue, of which it seemed to be the centre? Who was this man, that Godfrey should consider him so formidable? Why should he have chosen Philip Vantine for a victim? Godfrey came back while I was still groping blindly amid this maze of mystery. "Heaven forbid!" I protested. "But perhaps I would better tell Parks to let you in. I hope I won't find you a corpse here, Godfrey!" "So do I! But I don't believe you will. Yes, tell Parks to let me in whenever I come around. And now about Rogers." "I rather thought I might want to grill him to-night. But perhaps I would better wait till I get a little more to go on." He paused for a moment's thought. "Yes; I'll wait," he said, finally. "I don't want to run any risk of failing." I confided this idea to Godfrey as we went down the front steps. "Yes," said Godfrey. "Mr. Simmonds told us to report to you, sir, if you were here." "Perhaps if they concealed themselves," I suggested, "the fellow might venture back and be nabbed." But Godfrey shook his head. And then I shivered a little as I recalled that mocking and ironic laughter. And I quickened my step, with a glance over my shoulder; for if Godfrey was afraid, how much more reason had I to be! It was with a sense of relief, of which I was a little ashamed, that I reached my apartment at the Marathon and locked the door. Just before I turned in for the night, I heard from Godfrey again, for my telephone rang, and it was his voice that answered. "I just wanted to tell you, Lester," he said, "that your guess was right. The mysterious Frenchman came over on _La Touraine_, landing at noon yesterday. He came in the steerage, and the stewards know nothing about him. What time was it he got to Vantine's?" "So he probably went directly there from the boat, as you thought. That accounts for nobody knowing him. The steamship company is holding a bag belonging to him. I'll get them to open it to-morrow, and perhaps we shall find out who he was." "But, Godfrey," I broke in, "how about this other fellow--the man with the burning eyes? He's getting on my nerves!" "Don't let him do that, Lester!" he laughed. "We're in no danger so long as we are not around that cabinet! That's the storm centre! I can't tell you more than that. Good-night!" and he hung up without waiting for me to answer. A DISTINGUISHED CALLER For Sereno Hornblower is the confidential attorney of most of our "best families." He has held that position for years, and it is said that no case placed unreservedly in his hands ever resulted in a public scandal. He accepts clients with great care; he has steadfastly refused the business of Pittsburgh millionaires, remunerative as it was certain to be; but he seems to take a sort of personal pride in keeping intact the reputations of the old families, even when their scions embark in the most outrageous escapades. If you are descended from the Pilgrims or the Patroons, Mr. Hornblower will ask no further recommendation. "Mr. Lester," he began, "I understand that you are the administrator of the estate of the late Philip Vantine?" "Our firm is," I corrected. "But you, personally, have been attending to his business?" "He was a collector of old furniture, I believe?" "And on his last trip to Europe, from which he returned only a few days ago, he purchased of Armand & Son, of Paris, a Boule cabinet?" I could not repress a start of astonishment. "Are you acting for Armand & Son?" I queried. "Not at all. I am acting for a lady whom, for the present, we will call Madame X." "Mr. Vantine did buy such a cabinet," I said. "And it is in your possession?" "That is what we supposed, and a cablegram from Armand & Son has since confirmed it." Mr. Hornblower pondered this for a moment. "Where is the cabinet which Mr. Vantine did buy?" he asked at last. "I have no idea. Perhaps it is still in Paris. But I am expecting a representative of the Armands to call very soon to straighten things out." Again my companion fell silent, and sat rubbing his chin absently. "There are a good many things which are strange about this whole matter," I supplemented. "Would you have any objection to my client seeing this cabinet, Mr. Lester?" It was my turn to hesitate. "Mr. Hornblower," I said, finally, "I will be frank with you. There is a certain mystery surrounding this cabinet which we have not been able to solve. I suppose you have read of the mysterious deaths of Mr. Vantine and of an unknown Frenchman, both in the same room at the Vantine house, and both apparently from the same cause?" "We believe so; though as yet we have been able to prove absolutely nothing. But we are guarding the cabinet very closely. I should not object to your client seeing it, but I could not permit her to touch it--not, at least, without knowing why she wished to do so. You will remember that you have told me nothing of why she is interested in it." "I am quite ready to tell you the story, Mr. Lester," he said. "It is only fair that I should do so. After you have heard it, if you agree, we will take Madame X. to see the cabinet." "Very well," I assented. He settled back in his chair, and his face became more grave. I nodded my agreement. I had by this time, of course, guessed the name of his client, since these details had long been a matter of public notoriety, and, I need hardly say, listened to the story with a heightened interest. He paused an instant and cleared his throat, and I realised that he was coming to the really delicate part of the story. I nodded again; there was really no need that he should say more. Only, I reflected, a faithless husband has no reason to complain if his wife repays him in the same coin! "I had thought of that, but the person who wrote these letters is dead." "He was killed in a duel some months ago," explained Mr. Hornblower, gravely. "By Monsieur X.?" I asked quickly. "By Monsieur X.," said Mr. Hornblower, and sat regarding me, his lips pursed, as an indication, perhaps, that he would say no more. But there was no necessity that he should. I knew enough of French law and of French habits of thought to realise that if those letters ever came into possession of Monsieur X., the game would be entirely in his hands. His wife would be absolutely at his mercy. And the thought flashed through my mind that perhaps in some way he had learned of the existence of the letters, and was trying desperately to get them. That thought was enough to swing the balance in his wife's favour. "Nothing except that he came from Havre on _La Touraine_ last Thursday, and drove from the dock direct to Vantine's house." "My client also came on _La Touraine_--but that, no doubt, was a mere coincidence." "That may be," I agreed, "but it is scarcely a coincidence that both he and your client were after the contents of that drawer." Mr. Hornblower rose abruptly. He was evidently much disturbed. "If she cares to take the risk," I assented. "Very well; I will call you as soon as I have seen her," he said. "In any event, I thank you for your courtesy," and he left the office. "Very well," I said, "I'll be ready. I shall, of course, want to take a witness with me." "Parks," I said, "I am bringing up some people to look at that cabinet. It might be just as well to get that cot out of the way and have all the lights going?" "The lights are already going, sir," he said. "Mr. Godfrey has been here for quite a while, sir, fooling with that cabinet thing." "He has!" and then I reflected that I ought to have guessed his whereabouts. "Tell him, Parks, that I am bringing some people up to see the cabinet, and that I should like him to stay there and be a witness of the proceedings." "Very well, sir," assented Parks. "Mr. Hornblower's carriage is below, sir," announced the office-boy, opening the door. "All right," I said. "We are coming right up, Parks. Good-bye," and I hung up and slipped into my coat. Then, as I took down my hat, a sudden thought struck me. If the unknown Frenchman was indeed an emissary of Monsieur X., Madame might be acquainted with him. It was a long shot, but worth trying! I stepped to my desk, took out the photograph which Godfrey had given me, and slipped it into my pocket. Then I hurried out to the elevator. "You spoke of a witness," he said. "He is at the Vantine house," I explained, and sat down beside him. "I did not know," she said, quickly. "Perhaps, after all, we would better wait. I did not realise " "There are no relatives to be hurt, madame," I interrupted. "As for the dead man, what can it matter to him?" and I rang the bell. "This is my witness," I said to the former. "Mr. Godfrey--Mr. Hornblower." Godfrey bowed, and Hornblower regarded him with a good-humoured smile. "If I were not sure of Mr. Godfrey's discretion," he said, "I should object. But I have tested it before this, and know that it can be relied upon." "Thank you," said the lawyer, and bowed gravely. During this interchange of compliments, the woman I had decided was the maid had sat down, as though her legs were unable to sustain her, and was nervously clasping and unclasping her hands; even her mistress showed signs of impatience. It stood in the middle of the floor, just as it had stood since the night of the tragedy, and all the lights were going. As I entered, I noticed Godfrey's gauntlet lying on a chair. She gazed at it a moment, her hands pressed against her breast. "Yes!" she answered, with a gasp that was almost a sob. "You are sure?" I queried incredulously. "A great risk?" she echoed, looking at me. "I believe Mr. Hornblower did tell me something of the sort," she murmured; "but of course that is all a mistake." "Then the drawer is not guarded by poison?" I questioned. "By poison?" she repeated blankly, and carried her handkerchief to her lips. "I do not understand." I knew that my theory was collapsing, utterly, hopelessly. I dared not look at Godfrey. "No, Mr. Lester," she answered, astonishment in her voice, "I assure you there is no such mechanism." "The mechanism may have been placed there since the cabinet passed from your possession," I suggested. "That is, perhaps, possible," she agreed, though I saw that she was unconvinced. "At any rate, madame," I said, "I would ask that, in opening the drawer, you wear this gauntlet," and I picked up Godfrey's gauntlet from the chair on which it lay. "It is needless that you should take any risk, however slight. Permit me," and I slipped the gauntlet over her right hand. As I did so, I glanced at Godfrey. He was staring at the veiled lady with such a look of stupefaction that I nearly choked with delight. It had not often been my luck to see Jim Godfrey mystified, but he was certainly mystified now! The veiled lady regarded the steel glove with a little laugh. "I am now free to open the drawer?" she asked. She moved toward the cabinet, Godfrey and I close behind her. At last the secret which had defied us was to be revealed. And with its revelation would come the end of the picturesque and romantic theory we had been building up so laboriously. Instinctively, I glanced toward the shuttered window, but the semi-circle of light was unobscured. The veiled lady bent above the table and disposed the fingers of her right hand to fit the metal inlay midway of the left side. There was a sharp click, and, at the side of the table, a piece of the metal inlay fell forward. "I shall be most happy!" she breathed. "Undoubtedly," she agreed. "There has never been any such weird mechanism as you described connected with that drawer, Mr. Lester. At least, not since I have had it. There is a legend, you know, that the cabinet was made for Madame de Montespan." She was talking more freely now; evidently a great load had been lifted from her--perhaps I did not guess how great! "Mr. Vantine suspected as much," I said. "He was a connoisseur of furniture, and there was something about this cabinet which told him it had belonged to the Montespan. He was examining it at the time he died. What the other man was doing, we do not know, but if we could identify him, it might help us." "You have not identified him?" "That is the boat upon which I came over." "It has occurred to me, madame, that you may have seen him--that he may even be known to you." "What was his name?" "The card he sent in to Mr. Vantine bore the name of Theophile d'Aurelle." "I have never before heard that name, Mr. Lester." "We believe it to have been an assumed name," I said; "but perhaps you will recognise this photograph," and I drew it from my pocket and handed it to her. She took it, looked at it, and again shook her head. Then she looked at it again, turning aside and raising her veil in order to see it better. "There seems to be something familiar about the face," she said, at last, "as though I might have seen the man somewhere." "On the boat, perhaps," I suggested, but I knew very well it was not on the boat, since the man had crossed in the steerage. "No; it was not on the boat. I did not leave my stateroom on the boat. But I am quite sure that I have seen him--and yet I can't say where." I saw her hand tremble under the blow, but it had to be struck. And she was brave. Photograph in hand, she stepped through the doorway into the outer room. The maid was sitting on the chair where we had left her; her hands clenched tightly together in her lap, as though it was only by some violent effort she could maintain her self-control. "Julie," said the veiled lady, in rapid French, "I have here the photograph of a man who was killed in this room most mysteriously a few days ago. These gentlemen wish to identify him. The face seems to me somehow familiar, but I cannot place it. Look at it." Julie put forth a shaking hand, took the photograph, and glanced at it; then, with a long sigh, slid limply to the floor, before either Godfrey or I could catch her. As she fell, her veil, catching on the chair-back, was torn away; and, looking down at her, a great emotion burst within me, for I recognised the mysterious woman whose photograph d'Aurelle had carried in his watch-case. THE SECRET OF THE UNKNOWN FRENCHMAN For a moment, I stood spell-bound, staring down at that jaded and passion-stained countenance; then Godfrey sprang forward and lifted the unconscious woman to the couch. "Bring some water," he said, and as he turned and looked at me, I saw that his face was glowing with excitement. I rushed to the door and snatched it open. Rogers was standing in the hall outside, and I sent him hurrying for the water, and turned back into the room. Godfrey was chafing the girl's hands, and the veiled lady was bending over her, fumbling at the hooks of her bodice. Evidently she could not see them, for, with a sudden movement, she put back her veil. My heart warmed to her at that act of sacrifice; and after a single glance at her, I turned away my eyes. I saw Godfrey's start of recognition as he looked down at her; then he, too, looked aside. "Here's the water, sir," said Rogers, and handed me glass and pitcher. Hornblower, who was staring at the unconscious woman and mopping his face feverishly, spun around at the crash. "Well, I'll be damned!" he said, in a hoarse voice, as he saw Rogers extended on the floor at his feet. "What's the matter with this house, anyway?" So great was the tension on my nerves that I could scarcely restrain a shout of laughter. I turned it into a shout for Parks; but his face, when he appeared on the threshold, was too much for me, and I sank into a chair, laughing hysterically. "For God's sake!" Parks began "It's all right," Godfrey broke in, sharply, "Rogers has had another fit. Get the ammonia!" Parks staggered away, and Mr. Hornblower sat down weakly. "I don't see the joke!" he growled, glaring at me, his face crimson. "Get a grip of yourself, Lester," said Godfrey, savagely, seized the pitcher from my hand, and hurried with it to madame. I _did_ get a grip of myself, and when Parks came back a moment later with the ammonia, was able to hold up Rogers's head, while Parks applied the phial to his nostrils. "Give me a whiff of it, too, Parks," I said, unsteadily, and in an instant my eyes were streaming; but I had escaped hysteria. "Straighten Rogers out and let him lie there," I gasped, and sat dizzily down upon the floor. But I dared not look at Hornblower. I felt that another glance at his dazed countenance would send me off again. "She will soon be all right again," she said; and, truly enough, at the end of a few seconds, the girl opened her eyes and looked dazedly about her. Then a violent trembling seized her. "What is it, Julie?" asked her mistress, taking her hand. "You knew this man?" A hoarse sob was the only answer. "You must tell me," went on madame, quietly but firmly. "Perhaps a crime has been committed. You must tell me everything. You may rely upon the discretion of these gentlemen. You knew this man?" The girl nodded, and closed her eyes; but the hot tears brimmed from them and ran down over her cheeks. The girl nodded again. "He was your lover?" "Madame will never forgive me!" sobbed the girl, and I began to think that she was more concerned for herself than for her lover. The same thought occurred to her mistress too, no doubt, for her voice hardened. "Try me," she said. "Understand well, you must tell--if not here, then before an officer of the police." "Oh, no, no!" screamed Julie, sitting suddenly erect. "Never that! I could not bear that! Madame would not be so cruel!" "Then tell us now!" said the veiled lady, inexorably. "Very well, madame!" cried the girl, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, and speaking in a mixture of French and English which I shall not attempt to transcribe. "I will tell; I will tell everything. After all, I was not to blame. It was that creature. I did not love him--but I feared him. He possessed a power over me. He could make me do anything. He even beat me! And still I went back to him!" "What was his name?" asked the veiled lady. She stopped and glanced at her mistress. "Continue!" said the latter. "Tell what you have to tell." "I knew that madame also " She stopped again. I walked over to the window and stood staring at the wooden shutter, strangely moved. "Well, why not?" she demanded fiercely, and I felt that she was addressing my turned back. "Why not? Shall a woman not be loved? Shall a woman endure what madame endured " "That will do, Julie," broke in the veiled lady, her voice cold as ice. "Tell your story." Her mistress stood as though turned to stone. I could guess her anguish and humiliation. "He questioned me--he learned everything--the drawer, how it was opened--all. But I did not suspect what was in his mind--not for an instant did I suspect. But on the boat I saw him, and then I knew. Well, he has got what he deserved!" She shivered and pressed her hands against her eyes. "I think that is all, madame," she added, hoarsely. "It is all of that story," said Godfrey, in a crisp voice; "but there is another." "Another?" echoed the veiled lady, looking at him. "Ask her, madame, for what purpose she called at this house, night before last, and saw Philip Vantine in this room." "I did not!" shrieked the girl, her face ablaze. "It is a lie!" "She does not need to tell!" went on Godfrey inexorably. "Any fool could guess. She came for the letters! She had resolved herself to blackmail you, madame!" A storm of angry sobbing choked her. I could see how the veiled lady was trembling. I placed a chair for her, and she sank into it with a murmur of thanks. "Besides, we have a witness to her visit," added Godfrey. "Shall I call the police, madame?" "No, no!" and the girl sat upright again, her face ghastly. "I will tell. I will tell all. Give me but a moment!" She sat there, struggling for self-control, her streaked and grotesque countenance contorted with emotion. Then I saw her eyes widen, and, glancing around, I saw that Rogers had dragged himself to a sitting posture, and was staring at her, his face livid. The sight of him seemed to madden her. "It was you!" she shrieked, and shook her clenched fist at him. "It was you who told! Coward! Coward!" But Godfrey, his face very grim, laid a heavy hand upon her arm. Rogers broke in with a hollow and ghastly laugh. "It was natural enough, sir," he said hoarsely. "She's my wife!" PHILIP VANTINE'S CALLER It was a sordid story that Rogers gasped out to us; and, as it concerns this tale only incidentally, I shall pass over it as briefly as may be. Julie had listened to all this indifferently, even disdainfully, without denying anything, nor seeking to excuse herself. Perhaps the idea that she needed excuse did not occur to her. And when the story was finished, she was quite herself again; even a little proud, I think, of holding the centre of the stage in the role of siren. It was almost a rejuvenescence, and there was gratitude in the gaze she turned on Rogers. "This is all true, I suppose?" asked the veiled lady. "All quite true, madame," answered Julie, with a shrug. "I was younger then and the love of excitement was too strong for me. I am older now, and have more sense--besides, I am no longer sought after as I was." "And so," said madame, with irony, "you are now, no doubt, willing to return to your husband." I glanced at Rogers and was astonished to see that he was regarding the woman with affectionate admiration. Evidently the harbour was waiting, should Julie choose to anchor there. "We will discuss it," said the veiled lady, "when we are alone. And now, perhaps, you will be so good as to tell us of your previous visit here." "To whom?" asked Godfrey. The veiled lady shivered a little, and her hand instinctively sought her bosom to assure herself that the precious packet was safe. She paused and glanced around the room, smiling at the interest in our faces. "It was not until evening that I found an opportunity to leave madame," Julie went on. "I hastened here; I rang the bell; but I confess I should have failed, I should not have secured an entrance, if it had not been that it was my husband who opened the door to me. Even after I was inside the door, he refused to permit me to see his master; but as we were debating together, M. Vantine himself came into the hall, and I ran to him and begged that he hear me. It was then that he invited me to enter this room." She paused again, and a little shiver of expectancy ran through me. At last we were to learn how Philip Vantine had met his death! "I sat down," continued Julie. "I told him the story from the very beginning. He listened with much interest; but when I proposed that he should restore to me the letters, he hesitated. He walked up and down the room, trying to decide; then he took me through that door into the room beyond. The cabinet was standing in the centre of the floor, and all the lights were blazing. "'Is that the cabinet?' he asked me, and when I said that most assuredly it was, he seemed surprised. "'Yes, it is the cabinet,' he said. 'I see that. And no doubt the drawer contains the letters, as you say. But those letters do not belong to you. They belong to your mistress. I cannot permit that you take them away, for, after all, I do not know you. You may intend to make some bad use of them.' "I protested that such a suspicion was most unjust, that my character was of the best, that I was devoted to my mistress and desired to protect her. He listened, but he was not convinced. In the end, he brought me back into this room. I could have cried with rage! "'Return to your mistress,' he said, 'and inform her that I shall be most happy to return the letters to her. But it must be in her own hands that I place them. The letters are here, whenever it pleases her to claim them." "I saw that it was of no use to argue further; he was of adamant. So I left the house, he himself opening the door for me. And that is all that I know, madame." There was a moment's silence; then I heard Godfrey draw a deep breath. I could see that, like myself, he was convinced that the girl was telling the truth. "Of course," he suggested gently, "as soon as you reached home you related to your mistress what had occurred?" Julie grew a little crimson. "No, monsieur," she said, "I told her nothing." "I should have thought you would have wished to prove your devotion," went on Godfrey, in his sweetest tone. "I feared that, without the letters, she would misunderstand my motives," said Julie, sullenly. "And then, of course, without the letters, there would be no reward," Godfrey supplemented. Julie did not reply, but she looked very uncomfortable. The veiled lady rose. "Have you any further questions to ask her?" she said. "No, madame," said Godfrey. "The story is complete." Julie resumed her veil, shooting at Godfrey a glance anything but friendly. The veiled lady turned to me and held out her hand. "I thank you, Mr. Lester, for your kindness," she said. "Come, Julie," and she moved toward the door, which Rogers hastened to open. Mr. Hornblower nodded and passed out after them, and Godfrey and I were left alone together. We both sat down, and for a moment neither of us spoke. "Well!" said Godfrey, at last. "Well! what a story it would make! And I can't use it! It's a bitter reflection, Lester!" "It would certainly shake the pillars of society," I agreed. "I'm rather shaken myself." I told him of Hornblower's visit, of the story he told me, and of the arrangement we had made. Godfrey nodded thoughtfully when I had finished. "The story is straight, of course," he said. "Hornblower would not be engaged in anything tricky. Besides, I recognised the lady. I suppose you did, too." "Yes, I have seen pictures of her. And I admired her for putting back her veil." He fell silent, staring thoughtfully at the carpet. Then he shook himself. "And the maid's story was most interesting," he added. "Nevertheless, there are still a number of things which are not quite clear to me." "That's it, exactly. How did it happen, when the veiled lady went to Armand & Son in Paris, that she was directed to Philip Vantine? According to his own story, he did not purchase this cabinet; he had never seen it before; it was presumably shipped him by mistake; Armand & Son cable you that it was a mistake; and yet they cite Vantine as the purchaser. There is something twisted somewhere, Lester; just where I'll try to find out." "Which reminds me that Armand's representative hasn't been around yet. No doubt he can straighten the matter out." "It won't do any harm to hear his story, anyway," Godfrey agreed. "Now let's have a look at that drawer." It was standing open as we had left it, and Godfrey pushed it back into place, called my attention to the cunning way in which its outline was concealed by the inlay about it. Then he worked the spring, the handle fell into place, and he drew the drawer out again, as far as it would come, and examined it carefully. "The fellow who devised that was a genius," he said, admiringly, pushing it back into place. "I wonder what its contents have been from the days of Madame de Montespan down to the present? Love letters, mostly, I suppose, since they are the things which need concealment most. Don't you wish this drawer could tell its secrets, Lester?" "It looks that way, doesn't it?" "There is no poisoned mechanism about that drawer--that's sure," I added. "No, and never has been," Godfrey agreed. "What makes you think that?" "We believe that Drouet came here to get Vantine's permission to open this drawer and get the letters, no doubt representing himself as the agent of their owner." "I think it's a pretty good guess," said Godfrey, pensively. "Yes, that's evident, I think," Godfrey agreed. "If he had opened the drawer, then, he would have taken the letters, since there was nothing to prevent him. Since they were not taken, it follows, doesn't it, that he was killed before he had a chance at the drawer? Perhaps he never saw the cabinet. He must have been killed out there in the ante-room, a few minutes after Parks left." "And how about Vantine?" Godfrey asked. "I don't know," I said, helplessly. "He didn't want the letters--if he opened the drawer at all, it was merely out of curiosity to see how it worked. Only, of course, the same agency that killed Drouet, killed him. Yes--and now that I think of it, it's certain he didn't open the drawer, either." "How do you know it's certain?" "If he had opened the drawer," I pointed out, "and been killed in the act of opening it, it would have been found open. I had thought that perhaps it closed of itself, but you see that it does not. You have to push it shut, and then snap the handle up into place." "That's true," Godfrey assented, "and it sounds pretty conclusive. If it is true of Vantine, it is also true of Drouet. The inference is, then, that neither of them opened the drawer. Well, what follows?" "I don't know," I said helplessly. "Nothing seems to follow." "There is an alternative," Godfrey suggested. "What is it?" I demanded. "The hand that killed Drouet and Vantine may also have closed the drawer," said Godfrey, and looked at me. "And left the letters in it?" I questioned. "Surely not!" He glanced at the shuttered window, and I understood to whom he thought that hand belonged. "No," he answered; "if you don't mind, I'll sit here a while longer and think things over, Lester. Perhaps I'll blunder on to the truth yet!" I got back to the office to find that M. Felix Armand, of Armand et Fils, had called, and, finding me out, had left his card with the pencilled memorandum that he would call again Monday morning. There was another caller, who had awaited my return--a tall, angular man, with a long moustache, who introduced himself as Simon W. Morgan, of Osage City, Iowa. "Poor Philip Vantine's nearest living relative, sir," he added. "I came as soon as possible." "You had a telegram from me?" He hitched about in his chair uneasily for a moment. I knew what he wanted to say, but saw no reason to help him. "He left a will, I suppose?" he asked, at last. "Oh, yes; we have arranged to probate it Monday. You can examine it then, if you wish." "Have you examined it?" "I am familiar with its provisions. It was drawn here in the office." He was pulling furiously at his moustache. "Cousin Philip was a very wealthy man, I understand," he managed to say. "Why not?" he asked. "Because he left them all to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Outside of a few legacies to old servants, he left his whole fortune to the same institution." I put it rather brutally, no doubt, but I was anxious to end the interview. Mr. Morgan's face grew very red. "He did!" he ejaculated. "Ha--well, I have heard he was rather crazy." "He was as sane as any man I ever knew," I retorted drily. And then I remembered the doubts which had assailed me that last day, when Vantine was fingering the Boule cabinet. But I kept those doubts to myself. "Ha--we'll have to see about that!" said my visitor, threateningly. "By all means, Mr. Morgan," I assented heartily. "If you have any doubt about it, you should certainly look into it. And now, if you will pardon me, I have many things to do, and we close early to-day." Few people, indeed, put themselves out for it. There was a sprinkling of old family friends, representatives of the museum and of various charities in which Vantine had been interested, a few friends of his own, and that was all. He had dropped out of the world with scarcely a ripple; of all who had known him, I dare say Parks felt his departure most. For Vantine had been, in a sense, a solitary man; not many men nodded oftener during a walk up the Avenue, and yet not many dined oftener alone; for there was about him a certain self-detachment which discouraged intimacy. He was a man, like many another, with acquaintances in every country on the globe, and friends in none. Then, too, the mystery of Vantine's death had a depressing effect upon me. So long as there seemed some theory to build on, so long as there was a ray of light ahead, I had hoped that the tragedy would be explained and expiated; but now my theory had crumbled to pieces; I was left in utter darkness, from which there seemed no way out. Never before, in the face of any mystery, had I felt so blind and helpless, and the feeling took such a grip upon me that it kept me awake for a long time after I got to bed. It seemed, in some mysterious way, that I was contending with a power greater than myself, a power threatening and awful, which could crush me with a turn of the wrist. "Gentleman to see you, sir," said the office-boy, as I sat down at my desk, and a moment later, M. Felix Armand was shown in to me. "I speak English very badly, sir," he said, as he sat down. "If you speak French " "It _was_ a mistake, then?" I asked. "Then Mr. Vantine's cabinet is still in Paris?" "No, Mr. Lester; the error was discovered some days ago and the cabinet belonging to Mr. Vantine was shipped to me here. It should arrive next Wednesday on _La Provence_. I shall myself receive it, and deliver it to Mr. Vantine." "Mr. Vantine is dead," I said. "You did not know?" He sat staring at me for a moment, as though unable to comprehend. "Did I understand that you said Mr. Vantine is dead?" he stammered. I told him briefly as much as I knew of the tragedy, while he sat regarding me with an air of stupefaction. "It is curious you saw nothing of it in the papers," I added. "They were full of it." "I am sorry to have caused you so much trouble," I said. "Yes, and death resulted from a small wound on the hand, into which some very powerful poison had been injected." "That is most curious. In what manner was such a wound made?" "That we don't know. I had a theory " "Yes?" he questioned, his eyes gleaming with interest. "A few hours previously, another man had been found in the same room, killed in the same way." "A stranger who had called to see Mr. Vantine. My theory was that both this stranger and Mr. Vantine had been killed while trying to open a secret drawer in the Boule cabinet. Do you know anything of the history of that cabinet, Monsieur Armand?" "Mr. Vantine was a connoisseur," said M. Armand, quietly. "There are certain indications which no connoisseur could mistake." "It was his guess at the history of the cabinet," I explained, "which gave me the basis for my theory. A cabinet belonging to Madame de Montespan would, of course, have a secret drawer; and, since it was made in the days of de Brinvilliers and La Voisin, what more natural than that it should be guarded by a poisoned mechanism?" "What more natural, indeed!" breathed my companion, and I fancied that he looked at me with a new interest in his eyes. "It is good reasoning, Mr. Lester." "It seemed to explain a situation for which no other explanation has been found," I said. "And it had also the merit of picturesqueness." "Perhaps you can assist us," I suggested, "for that theory of mine has been completely disproved." "Disproved? In what way?" he demanded. "The secret drawer has been found " "_Comment?_" he cried, his voice sharp with surprise. "Found? The secret drawer has been found?" "Yes, and there was no poisoned mechanism guarding it." He breathed deeply for an instant; then he pulled himself together with a little laugh. "Really," he said, "I must not indulge myself in this way. It is a kind of intoxication. But you say that the drawer was found and that there was no poison? Was the drawer empty?" "No, there was a packet of letters in it." "Delicious! Love letters, of a certainty! _Billets-doux_ from the great Louis to the Montespan, perhaps?" "No, unfortunately they were of a much more recent date. They have been restored to their owner. I hope that you agree with me that that was the right thing to do?" He sat for a moment regarding me narrowly, and I had an uneasy feeling that, since he undoubtedly knew of whom the cabinet had been purchased, he was reconstructing the story more completely than I would have wished him to do. "Since the letters have been returned," he said, at last, a little drily, "it is useless to discuss the matter. But no doubt I should approve if all the circumstances were known to me. Especially if it was to assist a lady." "It was," I said, and I saw from his face that he understood. "Then you did well," he said. "Has no other explanation been found for the death of Mr. Vantine and of this stranger?" "I think not. The coroner will hold his inquest to-morrow. He has deferred it in the hope that some new evidence would be discovered." "And none has been discovered?" "I have heard of none." "You do not even know who this stranger was?" "Oh, yes, we have discovered that. He was a worthless fellow named Drouet." "Yes, living in an attic in the Rue de la Huchette, at Paris." M. Armand had been gazing at me intently, but now his look relaxed, and I fancied that he drew a deep breath as a man might do when relieved of a burden. At the back of my brain a vague and shadowy suspicion began to form--a suspicion that perhaps M. Armand knew more of this affair than he had as yet acknowledged. "You did not, by any chance, know him?" I asked carelessly. "He was trying to get possession of the letters," I said. "Oh, so it was that!" and my companion nodded. "And in trying to get those letters, he was killed?" "Yes, but what none of us understands, M. Armand, is how he was killed. Who or what killed him? How was that poison administered? Can you suggest an explanation?" He sat for a moment staring thoughtfully out of the window. "I do not know with exactness. There may be some delay in getting the cabinet from the ship. Perhaps it would be better if I called for you?" "Very well," I assented. "Permit me to express again my apologies that such a mistake should have been made by us. Really, we are most careful; but even we sometimes suffer from careless servants. It desolates me to think that I cannot offer these apologies to Mr. Vantine in person. Till Wednesday, then, Mr. Lester." I PART WITH THE BOULE CABINET The coroner's inquest was held next day, and my surmise proved to be correct. The police had discovered practically no new evidence; none, certainly, which shed any light on the way in which Drouet and Philip Vantine had met death. Each of the witnesses told his story much as I have told it here, and it was evident that the jury was bewildered by the seemingly inextricable tangle of circumstances. To my relief, Drouet's identity was established without any help from me. The bag which he had left on the pier had been opened at the request of the police and a card-case found with his address on it. Why he had sent in to Vantine a card not his own, and what his business with Vantine had been, were details concerning which the police could offer no theory, and which I did not feel called upon to explain, since neither in any way made clearer the mystery of his death. An amusing incident of the inquest was the attempt made by Goldberger to heckle Godfrey, evidently at Grady's suggestion. "On the morning after the tragedy," Goldberger began sweetly, "you printed in the _Record_ a photograph which you claimed to be that of the woman who had called upon Mr. Vantine the night before, and who was, presumably, the last person to see him alive. Where did you get that photograph?" "Since then," pursued Goldberger, "you have made no further reference to that feature of the case. I presume you found out that you were mistaken?" "On the contrary, I proved that I was correct." Goldberger's face reddened, and his look was not pleasant. "'Prove' is rather a strong word, isn't it?" he asked. "It is the right word." "What was the woman's connection with the man Drouet?" "She had been his mistress." "You say that very confidently," said Goldberger, his lips curling. "After all, it is merely a guess, isn't it?" "I have reason to say it confidently," retorted Godfrey quietly, "since the woman confessed as much in my presence." Again Goldberger reddened. "I suppose she also confessed that it was really she who called upon Mr. Vantine?" he sneered. "She not only confessed that," said Godfrey, still more quietly, "but she told in detail what occurred during that visit." "The confession was made to yourself alone, of course?" queried Goldberger, in a tone deliberately insulting. Godfrey flushed a little at the words, but managed to retain his self-control. "Not at all," he said. "It was made in the presence of Mr. Lester and of another distinguished lawyer whose name I am not at liberty to reveal." Goldberger swallowed hard, as though he had received a slap in the face. I dare say, he felt as though he had! "This woman is in New York?" he asked. "What is her name and address?" "I am not at liberty to answer." Goldberger glared at him. "You _will_ answer," he thundered, "or I'll commit you for contempt!" Godfrey was quite himself again. "Very well," he said, smiling. "I have not the slightest objection. But I would think it over, if I were you. Mr. Lester will assure you that the woman was in no way connected with the death either of Drouet or of Mr. Vantine." Goldberger did think it over; he realised the danger of trying to punish a paper so powerful as the _Record_, and he finally decided to accept Godfrey's statement as a mitigation of his refusal to answer. "That will do," Goldberger broke in, and Godfrey left the stand. I was recalled to confirm his story. I, also, of course, refused to give the woman's name, explaining to Goldberger that I had learned it professionally, that I was certain she had been guilty of no crime, and that to reveal it would seriously embarrass an entirely innocent woman. With that statement, the coroner was compelled to appear satisfied. Godfrey joined me at the door as I was leaving, and we went down the steps together. "Yes," I said, "I know; but we're all up a tree, aren't we?" "For the present," laughed Godfrey, "we do occupy that undignified position. But you don't expect to stay there forever, do you, Lester?" "Since my theory about the Boule cabinet exploded," I said, "I have given up hope. By the way, I'm going to turn the cabinet over to its owner to-morrow." "To its owner?" he repeated, his eyes narrowing. "Yes, I thought he'd be around for it, though I hardly thought he'd come so soon. Who does it happen to be, Lester?" "Why," I said, a little impatiently, "you know as well as I do that it belongs to Armand & Son." "You've seen their representative, then?" he queried, a little flush of excitement which I could not understand spreading over his face. "I'd like to meet him," said Godfrey, smiling queerly. "Perhaps I shall, some day; I hope so, anyway. But how did he explain the blunder, Lester?" Godfrey listened intently to all this, and he nodded with satisfaction when I had finished. "It is all most interesting," he commented. "Did M. Armand happen to mention where he is staying?" "What time do you expect him to-morrow?" "Sometime in the afternoon. He's to call for me as soon as he gets Vantine's cabinet off the boat. Godfrey," I added, "I felt yesterday when I was talking with him that perhaps he knew more about this affair than he would admit. I could see that he guessed in an instant who the owner of the letters was, and what they contained. Do you think I ought to hold on to the cabinet a while longer? I could invent some pretext for delay, easily enough." "Why, no; let him have his cabinet," said Godfrey, with an alacrity that surprised me. "If your theory about it has been exploded, what's the use of hanging on to it?" "I don't see any use in doing so," I admitted, "but I thought perhaps you might want more time to examine it." "I have a sort of feeling," I explained, "that when we let go of the cabinet, we give up the only clue we have to this whole affair. It is like a confession of defeat." "Oh, no, it isn't," Godfrey objected. "If there is nothing more to be learned from the cabinet, there is no reason to retain it. I should certainly let M. Armand have it. Perhaps I'll see you to-morrow," he added, and we parted at the corner. But I did not see him on the morrow. I was rather expecting a call from him during the morning, and when none came, I was certain I should find him awaiting me when I arrived at the Vantine house, in company with M. Armand. But he was not there, and when I asked for him, Parks told me that he had not seen him since the day before. "I haven't seen Mr. Godfrey," Parks repeated, "but there's others here as it fair breaks my heart to see." "The cabinet is in the room across the hall," I said to M. Armand, and led the way through the ante-room into the room beyond. Parks switched on the lights for us, and my companion glanced with surprise at the heavy shutters covering the windows. "You did?" M. Armand queried quickly. "Would you recognise the man, if you were to meet him again?" "Oh, no; you see the hole is quite small. There was nothing visible except a pair of eyes. Yet I might know them again, for I never before saw such eyes--so bright, so burning. It was the night that Godfrey and I were trying to find the secret drawer, and those eyes gleamed like fire as they watched us." "Ah, yes, the secret drawer," he said. "Will you show me how it is operated, Mr. Lester? I am most curious about it." He examined it with much interest; pushed it back into place, and then opened it himself. He pushed it shut again, and examined the inlay around it. "My friend and I went over the cabinet very carefully and could not find it," I said. "Your friend--I think you mentioned his name?" "Yes--his name is Godfrey." "A man of the law, like yourself?" "Oh, no, a newspaper man. But he had been a member of the detective force before that. He is extraordinarily keen, and if anybody could have found that drawer, he could. But that combination was too much for him." M. Armand snapped the drawer back into place with a little crash. "I am glad, at any rate, that it _was_ discovered," he said. "I will not conceal from you, Mr. Lester, that it adds not a little to the value of the cabinet." "What is its value?" I asked. "Mr. Vantine wanted me to buy it for him, and named a most extravagant figure as the limit he was willing to pay." "Really," M. Armand answered, after an instant's hesitation, "I would not care to name a figure, Mr. Lester, without further consultation with my father. The cabinet is quite unique--the most beautiful, perhaps, that M. Boule ever produced. Did you discover Madame de Montespan's monogram?" "No. Mr. Vantine said he was sure it existed; but Godfrey and I did not look for it." M. Armand opened the doors which concealed the central drawers. "_Voila!_" he said, and traced with his finger the arabesque just under the pediment. "See how cunningly it has been blended with the other figures. And here is the emblem of the giver." He pointed to a tiny golden sun with radiating rays on the base of the pediment, just above the monogram. "_Le roi soleil!_" "_ Le roi soleil!_" I repeated. "Of course. We were stupid not to have discerned it. That tells the whole story, doesn't it? What is it, Parks?" I added, as that worthy appeared at the door. "There's a van outside, sir," he said, "and a couple of men are unloading a piece of furniture. Is it all right, sir?" "Yes," I answered. "Have them bring it in here. And ask the man in charge of the inventory to step over here a minute. Mr. Vantine left his collection of art objects to the Metropolitan Museum," I explained to M. Armand, "and I should like the representative of the museum to be present when the exchange is made." "Certainly," he assented. "That is very just." "I have no doubt it is all right, sir," the museum man hastened to assure me. "You, of course, have personal knowledge of all this?" "Certainly. Mr. Vantine himself told me the story." "Very well, sir," but his eyes dwelt lovingly upon the Boule cabinet. "That is a very handsome piece," he added. "I am sorry the museum is not to get it." "Perhaps you can buy it from M. Armand," I suggested, but the curator laughed and shook his head. "No," he said, "we couldn't afford it. But Sir Caspar might persuade Mr. Morgan to buy it for us--I'll mention it to him." "We shall be very pleased to have Mr. Morgan see it," said M. Armand, with a smile. "I will not conceal from you that we had already thought of him--as what dealer does not when he acquires something rare and beautiful? I shall endeavour to secure an appointment with him. Meanwhile " "Meanwhile the cabinet is yours," I said. But at last the packing was done, and M. Armand turned to me and held out his hand. "Thank you," I said. "I shall certainly remember that invitation. And meanwhile, since you are here in New York " "You are most kind," he broke in, "and I was myself hoping that we might at least dine together. But I am compelled to proceed to Boston this evening, and from there I shall go on to Quebec. Whether I shall get back to New York I do not know--it will depend somewhat upon Mr. Morgan's attitude; we would scarcely entrust a business so delicate to our dealer. If I do get back, I shall let you know." "Please do," I urged. "It will be a very great pleasure to me. Besides, I am still hoping that some solution of this mystery may occur to you." He shook his head with a little smile. "I fear it is too difficult for a novice like myself," he said. "It is impenetrable to me. If a solution is discovered, I trust you will inform me. It is certain to be most interesting." "I will," I promised, and we shook hands again. That my legs, without conscious effort of my own, should carry me up the Avenue and around the corner after the cab in which I had seen Godfrey was a foregone conclusion, and yet it was with a certain vexation of spirit that I found myself racing along, for I realised that Godfrey had not been entirely frank with me. Certainly he had dropped no hint of his intention to follow Armand; but, I told myself, that might very well have been because he deemed such a hint unnecessary. I might have guessed, in spite of his seeming unconcern, that he would not allow the cabinet to pass from his sight; if he had been willing for me to turn it over to Armand, it was only because he expected developments of some sort to follow that transfer. And it suddenly dawned upon me that even I did not know the cabinet's destination! It had not occurred to me to inquire where M. Armand proposed to take it, and he had volunteered no information. An instant later, I saw Godfrey and another man whom I recognised as Simmonds, come out of a shop across the street and dash over to the house into which the cabinet had been taken. They were standing on the door-step when I joined them. It was a dingy building, entirely typical of the dingy neighbourhood. The ground floor was occupied by a laundry which the sign on the front window declared to be French; and the room which the window lighted extended the whole width of the building except for a door which opened presumably on the stairway leading to the upper stories. Godfrey's face was flaming with excitement as he turned the knob of this door gently--gently. The door was locked. He stooped and applied an eye to the key-hole. "The key is in the lock," he whispered. Simmonds took from his pocket a pair of slender pliers and passed them over. "Now!" he said, softly opened the door and slipped inside. I followed, and Simmonds came after me like a shadow, closing the door carefully behind him. Then we all stopped, and my heart, at least, was in my mouth, for, from somewhere overhead, came the sound of a man's voice talking excitedly. Even in the semi-darkness, I could see the look of astonishment and alarm on Godfrey's face, as he stood for a moment motionless, listening to that voice. I also stood with ears a-strain, but I could make nothing of what it was saying; then suddenly I realised that it was speaking in French. And yet it was not Armand's voice--of that I was certain. Then the voice fell to a sort of low growling, as of a dog which worries its prey, and I caught a sound as of ripping cloth. Godfrey, on hands and knees, was peering into the room. Then he drew back and motioned us forward. I shall never forget the sight which met my eyes as I peeped cautiously around the corner of the door. The room into which I was looking was lighted only by the rays which filtered between the slats of a closed shutter. In the middle of the floor stood the Boule cabinet, and before it, with his back to the door, stood a man ripping savagely away the strips of burlap in which it had been wrapped, talking to himself the while in a sort of savage sing-song, and pausing from moment to moment to glance at a huddled bundle lying on the floor against the opposite wall. For a time, I could not make out what this bundle was, then, straining my eyes, I saw that it was the body of a man, wrapped round and round in some web-like fabric. Godfrey drew me back with a firm hand and took my place. As for me, I retreated to the stair, and sat there feverishly mopping my face and trying to understand. Who was this man? What was he doing there against the wall? What was the meaning of this ferocious scene Then my heart leaped into my throat, for Godfrey, with a sharp cry of "_Halte-la!_" sprang to his feet and dashed into the room, Simmonds at his heels. That scene is so photographed upon my brain that I have only to close my eyes to see it again in every detail. There was the cabinet with its wrappings torn away; but the figure on the floor had disappeared, and before an open doorway into another room stood a man, a giant of a man, his hands above his head, his face working with fear and rage, while Godfrey, his lips curling into a mocking smile, pressed a pistol against his breast. Then, as I stood there staring, it seemed to me that there was a sort of flicker in the air above the man's head, and he screamed shrilly. "_La mort!_" he shrieked. "_La mort!_" I have a confused remembrance of Godfrey stooping for an instant above the body, staring at it, and then, with a sharp cry, hurling himself through that open doorway. A door slammed somewhere, there was a sound of running feet, and before either Simmonds or myself understood what was happening, Godfrey was back in the room, crossed it at a bound, and dashed to the door opening into the hall, just as it was slammed in his face. "Come here, you fools!" cried Godfrey between clenched teeth. "Don't you see he's getting away!" Simmonds was quicker than I, and together they threw themselves at the door. It cracked ominously, but still held; again they tried, and this time it split from top to bottom. Godfrey kicked the pieces to either side and slipped between them, Simmonds after him. Then, in a sort of trance, I staggered to it, and after a moment's aimless fumbling, was out in the hall again. I reached the stairhead in time to see Godfrey try the front door, and then turn along the lower hall leading to the back of the house. An instant later, a chorus of frenzied women's shrieks made my hair stand on end. How I got down the stair I do not know; but I, too, turned back along the lower hall, expecting any instant to come upon I knew not what horror; I reached an open door, passed through it, and found myself in the laundry, in the midst of a group of excited and indignant women, who greeted my appearance with a fresh series of screams. Unable to go farther, I sat limply down upon a box and looked at them. I dare say the figure I made was ridiculous enough, for the screams gave place to subdued giggles; but I was far from thinking of my appearance, or of caring what impression I produced. And I was still sitting there when Godfrey came back, breathing heavily, chagrin and anger in his eyes. The employes of the laundry, conscious that something extraordinary was occurring, crowded about him, but he elbowed his way through them to the desk where the manager sat. "A crime has been committed upstairs," he said. "This gentleman with me is Mr. Simmonds, of the detective bureau," and at the words Simmonds showed his shield. "We shall have to notify headquarters," Godfrey went on, "and I would advise that you keep your girls at their work. I don't suppose you want to be mixed up in it." "Sure not," agreed the manager promptly, and while Simmonds went to the 'phone and called up police headquarters, the manager dismounted from his throne, went down among the girls, and had them back at their work in short order. Godfrey came over to me and laid his hand on my shoulder. "Why, Lester," he said, "you look as though you were at your last gasp." "I am," I said. "I'm going to have nervous prostration if this thing keeps up. You're not looking particularly happy yourself." Simmonds joined us with a twisted smile on his lips, and I saw that even he was considerably shaken. "I got Grady," he said, "and told him what had happened. He says he's too busy to come up, and that I'm to take charge of things." Godfrey laughed a little mocking laugh. "Grady foresees his Waterloo!" he said. "Well, it's not far distant. But I'm glad for your sake, Simmonds--you're going to get some glory out of this thing, yet!" "There can't anything be done for him," said Godfrey wearily; "but we'd better have a look at him, I guess," and he led the way out into the hall. Not until Simmonds spoke did I remember that I was shoeless. Now I sat down beside Godfrey, got fumblingly into my shoes again, and then followed him and Simmonds slowly up the stair. I thought I knew what was passing in Godfrey's mind: he was blaming himself for this latest tragedy; he was telling himself that he should have foreseen and prevented it; he always blamed himself in that way when things went wrong--and then, to have the murderer slip through his very fingers! I could guess what a mighty shock that had been to his self-confidence! The latest victim was lying where he had fallen, just inside the doorway leading into the inner room. Simmonds stepped to the window, threw open the shutters, and let a flood of afternoon sunshine into the room. Then he knelt beside the body, and held up the limp right hand for us to see. "I knew what it was the instant he yelled '_La mort!_'" said Godfrey quietly. "And _he_ knew what it was the instant he felt the stroke. It is evident enough that he had seen it used before, or heard of it, and knew that it meant instant death." And then a sudden thought brought me bolt upright. "But Armand!" I cried. "Where is Armand?" "What, Lester!" he said, "don't you understand, even yet? It was your fascinating M. Armand who did that," and he pointed to the dead man. I felt as though I had been struck a heavy blow upon the head; black circles whirled before my eyes "Go over to the window," said Godfrey, peremptorily, "and get some fresh air." Mechanically I obeyed, and stood clinging to the window-sill, gazing down at the busy street, where the tide of humanity was flowing up and down, all unconscious of the tragedy which had been enacted so close at hand. And, at last, the calmness of all these people, the sight of the world going quietly on as usual, restored me a portion of my self-control. But even yet I did not understand. "Was it Armand," I asked, turning back into the room, "who lay there in the corner?" "Certainly it was," Godfrey answered. "Who else could it be?" "Godfrey!" I cried, remembering suddenly. "Did you see his eyes as he lay there watching the man at the cabinet?" "They were the same eyes " "And the laugh--did you hear that laugh?" "Certainly I heard it." I fell silent a moment, shivering a little at the remembrance. "But why did Armand lie there so quietly?" I asked, at last. "Was he injured?" Godfrey made a little gesture toward the corner. "Go see for yourself," he said. Something lay along the wall, on the spot where I had seen that figure, and as I bent over it, I saw that it was a large net, finely meshed but very strong. "That was dropped over Armand's head as he came up the stairs," said Godfrey, "or flung over him as he came into the room. Then the dead man yonder jumped upon him and trussed him up with those ropes." Pushing the net aside, I saw upon the floor a little pile of severed cords. "Yes," I agreed; "he would be able to do that. Have you noticed his size, Godfrey? He was almost a giant!" "He couldn't have done it if Armand hadn't been willing that he should," retorted Godfrey, curtly. "You see he had no difficulty in getting away," and he held up the net and pointed to the great rents in it. "He cut his way out while he was lying there--I ought to have known--I ought to have known he wasn't bound--that he was only waiting--but it was all so sudden " He threw the net down upon the floor with a gesture of disgust and despair. Then he stopped in front of the Boule cabinet and looked down at it musingly; and, after a moment, his face brightened. The burlap wrappings had been almost wholly torn away, and the cabinet stood, more insolently beautiful than ever, it seemed to me, under the rays of the sun, which sparkled and glittered and shimmered as they fell upon it. "But we'll get him, Simmonds," said Godfrey, and his lips broke into a smile. "In fact, we've got him now. We have only to wait, and he'll walk into our arms. Simmonds, I want you to lock this cabinet up in the strongest cell around at your station; and carry the key yourself." "Lock it up?" stammered Simmonds, staring at him. "That'll be easy," laughed Simmonds. "I haven't got any reasons." Simmonds was staring at the speaker as though he thought he had suddenly gone mad. Indeed, the thought flashed through my own brain that the disappointment, the chagrin of failure, had been too much for Godfrey. He burst into laughter as he saw our faces. And with Armand, so finished, so self-poised, so distinguished, in my mind, and the body of his latest victim before my eyes, I nodded gloomily. "But who is he?" I asked. "Do you know who he is, Godfrey?" "There's the ambulance," broke in Simmonds, as a knock came at the street door, and he hurried down to open it. "Come on, Lester," and Godfrey hooked his arm through mine. "There's nothing more we can do here. We'll go down the back way. I've had enough excitement for the time being--haven't you?" "I certainly have," I agreed, and he led the way back along the hall to another stair, down it and so out through the laundry. "But, Godfrey, who is this man?" I repeated. "Why did he kill that poor fellow up there? Why did he kill Drouet and Vantine? How did he get into the Vantine house? What is it all about?" "Ah!" he said, looking at me with a smile. "That is the important question--what is it all about! But we can't discuss it here in the street. Besides, I want to think it over, Lester; and I want you to think it over. If I can, I'll drop in to-night to see you, and we can thresh it out! Will that suit you?" "Yes," I said; "and for heaven's sake, don't fail to come!" GODFREY WEAVES A ROMANCE I had begun to fear that Godfrey was going to disappoint me, so late it was before his welcome knock came at my door that night. I hastened to let him in, and I could tell by the sigh of relief with which he sank into a chair that he was thoroughly weary. "It does me good to come in here occasionally and have a talk with you, Lester," he said, accepting the cigar I offered him. "I find it restful after a hard day," and he smiled across at me good-humouredly. "It isn't only lack of motive which makes it mysterious," I commented; "it's everything about it. I can't understand either why it was done or how it was done. When I get to thinking about it, I feel as though I were wandering around and around in a maze, from which I can never escape." "Oh, yes, you'll escape, Lester," said Godfrey, quietly, "and that before very long." "'Know' is perhaps a little strong. There isn't much in this world that we really know. Suppose we say that I strongly suspect." He paused a moment, his eyes on the ceiling. "You know you've accused me of romancing sometimes, Lester--the other evening, for instance; yet that romance has come true." "I take it all back," I said, meekly. "There's another thing these talks do," continued Godfrey, going off rather at a tangent, "and that is to clarify my ideas. You don't know how it helps me to state my case to you and to try to answer your objections. Your being a lawyer makes you unusually quick to see objections, and a lawyer is always harder to convince of a thing than the ordinary man. You are accustomed to weighing evidence; and so I never allow myself to be convinced of a theory until I have convinced you. Not always, even then," he added, with a smile. "Simply because I had found out he wasn't Armand. Felix Armand is in Paris at this moment. You were too credulous, Lester." "Why, I never had any doubt of his being Armand," I stammered. "He knew about my cablegram--he knew about the firm's answer " "Of course he did, because your cable was never received by the Armands, but by a confederate in this fellow's employ; and it was that confederate who answered it. Our friend, the unknown, foresaw, of course, that a cable would be sent the Armands as soon as the mistake was discovered, and he took his precautions accordingly." "Then you still believe that the cabinet was sent to Vantine by design and not by accident?" "Absolutely. It was sent by the Armands in good faith, because they believed that it had been purchased by Vantine--all of which had been arranged very carefully by the Great Unknown." "Tell me how you know all this, Godfrey," I said. "But I don't understand!" I stammered. "Vantine told me himself that he did not buy that cabinet." "Nor did he. But somebody bought it in his name and directed that it be sent forward to him." "Rather an expensive present," I said, feebly, for my brain was beginning to whirl again. "But what was his object? Was he trying to evade the duty?" "Oh, nothing so small as that! Besides, he would have had to refund the duty to Vantine. Did he refund it to you?" "And he accomplished all this by means of a confederate in the employ of the Armands?" I paused to think this over; and then a sudden impatience seized me. "That's all clear enough," I said. "The cabinets might have been exchanged just as you say they were--no doubt you are right--but all that doesn't lead us anywhere. Why were they exchanged? What is there about that Boule cabinet which makes this unknown willing to do murder for it? Does he think those letters are still in it?" "He knows they are not in it now--you told him. Before that, he knew nothing about the letters. If he had known of them, he would have had them out before the cabinet was shipped." "I see no reason to believe that he was ever inside the Vantine house," said Godfrey quietly; "that is, until you took him there yourself this afternoon." "But, look here, Godfrey," I protested, "that's nonsense. He must have been in the house, or he couldn't have killed Vantine and Drouet." "Who said he killed them?" "If he didn't kill them, who did?" "Well," Godfrey answered, at last, "now I'm going to romance a little. We will return to your fascinating friend, Armand, as we may as well call him for the present. He is an extraordinary man." "No doubt of it," I agreed. "Of course he is. That's why he's so dangerous. An ignorant criminal is never dangerous--it's the ignorant criminals who fill the prisons. But look out for the educated, accomplished ones. It takes brains to be a great criminal, Lester, and brains of a high order." "But why should a man with brains be a criminal?" I queried. "If he can earn an honest living, why should he be dishonest?" "No doubt of it," I agreed. "It certainly would!" I agreed. "Go ahead with your romance." I was listening intently now, as you may well believe, for I began to see whither the romance was tending. "But," I questioned, "what act of treachery was it that Armand feared?" "The opening of the secret drawer." "Then you still believe in the poisoned mechanism?" "I certainly do. The tragedy of this afternoon proves the truth of the theory." "I don't see it," I said, helplessly. "Why, Lester," protested Godfrey, "it's as plain as day. Who was that bearded giant who was killed? The traitor, of course. We will find that he was a member of Armand's gang. He followed Armand to America, lay in wait for him, caught him in the net and bound him hand and foot. Do you suppose for an instant that Armand was ignorant of his presence in that house? Do you suppose he would have been able to take Armand prisoner if Armand had not been willing that he should?" "I don't see how Armand could help himself after that fellow got his hands on him." "That is true," I said, thoughtfully. I lay back in my chair with a gasp of amazement and admiration. I had been blind not to see it! Armand had merely to lie still and permit the traitor to walk into the trap prepared for him. No wonder his eyes had glowed as he lay there watching that frenzied figure at the cabinet! "But why?" I asked. "Why?" "To seal his lips. If we had captured him, do you suppose Armand's secret would have been safe for an instant? So he had to kill him--he had to kill him with the poisoned barb--and he _did_ kill him, and got away into the bargain! Never in my life have I felt so like a fool as when that door was slammed in my face!" "Perhaps he had that prepared, too," I suggested timidly, ready to believe anything of this extraordinary man. "Perhaps he knew that we were there, all the time." "But it's incredible!" I protested feebly. "It's incredible!" "Nothing is incredible in connection with that man!" "But the risk--think of the risk he ran!" "What does he care for risks? He despises them--and rightly. He got away, didn't he?" "Yes," I said, "he got away; there's no question of that, I guess." "Well, that is the story of this afternoon's tragedy, as I understand it," proceeded Godfrey, more calmly. "And now I'm going to leave you. I want you to think it over. If it doesn't hold together, show me where it doesn't. But it _will_ hold together--it _has_ to--because it's true!" "But how about Armand?" I protested. "Aren't you going to try to capture him? Are you going to let him get away?" "He won't get away!" and Godfrey's eyes were gleaming again. "We don't have to search for him; for we've got our trap, Lester, and it's baited with a bait he can't resist--the Boule cabinet!" "But he knows it's a trap." "Of course he knows it!" "And you really think he will walk into it?" I asked incredulously. "He's no such fool," I said. "No man is such a fool as that. He'll give it up and go quietly back to Paris." And he went away down the hall, leaving me staring after him. "CROCHARD, L'INVINCIBLE!" "But a man would be a fool to attempt to get to that cabinet," I protested. "It's simply impossible." "It looks impossible, I'm free to admit," he agreed. "But, just the same, I wake every morning cold with fear, and run to the 'phone to make sure the cabinet's safe. If I could think of any further safeguards, I would certainly employ them." I looked at Godfrey searchingly, for it seemed to me that he must be jesting. He smiled as he caught my glance. "I was never more in earnest in my life, Lester," he said. "You don't appreciate this fellow as I do. He's a genius; nothing is impossible to him. He disdains easy jobs; when he thinks a job is too easy, he makes it harder, just as a sporting chance. He has been known to warn people that they kept their jewels too carelessly, and then, after they had put them in a safer place, he would go and take them." "That seems rather foolish, doesn't it?" I queried. "Not from his point of view. He doesn't steal because he needs money, but because he needs excitement." "You know who he is, then?" I demanded. I pointed out to him now that, if his intuitions were correct, he would soon have a chance to match his wits with those of the Great Unknown. "I shouldn't consider you exactly a tyro," I said, drily. "It's long odds that the Great Unknown will," Godfrey retorted, and bade me good-bye. I could see by the way his eyes were shining that he had something unusual to tell me; and then, as he looked at me, his face changed. "What's the matter, Lester?" he demanded. "You're looking fagged out. Working too hard?" "It's not that," I said. "I can't sleep. This thing has upset my nerves, Godfrey. I dream about it--have regular nightmares." He sat down opposite me, concern and anxiety in his face. "A rest wouldn't do me any good, as long as this mystery is unsolved," I said. "It's only by working that I can keep my mind off of it." "I know who the Great Unknown is, and I'm going to tell you presently. Day after to-morrow--Wednesday--I'll know all the rest. The whole story will be in Thursday morning's paper. Suppose you arrange to start Thursday afternoon." I could only stare at him. He smiled as he met my gaze. "You're looking better already," he said, "as though you were taking a little more interest in life," and he helped himself to a cigar. "Godfrey," I protested, "I wish you would pick out somebody else to practise on. You come up here and explode a bomb just to see how high I'll jump. It's amusing to you, no doubt, and perhaps a little instructive; but my nerves won't stand it." "My dear Lester," he broke in, "that wasn't a bomb; that was a simple statement of fact." "But how do you know " "Yes," I answered, after a moment's thought; "I believe I did. I was telling him about our trying to find the secret drawer--I mentioned your name--and he asked who you were. I told him you were a genius at solving mysteries." "You said a while ago that you would know all about this affair day after to-morrow." "How do you know you will?" "Because I have received a letter which sets the date," and he took from his pocket a sheet of paper and handed it over to me. "Read it!" "I have been highly flattered by your interest in the affaire of the cabinet Boule, and admire most deeply your penetration in arriving at a conclusion so nearly correct regarding it. I must thank you, also, for your kindness in keeping me informed of the measures which have been taken to guard the cabinet, and which seem to me very complete and well thought out. I have myself visited the station and inspected the cell, and I find that in every detail you were correct. "It is because I so esteem you as an adversary that I tell you, in confidence, that it is my intention to regain possession of my property on Wednesday next, and that, having done so, I shall beg you to accept a small souvenir of the occasion. "Most cordially yours, I looked up to find Godfrey regarding me with a quizzical smile. "Of course it's a joke," I said. Then I looked at him again. "Surely, Godfrey, you don't believe this is genuine!" "Yes; on his card; I have it here!" and with trembling fingers, I got out my pocket-book and drew the card from the compartment in which I had carefully preserved it. "What a fiend he must be!" I said, with a shudder. But Godfrey shook his head quickly. "But Drouet and Vantine," I objected. "An accident for which he was in no way responsible," said Godfrey promptly. "I can't understand a man like that," I said. "Well, look at this," said Godfrey, and tapped the letter again. "He honours me by considering me an adversary. Does he seek to remove me? On the contrary, he gives me a handicap. He takes off his queen in order that it may be a little more difficult to mate me!" "But, surely, Godfrey," I protested, "you don't take that letter seriously! If he wrote it at all, he wrote it merely to throw you off the track. If he says Wednesday, he really intends to try for the cabinet to-morrow." "I don't think so. I told you he would think me only a tyro. And, beside him, that is all I am. Do you know where he wrote that letter, Lester? Right in the _Record_ office. That is a sheet of our copy paper. He sat down there, right under my nose, wrote that letter, dropped it into my box, and walked out. And all that sometime this evening, when the office was crowded." "But it's absurd for him to write a letter like that, if he really means it. You have only to warn the police " "You'll notice he says it is in confidence." "And you're going to keep it so?" "It is not the sort of confidence the law recognises," I pointed out. "To keep a confidence like that is practically to abet a felony." "And yet you will keep it," said Godfrey cheerfully. "You see, I am going to do everything I can to prevent that felony. And we will see if Crochard is really invincible!" "I'll keep it," I agreed, "because I think the letter is just a blind. And, by the way," I added, "I have a letter from Armand & Son confirming the fact that their books show that the Boule cabinet was bought by Philip Vantine. Under the circumstances, I shall have to claim it and hand it over to the Metropolitan." "I hope you won't disturb it until after Wednesday," said Godfrey, quickly. "I won't have any interest in it after that." "You really think Crochard will try for it Wednesday?" I shrugged my shoulders. What was the use of arguing with a man like that? I was just getting ready to leave the office the next afternoon when Godfrey called me up. "How are you feeling to-day, Lester?" he asked. "Not as fit as I might," I said. "Have you arranged to start on that vacation Thursday?" "I don't think that's a good joke, Godfrey." "It isn't a joke at all. I want you to arrange it. But meanwhile, how would you like a whiff of salt air this evening?" "Will I!" I said. "Where shall I meet you?" "I'll be there," I promised. And I was. The boat was cast loose as soon as we got aboard, backed out into the busy river, her whistle shrieking shrilly, then swung about and headed down stream. It was a fast boat--the _Record_, which prided itself on outdistancing its contemporaries in other directions, would of course try to do so in this--and when she got fairly into her stride, with her engines throbbing rhythmically, the shore on either hand slipped past us rapidly. Godfrey joined me presently, and we stood for some time looking at this scene in silence. "Don't know, sir," answered the captain, after a look through his glasses. "Private yacht--can't make out her name--there's a flag or something hanging over the stern. She's flying the French flag. There come the other press boats behind us, sir," he added. "And there's the _Savoie_ just slowing down at quarantine." Far ahead we could see the great hull of the liner, dark against the horizon, and crowned with row upon row of glowing lights. "And yet she's not an especially big boat, either," said Godfrey. "To swing in under the really big ones--like the _Olympic_--is an experience to remember." "There go the doctors," said Godfrey. "And there is that French boat going alongside." "I should like to see M. Pigot, of the Paris _Service du Surete_" he said. "Perhaps you will be so kind as to have a steward take my card to him?" "That is unnecessary, sir," replied the purser, courteously. "That is M. Pigot yonder--the gentleman with the white hair, with his back to us. You will have to wait for a moment, however; the gentleman speaking with him is from the French consulate, and has but this moment come aboard." "Yes, but meanwhile my esteemed contemporaries will arrive," said Godfrey, with a grimace. "They are on my heels--here they are now!" "I move we storm his castle," suggested the _World_ man. And just then, M. Pigot himself stepped out into the companionway. In an instant he was surrounded. It was to Godfrey that the position of spokesman naturally fell. "You are most kind," responded the Frenchman, with a charming smile. "I am sure that I shall find it most interesting--especially your wonderful city, of which I have heard many marvellous things." M. Pigot spread out his hands with a little deprecating gesture. He spoke with an accent so sincere that I was almost convinced he meant every word of it; but Godfrey only smiled. "It is a proverb," he said, "that the French police are the best in the world. You, no doubt, have a theory in regard to the death of these men?" I could hear behind me the little indrawn breath of disappointment at the failure of the direct attack. M. Pigot's position was, of course, absolutely correct; but nevertheless Godfrey prepared to attack it on the flank. "You are going ashore to-night?" he inquired. "I was expecting a representative of your bureau to meet me here," M. Pigot explained. "I was hoping to return with him to the city. I have no time to lose. In addition, the more quickly we get to work, the more likely we shall be to succeed. Ah! perhaps that is he," he added, as a voice was heard inquiring loudly for Moosseer Piggott. I recognised that voice, and so did Godfrey, and I saw the cloud of disappointment which fell upon his face. An instant later, Grady, with Simmonds in his wake, elbowed his way through the group. "Moosseer Piggott!" he cried, and enveloped the Frenchman's slender hand in his great paw, and gave it a squeeze which was no doubt painful. M. Pigot's perfect suavity was not even ruffled. "I am most pleased to meet you, sir; and you Monsieur Simmon," he said. "Yes--I speak English--though, as you see, with some difficulty." "These reporters bothering your life out, I see," and Grady glanced about the group, scowling as his eyes met Godfrey's. "Now you boys might as well fade away. You won't get anything out of either of us to-night--eh, Moosseer Piggott?" "Then let's go somewhere and have a drink," suggested Grady. "All right," agreed Grady. "And after I've looked over your papers, I'll show you Broadway, and I'll bet you agree with me that it beats anything in gay Paree. Our boat's waiting, and we can start right away. This your bag? Yes? Bring it along, Simmonds," and Grady started for the stair. But the attentive steward got ahead of Simmonds. M. Pigot turned to us with a little smile. He shook hands with the purser, waved his hand to us, and joined Grady, who was watching these amenities with evident impatience. Together they disappeared down the stair. "A contrast in manners, was it not, gentlemen?" asked Godfrey, looking about him. "Didn't you blush for America?" The men laughed, for they knew he was after Grady, and yet it was evident enough that they agreed with him. "Come on, Lester," he added; "we might as well be getting back. I can send the boat down again after the other boys," and he turned down the stair. THE SECRET OF THE CABINET Often as I have seen it, Broadway at night is still a fascinating place to me, with its blazing signs, its changing crowds, its clanging street traffic, its bright shop-windows. Grady was right in saying that "gay Paree" had nothing like it; nor has any other city that I know. It is, indeed, unique and thoroughly American; and I walked along it that night in the most leisurely fashion, savouring it to the full; pausing, now and then, for a glance at a shop-window, and stopping at the Hoffman House--now denuded, alas! of its Bouguereau--to replenish my supply of cigarettes. "Hello, Lester," said Simmonds, in a voice which showed that he had not wholly escaped the influences of the evening's celebration; and even Grady condescended to nod, from which I inferred that he was feeling very unusually happy. "Hello, Simmonds," I answered, and, as I turned westward with them, he dropped back and; fell into step beside me. "Piggott is certainly a wonder," he said. "A regular sport--wanted to see everything and taste everything. He says Paris ain't in the same class with this town." "Where are you going now?" I asked. "We're going round to the station. Piggott says he's got a sensation up his sleeve for us--it's got something to do with that cabinet." "Yes--that shiny thing Godfrey got me to lock up in a cell." "Simmonds," I said, seriously, "does Godfrey know about this?" "No," said Simmonds, looking a little uncomfortable. "I told Grady we ought to 'phone him to come up, but the chief got mad and told me to mind my own business. Godfrey's been after him, you know, for a long time." "Suppose I 'phone him," I suggested. "There'd be no objection to that, would there?" "_I_ won't object," said Simmonds, "and I don't know who else will, since nobody else will know about it." "All right. And drag out the preliminaries as long as you can, to give him a chance to get up here." "I'll do what I can," he agreed, "but I don't see what good it will do. The chief won't let him in, even if he does come up." "We'll have to leave that to Godfrey. But he ought to be told. He's responsible for the cabinet being where it is." "I know he is, and Piggott says it was a mighty wise thing to put it there, though I'm blessed if I know why. Hurry Godfrey along as much as you can. Good-night," and he followed his companions into the station. No, said a supercilious voice, Mr. Godfrey was not there; he had left some time before; no, the speaker did not know where he was going, nor when he would be back. "Look here," I said, "this is important. I want to talk to the city editor--and be quick about it." There was an instant's astonished silence. "What name?" asked the voice. "Lester, of Royce and Lester--and you might tell your city editor that Godfrey is a close friend of mine." The city editor seemed to understand, for I was switched on to him a moment later. But he was scarcely more satisfactory. "We sent Godfrey up into Westchester to see a man," he said, "on a tip that looked pretty good. He started just as soon as he got his Pigot story written, and he ought to be back almost any time. Is there a message I can give him?" "Very good. I'll give him the message the moment he comes in." In the street again, I paused hesitatingly at the curb, my eyes on the red light of the police station. What was about to happen there? What was the sensation M. Pigot had up his sleeve? Had I any excuse for being present? "My name is Lester," I said. "You have a cabinet here belonging to the estate of the late Philip Vantine." "We've got a cabinet, all right; but I don't know who it belongs to." "It belongs to Mr. Vantine's estate." "Well, what about it?" he asked, looking at me to see if I was drunk. "You haven't come in here at midnight to tell me that, I hope?" "No; but I'd like to see the cabinet a minute." "You can't see it to-night. Come around to-morrow. Besides, I don't know you." "Here's my card. Either Mr. Simmonds or Mr. Grady would know me. And to-morrow won't do." The sergeant took the card, looked at it, and looked at me. "Come along," he said, opening the gate in the railing and motioning me through. "Straight on through that door," he added, and sat down again at his desk. With a desperate effort at careless unconcern, I opened the door and passed through. Then, involuntarily, I stopped. For there, in the middle of the floor, was the Boule cabinet, with M. Pigot standing beside it, and Grady and Simmonds sitting opposite, flung carelessly back in their chairs, and puffing at black cigars. They all looked at me as I entered, Pigot with an evident contraction of the brows which showed how strongly his urbanity was strained; Simmonds with an affectation of surprise, and Grady with a bland and somewhat vacant smile. My heart rose when I saw that smile. "Well, Mr. Lester," he said, "so you want to see this cabinet?" "Yes," I answered; "it really belongs to the Vantine estate, you know; I'm going to put in a claim for it--that is, if you are not willing to surrender it without contest." "Did you just happen to think of this in the middle of the night?" he inquired quizzically. I hastily sought a chair, my heart singing within me. Then I attempted to assume a mask of indifference, for M. Pigot was obviously annoyed at my presence, and I feared for a moment that his Gallic suavity would be strained to breaking. But Grady, if he noticed his guest's annoyance, paid no heed to it; and I began to suspect that the Frenchman's courtesy and good-breeding had ended by rubbing Grady the wrong way, they were in such painful contrast to his own hob-nailed manners. Whatever the cause, there was a certain malice in the smile he turned upon the Frenchman. "And now, Moosseer Piggott," he said, settling back in his chair a little farther, "we're ready for the show." "What I have to tell you, sir," began M. Pigot, in a voice as hard as steel and cold as ice, "has, understand well, to be told in confidence. It must remain between ourselves until the criminal is secured." Grady's smile hardened a little. Perhaps he did not like the imperatives. At any rate, he ignored the hint. "Understand, Mr. Lester?" he asked, looking at me, and I nodded. I saw Pigot's eyes flame and his face flush with anger, for Grady's tone was almost insulting. For an instant I thought that he would refuse to proceed; but he controlled himself. "The story which I have to relate," he began in his careful English, clipping his words a little now and then, "has to do with the theft of the famous Michaelovitch diamonds. You may, perhaps, remember the case." M. Pigot paused and passed his hand across his forehead. "We were at a loss to understand Crochard's connection with Drouet," M. Pigot continued. "Drouet, while a mere hanger-on of the cafes of the boulevards, was not a criminal. Then came the death of that creature Morel, in an effort to gain possession of this cabinet, and we began to understand. We made inquiries concerning the cabinet; we learned its history, and the secret of its construction, and we arrived at a certain conclusion. It was to ascertain if that conclusion is correct that I came to America." "What is the conclusion?" queried Grady, who had listened to all this with a manifest impatience in strong contrast to my own absorbed interest. THE MICHAELOVITCH DIAMONDS Some such vision as this, I say, passed before my eyes, and I had a feeling that M. Pigot shared in it; but, after an instant, he turned back to the cabinet. "Now, M. Simmon," he said, briskly, in an altered voice, "if you will have the kindness to hold the drawer for a moment in this position, I will draw the serpent's fangs. There is not the slightest danger," he added, seeing that Simmonds very naturally hesitated. Thus assured, Simmonds grasped the handle of the drawer, and held it open, while the Frenchman took from his pocket a tiny flask of crystal. "Enough to decimate France," he said, screwed the stopper carefully into place, and put the flask in his pocket. "Release the drawer, if you please, monsieur," he added to Simmonds. It sprang back into place on the instant, the arabesqued handle snapping up with a little click. Not until that instant had I thought of what the drawer contained; I had been too fascinated by the poisoned fangs and by the story told so quietly but so effectively by the French detective; but now I perceived that the drawer was filled with little rolls of cotton, which had been pressed into it quite tightly. He went out and came back presently with a small valise. "This will do," he said. "Stow 'em away, and I'll call up the bank and arrange for the box." Simmonds and Pigot rolled up the packets carefully and placed them in the valise, while I sat watching them in a kind of daze. And I understood the temptation which would assail a man in the presence of so much beauty. It was not the value of the jewels which shook and dazzled me--I scarcely thought of that; it was their seductive brilliance, it was the thought that, if I possessed them, I might take them out at any hour of the day or night and run my fingers through them and watch them shimmer and quiver in the light. "The Grand Duke Michael must have been considerably upset," remarked Simmonds, who, throughout all this scene, had lost no whit of his serenity of demeanour. "Why didn't he offer a reward for their return?" queried Simmonds. "Oh, he did," said M. Pigot. "He offered immediately his whole fortune for their return. But his fortune was not large enough to tempt Crochard, for the Grand Duke really has nothing but the income from his family estates, and you may well believe that he spends all of it. It will be a great joy to him that we have found them." The thought flashed through my mind that doubtless M. Pigot was in the way of receiving a handsome present. "There they are," said Simmonds, and closed the bag with a snap, as Grady came in again. The same thought was in my own mind, for Crochard must have learned of M. Pigot's arrival; and I could scarcely imagine that he would sit quietly by and permit the jewels to be taken away from him--to say nothing of his chagrin over his unfulfilled boast to Godfrey. So I was relieved that Grady was wise enough to take no risk. "You'd better get a receipt," Grady went on, "and arrange that the valise is to be delivered only when you and Moosseer Piggott appear together. That will be satisfactory, moosseer?" he added, turning to the Frenchman. "Very well, then; I'll see you in the morning. I congratulate you on the find. It was certainly great work." "I thank you, sir," replied M. Pigot, gravely. "Au revoir, monsieur," and with a bow to me, he followed Simmonds into the outer room. Grady sat down and got out a fresh cigar. "Well, Mr. Lester," he said, as he struck a match, "what do you think of these Frenchmen, anyway?" "They're marvellous," I said. "Even yet I can't understand how he knew so much." "Maybe he was just guessing at some of it," Grady suggested. "I thought of that; but I don't believe anybody could guess so accurately. For instance, how did he know about those letters?" I told him the story briefly, carefully suppressing everything which would give him a clue to the identity of the veiled lady. Grady smiled good-naturedly and a little patronisingly. "Perhaps you are right," I agreed. "But it seemed to me that he handled that mechanism as though he was familiar with it. Of course, he may have prepared himself by studying the drawings which no doubt accompany the secret memoir. He may even have had a working model made." Grady nodded tolerantly. "Them fellers go to a lot of trouble over little things like that," he said. "They like to slam their cards down on the table with a big hurrah, even when the cards ain't worth a damn." "He certainly held trumps this time, anyway," I commented. "And he played his hand superbly. He is an extraordinary man." "And a great actor," Grady supplemented. "Them fellers always behave like they was on the stage, right in the spot-light. It makes me a little tired, sometimes. Hello! Who's that?" The front door had been flung open; there was an instant's colloquy with the desk-sergeant, then a rapid step crossed the outer room, and Godfrey burst in upon us. He cast a rapid glance at the Boule cabinet, at the secret drawer standing open, empty; and then his eyes rested upon Grady. "So he got away with it, did he?" he inquired. "Who in hell do you think you are?" shouted Grady, his face purple, "coming in here like this? Get out, or I'll have you thrown out!" Grady's colour slowly faded as he met the burning and contemptuous gaze Godfrey turned upon him. As for me, an awful fear had gripped my heart. Godfrey laughed scornfully. "No, you blithering idiot!" he said. "It wasn't Pigot. It was Crochard himself!" And he stalked out, slamming the door behind him. THE FATE OF M. PIGOT Whatever may have been Grady's defects of insight and imagination, he was energetic enough when thoroughly aroused. Almost before the echo of that slamming door had died away, he was beside the sergeant's desk. "Get out the reserves," he ordered, "and have the other wagon around. 'Phone headquarters to rush every man available up to the Day and Night Bank, and say it's from me!" He stood chewing his cigar savagely as the sergeant hastened to obey. In a moment, the reserves came tumbling out, struggling into their coats; there was a clatter of hoofs in the street as the wagon dashed up; the reserves piled into it, permitting me to crowd in beside them, Grady jumped to the seat beside the driver, and we were off at a gallop, our gong waking the echoes of the silent street. I clung to the hand-rail as the wagon swayed back and forth or bounded into the air as it struck the car-tracks, and stared out into the night, struggling to understand. Could Godfrey be right? But of course he was right! Some intuition told me that; and yet, how had Crochard managed to substitute himself for the French detective? Where was Pigot? Was he lying somewhere in a crumpled heap, with a tiny wound upon his hand? But that could not be--Grady and Simmonds had been with him all the evening! And could that aged Frenchman with the white, fine, wrinkled skin be also the bronzed and virile personage whom I had known as Felix Armand? My reason reeled before the seeming impossibility of it--and yet, somehow, I knew that Godfrey was right! The wagon came to a stop so suddenly that I was thrown violently against the man next to me, and the reserves, leaping out, swept me before them. We were in front of the Day and Night Bank, and at a word from Grady, the men spread into a close cordon before the building. Grady elbowed his way savagely through the group. "Where's Kelly?" he demanded. At the words, a white-faced man in uniform arose from a chair into which he had plainly dropped exhausted. "Oh, there you are!" and Grady glowered at him ferociously. "Now tell me what happened--and tell it quick!" "Why, sir," stammered Kelly, "there wasn't anything happened. Only when we stopped out there at the curb and I got down and opened the door, there wasn't nobody in the wagon but Mr. Simmonds. I spoke to him and he didn't answer--and then I touched him and he kind of fell over--and then I rushed in here and 'phoned the station; but they said you'd already started for the bank; and then we went out and brought him in here--and that's all I know, sir." "You didn't hear anything--no sound of a struggle?" "Not a sound, sir; not a single sound." "And you haven't any idea where the other man got out?" "Mr. Simmonds had a little valise with him--did you notice it?" "Yes, sir; and I looked for it in the wagon, but it ain't there." "Has anyone sent for a doctor?" I asked. "Let's have some water," he said. "Dead? No; but he's had a taste or whiff of something that has stopped the heart action." But he had not meant murder this time; I remembered that Godfrey had said he never killed an adversary. The doctor worked briskly away, and, at the end of a few minutes, Simmonds's eyes suddenly closed, he drew a long breath, and sat erect. Then his eyes opened, and he sat swaying unsteadily and staring amazedly about him. "Best lie down again," said the doctor soothingly. "You're a little wobbly yet, you know." "Where am I?" gasped Simmonds. Then his eyes encountered mine. "Lester!" he said. "Where is he--Piggott? Not " The top of my head was burning as though with fever, and I went into the bathroom and turned the cold water on it. The shock did me a world of good, and by the time I had finished a vigorous toweling I felt immensely better. So I returned to my chair and sat down to review the events of the evening; but I found that somehow my brain refused to work, and black circles began to whirl before my eyes again. "I told Godfrey I couldn't stand any more of this," I muttered, and stumbled into my bedroom, undressed with difficulty, and turned out the light. Then, as I lay there, staring up into the darkness, a stinging thought brought me upright. Godfrey--where was Godfrey? Was he on the track of Crochard? Was he daring a contest with him? Perhaps, even at this moment Scarcely knowing what I did, I groped my way to the telephone and asked for Godfrey's number--hoping against hope absurdly--and at last, to my intense surprise and relief, I heard his voice--not a very amiable voice "Godfrey," I began, "it's Lester. He got away." "Of course he got away. You didn't call me out of bed to tell me that, I hope?" "Then you knew about it?" "I knew he'd get away." "When the wagon got to the bank there was nobody inside but Simmonds. Simmonds went along, you know." "He was unconscious, but he came around all right." "That's good--but Crochard wouldn't hurt him. He got away with the jewels, of course?" "Of course," I assented, surprised that Godfrey should take it so coolly. "When you rushed out that way," I added, "I thought maybe you were going after him." "I tried to get you," I explained, "as soon as Simmonds told me they were going to look at the cabinet. I 'phoned the office. The city editor said he had sent you out into Westchester." Godfrey laughed shortly. "Then you didn't get my message?" "Yes--they gave it to me when I 'phoned in that the Westchester business was a fake. I rushed for the station, though I knew I'd be too late." "But, Godfrey," I said, "I can't understand, even yet, how he did it. Grady and Simmonds left the boat with Pigot and were with him all evening, showing him the sights. How did Crochard get into it? What did he do with Pigot? Where _is_ Pigot?" "He's on the _Savoie._ I rushed a wireless down to her as soon as I left the station. They made a search and found Pigot bound and gagged under the berth in his stateroom." "And to think I didn't suspect!" added Godfrey, bitterly. "We stood there and saw that yacht with the French flag walk away from us; we saw her put a man aboard the _Savoie_; we saw that man talking to Pigot " "Yes," I said, breathlessly; "yes." "Well, that man was Crochard. He got Pigot into his stateroom--gave him a whiff of the same stuff he used on Simmonds, no doubt; put him out of the way under the berth; got into his clothes, made up his face, _put_ on a wig--and all that while we were kicking our heels outside waiting for him." "But it was a tremendous risk," I said. "There were so many people on board who knew Pigot--it would have to be a perfect disguise." "So it was really Crochard " "But _we_ ought to have suspected. We ought to have suspected everything, questioned everything; I ought to have looked up that visitor and found out what became of him. Instead of which, Crochard put Pigot's papers in his pocket, set his bag outside the stateroom door, and then came out calmly to meet his dear friends of the press; and I stood there talking to him like a little schoolboy--no wonder he thinks I'm a fool!" "But nobody would have suspected!" I gasped. "Why, that man isis " "A genius," said Godfrey. "An absolute and unquestioned genius. But I knew that all the time, and I ought to have been on guard. You remember he said he would come to-day?" "And you didn't believe it." "I can't believe it yet." "But, Godfrey," I said, "if you could have seen those diamonds--those beautiful diamonds--and to think he should be able to get away with them from right under our noses!" "It's pretty bad, isn't it? But there's no use crying over spilt milk. Lester," he added, in another tone, "I want you to be in your office at noon to-morrow--or rather, to-day." "All right," I promised; "I'll be there." "I'll be there," I said again. "But I'm afraid the last act will be an anti-climax. Look here, Godfrey " "Now go to bed," he broke in; "you're talking like a somnambulist. Get some sleep. Have you arranged for that vacation?" "Godfrey," I said, "tell me " I could hear him chuckling to himself. "Good-night," he said, and hung up. THE LAST ACT OF THE DRAMA "Show them in," I said, and they entered together a minute later. Grady was evidently much perturbed. His usually florid face was drawn and haggard, his cheeks hung in ugly lines, there were dark pouches under his eyes, and the eyes themselves were blood-shot. I guessed that he had not been to bed; that he had spent the night searching for Crochard--and it was easy enough to see that the search had been unsuccessful. Simmonds, too, was looking rather shaky, and no doubt still felt the after-effects of that whiff of poison. "I'm glad to see you are better, Simmonds," I said, shaking hands with him. "That was a close call." "It certainly was," Simmonds agreed, sinking into a chair. "If I had got a little more of it, I'd never have waked up." "Do you remember anything about it?" "Where's that man Godfrey?" broke in Grady. "He said he'd be here at noon," I said, and glanced at my watch. "It's noon now. Were you to meet him here?" Grady glanced at me suspiciously. "Don't you know nothing about it?" he asked. "I only know that Godfrey asked me to be here at noon to-day. What's up?" "Blamed if I know," said Grady sulkily. "I got word from him that I'd better be here, and I thought maybe he might know something. I'm so dizzy over last night's business that I'm running around in circles this morning. But I won't wait for him. He can't make me do that! Come along, Simmonds." "Wait a minute," I broke in, as the outer door opened. "Perhaps that's Godfrey, now." And so it proved. He came in accompanied by a man whom I knew to be Arthur Shearrow, chief counsel for the _Record_. Godfrey nodded all around. "I think you know Mr. Shearrow," he said, placing on my desk a small leather bag he was carrying. "This is Mr. Lester, Mr. Shearrow," he added, and we shook hands. "The object of this conference, Lester," he concluded, "is to straighten out certain matters connected with the Michaelovitch diamonds--and incidentally to give the _Record_ the biggest scoop it has had for months." "I ain't here to fix up no scoop for the _Record_", broke in Grady. "That paper never did treat me right." "It has treated you as well as you deserved," retorted Godfrey. "I'm going to talk plainly to you, Grady. Your goose is cooked. You can't hold on for an hour after last night's get-away becomes public." "We'll see about that!" growled Grady, but the fight had evidently been taken out of him. "I understand you wouldn't let Simmonds telephone for me last night?" queried Godfrey. "That's right--it wasn't none of your business." "You're mighty cocksure," retorted Grady. "It's easy to be wise after it's all over." "Well, I'm not going to argue with you," said Godfrey. "I admit it was a good disguise, and a clever idea--but, just the same, you ought to have seen through it. That's your business." Grady mopped his face. "Oh, of course!" he sneered. "I ought to have seen through it! I ought to have suspected, even when I found you tryin' to interview him; even when I got him off the boat myself; even when I went through his papers and found them all right--yes, even to the photograph on his passport! That's plain enough now, ain't it! If people only had as good foresight as they have hindsight, how easy it would be!" "Look here, Grady," said Godfrey, more kindly, "I haven't anything against you personally, and I admit that it was foolish of me to stand there talking to Crochard and never suspect who he was. But that's all beside the mark. You're at the head of the detective bureau, and you're the man who is responsible for all this. You're energetic enough and all that; but you're not fit for your job--it's too big for you, and you know it. Take my advice, and go to the 'phone there and send in your resignation." Grady stared at him as though unable to believe his ears. "'Phone in my resignation!" he echoed. "What kind of a fool do you think I am?" "Was it to tell me that you got me over here?" "No," said Godfrey, "all this is just incidental--you began the discussion yourself, didn't you? I got you here to meet " The outer door opened again, and Godfrey looked toward it, smiling. "Moosseer Piggott!" announced the office-boy. And then I almost bounced from my seat, for I would have sworn that the man who stood on the threshold was the man who had opened the secret drawer. He came forward, looking from face to face; then his eyes met Godfrey's and he smiled. "Behold that I am here, monsieur," he said and I started anew at the voice, for it was the voice of Crochard. "I hope that I have not kept you waiting." "Not at all, M. Pigot," Godfrey assured him, and placed a chair for him. I confess that some such thought flashed through my own mind--a suspicion that Godfrey, in some way, was playing with us. Godfrey looked about at us, smiling as he saw our expressions. "I went down the bay this morning and met the _Savoie_," he said. "I related to M. Pigot last night's occurrences, and begged him to be present at this meeting. He was good enough to agree. I assure you," he added, seeing Grady's look, "that this _is_ M. Pigot, of the Paris _Service du Surete,_ and not Crochard." "Oh, yes," said M. Pigot, with a deprecating shrug. "I am myself--and greatly humiliated that I should have fallen so readily into the trap which Crochard set for me. But he is a very clever man." "It was certainly a marvellous disguise," I said. "It was more than that--it was an impersonation." "I am afraid not," said Godfrey. "Don't be too sure of that!" broke in Grady ponderously. "I ain't done yet--not by no manner of means!" "Pardon me for not introducing you, M. Pigot," said Godfrey. "This gentleman is Mr. Grady, who has been the head of our detective bureau; this is Mr. Simmonds, a member of his staff; this is Mr. Lester, an attorney and friend of mine; and this is Mr. Shearrow, my personal counsel. Mr. Grady, Mr. Simmonds and Mr. Lester were present, last night," he added blandly, "when Crochard opened the secret drawer." Grady reddened visibly, and even I felt my face grow hot. M. Pigot looked at us with a smile of amusement. "It must have been a most interesting experience," he said, "to have seen Crochard at work. I have never had that privilege. But I regret that he should have made good his escape." "More especially since he took the Michaelovitch diamonds with him," I added. "Undoubtedly. No other thief in France would be capable of it." "Is it also true that no direct evidence could be found against him?" "That also is true, monsieur. He had arranged the affair so cleverly that we were wholly unable to convict him, unless we should find him with the stolen brilliants in his possession." "And you were not able to do that?" "No; we could discover no trace of the brilliants, though we searched for them everywhere." "But you did not know of the Boule cabinet and of the secret drawer?" "No; of that we knew nothing. I must examine that famous cabinet." "It is worth examining. And it has an interesting history. But you did know, of course, that Crochard would seek a market for the diamonds here in America?" "We knew that he would try to do so, and we did everything in our power to prevent it. We especially relied upon your customs department to search most thoroughly the belongings of every person with whom they were not personally acquainted." "The customs people did their part," said Godfrey with a chuckle. "They have quite upset the country! But the diamonds got in, in spite of them. For, of course, a cabinet imported by a man so well known and so above suspicion as Mr. Vantine was passed without question!" "Yes," agreed M. Pigot, a little bitterly. "It was a most clever plan; and now, no doubt, Crochard can sell the brilliants at his leisure." "Not if you've got a good description of them," protested Grady. "I'll make it a point to warn every dealer in the country; I'll keep my whole force on the job; I'll get Chief Wilkie to lend me some of his men " "Oh, there is no use taking all that trouble," broke in Godfrey, negligently. "Crochard won't try to sell them." "Won't try to sell them?" echoed Grady. "What's the reason he won't?" "Because he hasn't got them," answered Godfrey, smiling with an evidently deep enjoyment of Grady's dazed countenance. "Oh, come off!" said that worthy disgustedly. "If he hasn't got 'em I'd like to know who has!" "I have," said Godfrey, and cleared my desk with a sweep of his arm. "Spread out your handkerchief, Lester," and as I dazedly obeyed, he picked up the little leather bag, opened it, and poured out its contents in a sparkling flood. "There," he added, turning to Grady, "are the Michaelovitch diamonds." CROCHARD WRITES AN EPILOGUE For an instant, we gazed at the glittering heap with dazzled eyes; then Grady, with an inarticulate cry, sprang to his feet and picked up a handful of the diamonds, as though to convince himself of their reality. "But I don't understand!" he gasped. "Have you got Croshar too?" "No such luck," said Godfrey. The same thought was in my own mind; if Godfrey had run down Crochard and got the diamonds, without a life-and-death struggle, that engaging rascal must be much less formidable than I had supposed. "My dear Grady," said Godfrey, "I haven't seen Crochard since the minute you took him off the boat. I'd have had him, if you had let Simmonds call me. That's what I had planned. But he was too clever for us. I knew that he would come to-day " "You knew that he would come to-day?" repeated Grady blankly. "How did you know that--or is it merely hot air?" "I knew that he would come," said Godfrey, curtly, "because he wrote and told me so." M. Pigot laughed a dry little laugh. "That is a favourite device of his," he said; "and he always keeps his word." "Think of what?" I asked. "I didn't see it," I said. "I don't see it yet." "Think a minute. Why was Drouet killed? Because he opened the wrong drawer. He pressed the combination at the right side of the desk, instead of that at the left side. The fair Julie must have thought the drawer was on the right side, instead of the left. It was a mistake very easy to make, since her mistress doubtless had her back turned when Julie saw her open the drawer. The suspicion that it was Julie's mistake becomes certainty when she shows the combination to Vantine, and he is killed, too. Besides, the veiled lady herself made a remark which revealed the whole story." "I didn't notice it," I said, resignedly. "What was it?" "That she was accustomed to opening the drawer with her left hand, instead of with her right. After that, there could be no further doubt. So I discovered the drawer very simply. It had to be there." "Yes," I said; "and then?" "Then I removed the jewels, took them down to a dealer in paste gems and duplicated them as closely as I could. I had a hard time getting a good copy of this big rose-diamond." He picked it from the heap and held it up between his fingers. "It's a beauty, isn't it?" he asked. M. Pigot smiled a dry smile. "So that's true, is it?" I asked. "Crochard told us the story." "Well," continued Godfrey, "after I got the duplicates, I rolled them up in the cotton packets, and placed them back in the drawer, being careful to put the Mazarin at the bottom, where I had found it." "It was lucky you thought of that," I said, "or Crochard would have suspected something." Godfrey looked at me with a smile. "I didn't expect to deceive him," Godfrey explained. "I just wanted to give him a little surprise. And to think I wasn't there to see it!" "But if he knew they were imitations," I protested, "why should he go to all that trouble to steal them?" "That is what puzzled me last night," said Godfrey; "and, for that matter, it puzzles me yet." "Maybe he's got the real stones, after all," suggested Grady, who had been listening to all this with incredulous countenance. "The story sounds fishy to me. Maybe these are the imitations." M. Pigot came forward and picked up the Mazarin and looked at it. "Yes," he admitted reluctantly, "I guess they're diamonds, all right," and he sat down again. "And now, gentlemen," continued Godfrey, who had watched Grady's byplay with a tolerant smile, "I am ready to turn these diamonds over to you. I should like you to count them, and give me a receipt for them." "And then, of course, you will write the story," sneered Grady, "and give yourself all the credit." "Mr. Shearrow has the receipt," Godfrey added, and Shearrow took a paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and read the contents. It proved to be not only a receipt, but a full statement of the facts of the case, without omitting the details of the robbery and the credit due the _Record_ for the recovery of the diamonds. Grady's face grew redder and redder as the reading proceeded. "I won't sign no such testimonial as that," he blustered. "Not on your life I won't!" "You will sign it, will you not, M. Pigot?" asked Godfrey. "Certainly," said the Frenchman; "it is a recognition of your services very well deserved," and he stepped forward and signed it with a flourish. "Now, Simmonds," said Godfrey. "No you don't!" broke in Grady. "Stay where you are, Simmonds. I forbid you to sign that. Remember, I'm your superior officer." "No, he's not, Simmonds," said Godfrey, quietly. "He hasn't been an officer at all for an hour and more." Grady sprang to his feet, his eyes blazing, and strode toward Godfrey. "Tell the public that, if you want to," retorted Godfrey coldly. "That's your affair. You ought to have 'phoned it in when I told you to. Now, Simmonds." "Now, Simmonds," Godfrey repeated, as the echo died away, and Simmonds came forward and signed. I witnessed the signatures, and Godfrey, with more eagerness than he had shown in the whole affair, caught up the paper and sprang with it to the door. "Get that down to the office, as quick as you can," he said, to a man outside. "I'll 'phone instructions. That," he added, closing the door and turning back to us, "is my reward for all this--or, rather, the _Record's_ reward. And now, gentlemen, Mr. Shearrow has his car below, and I think we would better drive around to some safe-deposit box with this plunder." "You're looking normal again," he said, surveying me, as he sat down. "I was worried about you for a while." "I never felt better. I told you that all I needed was to have that mystery solved." "And it was solved on schedule time, wasn't it," he smiled; "though not quite in the way I had anticipated. Do you know, Lester," he added, "I am going to claim that cabinet." "On what grounds?" I demanded. "Because the man who owned it gave it to me," and he got a paper out of his pocket-book and handed it across to me. "_My dear sir_ [the letter ran]: "I find that I made the mistake of underestimating you, and I present you my sincere apologies. I trust that, at some future time, it may be my privilege to be again engaged with you--the result is certain to be most interesting. But at present I find that I must return to Europe by _La Bretagne_; since, after the trouble I have taken, it is impossible that I should consent to part with the brilliants of His Highness the Grand Duke. As a slight souvenir of my high regard, I trust you will be willing to accept the cabinet Boule, which I am certain that good M. Lester will surrender to you if you will show to him this letter. The cabinet is not only interesting in itself, but will be doubly so to you because of the part it has played in our little comedy. And I should like to know that it adorns a corner of your home. "Till we meet again, dear sir, believe me "Your sincere admirer, "CROCHARD, L'Invincible!" "He's a good sport, isn't he?" asked Godfrey, as I silently handed the letter back to him. "What do you say about the cabinet?" "I suppose there is no doubt that Crochard bought it," I said. "So that it is mine now?" "Yes; but I'm going to solicit a bribe." "Go ahead and solicit it." "I want a souvenir, too," I said. "I'd like awfully well to have that letter--besides," I added, "it will be a kind of receipt, you know, if anybody ever questions my giving you the cabinet." Godfrey laughed and threw the letter across the table to me. "It's yours," he said. "And I'll send for the cabinet to-morrow. I suppose it is still at the station?" "Yes; I haven't had time to put in a claim for it. But, Godfrey," I added, "when did _La Bretagne_ sail?" "A week ago to-day. She is due at Havre in the morning." "Did you warn them?" "Warn them of what?" "That Crochard is after the diamonds. They went back on _La Bretagne_, I suppose?" "That oughtn't to be difficult," I said. "The strong-room of a liner is about the safest place on earth." "Yes," Godfrey agreed, and blew a meditative ring toward the ceiling. And presently he went away without saying anything more. But the more I thought of it, the more the inflection he had given that word seemed an interrogation rather than an affirmation. MICHAELOVITCH JEWELS FALSE! FRENCH DETECTIVE TAKES BACK PASTE IMITATIONS FROM AMERICA. Fraud Discovered When the Grand Duke Michael Sends them to a Jeweller to be Reset. Who, I wondered, had bought the Mazarin? Surely there was a diamond most difficult to sell. "To M. the Director of the Museum of the Louvre: "It has been my good fortune to come into possession of the rose-diamond known as the Mazarin. It is my wish to restore it to your collection, in order that it may no longer be necessary to delude the public with an imitation of coloured glass. It will give me great pleasure to present this brilliant to you, with my compliments, provided His Highness, the Grand Duke Michael, who preceded me in possession of the diamond, will join me in the gift. Should he refuse, it will be my melancholy duty to cleave the diamond into a number of smaller stones, as it is too large for my use. But I hope that he will not refuse. "CROCHARD, L'Invincible!" "I trust that, at some future time, it may be my privilege to be again engaged with you--the result is certain to be most interesting." And I trust that it may be my privilege, also, to be present at that engagement! End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Mystery Of The Boule Cabinet by Burton Egbert Stevenson	redpajama-book	49,049
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sjaani and PG Distributed Proofreaders THE POWER AND THE GLORY By GRACE MACGOWAN COOKE I. THE BIRTH OF A WOMAN-CHILD II. THE BIRTH OF AN AMBITION III. A PEAK IN DARIEN IV. OF THE USE OF FEET V. THE MOCCASIN FLOWER VI. WEAVERS AND WEFT VII. ABOVE THE VALLEY VIII. OF THE USE OF WINGS IX. A BIT OF METAL X. THE SANDALS OF JOY XI. THE NEW BOARDER XII. THE CONTENTS OF A BANDANNA XIII. A PATIENT FOR THE HOSPITAL XIV. WEDDING BELLS XV. THE FEET OF THE CHILDREN XVI. BITTER WATERS XVII. A VICTIM XVIII. LIGHT XIX. A PACT XX. MISSING XXI. THE SEARCH XXII. THE ATLAS VERTEBRA XXIII. A CLUE XXIV. THE RESCUE XXV. THE FUTURE "Yes, I'm a-going to get a chance to work right away," she smiled up at him. _Frontispiece_ He loomed above them, white and shaking. "You thieves!" he roared. "Give me my bandanner! Give me Johnnie's silver mine!" The car was already leaping down the hill at a tremendous pace. THE BIRTH OF A WOMAN-CHILD "Whose cradle's that?" the sick woman's thin querulous tones arrested the man at the threshold. "Onie Dillard's," he replied hollowly from the depths of the crib which he carried upside down upon his head, like some curious kind of overgrown helmet. "Now, why in the name o' common sense would ye go and borry a broken cradle?" came the wail from the bed. "I 'lowed you'd git Billy Spinner's, an' hit's as good as new." Uncle Pros set the small article of furniture down gently. "Don't you worry yo'se'f, Laurelly," he said enthusiastically. Pros Passmore, uncle of the sick woman and mainstay of the forlorn little Consadine household, was always full of enthusiasm. "Just a few nails and a little wrappin' of twine'll make it all right," he informed his niece. "I stopped a-past and borried the nails and the hammer from Jeff Dawes; I mighty nigh pounded my thumb off knockin' in nails with a rock an' a sad-iron last week." "Looks like nobody ain't got no sense," returned Laurella Consadine ungratefully. "Even you, Unc' Pros--while you borryin' why cain't ye borry whole things that don't need mendin'?" Out of the shadows that hoarded the further end of the room came a woman with a little bundle in her arm which had evidently created the necessity for the borrowed cradle. "Laurelly," the nurse hesitated, "I wouldn't name it to ye whilst ye was a-sufferin,' but I jest cain't find the baby's clothes nowhars. I've done washed the little trick and wrapped her in my flannen petticoat. I do despise to put anything on 'em that anybody else has wore hit don't seem right. But I've been plumb through everything, an' cain't find none of her coats. Whar did you put 'em?" "Ain't they nothin' to put on the baby?" asked Mavity Bence, aghast. All this time the nurse had been standing with the quiet small packet which was the storm centre of preparation lying like a cocoon or a giant seed-pod against her bosom. "She's a mighty likely little gal," said she finally. "Have ye any hopes o' gittin' anything to put on her?" The woman in the bed--she was scarcely more than a girl, with shining dark eyes and a profusion of jetty ringlets about her elfish, pretty little face--seemed to feel that this speech was in the nature of a reproach. She hastened to detail her further activities on behalf of the newcomer. "Consadine's a poor provider," she said plaintively, alluding to her absent husband. "Maw said to me when I would have him that he was a poor provider; and then he's got into this here way of goin' off like. Time things gets too bad here at home he's got a big scheme up for makin' his fortune somewhars else, and out he puts. He 'lowed he'd be home with a plenty before the baby come. But thar--he's the best man that ever was, when he's here, and I have no wish to miscall him. I reckon he thought I could borry what I'd need. Biney Meal lent me enough for the little un that died; but of course some o' the coats was buried with the child; and what was left, Sis' Elvira borried for her baby. I was layin' off to go over to the Deep Spring neighbourhood when I could git a lift in that direction--the folks over yon is mighty accommodative," she concluded, "but I was took sooner than I expected, and hyer we air without a stitch, I've done sont Bud an' Honey to Mandy Ann Foncher's mebby they'll bring in somethin'." "Never you mind, Laurelly," he called cheerfully. "Wrop the baby up some fashion, and I'll hike out and get clothes for her, time I mend this cradle." "Ef that ain't just like Unc' Pros!" And the girlish mother laughed out suddenly. You saw the gypsy beauty of her face. "He ain't content with borryin' men's truck, but thinks he can turn in an' borry coats 'mongst the women. Well, I reckon he might have better luck than what I did." As she spoke a small boy and girl, her dead brother's children, came clattering in from the purple mysteries of dusk outside, hand clasped in hand, and stopped close to the bed, staring. "Mandy Ann, she wouldn't lend us a thing," Bud began in an aggrieved tone. "I traded for this--chopped wood for it--and hit was all she would give me." He laid a coarse little garment upon the ragged coverlet. "That!" cried Laurella Passmore, taking it up with angrily tremulous fingers. "My child shain't wear no sech. Hit ain't fittin' for my baby to put on. Oh, I wisht I could git up from here and do about; I'd git somethin' for her to wear!" "Son," said Mrs. Bence, approaching the bedside, "air ye afeared to go over as far as my house right now?" "I ain't skeered ef Honey'll go with me," returned the boy doubtfully, as he interrogated the twilit spaces beyond the open cabin door. "Well, you go ask Pap to look in the green chist and send me the spotted caliker poke that he'll find under the big bun'le. Don't you let him give you that thar big bun'le; 'caze that's not a thing but seed corn, and he'll be mad ef it's tetched. Fell Pap that what's in the spotted poke ain't nothin' that he wants. Tell him it's--well, tell him to look at it before he gives it to you." "She's gwine to walk in a silken gownd, An' ha'e plenty o' siller for to spare," chanted the old man above the little bed he was repairing. "Who's that you're a-namin' that's a-goin' to have silk dresses?" inquired Laurella, as he entered and set the mended cradle down by the bedside. And, having made a bed in the cradle from some folded covers, he lifted the baby with strange deftness and placed it in. "See thar," he called their attention proudly. "As good as new. And ef I git time I'm a-goin' to give it a few licks o' paint." Hands on knees, he bent to study the face of the new-born, that countenance so ambiguous to our eyes, scarce stamped yet with the common seal of humanity. In the doorway he met Bud and Honey, returning with the spotted calico poke clutched fast between them. "I won't ask nothin' but a wearin' of em for my child," Laurella Consadine, born Laurella Passmore, reiterated when the small garments were laid out on the bed, and the baby was being dressed. "They're mighty fine, Mavity, an' I'll take good keer of 'em and always bear in mind that they're only borried." "No," returned Mavity Bence, with unwonted firmness, as she put the newcomer into the slip intended for her own son. "No, Laurelly, these clothes ain't loaned to you. I give 'em to this child. I'm a widder, and I never look to wed again, becaze Pap he has to have somebody to do for him, an' he'd just about tear up the ground if I was to name sech a thing. I'm mighty glad to give 'em to yo' little gal. I only wisht," she said wistfully, "that hit was a boy. Ef hit was a boy, mebbe you'd give hit the name that should 'a' went with the clothes. I was a-goin' to call the baby John after hit's pappy." "I don't see why Johnnie ain't a mighty fine name for a gal," she said. "I vow I'm a-goin' to name her Johnnie!" Perhaps such a beginning had its own influence upon her future. THE BIRTH OF AN AMBITION "Looks like it was waiting right there to tell me howdy," she murmured to herself. Laurella Consadine, commonly called in mountain fashion by her maiden name of Laurella Passmore, scrambled to her feet and tossed the dark curls out of her eyes. That was it; borrowing--borrowing--borrowing till they were known as the borrowing Passmores and became the jest of the neighbourhood. "No, I couldn't stand it," the girl justified herself. "I had obliged to get out and go where money could be earned--me, that's big and stout and able." And sighingly--yet light-heartedly, for with Laurella Consadine and Johnnie there was always the quaint suggestion of a little girl with a doll quite too big for her--the mother let her go. It had been just so when Johnnie would have her time for every term of the "old field hollerin' school," where she learned to read and write; even when she persisted in going to Rainy Gap where some charitably inclined northern church maintained a little school, and pushed her education to dizzy heights that to mountain vision appeared "plumb foolish." She had kissed her mother, picked up her bundle and got as far as the door, when there came a spat of bare feet meeting the floor, a pattering rush, and Deanie's short arms went around her knees, almost tripping her up. Johnnie dropped her bundle and caught up the child, crushing the warm, soft, yielding little form against her breast in a very passion of tenderness. She broke off abruptly and kissed the small face with vehemence. "Good-bye," she managed to whisper, as she set the baby down and turned to her mother. The kindling touch of that farewell warmed her resolution yet. She was not going down to Cottonville to work in the mill merely; she was going into the Storehouse of Possibilities, to find and buy a chance in the world for these poor little souls who could never have it otherwise. "Good land, Johnnie Consadine! If you start in to pay off all the borryin's of the Passmore family since you was born, you'll ruin us--that's what you'll do--you'll ruin us." These things acted themselves over and over in Johnnie's mind as, throughout the fresh April afternoon, her long, free, rhythmic step, its morning vigour undiminished, swung the miles behind her; still present in thought when, away down in Render's Gap, she settled herself on a rock by the wayside where a little stream crossed the road, to wash her feet and put on the shoes which she had up to this time carried with her bundle. "It's mighty kind of you to come up and meet me," she said, getting to her feet a little awkwardly on account of the shoes, and picking up her bundle. "I 'lowed you might get lost," bantered the young fellow, not offering to carry the packet as they trudged away side by side. "How's everybody back on Unaka? Has your Uncle Pros found his silver mine yet?" "No," returned Johnnie seriously, "but he's lookin' for it." "I reckon he is," said Buckheath. "I reckon Pros Passmore will be lookin' for that silver mine when Gabriel blows. It runs in the family, don't it?" Johnnie looked at him and shook her head. "You've been learnin' town ways, haven't you?" she asked simply. Johnnie had put on her slat sunbonnet and pulled it down so he could not see her face. "I reckon you'll get it," she said meditatively. "I reckon you will. Sometimes I think we always get just what we deserve in this here world, and that the only safe way is to try to deserve something good. I hope I didn't say too much for Uncle Pros; but he's so easy and say-nothin' himself, that I just couldn't bear to hear you laughin' at him and not answer you." "I declare, you're plenty funny!" Buckheath burst put boisterously. "No, I ain't mad at you. I kind o' like you for stickin' up for the old man. You and me'll get along, I reckon." "Oh, wait for me a minute, Shade," pleaded the girl, pulling off her sunbonnet "I want to look Never in my life did I see anything so sightly!" "Good land!" laughed the man, with a note of impatience in his voice. "You and me was raised on mountain scenery, as a body may say. I should think we'd both had enough of it to last us." "But this--this is different," groped Johnnie, trying to explain the emotions that possessed her. "Look at that big settlement over yon. I reckon it's a city. It must be Watauga. It looks like the--the mansions of the blest, in the big Bible that preacher Drane has, down at Bledsoe." "I reckon they're blest--they got plenty of money," returned Shade, with the cheap cynicism of his kind. "There is," put in Shade caustically. "There's many a rogue. You want to look out for them tricky town folks--a girl like you." Had he been more kind, he would have said, "a pretty girl like you." But Johnnie did not miss it; she was used to such as he gave, or less. "Come on," he urged impatiently. "We won't get no supper if you don't hurry." Shade stopped immediately for that. Johnnie did not fail to recognize the vehicle. Illustrated magazines go everywhere in these days. In the automobile rode a man, bare-headed, dressed in a suit of white flannels, strange to Johnnie's eyes. Beside him sat a woman in a long, shimmering, silken cloak, a great, misty, silver-gray veil twined round head and hat and tied in a big bow under the chin. Johnnie had as yet seen nothing more pretentious than the starched and ruffled flummeries of a small mountain watering-place. This beautiful, peculiar looking garb had something of the picturesque, the poetic, about it, that appealed to her as the frocks worn at Chalybeate Springs or Bledsoe had never done. She had not wanted them. She wanted this. The automobile was stopped, the young fellow in it calling to Shade: "I wonder if you could help me with this thing, Buckheath? It's on a strike again. Show me what you did to it last time." Along the edge of the road at this point, for safety's sake, a low stone wall had been laid. Setting down her bundle, Johnnie leaned upon this, and shared her admiration between the valley below and these beautiful, interesting newcomers. Her bonnet was pushed far back; the wind ruffled the bright hair about her forehead; the wonder and glory and delight of it all made her deep eyes shine with a child's curiosity and avid wishfulness. Her lips were parted in unconscious smiles. White and red, tremulous, on tiptoe, the eager soul looking out of her face, she was very beautiful. The man in the automobile observed her kindly; the woman's features she could not quite see, though the veil was parted. Johnnie continued to watch with fascinated eyes; Shade was on his feet now, reaching into the bowels of the machine to do mysterious things. "It's a broken connection," he announced briefly. "Is the wire too short to twist together?" inquired the man in the car. "Will you have to put in a new piece?" "Uh-huh," assented Buckheath. "There's a wire in that box there," directed the other. Shade worked in silence for a moment. "Take care--that was a flower," the man in the auto warned, too late. "I'm sorry," he said, presenting it to Johnnie with exactly the air and tone he had used in speaking to the lady who was with him in the car. "If I had seen it in time, I might have saved it. I hope it's not much hurt." The man wondered a little if it were only the glow of the sunset that lit her face with such shining beauty; he noted how the fires of it flowed over her bright, blown hair and kindled its colour, how it lingered in the clear eyes, and flamed upon the white neck and throat till they had almost the translucence of pearl. "I think this thing'll work now--for a spell, anyhow," Shade Buckheath's voice sounded sharply from the road behind them. The voice was even and low-toned, yet every word came to Johnnie distinctly. She watched with a sort of rapture the movements of this party. The man's hair was dark and crisp, and worn a little long about the temples and ears; he had pleasant dark eyes and an air of being slightly amused, even when he did not smile. The lady apparently said that she was not afraid, for her companion got in, the machine negotiated the turn safely and began to move slowly up the steep ascent. As it did so, the driver gave another glance toward where the mountain girl stood, a swift, kind glance, and a smile that stayed with her after the shining car had disappeared in the direction of the wide-porched building where people were laughing and calling to each other and moving about--people dressed in beautiful garments which Johnnie would fain have inspected more closely. Buckheath stood gazing at her sarcastically. "Come on," he ordered, as she held back, lingering. "They ain't no good in you hangin' 'round here. That was Mr. Gray Stoddard, and the lady he's beauin' is Miss Lydia Sessions, Mr. Hardwick's sister-in-law. He's for such as her--not for you. He's the boss of the bosses down at Cottonville. No use of you lookin' at him." Johnnie scarcely heard the words. Her eyes were on the wide porch of the house above them. "What is that place?" she inquired in an awestruck whisper, as she fell into step submissively, plodding with bent head at his shoulder. "The Country Club," Shade flung back at her. "Did you 'low it was heaven?" Heaven! Johnnie brooded on that for a long time. She turned her head stealthily for a last glimpse of the portico where a laughing girl tossed a ball to a young fellow on the terrace below. After all, heaven was not so far amiss. She had rather associated it with the abode of the blest. The people in it were happy; they moved in beautiful raiment all day long; they spoke to each other kindly. It was love's home, she was sure of that. Then her mind went back to the dress of the girl in the auto. Shade wheeled in his tracks with a swift narrowing of the slate-gray eyes. He had been more stirred than he was willing to acknowledge by the girl's beauty, and by a nameless power that went out from the seemingly helpless creature and laid hold of those with whom she came in contact. It was the open admiration of young Stoddard which had roused the sullen resentment he was now spending on her. "Ye air, air ye?" he demanded sharply. "You're a-goin' to have a frock like that? And what man's a-goin' to pay for it, I'd like to know?" Such talk belonged to the valley and the settlement. In the mountains a woman works, of course, and earns her board and keep. She is a valuable industrial possession or chattel to the man, who may profit by her labour; never a luxury--a bill of expense. As she walked, Johnnie nodded toward the factory in the valley, beginning to blaze with light--her bridge of toil, that was to carry her from the island of Nowhere to the great mainland of Life, where everything might be had for the working, the striving. "I didn't name no man," she said mildly. "I don't reckon anybody's goin' to give me things. Ain't there the factory where a body may work and earn money for all they need?" "Well, I reckon they might, if they was good and careful to need powerful little," allowed Shade. And now there burst out a roar of whistles, like the bellowing of great monsters. Somehow it struck cold upon the girl's heart. They were coming down from that wonderful highland where she had seemed to see all the kingdoms of earth spread before her, hers for the conquering; they were descending into the shadow. "What are they a-goin' to the factory for on Sunday evening?" Johnnie inquired. "Night turn," replied Buckheath briefly. "Sunday's over at sundown." "Oh, yes," agreed Johnnie dutifully, but rather disheartened. "Trade must be mighty good if they have to work all night." "Them that works don't get any more for it," retorted Shade harshly. "What's the little ones goin' to the mill for?" Johnnie questioned, staring up at him with apprehensive eyes. "Why, to play, I reckon," returned the young fellow ironically. "Folks mostly does go to the mill to play, don't they?" The man looked indifferently to where a tiny boy trotted at his mother's heels, solemn, old-faced, unchildish. He laughed a little. "That thar chap is the oldest feller in the mills," he said. "That's Benny Tarbox. He's too short to tend a frame, but his maw lets him help her at the loom--every weaver has obliged to have helpers wait on 'em. You'll get used to it." Get used to it! She pulled the sunbonnet about her face. The gold was all gone from the earth, and from her mood as well. She raised her eyes to where the last brightness lingered on the mountain-top. Up there they were happy. And even as her feet carried her forward to Pap Himes's boarding-house, her soul went clamouring, questing back toward the heights, and the sunlight, the love and laughter, she had left behind. The road which wound down from the heights ran through the middle of the village and formed its main street. Across the ravine from it, reached by a wooden bridge, stood a pretentious frame edifice, a boarding-house built by the Gloriana mill for the use of its office force and mechanics. Men were lounging on the wide porches of this structure in Sabbath-afternoon leisure, smoking and singing. The young Southern male of any class is usually melodious. Across the hollow came the sounds of a guitar and a harmonica. "Listen a minute, Shade. Ain't that pretty? I know that tune," said Johnnie, and she began to hum softly under her breath, her girlish heart responding to the call. "Hush," admonished Buckheath harshly. "You don't want to be runnin' after them fellers. It's some of the loom-fixers." "I'm a-goin' to be a boss hand in there. I'm goin' to get the highest wages of any girl in the mill, time I learn my trade, because I'm goin' to try harder 'n anybody." Shade looked around at her, curiously. Her beauty, her air of superiority, still repelled him--such fancy articles were not apt to be of much use--but this sounded like a woman who might be valuable to her master. Johnnie returned his gaze with the frank good will of a child, and suddenly he forgot everything but the adorable lift of her pink lip over the shining white teeth. "Mrs. Bence--Aunt Mavity," called Shade, advancing into the narrow hall. In answer a tired-faced woman came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her checked apron. "Good Lord, if it ain't Johnnie! I was 'feared she Wouldn't git here to-night," she ejaculated when she saw the girl. "Take her out on the porch, Shade; I ain't got a minute now. Pap's poorly again, and I'm obliged to put the late supper on the table for them thar gals--the night shift's done eat and gone. I'll show her whar she's to sleep at, after while. I don't just rightly know whar Pap aimed to have her stay," she concluded hastily, as something boiled over on the stove. Johnnie set her bundle down in the corner of the kitchen. "I'll help," she said simply, as she drew the excited coffee-pot to a corner of the range and dosed it judiciously with cold water. "Did Shade tell you anything about Louvania?" inquired the woman at length. "No," replied Johnnie softly, "but I seen it in the paper." "That there talk in the newspaper wasn't right," Louvania's mother choked. "They wasn't a word of truth in it. You know in reason that if Louvany hated to work in the mill as bad as all that she'd have named it to me--her own mother--and she never did. She never spoke a word like it, only to say now and ag'in, as we all do, that it was hard, and that she'd--well, she did 'low she'd ruther be dead, as gals will; but she couldn't have meant it. Do you think she could have meant it, Johnnie?" The faded eyes, clouded now by tears, stared up into Johnnie's clear young orbs. "Of course she couldn't have meant it," Johnnie comforted her. "Why, I'm sure it's fine to work in the mill. If she didn't feel so, she'd have told you the thing. She must have been out of her mind. People always are when they--do that." "That's what I keep a-thinkin'," the poor mother said, clinging pathetically to that which gave her consolation and cheer. "I say to myself that it must have been some brain disease took her all of a sudden and made her crazy that-a-way; because God knows she had nothing to fret her nor drive her to such." By this time the meal was on the table, and the girls trooped in from the porch. The old man with the bald pate was seating himself at the head of the board, and Johnnie asked the privilege of helping wait on table. "No, you ain't a-goin' to," Mrs. Bence said hospitably, pushing her into a seat. "If you start in to work in the morning, like I reckon you will, you ain't got no other time to get acquainted with the gals but right now. You set down. We don't take much waitin' on. We all pass things, and reach for what we want." "What did I hear them call yo' name?" he inquired gruffly. He evidently shared Schopenhauer's distaste for "the low-statured, wide-hipped, narrow-shouldered sex." The girls about the table were all listening eagerly. Johnnie had the sensation of a freshman who has walked out on the campus too well dressed. There was a tremendous giggling about the board as the old man made an end. Johnnie herself smiled, though her face was scarlet. She had no words to tell her tormentor that the borrowing trait in her tribe which had earned them the name of the borrowing Passmores proceeded not from avarice, which ate into Pap Himes's very marrow, but from its reverse trait of generosity. She knew vaguely that they would have shared with a neighbour their last bite or dollar, and had thus never any doubt of being shared with nor any shame in the asking. "Yes," pursued Himes, surveying Johnnie chucklingly, "I mind when you was born. Has your Uncle Pros found his silver mine yet?" "My mother has often told me how good you and Mrs. Bence was to us when I was little," answered Johnnie mildly. "No, sir, Uncle Pros hasn't found his silver mine yet--but he's still a-hunting for it." The reply appeared to delight Himes. He laughed immoderately, even as Buckheath had done. The hasty supper was well under way now. Mrs. Bence brought the last of the hot bread, and shuffled into a seat. The old man at the head of the board returned to his feeding, but with somewhat moderated voracity. At length, pretty fully gorged, he raised his head from over his plate and looked about him for diversion. Again his attention was directed to the new girl. "Air ye wedded?" he challenged suddenly. She shook her head and laughed. Johnnie laughed more than ever, and blushed again. That quick smile of Johnnie's responded. "I reckon I'll do my best," she agreed reasonably; "but some folks can do that and miss it." Himes nodded till he set the little red curls all bobbing around the bare spot. The old man held a sort of state among these poor girls, and took tribute of admiration, as he had taken tribute of life and happiness from daughter and granddaughter. Gideon Himes was not actively a bad man; he was as without personal malice as malaria. When it makes miserable those about it, or robs a girl of her pink cheeks, her bright eyes, her joy of life, wearing the elasticity out of her step and making an old woman of her before her time, we do not fly into a rage at it--we avoid it. The Pap Himeses of this world are to be avoided if possible. When supper was over Johnnie was a little surprised to see the tall woman approach Pap Himes like a small child begging a favour of a harsh taskmaster. "Can't that there new girl bunk with me?" she inquired earnestly. Johnnie laughed across her shoulder. "I'd just as soon do it," she reassured her companion. "I do love smooth bedclothes; looks like I dream better on 'em and under 'em." Mandy sat down on the edge of the bed, interfering considerably with the final touches Johnnie was putting to it. "You're a right good gal," she opined patronizingly, "but foolish. The new ones always is foolish. I can put you up to a-many a thing that'll help you along, though, and I'm willin' to do it." Again Johnnie smiled at her, that smile of enveloping sweetness and tenderness. It made something down in the left side of poor Mandy's slovenly dress-bodice vibrate and tingle. "I'll thank you mightily," said Johnnie Consadine, "mightily." And knew not how true a word she spoke. "You see," counselled Mandy from the bed into which she had rolled with most of her clothes on, "you want to get in with Miss Lydia Sessions and the Uplift ladies, and them thar swell folks." Johnnie nodded, busily at work making a more elaborated night toilet than the others, who were going to bed all about them, paying little attention to their conversation. Mandy had a gasp, which occurred between sentences and at the end of certain words, with grotesque effect. Johnnie was to find that this gasp was always very much to the fore when Mandy was being uplifted. It then served variously as the gasp of humility, gratitude, admiration; the gasp of chaste emotion, the gasp of reprobation toward others who did not come forward to be uplifted. "Did you say there was books at that club?" inquired Johnnie out of the darkness--she had now extinguished the light. "Can a body learn things from the lectures?" "Uh-huh," agreed Mandy sleepily; "but you don't have to read 'em--the books. They lend 'em to you, and you take 'em home, and after so long a time you take 'em back sayin' how much good they done you. That's the way. If Mr. Stoddard's 'round, he'll ask you questions about 'em; but Miss Lyddy won't--she hates to find out that any of her plans ain't workin'." "Good land!" grumbled the addressed, "I thought it was mornin' and I had to git up! You ort to been asleep long ago. Yes, Mr. Stoddard's got sorter brown eyes and hair, and he rides in a otty-mobile. How did you know?" But Mandy was too tired to stay awake to marvel over that. Her rhythmic snores soon proved that she slept, while Johnnie lay thinking of the various proffers she had that evening received of a lamp to her feet, a light on her path. And she would climb--yes, she would climb. Not by the road Pap Himes pointed out; not by the devious path Mandy Meacham suggested; but by the rugged road of good, honest toil, to heights where was the power and the glory, she would certainly strive. "We're all right," she heard a well-remembered voice reply. "You go ahead--we'll be there before you." The slim, gray-clad figure in the seat beside him laughed softly and fluttered a white handkerchief as the last car went on. "Now!" exulted the voice. "I'll put on my goggles and cap and we'll show them what running is. 'It's they'll take the high road and we'll take the low, And we'll be in Watauga befo-o-ore them!'" Even as he spoke he adjusted his costume, and Johnnie saw the car shoot forward like a living creature eager on the trail. She sighed as she looked after them. Feet--of what use were feet to follow such a flight as that? "I don't see what in the world could 'a' made me sleep so!" Johnnie deprecated, as she made haste to dress herself. "Looks like I never had nothing to do yesterday, except walking down. I've been on foot that much many a time and never noticed it." The other girls in the room, poor souls, were all cross and sleepy. Nobody had time to converse with Johnnie. As they went down the stairs another contingent began to straggle up, having eaten a hasty meal after their night's work, and making now for certain of the just-vacated beds. Johnnie ran into the kitchen to help Mrs. Bence get breakfast on the table, for Pap Himes was bad off this morning with a misery somewhere, and his daughter was sending word to the cotton mill to put a substitute on her looms till dinner time. Almost as much to her own surprise as to that of everybody else, Mandy Meacham proposed to stay and take Johnnie in to register for a job. "It's lots prettier out here than it is in the house," she returned smilingly, when Mavity Bence offered to get her a chair. "I do love to be out-of-doors." Johnnie eyed the tall girl gravely. "I've got to earn some money," she said at length. "Ma and the children have to be taken care of. I don't know of any better way than the mill." "An' I don't know of any worse," retorted Mandy sourly, as they went out together. Johnnie began to feel timid. There had been a secret hope that she would meet Shade on the way to the mill, or that Mrs. Bence would finally get through in time to accompany her. She was suddenly aware that there was not a soul within sound of her voice who had belonged to her former world. With a little gasp she looked about her as they entered the office. Would the people think she was good enough? Would they understand how hard she meant to try? For a minute she had a desperate impulse to turn and run. Then she heard Mandy's thin, flatted tones announcing: "This hyer girl wants to git a job in the mill. Miz Bence, she cain't come down this morning--you'll have to git somebody to tend her looms till noon; Pap, he's sick, and she has obliged to wait on him--so I brung the new gal." "All right," said the man she addressed. "She can wait there; you go on to your looms." "Waiting for the room boss? Are they going to put you on this morning?" he asked pleasantly. "Yes, I'm a-going to get a chance to work right away," she smiled up at him. "Ain't it fine?" The smile that answered hers held something pitying, yet it was a pity that did not hurt or offend. He was instantly apologetic for the word; but Johnnie detached the flower from her dress and held it toward him. "It is," she assented. "It's an orchid; and the little yellow flower that we-all call the whippoorwill shoe is an orchid, too." Stoddard thrust his papers into his coat pocket and took the blossom in his hand. Stoddard continued to examine the pink blossom with interest. "You said it grew up in the mountains--and didn't grow in the valley," he reminded her. Again she smiled up at him radiantly, and the young man's astonished glance went from her dusty, cowhide shoes to the thick roll of fair hair on her graceful head. What manner of mill-girls did the mountains send down to the valley? "Why Sunday?" asked Stoddard. For no reason that she could assign, and very much against her will, Johnnie's face flushed deeply. "I reckon I couldn't," she answered evasively. "Hit's a long ways up--and--hit's a long ways up." "And yet you're going to walk it--after a week's work here in the mill?" persisted Stoddard. "You'd better tell me where they grow, and let me go up in my car." "Are you the new girl?" inquired a voice at Johnnie's shoulder. They turned to find a squat, middle-aged man regarding them dubiously. "Yes," answered Johnnie, rising. "I've been waiting quite a while." "Well, come this way," directed the man and, turning, led her away. Down the hall they went, then up a flight of wooden stairs which carried them to a covered bridge, and so to the upper story of the factory. "That's an unusual-looking girl." Old Andrew MacPherson made the comment as he received the papers from Stoddard's hands. "Well, that ought to square with your socialistic notions," chaffed MacPherson, sorting the work on his desk and pushing a certain portion of it toward Stoddard. "Sit down here, if you please, and we'll go over these now. The girl looked a good deal like a fairy princess. I don't think she's a safe topic for susceptible young chaps like you and me," the grizzled old Scotchman concluded with a chuckle. "Your socialistic hullabaloo makes you liable to foregather with all sorts of impossible people." Gray shook his head, laughing, as he seated himself at the desk beside the other. "Oh, I'm only a theoretical socialist," he deprecated. "These economic conditions are not a pin," answered Gray, smiling. "I don't have to jump and say 'ouch!' the minute I find they prick me. Worse conditions have always been, and no doubt bad ones will survive for a time, and pass away as mankind outgrows them. I haven't the colossal conceit to suppose that I can reform the world--not even push it much faster toward the destination of good to which it is rolling. But I want to know--I want to understand, myself; then if there is anything for me to do I shall do it. It may be that the present conditions are the best possible for the present moment. It may be that if a lot of us got together and agreed, we could better them exceedingly. It is not certain in my mind yet that any growth is of value to humanity which does not proceed from within. This is true of the individual--must it not be true of the class?" "No doubt, no doubt," agreed MacPherson, indifferently. "Most of the men who are loud in the leadership of socialism have made a failure of their own lives. We'll see what happens when a man who is a personal and economic success sets up to teach." It was a blowy April day outside, with a gay blue sky in which the white clouds raced, drawing barges of shadow over the earth below. But the necessity of keeping dust out of the machinery, the inconvenience of having flying ends carried toward it, closed every window in the big factory, and the operatives gasped in the early heat, the odour of oil, the exhausted air. There was a ventilating system in the Hardwick mill, and it was supposed to be exceptionally free from lint; but the fagged children crowded to the casements with instinctive longing for the outdoor air which could not of course enter through the glass; or plodded their monotonous rounds to tend the frames and see that the thread was running properly to each spool, and that the spools were removed, when filled. By noon every nerve in Johnnie's body quivered with excitement and overstrain; yet when Mandy came for her at the dinner hour she showed her a face still resolute, and asked that a snack be brought her to the mill. "I don't see why you won't come along home and eat your dinner," the Meacham woman commented. "The Lord knows you get time enough to stay in the mill working over them old looms. Say, I seen you in the hall--did you know who you was talking to?" The red flooded Johnnie's face as she knelt before her loom interrogating its workings with a dexterous hand; even the white nape of her neck showed pink to Mandy's examining eye; but she managed to reply in a fairly even tone: "Yes, that was Mr. Stoddard. I saw him yesterday evening when I was coming down the Ridge with Shade." "But did you know 'bout him? Say--Johnnie Consadine--turn yourself round from that old loom and answer me, I was goin' a-past the door, and when I ketched sight o' you and him settin' there talkin' as if you'd knowed each other all your lives, why you could have--could have knocked me down with a feather." Johnnie sat up on her heels and turned a laughing face across her shoulder. "I don't see any reason to want to knock you down with anything," she evaded the direct issue. "Go 'long, Mandy, or you won't have time to eat your dinner. Tell Aunt Mavity to send me just a biscuit and a piece of meat." "Good land, Johnnie Consadine, but you're quare!" exclaimed Mandy, staring with bulging light eyes. "If it was me I'd be all in a tremble yet--and there you sit and talk about meat and bread!" Johnnie did not think it necessary to explain that the tremor of that conversation with Stoddard had indeed lasted through her entire morning. "Well, he wasn't looking at no moccasin flower when I seed him," Mandy persisted. "He was lookin' at you. He jest eyed you as if you was Miss Lydia Sessions herself--more so, if anything." Johnnie inwardly rebuked the throb of joy which greeted this statement. "I reckon his looks are his own, Mandy," she said soberly. "You and me have no call to notice them." "Ain't got no call to notice 'em? Well, I jest wish't I could get you and him up in front of Miss Sessions, and have her see them looks of his'n," grumbled Mandy as she turned away. "I bet you there'd be some noticin' done then!" When in the evening Mandy came for Johnnie, she found the new mill hand white about the mouth with exhaustion, heavy-eyed, choking, and ready to weep. A man was propping open the big wooden gates, and through them she saw the street, the sidewalk, and a carriage drawn up at the curb. In this vehicle sat a lady; and a gentleman, hat in hand, talked to her from the sidewalk. She turned over her shoulder to glance at Johnnie, who was pulling vigorously back. There was no hint of tiredness or depression in the girl's face now. Her deep eyes glowed; red was again in the fresh lips that parted over the white teeth in an adorable, tremulous smile. Mandy stared. "Hurry up--he'll be gittin' away," she admonished. But her remonstrance came too late; Mandy had yanked her forward and was performing the introduction she so euphoniously described. Gray Stoddard turned and bowed to both girls. He carried the broken orchid in his hand, and apparently had been speaking of it to Miss Sessions. Mandy eyed him narrowly to see if any of the looks she had apprehended as offensive to Miss Sessions went in Johnnie's direction. And she was not disappointed. Johnnie was a bit grieved to find that the removal from Miss Sessions of the shrouding, misty veil revealed a countenance somewhat angular in outline, with cheekbones a trifle hard and high, and a lack of colour. She fancied, too, that Miss Sessions was slightly annoyed about something. She wondered if it was because they had interrupted her conversation with Mr. Stoddard and driven him away. Yet while she so questioned, she was taking in with swift appreciation the trim set of the driving coat Miss Lydia wore, the appropriate texture of the heavy gloves on the small hands that held the lines, and a certain indefinable air of elegance hard to put into words, but which all women recognize. "Ain't she swell?" inquired Mandy, as they passed on. "She's after Mr. Stoddard now--it used to be the preacher that had the big church in Watauga, but he moved away. I wish I had her clothes." "Yes," returned Johnnie absently. She had already forgotten her impression of Miss Sessions's displeasure. Gone was the leaden weariness of her day's toil Something intimate and kind in the glance Stoddard had given her remained warm at her heart, and set that heart singing. "This is a great country," he opened obliquely, "a very great country. But you Americans will have to learn that generations of blood and breeding are not to be skipped with impunity. See the sons and daughters of your rich men. If the hope of the land lay in them it would be a bad outlook indeed." "Is that peculiar to America?" asked Stoddard mildly. They were coming under the trees now. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair to enjoy the coolness. "My impression was that the youthful aristocracy of every country often made of itself a spectacle unseemly." The Scotchman laughed. Then he looked sidewise at his companion. "I'm not denying," he pursued, again with that odd trick of entering his argument from the side, "that a young chap like yourself has my good word. A man with money who will go to work to find out how that money was made, and to live as his father did, carries an old head on young shoulders. I put aside your socialistic vapourings of course--every fellow to his fad--I see in you the makings of a canny business man." It was Stoddard's turn to laugh, and he did so unrestrainedly, throwing back his head and uttering his mirth so boyishly that the other smiled in sympathy. "You talk about what's in the blood," Gray said finally, "and then you make light of my socialistic vapourings, as you call them. My mother's clan--and it is from the spindle side that a man gets his traits--are all come-outers as far back as I know anything about them. They fought with Cromwell--some of them; they came over and robbed the Indians in true sanctimonious fashion, and persecuted the Quakers; and down the line a bit I get some Quaker blood that stood for its beliefs in the stocks, and sacrificed its ears for what it thought right. I'm afraid the socialistic vapourings are the true expression of the animal." MacPherson grunted incredulously. "Well, she's not in your class, and best leave her alone," returned MacPherson doggedly. "It wouldn't matter if the young thing were not so beautiful, and with such a winning look in her eyes. This America beats me. That poor lass would make a model princess--according to common ideals of royalty--and here you find her coming out of some hut in the mountains and going to work in a factory. Miss Lydia Sessions is a well-bred young woman, now; she's been all over Europe, and profited by her advantages of travel. I call her an exceedingly well-bred person." "She is," agreed Stoddard without enthusiasm. "And I'm sure you must admire her altruistic ideas--they'd just fall in with yours, I suppose, now." Stoddard shook his head. "Not at all," he said briefly. "If you were enough interested in socialism to know what we folks are driving at, I could explain to you why we object to charitable enterprises--but it's not worth while." "Indeed it is not," assented MacPherson hastily. "Though no doubt we might have a fine argument over it some evening when we have nothing better to talk about. I thought you and Miss Sessions were fixing up a match of it, and it struck me as a very good thing, too. The holdings of both of you are in cotton-mill property, I judge. That always makes for harmony and stability in a matrimonial alliance." Stoddard smiled. He was aware that Miss Lydia's holdings consisted of a complaisant brother-in-law in whose house she was welcome till she could marry. But he said nothing on this head. "MacPherson," he began very seriously, "I wonder a little at you, I know you old-world people regard these things differently; but could you look at Mrs. Hardwick's children, and seriously recommend Mrs. Hardwick's sister as a wife for a friend?" Old MacPherson stopped in the way, thrust his hands deep in his pockets and stared at the younger man. "Well!" he ejaculated at last; "that's a great speech for a hot-headed young fellow! Your foresight is worthy of a Scotchman." Gray Stoddard smiled. "I am not a hot-headed person," he observed. "Nobody but you ever accused me of such a thing. Marriage concerns the race and a man's whole future. If the children of the marriage are likely to be unsatisfactory, the marriage will certainly be so. We moderns bedeck and bedrape us in all sorts of meretricious togas, till a pair of fine eyes and a dashing manner pass for beauty; but when life tries the metal--when nature applies her inevitable test--the degenerate or neurotic type goes to the wall." Again MacPherson grunted. "No doubt you're sound enough; but it is rather uncanny to hear a young fellow talk like his grandfather," the Scotchman said finally. "Are there many of your sort in this astonishing land?" "Yes. Well, it's a big job. It's been on hand a long time. The young men of America have their work cut out for them," said MacPherson drily. "No doubt," returned Stoddard with undisturbed cheerfulness. "But when every man saves his own soul, the salvation of the world will come to pass." All week in Johnnie the white flame of purpose burned out every consciousness of weariness, of bodily or mental distaste. The preposterously long hours, the ill-ventilated rooms, the savage monotony of her toil, none of these reached the girl through the glow of hope and ambition. Physically, the finger of the factory was already laid upon her vigorous young frame; but when Sunday morning came, though there was no bellowing whistle to break in on her slumbers, she waked early, and while nerve and muscle begged achingly for more sleep, she rose with a sense of exhilaration which nothing could dampen. She had seen a small mountain church over the Ridge by the spring where her moccasin flowers grew; and if there were preaching in it to-day, the boys and girls scouring the surrounding woods during the intermissions would surely find and carry away the orchids. There was no safety but to take the road early. She fell silent again, still regarding him, and fumbling blindly at the cover of the basket. "Well--aren't you lost?" inquired Stoddard with a rather futile assumption of surprise. He was strangely moved by the direct gaze of those clear, wide-set gray eyes, under the white brow and the ruffled coronet of bright hair. "No," returned Johnnie gently, literally. "You know I said I'd come up here and get those moccasin flowers for you this morning. This is my road home, anyhow. I'm not as near lost on it as I am at a loom, down in the factory." Stoddard continued to stare at the hand she had laid on the car. "It'll be an awfully long walk for you," he said at last, choosing his words with some difficulty. "Won't you get in and let me take you up to the spring?" Johnnie laughed softly, exultantly. Again she laughed, and, uncovering the orchids, held them up to him. "These are beauties," he exclaimed with due enthusiasm, yet with a certain uneasy preoccupation in his manner. "Were you up before day, did you tell me, to get these? That seems too bad. You needed your sleep." Johnnie flushed and smiled. "I love to do it," she said simply. "It was mighty sweet out on the road this morning, and you don't know how pretty the blooms did look, standing there waiting for me. I 'most hated to pick them." Stoddard's troubled eyes raised themselves to her face. Here was a royal nature that would always be in the attitude of the giver. He wanted to offer her something, and, as the nearest thing in reach, sprang down from the automobile and, laying a hand on her arm, said, almost brusquely: "Get in. Come, let me help you. I want to go up and see the spring where these grow. I'll get you back to Cottonville in time for church, if that's what you're debating about." "Was that what you were doing," she asked, alluding to some small item of the operating, "when you stopped by the side of the road, Sunday night, when Miss Lydia was with you?" He looked his astonishment. "You were right under my window when you stopped," Johnnie explained to him. "I watched you-all when you started away. I was sure you would beat." "We did," Stoddard assured her. "But we came near missing it. That connection Buckheath put in for me the evening you were with him on the Ridge worked loose. But I discovered the trouble in time to fix it." Remembrance of that evening, and of the swift flight of the motors through the dusk moonlight, made Johnnie wonder at herself and her present position. She was roused by Stoddard's voice asking: "Are you interested in machinery?" "I love it," returned Johnnie sincerely. "I never did get enough of tinkerin' around machines. If I was ever so fortunate as to own a sewing machine I could take it all apart and clean it and put it together again. I did that to the minister's wife's sewing machine down at Bledsoe when it got out of order. She said I knew more about it than the man that sold it to her." "Would you like to run the car?" came the next query. Would she like to! The countenance of simple rapture that she turned to him was reply sufficient. Smilingly he watched her, like a grown person amusing a child. "You see what the wheel does, of course--guides. Now," when they had run ahead for some minutes, "do you want to go faster?" Johnnie laughed up at him, through thick, fair lashes. "Looks like anybody would be hard to suit that wanted to go faster than this," she apologized. "But if the machine can make a higher speed, there wouldn't be any harm in just running that way for a spell, would there?" It was Stoddard's turn to laugh. Johnnie nodded soberly. Her intent gaze studied the mechanism before her intelligently. "Yes," agreed Stoddard. "Here's a good, long, straight stretch of road for us to take it on. I'll attend to the horn when we come to the turn up there. We mustn't make anybody's horse run away." So the lesson proceeded. He showed her brake and clutch. He gave her some theoretical knowledge of cranking up, because she seemed to enjoy it as a child enjoys exploiting the possibilities of a new toy. Up and up they went, the sky widening and brightening above them. Hens began to lead forth their broods. Overhead, a hawk wheeled high in the blue, uttering his querulous cry. "I'm mighty glad I came," the girl said, more to herself than to the man at her side. "This is the most like flying of anything that ever chanced to me." From time to time Stoddard had sent swift, sidelong glances at his companion, noting the bright, bent head, the purity of line in the profile above the steering-wheel, the intelligent beauty of the intent, down-dropped eyes, with long lashes almost on the flushed cheeks. He wondered at her; born amid these wide, cool spaces, how had she endured for a week the fetid atmosphere of the factory rooms? How, having tested it, could she look forward to a life like that? Something in her innocent trust choked him. He began some carefully worded inquiries as to her experience in the mill and her opinion of the work. The answers partook of that charm which always clung about Johnnie. She told him of Mandy and, missing no shade of the humour there was in the Meacham girl, managed to make the description pathetic. She described Pap Himes and his boarding-house, aptly, deftly, and left it funny, though a sympathetic listener could feel the tragedy beneath. "There!" she cried in a contrite voice. "I knew mighty well and good that it was going to rain, and I ought to have named it to you, because you town folks don't understand the weather as well as we do. I ought not to have let you come on up here." "We'll have to turn and run for it," said Stoddard, laughing a little. "I wish I'd had the hood put on this morning," as he surveyed the narrow way in which he had to turn. "Is it wider beyond here, do you remember?" "I'm mighty sorry I was so careless and didn't warn you about the rain," she declared with shining eyes, as her hair blew back and her colour rose at the rapid motion. "But this is fine. I believe that if I should ever be so fortunate as to own an automobile I'd want to fly like this every minute of the time I was in it." "But what made you think you'd like to work in a cotton mill?" he asked suddenly. "After all, weren't you maybe better off up in these mountains?" And then and there Johnnie strove to put into exact and intelligent words what she had possessed and what she had lacked in the home of her childhood. Unconsciously she told him more than was in the mere words. He got the situation as to the visionary, kindly father with a turn for book learning and a liking for enterprises that appealed to his imagination. Uncle Pros and the silver mine were always touched upon with the tender kindness Johnnie felt for the old man and his life-long quest. But the little mother and the children--ah, it was here that the listener found Johnnie's incentive. Gray Stoddard revolved this conception of a chance in the world in his mind for some time. "I did get some schooling," she told him. "You wouldn't think it to hear me talk, because I'm careless, but I've been taught, and I can do better. Yet if I don't see to it, how am I to know that the children will have as much even as I've had? Mountain air is mighty pure and healthy, and the water up here is the finest you ever drank; but that's only for the body. Of course there's beauty all about you--there was never anything more sightly than big Unaka and the ridges that run from it, and the sky, and the big woods--and all. And yet human beings have got to have more than that. I aim to make a chance for the children." "Are you going to bring them down and let them work in the mills with you?" Stoddard asked in a perfectly colourless tone. "Well, of course they might do that. I did think of it--before I went down there." "Before you went to work in the mills yourself," supplied Stoddard, again in that colourless tone. "I sure will tell you what I find out," agreed Johnnie heartily. "I reckon you'll want to know how the work seems to me at the side of such as I was used to in the mountains; but I hope you won't inquire how long it took me to learn, for I'm afraid I'm going to make a poor record. If you was to ask me how much I was able to earn there, and how much back on Unaka, I could make a good report for the mill on that, because that's all that's the matter with the mountains--they're a beautiful place to live, but a body can't hardly earn a cent, work as they may." It was all over in a moment. The loom-fixers had debouched upon the long, wooden bridge which crossed the ravine to their quarters; the girls were going on, Mandy Meacham hanging back and staring; a tree finally shut out Miss Sessions's accusing countenance. "Please stop and let me out here," said Johnnie, in a scarcely audible voice. When Stoddard would have remonstrated, or asked why, his lips were closed by sight of her daunted, miserable face. He knew as well as she the mad imprudence of the thing which they had done, and blamed himself roundly with it all. "I'll not forget to bring the books we were talking of," he made haste to say. He picked up the little basket from the floor of the car. "You'd better keep the flowers in that," Johnnie told him lifelessly. Her innocent dream was broken into by a cruel reality. She was struggling blindly under the weight of all her little world's disapprobation. "You'll let me return the basket when I bring you the books," Gray suggested, helplessly. "I don't know," Johnnie hesitated. Then, as a sudden inspiration came to her, "Mandy Meacham said she'd try to get me into a club for girls that Miss Sessions has. She said Miss Sessions would lend me books. Maybe you might just leave them with her. I'm sure I should be mighty proud to have them. I know I'll love to read them; but--well, you might just leave them with her." A little satiric sparkle leaped to life in Stoddard's eyes. He looked at the innocent, upraised face in wonder. The most experienced manoeuverer of Society's legion could not have handled a difficult situation more deftly. "The very thing," he said cheerily. "I'll talk to Miss Sessions about it to-morrow." "I told you I'd speak a good word for you," shouted Mandy Meacham, putting her lips down close to Johnnie's ear where she struggled and fought with her looms amid the deafening clamour of the weaving room. The girl looked up, flushed, tired, but eagerly receptive. "Yes," her red lips shaped the word to the other's eyes, though no sound could make itself heard above that din except such eldritch shrieks as Mandy's. "I done it. I got you a invite to some doin's at the Uplift Club a-Wednesday." Again Johnnie nodded and shaped "Yes" with her lips. She added something which might have been "thank you"; the adorable smile that accompanied it said as much. Mandy watched her, fascinated as the lithe, strong young figure bent and strained to correct a crease in the web where it turned the roll. "They never saw anything like you in their born days, I'll bet," she yelled. "I never did. You're awful quare--but somehow I sorter like ye." And she scuttled back to her looms as the room boss came in. A weaver works by the piece, but Mandy had been reproved too often for slovenly methods not to know that she might be fined for neglect. Her looms stood where she could continually get the newcomer's figure against the light, with its swift motion, its supple curves, and the brave carriage of the well-formed head. The sight gave Mandy a curious satisfaction, as though it uttered what she would fain have said to the classes above her. Hers was something the feeling which the private in the ranks has for the standard-bearer who carries the colours aloft, or the dashing officer who leads the charge. Johnnie was the challenge she would have flung in the face of the enemy. The ladies assisting in Miss Lydia Sessions's Uplift Club for work among the mill girls, were almost all young and youngish women. The mothers in Israel attacked the more serious problems of orphanages, winter's supplies of coal, and clothing for the destitute. "But their souls must be fed, too," Miss Lydia asserted as she recruited her helpers for the Uplift work. "Their souls must be fed; and who can reach the souls of these young girls so well as we who are near their own age, and who have had time for culture and spiritual growth?" Mandy Meacham regarded Johnnie's preparation for the function with some disfavour. "Ef you fix up like that," she remonstrated, "you're bound to look too nice to suit Miss Lyddy. They won't be no men thar. I'm goin' to wear my workin' dress, and tell her I hadn't nary minute nor nary cent to do other." Johnnie laughed a little at this, as though it were intended for a joke. "But I did have time," she objected. "Miss Sessions would pay a substitute for the whole day though I told her I'd only need the afternoon for the party. I think it was mighty good of her, and it's as little as I can do to make myself look as nice as I can." "You ain't got the sense you was born with!" fretted Mandy. "Them thar kind ladies ain't a-carin' for you to look so fine. They'll attend to all the fine lookin' theirselves. What they want is to know how bad off you air, an' to have you say how much what they have did or give has helped you." Miss Sessions, near the door, had a receiving line, quite in the manner of any reception. She herself, in a blouse of marvellous daintiness and sweeping skirts, stood beside the visitor from London to present her. To this day Johnnie is uncertain as to where the wonderful blue silk frock of that lady from abroad was fastened, though she gave the undivided efforts of sharp young eyes and an inquiring mind to the problem a good portion of the time while it was within her view. The Englishwoman was called Mrs. Archbold, and on her other hand stood a tall, slim lady with long gray-green eyes, prematurely gray hair which had plainly been red, and an odd little twist to her smile. This was Mrs. Hexter, wife of the owner of the big woollen mills across the creek, and only bidden in to assist the Uplift work because the position of her husband gave her much power. These, with the Misses Burchard, daughters of the rector, formed the reception committee. "I am so charmed to see you here to-day," Miss Lydia smiled as they entered. It was part of her theory to treat the mill girls exactly as she would members of her own circle. Mandy, being old at the business, possessed herself of the high-held hand presented; but Johnnie only looked at it in astonishment, uncertain whether Miss Lydia meant to shake hands or pat her on the head. Yet when she did finally divine what was intended, the quality of her apologetic smile ought to have atoned for her lapse. "I'm sure proud to be here with you-all," she said. "Looks like to me you are mighty kind to strangers." The ineradicable dignity of the true mountaineer, who has always been as good as the best in his environment, preserved Johnnie from any embarrassment, any tendency to shrink or cringe. Her beauty, in the fresh-washed print gown, was like a thing released and, as Miss Sessions might have put it, rampant. Gray Stoddard had gone directly to Lydia Sessions, with his proffers of books, and his suggestions for Johnnie. The explanation of how the girl came to be riding in his car that Sunday morning was neither as full nor as penitent as Miss Lydia could have wished; yet it did recognize the impropriety of the act, and was, in so far, satisfactory. Miss Sessions made haste to form an alliance with the young man for the special upliftment of Johnnie Consadine. She would have greatly preferred to interest him in Mandy Meacham, but beggars can not be choosers, and she took what she could get. "Whom have we here?" demanded the lady from London, leaning across and peering at Johnnie with friendly, near-sighted eyes. "Why, what a blooming girl, to be sure! You haven't been long from the country, I'll venture to guess, my dear." Johnnie blushed and dimpled at being so kindly welcomed. The mountain people are undemonstrative in speech and action; and that "my dear" seemed wonderful. "I come from away up in the mountains," she said softly. "I'll not," said Johnnie sturdily. "I'm goin' to earn my way and send for Mother and the children, if hard work'll do it; but I'm a mighty big, stout, healthy somebody, and I aim to keep so." Mrs. Archbold patted the tall young shoulder as she turned to Mandy Meacham whom Miss Lydia was eager to put through her paces for the benefit of the lady from London. "Such a type,' were Mr. Stoddard's exact words I believe," returned Miss Sessions a little frostily. "Yes, John Consadine is quite a marked type of the mountaineer. She is, as she said to you, a stout, healthy creature, and, I understand, very industrious. I approve of John." She approved of John, but she addressed herself to exploiting Mandy; and the lady in the blue silk frock learned how poor and helpless the Meacham woman had been before she got in to the mill work, how greatly the Uplift Club had benefited her, with many interesting details. Yet as the English lady went from group to group in company with Miss Lydia and T.H. Hexter's wife, her quick eyes wandered across the room to where a bright head rose a little taller than its fellows, and occasional bursts of laughter told that Johnnie was in a merry mood. The threadbare attempt at a reception was gotten through laboriously. The girls were finally settled in orderly rows, and Mrs. Archbold led to the platform. The talk she had prepared for them was upon aspiration. It was an essay, in fact, and she had delivered it successfully before many women's clubs. She is not to be blamed that the language was as absolutely above the comprehension of her hearers as though it had been Greek. She was a busy woman, with other aims and activities than those of working among the masses; Miss Lydia had heard her present talk, fancied it, and thought it would be the very thing for the Uplift Club. Mandy and her likes got from the talk perhaps nothing at all, except that rich people might have what they liked if they wanted it--that at least was Miss Meacham's summing up of the matter when she went home that night. But to Johnnie some of the sentences remained. "You struggle and climb and strive," said Mrs. Archbold earnestly, "when, if you only knew it, you have wings. And what are the wings of the soul? The wings of the soul are aspiration. Oh, that we would spread them and fly to the heights our longing eyes behold, the heights we dream of when we cannot see them, the heights we foolishly and mistakenly expect to climb some day." Again Johnnie saw herself coming down the ridge at Shade's side; descending into the shadow, stepping closer to the droning mills; while above her the Palace of Pleasure swam in its golden glory, and these who were privileged to do so went out and in and laughed and were happy. Were such heights as that what this woman meant? Johnnie had let it typify to her the heights to which she intended to climb. Was it indeed possible to fly to them instead? The talk ended. She sat so long with bent head that Miss Sessions finally came round and took the unoccupied chair beside her. "Are you thinking it over, John?" she inquired with that odd little note of hostility which she could never quite keep out of her voice when she addressed this girl. "Yes'm," replied Johnnie meekly. "I think these things are most important for you girls who have to earn your daily bread," Miss Sessions condescended. "Daily bread," echoed Johnnie softly. She loved fine phrases as she loved fine clothes. "I know where that comes from. It's in the prayer about 'daily bread,' and 'the kingdom and the power and the glory.' Don't you think those are beautiful words, Miss Lydia--the 'power and the glory'?" "Oh, John!" she said reprovingly, 'Daily bread' is all we have anything to do with. Don't you remember that it says 'Thine be the kingdom and the power and the glory'? Thine, John--Thine." "Yes'm," returned Johnnie submissively. But it was in her heart that certain upon this earth had their share of kingdoms and powers and the glories. And, although she uttered that submissive "Yes'm," her high-couraged young heart registered a vow to achieve its own slice of these things as well as of daily bread. "Didn't you enjoy Mrs. Archbold's talk? I thought it very fine," Miss Sessions pursued. "It sure was that," sighed Johnnie. "I don't know as I understand it all--every word. I tried to, but maybe I got some of it wrong." "What is it you don't understand, John?" inquired Miss Lydia patronizingly. "Ask me. I'll explain anything you care to know about." Johnnie turned to her, too desperately in earnest to note the other listeners to the conversation. "Why, that about stretching out the wings of your spirit and flying. Do you believe that?" "I certainly do," Miss Sessions said brightly, as delighted at Johnnie's remembering part of the visitor's words as a small boy when he has taught his terrier to walk on its hind legs. "Then if a body wants a thing bad enough, and keeps on a-wanting it--Oh, just awful--is that aspiration? Will the thing you want that-a-way come to pass?" "We-e-ell," Miss Sessions deemed it necessary to qualify her statement to this fiery and exact young questioner. "You have to want the right thing, of course, John. You have to want the right thing." "Yes'm," agreed Johnnie heartily. "And I'd 'low it was certainly the right thing, if it was what good folks--like you--want." Miss Sessions flushed, yet she looked pleased, aware, if Johnnie was not, of the number of listeners. Here was her work of Uplift among the mill girls being justified. "I--Oh, really, I couldn't set myself up as a pattern," she said modestly. "Oh, John!" she said severely, so soon as she could be heard above the giggles. "How you have misunderstood me, and Mrs. Archbold, and all we intended to bring to you! What is a mere blouse like this to the uplift, the outlook, the development we were striving to offer? I confess I am deeply disappointed in you." This sobered Johnnie, instantly. "I'm sorry," she said, bending forward to lay a wistful, penitent hand on that of Miss Sessions. "I'll try to understand better. I reckon I'm right dumb, and you'll have to have a lot of patience with me. I don't rightly know what to aspire after." The amende was so sweetly made that even Lydia Sessions, still exceedingly employed at being pictorially chagrined over the depravity of her neophyte, could but be appeased. "I'll try to furnish you more suitable objects for your ambition," she murmured virtuously. But the lady with the gray hair and the odd little twist to her smile now leaned forward and took a hand in the conversation. Her voice faltered into discouraged silence. Tears gathered and hung thick on her lashes. Miss Sessions sent a beseeching look toward the lady from London. Mrs. Archbold stepped accommodatingly into the breach. "All aspiration is good," she said gently. "I shouldn't be discouraged because it took a rather concrete form." Johnnie's eyes were upon her face, trying to understand. A "concrete form" she imagined might allude to the fact that Miss Sessions had a better figure than she. Lydia Sessions got up and moved away in shocked silence. Mrs. Hexter was a good deal of a thorn in her flesh, and she only tolerated her because of Mr. Hexter and his position. After the retreating and disaffected hostess came Mrs. Archbold's voice, with a thread of laughter in it. The glances of the older women met across the bright head. "She won't have much use for feet to climb with," Mrs. Hexter summed it up, taking her figure from the talk earlier in the afternoon. "She's got wings." "Wings!" whispered Mandy Meacham to herself. Mandy was not only restricted to the use of spiritual feet; she was lame in the soul as well, poor creature, "Wings--air they callin' her a angel?" Yet the girl performed the labours of a factory weaver with almost passionate enthusiasm and devotion. Always and always she was looking beyond the mere present moment. If tending loom was the road which led to the power and the glory, what need to complain that it--the mere road--was but dull earth? The long, hot days at the foot of the hills did seem to the mountain-bred creature interminable and stifling. Perspiration dripped from white faces as the operatives stood listlessly at their looms, or the children straggled back and forth in the narrow lanes between the frames, tending the endlessly turning spools. Johnnie looked curiously at the dirty yards with their debris of lard buckets and tin cans. Space--air, earth and sky--was cheap and plentiful in the mountains. It seemed strange to be sparing of it, down here where people were so rich. "What makes 'em build so close, Aunt Mavity?" she asked. Johnnie's face whitened. "Aunt Mavity," pursued Johnnie timidly, "do you reckon the water's unhealthy down here in Cottonville? Looks like all the children in the mill have the same white, puny look. I thought maybe the water didn't agree with them." "Believe it--I know it to be true!" Mandy stuck to her point stubbornly. "Thar was Lura Dawson; her folks was comin' down to git the body and bury hit, and when they got here the hospital folks couldn't tell 'em whar to look--no, they couldn't. Atlas Dawson 'lows he'll git even with 'em if it takes him the rest of his natural life. His wife was a Bushares and her whole tribe is out agin the hospital folks and the mill folks down here. I reckon you live too far up in the mountains to hear the talk, but some of these swells had better look out." As the long, hot days followed each other, Johnnie noticed how Mandy failed. Her hand was forever at her side, where she had a stitch-like pain, that she called "a jumpin' misery." Even broad, seasoned Mavity Bence grew pallid and gaunt. Only Pap Himes thrived. His trouble was rheumatism, and the hot days were his best. Of evenings he would sit on the porch in his broad, rush-bottomed chair, the big yellow cat on his knees, and smoke his pipe and, if he cared to do so, banter unkindly with the girls on the steps. Early in the season as it was, the upstairs rooms were terribly hot; and sometimes the poor creatures sat or lay on the porch till well past midnight. Across the gulch were songs and the strumming of banjos or guitars, where the young fellows at the inn waked late. "Shade," she said, bending close so that he might hear the words, "I got leave to come in and ask you to make me a thing like this--see?" showing a pattern for a peculiarly slotted strip of metal. Buckheath returned to the surly indifference of demeanour which was natural to him. Yet he smiled covertly as he examined the drawing she had made of the thing she wanted. He divined in this movement of Johnnie's but an attempt to approach himself, and, as she explained with some particularity, he paid more attention to the girl than to her words. Buckheath turned and grinned broadly at her. "What's the use of this foolishness, Johnnie?" he inquired, clinking the strips of metal between his fingers. "Looks like you and me could find a chance to visit without going to so much trouble." Johnnie opened her gray eyes wide and stared at him. "Mr. Stoddard--what's he got to do with it?" demanded Shade. "He hasn't anything; but that I spoke to him about it, and he told me to try any plan I wanted to." "Well, the less you talk to the bosses--a girl like you, working here in the mill--the better name you'll bear," Shade told her, twisting the drawing in his hands and regarding her from under lowered brows. "Don't tear that," cautioned Johnnie impatiently. "I have to speak to some of the people in authority sometimes--the same as you do. What's the matter with you, Shade Buckheath?" It was out. He had said it at last. He stared at her fiercely. The red dyed her face and neck at his words and look. For a desperate moment she took counsel with herself. Then she lifted her head and looked squarely in Buckheath's face. "Mighty poor excuse," grunted Shade, turning his shoulder to her. "It's not an excuse at all," said Johnnie. "You have no right to ask excuses for what I do--or explanations, either, for that matter. I've told you the truth about it because we were old friends and you named it to me; but I'm sorry now that I spoke at all. Give me that drawing and those patterns back. Some of the other loom-fixers can make what I want." "No, I'm not mad," Johnnie told him, as she had told him long ago. "But I'll thank you not to name Mr. Stoddard to me again. If I haven't the right to speak to anybody I need to, why it certainly isn't your place to tell me of it." "Go 'long," said Buckheath, surlily; "I'll fix 'em for you." And without another word the girl left him. "You say you use 'em on the frames? What for? How do they work?" he asked her, examining the little contrivance lingeringly. "They're working pretty well," she told him, "even the way they are--a good deal too long, and with that slot not cut deep enough, I'm right proud of myself when I look at them. Any boy or girl tending a frame can go to the end of it and see if anything's the matter without walking plumb down. When you get them fixed the way I want them, I tell you they'll be fine." The next afternoon saw Shade Buckheath in the spooling room, watching the operation of Johnnie Consadine's simple device for notifying the frame-tender if a thread fouled or broke. "Johnnie," said Shade, coming close, and speaking in a low confidential tone that was almost affectionate, "if I was you I wouldn't name this business to anybody. Wait till we get it all fixed right," he pursued, as he saw the rising wonder in her face. "No need to tell every feller all you know--so he'll be jest as smart as you are. Ain't that so? And you git me that other strip. I don't want it layin' round for somebody to get hold of and--you find me that other strip. Hunt it up, won't you?" "I reckon so," returned truthful Johnnie, with unflattering moderation. "You get me those things done as quick as you can, please, Shade." "I wish't you'd walk a piece up the Gap road with me, I want to have speech with you," the young fellow told her. "I can't go far; I 'most always try to be home in time to help Aunt Mavity put supper on the table, or anyway to wash up the dishes for her," the girl replied to him. "All right," agreed Buckheath briefly. "Wait here a minute and let me get some things I want to take along." He stopped at a little shed back of the offices, sometimes called the garage because Stoddard's car stood in it. Johnnie dropped down on a box at the door and the young fellow went inside and began searching the pockets of a coat hanging on a peg. He spoke over his shoulder to her. "What's the matter with you here lately since you got your raise? 'Pears like you won't look at a body." "Haven't I seemed friendly?" Johnnie returned, with a deprecating smile. "I reckon I'm just tired. Seems like I'm tired every minute of the day--and I couldn't tell you why. I sure don't have anything hard to do. I think sometimes I need the good hard work I used to have back in the mountains to get rested on." She laughed up at him, and Buckheath's emotional nature answered with a dull anger, which was his only reply to her attraction. "I was going to invite you to go to a dance in at Watauga, Saturday night," he said sullenly; "but I reckon if you're tired all the time, you don't want to go." He had hoped and expected that she would say she was not too tired to go anywhere that he wished her to. His disappointment was disproportionate when she sighingly agreed: "Yes, I reckon I hadn't better go to any dances. I wouldn't for the world break down at my work, when I've just begun to earn so much, and am sending money home to mother." Inside the offices Lydia Sessions stood near her brother's desk. She had gone down, as she sometimes did, to take him home in the carriage. "Oh, here you are, Miss Sessions," said Gray Stoddard coming in. "I've brought those books for Johnnie. There are a lot of them here for her to make selection from. As you are driving, perhaps you wouldn't mind letting me set them in the carriage, then I won't go up past your house." Miss Sessions glanced uneasily at the volumes he carried. "Do you think it's wise to give an ignorant, untrained girl like that the choice of her own reading?" she said at length. "It's as far as my wisdom goes," he replied promptly. "I would as soon think of getting up a form of prayer for a fellow creature as laying out a course of reading for him." "Well, then," suggested Miss Sessions, "why not let her take up a Chatauqua course? I'm sure many of them are excellent. She would be properly guided, and--and encroach less on your time." Miss Sessions flushed and set her lips together. "Faultless," she repeated, with an attempt at a smile. "I fancy Johnnie finds out what you admire most, and makes favourites of your favourites." Stoddard looked a bit blank for an instant. Then, "Well--perhaps--she does," he allowed, hesitatingly. His usual tolerant smile held a hint of indulgent tenderness, and there was a vibration in his voice which struck to Lydia Sessions's heart like a knife. "No, you are mistaken," he added after a moment's reflection. "You don't realize how little I've talked to the child about books--or anything else, for that matter. It does chance that her taste is mine in very many cases; but you underrate our protege when you speak of her as ignorant and uncultured. She knows a good deal more about some things than either of us. It is her fund of nature lore that makes Thoreau and White of Selborne appeal to her. Now I love them because I know so little about what they write of." "But surely you would not call her cultured--a factory girl who has lived in a hut in the mountains all her life? She is trying hard, I admit; but her speech is--well, it certainly is rather uncivilized." Stoddard looked as though he might debate that matter a bit. Then he questioned, instead: "Did you ever get a letter from her? She doesn't carry her quaint little archaisms of pronunciation and wording into her writing. Her letters are delicious." "You quite astonish me," she said finally. "Well--that _is_ good hearing. Mr. Stoddard," with sudden decision, "don't you believe that it would be well worth while, in view of all this, to raise the money and send John Consadine away to a good school? There are several fine ones in New England where she might partially work her way; and really, from what you say, it seems to me she's worthy of such a chance." Stoddard glanced at her in surprise. Miss Lydia looked at him in a sort of despair. "No," said Stoddard promptly. "Indeed I do not. Development must come from within. To give it a chance--to lend it stimulus--that's all a friend can do. A ready-made education plastered on the outside cultivates nobody. Moreover, Johnnie is in no crying need of mere schooling. You don't seem to know how well provided she has been in that respect. But the thing that settles the matter is that she would not accept any such charitable arrangement. Unless you're tired of our present method, I vote to continue it." Lydia Sessions had been for some moments watching Johnnie Consadine who sat on her box at the door of the little garage. She had refrained from mentioning this fact to her companion; but now Shade Buckheath stepped out to join Johnnie, and instantly Lydia turned and motioned Stoddard to her. "Look there," she whispered. "Don't they make a perfect couple? You and I may do what we choose about cultivating the girl's mind--she'll marry a man of her own class, and there it will end." "Oh, Mr. Stoddard! They grew up side by side; they went to school together, and I imagine were sweethearts long before they came to Cottonville." "Do you think that makes them of the same class?" asked Stoddard impatiently. "I should say the presumption was still greater the other way. I was not alluding to social classes." "You're so odd," murmured Lydia Sessions. "These mountaineers are all alike." The village road was a smother of white dust; the weeds beside it drooped powdered heads; evil odours reeked through the little place; but when Shade and Johnnie had passed its confines, the air from the mountains greeted them sweetly; the dusty white road gave place to springy leaf-mould, mixed with tiny, sharp stones. A young moon rode low in the west. The tank-a-tank of cowbells sounded from homing animals. Up in the dusky Gap, whip-poor-wills were beginning to call. "I'm glad I came," said Johnnie, pushing the hair off her hot forehead. She was speaking to herself, aware that Buckheath paid little attention, but walked in silence a step ahead, twisting a little branch of sassafras in his fingers. The spicy odour of the bark was afterward associated in Johnnie's mind with what he had then to say. "Johnnie," he began, facing around and barring her way, when they were finally alone together between the trees, "do you remember the last time you and me was on this piece of road here--do you?" For a moment memory choked and blinded Johnnie. She could neither see the path before them, nor find the voice to answer her questioner. The bleak pathos of her situation came home to her, and tears of rare self-pity filled her eyes. Why was it a disgrace that Stoddard should treat her kindly? Why must she be ashamed of her feeling for him? Shade's voice broke in harshly. "Well, you needn't do it," she interrupted him passionately. "I won't hear a word against Mr. Stoddard, if that's what you're aiming at." Buckheath fell back a pace and stared with angry eyes. "Stoddard--Gray Stoddard?" he repeated. "What's a swell like that got to do with you and me, Johnnie Consadine? You want to let Gray Stoddard and his kind alone--yes, and make them let you alone, if you and me are going to marry." It was Johnnie's turn to stare. "Yes, if we're going to wed," reiterated Buckheath sullenly. "I'm willin' to have you." Johnnie's tense, almost tragic manner relaxed. She laughed suddenly. "I didn't know you was joking, Shade," she said good-humouredly. "I took you to be in earnest. You'll have to excuse me." His eyes, like his voice, were resentful, yet eager. He took off his hat and wiped the perspiration from his brow, looking away from her now, toward the road by which they had climbed. Johnnie regarded him through her thick eyelashes, the smile still lingering bright in her eyes. After all, it was only a rather unusual kind of sweethearting, and not a case of it to touch her feelings. "I'm mighty sorry," she said soberly, "but I ain't aimin' to wed any man, fixed like I am. Mother and the children have to be looked after, and I can't ask a man to do for 'em, so I have it to do myself." "Of course I can't take your mother and the children," Buckheath objected querulously, as though she had asked him to do so. "But you I'll take; and you'd do well to think it over. You won't get such a chance soon again, and I'm apt to change my mind if you put on airs with me this way." Johnnie shook her head. "I know it's a fine chance, Shade," she said in the kindest tone, "but I'm hoping you will change your mind, and that soon; for it's just like I tell you." "Johnnie," he said finally, "you ain't saying no to me, are you? You take time to think it over--but not so very long--I'll name it to you again." "Please don't, Shade," remonstrated the girl, walking on fast, despite the oppressive heat of the evening. "I wish you wouldn't speak of it to me any more; and I can't go walking with you this way. I have obliged to help Aunt Mavity; and every minute of time I get from that, and my work, I'm putting in on my books and reading." She stepped ahead of him now, and Buckheath regarded her back with sullen, sombre eyes. What was he to do? How come nearer her when she thus held herself aloof? "Reddin' up things, Aunt Mavity?" she asked, adding, "If I had time I'd come in and help you." "I was just puttin' away what I've got left that belonged to Lou," said the woman, sitting suddenly down on the bed and gazing up into the bright face above her with a sort of appeal. Johnnie noticed then that Mrs. Bence had a pair of cheap slippers in her lap. It came back vividly to the girl how the newspapers had said that Louvania Bence had taken off her slippers and left them on the bridge, that she might climb the netting more easily to throw herself into the water. The mother stared down at these, dry-eyed. She turned to Johnnie feverishly, like a thing that writhes on the rack and seeks an easier position. Johnnie came in and sat down on the bed beside her hostess. She laid a loving hand over Mavity's that held the slippers. "What pretty little feet she must have had," she said softly. So Johnnie thanked poor Mavity, and hurried away, because the warning whistle was blowing. "I'd be proud to do it for you," returned Mandy, loyally. Ordinarily the Meacham woman was selfish; but having found an object upon which she could centre her thin, watery affections, she proceeded to be selfish for Johnnie instead of toward her, a spiritual juggle which some mothers perform in regard to their children. The store reached, Johnnie showed good judgment in her choice. There was a great sale on at the biggest shopping place in Watauga, and the ready-made summer wear was to be had at bargain rates. Not for her were the flaring, coarse, scant garments whose lack of seemliness was supposed to be atoned for by a profusion of cheap, sleazy trimming. After long and somewhat painful inspection, since most of the things she wanted were hopelessly beyond her, Johnnie carried home a fairly fine white lawn, simply tucked, and fitting to perfection. "But you've got a shape that sets off anything," said the saleswoman, carelessly dealing out the compliments she kept in stock with her goods for purchasers. "You're mighty right she has," rejoined Mandy, sharply, as who should say, "My back is not a true expression of my desires concerning backs. Look at this other--she has the spine of my dreams." The saleswoman chewed gum while they waited for change and parcel, and in the interval she had time to inspect Johnnie more closely. The night of the dance Johnnie adjusted her costume with the nice skill and care which seem native to so many of the daughters of America. Mandy, dressing at the same bureau, scraggled the parting of her own hair, furtively watching the deft arranging of Johnnie's. "Let me do it for you, and part it straight," Johnnie remonstrated. "Aw, hit'll never be seen on a gallopin' hoss," returned Mandy carelessly. "Everybody'll be so tuck up a-watchin' you that they won't have time to notice is my hair parted straight, nohow." So the thin, graying ringlets were loosened around the meagre forehead, and indeed Mandy's appearance was considerably ameliorated. "There--isn't that nice?" inquired Johnnie, turning her companion around to the glass and forcing her to gaze in it--a thing Mandy always instinctively avoided. Johnnie shook her fair head decidedly. Talk of borrowing things brought a reminiscent flush to her cheek. "I'm just as much obliged," she said sweetly. "I'll wear nothing but what's my own. After a while I'll be able to afford jewellery, and that'll be the time for me to put it on." Presently came Mavity Bence bringing the treasured footwear. "I expect they'll be a little tight for me," Johnnie remarked somewhat doubtfully; the slippers, though cheap, ill-cut things, looked so much smaller than her heavy, country-made shoes. But they went readily upon the arched feet of the mountain girl, Mandy and the poor mother looking on with deep interest. Gray looked, and laughed a little. Somehow the adjectives applied to Johnnie did not please him. "Well, take me down there and give me an introduction," urged the youth from Watauga, in a tone of animation which was barred from Uplift affairs. "Say," ejaculated the other, drawing back, "that isn't fair. Miss Sessions," he appealed to their hostess as umpire. "Here's Gray got the belle of the ball mortgaged for all her dances, and won't even give me an introduction. You do the square thing by me, won't you?" These frivolous remarks, suited well enough to the ordinary ballroom, did not please Miss Lydia for an Uplift dance. "John Consadine is young, and exceptionally strong and healthy. But Amanda Meacham has--er--disabilities and afflictions that make it difficult for her to get along. She is a very worthy case." "Mr. Baker wants to ask you to dance, Miss Johnnie. I'll carry on Miss Amanda's teaching, or we'll sit down here and talk if she'd rather." "Ain't she a wonder?" inquired the big woman, staring fondly after the fluttering white skirts. "Johnnie's quare--she is that--I'll never deny it; but I cain't no more help likin' her than as if she was my own born sister." "That's because she is fond of you, too," suggested Gray, thinking of the girl's laborious attempts to teach poor Mandy to dance. "Do you reckon she is?" asked the tall woman, flushing. "Looks like Johnnie Consadine loves every livin' thing on the top side of this earth. I ain't never seen the human yet that she ain't got a good word for. But I don't know as she cares 'specially 'bout _me_." Stoddard could not refuse the assurance for which Mandy so naively angled. "You wouldn't be so fond of her if she wasn't fond of you," he asserted confidently. Gray turned and looked into the flushed, tremulous face beside him with a sudden tightening in his throat. How cruel humanity is when it beholds only the grotesque in the Mandys of this world. Her hair was pretty--and Johnnie had the eyes of love to see it. He stared down the long, lighted room with unseeing gaze. Old Andrew MacPherson's counsel that he let Johnnie Consadine alone appealed to him at that moment as cruel good sense. He was recalled from his musings by Mandy's voice. "These affairs are great fun, aren't they?" inquired Conroy, fanning his late partner vigorously. "I love to dance better than anything else in the world, I believe," returned Johnnie dreamily. "Indeed, I should not laugh at that. I think it's noble for those more fortunate to stretch a hand to help their brothers and sisters that haven't so good a chance. That's what brought me over here to-night. Gray Stoddard explained the plan to me. He doesn't seem to think much of it--but then, Gray's a socialist at heart, and you know those socialists never believe in organized charity. I tell him he's an anarchist." Conroy smiled covertly at the simplicity of this young beauty. He debated in his mind whether indeed it was not an affected simplicity. Of course Gray was devoting himself to her and lending her books; of course he would be glad to assume the position of mentor to a girl who bade fair to be such a pronounced social success, and who was herself so charming. "How long have you been in Cottonville, Miss Consadine?" he asked. "Do tell me who you are visiting--or are you visiting here?" There was a moment's silence; but Conroy managed not to look quite as deeply surprised as he felt. Johnnie responded with alacrity, not aware of having either risen or fallen in her companion's estimation. She danced through the set with smiling enjoyment, prompting her partner, who knew only modern dances. On his part Conroy studied her covertly, trying to adjust his slow mind to this astonishing new state of things, and to decide what a man's proper attitude might be toward such a girl. In the end he found himself with no conclusion. "Then you'll dance it with me?" Conroy found himself saying, baldly, awkwardly, but unable, for the life of him, to keep the eagerness out of his voice. He became suddenly aware that Conroy was signalling him across Johnnie's unconscious head with Masonic twistings of the features. Stoddard met these recklessly inconsiderate grimacings with an impassive stare, then looked away. "I want to see you before you go," the man from Watauga remarked, as he reluctantly resigned his partner. "Don't you forget that there's a waltz coming to me, Miss Johnnie. I'm going to have it, if we make the band play special for us alone." Lydia Sessions, passing on the arm of young Baker, glanced at Johnnie, star-eyed, pink-cheeked and smiling, with a pair of tall cavaliers contending for her favours, and sucked her lips in to that thin, sharp line of reprobation Johnnie knew so well. Dismissing her escort graciously, she hurried to the little supper room and found another member of the committee. "Neither can I," said Mrs. Hexter wickedly. "If I did know how, I believe I'd do it sometimes myself. What is it you want of me, Miss Sessions? I must run back and see to supper, if you don't need me." "But I do," fretted Lydia. "I want your help. This waltzing and--and such things--ought to be stopped." "All right," rejoined practical Mrs. Hexter. "The quickest way to do it is to stop the music." "That was too bad," said Stoddard as they came to a halt; "you were just getting the step beautifully." The girl flashed a swift, sweet look up at him. "I do love to dance," she breathed. "John, would you be so kind as to come and help in the supper room," Miss Sessions's hasty tones broke in. Charlie Conroy was a young man who had made up his mind to get on socially. Such figures are rarer in America than in the old world. Yet Charlie Conroy with his petty ambitions does not stand entirely alone. He seriously regarded marriage as a stepping-stone to a circle which should include "the best people." That this term did not indicate the noblest or most selfless, need hardly be explained. It meant only that bit of froth which in each community rides high on the top of the cup, and which, in Watauga, was augmented by the mill owners of its suburb of Cottonville. Conroy had been grateful for the opportunity to make an entry into this circle by means of assisting Miss Sessions in her charitable work. That lady herself, as sister-in-law of Jerome Hardwick and a descendant of an excellent New England family, he regarded with absolute veneration, quite too serious and profound for anything so assured as mere admiration. "I tried to warn you," he began: "but you were bound to get stung." "I beg your pardon?" returned Stoddard in that civil, colourless interrogation which should always check over-familiar speech, even from the dullest. But Conroy was not sensitive. "That big red-headed girl, you know," he said, leaning close and speaking in a confidential tone. "I mistook her for a lady. I was going my full length--telling her what fun the mill girls were, and trying to do the agreeable--when I found out." "Found out what?" inquired Stoddard. "That she was not a lady?" "Aw, come off," laughed Conroy. "You make a joke of everything." "I knew that she was a weaver in the mill," said Stoddard quietly. Stoddard nodded gravely. He had not Conroy's faith in the fashionable finishing school; but what he lacked there, he made up in conviction as to Johnnie's deserts and abilities. Gray Stoddard's face relaxed. A hint of his quizzical, inscrutable smile was upon it as he answered. "Nature doesn't make mistakes. I don't call Johnnie Consadine a common girl--it strikes me that she is rather uncommon." "Wouldn't go with me to the dance at Watauga--oh no! But she ain't too tired to dance with the swells!" he muttered to the darkness. "And I can't get a word nor a look out of her. Lord, I don't know what some women think!" "Evenin', Pap," said the newcomer. "Good evenin' yourself," returned Himes with unusual cordiality. He liked men, particularly young, vigorous, masterful men. "Come in, Buck, an' set a spell. Rest your hat--rest your hat." Shade threw himself on the upper step of the porch and searched in his pockets for tobacco. "Room for another boarder?" he asked laconically. "All right," agreed Buckheath, rising, and treating the matter as terminated. "I'll move my things in a-Monday." "Hold on thar--hold on, young feller," objected Pap, as Shade turned away. It was against all reasonable mountain precedent to trade so quickly; but indeed Shade had merely done so with a view to forcing through what he well knew to be a doubtful proposition. "I'm a-holding on," he observed gruffly at last, as the other continued to blink at him with red eyes and say nothing. "What's the matter with what I said? You told me you had room for another boarder and I named it that I was comin' to board at your house. Have you got any objections?" Buckheath glanced angrily and contemptuously into the stupid, fatuous countenance above him; he appeared to curb with some difficulty the disposition to retort in kind. Instead, he returned, sarcastically: Himes looked a little astonished; then an expression of distrust stole over his broad, flat face. "What's bringin' you here?" he asked bluntly. "Johnnie Consadine," returned Shade, without evasion or preamble. "Before I left the mountains, Johnnie an' me was aimin' to wed. Now she's got down here, and doin' better than ever she hoped to, and I cain't get within hand-reach of her." "Ye cain't?" inquired Pap scornfully. "Why anybody could marry that gal that wanted to. But Lord! anybody can marry _any_ gal, if he's got the sense he was born with." "All right," repeated Shade grimly. "I come to you to know could I get board, not to ask advice. I aim to marry Johnnie Consadine, and I know my own business--air you goin' to board me?" The old man turned this speech in his mind for some time. "Curious," he muttered to himself, "how these here young fellers will get petted on some special gal and break their necks to have her." "Shut up--will you?" ejaculated Buckheath, so suddenly and fiercely that the old man fairly jumped, rousing the yellow cat to remonstrative squirmings. "I tell you I know my business, and I ask no advice of you--will you board me?" Buckheath received the conclusion of this speech with a grin. "I reckon your good word 'd have a lot to do with Johnnie Consadine," he said ironically, as he picked up his hat from the floor. "Uh-huh," nodded Pap. "She sets a heap of store by what I say. All of 'em does; but Johnnie in particular. I don't know but what you're about right. Ain't no sense in bein' all tore up concernin' any gal or woman; but I believe if I was pickin' out a good worker that would earn her way, I'd as soon pick out Johnnie Consadine as any of 'em." And having thus paid his ultimate compliment to Johnnie, Himes relapsed into intermittent slumber as Shade moved away down the squalid, dusty street under the fierce July sun. "Whar's Johnnie Consadine?" asked the newcomer lazily, disposing himself with his back against a post and his long legs stretched across the upper step. "I will, after a while," returned Johnnie absently. "I've got to help Aunt Mavity some, and then I'll be there." "Hit's a sight, the books that gal does read," complained Beulah. "Looks like a body might get enough stayin' in the house by workin' in a cotton mill, without humpin' theirselves up over a book all evenin'." Her pride in Johnnie made her miss the look of rage that settled on Buckheath's face at her announcement. The young fellow was glad when Pap Himes began to speak growlingly. "Yes, an' if she was my gal I'd talk to her with a hickory about that there business. A gal that ain't too old to carry on that-a-way ain't too old to take a whippin' for it. Huh!" "Johnnie Consadine is the prettiest-behaved gal I ever seen," she announced shrilly. "She ain't never said nor done the least thing that she hadn't ort. Mr. Stoddard he just sees how awful smart she is, and he loves to lend her books and talk with her about 'em afterward. For my part I ain't never seen look nor motion about Mr. Gray Stoddard that wasn't such as a gentleman ort to be. I know he never said nothin' he ort not to _me_." The suggestion of Stoddard's making advances of unseemly warmth to Mandy Meacham produced a subdued snicker. Even Pap smiled, and Mandy herself, who had been looking a bit terrified after her bold speaking, was reassured. "You infernal old rascal, I've caught up with you," he whispered, leaning close to his host. Himes clutched the pipe in his teeth till it clicked, and stared in helpless resentment at his mealer. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Speak lower, so the gals won't hear you, or you'll wish you had," counselled Shade. "I sent that there thing on to Washington to get a patent on it, and now I find that they was a model of the same there in the name of Gideon Himes. What do you make of that?" Pap stared at the thin strips of metal lying in Shade's hard, brown palm. "The little liar!" he breathed. "She told me she got it up herself." He glared at the bits of steel with protruding eyes, and breathed hard. Old Gideon was not listening; he had fallen into a brown study, turning the piece of metal in his skilful, wonted, knotty fingers, with their spade tips. "She did get it up!" he returned in Buckheath's face. "You liar! You're a-aimin' to steal it from her. You filed out the pieces like she told you to, and when you found it would work, you tried to get a patent on it for yo'se'f. Yes, sir, I'm onto _you!_" "It's you and me for it, Pap," he said hardily. "What was _you_ tryin' to do? Was you gettin' the patent for Johnnie? Shall I call her up here and ask her?" "Who's that talking about getting married?" called Johnnie's voice from the street, and Johnnie herself ran up the steps. "Hit was me," harangued Pap Himes doggedly. "I was tellin' Shade how bad you wanted to git off, and that I 'lowed you'd be a good bargain for him." She passed into the house, and Shade regarded his ally in helpless anger. Neither man quite understood the power of that mental culture which Johnnie was assimilating so avidly. That reading things in a book should enable her--a child, a girl, a helpless woman--to negative their wishes smilingly, this would have been a thing quite outside the comprehension of either. "Aunt Mavity wants me to go down to the store for her," Johnnie announced, returning. "Any of you girls like to come along?" Mandy had parted her lips to accept the general invitation, when Shade Buckheath rose to his feet and announced curtly, "I'll go with you." "Looks like you ain't just so awful pleased to have me boardin' with Pap," Shade began truculently, when it appeared that the girl was not going to open any conversation with him. "Maybe you wasn't a-carin' for my company down street this evenin'." "No," said Johnnie, bluntly but very quietly. "I wish you hadn't come to the house to board. I have told you to let me alone." Shade laughed, an exasperated, mirthless laugh. "You know well enough what made me do it," he said sullenly. "If you don't want me to board with Pap Himes you can stop it any day you say the word. You promise to wed me, and I'll go back to the Inn. The Lord knows they feed you better thar, and I believe in my soul the gals at Pap Himes's will run me crazy. But as long as you hang off the way you do about our marryin', and I git word of you carryin' on with other folks, I'm goin' to stay where I can watch you." "Other folks!" echoed Johnnie, colour coming into her cheeks. "Shade, there's no use of your quarrelling with me, and I see it's what you're settin' out to do." "The last word my uncle Pros left with ma to give me was that you'd bear watchin', Shade Buckheath," laughed Johnnie, her face breaking up into sweet, sudden mirth at the folly of it all. "You're not aimin' for my good. I don't see what on earth makes you talk like you wanted to marry me." "Because I do," said Buckheath helplessly. He wondered if the girl did not herself know her own attractions, forgetful that he had not seen them plainly till a man higher placed in the social scale set the cachet of a gentleman's admiration upon them. THE CONTENTS OF A BANDANNA It was a breathless August evening; all day the land had lain humming and quivering beneath the glare of the sun. It seemed that such heat must culminate in a thunder shower. Even Pap Himes had sought the coolest corner of the porch, his pipe put out, as adding too much to the general swelter, and the hot, yellow cat perched at a discreet distance. The little speck far up the road between the trees announced itself to the eye now as a moving figure, walking down toward Cottonville. "Well, I'll read it again, if you don't believe me," Buckheath said impatiently. "All that Alabama mill wants is to have me go over there and put this trick on their jennies, and if it works they'll give us a royalty of--well, I'll make the bargain." "Or I will," countered Pap swiftly. "You?" inquired Shade contemptuously. "Time they wrote some of the business down and you couldn't read it, whar'd you be, and whar'd our money be?" The moving speck on the road appeared at this time to be the figure of a tall man, walking unsteadily, reeling from side to side of the road, yet approaching the village. "The gal ain't in the mill this afternoon, is she?" asked old Himes. "No, she's gone off somewheres with some folks Hardwick's sister-in-law has got here. If you want to find her these days, you've got to hunt in some of the swell houses round on the hills." Himes started so violently that he disturbed the equilibrium of his chair and brought the front legs to the floor with a slam, so that he sat staring straight ahead. Shade Buckheath whirled and saw Pros Passmore standing at the foot of the steps--the moving speck come to full size. The old man was a wilder-looking figure than usual. He had no hat on, and a bloody cloth bound around his head confined the straggling gray locks quaintly. The face was ghastly, the clothing in tatters, and his hands trembled as they clutched a bandanna evidently full of some small articles that rattled together in his shaking grasp. "Good Lord--Pros! You mighty nigh scared me out of a year's growth," grumbled Pap, hitching vainly to throw his chair back into position. "Come in. Come in. You look like you'd been seein' trouble." "Whar's Johnnie?" repeated old Pros hollowly. It was the younger man who answered this time, with an ugly lift of the lip over his teeth, between a sneer and a snarl. "She's gone gaddin' around with some of her swell friends. She may be home before midnight, an' then again she may not," he said. The old man collapsed on the lower step. He stood before the limp figure, peering into the newcomer's face with eyes of greed and hands that clenched and unclenched themselves automatically. "Hush!" Pap Himes's voice hissed across the loud explosive tones. "No need to tell your business to the town. I'll bet Pros ain't thought about no options yit. He may need friends to he'p him out on such matters; and here's you and me, Buck--God knows he couldn't have better ones." The old man stared about him in a dazed fashion. "I've got my specimens in this here bandanner," he explained quaveringly. "I fell over the ledge, was the way I chanced upon it at the last, and I lay dead for a spell. My head's busted right bad. But the ore specimens, they're right here in the bandanner, and I aimed to give 'em to Johnnie--to put 'em right in her lap--the best gal that ever was--and say to her, 'Here's your silver mine, honey, that your good-for-nothin' old uncle found for ye; now you can live like a lady!' That's what I aimed to say to Johnnie. I didn't aim that nobody else should tetch them samples till she'd saw 'em." "I wish't Johnnie was here," he repeated his plaintive formula, as he raised the handkerchief and untied the corners. "All right," returned the old man nervelessly. "But hit ain't soft enough for lead--if that's what you're meanin'. I know that much. A lead mine is a mighty good thing. Worth as much as silver maybe; but this ain't lead." A curious tremor had come over Pap Himes's face as he furtively compared the lump of ore he held in his hand with something which he took from his pocket. He seemed to come to some sudden resolution. "No, 'tain't lead--and 'tain't nothin'," he declared contemptuously, flinging the bit he held back into the handkerchief. "Pros Passmore--ye old fool--you come down here and work us all up over some truck that wasn't worth turnin' with a spade! You might as well throw them things away. Whar in the nation did you git 'em, anyhow?" "Leave 'em here, Pros, and go in. Mavity'll give you a cup of coffee," suggested Pap, in a kinder tone. The bandanna slipped rattling from the old man's relaxed fingers. The specimens clattered and rolled on the porch floor. With drooping head he shambled through the door. A woman's face disappeared for a moment from the shadowy front-room window, only to reappear and watch unseen. Mavity was listening in a sort of horror as she heard her father's tones. "What is it?" questioned Buckheath keenly. "I thort you had some game on hand." And he hastened to comply. "Air they really silver?" [Illustration: HE LOOMED ABOVE THEM, WHITE AND SHAKING. "YOU THIEVES," HE ROARED. "GIVE ME MY BANDANNER! GIVE ME JOHNNIE'S SILVER MINE!"] "You thieves!" he roared. "Give me my bandanner! Give me Johnnie's silver mine!" "Yes--yes--yes! Don't holler it out that-a-way!" whispered Pap Himes from the floor, where he crouched, still clutching the precious bits of ore. "We was a-goin' to give 'em to you, Uncle Pros. We was just foolin'," Buckheath attempted to reassure him. "Cover that handkecher up," whispered Himes before either man moved to his assistance. A PATIENT FOR THE HOSPITAL Stoddard looked particularly himself in riding dress. Its more unconventional lines suited him well; the dust-brown Norfolk, the leathern puttees, gave an adventurous turn to the expression of a personality which was only so on the mental side. He always rode bareheaded, and the brown hair, which he wore a little longer than other men's, was tossed from its masculine primness to certain hyacinthine lines which were becoming. Just now his clear brown eyes were luminous with feeling. He put out a swift, detaining hand and caught hers, laying sympathetic fingers over the clasp and retaining it as he spoke. "I'm so relieved that you've come at last," he said. "We need somebody of intelligence here. I just happened to come past a few minutes after the accident. Don't be frightened; your uncle came down to see you, and got a fall somehow. He's hurt pretty badly, I'm afraid, and these people are refusing to have him taken to the hospital." Stoddard motioned the Hardwick driver to wait, and called down to the carriage load, "I want you people to drive round by the hospital and send the ambulance, if you'll be so kind. There's a man hurt in here." Lydia Sessions made this an immediate pretext for getting down and coming in. "Did you say they didn't want to send him to the hospital?" she inquired sharply and openly, in her tactless fashion, as she crossed the sidewalk. "That's the worst thing about such people; you provide them with the best, and they don't know enough to appreciate it. Have they got a doctor, or done anything for the poor man?" "I sent for Millsaps, here--he knows more about broken bones than anybody in Cottonville," Pap offered sullenly, mopping his brow and shaking his bald head. "Millsaps is a decent man. You know what _he's_ a-goin' to do to the sick." "Is he a doctor?" asked Stoddard sternly, looking the lank, shuffling individual named. "He can doctor a cow or a nag better'n anybody ever saw," Pap put forward rather shamefacedly. "A veterinarian," commented Stoddard. "Well, they've gone for the ambulance, and the surgeon will soon be here now." "I don't know nothin' about veterinarians and surgeons," growled Pap, still alternately mopping his bald head and shaking it contemptuously; "but I know that Millsaps ain't a-goin' to box up any dead bodies and send 'em to the medical colleges; and I know he made as pretty a job of doctoring old Spotty has ever I seen. To be shore the cow died, but he got the medicine down her when it didn't look as if human hands could do it--that's the kind of doctor he is." "I aim to give Mr. Passmore a teaspoonful of lamp oil--karosene," said the cow doctor, coming forward, evidently feeling that it was time he spoke up himself. "Lamp oil is mighty rousin' to them as late like he's doin'. I've used copperas for such--but takes longer. Some say a dose of turpentine is better lamp oil--but I 'low both of 'em won't hurt." Johnnie pushed past them all into the front room where the women were running about, talking lot and exclaiming. A kerosene lamp without a chimney smoked and flared on the table, filling the room with evil odours. Pros Passmore's white face thrown up against the lounge cushion was the only quiet, dignified object in sight. "Mandy," said Johnnie, catching the Meacham woman by the elbow as she passed her bearing a small kerosene can, "you go up to my room and get the good lamp I have there. Then take this thing away. Where's Aunt Mavity?" "I don't know. She's been carryin' on somethin turrible. Yes, Johnnie, honey--I'll get the lamp for ye." When Johnnie turned to her uncle, she found Millsaps bending above him, the small can in his hands, its spout approached to the rigid blue lips of the patient with the unconcern of a man about to fill a lamp. She sprang forward and caught his arm, bringing the can away with a clatter and splash. "You mustn't do that," she said authoritatively. "The doctors will be here in a minute. You mustn't give him anything, Mr. Millsaps." "Oh, all right--all right," agreed Millsaps, with decidedly the air that he considered it all wrong. "There is some people that has objections to having their kin-folks cyarved up by student doctors. Then agin, there is others that has no better use for kin than to let 'em be so treated. I 'low that a little dosin' of lamp oil never hurt nobody--and it's cured a-many, of most any kind of disease. But just as you say--just as you say." And he shuffled angrily from the room. Johnnie went and knelt by the lounge. With deft, careful fingers she lifted the wet cloths above the bruised forehead. The hurt looked old. No blood was flowing, and she wondered a little. Catching Shade Buckheath's eye fixed on her from outside the window, she beckoned him in and asked him to tell her exactly how the trouble came about. Buckheath gave her his own version of the matter, omitting, of course, all mention of the bandanna full of ore which lay now carefully hidden at the bottom of old Gideon Himes's trunk. "And you say he fell down the steps?" asked Johnnie. "Who was with him? Who saw it?" "Nobody but me and Pap," Shade answered, trying to give the reply unconcernedly. "I--I seen it," whispered Mavity Bence, plucking at Johnnie's sleeve. "I was in the fore room here--and I seen it all." "Why, Pap," she said kindly, looking across at the old man's perturbed, sweating face, "you surely ain't like these foolish folks round here in Cottonville that think the hospital was started up to get dead bodies for the student doctors to cut to pieces. You see how bad off Uncle Pros is; you must know he's bound to be better taken care of there in that fine building, and with all those folks that have learned their business to take care of him, than here in this house with only me. Besides, I couldn't even stay at home from the mill to nurse him. Somebody's got to earn the money." "I wouldn't charge you no board, Johnnie," fairly whined Himes. "I'm willin' to nurse Pros myself, without he'p, night and day. You speak up mighty fine for that thar hospital. What about Lura Dawson? Everybody knows they shipped her body to Cincinnati and sold it. You ort to be ashamed to put your poor old uncle in such a place." There was a sound of wheels outside, and Gray Stoddard's voice with that of the doctor's. Shade and Pap Himes still hovered nervously about the window, staring in and hearkening to all that was said, Mavity Bence had wept till her face was sodden. She herded the other girls back out of the way, but watched everything with terrified eyes. "He'll jest about come to hisself befo' he dies," the older conspirator muttered to Shade as the stretcher passed them, and the skilled, white-jacketed attendants laid Pros Passmore in the vehicle without so much as disturbing his breathing. "He'll jest about come to hisself thar, and them pesky doctors 'll have word about the silver mine. Well, in this world, them that has, gits, mostly. Ef Johnnie Consadine had been any manner o' kin to me, I vow I'd 'a' taken a hickory to her when she set up her word agin' mine and let him go out of the house. The little fool! she didn't know what she was sendin' away." And so Pros Passmore was taken to the hospital. His bandanna full of ore remained buried at the bottom of Gideon Himes's trunk, to be fished up often by the old sinner, fingered and fondled, and laid back in hiding; while the man who had carried it down the mountains to fling it in Johnnie's lap lay with locked lips, and told neither the doctors nor Himes where the silver mine was. August sweated itself away; September wore on into October in a procession of sun-robed, dust-sandalled days, and still Uncle Pros gave no sign of actual recovery. For a time, much as she disliked to approach Shade with any request, Johnnie continued to urge him whenever they met to finish up the indicators and let her have them back again. Then Hartley Sessions promoted her to a better position in the weaving department, and other cares drove the matter from her mind. The condition of Uncle Pros added fearfully to the drains upon her time and thought. The old man lay in his hospital cot till the great frame had wasted fairly to the big bones, following her movements when she came into the room with strange, questioning, unrecognizing eyes, yet always quieted and soothed by her presence, so that she felt urged to give him every moment she could steal from her work. The hurts on his head, which were mere scalp wounds, healed over; the surgeon at the hospital was unable to find any indentation or injury to the skull itself which would account for the old man's condition. They talked for a long time of an operation, and did finally trephine, without result. They would make an X-ray photograph, they said, when he should be strong enough to stand it, as a means of further investigation. Meantime his expenses, though made fairly nominal to her, cut into the money which Johnnie could send to her mother, and she was full of anxiety for the helpless little family left without head or protector up in that gash of the wind-grieved mountains on the flank of Big Unaka. "Well, I done just like you told me to, and them cussed sawboneses won't let me go back no more," Shade reported to Pap Himes that evening. "Old Pros just swelled hisself out like a toad and hollered at me time I got in the room. He's sure crazy all right. He looks like he couldn't last long, but them that heirs what he has will git the writin' that tells whar the silver mine's at. Johnnie's liable to find that writin' any day; or he may come to hisself and tell her." "Well, for God's sake," retorted Pap Himes testily, "why don't you wed the gal and be done with it? You wed Johnnie Consadine and get that writin', and I'll never tell on you 'bout the old man and such; and you and me'll share the mine." Shade gave him a black look. "You're a good talker," he said sententiously. "If I could _do_ things as easy as you can _tell_ 'em, I'd be president." "Huh!" grunted the old man. "Marryin' a fool gal--or any other woman--ain't nothin' to do. If I was your age I'd have her Miz Himes before sundown." A slow but ample grin dawned on the old man's round, foolish face. He looked admiringly at Shade. "By Gosh!" he said finally. "That ain't no bad notion, neither. 'Course I can do it. They all want to wed. And thar's Laurelly--light-minded fool--ain't got the sense she was born with--up thar without Pros nor Johnnie--I could persuade her to take off her head and play pitch-ball with it--Lord, yes!" "Well, you've bragged about enough," put in Buckheath grimly. "You git down in the collar and pull." The old man gave him no heed. He was still grinning fatuously. "Well, that was business," agreed Shade impatiently. "When are you goin' to start for Big Unaka?" The old man rolled his great head between his shoulders. When Stoddard's presence and help had been proffered to herself, Johnnie had not failed to find a gracious way of declining or avoiding; but you cannot reprove a sick man--a dying man. She could not for the life of her find a way to insist that Uncle Pros make less demand on the young mill owner's time. Stoddard himself was touched by the old man's fancy, and showed a devotion and patience that were characteristic. If she was kept late at the hospital, Mavity put by a bite of cold supper for her, and Mandy always waited to see that she had what she wanted. On the day after Shade Buckheath and Gideon Himes had come to their agreement, she stopped at the hospital for a briefer stay than usual. Her uncle was worse, and an opiate had been administered to quiet him, so that she only sat a while at the bedside and finally took her way homeward in a state of utter depression for which she could scarcely account. It was dusk--almost dark--when she reached the gate, and she noted carelessly a vehicle drawn up before it. "Johnnie," called her mother's voice from the back of the rickety old wagon as the girl was turning in toward the steps. "Why, honeys!" she exclaimed. "How come you-all never let me know to expect you? Oh, I'm so glad, mother. I didn't intend to send you word to come; but I was feeling so blue. I sure wanted to. Maybe Uncle Pros might know you--or the baby--and it would do him good." She had got little Deanie out in her arms now, and stood hugging the child, bending to kiss Melissa, finding a hand to pat Milo's shoulder and rub Pony's tousled poll. "Why, Pap!" she exclaimed. "I'll never forget you for this. It was mighty good of you." The door swung open, letting out a path of light. "Aunt Mavity!" cried the girl. "Mother and the children have come down to see me. Isn't it fine?" Mavity Bence made her appearance in the doorway, her faded eyes so reddened with weeping that she looked like a woman in a fever. She gulped and stared from her father, where in the shine of her upheld lamp he sat blinking and grinning, to Laurella Consadine in a ruffled pink-and-white lawn frock, with a big, rose-wreathed hat on her dark curls, and Johnnie Consadine with the children clinging about her. "Have ye told her?" she gasped. And at the tone Johnnie turned quickly, a sudden chill falling upon her glowing mood. "What's the matter?" she asked, startled, clutching the baby tighter to her, and conning over with quick alarm the tow-heads that bobbed and surged about her waist. "The children are all right--aren't they?" Milo looked up apprehensively. He was an old-faced, anxious-looking, little fellow, already beginning to have a stoop to his thin shoulders--the bend of the burden bearer. "I--I done the best I could, Sis' Johnnie," he hesitated apologetically. "You wasn't thar, and Unc' Pros was gone, an' I thest worked the farm and took care of mother an' the little 'uns best I knowed how. But when she--when he--oh, I wish't you and Unc' Pros had been home to-day." Johnnie, her mind at rest about the children, turned to her mother. "You don't look sick. My, but you're fine! You're as spick and span as a bride." The old man bent and spat over the wheel, preparatory to speaking, but his daughter took the words from his mouth. "She is a bride," explained Mavity Bence in a flatted, toneless voice. "Leastways, Pap said he was a-goin' up on Unaka for to wed her and bring her down--and I know in reason she'd have him." Johnnie's terror-stricken eyes searched her mother's irresponsible, gypsy face. The lip trembled, the tragic dark brows lifted in their familiar slant. "Come on in the house," said Johnnie heavily, and she led the way with drooping head. She came through the door and passed the new Mrs. Himes on the porch. "Why, Johnnie Consadine" she cried. "Is that there your ma?" Johnnie nodded. She was past speech. "Well, I vow! I should've took her for your sister, if any kin. Ain't she pretty? Beulah--she's Johnnie's ma, and her and Pap has just been wedded." She turned to follow Johnnie, who was mutely starting the children in to the house. "Ain't you goin' to pack your plunder in?" inquired the bridegroom harshly, almost threateningly, as he pitched out upon the path a number of bundles and boxes. Pap Himes's mouth was open, but no words came. He finally shut it with that click of the ill-fitting false teeth which was familiar--and terrible--to everybody at the boarding-house, shook out the lines over the old horse, and jogged away into the dusk. "And this here's the baby," admired Mandy, kneeling in front of little Deanie, when the newcomers halted in the front room. "Why, Johnnie Consadine! She don't look like nothin' on earth but a little copy of you. If she's dispositioned like you, I vow I'll just about love her to death." Mavity Bence was struggling up the porch steps loaded with the baggage of the newcomers. "Better leave that for your paw," the bride counselled her. "It's more suited to a man person to lift them heavy things." "Everybody always has been mighty good to me all my life," Laurella Himes was saying to Mandy, Beulah and the others. "I reckon they always will. Uncle Pros he just does for me like he was my daddy, and my children always waited on me. Johnnie's the best gal that ever was, ef she does have some quare notions." Johnnie's distressed eyes met the pale gaze of Aunt Mavity across the little oilcloth-covered coffer. "I would 'a' told you, Johnnie," said the poor woman deprecatingly, "but I never knowed it myself till late last night, and I hadn't the heart to name it at breakfast. I thort I'd git a chance this evenin', but they come sooner'n I was expectin' 'em." "Never mind, Aunt Mavity," said Johnnie. "When I get a little used to it I'll be glad to have them all here. I--I wish Uncle Pros was able to know folks." "I got ready for 'em," Mavity told Johnnie in an undertone, after her father returned. "I knowed in reason he'd bring her back with him. Pap always has his own way, and gits whatever he wants. I 'lowed you'd take the baby in bed with you, and I put a pallet in your room for Lissy." Johnnie agreed to this arrangement, almost mechanically. Is it to be wondered at that her mind was already busy with the barrier this must set between herself and Gray Stoddard? She had never been ashamed of her origin or her people; but this--this was different. Next morning she sent word to the mill foreman to put on a substitute, and took the morning that she might go with her mother to the hospital. Passmore was asleep, and they were not allowed to disturb him; but on the steps they met Gray Stoddard, and he stopped so decidedly to speak to them that Johnnie could not exactly run away, as she felt like doing. "Your mother!" echoed Stoddard, when Johnnie had told him who the visitor was. He glanced from the tall, fair-haired daughter to the lithe little gypsy at her side. "Why, she looks more like your sister," he said. Laurella's white teeth flashed at this, and her big, dark eyes glowed. "Johnnie's such a serious-minded person that she favours older than her years," the mother told him. "Well, I give her the name of the dead, and they say that makes a body solemn like." It was very evident that Stoddard desired to detain them in conversation, but Johnnie smilingly, yet with decision, cut the interview short. She turned to find a slow, painful blush rising in her daughter's face. "I don't know, ma," said Johnnie gently. "I reckon it was because I didn't seem to have any concern with a rich gentleman such as Mr. Stoddard. He's got more money than Mr. Hardwick, they say--more than anybody else in Cottonville." "Has he?" inquired Laurella vivaciously. "Well, money or no money, I think he's mighty nice. Looks like he ain't studying as to whether you got money or not. And if you was meaning that you didn't think yourself fit to be friends with such, why I'm ashamed of you, Johnnie Consadine. The Passmores and the Consadines are as good a family as there is on Unaka mountains. I don't know as I ever met up with anybody that I found was too fine for my company. And whenever your Uncle Pros gets well and finds his silver mine, we'll have as much money as the best of 'em." The tears blinded Johnnie so that she could scarcely find her way, and the voice wherewith she would have answered her mother caught in her throat. She pressed her lips hard together and shook her head, then laughed out, a little sobbing laugh. "Poor ma--poor little mother!" she whispered at length. "You ain't been away from the mountains as I have. Things are--well, they're a heap different here in the Settlement." "They're a heap nicer," returned Laurella blithely. "Well, I'm mighty glad I met that gentleman this morning. Mr. Himes was talking to me of Shade Buckheath a-yesterday. He said Shade was wishful to wed you, Johnnie, and wanted me to give the boy my good word. I told him I wouldn't say anything--and then afterward I was going to. But since I've seen this gentleman, and know that his likes are friends of your'n, well--I--Johnnie, the Buckheaths are a hard nation of people, and that's the truth. If you wedded Shade, like as not he'd mistreat you." "Oh mother--don't!" pleaded Johnnie, scarlet of face, and not daring to raise her eyes. "What have I done now?" demanded Laurella with asperity. "You mustn't couple my name with Mr. Stoddard's that way," Johnnie told her. "He's never thought of me, except as a poor girl who needs help mighty bad; and he's so kind-hearted and generous he's ready to do for each and every that's worthy of it. But--not that way--mother, you mustn't ever suppose for a minute that he'd think of me in that way." "Well, I wish't I may never!" Laurella exclaimed. "Did I mention any particular way that the man was supposed to be thinking about you? Can't I speak a word without your biting my head off for it? As for what Mr. Gray Stoddard thinks of you, let me tell you, child, a body has only to see his eyes when he's looking at you." "Mother--Oh, mother!" protested Johnnie. "Well, if he can look that way I reckon I can speak of it," returned Laurella, with some reason. "We-ell," hesitated Laurella, "if you feel so strong; about it, I reckon I'll do as you say. But there ain't anything in that to hinder me from being friends with Mr. Stoddard. I feel sure that him and me would get on together fine. He favours my people, the Passmores. My daddy was just such an upstanding, dark-complected feller as he is. He's got the look in the eye, too." Johnnie gasped as she remembered that the grandfather of whom her mother spoke was Virgil Passmore, and called to mind the story of the borrowed wedding coat. THE FEET OF THE CHILDREN The beloved books, which had seemed so many steps upon which to climb to a world where she dared acknowledge her own liking and admiration for Stoddard, were now laid aside. It took all of her heart and mind and time to visit Uncle Pros at the hospital, keep the children out of Pap's way in the house, and do justice to her work in the factory. She told Gray, haltingly, reluctantly, that she thought she must give up the reading and studying for a time. Johnnie looked up at him with a weak and pitiful version of her usual beaming smile. "I reckon you're right," she hesitated finally, in a very low voice. "But sometimes I think the less we know the happier we are." "How's this? How's this?" cried Stoddard, almost startled. "Why, Johnnie--I never expected to hear that sort of thing from you. I thought your optimism was as deep as a well, and as wide as a church." Poor Johnnie surely had need of such optimism as Stoddard had ascribed to her. They were weary evenings when she came home now, with the November rain blowing in the streets and the early-falling dusk almost upon her. It was on a Saturday night, and she had been to the hospital, when she got in to find Mandy, seated in the darkest corner of the sitting room, with a red flannel cloth around her neck--a sure sign that something unfortunate had occurred, since the tall woman always had sore throat when trouble loomed large. "What's the matter?" asked Johnnie, coming close and laying a hand on the bent shoulder to peer into the drooping countenance. "Don't come too nigh me--you'll ketch it," warned Mandy gloomily. "A so' th'oat is as ketchin' as smallpox, and I know it so to be, though they is them that say it ain't. When mine gits like this I jest tie it up and keep away from folks best I can. I hain't dared touch the baby sence hit began to hurt me this a-way." "There's something besides the sore throat," persisted Johnnie. "Is it anything I can help you about?" She broke off and sat staring dully at the floor. Pap Himes had stumped into the room during the latter part of this conversation. "Lost your job, hey?" he inquired keenly. Mandy nodded, with fearful eyes on his face. "Well, you want to watch out and keep yo' board paid up here. The week you cain't pay--out you go. I reckon I better trouble you to pay me in advance, unless'n you've got some kind friend that'll stand for you." Mandy's lips parted, but no sound came. The gaze of absolute terror with which she followed the old man's waddling bulk as he went and seated himself in front of the air-tight stove, was more than Johnnie could endure. "I'll stand for her board, Pap," she said quietly. "Oh, you will, will ye?" Pap received her remark with disfavour. "Well, a fool and his money don't stay together long. And who'll stand for you, Johnnie Consadine? Yo' wages ain't a-goin' to pay for yo' livin' and Mandy's too. Ye needn't lay back on bein' my stepdaughter. You ain't acted square by me, an' I don't aim to do no more for you than if we was no kin." "You won't have to. Mandy'll get a place next week--you know she will, Pap--an experienced weaver like she is. I'll stand for her." Himes snorted. Mandy caught at Johnnie's hand and drew it to her, fondling it. Her round eyes were still full of tears. "Come down to the works with me after supper. I've got something to show you," he said briefly, and Himes understood that the desired letter had arrived. "You look a heap prettier, and act and speak a heap prettier than you used to up in the mountains," she told the tall girl. "Looks like it was a mighty sensible thing for you to come down here to the Settlement; and if it was good for you, I don't see why it wasn't good for me--and won't be for the rest of the children. No need for you to be so solemn over it." The entire household was aghast at the bride's attitude toward her old husband. They watched her with the fascinated gaze we give to a petted child encroaching upon the rights of a cross dog, or the pretty lady with her little riding whip in the cage of the lion. She treated him with a kindly, tolerant, yet overbearing familiarity that appalled. She knew not to be frightened when he clicked his teeth, but drew up her pretty brows and fretted at him that she wished he wouldn't make that noise--it worried her. She tipped the sacred yellow cat out of the rocking-chair where it always slept in state, took the chair herself, and sent that astonished feline from the room. "They're too young, Pap," Johnnie said to him mildly. "They ought to be in school this winter." "You wasn't thinking of putting Deanie in the mill--not _Deanie_--was you?" asked Johnnie breathlessly. "Why not?" inquired Himes. "She'll get no good runnin' the streets here in Cottonville, and she can earn a little somethin' in the mill. I'm a old man, an sickly, and I ain't long for this world. If them chaps is a-goin' to do anything for me, they'd better be puttin' in their licks." Johnnie looked from the little girl's pink-and-white infantile beauty--she sat with the child in her lap--to the old man's hulking, powerful, useless frame. What would Deanie naturally be expected to do for her stepfather? Johnnie looked bitterly at him but made no reply. Laurella had bought a long chain of red glass beads with a heart-shaped pendant. This trinket occupied her attention entirely while her daughter and husband discussed the matter of the children's future. Pap Himes looked at her, at the beads, and gave the fierce, inarticulate, ludicrously futile growl of a thwarted, perplexed animal. "Mother," appealed Johnnie desperately, "do you want the children to go into the mill?" "I don't know but they might as well--for a spell," said Laurella Himes, vainly endeavouring to look grown-up, and to pretend that she was really the head of the family. "They want to go, and you've done mighty well in the mill. If it wasn't for my health, I reckon I might go in and try to learn to weave, myself. But there--I came a-past with Mandy t'other evenin' when she was out, and the noise of that there factory is enough for me from the outside--I never could stand to be in it. Looks like such a racket would drive me plumb crazy." Pap stared at his bride and clicked his teeth with the gnashing sound that overawed the others. He drew his shaggy brows in an attempt to look masterful. "Well, ef you cain't tend looms, I reckon you can take Mavity's place in the house here, and let her keep to the weavin' stiddier. She'll just about lose her job if she has to be out and in so much as she has had to be with me here of late." "I will when I can," said Laurella, patronizingly. "Sometimes I get to feeling just kind of restless and no-account, and can't do a stroke of work. When I'm that-a-way I go to bed and sleep it off, or get out and go somewheres that'll take my mind from my troubles. Hit's by far the best way." "You hear that! She won't work, and you won't give me your money. The children have obliged to bring in a little something--that's the way it looks to me. If the mills on the Tennessee side is too choicy to take 'em--and I know well as you, Johnnie, that they air; their man Connors told me so--I can hire 'em over at the Victory, on the Georgy side." "Oh, Lord! To work in the Victory!" she groaned. "Yes, and I'm goin' to buy me a gun and a nag with my money what I earn," put in Pony explosively. "'Course I'll take you-all to ride." He added the saving clause under Milo's reproving eye. "Sis' Johnnie, don't you want me to earn money and buy a hawse and a gun, and a--and most ever'thing else?" Johnnie looked down into the blue eyes of the little lad who had crept close to her chair. What he would earn in the factory she knew well--blows, curses, evil knowledge. Till late that night Johnnie laboured with her mother and stepfather, trying to show them that the mill was no fit place for the children. Milo was all too apt for such a situation, the very material out of which a cotton mill moulds its best hands and its worst citizens. Pony, restless, emotional, gifted and ambitious, craving his share of the joy of life and its opportunities, would never make a mill hand; but under the pressure of factory life his sister apprehended that he would make a criminal. Laurella nodded an agreement, looking more than usually like a little girl playing dolls. "I reckon Mr. Himes knows best, Johnnie, honey," was her reiterated comment. "If you just as soon let me," she said to him at last, "I believe I'll take them over to the Victory myself to-morrow morning." She had hopes of telling their ages bluntly to the mill superintendent and having them refused. As they came nearer, the driver drew up, evidently in obedience to Miss Sessions's command, and she leaned forward graciously to speak to Johnnie. "Good morning, John," said Miss Sessions as the carriage stopped. "Whose children are those?" "They are my little sisters and brothers," responded Johnnie, looking down with a very pale face, and busying herself with Deanie's hair. "And you're taking them over to the mill, so that they can learn to be useful. How nice that is!" Lydia smiled brightly at the little ones--her best charity-worker's smile. "Oh, John, I think you are mistaken," she said coldly. "The work is very light--you know that. Young people work a great deal harder racing about in their play than at anything they have to do in a spooling room--I'm sure my nieces and nephews do. And in your case it is necessary and right that the younger members of the family should help. I think you will find that it will not hurt them." Miss Sessions had smiled upon the piteous little group with a judicious mixture of patronage and mild reproof, and her driver had shaken the lines over the backs of the fat horses preparatory to moving on, when Stoddard's car turned into the street from the corner above. "Wait, Junius, Dick is afraid of autos," cautioned Miss Lydia nervously. Junius grinned respectfully, while bay Dick dozed and regarded the approaching car philosophically. As they stood, they blocked the way, so that Gray was obliged to slow down and finally to stop. He raised his hat ceremoniously to both groups. His pained eyes went past Lydia Sessions as though she had been but the painted representation of a woman, to fasten themselves on Johnnie where she stood, her tall, deep-bosomed figure relieved against the shining water, the flaxen-haired child on her breast, the little ones huddled about her. "I believe so," returned Lydia, smiling. "We were just speaking of how good it was that the cotton mills gave an opportunity for even the smaller ones to help, at work which is within their capacity." "Johnnie Consadine said that?" inquired Gray, startled. "Why is she taking them over to the Victory?" And then he answered his own question. "She knows very well they are below the legal age in Tennessee." Lydia Sessions trimmed instantly. "That must be it," she said. "I wondered a little that she seemed not to want them in the same factory that she is in. But I remember Brother Hartley said that we are very particular at our mill to hire no young people below the legal age. That must be it." Stoddard looked with reprehending yet still incredulous eyes, to where Johnnie and her small following disappeared within the mill doors. Johnnie--the girl who had written him that pathetic little letter about the children in her room, and her growing doubt as to the wholesomeness of their work; the girl who had read the books he gave her, and fed her understanding on them till she expressed herself logically and lucidly on the economic problems of the day--that, for the sake of the few cents they could earn, she should put the children, whom he knew she loved, into slavery, seemed to him monstrous beyond belief. Why, if this were true, what a hypocrite the girl was! As coarse and unfeeling as the rest of them. Yet she had some shame left; she had blushed to be caught in the act by him. It showed her worse than those who justified this thing, the enormity of which she had seemed to understand well. "You mustn't blame her too much," came Lydia Sessions's smooth voice. "John's mother is a widow, and girls of that age like pretty clothes and a good time. Some people consider John very handsome, and of course with an ignorant young woman of that class, flattery is likely to turn the head. I think she does as well as could be expected." "I've brought you back your--those little books of Old English Poetry," she said, with a sudden constriction in her throat, and a quick burning flush that suffused brow, cheek and neck. Stoddard looked at her; she was thinner than she had been, and otherwise showed the marks of misery and of factory life. The sight was almost intolerable to him. Poor girl, she herself was suffering cruelly enough beneath the same yoke she had helped to lay on the children. "Are you really giving up your studies entirely?" he asked, in what he tried to make a very kindly voice. He laid his hand on the package of books. "I wonder if you aren't making a mistake, Johnnie. You look as though you were working too hard. Some things are worth more than money and getting on in the world." Johnnie shook her head. For the moment words were beyond her. Then she managed to say in a fairly composed tone. The statement was wistfully, timidly made; yet to Gray Stoddard it seemed a brazen defence of her present course. It pierced him that she on whose nobility of nature he could have staked his life, should justify such action. For a dizzy moment the girl stared at him, then, though her flushed cheeks had whitened pitifully and her lip trembled, she answered with bravely lifted head. "I thank you very much for all the help you've been to me, Mr. Stoddard. What I said just now didn't look as though I appreciated it. I ask your pardon for that. I aim to do the best I can for the children. And I--thank you." She turned and was gone, leaving him puzzled and with a sore ache at heart. "Hit hurts me right there," she would say piteously, taking Johnnie's hand and laying it over the left side of her chest. "My feet haven't been good and warm since the weather turned. I jest cain't stand these here old black boxes of stoves they have in the Settlement. If I could oncet lay down on the big hearth at home and get my feet warm, I jest know my misery would leave me." "No, I ain't et anything that disagreed with me," Laurella pettishly replied to his well-meant inquiries. "You're thinkin' about yo'se'f. I never eat more than is good for me, nor anything that ain't jest right. Hit ain't my stomach. Hit's right there in my side. Looks like hit was my heart, an' I believe in my soul it is. Oh, law, if I could oncet lay down befo' a nice, good hickory fire and get my feet warm!" And so it came to pass that, while everybody in the boarding-house looked on amazed, almost aghast, Gideon Himes withdrew from the bank such money as was necessary, and had a chimney built at the side of the fore room and a broad hearth laid. He begged almost tearfully for a small grate which should burn the soft bituminous coal of the region, and be much cheaper to install and maintain. But Laurella turned away from these suggestions with the hopeless, pliable obstinacy of the weak. "I wouldn't give the rappin' o' my finger for a nasty little smudgy, smoky grate fire," she declared rebelliously, thanklessly. "A hickory log-heap is what I want, and if I cain't have that, I reckon I can jest die without it." "Now, Laurelly--now Laurelly," Pap quavered in tones none other had ever heard from him, "don't you talk about dyin'. You look as young as Johnnie this minute. I'll git you what you want. Lord, I'll have Dawson build the chimbley big enough for you to keep house in, if them's yo' ruthers." It was almost large enough for that, and the great load of hickory logs which Himes hauled into the yard from the neighbouring mountain-side was cut to length. Fire was kindled in the new chimney; it drew perfectly; and Pap himself carried Laurella in his arms and laid her on some quilts beside the hearthstone, demanding eagerly, "Thar now--don't that make you feel better?" "I wish't Uncle Pros was sitting right over there, t'other side the fire," murmured Laurella dreamily. "How is Pros, Johnnie?" For nobody understood, as the crazed man in the hospital might have done, that Laurella's bodily illness was but the cosmic despair of the little girl who has broken her doll. It had been the philosophy of this sun-loving, butterfly nature to turn her back on things when they got too bad and take to her bed till, in the course of events, they bettered themselves. But now she had emerged into a bleak winter world where Uncle Pros was not, where Johnnie was powerless, and where she had been allowed by an unkind Providence to work havoc with her own life and the lives of her little ones; and her illness was as the tears of the girl with a shattered toy. "Pony, he's a little feller," Milo would say pitifully. "He ain't nigh as old as I am. It comes easier to me than what it does to him to stay in the house and tend my frames, and do like I'm told. If the bosses would call me when he don't do to suit 'em, I could always get him to mind." Lissy had something of her mother's shining vitality, but it dimmed woefully in the rough-and-ready clatter and slam of the big Victory mill. "You need another umbrella," he said abruptly, putting down his own as he paused under the store porch where a boy stood at the curb with his car, hood on, prepared for a trip in to Watauga. "I lost our'n," ventured Pony. "It don't seem fair that Milo has to get wet because I'm so bad about losing things, does it?" And he smiled engagingly up into the tall man's face--Johnnie's own eyes, large-pupilled, black-lashed, full of laughter in their clear depths. Gray Stoddard stared down at them silently for a moment. Then he pushed the handle of his umbrella into the boy's grimy little hand. Johnnie had turned away and faltered on a few paces in a daze of humiliation and misery. "Sis' Johnnie--oh, Sis' Johnnie!" Pony called after her, flourishing the umbrella. "Look what Mr. Stoddard give Milo and me." Then, in sudden consternation as Milo caught his elbow, he whirled and offered voluble thanks. "I'm a goin' to earn a whole lot of money and pay back the trouble I am to my folks," he confided to Gray, hastily. "I didn't know I was such a bad feller till I came down to the Settlement. Looks like I cain't noways behave. But I'm goin' to earn a big heap of money, an' buy things for Milo an' maw an' the girls. Only now they take all I can earn away from me." There was a warning call from Johnnie, ahead in the dusk somewhere; and the little fellow scuttled away toward the Victory and a night of work. "I could tell Mr. Reardon, and he'd put a substitute on to tend her frames," Lissy spoke up eagerly. "You ask Pap Himes will he let us do that, Sis' Johnnie." Johnnie went past her mother, who appeared to be dozing, and into the dining room, where Himes was. He had promised to do some night work, setting up new machines at the Victory, and he was in that uncertain humour which the prospect of work always produced. Gideon Himes was an old man, pestered, as he himself would have put it, by the mysterious illness of his young wife, fretted by the presence of the children, no doubt in a measure because he felt himself to be doing an ill part by them. His grumpy silence of other days, his sardonic humour, gave place to hypochondriac complainings and outbursts of fierce temper. Pony had hurt his foot in a machine at the factory and it required daily dressing. Johnnie understood from the sounds which greeted her that the sore foot was being bandaged. "Hold still, cain't ye?" growled Himes. "I ain't a-hurtin' ye. Now you set in to bawl and I'll give ye somethin' to bawl for--hear me?" "Pap," said the girl, urgently, "the baby ain't fit to go to the mill to-night--if ever she ought. You said that you'd get day work for them all. If you won't do that, let Deanie stay home for a spell. She sure enough isn't fit to work." Himes faced his stepdaughter angrily. "When I say a child's fitten to work--it's fitten to work," he rounded on her. "I hain't axed your opinion--have I? No. Well, then, keep it to yourself till it is axed for. You Pony, your foot's done and ready. You get yourself off to the mill, or you'll be docked for lost time." "Pap, I'll pay you for Deanie's whole week's work if you'll just let her stay home to-night. I'll pay you the money now." "All right," Pap stuck out a ready, stubbed palm, and received in it the silver that was the price of the little girl's time for a week. He counted it over before he rammed it down in his pocket. Then, "You can pay me, and she can go to the mill, 'caze your wages ought to come to me anyhow, and it don't do chaps like her no good to be muchin' 'em all the time. Would you ruther have her go before I give her a good beatin' or after?" and he looked Johnnie fiercely in the eyes. Johnnie looked back at him unflinching. She did not lack spirit to defy him. But her mother was this man's wife; the children were in their hands. Devoted, high-couraged as she was, she saw no way here to fight for the little ones. To her mother she could not appeal; she must have support from outside. "Never you mind, honey," she choked as she clasped Deanie's thin little form closer, and the meagre small arms went round her neck. "Sister'll find a way. You go on to the mill to-night, and sister'll find somebody to help her, and she'll come there and get you before morning." At the thought she turned hesitatingly toward the door, meaning to get her hat, and--though she had formulated no method of appeal--to hurry to the Hardwick house and at least talk with Miss Sessions and endeavour to enlist her help. But the door opened before she reached it, and Mavity Bence stood there, in her face the deadly weariness of all woman's toil and travail since the fall. Johnnie moved to her quickly, putting a hand on her shoulder, remembering with swift compunction that the poor woman's burdens were trebled since Laurella lay ill, and Pap gave up so much of his time to hanging anxiously about his young wife. "What is it, Aunt Mavity?" she asked. "Is anything the matter?" "I hate to werry ye, Johnnie," said the other's deprecating voice; "but looks like I've jest got obliged to have a little help this evenin'. I'm plumb dead on my feet, and there's all the dishes to do and a stack of towels and things to rub out." Her dim gaze questioned the young face above her dubiously, almost desperately. The little brass lamp in her hand made a pitiful wavering. "Of course I can help you. I'd have been in before this, only I--I--was kind of worried about something else, and I forgot," declared Johnnie, strengthening her heart to endure the necessary postponement of her purpose. Johnnie's piteous gaze roved over the well-beloved lineaments. She noted with a passion of tenderness the turn of head and hand that were so familiar to her, and so dear. Oh, she could never hate him for it, but it was hard--hard--to be a wave in the ocean of toil that supported the galleys of such as these! Like a sword flashed back to her memory of the children. They were being killed in the mills, while she wasted her thoughts and longings on people who would laugh if they knew of her presumptuous devotion. She turned with a low exclamation of astonishment, when somebody touched her on the shoulder. "Is you de gal Miss Lyddy sont for?" inquired the yellow waitress a bit sharply. "No--yes--I don't know whether Miss Sessions sent for me or not," Johnnie halted out; "but," eagerly, "I must see her. I've--Cassy. I've got to speak to her right now." Cassy regarded the newcomer rather scornfully. Yet everybody liked Johnnie, and the servant eventually put off her design of being impressive and said in a fairly friendly manner: "You couldn't noways see her now. I couldn't disturb her whilst she's got company--without you want to put on this here cap and apron and come he'p me sarve the refreshments. Dey was a gal comin' to resist me, but she ain't put in her disappearance yet. Ain't no time for foolin', dis ain't." "I've got to see Miss Sessions," she repeated, more to herself than to the negress. "Maybe what I have to say will only take a minute. I reckon she won't mind, even if she has got company. It--well, I've got to see her some way." And taking the tray of frail, dainty cups and saucers Cassy brought her, she started with it to the parlour. The music was just dying down to its last wail when Gray looked up and caught sight of her coming. His mind had been full of her. To him certain pieces of music always meant certain people, and the Serenade could bring him nothing but Johnnie Consadine's face. His startled eyes encountered with distaste the cap pinned to her hair, descended to the white apron that covered her black skirt, and rested in astonishment on the tray that held the coffee, cream and sugar. "Begin here," Cassie prompted her assistant, and Johnnie, stopping, offered her tray of cups. Gray's indignant glance went from the girl herself to his hostess. What foolery was this? Why should Johnnie Consadine dress herself as a servant and wait on Lydia Sessions's guests? "Have you hired Johnnie Consadine as a waitress?" Stoddard asked her in a non-committal voice. "I should have supposed that her place in the mill would pay her more, and offer better prospects." "No--oh, no," said Miss Sessions, startled, and considerably disappointed at the subject he had selected to converse upon. "How does she come to be here with a cap and apron on to-night?" pursued Stoddard, with an edge to his tone which he could not wholly subdue. "Then I think I shall," said Stoddard with sudden resolution. "If you don't mind, Miss Sessions, would you let her come in and talk to me a little while, as soon as she has finished passing the coffee? I--really it seems to me that this is outrageous. Johnnie is a girl of brains and abilities, and we who have her true welfare at heart should see that she doesn't--in her youth and ignorance--fall into such errors as this." "In what way?" inquired Stoddard in an even, quiet tone. "Well, I should be a little puzzled to put it into words," Miss Sessions answered him with a deprecating smile; "and yet it's there--the feeling that John Consadine is--I hate to say it--ungrateful." Miss Sessions studied his face in some bewilderment. Was he arraigning her, or sympathizing with her? He said no more. He left upon her the onus of further speech. She must try for the right note. "I know it," she fumbled desperately. "And isn't it disappointing? You do everything you possibly can for people and they seem to dislike you for it." Lydia Sessions shrank back on the seat, and stared at him, her hand before her open mouth. "Why, Mr. Stoddard!" she ejaculated finally. "I thought you were fully in sympathy with my Uplift work. You--you certainly let me think so. If you despised it, as you now say, why did you help me and--and all that?" Stoddard shook his head. "No," he demurred a little wearily. "I don't despise you, nor your work. As for helping you--I dislike lobster, and yet I conscientiously provide you with it whenever we are where the comestible is served, because I know you like it." "Mr. Stoddard," broke in Lydia tragically, "that is frivolous! These are grave matters, and I thought--oh, I thought certainly--that I was deserving your good opinion in this charitable work if ever I deserved such a thing in my life." She looked so disproportionately moved by the matter that Stoddard smiled a little. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "I see now that I have been taking it for granted all along that you understood the reservation I held in regard to this matter." "You--you should have told me plainly," said Lydia drearily. "It--it gives me a strange feeling to have depended so entirely on you, and then to find out that you were thinking of me all the while as Jerome does." "Oh, I don't understand you at all," Lydia said distressfully. "No?" agreed Stoddard with an interrogative note in his voice. "But after all there's no need for people to be so determined to understand each other, is there?" Lydia looked at him with swimming eyes. "Why didn't you tell me not to do those things?" she managed finally to say with some composure. "Tell you not to do things that you had thought out for yourself and decided on?" asked Stoddard. "Oh, no, Miss Sessions. What of your own development? I had no business to interfere like that. You might be exactly right about it, and I wrong, so far as you yourself were concerned. And even if I were right and you wrong, the only chance of growth for you was to exploit the matter and find it out for yourself." "I don't understand a word you say," Lydia Sessions repeated dully. "That's the kind of thing you used always to talk when you and I were planning for John Consadine. Development isn't what a woman wants. She wants--she needs--to understand how to please those she--approves. If she fails anywhere, and those she--well, if somebody that she has--confidence--in tells her, why then she'll know better next time. You should have told me." Her eyes overflowed as she made an end, but Stoddard adopted a tone of determined lightness. "Dear me," he said gently. "What reactionary views! You're out of temper with me this evening--I get on your nerves with my theorizing. Forgive me, and forget all about it." In the spinning room at the Victory Mill, with its tall frames and endlessly turning bobbins, where the languid thread ran from hank to spool and the tired little feet must walk the narrow aisles between the jennies, watching if perchance a filament had broken, a knot caught, or other mischance occurred, and right it, Deanie plodded for what seemed to her many years. Milo and Pony both had work now in another department, and Lissy's frames were quite across the noisy big room. Whenever the little dark-haired girl could get away from her own task and the eye of the room boss, she ran across to the small, ailing sister and hugged her hard, begging her not to feel bad, not to cry, Sis' Johnnie was bound to come before long. With the morbidness of a sick child, Deanie came to dread these well-meant assurances, finding them almost as distressing as her own strange, tormenting sensations. The room was insufferably close, because it had rained and the windows were all tightly shut. The flare of light vitiated the air, heated it, but seemed to the child's sick sense to illuminate nothing. Sometimes she found herself walking into the machinery and put out a reckless little hand to guard her steps. Sister Johnnie had said she would come and take her away. Sister Johnnie was the Providence that was never known to fail. Deanie kept on doggedly, and tied threads, almost asleep. The room opened and shut like an accordion before her fevered vision; the floor heaved and trembled under her stumbling feet. To lie down--to lie down anywhere and sleep--that was the almost intolerable longing that possessed her. Her mouth was hot and dry. The little white, peaked face, like a new moon, grew strangely luminous in its pallor. Her eyes stung in their sockets--those desolate blue eyes, dark with unshed tears, heavy with sleep. She had turned her row and started back, when there came before her, so plain that she almost thought she might wet her feet in the clear water, a vision of the spring-branch at home up on Unaka, where she and Lissy used to play. There, among the giant roots of the old oak on its bank, was the house they had built of big stones and bright bits of broken dishes; there lay her home-made doll flung down among gay fallen leaves; a little toad squatted beside it; and near by was the tiny gourd that was their play-house dipper. Oh, for a drink from that spring! She caught sight of Mandy Meacham passing the door, and ran to her, heedless of consequences. "Mandy," she pleaded, taking hold of the woman's skirts and throwing back her reeling head to stare up into the face above her, "Mandy, Sis' Johnnie said she'd come; but it's a awful long time, and I'm scared I'll fall into some of these here old machines, I feel that bad. Won't you go tell Sis' Johnnie I'm waitin' for her?" Mandy glanced forward through the weaving-room toward her own silent looms, then down at the little, flushed face at her knee. If she dared to do things, as Johnnie dared, she would pick up the baby and leave. The very thought of it terrified her. No, she must get Johnnie herself. Johnnie would make it right. She bent down and kissed the little thing, whispering: "Never you mind, honey. Mandy's going straight and find Sis' Johnnie, and bring her here to Deanie. Jest wait a minute." Then she turned and, swiftly, lest her courage evaporate, hurried down the stair and to the time keeper. "Ef you've got a substitute, you can put 'em on my looms," she said brusquely. "I've got to go down in town." "Sick?" inquired Reardon laconically, as he made some entry on a card and dropped it in a drawer beside him. "No, I ain't sick--but Deanie Consadine is, and I'm goin' over in town to find her sister. That child ain't fitten to be in no mill--let alone workin' night turn. You men ort to be ashamed--that baby ort to be in her bed this very minute." Her voice had faltered a bit at the conclusion. Yet she made an end of it, and hurried away with a choke in her throat. The man stared after her angrily. "Well!" he ejaculated finally. "She's got her nerve with her. Old Himes is that gal's stepdaddy. I reckon he knows whether she's fit to work in the mills or not--he hired her here. Bob, ain't Himes down in the basement right now settin' up new machines? You go down there and name this business to him. See what he's got to say." "Shade--Shade Buckheath! Wait thar!" she called to him. The others lingered, too, a moment, till they saw it was a girl following; then they turned and sauntered slowly on, still singing: "Ef I was a little bird, I'd nest in the tallest tree, That leans over the waters of the beautiful Tennessee." The words came back to Buckheath and Mandy in velvety bass and boyish tenor. "Shade--whar's Johnnie?" panted Mandy, shaking him by the arm. "I been up to the house, and she ain't thar. Pap ain't thar, neither. I was skeered to name my business to Laurelly; Aunt Mavity ain't no help and, and--Shade--whar's Johnnie?" Buckheath looked down into her working, tragic face and his mouth hardened. "She ain't at home," he said finally. "I've been at Himes's all evening. Pap and me has a--er, a little business on hand and--she ain't at home. They told me that they was some sort of shindig at Mr. Hardwick's to-night. I reckon Johnnie Consadine is chasin' round after her tony friends. Pap said she left the house a-goin' in that direction--or Mavity told me, I disremember which. I reckon you'll find her thar. What do you want of her?" The group of young men had crossed the bridge and were well on their way to the Inn. Buckheath glanced after them doubtfully and turned to walk at Mandy's side. When they came to the gate, the woman hung back, whimpering at sight of the festal array, and sound of the voices within. "They've got a party," she deprecated. "My old dress is jest as dirty as the floor. You go ax 'em, Shade." As she spoke, Johnnie, carrying a tray of cups and saucers, passed a lighted window, and Buckheath uttered a sudden, unpremeditated oath. Mandy crowded herself back into the shadow of the dripping evergreens, and Shade went boldly up on the side porch. She saw the door opened and her escort admitted; then through the glass was aware of Lydia Sessions in an evening frock coming into the small entry and conferring at length with him. Her attention was diverted from them by the appearance of Johnnie herself just inside a window. She ran forward and tapped on the pane. Johnnie put down her tray and came swiftly out, passing Shade and Miss Sessions in the side entry with a word. "What is it?" she inquired of Mandy, with a premonition of disaster in her tones. "Hit's Deanie," choked the Meacham woman. "She's right sick, and they won't let her leave the mill--leastways she's skeered to ask, and so am I. I 'lowed I ought to come and tell you, Johnnie. Was that right? You wanted me to, didn't you?" anxiously. "Yes--yes--yes!" cried Johnnie, reaching up swift, nervous fingers to unfasten the cap from her hair, thrusting it in the pocket of the apron, and untying the apron strings. "Wait a minute. I must give these things back. Oh, let's hurry!" "I never found you when I went up to the house," explained Mandy nervously, "and so I stopped Shade on the street and axed him would he come along with me. Maybe it would do some good if he was to go up with us to the mill. They pay more attention to a man person. I tell you, Johnnie, the baby's plumb broke down and sick." "I'm going to take the children away from Pap," Johnnie said in a curious voice, rapid and monotonous, as though she were reciting something to herself. "I have obliged to do it. There must be a law somewhere. God won't let me fail." "Huh-uh," grunted Buckheath, instantly. "You can't do such a thing. Ef you was married, and yo' mother would let you adopt 'em, I reckon the courts might agree to that." "Shade," Johnnie turned upon him, "you've got more influence with Pap Himes than anybody. I believe if you'd talk to him, he'd let me have the children. I could support them now." "I don't want to fall out with Pap Himes--for nothing" responded Shade. "If you'll say that you'll wed me to-morrow morning, I'll go to Pap and get him to give up the children." Neither of them paid any attention to Mandy, who listened open-eyed and open-eared to this singular courtship. "Or I'll get him to take 'em out of the mill. You're right, I ain't got a bit of doubt I could do it. And if I don't do it, you needn't have me." "Have it your way," she said finally in a suffering voice. "What's that you say? Are you goin' to take me?" demanded Buckheath, pressing close and reaching out a possessive arm to put around her. Back at the Victory, downstairs went Reardon's messenger to where Pap Himes was sweating over the new machinery. Work always put the old man in a sort of incandescent fury, and now as Bob spoke to him, he raised an inflamed face, from which the small eyes twinkled redly, with a grunt of inquiry. "That youngest gal o' yours," the man repeated. "She's tryin' to leave her job and go home. Reardon said tell you, an' see what you had to say. The Lord knows we have trouble enough with those young 'uns. I'm glad when any of their folks that's got sand is around to make 'em behave. I reckon she can't come it over you, Gid." Himes straightened up with a groan, under any exertion his rheumatic old back always punished him cruelly for the days of indolence that had let its suppleness depart. "Why ain't you on your job?" he inquired threateningly, as the child saw him and made some futile attempt to shrink back out of his way. "I feel so quare, Pap Himes," the little girl answered him, beginning to cry. "I thes' want to lay down and go to sleep every minute." "I cain't! I cain't see 'em to tend! I'm right blind in the eyes!" wailed Deanie. "I wish Sis' Johnnie would come. I wish't she would!" "Uh-huh," commented Bob Conley, who had strolled up in the old man's wake. "Reckon Sis' Johnnie would run things to suit her an' you, Himes, you can cuss me out good an' plenty, but I take notice you seem to have trouble makin' your own family mind." "You shut your head," growled Pap. Reardon had added himself to the spectators. "See here," the foreman argued, "if you say there's nothing the matter with that gal, an' she carries on till we have to let her go home, she goes for good. I'll take her frames away from her." Pap felt that a formidable show of authority must be made. "Git back thar!" he roared, advancing upon the child, raising the hand that still held the wrench with which he had been working on the machinery down stairs. "Git back thar, or I'll make you wish you had. When I tell you to do a thing, don't you name Johnnie to me. Git back thar!" At the moment Johnnie, Shade and Mandy, coming up the stairs, got sight of the group, Pap with upraised hammer, the child in the clutches of imminent death. "You Pony Consadine! Milo! Come here. Pap Himes is a-killing yo' sister." The old man, shaking all through his bulk, stared with fallen jaw. Mandy shrieked and leaped up the few remaining steps to reach Deanie, who was already above the finger-tips of a tall man. "Pap! Shade! Quick! Don't you see she'll be killed!" Mandy screamed in frenzy. Those who looked at her realized this. Numbed by the inevitable, they made no effort, save Milo, who at imminent risk of his own life, was climbing on a frame near at hand; but Pony flew at Himes, beating the old man with hard-clenched, inadequate fists, and screaming. "You git her down from thar--git her down this minute! She'll be killed, I tell ye! She'll be killed, I tell ye!" Poor Mandy made inarticulate moanings and reached up her arms; Shade Buckheath cursed softly under his breath; the women and children stared, eager to lose no detail. "I always have said, and I always shall say, that chaps as young as that ain't got no business around whar machinery's at!" Bob Conley kept shouting over and over in a high, strange, mechanical voice, plainly quite unconscious that he spoke at all. When Johnnie reached the prostrate pair, Mandy was struggling to her knees, gasping; but Deanie lay twisted just as she had fallen, the little face sunken and deathly, a tiny trickle of blood coming from a corner of her parted lips. "Thar--right thar in the side," groaned Mandy. "She's all staved in on the side that--my pore little Deanie! Oh, I tried to ketch her, but she broke right through and pulled my skirts out of my hand and hit the floor." Pap had drawn nearer on shaking limbs; the children crowded so close that Johnnie looked up and motioned them back. "Shade--you run for a doctor, and have a carriage fetched," she ordered briefly. "Is--Lord God, is she dead?" faltered the old man. "Ef she ain't dead now, she'll die," Mandy answered him shrilly. "They ain't no flesh on her--she's run down to a pore little skeleton. That's what the factories does to women and children--they jest eats 'em up, and spits out they' bones." Johnnie's flaming glance silenced him, and his voice died away, a sort of a rasp in his throat. Mechanically he glanced up to the point on the great belt from which the child had fallen, and measured the distance to the floor. He scratched his bald head dubiously, and edged back from the tragedy he had made. "Everybody knows I never hit her," he muttered as he went. The talk between him and his hostess had been enlightening to both of them. It showed Lydia Sessions not only where she stood with Gray, but it brought home to her startlingly, and as nothing had yet done, the strength of Johnnie's hold upon him; while it forced Gray himself to realize that ever since that morning when he met the girl on the bridge going to put her little brothers and sisters in the Victory mill, he had behaved more like a sulky, disappointed lover than a staunch friend. He confessed frankly to himself, that, had Johnnie been a boy, a young man, instead of a beautiful and appealing woman, he would have been prompt to go to her and remonstrate--he would have made no bones of having the matter out clearly and fully. He blamed himself much for the estrangement which he had allowed to grow between them. He knew instinctively about what Shade Buckheath was--certainly no fit mate for Johnnie Consadine. And for the better to desert her--poor, helpless, unschooled girl--could only operate to push her toward the worse. These thoughts kept Stoddard wakeful company till almost morning. Dawn came with a soft wind out of the west, all the odours of spring on its breath, and a penitent warmth to apologize for last night's storm. Stoddard faced his day, and decided that he would begin it with an early-morning horseback ride. He called up his stable boy over the telephone, and when Jim brought round Roan Sultan saddled there was a pause, as of custom, for conversation. "Heared about the accident over to the Victory, Mr. Stoddard?" Jim inquired. "No," said Gray, wheeling sharply. "Anybody hurt?" Gray mounted quickly, settled himself in the saddle, and glanced down the street which would lead him past Himes's place. For months now, he had been instinctively avoiding that part of town. Poor Johnnie! She might be a disappointing character, but he knew well that she was full of love; he remembered her eyes when, nearly a year ago, up in the mist and sweetness of April on the Unakas, she had told him of the baby sister and the other little ones. She must be suffering now. Almost without reflection he turned his horse's head and rode toward the forlorn Himes boarding-house. As he drew near, he noticed a huddled figure at the head of the steps, and coming up made it out to be Himes himself, sitting, elbows on knees, staring straight ahead of him. Pap had not undressed at all, but he had taken out his false teeth "to rest his jaws a spell," as he was in the habit of doing, and the result was startling. His cheeks were fallen in to such an extent that the blinking red eyes above looked larger; it was as though the old rascal's crimes of callous selfishness and greed had suddenly aged him. Stoddard pulled in his horse at the foot of the steps. "Hit's Deanie. She's all right," mumbled Pap. "Got the whole house uptore, and Laurelly miscallin' me till I don't know which way to look; and now the little dickens is a-goin' to git well all right. Chaps is tough, I tell ye. Ye cain't kill 'em." "You people must have thought so," said Stoddard, "or you wouldn't have brought these little ones down and hired them to the cotton mill. Johnnie knew what that meant." The words had come almost involuntarily. The old man stared at the speaker breathing hard. "What's Johnnie Consadine got to do with it?" he inquired finally. "I'm the stepdaddy of the children--and Johnnie's stepdaddy too, for the matter of that--and what I say goes." "Did you hire the children at the Victory?" inquired Stoddard, swiftly. Back across his memory came the picture of Johnnie with her poor little sheep for the shambles clustered about her on the bridge before the Victory mill. "Did you hire the children to the factory?" he repeated. Stoddard glanced up at the windows and made as though to dismount. All night at his pillow had stood the accusation that he had been cruel to Johnnie. Now, as Himes's revelations went on, and he saw what her futile efforts had been, as he guessed a part of her sufferings, it seemed he must hurry to her and brush away the tangle of misunderstanding which he had allowed to grow up between them. "They've worked over that thar chap, off an' on, all night," the old man said. "Looks like, if they keep hit up, she'll begin to think somethin's the matter of her." Gray realized that his visit at this moment would be ill-timed. He would ride on through the Gap now, and call as he came back. "I had obliged to find me a place whar I could hire out them chaps," the miserable old man before him went on, garrulously. "They's nothin' like mill work to take the davilment out o' young 'uns. Some of them chaps'll call you names and make faces at you, even whilst you' goin' through the mill yard--and think what they'd be ef they _wasn't_ worked! I'm a old man, and when I married Laurelly and took the keepin' o' her passel o' chaps on my back, I aimed to make it pay. Laurelly, she won't work." He looked helplessly at Stoddard, like a child about to cry. "She told me up and down that she never had worked in no mill, and she was too old to l'arn. She said the noise of the thing from the outside was enough to show her that she didn't want to go inside--and go she would not." "But she let her children go--she and Johnnie," muttered Stoddard, settling himself in his saddle. Pap felt an altogether misplaced confidence in the view that Stoddard, as a male, was likely to take of the matter. "A man is obliged to be boss of his own family--ain't that so, Mr. Stoddard?" he demanded. "I said the chillen had to go into the mill, and into the mill they went. They all wanted to go, at the start, and Laurelly agreed with me that hit was the right thing. Then, just because Deanie happened to a accident and Johnnie took up for her, Laurelly has to go off into hy-strikes and say she'll quit me soon as she can put foot to the ground." "See here, Himes," he spoke abruptly, "this concerns you--this letter that has just reached me." Pap looked at the younger man with mere curiosity. Pap shuffled his feet uneasily. "I thought no more about the matter; in fact I've not been in the spinning department for--for some time." Stoddard looked down at the hand which held his bridle, and remembered that he had absented himself from every place that threatened him with the sight of Johnnie. Pap was breathing audibly through his open mouth. "She--she never had nothin' made," he whispered out the ready lie hurriedly, scrambling to his feet and down the steps, pressing close to Roan Sultan's shoulder, laying a wheedling hand on the bridle, looking up anxiously into the stern young face above him. "Oh, yes, she did," Stoddard returned. "I remember, now, hearing some of the children from the room say that she had a device which worked well. From the description they gave of it, I judge that it is the same which this letter tells me you and Buckheath are offering to the Alabama mills. Mr. Trumbull, the superintendent, says that you and Buckheath hold the patent for this Indicator jointly. As soon as I can consult with Johnnie, we will see about the matter." "W'y, name o' God, Mr. Stoddard! Who should have a better right to that thar patent than Buck and me? I'm the gal's stepdaddy, an' he's the man she's goin' to wed." "Now, Mr. Stoddard, I want to talk to you mighty plain. The whole o' Cottonville is full o' tales about you and Johnnie. Yes--that's the truth." He stood staring down at his big, shuffling feet, laboriously sorting in his own mind such phrases as it might do to use. The difficulty of what he had to say blocked speech for so long that Stoddard, in a curiously quiet voice, finally prompted him. "Tales?" he repeated. "What tales, Mr. Himes?" Again there came a long pause. Stoddard stared down on Gideon Himes, and Himes stared at his own feet. Pap rolled his head between his shoulders with a negative motion which intimated that it was not well. "And lending her books, and all sich," he pursued doggedly. "That kind o' carryin' on ain't decent, and you know it ain't. Buck knows it ain't--but he's willin' to have her. He told her he was willin' to have her, and the fool gal let on like she didn't want him. He came here to board at my house because she wouldn't scarcely so much as speak to him elsewhere." By the light of these statements Stoddard read what poor Johnnie's persecution had been. The details of it he could not, of course, know; yet he saw in that moment largely how she had been harried. At the instant of seeing, came that swift and mighty revulsion that follows surely when we have misprized and misunderstood those dear to us. "What is it you want of me?" he inquired of Himes. Stoddard looked down at the shameful old man with eyes that were indecipherable. If the impulse was strong in him to twist the unclean old throat against any further ill-speaking, it gave no heat to the tone in which he answered: As he made this, to him the only possible defence of the poor girl, Pap faltered slowly back, uttering a gurgling expression of astonishment. With a sense of surprise Stoddard saw in his face only dismay and chagrin. Stoddard gathered up his bridle rein, preparatory to moving on. "You're an old man, Mr. Himes," he said coldly, "and you are excited; but you don't want to say any more--that's quite enough of that sort of thing." Then he loosened the rein on Roan Sultan, and moved away down the street. Gideon Himes stood and gazed after him with bulging eyes. Gray Stoddard married to Johnnie! He tried to adjust his dull wits to the new position of affairs; tried to cipher the problem with this amazing new element introduced. Last night's scene of violence when the injured child was brought home went dismally before his eyes. Laurella had said she would leave him so soon as she could put foot to the floor. He had expected to coax her with gifts and money, with concessions in regard to the children if it must be; but with a rich man for a son-in-law, of course she would go. He would never see her face again. And suddenly he flung up an arm like a beaten schoolboy and began to blubbler noisily in the crook of his elbow. An ungentle hand on his shoulder recalled him to time and place. "For God's sake, what's the matter with you?" inquired Shade Buckheath's voice harshly. The old man gulped down his grief and made his communication in a few hurried sentences. "Leave you!" echoed Buckheath darkly. "She won't have to. If Gray Stoddard marries Johnnie Consadine, you and me will just about roost in the penitentiary for the rest of our days." "The patent!" echoed Pap blankly. He turned fiercely on his fellow conspirator. "Now see what ye done with yer foolishness," he exclaimed. "Nothin' would do ye but to be offerin' the contraption for sale, and tellin' each and every that hit'd been used in the Hardwick mill. Look what a mess ye've made. I'm sorry I ever hitched up with ye. Boy o' yo' age has got no sense." "How was I to know they'd write to Stoddard?" growled Shade sulkily. "No harm did if hit wasn't for him. We've got the patent all right, and Johnnie cain't help herself. But him--with all his money--he can help her--damn him!" "Yes, and he'll take a holt and hunt up about Pros's silver mine, too," said Himes. "I've always mistrusted the way he's been hangin' round Pros Passmore. Like enough he's hearn of that silver mine, and that's the reason he's after Johnnie." The old man paused to ruminate on this feature of the case. He was pleased with his own shrewdness in fathoming Gray Stoddard's mysterious motives. "Buck," he said finally, with a swift drop to friendliness, "hit's got to be stopped. Can you stop it? "Didn't you tell me that Johnnie promised last night to wed you? Didn't you say she promised it, when you was goin' up to the Victory with her?" "Pap, yo' breakfast is gettin' stone cold." "Do you have to go to the mill right now?" inquired the older man, timorously. He was already under the domination of this swifter, bolder, more fiery spirit. "No, I don't have to go anywhere that I don't want to. I've got business with a certain party up this-a-way, and when I git to the mill I'll be there." "But she'll be in bed and asleep, I reckon, at this time of day," he ruminated. "The good Lord knows I would if I had the chance like she has." As he came in sight of the Hardwick house, he checked momentarily. Standing at the gate, an astonishing figure, still in her evening frock, looking haggard and old in the gray, disillusioning light of early morning, was Lydia Sessions. Upstairs, her white bed was smooth; its pillows spread fair and prim, unpressed by any head, since the maid had settled them trimly in place the morning before; but the long rug which ran from her dressing table to the window might have told a tale of pacing feet that passed restlessly from midnight till dawn; the mirror could have disclosed the picture of a white, anxious, and often angry face that had stared into it as the woman paused now and again to commune with the real Lydia Sessions. Toward dawn, she snatched a little cape from the garments hanging in the closet, flung it over her shoulders and ran downstairs. She must have a breath of fresh air. So, in the manner of helpless creatures who cannot go out in the highway to accost fate, she was standing at the gate when she caught sight of Shade Buckheath approaching. Here was her opportunity. She must be doing something, and the nearest enterprise at hand was to foster and encourage this young fellow's pursuit of Johnnie. She hesitated and stood looking into the man's face. Buckheath knew exactly what she wished to say. He was impatient of the flummery she found it necessary to wind around her simple proposition; but he was used to women, he understood them; and to him a woman of Miss Sessions's class was no different from a woman of his own. "I reckon you wanted to name it to me about Johnnie Consadine," he said bluntly. Shade raised his hand to his mouth to conceal the swift, sarcastic smile on his lips. He spat toward the pathside before agreeing seriously with Miss Lydia. "Her and me was promised, before she come down here and got all this foolishness into her head," he said finally. "Her mother never could do anything with Johnnie. Looks like Johnnie's got more authority--her mother's more like a little girl to her than the other way round. Her uncle Pros has been crazy in the hospital, and Pap Himes, her stepfather--well, I reckon she's the only human that ever had to mind Pap and didn't do it." This somewhat ambiguous statement of the case failed to bring any smile to his hearer's lips. Shade held down his head and appeared to be giving this matter some consideration. The weak point of such an argument lay in the fact that Johnnie was not his promised wife, and Gray Stoddard was very likely to know it. Indeed, Lydia Sessions herself only believed the statement because she so wished. There came a sound of light hoofs down the road, and Stoddard on Roan Sultan, riding bareheaded, came toward them under the trees. Buckheath drew a long breath and straightened up. "I'm but a poor man," he began truculently, "yit there ain't nobody can marry the gal I set out to wed and me stand by and say nothing." Shade looked at her narrowly. Up to the time Pap gave him definite information from headquarters, he had never for an instant supposed that there was a possibility of Stoddard desiring to marry Johnnie; but the flurried eagerness of Miss Sessions convinced him that such a possibility was a very present dread with her, and he sent a venomous glance after the disappearing horseman. "If I go after him to talk to him, and we--uh--we have an interruption--are you going to tell everybody you see about it?" demanded Shade sharply, staring down at the woman. She crouched a little, still clinging to the pickets of the gate. The word "interruption" only conveyed to her mind the suggestion that they might be interfered with in their conversation. She did not recollect the mountain use of it to describe a quarrel, an outbreak, or an affray. "No," she whispered. "Oh, certainly not--I'll never tell anything that you don't want me to." She nodded silently, her frightened eyes on his face; and without another word he set off at that long, swinging pace which belongs to his people. Lydia turned and ran swiftly into the house, and up the stairs to her own room. "Dave," he finally said to the yellow office boy, "I wish you'd 'phone to Mr. Stoddard's place and see when he'll be down." Dave came back with the information that Mr. Stoddard was not at the house; he had left for an early-morning ride, and not returned to his breakfast. "He'll just about have stopped up at the Country Club for a snack," MacPherson muttered to himself. "I wonder who or what he found there attractive enough to keep him from his work." "Mr. Stoddard here?" inquired Hartley Sessions, glancing in at the same moment. "No, I think not," returned the Scotchman, unwilling to admit that he did not exactly know. "I believe he's up at the club. Perhaps he's got tangled in for a longer game of golf than he reckoned on." This unintentional and wholly innocent falsehood stopped any inquiry that there might have been. MacPherson had meant to 'phone the club during the day, but he failed to do so, and it was not until evening that he walked up himself to put more cautious inquiries. "I wonder, now, should I give the alarm to Hardwick," MacPherson said to himself. "The lad may have just ridden on to La Fayette, or some little nearby town, and be staying the night. Young fellows sometimes have affairs they'd rather not share with everybody--and then, there's Miss Lydia. If I go up to Hardwick's with the story, she'll be sure to hear it from Hardwick's wife." "Did Mr. Stoddard ever go away like this before without giving you notice?" he asked with apparent carelessness. The boy shook his head in vigorous negative. "Never since I've been working for him," he asserted. "Mr. Stoddard wasn't starting anywhere but for his early ride--at least he wasn't intending to. He hadn't any hat on, and he was in his riding clothes. He didn't carry anything with him. I know in reason he wasn't intending to stay." This information sent MacPherson hurrying to the Hardwick home. Dinner was over. The master of the house conferred with him a moment in the vestibule, then opened the door into the little sitting room and asked abruptly: "When was the last time any of you saw Gray Stoddard?" His sister-in-law screamed faintly, then cowered in her chair and stared at him mutely. But Mrs. Hardwick as yet noted nothing unusual. "Yesterday evening," she returned placidly. "Don't you remember, Jerome, he was here at the Lyric reception?" "Oh, I remember well enough," said Hardwick knitting his brows. "I thought some of you might have seen him since then. He's missing." "Missing!" echoed Lydia Sessions with a note of terror in her tones. Now Mrs. Hardwick looked startled. "But, Jerome, I think you're inconsiderate," she began, glancing solicitously at her sister. "Under the circumstances, it seems to me you might have made your announcement more gently--to Lydia, anyhow. Never mind, dearie--there's nothing in it to be frightened at." "I'm not frightened," whispered Lydia Sessions through white lips that belied her assertion. Hardwick looked impatiently from his sister-in-law to his wife. She broke off huskily and sat staring at her interlaced fingers dropped in her lap. "No--no. Of course not, Lydia," her sister hastened to reassure her, crossing the room and putting a protecting arm about the girl's shoulders. "He shouldn't have spoken as he did, knowing that you and Gray--knowing how affairs stand." "Well, I only thought since you and Stoddard are such great friends," Hardwick persisted, "he might have mentioned to you some excursion, or made opportunity to talk with you alone, sometime last night--to--to say something. Did he tell you where he was going, Lydia? Are you keeping something from us that we ought to know? Remember this is no child's play. It begins to look as though it might be a question of the man's life." Lydia Sessions started galvanically. She pushed off her sister's caressing hand with a fierce gesture. "There's nothing--no such relation as you're hinting at, Elizabeth, between Gray Stoddard and me," she said sharply. Memory of what Gray had (as she supposed) followed her into the library to say to her wrung a sort of groan from the girl. "I suppose Matilda's told you that we had--had some conversation in the library," she managed to say. Her brother-in-law shook his head. "We haven't questioned the servants yet," he said briefly. "We haven't questioned anybody nor hunted up any evidence. MacPherson came direct to me from Stoddard's stable boy. Gray did stop and talk to you last night? What did he say?" "I--why nothing in--I really don't remember," faltered Lydia, with so strange a look that both her sister and Hardwick looked at her in surprise. "That is--oh, nothing of any importance, you know. I--I believe we were talking about socialism, and--and different classes of people That sort of thing." MacPherson, who had pushed unceremoniously into the room behind his employer, nodded his gray head. "That would always be what he was speaking of." He smiled a little as he said it. "All right," returned Hardwick, struggling into his overcoat at the hat-tree, and seeking his hat and stick, "I'll go right back with you, Mac. This thing somehow has a sinister look to me." "Of course, I knew Miss Lydia would be alarmed. I understand about her and Stoddard. It made me hesitate a while before coming up to you folks with the thing." "Well, by the Lord, you did well not to hesitate too long, Mac!" ejaculated Hardwick. "I shouldn't feel the anxiety I do if we hadn't been having trouble with those mountain people up toward Flat Rock over that girl that died at the hospital." He laughed a little ruefully. "Trying to do things for folks is ticklish business. There wasn't a man in the crowd that interviewed me whom I could convince that our hospital wasn't a factory for the making of stiffs which we sold to the Northern Medical College. Oh, it was gruesome! "I told them the girl had had every attention, and that she died of pernicious anaemia. They called it 'a big dic word' and asked me point blank if the girl hadn't been killed in the mill. I told them that we couldn't keep the body indefinitely, and they said they 'aimed to come and haul it away as soon as they could get a horse and wagon.' I called their attention to the fact that I couldn't know this unless they wrote and told me so in answer to my letter. But between you and me, Mac, I don't believe there was a man in the crowd who could read or write." "For God's sake!" exclaimed the Scotchman. "You don't think _those_ people were up to doing a mischief to Stoddard, do you?" MacPherson gave a whistle of dismay. "Where does that boy live that takes care of the horses--black Jim?" Hardwick inquired, after they had rung the bell, thumped on the door, and called, to make sure the master had not returned during MacPherson's absence. "I don't know--really, I don't know. He might have a room over the stable," MacPherson suggested. "Of course," broke in old MacPherson, quickly, "and gone over to Mrs. Gandish's for some supper. That is why he wasn't in the house." To make assurance doubly sure, they opened the unlocked stable door, and MacPherson struck a match. The roan turned and whinnied hungrily at sight of them. "That's funny," said Hardwick, scarcely above his breath. "It looks to me as though that animal hadn't been fed." "Stoddard's too good a horseman to have done that," spoke Hardwick slowly. "And too kind a man," supplied MacPherson loyally. "He'd have seen to the beast's hunger before he satisfied his own." As the Scotchman spoke he was picking up the horse's hoofs, and digging at them with a bit of stick. "They're as clean as if they'd just been washed," he said, as he straightened up. "By Heaven! I have it, Hardwick--that fellow came into town with his hoofs muffled." The younger man looked also, and assented mutely, then suggested: "He hasn't come far; there's not a hair turned on him." The Scotchman shook his head. "I'm not sure of that," he debated. "Likely he's been led, and that slowly. God--this is horrible!" Mechanically Hardwick got some hay down for the horse, while MacPherson pulled off the saddle and bridle, examining both in the process. Grain was poured into the box, and then water offered. "Of course, you know I don't expect to find him here," said Hardwick. "I don't suppose they know anything about the matter. But we've got to wake them and ask." The morning found the telegraph in active requisition, flashing up and down all lines by which a man might have left Cottonville or Watauga. The police of the latter place were notified, furnished with information, and set to find out if possible whether anybody in the city had seen Stoddard since he rode away on Friday morning. The inquiries were fruitless. A young lady visiting in the city had promised him a dance at the Valentine masque to be held at the Country Club-house Friday night. Some clothing put out a few days before to be cleaned and pressed was ready for delivery. His laundry came home. His mail arrived punctually. The postmaster stated that he had no instructions for a change of address; all the little accessories of Gray Stoddard's life offered themselves, mute, impressive witnesses that he had intended to go on with it in Cottonville. But Stoddard himself had dropped as completely out of the knowledge of man as though he had been whisked off the planet. In Watauga and in Cottonville itself, clues were found by the police, followed up and proved worthless. All Gray's Eastern connections were immediately communicated with by telegraph, in the forlorn hope of finding some internal clue. The business men in charge of his large Eastern interests answered promptly that nothing from recent correspondence with him pointed to any intention on his part of making a journey or otherwise changing his ordinary way of living. They added urgent admonitions to Mr. MacPherson to have locked up in the Company's safe various important papers which they had sent, at Stoddard's request, for signature, and which they supposed from the date, must be lying with his other mail. A boyhood friend telegraphed his intention of coming down from Massachusetts and joining the searchers. Stoddard had no near relatives. A grand-aunt, living in Boston, telegraphed to Mr. Hardwick to see that money be spent freely. Meantime there was reason for Johnnie Consadine, shut in the little sister's sick room day and night, to hear nothing of these matters. Lissy had been allowed to help wait upon the injured child only on promise that nothing exciting should be mentioned. Both boys had instantly begged to join a searching party, Milo insisting that he could work all night and search all day, and that nobody should complain that he neglected his job. Pony, being refused, had run away; Milo the rulable followed to get him to return; and by Sunday night Mavity was feeding both boys from the back door and keeping them out of sight of Pap's vengeance. Considering that Johnnie had trouble enough, she cautioned everybody on the place to say nothing of these matters to the girl. Mandy, a feeble, unsound creature at best, was more severely injured than had been thought. She was confined to her bed for days. Pap went about somewhat like a whipped dog, spoke little on any subject, and tolerated no mention of the topic of the day in Cottonville; his face kept the boarders quiet at table and in the house, anyhow. Shade Buckheath never entered the place after Deanie was carried in from the hastily summoned carriage Thursday night. Yet when the paroxysms of terror shook the emaciated frame, and the others attempted to reassure Deanie by words, it was her mother who called for a bit of gay calico, for scissors and needle and thread, and began dressing a doll in the little sufferer's sight. Laurella had carried unspoiled the faculty for play, up with her through the years. "Let her be," the doctor counselled Johnnie, in reply to anxious inquiries. "Don't you see she's getting the child's attention? The baby notices. An ounce of happiness is worth a pound of any medicine I could bring." And so, when Laurella could no longer sit up, they brought another cot for her, and she lay all day babbling childish nonsense, and playing dolls within hand-reach of the sick-bed; while Johnnie with Lissy's help, tended on them both. In the gray dawn of Monday morning, when Johnnie was downstairs eating her bit of early breakfast, Pap shambled in to make Laurella's fire. Having got the hickory wood to blazing, he sat humped and shame-faced by the bedside a while, whispering to his wife and holding her hand, a sight for the student of man to marvel at. He had brought a paper of coarse, cheap candy for Deanie, but the child was asleep. The offering was quite as acceptable to Laurella, and she nibbled a stick as she listened to him. "I've got to go honey," he breathed huskily. "Cain't you say you forgive me before I leave? I know I ain't fitten fer the likes of you; but when I come back from this here raid I'm a-goin' to take some money out of the bank and git you whatever you want. Look-a-here; see what I've done," and he showed a little book in his hand, and what he had written in it. "Oh--I forgive you, if that's any account to you," returned Laurella with kindly contempt. "I never noticed that forgiving things undid the harm any; but--yes--oh, of course I forgive you. Go along; I'm tired now. Don't bother me any more, Gid; I want to sleep." The old man thrust the treasured bankbook under Laurella's pillow, and hurried away. Downstairs in the dining room Johnnie was eating her breakfast. "Johnnie," said Mavity Bence, keeping behind the girl's chair as she served the meal to her at the end of the long table, "I ain't never done you a meanness yet, have I? And you know I've got all the good will in the world toward you--now don't you?" "Why, of course, Aunt Mavity," returned Johnnie wonderingly, trying to get sight of the older woman's face. Mrs. Bence took a plate and hurried out for more biscuits. She came back with some resolution plainly renewed in her mind. "Yes, I know," returned Johnnie passively. "They sent me word last night. I'm sorry, but I can't do anything about it. Maybe he won't come to any harm out that way. I can't imagine Uncle Pros hurting anybody. Perhaps it will do him good." She broke off and stood silent so long that Johnnie turned and looked at her. "Surely you aren't afraid of me, Aunt Mavity," she said finally. "No," said Mavity Bence in a low voice, "but I'm scared of--the others." The girl stared at her curiously. There fell a long silence. At last Johnnie's voice broke it, asking very low: "Did they--how was Uncle Pros hurt?" "Neither of 'em touched him," Mavity hastened to assure her. "He heard 'em name it how they'd get the mine from him--or thought he did--and he come out and talked loud, and grabbed for the bandanner, and he missed it and fell down the steps. He wasn't crazy when he come to the house. He was jest plumb wore out, and his head was hurt. He called it yo' silver mine. He said he had to put the bandanner in yo' lap and tell you hit was for you." Johnny got suddenly to her feet. "Thank you, Aunt Mavity," she said kindly. "This is what's been troubling you, is it? Don't worry any more, I'll see about this, somehow. I must go back to Mother now." Laurella had said to Pap Himes that she wanted to sleep, and indeed her eyes, were closed when Johnnie entered the room; but beneath the shadow of the sweeping lashes burned such spots of crimson that her nurse was alarmed. "What was Pap Himes saying to you to get you so excited?" she asked anxiously. As full understanding of what her mother said came home to Johnnie, her eyes dilated in her pale face. She sank to her knees beside the bed. "Where is Shade Buckheath?" whispered Johnnie. "Shade's been out with mighty nigh every crowd that went," Laurella told her. "Mr. Hardwick pays them wages, just the same as if they were in the mill. Shade's going with Gid this morning, in Mr. Stoddard's automobile." "Sure, we'll get along all right, Johnnie," Laurella put in eagerly. She tugged at a corner of the pillow, fumbled thereunder with her little brown hand, and dragging out Pap Himes's bankbook, showed it to her daughter, opening at that front page where Pap's clumsy characters made Laurella Himes free of all his savings. "You go right along, Johnnie, and see cain't you help about Mr. Stoddard. Looks like I cain't bear to think the pore boy you go on--me and Deanie'll be all right till you get back." Johnnie stooped and kissed the cheek with its feverish flush. She stepped out into the dancing sunlight of an early spring morning. The leafless vine on Mavity Bence's porch rattled dry stems against the lattice work in a gay March wind. Taking counsel with herself for a moment, she started swiftly down the street in the direction of the mills. In the office they told her that Mr. Hardwick had gone to Nashville to see about getting bloodhounds; MacPherson was following his own plan of search in Watauga. She was permitted to go down into the mechanical department and ask the head of it about Shade Buckheath. "No, he ain't here," Mr. Ramsey told her promptly. "We're running so short-handed that I don't know how to get along; and if I try to get an extra man, I find he's out with the searchers. I sent up for Himes yesterday, but him and Buckheath was to go together to-day, taking Mr. Stoddard's car, so as to get further up into the Unakas." Harriet Hardwick, when things began to wear a tragic complexion, had promptly packed her wardrobe and her children and flitted to Watauga. This hegira was undertaken mainly to get her sister away from the scene of Gray Stoddard's disappearance; yet when the move came to be made, Miss Sessions refused to accompany her sister. "I can't go," she repeated fiercely. "I'll stay here and keep house for Jerome. Then if there comes any news, I'll be where--oh, don't look at me that way. I wish you'd go on and let me alone. Yes--yes--yes--it is better for you to go to Watauga and leave me here." Back of it all there was truly much remorse, and terrible anxiety for Stoddard himself; but this was continually swallowed up in her concern for her own welfare, her own good name. Always, after she had agonized so much, there would come with a revulsion--a gust of anger. Stoddard had never cared for her, he had been cruel in his attitude of kindness. Let him take what followed. Cottonville was a town distraught, and the Hardwick servants had seized the occasion to run out for a bit of delectable gossip in which the least of the horrors included Gray Stoddard's murdered and mutilated body washed down in some mountain stream to the sight of his friends. Johnnie was too urgent to long delay. Getting no answer at the side door, she pushed it open and ventured through silent room after room until she came to the stairway, and so on up to Miss Sessions's bedroom door. She had been there before, and fearing to alarm by knocking, she finally called out in what she tried to make a normal, reassuring tone. "It's only me--Johnnie Consadine--Miss Lydia." The answer was a hasty, muffled outcry. Somebody who had been kneeling by the bed on the further side of the room sprang up and came forward, showing a face so disfigured by tears and anxiety, by loss of sleep and lack of food, as to be scarcely recognizable. That ravaged visage told plainly the battle-ground that Lydia Sessions's narrow soul had become in these dreadful days. She knew now that she had set Shade Buckheath to quarrel with Gray Stoddard--and Gray had never been seen since the hour she sent the dangerous, unscrupulous man after him to that quarrel. With this knowledge wrestled and fought the instinct we strive to develop in our girl children, the fear we brand shamefully into their natures--her name must not be connected with such an affair--she must not be "talked about." "Have they found him?" Lydia gasped. "Is he alive?" Johnnie, generous soul, even in the intense preoccupation of her own pain, could pity the woman who looked and spoke thus. "No," she answered, "they haven't found him--and some that are looking for him never will find him. "Oh, Miss Lydia, I want you to help me make them send somebody that we can trust up the Gap road, and on to the Unakas." Miss Sessions flinched plainly. "What do you know about it?" she inquired in a voice which shook. Still staring at Johnnie, she moved back toward her bedroom door. "Why should you mention the Gap road? What makes you think he went up in the Unakas?" "I don't believe it!" she gasped. "You know who to find! You're just getting up this story to be noticed. You're always doing things to attract attention to yourself. You want to go riding around in an automobile and--and--Mr. Stoddard has probably gone in to Watauga and taken the midnight train for Boston. This looking around in the mountains is folly. Who would want to harm him in the mountains?" For a moment Johnnie stood, thwarted and non-plussed. The insults directed toward herself made almost no impression on her, strangely as they came from Lydia Sessions's lips. She was too intent on her own purpose to care greatly. She thrust forward her face and sent forth the words with incredible vehemence. But her tirade kindled in Johnnie no heat of personal anger. She stood looking intently at the frantic woman before her. Slowly a light of comprehension dawned in her eyes. "Shade Buckheath had everything to do with Gray Stoddard's disappearance. You know it--that's what ails you now. You--you must have been there when they quarrelled!" "They didn't quarrel--they didn't!" protested Miss Lydia, with a yet more hysteric emphasis. "They didn't even speak to each other. Mr. Stoddard said 'Good morning' to me, and rode right past." Johnnie leant forward and, with a sudden sweeping movement, caught the other woman by the wrist, looking deep into her eyes. "Lydia," she said accusingly, and neither of them noticed the freedom of the address, "you didn't tell the truth when you said you hadn't seen Gray since Friday night. You saw him Friday morning--_you_--_and_-_Shade_--_Buckheath_! You have both lied about it--God knows why. Now, Shade and my stepfather have taken poor Gray's car and gone up into the mountains. _What do you think they went for?_" The blazing young eyes were on Miss Sessions's tortured countenance. She broke off abruptly, and sprang up like a suddenly goaded creature. "No, I won't!" she cried out. "You needn't ask it of me. I will not tell about seeing Mr. Stoddard Friday morning. I promised not to, and it can't do any good, anyhow. If you set them at me, I'll deny it and tell them you made up the story. I will--I will--I will!" "Mahala!" screamed Miss Sessions's voice over the banisters, thinking the maid was below stairs; "answer that telephone." She heard Johnnie move, and added, "Tell everybody that I can't be seen. If it's anything about Mr. Stoddard, say that I'm sick--utterly prostrated--and can't be talked to." She turned from the stairway, ran back into her own room and shut and locked the door. And at that moment Johnnie heard Mavity Bence's voice replying to her. "Aunt Mavity," she began, "this is Johnnie. I'm up at Mr. Hardwick's now. Uncle Pros is out in the mountains, and I'm going to look for him. I'd rather not have anybody know I'm gone; do you understand that? Try to keep it from the boarders and the children. You and Mandy are the only ones that would have to know." Noon came and passed. She was very weary. Factory life had told on her physically, and the recent distress of mind added its devitalizing influence. There was a desperate flagging of the muscles weakened by disuse and an unhealthy indoor life. "I wonder can I ever make it?" she questioned herself. Then swiftly, "I've got to--I've got to." Before the girl could respond beyond an answering smile and "good morning," the new friend had put his own alpenstock into her hands and gone to the roadside, where, with unerring judgment, he selected a long, straight, tapering shoot of ash, and hewed it deftly with a monster jack-knife drawn from his trousers pocket. "There--try that," he said as he returned, trimming off the last of the leaves and branches. Johnnie took the staff with her sweet smile of thanks. "Can I get to the railroad down this side?" the man asked her in that odd, incidental voice of his which suggested that what he said was merely a small portion of what he thought. "Why--yes, I reckon so," hesitated Johnnie. "It's a pretty far way, and there don't many folks travel on it. It's an old Indian trail; a heap of our roads here are that; but it'll take you right to the railroad--the W. and A." Her companion chuckled, seemingly with some inner satisfaction. "Yes, that's just what I supposed. I soldiered all over this country, and I thought it was about as pretty scenery as God ever made. I promised myself then that if I ever came back into this part of the world, I'd do some tramping through here. They're going to have a great big banquet at Atlanta, and they had me caged up taking me down there to make a speech. I gave them the slip at Watauga. I knew I'd strike the railroad if I footed it through the mountains here." Johnnie examined her companion with attention. Would it do to ask him if he had seen an automobile on the road--a dark green car? Dare she make inquiry as to whether he had heard of Gray Stoddard's disappearance, or met any of the searchers? She decided on a conservative course. "I wish I had time to set you in the right road," she hesitated; "but my poor old uncle is out here somewhere among these ridges and ravines; he's not in his right mind, and I've got to find him if I can." "That's right hopeful," observed the man, with a plainly intentional, dry ludicrousness. "I always think there's some chance when the doctors give 'em up--and begin to let 'em alone. How was he hurt, sis'?" Johnnie did not pause to reflect that she had not said Uncle Pros was hurt at all. For some reason which she would herself have been at a loss to explain, she hastened to detail to this chance-met stranger the exact appearance and nature of Pros Passmore's injuries, her listener nodding his head at this or that point; making some comment or inquiry at another. "The doctors say that they would suppose it was a fractured skull, or concussion of the brain, or something like that; but they've examined him and there is nothing to see on the outside; and they trephined and it didn't do any good; so they just let him stay about the hospital." "No," said her new friend softly, almost absently, "it didn't do any good to trephine--but it might have done a lot of harm. I'd like to see the back of your uncle's neck. I ain't in any hurry to get to that banquet at Atlanta--a man can always overeat and make himself sick, without going so far to do it." So, like an idle schoolboy, the unknown forsook his own course, turning from the road when Johnnie turned, and went with her up the steep, rocky gulch where the door of a deserted cabin flung to and fro on its hinges. At sight of the smokeless chimney, the gaping doorway and empty, inhospitable interior, Johnnie looked blank. "Have you got anything to eat?" she asked her companion, hesitatingly. "I came off in such a hurry that I forgot all about it. Some people that I know used to live in that cabin, and I hoped to get my dinner there and ask after my uncle; but I see they have moved." "Sit right down here," said the stranger, indicating the broad door-stone, around which the grass grew tall. "We'll soon make that all right." He sought in the pockets of the coat he carried slung across his shoulder and brought out a packet of food. "I laid in some fuel when I thought I might get the chance to run my own engine across the mountains," he told the girl, opening his bundle and dividing evenly. He uttered a few musical words in an unknown tongue. "That's Indian," he commented carelessly, without looking at her. "It means you're to eat your dinner. I was with the Shawnees when I was a boy. I learned a lot of their language, and I'll never forget it. They taught me more things than talk." Johnnie studied the man beside her as they ate their bit of lunch. "My name is Johnnie Consadine, sir," she told him. "What shall I call you?" Thus directly questioned, the unknown smiled quizzically, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners and overflowing with good humour. "The cut on his head didn't make him crazy," said her companion, murmuringly. "Of course it wasn't that, or he would have been raving when he came down from the mountain. Something happened to him afterward." "Uh-huh," nodded the newcomer. "You see I'm a good guesser. I make my living guessing things." He flung her a whimsical, sidelong glance, as, having finished their lunch, they rose and moved on. "I wish I had my hands on the processes of that atlas vertebra," he said. "On--on what?" inquired Johnnie in a slightly startled tone. "Never mind, sis'. If we find him, and I can handle him, I'll know where to look." "Nobody can touch him but me when he gets out this way," Johnnie said. "He acts sort of scared and sort of fierce, and just runs and hides from people. Maybe if you'll tell me what you want done, I could do it." "Maybe you could--and then again maybe you couldn't," returned the other, with a great show of giving her proposition serious consideration. "A good many folks think they can do just what I can--if I'd only tell 'em how--and sometimes they find out they can't." There on that grassy plot that might have been a familiar dooryard of his early days, he was playing alone, gone back to childhood. Johnnie gazed and her eyes swam with unshed tears. "You better not go up there--and him with the knife and all," she murmured finally. The man beside her looked around into her face and laughed. "I'm not very bad scared," he said, advancing softly in line with his proposed patient, motioning the girl not to make herself known, or startle her uncle. "You, Gid Himes, wha'r's my specimens?" He shook the stranger savagely. "You an' Shade Buckheath--you p'ar o' scoundrels--give me back my silver specimens! Give me back my silver ore that shows about the mine for my little gal." "Uncle Pros! Uncle Pros!" screamed Johnnie, rushing in and laying hold of the man's arm, "Don't you know me? It's Johnnie. Don't hurt this gentleman." The convulsion of rage subsided in the old man with almost comical suddenness. His tense form relaxed; he stumbled back, dropping his hands at his sides and staring about him, then at Johnnie. "Why, honey," he gasped, "how did you come here? Whar's Gid? Whar's Shade Buckheath? Lord A'mighty! Whar am I at?" He looked around him bewildered, evidently expecting to see the porch of Himes's boarding-house at Cottonville, the scattered bits of silver ore, and the rifled bandanna. He put his hand to his head, and sliding it softly down to the back of the neck demanded. "What's been did to me?" "You be right good and quiet now, and mind Johnnie," the girl began, with a pathetic tremble in her voice, "and she'll take you back to the hospital where they're so kind to you." "I can quiet him," said Johnnie aside to her new friend. "I always can when he gets wild this way." The unknown shook his head. Again Pros Passmore's fingers sought the back of his collar. "Looks like somebody has been tryin' to wring my neck, same as a chicken's," he said meditatively. "But hit feels all right now--all right--Hoo-ee!" he suddenly broke off to answer to a far, faint hail from the road below them. "Pap! Hey--Pap!" The words came up through the clear blue air, infinitely diminished and attenuated, like some insect cry. The tall man seemed to guess just what the interruption would be. He turned with a pettish exclamation. "Never could go anywhere, nor have any fun, but what some of the children had to tag," he protested. "Did you get lost? We hired a buggy and came out to find you," the man below called up. "What--what--aren't you going to tell me your name, and what you are, before you go?" she entreated him. He laughed over his shoulder, an enigmatic laugh. "What was it you did to Uncle Pros?" Her voice was vibrant with the awe and wonder of what she had seen. "Was it the laying on of hands--as they tell of it in the Bible?" "Say, Pap, hurry up, please," wailed up the thin, impatient reminder from the road. "Well, yes--I laid my hands on him pretty strong. Didn't I, old man?" And the stranger glanced to where Uncle Pros stood, still occasionally interrogating the back of his neck with fumbling fingers. "Don't you worry, sis'; a girl like you will get a miracle when she has to have it. If I happened to be the miracle you needed, why, that's good. As for my profession--my business in life--there was a lot of folks that used to name me the Lightning Bone-setter. For my own part, I'd just as soon you'd call me a human engineer. I pride myself on knowing how the structure of man ought to work, and keeping the bearings right and the machinery properly levelled up. Never mind. Next time you have use for a miracle, it'll be along on schedule time, without you knowing what name you need to call it. You're that sort." With that curious, onlooker's smile of his and with a nod of farewell, he plunged down the steep. They stood together watching, as the tall form retreated around the sharp curves of the red clay road, or leaped lightly and hardily down the cut-offs. They waved back to their late companion when, climbing into the waiting buggy below, he was finally driven away. Johnnie turned and looked long at her uncle with swimming eyes, as he stood gazing where the vehicle had disappeared. She finally laid a tremulous hand on his arm. "Oh, Uncle Pros," she said falteringly, "I can't believe it yet. But you--you do understand me now, don't you? You know me. I'm Johnnie." The old man wheeled sharply, and laughed. "See here, honey," he said with a tinge of irritation in his tones. "I reckon I've been crazy. From what you say, looks like I haven't known my best friends for a long time. But I have got as much sense now as I ever had, and I don't remember anything about that other business. Last thing I know of was fussin' with Gid Himes and Shade Buckheath about my silver ore. By Joe! I bet they got that stuff when I was took--Johnnie, was I took sudden?" The girl glanced at him apprehensively. Pros thrust out a long, lean arm, and fingered the sleeve upon it. "Uncle Pros, you used to talk to him by the hour, when you didn't know me at all," Johnnie told him chokingly. "I would get afraid that you asked too much of him, but he'd leave anything to come and sit with you when you were bad. He's got the kindest heart of anybody I ever knew." The old man's slow, thoughtful gaze was raised a moment to her eloquent, flushed face, and then dropped considerately to the path. "Jealous of him, I reckon," supplied the old man. Johnnie nodded. It was no time for evasions. Passmore had listened intently to Johnnie's swift, broken, passionate sentences. "Yes--ye-es," he said, as she made an end. "I sorter begin to see. Hold on, honey, lemme think a minute." He sat for some time silent, with introverted gaze, Johnnie with difficulty restraining her impatience, forbearing to break in upon his meditation. The old man looked carefully away from her. "This here kidnappin' business, an tryin' to get money out of a feller's friends, most generally does wind up in a killin'," he said. "The folks gits to huntin' pretty hot, then them that's done the trick gets scared, and--they wouldn't have no good place to put him, them Dawsons, and--and," reluctantly, "a dead body's easier hid than a live man. Truth is, hit looks mighty bad for the young feller, honey girl. To my mind hit's really a question of time. The sooner his friends gets to him the better, that's my belief." Johnnie's pale, haggard face took on tragic lines as she listened to this plain putting of her own worst fears. She sprang up desperately. Uncle Pros rose, too. "Now, which way?" she demanded. The old hunter stood, staring thoughtfully at the path before his feet, rubbing his jaw with long, supple fingers, the daze of his recent experience yet upon him. "Cottonville!" echoed Pros in surprise. Then he added, "O' course, she came down to take care o' me when I was hurt. That's like Laurelly. Is all the chaps thar? Is the cabin empty? How's the baby?" "Mother's--mother's married again," she managed finally to say. The old man thrust her back and stared again. "When Shade found I wouldn't have him," Johnnie began resolutely at the beginning, "he got Pap Himes to take him to board so that he could always be at me, tormenting me about it. I don't know what he and Pap Himes had between them; but something--that I'm sure of. And after the old man went up and married mother, it was worse. He put the children in the mill and worked them almost to death; even--even Deanie," she choked back a sob. "And Shade as good as told me he could make Pap Himes stop it any time I'd promise to marry him. Something they were pulling together over. Maybe it was the silver mine." "The silver mine!" echoed old Pros. "That's it. Gid thought I was likely to die, and the mine would come to your mother. Not but what he'd be glad enough to get Laurelly--but that's what put it in his head. An' Gid Himes is married to my little Laurelly, an' been abusin' the children! Lord, hit don't pay for a man to go crazy. Things gits out of order without him." "Well, what do you think now?" Johnnie inquired impatiently. "We mustn't stay here talking when Mr. Stoddard may be in mortal danger. Shall we go on to our place, just the same?" The old man looked compassionately at her. "We'll try it," said Pros Passmore, and they set out together. "Maw--he's comin' back, and he's got a woman with him!" She faltered a step toward the dilapidated rail fence as they came up. "Have I been here?" he asked. "I was out of my head, and I don't remember it." The young woman looked at him with a hopeless drawing of scant, light eyebrows above bulging gray eyes. She chugged the fretting baby gently up and down in her arms to hush it. Johnnie saw her resemblance to Mandy. Apparently giving up the effort in regard to the man, Zack Peavey's wife addressed the girl as an easier proposition. "He was here," she said in a sort of aside. "He stayed all night a-Saturday. Zack said he was kinder foolish, but I thought he had as much sense as most of 'em." Her gaze rested kindly on the old man. The children, wild and shy as young foxes, had stolen to the door of the cabin, in which they had taken refuge, and were staring out wonderingly. They went in and sat down. A kettle of wild greens was cooking over the fire, and everything was spotlessly clean. Mandy had said truly that there wasn't a thing on the farm she didn't love to do, and the gift of housewifery ran in the family. Johnnie had barely explained who she was, and made such effort as she could to enlist Mandy's sister, when Zack came tramping home, and showed, she thought, some uneasiness at finding them there. The wife ran out and met him before he reached the cabin, and they stood talking together a long time, the lines of both figures somehow expressing dismay; yet when they came in there was a fair welcome in the man's demeanour. At the supper table, whose scanty fare was well cooked, Uncle Pros and Johnnie had to tell again, and yet again, the story of that miraculous healing which both husband and wife could see was genuine. Through it all, both Pros and Johnnie attempted to lead the talk around to some information which might be of use to them. Nothing was more natural than that they should speak of Gray Stoddard's disappearance, since Watauga, Cottonville, and the mountains above were full of the topic; yet husband and wife sheered from it in a sort of terror. "Them that makes or meddles in such gits theirselves into trouble, that's what I say," Zack told the visitors, stroking a chin whose contours expressed the resolution and aggressiveness of a rabbit. "I ain't never seen this here Mr. Man as far as I know. I don't never want to see him. I ain't got no call to mix myself up in such, and I 'low I'll sleep easier and live longer if I don't do it." The woman sighed and stirred uneasily, her eye stealthily seeking her husband's. "No--why, the idea!" cried Roxy. "Of course, you wasn't a-goin' on from no house o' mine 'thout no breakfast. Why, I say!" Johnnie's throat swelled at the humble kindness. They ate, thanked Roxy and her man Zack in the simple uneffusive mountain fashion, and started away in the twilight of dawn. The big road was barely reached, when they heard steps coming after them in the dusk, and a breathless voice calling in a whisper, "Johnnie! Johnnie!" With a quick touch of the arm Johnnie signed to Pros to move on. As he swung out of earshot, the bulging light eyes, so like Mandy's, were suddenly dimmed by a rush of tears. Johnnie wisely forbore reply or interference of any sort. The woman gulped, drew her breath hard, and looked about her. And she turned and ran distractedly back into the cabin while Johnnie hurried on to join her uncle. Johnnie caught her uncle's hand and ran with him through the little thicket of saplings toward the main road. "We'll get the track of the wheels, and when we find that car--and Shade Buckheath--and Pap Himes I " Johnnie panted, and did not finish her sentence. Her heart leaped when they came upon the broad mark of the pneumatic tires still fresh in the lonely mountain road. "Looks like they might have passed here while we was standin' back there talkin' to Roxy," Uncle Pros said. "They could have--we'd not have heard a thing that distance, through this thick woods. Wonder could we catch up with them?" "They'll go almost as fast as a railroad train, Uncle Pros," she told him, "but we must get there as soon as we can." "Hey-oh, Pros Passmore! How yuh come on? I 'lowed the student doctors would 'a' had you, long ago." Pros ventured no reply, save a wagging of the head. "That's Blaylock's cousin," he muttered to Johnnie. "Mighty glad we never went near 'em last night." "They tell me," vouchsafed a lanky boy dawdling with his axe at a chip pile, "that the word goes in Cottonville now, that he's took money and lit out for Canada. Town folks is always a-doin' such." "Like as not, bud," Pros assented gravely. "Me and Johnnie is goin' up to look after the old house, but we allowed to sleep to-night at Bushares's. Time enough to git to our place to-morrow." Johnnie, who knew that her uncle hoped to reach the Consadine cabin by noon, instantly understood that he considered the possibility of this boy being a sort of picket posted to interview passers-by; and that the intention was to misinform him, so that he should not carry news of their approach. "Honey, this ends the cyar-tracks. Looks like they'd turned out. I think they took off into the bushes here, and where that cyar goes we ought to go," Pros argued. But Johnnie hurried on ahead, looking about her eagerly. Suddenly she stooped with a cry and picked up from the path a small object. "They've carried him past this way," she panted. "Oh, Uncle Pros, he was right here not so very long ago." She scrutinized the sparse growth, the leafless bushes about the spot, looking for signs of a struggle, and the question in her heart was, "My God, was he alive or dead?" The thing she held in her hand was a blossom of the pink moccasin flower, carefully pressed, as though for the pages of a herbarium; The bit of paper to which it was attached was crumpled and discoloured. "Looks like it had laid out in the dew last night," breathed Johnnie. "Or for a week," supplied Pros. He scanned the little brown thing, then her face. "All right," he said dubiously; "if that there tells you that he come a-past here, we'll foller this road--though it 'pears to me like we ought to stick to the cyar." For a few minutes they pressed ahead in silence; then some subtle excitement made them break into a run. Thus they rounded the turn. The cabin came in sight. Its door swung wide on complaining hinges. The last of the rickety fence had fallen. The desolation and decay of a deserted house was over all. "There's been folks here--lately," panted Pros. "Look thar!" and he pointed to a huddle of baskets and garments on the porch. "Mind out! Go careful. They may be thar now." "See the door!" she cried, running up the steep way toward the cave spring-house. "Hold on, honey. Go easy," cautioned her uncle, following as fast as he could. He noted the whittling where the sapling bar that held the stout oaken door in place had been recently shaped to its present purpose. Then a soft, rhythmic sound like a giant breathing in his sleep caught the old hunter's keen ear. "Watch out, Johnnie," he called, catching her arm, "What's that? Listen!" Her fingers were almost on the bar. They could hear the soft lip-lip of the water as it welled out beneath the threshold, mingled with the tinkle and fall of the spring branch below. They turned to the barred door. The cave was a sizable opening running far back into the mountain; indeed, the end of it had never been explored, but the vestibule containing the spring was fitted with rude benches and shelves for holding pans of milk and jars of buttermilk. "Hello!" he called, guardedly. No answer came; but within there was a sound of clinking, and then a shuffling movement. The panting motor spoke loud of those who had brought it there, who must be expecting to return to it very shortly. Johnnie's nerves gave way. "Hello! Is there anybody inside?" she demanded fearfully. "Who's there? Who is it?" came a muffled hail from the cave, in a voice that sent the blood to Johnnie's heart with a sudden shock. "Uncle Pros, we've found him!" she screamed, pushing the old man aside, and tugging at the bar which held the door in place. As she worked, there came a curious clinking sound, and then the dull impact of a heavy fall; and when she dragged the bar loose, swung the door wide and peered into the gloom, there was nothing but the silvery reach of the great spring, and beyond it a prone figure in russet riding-clothes. "Uncle Pros--he's hurt! Oh, help me!" she cried. The prostrate man struggled to turn his face to them. "Is that you, Johnnie?" Gray Stoddard's voice asked. "No, I'm not hurt. These things tripped me up." "You, Johnnie--you!" whispered Gray, struggling to his knees with their assistance, and catching a fold of her dress in those manacled hands. "I have dreamed about you here in the dark. It is you--it is really Johnnie." He was pale, dishevelled, with a long mark of black leaf-mould across his cheek from his recent fall; and Johnnie bent speechlessly to wipe the stain away and put back the troublesome lock. He looked up into the brave beauty of her young, tear-wet face. "Thank God for you, Johnnie," he murmured. "I might have known I wouldn't be let to die here in the dark like a rat in a hole while Johnnie lived." "Whar's them that brought you here? The keepers?" questioned the old man anxiously, in a hoarse, hurried whisper. "Dawson's gone to his dinner," returned Gray. "There were others here--came in an auto--I heard that. They've been quarrelling for more than an hour." "No," agreed Stoddard. "And I can't run much with them on. But we must get away from here as quick as we can. Dawson came in and told me after the other had gone that they had a big row, and he was standing out for me. Said he'd never give in to have me taken down and tied on the railroad track in Stryver's Gulch." Johnnie's fair face whitened at the sinister words. "Leggo, Johnnie!" cried her uncle. "You run on down and see if that contraption will go. I can git him thar now." Suddenly, above the sound, Johnnie was aware of a distant hail, which finally resolved itself into words. "Hi! Hoo--ee! You let that car alone, whoever you are." She glanced over her shoulder; Passmore had got Gray to the top of the declivity, and was attempting to help him down. Both men evidently heard the challenge, but she screamed to them again and again. "Hurry, oh hurry! They're coming--they're coming." Stoddard had been stepping as best he could, hobbling along in the hampering leg chains, that were attached to the wrists also, and twitched on his hands with every step. His muscles responded to Johnnie's cry almost automatically, stiffening to an effort at extra speed, and he fell headlong, dragging Pros down with him. Despairingly Johnnie started to climb down from the car and go to their aid, but her uncle leaped to his feet clawing and grabbing to find a hold around Gray's waist, panting out, "Stay thar--Johnnie--I can fetch him." "Oh, hurry, Uncle Pros!" she sobbed. "Let me come back and help you." But Passmore stumbled across the remaining space; mutely, with drawn face and loud, labouring breath he lifted Gray and thrust him any fashion into the tonneau, climbing blindly after. The old man thrust Gray down, with a hand on his shoulder. "You keep out o' range," he shouted close to Gray's ear. "They won't aim to hit Johnnie; but you they'll pick off as far as they can see ye. Bend low, honey," to the girl in the driver's seat. "But freeze to it. Johnnie ain't no niece of mine if she goes back on a friend." The girl in front heard neither of them. There was a bellowing detonation, and a spatter of shot fell about the flying car. "That ain't goin' to hurt nobody," commented Pros philosophically. "It's no more than buck-shot anyhow." [Illustration: THE CAR WAS ALREADY LEAPING DOWN THE HILL AT A TREMENDOUS PACE] But on the word followed a more ominous crack, and there was the whine of a bullet above them. "My God, I can't let her do this," Gray protested. But Johnnie turned over her shoulder a shining face from which all weariness had suddenly been erased, a glorified countenance that flung him the fleeting smile she had time to spare from the machine. "You're in worse danger right now from my driving than you are from their guns," she panted. "On--go on, honey!" yelled Pros, motioning vehemently to the girl. "Don't look back here--I'll tend to him"; and he stooped over the motionless form. Then came the roaring impression of speed, of rushing bushes that gathered themselves and ran back past the car while, working under full power, it stood stationary, as it seemed to Johnnie, in the middle of a long, dusty gray ribbon that was the road. The cries of the men behind them, all sounds of pursuit, were soon left so far in the distance that they were unheard. "Ain't this rather fast?" shouted Uncle Pros, who had lifted Stoddard's bleeding head to his knee and, crouched on the bottom of the tonneau, was shielding the younger man from further injury as the motor lurched and pitched. "Yes, it's too fast," Johnnie screamed back to him. "I'm trying to go slower, but the foot-brake won't hold. Uncle Pros, is he hurt? Is he hurt bad?" "I don't think so, honey," roared the old man stoutly, guarding Gray's inert body with his arm. Then, stretching up as he kneeled, and leaning forward as close to her ear as he could get: "But you git him to Cottonville quick as you can. Don't you werry about goin' slow, unlessen you're scared yourself. Thar ain't no tellin' who might pop up from behind these here bushes and take a chance shot at us as we go by." Johnnie worked over her machine wildly. Gray had told her of the foot-brake only; but her hand encountering the lever of the emergency brake, she grasped it at a hazard and shoved it forward, as the god of luck had ordered, just short of a zigzag in the steep mountain road which, at the speed they had been making, would have piled them, a mass of wreckage, beneath the cliff. "Fo' God!" he muttered under his breath. "That's Mr. Gray hisself! Them's the clothes he was wearin'!" Whirling his horse and digging in the spurs, he rattled pell-mell down the opposite steep toward Cottonville, shouting as he went. "They've done got him--they've found him! Miss Johnnie Consadine's a-bringin' him down in his own cyar!" Lydia braced herself. It had come, and it was worse than she could have anticipated. She cringed inwardly in remembrance; she wished she had not let Conroy make that pitying reference--unreproved, uncorrected--to Stoddard's being a rejected man. But perhaps they were bringing Gray in dead, after all--she tried not to hope so. "Sis' Johnnie is comin' back; she sure is comin' back soon," Laurella was crooning to her baby. "And we ain't goin' to work in no cotton mill, an' we ain't goin' to live in this ol' house any more. Next thing we're a-goin' away with Sis' Johnnie and have a fi-ine house, where Pap Himes can't come about to be cross to Deanie." High up on Unaka Mountain, where a cluttered mass of rock reared itself to front the noonday sun, an old man's figure, prone, the hands clutched full of leaf-mould, the gray face down amid the fern, Gideon Himes would never offer denial to those plans, nor seek to follow to that fine house. "Look, honey, look--yon's Sis' Johnnie now!" cried Laurella. "She's a-runnin' Mr. Stoddard's car. An' thar's Unc' Pros Is--my Lord! Is that Mr. Stoddard hisself, with blood all over him?" Lydia and Conroy, hurrying down the street, drew up on the fringes of the little crowd that had gathered and was augmenting every moment, and Johnnie's face was turned to Stoddard in piteous questioning. His eyes were open now. He raised himself a bit on her uncle's arm, and declared in a fairly audible voice: "I'm all right. I'm not hurt." "Somebody git me a glass of water," called Uncle Pros. Pros had taken the glass from Mandy and held it to Gray's lips. Then he dashed part of the remaining water on Stoddard's handkerchief and with Mandy's help, got the blood cleared away. From every shanty, women and children came hastening--men hurried up from every direction. "Look at her--look at Johnnie!" cried Beulah Catlett. "Pony! Milo!" turning back into the house, where the boys lay sleeping. "Come out here and look at your sister!" "Did ye run it all by yourself, Sis' Johnnie?" piped Lissy from the porch. The girl in the driver's seat smiled and nodded to the child. "Are you through there, Uncle Pros?" asked Johnnie. "We must get Mr. Stoddard on to his house." "I'm afraid my horse won't stand this sort of thing," Lydia objected, desperately, reining in. Conroy glanced at her in surprise. Bay Dick was the soberest of mounts. Then he looked wistfully after the crowd. "Are you hurt?" inquired the Scotchman, his hands stretched out. "Can you get out and come in?" Hardwick demanded eagerly. On the instant, the big gates swung wide, the factory poured out a tide of people as though the building had been afire. At sight of Stoddard, the car, and Johnnie, a cheer went up, spontaneous, heart-shaking. "My God--look at that!" MacPherson's eyes had encountered the shackles on Stoddard's wrists. "Lift him down--lift him out," cried Jerome Hardwick. With tears on his tanned cheeks the Scotchman complied; and Hardwick's eyes, too, were wet as he saw it. "We'll have those things off of him in no time," he shouted. "Here, let's get him in to the couch in my office. Send some of the mechanics here. Where's Shade Buckheath?" "I'm not hurt, people--only a little crack on the head. I'm all right--thanks to her," and he motioned toward the girl in the car, who was watching anxiously. Then the ever thickening throng went wild; and as Gray was carried up the steps and disappeared through the office doors, it turned toward the automobile, surging about the car, a sea of friendly, admiring faces, most of them touched with the tenderness of tears, and cheered its very heart out for Johnnie Consadine. "Gray!" it was Uncle Pros's voice, and Uncle Pros's face looked in at the office door. "Could I bother you a minute about the sidewalk in front of the place up yon? Mr. Hexter told me you'd know whether the grade was right, and I could let the workmen go ahead." Stoddard swung around from his desk and looked at the old man. "Come right in," he said. "I'm not busy--I'm just pretending this morning. MacPherson won't give me anything to do. He persists in considering me still an invalid." Uncle Pros came slowly in and laid his hat down gingerly before seating himself. He was dressed in the garb which, with money, he would always have selected--the village ideal of a rich gentleman's wear--and he looked unbelievably tall and imposing in his black broadcloth. When the matter of the patent was made known to Jerome Hardwick, a company was hastily formed to take hold of it, which advanced the ready money for Johnnie and her family to place themselves. Mrs. Hexter, who had been all winter in Boston, had decided, suddenly, to go abroad; and when her husband wired her to know if he might let the house to the Consadine-Passmore household, she made a quick, warm response. So they were domiciled in a ready-prepared home of elegance and beauty. Though the place at Cottonville had been only a winter residence with Mrs. Hexter, she was a woman of taste, and had always had large means at her command. With all a child's plasticity, Laurella dropped into the improved order of things. Her cleverness in selecting the proper wear for herself and children was nothing short of marvellous; and her calm acceptance of the new state of affairs, the acme of good breeding. Johnnie immediately set about seeing that Mavity Bence and Mandy Meacham were comfortably provided for in the old boarding-house, where she assured Gray they could do more good than many Uplift clubs. Now Pros looked all about him, and seemed in no haste to begin, though Gray knew well there was something on his mind. Finally Stoddard observed, smiling: "You're the very man I wanted to see, Uncle Pros. I rang up the house just now, but Johnnie said you had started down to the mills. What do you think I've found out about our mine?" "I don't know--what?" Pros Passmore leaned back in his chair, digesting this new bit of information luxuriously. "Nickel," he said reflectively. And again he repeated the word to himself. "Nickel. Well, I don't know but what that's finer. Leastways, it's likelier. To say a silver mine, always seemed just like taking money out of the ground; but then, nickels are money too--and enough of 'em is all a body needs." "These people say the ore is exceptionally fine." Stoddard had got out the letter now and was glancing over it. "They're sending down an expert, and you and I will go up with him as soon as he gets here. There are likely to be other valuable minerals as by-products in a nickel mine. And we want to build an ideal mining village, as well as model cotton mills. Oh, we've got the work cut out for us and laid right to hand! If we don't do our little share toward solving some problems, it will be strange." "I should have known anything that Rudd Dawson or Groner or Venters knew," Gray said, "but I'm not sure about Buckheath or Himes. However, Himes is dead, and Buckheath--I don't suppose anybody in Cottonville will ever see him again." Pros's face changed instantly. He leaned abruptly forward and laid a hand on the other's knee. "That's exactly what I came down here to speak with you about, Gray," he said. "They've fetched Shade Buckheath in--now, what do you make out of that?" Stoddard shoved the letter from the Eastern mining man back in its pigeon-hole. "Well," he said slowly, "I didn't expect that. I thought of course Shade was safely out of the country. I--Passmore, I'm sorry they've got him." After a little silence he spoke again. "What do I make of it? Why, that there are some folks up on Big Unaka who need pretty badly to appear as very law-abiding citizens. I'll wager anything that Groner and Rudd Dawson brought Shade in." Uncle Pros nodded seriously. "Them's the very fellers," he said. "Reckon they've talked pretty free to you. I never axed ye, Gray--how did they treat ye?" "Uh-huh," agreed Pros, "Jess is a terrible wicked man--in speech that-a-way--but he's good-hearted." "Little by little, I got at the whole thing from them. It seems that Buckheath took advantage of the feeling there was in the mountains against the mill men on account of the hospital and some other matters. He went up there and interviewed anybody that he thought might join him in a vendetta. I imagine he found plenty of them that were ready to talk and some that were willing to do; but it chanced that Dawson and Jesse Groner were coming down to Cottonville that morning I passed Buckheath at the Hardwick gate, and he must have cut across the turn and followed me, intending to pick a quarrel. Then he met Dawson and Groner and framed up this other plan with their assistance. "I'll see to that, Gray," Pros said, rising and preparing to go. "Boy," he looked down fondly at the younger man, and set a brown right hand on his shoulder, "you never done a wiser thing nor a kinder in your life, than when you forgave your enemies that time, I'll bet you could ride the Unakas from end to end, the balance o' your days, the safest man that ever travelled their trails." "Talking silver mine?" inquired MacPherson, putting his quizzical face in at the door. "No," returned Stoddard. "We were just mentioning my pestilent cotton-mill projects. By this time next year, you and Hardwick will be wanting to have me abated as a nuisance." "No, no," remonstrated MacPherson, coming in and leaning with affectionate familiarity on the younger man's chair. "There's no pestilence in you, Gray. You couldn't be a nuisance if you tried. People who will work out their theories stand to do good in the world; it's only the fellows who are content with bellowing them out that I object to." "Better be careful!" laughed Stoddard. "We'll make you vice-president of the company." "Is that an offer?" countered MacPherson swiftly. "I've got a bit of money to invest in this county; and Hardwick has ever a new brother-in-law or such that looks longingly at my shoes." "You'd furnish the conservative element, surely," debated Stoddard. "I'd keep you from bankruptcy," grunted the Scotchman, as he laid a small book on Gray's desk. "I doubt not Providence demands it of me." "I've got to tell him--to-night," she whispered to herself, in the dusky, small, dismantled room. "I've got to get him to see it as I do. I must make myself worthy of him before I let him take me for his own." She thrust the letters into the breast-pocket of her coat and ran downstairs. Mavity Bence stood in the hall, plainly awaiting her. "Honey," she began fondly, "I've been putting away Pap's things to-day--jest like you oncet found me putting away Lou's. I came on this here." And then Johnnie noticed a folded bandanna in her hands. "You-all asked me to let ye go through and find that nickel ore, and ye brung it out in a pasteboard box; but this here is what it was in on the day your Uncle Pros fetched hit here, and I thought maybe you'd take a interest in having the handkercher that your fortune come down the mountains in." "Yes, indeed, Aunt Mavity," said Johnnie, taking the bandanna into her own hands. "Pap, he's gone," the poor woman went on tremulously, "an' the evil what he done--or wanted to do--is a thing that I reckon you can afford to forget. You're a mighty happy woman, Johnnie Consadine; the Lord knows you deserve to be." She stood looking after the girl as she went out into the twilit street. Johnnie was dressed as she chose now, not as she must, and her clothing showed itself to be of the best. Anything that might be had in Wautaga was within her means; and the tall, graceful figure passing so quietly down the street would never have been taken for other than a member of what we are learning to call the "leisure class." When the shadows at the end of the block swallowed her up, Mavity turned, wiping her eyes, and addressed herself to her tasks. "I reckon Lou would 'a' been just like that if she'd 'a' lived," she said to Mandy Meacham, with the tender fatuity of mothers. "Johnnie seems like a daughter to me--an' I know in my soul no daughter could be kinder. Look at her makin' me keep every cent Pap had in the bank, when Laurelly could have claimed it all and kep' it." That same question was being put even more searchingly to Johnnie by somebody else at the instant when Mandy enunciated it. She had found Gray waiting for her at the gate of her home. "Let's walk here a little while before we go in," he suggested. "I went up to the house and found you were out. The air is delightful, and I've got something I want to say to you." He had put his arm under hers, and they strolled together down the long walk that led to the front of the lawn. The evening air was pure and keen, tingling with the breath of the wakening season. "Sweetheart," Gray broke out suddenly, "I've been thinking day and night since we last talked together about this year abroad that you're planning. I certainly don't want to put my preferences before yours. I only want to be very sure that I know what your real preferences are," and he turned and searched her face with a pair of ardent eyes. "I think I ought to go," the girl said in a very low voice, her head drooped, her own eyes bent toward the path at her feet. "Why?" whispered her lover. "I--oh, Gray--you know. If we should ever be married--well, then," in answer to a swift, impatient exclamation, "when we are married, if you should show that you were ashamed of me--I think it would kill me. No, don't say there's not any danger. You might have plenty of reason. And I--I want to be safe, Gray--safe, if I can." Gray regarded the beautiful, anxious face long and thoughtfully. Yes, of course it was possible for her to feel that way. Assurance was so deep and perfect in his own heart, that he had not reflected what it might lack in hers. "It isn't altogether for myself--there are the others," Johnnie told him, lifting honest eyes to his in the dim moonlight. "They're all I had in the world, Gray, till you came into my life, and I must keep my own. I belong to a people who never give up anything they love." Stoddard dropped an arm about his beloved, and turned her that she might face the windows of the house behind them, bending to set his cheek against hers and direct her gaze. "Look there," he whispered, laughingly. She looked and saw her mother, clad in such wear as Laurella's taste could select and Laurella's beauty make effective. The slight, dark little woman was coming in from the dining room with her children all about her, a noble group. "Your mother is much more the fine lady than you'll ever be, Johnnie Stoddard," Gray said, giving her the name that always brought the blood to the girl's cheek and made her dumb before him. "You know your Uncle Pros and I are warmly attached to each other. He cupped his hands about her beautiful, fair face and lifted it, studying it. Hard-pressed, Johnnie made only a sort of inarticulate response. "Come, love, sit a moment with me, here," pleaded Gray, indicating a small bench hidden among the evergreens and shrubs at the end of the path. "Sit down, and let's reason this thing out." "Reasoning with you," began Johnnie, helplessly, "isn't--it isn't reasonable!" "It is," he told her, in that deep, masterful tone which, like a true woman, she both loved and dreaded. "It's the height of reasonableness. Why, dear, the great primal reason of all things speaks through me. And I won't let you throw away a year of our love. Johnnie, it isn't as though we'd been neighbours, and grown up side by side. I came from the ends of the earth to find you, darling--and I knew my own as soon as I saw you." He put out his arms and gathered her into a close embrace. For a space they rested so, murmuring question and reply, checked or answered by swift, sweet kisses. "Oh, in thoze dusty old shoes and a sunbonnet! Could you love me then, Gray?" "The same as at this moment, sweetheart. Shoes and sunbonnets--I'm ashamed of you now, Johnnie, in earnest. What do such things matter?" At the mention of those months, Gray stopped her words with a kiss. "Mine," he whispered with his lips against hers, "Out of all the world--mine." End of Project Gutenberg's The Power and the Glory, by Grace MacGowan Cooke	redpajama-book	61,271
Produced by Judith Smith and Natalie Salter HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A. I suffer'd it not long, and yet so long That I beheld it bick'ring sparks around, As iron that comes boiling from the fire. And suddenly upon the day appear'd A day new-ris'n, as he, who hath the power, Had with another sun bedeck'd the sky. If I were only what thou didst create, Then newly, Love! by whom the heav'n is rul'd, Thou know'st, who by thy light didst bear me up. Whenas the wheel which thou dost ever guide, Desired Spirit! with its harmony Temper'd of thee and measur'd, charm'd mine ear, Then seem'd to me so much of heav'n to blaze With the sun's flame, that rain or flood ne'er made A lake so broad. The newness of the sound, And that great light, inflam'd me with desire, Keener than e'er was felt, to know their cause. Whence she who saw me, clearly as myself, To calm my troubled mind, before I ask'd, Open'd her lips, and gracious thus began: "With false imagination thou thyself Mak'st dull, so that thou seest not the thing, Which thou hadst seen, had that been shaken off. Thou art not on the earth as thou believ'st; For light'ning scap'd from its own proper place Ne'er ran, as thou hast hither now return'd." So said, she turn'd toward the heav'n her face. The increate perpetual thirst, that draws Toward the realm of God's own form, bore us Swift almost as the heaven ye behold. I answered: "Lady! I with thoughts devout, Such as I best can frame, give thanks to Him, Who hath remov'd me from the mortal world. But tell, I pray thee, whence the gloomy spots Upon this body, which below on earth Give rise to talk of Cain in fabling quaint?" She somewhat smil'd, then spake: "If mortals err In their opinion, when the key of sense Unlocks not, surely wonder's weapon keen Ought not to pierce thee; since thou find'st, the wings Of reason to pursue the senses' flight Are short. But what thy own thought is, declare." Then I: "What various here above appears, Is caus'd, I deem, by bodies dense or rare." As through translucent and smooth glass, or wave Clear and unmov'd, and flowing not so deep As that its bed is dark, the shape returns So faint of our impictur'd lineaments, That on white forehead set a pearl as strong Comes to the eye: such saw I many a face, All stretch'd to speak, from whence I straight conceiv'd Delusion opposite to that, which rais'd Between the man and fountain, amorous flame. Sudden, as I perceiv'd them, deeming these Reflected semblances to see of whom They were, I turn'd mine eyes, and nothing saw; Then turn'd them back, directed on the light Of my sweet guide, who smiling shot forth beams From her celestial eyes. "Wonder not thou," She cry'd, "at this my smiling, when I see Thy childish judgment; since not yet on truth It rests the foot, but, as it still is wont, Makes thee fall back in unsound vacancy. True substances are these, which thou behold'st, Hither through failure of their vow exil'd. But speak thou with them; listen, and believe, That the true light, which fills them with desire, Permits not from its beams their feet to stray." Whence I to her replied: "Something divine Beams in your countenance, wond'rous fair, From former knowledge quite transmuting you. Therefore to recollect was I so slow. But what thou sayst hath to my memory Given now such aid, that to retrace your forms Is easier. Yet inform me, ye, who here Are happy, long ye for a higher place More to behold, and more in love to dwell?" Then saw I clearly how each spot in heav'n Is Paradise, though with like gracious dew The supreme virtue show'r not over all. She ceas'd from further talk, and then began "Ave Maria" singing, and with that song Vanish'd, as heavy substance through deep wave. As Daniel, when the haughty king he freed From ire, that spurr'd him on to deeds unjust And violent; so look'd Beatrice then. "Well I discern," she thus her words address'd, "How contrary desires each way constrain thee, So that thy anxious thought is in itself Bound up and stifled, nor breathes freely forth. Thou arguest; if the good intent remain; What reason that another's violence Should stint the measure of my fair desert? "That, to the eye of man, our justice seems Unjust, is argument for faith, and not For heretic declension. To the end This truth may stand more clearly in your view, I will content thee even to thy wish Such was the flow of that pure rill, that well'd From forth the fountain of all truth; and such The rest, that to my wond'ring thoughts I found. "If beyond earthly wont, the flame of love Illume me, so that I o'ercome thy power Of vision, marvel not: but learn the cause In that perfection of the sight, which soon As apprehending, hasteneth on to reach The good it apprehends. I well discern, How in thine intellect already shines The light eternal, which to view alone Ne'er fails to kindle love; and if aught else Your love seduces, 't is but that it shows Some ill-mark'd vestige of that primal beam. "This would'st thou know, if failure of the vow By other service may be so supplied, As from self-question to assure the soul." "But forasmuch as holy church, herein Dispensing, seems to contradict the truth I have discover'd to thee, yet behooves Thou rest a little longer at the board, Ere the crude aliment, which thou hast taken, Digested fitly to nutrition turn. Open thy mind to what I now unfold, And give it inward keeping. Knowledge comes Of learning well retain'd, unfruitful else. Such were the words that Beatrice spake: These ended, to that region, where the world Is liveliest, full of fond desire she turn'd. "What following and in its next bearer's gripe It wrought, is now by Cassius and Brutus Bark'd off in hell, and by Perugia's sons And Modena's was mourn'd. Hence weepeth still Sad Cleopatra, who, pursued by it, Took from the adder black and sudden death. With him it ran e'en to the Red Sea coast; With him compos'd the world to such a peace, That of his temple Janus barr'd the door. "Hosanna Sanctus Deus Sabaoth Superillustrans claritate tua Felices ignes horum malahoth!" Thus chanting saw I turn that substance bright With fourfold lustre to its orb again, Revolving; and the rest unto their dance With it mov'd also; and like swiftest sparks, In sudden distance from my sight were veil'd. "Fix now thine eye, intently as thou canst, On th' everlasting counsel, and explore, Instructed by my words, the dread abyss. "Now, to fulfil each wish of thine, remains I somewhat further to thy view unfold. That thou mayst see as clearly as myself. "I see, thou sayst, the air, the fire I see, The earth and water, and all things of them Compounded, to corruption turn, and soon Dissolve. Yet these were also things create, Because, if what were told me, had been true They from corruption had been therefore free. "The angels, O my brother! and this clime Wherein thou art, impassible and pure, I call created, as indeed they are In their whole being. But the elements, Which thou hast nam'd, and what of them is made, Are by created virtue' inform'd: create Their substance, and create the' informing virtue In these bright stars, that round them circling move The soul of every brute and of each plant, The ray and motion of the sacred lights, With complex potency attract and turn. But this our life the' eternal good inspires Immediate, and enamours of itself; So that our wishes rest for ever here. After mine eyes had with meek reverence Sought the celestial guide, and were by her Assur'd, they turn'd again unto the light Who had so largely promis'd, and with voice That bare the lively pressure of my zeal, "Tell who ye are," I cried. Forthwith it grew In size and splendour, through augmented joy; And thus it answer'd: "A short date below The world possess'd me. Had the time been more, Much evil, that will come, had never chanc'd. My gladness hides thee from me, which doth shine Around, and shroud me, as an animal In its own silk enswath'd. Thou lov'dst me well, And had'st good cause; for had my sojourning Been longer on the earth, the love I bare thee Had put forth more than blossoms. The left bank, That Rhone, when he hath mix'd with Sorga, laves. "In me its lord expected, and that horn Of fair Ausonia, with its boroughs old, Bari, and Croton, and Gaeta pil'd, From where the Trento disembogues his waves, With Verde mingled, to the salt sea-flood. Already on my temples beam'd the crown, Which gave me sov'reignty over the land By Danube wash'd, whenas he strays beyond The limits of his German shores. The realm, Where, on the gulf by stormy Eurus lash'd, Betwixt Pelorus and Pachynian heights, The beautiful Trinacria lies in gloom (Not through Typhaeus, but the vap'ry cloud Bituminous upsteam'd), THAT too did look To have its scepter wielded by a race Of monarchs, sprung through me from Charles and Rodolph; had not ill lording which doth spirit up The people ever, in Palermo rais'd The shout of 'death,' re-echo'd loud and long. Had but my brother's foresight kenn'd as much, He had been warier that the greedy want Of Catalonia might not work his bale. And truly need there is, that he forecast, Or other for him, lest more freight be laid On his already over-laden bark. Nature in him, from bounty fall'n to thrift, Would ask the guard of braver arms, than such As only care to have their coffers fill'd." "My liege, it doth enhance the joy thy words Infuse into me, mighty as it is, To think my gladness manifest to thee, As to myself, who own it, when thou lookst Into the source and limit of all good, There, where thou markest that which thou dost speak, Thence priz'd of me the more. Glad thou hast made me. Now make intelligent, clearing the doubt Thy speech hath raised in me; for much I muse, How bitter can spring up, when sweet is sown." To whom I thus: "It is enough: no fear, I see, lest nature in her part should tire." He straight rejoin'd: "Say, were it worse for man, If he liv'd not in fellowship on earth?" "Yea," answer'd I; "nor here a reason needs." "And may that be, if different estates Grow not of different duties in your life? Consult your teacher, and he tells you 'no."' After solution of my doubt, thy Charles, O fair Clemenza, of the treachery spake That must befall his seed: but, "Tell it not," Said he, "and let the destin'd years come round." Nor may I tell thee more, save that the meed Of sorrow well-deserv'd shall quit your wrongs. She ended, and appear'd on other thoughts Intent, re-ent'ring on the wheel she late Had left. That other joyance meanwhile wax'd A thing to marvel at, in splendour glowing, Like choicest ruby stricken by the sun, For, in that upper clime, effulgence comes Of gladness, as here laughter: and below, As the mind saddens, murkier grows the shade. Never was heart in such devotion bound, And with complacency so absolute Dispos'd to render up itself to God, As mine was at those words: and so entire The love for Him, that held me, it eclips'd Beatrice in oblivion. Naught displeas'd Was she, but smil'd thereat so joyously, That of her laughing eyes the radiance brake And scatter'd my collected mind abroad. "Now, if my words be clear, if thou have ta'en Good heed, if that, which I have told, recall To mind, thy wish may be in part fulfill'd: For thou wilt see the point from whence they split, Nor miss of the reproof, which that implies, 'That well they thrive not sworn with vanity."' "Much more than vainly doth he loose from shore, Since he returns not such as he set forth, Who fishes for the truth and wanteth skill. And open proofs of this unto the world Have been afforded in Parmenides, Melissus, Bryso, and the crowd beside, Who journey'd on, and knew not whither: so did Sabellius, Arius, and the other fools, Who, like to scymitars, reflected back The scripture-image, by distortion marr'd. From centre to the circle, and so back From circle to the centre, water moves In the round chalice, even as the blow Impels it, inwardly, or from without. Such was the image glanc'd into my mind, As the great spirit of Aquinum ceas'd; And Beatrice after him her words Resum'd alternate: "Need there is (tho' yet He tells it to you not in words, nor e'en In thought) that he should fathom to its depth Another mystery. Tell him, if the light, Wherewith your substance blooms, shall stay with you Eternally, as now: and, if it doth, How, when ye shall regain your visible forms, The sight may without harm endure the change, That also tell." As those, who in a ring Tread the light measure, in their fitful mirth Raise loud the voice, and spring with gladder bound; Thus, at the hearing of that pious suit, The saintly circles in their tourneying And wond'rous note attested new delight. Whoso laments, that we must doff this garb Of frail mortality, thenceforth to live Immortally above, he hath not seen The sweet refreshing, of that heav'nly shower. So ready and so cordial an "Amen," Followed from either choir, as plainly spoke Desire of their dead bodies; yet perchance Not for themselves, but for their kindred dear, Mothers and sires, and those whom best they lov'd, Ere they were made imperishable flame. And lo! forthwith there rose up round about A lustre over that already there, Of equal clearness, like the brightening up Of the horizon. As at an evening hour Of twilight, new appearances through heav'n Peer with faint glimmer, doubtfully descried; So there new substances, methought began To rise in view; and round the other twain Enwheeling, sweep their ampler circuit wide. O gentle glitter of eternal beam! With what a such whiteness did it flow, O'erpowering vision in me! But so fair, So passing lovely, Beatrice show'd, Mind cannot follow it, nor words express Her infinite sweetness. Thence mine eyes regain'd Power to look up, and I beheld myself, Sole with my lady, to more lofty bliss Translated: for the star, with warmer smile Impurpled, well denoted our ascent. Perhaps my saying over bold appears, Accounting less the pleasure of those eyes, Whereon to look fulfilleth all desire. But he, who is aware those living seals Of every beauty work with quicker force, The higher they are ris'n; and that there I had not turn'd me to them; he may well Excuse me that, whereof in my excuse I do accuse me, and may own my truth; That holy pleasure here not yet reveal'd, Which grows in transport as we mount aloof. True love, that ever shows itself as clear In kindness, as loose appetite in wrong, Silenced that lyre harmonious, and still'd The sacred chords, that are by heav'n's right hand Unwound and tighten'd, flow to righteous prayers Should they not hearken, who, to give me will For praying, in accordance thus were mute? He hath in sooth good cause for endless grief, Who, for the love of thing that lasteth not, Despoils himself forever of that love. "From Valdipado came to me my spouse, And hence thy surname grew. I follow'd then The Emperor Conrad; and his knighthood he Did gird on me; in such good part he took My valiant service. After him I went To testify against that evil law, Whose people, by the shepherd's fault, possess Your right, usurping. There, by that foul crew Was I releas'd from the deceitful world, Whose base affection many a spirit soils, And from the martyrdom came to this peace." Now in his word, sole, ruminating, joy'd That blessed spirit; and I fed on mine, Tempting the sweet with bitter: she meanwhile, Who led me unto God, admonish'd: "Muse On other thoughts: bethink thee, that near Him I dwell, who recompenseth every wrong." As on her nest the stork, that turns about Unto her young, whom lately she hath fed, While they with upward eyes do look on her; So lifted I my gaze; and bending so The ever-blessed image wav'd its wings, Lab'ring with such deep counsel. Wheeling round It warbled, and did say: "As are my notes To thee, who understand'st them not, such is Th' eternal judgment unto mortal ken." Sweet love! that dost apparel thee in smiles, How lustrous was thy semblance in those sparkles, Which merely are from holy thoughts inspir'd! Within the crystal, which records the name, (As its remoter circle girds the world) Of that lov'd monarch, in whose happy reign No ill had power to harm, I saw rear'd up, In colour like to sun-illumin'd gold. I answ'ring, thus; "Thy gentle words and kind, And this the cheerful semblance, I behold Not unobservant, beaming in ye all, Have rais'd assurance in me, wakening it Full-blossom'd in my bosom, as a rose Before the sun, when the consummate flower Has spread to utmost amplitude. Of thee Therefore entreat I, father! to declare If I may gain such favour, as to gaze Upon thine image, by no covering veil'd." "Brother!" he thus rejoin'd, "in the last sphere Expect completion of thy lofty aim, For there on each desire completion waits, And there on mine: where every aim is found Perfect, entire, and for fulfillment ripe. There all things are as they have ever been: For space is none to bound, nor pole divides, Our ladder reaches even to that clime, And so at giddy distance mocks thy view. Thither the Patriarch Jacob saw it stretch Its topmost round, when it appear'd to him With angels laden. But to mount it now None lifts his foot from earth: and hence my rule Is left a profitless stain upon the leaves; The walls, for abbey rear'd, turned into dens, The cowls to sacks choak'd up with musty meal. Foul usury doth not more lift itself Against God's pleasure, than that fruit which makes The hearts of monks so wanton: for whate'er Is in the church's keeping, all pertains. To such, as sue for heav'n's sweet sake, and not To those who in respect of kindred claim, Or on more vile allowance. Mortal flesh Is grown so dainty, good beginnings last not From the oak's birth, unto the acorn's setting. His convent Peter founded without gold Or silver; I with pray'rs and fasting mine; And Francis his in meek humility. And if thou note the point, whence each proceeds, Then look what it hath err'd to, thou shalt find The white grown murky. Jordan was turn'd back; And a less wonder, then the refluent sea, May at God's pleasure work amendment here." The sweet dame beckon'd me to follow them: And, by that influence only, so prevail'd Over my nature, that no natural motion, Ascending or descending here below, Had, as I mounted, with my pennon vied. Short space ensued; I was not held, I say, Long in expectance, when I saw the heav'n Wax more and more resplendent; and, "Behold," Cried Beatrice, "the triumphal hosts Of Christ, and all the harvest reap'd at length Of thy ascending up these spheres." Meseem'd, That, while she spake her image all did burn, And in her eyes such fullness was of joy, And I am fain to pass unconstrued by. O Beatrice! sweet and precious guide! Who cheer'd me with her comfortable words! "Against the virtue, that o'erpow'reth thee, Avails not to resist. Here is the might, And here the wisdom, which did open lay The path, that had been yearned for so long, Betwixt the heav'n and earth." Like to the fire, That, in a cloud imprison'd doth break out Expansive, so that from its womb enlarg'd, It falleth against nature to the ground; Thus in that heav'nly banqueting my soul Outgrew herself; and, in the transport lost. Holds now remembrance none of what she was. "Ope thou thine eyes, and mark me: thou hast seen Things, that empower thee to sustain my smile." Whatever melody sounds sweetest here, And draws the spirit most unto itself, Might seem a rent cloud when it grates the thunder, Compar'd unto the sounding of that lyre, Wherewith the goodliest sapphire, that inlays The floor of heav'n, was crown'd. "Angelic Love I am, who thus with hov'ring flight enwheel The lofty rapture from that womb inspir'd, Where our desire did dwell: and round thee so, Lady of Heav'n! will hover; long as thou Thy Son shalt follow, and diviner joy Shall from thy presence gild the highest sphere." Such close was to the circling melody: And, as it ended, all the other lights Took up the strain, and echoed Mary's name. The robe, that with its regal folds enwraps The world, and with the nearer breath of God Doth burn and quiver, held so far retir'd Its inner hem and skirting over us, That yet no glimmer of its majesty Had stream'd unto me: therefore were mine eyes Unequal to pursue the crowned flame, That rose and sought its natal seed of fire; And like to babe, that stretches forth its arms For very eagerness towards the breast, After the milk is taken; so outstretch'd Their wavy summits all the fervent band, Through zealous love to Mary: then in view There halted, and "Regina Coeli" sang So sweetly, the delight hath left me never. O what o'erflowing plenty is up-pil'd In those rich-laden coffers, which below Sow'd the good seed, whose harvest now they keep. Here are the treasures tasted, that with tears Were in the Babylonian exile won, When gold had fail'd them. Here in synod high Of ancient council with the new conven'd, Under the Son of Mary and of God, Victorious he his mighty triumph holds, To whom the keys of glory were assign'd. "O saintly sister mine! thy prayer devout Is with so vehement affection urg'd, Thou dost unbind me from that beauteous sphere." Such were the accents towards my lady breath'd From that blest ardour, soon as it was stay'd: To whom she thus: "O everlasting light Of him, within whose mighty grasp our Lord Did leave the keys, which of this wondrous bliss He bare below! tent this man, as thou wilt, With lighter probe or deep, touching the faith, By the which thou didst on the billows walk. If he in love, in hope, and in belief, Be steadfast, is not hid from thee: for thou Hast there thy ken, where all things are beheld In liveliest portraiture. But since true faith Has peopled this fair realm with citizens, Meet is, that to exalt its glory more, Thou in his audience shouldst thereof discourse." "Even so glittering and so round," said I, "I not a whit misdoubt of its assay." Next issued from the deep imbosom'd splendour: "Say, whence the costly jewel, on the which Is founded every virtue, came to thee." "The flood," I answer'd, "from the Spirit of God Rain'd down upon the ancient bond and new,-Here is the reas'ning, that convinceth me So feelingly, each argument beside Seems blunt and forceless in comparison." Then heard I: "Wherefore holdest thou that each, The elder proposition and the new, Which so persuade thee, are the voice of heav'n?" "The works, that follow'd, evidence their truth;" I answer'd: "Nature did not make for these The iron hot, or on her anvil mould them." "Who voucheth to thee of the works themselves," Was the reply, "that they in very deed Are that they purport? None hath sworn so to thee." "Lift up thy head, and be thou strong in trust: For that, which hither from the mortal world Arriveth, must be ripen'd in our beam." As when, for ease of labour, or to shun Suspected peril at a whistle's breath, The oars, erewhile dash'd frequent in the wave, All rest; the flamy circle at that voice So rested, and the mingling sound was still, Which from the trinal band soft-breathing rose. I turn'd, but ah! how trembled in my thought, When, looking at my side again to see Beatrice, I descried her not, although Not distant, on the happy coast she stood. With dazzled eyes, whilst wond'ring I remain'd, Forth of the beamy flame which dazzled me, Issued a breath, that in attention mute Detain'd me; and these words it spake: "'T were well, That, long as till thy vision, on my form O'erspent, regain its virtue, with discourse Thou compensate the brief delay. Say then, Beginning, to what point thy soul aspires: "And meanwhile rest assur'd, that sight in thee Is but o'erpowered a space, not wholly quench'd: Since thy fair guide and lovely, in her look Hath potency, the like to that which dwelt In Ananias' hand." I answering thus: "Be to mine eyes the remedy or late Or early, at her pleasure; for they were The gates, at which she enter'd, and did light Her never dying fire. My wishes here Are centered; in this palace is the weal, That Alpha and Omega, is to all The lessons love can read me." Yet again The voice which had dispers'd my fear, when daz'd With that excess, to converse urg'd, and spake: "Behooves thee sift more narrowly thy terms, And say, who level'd at this scope thy bow." "Through human wisdom, and th' authority Therewith agreeing," heard I answer'd, "keep The choicest of thy love for God. But say, If thou yet other cords within thee feel'st That draw thee towards him; so that thou report How many are the fangs, with which this love Is grappled to thy soul." I did not miss, To what intent the eagle of our Lord Had pointed his demand; yea noted well Th' avowal, which he led to; and resum'd: "All grappling bonds, that knit the heart to God, Confederate to make fast our clarity. The being of the world, and mine own being, The death which he endur'd that I should live, And that, which all the faithful hope, as I do, To the foremention'd lively knowledge join'd, Have from the sea of ill love sav'd my bark, And on the coast secur'd it of the right. As for the leaves, that in the garden bloom, My love for them is great, as is the good Dealt by th' eternal hand, that tends them all." Then by the spirit, that doth never leave Its amorous dalliance with my lady's looks, Back with redoubled ardour were mine eyes Led unto her: and from her radiant smiles, Whenas I turn'd me, pleasure so divine Did lighten on me, that whatever bait Or art or nature in the human flesh, Or in its limn'd resemblance, can combine Through greedy eyes to take the soul withal, Were to her beauty nothing. Its boon influence From the fair nest of Leda rapt me forth, And wafted on into the swiftest heav'n. "Thou, to abate thy wonder, note that none Bears rule in earth, and its frail family Are therefore wand'rers. Yet before the date, When through the hundredth in his reck'ning drops Pale January must be shor'd aside From winter's calendar, these heav'nly spheres Shall roar so loud, that fortune shall be fain To turn the poop, where she hath now the prow; So that the fleet run onward; and true fruit, Expected long, shall crown at last the bloom!" As when the sturdy north blows from his cheek A blast, that scours the sky, forthwith our air, Clear'd of the rack, that hung on it before, Glitters; and, With his beauties all unveil'd, The firmament looks forth serene, and smiles; Such was my cheer, when Beatrice drove With clear reply the shadows back, and truth Was manifested, as a star in heaven. And when the words were ended, not unlike To iron in the furnace, every cirque Ebullient shot forth scintillating fires: And every sparkle shivering to new blaze, In number did outmillion the account Reduplicate upon the chequer'd board. Then heard I echoing on from choir to choir, "Hosanna," to the fixed point, that holds, And shall for ever hold them to their place, From everlasting, irremovable. As when the lightning, in a sudden spleen Unfolded, dashes from the blinding eyes The visive spirits dazzled and bedimm'd; So, round about me, fulminating streams Of living radiance play'd, and left me swath'd And veil'd in dense impenetrable blaze. Such weal is in the love, that stills this heav'n; For its own flame the torch this fitting ever! In fashion, as a snow-white rose, lay then Before my view the saintly multitude, Which in his own blood Christ espous'd. Meanwhile That other host, that soar aloft to gaze And celebrate his glory, whom they love, Hover'd around; and, like a troop of bees, Amid the vernal sweets alighting now, Now, clustering, where their fragrant labour glows, Flew downward to the mighty flow'r, or rose From the redundant petals, streaming back Unto the steadfast dwelling of their joy. Faces had they of flame, and wings of gold; The rest was whiter than the driven snow. And as they flitted down into the flower, From range to range, fanning their plumy loins, Whisper'd the peace and ardour, which they won From that soft winnowing. Shadow none, the vast Interposition of such numerous flight Cast, from above, upon the flower, or view Obstructed aught. For, through the universe, Wherever merited, celestial light Glides freely, and no obstacle prevents. If the grim brood, from Arctic shores that roam'd, (Where helice, forever, as she wheels, Sparkles a mother's fondness on her son) Stood in mute wonder 'mid the works of Rome, When to their view the Lateran arose In greatness more than earthly; I, who then From human to divine had past, from time Unto eternity, and out of Florence To justice and to truth, how might I choose But marvel too? 'Twixt gladness and amaze, In sooth no will had I to utter aught, Or hear. And, as a pilgrim, when he rests Within the temple of his vow, looks round In breathless awe, and hopes some time to tell Of all its goodly state: e'en so mine eyes Cours'd up and down along the living light, Now low, and now aloft, and now around, Visiting every step. Looks I beheld, Where charity in soft persuasion sat, Smiles from within and radiance from above, And in each gesture grace and honour high. "O Lady! thou in whom my hopes have rest! Who, for my safety, hast not scorn'd, in hell To leave the traces of thy footsteps mark'd! For all mine eyes have seen, I, to thy power And goodness, virtue owe and grace. Of slave, Thou hast to freedom brought me; and no means, For my deliverance apt, hast left untried. Thy liberal bounty still toward me keep. That, when my spirit, which thou madest whole, Is loosen'd from this body, it may find Favour with thee." So I my suit preferr'd: And she, so distant, as appear'd, look'd down, And smil'd; then tow'rds th' eternal fountain turn'd. Had I a tongue in eloquence as rich, As is the colouring in fancy's loom, 'T were all too poor to utter the least part Of that enchantment. When he saw mine eyes Intent on her, that charm'd him, Bernard gaz'd With so exceeding fondness, as infus'd Ardour into my breast, unfelt before. Such keenness from the living ray I met, That, if mine eyes had turn'd away, methinks, I had been lost; but, so embolden'd, on I pass'd, as I remember, till my view Hover'd the brink of dread infinitude. Here vigour fail'd the tow'ring fantasy: But yet the will roll'd onward, like a wheel In even motion, by the Love impell'd, That moves the sun in heav'n and all the stars. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Divine Comedy of Dante: Paradise by Dante Alighieri	redpajama-book	7,049
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Michael Lockey and PG Distributed Proofreaders STORIES OF GREAT AMERICANS FOR LITTLE AMERICANS The primary aim of this book is to furnish the little learner reading matter that will excite his attention and give him pleasure, and thus make lighter the difficult task of learning to read. The ruggedness of this task has often been increased by the use of disconnected sentences, or lessons as dry and uninteresting as finger exercises on the piano. It is a sign of promise that the demand for reading matter of interest to the child has come from teachers. I have endeavored to meet this requirement in the following stories. As far as possible the words chosen have been such as are not difficult to the little reader, either from their length or their unfamiliarity. The sentences and paragraphs are short. Learning to read is like climbing a steep hill, and it is a great relief to the panting child to find frequent breathing places. The larger words have been divided by hyphens when a separation into syllables is likely to help the learner. The use of the hyphen has been regulated entirely with a view to its utility. After a word not too difficult has been made familiar by its repeated occurrence, the hyphens are omitted. STORIES OF GREAT AMERICANS. Before the white people came, there were no houses in this country but the little huts of the In-di-ans. The In-di-an houses were made of bark, or mats, or skins, spread over poles. Win-throp sent a ship to get more food for them. The ship was gone a long time. The people ate up all their food. They were hungry. They went to the sea-shore, and found clams and mussels. They were glad to get these to eat. At last they set a day for every-body to fast and pray for food. The gov-ern-or had a little flour left. Nearly all of this was made into bread, and put into the oven to bake. He did not know when he would get any more. Soon after this a poor man came along. His flour was all gone. His bread had all been eaten up. His family were hungry. The gov-ern-or gave the poor man the very last flour that he had in the barrel. Just then a ship was seen. It sailed up toward Boston. It was loaded with food for all the people. The time for the fast day came. But there was now plenty of food. The fast day was turned into a thanks-giving day. The French-men heard the Indians talk about a great river in the West. But no French-man had ever gone far enough to see the Mis-sis-sip-pi. The friendly Indians in Wis-con-sin tried to per-suade them not to go. They told them that the Indians on the great river would kill them. But Mar-quette and the men with him thought they would risk the journey. They would not turn back for fear of the demon or the monsters. Jo-li-et and Mar-quette did not know whether the Indians would kill them or not. They said a short prayer. Then they stood out in full view, and gave a loud shout. The Indians now offered the peace pipe to the French-men. The French-men took it, and smoked with the Indians. This was the Indian way of saying, "We are friends." [Illustration: Marquette and Joliet] Mar-quette asked the Indians what tribe they belonged to. They told him that they were of the tribe called the Il-li-nois. They took Jo-li-et and Mar-quette into their village. They came to the door of a large wig-wam. A chief stood in the door. He shaded his eyes with both hands, as if the sun were shining in his face. Then he made a little speech. He said, "French-men, how bright the sun shines when you come to see us! We are all waiting for you. You shall now come into our houses in peace." Then came some fish. The Indian that fed the vis-it-ors picked out the bones with his fingers. Then he put the pieces of fish into their mouths. After they had some roasted dog. The French-men did not like this. Last, they were fed with buf-fa-lo meat. WILLIAM PENN AND THE INDIANS. The King of England gave all the land in Penn-syl-va-ni-a to William Penn. The King made Penn a kind of king over Penn-syl-va-ni-a. Penn could make the laws of this new country. But he let the people make their own laws. Penn wanted to be friendly with the Indians. He paid them for all the land his people wanted to live on. Before he went to Penn-syl-va-ni-a he wrote a letter to the Indians. He told them in this letter that he would not let any of his people do any harm to the Indians. He said he would punish any-body that did any wrong to an Indian. This letter was read to the Indians in their own lan-guage. Soon after this Penn got into a ship and sailed from England. He sailed to Penn-syl-va-ni-a. When he came there, he sent word to the tribes of Indians to come to meet him. The Indians met under a great elm tree on the bank of the river. Indians like to hold their solemn meetings out of doors. They sit on the ground. They say that the earth is the Indian's mother. When Penn came to the place of meeting, he found the woods full of Indians. As far as he could see, there were crowds of Indians. Penn's friends were few. They had no guns. Penn had a large paper in which he had written all the things that he and his friends had promised to the Indians. He had written all the promises that the Indians were to make to the white people. This was to make them friends. When Penn had read this to them, it was explained to them in their own lan-guage. Penn told them that they might stay in the country that they had sold to the white people. The land would belong to both the Indians and the white people. Then Penn laid the large paper down on the ground. That was to show them, he said, that the ground was to belong to the Indians and the white people to-geth-er. The Indians could not write. But they had their way of putting down things that they wished to have re-mem-bered. They gave Penn a belt of shell beads. These beads are called wam-pum. Some wam-pum is white. Some is purple. They made this belt for Penn of white beads. In the middle of the belt they made a picture of purple beads. It is a picture of a white man and an Indian. They have hold of each other's hands. When they gave this belt to Penn, they said, "We will live with William Penn and his children as long as the sun and moon shall last." [Illustration: Penn jumping with the Indians.] Penn took up the great paper from the ground. He handed it to the great chief that wore the horn on his head. He told the Indians to keep it and hand it to their children's children, that they might know what he had said. Then he gave them many presents of such things as they liked. They gave Penn a name in their own language. They named him "O-nas." That was their word for a feather. As the white people used a pen made out of a quill or feather, they called a pen "o-nas." That is why they called William Penn "Brother O-nas." Penn had been a very active boy. He knew how to jump very well. He went to the place where the Indians were jumping. He jumped farther than any of them. When the great gov-ern-or took part in their sport, the Indians were pleased. They loved Brother O-nas more than ever. Many of the white people learned to hunt. All the land was covered with trees. In the woods were many animals whose flesh was good to eat. There were deer, and bears, and great shaggy buf-fa-loes. There were rabbits and squirrels. And there were many kinds of birds. The hunters shot wild ducks, wild turkeys, wild geese, and pigeons. The people also caught many fishes out of the rivers. Then there were animals with fur on their backs. The people killed these and sold their skins. In this way many made their living. Other people spent their time in cutting down the trees. They sawed the trees into timbers and boards. Some of it they split into staves to make barrels. They sent the staves and other sorts of timber to other countries to be sold. In South Car-o-li-na men made tar and pitch out of the pine trees. There was some wet ground at the back of Smith's garden. In this wet ground he sowed some of the rice. It grew finely. He gathered a good deal of rice in his garden that year. He gave part of this to his friends. They all sowed it. The next year there was a great deal of rice. After a while the wet land in South Car-o-li-na was turned to rice fields. Every year many thousands of barrels of rice were sent away to be sold. [Illustration: Rice Plant.] THE STORY OF A WISE WOMAN. Her father sent her some seeds of the in-di-go plant. She sowed some of these in March. But there came a frost. The in-di-go plant cannot stand frost. Her plants all died. But Miss Lucas did not give up. She sowed some more seeds in April. These grew very well until a cut-worm found them. The worm wished to try new things, too. So he ate off the in-di-go plants. Miss Lucas wrote to her father about it. He sent her a man who knew how to get the indigo out of the plant. The man tried not to show Miss Lucas how to make the indigo. He did not wish the people in South Carolina to learn how to make it. He was afraid his own people would not get so much for their indigo. So he would not explain just how it ought to be done. He spoiled the indigo on purpose. But Miss Lucas watched him closely. She found out how the indigo ought to be made. Some of her father's land in South Carolina was now planted with the indigo plants. [Illustration: Indigo Plant.] Then Miss Lucas was married. She became Mrs. Pinck-ney. Her father gave her all the indigo growing on his land in South Carolina. It was all saved for seed. Some of the seed Mrs. Pinck-ney gave to her friends. Some of it her husband sowed. It all grew, and was made into that blue dye that we call indigo. When it is used in washing clothes, it is called bluing. FRANKLIN HIS OWN TEACHER. His father made soap and candles. Little Ben Frank-lin had to cut wicks for the candles. He also filled the candle molds. And he sold soap and candles, and ran on errands. But when he was not at work he spent his time in reading good books. What little money he got he used to buy books with. Another way that he had of learning was by seeing things with his own eyes. His father took him to see car-pen-ters at work with their saws and planes. He also saw masons laying bricks. And he went to see men making brass and copper kettles. And he saw a man with a turning lathe making the round legs of chairs. Other men were at work making knives. Some things people learn out of books, and some things they have to see for them-selves. [Illustration: Franklin at Study.] His brother was glad to do this, and Ben saved part of the money and bought books with it. He was a healthy boy, and it did not hurt him to live mostly on bread and butter. Sometimes he bought a little pie or a handful of raisins. Long before he was a man, people said, "How much the boy knows!" This was because- He did not waste his time. He saw things for himself. HOW FRANKLIN FOUND OUT THINGS. [Illustration: Ants talking (magnified)] At last when this greedy ant had eaten all that he could, he started to go home. Frank-lin saw him climb over the rim of the jar. Then the ant ran down the outside of the jar. But when he got to the bottom, he did not find any shelf there. He went all round the jar. There was no way to get down to the floor. The ant ran this way and that way, but he could not get down. [Illustration: An Ants Feeler (magnified)] At last the greedy ant thought he would see if he could go up. He climbed up the string to the ceiling. Then he went down the wall. He came to his own hole at last, no doubt. After a while he got hungry again, perhaps. He thought about that jar of sweets at the end of a string. Then perhaps he told the other ants. Maybe he let them know that there was a string by which they could get down to the jar. And did he tell them that there was a string by which an ant could get there? And did he tell it by speaking, or by signs that he made with his feelers? [Illustration: FRANKLIN ASKS THE SUNSHINE SOMETHING.] She said, "I am sorry that the coffee is cold. It is because the servant forgot to scour the coffee-pot. Coffee gets cold more quickly when the coffee-pot is not bright." He wanted to find out if this were true or not. There was no-body who knew, so there was no-body to ask. But Franklin thought that he would ask the sunshine. Maybe the sunshine would tell him whether a black thing would heat more quickly than a white thing. But how could he ask the sunshine? Some time when there is snow on the ground, you can take a white and a black cloth and ask the sunshine the same question. FRANKLIN AND THE KITE. When Franklin wanted to know whether the ants could talk or not, he asked the ants, and they told him. When he wanted to know some-thing else, he asked the sunshine about it, as you have read in another story. That is the way that Franklin came to know so many things. He knew how to ask questions of every-thing. Those of you who live in towns have seen the streets lighted by e-lec-tric-i-ty. But in Franklin's time there were no such lights. People knew very little about this strange thing with a big name. But Franklin found out many things about it that nobody had ever known before. He began to think that the little sparks he got from e-lec-tric-i-ty were small flashes of lightning. He thought that the little cracking sound of these sparks was a kind of baby thunder. [Illustration: Franklin's Discovery.] He put a little sharp-pointed wire at the top of his kite. This was a kind of lightning rod to draw the lightning into the kite. His kite string was a common hemp string. To this he tied a key, because lightning will follow metal. The end of the string that he held in his hand was a silk ribbon, which was tied to the hemp string of the kite. E-lec-tric-ity will not follow silk. After a while he held his knuckle to the key. A tiny spark flashed between the key and his knuckle. It was a little flash of lightning. Then he took his little bottle fixed to hold e-lec-tric-i-ty. He filled it with the e-lec-tric-i-ty that came from the key. He carried home a bottle of lightning. So he found out what made it thunder and lighten. After that he used to bring the lightning into his house on rods and wires. He made the lightning ring bells and do many other strange things. When Franklin was an old man, he wrote a cu-ri-ous letter. In that letter he told a story. It was about some-thing that happened to him when he was a boy. Here is the story put into verses, so that you will re-member it better. Some day you can read the story as Franklin told it himself. You will hear people say, "He paid too much for the whistle." The saying came from this story. TOO MUCH FOR THE WHISTLE As Ben with pennies in his pocket Went strolling down the street, "Toot-toot! toot-toot!" there came a whistle From a boy he chanced to meet, Whistling fit to burst his buttons, Blowing hard and stepping high. Then Benny said, "I'll buy your whistle;" But "Toot! toot-toot!" was the reply. Now homeward goes the whistling Benny, As proud as any foolish boy, And in his pockets not a penny, But in his mouth a noisy toy. "Ah, Benny, Benny!" cries his mother, "I cannot stand your ugly noise." "Stop, Benny, Benny!" says his father, "I cannot talk, you drown my voice." At last the whistling boy re-mem-bers How much his money might have bought "Too many pennies for a whistle," Is little Benny's ugly thought. Too many pennies for a whistle Is what we all pay, you and I, Just for a little foolish pleasure Pay a price that's quite too high. JOHN STARK AND THE INDIANS. John Stark was a famous gen-er-al in the Rev-o-lu-tion. But this story is not about the Rev-o-lu-tion. It is about Stark before he became a soldier. The young men set traps for animals in many places. They wanted to catch the animals that have fur on them. They wanted to get the skins to sell. John Stark went out to bring in the traps set for animals. The Indians found him, and made him a pris-on-er. They asked him where his friends were. Stark did not wish his friends to be taken. So he pointed the wrong way. He took the Indians a long way from the other young men. But John Stark's friends did not know that he was a pris-on-er. When he did not come back, they thought that he had lost his way. They fired their guns to let him know where they were. Then John Stark's brother and the other man came down the river in a boat. The Indians told Stark to call them. They wanted them to come over where the Indians were. Then they could take them. John knew that the Indians were cruel. He knew that if he did not do what they told him to, they might kill him. But he wished to save his brother. He called to his brother to row for the other shore. John now called to his brother, "Run! for all the Indians' guns are empty." His brother got away. The Indians were very angry with John. They did not kill him. But they gave him a good beating. These Indians were from Can-a-da. They took their pris-on-ers to their own village. When they were coming home, they shouted to let the people know that they had prisoners. [Illustration: Stark running the Gauntlet] The young man who was with Stark was badly hurt in running between these lines. But John Stark knew the Indians. He knew that they liked a brave man. Then the Indians were pleased with him. They called him the young chief. He af-ter-wards became a great fighter against the Indians. He had learned their ways while he was among them. He knew better how to fight them than almost any-body else. In the Rev-o-lu-tion he was a gen-er-al. He fought the British at Ben-ning-ton, and won a great vic-to-ry. Some men are great soldiers. Some are great law-makers. Some men write great books. Some men make great in-ven-tions. Some men are great speakers. Now you are going to read about a man that was great in none of these things. He was not a soldier. He was not a great speaker. He was never rich. He was a poor school-teacher. He never held any office. And yet he was a great man. He was great for his goodness. He was born in France. But most of his life was passed in Phil-a-del-phi-a before the Rev-o-lu-tion. But Ben-e-zet was not that kind of man. He was very gentle. He treated the children more kindly than their fathers and mothers did. Nobody in this country had ever seen a teacher like him. He built a play-room for the children of his school. He used to take them to this room during school time for a little a-muse-ment. He man-aged each child as he found best. Some he could persuade to be good. Some he shamed into being good. But this was very dif-fer-ent from the cruel beatings that other teachers of that time gave their pupils. Of course the children came to love him very much. After they grew to be men and women, they kept their love for the good little schoolmaster. As long as they lived they listened to his advice. He was a great teacher. That is better than being a great soldier. There was war between the English and French at that time. Can-a-da belonged to the French. Our country belonged to the English. There was a country called A-ca-di-a. It was a part of what is now No-va Sco-ti-a. The people of A-ca-di-a were French. [Illustration: Departure of the Acadians] The English took the A-ca-di-ans away from their homes. They sent them to various places. Many families were divided. The poor A-ca-di-ans lost their homes and all that they had. Many hundreds of these people were sent to Phil-a-del-phi-a. Benezet became their friend. As he was born in France, he could speak their lan-guage. He got a large house built for some of them to stay in. He got food and clothing for them. He helped them to get work, and did them good in many other ways. "Never mind, my dear," said Benezet, "I gave them to some of the poor A-ca-di-ans." Many years after this the Rev-o-lu-tion broke out. It brought trouble to many people. Benezet helped as many as he could. After a while the British army took Phil-a-del-phi-a. They sent their soldiers to stay in the houses of the people. The people had to take care of the soldiers. This was very hard for the poor people. Benezet went right away to see the gen-er-al that was in command of the soldiers. The good man was in such a hurry that he forgot to get a pass. The soldiers at the gen-er-al's door would not let him go in. "Let him come up," said the general. The odd little man came in. He told the general all about the troubles of the poor washer-woman. The general sent word that the soldiers must not stay any longer in her house. The general liked the kind little man. He told him to come to see him again. He told the soldiers at his door to let Benezet come in when-ever he wished to. When he was buried, it seemed as if all Phil-a-del-phi-a had come to his fu-ner-al. The rich and the poor, the black and the white, crowded the streets. The city had never seen so great a fu-ner-al. In the company was an A-mer-i-can general. He said, "I would rather be An-tho-ny Benezet in that coffin than General Wash-ing-ton in all his glory." PUTNAM AND THE WOLF. Putnam was a brave soldier. He fought many battles against the Indians. After that he became a general in the Revolution. But this is a story of his battle with a wolf. It took place when he was a young man, before he was a soldier. The hunters would always kill the young wolves. But they could not find the old mother wolf. She knew how to keep out of the way. The hunters found that the old wolf had gone a long way off. Perhaps she felt guilty. She must have thought that she would be hunted. She had trotted away for a whole night. Then she turned and went back again. She was getting hungry by this time. She wanted some more sheep. The men followed her tracks back again. The dogs drove her into a hole. It was not far from Putnam's house. All the farmers came to help catch her. They sent the dogs into the cave where the wolf was. But the wolf bit the dogs, and drove them out again. Then the men put a pile of straw in the mouth of the cave. They set the straw on fire. It filled the cave with smoke. But Mrs. Wolf did not come out. Then they burned brim-stone in the cave. It must have made the wolf sneeze. But the cave was deep. She went as far in as she could, and staid there. She thought that the smell of brimstone was not so bad as the dogs and men who wanted to kill her. Then Putnam said that he would go in himself. He tied a rope to his legs. Then he got some pieces of birch-bark. He set fire to these. He knew that wild animals do not like to face a fire. He got down on his hands and knees. He held the blazing bark in his hand. He crawled through the small hole into the cave. There was not room for him to stand up. When the wolf saw the fire, she gave a sudden growl. Putnam jerked the rope that was tied to his leg. The men outside thought that the wolf had caught him. They pulled on the other end of the rope. The men pulled as fast as they could. When they had drawn Putnam out, his clothes were torn. He was badly scratched by the rocks. When the wolf saw him coming again, she was very angry. She snapped her teeth. She got ready to spring on him. She meant to kill him as she had killed his sheep. Putnam fired at her head. As soon as his gun went off, he jerked the rope. His friends pulled him out. He found her lying down. He tapped her nose with his birch-bark. She did not move. He took hold of her. Then he jerked the rope. This time the men saw him come out, bringing the dead wolf. Now the sheep would have some peace. WASHINGTON AND HIS HATCHET It was Ar-bor Day in the Mos-sy Hill School, Johnny Little-john had to speak a piece that had some-thing to do with trees. He thought it would be a good plan to say some-thing about the little cherry tree that Washington spoiled with his hatch-et, when he was a little boy. This is what he said: He hacked and whacked and whacked and hacked, This sturd-y little man; He hacked a log and hacked a fence, As round about he ran. He hacked his father's cher-ry tree And made an ug-ly spot; The bark was soft, the hatch-et sharp, And little George forgot. You know the rest. The father frowned And asked the rea-son why; You know the good old story runs He could not tell a lie. The boy that chopped that cher-ry tree Soon grew to be a youth; At work and books he hacked away, And still he told the truth: He fought the ar-mies that the king Had sent across the sea; He bat-tled up and down the land To set his country free. HOW BENNY WEST LEARNED TO BE A PAINTER. [Illustration: Painting Baby's Portrait] He made other pictures. At school he used to draw with a pen before he could write. He made pictures of birds and of animals. Sometimes he would draw flowers. [Illustration: Flower and Fruit of the Poke-Berry.] Up to this time Benny had no paints nor any brushes. The Indians had not all gone away from that neigh-bor-hood. The Indians paint their faces with red and yellow colors. These colors they make them-selves. Sometimes they prepare them from the juice of some plant. Sometimes they get them by finding red or yellow earth. Some of the Indians can make rough pictures with these colors. But he had no brush to paint with. He took some long hairs from the cat's tail. Of these he made his brushes. He used so many of the cat's hairs, that her tail began to look bare. Everybody in the house began to wonder what was the matter with pussy's tail. At last Benny told where he got his brushes. [Illustration: Making a Paint Brush.] The little painter now felt himself rich. He was so happy that he could hardly sleep at all. At night he put the box that held his treasures on a chair by his bed. As soon as daylight came, he carried the precious box to the garret. The garret of the long stone house was his stu-di-o. Here he worked away all day long. He did not go to school at all. Perhaps he forgot that there was any school. Perhaps the little artist could not tear himself away from his work. His mother could not find it in her heart to punish him. She was too much pleased with the picture he was making. This picture was not finished. But his mother would not let him finish it. She was afraid he would spoil it if he did anything more on it. The good people called Friends did not like the making of pictures, as I said. But they thought that Benny West had a talent that he ought to use. So he went to Phil-a-del-phi-a to study his art. After a while he sailed away to It-a-ly to see the pictures that great artists had painted. At last he settled in England. The King of England was at that time the king of this country too. The king liked West's pictures. West became the king's painter. He came to be the most famous painter in England. He liked to remember his boyish work. He liked to remember the time when he was a little Quaker boy making his paints of poke-juice and Indian colors. WASHINGTON'S CHRISTMAS GIFT. Washington was fighting to set this country free. But the army that the King of England sent to fight him was stronger than Washington's army. Washington was beaten and driven out of Brook-lyn. Then he had to leave New York. After that, he marched away into New Jersey to save his army from being taken. At last he crossed the Del-a-ware River. Here he was safe for a while. Some of the Hes-sian soldiers that the king had hired to fight against the Americans came to Trenton. Trenton is on the Del-a-ware River. Washington and his men were on the other side of the Del-a-ware River from the Hes-sians. Washington's men were dis-cour-aged. They had been driven back all the way from Brook-lyn. It was winter, and they had no warm houses to stay in. They had not even warm clothes. They were dressed in old clothes that people had given them. Some of them were bare-footed in this cold weather. He was waiting for Christmas. He knew that the Hessian soldiers on the other side of the river would eat and drink a great deal on Christmas Day. [Illustration: Marching to Trenton.] The afternoon of Christmas came. The Hessians were singing and drinking in Trenton. But Washington was marching up the river bank. Some of his bare-foot men left blood marks on the snow as they marched. But it was too late. Washington had already taken their cannons. His men were firing these at the Hessians. The Hessians ran into the fields to get away. But the Americans caught them. This was called the battle of Trenton. It gave great joy to all the Americans. It was Washington's Christmas gift to the country. HOW WASHINGTON GOT OUT OF A TRAP. After the battle of Trenton, Washington went back across the Delaware River. He had not men enough to fight the whole British army. But the Americans were glad when they heard that he had beaten the Hessians. They sent him more soldiers. Then he went back across the river to Trenton again. Washington had not boats enough to carry his men across the river. Corn-wal-lis was sure to beat him if they should fight a battle the next morning. Cornwallis said, "I will catch the fox in the morning." He called Washington a fox. He thought he had him in a trap. Cornwallis sent for some more soldiers to come from Prince-ton in the morning. He wanted them to help him catch the fox. But foxes sometimes get out of traps. When it was dark, Washington had all his camp fires lighted. He put men to digging where the British could hear them. He made Cornwallis think that he was throwing up banks of earth and getting ready to fight in the morning. But Washington did not stay in Trenton. He did not wish to be caught like a fox in a trap. He could not get across the river. But he knew a road that went round the place where Cornwallis and his army were. He took that road and got behind the British army. It was just like John waiting to catch James. James is in the house. John is waiting at the front door to catch James when he comes out. But James slips out by the back way. John hears him call "Hello!" James has gone round behind him and got away. Washington went out of Trenton in the darkness. You might say that he marched out by the back door. He left Cornwallis watching the front door. The Americans went away quietly. They left a few men to keep up the fires, and make a noise like digging. Before morning these slipped away too. When morning came, Cornwallis went to catch his fox. But the fox was not there. He looked for the Americans. There was the place where they had been digging. Their camp fires were still burning. But where had they gone? Cornwallis thought that Washington had crossed the river by some means. But soon he heard guns firing away back toward Princeton. He thought that it must be thunder. But he found that it was a battle. Then he knew that Washington had gone to Princeton. Washington had marched all night. When he got to Princeton, he met the British coming out to go to Trenton. They were going to help Cornwallis to catch Washington. But Washington had come to Princeton to catch them. He had a hard fight with the British at Princeton. But at last he beat them. When Cornwallis knew that the Americans had gone to Princeton, he hurried there to help his men. But it was too late. Washington had beaten the British at Princeton, and had gone on into the hills, where he was safe. The fox had got out of the trap. WASHINGTON'S LAST BATTLE. The King of France had sent ships and soldiers to help the Americans. But still Washington had not enough men to take New York from the British. Yet he went on getting ready to attack the British in New York. He had ovens built to bake bread for his men. He bought hay for his horses. He had roads built to draw his cannons on. Nobody knew what it meant. Washington's own men did not know where they were going. They went from New Jersey into Penn-syl-va-ni-a. Then they marched across Penn-syl-va-ni-a. Then they went into Mary-land. They marched across that State, and then they went into Vir-gin-i-a. By this time everybody could tell where Washington was going. People could see that he was going straight to York-town. They knew that Washington was going to fight his old enemy at York-town. But he had kept his secret long enough. The British in New York could not send help to Cornwallis. It was too late. The French ships sailed to Vir-gin-i-a, and shut up Yorktown on the side of the sea. Washington's men shut it up on the side of the land. They built great banks of earth round it. On these banks of earth they put cannons. The British could not get away. They fought bravely. But the Americans and French came closer and closer. Then the British tried to fight their way out. But they were driven back. Then Cornwallis tried to get his men across the river. He wanted to get out by the back door, as Washington had done. But the Americans on the other side of the river drove them back again. Washington had now caught Cornwallis in a trap. The Americans fired red-hot cannon balls into Yorktown. These set the houses on fire. At last Cornwallis had to give up. The British marched out and laid down their guns and swords. The British army in New York could not fight the Americans by itself. So the British gave it up. Then there was peace after the long war. The British pulled down the British flag and sailed away. The country was free at last. The American army had been beaten in South Car-o-li-na. Mar-i-on was sent there to keep the British from taking the whole country. Marion got to-geth-er a little army. His men had nothing but rough clothes to wear. They had no guns but the old ones they had used to shoot wild ducks and deer with. Marion's men wanted swords. There were no swords to be had. But Marion sent men to take the long saws out of the saw mills. These were taken to black-smiths. The black-smiths cut the saws into pieces. These pieces they hammered out into long, sharp swords. From the dark woods he would come out suddenly. He would attack some party of British soldiers. When the battle was over, he would go back to the woods again. When the British sent a strong army to catch him, he could not be found. But soon he would be fighting the British in some new place. He was always playing hide and seek. Marion put his men all round the fort, so that the men in the fort could not get out to get water. He thought that they would have to give up. But the men in the fort dug a well inside the fort. Then Marion had to think of another plan. [Illustration: Marion's Tower.] Before morning came, they had built a kind of tower. It was higher than the Indian mound. As soon as it was light, the men on Marion's tower began to shoot. The British looked out. They saw a great tower with men on it. The men could shoot down into the fort. The British could not stand it. They had to give up. They were taken prisoners. At the time of the Revolution there were but few people living on the north side of the O-hi-o River. But there were many Indians there. These Indians killed a great many white people in Ken-tuck-y. The Indians were sent by British officers to do this killing. There was a British fort at Vincennes in what is now In-di-an-a. There was another British fort or post at Kas-kas-ki-a in what is now the State of Il-li-nois. George Rogers Clark was an American colonel. He wanted to stop the murder of the settlers by the Indians. He thought that he could do it by taking the British posts. Kas-kas-ki-a was far away from the Americans. The people there did not think that the Americans would come so far to attack them. When Clark got there, they were all asleep. He marched in and took the town before they waked up. The people living in Kaskaskia were French. By treating them well, Clark made them all friendly to the Americans. When the British at Vin-cennes heard that Clark had taken Kaskaskia, they thought that they would take it back again. But it was winter. All the streams were full of water. They could not march till spring. Then they would gather the Indians to help them, and take Clark and his men. But Clark thought that he would not wait to be taken. He thought that he would just go and take the British. If he could manage to get to Vin-cennes in the winter, he would not be expected. They had to wade through deep rivers. The water was icy cold. But Clark made a joke of it. He kept them laughing whenever he could. The little drummer was soon seated high on the shoulders of the tall man. "Now go ahead!" said Clark. The soldier marched into the water. The little drummer beat a march on his drum. Clark cried out, "Forward!" Then he plunged into the water after the tall soldier. All the men went in after him. They were soon safe on the other side. Clark's men got frightened at last, and then they had no heart to go any farther. But Clark remembered what the Indians did when they went to war. He took a little gun-powder in his hand. He poured water on it. Then he rubbed it on his face. It made his face black. With his face blackened like an Indian's, he gave an Indian war-whoop. The men followed him again. The men were tired and hungry. But they soon reached dry ground. They were now in sight of the fort. Clark marched his little army round and round in such a way as to make it seem that he had many men with him. He wrote a fierce letter to the British com-mand-er. He behaved like a general with a large army. After some fighting, the British com-mand-er gave up. Clark's little army took the British fort. This brave action saved to our country the land that lies between the Ohio River and the Lakes. It stopped the sending of Indians to kill the settlers in the West. DANIEL BOONE AND HIS GRAPEVINE SWING. Only Boone and his brother were left alive. They needed some powder and some bullets. They wanted some horses. Boone's brother went back across the mountains to get these things. Boone staid in his little cabin all alone. Boone could hear the wolves howl near his cabin at night. He heard the panthers scream in the woods. But he did not mind being left all alone in these dark forests. The Indians came to his cabin when he was away. He did not want to see these vis-it-ors. He did not dare to sleep in his cabin all the time. Sometimes he slept under a rocky cliff. Sometimes he slept in a cane-brake. A cane-brake is a large patch of growing canes such as fishing rods are made of. He went over a little hill. Here he found a wild grape-vine. It was a very long vine, reaching to the top of a high tree. There are many such vines in the Southern woods. Children cut such vines off near the roots. Then they use them for swings. Boone had swung on grape-vines when he was a boy. He now thought of a way to break his tracks. He cut the wild grape-vine off near the root. Then he took hold of it. He sprang out into the air with all his might. The great swing carried him far out as it swung. Then he let go. He fell to the ground, and then he ran away in a dif-fer-ent di-rec-tion from that in which he had been going. When the Indians came to the place, they could not find his tracks. They could not tell which way he had gone. He got to his cabin in safety. Boone had now been alone for many months. His brother did not get back at the time he had set for coming. Boone thought that his brother might have been killed. Boone had not tasted anything but meat since he left home. He had to get his food by shooting animals in the woods. By this time he had hardly any powder or bullets left. [Illustration: Boone on the Grapevine Swing] DANIEL BOONE'S DAUGHTER AND HER FRIENDS. Daniel Boone and his brother picked out a good place in Ken-tuck-y to settle. Then they went home to North Car-o-li-na. They took with them such things as were cu-ri-ous and val-u-a-ble. These were the skins of animals they had killed, and no doubt some of the heads and tails. Boone was restless. He had seen Kentucky and he did not wish to settle down to the life of North Carolina. In the evening the people danced and amused themselves in the square. Indians could not creep up and attack them. When the men went out to feed the horses and cows they carried their guns. They walked softly and turned their eyes quickly from point to point to see if Indians were hiding near. They held their guns so they could shoot quickly. The women and children had to stay very near the fort so they could run in if an Indian came in sight. The cur-rent carried them slowly near the other shore. They could still see the fort. They did not think of danger. Boone and Cal-lo-way were both gone from the fort. They got home too late to start that day. No sleep came to their eyes while they waited for light to travel by. As soon as there was a glim-mer of light they and a party of their friends set out. It was in July and they could start early. They crossed the river and easily found the Indians' tracks where they started. The brush was broken down there. Boone and his friends tried in vain to follow them. Sometimes they would find a track but it would soon be lost in the thick canes. Before long they found the Indians' tracks in a buffalo path. Buffaloes and other animals go often to lick salt from the rocks round salt springs. They beat down the brush and make great roads. These roads run to the salt springs. The hunters call them streets. The Indians had stopped to rest and to eat. It was very warm and they had put off their moc-ca-sins and laid down their arms. They were kindling a fire to cook by. In a moment the Indians saw the white men. Boone and Galloway were afraid the Indians would kill the girls. The Indians ran away as fast as they could. They did not stop to pick up their guns or knives or hatchets. They had no time to put on their moccasins. The poor worn-out girls were soon safe in their fathers' arms. Back to Boones-bor-ough they went, not minding their tired feet. When they got to the fort there was great joy to see them alive. I do not believe they ever played in the water again. DECATUR AND THE PIRATES. The people of Trip-o-li in Af-ri-ca were pirates. They took the ships of other nations at sea. They made slaves of their prisoners. The friends of these slaves sometimes sent money to buy their freedom. Some countries paid money to these pirates to let their ships go safe. Our country had trouble with the pirates. This trouble brought on a war. Our ships were sent to fight against Trip-o-li. The pirates got the "Philadelphia" ready to go to sea. They loaded her cannons. They meant to slip out past our ships of war. Then they would take a great many smaller American ships. But the Americans laid a plan to burn the "Philadelphia." It was a very dan-ger-ous thing to try to do. The pirates had ships of war near the "Philadelphia." They had great guns on the shore. There was no way to do it in the day-time. It could only be done by stealing into the Bay of Tripoli at night. The Americans had taken a little vessel from the pirates. She was of the kind that is called a ketch. She had sails. She also had long oars. When there was no wind to sail with, the sailors could row her with the oars. The pirates sent out a rope to them. But when the ketch came nearer, the pirates saw that they had been fooled. They cried out, "Americans, Americans!" Then the Americans lying down took hold of the rope and pulled with all their might, and drew the ketch close to the ship. They were so close, that the ship's cannons were over their heads. The pirates could not fire at them. But the Americans could not stay long. They must burn the ship before the pirates on the shore should find out what they were doing. They had brought a lot of kin-dling on the ketch. They built fires in all parts of the ship. The fire ran so fast, that some of the men had trouble to get off the ship. When the Americans got back on the ketch, they could not untie the rope that held the ketch to the ship. The big ship was bursting into flames. The ketch would soon take fire. The whole sky was now lighted up by the fire. The pirates' cannons were thundering. The cannon balls were splashing the water all round the ketch. But the Americans got away. At last they were safe in their own ships. STORIES ABOUT JEFFERSON. He wrote a paper that was the very beginning of the United States. It was a paper that said that we would be free from England, and be a coun-try by our-selves. We call that paper the Dec-la-ra-tion of In-de-pend-ence. When he was a boy, Jef-fer-son was fond of boyish plays. But when he was tired of play, he took up a book. It pleased him to learn things. From the time when he was a boy he never sat down to rest without a book. At school he learned what other boys did. But the dif-fer-ence between him and most other boys was this: he did not stop with knowing just what the other boys knew. Most boys want to learn what other boys learn. Most girls would like to know what their school-mates know. But Jef-fer-son wanted to know a great deal more. As a young man, Jefferson knew Latin and Greek. He also knew French and Span-ish and I-tal-ian. He did not talk to show off what he knew. He tried to learn what other people knew. When he talked to a wagon maker, he asked him about such things as a wagon maker knows most about. He would sometimes ask how a wagon maker would go to work to make a wheel. When Jefferson talked to a learn-ed man, he asked him about those things that this man knew most about. When he talked with Indians, he got them to tell him about their lan-guage. That is the way he came to know so much about so many things. Whenever anybody told him anything worth while, he wrote it down as soon as he could. After a while Jefferson rode away. Then the stranger said to the land-lord, "Who is that man? He knew so much about law, that I was sure he was a lawyer. But when we talked about med-i-cine, he knew so much about that, that I thought he must be a doctor. And after a while he seemed to know so much about re-li-gion, that I was sure he was a min-is-ter. Who is he?" The stranger was very much surprised to hear that the man he had talked with was Thomas Jefferson. A long time ago, when Thomas Jefferson was Pres-i-dent, most of the people in this country lived in the East. Nobody knew anything about the Far West. The only people that lived there were Indians. Many of these Indians had never seen a white man. [Illustration: An Elk] The Pres-i-dent sent men to travel into this wild part of the country. He told them to go up to the upper end of the Mis-sou-ri River. Then they were to go across the Rocky Mountains. They were to keep on till they got to the Pa-cif-ic O-cean. Then they were to come back again. They were to find out the best way to get through the mountains. And they were to find out what kind of people the Indians in that country were. They were also to tell about the animals. They got their food mostly by hunting. They killed a great many buf-fa-loes and elks and deer. They also shot wild geese and other large birds. Sometimes they had nothing but fish to eat. Sometimes they had to eat wolves. When they had no other meat, they were glad to buy dogs from the Indians and eat them. Sometimes they ate horses. They became fond of the meat of dogs and horses. When they were very hungry, they had to live on roots if they could get them. Some of the Indians made a kind of bread out of roots. The white men bought this when they could not get meat. But there were days when they did not have anything to eat. In the Indian wig-wam where they were, there was a head of a dead buffalo. When dinner was over, the Indians filled a bowl full of meat. They set this down in front of the head. Then they said to the head, "Eat that." [Illustration: Feeding the Spirit of the Buffalo.] The Indians believed, that, if they treated this buffalo head politely, the live buffaloes would come to their hunting ground. Then they would have plenty of meat. They think the spirit of the buffalo is a kind of a god. They are very careful to please this god. CAPTAIN CLARK'S BURNING GLASS. In that time the white people had not yet found out how to make matches. They lighted a fire by striking a piece of flint against a piece of steel. This would make a spark of fire. By letting this spark fall on something that would burn easily, they started a fire. Captain Clark had something funny happen to him on account of his burning glass. He had walked ahead of the rest of his men. He sat down on a rock. There were some Indians on the other side of the river. They did not see the captain. Captain Clark saw a large bird called a crane flying over his head. He raised his gun and shot it. [Illustration: Cranes] The Indians on the other side of the river had never seen a white man in their lives. They had never heard a gun. They used bows and arrows. They heard the sound of Clark's gun. They looked up and saw the large bird falling from the sky. It fell close to where Captain Clark sat. Just as it fell they caught sight of Captain Clark sitting on the rocks. They thought they had seen him fall out of the sky. They thought that the sound of his gun was a sound like thunder that was made when he came down. The Indians all ran away as fast as they could. They went into their wig-warns and closed them. Among the Indians the sign of peace is to smoke to-geth-er. Captain Clark held out his pipe to them. That was to say, "I am your friend." He shook hands with them and gave some of them presents. Then they were not so much afraid. [Illustration: Lighting a Pipe with a Burning Glass.] He wished to light his pipe for them to smoke. So he took out his burning glass. He held it in the sun. He held his pipe under it. The sunshine was drawn together into a bright little spot on the tobacco. Soon the pipe began to smoke. Then he held out his pipe for the Indians to smoke with him. That is their way of making friends. But none of the Indians would touch the pipe. They thought that he had brought fire down from heaven to light his pipe. They were now sure that he fell down from the sky. They were more afraid of him than ever. At last Captain Clark's Indian man came. He told the other Indians that the white man did not come out of the sky. Then they smoked the pipe, and were not afraid. When he was a boy, he lived in the town of Lan-cas-ter in Penn-syl-van-ia. Many guns were made in Lancaster. The men who made these guns put little pictures on them. That was to make them sell to the hunters who liked a gun with pictures. Little Robert Fulton could draw very well for a boy. He made some pretty little drawings. These the gun makers put on their guns. Fulton went to the gun shops a great deal. He liked to see how things were made. He tried to make a small air gun for himself. He was always trying to make things. He got some quick-sil-ver. He was trying to do something with it. But he would not tell what he wanted to do. So the gun-smiths called him Quick-sil-ver Bob. He was so much in-ter-est-ed in such things, that he sometimes neg-lect-ed his lessons. He said that his head was so full of new notions, that he had not much room left for school learning. "What makes you so late?" asked the teacher. The teacher tried it, and found it very good. Lead pencils in that day were made of a long piece of lead sharpened at the end. "Sir," said the boy, "I came here to have something beaten into my head, not into my knuckles." So he set to work to think out a plan to move the boat in an easier way than by poles. He whittled out the model of a tiny paddle wheel. Then he went to work with Chris Gumpf, and they made a larger paddle wheel. This they set up in the fishing boat. The wheel was turned by the boys with a crank. They did not use the poles any more. The time came for Fulton to start his boat. A crowd of people were standing on the shore. The black smoke was coming out of the smoke-stack. The people were laughing at the boat. They were sure that it would not go. At last the boat's wheels began to turn round. Then the boat began to move. There were no oars. There were no sails. But still the boat kept moving. Faster and faster she went. All the people now saw that she could go by steam. They did not laugh any more. They began to cheer. The little steam-boat ran up to Al-ba-ny. The people who lived on the river did not know what to make of it. They had never heard of a steam-boat. They could not see what made the boat go. There were many sailing vessels on the river. Fulton's boat passed some of these in the night. The sailors were afraid when they saw the fire and smoke. The sound of the steam seemed dreadful to them. Some of them went down-stairs in their ships for fear. Some of them went ashore. Perhaps they thought it was a living animal that would eat them up. But soon there were steam-boats on all the large rivers. WASHINGTON IRVING AS A BOY. The Revolution was about over. Americans were very happy. Their country was to be free. At this time a little boy was born in New York. His family was named Ir-ving. What should this little boy be named? His mother said, "Washington's work is done. Let us name the baby Washington." So he was called Washington Ir-ving. The nurse said to General Washington, "Please, your Honor, here is a bairn that is named for you." "Bairn" is a Scotch word for child. Washington put his hand on the little boy's head and gave him his blessing. When Irving became an author, he wrote a life of Washington. Little Irving was a merry, playful boy. He was full of mischief. Sometimes he would climb out of a window to the roof of his father's house. From this he would go to roofs of other houses. Then the little rascal would drop a pebble down a neighbor's chimney. Then he would hurry back and get into the window again. He would wonder what the people thought when the pebble came rattling down their chimney. Of course he was punished when his tricks were found out. But he was a favorite with his teacher. With all his faults, he would not tell a lie. The teacher called the little fellow "General." [Illustration: Irving in Mischief.] In those days naughty school-boys were whipped. Irving could not bear to see another boy suffer. When a boy was to be whipped, the girls were sent out. Irving always asked the schoolmaster to let him go out with the girls. Irving expected a pun-ish-ment. But the master told him he was pleased to find that he liked to read such good books. He told him not to read them in school. Reading about other countries made Irving wish to see them. He thought he would like to travel. Like other wild boys, he thought of running away. He wanted to go to sea. But he knew that sailors had to eat salt pork. He did not like salt pork. He thought he would learn to like it. When he got a chance, he ate pork. And sometimes he would sleep all night on the floor. He wanted to get used to a hard bed. But the more he ate pork, the more he disliked it. And the more he slept on the floor, the more he liked a good bed. So he gave up his foolish notion of being a sailor boy. [Illustration: Rip Van Winkle wakes up] DON'T GIVE UP THE SHIP. Alice said, "I don't know. That's what the teacher said to me yes-ter-day when I thought that I could not get my lesson." "Yes," said Fred, "and that's what father said to me. I told him I never could learn to write well." He only said, "You must not give up the ship, my boy." "I haven't any ship to give up," said Alice. "And what has a ship to do with my writing?" said Fred. "There must be some story about a ship," Alice said. "Maybe grand-father would know," said Fred. "Let's ask him." They found their grand-father writing in the next room. They did not wish to disturb him. They turned to leave the room. But grand-father looked up just then. He smiled, and laid down his pen. "Did you want something?" he asked. "We wanted to ask you a question," said Alice. "We want to know why people say, 'Don't give up the ship.'" "We thought maybe there is a story to it," said Fred. "Yes, there is," said their grandfather. "And I know a little rhyme that tells the story." "Could you say it to us?" asked Alice. "Yes, if I can think of it. Let me see. How does it begin?" Grandfather leaned his head back in the chair. He shut his eyes for a moment. He was trying to remember. "Oh, now I remember it!" he said. GRANDFATHER'S RHYME. When I was but a boy, I heard the people tell How gallant Captain Law-rence So bravely fought and fell. The ships lay close together, I heard the people say, And many guns were roaring Upon that battle day. A grape-shot struck the captain, He laid him down to die: They say the smoke of powder Made dark the sea and sky. The sailors heard a whisper Upon the captain's lip: The last command of Law-rence Was, "Don't give up the ship." And ever since that battle The people like to tell How gallant Captain Lawrence So bravely fought and fell. When disappointment happens, And fear your heart annoys, Be brave, like Captain Lawrence- And don't give up, my boys! THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. Everybody in the United States has heard the song about the star-span-gled banner. Nearly everybody has sung it. It was written by Francis Scott Key. When Key got to the British ships, they were sailing to Bal-ti-more. They were going to try to take Bal-ti-more. The British com-mand-er would not let Key go back. He was afraid that he would let the Americans know where the ships were going. Key was kept a kind of prisoner while the ships attacked Bal-ti-more. The ships tried to take the city by firing at it from the water. The British army tried to take the city on the land side. The ships did their worst firing at night. They tried to take the little fort near the city. Key could see the battle. He watched the little fort. He was afraid that the men in it would give up. He was afraid that the fort would be broken down by the cannon balls. But after many hours of fighting the British became dis-cour-aged. They found that they could not take the city. The ships almost ceased to fire. "Oh! say, does that star-span-gled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?" "Tis the star spangled banner, oh, long may it wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!" Key was full of joy. He took an old letter from his pocket. The back of this letter had no writing on it. Here he wrote the song about the star-spangled banner. The British com-mand-er now let Key go ashore. When he got to Baltimore, he wrote out his song. He gave it to a friend. This friend took it to a printing office. But the printers had all turned soldiers. They had all gone to defend the city. HOW AUDUBON CAME TO KNOW ABOUT BIRDS. John James Au-du-bon knew more about the birds of this country than any man had ever known before. He was born in the State of Lou-is-i-a-na. His father took him to France when he was a boy. He went to school in France. The little John James was fond of stud-y-ing about wild animals. But most of all he wished to know about birds. Seeing that the boy liked such things, his father took pains to get birds and flowers for him. While he was yet a boy at school, he began to gather birds and other animals for himself. He learned to skin and stuff them. But his stuffed birds did not please him. Their feathers did not look bright, like those of live birds. He wanted living birds to study. His father told him that he could not keep so many birds alive. To please the boy he got him a book with pictures in it. Looking at these pictures made John James wish to draw. He thought that he could make pictures that would look like the live birds. All this time he was learning to draw birds. But he was not willing to make pictures that were not just like the real birds. So when he grew to be a man he went to a great French painter whose name was David. David taught him to draw and paint things as they are. Then he came back to this country, and lived awhile in Pennsylvania. Here his chief study was the wild creatures of the woods. He gathered many eggs of birds. He made pictures of these eggs. He did not take birds' eggs to break up the nests. He was not cruel. He took only what he needed to study. These egg shells he strung together by running strings through the holes. He hung these strings of egg shells all over the walls of his room. On the man-tel-piece he put the stuffed skins of squirrels, raccoons, o-pos-sums, and other small animals. On the shelves his friends could see frogs, snakes, and other animals. He married a young lady, and brought her to live in this mu-se-um with his dead snakes, frogs, and strings of birds' eggs. She liked what he did, and was sure that he would come to be a great man. To do this he must travel many thousands of miles. He must live for years almost all of the time in the woods. He would have to find and shoot the birds, in order to make pictures of them. And he must see how the birds lived, and how they built their nests, so that he could tell all about them. It would take a great deal of work and trouble. But he was not afraid of trouble. That was many years ago. Much of our country was then covered with great trees. Au-du-bon sometimes went in a boat down a lone-some river. Sometimes he rode on horse-back. Often he had to travel on foot through woods where there were no roads. Many a time he had to sleep out of doors. He was so careful to have his drawings just like the birds, that he would measure them in every way. Thus he made his pictures just the size of the birds themselves. At last the great books were printed. In this country, in France, and in England, people praised the won-der-ful books. They knew that Au-du-bon was indeed a great man. AUDUBON IN THE WILD WOODS. [Illustration: Snuffing the Candle.] Audubon was traveling in the woods in Mis-sis-sip-pi. He found the little cabin of a settler. He staid there for the night. The settler told him that there was a panther in the swamp near his house. A panther is a very large and fierce animal. It is large enough to kill a man. This was a very bad panther. It had killed some of the settler's dogs. Audubon said, "Let us hunt this panther, and kill it." I suppose that the panther thought that there were too many dogs and men for him to fight. All the hunters came after the dogs. They held their guns ready to shoot if the panther should make up his mind to fight them. After a while the sound of the dogs' voices changed. The hunters knew from this that the panther had stopped running, and gone up into a tree. The panther sprang to the ground, and ran off again. The dogs ran after. The men got on their horses, and rode after. But the horses were tired, and the men had to get down, and follow the dogs on foot. SOME BOYS WHO BECAME AUTHORS. Rob-ert of Lin-coln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding coat, White are his shoulders and white his crest. Hear him call in his merry note: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee. "Are you a man, or an angel?" she asked him. Pres-cott wrote beautiful his-to-ries. When Pres-cott was a boy, a school-mate threw a crust of bread at him. It hit him in the eye. He became almost blind. He had to do his writing with a machine. This machine was made for the use of the blind. There were no type-writ-ers in those days. When Prescott had finished his book, he was afraid to print it. But his father said, "The man who writes a book, and is afraid to print it, is a cow-ard." Then Prescott printed his book. Everybody praised it. When you are older, you will like to read his his-to-ries. Little Ol-i-ver Holmes used to think he could hear soldiers in the house. He thought he could hear their spurs rattling in the dark passages. Sometimes he thought he could hear their swords clanking. The little boy was afraid of a sign that hung over the sidewalk. It was a great, big, wooden hand. It was the sign of a place where gloves were made. This big hand swung in the air. Little Ol-i-ver Holmes had to walk under it on his way to school. He thought the great fingers would grab him some day. Then he thought he would never get home again. He even thought that his other pair of shoes would be put away till his little brother grew big enough to wear them. But the big wooden hand never caught him. "My grand-mam-ma has said- Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago- That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow. "But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff; And a crook is in his back, And a mel-an-chol-y crack In his laugh. "And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old for-sak-en bough Where I cling." DANIEL WEBSTER AND HIS BROTHER. Dan-iel Web-ster was a great states-man. As a little boy he was called "Little Black Dan." When he grew larger, he was thin and sickly-looking. But he had large, dark eyes. People called him "All Eyes." He was very fond of his brother E-ze-ki-el. E-ze-ki-el was a little older than Dan-iel. Both the boys had fine minds. They wanted to go to college. But their father was poor. Dan-iel had not much strength for work on the farm. So little "All Eyes" was sent to school, and then to college. E-ze-ki-el staid at home, and worked on the farm. While Daniel was at school, he was unhappy to think that Ezekiel could not go to college also. He went home on a visit. He talked to Ezekiel about going to college. The brothers talked about it all night. The next day Daniel talked to his father about it. The father said he was too poor to send both of his sons to college. He said he would lose all his little property if he tried to send Ezekiel to college. But he said, that, if their mother and sisters were willing to be poor, he would send the other son to college. So the mother and sisters were asked. It seemed hard to risk the loss of all they had. It seemed hard not to give Ezekiel a chance. They all shed tears over it. The boys promised to take care of their mother and sisters if the property should be lost. Then they all agreed that Ezekiel should go to college too. The father said, "You cannot do it, Daniel. You have not money enough." "I can do it," said Daniel; "and I will do it before Monday evening." When Monday evening came round, the father's debts were all paid. But Web-ster said, "I wish that my poor brother had lived to this time. It would have made him very happy." WEBSTER AND THE POOR WOMAN. But after a while he saw a poor woman. She was ahead of him. He wondered what had brought her out on so cold a night. Sometimes she stopped and looked around. Then she would stand and listen. Then she would go on again. [Illustration: Webster and the Poor Woman] Webster kept out of her sight. But he watched her. After looking around, she turned down the street in which Webster lived. She stopped in front of Webster's house. She looked around and listened. Webster followed her. But he kept out of her sight. She went to a distant part of the town. She went into a poor little house. Webster went home without saying anything to the woman. He knew that she had stolen the board for fire-wood. The next day the poor woman got a present It was a nice load of wood. Can you guess who sent it to her? THE INDIA-RUBBER MAN. Many years ago a strange-looking man was sometimes seen in the streets of New York. His cap was made of In-di-a rubber. So was his coat. He wore a rubber waist-coat. Even his cravat was of In-di-a rubber. He wore rubber shoes in dry weather. People called this man "The In-di-a-rubber man." His name was Charles Good-year. He was very poor. He was trying to find out how to make India rubber useful. India-rubber trees grow in South America. The juice of these trees is something like milk or cream. By drying this juice, India rubber is made. In this country, rubber was used only to rub out pencil marks. That is why we call it rubber. People in South America learned to make a kind of heavy shoe out of it. But these shoes were hard to make. They cost a great deal when they were sold in this country. Goodyear wanted to try his rubber. That is why he wore a rubber coat and a rubber waist-coat and a rubber cravat. That is why he wore a rubber cap and rubber shoes when it was not raining. He made paper out of rubber, and wrote a book on it. He had a door-plate made of it. He even carried a cane made of India rubber. It is no wonder people called him the India-rubber man. He was very poor. Sometimes he had to borrow money to buy rubber with. Sometimes his friends gave him money to keep his family from starving. Sometimes there was no wood and no coal in the house in cold weather. But Goodyear kept on trying. He thought that he was just going to find out. Years went by, and still he kept on trying. He was now sure that he was on the right track. But he had to find out how to mix and heat his rubber and sulphur. He was too poor to buy rubber to try with. Nobody would lend him any more money. His family had to live by the help of his friends. He had already sold almost everything that he had. Now he had to sell his children's school-books to get money to buy rubber with. At last his rubber goods were made and sold. Poor men who had to stand in the rain could now keep themselves dry. People could walk in the wet with dry feet. A great many people are alive who would have died if they had not been kept dry by India rubber. DOCTOR KANE IN THE FROZEN SEA. In that part of the world it is night nearly all winter. For months there was no sun at all. Daylight came again. It was now summer, but it did not get warm. Doctor Kane took sleds, and went about on the ice to see what he could see. The sleds were drawn by large dogs. But nearly all of the dogs died in the long winter night. [Illustration: A Dog Sled] Doctor Kane thought that the ice would melt. He wanted to get the ship out. But the ice did not melt at all. At last the summer passed away. Another awful winter came. The sun did not rise any more. It was dark for months and months. The men were ill. Some of them died. They were much dis-cour-aged. But Kane kept up his heart, and did the best he could. At last the least little streak of light could be seen. It got a little lighter each day. But the sick men down in the cabin of the ship could not see the light. Doctor Kane said to himself, "If my poor men could see this sunlight, it would cheer them up. It might save their lives." But they were too ill to get out where they could see the sun. It would be many days before the sun would shine into the cabin of the ship. The men might die before that time. A DINNER ON THE ICE. Doctor Kane made a motion to Pe-ter-sen. That was to tell him to shoot quickly. But Peter-sen did not shoot. He was so much afraid that the seal would get away, that he could not shoot. The seal now raised himself a little more. He was getting ready to jump into the water. Just then Petersen fired. The seal fell dead on the ice. [Illustration: A Seal] The men were wild with joy. They rowed the boats with all their might. When they got to the seal, they dragged it farther away from the water. They were so happy, that they danced on the ice. Some of them laughed. Some were so glad, that they cried. [Illustration: Shooting the Seal.] DOCTOR KANE GETS OUT OF THE FROZEN SEA. After they got the seal, Doctor Kane and his men traveled on. Sometimes they were on the ice. Sometimes they were in the boats. The men were so weak, that they could hardly row the boats. They were so hungry, that they could not sleep well at night. "Listen!" Doctor Kane said to Pe-ter-sen. The next day they got to a Greenland town. Then they got into a little ship going to England. They knew that they could get home from England. But the ship stopped at another Green-land town. While they were there, a steamer was seen. It came nearer. They could see the stars and stripes flying from her mast. It was an American steamer sent to find Doctor Kane. In the bow of the boat was a little man with a tattered red shirt. He could see that the captain of the boat was looking at him through a spy-glass. The captain shouted to the little man, "Is that Doctor Kane?" The little man in the red shirt shouted back, "Yes!" LONGFELLOW AS A BOY. [Illustration: Longfellow and the Bird] He liked to read Irving's "Sketch Book." Its strange stories about Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Win-kle pleased his fancy. When the paper came out, there was his poem. It was signed "Henry." Long-fel-low read it. He thought it a good poem. But a judge who did not know whose poem it was talked about it that evening. He said to young Long-fel-low, "Did you see that poem in the paper? It was stiff. And all taken from other poets, too." This made Henry Long-fel-low feel bad. But he kept on trying. After many years, he became a famous poet. "Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still a-chiev-ing, still pur-su-ing, Learn to labor and to wait." KIT CARSON AND THE BEARS. Kit Carson's gun was empty. He threw it down. Then he ran as fast as he could. He wanted to find a tree. Just as the bears were about to seize him, he got to a tree. He caught hold of a limb. He swung himself up into the tree. The bears just missed getting him. But bears know how to climb trees. Carson knew that they would soon be after him. He pulled out his knife, and began to cut off a limb. He wanted to make a club. Kit Carson got his club cut just in time. The bears were coming after him. Kit got up into the very top of the tree. He drew up his feet, and made himself as small as he could. HORACE GREELEY AS A BOY. People in that day were fond of spelling. They used to hold meetings at night to spell. They called these "spelling schools." People had not found out how to burn ker-o-sene oil in lamps then. They used candles. But poor people like the Gree-leys could not afford to burn many candles. Hor-ace gathered pine knots to read by at night. [Illustration: Greeley Reading] He would light a pine knot Then he would throw it on top of the large log at the back of the fire. This would make a bright flick-er-ing light. Horace would lay all the books he wanted on the hearth. Then he would lie down by them. His head was toward the fire. His feet were drawn up out of the way. When he got to bed, he would say his lessons over to his brother. He would tell his brother what he had been reading. But his brother would fall asleep while Horace was talking. But the gen-tle-man said, "That boy will be a great man some day." This made all the com-pa-ny laugh. It seemed funny that anybody should think of this poor boy becoming a great man. But it came true. The poor white-headed boy came to be a great man. HORACE GREELEY LEARNING TO PRINT. Horace Greeley had always wanted to be a printer. He liked books and papers. He thought it would be a fine thing to learn to make them. "I heard that you wanted a boy," Horace said. "Do you want to learn to print?" Mr. Bliss said. "But a printer ought to know a good many things," said Mr. Bliss. "Have you been to school much?" "No," said Horace. "I have not had much chance at school. But I have read some." "What have you read?" asked Mr. Bliss. "Well, I have read some his-to-ry, and some travels, and a little of everything." Mr. Bliss had ex-am-ined a great many schoolteachers. He liked to puzzle teachers with hard questions. He thought he would try Horace with these. But the gawky boy answered them all. This tow-headed boy seemed to know everything. Mr. Bliss took a piece of paper from his pocket. He wrote on it, "Guess we'd better try him." He gave this paper to Horace, and told him to take it to the printing office. Horace, with his little white hat and strange ways, went into the printing office. The boys in the office laughed at him. But the foreman said he would try him. That night the boys in the office said to Mr. Bliss, "You are not going to take that tow head, are you?" Mr. Bliss said, "There is something in that tow-head. You boys will find it out soon." [Illustration: Greeley setting Type] A few days after this, Horace came to East Poult-ney to begin his work. He carried a little bundle of clothes tied up in a hand-ker-chief. Day after day he worked, and said nothing. The other boys joked him. But he did not seem to hear them. He only kept on at his work. They threw type at him. But he did not look up. After that, the boys did not try to tease him any more. They all liked the good-hearted Horace. And everybody in the town wondered that the boy knew so much. Horace's father had moved away to Penn-syl-va-ni-a. Horace sent him all the money he could spare. He soon became a good printer. He started a paper of his own. He became a famous news-paper man. Little Dor-o-thy Dix was poor. Her father did not know how to make a living. Her mother did not know how to bring up her children. The father moved from place to place. Sometimes he printed little tracts to do good. But he let his own children grow up poor and wretched. Dor-o-thy wanted to learn. She wanted to become a teacher. She wanted to get money to send her little brothers to school. She soon went back to her grand-mother. She went to school again. Then she taught school. She soon had a school in her grandmother's house. It was a very good school. Many girls were sent to her school. Miss Dix was often ill. But when she was well enough, she worked away. She was able to send her brothers to school until they grew up. Besides helping her brothers, she wanted to help other poor children. She started a school for poor children in her grandmother's barn. After a while she left off teaching. She was not well. She had made all the money she needed. Miss Dix tried to get the man-a-gers to put up a stove in the room. But they would not do it. Then she went to the court. She told the judge about it. The judge said that the insane people ought to have a fire. He made the man-a-gers put up a stove in the place where they were kept. Miss Dix got new laws made about the insane. She per-suad-ed the States to build large houses for keeping the insane. She spent most of her life at this work. The Civil War broke out. There were many sick and wounded soldiers to be taken care of. All of the nurses in the hos-pi-tals were put under Miss Dix. She worked at this as long as the war lasted. Then she spent the rest of her life doing all that she could for insane people. THE AUTHOR OF "LITTLE WOMEN." Lou-i-sa Al-cott was a wild little girl. When she was very little, she would run away from home. She liked to play with beggar children. Little Lou-i-sa grew sleepy. She laid her head on the curly head of the big dog. Then she fell asleep. Lou-i-sa's father and mother could not find her. They sent out the town crier to look for her. When the crier had said that, he heard a small voice coming out of the darkness. It said, "Why, dat's me." The crier went to the voice, and found Louisa sitting by the big dog on the door-step. The next day she was tied to the sofa to punish her for running away. Other girls liked the little dresses that she made. They came to her to get dresses made for their dolls. They liked the little doll's hats she made better than all. Louisa chased the chickens to get soft feathers for these hats. She turned the old fairy tales into little plays. The children played these plays in the barn. A little kingdom I possess Where thoughts and feelings dwell, And very hard I find the task Of gov-ern-ing it well. For passion tempts and troubles me, A wayward will misleads, And sel-fish-ness its shadow casts On all my words and deeds. The Al-cott family were very poor. Louisa made up her mind to do something to make money when she got big. She did not like being so very poor. A SONG FROM THE SUDS. Queen of my tub, I merrily sing, While the white foam rises high, And stur-di-ly wash and rinse and wring, And fasten the clothes to dry; Then out in the free fresh air they swing, Under the sunny sky. I am glad a task to me is given, To labor at day by day; For it brings me health and strength and hope, And I cheer-ful-ly learn to say, "Head you may think, Heart you may feel, But Hand you shall work alway." Louisa grew to be a woman at last. She went to nurse soldiers in the war. She wrote books. When she wrote the book called "Little Women," all the young people were de-light-ed. What she had said to the crow came true at last. She became famous. She had money enough to make the family com-fort-a-ble. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Stories of Great Americans for Little Americans, by Edward Eggleston	redpajama-book	19,922
Produced by Eric Eldred, Jerry Fairbanks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team S. M. EDWARDES, C.V.O. The various chapters of this book originally appeared under the _nom-de-plume_ of "Etonensis" in the _Times of India_, to the proprietors of which journal I am indebted for permission to publish them in book-form, They cannot claim to be considered critical studies, but are merely a brief record of persons whom I have met and of things that I have seen during several years' service as a Government official in Bombay. In placing them before the public in their present form, I can only hope that they will be found of brief interest by those unacquainted with the inner life of the City of Bombay. I. The Spirit of Chandrabai III. Shadows of Night IV. The Birthplace of Shivaji V. The Story of Imtiazan VI. The Bombay Mohurrum VII. The Possession of Afiza IX. The Ganesh Caves X. A Bhandari Mystery XI. Scenes in Bombay XII. Citizens of Bombay XIII. The Sidis of Bombay XIV. A Konkan Legend XVI. Governor and Koli XVII. The Tribe Errant XVIII. The Pandu-Lena Caves [Illustration: The Spirit of Chandrabai] THE SPIRIT OF CHANDRABAI. A STUDY IN PROTECTIVE MAGIC. "Let the spirit appear" he cries, as he blows a cloud of incense into Krishna's face. The medium quivers like an aspen leaf; the dead woman's brothers crawl forward and lay their foreheads upon his feet; he shakes more violently as the spirit takes firmer hold upon him; and then with a wild shriek he rolls upon the ground and lies, rent with paroxysms, his face stretched upwards to the winnowing-fan. Louder and louder crash the cymbals; louder rises the chant. "Who art thou?" cries Rama. "I am Chandrabai," comes the answer. "Hast thou any wish unfulfilled?" asks the midwife. "Nay, all my wishes have been met," cries the spirit through the lips of the medium, "I am in very truth Chandrabai, who was, but am not now, of this world." As the last words die away the men dash forward, twist Krishna's hair into a knot behind, dress him, as he struggles, in the female attire which the midwife has been guarding, and place in his hand a wooden slab rudely carved into the semblance of a woman and child. "Away, away to the underworld" chant the singers; and at the command Krishna wrenches himself free from the men who are holding him and dashes out with a yell into the night. "Binishin bar sari juyo guzari umr bibin kin isharat zi jahani guzeran mara bas." [Illustration: A Millhand.] [Illustration: A Marwari selling Batassa.] [Illustration: The seller of "Malpurwa jaleibi".] [Illustration: A Koli woman.] [Illustration: The "Pan" Seller.] "Kibla muaf karta hai, par Kutb hargiz nahin!" The Kibla forgives, but the Kutb never! [Illustration: An Opium Club.] [Illustration: A "Madak-Khana."] THE BIRTHPLACE OF SHIVAJI. THE STORY OF IMTIAZAN. The sight of the weeping child touches a chord in the heart of Gowhar Jan, the famous dancing girl of Lahore. She takes the orphan home, christens her Imtiazan, and does her best to blunt the evil memories of her desertion. Gowhar Jan did her duty by the child according to her lights. She engaged the best "Gawayyas" to teach her music, the best "Kath-thaks" to teach her dancing, the best "Ustads" to teach her elocution and deportment, and the best of Munshis to ground her in Urdu and Persian _belles lettres_; so that when Imtiazan reached her fifteenth year her accomplishments were noised abroad in the bazaar. Beautiful too she was, with the fair complexion of the border-races, slightly aquiline nose, large dark eyes and raven hair, the latter unadorned and drawn simply back in accordance with the custom of her mother's people which forbids the unmarried girl to part her hair or deck it with flowers. Her Indo-Punjabi dress, the loose many-folded trousers, the white bodice and the silver-bordered scarf of rose pink--but added to her charm. Yet was Gowhar Jan troubled at heart, for the girl was in her eyes too modest, too retiring, and cared not at all whether her songs and dances found favour with the rich landholders, Sikh Sardars and the sons of Babu millionaires, who crowded to Gowhar Jan's house. "Alas," sighed Gowhar Jan, "she will never be like Chanda Malika, gay, witty and famous for generations; her education has been wasted, and her name will die!" But Imtiazan only pouted and answered; "I care not to throw good saffron before asses!" [Illustration: Imtiazan.] THE BOMBAY MOHURRUM. "Alif for Allah; B for Bismillah; J for my life. An offering is this to Husein." "Bano said unto Sakinah. Have you heard that your father is dead?" This party in turn yields place to a band of pipers and drummers, accompanying men who whirl torches round their head so skilfully that the eye sees nought but a moving circle of flame; and they are succeeded by Musulman men and boys, disguised as Konkani fishermen and fishwives, who chant elegies to Husein and keep the rhythm by clapping their hands or by swinging to and fro small earthen pots pierced to serve as a lamp. The last troupe, dressed in long yellow shirts and loose yellow turbans, represent Swami Narayan priests and pass in silence before the glittering simulacrum of the Martyr's tomb. THE POSSESSION OF AFIZA. [Illustration: Possession of Afiza.] [Illustration: A Bhandari Mystery.] Nearly all the Mahomedan inhabitants of Bombay observe as a general picnic day the last Wednesday of the month of 'Safar' which is known as 'Akhiri Char Shamba' or 'Chela Budh'; for on this day the Prophet, convalescent after a severe illness, hied him to a pleasance on the outskirts of Mecca. During the greater portion of the previous night the women of the house are astir, preparing sweetmeats and salt cakes, tinging their hands with henna, bathing and donning new clothes and ornaments; and when morning comes, all Mahomedans, rich and poor, set forth for the open grounds of Malabar Hill, Mahalakshmi, Mahim or Bandora, the Victoria Gardens, or the ancient shrine of Mama Hajiyani (Mother Pilgrim) which crowns the north end of the Hornby Vellard. To the Victoria Gardens the tram cars bring hundreds of holidaymakers, most of whom remain in the outer or free zone of the gardens and help to illumine its grass plots and shady paths with the green, blue, pink and yellow glories of their silk attire. Here a group of men and women are enjoying a cold luncheon; there a small party of Memons are discussing affairs over their 'bidis' while on all sides are children playing with the paper toys, rattles and tin wheels which the hawkers offer at such seasons of merry-making. Coal-black Africans, ruddy Pathans and yellow Bukharans squat on the open turf to the west of the Victoria and Albert Museum; Mughals in long loose coats and white arch-fronted turbans wander about smoking cigars and chatting volubly, while Bombay Memons in gold turbans or gold-brocade skullcaps, embroidered waistcoats and long white shirts stand on guard over their romping children. Who does not know the Mahomedan quarters of the city of Bombay, with their serried ranks of many-storeyed mansions extending as far as eye can reach? Stand with me at sundown opposite the gateway of the mosque and watch the stream of worshippers flowing in through the portals of the house of prayer. Here are the rich purse-proud merchants of Persia, clad in their long black coats; there the full-bearded Maulavis. Behind them come smart sepoys hailing from Northern India, golden-turbaned, shrewd-eyed Memon traders and ruddy-complexioned close-bearded Jats from Multan. Nor is our friend the dark Sidi wanting to the throng: and he is followed by the Arab with his well-known head-gear, by the handsome Afghan, and by the broadshouldered native of Bokhara in his heavy robes. Mark too the hurried steps of the brocade-worker from Surat, and note the contrast of colour as the grimy fitter or black-smith passes through the porch side by side with the spotlessly-clad Konkani Musulman, whose high features and olive skin betray his Indo-Arab origin. Rich and poor, clean and unclean, all pass in to prayer. As the concourse increases the shoes of the Faithful gather in heaps along the inner edge of the porch: only the newer shoes are permitted to lie, sole against sole, close to their owners, each of whom after washing in the shaded cistern takes his place in the hindmost line of worshippers. [Illustration: An Arab.] THE MEMON AND RANGARI. [Illustration: A Bombay Memon.] THE SIDIS OF BOMBAY. [Illustration: Sidis of Bombay.] "How much" you ask him "do you charge per cup?" [Illustration: Parashurama and the Chitpavans.] Thus perhaps the legend of storm and shipwreck is not false, but records in poetic diction the arrival on these shores of men who presumably had in some degree inherited the genius of the most famous and most civilized country of prehistoric ages, and who had by long trafficking in dangerous waters and by the hardships of long migration acquired that self-reliance and love of mastery which has been bequeathed almost unchanged to their Brahmanised descendants. The Chitpavans were indeed the children of the storm, and something of the spirit of the storm lives in them still. Some trace is theirs of the old obstinacy which taught those pale ancestors to fight against insuperable forces until they were cast naked and broken upon the seashore. And peradventure the secret lesson of the ancient folk-tale is this, that the God of the Axe, despite the curse, is still at hand to help them along the path to new birth, provided always that their cause is fair, that they invoke not his aid for trivial or unjust ends, and that they have been truly purified in the pyres of affliction. "The singer only sang the Joy of Life, For all too well, alas! the singer knew, How hard the daily toil, how keen the strife, How salt the falling tear, the joys how few." [Illustration: Nur Jan.] "Yea, Saheb, you have rightly spoken. I come of a good family, and as a child I was sent to school in Calcutta and learned your English tongue. When I grew to girlhood I determined to study medicine and serve the women of my faith as a doctor. But barely had I commenced the preliminary lessons of compounding when the trouble came upon our house, and my sister and I were brought away from the old home to Bombay and bidden to find the wherewithal to support those to whom we owed respect and affection. Saheb, with us the word of near relations is law, and their support a sacred duty. What could we, gently-bred Mahomedan girls, do in a strange city? We had always liked singing and had taken lessons in our home; and it seemed that herein lay the only chance of supporting ourselves and others. Therefore, not without hesitation, not without tears, we bade adieu to the 'pardah' of our people and cast the pearls of our singing before the public. Thus has it been since that day. My sister by good-hap has married well and regained the shelter of the curtain: but I am still unwed and must sing until the end comes." A FISHERMAN'S LEGEND. The story, which the Kolis relate with pride, refers to the great wealth of Zuran Patel, the ancestor of Mahadev Dharma Patel who at this moment is the headman and leader of the Christian Kolis of Bombay. [Illustration: A Koli.] [Illustration: A Deccani Fruit-seller.] [Illustration: The Coffee-seller.] THE PANDU-LENA CAVES. "Jahan jahan mukam rahe, amne jhulakiram rahe, Safarse ghar ko to phire, Aman-chaman khuda rakhe." At length we reached a small doorway which opened into a cavern black as Erebus. For a moment we paused undecided; and then out of the darkness crawled an aged Mahomedan bearing a tiny cocoanut-oil lamp. Lifting it above his head he pointed silently to a rickety staircase in the far corner, up which we groped our way with the help of a rope pendent from an upper beam. Up and up we mounted, now round a sharp corner, now down a narrow passage: the stairs swayed and shook; the air was heavy with a mixture of frankincense and sullage; until at last we crawled through a trap-door that opened as by magic, and found ourselves at our journey's end. [Illustration: Fateh Muhammad] Perchance she also, like Fateh Muhammad's guests, had caught a message of good hap from out the darkness. And so back to the light and the noise of the City's greatest artery. End of Project Gutenberg's By-Ways of Bombay, by S. M. Edwardes, C.V.O.	redpajama-book	2,746
Produced by David Starner, Beth Trapaga and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. Scans from Biblioteca de la Universitat de Barcelona _ENGLISH_ HOUSEWIFRY With CUTS for the orderly placing the DISHES and COURSES; also Bills of Fare for every Month in the Year; and an alphabetical INDEX to the Whole. THE RETURNS OF SPIRITUAL COMFORT and GRIEF, In a Devout SOUL. Represented by an Intercourse of Letters to the Right Honourable Lady LETICE, Countess of Falkland, in her Life Time. Publish'd for the Benefit and Ease of all who labour under Spiritual Afflictions. It is not doubted but the candid Reader will find the following BOOK in correspondence with the title, which will supersede the necessity of any other recommendation that might be given it. As the complier of it engaged in the undertaking at the instance and importunity of many persons of eminent account and distinction, so she can truly assure them, and the world, that she has acquitted herself with the utmost care and fidelity. _ENGLISH_ HOUSEWIFRY. Cut the hare into small pieces, wash it and put it into a stew-pan, with a knuckle of veal; put in it a gallon of water, a little salt, and a handful of sweet herbs; let it stew 'till the gravy be good; fry a little of the hare to brown the soop; you may put in it some crusts of write bread among the meat to thicken the soop; put it into a dish, with a little stew'd spinage, crisp'd bread, and a few forc'd-meat balls. Garnish your dish with boil'd spinage and turnips, cut it in thin square slices. You may stew part of a brisket, or an ox cheek the same way. You may make olives of veal the same way. Take your beef steaks and beat them with the back of a knife, fry them in butter over a quick fire, that they may be brown before they be too much done; when they are enough put them into an earthen pot whilst you have fry'd them all; pour out the fat, and put them into your pan with a little gravy, an onion shred very small, a spoonful of catchup and a little salt; thicken it with a little butter and flour, the thickness of cream. Garnish your dish with pickles. Beef-steaks are proper for a side-dish. Take your beef-steaks and beat them with the back of a knife, strow them over with a little pepper and salt, lay them on a grid-iron over a clear fire, turning 'em whilst enough; set your dish over a chafing-dish of coals, with a little brown gravy; chop an onion or Shalot as small as pulp, and put it amongst the gravy; (if your steaks be not over much done, gravy will come therefrom;) put it on a dish and shake it all together. Garnish your dish with shalots and pickles. This is proper for a side-dish at noon, or a bottom-dish at night. You may do a shoulder of mutton the same way, only boil the blade-bone, and lie in the middle. Take a loyn of mutton, cut off the thin part, then cut the rest into steaks, and flat them with a bill, season them with a little pepper and salt, fry them in butter over a quick fire; as you fry them put them into a stew-pan or earthen-pot, whilst you have fried them all; then pour the fat out of the pan, put in a little gravy, and the gravy that comes from the steaks, with a spoonful of claret, an anchovy, and an onion or a shalot shred; shake up the steaks in the gravy, and thicken it with a little flour; so serve them up. Garnish your dish with horse radish and shalots. This is proper for a top dish either at noon or night. Take a neck of veal, cut it in joints, and flat them as before, and cut off the ends of the long bones; season them with a little pepper, salt and nutmeg, broil them on a gridiron, over a slow fire; when they are enough, serve them up with brown gravy sauce and forc'd-meat-balls. Garnish your dish with lemon. Take a neck of veal and cut it in slices, flatten them as before, and cut off the ends of the long bones; season the cutlets with pepper and salt, and dridge over them some flour; fry them in butter over a quick fire; when they are enough put from them the fat they were fried in, and put to them a little small gravy, a spoonful of catchup, a spoonful of white wine or juice of lemon, and grate in some nutmeg; thicken them with flour and butter, so serve them up. Garnish your dish as before. Garnish your dish with lemon and pickle. It is proper for a side or middle dish, either for noon or night. Garnish your dish with pickles and lemon. Garnish your dish with sippets, lemon, and a few pickled mushrooms. Fry your veal, and when fried put in a little water, an anchovy, a few sweet herbs, a little onion, nutmeg, a little lemon-peel shred small, and a little white wine or ale, then shake it up with a little butter and flour, with some cockles and capers. When your lamb is boil'd lay it in the dish, and pour upon it a little parsley, butter and green gooseberries coddled, then lay your fried lamb round it; take some small asparagus and cut it small like peas, and boil it green; when it is boil'd drain it in a cullender, and lay it round your lamb in spoonfuls. Garnish your dish with gooseberries, and heads of asparagus in lumps. This is proper for a bottom dish. When your lamb is boil'd pour over it parsley and butter, with coddled gooseberries, so lay the chickens round your lamb, and pour over the chickens a little white fricassy sauce. Garnish your dish with sippets and lemon. This is proper for a top dish. Take a pig about a month old and dress it, lay it down to the fire, when the skin begins to harden you must take it off by pieces, and when you have taken all the skin off, draw it and when it is cold cut it in quarters and lard it with parsley; then roast it for use. Garnish your dish with sippets and lemon. When you have wash'd the hare, nick the legs thro' the joints, and skewer them on both sides, which will keep her from drying in the roasting; when you have skewer'd her, put the pudding into her belly, baste her with nothing but butter: put a little in the dripping pan; you must not baste it with the water at all: when your hare is enough, take the gravy out of the dripping pan, and thicken it up with a little flour and butter for the sauce. _How to make a_ Pudding _for the_ Hare. Garnish your dish with crisp parsley. Garnish your dish with sippets and lemon. This is proper for a side-dish. _To make Sauce for the_ CHICKENS. Take the necks, gizzards and livers, boil them in water, when they are enough strain off the gravy, and put to it a spoonful of oyster-pickle; take the livers, break them small, mix a little gravy, and rub them through a hair-sieve with the back of a spoon, then put to it a spoonful of cream, a little lemon and lemon-peel grated; thicken it up with butter and flour. Let your sauce be no thicker than cream, which pour upon your chickens. Garnish your dish with sippets, mushrooms, and slices of lemon. They are proper for a side-dish or a top-dish either at noon or night. When your turkey is dress'd and drawn, truss her, cut off her feet, take down the breast-bone with a knife, and sew up the skin again; stuff the breast with a white stuffing. Garnish your dish with slices of lemon. Take a large turkey and truss it; take down the breast-bone, and stuff it in the breast with some stuffing, as you did the roast turkey, lard it with bacon, then rub the skin of the turkey with the yolk of an egg, and strow over it a little nutmeg, pepper, salt, and a few bread-crumbs, then put it into a copper-dish and fend it to the oven; when you dish it up make for the turkey brown gravy-sauce; shred into your sauce a few oysters and mushrooms; lay round artichoke-bottoms fry'd, stew'd pallets, forc'd-meat-balls, and a little crisp bacon. Garnish your dish with pickled mushrooms, and slices of lemon. This is a proper dish for a remove. Take a turkey, bone her as you did for the pie, and season it very well in the inside and outside with mace, nutmeg, pepper and salt, then put it into a pot that you design to keep it in, put over it a pound of butter, when it is baked draw from it the gravy, and take off the fat, then squeeze it down very tight in the pot; and to keep it down lay upon it a weight; when it's cold take part of the butter that came from it, and clarify a little more with it to cover your turkey, and keep it in a cool place for use; you may put a fowl in the belly if you please. Ducks or geese are potted the same way. This is proper for a side dish. This is proper at noon for a side-dish. Take your pigeons, season and stuff them, flat the breast-bone, and truss them up as you would do for baking, dredge them over with a little flour, and fry them in butter, turning them round till all sides be brown, then put them into a stew-pan with as much brown gravy as will cover them, and let them stew whilst your pigeons be enough; then take part of the gravy, an anchovy shred, a little catchup, a small onion, or a shalot, and a little juice of lemon for sauce, pour it over your pigeons, and lay round them forc'd-meat-balls and crisp bacon. Garnish your dish with crisp parsley and lemon. Take your pigeons, and when you have drawn and truss'd them up, break the breast bone, and lay them in milk and water to make them white, tie them in a cloth and boil them in milk and water; when you dish them up put to them white fricassy sauce, only adding a few shred mushrooms. Garnish with crisp parsley and sippets. Take your pigeons and skewer them with their feet cross over the breast, to stand up; season them with pepper and salt, and roast them; so put them into your pot, setting the feet up; when they are cold cover them up with clarified butter. They are proper for a side-dish. Take the whitest seam tripes you can get and cut them in long pieces, put them into a stew-pan with a little good gravy, a few bread-crumbs, a lump of butter, a little vinegar to your taste, and a little mustard if you like it; shake it up altogether with a little shred parsley. Garnish your dish with sippets. This is proper for a side-dish. This is proper for a side-dish in lent or any other time. Take a little gravy, pour it into a little pewter dish, and set it over a stove, when it is hot break in as many eggs as will cover the dish bottom, keep pouring the gravy over them with a spoon 'till they are white at the top, when they are enough strow over them a little salt; fry some square sippets of bread in butter, prick them with the small ends upward, and serve them up. Take the flesh of a hare after it is skined, and string it: take a pound of beef-suet or marrow shred small, with sweet-marjoram, parsley and shalots, take the hare, cut it in pieces, season it with mace, pepper, salt and nutmeg, then bake it either in cold or hot paste, and when it is baked, open it and put to it some melted butter. This is proper for a bottom dish at a grand entertainment. When you have stuffed your veal, strow some of the ingredients over it; when it is roasted make your sauce of what drops from the meat, put an anchovy in water, and when dissolved pour it into the dripping-pan with a large lump of butter and oysters: toss it up with flour to thicken it. It is proper for a top or bottom dish either summer or winter. Boil, blanch, and split your tongues, season them with a little pepper and salt, then dip them in egg, strow over them a few bread-crumbs, and broil them whilst they be brown; serve them up with a little gravy and butter. This has been often taken for real Brawn. Take the kidney of a loyn of veal before it be roasted, cut it in thin slices, season it with mace, pepper and salt, and make your pattees; lay in every patty a slice, and either bake or fry them. You may make marrow pattees the same way. _To make_ SAUCE _for the_ TONGUES. You may bake partridge the same way. Take your pigeons and bone them; you must begin to bone them at the neck and turn the skin downwards, when they are boned season them with pepper, salt and nutmeg, sew up both ends, and boil them in water and white wine vinegar, a few bay leaves, a little whole pepper and salt; when they are enough take them out of the pickle, and boil it down with a little more salt, when it is cold put in the pigeons and keep them for use. They are proper for a side-dish. Take the side of a middling salmon, and cut off the head, take out all the bones and the outside, season it with mace, nutmeg, pepper and salt, roll it tight up in a cloth, boil it, and bind it up with pickle; it will take about an hour boiling; when it is boiled bind it tight again, when cold take it very carefully out of the cloth and bind it about with filleting; you must not take off the filleting but as it is eaten. _To make_ PICKLE _to keep it in_. You may collar pike the same way. It is proper for a side dish, either for noon or night. This will make cheese-cakes as well as a pudding. You may lay them round your mutton, or they are proper for a side-dish. Take a good fowl, pull and draw it, then slit the skin down the back, take the flesh from the bones, and mince it very well, mix it with a little beef-suet, shred a jill of large oysters, chop a shalot, a little grated bread, and some sweet herbs, mix all together, season it with nutmeg, pepper and salt, make it up with yolks of eggs, put it on the bones and draw the skin over it, sew up the back, cut off the legs, and put the bones as you do a fowl for boiling, tie the fowl up in a cloth; an hour will boil it. For sauce take a few oysters, shred them, and put them into a little gravy, with a lump of butter, a little lemon-peel shred and a little juice, thicken it up with a little flour, lie the fowl on the dish, and pour the sauce upon it; you may fry a little of the forc'd-meat to lay round. Garnish your dish with lemon; you may set it in the oven if you have convenience, only rub over it the yolk of an egg and a few bread crumbs. You may do a leg of mutton the same way. This is proper for a side-dish either for noon or night. Take the liver and chop it small with some thyme, parsley, suet, crumbs of bread mixt, with grated nutmeg, pepper, salt, an egg, a little fat bacon and lemon-peel; you must make the composition very stiff, lest it should dissolve, and you lose your pudding. They are proper either for a side-dish or mid-dish. You may make cockle loaves or mushroom-loaves the same way. Case and clean the eels, season them with a little nutmeg, pepper and salt, cut them in long pieces; you must make your pie with hot butter paste, let it be oval with a thin crust; lay in your eels length way, putting over them a little fresh butter; so bake them. Eel pies are good, and eat very well with currans, but if you put in currans you must not use any black pepper, but a little Jamaica pepper. Take about a jill of white wine and verjuice mixed, make it very hot, beat the yolk of an egg very well, and then mix them together as you would do mull'd ale; you must sweeten it very well, because there is no sugar in the pie. This caudle will do for any other sort of pie that is sweet. Make a little shell-paste, roll it, and line your tins, prick them in the inside, and so bake them; when you serve 'em up put in any sort of sweet-meats, what you please. You may have a different sort every day, do but keep your shells bak'd by you. Take a quartern of flour or more if you have occasion, and to every quartern of flour put a pound of butter, and a little salt, knead it with boiling water, then work it very well, and let it lie whilst it is cold. This paste is good enough for a goose pie, or any other standing-pie. You may do scate the same way, and in my opinion it eats more like sturgeon. Take the largest eels you can get, skin and split them down the belly, take out the bones, season them with a little mace, nutmeg and salt; begin at the tail and roll them up very tight, so bind them up in a little coarse inkle, boil it in salt and water, a few bay leaves, a little whole pepper, and a little alegar or vinegar; it will take an hour boiling, according as your roll is in bigness; when it is boiled you must tie it and hang it up whilst it be cold, then put it into the liquor that it was boiled in, and keep it for use. SAUCE _for the_ COD'S HEAD. _Another_ SAUCE _for a_ COD'S HEAD. If you have not the convenience of stewing them, you may broil them before a fire, only adding the same sauce. Take your eels, case and clean them, season them with nutmeg, pepper and salt, skewer them round, broil them before the fire, and baste them with a little butter; when they are almost enough strinkle them over with a little shred parsley, and make your sauce of a little gravy, butter, anchovy, and a little oyster pickle if you have it; don't pour the sauce over your eels, put it into a china bason, and set it in the middle of your dish. Garnish with crisp parsley, and serve them up. They are very proper to lie about either stew'd oysters, or any other fish, or made dishes. They are proper for either a side-dish or middle-dish. Take fresh herrings, cut off their heads, open and wash them very clean, season them with salt, black pepper, and Jamaica pepper, put them into a pot, cover them with white wine vinegar and water, of each an equal quantity, and set them in a slow oven to bake; tie the pot up close and they will keep a year in the pickle. They are good for fish-sauce, or any other whilst they are fresh. The gravy of all sorts of fish is a great addition to your sauce, if the fish be sweet. It is proper to lie about any other dish. This is proper for a side-dish either at noon or night. Take the stalks of angelica boil and green them very well, put to every pound of pulp a pound of loaf sugar beaten very well, and when you think it is beaten enough, lay them in what fashion you please on glasses, and as they candy turn them. Take rasberries, bruise them, put 'em in a pan on a quick fire whilst the juice be dried up, then take the same weight of sugar as you have rasberries, and set them on a slow fire, let them boil whilst they are pretty stiff; make them into cakes, and dry them near the fire or in the sun. They are proper to eat with chocolate. You may make hartshorn jelly the same way. You may make rice-custard the same way. Take a little good gravy, a little butter, and a few scalded gooseberries, mix all together, and put it on the disk with your goose. Take the juice of sorrel, a little butter, and a few scalded gooseberries, mix them together, and sweeten it to your taste; you must not let it boil after you put in the sorrel, if you do it will take off the green. You must put this sauce into a bason. This is proper for a side-dish either for noon or night. They are proper for a side dish either noon or night. Take artichokes, and order them the same way as you did for frying, have ready in a stew-pan a few morels and truffles, stewed in brown gravy, so put in your artichokes, and give them a shake altogether in your stew-pan, and serve them up hot, with sippets round them. Take the largest artichokes you can get, when they are at their full growth, boil them as you would do for eating, pull off the leaves and take out the choke; cut off the stalk as close as you can, lie them on a tin dripping-pan, or an earthen dish, set them in a slow oven, for if your oven be too hot it will brown them; you may dry them before the fire if you have conveniency; when they are dry put them in paper bags, and keep them for use. You must stew them the day before you use them. This is proper for a supper. Sometimes a less quantity of isinglass will do, according to the goodness; Let it be the whitest and clearest you can get. You must make it the day before you want it for use. Take brocoli when it is seeded, or at any other time; take off all the low leaves of your stalks and tie them up in bunches as you do asparagus, cut them the same length you peel your stalks; cut them in little pieces, and boil them in salt and water by themselves; you must let your water boil before you put them in; boil the heads in salt and water, and let the water boil before you put in the brocoli; put in a little butter; it takes very little boiling, and if it boil too quick it will take off all the heads; you must drain your brocoli through a sieve as you do asparagus; lie stalks in the middle, and the bunches round it, as you would do asparagus. This is proper for either a side-dish or a middle-dish. If your savoys be cabbag'd, dress off the out leaves and cut them in quarters; take off a little of the hard ends, and boil them in a large quantity of water with a little salt; when boiled drain them, lie them round your meat, and pour over them a little butter. Any thing will boil greener in a large quantity of water than otherwise. Take your sprouts, cut off the leaf and the hard ends, shred and boil them as you do other greens, not forgetting a little butter. Boil your parsnips, cut them in square long pieces about the length of your finger, dip them in egg and a little flour, and fry them a light brown; when they are fried dish them up, and grate over them a little sugar: You must have for the sauce a little white wine, butter, and sugar in a bason, and set in the middle of your dish. This is proper for a side-dish either for noon or night. Take a beast kidney with a little fat on, and stuff it all around, season it with a little pepper and salt, wrap it in a kell, and put it upon the spit with a little water in the dripping-pan; what drops from your kidney thicken with a lump of butter and flour for your sauce. _To fry your_ STUFFING. This is proper for either top or bottom dish. The same receipt will serve for curran wine the same way; let them be red currans. This is a pleasant dram, and ready for punch all the year. You may order isinglass this way to put into any sort of made wine. You may make white curran wine the same way, only leave out the rasps. The wine will keep many years and be exceeding rich. If you would have it taste of rasps, put to every gallon of wine a quart of rasps; if there be any grounds in the bottom of the cask, when you draw off your wine, drop them thro' a flannel bag, and then put it into your cask. Take mulberries when they are full ripe, break them very well with your hand, and drop them through a flannel bag; to every pound of juice take a pound of loaf sugar; beat it small, put to it your juice, so boil and skim it very well; you must skim it all the time it is boiling; when the skim has done rising it is enough; when it is cold bottle it and keep it for use. You may make rasberry syrrup the same way. You may distil the ingredients if you please. Take a quartern of fresh pick'd cowslips, put to 'em a quart of boiling water, let 'em stand all night, and the next morning drain it from the cowslips; to every pint of water put a pound of fine powder sugar, and boil it over a slow fire; skim it all the time in the boiling whilst the skim has done rising; then take it off, and when it is cold put it into a bottle, and keep it for use. This is a cooling punch to drink in a morning. Take gooseberries at their full growth, pick and beat them in a marble mortar, and squeeze them in a harden bag thro' a press, when you have done run it thro' a flannel bag, and then bottle it in small bottles; put a little oil on every bottle, so keep it for use. Gather your gooseberries when they are young, pick and bottle them, put in the cork loose, set them in a pan of water, with a little hay in the bottom, put them into the pan when the water is cold, let it stand on a slow fire, and mind when they are coddled; don't let the pan boil, if you do it will break the bottles: when they are cold fasten the cork, and put on a little rosin, so keep them for use. Take your damsins before they are full ripe, and gather them when the dew is off, pick of the stalks, and put them into dry bottles; don't fill your bottles over full, and cork them as close as you would do for ale, keep them in a cellar, and cover them over with sand. Take some sugar and clarify it till it comes to a candy-height, and keep it still boiling 'till it becomes thick, then stir it with a stick from you, and when it is at candy-height it will fly from your stick like flakes of snow, or feathers flying in the air, and till it comes to that height it will not fly, then you may use it as you please. They are very proper for tarts, or to eat as sweet-meats. Gather your berries when they are full grown, pick and bottle them, tie a paper over them, prick it with a pin, and set it in the oven; after you have drawn, and when they are coddled, take them out and when they are cold cork them up; rosin the cork over, and keep them for use. Take barberries when they are full ripe, and pick 'em from the stalk, put them into dry bottles, cork 'em up very close and keep 'em for use. You may do cranberries the same way. Take barberries when full ripe, strip them, take their weight in sugar, and as much water as will wet your sugar, give it a boil and skim it; then put in your berries, let them boil whilst they look clear and your syrrup thick, so put them into a pot, and when they are cold cover them up with a paper dip'd in brandy. Take damsins before they are full ripe, to every quart of damsins put a pound of powder sugar, put them into a pretty broad pot, a layer of sugar and a layer of damsins, tie them close up, set them in a slow oven, and let them have a heat every day whilst the syrrup be thick, and the damsins enough; render a little sheep suet and pour over them, to keep them for use. Take damsins before they be quite ripe, pick off the stalks, and put them into dry bottles; cork them as you would do ale, and keep them in a cool place for use. Take currans either red or white before they are thoroughly ripe; you must not take them from the stalk, make a pickle of salt and water and a little vinegar, so keep them for use. They are proper for garnishing. Take barberries and lie them in a pot, a layer of barberries and a layer of sugar, pick the seeds out before for garnishing sweet meats, if for sauces put some vinegar to them. Take green pease, green them as you do cucumbers, and scald them as you do other pickles made of salt and water; let it be always new pickle, and when you would use them boil them in fresh water. Take your fruit when they are green, and some fair water, set it on the fire, and when it is hot put in the apples, cover them close, but they must not boil, so let them stand till thye be soft, and there will be a thin skin on them, peel it off, and set them to cool, then put them in again, let them boil till they be very green, and keep them whole as you can; when you think them ready to take up, make your syrrup for them; take their weight in sugar, and when your syrrup is ready put the apples into it, and boil them very well in it; they will keep all the year near some fire. You may do green plumbs or other fruit. Take kidney beans when they are young, leave on both the ends, lay a layer of salt at the bottom of your pot, and then a layer of beans, and so on till your pot be full, cover them close at the top that they get no air, and set them in a cool place; before you boil them lay them in water all night, let your water boil when you put them in, (without salt) and put into it a lump of butter about the bigness of a walnut. Take angelica when it is young and tender take off all the leaves from the stalks, boil it in the pan with some of the leaves under, and some at the top, till it be so tender that you can peel off all the skin, then put it into some water again, cover it over with some of the leaves, let it simmer over a slow fire till it be green, when it is green drain the water from it, and then weigh it; to a pound of angelica take a pound of loaf sugar, put a pint of water to every pound of sugar, boil and skim it, and then put in your angelica; it will take a great deal of boiling in the sugar, the longer you boil it and the greener it will be, boil it whilst your sugar be candy height by the side of your pan; if you would have it nice and white, you must have a pound of sugar boiled candy height in a copper-dish or stew pan, set it over a chafing dish, and put it into your angelica, let it have a boil, and it will candy as you take it out. You may dry pippens the same way, only as your turn them grate over them a little sugar. Take the bullies that remained in the sieve, to every quart of it take a pound of sugar, and put it to your jam, boil it over a slow fire, put it in pots, and keep it for use. They are pretty to put in glasses, or to set in a desert. Take coddlins before they are over old, hang them over a slow fire to coddle, when they are soft peel off the skin, so put them into the water again, then cover 'em up with vine leaves, and let them hang over the fire whilst they be green; be sure you don't let them boil; lie them whole in the dish, and bake them in puff-paste, but leave no paste in the bottom of the dish; put to 'em a little shred lemon-peel, a spoonful of verjuice or juice of lemon, and as much sugar as you think proper, according to the largeness of your pie. Take sugar, sack and butter for sauce. You may make your syrrup either of violets or gilliflowers, only take the weight of sugar, let it stand on the fire till it be very hot, and the syrrup of violets must be only warm. Take the largest quinces when they are at full growth, pare them and throw them into water, when you have pared them cut them into quarters, and take out the cores; if you would have any whole you must take out the cores with a scope; save all the cores and parings, and put them in a pot or pan to coddle your quinces in, with as much water as will cover them, so put in your quinces in the middle of your paring into the pan, (be sure you cover them close up at the top) so let them hang over a slow fire whilst they be thoroughly tender, then take them out and weigh them; to every pound of quince take a pound of loaf sugar, and to every pound of sugar take a pint of the same water you coddled your quinces in, set your water and sugar over the fire, boil it and skim it, then put in your quinces, and cover it close up, set it over a slow fire, and let it boil whilst your quinces be red and the syrrup thick, then put them in pots for use, dipping a paper in brandy to lie over them. Take the largest shrimps you can get, pick them out of the shells, boil them in a jill of water, or as much water as will cover them according as you have a quantity of shrimps, strain them thro' a hair-sieve, then put to the liquor a little spice, mace, cloves, whole pepper, white wine, white wine vinegar, and a little salt to your taste; boil them very well together, when it is cold put in your shrimps, they are fit for use. Wash your muscles, put them into a pan as you do your cockles, pick them out of the shells, and wash them in the liquor; be sure you take off the beards, so boil them in the liquor with spices, as you do your cockles, only put to them a little more vinegar than you do to cockles. A spoonful of this pickle is good for fish-sauce, or a calf's head ash. You may make the same pickle for those, as you did for the green ones. You may do radish cods or brown buds the same way. Take mushrooms and wash them with a flannel, throw them into water as you wash them, only pick the small from the large, put them into a pot, throw over them a little salt, stop up your pot close with a cloth, boil them in a pot of water as you do currans when you make a jelly, give them a shake now and then; you may guess when they are enough by the quantity of liquor that comes from them; when you think they are enough strain from them the liquor, put in a little white wine vinegar, and boil it in a little mace, white pepper, Jamaica pepper, and slic'd ginger; then it is cold put it to the mushrooms, bottle 'em and keep 'em for use. They will keep this way very well, and have more of the taste of mushrooms, but they will not be altogether so white. You may pickle flaps the same way. You may throw a little colliflower among it, and it will turn red. Take barberries when full ripe, put them into a pot, boil a strong salt and water, then pour it on them boiling hot. Boil barley in water, strain it through a hair-sieve, then put the decoction into clarified sugar brought to a candy height, or the last degree of boiling, then take it off the fire, and let the boiling settle, then pour it upon a marble stone rubb'd with the oil of olives, when it cools and begins to grow hard, cut it into pieces, and rub it into lengths as you please. Grate an old penny loaf, put to it a like quantity of suet shred, a nutmeg grated, a little salt and some currans, then beat some eggs in a little sack and sugar, mix all together, and knead it as stiff as for manchet, and make it up in the form and size of a turkey's egg, but a little flatter; take a pound of butter, put it in a dish or stew-pan, and set it over a clear fire in a chafing-dish, and rub your butter about the dish till it is melted, then put your puddings in, and cover the dish, but often turn your puddings till they are brown alike, and when they are enough grate some sugar over them, and serve them up hot. A spoonful cold is an addition to sauce for either fish or flesh. This is proper for a side-dish either at noon or night. You may do apple cream the same way. Rasberries will not do this way. You may make your syrrup red with the juice of red plumbs. Serve it up with a little rose-water, sugar and butter for your sauce. Take apricocks when they are young and tender, coddle them a little, rub them with a coarse cloth to take off the skin, and throw them into water as you do them, and put them in the same water they were coddled in, cover them with vine leaves, a white paper, or something more at the top, the closer you keep them the sooner they are green; be sure you don't let them boil; when they are green weigh them, and to every pound of apricocks take a pound of loaf sugar, put it into a pan, and to every pound of sugar a jill of water, boil your sugar and water a little, and skim it, then put in your apricocks, let them boil together whilst your apricocks look clear, and your syrrup thick, skim it all the time it is boiling, and put them into a pot covered with a paper dip'd in brandy. You must not wash your mushrooms. When you have cleaned your mushrooms put them into a pot, and throw over them a handful of salt, and stop them very close with a cloth, and set them in a pan of water to boil about an hour, give them a shake now and then in the boiling, then take them out and drain the liquor from them, wipe them dry with a cloth, and put them up either in white wine vinegar or distill'd vinegar, with spices, and put a little oil on the top. They don't look so white this way, but they have more the taste of mushrooms. They are proper to lie about stew'd mushrooms or any made dish. _To make a_ FROTH _for them_. You must send up the mutton chops in the dish with the hotch-potch. When there are no pease to be had, you may put in the heads of asparagus, and if there be neither of these to be had, you may shred in a green savoy cabbage. This is a proper dish instead of soop. It is proper for either side-dish or top-dish. Garnish your dish with lemon and sippets, and serve it up hot. This is proper for either side-dish or top-dish, noon or night. Take quinces, pare and put them into water, save all the parings and cores, let 'em lie in the water with the quinces, set them over the fire with the parings and cores to coddle, cover them close up at the top with the parings, and lie over them either a dishcover or pewter dish, and cover them close; let them hang over a very slow fire whilst they be tender; but don't let them boil; when they are soft take them out of the water, and weigh your quinces, and to every pound put a pint of the same water they were coddled in (when strained) and put to your quinces, and to every pound of quinces put a pound of sugar; put them into a pot or pewter flagon, the pewter makes them a much better colour; close them up with a little coarse paste, and set them in a bread oven all night; if the syrrup be too thin boil it down, put it to your quinces, and keep it for use. You may either do it with powder sugar or loaf sugar. When you put them in the oven grate over them a little loaf sugar. You may make them without almonds, if you please. You may make a pudding of the same, only leave out the almonds. English Housewifry _improved_; A SUPPLEMENT TO MOXON'S COOKERY. Collected by a PERSON of JUDGMENT. SUPPLEMENT TO MOXON'S Cookery. The tongues being boil'd, put a lump of butter in a stew-pan, with parsley and green onions cut small; then split the tongues, but do not part them, and put them in the pan, season them with pepper, herbs, mace, and nutmeg; set them a moment on the fire, and strow crumbs of bread on them; let them be broil'd and dish them up, with a high gravy sauce. Make a strong essence of ham and veal, with a little mace; then lard the large oysters with a fine larding pin; put them, with as much essence as will cover them, into a stew-pan; let them stew and hour, or more, over a slow fire. They are used for garnishing, but when you make a dish of them, squeeze in a Seville orange. Put a little thyme and parsley in the inside of the partridges, season them with mace, pepper and salt; put them in the pot, and cover them with butter; when baked, take out the partridges, and pick all the meat from the bones, lie the meat in a pot (without beating) skim all the butter from the gravy, and cover the pot well with the butter. Trouts may be done the same way, only cut off their heads. Cut the tail of the lobster in square pieces, take the meat out of the claws, bruise the red part of the lobster very fine, stir it in a pan with a little butter, put some gravy to it; strain it off while hot, then put in the lobster with a little salt; make it hot, and send it up with sippets round your dish. Scald the feet till the skin will come off, then cut off the nails; stew them in a pot close cover'd set in water, and some pieces of fat meat till they are very tender; when you set them on the fire, put to them some whole pepper, onion, salt, and some sweet herbs; when they are taken out, wet them over with the yolk of an egg, and dridge them well with bread-crumbs; so fry them crisp. Sauce. Wine and sugar. Sauce. Wine and butter. Sauce. Wine and sugar. Sauce. Wine and butter. This will keep a fortnight. Take ripe apricocks, pare, stone, and beat them small, then boil them till they are thick, and the moisture dry'd up, then take them off the fire, and beat them up with searc'd sugar, to make them into pretty stiff paste, roll them, without sugar, the thickness of a straw; make them up in little knots in what form you please; dry them in a stove or in the sun. You may make jumballs of any sort of fruit the same way. When the barberries are full ripe, pull 'em off the stalk, put them in a pot, and boil them in a pan of water till they are soft, then pulp them thro' a hair-sieve, beat and searce the sugar, and mix as much of the searc'd sugar with the pulp, as will make it of the consistance of a light paste; then drop them with a pen-knife on paper (glaz'd with a slight stone) and set them within the air of the fire for an hour, then take them off the paper and keep them dry. A BILL of FARE FOR EVERY SEASON of the YEAR. [Illustration: _A_ SUPPER in _SUMMER_. [Illustration: _A_ DINNER in _SUMMER_. [Illustration: _A_ DINNER in _WINTER_. [Illustration: _A_ SUPPER in _WINTER_. [Illustration: _A_ DINNER in _SUMMER_. [Illustration: _A_ GRAND TABLE in _WINTER_. Neat's Tongue Pie, to make Nasturtian Buds to pickle End of Project Gutenberg's English Housewifery Exemplified, by Elizabeth Moxon	redpajama-book	10,179
E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION. DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE'S VILLA, CHISWICK. The lamented death of the Right Hon. George Canning has naturally excited the curiosity of our readers to the villa in which that eminent statesman breathed his last; and we have therefore obtained from our artist an original drawing, which has been taken since the melancholy event occurred, and from which we are now enabled to give the above correct and picturesque engraving. Near this is the tomb of Dr. Rose, many years distinguished as a critic in a respectable periodical publication. The house spider who spreads with so much care his beautiful nets for gnats, and moths, and smaller flies, finds alike his labour and his toils in vain to secure this rampaging rogue; and, indeed, when the turbulent blue-bottle chances, in his bouncing random flight, to get entangled in the glutinous meshes, he shakes and roars, and blusters so loudly, until he breaks away, that the spider affrighted, invariably takes advantage of his long legs to scamper off to his sanctum in the cracked wainscot--like some imbecile watchman, who fearing to encounter a tall inebriated bruiser, sneaks away with admirable discretion to the security of his snug box, praying the drunkard may speedily reel into another _beat_. William the Conqueror entertained the difficult project of totally abolishing the English language, and for that purpose, he ordered that in all schools throughout the kingdom, the youth should be instructed in the French tongue. Until the reign of Edward III. the pleadings in the supreme courts of judicature were performed in French, when it was appointed that the pleas should be pleaded in English; but that they should be entered or recorded in Latin. The deeds were drawn in the same language; the laws were composed in that idiom, and no other tongue was used at court. It became, says Hume, the language of all fashionable company; and the English themselves ashamed of their own country, affected to excel in that foreign dialect. At Athens, and even in France and England, formal and prepared pleadings were prohibited, and it was unlawful to amuse the court with long, artful harangues; only it was the settled custom here, in important matters, to begin the pleadings with a text out of the holy scriptures. It is of late years that eloquence was admitted to the bar. TRIAL AND EXECUTION. MY COMMON-PLACE BOOK, NOVEL WRITERS AND NOVEL READERS. If there be any evil in novels at all, it is when they take people from their business--when they occupy a mother's time to the neglect of her children--when they lead idle boys to neglect their lessons, and when they lead idle gentlefolks to fancy themselves employed, when they are only killing time. W.P.S. In this _flighty_ and _pigeoning age_, I would recommend a _pigeon-carrier-company_, whose shares might be _elevated_ to any _height_. The ancient term _tup_, for a ram, is in full use. Crone still signifies an old ewe. Of _crock_, I know nothing of the etymology, and little more of the signification, only that the London butchers of the old school, and some few of the present, call Wiltshire sheep horned _crocks_. I believe crock mutton is a term of inferiority. ANCIENT POWDER FLASK. (_To the Editor of the Mirror._) SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS CHARACTER OF THE SEPOYS. _London Weekly Review._ GOOD NIGHT TO THE SEASON. _New Monthly Magazine_. THE SELECTOR, AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS. FORM OF ANCIENT BOOKS, THEIR ILLUMINATIONS, &c. Few ancient books are altogether destitute of decorations; and many are splendidly adorned with pictorial ornaments. These consist either of flowery initials, grotesque cyphers, portraits, or even historical compositions. Sometimes diagrams, explanatory of the subjects mentioned by the author, are placed on the margin. Books written for the use of royal persons, or dignified ecclesiastics, usually contain the effigies of the proprietor, often attended by his family, and by some allegorical or celestial minister; while the humble scribe, in monkish attire, kneels and presents the book to his patron. SOUTHERN AFRICAN ELOQUENCE. _By the late Right Hon. G. Canning._ He did not hastily adopt a measure, nor hastily abandon it. The plan struck out by him for the preservation of Europe was the result of prophetic wisdom and profound policy. But though defeated in many respects by the selfish ambition and short-sighted imbecility of foreign powers, whose rulers were too venal or too weak to follow the flight of that mind which would have taught them to outwing the storm, the policy involved in it was still a secret operation on the conduct of surrounding states. His plans were full of energy, and the principles which inspired them looked beyond the consequences of the hour. In a period of change and convulsion, the most perilous in the history of Great Britain, when sedition stalked abroad, and when the emissaries of France and the abettors of her regicide factions formed a league powerful from their number, and formidable by their talent, in that awful crisis the promptitude of his measures saved his country. He knew nothing of that timid and wavering cast of mind which dares not abide by its own decision. He never suffered popular prejudice or party clamour to turn him aside from any measure which his deliberate judgment had adopted; he had a proud reliance on himself, and it was justified. Like the sturdy warrior leaning on his own battle, axe, conscious where his strength lay, he did not readily look beyond it. VERTIGO, OR GIDDINESS. _Vertigo_, or _giddiness_, though unattended with pain, is, in general, of a more dangerous nature than the severest headach. Vertigo consists in a disturbance of the _voluntary power_, and in some degree of _sensation_, especially of _vision_; and thus it shows itself to be an affection of the brain itself; while mere pain in the head does not necessarily imply this, it being for the most part an affection of the membranes only. In _vertigo_, objects that are fixed appear to be in motion, or to turn round, as the name implies. The patient loses his balance, and is inclined to fall down. It often is followed immediately by severe headach. _Vertigo_ is apt to recur, and thus often becomes frequent and habitual. After a time the mental powers become impaired, and complete idiocy often follows; as was the case in the celebrated Dean Swift. It frequently terminates in apoplexy or palsy, from the extension of disease in the brain. In this season of the year, a few hints on the temperature of the body prior to cold immersion, may not unaptly be furnished. It is commonly supposed, that if a person have made himself warm with walking, or any other exercise, he must wait till he becomes cooled before he should plunge into the cold water. Dr. Currie, however, has shown that this is an erroneous idea, and that in the earlier stages of exercise, before profuse perspiration has dissipated the heat, and fatigue debilitated the living power, nothing is more safe, according to his experience, than the cold bath. This is so true, that the same author constantly directed infirm persons to use such a degree of exercise before emersion, as might produce increased action of the vascular system, with some increase of heat; and thus secure a force of re-action under the shock, which otherwise might not always take place. The popular opinion, that it is safest to go perfectly cool into the water, is founded on erroneous notions, and is sometimes productive of injurious consequences. Thus, persons heated and beginning to perspire, often think it necessary to wait on the edge of the bath until they are perfectly cooled. USEFUL DOMESTIC HINTS Meat tainted to an extreme degree may be speedily restored by washing it in cold water, and afterwards in strong camomile tea; after which it may be sprinkled with salt, and used the following day; or if steeped and well washed in beer, it will make pure and sweet soup even after being fly-blown. Augustus gave an admirable example how a person who sends a challenge should be treated. When Marc Antony, after the battle of Actium, defied him to single combat, his answer to the messenger who brought it was, "Tell Marc Antony, if he be weary of life, there are other ways to end it; I shall not take the trouble of becoming his executioner." There is now living in Pontenovo, in Corsica, a shepherdess, who successively refused the hand of Augereau, then a corporal, and of Bernadotte, then a sergeant in that island. She little dreamt that she was declining to be a marechale of France or the queen of Sweden!	redpajama-book	1,899
E-text produced by Martin Schub A NARRATIVE OF THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF VENTURE, A NATIVE OF AFRICA, The following account of the life of VENTURE, is a relation of simple facts, in which nothing is in substance to what he relates himself. Many other interesting and curious passages of his life might have been inserted, but on account of the bulk to which they must necessarily have swelled this narrative, they were omitted. If any should suspect the truth of what is here related, they are referred to people now living who are acquainted with most of the facts mentioned in this narrative. The subject of the following pages, had he received only a common education, might have been a man of high respectability and usefulness; and had his education been suited to his genius, he might have been an ornament and an honor to human nature. It may perhaps, not be unpleasing to see the efforts of a great mind wholly uncultivated, enfeebled and depressed by slavery, and struggling under every disadvantage. The reader may here see a Franklin and a Washington, in a state of nature, or rather, in a state of slavery. Destitute as he is of all education, he still exhibits striking traces of native ingenuity and good sense. This narrative exhibits a pattern of honesty, prudence, and industry, to people of his own colour; and perhaps some white people would not find themselves degraded by imitating such an example. The following account is published in compliance with the earnest desire of the subject of it, and likewise a number of respectable persons who are acquainted with him. _Containing an account of his life, from his birth to the time of his leaving his native country._ He had scarcely returned to his nation with the message, before the whole of his people were obliged to retreat from their country, and come to my fathers dominions. _Containing an account of his life, from the time of his leaving Africa, to that of his becoming free._ When we arrived at Narragansett, my master went ashore in order to return a part of the way by land, and gave me the charge of the keys of his trunks on board the vessel, and charged me not to deliver them up to any body, not even to his father without his orders. To his directions I promised faithfully to conform. When I arrived with my master's articles at his house, my master's father asked me for his son's keys, as he wanted to see what his trunks contained. I told him that my master intrusted me with the care of them until he should return, and that I had given him my word to be faithful to the trust, and could not therefore give him or any other person the keys without my master's directions. He insisted that I should deliver him the keys, threatening to punish me if I did not. But I let him know that he should not have them say what he would. He then laid aside trying to get them. But notwithstanding he appeared to give up trying to obtain them from me, yet I mistrusted that he would take some time when I was off my guard, either in the day time or at night to get them, therefore I slung them around my neck, and in the day concealed them in my bosom, and at night I always lay with them under me, that no person might take them from me without being apprized of it. Thus I kept the keys from every body until my master came home. When he returned he asked where VENTURE was. As I was then within hearing, I came, said, here sir, at your service. He asked me for his keys, and I immediately took them off my neck and reached them out to him. He took them, stroked my hair, and commended me, saying in presence of his father that his young VENTURE was so faithful that he would never have been able to have taken the keys from him but by violence; that he should not fear to trust him with his whole fortune, for that he had been in his native place so habituated to keeping his word, that he would sacrifice even his life to maintain it. _Containing an account of his life, from the time of his purchasing his freedom to the present day._ NATHAN MINOR, Esq. ELIJAH PALMER, Esq. Capt. AMOS PALMER, ACORS SHEFFIELD, EDWARD SMITH.	redpajama-book	982
E-text prepared by Joshua Hutchinson, David Kline, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY. A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS. "Autumn beaming o'er the yellow woods." The autumnal change of our woods has not made a deep impression on our own literature yet. October has hardly tinged our poetry. Flowers are but leaves, fruits but ripe ones. The edible part of most fruits is, as the physiologist says, "the parenchyma or fleshy tissue of the leaf" of which they are formed. Our appetites have commonly confined our views of ripeness and its phenomena, color, mellowness, and perfectness, to the fruits which we eat, and we are wont to forget that an immense harvest which we do not eat, hardly use at all, is annually ripened by Nature. At our annual Cattle Shows and Horticultural Exhibitions, we make, as we think, a great show of fair fruits, destined, however, to a rather ignoble end, fruits not valued for their beauty chiefly. But round about and within our towns there is annually another show of fruits, on an infinitely grander scale, fruits which address our taste for beauty alone. October is the month of painted leaves. Their rich glow now flashes round the world. As fruits and leaves and the day itself acquire a bright tint just before they fall, so the year near its setting. October is its sunset sky; November the later twilight. By the twentieth of August, everywhere in woods and swamps, we are reminded of the fall, both by the richly spotted Sarsaparilla-leaves and Brakes, and the withering and blackened Skunk-Cabbage and Hellebore, and, by the river-side, the already blackening Pontederia. In most plants the corolla or calyx is the part which attains the highest color, and is the most attractive; in many it is the seed-vessel or fruit; in others, as the Red Maple, the leaves; and in others still it is the very culm itself which is the principal flower or blooming part. Almost the very sands confess the ripening influence of the August sun, and methinks, together with the slender grasses waving over them, reflect a purple tinge. The impurpled sands! Such is the consequence of all this sunshine absorbed into the pores of plants and of the earth. All sap or blood is now wine-. At last we have not only the purple sea, but the purple land. Or else it is after moist and rainy weather that we notice how great a fall of leaves there has been in the night, though it may not yet be the touch that loosens the Rock-Maple leaf. The streets are thickly strewn with the trophies, and fallen Elm-leaves make a dark brown pavement under our feet. After some remarkably warm Indian-summer day or days, I perceive that it is the unusual heat which, more than anything, causes the leaves to fall, there having been, perhaps, no frost nor rain for some time. The intense heat suddenly ripens and wilts them, just as it softens and ripens peaches and other fruits, and causes them to drop. The large ones on our Common are particularly beautiful. A delicate, but warmer than golden yellow is now the prevailing color, with scarlet cheeks. Yet, standing on the east side of the Common just before sundown, when the western light is transmitted through them, I see that their yellow even, compared with the pale lemon yellow of an Elm close by, amounts to a scarlet, without noticing the bright scarlet portions. Generally, they are great regular oval masses of yellow and scarlet. All the sunny warmth of the season, the Indian summer, seems to be absorbed in their leaves. The lowest and inmost leaves next the bole are, as usual, of the most delicate yellow and green, like the complexion of young men brought up in the house. There is an auction on the Common to-day, but its red flag is hard to be discerned amid this blaze of color. But it requires a particular alertness, if not devotion to these phenomena, to appreciate the wide-spread, but late and unexpected glory of the Scarlet Oaks. I do not speak here of the small trees and shrubs, which are commonly observed, and which are now withered, but of the large trees. Most go in and shut their doors, thinking that bleak and colorless November has already come, when some of the most brilliant and memorable colors are not yet lit. The sap is now, and even far into November, frequently flowing fast in these trees, as in Maples in the spring; and apparently their bright tints, now that most other Oaks are withered, are connected with this phenomenon. They are full of life. It has a pleasantly astringent, acorn-like taste, this strong Oak-wine, as I find on tapping them with my knife. The Scarlet Oak asks a clear sky and the brightness of late October days. These bring out its colors. If the sun goes into a cloud, they become comparatively indistinct. As I sit on a cliff in the southwest part of our town, the sun is now getting low, and the woods in Lincoln, south and east of me, are lit up by its more level rays; and in the Scarlet Oaks, scattered so equally over the forest, there is brought out a more brilliant redness than I had believed was in them. Every tree of this species which is visible in those directions, even to the horizon, now stands out distinctly red. Some great ones lift their red backs high above the woods, in the next town, like huge roses with a myriad of fine petals; and some more slender ones, in a small grove of White Pines on Pine Hill in the east, on the very verge of the horizon, alternating with the Pines on the edge of the grove, and shouldering them with their red coats, look like soldiers in red amid hunters in green. This time it is Lincoln green, too. Till the sun got low, I did not believe that there were so many redcoats in the forest army. Theirs is an intense burning red, which would lose some of its strength, methinks, with every step you might take toward them; for the shade that lurks amid their foliage does not report itself at this distance, and they are unanimously red. The focus of their reflected color is in the atmosphere far on this side. Every such tree becomes a nucleus of red, as it were, where, with the declining sun, that color grows and glows. It is partly borrowed fire, gathering strength from the sun on its way to your eye. It has only some comparatively dull red leaves for a rallying-point, or kindling-stuff, to start it, and it becomes an intense scarlet or red mist, or fire, which finds fuel for itself in the very atmosphere. So vivacious is redness. The very rails reflect a rosy light at this hour and season. You see a redder tree than exists. These bright leaves which I have mentioned are not the exception, but the rule; for I believe that all leaves, even grasses and mosses, acquire brighter colors just before their fall. When you come to observe faithfully the changes of each humblest plant, you find that each has, sooner or later, its peculiar autumnal tint; and if you undertake to make a complete list of the bright tints, it will be nearly as long as a catalogue of the plants in your vicinity. "All right, Capt'n." He presented some of the recruits to Palmer: pluming himself, adjusting the bogus chains over his pink shirt. A mere boy, thin, consumptive, hollow-chested: a mother's-boy, Palmer saw, with fair hair and dreamy eyes. He held out his hand to him. "Charley will fight for something better than revenge. I see it in his face." The little fellow's eyes flashed. "I say, Captain, you Virginia Loyalists don't go into this war with _vim_. It's a bitter job to you." Palmer's face reddened. Palmer stepped down from the pulpit; but the old man, seeing him coming, turned and shouldered his way out of the crowd, his haggard face blood-red. "Gaunt in? Bully for the parson!" said Squire Pratt. "It's the Lord's work," said Pratt, with a twang, being a class-leader. "Ye-s? So 'ud Bishop Polk say. Got a different Lord down thar? 'S likely. Henry Wise used to talk of the 'God of Virginia.'" "I am tired of this cant of Christians refusing to join in the war," said Palmer, impatiently. "God allows it; it helps His plans." "Uncle Scofield! Is the war to come between you and me? For George's sake! I saw him at Harper's Ferry before--before Manassas. We were no less friends then than ever before." The old man's eyes had glared defiance at Palmer under their gray brows when he faced him, but his big bony hand kept fumbling nervously with his cravat. "I know," said Palmer, quietly. "Ye saw George?" the old man said, his eyes falling. Palmer's eyes lighted. Men of the old lion-breed know each other in spite of dress or heirship of opinion. "I saw Theodora," he said at last, gravely. Scofield started at the tone, looked at him keenly, some new thought breaking in on him, frightening, troubling him. He did not answer; they crossed the broad field, coming at last to the hill-road. The old man spoke at last, with an effort. Scofield met it questioningly, almost solemnly. It was no time for explanation. He pushed his trembling hand through his stubby gray hair. "Well, well, Dougl's. These days is harrd. But it'll come right! God knows all." "I must bid yer good-bye, Dougl's," he said at last. "I've a long tramp afore me to-night. Mebbe worse. Mayhap I mayn't see you agin; men can't hev a grip on the next hour, these days. I'm glad we 're friends. Whatever comes afore mornin', I'm glad o' that!" "Have you no more to say to me?" Palmer was touched. It was a hard struggle with pain that had wrung out that tear. The old man held his hand a minute, then turned to the road. Palmer mounted his horse and galloped off to the camp, the old man plodding steadily down the road. When the echo of the horse's hoofs had ceased, a lean gangling figure came from out of the field-brush, and met him. "Why, David boy! whar were ye to-night?" Scofield's voice had grown strangely tender in the last hour. Gaunt hesitated. He had not the moral courage to tell the old man he had enlisted. Scofield laughed to himself at David's "whimsey," but he halted, going with the young man as he strode across the field. He had a dull foreboding of the end of the night's battle: before he went to it, he clung with a womanish affection to anything belonging to his home, as this Gaunt did. He had not thought the poor young man was so dear to him, until now, as he jogged along beside him, thinking that before morning he might be lying dead at the Gap. How many people would care? David would, and Dode, and old Bone. Gaunt passed his fingers now over the misspelled words softly as he would stroke a dead face. Then he came out, putting out the candle, and buttoning the Bible inside of his coat. Scofield waited for him on the steps. Some trouble was in the old fellow's face, Gaunt thought, which he could not fathom. His coarse voice choked every now and then, and his eyes looked as though he never hoped to see the church or Gaunt again. "Heh, David!" with a silly laugh. "You'll think me humorsome, boy, but I hev an odd fancy." He stopped abruptly. Gaunt was startled. Somehow to-night he did not feel as if God was near on the hills, as Scofield thought. "Where are you going?" Scofield looked at him, bewildered. Gaunt wrung his hand, and watched him as he turned to the road. He saw Bone meet him, leading a horse. As the old man mounted, he turned, and, seeing Gaunt, nodded cheerfully, and going down the hill began to whistle. "Ef I should never come back, he kin tell Dode I hed a light heart at th' last," he thought. But when he was out of hearing, the whistle stopped, and he put spurs to the horse. Gaunt stopped in his shambling gait. His master could not help chuckling even then. "Bone," he gasped, "when will ye quit lyin'? Put me down, old fellow. Easy. I'm goin' fast." "Tink dem Yankees is gettin' de Debbil in de Gap," Bone said, consolingly. "Would yer like ter know how de fight is goin', Mars'?" "Is dar anyting yer'd like me ter git, Mars' Joe?" said Bone, through his sobs. His breath came heavy and at long intervals. Bone gave a crazed look toward the road, with a wild thought of picking his master up and carrying him home. But it was nearly over now. The old man's eyes were dull; they would never see Dode again. That very moment she stood watching for him on the porch, her face colorless from a sleepless night, thinking he had been at Romney, that every moment she would hear his "Hillo!" round the bend of the road. She did not know that could not be again. He lay now, his limbs stretched out, his grizzly old head in Bone's arms. "Tell Dode I didn't fight. She'll be glad o' that. Thar's no blood on my hands." He fumbled at his pocket. "My pipe? Was it broke when I fell? Dody 'd like to keep it, mayhap. She allays lit it for me." Aunt Perrine, having officiated as chief mourner that very morning, was not disposed to bear her honors meekly. Mis' Browst helped herself freely to the oysters just then. "Not," said Aunt Perrine, with stern self-control, "that I don't submit, an' bear as a Christian ought." She took the spoon again. "'N' I could wish," severely, raising her voice, "'s all others could profit likewise by this dispensation. Them as is kerried off by tantrums, 'n' consorts with Papishers 'n' the Lord knows what, might see in this a judgment, ef they would." Mis' Browst groaned in concert. "Ye needn't girn that away, Jane Browst," whispered Aunt Perrine, emphatically. "Dode Scofield's a different guess sort of a gell from any Browst. Keep yer groans for yer own nest. Ef I improve the occasion while she's young an' tender, what's that to you? Look at home, you'd best, I say!" Mis' Browst sighed an assent, drinking her coffee with a resigned gulp, with the firm conviction that the civil war had been designed for her especial trial and enlargement in Christian grace. So Bone was called in from the cow-yard. His eyes were quite fiery, for the poor stupid fellow had been crying over the "warm mash" he was giving to Coly. "Him's las' words was referrin' ter yer, yer pore beast," he had said, snuffling out loud. He had stayed in the stables all day, "wishin' all ole she-cats was to home, an' him an' Mist' Dode could live in peace." However, he was rather flattered at the possession of so important a story just now, and in obedience to Aunt Perrine's nod seated himself with dignity on the lowest step of the garret-stairs, holding carefully his old felt hat, which he had decorated with streaming weepers of crape. It grew darker; the gray afternoon was wearing away with keen gusts and fitful snow-falls. Dode looked up wearily: a sharp exclamation, rasped out by Aunt Perrine, roused her. "Dead? Dougl's dead?" "Done gone, Mist'. I forgot dat--ter tell yer. Had somefin' else ter tink of." "Down in the gully?" The women kissed each other as often as women do whose kisses are--cheap, and Mis' Browst set off down the road. Bone, turning to shut the gate, felt a cold hand on his arm. "Gor-a'mighty! Mist' Dode, what is it?" The figure standing in the snow wrapt in a blue cloak shook as he touched it. Was she, too, struck with death? Her eyes were burning, her face white and clammy. "Where is he, Uncle Bone? where?" The old man understood--all. "He is not dead," she said, quietly. "Open the gate," pulling at the broken hasp. "Fur de Lor's sake, Mist' Dode, come in 'n' bathe yer feet 'n' go to bed! Chile, yer crazy!" Common sense, and a flash of something behind to give it effect, spoke out of Dode's brown eyes, just then. "Go into the stable, and bring a horse after me. The cart is broken?" "Danged ef yer shall kill yerself! Chile, I tell yer he's dead. I'll call Mist' Perrine." Her eyes were black now, for an instant; then they softened. "He is not dead. Come, Uncle Bone. You're all the help I have, now." The old man's flabby face worked. He did not say anything, but went into the stable, and presently came out, leading the horse, with fearful glances back at the windows. He soon overtook the girl going hurriedly down the road, and lifted her into the saddle. "Chile! chile! yer kin make a fool of ole Bone, allays." "Mist' Dode," whined Ben, submissively, "what are yer goin' ter do? Bring him home?" Bone groaned horribly, then went on doggedly. Fate was against him: his gray hairs were bound to go down with sorrow to the grave. He looked up at her wistfully, after a while. "What'll Mist' Perrine say?" he asked. Dode's face flushed scarlet. The winter mountain night, Jackson's army, she did not fear; but the staring malicious world in the face of Aunt Perrine did make her woman's heart blench. "I cannot wait for you, Uncle Bone. I must go alone." "Debbil de step! I'll take yer 'cross fields ter Gentry's, an' ride on myself." Something possessed the girl, other than her common self. She pushed his hand gently from the reins, and left him. Bone wrung his hands. "Did you find him?" she asked, without looking up. "I ought to have done it. I wish I had done that. I wish I had given him his life. It was my right." "Why was it your right?" he asked, quietly. "Because I loved him." Gaunt raised his hand to his head suddenly. "Did you, Dode? I had a better right than that. Because I hated him." "I saved his life. Dode, I'm trying to do right: God knows I am. But I hated him; he took from me the only thing that would have loved me." She looked up timidly, her face growing crimson. "I never would have loved you, David." "No? I'm sorry you told me that, Dode." "I have been asleep. Where is Gaunt? He dressed my side." "He is out, sitting on the hill-side." "And you are here, Theodora?" "I think I can stand up," he said, cheerfully; "lend me your arm, Theodora." "It is a long trail out of danger," he said, smiling. "You are going? I thought you needed rest." Calm, icy enough now: he was indifferent to her. She knew how to keep the pain down until he was gone. "I thought that. I see now that it was a foolish hope, Douglas." "You may be cold enough to palter with fire that has burned you, Theodora. I am not." He stopped abruptly, looked at her steadily. She did not speak, drawn back from him in the opposite shadow of the door-way. He leaned forward, his breath coming hurried, low. "I did come to you. Look! you put me back: 'There shall be no benefits given or received between us.'" "There is a great gulf between you and me, Theodora. I know that. Will you cross it? Will you come to me?" It was an uncertain step broke the silence, cracking the crusted snow. "Why, Gaunt!" said Palmer, "what are you doing in the cold? Come to the fire, boy!" He could afford to speak cordially, heartily, out of the great warmth in big own breast. Theodora was heaping shavings on the ashes. Gaunt took them from her. "Come home with us," she said, eagerly, holding out her hand. He drew back, wiping the sweat from his face. "You cannot see what is on my hand. I can't touch you, Dode. Never again. Let me alone." "She is right, Gaunt," said Palmer. "You stay here at the risk of your life. Come to the house. Theodora can hide us; and if they discover us, we can protect her together." Gaunt smiled faintly. Palmer looked troubled. "It will come right, David!" said the girl. His face lighted: her cheery voice sounded like a welcome ringing through his future years. It was a good omen, coming from her whom he had wronged. He wished he could hearten the poor unnerved soul, somehow. "Whatever you do, it will be honorable, David," said Palmer, gently. Whatever intolerable pain lay in these words, he smothered it down, kept his voice steady. Did she guess the hurt he had done her? Through all her fright and blushes, the woman in her spoke out nobly. "I do not wish to know how you have wronged me. Whatever it be, it was innocently done. God will forgive you, and I do. There shall be peace between us, David." But she did not offer to touch his hand again: stood there, white and trembling. "It shall be as you say," said Palmer. "Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder." Thus he shut himself out from her forever. But the prayer for a blessing on them came from as pure a heart as any child's that lives. He bade them good-bye, cheerfully, when he had finished, and turned away, but came back presently, and said good-night again, looking in their faces steadily, then took his solitary way across the hills. They never saw him again. So Dode, with deeper-lit eyes, and fresher rose in her cheek, stands in the door this summer evening waiting for her husband. She cannot see him often; he has yet the work to do which he calls just and holy. But he is coming now. It is very quiet; she can hear her own heart beat slow and full; the warm air holds moveless the delicate scent of the clover; the bees hum her a drowsy good-night, as they pass; the locusts in the lindens have just begun to sing themselves to sleep; but the glowless crimson in the West holds her thought the longest. She loves, understands color: it speaks to her of the Day waiting just behind this. Her eyes fill with tears, she knows not why: her life seems rounded, complete, wrapt in a great peace; the grave at Manassas, and that planted with moss on the hill yonder, are in it; they only make her joy in living more tender and holy. Nay, fold your arms, beloved Friends, Above the hearts that vainly beat! Or catch the rainbow where it bends, And find your darling at its feet; Or fix the fountain's varying shape, The sunset-cloud's elusive dye, The speech of winds that round the cape Make music to the sea and sky: So may you summon from the air The loveliness that vanished hence, And Twilight give his beauteous hair, And Morning give his countenance, For, through the crystal of your tears, His love and beauty fairer shine; The shadows of advancing years Draw back, and leave him all divine. Our suns were all too fierce for him; Our rude winds pierced him through and through; But Heaven has valleys cool and dim, And boscage sweet with starry dew. There knowledge breathes in balmy air, Not wrung, as here, with panting breast: The wisdom born of toil you share; But he, the wisdom born of rest. For every picture here that slept, A living canvas is unrolled; The silent harp he might have swept Leans to his touch its strings of gold. Believe, dear Friends, they murmur still Some sweet accord to those you play, That happier winds of Eden thrill With echoes of the earthly lay; That he, for every triumph won, Whereto your poet-souls aspire, Sees opening, in that perfect sun, Another blossom's bud of fire! But though we admire the result, we have grown out of sympathy with the cause, the state of mind that produced it, and so the root wherefrom the like should be produced is cut off. There is no reason to suppose that the old builders were men of a different kind from ours, more earnest, more poetical. The stories about the science of the medieval masons are rubbish. All men are in earnest about something; our men are as good as they, and would have built as well, had they been born at the right time for it. But now they are thinking of other things. The Dilettanti Society sent Mr. Penrose to Athens to study in the ancient remains there the optical corrections which it was alleged the Greeks made in the horizontal lines of their buildings. Mr. Penrose made careful measurements, establishing the fact, and a folio volume of plates was published to illustrate the discovery, and evince the unequalled nicety of the Greek eye. But the main point, namely, that a horizontal line above the level of the eye, in order to appear horizontal, must bend slightly upwards, was pointed out to me years ago by a common plasterer. The position, the internal arrangement, and the material being determined upon, the next point is that the structure shall be as little of an eyesore as we can make it. Do what we will, every house, as long as it is new, is a standing defiance to the landscape. In color, texture, and form, it disconnects itself and resists assimilation to its surroundings. The "gentle incorporation into the scenery of Nature," that Wordsworth demands, is the most difficult point to effect, as well as the most needful. This makes the importance of a background of trees, of shrubs, and creepers, and the uniting lines of sheds, piazzas, etc., mediating and easing off the shock which the upstart mass inflicts upon the eye. Hence Sir Joshua Reynolds's rule for the color of a house, to imitate the tint of the soil where it is to stand. Hence the advantage of a well-assured base and generally of a pyramidal outline, because this is the figure of braced and balanced equilibrium, assured to all natural objects by the slow operation of natural laws, which we must take care not to violate in our haste, unless for due cause shown. "Perhaps you'd choose to wait down-stairs a bit," she said; "Mr. Abraham's getting his tea up in Miss Lettie's room." Peculiar were the forms the fire took an elfish pleasure in assuming. Little blue flames came up into atmospheric life, through the rending fissures where so many years of ages they had been pent into the very blackness of darkness; and as they gained their freedom, they gave tiny, crackling shouts of liberty. "We're free! we're free!" they smally cried; and I wondered if a race, buried as deeply in the strata of races as these bits of burning coal had been in the geologic periods of earth, could utter such cries. "Who covered me up, Katie?" I asked. "Mr. Abraham," said Katie; and her waking senses came back. "And how did the pillow get under my head?" "Mr. Abraham said 'he was sorry that you had come.' You looked very white in your sleep, and he said 'you wouldn't wake up'; so I lifted your head just a mite, and he fixed the pillow under it. He told me to stay here until you awoke." "Which I have most decidedly done, Katie," I said; and I fully determined to take no more naps in this house. "I am sorry that you didn't wake me," I said to Katie, as she moved the chairs in the room to their respective places. With the most childlike implicitness in the world, the little maid stood still and looked at me. "I _couldn't_, you know, Miss Percival, when Mr. Abraham told me not to," were the positive words she used in giving her reason. I forgave Katie, and wondered what the secret of this man's commanding power could be, as on this Saturday night. I left the world, and went up to take my last watch with the convalescing lady. Her brother was with her. He looked a little surprised, when I went in; but the cloud of anger had gone away: folded it up he had, I fancied, all ready to shake out again upon the slightest provocation; and I did not care to see its folds waving around me, so I did not speak to him. Miss Axtell seemed pleased to see me; said "she trusted that this would be the last occasion on which she should require night-care." Her beauty was lovely now. A roseate hue was over her complexion: a little of the old fever rising, I suppose it must have been. "I've been talking with Abraham," she said, when I spoke of it. Why should a conversation with her brother occasion return of fever? Perhaps it was not that, but the mention of the fact, which increased the glow wonderfully. Mr. Axtell bade his sister good-night. "You will do it to-morrow, Abraham?" she asked, as he was going from the room. "I will think about it to-night, and give you my decision in the morning, Lettie." Mr. Axtell must have been very absent-minded, for he turned back, hoped I had not taken cold in the library, and ended the wish with a civil "Good night, Miss Percival." "Good night, Mr. Axtell," I said; and he was gone. There was no need of persuasion to quietude to-night, it seemed, for Miss Axtell gave me no field for the practice of oratory: she was quite ready and willing to sleep. "Can you not sleep, too?" she asked, as she closed her eyes; "if I need you, I can speak." "Perhaps it is only the healthful rising of the tide," I ventured to say. Turning, I picked it up hastily, lest she should recognize it. She must have seen it quite well, for it had been lying in the full light of the blazing wood. "Have you a dress like that?" she asked, when I had restored the fragment. "I have not," I replied. "I am sorry I awakened you." "It was a dream that awakened me," she said. "Will you have the kindness to give me that bit of cloth you picked up? I have a fancy for it." "Oh, yes: it is a great attraction for me. Redleaf would be Redleaf no longer, if it were away." "Have you visited it since you've been here this time?" "Were there any changes?" she asked. "A few," I said. "There is another entrance to the tower than by the door, Miss Axtell." Slowly the lady dropped back to the pillows whence she had arisen from the disturbing dream. She did not move again for many minutes; then it was a few low-spoken words that summoned me to her side. "Excuse me from answering, if you please," I said, unwilling to excite her more, for I knew that the fever was rising rapidly. "Who knows of this besides you? You don't mind telling me that much?" "Not with all this equinoctial storm raging, and the tide you told me of coming up with the wind." This question seemed to have quieted Miss Axtell beyond thought of reply. She did not speak again until the Sabbath-day had begun. Then, at the very point where she had ceased, she recommenced. "It seems not," I said; "but the tideless hearts, what of them?" "Why did you lock the door?" she asked. "I am constitutionally timid," was my apology. "You have never evinced it before; why now?" "Because I have not thought of it sooner." "Will you unlock it, please?" she asked; and her eyes were very bright with the fever-fire that I knew was burning up, until I feared the flame would touch her mind. "I don't like being locked in; I wish to be free," she added. This lady has something of Mr. Axtell's command of manner. I could not think it right to refuse to comply, and I unlocked the door. She seemed restless. "Bring me the key, will you?" she asked, after a few moments of silence, in which her wandering eyes sought the door frequently. "Then you did not come from genuine kindness?" "No, I am afraid not." "I cannot, Miss Axtell." "Poor, tired child," I said; "she had work to do yesterday; I had not." "Abraham, then, if not Katie." "I did not know it," she said. "I forgot that I had been so long ill." She wished to know the hour, made me give her watch into her own keeping, and then said "she would not talk, no, she would be very quiet, if I would only gratify her by making myself comfortable on the lounge." It did not seem very unreasonable, and I consented. "But you are looking at me," she said. "I hate to be watched; do shut your eyes." "What is it?" I asked. "Is anything wrong, Mr. Axtell?" "Very well. For the last hour she has not spoken." Kino began again his low, dismal howling. "Did not the dog disturb her when he barked?" Mr. Axtell had walked to the lounge from which I had risen, still speaking in the voice that has much of tone without much sound. "She must be sleeping very deeply," the brother said; and as he spoke, he cautiously uplifted a fold of the hangings. What was it that came over his face, made visible even in the gloom of the room? Something terrible. "What is it?" I asked, springing up; "what has happened?" and I put out my hand to take the look at the sleeper in there that he had done. He stayed my hand, waved it back, folded his arms, as if nothing unusual had occurred, and questioned me. "What has she talked about to-night?" "She has said very little." "Tell me something that she has said, immediately"; and he looked fearfully agitated. "What has happened?" I asked; and again I caught at the hangings which concealed the fearful thing that he had seen. "She asked me if I liked the tower in the church-yard," I said. "You told her what?" "That I did like it." "Has she seemed worried about anything?" and Mr. Axtell threw up a window-sash, letting the cold March wind into this room of sickness. As he did so, I lifted the folds that the wind rudely swayed. _Miss Axtell was not there_. He turned around. I stood speechless. "How long have you been asleep?" he asked, coolly, as if nothing had occurred. He looked up and down the street, only a little lighted by the feeble, old, fading moon. "Have you any idea where she would go?" he asked. "She may be in the house," I said; "why not look?" "No; I found the front-door unfastened. I thought Katie might have forgotten it, when I went to see. She has gone out, I know." "Where would she carry a lamp?" Mr. Axtell asked, as he went on, searching, in known places, for articles of apparel that were not in their wonted homes. Having found them, he went out hurriedly, went to his own room, came out thence a moment after, with boots on his feet in place of the slippers he had frightened me with, and an overcoat across his arm. He did not seem to see me, as I stood waiting in the hall. "Where are you going?" I asked of him, but he did not answer. He went straight on by me, and down, out of the house, closing the great hall-door after him with a force that shook the walls. "It isn't your sister," I said. "You, Miss Percival? Why are you out?" and he seemed anxious. He said, "You are suffering too much from the 'strange people.'" How could he mention my hasty words at such a time? and I remembered the unforgiving face that I had touched a fathom deep under the hard ground. "I'm glad I've found you," I said. "Have you the church-key?" "What for?" and he still peered over among the tombstones, as if expecting to find Miss Lettie there. "It is not there that she would go, I think; come quickly with me," I said. We walked to the church-entrance, hastily. He searched for the key. He hadn't it. I put my hand out, and touched it in the door. "Open quickly, before I lose it," I said. "She is not here," Mr. Axtell said; and he looked about the empty pews, feebly lighted from my small flame. He started forward as he spoke. "Don't leave me," I said; and I put my hand within his arm. "What is this, Miss Percival?" "How can I help it?" he asked. "We shall have to go up," her brother said. "Don't let the light go out, Mr. Axtell," were all the words spoken; and we went up the long, winding stairway. At the top stood Miss Axtell, fixed and statue-like, with fever-excited eyes. She looked not at us, but far away, through the rough wood inside, through the stone of the tower: her gaze seemed limitless. "Come, Lettie! come, sister! come home with me," her brother said. She heeded not; the only seeming effect was a convulsion of the muscles used in holding the lamp. I ventured to take it from her. "Where did you find it?" she asked, in determined tones; "will you tell me now?" "Whom is she speaking to?" asked Mr. Axtell. "Where is the rest?" and her beautiful eyes were coruscant. "Don't do that," said Mr. Axtell, as she lighted it from the lamp he held. But she was not to be stayed; she held it aloft until the fire came down and touched her fingers; then she dropped it, burning still, down to the stone floor, far below. "What is it, Lettie? Come home; the day is breaking"; and Mr. Axtell put his arm about her. I thought of the letter that I had picked up in the passage-way. "What have you lost, Miss Axtell? Is it anything that I could find for you?" and I laid my hand upon hers, as the only method of drawing away her eyes from their terrible immutation of expression. "You? No, I should think not; how could you? you only found a piece of it." "What is this?" I asked; and I held up the letter: the superscription was visible only to herself. "God has made you well," she said; "thank Him." She did not ask for the letter. I put it whence I had taken it. She evidently trusted me with it. "Abraham, I'm sick," she said; and she laid her head upon his shoulder, passively as an infant might have done. Her strength was gone; she could no longer support herself, and the day was breaking. Mr. Axtell, strong, vigorous, full-souled man as I knew him to be, looked at me, and his look said, "What am I to do with her?" "Wake Aaron," I said, without giving her time to question me. "He is awake. What has happened? Is Miss Axtell dying?" she questioned. I went up. The tower-key was hanging where I had left it. I took it down, and made myself respectable by covering up my breezy hair with a hood, with the further precaution of a cloak. I had not long to wait for Aaron's coming; but it was long enough to remind me to carry some restorative with me. Aaron came. "Miss Axtell is very ill," I said; "she is quite wild, and left the house in the night. She's up in the church-yard tower. Will you help her brother take her home, as soon as you possibly can?" "How strange!" were his only words; and as I went the garden way, Aaron started to arouse his horse from morning sleep. I could not stir it. Perhaps Aaron would not look, when he came in; but doubting his special blindness, I asked Mr. Axtell to put it back. He seemed to comprehend my meaning. I took his place beside Miss Axtell. She was no longer wilful or determined. Her strength was gone. Her head drooped upon my shoulder, and when I held a spoon, filled with the restorative that I had brought, to her lips, they opened, and she took that which I gave, mechanically. Her eyelids were down. I looked at the fair, beautiful face that lay so near to my eyes. It was full of the softest pencillings; little golden sinuosities of light were woven all over it; and the blue lines along which emotion flies were wonderfully arrowy and sky-like in their wanderings, for they left no trace to tell whence they came or whither led. I heard the heavy, ponderous weight let fall. It was the same sound as that which I heard on that memorable night. Miss Axtell shivered a little; or was it but the effect of the concussion? The brother came up; he looked down, kindly at me, lovingly at his sister. "Shall I relieve you?" he asked. "I will go and help him, if you don't mind being left"; and he looked inquiringly. "There's no danger. I shall not fall asleep," I said. "She's harmless now, poor child! If we can only get her back safely!" And with these words he left me again. Sophie and I walked on, whilst slowly the carriage proceeded to the gable-roofed, high-chimneyed house, that arose, well defined and clear, in the early sunlight. Smoke was rising from the kitchen-fire. Sophie and I went in, just as the carriage stopped. She waited to receive the invalid, whilst I went up to see if the absence had been discovered. It was but little more than an hour since Mr. Axtell and I had gone out. Evidently there had been no visitors. The wood that had been put on the fire before I left had gone down into glowing coals that looked warm and inviting. I kneeled and stirred them to a brighter glow, and put on more wood, my fingers very stiff the while. I drew back the curtains from the bed, smoothed the pillows, and the disorder occasioned by our hasty exodus, and went down. Aaron and Mr. Axtell had carried the poor invalid to the library, and laid her upon the sofa there, but it was very cold. The fire was not yet built. I sent her back on some slight pretext, and followed whither she went. I heard the cook mumblingly scolding about "noises in the night, dogs barking and doors shutting, she knew; such a house as it was, with people dying, getting sick, and putting every sort of a bothersome dream into a quiet body's head, that wanted to rest, just as she worked, like a Christian." And all the while she went on making preparations for a future breakfast. "What was 't now that ye heard? Kate, you're easy enough at hearing o' noises in the broad daylight: I wish 't ye would be as harksome at night." "Hush, Cooky!" said Katie; "Miss Percival is here." "Don't mind her, Miss Percival," Katie said; "she's cross because I wakened her too early; she'll get over it when she has had her breakfast" I gave Katie something to do, telling her to make coffee for Miss Axtell as soon as possible; and with a few more words, meant to be conciliating to Cooky, I took up the glass Katie brought me, and went back. They had carried Miss Axtell up-stairs. Sophie was taking her wrappings off. How carefully she had guarded herself, even in her illness, for the walk! and now, all the nerve of fever gone, she lay as white and strengthless as she had done in the tower. I went for Doctor Eaton, on my own responsibility. "He would come in a few minutes," was the message to me. Sophie said "that she would stay, for I must go home." As she said so, a little wavering cloud of doubt went across her forehead, eclipsing, for a moment, its light; then all was bright again. "What is it?" I asked. "Something for Aaron, I know." I felt faint and weary, now that there was no more to be done. The village-people were awake. Village-sounds were abroad in the Sunday atmosphere, vibrant with holiness. The farmers stopped in their care for their animals, and spent a moment in innocent wonder of the reason why their pastor should be abroad thus early. "We're to have a new sexton," he said. "Because Abraham Axtell has resigned." "This very morning." "He will be sexton until you find another, will he not?" Aaron came out in search of me. He had been assiduously trying to make a ministerial disposition of his cravat, until it was creased and wrinkled beyond repair. "I did not know that you put on the paraphernalia of pastorhood so early," I said, "or I would have come in." "I shall be very thankful, if you'll give me a respectable appearance," he said, which I faithfully tried to do. I gave him the sermon and the proper handkerchief, then left him to his hour of seclusion before service, when even Sophie never went nigh. The neighbor's boy opened the door and put his head inside; and then he opened his eyes wondrously wide at me, and, frightened, ran away. I left my bell to tone itself to silence, with little sighing notes, like a child sobbing itself into sleep, and called after him. The rough boy came to me. I asked "if he would do me a favor." He said, "of course he would." "If you tell me not to, I sha'n't," was his laconic reply. I went home, my latest duty done. I saw, far down the willow-arched street, Mr. Axtell coming. "I'm getting ill," I thought; "I'll have no more of this." I looked at a bottle of chloroform standing conveniently near, took it up, and drew out the stopper. Lifting it to the light, I looked at it. Quiet and calm and peaceful it reposed, unconscious of ill done or to be done by itself. It was so innocent that I could not let it sin by hurting me. I gazed again at my reflection in the glass, and a sudden intuition taught me a startling truth. "Goodness o' mercy Miss Anna, what ails thee's little head? is it quite turned with being up o' nights? Lie down, little honey! let old Chloe bathe it for thee." And Chloe hummed around the room like a bee; she folded up the petals of light that I had unbudded when I wanted to see what manner of face I had. Strange fancy it is that the extra fairy gives to mortals, this breaking up of roses and dolls and joys, to find what is in them! "Never mind, Chloe," I said; "the hymns of earth are very sweet; you can wait a little longer, can't you?" "Didn't I tell ye you mustn't talk, Miss Anna? Don't be trying to trouble yourself with old Chloe's meanings: they haven't any understanding in them for other people to find out." "Thee's talking again, Miss Anna. It's the Lord's thoughts that are given to black Chloe, and she hasn't anything to dress them up in but her own, poor, old, ragged words, that a'n't fit to use any way; so Chloe'll wait until she gets something better to make 'em 'pear to belong to the Lord that owns 'em"; and Chloe still soothingly bathed my head, which I think was aching all the while, only I should not have found it out, if she had not told me it. "I want to ask you a question, Chloe." "Am I much like--do I look as my mother used to?" "What did she look like?" "She would know you, though, Chloe." "There isn't any night there, Miss Anna; she couldn't see me; I'm black and wicked"; and Chloe dropped something upon my hand. It was a tear from her great eyes. "Your soul will be white, Chloe. Christ will make it so." "Well, well, honey, don't you trouble yourself 'bout my soul. The Lord made it, and I guess He'll take care of it, when it gets free from the earth"; and Chloe went down to look after a fragment of the very earth she was anxious to escape from. Then a rushing wind of sound filled my ears, and I saw the flashing of a wing of angel in among the cumulosity of clouds, and it made an opening into an ethereous region beyond. An oval, azurous picture was before me, set in this rolling, surging frame of ambient gold and silver glory. "It is not for me to see in there," I thought; and I shut my eyes. Obeying the mighty behest, I beheld, and an ovaline picture, painted in the artistry of heaven, let down from the crystalline walls, that I might not see, and held fast by a cord of gold, safe in an angel's keeping, God had sent for me to look upon. It was not such as masters of earth toil to paint. It was a living group that I saw. "Go forth, dear child, to the work thy God appoints for thee to do!" "Will you do something for me on the earth, whence I have been called?" she asked. The mighty voice that rang amid the clouds bade me "Answer." And tremulously, as if my poor earth-words had no place in the exceeding brightness, I gave an "I will." "I have a message for you," were the words I heard. "Tell her that I know what she would tell me: I have been made to know it here, where all things are clear: tell her that my forgiveness is as large as the heaven to which I have been permitted to enter in. Give her of the love that I did not when I might have done it." "Have you had a nice sleep, Miss Anna?" she asked, as I moved at her coming. "I fear not, Chloe," I said; "my head doesn't behave nicely since I awoke. Bring me the bottle of chloroform: it's just there, upon the bureau." Chloe went hurrying, bustling out of the room, and brought me the chloroform from some other part of the house. "Where did you bring this from?" I asked; "do you use chloroform?" "I've a horror of all pisons," said Chloe; "I didn't like to leave this near you; pisons is very bad for young people." I arose with a _new_ feeling in my existence. I felt that I had been led into a strange avenue of life, constellated with the Southern Cross, which I had never yet seen. It was daylight now. I must await the coming of the hours when God maketh the darkness to curtain round the earth, that He may come down and walk in "the groves and grounds that His own feet have hallowed," that He may look near at what the children of men will to do. I must await this hour, when heaven will be thick with legions of starry eyes, that look down through the empyrean at their God walking among men. Is it wonderful that they tremble so, when He who saith, "Vengeance is mine, I will repay," seeth so much to awaken the eye that "never slumbereth nor sleepeth" to retribution? If angels tremble so, safe in heavenly heights, how ought poor sinful man to fear for himself, lest that vengeance overtake him, ere he have time to cry, "Have mercy!" I passed through Aaron's study, and an awe of reverence led me to pause before the table where he had worked for so many days, worked to make God's salvation seem harmonious with man's free-will; and, in loving all suffering human kind, newness of love for Aaron and for his cool-browed wife came to me: not that I had not loved them long, but there come neap-tides into the oceans of emotion, and work solemnly, awfully, until great frothings from the storm lie all a-tremble on the coasts of the land whither our course tends in the daily, hourly round of life. "I thought ye'd be coming after somewhat to eat," Chloe said; "but I knew, if I asked you, you'd sure say,' No, honey'"; and she went about to "do me good," in her own way. I heard the afternoon's latest hymn sung in the church whilst I waited. I saw the great congregation come out, and, with divided ways, go each homeward. Sophie had not returned. I wanted to hear from Miss Axtell. Last of all walked Aaron. With bent head and slow musingness of step, he came to his home. I met him at the entrance. "Are you tired with preaching, Aaron?" I asked. He looked up, at my unusual accost; and I think there must have been somewhat unwonted about me, he looked at me so long. "No," he said, "I've had a pleasant field to-day: there are violets, even in my pathways, Anna." "Sophie's a Sharon rose," spake Aaron. "Oh, Aaron, no fragrance! that's not complimentary." "Crush the leaves of heliotrope in the cup, Anna." I read my letter, interluding it with little commas of sipping at the cup. It was from my father, very brief, but somewhat stirring. Here it lies before me now. "What puts you in such a turmoil, Anna?" Aaron asked. "What has happened at home?" "Going home?" he repeated, as if the words had borne an uncertain import. "Pray tell me, what has occurred?" "It pleases my father to have me there. He gives no reason." "What will Sophie say? She's hardly seen you since you came, you've been so usefully employed. I hope you have not hurt yourself. I wish you were going back with brighter color in your cheeks." "There is something in Nature besides mere coloring," I said, and looked for the answer. It was better than I thought to get. "What gave you the idea?" he asked, his musing over. "Sermons in granite," I answered; and I looked at the sunshine, the afternoon radiance that fell soothingly into the winter-wearied grass lying in the graveyard, waiting like souls for the warmth of love to enlife them. "I'm glad you've found anything comprehensible enough to call a sermon in them," he answered. "Ill, dying, and in affliction, they are impenetrable to me." And Aaron turned away and went in. In its present aspect, the town is of no great age. In contrast with the antiquity of many places in its neighborhood, it has a bright, new face, and seems almost to smile even amid the sombreness of an English autumn. Nevertheless, it is hundreds upon hundreds of years old, if we reckon up that sleepy lapse of time during which it existed as a small village of thatched houses, clustered round a priory; and it would still have been precisely such a rural village, but for a certain Doctor Jephson, who lived within the memory of man, and who found out the magic well, and foresaw what fairy wealth might be made to flow from it. A public garden has been laid out along the margin of the Leam, and called the Jephson Garden, in honor of him who created the prosperity of his native spot. A little way within the garden-gate there is a circular temple of Grecian architecture, beneath the dome of which stands a marble statue of the good Doctor, very well executed, and representing him with a face of fussy activity and benevolence: just the kind of man, if luck favored him, to build up the fortunes of those about him, or, quite as probably, to blight his whole neighborhood by some disastrous speculation. The Leam, after drowsing across the principal street of the town beneath a handsome bridge, skirts along the margin of the Garden without any perceptible flow. Heretofore I had fancied the Concord the laziest river in the world, but now assign that amiable distinction to the little English stream. Its water is by no means transparent, but has a greenish, goose-puddly hue, which, however, accords well with the other coloring and characteristics of the scene, and is disagreeable neither to sight nor smell. Certainly, this river is a perfect feature of that gentle picturesqueness in which England is so rich, sleeping, as it does, beneath a margin of willows that droop into its bosom, and other trees, of deeper verdure than our own country can boast, inclining lovingly over it. On the Garden-side it is bordered by a shadowy, secluded grove, with winding paths among its boskiness, affording many a peep at the river's imperceptible lapse and tranquil gleam; and on the opposite shore stands the priory-church, with its church-yard full of shrubbery and tombstones. You can meet this figure in the street, and live, and even smile at the recollection. But conceive of her in a ball-room, with the bare, brawny arms that she invariably displays there, and all the other corresponding development, such as is beautiful in the maiden blossom, but a spectacle to howl at in such an overblown cabbage-rose as this. SANITARY CONDITION OF THE ARMY. This is usually regarded in the original creation of an army. The soldiers are picked men. None but those of perfect form, complete in all their organization and functions, and free from every defect or disease, are intended to be admitted. The general community, in civil life, includes not only the strong and healthy, but also the defective, the weak, and the sick, the blind, the halt, the consumptive, the rheumatic, the immature in childhood, and the exhausted and decrepit in age. All of these may have been in good health. A due supply of appropriate food and of pure air, sufficient protection and cleansing of the surface, moderate labor and refreshing rest, are the necessary conditions of health, and cannot be disregarded, in the least degree, without a loss of force. The privation of even a single meal, or the use of food that is hard of digestion or innutritious, and the loss of any of the needful sleep, are followed by a corresponding loss of effective power, as surely as the slackened fire in the furnace is followed by lessened steam and power in the engine. In neither case is it a matter of will, but of necessity. The amount of power to be generated in both living and dead machines is simply a question of quality and quantity of provision for the purpose. So much food, air, protection given produce so much strength. A proposition to reduce the amount of either of these necessarily involves the proposition to reduce the available force. Whoever determines to eat or give his men less or poorer food, or impure air, practically determines to do less work. In all this management of the human body, we are sure to get what we pay for, and we are equally sure not to get what we do not pay for. SUPPOSED DANGERS TO THE SOLDIER. It must not be forgotten that the army is originally composed of picked men, while the general community includes not only the imperfect, diseased, and weak that belong to itself, but also those who are rejected from the army. If, then, the conditions, circumstances, and habits of both were equally favorable, there would be less sickness and a lower rate of mortality among the soldiers than among men of the same ages at home. But if in the army there should be found more sickness and death than in the community at home, or even an equal amount, it is manifestly chargeable to the presence of more deteriorating and destructive influences in the military than in civil life. SICKNESS AND MORTALITY IN CIVIL LIFE. SICKNESS AND MORTALITY OF THE ARMY IN PEACE. Soldiers are subject to different influences and exposures, and their waste and loss of life differ, in peace and war. In peace they are mostly stationary, at posts, forts, and in cantonments. They generally live in barracks, with fixed habits and sufficient means of subsistence. They have their regular supplies of food and clothing and labor, and are protected from the elements, heat, cold, and storms. They are seldom or never subjected to privation or excessive fatigue. But in war they are in the field, and sleep in tents which are generally too full and often densely crowded. Sometimes they sleep in huts, and occasionally in the open air. They are liable to exposures, hardships, and privations, to uncertain supplies of food and bad cookery. SICKNESS AND MORTALITY OF THE ARMY IN WAR. The official reports show only the number that died, but make no distinction as to causes of death, except to separate the deaths from wounds received in battle from those from other causes. SICKNESS IN THE PRESENT UNION ARMY. OTHER LIGHTER AND UNRECORDED SICKNESS. Nor do the cases of sickness of every sort, grave and light, recorded and unrecorded, include all the depressions of vital energy and all the suspensions and loss of effective force in the army. Whenever any general cause of depression weighs upon a body of men, as fatigue, cold, storm, privation of food, or malaria, it vitiates the power of all, in various degrees and with various results; the weak and susceptible are sickened, and all lose some force and are less able to labor and attend to duty. No account is taken, none can be taken, of this discount of the general force of the army; yet it is none the less a loss of strength, and an impediment to the execution of the purposes of the Government. GENERAL VITAL DEPRESSION If, however, we analyze the returns of mortality in civil life, and distinguish those of the poor and neglected dwellers in the crowded and filthy lanes and alleys of cities, whose animal forces are not well developed, or are reduced by insufficient and uncertain nutrition, by poor food or bad cookery, by foul air within and stenchy atmosphere without, by imperfect protection of house and clothing, we shall find the same diseases there as in the army. Wherever the vital forces are depressed, there these diseases of low vitality happen most frequently and are most fatal. DANGERS IN LAND-BATTLES. DANGERS IN NAVAL BATTLES. COMPARATIVE DANGER OF CAMP AND BATTLE-FIELD. NATIONS DO NOT LEARN FROM EXPERIENCE TO PREPARE FOR ARMY-SICKNESS. There are several other works on the Crimean War, by surgeons and other officers, written mainly to give a knowledge of the general facts of those campaigns, but all incidentally corroborating and explaining the statements in the Government Reports, in respect to the health and sufferings of the British and French armies. In this view, Dr. Bryce's book, "England and France before Sebastopol," and M. Baudens's and M. Scrive's medical works in French, are worthy of great attention and confidence. The Crimean War has this remarkable interest, not that the suffering of the troops and their depreciation in effective power were greater than in many other wars, but that these happened in an age when the intelligence and philanthropy, and even the policy of the nation, demanded to know whether the vital depression and the loss of martial strength were as great as rumor reported, whether these were the necessary condition of war, and whether anything could be done to lessen them. By the investigations and reports of commissions, officers, and others, the internal history of this war is more completely revealed and better known than that of any other on record. It is placed on a hill, in the sight of all nations and governments, for their observation and warning, to be faithful to the laws of health in providing for, and in the use of, their armies, if they would obtain the most efficient service from them. WANT OF SANITARY PREPARATIONS FOR WAR. DIFFERENCE BETWEEN CIVIL AND MILITARY LIFE. Military life is equally new to the soldier, for which none of his previous education or experience has fitted him. He has had his mother, wife, sister, or other housekeeper, trained and appointed for the purpose, to look after his nutrition, his clothing, his personal comfort, and, consequently, his health. These do not come without thought and labor. The domestic administration of the household and the care of its members require as much talent, intelligence, and discipline as any of the ordinary occupations of men. Throughout the civilized world, this responsibility and the labor necessary for its fulfilment absorb a large portion of the mental and physical power of women. When the new recruit enters the army, he leaves all this care and protection behind, but finds no substitute, no compensation for his loss in his new position. The Government supposes either that this is all unnecessary, or that the man in arms has an inspired capacity or an instinctive aptitude for self-care as well as for labor, and that he can generate and sustain physical force as well as expend it. But he is no more fitted for this, by his previous training and habits, than his mother and wife are for making shoes or building houses by theirs. Nevertheless he is thrown upon his own resources to do what he may for himself. The army-regulations of the United States say, "Soldiers are expected to preserve, distribute, and cook their own subsistence"; and most other Governments require the same of their men. Washing, mending, sweeping, all manner of cleansing, arrangement and care of whatever pertains to clothing and housekeeping, come under the same law of prescription or necessity. The soldier must do these things, or they will be left undone. He who has never arranged, cared for, or cooked his own or any other food, who has never washed, mended, or swept, is expected to understand and required to do these for himself, or suffer the consequences of neglect. The want of knowledge and training for these purposes makes the soldier a bad cook, as well as an indiscreet, negligent, and often a slovenly self-manager, and consequently his nutrition and his personal and domestic habits are neither so healthy nor so invigorating as those of men in civil life; and the Government neither thinks of this deficiency nor provides for it by furnishing instruction in regard to this new responsibility and these new duties, nor does it exercise a rigid watchfulness over his habits to compel them to be as good and as healthy as they may be. MUCH SICKNESS DUE TO ERRORS OF GOVERNMENT. Whatever may be the excess of sickness and mortality among soldiers over those among civilians, it is manifest that a great portion is due to preventable causes; and it is equally manifest that a large part of these are owing to the negligence of the Government or its agents, the officers in command or the men themselves, in regard to encampments, tents, clothing, food, labors, exposures, etc. Twentieth Regiment. "The impoverished condition of the blood, dependent on long use of improper diet, exposure to wet and cold, and want of sufficient clothing and rest, had become evident." "Scurvy, diarrhoea, frost-bite, and ulceration of the feet followed." These quotations are but samples of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of similar statements, showing the immediate connection between privations, exposures, and hardships, and depression of life and abundant disease. When the soldier, overcome by these morbific influences, became sick, and was taken to the hospital, he was still compelled to suffer, and often sank under, the privation of those comforts and means of restoration which the sick at home usually enjoy. No nation has made this liberal and proper provision of lodging-room for its sleeping soldiers in peace or in war, in garrison or in the encampment. RESULTS OF SANITARY REFORMS. But it is satisfactory to know that great improvements have been made in this respect. From a careful and extended inquiry into the diseases of the army and their causes, it is manifest that they do not necessarily belong to the profession of war. Although sickness has been more prevalent, and death in consequence more frequent, in camps and military stations than in the dwellings of peace, this excess is not unavoidable, but may be mostly, if not entirely, prevented. Men are not more sick because they are soldiers and live apart from their homes, but because they are exposed to conditions or indulge in habits that would produce the same results in civil as in military life. Wherever civilians have fallen into these conditions and habits, they have suffered in the same way; and wherever the army has been redeemed from these, sickness and mortality have diminished, and the health and efficiency of the men have improved. These new systems connect with every corps of the army the means of protecting the health of the men, as well as of healing their diseases. "A Medical Head, to give advice and assistance on all subjects connected with the medical service and hospitals of the army. "A Sanitary Head, to give advice and assistance on all subjects connected with the hygiene of the army. Besides these medical officers, there are an Inspector-General of Hospitals, a Deputy Inspector-General of Hospitals, Staff and Regimental Surgeons, Staff and Regimental Assistant-Surgeons, and Apothecaries. Nothing in the condition, circumstances, or habits of the men, that can affect their health, must be allowed to escape the notice of these medical officers. Thus the British army is furnished with the best sanitary instruction the nation can afford, to guide the officers and show the men how to live, and sustain their strength for the most effective labor in the service of the country. The same happy accounts of improvement come from every province and every military station where the British Government has placed its armies. ELIZABETH SARA SHEPPARD You ask from me some particulars of the valued life so recently closed. Miss Sheppard was my friend of many years; I was with her to the last hour of her existence; but this is not the time for other than a brief notice of her career, and I comply with your request by sending you a slight memorial, hardly full enough for publication. Her rich imagination and slender purse were open to all beggars, but for herself she asked nothing, and was constantly a willing sufferer from her own inability to toady a patron or to make a good bargain with a publisher. Those who loved either her person or her works will find her place forever empty. Among her manuscript papers I found this sketch, which has a peculiar significance now that the writer has passed away. It has never been printed. A NICHE IN THE HEART. There are persons who die and are forgotten, when their exit from the stage of human affairs is a source of advantage to their survivors. Witness those possessed of large fortunes, which they have it in their power to bequeath, and over whose dwellings of mortality vigilant relations hover like the carrion-fowl above the dying battle-steed. I remember a good story to this effect, in which a lady and gentleman took a grateful vow to pic-nic annually, on the anniversary of his death, at the tomb of a relation who had greatly enriched them. They did so, actually, _once_; succeeding years saw them no more at the solemn tryst. RESOURCES OF THE SOUTH. There are few at the North who appreciate the sacrifice which attends this diversion, or the extent of the pressure which led to this disastrous change. In the language of the "Richmond Examiner," "the possession of the lead, copper, and salt mines, and the pork, corn, and hay-crop of these countries, Eastern Tennessee and Western Virginia, is now vital to the existence of the Confederacy. This section of the country is the keystone of the Southern arch. It is now in great peril, as is the great artery through which the life-blood of the South now circulates. Whether the East Tennessee and Virginia railroad is to be surrendered, whether the only adequate supply of salt is to be lost, whether the only hay-crop of the South is to be surrendered, are questions of vast and pressing importance." New York, we were told, was dependent on Southern commerce, and was to be ruined by the war; there were to be riots in the streets, and its palaces were to fall in ruins: but the riots and the ruins are to be found only in Southern latitudes. If we pass on to Mobile, we hear of similar prices, and learn that not a carpet can be found on the floor of any resident: they have all been cut into blankets for the army. White curtains and drapery have been converted into shirts; for cotton cloth cannot be had for a dollar a yard. Such is the condition of affairs, while the South still has access to Virginia and East Tennessee, and after it has received a year's supply of Northern productions for which no payment has been made. Having thus pictured the physical resources of the enemy, let us inquire what is the force which he can bring into the field, and his means of maintaining it. The pecuniary resources of the South for carrying on this war have thus far consisted principally of a paper currency and bonds, with a forced circulation. It has drawn little from taxes or forfeiture, although it has been aided by the appropriation of both public and private property of the United States. The position of this class has thus far been improved by the war. In the army the poor white has associated with the officer, far above him in social life. His aid has been courted, he has received high wages in Confederate notes, he has found better fare and clothing than he could procure at home, and has been lured to the contest by the eloquent appeals of the planter, by bitter attacks upon the North, and glowing pictures of the ruin which the abolitionists would bring upon the South. The Confederate notes have until recently proved sufficient for his purposes, while other classes have supplied the means to prosecute the war. But as the circle contracts and these notes prove worthless, food and clothing, tobacco and whiskey will cease to be attainable; and when the provost marshal has swept the plantation, and comes to the poor man's cabin to take his last bushel of meal and to shoot down his swine for the subsistence of the army, he will at length ask what he has to gain from the further prosecution of the war. When this crisis arrives, and it must be approaching, how can the Southern army retain in its ranks either the poor white, the foreigner, or the Northern clerk, whose sympathies have never been with the Confederacy? Can we expect future peace, unless we reduce to order lawless men, unless we draw them from the war-path by making labor and the arts of peace respected? Should the institution of slavery survive the war into which we have been plunged by its adherents and propagators, we might well fear that our Northern and Western States would be overrun by the fugitives, who, having escaped during the war, would be disposed to place distance between themselves and their late masters, and to fly from the borders of States which would not hesitate to reduce them again to servitude; but if the institution itself should be terminated by the war, why should the free man be a fugitive from his home? Why is colonization necessary? Is not this the true solution of the great problem? The flags of war like storm-birds fly, The charging trumpets blow; Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below. And, calm and patient, Nature keeps Her ancient promise well, Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps The battle's breath of hell. And still she walks in golden hours Through harvest-happy farms, And still she wears her fruits and flowers Like jewels on her arms. Ah! eyes may well be full of tears, And hearts with hate are hot; But even-paced come round the years, And Nature changes not. She meets with smiles our bitter grief, With songs our groans of pain; She mocks with tint of flower and leaf The war-field's crimson stain. Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm; Too near to God for doubt or fear, She shares the eternal calm She knows the seed lies safe below The fires that blast and burn; For all the tears of blood we sow She waits the rich return. Oh, give to us her finer ear! Above this stormy din, We, too, would hear the bells of cheer Ring peace and freedom in! REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES. _The Tabernacle_: A Collection of Hymn-Tunes, Chants, Sentences, Motets, and Anthems, adapted to Public and Private Worship, and to the Use of Choirs, Singing-Schools, Musical Societies, and Conventions. Together with a Complete Treatise on the Principles of Musical Notation. By B.F. BAKER and W.O. PERKINS. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. A music-book for general use in churches which do not have quartette choirs and "classical" music must be prepared with care and good judgment. It must contain, of course, certain old standard tunes which seem justly destined to live in perpetual favor, and it must surround these with clusters of new tunes, which shall be as solid and correct in their harmony as the older, while their lightness and fluency of melody belong to the present day. There must be anthems and chants, and there must be a clear and thorough exposition of the elements of vocal music to help on the tyros who aspire to join the choir. The work of which we are writing answers these requirements well. Its editors are practical men; they have not only taught music to city pupils, but they have conducted choirs and singing-schools, and have discovered the wants of ordinary singers by much experience in normal schools and musical conventions. "The Tabernacle" contains the fruits of their observation and experience, and will be found to meet the requirements of many singers who have hitherto been unsatisfied. It commences with the rudiments of music and a glossary of technical terms, to which is appended a good collection of part-songs, especially prepared for social and festival occasions. Then follow the hymn-tunes, which are adapted not only to the ordinary metres, but also to all the irregular metres which are to be found in any collection of hymns which is known to be used in the country. Next come the chants and anthems: among these are arrangements from Mozart, Beethoven, Chapple, Rossini, (the "Inflammatus" from the "Stabat Mater"), Curschmann, (the celebrated trio, "Ti prego,") Lambillote, and other standard authors. Indices, remarkably full, and prepared upon an ingenious system, by which the metre and rhythm of every tune are indicated, conclude the volume. _The Rebellion Record: A Diary of American Events, with Documents, Narratives, Illustrative Incidents, Poetry, etc_. Edited by FRANK MOORE, Author of "Diary of the American Revolution." New York: G.P. Putnam. Charles T. Evans, General Agent. RECENT AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS RECEIVED BY THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.	redpajama-book	17,327
E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Brett Koonce, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders PLAIN WORDS FROM AMERICA A LETTER TO A GERMAN PROFESSOR Professor DOUGLAS W. JOHNSON Columbia University, New York PLAIN WORDS FROM AMERICA It is only fair to say, also, that our admiration of Germany's achievements in art, literature, and science never led us so far as to accept the claim of superiority in these lines advanced by many Germans on behalf of their country. The insistence with which this claim has been reiterated and proclaimed abroad by Germans, often with more of patriotism than of good taste, may have led a part of the public to believe it. But the more intelligent and thoughtful portion of the people, accustomed to analyse such claims by careful comparison with the products of non-Teutonic civilisation, has been unable to find any adequate basis for the assumed superiority. Indeed, while intelligent and fair-minded Americans are not slow to recognise Germany's great contributions to the world's art, literature, and science, they believe that, with the possible exception of music, greater contributions have been made in these lines by France, England, and other nations. In the realm of invention, we fully appreciate the skill and resourcefulness manifested by the German people in adapting new discoveries to their own needs; but we cannot deny the fact that most of the discoveries which have played so vital a part in the development of modern civilisation have been made, not in Germany, but in other countries. Certainly in what you wrote to me you were thoroughly sincere and honest; yet your letter was full of untrue statements because you were dependent for your information upon a Government-controlled press which has misled you for military and political reasons. How can a nation know the truth, think clearly, and act righteously when a few men, called the "State," can commit you to the most serious enterprise in your history without your previous knowledge or consent, and can then keep you in ignorance of vitally important documents and activities in order to insure your full support of their perilous undertaking? Such is the thought which has always led America to denounce as false the old theory of "divine right of kings," long imposed upon the German people in the more subtle and, therefore, more dangerous form of "the divine right of the State." Our conviction that such a government as yours is reactionary and incompatible with true liberty, and that it stunts and warps the intellects of its citizens, has been amply confirmed by extended observation in your country, and more particularly by the unanswerable fact that millions of your best blood, including distinguished men of intelligence and wealth, have forsaken Germany to seek true liberty of intellect and action in America, renouncing allegiance to the Fatherland to become citizens here. Some of them still love the scenes of their childhood, but few of them would be willing to return to a life under such a Government as Germany possesses. To summarise what I said above: Americans, prior to the war, admired the remarkable advances made by Germany in recent years in economic and commercial lines; held in high regard your universities and many of your university professors; loved your music, and felt most cordial toward the millions of Germans who came to live among us and share the benefits of our free institutions. The prevalence of bad manners among Germans we regretted, but made allowance for this defect; and we did not fail to recognise that some Germans are fine gentlemen of the most perfect culture, while most of them have traits of character which we admired. We recognised the immense value of Germany's contributions to art, literature, and science, but did not consider Germany's contributions in these lines as equal to those of other nations. We never have regarded German culture as superior, but rather as inferior, to that of certain other countries; and the Germans' loud claims to superiority have seemed to us egotistical and the result of a weak point in the German character. For your form of government and the philosophy of history taught by your university professors we could never have much admiration or respect. Both seemed to us unworthy of an intelligent, civilised people, and sure to lead to disaster. Your military preparations, evident to every observant visitor, have long caused us to distrust your Government and to consider your country a menace to the world's peace. In a word, we admired and loved your people, although we considered them neither perfect nor even superior to other people; but we disapproved and distrusted your reactionary military Government. Finally, American opinion has been based more than all else on Germany's official communications, directly addressed to our Government, on certain acts which Germany has admitted, and on the nature of the defence and excuses offered by the German Government in palliation of those acts. You must not forget that the many lengthy notes addressed by your Government to Americans have been published in full in American papers. The outcry against English gold, against cable dispatches altered by the English, and against corrupt newspaper publishers cannot be raised in connection with diplomatic correspondence transmitted direct to your Ambassador here. This authentic, official correspondence has given us an excellent measure of the standards of morality and humanity which actuate the present German Government. Our opinion of Germany has been profoundly influenced by these official documents. I believe you must, in sincerity and frankness, admit that the American public has had many sources of information open to it in forming its opinions about Germany. Indeed, with a free press, a large German population absolutely free from censorship or restrictions of any kind, and a Government which does not need to suppress facts for military or political reasons, we are in a far better position to learn the whole truth about Germany than are the German people themselves. Americans have no doubt whatever that the insolent ultimatum to Servia was delivered for the purpose of provoking war, and that Austria would never have dared send it were it not for the fact that the German Government "assured her a free hand" in advance, as has been officially admitted by your Government. The fact that Austria refused to make public the full evidence on which she based her accusations against the Servian Government, added to the fact that she made these accusations after a secret investigation in which the defendant had no representation, has shocked not only America but the entire world; and has convinced the world, as a whole, that Austria and Germany were more guilty of wrongdoing than was Servia. Americans have studied carefully the official documents issued by the different Governments concerning the origin of the war, and have had the advantage of seeing all the papers which each has published. The official papers issued by England, Germany, France, Austria, and the other Governments have been printed in full in pamphlet form, and have been eagerly studied by the whole nation. Edition after edition has been exhausted by a people eagerly seeking to learn the truth. In Germany there has been no such eagerness to learn the truth by careful, critical study of the official sources of information, and leading Germans have regretfully admitted that too many of the German people were content to accept their Government's statements as the truth, without attempting to use their own intelligence in the matter. In the opinion of Americans the official documents, and especially the admissions made by your Government in its attempted defence, prove that the German Government forced the war in order to satisfy the ambitions of the military party which has long been in control. When you have a chance to read certain documents which your Government does not let you read now, you can form an impartial judgment as to whether or not Americans and the other neutral peoples have been unjust in deciding that Germany is responsible for the war. Until that time you will, of course, feel that the judgment of the world does your country a terrible wrong. The Government which caused the war is not going to let its people read things which would shake their confidence, and cause them to weaken in their support of the war! You dismiss the question of atrocities by asking if Americans can believe that such Germans as I know would commit such awful deeds. The reply to this is that, while Americans realise that there are many Germans who would rather die than do a cruel act, Germany possesses a military Government which has convinced Americans and the rest of the world that, under the plea of "military necessity," it will commit the most barbarous crimes. History demonstrates that a military Government stifles the finer instincts of the people which support it. Many Germans struggled to overthrow the military clique in Germany, and some of them are among the most gentle-hearted, kindly souls it has ever been my good fortune to meet. Others have exalted the military and the idea of war; and while boarding in the home of a German army officer I witnessed heartless and cruel acts which I do not believe could have occurred in any other civilised country among people of the same education and intelligence. Unfortunately, Americans see no opportunity to doubt the barbarous behaviour of the German army; and in the debate over the Zabern affair some of your best citizens rebelled against military brutality--but the punishment meted out to the military offenders was nullified by your military Government. In the present war that same Government has admitted and justified unspeakable atrocities under the plea of "military necessities." Americans do not believe every lie wafted on the wings of gossip; but when your book of instructions to army officers expressly breaks down every safeguard for civilised warfare by justifying "exceptions" to the rules governing such warfare, Americans cannot fail to conclude that your Government is more barbarous than that of any other country claiming to be civilised; for other countries do not now recognise the right of armies to make such exceptions. Your Government, in trying to defend itself against the storm of world-criticism, has admitted and justified the slaughter of innocent hostages as a "military necessity." No other civilised country does this; and Americans consider the German Government both brutal and barbarous for permitting this utterly inhuman practice. American soldiers in Vera Cruz were killed by franctireurs; but our Government would hang any American officer who permitted the murder of innocent hostages on that account. Your Government justifies and excuses such measures; therefore Americans have been forced to conclude that your Government is less civilised than are the Governments of America, England, and France, which forbid such conduct. Your Government executed a woman of noble character, and defends its act as perfectly legal and a "military necessity." Americans are quite willing to admit that Miss Cavell may have been guilty of the charges brought against her. Yet the entire world stood horrified when the Government of Germany, with due legal form, committed a crime against womanhood and against humanity, which for centuries will make Germans blush for shame when the name of Miss Cavell is mentioned. Englishmen blush at the memory of Jeffreys, but no Englishman ever defends that fiendish butcher of women. Americans blush at the memory of Mrs. Surratt; but few Americans will defend her execution. The fact that Germans have risen to defend the Cavell atrocity led many Americans to conclude that the brutalising influence of militarism has made the mass of the German people less humane than are the peoples of other countries, since they defend what other peoples condemn. Your Government has bombarded unfortified seacoast towns which Americans know from personal observation, both before the war and during the bombardment, were not defended in any way. Mothers and babies were blown to shreds, but no military damage was done in most cases. Dozens of helpless old men, women and children were killed for every soldier slain. The same is true of your Zeppelin raids. Americans believe these acts are committed for the purpose of stirring up enthusiasm among the German populace. They believe such acts are in defiance of the rules of civilised warfare, that they are utterly inhuman and barbarous, and that a nation which approves and applauds such senseless slaughter is less civilised than other modern nations. The British Government has steadfastly refused to accede to the clamour of a few of its citizens who urge a policy of wholesale reprisals against German open towns. Americans honour this respect for the rules of civilised warfare and regret that even occasionally France has yielded to the provocation for reprisal raids against such a place as Freiburg. The fact that Germany began the slaughter of babies and women in defiance of the rules of war, and has kept it up in frequent raids by warships, Zeppelins, and aeroplanes, whereas the Allies have very seldom attacked open towns, and then only as occasional reprisals following peculiarly barbarous German attacks, has won for Germany the condemnation, and for the Allies the commendation of the civilised world. The _Lusitania_ atrocity removed from the minds of the American people the last possible doubt as to the essential barbarity of the German Government. No other Government pretending to be civilised has ever shocked the entire world by such a sickening crime against humanity. It is utterly inconceivable that the American nation could descend so low in the scale of humanity as to order the deliberate destruction of an English ship bearing hundreds of innocent German women and children across the seas. But if such a thing were conceivable, you could not find in the American navy an officer who would obey the inhuman order. Nor do Americans believe that the English or French Governments could ever disgrace their countries' honour by such a barbarous act. I am shocked and surprised that a man of your position and intelligence can find it in his heart to defend an act which has for ever stained the fair name and honour of your country. I read with amazement your assertions that the _Lusitania_ was armed, that she carried ammunition in defiance of American laws, and that our official inspection of her was careless. Your own Government has itself abandoned the false charge that the _Lusitania_ carried guns, and no longer makes such a ridiculous claim; while the German reservist who pretended to have seen the gun has admitted that he lied and is now serving a term in prison for perjury. You are not familiar with American shipping-laws which expressly permit the carrying of certain types of ammunition on passenger vessels, and you are, of course, quite ignorant as to what inspection of the vessel was made in New York, for you were in Germany at the time. Your assertions were made wholly on the basis of the false statements furnished you in Government-controlled papers. You had no means of determining the truth or falsity of the statements, on the basis of reliable and impartial evidence; yet you did not hesitate to make assertions which your own Government now practically admits were not well founded. The fact that the learned men of Germany have throughout the war violently supported the German position by reckless charges and wild assertions, paying no regard to the necessity of basing such charges and assertions on impartial evidence, instead of accepting with child-like simplicity the unsupported statements of the German Government, has destroyed the confidence of Americans in the ability of the German educated men to think and reason fairly and honestly about the war. Americans believe that the German people are a great people, capable of great and good things. They honour and admire the Germany which finds her best expression in the literature, music, and science which has justly made you famous. But they distrust and abhor the German Government which has made the name of Germany infamous. The heroic bravery of the German soldiers dying for their Fatherland, and the heroic fortitude of the German women who bear and suffer--all fail to evoke any enthusiasm in this country, or in other neutral countries, because of the stain which the German military Government has put upon their sacrifices. Your greatest victories bring no world honour to your armies because of the cloud of dishonour which hangs over every achievement of the German military machine. There is no enthusiasm, and very little praise, for the captors of Warsaw and Vilna, for Americans remember that it was German soldiers who murdered innocent hostages from "military necessity," who destroyed much of Louvain from "military necessity," who violated every rule of civilised warfare and humanity in Belgium from "military necessity," who executed a noble English nurse from "military necessity," who wrecked priceless monuments of civilisation in France from "military necessity," who have dropped bombs from the sky in the darkness upon sleeping women and children in unfortified places, and slaughtered hundreds of innocent non-combatants from "military necessity," who sent babes at the breast and their innocent mothers shrieking and strangling to a watery grave in mid-ocean from "military necessity," and who have defended every barbarous act, every crime against humanity on the specious and selfish plea that it was justified by "military necessity." Your Government has robbed your soldiers of all honour in the eyes of the world by making them the instruments of a military policy which the rest of the world unanimously condemns as brutal and barbarous. It seems to thoughtful Americans who know Germany and Germans best, that the highest duty of intelligent German professors like yourself is not to attempt the hopeless task of converting the rest of the world to an approval of the methods of the German Government, but rather to use your whole influence to establish a German Government which shall have a decent respect for the opinions of the rest of the world, and shall restore Germany to the place it used to have among civilised nations. Your greatest enemy is not the Russian, nor the French, nor the British Government. They might defeat you in war, but they never could take away your honour. Your greatest enemy is the Government which has dragged the fair name of Germany in the mire of dishonour, shocking the moral instincts of the whole world by acts no other civilised country would think of committing. Your greatest enemy is the Government which stifles your individual development by making you the obedient tools of the "State," which smothers your free thought by a muzzled press under police control, which makes your learned men ridiculous in the eyes of the world by training them to blind, unthinking support of the Government and credulous belief in whatever falsehoods it chooses to impose upon you for military and political purposes, which hurls you into a disastrous war without your knowledge or consent, and which brings down upon you the contempt of the whole world for crimes you would not yourselves commit, but which you must forsooth defend "for the good of the State."	redpajama-book	4,154
E-text prepared by Anne Soulard, Cornell University, Joshua Hutchinson, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY. A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS. THE CATACOMBS OF ROME. [Concluded.] To Adeodata, a worthy and deserving Virgin, and rests here in peace, her Christ commanding. The word _benemerenti_ is of constant recurrence. It is used both of the young and the old; and it seems to have been employed, with comprehensive meaning, as an expression of affectionate and grateful remembrance. ANIMA DVLCIS AVFENIA VIRGO BENEDICTA QVE VIXIT ANN: XXX DORMIT IN PACE To Angelica well in peace. CVRRENTIO SERVO DEI DEP. D. XVI. KAL NOVEM. To Currentius, the servant of God, laid in the grave on the sixteenth of the Kalends of November. MAXIMINVS QVI VIXIT ANNOS XXIII AMICVS OMNIVM SEPTIMVS MARCIANE IN PACE QUE BICSIT MECV ANNOS XVII. DORMIT IN PACE GAVDENTIA PAVSAT DVLCIS SPIRITVS ANNORVM II MENSORVM TRES. To Prosperus, innocent soul, in peace. At this grave was found the vase of blood, and on the gravestone was the figure of a dove. Lannus Martyr of Christ here rests. He suffered under Diocletian. FL. OLIVS PATERNVS CENTVRIO CHOR. X VRB. QVI VIXIT AH XXVII IN PACE CORNELIVS MARTYR EP. The Martyr Cornelius, Bishop. So far Mr. Northcote. It is still further to be noted, as an expression of the Christian temper, as displayed in this kind of charity, that it never appears in the inscriptions as furnishing a claim for praise, or as being regarded as a peculiar merit. There is no departure from the usual simplicity of the gravestones in those of this class. [Greek: PETROS THREPTOS RAUKUTA TOS EN THEO] Peter, sweetest foster-child, in God. And a dove is engraved at either side of this short epitaph. VITALIANO ALVMNO KARO EVTROPIVS FECIT. Eutropius made this for the dear foster-child Vitalian. ANTONIVS DISCOLIVS FILIVS ET BIBIVS FELLICISSIMVS ALVMNVS VALERIE CRESTENI MATRI BIDVE ANORVM XVIII INTET SANCTOS Who was this husband whose far-off journeys had so separated him from his lately married wife? Who were they who so loved as no others had loved? The tombstone gives only the name of Domnina. But in naming her, and in the expression of her husband's love, it gives evidence, which is confirmed by many other tokens in the catacombs, of the change introduced by Christianity in the position of women, and in the regard paid to them. Marriage was invested with a sanctity which redeemed it from sensuality, and Christianity became the means of uniting man and woman in the bonds of an immortal love. ATROX O FORTVNA TRVCI QVAE FVNERR GAVDES QVID MIHI TAM SVBITO MAXIMVS ERIPITVR QVI MODO JVCVNDVS GREMIO SVPERESSE SOLEBAT HIC LAPIS TN TVMVLO NVNC JACET ECCE MATER Harsh Fortune, that in cruel death finds't joy, Why is my Maximus thus sudden reft, So late the pleasant burden of my breast? Now in the grave this stone lies: lo, his mother!] From New Street. Pollecla, who sold barley on New Street. Amerimnus to his dearest wife Rufina well deserving. May God refresh thy spirit! Aurelius Aelianus, a Paphlagonian, faithful servant of God. He sleeps in peace. Remember him, O God, forever! O Lord, let not the spirit of Venus be shadowed at any time! From such petitions as these we come by a natural transition to such as are addressed to the dead themselves, as being members of the same communion with the living, and uniting in prayers with those they had left on earth and for their sake. VIBAS IN PACE ET PETE PRO NOBIS Mayst thou live in peace and ask for us! Here again is another inscription of a curious character, as interposing a saint between the dead and his Saviour. The monogram marks its date. RVTA OMNIBVS SVBDITA ET ATFABI LIS BIBET IN NOMINE PETRI IN PACE Ruta, subject and affable to all, shall live in the name of Peter, in the peace of Christ. O Zosimus, mayst thou live in the name of Christ! May God alone protect thy spirit, Alexander! Whoever shall read this, may he live in Christ! Jo laughed. "Thee is a little innocent, Letty, with your pretty dialect! Why did I let my hair down? For Mr. Stepel to see it, of course." "That is very evident," interposed I; "but Letty is not so innocent or so wise as to have done wondering at your caprices, Jo; expound, if you please, for her edification." "I do not pretend to be wise or simple, Sarah; but I didn't think Cousin Josephine had so much vanity." "You certainly shall have a preacher-bonnet, Letty. How do you know it was vanity, my dear? I saw you show Mr. Stepel your embroidery with the serenest satisfaction; now you made your crewel cherries, and I didn't make my hair; which was vain?" Letty was astounded. "Thee has a gift of speech, certainly, Jo." Letty said truly that Jo had a gift of speech; and she, having said her say about the hair, dismissed the matter, with no uneasy recurring to it, and took up a book from the table, declaring she was tired of her seam;-she always was tired of sewing! Presently she laughed. "What is it, Jo?" said I. "Why, it is 'Jane Eyre,' with Letty Allis's name on the blank leaf. That is what I call an anachronism, spiritually. What do you think about the book, Letty?" said she, turning her lithe figure round in the great chair toward the little Quakeress, whose pretty red head and apple-blossom of a face bloomed out of her gray attire and prim collar with a certain fascinating contrast. "I think it has a very good moral tendency, Cousin Jo." The clear, hazel eyes flashed a most amused comment at me. "Well, what do you call the moral, Letty?" Jo flung herself back impatiently in the chair, and began an harangue. "My dear young friend," said I, rather grimly, "when a woman loves a man, it is apt, I regret to say, to become a fact, not a theory; and facts are stubborn things, you know. It is not easy to set aside a real affection." "I know that, ma'am," retorted Jo, in a slightly sarcastic tone; "it is a painful truth; still, I do think a deliberate deceit practised on me by any man would decapitate any love I had for him, quite inevitably." "Bah!" said Josephine, "when did you turn gypsy, Sally? You ought to sell _dukkeripen_, and make your fortune. Why don't you unfold Letty's fate?" "No," said I, laughing. "Don't you know that the afflatus always exhausts the priestess? You may tell Letty's fortune, or mine, if you will; but my power is gone." "Wasn't that a nice little tableau, Letty?" said Josephine, with preternatural coolness. "You looked so sleepy, I thought I'd wake you up with a bit of a scene from 'Lara Aboukir, the Pirate Chief'; you know we have a great deal of private theatricals at Baltimore; you should see me in that play as Flashmoria, the Bandit's Bride." Letty rubbed her left eye a little, as if to see whether she was sleepy or not, and looked grave; for me, the laugh came easily enough now. Jo saw she had not quite succeeded, so she turned the current another way. "Shall I tell your fortune now, Letty? Are you quite waked up?" said she. "No, thee needn't, Cousin Jo; thee don't tell very good ones, I think." Letty turned pale with rage. I did not think her blonde temperament held such passion. "I won't! I won't! I never will!" she cried out. "I hate Thomas Dugdale, Sarah! Thee ought to know better about me! thee knows I cannot endure him, the old thing!" This climax was too much for Jo. With raised brows and a round mouth, she had been on the point of whistling ever since Letty began; it was an old, naughty trick of hers; but now she laughed outright. "Why! where _did_ thee ever see him, Josey?" exclaimed Letty, now rosy with quick blushes. The question was irresistible. Jo and I burst into a peal of laughter that woke Friend Allis from her nap, and, bringing her into the parlor, forced us to recover our gravity; and presently Jo and I took leave. Letty was an orphan, and lived with her cousin, Friend Allis. I, too, was alone; but I kept a tiny house in Slepington, part of which I rented, and Jo was visiting me. As we walked home, along the quiet street overhung with willows and sycamores, I said to her, "Jo, how came you to know Letty's secret?" "I am afraid it is Henry Malden," said I, meditatively; "he is all you describe, but he is also radically bad; besides, having been in the Mexican war, he will have the prestige of a hero to Letty. How can the poor girl be undeceived before it is quite too late?" "What do you want to undeceive her for, Sally? Do you suppose that will prevent her marrying Mr. Malden?" "I should think so, most certainly!" "Not in the least. If you want Letty to marry him, just judiciously oppose it. Go to her, and say you come as a friend to tell her Mr. Malden's faults, and the result will be, she will hate you, and be deeper in love with him than ever." "You don't give her credit for common sense, Jo." "I can't do that, Josephine. I have not the means, and Miss Allis would not have the will, even if she believed in your prescription." "Then Letty must stay here and bide her time. You believe in a special Providence, Sarah, don't you?" "Yes, of course I do." "Then cannot you leave her to that care? Circumstances do not work for you. Perhaps it is best that she should marry him, suffer, live, love, and be refined by fire." "You frighten me, Sarah. I cannot believe this is always true of men and their wives." "Safe, indeed! He ought to have been shot!" There was a long pause. It was as when you lift a wreck from the tranquil sea and let it fall again to the depths, useless to wave or shore; the black and ghastly hulk is covered; it is seen no more; but the water palpitates with circling rings, trembles above the grave, dashes quick and apprehensive billows upon the sand, and is long in regaining its quiet surface. "I wonder if there ever was a perfect man," said Jo, at length, drawing a deep sigh. By this time we were at home, and Jo flung her parasol on the bench in the porch, and sat down beside it with a gesture of weariness and disgust mingled. The day had waned, and the sunset lit Josephine's excited eyes with fire: she was not beautiful, but now, if ever, beauty visited her with a transient caress. She looked up and met my eyes fixed on her. "Very pretty, just now, Jo; your eyes are bright and your cheek flushed: the sunshine suits you. I admire you tonight." "I am glad," said she, naively. "I often wish to be pretty." "People are very good to me, Jo." The next day, Josephine left me. As we walked together toward the landing of the steamer, Letty Allis emerged from a green lane to say good-bye, and down its vista I discerned the handsome, lazy person of Henry Malden, but I did not inform Letty of my discovery. I found Jo more changed than I had expected: this last year of country life had given strength and elasticity to the tall and slender figure; a steady rose of health burned on either cheek; and sorrow had subdued and calmed her quick spirits. In the course of this spring we gained an addition to our society, in the person of Mr. Waring, the son of the gentleman who had bought the mills at Mrs. Boyle's death, but who had hitherto conducted them by an overseer. He had recently bought a little island in the middle of the river, just below the dam, and proposed erecting a new mill upon it; but as the Tunxis (the Indian name of our river) was liable to rapid and destructive freshets, the mill required a deep and secure foundation and a lower story of stone. It is a well-known fact in the philosophy of the human mind, that it is apt to gain more by imparting than by receiving; and since philosophy, where it becomes fact, does not mercifully adjust its results to circumstance, but rushes on in implacable grooves, and clears its own track of whatever lies thereon by the summary process of crushing it to dust, it did not pause now for the pure intentions and tender heart which, in teaching another love to men, taught herself love to a man, and learnt far better than her pupil. "He would not send for her, Sally," said she, "because she is not well, and he feared to startle her." "H'm!" said I, very curtly. A keen pang pierced me at the vibration of her voice as she spoke. I thought to soothe her a little, and said, "Heaven can be no more than love, Jo, and we have a great deal of that on earth." "I love you enough, dear," said I; more words would have choked me in the utterance. Soon we turned homeward. "But you cannot see it from the road, Jo; the hemlocks stand between." "Never mind, Sally; I shall just walk through them; don't deny me! I want to see it all again; and perhaps the arbutus is in bloom." We left the carriage, and on my arm Jo strolled through the little thicket of hemlock-trees, green and fragrant. She seemed unusually strong. I began to hope. After much searching, we found the budded flowers; she loved most of all wild blossoms; no scent breathed from the closed petals; they were not yet kissed by the odor-giving south-wind into life and expression; but Jo looked at them with sad, far-reaching eyes. I think she silently said good-bye to them. WHAT A WRETCHED WOMAN SAID TO ME. All the broad East was laced with tender rings Of widening light; the Daybreak shone afar; Deep in the hollow, 'twixt her fiery wings, Fluttered the morning star. A cloud, that through the time of darkness went With wanton winds, now, heavy-hearted, came And fell upon the sunshine, penitent, And burning up with shame. The grass was wet with dew; the sheep-fields lay Lapping together far as eye could see; And the great harvest hung the golden way Of Nature's charity. "_I_ loved, but _I_ must stifle Nature's cries With old dry blood, else perish, I was told; Hence the young light shrunk up within my eyes, And left them blank and bold. "The thick, tough husk of evil grows about Each soul that lives," I mused, "but doth it kill? When the tree rots, the imprisoned wedge falls out, Rusted, but iron still. "Shall He who to the daisy has access, Reaching it down its little lamp of dew To light it up through earth, do any less, Last and best work, for you?" "It was a ship, and a ship of fame, Launched off the stocks, bound for the main." "Oh, the bowline, bully bully bowline, Oh, the bowline, bowline, HAUL!" _Chorus._ Pay me the money down! _Chorus._ Pay me the money down! _Solo and Chorus. (Bis)_ Money down, money down, pay me the money down! These are some of the working-songs of the sea. They are not chosen for their sense, but for their sound. They must contain good mouth-filling words, with the vowels in the right place, and the rhythmic ictus at proper distances for chest and hand to keep true time. And this is why the seaman beats the wind in a trial of strength. The wind may whistle, but it cannot sing. The sailor does not whistle, on shipboard at least, but does sing. Like "Christabel," this remains a fragment. Not so the legend of "Captain Cottington," (or Coddington,) which perhaps is still traditionally known to the young gentlemen at Harvard. It is marked by a bold and ingenious metrical novelty. "Captain Cottington he went to sea, Captain Cottington he went to sea, Captain Cottington he went to sea-e-e, Captain Cottington he went to sea." For the amateur of genuine ballad verse, here is a field quite as fertile as that which was reaped by Scott and Ritson amid the border peels and farmhouses of Liddesdale. It is not unlikely that some treasures may thus be brought to light. The genuine expression of popular feeling is always forcible, not seldom poetic. And at any rate, these wild bits of verse are redolent of the freshness of the sea-breeze, the damps of the clinging fog, the strange odors of the caboose-cookery, of the curing of cod, and of many another "ancient and fish-like smell." Who will tell us of these songs, not indeed of the deep sea, but of soundings? What were the stanzas which Luckie Mucklebackit sang along the Portanferry Sands? What is the dredging-song which the oyster "come of a gentle kind" is said to love? THE KINLOCH ESTATE, AND HOW IT WAS SETTLED. "Mildred, my daughter, I am faint. Run and get me a glass of cordial from the buffet." The girl looked at her father as he sat in his bamboo chair on the piazza, his pipe just let fall on the floor, and his face covered with a deadly pallor. She ran for the cordial, and poured it out with a trembling hand. "Shan't I go for the doctor, father?" she asked. "No, my dear, the spasm will pass off presently." But his face grew more ashy pale, and his jaw drooped. "Dear father," said the frightened girl, "what shall I do for you? Oh, dear, if mother were only at home, or Hugh, to run for the doctor!" But Mildred thought he had fainted, and, raising the window, called loudly for Lucy Ransom, the only female domestic then in the house. "Rub his hands, Lucy!" said Mildred. "Run for some water! Get me the smelling-salts!" "Deary, no," said Lucy, "you won't find it." A carriage stopped at the door, and a hasty step came up the walk. "Lucy Ransom," said Mrs. Kinloch, (for it was she, just returned from her drive,) "Lucy Ransom, what are you blubbering about? Here on the piazza, and with your flat-iron! What is the matter?" By this time Mrs. Kinloch had stepped upon the piazza, and saw the drooping head, the dangling arms, and the changed face of her husband. "Dead! dead!" she exclaimed. "My God! what has happened? Mildred, who was with him? Was the doctor sent for? or Squire Clamp? or Mr. Rook? What did he say to you, dear?" And she tried to lift up the sobbing child, who still clung to the stiffening knees where she had so often climbed for a kiss. "Calm yourself, my dear child," said Mrs. Kinloch. "Tell me, did he say anything?" Mildred replied, "He was faint, and before I could give him the cordial he asked for he was almost gone. 'The blacksmith,' he said, 'send for Ralph Hardwick'; then he said something of the ebony cabinet, but could not speak the words which were on his lips." She could say no more, but gave way to uncontrollable tears and sobs. By this time, Mrs. Kinloch's son, Hugh Branning, who had been to the stable with the horse and carriage, came whistling through the yard, and cutting off weeds or twigs along the path with sharp cuts of his whip. "Which way is the wind now?" said he, as he approached; "the governor asleep, Mildred crying, and you scolding, mother?" In a moment, however, the sight of the ghastly face transfixed the thoughtless youth, as it had done his mother; and, dropping his whip, he stood silent, awe-struck, in the presence of the dead. "Hugh," said Mrs. Kinloch, speaking in a very quiet tone, "go and tell Squire Clamp to come over here." In a few minutes the dead body was carried into the house by George, the Asiatic servant, aided by a villager who happened to pass by. Squire Clamp, the lawyer of the town, came and had a conference with Mrs. Kinloch respecting the funeral. Neighbors came to offer sympathy, and aid, if need should be. Then the house was put in order, and crape hung on the doorhandle. The family were alone with their dead. The funeral was over, and the townspeople recovered from the shock which the sudden death had caused. Administration was granted to the widow conjointly with Squire Clamp, the lawyer, and the latter was appointed guardian for Mildred during her minority. If Squire Clamp's reputation for shrewdness had belonged to an irreligious man, it would have been of questionable character; but as he was a zealous member of the church, he was protected from assaults upon his integrity. If there were suspicions, they were kept close, not bruited abroad. In order to show the position of Mrs. Kinloch and her son in our story, it will be necessary to make the reader acquainted with some previous occurrences. Everybody knew that she was poor, and she knew that everybody knew it; yet so long as she was not in absolute want, and the poor-house, that bugbear of honest poverty, was yet far distant, she managed to keep a cheerful heart, and visited her neighbors on terms of entire equality. At this period Walter Kinloch's wife died, leaving an only child. During her sickness, Mrs. Branning had been sent for to act as nurse and temporary house-keeper, and, at the urgent request of the widower, remained for a time after the funeral. Weeks passed, and her house was still tenantless. Mildred had become so much attached to the motherly widow and her son, that she would not allow the servants to do anything for her. So, without any definite agreement, their relations continued. By-and-by the village gossips began to query and surmise. At the sewingsociety the matter was fully discussed. Others insinuated that Mrs. Branning knew what she was about when she went to Squire Kinloch's, and his wife was 'most gone with consumption. "'Twasn't a mite strange that little Mildred took to her so kindly; plenty of women could find ways to please a child, if so be they could have such a chance to please themselves." The general opinion seemed to be that Mrs. Branning would marry the Squire, if she could get him; but that as to his intentions, the matter was quite doubtful. Nevertheless, after being talked about for a year, the parties were duly published, married, and settled down into the quiet routine of country life. Doubtless the accident of daily contact was the secret of the match. Had Mrs. Branning been living in her own poorly-furnished house, Mr. Kinloch would hardly have thought of going to seek her. But as mistress of his establishment she had an opportunity to display her house-wifely qualities, as well as to practise those nameless arts by which almost any clever woman knows how to render herself agreeable. After repeated admonitions without effect, a letter was addressed to his stepfather by vote at a Faculty-meeting. A damsel at service in the President's house overheard the discussion, and found means to warn the young delinquent of his danger; for she, as well as most people who came within the sphere of his attraction, felt kindly toward him. "I have brought you the statement of the property, Mrs. Kinloch," said Mr. Clamp. "It is merely a legal form, embracing the items which you gave to me; it must be returned at the next Probate term." Mrs. Kinloch took the paper and glanced over it. "This statement must be sworn to, Mrs. Kinloch." "We are joined in the administration, and both must swear to it." There was a pause. Mrs. Kinloch, resting her hands on her knee, tossed the hem of her dress with her foot, as though meditating. His manner was decorous, but he regarded her keenly. She changed the subject. She looked at him quietly; but he was imperturbable. "We must begin to collect what is due," she continued. "Did you refer to the notes from Ploughman?" asked Mr. Clamp. "He is perfectly good; and he will pay the interest till we want to use the money." "Well, when he comes on here, I will present the notes." "But I don't intend to wait till he comes; can't you send the demands to a lawyer where he is?" "Certainly, if you wish it; but that course will necessarily be attended with some expense." "I choose to have it done," said Mrs. Kinloch, decisively. "Mildred, who has always been foolishly partial to the young upstart, insists that her father intended to give up the notes to Mark, and she thinks that was what he wanted to send for Uncle Ralph about, just before he died. I don't believe it, and I don't intend to fling away _my_ money upon such folks." "You are quite right, ma'am," said the lawyer. "The inconsiderate generosity of school-children would be a poor basis for the transactions of business." "And besides," continued Mrs. Kinloch, "I want the young man to remember the blacksmith's shop that he came from, and get over his ridiculous notion of looking up to our family." "Oh ho!" said Mr. Clamp, "that is it? Well, you are a sagacious woman,"-looking at her with unfeigned admiration. "I don't pretend to be a judge of doctrine, further than the catechism goes," said the widow; "but Mr. Rook says that Torchlight is a dangerous man, and will lead the churches off into infidelity." "What made the smash, then?" demanded Mrs. Kinloch. "I was settin' things on the top shelf, and the chair tipped over." "Don't make it worse by fibbing! If that was so, how came the chair to tip the way it did? You were trying to peep over the door. Go to the kitchen!" Lucy went out with fallen plumes. Mr. Clamp took his hat to go also. "Don't go till I get you the notes," said Mrs. Kinloch. As she brought them, he said, "I will send these by the next mail, with instructions to collect." "No, ma'am, I have never seen it." "I wish you would have the land surveyed according to this title," she said. "Quite privately, you know. Just have the line run, and let me know about it. Perhaps it will be as well to send over to Riverbank and get Gunter to do it; he will keep quiet about it." Mr. Clamp stood still a moment. Here was a woman whom he was expecting to lead like a child, but who on the other hand had fairly bridled and saddled _him_, so that he was driven he knew not whither. "Why do you propose this, may I ask, Mrs. Kinloch?" "Oh, I have heard," she replied, carelessly, "that there was some error in the surveys. Mr. Kinloch often talked of having it corrected, but, like most men, put it off. Now, as we may sell the property, we shall want to know what we have got." Alas! the hammer is still; the wheel dashes no more the glittering spray; the fire has died out in the forge; the blacksmith's long day's work is done! So he toiled, faithful to his calling. By day the din of his hammer rarely ceased, and by night the flame and sparks from his chimney were a Pharos to all travellers approaching the town. Children were born to him, for which he blessed God, and worked the harder. He attained a moderate prosperity, secure from want, but still dependent upon labor for bread. At length his wife died; he wept like a true and faithful husband as he was, and thenceforth was both mother and father to his babes. Do not smile at the thought of Vulcan's callused fingers touching the chords of the lyre to delicate music. The sun shone as lovingly upon the swart face of the blacksmith in his shop-door, as upon the scholar at his library-window. "Poetry was an angel in his breast," making his heart glad with her heavenly presence; he did not "make her his drudge, his maid-ofall-work," as professional verse-makers do. But Mr. Hardwick believed in the duty and excellence of work, and Mark, as well as his cousins, was trained to make himself useful. So the Grammar was studied and Virgil read at chance intervals, when a storm interrupted out-door work, or while waiting at the upper mill for a grist, or of nights at the shop by the light of the forge fire. The paradigms were committed to memory with an anvil accompaniment; and long after, he never could scan a line of Homer, especially the oft-repeated [Greek: Tou d'au \| Taelema \| chos pep \| numenos \| antion \| aeuda], without hearing the ringing blows of his uncle's hammer keeping tune to the verse. At this point an incident occurred which changed the course of our hero's life, and as it will serve to explain how he came to give his notes to Mr. Kinloch, on which the administrators are about to bring suit, it should properly be related here. It was a damp, drizzly day; there was not a settled rain, yet it was too wet to work in the corn. Mark was therefore busy in picking loose stones from the surface of a field cultivated the year before, and now "seeded down" for grass. A portion of the field bordered on a pond, and the alders upon its margin formed a dense green palisade, over which might be seen the gray surface of the water freckled by the tiny drops of rain. Low clouds trailed their gauzy robes over the top of Mount Quobbin, and flecks of mist swept across the blue sides of the loftier Mount Elizabeth. "What a perfect day for fishing!" thought Mark. "If I had my tackle here, and a frog's leg or a shiner, I would soon have a pickerel out from under those lilypads." But he kept at work, and, having his basket full of stones, carried them to the pond and plumped them in. A growl of anger came up from behind the bushes. The bushes parted at the same time, showing Hugh Branning sitting in the end of his boat, and apparently just ready to fling out his line. "If I had known you were there fishing," said Mark, "I shouldn't have thrown the stones into the water. But," he continued, while every fibre tingled with indignation, "I will have you to know that I am not to be talked to in that way by you or anybody else." "I would like to know how you are going to help yourself," said Hugh, stepping ashore and advancing. "Bless me! how the young Vulcan talks!" "I have talked all I am going to. Now get into your boat and be off!" "I don't propose to be in a hurry," said Hugh, with provoking coolness, standing with his arms a-kimbo. The remembrance of Hugh's usual patronizing airs, together with his insulting language, was too much for Mark's impetuous temper. He was in a delirium of rage, and he rushed upon his antagonist. Hugh stood warily upon the defensive, and parried Mark's blows with admirable skill; he had not the muscle nor the endurance of the young blacksmith, but he had considerable skill in boxing, and was perfectly cool; and though Mark finally succeeded in grappling and hurling to the ground his lithe and resolute foe, it was not until he had been pretty severely pommelled himself, especially in his face. Mark set his knee on the breast of his adversary and waited to hear "Enough." Hugh ground his teeth, but there was no escape; no feint nor sudden movement could reverse their positions; and, out of breath, he gave up in sullen despair. "Let me up," he said, at length. Mark arose, and being by this time thoroughly sobered, he walked off without a word and picked up his basket. When Mark was recovering, Mr. Rook, the clergyman, called and offered to aid him in his college course, if he would agree to study for the ministry. But the young man declined the proposal, because he thought himself unfitted for the sacred calling. "No," he added, with a smile, "I'm not made for an evangelist; not much like the beloved disciple at all events, but rather like peppery Peter,-ready, if provoked, to whisk off an ignoble ear." Charlotte, the youngest child, now came to the shop to say that supper was ready. "C-come, boys, you've ha-had play enough," said Mr. Hardwick. "J-James, put Ch-Charlotte down. M-M-Milton, it's close on to S-Sabba'day. Now wwash yourselves." "G-good evenin', M-Miss Mildred," said he; "I'm g-glad to see you lookin' so ch-cheerful." "Oh, Uncle Ralph," she replied, "I am never melancholy when I see you. You have all the cheerfulness of this spring day in your face." "Y-yes, I hev to stay here in the old shop; b-but I hear the b-birds in the mornin', and all day I f-feel as ef I was out under the b-blue sky, an' rejoicin' with all livin' creaturs in the sun and the s-sweet air of heaven." "I envy you your happy frame; everything has some form or hue of beauty for you. I must have you read to me again. I never take up Milton without thinking of you." "I c-couldn't wish to be remembered in any p-pleasanter way." "Well, good evening. I must hurry home, for it grows damp here by the mill-race. Tell Lizzy and Anna to come and see me. We are quite lonesome now." "P-p'raps Mark'll come with 'em." "Mark? Is he here? When did he come?" "H-he'll be here t-to-night." "'Tis rather s-sudden. He wrote y-yes-terday 't he'd g-got to come on urgent b-business." "Yes," he added, in a low tone, "I g-guess that is it." "I must go home," said Mildred, hurriedly. "Well, G-God bless you, my daughter! D-don't forgit your old sooty friend. And ef ever y-you want the help of a s-stout hand, or of an old gray head, don't fail to come to the ber-blacksmith's shop." "Thank you, Uncle Ralph! thank you with all my heart! Good-night!" "Mark Davenport!" she exclaimed, "Is it you? How you frightened me!" "Yes, Mildred, it is Mark, your old friend" (with a meaning emphasis). "I couldn't resist the temptation of giving you a little surprise." "But when did you come to town?" Mark drew her arm within his own, and noticed, not without pleasure, how she yet trembled with agitation. "I am very glad to see you," said Mildred; "but isn't your coming sudden?" "Yes, I had some news from home yesterday which determined me to come, and I started this morning." "Quick and impetuous as ever!" "Yes, I don't deliberate long." "I wish you had only been here to see father before he died." "I wish I might have seen him." "I am sure _he_ would never have desired to put you to any trouble." "I suppose he would not have _troubled_ me, though I never expected to do less than repay him the money he was so good as to lend me; but I don't think he would have been so abrupt and peremptory as Squire Clamp." "Why, what has he done?" "Oh, Mark, were you treated so?" They were approaching the house, both silent, neither seeming to be bold enough to touch the tenderer chords that thrilled in unison. "Good-night, dear Mildred!" said Mark. He took her hand, which was fluttering as by electrical influence, and raised it tenderly to his lips. "Good-night," he said again. She did not speak, but grasped his hand with fervor. He walked away slowly towards his uncle's house, but often stopped and looked back at the slender figure whose outlines he could barely see in the gateway under the trees. Then, as he lost sight of her, he remembered with shame the selfish prominence he had given to his own troubles. He was ashamed, too, of the cowardice which had kept him from uttering the words which had trembled on his lips. But in a moment the thought of the future checked that regret. Gloomy as his own lot might be, he could bear it; but he had no right to involve another's happiness. Thus he alternated between pride and abasement, hope and dejection, as many a lover has done before and since. The services of Sunday were finished. Those who, with dill and caraway, had vainly struggled against drowsiness, had waked up with a jerk at the benediction, and moved with their neighbors along the aisles, a slow and sluggish stream. The nearest friends passed out side by side with meekly composed faces, and without greeting each other until they reached the vestibule. So slow and solemn was the progress out of church, that merry James Hardwick averred that he saw Deacon Stone, a short fat man, actually dozing, his eyes softly shutting and opening like a hen's, as he was borne along by the crowd. The Deacon had been known to sleep while he stood up in his pew during prayer, but perhaps James's story was rather apocryphal. "S-sorry you've had such a t-time with the dog," said Mr. Hardwick; "he don't g-ginerally bark at pup-people." "Oh, no matter," said the Squire, contemplating the measure of damage in the skirt of his coat. "A good, sound sermon Mr. Rook gave us to-day. The doctrines of the decrees and sovereignty, and the eternal destruction of the impenitent, were strongly set forth." "Why, you don't doubt these fundamental points?" asked Mr. Clamp. "Oh, yes, Mr. Hardwick," he replied, "all the town knows of your practical religion." Then turning to Mark, he said, blandly, "So you came home yesterday. How long do you propose to stay?" The young man never had the best control of his temper, and it was now rapidly coming up to the boiling-point. "Mr. Clamp," said he, "if you had asked a pickerel the same question, he would probably tell you that you knew best how and when he came on shore, and that for himself he expected to get back into water as soon as he got the hook out of his jaws." "I am sorry to see this warmth," said Mr. Clamp; "I trust you have not been put to any trouble." "Really," said Mark, bitterly, "you have done your best to ruin me in the place where I earn my living, but 'trust I have not been put to any trouble'! Your sympathy is as deep as your sincerity." "Mark," said Mr. Hardwick, "you're sa-sayin' more than is necess-ssary." "Indeed, he is quite unjust," rejoined the lawyer. "I saw an alteration in his manner to-day, and for that reason I came here. I prefer to keep the friendship of all men, especially of those of my townsmen and brethren in the church whose piety and talents I so highly respect." "S-sartinly, th-that's right. I don't like to look around, wh-when I take the ker-cup at the Sacrament, and see any man that I've wronged; an' I don't f-feel comf'table nuther to see anybody der-drinkin' from the same cup that I think has tried to w-wrong me or mine." "You can save yourself that anxiety about Mr. Clamp, Uncle," said Mark. "He is not so much concerned about our Christian fellowship as he is about his fees. He couldn't live here, if he didn't manage to keep on both sides of every little quarrel in town. Having done me what mischief he could, he wants now to salve the wound over." "My young friend, what is the reason of this heat?" asked Mr. Clamp, mildly. "I don't care to talk further," Mark retorted. "I might as well explain the pathology of flesh bruises to a donkey who had maliciously kicked me." Mr. Clamp wiped his bald head, on which the perspiration was beginning to gather. His stock of pious commonplaces was exhausted, and he saw no prospect of calming Mark's rage, or of making any deep impression on the blacksmith. He therefore rose to depart. "Good evening," said he. "I pray you may become more reasonable, and less disposed to judge harshly of your friend and brother." Mark turned his back on him. Mr. Hardwick civilly bade him good-night. Lizzy and Anna, who had retreated during the war of words, came back, and the circle round the table was renewed. "The sooner, the better," said Mark. "I d'no," said Mr. Hardwick. "Ef we must live in f-fellowship, a derdiffi-culty in church isn't per-pleasant. But 'tis uncomf'table for straight wood to be ker-corded up with such ker-crooked sticks as him." In April's glad shower Flash petals and leaves, Less bright than the flower Round thy heart that weaves! Stars waken, stars slumber, Stars wink in the sky, Bright numberless number; But none like thine eye! For bird-song and flower And star from above Combine in thy bower; Their union is love! I have never seen Tankerville's famous picture of my triumphal entry into Quebec. The dead leaves their rich mosaics, Of olive and gold and brown, Had laid on the rain-wet pavements, Through all the embowered town. They were washed by the Autumn tempest, They were trod by hurrying feet, And the maids came out with their besoms And swept them into the street, To be crushed and lost forever 'Neath the wheels, in the black mire lost,-The Summer's precious darlings, She nurtured at such cost! O words that have fallen from me! O golden thoughts and true! Must I see in the leaves a symbol Of the fate which awaiteth you? Again has come the Spring-time, With the crocus's golden bloom, With the smell of the fresh-turned earth-mould, And the violet's perfume. That is precisely what I am going to tell you. "Calebar!" echoed his friends; "true, it is useless to escape while he can pursue us!" Nor was any flight attempted until the dreaded trailer had been bribed to fall ill for a few days, when the prisoners succeeded in making good their escape. The Argentine province of La Rioja embraces vast tracts of sandy desert. Destitute of rivers, bare of trees, it is only by means of artificial and scanty irrigation that the peasant can cultivate a narrow strip of land. Inclosed by these arid wastes lies, nevertheless, a fertile region entitled the Plains, which, in despite of its name, is broken by ridges of hills, and supports a luxuriant vegetation with pastures trodden by unnumbered herds. The character of the people is Oriental; their appearance actually recalls, as we are told, that of the ancient dwellers about Jerusalem; their very customs have rather an Arabic than a Spanish tinge. Doubtless no. Little as the comrades of Maximin imagined that the truculent Goth was yet to wear the blood-stained purple, little as the clients of Robespierre dreamed of the vortex toward which he was being insensibly hurried by the stream of years, did the men, whose names are thrown out from their obscurity by the glare of his misdeeds, conceive that their fortunes, their lives, all things but their souls, were shortly to depend upon the capricious breath of this servant who so quietly pounds away upon their mud inclosures. Thus, in the energetic language of his biographer, was his name ennobled, and cleansed, but with _blood_, from the stains that defiled it. Persecuted no longer, nay, even caressed by the government, he returned to his native plains, to stalk with added haughtiness and new titles to esteem among his brother Gauchos of La Rioja. A mutiny having occurred among some troops at San Juan, a detachment was sent against them, and with it Quiroga and his horsemen. The mutineers proved victorious, and, headed by their ringleaders, Aldao and Corro, continued their line of march towards the North. While Ocampo with his beaten troops fell back to wait for reinforcements, Quiroga pursued the retreating victors, harassed their rear, clogged their every movement, and proved so formidable to the enemy, that Aldao, abandoning his companion, made an arrangement with the government of La Rioja, by which he was to be allowed free passage into San Luis, whither Quiroga was ordered to conduct him. He joined Aldao. He was not without--it is impossible that he should have lacked--some of those instinctive and personal attributes with which almost every savage chieftain who has maintained so extraordinary an ascendency over his fellows has been endowed. Sarmiento tells us that he was tall, immensely powerful, a famous _ginete_ or horseman, a more adroit wielder of the lasso and the _bolas_ than even his rival, Rosas, capable of great endurance, and abstinent from intoxicating drinks. In order to form a conception of the effect produced by these transactions, we must imagine Pelissier or Walewski entertaining, twentythree years later, the _cercles_ at Paris with discourses from the beauty of the last _regime_, with eulogies of Lamartine, and apotheoses of Louis Blanc; sneering at Espinasse, and eulogizing Cavaignac; vowing that France can be governed only under a liberal constitution, and paying a visit to his Majesty, the Elect of December, with a rough-and-tumble suite of Republican bravos. Assuredly, were such a thing possible in Paris, the gentlemen in question would very shortly be reviling English hospitality under its protecting aegis, if not dying of fever at Cayenne. Nor could Rosas, who was at that time far less firmly seated on his throne than is at present the man who wields the destinies of France, endure so powerful a rival in his vicinity. But how to get rid of him? Assassination, by which a minor offender was so speedily put out of the way, could not safely be attempted with a man who yet retained a singular mastery over the minds of thousands of brutal and strong-armed horsemen; a false step would result in inevitable destruction; and many anxious days were spent by the gloomy tyrant ere he could decide upon a plan for disposing of his inconvenient friend. Such were the life, misdeeds, and death of the Terror of the Pampas. Having in the most rapid and imperfect manner sketched the career of this extraordinary Fortune's-child, his rise from the most abject condition to unbridled power, his ferocious rule, and his almost heroic end, we may surely exclaim, that "nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it," and, presenting this bare _resume_ of facts as a mere outline, a mere pen-and-ink sketch of the terrible chieftain, refer the curious student to the impassioned narrative whence our facts are mainly derived. MADEMOISELLE'S CAMPAIGNS. THE SCENE AND THE ACTORS. The Duchess de Bouillon, Turenne's sister, purer than those we have named, but not less daring or determined, after charming the whole population of Paris by her rebel beauty at the Hotel de Ville, escaped from her sudden incarceration by walking through the midst of her guards at dusk, crouching in the shadow of her little daughter, and afterwards allowed herself to be recaptured, rather than desert that child's sick-bed. A crash, and the mighty timbers of the Porte Brulee yield in the centre. Aided by the strong and exceedingly soiled hands of her new friends, our elegant Mademoiselle is lifted, pulled, pushed, and tugged between the vast iron bars which fortify the gate; and in this fashion, torn, splashed, and dishevelled generally, she makes entrance into her city. The guard, promptly adhering to the winning side, present arms to the heroine. The people fill the air with their applauses; they place her in a large, wooden chair, and bear her in triumph through the streets. "Everybody came to kiss my hands, while I was dying with laughter to find myself in so odd a situation." Presently our volatile lady told them that she had learned how to walk, and begged to be put down; then she waited for her countesses, who arrived bespattered with mud. The drums beat before her, as she set forth again, and the city government, yielding to the feminine conqueror, came to do her homage. She carelessly assured them of her clemency. She "had no doubt that they would soon have opened the gates, but she was naturally of a very impatient disposition, and could not wait." Moreover, she kindly suggested, neither party could now find fault with them; and as for the future, she would save them all trouble, and govern the city herself,-which she accordingly did. Mademoiselle staid a little longer at Orleans, while the armies lay watching each other, or fighting the battle of Bleneau, of which Conde wrote her an official bulletin, as being generalissimo. She amused herself easily, went to mass, played at bowls, received the magistrates, stopped couriers to laugh over their letters, reviewed the troops, signed passports, held councils, and did many things "for which she should have thought herself quite unfitted, if she had not found she did them very well." The enthusiasm she had inspired kept itself unabated, for she really deserved it. She was everywhere recognized as head of affairs; the officers of the army drank her health on their knees, when she dined with them, while the trumpets sounded and the cannons roared; Conde, when absent, left instructions to his officers, "Obey the commands of Mademoiselle, as my own"; and her father addressed a despatch from Paris to her ladies of honor, as Field-Marshals in her army: "A Mesdames les Comtesses Marechales de Camp dans l'Armee de ma Fille contre le Mazarin." "It is done," answered the obsequious officials. They pledged themselves to this also. It is a slight compensation, that this very pettiness makes her chronicles of the age very vivid in details. How she revels in the silver brocades, the violet- velvet robes, the crimson velvet carpets, the purple damask curtains fringed with gold and silver, the embroidered _fleurs de lis_, the wedding-caskets, the cordons of diamonds, the clusters of emeralds _en poires_ with diamonds, and the Isabelle- linen, whereby hangs a tale! She still kept up her youthful habit of avoiding the sick-rooms of her kindred, but how magnificently she mourned them when they died! Her brief, genuine, but quite unexpected sorrow for her father was speedily assuaged by the opportunity it gave her to introduce the fashion of gray mourning, instead of black; it had previously, it seems, been worn by widows only. Servants and horses were all put in deep black, however, and "the court observed that I was very _magnifique_ in all my arrangements." On the other hand, be it recorded, that our Mademoiselle, chivalrous royalist to the last, was the only person at the French court who refused to wear mourning for the usurper Cromwell! Broad meadows reaching seaward the tided creeks between, And hills rolled, wave-like, inland, with oaks and walnuts green: A fairer home, a goodlier land, his eye had never seen. Yet away sailed Parson Avery, away where duty led, And the voice of God seemed calling, to break the living bread To the souls of fishers starving on the rocks of Marblehead! All day they sailed: at nightfall the pleasant land-breeze died, The blackening sky at midnight its starry lights denied, And, far and low, the thunder of tempest prophesied. Blotted out was all the coast-line, gone were rock and wood and sand; Grimly anxious stood the helmsman with the tiller in his hand, And questioned of the darkness what was sea and what was land. And the preacher heard his dear ones, nestled round him, weeping sore: "Never heed, my little children! Christ is walking on before To the pleasant land of Heaven, where the sea shall be no more!" There was wailing in the shallop, woman's wail and man's despair, A crash of breaking timbers on the rocks so sharp and bare, And through it all the murmur of Father Avery's prayer. From the struggle in the darkness with the wild waves and the blast, On a rock, where every billow broke above him as it passed, Alone of all his household the man of God was cast. There a comrade heard him praying in the pause of wave and wind: "All my own have gone before me, and I linger just behind; Not for life I ask, but only for the rest thy ransomed find! "In this night of death I challenge the promise of thy Word! Let me see the great salvation of which mine ears have heard! Let me pass from hence forgiven, through the grace of Christ, our Lord! "In the baptism of these waters wash white my every sin, And let me follow up to Thee my household and my kin! Open the sea-gate of thy Heaven and let me enter in!" The ear of God was open to his servant's last request; As the strong wave swept him downward the sweet prayer upward pressed, And the soul of Father Avery went with it to his rest. There was wailing on the mainland from the rocks of Marblehead, In the stricken church of Newbury the notes for prayer were read, And long by board and hearthstone the living mourned the dead. And still the fishers out-bound, or scudding from the squall, With grave and reverent faces the ancient tale recall, When they see the white waves breaking on the "Rock of Avery's Fall!" Whether it was the "tone of society" which pervaded my "Florentine letters," or my noted description of the boudoir of Egeria Mentale, I could not just now determine; but these, and other humble efforts of mine, made me known in palaces as a painter of beauty and magnificence; and I have been in demand, to do for wealth what wealth cannot do for itself,-namely, make it live a little, or, at least, spread as far, in fame, as the rings of a stone-plash on a great pond. As I stood looking, with placid admiration, from a recess, upon a brilliant _tableau_ of beautiful women and celebrated men that had accidentally arranged itself before me, Dalton touched my arm. Not a flame nor a jet was anywhere visible. Tinted vases, pendent, or resting upon pedestals, distributed harmonies and thoughts of light rather than light itself; and yet all was visible, effulgent. The columns which separated the apartments seemed to be composed of masses of richlyflames, compelled, by some ingenious alchemy, to assume the form and office of columns. In New York, _par excellence_ the city of private gorgeousness and _petite_ magnificence, nothing had yet been seen equal to the rooms of the glorious Denslow Palace. Even Dalton, the most capricious and critical of men, whose nice vision had absorbed the elegancies of European taste, pronounced them superb. The upholstery and ornamentation were composed under the direction of celebrated artists. Palmer was consulted on the marbles. Page (at Rome) advised the cartoons for the frescoes, and gave laws for the colors and disposition of the draperies. The paintings, panelled in the walls, were modern, triumphs of the art and genius of the New World. Until the hour for dancing, prolonged melodies of themes modulated in the happiest moments of the great composers floated in the perfumed air from a company of unseen musicians, while the guests moved through the vast apartments, charmed or exalted by their splendor, or conversed in groups, every voice subdued and intelligent. At midnight began the modish music of the dance, and groups of beautiful girls moved like the atoms of Chladni on the vibrating crystal, with their partners, to the sound of harps and violins, in pleasing figures or inebriating spirals. The tables, couches, chairs, and _vis-a-vis_ in this hall were of plain pattern and neutral dead colors, not to overpower or fade the pictures on the walls, or the gold and Parian service of the cedar tables. Neither Honoria, Dalton, nor myself remained long in the gallery. We retired with a select few, and were served in an antechamber, separated from the grand reception-room by an arch, through which, by putting aside a silk curtain, Honoria could see, at a distance, any that entered, as they passed in from the hall. My own position was such that I could look over her shoulder and see as she saw. _Vis-a-vis_ with her, and consequently with myself, was Adonais, a celebrated author, and person of the _beau monde_. On his left, Dalton, always mysteriously elegant and dangerously witty. Denslow and Jeffrey Lethal, the critic, completed our circle. The conversation was easy, animated, personal. "And what may that be?" inquired Dalton, mildly. Honoria looked inquiringly at Lethal. "Pray, Mr. Lethal, tell me who he is? I thought there was no such person in America," she added, with a look of reproachful inquiry at Dalton and myself, as if we should have found this sovereign and suggested him. The masses of level light from the columns on the left seemed to envelope the stranger, who came toward us from the entrance, as if he had divined the presence of Honoria in the alcove. He was about the middle height, Napoleonic in form and bearing, with features of marble paleness, firm, and sharply defined. His hair and magnificent Asiatic beard were jetty black, curling, and naturally disposed. Under his dark and solid brows gleamed large eyes of abysmal blackness and intensity. "Dumas," hinted Adonais, an admirer of French literature. "I heard he was expected." "No," I answered, "but certainly in appearance the most noticeable man living. Let us go out and be introduced." All rose instantly at the idea, and we went forward, urged by irresistible curiosity. As we drew near the stranger, who was conversing with Honoria and Dalton, a shudder went through me. It was a thrill of the universal Boswell; I seemed to feel the presence of "the most aristocratic man of the age." Honoria introduced me. "My Lord Duke, allow me to present my friend, Mr. De Vere; Mr. De Vere, the Duke of Rosecouleur." Dalton fell short of himself; for, though his head stooped to none, unless conventionally, the sudden and unaccountable presence of the Duke of Rosecouleur annoyed and perplexed him. His own sovereignty was threatened. Lethal stiffened himself to the ordeal of an introduction; the affair seemed to exasperate him. Denslow alone, of the men, was in his element. Pompous and soft, he "cottoned" to the grandeur with the instinct of a born satellite, and his eyes grew brighter, his body more shining and rotund, his back more concave. His _bon-vivant_ tones, jolly and conventional, sounded a pure barytone to the clear soprano of Honoria, in the harmony of an obsequious welcome. Dalton allowed the others to move on, and by a slight sign drew me to him. "It is unexpected," he said, in a thoughtful manner, looking me full in the eyes. "You knew the Duke of Rosecouleur in Europe?" "That is a part of the singularity." "His name was not in the published list of arrivals; but he may have left England incognito. Is a mistake possible?" "An eye of wonderful depth." "And his dress and manner." "The Duke," thought he, "must be a humorist." From my coarse way of describing this, you would suppose that it was a farcical exhibition of vulgar extravagance, and the Duke a madman or an impostor; but the effect was different. It was done with grace, and, in the midst of so much else, it attracted only that side regard, at intervals, which is sure to surprise and excite awe. "De Vere," said he, "affairs go badly." "This cursed thing that people call a duke--it kills me." "So would you, if you were any other than you are." "Faugh! it is human nature." "Not so; would you not as soon strangle this Rosecouleur for making love to your wife in public, as you would another man?" "Pooh! I give you up. If you had simply said, 'Yes,' it would have satisfied me." Dalton seemed perplexed. He called a servant and sent him with an order for Nalson, the usher, to come instantly to him. Nalson appeared, with his white gloves and mahogany face. "Nalson, you were a servant of the Duke in England?" "Is the person now in the rooms the Duke of Rosecouleur?" "I have not seen him, Sir." I was alarmed. If "the Duke" should prove to be an impostor, we were indeed ruined. "Is it he?" said Dalton, looking fixedly upon the face of the usher. "Speak the truth; you need not be afraid." "I cannot tell, Sir." "Nonsense! go and look again." "Nalson, do you believe that this person is an impostor?" said Dalton, pointing at myself. "Who? Mr. De Vere, Sir?" "If, then, you know at sight that this gentleman is my friend Mr. De Vere, why do you hesitate about the other?" "But the imitation is perfect. And there is Reve de Noir." "Yes, did Reve de Noir recognize you?" "Were you at the door when the Duke entered?" "Jupiter, you were at the door when the Duke of Rosecouleur entered?" "Did the Duke and his man come in a carriage?" "You may go. They are not devils," said Dalton, musingly, "or they would not have come in a carriage." Dalton frowned. "This is serious, De Vere." "Nominally. This palace has actually sunk his income." "Wisdom, if you will listen." "I am all attention." "Fool, why was he not satisfied with his money?" "Tell me, in plain prose, the _how_ and the _why_." "Yes, but Denslow still has 'the people.'" "That is not enough. I have calculated the chances, and mustered all our available force. We shall have no support among the 'better class,' since we are disgraced with the 'millionnaires.'" At this moment Denslow came in. "Mr. John Vanbrugen Denslow, you are an ass!" The large, smooth, florid millionnaire, dreaming only of senatorial honors, the shouts of the multitude, and the adoration of a party press, cowered like a dog under the lash of the "man of society." Denslow perspired with mortification. "Did I yield in Paris?" Dalton pressed his lips hard together. "Come," said he, "De Vere, let us try a fall with this Titan of the carpet." Denslow hastened back to the Duke. I followed Dalton; but as for me, bah! I am a cipher. "That is my work," exclaimed Dalton, unconsciously. "Not _all_, I think." Had Honoria tasted of the Indian drug, the weed of paradise? Her eyes, fixed upon the Duke's, shone like molten sapphires. A tress of chestnut hair, escaping from the diamond coronet, sprang lovingly forward and twined itself over her white shoulder and still fairer bosom. Tints like flitting clouds, Titianic, the mystery and despair of art, disclosed to the intelligent eye the feeling that mastered her spirit and her sense. Admirable beauty! Unrivalled, unhappy! The Phidian idol of gold and ivory, into which a demon had entered, overthrown, and the worshippers gazing on it with a scorn unmixed with pity! The Duke led Honoria to a sofa. But for his arm she would again have fallen. Dalton had recovered his courage and natural haughtiness. The tone of his voice, rich, tender, and delicately expressive, did not change. "Honoria, you sent for _me_; and the Duke wishes to see the pictures. The air of the gallery will relieve your faintness." Opposite the entrance there was a picture of a woman seated on a throne, behind which stood a demon whispering in her ear and pointing to a handsome youth in the circle of the courtiers. The design and color were in the style of Correggio. Denslow stood close behind me. In advance were Honoria, Dalton, and the Duke, whose conversation was addressed alternately to her and Dalton. The lights of the gallery burst forth in their full refulgence as we approached the picture. Honoria was gazing upon the picture, as I was, in silent astonishment. "If this," said she, "is a copy, what must have been the genuine work? Did you never before notice the likeness between the queen, in that picture, and myself?" she asked, addressing Dalton. "And the demon behind the queen," said Denslow, insipidly, "resembles your Highness's valet." There was another exclamation. No sooner was it observed, than the likeness to Reve de Noir seemed to be even more perfect. The Duke made a sign. Reve de Noir placed himself near the canvas. His profile was the counterpart of that in the painting. He seemed to have stepped out of it. "But will you tell us by what accident this copy happened to be in Italy?" asked Dalton. "You will remember," replied the Duke, coldly, "that at Paris, noticing your expressions of admiration for the picture, which you had seen in my English gallery, I gave you a history of its purchase at Bologna by myself. I sent my artist to Bologna, with orders to place the copy in the gallery and to introduce the portrait of the lady; it was a freak of fancy; I meant it for a surprise; as I felt sure, that, if you saw the picture, you would secure it. "Good copies," remarked the Duke, "are often better than originals." "Beaten at every point," I said, mentally, looking on the pale features of the defeated Dalton. "Yes," he replied, seeing the remark in my face; "but there is yet time. I am satisfied this is the man with whom we travelled; none other could have devised such a plan, or carried it out. He must have fallen in love with Honoria at that time; and simply to see her is the object of his visit to America. He is a connoisseur in pictures as in women; but he must not be allowed to ruin us by his arrogant assumptions." "Excepting his manner and extraordinary personal advantages, I find nothing in him to awe or astonish." "Bah! You are like the politicians, who mistake accidents for principles. But even you are talking, while this pernicious foreigner is acting. See! they have left the gallery, and the crowd of fools is following them. You cannot stem such a tide of folly." "I deny that they are fools. Why does that sallow wretch, Lethal, follow them? Or that enamelled person, Adonais? They are at a serpent-charming, and Honoria is the bird-of-paradise. They watch with delight, and sketch as they observe, the struggles of the poor bird. The others are indifferent or curious, envious or amused. It is only Denslow who is capped and antlered, and the shafts aimed at his foolish brow glance and wound us." We were left alone in the gallery. Dalton paced back and forth, in his slow, erect, and graceful manner; there was no hurry or agitation. "How quickly," said he, as his moist eyes met mine, "how like a dream, this glorious vision, this beautiful work, will fade and be forgotten! Nevertheless, I made it," he added, musingly. "It was I who moulded and expanded the sluggish millions." "A distinction without a difference. Every _man_ is a politician, but only every artist is a gentleman." "Denslow, then, is ruined." "It was I who formed her manners, and guided her perceptions of the beautiful. It was I who married her to a mass of money, De Vere." "Did you never love Honoria?" "The day has not come for such men as you, Dalton." "Come, and gone, and coming. It has come in dream-land. Let us follow your fools." The larger gallery was crowded. The pyramids of glowing fruit had disappeared; there was a confused murmur of pairs and parties, chatting and taking wine. The master of the house, his wife, and guest were nowhere to be seen. Lethal and Adonais stood apart, conversing. As we approached them unobserved, Dalton checked me. "Hear what these people are saying," said he. "My opinion is," said Lethal, holding out his crooked forefinger like a claw, "that this _soi-disant_ duke--what the deuse is his name?" "Rosecouleur," interposed Adonais, in a tone of society. "You were with us at the picture scene?" murmured Adonais. "Yes. Dalton looked wretchedly cut up, when that devil of a valet, who must be an accomplice, scraped the new paint off. The picture must have been got up in New York by Dalton and the Denslows." Adonais appeared shocked at himself, and swallowed a minim of wine to cleanse his vocal apparatus from the stain of so coarse an illustration. "Do you hear those creatures?" whispered Dalton. "They are arranging scandalous paragraphs for the 'Illustration.'" A moment after, he was gone. I spoke to Lethal and Adonais. Lethal cast his eyes around to see who listened. "Pray, what is your ideal of an English duke, Mr. Lethal?" asked Adonais, with the air of a connoisseur, sure of himself, but hating to offend. "Bear!" said a soft female voice. "The fun of the thing," continued Lethal, raising his voice a little, "is, that the painter who got up the old picture must have been as much an admirer of the Hon. Mrs. Denslow as--his--Highness; for, in touching in the queen, he has unconsciously made it a portrait." The blow was final. I moved away, grieved and mortified to the soul, cursing the intrusion of the mysterious personage whose insolent superiority had overthrown the hopes of my friends. "But the valet, Reve de Noir?" "No, I do not wish to hear." "You are right. Come with me." There is no beauty like the newly-enamored. Dalton seemed to forget himself, as he contemplated her, for a moment. Spaces had been left for us; the valet placed chairs. Dalton, in saying this, with a manner free from suspicion or excitement, fixed his eyes upon the Duke's. "You seem to have no faith in either men or women," responded the rich barytone voice of his Highness, the dark upper lip disclosing, as before, the row of square, sharp, ivory teeth. Lethal trod upon Adonais's foot; I saw him do it. Adonais exchanged glances with a brilliant hawk-faced lady who sat opposite. The lady smiled and touched her companion. Honoria, who saw everything, opened her magnificent eyes to their full extent. Denslow was oblivious. "In fact," continued Dalton, perceiving the electric flash he had excited, "skepticism is a disease of my intellect. Perhaps the most noticeable and palpable fact of the moment is the presence and identity of the Duke who is opposite to me; and yet, doubting as I sometimes do my own existence, is it not natural, that, philosophically speaking, the presence and identity of your Highness are at moments a subject of philosophical doubt?" "In cases of this kind," replied the Duke, "we rest upon circumstantial evidence." So saying, he drew from his finger a ring and handed it to Dalton, who went to the light and examined it closely, and passed it to me. It was a minute cameo, no larger than a grain of wheat, in a ring of plain gold; a rare and beautiful work of microscopic art. "I seem to remember presenting the Duke of Rosecouleur with a similar ring, in Italy," said Dalton, resuming his seat; "but the coincidence does not resolve my philosophic doubt, excited by the affair of the picture. We all supposed that we saw a portrait of the Hon. Mrs. Denslow in yon picture; and we seemed to discover, under the management of your valet, that Denslow's picture, a genuine duplicate of the original by the author, was a modern copy. Since your Highness quitted the gallery, those delusions have ceased. The picture appears now to be genuine. The likeness to Mrs. Denslow has vanished." An exclamation of surprise from all present, except the Duke, followed this announcement. As he spoke, Dalton gave back the ring to the Duke, who received it with his usual grace. "Who knows," said Lethal, with a deceptive innocence of manner, "whether aristocracy itself be not founded in mesmerical deceptions?" "I think, Lethal," observed Adonais, "you push the matter. It would be impossible, for instance, even for his Highness, to make Honoria Denslow appear ugly." "For my sake, Honoria," said Dalton, "refuse him." The request, so simply made, was rewarded by a ravishing smile. "Edward, do you know that you have not spoken a kind word to me to-night, until now?" Their eyes met, and I saw that Dalton trembled with a deep emotion. "I will save you yet," he murmured. A tall, black hound, of the slender breed, rose up near Honoria, and, placing his fore-paws upon the edge of the pearl table, turned and licked her face and eyes. It was the vision of a moment. The dog sprang upon the sofa by the Duke's side, growling and snapping. "Reve de Noir," cried Lethal and Adonais, "drive the dog away!" The valet had disappeared. "I have no fear of him, gentlemen," said the Duke, patting the head of the hound; "he is a faithful servant, and has a faculty of reading thoughts. Go bring my servant, Demon," said the Duke. The hound sprang away with a great bound, and in an instant Reve de Noir was standing behind us. The dog did not appear again. Honoria looked bewildered. "Of what dog were you speaking, Edward?" "The hound that licked your face." "You are joking. I saw no hound." "See, gentlemen," exclaimed Lethal, "his Highness shows us tricks. He is a wizard." Denslow, who had fallen back in his chair asleep, awoke and rubbed his eyes. "What is all this, Honoria?" "That his Highness is a wizard," she said, with a forced laugh, glancing at Dalton. "Will his Highness do us the honor to lay aside the mask, and appear in his true colors?" said Dalton, returning Honoria's glance with an encouraging look. "Gentlemen," said the Duke, haughtily, "I am your guest, and by hospitality protected from insult." Dalton remained bland and collected. The circle were amazed; the spirit of superstitious curiosity seized upon them. "Reve de Noir," said the Duke, "a carafe, and less light." The Duke smiled again. He stretched out his hand toward Honoria, and she slept. It was the work of an instant. "I have seen that before," said Dalton. Deep terror and amazement fell upon us all. "I have seen enough," said Dalton, rising slowly, and drawing a small riding-whip, "to know now that this person is no duke, but either a charlatan or a devil. In either case, since he has intruded here, to desecrate and degrade, I find it proper to apply a magic more material." Since Love within my heart made nest, With the fond trust of brooding bird, I find no all-embracing word To say how deeply I am blest. Though wintry clouds are in the air And the dead leaves unburied lie, Nor open is the violet's eye, I see new beauty everywhere. There twines a joy with every care That springs within this sacred ground; But, oh! to give what I have found Doth thrill me with divine despair. If distant, thou dost rise a star Whose beams are with my being wrought, And curvest all my teeming thought With sweet attractions from afar. As a winged ship, in calmest hour, Still moves upon the mighty sea To some deep ocean melody, I feel thy spirit and thy power. How far men go for the material of their houses! The inhabitants of the most civilized cities, in all ages, send into far, primitive forests, beyond the bounds of their civilization, where the moose and bear and savage dwell, for their pine-boards for ordinary use. And, on the other hand, the savage soon receives from cities iron arrow-points, hatchets, and guns to point his savageness with. I was interested to see how a pioneer lived on this side of the country. His life is in some respects more adventurous than that of his brother in the West; for he contends with winter as well as the wilderness, and there is a greater interval of time at least between him and the army which is to follow. Here immigration is a tide which may ebb when it has swept away the pines; there it is not a tide, but an inundation, and roads and other improvements come steadily rushing after. The white-pine-tree was at the bottom or further end of all this. It is a war against the pines, the only real Aroostook or Penobscot war. I have no doubt that they lived pretty much the same sort of life in the Homeric age, for men have always thought more of eating than of fighting; then, as now, their minds ran chiefly on the "hot bread and sweet cakes"; and the fur and lumber trade is an old story to Asia and Europe. I doubt if men ever made a trade of heroism. In the days of Achilles, even, they delighted in big barns, and perchance in pressed hay, and he who possessed the most valuable team was the best fellow. THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. EVERY MAN HIS OWN BOSWELL. _Aqui esta encerrada el alma del licenciado Pedro Garcias_. I should like to make a few intimate revelations relating especially to my early life, if I thought you would like to hear them. I said I should like to tell you some things, such as people commonly never tell, about my early recollections. Should you like to hear them? [The transparency went out as if a flash of black lightning had struck it.] If you want to hear my confessions, the next thing--I said--is to know whether I can trust you with them. It is only fair to say that there are a great many people in the world that laugh at such things. _I_ think they are fools, but perhaps you don't all agree with me. Here are children of tender age talked to as if they were capable of understanding Calvin's "Institutes," and nobody has honesty or sense enough to tell the plain truth about the little wretches: that they are as superstitious as naked savages, and such miserable spiritual cowards--that is, if they have any imagination--that they will believe anything which is taught them, and a great deal more which they teach themselves. The young fellow came in and sat down in a chair, putting his heels on the top of another. [Some days after this, when the company were together again, I talked a little.] You must listen to this seriously, for I think the Professor was very much in earnest when he wrote it. Along its front no sabres shine, No blood-red pennons wave; Its banner bears the single line, "Our duty is to save." For those no death-bed's lingering shade; At Honor's trumpet-call, With knitted brow and lifted blade In Glory's arms they fall. For those the sculptor's laurelled bust, The builder's marble piles, The anthems pealing o'er their dust Through long cathedral aisles. For these the blossom-sprinkled turf That floods the lonely graves, When Spring rolls in her sea-green surf In flowery-foaming waves. THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY. There was no apologue more popular in the Middle Ages than that of the hermit, who, musing on the wickedness and tyranny of those whom the inscrutable wisdom of Providence had intrusted with the government of the world, fell asleep and awoke to find himself the very monarch whose abject life and capricious violence had furnished the subject of his moralizing. Endowed with irresponsible power, tempted by passions whose existence in himself he had never suspected, and betrayed by the political necessities of his position, he became gradually guilty of all the crimes and the luxury which had seemed so hideous to him in his hermitage over a dish of water-cresses. Yet this is precisely the present position of the Society. In order that the same rules of interpretation should be considered applicable to the Constitution of the Society and to that of the United States, we must attribute to the former a solemnity and importance which involve a palpable absurdity. To claim for it the verbal accuracy and the legal wariness of a mere contract is equally at war with common sense and the facts of the case; and even were it not so, the party to a bond who should attempt to escape its ethical obligation by a legal quibble of construction would be put in Coventry by all honest men. In point of fact, the Constitution was simply the minutes of an agreement among certain gentlemen, to define the limits within which they would accept trustfunds, and the objects for which they should expend them. If a strict construction of the words "all Evangelical Christians" be insisted on, we are at a loss to see where the Committee could draw the dividing line between what might be offensive and what allowable. The Society publish tracts in which the study of the Scriptures is enforced and their denial to the laity by Romanists assailed. But throughout the South it is criminal to teach a slave to read; throughout the South, no book could be distributed among the servile population more incendiary than the Bible, if they could only read it. Will not our Southern brethren take alarm? The Society is reduced to the dilemma of either denying that the African has a soul to be saved, or of consenting to the terrible mockery of assuring him that the way of life is to be found only by searching a book which he is forbidden to open. The world naturally holds the Society to a stricter accountability than it would insist upon in ordinary cases. Were they only a club of gentlemen associated for their own amusement, it would be very natural and proper that they should exclude all questions which would introduce controversy, and that, however individually interested in certain reforms, they should not force them upon others who would consider them a bore. But a society of professing Christians, united for the express purpose of carrying both the theory and the practice of the New Testament into every household in the land, has voluntarily subjected itself to a graver responsibility, and renounced all title to fall back upon any reserved right of personal comfort or convenience. What claim has Slavery to immunity from discussion? We are told that discussion is dangerous. Dangerous to what? Truth invites it, courts the point of the Ithuriel-spear, whose touch can but reveal more clearly the grace and grandeur of her angelic proportions. The advocates of Slavery have taken refuge in the last covert of desperate sophism, and affirm that their institution is of Divine ordination, that its bases are laid in the nature of man. Is anything, then, of God's contriving endangered by inquiry? Was it the system of the universe, or the monks, that trembled at the telescope of Galileo? Did the circulation of the firmament stop in terror because Newton laid his daring finger on its pulse? But it is idle to discuss a proposition so monstrous. There is no right of sanctuary for a crime against humanity, and they who drag an unclean thing to the horns of the altar bring it to vengeance and not to safety. Even granting that Slavery were all that its apologists assume it to be, and that the relation of master and slave were of God's appointing, would not its abuses be just the thing which it was the duty of Christian men to protest against, and, as far as might be, to root out? Would our courts feel themselves debarred from interfering to rescue a daughter from a parent who wished to make merchandise of her purity, or a wife from a husband who was brutal to her, by the plea that parental authority and marriage were of Divine ordinance? Would a police-justice discharge a drunkard who pleaded the patriarchal precedent of Noah? or would he not rather give him another month in the House of Correction for his impudence? NOTE TO THE CATACOMBS OF ROME. Drawing-books, in general, deserve to be put into the same category with the numerous languages "without a master" which have deluded so many impatient aspirants to knowledge by royal (and cheap) roads. A drawingbook, at its very best, is only a partial and lame substitute for a teacher, giving instruction empirically; so that, be it ever so correct in principle, it must lack adaptation to the momentary and most pressing wants of the pupil and to his particular frame of mind; it is too Procrustean to be of any ultimate use to anybody, except in comparatively unimportant matters. It is well enough for those who need only amusement in their drawing, and whose highest idea of Art is copying prints and pictures; but for those who want assistance from Art in order to the better understanding of Nature, no man, be he ever so wise, can, by the drawing-book plan, do much to smooth the way of study. The book contains chapters on artistic processes and technical matters generally, making it a useful hand-book to amateurs; but all that is really valuable to a young student of Art might be compressed into a very few pages of this ponderous book. To follow its prescriptions _seriatim_ would be to him a serious loss of time and heart.	redpajama-book	18,554
Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! Please take a look at the important information in this header. We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and further information is included below. We need your donations. The Divine Comedy of Dante Translanted by H. F. Cary This text was prepared for Project Gutenberg by Judith Smith and Natalie Salter. We would also like to thank Montell Corporation Inc., Sarnia plant, for the use of scanning equipment to facilitate the preparation of this electronic text. We need your donations more than ever! For these and other matters, please mail to: We would prefer to send you this information by email (Internet, Bitnet, Compuserve, ATTMAIL or MCImail). 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DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this "Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, or: This text was prepared for Project Gutenberg by Judith Smith and Natalie Salter. We would also like to thank Montell Corporation Inc., Sarnia plant, for the use of scanning equipment to facilitate the preparation of this electronic text. THE VISION OR, HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE OF DANTE ALIGHIERI TRANSLATED BY THE REV. H. F. CARY, A.M. Avicenna quel che il sentimento Intese di Aristotile e i segreti, Averrois che fece il gran comento. Morg. Mag. c. xxv. In cio peccasti, O Fiorentin poeta, &c. Herein, O bard of Florence, didst thou err Laying it down that fortune's largesses Are fated to their goal. Fortune is none, That reason cannot conquer. Mark thou, Dante, If any argument may gainsay this. Atossa: Xerxes astonish'd, desolate, alone-Ghost of Dar: How will this end? Nay, pause not. Is he safe? The Persians. Potter's Translation. Brunetto describes himself as returning from an embassy to the King of Spain, on which he had been sent by the Guelph party from Florence. On the plain of Roncesvalles he meets a scholar on a bay mule, who tells him that the Guelfi are driven out of the city with great loss. Sempre a quel ver, ch' ha faccia di menzogna E piu senno tacer la lingua cheta Che spesso senza colpa fa vergogna. Morgante. Magg. c. xxiv. La verita, che par mensogna Si dovrebbe tacer dall' uom ch'e saggio. Italia. Lib. C. xvi. For thee, Amphiaraus, earth, By Jove's all-riving thunder cleft Her mighty bosom open'd wide, Thee and thy plunging steeds to hide, Or ever on thy back the spear Of Periclymenus impress'd A wound to shame thy warlike breast For struck with panic fear The gods' own children flee. "Like Aruns, who amidst the white marbles of Luni, contemplated the celestial bodies and their motions." own castles the nobles, who were obnoxious to them. No sooner was this done, than Pinamonte put himself at the head of the populace, drove out Casalodi and his adherents, and obtained the sovereignty for himself. Landino and Vellutello, speak of a book, which he composed on the subject of his art. Namque sub Auroram, jam dormitante lucerna, Somnia quo cerni tempore vera solent. Ovid, Epist. xix The same poetical superstition is alluded to in the Purgatory, Cant. IX. and XXVII. E furon le sua opre e le sue colpe Non creder leonine ma di volpe. Chancer has briefly told Ugolino's story. See Monke's Tale, Hugeline of Pise. It is sometimes read "orient." Now the down Of softness is exchang'd for plumes of age. And Filicaja, c. ix. Al Sonno. L'ultima sera. Trissino, in the Sofonisba.] E resta in tremolar l'onda marina Ceu lectum peragrat membris languentibus aeger In latus alterne faevum dextrumque recumbens Nec javat: inde oculos tollit resupinus in altum: Nusquam inventa quies; semper quaesita: quod illi Primum in deliciis fuerat, mox torquet et angit: Nec morburm sanat, nec fallit taedia morbi. E l'abbracciaro, ove il maggior s'abbraccia Col capo nudo e col ginocchio chino. Each stair mysteriously was meant. Cosi da imo della roccia scogli Moven. In neither place is actual motion intended to be expressed. Credidit ut Cimabos picturae castra tenere, Sic tenuit vivens: nunc tenet astra poli. and this act of self-abasement atoned for his general ambition and pride. Of this be sure, Where freedom is not, there no virtue is, &c. Animula vagula blandula, &c Unwearied still reiterates her lays, Jocund or sad, delightful to the ear. Un Curio ed un Fabricio, &c. Ponti e Normandia prese e Guascogna Seiz'd Ponthieu, Normandy and Gascogny. con la lancia Con la qual giostro Guida. Venturi supposes that Dante might have mistaken the meaning of the word sacra, and construed it "holy," instead of "cursed." But I see no necessity for having recourse to so improbable a conjecture. The account there given of his writings is not much more satisfactory, and the criticism on them must go for little better than nothing. It is to be regretted that we have not an opportunity of judging for ourselves of his "love ditties and his tales of prose " Versi d'amore e prose di romanzi. E'l vecchio, ch' era dietro a tutti loro Fu Moyse. Conosco i segni dell' antico fuoco. Giusto de' Conti, La Bella Mano. instead of Carmina Laiades, &c. as it has been since corrected. Lombardi refers to Pansanias, where "the Nymphs" are spoken of as expounders of oracles for a vindication of the poet's accuracy. Should the reader blame me for not departing from the error of the original (if error it be), he may substitute Events shall be the Oedipus will solve, &c. Che si reca 'I bordon di palma cinto. Arbor vittoriosa e trionfale, Onor d'imperadori e di poeti. Quando a paro col sol ma piu lucente L'angelo gli appari sull; oriente Tasso, G. L. c. i. Con la barchetta mia cantando in rima Pulci, Morg. Magg. c. xxviii. Io me n'andro con la barchetta mia, Quanto l'acqua comporta un picciol legno Ibid. But, as a late French translator of the Paradise well remarks, his reasoning is physical; that of Dante partly metaphysical and partly theologic. E Cincinnato dall' inculta chioma. Petrarca. Che puommi nelle fiammi far beato. There is much in this poem to justify the encomium which the learned Salvini has passed on it, when, in an epistle to Redi, imitating what Horace had said of Homer, that the duties of life might be better learnt from the Grecian bard than from the teachers of the porch or the academy, he says- And dost thou ask, what themes my mind engage? The lonely hours I give to Dante's page; And meet more sacred learning in his lines Than I had gain'd from all the school divines. Se volete saper la vita mia, Studiando io sto lungi da tutti gli nomini Ed ho irnparato piu teologia In questi giorni, che ho riletto Dante, Che nelle scuole fattto io non avria. O miseras hominum mentes ! O pectora caeca Qualibus in tenebris vitae quantisque periclis Degitur hoc aevi quodcunque est! This is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Shakespeare. For swifter course cometh thing that is of wight When it descendeth than done things light. Che piaga antiveduta assai men duole. Petrarca, Trionfo del Tempo And down from thence fast he gan avise This little spot of earth, that with the sea Embraced is, and fully gan despite This wretched world. Fede e sustanza di sperate cose, E delle non visioili argomento. 'Tis pitiful To court a grin, when you should woo a soul, &c. To those, who shall be at the trouble of examining into the degree of accuracy with which the task has been executed, I may be allowed to suggest, that their judgment should not be formed on a comparison with any single text of my Author; since, in more instances than I have noticed, I have had to make my choice out of a variety of readings and interpretations, presented by different editions and commentators. Instead of a Life of my Author, I have subjoined, in chronological order, a view not only of the principal events which befell him, but of the chief public occurrences that happened in his time: concerning both of which the reader may obtain further information, by turning to the passages referred to in the Poem and Notes. A CHRONOLOGICAL VIEW End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Divine Comedy of Dante as translanted by H. F. Cary	redpajama-book	2,083
E-text prepared by Debra Storr and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders MOBILIZING WOMAN-POWER By HARRIOT STANTON BLATCH TO THE ABLE AND DEVOTED WOMEN OF GREAT BRITAIN AND FRANCE HARRIOT STANTON BLATCH FOREWORD BY THEODORE ROOSEVELT III. MOBILIZING WOMEN IN GREAT BRITAIN IV. MOBILIZING WOMEN IN FRANCE V. MOBILIZING WOMEN IN GERMANY VI. WOMEN OVER THE TOP IN AMERICA VII. EVE'S PAY ENVELOPE VIII. POOLING BRAINS IX. "BUSINESS AS USUAL" X. "AS MOTHER USED TO DO" XII. WOMAN'S PART IN SAVING CIVILIZATION Jeanne d'Arc--the spirit of the women of the Allies They wear the uniforms of the Edinburgh trams and the New York City subway and trolley guards, with pride and purpose. Then--the offered service of the Women's Reserve Ambulance Corps in England was spurned. Now--they wear shrapnel helmets while working during the Zeppelin raids. The French poilu on furlough is put to work harrowing. Has there ever been anything impossible to French women since the time of Jeanne d'Arc? The fields must be harrowed--they have no horses. The daily round in the Erie Railroad workshops. In the well-lighted factory of the Briggs and Stratton Company, Milwaukee, the girls are comfortably and becomingly garbed for work. The women of the Motor Corps of the National League for Woman's Service refuting the traditions that women have neither strength nor endurance. Down the street they come, beginning their pilgrimage of alleviation and succor on the battlefields of France. Countess de Berkaim and her canteen in the Gare de St. Lazarre, Paris. An agricultural unit in the uniform approved by the Woman's Land Army of America. A useful blending of Allied women. Miss Kathleen Burke (Scotch) exhibiting the X-ray ambulance equipped by Mrs. Ayrton (English) and Madame Curie (French). No man who is not blind can fail to see that we have entered a new day in the great epic march of the ages. For good or for evil the old days have passed; and it rests with us, the men and women now alive, to decide whether in the new days the world is to be a better or a worse place to live in, for our descendants. In this new world women are to stand on an equal footing with men, in ways and to an extent never hitherto dreamed of. In this country they are on the eve of securing, and in much of the country have already secured, their full political rights. It is imperative that they should understand, exactly as it is imperative that men should understand, that such rights are of worse than no avail, unless the will for the performance of duty goes hand in hand with the acquirement of the privilege. Mrs. Blatch shows why every woman who inherits the womanly virtues of the past, and who has grasped the ideal of the added womanly virtues of the present and the future, should support this war with all her strength and soul. She testifies from personal knowledge to the hideous brutalities shown toward women and children by the Germany of to-day; and she adds the fine sentence: "Women fight for a place in the sun for those who hold right above might." Particularly valuable is her description of the mobilization of women in Great Britain and France. From these facts she draws the conclusion as to America's needs along this very line. She paints as vividly as I have ever known painted, the truth as to why it is a merit that women should be forced to work, a merit that _every one_ should be forced to work! It is just as good for women as for men that they should have to use body and mind, that they should not be idlers. As she puts it, "Active mothers insure a virile race. The peaceful nation, if its women fall victims to the luxury which rapidly increasing wealth brings, will decay." "Man power must give itself unreservedly at the front. Woman power must show not only eagerness but fitness to substitute for man power." I commend especially the chapter containing the sentence, "This war may prove to us the wisdom and economy of devoting public funds to mothers rather than to creches and juvenile asylums;" and also the chapter in which the author tells women that if they are merely looking for a soft place in life their collective demand for a fair field and no favor will be wholly ineffective. The doors for service now stand open, and it rests with the women themselves to say whether they will enter in! Mrs. Blatch has herself rendered a very real service by this appeal that women should serve, and that men should let them serve. Let us admit the full weight of the paradox that a people in the name of peace turns to force of arms. The tragedy for us lay in there being no choice of ways, since pacific groups had failed to create machinery to adjust vital international differences, and since the Allies each in turn, we the last, had been struck by a foe determined to settle disagreements by force. Never did a nation make a crusade more just than this of ours. We were patient, too long patient, perhaps, with challenges. We seek no conquest. We fight to protect the freedom of our citizens. On America's standard is written democracy, on that of Germany autocracy. Without reservation women can give their all to attain our end. The overbearing spirit of the Prussian military caste has drilled a race to worship might; men are overbearing towards women, women towards children, and the laws reflect the cruelties of the strong towards the weak. As the recent petition of German suffragists to the Reichstag states, their country stands "in the lowest rank of nations as regards women's rights." It is a platitude just now worth repeating that the civilization of a people is indicated by the position accorded to its women. On that head, then, the Teutonic Kultur stands challenged. I believed the Bryce report--every word of it! Women fight for a place in the sun for those who hold right above might. Needs are not answered in our day by manna dropping from heaven. Whether it is food or big guns that are wanted, ships or coal, we can only get our heart's desire by toil. Where are the workers who will win the war? Scarcity of labor is not only certain to grow, but the demands upon the United States for service are increasing by leaps and bounds. America must throw man-power into the trenches, must feed herself, must contribute more and ever more food to the hungry populations of Europe, must meet the old industrial obligations, and respond to a whole range of new business requirements. And she is called upon for this effort at a time when national prosperity is already making full use of man-power. The business situation in the United States upon its entrance into the war was the antithesis of this. For over a year, depression had been superseded by increased industry, high wages, and greater demand for labor. The country as measured by the ordinary financial signs, by its commerce, by its labor market, was more prosperous than it had been for years. Tremendous requisitions were being made upon us by Europe, and to the limit of available labor we were answering them. Then into our economic life, with industrial forces already working at high pressure, were injected the new demands arising from changing the United States from a people as unprepared for effective hostilities as a baby in its cradle, into a nation equipped for war. There was no unemployment, but on the contrary, shortage of labor. The procrastinator queries, "Cannot American man-power meet the demand?" It can, for a time perhaps, if the draft for the army goes as slowly in the future as it has in the past. [Illustration: They wear the uniforms of the Edinburgh trams and the New York City subway and trolley guards, with pride and purpose.] This is a call for man-power in addition to that suggested by the Fuel Administrator to the effect that lack of coal is partly lack of cars and that "back of the transportation shortage lies labor shortage." An order was sent out by the Director General of Railways, soon after his appointment, that mechanics from the repair shops of the west were to be shifted to the east to supply the call for help on the Atlantic border. Suggestive of the cause of all this shortage, float the service flags of the mining and railway companies, the hundreds of glowing stars telling their tale of men gone to the front, and of just so many stars torn from the standards of the industrial army at home. We may try to prevent the oncoming tide of the economic independence of women, but it will not be possible to force the business world to accept permanently the service of the inefficient in place of that of the alert and intelligent. To carry on the economic life of a nation with its labor flotsam and jetsam is loss at any time; in time of storm and stress it is suicide. To win the war we must have man-power in the trenches sufficient to win it with. To win, every soldier, every sailor, must be well fed, well clothed, well equipped. To win, behind the armed forces must stand determined peoples. To win, the people of America and her Allies must be heartened by care and food. The sun shines on the fertile land, the earth teems with forests, with coal, with every necessary mineral and food, but labor, labor alone can transform all to meet our necessities. Man-power unaided cannot supply the demand. Women in America must shoulder as nobly as have the women of Europe, this duty. They must answer their country's call. Let them see clearly that the desire of their men to shield them from possible injury exposes the nation and the world to actual danger. Our winning of the war depends upon the full use of the energy of our entire people. Every muscle, every brain, must be mobilized if the national aim is to be achieved. In short, the women of Great Britain are working side by side with men in the initiation and execution of plans to solve the problems which confront the nation. When Great Britain recognized that the war could not be won by merely sending splendid fighters to the front and meeting the wastage by steady drafts upon the manhood of the country, she began to build an efficient organization of industry at home. In the glamor of the extremely striking government service of British women, we must not overlook their non-official organizations. Perhaps these offer the most valuable suggestions for America. They are near enough to our experience to be quite understandable. The mother country is not under regimentation. Originality and initiative have full play. Perhaps it was well that the government failed to appreciate what women could do, and neglected them so long. Most of the effective work was started in volunteer societies and had proved a success before there was an official laying on of hands. Anglo-Saxons--it is our strong point--always work from below, up. [Illustration: Then--the offered service of the Women's Reserve Ambulance Corps in England was spurned. Now--they wear shrapnel helmets while working during the Zeppelin raids.] Equally well organized is the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps, familiarly known as the Waacs. The director is Mrs. Chalmers Watson. A would-be Waac goes to the center in her county for examination, and then is assigned to work at home or "somewhere in France" according to training and capacity. She may be fitted as a cook, a storekeeper, a telephone or telegraph operator, or for signalling or salvage work. Let us not say she will supplant a man, but rather set a man free for fuller service. The strongest element in the women's trade unions takes the same stand. The great rise in the employment of women is not regarded as a "war measure," and all the suggestions made to meet the hardships of readjustment, such as a "minimum wage for all unskilled workers, men as well as women," are based on the idea of the new workers being permanent factors in the labor market. The war has forced Great Britain to carry out the findings of this committee and to consider more seriously than ever before, and for both men and women, the problem of industrial fatigue, the relation of accidents to hours of labor, industrial diseases, housing, transit, and industrial canteens. The munition worker is as important as the soldier and must have the best of care. And the comments of women of influence on the drunkenness and waste of money on foolish finery were as striking to me as the sordid condition itself. The woman chairman of a Board of Poor Law Guardians in the north of England told me that when her fellow-members suggested that Parliament ought to appoint committees to disburse the separation allowances, she opposed them with the heroic philosophy that women can be trained in wisdom only by freedom to err, that a sense of responsibility had never been cultivated in them, and the country would have to bear the consequences. In reply to my inquiry as to how the Guardians received these theories, I learned that "they knew she was right and dropped their plan." The women of Great Britain are experiencing economic independence, they are living in an atmosphere of recognition of the value of their work as housewives and mothers. Women leaders in all classes give no indication of regarding pensions or remuneration in gainful pursuits as other than permanent factors in social development, and much of the best thought of men as well as women is centered on group experiments in domestic cooeperation, in factory canteens, in municipal kitchens, which are a natural concomitant to the wider functioning of women. MOBILIZING WOMEN IN FRANCE Compared with the friction in the mobilization of woman-power in Great Britain, the readjustment in the lives of women in France was like the opening out of some harmonious pageant in full accord with popular sympathy. But who has not said, "France is different!" It is different, and in nothing more so than in its attitude toward its women. Without discussion with organizations of men, without hindrance from the government, women filled the gaps in the industrial army. It was obvious that the new workers, being unskilled, would need training; the government threw open the technical schools to them. A spirit of hospitality, of helpfulness, of common sense, reigned. [Illustration: The French poilu on furlough is put to work harrowing.] And it was not only in industry that France showed herself wise. I found that the government had cooeperated unreservedly with all the philanthropic work of women and had given them a wide sphere in which they could rise above amateurish effort and carry out plans calling for administrative ability. Nor did these societies cease work with the completion of their initial effort. They turned themselves into employment bureaus and with the aid and sanction of the government found work for the thousands of women who were thrown out of employment. They had the machinery to accomplish their object, the Council being an old established society organized throughout the country, and the Association to Aid the Refugees from Alsace-Lorraine (a nonpartisan name adopted, by the way, at the request of the Minister of the Interior to cover for the moment the patriotic work of the leading suffrage society) had active units in every prefecture. It was in France, too, that I found the group of women who realized that the permanent change which the war was making in the relation of women to society needed fundamental handling. Mlle. Valentine Thomson, founder of La Vie Feminine, held that not only was the war an economic struggle and not only must the financial power of the combatants rest on the labor of women, but the future of the nations will largely depend upon the attitude which women take toward their new obligations. Realizing that business education would be a determining factor in that attitude, Mlle. Thomson persuaded her father, who was then Minister of Commerce, to send out an official recommendation to the Chambers of Commerce to open the commercial schools to girls. The advice was very generally followed, but as Paris refused, a group of women, backed by the Ministry, founded a school in which were given courses of instruction in the usual business subjects, and lectures on finance, commercial law and international trade. But nothing has been more significant in its growth during the war than the small enterprises in which the husband and wife in the domestic munition shop, laboring side by side with a little group of assistants, have been turning out marvels of skill. The man is now in the trenches fighting for France, and the woman takes command and leads the industrial battalion to victory. She knows she fights for France. A commission which included in its membership a trade unionist, sent by the British government in the darkest days to find why it was that France could produce so much more ammunition than England, found these tiny workshops, with their primitive equipment, performing miracles. The output was huge and of the best. The woman, when at the head, seemed to turn out more than the man, she worked with such undying energy. The commission said it was the "spirit of France" that drove the workers forward and renewed the flagging energies. But even the trade unionist referred to the absence of all opposition to women on the part of organizations of men. Perhaps the spirit of France is undying because in it is a spirit of unity and harmony. Of course the worker is renewed, hurls herself on the work again with ardor, and losing no time through fatigue, throws off an enormous output. [Illustration: Has there ever been anything impossible to French women since the time of Jeanne d'Arc? The fields must be harrowed--they have no horses.] "I ask you to keep on the work in the fields, to finish gathering in the year's harvest, to prepare that of the coming year. You cannot render your country a greater service. "It is not for you, but for her, that I appeal to your hearts. "You must safeguard your own living, the feeding of the urban populations and especially the feeding of those who are defending the frontier, as well as the independence of the country, civilization and justice. "Up, then, French women, young children, daughters and sons of the country! Replace on the field of work those who are on the field of battle. Strive to show them to-morrow the cultivated soil, the harvests all gathered in, the fields sown. "In hours of stress like the present, there is no ignoble work. Everything that helps the country is great. Up! Act! To work! To-morrow there will be glory for everyone. "Long live the Republic! Long live France!" Up to the level of her means France sets examples in works of human salvage worthy the imitation of all nations. The mairie in each arrondissement has become no less than a community center. The XIV arrondissement in Paris is but the pattern for many. Here the wife of the mayor, Mme. Brunot, has made the stiff old building a human place. The card catalogue carrying information about every soldier from the district, gives its overwhelming news each day gently to wife or mother, through the lips of Mme. Brunot or her women assistants. The work of Les Amis des Orphelins de Guerre centers here, the "adopted" child receiving from the good maire the gifts in money and presents sent by the Americans who are generously filling the role of parent. The widows of the soldiers gather here for comfort and advice. The world seems to be counselling us that if we wish to be well and cheaply fed we must go where there are experts to cook, where buying is done in quantity, and where the manager knows about nutritive values. If a word of praise is extended to the maire of the XIV arrondissement for his very splendid work, an example to all France, he quickly urges, "Ah, but Mme. Brunot!" And so it is always, if you exclaim, "Oh, the spirit of the men of France!" and a Frenchman's ears catch your words, he will correct, "Ah, but the women!" But France can bear her burden, can solve her problem if we lift our full share from her bent shoulders. Her women can save the children if the older men, relieved by our young soldiers, come back from the trenches, setting women free for the work of child saving. France can rebuild her villages if her supreme architects, her skilled workers are replaced in the trenches by our armies. France can renew her spirit and save her body if her experts in science, if her poets and artists are sent back to her, and our less great bare their breasts to the Huns. MOBILIZING WOMEN IN GERMANY Every belligerent president or premier has faced exactly the same perplexity. What woman, what society, is to be recognized as leader? The question has brought beads of perspiration to the foreheads of statesmen. In each army district, the government appointed a woman as directress, and by order to town and provincial authorities made the Frauendienst part of local executive affairs. Among the immediate duties laid upon the Frauendienst by the authorities was the task of registering all needy persons, of providing cheap eating places, opening workrooms, and setting up nurseries for children, especially for those who were motherless and those whose fathers had fallen at the front and whose mothers were in some gainful pursuit. With these duties went the administrative service of cooeperating with the government in "keeping up an even supply of foodstuffs, and controlling the buying and selling of food." The adjustment to war requirements went on more quickly in Germany than in any other country. Before a year had passed the surplus hands had been absorbed, and a shortage of labor power was beginning to be felt. Agriculture claims more women than any occupation in Germany. They were always on the farm, perhaps they are happier there now since they themselves are in command. It is said that "the peasants work in the boots and trousers of their husbands and ride in the saddle." War has liberated German women from the collar and put them on horseback! The disseminating of all instruction and information for women on war economies was delegated to the League of Women's Domestic Science Clubs. The Berlin course was held in no less a place than the Abgeordnetenhaus, and the Herrenhaus opened its doors wide on Rural Women's Day when Agricultural Week was held at the capital. And this supreme service on the part of German women seeks democratic expression. From them comes the clearest, bravest word that has reached us across the border. The most hopeful sign is this manifesto from the suffrage organizations to the government: "Up to the present Germany has stood in the lowest rank of nations as regards women's rights. In most civilized lands women already have been given a large share in public affairs. German women have been granted nothing except within the most insignificant limits. In New Zealand, Australia and most American States, and even before the war in Finland and Norway, they had been given political rights; to-day, Sweden, Russia and many other countries give them a full or limited franchise. The war has brought a full victory to the women of England, Canada, Russia and Denmark, and large concessions are within sight in France, Holland and Hungary. "Among us Germans not only the national but even the commercial franchise is denied, and even a share in the industrial and commercial courts. In the demand for the democratization of German public life our legislators do not seem even to admit the existence of women. "But during the war the cooperation of women in public life has unostentatiously grown from year to year until to-day the number of women engaged in various callings in Germany exceeds the number of men. "The work they are doing includes all spheres of male activity; without them it would no longer be possible to support the economic life of the people. Women have done their full share in the work of the community. "Does not this performance of duty involve the right to share in the building up and extension of the social order? "The women protest against this lack of political rights, in virtue both of their work for the community and of their work as human beings. They demand political equality with men. They demand the direct, equal and secret franchise for all legislative bodies, full equality in the communes and in legal representation of their interests. WOMEN OVER THE TOP IN AMERICA American women have begun to go over the top. They are going up the scaling-ladder and out into All Man's Land. Perhaps love of adventure tempts them, perhaps love of money, or a fine spirit of service, but whatever the propelling motive, we are seeing them make the venture. In the machine shops where more skill than strength is called for, the American element with its quick wits and deft fingers predominates. Young women are working at the lathe with so much precision and accuracy that solicitude as to what would become of the world if all its men marched off to war is in a measure assuaged. In the push and drive of the industrial world, women are handling dangerous chemicals in making flash lights, and T.N.T. for high explosive shells. The American college girl is not as yet transmuting her prowess of the athletic field into work on the anvil, as is the university woman in England, but she has demonstrated her manual strength and skill on the farm with plough and harrow. In short, America is witnessing the beginning of a great industrial and social change, and even those who regard the situation as temporary cannot doubt that the experience will have important reactions. The development is more advanced than it was in Great Britain at a corresponding time, for even before the United States entered the conflict women were being recruited in war industries. They have opened up every line of service. There is not an occupation in which a woman is not found. When men go a-warring, women go to work. A distinguished general at the end of the Cuban War, enlarging upon the poet's idea of woman's weeping role in wartime, said in a public speech: "When the country called, women put guns in the hands of their soldier boys and bravely sent them away. After the good-byes were said there was nothing for these women to do but to go back and wait, wait, wait. The excitement of battle was not for them. It was simply a season of anxiety and heartrending inactivity." Now the fact is, when a great call to arms is sounded for the men of a nation, women enlist in the industrial army. If women did indeed sit at home and weep, the enemy would soon conquer. The peaceful nation, if its women fall victims to the luxury which rapidly increasing wealth brings, will decay. If there come no spiritual awakening, no sense of responsibility of service, then perhaps war alone can save it. The routing of idleness and ease by compulsory labor is the good counterbalancing some of the evil. Then there is the official who constantly sees the seamy side of industrial life and who concludes--we can scarcely blame him--that "it would be well if women were excluded entirely from factory life." The bad condition of industrial surroundings bulks large in his mind, and the value of organized work to us mortals bulks small. We are all too inclined to forget that the need for work cannot be eliminated, but the unhealthy process in a dangerous trade can. Clean up the factory, rather than clean out the women, is a sound slogan. And then comes the objector who is exercised as to the effect of paid work upon woman's charm. Solicitude on this score is often buried in a woman's heart. It was a woman, the owner of a large estate, who when proposing to employ women asked how many men she would have to hire in addition, "to dig, plough and do all the hard work." On learning that the college units do everything on a farm, she queried anxiously, "But how about their corsets?" To the explanation, "They don't wear any," came the regret, "What a pity to make themselves so unattractive!" [Illustration: _Copyright by Underwood and Underwood_ The daily round in the Erie Railroad workshops.] The story told at the employment bureaus in connection with professional societies and clubs such as the Chemists' Club is the same. Women are being placed not merely as teachers of chemistry or as routine laboratory workers in hospitals, but also as experimental and control chemists in industrial plants. In the great rolling mills they are testing steel, at the copper smelters they are found in the laboratories. The government has thrown doors wide open to college-trained women. They are physicists and chemists in the United States Bureaus of Standards, Mines, and Soils, sanitary experts in military camps, research chemists in animal nutrition and fertilizers at state experiment stations. And so we see on all hands women breaking through the old accustomed bounds. In any case, self-determination is certainly a strong element in attaining any real political freedom. Complete service to their country in this crisis may lead women to that economic freedom which will change a political possession into a political power. But the requirement is readiness to do, and to do well, the task which offers. Man-power must give itself unreservedly at the front. Women must show not only eagerness but fitness to substitute for man-power. It will hearten the nation, help to make the path clear, if individual women declare that though the call to them has not yet come for a definite service, the time of waiting will not be spent in complaint, nor yet in foolish busy-ness, but in careful and conscientious training for useful work. Each woman must prepare so that when the nation's need arises, she can stand at salute and say, "Here is your servant, trained and ready." Women are not driven over the top. Through self-discipline, they go over it of their own accord. No woman is a cross between an angel and a goose. She is a very human creature. She has many of man's sins and some virtues of her own. Moving up from slavery through all the various forms of serfdom--attachment to the soil, confinement to a given trade, exclusion from citizenship, payment in kind, on to full economic freedom, men have shown definite reactions at each step. Women respond to the same stimuli. The free man is a better worker than slave or serf. So is the free woman. All the old gibes at her ineptitudes have broken their points against the actualities of her ability as a wage worker. The free man is more alert to obligation, more conscientious in performance, than the bond servant. So is the free woman. With pay envelope, or pension, Eve is a better helpmate and mother than ever before. The free man carries a lighter heart than the villain. So does the free woman. Men have always borne personal grief more easily than women; observers remarked the fact. The reason is the same. An absorbing occupation, ordered and regarded as important, which brings a return allowing the recipient to patronize what he or she thinks wise, that brings happiness, not boisterous, but dignified. It may be a holocaust through which Eve gains that pay envelope, but the material possession brings gratification nevertheless. It is a tiny straw showing the set of the wind that leisure class British women, however large their unearned bank account, show no reluctance to accept pay for their work, and full responsibility in their new position of employee. [Illustration: In the well-lighted factory of the Briggs and Stratton Company, Milwaukee, the girls are comfortably and becomingly garbed for work.] But it is not to be concluded that it is all beer and skittles for Eve. With a pay envelope and a vote come responsibilities. Public sympathy has backed up laws cutting down long hours of work for women. The trade unions, with a thought to possible competitors, have favored protecting them from night work. Has Eve been a bit spoiled? Has she let herself too easily be classed with children and allowed a line to be drawn between men and women in industry? Is it a bit of woman's proverbial logic to demand special protection, and at the same time insist upon "equal pay for equal work"? What common sense would lead us to expect in the hypothetical case of an alien man, has happened for the woman worker. Oddly enough she has not herself asked for this protection, but it has been urged very largely by women not of the industrial class. Women teachers, doctors, lawyers, women of leisure are the advocates of special legislation for industrial women. And yet in their own case they are entirely reasonable, and ask no favors. The woman teacher, and quite truly, insists that she works as hard and as long hours as the man in her grade of service, and on that sound foundation she builds her just demand for equal pay. Women doctors and lawyers have never asked for other than a square deal in their professions. It would be well, perhaps, if industrial women were permitted to guide their own ship. They have knowledge enough to reach a safe harbor. There was a hint that they were about to assume the helm when the rank and file of union workers voted down at the conference of the Women's Trade Union League the resolution proposing a law to forbid women acting as conductors. It was also suggestive when a woman rose and asked of the speaker on dangerous trades, whether "men did not suffer from exposure to fumes, acids and dust." Allowances to dependents are more, however, than financial expedients. They are part of the psychological stage-setting of the Great War. The fighting man must be more than well-fed, well-clothed, well-equipped, more than assured of care if ill or wounded; he must have his mind undisturbed by conditions at home. Governments now know that there must be no just cause for complaint in the family at the rear, if the man at the front is to be fully effective. In the interest of the fighting line, governments dare not leave the home to the haphazard care of charity. And so the great belligerents have adopted systems for an uninterrupted flow of money aid to the hearthstone. The wife feels dependence on the nation for which she and her man are making sacrifices, the soldier has a sense of closer relationship with the country's cause for which he fights. Content at home and sense of gratitude in the trenches build up loyalty everywhere. The state allowance answers an economic want and a psychological necessity. It is part of our national lack of technique that we were slow to make provision for the dependents of enlisted men, and even then were not whole hearted. It may have been our inherited distrust of the conscript that led us to feel that only by his volunteering something will a precious antidote be administered to the spirit of the drafted man. To protect his individualism from taint, the United States soldier must bear part of the financial burden. Europe, on the other hand, is working on a basis of reciprocity. The nation exacts service from the man and gives complete service to his dependents. In America the man is bound to serve the community, but the community is not bound to serve him. And yet in our case there is peculiar need of this even exchange of obligations. The care of parents in the United States falls directly upon their children, while some of our allies had, even before the war, carefully devised laws regulating pensions to the aged. Men are feminists. Their hearts have softened even towards the wife's relatives, for the word "parent" is not only broad enough to cover the father, mother, grandparents or stepfather and mother of the man, but "of the spouse" also. Thus passeth the curse of the mother-in-law. The allowance laws may prove the charter of woman's liberties; her pay envelope may become her contract securing the right of self-determination. "Employ them." This was the advice given to a large conference of women met to discuss business opportunities for their sex. The advice was vouchsafed by a young lawyer after the problem of opening wider fields to women in the legal profession had been looked at from every angle, only to end in the question, "What can we do to increase their practice?" She spoke with animation, as if she had found the key to the situation, "Employ them." Perhaps more self-accusation than determination to mend their ways was roused by the short and pointed remark. Perhaps it is indicative of a lack of nothing more serious than a sense of humor, that we women unite and, apparently without embarrassment, demand that masculine presidents, governors, mayors and legislatures shall appoint women to office. This unabashed faith in the good will of men seems not misplaced, for not only do public men show some confidence in the official capacity of women, but to my inquiry as to whom was due their opportunities to "get on," business women invariably replied, "To men." However, the loyalty of women to women is increasing, and their solidarity on sound lines of service is a thing of steady growth. Thoughtful women, for instance, do not wish a woman put in a position of responsibility simply because she is a woman, but they are even more opposed to having a candidate of peculiar fitness overlooked merely because she is not a man. While the conscientious and poised women are not willing to urge any and every woman for a given office, they do tenaciously hold that there are positions which cry aloud for women and for which the right women should he found. In conquering a fair field, women will have to pool their brains even more effectively than they have in the past. Just as the Crimean War and our Civil War put Florence Nightingale and Clara Barton and the trained nurse on the map, this war is bringing the medical woman to the fore. Women surgeons and doctors, unlike many other groups, offer themselves fully trained for service. They know they have something to give, and they know the soldiers' need. Not only the Labor Department has established a special women's division with a woman at its head, but the Ordnance Office of the War Department has opened in its Industrial Service Section a woman's division, putting Miss Mary Van Kleeck in charge. [Illustration: The women of the Motor Corps of the National League for Woman's Service refuting the traditions that women have neither strength nor endurance.] In any case, it is not necessary to hang on the skirts of government. America has always shown evidence of greater gift in private enterprise than state action. Perhaps women will demonstrate the national characteristic. It was farsightedness and enterprise that led the Intercollegiate Bureaus of Occupations, societies run for women by women, to strike out in this crisis and open up new callings for their clients, and still better, to persuade colleges and schools to modify curricula to meet the changed demands. Women are often passed over because they are not prepared. The doors stand wide open. It rests with women themselves as to whether they shall enter in. To the steady appeals of the employment bureaus, backed by the stern facts of life, the colleges are yielding. On examination I found that curricula are already being modified. None but the sorriest pessimist could doubt the nature of the final outcome, on realizing the pooling of brains which is going on in such associations as the Intercollegiate Bureau of Occupations and the League for Business Opportunities. They work to the end of having young women not only soundly prepared for the new openings, but sensitive to the demands of a world set towards stern duty. [Illustration: Down the street they come, beginning their pilgrimage of alleviation and succor on the battlefields of France.] The full power of our men must be thrown into military effort. And, then, if as a nation we have brains to pool, we will not stand niggling, but will throw women doctors in to render their service, grant to the nurse corps what it needs to ensure efficiency, throw open the technical schools to girls as well as to boys, modify the college course to meet the facts of life. Each woman unprepared is a national handicap, each prejudice blocking the use of woman-power is treachery to our cause. Women must pool their brains against their own shortcomings, and in favor of their own ability to back up their country now and here. Europe found it could not allow old-time luxury trades to go on, if the war was to be won. "Business as usual" is not in harmony with victory. Self-denial, no doubt, is supposed to be good for the millionaire soul, but to such it is chiefly recommended, I think, as an example sure of imitation. What the rich do, other women will follow, is the idea. But the steady insistence that we fight in this war for democracy has put into the minds of the people very definite demands for independence and for freedom. In such a democratic world the newly adopted habits of the wealthy will not prove widely convincing. Economy needs other than an aristocratic stimulus. Undoubtedly economy among the rich is of value. I presume few would gainsay that it would have been well for America if the use of private automobiles had long since ceased, and the labor and plants used in their making turned to manufacturing much-needed trucks and ambulances. But while not inclined to belittle the work of any possible saving and self-sacrifice on the part of those of wealth, it seems to me that the most fruitful field for war economy lies among simple people. Thrift waits for democratization. The poor might well practice the economy of fellowship. The better-off live in apartment houses where the economy of central heating is practised, while the majority of the poor occupy tenements where the extravagance of the individual stove is indulged in. The saving of coal is urged, but the authorities do not seek to secure for the poor the comfort of the true method of fuel saving. Unfortunately Uncle Sam does not suggest how many War Saving Stamps could be bought as a result of economy along these lines. The woman with the pay envelope may democratize thrift. She knows how hard it is to earn money, and has learned to make her wages reach a long way. Then, too, she has it brought home to her each pay day that health is capital. She finds that it is economy to keep well, for lost time brings a light pay envelope. Every woman who keeps herself in condition is making a war saving. There has been no propaganda as yet appealing to women to value dress according to durability and comfort rather than according to its prettiness, to bow to no fashion which means the lessening of power. To corset herself as fashion dictates, to prop herself on high heels, means to a woman just so much lost efficiency, and even the most thoughtless, if appealed to for national saving, might learn to turn by preference in dress, in habits, in recreation, to the simple things. In making the change from business as usual to economy, Europe suffered hardship, because although the retrenchments suggested were fairly democratic it had not created channels into which savings might be thrown with certainty of their flowing on to safe expenditures. Europe was not ready with its great thrift schemes, nor had the adjustments been made which would enable a shop to turn out a needed uniform, let us say, in place of a useless dress. Definite use of savings has been provided for in the United States. The government needs goods of every kind to make our military effort successful. Camps must be built for training the soldiers, uniforms, guns and ammunition supplied. Transportation on land and sea is called for. The government needs money to carry on the industries essential to winning the war. Profiting by the errors of those nations who had to blaze out new paths, the United States knit into law, a few months after the declaration of war, not only the quick drafting of its man-power for military service, but methods of absorbing the people's savings. If we neither waste nor hoard, we will not suffer as did Europe from wide-spread unemployment. There is more work to be done than our available labor-power can meet. There has been no compelling propaganda to that end. The suggestion of mere "cutting down" may be a valuable goal to set for the well-to-do, but it is not a mark to be hit by those already down to bed rock. The only saving possible to those living on narrow margins is by cooeperation, civil or state. It is a mad extravagance, for instance, to kill with autos children at play in the streets. A saving of life could easily be achieved through group action, by securing children's attendants, by opening play-grounds on the roofs of churches and public buildings, by shutting off streets dedicated to the sacred right of children to play. This would be a war saving touching the heart and the enthusiasm of the people. Central municipal heating is not a wild dream, but a recognized economy in many places. Municipal kitchens are not vague surmisings, but facts achieved in the towns of Europe. They are forms of war thrift. In America no such converting examples of economy are as yet given, and not an appeal has been made to women to save through solidarity. Uncle Sam has been commendably quick and wise in offering a reservoir to hold the tiny savings, but slow in starting a democratic propaganda suggesting ways of saving the pennies. If business as usual is a poor motto, so is life as usual, habits as usual. "AS MOTHER USED TO DO" Man's admiration for things as mother used to do them is as great an obstacle as business as usual in the path of winning the war and husbanding the race. The glamour surrounding the economic feats of mother in the past hides the shortcomings of today. But then an economic earthquake came. Foundations were shaken, the roof was torn off her domestic workshop. Steam and machinery, like cyclones, carried away her industries, and nothing was left to her but odds and ends of occupations. Toiling in the family circle from the days of the cave dwellers, mother had become so intimately associated in the tribal mind with the hearthstone that the home was called her sphere. Around this segregation accumulated accretions of opinion, layer on layer emanating from the mind of her mate. Let us call the accretions the Adamistic Theory. Its authors happened to be the government and could use the public treasury in furtherance of publicity for their ideas set forth in hieroglyphics cut in stone, or written in plain English and printed on the front page of an American daily. [Illustration: Countess de Berkaim and her canteen in the Gare de St. Lazarre, Paris.] When the world under war conditions asked to be fed, Adam, running true to his theory, pointed to mother as the source of supply, and declared with an emphasis that came of implicit faith, that the universe need want for nothing, if each woman would eliminate waste in her kitchen and become a voluntary and obedient reflector of the decisions of state and national food authorities. This solution presupposed a highly developed sense of community devotion in women running hand in hand with entire lack of gift for community action. Woman, it was expected, would display more than her proverbial lack of logic by embracing with enthusiasm state direction and at the same time remain an exemplar of individualistic performance. The Adamistic scheme seems still further to demand for its smooth working that the feminine group show self-abnegation and agree that it is not itself suited to reason out general plans. In the same way, when food falls short and the victualing of the world becomes a pressing duty, the governing class adopts a thesis that a politically less-favored group can, by saving in small and painful ways, accumulate the extra food necessary to keep the world from starving. The ruling class seeks cover in primitive ideas, accuses Eve of introducing sin into the world, and calls upon her to mend her wasteful ways. This Adamistic emotion takes command at the crisis, for when human beings are suddenly faced with a new and agitating situation, primitive ideas seize them. Mother, it is true, did create the goods for immediate consumption, and so the sons of Adam, in a spirit of admiration, doffing their helmets, so to speak, to the primitive woman, turn in this time of stress and call confidently upon Eve's daughters to create and save. The confidence is touching, but perhaps the feminine reaction will not be, and perchance ought not to be just such as Adam expects. Women have passed in aspiration, and to some extent in action, out of the ultra-individualistic stage of civilization. The food propaganda reflects the hiatus in Adam's thought. I have looked over hundreds of publications issued by the agricultural departments and colleges of the various States. They tell housewives what to "put into the garbage pail," what to "keep out of the garbage pail," what to substitute for wheat, how to make soap, but, with a single exception, not a word issued suggests to women any saving through group action. It may be the truest devotion to our Allies to challenge the individualistic role recommended by Adam to mother, for it will hinder, not help, the feeding of the world to put women back under eighteenth century conditions. Food is short and expensive because labor is short. And even when the harvest is ripe, the saving of food cannot be set as a separate and commendable goal, and the choice as to where labor shall be expended as negligible. It is a prejudiced devotion to mother and her ways which leads Adam in his food pamphlets to advise that a woman shall sit in her chimney corner and spend time peeling a peach "very thin," when hundreds of bushels of peaches rot in the orchards for lack of hands to pick them. But the Adamistic theory is based on the dream that women are contentedly and efficiently conducting in their flats many occupations, and longing to receive back into the life around the gas-log all those industries which in years gone by were drawn from the fireside and established as money making projects in mill or work-shop. And so Adam addresses an exhortation to his Eve: "Don't buy bread, bake it; don't buy flour, grind your own; don't buy soap, make it; don't buy canned, preserved, or dried food, carry on the processes yourself; don't buy fruits and vegetables, raise them." Not a doubt seems to exist in Adam's mind as to the efficiency of functioning woman-power in this way. According to the Adamistic theory, work as mother used to do it is unqualifiedly perfect. This flattering faith is naturally balm to women's hearts, and yet there are skeptics among them. When quite by themselves women speculate as to how much of the fruit and vegetables now put up in the home will "work." The Adamistic attitude is influenced, perhaps unconsciously but no less certainly, by the fact that the housewife is an unpaid worker. If an unpaid person volunteers to do a thing, it is readily assumed that the particular effort is worth while. "We get the labor for nothing" puts to rout all thought of valuation. No doubt Adam will have to give over thinking in this loose way. Labor-power, whether it is paid for or not, must be used wisely or we shall not be able to maintain the structure of our civilization. In contrast to all this primeval elaboration is the simple, common-sense rule: Do not buy the trimmings, make the butcher trim meat before weighing, insist that soap-making shall not be brought back to defile the home, but remain where it belongs, a trade in which the workers can be protected by law, and its malodorousness brought under regulation. Women must not blame Adam for lack of thoughtfulness. He cannot put himself in mother's place. She must do her own thinking or let women who are capable of thought do it for her. Men are relieved when mother is independent and happy. The farmer approved the creche tent at the county fairs. It convinced him that women have ideas to contribute to the well-being of the community. The venture proved the greatest of vote getters for the suffrage referendum. In fact, men themselves are the chief opponents of the Adamistic theory to-day. The majority want women to organize the home and it is only a small minority who place obstacles in the way of the wider functioning of women. It is Eve herself who likes to exaggerate the necessity of her personal service. I have seen many a primitive housewife grow hot at the suggestion that her methods need modifying. It seemed like severing the silken cords by which she held her mate, to challenge her pumpkin pie. Salvaging New York City's food waste was a very splendid bit of cooeperative action on the part of women. Mrs. William H. Lough of the Women's University Club found on investigation that thousands of tons of good food are lost by a condemnation, necessarily rough and ready, by the Board of Health. She secured permission to have the sound and unsound fruits and vegetables separated and with a large committee of women saved the food for consumption by the community by dehydrating and other preserving processes. This was not as mother used to do. Mother's cook stove cannot bear the strain of war economies. Dropping their old segregation, women are going forth in fellowship with men to meet in new ways the pressing problems of a new world. Great Britain, France and Germany have mobilized a land army of women; will the United States do less? Not if the farmer can be brought to have as much faith in American women as the women have in themselves. And why should they not have faith; the farm has already tested them out, and they have not been found wanting. In face of this fine accomplishment the minds of some men still entertain doubt, or worse, obliviousness, to the possible contribution of women to land service. The farmer knows his need and has made clear statement of the national dilemma in the form of a memorial to the President of the United States. In part, it is as follows: Groups of women from colleges and seasonal trades have ploughed and harrowed, sowed and planted, weeded and cultivated, mowed and harvested, milked and churned, at Vassar, Bryn Mawr and Mount Holyoke, at Newburg and Milton, at Bedford Hills and Mahwah. It has been demonstrated that our girls from college and city trade can do farm work, and do it with a will. And still better, at the end of the season their health wins high approval from the doctors and their work golden opinions from the farmers. Mt. Holyoke and Bryn Mawr have made experiments, and, like Vassar, demonstrated not only that women can, and that satisfactorily, work on the land, but that they will, and that cheerfully. The groups were happy and they comprehended that they were doing transcendently important work, were rendering a patriotic service by filling up the places left vacant by the drafted men. [Illustration: An agricultural unit, in the uniform approved by the Woman's Land Army of America.] With these sound ideas as its foundation the camp opened at Mt. Kisco, backed by the Committee on Agriculture of the Mayor's Committee of Women on National Defense of New York City, under the chairmanship of Virginia Gildersleeve, Dean of Barnard College. These separate experiments growing out of the need of food production and the shortage of labor have brought new blood to the farm, have turned the college girl on vacation and, what is more important, being a solution of an industrial problem, the unemployed in seasonal trades, into recruits for an agricultural army. And by concentrating workers in well-run camps there has been attracted to the land a higher order of helper. Refusing to be in the least crushed by government neglect, far-seeing women determined to organize widely and carefully their solution of the farm-labor problem. To this end the Women's National Farm and Garden Association, the Garden Clubs of America, the Young Women's Christian Association, the Woman's Suffrage Party, the New York Women's University Club, and the Committee of the Women's Agricultural Camp, met with representatives of the Grange, of the Cornell Agricultural College, and of the Farmingdale State School of Agriculture, and formed an advisory council, the object of which is to "stimulate the formation of a Land Army of Women to take the places on the farms of the men who are being drafted for active service." This is to be on a nationwide scale. The Council has put lecturers in the Granges to bring to the farmer by the spoken word and lantern slides the value of the labor of women, and is appealing to colleges, seasonal trades and village communities to form units for the Land Army. It is asking the cooeperation of the labor bureaus to act as media through which units may be placed where labor is most needed. This mobilization of woman-power is not yet large or striking. The effort is entirely civil. But all the more is it praiseworthy. It shows on the part of women, clear-eyed recognition of facts as they exist and vision as to the future. But facts remain facts in spite of prejudice, and the Woman's Land Army, with faith and enthusiasm in lieu of a national treasury, are endeavoring to bring woman-power and the untilled fields together. The proved achievement of the individual worker will win the employer, the unit plan with its solution of housing conditions and dreary isolation will overcome not only the opposition of the farmer's wife, but that of the intelligent worker. When the seed time of the movement has been lived through by anxious and inspired women, the government may step in to reap the harvest of a nation's gratitude. The mobilization of woman-power on the farm is the need of the hour, and the wise and devoted women who are trying to answer the need, deserve an all-hail from the people of the United States and her Allies. WOMAN'S PART IN SAVING CIVILIZATION Men have played--all honor to them--the major part in the actual conflict of the war. Women will mobilize for the major part of binding up the wounds and conserving civilization. Fate has prepared women to share fully in the saving of civilization. Whether victory be ours in the immediate future, or whether the dangers rising so clearly on the horizon develop into fresh alignments leading to years of war, civilization stands in jeopardy. Political ideals and ultimate social aims may remain intact, but the immediate, practical maintenance of those standards of life which are necessary to ensure strong and fruitful reactions are in danger of being swept away. Starvation has swept across wide areas, and steady underfeeding rules in every country in Europe and in the cities of America, letting loose malnutrition, that hidden enemy whose ambushes are more serious than the attacks of an open foe. The world is sick. [Illustration: A useful blending of Allied women. Miss Kathleen Burke (Scotch) exhibiting the X-ray ambulance equipped by Mrs. Ayrlon (English) and Madame Curie (French).] And still, as in no other war, the will to guard human welfare has remained dominant. The country rose to a woman in most spirited fashion to combat the plan to lower the standards of labor conditions in the supposed interest of war needs. With but few exceptions the States have strengthened their labor laws. In its summary the American Association for Labor Legislation says: The Great War, far from checking the movement for social welfare, has quickened the public sense of responsibility. That fact opens the widest field to women for work in which they are best prepared by nature and training. But whatever the conclusions as to the wisest method of building up population, there is no doubt that government and individuals will make strict valuation of the essentials and non-essentials in national life. In our poverty we will test all things in the light of their benefit to the race and hold fast that which is good. The things that lend themselves to the husbanding of the race will draw as a magnet those who have borne the race. The tired world will need for its rejuvenation a broadened and deepened medical science. Women are too wise to permit sanitation and research to fall to a low level. On the contrary, they will wish them to be more thorough. There will be economy along the less essential lines to meet the cost. The flagging spirit needs the inspiration of art and music. To secure them in the future, state and municipal effort will be demanded. Women are born economizers. They have been trained to pinch each penny. With their advent into political life, roads and public buildings will cost less. Through careful saving, funds will be made available for the things of the spirit. An act of protection generally starts with solicitude about a woman or child. Factory legislation took root in their needs. There was no mercy for the man worker. His only chance of getting better conditions was when women entered his occupation, and the regulation meant for her benefit indirectly served his interest. Perhaps this is natural, since there has been going on at the same time with the development of factory legislation in America a strong propaganda directed especially at political freedom for women. We have been laying stress on the wrongs of woman and demanding very persistently and convincingly her rights. The industrial needs and rights of the man have been overlooked. With increasing numbers of women entering the industrial world, with ever widening extension of the vote to women, and the consequent quickening of public responsibility, together with the recent experience of Europe demonstrating the importance of care for all workers, both men and women, there is ground for hope that even the United States, where protective legislation is so retarded in development, will enter upon wide and fundamental plans for conservation of all our human resources. Women can save civilization only by the broadest cooeperative action, by daring to think, by daring to be themselves. The world is entering an heroic age calling for heroic women. DOCUMENTS USED IN WOMEN'S WAR-WORK IN ENGLAND AND FRANCE WOMEN'S ARMY AUXILIARY CORPS Joint Woman's V.A.D. Department. DEVONSHIRE HOUSE. PICCADILLY, LONDON. W.I. _Return to Secretary, V.A.D Department. Devonshire House, Piccadilly, S.W.I._ Territorial Force Associations, British Red Cross Society. Order of St. John of Jerusalem. _B.R.C.S. or Order of St. John _ Will you kindly fill up the following form of Medical Certificate, returning it to the address given above. Your communication will be received as strictly confidential. It is urgently requested that Members' names and detachment numbers should be filled in legibly. _Date (Signed) Address_ QUALIFICATIONS of Members of Women's Voluntary Aid Detachments for Nursing Service or General Service. (b) Name and address of hospital. Have you been vaccinated? It so, what date? If not, are you willing to be? (a) (Mayor, Magistrate, Justice of the Peace, Minister of Religion, Barrister, Physician, Solicitor or Notary Public). Acquaintance dating from year ________ (b) Lady. Acquaintance dating from year _______ In what capacity employed? How long employed? Year? I hereby declare that the above statements are complete and correct to the best of my knowledge and belief. Date Usual Signature I certify that the above declaration is, to the best of my knowledge and belief, true; and that M is a fit and proper person to be employed by the Joint V.A.D. Committee. Date Countersigned _County Director_. This form must be signed by the Commandant, who should then send it to the County Director for counter signature and forwarding to Headquarters. _For Official use only_. WOMEN'S ARMY AUXILIARY CORPS FORM OF APPLICATION (b) Nature of his business. (c) Capacity in which you are employed. (d) Length of your service with him. (e) Salary which you are now receiving. (a) Name. Profession or Occupation. Address. (b) Name. Profession or Occupation. Address. (c) Name. Profession or Occupation. Address. An offer of Service can in no way be regarded as a final enrolment. _I hereby declare that the above statements are complete and correct to the best of my knowledge and belief_. _Date_ ___________ _Usual Signature_ ____________ (iii) Work in a Controlled Establishment. (iv) Full-time work in an establishment engaged on contract work for a Government Department. (v) V.A.D. Military Hospitals and Red Cross Hospitals. (vi) School Teaching. (vii) Local Government Service. No woman who is a National Service Volunteer or is employed in Agriculture will be accepted. (Part of the application form used in England by the Women's Land Army.) CONDITIONS AND TERMS. If you sign on for A YEAR and are prepared to go wherever you are sent, you can join which Section you like.	redpajama-book	14,420
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Ginny Brewer, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders The Boy Allies At Jutland The Greatest Naval Battle of History By Ensign ROBERT L. DRAKE Men lined the rails of the monster ship. These were her crew--or some of her crew, to be exact--for the others were engaged in duties that prevented them from waving to the crowds that thronged the shore--as did the men on deck. Sharp orders carried across the water to the ears of those on shore. The officers were issuing commands. Men left the rail and disappeared from the view of the spectators as they hurried to perform their duties. Came several sharp blasts of the vessel's siren; a moment later her speed increased and as she slid easily through the waters of the river, a cheer went up from both shores. The crowd strained its eyes. Far down the river now the giant battleship was disappearing from the sight of the men and women who lined the banks. In vain, a few moments later, did many eyes try to pierce the darkness. The battleship was lost to sight. Her damage repaired, the _Queen Mary_ was now steaming to the open waters of the North Sea, where she would again take up patrol duty with the other vessels that comprised the British North Sea fleet, under command of Vice-Admiral Beatty, whose flagship, the _Lion_, had taken up the additional burden of patrolling the _Queen Mary's_ territory while the latter was being overhauled. Aboard the battleship, the British tars, who had become fretful at the delay, were happy at the thought of getting back into active service. While they had been given an opportunity to stretch their legs ashore, they, nevertheless, had been glad when the time to steam back into the open sea had come. Now, as the _Queen Mary_ entered the mouth of the Thames and prepared' to leave the shores of Old England for the broad expanse of the North Sea, they sang, whistled and laughed gaily. They were going back where they would get another chance at the enemy, should he again venture from his lair. "True enough; but at the same time, when it came to a question of fight, we have had to slink about like a cat in the night, afraid to show ourselves to larger and heavier adversaries. Now, aboard the _Queen Mary_, that will be done away with. Now we are the cat rather than the mouse." "Indeed we are. Yet, as he told us, things cannot always be as we would like to have them. He was called for other service, as you know, and he did his best for us. That is why we find ourselves here as minor officers." At that moment another young officer hurried by. "Coming, Templeton? Coming, Chadwick?" he asked as he passed. "Didn't you hear the call for mess?" "No; By Jove! and I'm hungry, too," said the young officer addressed as Templeton. "Come along, Frank. We have been so busy talking here that we had forgotten all about the demands of the inner man." On their last venture, at which time they had been under command of Lord Hastings, they had reached the distant shores of Russia, where they had been of some assistance to the Czar. In reaching Petrograd it had been necessary for them to pass through the Kiel canal, which they had done safely in their submarine in spite of the German warships and harbor defenses. Also they had managed to sink several enemy vessels there. Returning, Frank and Jack had gone home with Lord Hastings, where Lady Hastings had insisted that they remain quiet for some time. This they had done and had been glad of the rest. After occasions like these, the Germans would lie long behind their snug walls before venturing forth into the open again. They held the British navy in too great awe to treat it lightly. But these supplies were not great enough to take care of the whole German population. In the conquest of Russian Poland, Germany had improved her lot somewhat, for the fertile fields had immediately been planted and a good crop had been reaped. Therefore, it was considered just as well that the British keep the German high sea fleet bottled up and give it no chance to reach the open, where, although the greater part might be sent to the bottom, some vessels might escape and embark upon a cruise of commerce warfare. This bloodless victory, it was pointed out, was of just as great value to Great Britain as if all the German ships of war had been at the bottom of the North Sea. Bottled up as they were, they were just as ineffective. This was the situation, then, when the _Queen Mary,_ with Jack and Frank aboard, steamed down the Thames and out into the North Sea to take up again her patrol of those waters; and there was nothing to warn those on board of the great battle that even now was impending and that was to result disastrously for Great Britain, even though the Germans were to suffer no less. Mess over, Frank and Jack made their way to their own quarters amidships. Here they sat down and for some time talked over the events of the days gone by. "I guess there will be nothing for us to do this night," said Frank at last. "We may as well turn in." "I am afraid there will be nothing for us to do for some time to come," was Jack's reply. "I am afraid it will be rather monotonous sailing about the North Sea looking for German warships, when the latter are afraid to come out and fight." "That's so. But, by Jove! I wish these fellows would come out and fight! Maybe we could put an end to this war real quickly." "Yes, but we might not," returned Frank. "Why, don't you think we can thrash them?" "I suppose we can; but at the same time they can do a lot of damage. Besides, some of them have come out. We've sunk some, of course, but the others have returned safely enough. I can't see any excuse for that." "It does seem that they should have been caught," Jack agreed, "but I guess Admiral Jellicoe, Admiral Beatty and the admiralty know what is going on." "Sometimes it doesn't look like it," declared Frank. "I suppose there are still some of these German submarines scooting about almost under our feet." "Well, we sunk a few," said Frank. "I know we did; but we took long chances." "The Germans take long chances, too." "You must have a little German blood in you, Frank," said Jack, with a smile. "If I didn't know you better, I would think you were sticking up for them." "No, I'm not sticking up for them; but they do things we seem to be afraid to do. To my way of thinking, we should have gone and cleaned up Heligoland a long time ago." "By Jove! You want the enemy to win this war quickly, don't you?" "Come, now. You know very well what would have happened if we had tried to take a fleet into Heligoland. They would have blown us out of the water." "They aren't being done, that much is sure," replied Frank. "But this argument is not doing us any good. Me for a little sleep." "I'm with you," said Jack. It was against some such similar attack that the British warships were patrolling every mile of water. The British coast must be protected. No more German raiders must be allowed to slip through and bombard undefended coast towns. All British war vessels were equipped with anti-aircraft guns and these were ever loaded and ready for action; for there was no telling what moment they might be called into use to repel a foe. Upon several occasions attacks of the Zeppelins had been beaten off with these guns, though, up to date, none had been brought down. But now there had been perfected a new anti-aircraft gun. With this it was believed that the battleship stood a good chance of bringing down a Zeppelin should it venture near enough. "What do you see?" he demanded. There came sharp commands aboard the _Queen Mary._ WARSHIP AND ZEPPELIN There was no telling whether the Zeppelin sighted by the man at the gun would attack the ship, but Captain Raleigh considered it best to be on the safe side. That was why he had left orders to be called immediately should an enemy appear. Again a bell tinkled in the engine room, following an order from the commander of the _Queen Mary_. The great engines stopped and became silent. "Cut off all lights!" was the next command. A moment later the great ship was in darkness. All was dark and it was this that told Frank and Jack that something was going on. "Wonder what's up?" said Frank. "Airship, I guess," was the reply. "Can't see any other reason for extinguishing all lights." Near the bridge the lads stopped and waited to see what would happen. All was quiet aboard. Not a sound came from the officers or the men on deck. Then Captain Raleigh commanded: "Try the forward searchlight there. See if you can pick her up!" The light flashed aloft; and there, so far above the _Queen Mary_ as to be little more than a tiny speck, hovered a giant Zeppelin; and even as they looked, the airship came lower. The shot brought no noticeable result. "Another shot!" commanded Captain Raleigh. "Funny she doesn't rise and try and escape," said Frank. "No, it's not," returned Jack. "They don't know anything about this new anti-aircraft gun. They believe they are out of range." "If they hit us you won't know anything about it," was Jack's response. Again the _Queen Mary_ tried a shot at the Zeppelin. A cheer went up from the members of the crew who stood upon deck; for the Zeppelin was seen to wabble. Jack, standing near the rail, heard something whiz by his head. Instinctively the lad ducked. He knew in a moment what had passed him; he heard something splash into the sea. "Bomb just missed us, sir!" he cried, stepping forward. "Where?" demanded Captain Raleigh. "Right here, forward, sir," replied Jack. "Hard a-port!" he cried. The ship veered crazily; and at the some moment, Frank, who was standing where Jack had been a moment before, heard something swish past. "Another bomb, sir!" he reported. There was no reply from the bridge. Captain Raleigh felt that, by bringing the ship's head hard to port, he had spoiled the range of the enemy in the air. For some time no more bombs dropped near. Again the _Queen Mary_ fired at the Zeppelin; and again and again. The last shot was rewarded by another cheer from the crew. The giant Zeppelin was seen to drop suddenly. The crew cheered loud and long for it appeared that the Zeppelin was about to drop into the sea. Down she came and still down; and then her descent suddenly halted. To those aboard the _Queen Mary_ this was unexplainable. "Fire again, quickly!" shouted the captain. The air gun boomed. At the same moment a man was seen to lean over the side of the Zeppelin. He dropped something. Again Captain Raleigh acted promptly and brought the head of the _Queen Mary_ around. The German bomb missed. Before another could be dropped, the man who manned the anti-aircraft gun fired again. Another cheer from the crew. The Zeppelin began to sink slowly. "Full speed ahead!" cried Captain Raleigh. "They'll sink us!" The _Queen Mary_ leaped ahead just in time. And then the Zeppelin dropped. "Man a boat, Mr. Templeton," he called, "and rescue those fellows in the water." The oars glistened in the glare of the searchlight as the men raised them and awaited the word. "Give way," said Jack. The boat sped over the smooth surface of the sea. Close to the wreckage of the Zeppelin it approached; and cries told Jack that some of the Germans still lived. "Hurry!" he cried, and the men increased their stroke. "Are you all here?" he asked of a German officer. "All but Commander Butz, sir," was the man's reply. Jack commanded his men to row closer to the wreckage. "Ahoy there!" he shouted, when he had come close. The lad thought he heard a muffled answer, but he could not make sure. He called again. This time the answer came plainer. "Where are you?" asked Jack. "Under the wreckage," was the reply. Jack scrutinized the wreckage closely. "Looks like it might sink any minute," he said "But we can't leave him there." "What are you going to do?" asked Frank. For answer Jack arose in the boat. Quickly he threw off his coat and kicked off his shoes. Then he poised himself on the edge of the boat. "I'm going after him," he replied. With a cry of alarm, Frank also sprang to his feet and divested himself of his coat and shoes. "Stay close, men!" he commanded. "I'll lend a hand if it's needed." He, too, leaped into the water. "Can't you find him?" he asked. "No," returned Jack, "and I am rather afraid to swim under there. The balloon may sink and carry me under. But if I were certain in exactly what spot the man is imprisoned, I'd have a try at it." Frank listened attentively; and directly the German's voice came again. To Frank it seemed that the voice came from directly ahead of him. "Lay hold of this end here," he said to Jack. "If you can lift it a bit I'll go under and have a look." "Better let me do it, Frank," said Jack. "No; you're stronger than I am. You can hold this up better." Under the water the lad swam forward. His hand touched something that was threshing about. He felt sure it was the German. He rose. His head came in contact with something, but the lad opened his eyes and saw that he was above the surface. The imprisoned German was close beside him. "Dive!" said Frank. "You can come out all right." "Can't," was the reply. "My arm is caught." Frank made a quick examination. "I can loosen it," he said at last, "but I'll probably break the arm." "Loosen it," said the German, quietly. Frank took a firm hold on the arm at the elbow and gave a quick wrench. He felt something give, and when he released his hold on the man's arm, the latter sank suddenly. Frank dived after him quickly. It was even as the lad feared. The German had fainted from the pain of the arm, which Frank had broken cleanly as he released it. Frank dived deep and his outstretched hand encountered the German. The lad grasped the man firmly by the collar and then struck upwards. A moment later he succeeded in making his way to where Jack still tugged at the balloon. Jack lent a hand and they dragged the German from beneath the wreckage. Then they towed him to the boat and other hands lifted him in. Frank and Jack clambered aboard. "Give way!" said Jack, sharply. The boat moved toward the battleship; and even as it did so, the mass of wreckage suddenly disappeared from sight with a loud noise. "Pretty close, Frank," he said quietly. "You can see what would have happened if you had still been under there." The speaker was a young British midshipman. Jack and Frank stood at the rail, gazing off toward the distant horizon, when the young man approached them. The lads turned quickly. "Can you fight?" demanded the young man again. His eyes rested on Jack. "Well," said the latter with a smile, "I can if I'm pushed to it. Who wants to lick me now?" The young midshipman also smiled. "It's not that kind of a fight I'm talking about," he said. "You're new aboard, so I'll explain." "Well, there has been considerable rivalry between the men of our ship and the crew of the _Indefatigable_. We had an athletic contest last year and they beat us, carrying everything but the standing broad jump. This year we are better fortified and we hope to get even. Among other things there will be a boxing match. Jackson, that's the man we had entered in that event, is ill. I have been elected to find a substitute. I sized you up as being able to hold your own with most." "Well, if that's the way of it, you can count me in, of course," said Jack. "When does this come off?" "As soon as we come up with the _Indefatigable_. Probably tomorrow." "What other events are there?" asked Frank. "Plenty," was the reply. "Besides the boxing match and standing broad jump are the running broad jump; high jumping, a match with foils and a revolver contest." "And are your lists filled?" asked Frank. "I believe so. Why?" "Well, I'd like to get in the revolver contest," replied the lad. "I'm pretty handy with a gun." "I'll see what can be done," returned the midshipman. "By the way, my name is Lawrence." They shook hands and walked off. "Well, that's something to liven things up a bit," said Frank. "Yes; but I didn't know they were doing such things in time of war." "Neither did I; but it seems they are." "Thanks," said Frank. "I'll promise to do the best I can. By the way, where is this match to take place?" "Right here. Last year it was pulled off on the _Indefatigable_." The commanders exchanged salutations; and among other things made arrangements for the athletic contest that was to take place aboard the _Queen Mary_ the following day. This was explained to the men. "You're last on the card, Jack," said Frank, with a laugh, when they were informed of the manner in which the events were to be pulled off. "Hope I'm last on my feet, too," said Jack, with a laugh. "Oh, I'm not worrying about you. You'll come through with flying colors. I hope I am not nervous, though." "You won't be," said Jack, positively. "I know you and that revolver of yours too well." "Guess we had better turn in early so as to be fit," said Frank. And they did, retiring several hours after mess. Every man aboard the _Queen Mary_ was astir bright and early the following morning. Each man was filled with enthusiasm and each was ready to wager his next year's pay on the outcome of each event. But there was to be no gambling. Admiral Beatty had issued orders to that effect. "We're going to get even with you this time, Reynolds," said Captain Raleigh. "Don't crow, we'll get you yet, Reynolds," was Captain Raleigh's reply. The running broad jump was won by the _Queen Mary's_ entrants. Then it was Captain Raleigh's time to smile. "Told you so," he said to Captain Reynolds. "It has been done," was the reply. "It won't be this time," was the reply. "I think we will win the revolver contest, for I have some pretty fair shots, but if we don't, we are sure to take the boxing match. We've a surprise for you there. Here they go." A shout went up from the _Queen Mary_ men who stood near. "He can't beat it! Hooray! We've won!" This from the _Indefatigable's_ crew. "Good shooting, old man," said Frank, quietly, as he took his position. Carefully he measured the distance with his eye. Then he raised his revolver slowly, and seeming scarcely to take aim, fired. And a yell went up from the _Queen Mary's_ crew. "Bull's eye! Bull's eye!" they cried, and danced and capered about the deck. Frank had won. He had hit the bull's eye squarely. The men rushed up and danced about him. Simpson approached Frank and extended a hand. "Good shooting, son," he exclaimed. Simpson was a man well along in years, and he put this touch of familiarity to his words to make Frank realize that they were sincere. "I used to be something of a shot myself," he said. "But I guess you are better than I ever was." Frank took Simpson's hand. "You would probably beat me next time," he said. Simpson shook his head. Meantime, Captain Raleigh and Captain Reynolds were having it out. "Told you so! Told you so!" exclaimed the former, as pleased as a boy. "We'll beat you yet, sure." "No, you won't, Raleigh," said Reynolds, with a wink. "I'll tell you something. Ever hear of a man named Harris?" "Yes; I know several men by that name." "Ever hear of Tim Harris?" "We didn't ring him in," was the reply. "He was transferred to the _Indefatigable_ before the _Queen Elizabeth_ went to the Dardanelles. We've been saving this up as a little surprise." Captain Raleigh had lost his look of optimism. "Then our man should be warned," he said. "He may wish to withdraw." "It is only fair to tell him who his opponent is," agreed Captain Reynolds. "I guess we should have done it long ago." "I'll tell him," said Captain Raleigh. At this moment there was a loud cheer from the crew of the _Queen Mary_. "Here he comes!" they shouted. And again the crew of the _Queen Mary_ went wild. The champion of the _Indefatigable_ had not yet appeared on deck; and the crew of the _Queen Mary_ strained their necks hunting him out. "Bring out your champion!" they called. "What's the matter with him? Is he afraid?" The men of the _Indefatigable_ returned these compliments with jeers of their own. "Oh, just wait!" they howled. Captain Raleigh, in the meantime, had approached Jack and his seconds. "It is only fair to warn you," he said quietly, "that the man whom you are to oppose is Tim Harris, champion of the British fleet." "I didn't know that, sir. I thought he was with the _Queen Elizabeth_." "Well, he's here; but I didn't know it until a moment ago. It will be no dishonor to you if you wish to withdraw. A man must be in perfect trim to stand before Harris." "Why," said Jack, in surprise, "I can hardly do that now, sir. The men are depending on me." Captain Raleigh smiled frankly. "I always hope for victory, sir, and I shall do my best. I am no novice." "Perhaps not; but Harris is almost a professional; in fact, I may say, a good deal better than many professionals. He is fast for a man of his size and has a terrible right-hand punch. I have seen him box often. If you are decided to go on with this, a word of warning. Watch that right hand of his like you would a hawk." "I shall remember, sir," replied Jack. "Thank you." "All right then," said Captain Raleigh. "I like your spunk. Good luck to you." Captain Raleigh walked back to Captain Reynold's side. "Will he withdraw?" asked the latter. "He will not. He says the men are depending on him and he must go through with it." "By Jove! a fine spirit!" exclaimed Captain Reynolds. "I hope he is not too easily disposed of." "I don't think he will be," said Captain Raleigh, quietly. "Someway, I have a feeling that you haven't carried off the honors yet." "But it's foolish to talk like that, Raleigh," said Captain Reynolds. "You know this man, Harris." "I suppose it is foolish, but it's the way I feel just the same. Ah! There's Harris now." "Never mind who he is. Templeton can lick him, anyhow!" The others took up the cry and Jack smiled. Now the referee called the principals to him and gave them their instructions. "No hitting in clinches, and clean breaks," he said. Jack and Harris sized each other carefully. Jack smiled. So did Harris. As they touched gloves, Harris said: "Don't worry about me," said Jack. "I can take care of myself. If the match is short you won't find me on the deck." Harris would have replied, but at that moment the referee called: Jack leaped backward and the blow grazed his chin. Before Harris could recover, Jack stepped quickly forward and planted a sharp right and a hard left to Harris' nose. Harris stepped back and wiped away a stream of red. But Harris only smiled. He was not to be caught so easily again. "You're all right, boy," said Harris, admiringly, "It's a pleasure to box with you." "And I may say the same," said Jack. They fell to it again. "Hit him when he gets up!" came a cry from the crowd. Instead, Jack lowered his guard and extended a hand. He helped his opponent to his feet. Then he stepped back and the battle continued. "I'll be a little more careful of that right," Jack confided to his seconds, as he again advanced into the ring. Again the crew of the _Queen Mary_ cheered. "And what do you think of that, eh?" asked Captain Raleigh of Captain Reynolds. "The boy is a fighter," was the latter's reply. "But wait; experience will tell." Harris became more cautious. He circled around Jack, lightly, dancing about on his toes. The lad followed him quietly. Suddenly, Harris' left fist shot out. Jack blocked, but before he could recover, Harris launched himself like a catapult and a series of right and lefts descended on Jack's face, neck, ears and abdomen. Jack staggered back and Harris followed him closely, giving him no rest Jack was still retreating at the bell. In spite of this, he was cool, however, and kept his eye peeled for the movement that would tell him Harris was about to launch his right. A right and left he landed to Harris' sore nose. Then Harris rushed. Jack was forced back around the ring by the force of this rush and backed against the ropes; but he bounded out with great force and landed a vicious left to the side of Harris' jaw. Then they clinched. As the referee parted them, Jack saw the movement for which he had been watching. Harris again was about to launch that terrible right. The lad waited calmly. It flashed forth faster than the eye could see. But it had not come too quick for Jack, who was expecting it. With all his force behind the blow, Jack put a straight left to Harris' jaw. A terrible jolt to the abdomen followed; and, as Harris head came forward again, Jack pivoted on his heel and struck with his right. And the crew cheered again! Harris remained prostrate on the deck. Quickly, Jack pulled off his gloves and, leaning down, he picked up the unconscious man and carried him to his own cabin. There he bathed the man's face and brought him back to consciousness. "How do you feel, old man?" he asked. Harris looked at the lad queerly. "I hadn't thought of that," was Jack's reply. "You have defeated the champion, so your title is undisputed," said Harris. He rose from the bunk where Jack had placed him and felt tenderly of his chin. "Quite a wallop," he said calmly. "Well, let me congratulate you. I am glad that, as long as I had to be defeated some day, it was you who turned the trick." He extended a hand and Jack grasped it heartily. "You would probably down me next time," he said. "Not a chance," replied Harris. "I know when I have met my superior." He moved toward the door. There he paused for a moment and said: "Well, I must go and dress now. I hope that I may see you again before long." "I am sure I hope so, too," returned Jack. "I must congratulate you upon your remarkable exhibition," he said. "You are a brave boy." Jack flushed and hung his head. "When I am mistaken I admit it," said Captain Reynolds. "You are more than a match for Harris at any time." "I did the best I could," said Jack, sheepishly. "Well, it was pretty good," said Captain Reynolds. With Captain Raleigh he moved away. Frank now approached and accompanied Jack back to their cabin, where Jack got info his uniform. "I thought so myself," returned Jack, with a grin. "I was pretty lucky in that last round, if you ask me." "Harris was pretty unlucky, I know that," said Frank, grimly. "Hurry up, it's time to eat." Jack's fight was the talk of the day aboard the _Queen Mary_; and aboard the _Indefatigable_, too, for that matter. In fact, all the British fleet within wireless radius knew before night that there was a new champion of the British fleet; and they cheered him, though he could not hear. "And how do you feel today?" asked Captain Raleigh, as he eyed Jack, quietly. "Feel like another fight?" "No, sir. I don't make a practice of that sort of thing." "I'm glad to hear that. How would you like to take a little trip?" "Well, that's rather a difficult question," returned Captain Raleigh. "Here, read this," and he passed the lad a slip of paper. Jack did as commanded. This is what he read: Jack passed the slip of paper back. "Well?" exclaimed Captain Raleigh. "Yes, sir," replied Jack. "You want me to find out what's going on, sir?" "Exactly. Can you run a hydroplane?" "No, sir; but Frank here can." "Lieutenant Chadwick, sir." "Very well, sir," replied Frank. "When shall we start, sir?" "You may as well start immediately. It is hardly possible, judging by the tone of that message, that you will find anything by daylight, but at least you can be on the ground by night." "Very well, sir," said Jack, and waited to see if there were any further instructions. "That is all," he said. "Report the moment you are able to do so." "You see," said Frank, "we didn't have to wait very long to find something to do." "So that we shall not be taken for British should we fall among the enemy. We'll put on plain khaki suits." "Well, whatever you say," said Frank. "This is something like it, if you ask me," said Frank, as he bent over the wheel. "Pretty fine," Jack agreed, raising his voice to make himself heard above the whir of the propellers and the noise of the engine. "I wouldn't mind flying all the time." "Where do we want to come down, Jack?" asked Frank. "All right. But we may miss them in the darkness tonight." "By Jove! That's so! Funny I didn't think of that. Let me think a moment." "No use of thinking," said Frank, "I have a scheme that will work all right." "Why, we'll stop right in the path taken by the enemy planes and then drop down upon the water." "So the Germans can see us as they fly by, eh?" "They won't see us in the dark," said Frank. "We'll be a pretty small spot down on the water. They will be looking for nothing so small." "I guess you are right, after all," Jack agreed. "At least it's worth trying. We'll be sure to hear them flying above; and if we went beyond the lane of travel, or didn't go far enough, we might not even see them." "Exactly," said Frank. "Well, there is no hurry, so I may as well slow down a bit." He did so and they went along more leisurely. "Can't see what the Germans would be flying about here for," said Jack, "and I have been trying to figure it out ever since I read that message." "So have I," declared Frank, "If they were Zeppelins I could understand it; they would be going and returning from raids on the British coast; but surely they would not venture that distance with aeroplanes." "I wouldn't think so. Still, you never can tell about those fellows. They do a lot of strange things." "So they do. Say!" Frank was struck with a sudden thought. "You don't suppose the presence of many of those fellows heralds the advance of the German fleet, do you? They might be just reconnoitering, you know." "No, I hardly think that could be it. The Germans are afraid to venture out. They know they'll get licked if they do." "Well, those aeroplanes come out every night for some purpose, that's sure," said Frank. "It's a wonder to me the Germans haven't tried to sneak out in great force before now. They could come along here without any trouble, or they could make the effort farther north, say near Jutland." "Well, I suppose they'll try it some day," said Jack, "but not right away. How much farther do we have to go?" Frank glanced at his chart and then at his speedometer. "Well, here we are," said Frank. "Guess we may as well go down, then," said Jack. "Some of those fellows are likely to be prowling about and spot us." "Just as you say," agreed Frank. He set the planes and the machine glided to the water, where it came to rest lightly. "Glad there is no sun," said Jack, "it would be awfully hot down here." "Listen!" he exclaimed in a low voice. To Frank's ears came a distant whirring. To ears less keen than the lad's the sound, which came from above, might have been some bird of the night flapping its wings as it soared overhead. But to Frank and Jack both it meant something entirely different. It was the sound for which they had been waiting. It was an airship. Through his night glass Jack scanned the clouds and at last he picked up the object for which he sought. Almost directly overhead at that moment, but flying rapidly westward, was a single aeroplane. So high in the air was the machine that it looked a mere speck and Jack was unable to determine from that distance whether it was British or German. "See it, Jack?" asked Frank in a low voice. "No more in sight, eh?" "Guess we had better get up that way, then," said Frank. Jack scanned the eastern horizon with his glass. "See anything?" asked Frank. "Thought I did," was the reply, "but whatever I saw has disappeared now. Guess I must have been mistaken." But Jack had not been mistaken. And in this manner they overtook the hydroplane driven by Frank and Jack. Jack, again surveying the horizon with his night glass, gave an exclamation. "Here they come, Frank," he said. "Let her out a little more." "This will do," said Jack, leaning close to Frank. "They'll overtake us, but believing we are of their number, there is little likelihood that they will investigate us very closely. We can fall in line without trouble and accompany them wherever they go." "Suits me," said Frank. "Just keep me posted on their proximity." "Little more speed, Frank," called Jack. "Here's a good place for us to fall in line," Jack instructed. "Any idea where we are?" asked Frank of his chum. "We're not far off the Belgian coast, but how far west I can't say," returned Jack. "Don't suppose it makes any particular difference, though." Frank became silent and gave his undivided attention to keeping the German plane ahead of him in sight. Then the machine ahead of Frank veered sharply to the south. Frank brought the head of his own craft in the same direction and the flight continued. "Headed for the Belgian or French coast, apparently," said Jack to himself. "Wonder what the idea is?" "Nearing our destination, wherever that is," muttered Jack. The lad felt of his revolvers to make sure that they were ready in case of an emergency. "Land ahead," said Frank, suddenly. Jack gazed straight before him. There, what appeared to be many miles away, though in reality it was but a few, was a dark blur below. Occasionally what appeared to be little stars twinkled there. Jack knew they were the lights of some town. "Guess that's where we are headed for, all right," he told himself. Behind the British hydroplane the other German airships came rapidly, keeping some distance apart, however. Jack leaned close to Frank. "Just do as the ones ahead of you do," he said quietly. "I don't know where we are nor what is likely to happen. Keep your nerve and we'll be all right." "Don't worry about me," responded Frank. "I'm having the time of my life." "Frank's all right if he can just keep his head," muttered Jack. "I'm likely to have to hold him in check a bit, though." They had approached the shore close enough now to perceive that the distant lights betokened a large town. "Probably Ostend," Jack told himself, "though why they should come this way is too deep for me." But Jack was wrong, as he learned a short time later. When it appeared that the German aircraft would fly directly over the city, the leading machine suddenly swerved to the east. The others followed suit. The night was very dark, and in spite of the occasional searchlight that was flashed into the air by the French in Calais, the Teuton machines so far had been undiscovered. Now, hanging low over the land, a sudden bombardment broke out from the German air planes. It was not the sound of bombs that came to the lads' ears; rather the sharp "crack! crack!" of revolver firing. Jack and Frank gazed about them quickly, for they believed, for the moment, that the Germans had encountered a squadron of French airships. But there was no other machine in sight save the German craft. "What in the world is the meaning of this?" Frank asked of Jack. "Don't know," returned the lad, "but I guess I'd better join in." He drew his revolver and fired several shots in the air. "Seems to be expected of us," he said. "We don't want to disappoint them." "Must be Calais," said Frank to Jack in a whisper. "Have we been mistaken? Are these French and British machines?" "Well, it looks like it," returned Jack. "We'll keep quiet and let the other fellows do the talking." "We heard the firing aloft a moment ago," he said. "Did you encounter the enemy?" "We were pursued all the way from the German lines," was the reply. "Good. Will you fly again tonight?" "Yes; but not before midnight." The French officer withdrew. "Careful," whispered the aviator. "A false move and we are discovered. Spread out now and see what you can learn. Gather here at midnight." "Well, this is what I call a piece of nervy business. What shall we do? Inform the French commander immediately?" "No. I have a better plan that that. They can hardly work any mischief tonight. What information they learn will avail them naught for we can warn the French commander later. We must find out what they are up to. We'll stick close and follow them back to the German lines, if necessary." "Good, then! Guess we had better do a little skirmishing about. It will keep suspicion from us should we be watched." "All right," said Frank. "Come on." A STARTLING DISCOVERY With the coming of midnight Frank and Jack returned to the spot where the aeroplanes had been parked. Several of the German aviators already had returned. The man who appeared to be the leader announced that they would await the arrival of the others before taking to the air. Immediately the others--Frank and Jack among them--leaped into their machines and soared into the air. The last comers also leaped for their craft and succeeded in getting above ground just as rifles began to crack in the French camp. Came a sudden cry from the machine nearest that of Frank and Jack. The lads saw a man rise to his feet, throw up his arms and pitch, head foremost, toward the ground. The aircraft, freed of a guiding hand, rocked a moment crazily and then turned over, hurling its other occupant into space. There was a cry of anger from aboard some of the other German craft, but no man raised a hand to stay the flight of his car. It would have been suicide and the Germans realized it. They sped away into the darkness whence they had come. Frank and Jack, in their British hydroplane, went with them. "Surely we haven't reached the German lines already?" said Jack. Frank shrugged his shoulders. "You know about as much of what is going on as I do," he returned. "Evidently we are going down, however." The leading German plane swooped toward the earth and the others followed its example. A few minutes later all had reached the ground safely and their occupants had alighted. Except for the figures that had alighted upon the shore in the darkness there was not a human being in sight. To the south, to the east and west stretched miles and miles of sand dunes. Just these sand dunes and the waters of the North Sea--there was nothing else in sight. At a signal the men gathered around the man who appeared to be the leader. Frank and Jack thanked their lucky stars that the night was very dark, for otherwise they would have been in imminent danger of being discovered; and each lad realized that it would go hard with them should their true identities be penetrated. The darkness served them like a shield. Nevertheless, both lads kept their hands on their revolvers. Each had determined that if discovered, he would make an effort to escape in the nearest of the aircraft. Each knew that there was little hope of such an escape, but, realizing what was in store for them should they be discovered and captured, they had decided it would be better to die fighting than to be stood up against a wall and shot, or, possibly, hanged. The group of men on the bench became silent as the leader addressed them. There was a subdued cheer from the assembled Germans. The speaker continued: Again there was a subdued cheer, in which Frank and Jack joined for the sake of appearances. Again the speaker continued: "Until the time for us to move has come," he said, "let no man set foot beyond that line. I make this rule for safety's sake." "Within these bounds," he said, "we will spend tonight and tomorrow. The man who disobeys these instructions shall be shot. Do I make myself plain?" There was a murmur of assent. The Germans saluted and moved away. The leader moved toward the sea and none of the others followed him. Instead, some walked a short distance to the east, others to the south and still others to the west. They threw themselves down in the sand. A few remained near the airships. Frank and Jack walked a short distance toward the sea, but kept some distance behind the German leader, who stood looking off across the water, apparently deep in thought. The lads sat down upon the ground. "Well," said Frank, "what are we going to do about it?" "All right," said Frank, "it sounds easy; but how?" "Well, that doesn't make any difference. We've got to do it." "We don't want to let them sneak up on a part of our fleet unguarded, either," declared Jack. "By Jove! a good plan! We'll do it." "Exactly," said Frank. "Then there is still another thing." "Why, we want the instructions that fellow carries," and Frank waved a hand in the direction of the German leader. "He was kind enough to let us know he has them. We'll have to take them away from him." "Say!" exclaimed Jack, "you've laid out quite a job for us, haven't you?" "It's got to be done," declared Frank. "Well, all right, but we shall have to be careful." "Then there must be no slip," said Jack, quietly "I agree with you there. Now the question arise? as how the thing may best be done." "We'll have to wait until they're all asleep," said Jack. "You forget the sentinels won't sleep," said Frank. "We'll try it. Then what?" "Then we'll come back and put the airships out of commission as carefully as possible." "That's easy enough. All we have to do is to let out the 'gas.'" "Next we'll have to go through the commander's pockets without arousing him." "That's more difficult, but I suppose it can be done." "Next we'll have to get our hydroplane to the water. Fortunately, we came down closer to the sea than the others. We should be able to do that without awakening the sleepers." "Then," said Frank, "we climb in and say goodbye, eh?" "All right. We'll work it that way then. It's as good as any other. Now we'll keep quiet until we are sure everyone is asleep." Their plans thus arranged, the lads became quiet. They said not a word as they waited for sleep to overcome the Germans, but gazed out quietly over the dark sea. THE PLAN WORKS--ALMOST Jack and Frank got to their feet "Careful," said Jack as they separated. "Remember, don't give your man a chance to let out a cry." Frank nodded in the darkness and walked slowly toward the sentinel he had selected to silence. Jack moved in the other direction. As Jack came within a few yards of his prey, the man raised his rifle and commanded: "It's all right," said Jack. "I couldn't sleep and it was lonesome back there. I want company." The German lowered his rifle. "It's lonesome here, too," he said. "Wish you had been selected for my job." "I wouldn't have minded it tonight," said Jack, approaching closer. The German reached in his pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes. He extended the pack to Jack. Jack accepted a cigarette. The German produced a match. He laid his rifle upon the ground as he struck the match upon the leg of his trousers. It was the moment for which Jack had been waiting. Quickly his revolver leaped out. In almost the same instant he reversed it and before the German realized what was about to happen he brought the butt down on the man's head with great force. The man fell to the ground without a sound. Frank, advancing upon the other German, also was challenged when he drew close, but he, too, engaged his prey in conversation. As the man turned his head for a moment to gaze across the dark sand, the lad struck him violently over the head with his revolver butt. The German dropped like a log. "It'll have to be quick work here," Jack warned "We haven't a whole lot of time, you know." "Now for the papers," said Jack, as he straightened up after tinkering with the last machine. "No need of that," he said. "I don't like to hurt a man except when it is absolutely necessary." Frank put the revolver back in his pocket. Gently, Jack thrust his hand into the German's pocket. He fumbled about a moment and then drew forth a paper. Turning his head aside he struck a match and glanced at the paper. Then he nodded his satisfaction. "This is it," he said. Frank, at that moment, had risen to his feet. Believing the work was accomplished, he was moving off toward the hydroplane. As Jack now made to get to his feet, he chanced to glance at the German he had just relieved of the papers. The lad uttered an exclamation of surprise, and no wonder. The man's eyes were open and gazed straight at Jack. In his hand he held a revolver and it was levelled at Jack's head. "Hands up!" said the German, quietly. There was nothing for Jack to do but obey or be shot. His hands went high in the air, but he still retained the valuable papers. "Drop those papers," was the next command. Jack obeyed and the papers fluttered to his feet. The German reached out and picked them up with his left hand while with his right he still covered the lad with his revolver. "So you're a spy, eh?" said the German. Jack made no reply, but a gleam of hope lighted up his eye; for, Frank, chancing to turn for some unexplainable reason, had taken in the situation and was now advancing on tiptoe to his friend's aid. "How did you get here?" demanded the German, making ready to rise. Again Jack made no reply; but none was necessary, for at that moment Frank had come within striking distance. His arm rose and fell, and as his revolver butt descended upon the German's head, the latter toppled over in a heap. Quickly, Jack stooped and again recovered the papers he had taken so much pains to get. Jack followed his friend across the sand. They laid hold of the hydroplane and rolled it toward the water. In it went with a splash and Frank cried: "Climb aboard quickly!" The German leader had recovered consciousness, and springing to his feet, dashed to the water's edge and fired point blank at the machine. Fortunately, in his excitement his aim was poor and he missed. Before he could fire again, Frank wheeled about and his revolver spoke sharply. The German threw up his arms, and with a gasp, pitched headlong into the sea. "Hurry, Frank!" cried Jack. As lightly as a fairy the hydroplane skimmed over the water; then went soaring in the air. Frank gave a loud cheer. "Safe!" he exclaimed. But the lad was wrong. From on shore came a chorus of angry cries and imprecations. Hastily the Germans made a rush for their aeroplanes to give chase. None would move. Followed more cries and angry shouts. Rapidly he opened up a big can, which he took from the bottom of his machine. Quickly the tank was filled and the man climbed into the pilot's seat. Another jumped in with him. "Give us some of that gasoline!" cried another. The German shook his head. "Not enough," he replied. "We'll overtake those fellows and then come back for the rest of you." The aeroplane leaped skyward and started in pursuit of Frank and Jack. "They're after us, Frank!" he called. "Impossible!" replied Frank. "How can they fly without gas?" "Well, they're coming, all the same," declared Jack. "You run this thing and I'll do what fighting is necessary," he said. "Wish I could shoot like you can; but I can't; and I can't run this machine either." The German aeroplane was gaining steadily. "I'll try," was Jack's reply. "If I had a rifle I might be able to pick him off now." "Well, he won't hardly have any the best of it," said Frank. "The chances are he has no rifle either." Frank was correct in this surmise. Rapidly the German aircraft gained. It went wild. Jack fired, but with no better result. "Hit anything?" asked Frank, without turning his head. "No," said Jack, "but neither did the other fellow." "Try it again," said Frank. "This is getting too close," the lad muttered to himself. Then he called to Frank. Frank had no means of telling what plan Jack had in mind, but he did not hesitate. The hydroplane slowed down with a jerk. The pilot of the German craft was caught off his guard. He dashed upon the hydroplane. But as he neared it he swerved to the left to avoid a collision. It was what Jack had expected. Standing up in his precarious position, Jack took a snap shot at the pilot as the German craft swept by. At that close distance, in spite of the rate of speed at which the enemy was travelling, a miss was practically impossible. "I got him, Frank!" shouted Jack. Both lads gazed over the side at the falling enemy. Suddenly the machine righted and descended more slowly. "By Jove! a cool customer," said Frank. "He's regained control of the plane. He'll be up again in a moment." Again they watched the foe carefully. "No, he won't," said Jack, "he's still going down." "Then we may as well be moving," said Frank. "Hold on!" shouted Jack. "We can't leave those fellows there. They may get to shore or be picked up. Then they would give the warning and all our efforts would be for naught." "Right," said Frank. "We'll go down after them." The hydroplane descended slowly. THE FIGHT ON THE WATER Below, the fallen aeroplane rested upon the surface of the sea. In the darkness, it was hard for the lads to tell just how badly the craft was damaged and whether it would float; but Jack's idea was to be on the safe side. While still some distance from the water, there was a shot from below. "Hello!" said Jack. "They're alive and kicking, all right. Wonder if we can't go down and get them from the water." "It's a better plan, I guess," said Frank. "We'll have an even break then. This way they have all the advantage." He opened up the engine and the hydroplane ran some distance from the position of the men below. Then he shut off the motor and allowed the plane to glide down to the sea. Jack gave the position to Frank, and the hydroplane approached the foe slowly. Within a range that would make accurate revolver shooting possible, the hydroplane came to a halt. As it did so there was the sound of a revolver shot from across the water and something whizzed overhead. "Must have some pretty fair shooters over there," said Frank, quietly. "However, they can't see us any better than we can see them. Of course, they can see our craft all right, the same as we can see theirs, but they can't spot us." "No; nor we can't spot them, which makes it worse," said Jack. "We'll try a couple of shots for luck," said Frank. Jack fired but without result and then Frank fired again. There was another scream. They waited some moments in silence, but no further shots came from the foe. "By Jove!" said Jack, "you must have got them both. Let's go and have a look." With a sudden move, Frank changed the course of the hydroplane. He felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder. "Got me," he called to Jack. The latter was alarmed. "Where?" he demanded. "Left shoulder," said Frank, quietly. "Nothing serious, though." Jack levelled his revolver and fired rapidly at the enemy. His pains were rewarded by howls of derision. "They tricked us, all right," said Jack, as he reloaded. "That's what they did. I should have known better, too. They almost settled us." "We've got to get them, some way," declared Jack. "Show me how, and I'll go along with you," declared Frank. "Well, I've got a scheme, but I don't know whether it will work or not." "Sure; it's not very bad." "I don't know," Frank considered the plan. "I suppose it might work, but there is nothing sure about it." "There's nothing sure about anything," declared Jack. "But it's better than staying here all the rest of the night. Besides, we must hurry, you know." "That's right," agreed Frank. "All right, then. So be it. Will you take your gun?" "No use," said Jack. "It would be wet by the time I got there. Here I go." "Good luck," Frank called after him. Slowly the lad swam, for he did not wish to betray his coming by the sound of a splash. The distance was not great and a powerful swimmer, such as Jack, could cover it easily in a few moments. Jack did not approach the enemy craft from the front. Giving it a wide berth, he swam around it and then, turning quickly, bore down upon the aeroplane more swiftly. He swam with his head barely above the water, and he was ready to dive immediately should he be sighted. There was not a sound aboard the aeroplane as Jack drew close to it. Raising his head slightly, he could see no human form. "Funny," the lad muttered to himself. "Wonder where they keep themselves. No wonder we couldn't hit them." "There is something awfully queer about this," he told himself. "I'll go aboard." He laid hands on the aeroplane and scrambled aboard. Quickly he sprang to his feet, ready to tackle any foe that might have seen him crawl aboard. Nothing happened. Jack made a careful inspection of the disabled plane. Then, as he still gazed around, a sudden thought struck him. Without taking time to consider it, he sprang suddenly to the side of the plane and leaped into the water and with swift and powerful strokes struck out for his own craft. Jack had hit upon the solution of the desertion of the German aeroplane. Now, realizing that the Germans must be close to the hydroplane, had they not already reached it, and remembering that Frank was wounded, Jack felt a sudden dread steal over him. His long, powerful strokes sent him through the water at great speed. But the Germans had not made their presence known to Frank yet. Neither was as swift a swimmer as Jack, and for that reason, their progress through the water had been considerably slower. Also they had gone very cautiously. Frank was still guiding the plane about occasionally to avoid a chance bullet from the enemy, but at the moment the Germans came close, he had stopped the craft and was peering into the darkness, straining his ears for the sound of a struggle that would tell him Jack was engaged with the enemy. Suddenly a sound came to his ears from across the water, but it was not what he expected, although it was in Jack's voice: "Frank! Look out! They are after you!" Jack needed no urging. He was swimming through the water as fast as possible. But the latter was too quick for him. Closing with the lad, the man knocked the revolver from the boy's hand with a quick blow. The weapon spun into the sea. Jack, at this moment, was within a few yards of the boat. "You bet there is!" he said between his teeth. "And he'll be there in a minute." He did not call encouragement to Frank, for he wished to get aboard the plane, if possible, before the men could stay him. DAWN--AND A NEW ENEMY The other sprang after him. Jack felt out with his left hand and encircled the German's neck. Then he squeezed. The German gasped for breath as his wind was shut off. His hand searched his belt and presently flashed aloft with a knife. Jack saw it. Releasing his hold on the man's throat, he seized the knife arm with his left hand and twisted sharply, at the same time driving his right fist into the man's face. There was a sharp snap and a cry of pain. The knife fell clattering to the deck of the plane. Jack, very angry, rose to his feet, stooped over, and picking up the German as though he had been a child, heaved him overboard. "So much for you!" he muttered. Frank's eyelids flickered and directly he opened his eyes. "How do you feel, old man?" asked Jack. "I'll be all right in--Look out!" he broke off suddenly. The German faced him with a smile. "Hands up!" he commanded. But Jack, with a few drops of blood trickling from his ear, suddenly became very angry. He objected to being shot at from behind. "Put down that gun!" he commanded in a cold voice. "Put it down before I kill you!" The German was struck by the menace in the lad's tones, and for a moment he hesitated and the revolver wavered. Then he braced and brought the weapon up again. But that moment of hesitation decided the issue. In spite of the fact that the revolver was pointed right at him, and that only a few feet away, Jack took a quick step forward. The German fired. Jack swerved a trifle. The bullet plowed through the sleeve of his shirt and touched the skin; but that was all. Again the man's hand tightened on the trigger, but he never fired again. Jack's powerful left hand seized his wrist and twisted the revolver from it Then, still grasping the wrist, the lad wheeled on his heel. The German left the spot where he had been standing as though pulled by a locomotive. He was lifted high in the air and, as Jack gave a jerk and then released his hold, the man went sailing through the air and dropped into the sea with a loud splash. Jack sat down. Frank did likewise. "That settles that," said Jack, briefly. "Now we had better get away from here. We haven't any too much time." Frank, without a word, took his place at the wheel. "Feel fit?" asked Jack. Frank nodded, though he felt terribly faint. "Sure you can make it?" Jack continued. "Yes," replied Frank. "Well, I just wanted to know," said Jack, "because here comes a German torpedo boat." "By George! Won't we ever get out of this?" the lad muttered. "We won't unless you hurry," said Jack. Frank tinkered with the motor and took a firm grip on the wheel. But the hydroplane did not move. "Something wrong," said Frank, quietly. "What?" demanded Jack. "Something wrong with the motor. It won't work." Frank had bent over and was examining it carefully. Came a shot from the German torpedo boat. "If we don't get out of here pretty quick," said Jack, quietly, "we won't get out at all." Frank made no reply, but continued to tinker with the engine. "They're coming after us, Frank," said Jack, "a whole boatload of 'em. How long will it take you to fix that thing?" Frank uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. Frank did not take his eye from his engine. "How far away?" he asked as he worked. "Lots of time for us, then," said Frank, still working as swiftly as possible. "Maybe," replied his chum. "Don't forget they carry pretty fair rifles with them." "If we can get started before they shoot, I'll guarantee they don't get us," returned Frank. "Well, they'll get us if you keep talking and don't get a move on there," said Jack. "They're coming like the wind." "That's just the way I'm working. She's almost fixed row. Can you hold them off?" "What, with a single revolver against a score of rifles? Not much. They're right on us now. How's that engine?" "Fixed!" cried Frank at that moment, straightening up. "All right. Let her go then," said Jack, calmly. "They don't know yet that we're going to run. They have made no preparations to fire. Evidently they think we shall wait for them." "Halt!" came a cry from the German boat. Jack picked up his cap and waved it at the Germans. "Some other time," he called back. "We're terrible busy today. Goodbye." The German officer gave a sharp command. Several sailors sprang to their feet and blazed away at the hydroplane with their rifles. Bullets flew by on all sides, but none struck home. Again Jack waved his cap. "Very bad shooting," he remarked. "Looks like some of my--Hello! That wasn't so bad." For the lad's cap, which he had been waving in derision at the pursuing foe, was suddenly carried from his hand by a German bullet. And at that instant Frank sent the hydroplane soaring into the air with a lurch. Jack glanced down into the water. "Hold on, Frank!" he cried. In response to this command, Frank slowed down. "What's the matter now?" he demanded. "What do I think of what?" "Why, the Germans in the boat have just shot him." "Shot whom? The German?" "Then it is a good thing for us they shot him." "For us, yes. But think of the irony of it!" "Well," said Frank, "I wouldn't like to have shot him, defenseless as he was; and I didn't want you to. That's why I didn't suggest having a look for him before we came up." "I couldn't have done it," returned Jack. "No; nor I; and yet duty would have demanded it. For with him alive, there always remained a chance that he would give the warning." "It just goes to show," said Jack, slowly, "that even fate sometimes works on the side of the right." Unconsciously, Frank had allowed the speed of the hydroplane to diminish during this conversation, and the crew of the German boat again had found themselves within range. They had started to abandon the chase when the plane soared aloft, but when it had slowed down, they had resumed the pursuit, hoping that something had gone wrong with the craft. Several bullets flew about the machine. "Great Scott! They're at it again!" cried Jack. "Let's get away from here right now." "All right, here she goes," said Frank. "Full speed ahead!" THE BOYS GIVE THE WARNING The morning sun was well above the horizon when Jack, shading his eyes, made out in the distance a smudge of smoke. "Smoke ahead, Frank," he called. "Hope it's the _Queen Mary_" replied the lad. "It should be if I have calculated correctly." A few moments later the outline of a large ship of war loomed up ahead. "Can you make her out yet?" asked Jack. "No; but she's built like the _Queen Mary_" The hydroplane sped on. "By Jove! She is the _Queen Mary_" cried Frank, a few moments later. "We're in luck." Frank was right. As the hydroplane drew nearer it was plain to make out that the vessel was the giant battleship the lads had quitted the day before. "Wonder what Captain Raleigh will think of our information?" said Frank, with a chuckle. "Don't know. We've been pretty fortunate, though. I hope we are in time." "So do I. The trouble is, our ships are scattered so far apart that they may not be able to assemble quick enough in sufficient strength to beat off the enemy." "Don't worry; they won't get very far," said Jack, confidently. "Oh, I know that. But if they should happen to come upon a small portion of our fleet we are likely to get the worst of it." "Well, there is no reason why they should be able to do that now. We know their plans." "That's true, too. And they won't, unless it is decided to engage them in spite of their numbers, trusting reinforcements will arrive in time." And, though the lad had no idea he was making a prophecy, that is just what actually occurred. "Look out, Jack!" shouted Frank. "She's going down!" For a moment it seemed that he would succeed, for, as it neared the water, the plane righted itself. Frank drew a breath of relief. But his relief was short-lived. There came a cry of warning from aboard the _Queen Mary_, and even before the falling boys struck water, boats were lowered over the side, manned, and dashed to the rescue. Although Frank had been unable to maintain the plane on an even keel, his efforts had done some good; for the distance was not so great from the water when the plane capsized as it would have been but for his strenuous efforts. Jack uttered a cry of alarm as he felt himself being hurled into space, for he had not realized what was about to happen. Frank, on the other hand, had realized his position full well and no sound escaped him as he was thrown into the water. In falling, Jack was thrown clear of the machine, which struck the water with a great splash. Not so Frank, who, held in by the wheel, was carried down with the plane. The lad was very close to death at that moment and he knew it. He had caught a deep breath as he was drawn under, however, and this stood him in good stead. Calmly the lad reached for the large pocketknife he always carried, and with this, under water as he was, proceeded quietly to cut the sides of the craft sufficiently to allow him to escape. And in this he was successful. At last he was free and struck upward as swiftly as possible. When it seemed that his lungs must burst for want of air, his head suddenly bobbed upon the surface. He gasped as he inhaled great breaths of the fresh air. A boat approached at that moment and he was drawn aboard, where he sank down. It took the lad some time to locate the sinking mass of wreckage below and when he did come upon it there was no sign of Frank. Jack stayed below until he could stand it no more; then rose to the surface. There rough hands seized him and dragged him into a boat. In vain the lad struggled. He wanted to get loose so he could make another attempt to rescue his friend. "Be still," said a voice kindly. "Frank is safe in the next boat." Jack uttered an exclamation of relief and lay still, resting from his exertions. And so they came again to the _Queen Mary_ and were lifted aboard. Frank and Jack clasped hands when they stood on deck and Jack exclaimed: "By Jove! I thought it was all over when I couldn't find you down there." He displayed the knife and patted it affectionately. "How do you feel?" asked Jack. "Fine. Now we want to see Captain Raleigh." "The big chump," said Frank, as he slipped off his wet clothing. "The whole British navy might be sent to the bottom while we are doing this. What are a few wet clothes?" "To tell the truth, I've a good notion to say nothing about what I learned," said Frank. Jack looked at his companion in the greatest surprise. "Oh, no, you've not," he said at last, as he slipped on a dry shirt. "Why, simply that he allowed us to get too familiar with him. The result is we expect it from others, and when they don't treat us that way we are disappointed." "Perhaps I didn't either," said Jack, "but I've got more sense than to show it. As a matter of fact, I suppose we should have obeyed without question." Frank continued to mumble as he slipped into a dry coat. He picked up his cap and moved toward the door. "Ready?" he asked of Jack. "Almost. How's that shoulder?" "All right. How's your wound?" "Just a scratch. Didn't even bleed much." Jack picked up his cap and also moved toward the door of the cabin. "Guess maybe he'll let us see Captain Raleigh now," he said. "Come on." Frank followed his chum. "Didn't take you long," he said with a smile. "That is because we have important news," said Frank. Frank and Jack hurried after him. "You are back really sooner than I expected you," he said quietly. "Have you learned anything?" "If you please, sir," said Jack, "I shall skip the details until later. The German high sea fleet will be off the coast of Denmark before midnight!" "What's that you say?" he demanded. "It's true, sir," replied Frank, quietly, stepping forward. "The German high sea fleet, in almost full strength, will attack our patrol squadron in the Skagerak, off Jutland, tonight!" He sprang for the bridge! PREPARING FOR BATTLE Jack returned his watch to his pocket. "Not much time to gather the fleet together," he said quietly to Frank. "No," was his chum's reply, "but you can rest assured that all can be done will be done." Captain Raleigh, upon the bridge, had issued orders swiftly. The _Queen Mary_, which had been heading southward after Frank and Jack returned aboard, was quickly brought about. After several sharp commands to his officers, Captain Raleigh motioned to Frank and Jack. "Come with me," he said. "You shall tell me what you have learned as we go along." Straight to the wireless room went the commander of the _Queen Mary_. "Get the _Lion_ quickly," he ordered the wireless operator. "_Lion! Lion_!" the call went across the water. "Try the _Indefatigable_," was the next command. "_Indefatigable! Indefatigable_!" flashed the wireless. The receiving apparatus aboard the _Queen Mary_ clicked sharply. "_Indefatigable_ answering, sir," reported the operator. "Send this," ordered Captain Raleigh, and passed a slip of paper on which he had scribbled rapidly to the wireless operator. The message read as follows: "German high sea fleet to attack off Jutland tonight. Inform Admiral Beatty. Relay message. Am steaming for Danish coast to engage enemy. Information authentic. Follow me! A short pause and again the receiving apparatus on the _Queen Mary_ clicked sharply. "O.K., sir," said the operator. "All right," this from Captain Raleigh. "Call the _Invincible._" "_Invincible_ answering, sir." "Send the same message," instructed Captain Raleigh. It might be well to state here that all these messages were sent in code, for it was probable that a German vessel of some sort might be within the wireless zone and, if able to read the messages as they flashed across the sea, would have communicated with the main German fleet. And to each vessel, as it answered, the single word "relay" was flashed. This meant that Captain Raleigh wanted the word sent to other vessels of the British fleet not within her own wireless radius. And the answer to this was invariably the same: Still in the wireless room, Captain Raleigh turned to Frank and Jack and said: "Now, I shall be glad to know how you boys learned this information." Jack explained as briefly as possible. Captain Raleigh interrupted occasionally as Jack proceeded with his story and when the lad had concluded, he said quietly: "You have done well, young sirs. England has much to thank you for." "But will the others arrive in time, sir?" asked Frank, anxiously. "That," said Captain Raleigh, "I cannot say. You may be sure that they will come to our assistance at all possible speed, however." "But you will not await them there, sir?" "No; I shall engage the enemy single handed if necessary." With this Captain Raleigh turned on his heel and would have left the wireless room. At that moment, however, the wireless began to click again, and the commander of the _Queen Mary_ paused. The operator nodded. "Admiral Beatty, aboard the _Lion_, calling, sir." There was silence for a moment, and then the operator called off the clicks of his apparatus. "Admiral Beatty wants to know your source of information," he reported. Captain Raleigh dictated a reply. Again silence for a few moments; and then the operator said: "The _Queen Mary_ is ordered to the Skagerak under full speed. Hold the enemy until the arrival of the main fleet. Assistance on the way. _Indefatigable, Defense_ and _Black Prince_ also steaming for Jutland to lend a hand. Open the engagement immediately you sight the enemy." "Sign O.K.," said Captain Raleigh. The operator obeyed and heard the operator aboard the _Lion_ repeat his message. "Keep your instrument going," he ordered the operator. "Pick up any ship that may not have heard the message. Come, boys," this last to Frank and Jack. The boys followed their commander back to the bridge; thence to his cabin. "Great Scott!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea we had been in the wireless room so long." Back in his cabin, Captain Raleigh seemed to have forgotten the boys' presence. He was busy for perhaps an hour poring over a mass of charts and other papers. Frank and Jack stood at attention. They were becoming uneasy, when Captain Raleigh looked up suddenly. "Shape your course for Jutland proper," ordered Captain Raleigh. The lads followed their commander back to the wireless room. "Any calls?" he asked the operator. "Repeat it as it comes." "Very well, sir. _Indefatigable_ calling." "Inform Captain Reynolds that we shall slow down and wait for him to come up with us." The operator sent the message. "O.K., sir, signed, 'Reynolds,'" the operator reported a few moments later. "Ask her if she has picked up any other vessels." "Destroyers _Fortune_ and _Shark_, sir," reported the operator a little later. "Good. Give Captain Reynolds our position and tell him to keep working his wireless. Tell him we are likely to need every ship we can bring up." The operator sent the message. "O.K., again, sir," he reported. Captain Raleigh passed a slip of paper to the operator. "On this," he said, "are enumerated the ships that should be somewhere in these waters. Pick up as many of them as you can. As you give the warnings when answered check them off on the list. If any information is asked, call me." "Very well, sir," replied the operator, taking the slip of paper. "No other instructions, sir?" "No. Send the same message as you sent to the _Indefatigable_." Captain Raleigh motioned Frank and Jack to follow him and left the room. Frank and Jack were considerably flattered by this. They knew that Captain Raleigh had been pleased with their work. "Very well, sir," they exclaimed in a single breath. "I'll go to the wireless room, then, sir," said Frank. "Very well. Report to me instantly a message is received." Frank saluted and took his departure. Jack stood at attention in Captain Raleigh's cabin as the commander of the _Queen Mary_ again plunged into a mass of charts. Captain Raleigh sprang to his feet and opened his watch. "How big a fleet have we there now, sir?" asked Jack. "We'll lick 'em, sir," said Jack, enthusiastically. Captain Raleigh smiled. "I hope so," he said quietly. "Battleship overhauling us fast, sir." "Probably the _Indefatigable_," said Captain Raleigh. He went on deck. Jack followed him. At the same moment Frank came running up. "_Indefatigable_ reports she has sighted us, sir!" "Good!" exclaimed Captain Raleigh. "I felt sure it was the _Indefatigable_. Tell her we shall steam slowly until she comes up with us." Frank saluted and returned to the wireless room. "Have all hands piped to quarters, Mr. MacDonald." Instantly, all became bustle aboard the _Queen Mary._ Men rushed hither and thither; but in a moment order was restored out of the seeming confusion. He addressed the different groups of men as he passed and told them what was about to transpire. The men cheered him. His tour of inspection completed, Captain Raleigh ordered: The necessary orders were given and a short time later the men were eating heartily. Then they went to their quarters, where some lay down to sleep while others sat in groups and discussed the impending battle. "It's going to be a great fight, Frank," declared Jack. "To my mind it is foolish to engage the German fleet with only a few ships," said Jack. "It won't gain us anything. I believe we should retreat slowly and draw them on." "I believe that would be a much better plan. We might engage them at long range, running slowly before them. Then, when the main fleet came up, we would take them by surprise." And even at that moment the same plan was being revolved in the mind of Vice-Admiral Beatty as, in his flagship, the _Lion_, he steamed swiftly northward. By this time the battleship _Indefatigable_ had drawn up almost on even terms with the _Queen Mary._ The wireless of both ships were busy as the commanders exchanged greetings and discussed their plans for battle. A little later, as the _Indefatigable_ drew even closer, Captain Reynolds of the _Indefatigable_ flashed this message: "I am coming aboard you." "There probably will be other aircraft with the fleet," said Captain Raleigh. "Exactly. But the main fleet, farther south, will hardly arrive in time I am afraid; and, by the way, you are wrong in your calculations. The _Warspite_ is with the main fleet." "Is that so? So, then, is the _Edinsburgh_, the _Tiger_, the _Peerless_, the _Terror_, the _George IV_ and the _Richard_?" At this moment a message was handed to Captain Raleigh from the wireless room. "By Jove, Raleigh!" exclaimed Captain Reynolds, "I am better satisfied with those orders. There is more chance of success now. It would have been foolhardy for us to engage the whole German fleet." "Well, I'll get back to my vessel now." Captain Reynolds arose and extended his hand to his fellow commander. Captain Raleigh gripped the hand. Then he accompanied Captain Reynolds and saw him over the side. "Get the _Glasgow_," commanded Captain Raleigh of the operator. "_Glasgow! Glasgow_!" went the call. "_Glasgow!_" came the reply a few moments later. "Have you sighted the enemy?" This from the _Queen Mary_. "No," from the _Glasgow_. "Have any of your consorts picked up the foe?" "You received my earlier instructions?" "Yes. We are holding our ground until we sight the enemy. Then we shall retire. How long before you will come up with us?" "Good. I am giving my men all the rest possible. Goodbye." "Funny," said Captain Raleigh to Jack, "they should have sighted the enemy by this time." "It would seem so, sir," agreed Jack. "Well, they probably will be in sight by the time we come up with the _Glasgow_," said Captain Raleigh. "You are sure you have not miscalculated the time?" Captain Raleigh asked of Frank and Jack. "Positive, sir," replied the former. "Besides, you have the document relating to the attack." "True enough. The enemy probably has been delayed. Or perhaps they will await the coming of daylight." "Much better," replied his commander briefly. "Then let us hope that is what happens." "But I am afraid it won't happen," said Jack. "If the Germans get this far safely, they won't wait for us to overtake them." "Then we've got to lick 'em," declared Frank, grimly. Captain Raleigh smiled. "That's the spirit I like to see," he said quietly. "It is the spirit that has carried the British flag to victory against overwhelming odds on many occasions." "But he is not an Englishman, sir," said Jack with a smile. "What?" exclaimed Captain Raleigh. "Not an Englishman? Then what is he?" "American," was Jack's reply. "Oh, well, it amounts practically to the same thing," declared Captain Raleigh. "Next to being an American," said Frank, quietly, "I would be English." Skagerak, in which the greatest naval battle of history was about to be fought, is an arm of the North Sea between Norway and Denmark. The scene of the battle was laid off Jutland and Horn Reef, on the southern extremity of Denmark. That the advance of the German fleet had been well planned was indicated by the very fact that it could successfully elude the British cruisers patrolling the entrance to the mine fields that guarded Heligoland itself. Could a British fleet of any size have got between the German high sea fleet and Heligoland the menace of the German fleet would have ended for all time. At the moment, however, the British warships were scattered over the North Sea in such a manner as to preclude such an attempt; and the best Admiral Beatty and Admiral Jellicoe could hope for was to come up with the German fleet and give battle, preventing, if possible, the escape of any units of the fleet to other parts of the sea and to drive all that the British could not sink back to Heligoland. Therefore, it must have been a great disappointment to the German admiral when a single big gun boomed in the distance. This was the voice of the British battleship _Queen Mary,_ which, taking directions from the _Glasgow's_ aviator, had fired the opening shot, telling the Germans that their approach had been discovered and that the passage of the Skagerak would be contested. They had been ordered forth to ascertain the strength of the British. But the German aviators had learned what they had been sent to learn. They had discovered the strength of the British. Again sharp orders were flashed from the German flagship. The fleet came on faster. Captain Raleigh, because of his seniority, had taken command of the small British squadron. He had drawn his ships up in a semicircle, heads pointed to the foe. As his aviators signalled that the Germans were again advancing, Captain Raleigh gave the command that had been long eagerly awaited by the men--a command which the commander of the _Queen Mary_ had delayed giving until the last moment because he desired to give his men all the rest he could. "Clear for action!" he thundered. The exclamation was wrung from Frank. As the lad spoke the fog suddenly lifted and gave to the British a view of the advancing German fleet. "Forward turret guns!" cried Captain Raleigh, "Fire at will!" At almost the same moment the leading German ships opened fire. From the shelter of the larger ships advanced the battle cruisers. Not a battleship nor a dreadnaught came forward. But the smaller ships dashed on swiftly and presently their guns found the range. A shell from her forward turret burst aboard the closest German vessel and there was a terrific explosion, followed by a series of blasts not so loud. Came fearful cries from aboard the enemy. A cheer rose on the air--a loud British cheer. "About time to begin our retreat then," said Jack. And the order for retreat came a few moments later. Then it was the Germans' time to cheer and they did so with a will. It was not often that a British battleship had fled before a German ship or ships and the Germans, since the war opened, had little chance to cheer such a procedure. But now that they had such a chance, they cheered their best Apparently, they had lost sight of the fact that the British were retiring before superior numbers, and that, even in spite of that and the fact that they now were retreating, they still had the best of the encounter so far. The British retreat was slow; and, for some unaccountable reason, the Germans did not press forward as swiftly as they might have done. Whether they feared a trap, or whether the German admiral had determined to await the coming of day before disposing of the enemy, was not apparent. But that he had some plan in mind, every Briton realized. "The longer he holds off the better," said Frank. "Right," agreed Jack. "Of course, we probably could run away from them if they pressed us too hard, but we wouldn't; and for that reason he should be able to dispose of us if he came ahead swiftly." "Wonder why some of these Zeppelins and airships haven't come into action?" said Frank. "I hope so. It would be better, of course, if they arrived while it is yet dark, for then they might come up unseen. But with their arrival we still will be outnumbered; and, realizing that, the Germans, when the day breaks, will press the attack harder." "I guess we will manage to hold them till the main fleet arrives in the morning," said Frank, hopefully. "We will have to hold them," declared Jack. "And that settles the _Glasgow_," said Jack, sadly. He was right. Gamely the _Glasgow_ fought back, but it was apparent to all, in spite of the darkness, that she was settling lower and lower in the water. "And we can't rescue the men," said Frank. "Remember the admiralty orders. No ship in action is to go to the aid of another. It would be suicide." "So it would," said Jack. "Poor fellows." Slowly the _Glasgow_ settled; and for a moment the fire of all the other vessels--Germans as well as British--lulled a bit. All eyes were bent on the sinking ship. A wireless message was flashed from the _Glasgow_ to Captain Raleigh of the _Queen Mary_. "Goodbye," it said. "Hold them!" After that there was no further word from the doomed cruiser. The searchlights of both fleets played full upon the _Glasgow_ as she settled lower in the water. She staggered, seemed to make an effort to hold herself afloat, and then sank suddenly. The duel of big guns broke out afresh. With the breaking of the intense darkness what a surprise was in store for the Germans! Gathered from various parts of the North Sea, they had steamed toward Jutland, and, arriving there at almost the same time, they had assumed battle formation in the darkness. That the British were approaching must have been known by the German admiral, for their wireless apparatus had been working unceasingly, telling of their approach, and these signals must have been caught by the German warships, though, because sent in code, they were undecipherable. Nor could the enemy tell, by the sound, just how close the British were. The German admiral, taking in the situation, knew that he still outnumbered the British--that the advantage was still with him. He determined to give battle. He knew, too, that it was only a question of time until the main British fleet would approach and he determined to win the battle before the arrival of new foes. He signalled an advance. Ahead of the larger ships now--the _Queen Mary_, the _Indefatigable_ and the _Invincible,_ advanced the speediest of light cruisers--the _Defense_, the _Biack Prince_ and the _Warrior_. Behind these, spread out fan-wise, came the destroyers _Tipperary, Turbulent, Nestore, Alcaster, Fortune, Sparrow Hawk, Ardent_ and the _Shark_. The _Albert_ and _Victoria_ also had fallen in line, though badly battered by the effects of the German shells during the night. Of all the vessels engaged, the _Queen Mary_ was the largest. The _Marlborough_, advancing rapidly, came next and then the German dreadnaught _Westphalen_. The British battle cruisers _Indefatigable_ and _Invincible_ were the next most powerful, in the order named, and the other German vessels were by far superior to the British. Now, as the battle opened with the greatest fury, another British vessel was sighted to the westward. It was the _Lion_, the flagship of Vice-Admiral Beatty, steaming at full speed ahead. The British cruiser _Defense_, making straight for the German dreadnaught _Westphalen_, hurled a shell aboard the German flagship that burst amidships. There was a terrible explosion and men were hurled into the water in little pieces. A hole was blown through the upper deck. But the _Defense_ paid dearly for this act. The forward guns of the _Westphalen_ poured a veritable rain of shells upon the British vessel and in a moment she was wounded unto death. There was nothing the other vessels of the fleet could do to aid her; and it was plainly apparent that she must sink. But the British tars stuck to their guns and they continued to hurl shells into the German line until the water of the North Sea washed over them. The _Defense_ was gone. This left the _Black Prince_ and the _Warrior_ alone before the larger British vessels and they stood to their work gallantly. The fire of both cruisers was centered on the German flagship; and it was plain that if they continued at their work the _Westphalen_ was doomed. Above the _Black Prince_ the Zeppelin paused. Something dropped through the air. There was a flash, an explosion and a dense black cloud rolled across the water. When it had cleared the _Black Prince_ was gone! The _Pommern's_ sister ship, the _Freiderich_, slowed down and gave assistance in picking up the crew of the former vessel; and while she was engaged in this work no British gun fired at her. Gradually the _Marlborough_, the _Queen Mary_, the _Indefatigable_ and the _Invincible_ drew closer together as they advanced upon the Germans. Shells burst over them with regularity, but so far none had reached a vital spot. The _Queen Mary_ turned all her forward guns on the _Westphalen_ and raked her fore and aft. In vain the other vessels of the German fleet sought to detract the _Queen Mary's_ fire. Captain Raleigh had started out with the intention of disposing of the German flagship and he was determined not to heed the others until the _Westphalen_ had been sent to the bottom. It was no easy task he had set for himself, for he now was the center of fire of the whole German fleet--almost. A submarine darted forward to save the _Westphalen_. The quick eye of a British gunner caught it. He took aim and fired. The submarine disappeared. There was a hiss as the little tube was released. The distance was so close now that a miss was impossible. There was an instant of silence, followed by a terrible rending sound; then a loud blast. The torpedo had reached the _Westphalen's_ boiler room. Quickly the German admiral and his officers clambered over the side and rowed to the _Wiesbaden_, where they were taken on board and the admiral's flag run up. The _Westphalen_ was abandoned; and she sank a few moments later. At this moment Vice-Admiral Beatty and his flagship, the _Lion_, entered the battle. The great guns of the flagship roared above the others and the battleship _Frauenlob_, singled out by her fire, soon sank. In spite of the German losses, the British, so far, had had the worst of the encounter and the German admiral, despite the loss of his flagship, had no mind to give up the battle. He pushed to closer quarters. Now the fighting became more terrific. Shells struck upon all ships engaged at intervals of a few seconds apart. Frequently loud explosions were heard above the voices of the great guns; and in most cases these signified the end of a ship of war. Among the smaller vessels--the torpedo boats--which had singled each other out, the execution had been terrible. Dead and wounded strewed the decks and there was no time for the uninjured to give aid. They were too busy attending to their guns and manoeuvering their vessels. Seeing apparent victory within his grasp, the German admiral signalled his fleet to full speed; so the British retreated more rapidly. A cry of despair broke from the British as the _Invincible_--the greatest British ship to suffer so far--dived beneath the waves. THE MAIN FLEET ARRIVES It was by a miracle, it seemed, that the _Queen Mary,_ the _Indefatigable_, the _Marlborough_ and the _Lion_, now in the front line, had escaped being struck in their vitals by the German shells that flew all about. On the _Queen Mary_, dead men and wounded men strewed the deck. They were being carried below as rapidly as possible, where the ship's surgeon, with a corps of assistants, was attending to their wounds. But now they were not only standing up to the British, but were giving them a bad thrashing. Each lad realized, of course, that the British were out-numbered and that the weight of guns was in favor of the enemy; but in spite of this they felt that the enemy should be defeated. They cast occasional glances to the west, hoping to catch sight of the main British fleet, which should be drawing near now. The loss of the _Invincible_ had been a hard blow to the British. As the others retreated now the Germans pressed them closely. A shot struck the _Marlborough_ in the forward turret, exploding her guns there and killing the gun crews. The effect of the explosion was terrible. Men were hurled high in the air and came down in small pieces. He watched the effect of this shot. It was the German cruiser _Elbing_ at which he had aimed. He saw a cloud of missiles ascend from amidships and knew that the shot had struck home. Frank had not seen his chum for an hour; and chancing to poke his head into the forward turret, he was surprised to see Jack working like a Trojan with the members of the gun crew. "Good work, Jack! Keep it up!" he called. Jack looked in Frank's direction long enough to wave his hand; then turned back to his work. Came a loud British cheer. "What's happened?" demanded Jack of the man next him, shouting at the top of his voice to make himself heard above the din of battle. The man shook his head. "Don't know," he shouted back, "unless the main fleet has been sighted." As a matter of fact, both men were right. Apparently the Germans had not yet sighted the British reinforcements, for they continued to press their foes hard. But the German losses had been great. The _Westphalen_ had been sunk. So had the _Pommern_ and the _Freiderich_. The _Frauenlob_ had gone to the bottom and the _Wiesbaden_, the new flagship, was badly crippled. As another German torpedo boat sank, the Germans slackened their pace. The British had a breathing spell. It was plainly evident now that the Germans had sighted the approaching British fleet, but at that distance they were unable to make out its strength. The German admiral decided to continue the battle if he could do so with any hope of success. As a matter of fact, it was fortunate for the _Queen Mary_ and the _Indefatigable_ that they had begun to retire; for their forward turret guns had been silenced and the only pieces that they could now bring into play were in the turrets aft. There was nothing that could be done for her until after the battle, at any rate, and the others left her to her fate. Drifting as she was, the _Marlborough_ continued her fire; and of a sudden she put a shot aboard the _Lutzow_ in a vital spot. The _Lutzow_ blew up with a terrible roar. The crew of the _Marlborough_ cheered and waved their hands to their companions on the other British ships. But the men fought on doggedly. None of the others had thought of surrender and no such idea entered the head of a single man aboard any of the British ships. Help was at hand and then the Germans would get the thrashing of their lives, the men told themselves. They would keep the Germans busy until this help arrived. There was a different tone to this deep voice and every man on board the hard pressed British ships knew what it meant. "And we had it all planned so carefully," he said between clenched teeth. "How could they have learned of it?" he cried. "How could they?" He was very angry. An officer approached him. "Shall we draw off, sir?" he asked, and pointed to the fresh British ships bearing down on them. The officer saluted and moved away. For some moments the German admiral continued to talk to himself in great anger; then he suddenly cooled down. With a finger he summoned the officer who had accosted him a moment before. The officer approached and saluted. "I forgot myself a moment ago," said the admiral. "You may give the signal to retire!" A moment later the big German ships began to come about; and from the decks of the _Queen Mary_, the _Lion_ and the _Indefatigable_ there came loud British cheers. The _Marlborough_, still helpless, poured shell after shell upon the enemy. Some distance away still, the British fleet was approaching in an endeavor to intercept the retreat of the enemy. Captain Raleigh of the _Queen Mary_ took in the situation at a glance. "They'll never do it!" he exclaimed. He determined upon a bold step. He gave command to bring the _Queen Mary_ about. Then, disabled as his ship was, he started in pursuit of the enemy. There was a cheer from the _Indefatigable_, and presently the head of that vessel also came about She started after the _Queen Mary_! THE SINKING OF THE "QUEEN MARY" "A blight on these English!" he exclaimed. "Don't they know when they are beaten?" Certainly it seemed not, if the Admiral's version that they were defeated was correct. The _Queen Mary_ and the _Indefatigable_ steamed after the enemy at full speed. Jack had relinquished his duties in the gun turret to more experienced hands and had joined Frank on deck. To some extent the forward turret had been repaired and was now in condition to hurl more shells after the fleeing enemy. It was indeed a boon to the fleeing Germans, for without its aid, there is little likelihood that they could have escaped the British fleet, which had the heels of the enemy. But the fog blotted the foe completely from the sight of the main British fleet; and even from the decks of the _Queen Mary_ and the _Indefatigable_, much closer, it was impossible to make out the whereabouts of the Germans. The British continued to fire ahead into the fog, but with what result it was impossible to tell. "Well, I guess that settles it," said Frank. "Looks that way," Jack agreed. "These Germans are pretty slippery customers anyhow. It's impossible to catch them in the dark." "This fog descended as though it were all made to order for them," Frank complained. "Pretty hard to beat a fellow when the elements are fighting on his side," Jack admitted. "I imagine Captain Raleigh will give up the chase now." But Jack was wrong, though, as it turned out, it would have been a great deal better for all concerned if the chase had been abandoned at that point. After some conversation with Captain Reynolds of the _Indefatigable_ by wireless, Captain Raleigh announced that the pursuit would be continued and ordered full speed ahead in the deep darkness. As the vessel gathered momentum, Frank exclaimed: "I don't like this. I feel as though something disastrous was about to happen." "Take it to Captain Raleigh. Maybe he will give you something for it," said his friend. "This is no joking matter," declared Frank. "I'm not naturally nervous, as you know, but right now my nerves are on edge." "Just the after effects of the battle," said Jack, quietly. "You are all unstrung." "I'm unstrung, all right," Frank admitted, "but the battle had nothing to do with it. I tell you something is going to happen." "It's a poor hunch, unless it will tell you what is going to happen," declared Jack. "Have it your own way," said Frank. "But wait." "I'm waiting," said Jack, cheerfully. The _Indefatigable_ also, following Captain Reynold's wireless conversation with Captain Raleigh, had dashed after the retreating Germans at full speed. Gradually, although in the darkness neither their commanders nor anyone else on board realized it, the _Queen Mary_ and the _Indefatigable_, dashing ahead at full speed as they were, were drawing closer together at every turn of the screws. Frank's forebodings were about to bear fruit. Now, in the darkness, the vessels were running upon about even terms, but the bows were both pointed toward an angle that would drive them together in collision about a mile distant. Although none realized it, this is what would happen unless the fog lifted suddenly. But the fog did not lift. Frank, try as he would could not shake off his spell. There was so much force behind Frank's words--the lad seemed in such deadly earnest--that Jack grew alarmed. He had had some experience with these premonitions of Frank's. "What is it?" he asked anxiously. Came a sudden shout forward; a cry from the bridge. Instinctively, Frank threw out a hand and grasped Jack by the arm. Another series of startled cries, the tinkling of a bell in the engine room; a shock as the engines were reversed--but it was too late. Aboard both British ships all was confusion now. With startled cries, men rushed on deck. Unable to see in the dense fog, they became panic stricken. While these same men would have faced death bravely in battle, they were completely bewildered at this moment. In vain the officers aboard both vessels sought to bring some semblance of order out of the confusion. Something had gone wrong with the electric lighting apparatus on both vessels. There was no light. The fog was as thick as ever. The crews stampeded for the rails, but at the rails they hesitated, for they did not wish to throw themselves into the great unknown. Next came the stampede for life preservers. Men fought over their possession, whereas, in cooler moments, hardly a man aboard either ship who would not willingly have given the life preservers to companions. Had the men thrown themselves into the sea immediately, it is likely that many of them would have been saved; but their hesitation cost them dearly. In vain did the reversed engines of both ships work. The sharp steel bow of the _Indefatigable_ had become so firmly embedded in the side of the _Queen Mary_ that it could not be unloosened. Now men from both ships hurled themselves into the sea in an effort to cheat the waters of their prey. Commanders and officers, however, realizing that there was no hope of life even in the sea, so swiftly were the ships sinking, stood calmly on the bridges and awaited the end. For, they realized, the suction would be so strong when the vessels took their final plunge, that all those anywhere near in the water would be drawn under. Captain Raleigh sent a hail across the water in a loud voice. "Are you there, Reynolds?" "Right here, Raleigh," came back the response. "There is no hope here. How about you?" "No hope here either," was Captain Raleigh's answer. "Goodbye, then," shouted Captain Reynolds. When Frank and Jack had felt themselves in the water, the latter, realizing immediately what would happen if the ships sank before they had put some distance in between them, struck out swiftly toward what he felt to be the south, giving Frank a hand as he did so. The latter recovered himself a moment later, however, and gasped. "I'm all right, Jack. Let me swim for myself." "All right," said Jack, "but keep close beside me. We'll have to hurry or we shall be pulled under by the suction when the ships sink." Keeping close together they swam with powerful strokes. "There they go," said Frank, sadly. "And it is only a miracle that prevented us from going with them," said Jack. "We might as well have gone as to be in the middle of the North Sea," said Frank. "Nonsense. While there's life there's hope." Suddenly Jack's hand came in contact with something in the darkness. "A man!" he exclaimed. "What did you think I was? A fish?" came the reply. "I've a right to escape as well as you." "Who are you?" asked Frank. At that moment, as suddenly as it had descended, the fog lifted. Jack looked at the other man in the water and uttered an exclamation of pleasure. The great naval battle of Jutland was over. The British fleet now had given up pursuit of the fleeing Germans and Vice-Admiral Beatty paused to take stock of his losses; and they were enormous. But, no matter with which side rested the victory, there was no gainsaying the fact that the battle of Jutland was the greatest naval struggle of all time. After giving up pursuit of the enemy, the British withdrew. Damage to the various vessels was repaired as well as could be done at sea and the ships in need of a more thorough overhauling steamed for England, where they would go into dry-dock. The bulk of the British fleet, however, still in perfect fighting trim, again took up the task of patrolling the North Sea, that no German vessels might make their escape from the fortress of Heligoland, for which point the enemy headed immediately after the battle. But as time passed and the German fleet still remained secure behind its fortifications, the German people began to realize that the victory had not been so great as they had been led to believe. They knew they had been fooled; and they vented their anger in many ways. Street riots occurred in Berlin and in others of the large cities. The people demanded to be told the facts. Later they were told, in a measure, but even then they were denied the whole truth. So conditions in the central empires grew from bad to worse. Jack and Frank, struggling in the water where they had been hurled by the collision of the _Queen Mary_ and the _Indefatigable_, were glad of the company of Harris, who had bobbed up so suddenly alongside of them in the darkness. Harris greeted Jack's exclamation of surprise with a grin. "Yes; it's me," he replied, discarding his grammar absolutely; "and I'm glad to see you fellows again. Question is, what are we going to do now?" "Well, you know as much about it as I do," declared Jack. "I haven't any idea how far we are from shore, but I am afraid it is farther than we can swim." "Suppose we might as well head in that direction, then," declared Harris. "Right," agreed Frank. He struck out vigorously and the others did the same. It was a long ways to that little speck on the water and the lads knew that if the vessel were moving away from them they probably would be lost. But at that distance the vessel seemed to be stationary, so they did not give up hope. "Well, I wish it would come this way," declared Harris. "We're still a long way from safety." "It's probably a German, anyhow," said Jack, "so if we are rescued it will be only to be made prisoners." "That's better than being made shark bait," said Harris; "and, by the way, speaking of sharks, I have heard that there were many of them in these waters." Frank shuddered; for he had a wholesome disgust for the man eaters. "Hope they don't smell us," he said. "And so do I," agreed Jack. "We couldn't hope to fight them off, for we have no arms." "I've got a knife," said Harris, "but I am afraid I wouldn't know what to do with it should a shark get after me." An hour later they had drawn close to the vessel. "It's a German all right," said Jack, regretfully. "Any port in a storm," said Harris. "That talk of shark a while back made me feel sort of squeamish. I want to get out of this water." They continued to swim toward the ship. "Wonder what's the matter on board?" exclaimed Frank, suddenly. "Something wrong," said Jack, quietly. "That's what I call hard luck," declared Frank. "Here we think we have reached a place of safety and something goes wrong." "Don't cry till you're hurt, youngster," said Harris, quietly. "The ship is there and we're pretty close to it. Those fellows aboard, German or English, are bound to lend us a hand." "I'm not so sure about that," declared Frank. "Well, I am," said Harris. "The German sailor is all right. It's the German officer who makes all the trouble. They'll help us if they can." Jack raised his voice in a shout. "Help!" he cried in German. There was no move aboard the German vessel to indicate that the lad's cry had been heard. "Told you so," said Frank. "Don't cry too soon, youngster," said Harris. "We'll try it again, and all yell together." They did and this time their cries were heard. "By Jove!" said Harris. "He's all right. I'd like to be able to do him a good turn." And the chance was to come sooner than he expected. A dull rumbling roar came suddenly across the water. Instantly all became confusion aboard the German vessel. Officers shouted hoarse commands and struck out with the flat of their swords as members of the crew rushed for the rails. "An explosion!" cried Frank. "Swim back quickly." The others understood the significance of that strange rumbling aboard the German vessel as quickly as Frank, and turning rapidly, they struck out as fast as they could. Then there came an explosion even louder than the rest. The great ship parted in the middle as though cut by a knife. A huge tongue of flame shot high in the air. Hoarse cries from aboard, screams and frightful yells. Split in twain, the vessel settled fore and aft. With a cry to the others to follow him, Frank turned about and headed for the boat with powerful strokes. There was reason for Frank's haste. "Keep off there!" he cried. The Germans uttered exclamations of alarm; but they came closer. "Keep back!" cried Jack, again. "You stay there until my friends get aboard. Then I'll see what I can do for you," replied Jack. With this the Germans were forced to be content; for they realized that Jack held the upper hand. It would be impossible for them to climb aboard while the lad stood there brandishing that oar. Frank laid hold of the boat a moment later and clambered over the side. Harris was close beside him. Jack called a consultation. "There is plenty of room for those fellows in here," he said, "but-shall we let them in?" "We can't see them drown," said Frank. "Still, there is no telling how long we shall be here. Is there sufficient water and food to go around?" "Well, what shall we do?" said Jack. "Let them come aboard," said Frank. "We can't see them perish without raising a hand to help them." "And yet they would not have helped us a short time ago," said Jack. "No, he's not," said Jack. "I would know him in a moment if I saw him. I obtained a good look at his face." "Let them in anyhow," said Harris. "Sit in the back, there," said Jack. "Now," said Jack, "I'll tell you where we stand. Water is scarce and there is no food. We shall have to make for shore immediately. I'm in command of this boat and you will have to obey me. Get out the oars and row as I tell you." The Germans grumbled a bit but they obeyed. "No time to waste," said Jack, briefly. "We'll head south." He gave the necessary directions and the boat moved off. "Help!" came a sudden cry from the water. Jack looked in the direction of this sound. A single head came toward them, swimming weakly. "Ship your oars, men," said Jack. "There is no more room," he declared. "Stop that!" said Jack, sharply. "Cease rowing!" The men made no move to obey. Jack stood up in the boat and stepped forward. "Did you hear me?" he said quietly, though it was plain to Frank that he was very angry. "Cease rowing!" Jack wasted no further time in words. His left arm shot out and he grasped the nearest German by the coat. Raising him quickly to his feet, he struck him heavily with his right fist and then released his hold. The man dropped to the bottom of the boat and lay still. "Any more?" asked Jack. "Cease rowing!" "They'll bear watching." "Bandage him up as well as you can and give him a few drops of that water," said Jack. For his part, Jack stooped over the German soldier he had so recently knocked unconscious and raised him to a sitting posture. Reaching over the side of the boat the lad wet his handkerchief and applied it to the German's head. Soon the man recovered consciousness. "A drop of water here, too," said Jack, quietly. "Say," said Harris. "This water is precious scarce. We'll need it ourselves." "But this man must have a little," said Jack. "Pass it along." Harris did not protest further and Jack allowed the German soldier to moisten his tongue. "Now get back to your oars," the lad commanded. The German did as commanded and soon the little boat was leaping lightly over the waves. "Take the helm, Frank," said Jack. Frank relieved Harris, who had been performing this duty. "Got your pocket compass, Frank?" asked Jack. "Keep your course due south, then." "All right, sir," said Frank, with a smile. "Harris," said Jack, "I want you to stand guard over these sailors for a few minutes. I want to have a talk with our latest arrival. I'll be with you in a few minutes." Harris stepped forward. "Ought to have a gun, I suppose," he said. "I guess not," said Jack. "You and I together should be able to hold these fellows in check." "Sure; unless they hit us over the head with an oar when we're not looking." "Well, that's not a bad idea. I'll keep my eyes open." Jack moved to the side of the German who had been the last to get into the boat. His wound had been bound up as well as possible under the circumstances and he sat quietly, looking out over the water. "What vessel was that?" asked Jack. "_Hanover_" was the reply. "What was the trouble?" "Shot pierced our boiler room in the battle. Returning, we were lost from the main fleet in the fog. Our wireless wouldn't work. Fire broke out and we were unable to check the flames. When they reached the magazine she exploded." "I see," said Jack. "It's fortunate you weren't drawn under with the ship." "I was," said the German, briefly. "What?" exclaimed Jack. "By Jove! you have had an experience few can boast of," said Jack. "I wouldn't care to go through it." "Nor I--again," said the German. "Now," said Jack, "perhaps you can tell me the nearest way to shore." The German considered. "By Jove!" said Jack, "we've got to make it. We don't want to drown out here." "It's not always what we like," said the German officer, sententiously. "That's true enough," agreed Jack, "but I have a feeling I was not born to be drowned. We'll find a way out." "I hope so. However, should you go ashore directly south of here you would be within German lines and you would be made a prisoner." "Can't help that," said Jack. "I'd much rather be a live prisoner than a dead sailor." The German smiled in spite of his wound, which, it was plain to all, was giving him great pain. "Of course," he said, "there is always the possibility of a passing ship." "That's what we thought before," said Jack. "When we saw your vessel we thought we were safe. But you see how it turned out." "Well, you'll just have to select a course and stick to it," said the German. "By the way, these men of mine. You are likely to have trouble with them. In our present situation I do not consider that we are enemies, so if the worst comes you may count on me to help you." "Thanks," said Jack. "I shall remember that." And the trouble was to come sooner than could have been expected. "I want a drink!" he exclaimed. "I'll row no more until I have a drink!" Frank, at the helm, uttered a cry of warning even as the closest German leaped for Harris and the latter wheeled quickly. He dodged just as the man struck out with a knife he had drawn. "Want to cut me up, do you?" muttered Harris. In spite of the wabbling of the boat he fell into an attitude of defense--the old fighting form that had won for him the championship of the British navy in the squared circle. He didn't advance, for he wasn't certain of his footing, the boat pitched so, but he felt fully able to take care of himself. It was characteristic of him that he made no cry for help. He knew that Jack must have heard Frank's cry of warning. He knew that he would get all the assistance it was in Jack's power to give; and he felt that if Jack were unable for any reason to aid him he must, nevertheless, give a good account of himself. The German's knife arm, because of Harris' hold, dangled helpless at his side. In vain he sought to get it in position where he could drive the point into Harris' body. Harris realized the man's intention. With a sudden move, he pushed the German from him and struck out as he did so. The man staggered back, reeled unsteadily and toppled over the side of the boat with a cry. Meanwhile, Jack had leaped forward, crying to Frank as he did so: "Keep the helm, Frank! We don't want the boat overturned." Frank obeyed, much as he would have liked to join in the fight. "We've got them, now," said Harris, quietly. "Men," said Jack, quietly, "unless you return to your oars immediately, we shall be forced to throw you overboard." "You would, would you!" cried Jack. Some distance away he saw Frank struggling with the German who had pulled him from the boat and he swam quickly in that direction. "I'm coming, Frank!" he called. "Hang on to him." Jack, greatly alarmed, dived after them. Keeping his fingers clenched tightly in Frank's coat--that the lad might not be drawn under again Jack aimed carefully at the face of the German, which now was close to him, and struck out with all his strength. Instantly, the hand on Frank's throat relaxed and the German sank from sight. By the force of the impact as the blow landed Jack knew that the German would trouble them no more. Supporting Frank with his left arm, he struck out for the boat with his right. Both of the latter wielded knives and it was plain to Jack that Harris hesitated to come to close quarters with them, as he had no assistance at hand; for he realized that, should he be overcome, the men would have little trouble of disposing of Frank and Jack, as they tried to climb back in the boat. But now that Jack was able to come to his assistance again, Harris made ready for a spring. Jack saw this move and called: "Wait a minute, Harris!" Harris stayed his spring and Jack again advanced to his side. Jack's face was white and his clothing was dripping water. He was very angry and his fingers clenched and unclenched. "You men," he said in a cold voice, "were given a chance for your lives the same as the rest of us. Now you will either throw down those knives or die." "Wait!" he cried. "He wants us to throw down our knives so they can overpower us." To the other this seemed good reasoning. Both Germans, still wielding their weapons, drew backward slowly. Jack and Harris advanced as slowly after them. "Drop them!" cried Jack, again. With only a single enemy before him, a smile broke over Jack's face. He called to Harris. "Stay back, Harris. I'm going to settle with this man myself." The German shrank back, and for a moment it seemed that he would throw down his knife and cry for mercy. But if he had such a thought in his mind, he discarded it; he sprang at Jack, fiercely. Again Jack avoided the thrust of the knife and caught the stabbing wrist in his right hand. Then, bringing all his tremendous strength to bear, he stooped slightly and jerked with his hand. He grew suddenly very angry. "You murderous dog!" he cried. Rising to his feet he stooped quickly and seized an oar. Before the man in the water could realize his purpose, he had brought the oar down with all his force on the hand that grasped the boat. With a howl of pain the German released his hold, his fingers shattered by the force of the blow. Without a word the German officer dropped the oar and resumed his seat. Jack and Harris now approached Frank's side and the former bent over him. Frank was just regaining consciousness. He smiled as Jack asked him how he felt, and asked: "Did you lick them all?" "You bet," returned Jack, then turned to Harris. "I suppose we should pick up some of those fellows, if we can. We can't see them drown before our eyes." "You're too soft hearted for me," declared Harris. "However, whatever you say." They gazed into the water. There was no German in sight. "Be ready to jump in the moment a head appears," said Jack. "I guess it's no use," said Jack, slowly, at last. "They're gone!" PICKED UP BY THE ENEMY All through the afternoon Jack and Harris had rowed untiringly, but with the coming of nightfall there was no land in sight. "Nothing to do but keep pulling in the same direction," said Jack. "All right," he said, "but I'm getting tired. I'll have to rest up for an hour or so." "Feel all right?" asked Jack. "All right, then," said Jack. "You and Harris change places." This was done. Then the German officer spoke. "It's about time for me to take a hand," he said. "But your wound?" protested Jack. "Well, it still pains some, to be sure. But the sooner we get to shore the sooner I will be able to have it looked after. It's better to row awhile than to remain idle." "Suit yourself," said Jack. "I am a bit tired. We'll change places." They did so and the little boat moved on in the darkness. "Don't know where we are," said Jack to Harris, "but it seems to me we should raise land with the coming of daylight." "Well, I hope we do," was Harris' reply. "I'm getting awfully thirsty, but I hate to cut into that water supply." "There is a little more for us since we lost our other passengers," said Jack. "I'm thirsty myself. We may as well sample that water." He produced a jug and each took a cooling draught. "Tastes pretty good," said Harris, smacking his lips. "You bet," agreed Jack. He made his way forward and gave Frank and the German officer a drink. "Enough for a couple of more rounds," he said, shaking the jug and listening to the splash of the water inside. "Oh, I guess we've enough," said Harris. "However, it is well to use it sparingly." As it turned out they had an ample sufficiency; in fact, more than they needed. With the coming of daylight, Frank, who had resumed his place at the helm a short time before, uttered an exclamation. He pointed off to port. The others glanced in the direction indicated and then raised a cheer. There, scarcely more than a mile away and bearing down on them rapidly, came a German man-o'-war. Already they had been seen, for the vessel altered its course slightly. "Sorry it's not a British ship," he said. The German officer was forced to smile. "And I'm glad it's not," he declared; "for if it were it would be capture for me instead of you." "Well, it's the fortune of war," said the German. "The misfortune of war in this case," said Harris. The German warship was now within hailing distance and a voice called: The German officer acted as spokesman and shouted back: "We'll lower a boat," was the response. The latter turned to the German officer for an account of what had happened. "I can assure you there is no possibility of escape," he said. "In that event," said Jack, "we shall give our paroles until we reach shore." "That is sufficient. After that you will be in other and safe hands." "You will see that they are provided with suitable quarters," he said. "You've got to give them credit," said Frank. "They do things up in style. It seems we are to be well treated." "No reason why we shouldn't be," declared Jack. "Wonder where we are bound, anyhow?" said Harris. "Don't know," said Frank. "I'll try and find out as soon as we can go on deck--providing they allow us on deck." "The commander said we would have the freedom of the ship," returned Harris. "So he did. Hurry and dress then." "Wonder if you would tell us where we are bound?" asked Frank, with a smile. "Certainly," was the reply. "Our destination is Bremen." "Bremen, eh?" said Jack. "What will they do with us there?" "Probably turn you over to the military authorities to take care of you until the end of the war." "Looks like our fighting days are over," said Harris, sadly. The young German smiled. "Seems to me you should be rather glad of that," he returned. "After your defeat off Jutland you should be willing to cry for peace." "Defeat!" exclaimed Frank. "Why, the Germans got the worst of it. You know that." "Oh, no we didn't," said the young officer. "The greater part of the British fleet was sent to the bottom. Our losses were insignificant." "Were you there?" asked Frank. "Where is the German fleet now?" asked Frank. "Back in Heligoland. Some of the vessels are in need of slight repairs." "Why didn't they keep going after that great victory?" Frank wanted to know. "Why, I can't say. Probably had orders not to proceed too far immediately." "I can tell you why," said Frank. "I wish you would," said the young officer. "But you didn't chase us back. We retired when the battle was won." "Oh, you retired when the battle was won, eh?" "Yes; that's what the official report says." "But it doesn't say who won the battle, does it?" asked Frank, with a grin, in which his friends were forced to join. "But I tell you that is not possible," protested the German. "It may not have been considered possible," returned Frank, "but it's a fact, all the same." "Well, that's my personal opinion of it," Frank admitted. "Sir!" exclaimed the young German, drawing himself up suddenly. "You have insulted the German navy--and me with it. Were it not that you are our guests aboard this warship, I would demand satisfaction." The young German faced him angrily. With this he drew himself up stiffly, turned on his heel and stalked away. Frank gazed after him amusedly. "Now what do you think of that?" he exclaimed. "You should have known you couldn't convince him," said Jack. There was something familiar about that figure and unconsciously the lad gave a start. He called Jack's attention to the man, and the latter, seeing that he was the subject of discussion, quickly withdrew. "I've seen him some place," said Frank. "And so have I," Jack declared. "There is some thing strangely familiar about him. Say! It's unpleasant when you know a man and can't place him." "Let's hope he is not some old enemy come back to life," said Frank, quietly, as they returned to their cabin. "Sure; the battle of Jutland. The German people have been told that the German fleet won; and now the people are celebrating. See all those flags? Why else would they be displayed so profusely?" "Because Germany is at war," said Frank. "I guess you're right." "I've something of interest to show you," he said; "something that will be of interest to all the world presently." "We shall be glad to see it, whatever it may be," replied Jack, courteously. "Look over the side there," said the German, pointing. "Do you see that long, low shape in the water?" "Why, yes," said Frank. "Looks like a submarine." "That's what it is. Can you make out the name?" "D-e-u-t-s-c-h-l-a-n-d," Frank spelled it out. "Yes, the _Deutschland_" replied the German officer; "and, within a month, the whole world will be talking about her." "What's she going to do?" asked Frank. "Sink the whole British fleet?" The German officer smiled. "But it's impossible," said Frank. "Not at all," returned the German. "You may remember that German submarines made their way to the Dardanelles safely. The only difference will be that the _Deutschland_ will go unarmed. She will carry a cargo of dyestuffs and other commodities of which the United States is in need." "Well, she may try it, but I don't believe she'll get there," said Harris. "Nor I," declared Jack. "It will be a great feat if she can accomplish it," the lad said. "It will, indeed," said the German, "and she will accomplish it." "By Jove!" exclaimed Frank. "We'll have to admit that you Germans are progressive. We may not like to admit it, but it's a fact all the same." "I thank you," said the German with a low bow. "Well, we're obliged to you for showing us the _Deutschland_, at all events," said Jack, "and I want to say that if by any chance she does reach the United States you may be well proud of her." Again the German bowed low. "Now," said Frank, "as we have passed beyond sight of the _Deutschland_, perhaps you can tell me what is to be done with us?" "As it happens, I can," was the reply. "I heard the captain inform Lieutenant von Ludwig that you will be put in his charge. He has instructions to see you safe in the hands of the military authorities in Berlin, where most of the captured British and French officers are being held." "Pretty tough, Jack," said Frank. The German officer overheard this remark, although he perhaps did not catch the exact meaning. "You will be well treated," he said. "I've no doubt of that," declared Jack. The German officer left them. Jack turned to Frank. "Say!" he exclaimed, "are you thinking of turning German directly?" "What's that?" demanded Frank, in surprise. "I just wondered when you were going to take up the arms for the Kaiser. The way you have been praising all things German recently, I don't know what to make of you. The _Deutschland_, for instance." "I just don't happen to be a hard-headed John Bull," he replied. "Hard headed, am I?" exclaimed Jack. "I've a notion to shake some of that German sympathy out of you." "You know I haven't any German sympathies," said Frank. "But I believe in giving credit where credit is due." "Well, there is no credit due there. You know that is just some cock and bull story. The Germans will never dare such a thing." "I'm not so sure," said Frank, quietly. "Well, it will never get across the sea if the attempt is made." "Maybe not, maybe yes," said Frank, with a grin. What Jack might have replied Frank never learned, for at that moment another German officer accosted them. He was the man who was so strangely familiar to Jack and Frank. "You will be ready to accompany me the moment we dock, sirs," he said. "All right," Frank agreed. "We'll be ready." They descended to their cabin where they donned the clothing they had worn when picked up from the sea. Then they returned on deck. The great warship now was nearing the dock, backing in. Slowly she drew close to the pier and then finally her engines ceased. A gangplank was lowered and men began to disembark. "Whenever you are ready," he said quietly. "We're ready now," returned Jack. "Don't worry, we have no intention of trying to escape--not right here in broad daylight," said Frank. "Very good. Let us move." Slowly they made their way down the gang plank and ashore. There a line of automobiles waited. The officer motioned his prisoners into the largest of these and gave instructions to the driver. He took a seat beside Jack. As the automobile started down the street, Jack glanced at his captor sharply. "Surely I have seen you some place before, sir?" the lad said. The officer shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows?" he said and became silent. "Deuced uncommunicative sort of a fellow," said Jack to himself. "But I know I've come in contact with him some place. It may come to me later." The automobile drew up in front of a large stone house and the officer motioned his prisoners out. He spoke to his chauffeur. "Keep your gun handy and follow me," he instructed. "Now," he said, "I want your promises not to try to escape." "Sorry, sir, but we can't do that," replied Frank, quietly. "Come! Don't be fools!" exclaimed their captor, sharply. He walked to the door and peered out. Then, walking close to Frank and Jack, he said quietly: "If you will give me your promises to make no attempt to escape before tomorrow night, I shall not have you guarded." Both lads started back in surprise, for the man had spoken in English and without the trace of an accent. "Great Scott!" exclaimed Frank. "You must be an Englishman." The man laid a finger to his lips. "Sh-h-h!" he warned. "Walls have ears, you know. So you don't know me?" The lads gazed at him closely. "I know I have seen you some place," declared Jack. "So have I," said Frank. "I guess it is as well that you have not recognized me, but did I not know you so well I would not say what I am about to say. That is this. I am an Englishman and I am here on an important business. Tomorrow night I shall return to England. Give me your words to remain quiet here until then, in the meantime not trying to learn my identity, and you shall all go with me. Is it a bargain?" Frank looked at the man sharply. Was he fooling them? Well, the lad decided, they had everything to gain and nothing to lose. "Very well," the lad said. "You have my promise not to attempt to escape before tomorrow night." "And mine," said Jack. "And mine," declared Harris. "Very well. Then I shall leave you for the moment." The man stalked from the room and closed the door behind him. THE BOYS BECOME UNEASY For some moments after the officer had taken his departure, there was silence in the room. Then Harris exclaimed: "Now what do you think of that?" "Well, I don't hardly know what to think of it," Jack replied. "Frank took most of the talking on himself. When he gave his parole there was nothing left for me but to do likewise." "That's what I thought. Otherwise I wouldn't have given mine," said Harris. "It may not be too late to call him back and tell him so," said Frank. "I did the talking because neither of you seemed to want to do it. You didn't have to give your parole unless you wanted to. I didn't ask you to do it." "Come now, don't get mad, Frank," said Jack. "I'm not mad. I'm just telling you what I think. Certainly it can do us no harm. We have everything to gain and nothing to lose." "That's so, too, when you stop to think of it," Harris agreed. "Well, I stopped to think of it," said Frank. "You fellows didn't. That's the difference." "There is something strangely familiar about him," said Frank, "but I can't place him." "Nor I," admitted Jack, "though, as you say, there is something familiar about him." "Seems to me that if I knew a man I could tell you who he was," said Harris. "Seems so to me, too," declared Frank, "but I can't." "Well," said Jack, "I'm not as credulous as you are, Frank. I wager he is not doing this to help us out. I'll bet we land in Berlin and stay there until the end of the war." "By Jove! Let's hope not," said Harris. "Still, all things considered, I'm of your way of thinking." "If he was telling the truth," said Jack, "he would have let us know who he is. There was no reason for telling us he was English and then concealing his identity." "I can't see any reason," Frank admitted, "but at the same time I believe he was telling the truth." The conversation languished. Frank curled himself up on a sofa at the far side of the room and sought a little rest. Jack dozed in his chair. Harris also could hardly keep his eyes open. They were still in this condition when the door opened several hours later and their captor again entered the room. He walked quickly across the room and shook Jack. "Hello!" said the latter, sleepily, "back, eh?" Frank awoke at the sound of Jack's voice and Harris also opened his eyes. "I had a little work that had to be disposed of immediately," said their captor, "which is the reason I left you so abruptly. I can show you a place to sleep now." "Anything, just so it's soft," said Frank. "I'm tired out." "Very well, sir," said Frank. "And you say we shall leave here tomorrow night?" "Yes; unless something develops to interfere with my plans." "All right, sir. We shall remain here until you come tomorrow night. But that is as long as our paroles hold good, sir. After that, we shall escape if it is humanly possible." "Very well, sir," said Frank. The man took a last careful glance around the room and then disappeared. He undressed quickly and slipped between the sheets. Frank and Harris followed his example. All were up bright and early the next day, greatly refreshed. They found food in the pantry, as their captor had told them they would. It was a tedious day, confined as they were, and the time passed slowly. But dusk descended at last. "He should be here at any time now," said Frank. "Don't see what is detaining him," he said. "Nor I--if he really meant to come back," said Jack. "He said he would be back by midnight," said Frank. "He said lots of things," said Jack, "but they didn't make the same impression on me they seem to have made on you. I don't believe he is coming." "I'll tell you what I think," said Harris. "I believe he expected us to make a break for liberty before now. The house probably is surrounded and if we start out the door we shall most likely be shot down." "By Jove! I wouldn't be surprised if you had hit the nail on the head," Jack declared. "Nonsense," said Frank. "What would be the advantage of a plan like that?" "Well, I don't know; but there is something queer about this business," declared Jack. Jack and Harris had kept up a steady flow of conversation regarding the probable fate that was in store for them if they poked their heads outside the door, and at last Jack rose to his feet. "Well," he said quietly, "there is no need of staying here. We may as well make a break for it Chances are, if we are quick enough, we can get into the open without being shot down." "Not in these clothes," said Harris. "True enough. We'll have a look for other clothing. What do you say, Frank?" "Fair enough," said Harris. "Come on." He called the others. "All right if they'll fit," said Harris. "Now to see if we can find a few guns," said Jack. Again they searched the house. They ransacked the house from top to bottom; and at length Frank came across another weapon. Harris gave an exclamation of satisfaction. To this the others agreed. "I guess you were right after all," Frank told his companions. "Still I can't understand this thing at all." "You'll probably understand it better when you stick your head out the door and a bullet hits close to it," said Harris, grimly. "No; I don't believe there is anything like that going to happen," Frank declared. "Maybe he was detained and couldn't get back on time." "When he gets back he'll find us missing," said Harris. "He will unless he hurries," Frank agreed. The minutes passed slowly; but at last the hands of Frank's watch pointed to midnight. The lad closed the case of his watch with a snap and rose to his feet. He examined his revolver carefully to make sure it was in working order and then said: "Time's up; may as well be moving." "Careful when you open the door, Frank," Jack warned. "Stoop down. There is no telling what may be lurking out there." Frank heeded this warning. Stooping, he opened the door, threw it wide and looked out. "Coast clear," he announced. He was about to step out when the sound of hurried footsteps came to his ears. A man appeared down the street. He came nearer. Frank gave an exclamation of satisfaction: "Come on back to the parlor," he whispered. "Here he comes now." A moment later the front door opened softly and directly the officer appeared in the parlor door. "I came almost not getting here," he said with a smile. "Did you get tired waiting?" "So tired," said Frank, "that we were just about to leave when I chanced to see you coming down the street." "So? Well, you would have had a hard time escaping, I am afraid. Now, my way it will be easier. I have had my means of escape laid out ever since I arrived here. Unless something unforeseen occurs, we should be able to get away without difficulty." "I am sure I hope so," declared Frank. "I see you are all ready," he said. "Changed your clothes, eh?" "I hope you didn't think we were going prowling about the street in our British uniforms?" said Jack. "Hardly. By any chance did you find weapons, too?" "Yes; we have a gun apiece." "I wish you would tell us who you are, sir," said Jack. "All in good time," replied the officer with a smile. "All in good time." Came a "honk-honk" from without. "There's our car," said the officer quietly. "Come along." Without a word the others followed him through the dark hall, out the door and down the steps, where they climbed into the car, in the rear seat, their captor taking his seat with the driver. The automobile started immediately. They rode along slowly for perhaps an hour; and they came to what the lads recognized immediately as the water front. Their captor called a halt and climbed out, motioning the lads to follow him. Immediately they had alighted, the automobile drove away. Straight down to the water their captor led the way. Jack whispered to Frank. "You can't tell me we are going to get away from here as easily as all this." "Sh-h-h!" was Frank's reply. Jack thereafter maintained a discreet silence. At the edge of the pier their captor pointed to a small rowboat in the water. "We'll get in here," he said. They did so and a moment later they were being rowed across the water by a man Frank recognized as a German sailor. The thing was becoming more complicated. "Follow me below," he whispered. "I'll do the talking. Agree with whatever I say and listen carefully to my every word." Below they were ushered into what proved to be the commander's cabin. An officer in the dress of a lieutenant commander of the German navy rose and greeted the boys' captor with a salute and an extended hand. Their captor grasped the hand. "Commander von Ludwig, I take it," said the commander of the vessel. "I ordered him to await you," was von Ludwig's reply. "Your officers?" he asked. "Yes. Your officers will be relieved in the morning." "Very well, sir. Then I shall leave you. A safe and successful voyage to you, sir." "The same to you, sir." Von Ludwig, motioning to his companions to remain in the cabin until his return, went on deck with the departing commander. A few moments later the latter was being rowed ashore. For the space of several seconds, von Ludwig gazed after him, a peculiar smile lighting up his face as he murmured: He threw open his arms with a gesture and descended to his cabin. "And how are we going to work the ship, sir?" asked Jack. Von Ludwig glanced at the lad sharply. "I beg your pardon, sir," said Jack. "That's all right," said von Ludwig. "Now follow me." The others did as ordered. Before a door not far from the commander's cabin von Ludwig stopped. He motioned to Frank and Jack. "Get him and get him quietly." The lads nodded their understanding and von Ludwig signalled Harris to follow him. Jack laid his hand on the knob of the door and turned it gently. The door flew open without a sound. "Find the light switch, Frank," Jack whispered. Frank's hand felt carefully over the wall. "Turn it on when I give the word," said Jack. "I may need to see what I am doing." "All right; but be careful, Jack." Slowly Jack tiptoed across the room, where he could dimly see a form stretched across a bunk. Bending over the figure, Jack raised a hand and then called to Frank: "I don't like that sort of thing," said Jack, "but I suppose it had to be done. Help me bind him up and gag him. He's not badly hurt and will come round in a few minutes." It was the work of but a few moments to tear the sheets into strips and to bind and gag the helpless man. Then Jack and Frank left the cabin. "All right?" asked von Ludwig. "All right, sir. And you?" "Now," said von Ludwig, "have the crew report here and keep your guns ready." Frank made his way aft, and in German, called: "All hands forward!" "Men," said von Ludwig, "I am the new commander of this ship and we shall get under way immediately. Fearing that you will not always obey my commands, I have brought along these little persuaders." "Hands up!" he cried. Taken completely by surprise there was nothing for the German sailors to do but obey. Up went their hands. Von Ludwig called to Harris. Under the muzzles of the revolvers levelled in steady hands by von Ludwig and Harris, Jack and Frank set to work binding the members of the crew. A few minutes later the work was done. "Trundle them into that cabin there," said von Ludwig, motioning to an open door. "Tie them there so they cannot release their own bonds or the bonds of the others. Then report to me on deck." The lads obeyed. It was the work of only a few moments, struggle as the Germans did. Then Frank and Jack went on deck. A short distance away a rowboat was coming rapidly toward the _Bismarck_--for such was the name of the vessel on which the lads found themselves. Von Ludwig pointed to it. "My crew!" he said quietly. "All right," he said at length. "Very well, sir," he said and disappeared. Von Ludwig motioned to Jack and Frank, who followed him to the bridge. The officer cast a quick glance over the water and said: "I guess there is no reason to delay longer. Mr. Chadwick, will you take the wheel? I'll be with you in a moment to give you your directions." Frank moved away. Von Ludwig was just about to address Jack when he made out another rowboat coming toward the _Bismarck_. "Hello!" he said aloud. "Wonder what's up now. Guess we'd better wait a minute." The rowboat drew closer and Frank discovered it was filled with men. "Boat crowded with men, sir," he exclaimed. "So!" exclaimed von Ludwig. "Then I guess we won't wait, after all. You may get under way, Mr. Templeton." With this order von Ludwig took his place beside Frank at the wheel and produced a chart. The bell in the engine room tinkled. A moment later the engines began to move and the _Bismarck_ slipped easily through the water. Came a hail from the rowboat. "Wait a moment, there!" Von Ludwig paid no attention to this call. The _Bismarck_ gathered headway. "Haven't time to talk to you fellows," said von Ludwig. "We want to be a long ways from here before daylight." There was a sound of a shot from the rowboat, followed by many other shots. Von Ludwig waved a hand in derision. "You're too late," he called. "Shoot away. I don't think you will hit anything." "But, sir," said Frank, "they will awaken every sleepy German hereabouts." "That's so," said von Ludwig. He called to Jack: "Full speed ahead, Mr. Templeton." Jack gave the word and the vessel dashed ahead. "I don't know anything about these waters, sir," exclaimed Frank, in some alarm. "There may be mines about." "Not here," was von Ludwig's reply. "Farther on, yes. That's why I have this chart. We'll run the mine fields safely enough, barring accidents." "What is my course, sir?" asked Frank. "Due north until I tell you to change." Frank said nothing further, but guided the vessel according to instructions. Behind, the rowboat had given up the chase, but now, from other parts of the harbor, from which the _Bismarck_ was fast speeding, came sounds of confusion. Searchlights came to play upon the _Bismarck_. Von Ludwig sighed deeply. "I was in hopes we would get away without trouble," he said, "but it seems we won't. The erstwhile commander of this vessel must have discovered in some manner that he has been fooled." "We'll have every ship of war hereabouts after us, sir," said Frank. "That's what we will," was Von Ludwig's reply. "However, I am not afraid of their catching us. This vessel has the heels of anything in this port. Trouble is, though, they may tip off vessels on the outside of our coming, by wireless." "What shall we do then, sir?" "Not a very cheerful prospect, sir," said Frank, quietly. "I agree with you. However, they haven't caught us yet. We'll give them a hard race." "Is the vessel armed, sir?" "It should be, if I have been informed correctly. I'll have a look about. Hold to your course until I return." "Enough to fight with," he announced gravely. "But we haven't the men to man them, sir," protested Frank. "We'll impress our prisoners into service if it's necessary. With a man to guard them they can handle the engine room." "I am afraid it will come to that, sir," said Frank. Von Ludwig shrugged. "What will be, will be," he replied quietly. And it did come to that, as Frank had predicted As the vessel still flew through the water at full speed, there came a sudden cry from the lookout forward: "Cruiser off our port bow, sir!" Von Ludwig sprang forward. He gazed at the vessel quickly and then called to Frank: "Port your helm hard!" Frank obeyed without question and the _Bismarck_ swung about sharply. Von Ludwig sprang to his side. "You men," he said sharply, "will go before us to the engine room, where you will perform the necessary duties." Under the muzzles of the weapons of Jack and von Ludwig, the men obeyed, for there seemed nothing else to do. In the engine room von Ludwig explained: "I want you men to put forth your best efforts. Any foolishness and you will be shot, for I will take no chances. Harris, can you guard them?" "Yes, sir," replied Harris, with a smile. "Give me another gun, sir." Von Ludwig passed a revolver to Harris. "I shall obey your instructions, sir." "Good!" Von Ludwig addressed the former engine-room crew. "Follow me, men," he exclaimed. Von Ludwig led the former engine-room crew to the guns forward. "Man these guns," he said quietly. "There may be fighting to do. When I give the word fire as rapidly and as accurately as possible at the closest enemy vessel." Von Ludwig called to Jack to follow him and returned to the bridge. There he gave a slight alteration in course to Frank and the vessel's head turned slightly. "Funny they haven't raised us with that searchlight," von Ludwig muttered to himself. "Aim and fire!" he cried. "Again!" cried von Ludwig. Another gun boomed. Followed a sharp explosion. "Good work, men!" cried von Ludwig. "Try it again." But the next shot came from the enemy. A shell screamed overhead. "They'll do better with the next shot, sir," said Jack, quietly. "So they will," was von Ludwig's quiet response. "Starboard your helm, Mr. Chadwick." Frank obeyed immediately, and again the course of the _Bismarck_ was changed quickly; and none too soon. "Fire, men!" cried von Ludwig. "Fire as fast as you can. If you can't disable her we are done for!" "Must have hit something, sir," said Frank. "Right. I trust it was a vulnerable spot." The men aboard the _Bismarck_ continued to fire at the German cruiser, but apparently none of the other shots found their mark. The German, it could be seen, was in full pursuit, but the smaller vessel forged rapidly ahead with each turn of her screws. And at last von Ludwig exclaimed thankfully: "Well, I guess we are safe enough here." But even as he spoke a cry apprised him of a newer and closer danger! This plan was agreed upon and the man who had suggested it was appointed to make his way to where the others were imprisoned and free them. A moment later he slipped stealthily from the engine room and as stealthily approached the cabin where his fellow countrymen were imprisoned. Inside, he closed the door quickly and in a low voice cautioned the others to silence. "In the next cabin," he said, "is a chest containing revolvers and ammunition. Bring it here." The lookout forward and the man stationed aft advanced to take part in the fray, though keeping out of sight as well as possible. "Turn the gun on them, men!" cried von Ludwig. "Stay where you are," shouted van Ludwig to the men at the guns. "Keep them between us, if possible." The gun crew, who had been on the point of trying to join von Ludwig and Jack, saw the strategy of this plan and stooped down behind the guns. The lookout forward also stepped behind the mainmast, where he began to blaze away at the foe. The man aft, by a dash, succeeded in reaching the side of von Ludwig and Jack. Frank, at the wheel, was in a perilous situation, but there he had determined to stay until ordered to shift his position. "Signal the engine room to slow down," said von Ludwig to Jack. Jack obeyed and the ship came to a pause. Apparently the men below believed the Germans had recaptured the ship. "If Harris is still in command down there, we are all right," said von Ludwig. "If not, there will be more of the enemy up here in a minute." And within a minute more of the enemy appeared. "Back here, Chadwick!" exclaimed von Ludwig. "Never mind the wheel." Frank sprang to the shelter of the bridge, Jack and von Ludwig protecting his retreat. Frank drew his revolver. A German poked his head from the companion-way and Frank took a snap shot. The head disappeared and there was a howl of pain. The British could not expose themselves without danger of being struck by a German bullet; and the Germans confronted the same situation. "Signal the engine room, Jack," instructed von Ludwig. "We must know whether Harris is still alive." There was no response to the signal. "Poor fellow," said von Ludwig. "They probably have done for him." Then Jack signalled: "Full speed ahead." A moment later the vessel leaped forward. There came a cry of consternation from the Germans, who tumbled back down the steps. As they did so, Frank again sprang to the wheel and brought the head of the _Bismarck_ sharply about--for since he had released his hold on the wheel the vessel had been drifting. Quickly the lad lashed the wheel with several lengths of cable and then sprang back to the bridge amid a volley of revolver bullets from the Germans who still held the deck. None hit him. Below, in the engine room, Harris was facing heavy odds. Before answering Jack's signal, after regaining consciousness, he had closed and barred the engine-room door and now he paid no attention to the hammering upon it. He smiled grimly to himself. "You won't get in here as long as that door holds," he said. "Before that I should have assistance." The pounding upon the door continued. "We'll have to lend Harris a hand, sir," said Jack. "They are too many for him down there." With a quick move the lad sprang from the bridge and threw himself to the deck on his face. There was another spurt of flame and a bullet whistled over his head. Before the man could fire again, Jack had leaped forward and seized him by his revolver arm. Angrily, the lad wrested the weapon from the man's grasp. Frank turned quickly and looked for the man who had left the shelter of the bridge with him. He lay prone on the deck. "Poor fellow," said Frank. "Yet it had to be done. Just luck that it wasn't me." "Deck's clear, sir," said Frank to von Ludwig. "Now to lend Harris a hand in the engine room." "Very well, sir," said Jack, although he was disappointed that he was not permitted to go to Harris' aid. "The others follow me," said von Ludwig. "You are attempting too much, sir," said Jack. "I think not," said von Ludwig, calmly. He led the way below. THE CHEATING OF HARRIS Below, Harris had just armed himself with a great iron bar; for he knew that the door was about to give under the attacks of the Germans. "The fools!" he said to himself. "Why don't they blow the lock off?" Harris struck out right and left and men staggered back before his terrific blows. Then came the sounds of running footsteps without. "Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!" Harris, at the same moment, had jumped toward the door. As he leaped over the prostrate forms, he collided with von Ludwig. "Quick, sir!" he cried. "They are too many for us. Back on deck!" There was something in Harris' manner that impressed von Ludwig. Without stopping to argue, he followed Harris. When both were safe on deck, Harris quickly closed the door of the companionway and battened it down. "We've a breathing spell, at any rate," he said, mopping his face. "Why all this rush?" demanded von Ludwig. "Where are the men who went to your assistance?" "Dead, the same as we would be if we had lingered another moment," replied Harris, quietly. "It was impossible to pass through that door without being shot down. It was only due to the diversion of the appearance of the others that permitted me to escape." Came heavy blows against the covering of the companionway. "They want to come out," said Harris, grinning. "That door won't stand much battering," said von Ludwig. "As long as the engines run we can," agreed von Ludwig. "But unless I'm greatly mistaken the Germans will soon stop them." He was right; for a few moments later the battering at the door of the companionway ceased and the engines ceased work. "Well, we can't go any place now, sir," said Frank, leaving the wheel and approaching von Ludwig and Harris at the companionway. Jack also came up to them. "You're right," agreed von Ludwig, "and that's not the worst of it. The German cruiser probably is in pursuit of us. If they sight us we are done for." Came more violent blows on the door over the companionway, followed by a shot from below. Jack sprang aside as a bullet plowed its way through the hard wood. "In what, a rowboat?" asked Frank, with some sarcasm. "Hardly," returned von Ludwig; "but I have discovered that there is a high-powered motor boat aboard. We can launch that and move off." "And as soon as the Germans break out here, they'll come after us and shoot us full of holes," said Harris. "Well, that's true enough, too," agreed von Ludwig. "Of course, if we had an hour's start we might get through. But the door won't hold that long." Harris had been turning a plan over in his mind. "If you please, sir," he said slowly at last, "I have a plan that may work." "Let's hear it," said Frank. "Yes; let's have it," said von Ludwig. "Of course," said Harris, simply. "That shall be my job." "Not much," said Jack. "I'll pick that job for myself." "Not while I'm here you won't," declared Frank. "I'm plenty big to guard the companionway." "Then there is no reason why you should think of staying, sir," said Harris. "Simply this. We shall draw lots to see who shall remain." "Suits me," said Harris, with a shrug. "And me," declared Jack. "Well, then I'm agreeable," Frank said quietly. "Good. Harris, in the pocket of my coat, which hangs in the pilot house, you will find a pack of cards. Bring them here." Harris walked away and returned a few seconds later with a pack of playing cards. Von Ludwig opened the box and produced the cards. "The man who cuts the lowest card shall stay behind," he said quietly. "Shuffle." He passed the cards to Harris, who riffled them lightly. "Yes, sir," said Jack. "It may as well be me as another," said von Ludwig. He cut the cards and exposed to view a jack of hearts. "Looks like you will carry the papers yourself, sir," said Frank, as he advanced to cut the cards. "That lets you out, sir," he said to von Ludwig. The latter was plainly nervous. Jack cut the cards next. Frank uttered a cry of consternation: "Looks like I was the fellow to stay, all right," said Jack, smiling slightly. "And this time," said Frank, "you may not be as fortunate as upon the day you remained behind and faced death on the submarine." "Can't be helped," he said quietly. Now Harris advanced and cut the cards quickly. Deftly, Harris shuffled the cards with his hands. Adept in the art of trickery, though the others did not know it, he had placed the cards in such position that he knew almost identically where the high and low cards were. "I lose," he said quietly. Harris' movements had been so quick that they had not been perceived by the others. "I'm sorry," the lad said quietly. "I was in hopes that it would be me." As he turned, Harris slipped the card quickly into his pocket, that it might not be accidentally seen. Then, he knew, he was safe. Jack picked up the deck. "I shall keep these, Harris," he said, "that I may always remember a brave man." All this time the thundering on the door of the companionway had continued. "Come," said von Ludwig, "we must delay no longer. Already it is growing light." "Plenty of water and provisions," he said quietly. He turned to Harris. "It is time to say goodbye," he said quietly. "You are a brave man. This gallant action shall be known to the world." "Goodbye, sir," said Harris, quietly. "Remember," said von Ludwig, "there is always a chance that you may escape. If it comes, make the most of it. Goodbye." He pressed Harris' hand and passed over the side of the vessel. As Frank and Jack shook hands with Harris, the latter squeezed Harris' hand affectionately. The latter smiled. "I had promised myself another bout with you some day," he said. "My only regret is that it is not possible now." A moment more Jack was in the motor boat and it moved away. Harris drew his revolvers and mounted guard over the companionway, the door of which now had begun to splinter. "An hour is what you needed," he said quietly. "You'll get it!" Harris replaced the card in his pocket; then thought better of his action, drew it forth again and sent it spinning off across the sea. "There," he said quietly, "goes all evidence that I cheated." He picked up the revolver he had laid on the deck and moved a short distance from the companionway. There was an extra violent crash and it seemed that the door must burst open. He took up what he considered a strategic position and produced his watch. This he lay on the deck and sat down beside it. "May as well be comfortable," he remarked. Again there was a crash and the door of the companionway burst open. A German head appeared. "Crack!" Harris had fired without moving from his sitting posture. The German head disappeared and there was a cry of alarm from below. For some moments there was silence, broken occasionally, however, by the dull sound of voices from below. "Talking it over, eh?" muttered Harris. "Well, I'll still be here when you try again." The cap disappeared. He felt in his pocket and then uttered an exclamation of alarm. Then he got to his feet and put his watch in his pocket. "Guess that settles it," he said. "Now I'll look around for a boat. I didn't know it was going to be as easy as all that. If I had I would have had the others wait for me." He moved toward the companionway, and as he did so, a bullet whistled by his ear. Harris stepped back in surprise; and in that moment the solution came to him. "By Jove! They've fooled me," he muttered. "They poked their caps up and I shot them full of holes. However, they don't know yet that I'm out of bullets." A few moments later a cap again appeared in the opening. Harris had no bullets to fire at it. "They'll discover my predicament in a moment or so, though," he told himself. He pulled his watch from his pocket and glanced at it. "An hour," he said. "They have had time enough. However, I'll just see the thing through." As he spoke it grew light. Harris looked off across the sea. There, so far away that it appeared but a speck upon the water, he saw what he took to be the motor boat bearing his friends to safety. He waved his cap. "Good luck!" he said quietly. "You're going to have the fight of your lives," he said grimly. The former pugilistic champion of the British navy cast all ring ethics to the winds. He struck, kicked and clawed and sought to wreak what damage he could upon his enemies without regard for the niceties of fighting. He knew that they would do the same to him. The point penetrated Harris' right side and he felt himself growing faint. Angrily, he shook the German from him and rose to his feet. The man who had been underneath the Englishman also got quickly to his feet, and before Harris could turn, stabbed him in the back. With a cry, Harris whirled on him and seized the knife arm. He twisted sharply. The German cried out in pain and sought to free himself. But his effort was in vain. With the grasp by the wrist, Harris swung the man in the air, and spinning on his heel, hurled him far across the deck, where the unconscious form struck with a crash; and at the same moment the other German struck again with his knife. Harris staggered back. Now the German who so recently had felt the effect of Harris' fingers in his throat, pulled himself from the deck and renewed the battle. He advanced, crouching, and another knife gleamed in his hand. The Germans also were glad of a breathing spell. Their faces reddened as Harris taunted them. "Don't be too sure," said Harris. "I'm an Englishman, you know, and you have always been afraid of an Englishman." At this the Germans uttered a cry of rage and sprang forward, their knives flashing aloft. "That's right, you coward! You'll need it," said Harris. For a moment Harris paused to shake the blood out of his eyes. Then, with a smile playing across his features, he advanced; and as he advanced he said: "You've done for me, the lot of you. But I shall take you with me." The Germans quailed at the look in his face; and as he moved forward swiftly they threw down their knives and turned to run. But they had delayed too long. "Now I've got you," he said. Blow after blow the Germans rained upon his face and shoulders, kicking out with their feet the while. Harris paid no more attention to these than he would have to the taps of a child. But the Englishman felt his strength waning fast. It was with an effort that he staggered across the deck. At the rail he paused for a moment, gathering his strength for a final effort. Then, still holding a German by the throat with each hand, he leaped into the sea. And so passed the former pugilistic champion of the British fleet, brave in death as he had been in life. The waves washed over the spot where he had gone down. "Poor Harris," said Jack. "I hope that in some manner he is able to escape." "Certainly I hope so, too," declared Frank. "He's a brave man," said von Ludwig. Jack drew the fateful deck of cards from his pocket. "These," he said, "I shall keep." There was something wrong. Jack counted the cards again. The result was the same. "Sir!" he called to von Ludwig. "Well?" "How did you chance to have this pack of cards?" "I play solitaire considerably," was the reply. "You couldn't have played solitaire with this deck," said Jack. "So!" he said to himself at last, "Harris cheated." "What's that?" said Frank, who had heard Jack's muttered words, but had not caught their import. "I said," replied Jack, slowly, "that Harris cheated." Frank was surprised. A moment later he said: "Well, even if he did, he lost anyhow." "That's it," said Jack, quietly. "He didn't lose." "Impossible," said Frank. "What's all this talk about cards?" asked von Ludwig, at this juncture. Jack explained and for a few moments von Ludwig was lost in thought. "I wish," said Jack, suddenly, to von Ludwig, "that you would tell me who you really are. I sit here and look at you and know I should be able to call your name. But I can't do it and it makes it decidedly unpleasant." Von Ludwig smiled. "I should have thought you would know me in a minute in spite of my disguise," he said quietly. "I am sure I should have known both of you no matter what pains you took to conceal your features." "You're only making matters worse," said Frank. "Come on now and tell us who you are." Again von Ludwig smiled. "I wonder if you can guess who I am when I say that I can tell you all about yourselves?" he said. "For instance, you, Jack. You spent most of your life in a little African village. And you, Frank, are an American who was shanghaied aboard a sailing vessel in Naples soon after the outbreak of the war." For answer von Ludwig rose in his seat and stripped from his face the heavy German beard that had given him the true Teutonic expression, and there stood revealed before Jack and Frank none other than Lord Hastings, their erstwhile commander and good friend. Frank gave a cry of delight and sprang forward at the imminent risk of upsetting the motor boat. He seized Lord Hastings' hand and pressed it warmly. The latter's greeting was no less affectionate. Jack, not so given to demonstrations as his chum, also advanced and grasped Lord Hasting's hand. "You don't know how glad I am to see you again, sir," the lad said quietly. "It seems like an age since we saw you. And to think that we didn't recognize you instantly." "But what were you doing there, Lord Hastings?" asked Frank. "It's a long story," was the latter's reply, "but I guess now is as good a time as any to explain." "I wish you would, sir," said Jack. "Exactly. She will take that step some time in August, though the exact date I am unable to say. My mission there at an end, I was ordered to report to Berlin. As you know, we still maintain a staff of correspondents in the German capital, although their identities are closely hidden." Frank and Jack nodded, for they had known this some time before. "Well," Lord Hastings continued, "in Berlin I was instructed to learn what Germany planned to do to offset the Roumanian menace, for she is sure to know of Roumanians decision by this time. I had some trouble, but I succeeded at last." "And what will she do, sir?" asked Frank. "That," was the reply, "I am unable to state at this minute. It is a secret that I am guarding carefully and I cannot even tell you lads about it." Frank and Jack asked no further questions along that line. "But how came you aboard the German vessel, sir?" Jack wanted to know. Lord Hastings smiled. "In Berlin," he said, "I was supposed to be a Roumanian officer, who had hopes of changing the attitude of that country. The Kaiser wished to show me how foolish it would be for the little Balkan state to join the Allies, and for that reason, had me shown through the German naval fortifications. That information, too, I am carrying back with me." "But why didn't you tell us who you were in Bremen, sir?" "But you told us not to try and learn who you were." "Well, that was for a good reason. For, if you should have sought to pry, it might have aroused suspicions and there is no telling what would have happened." "I see, sir," said Frank. "But you almost lost us when you didn't get back in time." "I know that now. I wouldn't do the same thing again." "And what are you going to do after you return to London, sir?" Frank wanted to know. Again Lord Hastings smiled. "That's hard to tell," he replied. "Still, I imagine it will not be very long before I feel a deck under my heels again." "I expect to. The king promised me a new command before he despatched me to the Balkans. But I do not know how long I shall be kept waiting." "And when you get it, sir, will we go back with you?" asked Frank. "Why," was the reply, "I should have thought that by this time you would perhaps have changed your minds." "Never, sir," declared Jack, positively. "We would rather serve under you, sir." "I'll see what can be done," Lord Hastings promised. And with that the lads were forced to be content. Still, they knew well enough that Lord Hastings would do what he could to have them with him again. "The main thing now," said Lord Hastings, "is to dodge the enemy and get back to England." "With you here, sir," said Frank, "I am sure we shall get back safely." And Frank proved a good prophet. With the coming of night, however, Lord Hastings increased the speed of the little craft. He felt that they were now beyond the German mine fields and that if another vessel were encountered it probably would be British. And this proved to be the case.	redpajama-book	39,032
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team THE HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY BY JOHN R. WATSON & ARTHUR J. REES "Hallo! Is that Hampstead Police Station?" "Detective-Inspector Chippenfield of Scotland Yard. Tell Inspector Seldon I want him, and be quick about it." Detective-Inspector Chippenfield, of Scotland Yard, waited with the receiver held to his ear. While he waited he scrutinised keenly a sheet of paper which lay on the desk in front of him. It was a flimsy, faintly-ruled sheet from a cheap writing-pad, blotted and soiled, and covered with sprawling letters which had been roughly printed at irregular intervals as though to hide the identity of the writer. But the letters formed words, and the words read: SIR HORACE FEWBANKS WAS MURDERED LAST NIGHT WHO DID IT I DONT KNOW SO IT IS NO USE TRYING TO FIND OUT WHO I AM YOU WILL FIND HIS DEAD BODY IN THE LIBRARY AT RIVERSBROOK HE WAS SHOT THOUGH THE HEART "Is that you, Inspector Chippenfield?" "Yes. That you, Seldon? Have you heard anything of a murder out your way?" "Can't say that I have. Have you?" "Yes. We have information that Sir Horace Fewbanks has been murdered--shot." "Mr. Justice Fewbanks shot--murdered!" Inspector Seldon gave expression to his surprise in a long low whistle which travelled through the telephone. Then he added, after a moment's reflection, "There must be some mistake. He is away." "Are you sure of that?" "Yes; he rang me up the day before he left to ask us to keep an eye on his house while he was away." There was a pause at the Scotland Yard end of the telephone. Inspector Chippenfield was evidently thinking hard. Inspector Seldon hung up the receiver of his telephone, bundled up the papers scattered on his desk, closed it, and stepped out of his office into the next room. "Anyone about?" he hurriedly asked the sergeant who was making entries in the charge-book. "Yes, sir. I saw Flack here a moment ago." "Murdered?" echoed the sergeant in a tone of keen interest. "Who told Scotland Yard that?" "I don't know. Who was on that beat last night?" "Flack, sir. Was Sir Horace murdered in his own house? I thought he was in Scotland." "So did I, but he may have returned--ah, here's the taxi." Inspector Seldon had been waiting on the steps for the appearance of a cab from the rank round the corner in response to the shrill blast which the sergeant had blown on his whistle. The sergeant went to the door of the station leading into the yard and sharply called: In response a police-constable, without helmet or tunic, came running up the steps from the basement, which was used as a gymnasium. "Seldon wants you. Get on your tunic as quick as you can. He is in a devil of a hurry." Inspector Seldon was seated in the taxi-cab when Flack appeared. He had been impatiently drumming his fingers on the door of the cab. "Jump in, man," he said angrily. "What has kept you all this time?" Flack breathed stertorously to show that he had been running and was out of breath, but he made no reply to the official rebuke. Inspector Seldon turned to him and remarked severely: "Why didn't you let me know that Sir Horace Fewbanks had returned from Scotland?" Flack looked astonished. "Who told you that?" "The housemaid at Riversbrook--before he went away." "So the housemaid told you he was going away for a month. Well, she ought to know. When did she tell you?" "A week ago yesterday, sir. She told me that all the servants except the butler were going down to Dellmere the next day--that is Sir Horace's country place--and that Sir Horace was going to Scotland for the shooting and would put in some weeks at Dellmere after the shooting season was over." "And are you sure he hasn't returned?" "Quite, sir. I saw Hill, the butler, only yesterday morning, and he told me that his master was sure to be in Scotland for at least a month longer." "Beg your pardon, sir, but is there anything wrong about Sir Horace?" "Yes. Scotland Yard has received a report that he has been murdered." Flack's surprise was so great that it lifted the lid of official humility which habitually covered his natural feelings. "Murdered!" he exclaimed. "Sir Horace Fewbanks murdered? You don't say so!" "When was he murdered, sir?" asked Flack. "Last night--when you were on that beat." Flack paled at this remark. "Last night, sir?" he cried. "Don't repeat my words like a parrot," ejaculated the inspector peevishly. "Didn't you notice anything suspicious when you were along there?" "No, sir. Was he murdered in his own house?" "Nobody at the judge's place--no taxi, or anything like that?" "Perhaps it's Hill, the butler," said Flack. "If he's inside he ought to answer the bell. But keep on ringing while I knock again." The heavy brass knocker again reverberated on the thick oak door, and Inspector Seldon placed his ear against the keyhole to ascertain if any sound was to be heard. "This looks like business," he muttered. He pulled open the window, and walked into the room. The light of an afternoon sun showed him that the apartment was a breakfast room, well and solidly furnished in an old-fashioned way, with most of the furniture in covers, as though the occupants of the house were away. The daylight penetrated to the door at the far end of the room. It was wide open, and revealed an empty passage. Inspector Seldon walked into the passage. The drawn blinds made the passage seem quite dark after the bright August sunshine outside, but he produced an electric torch, and by its light he saw that the passage ran into the main hall. His footsteps echoed in the empty house. The electric bell rang continuously as Flack pressed it outside. Inspector Seldon walked along the passage to the hall, flashing his torch into each room he passed. He saw nothing, and went to the front door to admit Flack. "That is enough of that noise, Flack," he said. "Come inside and help me search the house above. It's empty on this floor so far as I've been over it. If you find anything call me, and mind you do not touch anything. Where did you say the library was?" "I don't know, sir." "Well, look about you on the ground floor while I go upstairs. Call me if you hear anything." Inspector Seldon mounted the stairs swiftly in order to continue his search. The inspector stepped quickly back to the landing. "Flack!" he called, and unconsciously his voice dropped to a sharp whisper in the presence of death. "Flack, come here." When Flack reached the door of the library he saw his chief kneeling beside the prostrate body of a dead man. The body lay clear of the table, near the foot of an arm-chair. Instinctively Flack walked on tiptoe to his chief. "Is he dead, sir?" he asked. "Cold and stiff," replied the inspector, in a hushed voice. "He's been dead for hours." Flack noted that the body was fully dressed, and he saw a dark stain above the breast where the blood had welled forth and soaked the dead man's clothes and formed a pool on the carpet beside him. Inspector Seldon opened the dead man's clothes. Over his heart he found the wound from which the blood had flowed. "There it is, Flack," he said, touching the wound lightly with his finger. "It doesn't take a big wound to kill a man." As he spoke the sharp ring of a telephone bell from downstairs reached them. "That's Inspector Chippenfield," said Inspector Seldon, rising to his feet. "Stay here, Flack, till I go and speak to him." "The dead body of Sir Horace Fewbanks, the distinguished High Court judge, was found by the police at his home, Riversbrook in Tanton Gardens, Hampstead, to-day. Deceased had been shot through the heart. The police have no doubt that he was murdered." It would have been to his interest as an accomplice--even if he had been an unwilling accomplice--to leave the crime undiscovered as long as possible, so that he and those with whom he had been associated might make their escape to another country. But he had sent his letter to Scotland Yard within a few hours of the perpetration of the crime, and had not given the actual murderer time to get out of England. Was he not afraid of the vengeance the actual murderer would endeavour to exact for this disclosure which would enable the police to take measures to prevent his escape? If Sir Horace had gone to bed before the murderer entered the house it would have been natural to expect no lights turned on. But he had returned unexpectedly; there were no servants in the house, and there was no bed ready for him. In any case, if he intended stopping in the empty house instead of going to a hotel he would have been wearing a sleeping suit when his body was discovered; or, at most, he would be only partially dressed if he had got up on hearing somebody moving about the house. But the body was fully dressed, even to collar and tie. It was absurd to suppose that the victim had been sitting in the darkness when the murderer appeared. When Inspector Chippenfield had visited Riversbrook the previous afternoon, Rolfe had not been selected as his assistant. A careful inspection of the house and especially of the room in which the tragedy had been committed had been made by the inspector. He had then turned his attention to the garden and the grounds surrounding the house. Whatever he had discovered and what theories he had formed were not disclosed to anyone, not even his assistant. He believed that the proper way to train a subordinate was to let him collect his own information and then test it for him. This method enabled him to profit by his subordinate's efforts and to display a superior knowledge when the other propounded a theory by which Inspector Chippenfield had also been misled. "Well, Flack," said Inspector Chippenfield in a tone in which geniality was slightly blended with official superiority. "How are you to-day?" "I'm very well indeed, sir," replied the police-constable. He knew that the state of his health was not a matter of deep concern to the inspector, but such is the vanity of human nature that he was pleased at the inquiry. The fact that there was a murdered man in the house gave mournful emphasis to the transience of human life, and made Police-Constable Flack feel a glow of satisfaction in being very well indeed. Inspector Chippenfield hesitated a moment as if in deep thought. The object of his hesitation was to give Flack an opportunity of imparting any information that had come to him while on guard. The inspector believed in encouraging people to impart information but regarded it as subversive of the respect due to him to appear to be in need of any. As Flack made no attempt to carry the conversation beyond the state of his health, Inspector Chippenfield came to the conclusion that he was an extremely dull policeman. He introduced Flack to Detective Rolfe and explained to the latter: "Flack was on duty on the night of the murder but heard no shots. Probably he was a mile or so away. But in a way he discovered the crime. Didn't you, Flack? When we rang up Seldon he came up here and brought Flack with him. He'll be only too glad to tell you anything you want to know." Rolfe took an official notebook from a breast pocket and proceeded to question the police-constable. The inspector made his way upstairs to the room in which the crime had been committed, for it was his system to seek inspiration in the scene of a crime. When Rolfe had finished questioning Police-Constable Flack and joined his chief upstairs, the latter, who had been going through the private papers in the murdered man's desk in the hope of alighting on a clue to the crime, received him genially. "Well," he said, "what do you think of Flack?" "It looks very much like a case of burglary and murder," he said. He was anxious to know what theory his superior officer had formed. "And how do you fit in the letter advising us of the murder?" asked the inspector. He produced the letter from his pocket-book and looked at it earnestly. "Something like that." Inspector Chippenfield continued his study of the mysterious message which had been sent to Scotland Yard. It was written on a sheet of paper which had been taken from a writing pad of the kind sold for a few pence by all stationers. It was flimsy and blue-lined, and the message it contained was smudged and badly printed. But to the inspector's annoyance, there were no finger-prints on the paper. The finger-print expert at Scotland Yard had examined it under the microscope, but his search for finger-prints had been vain. "Depend upon it, we'll hear from this chap again," said the inspector, tapping the sheet of paper with a finger. "I think I may go so far as to say that this fellow thinks suspicion will be directed to him and he wants to save his neck." "The sooner he writes again the better," said Rolfe. "I am curious to know what he'll say next." "Have you any idea who he is?" he asked. Inspector Chippenfield had brought his methods too near to perfection to make it possible for him to fall into an open trap. "I won't be very long putting my hand on him," he said. "But this thing has been in the papers," said Rolfe. "Don't you think the murderer will bolt out of the country when he knows his mate is prepared to turn King's evidence against him?" "Ah," said Inspector Chippenfield, "I haven't adopted your theory." "Then you think that the man who wrote this note knew of the murder but doesn't know who did it?" "Now you are going too far," said Inspector Chippenfield. The inspector was so wary about disclosing what was in his mind in regard to the letter that Rolfe, who disliked his chief very cordially, jumped to the conclusion that Inspector Chippenfield had no intelligible ideas concerning it. "If it was burglars they took nothing as far as we can ascertain up to the present," said Inspector Chippenfield after a pause. "They were surprised to find anyone in the house. And after the shot was fired they immediately bolted for fear the noise would attract attention." "What knocks a hole in the burglar theory is the fact that Sir Horace was fully dressed when he was shot," said the inspector. "Burglars don't break into a house when there are lights about, especially after having been led to believe that the house was empty." "So you think," said Rolfe, "that the window was forced after the murder with the object of misleading us." "I haven't said so," replied the inspector. "All I am prepared to say is that even that was not impossible." "It was forced from the outside," continued Rolfe. "I've seen the marks of a jemmy on the window-sill. If it was forced after the murder the murderer was a cool hand." "You can take it from me," exclaimed Inspector Chippenfield with unexpected candour, "that he was a cool hand. We are going to have a bit of trouble in getting to the bottom of this, Rolfe." "If anyone can get to the bottom of it, you can," said Rolfe, who believed with Voltaire that speech was given us in order to enable us to conceal our thoughts. Inspector Chippenfield was so astonished at this handsome compliment that he began to think he had underrated Rolfe's powers of discernment. His tone of cold official superiority immediately thawed. "Of course you cannot say yet whether both bullets are out of the same revolver?" said Rolfe. "Can't tell till after the post-mortem," said the inspector. "And then all we can tell for certain is whether they are of the same pattern. They might be the same size, and yet be fired out of different revolvers of the same calibre." "Well, it is no use theorising about what happened in this room until after the post-mortem," said Rolfe. "I haven't seen the body yet," said Rolfe. "I'd like to look at it. Where is it?" The corpse presented a repellent spectacle, but Rolfe, who had seen unpleasant sights of various kinds in his career, bent over the body with keen interest, noting these details, with all his professional instincts aroused. For though Rolfe had not yet risen very high in the police force, he had many of the qualities which make the good detective--observation, sagacity, and some imagination. The extraordinary crime which he had been called upon to help unravel presented a baffling mystery which was likely to test the value of these qualities to the utmost. Rolfe looked steadily at the corpse for some time, impressing a picture of it in every detail on his mental retina. Struck by an idea, he bent over and touched the patch of blood in the dead man's breast, then looked at his finger. There was no stain. The blood was quite congealed. Then he tried to unclench the judge's right hand, but it was rigid. "Well, Rolfe," said Inspector Chippenfield, when his subordinate reappeared, "you've been long enough to have unearthed the criminal or revived the corpse. Have you discovered anything fresh?" "Only this," replied Rolfe, displaying the piece of handkerchief. The find startled Inspector Chippenfield out of his air of bantering superiority. "Where did you get that?" he stammered, as he reached out eagerly for it. "The dead man had it clenched in his right hand. I wondered if he had anything hidden in his hand when I saw it so tightly clenched. I tried to force open the fingers and that fell out." Inspector Chippenfield was by no means pleased at his subordinate's discovery of what promised to be an important clue, especially after the clue had been missed by himself. But he congratulated Rolfe in a tone of fictitious heartiness. "Well done, Rolfe!" he exclaimed. "You are coming on. Anyone can see that you've the makings of a good detective." Rolfe could afford to ignore the sting contained in such faint praise. "What do you make of it?" he asked. "Looks as though there is a woman in it," said the inspector, who was still examining the scrap of lace and muslin. "There can't be much doubt about that," replied Rolfe. "We mustn't be in a hurry in jumping at conclusions," remarked the inspector. "No, and we mustn't ignore obvious facts," said Rolfe. "You think a woman murdered him?" asked the inspector. "I think a woman was present when he was shot: whether she fired the shot there is nothing to show at present. There may have been a man with her. But there was a struggle just before the shot was fired and as Sir Horace fell he grasped at the hand in which she was holding her handkerchief. Or perhaps her handkerchief was torn in his dying struggles when she was leaning over him." "You have overlooked the possibility of this having been placed in the dying man's hand to deceive us," said the inspector. "If the intention was to mislead us it wouldn't have been placed where it might have been overlooked." As the inspector had overlooked the presence of the scrap of handkerchief in the dead man's hand, he felt that he was not making much progress with the work of keeping his subordinate in his place. "Yes," Rolfe admitted. "That goes by the board." "What is your name?" "That is an alias. What is your real name?" Inspector Chippenfield glared fiercely at the butler in order to impress upon him the fact that subterfuge was useless. "Henry Field, sir," replied the man, after some hesitation. Inspector Chippenfield opened the capacious pocketbook which he had placed before him on the desk when the butler had entered in response to his summons, and he took from it a photograph which he handed to the man he was interrogating. "Is that your photograph?" he asked. Police photographs taken in gaol for purposes of future identification are always far from flattering, and Henry Field, after looking at the photograph handed to him, hesitated a little before replying: "Let me see," said the inspector, as if calling on his memory to perform a reluctant task. "It was a diamond scarf-pin and a gold watch. Lord Melhurst had come home after a good day at Epsom and a late supper in town. Next morning he missed his scarf-pin and his watch. He thought he had been robbed at Epsom or in town. He was delightfully vague about what had happened to him after his glorious day at Epsom, but unfortunately for you the taxi-cab driver who drove him remembered seeing the pin on him when he got out of the cab. As you had waited up for him suspicion fell on you, and you were arrested and confessed. I think those are the facts, Field?" "Yes, sir," said the distressed looking man who stood before him. "I think I had the pleasure of putting you through," added the inspector. The butler understood that in police slang "putting a man through" meant arresting him and putting him through the Criminal Court into gaol. He made the same reply: "I'm glad to see you bear me no ill-will for it," said Inspector Chippenfield. "You don't, do you?" "I never forget a face," pursued the officer, glancing up at the face of the man before him. "When I saw you yesterday I knew you again in a moment, and when I went back to the Yard I looked up your record." The butler was doubtful whether any reply was called for, but after a pause, as an endorsement of the inspector's gift for remembering faces, he ventured on: "He took me in," replied the butler. "No, sir, I didn't take him in," declared the butler. He had not joined in the laugh at the inspector's joke. "Get away with you," said Inspector Chippenfield. "You don't expect me to believe that you told him you were an ex-convict? You must have used forged references." "The devil you were!" exclaimed Inspector Chippenfield, in astonishment. "And he took you into his service after you had served your sentence. He must have been mad. How did you manage it?" "After I came out I found it hard to get a place," said Hill, "and when Sir Horace's butler died I wrote to him and asked if he would give me a chance. I had a wife and child, sir, and they had a hard struggle while I was in prison. My wife had a shop, but she sold it to find money for my defence. Sir Horace told me to call on him, and after thinking it over he decided to engage me. He was a good master to me." "And how did you repay him," exclaimed Inspector Chippenfield sternly, "by murdering him?" The butler was startled by the suddenness of the accusation, as Inspector Chippenfield intended he should be. "Me!" he exclaimed. "As sure as there is a God in Heaven I had nothing to do with it." "That won't go down with me, Field," said the police officer, giving the wretched man another prolonged penetrating look. "It's true; it's true!" he protested wildly. "I had nothing to do with it. I couldn't do a thing like that, sir. I couldn't kill a man if I wanted to--I haven't the nerve. But I knew I would be suspected," he added, in a tone of self-pity. "Oh, you did?" replied Inspector Chippenfield. "And why was that?" "Because of my past." "Where were you on the date of the murder?" "In the morning I came over here to look round as usual, and I found everything all right." "You did that every day while Sir Horace was away?" "Did you enter the house or just look round?" "I always came inside." "To make quite sure that everything was all right." "You are quite sure of that? You looked round carefully?" "Well, sir, I just gave a glance round, for of course I didn't expect anything would be wrong." Inspector Chippenfield fixed a steady glance on the butler to ascertain if he was conscious of the trap he had avoided. "Did you look in this room?" "Yes, sir. I made a point of looking in all the rooms." "You are sure that Sir Horace's dead body was not lying here?" Inspector Chippenfield pointed beside the desk where the body had been found. "Oh, no, sir. I'd have seen it if it had." "There was no sign anywhere of his having returned from Scotland?" "You didn't know he was returning?" "What time did you leave the house?" "And what did you do after that?" "I went home and had my dinner. In the afternoon I took my little girl to the Zoo. I had promised her for a long time that I would take her to the Zoo." "And what did you do after visiting the Zoo?" "We went home for supper. After supper my wife took the little girl to the picture palace in Camden Road. It was quite a holiday, sir, for her." "And what did you do while your wife and child were at the pictures?" "I stayed at home and minded the shop. When they came home we all went to bed. My wife will tell you the same thing." "I saw it in the papers yesterday evening." "And you immediately came up here to see if it was true?" "And you were taken to the Hampstead Police Station to make a statement as to your movements on the day and night of the murder?" "And the story you have just told me about the Zoo and the pictures and the rest is virtually the same as the statement you made at the station?" "Do you know if Sir Horace kept a revolver?" "I think he did, sir." "Where did he keep it?" "Sir Horace always locked his desk?" "None of your keys will open it, of course?" "No, sir. That is--I don't know, sir. I've never tried." Inspector Chippenfield grunted slightly. That trap the butler had not seen until too late. But of course all servants went through their masters' private papers when they got the chance. "Do you know if Sir Horace was in the habit of carrying a pocket-book?" he asked. "What sort of a pocket-book?" "Did he take it away with him when he went to Scotland? Did you see it about the house after he left?" "No, sir. I think he took it with him. It would not be like him to forget it, or to leave it lying about." "And what sort of a man was Sir Horace, Field?" "A very good master, sir. He could be very stern when he was angry, but I got on very well with him." "Quite so. Do you know if he had a weakness for the ladies?" "Well, sir, I've heard people say he had." "Speaking confidentially, I might say that I think he was," said Hill. He glanced apprehensively behind him as if afraid of the dead man appearing at the door to rebuke him for presuming to speak ill of him. "I thought as much," said the inspector. "Have you any idea why he came down from Scotland?" "Well, that will do for the present, Field. If I want you again I'll send for you." "Thank you, sir. May I ask a question, sir?" "You don't really think I had anything to do with it, sir?" "I'm not here, Field, to tell you what I think. This much I will say: If I find you have tried to deceive me in any way it will be a bad day for you." Grave, taciturn, watchful, secret and suave, with an appearance of tight-lipped reticence about him which a perpetual faint questioning look in his eyes denied, Hill looked an ideal man servant, who knew his station in life, and was able to uphold it with meek dignity. From the top of his trimly-cut grey crown to his neatly-shod silent feet he exuded deference and respectability. His impassive mask of a face was incapable--apart from the faint query note in the eyes--of betraying any of the feelings or emotions which ruffle the countenances of common humanity. "Isn't this a dreadful thing, Hill?" she said. "It's terrible, madam," replied Hill respectfully. "The policeman tells me that Miss Fewbanks has not come up from Dellmere yet," she continued. "No, madam. We expect her to-morrow. I believe Miss Fewbanks has been too prostrated to come." "Dreadful, dreadful," murmured Mrs. Holymead. "I feel I want to know all about it and yet I am afraid. It is all too terrible for words." "It has been a terrible shock, madam," said Hill. "Has the housekeeper come up, Hill?" "No, madam. She will be up to-morrow with Miss Fewbanks." "Well, is there nobody I can see?" asked Mrs. Holymead. Police-Constable Flack was impressed by the spectacle of a beautiful fashionably-dressed lady in distress. He came downstairs with a smile on his face and the message that the inspector would be pleased to see Mrs. Holymead. In his brief interview with his superior he had contrived to convey the unofficial information that Mrs. Holymead was a fine-looking woman, and he had no doubt that Inspector Chippenfield's readiness to see her was due to the impression this information had made on his unofficial feelings. Mrs. Holymead was conducted upstairs and announced by the butler. Inspector Chippenfield greeted her with a low bow of conscious inferiority, and anticipated Hill in placing a chair for her. His large red face went a deeper scarlet in colour as he looked at her. "Flack tells me that you are a friend of the family, Mrs. Holymead. What is it that I can do for you? I need scarcely say, Mrs. Holymead, that your distinguished husband is well known to us all. I have had the pleasure of being cross-examined by him on several occasions. Anything you wish to know I'll be pleased to tell you, if it lies within my power." "Thank you," said Mrs. Holymead. Inspector Chippenfield availed himself of the opportunity to do the honours of the occasion. He went over the details of the tragedy and pointed out where the body had been found. He showed her the bullet mark on the wall and the flattened bullet which had been extracted. Although from the mere habit of official caution he gave away no information which was not of a superficial and obvious kind, it was apparent he liked talking about the crime and his responsibilities as the officer who had been placed in charge of the investigations. He noted the interest with which Mrs. Holymead followed his words and he was satisfied that he had created a favourable impression on her. It was his desire to do the honours thoroughly which led him to remark after he had given her the main facts of the tragedy: "I'm sorry I cannot take you to view the body. It is downstairs, but the fact is the Home Office doctors are in there making the post-mortem to extract the bullet." Mrs. Holymead shuddered at this information. The fact that such gruesome work as a post-mortem examination was proceeding on the body of a man whom she had known so well brought on a fit of nausea. Her head fell back as if she was about to faint. "Can I have a glass of water?" she whispered. Mrs. Holymead took a sip of water, shuddered, took another sip, then heaved a sigh, and opened to the full extent her large dark eyes on the man bending over her, who felt amply repaid by such a glance. She thanked him prettily for his great kindness and took her departure, being conducted downstairs, and to her waiting motor-car at the gate, by Inspector Chippenfield. That officer went back to the house with a pleased smile on his features. But he would not have been so pleased with himself if he had known that his brief absence from the room of the tragedy for the purpose of obtaining a glass of water had been more than sufficient to enable the lady to run to the open desk of the murdered man, touch a spring which opened a secret receptacle at the back of it, extract a small bundle of papers, close the spring, and return to her chair to await in a fainting attitude the return of the chivalrous police officer. From the window of an upstairs room which commanded a view of the street, Gabrielle Chiron waited impatiently for the return of the motor-car in which Mrs. Holymead had driven to Riversbrook. When at length it turned the corner and came into view, she rushed downstairs to meet Mrs. Holymead. She opened the street door before the lady of the house could ring. Her gaze was fixed on a hand-bag which Mrs. Holymead carried--a comparatively big hand-bag which the lady had taken the precaution to purchase before driving out to Riversbrook. The French girl's face lighted up with a smile as she saw by the shape of the bag that it was not empty. "Have you got them?" she whispered. "Yes," was the reply. "I followed out your plan--it worked without a hitch." "Ah, I knew you would manage it," said the girl. "I would have gone, but it was best that you should go. These police agents do not like foreigners--they would be suspicious if I had gone." "There was a big red-faced man in charge--Inspector Chippenfield, they called him," said Mrs. Holymead. "He was in the library as you said he would be--he was sitting there calmly as if he did not know what nerves were. He knew me as a friend of the family and was quite nice to me. I saw as soon as I went in that the desk was open--he had been examining Sir Horace's private papers. I asked him to tell me about the--about the tragedy. He piled horror on horror and then I pretended to faint. He ran down stairs for a glass of water, and that gave me time to open the secret drawer. They are here," she added, patting the hand-bag affectionately; "let us go upstairs and burn them." His unfavourable impression of Miss Fewbanks was deepened when he saw her and heard what she had to tell him. The girl had come up from the country filled with horror at the crime which had deprived her of a father, and firmly determined to leave no stone unturned to bring the murderer to justice. It was true that she and her father had lived on terms of partial estrangement for some time past because of his manner of life, but all the girl's feelings of resentment against him had been swept away by the news of his dreadful death, and all she remembered now was that he was her father, and had been brutally murdered. When she sent for Inspector Chippenfield she had visited the room in which lay the body of her father. It had been placed in a coffin which was resting on the undertaker's trestles in the bay embrasure of the big room with the folding doors. There was nothing in the appearance of the corpse to suggest that a crime had been committed, but it had been impossible for the undertaker's men to erase entirely the distortion of the features so that they might suggest the cold, calm dignity of a peaceful death. The ordeal of looking on the dead body of her father had nerved her to carry through resolutely the task of discovering the author of the crime. "Have you found out--anything?" she asked the inspector as he entered. The girl had chosen a vague word because she felt that there were many things which must come to light in unravelling the crime, but, from the police point of view of Inspector Chippenfield, the question whether he had found out anything was a stinging reflection on his ability. "I consider it inadvisable to make any arrest at the present stage of my investigations," he said, with cold official dignity. "Do you think you know who did it?" asked the girl. "It is my business to find out," replied the inspector, in a voice that indicated confidence in his ability to perform the task. The girl was too unsophisticated to follow the subtle workings of official pride. "The papers call it a mysterious crime. Do you think it is mysterious?" "There are certainly some mysterious features about it," said the inspector. "But I do not regard them as insoluble. Nothing is insoluble," he added, in a sententious tone. "If there are mysteries to be solved you ought to have help," said the young lady. She glanced at Mrs. Hewson significantly, and then proceeded to explain to Inspector Chippenfield what she meant. This statement was so clear that Inspector Chippenfield had no choice but to face the conclusion that Miss Fewbanks had more faith in the abilities of a private detective to unravel the mystery than she had in the resources of Scotland Yard. He would have liked to have told the young lady what he thought of her for interfering with his work, and he determined to avail himself of the right opportunity to do so if it came along. But the statement that money was not to be spared had a soothing influence on his feelings. Of course, officers of Scotland Yard were not allowed to take gratuities however substantial they might be, but there were material ways of expressing gratitude which were outside the regulations of the department. "I shall be very pleased to give Mr. Crewe any assistance he wants," said Inspector Chippenfield, bowing stiffly. Rolfe assured his superior of his conviction that the pay at Scotland Yard ought to be higher for all ranks--especially the rank and file. He also declared that he was ready to do his best to thwart Crewe. "I know you will," said Rolfe, who was by no means sure of the fact. "You can count on me." "It would be better if they were all like that," said Rolfe. "Well, it's a bargain, Rolfe," said Inspector Chippenfield. "You do your best on this job and you won't lose by it. I'll see to that. But in the meantime we don't want to put Crewe on the scent. Let us see how much we'll tell him and how much we won't." "He'll want to see the letter sent to the Yard about the murder," said Rolfe. "The _Daily Recorder_ published a facsimile of it this morning." "Yes, I knew about that. Well, he can have it. But don't say anything to him about that lace you found in the dead man's hand--or at any rate not until you find out more about it. The glove he can have since it is pretty obvious that it belonged to Sir Horace. We'll spin Crewe a yarn that we are depending on it as a clue." Crewe arrived during the afternoon to inspect the house and the room in which the crime had been committed. There was every appearance of cordiality in the way in which he greeted the police officials. "Delighted to see you, Inspector," he said. "Who is working this case with you? Rolfe? Don't think we have met before, Rolfe, have we?" Rolfe politely murmured something about not having had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Crewe, but of always having wanted to meet him, because of his fame. "Very good of you," replied Crewe. "This is a very sad business. I understand there are some attractive points of mystery in the crime. I hope you haven't unravelled it yet before I have got a start. You fellows are so quick." "Slow and sure is our motto," said Inspector Chippenfield, feeling certain that a sneer and not a compliment had been intended. "There is nothing to be gained in arresting the wrong man." "That's a sound maxim for us all," said Crewe. "However, let's get to business. I rang up the Yard this morning and they told me you were in charge of the case and that I'd probably find you here. Can you let me have a look at the original of that letter which was sent to Scotland Yard informing you of the murder? There is a facsimile of it in the _Daily Recorder_ this morning, and from all appearances there are some interesting conclusions to be drawn from it. But the original is the thing." "Here you are," said the inspector, producing his pocket-book, taking out the paper, and handing it to Crewe. "What do you make of it?" Crewe sat down, and placing the paper before him took a magnifying glass from his pocket. As he sat there, in his grey tweed suit, his hat pushed carelessly back from his forehead, he might have been mistaken for a young man of wealth with no serious business in life, for his clothes were of fashionable cut, and he wore them with an air of distinction. But a glance at his face would have dispelled the impression. The clear-cut, clean-shaven features riveted attention by reason of their strength and intelligence, and though the dark eyes were rather too dreamy for the face, the heavy lines of the lower jaw indicated the man of action and force of character. The thick neck and heavily-lipped firm mouth suggested tireless energy and abounding vitality. "In the murder?" asked the inspector, who was astonished at a deduction which harmonised with a theory which had begun to take shape in his mind. "In writing this," said Crewe, with his attention still fixed on the paper. "But of course you know that yourself." "Of course," assented the inspector, who was surprised at the information, but was too experienced an official to show his feelings. "And both hands disguised." "Exactly what I thought," said Inspector Chippenfield, looking hard at Crewe so that the latter should not question his good faith. Rolfe was so interested in Crewe's revelations that he stood beside the deductive expert and studied the paper afresh. "And now, about finger-prints?" asked Crews. "None," was the reply of the inspector, "We had it under the microscope at Scotland Yard." "None?" exclaimed Crewe, in surprise. "Why adopt such precautions as wearing gloves to write a note giving away this startling secret?" "Easy enough," replied Inspector Chippenfield. "The people who wrote the note either had little or nothing to do with the murder, but were afraid suspicion might be directed to them, or else they are the murderers and want to direct suspicion from themselves." "Did Sir Horace keep a revolver?" "The butler says yes. But if he did it's gone." Crewe stood up and examined the hole in the wall where Inspector Chippenfield had dug out the smaller bullet. "Sir Horace made a bid for his life but missed. Of course, he had no time to take aim while there was a man on the other side of the room covering him, but in any case those fancy firearms cannot be depended upon to shoot straight." "And what do you make of the disappearance of Sir Horace's revolver?" asked Rolfe, who seemed to his superior officer to be in danger of displaying some admiration for deductive methods. "I'm no good at guess-work," replied Crewe, who felt that he had given enough information away. Crewe took the glove and examined it carefully. It was a left-hand glove made of reindeer-skin, and grey in colour. It bore evidence of having been in use, but it was still a smart-looking glove such as a man who took a pride in his appearance might wear. "That should be conclusive," said Crewe thoughtfully. "So I think," replied the inspector. "Well, I'll take it with me, if you don't mind," said Crewe. "You can have it back whenever you want it. Let me have the address of Sir Horace's hosier--I'll give him a call." "Take it by all means," said the inspector cordially, referring to the glove. And with a wink at Rolfe he added, "And when you are ready to fit it on the guilty hand I hope you will let us know." Crewe made a careful inspection of the house and the grounds. He took measurements of the impressions left on the sill of the window which had been forced and also of the foot-prints immediately beneath the window. He had a long conversation with Hill and questioned him regarding his movements on the night of the murder. He also asked about the other servants who were at Dellmere, and probed for information about Sir Horace's domestic life and his friends. As he was talking to Hill, Police-Constable Flack came up to them with a card in his hand. Hill looked at the card and exclaimed: "Mr. Holymead? What does he want?" "He asked if Miss Fewbanks was at home." "Well, Joe, what is it?" asked Crewe, as he came to a halt in front of them. "I may want you any minute, Joe," replied Crewe. "Don't go away." The boy nodded his head, and turned away. As he went down the hall again to the front door he gave an imitation of a man walking with extended arms across a plank spanning a chasm. "Picture mad," commented Crewe, as he watched him. "I didn't quite understand you, sir," replied the butler. "Spends all his spare time in cinemas," said Crewe, "and when he is not there he is acting picture dramas. His ambition in life is to be a cinema actor." "Look at that man," said Crewe, in a sharp imperative tone to the police-constable, as the K.C. was walking down the path of the Italian garden to the plantation. "You saw him come in?" "Do you see any difference?" "No, sir; he's the same man," said Flack, with stolid certainty. "Anything about him that is different?" continued Crewe. Police-Constable Flack looked at Crewe in some bewilderment. He was not a deductive expert, and, as he told his wife afterwards, he did not know what the detective was "driving at." He took another long look at Holymead, who was then within a few yards of the plantation on his way to the gates, and remarked, in a hesitating tone, as though to justify his failure: "Well, you see, sir, when he was coming in it was the front view I saw, now I can only see his back." As Crewe went down the path he beckoned to the boy Joe, who at the moment was acting the part of a comic dentist binding a recalcitrant patient to a chair, using an immense old-fashioned straight-backed chair which stood in the hall, for his stage setting. Joe overtook his master as he entered the ornamental plantation in front of the house, and Crewe quickly whispered his instructions, as the retreating figure of the K.C. threaded the wood towards the gates. "I believe this is yours," said Crewe politely. "Ah--yes. Thank you," said the K.C., giving him a keen suspicious glance. Stork coughed slightly to attract Crewe's attention. "If you please, sir," he said, "the boy has come." While Crewe was busy with his magnifying glass Stork returned with the boy who had accompanied Crewe on his visit to Riversbrook on the previous day. Crewe soon discovered, through overhearing a loud quarrel between his landlady and her daughter, that Mrs. Leaver's husband was alive, though dead to his wife for all practical purposes, inasmuch as he was serving a life's imprisonment for manslaughter. A fortnight after he had taken up his temporary quarters above the shop the woman was removed to the hospital suffering from the effects of a hard drinking bout, and died there. The girl disappeared, and the boy would have been turned out on the streets but for Crewe, who had taken a liking to him. Joe was self-reliant, alert, and precocious, like most London street boys, but in addition to these qualities he had a vein of imagination unusual in a lad of his upbringing and environment. He devoured the exciting feuilleton stories in the evening papers he vended, and spent his spare pennies at the cinema theatres in the vicinity of his poor home. His appreciation of the crude mysteries of the filmed detective drama amused the famous expert in the finer art of actual crime detection, until he discovered that the boy possessed natural gifts of intuition and observation, combined with penetration. Crewe grew interested in developing the boy's talent for detective work. When the lad's mother died Crewe decided to take him into his Holborn offices as messenger-boy. Crewe soon discovered that Joe had a useful gift for "shadowing" work, and his street training as a newspaper runner enabled him not only to follow a person through the thickest of London traffic, but to escape observation where a man might have been noticed and suspected. "Then the gentleman would take off his right glove when he paid for his taxi-cab from St. Pancras," said Joe, who was familiar through the accounts in the newspapers with the main details of the Fewbanks mystery. "Right, Joe," said his master approvingly. "And in that case he dropped the glove between the taxi-cab outside his front gates and his room, and it would have been found. I have made inquiries and I am satisfied it was not found." "He might have lost it when he was getting into the train at Scotland," suggested the lad. "He had to change trains at Glasgow--he might have lost it there." "To find the missing glove? It's a tough job, ain't it, sir?" "And leaving his gold-mounted stick behind him," said Joe, who was following his master's line of reasoning with keen interest. Crewe took a taxi to Princes Gate in order to have a look at the house in which Holymead lived. It occurred to him that if Holymead was not particular about what he spent on his clothes he was extravagant about the amount he spent in house rent. Of course, a leading barrister earning a huge income could afford to live in a palatial residence in Princes Gate, but it was not the locality or residence that an economically-minded man would have chosen for his home. But Crewe had little doubt that the beautiful wife Holymead possessed was responsible for the choice of house and locality. After looking at the house Crewe walked back to the cab-stand at Hyde Park Corner. He had arrived at the conclusion that it was necessary to settle beyond doubt whether the K.C. had visited Riversbrook the night Sir Horace had returned from Scotland. If the K.C. had done so, he was anxious to keep the visit secret, for not only had he not informed the police of his visit but he had kept it from Miss Fewbanks. Crewe had ascertained from Miss Fewbanks that Mr. Holymead when he had called at Riversbrook on a visit of condolence had not mentioned to her anything about having left his stick in the hall stand on a previous visit. On leaving Miss Fewbanks Mr. Holymead had gone up to the hall stand and taken both his hat and stick as if he had left them both there a few minutes before. As Crewe anticipated, he had no difficulty in finding the driver of the taxi-cab in which Holymead had driven home on the night of Wednesday last. The K.C. frequently used cabs, and he was well-known to all the drivers on the rank. Crewe got into the cab he had used and ordered the man to drive him to his office, and there invited him upstairs. He adopted this course because he knew that the driver, who gave his name as Taylor, would be more likely to talk freely in an office where he could not be overheard than he would do on the cab-rank with his fellow-drivers crowding him, or in an hotel parlour where other people were present. "Tell me exactly what happened when you drove Mr. Holymead home on Wednesday night," said Crewe. "Did you notice anything strange about him, or was his manner much the same as on other occasions that he used your cab?" The appeal of money and the conviction that the police would use less considerate methods if Crewe passed him over to them abolished Taylor's scruples about discussing a fare, and it was in a much less surly tone that he responded: "Go on," said Crewe, in a tone which indicated approval of Taylor's method of telling his story. "A glove?" suggested Crewe quickly. The driver looked at him in profound admiration. "Well, if you don't beat all the detectives I've ever heard of." "He tried to throw it in the water," continued Crewe, as if explaining the matter to himself rather than to his visitor. "Did you get it?" Taylor looked at the glove. "Well, I'll buy it from you," said Crewe. "Have you anything more to tell me?" Taylor looked at him darkly. "No, I won't," said Crewe cheerfully. Taylor smiled sourly. "You are quite sure as to the time?" "We are getting on," he said in a pleased tone. "This means a trip to Scotland, but I'll wait until the inquest is over." Many were the conflicts that arose in court between bench and bar as the result of Mr. Justice Fewbanks's habit of protecting pretty witnesses from cross-examining questions which he regarded as outside the case. There was no suggestion that his judicial decisions were influenced by the good looks of ladies who were parties to the cases heard by him, but there were rumours that on occasions the relations between the judge and a pretty witness begun in court had ripened into something at which moral men might well shake their heads. "I wouldn't be surprised if the man we want is among that bunch," said Rolfe to Inspector Chippenfield. "You've a lot to learn about them, my boy," said his superior. "There is Crewe up among them," continued Rolfe. "I wonder what he thinks he's after." Inspector Chippenfield gave a glance in the direction of Crewe, but did not deign to give any sign of recognition. The fact that Crewe by his presence in the gallery seemed to entertain the idea that the murderer might be found among the occupants of that part of the court could not be as lightly dismissed as Rolfe's vague suggestion. It annoyed Inspector Chippenfield to think that Crewe might be nearer at the moment to the murderer than he himself was, even though that proximity was merely physical and unsupported by evidence or even by any theory. It would have been a great relief to him if he had known that Crewe's object in going to the gallery was not to mix with the criminal classes, but in order to keep a careful survey of what took place in the body of the court without making himself too prominent. Miss Fewbanks and Mrs. Holymead had been almost inseparable since the tragedy had been discovered. Immediately on the arrival of Miss Fewbanks from Dellmere, Mrs. Holymead had gone out to Riversbrook to condole with her, and to support her in her great sorrow. But the murdered man's daughter, who, on account of having lived apart from her father, had developed a self-reliant spirit, seemed to be less overcome by the horror of the tragedy than Mrs. Holymead was. It was with a feeling that there was something lacking in her own nature, that the girl realised that Mrs. Holymead's grief for the violent death of a man who had been her husband's dearest friend was greater than her own grief at the loss of a father. Evidence relating to the circumstances in which the body was found was given by Police-Constable Flack. He described the position of the room in which the body was found, and the attitude in which the body was stretched. He was on duty in the neighbourhood of Tanton Gardens on the night of the murder, but saw no suspicious characters and heard no sounds. Inspector Chippenfield gave evidence for the purpose of producing the letter received at Scotland Yard announcing that Sir Horace Fewbanks had been murdered. The letter was passed up to the coroner for his inspection, and when he had examined it he sent it to the foreman of the jury. Then followed medical evidence, which showed that death was due to a bullet wound and could not have been self-inflicted. As the occupants of the court filed out into the street, Crewe, who was watching Holymead, noticed the K.C. give a slight start when he saw Miss Fewbanks and his wife. Mr. Holymead went up to the ladies and shook hands with Miss Fewbanks, and to Crewe it seemed as if he was on the point of shaking hands with his wife, but he stopped himself awkwardly. He saw the ladies into their cab, and, raising his hat, went off. As Mr. Holymead had seen Miss Fewbanks in court when she gave evidence, it was obvious to Crewe that he could not have been surprised at meeting her outside. It was therefore the presence of his wife which had surprised him. That fact--if it were a fact--opened a limitless field of speculation to Crewe, but in spite of the possibility of error--a possibility which he frankly recognised--he was pleased with himself for having noticed the incident. To him it seemed to provide another link in the chain he was constructing. It harmonised with Taylor's story of Mr. Holymead's decision to stay at Verney's instead of entering his own home the night Taylor drove him from Hyde Park Corner. With a cheerful smile Holymead brought the conversation to an end and went on his way. Kemp walked on hurriedly in the opposite direction. He had his eyes on a young man whom he had seen in the gallery, and who had seemed to avoid his eye. It was obvious to him that this young man, for whom he had been on the watch when Mr. Holymead spoke to him, had seized the opportunity to slip past him while he was talking to the eminent K.C. The young man, even from the back view, seemed to be well-dressed. "Hallo, Kincher," replied the young man, turning round. "I didn't notice you. Were you up at the court?" "Yes, I looked in," said Mr. Kemp. "There wasn't much doing, was there?" "He won't trouble us any more," pursued Mr. Kemp. "No." The young man seemed to have a dread of helping along the conversation, and therefore sought refuge in monosyllables. Mr. Kemp coughed before he formed his question. "Did you go up there that night?" "No." The reply came instantaneously, but the young man followed it up with a look of inquiry to ascertain if his denial was believed. "A good thing as it happened," said Mr. Kemp. "I had nothing to do with it," said Fred, earnestly. "I never said you had," replied Mr. Kemp. "Nothing whatever to do with it," continued the young man with emphasis. "That's not my sort of game." "I'm not saying anything, Fred," replied the elder man. "But whoever done it might have done it by accident-like." "Accident or no accident, I had nothing to do with it, thank God." "That is all right, Fred. I'm not saying you know anything about it. But even if you did you'd find I could be trusted. I don't go blabbing round to everybody." "I know you don't. But as I said before I had nothing to do with it. I didn't go there that night--I changed my mind." "A very lucky thing then, because if they do look you up you can prove an alibi." "Yes," said Fred, "I can prove an alibi easy enough. But what makes you talk about them looking me up? Why should they get into me--why should they look me up? I've told you I didn't go there." "If he squeaks he'll have to settle with me," said Fred. "And he'll find there is something to pay. If he tries to put me away I'll--I'll--I'll do him in." "Yes, I'll see about it," said Fred. "It's a good idea." "Come in and have a drink, Fred," said "Kincher." "It will do you good. It was dry work listening to them talking up there about the murder." "Well, here's luck and long life to the man that did it--whoever he is." Fred offered no objection to this sentiment and they drained glasses. "And so you've had no luck, Rolfe?" Inspector Chippenfield, glancing up from his official desk in Scotland Yard, put this question in a tone of voice which suggested that the speaker had expected nothing better. "Yes," assented Rolfe. "Of course, I don't lay it down that everything happened just as you've said. But that's my idea of the crime. It accounts for all the clues we've picked up, and that is something." "We are getting close to it now," said Rolfe, approvingly. There was a knock at the door, and a boy in buttons entered and handed Inspector Chippenfield a card. "Seldon from Hampstead," he explained to Rolfe. "Don't go away yet. It may be something about this case." Police-Inspector Seldon entered the office, and held the door ajar for a man behind him. He shook hands with Inspector Chippenfield and Rolfe, and then motioned his companion to a chair. "This is Mr. Robert Evans, the landlord of the Flowerdew Hotel, Covent Garden," he explained. He looked at Mr. Evans with the air of a police-court inspector waiting for a witness to corroborate his statement, but as that gentleman remained silent he sharply asked, "Isn't that so?" "Quite right," said Mr. Evans, in a moist, husky voice. "He came to me this morning and told me that Hill gave false evidence at the inquest yesterday," Inspector Seldon explained. "So I brought him along to see you." "False evidence--Hill?" exclaimed Inspector Chippenfield, with keen interest. "Let us hear about it." Inspector Chippenfield had taken up a pencil and was making a few notes. Mr. Evans was calling on his memory for further names but was stopped by Inspector Chippenfield. "That will do very well. And how did you happen to be at the inquest at Hampstead? That is a bit out of your way." Mr. Evans mopped his eyes, and Inspector Seldon took upon himself to reply for him. "He has a brother-in-law in the trade at Hampstead--keeps the _Three Jugs_ in Coulter Street. Evans had to go out to see his brother-in-law on business, and his brother-in-law took him along to the court out of curiosity." Inspector Chippenfield nodded. "Rolfe," he said, "take down Mr. Evans's statement outside and get him to sign it. Don't go away when you've finished. I want you." Mr. Evans, even if he felt that full justice had been done to his story by Inspector Seldon, was disappointed at the police officer's failure to do justice to his manly scruples in coming forward to give evidence against a man who had never done him any harm. Addressing Inspector Chippenfield he said: "You did the right thing," said Inspector Chippenfield, with the emphasis of a man who had profited by the triumph of right. Mr. Evans was under the impression that the inspector's approval referred chiefly to the part he had played as a husband in talking over his perplexity with his wife, rather than the part he had played as a man in revealing that Hill had lied in his evidence. This example of the imaginative element in feminine logic made no impression on the practical official who listened to the admiring husband. "That is all right," said Inspector Chippenfield soothingly. "I understand your scruples. They do you credit. But an honest man like you doesn't want to shield a criminal from justice--least of all a cold-blooded murderer." When Rolfe returned to his superior with Evans's signed statement in his hand, he found the inspector preparing to leave the office. "Put on your hat and come with me," said the inspector. "We will go out and see Mrs. Hill. I'll frighten the truth out of her and then tackle Hill. He is sure to be up at Riversbrook, and we can go on there from Camden Town." While on the way to Camden Town by Tube, Inspector Chippenfield arranged his plans with the object of saving time. He would interview Mrs. Hill and while he was doing so Rolfe could make inquiries at the neighbouring hotels about Hill. It was the inspector's conviction that a man who had anything to do with a murder would require a steady supply of stimulants next day. A little thin woman, with prematurely grey hair, and a depressed expression, appeared from the back in response to the summons. She started nervously as her eye encountered the police uniform, but she waited to be spoken to. "Is your name Hill?" asked the inspector sternly. "Mrs. Emily Hill?" The woman nodded feebly, her frightened eyes fixed on the inspector's face. "Then I want to have a word with you," continued the inspector, walking through the shop into the parlour. "Come in here and answer my questions." Mrs. Hill followed him timidly into the room he had entered. It was a small, shabbily-furnished apartment, and the inspector's massive proportions made it look smaller still. He took up a commanding position on the strip of drugget which did duty as a hearth-rug, and staring fiercely at her, suddenly commenced: Mrs. Hill shrank before that fierce gaze, and said, in a low tone: "Please, sir, he was at home." "At home, was he? I'm not so sure of that. Tell me all about your husband's movements on that day and night. What time did he come home, to begin with?" "And your husband didn't go out again?" "No, sir. When I got up in the morning to bring him a cup of tea he was still sound asleep." "But might he not have gone out in the night while you were asleep?" "No, sir. I'm a very light sleeper, and I wake at the least stir." Mrs. Hill's story seemed to ring true enough, although she kept her eyes fixed on her interrogator with a kind of frightened brightness. Inspector Chippenfield looked at her in silence for a few seconds. "So that's the whole truth, is it?" he said at length. "Yes, sir," the woman earnestly assured him. "You can ask Mr. Hill and he'll tell you the same thing." Something reminiscent in Inspector Chippenfield's mind responded to this sentence. He pondered over it for a moment, and then remembered that Hill had applied the same phrase to his wife. Evidently there had been collusion, a comparing of tales beforehand. The woman had been tutored by her cunning scoundrel of a husband, but undoubtedly her tale was false. "The whole truth?" said the inspector, again. "Yes, sir," answered Mrs. Hill. "Now, look here," said the police officer, in his sternest tones, as he shook a warning finger at the little woman, "I know you are lying. I know Hill didn't sleep in the house, that night. He was seen near Riversbrook in the early part of the night and he was seen wandering about Covent Garden after the murder had been committed. It is no use lying to me, Mrs. Hill. If you want to save your husband from being arrested for this murder you'll tell the truth. What time did he leave here that night?" "I've already told you the truth, sir," replied the little woman. "He didn't leave the place after he came back from the Zoo." Inspector Chippenfield was puzzled. It seemed to him that Mrs. Hill was a woman of weak character, and yet she stuck firmly to her story. Perhaps Evans had made a mistake in identifying Hill as the man who had been carried into his bar after being knocked down. Nothing was more common than mistakes of identification. His glance wandered round the room, as though in search of some inspiration for his next question. His eye took mechanical note of the trumpery articles of rickety furniture; wandered over the cheap almanac prints which adorned the walls; but became riveted in the cheap overmantel which surmounted the fire-place. For, in the slip of mirror which formed the centre of that ornament, Inspector Chippenfield caught sight of the features of Mrs. Hill frowning and shaking her head at somebody invisible. He turned his head warily, but she was too quick for him, and her features were impassive again when he looked at her. Following the direction indicated by the mirror, Inspector Chippenfield saw Mrs. Hill had been signalling through a window which looked into the back yard. He reached it in a step and threw open the window. A small and not over-clean little girl was just leaving the yard by the gate. Inspector Chippenfield called to her pleasantly, and she retraced her steps with a frightened face. "Come in, my dear, I want you," said the inspector, wreathing his red face into a smile. "I'm fond of little girls." The little girl smiled, nodded her head, and presently appeared in response to the inspector's invitation. He glanced at Mrs. Hill, noticed that her face was grey and drawn with sudden terror. She opened her mouth as though to speak, but no words came. The inspector lifted the child on to his knee. She nestled to him confidingly enough, and looked up into his face with an artless glance. "What is your name, my dear?" "Daphne, sir--Daphne Hill." "How old are you, Daphne?" "Why, you're quite a big girl, Daphne! Do you go to school?" "Do you like going to school, Daphne?" "I suppose you like going to the Zoo better? Did you like going with father the other day?" The child's eyes sparkled with retrospective pleasure. "That was splendid, Daphne! Which did you like best--the Zoo or the pictures?" "I liked them both," she replied. "Was Father at home when you came home from the pictures?" "No," said the little girl innocently. "He was out." Mrs. Hill, standing a little way off with fear on her face, uttered an inarticulate noise, and took a step towards the inspector and her daughter. "Better not interfere, Mrs. Hill, unless you want to make matters worse," said the inspector meaningly. "Now, tell me, Daphne, dear, when did your father come home?" "Not till morning," replied the little girl, with a timid glance at her mother. "How do you know that?" "Because I slept in Mother's bed that night with Mother, like I always do when Father is away, but Father came home in the morning and lifted me into my own bed, because he said he wanted to go to bed." "What time was that, Daphne?" "I don't know, sir." "It was light, Daphne? You could see?" A heavy step was heard in the shop, and the inspector, looking through the window, saw Rolfe. He opened the door leading from the shop and beckoned his subordinate in. Rolfe was excited, and looked like a man burdened with weighty news. He whispered a word in Inspector Chippenfield's ear. "Where was this?" asked the inspector. "I should have credited Hill with a better taste in port, with his opportunities as Sir Horace Fewbanks's butler," said Inspector Chippenfield drily. "What you have found out, Rolfe, only goes to bear out my own discovery that Hill is deeply implicated in this affair. I have found out, for my part, that Hill did not spend the night of the murder at home here." Hill started slightly, then, with admirable self-command, he recovered himself and became as tight-lipped and reticent as ever. "I've already told you, sir," he replied smoothly. "I spent it in my own home. If you ask my wife, sir, she'll tell you I never stirred out of the house after I came back from taking my little girl to the Zoo." "I know she will, you scoundrel!" burst out the choleric inspector. "She's been well tutored by you, and she tells the tale very well. But it's no good, Hill. You forgot to tutor your little daughter, and she's innocently put you away. What's more, you were seen in London before daybreak the night after the murder. The game's up, my man." Inspector Chippenfield produced a pair of handcuffs as he spoke. Hill passed his tongue over his dry lips before he was able to speak. "Don't put them on me," he said imploringly, as Inspector Chippenfield advanced towards him. "I'll--I'll confess!" "You know what you are saying, Hill?" he asked. "You know what this means? Any statement you make may be used in evidence against you at your trial." "I'll tell you everything," faltered Hill. The impassive mask of the well-trained English servant had dropped from him, and he stood revealed as a trembling elderly man with furtive eyes, and a painfully shaken manner. "I'll be glad to tell you everything," he declared, laying a twitching hand on the inspector's coat. "I've not had a minute's peace or rest since--since it happened." The dry official manner in which Inspector Chippenfield produced a note-book was in striking contrast to the trapped man's attitude. "Go ahead," he commanded, wetting his pencil between his lips. Before Hill could respond a small boy entered the shop--a ragged, shock-headed dirty urchin, bareheaded and barefooted. He tapped loudly on the counter with a halfpenny. "What do you want, boy?" roughly asked the inspector. "A 'a'porth of blackboys," responded the child, in the confident tone of a regular customer. "I think we had better go inside and hear what Hill has to say, Inspector, while Mrs. Hill minds the shop," said Rolfe. He had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hill's white frightened face peering through the dirty little glass pane in the parlour door. Inspector Chippenfield approved of the idea. "We don't want to spoil your wife's business, Hill--she's likely to need it," he said, with cruel official banter. "Come here, Mrs. Hill," he said, raising his voice. The faded little woman appeared in response to the summons, bringing the child with her. She shot a frightened glance at her husband, which Inspector Chippenfield intercepted. "Never mind looking at your husband, Mrs. Hill," he said roughly. "You've done your best for him, and the only thing to be told now is the truth. Now you and your daughter can stay in the shop. We want your husband inside." Mrs. Hill clasped her hands quickly. "Oh, what is it, Henry?" she said. "Tell me what has happened? What have they found out?" "Keep your mouth shut," commanded her husband harshly. "This way, sir, if you please." Inspector Chippenfield and Rolfe followed him into the parlour. "Now, Hill," impatiently said Inspector Chippenfield. The butler raised his head wearily. "I suppose I may as well begin at the beginning and tell you everything," he said. "Yes," replied the inspector, "it's not much use keeping anything back now." Inspector Chippenfield nodded his head sharply, but he did not speak. "I went upstairs as quick as I could, and the door of the study being wide open, I could see inside. Sir Horace and the young lady had evidently been having a quarrel. They were standing up facing each other, and the table at which they had been sitting was knocked over, and the refreshments I had taken up had been scattered all about. The young woman had been crying--I could see that at a glance--but Sir Horace looked dignified and the perfect gentleman--like he always was. He turned to me when he saw me, and said, 'Hill, kindly show this young lady out,' I bowed and waited for her to follow me, which she did, after giving Sir Horace an angry look. I let her out the same way as I let her in, and took her through the plantation to the front gate, which I locked after her. When I got inside the house again, and was beginning to bolt up things for the night Sir Horace called me again and I went upstairs. 'Hill,' he said, in the same calm and collected voice, 'if that young lady calls again you're to deny her admittance. That is all, Hill,' And he turned back into his room again. "I didn't see her again until the morning after Sir Horace left for Scotland. I had arranged for the female servants to go to Sir Horace's estate in the country during his absence, as he instructed before his departure, and they and I were very busy on this morning getting the house in order to be closed up--putting covers on the furniture and locking up the valuables. "I would not have taken any notice of her, only I didn't want the women servants to see her. Sir Horace, I knew, would not have liked that. So I went across to her. I asked her what she wanted, and I told her it was no use her wanting to see Sir Horace, for he had gone to Scotland. 'I don't want to see him,' she said, as impudent as brass. 'It's you I want to see, Field or Hill or whatever you call yourself now.' It gave me quite a turn, I assure you, to find that this young woman knew my secret, and I turned round apprehensive-like, to make sure that none of the servants had heard her. She noticed me and she laughed. 'It's all right, Hill,' she said. 'I'm not going to tell on you. I've just brought you a message from an old friend--Fred Birchill--he wants to see you to-night at this address.' And with that she put a bit of paper into my hand. I was so upset and excited that I said I'd be there, and she went away. "The girl did so, and as soon as the door was closed behind her Birchill turned round to me and burst out, 'Hill, that damned employer of yours has served me a nasty trick, but I'm going to get even with him, and you're going to help me!' I was taken back at his words, but I wanted to hear more before I spoke. Then he told me that the young woman I had seen had been brutally treated by Sir Horace. She had been living in a little flat in Westminster on a monthly allowance which Sir Horace made her, but he'd suddenly cut off her allowance and she'd have to be turned out in the street to starve because she couldn't pay her rent. 'A nice thing,' said Birchill fiercely, 'for this high-placed loose liver to carry on like this with a poor innocent girl whose only fault was that she loved him too well. If I could show him up and pull him down, I would. But I've done time, like you, Hill. He was the judge who sentenced me, and if I tried to injure him that way my word would carry no weight; but I'll put up a job on him that'll make him sorry the longest day he lives, and you'll help me. Sir Horace is in Scotland, Hill, and you're in charge of his place. Get rid of the servants, Hill, and we'll burgle his house. We can easily do it between us.'" At this stage of his narrative, Hill stopped and looked anxiously at his audience as though to gather some idea of their feelings before he proceeded further. But Inspector Chippenfield, with a fierce stare, merely remarked: "And you consented?" "The girl ran to the door and let him in, but she shrieked at the sight of him when she saw him in the light. For he looked ghastly, and there was a spot of blood on his face, and his hands were smeared with it. He was shaking all over, and he went to the whisky bottle and drained the drop of spirit he'd left in it. Then he turned to us and said, 'Sir Horace Fewbanks is dead--murdered!' I suppose he read what he saw in our eyes, for he burst out angrily, 'Don't stand staring at me like a pair of damned fools. You don't think I did it? As God's my judge, I never did it. He was dead and stiff when I got there.' "I didn't believe his story, though Miss Fanning did, but he stuck to it and seemed so frightened that I thought there might be something in it till he brought out that he'd lost his revolver somewhere. Then I remembered the horrid threats he'd used against Sir Horace, and I was convinced that he had committed the murder. But of course I dared not let him think I suspected him, and I pretended to console him. But the feeling that kept running through my head was that both of us would be suspected of the murder. "You took care to leave no finger-prints," said Inspector Chippenfield. "At Covent Garden?" suggested Inspector Chippenfield. "Yes, at Covent Garden," said Hill. "When I got home my wife was awake and in a terrible fright. She wanted to know where I'd been, but I didn't tell her. I told her, though, that my very life depended on nobody knowing I'd been out of my own home that night, and I made her swear that no matter who questioned her she'd stick to the story that I'd been at home all night, and in bed. She begged me to tell her why, and as I knew that she'd have to be told the next day, I told her that Sir Horace Fewbanks had been murdered. She buried her face in her pillow with a moan, but when I took an oath that I had had no hand in it she recovered, and promised not to tell a living soul that I had been out of the house and I knew I could depend on her. As Hill finished his story he buried his face in his hands, and bowed his head on the table in an attitude of utter dejection. Rolfe, looking at him, wondered if he were acting a part, or if he had really told the truth. He looked at Inspector Chippenfield to see how he regarded the confession, but his superior officer was busily writing in his note-book. In a few moments, however, he put the pocket-book down on the table and turned to the butler. "Sit up, man," he commanded sternly. "I want to ask you some questions." Hill raised a haggard face. "Yes, sir," he said, with what seemed to be a painful effort. "What is this girl Fanning like?" "Rather a showy piece of goods, if I may say so, sir. She has big black eyes, and black hair and small, regular teeth." "And Sir Horace had been keeping her?" "And a fortnight before Sir Horace left for Scotland there was a quarrel--Sir Horace cast her off?" "That is what it looked like to me," said the butler. "What was the cause of the quarrel?" "That I don't know, sir." "Didn't Birchill tell you?" "Well, not in so many words. But I gathered from things he dropped that Sir Horace had found out that he was a friend of Miss Fanning's and didn't like it." "Naturally," said the philosophic police official. "Is Birchill still at this flat and is the girl still there?" "The last I heard of them they were, sir. Of course they had been talking of moving after Sir Horace stopped the allowance." "Do you think Hill's story is true?" Rolfe asked Inspector Chippenfield, as they left the Camden Town Police Station and turned in the direction of the Tube station. "We'll soon find out," replied the inspector. "Of course, there is something in it, but there is no doubt Hill will not stick at a lie to save his own skin. But we are more likely to get at the truth by threatening to arrest him than by arresting him. If he were arrested he would probably shut up and say no more." "And are you going to arrest Birchill?" "For the murder?" asked Rolfe. "No; for burglary. It would be a mistake to charge him with murder until we get more evidence. The papers would jeer at us if we charged him with murder and then dropped the charge."' "Do you think Birchill will squeak?" "On Hill?" said the inspector. "When he knows that Hill has been trying to fit him for the murder he'll try and do as much for Hill. And between them we'll come at the truth. We are on the right track at last, my boy. And, thank God, we have beaten our friend Crewe." "Anything fresh about the Riversbrook case?" he asked. "No; nothing fresh," replied Inspector Chippenfield, looking Crewe straight in the face. "You are a long time in making an arrest," said Crewe, in a bantering tone. "We want to arrest the right man," was the reply. "There's nothing like getting the right man to start with; it saves such a lot of time and trouble. Where are you off to?" "I'm taking a run down to Scotland." The inspector glanced at Crewe rather enviously. "You are fortunate in being able to enjoy yourself just now," he said meaningly. "I won't drop work altogether," remarked Crewe. "I'll make a few inquiries there." "About the Riversbrook affair?" With the murderer practically arrested, Inspector Chippenfield permitted himself the luxury of smiling at the way in which Crewe was following up a false scent. "I thought the murder was committed in London--not in Scotland," he said. "Wrong, Chippenfield," said Crewe, with a smile. "Sir Horace was murdered in Scotland and his body was brought up to London by train and placed in his own house in order to mislead the police. Good-bye." As the taxi-cab drove off, Inspector Chippenfield turned to his subordinate and said, "We'll rub it into him when he comes back and finds that we have got our man under lock and key. He's on some wild-goose chase. Scotland! He might as well go to Siberia while's he's about it." With a warrant in his pocket Inspector Chippenfield, accompanied by Rolfe, set out for Macauley Mansions, Westminster. They found the Mansions to be situated in a quiet and superior part of Westminster, not far from Victoria Station, and consisting of a large block of flats overlooking a square--a pocket-handkerchief patch of green which was supposed to serve as breathing-space for the flats which surrounded it. "Well, well," said the inspector, as he paused, panting, on the door-mat and rang the bell. "Snug quarters these--very snug. Strange that these sort of women never know enough to run straight when they are well off." "Are you Miss Fanning?" he asked. They followed the girl into the hall, and into a room off the hall to which she led the way. A small Pomeranian dog which lay on an easy chair, sprang up barking shrilly at their entrance, but at the command of the girl it settled down on its silk cushion again. The apartment was a small sitting-room, daintily furnished in excellent feminine taste. Both police officers took in the contents of the room with the glance of trained observers, and both noticed that, prominent among the ornaments on the mantelpiece, stood a photograph of the late Sir Horace Fewbanks in a handsome silver frame. The photograph made it easy for Inspector Chippenfield to enter upon the object of the visit of himself and his subordinate to the flat. "I see you have a photograph of Sir Horace Fewbanks there," he said, in what he intended to be an easy conversational tone, waving his hand towards the mantelpiece. The wistful expression of the girl's face deepened as she followed his glance. "Yes," she said simply. "It is so terrible about him." "Was he a--a relative of yours?" asked the inspector. She had come to the conclusion they were police officers and that they were aware of the position she occupied. "He was very kind to me," she replied. "When did you see him last? How long before he--before he died?" "Are you detectives?" she asked. "From Scotland Yard," replied Inspector Chippenfield with a bow. "Why have you come here? Do you think that I--that I know anything about the murder?" "Not in the least." The inspector's tone was reassuring. "We merely want information about Sir Horace's movements prior to his departure for Scotland. When did you see him last?" "I don't remember," she said, after a pause. "You must try," said the inspector, in a tone which contained a suggestion of command. "Oh, a few days before he went away." "A few days," repeated the inspector. "And you parted on good terms?" "Yes, on very good terms." She met his glance frankly. Inspector Chippenfield was silent for a moment. Then, fixing his fiercest stare on the girl, he remarked abruptly: "I've been keeping nobody with Sir Horace Fewbanks's money," protested the girl feebly. "It's cruel of you to insult me." "That'll about do to go on with," said Inspector Chippenfield, with a sudden change of tone, rising to his feet as he spoke. "Rolfe, keep an eye on her while I search the flat." Rolfe crossed over from where he had been sitting and stood beside the girl. She glanced up at him wildly, with terror dawning in the depths of her dark eyes. "Now, don't try your tragedy airs on us," said the inspector. "We've no time for them. If you won't tell the truth you had better say nothing at all." He plunged his hand into a _jardiniere_ and withdrew a briar-wood pipe. "This looks to me like Birchill's property. Keep that dog back, Rolfe." The little dog had sprung off his cushion and was eagerly following the inspector out of the room. Rolfe caught up the animal in his arms, and returned to where the girl was sitting. Her face was white and strained, and her big dark eyes followed Inspector Chippenfield, but she did not speak. The inspector tramped noisily into the little hall, leaving the door of the room wide open. Rolfe and the girl saw him fling open the door of another room--a bedroom--and stride into it. He came out again shortly, and went down the hall to the rear of the flat. A few minutes later he came back to the room where he had left Rolfe and the girl. His knees were dusty, and some feathers were adhering to his jacket, as though he had been plunging in odd nooks and corners, and beneath beds. He was hot, flurried, and out of temper. "Perhaps he wasn't here when we came in," suggested Rolfe. "Oh, yes, he was. Why, he'd been smoking that pipe in this very room. She was clever enough to open the window to let out the tobacco smoke before she let us in, but she didn't hide the pipe properly, for I saw the smoke from it coming out of the _jardiniere_, and when I put my hand on the bowl it was hot. Feel it now." Rolfe placed his hand on the pipe, which Inspector Chippenfield had deposited on the table. The bowl was still warm, indicating that the pipe had recently been alight. "He must have been smoking the pipe when we knocked at the door, and dashed away to hide before she let us in," grumbled the inspector. "But the question is--where can he have got to? I've hunted everywhere, and there's no way out except by the front door, so far as I can see. Go and have a look yourself, Rolfe, and see if you can find a trace of him. I'll watch the girl." Rolfe glanced keenly around the kitchen. There were no cooking appliances visible, or pots or pans, but there was much lumber and odds and ends, as though the place were used as a store-room. Presumably Miss Fanning obtained her meals from the restaurant on the ground floor of the mansions and had no use for a kitchen. The room was dirty and dusty and crowded with all kinds of rubbish. But the miscellaneous rubbish stored in the room offered no hiding-place for a man. Rolfe nevertheless made a conscientious search, shifting the lumber about and ferreting into dark corners, without result. Finally he crossed the room to look out of the window, which had been left open, no doubt by Inspector Chippenfield. He withdrew his head and was turning to leave the room when his attention was attracted by the peculiar behaviour of the dog, which had followed him throughout on his search. The little animal, after sniffing about the floor, ran to the open window and started whining and jumping up at it. Rolfe quickly returned to the window and looked out. "Why, of course!" he muttered. "How could I have overlooked it? Inspector," he called aloud, "come here!" Inspector Chippenfield appeared in the kitchen in a state of some excitement at the summons. He carried the key of the front room in his hand, having taken the precaution to lock Miss Fanning in before he responded to the call of his colleague. "What is it, Rolfe?" he asked eagerly. "This dog has tracked him to the window, so he's evidently escaped that way," explained Rolfe briefly. "He's climbed along the window-ledge." "I wonder where that infernal ledge goes to?" said Inspector Chippenfield, vainly twisting his neck and protruding his body through the window to a dangerous extent to see round the corner of the building. "I daresay it leads to the water-pipe, and the scoundrel, knowing that, has been able to get round, shin down, and get clear away." "I'll soon find out," said Rolfe. "I'll walk along to the corner and see." "Nonsense!" laughed Rolfe. "I won't fall. Why, the ledge is a foot broad, and I've got a steady head. He may not have got very far, after all, and I may be able to see him from the corner." He got out of the window as he spoke, and started to walk carefully along the ledge towards the corner of the building. He reached it safely, peered round, screwed himself round sharply, and came back to the open window almost at a run. "You're right!" he gasped, as he sprang through. "I saw him. He is climbing down the spouting, using the chimney brickwork as a brace for his feet. If we get downstairs we may catch him." At that instant a tall young man, bareheaded and coat-less, came running out of an alley-way, pursued by Rolfe. "Stop him!" cried Rolfe, to his superior officer. Inspector Chippenfield stepped quickly out into the street in front of the fugitive. The young man cannoned into the burly officer before he could stop himself, and the inspector clutched him fast. He attempted to wrench himself free, but Rolfe had rushed to his superior's assistance, and drew the baton with which he had provided himself when he set out from Scotland Yard. "You needn't bother about using that thing," said the young man contemptuously. "I'm not a fool; I realise you've got me." "We'll not give you another chance." Inspector Chippenfield dexterously snapped a pair of handcuffs on the young man's wrists. "What are these for?" said the captive, regarding them sullenly. "You'll know soon enough when we get you upstairs," replied the inspector. "Now then, up you go." They reascended the stairs in silence, Inspector Chippenfield and Rolfe walking on each side of their prisoner holding him by the arms, in case he tried to make another bolt. They reached the flat and found the front door open as they had left it. The inspector entered the hall and unlocked the drawing-room door. The girl was sitting on the chair where they had left her, with her head bowed down in an attitude of the deepest dejection. She straightened herself suddenly as they entered, and launched a terrified glance at the young man. "Oh, Fred!" she gasped. "Come on, what's the charge?" he demanded insolently, with a slight glance at his manacled hands. "Is your name Frederick Birchill?" asked Inspector Chippenfield. The young man nodded. "Burglary?" said Birchill "Anything else?" "That will do for the present," replied the inspector. "We may find it necessary to charge you with a more serious crime later." "Well, all I can say is that you've got the wrong man. But that is nothing new for you chaps," he added with a sneer. "Surely you are not going to charge him with the murder?" said the girl imploringly. The inspector's reply was merely to warn the prisoner that anything he said might be used in evidence against him at his trial. "He had nothing whatever to do with it--he knows nothing about it," protested the girl. "If you let him go I'll tell you who murdered Sir Horace." "Who murdered him?" asked the inspector. "Hill," was the reply. Doris Fanning got off a Holborn tram at King's Cross, and with a hasty glance round her as if to make sure she was not followed, walked at a rapid pace across the street in the direction of Caledonian Road. She walked up that busy thoroughfare at the same quick gait for some minutes, then turned into a narrow street and, with another suspicious look around her, stopped at the doorway of a small shop a short distance down. "You!" he exclaimed. "What in God's name has brought you here? I told you on no account to come to the shop. How do you know somebody hasn't followed you?" "I could not help it, Kincher," the girl responded piteously. "I'm distracted about Fred, and I had to come over to ask your advice." "You women are all fools," the man retorted. "You might have known that I would read all about the case in the papers, and that I'd let you hear from me." "Yes, Kincher," she replied humbly, "but they let me see Fred for a few minutes yesterday at the police court and he told me to come over and see you. Oh, if you only knew what I've suffered since he was arrested. Yesterday he was committed for trial. I haven't closed my eyes for over a week." "So you attended the police-court proceedings?" said Kemp. And when the girl nodded her head he went on, "The more fool you. I suppose it would be too much to expect a woman to keep away even though she knew she could do no good." "I knew that, Kincher, but I simply had to go. I should have died if I had stayed in that dreadful flat alone. I tried to, but I couldn't. I got so nervous that I had to put my handkerchief into my mouth to prevent myself from screaming aloud." "Well, since you are here you had better come inside instead of standing there and giving yourself and me away to every passing policeman." He led the way inside, and the girl followed him to a dirty, cheerless room behind the shop which was furnished with a sofa-bedstead, a table, and a chair. It was evident that Kemp lived alone and attended to his own wants. The remains of an unappetising meal were on a corner of the table, and a kettle and a teapot stood by the fireplace in which a fire had recently been made with a few sticks for the purpose of boiling a kettle. Bedclothes were heaped on the sofa-bedstead in a disordered state, and in the midst of them nestled a large tortoise-shell cat. "Sit down," said Kemp. There was an old chair near the fireplace and he pushed it towards her with his foot. "What's brought you over here?" The girl sank into the chair and began to cry. "I can't help it, Kincher," she said. "I don't know what to say or do. Fancy Fred being charged with murder! Oh, it's too dreadful to think about. And yet I can think of nothing else." "Crying your eyes out won't help matters much," replied the unsympathetic Kemp. The girl did not reply, but rocked herself backwards and forwards on the chair. She sobbed so violently that she appeared to be threatened with an attack of hysteria. Kemp watched her silently. The cat on the sofa-bedstead, as if awakened by the noise, got up, yawned, looked inquiringly round, and then with a measured leap sprang into the girl's lap. She was startled by his act and then she smiled through her sobs as she stroked the animal's coat. "Have you a cigarette?" she asked suddenly. Kemp went into the shop and came back with a packet of cheap cigarettes. The girl pushed them away petulantly. "I don't like that brand," she said; "haven't you anything better?" The man shook his head. "I don't want any woman in the place," retorted Kemp. "There is no peace for a man when a woman is about. But let us have no more of this idle chatter. What's brought you over here? I suppose it's about Fred." "Poor Fred!" The girl looked downcast for a moment, then she tossed her head, puffed out some smoke, and exclaimed energetically, "But he's not guilty, Kincher, and we'll get him off, won't we?" "Not merely by saying so," replied Kemp. "But you'd better tell me how it came about that he was arrested for the murder. The police gave away nothing at the police court. Bill Dobbs was down there and he told me they let out nothing, except that their principal witness against Fred is that fellow Hill. I always knew he'd squeak. I told Fred to have nothing to do with the job." The girl's eyes flashed viciously. She tossed the cigarette into the fire-place and straightened herself. "That's the low, dirty scoundrel who committed the murder," she exclaimed. "He ought to be in the dock--not Fred." "Was Fred up there that night?" asked Kemp. "At Riversbrook, or whatever they call it." "He told me he didn't go." "I gave Fred his message next morning--I wish to God that I hadn't," she continued. "I asked Fred not to keep the appointment, but he insisted on doing so. He said that he and Field had been good friends in the gaol, and that Field had told him that if he ever got on to anything he would let him know. He seemed quite pleased at the idea of meeting Field again. I told him to beware that Field wasn't laying a trap for him, but he wouldn't listen to me. "We sat there scarcely speaking, and heard the clock strike the hours. After midnight I began to get restless, for I thought something must have happened to Fred. Hill said in a low voice: 'It's time Fred was back.' The words were scarcely out of his mouth when I heard Fred's step outside, and I ran to let him in. He came in as white as a sheet. 'Fred,' I cried as soon as I saw him, 'there's some blood on your face.' "He told us all that had happened. When he got to Riversbrook he found lights burning on the ground floor. He jumped over the fence at the side and hid in the garden. He was there only a few minutes when he saw the lights go out. Then the front door was slammed and a woman walked down the garden path to the gate." "A woman!" exclaimed Kemp. "What time was this?" he asked with interest. "And this woman--this lady--turned out the lights and closed the front door?" "So Fred says. Of course he thought Sir Horace had done it, but he found out later that Sir Horace was dead." "I can't understand it," said Kemp. "What was she doing there? If she found the man dead, why didn't she inform the police? No, wait a minute! She'd be afraid to do that if she was a Society woman." "It might be her who killed him," said the girl. "Does Fred think that?" asked Kemp, looking at her closely. "Fred doesn't know what to think," she replied. "But it must have been this woman or Hill who killed him. I feel sure myself that it was Hill." "That is as near as Fred can make it." "Go on with your story," he said. "I'm interested in this. You were saying that Fred saw the lights go out, and then this woman came out of the house and walked away." "When he left, Fred and I sat there thinking. Suddenly it came to me as clear as daylight that Hill had committed the murder, and had fixed up things so as to throw suspicion on Fred. He must have known Sir Horace was coming back from Scotland that night, and he had laid in wait for him and shot him. Then he had come over to my flat in order to persuade Fred to carry out the burglary, and direct suspicion to Fred for the murder, if the police worried him. I told Fred what I thought, but he only laughed at me and said I was talking nonsense. But I was right, for a week afterwards the police came and arrested Fred at the flat." "How did they get him?" asked Kemp. Kemp's impassivity was in marked contrast to the girl's hysterical excitement. "What do you want me to do?" he asked. "Not me," said Kemp, shaking his head decidedly. "I won't do it; it's too risky. The police have too many things against me for my word to be any good as a witness. I'd only be landing myself in trouble for perjury instead of helping Fred out of trouble. He ought to have got an alibi ready before he was arrested. I told him at the inquest that he ought to look after it, and he swore he'd not been up there on the night of the murder. It is too late to do anything in the alibi line now. I don't know anybody I could get to come forward and swear Fred was in their company that night--there is a difference between fixing up a tale for the police before a man's arrested, and going into the witness box and committing perjury on oath." He spoke in such an uncompromising tone that the girl saw it was useless to pursue the matter further. "Suppose I went to the police and told them that Hill is the murderer?" she suggested. Kemp shook his head slowly. "There is only your word for it that Hill killed him," he said. "It doesn't look to me as if he did, when he went over to your flat and told Fred that Sir Horace had come back from Scotland. If he had killed him he would have let Fred go over without saying a word about it." "That was part of his cunning," said the girl. "If he had said nothing about Sir Horace's return, Fred would have suspected him when he found the dead body. I'm as certain that Hill committed the murder as if I had seen him do it with my own eyes." Kemp shrugged his shoulders as though realising the uselessness of attempting to combat such a feminine form of reasoning. "Didn't Fred say that the body was warm when he touched it?" he asked. She meditated a moment over this evidence of Hill's innocence. "Well, if Hill didn't kill him, the woman Fred saw leaving the house must have done so," she declared. "There is something in that," said Kemp. "Look here, we've got to get Fred a good lawyer to defend him, and we must be guided by his advice as to what is the best thing to do. He knows more about what will go down with a jury than you do." "I paid a solicitor to defend him at the police court," said the girl, "but the money I gave him was thrown away. He said nothing and did nothing." "That shows he is a man who knows his business," replied Kemp. "What's the good of talking to police court beaks in a case that is bound to go to trial? It's a waste of breath. The thing is to see that Fred is properly defended when the case comes on at the Old Bailey. We want somebody who can manage the jury. I should say Holymead is the man if you can get him. I don't know as he'd be likely to take up the case, for he don't go in much for criminal courts--and yet it seems to me that he might. You ought to try to get him, at least. He used to be a friend of your friend Sir Horace, so if he took up the case it would look as if he believed Fred had nothing to do with the murder. It would be bound to make a good impression on the jury." "Wouldn't he be very expensive?" asked the girl. "Not so expensive as getting hanged," said Kemp grimly. "You take my advice and have him if you can get him. Never mind what he costs, if you can raise the money. You've got some money saved up, haven't you?" "That is the way to talk," said Kemp. "You go to this solicitor you had at the police court, and tell him you want Holymead to defend Fred. Tell him he must brief Holymead--have nobody else but Holymead. Tell him that Holymead was a friend of Sir Horace Fewbanks's and that if he appears for Fred the jury will never believe that Fred had anything to do with the murder. And I don't think he had, though he did lie to me and swear he hadn't been up there that night," he added after a moment's reflection. "And what is that?" asked his superior. "The piece of woman's handkerchief that I found in the dead man's hand. You remember we agreed that it showed there was a woman in the case." "Well, what do you call this girl Fanning? Isn't she in the case? Surely, you don't want any better explanation of the murder than a quarrel between her and Sir Horace over this man Birchill?" "Yes, I see that plain enough," replied Rolfe. "There is ample motive for the crime, but how that piece of handkerchief got into the dead man's hand is still a mystery to me. It would be easily explained if this girl was present in the room or the house when the murder was committed. But she wasn't. Hill's story is that she was at the flat with him." "Yes," said Rolfe meditatively. "There is nothing wrong about that as far as I can see. But I would like to know for certain how it got there." Inspector Chippenfield was satisfied with his subordinate's testimony to his perspicacity. "That is all right, Rolfe," he said in a tone of kindly banter. "But don't make the mistake of regarding your idle curiosity as a virtue. After the trial, if you are still curious on the point, I have no doubt Birchill will tell you. He is sure to make a confession before he is hanged." "Then you are determined to hang Birchill?" said Crewe, as with a cigar in his fingers he faced his visitor with a smile. "We'll hang him right enough," said Rolfe. He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and looked at it approvingly. Though the talk was of hanging, he had never felt more thoroughly at peace with the world. "It will be a pity if you do," said Crewe. "Because he's the wrong man." "It would take a lot to make me believe that," said Rolfe stoutly. "We've got a strong case against him--there is not a weak point in it. I admit that Hill is a tainted witness, but they'll find it pretty hard to break down his story. We've tested it in every way and find it stands. Then there are the bootmarks outside the window. Birchill's boots fit them to the smallest fraction of an inch. The jemmy found in the flat fits the mark made in the window at Riversbrook, and we've got something more--another witness who saw him in Tanton Gardens about the time of the murder. If Birchill can get his neck out of the noose, he's cleverer than I take him for." Crewe did not reply directly to Rolfe's summary of the case. "I see that they've briefed Holymead for the defence," he said after a pause. "A waste of good money," said the police officer. Something appealed to his sense of humour, for he broke out into a laugh. "What are you laughing at?" asked Crewe. "I was wondering how Sir Horace feels when he sees the money he gave this girl Fanning being used to defend his murderer." "You are a hardened scamp, Rolfe, with a very perverse sense of humour," said Crewe. "It was a cunning move of them to get Holymead," said Rolfe. "They think it will weigh with the jury because he was such a close friend of Sir Horace--that he wouldn't have taken up the case unless he felt that Birchill was innocent. But you and I know better than that, Mr. Crewe. A lawyer will prove that black is white if he is paid for it. In fact, I understand that, according to the etiquette of the bar, they have got to do it. A barrister has to abide by his brief and leave his personal feelings out of account." "That's so. Theoretically he is an officer of the Court, and his services are supposed to be at the call of any man who is in want of him and can afford to pay for them. Of course, a leading barrister, such as Holymead, often declines a brief because he has so much to do, but he is not supposed to decline it for personal reasons." "His heart will not be in the case," said Rolfe philosophically. "On the contrary, I think it will," said Crewe. "My own opinion is that, if necessary, he will exert his powers to the utmost in order to get Birchill off, and that he will succeed." "Not he," said Rolfe confidently. "Our case is too strong." "No, no," said Crewe with a smile. "Put a couple in your pocket now, because you won't win the box." "Of course, I understand, Mr. Crewe, why you say Birchill is the wrong man. You feel a bit sore because we have beaten you. I would feel sore myself in your place, and I don't deny that we got information that put us on Birchill's track, and therefore it was easier for us to solve the mystery than it was for you." "I'm not a bit sore," said Crewe. "I can take a beating, especially when the men who beat me are good sportsmen." He bowed towards Rolfe, and that officer blushed as he recalled how Inspector Chippenfield and he had agreed to withhold information from Crewe and try to put him on a false scent. "I wish you'd tell me what you consider the weak points of our case against Birchill," asked Rolfe. "Your case is based on Hill's confession, and that to my mind is false in many details," said Crewe. "Take, for instance, his account of how he came into contact with Birchill again. This girl Fanning, after a quarrel with Sir Horace, came over to Riversbrook with a message for Hill which was virtually a threat. Now does that seem probable? The girl who had been in the habit of visiting Sir Horace goes over to see Hill. No woman in the circumstances would do anything of the sort. She had too good an opinion of herself to take a message to a servant at a house from which she had been expelled by the owner, who had been keeping her. How would she have felt if she had run into Sir Horace? It is true that Sir Horace left for Scotland the day before, but it is improbable that the girl who had quarrelled with Sir Horace a fortnight before knew the exact date on which he intended to leave. And how did Hill behave when he got the message? According to his story, he consented to go and see Birchill under threat of exposure, and he consented to become an accomplice in the burglary for the same reason. Sir Horace knew all about Hill's past, so why should he fear a threat of exposure?" "Hill explained that," interposed Rolfe. "He pointed out that, though Sir Horace knew his past, he couldn't afford to have any scandal about it." "I confess that is a point which never struck me," said Rolfe thoughtfully. "Now, let us go on to the meeting between Hill and Birchill," continued Crewe. "This girl Fanning, discarded by Sir Horace, because he'd discovered she was playing him false with Birchill, is made the ostensible reason for Birchill's wishing to commit a burglary at Riversbrook, because Birchill wants, as he says, to get even with Sir Horace Fewbanks. Is it likely that Birchill would confide his desire for revenge so frankly to Sir Horace's confidential servant, the trusted custodian of his master's valuables, who could rely on his master's protection--the protection of a highly-placed man of whom Birchill stood admittedly in fear, and whom he knew, according to Hill's story, was unassailable from his slander? What had Hill to fear, from the threats of a man like Birchill, when he was living under Sir Horace Fewbanks's protection? All that Hill had to do when Birchill tried to induce him, by threats of exposure of his past, to help in a burglary at his master's house, was to threaten to tell everything to Sir Horace. Birchill told Hill that he was frightened of Sir Horace Fewbanks, the judge who had sentenced him. Rolfe looked startled. "Hill says he wanted a plan of the house and to know what valuables it contained." "And has it been your experience among criminals, Rolfe, that a burglar must have a plan of the place he intends to burgle, and that to get this plan he will give himself away to any man who can supply it? A plan has its uses, but it is indispensable only when a very difficult job is being undertaken, such as breaking through a wall or a ceiling to get at a room which contains a safe. This job was as simple as A B C. And besides, as far as I can make out, Birchill knew--the girl Fanning must have known--that Sir Horace would be going away some time in August and that the house would be empty. Did he want a plan of an empty house? He would be free to roam all over it when he had forced a window." "He wanted to know what valuables were there," said Rolfe. "And therefore took Hill into his confidence. If Hill had told his master--even Birchill would realise the risk of that--there would be no valuables to get. Next, we come to Sir Horace Fewbanks's unexpected return. According to Hill's story, he made some tentative efforts to commence a confession as soon as he saw his employer, but Sir Horace was upset about something and was too impatient to listen to a word. Is such a story reasonable or likely? Hill says that Sir Horace had always treated him well; and according to his earlier statement, when he permitted himself to be terrorised into agreeing to this burglary, he told himself that chance would throw in his way some opportunity of informing his master. And he told you that Birchill, mistrusting his unwilling accomplice, hurried on the date of the burglary so as to give him no such opportunity. Well, chance throws in Hill's way the very opportunity he has been seeking, but he is too frightened to use it because Sir Horace happens to return in an angry or impatient mood. "I don't see why," said Rolfe. Crewe fixed his deep eyes intently on Rolfe as he replied: "Because, if Birchill had committed this murder, he would never have admitted immediately on his returning, least of all to Hill, anything about the dead body." "But he told Hill that he didn't commit the murder," protested Rolfe. "Looked at your way, I admit that there are some weak points in our case," said Rolfe. "But you'll find that our Counsel will be able to answer most of them in his address to the jury. If Birchill didn't commit the murder, who did? Do you deny that he went up to Riversbrook that night?" "Do you think that Hill did it?" asked Rolfe. "That is more than I'd like to say. As a matter of fact I have been so obtuse as to neglect Hill somewhat in my investigations. In fact, I didn't know until I got hold of a copy of his statement to the police that he was an ex-convict. Inspector Chippenfield omitted to inform me of the fact." "I didn't know that," said Rolfe, without a blush, as he rose to go. "He ought to have told you." When Rolfe left Crewe's office he went back to Scotland Yard. He found Inspector Chippenfield still in his office, and related to him the substance of his interview with Crewe. The inspector listened to the recital in growing anger. "Birchill not the right man?" he spluttered. "Why, of course he is. The case against him is purely circumstantial, but it's as clear as daylight." "Then you don't think there's anything in Crewe's points?" asked Rolfe. "That's according to Hill's statement," said Rolfe. Inspector Chippenfield glanced at his subordinate in some surprise. "Of course it's Hill's statement," he said. "Isn't he our principal witness, and doesn't his statement fit in with all the facts we have been able to gather? Well, the murder of Sir Horace, no matter how it was committed, was committed in cold blood. But immediately Birchill had done it the fact that he had committed a murder would have a sobering effect on him. Although he bragged before he left the flat for Riversbrook about killing the judge if he came across him, he had no intention of jeopardising his neck unnecessarily, and after he had shot down the judge in a moment of drunken passion he would be anxious to keep Hill--whom he mistrusted--from knowing that he had committed the murder. But he was fully aware that Hill would be the person who'd discover the body next day, and that if he wasn't put on his guard he would bring in the police and probably give away everything that Birchill had said and done. So, to obviate this risk and prepare Hill, Birchill hit on the plan of telling him that he'd found the judge's dead body while burgling the place. It was a bold idea, and not without its advantages when you consider what an awkward fix Birchill was in. Not only did it keep Hill quiet, but it forced him into the position of becoming a kind of silent accomplice in the crime. You remember Hill did not give the show away until he was trapped, and then he only confessed to save his own skin. He's a dangerous and deep scoundrel, this Birchill, but he'll swing this time, and you'll find that his confession of finding the body will do more than anything else to hang him--properly put to the jury, and I'll see that it is properly put." That night, while walking home, the idea occurred to Rolfe of going over to Camden Town after supper to see if by questioning Hill again he could throw a little more light on what had taken place at Doris Tanning's flat the night Sir Horace Fewbanks was murdered. Hill had been questioned and cross-questioned at Scotland Yard by Inspector Chippenfield concerning the events of that night, and professed to have confessed to everything that had happened, but Rolfe thought it possible he might be able to extract something more which might assist in strengthening what Crewe regarded as the weak points in the police case against Birchill. Rolfe had every justification for such a visit, for, though Hill had not been arrested, he had been ordered by Inspector Chippenfield to report himself daily to the Camden Town Police Station, and the police of that district had been instructed to keep a strict eye on his movements. Inspector Chippenfield did not regard his principal witness in the forthcoming murder trial as the sort of man likely to bolt, but if he permitted him for politic reasons to retain his liberty, he took every precaution to ensure that Hill should not abuse his privilege. Rolfe lived in lodgings at King's Cross, and, as the evening was fine and he was fond of exercise, he decided to walk across to Hill's place. As he walked along his thoughts revolved round the murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks, and the baffling perplexities which had surrounded its elucidation. Had they got hold of the right man--the real murderer--in Fred Birchill? Rolfe kept asking himself that question again and again. A few hours ago he had not the slightest doubt on the point; he had looked upon the great murder case as satisfactorily solved, and he had thought with increasing satisfaction of his own share in bringing the murderer to justice. He had anticipated newspaper praise on his sharpness: judicial commendation, a favourable official entry in the departmental records of Scotland Yard, with perhaps promotion for the good work he had accomplished in this celebrated case. These rosy visions had been temporarily dissipated by the conversation he had had with Crewe that morning. If Crewe had not succeeded in destroying Rolfe's conviction that the murderer of Sir Horace Fewbanks had been caught, he had pointed out sufficient flaws in the police case to shake Rolfe's previous assurance of the legal conviction of Birchill for the crime. The way in which Crewe had pulled the police case to pieces had shown Rolfe that the conviction of Birchill was by no means a foregone conclusion, and had left him a prey to doubts and anxiety which Inspector Chippenfield's subsequent depreciation of the detective's views had not altogether removed. Mrs. Hill seemed at a loss to reply for a moment. Then she answered, nervously plucking at her apron the while: "I don't think it'd be much use doing that, sir. You see, Mr. Hill doesn't always tell me where he's going and I don't really know where he is." "Then why did you tell me that he had just stepped out down the street?" asked Rolfe sharply. "Because I thought he mightn't be far away." "Then, as a matter of fact, you don't know where he is or when he'll be back?" Her prompt and uncompromising reply indicated that she did not want him to wait for her husband. "I think I'll wait," said Rolfe, looking at her steadily. Daphne appeared at the door of the parlour which led into the shop and her mother waved her back angrily. "Go to bed this instant, miss; it's long past your bedtime," she said. "Perhaps your little girl knows where her father is," said Rolfe maliciously. "No, she doesn't," replied Mrs. Hill with some spirit. "You can ask her if you like." Rolfe was suddenly struck with an idea and he decided to test it. "I won't wait--I've changed my mind. But if your husband comes in tell him not to go to bed until I've seen him. I'll be back." "Yes, sir," she replied. "Do you think he was going to Riversbrook?" he asked. The woman flushed suddenly and then went pale. She knew as well as Rolfe that her husband was strictly forbidden, pending the trial, to go near the place of his former employment, and that the police had relieved him of his keys and taken possession of the silent house and locked everything up. "No, sir," she replied, with trembling lips, "Mr. Hill hasn't gone over there." "How can you be certain, if he didn't tell you where he was going?" asked Rolfe. "Because it's the last place in the world he'd think of going to," gasped Mrs. Hill. "Such a thought would never enter his head. I do assure you, sir, Mr. Hill would never dream of going over there, sir, you can take my word for it." When Rolfe arrived at Hampstead he set out at a rapid walk for Riversbrook. It was quite dark when he reached Tanton Gardens. He turned into the rustling avenue of chestnut trees, and strode swiftly down till he reached the deserted house of the murdered man. The gate was locked as he had left it, but Rolfe climbed over it. A late moon was already throwing a refulgent light through the evening mists, silvering the tops of the fir trees in front of the house. Rolfe walked through the plantation, his footsteps falling noiselessly on the pine needles which strewed the path. He quickly reached the other side of the little wood, and the Italian garden lay before him, stretching in silver glory to the dark old house beyond. Rolfe stood still at the edge of the wood, and glanced across the moonlit garden to the house. It seemed dark, deserted and desolate. There was no sign of a light in any of the windows facing the plantation. He turned to go, and had taken a few steps through the pinewood when suddenly he started and stood still. His quick ear had caught a faint sound--a kind of rattle--coming from the direction of the house. What was that noise which sounded so strangely familiar to his ears? He had it! It was the fall of a Venetian blind. Instantaneously there came to Rolfe the remembrance that Inspector Chippenfield had ordered the library blind to be left up, so that when the sun was high in the heavens its rays, striking in through the window over the top of the chestnut-tree, might dry up the stain of blood on the floor, which washing had failed to efface. Somebody was in the library and had dropped the blind. "What are you doing there?" demanded Rolfe sternly. His voice sounded hollow and menacing as it reverberated through the room. The man at the desk started up, and turned round. It was Hill. When he saw Rolfe he looked as though he would fall. He made as if to step forward. Then he stood quite still, looking at the officer with ashen face. The butler had regained his self-composure with wonderful quickness. The mask of reticence dropped over his face again, and it was in the smooth deferential tones of a well-trained servant that he replied: "Nothing, sir, I just slipped over from the shop to see if everything was all right." "How did you get into the house?" "By the French window, sir. I had a duplicate key which Sir Horace had made." "And I see you also have a duplicate key of the desk. Why didn't you give these keys up with the others to Inspector Chippenfield?" "I forgot about them at the time, sir. I found them in an old pocket this evening, and I was so uneasy about the house shut up with a lot of valuable things in it and nobody to give an eye to them that I just slipped across to see everything was all right." "You came here after dark, and let yourself in with a private key after you had been strictly ordered not to come near the place? You have the audacity to admit you have done this?" "Well, it's this way, sir. I was a trusted servant of Sir Horace's. I knew a great deal about his private life, if I may say so. I know he kept a lot of private papers in this room, and I wanted to make sure they were safe--I didn't like them being in this empty house, sir. I couldn't sleep in my bed of nights for thinking of them, sir. I felt last night as if my poor dead master was standing at my bedside, urging me to go over. I am very sorry I disobeyed the police orders, Mr. Rolfe, but I acted for the best." "Hill, you are lying, you are keeping something back. Unless you immediately tell me the real reason of your visit to this house tonight I will take you down to the Hampstead Police Station and have you locked up. This visit of yours will take a lot of explaining away after your previous confession, Hill. It's enough to put you in the dock with Birchill." Hill's eyes, which had been fixed on Rolfe's face, wavered towards the doorway, as though he were meditating a rush for freedom. But he merely remarked: "I've told you the truth, sir, though perhaps not all of it. I came across to see if I could find some of Sir Horace's private papers which are missing." "How do you know there are any papers missing?" "As I said before, Mr. Rolfe, Sir Horace trusted me and he didn't take the trouble to hide things from me." "And you made a practice of going through them?" "When did you see them last?" "Just before Inspector Chippenfield came--the morning after the body was discovered. You remember, sir, that he came straight up here while you stayed downstairs talking to Constable Flack." "Oh, no, sir, I don't think he saw them. Sir Horace kept them in this little place at the back of the desk. Look at it, sir. It's a sort of secret drawer." Rolfe went over to the desk, and Hill explained to him how the hiding place could be closed and opened. It was at the back of the desk under the pigeonholes, and the fact that the pigeonholes came close down to the desk hid the secret drawer and the spring which controlled it. "What was the nature of these papers?" asked Rolfe. "Well, sir, I never read them. Sir Horace set such store by them that I never dared to open them for fear he would find out. They were mostly letters and they were tied up with a piece of silk ribbon." "A lady's letters, of course," said Rolfe. "Judging from the writing on the envelopes they were sent by a lady," said Hill. Rolfe breathed quickly, for he felt that he was on the verge of a discovery. Here was evidence of a lady in the case, which might lead to a startling development. Perhaps Crewe was right in declaring that Birchill was the wrong man, he said to himself. Perhaps the murderer was not a man, but a woman. "And who do you think stole them?" he asked Hill. "That is more than I would like to say," replied the butler. "Are you sure they were in this hiding place when Inspector Chippenfield took charge of everything?" "Yes, sir. I dusted out the room the morning you and he came to Riversbrook together, and the papers were there then, because I happened to touch the spring as I was dusting the desk, and it flew open and I saw the bundle there." "Why didn't you tell Inspector Chippenfield about the papers and the secret drawer?" "That is what I intended to do, sir, if he didn't find them himself. But when I had found they had gone I didn't like to say anything to him, because, as you may say, I had no right to know anything about them." "When did they go: when did you find they were missing?" "When Inspector Chippenfield went out for his lunch. I looked in the desk and found they had gone." "Who could have taken them? Who had access to the room?" "Well, sir, Mr. Chippenfield had some visitors that morning." "Yes, sir," said the obsequious butler. "She was a friend of the family, as you say. She was a friend of Sir Horace's. I have heard that Sir Horace paid her considerable attention before she married Mr. Holymead--it was a toss up which of them she married, so I've been told." Rolfe saw that he had made a mistake in dismissing the idea of Mrs. Holymead having anything to do with the missing papers. "Do you think that she stole these letters--these papers?" he asked. "Do you think she knew where they were?" "While she was in the room, Inspector Chippenfield came rushing downstairs for a glass of water. He said she had fainted." "What made you suspect Mrs. Holymead would take them?" "Well, sir, I didn't suspect her at the time. I just looked to see if Inspector Chippenfield had found them. I saw they had gone, and as I couldn't see any sign of them about anywhere else I concluded they must have been taken without Inspector Chippenfield knowing anything about it. The reason I came over here to-night was to have another careful look round for them." Rolfe was silent for a moment. "What would you have done with the papers if you had found them?" he asked suddenly. "I would have handed them over to the police, sir," said the butler, who obviously had been prepared for a question of the kind. "And what explanation would you have given for having found them--for having come over here in defiance of your orders from Inspector Chippenfield?" "The true explanation, sir," said the butler, with a mild note of protest in his voice. "I would have told Inspector Chippenfield what I have already told you. And it is the simple truth." Rolfe was plainly taken back at this rebuke, but he did not reply to it. "In your statement of what took place when Birchill returned to the flat after committing the murder, he said something about having seen a woman leave the house by the front door as he was hiding in the garden--a fashionably dressed woman I think he said." "Yes, sir, that was it." "Do you believe that part of his story was true?" "Well, sir, with a man like Birchill it is impossible to say when he is telling the truth, and when he isn't." "There was no lady with Sir Horace when you left him that night when he returned from Scotland?" "I think you said he was in a hurry to get you out of the house, and told you not to come back?" "That is what I thought at the time, sir." "Well, Hill," said Rolfe, resuming his severe official tone; "all this does not excuse in any way your conduct in coming over here and forcing your way into the house in defiance of the police; opening this desk, and prying about for private papers that don't concern you. The proper course for you to adopt was to come to Scotland Yard and tell your story about these missing papers to Inspector Chippenfield or myself. However, I don't propose to take any action against you at present. Only there is to be no more of it. If you come hanging about here again on your own account, you'll find yourself in the dock beside Birchill. Hand me over the duplicate key of the door by which you came in, and also the key of the desk which you had still less right to have in your possession. Say nothing to anyone about those papers until I give you permission to do so." The day fixed for the trial of Frederick Birchill was wet, dismal, and dreary. The rain pelted intermittently through a hazy, chilly atmosphere, filling the gutters and splashing heavily on the slippery pavements. But in spite of the rain a long queue, principally of women, assembled outside the portals of the Old Bailey long before the time fixed for the opening of the court. At the private entrance to the courthouse arrived fashionably-dressed ladies accompanied by well-groomed men. They had received cards of admission and had seats reserved for them in the body of the court. Many of them had personally known the late Sir Horace Fewbanks, and their interest in the trial of the man accused of his murder was intensified by the rumours afloat that there were to be some spicy revelations concerning the dead judge's private life. When the court was opened Inspector Chippenfield took a seat in the body of the court behind the barrister's bench. He ranged his eye over the closely-packed spectators in the gallery, and shook his head with manifest disapproval. It seemed to him that the worst criminals in London had managed to elude the vigilance of the sergeant outside in order to see the trial of their notorious colleague, Fred Birchill. He pointed out their presence to Rolfe, who was seated alongside him. "Kemp must be thanking his lucky stars he wasn't in that Riversbrook job with Fred Birchill," said Rolfe, "for they usually work together. And there's Crewe, up in the gallery." "Where?" exclaimed Inspector Chippenfield, with an indignant start. Crewe caught the inspector's eye, and nodded and smiled in a friendly fashion, but Inspector Chippenfield returned the salutation with a haughty glare. "I suppose he's come in the hopes of seeing the jury acquit Birchill," said Rolfe. "No doubt," replied Inspector Chippenfield. "But he's come to the wrong shop. A good jury should convict without leaving the box if the case is properly put before them by the prosecution. Crewe would like to triumph over us, but it is our turn to win." It was therefore with a feeling of mingled annoyance and surprise that Crewe, looking down from his point of vantage at the bevy of fashionably-dressed ladies in the body of the court, recognised Mrs. Holymead, Mademoiselle Chiron and Miss Fewbanks seated side by side, engaged in earnest conversation. Before he could withdraw from their view behind the pillar in front of him, Miss Fewbanks looked up and saw him. She bowed to him in friendly recognition, and Crewe saw her whisper to Mrs. Holymead, who glanced quickly in his direction and then as quickly averted her gaze. But in that fleeting glance of her beautiful dark eyes Crewe detected an expression of fear, as though she dreaded his presence, and he noticed that she shivered slightly as she turned to resume her conversation with Miss Fewbanks. Mr. Walters was a long-winded Counsel who had detested the late Mr. Justice Fewbanks because of the latter's habit of interrupting the addresses of Counsel with the object of inducing them to curtail their remarks. This practice was not only annoying to Counsel, who necessarily knew better than the judge what the jury ought to be told, but it also tended to hold Counsel up to ridicule in the eyes of ignorant jurymen as a man who could not do his work properly without the watchful correction of the judge. But Mr. Walters, whose legal training had imbued in him a respect for Latin tags, subscribed to the adage, _de mortuis nil nisi bonum_. Therefore he began his address to the jury with a glowing reference to the loss, he might almost say the irreparable loss, which the judiciary had sustained, he would go so far as to say the loss which the nation had sustained by the death, the violent death, in short, the murder, of an eminent judge of the High Court Bench, whose clear and vigorous intellect, whose marvellous mastery of the legal principles laid down by the judicial giants of the past, whose inexhaustible knowledge drawn from the storehouses of British law, whose virile interpretations of the principles of British justice, whose unfailing courtesy and consideration to Counsel, the memory of which would long be cherished by those who had had the privilege of pleading before him, had made him an acquisition and an ornament to a Bench which in the eyes of the nation had always represented, and at no time more than the present--at this point Mr. Walters bowed to the presiding judge--the embodiment of legal knowledge, legal experience, and legal wisdom. After this tribute to the murdered man and the presiding judge, Mr. Walters proceeded to lay the facts of the crime before the jury, who had read all about them in the newspapers. With methodical care he built up the case against the accused man, classifying the points of evidence against him in categorical order for the benefit of the jury. The most important witness for the prosecution was a man known as James Hill, who had been in Sir Horace Fewbanks's employ as a butler. Hill's connection with the prisoner was in some aspects unfortunate, for himself, and no doubt counsel for the defense would endeavour to discredit his evidence on that account, but the jury, when they heard the butler tell his story in the witness box, would have little difficulty in coming to the conclusion that the man Hill was the victim of circumstances and his own weakness of temperament. However much they might be disposed to blame him for the course he had pursued, he was innocent of all complicity in his master's death, and had done his best to help the ends of justice by coming forward with a voluntary confession to the police. Mr. Walters made no attempt to conceal or extenuate the black page in Hill's past, but he asked the jury to believe that Hill had bitterly repented of his former crime, and would have continued to lead an honest life as Sir Horace Fewbanks's butler, if ill fate had not forged a cruel chain of circumstances to link him to his past life and drag him down by bringing him in contact with the accused man Birchill, whom he had met in prison. Sir Horace Fewbanks was the self-appointed guardian of a young woman named Doris Fanning, the daughter of a former employee on his country estate, who had died leaving her penniless. Sir Horace had deemed it his duty to bring up the girl and give her a start in life. After educating her in a style suitable to her station, he sent her to London and paid for music lessons for her in order to fit her for a musical career, for which she showed some aptitude. Unfortunately the young woman had a self-willed and unbalanced temperament, and she gave her benefactor much trouble. Sir Horace bore patiently with her until she made the chance acquaintance of Birchill, and became instantly fascinated by him. The acquaintance speedily drifted into intimacy, and the girl became the pliant tool of Birchill, who acquired an almost magnetic influence over her. As the intimacy progressed she seemed to have become a willing partner in his criminal schemes. When Sir Horace Fewbanks heard that the girl had drifted into an association with a criminal like Birchill he endeavoured to save her from her folly by remonstrating with her, and the girl promised to give up Birchill, but did not do so. When Sir Horace found out that he was being deceived he was compelled to renounce her. Birchill, who had been living on the girl, was furious with anger when he learnt that Sir Horace had cut off the monetary allowance he had been making her, and, on discovering by some means that his former prison associate Hill was now the butler at Sir Horace Fewbanks's house, he planned his revenge. He sent the girl Fanning to Riversbrook with a message to Hill, directing him, under threat of exposure, to see him at the Westminster flat. "It's a lie! It's a lie! You're trying to hang him, you wicked man. Oh, Fred, Fred!" The cry proceeded from the girl Doris Fanning. Her unbalanced temperament had been unable to bear the strain of sitting there and listening to Mr. Walters' cold inexorable construction of a legal chain of evidence against her lover. She rose to her feet, shrieking wildly, and gesticulating menacingly at Mr. Walters. The Society ladies turned eagerly in their seats to take in through their _lorgnons_ every detail of the interruption. "Remove that woman," the judge sternly commanded. Several policemen hastened to her, and the girl was partly hustled and partly carried out of court, shrieking as she went. When the commotion caused by the scene subsided, the judge irritably requested to be informed who the woman was. "I do not know, my lord. I was unaware she was a witness until this moment," returned Mr. Walters, with a discreet glance in the direction of Detective Rolfe, as an indication to His Honour that the judicial storm might safely veer in that direction. Sir Henry took the hint and administered such a stinging rebuke to Detective Rolfe that that officer's face took on a much redder tint before it was concluded. Then the judge motioned to Mr. Walters to resume the case. Counsel, with his index finger still in the place in his brief where he had been interrupted, rose to his feet again and turned to the jury. The next witness was Dr. Slingsby, the pathological expert from the Home Office who had made the post mortem examination, and who was much too great a man to be kept waiting while other witnesses of more importance to the case but of less personal consequence went into the box. Dr. Slingsby stated that his examinations had revealed that death had been caused by a bullet wound which had penetrated the left lung, causing internal hemorrhage. "Quite possible," replied Dr. Slingsby. "Quite possible," replied Dr. Slingsby, with the prim air of a professional man who valued his reputation too highly to risk it by committing himself to anything definite. Dr. Slingsby was allowed to leave the box, and Inspector Chippenfield took his place. Inspector Chippenfield did not display any professional reticence about giving his evidence--at least, not on the surface, though he by no means took the court completely into his confidence as to all that had passed between him and Hill. On the other hand he told the judge and jury everything that his professional experience prompted him as necessary and proper for them to know in order to bring about a conviction. In the course of his evidence he made several attempts to introduce damaging facts as to Birchill's past, but Mr. Holymead protested to the judge. Counsel for the defence protested that he had allowed his learned friend in opening the case a great deal of latitude as to the relations which had previously existed between the witness Hill and the prisoner, because the defence did not intend to attempt to hide the fact that the prisoner had a criminal record, but he had no intention of allowing a police witness to introduce irrelevant matter in order to prejudice the jury against the prisoner. His Honour told the witness to confine himself to answering the questions put to him, and not to volunteer information. "James Hill!" called the court crier. Mr. Walters methodically folded up his brief and sat down, with a sidelong glance in the direction of Mr. Holymead as he did so. Every eye in court was turned on Holymead as the great K.C. settled his gown on his shoulders and got up to cross-examine the principal Crown witness. "I put it to you, witness, that the reason Sir Horace Fewbanks engaged you as butler in his household at Riversbrook was because he knew you to be a man of few scruples, who would be willing to do things that a more upright honest man would have objected to?" "That is not true," replied Hill. "Is it not true that your late master frequently entertained women of doubtful character at Riversbrook?" thundered the K.C. "Women of doubtful character?" faltered the witness. "I do not understand you." "Answer the question without equivocation, witness." There was a slight stir in the body of the court due to the fact that Miss Fewbanks and Mrs. Holymead had risen and were making their way to the door. The fashionably-dressed women in the court stared with much interest at the daughter of the murdered man, whom most of them knew, in order to see how she was taking the disclosures about her dead father's private life. "And sometimes there were quarrels between your late master and these visitors, were there not?" continued Holymead. "Surely you know that under the influence of wine some people become quarrelsome?" "Well, did your late master's nocturnal visitors ever become quarrelsome?" "In the exercise of your confidential duties did you sometimes see quarrelsome ladies off the premises?" "And it was no uncommon thing for them to say things to you about your master, eh?" "Sometimes they didn't care what they said." "Quite so," commented Counsel drily. "They indulged in threats?" "Not all of them," replied Hill, who at length saw where the cross-examination was tending. "I do not suggest that all of them did--only that the more violent of them did so." "So we may take it that the quarrel between your late master and Miss Fanning was not the only quarrel of the kind which came under your notice?" "There were not many others," said Hill. "In your evidence-in-chief you said nothing about Miss Fanning using threats against your master when you were showing her out?" "She did not use any?" "Not in my hearing, sir." There was a pause at this stage while Mr. Holymead consulted the notes he had made of Mr. Walters's cross-examination of the witness. "And what time did Sir Horace arrive home?" "I unpacked his bags and got his bedroom ready. I took him some refreshment up to the library." "Yes, sir. He said he thought he would be going back to Scotland by the night express, and I was to get his bag packed and lock up the house." "You told Counsel for the prosecution in the course of your evidence that you were afraid of Birchill," continued Holymead. "Were you afraid of physical violence from him, or only that he would expose your past to the other servants?" "I was afraid of him both ways," said Hill. "Was it because of this fear that you made out for him a plan of Riversbrook to assist him in the burglary?" "When did you make out this plan?" "The day after Sir Horace left for Scotland." "Did Birchill stand over you while you made out this plan?" "Would you know the plan again if you saw it?" Mr. Finnis, who had been hiding the plan under the papers before him, handed a document up to his chief. Mr. Holymead unfolded it, and with a brief glance at it handed it up to the witness. "Is that the plan?" he asked. The rest of Hill's cross-examination concerned what happened at the flat on the night of the burglary. He adhered to the story he had told, and could not be shaken in the main points of it. But Mr. Holymead made some effective use of the discrepancy between the witness's evidence at the inquest as to his movements on the night of the murder and his evidence in court. He elicited the fact that the police had discovered his evidence at the inquest was false and had forced him to make a confession by threatening to arrest him for the murder. Crewe, who had secured his former place in the gallery of the court, looked down on the speaker. He had carefully followed every word of Holymead's address, but the concluding portion almost electrified him. He flattered himself that he was the only person in court who understood the full significance of the sonorous sentences with which the famous K.C. concluded his address to the jury. The judge's Associate handed it to Mr. Holymead, who passed it to the witness. "Is this it?" he asked. "Yes," she replied emphatically, almost without inspecting it. "I want you to look at it closely," said Counsel. "When Birchill showed you the plan immediately after Hill's departure, what impression did you get regarding it?" She looked at him blankly. "I don't understand you," she said. "You can tell the difference between ink that has been newly used and ink that has been on the paper some days. Was the ink fresh?" "No, it was old ink," she said. "How do you know that?" "Because ink doesn't go black till a long while after it is written. At least, the letters _I_ write don't." She shot a veiled coquettish glance at the big K.C. from under her long eyelashes. The K.C. returned the glance with a genial smile. "What do you write your letters on, Miss Fanning?" She almost giggled at the question. "I use a writing tablet," she replied. "Ruled. I couldn't write straight if there weren't lines." She smiled again. "And what colour do you affect--grey, rose-pink or white paper?" "Is that all the paper you have at your flat for writing purposes?" "Then what did Birchill write on when he wanted to write a letter?" "Are you sure of that?" "Yes. When he wanted to write a letter he used to ask me for my tablet and an envelope. And generally he used to borrow a stamp as well." She pouted slightly, with another coquettish glance. "Look at that plan again," said the K.C. "Have you ever had paper like it at your flat?" "Have you ever seen paper of that kind in Birchill's possession before he showed you the plan?" "When he showed you the plan had the paper been folded?" The next witness was a representative of the firm of Holmes and Jackson, papermakers, who was handed the plan of Riversbrook which Hill had drawn. He stated that the paper on which the plan was drawn was manufactured by his firm, and supplied to His Majesty's Stationery Office. He identified it by the quality of the paper and the watermark. In reply to Mr. Walters the witness was sure that the paper he held in his hand had been manufactured by his firm for the Government. It was impossible for him to be mistaken. Other firms might manufacture paper of a somewhat similar quality and tint, but it would not be exactly similar. Besides, he identified it by his firm's watermark, and he held the plan up to the light and pointed it out to the court. "Isn't my learned friend going to call the prisoner?" suggested Mr. Walters, with the cunning design of giving the jury something to think of when they were listening to his learned friend's address. "It's scarcely necessary," said Mr. Holymead, who saw the trap, and replied in a tone which indicated that the matter was not worth a moment's consideration. "Let us test the credibility of the man who has tried to swear away the life of the prisoner. You saw him in the witness-box, and I have no doubt formed your own conclusions as to the type of man he is. Did he strike you as a man who would stand by the truth above all things, or a man who would lie persistently in order to save his own skin? That the man cannot be believed even when on his oath has been publicly demonstrated in the courts of the land. The story he told the court yesterday in the witness-box of his movements on the day of the murder is quite different to the story he told on his oath at the inquest on the body of Sir Horace Fewbanks. Let me read to you the evidence he gave at the inquest." Mr. Finnis handed to his leader a copy of Hill's evidence at the inquest, and Mr. Holymead read it out to the jury. He then read out a shorthand writer's account of Hill's evidence on the previous day. "I will prove to you, gentlemen of the jury, that the man is a criminal by instinct and a liar by necessity--the necessity of saving his own skin. He robbed his former master, Lord Melhurst, and he planned to rob his late master, Sir Horace Fewbanks. But knowing that his former crime would be brought against him when the police came to investigate a robbery at Riversbrook he was too cunning to rob Riversbrook himself. He looked about him for an accomplice and he selected Birchill. You heard him say in the witness-box that he drew Birchill a plan of Riversbrook--the plan I now hold in my hand. I will ask you to inspect the plan closely. Hill told us that Birchill terrorised him into drawing this plan by threats of exposure. Exposure of what? His master, Sir Horace Fewbanks, knew he had been in gaol, so what had he to fear from exposure? His proper course, if he were an honest man, would have been to tell his master that Birchill was planning to rob the house and had endeavoured to draw him into the crime. But he did nothing of the kind, for the simple reason that the plan to rob Riversbrook was his own, and not Birchill's. "Birchill, an experienced criminal, would not break into the house while there was anybody moving about. He would wait until the house was in darkness and the inmates asleep. To do otherwise would increase enormously the risks of capture. But the fact that the police found the body of the murdered man fully dressed shows that Sir Horace was murdered before he went to bed--before Birchill broke into the house. It shows conclusively that the murder was committed before dusk. Your only alternatives to that conclusion are that the murdered man went to bed with his clothes on, or that the murderer broke into the house before Sir Horace had gone to bed and after killing Sir Horace went coolly round the house turning out the lights instead of fleeing in terror at his deed without even waiting to collect any booty. I am sure that as reasonable men you will reject both these alternatives as absurd. No evidence has been produced to show that anything has been stolen from the place. It was evidently the theory of the prosecution that the prisoner, after shooting Sir Horace, had fled. The evidence of Hill was that he arrived at Fanning's flat in a state of great excitement. His excitement would be consistent with his story of having discovered the body of a murdered man, but not consistent with the conduct of a cold-blooded calculating murderer who had broken into the house before Sir Horace had undressed for bed, had shot him, and had then gone round the house turning out the lights without having any apparent object in doing so. As to what took place at the flat, they had a choice between the evidence of Hill and the evidence of the girl Fanning. Hill had told them that he had tried to dissuade the prisoner from going to Riversbrook to burgle the premises, because his master had returned unexpectedly; Fanning had told them that the prisoner was in favour of postponing the crime, but that Hill had urged him to carry it out. Which story was the more probable? What reliance could they place on the evidence of Fanning? He did not wish to say that the witness was utterly vicious and incapable of telling the truth--a description that the defence had applied to Hill--but they must take into consideration the fact that Fanning was the prisoner's mistress. Was it likely that a woman, knowing her lover's life was at stake, would come here and speak the truth, if she knew the truth would hang him? He was sure that the jury, as men who knew the world thoroughly, would not hesitate between the evidence of Hill and that of Fanning. Mr. Justice Hodson belonged to the impartial, impersonal type of judge. He had no personal feelings or conviction as to the guilt or innocence of the prisoner. It was for the jury to settle that point and it was his duty to assist them to the best of his ability. He went over his notes carefully and dealt with the evidence of each of the witnesses. It was for the jury to say what evidence they believed and what they disbelieved. There was a pronounced conflict of evidence between Hill and Fanning. They were the chief witnesses in the case, but the guilt or innocence of the prisoner did not rest entirely upon the evidence of either of these witnesses. Hill might be speaking the truth and the prisoner might be innocent though the presumption would be, if Hill's evidence were truthful in every detail, that the prisoner was guilty. Fanning's evidence might be true as far as it went, but it would not in itself prove that the prisoner was innocent. Hill had admitted that he had drawn the plan of Riversbrook to assist Birchill to commit burglary. It was for the jury to determine for themselves whether he had been terrorised into drawing the plan for Birchill or whether he was the instigator of the burglary. The jury filed out of their apartment, and as they retired to consider their verdict the judge retired to his own room. The prisoner was removed from the dock and taken down the stairs out of sight. There was an immediate hum of voices in the court. Inspector Chippenfield approached the table and whispered to Mr. Walters. The latter nodded affirmatively and left the court room in company with Mr. Holymead. The sibilant sound of whispering voices died down after a few minutes and then began the long tedious wait for the return of the jury. "What say you: guilty or not guilty?" asked the Associate in a hard metallic voice in which there was no trace of interest in the answer. "Not guilty," replied the foreman. There was a muffled cheer from the gallery, which was suppressed by the stentorian cry of the ushers, "Silence in the court!" "A pack of damned fools," said the exasperated Inspector Chippenfield. Rolfe understood that his chief referred to the jury, and he nodded the assent of a subordinate. Inspector Chippenfield had betrayed surprise at the news by dropping his pen on the official report he was preparing. But it was in his usual tone of cold official superiority that he replied: "Disappeared from London? He's bolted clean out of the country by this time, I tell you! Cleared out for good and left his unfortunate wife and child to starve." "How have you learnt this, Rolfe?" "I have got to leave you. I have thought it out and this is the only thing to do. I am too frightened to stay after what took place in the court to-day. I'll make a fresh start in some place where I am not known, and as soon as I can send a little money I will send for you and Daphne. Keep your heart up and it will be all right. "YOUR LOVING HUSBAND." "The poor little woman is heartbroken," continued Rolfe, when his superior officer had finished reading the note. "She wants to know if we cannot get her husband back for her. She says the shop won't keep her and the child. Unless she can find her husband she'll be turned into the streets, because she's behind with the rent, and Hill's taken every penny she'd put by." "Then she'd better go to the workhouse," retorted Inspector Chippenfield brutally. "We'd have something to do if Scotland Yard undertook to trace all the absconding husbands in London. We can do nothing in the matter, and you'd better tell her so." Inspector Chippenfield handed back Hill's note as he spoke. Rolfe eyed him in some surprise. "But surely you're going to take out a warrant for Hill's arrest?" he said. "Certainly not," responded Inspector Chippenfield impatiently. "I've already said that Scotland Yard has something more to do than trace absconding husbands. There's nothing to prevent your giving a little of your private time to looking for him, Rolfe, if you feel so tender-hearted about the matter. But officially--no. I'm astonished at your suggesting such a thing." "It isn't that," replied Rolfe, flushing a little, and speaking with slight embarrassment. "But surely after Hill's flight you'll apply for a warrant for his arrest on--the other ground." "On what other ground?" asked his chief coldly. "Why, on a charge of murdering Sir Horace Fewbanks," Rolfe burst out indignantly. "Doesn't this flight point to his guilt?" "Not in my opinion." Inspector Chippenfield's voice was purely official. "Why, surely it does!" Rolfe's glance at his chief indicated that there was such a thing as carrying official obstinacy too far. "This letter he left behind suggests his guilt, clearly enough." "I didn't notice that," replied Inspector Chippenfield impassively. "Perhaps you'll point out the passage to me, Rolfe." Rolfe hastily produced the note again. "So that's your way of looking at it, eh, Rolfe?" said Inspector Chippenfield quizzically. "Certainly it is," responded Rolfe, not a little nettled by his chief's contemptuous tone. "It's as plain as a pikestaff that the jury acquitted Birchill because they believed Hill was guilty. Holymead made out too strong a case for them to get away from--Hill's lies about the plan and the fact that the body was fully dressed when discovered." "He led Hill into a trap about the plan of Riversbrook," said Rolfe. "When I saw that Hill had been trapped on that point I felt we had lost the jury." "You are still convinced that Birchill did it?" said Rolfe questioningly. "I have never wavered from that opinion," said his superior. "If I had, this note of Hill's would restore my conviction in Birchill's guilt." "Why, how do you make out that?" replied Rolfe blankly. "Hill says he's clearing out of the country because he's frightened. What's he frightened of? His own guilty conscience and the long arm of the law? Not a bit of it! Hill's an innocent man. If he had been guilty he'd never have stood the ordeal of the witness-box and the cross-examination. Hill's cleared out because he was frightened of Birchill." "So that's the way you look at it?" said Rolfe. "Of course I do! It's the only way Hill's flight can be looked at in the light of all that's happened. The theory dovetails in every part. I'm more used than you to putting these things together, Rolfe. Hill's as innocent of the murder as you are." "And where do you think Hill's gone to?" "Certainly not out of London. He's too much of a Cockney for that. Besides, he's a man who is fond of his wife and child. He's hiding somewhere close at hand, and I shouldn't wonder if the whole thing's a plant between him and his wife. Have you forgotten how she tried to hoodwink us before? I'll go to the shop to-morrow and see if I can't frighten the truth out of her. Meanwhile, you'd better put the Camden Town police on to watching the shop. If he's hiding in London he's bound to visit his wife sooner or later, or she'll visit him, so we ought not to have much difficulty in getting on to his tracks again." "It's an infernally baffling case," muttered Rolfe, refilling his pipe from a tin of tobacco on the mantelpiece, and walking up and down the cheap lodging-house drugget with rapid strides. "If Birchill is not the murderer who is? Is it Hill?" He lit his pipe, closed the window, opened his pocket-book and sat down to peruse the notes he had taken during his investigation of Sir Horace Fewbanks's murder. He read and re-read them, earnestly searching for a fresh clue in the pencilled pages. After spending some time in this occupation he took a clean sheet of paper and a pencil, and copied afresh the following entries from his notebook: Underneath his entries of the case Rolfe had written finally: Points to be remembered: Rolfe realised that the chief pieces of the puzzle were before him, but the difficulty was to put them together. He felt sure there was a connection between these facts, which, if brought to light, would solve the Riversbrook mystery. Without knowing it, he had been so influenced by Crewe's analysis of the case that he had practically given up the idea that Birchill had anything to do with the murder. His real reason for going to Hill's shop that morning was to try and extract something from Hill which might put him on the track of the actual murderer. He believed Hill knew more than he had divulged. Hill, before his disappearance, had placed in his hands an important clue, if he only knew how to follow it up. That incident of the missing letters must have some bearing on the case, if he could only elucidate it. Should he disclose to Chippenfield Hill's story of the missing letters? Rolfe dismissed the idea as soon as it crossed his mind. He knew his superior officer sufficiently well to understand that he would be very angry to learn that he had been deceived by Mrs. Holymead, and, as she was outside the range of his anger, he would bear a grudge against his junior officer for discovering the deception which had been practised on him, and do all he could to block his promotion in Scotland Yard in consequence. Apart from that, he could offer Chippenfield no excuse for not having told him before. Should he consult Crewe? Rolfe dismissed that thought also, but more reluctantly. Hang it all, it was too humiliating for an accredited officer of Scotland Yard to consult a private detective! Rolfe had acquired an unwilling respect for Crewe's abilities during the course of the investigations into the Riversbrook case, but he retained all the intolerance which regular members of the detective force feel for the private detectives who poach on their preserves. Rolfe's professional jealousy was intensified in Crewe's case because of the brilliant successes Crewe had achieved during his career at the expense of the reputation of Scotland Yard. Rolfe had an instinctive feeling that Crewe's mind was of finer quality than his own, and would see light where he only groped in darkness. If Crewe had been his superior officer in Scotland Yard, Rolfe would have gone to him unhesitatingly and profited by his keener vision, but he could not do so in their existing relative positions. He ransacked his brain for some other course. After long consideration, Rolfe decided to go and see Mrs. Holymead and question her about the packet of letters which Hill declared she had removed from Riversbrook after the murder. He realised that this was rather a risky course to pursue, for Mrs. Holymead was highly placed and could do him much harm if she got her husband to use his influence at the Home Office, for then he would have to admit that he had gone to her without the knowledge of his superior officer, on the statement of a discredited servant who had arranged a burglary in his master's house the night he was murdered. Nevertheless, Rolfe decided to take the risk. The chance of getting somewhere nearer the solution of the Riversbrook mystery was worth it, and what a feather in his cap it would be if he solved the mystery! He was convinced that Chippenfield had shut out important light on the mystery by doggedly insisting, in order to buttress up his case against Birchill, that the piece of handkerchief which had been found in the dead man's hand was a portion of a handkerchief which had belonged to the girl Fanning, and had been brought by Birchill from the Westminster flat on the night of the murder. It was more likely, in view of Hill's story of the letters, that the handkerchief belonged to Mrs. Holymead. Rolfe had not made up his mind that Mrs. Holymead had committed the murder, but he was convinced that she and her letters had some connection with the baffling crime, and he determined to try and pierce the mystery by questioning her. Having arrived at this decision, he replaced his notebook in his coat pocket, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and went to bed. Rolfe went to Hyde Park next day and walked from the Tube station to Holymead's house at Princes Gate. The servant who answered his ring informed him, in reply to his question, that Mrs. Holymead was "Not at home." "Do you know when she will be home?" persisted Rolfe, forestalling an evident desire on the servant's part to shut the door in his face. The man looked at Rolfe doubtfully. Well-trained English servant though he was, and used to summing up strangers at a glance, he could not quite make out who Rolfe might be. But before he could come to a decision on the point a feminine voice behind him said: "What is it, Trappon?" The servant turned quickly in the direction of the voice. "It's a er--er--party who wants to see Madam, mademoiselle," he replied. "A person--a gentleman, mademoiselle," replied Trappon, determined to be on the safe side. "Open the door, Trappon, that I may see this gentleman." "You wish to see Madame Holymead?" she said to Rolfe. Her manner was engagingly pleasant and French. Rolfe felt it incumbent upon him to be gallant in the presence of the fair representative of a nation whom he vaguely understood placed gallantry in the forefront of the virtues. He took off his hat with a courtly bow. "I do, mademoiselle," he replied, "and my business is important." "Then, monsieur, step inside if you will be so good, and I will see you." She led Rolfe to a small, prettily-furnished room at the end of the hall, and carefully shut the door. Then she invited Rolfe to be seated, and asked him to state his business. But this was precisely what Rolfe was not anxious to do except to Mrs. Holymead herself. "My business is private, and must be placed before Mrs. Holymead," he said firmly. "I wish to see her." Rolfe was a little taken aback at this intelligence, and showed it. "Out of town!" he repeated. "Where has she gone to?" She looked at him almost timidly. "But, monsieur, I do not know if I ought to tell you without knowing who you are. Are you a friend of Madame's?" "My name is Detective Rolfe--I come from Scotland Yard," replied Rolfe, in the authoritative tone of a man who knew that the disclosure was sure to command respect, if not a welcome. "Scotland? You come from Scotland? Madame will regret much that she has missed you." "Scotland Yard, I said," corrected Rolfe, "not Scotland." "Is it not the same?" Mademoiselle Chiron looked at him helplessly. "Scotland Yard--is it not in Scotland? What is the difference?" Rolfe, with a Londoner's tolerance for foreign ignorance, painstakingly explained the difference. She looked so puzzled that he felt sure she did not understand him. But that, he reflected, was not his fault. "So you see, mademoiselle, my business with Mrs. Holymead is important, therefore I'll be obliged if you will tell me where I can find her," he said. "In what part of the country is she?" "Where does she ring you up from?" asked Rolfe, eyeing Mademoiselle Chiron's handkerchief intently. "From Brighton--from Eastbourne--wherever she stops." "What place was she stopping at when you heard from her last?" "Eastbourne, monsieur." "And when will she return here?" "That, monsieur, I do not know. To-night--to-morrow--next week--she does not tell me. If Monsieur will leave me a message I will see that she gets it, for it is always me she wants, and it is always me that talks to her. What shall I tell her when next she rings the telephone? If Monsieur will state his business I will tell Madame what he tells me. I am Madame's cousin by marriage--in me she has confidence." She spoke in a tone which invited confidence, but Rolfe was not prepared to go to the length of trusting the young woman he saw before him, despite her assurance that she was in the confidence of Mrs. Holymead. He rose to his feet with a keen glance at Mademoiselle Chiron's handkerchief, which she had rolled into a little ball in her hand. "I cannot disclose my business to you, mademoiselle," he said courteously. "I must see Mrs. Holymead personally, so I shall call again when she has returned." "But, monsieur, why will you not tell me?" she asked coaxingly. "You are a police agent? Have you therefore come to see Madame about the case?" Rolfe showed that he was taken aback by the direct question. "The case!" he stammered. "What case?" "Why, monsieur, what case should it be but that of which I have so often heard Madame speak? Le judge--the good friend of Monsieur and Madame Holymead, who was killed by the base assassin! Madame is disconsolate about his terrible end!" Mademoiselle Chiron here applied the handkerchief to her eyes on her own account. "Have you come to tell her that you have caught the wicked man who did assassinate him? Madame will be overjoyed!" "Why, hardly that," replied Rolfe, completely off his guard. "But we're on the track, mademoiselle--we're on the track." "And is it that you wanted me to tell Madame?" persisted Mademoiselle Chiron. The telephone bell in the corner of the room rang suddenly. Mademoiselle Chiron ran to answer it, and accidentally dropped her handkerchief on the floor in picking up the receiver. Then she hung up the receiver and turned to Rolfe. Rolfe handed the handkerchief to its owner with a courtly bow which he flattered himself was equal to the best French school. "I picked this up off the floor, mademoiselle. It is yours, I think?" "This?" Mademoiselle Chiron touched the handkerchief with a dainty forefinger. "It is my handkerchief. I dropped it." "It is very pretty," said Rolfe, with simulated indifference. "I suppose you bought that in Paris. It does not look English,'' "But no, monsieur, it is quite Engleesh. I bought it in the shop." "Indeed! A London shop?" inquired Rolfe, with equal indifference. "The _lingerie_ shop in Oxford Street--what do you call it--Hobson's?" "I'm sure I don't know--these ladies' things are a bit out of my line," said Rolfe, rising as he spoke with a smile, in which there was more than a trace of self-satisfaction. He felt that he had acquitted himself with an adroitness which Crewe himself might have envied. He had made an important discovery and extracted the name of the shop where the handkerchief had been bought without--so he flattered himself--arousing any suspicions on the part of the lady. Rolfe knew from his inquiries in West End shops that handkerchiefs of that pattern and quality were stocked by many of the good shops, but the fact that he had found a handkerchief of this kind in the house of a lady who had abstracted secret letters from the murdered man's desk, and had, moreover, discovered the name of the shop where she bought her handkerchiefs, convinced him that he had struck a path which must lead to an important discovery. Mademoiselle Chiron followed Rolfe into the hall and watched his departure from a front window. When she saw his retreating figure turn the corner of the street she left the window, ran upstairs quickly, and knocked lightly at the closed door. The door was opened by Mrs. Holymead, who appeared to be in a state of nervous agitation. Her large brown eyes were swollen and dim with weeping, her hair had become partly unloosened, her face was white and her dress disordered. She caught the Frenchwoman by the wrist and drew her into the bedroom, closing the door after her. "What did he want, Gabrielle?" she gasped. "What did he say? Has he come about--_that_?" Gabrielle nodded her head. "No, no! He was not so bad. He did not come to do dreadful things, but just to have a little talk.'' "A little talk? What about?" "But he will come again! He is sure to come again!" "No doubt. He says he will come again--in a week--when you return." Mrs. Holymead wrung her hands helplessly. "What are we to do then?" she wailed. "We will look the tragedy in the face when it comes. _Ma foi!_ What have you been doing to yourself? For nothing is it worth to look like _that_." With deft and loving fingers Gabrielle began to arrange Mrs. Holymead's hair. "We will have everything right before this little police agent returns. We will show him he is the complete fool for suspecting you know about the murder." "But what can you do, Gabrielle?" asked Mrs. Holymead. She looked at Gabrielle with her large brown eyes, as though she were utterly dependent on the other's stronger will for support and assistance. Mademoiselle Chiron stopped in her arrangement of Mrs. Holymead's hair and, bending over, kissed her affectionately. "_Ma petite_," she said, "do not worry. I have thought of a plan--oh, a most excellent plan--which I will myself execute to-morrow, and then shall all your troubles be finished, and you will be happy again." "A lady to see you, sir." "What sort of a lady, Joe?" "Furren, I should say, sir, by the way she speaks. I arskt her if she had an appointment, and she said no, but she said she wanted to see you on very urgent and particular business. I told her most people says that wot comes to see you, but she says hers was _reely_ important. Arskt me to tell you, sir, that it was about the Riversbrook case." "The Riversbrook case? I'll see her, Joe. Has not Stork returned yet?" "Tell him to go to his dinner when he comes back. Show the lady in, Joe." Crewe regarded his caller keenly as Joe ushered her in, placed a chair for her, and went out, closing the door noiselessly behind him. She was a tall, well-dressed, graceful woman, fairly young, with dark hair and eyes. She looked quickly at the detective as she entered, and Crewe was struck by the shrewd penetration of her glance. "You are Monsieur Crewe, the great detective--is it not so?" she asked, as she sat down. The glance she now gave the detective at closer range from her large dark eyes was innocent and ingenuous, with a touch of admiration. The contrast between it and her former look was not lost on Crewe, and he realised that his visitor was no ordinary woman. "My name is Crewe," he said, ignoring the compliment. "What do you wish to see me for?" The visitor did not immediately reply. She nervously unfastened a bag she carried, and taking out a singularly unfeminine-looking handkerchief--a large cambric square almost masculine in its proportions, and guiltless of lace or perfume--held it to her face for a moment. But Crewe noticed that her eyes were dry when she removed it to remark: "What I say to you, monsieur, is in strictest confidence--as sacred as the confession." "Anything you say to me will be in strict confidence," said Crewe a little grimly. "And the boy? Can he not hear through the keyhole?" Crewe's visitor glanced expressively at the door by which she had entered. "You are quite safe here, madame--mademoiselle, I should say," he added, with a quick glance at her left hand, from which she slowly removed the glove as she spoke. "Mademoiselle Chiron, monsieur," said Gabrielle, flashing another smile at him. "I am Madame Holymead's relative--her cousin. I come to see you about the dreadful murder of the judge, Madame's friend." "I quite understand," replied Crewe. Crewe listened to this outburst with inward surprise but impassive features. Apparently the police had come to the conclusion that they had blundered in arresting Birchill for the murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks, and had recommenced inquiries with a view to bringing the crime home to somebody else. He did not know whether their suspicions were now directed against Mrs. Holymead, but they had conducted their preliminary inquiries so clumsily as to arouse her fears that they did. So much was apparent from Mademoiselle Chiron's remarks, despite the interpretation she sought to place on Mrs. Holymead's fears. He wondered if the "police agent" was Rolfe or Chippenfield. It was obvious that the cool proposal that he should help to shield Mrs. Holymead against unwelcome police attentions covered some deeper move, and he shaped his conversation in the endeavour to extract more from the Frenchwoman. "I am very sorry to hear that Mrs. Holymead has been subjected to this annoyance," he said warily. "This police agent, did he come by himself?" "But yes, monsieur, I have already said it." "I know, but I thought he might have had a companion waiting for him in a taxi-cab outside. Scotland Yard men frequently travel in pairs." "He had no taxi-cab," declared Mademoiselle Chiron, positively. "He walked away on foot by himself. I watched him from the window." Crewe registered a mental note of this admission. If she had watched the detective's departure from the window she evidently had some reason for wanting to see the last of him. Aloud he said: "I expect I know him. What was he like?" "Tall, as tall as you, only bigger--much bigger. And he had the great moustache which he caressed again and again with his fingers." Gabrielle daintily imitated the action on her own short upper lip. "I know him," declared Crewe with a smile. "His name is Rolfe. There should be nothing about him to alarm you, mademoiselle. Why, he is quite a ladies' man." Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. "That may be," she replied; "but I like him not, and I do not wish him to worry Madame Holymead." "But why not let him see Mrs. Holymead?" suggested Crewe, after a short pause. "As he only wants to ask her a few short questions, it seems to me that would be the quickest way out of the difficulty, and would save you all the trouble and worry you speak of." "I tell you I will not," declared Gabrielle vehemently. "I will not have Madame Holymead worried and made ill with the terrible ordeal. Bah! What do you men--so clumsy--know of the delicate feelings of a lady like Madame Holymead? The least soupcon of excitement and she is disturbed, distraite, for days. After last night--after the visit of the police agent--she was quite hysterical." "Why should she be when she had nothing to be afraid of?" rejoined Crewe. He spoke in a tone of simple wonder, but Gabrielle shot a quick glance at him from under her veiled lashes as she replied: Gabrielle's voice vibrated with indignation as she concluded, and Crewe regarded her closely. He decided that her affection for Mrs. Holymead was not simulated, and that it would be best to handle her from that point of view. "I am sorry," he said coldly, "but I do not see how I can help you." "Monsieur," said the Frenchwoman, clasping her hands, "I entreat you not to say so. It would be so easy for you to help--not me, but Madame." "Stay," said Crewe. "What you ask is impossible. I have nothing whatever to do with Scotland Yard. I could not interfere in their inquiries, even if I wished to. They would only laugh at me." "If you would only make the effort," she said coaxingly, "my beautiful Madame Holymead would be for ever grateful." Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders slightly in tacit recognition of the fact that the man in front of her was too shrewd to be deceived by subterfuge. "There is another reason, monsieur," she whispered. "You had better tell it to me." "If you had been a woman you would have guessed. The great judge who was killed was in his spare moments what you call a gallant--he did love my sex. In France this would not matter, but in England they think much of it--so very much. Madame Holymead is frightened for fear the least breath of scandal should attach to her name, if the world knew that the police agent had visited her house on such an errand. Madame is innocent--it is not necessary to assure you of that; but the prudish dames of England are censorious." "The Scotland Yard people are not likely to disclose anything about it," said Crewe. "That may be so, but these things come out," retorted Gabrielle. "Monsieur, she is not!" flashed Gabrielle indignantly. "She knows nothing about it. What I have to tell you concerns myself alone." "In that case," rejoined Crewe, "I think you had better speak to me frankly and freely, and if I can I will help you." "You are perhaps right," she replied. "I will tell you everything, provided you give me your word of honour that you will not inform the police of what I will tell you." "If you bind me to that promise I do not see how I can help you in the direction you indicate," said Crewe, after a moment's thought. "If the police are asked to abandon their inquiries about Mrs. Holymead, they will naturally wish to know the reason." "You are quite right," said Gabrielle. "I did not think of that. But if I tell you everything, and you have to tell the police agents so as to help Madame, will you promise that the police agents do not come and arrest _me_?" "Provided you have not committed murder or been in any way accessory to it, I think I can promise you that," rejoined Crewe. Gabrielle relapsed into silence for some moments, looking at Crewe earnestly. "Monsieur," she said at length, "it is a terrible story I have to relate, and it is difficult for me to tell a stranger what I know. Nevertheless, I will begin. I knew the great judge well." "You knew Sir Horace Fewbanks?" exclaimed Crewe. "He was--my lover, monsieur." "I had often seen him at the house of Madame Holymead when I came to London to visit her. I admired Sir Horace when I saw him--often he used to call and dine, for he was the friend of Monsieur Holymead. But Madame told me that the great judge was what in England you call a lover of the ladies--that he was dangerous--so I must be careful of him. I used to look at him when he called, and thought he was handsome in the English way, and sometimes he looked at me when he was unobserved, and smiled at me. But Madame did not like me looking at him; she said I was foolish; she warned me to be careful." Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders expressively. "Of what use was Madame's warning? It did but make me wish to know more of this great lover of my sex. He saw that, and made the opportunity, and made love to me. He was so ardent, so fervid a lover that I was conquered. "After we had been lovers I told him my secret--that I was married. Pierre Simon, my husband, was a bad man, and so I left him. But Madame must not know that I was married, for that is my secret. It does not do to tell everything--besides, it would have distressed her. "Monsieur, I was happy with my lover, the great judge. He was charming. He had that charm of manner which you English lack. Faithful? I do not know. Often we were together, and often we wrote letters when to meet was impossible. He kept my letters--they amused him so, he said--they were so French, so piquant, so different to English ladies' letters. Alas, monsieur, there had been others--many others there must have been, for he understood my sex so well. "That, monsieur, is my story." As Gabrielle finished her story, she cast a quick glance at Crewe's face as though seeking to divine his decision. But apparently she could read nothing there, and with an imperious gesture she exclaimed: "You will do what I ask now that I have exposed my secret--my shame to you--and told everything? You will save Madame Holymead from being persecuted by these police agents?" The contrast between the detective's quiet English tones and the Frenchwoman's impetuous appeal was accentuated by the methodical way in which Crewe slowly jotted down an entry in his open notebook. Her dark eyes sparkled in an agony of impatience as she watched him. "Ask them quick, monsieur, for I burn in the suspense." "Hold, monsieur! I know what you would ask! You would say if I have any proofs? Stupid that I am to forget things so important. I have brought you the proofs." She fumbled at the clasp of her hand-bag, as she spoke, and before she had finished speaking she had torn it open and emptied its contents on the table in front of Crewe--a dainty handkerchief and a revolver. "See, monsieur!" she cried; "here is the handkerchief of which I told you. It is that which the judge seized when I tried to stop the blood flowing in his breast--look at the corner and you will see that a little bit has been torn off by his almost dead hand. And the revolver--it is that which I picked up on the floor near him. I have had it locked up ever since." "Did you do this?" he asked: "Have you been trying to fire off the revolver?" "No, no, monsieur," she exclaimed quickly. "I would not fire it, I do not understand it. I have been careful not to touch the little thing that sets it going." "The handkerchief--a box of them--were given me by Sir Horace because he knew I love pretty things." She laid a finger on the missing corner, which might indeed have been torn off in the manner described. A scrap of the lace was missing, and it was evident that it had been removed with violence, for the lace around the gap was loosened, and the muslin slightly frayed. "You say that the corner was torn off when you wrenched the handkerchief from the dead man's hold?" said Crewe. "But it was not found in his hand by the police or anyone else. And he was not buried with it, for I examined the body carefully. What became of it?" Gabrielle looked at him quickly as though she suspected some trap. "You would play with me," she said at length. "What became of it? Why, you must surely know that the police of Scot--Scotland Yard have it. The police agent who called on Madame had it. What is his name--Rudolf?" "Rolfe?" exclaimed Crewe. "Has he got it?" She was not able to recognise how keen was Crewe's interest in her statement, but she saw that she had pleased him. "It is because of this that he will come again," she continued. "It is because of this that he would question Madame Holymead. And then what will happen? I do not know. The police make so many mistakes--blunders you English call them. Would they arrest her with their blunders? That is why I come to you to ask you to save her." "May I have the revolver and the handkerchief?" asked Crewe. "I will take great care of them." "They are at your disposal, for you will use them to confront the police agent." "And now, monsieur, any more questions?" Crewe smiled back at her. Gabrielle flashed a look of gratitude at Crewe. She understood from his words that he believed her story and was disposed to help her, although the police of Scotland Yard might prove harder to convince than him. "Bah! those police agents--they are the same everywhere," she exclaimed. "They deal so much with crime that their minds get the taint, and between the false and true they cannot tell the difference. _Que voulez-vous?_ They are but small in brains. With you, the case is different. You have it here--and there." She touched her temples lightly with a finger of each hand. "Proceed, monsieur: ask me what questions you will. I shall endeavour to answer them." "You said that as you were hiding behind the curtains on the stairway landing, Pierre, your husband, rushed down past you. You are quite sure it was he?" "Of that, monsieur, unfortunately there is no doubt. I saw his face quite distinctly when he passed me, and when he turned round." "The light would be shining from behind, and would not reveal his face very closely," suggested Crewe. "About what time was this?" Crewe looked at her sharply, and then nodded his head in acquiescence of the fact that much misery would have been averted if she had been in time to save the life of Sir Horace Fewbanks. "When you went into the room, Sir Horace Fewbanks, you say, was lying on the floor, dying. Whereabouts in the room was he?" "If he had been in this room he would have been lying just behind you, with his head to the wall and his feet pointing towards that window. He struggled and groaned after I went in, and altered his position a little, but not much. He died so." "And where was the writing-desk from where you got your letters?" was Crewe's next question. "It was over there--almost by that--your little bookcase there." She pointed to a small oaken bookstand which stood slightly in advance of the more imposing shelves in which reposed the portentous volumes of newspaper clippings and photographs which constituted Crewe's "Rogues' Library." "Now we come to the letters. You took them from the secret drawer in the desk. Why did you remove them?" "Because I would not have the police agents find them, for then they would want to know so much." "And what did you do with them?" "Monsieur Crewe, I destroyed them. When I got home I burnt them all--I was so frightened." "And what became of the letter you wrote to Sir Horace Fewbanks at Craigleith Hall, asking him to come to London and save you from your husband's persecutions?" She looked at him earnestly in the endeavour to ascertain if he had laid a trap for her. "Sir Horace destroyed it in Scotland, I suppose, if the police did not find it." "I do not know. What does it matter? It has gone." She shrugged her shoulders lightly and indifferently. "Do you know who stole the pocket-book?" "No, monsieur. I thought it was stolen in the train." "That is the police theory," replied Crewe. "But let that go. Have you, since the night of the murder, seen anything of Pierre?" "Monsieur, I have not. It is as though the earth has him swallowed. He keeps silent with the silence of the grave." "He is wise to do so," responded Crewe. "Now, mademoiselle, I have no more questions to ask you. Your confidence is safe; you need be under no apprehensions on that score." "I think I can safely promise you that Mrs. Holymead will not be troubled with any further police attentions," said Crewe, after a moment's pause. Gabrielle broke into profuse expressions of gratitude as she turned to go. "For the rest then, I care not what happens. I am--how do you say it--I am overjoyed. _Je vous remercie_, monsieur, I beg you not, I can find my way out unattended." "Joe," said Crewe, "I'll see nobody for an hour at least--nobody. You understand?" She had been in the room, then. For what object? For the reasons stated in her confession? Crewe shook his head doubtfully. Rolfe was spending a quiet evening in his room after a trying day's inquiries into a confidence trick case; inquiries so fruitless that they had brought down on his head an official reproof from Inspector Chippenfield. Rolfe had left Scotland Yard that evening in a somewhat despondent frame of mind in consequence, but a brisk walk home and a good supper had done him so much good, that with a tranquil mind and his pipe in his mouth, he was able to devote himself to the hobby of his leisure hours with keen enjoyment. This hobby would have excited the wondering contempt of Joe Leaver, whose frequent attendance at cinema theatres had led him to the conclusion that police detectives--who, unlike his master, had to take the rough with the smooth--spent their spare time practising revolver shooting, and throwing daggers at an ace of hearts on the wall. Rolfe's hobby was nothing more exciting than stamp collecting. He was deeply versed in the lore of stamps, and his private ambition was to become the possessor of a "blue Mauritius." His collection, though extensive, was by no means of fabulous value, being made up chiefly of modest purchases from the stamp collecting shops, and finds in the waste-paper-baskets at Scotland Yard after the arrival of the foreign mails. "Why, Mr. Crewe," said Rolfe, with evident pleasure, "who'd have thought of seeing you?" "Your landlady asked me if I'd come up myself," said Crewe, in explaining his intrusion. "She's 'too much worried and put about, to say nothing of having a bad back,' to show me upstairs." "Rather! That was a smart bit of work of yours, Mr. Crewe, in laying your hands on the woman who did it and getting back the diamond." Crewe smiled in response. "I should like to see it," said Rolfe eagerly. "It is more than likely that there are some good specimens in it. The Jews are keen collectors. If you let me have a look at it, I'll tell you what the collection is worth." "You can have it altogether," said Crewe. "I'll send my boy Joe round with it in the morning." "Oh, Mr. Crewe, it's very good of you," said Rolfe, with the covetousness of the collector shining in his eyes. "Nonsense! Why shouldn't you have it? But I didn't come round here solely to talk about stamps, Rolfe. I came to have a little chat about the Riversbrook case. How are you getting on with it?" "Since Birchill was acquitted, eh! But you are not letting it drop altogether, are you? That would be a pity--such an interesting case. Whom have you your eye on now as the right man?" "Why hardly that, Mr. Crewe. But the chief is not very keen on the case. Birchill's acquittal was too much of a blow to him. He reckons that nowadays juries are too soft-hearted to convict on a capital charge." "It's just as well that they are too soft-hearted to convict the wrong man," said Crewe. "So you've done very little about the case since Birchill was acquitted?" was his only remark. "Rolfe," said Crewe drily, "you protest too much. You don't suppose that after coming over here to see you that I can be deceived by such talk?" Rolfe flushed at these uncompromising words, but before he could speak Crewe proceeded in a milder tone. Crewe delivered his reproof with such good humour that Rolfe stared at him, as if unable to make out what his visitor was driving at. "I don't know what you are talking about, Mr. Crewe," he said at length. "Why, Princes Gate, of course," replied Crewe cheerily. "You don't suppose that a fine-looking young man like yourself could be seen in the neighbourhood of Princes Gate without causing a flutter among feminine hearts there, do you?" "So the servants have been talking, have they?" muttered Rolfe. "They have and they haven't. But that's beside the point. What I want to say is that you're on the wrong track in suspecting Mrs. Holymead, and I strongly advise you to drop your inquiries if you don't want to get yourself into hot water. She's as innocent of the murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks as Birchill is, but you cannot afford to make a false shot in the case of a lady of her social standing, as you did with a criminal like Birchill." At this rebuke Rolfe gave way to irritation. "Look here, Mr. Crewe, I'll thank you to mind your own business," he said. "It's got nothing to do with you where I make inquiries. I'll have you remember that! I don't interfere with you, and I won't have you interfering with me." "But I'm interfering only for your own good, man! What do you suppose I'm doing it for? I tell you you're riding for a very bad fall in suspecting Mrs. Holymead and shadowing her." Crewe's plain words were an echo of a secret fear which Rolfe had entertained from the time his suspicions were directed towards Mrs. Holymead. But he was not going to allow Crewe to think he was alarmed. "If I'm making inquiries about Mrs. Holymead, it's because I have ample justification for doing so," he said stiffly. "And I tell you that you have not." "Prove it!" exclaimed Rolfe defiantly. Crewe produced from his pocket a revolver and a lady's handkerchief, and handed them to Rolfe without speaking. Rolfe's embarrassment was almost equal to his astonishment as he examined the articles. In the handkerchief with its missing corner, he speedily recognised something for which he had searched in vain. He had never confided to Crewe the discovery of the missing corner in the dead man's hand, and therefore the production of the handkerchief by Crewe considerably embarrassed him. He longed to ask Crewe how he had obtained possession of the handkerchief, but he could not trust his voice to frame the question without betraying his feelings, so he picked up the revolver and examined it closely. Then he put it down and again gave his attention to the handkerchief, bending his head over it so that Crewe should not see his face. "You do not seem very astonished at my finds, Rolfe," said Crewe quizzically. "Perhaps you've seen these articles before?" "No, I haven't," said Rolfe, still avoiding his visitor's eye. "Well, the torn handkerchief is not exactly new to you," said Crewe. "You've got the missing part; you found it in Sir Horace's hand after he was murdered." "You're too clever for me, and that's the simple truth, Mr. Crewe," said Rolfe, in a mortified tone. "I did find a small piece of a lady's handkerchief in his hand, and here it is." He produced his pocket-book and took out the piece. "How you found out I had it, is more than I know." "Mere guess-work," said Crewe. Rolfe shook his head slowly. "For not telling you about the handkerchief, after I found this piece in Sir Horace's hand." "Not in the least," said Crewe. "Why should you have told me? I don't tell you everything that I find out. It's all part of the game. That piece of the handkerchief was a good find, Rolfe, and I congratulate you on getting it. How did you come to discover it?" "Well, he has had to pay for his folly." "He has, and serves him right," replied Rolfe viciously. "He's the most pig-headed, obstinate, vain, narrow-minded man you could come across." It occurred to Rolfe that it was not exactly good form on his part to condemn his superior officer so vigorously in the presence of a rival, so he broke off abruptly and asked Crewe how he came into possession of the revolver and handkerchief. "Mrs. Holymead had no connection with the crime?" exclaimed Rolfe impatiently. "Perhaps you don't know that the morning after the murder was discovered she went out to Riversbrook and removed some secret papers from the murdered man's desk--papers that he had been in the habit of hiding in a secret drawer?" "Yes, I know that," said Crewe. "Well, doesn't that look as if she knew something about the crime?" "Well, to me it does. What were these secret papers? They were letters, I am told." "I believe so. And you, Rolfe, as a man of the world, know that a married woman would not like the police to get possession of letters she had written to a man of the reputation of Sir Horace Fewbanks." "I admit that her action is capable of a comparatively innocent interpretation, but taken in conjunction with other things it looks to me mighty suspicious. In Hill's statement to us he told us that on the night of the murder, Birchill when hiding in the garden waiting for the lights to go out before breaking into the house, heard the front door slam and saw a stylish sort of woman walk down the path to the gate." "That was not Mrs. Holymead," said Crewe. "How do you know? If it was not her, who was it? Do you know?" "I think I know, and when I am at liberty to speak I will tell you." "Wasn't that the property of her French cousin, Mademoiselle Chiron?" "Quite probably, Rolfe. But scores of ladies who are fond of expensive things have handkerchiefs of a similar pattern. You will find if you inquire among the West End shops, that although it is a dainty, expensive article from the man's point of view, there is nothing singular about the quality or the pattern." "Perhaps so," said Rolfe, "but the possession of handkerchiefs of this kind is surely suspicious when taken in conjunction with her removal of the letters. I wish I could get hold of that infernal scoundrel Hill again. I am convinced that he knows a great deal more about this murder than he has yet told us, and a great deal more about Mrs. Holymead and her letters. I've had his shop watched day and night since he disappeared, but he keeps close to his burrow, and I've not been able to get on his track." "I'd give up watching for him if I were you," said Crewe, as he flicked the ash of his cigar into the fireplace. "You're not likely to find him now. As a matter of fact, he has left the country." "Hill left the country?" echoed Rolfe. "I think you are mistaken there, Mr. Crewe. He had no money; how could he get away?" Crewe selected another cigar from his case and lighted it before answering. "The fact is, I advanced him the money," he said. "Technically it's a loan, but I do not think any of it will be paid back." Rolfe stared hard at Crewe to see if he was joking. "What on earth made you do that?" he demanded at length. "Hill may be the actual murderer for all we know." "What are they?" asked Rolfe. "What a damned cunning scoundrel he is," exclaimed Rolfe, in unwilling admiration of the completeness of Hill's scheme. "Don't you think, Mr. Crewe, that, after all, he may be the actual murderer--that he told you a lot of lies just as he did to us? Holymead in his address to the jury made out a pretty strong case against him." "I believe he spoke the truth in that case," said Crewe. "He told me he put the letters back in the secret drawer the night after the murder, when he went to Riversbrook to report himself to Chippenfield. He put them back because he was afraid that if the police found them in his possession, they would think he had a hand in the murder. His idea was to remove them from the secret drawer after the excitement about the murder died down, and then blackmail Mrs. Holymead, but she acted with a skill and decision that robbed him of his chance to blackmail her." "How did you get hold of the cunning scoundrel?" asked Rolfe. "I've had his wife's shop watched day and night, as I've said. I made sure he would try to communicate with her sooner or later, but he didn't." "So that is how you got him!" said Rolfe. "I never thought of looking for him at Riversbrook. Sometimes I am inclined to agree with you that he had no nerve for murder. But an unpremeditated murder doesn't want much nerve. He might have done it in a moment of passion." Rolfe was endeavouring to take advantage of Crewe's communicative mood and to arrive by a process of elimination at the person against whom Crewe had accumulated his evidence. "It was not Hill," said Crewe. "The murder was committed in a moment of passion, and yet it was far from being unpremeditated." "You are trying to mystify me," said Rolfe despairingly. "No; it is the case itself which has mystified you," replied Crewe. "It has," was Rolfe's candid confession. "The more thought I give it, the more impossible it seems to see through it. Was Sir Horace killed before dusk--before the lights were turned on? If he was killed after dark, who turned out the lights?" "How do you know all this?" asked Rolfe, who had been staring at Crewe with open-mouthed astonishment. "That woman was not Mrs. Holymead," continued Crewe. "I had a visit to-day from the woman who did these things, and as evidence of the truth of her story she brought me the revolver and the handkerchief." "What did she come to you for?" asked Rolfe, with breathless interest. "What did she want?" "She came to me to make a full confession," said Crewe, in even tones. "A confession!" exclaimed Rolfe. "She ought to have come to the police. Why didn't she come to us?" Crewe smiled at the puzzled, indignant detective. "I think she came to me because she wanted to mislead me," he said. Joe Leaver, worn out after nearly a week's work of watching the movements of Mr. Holymead, had fallen asleep in an empty loft above a garage which overlooked Verney's Hotel in Mayfair. He had seen Mr. Holymead disappear into the hotel, and he knew from the experience gained in his watch that the K.C. would spend the next couple of hours in dressing for dinner, sitting down to that meal, and smoking a cigar in the lounge. So Joe had relaxed, for the time being, the new task which his master had set him, and had flung himself on some straw in the loft to rest. He did not intend to go to sleep, but he was very tired, and in a few minutes he was in a profound slumber. In his sleep Joe dreamed that he had attained the summit of his ambition, and was being paid a huge salary by an American film company to display himself in emotional dramas for the educational improvement of the British working classes. In his dream he had to rescue the heroine from the clutches of the villains who had carried her off. They had imprisoned her at the top of a "skyscraper" building and locked the lift, but Joe climbed the fire escape and caught the beautiful girl in his arms. The villains, who were on the watch, set fire to the building, and when Joe attempted to climb out of the window with the heroine clinging round his neck, the flames drove him back. As he stood there the wind swept a sheet of flame towards Joe until it scorched his face. The pain was so real that Joe opened his eyes and sprang up with a cry. A man was standing over him, a man past middle age, short and broad in figure, whose clean-shaven face directed attention to his protruding jaw. He was wearing a blue serge suit which had seen much use. "You are a sound sleeper, sonny," said the man, grinning at Joe's alarm. "But when you wake--why you wake up properly; I'll say that for you. You nearly broke my pipe, you woke up that sudden." He made this remark with such a malicious grin that Joe, whose face was still smarting, had no hesitation in connecting his sudden awakening with the hot bowl of the man's pipe. It was a joke Joe had often seen played on drunken men in Islington public-houses in his young days. "You just leave me alone, will you?" he said, rubbing his cheek ruefully. "It's nothing to do with you whether I'm a sound sleeper or not." "That's just where you're wrong, young fellow," was the reply. "It's a lot to do with me. Ain't your name Joe Leaver?" Joe nodded his head. "How did you find out?" he asked. "Perhaps a friend of mine pointed you out to me." "Perhaps he did, and perhaps he didn't," said Joe. "Anyway, what is your name?" "Mr. Kemp is my name, my boy. And unless you're pretty civil I'll give you cause to remember it." "What have you got to do with me?" asked the boy in an injured tone. "I've never done nothing to you." "You mind your P's and Q's and me and you'll get along all right," said Mr. Kemp, in a somewhat softer tone. "When you ask me what I've got to do with you, my answer is I've got a lot to do with you, for I'm your guardian, so to speak." Joe looked at Mr. Kemp with a gleam of comprehension in his amazement. He had had some experience in his Islington days of the strange phenomena produced by drink. "Rats!" he retorted rudely. "I've never had a guardian and I don't want none. What made you a guardian, I'd like to know?" "Your father did," was the reply. "I don't want to see him no more," said Joe. "He's no good." "That's a nice way for a boy to talk about his own father," said Mr. Kemp, in a reproving tone. "I don't know what the young generation is coming to." "If you want to send him word about me, you can tell him that I'm not going to be a thief," said Joe defiantly. "No," said Mr. Kemp tauntingly, "you'd sooner be a nark." "Yes, I would," said the boy. "And that's what you are now," declared the man wrathfully. "You're a nark for that fellow Crewe. I know all about you." "I'm earning an honest living," said Joe. "As a nark," said Mr. Kemp, with a sneer. "I'm earning an honest living," said the boy doggedly. So much of his youth had been spent among the criminal classes that he still retained the feeling that there was an indelible stigma attached to those individuals described as narks. "Now, now, my man," said the porter haughtily, "what do you think you are doing here? This ain't your place, you know. You've made a mistake. Out you go." "I want to see Mr. Holymead," said Mr. Kemp in a gruff voice. Verney's was such a high-class hotel that seedy-looking persons seldom dared to put a foot within the palatial entrance. The porter, unused to dealing with the obtrusive impecunious type to which he believed Mr. Kemp to belong, made the mistake of trying to argue with him. "Want to see Mr. Holymead?" he repeated. "How do you know he's here? Who told you? What do you want to see him for?" The porter, uncertain how to deal with the situation, looked around for help. The manager of the hotel emerged from the booking office at that moment, and the porter's appealing look was seen by him. The manager approached. He was faultlessly attired, suave in demeanour, and walked with a noiseless step, despite his tendency to corpulence. It was his daily task to wrestle with some of the manifold difficulties arising out of the eccentricities of human nature as exhibited by a constant stream of arriving and departing guests. But though he approached the distressed porter with full confidence in his ability to deal with any situation, his eyebrows arched in astonishment as he took in the full details of the intruder's attire. The porter trembled at the implication that he had grievously failed in his duty by allowing such an individual as Mr. Kemp to get so far within the exclusive portals of Verney's, and in his nervousness he relaxed from the polish of the hotel porter to his native cockney. "This 'ere party says 'e wants to see Mr. Holymead, Sir." The manager went through the motion of washing a spotlessly clean pair of hands, and then brought the palms together in a gentle clap. He smiled pityingly at Hawkins and then looked condescendingly at Mr. Kemp. "Wants to see Mr. Holymead, does he?" he said, transferring his glance to the worried porter. "And didn't you tell him that Mr. Holymead has gone to the theatre and won't be back for some considerable time?" "What name did you say?" asked the manager in a tone which seemed to express astonishment that the lower orders had names. "Mr. Kemp. You tell him Mr. Kemp wants to see him on important business." He walked towards the vacant chair and seated himself on it. He dug his toes into the velvet pile carpet with the air of a man who was trying to take anchor. Fortunately the man on the adjoining chair, and the haughty matron, were so engrossed in their conversation that they did not notice that the air in their immediate vicinity was being polluted by the presence of a man in shabby clothes and heavy boots. The manager despatched the porter in search of Mr. Holymead and then went in pursuit of Mr. Kemp. "Will you come this way, if you please, Mr. Kemp?" he said, with a low bow. He saw that Mr. Kemp was following him and led the way into an unfrequented corner of the smoking room, where, with the information that Mr. Holymead would come to him in a few moments, he asked Mr. Kemp to be seated. The manager withdrew a few yards, and then took up a position which enabled him to guard the hotel guests from having their digestions interfered with by the contaminating spectacle of a seedy man. To the manager's great relief, Mr. Holymead appeared, having been informed by the hall porter that a party who said his name was Kemp had asked to see him. The manager hurried towards Mr. Holymead and endeavoured to explain and apologise, but the K.C. assured him that there was nothing to apologise for. He went over to the corner of the smoking room, where the visitor who had caused so much perturbation was waiting for him. "Well, Kemp, what do you want?" There was nothing in his manner to indicate that he was put out by Mr. Kemp's appearance. He spoke in quiet even tones such as would seem to suggest that he was well acquainted with his visitor. "Can I speak to you on the quiet for a moment, sir?" whispered Kemp hoarsely. Holymead looked round the room. The manager had gone back to the booking office and Hawkins had vanished. The few people who were in the room seemed occupied with their own affairs. "You're watched and followed, sir," said Kemp in a whisper. "Somebody has been watching this place for days past and whenever you go out you're followed." "By whom?" asked Holymead. "By a varmint of a boy--a slippery young imp whose father's in gaol for a long stretch. I got hold of him this afternoon and told him what I'd do to him if he kept on with his game. He's living in an old loft at the back of the hotel garage, and he keeps a watch on you day and night. I thought I'd better come here and tell you, as you mightn't know about him." "You did quite right, Kemp. What's this boy like?" "Who is he? Do you know him?" "Can you describe this boy more closely?" "Well, sir, I don't know if I can say anything more about him except that he has red hair and big bright eyes that are too large for his face." "I thought so," said Holymead as if speaking to himself. "It's the same boy." "What did you say, sir?" asked Kemp. "Nothing, Kemp, except that I think I've seen a boy of this description hanging about the street near the hotel." Holymead rose to his feet as he spoke, as an indication that the interview was at an end. Kemp got up and looked at him anxiously. "I beg your pardon, sir, for coming here," he said, fumbling with the rim of his hat as he spoke. "I didn't know how you'd take it, but I hope I've done right. They didn't want to let me see you." "You did quite right, Kemp. I am very much obliged to you." He was feeling in his pocket for silver, but Kemp stopped him. "No, no, sir. I don't want to be paid anything. I wanted to oblige you like; I wanted to do you a good turn. I'd do anything for you, sir--you know I would." "I believe you would, Kemp. Good night." As Kemp passed down the hall he met the manager, who was obviously pleased to see such an unwelcome visitor making his departure. Kemp scowled at the manager as if he were a valued patron of the hotel and said, "It seems to me that you don't know how to treat people properly when they come here." Although Mr. Mattingford was somewhat flustered by the unexpected appearance of Mrs. Holymead, he did not depart from precedent to the extent of regarding her as entitled to any other treatment than that accorded to clients who called on business. He asked her if she wanted to see Mr. Holymead, placed a chair for her, then knocked deferentially at his chief's door, went inside to announce Mrs. Holymead to her husband, and came out with the information that Mr. Holymead would see her. He held open the door leading into his chief's private room, and after Mrs. Holymead had entered closed it softly and firmly. But the formal business manner of Mr. Mattingford to his chief's wife seemed to her friendly and cordial compared with the strained greetings she received from her husband. He motioned her to a chair and then got up from his own. "I wrote to you to come and see me here instead of going to the house to see you," he said, "because I thought it would be better for both. It would have given the servants something to talk about. I hope you don't mind?" "What I wanted to speak to you about is this detective Crewe whom Miss Fewbanks has employed in connection with her father's death," he continued. Her breath came quickly at this unwelcome information. She noted that he had spoken of Sir Horace's death and not his murder. He began pacing backwards and forwards across the room as if with the purpose of avoiding looking at her. "This man Crewe is a nuisance--I might even say a danger. I don't know what he has found out, but I object to his ferreting into my affairs. He must be stopped." She nodded her assent, for she could not trust herself to speak. Each time he turned his back on her as he crossed the room her eyes followed him, but as he faced her she turned her gaze on the floor. "There is no legal redress--no legal means of dealing with his impertinent curiosity," he went on. "He is within his rights in trying to find out all he can. But if he is allowed to go on unchecked the thing may reach a disastrous stage. I have no doubt that he knows that I was at Riversbrook the night that man was killed. He was not long in getting on the track of that. And the more mysterious my visit seems to him--and the fact that I have not disclosed to the police that I went up to Riversbrook and saw Sir Horace on the night of the tragedy is to his way of thinking very significant--the more reason is there for suspecting me of complicity in the crime." When he turned to cross the room her eyes lingered on him and she glanced quickly at his face. "I don't want to dwell on matters that must pain you--that must pain us both," he said slowly, "but it is necessary that you should be made acquainted with the danger that threatens me from this man. I am anxious to avoid anything in the nature of a public scandal--I am anxious quite as much if not more on your account than my own. But if this wretched man is allowed to go on trying to build up a case against me--and I must admit that he would probably obtain circumstantial evidence of a kind which would make some sort of a case for the prosecution--there is grave danger of everything coming out. If he went to the length of having me arrested and charged with the crime, there are bound to be some disclosures and the newspapers would make the most of them. It is impossible to foresee the exact nature of them, but I do not see how I could adopt any line of defence which would not hint at things that are best unrevealed. You yourself might be so ill-advised as to tell the whole story in the end. Of course, I would try to prevent you, and as far as the trial is concerned, I think I could use means to prevent you. But if the result was unfavourable--and knowing what eccentric things juries do, we must recognise the possibility of an unfavourable verdict--you might consider it advisable to disclose everything in the hope of having the conviction quashed by an appeal." "I would tell everything if you were arrested," she said, in a low voice. "Is there no other way?" she asked. "Have you thought of any other way?" "Yes. The only other way out that I have been able to find is for me to see Miss Fewbanks and ask her to withdraw the case from Crewe. I would not tell her everything--I would not bring you into it at all. But I could tell her that I had had an urgent matter to discuss with her father; that he came from Scotland to discuss it with me, and that after I left him he was murdered. I would tell her that it was quite impossible for me to disclose what the business was about, but that Crewe, having learnt that I had seen her father that night, was extremely suspicious. I would ask her to accept my word of honour that I had no knowledge of who killed her father, and to relieve me of the annoyance of the attentions of this man Crewe. I think she would agree to that proposal. That is the other way out, and from something which has happened this morning I am inclined to think that it is the better and quicker course to pursue." She was thinking so deeply that she did not reply. At length she became conscious of a long silence. She looked at him with parted lips and alarm in her eyes. She sprang from her seat and followed him to the window. "Where are they?" she gasped. "Show them to me." "Hush! I beg you not to lose your self-control; it is essential neither of us should lose our heads," he said, warningly. She regained command of herself with an effort, and whispered, rather than spoke, with twitching lips; "It means that Crewe has already communicated with Scotland Yard." "And that you will be arrested for _his_ murder?" Her trembling lips could hardly frame the words. "I think so--it's almost certain. But apparently the warrant is not yet issued, or those men would come here and arrest me. But they are watching to prevent my escape--if I thought of escaping. We may yet have a few hours to arrange something, but you must come to a prompt decision." "Tell me what to do, and I will do it. Oh, let me help you if I can. What is the best thing to do? To see Crewe?" "No. I forbid you to see Crewe," he said harshly. "If we decide on that course I will see him myself." "You must not sacrifice yourself," he said. "That would be foolish." "It is," he reluctantly admitted. "But I do not wish you to be mixed up in it at all." She left her husband's chambers with her brain in a whirl, hardly knowing where she was going until she found herself held up with a stream of pedestrians at the island intersection of Waterloo Bridge and the Strand. She thought the policeman who was regulating the traffic eyed her curiously, and, more with the object of evading his eye than with any set plan in her mind, she stepped into an empty taxi-cab which was waiting to cross the street. "Where to, ma'am?" asked the driver. The taxi-cab took her to a bookstall in the Strand, where she got out and purchased a railway guide. As the taxi-cab proceeded towards Victoria she hastily turned the pages to the trains for Dellmere. She had never been to Dellmere, but she had heard from Miss Fewbanks that her father's place was reached from a station called Horleydene, on the main line to Wennesden, and that though there were many through trains, comparatively few stopped at Horleydene. But she was unused to time-tables, and found it difficult to grasp the information she required. There was such a bewildering diversity of letters at the head of the lists of trains for that line, and so many reference notes on different pages to be looked up before it was possible to ascertain with any degree of certainty what trains stopped at Horleydene on week-days, that, in her shaken frame of mind, with the necessity for hurry haunting her, she became confused, and failed to comprehend the perplexing figures. She signalled to the driver to stop, and handed him the book. "I cannot understand this time-table," she said, in an agitated way. "Would you find out for me, please, when the next train leaves Victoria for Horleydene?" The driver consulted the time-table with a businesslike air. Mrs. Holymead consulted her watch anxiously. The driver looked dubious. "I'll try, ma'am, but it'll take some doing. It depends whether I get a clear run at Trafalgar Square." "I must save him. I will tell her everything." "Cab, ma'am?" exclaimed the driver of this vehicle in an ingratiating voice, touching his hat. "No, thank you," replied Mrs. Holymead. "I'll walk." Miss Fewbanks was astonished when the parlourmaid announced the arrival of Mrs. Holymead. She hurried to the drawing-room to meet her visitor, but the warm greeting she offered her was checked by her astonishment at the ill and worn appearance of her beautiful friend. "Please, don't," said the visitor, as she held up a warning hand to keep away a sisterly kiss. She looked at Miss Fewbanks with the air of a woman nerving herself for a desperate task, and said quickly: "I have dreadful things to tell you. You can never think of me again except with loathing--with horror." The impression Miss Fewbanks received was that her visitor had taken leave of her senses. This impression was deepened by Mrs. Holymead's next remark. "I want you to save my husband." There was an awkward pause while Mrs. Holymead waited for a reply and Miss Fewbanks wondered what was the best thing to do. "Say you will save him!" exclaimed Mrs. Holymead. "Do what you like with me, but save him." "Don't you think, dear, you would be better if you had a rest and a little sleep?" said Miss Fewbanks. "I am sure you could sleep if you tried. Come upstairs and I'll make you so comfortable." "You think I am mad," said the elder woman. "Would to God that I was." "Come, dear," said Miss Fewbanks coaxingly. She turned to the door and prepared to lead the way upstairs. "Sleep!" exclaimed Mrs. Holymead bitterly. "I have not had a peaceful sleep since your father was killed. I have been haunted day and night. I cannot sleep." "I know it was a dreadful shock to you, but you must not take it so much to heart. You must see your doctor and do what he tells you. Mr. Holymead should send you away." At the mention of her husband's name Mrs. Holymead came back to the thought that had been foremost in her mind. "Will you save him?" she exclaimed. "You know I will do anything I can for him," answered the girl gently. Her intention was to humour her visitor, for she was quite sure that Mr. Holymead was in no danger. "Will you stop Mr. Crewe?" "Stop Mr. Crewe?" Miss Fewbanks repeated the words in a tone that showed her interest had been awakened. "Stop him from what?" "Stop him from arresting my husband." "If I tell you everything will you stop him? Oh, Mabel, darling, for the sake of the past--before I came on the scene to mar the lives of both of them--will you save him? It is I--not he--who should pay the penalty of this awful tragedy. Will you save him?" "Tell me everything," said the girl firmly. She laid him down and then looked hurriedly around the room with the object of removing any evidence of how or why the crime had been committed, her main thought being to save her friend from the shame of a public scandal. She picked up a revolver which was lying on the floor near Sir Horace, turned out the lights in the library and in the hall so that the house was in darkness, and then closed the hall door after her as she went out. But Mr. Crewe had discovered in some way that Mr. Holymead had visited Sir Horace that night. Only a week ago Gabrielle had gone to him and tried to put him off the track, but it was no use. The door opened and the parlourmaid entered. Miss Fewbanks stepped quickly across the room so that she should not witness the distress of Mrs. Holymead. The servant handed her a card and waited for instructions. Miss Fewbanks looked at the card in an agony of indecision. Then she made up her mind firmly. "Show him into my study," she whispered to the girl. She returned to her visitor, who was sitting with her face buried in her hands. "Mr. Crewe has just motored down," she said. "I will save your husband if I can." "I came down to make my report to you because I think my work is finished," he said. "You have found out who killed my father?" she asked quietly. Crewe had sufficient personal pride to feel a little hurt when he saw the calm way in which she accepted the result of his investigations, instead of congratulating him on his success in a difficult task. "I think so," he said. "Before I tell you who it is you must prepare yourself for a great shock." There was no pretence about his astonishment. "How on earth did you find out?" She smiled a little at such a revelation of his appreciation of his own cleverness in having probed the mystery. "I did not find it out," she said. "I had to be told." "And who told you, Miss Fewbanks?" he asked. "Has he confessed to you? How long have you known it?" "I have known it only a few minutes," she said. "Will you tell me how you got on the track and all you have done? I am greatly interested. You have been wonderfully clever to find out. I should never have guessed Mr. Holymead had anything to do with it--I should never have thought it possible. When you have finished I will tell you how I came to know. The story is extremely simple--and sordid." The fact that the key of the mystery had been in her hands only a few minutes was a solace to Crewe, as it detracted but little from the story he had to tell of patient investigations extending over weeks. He pieced together the story of the tragedy as he had unravelled it. Hill, he said, had conceived the idea of blackmailing her father after he had discovered the existence of some letters in a secret drawer of Sir Horace's desk. The fact that Sir Horace had kept these letters instead of destroying them as he had destroyed other letters of a somewhat similar kind showed that he was very much infatuated with the lady who wrote them. That lady, as doubtless Miss Fewbanks had guessed, was Mrs. Holymead--a lady with whom Sir Horace had been on very friendly terms before she married Mr. Holymead. "What became of the letters?" asked Miss Fewbanks. "Have you got them?" "I think they are destroyed," he said. "Mrs. Holymead removed them from the secret drawer the day after the discovery of the murder. She removed them when the police had charge of the house, and almost from under the eyes of Inspector Chippenfield. It was a daring plan and well carried out." Miss Fewbanks heaved a sigh of relief on learning the fate of the letters. It had been her intention to endeavour to obtain them if they were in Crewe's possession, and destroy them. Crewe explained that Hill was afraid to take the letters and then boldly blackmail Sir Horace. The butler conceived the plan of getting Birchill to break into the house. He did not take Birchill into his confidence with regard to the blackmailing scheme, but in order to induce Sir Horace to believe the burglar had stolen the letters he told Birchill to force open the desk, as he would probably find money or papers of value there. But in order to prevent Birchill getting the letters if he should happen to stumble across the secret drawer, Hill removed them the day before. His plan was to go to Riversbrook in the morning after the burglary, and after leaving open the secret drawer which had contained the letters, to report the burglary to the police. When Sir Horace came home unexpectedly Hill had just removed the letters and had them in his possession. Hill was greatly perturbed at his master's unexpected return, and had to get an opportunity to replace the letters in the secret drawer, but Sir Horace told him to go home, as he was not wanted till the morning. Hill went to that girl's flat in Westminster, and there saw Birchill. He told Birchill that Sir Horace had returned unexpectedly, but he urged Birchill to carry out the burglary as arranged, and assured him that as Sir Horace was a heavy sleeper there would be no risk if he waited until Sir Horace went to bed. Hill's position was that if the burglary was postponed Sir Horace might make the discovery that the letters had been stolen from the secret drawer. In that case Sir Horace would immediately suspect Hill, who, he knew, was an ex-convict. It was just possible that Sir Horace, before going to bed, would discover that the letters had been stolen--that is, if he went to bed before Birchill got into the place--but Hill had to take that risk. "Apart from the circumstantial and inferential evidence against Holymead, there is the fact that his wife knows that he committed the crime. Her acts point to that; her conduct throughout springs from the desire to shield him. Even the removal of the letters from the secret drawer was prompted more by the desire to save him than to save herself. Their discovery would not have been very serious for her, but it would have put the police on her husband's track. If I remember rightly, she asked you to keep her in touch with all the developments of the investigations of the police and myself. You told me that she was greatly interested in the fact that I did not believe Birchill was guilty, and particularly anxious to know if I suspected anyone. At Birchill's trial she did me the honour of watching me very closely. I was watching both her and her husband. When she discovered through her womanly intuition that I suspected her husband; that I was accumulating evidence against him; she sent round her friend, Mademoiselle Chiron, with some interesting information for me. An extremely clever young woman that--like all her countrywomen she is wonderfully sharp and quick, with a natural aptitude for intrigue. Of course, the information she gave me was intended to mislead me--intended to show me that Mr. Holymead had nothing to do with the crime. But some of it was extremely interesting when it dealt with actual facts, and some of the facts were quite new to me. For instance, I had not previously known that a piece of a lady's handkerchief was found clenched in your father's right hand after he was dead. The police very kindly kept that information from me. Had they told me about it I might have been inclined to suspect Mrs. Holymead and to believe that her husband was trying to shield her. His conduct would bear that interpretation if she had happened to be guilty. The police unconsciously saved me from taking up that false scent. "She behaved with remarkable courage and coolness, but she overlooked the glove in the room of the tragedy, and Holymead's stick in the hall-stand. Later in the night we have Birchill's entry into the house, his alarm at finding your father had been killed, and his return to the flat where Hill was waiting for him." When Crewe had finished he looked at the girl. She had followed his statement with breathless interest. "You have been wonderfully clever," she said. "It is perfectly marvellous." Crewe's eyes had wandered to the inlaid chess-table and the Japanese chessmen set in prim rows on either side. Mechanically he began to arrange a problem on the board. His interest in the famous murder mystery seemed to have evaporated. "I was very fortunate," he said absently, in reply to Miss Fewbanks. "Everything seemed to come right for me." "You made everything come right," she replied. "I do not know how to thank you for giving so much of your time to unravelling the mystery." "It was fascinating while it lasted," he replied, his fingers still busy with the chessmen. "Of course, I am pleased with my success, but in a way I am sorry the work has come to an end. I thought that the knowledge that Holymead was the guilty man would come as a great shock to you. But I am glad you are able to take it so well." "A few minutes before you arrived I learned that it was Mr. Holymead. But what has been more of a shock to me, Mr. Crewe, is the discovery that my father had ruined his home. Oh, Mr. Crewe, it is terrible for me to have to hold my dead father up to judgment, but it is more terrible still to know that he was not faithful even to his lifelong friendship with Mr. Holymead." "Your nerves are unstrung," he said. "You want rest and quiet--you want a long sea voyage." "Yes, I want to forget," she said. "But there are others who want to forget, too. Cannot we bury the whole thing in forgetfulness?" Crewe's growing interest in the chessboard and his problem suddenly vanished. His eyes became instantly riveted on her face in a keen, questioning look. "What is it to me or you that Mr. Holymead should be publicly proved guilty of this terrible thing?" she went on, passionately. "Why drag into the light my father's conduct in order to make a day's sensation for the newspapers? For his sake, what better thing could I do than let his memory rest?" "I'm extremely sorry," he said slowly. "Won't you let it all drop?" she pleaded. "I could not take upon myself the responsibility of condoning such a crime--the responsibility of judging between your father and his murderer," he said solemnly. "But even if I could it is too late to think of doing so. There is already a warrant out for Holymead's arrest" The newspapers made a sensation out of the announcement of Holymead's arrest on a charge of having murdered Sir Horace Fewbanks. They declared that the arrest of the eminent K.C. on a capital charge would come as a surprising development of the Riversbrook case. It would cause a shock to his many friends, and especially to those who knew what a close friendship had existed between the arrested man and the dead judge. The papers expatiated on the fact that Holymead had appeared for the defence when Frederick Birchill had been tried for the murder. As the public would remember, Birchill had been acquitted owing to the great ability with which his defence was conducted. In the absence of interesting facts apropos of the arrest of the distinguished K.C., some of the papers published summaries of his legal career, and the more famous cases with which he had been connected. These summaries would have been equally suitable to an announcement that Mr. Holymead had been promoted to the peerage or that he had been run over by a London bus. There were people who declared without knowing anything about the evidence the police had in their possession that in arresting the famous barrister the police had made a far worse blunder than in arresting Birchill. It was even hinted that the arrest of the man who had got Birchill off was an expression of the police desire for revenge. To these people the acquittal of Holymead was a foregone conclusion. The man who had saved Birchill's life by his brilliant forensic abilities was not likely to fail when his own life was at stake. But when the case came before the police court and the police produced their evidence, it was seen that there was a strong case against the prisoner. The whispers as to the circumstances under which the prisoner had taken the life of a friend of many years appealed to a sentimental public. These whispers concerned the discovery by the prisoner that his friend had seduced his beautiful wife. In the police court proceedings there were no disclosures under this head, but the thing was hinted at. In view of the legal eminence of the prisoner and the fear of the police that he would prove too much for any police officer who might take charge of the prosecution, the Direction of Public Prosecutions sent Mr. Walters, K.C., to appear at the police court. The prisoner was represented by Mr. Lethbridge, K.C., an eminent barrister to whom the prisoner had been opposed in many civil cases. Inspector Chippenfield, who realised that the important position the prisoner occupied at the bar added to the importance of the officer who had arrested him, gave evidence as to the arrest of the prisoner at his chambers in the Middle Temple. With a generous feeling, which was possibly due to the fact that he was entitled to none of the credit of collecting the evidence against the prisoner, Inspector Chippenfield allowed Detective Rolfe a subordinate share in the glory that hung round the arrest by volunteering the information in the witness-box that when making the arrest he was accompanied by that officer. He declared that the prisoner made no remark when arrested and did not seem surprised. Mr. Walters produced a left-hand glove and witness duly identified it as the glove which he found in the room in which the murder took place. Percival Chambers, an elderly well-dressed man with a grey beard, and wearing glasses, who was secretary of the Master of Rolls, swore that he knew of no prospective vacancies on the Court of Appeal Bench. Were any vacancies of the kind in view he believed he would be aware of them. This closed the case for the police, and Mr. Lethbridge immediately asked for the discharge of the prisoner on the ground that there was no case to go before a jury. The magistrate shook his head, and merely asked Mr. Lethbridge if he intended to reserve his defence. Mr. Lethbridge replied with a nod, and the accused was formally committed for trial at the next sittings at the Old Bailey. The newspapers reported at great length the evidence given in the police court, and their reports were eagerly read by a sensation-loving public. Even those people who, when Holymead's arrest was announced, had ridiculed the idea of a man like Holymead murdering a lifelong friend, had to admit that the police had collected some damaging evidence. Those people who at the time of the arrest had prided themselves on possessing an open mind as to the guilt of the famous barrister, confessed after reading the police court evidence that there could be little doubt of his guilt. The only thing that was missing from the police court proceedings was the production of a motive for the crime, but it was whispered that there would be some interesting revelations on this point when the prisoner was tried at the Old Bailey. Fortunately he had not long to wait for his trial, as the next sittings of the Central Criminal Court had previously been fixed a week ahead of the date of his commitment. That week was full of anxiety for Mr. Lethbridge, for he realised that he had a poor case. What increased his anxiety was the fact that Holymead insisted on the defence being conducted on the lines he laid down. It was a new thing in Lethbridge's experience to accept such instructions from a prisoner, but Holymead had threatened to dispense with all assistance unless his instructions were carried out. He was particularly anxious that his wife's name should be kept out of court as much as possible. Lethbridge had pointed out to him that the prosecution would be sure to drag it in at the trial in suggesting a motive for the murder, and that for the purposes of the defence it was best to have a full and frank disclosure of everything so that an appeal could be made to the jury's feelings. Holymead's beautiful wife, who was almost distracted by her husband's position, implored his Counsel to allow her to go into the box and make a confession. But that course did not commend itself to Lethbridge, who realised that she would make an extremely bad witness and would but help to put the rope round her husband's neck. He put her off by declaring that there was a good prospect of her husband being acquitted, but that if the verdict unfortunately went against him her confession would have more weight in saving him, when the appeal against the verdict was heard. Lethbridge, feeling that it was his duty as Counsel for the prisoner to try every avenue which might help to an acquittal, asked Mr. Tomlinson, the solicitor who was instructing him in the case, to find Birchill and bring him to his chambers. Birchill was found and kept an appointment. Lethbridge explained to him that he had nothing further to fear from the police with regard to the murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks. Having been acquitted on this charge he could not be tried on it again, no matter what discoveries were made. He could not even be tried for perjury, as he had not gone into the witness-box. Having allowed these facts to sink home, he delicately suggested to Birchill that he ought to come forward as a witness for the defence of Holymead--he ought to do his best to try and save the life of the man who had saved his life. "What do you want me to swear?" asked Birchill, in a tone which indicated that although he did not object to committing perjury, he wanted to know how far he was to go. "Well, that Sir Horace Fewbanks was alive when you went to Riversbrook," suggested Lethbridge. "But I tell you he was dead," protested Birchill. He seemed to think that reviving a dead man was beyond even the power of perjury. "That was your original story, I know," agreed Lethbridge suavely. "But as you were not put into the witness-box to swear it you can alter it without fear of any consequences." "You want me to swear that he was alive?" said Birchill, meditatively. "If you can conscientiously do so," replied Lethbridge. "That he was alive when I left Riversbrook?" asked Birchill. "Well, not necessarily that," said Lethbridge. Birchill sprang up in alarm. "Good God, do you want me to swear that I killed him?" he demanded. Lethbridge endeavoured to explain that he would have nothing to fear from such a confession in the witness-box, but Birchill would listen to no further explanations. He felt that he was in dangerous company, and that his safety depended on getting out of the room. "You've made a mistake," he said, as he reached the door. "If you want a witness of that kind you ought to look for him in Colney Hatch." The impending trial of Holymead produced almost as much excitement in staid legal circles as it did among the general public. It was rumoured that there was a difficulty in obtaining a judge to preside at the trial, as they all objected to being placed in the position of trying a man who was well-known to them and with whom most of them had been on friendly terms. There was a great deal of sympathy for the prisoner among the judges. Of course, they could not admit that any man had the right to take the law into his own hands, but they realised that if any wrong done to an individual could justify this course it was the wrong Sir Horace Fewbanks had done to an old friend. When it became known that Mr. Justice Hodson was to preside at the Old Bailey during the trial of Holymead, legal rumour concerned itself with statements to the effect that there was now a difficulty in obtaining a K.C. to undertake the prosecution. When it was discovered that Mr. Walters, K.C., was to conduct the prosecution, it was whispered that he had asked to be relieved of the work and had even waited on the Attorney-General in the matter, but that the latter had told him that he must put his personal feelings aside and act in accordance with that high sense of duty he had always shown in his professional career. Among those persons standing in the body of the court were Crewe and Inspector Chippenfield and Detective Rolfe. Inspector Chippenfield displayed so much friendliness to Crewe as he drew his attention to the number of celebrities in court that it was evident he had buried for the time being his professional enmity. This was because Crewe had allowed him to appropriate some of the credit of unravelling Holymead's connection with the crime. As the jury were being sworn in Crewe and Chippenfield made their way out of court into the corridor. As they were to be called as witnesses they would not be allowed in court until after they had given their evidence. It was not incumbent on the prosecution to prove a motive for the murder, continued Mr. Walters, though where the motive was plainly proved the case against the prisoner was naturally strengthened. In this case there was no doubt about the motive, but the extent of the evidence to be placed before the jury under that head would depend upon the defence. The prosecution would submit some evidence on the point, but the full story could only be told if the defence placed the wife of the prisoner in the witness-box. It was impossible for the prosecution to call her as a witness, as English law prevented a wife giving evidence against her husband. She could, however, give evidence in favour of her husband, and doubtless the defence would take full advantage of the privilege of calling her. "That is the case for the prosecution which I will endeavour to establish to the satisfaction of the jury," said Mr. Walters, in concluding his speech, "Of course it is impossible to produce direct evidence of the actual shooting. But I will produce a silent but indisputable witness in the form of a glove which belonged to the prisoner, that he was present in the room in which the murder took place. I will produce evidence to show that the prisoner left his stick behind in the hat-stand in the hall on the night of the murder. These things prove conclusively that he left Riversbrook in a state of considerable excitement. The fact that after the murder was discovered he kept hidden in his own breast the knowledge that he had been there on that night, instead of going to the police and, in the endeavour to assist them to detect the murderer of his lifelong friend, informing them that he had called on Sir Horace, shows conclusively that he went there on a mission on which he dared not throw the light of day." Hill, who had not been available as a witness at the police court--being then on the way back from America in response to a cablegram from Crewe--reappeared as a witness. He looked much more at ease in the witness-box than on the occasion when he gave evidence against Birchill. He had fully recovered from his terror of being arrested for the murder, and obviously had much satisfaction in giving evidence against the man who, according to his impression, had tried to bring the crime home to him. "He's a dead man," whispered Chippenfield, nodding his head towards the prisoner, "if this is a sample of their witnesses." Mr. Lethbridge interposed to explain to any particularly unsophisticated jurymen that "a put-up job" meant a burglary that had been arranged with the connivance of a servant in the house to be broken into. While Kemp was giving his evidence, Crewe had despatched a messenger to his chambers in Holborn for Joe. When the boy returned with the messenger Kemp was still in the witness-box, undergoing an examination at the hands of the judge. Sir Henry Hodson seemed to have been impressed by the witness's story, for he asked Kemp a number of questions, and entered his answers in his notebook. "Joe," whispered Crewe, as the boy stole noiselessly behind him, "look at that man in the witness-box. Have you ever seen him before?" "Rayther, guv'nor!" whispered the boy in reply. "Why, it's 'im who tried to frighten me in the loft if I didn't promise to give up watching Mr. Holymead." "You are quite certain, Joe?" "Certain sure, guv'nor. There ain't no charnst of me mistaking a man like that." "Take that to Mr. Walters," he whispered. The man did so. Mr. Walters opened the note, adjusted his glasses and read it. He started with surprise, read the note through again, then turned round as though in search of the writer. When he saw Crewe he raised his eyebrows interrogatively, and the detective nodded emphatically. Mr. Lethbridge sat down, having finished his examination of Kemp. Mr. Walters, with another glance at Crewe's note, rose slowly in his place. "I ask Your Honour that I may be allowed to defer until the morning my cross-examination of this witness," he said. "I am, of course, in Your Honour's hands in this matter, but I can assure Your Honour that it is desirable--highly desirable--in the interests of justice that the cross-examination of the witness should be postponed." "I protest, Your Honour, against the cross-examination of the witness being deferred," said Mr. Lethbridge. "There is no justification of it." "I would urge Your Honour to accede to my request," said Mr. Walters. "It is a matter of the utmost importance." "Is your next witness available, Mr. Lethbridge?" asked the judge. "Surely, Your Honour, you're not going to allow the cross-examination of this witness to be postponed?" protested Mr. Lethbridge. "My learned friend has given no reason for such a course." Sir Henry Hodson looked at the court clock. There was a loud buzz of conversation when the court adjourned. After asking Chippenfield and Rolfe to wait for him, Crewe made his way to Mr. Walters, and, after a few whispered words with that gentleman, Mr. Mathers, his junior, and Mr. Salter, the instructing solicitor, he returned to Chippenfield and Rolfe and asked them to accompany him in a taxi-cab to Riversbrook. "What do you want to go out there for?" asked Inspector Chippenfield. "You don't expect to discover anything there this late in the day, do you?" "I want to find out whether this man Kemp is lying or telling the truth." "Of course he is lying," replied the positive police official. "When you've had as much experience with criminals as I have had, Mr. Crewe, you won't expect a word of truth from any of them." "Well, let us go to Riversbrook and prove that he is lying," said Crewe. "We'll go with you," said Inspector Chippenfield, speaking for Rolfe and himself. He did not understand how Crewe expected to obtain any evidence at Riversbrook about the truth or falsity of Kemp's story, but he did not intend to admit that. "But you can set your mind at rest. No jury will believe Kemp after we've given them his record in cross-examination." Rolfe, whose association with Crewe in the case had awakened in him a keen admiration for the private detective's methods and abilities, permitted himself to defy his superior officer to the extent of saying that "the best way to prove Kemp a liar is to prove that his story is false." "She died of heart disease while on trial, didn't she?" asked Crewe. "Why, that explains it!" exclaims Crewe, in the voice of a man who had solved a difficulty. "Explains what?" asked Inspector Chippenfield. "But I don't see that old Kemp is taking much risk," said Inspector Chippenfield. "He is only perjuring himself, and he is too used to that to regard it as a risk." "Whew! I never thought of that," said Rolfe candidly. When they reached Riversbrook they entered the carriage drive and traversed the plantation until they stood on the edge of the Italian garden facing the house. The gaunt, irregular mansion stood empty and deserted, for Miss Fewbanks had left the place after her father's funeral, with the determination not to return to it. The wind whistled drearily through the nooks and crannies of the unfinished brickwork of the upper story, and a faint evening mist rose from the soddened garden and floated in a thin cloud past the library window, as though the ghost of the dead judge were revisiting the house in search of his murderer. The garden had lost its summer beauty and was littered with dead leaves from the trees. The gathering greyness of an autumn twilight added to the dreariness of the scene. "Kemp didn't say how far he stood from the house," said Crewe, "but we'll assume he stood at the edge of the plantation--about where we are standing now--to begin with. How far are we from that library window, Chippenfield?" "You're going to a lot of trouble for nothing, if your object is to try and prove that he couldn't have seen into the window," grunted Inspector Chippenfield, in a mystified voice. "Why, I can see plainly into the window from here." "I quite agree with you," said Inspector Chippenfield. "He would stand more in the front of the house. The tree in front of the house doesn't obstruct the view of the window to any extent." "Kemp could have seen the library window if he had stood here," he said. "I should say that if the blind were up it would be possible to see right into the room." "What do you say, Chippenfield?" asked Crewe, turning to that officer. Inspector Chippenfield had taken his stand stolidly on the centre path of the Italian garden, directly in front of the window of the library. "But if he was here, do you think he saw Sir Horace leaning out of the window?" "I don't see what was to prevent him," was the reply. "But my point is that he was a liar and that he wasn't here at all." "And you, Rolfe--do you think Kemp could have seen Sir Horace leaning out of the window if he had been here?" "I should say so," remarked Rolfe, in a somewhat puzzled tone. "I am sorry I cannot agree with either of you," said Crewe. "I think Kemp was here, but I am sure he couldn't have seen Sir Horace from the window. Kemp has been up here during the past few days in order to prepare his evidence, and he's been led astray by a very simple mistake. If a man were to lean outside the library window now there would not be much difficulty in identifying him, but when the murder took place it would have been impossible to see him from any part of the garden or grounds." "Why?" demanded Inspector Chippenfield. "What did I tell you?" exclaimed Inspector Chippenfield in the voice of a man whose case had been fully proved. "Didn't I say Kemp was a liar? We'll call evidence in rebuttal to prove that he is a liar--that he couldn't have seen the window. And after Holymead is convicted I'll see if I cannot get a warrant out for Kemp for perjury." "And yet Kemp did see Sir Horace that night," said Crewe quietly. "How do you know? What makes you say that?" The inspector was unpleasantly startled by Crewe's contention. "But the fact that Kemp knew how Sir Horace was dressed doesn't prove that he saw Sir Horace after Holymead left the house," said Rolfe. "Kemp may have seen Sir Horace before Holymead arrived." "Quite true, Rolfe," said Crewe. "I haven't lost sight of that point. I think you will agree with me that there is a bit of a mystery here which wants clearing up." They drove back to town, and, in accordance with the arrangement Crewe had made with Mr. Walters before leaving the court, they waited on that gentleman at his chambers in Lincoln's Inn. There Crewe told him of the result of their investigations at Riversbrook. Mr. Walters was professionally pleased at the prospect of destroying the evidence of Kemp. He was not a hard-hearted man, and personally he would have preferred to see Holymead acquitted, if that were possible, but as the prosecuting Counsel he felt a professional satisfaction in being placed in the position to expose perjured evidence. "Excellent! excellent!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands with gratification as he spoke. "Knowing what we know now, it will be a comparatively easy task to expose the witness Kemp under cross-examination, and show his evidence to be false." Mr. Walters looked as though he relished the prospect. It was arranged that Inspector Chippenfield should be called to give evidence in rebuttal as to the impossibility of seeing the library window through the tree, and that an arboriculturist should also be called. Mr. Walters agreed to have the expert in attendance at the court in the morning. But Crewe had something more on his mind, and he waited until Chippenfield and Rolfe had taken their departure in order to put his views before the prosecuting counsel. Then he pointed out to him that to prove that Kemp's evidence was false was merely to obtain a negative result. What he wanted was a positive result. In other words, he wanted Kemp's true story. "You do not think, then, that Kemp is merely committing perjury in order to get Holymead off?" asked Walters meditatively. "You think he is hiding something?" Crewe replied, with his faint, inscrutable smile, that he had no doubt whatever that such was the case. He thought Kemp's true story might be obtained if Walters directed his cross-examination to obtaining the truth instead of merely to exposing falsehood. It was evident to him that Kemp had come forward in order to save the prisoner. How far was he prepared to go in carrying out that object? When he was made to realise that his perjury, instead of helping Holymead, had helped to convince the jury of the prisoner's guilt, would he tell the true story of how much he knew? "My own opinion is that he will," continued Crewe. "I studied his face very closely while he was in the box to-day, and I am convinced he would go far--even to telling the truth--in order to save the only man who was ever kind to him." Crewe entered into the professional view sympathetically, but he was not to be turned from his purpose. He felt that too much was at stake, and he lifted the discussion out of the atmosphere of professional procedure into that of their common manhood. "Walters, I know you are not a vain man," he said, earnestly. "A personal triumph in this case means even less to you than it does to me. I have built up what I regard as an overwhelming case against Holymead. But it is based on circumstantial evidence, and I would willingly see the whole thing toppled over if by that means we could get the final truth. This man Kemp knows the truth, and you are in a position in which you can get the truth from him. It may be the last chance anyone will have of getting it. Apart from all questions of professional procedure, isn't there an obligation upon you to get at the truth?" "If you put it that way, I believe there is," replied Walters slowly and meditatively. There was a pause, and then he spoke with a sudden impulse. "Yes, Crewe; you can depend on me. I'll do my best." There was an expectant silence in the court when Mr. Justice Hodson took his seat and the names of the jurymen were called over. Kemp entered the witness-box with a more confident air than he had worn the previous day. Mr. Walters rose to begin his cross-examination, and the witness faced the barrister with the air of an old hand who knew the game, and was not to be caught by any legal tricks or traps. "You are quite sure of that?" "Haven't I just said so?" "How long was it after the prisoner entered the carriage drive that you went to the edge of the plantation and heard voices upstairs?" continued Mr. Walters. "I went as soon as Mr. Holymead passed me." "How far were you from the house?" "And from that distance you could hear the voices?" "Not very. I could hear the voices, but I couldn't hear what they were saying." "Were they angry voices?" "They seemed to me to be talking loudly." "Yet you couldn't hear what they were saying?" "Then what made you swear that?" "What happened next?" "I heard the front door slam, and I saw somebody walking across the garden, and go into the carriage drive towards the gate." "Did you recognise who it was?" "Yes; Mr. Holymead." Kemp looked at the prisoner as he gave the answer. "You swear it was the prisoner?" "Let me recall your evidence in chief, witness. You swore that you identified Mr. Holymead as he went in because he struck a match to look at the time as he passed you, and you saw his face. Did he strike matches as he went out?" "Then how are you able to swear so positively as to his identity in the dark?" Kemp considered a moment before replying. "Because I know him well and I was close to him," he said at length. "I was close enough to him almost to touch him. I knew him by his walk, and by the look of him. It was him right enough, I'll swear to that." "I put it to you, witness," persisted Counsel, "that you could not positively identify a man in a plantation at that time of night. Do you still swear it was Mr. Holymead?" "I do," replied Kemp doggedly. "What did you do then?" "I stayed where I was." "I don't know. I didn't have any particular reason. I just stayed there watching." "Did you think the prisoner might return?" "No," replied the witness quickly. "Why should I think that?" "How long did you stay watching the house?" "And the prisoner didn't return during that time?" "No," replied the witness emphatically. "What did you do after that?" "I went to the Tube station." "Prisoner might have returned after you left?" "I suppose he might," replied the witness reluctantly. "You saw him distinctly?" "You are sure it was Sir Horace Fewbanks?" "Are you aware, witness, that there is a large chestnut-tree at the side of the library, in front of the window?" Kemp considered for a moment. "And did not that tree obstruct your view of the library window?" There was a slight stir in court--an expression of the feeling of tension among the spectators. Kemp drew the back of his hand across his lips, then moistened his lips with his tongue. "Come, witness, give me an answer," thundered prosecuting Counsel. "I tell you I saw him after Mr. Holymead had left," declared Kemp defiantly. His voice had suddenly become hoarse. To the surprise of the members of the legal profession who were in court, Mr. Walters, instead of pressing home his advantage, switched off to something else. "I believe you have a feeling of gratitude towards the prisoner?" he asked, in a milder tone. "I have," said Kemp. His defiant, insolent attitude had suddenly vanished, and he gave the impression of a man who feared that every question contained a trap. "He did something for a relative of yours which at that time greatly relieved your mind?" "He did, and I'll never forget it." "Well, we won't go further into that at present. But it is a fact that you would like to do him a good turn?" "You came here with the intention of doing him a good turn?" Kemp considered for a moment before answering: "You came here with the intention of giving evidence that would get him off?" "You came here with the intention of committing perjury in order to get him off?" Mr. Walters waited, but there was no reply to the question, and he added, "You see what your perjured evidence has done for him?" "What has it done?" asked Kemp sullenly. "It has established the prisoner's guilt beyond all reasonable doubt in the minds of men of common sense. You did not see Sir Horace Fewbanks that night after the prisoner left him. You could not have seen him even if he had leaned out of the window. But your whole story is a lie, because Sir Horace was dead when the prisoner left him." "He was not," shouted Kemp. "I saw him alive. I saw him as plain as I see you now." The man in court who was most fascinated by the witness was Crewe. He had watched every movement of Kemp's face, every change in the tone of his voice. "I wonder what the fool will say next," whispered Inspector Chippenfield to Crewe. "He will tell us how Sir Horace Fewbanks was shot," was Crewe's reply. Mr. Walters approached a step nearer to the witness-box. "You saw him as plainly as you see me now?" he repeated. "Yes," declared Kemp, who, it was evident, was labouring under great excitement. "You say I came here to commit perjury if it would get him off." He pointed with a dramatic finger to the man in the dock. "I did. And I came here to get him off by telling the truth if perjury didn't do it. You say I've helped to put the rope round his neck. But I'm man enough to tell the truth. I'll get him off even if I have to swing for it myself." It was on Mr. Walters that Kemp concentrated his attention. It was Mr. Walters whom he set himself to convince as if he were the man who could set the prisoner free. Of the rest of the people in court Kemp in his excitement had become oblivious. "I heard Mr. Holymead step towards the door, and I slipped away from where I had been standing. I saw the door of another room near me, and I opened it and went in quickly. I closed the door behind me, but I did not shut it. I looked through the crack and saw Mr. Holymead making his way downstairs. He walked as if he didn't see anything, and I watched him till he went through the curtains on the stairs at the bend of the staircase and I could see him no more. "Then I heard a step, and looking through the crack I saw the judge coming out of the library. He walked to the head of the stairs and began to walk slowly down them. But when he reached the bend where the curtains and the marble figure were, he turned round and walked up the stairs again. He walked along as though he was thinking, with his hands behind his back, and nodding his head a little, and a little cruel, crafty smile on his face. He passed so close to me that I could have touched him by putting out my hand, and he went into the library again, leaving the door open behind him. "Then suddenly, as I stood there, the thought came over me to go in to him and tell him what I thought about him. I opened the door softly so as not to frighten him, and walked out into the passage and into the library, and as I did so I took my revolver out of my pocket and carried it in my hand. I wasn't going to shoot him, but I meant to hold him up while I told him the truth. "He was standing at the opposite side of the room with his back towards me and a book in his hand, but a board creaked as I stepped on it, and he swung round quickly. He was surprised to see me, and no mistake. 'What do you want here?' he said, in a sharp voice, and I could see by the way he eyed the revolver that he was frightened. Then I opened out on him and told him off for the damned scoundrel he was. And he didn't like that either. He edged away to a corner, but I kept following him round the room telling him what I thought of him. And seeing him so frightened, I put the revolver back in my pocket and walked close to him while I told him all the things I could think of. "As I thought of my poor girl that he'd killed I grew savage, and I told him that I had a good mind to break every bone in his body. He threatened to have me arrested for breaking into the place, but I only laughed and hit him across the face. He backed away from me with a wicked look in his eyes, and I followed him. He backed quickly towards the door, and before I knew what game he was up to he made a dart out of the room. But I was too quick for him. I got him at the head of the stairs and dragged him back into the room and shut the door and stood with my back against it. I told him I hadn't finished with him. I had mastered him so quickly, and was able to handle him so easily, that I didn't watch him as closely as I ought to have done. He had backed away to his desk with his hand behind him, and suddenly he brought it up with a revolver in his hand. "'Now it's my turn,' he said to me with his cunning smile. Throw up your hands.' He stopped, and his gaze wandered round the hushed court till it rested on the prisoner, who with his hands grasping the rail of the dock had leaned forward in order to catch every word. Kemp turned his gaze from the man in the dock to the man in the scarlet robe on the bench, and it was to the judge that he addressed his concluding words. "You can call it murder, you can call it manslaughter, you can call it justifiable homicide, you can call it what you like, but what I say is that the man you have in the dock had nothing to do with it. It was me that killed him. Let him go, and put me in his place." He held his hands outstretched with the wrists together as though waiting for the handcuffs to be placed on them. An hour after the trial Crewe entered the chambers of Mr. Walters, K.C. "I congratulate you on the way you handled him in the witness-box," said Crewe, who was warmly welcomed by the barrister. "You did splendidly to get it all out of him--and so dramatically too." "Yes, I'm glad to think that Holymead would have got off even if I hadn't seen through Kemp," replied Crewe thoughtfully. "I made a bad mistake in being so confident that he was the guilty man." "The completeness of the circumstantial evidence against him was extraordinary," said Walters, to whom the legal aspects of the case appealed. "Personally I am inclined to blame Holymead himself for the predicament in which he was placed. If he had gone to the police after the murder was discovered, told them the story of his visit to Sir Horace that night, and invited investigation into the truth of it, all would have been well." "Ah, but there is a difference between knowing Kemp was committing perjury and knowing that he was the guilty man." "How is that vital?" asked Walters, who was keenly interested in understanding how Crewe had arrived at his conviction of Kemp's guilt. "You have worked it out very ingeniously," said Walters. "You must find the work of crime detection very fascinating. I am afraid that if I had been in your place--that is if I had known as much about the tragedy as you do--when Kemp was in the witness-box yesterday, I would not have seen anything more in his evidence than the fact that he was committing perjury in order to help Holymead."	redpajama-book	63,360
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team THE HOUSE OF THE WHISPERING PINES By ANNA KATHARINE GREEN "Mazes intricate, Eccentric, interwov'd, yet regular Then most, when most irregular they seem". SWEETWATER TO THE FRONT WHAT THE PINES WHISPERED To have reared a towering scheme Of happiness, and to behold it razed, Were nothing: all men hope, and see their hopes Frustrate, and grieve awhile, and hope anew; But- _A Blot in the 'Scutcheon._ I listened but heard nothing. I listened again and still heard nothing. Then I proceeded boldly up the steps and laid my hand on the door. The question scarcely interested me. Nevertheless I proceeded to enter and close the door carefully behind me. As I did so, I cast an involuntary glance without. The sky was inky and a few wandering flakes of the now rapidly advancing storm came whirling in, biting my cheeks and stinging my forehead. Life offers few such shocks to any man, whatever his story or whatever his temperament. I had been prepared by the sob I had heard to see a woman, but not this woman. Nothing could have prepared me for an encounter with this woman anywhere that night, after what had passed between us and the wreck she had made of my life. But here! in a place so remote and desolate I had hesitated to enter it myself! What was I to think? How was I to reconcile so inconceivable a fact with what I knew of her in the past, with what I hoped from her in the future. IT WAS SHE--SHE INDEED! Why, I did not know. There seemed to be no reason for this excess of feeling. I had no dread of attack; my apprehension was of another sort. Besides, any attack here must come from the rear--from the open doorway in which I stood--and my dread lay before me, in the room itself, which, as I have already said, appeared to be totally empty. What could occasion my doubts, and why did I not fly the place? There were passage-ways yet to search, why linger here like a gaby in the dark when perhaps the man I believed to be in hiding somewhere within these walls, was improving the opportunity to escape? Thoroughly roused now (you will say, by what?) I felt my way out of the room and to the head of the staircase. I remembered the candle and candlestick I had heard thrown down on the lower floor by Carmel Cumberland. I would secure them and come back and settle these uncanny doubts. It might be the veriest fool business, but my mind was disturbed and must be set at ease. Nothing else seemed so important, yet I was not without anxiety for the lovely and delicate woman wandering the snow-covered roads in the teeth of a furious gale, any more than I was dead to the fact that I should never forgive myself if I allowed the man to escape whom I believed to be hiding somewhere in the rear of this house. It was _she_, she, indeed! and judgment was glassed in the look I met--judgment and nothing more kindly, however I might appeal to Heaven for mercy or whatever the need of my fiercely startled and repentant soul. I sank to the floor as I fully realised this. I had no reason to think that I was being sought, or that my presence in this building was even suspected. It might well be that the police were even ignorant of the tragedy awaiting them across the threshold of the door they seemed intent on battering down. The gleam of a candle burning in this closed-up house, or even the tale told by the rising smoke, may have drawn them from the road to investigate. Such coincidences had been. Such untoward happenings had misled people into useless self-betrayal. My case was too desperate for such weakness. Flight at this moment might save all; I would at least attempt it. The door was shaking on its hinges; these intruders seemed determined to enter. "That settles it. He will find it hard to escape after this." It is a damned and a bloody work; The graceless action of a heavy hand, If that it be the work of any hand. "Permit us to doubt your last assertion. You seem to be in better position than ourselves to explain the circumstances which puzzle you." They were right. It was for me to talk, not for them. I conceded the point in these words: They listened--I will do them that much justice; but it was with such an air of incredulity that my words fell with less and less continuity and finally lost themselves in a confused stammer as I reached the point where I pulled the cushions from the couch and made my ghastly discovery. "You see--see for yourselves--what confronted me. My betrothed--a dainty, delicate woman--dead--alone--in this solitary, far-away spot--the victim of what? I asked myself then--I ask myself now. I cannot understand it--or those glasses yonder--or _those marks!"_ They were black by this time--unmistakable--not to be ignored by them or by me. "She has been strangled," quoth Hexford, doggedly. "A dog's death," mumbled the other. My hands came together involuntarily. At that instant, with the memory before me of the vision I have just described, I almost wished that it had been _my_ hate, _my_ anger which had brought those tell-tale marks out upon that livid skin. I should have suffered less. I should only have had to pay the penalty of my crime and not be forced to think of Carmel with terrible revulsion, as I was now thinking, minute by minute, fight with it as I would. It was some little time before I took in these words. When I did, I became conscious of his keen look, also of a change in my own expression. I had forgotten the telephone. It had not yet been taken out. If only I had remembered this before these men came--I might have saved--No, nothing could have saved her or me, except the snow, except the snow. That may already have saved her. All this time I was trying to tell where the telephone was. "Did you go into the kitchen in your wanderings below?" he asked. "No," I began, but seeing that I had made a mistake, I bungled and added weakly: "Yes; after matches." "And did you get them?" "In the dark? You must have had trouble in finding them?" "Not at all. Only safety matches are allowed here, and they are put in a receptacle at the side of each door. I had but to open the kitchen door, feel along the jamb, find this receptacle, and pull the box out. I'm well used to all parts of the house." "May I ask which door you allude to?" "Not in the kitchen?" "That's a pity. I thought you might be able to tell me how so many wine and whiskey bottles came to be standing on the kitchen table." "You carry the key to the wine-cellar?" he asked. I considered a moment. I did not know what to make of bottles on the kitchen table. These women and _bottles_! They abhorred wine; they had reason to, God knows; T remembered the dinner and all that had signalised it, and felt my confusion grow. But a question had been asked, and I must answer it. It would not do for me to hesitate about a matter of this kind. Only what was the question. Something about a key. I had no key; the cellar had been ransacked without my help; should I acknowledge this? "The keys were given up by the janitor yesterday," I managed to stammer at last. "But I did not bring them here to-night. They are in my rooms at home." As he did so, a keen blast blew in; a window in the adjoining room was open. He cast me a hurried glance and with the door in his hand, made the following remark: "Your lady love--the victim here--could not have come through the snow with no more clothing on her than we see now. She must have worn a hat and coat or furs or something of that nature. Let us look for them." "Good!" left my companion's lips. "That's all straight. You recognise these garments?" Look to the lady:-And when we have our naked frailties hid, That suffer in exposure, let us meet, And question this most bloody piece of work, To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us; In the great hand of God I stand; and, thence, Against the undivulg'd pretence I fight Of treasonous malice. Shortly after this, a fresh relay of police arrived and I could hear the whole house being ransacked. I had found my shoes, and was sitting in my own private room before a fire which had been lighted for me on the hearth. I was in a state of stupor now, and if my body shook, as it did from time to time, it was not from cold, nor do I think from any special horror of mind or soul (I felt too dull for that), but in response to the shuddering pines which pressed up close to the house at this point and soughed and tapped at the walls and muttered among themselves with an insistence which I could not ignore, notwithstanding my many reasons for self-absorption. His attachment to my father had not descended to me and, for the moment, he treated me like a stranger. "I am the coroner of this district," said he. "I have left my bed to have a few words with you and learn if your detention here is warranted. You are the president of this club, and the lady whose violent death in this place I have been called upon to investigate, is Miss Cumberland, your affianced wife?" My assent, though hardly audible, was not to be misunderstood. Drawing up a chair, he sat down and something in his manner which was not wholly without sympathy, heartened me still more, dispelling some of the cloudiness which had hitherto befogged my faculties. "Yes." I looked the man directly in the eye. "Our wedding-day was set." "Did you love her? Pardon me; if I am to be of any benefit to you at this crisis I must strike at the root of things. If you do not wish to answer, say so, Mr. Ranelagh." "I see, and she returned your love?" "Sincerely." Was the room light enough to reveal my guilty flush? She had loved me only too well, too jealously, too absorbingly for her happiness or mine. It was gently but gravely put, and instantly I knew that our secret was out, however safe we had considered it. This man was cognisant of it, and if he, why not others! Why not the whole town! A danger which up to this moment I had heard whispered only by the pines, was opening in a gulf beneath our feet. Its imminence steadied me. I had kept my glance on Coroner Perry, and I do not think it changed. My tone, I am quite assured, was almost as quiet and grave as his as I made my reply in these words: "Her sister is her sister. I hardly think that either of us would be apt to forget that. Have you heard otherwise, sir?" He was prepared for equivocation, possibly for denial, but not for attack. His manner changed and showed distrust and I saw that I had lost rather than made by this venturous move. "Is this your writing?" he suddenly asked, showing me a morsel of paper which he had drawn from his vest pocket. "Is it your writing?" my watchful inquisitor repeated. There was no denying it. My writing was peculiar and quite unmistakable. I should gain nothing by saying no. "It looks like it," I admitted reluctantly. "But I cannot be sure in this light. May I ask what this bit of paper is and where you found it?" "Its contents I think you know. As for the last question I think you can answer that also if you will." Saying which, he quietly replaced the scrap of paper in his pocket-book. The whole incident was plain to me, and I could even fix upon the moment when Hexford or Clarke discovered this invaluable bit of evidence. It was just before I burst in upon them from the ballroom, and it was the undoubted occasion of the remark I then overheard: "_This settles it. He cannot escape us now_." Then the note itself! I had destroyed it, it is true, but its phrases were so present to my mind--had been so branded into it by the terrors of the tragedy which they appeared to foreshadow, that I had a dreadful feeling that this man's eye could read them there. I remember that under the compelling power of this fancy, my hand rose to my brow outspread and concealing, as if to interpose a barrier between him and them. Is my folly past belief? Possibly. But then I have not told you the words of this fatal communication. They were these--innocent, if she were innocent, but how suggestive in the light of her probable guilt: "I cannot. Wait till to-morrow. Then you will see the depth of my love for you--what I owe you--what I owe Adelaide." Suddenly I dropped my hand; a new thought had come to me. Had Carmel been discovered on the road leading from this place? You perceive that by this time I had become the prey of every threatening possibility; even of that which made the present a nightmare from which I should yet wake to old conditions and old struggles, bad enough, God knows, but not like this--not like this. Meantime I was conscious that not a look or movement of mine had escaped the considerate but watchful eye of the man before me. "You do not relish my questions," he dryly observed. "Perhaps you would rather tell your story without interruption. If so, I beg you to be as explicit as possible. The circumstances are serious enough for perfect candour on your part." He was wrong. They were too serious for that. Perfect candour would involve Carmel. Seeming candour was all I could indulge in. I took a quick resolve. I would appear to throw discretion to the winds; to confide to him what men usually hold sacred; to risk my reputation as a gentleman, rather than incur a suspicion which might involve others more than it did myself. Perhaps I should yet win through and save her from an ignominy she possibly deserved but which she must never receive at my hands. "Wait, Mr. Ranelagh, I am sorry to interrupt you, but by which gate did you enter?" "Was it snowing at this time?" "Not yet. It was just before the clouds rushed upon the moon. I could see everything quite plainly." "Nothing," he replied, "go on." The impetuosity, the suspense in the words astounded me. I stared at the coroner and lost the thread of my story--What had I to say more? How account for what must be ever unaccountable to him, to the world, to my own self, if in obedience to the demands of the situation I subdued my own memory and blotted out all I had seen but that which it was safe to confess to? "There is no more to say," I murmured. "The horror of that moment made a chaos in my mind. I looked at the dead body of her who lay there as I have looked at everything since; as I looked at the police when they came--as I look at you now. But I know nothing. It is all a phantasmagoria to me--with no more meaning than a nightmare. She is dead--I know that--but beyond that, all is doubt--confusion--what the world and all its passing show is to a blind man. I can neither understand nor explain." COMMENTS AND REFLECTIONS There is no agony and no solace left; Earth can console, Heaven can torment, no more _Prometheus Unbound_ The coroner's intent look which had more or less sustained me through this ordeal, remained fixed upon my face as though he were still anxious to see me exonerate myself. How much did he know? That was the question. _How much did he know_? Having no means of telling, I was forced to keep silent. I had revealed all I dared to. As I came to this conclusion, his eyes fell and I knew that the favorable minute had passed. The question he now asked proved it. "I noticed that, yes." "I cannot contradict you." "Was Miss Cumberland fond of that sort of thing?" A possibility which had risen in my mind faded at these words. "And a small flask of cordial. The latter seems pure enough." "I cannot understand it." The phrase had become stereotyped. No other suggested itself to me. "The problem would be simple enough if it were not for those-marks on her neck. You saw those, too, I take it?" The lie, or rather the suggestion of a lie, flushed my face. I was conscious of this, but it did not trouble me. I was panting for relief. I could not rest till I knew the nature of the doubt in this man's mind. If these words, or any words I could use, would serve to surprise his secret, then welcome the lie or suggestion of a lie. "It was a brute's act," I went on, bungling with my sentences in anxiety to see if my conclusions fitted in with his own. "_Who was the brute_? Do you know, Dr. Perry?" "The waggon is here," said he. "Breakfast will be given you at the station." To which Hexford, looking over his shoulder, added: "I'm sorry to say that we have here the warrant for your arrest. Can I do anything for you?" "Warrant!" I burst out, "what do you want of a warrant? It is as a witness you seek to detain me, I presume?" Hexford gave me a look. This, then, was what had doomed me from the start; this, and that partly burned letter. I understood now why the kind-hearted coroner, who loved my father, had urged me to tell my tale, hoping that I would explain this act and give him some opportunity to indulge in a doubt. And I had failed to respond to the hint he had given me. The act itself must appear so sinister and the impulse which drove me to it so incomprehensible, without the heart-rending explanation I dare not subjoin, that I never questioned the wisdom of silence in its regard. Turning to the officer next me, I put the question which had been burning in my mind for hours: "Tell me, how you came to know there was trouble here? What brought you to this house? There can be nothing wrong in telling me that." "I do not," I broke in. "I guess you'd better wait till the chief has had a word with you." What would relieve my doubts? As Hexford drew near me again on our way to the head of the staircase, I summoned up courage to ask: "Have you heard anything from the Hill? Has the news of this tragedy been communicated to Miss Cumberland's family, and if so, how are they bearing this affliction?" His lip curled, and for a minute he hesitated; then something in my aspect or the straight-forward look I gave him, softened him and he answered frankly, if coldly: "Miss Carmel Cumberland ill?" I stammered, "too ill to be told?" I was sufficiently master of myself to put it this way. "Yes," he rejoined, kindly, as he urged me down the very stairs I had seen her descend in such a state of mind a few hours before. "A servant who had been out late, heard the fall of some heavy body as she was passing Miss Cumberland's rooms, and rushing in found Miss Carmel, as she called her, lying on the floor near the open fire. Her face had struck the bars of the grate in falling, and she was badly burned. But that was not all; she was delirious with fever, brought on, they think, by anxiety about her sister, whose name she was constantly repeating. They had a doctor for her and the whole house was up before ever the word came of what had happened here." I had heard the last whisper of those pines for many, many days. But not in my dreams; it ever came back at night, sinister, awesome, haunted with dead hopes and breathing of an ever doubtful future. CLIFTON ACCEPTS MY CASE This hand of mine Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, Not painted with the crimson spots of blood. Within this bosom never enter'd yet The dreadful motion of a murd'rous thought. "She has some feeling, then! Her terror and remorse have maddened her. I can dwell upon her image with pity." The next, "Will they find her wet clothes and discover that she was out last night?" The latter possibility troubled me. My mind was the seat of strange contradictions. As the day advanced and I began to realise that I, Elwood Ranelagh, easy-going man of the world, but with traditions of respectable living on both sides of my house and a list of friends of which any man might be proud, was in a place of detention on the awful charge of murder, I found that my keenest torment arose from the fact that I was shut off from the instant knowledge of what was going on in the house where all my thoughts, my fears, and shall I say it, latent hopes were centred. To know Carmel ill and not to know how ill! To feel the threatening arm of the law hovering constantly over her head and neither to know the instant of its fall nor be given the least opportunity to divert it. To realise that some small inadvertance on her part, some trivial but incriminating object left about, some heedless murmur or burst of unconscious frenzy might precipitate her doom, and I remain powerless, bearing my share of suspicion and ignominy, it is true, but not the chief share if matters befell as I have suggested, which they were liable to do at any hour, nay, at any minute. I struggled with the dilemma for hours, the more so, that I did not stand alone in the world. I had relatives and I had friends, some of whom had come to see me and gone away deeply grieved at my reticence. I was swayed, too, by another consideration. I had deeply loved my mother. She was dead, but I had her honour to think of. Should it be said she had a murderer for her son? In the height of my inner conflict, I had almost cried aloud the fierce denial which would arise at this thought. But ere the word could leave my lips, such a vision rose before me of a bewildering young face with wonderful eyes and a smile too innocent for guile and too loving for hypocrisy, that I forgot my late antagonistic feelings, forgot the claims of my dear, dead mother, and even those of my own future. Such passion and such devotion merited consideration from the man who had called them forth. I would not slight the claims of my dead mother but I would give this young girl a chance for her life. Let others ferret out the fact that she had visited the club-house with her sister; I would not proclaim it. It was enough for me to proclaim my innocence, and that I would do to the last. "I will take your case, Ranelagh. God help me to make it good against all odds." He was ready to speak before I was. "Then, you had not been long on the scene of crime when the police arrived?" "I had been in the room but a few minutes. I do not know how long I was searching the house." My emotions were too much for me, and I confusedly stopped. He was surveying me with the old distrust. In a moment I saw why. "You are not open with me," he protested. "Why should moments be hours to you previous to the instant when you stripped those pillows from the couch? You are not a fanciful man, nor have you any cowardly instincts. Why were you in such a turmoil going through a house where you could have expected to find nothing worse than some miserable sneak thief?" He settled that supposition with a gesture I had rather not have seen. It would be better for him to consider me a poltroon than to suspect my real reasons for the agitation which I had acknowledged. "You say you cannot be open with me. That means you have certain memories connected with that night which you cannot divulge." "I have accepted the case and I shall continue to interest myself in it," he assured me, with a dogged rather than genial persistence. "But I should like to know what I am to work upon, if it cannot be shown that her call for help came before you entered the building." No, I had not spoken. I had nothing to say. I was too deeply shaken by what he had just told me, to experience anything but the utmost confusion of ideas. Carmel beaming and beautiful at an hour I had supposed her suffering and full of struggle! I could not reconcile it with the letter she had written me, or with that understanding with her sister which ended so hideously in The Whispering Pines. The lawyer, seeing my helpless state, proceeded with his presentation of my case as it looked to unprejudiced eyes. I was very near unbosoming myself to him at that moment. But I caught myself back in time. While Carmel lay ill and unconscious, I would not clear my name at her expense by so much as a suggestion. "I have not heard. I have seen the fact mentioned, but without comment. It is a curious circumstance. I will make a note of it. You have no suggestions to offer on the subject?" "Naturally. The key to the wine-vault was the only key which was lacking from the bunch left at Miss Cumberland's. That it was used to open the wine-vault door is evident from the fact that it was found in the lock." "Some other man than myself was thirsty that night," I firmly declared. "We are getting on, Charles." "Do you know exactly what the club-house's wine-vault contained?" he asked. "An inventory was given me by the steward the morning we closed. It must be in my rooms." "Your rooms have been examined. You expected that, didn't you? Probably this inventory has been found. I don't suppose it will help any." "Very true; how should it! No thoroughfare there, of course." "No thoroughfare anywhere to-day," I exclaimed. "To-morrow some loop-hole of escape may suggest itself to me. I should like to sleep on the matter. I--I should like to sleep on it." He saw that I had something in mind of which I had thus far given him no intimation, and he waited anxiously for me to reconsider my last words before he earnestly remarked: "A day lost at a time like this is often a day never retrieved. Think well before you bid me leave you, unenlightened as to the direction in which you wish me to work." But I was not ready, not by any means ready, and he detected this when I next spoke. His eye lightened. I presume the prospect of making any practical attempt in my behalf was welcome. "Yes, but you must also remember that she may have taken it off before she started for the club-house." "That is very true." "You do not know whether they have looked for it at her home?" "Will you find out, and will you see that I get all my letters?" "I certainly will, but you must not expect to receive the latter unopened." "I will take good care of your interests from now on," he remarked, in a tone much more natural than any he had before used. "Be hopeful and show a brave front to the district attorney when he comes to interview you. I hear that he is expected home to-morrow. If you are innocent, you can face him and his whole office with calm assurance." Which showed how little he understood my real position. There was comfort in this very thought, however, and I quietly remarked that I did not despair. "And I _will_ not," he emphasised, rising with an assumption of ease which left him as he remained hesitating before me. It was my moment of advantage, and I improved it by proffering a request which had been more or less in my mind during the whole of this prolonged colloquy. Instinctively he held out his hand. I dropped mine in it; there was a slight pressure, some few more murmured words and he was gone. That a woman's form had sought concealment under these masculine habiliments would not, could not, strike anybody's mind. Nothing in the crime had suggested a woman's presence, much less a woman's active agency. "Chief Hudson believes me, late as my statement is. I saw it in his eye." Thus I went on. "And the assistant district attorney, too. At least, the latter is willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, which was more than I expected. What do you suppose has happened? Some new discovery on their part? If so, I ought to know what it is. Believe me, Charles, I ought to know what it is." "I know, I know," I put in, "but I wasn't. Lay it to my confusion of mind--to the great shock I had received, to anything but my own blood-guiltiness, and take up the matter as it now stands. Can't you follow up my suggestion? A witness can certainly be found who encountered that cutter and its occupant somewhere on the long stretch of open road between The Whispering Pines and the resident district." "Possibly. It would help. You have not asked for news from the Hill." The trembling which seized and shook me at these words testified to the shock they gave me. "Carmel!" I cried. "She is worse--dead!" "No. She's not worse and she's not dead. But the doctors say it will be weeks before they can allow a question of any importance to be put to her. You can see what that will do for us. Her testimony is too important to the case to be ignored. A delay will follow which may or may not be favourable to you. I am inclined to think now that it will redound to your interests. You are ready to swear to the sleigh you speak of; that you saw it leave the club-house grounds and turn north?" "Quite ready; but you must not ask me to describe or in any way to identify its occupant. I saw nothing but the hat and coat I have told you about. It was just before the moon went under a cloud, or I could not have seen that much." Is it so hard to preserve a natural aspect in telling or suggesting a lie that Charles's look should change as I uttered the last sentence? I do not easily flush, and since my self-control had been called upon by the dreadful experiences of the last few days, I had learned to conceal all other manifestations of feeling except under some exceptional shock. But a lie embodied in so many words, never came easy to my lips, and I suppose my voice fell, for his glance became suddenly penetrating, and his voice slightly sarcastic as he remarked: "I was there last night. Miss Clifford was in the house and received me. She told me that Arthur's state of mind was pitiful. He was never a very affectionate brother, you know, but now they cannot get him away from Carmel's door. He sits or stands all day just outside the threshold and casts jealous and beseeching looks at those who are allowed to enter. They say you wouldn't know him. I tried to get him to come down and see me, but he wouldn't leave his post." "Yes, but they cannot get him to enter the place where she lies. His duty is to the living, he says; at least, his anxiety is there. He starts at every cry Carmel utters." "She--cries out--then?" "Very often. I could hear her from where I sat downstairs." "And what does she say?" I kept my face in shadow. If he saw it at all, it must have looked as cold and hard as stone. After a moment, I went on with my queries: "Does he--Arthur--mention me at all?" "I did not discuss you greatly with Miss Clifford. I saw that she was prejudiced, and I preferred not to risk an argument; but she let fall this much: that Arthur felt very hard towards you and loudly insisted upon your guilt. She seemed to think him justified in this. You don't mind my telling you? It is better for you to know what is being said about you in town." I understood his motive. He was trying to drive me into giving him my full confidence. But I would not be driven. I simply retorted quietly but in a way to stop all such future attempts: "Has that been proved?" "Yes; several men saw you there." "And the gentleman who brought me the--her letter?" It was more than difficult for me to speak Carmel's name. "He has not come forward?" "Not yet; not to my knowledge, at least." Could I tell him that this was not what I meant at all--that it was her qualities as woman rather than her qualifications as nurse which were important in this case? If she were of a suspicious, prying disposition, given to weighing every word and marking every gesture of a delirious patient, what might we not fear from her circumspection when Carmel's memory asserted itself and she grew more precise in the frenzy which now exhausted itself in unintelligible cries, or the ceaseless repetition of her sister's name. The question seemed of such importance to me that I was tempted to give expression to my secret apprehension on this score, but I bethought myself in time and passed the matter over with the final remark: "Watch her, watch them all, and bring me each and every detail of the poor girl's sickness. You will never regret humouring me in this. You ordered the flowers for--Adelaide?" "Yes; lilies, as you requested." A short silence, then I observed: "There will be no autopsy the papers say. The evidences of death by strangulation are too well defined." "Don't! I can bear no more to-day. I shall be stronger to-morrow." Another feeler turned aside. His cheek showed his displeasure, but the words were kind enough with which he speedily took his leave and left me to solitude and a long night of maddening thought. SWEETWATER TO THE FRONT "WE KNOW OF NO SUCH LETTER" O, he sits high in all the people's hearts; And that, which would appear offence in us, His countenance like richest alchemy Will change to virtue, and to worthiness. And you still hold him?" The man whom Coroner Perry thus addressed, leaned back in his chair and quietly replied: "That is not all. A grip-sack, packed for travelling, was in Mr. Ranelagh's cutter, showing that his story of an intended journey was not without some foundation." District Attorney Fox (you will have guessed his identity before now) took his time, deliberating carefully with himself before venturing to reply. Then when the coroner's concealed impatience was about to disclose itself, he quietly remarked: "I suppose that no conclusion can be drawn from the condition of the body when our men reached it. I judge that it was still warm." "A hard task for a stranger--and such a stranger! Not very prepossessing, to say the least. But he has a good eye, and will get along with the boys all right. Nothing assertive about him; not enough go, perhaps. Would you like to see him?" "The thief meant to carry them all off, but had not time." "The _gentleman_ thief! No common man such as we are looking for, would make choice of just those bottles. So there we are again! Contradictions in every direction." "Don't let us bother with the contradictions, but just follow the clew. Those bottles, full or empty, must be found. You know the labels?" "Yes, and the shape and colour of the bottles, both of which are peculiar." "Good! Now let us see your detective." But Sweetwater was not called in yet. Just as Coroner Perry offered to touch his bell, the door opened and Mr. Clifton was ushered in. Well and favourably known to both men, he had no difficulty in stating his business and preferring his request. "The ring which Miss Cumberland wore as the sign and seal of her engagement to him was not on her hand when he came upon her, as he declares he did, dead. It was there at dinner-time--a curious ring which I have often noted myself and could accurately describe if required. If she took it off before starting for The Whispering Pines, it should be easily found. But if she did not, what a clew it offers to her unknown assailant! Up till now, Mr. Ranelagh has been anticipating receiving this ring back in a letter, written before she left her home. But he has heard of no such letter, and doubts now if you have. May I ask if he is correct in this surmise?" "We know of no such letter. None has come to his rooms," replied the coroner. "I thought not. The whereabouts of this ring, then, is still to be determined. You will pardon my having called your attention to it. As Mr. Ranelagh's legal adviser, I am very anxious to have that ring found." "We are glad to receive your suggestion," replied the district attorney. "But you must remember that some of its force is lost by its having originated with the accused." "Yes, or why does he balk so at the simplest inquiries? I have my notion as to its nature; but I'm not here to express notions unless you call my almost unfounded belief in him a notion. What I want to present to you is fact, and fact which can be utilised." "In the cause of your client!" "Which is equally the cause of justice." "Possibly. We'll search for the ring, Mr. Clifton." "Meanwhile, will you cast your eye over these fragments of a note which Mr. Ranelagh says he received from Miss Carmel Cumberland while waiting on the station platform for her coming." As he pointed this out, he remarked: "Elwood is not so common a baptismal name, that there can be any doubt as to the person addressed." "You are acquainted with Miss Carmel Cumberland's handwriting?" "If I am not, the town is full of people who are. I believe these words to have been written by Carmel Cumberland." Mr. Fox placed the pieces back in their envelope and laid the whole carefully away. "You can cancel the obligation," was the quick retort, "by discovering the identity of the man who in derby hat and a coat with a very high collar, left the grounds of The Whispering Pines just as Mr. Ranelagh drove into them. I have no facilities for the job, and no desire to undertake it." He had endeavoured to speak naturally, if not with an off-hand air; but he failed somehow--else why the quick glance of startled inquiry which Dr. Perry sent him from under his rather shaggy eyebrows. "Well, we'll undertake that, too," promised the district attorney. "I can ask no more," returned Charles Clifton, arising to depart. "The confronting of that man with Ranelagh will cause the latter to unseal his lips. Before you have finished with my client, you will esteem him much more highly than you do now." The district attorney smiled at what seemed the callow enthusiasm of a youthful lawyer; but the coroner who knew his district well, looked very thoughtfully down at the table before which he sat, and failed to raise his head until the young man had vanished from the room and his place had been taken by another of very different appearance and deportment. Then he roused himself and introduced the newcomer to the prosecuting attorney as Caleb Sweetwater, of the New York police department. "You have brought some credentials with you, I hope." "The letter is all right," hastily remarked Dr. Perry on looking it over. "Mr. Sweetwater is commended to us as a man of sagacity and becoming reserve." "All that's in the papers." "Very little. I've not been in town above an hour." "Are you known here?" "Then you are as ignorant of the people as they are of you. Well, that has its disadvantages." The eye of District Attorney Fox stole towards that of his brother official, but did not meet it. The coroner had turned his attention to the table again, and, while betraying no embarrassment, was not quite his usual self. The district attorney's hand stole to his chin, which he softly rubbed with his lean forefinger as he again addressed Sweetwater. "A hardy act for any man, gentleman or otherwise, who had just strangled the life out of a fine woman like that. If he exists and the whole story is not a pure fabrication of the entrapped Ranelagh, he shouldn't be hard to find. What do you say, gentlemen? He shouldn't be hard to find." "_We_ have not found him," emphasised the district attorney, with the shortest possible glance at the coroner's face. "Then the field is all before me," smiled Sweetwater. "Wish me luck, gentlemen. It's a blind job, but that's just in my line. A map of the town, a few general instructions, and I'm off." Mr. Fox turned towards the coroner, and opened his lips; but closed them again without speaking. Did Sweetwater notice this act of self-restraint? If he did, he failed to show it. A subtle knave; a finder out of occasions; That has an eye can stamp and counterfeit Advantages though true advantage never presents Itself; A devilish knave! "Witnesses of it all," commented the young detective as he watched the swaying boughs rising and dipping before a certain window. "They were peering into that room long before Clarke stole the glimpse which has undone the unfortunate Ranelagh. If I had their knowledge, I'd do something more than whisper." Thus musing, thus muttering, he plodded up the road, his insignificant figure an unpromising break in the monotonous white of the wintry landscape. But could the prisoner who had indirectly speeded this young detective on his present course, have read his thoughts and rightly estimated the force of his purpose, would he have viewed with so much confidence the entrance of this unprepossessing stranger upon the no-thoroughfare into which his own carefully studied admissions had blindly sent him? It seemed a great waste of time, for nobody had anything to say worth the breath expended on it. But Sweetwater showed no impatience, and proceeded to engage the attention of the next man, woman, or child he encountered with undiminished zest and hopefulness. It was the woman's child, for she made instantly for the gate which, for some reason, she found difficulty in opening. Sweetwater, seeing this, blessed his lucky stars. He was at his best with children, and catching the little fellow up, he soothed and fondled him and finally brought him with such a merry air of triumph straight to his mother's arms, that confidence between them was immediately established and conversation started. He had in his pocket an ingenious little invention which he had exhibited all along the road as an indispensable article in every well-kept house. He wanted to show it to her, but it was too cold a day for her to stop outside. Wouldn't she allow him to step in and explain how her work could be materially lessened and her labour turned to play by a contrivance so simple that a child could run it? It was all so ridiculous in face of this woman's quiet intelligence, that he laughed at his own words, and this laughter, echoed by the child and in another instant by the mother, made everything so pleasant for the moment that she insensibly drew back while he pulled open the gate, only remarking, as she led the way in: "I was looking for my husband. He may come any minute and I'm afraid he won't care much about contrivances to save me work--that is, if they cost very much." Sweetwater, whose hand was in his pocket, drew it hastily out. "You were watching for your husband? Do you often stand in the open doorway, looking for him?" Her surprised eyes met his with a stare that would have embarrassed the most venturesome book agent, but this man was of another ilk. "If you do," he went on imperturbably, but with a good-humoured smile which deepened her favourable impression of him, "how much I would give if you had been standing there last Tuesday night when a certain cutter and horse went by on its way up the hill." "You _were_ looking out," he ventured. "And you _did_ see that horse and cutter. What luck! It may save a man's life." "Who are you?" she asked at length. "You have not told me your real business." "No, madam, and I ask your pardon. I feared that my real business, if suddenly made known to you, might startle, perhaps frighten you. I am a detective on the look-out for evidence in the case I have just mentioned. I have a theory that a most important witness in the same, drove by here at the hour and on the night I have named. I want to substantiate that theory. Can you help me?" Sweetwater drew a deep breath; it was such a happy climax. Then, as she showed no signs of saying more, asked as quietly as his rapidly beating heart permitted: "Didn't you recognise the man?" Her answer was short but as candid as her expression. "No. The snow was blinding; besides he wore a high collar, in which his head was sunk down almost out of sight." "Yes, I think so. As well as I can remember, it was like that. I'm afraid I didn't do it any good by my handling. I had to clutch it quick and I'm sure I bent the brim, to say nothing of smearing it with flour-marks." "How?" Sweetwater had started for the door, but stopped, all eagerness at this last remark. "I had been cutting out biscuits, and my hands were white with flour," she explained, simply. "But that brushes off easily; I don't suppose it mattered." "Eliza Simmons," was the straightforward reply; and this ended the interview. The husband, whose anticipated approach had occasioned all this abruptness, was coming down the hill when Sweetwater left the gate. As this detective of ours was as careful in his finish as in all the rest of his work, he called out as he went by: "I've just been trying to sell a wonderful contrivance of mine to the missus. But it was no go." Sweetwater went on up the hill. Towards the top, he came upon a livery-stable. Stopping in his good-humoured way, he entered into talk with a man loitering inside the great door. Before he left him, he had asked him these questions: "Any grey horse in town?" "I think I've seen it--has a patch of black on its left shoulder." "Whose is it? I've a mighty curiosity about the horse. Looks like a trick horse." "Not Miss Cumberland's?" exclaimed Sweetwater, all agog in a moment. "Yes, Miss Cumberland's. I thought you might have heard the name." "Yes, I've heard it." The tone was dry, the words abrupt, but the detective's heart was dancing like a feather. The next turn he took was toward the handsome residence district crowning the hill. All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral; Our instruments to melancholy bells; Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; And all things change them to the contrary. "Lucky that my business takes me to the stable," thought he. "What is the coachman's name? I ought to remember it. Ah--Zadok! Zadok Brown. There's a combination for you!" He had reached this point in his soliloquy (a bad habit of his, for it sometimes took audible expression) when he ran against another policeman set to guard the side door. A moment's parley, and he left this man behind; but not before he had noted this door and the wide and hospitable verandah which separated it from the driveway. "Who are you?" he asked, with a touch of anger, quite natural under the circumstances. "Can't you come in by the door, and not creep sneaking up to take a man at disadvantage?" As he spoke, he dashed away the tears with which his cheeks were still wet. "I thought a heap of my young mistress," he added, in evident apology for this display of what such men call weakness. "I didn't know that it was in me to cry for anything, but I find that I can cry for her." Hexford left his window, and Sweetwater slid from his; next minute they met at the stable door. "Had luck?" whispered the local officer. "Enough to bring me here," acknowledged the other. "Have you heard that the horse was out that night?" "Ah, that's the question!" "This man can't tell you." A jerk of Hexford's thumb in Zadok's direction emphasised this statement. "But I'm going to talk to him, for all that." "He wasn't here that night; he was at a dance. He only knows that the mare was out." "But I'm going to talk to him." "You can do as you please. I've nothing to hide--from you, at any rate." Which wasn't quite true; but Sweetwater wasn't a stickler for truth, except in the statements he gave his superiors. Hexford threw open the stable-door, and they both walked in. The coachman was not visible, but they could hear him moving about above, grumbling to himself in none too encouraging a way. Evidently he was in no mood for visitors. "I'll be down in a minute," he called out, as their steps sounded on the hardwood floor. Hexford sauntered over to the stalls. Sweetwater stopped near the doorway and glanced very carefully about him. Nothing seemed to escape his eye. He even took the trouble to peer into a waste-bin, and was just on the point of lifting down a bit of broken bottle from an open cupboard when Brown appeared on the staircase, dressed in his Sunday coat and carrying a bunch of fresh, hot-house roses. He stopped midway as Sweetwater turned towards him from the cupboard, but immediately resumed his descent and was ready with his reply when Hexford accosted him from the other end of the stable: "An odd beast, this. They don't drive her for her beauty, that's evident." "She's fast and she's knowing," grumbled the coachman. "Reason enough for overlooking her spots. Who's that man?" he grunted, with a drop of his lantern jaws, and a slight gesture towards the unknown interloper. "Another of us," replied Hexford, with a shrug. "We're both rather interested in this horse." "Wouldn't another time do?" pleaded the coachman, looking gravely down at the flowers he held. "It's most time for the funeral and I don't feel like talking, indeed I don't, gentlemen." "We won't keep you." It was Sweetwater who spoke. "The mare's company enough for us. She knows a lot, this mare. I can see it in her eye. I understand horses; we'll have a little chat, she and I, when you are gone." Brown cast an uneasy glance at Hexford. "He'd better not touch her," he cautioned. "He don't know the beast well enough for that." "He won't touch her," Hexford assured him. "She does look knowing, don't she? Would like to tell us something, perhaps. Was out _that_ night, I've heard you say. Curious! How did you know it?" "I've said and said till I'm tired," Brown answered, with sudden heat. "This is pestering a man at a very unfortunate time. Look! the people are coming. I must go. My poor mistress! and poor Miss Carmel! I liked 'em, do ye understand? Liked 'em--and I do feel the trouble at the house, I do." His distress was so genuine that Hexford was inclined to let him go; but Sweetwater with a cock of his keen eye put in his word and held the coachman where he was. "The old gal is telling me all about it," muttered this sly, adaptable fellow. He had sidled up to the mare and their heads were certainly very close together. "Not touch her? See here!" Sweetwater had his arm round the filly's neck and was looking straight into her fiery and intelligent eye. "Shall I pass her story on?" he asked, with a magnetic smile at the astonished coachman, which not only softened him but seemed to give the watchful Hexford quite a new idea of this gawky interloper. "She!" The word came low and awesomely. Rude and uncultured as the man was, he seemed to be strangely affected by this unexpected suggestion. "I haven't the wit to answer that," said he. "How can we tell what she knew. The man who killed her is in jail. _He_ might talk to some purpose. Why don't you question him?" "For a very good reason," replied Sweetwater, with an easy good-nature that was very reassuring. "He was arrested on the spot; so that it wasn't he who drove this mare home, unharnessed her, put her back in her stall, locked the stable-door and hung up the key in its place in the kitchen. Somebody else did _that_." "Is that so?" whispered Sweetwater into the mare's cocked ear. "She's not quite ready to commit herself," he drawled, with another enigmatical smile at the lingering Zadok. "She's keeping something back. Are you?" he pointedly inquired, leaving the stalls and walking briskly up to Zadok. The coachman frowned and hastily retreated a step; but in another moment he leaped in a rage upon Sweetwater, when the sight of the flowers he held recalled him to himself and he let his hand fall again with the quiet remark: "You're overstepping your dooty. I don't know who you are or what you want with me, but you're overstepping your dooty." Hexford was at his shoulder with a spring, and together they inspected the label still sticking to it--which was that of the very rare and expensive spirit found missing from the club-house vault. "This is a find," muttered Hexford into his fellow detective's ear. Then, with a quick move towards Zadok, he shouted out: "You'd better answer that question. Where did this bit of broken bottle come from? They don't give you whiskey like this to drink." "That they don't," muttered the coachman, not so much abashed as they had expected. "And I wouldn't care for it if they did. I found that bit of bottle in the ash-barrel outside, and fished it out to put varnish in. I liked the shape." "Yes; it's just as good." "Is it? Well, never mind, run along. We'll close the stable-door for you." "I'd rather do it myself and carry in the key." "Here then; we're going to the funeral, too. You'd like to?" This latter in a whisper to Sweetwater. "Then we won't go in together," decided Hexford. "Find your own place; you won't have any difficulty. A crowd isn't expected. Miss Cumberland's condition forbids it." Sweetwater nodded and slid in at the side door. The most important object within view, according to his present judgment, was the staircase which connected it with the floor above; but if you had asked his reason for this conclusion, he would not have told you, as Ranelagh might have done, that it was because it was the most direct and convenient approach to Carmel Cumberland's room. His thoughts were far from this young girl, intimately connected as she was with this crime; which shows through what a blind maze he was insensibly working. With his finger on the thread which had been put in his hand, he was feeling his way along inch by inch. It had brought him to this staircase, and it led him next to a rack upon which hung several coats and a gentleman's hat. He had no further time for even these cursory investigations; Hexford's step could be heard on the verandah, and Sweetwater was anxious to locate himself before the officer came in. Entering the room before him, he crossed to the small group clustered in its further doorway. There were several empty chairs in sight; but he passed around them all to a dark and inconspicuous corner, from which, without effort, he could take in every room on that floor--from the large parlour in which the casket stood, to the remotest region of the servants' hall. The clergyman had not yet descended, and Sweetwater had time to observe the row of little girls sitting in front of the bearers, each with a small cluster of white flowers in her hand. Miss Cumberland's Sunday-school class, he conjectured, and conjectured rightly. He also perceived that some of these children loved her. Would it have seemed yet more so, had he known at whose request the huge bunch of lilies had been placed over that silent heart? "_I am the resurrection and the life_." Sweetwater felt the poignancy, but did not suffer from the terror. His attention had been attracted in a new direction, and he found himself watching, with anxious curiosity, the attitude and absorbed expression of a good-looking young man whom he was far from suspecting to be the secret representative of the present suspect, whom nobody could forget, yet whom nobody wished to remember at this hallowed hour. The final words had been said, and the friends present invited to look their last on the calm face which, to many there, had never worn so sweet a smile in life. Some had hesitated; but most had obeyed the summons, among them Sweetwater. But he had not much time in which to fix those features in his mind; for the little girls, who had been waiting patiently for this moment, now came forward; and he stepped aside to watch them as they filed by, dropping as they did so, a tribute of fragrant flowers upon the quiet breast. They were followed by the servants, among whom Zadok had divided his roses. As the last cluster fell from the coachman's trembling hand, the undertaker advanced with the lid, and, pausing a moment to be sure that all were satisfied, began to screw it on. Suddenly there was a cry, and the crowd about the door leading into the main hall started back, as wild steps were heard on the stairs and a young man rushed into the room where the casket stood, and advanced upon the officiating clergyman and the astonished undertaker with a fierceness which was not without its suggestion of authority. "Take it off!" he cried, pointing at the lid which had just been fastened down. "I have not seen her--I must see her. Take it off!" It was the brother, awake at last to the significance of the hour! The minister recovered his poise and the bearers their breath; the men stirred in their seats and the women began to cast frightened looks at each other, and then at the children, some of whom had begun to whimper, when in an instant all were struck again into stone. The young man had turned and was facing them all, with his hands held out in a clench which in itself was horrible. "Break it open, I say! break it open, and see if her heart is there!" It was too awful. Men and women and children leaped to their feet and dashed away into the streets, uttering smothered cries and wild ejaculations. In vain the clergyman raised his voice and bade them respect the dead; the rooms were well-nigh empty before he had finished his appeal. Only the very old uncle and the least of the children remained of all who had come there in memory of their departed kinswoman and friend. Soon these, too, were gone, and the casket was refastened and carried out by the shrinking bearers, leaving in those darkened rooms a trail of desolation which was only broken from time to time by the now faint and barely heard reiteration of the name of her who had just been borne away! "WHAT WE WANT IS HERE" I'll tell you, by the way, The greatest comfort in the world. You said There was a clew to all. Remember, Sweet, He said there was a clew! I hold it. Come! _A Blot in the 'Scutcheon._ Sweetwater, however affected by this scene, had not lost control of himself or forgotten the claims of duty. He noted at a glance that, while the candid looking stranger, whose lead he had been following, was as much surprised as the rest at the nature of the interruption--which he had possibly anticipated and for which he was in some measure prepared--he was, of all present, the most deeply and peculiarly impressed by it. No element of fear had entered into his emotion; nor had it been heightened by any superstitious sense. Something deeper and more important by far had darkened his thoughtful eye and caused that ebb and flow of colour in a cheek unused, if Sweetwater read the man aright, to such quick and forcible changes. Sweetwater took occasion, likewise, while the excitement was at its height, to mark what effect had been made on the servants by the action and conduct of young Cumberland. "They know him better than we do," was his inner comment; "what do they think of his words, and what do they think of him?" So were those of the men. Zadok specially watched each movement of his young master with open mistrust; and very nearly started upright, in his repugnance and dismay, when that intruding hand fell on the peaceful brow of her over whose fate, to his own surprise, he had been able to shed tears. Some personal prejudice lay back of this or some secret knowledge of the man from whose touch even the dead appeared to shrink. It was impossible to tell, at present; but he was confident that it would not be long before he understood these latter, at least. He had great confidence in his success with women, homely as he was. He was not so sure of himself with men; and he felt that some difficulties and not a few pitfalls lay between him and, for instance, the uncommunicative Zadok. "But I've the whole long evening before me," he added in quiet consolation to himself. "It will be a pity if I can't work some of them in that time." The last thing he had remarked, before Carmel's unearthly cry had sent the horrified guests in disorder from the house, was the presence of Dr. Perry in a small room which Sweetwater had supposed empty, until the astonishing events I have endeavoured to describe brought its occupant to the door. What the detective then read in the countenance of the family's best friend, he kept to himself; but his own lost a trace of its former anxiety, as the official slipped back out of sight and remained so, even after the funeral cortege had started on its course. This gave him the opportunity he wanted. Leaving his corner, he looked up Hexford, and asked who was left in the house. "Dr. Perry, Mr. Clifton, the lawyer, Mr. Cumberland, his sick sister, and the nurse." "Mr. Cumberland! Didn't he go to the grave?" "Did you expect him to, after _that_?" Sweetwater's shoulders rose, and his voice took on a tone of indifference. "There's no telling. Where is he now, do you think? Upstairs?" "Yes. It seems he spends all his time in a little alcove opposite his sister's door. They won't let him inside, for fear of disturbing the patient; so he just sits where I've told you, doing nothing but listening to every sound that comes through the door." "Yes, and shaking just like a leaf. I walked by him a moment ago and noticed particularly." "Where's his room? In sight of the alcove you mention?" "Is the side door locked?" "Lock it. The back door, of course, is." "Yes, the cook attended to that." "I want a few minutes all by myself. Help me, Hexford. If Dr. Perry has given you no orders, take your stand upstairs where you can give me warning if Mr. Cumberland makes a move to leave his post, or the nurse her patient." "I'm ready; but I've been in that room and I've found nothing." "I don't know that I shall. You say that it is near the head of the stairs running up from the side door?" "Just a few feet away." "I would have sworn to that fact, even if you hadn't told me," muttered Sweetwater. "Dr. Perry, may I have a few words with you?" The coroner turned quickly. Sweetwater was before him; but not the same Sweetwater he had interviewed some few hours before in his office. This was quite a different looking personage. Though nothing could change his features, the moment had come when their inharmonious lines no longer obtruded themselves upon the eye; and the anxious, nay, deeply troubled official whom he addressed, saw nothing but the ardour and quiet self-confidence they expressed. "It'll not take long," he added, with a short significant glance in the direction of Mr. Clifton. Dr. Perry nodded, excused himself to the lawyer and followed the detective into the small writing-room which he had occupied during the funeral. In the decision with which Sweetwater closed the door behind them there was something which caused the blood to mount to the coroner's brow. "You have made some discovery?" said he. "Up?" queried the coroner, with an obvious shrinking from what he might encounter above. The coroner staggered as he saw it, and glanced helplessly about him. He had known this family all their lives and the father had been his dearest friend. But he could say nothing in face of this evidence. The spot was a flour-mark, in which could almost be discerned the outline of a woman's thumb. THE MOTIONLESS FIGURE 'S blood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out. "The coat is here, too," whispered Sweetwater, after a moment of considerate silence. "I had searched the hall-rack for them; I had searched his closets; and was about owning myself to be on a false trail, when I spied this little door. We had better lock it, now, had we not, till you make up your mind what to do with this conclusive bit of evidence." Sweetwater carefully returned the hat to its peg, turned the key in the door, and softly followed his superior back into the dining-room, and thence to their former retreat. "Yes, the bottles. I believe that I shall not fail there if you'll give me a little time. I'm a stranger in town, you remember, and cannot be expected to move as fast as a local detective." "There can never be any ease for her," murmured Sweetwater. "Whatever the truth, she's bound to suffer if ever she awakens to reality again. Do you agree with the reporters that she knew why and for what her unhappy sister left this house that night?" "If not, why this fever?" "Is the place his? Has Miss Cumberland made a will?" "Her will will be read to-morrow. For to-night, Arthur Cumberland's position here is the position of a master." "I will respect it, sir, up to all reasonable bounds. I don't think he meditates giving any trouble. He's not at all impressed by our presence. All he seems to care about is what his sister may be led to say in her delirium." Sweetwater threw open the door, but his wistful look did not escape the older man's eye. "You're not ready to go? Wish to search the house, perhaps." "It has already been done in a general way." "I wish to do it thoroughly." "I should be wrong to stand in your way. Get your warrant and the house is yours. But remember the sick girl." "That's why I wish to do the job my self." "You're a good fellow, Sweetwater." Then as he was passing out, "I'm going to rely on you to see this thing through, quietly if you can, openly and in the public eye if you must. The keys tell the tale--the keys and the hat. If the former had been left in the club-house and the latter found without the mark set on it by the mechanic's wife, Ranelagh's chances would look as slim to-day as they did immediately after the event. But with things as they are, he may well rest easily to-night; the clouds are lifting for him." Which shows how little we poor mortals realise what makes for the peace even of those who are the nearest to us and whose lives and hearts we think we can read like an open book. "I wish I had your advantages," he remarked as they reached the upper floor. "What would you do?" "I'd wander down that hall and take a long look at things." "I don't know. I'm afraid that's just curiosity. I've heard she was a wonder for beauty." "You cannot tell; they have bound up her cheeks with cloths. She fell on the grate and got burned." "But I say that's dreadful, if she was so beautiful." "Yes, it's bad, but there are worse things than that. I wonder what she meant by that wild cry of 'Tear it open! See if her heart is there?' Tear what open? the coffin?" "Of course. What else could she have meant?" "Well! delirium is a queer thing; makes a fellow feel creepy all over. I don't reckon on my nights here." "Hexford, help me to a peep. I've got a difficult job before me and I need all the aid I can get." "_He won't notice_?" "No, he notices nothing but what comes from the sick room." "I see." Sweetwater's jaw had fallen, but it righted itself at this last word. "Yes--as a fellow never listened before." "Yes, I should call it expectant." "Does the nurse know this?" "The nurse is a puzzler." Muttering his thanks, Sweetwater seized the proffered package, and hastened with it down the hall. He had been as far as the turn before, but now he passed the turn to find, just as he expected, a closed door on the left and an open alcove on the right. The door led into Miss Cumberland's room; the alcove, circular in shape and lighted by several windows, projected from the rear of the extension, and had for its outlook the stable and the huge sycamore tree growing beside it. Sweetwater now tried that thing. He knocked softly on the sick-room door. This reached the ear oblivious to all else. Young Cumberland started to his feet; and for a moment Sweetwater saw again the heavy features which, an hour before, had produced such a repulsive effect upon him in the rooms below. Then the nerveless figure sank again into place, with the same constraint in its lines, and the same dejection. Sweetwater's hand, lifted in repetition of his knock, hung suspended. He had not expected quite such indifference as this. It upset his calculations just a trifle. As his hand fell, he reminded himself of the coroner's advice to go easy. "Easy it is," was his internal reply. "I'll walk as lightly as if eggshells were under my feet." Sweetwater gazed at the winsome, brown head over the nurse's shoulder, and felt that for him a new and important factor had entered into this case, with his recognition of this woman's great beauty. How deep a factor, he was far from suspecting, or he would not have met the nurse's eye with quite so cheery and self-confident a smile. "Excuse the intrusion," he said. "We thought you might need these things. Hexford signed for them." "Would it disturb you if I were? I hope not. I've no wish to seem intrusive." "What do you want? Something, I know. Give it a name before there's a change there." She nodded towards the bed, and Sweetwater took advantage of the moment to scrutinise more closely the nurse herself. She was a robust, fine-looking woman, producing an impression of capability united to kindness. Strength of mind and rigid attendance to duty dominated the kindness, however. If crossed in what she considered best for her patient, possibly for herself, she could be severe, if not biting, in her speech and manner. So much Sweetwater read in the cold, clear eye and firm, self-satisfied mouth of the woman awaiting his response to the curt demand she had made. "I want another good look at your patient, and I want your confidence since you and I may have to see much of each other before this matter is ended. You asked me to speak plainly and I have done so." "You are from headquarters?" "Coroner Perry sent me." Throwing back his coat, he showed his badge. "The coroner has returned to his office. He was quite upset by the outcry which came from this room at an unhappy moment during the funeral." "I know. It was my fault; I opened the door just for an instant, and in that instant my patient broke through her torpor and spoke." She had drawn him in, by this time, and, after another glance at her patient, softly closed the door behind him. Sweetwater took in the little memorandum book and pencil which hung at her side, and understood her position and extraordinary amenability to his wishes. Unconsciously, a low exclamation escaped him. He was young and had not yet sunk the man entirely in the detective. "A cruel necessity to watch so interesting a patient, for anything but her own good," he remarked. Yet, because he was a detective as well as a man, his eye went wandering all over the room as he spoke until it fell upon a peculiar-looking cabinet or closet, let into the wall directly opposite the bed. "What's that?" he asked. "I don't know; I can't make it out, and I don't like to ask." "Some childish nonsense," he remarked, and moved towards the door. "The servants will be coming back, and I had rather not be found here. You'll see me again--I cannot tell just when. Perhaps you may want to send for me. If so, my name is Sweetwater." His hand was on the knob, and he was almost out of the room when he started and looked back. A violent change in the patient had occurred. Disturbed by his voice or by some inner pulsation of the fever which devoured her, Carmel had risen from the pillow and now sat, staring straight before her with every feature working and lips opened as if to speak. Sweetwater held his breath, and the nurse leaped towards her and gently encircled her with protecting arms. The young girl drooped, and, yielding to the nurse's touch, sank slowly back on the pillow; but in an instant she was up again, and flinging out her hand, she cried out loudly just as she had cried an hour before: "Break it open! Break the glass and look in. Her heart should be there--her heart--her heart!" "Go, or I cannot quiet her!" ordered the nurse, and Sweetwater turned to obey. But a new obstacle offered. The brother had heard this cry, and now stood in the doorway. "Who are you?" he impatiently demanded, surveying Sweetwater in sudden anger. "We want no strangers here," was young Cumberland's response. "Remember, nurse, no strangers." His tone was actually peremptory. Sweetwater observed him in real astonishment as he slid by and made his quiet escape. He was still more astonished when, on glancing towards the alcove, he perceived that, contrary to his own prognostication, the whiskey stood as high in the decanter as before. HELEN SURPRISES SWEETWATER The returning servants drove up just as Sweetwater reached the lower floor. He was at the side door when they came in, and a single glance convinced him that all had gone off decorously at the grave, and that nothing further had occurred during their absence to disturb them. He followed them as they filed away into the kitchen, and, waiting till the men had gone about their work, turned his attention to the girls who stood about very much as if they did not know just what to do with themselves. "Sit, ladies," said he, drawing up chairs quite as if he were doing the honours of the house. Then with a sly, compassionate look into each woe-begone face, he artfully remarked: "You're all upset, you are, by what Mr. Cumberland said in such an unbecoming way at the funeral. He'd like to strangle Mr. Ranelagh! Why couldn't he wait for the sheriff. It looks as if that gentleman would have the job, all right." "You won't; you're too kind-hearted to leave Mr. Cumberland and his sister in their desperate trouble," Sweetwater put in, with a decision as suggestive of admiration as he dared to assume. Her eyes filled, and she said no more. Sweetwater shifted his attention to Helen. Working around by her side, he managed to drop these words into her ear: "She talks most, but she doesn't feel her responsibilities any more than you do. I've had my experience with women, and you're of the sort that stays." She rolled her eyes towards him, in a slow, surprised way, that would have abashed most men. "I don't know your name, or your business here," said she; "but I do know that you take a good deal upon yourself when you say what I shall do or shan't do. I don't even know, myself." "That's because your eye is not so keen to your own virtues as--well, I won't say as mine, but as those of any appreciative stranger. I can't help seeing what you are, you know." She turned her shoulder but not before he caught a slight disdainful twitch of her rosy, non-communicative mouth. "Ah, ah, my lady, not quick enough!" thought he; and, with the most innocent air in the world, he launched forth in a tirade against the man then in custody, as though his guilt were an accepted fact and nothing but the formalities of the law stood between him and his final doom. "It must make you all feel queer," he wound up, "to think you have waited on him and seen him tramping about these rooms for months, just as if he had no wicked feelings in his heart and meant to marry Miss Cumberland, not to kill her." The other yielded and began to cross the floor behind the impetuous Maggie. Sweetwater summoned up his courage. A lowering of her head and a sudden make for the door. She nodded; involuntarily, perhaps, but decisively. Sweetwater hid his disappointment. The room mentioned was a thoroughfare for the whole family. Any member of it could have taken the candlestick. "I'm obliged to you," said he; and might have ventured further had she given him the opportunity. But she was too near the door to resist the temptation of flight. In another moment she was gone, and Sweetwater found himself alone with his reflections. They were not altogether unpleasing. He was sure that he read the evidences of struggle in her slowly working lips and changing impulses. The moon shone that night, much to Sweetwater's discomforture. As he moved about the stable-yard, he momentarily expected to see the window of the alcove thrown up and to hear Mr. Cumberland's voice raised in loud command for him to quit the premises. But no such interruption came. The lonely watcher, whose solitary figure he could just discern above the unshaded sill, remained immovable, with his head buried in his arms, but whether in sleep or in brooding misery, there was naught to tell. In the stable it was no better. Zadok had bought an evening paper, and was seeking solace from its columns. Sweetwater had attempted the sociable but had been met by a decided rebuff. The coachman could not forget his attitude before the funeral and nothing, not even the pitcher of beer the detective proposed to bring in, softened the forbidding air with which this old servant met the other's advances. Zadok was of an easy turn, but he had been sorely tried that day, and his limit had been reached. "You snooper!" he bawled. "What do you want here? Won't the run of the house content ye? Come! I want to lock that door. It's my last duty before going to bed." Sweetwater assumed the innocent. "And I was just going this way. It looks like a short road into town. It is, isn't it?" He caught himself in time, with a sullen grunt which may have been the result of fatigue or of that latent instinct of loyalty which is often the most difficult obstacle a detective has to encounter. "And Mr. Ranelagh, I suppose you would say?" was Sweetwater's easy finish. No answer; the coachman simply locked the door and put the key in his pocket. Sweetwater made no effort to deter him. More than that he desisted from further questions though he was dying to ask where this key was kept at night, and whether it had been in its usual place on the evening of the murder. He had gone far enough, he thought. Another step and he might rouse this man's suspicion, if not his enmity. But he did not leave the shadows into which he again receded until he had satisfied himself that the key went into the stable with the coachman, where it probably remained for this night, at least. "What is the purpose of the little door in the wall back of the stable?" "It connects these grounds with those of the Fultons. The Fultons live on Huested Street." "Very. Mr. Cumberland is sweet on the young lady there. She was at the funeral to-day. She fainted when--you know when." "I can guess. God! What complications arise! You don't say that any woman can care for _him_?" Hexford gave a shrug. He had seen a good deal of life. "He uses that door, then?" Sweetwater pursued, after a minute. "Did he use it that night?" "He didn't visit _her_" "That door is supposed to be locked at night. Zadok says that's his duty. Was it locked that night?" Sweetwater subdued the natural retort, and, reverting to the subject of the saloons, got some specific information in regard to them. Then he passed thoughtfully down-stairs, only to come upon Helen who was just extinguishing the front-hall light. "Good night!" he said, in passing. "Good night, Mr. Sweetwater." He felt his heart leap. Returning softly, he took up his stand before her, looking her straight in the eye. "Good night," he repeated, with an odd emphasis. "Good night," she answered, with equal force and meaning. But the next moment she was speaking rapidly, earnestly. Tush! I will stir about, And all things will be well, I warrant thee. He was walking south and on the best lighted and most beautiful street in town, but his eyes were forever seeking a break in the long line of fence which marked off the grounds of a seemingly interminable stretch of neighbouring mansions, and when a corner was at last reached, he dashed around it and took a straight course for Huested Street, down which he passed with quickened steps and an air of growing assurance. It was a mile off. "That settles it," muttered Sweetwater. "Besides, I doubt if he would go into an _alley_. The man has sunk low, but hardly so low as that. What's the next address I have? Cuthbert Road. Where's that?" Espying a policeman eyeing him with more or less curiosity from the other side of the street, he crossed over and requested to be directed to Cuthbert Road. "Cuthbert Road! That's where the markets are. They're closed at this time of night," was the somewhat suspicious reply. "Are there nothing but markets there?" inquired Sweetwater, innocently. It was his present desire not to be recognised as a detective even by the men on beat. "I'm looking up a friend. He keeps a grocery or some kind of small hotel. I have his number, but I don't know how to get to Cuthbert Road." Sweetwater slapped his trousers and laughed. "I wasn't born yesterday," he cried; and following the officer's directions, made straight for the Road. "Worse than the alley," he muttered; "but too near to be slighted. I wonder if I shouldn't have borrowed somebody's old coat." "Well, and what is your business?" she asked, with her eye on his clothes, which while not fashionable, were evidently of the sort not often seen in that place. "I'll give you nothing." She was hot, angry, and full of distrust. "This house is not for such as you. It's a farmer's lodging; honest men, who'd stare and go mad to see a feller like you about. Go along, I tell you, or I'll call Jim. He'll know what to do with you." Changing his tactics, he turned his back on the snuggery and surveyed the offended woman, with just a touch of maudlin sentiment. "Is she making a fool of herself?" asked the little man in a voice as shrill as it was weak. "Do your business with me. Women are no good." And he stalked into the room as only little men can. The last he whispered in the husband's ear as the wife crossed reluctantly back to her books. "You don't want to kill yourself?" he asked. Sweetwater laughed with a show of good humour that appeared to relieve the woman, if it did not the man. The man's hand closed on the bill. Sweetwater noted the action out of the corner of his eye, but his direct glance was on the woman. Her back was to him, but she had started as he mentioned the snuggery and made as if to turn; but thought better of it, and bent lower over her books. "I've struck the spot," he murmured, exultantly to himself. "This is the place I want and here I'll spend the night; but not to booze my wits away, oh, no." "What building is that?" He didn't wait for the end of the sentence, but plunged into the thickest group of people he could find, with a determination greater than ever to turn those bottles over before he ate. "Leave those bottles alone. They're waiting for the old clothes man. He pays us money for them." Sweetwater gaped and strolled away. He had used his eyes to purpose, and was quite assured that the bottle he wanted was not there. But the woman's words had given him his cue, and when later in the day a certain old Jew peddler went his rounds through this portion of the city, a disreputable-looking fellow accompanied him, whom even the sharp landlady in Cuthbert Road would have failed to recognise as the same man who had occupied the snuggery the night before. He was many hours on the route and had many new experiences with human nature. But he gained little else, and was considering with what words he should acknowledge his defeat at police headquarters, when he found himself again at the markets and a minute later in the alley where the cart stood, with the contents of which he had busied himself earlier in the day. "MUST I TELL THESE THINGS?" Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv'd a blessed time; for from this instant, There's nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys; renown, and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the lees Is left this vault to brag of. Further back and rather behind the lamp than in front of it stood or sat, as his restlessness prompted, Coroner Perry, the old friend of Amasa Cumberland, with whose son he had now to do. Behind him, and still further in the shadow, could be seen the quiet figure of Sweetwater. All counted the minutes and all showed relief--the coroner by a loud sigh--when the door finally opened and an officer appeared, followed by the lounging form of Adelaide's brother. "Particulars? What particulars? Don't you know enough, as it is, to hang the fellow? Wasn't he seen with his fingers on Adelaide's throat? What can I tell you that is any more damaging than that? Particulars!" The word seemed to irritate him beyond endurance. Never had he looked more unprepossessing or a less likely subject for sympathy, than when he stumbled into the chair set for him by the district attorney. "Stop!" He was at that point of passion which dulls the most self-controlled to all sense of propriety. "I'm sorry," said he, with a rapid examination of the paper in his hand, "but I shall have to detain you a few minutes longer. What happened after the dinner? Where did you go from the table?" "I went to my room to smoke. I was upset and thirsty as a fish." "Have you liquor in your room?" "Did you have any that night?" "Not a drop. I didn't dare. I wanted that champagne bottle, but Adelaide had been too quick for me. It was thrown out--wasted--I do believe, wasted." "So you did not drink? You only smoked in your room?" "May I ask by which door you left the house?" "What overcoat did you wear?" "But you can surely tell what hat?" They expected a violent reply, and they got it. "No, I can't. What has my hat got to do with the guilt of Elwood Ranelagh?" "Nothing, we hope," was the imperturbable answer. "But we find it necessary to establish absolutely just what overcoat and what hat you wore down street that night." "I've told you that I don't remember." The young man's colour was rising. "Are not these the ones?" queried the district attorney, making a sign to Sweetwater, who immediately stepped forward, with a shabby old ulster over his arm, and a battered derby in his hand. The young man started, rose, then sat again, shouting out with angry emphasis: "Yet you recognise these?" "Why shouldn't I? They're mine. Only I don't wear them any more. They're done for. You must have rooted them out from some closet." "We did; perhaps you can tell us what closet." "I? No. What do I know about my old clothes? I leave that to the women." The slight faltering observable in the latter word conveyed nothing to these men. "Ranelagh wore his own coat and hat. We will let the subject of apparel drop, and come to a topic on which you may be better qualified to speak. Mr. Cumberland, you have told us that you didn't know at the time, and can't remember now, where you spent that night and most of the next morning. All you can remember is that it was in some place where they let you drink all you wished and leave when the fancy took you, and not before. It was none of your usual haunts. This seemed strange to your friends, at the time; but it is easier for us to understand, now that you have told us what had occurred at your home-table. You dreaded to have your sister know how soon you could escape the influence of that moment. You wished to drink your fill and leave your family none the wiser. Am I not right?" "Yes; it's plain enough, isn't it? Why harp on that string? Don't you see that it maddens me? Do you want to drive me to drink again?" The coroner interposed. He had been very willing to leave the burden of this painful inquiry to the man who had no personal feelings to contend with; but at this indignant cry he started forward, and, with an air of fatherly persuasion, remarked kindly: "You mustn't mind the official tone, or the official persistence. There is reason for all that Mr. Fox says. Answer him frankly, and this inquiry will terminate speedily. We have no wish to harry you--only to get at the truth." "The truth? I thought you had that pat enough. The truth? The truth about what? Ranelagh or me? I should think it was about me, from the kind of questions you ask." The question took his irritable listener by surprise. Arthur gasped, and tried to steal some comfort from Coroner Perry's eye. But that old friend's face was too much in shadow, and the young man was forced to meet the district attorney's eye, instead, and answer the district attorney's question. "I drank--absinthe," he cried, at last. "From this bottle?" queried the other, motioning again to Sweetwater, who now brought forward the bottle he had picked up in Cuthbert Road. Arthur Cumberland glanced at the bottle the detective held up, saw the label, saw the shape, and sank limply in his chair, his eyes starting, his jaw falling. "Where did you get that?" he asked, pulling himself together with a sudden desperate self-possession that caused Sweetwater to cast a quick significant glance at the coroner, as he withdrew to his corner, leaving the bottle on the table. "That," answered the district attorney, "was picked up at a small hotel on Cuthbert Road, just back of the markets." "I don't know the place." "It's not far from The Whispering Pines. In fact, you can see the club-house from the front door of this hotel." "I don't know the place, I tell you." "We have seen the man and woman who keep that hotel. They will talk, if they have to." "They will?" His dogged self-possession rather astonished them. "Well, that ought to please you. I've nothing to do with the matter." "Don't swear." It is unnecessary to say who spoke. "We wouldn't believe you, and it would be only adding perjury to the rest." "You wouldn't believe me?" "The other has been found nearer your home." "This is awful!" Young Cumberland had risen to his feet and was swaying to and fro before them like a man struck between the eyes by some maddening blow. "Don't answer," he went on, holding fast to the table, but letting his other hand fall. "I was always a fool. I'm nothing but a fool now. I may as well own the truth, and be done with it. I was in the clubhouse. I did rob the wine-vault; I did carry off the bottles to have a quiet spree, and it was to some place on Cuthbert Road I went. But, when I've admitted so much, I've admitted all. I saw nothing of my sister's murder; saw nothing of what went on in the rooms upstairs. I crept in by the open window at the top of the kitchen stairs, and I came out by the same. I only wanted the liquor, and when I got it, I slid out as quickly as I could, and made my way over the golf-links to the Road." The district attorney's voice sounded thin, almost piercing, as he made this remark: "You entered by an open window. Why didn't you go in by the door?" Flushed, he slowly sank back into his seat. No complaint, now, of being in a hurry, or of his anxiety to regain his sick sister's bedside. He seemed to have forgotten those fears in the perturbations of the moment. His mind and interest were here; everything else had grown dim with distance. "Did you try the front door?" "What was the use? I knew it to be locked." "What was the use of trying the window? Wasn't it also, presumably, locked?" The red mounted hot and feverish to his cheek. "You'll think me no better than a street urchin or something worse," he exclaimed. "I knew that window; I had been through it before. You can move that lock with your knife-blade. I had calculated on entering that way." "Mr. Ranelagh's story receives confirmation," commented the district attorney, wheeling suddenly towards the coroner. "He says that he found this window unlocked, when he approached it with the idea of escaping that way." Arthur Cumberland remained unmoved. The district attorney wheeled back. "Why, when you had a team ready to carry you?" "A--I had no team." But the denial cost him something. His cheek lost its ruddiness, and took on a sickly white which did not leave it again as long as the interview lasted. "I didn't go home. I went straight across the golf-links. If fresh snow hadn't fallen, you would have seen my tracks all the way to Cuthbert Road." "If fresh snow had not fallen, we should have known the whole story of that night before an hour had passed. How did you carry those bottles?" "In my overcoat pockets. These pockets," he blurted out, clapping his hands on either side of him. "Had it begun to snow when you left the clubhouse?" "I guess not; the links were bright as day, or I shouldn't have got over them as quickly as I did." "Quickly? How quickly?" The district attorney stole a glance at the coroner, which made Sweetwater advance a step from his corner. "I don't know. I don't understand these questions," was the sullen reply. "Your sister lit a candle in the small room where her coat was found. This light should have been visible from the golf-links." "I didn't see any light." He was almost rough in these answers. He was showing himself now at his very worst. A few more questions followed, but they were of minor import, and aroused less violent feeling. The serious portion of the examination, if thus it might be called, was over, and all parties showed the reaction which follows all unnatural restraint or subdued excitement. The coroner glanced meaningly at the district attorney, who, tapping with his fingers on the table, hesitated for a moment before he finally turned again upon Arthur Cumberland. "You wish to return to your sister? You are at liberty to do so; I will trouble you no more to-night. Your sleigh is at the door, I presume." "And such a father," interposed the coroner. "Just so--and such a father. Sweetwater? Hey! what's the matter? You don't look satisfied. Didn't I cover the ground?" "Well, well--out with it." "I don't know what to out with. It's all right but--I guess I'm a fool, or tired, or something. Can I do anything more for you? If not, I should like to hunt up a bunk. A night's sleep will make a man of me again." "Go then; that is, if Dr. Perry has no orders for you." "Yes, I'm listening." "He was all in a tremble when he came in, but she declares he had not been drinking. He went immediately to the bedside; but his sister was asleep, and he didn't stay there, but went over where the nurse was, and began to hang about her till suddenly she felt a twitch at her side and, looking quickly, saw the little book she carries there, falling back into place. He had lifted it, and probably read what she had written in it during his absence. "She was displeased, but he laughed when he saw that he had been caught and said boldly: 'You are keeping a record of my sister's ravings. Well, I think I'm as interested in them as you are, and have as much right to read as you to write. Thank God! they are innocent enough. Even you must acknowledge that,' She made no answer, for they were innocent enough; but she'll keep the book away from him after this--of that you may be sure." "And what is he doing now? Is he going into his own room to-night?" "No. He went there but only to bring out his pillows. He will sleep in the alcove." "No, not a drop. He has ordered the whiskey locked up. I hear him moaning sometimes to himself as if he missed it awfully, but not a thimbleful has left the decanter." "Goodnight, Hexford." "You heard?" This to the district attorney. Both went for their overcoats. Only on leaving did they speak again, and then it was to say: ON IT WAS WRITTEN- Can this avail thee? Look to it! Yet he hung about the links for a long time, and finally ended by entering the house, and taking up his stand beneath the long, narrow window of the closet overlooking the golf-links. With chin resting on his arms, he stared out over the sill and sought from the space before him, and from the intricacies of his own mind, the hint he lacked to make this present solution of the case satisfactory to all his instincts. That word was: _Poison_. Sweetwater did not return to New York that night. "IT 'S NOT WHAT YOU WILL FIND" Sullen and unmollified, the young man thus addressed eyed, apprehensively, his father's old friend, placed so unfortunately in his regard, and morosely exclaimed: "Out with it! I'm a poor hand at guessing. What has happened now?" "Peace and tragedy do not often run together," came in the mild tones of his would-be friend. "A great crime has taken place. All the members of this family are involved--to say nothing of the man who lies, now, under the odium of suspicion, in our common county jail. Peace can only come with the complete clearing up of this crime, and the punishment of the guilty. But the clearing up must antedate the punishment. Mr. Ranelagh's assertion that he found Miss Cumberland dead when he approached her, may not be, as so many now believe, the reckless denial of a criminal, disturbed in his act. It may have had a basis in fact." "But you haven't told me your discovery. It seems to me it is a little late to make discoveries now." "Why don't you speak out? I cannot tell what he found unless you name it." "A little bottle--an apothecary's phial. It was labelled 'Poison,' and it came from this house." Arthur Cumberland reeled; then he caught himself up and stood, staring, with a very obvious intent of getting a grip on himself before he spoke. The coroner waited, a slight flush deepening on his cheek. "How do you know that phial came from this house?" Dr. Perry looked up, astonished. He was prepared for the most frantic ebullitions of wrath, for violence even; or for dull, stupid, blank silence. But this calm, quiet questioning of fact took him by surprise. He dropped his anxious look, and replied: "You will have to, Arthur. Facts are facts, and we cannot go against them. The person who bought it was yourself. Perhaps you can recall the circumstance now." "We're going to carry out our investigations to the full. We're going to hold the autopsy, which we didn't think necessary before. That's why I am here, Arthur. I thought it your due to know our intentions in regard to this matter. If you wish to be present, you have only to say so; if you do not, you may trust me to remember that she was your father's daughter, as well as my own highly esteemed friend." "My duty is here," he said at last. "I cannot leave Carmel." "The autopsy will take place to-morrow. How is Carmel to-day?" "No better." The words came with a shudder. "Doctor, I've been a brute to you. I am a brute! I have misused my life and have no strength with which to meet trouble. What you propose to do with--with Adelaide is horrible to me. I didn't love her much while she was living; I broke her heart and shamed her, from morning till night, every day of her life; but good-for-nothing as I am and good-for-nothing as I've always been, if I could save her body this last humiliation, I would willingly die right here and now, and be done with it. Must this autopsy take place?" The coroner uttered a few words of consolation forced from him by the painfulness of the situation. The young man did not seem to hear them. The only sign of life he gave was to rush away the moment the coroner had taken his leave, and regain his seat within sight and hearing of his still unconscious sister. As he did so, these words came to his ears through the door which separated them: "Flowers--I smell flowers! Lila, you always loved flowers; but I never saw your hands so full of them." Arthur uttered a sharp cry; then, bowing his face upon his aims, he broke into sobs which shook the table where he sat. "Providence has me this time," he muttered. "I don't understand these mysteries. You will have to deal with them as you think best." His eyes, still glued to the jewel, dilated and filled with fierce light as he said this. "Damn the ring, and damn the man who gave it to her! However it came into her casket, he's at the bottom of the business, just as he was at the bottom of her death. If you think anything else, you will think a lie." A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep Merciful powers! Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose. For several days I had been ill. They were merciful days to me since I was far too weak for thought. Then there came a period of conscious rest, then renewed interest in life and my own fate and reputation. What had happened during this interval? "You are well enough this morning to hear good news. Do you recognise the room you are in?" "I'm in the hospital, am I not?" I was struck to the heart; terrified in an instant. "Nothing," he parried, seeing his mistake, and resorting to the soothing process. "They simply have had time to think. You're not the sort of man from which criminals are made." "Here he is," said the doctor, as the door softly opened under the nurse's careful hand. With a gesture to the nurse, the doctor tiptoed out, muttering to Clifton, as he passed, some word of warning or casual instruction. The nurse followed, and Clifton, coming forward, took a seat at my side. He was cheerful but not too cheerful; and the air of slight constraint which tinged his manner, as much as it did mine, did not escape me. "Well, old fellow," he began- My hand went up in entreaty. "Tell me why they have withdrawn their suspicions. I've heard nothing--read nothing--for days. I don't understand this move." For reply, he laid his hand on mine. I must have turned very white; for he stopped and sprang to his feet, searching for some restorative. I felt the need of blinding him to my condition. With an effort, which shook me from head to foot, I lifted myself from the depths into which his words had plunged me, and fighting for self-control, faltered forth, feebly enough: "Don't be frightened. I'm all right again; I guess I'm not very strong yet. Sit down; I don't need anything." He turned and surveyed me carefully, and finding my colour restored, reseated himself, and proceeded, more circumspectly: "Perhaps I had better wait till to-morrow before I satisfy your curiosity," said he. I could see that I baffled him. It could not be helped. I did not dare to utter the question with which my whole soul was full. I could only look my entreaty. He misunderstood it, as was natural enough. "_He!"_ Did I shout it, or was the shout simply in my own mind? I trembled as I rose on my elbow. I searched his face in terror of my self-betrayal; but his showed only compassion and an eager desire to clear the air between us by telling me the exact facts. "It's a risk," said he. "The doctor told me to be careful not to excite you too much. But suspense is always more intolerable than certainty, and you have heard too much to be left in ignorance of the rest." "Yes, yes," I agreed feverishly, pressing his hand. "It all came about through you," he blundered on. "You told me of the fellow you saw riding away from The Whispering Pines at the time you entered the grounds. I passed the story on to the coroner, and he to a New York detective they have put on this case. He and Arthur's own surly nature did the rest." I cringed where I lay. This was my work. The person who drove out of the club-house grounds while I stood in the club-house hall was Carmel--and the clew I had given, instead of baffling and confusing them, had led directly to Arthur! Seeing nothing peculiar--or at all events, giving no evidence of having noted anything peculiar in my movement--Clifton went evenly on, pouring into my astonished ears the whole long story of this detective's investigations. "The finger of God! Nothing else. Such coincidences cannot be natural," was my thought. And I braced myself to meet the further disclosures I saw awaiting me. "I had to tell you. It was your due and you would not have been satisfied if I had not. But I fear that I rushed my narrative too suddenly upon you; that you needed more preparation, and that the greatest kindness I can show you now, is to leave before I do further mischief." "You were at dinner with them that night, and know what she did and what she vowed about the wine. He was very angry. Though he dropped his glass, and let it shiver on the board, he himself says that he was desperately put out with her, and could only drown his mad emotions in drink. He knew that she would hear of it if he went to any saloon in town; so he stole the key from your bunch, and went to help himself out of the club-house wine-vault. That's how he came to be there. What followed, who knows? He won't tell, and we can only conjecture. The ring, which she certainly wore that night, might give the secret away; but it is not gifted with speech, though as a silent witness it is exceedingly eloquent." The episode of the ring confused me. I could make nothing out of it, could not connect it with what I myself knew of the confused experiences of that night. But I could recall the dinner and the sullen aspect, not unmixed with awe, with which this boy contemplated his sister when his own glass fell from his nerveless fingers. My own heart was not in the business; it was on the elopement I had planned; but I could not help seeing what I have just mentioned, and it recurred to me now with fatal distinctness. The awe was as great as the sullenness. Did that offer a good foundation for crime? I disliked Arthur. I had no use for the boy, and I wished with all my heart to detect guilt in his actions, rather than in those of the woman I loved; but I could not forget that tinge of awe on features too heavy to mirror very readily the nicer feelings of the human soul. It would come up, and, under the influence of this impression I said: "Are you sure that he made no denial of this crime? That does not seem like Arthur, guilty or innocent." "He made none in my presence and I was in the coroner's office when the ring was produced from its secret hiding-place and set down before him. There was no open accusation made, but he must have understood the silence of all present. He acknowledged some days ago, when confronted with the bottle found in Cuthbert Road, that he had taken both it and another from the club-house just before the storm began to rage that night." "The hour, the very hour!" I muttered. "He entered and left by that upper hall window, or so he says; but he is not to be believed in all his statements. Some of his declarations we know to be false." "Which ones? Give me a specimen, Charlie. Mention something he has said that you know to be false." I shuddered as I anticipated the sleepless hours of silent debate which lay before me. The voice which whispered that Arthur Cumberland was not over-gifted with sensitiveness and would not feel the shame of his position like another, did not carry with it an indisputable message, and could not impose on my conscience for more than a passing moment. The lout was human; and I could not stifle my convictions in his favour. I clenched my hands under the clothes. I wished it were not high noon, but dark night; that Clifton would only arise or turn his eyes away; that something or anything might happen to give me an instant of solitary contemplation, without the threatening possibility of beholding my thoughts and feelings reflected in another's mind. Was this review instantaneous, or the work of many minutes? Forced by the doubt to open my eyes, I met Clifton's full look turned watchfully on me. The result was calming; even to my apprehensive gaze it betrayed no new enlightenment. My struggle had been all within; no token of it had reached him. This he showed still more plainly when he spoke. "There will be a close sifting of evidence at the inquest. You will not enjoy this; but the situation, hard as it may prove, has certainly improved so far as you are concerned. That should hasten your convalescence." "What sort of a man would you make Arthur out to be, when you accuse him of robbing the wine-vault on top of a murderous assault on his sister?" Clifton drew himself up in his turn, astonishment battling with renewed distrust. Later, I asked myself many questions, and wandered into mazes of speculation which only puzzled me and led nowhere. I remembered the bottles; I remembered the ring. I went back, in fancy, to the hour of my own entrance into the club-house, and, recalling each circumstance, endeavoured to fit the facts of Arthur's story with those of my own experience. Thus Clifton, in his ignorance. "Tell me," I cried. "Carmel is dead!" "Not dead," said he, "but silly. Her testimony is no more to be relied upon than that of any other wandering mind." "BREAK IN THE GLASS!" This inundation of mistempered humour Rests by you only to be qualified. It was some time before I learned the particulars of this awakening. Carmel's hair was dark; so were her exquisitely pencilled eye-brows, and the long lashes which curled upward from her cheek. In her surroundings of pink--warm pink, such as lives in the heart of the sea-shell--their duskiness took on an added beauty; and nothing, not even the long, dark scar running from eye to chin could rob the face of its individuality and suggestion of charm. She was lovely; but it was the loveliness of line and tint, just as a child is lovely. Soul and mind were still asleep, but momentarily rousing, as all thought, to conscious being--and, if to conscious being, then to conscious suffering as well. "Why do you look at me so? Oh, I remember, I remember!" "You have been ill," came soothingly from the doctor. "You have been in bed many days; now you are better and will soon be well. This is your nurse." He said nothing of the others, who were so placed behind screens as to be invisible to her. Nurse Unwin brought it. Her patient evidently remembered the fall she had had in her sister's room, and possibly the smart to her cheek when it touched the hot iron. "I see only my forehead," she complained, as the nurse held the mirror before her. "Move it a little. Lower--lower," she commanded. Then suddenly "Oh!" She was still for a long time, during which the nurse carried off the glass. "I--I don't like it," she acknowledged quaintly to the doctor, as he leaned over her with compassionate words. "I shall have to get acquainted with myself all over again. And so I have been ill! I shouldn't have thought a little burn like that would make me ill. How Adelaide must have worried." "Adelaide is--is not well herself. It distressed her to have been out when you fell. Don't you remember that she went out that night?" "But she's ill. She cannot come. Wait till tomorrow, dear child. Rest is what you need now. Take these few drops and go to sleep again, and you'll not know yourself to-morrow." "I don't know myself now," she repeated, glancing with slowly dilating eyes at the medicine glass he proffered. "I can't take it," she protested. "I forget now why, but I can't take anything more from a glass. I've promised not to, I think. Take it away; it makes me feel queer. Where is Adelaide?" This sounded like raving. The doctor's face took on a look of concern, and the nurse stirred uneasily. "Rest," came in Dr. Carpenter's most soothing tones. "Rest, my little Carmel; forget everything and rest." He thought he knew the significance of her revolt from the glass he had offered her. She remembered the scene at the Cumberland dinner-table on that fatal night and shrank from anything that reminded her of it. Ordering the medicine put in a cup, he offered it to her again, and she drank it without question. As she quieted under its influence, the disappointed listeners, now tip-toeing carefully from the room, heard her murmur in final appeal: Was it weakness, or a settled inability to remember anything but that which filled her own mind? This expression, when I heard of it, convinced me, as I believe it did some others, that her act of self-denial in not humouring my whim and flying from home and duty that night, had made a stronger impression on her mind than all that came after. She never asked for Arthur. This may have grieved him; but, according to my faithful friend and attorney, it appeared to have the contrary effect, and to bring him positive relief. When it was borne in on him, as it was soon to be borne in on all, that her mind was not what it was, and that the beautiful Carmel had lost something besides her physical perfection in the awful calamity which had made shipwreck of the whole family, he grew noticeably more cheerful and less suspicious in his manner. Was it because the impending inquiry must go on without her, and proceedings, which had halted till now, be pushed with all possible speed to a finish? So those who watched him interpreted his changed mood, with a result not favourable to him. All this gave me much food for thought, but I declined to think. I had made up my mind from the moment I realised Carmel's condition, that there was nothing for me to do till after the inquest. The public investigation which this would involve, would show the trend of popular opinion, and thus enlighten me as to my duty. Meanwhile, I would keep to the old lines and do the best I could for myself without revealing the fact of Carmel's near interest in a matter she was in no better condition to discuss now than when in a state of complete unconsciousness. Death by strangulation at the hands of some person unknown. When I was informed of this latter fact, I made a solemn vow to myself. It was this: If it falls to my lot to be indicted for this murderous offence, I will continue to keep my own counsel, as I have already done, in face of lesser provocation and at less dangerous risk. But, if I escape and a true bill should be found against Arthur, then will I follow my better instinct, and reveal what I have hitherto kept concealed, even if the torment of the betrayal drive me to self-destruction afterwards. For I no longer cherished the smallest doubt, that to Carmel's sudden rage and to that alone, the death of Adelaide was due. We had discussed the situation till there seemed to be nothing left to discuss. I understood him, and he thought he understood me. He believed Arthur guilty, and credited me with the same convictions. Thus only could he explain my inconceivable reticence on certain points he was very well assured I could make clear if I would. That he was not the only man who had drawn these same conclusions from my attitude both before and during the inquest, troubled me greatly and deeply disturbed my conscience, but I could indulge in no protests--or, rather would indulge in no protests--as yet. There was an unsolved doubt connected with some facts which had come out at the inquest--or perhaps, I should call it a circumstance not as yet fully explained--which disturbed me more than did my conscience, and upon this circumstance I must have light before I let my counsel leave me. I introduced the topic thus: "You can," was the unexpected and welcome reply. "I took them all down in shorthand as they fell from Dr. Perry's lips. I have not had time since to transcribe them, but I can read some of them to you, if you will give me an idea as to which ones you want." Clifton took a paper from his pocket, and, after only a short delay, read out these words: "'Break it open! Break it open! and see if her heart is there!'" "Yes; here it is. It was while the ubiquitous Sweetwater was mousing about the room." "Certainly--no trouble. She cried, this time: 'Break it open! Break the glass and look in. Her heart should be there--her heart--her heart!" Horrible! but you insisted, Ranelagh." "I thought I heard that word glass," I muttered, more to myself than to him. Then, with a choking fear of giving away my thought, but unable to resist the opportunity of settling my own fears, I asked: "Was there glass in the casket lid?" "No; there never is." "Why, she roused up, I suppose--moved, or made some wild or feverish gesture." "That is what I should like to know. I may seem foolish and unnecessarily exacting about trifles; but I would give a great deal to learn precisely where she looked, and what she did at the moment she uttered those wild words. Is the detective Sweetwater still in town?" "I believe so. Came up for the inquest but goes back to-night." "See him, Clifton. Ask him to relate this scene. He was present, you know. Get him to talk about it. You can, and without rousing his suspicion, keen as they all say he is. And when he talks, listen and remember what he says. But don't ask questions. Do this for me, Clifton. Some day I may be able to explain my request, but not now." "I'm at your service," he replied; but he looked hurt at being thus set to work in the dark, and I dared say nothing to ease the situation. I did not dare even to prolong the conversation on this subject, or on any other subject. In consequence, he departed speedily, and I spent the afternoon wondering whether he would return before the day ended, or leave me to the endurance of a night of suspense. I was spared this final distress. He came in again towards evening, and this was what he told me: "I have seen Sweetwater, and was more fortunate in my interview than I expected. He talked freely, and in the course of the conversation, described the very occurrence in which you are so interested. Carmel had been lying quietly previous to this outbreak, but suddenly started into feverish life and, raising herself up in her bed, pointed straight before her and uttered the words we have so often repeated. That's all there was to it, and I don't see for my part, what you have gained by a repetition of the same, or why you lay so much stress upon her gesture. What she said was the thing, though even that is immaterial from a legal point of view--which is the only view of any importance to you or to me, at this juncture." "You're a true friend to me," I answered, "and never more so than in this instance. Forgive me that I cannot show my appreciation of your goodness, or thank you properly for your performance of an uncongenial task. I am sunk deep in trouble. I'm not myself and cannot be till I know what action will be taken by the grand jury." If he replied, I have no remembrance of it; neither do I recall his leave-taking. But I was presently aware that I was alone and could think out my hideous thought, undisturbed. Carmel had pointed straight before her, shouting out: "Break in the glass!" Forget the world around you. Meantime friendship Shall keep strict vigils for you, anxious, active, Only be manageable when that friendship Points you the road to full accomplishment. "I don't care a rush what you do to me. If you are so besotted by your prejudices that you refuse to see the nose before your face; if you don't believe your own officer who swore he saw Ranelagh's hands upon my sister's throat, then this world is all a jumble and it makes very little difference to me whether I'm alive or dead." When these words of Arthur Cumberland were repeated to me, I echoed them in my inmost soul. I, too, cared very little whether I lived or died. The grand jury reeled off its cases and finally took up ours. To the last I hoped--sincerely I think--that I should be the man to suffer indictment. But I hoped in vain. A true bill was brought against Arthur, and his trial was set for the eighteenth of January. Standing in the cemetery grounds with my eyes upon the snow-covered mound beneath which lay the doubly injured Adelaide, I had it out with myself, for good and all. The only change I now allowed myself was an occasional midnight stroll up Huested Street. This was as near as I dared approach Carmel's windows. I feared some watchful police spy. Perhaps I feared my own hardly-to-be-restrained longings. "If Adelaide were only going, too! But I suppose I shall meet her and Mr. Ranelagh somewhere before my return. She must be very happy. But not so peaceful as I am. She will see that when we meet. I can hardly wait for the day." Words which set me thinking; but which I was bound to acknowledge could be only the idle maunderings of a diseased mind from which all impressions had fled, save those of innocence and futile hope. I halted instantly. A lamp from the opposite side of the street threw a broad illumination across the walk where I stood, but the gate-posts behind threw a shadow. Had the voice issued from this isolated point of darkness? I went back to see. A pitiful figure was crouching there, a frail, agitated little being, whom I had no sooner recognised than my manner instantly assumed an air of friendly interest, called out by her timid and appealing attitude. "Ella Fulton!" I exclaimed. "You wish to speak to me?" As she spoke the last words, she caught at the gatepost which was too broad and ponderous to offer her any hold. Gravely I held out my arm, which she took; we were old friends and felt no necessity of standing on any sort of ceremony. "You don't wish to bother," was her sensitive cry. "You had rather not stop; rather not listen to my troubles." Had I shown my feelings so plainly as that? I felt mortified. She was a girl of puny physique and nervous manner--the last sort of person you would expect Arthur Cumberland to admire or even to have patience with, and the very last sort who could be expected to endure his rough ways, or find anything congenial to herself in his dissipated and purposeless life. But the freaks of youthful passion are endless, and it was evident that they loved each other sincerely. Her tremulous condition and meek complaint went to my heart, notwithstanding my growing dread of any conversation between us on this all-absorbing but equally peace-destroying topic. Reassuringly pressing her hand, I was startled to find a small piece of paper clutched convulsively within it. I hardly blamed the mother. "I--I love Arthur. I don't think him guilty and I would gladly stand by him if they would let me. I want him to know this. I want him to get such comfort as he can out of my belief and my desire to serve him. I want to sacrifice myself. But I can't, I can't," she moaned. "You don't know how mother frightens me. When she looks at me, the words falter on my tongue and I feel as if it would be easier to die than to acknowledge what is in my heart." I could believe her. Mrs. Fulton was a notable woman, whom many men shrank from encountering needlessly. It was not her tongue, though that could be bitter enough, but a certain way she had of infusing her displeasure into attitude, tone, and manner, which insensibly sapped your self-confidence and forced you to accept her bad opinion of you as your rightful due. This, whether your judgment coincided with hers or not. She seemed startled. "Not in this, not in this," she objected, with a renewal of her anxious glances, this time up and down the street. "I must get a word to Arthur. I _must_." I saw that she had some deeper reason than appeared, for desiring communication with him. I was debating how best to meet the situation and set her right as to my ability to serve her, without breaking down her spirit too seriously, when I felt her feverish hand pressing her little note into my unwilling palm. I had to tell her; I had to dash her small hopes to the ground. "Forgive me, Ella," I said, "but I cannot carry him this message or even get it to him secretly. I am watched myself; I know it, though I have never really detected the man doing it." I hastened to reassure her. "No, no. If I've been followed, it was not so near as that. I cannot do what you ask for several reasons. Arthur will credit you with the best of impulses without your incurring any such risk." "Yes, yes, but that's not enough. What shall I do? What shall I do?" I strove to help her. I stopped her. Right or wrong, I stopped her. I hadn't the courage just then to face the possibilities of what lay at the end of this simple sentence. She possessed evidence, or thought she did, which might help to clear Arthur. Evidence of what? Evidence which would implicate Carmel? The very thought unnerved me. "I had rather not be the recipient of this confidence if it is at all important or at all in the line of testimony. Remember the man I mentioned. He will be glad to hear of anything helpful to his client." Her distress mounted to passion. "I will try. I could only tell father on my knees, but I will do it if--if I must," she faltered out, unconsciously repeating her former phrase. "Now, I must go. You have been good; only I asked too much." And with no other farewell she left me and disappeared up the walk. I lingered till I heard the faint click of her key in the door she had secretly made her own; then I moved on. As I did so, I heard a rustle somewhere about me on street or lawn. I never knew whence it came, but I felt assured that neither her fears nor mine had been quite unfounded; that a listener had been posted somewhere near us and that a part, if not all, we had said had been overheard. I was furious for an instant, then the soothing thought came that possibly Providence had ordained that the Gordian knot should be cut in just this way. But the event bore no ostensible fruit. The week ended, and the case of the People _against_ Arthur Cumberland was moved for trial. It's fit this royal session do proceed; And that, without delay, their arguments Be now produc'd and heard This, as you will see, was in open contradiction of my former statements that I had _seen_ an unknown party, thus attired, driving away through the upper gateway just as I entered by the lower. But it was a contradiction which while noted by Mr. Moffat, failed to injure me with the jury, and much less with the spectators. The impression had become so firmly fixed in the public mind and in that of certain officials as well, that my early hesitations and misstatements were owing to a brotherly anxiety to distract attention from Arthur whose clothing they believed me to have recognised in these articles I have mentioned--that I rather gained than lost by what, under other circumstances would have seriously damaged my testimony. That I should prevaricate even to my own detriment, at a preliminary examination, only to tell the truth openly and like a man when in court and under the sanctity of an oath was, in the popular estimation, something to my credit; and Mr. Moffat, whose chief recommendation as counsel lay in his quick appreciation of the exigencies of the moment, did not press me too sharply on this point when he came to his cross-examination. What Mr. Moffat thought of it--what he hoped to prove in the prisoner's behalf by raking this subject over--it was left for me to discover later. The prisoner was an innocent man, in his eyes. I was not; and, while the time had not come for him to make this openly apparent, he was not above showing even now that the case contained a factor which weakened the prosecution--a factor totally dissociated with the openly accepted theory that the crime was simply the result of personal cupidity and drunken spite. And in this he was right. It did weaken it--weakened it to the point of collapse, if the counsel for the defence had fully acted up to his opportunity. But something withheld him. Just at the moment when I feared the truth must come out, he hesitated and veered gradually away from this subject. In his nervous pacings to and fro before the witness stand, his eye had rested for a moment on Arthur's, and with this result. The situation was saved, but at a great loss to the defendant. Several short examinations followed mine, all telling in their nature, all calculated to fix in the minds of the jury the following facts: (Pray pardon the repetition. It is necessary to present the case to you just as it stood at this period of my greatest struggle.) All is oblique, There's nothing level in our cursed natures, But direct villainy. Therefore, be abhorred All feasts, societies, and throngs of men! His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains. I was early in my seat. Feeling the momentousness of the occasion--for this day must decide my action for or against the prisoner--I searched the faces of the jury, of the several counsel, and of the judge. I was anxious to know what I had to expect from them, in case my conscience got the better of my devotion to Carmel's interests and led me into that declaration of the real facts which was forever faltering on my tongue, without having, as yet, received the final impetus which could only end in speech. To give him his rightful precedence, the judge showed an impenetrable countenance but little changed from that with which he had faced us all from the start. He, like most of the men involved in these proceedings, had been a close friend of the prisoner's father, and, in his capacity of judge in this momentous trial, had had to contend with his personal predilections, possibly with concealed sympathies, if not with equally well-concealed prejudices. This had lent to his aspect a sternness never observable in it before; but no man, even the captious Mr. Moffat, had seriously questioned his rulings; and, whatever the cost to himself, he had, up to this time, held the scales of justice so evenly that it would have taken an audacious mind to have ventured on an interpretation of his real attitude or mental leaning in this case. I was conscious of a certain ironic impulse to smile, as I noted the eager whisper and the bustle of preparation with which they settled upon their next witness and prepared to open their batteries upon him. How easily I could call down that high look, and into what a turmoil I could throw them all by an ingenuous demand to be recalled to the stand! Then came the great event of the day, in anticipation of which the court-room had been packed, and every heart within it awakened by slow degrees to a state of great nervous expectancy. The prosecution rested and the junior counsel for the defence opened his case to the jury. If I had hoped for any startling disclosure, calculated to establish his client's alleged alibi, or otherwise to free the same from the definite charge of murder, I had reason to be greatly disappointed by this maiden effort of a young and inexperienced lawyer. If not exactly weak, there was an unexpected vagueness in its statements which seemed quite out of keeping with the emphatic declaration which he made of the prisoner's innocence. "Moffat is sly. Moffat has something up his sleeve. I will wait till he sees fit to show it," was my thought; then, as I caught a wild and pleading look from Ella, I added in positive assertion to myself, "And so must she." Answering her unspoken appeal with an admonitory shake of the head, I carelessly let my fingers rest upon my mouth until I saw that she understood me and was prepared to follow my lead for a little while longer. My satisfaction at this was curtailed by the calling of Arthur Cumberland to the stand to witness in his own defence. I had dreaded this contingency. I saw that for some reason, both his counsel and associate counsel, were not without their own misgivings as to the result of their somewhat doubtful experiment. Perjury! but not in his own defence--rather in opposition to it--that is what his counsel had to fear; and I wondered if they knew it. My attention became absorbed in the puzzle. Carmel's fate, if not Ella's--and certainly my own--hung upon the issue. This I knew, and this I faced, calmly, but very surely, as, the preliminary questions having been answered, Mr. Moffat proceeded. The witness's name having been demanded and given and some other preliminary formalities gone through, he was asked: Judge Edwards glanced, in some surprise, from Mr. Moffat to the daring man who could choose thus to usher in his defence; and then, forgetting his own emotions, in his instinctive desire for order, rapped sharply with his gavel in correction of the audible expression of a like feeling on the part of the expectant audience. "Do you mind particularising? Of what did she especially disapprove in your conduct or way of spending money?" "She disapproved of my fondness for drink. She didn't like my late hours, or the condition in which I frequently came home. I did not like her expressions of displeasure, or the way she frequently cut me short when I wanted to have a good time with my friends. We never agreed. I made her suffer often and unnecessarily. I regret it now; she was a better sister to me than I could then understand." This was uttered slowly and with a quiet emphasis which reawakened that excited hum the judge had been at such pains to quell a moment before. But he did not quell it now; he seemed to have forgotten his duty in the strong interest called up by these admissions from the tongue of the most imperturbable prisoner he had had before him in years. Mr. Moffat, with an eye on District Attorney Fox, who had shown his surprise at the trend the examination was taking by a slight indication of uneasiness, grateful enough, no doubt, to the daring counsellor, went on with his examination: Mr. Fox leaped to his feet. Then he slowly reseated himself. Evidently he thought it best to let the prisoner have his full say. Possibly he may have regretted his leniency the next moment when, with a solemn lowering of his head, Arthur answered: Simple words, read or repeated; but in that crowded court-room, with every ear strained to catch the lie which seemed the only refuge for the man so hemmed in by circumstance, these words, uttered without the least attempt at effect, fell with a force which gave new life to such as wished to see this man acquitted. His counsel, as if anxious to take advantage of this very expectation to heighten the effect of what followed, proceeded immediately to inquire: "When did you see your sister Adelaide for the last time alive?" A searching question. What would be his reply? "That night at the dinner-table. When I left the room, I turned to look at her. She was not looking at me; so I slammed the door and went upstairs. In an hour or so, I had left the house to get a drink. I got the drink, but I never saw Adelaide again till I saw her in her coffin." Mr. Moffat, satisfied so far, put his next question with equal directness: "Mr. Cumberland, you have mentioned seeing your sister in her coffin. When was this?" "At the close of her funeral, just before she was carried out." "Had you seen the casket itself prior to this moment of which you speak?" "Had you been near it? Had you handled it in any way?" "Mr. Cumberland, you have heard mention made of a ring worn by your sister in life, but missing from her finger after death?" "You remember this ring?" "It is, so far as I can judge at this distance." "Hand the ring to the witness," ordered the judge. The ring was so handed. He glanced at it, and said bitterly: "I recognise it. It was her engagement ring." "Was this ring on her finger that night at the dinner-table?" "I cannot say, positively, but I believe so. I should have noticed its absence." Mr. Moffat smiled enigmatically. "Mr. Cumberland, if you are not sure of having seen this ring then, when did you see it and where?" "I saw it when the police showed it to me, and asked me if I could identify it." "Was that the only time you have seen it up to the present moment?" Instinctively, the witness's right hand rose; it was as if he were mentally repeating his oath before he uttered coldly and with emphasis, though without any show of emotion: Mr. Moffat noted this, and his own lip curled, but with a very different show of feeling from that which had animated his distinguished opponent. Without waiting for the present sentiment to cool, he proceeded immediately with his examination: "It certainly does." "Was not this a most unusual thing to do?" "Perhaps. I was not thinking about that. I had a duty to perform, and I performed it." "A duty? Will you explain to the jury what duty?" They came in another instant, but with less steadiness than he had shown before. I even thought I could detect a tremor in his muscles, as well as in his voice: "I had rebelled against my sister's wishes; I had grieved and deceived her up to the very night of her foul and unnatural death--and all through _drink_." Here his eye flashed, and for that fleeting moment he looked a man. "I wished to take an oath--an oath I would remember. It was for this purpose I ordered the casket opened, and thrust my fingers through the flowers I found there. When my fingers touched my sister's brow, I inwardly swore never to taste liquor again. I have kept that oath. Difficult as it was, in my state of mind, and with all my troubles, I have kept it--and been misunderstood in doing so," he added, in lower tones, and with just a touch of bitterness. "When you thrust your hand in to take this oath, did you drop anything into your sister's casket?" "I did not. My hand was empty. I held no ring, and dropped none in. I simply touched her forehead." That counsel, strangely alive to the temper and feelings of his audience, waited just long enough for the few simple and solemn words uttered by the accused man to produce their full effect, then with a side glance at Mr. Fox, whose equanimity he had at last succeeded in disturbing, and whose cross-examination of the prisoner he had still to fear, continued his own examination by demanding why, when the ring was discovered in Adelaide's casket and he saw what inferences would be drawn from the fact, he had not made an immediate public explanation of his conduct and the reasons he had had for putting his hand there. He was checked at this point; but the glimpse we thus obtained of the natural man, in this indignant and sullen outburst, following so quickly upon the solemn declarations of the moment before, did more for him in the minds of those present than the suavest and most discreet answer given under the instigation of his counsel. Every face showed pleasure, and for a short space, if for no longer, all who listened were disposed to accept his assertions and accord the benefit of doubt to this wayward son of an esteemed father. To me, who had hoped nothing from Moffat's efforts, the substantial nature of the defence thus openly made manifest, brought reanimation and an unexpected confidence in the future. The question as to who had dropped the ring into the casket if Arthur had not--the innocent children, the grieving servants--was latent, of course, in every breast, but it had not yet reached the point demanding expression. Meanwhile, the examination proceeded. "Mr. Cumberland, you have stated that you did not personally drop this ring into the place where it was ultimately found. Can you tell us of your own knowledge who did?" The slip--and it was a slip for him to introduce that _more_--was immediately taken advantage of by his counsel. Again that look of displeasure directed towards his questioner, and a certain additional hardness in his reply, when he finally made it. The point raised by the district attorney having been ruled upon and sustained by the court, Mr. Moffat made no effort to carry his inquiries any further in the direction indicated; but I could see, with all my inexperience of the law and the ways of attorneys before a jury, that the episode had produced its inevitable result, and that my position, as a man released from suspicion, had received a shock, the results of which I might yet be made to feel. The topic which had awakened in me these doubts and consequent agitation will appear from the opening question. "Mr. Cumberland, to return to the night of your sister's death. Can you tell us what overcoat you put on when leaving your house?" Arthur was as astonished and certainly as disconcerted, if not as seriously alarmed, as I was, by this extraordinary move. Surprise, anger, then some deeper feeling rang in his voice as he replied: "Took down? Took down from where?" "From the rack in the hall where I hang my things; the side hall leading to the door where we usually go out." Short, sharp, and threatening was this _no_. A war was on between this man and his counsel, and the wonder it occasioned was visible in every eye. Perhaps Mr. Moffat realised this; this was what he had dreaded, perhaps. At all events, he proceeded with his strange task, in apparent oblivion of everything but his own purpose. "You have seen the hat and coat which have been shown here and sworn to as being the ones in which you appeared on your return to the house, the day following your sister's murder?" "Also the hat and coat found on a remote hook in the closet under the stairs, bearing the flour-mark on its under brim?" Trapped by his own lawyer--visibly and remorselessly trapped! The blood, shooting suddenly into the astounded prisoner's face, was reflected on the cheeks of the other lawyers present. Even Mr. Fox betrayed his surprise; but it was a surprise not untinged by apprehension. Mr. Moffat must feel very sure of himself to venture thus far. I, who feared to ask myself the cause of this assurance, could only wait and search the partially visible face of little Ella for an enlightenment, which was no more to be found there than in the swollen features of the outraged Arthur. The excitement which this event caused, afforded the latter some few moments in which to quell his own indignation; and when he spoke, it was passionately, yet not without some effort at restraint. It appeared to be a perfect give-a-way. And it was, but it was a give-a-way which, I feared, threatened Carmel rather than her brother. Mr. Moffat, still nervous, still avoiding the prisoner's eye, relentlessly pursued his course, unmindful--wilfully so, it appeared--of the harm he was doing himself, as well as the witness. "Mr. Cumberland, were a coat and hat all that you took from that hall?" "No, I took a key--a key from the bunch which I saw lying on the table." "Did you recognise this key?" "It belonged to Mr. Ranelagh, and was the key to the club-house wine-vault." "Where did you put it after taking it up?" "In my trousers' pocket." "What did you do then?" "Went out, of course." "Without seeing anybody?" "Of course. Whom should I see?" It was angrily said, and the flush, which had begun to die away, slowly made its way back into his cheeks. A lie! All knew it, all felt it. The man was perjuring himself, under his own counsel's persistent questioning on a point which that counsel had evidently been warned by him to avoid. I was assured of this by the way Moffat failed to meet Arthur's eye, as he pressed on hastily, and in a way to forestall all opposition. "The shortest. I went through my neighbour's grounds to Huested Street." "Didn't you stop at the stable?" "Yes, I stopped at the stable." "To look at the horses." "Was it the grey mare?" Had the defence changed places with the prosecution? It looked like it; and Arthur looked as if he considered Mr. Moffat guilty of the unheard of, inexplainable act, of cross-examining his own witness. The situation was too tempting for Mr. Fox to resist calling additional attention to it. With an assumption of extreme consideration, he leaned forward and muttered under his breath to his nearest colleague, but still loud enough for those about him to hear: "The prisoner must know that he is not bound to answer questions when such answers tend to criminate him.". A lightning glance, shot in his direction, was the eloquent advocate's sole reply. But Arthur, nettled into speaking, answered the question put him, in a loud, quick tone: "It was not the grey mare; but I went up to the grey mare before going out; I patted her and bade her be a good girl." "Where was she then?" "Where she belonged--in her stall." The tones had sunk; so had the previously lifted head; he no longer commanded universal sympathy or credence. The effect of his former avowals was almost gone. Mr. Moffat glanced at the jury, the smile still on his lips. Did he wish to impress that body with the embarrassment of his client? "Relate what followed. I am sure the jury will be glad to hear your story from your own lips." Mr. Moffat started. His witness was having his revenge. Kept in ignorance of his counsel's plan of defence, he was evidently advancing testimony new to that counsel. I had not thought the lad so subtle, and quaked in secret contemplation of the consequences. So did some others; but the interest was intense. He had heard sounds--he acknowledged it. But what sounds? But I had not fully sounded all of Alonzo Moffat's resources. That inscrutable lawyer and not-easily-to-be-understood man seemed determined to mar every good impression his unfortunate client managed to make. Ignoring the new facts just given, undoubtedly thinking that they would be amply sifted in the coming cross-examination, he drew the attention of the prisoner to himself by the following question: "Will you tell us again how many bottles of wine you took from the club-house?" "Was the ground slippery?" "Mr. Cumberland, is there anything you would like to say in your own defence before I close this examination?" "Nothing but this: I am innocent." THE SYLLABLE OF DOOM _Prometheus Unbound_. Recess followed. Clifton and I had the opportunity of exchanging a few words. He was voluble; I was reticent. I felt obliged to hide from him the true cause of the deep agitation under which I was labouring. Attached as he was to me, keenly as he must have felt my anomalous position, he was too full of Moffat's unwarrantable introduction of testimony damaging to his client, to think or talk of anything else. "He will win this," I muttered. Clifton started; looked at me very closely for a minute, paled a little--I fear that I was very pale myself--but did not ask the question rising to his lips. "There is method in the madness of a man like that," I pursued with a gloom I could not entirely conceal. "He has come upon some evidence which he has not even communicated to his client. At least, I fear so. We must be prepared for any untoward event." Then, noticing Clifton's alarm and wishing to confine it within safe bounds, I added: "I feel that I am almost as much on trial as Arthur himself. Naturally I am anxious at the appearance of anything I do not understand." Clifton frowned. We were quite alone. Leaning forward, he touched my arm. "Elwood," said he, "you've not been quite open with me." "You have a right to reproach me," said I, "but not wholly. I did not deceive you in essentials. You may still believe me as guiltless of Adelaide's violent death as a man can be who drove her and hers into misery which death alone could end." "I will believe it," he muttered, "I must." And he dropped the subject, as he made me see, forever. I drew a deep breath of relief. I had come very near to revealing my secret. As he took the witness chair, and prepared to meet the cross-examination of the district attorney, a solemn hush settled upon the room. Would the coming ordeal rob his brow of its present effrontery, or would he continue to bear himself with the same surly dignity, which, misunderstood as it was, produced its own effect, and at certain moments seemed to shake even the confidence of Mr. Fox, settled as he seemed to be in his belief in the integrity of his cause and the rights of the prosecution. Shaken or not, his attack was stern, swift, and to the point. "The categorical answer, Mr. Cumberland. Anything else is superfluous." Arthur's lip curled, but only for an instant; and nothing could have exceeded the impassiveness of his manner as Mr. Fox went on. "Then you knew the way?" "Sufficiently well to open it without difficulty." "How long do you think you were in entering the house and procuring these bottles?" "I cannot say. I have no means of knowing; I never thought of looking at my watch." "Not when you started? Not when you left Cuthbert Road?" "But you know when you left the club-house to go back?" Mr. Fox smiled an acrid smile, as he asked: "Whereabouts on the golf-links? They extend for some distance, you remember." "How, not see your way?" "The snow flew into my eyes." "Crossing the links?" "Yes, sir, crossing the links." "But the storm came from the west. It should have beaten against your back." "Back or front, it bothered me. I could not get on as fast as I wished." "You are accustomed to the links? You have crossed them often?" "Yes, I play golf there all summer." "No, not in a storm." "How long did it take you that time to reach Cuthbert Road from The Whispering Pines?" Mr. Moffat bounded to his feet, but the prisoner had answered before he could speak. "How came you to know the time so exactly?" "Did you stop in the midst of the storm to take a drink?" asked the district attorney. As the testimony of the landlord in Cuthbert Road had been explicit as to the fact of his having himself uncorked the bottle which the prisoner had brought into the hotel, Arthur could not plead yes. He must say no, and he did. "I drank nothing; I was too busy thinking. I was so busy thinking I wandered all over those links." "In the blinding snow?" "And why didn't you?" "When you heard your sister's voice in the club-house, how did you think she had got into the building?" "By means of the keys Ranelagh had left at the house." "No, I never thought of it. I never thought of her at all." "Was this before or after you put on your overcoat?" "I'm not sure; after, I think. Yes, it was after; for I remember that I had a deuce of a time unbuttoning my coat to get at my trousers' pocket." "You dropped this key into your trousers' pocket?" "Mr. Cumberland, let me ask you to fix your memory on the moments you spent in the hall. Did you put on your hat before you pocketed the key, or afterwards?" "My hat? How can I tell? My mind wasn't on my hat. I don't know when I put it on." "You absolutely do not remember?" "Nor where you took it from?" "Did not stand by the table thinking?" "No, I was in too much of a hurry." "So that you went straight out?" "Yes, as quickly as I could." "I called to nobody. I--I went out immediately." It was evident that he lied; evident, too, that he had little hope from his lie. Uneasiness was taking the place of confidence in his youthful, untried, undisciplined mind. Carmel had spoken to him in the hall--I guessed it then, I knew it afterward--and he thought to deceive this court and blindfold a jury, whose attention had been drawn to this point by his own counsel. District Attorney Fox smiled. "How then did you get into the stable?" "The stable! Oh, I had no trouble in getting into the stable." A slow flush broke over the prisoner's whole face. He saw where he had been landed and took a minute to pull himself together before he replied: "I had the key to that door, too. I got it out of the kitchen." "You have not spoken of going into the kitchen." "I have not spoken of coming downstairs." "You went into the kitchen?" "That is not in accordance with your direct testimony. On the contrary, you said that on coming downstairs you went straight to the rack for your overcoat. Stenographer read what the prisoner said on this topic." A rustling of leaves, distinctly to be heard in the deathlike silence of the room, was followed by the reading of this reply and answer: The prisoner stood immobile but with a deepening line gathering on his brow until the last word fell. Then he said: "I forgot. I went for the key before I put on my overcoat. I wanted to see how the sick horse looked." "Did you drop this key into your pocket, too?" "No, I carried it into the hall." "What did you do with it there?" "I don't know. Put it on the table, I suppose." "I laid it on the table. I must have--there was no other place to put it." "Laid it down by itself?" "And took it up when you went out?" "Carrying it straight to the stable?" "What did you do with it when you came out?" "I left it in the stable-door." "You did? What excuse have you to give for that?" "None. I was reckless, and didn't care for anything--that's all." "Yet you took several minutes, for all your hurry and your indifference, to get the stable key and look in at a horse that wasn't sick enough to keep your coachman home from a dance." The prisoner was silent. "You have no further explanation to give on this subject?" "No. All fellows who love horses will understand." "Mention them, if you please." "Zadok had been to a dance, and may not have been quite clear as to what he saw. Or, finding the stable door open, may have blamed himself for the fact and sought to cover up his fault with a lie." "Have you ever caught him in a lie?" "You would impeach his testimony then?" "No. You asked me how this discrepancy could be explained, and I have tried to show you." "Mr. Cumberland, the grey mare was out that night; this has been amply proved." "If you believe Zadok, yes." "You have heard other testimony corroborative of this fact. She was seen on the club-house road that night, by a person amply qualified to identify her." "So I've been told." It was my death warrant. I realised this even while I held Ella's eye with mine and smoothed my countenance to meet the anguish in hers, in the effort to hold her back for a few minutes longer till I could quite satisfy myself that Arthur's case was really lost and that I must speak or feel myself his murderer. "When you went into the kitchen, Mr. Cumberland, to get the stable-door key, was the gas lit, or did you have to light it?" "It--it was lit, I think." "It was lit, but turned low. I could see well enough." "Why, then, didn't you take both keys?" "You haven't said so." "I--I took it when I took the other." "It does not appear so in your testimony. You mentioned a key, not keys, in all your answers to my questions." "And went straight out with them?" "Yes, to the stable." "Through the adjoining grounds downtown." "You are sure you went through Mr. Fulton's grounds at this early hour in the evening?" "No, sir. I was on the golf-links then." "Unharnessed the horse, drew up the cutter, locked the stable-door, and, entering the house, hung up the key where it belonged." No answer this time. "But you know where the other--or rather remnants of the other, was found?" "Had you carried that other bottle off, and had it been broken as this has been broken would it not have presented an exactly similar appearance to this?" "It would have looked the same. I cannot deny it. What's the use fooling?" "This barrel stood where?" "In the passage behind the stable." "The passage you pass through on your way to the door leading into your neighbour's grounds?" She did not say what, for at the hubbub roused by this outbreak in open court, she fainted dead away and was carried out in her dismayed father's arms. Inwardly committing Carmel's future to the God who made her and who knew better than we the story of her life and what her fiery temper had cost her, I drew a piece of paper from my pocket, and, while the courtroom was slowly emptying, hastily addressed the following lines to Mr. Moffat who had lingered to have a few words with his colleague: "There is a witness in this building who can testify more clearly and definitely than Miss Fulton, that Arthur Cumberland, for all we have heard in seeming contradiction to the same, might have been on the golf-links at the time he swears to. That witness is myself. "Do you absolutely wish to be recalled as a witness, and by the defence? M." My answer was brief: "I do. Not to make a confession of crime. I have no such confession to make. But I know who drove that horse. R." I had sacrificed Carmel to my sense of right. Never had I loved her as I did at that moment. I see your end, 'T is my undoing. I, who knew the basis of this expectancy and the nature of the action with which Mr. Moffat anticipated startling the court, was the quietest person present. Since it was my hand and none other which must give this fresh turn to the wheel of justice, it were well for me to do it calmly and without any of the old maddening throb of heart. But the time seemed long before Arthur was released from further cross-examination, and the opportunity given Mr. Moffat to call his next witness. Something in the attitude he now took, something in the way he bent over his client and whispered a few admonitory words, and still more the emotion with which these words were received and answered by some extraordinary protest, aroused expectation to a still greater pitch, and made my course seem even more painful to myself than I had foreseen when dreaming over and weighing the possibilities of this hour. With something like terror, I awaited the calling of my name; and, when it was delayed, it was with emotions inexplicable to myself that I looked up and saw Mr. Moffat holding open a door at the left of the judge, with that attitude of respect, which a man only assumes in the presence and under the dominating influence of woman. But when the timid faltering step we could faintly hear crossing the room beyond, had brought its possessor within sight, and I perceived the tall, black-robed, heavily veiled woman who reached for Mr. Moffat's sustaining arm, I did not need the startling picture of the prisoner, standing upright, with outheld and repellant hands, to realise that the impossible had happened, and that all which he, as well as I, had done and left undone, suffered and suppressed, had been in vain. Mr. Moffat, with no eye for him or for me, conducted his witness to a chair; then, as she loosened her veil and let it drop in her lap, he cried in tones which rang from end to end of the court-room: "I summon Carmel Cumberland to the stand, to witness in her brother's defence." The surprise was complete. It was a great moment for Mr. Moffat; but for me all was confusion, dread, a veil of misty darkness, through which shone her face, marred by its ineffaceable scar, but calm as I had never expected to see it again in this life, and beautiful with a smile under which her deeply shaken and hardly conscious brother sank slowly back into his seat, amid a silence as profound as the hold she had immediately taken upon all hearts. "WHERE IS MY BROTHER?" Let me see the writing. My lord, 't is nothing. No matter, then, who sees it; I will be satisfied, let me see the writing. Meanwhile Carmel was allowed such liberty as her condition required; but was never left alone for a moment after a certain day when her eye suddenly took on a strange look of confused inquiry, totally dissociated with anything she saw or heard. A stir had taken place in her brain, and her nurse wanted to take her back home. But this awakening--if such it could be called, was so short in its duration and was followed so immediately by a string of innocent questions about Adelaide, that Nurse Unwin concluded to remain a few days longer before risking this delicately balanced mind amid old scenes and the curious glances of her townspeople. "Explain," she murmured. "Where am I?" "At Lakewood, in a hotel. You have been ill, and are only just recovering." "I remember," said she. Then with another glance at her dress, which had studiously been kept cheerful, she remarked, with deep reproach: "My sister is dead; why am I not in black?" "You wore too ill to be burdened with black. You are better now and may assume it if you will. I will help you buy your mourning." "Yes, you look like a kind woman. What is your name, please, and are we here alone in this great hotel?" Now, as a matter of expediency--to save Carmel from the unendurable curiosity of the crowd, and herself from the importunities of the New York reporters, Miss Unwin had registered herself and her charge under assumed names. She was, therefore, forced to reply: "My name is Huckins, and we are here alone. But that need not worry you. I have watched over you night and day for many weeks." "You have? Because of this slight burn?" Again Carmel's hand went to her cheek. "Not on account of that only. You have had a serious illness quite apart from that injury. But you are better; you are almost well--well enough to go home, if you will." "I cannot go home--not just yet. I'm--I'm not strong enough. But we shouldn't be here alone without some man to look after us. Miss Huckins, _where is my brother_?" At this question, uttered with emphasis, with anxiety--with indignation even--Miss Unwin felt the emotion she had so successfully subdued up to this moment, betray itself in her voice as she answered, with a quiet motion towards the elevator: "Let us go up to our room. There I will answer all your questions." "We have all the papers in our room. Come up, and let me read them to you." But Fate was making ready its great stroke. Just as Carmel seemed about to yield to this persuasion, some lingering doubt drew her eyes again to the stand, just at the very moment a boy stepped into view with the evening bulletin, on which had just been written these words: The Last Juror Obtained in the Trial of Arthur Cumberland for the Murder of His Sister, Adelaide. Carmel saw, and stood--a breathless image of horror. A couple of gentlemen came running; but the nurse waved them back, and herself caught Carmel and upheld her, in momentary dread of another mental, if not physical, collapse. But Carmel had come back into the world of consciousness to stay. Accepting her nurse's support, but giving no sign of waning faculties or imperfect understanding of what she had seen, she spoke quite clearly and with her eyes fixed upon Miss Unwin: "So that is why I am here, away from all my friends. Was I too ill to be told? Couldn't you make me know what was happening? You or the doctors or--or anybody?" "You were much too ill," protested the nurse, leading her towards the elevator and so by degrees to her room. "I tried to arouse you after the crisis of your illness had passed; but you seemed to have forgotten everything which took place that night and the doctors warned me not to press you." They were in their own room now, and Carmel was standing quite by herself in the full light of the setting sun. With the utterance of this determination, she had turned upon her companion; and that astute and experienced woman had every opportunity for observing her face. There was a woman's resolution in it. With the sudden rending of the clouds which had obscured her intellect, strange powers had awakened in this young girl, giving her a force of expression which, in connection with her inextinguishable beauty, formed a spectacle before which this older woman, in spite of her long experience, hesitated in doubt. Carmel was not listening. Another change of thought had come, and her features, as keenly alive now to every passing emotion as they had formerly been set in a dull placidity, mirrored doubts of her own, which had a deeper source than any which had disturbed the nurse, even in these moments of serious perplexity. What was the feeling? Nurse Unwin felt it imperative to know. Relying on the confidence shown her by this unfortunate girl, in her lonely position and unbearable distress, she approached Carmel, with renewed offers of help and such expressions of sympathy as she thought might lure her into open speech. "I must think," she murmured, as she finally followed the nurse's lead and seated herself on a lounge. "Arthur on trial for his life! _Arthur on trial for his life!_ And Adelaide was not even murdered!" "No?" gasped the nurse, intent on every word this long-silenced witness let fall. The soul in Carmel seemed to vanish at this word. The eyes, which had been so far-seeing the moment before, grew blank, and the lithe young body stiff with that death in life which is almost worse to look upon than death itself. She did not speak; but presently she arose, as an automaton might arise at the touch of some invisible spring, and so stood, staring, until the nurse, frightened at the result of her words and the complete overthrow which might follow them, sprang for a newspaper and thrust it into her patient's unwilling hand. Miss Unwin complied, but with reservations. She told of Adelaide having been found dead at The Whispering Pines by the police, whom she had evidently summoned during a moment of struggle or fear; of Ranelagh's presence there, and of the suspicions to which it gave rise; of his denial of the crime; of his strange reticence on certain points, which served to keep him incarcerated till a New York detective got to work and found so much evidence against her brother that Mr. Ranelagh was subsequently released and Arthur Cumberland indicted. But she said nothing about the marks on Adelaide's throat, or of the special reason which the police had for arresting Mr. Ranelagh. She did not dare. Strangulation was a horrible death to contemplate; and if this factor in the crime--she was not deceived by Carmel's exclamation that there had been no murder--was unknown as yet to her patient, as it must be from what she had said, and the absolute impossibility, as she thought, of her having known what went on in The Whispering Pines, then it had better remain unknown to her until circumstances forced it on her knowledge, or she had gotten sufficient strength to bear it. Miss Unwin nodded, and began to open the trunks. This, however, was a ruse. She did not intend to take her patient back that night. She was afraid to risk it. The next day would be soon enough. But she would calm her by making ready, and when the proper moment came, would find some complication of trains which would interfere with their immediate departure. Meanwhile, she would communicate at the earliest moment with Mr. Fox. She had been in the habit of sending him frequent telegrams as to her patient's condition. They had been invariable so far: "No difference; mind still a blank," or some code word significant of the same. But a new word was necessary now. She must look it up, and formulate her telegram before she did anything else. Ap Lox Fidestum Truhum Ridiculous nonsense--until she consulted the code. Then these detached and meaningless words took on a significance which she could not afford to ignore: Ap A change. Lox Makes remarkable statements. Fidestum Shall we return? Trubum Not tractable. Regaining her own room, which was on the other side of their common sitting-room, she collected a few necessary articles, and placed them in a bag which she thrust under her bed. Hunting for money, she found quite an adequate amount in her own purse, which was attached to her person. Satisfied thus far, she chose her most inconspicuous hat and coat, and putting them on, went out by her own door into the corridor. The time--it was the dinner-hour--favoured her attempt. She found her way to the office unobserved, and, going frankly up to the clerk, informed him that she had some telegrams to send and that she would be out for some little time. Would he see that Miss Huckins was not neglected in her absence? "Where is the railroad station?" she inquired of the boy who was trotting along at her side. "Over there," he answered, vaguely. The sight of the station, from which a train was just leaving, frightened her for a moment with its bustle and many lights; but she rallied under the stress of her purpose, and, entering, found the telegraph office, from which she sent this message, directed to her physician, at home, Dr. Carpenter: "Look for me on early train. All is clear to me now, and I must return. Preserve silence till we meet." This she signed with a pet name, known only to themselves, and dating back to her childish days. Carmel exerted herself. "Quite right. I will myself tell the nurse." He was going, but turned to look at her again. "Shall I accompany you to the door of your room?" he asked. She shook her head, with a smile. This delay was a torment to her, but it must be endured. "It would be a wise precaution," he admitted. "But you could just as well leave it at the desk." "It will not return so soon. Next week we may look for it. Then you can be by to reassure her if she asks for you." "I would not be a cause of distress to her for the world. She has been very good to me." Bowing, she turned in the direction of the office. She was missed the next morning, and an account of her erratic flight reached the papers, and was published far and wide. But the name of Miss Caroline Campbell conveyed nothing to the public, and the great trial went on without a soul suspecting the significance of this midnight flitting of an unknown and partially demented girl. He had thought that he could win his case by the powers of oratory and a somewhat free use of innuendo; but his view changed under the fresh enlightenment which he received in his conversation with Carmel. He saw unfolding before him a defence of unparalleled interest. True, it involved this interesting witness in a way that would be unpleasant to the brother; but he was not the man to sacrifice a client to any sentimental scruple--certainly not this client, whose worth he was just beginning to realise. Professional pride, as well as an inherent love of justice, led him to this conclusion. Nothing in God's world appealed to him, or ever had appealed to him, like a prisoner in the dock facing a fate from which only legal address, added to an orator's eloquence, could save him. His sympathies went out to a man so placed, even when he was a brute and his guilt far from doubtful. How much more, then, must he feel the claims of this surly but chivalrous-hearted boy, son of a good father and pious mother, who had been made the butt of circumstances, and of whose innocence he was hourly becoming more and more convinced. Could he have probed the whole matter, examined and re-examined this new witness until every detail was his and the whole story of that night stood bare before him, he might have hesitated a little longer and asked himself some very serious questions. But Carmel was not strong enough for much talk. Dr. Carpenter would not allow it, and the continued clearness of her mind was too invaluable to his case for this far-seeing advocate to take any risk. She had told him enough to assure him that circumstances and not guilt had put Arthur where he was, and had added to the assurance, details of an unexpected nature--so unexpected, indeed, that the lawyer was led away by the prospect they offered of confounding the prosecution by a line of defence to which no clew had been given by anything that had appeared. Mr. Moffat did not repeat this visit. He was not willing to risk his secret by being seen too often at the doctor's house; but telephonic communication was kept up between him and her present guardian, and he was able to bear himself quietly and with confidence until the time drew near for the introduction of her testimony. Then he grew nervous, fearing that Nurse Unwin would come to herself and telegraph Carmel's escape, and so prepare the prosecution for his great stroke. But nothing of the kind happened; and, when the great day came, he had only to consider how he should prepare Arthur for the surprise awaiting him, and finally decided not to prepare him at all, but simply to state at the proper moment, and in the face of the whole court-room, that his sister had recovered and would soon take her place upon the stand. The restraint of the place would thus act as a guard between them, and Carmel's immediate entrance put an end to the reproaches of whose bitterness he could well judge from his former experience of them. WHAT THE PINES WHISPERED "I REMEMBERED THE ROOM" _Prometheus Unbound_. But the days of magic had passed. I could not escape the spot; I could not escape her eye. The ordeal to which she was thus committed, I must share. As she advanced step by step upon her uncertain road, it would be my unhappy fate to advance with her, in terror of the same pitfalls, with our faces set towards the same precipice--slipping, fainting, experiencing agonies together. She knew my secret, and I, alas! knew hers. So I interpreted this intolerable, overwhelming blush. Mr. Moffat prefaced his examination by the following words: "May it please your Honour, I wish to ask the indulgence of the court in my examination of this witness. She is just recovering from a long and dangerous illness; and while I shall endeavour to keep within the rules of examination, I shall be grateful for any consideration which may be shown her by your Honour and by the counsel on the other side." Mr. Moffat bowed his acknowledgments, and waited for his witness to take the oath, which she did with a simple grace which touched all hearts, even that of her constrained and unreconciled brother. Compelled by the silence and my own bounding pulses to look at her in my own despite, I caught the sweet and elevated look with which she laid her hand on the Book, and asked myself if her presence here was not a self-accusation, which would bring satisfaction to nobody--which would sink her and hers into an ignominy worse than the conviction of the brother whom she was supposedly there to save. Tortured by this fear, I awaited events in indescribable agitation. The cool voice of Mr. Moffat broke in upon my gloom. Carmel had reseated herself, after taking the oath, and the customary question could be heard: "Your name, if you please." "Carmel Cumberland." "Do you recognise the prisoner, Miss Cumberland?" "Yes; he is my brother." "I was in the club-house--in the house you call The Whispering Pines." Modifying his manner, he steadied himself for either exigency, and, in steadying himself, steadied his colleagues also. Mr. Moffat, who saw everything, smiled slightly as he spoke encouragingly to his witness, and propounded his next question: "Miss Cumberland, was your sister with you when you went to the club-house?" "No; we went separately" "How? Will you explain?" "I drove there. I don't know how Adelaide went." "Yes. I had Arthur harness up his horse for me and I drove there." A moment of silence; then a slow awakening--on the part of judge, jury, and prosecution--to the fact that the case was taking a turn for which they were ill-prepared. To Mr. Moffat, it was a moment of intense self-congratulation, and something of the gratification he felt crept into his voice as he said: "Miss Cumberland, will you describe this horse?" "It was a grey horse. It has a large black spot on its left shoulder." "To what vehicle was it attached?" "To a cutter--my brother's cutter." "Was that brother with you? Did he accompany you in your ride to The Whispering Pines?" "No, I went quite alone." Entrancement had now seized upon every mind. Even if her testimony were not true, but merely the wanderings of a mind not fully restored, the interest of it was intense. Mr. Fox, glancing at the jury, saw there would be small use in questioning at this time the mental capacity of the witness. This was a story which all wished to hear. Perhaps he wished to hear it, too. Mr. Moffat rose to more than his accustomed height. The light which sometimes visited his face when feeling, or a sense of power, was strongest in him, shone from his eye and irradiated his whole aspect as he inquired tellingly: "And how did you return? With whom, and by what means, did you regain your own house?" The answer came, with simple directness: "In the same way I went. I drove back in my brother's cutter and being all alone just as before, I put the horse away myself, and went into my empty home and up to Adelaide's room, where I lost consciousness." The excitement, which had been seething, broke out as she ceased; but the judge did not need to use his gavel, or the officers of the court exert their authority. At Mr. Moffat's lifted hand, the turmoil ceased as if by magic. "Miss Cumberland, do you often ride out alone on nights like that?" "I never did before. I would not have dared to do it then, if I had not taken a certain precaution." "And what was this precaution?" Meanwhile, my own mind had been busy. I had watched Arthur; I had watched Mr. Moffat. The discouragement of the former, the ill-concealed elation of the latter, proved the folly of any hope, on my part, that Carmel would be spared a full explanation of what I would have given worlds to leave in the darkness and ignorance of the present moment. To save Arthur, unwilling as he was, she was to be allowed to consummate the sacrifice which the real generosity of her heart drove her into making. Before these doors opened again and sent forth the crowd now pulsating under a preamble of whose terrible sequel none as yet dreamed, I should have to hear those sweet lips give utterance to the revelation which would consign her to opprobrium, and break, not only my heart, but her brother's. Was there no way to stop it? The district attorney gave no evidence of suspecting any issue of this sort, nor did the friendly and humane judge. Only the scheming Moffat knew to what all this was tending, and Moffat could not be trusted. The case was his and he would gain it if he could. Tender and obliging as he was in his treatment of the witness, there was iron under the velvet of his glove. This was his reputation; and this I must now see exemplified before me, without the power to stop it. The consideration with which he approached his subject did not deceive me. "Miss Cumberland, will you now give the jury the full particulars of that evening's occurrences, as witnessed by yourself. Begin your relation, if you please, with an account of the last meal you had together." Carmel hesitated. Her youth--her conscience, perhaps--shrank in manifest distress from this inquisition. "Ask me a question," she prayed. "I do not know how to begin." "Very well. Who were seated at the dinner-table that night?" "My sister, my brother, Mr. Ranelagh, and myself." "Did anything uncommon happen during the meal?" "He did not let his fall. He set it down on the cloth. He had not drank from it." Clear, perfectly clear--tallying with what we had heard from other sources. As this fact forced itself in upon the minds of the jury, new light shone in every eye and each and all waited eagerly for the next question. It came with a quiet, if not insinuating, intonation. "Miss Cumberland, where were you looking when you let your glass fall?" My heart gave a bound. I remembered that moment well. So did she, as could be seen from the tremulous flush and the determination with which she forced herself to speak. "At Mr. Ranelagh," she answered, finally. "Not at your brother?" "And at whom was Mr. Ranelagh looking?" "Not at your sister?" "Was anything said?" Mr. Moffat was equal to the appeal. "Did anything happen? Did Mr. Ranelagh speak to you or you to him, or did your sister Adelaide speak?" "And did you read it then?" Mr. Moffat glanced at Mr. Fox; but that gentleman, passing over this artless expression of feeling, as unworthy an objection, he went steadily on: "Miss Cumberland, before you tell us about this note, will you be good enough to inform us whether any words passed between you and your sister before you went upstairs?" "Now, about the note?" "I read it as soon as I reached my room. Then I sat still for a long time." "Miss Cumberland, pardon my request, but will you tell us what was in that note?" She lifted her patient eyes, and looked straight at her brother. He did not meet her gaze; but the dull flush which lit up the dead-white of his cheek showed how he suffered under this ordeal. At me she never glanced; this was the only mercy shown me that dreadful morning. I grew to be thankful for it as she went on. "I do not remember the words," she said, finally, as her eyes fell again to her lap. "But I remember its meaning. It was an invitation for me to leave town with him that very evening and be married at some place he mentioned. He said it would be the best way to--to end--matters." This brought Mr. Fox to his feet. For all his self-command, he had been perceptibly growing more and more nervous as the examination proceeded; and he found himself still in the dark as to his opponent's purpose and the character of the revelations he had to fear. Turning to the judge, he cried: "This testimony is irrelevant and incompetent, and I ask to have it stricken out." Mr. Moffat's voice, as he arose to answer this, was like honey poured upon gall. "It is neither irrelevant nor incompetent, and, if it were, the objection comes too late. My friend should have objected to the question." "The whole course of counsel has been very unusual," began Mr. Fox. "Yes, but so is the case. I beg your Honour to believe that, in some of its features, this case is not only unusual, but almost without a precedent. That it may be lightly understood, and justice shown my client, a full knowledge of the whole family's experiences during those fatal hours is not only desirable, but absolutely essential. I beg, therefore, that my witness may be allowed to proceed and tell her story in all its details. Nothing will be introduced which will not ultimately be seen to have a direct bearing upon the attitude of my client towards the crime for which he stands here arraigned." "The motion is denied," declared the judge. Mr. Moffat, generous enough or discreet enough to take no note of his opponent's discomfiture, lifted a paper from the table and held it towards the witness. She started at sight of them. Evidently she had never expected to see them again. "Yes," she answered, after a moment. "This is a portion of the note I have mentioned." "You recognise it as such?" Her eyes lingered on the scrap, and followed it as it was passed back and marked as an exhibit. Mr. Moffat recalled her to the matter in hand. "What did you do next, Miss Cumberland?" "I answered the note." "May I ask to what effect?" "I refused Mr. Ranelagh's request. I said that I could not do what he asked, and told him to wait till the next day, and he would see how I felt towards him and towards Adelaide. That was all. I could not write much. I was suffering greatly." "Suffering in mind, or suffering in body?" "Suffering in my mind. I was terrified, but that feeling did not last very long. Soon I grew happy, happier than I had been in weeks, happier than I had ever been in all my life before. I found that I loved Adelaide better than I did myself. This made everything easy, even the sending of the answer I have told you about to Mr. Ranelagh." "Miss Cumberland, how did you get this answer to Mr. Ranelagh?" "By means of a gentleman who was going away on the very train I had been asked to leave on. He was a guest next door, and I carried the note in to him." "Did you do this openly?" "No. I'm afraid not; I slipped out by the side door, in as careful a way as I could." "No. Adelaide was at the head of the stairs when I came back, standing there, very stiff and quiet." "Did she speak to you?" "No. She just looked at me; but it wasn't a common look. I shall never forget it." "And what did you do then?" "I went to my room." "Miss Cumberland, did you sec anybody else when you came in at this time?" "Miss Cumberland, continue the story. What did you do after re-entering your room?" During all this Mr. Fox had sat by, understanding his right to object to the witness's mixed statements of fact and of feelings, and quite confident that his objections would be sustained. But he had determined long since that he would not interrupt the witness in her relation. The air of patience he assumed was sufficiently indicative of his displeasure, and he confined himself to this. Mr. Moffat understood, and testified his appreciation by a slight bow. Carmel, who saw nothing, resumed her story. "Take your time, Miss Cumberland; we have no wish to hurry you." "I had hardly done this when I heard the servants on the walk outside, then Arthur going down. The impulse to see and speak to him again was irresistible. I flew after him and caught him in the lower hall. 'Arthur,' I cried, 'look at me, look at me well, and then--kiss me!' And he did kiss me--I'm glad when I think of it, though he did say, next minute: 'What is the matter with you? What are you going to do? To meet that villain?' "He shrugged his shoulders, and reached for his coat and hat. As he was putting them on, I said, 'Don't forget to harness up Jenny.' Jenny is the grey mare. 'And leave off the bells,' I urged. 'I don't want Adelaide to hear me go out.' "As he took the key, I prayed again, 'Don't do what's in your mind, Arthur. Don't drink to-night. He only laughed, and I said my last word: 'If you do, it will be for the last time. You'll never drink again after to-morrow.' "He made no answer to this, and I went slowly upstairs. Everything was quiet--quiet as death--in the whole house. If Adelaide had heard us, she made no sign. Going to my own room, I waited until I heard Arthur come out of the stable and go away by the door in the rear wall. Then I stole out again. I carried a small bag with me, but no coat or hat. Mr. Moffat, quite aware of the effect which was being produced on every side, but equally careful to make no show of it, put in a commonplace question at this point, possibly to rouse the witness from her own abstraction, possibly to restore the judicial tone of the inquiry. "How did you leave the stable-door?" "Can you tell us what time it was when you started?" "Never mind the _if_" said Mr. Moffat. "It is enough that you heard the whistle. Go on with what you did." "I tied up my horse; then I went into the house. I had used Mr. Ranelagh's key to open the door and for some reason I took it out of the lock when I got in, and put the whole bunch back into my satchel. But I did not lock the door. Then I lit my candle and then--I went upstairs." Fainter and fainter the words fell, and slower and slower heaved the youthful breast under her heavily pressing palm. Mr. Moffat made a sign across the court-room, and I saw Dr. Carpenter get up and move nearer to the witness stand. But she stood in no need of his help. In an instant her cheek flushed; the eye I watched with such intensity of wonder that apprehension unconsciously left me, rose, glowed, and fixed itself at last--not on the judge, not on the prisoner, not even on that prisoner's counsel--but on _me_; and as the soft light filled my soul and awoke awe, where it had hitherto awakened passion, she quietly said: Let me have A dram of poison; such soon speeding geer As will disperse itself through all the veins, That the life-weary taker may fall dead. "I had to relate what you have just heard, that you might understand what happened next. I was not used to pain, and I could never have kept on pressing those irons to my cheek if I had not had the strength given me by my own reflection in the glass. When I thought the burn was quite deep enough, I tore the tongs away, and was lifting them to the other cheek when I saw the door behind me open, inch by inch, as thought pushed by hesitating touches. "Instantly, I forgot my pain, almost my purpose, watching that door. I saw it slowly swing to its full width, and disclose my sister standing in the gap, with a look and in an attitude which terrified me more than the fire had done. Dropping the tongs, I turned and faced her, covering my cheek instinctively with my hand. "I saw her eyes run over my elaborate dinner dress--my little hand-bag, and the candle burning in a room made warm with a fire on the hearth. This, before she spoke a single word. Then, with a deep labouring breath, she looked me in the eye again, with the simple question: "'And where is he?'" Carmel's head had drooped at this, but she raised it almost instantly. Mine did not rise so readily. "'No,' I cried. 'I am not so bad as that, Adelaide--nor is he. Here is the note. You will see by it what he expects, and at what place I should have joined him, if I had been the selfish creature you think,' I had the note hidden in my breast. I took it out, and held it towards her. I did not feel the burn at all, but I kept it covered. She glanced down at the words; and I felt like falling at her feet, she looked so miserable. I am told that I must keep to fact, and must not express my feelings, or those of others. I will try to remember this; but it is hard for a sister, relating such a frightful scene. "You see that I remember every word she spoke. They burned more fiercely than the iron. That did not burn at all, just then. I was cold instead--bitterly, awfully cold. My very heart seemed frozen, and the silence was dreadful. But I could not speak, I could not answer her. "I tell you this--I bare my sister's broken heart to you, giving you her very words, sacred as they are to me and--and to others, who are present, and must listen to all I say--because it is right that you should understand her frenzy, and know all that passed between us in that awful hour." This was irregular, highly irregular--but District Attorney Fox sat on, unmoved. Possibly he feared to prejudice the jury; possibly he recognised the danger of an interruption now, not only to the continuity of her testimony, but to the witness herself; or--what is just as likely--possibly he cherished a hope that, in giving her a free rein and allowing her to tell her story thus artlessly, she would herself supply the clew he needed to reconstruct his case on the new lines upon which it was being slowly forced by these unexpected revelations. Whatever the cause, he let these expressions of feeling pass. At a gesture from Mr. Moffat, Carmel proceeded: "'Yes,' I agreed, 'that made me think,' Her knees bent under her; she sank at my feet, but her eyes never left my face. 'And--and Elwood?' 'He knows nothing. I did not make up my mind till to-night. Adelaide, it had to be. I hadn't the strength to--to leave you all, or--or to say no, if he ever asked me to my face what he asked me in that note,' "I tried to dissuade her. I urged every plea, even that of my own sacrifice. But she was no more her natural self. She had taken up the note and read it during my entreaties, and my words fell on deaf ears. 'Why, these words have killed me,' she cried crumpling the note in her hand. 'What will a little poison do? It can only finish what he has begun.' "Poison! I remembered how I had heard her pushing about bottles in the medicine cabinet, and felt my legs grow weak and my head swim. 'You will not!' I cried, watching her hand, in terror of seeing it rise to her breast. 'You are crazed to-night; to-morrow you will feel differently.' "She was in a fever, now, and desperate. Death was in the room; I felt it in my lifted hair, and in her strangely drawn face. If I screamed, who would hear me? I never thought of the telephone, and I doubt if she would have let me use it then. The power she had always exerted over me was very strong in her at this moment; and not till afterwards did it cross my mind that I had never asked her how she got to the house, or whether we were as much alone in the building as I believed. "'Shall I drink alone?' she repeated, and I cried out 'No'; at which her hand went to her breast, as I had so long expected, and I saw the glitter of a little phial as she drew it forth. "'Oh, Adelaide!' I began; but she heeded me no more than the dead. "I tried to soothe her--to keep down my awful fear and soothe her. But the nearness of death had calmed her poor heart into its old love and habitual thoughtfulness. She was terrified at my position. She recalled our mother, and the oath she had taken at that mother's death-bed to protect me and care for me and my brother. 'And I have failed to do either,' she cried. 'Arthur, I have alienated, and you I am leaving to unknown trouble and danger,' But her sister had not died that way; her sister had been strangled. Could this dainty creature, with beauty scarred and yet powerfully triumphant, be the victim of an hallucination as to the cause of that scar and the awesome circumstances which attended its infliction? Or, harder still to believe, were these soul-compelling tones, these evidences of grief, this pathetic yielding to the rights of the law in face of the heart's natural shrinking from disclosures sacred as they were tragic--were these the medium by which she sought to mislead justice and to conceal truth? Even I, with my memory of her looks as she faltered down the staircase on that memorable night--pale, staring, her left hand to her cheek and rocking from side to side in pain or terror--could not but ask if this heart-rending story did not involve a still more terrible sequel. I searched her face, and racked my very soul, in my effort to discern what lay beneath this angelic surface--beneath this recital which if it were true and the whole truth, would call not only for the devotion of a lifetime, but a respect transcending love and elevating it to worship. But, in her cold and quiet features, I could detect nothing beyond the melancholy of grief; and the suspense from which all suffered, kept me also on the rack, until at a question from Mr. Moffat she spoke again, and we heard her say: "Can you fix the hour of this occurrence?" he asked. "In any way can you locate the time?" "Suddenly I did look up, but it did not aid my memory; and, realising that I could never think with that lifeless figure before me, I lifted a pillow from the window-seat near by and covered her face. I must have done more; I must have covered the whole lounge with pillows and cushions; for, presently my mind cleared again, and I recollected that it was something about the poison. I was to put the phial in her hand--or was I to throw it from the window? Something was to be thrown from the window--it must be the phial. But I couldn't lift the window, so having found the phial standing on the table beside the little flask, I carried it into the closet where there was a window opening inward, and I dropped it out of that, and thought I had done all. But when I came back and saw Adelaide's coat lying in a heap where she had thrown it, I recalled that she had said something about this but what, I didn't know. So I lifted it and put it in the closet--why, I cannot say. Then I set my mind on going home. "I was wasting time. The thought drove me to the table. I caught up the receiver and when central answered, I said something about The Whispering Pines and wanting help. This is all I remember about that. "Mr. District Attorney, the witness is yours." "In all this interview with your sister, did you remark any discoloration on her throat?" "Any marks darker than the rest of her skin on her throat or neck?" "No. Adelaide had a spotless skin. It looked like marble as she lay there. No, I saw no marks." "Miss Cumberland, have you heard or read a full account of this trial?" She was trembling, now. Was it from fear of the truth, or under that terror of the unknown embodied in this question. District Attorney Fox cast at Mr. Moffat an eloquent glance, which that gentleman bore unmoved; then turning back to the witness, he addressed her in milder and more considerate tones than were usually heard from him in cross-examination, and asked: "Did you hold your sister's hands all the time she lay dying, as you thought, on the lounge?" "How was it when you let go of them? Where did they fall then?" "On her breast. I laid them down softly and crossed them. I did not leave her till I had done this and closed her eyes." "And what did you do then?" "I went for the note, to burn it." "Miss Cumberland, in your direct examination, you said that you stopped still as you crossed the floor at the time, thinking that your sister called, and that you looked back at her to see." "Were her hands crossed then?" "Yes, sir, just the same." "And afterward, when you came from the fire after waiting some little time for courage?" "Yes, yes. There were no signs of movement. Oh, she was dead--quite dead." "No statements, Miss Cumberland. She looked the same, and you saw no change in the position of her hands?" "None; they were just as I left them." "Oh, yes--every moment." "Her hands as well as her face?" "I don't know about her hands. I should have observed it if she had done anything strange with them." "Can you say she did not clutch or grip her throat during any of this time?" "Yes, yes. I couldn't have forgotten it, if she had done that. I remember every move she made so well. She didn't do that." Mr. Fox's eye stole towards the jury. To a man, they were alert, anxious for the next question, and serious, as the arbitrators of a man's life ought to be. Satisfied, he put the question: "When, after telephoning, you returned to the room where your sister lay, you glanced at the lounge?" "Yes, I could not help it." "Can you say they had not been disturbed?" "Only the answer, Miss Cumberland. Can you tell us how those pillows were arranged?" "And did they cover her quite when you came back?" "They must have--Wait--wait! I know I have no right to say that, but I cannot swear that I saw any change." "Can you swear that there was no change--that the pillows and the window cushion lay just as they did when you left the room?" At the next moment she was in Dr. Carpenter's arms. Her strength had given way for the time, and the court was hastily adjourned, to give her opportunity for rest and recuperation. "WERE HER HANDS CROSSED THEN?" I shall say nothing about myself at this juncture. That will come later. I have something of quite different purport to relate. I left him still talking to Mr. Fox, and later received this account of the interview which followed between them and Dr. Perry. "I do not question her veracity in the least. A woman who for purely moral reasons could defy pain and risk the loss of a beauty universally acknowledged as transcendent, would never stoop to falsehood even in her desire to save a brother's life. I have every confidence in her. Fox, and I think you may safely have the same." "You believe that she burnt herself--intentionally?" "I wouldn't disbelieve it--you may think me sentimental; I knew and loved her father--for any fortune you might name." Mr. Fox turned to Sweetwater. "And you?" "Mr. Fox, have you those tongs?" "Yes, I forgot; they were brought to my office, with the other exhibits. I attached no importance to them, and you will probably find them just where I thrust them into the box marked 'Cumb.'" The district attorney turned pale, and motioned Sweetwater to carry them back. He sat silent for a moment, and then showed that he was a man. "Miss Cumberland has my respect," said he. Sweetwater came back to his place. Finally Mr. Fox turned to him and put the anticipated question: "You are satisfied with your autopsy? Miss Cumberland's death was due to strangulation and not to the poison she took?" "That was what I swore to, and what I should have to swear to again if you placed me back on the stand. The poison, taken with her great excitement, robbed her of consciousness, but there was too little of it, or it was too old and weakened to cause death. She would probably have revived, in time; possibly did revive. But the clutch of those fingers was fatal; she could not survive it. It costs me more than you can ever understand to say this, but questions like yours must be answered. I should not be an honest man otherwise." Sweetwater made a movement. Mr. Fox turned and looked at him critically. "Speak out," said he. But Sweetwater had nothing to say. To the relief of all, Carmel was physically stronger than we expected when she came to retake the stand in the afternoon. But she had lost a little of her courage. Her expectation of clearing her brother at a word had left her, and with it the excitation of hope. Yet she made a noble picture as she sat there, meeting, without a blush, but with an air of sweet humility impossible to describe, the curious, all-devouring glances of the multitude, some of them anxious to repeat the experience of the morning; some of them new to the court, to her, and the cause for which she stood. Mr. Fox kept nobody waiting. With a gentleness such as he seldom showed to any witness for the defence, he resumed his cross-examination by propounding the following question: "Can you relate this tale to us in a few words?" "I will try. It was very simple; it merely told how a young girl marred her beauty to escape the attentions of the great king, and what respect he always showed her after that, even calling her sister." Others may have shared my feeling; for the glances which flew from her face to mine were laden with an appreciation of the situation, which for the moment drove the prisoner from the minds of all, and centred attention on this tragedy of souls, bared in so cruel a way to the curiosity of the crowd. I could not bear it. The triumph of my heart battled with the shame of my fault, and I might have been tempted into some act of manifest imprudence, if Mr. Fox had not cut my misery short by recalling attention to the witness, with a question of the most vital importance. "While you were holding your sister's hands in what you supposed to be her final moments, did you observe whether or not she still wore on her finger the curious ring given her by Mr. Ranelagh, and known as her engagement ring?" The district attorney paused. This was an admission unexpected, perhaps, by himself, which it was desirable to have sink into the minds of the jury. The ring had not been removed by Adelaide herself; it was still on her finger as the last hour drew nigh. An awful fact, if established--telling seriously against Arthur. Involuntarily I glanced his way. He was looking at me. The mutual glance struck fire. What I thought, he thought--but possibly with a difference. The moment was surcharged with emotion for all but the witness herself. She was calm; perhaps she did not understand the significance of the occasion. Mr. Fox pressed his advantage. "And when you rose from the lounge and crossed your sister's hands?" "It was still there; I put that hand uppermost." "And left the ring on?" "Oh, yes--oh, yes." Her whole attitude and face were full of protest. "So that, to the best of your belief, it was still on your sister's finger when you left the room?" "Certainly, sir, certainly." There was alarm in her tone now, she was beginning to see that her testimony was not as entirely helpful to Arthur as she had been led to expect. In her helplessness, she cast a glance of entreaty at her brother's counsel. But he was busily occupied with pencil and paper, and she received no encouragement unless it was from his studiously composed manner and general air of unconcern. She did not know--nor did I know then--what uneasiness such an air may cover. Mr. Fox had followed her glances, and perhaps understood his adversary better than she did; for he drew himself up with an appearance of satisfaction as he asked very quietly: "What material did you use in lighting the fire on the club-house hearth?" "Wood from the box, and a little kindling I found there." "How large was this kindling?" "Not very large; some few stray pieces of finer wood I picked out from she rest." "And how did you light these?" "With some scraps of paper I brought in my bag?" "Oh--you brought scraps?" "Yes. I had seen the box, seen the wood, but knew the wood would not kindle without paper. So I brought some." "Did the fire light quickly?" "You had trouble with it?" "Yes, sir. But I made it burn at last." "Are you in the habit of kindling fires in your own home?" "Yes, on the hearth." "You understand them?" "I have always found it a very simple matter, if you have paper and enough kindling." "And the draught is good." "Wasn't the draught good at the club-house?" "When the note I was trying to burn flew up the chimney." "I see. Was that after or before the door opened?" "Did the opening of this door alter the temperature of the room?" "I cannot say; I felt neither heat nor cold at any time." "Didn't you feel the icy cold when you opened the dressing-closet window to throw out the phial?" "Wouldn't you remember if you had?" Can you say whether you noticed any especial chill in the hall when you went out to telephone?" "Had they chattered before?" "The facts, Miss Cumberland. Your teeth chattered while you were passing through the hall. Did this keep up after you entered the room where you found the telephone?" "I don't remember; I was almost insensible." "You don't remember that they did?" "But you do remember having shut the door behind you?" An open window in the hall! That was what he was trying to prove--open at this time. From the expression of such faces of the jury as I could see, I think he had proved it. The next point he made was in the same line. Had she, in all the time she was in the building, heard any noises she could not account for? "Can you describe these noises?" "Was this rushing sound such as a window might make on being opened?" "Possibly. I didn't think of it at the time, but it might have been." "From what direction did it come?" "Back of me, for I turned my head about." "Where were you at the time?" "At the hearth. It was before Adelaide came in." "A near sound, or a far?" "Far, but I cannot locate it--indeed, I cannot. I forgot it in a moment." "But you remember it now?" "And cannot you remember _now_ any other noises than those you speak of? That time you stepped into the hall--when your teeth chattered, you know--did you hear nothing then but the sighing of the pines?" "You have done right, Miss Cumberland. The jury ought to know these facts. Was it a human sigh?" "It wasn't the sigh of the pines." "The doorway to the large hall?" "Miss Cumberland, are you ready to swear that you did not hear a step at that time?" "That you only heard a sigh?" "No, I did not stop." "You went right on?" "Entering the telephone room?" "The door of which you shut?" "No, not intentionally." "Did you shut that door yourself?" The words fell weightily. They seemed to strike every heart. "Miss Cumberland, you have said that you telephoned for the police." "I telephoned to central." "You were some minutes doing this, you say?" "I have reason to think so, but I don't know definitely. The candle seemed shorter when I went out than when I came in." "Are you sure you telephoned for help?" "Help was what I wanted--help for my sister. I do not remember my words." "And then you left the building?" "After going for my little bag." "Did you see your sister again?" "I have said that I just glanced at the couch." "Were the pillows there?" "Just as you had left them?" "I have said that I could not tell." "Wouldn't you know if they had been disturbed?" "No, sir--not from the look I gave them." "Miss Cumberland, when you left the building, did you leave it alone?" "Was the moon shining?" "No, it was snowing." "Did the moon shine when you went to throw the phial out of the window?" "Yes, very brightly." "Bright enough for you to see the links?" "I didn't look at the links." "Where were you looking?" "When you threw the phial out?" "What was there behind you?" "A dead sister." Oh, the indescribable tone! "And didn't you turn at all?" "I do not think so." "You threw the phial out without looking?" "How do you know you threw it out?" "I felt it slip from my hand." "Over the window ledge. I had pulled the window open before I turned my head. I had only to feel for the sill. When I touched its edge, I opened my fingers." Triumph for the defence. Cross-examination on this point had only served to elucidate a mysterious fact. The position of the phial, caught in the vines, was accounted for in a very natural manner. Mr. Fox shifted his inquiries. "You have said that you wore a hat and coat of your brother's in coming to the club-house? Did you keep these articles on?" "No; I left them in the lower hall." "Where in the lower hall?" "On the rack there." "Was your candle lit?" "Yet you found the rack?" "I felt for it. I knew where it was." "When did you light the candle?" "After I hung up the coat." "And when you came down? Did you have the candle then?" "Yes, for a while. But I didn't have any light when I went for the coat and hat. I remember feeling all along the wall. I don't know what I did with the candlestick or the candle. I had them on the stairs; I didn't have them when I put on the coat and hat." I knew what she did with them. She flung them out of her hand upon the marble floor. Should I ever forget the darkness swallowing up that face of mental horror and physical suffering. "Miss Cumberland, you are sure about having telephoned for help, and that you mentioned The Whispering Pines in doing so?" "Quite sure." Oh, what weariness was creeping into her voice! "Then, of course, you left the door unlocked when you went out of the building?" "No--no, I didn't. I had the key and I locked it. But I didn't realise this till I went to untie my horse; then I found the keys in my hand. But I didn't go back." "I don't remember whether I knew or not at the time. I do remember being surprised and a little frightened when I saw the keys. But I didn't go back." "Yet you had telephoned for the police?" "And then locked them out?" "I didn't care--I didn't care." The circumstances connected with her arrival at the house were all carefully sifted, but nothing new came up, nor was her credibility as a witness shaken. The prosecution had lost much by this witness, but it had also gained. No doubt now remained that the ring was still on the victim's hand when she succumbed to the effects of the poison; and the possibility of another presence in the house during the fateful interview just recorded, had been strengthened, rather than lessened, by Carmel' s hesitating admissions. And so the question hung poised, and I was expecting to see her dismissed from the stand, when the district attorney settled himself again into his accustomed attitude of inquiry, and launched this new question: "When you went into the stable to unharness your horse, what did you do with the little bag you carried?" "I took it out of the cutter." "Set it down somewhere." "Was there anything in the bag?" "Not now. I had left the tongs at the club-house, and the paper I had burned. I took nothing else." "How about the candlestick?" "Was that all you carried in your pockets?" "And these you did not have on your return?" "So that your pockets were empty--entirely empty--when you drove into your own gate?" "Yes, sir, so far as I know. I never looked into them." "And felt nothing there?" "Then or when you unharnessed your horse, or afterward, as you passed back to the house?" "What path did you take in returning to the house?" "Did you walk straight through it?" "As straight as I could. It was snowing heavily, and I was dizzy and felt strange, I may have zigzagged a little." "Did you zigzag enough to go back of the stable?" "You are sure that you did not wander in back of the stable?" "As sure as I can be of anything." "Miss Cumberland, I have but a few more questions to ask. Will you look at this portion of a broken bottle?" "Will you take it in your hand and examine it carefully?" She reached out her hand; it was trembling visibly and her face expressed a deep distress, but she took the piece of broken bottle and looked at it before passing it back. "Miss Cumberland, did you ever see that bit of broken glass before?" She shook her head. Then she cast a quick look at her brother, and seemed to gain an instantaneous courage. "No," said she. "I may have seen a whole bottle like that, at some time in the club-house, but I have no memory of this broken end--none at all." "I am obliged to you, Miss Cumberland. I will trouble you no more to-day." Then he threw up his head and smiled a slow, sarcastic smile at Mr. Moffat. AND I HAD SAID NOTHING! O my soul's joy! If after every tempest come such calms May the winds blow till they have wakened death! A decided "No," cut short that agony. I could breathe again and proffer a humble request. "I will do what I can," was his reply, and he mercifully cut short the conversation. This was the event of the morning. In the afternoon I sat in my window thinking. My powers of reasoning had returned, and the insoluble problem of Adelaide's murder occupied my whole mind. With Carmel innocent, who was there left to suspect? Not Arthur. His fingers were as guiltless as my own of those marks on her throat. Of this I was convinced, difficult as it made my future. My mind refused to see guilt in a man who could meet my eye with just the look he gave me on leaving the courtroom, at the conclusion of his sister's triumphant examination. It was a momentary glance, but I read it, I am sure, quite truthfully. The secret man of guilt might yet come to light; but how or through whose agency, I found myself unable to conceive. I had neither the wit nor the experience to untangle this confused web. Should I find the law in shape to deal with it? A few days would show. With the termination of Arthur's trial, the story of my future would begin. Meanwhile, I must have patience and such strength as could be got from the present. And so the afternoon passed. With the coming on of night, my mood changed. I wanted air, movement. The closeness of my rooms had become unbearable. As soon as the lamps were lit in the street, I started out and I went--toward the cemetery. _And I did not know the man_. Was not this strange enough to rouse my wonder? A man stood at my back--not looking at me but at the fellow in front of us. A quiet "hush!" sounded in my ear, and again I stood still. But only for an instant. But I reckoned without my host. He went only as far as the spot where the man had been standing. When, in my astonishment, I advanced upon him there, he wheeled about quite naturally in my direction and, accosting me by name, remarked, in his genial off-hand manner: "There is no need for us to tire our legs in a chase after that man. I know him well enough." "Are you going back into town?" he asked, as I paused and looked down at the umbrella swinging in his hand. I was sure that he had not held this umbrella when he started by me on the run. "If so, will you allow me to walk beside you for a little way?" "You are quite welcome," said I; and again cast my eye at the umbrella. "You may ask what you will," said I. "I have nothing to conceal, since hearing Miss Cumberland's explanation of her presence at The Whispering Pines." The ejaculation was eloquent. So was the silence which followed it. Without good reason, perhaps, I felt the strain upon my heart loosen a little. Was it possible that I should find a friend in this man? This called for no reply and I made none. "I can understand your reticence, if your knowledge included the fact of Miss Cumberland's heroic act and her sister's manner of death at the club-house." "You had. And are willing to state it now?" "Assuredly. But any testimony of that kind is for the defence, and your interests are all with the prosecution. Mr. Moffat is the man who should talk to me." "Yes, it was my duty." "You are interested then in seeing young Cumberland freed?" "I must be; he is innocent." "Mr. Ranelagh, will you tell me why, when you found yourself in such a dire extremity as to be arrested for this crime, on evidence as startling as to call for all and every possible testimony to your innocence, you preserved silence in regard to a fact which you must have then felt would have secured you a most invaluable witness? I can understand why Mr. Cumberland has been loth to speak of his younger sister's presence in the club-house on that night; but his reason was not your reason. Yet you have been as hard to move on this point as he." Then it was I regretted my thoughtless promise to be candid with this man. To answer were impossible, yet silence has its confidences, too. In my dilemma, I turned towards him and just then we stepped within the glare of an electric light pouring from some open doorway. I caught his eye, and was astonished at the change which took place in him. "Don't answer," he muttered, volubly. "It isn't necessary. I understand the situation, now, and you shall never regret that you met Caleb Sweetwater on your walk this evening. Will you trust me, sir? A detective who loves his profession is no gabbler. Your secret is as safe with me as if you had buried it in the grave." And I had said nothing! This was the evening's event. O if you rear this house against this house, It will the wofulest division prove That ever fell upon this cursed earth. _Prometheus Unbound_. The crier announced the opening of the court, and the defence proceeded by the calling of Ella Fulton to the witness stand. This witness was no less a person than Arthur himself. Recalled by his counsel, he was reminded of his former statement that he had left the club-house in a hurry because he heard his sister Adelaide's voice, and was now asked if hers was the only voice he had heard. His answer revealed much of his mind. "No, I heard Carmel's answering her." This satisfying Mr. Moffat, he was passed over to Mr. Fox, and a short cross-examination ensued on this point. "You heard both your sisters speaking?" "Any of their words, or only their voices?" "The word, 'Elwood.'" "In that of my sister Adelaide." "I did not think they were alone." "Who did you think was with them?" "I have already mentioned the name." "Yet you left them?" "Didn't you so much as try to account for their both being there?" "Had you expected Adelaide to accompany your younger sister when you harnessed the horse for her?" "Had not this younger sister even enjoined secrecy upon you in asking you to harness the horse?" "No, I must have felt surprise, but I didn't stop to analyse my feelings. Afterward, I turned it over in my mind and tried to make something out of the whole thing. But that was when I was far out on the links." A losing game thus far. This the district attorney seemed to feel; but he was not an ungenerous man though cursed (perhaps, I should say blessed, considering the position he held) by a tenacity which never let him lose his hold until the jury gave their verdict. "You have a right to explain yourself fully," said he, after a momentary struggle in which his generosity triumphed over his pride. "When you did think of your sisters, what explanation did you give yourself of the facts we have just been considering?" "I could not imagine the truth, so I just satisfied myself that Adelaide had discovered Carmel's intentions to ride into town and had insisted on accompanying her. They were having it out, I thought, in the presence of the man who had made all this trouble between them." "And you left them to the task?" "It must have and more, if I entered the hold in Cuthbert Road at the hour they state." Mr. Fox gave up the game, and I looked to be the next person called. But it was not a part of Mr. Moffat's plan to weaken the effect of Carmel's testimony by offering any weak corroboration of facts which nobody showed the least inclination to dispute. Satisfied with having given the jury an opportunity to contrast his client's present cheerfulness and manly aspect with the sullenness he had maintained while in doubt of Carmel's real connection with this crime, Mr. Moffat rested his case. There was no testimony offered in rebuttal and the court took a recess. When it reassembled I cast another anxious glance around. Still no Carmel, nor any signs of Sweetwater. I could understand her absence, but not his, and it was in a confusion of feeling which was fast getting the upper hand of me, that I turned my attention to Mr. Moffat and the plea he was about to make for his youthful client. It was not that he glanced my way, for this he did not do; yet I received a subtle message from him, by some telepathic means I could neither understand nor respond to--a message of warning, or, possibly of simple preparation for what his coming speech might convey. It laid my spirits low for a moment; then they rose as those of a better man might rise at the scent of danger. If he could warn, he could also withhold. I would trust him, or I would, at least, trust my fate. And so, good-bye to self. Arthur's life and Carmel's future peace were trembling in the balance. Surely these were worth the full attention of the man who loved the woman, who pitied the man. At the next moment I heard these words, delivered in the slow and but slightly raised tones with which Mr. Moffat invariably began his address: "The learned counsel for the people may call this unnatural," he cried. "He may say that no brother would leave the place under such circumstances, whether sober or not sober, alive to duty or dead to it--that curiosity would hold him there, if nothing else. But he forgets, if thus he thinks and thus would have you think, that the man who now confronts you from the bar is separated by an immense experience from the boy he was at that hour of surprise and selfish preoccupation. "The younger!" The pause he here made was more eloquent than any words. "Is it for me to laud her virtues, or to seek to impress upon you in this connection, the overwhelming nature of the events which in reality had laid her mind and body low? You have seen her; you have heard her; and the memory of the tale she has here told will never leave you, or lose its hold upon your sympathies or your admiration. If everything else connected with this case is forgotten, the recollection of that will remain. You, and I, and all who wait upon your verdict, will in due time pass from among the living, and leave small print behind us on the sands of time. But her act will not die, and to it I now offer the homage of silence, since that would best please her heroic soul, which broke the bonds of womanly reserve only to save from an unmerited charge a falsely arraigned brother." At the proper moment of subsiding feeling, Mr. Moffat again raised his voice: All this and more did Mr. Moffat dilate upon. But I could no longer fix my mind on details, and much of this portion of his address escaped me. But I do remember the startling picture with which he closed. His argument so far, had been based on the assumption of Arthur's ignorance of Carmers purpose in visiting the club-house, or of Adelaide's attempt at suicide. His client had left the building when he said he did, and knew no more of what happened there afterward than circumstances showed, or his own imagination conceived. But now the advocate took a sudden turn, and calmly asked the jury to consider with him the alternative outlined by the prosecution in the evidence set before them. "My distinguished opponent," said he, "would have you believe that the defendant did not fly at the moment declared, but that he waited to fulfil the foul deed which is the only serious matter in dispute in his so nearly destroyed case. I hear as though he were now speaking, the attack which he will make upon my client when he comes to review this matter with you. Let me see if I cannot make you hear those words, too." And with a daring smile at his discomforted adversary, Alonzo Moffat launched forth into the following sarcasm: "Does he go now? Is his hate or his cupidity satisfied? No! He remains and listens to the tender interchange of final words, and all the late precautions of the elder to guard the younger woman's good name. Still he is not softened; and when, the critical moment passed, Carmel rises and totters about the room in her endeavour to fulfil the tasks enjoined upon her by her sister, he gloats over a death which will give him independence and gluts himself with every evil thought which could blind him to the pitiful aspects of a tragedy such as few men in this world could see unmoved. _A brother_! "But this is not the worst. The awful cup of human greed and hatred is but filled to the brim; it has not yet overflowed. Carmel leaves the room; she has a telephonic message to deliver. She may be gone a minute; she may be gone many. Little does he care which; he must see the dead, look down on the woman who has been like a mother to him, and see if her influence is forever removed, if his wealth is his, and his independence forever assured. "Gentlemen of the jury, this is what my opponent would have you believe. This will be his explanation of this extraordinary murder. But when his eloquence meets your ears--when you hear this arraignment, and the emphasis he will place upon the few points remaining to his broken case, then ask yourself if you see such a monster in the prisoner now confronting you from the bar. I do not believe it. I do not believe that such a monster lives. "If in your sense of justice you do so, you forever place this degenerate son of a noble father, on the list of the most unimaginative and hate-driven criminals of all time. Is he such a demon? Is he such a madman? Look in his face to-day, and decide. I am willing to leave his cause in your hands. It could be placed in no better. "May it please your Honour, and gentlemen of the jury, I am done." I am a tainted wether of the flock, Meetest for death; the weakest kind of fruit Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me. You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio, Than to live still, and write my epitaph. _Merchant of Venice_. The demonstrations of joy which followed filled my ears, and doubtless left their impression upon my other senses; but my mind took in nothing but the apparition of my own form taking his place at the bar, under circumstances less favourable to acquittal than those which had exonerated him. It was a picture which set my brain whirling. A phantom judge, a phantom jury, a phantom circle of faces, lacking the consideration and confidence of those I saw before me; but not a phantom prisoner, or any mere dream of outrageous shame and suffering. That shame and that suffering had already seized hold of me. With the relief of young Arthur's acquittal my faculties had cleared to the desperate position in which this very acquittal had placed me. I saw, as never before, how the testimony which had reinstated Carmel in my heart and won for her and through her the sympathies of the whole people, had overthrown every specious reason which I and those interested in me had been able to advance in contradiction of the natural conclusion to be drawn from the damning fact of my having been seen with my fingers on Adelaide's throat. The horror stifled me; I was reeling in my place on the edge of the crowd, when I heard a quiet voice in my ear: "Steady! Their eyes will soon be off of Arthur, and then they will look at you." It was Clifton, and his word came none too soon. I stiffened under its quiet force, and, taking his arm, let him lead me out of a side door, where the crowd was smaller and its attention even more absorbed. When she reappeared, it was on Arthur's arm. I had not been able to move from the place in which we were hemmed; nor had I wished to. I was hungry for a glance of her eye. Would it turn my way, and, if it did, would it leave a curse or a blessing behind it? In anxiety for the blessing, I was willing to risk the curse; and I followed her every step with hungry glances, until she reached the doorway and turned to give another shake of the hand to Mr. Moffat, who had followed them. But she did not see me. Clifton disapproved, and made me aware of it; but he did my bidding, nevertheless. In a few moments we were on the sidewalk, and quite by ourselves; so that, if she turned again she could not fail to observe me. I had small hope, however, that she would so turn. She and Arthur were within a few feet of the curb and their own sleigh. I had just time to see this sleigh, and note the rejoicing face of Zadok leaning sideways from the box, when I beheld her pause and slowly turn her head around and peer eagerly--and with what divine anxiety in her eyes--back over the heads of those thronging about her, until her gaze rested fully and sweetly on mine. My heart leaped, then sank down, down into unutterable depths; for in that instant her face changed, horror seized upon her beauty, and shook her frantic hold on Arthur's arm. I heard words uttered very near me, but I did not catch them. I did feel, however, the hand which was laid strongly and with authority upon my shoulder; and, tearing my eyes from her face only long enough to perceive that it was Sweetwater who had thus arrested me, I looked back at her, in time to see the questions leap from her lips to Arthur, whose answers I could well understand from the pitying movement in the crowd and the low hum of restrained voices which ran between her sinking figure and the spot where I stood apart, with the detective's hand on my shoulder. She had never been told of the incriminating position in which I had been seen in the club-house. It had been carefully kept from her, and she had supposed that my acquittal in the public mind was as certain as Arthur's. Now she saw herself undeceived, and the reaction into doubt and misery was too much for her, and I saw her sinking under my eyes. "Let me go to her!" I shrieked, utterly unconcerned with anything in the world but this tottering, fainting girl. But Sweetwater's hand only tightened on my shoulder, while Arthur, with an awful look at me, caught his sister in his arms, just as she fell to the ground before the swaying multitude. An officer shook Zadok by the arm and he got up and began to move aside. Then I had mind to face my own fate, and, looking up, I met Sweetwater's eye. It was quietly apologetic. "I only wished to congratulate you," said he, "on the conclusion of a case in which I know you are highly interested." Lifting his hat, he nodded affably and was gone before I could recover from my stupor. It was for Clifton to show his indignation. I was past all feeling. Farce as an after-piece never appealed to me. Would I have considered it farce if I could have heard the words which this detective was at that moment whispering into the district attorney's ears: "Do you want to know who throttled Adelaide Cumberland? It was not her brother; it was not her lover; it was her old and trusted coachman." "AS IF IT WERE A MECCA" _Merchant of Venice_. "He did not know he revealed this; he expressed himself as full of hope that his young master would be acquitted the next day; but I could see that this prospect could never still the worm working at his heart, and resolved to understand why. I left him ostensibly alone, but in reality shadowed him. The consequence was that, in the evening dusk, he led me to the cemetery, where he took up his watch at Miss Cumberland's grave, as if it were a Mecca and he a passionate devotee. I could hear his groans as he hung to the fence and spoke softly to the dead; and though I was too far away to catch a single word, I felt confident that I had at last struck the right track, and should soon see my way more clearly than at any time since this baffling case opened. "Yes, sir, I will show it to you later. I picked it up at some distance from the northern driveway, under a small tree, against the trunk of which it had evidently been struck off. This meant that the lower part had been carried away, broken. "Now, who would do this but Zadok, who saw in it, he has said, a receptacle for some varnish which he had; and if Zadok, how had he carried it, if not in some pocket of his greatcoat. But glass edges make quick work with pockets; and if this piece of bottle had gone from The Whispering Pines to Tibbitt's Hall, and from there to the Hill, there should be some token of its work in Zadok's overcoat pocket. "I am a pupil of Mr. Gryce, and I remembered some of his methods. "This man, guilty though he might be, loved this family, and was broken-hearted over the trouble in which he saw it plunged. Excused to-day from attendance at court, he was in constant telephonic communication with some friend of his, who kept him posted as to the conduct of the trial and the probabilities of a favourable verdict. "Just when everything looked most favourable to their restored peace and happiness, I shocked Miss Carmel and, through her, this Zadok, into the belief that the whole agony was to be gone over again, in the rearrest and consequent trial of the man she still loves, in spite of all that has happened to separate them. "We will go see the man," said District Attorney Fox. THE SURCHARGED MOMENT For Justice, when triumphant, will weep down Pity, not punishment, on her own wrongs, Too much avenged by those who err. I wait, Enduring thus, the retributive hour Which since we spake is even nearer now. _Prometheus Unbound_. "Carmel!" rushed in a cry from my lips. "Don't believe what they say. I cannot bear it--I cannot bear it!" "Come in and explain yourself. No man should go unheard. I know you will not come where Adelaide's spirit yet lingers, if you cannot bring hands clean from all actual violence." I motioned my driver away, and as Carmel drew back out of sight, I caught at Arthur's arm and faced him with the query: "Are you willing that I should enter? I only wish to declare to her, and to you, an innocence I have no means of proving, but which you cannot disbelieve if I swear it, here and now, by your sister Carmel's sacred disfigurement. Such depravity could not exist, as such a vow from the lips guilty of the crime you charge me with. Look at me, Arthur. I considered you--now consider me." Quickly he stepped back. "Enter," said he. "He has not come home," said he, "and here is a man who wants him." "What man?" asked Arthur. "Oh, that detective chap. He never will leave us alone." I arose. In an instant enlightenment had come to me. "It's nothing," said I with my eyes on Carmel; but the gesture I furtively made Arthur, said otherwise. A few minutes later we were both in the driveway. "We are on the brink of a surprise," I whispered. "I think I understand this Sweetwater now." Arthur looked bewildered, but he took the lead in the interview which followed with the man who had made him so much trouble and was now doing his best to make us all amends. Zadok could not be found; he was wanted by the district attorney, who wished to put some questions to him. Were there any objections to his searching the stable-loft for indications of his whereabouts? "Not here!" came in a shout from above, as we stepped in from the night air; and in a few minutes the detective came running down the stairs, baffled and very ill at ease. Suddenly he encountered my eye. "Oh--I know!" he cried, and started for the gate. "To the cemetery?" I asked. "Yes, to the cemetery." And there we found him, in the same place where we had seen him before, but not in the same position. He was sunken now to the ground; but his face was pressed against the rails, and in his stiff, cold hand was clutched a letter which afterwards we read. Let it be read by you here. It will explain the mystery which came near destroying the lives of more than Adelaide. No more unhappy wretch than I goes to his account. I killed her who had shown me only goodness, and will be the death of others if I do not confess my dreadful, my unsuspected secret. This is how it happened. I cannot give reasons; I cannot even ask for pardon. I was not so much astonished as you would think, to be ordered to follow fast after the mare and cutter, and to stop where it stopped. That was all she wanted--to follow that cutter, and to stop where it stopped. Well, it stopped at the club-house; and when she saw it turn in there, I heard her give a little gasp. "Wait," she whispered. "Wait till she has had time to get out and go in; then drive in, too, and help me to find my way into the building after her." And then I knew it was Miss Carmel we had been following. Before, I thought it was Mr. Arthur. Presently, she pulled me by the sleeve. "I heard the door shut," said she--and I was a little frightened at her voice, but I was full of my importance, and went on doing just as she bade me. Driving in after the cutter, I drew up into the shadows where the grey mare was hid, and then, reaching out my hand to Miss Cumberland, I helped her out, and went with her as far as the door. "You may go back now," said she. "If I survive the night, I shall never forget this service, my good Zadok." And I saw her lift her hand to the door, then fall back white and trembling in the moonlight. "I can't," she whispered, over and over; "I can't--I can't." "Shall I knock?" I asked. "No, no," she whispered back. "I want to go in quietly; let's see if there's no other way. Run about the house, Zadok; I will submit to any humiliation; only find me some entrance other than this." She was shaking so and her face looked so ghastly in the moonlight that I was afraid to leave her; but she made me a gesture of such command that I ran quickly down the steps, and so round the house till I came to a shed over the top of which I saw a window partly open. Could I get her up on to the shed? I thought I could, and went hurrying back to the big entrance where I had left her. She was still there, shivering with the cold, but just as determined as ever. "Come," I whispered; "I have found a way." She gave me her hand and I led her around to the shed. She was like a snow woman and her touch was ice itself. "Wait till I get a box or board or something," I said. Hunting about, I found a box leaning against the kitchen side, and, bringing it, I helped her up and soon had her on a level with the window. As she made her way in, she turned and whispered to me: "Go back now. Carmel has a horse, and will see me home. You have served me well, Zadok." But he did not; he just lingered for a moment in the hall I had left, then I heard him clamber out of the window and go. I now know that this was Mr. Arthur. But I did not know it then, and I was frightened for the horse I had run off with, and so got out of the building as quickly as I could. And all might yet have been well if I had not found, lying on the snow at the foot of the shed, a bottle of whiskey such as I had never drunk and did not know how to resist. Catching it up, I ran about the house to where I had left my rig. It was safe, and in my relief at finding it, I knocked off the head of the bottle and took a long drink. I came to an open door. A couch was before me, heaped with cushions. A long ray of moonlight had shot in through a communicating door, and I could see everything by it. This was where the ladies had been when I listened before, but they were not here now. Weren't they? Why did I tremble so, then, and stare and stare at those cushions? Why did I feel I must pull them away, as I presently did? I was mad with liquor and might easily have imagined what I there saw; but I did not think of this then. I believed what I saw instantly. Miss Cumberland was dead, and I had discovered the crime. She had killed herself--no, she had been killed! Should I yell out murder? No, no; I could be sorry without that. I would not yell--mistresses were plenty. I had liked her, but I need not yell. There was something else I could do. She had a ring on her finger--a ring that for months I had gloated over and watched, as I had never watched and gloated over any other beautiful thing in my life. I wanted it--I had always wanted it. It was before me, for the taking now--I should be a fool to leave it there for some other wretch to pilfer. I had loved her--I would love the ring. Reaching down, I took it. I drew it from her finger; I put it in my pocket; I--God in heaven! The eyes I had seen glassed in death were looking at me. She was not dead--she had been witness of the theft. Without a thought of what I was doing, my hands closed round her throat. It was drink--fright--terror at the look she gave me--which made me kill her; not my real self. My real self could have shrieked when, in another instant, I saw my work. But shrieking would not bring her back and it would quite ruin me. Miss Carmel was somewhere near. I heard her now at the telephone; in another minute she would come out and meet me. I dared not linger. But I fear for him; I fear for Miss Carmel. Never could I testify in another trial which threatened her peace of mind. I see that, instead of being the selfish stealer of her sister's happiness, as I had thought, she is an angel from whom all future suffering should be kept. This is my way of sparing her. Perhaps it will help her sister to forgive me when we meet in the world to which I am now going.	redpajama-book	56,507
Produced by Kevin Handy, Dave Maddock, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. [Illustration: He heard Joan's voice] BY JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD Author of The Danger Trail, Etc. Illustrated by Gayle Hoskins and Frank Hoffman III. McCREADY PAYS THE DEBT V. THE FIGHT IN THE SNOW VII. OUT OF THE BLIZZARD VIII. THE GREAT CHANGE IX. THE TRAGEDY ON SUN ROCK XIII. THE TRAIL OF HUNGER XIV. THE RIGHT OF FANG XV. A FIGHT UNDER THE STARS XVIII. THE EDUCATION OF BA-REE XX. A FEUD IN THE WILDERNESS XXI. A SHOT ON THE SAND-BAR XXII. SANDY'S METHOD XXIII. PROFESSOR McGILL XXIV. ALONE IN DARKNESS XXV. THE LAST OF McTRIGGER XXVI. AN EMPTY WORLD XXVII. THE CALL OF SUN ROCK "And you are Kazan--dear old Kazan, my Kazan, my hero dog--who brought him home to me when all the others had died! My Kazan--my hero!" And then, miracle of miracles, her face was crushed down against him, and he felt her sweet warm touch. In those moments Kazan did not move. He scarcely breathed. It seemed a long time before the girl lifted her face from him. And when she did, there were tears in her blue eyes, and the man was standing above them, his hands gripped tight, his jaws set. "See!" she whispered. "See!" "Kazan, old boy, you wouldn't hurt her, would you?" said his master softly. "We both love her, don't we, boy? Can't help it, can we? And she's ours, Kazan, all _ours_! She belongs to you and to me, and we're going to take care of her all our lives, and if we ever have to we'll fight for her like hell--won't we? Eh, Kazan, old boy?" "Go on!" he heard the man urge in a low quick voice. "Go on! Don't stop!" "I've always loved the old rascal--but I never thought he'd do that," he said; and his voice sounded queer to Kazan. Then there came the beginning of the change. There was a strange hurry and excitement around him, and the girl paid less attention to him. He grew uneasy. He sniffed the change in the air, and he began to study his master's face. Then there came the morning, very early, when the babiche collar and the iron chain were fastened to him again. Not until he had followed his master out through the door and into the street did he begin to understand. They were sending him away! He sat suddenly back on his haunches and refused to budge. "Come, Kazan," coaxed the man. "Come on, boy." He was off like a bolt. Thorpe laughed to himself as he followed. "The old pirate!" he chuckled. When he came to the lantern-lighted space back of the caboose, Thorpe found Kazan crouching down at a woman's feet. It was Thorpe's wife. She smiled triumphantly at him as he came up out of the gloom. "You've won!" he laughed, not unhappily. "I'd have wagered my last dollar he wouldn't do that for any voice on earth. You've won! Kazan, you brute, I've lost you!" His face suddenly sobered as Isobel stooped to pick up the end of the chain. He did not finish. With the snarl of a wild beast Kazan had leaped to his feet. His lips drew up and bared his long fangs. His spine stiffened, and with a sudden cry of warning, Thorpe dropped a hand to the revolver at his belt. Kazan paid no attention to him. Another form had approached out of the night, and stood now in the circle of illumination made by the lanterns. It was McCready, who was to accompany Thorpe and his young wife back to the Red River camp, where Thorpe was in charge of the building of the new Trans-continental. The man was straight, powerfully built and clean shaven. His jaw was so square that it was brutal, and there was a glow in his eyes that was almost like the passion in Kazan's as he looked at Isobel. "Down, Kazan--down!" she commanded. At the sound of her voice he relaxed. "Hoo-koosh, Pedro--_charge_!" "Charge, Pedro--_charge_!" The rumble in Kazan's throat deepened to a snarling growl, but not a muscle of his body moved. McCready turned to Thorpe. "I could have sworn that I knew that dog," he said. "If it's Pedro, he's _bad_!" "He doesn't like you," she laughed at him softly. "Won't you make friends with him?" She drew Kazan toward him, with Thorpe holding the end of the chain. McCready came to her side as she bent over the dog. His back was to Thorpe as he hunched down. Isobel's bowed head was within a foot of his face. He could see the glow in her cheek and the pouting curve of her mouth as she quieted the low rumbling in Kazan's throat. Thorpe stood ready to pull back on the chain, but for a moment McCready was between him and his wife, and he could not see McCready's face. The man's eyes were not on Kazan. He was staring at the girl. "You're brave," he said. "I don't dare do that. He would take off my hand!" In the tent Thorpe was saying: "I'm sorry old Jackpine wouldn't go back with us, Issy. He drove me down, but for love or money I couldn't get him to return. He's a Mission Indian, and I'd give a month's salary to have you see him handle the dogs. I'm not sure about this man McCready. He's a queer chap, the Company's agent here tells me, and knows the woods like a book. But dogs don't like a stranger. Kazan isn't going to take to him worth a cent!" Kazan heard the girl's voice, and stood rigid and motionless listening to it. He did not hear or see McCready when he came up stealthily behind him. The man's voice came as suddenly as a shot at his heels. In an instant Kazan cringed as if touched by a lash. "Got you that time--didn't I, you old devil!" whispered McCready, his face strangely pale in the firelight. "Changed your name, eh? But I _got_ you--didn't I?" McCREADY PAYS THE DEBT They heard Thorpe's voice inside the tent. It was followed by a low girlish peal of laughter, and McCready jerked himself erect. His face blazed suddenly red, and he rose to his feet, dropping the flask in his coat pocket. Walking around the fire, he tiptoed cautiously to the shadow of a tree close to the tent and stood there for many minutes listening. His eyes burned with a fiery madness when he returned to the sledge and Kazan. It was midnight before he went into his own tent. [Illustration: "Not another blow!"] And then, suddenly, his mistress ran forward and caught the whip poised above Thorpe's head. "Not another blow!" she cried, and something in her voice held him from striking. McCready did not hear what she said then, but a strange look came into Thorpe's eyes, and without a word he followed his wife into their tent. She was almost sobbing, and Thorpe drew her close in his arms. "I hadn't thought before--but it's strange," he said. "Didn't McCready say something about knowing the dog? It's possible. Perhaps he's had Kazan before and abused him in a way that the dog has not forgotten. To-morrow I'll find out. But until I know--will you promise to keep away from Kazan?" "Ho, Thorpe--Thorpe!" he called. There was no answer. He could hear Thorpe breathing. He drew the flap aside a little, and raised his voice. Still there was no movement inside, and he untied the flap strings and thrust in his lantern. The light flashed on Isobel's golden head, and McCready stared at it, his eyes burning like red coals, until he saw that Thorpe was awakening. Quickly he dropped the flap and rustled it from the outside. This time Thorpe replied. "Hello, McCready--is that you?" McCready drew the flap back a little, and spoke in a low voice. "Yes. Can you come out a minute? Something's happening out in the woods. Don't wake up your wife!" He drew back and waited. A minute later Thorpe came quietly out of the tent. McCready pointed into the thick spruce. He gave Thorpe the lantern and picked up the heavy club. A growl rose in Kazan's throat, but he choked it back. He wanted to snarl forth his warning, to leap at the end of his leash, but he knew that if he did that, they would return and beat him. So he lay still, trembling and shivering, and whining softly. He watched them until they disappeared--and then waited--listened. At last he heard the crunch of snow. He was not surprised to see McCready come back alone. He had expected him to return alone. For he knew what a club meant! McCready's face was terrible now. It was like a beast's. He was hatless. Kazan slunk deeper in his shadow at the low horrible laugh that fell from his lips--for the man still held the club. In a moment he dropped that, and approached the tent. He drew back the flap and peered in. Thorpe's wife was sleeping, and as quietly as a cat he entered and hung the lantern on a nail in the tent-pole. His movement did not awaken her, and for a few moments he stood there, staring--staring. Outside, crouching in the deep shadow, Kazan tried to fathom the meaning of these strange things that were happening. Why had his master and McCready gone out into the forest? Why had not his master returned? It was his master, and not McCready, who belonged in that tent. Then why was McCready there? He watched McCready as he entered, and suddenly the dog was on his feet, his back tense and bristling, his limbs rigid. He saw McCready's huge shadow on the canvas, and a moment later there came a strange piercing cry. In the wild terror of that cry he recognized _her_ voice--and he leaped toward the tent. The leash stopped him, choking the snarl in his throat. He saw the shadows struggling now, and there came cry after cry. She was calling to his master, and with his master's name she was calling _him_! A long time passed, and then she moved. Her eyes opened. Her hand touched him. Then he heard a step outside. It was his master, and with that old thrill of fear--fear of the club--he went swiftly to the door. Yes, there was his master in the firelight--and in his hand he held the club. He was coming slowly, almost falling at each step, and his face was red with blood. But he had _the club_! He would beat him again--beat him terribly for hurting McCready; so Kazan slipped quietly under the tent-flap and stole off into the shadows. From out the gloom of the thick spruce he looked back, and a low whine of love and grief rose and died softly in his throat. They would beat him always now--after _that_. Even _she_ would beat him. They would hunt him down, and beat him when they found him. From out of the glow of the fire he turned his wolfish head to the depths of the forest. There were no clubs or stinging lashes out in that gloom. They would never find him there. There was a low moaning of the wind in the spruce-tops as Kazan slunk off into the blackness and mystery of the forest. For hours he lay near the camp, his red and blistered eyes gazing steadily at the tent wherein the terrible thing had happened a little while before. Cautiously he crept out from the thick gloom, working his way on his belly toward the packed sledge, and what remained of the burned logs. Beyond that sledge, hidden in the darkness of the trees, was the body of the man he had killed, covered with a blanket. Thorpe, his master, had dragged it there. And now, in his sleep, he whined softly, and the splendid muscles of his legs and shoulders twitched, and sudden shuddering ripples ran along his tawny spine. Thorpe, who was in the tent, if he had seen him, would have known that he was dreaming. And Thorpe's wife, whose golden head lay close against his breast, and who shuddered and trembled now and then even as Kazan was doing, would have known what he was dreaming about. Kazan was sorry that his master had returned, dazed and bleeding, after he had torn McCready's jugular. Then he would have had her always. She would have loved him. She did love him. And he would have followed her, and fought for her always, and died for her when the time came. But Thorpe had come in from the forest again, and Kazan had slunk away quickly--for Thorpe meant to him what all men meant to him now: the club, the whip and the strange things that spat fire and death. And now- Thorpe had come out from the tent. It was approaching dawn, and in his hand he held a rifle. A moment later the girl came out, and her hand caught the man's arm. They looked toward the thing covered by the blanket. Then she spoke to Thorpe and he suddenly straightened and threw back his head. "H-o-o-o-o--Kazan--Kazan--Kazan!" he called. A shiver ran through Kazan. The man was trying to inveigle him back. He had in his hand the thing that killed. "Kazan--Kazan--Ka-a-a-a-zan!" he shouted again. He knew, now, that he was leaving her forever, and there was an ache in his heart that had never been there before, a pain that was not of the club or whip, of cold or hunger, but which was greater than them all, and which filled him with a desire to throw back his head and cry out his loneliness to the gray emptiness of the sky. Back in the camp the girl's voice quivered. The man's strong voice choked a little. "Yes, he is gone. _He knew_--and I didn't. I'd give--a year of my life--if I hadn't whipped him yesterday and last night. He won't come back." Isobel Thorpe's hand tightened on his arm. From deep in the forest there came a long wailing howl, filled with a plaintive sadness. It was Kazan's farewell to the woman. He came to the edge of a swamp as day broke. For a time he had been filled with a strange uneasiness, and light did not quite dispel it. At last he was free of men. He could detect nothing that reminded him of their hated presence in the air. But neither could he smell the presence of other dogs, of the sledge, the fire, of companionship and food, and so far back as he could remember they had always been a part of his life. He came upon many trails in the snow that day, and sniffed the scents left by the hoofs of moose and caribou, and the fur-padded feet of a lynx. He followed a fox, and the trail led him to a place shut in by tall spruce, where the snow was beaten down and reddened with blood. There was an owl's head, feathers, wings and entrails lying here, and he knew that there were other hunters abroad besides himself. Toward evening he came upon tracks in the snow that were very much like his own. They were quite fresh, and there was a warm scent about them that made him whine, and filled him again with that desire to fall back upon his haunches and send forth the wolf-cry. This desire grew stronger in him as the shadows of night deepened in the forest. He had traveled all day, but he was not tired. There was something about night, now that there were no men near, that exhilarated him strangely. The wolf blood in him ran swifter and swifter. To-night it was clear. The sky was filled with stars. The moon rose. And at last he settled back in the snow and turned his head straight up to the spruce-tops, and the wolf came out of him in a long mournful cry which quivered through the still night for miles. For a long time he sat and listened after that howl. He had found voice--a voice with a strange new note in it, and it gave him still greater confidence. He had expected an answer, but none came. He had traveled in the face of the wind, and as he howled, a bull moose crashed through the scrub timber ahead of him, his horns rattling against the trees like the tattoo of a clear birch club as he put distance between himself and that cry. And then every muscle in his body grew tense, and his blood leaped. From far off in the plain there came a cry. It was _his_ cry--the wolf-cry. His jaws snapped. His white fangs gleamed, and he growled deep in his throat. He wanted to reply, but some strange instinct urged him not to. That instinct of the wild was already becoming master of him. In the air, in the whispering of the spruce-tops, in the moon and the stars themselves, there breathed a spirit which told him that what he had heard was the wolf-cry, but that it was not the wolf _call_. He was not afraid, but he was not ready to go. The ridge seemed to split the world for him. Down there it was new, and strange, and without men. From the other side something seemed pulling him back, and suddenly he turned his head and gazed back through the moonlit space behind him, and whined. It was the dog-whine now. The woman was back there. He could hear her voice. He could feel the touch of her soft hand. He could see the laughter in her face and eyes, the laughter that had made him warm and happy. She was calling to him through the forests, and he was torn between desire to answer that call, and desire to go down into the plain. For he could also see many men waiting for him with clubs, and he could hear the cracking of whips, and feel the sting of their lashes. For a long time he remained on the top of the ridge that divided his world. And then, at last, he turned and went down into the plain. That night the pack killed a caribou on the edge of the lake, and feasted until nearly dawn. Kazan hung in the face of the wind. The smell of blood and of warm flesh tickled his nostrils, and his sharp ears could catch the cracking of bones. But the instinct was stronger than the temptation. Not until broad day, when the pack had scattered far and wide over the plain, did he go boldly to the scene of the kill. He found nothing but an area of blood-reddened snow, covered with bones, entrails and torn bits of tough hide. But it was enough, and he rolled in it, and buried his nose in what was left, and remained all that day close to it, saturating himself with the scent of it. That night, when the moon and the stars came out again, he sat back with fear and hesitation no longer in him, and announced himself to his new comrades of the great plain. He kept his eyes only on the big gray leader who had challenged him. Shoulder to shoulder they continued to circle. Where a few moments before there had been the snapping of jaws and the rending of flesh there was now silence. Soft-footed and soft-throated mongrel dogs from the South would have snarled and growled, but Kazan and the wolf were still, their ears laid forward instead of back, their tails free and bushy. Suddenly the wolf struck in with the swiftness of lightning, and his jaws came together with the sharpness of steel striking steel. They missed by an inch. In that same instant Kazan darted in to the side, and like knives his teeth gashed the wolf's flank. They circled again, their eyes growing redder, their lips drawn back until they seemed to have disappeared. And then Kazan leaped for that death-grip at the throat--and missed. It was only by an inch again, and the wolf came back, as he had done, and laid open Kazan's flank so that the blood ran down his leg and reddened the snow. The burn of that flank-wound told Kazan that his enemy was old in the game of fighting. He crouched low, his head straight out, and his throat close to the snow. It was a trick Kazan had learned in puppyhood--to shield his throat, and wait. The trick had failed, and with a rumble of the dog-snarl in his throat, Kazan reached the wolf in a single bound. They met breast to breast. Their fangs clashed and with the whole weight of his body, Kazan flung himself against the wolf's shoulders, cleared his jaws, and struck again for the throat hold. It was another miss--by a hair's breadth--and before he could recover, the wolf's teeth were buried in the back of his neck. Only the thickness of hair and hide on the back of Kazan's neck, and the toughness of his muscles, saved him from that terrible fate of the vanquished. The wolf's teeth sank deep, but not deep enough to reach the vital spot, and suddenly Kazan put every ounce of strength in his limbs to the effort, and flung himself up bodily from under his antagonist. The grip on his neck relaxed, and with another rearing leap he tore himself free. As swift as a whip-lash he whirled on the broken-legged leader of the pack and with the full rush and weight of his shoulders struck him fairly in the side. More deadly than the throat-grip had Kazan sometimes found the lunge when delivered at the right moment. It was deadly now. The big gray wolf lost his feet, rolled upon his back for an instant, and the pack rushed in, eager to rend the last of life from the leader whose power had ceased to exist. From out of that gray, snarling, bloody-lipped mass, Kazan drew back, panting and bleeding. He was weak. There was a curious sickness in his head. He wanted to lie down in the snow. But the old and infallible instinct warned him not to betray that weakness. From out of the pack a slim, lithe, gray she-wolf came up to him, and lay down in the snow before him, and then rose swiftly and sniffed at his wounds. When he reached the shadows he looked back. Gray Wolf was following him. She was only a few yards behind. And now she came up to him, a little timidly, and she, too, looked back to the dark blotch of life out on the lake. And as she stood there close beside him, Kazan sniffed at something in the air that was not the scent of blood, nor the perfume of the balsam and spruce. It was a thing that seemed to come to him from the clear stars, the cloudless moon, the strange and beautiful quiet of the night itself. And its presence seemed to be a part of Gray Wolf. He looked at her, and he found Gray Wolf's eyes alert and questioning. She was young--so young that she seemed scarcely to have passed out of puppyhood. Her body was strong and slim and beautifully shaped. In the moonlight the hair under her throat and along her back shone sleek and soft. She whined at the red staring light in Kazan's eyes, and it was not a puppy's whimper. Kazan moved toward her, and stood with his head over her back, facing the pack. He felt her trembling against his chest. He looked at the moon and the stars again, the mystery of Gray Wolf and of the night throbbing in his blood. Not much of his life had been spent at the posts. Most of it had been on the trail--in the traces--and the spirit of the mating season had only stirred him from afar. But it was very near now. Gray Wolf lifted her head. Her soft muzzle touched the wound on his neck, and in the gentleness of that touch, in the low sound in her throat, Kazan felt and heard again that wonderful something that had come with the caress of the woman's hand and the sound of her voice. He turned, whining, his back bristling, his head high and defiant of the wilderness which he faced. Gray Wolf trotted close at his side as they entered into the gloom of the forest. THE FIGHT IN THE SNOW He did not leave the big plain, and often He took his mate to the top of the ridge, and he would try to tell her what he had left back there. With the dark nights the call of the woman became so strong upon him that he was filled with a longing to go back, and take Gray Wolf with him. He gave his warning to Gray Wolf, and they were off like the wind, side by side. And then came the _sound_--and Kazan's hatred of men burst forth in a snarl as he leaped. There was a queer humming over their heads. The sound from behind came again, and this time Gray Wolf gave a yelp of pain, and rolled over and over in the snow. She was on her feet again in an instant, and Kazan dropped behind her, and ran there until they reached the shelter of the timber. Gray Wolf lay down, and began licking the wound in her shoulder. Kazan faced the ridge. The man was taking up their trail. He stopped where Gray Wolf had fallen, and examined the snow. Then he came on. Kazan urged Gray Wolf to her feet, and they made for the thick swamp close to the lake. All that day they kept in the face of the wind, and when Gray Wolf lay down Kazan stole back over their trail, watching and sniffing the air. Then he threw up his head to the stars, and from his throat there rolled out over the wide plains the hunt-cry--the wild and savage call for the pack. Never had he put the savagery in it that was there to-night. Again and again he sent forth that call, and then there came an answer and another and still another, until Gray Wolf herself sat back on her haunches and added her voice to Kazan's, and far out on the plain a white and haggard-faced man halted his exhausted dogs to listen, while a voice said faintly from the sledge: "The wolves, father. Are they coming--after us?" The man was silent. He was not young. The moon shone in his long white beard, and added grotesquely to the height of his tall gaunt figure. A girl had raised her head from a bearskin pillow on the sleigh. Her dark eyes were filled beautifully with the starlight. She was pale. Her hair fell in a thick shining braid over her shoulder, and she was hugging something tightly to her breast. From the bundle at the girl's breast there came a small wailing cry. And far back in the plain there answered it the scattered voice of the pack. It was a strong pack, filled with old and fearless hunters. Gray Wolf was the youngest, and she kept close to Kazan's shoulders. She could see nothing of his red-shot eyes and dripping jaws, and would not have understood if she had seen. But she could _feel_ and she was thrilled by the spirit of that strange and mysterious savagery that had made Kazan forget all things but hurt and death. The pack made no sound. There was only the panting of breath and the soft fall of many feet. They ran swiftly and close. And always Kazan was a leap ahead, with Gray Wolf nosing his shoulder. _Her voice_! The bear rug was thrown back and what had been hidden under it he saw clearly now in the light of the moon and the stars. In him instinct worked more swiftly than human brain could have given birth to reason. It was not _she_. But the voice was the same, and the white girlish face so close to his own blood-reddened eyes held in it that same mystery that he had learned to love. And he saw now that which she was clutching to her breast, and there came from it a strange thrilling cry--and he knew that here on the sledge he had found not enmity and death, but that from which he had been driven away in the other world beyond the ridge. Kazan could not go far. He could still smell the camp when he lay down. Gray Wolf snuggled close to him. Gently she soothed with her soft tongue Kazan's bleeding wounds. And Kazan, lifting his head, whined softly to the stars. From the sledge Joan watched him, still wild-eyed and fearful, still trembling. She was holding her baby close to her breast. Her long heavy hair smothered her shoulders and arms in a dark lustrous veil that glistened and rippled in the firelight when she moved. Her young face was scarcely a woman's to-night, though she was a mother. She looked like a child. Old Pierre laughed as he threw down the last armful of fuel, and stood breathing hard. "It was close, _ma cheri_" he panted through his white beard. "We were nearer to death out there on the plain than we will ever be again, I hope. But we are comfortable now, and warm. Eh? You are no longer afraid?" "I have been thinking of that," he said. "He was badly hurt, and I do not think he went far. Here--take little Joan and sit close to the fire until I come back." Kazan's fangs were bared menacingly when Pierre stopped and looked down at him. With an effort he dragged himself to his feet, but fell back into the snow again. The man leaned his rifle against a sapling and bent over him fearlessly. With a fierce growl Kazan snapped at his extended hands. To his surprise the man did not pick up a stick or a club. He held out his hand again--cautiously--and spoke in a voice new to Kazan. The dog snapped again, and growled. The man was returning, and with him was the girl. Her voice was soft and sweet, and there was about her the breath and sweetness of woman. The man stood prepared, but not threatening. "Be careful, Joan," he warned. She dropped on her knees in the snow, just out of reach. "He can't walk," she cried, a sudden tremble in her voice. "Look, _mon pere!_ Here is a terrible cut. We must carry him." "I guessed that much," replied Radisson. "For that reason I brought the blanket. _Mon Dieu_, listen to that!" From the darkness of the forest there came a low wailing cry. Kazan lifted his head and a trembling whine answered in his throat. It was Gray Wolf calling to him. Joan saw the movement, and heard the low answering whimper in his throat. She turned quickly to the bundle, talking and cooing to it as she took it in her arms, and then she pulled back the bearskin so that Kazan could see. He had never seen a baby before, and Joan held it out before him, so that he could look straight at it and see what a wonderful creature it was. Its little pink face stared steadily at Kazan. Its tiny fists reached out, and it made queer little sounds at him, and then suddenly it kicked and screamed with delight and laughed. At those sounds Kazan's whole body relaxed, and he dragged himself to the girl's feet. "See, he likes the baby!" she cried. "_Mon pere_, we must give him a name. What shall it be?" "Wait till morning for that," replied the father. "It is late, Joan. Go into the tent, and sleep. We have no dogs now, and will travel slowly. So we must start early." With her hand on the tent-flap, Joan, turned. Kazan's eyes were on her. He knew that she was speaking to him, and he drew himself a foot toward her. "He knows it already!" she cried. "Good night, _mon pere_." For a long time after she had gone into the tent, old Pierre Radisson sat on the edge of the sledge, facing the fire, with Kazan at his feet. Suddenly the silence was broken again by Gray Wolf's lonely howl deep in the forest. Kazan lifted his head and whined. "She's calling for you, boy," said Pierre understandingly. He coughed, and clutched a hand to his breast, where the pain seemed rending him. "Frost-bitten lung," he said, speaking straight at Kazan. "Got it early in the winter, up at Fond du Lac. Hope we'll get home--in time--with the kids." "We've got to get them home, and there's only you and me to do it," he said, twisting his beard. Suddenly he clenched his fists. His hollow racking cough convulsed him again. His howl awakened the man. He came out of the tent, peered for a few moments up at the sky, built up the fire, and began to prepare breakfast. He patted Kazan on the head, and gave him a chunk of meat. Joan came out a few moments later, leaving the baby asleep in the tent. She ran up and kissed Pierre, and then dropped down on her knees beside Kazan, and talked to him almost as he had heard her talk to the baby. When she jumped up to help her father, Kazan followed her, and when Joan saw him standing firmly upon his legs she gave a cry of pleasure. It was a strange journey that began into the North that day. Pierre Radisson emptied the sledge of everything but the tent, blankets, food and the furry nest for baby Joan. Then he harnessed himself in the traces and dragged the sledge over the snow. He coughed incessantly. Even Kazan, with that strange beast knowledge which man, unable to explain, calls instinct, knew that what he said was not the truth. Perhaps it was largely because he had heard other men cough like this, and that for generations his sledge-dog ancestors had heard men cough as Radisson coughed--and had learned what followed it. This day the chief thing that he came to understand was that the little creature on the sledge was very precious to the girl who stroked his head and talked to him, and that it was very helpless. He learned, too, that Joan was most delighted, and that her voice was softer and thrilled him more deeply, when he paid attention to that little, warm, living thing in the bearskin. For a long time after they made camp Pierre Radisson sat beside the fire. To-night he did not smoke. He stared straight into the flames. When at last he rose to go into the tent with the girl and the baby, he bent over Kazan and examined his hurt. "There's the river, Joan," he said, his voice faint and husky. "We can camp here now and wait for the storm to pass." Under a thick clump of spruce he put up the tent, and then began gathering fire-wood. Joan helped him. As soon as they had boiled coffee and eaten a supper of meat and toasted biscuits, Joan went into the tent and dropped exhausted on her thick bed of balsam boughs, wrapping herself and the baby up close in the skins and blankets. To-night she had no word for Kazan. And Pierre was glad that she was too tired to sit beside the fire and talk. And yet- Kazan's alert eyes saw Pierre start suddenly. He rose from his seat on the sledge and went to the tent. He drew back the flap and thrust in his head and shoulders. "Asleep, Joan?" he asked. "Almost, father. Won't you please come--soon?" "After I smoke," he said. "Are you comfortable?" Pierre laughed softly. In the darkness he was gripping at his throat. "Won't you come to bed, father? You're tired--and almost sick." Pierre dropped the tent-flap and returned to the fire. He staggered as he walked. Kazan watched him as he entered the tent. He laid his weight against the end of his chain until the collar shut off his wind. His legs and back twitched. In that tent where Radisson had gone were Joan and the baby. He knew that Pierre would not hurt them, but he knew also that with Pierre Radisson something terrible and impending was hovering very near to them. He wanted the man outside--by the fire--where he could lie still, and watch him. In the tent there was silence. Nearer to him than before came Gray Wolf's cry. Each night she was calling earlier, and coming closer to the camp. He wanted her very near to him to-night, but he did not even whine in response. He dared not break that strange silence in the tent. He lay still for a long time, tired and lame from the day's journey, but sleepless. The fire burned lower; the wind in the tree-tops died away; and the thick gray clouds rolled like a massive curtain from under the skies. The stars began to glow white and metallic, and from far in the North there came faintly a crisping moaning sound, like steel sleigh-runners running over frosty snow--the mysterious monotone of the Northern Lights. After that it grew steadily and swiftly colder. To-night Gray Wolf did not compass herself by the direction of the wind. She followed like a sneaking shadow over the trail Pierre Radisson had made, and when Kazan heard her again, long after midnight, he lay with, his head erect, and his body rigid, save for a curious twitching of his muscles. There was a new note in Gray Wolf's voice, a wailing note in which there was more than the mate-call. It was The Message. And at the sound of it Kazan rose from out of his silence and his fear, and with his head turned straight up to the sky he howled as the wild dogs of the North howl before the tepees of masters who are newly dead. Pierre Radisson was dead. By this time it was broad day, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that the storm had passed. It was bitterly cold. It seemed to her that she had never known it to be so cold in all her life. The fire was completely out. Kazan was huddled in a round ball, his nose tucked under his body. He raised his head, shivering, as Joan came out. With her heavily moccasined foot Joan scattered the ashes and charred sticks where the fire had been. There was not a spark left. In returning to the tent she stopped for a moment beside Kazan, and patted his shaggy head. "Wolf!" she moaned. "Oh, Wolf!" The timber was far behind her now. Ahead there was nothing but the pitiless barren, and the timber beyond that was hidden by the gray gloom of the day. If there had been trees, Joan's heart would not have choked so with terror. But there was nothing--nothing but that gray ghostly gloom, with the rim of the sky touching the earth a mile away. The snow grew heavy under her feet again. Always she was watching for those treacherous, frost-coated traps in the ice her father had spoken of. But she found now that all the ice and snow looked alike to her, and that there was a growing pain back of her eyes. It was the intense cold. Kazan stopped in the trail. He came back then and sat down upon his haunches beside her, waiting for her to move and speak. But she was very still. He thrust his nose into her loose hair. A whine rose in his throat, and suddenly he raised his head and sniffed in the face of the wind. Something came to him with that wind. He muzzled Joan again, hut she did not stir. Then he went forward, and stood in his traces, ready for the pull, and looked hack at her. Still she did not move or speak, and Kazan's whine gave place to a sharp excited bark. A deep sigh of relief heaved up from Kazan's chest. He was exhausted. His strength was gone. His feet were torn and bleeding. But the voice of baby Joan filled him with a strange happiness, and he lay down in his traces, while the man carried Joan and the baby into the life and warmth of the cabin. A few minutes later the man reappeared. He was not old, like Pierre Radisson. He came close to Kazan, and looked down at him. "My God," he said. "And you did that--_alone!_" Then the cabin door closed behind him. Back in a shadowy corner of the cabin he lay, while the man prepared something over a hot stove for Joan. It was a long time before Joan rose from the cot on which the man had placed her. After that Kazan heard her sobbing; and then the man made her eat, and for a time they talked. Then the stranger hung up a big blanket in front of the bunk, and sat down close to the stove. Quietly Kazan slipped along the wall, and crept under the bunk. For a long time he could hear the sobbing breath of the girl. Then all was still. Vainly Gray Wolf tried to lure him back into their old haunts--away from the cabin and the scent of man. Late that morning the man harnessed his dogs, and from the fringe of the forest Kazan saw him tuck Joan and the baby among the furs on the sledge, as old Pierre had done. All that day he followed in the trail of the team, with Gray Wolf slinking behind him. They traveled until dark; and then, under the stars and the moon that had followed the storm, the man still urged on his team. It was deep in the night when they came to another cabin, and the man beat upon the door. A light, the opening of the door, the joyous welcome of a man's voice, Joan's sobbing cry--Kazan heard these from the shadows in which he was hidden, and then slipped back to Gray Wolf. Through all the long winter Kazan hovered thus between the lure of Joan and the cabin--and Gray Wolf. Then came Spring--and the Great Change. The rocks, the ridges and the valleys were taking on a warmer glow. The poplar buds were ready to burst. The scent of balsam and of spruce grew heavier in the air each day, and all through the wilderness, in plain and forest, there was the rippling murmur of the spring floods finding their way to Hudson's Bay. In that great bay there was the rumble and crash of the ice fields thundering down in the early break-up through the Roes Welcome--the doorway to the Arctic, and for that reason there still came with the April wind an occasional sharp breath of winter. Gray Wolf, his wild mate, lay near him, flat on her belly, her forepaws reaching out, her eyes and nostrils as keen and alert as the smell of man could make them. For there was that smell of man, as well as of balsam and spruce, in the warm spring air. She gazed anxiously and sometimes steadily, at Kazan as he slept. Her own gray spine stiffened when she saw the tawny hair along Kazan's back bristle at some dream vision. She whined softly as his upper lip snarled back, showing his long white fangs. But for the most part Kazan lay quiet, save for the muscular twitchings of legs, shoulders and muzzle, which always tell when a dog is dreaming; and as he dreamed there came to the door of the cabin out on the plain a blue-eyed girl-woman, with a big brown braid over her shoulder, who called through the cup of her hands, "Kazan, Kazan, Kazan!" The voice reached faintly to the top of the Sun Rock, and Gray Wolf flattened her ears. Kazan stirred, and in another instant he was awake and on his feet. He leaped to an outcropping ledge, sniffing the air and looking far out over the plain that lay below them. Over the plain the woman's voice came to them again, and Kazan ran to the edge of the rock and whined. Gray Wolf stepped softly to his side and laid her muzzle on his shoulder. She had grown to know what the Voice meant. Day and night she feared it, more than she feared the scent or sound of man. Since she had given up the pack and her old life for Kazan, the Voice had become Gray Wolf's greatest enemy, and she hated it. It took Kazan from her. And wherever it went, Kazan followed. Kazan ran nervously to the trail their feet had worn up to the top of the Sun Rock, and stood undecided. All day, and yesterday, he had been uneasy and disturbed. Whatever it was that stirred him seemed to be in the air, for he could not see it or hear it or scent it. But he could _feel_ it. He went to the fissure and sniffed at Gray Wolf. Usually she whined coaxingly. But her response to-day was to draw back her lips until he could see her white fangs. "Kazan!" she cried softly. "Come in, Kazan!" Slowly the wild red light in Kazan's eyes softened. He put a forefoot on the sill, and stood there, while the girl urged him again. Suddenly his legs seemed to sink a little under him, his tail drooped and he slunk in with that doggish air of having committed a crime. The creatures he loved were in the cabin, but the cabin itself he hated. He hated all cabins, for they all breathed of the club and the whip and bondage. Like all sledge-dogs he preferred the open snow for a bed, and the spruce-tops for shelter. Joan dropped her hand to his head, and at its touch there thrilled through him that strange joy that was his reward for leaving Gray Wolf and the wild. Slowly he raised his head until his black muzzle rested on her lap, and he closed his eyes while that wonderful little creature that mystified him so--the baby--prodded him with her tiny feet, and pulled his tawny hair. He loved these baby-maulings even more than the touch of Joan's hand. "Good old Kazan," she cried softly, putting her face down close to him. "We're glad you came, Kazan, for we're going to be alone to-night--baby and I. Daddy's gone to the post, and you must care for us while he's away." She tickled his nose with the end of her long shining braid. This always delighted the baby, for in spite of his stoicism Kazan had to sniff and sometimes to sneeze, and twig his ears. And it pleased him, too. He loved the sweet scent of Joan's hair. "And you'd fight for us, if you had to, wouldn't you?" she went on. Then she rose quietly. "I must close the door," she said. "I don't want you to go away again to-day, Kazan. You must stay with us." Kazan went off to his corner, and lay down. Just as there had been some strange thing at the top of the Sun Rock to disturb him that day, so now there was a mystery that disturbed him in the cabin. He sniffed the air, trying to fathom its secret. Whatever it was, it seemed to make his mistress different, too. And she was digging out all sorts of odds and ends of things about the cabin, and doing them up in packages. Late that night, before she went to bed, Joan came and snuggled her hand close down beside him for a few moments. "We're going away," she whispered, and there was a curious tremble that was almost a sob in her voice. "We're going home, Kazan. We're going away down where his people live--where they have churches, and cities, and music, and all the beautiful things in the world. And we're going to take _you_, Kazan!" Joan found him there, still watchful, still listening, when she awoke in the early morning. She came to open the door for him, and in a moment he was gone. His feet seemed scarcely to touch the earth as he sped in the direction of the Sun Rock. Across the plain he could see the cap of it already painted with a golden glow. He came to the narrow winding trail, and wormed his way up it swiftly. Gray Wolf was a mother. THE TRAGEDY ON SUN ROCK All that day Kazan guarded the top of the Sun Rock. Fate, and the fear and brutality of masters, had heretofore kept him from fatherhood, and he was puzzled. Something told him now that he belonged to the Sun Rock, and not to the cabin. The call that came to him from over the plain was not so strong. At dusk Gray Wolf came out from her retreat, and slunk to his side, whimpering, and nipped gently at his shaggy neck. It was the old instinct of his fathers that made him respond by caressing Gray Wolf's face with his tongue. Then Gray Wolf's jaws opened, and she laughed in short panting breaths, as if she had been hard run. She was happy, and as they heard a little snuffling sound from between the rocks, Kazan wagged his tail, and Gray Wolf darted back to her young. "I'm afraid of him," he told Joan for the hundredth time. "That's the wolf-gleam in his eyes. He's of a treacherous breed. Sometimes I wish we'd never brought him home." "If we hadn't--where would the baby--have gone?" Joan reminded him, a little catch in her voice. "I had almost forgotten that," said her husband. "Kazan, you old devil, I guess I love you, too." He laid his hand caressingly on Kazan's head. "Wonder how he'll take to life down there?" he asked. "He has always been used to the forests. It'll seem mighty strange." "And so--have I--always been used to the forests," whispered Joan. "I guess that's why I love Kazan--next to you and the baby. Kazan--dear old Kazan!" This time Kazan felt and scented more of that mysterious change in the cabin. Joan and her husband talked incessantly of their plans when they were together; and when the man was away Joan talked to the baby, and to him. And each time that he came down to the cabin during the week that followed, he grew more and more restless, until at last the man noticed the change in him. And then Kazan saw the terrible work of the lynx. For Gray Wolf was blind--not for a day or a night, but blind for all time. A gloom that no sun could break had become her shroud. And perhaps again it was that instinct of animal creation, which often is more wonderful than man's reason, that told Kazan what had happened. For he knew now that she was helpless--more helpless than the little creatures that had gamboled in the moonlight a few hours before. He remained close beside her all that day. [Illustration: Kazan gripped at its throat] Vainly that day did Joan call for Kazan. Her voice rose to the Sun Rock, and Gray Wolf's head snuggled closer to Kazan, and Kazan's ears dropped back, and he licked her wounds. Late in the afternoon Kazan left Gray Wolf long enough to run to the bottom of the trail and bring up the snow-shoe rabbit. Gray Wolf muzzled the fur and flesh, but would not eat. Still a little later Kazan urged her to follow him to the trail. He no longer wanted to stay at the top of the Sun Rock, and he no longer wanted Gray Wolf to stay there. Step by step he drew her down the winding path away from her dead puppies. She would move only when he was very near her--so near that she could touch his scarred flank with her nose. "Pretty near a finish fight for him," said the man, after he had examined him. "It was either a lynx or a bear. Another wolf could not do that." The sun fell warmly on Kazan's back as they shoved off, and he closed his eyes, and rested his head on Joan's lap. Her hand fell softly on his shoulder. He heard again that sound which the man could not hear, the broken sob in her throat, as the canoe moved slowly down to the wooded point. Joan waved her hand back at the cabin, just disappearing behind the trees. The man stopped paddling. "You're not sorry--Joan?" he asked. They were drifting past the point now, and the scent of Gray Wolf came to Kazan's nostrils, rousing him, and bringing a low whine from his throat. "You're not sorry--we're going?" Joan shook her head. "No," she replied. "Only I've--always lived here--in the forests--and they're--home!" The point with its white finger of sand, was behind them now. And Kazan was standing rigid, facing it. The man called to him, and Joan lifted her head. She, too, saw the point, and suddenly the babiche leash slipped from her fingers, and a strange light leaped into her blue eyes as she saw what stood at the end of that white tip of sand. It was Gray Wolf. Her blind eyes were turned toward Kazan. At last Gray Wolf, the faithful, understood. Scent told her what her eyes could not see. Kazan and the man-smell were together. And they were going--going--going- "Look!" whispered Joan. The man turned. Gray Wolf's forefeet were in the water. And now, as the canoe drifted farther and farther away, she settled back on her haunches, raised her head to the sun which she could not see and gave her last long wailing cry for Kazan. The canoe lurched. A tawny body shot through the air--and Kazan was gone. The man reached forward for his rifle. Joan's hand stopped him. Her face was white. "Let him go back to her! Let him go--let him go!" she cried. "It is his place--with her." The other tragedy was the going of Joan, her baby and her husband. Something more infallible than reason told Kazan that they would not come back. Brightest of all the pictures that remained with him was that of the sunny morning when the woman and the baby he loved, and the man he endured because of them, had gone away in the canoe, and often he would go to the point, and gaze longingly down-stream, where he had leaped from the canoe to return to his blind mate. In her blindness Gray Wolf could no longer hunt with her mate. But gradually a new code of understanding grew up between them, and through her blindness they learned many things that they had not known before. By early summer Gray Wolf could travel with Kazan, if he did not move too swiftly. She ran at his flank, with her shoulder or muzzle touching him, and Kazan learned not to leap, but to trot. Very quickly he found that he must choose the easiest trails for Gray Wolf's feet. When they came to a space to be bridged by a leap, he would muzzle Gray Wolf and whine, and she would stand with ears alert--listening. Then Kazan would take the leap, and she understood the distance she had to cover. She always over-leaped, which was a good fault. After the fight on the Sun Rock, Kazan had taken his blind mate to a thick clump of spruce and balsam in the river-bottom, where they remained until early summer. Every day for weeks Kazan went to the cabin where Joan and the baby--and the man--had been. For a long time he went hopefully, looking each day or night to see some sign of life there. But the door was never open. The boards and saplings at the windows always remained. Never a spiral of smoke rose from the clay chimney. Grass and vines began to grow in the path. And fainter and fainter grew that scent which Kazan could still find about it--the scent of man, of the woman, the baby. Then came the great fire. All the next day Gray Wolf was nervous, and toward noon Kazan caught in the air the warning that she had sensed many hours ahead of him. Steadily the scent grew stronger, and by the middle of the afternoon the sun was veiled by a film of smoke. Then the wind shifted again, and the fire swept north. The head of the triangle became a death-trap. All through the night the southern sky was filled with a lurid glow, and by morning the heat and smoke and ash were suffocating. Faithful Gray Wolf was full of fight, and she sprang shoulder to shoulder with Kazan, her fangs bared. With an angry snap, Kazan drove her back, and she stood quivering and whining while he advanced. Light-footed, his pointed ears forward, no menace or threat in his attitude, he advanced. It was the deadly advance of the husky trained in battle, skilled in the art of killing. A man from civilization would have said that the dog was approaching the lynx with friendly intentions. But the lynx understood. It was the old feud of many generations--made deadlier now by Kazan's memory of that night at the top of the Sun Rock. The moon was strange and foreboding that night, like a spatter of blood in the sky, and through the long silent hours there was not even the hoot of an owl to give a sign that life still existed where yesterday had been a paradise of wild things. Kazan knew that there was nothing to hunt, and they continued to travel all that night. With dawn they struck a narrow swamp along the edge of the stream. Here beavers had built a dam, and they were able to cross over into the green country on the opposite side. For another day and another night they traveled westward, and this brought them into the thick country of swamp and timber along the Waterfound. Weyman saw where the smaller wolf had waited on its haunches, while its companion had killed the lynx. He did not tell Henri all he thought. But the days that followed convinced him more and more that he had found the most dramatic exemplification of his theory. Back of this mysterious tragedy of the trap-line there was a _reason_. "Henri, doesn't it ever make you sorry to kill so many wild things?" he asked. Henri stared and shook his head. "I kill t'ousand an' t'ousand," he said. "I kill t'ousand more." "Is she near Montreal or Quebec?" Henri asked. Weyman smiled, and drew a photograph from his pocket. It was the picture of a girl. Henri was staring at him. Weyman gave him the picture. It was of a sweet-faced girl, with deep pure eyes, and there came a twitch at the corners of Henri's mouth as he looked at it. "My Iowaka died t'ree year ago," he said. "She too loved the wild thing. But them wolf--damn! They drive me out if I can not kill them!" He put fresh fuel into the stove, and prepared for bed. "We got heem--sure!" he said. "Wait!" he cried. "It's not a wolf. It's a dog!" Henri lowered his rifle, staring at the collar. Weyman's eyes shot to Gray Wolf. She was facing them, snarling, her white fangs bared to the foes she could not see. Her blind eyes were closed. Where there should have been eyes there was only hair, and an exclamation broke from Weyman's lips. "And _blind_!" gasped Weyman. "_Oui_, blind, m'sieur," added Henri, falling partly into French in his amazement. He was raising his rifle again. Weyman seized it firmly. [Illustration: "Wait! it's not a wolf!"] He still held Henri's rifle, and Henri was staring at him, as if he did not yet quite understand. Weyman continued speaking, his eyes and face blazing. Henri nodded. He held his rifle in readiness, while Weyman unpacked his camera and got to work. Snarling fangs greeted the click of the camera-shutter--the fangs of wolf and lynx. But Kazan lay cringing, not through fear, but because he still recognized the mastery of man. And when he had finished with his pictures, Weyman approached almost within reach of him, and spoke even more kindly to him than the man who had lived back in the deserted cabin. Before the dog was put in with Gray Wolf, Weyman closely examined the worn and tooth-marked collar about his neck. He rose, opened the door, softly, and went out. Instinctively his eyes turned westward. The sky was a blaze of stars. In their light he could see the cage, and he stood, watching and listening. A sound came to him. It was Gray Wolf gnawing at the sapling bars of her prison. A moment later there came a low sobbing whine, and he knew that it was Kazan crying for his freedom. Weyman breathed deeply. There preceded them a messenger from the post on Reindeer Lake, who was passing up the warning that had come from Nelson House and the country to the southeast. "There's smallpox on the Nelson," the messenger informed Williams, at Fond du Lac, "and it has struck the Crees on Wollaston Lake. God only knows what it is doing to the Bay Indians, but we hear it is wiping out the Chippewas between the Albany and the Churchill." He left the same day with his winded dogs. "I'm off to carry word to the Reveillon people to the west," he explained. "It means dig graves," he said. "That's the only preparation we can make." The plague had worked its havoc with men. Now had come the days of famine and death for the wild things. The younger bull did not pursue. He tossed his head, and stood for a few moments with heaving sides and dilated nostrils, facing in the direction his vanquished foe had taken. Then he turned, and trotted back to the still motionless cows and yearling. Kazan and Gray Wolf were quivering. Gray Wolf slunk back from the edge of the clearing, and Kazan followed. No longer were they interested in the cows and the young bull. From that clearing they had seen meat driven forth--meat that was beaten in fight, and bleeding. Every instinct of the wild pack returned to Gray Wolf now--and in Kazan the mad desire to taste the blood he smelled. Swiftly they turned toward the blood-stained trail of the old bull, and when they came to it they found it spattered red. Kazan's jaws dripped as the hot scent drove the blood like veins of fire through his weakened body. His eyes were reddened by starvation, and in them there was a light now that they had never known even in the days of the wolf-pack. For them the days of famine had passed. After the fight Kazan lay down exhausted in the blood-stained snow, while faithful Gray Wolf, still filled with the endurance of her wild wolf breed, tore fiercely at the thick skin on the bull's neck to lay open the red flesh. When she had done this she did not eat, but ran to Kazan's side and whined softly as she muzzled him with her nose. After that they feasted, crouching side by side at the bull's neck and tearing at the warm sweet flesh. The last pale light of the northern day was fading swiftly into night when they drew back, gorged until there were no longer hollows in their sides. The faint wind died away. The clouds that had hung in the sky during the day drifted eastward, and the moon shone brilliant and clear. For an hour the night continued to grow lighter. To the brilliance of the moon and the stars there was added now the pale fires of the aurora borealis, shivering and flashing over the Pole. Its hissing crackling monotone, like the creaking of steel sledge-runners on frost-filled snow, came faintly to the ears of Kazan and Gray Wolf. Suddenly every muscle in their bodies grew rigid. Something living had passed near them, something that they could not see or hear, and scarcely scent. It came again, as mysterious as a shadow, and then out of the air there floated down as silently as a huge snowflake a great white owl. Kazan saw the hungry winged creature settle on the bull's shoulder. Like a flash he was out from his cover, Gray Wolf a yard behind him. With an angry snarl he lunged at the white robber, and his jaws snapped on empty air. His leap carried him clean over the bull. He turned, but the owl was gone. Nearly all of his old strength had returned to him now. He trotted about the bull, the hair along his spine bristling like a brush, his eyes wide and menacing. He snarled at the still air. His jaws clicked, and he sat back on his haunches and faced the blood-stained trail that the moose had left before he died. Again that instinct as infallible as reason told him that danger would come from there. It was the fisher-cat that brought Kazan out; from under his cover of spruce again. In the moonlight there was a sharp quick fight, a snarling and scratching, a cat-like yowl of pain, and the fisher forgot his hunger in flight. Kazan returned to Gray Wolf with a lacerated and bleeding nose. Gray Wolf licked it sympathetically, while Kazan stood rigid and listening. But nothing could drive back those little white outlaws of the wilderness--the ermine. They would have stolen between the feet of man to get at the warm flesh and blood of the freshly killed bull. Kazan hunted them savagely. They were too quick for him, more like elusive flashes in the moonlight than things of life. They burrowed under the old bull's body and fed while he raved and filled his mouth with snow. Gray Wolf sat placidly on her haunches. The little ermine did not trouble her, and after a time Kazan realized this, and flung himself down beside her, panting and exhausted. Then came the interruption. From a mile away there burst forth a single fierce long-drawn howl. After all, that was the cry of the true master of the wilderness--the wolf. It was the cry of hunger. It was the cry that sent men's blood running more swiftly through their veins, that brought the moose and the deer to their feet shivering in every limb--the cry that wailed like a note of death through swamp and forest and over the snow-smothered ridges until its faintest echoes reached for miles into the starlit night. There was silence, and in that awesome stillness Kazan and Gray Wolf stood shoulder to shoulder facing the cry, and in response to that cry there worked within them a strange and mystic change, for what they had heard was not a warning or a menace but the call of Brotherhood. Away off there--beyond the lynx and the fox and the fisher-cat, were the creatures of their kind, the wild-wolf pack, to which the right to all flesh and blood was common--in which existed that savage socialism of the wilderness, the Brotherhood of the Wolf. And Gray Wolf, setting back on her haunches, sent forth the response to that cry--a wailing triumphant note that told her hungry brethren there was feasting at the end of the trail. A FIGHT UNDER THE STARS A snarl turned Kazan's eyes to Gray Wolf. His blind mate had drawn back. Her white fangs gleamed menacingly in the starlight. Her ears were flat. Kazan was puzzled. Why was she signaling danger to him when it was the wolf, and not the lynx, out there in the snow? And why did the wolves not come in and feast? Slowly he moved toward them, and Gray Wolf called to him with her whine. He paid no attention to her, but went on, stepping lightly, his head high in the air, his spine bristling. Gray Wolf understood what had happened, though she could not see. She shrank closer to Kazan. She knew that the moon and the stars had looked down on that thing that always meant death--the challenge to the right of mate. With her luring coyness, whining and softly muzzling his shoulder and neck, she tried to draw Kazan away from the pad-beaten circle in which the bull lay. Kazan's answer was an ominous rolling of smothered thunder deep down in his throat. He lay down beside her, licked her blind face swiftly, and faced the stranger dogs. For a few seconds he forgot Gray Wolf. The husky had slipped back like a shadow and now he stood again over Gray Wolf, sniffing her neck and body. Then he whined. In that whine were the passion, the invitation, the demand of the Wild. So quickly that the eye could scarcely follow her movement faithful Gray Wolf sank her gleaming fangs in the husky's shoulder. A gray streak--nothing more tangible than a streak of gray, silent and terrible, shot through the dawn-gloom. It was Kazan. He came without a snarl, without a cry, and in a moment he and the husky were in the throes of terrific battle. But her efforts to draw Kazan back were unavailing, and in spite of her protest he wandered each day a little farther east and south at the head of his pack. "Oh, ze cariboo-oo-oo, ze cariboo-oo-oo, He roas' on high, Jes' under ze sky. air-holes beeg white cariboo-oo-oo!" "Now!" he yelled. "Now--all together!" And carried away by his enthusiasm, the forest people awakened from their silence of months, and the song burst forth in a savage frenzy that reached to the skies. "Good God!" shrieked the man in pain, and Kazan caught the gleam of a rifle barrel as he sped toward the forest. A shot followed. Something like a red-hot coal ran the length of Kazan's hip, and deep in the forest he stopped to lick at the burning furrow where the bullet had gone just deep enough to take the skin and hair from his flesh. In the warmth of the sun and the sweetness of the air there breathed to Gray Wolf the mystery of matehood and of motherhood. She whined softly and rubbed her blind face against Kazan. For days, in her way, she tried to tell him. More than ever she wanted to curl herself up in that warm dry nest under the windfall. She had no desire to hunt. The crack of the dry stick under a cloven hoof and the warm scent of the she-bear and her cubs roused none of the old instincts in her. She wanted to curl herself up in the old windfall--and wait. And she tried hard to make Kazan understand her desire. THE EDUCATION OF BA-REE All of that night the journey continued. The otter, their deadliest enemy--deadlier even than man--hid himself in a thick clump of willows as they passed. Nature, which sometimes sees beyond the vision of man, had made him the enemy of these creatures that were passing his hiding-place in the night. A fish-feeder, he was born to be a conserver as well as a destroyer of the creatures on which he fed. Perhaps nature told him that too many beaver dams stopped the run of spawning fish and that where there were many beavers there were always few fish. Maybe he reasoned as to why fish-hunting was poor and he went hungry. So, unable to cope singly with whole tribes of his enemies, he worked to destroy their dams. How this, in turn, destroyed the beavers will be seen in the feud in which nature had already schemed that he should play a part with Kazan and Gray Wolf. A FEUD IN THE WILDERNESS Late in the afternoon the slaughter ended. Broken Tooth and his courageous engineers had at last repaired the breach, and the water in the pond began to rise. But this was summer. No trapper would have killed him now, for his pelt was worthless. Nature and instinct both told him this. At this season he did not dread man, for there was no man to dread. So he lay asleep on the log, oblivious to everything but the comfort of sleep and the warmth of the sun. A SHOT ON THE SAND-BAR "Wolves," he grunted. "Wish I could 'a' shot at 'em with that old minute-gun back there. Gawd--listen to that! And in broad daylight, too!" He jumped to his feet, staring off into the bush. Sandy McTrigger grounded his canoe on the sand-bar with an exultant yell. "Got you, you old devil, didn't I?" he cried. "I'd 'a' got the other, too, if I'd 'a' had something besides this damned old relic!" "My Gawd, it ain't a wolf," he gasped. "It's a dog, Sandy McTrigger--_a dog!"_ "A dog!" he exclaimed again. "A dog, Sandy McTrigger an' a--a beauty!" "Guess I know what you're figgering on," he said. "I've had _your_ kind before. The dam' wolves have turned you bad, an' you'll need a whole lot of club before you're right again. Now, look here." Sandy was in unusually good humor. With a whine Kazan was on his feet, tugging at the babiche. Sandy snatched up his club, and leaped toward him. "Down, you brute!" he commanded. In the firelight the club rose and fell with ferocious quickness. When McTrigger returned to the fire he was breathing hard again. He tossed his club beside the blankets he had spread out for a bed. It was a different looking club now. It was covered with blood and hair. "Guess that'll take the spirit out of him," he chuckled. "It'll do that--or kill 'im!" "You can't put on meat in a muzzle," he told his prisoner. "An' I want you to git strong--an' fierce as hell. I've got an idee. It's an idee you can lick your weight in wildcats. We'll pull off a stunt pretty soon that'll fill our pockets with dust. I've done it afore, and we can do it _here_. Wolf an' dog--s'elp me Gawd but it'll be a drawin' card!" "Done!" said the other. "How long before he'll be ready?" Sandy thought a moment. "Another week," he said. "He won't have his weight before then. A week from to-day, we'll say. Next Tuesday night. Does that suit you, Harker?" "Next Tuesday night," he agreed. Then he added, "I'll make it a _half_ of my share that the Dane kills your wolf-dog." Sandy took a long look at Kazan. "I'll just take you on that," he said. Then, as he shook Harker's hand, "I don't believe there's a dog between here and the Yukon that can kill the wolf!" "I'd bet on 'im even. I'd give odds if I had to. He'll fight all around the Dane. The Dane won't have no method." "An' his big feet, an' his soft throat, an' the clumsy thickness of his belly," interrupted the Kootenay man. "For Gawd's sake, man, take my word for it, an' don't put your money on the Dane!" "Wait! Give 'em a chance, you dam' fools!" A roar burst from the crowd--a roar of anger, of demand, of threat. In his rage Harker drew a revolver and leveled it at the Dane. Above the tumult of the crowd a single voice stopped him. "Hold!" it demanded. "Hold--in the name of the law!" Every man in the room heard the offer. Harker looked at Sandy. For an instant their heads were close together. Harker raised a hand. The little man hesitated. Then he nodded. Murmurs of discontent rose throughout the crowd. Harker climbed to the edge of the platform. "We ain't to blame because they wouldn't fight," he shouted, "but if there's any of you small enough to want your money back you can git it as you go out. The dogs laid down on us, that's all. We ain't to blame." The little man was edging his way between the chairs, accompanied by the sergeant of police. With his pale face close to the sapling bars of the cage he looked at Kazan and the big Dane. A strange terror fell upon her. She had grown accustomed to darkness, but never before had she been _alone_ in that darkness. Always there had been the guardianship of Kazan's presence. She heard the clucking sound of a spruce hen in the bush a few yards away, and now that sound came to her as if from out of another world. A ground-mouse rustled through the grass close to her forepaws, and she snapped at it, and closed her teeth on a rock. The muscles of her shoulders twitched tremulously and she shivered as if stricken by intense cold. She was terrified by the darkness that shut out the world from her, and she pawed at her closed eyes, as if she might open them to light. Early in the afternoon she wandered back on the plain. It was different. It frightened her, and soon she returned to the beach, and snuggled down under the tree where Kazan had lain. She was not so frightened here. The smell of Kazan was strong about her. For an hour she lay motionless, with her head resting on the club clotted with his hair and blood. Night found her still there. And when the moon and the stars came out she crawled back into the pit in the white sand that Kazan's body had made under the tree. THE LAST OF McTRIGGER To-day he placed the tallow and bran before Kazan, and the smile in his face gave way to a look of perplexity. Kazan's lips had drawn suddenly back. A fierce snarl rolled deep in his throat. The hair along his spine stood up. His muscles twitched. Instinctively the professor turned. Sandy McTrigger had come up quietly behind him. His brutal face wore a grin as he looked at Kazan. "It's a fool job--tryin' to make friends with _him_" he said. Then he added, with a sudden interested gleam in his eyes, "When you startin'?" "And you're going up to Fond du Lac--alone?" queried Sandy. "Why don't you take a man?" The little professor laughed softly. Sandy was looking at the Dane, with his back to McGill. An exultant gleam shot for an instant into his eyes. "You're taking the dogs?" "Must cost a heap to take these trips o' yourn, don't it?" The little professor was looking the other way now. The carelessness in his face and manner changed. His blue eyes grew a shade darker. A hard smile which Sandy did not see hovered about his lips for an instant. Then he turned, laughing. "Pretty good," he grinned. "Most men couldn't do better'n that with a rifle." When Sandy left, McGill followed him with a suspicious gleam in his eyes, and a curious smile on his lips. Then he turned to Kazan. "I was beginning to fear I wouldn't have much sleep, old boy," chuckled McGill ambiguously, "but I guess I can take a nap now and then with _you_ along!" Behind a rock he built a very small fire, and prepared supper. After this he went into the tent, and when he came out he carried a blanket under his arm. He chuckled as he stood for a moment over Kazan. It was a quiet starlit night, and hours afterward Kazan dropped his nose between his forepaws and drowsed. It was the snap of a twig that roused him. The sound did not awaken the sluggish Dane but instantly Kazan's head was alert, his keen nostrils sniffing the air. What he had smelled all day was heavy about him now. He lay still and quivering. Slowly, from out of the _banskians_ behind the tent, there came a figure. It was not the little professor. It approached cautiously, with lowered head and hunched shoulders, and the starlight revealed the murderous face of Sandy McTrigger. Kazan crouched low. He laid his head flat between his forepaws. His long fangs gleamed. But he made no sound that betrayed his concealment under a thick _banskian_ shrub. Step by step Sandy approached, and at last he reached the flap of the tent. He did not carry a club or a whip in his hand now. In the place of either of those was the glitter of steel. At the door to the tent he paused, and peered in, his back to Kazan. Not until the stars were fading out of the sky again, and gray day was giving place to night, did exhaustion and hunger stop him. He killed a rabbit, and for hours after he had feasted he lay close to his kill, and slept. Then he went on. THE CALL OF SUN ROCK "You are happy again, Joan," he laughed joyously. "The doctors were right. You are a part of the forests." "Yes, I am happy," she whispered, and suddenly there came a little thrill into her voice, and she pointed to a white finger of sand running out into the stream. "Do you remember--years and years ago, it seems--that Kazan left us here? _She_ was on the sand over there, calling to him. Do you remember?" There was a little tremble about her mouth, and she added, "I wonder--where they--have gone." "Did you hear it?" she asked. "Did you hear--_the call_?" He nodded, stroking her soft hair. "I was a mile back in the creek swamp," he said. "I heard it!" Joan's hands clutched his arms. "It wasn't Kazan," she said. "I would recognize _his_ voice. But it seemed to me it was like the other--the call that came that morning from the sand-bar, his _mate_?" The man was thinking. Joan's fingers tightened. She was breathing a little quickly. "Will you promise me this?" she asked, "Will you promise me that you will never hunt or trap for wolves?" "I had thought of that," he replied. "I thought of it--after I heard the call. Yes, I will promise." Joan's arms stole up about his neck. "We loved Kazan," she whispered. "And you might kill him--or _her_" Suddenly she stopped. Both listened. The door was a little ajar, and to them there came again the wailing mate-call of the wolf. Joan ran to the door. Her husband followed. Together they stood silent, and with tense breath Joan pointed over the starlit plain. "Listen! Listen!" she commanded. "It's her cry, _and it came from the Sun Rock_!" She ran out into the night, forgetting that the man was close behind her now, forgetting that little Joan was alone in her bed. And to them, from miles and miles across the plain, there came a wailing cry in answer--a cry that seemed a part of the wind, and that thrilled Joan until her breath broke in a strange sob. Farther out on the plain she went and then stopped, with the golden glow of the autumn moon and the stars shimmering in her hair and eyes. It was many minutes before the cry came again, and then it was so near that Joan put her hands to her mouth, and her cry rang out over the plain as in the days of old. "_Kazan! Kazan! Kazan_!" In the starlight Joan stood, tense and white, when from out of the pale mists of the moon-glow he came to her, cringing on his belly, panting and wind-run, and with a strange whining note in his throat. And as Joan went to him, her arms reaching out, her lips sobbing his name over and over again, the man stood and looked down upon them with the wonder of a new and greater understanding in his face. He had no fear of the wolf-dog now. And as Joan's arms hugged Kazan's great shaggy head up to her he heard the whining gasping joy of the beast and the sobbing whispering voice of the girl, and with tensely gripped hands he faced the Sun Rock. His arms closed gently about her. "I believe, my Joan," he whispered. "And you understand--now--what it means, 'Thou shalt not kill'?" "Except that it brings us life--yes, I understand," he replied. Her warm soft hands stroked his face. Her blue eyes, filled with the glory of the stars, looked up into his. "Kazan and _she_--you and I--and the baby! Are you sorry--that we came back?" she asked. So close he drew her against his breast that she did not hear the words he whispered in the soft warmth of her hair. And after that, for many hours, they sat in the starlight in front of the cabin door. But they did not hear again that lonely cry from the Sun Rock. Joan and her husband understood. "He'll visit us again to-morrow," the man said at last. "Come, Joan, let us go to bed." Together they entered the cabin. And that night, side by side, Kazan and Gray Wolf hunted again in the moonlit plain. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Kazan, by James Oliver Curwood	redpajama-book	18,636
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. ROMANTIC BALLADS, TALES OF THE BERBERS, STORIES OF THE KABYLES, FOLK-LORE, AND NATIONAL TRADITIONS WITH A SPECIAL INTRODUCTION BY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FRANCE, AND DIRECTOR OF THE ACADEMIE D'ALGER SPECIAL INTRODUCTION. The term Moorish Literature may appear ambitious applied to the monuments of the Berber language which have come down to us, or are gathered daily either from the lips of singers on the mountains of the Jurgura, of the Aures, or of the Atlas of Morocco; under the tents of the Touaregs of the desert or the Moors of Senegal; in the oases of the south of Algeria or in Tunis. But it is useless to search for literary monuments such as have been transmitted to us from Egypt and India, Assyria and Persia, ancient Judea, Greece and Rome; from the Middle Ages; from Celt, Slav, and German; from the Semitic and Ouralo-altaique tongues; the extreme Orient, and the modern literature of the Old and New World. "Rise up, O Sun, and hie thee forth, On thee we'll put a bonnet old: We'll plough for thee a little field- A little field of pebbles full: Our oxen but a pair of mice." With the Berbers of lower Morocco the women's songs are called by the Arab name Eghna. If the woman, as in all Mussulman society, plays an inferior role--inferior to that allowed to her in our modern civilizations--she is not less the object of songs which celebrate the power given her by beauty: The same sentiment inspires the Touareg songs, among which tribe women enjoy much greater liberty and possess a knowledge of letters greater than that of the men, and know more of that which we should call literature, if that word were not too ambitious: "He has seized his banner for the fight In honor of the Bey whose cause he maintains, He guides the warriors with their gorgeous cloaks, With their spurs unto their boots well fastened, All that was hostile they destroyed with violence; And brought the insurgents to reason." "Violently falls the snow, In the mist that precedes the lightning; It bends the branches to the earth, And splits the tallest trees in twain. Among the shepherds none can pasture his flock; It closes to traffic all the roads to market. Lovers then must trust the birds, With messages to their loves- Messages to express their passion. With the Khabyles of the Jurgura the preceding love-songs are the particular specialty of a whole list of poets who bear the Arab name of _T'eballa_, or "tambourinists." Ordinarily they are accompanied in their tours by a little troop of musicians who play the tambourine and the haut-boy. Though they are held in small estimation, and are relegated to the same level as the butchers and measurers of grain, they are none the less desired, and their presence is considered indispensable at all ceremonies--wedding fetes, and on the birth of a son, on the occasion of circumcision, or for simple banquets. "From the day when the Consul left Algiers, The powerful French have gathered their hosts: Now the Turks have gone, without hope of return, Algiers the beautiful is wrested from them. "Unhappy Isle that they built in the desert, With vaults of limestone and brick; The celestial guardian who over them watched has withdrawn. Who can resist the power of God? "The forts that surround Algiers like stars, Are bereft of their masters; The baptized ones have entered. The Christian religion now is triumphant, O my eyes, weep tears of blood, weep evermore! "They are beasts of burden without cruppers, Their backs are loaded, Under a bushel their unkempt heads are hidden, They speak a _patois_ unintelligible, You can understand nothing they say. It is so, too, with the declamatory songs of the latest period of the Middle Ages, the dialects more or less precise, where the oldest heroic historical poems, like the Song of Roland, had disappeared to leave the field free for the imagination of the poet who treats the struggles between Christians and Saracens according to his own fantasy. Bon Mezrah proclaimed in the mountains and on the plain: "Come on, a Holy War against the Christians, He followed his brother until his disaster, His noble wife was lost to him. As to his flocks and his children, He left them to wander in Sahara. Bon Mezrag is not a man, But the lowest of all beings; He deceived both Arabs and Khabyles, Saying, 'I have news of the Christians.' "I believed Haddad a saint indeed, With miracles and supernatural gifts; He has then no scent for game, And singular to make himself he tries. The conclusion of poems of this kind is an appeal to the generosity of France: With the Touaregs, the civil, or war against the Arabs, replaces the war against the Christians, and has not been less actively celebrated: Robbery and pillage under armed bands, the ambuscade even, are celebrated among the Touaregs with as great pleasure as a brilliant engagement: They also show great scorn for those who lead a life relatively less barbarous, and who adorn themselves as much as the Touaregs can by means of science and commerce: Other poems--for instance, that of Sidi Hammen and that of Job--are equally celebrated in Morocco. The complaints on religious subjects are accompanied on the violin, while those treating of a historical event or a story with a moral have the accompaniment of a guitar. We may class this kind of poems among those called _Tandant_, in lower Morocco, which consist in the enumeration of short maxims. The same class exist also in Zouaona and in Touareg. But the inspiration of the Khabyle poets does not always maintain its exaltation. Their talents become an arm to satirize those who have not given them a sufficiently large recompense, or--worse still, and more unpardonable--who have served to them a meagre repast: "I went to the home of vile animals, Ait Rebah is their name; I found them lying under the sun like green figs, They looked ill and infirm. They are lizards among adders, They inspire no fear, for they bite not. Put a sheepskin before them, they Will tear your arms and hands; Their parched lips are all scaly, Besides being red and spotted. _The woman_: "When it thunders and the sky is overcast, Drive home the sheep, O watchful shepherd." _The man_: "When it thunders, and the sky is overcast, We will bring home the sheep." _The woman_: "I wish I had a bunch of switches to strike you with! May your father be accursed, Sheepkeeper!" This same trial we find in a Berber story. It is an episode in a Khabyle story of the Mohammed ben Sol'tan, who, to obtain the hand of the daughter of a king, separated wheat, corn, oats, and sorghum, which had been mingled together. This trait is not found in Arab stories which have served as models for the greater part of Khabyle tales. It is scarcely admissible that the Berbers had read the "Golden Ass" of Apuleius, but it is probable that he was born at Madaure, in Algeria, and retained an episode of a popular Berber tale which he had heard in his childhood, and placed in his story. An important place is given to the fables or stories of animals, but there is little that is not borrowed from foreign lands, and the animals are only such as the Berbers are familiar with. The adventures of the jackal do not differ from those of the fox in European stories. An African trait may be signalled in the prominence which it offers the hare, as in the stories of _Ouslofs_ and _Bantous_. Also, the hedgehog, neglected so lamentably in our fables, holds an important place; and if the jackal manages to deceive the lion, he is, in spite of his astute nature, duped by the hedgehog when he tries a fall with him. As to the lion, the serpent, the cock, the frog, the turtle, the hyena, the jackal, the rat, their roles offer little of the place they play in the Arab tales, or even the Europeans. "He spurred to the right, The bridges which could not sustain his shock fell Under his added weight; His fury filled the country with fear, and he Crushed the barrier that would retain him." The names of the invading chiefs have been preserved in the declamatory songs: Abou Zeid, Hassan ben Serhan, and, above all, Dyab ben Ghanum, in the mouth of whom the poet puts at the end of the epic the recital of the exploits of his race: "He whom you see, wild and tall, Know him for a child of Algiers," "Beni Menaur, son of the dispersed, Has many soldiers, And a false heart." "Some are going to call you Blida (little village), But I have called you Ourida (little rose)." "He who stands there on a low hill All dressed in a small mantle, Holding in his hand a small stick And calling to sorrow, 'Come and find me,' Know him for a son of Medea." "Miliana; Error and evil renown, Of water and of wood, People are jealous of it, Women are Viziers there, And men the captives." "Tenes; built upon a dunghill, Its water is blood, Its air is poison, By the Eternal! Sidi Ahmed will not pass the night here, Get out of the house, O cat!" "People of Bon Speur, Women and men, That they throw into the sea." "Oran the depraved, I sold thee at a reasonable price; The Christians have come there, Until the day of the resurrection." "Tlemcen: Glory of the chevaliers; Her water, her air, And the way her women veil themselves Are found in no other land." "Tunis: Land of hypocrisy and deceit, In the day there is abundance of vagabonds, At night their number is multiplied, God grant that I be not buried in its soil." "Deceptive women are deceivers ever, I hastened to escape them. They girdle themselves with vipers, And fasten their gowns with scorpions." "Let not thyself fall victim to a widow, Even if her cheeks are bouquets, For though you are the best of husbands, She will repeat ceaselessly, 'God, be merciful to the dead.'" "No river on the mountains, No warm nights in the winter, No women doing kind actions, No generous-hearted enemies." In spite of the complaints of fanatics like Euloge and Alvaro, the literary history of that time was filled with Christian names, either those of Spanish who had remained faithful to the ancient faith, or renegades, or children of renegades. By the side of the Arab names, like that of the Bishop Arib ben Said of Cordova, are found those of Ibn Guzman (Son of Guzman), Ibn el Goutya (son of Gothe), Ibn Loyon (son of Leon), Ibn er Roumaye (son of the Greek), Ibn Konbaret (son of Comparatus), Ibn Baschkoual (son of Paschal), and all have left a name among letters. In the course of the long struggle the independent Christians had not been able to avoid feeling in a certain measure something of the influence of their neighbors, now their most civilized subjects. They translated into prose imitations of the tales such as those of the book of Patronis, borrowing from the general chronicles or in translations like the "Kalila and traditions, legendary or historic, as they found them in the Dimna," or the book of "The Ruses of Women," in verse. "The charming Alhambra and its palaces weep Over their loss, Muley Boabdil (Bon Abdallah), Bring me my horse and my white buckler, That I may fight to retake the Alhambra; Bring me my horse and my buckler blue, That I may go to fight to retake my children. [Illustration (Signature Facsimile): Rene Basset] The Moorish ballads which appear in this volume are selected from a unique department of European literature. They are found in the Spanish language, but their character is oriental; their inspiration comes from the Mahometan conquerors of northern Africa, and while they exhibit a blending of Spanish earnestness and chivalry with the wild and dashing spirit of the Arab, they present a type of literature which is quite unparalleled in the Latin and Teutonic countries of the Mediterranean basin. Beside the ballads of warlike and amorous adventures, there are sea-songs, songs of captivity, and songs of the galley slave. The Spanish Moor is seized by some African pirate and carried away to toil in the mill of his master on some foreign shore, or he is chained to the rowing-bench of the Berber galley, thence to be taken and sold when the voyage is over to some master who leaves him to weep in solitary toil in the farm or garden. Sometimes he wins the love of his mistress, who releases him and flies in his company. All these ballads have vivid descriptions of scenery. The towers of Baeza, the walls of Granada, the green _vegas_ that spread outside every city, the valley of the Guadalquivir, and the rushing waters of the Tagus, the high cliffs of Cadiz, the Pillars of Hercules, and the blue waves of the Mediterranean make a life-like background to every incident. In the cities the ladies throng the balconies of curling iron-work or crowd the plaza where the joust or bull-fight is to be witnessed, or steal at nightfall to the edge of the _vega_ to meet a lover, and sometimes to die in his arms at the hands of bandits. The fables of these tribes are very abundant and very curious. The great hero of the animal fable in Europe has always been the fox, whose cunning, greed, and duplicity are immortalized in the finest fable the world's literature possesses. The fables of northwest Africa employ the jackal instead of Reynard, whose place the sycophant of the lion not inaptly fills. [Illustration (Facsimile Signature): Epiphanius Wilson] The Bull-fight of Gazul The Zegri's Bride The Bridal of Andalla Zara's Ear-rings The Lamentation for Celin THE STORY OF SIDI BRAHIM OF MASSAT Djokhrane and the Jays The Ogre and the Beautiful Woman The False Vezir The Soufi and the Targui Ahmed el Hilalieu and El Redah POEMS OF THE MAGHREB Ali's Answer In Honor of Lalla Sayd and Hyzyya The Aissaoua in Paris Song of Fatima The City Girl and the Country Girl POPULAR TALES OF THE BERBERS POPULAR TALES OF THE KABYLES [_Metrical Translation by Epiphanius Wilson, A.M._] THE BRAGGART REBUKED "If thou art brave in battle's hour As thou art bold in pleasure's rout; If thou canst make the lances fly As thou canst fling thy words about; "Meet with the briskness of the joust The challenge of the deadly lance, And in the play of scimitars Be sprightly as in festive dance; "If thou art ready in the field As thou art nimble on the square; And canst the front of battle face As though thou flirtest with the fair; "If thou dost don thy shining mail As lightly as thy festive suit, And listenest to the trumpet call As though it were thy lady's lute; "And if, as in the gamesome hour Thou flingest round the rattling reed Against the foeman's moated camp, Thou spurrest on thy thundering steed; "And if thou fear to go alone, Take others with thee to thine aid; Thy friends are ready at thy beck, And Zaide need not be afraid! "It is not in the palace court, Amid the throng of ladies bright, That the good soldier, by his tongue, Proves himself valorous in the fight. "It is not there his hands can show What in the battle he can do; But where the shock of onset tests The fearless heart, the iron thew. "Betake thee to the bloody field And let thy sword thy praises sing; But silence is most eloquent Amid the courtiers of the King." Thus Tarfe wrote, the Moorish knight, His heart so filled with furious rage That where his fiery pen had passed It pierced and rent the flimsy page. He called his varlet to his side, "Now seek the Alhambra's hall," said he, "And privately to Zaide say That this epistle comes from me; "And whisper, that none else may hear, And say that I his coming wait, Where Genil's crystal torrent laves The pillars of yon palace gate." THE ADMIRAL'S FAREWELL The royal fleet with fluttering sail is waiting in the bay; And brave Mustapha, the Admiral, must start at break of day. His hood and cloak of many hues he swiftly dons, and sets Upon his brow his turban gay with pearls and amulets; Of many tints above his head his plumes are waving wide; Like a crescent moon his scimitar is dangling at his side; And standing at the window, he gazes forth, and, hark! Across the rippling waters floats the summons to embark. Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain! Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain. Let the shrill fife, the flute, the sackbut ring A summons to our Admiral, a salvo to our King! Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain! Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain. Let fife and flute, and sackbut in accord Proclaim, Aboard! Aboard! Thy pinnace waits thee at the slip, lord Admiral, aboard! Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain; Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain. Let fife and flute, and sackbut in accord Proclaim, Aboard! Aboard! Thy pinnace waits thee at the slip, lord Admiral, aboard! Blow, trumpets; clarions, sound your strain! Strike, kettle-drum, the alarum in refrain. Let the shrill fife, the flute, the sackbut ring A summons to our Admiral, a salvo to our King. "Rise up, rise up, thou hoary head, What madness causes thy delay? Thou killest swine on Thursday morn, And eatest flesh on fasting day. "Ah, mournfully I seek in vain The Emperor's daughter, who had gone A prisoner made by caitiff Moors, Upon the morning of St. John. "She gathered flowers upon the plain, She plucked the roses from the spray, And in the orchard of her sire They found and bore the maid away." These words has Moriana heard, Close nestled in the Moor's embrace; The tears that welled from out her eyes Have wet her captor's swarthy face. THE WARDEN OF MOLINA The warden of Molina, ah! furious was his speed, As he dashed his glittering rowels in the flank of his good steed, And his reins left dangling from the bit, along the white highway, For his mind was set to speed his horse, to speed and not to stay. He rode upon a grizzled roan, and with the wind he raced, And the breezes rustled round him like a tempest in the waste. In the Plaza of Molina at last he made his stand, And in a voice of thunder he uttered his command: To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. "Yes, in the hour of peril away with pleasure's thrall! Let honor take the lance and steed to meet our country's call. For those who craven in the fight refuse to meet the foe Shall sink beneath the feet of all struck by a bitterer blow; In moments when fair honor's crown is offered to the brave And dangers yawn around our State, deep as the deadly grave, 'Tis right strong arms and sturdy hearts should take the sword of might, And eagerly for Fatherland descend into the fight. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. "Then lay aside the silken robes, the glittering brocade; Be all in vest of leather and twisted steel arrayed; On each left arm be hung the shield, safe guardian of the breast, And take the crooked scimitar and put the lance in rest, And face the fortune of the day, for it is vain to fly, And the coward and the braggart now alone are doomed to die. And let each manly bosom show, in the impending fray, A valor such as Mars himself in fury might display. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. He spoke, and at his valiant words, that rang through all the square, The veriest cowards of the town resolved to do and dare; And stirred by honor's eager fire forth from the gate they stream, And plumes are waving in the air, and spears and falchions gleam; And turbaned heads and faces fierce, and smiles in anger quenched, And sweating steeds and flashing spurs and hands in fury clenched, Follow the fluttering banners that toward the vega swarm, And many a voice re-echoes the words of wild alarm. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. And, like the timid lambs that crowd with bleatings in the fold, When they advancing to their throats the furious wolf behold, The lovely Moorish maidens, with wet but flashing eyes, Are crowded in a public square and fill the air with cries; And tho', like tender women, 'tis vain for them to arm, Yet loudly they re-echo the words of the alarm. To heaven they cry for succor, and, while to heaven they pray, They call the knights they love so well to arm them for the fray. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. THE LOVES OF BOABDIL AND VINDARAJA THE LETTER OF VINDARAJA THE LETTER OF THE KING THE INFANTA SEVILLA AND PERANZUELOS Upon Toledo's loftiest towers Sevilla kept the height; So wondrous fair was she that love Was blinded at the sight. She stood amid the battlements, And gazed upon the scene Where Tagus runs through woodland And flowers and glades of green. And she saw upon the wide highway The figure of a knight; He rode upon a dappled steed, And all his arms were bright. His steed was swift, his countenance In a warlike scowl was set, And in his furious rage he cursed The beard of Mahomet! He shouted, as he galloped up: "Now halt thee, Christian hound; I see at the head of thy captive band My sire, in fetters bound. "And the rest are brothers of my blood, And friends I long to free; And if thou wilt surrender all, I'll pay thee gold and fee." When Peranzuelos heard him, He wheeled his courser round. With lance in rest, he hotly pressed To strike him to the ground; His sudden rage and onset came Swift as the thunder's sound. He sadly gazes back again upon those bastions high, The towers and fretted battlements that soar into the sky; And Celin, whom the King in wrath has from Granada banned Weeps as he turns to leave for aye his own dear native land; No hope has he his footsteps from exile to retrace; No hope again to look upon his lady's lovely face. Then sighing deep he went his way, and as he went he said: "I see thee shining from afar, As in heaven's arch some radiant star. Granada, queen and crown of loveliness, Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress. "I see outstretched before my eyes thy green and beauteous shore, Those meadow-lands and gardens that with flowers are dappled o'er. The wind that lingers o'er those glades received the tribute given By many a trembling calyx, wet with the dews of heaven. From Genil's banks full many a bough down to the water bends, Yon vega's green and fertile line from flood to wall extends; There laughing ladies seek the shade that yields to them delight, And the velvet turf is printed deep by many a mounted knight. I see thee shining from afar, As in heaven's arch some radiant star. Granada, queen and town of loveliness, Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress. "Ye springs and founts that sparkling well from yonder mountain-side, And flow with dimpling torrent o'er mead and garden wide, If e'er the tears that from my breast to these sad eyes ascend Should with your happy waters their floods of sadness blend, Oh, take them to your bosom with love, for love has bidden These drops to tell the wasting woe that in my heart is hidden. I see thee shining from afar, As in heaven's arch some radiant star. Granada, queen and crown of loveliness, Listen to my lament, and mourn for my distress. His followers all he bade them dress in Christian array, With rude and rustic mantles of color bright and gay; With silken streamers in their caps, their caps of pointed crown, With flowing blouse, and mantle and gaberdine of brown. But he himself wore sober robes of white and lion gray, The emblems of the hopeless grief in which the warrior lay. And the thoughts of Adalifa, of her words and glancing eyes, Gave colors of befitting gloom to tint his dark disguise. And he came with purpose to perform some great and glorious deed, To drive away the saddening thoughts that made the bosom bleed. "For in the widest prison-house is misery to me, And the stoutest heart is broken unless the arm be free." The city waits his coming, for the feast has been prepared, By rich and poor, by high and low the revel shall be shared; And there are warriors high in hope to win the jousting prize, And there are ladies longing for a smile from Celin's eyes. But when the news of gladness reached Adalifa's ear, Her loving heart was touched with grief and filled with jealous fear; And she wrote to Celin, bidding him to hold no revel high, For the thought of such rejoicing brought the tear-drop to her eye; The Moor received the letter as Granada came in sight, And straight he turned his courser's head toward Jaen's towering height, And exchanged for hues of mourning his robe of festal white. "For in the widest prison-house is misery to me, And the stoutest heart is broke unless the warrior's arm be free." Brave Celin came, the valiant son of him the _castelain_ Of the fortress of Alora and Alhama's windy plain. He came to see great Baza, where he in former days Had won from Zara's father that aged warrior's praise. The Moor gazed on that fortress strong, the towers all desolate, The castle high that touched the sky, the rampart and the gate. The ruined hold he greeted, it seemed its native land, For there his bliss had been complete while Zara held his hand. And Fortune's cruel fickleness he furiously reviled, For his heart sent madness to his brain and all his words were wild. "O goddess who controllest on earth our human fate, How is it I offend thee, that my life is desolate? Ah! many were the triumphs that from Zara's hands I bore, When in the joust or in the dance she smiled on me of yore. And now, while equal fortune incessantly I chase, Naught can I gather from thy hand but disaster and disgrace. Since King Fernando brought his host fair Baza to blockade, My lot has been a wretched lot of anguish unalloyed. Yet was Fernando kind to me with all his kingly art, He won my body to his arms, he could not win my heart." While thus he spoke the mantle that he wore he cast away; 'Twas green, 'twas striped with red and white, 'twas lined with dismal gray. "Best suits my fate, best suits the hue, in this misfortune's day; Not green, not white nor purple, but the palmer's garb of gray. I ask no plumes for helm or cap of nature's living green, For hope has vanished from my life of that which might have been! And from my target will I blot the blazon that is vain- The lynx whose eyes are fixed upon the prey that it would gain. For the glances that I cast around meet fortune's foul disdain; And I will blot the legend, as an accursed screed. 'Twas writ in Christian letters plain that all the world might read: 'My good right arm can gain me more altho' its range be short, Then all I know by eye-sight or the boundless range of thought.' The blue tahala fluttering bright upon my armored brow In brilliant hue assorts but ill with the lot I meet with now. I cast away this gaudy cap, it bears the purple dye; Not that my love is faithless, for I own her constancy; But for the fear that there may be, within the maiden's sight, A lover worthier of her love than this unhappy knight." With that he took his lance in hand, and placed it in its rest, And o'er the plain with bloody spur the mournful Celin pressed. On his steed's neck he threw the reins, the reins hung dangling low, That the courser might have liberty to choose where he would go; And he said: "My steed, oh, journey well, and make thy way to find The bliss which still eludes me, tho' 'tis ever in my mind. Nor bit nor rein shall now restrain thy course across the lea, For the curb and the bridle I only use from infamy to flee." At last they seize the struggling Moor, the chains are on his hands; And the populace, with anger filled, arrange themselves in bands. They place a guard at every point, in haste to set him free, But where the brave commander who shall lead to victory? And where the leader who shall shout and stir their hearts to fight? These are but empty braggarts, but prowlers of the night, Cut-throats and needy idlers--and so the tumult ends- Azarque lies in prison, forsaken by his friends. For, ah, both arms and reason powerless prove To turn the purpose of a king in love. Alone does Celindaja the coward crowd implore, "Oh, save him, save him, generous friends, give back to me my Moor." She stands upon the balcony and from that lofty place Would fling herself upon the stones to save him from disgrace. Her mother round the weeping girl has flung her withered arm. "O fool," she whispers in her ear, "in Mary's name be calm!" Thou madly rushest to thy death by this distracted show. Surely thou knowest well this truth, if anyone can know, How arms and reason powerless prove To turn the purpose of a king in love. THE LOVERS OF ANTEQUERA "Oho, ye Catholic cavaliers Who eye Granada day and night, On whose left shoulder is the cross, The crimson cross, your blazon bright. "If e'er your youthful hearts have felt The flame of love that brings delight, As angry Mars, in coat of steel, Feels the fierce ardor of the fight; "If 'tis your will, within our walls, To join the joust, with loaded reed, As ye were wont, beneath these towers The bloody lance of war to speed; "If bloodless tumult in the square May serve instead of battle's fray, And, donning now the silken cloak, Ye put the coat of steel away; "For 'tis not right that furious war, Which sets the city's roofs in flames, Should kindle with a fruitless fire The tender bosom of our dames. "In spite of all we suffer here Our ladies are with you arrayed, They pity you in this fierce war, This labor of the long blockade. "Amid the hardships of the siege Let pleasure yield a respite brief; (For war must ever have its truce) And give our hardships some relief. "And he who shall the victor be Among the jousters of the game, I pledge my knightly word to him, In token of his valorous fame, "On his right arm myself to bind The favor of my lady bright; 'Twas given me by her own white hand, The hand as fair as it is white." 'Twas thus that Tarfe, valiant Moor, His proclamation wrote at large; He, King Darraja's favored squire, Has nailed the cartel to his targe. 'Twas on the day the truce was made, By Calatrava's master bold, To change the quarters of his camp, And with his foes a conference hold. In every tent was welcome warm; And when their challenge they display, The master granted their request To join the joust on Easter day. In courteous words that cartel bold He answered; and a cavalcade Of Christians, with the Moorish guards, Their journey to Granada made. The Moorish youths and maidens crowd, With joyful face, the city square; These mount their steeds, those sit and braid Bright favors for their knights to wear. And gallant Almarada comes (Not Tarfe's self more brave, I ween), Lord of a lovely Moorish dame, Who rules her lover like a queen. Arrived, he saw a Moorish maid Stand at a window opened wide; He gave her many a precious gem; He gave her many a gift beside. He spoke and said: "My lady fair, Though I have never wronged him, still Darraja stands upon the watch, By fair or foul, to do me ill. "Those eyes of thine, which hold more hearts Than are the stars that heaven displays; That slay more Moors with shafts of love Than with his sword the master slays; "When will they soften at my smile? And when wilt thou, my love, relent? Let Tarfe go, whose words are big, While his sword-arm is impotent! "Thou seest I am not such as he; His haughty words, so seldom true, Are filled with boasting; what he boasts This sturdy arm of mine can do. "My arm, my lance, ah! well 'tis known How oft in battle's darkest hour They saved Granada's city proud From yielding to the Christian's power." Thus amorous Almarada spoke When Tarfe came and caught the word; And as his ear the message seized, His right hand seized upon his sword. Yet did he deem some Christian troop Was in the darkness hovering by; And at the thought, with terror struck, He turned in eager haste to fly! Darraja roused him at the din; And with loud voice to Tarfe spoke; He knew him from his cloak of blue, For he had given the Moor that cloak! Like beauty marks the dames they serve; Like colors at their spear-heads wave; While Tarfe kneels at Celia's feet, The King is Dorelice's slave. With belts of green and azure blue The gallant knights are girded fair; Their cloaks with golden orange glow, And verdant are the vests they wear. And gold and silver, side by side, Are glittering on their garment's hem; And, mingled with the metals, shine The lights of many a costly gem. Their veils are woven iron-gray, The melancholy tint of woe- And o'er their heads the dusky plumes Their grief and desolation show. And each upon his target bears Emblazoned badges, telling true Their passion and their torturing pangs, In many a dark and dismal hue. The King's device shines on his shield- A seated lady, passing fair; A monarch, with a downcast eye, Before the dame is kneeling there. His crown is lying at her feet That she may spurn it in disdain; A heart in flames above is set; And this the story of his pain. Upon her brow the lady wears A crown; her dexter hand sustains A royal sceptre, gilded bright, To show that o'er all hearts she reigns. An orb in her left hand she bears, For all the world her power must feel; There Fortune prostrate lies; the dame Halts with her foot the whirling wheel. But Tarfe's shield is blank and bare, Lest Adelifa should be moved With jealous rage, to learn that he Her Moorish rival, Celia, loved. He merely blazons on his targe A peaceful olive-branch, and eyes That sparkle in a beauteous face, Like starlets in the autumn skies. And on the branch of olive shines This legend: "If thy burning ray Consume me with the fire of love, See that I wither not away." They spurred their horses as they saw The ladies their approach surveyed; And when they reached their journey's end The King to Dorelice said: "The goddesses who reign above With envy of thy beauty tell; When heaven and glory are thy gifts, Why should I feel the pangs of hell? "Oh, tell me what is thy desire? And does heaven's light more pleasure bring Than to own monarchs as thy slaves, And be the heiress to a king? "I ask from thee no favor sweet; Nor love nor honor at thy hand; But only that thou choose me out The servant of thy least command. "The choicest nobles of the realm The glory of this office crave; The lowliest soldier, with delight, Would die to prove himself thy slave. "'Those letters and those written lines, Why dost thou not their sense divine? Are they not printed on thy heart As thy loved image is on mine? "'Why art thou absent still so long? It cannot be that thou art dead?'" Then ceased the King and silent stood, While Tarfe to his Celia said: "Celestial Celia be thy name; Celestial calm is on thy brow; Yet all the radiance of thy face Thy cruelty eclipses now. "Ah, would to God that on the feast, The Baptist's consecrated day, I might my arms about thee fling And lead thee from thy home away. "Yet say not that 'tis in thy power To yield or all my hopes to kill; For thou shalt learn that all the world, In leaguer, cannot bend my will. "And France can tell how many a time I fought upon the tented field, And forced upon their bended knee Her loftiest paladins to yield. "I vanquished many a valiant knight Who on his shield the lilies bore; And on Vandalia's plain subdued Of Red Cross warriors many a score. "The noblest I had brought to yield Upon Granada's gory plain, Did I not shrink with such vile blood The honor of my sword to stain." And many a year this sage had dwelt With the lady he loved best; And at last he summoned the Cortes, As his leman made request. The day was set on which his lords And commoners should meet, And they talked to the King of his wide realm's need, As the King sat in his seat. And many the laws they passed that day; And among them a law that said That the lover who took a maid for his love The maid of his choice must wed; And he who broke this ordinance Should pay for it with his head. And all agreed that the law was good; Save a cousin of the King, Who came and stood before him, With complaint and questioning; "This law, which now your Highness Has on your lieges laid, I like it not, though many hearts It has exultant made. "Me only does it grieve, and bring Disaster on my life; For the lady that I love the best, Is already wedded wife; "Wedded she is, wedded amiss; Ill husband has she got. And oft does pity fill my heart For her distressful lot. Then spake Rey Bucar in reply, This sentence uttered he: "If thy love be wedded wife, the law Hath no penalty for thee." ALMANZOR AND BOBALIAS The infante Bobalias Bethought of him and cried: "Now rouse thee, rouse thee, uncle dear! And hasten to my side. "Ill-mannered art thou, nephew, And never wilt amend; The sweetest sleep I ever slept, Thou bringest to an end." In the arms of the count Alminique The countess lay at rest; The infante has ta'en her by the hand, And caught her to his breast. THE MOORISH INFANTA AND ALFONZO RAMOS Beneath the shade of an olive-tree Stood the infanta fair; A golden comb was in her hands, And well she decked her hair. To heaven she raised her eyes, and saw, That early morning-tide, A clump of spears and an armored band From Guadalquivir ride. Alfonzo Ramos with them came, The admiral of Castile. "Now welcome, Alfonzo Ramos! Now welcome, steed and steel, What tidings do you bring of my fleet, What tidings of woe or weal?" "I'll tell thee tidings, lady, If my life thou wilt assure." "Tell on, Alfonzo Ramos, Thy life shall be secure." "Seville, Seville has fallen, To the arms of the Berber Moor." "But for my word thy head this day To the vultures had been tost!" "If head of mine were forfeited, Tis thine must pay the cost." THE BULL-FIGHT OF ZULEMA Through the mountains of Moncayo, Lo! all in arms arrayed, Rides pagan Bobalias, Bobalias the renegade. He was the mightiest of the Moors, And letters from afar Had told him how Sevila Was marshalling for war. He arms his ships and galleys, His infantry and horse, And straight to Guadalquivir's flood His pennons take their course. In the middle, the pavilion Of the pagan they prepare; On the summit a ruby stone is set, A jewel rich and rare. It gleams at morn, and when the night Mantles the world at length, It pours a ray like the light of day, When the sun is at its strength. "Guhala, Guhala, My longing heart must cry; This mournful vow I utter now- To see thee or to die." No longer free those sturdy limbs! Revenge had bid them bind The iron chain on hands and feet; They could not chain his mind! How dolorous was the warrior's lot! All hope at last had fled; And, standing at the window, With sighing voice he said: "Guhala, Guhala, My longing heart must cry; This mournful vow I utter now- To see thee or to die." He turned his eyes to where the banks Of Guadalquivir lay; "Inhuman King!" in grief he cried, "Thy mandates I obey; Thou bidst them load my limbs with steel; Thy cruel sentinel Keeps watch beside my prison door; Yet who my crime can tell? "Guhala, Guhala, My longing heart must cry; This mournful vow I utter now- To see thee or to die." THE DIRGE FOR ALIATAR Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat. Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat. Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat. That day the master's knights were sent, As if on sport and jousting bent; And Aliatar, on his way, By cruel ambush they betray; With sword and hauberk they surround And smite the warrior to the ground. And wounded deep from every vein He bleeding lies upon the plain. The furious foes in deadly fight His scanty followers put to flight, In panic-stricken fear they fly, And leave him unavenged to die. Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat. Ah sadly swift the news has flown To Zaida in the silent town; Speechless she sat, while every thought Fresh sorrow to her bosom brought; Then flowed her tears in larger flood, Than from his wounds the tide of blood. Like dazzling pearls the tear-drops streak The pallid beauty of her cheek. Say, Love, and didst thou e'er behold A maid more fair and knight more bold? And if thou didst not see him die, And Zaida's tears of agony, The bandage on thine orbs draw tight- That thou mayst never meet the sight! Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat. Not only Zaida's eyes are wet, For him her soul shall ne'er forget; But many a heart in equal share The sorrow of that lady bare. Yes, all who drink the water sweet Where Genil's stream and Darro meet, All of bold Albaicins's line, Who mid Alhambra's princes shine- The ladies mourn the warrior high, Mirror of love and courtesy; The brave lament him, as their peer; The princes, as their comrade dear; The poor deplore, with hearts that bleed, Their shelter in the time of need. Sadly we march along the crowded street, While trumpets hoarsely blare and drums tempestuous beat. "Permit it not that in the generous breasts of those whose blood Flows in my veins, who by my side as faithful champions stood, Those cursed asps, whose effigies my shield's circumference fill, Could plant the thoughts of villany by which they work me ill. Just heaven forbids their words should blot the honor of my name, For pure and faithful is my heart, howe'er my foes defame; And Zaida, lovely Zaida, at a word that did me wrong, Would close her ears in scornful ire and curse the slanderous tongue. And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment. "Nay, Fortune, turn no more thy wheel, I care not that it rest, Nor bid thee draw the nail that makes it stand at man's behest Oh, may I never say to thee, when for thy aid I call, Let me attain the height of bliss whate'er may be my fall! And when I roam from those I love, may never cloud arise To dim my hope of a return and hide me from their eyes. Yet doubtless, 'tis the absent are oftenest forgot, Till those who loved when they were near in absence love them not. And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment. "And since 'tis my unhappy lot, through slander's cruel wiles, I should be robbed so many years of Zaida's cheering smiles, Yet those who say that I am false, and name Celinda's name, Oh, may they gain no end at length but obloquy and shame! It is not just that to these words and to these anxious fears, These wild complaints, the god of love should close his heedless ears! Yes, I deserve a better fate, the fate that makes more sure; The fame of those whose slanderous tongue in banishment endure. And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment." He spoke, and, lo! before him he saw the city stand, With walls and towers that frowned in might upon that fertile land. And he saw the glittering banners of Almanzor set on high, And swaying in the gentle breeze that filled the summer sky. And those who stood upon the walls, soon as he came in sight, Streamed forth from the portcullis with welcome for the knight, For they marvelled at the prancing steed that rushed across the plain, They marvelled at his thundering voice and words of deep disdain. And, Fortune, do thy worst; it is not meant, By Allah, that his knight should die in banishment. "See, Zaide, let me tell you not to pass along my street, Nor gossip with my maidens nor with my servants treat; Nor ask them whom I'm waiting for, nor who a visit pays, What balls I seek, what robe I think my beauty most displays. 'Tis quite enough that for thy sake so many face to face Aver that I, a witless Moor, a witless lover chase. I know that thou art a valiant man, that thou hast slaughtered more, Among thy Christian enemies, than thou hast drops of gore. Thou art a gallant horseman, canst dance and sing and play Better than can the best we meet upon a summer's day. Thy brow is white, thy cheek is red, thy lineage is renowned, And thou amid the reckless and the gay art foremost found. I know how great would be my loss, in losing such as thee; I know, if I e'er won thee, how great my gain would be: And wert thou dumb even from thy birth, and silent as the grave, Each woman might adore thee, and call herself thy slave. But 'twere better for us both I turn away from thee, Thy tongue is far too voluble, thy manners far too free; Go find some other heart than mine that will thy ways endure, Some woman who, thy constancy and silence to secure, Can build within thy bosom her castle high and strong, And put a jailer at thy lips, to lock thy recreant tongue. Yet hast thou gifts that ladies love; thy bearing bold and bright Can break through every obstacle that bars them from delight. And with such gifts, friend Zaide, thou spreadest thy banquet board, And bidst them eat the dish so sweet, and never say a word! But that which thou hast done to me, Zaide, shall cost thee dear; And happy would thy lot have been hadst thou no change to fear. Happy if when thy snare availed to make the prize thine own, Thou hadst secured the golden cage before the bird was flown. For scarce thy hurrying footsteps from Tarfe's garden came, Ere thou boastedst of thine hour of bliss, and of my lot of shame. They tell me that the lock of hair I gave thee on that night, Thou drewest from thy bosom, in all the people's sight, And gav'st it to a base-born Moor, who took the tresses curled, And tied them in thy turban, before the laughing world. I ask not that thou wilt return nor yet the relic keep, But I tell thee, while thou wearest it, my shame is dire and deep: They say that thou hast challenged him, and swearest he shall rue For all the truths he spake of thee--would God they were not true! Who but can laugh to hear thee blame the whispers that reveal Thy secret, though thy secret thyself couldst not conceal. No words of thine can clear thy guilt nor pardon win from me, For the last time my words, my glance, have been addressed to thee." Thus to the lofty warrior of Abencerraje's race The lady spoke in anger, and turned away her face: "'Tis right," she said, "the Moor whose tongue has proved to me unkind Should in the sentence of my tongue fit retribution find." 'Tis love that from Granada's home has sent him thus to rove, And for the lovely Zaida he languishes with love- The loveliest face that by God's grace the sun e'er shone above. From court and mart he lives apart, such is the King's desire; Yet the King's friend Alfaqui is the fair maiden's sire. Friend of the King, the throne's support, a monarch's son is he, And he has sworn that never Moor his daughter's spouse shall be. He has no ease till the monarch sees his daughter's loveliness. But she has clasped brave Zaide's hand, and smiled to his caress, And said that to be his alone is her sole happiness. And after many journeys wide, wearied of banishment, He sees the lofty tower in which his Moorish maid is pent. She rode a nimble palfrey and scarce could great Gazul Excel the ardent spirit with which her heart was full. Yet at every step her palfrey took, she turned her head for fear, To see if following on her track some enemy were near. And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain; "And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?" To shun suspicion's eye, at last she left the king's highway, And took the journey toward Seville that thro' a bypath lay; With loosened rein her gallant steed right swiftly did she ride, Yet to her fear he did appear like a rock on the rough wayside. And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain; "And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?" So secretly would she proceed, her very breath she held, Tho' with a rising storm of sighs her snowy bosom swelled. And here and there she made a halt, and bent her head to hear If footsteps sounded; then, assured, renewed her swift career. And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain; "And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?" Her fancy in the silent air could whispering voices hear; "I'll make of thee a sacrifice, to Albenzaide dear;" This fancy took her breath away, lifeless she sank at length, And grasped the saddle-bow; for fear had sapped her spirit's strength. And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain; "And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?" She came in sight of proud Seville; but the darkness bade her wait Till dawn; when she alighted before a kinsman's gate. Swift flew the days, and when at last the joyful truth she learned, That she had been deceived; in joy to Xerez she returned. And as she went, she sang aloud a melancholy strain; "And who would wish to die," she said, "though death be free from pain?" THE TOURNAMENT OF ZAIDE Fair Adelifa tore her hair, Her cheeks were furrowed o'er with care, When brave Azarco she descried Ascending the tall galley's side. She flung the dust upon her head, She wrung her lily hands and shed Hot tears, and cursed the bitter day That bore her heart's delight away. "Thou, who my glory's captain art, And general of my bleeding heart, Guardian of every thought I know, And sharer of my lot of woe; Light that illumes my happy face, The bliss of my soul's dwelling-place; Why must thou disappear from me, Thou glass wherein myself I see? Azarco, bid me understand What is it thou dost command- Must I remain and wait for thee? Ah, tedious will that waiting be. To war thou farest, but I fear Another war awaits thee here. Thou thinkest in some rural nest Thou'lt set me to be safe at rest. Ah, if my absence cause thee pain, My love attend thee on yon plain. Thy valiant arms' unaided might Shall win thee victory in the fight. My faith, Azarco, is thy shield; It will protect thee in the field. Thou shalt return with victory, For victory embarks with thee. But thou wilt say, Azarco dear, That women's lightness is to fear. As with armed soldiers, so you find, Each woman has a different mind. And none shall ever, without thee, Me in the dance or revel see; Nor to the concert will I roam, But stay in solitude at home. The Moorish girls shall never say I dress in robes of holiday; 'Twere vain to make the body fine Whose soul is on the sea with thine." With this Celinda came in sight, Bahata's sister tall and bright; This to an end her farewell brought, But not her dark and anxious thought. Not greater share did Mars acquire of trophies and renown, Than great Gazul took with him from Gelva's castled town; And when he to Sanlucar came his lady welcomed him, His cup of happiness at last was beaded to the brim. Alone the joyful lovers stood within a garden glade; Amid the flowers, those happy hours fled to the evening shade. With fingers deft Celinda wove a wreath, in which were set The rose's rudy petals and the scented mignonette. She plaited him a baldric, with violets circled round, For violets are for lovers, and with this his waist she bound. And then the flowery garland she tied upon his head, "Thy face is delicate and fair as Ganymede's," she said; "And if great Jove beheld thee now, he'd send his eagle down, To take thee to the palace halls that high Olympus crown." The brave Gazul his lady took and kissed her with a smile; "She could not be so fair," said he, "the girl, who by her guile Brought ruin on the Trojan realm, and set its towers afire, As thou art, lady of my heart and queen of my desire." "If I, indeed, seem fair to thee, then let the bridal rite Me and the husband of my heart for evermore unite." "Ah, mine will be the gain," he said, and kissed her with delight. CELINDA'S INCONSTANCY Gazul, despairing, issues From high Villalba's gate, Cursing the evil fortune That left him desolate. Unmoved he in Granada saw What feuds between the foes The great Abencerrajes And the Andallas rose. He envied not the Moors who stood In favor with the King! He did not crave the honors That rank and office bring. He only cared that Zaida, Her soft heart led astray By lying words of slander, Had flung his love away. And thinking on her beauteous face, Her bearing proud and high, The bosom of the valiant Moor Heaved with a mournful sigh. "And who has brought me this disdain, And who my hope betrayed, And thee, the beauteous Zaida, False to thy purpose made? And who has caused my spoils of war, The palm and laurel leaf, To wither on my forehead, bowed Beneath the load of grief?' 'Tis that some hearts of treachery black With lies have crossed thy way, And changed thee to a lioness, By hunters brought to bay. O tongues of malediction! O slanderers of my fame! Thieves of my knightly honor! Ye lay up naught but shame. Ye are but citadels of fraud, And castles of deceit; When ye your sentence pass, ye tread The law beneath your feet. May Allah on your cruel plots Send down the wrath divine, That ye my sufferings may feel, In the same plight as mine. And may ye learn, ye pitiless, How heavy is the rod That brings on human cruelty The chastisement of God. Ye who profess in word and deed The path of truth to hold Are viler than the nightly wolves That waste the quiet fold." So forth he rode, that Moorish knight, Consumed by passion's flame, Scorned and repulsed by Zaida, The lovely Moorish dame. Then spake he to the dancing waves Of Tagus' holy tide, "Oh, that thou hadst a tongue, to speak My story far and wide! That all might learn, who gaze on thee At evening, night, or morn, Westward to happy Portugal, The sufferings I have borne." GAZUL AND ALBENZAIDE THE DESPONDENT LOVER He leaned upon his sabre's hilt, He trod upon his shield, Upon the ground he threw the lance That forced his foes to yield. His bridle hung at saddle-bow, And, with the reins close bound, His mare the garden entered free To feed and wander round. Upon a flowering almond-tree He fixed an ardent gaze; Its leaves were withered with the wind That flowers in ruin lays. Thus in Toledo's garden park, Did Abenamar wait, Who for fair Galliana Watched at the palace gate. The birds that clustered on the towers Spread out their wings to fly, And from afar his lady's veil He saw go floating by. And at this vision of delight, Which healed his spirit's pain, The exiled Moor took courage, And hope returned again. "O Galliana, best beloved, Whom art thou waiting now? And what has treacherous rendered My fortune and thy vow? Thou swearedst I should be thine own, Yet 'twas but yesterday We met, and with no greeting Thou wentest on thy way. Then, in my silence of distress, I wandered pondering- If this is what to-day has brought, What will to-morrow bring? Happy the Moor from passion free, In peace or turmoil born, Who without pang of hate or love, Can slumber till the morn. O almond-tree, thou provest That the expected hours Of bliss may often turn to bane, As fade thy dazzling flowers. A mournful image art thou Of all that lays me low, And on my shield I'll bear thee As blazon of my woe. For thou dost bloom in many a flower, Till blasted by the wind, And 'tis of thee this word is true- 'The season was not kind.'" He spoke and on his courser's head He slipped the bridle rein, And while he curbed his gentle steed He could not curb his pain, And to Ocana took his course, O'er Tagus' verdant plain. THE CAPTIVE OF TOLEDO Upon the loftiest mountain height That rises in its pride, And sees its summits mirrored In Tagus' crystal tide, The banished Abenamar, Bound by a captive chain, Looks on the high-road to Madrid That seams the dusty plain. He measures, with his pining eyes, The stretching hills that stand Between his place of banishment And his sweet native land. His sighs and tears of sorrow No longer bear restraint, And thus in words of anguish He utters his complaint: "Oh, dismal is the exile That wrings the heart with woes And locks the lips in silence, Amid unfeeling foes. O road of high adventure, That leadest many a band To yon ungrateful country where My native turrets stand, The country that my valor Did oft with glory crown, The land that lets me languish here, Who won for her renown. Thou who hast succored many a knight, Hast thou no help for me, Who languish on Toledo's height In captive misery? 'Tis on thy world-wide chivalry I base my word of blame, 'Tis that I love thee most of all, Thy coldness brings me shame. Oh, dismal is the exile, That wrings my heart with woes, And locks my lips in silence Among unfeeling foes. The warden of fierce Reduan With cruelty more deep That that of a hidalgo, Has locked this prison keep; And on this frontier set me, To pine without repose, To watch, from dawn to sunset, Over his Christian foes. Here like a watch-tower am I set For Santiago's lord, And for a royal mistress Who breaks her plighted word. And when I cry with anguish And seek in song relief, With threats my life is threatened, Till silence cloak my grief. Oh, dismal is the exile, That wrings my heart with woes, And locks my lips in silence Among unfeeling foes. And when I stand in silence, Me dumb my jailers deem, And if I speak, in gentle words, They say that I blaspheme. Thus grievously perverting The sense of all I say, Upon my lips the raging crowd The gag of silence lay. Thus heaping wrong on wrong my foes Their prisoner impeach, Until the outrage of my heart Deprives my tongue of speech. And while my word the passion Of my sad heart betrays, My foes are all unconscious Of what my silence says. Now God confound the evil judge Who caused my misery, And had no heart of pity To soften his decree. Oh, dismal is the exile, That wrings my heart with woes, And locks my lips in silence Among unfeeling foes. THE BLAZON OF ABENAMAR Alhambra's bell had not yet pealed Its morning note o'er tower and field; Barmeja's bastions glittered bright, O'ersilvered with the morning light; When rising from a pallet blest With no refreshing dews of rest, For slumber had relinquished there His place to solitary care, Brave Abenamar pondered deep How lovers must surrender sleep. And when he saw the morning rise, While sleep still sealed Daraja's eyes, Amid his tears, to soothe his pain, He sang this melancholy strain: "The morn is up, The heavens alight, My jealous soul Still owns the sway of night. Thro' all the night I wept forlorn, Awaiting anxiously the morn; And tho' no sunlight strikes on me, My bosom burns with jealousy. The twinkling starlets disappear; Their radiance made my sorrow clear; The sun has vanished from my sight, Turned into water is his light; What boots it that the glorious sun From India his course has run, To bring to Spain the gleam of day, If from my sight he hides away? The morn is up, The heavens are bright, My jealous soul Still owns the sway of night." Fair Adelifa sees in wrath, kindled by jealous flames, Her Abenamar gazed upon by the kind Moorish dames. And if they chance to speak to him, or take him by the hand, She swoons to see her own beloved with other ladies stand. When with companions of his own, the bravest of his race, He meets the bull within the ring, and braves him to his face, Or if he mount his horse of war, and sallying from his tent Engages with his comrades in tilt or tournament, She sits apart from all the rest, and when he wins the prize She smiles in answer to his smile and devours him with her eyes. And in the joyous festival and in Alhambra's halls, She follows as he treads the dance at merry Moorish balls. And when the tide of battle is rising o'er the land, And he leaves his home, obedient to his honored King's command, With tears and lamentation she sees the warrior go With arms heroic to subdue the proud presumptuous foe. Though 'tis to save his country's towers he mounts his fiery steed She has no cheerful word for him, no blessing and godspeed; BALLAD OF ALBAYALDOS The master's hand had dealt the blow, And long had been And hard the fight; now in his heart's blood low He wallows, and the pain, the pain is keen. He raised to heaven his streaming face And low he said: "Sweet Jesus, grant me by thy grace, Unharmed to make this passage to the dead. "Oh, let me now my sins recount, And grant at last Into thy presence I may mount, And thou, dear mother, think not of my past. "Let not the fiend with fears affright My trembling soul; Though bitter, bitter is the night Whose darkling clouds this moment round me roll. "Had I but listened to your plea, I ne'er had met Disaster; though this life be lost to me, Let not your ban upon my soul be set. "In him, in him alone I trust, To him I pray, Who formed this wretched body from the dust. He will redeem me in the Judgment Day. "And o'er my head a scroll indite, to tell How, on this sod, Fighting amid my valiant Moors, I fell. And tell King Chico how I turned to God, "And longed to be a Christian at the last, And sought the light, So that the accursed Koran could not cast My soul to suffer in eternal night." THE NIGHT RAID OF REDUAN So silently they gallop, that gallant cavalcade, The very trumpet's muffled tone has no disturbance made. It seems to blend with the whispering sound of breezes on their way, The rattle of their harness and the charger's joyous neigh. But now from hill and turret high the flaming cressets stream And watch-fires blaze on every hill and helm and hauberk gleam. From post to post the signal along the border flies And the tocsin sounds its summons and the startled burghers rise, While in Baeza every bell Does the appalling tidings tell, "Arm! Arm!" Rings on the night the loud alarm. Ah, suddenly that deadly foe has fallen upon the prey, Yet stoutly rise the Christians and arm them for the foe, And doughty knights their lances seize and scour their coats of mail, The soldier with his cross-bow comes and the peasant with his flail. And Jaen's proud hidalgos, Andujar's yeomen true, And the lords of towered Ubeda the pagan foes pursue; And valiantly they meet the foe nor turn their backs in flight, And worthy do they show themselves of their fathers' deeds of might, While in Baeza every bell Does the appalling tidings tell, "Arm! Arm!" Rings on the night the loud alarm. THE GALLEY-SLAVE OF DRAGUT "They took me from the galley's hold; It was by heaven's all-pitying grace. Yet, even in this garden glade, Has fortune turned away her face. Though lighter now my lot of toil, Yet is it heavier, since no more My tear-dimmed eyes, my heart discern, Across the sea, my native shore. O mother Spain! for thy blest shore Mine eyes impatient yearn; For thy choicest gem is bride of mine, And she longs for my return. THE CAPTIVE'S LAMENT Then stooping to the earth he grasped the soil with eager hand, He kissed it, and with water he mixed the thirsty sand. "O thou," he said, "poor soil and stream, in the Creator's plan Art the end and the beginning of all that makes us man! From thee rise myriad passions, that stir the human breast, To thee at last, when all is o'er, they sink to find their rest. Thou, Earth, hast been my mother, and when these pangs are o'er, Thou shalt become my prison-house whence I can pass no more." And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow, And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below. And now he saw the warring winds that swept across the bay Had struck the battered shallop and carried it away. "O piteous heaven," he cried aloud, "my hopes are like yon bark: Scattered upon the storm they lie and never reach their mark." And suddenly from cloudy heavens came down the darkling night And in his melancholy mood the captive left the height. He gained his boat, with trembling hand he seized the laboring oar And turning to the foaming wave he left his native shore. "Ah, well I wot on ocean's breast when loud the tempest blows Will rest be found when solid ground denies the heart repose. Now let the hostile sea perceive no power of hers I dread, But rather ask her vengeance may fall upon my head." Into the night the shallop turned, while floated far behind The captive's lamentation like a streamer on the wind. And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow, And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below. THE CAPTIVE'S ESCAPE THE SPANIARD OF ORAN [_Metrical Translation by J. Lockhart_] THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL King Almanzor of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet sound, He hath summonded all the Moorish lords, from the hills and plains around; From vega and sierra, from Betis and Xenil, They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel. Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then clangs the loud tambour, Make room, make room for Gazul--throw wide, throw wide the door; Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still, more loudly strike the drum, The Alcayde of Algava to fight the bull doth come. With the life-blood of the slaughtered lords all slippery is the sand, Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta'en his stand; And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords with anxious eye, But firmly he extends his arm--his look is calm and high. From Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil, From Gaudalarif of the plain, or Barves of the hill; But where from out the forest burst Xarama's waters clear, Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed, this proud and stately steer. Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and near, From out the broad and wrinkled skull, like daggers they appear; His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old knotted tree, Whereon the monster's shaggy mane, like billows curled, ye see. His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black as night, Like a strong flail he holds his tail in fierceness of his might; Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from forth the rock, Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the alcayde's shock. Of all the blood of Zegri, the chief is Lisaro, To wield rejon like him is none, or javelin to throw; From the place of his dominion, he ere the dawn doth go, From Alcala de Henares, he rides in weed of woe. He rides not now as he was wont, when ye have seen him speed To the field of gay Toledo, to fling his lusty reed; No gambeson of silk is on, nor rich embroidery Of gold-wrought robe or turban--nor jewelled tahali. No amethyst nor garnet is shining on his brow, No crimson sleeve, which damsels weave at Tunis, decks him now; The belt is black, the hilt is dim, but the sheathed blade is bright; They have housened his barb in a murky garb, but yet her hoofs are light. Young Lisaro, as on they go, his bonnet doffeth he, Between its folds a sprig it holds of a dark and glossy tree; That sprig of bay, were it away, right heavy heart had he- Fair Zayda to her Zegri gave that token privily. And ever as they rode, he looked upon his lady's boon. "God knows," quoth he, "what fate may be--I may be slaughtered soon; Thou still art mine, though scarce the sign of hope that bloomed whilere, But in my grave I yet shall have my Zayda's token dear." Young Lisaro was musing so, when onward on the path, He well could see them riding slow; then pricked he in his wrath. The raging sire, the kinsmen of Zayda's hateful house, Fought well that day, yet in the fray the Zegri won his spouse. THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA [The following ballad has been often imitated by modern poets, both in Spain and in Germany: "_Pon te a las rejas azules, dexa la manga que labras, Melancholica Xarifa, veras al galan Andalla." etc_.] "Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town. From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing, And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's lordly blowing, And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere, And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the air: Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town. "Arise, arise, Xarifa, I see Andalla's face, He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace. Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadalquivir Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely never. Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow of purple mixed with white, I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night; Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town. "What aileth thee, Xarifa, what makes thine eyes look down? Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town? I've heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the truth, Andalla rides without a peer, among all Granada's youth. Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow; Then rise, oh, rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down; Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with all the town." "Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down? Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing town? Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry! He stops at Zara's palace gate--why sit ye still--oh, why?" "At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him shall I discover The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was my lover? I will not rise, with dreary eyes, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town!" "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropped into the well, And what to say to Muca, I cannot, cannot tell." 'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter, "The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water- To me did Muca give them, when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell. "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they were pearls in silver set, That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget, That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale- When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well, Oh, what will Muca think of me, I cannot, cannot tell. "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! he'll say they should have been, Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear, Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere- That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well- Thus will he think--and what to say, alas! I cannot tell. "He'll say, I am a woman, and we are all the same; He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame- But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had broken, And thought no more of Muca, and cared not for his token. My ear-rings! my ear-rings! O luckless, luckless well, For what to say to Muca, alas! I cannot tell. "I'll tell the truth to Muca, and I hope he will believe- That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve; That, musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone, His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone; And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell, And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well." THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred, At twilight at the Vega gate there is a trampling heard; There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe. "What tower is fallen, what star is set, what chief come these bewailing?" "A tower is fallen, a star is set. Alas! alas for Celin!" THE STORY OF SIDI BRAHIM OF MASSAT [_Translated by Rene Basset and Chauncey C. Starkweather_] THE STORY OF SIDI BRAHIM OF MASSAT The sheik Sidi Hammad, son of Mahomet Mouley Ben-Nacer, has written his book in Amazir. It is entitled the "Kitab-amazir." This work treats of obligations and traditions of things permitted and forbidden. They raised it. When it was seen by those on the ship, a sailor came ashore in a small boat and approached the Mussulmans there assembled. They asked him, "What do you want?" The Christian replied, "We wish to receive, in the name of God, pledges of security." All who were present said, "God grants to you security with us." The Christian then continued, "My object is to trade with you." "That is quite agreeable to us," answered Hecham. Then Hecham asked the Christian what he wanted to purchase." "Oil, butter, wheat, oxen, sheep, and chickens," said he. When the Mussulmans heard this they gathered together wheat, oil, oxen, and everything he had mentioned. He made his purchases, and was well supplied. The master of the ship then said: "Our business is finished. We must go back home. But we shall return to you." Hecham answered: "Very well," answered the Christian, "I shall return this time next year." "Do as you promise," replied Hecham, "and I will give you whatever you want in the country of the Mussulmans." A STORY ABOUT THE COUNTRY OF AIT-BAMOURAN "Don't come aboard till our men have come back," said the Christians. "I must enter your city to occupy the fortress of the King!" They said: "No; go back whence you came and say to your master: 'You shall not rule over us. Your fortress is totally destroyed, and with the material we have built a big mosque in the middle of our city.'" "I will give nothing. Find the murderer. He will give you the price of blood." The sheik replied: "Pay attention. Give us part of your goods." "I will give you nothing," he answered. In this way they quarrelled, until they began fighting with guns. Each tried to steal the other's horses and oxen in the night and kill the owner. They kept acting this way toward each other until Ben-Nacer came to examine the villages where so many crimes were committed, and he reestablished peace and order. "I shall do as I please, for all the people of Sous are under my hand. I leave the rest to you." The Sultan sent much money to Sidi Mahomet-ben-Abd-Allah, and ordered him with troops against the rebel. The latter fought against the divan until he was captured and put in fetters and chains. The partisans of the Emperor said to him: "We have captured your khalifah Ettaleb Calih and his accomplices." The prince responded: "Make him a bonnet of iron and a shirt of iron, and give him but a loaf of bread a day." In a letter that he sent he said also: "Collect all the goods you can find and let the Christian ships take them all to Taccourt, leaving nothing whatever." Guns, sabres, powder, sulphur, linens, cottons, everything was transported. During the reign of Sidi Mouley Soliman he built the city as it is at present. He increased it, and said to the Christians: "You must bring me cannons, mortars, and powder, and I will give you in exchange wheat, oil, wool, and whatever you desire." The Christians answered: "Most willingly, we shall return with our products." They brought him cannons, mortars, and powder. In return he supplied them with woollens, wheat, oil, and whatever they desired. The Ulmas reproached him, saying: "You are not fulfilling the law in giving to the Christians wheat, oil, and woollens. You are weakening the Mussulmans." [_Translated by G. Mercier and Chauncey C. Starkweather_] DJOKHRANE AND THE JAYS THE OGRE AND THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN "I've found the traces of an ogre. Come, let us seek him." "No," they answered, "we will not go to seek him, because we are not stronger than he is." "What brings thee here, where thou wilt be devoured by this ogre?" "But thou," answered the hunter, "what is thy story and how did the ogre bring thee here?" "Where does he enter," asked the hunter, "when he comes back here?" A king had a wife who said to him: "I would like to go and visit my father." "I'll kill you if you refuse." She asked for delay, time to say her prayers. She prayed to God, the Master of all worlds, and said: "O God, save me from the vezir." The Master of the worlds heard her prayer. He gave her the wings of a bird, and she flew up in the sky. At dawn she alighted in a great city, and met a man upon the roadside. She said: "By the face of God, give me your raiment and I'll give thee mine." "Take it, and may God honor you," he said. Then she was handsome. This city had no king. The members of the council said: "This creature is handsome; we'll make him our king." The cannon spoke in his honor and the drums beat. When she flew up into the sky, the vezir said to the guards: "You will be my witnesses that she has gone to the sky, so that when I shall see the King he cannot say, 'Where is she?'" But when the vezir told this story, the King said: "I shall go to seek my wife. Thou hast lied. Thou shalt accompany me." They set out, and went from village to village. They inquired, and said: "Has a woman been found here recently? We have lost her." And the village people said, "We have not found her." They went then to another village and inquired. At this village the Sultan's wife recognized them, called her servant, and said to him, "Go, bring to me this man." She said to the King, "From what motive hast thou come hither?" He said, "I have lost my wife." She answered: "Stay here, and pass the night. We will give thee a dinner and will question thee." When the sun had set she said to the servant, "Go, bring the dinner, that the guests may eat." When they had eaten she said to the King, "Tell me your story." He answered: "My story is long. My wife went away in the company of a trusted vezir. He returned and said: 'By God, your wife has gone to heaven.' "I replied: 'No, you have lied. I'll go and look for her.'" She said to him, "I am your wife." "How came you here?" he asked. She replied: "After having started, your vezir came to me and asked me to marry him or he would kill my son, 'Kill him,' I said, and he killed them both." Addressing the vezir, she said: "And your story? Let us hear it." "I will return in a moment," said the vezir, for he feared her. But the King cut off his head. The next day he assembled the council of the village, and his wife said, "Forgive me and let me go, for I am a woman." THE SOUFI AND THE TARGUI "Who are you?" he said. "Well, if you have the sentiments of most men, I desire you to bring her here, I want to see her." "I will do what you ask. If she'll come, I'll bring her. If not, I will return and tell you." He set out, and, arriving at the house of the lady, he saw some people, and said "Good-evening" to them. "Come dine with us," they said to him. "I have but just now eaten and am not hungry." He pretended to amuse himself with them to shorten the night, in reality to put to sleep their vigilance. These people went away to amuse themselves while he met the lady. "A man sends me to you," he said, "a Targui, who wants to marry you. He is as handsome as you are, his eyes are fine, his nose is fine, his mouth is fine." The women came out and said: "Stay! Do not go; we will give thee our own daughters to marry." "Did a woman arrive at this place night before last?" "Hast thou the sentiments of a man of heart?" "I desire to talk to her." "I will take thee to her. Go, hide thy camel; tie him up. Change thy clothing. Thou wilt not then be recognized among the sheep. Bring thy sabre and come. Thou shalt walk as the sheep walk." "I will walk toward you, taking the appearance of a sheep, so as not to be perceived." "The wedding-festival is set for to-night, and everybody will be out of their houses. When I arrive at the tent of this lady I will strike a stake with my stick. Where I shall strike, that is where she lives." He waits and conceals himself among the flocks, and the women come out to milk. He looks among the groups of tents. He finds his wife and bids her come with him. "I will not go with thee, but if thou art hungry, I will give thee food." "Thou'lt come with me or I will kill thee!" She goes with him. He finds his camel, unfastens him, dons his ordinary clothing, takes his wife upon the camel's back with him, and departs. The day dawns. She says: "O thou who art the son of my paternal uncle, I am thirsty." Now she planned a treachery. He said to her: "Is there any water here?" "The day the Targui took me off we found some in that pass." They arrived at the well. "Go down into the well," said the Soufi. "I'm only a woman. I'm afraid. Go down thyself." He goes down. He draws the water. She drinks. He draws more water for the camel, which is drinking, when she pours the water on the ground. "Why dost thou turn out the water?" "I did not turn it out; thy camel drank it." And nevertheless she casts her glances and sees a dust in the distance. The Targui is coming. The woman says: "Now I have trapped him for thee." "Brava!" he cries, and addressing the Soufi: "Draw me some water that I may drink." He draws the water, and the Targui drinks. The woman says to him: "Kill him in the well. He is a good shot. Thou art not stronger than he is." "No," he answered, "I do not want to soil a well of the tribes. I'll make him come up." The Soufi comes up till his shoulders appear. They seize him, hoist and bind him, and tie his feet together. Then they seize and kill his camel. "Bring wood," says the Targui to the woman; "we'll roast some meat." She brings him some wood. He cooked the meat and ate it, while she roasted pieces of fat till they dripped upon her cousin. "Don't do that," says the Targui. She says, "He drew his sword on me, crying, 'Come with me or I will kill thee.'" "In that case do as you like." She dropped the grease upon his breast, face, and neck until his skin was burnt. While she was doing this, the Targui felt sleep coming upon him, and said to the woman, "Watch over him, lest he should slip out of our hands." While he slept the Soufi speaks: "Word of goodness, O excellent woman, bend over me that I may kiss thy mouth or else thy cheek." She says: "God make thy tent empty. Thou'lt die soon, and thou thinkest of kisses?" She says, "What dost thou want?" "That thou shalt untie me." She unties him. He says to her: "Keep silent. Do not speak a word." Then he unfastens the shackles that bind his feet, puts on his cloak, takes his gun, draws out the old charge and loads it anew, examines the flint-lock and sees that it works well. Then he says to the woman, "Lift up the Targui." The latter awakes. "Why," says he, "didst thou not kill me in my sleep?" "Because thou didst not kill me when I was in the well. Get up. Stand down there, while I stand here." The woman speaks: "Strike, strike, O Targui, thou art not as strong as the Soufi." The Targui rises, fires, and now the woman gives voice to a long "you--you." It strikes the _chechias_ that fly above his head. At his turn the Soufi prepares himself and says: "Stand up straight now, as I did for thee." He fires, and hits him on the forehead. His enemy dead, he flies at him and cuts his throat. He then goes to the camel, cuts some meat, and says to the woman: "Go, find me some wood, I want to cook and eat." "I will not go," she says. He approaches, threatening her, and strikes her. She gets up then and brings him some wood. He cooks the meat and eats his fill. He thinks then of killing the woman, but he fears that the people of his tribe will say, "Thou didst not bring her back." So he takes her on the camel and starts homeward. His cousins are pasturing their flocks on a hill. When he had nearly arrived a dust arose. He draws near, and they see that it is he. His brother speaks, "What have they done to thee?" He answers, "The daughter of my uncle did all this." Then they killed the woman and cut her flesh in strips and threw it on a jujube-tree. And the jackals and birds of prey came and passed the whole day eating it, until there was none left. AHMED EL HILALIEU AND EL REDAH Ahmed el Hilalieu was not loved by people in general. His enemies went and found an old sorceress, and spoke to her as follows: "O sorceress, we want you to drive this man out of our country. Ask what you will, we will give it to you!" "Let me pass," he said to her, "and take your buckskin out of my way." "You may pass," she answered. He started his horse, which stepped on the buckskin and tore it. "You who are so brave with a poor woman," she said, "would you be able to bring back Redah Oum Zaid?" "By the religion of Him whom I adore, you shall show me where this Redah lives or I'll cut off your head." He goes and goes without stopping, until he comes to the country of the sand. The charger throws his feet forward and buries himself in the sand up to his breast, but soon stops, conquered and worn out by fatigue. Ahmed el Hilalieu then addresses him: "My good gray horse, of noble mien, the sand, The cruel sand would eat your very eyes. The air no longer thy loud whinnies bears, No strength is left thee in thy head or heart. The prairies of Khafour I'll give to thee, With Nouna's eyes I'll quench thy thirst, by God A mule's whole pack of barley shalt thou have That Ben Haddjouna shall bring here for thee." In his turn the steed spoke and said: "Dismount, unfasten the breast-strap, tighten the girth, for some women are coming to show themselves to us in this country." Ahmed unfastened the breast-strap, then remounts and departs. While he proceeds he sees before him the encampment of a tribe, and perceives a horseman coming, mounted on a white mare, engaged in herding camels. "Blessings upon you!" cried Ahmed; "you behind the camels!" The horseman kept silence, and would not return his salutations. "Greetings to you," cried Ahmed again, "you who are in the middle of the camels." The same obstinate silence. "Greetings to you, you who are before the camels." The horseman still was silent. Ahmed then said: "Greetings to you, you who own the white mare." "Greetings to you!" replied the horseman. "How comes it that you would not answer my greetings for so long?" The horseman answered: "You cried to me, 'Greetings to you, you who are behind the camels,' Now, behind them are their tails. Then you said, 'Greetings to you, you who are in the middle of the camels,' In the middle of them are their bellies. You said, again, 'Greetings to you, you who are before the camels.' Before them are their heads. You said, 'Greetings to you, O master of the white mare,' And then I answered to you, 'Greetings to you also,'" Ahmed el Hilalieu asked of the shepherd, "What is your name?" "I am called Chira." "Well, Chira, tell me where Redah lives. Is it at the city of the stones or in the garden of the palms?" Ahmed sets out, and soon meets the wife of the shepherd, who comes before him and says, "Enter, be welcome, and may good luck attend you!" She ties his horse, gives him to drink, and goes to find dates for Ahmed. She takes care to count them before serving him with them. He takes out a pit, closes the date again, puts them all together, and puts down the pit. He ate nothing, and he said to the woman: "Take away these dates, for I have eaten my fill." She looks, takes up the tray, counts the dates again, and perceives that none of them has been eaten. Nevertheless, there is a pit, and not a date missing. She cries out: "Alas! my heart for love of this young man Is void of life as is this date of pit." Then she heaved a sigh and her soul flew away. Ahmed remained there as if in a dream until the shepherd came back. "Your wife is dead," he said to him, "and if you wish, I'll give you her weight in gold and silver." But the shepherd answers: "I, too, am the son of a sultan. I have come to pay this woman a visit and desire to see her. Calm yourself. I will take neither your gold nor silver. This is the road to follow; go, till you arrive at the castle where she is." Ahmed starts, and when he arrives at the castle, he stands up in his stirrups and throws the shadow of his spear upon the window. Redah, addressing her negress, said to her: "See now what casts that shadow. Is it a cloud, or an Arab's spear?" The negress goes to see, comes back to her mistress, and says to her, "It is a horseman, such as I have never seen the like of before in all my life." "Return," said Redah, "and ask him who he is." Redah goes to see, and says: "O horseman, who dost come before our eyes, Why seekest thou thy death? Tell me upon Thine honor true, what is thine origin?" "Oh, I am Ahmed el Hilalieu called. Well known 'Mongst all the tribes of daughters of Hilal. I bear in hand a spear that loves to kill, Who'er attacks me counts on flight and dies." "Thou'rt Ahmed el Hilalieu? Never prowls A noble bird about the Zeriba; The generous falcon turns not near the nests, O madman! Why take so much care About a tree that bears not any dates?" "I will demand of our great Lord of all To give us rain to cover all the land With pasturage and flowers. And we shall eat Of every sort of fruit that grows on earth." "We women are like silk. And only those Who are true merchants know to handle us." Ahmed el Hilalieu then says: And, turning his horse's head, he goes away. But she recalls him: "I am an orange, them the gardener; I am a palm and thou dost cut my fruit; I am a beast and thou dost slaughter me. I am--upon thine honor--O gray steed, Turn back thy head. For we are friends henceforth." She says to the negress, "Go open wide the door that he may come." "Why do you laugh, negress?" POEMS OF THE MAGHREB [_Translated by M.C. Sonneck and Chauncey C. Starkweather_] You ask the gun I have that bears my name. I will not give it, save against my will. How comes it, father, that you treat me thus? You say, "Bring back the gun to put in pledge." Now, may God pardon you for acting thus! I leave you in your land, and, all for you, I swear by God I never shall return. Your conduct is unwise. Our enemies Insult me, O my father. And I think That you will give up your ancestral home And garden too. And can I after that Recover my good gun? I shall not be Enfeebled that I am no more with you. No longer are you father unto me, And I shall be no more your cherished son. I think, my sire, that you are growing old. Your teeth are falling out from day to day. They whom you visit will not serve you more. Your friends won't serve you longer, and your sire, He who begot you, will not help you now. In your adversity no help will come From all your kindred's high nobility. May God make easy all the paths you tread! His uncle having threatened him with death, he answered: Keep far away from him who has not come To thee in his misfortune. Leave him free. My uncle writes to me this very day That if he held in his own hands the leaf Of my life's destiny he'd blot it out. If he had in his hands this leaf, O say to him: Let him efface it openly, nor hide You'll not be able, save with God's own help To bear the separation. As for those Who are so evil, we will spare them now. The barrel of this gun is rusted red. The lock is forceless, 'twill no longer act. Misfortune overtake the man who leaves His child to perish! For the least of things He says to me, "Come, give me up this gun." The cup of love intoxicated her. O God, Creator of us all, give her The strength to bear my absence! Sad for me The hour I dream of her I love so well. Her love is in my heart and burns it up. My heart is sad. 'Tis love that crushes it. It leaves my heart reduced to naught but dust. So that I am consumed by vigils long, And never taste refreshing sleep at all. So that I'm like a bird with broken wings, IN HONOR OF LALLA AYCHA-EL-MANNOUBYYA Unless thou deign'st To cast thy looks on me the coming day, I shall, all clad in vestments rich, make plaint Unto the envoy of our God, the last Of all the prophets. For thou said'st to me, "I'll draw thee from the sea of thy despair." I worship at thy sanctuary, sweet, My beauty, with large eyes of darkest night. Why? why? El Mannoubyya, tell me why. These are thy merits, fairest citizen! To whom God gave strength irresistible. O beauty with enchanting eyes, Aycha, Our queen. Give me your consolation, noble friends; The queen of beauties sleeps within the tomb. A burning fire consumes my aching breast; I am undone. Alas! O cruel fate! My heart's with slim Hyzyya in the grave. Alas! we were so happy a short while Ago, just like the prairie flow'rs in spring; How sweet to us was life in those dear days! Now like a phantom's shadow she has gone, That young gazelle, of utter loveliness. Removed by stern, inevitable fate. Give me your consolation, noble friends; The queen of beauties sleeps within the tomb. A burning fire consumes my aching breast; I am undone! Alas! O cruel fate! She lets her tresses flow in all the breeze, Exhaling sweet perfume. Thy brows are arched In beauty's curve. Thy glance is like a ball Shot from a Christian's gun, which hits the mark. Thy cheek is lovely as the morning rose Or bright carnation, and thy ruby blood Gives it the shining brightness of the sun. Thy teeth are ivory-white, and thy warm kiss Is sweet as milk or honey loved by all. Oh, see that neck, more white than palm-tree's heart, That sheath of crystal, bound with bands of gold. Thy chest is marble, and thy tender breasts Are apples whose sweet scent makes well the ill. Thy body is, like paper, shining, white, Or cotton or fine linen, or, again, Just like the snow that falls in a dark night. Hyzyya lets her sash hang gracefully, Down-falling to the earth, in fold on fold. Her fine limbs jingle with gems she wears. Her slippers clink with coupled rings of gold. The litters now are closed, the powder sounds. My gray horse to Hyzyya bears me swift. The palanquin of my coquette's on route. At Azal when night comes we pitch our tents. Sydy-l-Ahsen is before us now: Ez-Zerga, too. Then faring on we go To Sydy Sayd, and Elmetkeouk, And Medoukal-of-palms, where we arrive At eventide. We saddle up at dawn, Just when the breeze begins. Our halting-place, Sydy Mehammed, decks this peaceful earth. From there the litters seek El Mekheraf. My charger gray straight as an eagle goes. I wend to Ben Seryer with my love, Of tattooed arms. When we had crossed Djedy We passed the wide plain, and we spent the night At Rous-et-toual, near the gleaming sands. Ben Djellal was our next day's resting-place; And, leaving there, I camped at El Besbas, And last at El-Herymek, with my love. How many festivals beheld us then! In the arena my good steed of gray Fled like a ghost. And sweet Hyzyya there, Tall as a flagstaff, bent her gaze on me, Her smile disclosing teeth of purest pearl. She spoke but in allusions, causing thus That I should understand whate'er she meant. Hamyda's daughter then might be compared Unto the morning-star or a tall palm, Alone, erect among the other trees. The wind uprooted it, and dashed it down. I did not look to see it fall, this tree I hoped forever to protect. I thought That God, divinely good, would let it live. But God, the Master, dashed it to the earth. They took her to a country that is called Sydy Kaled, and buried her at night, My tattooed beauty. And her lovely eyes, Like a gazelle's, have never left my sight. O sexton, care now for my sweet gazelle, And let no stones fall on Hyzyya's grave. I do adjure thee by the Holy Book And by the letters which make up the name Of God, the Giver of all good, let no Earth fall upon the dame with mirror decked. In the sweet name Hyzyya I'd attack And fight with cavaliers innumerable. Were she to be the spoil of conqueror, You'd hear abroad the tale of my exploits. I'd take her by main strength from all who vied. Were she the meed of furious encounters I'd fight for years for her, and win at last! For I am brave. But since it is the will Of God, the mighty and compassionate, I cannot ward away from me this blow. I'll wait in patience for the happy day When I shall join thee. For I only think Of thee, my dearest love, of thee alone! The sun that lights us to the zenith climbs, Then gains the west. It disappears from sight When it has gained the summit of the vault Celestial. And the moon, which comes and shines At Ramadan, beholds the hour approach Of sleep, and says farewell to all the world. To these would I compare the lovely queen Of all this age, the daughter of Ahmed, Descendant of a race illustrious, The daughter of Donaonda. Such is The will of God, all-powerful Lord of men. The Lord hath shown his will and borne away Hyzyya. Grant me patience, O my Lord! My heart dies of its hurt. Hyzyya's love Did tear it from me when she left the earth. Now Sa'yd, always deep in love with thee, Shall never see thee more! The memory Of thy dear name fills all his heart, my sweet. This song of Ould-es-Serge we have sung In Ayd-el-Rebye, in the singing month, At Sydy-Khaled-ben Sinan. A man, Mahomet ben Guytoun, this song has sung Of her you'll never see again alive. My heart lies there in slim Hyzyya's tomb. THE AISSAOUA IN PARIS[A] Come, see what's happened in this evil year. The earthquake tumbled all the houses down, Locusts and crickets have left naught behind. The Christians packed them like a cricket-swarm, Between the sea and church, upon the wharf He drew them, wonders promising, and led Them but to beggary. He takes them to His land to show them to the chief of all His masters, to the Emperor. He hopes To get a present and thus pay them back, Retaining all the money he advanced. Perhaps they'll show themselves upon some stage Or elsewhere as his fancy leads. The blacks Begin to dance to sound of castanets. The Christians bet on what will happen next. For Imam they have ta'en the dancing-girl Who leads the dances. With her boxes small In basket made of grass, a picture fine! Come, see it now; you'd think it was a ghost. Now Aly Et-Try is their manager; He runs about all day, with naught achieved. The Christian kept them in a stable shut, And like a squad of soldiers took them out. He herded them like oxen there, and naught Was lacking but the drover's lusty cries. The leader of musicians, wholly daft, Whose beard is whiter than the whitest wool, Has gone to Paris gay to see the sights. (I hope he'll bring up in the fires of hell!) If he comes back deceived, at least he'll say He's been abroad, and dazzle all his friends. The oboe-player, Sydy Ali, was Barber and cafekeeper, eager for A change, and crazy to get gold. "This trip," He told his friends, "is but a pilgrimage." There's nothing lacking but the telbyya. "I've taken trips before and with good luck. I was the master, with my art acclaimed. I was director of the Nouba, at The court, when Turkey held the reins of power. I was a court buffoon and broke my heart. O Lord, why send'st thou not thy servant death? "I have discovered," he is wont to say "A certain semolina lately brought By a Maltese, who lives some distance off. You never saw the like. I'm going to have Some fine cakes made of it, and some _meqrout_." And El-Hadj Mostefa was dragged along By all these lies and by the love of gain. If God had not abandoned him, he'd be Still making lasts. But 'twas the crowd that led Him on, and that is how it came to pass. With them is donkey-faced Hamyda, who Sold flowers in the market-place. He left His family no coins to live upon, But told them only: "Moderate your pace. I'll buy a house for you when I get back, And we shall live in plenty evermore." Sydy Ahmed et Tsoqba timbals had As big as goat-skin bottles. He desired To play in unison, but the musicians all Abhorred him, for he could not keep in time. The heart of Sydy Ahmed glows with love For Ayn-bou-Sellouf, who is very fair. I hope that cares and fainting-fits may swell Him out, and yellow he will straight become As yellow as a carrot in a field. Qaddour, the little cock, the drummer-boy, Who hangs on walls and colors houses here Or tars roofs with his mates, exclaims: "I took This voyage just to get a bit of air." Koutchouk stayed here, he did not go away. Fresh apricots he sells down in the square. "Repose," he murmurs, "is the best of foods, And here my little heart shall stay in peace." When Abd-el-Quader, undertaker's son. Falls in his fits of folly, he binds round His figure with a cord and does not lie Inert and stiff. But still they scorpions see In Altai's hand, Chaouch of Aissaoua. If you had seen Ben Zerfa as he ran, So lightly, bearing on his sturdy back A basket filled with, heaven alone knows what! It looked like cactus-pears, the basket closed. El Hadj Batata--see his silly trance! With shirt unbuttoned and with collar off, And cap on eyes, at beating of the drums, He shows his tuft denuded all of hair. Even Mostafa ben el Meddah desired To go to Paris and his fortune make. "On my return," he said, "I'll buy a lamp, A coffee-tray, and goodly sugar-bowl; A big and little mattress, too, I'll buy, A carpet and a rug so soft and fine." Es Snybla, bellows-faced, who used to work For our good mayor, off to Paris went To make the soldiers' coffee. When he comes Back home again, so much he will have earned. He will be richer than a merchant great. Oh, welcome, Sydy Omar! All of Paris Is charmed to see you, O my Snybla dear! If he would only go to Mexico, And stay there it would be a riddance good. Some persons heard my story from afar, Oulyd Sydy Sayd, among them, and Brymat, who laughed abundantly. And with Them was the chief of Miliana. All Were seated on an iron bench, within The right-hand shop. They called me to their booth Where I had coffee and some sweets. But when They said, "Come take a smoke," I was confused. "Impossible," I answered, "for I have With Sydy Hasan Sydy Khelyl studied, And the Senousyya. So I cannot." Ben Aysa came to me, with angry air, "The Antichrist," he said, "shall spring from thee. I saw within that book you have at home His story truly told." "You're right," said I, "Much thanks!" And then I laughed to see Him turn his eyes in wrath. He said to me 'Tis not an action worthy of a man; He glared at me with eyes as big as cups And face an egg-plant blue. He wanted to Get at me, in his rage, and do me harm. With him my uncle was, Mahomet-ben-El-Haffaf, who remains at prayer all day. He heard this prelude and he said to them, "It is not an affair." "Fear not," they said, "For they will put you also in the song." When I recited all these lines to Sy Mahomet Oulyd el-Isnam, who has To the supreme degree the gift of being A bore he said to me, "Now this is song Most flat." The mice in droves within his shop Have eaten an ounce of wool. He is installed Within the chamber of El Boukhary. In posture of a student, in his hands Some sky-blue wool. "It is," he says, "to make Some socks for little children, for I have But little wool." When I had finished quite This dittyramb, and El-Hadj-ben-er-Rebha Became acquainted with it, he began To laugh, telling his beads the while, and then His decoration from his wallet took, Which had been there enclosed. Would you know my name? I am Qaddour, well known to all the world, Binder to Sydy Bou Gdour, and attired In gechchabyya-blouse. And if my back Were not deformed, none could compete with me. They told me, "When those folk come back again Thou'd better hide thyself for fear of harm. They'll break thy hump and send thee home to heaven." "Oh, I'll protect myself," I said, "or else complain To the police." If I were not so busy I'd still have many other things to say. Those who have heard my prattle say it's good; So say the singers and musicians, too, Ez Zohra ben-el-Foul among them, who Pays compliments to me, from window-seat. And now may hearts not be Made sad by what I have so lightly said. I've placed myself among you, so that I May not incur your blame, O brothers mine. I've told you my deformity, and all My miseries unveiled before your gaze. My spirit is in pain, for it cannot Forget my sweet gazelle, with eyes so black. A fire burns in my heart, and all my frame But wastes and withers. Where's thy cure, O Taleb? I find no medicine that cureth love, In vain I search. Sweet Fatima's the cause Of all my woes, with _khelkal_ tinted blue. My heart endureth passion's pangs, my grief Continues. Where's thy remedy, O Taleb? Thy remedy is lost, my good Lord Taleb. Pray God for me, O Taleb, I implore. But how to cure the malady of love? There is no remedy, and all is lost. I die for lack of strength to bear my trials. It is to thee that I intrust myself, The healer who must bring rest to my heart; For now a living brand burns in my breast. If thou art skilful, find a cure for me. The Taleb looked at me and said: "Take heart, O lover, courage! Thou hast sipped, I see, The cup of death already, and thou hast Not long to live. But hear my counsel now. Have patience! Tis the only thing that will Sustain thee. Thou shalt thus obtain the gifts Of Him who only knows thy future days. Thy fate shall be unrolled according to The will of God, the sovereign Lord most high. O Taleb, search within thy book and find The letters that give birth to friendship sweet. Write them for me, and skilful be, I pray, So God may give me happiness by them, And cause my dear gazelle to pardon me, And drive nay bitter sorrows all away. My punishment too long has lasted. I Am tired of waiting. Never was adventure More strange than mine. The Taleb answered unto me and said: "Support her rigors. Listen now to me, And I will give thee counsel sound and good. Turn thy true heart aside from memory. Forget thy love as she's forgotten thee. Courage! Her loss now wastes and makes thee pale. For her thou hast neglected everything. And sacrificed a good part of thy days. If thou art powerful, Taleb, my excuse Accept, and give assistance to my cause. Thy words are all in vain, they but increase My woes. For ne'er can I forget my love, My dear accomplished beauty. While I live, I love her, queen of beauties, and she is Soul of my soul, light of my eyes, my sweet. And, oh, how grows my love! A slave I'd be, Obedient to a man despised. Perhaps That which is far removed, the nearest comes. And if the moment comes, thou know'st it well Who knoweth all the proverbs! He that's well Shall perish, and the invalid be cured. Where is thy cure, O Taleb? Tell me where. Thy remedy is lost, my good Lord Taleb. The Lord is generous. He sees. If trouble comes, he'll make it pass. My lot is sad and I am full of fear. The mountains tall would melt and turn to sand If I to them my sorrows should relate. Where is thy cure, O Taleb? Tell me where. Thy remedy is lost, O good Lord Taleb. O Taleb, should I tell my tale of grief Unto a sabre of the Ind, 'twould melt On hearing my laments. My heart cannot Endure these tortures, and my breast's on fire. My tale is finished, here I end my song, And publish forth my name along with it; It is Ben Sahla. I do not conceal How I am called, and in my black despair I do not cease my lamentations loud. O ye who have experienced the stings Of love, excuse me now and blame me not In this affair. I know that I shall die, O'ercome by woe. The doctor of my heart Protracts my suffering. He cures me not, Nor yet cuts short the thread of my sad life. Where is thy cure, O Taleb? Tell me where. Thy remedy is lost, O good Lord Taleb. THE CITY GIRL AND THE COUNTRY GIRL The citizeness said to the Bedouine: "Look at thy similars and thou shalt see In them but rustics, true dogs of the camp. Now what art thou beside a city girl? Thou art a Bedouine. Dost thou not dream Of goat-skin bottles to be filled at dawn? And loads of wood that thou must daily cut? And how thou'rt doomed to turn the mill all night, Fatigued, harassed? Thy feet, unshod, are chapped And full of cracks. Thy head can never feel The solace of uncovering, and thou, All broken with fatigue, must go to sleep Upon the ground, in soot and dust to lie, Just like a serpent coiled upon himself. Thy covering is the tatters of old tents, Thy pillow is the stones upon the hearth. All clad in rags thou hast a heavy sleep Awaking to another stupid day. Such is the life of all you country folk. What art thou then compared to those who live In shade of walls, who have their mosques for prayer Where questions are discussed and deeds are drawn?" The Arab woman to the city girl Replied: "Get out! Thou'rt like a caverned owl. And who art thou beside the Arab girls, The daughters of those tribes whose standards wave Above brave bands of horsemen as they speed? Look at thy similars. The doctor ne'er Can leave their side. Without an illness known They're faded, pale, and sallow. The harsh lime Hath filled thy blood with poison. Thou art dead, Although thou seem'st alive. Thou ne'er hast seen Our noble Arabs and their feats of strength, Who to the deserts bring prosperity By their sharp swords! If thou could'st see our tribe When all the horsemen charge a hostile band, Armed with bright lances and with shields to break The enemy's strong blow! Those who are like To them are famed afar and glorified. They're generous hosts and men of nature free. Within the mosques they've built and lodgings made For _tolba_ and for guests. All those who come To visit them, bear gifts away, and give Them praises. Why should they reside in town Where everything's with price of silver bought?" The city girl replied: "Oh, Bedouine, Thou dost forget all that thou hast to do. Thou go'st from house to house, with artichokes And mallows, oyster-plants, and such, Thy garments soaked all through and through with grease. This is thy daily life. I do not speak Of what is hid from view. Thy slanders cease! What canst thou say of me? Better than thee I follow all the precepts of the Sonna And note more faithfully the sacred hours. Hid by my veil no eye hath seen my face: I'm not like thee, forever in the field. I've streets to go on when I walk abroad. What art thou, then, beside me? I heard not The cows and follow them about all day. Thou eatest sorrel wild and heart of dwarf Palm-tree. Thy feet are tired with walking far, And thy rough hands with digging in the earth." I told them that it was my duty plain To reconcile them. I accorded both Of them most pure intentions. Then I sent Them home, and made agreeable the way. Their cares I drove away with honeyed words. I have composed the verses of this piece, With sense more delicate than rare perfume Of orange-flower or than sugar sweet, For those kind hearts who know how to forgive. As for the evil-minded, they should feel The _zeqqoum_. With the flowers of rhetoric My song is ornamented: like the breast Of some fair virgin all bedecked with stones Which shine like bright stars in the firmament. Some of its words will seem severe to those Who criticise. I culled them like unto A nosegay in the garden of allusions. May men of lion hearts and spirit keen- Beloved by God and objects of his care- Receive my salutations while they live, My countless salutations. I should let My name be known to him who's subject to The Cherfa and obeys their mighty power. The _mym_ precedes, then comes the written _ha_. The _mym_ and _dal_ complete the round and make It comprehensible to him who reads Mahomet. May God pardon me this work So frivolous, and also all my faults And errors. I place confidence in him, Creator of all men, with pardon free For all our sins, and in his mercy trust, Because he giveth it to him who seeks. The country girl and city girl appeared Before the judge, demanding sentence just. In fierce invectives for a while they joined, But after all I left them reconciled. POPULAR TALES OF THE BERBERS [_Translated by Rene Basset and Chauncey C. Starkweather_] THE TURTLE, THE FROG, AND THE SERPENT "Nothing ails me," answered the turtle, "except that the frog has left me." The griffin replied, "I'll bring him back." "You will do me a great favor." The griffin took up his journey and arrived at the hole of the frog. He scratched at the door. The frog heard him and asked, "Who dares to rap at the door of a king's daughter?" "It is I, the griffin, son of a griffin, who lets no carrion escape him." "Get out of here, among your corpses. I, a daughter of the King, will not go with you." He departed immediately. The next day the vulture came along by the turtle and found it worrying before its door, and asked what was the trouble. It answered: "The frog has gone away." "I'll bring her back," said the vulture. "You will do me a great favor." The vulture started, and reaching the frog's house began to beat its wings. The frog said: "Who conies to the east to make a noise at the house of the daughter of kings, and will not let her sleep at her ease?" "It is I, the vulture, son of a vulture, who steals chicks from under her mother." The vulture was angry and went away much disturbed. He returned to the turtle and said: "The frog refuses to come back with me. Seek someone else who can enter her hole and make her come out. Then I will bring her back even if she won't walk." "It is I, the serpent, son of the serpent. Come out or I'll enter." "Wait awhile until I put on my best clothes, gird my girdle, rub my lips with nut-shells, put some _koheul_ in my eyes; then I will go with you." THE HEDGEHOG, THE JACKAL, AND THE LION "How many tricks have you?" asked the hedgehog. They entered the garden and ate a good deal. The hedgehog ate a little and then went to see if he could get out of the entrance or not. When he had eaten enough so that he could just barely slip out, he stopped eating. As for the jackal, he never stopped eating until he was swollen very much. As these things were going on, the owner of the garden arrived. The hedgehog saw him and said to his companion: "Escape! the master is coming." He himself took flight. But in spite of his exhortations the jackal couldn't get through the opening. "It is impossible," he said. On that the hedgehog departed. The jackal lay down as he had told him until the owner of the garden came with his son and saw him lying as if dead. The child said to his father: "Here is a dead jackal. He filled his belly with onions until he died." Said the man, "Go, drag him outside." "Yes," said the child, and he took him and stuck a thorn into him. "Hold on, enough!" said the jackal. "They play with reeds, but this is not sport." The child ran to his father and said, "The jackal cried out, 'A reed! a reed!'" The father went and looked at the animal, which feigned death. "Why do you tell me that it still lives?" "Come away and leave that carrion." The child stuck another thorn into the jackal, which cried, "What, again?" The child went to his father. "He has just said, 'What, again?'" "Come now," said the man, and he sent away his son. The latter took the jackal by the motionless tail and cast him into the street. Immediately the animal jumped up and started to run away. The child threw after him his slippers. The jackal took them, put them on, and departed. On the way he met the lion, who said, "What is that footwear, my dear?" "You don't know, my uncle? I am a shoemaker. My father, my uncle, my mother, my brother, my sister, and the little girl who was born at our house last night are all shoemakers." "Won't you make me a pair of shoes?" replied the lion. "They are fat," said the jackal. He skinned them, cut some thorns from a palm-tree, rolled the leather around the lion's paws and fastened it there with the thorns. "Ouch!" screamed the lion. "He who wants to look finely ought not to say, 'Ouch.'" "My uncle, I will give you the rest of the slippers and boots." He covered the lion's skin with the leather and stuck in the thorns. When he reached the knees, "Enough, my dear," said the lion. "What kind of shoes are those?" "Keep still, my uncle, these are slippers, boots, breeches, and clothes." When he came to the girdle the lion said, "What kind of shoes are those?" "My uncle, they are slippers, boots, breeches, and clothing." In this way he reached the lion's neck. "Stay here," he said, "until the leather dries. When the sun rises look it in the face. When the moon rises, too, look it in the face." "It is good," said the lion, and the jackal went away. The lion remained and did as his companion had told him. But his feet began to swell, the leather became hard, and he could not get up. When the jackal came back he asked him, "How are you, my uncle?" "How am I? Wretch, son of a wretch, you have deceived me. Go, go; I will recommend you to my children." The jackal came near and the lion seized him by the tail. The jackal fled, leaving his tail in the lion's mouth. "Now," said the lion, "you have no tail. When my feet get well I will catch you and eat you up." As for the lion, when his feet were cured, he went to take a walk and met his friend the jackal. He seized him and said, "Now I've got you, son of a wretch." The other answered, "What have I done, my uncle?" "You stuck thorns in my flesh. You said to me, 'I will make you some shoes.' Now what shall I do to you?" "It was not I," said the jackal. "But all my cousins are without tails, like me." "Let me call them and you will see." At his call the jackals ran up, all without tails. "Which of you is a shoemaker?" asked the lion. "All of us," they answered. He started to find the son of Keij. While they were at sea a marine monster swallowed them and the ship on which they were sailing. The chief took some pitch and had it boiled in a kettle. The monster cast up the ship on the shore of the sea. They continued their journey, proceeding by the seaside. THE KING, THE ARAB, AND THE MONSTER A single man escaped, thanks to his good mare. He arrived at a city of the At Taberchant and, starving, began to beg. The King of the Jews said to him: "Whence do you come into our country--you who invoke the lord of men [Mahomet]? You don't know where you are. We are Jews. If you will embrace our religion, we will give you food." "Give me some food," said the Arab, "and I will give you some good advice." The King took him to his house and gave him some supper, and then asked him what he had to say. "To-morrow," said the King. When he awoke the next day, they mounted horses and followed the way to the gate of the monster's city. They looked at it and went away. "What shall we do?" said the King. "Your advice is good," said the King. They sat down and had supper. The prince put in the stew some poison and turned it to the Arab. The latter observed what he had done and said, "Where did that bird come from?" When the King of the Jews raised his head to look, the Arab turned the dish around, placing the poison side of it in front of the King. He did not perceive the trick, and died on the spot. The Arab went to the gate of the city and said to the inhabitants: "I am your King. You are in my power. He who will not accept my religion, I will cut off his head." They all embraced Islamism and practised fasting and prayer. THE LION, THE JACKAL, AND THE MAN "What will you give me if I deliver you from the lion?" "Whatever you wish I will give it to you." "It is a beaver which is before me." The jackal answered: "Where is the lion? I am looking for him." "Who is talking to you?" asked the lion, of the laborer. "Hide me," cried the lion, "for I fear him." The laborer said to him, "Stretch yourself out before me, shut your eyes, and don't move." The lion stretched out before him, shut his eyes, and held his breath. The peasant said to the jackal, "I have not seen the lion pass to-day." "What is that stretched before you?" "Take your axe," said the jackal, "and strike that beaver." The laborer obeyed and struck the lion violently between the eyes. "Strike hard," said the jackal again; "I did not hear very well." "It is in the sack. Open it and you'll find the lamb which I give you." "How have I deceived you?" asked the other. "As for the lamb, I put him in the sack. Open it well; I do not lie." The jackal followed his advice, he opened the sack, a dog jumped fiercely out. When the jackal saw the dog he ran away, but the dog caught him and ate him up. SALOMON AND THE GRIFFIN "Why," she continued, "has God created any human beings except myself, my mother, and our Lord Salomon?" He answered her, "God has created all kinds of human beings and countries." "Go," she said, "bring a horse and kill it. Bring also some camphor to dry the skin, which you will hang on the top of the mast." The griffin came, and she began to cry, saying, "Why don't you conduct me to the house of our Lord Salomon?" "To-morrow I will take you." She said to the son of the King, "Go hide inside the horse." He hid there. The next day the griffin took away the carcass of the horse, and the young girl departed also. When they arrived at the house of our Lord Salomon, the latter said to the griffin, "I told you that the young girl and the young man should be united." Full of shame the griffin immediately fled and took refuge in an island. ADVENTURE OF SIDI MAHOMET "What do you want at my palace? I will give it to you, whatever it may be." "Lord," they said, "the royal granaries are all empty, and yet we have not been able to fill the feed-bag of the saint's mule." The donkey-drivers came from Fas and from all countries, bringing wheat on mules and camels. The people asked them, "Why do you bring this wheat?" "It is the wheat of Sidi Mahomet Adjille that we are taking." The news came to the King, who said to the saint, "Why do you act so, now that the royal granaries are empty?" Then he called together the members of his council and wanted to have Sidi Mahomet's head cut off. "Go out," he said to him. "Wait till I make my ablutions" [for prayer], answered the saint. The people of the makhzen who surrounded him watched him among them, waiting until he had finished his ablutions, to take him to the council of the King and cut off his head. When Sidi Mahomet had finished washing, he lifted his eyes to heaven, got into the tub where was washing, and vanished completely from sight. When the guardians saw that he was no longer there, they went vainly to continue the search at his house at Tagountaft. THE WOMAN AND THE FAIRY "You are the mistress of Mouley Ismail, and he gives you pieces of money." "Hamed-ben-Ceggad is getting the better of you." He said to them, "Tell me why you talk thus to me, or I will cut off your heads." "As he only eats the flesh of birds, he takes advantage of you for his food." The King summoned Hamed and said to him, "You shall hunt for me, and I will supply your food and your mother's, too." Every day Hamed brought game to the prince, and the prince grew very proud of him. The inhabitants of the city were jealous of him, and went to the Sultan and said: "Hamed-ben-Ceggad is brave. He could bring you the tree of coral-wood and the palm-tree of the wild beasts." The King said to him, "If you are not afraid, bring me the tree of coral-wood and the palm-tree of the wild beasts." "It is well," said Hamed. And the next day he took away all the people of the city. When he came to the tree, he killed all the wild beasts, cut down the palm-tree, loaded it upon the shoulders of the people, and the Sultan built a house of coral-wood. Seeing how he succeeded in everything, they said to the King, "Since he achieves all that he attempts, tell him to bring you the woman with the set of silver ornaments." The prince repeated these words to Hamed, who said: "The task you give me is harsh, nevertheless I will bring her to you," He set out on the way, and came to a place where he found a man pasturing a flock of sheep, carrying a millstone hanging to his neck and playing the flute. Hamed said to him: "By the Lord, I cannot lift a small rock, and this man hangs a millstone to his neck." The shepherd said: "You are Hamed-ben-Ceggad, who built the house of coral-wood?" "A bird that flew into the sky." He added, "I will go with you." "Come," said Hamed. The shepherd took the millstone from his neck, and the sheep were changed into stones. On the way they met a naked man, who was rolling in the snow. They said [to themselves], "The cold stings us, and yet that man rolls in the snow without the cold killing him." The man said to them, "You are Hamed-ben-Ceggad, who built the house of coral-wood?" "Who told you that?" "A bird that passed flying in the sky told me. I will accompany you." "Come," said Hamed. After they had pursued their way some time, they met a man with long ears. "By the Lord," they said, "we have only small ears, and this man has immense ones." "It is the Lord who created them thus, but if it pleases God I will accompany you, for you are Hamed-ben-Ceggad." They arrived at the house of the woman with the silver ornaments, and Hamed said to the inhabitants, "Give us this woman, that we may take her away." They gave him the woman, but before her departure her brother gave her a feather and said to her, "When anyone shall try to do anything to you against your will, cast this feather on the hearth and we will come to you." People told the woman, "The old Sultan is going to marry you." She replied, "An old man shall never marry me," and cast the feather into the fire. Her brother appeared, and killed all the inhabitants of the city, as well as the King, and gave the woman to Hamed-ben-Ceggad. "Where is the box?" asked the taleb. "I did not find it." THE CHILD AND THE KING OF THE GENII "I am crying for my father and my mother. I don't want to stay here any longer." The King asked his sons, "Who will take him back?" "Carry him back after you have stuffed his ears with wool so that he shall not hear the angels worshipping the Lord." "I want to ask you some questions." "What do you wish to ask me?" "I found a mother-dog which was asleep while her little ones were barking, although yet unborn." The sage answered, "It is the good of the world that the old man should keep silence because he is ashamed to speak." "I saw an ass attacked by a swarm of flies." "It is Pjoudj and Madjoudj of God (Gog and Magog) and the Antichrist." "I saw a fountain of which the bottom was of silver, the vault of gold, and the waters white." "It is the fountain of life; he who drinks of it shall not die." "It is he who never prayed upon the earth and is now making amends." "Send me to my parents," concluded the child. The old man saw a light cloud and said to it, "Take this human creature to Egypt." And the cloud bore him to his parents. "Come, let us go away together." "Never!" he answered. "Sell him," said the woman. He said, "You are free. Go where you please." The young man went away and came to a city where there was a fountain inhabited by a serpent. They couldn't draw water from this fountain without his eating a woman. This day it was the turn of the King's daughter to be eaten. The young man asked her: "Because it is my turn to be devoured to-day." The stranger answered, "Courage, I will kill the serpent, if it please God." The young girl entered the fountain. The serpent darted toward her, but as soon as he showed his head the young man struck it with his stick and made it fly away. He did the same to the next head until the serpent was dead. All the people of the city came to draw water. The King said: "Who has done this?" "Give me a hair from your back, as the king of the animals and the trickiest of them have done--the jackal and the lion." "To-morrow the King will die, and I will take his wife." "Why are you burning my hair? As soon as I smelled it, I came running." "Why do you burn my hair? I smelled from my cave the odor of burning hair, and came running to learn the motive of your action." The lion went out and roared to call his brothers. They came in great haste and said to him, "Why do you call us now?" "Why are you burning my hair at this moment?" "Pardon me, you see the situation in which I am, without counting what awaits me in the morning, for the King is going to kill me with his own hands if you don't get me out of this prison." The boar replied: "The thing is easy; fear not, I will open the door so that you may go out. In fact, you have stayed here long enough. Get up, go and take money enough for you and your children." "Enough now. Roll the mat." She obeyed and saw the earth all shining with gold. The dog started to carry out the commands of his mistress. She began her journey in the morning and came to a fountain. As she was thirsty she started to drink. As she stopped she saw in the middle of the fountain a yellow stone. She took it in her mouth and ran back home. When she reached the house she called her mistress and said to her: "Get ready the mats and the rods, you see that I have come back from the pilgrimage." THE KING AND HIS FAMILY Another said: "My father was a king. My case is like yours." Another said: "My father was a king. My case is like yours." Their mother overheard them and took to weeping until day. They took her to the prince, who said, "Why do you weep?" The King said, "Let me know your adventure." They told him all that had happened. Then the prince arose, weeping, and said, "You are my children," and to the woman, "You are my wife." God reunited them. "By the Lord, Beddou, watch my oxen while I go to drink." "By my father, what is your name?" "Amkammel Ouennidhui" ("The Finisher"), he answered. "It is I, my friend," he cried. "Praise be to God, my friend! May your days pass in happiness!" Beddou said to him: "Let us go for a hunt." They went away alone. Beddou added: "I will shave you." "We know what you have been doing," said the King, and had his head cut off. My story is finished. THE LANGUAGE OF THE BEASTS "I haven't seen anybody," he answered; "but I saw a jerboa which had a ring in its ear." "It is my son." She drew him under the earth and told him: "You have eaten my son, you have separated me from him. Now I will separate you from your children, and you shall work in the place of my son." He who was changed into a greyhound saw this man that day, and said to him: "It is you who bought some meat for a greyhound and threw it to him?" "I am that greyhound. Who brought you here?" "A woman," answered the man, and he recounted all his adventure. "Go and make a complaint to the King," answered the other. "I am his son. I'll tell him: 'This man did me a good service,' When he asks you to go to the treasure and take as much money as you wish, answer him: 'I don't want any. I only want you to spit a benediction into my mouth,' If he asks you, 'Who told you that?' answer, 'Nobody.'" The man went and found the King and complained of the woman. The King called her and asked her: "Why have you taken this man captive?" "Go," said the King, "take this man to the place from which you brought him." The son of the King then said to his father: "This man did me a favor; you ought to reward him." The King said to him: "Go to the treasure, take as much money as you can." "I don't want money," he answered; "I want you to spit into my mouth a benediction." "Who told you that?" "You will not be able to bear it." "When I have spat into your mouth, you will understand the language of beasts and birds; you will know what they say when they speak; but if you reveal it to the people you will die." "I will not reveal it." So the King spat into his mouth and sent him away, saying to the woman, "Go and take him back where you found him." She departed, and took him back there. He mounted his ass and came back to his house. He arranged the load and took back to the people the linen he had washed. Then he remounted the beast to go and seek some earth. He was going to dig when he heard a crow say in the air: "Dig beneath; you will sing when God has made you rich." "Are you working still?" The ass replied: "My master has found a treasure and he is taking it away." The mule answered: "When you are in a crowd balk and throw the basket to the ground. People will see it, all will be discovered, and your master will leave you in peace." The man had heard every word of this. He filled his basket with earth only. When they arrived at a crowd of people the ass kicked and threw the load to the ground. Her master beat her till she had enough. He applied himself to gathering the treasure, and became a rich merchant. "Bring me a little." She answered, "Eat for yourself." The master began to laugh. His wife asked him: "What are you laughing at?" "You are laughing at me." "You must tell me what you are laughing at." "If I tell you I shall die." "You shall tell me, and you shall die." "To-night." He brought out some grain and said to his wife, "Give alms." He invited the people, bade them to eat, and when they had gone he brought food to the dog, but he would not eat. The neighbor's dog came, as it did every day, to eat with his dog. To-day it found the food intact. "Come and eat," it said. "No," the dog answered. Then the dog told the other: "My master, hearing the chickens talk, began to laugh. His wife asked him: 'Why are you laughing?' 'If I tell you, I shall die.' 'Tell me and die,' That is why," continued the dog, "he has given alms, for when he reveals his secret he will die, and I shall never find anyone to act as he has." The other dog replied: "As he knows our language, let him take a stick and give it to his wife until she has had enough. As he beats her let him say: 'This is what I was laughing at. This is what I was laughing at. This is what I was laughing at,' until she says to him, 'Reveal to me nothing.'" The man heard the conversation of the dogs, and went and got a stick. When his wife and he went to bed she said to him, "Tell me that now." Then he took the stick and beat her, saying: "This is what I was laughing at. This is what I was laughing at. This is what I was laughing at," until she cried out: "Don't tell it to me. Don't tell it to me. Don't tell it to me." He left her alone. When the dogs heard that, they rejoiced, ran out on the terrace, played, and ate their food. From that day the wife never again said to her husband, "Tell me that!" They lived happy ever after. If I have omitted anything, may God forgive me for it. "Bring him in," said the King. "He will come to-morrow." "God be praised," said the King, "that you are pleased with us." The young man answered, "Give me your daughter for a wife." "Advise me," said the King. The stranger said, "Go and wait till to-morrow." The next day the young man said to the King: "Make all the inhabitants of the city come out. You will stand with the clerks at the entrance to the gate. Dress your daughters and let them choose their husbands themselves." When they went to see their wives the King said to them, "I will ask of you a thing about which they have spoken to me." "What is it? We are anxious to know." "It is difficult," they answered. "We know not where it can be found." "If you do not bring it to me, you cannot marry my daughter." They kept silent, and then consulted with each other. The youngest said to them, "Seek the means to satisfy the King." "Father-in-law, to-morrow we shall bring you the apple." His brothers-in-law added: "Go out. To-morrow we will meet you outside the city." "Cut off your fingers," he said. He went out into the desert and came to the city of the ogress. He entered, and found her ready to grind some wheat. He said to the ogress, "Show me the apple whose color gives eternal youth to the old man who smells it." "We have brought it," they answered. He took a mirror in his left hand, and the fruit in the right hand, bent down, and inhaled the odor of the apple, but without results. He threw it down upon the ground. The others gave him their apples, with no more success. "You have deceived me," he said to them. "The apples do not produce the effect that I sought." Addressing, then, the stranger, he said, "Give me your apple." The other son-in-law replied: "I am not of this country. I will not give you my fruit." "Give it to me to look at," said the King. The young man gave it to him, saying, "Take a mirror in your right hand and the apple in your left hand." The King put the apple to his nose, and, looking at his beard, saw that it became black. His teeth became white. He grew young again. "You are my son," he said to the young man. And he made a proclamation to his subjects, "When I am dead he shall succeed me on the throne." His son-in-law stayed some time with him, and after the death of the King he reigned in his place and did not marry the other daughters of the King to his companions. POPULAR TALES OF THE KABYLES [_Translated by J. Riviere and Chauncey C. Starkweather_] "Come, I will sell you some black figs," answered Ou Ali. Each regained his own horse. Ali, who thought he was carrying flour, found, on opening his sack, that it was only ashes. Ou Ali, who thought he was bearing black figs, found on opening his sack that it was nothing but dust. Another day they again greeted each other in the market. Ali smiled. Ou Ali smiled, and said to his friend: "For the love of God, what is your name?" Another time they were walking together, and said to each other: "Let us go and steal." "Give me a little of your rug to cover me." Ou Ali refused. "You remember," he added, "that I asked you to put my rug on your mule, and you would not do it." An instant afterward Ali cut off a piece of the rug, for he was dying of cold. Ou Ali got up and cut the lips of the mule. The next morning, when they awaked, Ou Ali said to Ali: "O my dear friend, your mule is grinning." "O my dear friend," replied Ali, "the rats have gnawed your rug." And they separated. Some time afterward they met anew. Ali said to Ou Ali: "Let us go and steal." "May God exterminate you," said he, "who wash without water." "May God exterminate you," answered the washer, "who work without a single ox." "Break, now. It matters little." The robbers met in a wood and killed the oxen. As they lacked salt, they went to purchase it. They salted the meat, roasted it, and ate it. Ali discovered a spring. Ou Ali not being able to find water, was dying of thirst. "Show me your spring," he said to Ali, "and I will drink." "I am thirsty," said Ou Ali. "Eat some salt, my dear friend," answered Ali, "for salt removes thirst." Ali retired, and, after having eaten, ran to examine the skin that he had stretched out. Ou AH ate the salt, and was dying of thirst. "For the love of God," he said finally, "show me where you drink." Ali was avenged. "Come, Jew-face, and I will show you the water." He made him drink at the spring, and said to him: "See what you were afraid of." The meat being finished, they started away. Ou Ali went to the house of Ali, and said to him: "Come, we will marry you to the daughter of an old woman." "O my old woman, give me your daughter in marriage." She called her daughter. "Take a club," she said to her, "and we will give it to him until he cries for mercy." The daughter brought a club and gave Ou AH a good beating. Ali, who was watching the herd, came at nightfall and met his friend. "Did the old woman accept you?" he asked him. "She accepted me," answered Ali. "And is the herd easy to watch?" The next day Ou Ali said to the old woman, "To-day I will take care of the herd." And, on starting, he recommended Ali to ask the old woman for her daughter's hand. "It is well, my dear friend. Ali owes nothing to Ou Ali." They went away. The old woman possessed a treasure. Ou Ali therefore said to Ali: "I will put you in a basket, for you know that we saw that treasure in a hole." They returned to the old woman's house. Ali goes down into the hole, takes the treasure, and puts it into the basket. Ou Ali draws up the basket, takes it, abandons his friend, now a prisoner, and runs to hide the treasure in the forest. Ali was in trouble, for he knew not how to get out. What could he do? He climbed up the sides of the hole. When he found himself in the house, he opened the door and fled. Arriving at the edge of the forest he began to bleat. Ou Ali, thinking it was a ewe, ran up. It was his friend. "O my dear," cried Ali, "I have found you at last." "God be praised. Now, let us carry our treasure." They started on the way. Ou Ali, who had a sister, said to Ali: "Let us go to my sister's house." They arrived at nightfall. She received them with joy. Her brother said to her: "Prepare some pancakes and some eggs for us." She prepared the pancakes and the eggs and served them with the food. "O my sister," cried Ou Ali, "my friend does not like eggs; bring us some water." She went to get the water. As soon as she had gone, Ali took an egg and put it into his mouth. When the woman returned, he made such efforts to give it up that he was all out of breath. The repast was finished, and Ali had not eaten anything. Ou Ali said to his sister: "O my sister, my friend is ill; bring me a skewer." She brought him a skewer, which he put into the fire. When the skewer was red with the heat, Ou Ali seized it and applied it to the cheek of Ali. The latter uttered a cry, and rejected the egg. "Truly," said the woman, "you do not like eggs." "Let us go to my sister's house," said Ali to his friend. She received them with open arms. Ali said to her: "O my sister, prepare a good stew for us." They placed themselves at the table at nightfall, and she served them with food. "O my sister," cried Ali, "my friend does not like stew." "Behind! behind!" cried the pretended dead man. "Get up, there, you liar," answered Ali. They went away together. "Give me the treasure," asked Ou Ali; "to-day I will take it to my house." He took it to his house, and said to his wife: "Take this treasure. I am going to stretch myself out as if I were dead. When Ali comes receive him weeping, and say to him: 'Your friend is dead. He is stretched out in the bedroom.'" A man went on a journey. At the moment of departure he placed with a Jew, his friend, a jar filled with gold. He covered the gold with butter and said to the Jew: "I trust to your care this jar of butter, as I am going on a journey." On his return he hastened to the house of his friend. "Give me the jar of butter that I left with you," he said. The Jew gave it to him. But the poor traveller found nothing but butter, for the Jew had taken the gold. Nevertheless, he did not tell anybody of the misfortune that had happened to him. But his countenance bore traces of a secret sorrow. His brother perceived it, and said to him: "What is the matter with you?" "I intrusted a jar filled with gold to a Jew," he answered, "and he only returned a jar of butter to me. I don't know what to do to recover my property." His brother replied: "The thing is easy. Prepare a feast and invite your friend the Jew." The next day the traveller prepared a feast and invited the Jew. During this time the brother of the traveller ran to a neighboring mountain, where he captured a monkey. During the night he entered the house of the Jew and found a child in the cradle. He took the child away and put the monkey in its place. When day had come the mother perceived the monkey tied in the cradle. She called her husband with loud cries, and said to him: "See how God has punished us for having stolen your friend's gold. Our child is changed into a monkey. Give back the stolen property." They immediately had the traveller summoned, and returned his gold to him. The next night the child was taken back to the cradle and the monkey was set free. As I can go no further, may God exterminate the jackal and pardon all our sins! A man died, leaving a son. The child spent day and night with his mother. The sheik chanted a prayer every morning and waked him up. The child went to find the sheik, and said: "Ali Sheik, do not sing so loudly, you wake us up every morning--my mother and me." But the sheik kept on singing. The child went to the mosque armed with a club. At the moment when the sheik bowed to pray he struck him a blow and killed him. He ran to his mother, and said to her: "I have killed that sheik; come, let us bury him." They cut off his head and buried his body. The child went to the Thadjeinath, where the men of the village were assembled. In his absence his mother killed a sheep. She took the head and buried it in place of the sheik's head. The child arrived at the Thadjeinath and said to those present: "I have killed the sheik who waked us up every morning." "It is a lie," said they. "Come to my mother's house and we will show you where we buried his head." They went to the house, and the mother said to them: "Ali Sidi, this child is mad. It is a sheep that we have killed. Come and see where we buried its head." They went to the spot, dug, and found a sheep's head. THE WAGTAIL AND THE JACKAL At the time when all the animals spoke, a wagtail laid her eggs on the ground. The little ones grew up. A jackal and a fox came to them. The jackal said to the fox: "Swear to me that the wagtail owes me a pound of butter." The fox swore to it. The bird began to weep. A greyhound came to her and asked her what was the matter. She answered him: "The fox has calumniated me." "Well," said the hound, "put me in this sack of skin." She put him in the sack. "Tie up the top well," said the hound. When the jackal returned she said to him: "Come and measure out the butter." The jackal advanced and unfastened the sack. He saw the hound, who stretched out his paws and said to the fox: "I am ill; come and measure, fox." The fox approached. The hound seized him. The jackal said, "Remember your false testimony." "Who scratched you so?" asked his wife. "The servant played on the flute, and I began to dance." "That is a lie," said she; "people don't dance against their will." "Well," answered the husband, "tie me to this post and make the servant play." She tied him to the post and the servant took the flute. Our man began to dance. He struck his head against a nail in the post and died. The son of the dead man said to the servant: "Pay me for the loss of my father." They went before the cadi. On the way they met a laborer, who asked them where they were going. "Could you tell me why?" "This man killed my father," answered the son of the dead man. "It was not I that killed him," answered the shepherd; "I played on the flute, he danced and died." "That is a lie!" cried the laborer. "I will not dance against my will. Take your flute and we shall see if I dance." The shepherd took his flute. He began to play, and the laborer started dancing with such activity that his oxen left to themselves fell into the ravine. "Pay me for my oxen," he cried to the shepherd. "Take your flute and play before me. I will see how you play." The servant took his flute and all began to dance. The cadi danced with the others, and they all fell down to the ground floor and were killed. The servant stayed in the house of the cadi and inherited the property of all. A child had a thorn in his foot. He went to an old woman and said to her: "Take out this thorn for me." The old woman took out the thorn and threw it away. "Give me my thorn," and he began to cry. He went to another old woman, "Hide me this egg." "Put it in the hen's nest." In the night he took his egg and ate it. The next day he said to the old woman: "Give me my egg." "Take the hen," she answered. He went to another old woman, "Hide my hen for me." "Put her on the stake to which I tie my he-goat." At night he took away the hen. The next morning he demanded his hen. "Look for her where you hid her." He went to another old woman, "O old woman, hide this goat for me." "Tie him to the sheep's crib." During the night he took away the buck. The next day he claimed the buck. He went to another old woman, "O old woman, keep my sheep for me." "Tie him to the foot of the calf." During the night he took away the sheep. Next morning he demanded his sheep. He went to another old woman, "Keep my calf for me." "Tie him to the cow's manger." In the night he took away the calf. The next morning he asked for his calf. He went to another old woman, "Keep my cow for me." "Tie her to the foot of the old woman's bed." In the night he took away the cow. The next morning he demanded his cow. "Take the old woman." He went to another old woman and left the old dame, whom he killed during the night. The next morning he demanded his old woman. "There she is by the young girl." "Give me my old woman." "Take the young girl." He said to her: "From the thorn to the egg, from the egg to the hen, from the hen to the buck, from the buck to the sheep, from the sheep to the calf, from the calf to the cow, from the cow to the old woman, from the old woman to the young girl, and now come and marry me." THE MONKEY AND THE FISHERMAN "My lot is unbearable," he answered. The next day he returned to his fishing. The monkey climbed to the roof of the house and sat there. A moment afterward he cut all the roses of the garden. The daughter of the King saw him, and said to him: "O Sidi Mahomet, what are you doing there? Come here, I need you." He took a rose and approached. "Where do you live?" asked the princess. "With the son of the Sultan of India," answered the monkey. "Tell him to buy me." "I will tell him, provided he will accept." The next day he stayed in the house and tore his face. The princess called him again. The monkey brought her a rose. "Who put you in that condition?" she cried. "It was the son of the Sultan of India," answered the monkey. "When I told him to buy you he gave me a blow." "Come here. What did you say to him?" "I told him to buy you, and he gave me another blow." "Since this is so, come and find me to-morrow." The next day the monkey took the fisherman to a shop and bought him some clothes. He took him to the baths and made him bathe. Then he went along the road and cried: "Flee, flee, here is the son of the Sultan of India!" "Here we are at the house of your father-in-law. When he serves us to eat, eat little. When he offers us coffee, drink only a little of it. You will find silken rugs stretched on the floor; keep on your sandals." When they arrived the fisherman took off his sandals. The King offered them something to eat; the fisherman ate a great deal. He offered them some coffee, and the fisherman did not leave a drop of it. They went out. When they were outside the palace Si Mahomet said to the fisherman: "Jew of a fisherman, you are lucky that I do not scratch your face." They returned to their house. Si Mahomet climbed upon the roof. The daughter of the King perceived him, and said: The monkey approached. "Truly you have lied. Why did you tell me that the son of the Sultan of India was a distinguished person?" "Is he a worthless fellow?" "We furnished the room with silken rugs, he took off his sandals. We gave him food, and he ate like a servant. We offered him some coffee, and he licked his fingers." The monkey answered: "We had just come out of the coffeehouse. He had taken too much wine and was drunken, and not master of himself. That is why he ate so much." The next day they set out. On the way the monkey said to the fisherman: "Jew of a fisherman, if to-day you take off your sandals or eat too much or drink all your coffee, look out for yourself. Drink a little only, or I will scratch your eyes out." They arrived at the palace. The fisherman walked on the silken rugs with his sandals. They gave him something to eat, and he ate little. They brought him some coffee, and he hardly tasted it. The King gave him his daughter. Si Mahomet said to the King: In the evening the monkey and the fisherman went out for a walk. The fisherman said to Si Mahomet: "Is it here that we are going to find the son of the Sultan of India?" "I can show him to you easily," answered the monkey. "Tomorrow I will find you seated. I will approach, weeping, with a paper in my hands; I will give you the paper, and you must read it and burst into tears. Your father-in-law will ask you why you weep so. Answer him: 'My father is dead. Here is the letter I have just received. If you have finally determined to give me your daughter, I will take her away and we will go to pay the last duties to my father.'" "Take her," said the King. He gave him an escort of horsemen and soldiers. Arriving at the place, Si Mahomet said to the soldiers: "You may return to the palace, for our country is far from here." The escort went back to the palace, and the travellers continued on their journey. Soon Si Mahomet said to the fisherman: "Stay here till I go and look at the country of your father." He started, and arrived at the gates of a city he found closed he mounted upon the ramparts. An ogress perceived him, "I salute you, Si Mahomet." "May God curse you, sorceress! Come, I am going to your house." "What do you want of me, Si Mahomet?" "They are seeking to kill you." "Where can I hide?" He put her in the powder-house of the city, shut the door on her, and set the powder on fire. The ogress died. He came back to the fisherman. Sidi El-Marouf and Sidi Abd-el-Tadu were travelling in company. Toward evening they separated to find a resting-place. Sidi Abd-el-Tadu said to his friend: "Let us say a prayer, that God may preserve us from the evil which we have never committed." Sidi El-Marouf answered, "Yes, may God preserve us from the evil that we have not done!" They went toward the houses, each his own way. Sidi El-Marouf presented himself at a door. "Can you entertain a traveller?" "You are welcome," said a woman to him. "Enter, you may remain for the night." Night came. He took his supper. The woman spread a mat on the floor and he went to sleep. The woman and her husband slept also. When all was quiet, the woman got up, took a knife, and killed her husband. The next day at dawn she began to cry: "He has killed my husband!" The whole village ran up to the house and seized the stranger. They bound him, and everyone brought wood to burn the guilty man. Sidi Abd-el-Tadu came also, and saw his friend in tears. "What have you done?" he asked. "I have done no evil," answered Sidi El-Marouf. "Did I not tell you yesterday," said Sidi Abd-el-Tadu, "that we would say the prayer that God should preserve us from the evil we had never committed? And now you will be burned for a crime of which you are innocent!" Sidi El-Marouf answered him, "Bring the woman here." "Did he really kill your husband?" asked Sidi Abd-el-Tadu. "He killed him," she replied. There was a bird on a tree nearby. Sidi Abd-el-Tadu asked the bird. The bird answered: "It was the woman who killed her husband. Feel in her hair and you will find the knife she used." They searched her hair and found the knife still covered with blood, which gave evidence of the crime. The truth was known and innocence was defended. God avenged the injustice. "If your wife has a daughter, you must give her to me." "He could not see a woman he has never seen." The prince spoke and said to her: "If you will come with me, I will bring her here." They arrived. The old dame called the young woman, "Come out, that we may see you." She said to the bird, "I am going to open the door." "He started, and came back. 'Watch over my wife,' he said to his father again. 'Fear nothing,' repeated his father. The latter went to the market. On his return he said to his daughter-in-law, 'There were very beautiful women in the market,' 'I surpass them all in beauty,' said the woman; 'take me to the market.' "Soon Si El-Ahcen returned from his journey and asked if his wife were still living. 'Your wife is dead,' said his father; 'she fell from her mule,' Si El-Ahcen threw himself on the ground. They tried to lift him up. It was useless trouble. He remained stretched on the earth. "Si El-Ahcen received the letter, read it, was cured, ran to the house, and said to his father: 'My wife has married again in my absence; she is not dead. I brought home much money. I will take it again.' "'What do you want, O stranger?' they asked. 'If you want to see the Sultan we will take you to him,' They presented him to the Sultan. "'Render justice to this man,' 'What does he want?' 'My lord,' answered Sidi El-Ahcen, 'the woman you married is my wife,' 'Kill him!' cried the Sultan. 'No,' said the witnesses, 'let him have justice,' "'Let him tell me if she carries an object,' Si El-Ahcen answered: 'This woman was betrothed to me before her birth. An amulet is hidden in her hair,' He took away his wife, returned to the village, and gave a feast. "If you open the door," continued the bird, "you will have the same fate as Fatima-ou-Lmelh. Hamed-ou-Lmelh married her. Fatima said to her father-in-law, 'Take me to my uncle's house,' Arriving there she married another husband. Hamed-ou-Lmelh was told of this, and ran to find her. At the moment he arrived he found the wedding over and the bride about to depart for the house of her new husband. Then Hamed burst into the room and cast himself out of the window. Fatima did the same, and they were both killed. "The intended father-in-law and his family returned to their house, and were asked the cause of the misfortune. 'The woman was the cause,' they answered. "Nevertheless, the father of Hamed-ou-Lmelh went to the parents of Fatima and said: 'Pay us for the loss of our son. Pay us for the loss of Fatima.' The bird stopped speaking, the pilgrims returned. The old woman saw them and fled. The robber prepared a feast for the pilgrims. "Come, little child, eat your dinner." "Come, stick, beat the child." "Come, fire, burn the stick." "Come, water, quench the fire." "I won't quench it." "Come, ox, drink the water." "Come, knife, kill the ox." "Come, blacksmith, break the knife." "Come, strap, bind the blacksmith." "Come, rat, gnaw the strap." "Come, cat, eat the rat." "Why eat me?" said the rat; "bring the strap and I'll gnaw it." "Why gnaw me?" said the strap; "bring the blacksmith and I'll bind him." "Why bind me?" said the blacksmith; "bring the knife and I'll break it." "Why break me?" said the knife; "bring the ox and I'll kill him." "Why kill me?" said the ox; "bring the water and I'll drink it." "Why drink me?" said the water; "bring the fire and I'll quench it." "Why quench me?" said the fire; "bring the stick and I'll burn it." "Why burn me?" said the stick; "bring the child and I'll strike him." "Why strike me?" said the child; "bring me my dinner and I'll eat it." A wren had built its nest on the side of a road. When the eggs were hatched, a camel passed that way. The little wrens saw it, and said to their father when he returned from the fields: "O papa, a gigantic animal passed by." The wren stretched out his foot. "As big as this, my children?" "O papa, much bigger." He stretched out his foot and his wing. "As big as this?" "O papa, much bigger." Finally he stretched out fully his feet and legs. "As big as this, then?" "That is a lie; there is no animal bigger than I am." "Well, wait," said the little ones, "and you will see." The camel came back while browsing the grass of the roadside. The wren stretched himself out near the nest. The camel seized the bird, which passed through its teeth safe and sound. "Truly," he said to them, "the camel is a gigantic animal, but I am not ashamed of myself." On the earth it generally happens that the vain are as if they did not exist. But sooner or later a rock falls and crushes them. THE MULE, THE JACKAL, AND THE LION "Lion, who is your father?" "My father is a lion and my mother is a lioness." "And you, jackal, what is your father?" "My father is a jackal and my mother, too." "And you, mule, what is your father?" "My father is an ass, and my mother is a mare." "Your race is bad; we will eat you." He answered them: "I will consult an old man. If he says that my race is bad, you may devour me." He went to a farrier, and said to him, "Shoe my hind feet, and make the nails stick out well." He went back home. He called the camel and showed him his feet, saying: "See what is written on this tablet." "Show it to me," said the lion. He approached. The mule struck him between the eyes and stretched him out stiff. He who goes with a knave is betrayed by him. "I have my son to marry; let me have your daughter for him." They let her take the girl away. She came back to the shop and said to the man in charge of it: The young man left a servant in his place and departed. Thadhellala (that was her name) sent the servant to buy some bread in another part of the city. Along came a caravan of mules. Thadhellala packed all the contents of the shop on their backs and said to the muleteer: "I will go on ahead; my son will come in a moment. Wait for him--he will pay you." She went off with the mules and the treasures which she had packed upon them. The servant came back soon. "Where is your mother?" cried the muleteer; "hurry and, pay me." "You tell me where she is and I will make her give me back what she has stolen." And they went before the justice. The young men started. Just then a horseman came passing by. "Lend me your horse," she said to him. The horseman jumped off. Thadhellala mounted the horse and said: "You see that ridge? I will rejoin you there." "Haven't you others seen her? She has stolen my horse?" "Sidi," said the accuser, "I was pursuing Thadhellala." The Sultan then sent soldiers in pursuit of the woman, who seized her and hung her up at the gates of the city. Seeing herself arrested, she sent a messenger to her relatives. Then there came by a man who led a mule. Seeing her he said, "How has this woman deserved to be hanged in this way?" "Take pity on me," said Thadhellala; "give me your mule and I will show you a treasure." She sent him to a certain place where the pretended treasure was supposed to be hidden. At this the brother-in-law of Thadhellala had arrived. "Take away this mule," she said to him. The searcher for treasures dug in the earth at many places and found nothing. He came back to Thadhellala and demanded his mule. She began to weep and cry. The sentinel ran up, and Thadhellala brought complaint against this man. She was released, and he was hanged in her place. She fled to a far city, of which the Sultan had just then died. Now, according to the custom of that country, they took as king the person who happened to be at the gates of the city when the King died. Fate took Thadhellala there at the right time. They conducted her to the palace, and she was proclaimed Queen. They went on until they were hungry. The good man said to his companion: "Give me some of your food." They went on until they came to a certain place. Hunger pressed them. "Give me some of your food," said the good man. "Let me pluck out your other eye," answered his companion. "O my dear," replied the good man, "leave it to me, I beg of you." But finally he said, "Pluck it out." "A bird passed near me," said the good man. "He said to me, 'Take a leaf of this tree.' I took it, applied it to my eyes, and was cured." The good man found the King of the city blind. "Give me back my sight and I will give you my daughter." "Eat an onion and you will be cured; but when you kiss the King's head, turn your head aside or the King will notice your breath and will kill you." After these words he ran to the King and said: "O King, your son-in-law disdains you." "O my dear," answered the King, "my son-in-law does not disdain me." The King remarked that his son-in-law did turn away on kissing his head. "What did he say?" asked the King. "Ah, Sidi, I met a man who wanted to carry the letter. I intrusted it to him and he took it to the Sultan, who condemned him to death in the city." THE CROW AND THE CHILD "Don't work any more, but only take care of the child. The other wife will do all the work." "No," she answered, "our husband does not want me to work." "Give something to this crow," demanded the merchant. "Give it to me," she answered, "and I will make you rich." "What will you give me?" asked the merchant. "A child," replied the woman. The merchant refused, and said to her, "Where did you steal it?" "From whom did I steal it?" she cried. "It is my own son." She brought the child to him, and the merchant left her the crow and took the boy to his home and soon became very, rich. The mother came back from the fountain. The other woman said: "Where is your son? Listen, he is crying, that son of yours." "He is not crying," she answered. "You don't know how to amuse him. I'll go and take him." "Leave him alone," said the mother. "He is asleep." They ground some wheat, and the child did not appear to wake up. At this the husband returned from the market and said to the mother, "Why don't you busy yourself looking after your son?" Then she arose to take him, and found a crow in the cradle. The other woman cried: "This is the mother of a crow! Take it into the other house; sprinkle it with hot water." She went to the other house and poured hot water on the crow. "My son," she said, "will you promise not to betray me?" "You are my mother," answered the child; "I will not betray you." "I promise not to betray you." "Well, know that I am not your mother and my husband is not your father." The merchant came home from his journey and took the child some food, but he would not eat it. "Why won't you eat?" asked the merchant. "Could your mother have been here?" "No," answered the child, "she has not been here." The merchant went to his wife and said to her, "Could you have gone up to the child's chamber?" The woman answered, "I did not go up to the room." The merchant carried food to the child, who said: "For the love of God, I adjure you to tell me if you are my father and if your wife is my mother." The merchant answered: "My son, I am not your father and my wife is not your mother." The child said to her, "Prepare us some food." When she had prepared the food the child mounted a horse and the merchant a mule. They proceeded a long way, and arrived at the village of which the real father of the child was the chief. They entered his house. They gave food to the child, and said, "Eat." "I will not eat until the other woman comes up here." "Eat. She is a bad woman." "No, let her come up." They called her. The merchant ran to the child. "Why do you act thus toward her?" "Oh!" cried those present, "she had a child that was changed into a crow." "No doubt," said the merchant; "but the child had a mark." "Well, if we find it, we shall recognize the child. Put out the lamp." They put it out. The child threw off its hood. They lighted the lamp again. "Rejoice," cried the child, "I am your son!" A man had a boy and a girl. Their mother died and he took another wife. The little boy stayed at school until evening. The school-master asked them: "What do your sisters do?" "Our schoolmaster punishes us," answered the child. "And why does he punish you?" inquired the young girl. The child replied: "After we have studied until evening he asks each of us what our sisters do. They answer him: she kneads bread, she goes to get water. But when he questions me I have nothing to say, and he beats me." "Is it nothing but for that?" The child gave that answer. "Truly," said the schoolmaster, "that is a rich match." A few days after he bought her, and they made preparations for her departure for the house of her husband. The stepmother of the young girl made her a little loaf of salt bread. She ate it and asked some drink from her sister, the daughter of her stepmother. "Pluck it out," said the promised bride, "for our people are already on the way." "A little more," she said. "Let me take out your other eye," answered the cruel woman. "Comb yourself," they told her, and there fell dust. "Walk," and nothing happened. "Laugh," and her front teeth fell out. All cried, "Hang H'ab Sliman!" "Into what shall we change you?" they asked. "Change me into a pigeon," she answered. The crows stuck a needle into her head and she was changed into a pigeon. She took her flight to the house of the schoolmaster and perched upon a tree near by. The people went to sow wheat. "O master of the field," she said, "is H'ab Sliman yet hanged?" She began to weep, and the rain fell until the end of the day's work. "Go," said the old man, "put glue on the branch where it perches." They put glue on its branch and caught the bird. The daughter of the stepmother said to her mother: "No," said a slave, "we will amuse ourselves with it." "No; kill it." And they killed it. Its blood spurted upon a rose-tree. The rose-tree became so large that it overspread all the village. The people worked to cut it down until evening, and yet it remained the size of a thread. "To-morrow," they said, "we will finish it." The next morning they found it as big as it was the day before. They returned to the old man and said to him: "O old man, we caught the bird and killed it. Its blood gushed upon a rose-tree, which became so large that it overspreads the whole village. Yesterday we worked all day to cut it down. We left it the size of a thread. This morning we find it as big as ever." "O my children," said the old man, "you are not yet punished enough. Take H'ab Sliman, perhaps he will have an expedient. Make him sleep at your house." H'ab Sliman said to them, "Give me a sickle." Someone said to him: "We who are strong have cut all day without being able to accomplish it, and do you think you will be capable of it? Let us see if you will find a new way to do it." "Take care of me, O my brother!" The voice wept, the child began to weep, and it rained. H'ab Sliman recognized his sister. "Laugh," he said. She laughed and the sun shone, and the people got dried. "Comb yourself," and legs of mutton fell. All those who were present regaled themselves on them. "Walk," and roses fell. "But what is the matter with you, my sister?" "What has happened to me." "What revenge does your heart desire?" "Attach the daughter of my stepmother to the tail of a horse that she may be dragged in the bushes." When the young girl was dead, they took her to the house, cooked her, and sent her to her mother and sister. "O my mother," cried the latter, "this eye is that of my sister Aftelis." THE KING AND HIS SON "It is well," answered the King. At a certain place he found an olive-tree on fire. "O God," he cried, "help me to put out this fire!" Suddenly God sent the rain, the fire was extinguished, and the young man was able to pass. He came to the city and said to the governor: "Give me a chance to speak in my turn." "It is well," said he; "speak." "I ask the hand of your daughter," replied the young man. "I give her to you," answered the governor, "for if you had not put out that fire the city would have been devoured by the flames." He departed with his wife. After a long march the wife made to God this prayer: "O God, place this city here." The city appeared at the very spot. Toward evening the Marabout of the city of which the father of the young bridegroom was King went to the mosque to say his prayers. "O marvel!" he cried, "what do I see down there?" The King called his wife and sent her to see what was this new city. The woman departed, and, addressing the wife of the young prince, asked alms of him. He gave her alms. The messenger returned and said to the King: "It is your son who commands in that city." The King, pricked by jealousy, said to the woman: "Go, tell him to come and find me. I must speak with him." The woman went away and returned with the King's son. His father said to him: "If you are the son of the King, go and see your mother in the other world." He regained his palace in tears. "What is the matter with you," asked his wife, "you whom destiny has given me?" He answered her: "My father told me, 'Go and see your mother in the other world.'" "Return to your father," she replied, "and ask him for the book of the grandmother of your grandmother." "Why do you eat meat?" he asked him. "Because I did good on earth," responded the shade. "Where shall I find my mother?" asked the prince. The shade said, "She is down there." He went to his mother, who asked him why he came to seek her. He replied, "My father sent me." "Return," said the mother, "and say to your father to lift up the beam which is on the hearth." The prince went to his father. "My mother bids you take up the beam which is above the hearth." The King raised it and found a treasure. "Why do you weep," asked his wife, "you whom destiny has given me?" "Return to your father," she replied, "and ask him for the book of the grandfather of your grandfather." His father gave him the book and the prince brought it to his wife. "Take it to him again and let him put it in the assembly place, and call a public meeting." A man a foot high appeared, took up the book, went around the city, and ate up all the inhabitants. A certain sultan had a son who rode his horse through the city where his father reigned, and killed everyone he met. The inhabitants united and promised a flock to him who should make him leave the city. An old woman took it upon herself to realize the wishes of her fellow-citizens. She procured some bladders and went to the fountain to fill them with the cup of an acorn. The old man came to water his horse and said to the old woman: "Get out of my way." She would not move. The young man rode his horse over the bladders and burst them. The young man, pricked to the quick, regained his horse, took provisions, and set out for the place where he should find the young girl. On the way he met a man. They journeyed together. Soon they perceived an ogress with a dead man at her side. "Place him in the earth," said the ogress to them; "it is my son; the Sultan hanged him and cut off his foot with a sword." "Sing that which you heard the bird sing." He began to sing. The young girl, whom they meant to buy, heard him and asked him from whom he had got that song. "From my head," he answered. Mahomet's companion said: "We learned it in the fields from a singing bird." "Bring me that bird," she said, "or I'll have your head cut off." Mahomet took a lantern and a cage which he placed upon the branch of the tree where the bird was perching. "Do you think to catch me?" cried the bird. The next day it entered the cage and the young man took it away. When they were in the presence of the young girl the bird said to her: "We have come to buy you." The bird flew toward the woman. "Where shall I find you?" it asked her. She answered: "You see that door at which I am sitting; it is the usual place of my father. I shall be hidden underneath." The next day Mahomet presented himself before the Sultan: "Arise," he said, "your daughter is hidden there." The young girl said to Mahomet, "I will ride a lame horse." Mahomet recognized her, and the Sultan gave her to him, with a serving-maid, a female slave, and another woman. "O shepherds," he said, "can you tell me where the ogre lives?" They pointed out the place. Arriving, he saw his wife. Soon the ogre appeared, and Mahomet asked where he should find his destiny. "My destiny is far from here," answered the ogre. "My destiny is in an egg, the egg in a pigeon, the pigeon in a camel, the camel in the sea." "Kill Mahomet and I will enrich you." The soldiers managed to get near the young prince, put out his eyes, and left him in the field. An eagle passed and said to Mahomet: "Don't do any good to your parents, but since your father has made you blind take the bark of this tree, apply it to your eyes, and you will be cured." The young man was healed. A short time after his father said to him, "I will wed your wife." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Moorish Literature, by Anonymous	redpajama-book	42,859
E-text prepared by Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders THE MINUTE BOYS OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY Illustrated by A. Burnham Shute [Illustration: "An Indian strode gravely into the encampment"] I. Young Soldiers II. The Powwow III. Disappointment IV. On the Oriskany V. Divided Duty VI. Between the Lines VII. Insubordination VIII. The Ambush IX. The Indian Camp X. Prisoners XI. The Escape XII. In the Fort XIII. The Assault XIV. Mutiny XV. The Torture XVI. Short Allowance XVII. Perplexing Scenes XVIII. Close Quarters XIX. The Pursuit XX. Enlisted Men At some time in Noel's life--most likely after he was grown to be a man with children, and, perhaps, grandchildren of his own--he wrote many letters to relatives of his in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, wherein he told with considerable of detail that which he did during the War of the Revolution, and more particularly while he and his friends were fighting against that wily Indian sachem, Thayendanega. These letters, together with many others concerning the struggles of our people for independence, came into my keeping a long while ago, and from the lines written by Noel Campbell I have put together the following story after much the same fashion as he himself set it down. When the work was begun I doubted if Thayendanega could have been frightened by a party of boys who were playing at being soldiers, and refused to make such statement until, quite by chance, I found the following in Lossing's "Field-Book of the Revolution": "It was a sunny morning toward the close of May, when Brant and his warriors cautiously moved up to the brow of the lofty hill on the east side of the town (Cherry Valley) to reconnoitre the settlement at their feet. He was astonished and chagrined on seeing a fortification where he supposed all was weak and defenceless, and greater was his disappointment when quite a large and well-armed garrison appeared upon the esplanade in front of Colonel Campbell's house. Having thus proven, at least to my own satisfaction, that so much of Noel's story was true, I set about verifying the other portions, and in no single instance did I find that he had drawn upon his imagination, therefore I resolved to write it down as the lad himself would have spoken, being able, because of the letters, to put myself very nearly in his place. I would it had been possible to say more concerning Thayendanega and Sir John Johnson, for they played important parts in the making of Mohawk Valley history; but Noel's own account was of such length that I did not feel warranted in adding to it. To the best of my knowledge and belief, the tale of the "Minute Boys of the Mohawk Valley" is no more than a narration of facts, as can be verified by reference to any of our standard histories of the beginnings of this nation. List of Illustrations It sounds like an unreasonable tale, or something after the style of a fairy-story, to say that a party of lads, drilling with wooden guns, were able, without being conscious of the fact, to frighten from his bloody work such a murderous, powerful sachem as Thayendanega, or Joseph Brant, to use his English name, but such is the undisputed fact. Among the boys of the settlement I, Noel Campbell, was looked upon as a leader simply because my uncle was the most influential Whig in the vicinity, and my particular friend and comrade was Jacob Sitz, son of Peter, a lad who could easily best us all in trials of strength or of woodcraft. We had heard of the Minute Men of Lexington and of the Green Mountains, and when the day came that all the able-bodied men of our valley banded themselves together for the protection of their homes against our neighbors, the Tories, who thirsted for patriot blood, we lads decided that we were old enough to do our share in whatsoever might be afoot. We were not overly well equipped in the way of weapons, although it is safe to say that each of us had a firearm of some sort; but it seemed to give Sergeant Corney the fidgets to see us carrying such a motley collection of guns, and he insisted on making a quantity of wooden muskets to be used in the drill, to the end that we might present a more soldierly appearance when lined up before him. Therefore it was that, when we came each day on the green in front of my uncle's house to go through such manoeuvres as our instructor thought necessary, we had in our hands only those harmless wooden guns. I was the captain of the company; Jacob Sitz acted as lieutenant, and all the others were privates. Sergeant Corney, as a matter of course, was the commander-in-chief. On a certain day during the last week in May--the exact date I have forgotten--we were drilling as usual, with Sergeant Corney finding more fault than ever, when we frightened the famous Thayendanega away from an attack on the settlement, although, as I have said, we knew nothing about it until many months afterward. It seems, as we learned later, that the villainous Brant had made all his plans for an attack upon Cherry Valley, and had secretly gained a position on the hill to the eastward of the place, counting on waiting there until nightfall, when he might surprise us; but, much to his astonishment, he saw what appeared from the distance to be a large body of well-equipped soldiers evidently making ready for serious work. The savages in ambush fired a volley; Lieutenant Wormwood was killed instantly, while Jacob's father was so seriously wounded that he fell from his horse, and, a few seconds later, found himself a prisoner among Brant's wolves. When the tidings of this tragedy was brought into the settlement, Jacob was overwhelmed with grief, as might have been expected, and even my uncle had great difficulty in preventing the distressed lad from rushing into the wilderness with the poor hope that he might be able, single-handed, to effect his father's rescue. The murder of Lieutenant Wormwood was sufficient evidence that the Tories and their savage allies were prepared to harry us, and within a very few minutes after the body of the officer had been brought in, the men made ready to defend their homes. "Are you speaking of the lads?" my uncle asked in surprise, and the old man replied promptly; "What is your plan, Sergeant Braun?" Master Dunlap, the preacher, asked, for so great did all believe the danger which threatened, that every man, whether able-bodied or crippled, had been summoned to the council. "It ain't what you might rightly call a plan, sir," Sergeant Corney replied. "It's only an idee, brought out by the fact that from this time we've got to keep a close watch on what's happenin' in this 'ere valley, unless we're willin' to be murdered in our beds. There are boys enough in the settlement to do the scoutin', leavin' the elders to stand by for defence, an' I see no good reason why they shouldn't perform full share of military duty." "Think you a lad like my nephew Noel could render any valuable assistance at such a time as this?" my uncle asked, with a smile, as if believing he had put an end to the old man's proposition, and my cheeks reddened with excitement and fear lest Sergeant Corney should allow himself to be backed down, as I listened intently for the answer. It was not long in coming, and I could have kissed the old soldier for speaking as he did. "Give me him an' Jacob Sitz, sir, an' I'll guarantee to follow Thayendanega an' his precious scoundrels till we know what deviltry they've got in mind." "You shall have full charge of all the boys in the settlement, and we will see if you can make good your boast," my uncle, who held command of our fighting force, said after a brief pause, and in a twinkling Sergeant Corney left the building, beckoning us lads to follow, for our company had gathered with the men to learn what was to be done. The old soldier did not need very much time in which to lay his plans; in fact, I believe he had mapped out the whole course before having spoken. "It was Colonel Campbell himself who mentioned Noel's name, an' of a surety he has the right to say who shall go or stay. As for Jacob, have any of you a better claim than he to follow the murderers?" This silenced the eager ones; but I would have been glad indeed had any member of the company shown that he had a better right to accompany the old soldier than I, for of a verity I was not itching to hug the heels of those savages who were doing the bidding of the Tories. However faint-hearted I might have been, however, I would have bitten the end of my tongue off before saying that which should show to my comrades that I was more than willing to remain behind, for if the captain of the Minute Boys showed the white feather, what might not have been excused in the rank and file? I ran home to acquaint my mother with what was afoot, and while she was trying to keep back her tears lest I might be unnerved for the duty to which I had been assigned, I armed myself with rifle and hunting-knife, making certain each weapon was in proper order. From my father's store of powder and balls I took as much as could be conveniently carried, and this, with such small supply of corn bread and salt pork as filled my hunting-bag, made up an outfit for a journey from which it was reasonable to believe I might never return. Mother did no more than kiss me again and again in silence, when I was ready to set off, and I now understand that she did not dare trust herself to speak, which, I venture to say, saved me from much sorrow. Sergeant Corney was equipped in much the same fashion as was I, and immediately after my arrival he said, impatiently: "There is no reason why we should remain here many minutes, as if tryin' to show ourselves. It stands us in hand to strike the trail while it is yet warm, an' by dallyin' the people will come to believe our only idee is to look bigger'n we really are." "It is for you to say when we shall set out," I replied, envying those of my comrades who stood near at hand to witness the departure, and the words had hardly more than been spoken before the old man started off at a smart pace in the direction of the thicket where Lieutenant Wormwood's body had so lately been found. We were not long in traversing the short distance which led us to the tree at the foot of which the officer came to his death; it can well be understood that we did not linger many seconds in that gruesome locality. Jacob was eager to push on, hoping even against hope that it might be possible for him to rescue his father. Sergeant Corney had no desire to delay, lest we find it difficult to follow the trail later in the day, and there was no reason why I should care to remain in that place where were such evidences as might soon be found of our own fate. Thayendanega had apparently given no heed as to whether his movements were known, for never an effort had been made to cover the trail, and we followed it as readily as if it had been blazed. "We didn't come out to spend our time in eatin'," Jacob said, moodily, and I understood full well what was in his mind. "We can loiter when we have come up with the savages." "It may not be in your plan, but it is in mine," Jacob said, sharply, giving no heed to the food. "We shall be doin' our duty by those we have left behind if we hug as close to the villains as is possible, while there's no chance I can serve my father by hangin' back at a coward's distance." "An' it's in your mind, lad, that we might do him a good turn?" Sergeant Corney said, as if talking to himself. "True for you, lad, an' I know full well how you're feelin'; but the question is whether we can hope for anythin' while there's sich a crowd of 'em?" "I'm not expectin' you an' Noel will run your heads into too much danger," Jacob said, passionately. "I know you would help father if the chance came your way; but it's my duty to take every risk, an' I count on doin' so even though we part company within the hour! Do you suppose I can loiter at a safe distance from the painted devils when my father is expectin' to see some sign that I'm doin' all I may to help him?" Although Sergeant Corney spoke calmly, as if he had no vital interest in the matter, I knew him well enough to feel certain he was even then trying to settle in his own mind how a rescue might be effected; but Jacob was so blinded by his grief that at the moment I believe he really thought we would let him push ahead alone, therefore I said in as hearty a tone as was possible: "You should know, Jacob, that both of us stand ready to do all men may to aid your father, an' you may be certain we'll not let you go on alone; but just now Sergeant Corney must be our leader, since he knows better than you an' I put together what ought to be done." "But will he do his best?" Jacob cried, in a passion. "Will he help me, or does he think the work is done when we have learned where Joseph Brant has gone on his work of bloodshed?" I waited for the old soldier to make reply to this demand, and he hesitated so long that I began to fear I had been mistaken as to that which I had supposed was in his mind. At last, when it seemed as if Jacob could no longer restrain his impatience, Sergeant Corney said, speaking slowly, as if weighing well each word: I would have interrupted him with an assurance that we were willing to serve him faithfully; but he checked me with a gesture, and added: "As Peter Sitz would were he in my place, so will I. He was my friend; I know if it was a question of savin' the lives of those at Cherry Valley, or turnin' his back on me, what he would do, an' even so shall I." "Meanin' what?" Jacob demanded, fiercely. "Meanin' that while we can do our duty by those who sent us, we will strain every nerve in his behalf; but if it should so chance that their safety depended upon us, we would give service to the greatest number." "He means that if, while followin' Brant with the hope of aidin' your father, we found out that danger threatened the settlement, it would be our duty to warn them rather than hold on for him." The old soldier nodded in token that I had but given different words to his idea, and Jacob replied in a tone of satisfaction: "Ay, lad, you shall then do as seems best to you," Sergeant Corney said, solemnly, and thus it was settled that, while it did not interfere with our duty as Minute Boys of the Mohawk Valley, all our efforts should be for the relief of the unfortunate prisoner, although at the time I had little hope the savages would allow him to live many days. Jacob's face was wrinkled, or so it seemed to me, with lines drawn by sorrow because we had not succeeded in getting a glimpse of his father, and it was evident that the lad was beginning to fear, as did I, that the savages, finding a prisoner too troublesome, had tortured him to death; for if Master Sitz was yet alive and in the keeping of Brant's followers, why had we not got a glimpse of him? "There is no reason why you should grieve so deeply, lad," Sergeant Corney said, as if he could read the boy's thoughts. "I'll answer for it that your father is as much alive as we are." "How can you be certain of that?" Jacob asked, moodily. "Of course," Jacob replied, impatiently. Jacob shook his head; he could not bring himself to speak calmly of such a possibility. "No, you haven't, an' we know without bein' told that when sich devils as follow Joe Brant get a prisoner in their clutches, they never kill him without torture. Now, 'cordin' to my way of thinkin', we can count to a certainty that he's alive." "I allow you're right, lad, an' that's why I've come to believe that he's been sent on ahead to the village." "Then I must be movin'!" Jacob cried, springing suddenly to his feet. "I should have had sense enough to guess that before!" And he made as if he would leave us; but Sergeant Corney pulled him back by the coat-sleeve. "Wait a bit. It was on my tongue's end to propose somethin' of the same kind; but we can't afford to take the chances of makin' a move till yonder nest of snakes has settled down for the night. An hour from now, an' we'll all pull out." Jacob could not well have made complaint after this, and he settled down with his back against a tree to wait with so much of patience as he could summon, until the old soldier should give the word. Well, we remained in the thicket until the red villains had quieted down for the night, and then Sergeant Corney led us toward the south, that we might make a long circle around the encampment, when would come the most dangerous portion of our task. Thus far we had done as Jacob would have us, and at the same time performed our full duty as Minute Boys, for our task was to learn what Brant counted on doing, and as to that we could not be certain until he was in the village. But now that the old soldier was leading us around the encampment to the end that we might gain a position between Brant's force and those at Oghkwaga, I said to myself, with many an inward shudder, that we were like to join Jacob's father after a different fashion than we had counted on. It was as if Sergeant Corney had no fear as to what might happen, for he plunged into the gloom of the forest like a man who walks among friends, and Jacob followed carelessly, all his thoughts on the possible whereabouts of the prisoner he was so eager to see. Apparently I was the only member of the party who gave heed to his steps, and so timid had I become through looking into the future for danger, that it was only with difficulty I repressed a cry of alarm when Sergeant Corney came to a sudden halt, as if he had stumbled upon an enemy. Jacob, wrapped in his own gloomy thoughts, halted without showing signs of curiosity or surprise; but I pressed forward eagerly until standing close behind the old soldier, and then I understood full well why he had stopped. "They must be Britishers!" I whispered, and Sergeant Corney gripped my hand as if to say that he was of the same idea. It was our duty, however, to know exactly who it was encamped so near Brant's village, and, after telling Jacob in a whisper of what we had seen, the old soldier made his way swiftly through the thicket, my comrade and I copying his every movement. Then, when I had decided that we were dangerously near a large force of the king's soldiers who had come to join Thayendanega in his murderous work, Sergeant Corney called out in a loud tone: "In the camp! Here come friends who were like to have run over you!" In a twinkling the command was aroused, and before I had fully gathered my wits, which had been scattered by the old soldier's hail, I found myself in the midst of a large body of men, many of whom I had seen in my uncle's home at Cherry Valley. "We'll march with this company," Sergeant Corney said, in a tone of satisfaction, "an' it will be possible to have a look at the village without runnin' too many chances of losin' our hair." And thus it seemed to me that all our troubles were over, for I doubted not but that General Herkimer could induce the savages to give up their prisoner, and we would soon be on our way home with Peter Sitz as a companion; but, instead, we were just at the beginning of our difficulties. When we had learned all that our acquaintances among the command could tell us, Jacob insisted that Sergeant Corney see General Herkimer without delay, in order to learn if that officer would so far interest himself in the fate of Peter Sitz as to make inquiries of Thayendanega regarding him, in case the opportunity offered. "Why did you want to know?" Jacob asked, with mild curiosity, and the man replied: "It struck me that if any of the Mohawk Valley Tories were with Brant, General Herkimer would stand little chance of doing anything to aid the prisoner." "The thought was not in my mind that Thayendanega himself would be opposed to our commander; but if you know what was done last year, it is easy to understand my meaning." Then it was that General Herkimer was detailed to disarm the Tories in the valley, and while carrying out such orders quite naturally made enemies of the majority of them. Therefore it was, according to the belief of the soldier, that General Herkimer would have little or no weight with Brant so far as rescuing Peter Sitz was concerned, if there chanced at the moment to be Tories near at hand to whisper in his ear. Just now it seems necessary for me to set down that which happened after Sir John Johnson's surrender, if so it could be called, to General Schuyler, and I can best do it by copying that which I have seen in a printed sheet concerning our troubles in the Mohawk Valley: Now it must be borne in mind that from information which we had received, there was every reason to believe Brant had come to place himself and his following under Sir John's command, and that before many days were passed we might expect the Mohawk Valley would be overflowed by all the Tories who had previously fled to Canada. Thus it can be understood that there would be such bloodshed and deeds of violence as had never before been known in the Province of New York. The old soldier returned from his interview with General Herkimer at about the same time our newly made friend finished his recital of what had been done in and around Johnson Hall, and, observing the look of satisfaction on the sergeant's face, I understood, even before he spoke, that his mission had been, at least in a certain degree, successful. "It is all right, lads," he said, seating himself by my side. "The general will do what he can; but whether that be much or little depends upon the way in which Thayendanega receives him." "Are we to march with this command to the village?" Jacob asked. "Ay, an' remain with it so long as suits our purpose." It seemed to me we could not in reason ask for anything more; that we were now in the best possible position to learn what Brant's purpose was, and at the same time to aid Peter Sitz, therefore I laid down to rest, contented in mind as I was wearied in body; but poor Jacob, feeling as if he might in some way wrong his father by seeking repose, paced to and fro near the camp-fire until my eyes were closed in slumber. The soldiers were astir at an early hour next morning; but before the column could be set in motion an Indian strode gravely into the encampment waving a bit of white cloth, and, on being questioned by the sentinels, announced himself as a messenger sent by Thayendanega with words to General Herkimer. It goes without saying that every man in the encampment was eager to know why this painted messenger had come, and I confess to crowding my way among the foremost of the curious in order to hear, if possible, all that was said. The Indian stood like a statue before the shelter of fir boughs, looking neither to the right nor the left until General Herkimer appeared and said to him, questioningly: "You have come from Captain Brant?" It is hardly necessary for me to set it down that, some time before this, Thayendanega had been given a commission in the British service. "Thayendanega asks why so many white soldiers are encamped near his village?" "I have come to see and talk with my brother, Captain Brant," General Herkimer replied, with the same stiff manner as that assumed by the messenger. "And do all these men want to talk with the chief, too?" "They have come to bear me company; they are my followers, as Captain Brant has his." "And do they also call Thayendanega 'brother'?" "Ay, and they hope he _is_ a brother to them." The Indian turned slowly in what I thought a most offensive manner, as he looked around at the faces of those who completely encircled him, and then would have moved away, but that General Herkimer asked: "Is Captain Brant in his village?" "You will come no nearer Oghkwaga until Thayendanega shall give his permission." Having said this, he turned slowly about until facing the direction where I knew Brant and his followers encamped the night previous, when he stalked slowly away, giving no more heed to those who pressed closely to him than if he was the only person in that vast wilderness. To Jacob this enforced halt, at a time when he believed it was vitally necessary he should be making search for his father, was most painful, and despite all Sergeant Corney and I could say or do to relieve his distress of mind, the poor lad paced to and fro, as I was told he had during the long hours of the night, in a nervous condition pitiable to behold. "The lad is eatin' his heart out, an' all to no purpose. Can't you quiet him a bit, Noel?" "I have said all within my power, an' he turns a deaf ear," I replied, sadly. "Then I shall try my fist at it," and the old man went up to my comrade, taking him gently by the hand, and leading him into the thicket just beyond view of the encampment. However, that was none of my affairs, and I was not so forward as to air my views then when I was only a hanger-on by the sufferance of the commander. "There will Thayendanega meet his brother, the white chief, and without firearms." "To-day?" General Herkimer asked. "It is well," General Herkimer replied, and it pleased me that he held himself yet more stiffly than did the messenger. "Say to my brother, Captain Brant, that we also will come without arms, and he and I shall meet as we met years ago, when there was no need to light the pipe of peace, because neither of us had listened to the songs of wicked men." The Indian stalked away as before, and when he was gone Jacob, who, with Sergeant Corney, had come up to hear what was being said, laid his hand on my shoulder affectionately. "I am goin' to be more of a man, Noel, havin' come to understand that nothin' can be gained by ill-temper or impatience; but it is hard to remain here idle when perhaps my father may at this moment be suffering torture." "So Sergeant Corney has been tryin' to make me believe, an' it must be true." It is useless for me to attempt to set down all that we did or said while awaiting Thayendanega's pleasure. As a matter of course we indulged in much speculation regarding the outcome of the matter, and discussed at great length the possibility of General Herkimer's being able, even if he failed in other desired directions, to set free the prisoner whom Joseph Brant doubtless intended should suffer death at the stake. We passed the time as best we might, many of us finding it quite as difficult as did Jacob to restrain our impatience, and not a few openly declaring their belief that Brant was holding us idle simply that he might the better carry out some murderous scheme. I knew that he made this move with the hope of being numbered among those who would leave camp to go to the rendezvous; but at the same moment I feared lest the general might be displeased because of his forwardness. Anything can be forgiven in a lad who burns with the desire to aid his father, however, and General Herkimer beckoned for my comrade to approach. I could not hear what was said during the brief conversation; but it was easy to guess the purport when Jacob came toward me with sparkling eyes. "We have the general's permission to go with him to meet Brant," he cried, and I asked with, perhaps, just a tinge of jealousy: "Meanin' you an' Sergeant Corney, eh?" "Why did he happen to count me in?" Thayendanega had gotten himself up especially for the occasion, and a more gorgeous redskin I never saw. Jacob and I stood where we could see all that was taking place, and hear a portion of what was said. Thayendanega began with compliments, and after General Herkimer had replied in much the same strain, the murdering villain asked bluntly why he had come. "To meet my old neighbor and friend," General Herkimer replied, whereupon Brant asked: "And have all those behind you come on a friendly visit, too? Do they also want to see the poor Indian? It is very kind." The general changed the subject of the conversation by speaking of the past, and wound up by hinting that it might be to Thayendanega's advantage to take sides with the colonists against the king; but he must soon have seen that he was not making much headway, for the sachem began to show signs of anger, and, after quite a long confab, said sharply: "We are with the king, as were our fathers before us. The king's belts are yet held by us, and we cannot break faith. You are resolute now in your rebellion; but before many days the king's soldiers will humble you to the dust." "We did not come here to listen to threats, and if we are humbled it will not be by such as those who follow Joseph Brant!" Unfortunately every Indian in the clearing heard the words distinctly, and in a twinkling the savages were running to and fro, giving vent to shrill war-whoops, while they called for those at the main encampment to bring their weapons. The colonel's incautious words were as a lighted match to gunpowder, and for the instant I firmly believed we would pay for his indiscretion with our lives. It was no easy matter to remain silent and motionless while the painted villains were running to and fro making a hideous outcry, and, as we knew full well, aching to strike us down. Colonel Cox, the cause of all this disturbance, was even more terrified than I, as could be told by the expression on his face, and the finger-nails pressed deeply into the palms of his hands that he might control himself in obedience to orders, while as for the others, I know not how they deported themselves. At that instant my world was of small dimensions, consisting of only so much earth as that impassive red man and the open-hearted, honest patriot officer stood upon. Like bees the angry Indians swarmed to and fro between the encampment and our place of meeting, until all were armed with rifles, and it needed but the lightest word to convert that sunlit clearing into a theatre of the bloodiest deed in the history of the tribe whose wildest delight was the shedding of blood. Not until his followers were in such a frenzied condition that it seemed impossible another's will could restrain them, did Thayendanega speak, and then in a few words of the Indian language, uttered in so low a tone that I could not distinguish a single syllable, he calmed the tempest on the instant, until those who had been howling for our lives became like lambs. "The war-path has been opened across the country as far as Esopus, and the Tories of Ulster and Orange will join with the braves of Thayendanega's tribe to quell this revolt against the king, who is their father." Now it was that General Herkimer spoke earnestly, pleadingly. "Do not allow so weighty a question to be settled without further consideration, Captain Brant. Why should not you and I discuss it calmly, as we have in the olden days many a matter which was not so grave?" "You have seen how well inclined my young men are toward anything of that kind," Brant said, with a cruel smile. "Were I to say at this moment that we would consider the matter in council, it might not be possible even for me to restrain them, because their decision has already been made. The hatchet is raised!" "But surely you and I, Captain Brant, may talk of it among ourselves?" "Yes, that can be done," Thayendanega replied, indifferently, "and if it gives you pleasure to indulge in what can be of no profit, we will meet here again to-morrow morning; but now it were wiser my young men went back to the encampment." Then the sachem turned as if to move away, and General Herkimer, remembering what he had promised Sergeant Corney and Jacob, said, in a friendly tone: "I know of no prisoner in our encampment," Brant replied, stiffly. "My young men may be able to tell you somewhat concerning him. I will ask them." "And will you, as a favor to a neighbor and an old friend, do whatsoever you may toward releasing the unfortunate man?" General Herkimer insisted. "I will ask my young men," was all the reply Brant would make, and then the powwow was brought to a sudden close as the sachem stalked toward the encampment, followed by all his people, and we of General Herkimer's party were left alone in the clearing. Sergeant Corney and I spent our time in trying to soothe Jacob, who alternately reproached himself for remaining idle at the moment when he should be straining every nerve to aid his father, and relapsing into moody silence, which to me was far worse than the angry words. As I look back now upon what was afterward done throughout the length and breadth of that peaceful valley of ours, I regret most sincerely that those young men did not violate the unwritten laws and usages which the Indians themselves were ever ready to cast aside when it suited their purpose, and kill the bloodthirsty Brant whether his men showed signs of enmity or not. On this occasion we had not long to wait. Gathering in a semicircle behind General Herkimer as before, we were hardly in position when Thayendanega, clad in all the bravery of his savage garb, and, what was most ominous, bedecked in war-paint, strode into the enclosure, followed by such members of his party as had accompanied him the day previous. He did not wait for greetings, but began boastfully, while his painted fiends were yet taking their places, by saying, abruptly: Then he made a gesture with his hand, and on the instant there burst from amid the foliage a seemingly endless number of savages, all painted for battle, who, coming down swiftly upon us as if to make an attack, uttered wild war-whoops as they discharged their rifles in the air. It was as hideous and terrifying a sight as I ever witnessed, and that our little company stood its ground is much to the credit of every man among us. What Thayendanega said when the uproar was thus stilled, I cannot rightly set down, for my brain was in such a whirl, and fear so strong in my heart, as to prevent me from taking due heed of all that was passing--I realized only that death was literally staring us in the face. As Sergeant Corney afterward told me, Brant advised General Herkimer to go home, thanked him for having come to pay the visit, and said that at some near day he might return the compliment. "But the prisoner?" General Herkimer cried, when the sachem would have stalked away with a great assumption of dignity. "My young men will make no reply to my questions," Brant answered, unblushingly, although he must have known beyond a peradventure that we understood full well he was lying. "Is Peter Sitz yet alive?" General Herkimer asked, sternly. "There has been no prisoner put to death by my people since they left Cherry Valley," Thayendanega replied, as if irritated by the general's persistence, and, making another gesture with his hand, he sent back into the cover of the forest all his motley crew. Sergeant Corney and I spent a long hour persuading the lad of his folly, for after the powwow had come to such an abrupt end there was no question whatsoever but that Thayendanega would kill or make prisoner of every white man who crossed his path. He promised that we should have every opportunity of serving the patriot cause, and in order that we might be allowed to leave Cherry Valley again, he sent a written message to my uncle, of the purport of which I was then ignorant. We--meaning Sergeant Corney, Jacob, and myself--set off as soon as the conference with General Herkimer was at an end, on the long journey to our homes, knowing that the advance must be slow and cautious, for we had heard from Thayendanega's own lips that he was fully committed to the work of harrying the patriots. As I look back upon it now I wonder that we succeeded in traversing the wilderness, when Brant's force was so near at hand, without mishap; but, as it proved, we had more difficulty in persuading Jacob to accompany us than in eluding the foe whom we believed might spring upon us at any moment, and when we arrived home it was to learn that the danger to the inhabitants of the Mohawk Valley was more imminent even than when Thayendanega stalked away from the interview with General Herkimer. And this was the situation, as I afterward read it in printed letters: "The commissioners represented the people of the king to be numerous as the forest leaves and rich in every possession, while those of the colonies were exhibited as few and poor; that the armies of the king would soon subdue the rebels, and make them still weaker and poorer; that the rum of the king was as abundant as the waters of Lake Ontario; and that if the Indians would become his allies during the war, they should never want for goods or money. I had no more than time to tell my mother what I had seen, when my comrades were ready to set out for Oriskany Creek, counting to make their way over much the same ground we had just traversed. My uncle, Colonel Campbell, gave his consent to our departure after reading General Herkimer's message, and congratulated me, who deserved no praise, because I had succeeded in so far winning the confidence of a thorough soldier that he should make a personal request for the services of myself and my companions. Therefore it was that we still counted ourselves Minute Boys of the Mohawk Valley, and left our company in charge of John Sammons, who was to act in my stead until I came back. It pleased Jacob that we were to return to that portion of the country where we would be near Brant's forces, for he still cherished the hope of being able to aid in the rescuing of his father, if peradventure Peter Sitz yet remained in this world. All that stood between these enemies and the broad bosom of the Mohawk Valley was Fort Dayton, that poor apology for a defence, and Fort Schuyler, not yet completely built and illy manned. That this last named fortification could withstand an assault by such an army as Sir John was evidently making ready to bring against it, few believed, and all with whom I talked during the short time of our stay at home, were looking forward to the future with the gravest fears and keenest anxiety. When the afternoon was well-nigh spent, and we had come to a halt that we might take leave of our escort, Sergeant Corney seemed to think it necessary he should do what he might toward putting courage into the hearts of those who had accompanied us, by saying, as if haranguing a full army: The old man ceased speaking abruptly, turned about without word or sign, and plunged into the thicket, Jacob and I following close at his heels. I said to myself again and again, that if General Herkimer really needed such services as we could render, it would have been better had we remained with him, rather than spend so many days and be forced to such severe labor as was required for the march to Cherry Valley and back. We had accomplished nothing of importance by going home. Colonel Campbell knew even more regarding Brant's movements than we could tell him, and it was by no means necessary he should be informed immediately as to the result of General Herkimer's interview with the Mohawk sachem. As the days passed, and our every effort was needed to enable us to advance without absolutely running into the arms of the savages, for it seemed as if they were everywhere in the wilderness, Jacob became more resigned, or so it appeared, since he ceased to insist that this or that impracticable move be made. I did not suppose he no longer mourned for his father, but believed and hoped he had come to understand we could not do anything toward effecting a rescue until all the circumstances were favorable. All of us gave ourselves over to slumber as soon as we were stretched out on the ground, for however careful a watch might have been kept, it would not have availed if the enemy was bent on surprising us. In the early light of the new day either Jacob or I went out in search of small game, for it goes without saying that we could not have brought from home a sufficient amount of food to sustain us during all the time we spent roaming to and fro between Cherry Valley and the Oriskany. If, as often happened, we failed of finding game, we buckled our belts the tighter and went on, consoling ourselves with the hope that fortune would favor us before nightfall. Fortunately we did not come face to face with the redskins, therefore a detailed story of our march would be dull reading, for it could only be the same thing over and over again until the hour arrived when we entered General Herkimer's camp on the Oriskany, receiving there such a greeting from the commander himself as caused me to believe he really needed us for some important task. "You have done well to get back alive!" he cried, with a laugh. "It is pleasing to know that lads can do what many of their elders would balk at. So Colonel Campbell was willing to give you up to me?" [Illustration: "'You have done well to get back alive!'"] "Since I last saw you the enemy has gathered in strong force about Fort Schuyler, and it is necessary we get some word to the commandant, who is, in fact, besieged." "True for you, but the reason why I haven't sent any of my own men before this is, that if the messenger should be discovered while trying to get inside, Joseph Brant would know for a certainty that we on the outside believed the garrison to be hard pressed, which would probably work no end of mischief, for at present the enemy has every reason to suppose Colonel Gansevoort has all the men and stores he can possibly need." "Because you have every reason for going there, even though you had never heard that the fort was invested." I could not repress a look of surprise, for it was much as if the general was speaking in riddles, and, seeing the question on my face, he continued: "Is my father in their camp, sir?" Jacob cried, eagerly. There was no need now of urging Jacob to undertake the mission; since he had what seemed like positive information of his father's whereabouts, he would have gone in the direction of the besieged fort whether General Herkimer so desired, or opposed it. As for my part, having really given up all hope of seeing Peter Sitz again in this world, the probable fact of his being alive quickened the blood in my veins until I forgot that our services were required for anything save the rescue of the prisoner. Sergeant Corney gave no token either of joy or indifference; he kept in mind only the duties of a soldier, and prepared himself for the dangerous mission by asking: "Can you tell me, sir, what force the enemy have in front of Fort Schuyler?" "When shall we set out, sir?" I asked, as the general ceased speaking. "As soon as you have recovered from the fatigue of the journey. There is no time to be lost, unless you are eager to encounter more danger than is absolutely necessary." I fancied from the expression on the general's face that it pleased him because my comrade showed himself so eager, and there was a tinge of bitterness in my heart as I understood that, whatever good to the Cause might be the purpose of our task, the commander was, in a certain degree, trading on Jacob's love for his father. It was not for me, however, to criticize, even in my own mind, anything of a military nature which might be on foot. I had had ample time since the powwow with Thayendanega to decide whether or no I would serve under General Herkimer, and, having come to a decision, it stood me in hand to do whatsoever lay before me without question. I held much the same opinion as did Jacob, however, although not because of the same reason. Sergeant Corney, who had evidently been turning the matter over in his mind, said, after a time, to the commander: "It strikes me, sir, that we should get all the information we may concernin' the whereabouts of the enemy before settin' out. Not that I am askin' for any long delay," he added, quickly, observing a faint expression of displeasure on the general's face. "I would mingle among the men, to learn what they may know, from now until sunset, when, as it seems to me, our journey had best be begun. By startin' at that time we shall arrive before sunrise, an' thus have all the day in which to lay our plans for approachin' the fort." Jacob's eyes twinkled with satisfaction when he heard this proposition, and I believed he was thinking that if we lay in hiding a full day in front of the fortification, he might have opportunity to learn something concerning his father. "I shall leave to you who are most deeply concerned in the matter, the method of doing the work. Pick up all the information you can, and when you are ready to set out come to me for the final instructions." "The day we left Cherry Valley on Brant's trail, you lads agreed to follow me without questionin', even when it seemed as if I might be goin' wrong, an' now has come the time for you to keep that well in mind." "There is no reason why we should not do so," I replied, promptly. "I doubt not but that you, who are versed in military matters, could direct such a task better than any in this encampment." "Sleep!" Jacob exclaimed, angrily. "Think you it would be possible for me to sleep now, when we know that the moment has come in which I may be able to aid my father?" "Are you countin' on sleepin'?" Jacob asked, fiercely. "I am more accustomed to keepin' my eyes open durin' a long time than are you; but if it so be I have the chance, you may be certain I shall take advantage of it. Now, remember, eat an' sleep until I seek you out." Then the old man left us, and, watching for a moment, we saw him enter into conversation with this soldier and that, until it seemed as if he was bent on making the acquaintance of every member of the force. It seemed to me that my eyes were never open wider than when I threw myself down upon the ground by the side of Jacob, striving my best to cross over into Dreamland. The thought of attempting to force our way through such an army as General St. Leger had under his command; of the possibility that we might, perhaps, come across Peter Sitz; the chances that Colonel Gansevoort would be forced to surrender even before we could arrive with information that reinforcements were near at hand, and, in fact, the numberless happenings which might occur to change the entire situation, served to drive sleep so far from my eyelids that I despaired of being able to summon it until sheer exhaustion should come. "Where are you goin'?" he asked, quietly, in a tone which told me he had been no nearer slumber than I. "I cannot sleep, an' that's a fact. Perhaps after walkin' around a bit I shall feel more like it." "I'll go with you," Jacob said, rising to his feet. "There is no hope I can sleep, although I am willin', if needs be, to make it appear as if I was unconscious." Nearly all the defenders of the fort laughed these threats and promises to scorn, and it was believed that Gansevoort's men would hold out to the bitter end. We heard very much in addition, which was really no more than camp gossip, and it is not necessary I set it down here. Before the close of the day both Jacob and I really succeeded in going to sleep, and the shadows of night were beginning to lengthen when we were aroused by Sergeant Corney. "I reckon I've heard all that the men in camp have to tell," he said, when I stood upright in obedience to the pressure of his hand upon my shoulder. "It only remains to get our instructions from General Herkimer before makin' the attempt to have speech with those in the fort." "Haven't you seen him yet?" I asked, in surprise, for it had been in my mind that the old man would make every preparation before summoning us. "No, lad. This is a venture in which we share the dangers equally, an' it's no more than right you should hear all which may pass between the general an' me. Therefore let us bring the business to an end as speedily as may be." Well, we presented ourselves before the commander, announcing that the time had come when we were to leave camp, and, considering all the risks which were to be run, it seemed to me as if the message he would have delivered was exceeding brief and unimportant, as compared with what might result from the attempt at delivery. Having said this, the general insisted that each of us repeat the instructions so that he might know we understood them thoroughly, and then, clasping us by hand in turn, he bade us "Godspeed." I wish I might be able to say that my heart was stout when we left the encampment and were swallowed up by the shadows of the thicket; but such was not the case. I realized only too well all the dangers which were before us, and the odds against our being able to obey the general's orders. At the same time I knew that in event of failure there would be no possibility of retreat; but we would find ourselves in the hands of an enemy whose greatest delight consists in the most fiendish murder. We had but just set out when I observed that Sergeant Corney had left behind him every superfluous article of clothing, and all accoutrements save the knife in his belt, whereupon I asked the reason for thus laying himself bare to the enemy. "You lads have each a rifle, which are all the weapons we need, for it can avail us nothing to make a fight. If we win it must be by strategy, not force, and in case of success it will be a small matter to provide ourselves with other arms." "At the same time it gives me courage to know that I have something with which to defend myself," Jacob said, with a laugh which had in it nothing of mirth. "Ay, lad, so I counted, otherwise I had advised that you follow my example. It can do no harm to take whatsoever you will, for that which hinders may readily be cast aside. Now let us come to an end of tongue-waggin', for silence is our safest ally." "You lads are to remain here while I find out what portion of St. Leger's force is in front of us," he said, in a whisper, and then it was that I ventured to dispute his authority, having, as I believed, good reason for so doing. "You yourself have admitted that either Jacob or I could beat you out at work of this kind. Let me go, an' do you stay here." Then it was that Jacob insisted on performing the most dangerous portion of the work, and would have passed by me in the darkness to avoid a controversy, but that I clutched him by the arm, and Sergeant Corney whispered: It was not a time nor a place for argument, and in token of agreement with him I took up the lead. They were members of Brant's own tribe, as I knew from the language, with which I was reasonably familiar, and after a few moments it was possible to gather from the conversation that St. Leger had interfered in some way with their plans, or thwarted their desires. The stream was not so wide at this point but that we could hear fairly well what they said. It seemed necessary I should learn all I might before we crept past the small encampment, and, never dreaming how much of anguish the listening might cause my comrade, I remained silent and motionless, until enough had been said to convince me that their grievance consisted in the fact that they had not been allowed to indulge in the amusement of torturing a prisoner during that same evening. For a moment I ceased my efforts at retreat, and then, realizing that if we would take Jacob with us to the completion of General Herkimer's commands, he must not be allowed to hear anything more, I would have backed away rapidly. To my dismay and sorrow, however, he held me as if in a grip of iron, and, despite all silent efforts on my part, I was forced to remain. However, I could not retreat, because Jacob held me firmly in his clutch, from which I would have been unable to release myself save at the cost of betraying our whereabouts. With the hope that the lad might soon come to realize that we must be attending to General Herkimer's business, I remained silent and motionless, straining my ears to hear what the painted snakes were saying, and at the same time expecting to receive a silent protest from Sergeant Corney because of remaining inactive when the moments were so precious. In less than a single minute I knew that the savages were speaking of Peter Site, and the tightening of Jacob's grip told that he too was aware of the fact. When I had learned as much as has been set down here, I felt a tugging at my shirt, and knew, without seeing him, that Sergeant Corney was not willing to remain at this point any longer. The savages had begun to speak of St. Leger, and what he might succeed in doing so far as the siege was concerned, therefore it did not seem probable we would hear more regarding Peter Sitz. This much Jacob must have understood as well as I, for when I forced myself backward, pushing vigorously against him, he gave way, and we thus slowly retreated until having gained such a distance from the feasting murderers that it seemed safe to rise to our feet. "To what were you listenin'?" Sergeant Corney asked, in a whisper, and with no slight show of anger because I had lingered so long. In the fewest words possible I told him what we had heard, and when I was come to an end of the brief recital, Jacob asked, as if believing that now all our plans would be changed: "What are we to do?" "That for which we came," Sergeant Corney replied, decidedly. "But we know that my father is near at hand, and, if Thayendanega grows careless or indifferent, will be tortured to death." "Ay, lad, an' I could be no more sorry if Peter Sitz was my brother; but we cannot now do anything to aid him, even though the way lay clear before us," and the old man laid his hand on Jacob's shoulder as if to give emphasis to the words. "We are to push on toward the fort, an' must not heed any other duty." "But we stand as much chance of rescuing my father as we do of gettin' speech with Colonel Gansevoort, an' surely you will not leave a friend to be tortured to death?" Jacob said, pleadingly, and speaking incautiously loud. "Lad, we have no choice in the matter. If General Herkimer was in your father's place I would turn my back on him until after our work had been done. Can't you see that by loiterin' now we may be sacrificing all those brave fellows who are making ready to march from the Oriskany in the hope of aiding in holdin' the fort?" "That is your final word?" Jacob asked, sharply, and Sergeant Corney replied, feelingly: "But surely you will not attempt to go there alone!" I cried, in horror. "Even though you should come face to face with your father, you could not hope to set him free!" "I would rather die by his side than have him believe I remained idle while he was in such terrible danger." "If you cannot be persuaded, we must leave you, an' that without delay," the old man said, sadly. "God knows I would do all a man might to aid Peter Sitz; but if he was here at this minute, knowin' that the stake was bein' made ready for him, he would say that we were bound to keep on toward the fort regardless of his fate." "I shall go to him," Jacob replied, quietly, and Sergeant Corney turned aside with a sigh. But that I knew beyond a peradventure it was useless, I would have said all in my power to keep him with us; but his mind was fixed, and, to tell the truth, I could not well blame him for doing as I would have done, regardless of any duty I might owe to General Herkimer. "We can say nothing more, lad?" Sergeant Corney said to me, inquiringly, and I shook my head, for so great was the grief in my heart that just then I could make no reply. I believe Jacob understood how keen was my sorrow at thus parting, when the chances were that we would never meet again in this world, for, as if to put an end to the agony, he turned abruptly, not even stopping to press my hand, and in an instant was lost to view amid the gloom of the forest. As it was, however, we had come a long distance from our friends, and already sacrificed a life uselessly, so it seemed to me then in my bitterness of spirit. I had never before heard the old man speak in so despondent a tone, and it seemed an evil omen, coming as the words did when we were ready to plunge into the most dangerous portion of the work. The old man paused an instant, as if quite as much perplexed as I, and then whispered: Again and again we nearly stumbled upon a squad of men, small parties of Indians, or a single sentinel, until it seemed to me as if all St. Leger's force must be distributed throughout the thicket, and I began to despair of ever making our way through. Now we were where it seemed as dangerous to retreat as to advance, and I strove manfully to keep from my mind all thoughts of the perils that surrounded us, lest I grow faint-hearted at the very time when all my courage was needed if we would save our lives. To do this it was only necessary I think of Jacob and his hazardous venture, which could serve no good purpose even though he succeeded in avoiding the enemy, therefore my mind dwelt on the perils which confronted him, causing me in a measure to forget where I myself stood. To go on in such a manner was most wearisome, and I was well-nigh at the end of my strength when a faint lightness in the eastern sky gave warning that the day was near at hand. At the same moment I observed this fact, the sergeant gripped me by the arm, and, understanding he would have speech with me, I halted. "It is time we went into hidin', lad, although I did count we would come within sight of the fort before bein' obliged to call a halt." However, we were there, and within another hour must be screened from view after some fashion, therefore it was useless to grumble, or say this or that movement was impossible; but rather I should do the best I might, and trust to the chapter of accidents that I did not lead my companion into what would prove to be a trap. All the thicket looked dense in the night, but when I was finally come to a clump of bushes through which it was difficult to force my way, I stopped and whispered to Sergeant Corney. "This seems to be such a place as you would have; but who can say whether it will answer our purpose?" "So much the worse for us if it does not," the old man replied, grimly. "Make your way in, an' if there be no tree to give us a roostin'-place, we must take our chances on the ground, for the day is comin' on apace." "It is better than the open country," Sergeant Corney said, when I would have found fault with our blind choice. "We will burrow amid these small bushes until daylight, an' then, if necessary, go to roost." My sorrow because Jacob had left us on a venture from which I did not believe he could ever return, was so great that I felt no desire for food, but ate it from a sense of duty, even as I had turned my back on my comrade when he needed aid. It can readily be imagined that we crept even nearer the edge of the thicket than was really safe in order to get some idea of our position, and to my great surprise and delight I found that we had come in as direct a course as if we had followed a blazed trail. "How are we to attract their attention, providin' we succeed in creepin' up under the wall?" I asked, after a long pause, and he replied, grimly: "I'll answer that question after you've told me how we're goin' to stop 'em shootin' at us while we're tryin' to get across." Then it was I understood that even though the enemy did not see us while we were making our way over the plain, the sentinels in the fort were doubtless on the alert against just such an attempt on the part of the Indians, and there was little question but that they would fire at any moving thing which came within their line of vision. "That's exactly the case, lad, an' I'm countin' that betwixt 'em we'll be peppered in fine shape, else there are some mighty poor marksmen hereabouts." "Why didn't you tell the general that we couldn't carry his message? Didn't you think of all this at the time?" "Ay, lad, it was pictured in my mind much as we see it now; but he said we were to do the job, an' it wasn't for me to point out the danger." "Why not, if you felt certain we would be shot?" I cried, angrily. "Because a soldier has good reason when he enlists to expect he'll stop a bullet, else what would be the need of powder an' ball?" Having said this, the old man relapsed into silence, as if he was trying to figure out how the work might be done with less of danger, and I sat staring at him in a rage, for to my mind he had much the same as compassed his own death and mine by not speaking of all the perils in our path. Now it was that I almost envied Jacob his position. It is true the odds were strongly against his being able to make his way through the camp without being captured, yet it was possible for him at any time to give over the attempt and retrace his steps, whereas we were absolutely penned up in the thicket, where retreat was even more perilous than advance. How that day was passed by us I can hardly say even now, when I look back calmly upon all the incidents which were then so terrifying. We had eaten the last crumb of our corn bread in the morning, without appeasing the hunger which assailed us, and now could only chew the twigs of the bushes, striving to make ourselves believe we extracted nourishment therefrom. Screened as we were from the lightest breath of wind, it was cruelly hot in that hiding-place. Tiny streams of perspiration ran down my face, wetting the leaves beneath my head, and I chewed them in the vain hope that the suspicion of moisture might serve to quench my thirst. When the day was within an hour of its close, I suddenly became aware that the old soldier was stripping the fringe from his shirt, and immediately I sat bolt upright, fancying for the moment that he had lost his reason. "What are you doin'?" I asked, sharply, and he replied, with a faint smile: "If the sentinel who stands on the wall of the fort facin' us is 'tendin' to his business as a soldier should, then there's a chance I can let him know these 'ere bushes shelter decent people." When this had been done to his satisfaction, and it seemed to give him greatest pleasure to keep me in suspense as to his purpose, he tied to the smaller end of the stick the fringe from his shirt. "You can set it down as a fact that I won't creep very far out," the old man replied, with a smile. "It's only the ghost of a chance that anybody will take heed of it, an' yet there's no harm in the tryin'." When finally he crept cautiously out toward the edge of the thicket, I watched him as eagerly as if all our troubles would be over in case we succeeded in attracting the attention of those in the fort, whereas, no matter how many of our friends might see the waving fringe, we would still be in the same danger of getting a bullet from the besiegers. [Illustration: "Sergeant Corney waved the bit of fringe slowly to and fro"] Then, peering through the branches, I could see the sentinel on the wall near the sally-port, and it goes without saying that I watched with my heart in my mouth for some gesture which might tell that he understood what was of so much importance to us. It was fortunate that we had blindly stumbled upon a hiding-place a few yards in advance of the enemy's line of watchers, otherwise the scheme could never have been successful. Even as it was, I expected each instant that some painted snake would take it into his wicked head to wander around in front of the thicket, when the game would come to a speedy end. Another hand was waved in reply, and then, having finished his task in good shape, Sergeant Corney crept back to me as he whispered, gleefully: "I reckon we needn't fear that any of the garrison will shoot at us this night, an', what's more to our advantage, we won't be called on to lay behind the walls very long tryin' to attract attention." "It was a great plan!" I replied, as if all our troubles were at an end, and then again came the thought that it would be necessary for us to creep out from the thicket under the very noses of those who were on guard, and straightway all my fears returned. It no longer seemed to me as if we had gained any great advantage from the old man's efforts. As the sun slowly sank behind the hills in the west, I forgot the thirst and the hunger which had assailed me. So great was the fear in my mind because of what we were about to attempt, that bodily discomforts seemed as nothing. The only thing in our favor was that the night promised to be dark. Already were clouds hiding the setting sun, the wind was growing stronger, and it was reasonable to believe that within an hour the heavens would be covered as with a black veil. After having succeeded in attracting the attention of the sentinels, Sergeant Corney crept back to my side, lying there at full length and in silence. I believed his anxiety as to the outcome of this mad venture was so great that he did not dare indulge in conversation, and because of such idea was I even more cast down in spirit. I tried to count the seconds in order to have some knowledge of the passage of time; but could not fix my mind upon such a simple act. "Have you given over tryin' to gain the fort?" "Why should you think so, lad?" he asked, as if in surprise. "We had best make the venture after midnight, rather than now while the enemy is astir." So great was my fear as to what the future might have in store for us that I had failed to hear the hum of voices, until my attention was thus attracted, and then I realized that it was yet quite early in the evening, instead of well toward morning, as I had supposed. "I reckon, lad, that the time has come for us to make a try at deliverin' the general's message. As I figger it, we had best bear off to the westward, strikin' the fort on that side nearabout where the fragment of a bush stands, than to push on for the main gate. It seems reasonable the enemy will watch that part of the works closer than any other, in order to guard against a sortie, an' if Colonel Gansevoort has been told of our signals, every sentinel will be on the alert for us." "Well?" I asked, as he ceased speaking for an instant. "Why do you propose such a plan as that?" I asked, suspiciously, and the old man replied, hesitatingly, as if averse to having his reasons known: "In case they see us before we are well on our way, he who is in advance stands the best show of escapin'." "But why should my chances be made any better than yours?" I asked, angrily, for even though I was afraid of the venture, it was not in my mind to be treated like a child, as seemed to be the case when the old man was considering my safety rather than his own. "Are we to go now?" I asked, striving earnestly to prevent my voice from trembling. However it may be, we did succeed in crossing that open space without being seen by those who would have delighted in torturing us to death; but it was as if I lived a full lifetime before coming within the deep shadows cast by the walls on the west side, at the point decided upon by Sergeant Corney. Some moments before we arrived I understood, and my heart literally bounded with joy, that those on the inside were already aware of our approach, and waiting to receive us, for we heard subdued voices from the sentinels on the walls, as if they were giving information to those below of our progress. "It's a big thing we have done, lad," Sergeant Corney said, as he drew himself up by my side while both of us hugged the earthworks as limpets do a rock. "It stands to reason we'll be in danger many a time before we go out from this world, unless it so chances that we come to grief here; but I dare venture to say we'll never be nearer death than we have been since leaving the thicket." The relief of mind was so great, and the knowledge that we had come thus far undetected under the very eyes of a watchful enemy was so overpowering, that I could not for a moment make reply, and by the time I had gathered my scattered senses--scattered through very joy--we heard voices from the inside which told that the men were seeking to learn exactly where we were. "Keep right on till you come to the horn-works," I heard a voice whisper, and the words had little or no meaning to me, for I was not familiar with the names of different portions of a regular fort; but the sergeant seemed to understand the command, for he began to creep in a southerly direction, still keeping within the shadow of the wall, until we arrived where was a stockade. By lying with our faces against these narrow openings, it was possible to hold converse with those on the inside almost as well as if we were within the walls. "Who are you, and where did you come from?" a voice asked, and Sergeant Corney took it upon himself, much to my relief, to act as spokesman. "Messengers sent by General Herkimer, who have come from Oriskany." "When did you leave there?" "We thought the woods were overrun with Indians and Tories." "So they are; but by some lucky chance we have come through thus far in safety, and would have speech with the commandant." "I am Colonel Gansevoort. My people saw your signal this afternoon, and I myself have been watching for your arrival, but supposed you to be fugitives, for I never dared hope there was a possibility of reinforcements so near at hand. Will you make an attempt to get in by the sally-port?" "Is there any other entrance, sir?" "Yes; but the enemy have been keeping sharp watch there since noon, as if thinking something of this same kind might be attempted." Then Sergeant Corney delivered the message with which we were charged, and during a full minute after he ceased speaking the commandant remained silent. When he spoke again, it was to say: "Meaning what?" Colonel Gansevoort asked, with no slight tinge of impatience in his tone, as if he did not care to hear the old soldier summing up all the situation. "Meanin' that we are runnin' no greater risks in goin' back to General Herkimer, or at least not many more, than by tryin' to gain admission to the fort." "It will simplify matters if you choose to return; but I would not ask any man to do so, in view of all the danger." "What do you say, lad?" Sergeant Corney asked, laying his hand on my shoulder, and, although I would have given anything I possessed to have been at that moment behind the walls, I was not minded to show that my courage was less than his, therefore I replied: "It is for you to say, accordin' to the agreement we made." "An' if it should be that we didn't get through alive?" Sergeant Corney said as if to himself, and the commandant replied, quickly: "In such case, without means of knowing what has happened to you, we shall make the sortie and shed much blood uselessly. Is there anything I can do for you before you start?" The old soldier hesitated, as if unable to think of anything we needed, and I, remembering the hunger which had assailed us while we lay hidden in the thicket, replied: "If it so be you could spare us a bit of corn bread, we would be the better able to make a hurried journey." "That you shall have, and in plenty," the commandant said, as if relieved at knowing our wants could be gratified with so little trouble, and Sergeant Corney added: "Only so much as we can put in our pockets, for this is not the time to encumber ourselves even with provisions." Some of the soldiers who had been standing near by hurried away, returning a few moments later with as much bread as would have served to satisfy our hunger for a week at least. "We shall strike into the thicket to the westward, making a circle to the south around the fort, until coming to the road leading to Oriskany, crossing the river just below here, and now, sir, if you have no further demands, we will go." "May God have you in His keeping," the colonel said, fervently, and without waiting to hear more the old soldier set off, this time leaving it for me to bring up the rear. Now it was I came to understand that the rain was beginning to fall; the wind came in spiteful gusts, betokening a storm, and I could have hugged myself with glee at the thought that the elements were favoring us in the attempt which, at the outset, had seemed doomed to failure. Lest I spend too many words in the telling of it, let me say, in short, that we gained the thicket without causing an alarm, and, what was really strange, made our way through it in a westerly direction for fully a mile without meeting any living being. Then it was that Sergeant Corney came to a halt, and, taking the corn bread from his pocket, began to munch it greedily as he said to me, speaking indistinctly because of the fulness of his mouth: "I reckon, lad, we've passed the Britishers' lines, an' can begin to circle southward from this point." "It would have pleased you better had we made the attempt to get into the fort?" "Well, and why not?" I asked, in surprise. "Because it does not please me to linger when there is other work to be done." "But there was no real need of undertakin' this task," I said, with irritation. "Yet it gave us an excuse to which he would listen for leavin', when, had we told the truth, I question if he had not tried to stop us." "Well, what is the truth?" I cried, sharply. "Is there nothin' in your mind that we are bound to do, now the message has been delivered?" "Ay, lad, all of that. Neither you nor I would have let him gone alone in the hopeless task of rescuin' his father, had it not been that duty demanded of us to keep our faces turned toward yonder fort. Now we have done that which General Herkimer required, we can set out to fulfil our duty toward the lad, an' this goin' back on the road to Oriskany is but little more than we would be forced to do in order to gain the spot where we parted with him, for I'm countin' that he was then near by the place where his father is held prisoner." I could have hugged the old man, but that he might have fancied I had lost my senses. When we parted with Jacob there was no thought in my mind that Sergeant Corney had the slightest idea of joining in what was a most desperate venture, and I even fancied he felt a certain sense of relief in having such a good excuse for not sticking his nose into the Indian encampment. But now I understood that all the while he held firm to the determination to do whatsoever he might toward aiding Peter Sitz, and I began to feel real affection for the noble old man. Whether we might be able to find Jacob or not, and the chances were that he had already been made prisoner, we could say to ourselves that the poor lad was not deserted by us in his hour of need, and, if the worst happened, it would be no slight satisfaction to us in after years. The storm increased each moment, and we were soon wetted to the skin, but hardly conscious of the discomfort because of the safety which this downpour brought to us. I had never given Sergeant Corney credit for any great knowledge of woodcraft, because he came to us from over the seas where his life had been spent fighting battles in the open, and could not be expected to cope with the savage foe, as did our people who had always been accustomed to the skulking methods of warfare practised by the redskins. Not until we were come to the trail which led to Oriskany did the old man halt, and then it was to say to me: "From this on I'm allowin' we had better be cautious how we move." "But surely there is no danger of meetin' any of the savages now," I said, like a simple, and he replied, with a laugh: "True for you, lad; but General Herkimer was to begin an advance on the mornin' after we left camp, and he should be nearabout. To run upon his sentinels in the darkness might not be agreeable." "We are messengers for the general! We are friends!" "You come from an odd direction if that be true," was the reply, and at the same instant a vigorous hand seized me by the shirt-collar. Then it was that Sergeant Corney stepped forward, as he asked: "Are you of General Herkimer's force?" "How much will it benefit you to get such information?" "That is exactly what we have done, my friend," Sergeant Corney replied, gravely, "and for the good reason that Colonel Gansevoort had a message for us to deliver to the general. You are right in questioning us, for under such situations a soldier had best be overcautious than too credulous. But now we ask to be sent to the commander." "Have you seen any of the enemy near at hand?" the man asked. "Then come with me," and the sentinel deserted his post to lead us into camp, a proceeding which called forth harsh criticisms from Sergeant Corney, despite the fact that he was being benefited thereby. It was near to daybreak when we followed the soldier to where General Herkimer lay under a shelter of pine boughs; but owing to the storm the gloom was quite as profound as at any time during the night. To my surprise, the general came out from his poor apology for a tent on hearing our voices, although we spoke cautiously low, and even then I could but ask myself why it was that an experienced soldier such as he was not giving more heed to his bodily welfare, for men on the eve of encountering a strong enemy surely need all the repose which can be had. "Then you did not succeed in getting there?" "Ay, that we did, sir," the old soldier replied, emphatically; "but Colonel Gansevoort had the desire to send a message to you, and we have brought it, hopin' to be excused from further duty for a short time." Then he asked what the old soldier meant by wishing to be excused from duty, and the sergeant, in the fewest words possible, gave him an account of our proceedings since leaving the camp at Oriskany, concluding by saying: "Is it in your mind that the prisoner may be taken out of Thayendanega's camp?" General Herkimer exclaimed. "We do not count on any such good fortune; but follow the lad simply that he may know he has not been forgotten. If it so be you need us, sir, we will wait until you have gained the fort before making any effort to join him." "We reckon on resting our legs a bit, sir, before settin' out. You will not advance for some time to come, sir?" "How far do you count we are from the enemy's pickets?" "Then we shall remain here, unless matters get beyond my control, until having heard the signal." "It appears that things are not just as they should be in this camp, lad." "You heard what the general said?" "Well, who of his men are making the trouble?" Before I could so much as make a guess at the proper answer, I must needs be told that there was trouble, for, through having failed to understand exactly what the commander meant, I had not suspected that there was anything serious brewing. But Sergeant Corney, experienced as he was in such matters, seemed to know as if he had been informed in so many words that insubordination was rife in the camp, and at a time when it was in the highest degree necessary the men should move in harmony. Since I could not even so much as hazard a guess, the old man, forgetting his weariness and the need of gaining repose, led me out to where he had been halted by the sentinel, and, finding him at his post, began his investigations by saying: "Did the general send you over here to tell me that?" the man asked, in a certain tone of irritation, and Sergeant Corney replied, soothingly: "That we cannot say; but there is a question I would ask you, as between man and man, for mayhap the lives of us all depend upon the general sense of good fellowship. Tell me plainly, is there insubordination in the camp?" "Then it _is_ insubordination!" Sergeant Corney said, sadly, and the sentinel replied, angrily: "It is only common sense and a desire to aid the Cause. If we are eager to begin a battle which will drive the Tories and their painted allies from the valley, surely that man is a criminal who would hold us back." "Then Colonel Gansevoort is as great a coward as General Herkimer, for we are of sufficient strength to march whithersoever we will." Sergeant Corney turned as if to go, and then suddenly wheeling upon the sentinel, said: "I do not read my Bible, as a man should; but yet I remember that in it can be found these words: 'Fools die for want of wisdom,' an' I'm allowin', my friend, if you have any desire to linger in this 'ere world, that you take the statement home mighty strong." With this cutting remark, which for a moment I feared would provoke a downright quarrel, Sergeant Corney strode off into the darkness, I following meekly at his heels. "Surely there can be nothing which would work harm in this desire of the men to go forward," I said, when the sergeant had come to a halt, throwing himself down under a tree as if to rest. "It should be a good sign when soldiers are eager to go into battle." I laid myself down by his side; but it was not to sleep, for I realized that the old soldier would not have spoken in such a tone unless matters, according to his belief, had been in a most serious condition. I was still speculating upon the situation, sorrowing because the men would, at such a time, while the lives of so many depended upon concerted action, set up their individual opinions against those who had been put in authority over them, when a bustle on every side told that the soldiers were awakening to a day of noble struggle for their country, or worse than criminal bickerings. I did not understand fully what he meant; but it was sufficient for me that he was no longer in doubt as to what was best, and right willingly did I obey his orders, for my stomach was uncomfortably empty. There was no lack of food in this command which seemed to be divided against itself, and the breakfast would have been to me most enjoyable but for the sauce with which it was served. Every man's tongue was loosened as if its owner was the only man amid all the company who knew exactly which was the wisest course to pursue, and I dare venture to say never a commander had under him at a critical moment, such as this certainly was, so many pig-headed recruits. "Are we to go forward, sir, as men should who set out to relieve a besieged fort, or must we loiter here until the enemy has worked his will?" For an instant the general made no reply, and Sergeant Corney whispered to me, angrily: "That man deserves to be shot, an' all the more so because he is high in command. I've seen troops in many a tight place durin' my life, but never before heard any thin' that quite come up to that." When, after a pause of fully a moment, General Herkimer spoke, it was to ask: "Do you know that messengers have come from Gansevoort, asking that we hold our hands until he shall give the signal?" "The garrison will make a sortie immediately after giving the signal, and we can thus go into action with some hope of success," General Herkimer said, mildly and firmly. "To advance before Gansevoort is ready would be to imperil the lives of all this command." "Speaking more particularly for yourself, sir, I suppose," Colonel Paris said, with a sneer, and it would have given me the greatest pleasure to have struck him down for that insult. "You are not only a coward, sir, but a Tory!" I shall always hold that General Herkimer was a brave man, because, after a severe effort which was evident to us all, he so far mastered his righteous anger as to say, quietly: "I am placed over you as a father and guardian, and shall not lead you into difficulties from which I may not be able to extricate you." Unless the soldiers of the command had been literally beside themselves, such words would have brought them to a proper frame of mind; but as it was, the temperate reply seemed to inflame their anger, and on the moment there was a very babel of outcries, amid which it was only possible to distinguish the demand that the force be led toward Fort Schuyler without delay, regardless of any message which the sergeant and I might have brought. "I was afraid it would come to that," Sergeant Corney whispered to me, with a sigh. "It don't stand to reason that any man could hold his temper a great while under such a tongue-lashin' as those curs gave the commander, an' I'm predictin' that every mother's son of 'em will rue this mornin's work." Immediately the unwilling permission for them to do as they pleased had been given, the men set about making ready for the advance as if each moment was of the greatest value, and in an incredibly short time after General Herkimer had been bullied into agreeing to that which his better judgment told him to be wrong, the company was ready for the march. "Ay, lad, I'm thinkin' that we had best stand by the general, for he may be needin' us before this mornin's work is done, an' we sha'n't be takin' a great deal of time from Jacob, because, in case of arrivin' before Colonel Gansevoort is ready for us, the scrimmage will soon be over." Even had Sergeant Corney not decided to follow the commander before the line of march had been arranged, he would have done so later, because General Herkimer beckoned us to approach when he took his place at the head of the column. "Are you counting on coming with me, despite the unnecessary danger which we know will be encountered?" he asked, and Sergeant Corney replied, promptly: "Ay, sir, that we are, and had already settled it in our own minds." "Thayendanega's camp lies southeasterly from the fort; but how far it may be from the trail, I cannot say." Then it was that the sentinel with whom the sergeant and I had already spoken, came running into camp, for it seemed a favorite trick of his to desert a post of duty whenever inclination prompted. It was Colonel Cox who asked, advancing: "Did you fire that gun?" "Did you kill either of them?" "I do not think I even scratched 'em. The wood is too dense for much good shooting." Colonel Cox wheeled around as if the information was of no especial importance, when even a boy like me understood somewhat of its import, and, carelessly saluting the commander, reported that the troops were ready for the word to march. "Is nothing to be done toward finding out whether the Indians whom the sentinel saw, succeeded in getting back to their own camp?" I asked of my companion, and he replied, grimly, with what was very like a smile of satisfaction on his wrinkled face: "These officers who have so much wind to spare in camp cannot afford the time to consider such trifles as a few scouts skulkin' around to make certain of what we are doin'." "An' we are like to find ourselves ambushed!" I cried, in dismay. "Ay, that's what we are, lad, an' I'm thinkin' there will be no way out of the difficulty until some of these insubordinates are killed off, which will be greatly to the advantage of the command, accordin' to my way of thinkin'." I will set down here that which I read in a book several years after the day Sergeant Corney and I followed General Herkimer on what we believed to be a most ill-advised and hazardous march, in view of Colonel Gansevoort's request, and from the words it will be seen that I am not the only person who lays blame of all that happened upon those loud-mouthed, imitation soldiers who were so soon to show themselves cowards. All the colonels of this small army were on horseback, a fact which caused me no little astonishment, for I had heard my uncle say again and again, and there can be no question but that he was a brave and skilful soldier, that the man who went in the saddle to meet savages was courting his own death. So great was my indignation against these men who had badgered the commander that I mentally hugged myself with delight because of their folly, not only in thus riding, but in moving the column without scouts ahead to learn the whereabouts of the enemy, or to ascertain what might be in front of, or on either side of them. It is true that Colonel Visscher's regiment was detailed as a rear-guard, and I question if even such a precaution would have been taken but for the fact that the provision and ammunition wagons, which were not able to move at as rapid a pace as the men, needed something in the way of protection. "Ay, lad, you may be right, an' yet I am questionin' whether we shall be any worse off here than further in the rear, for if it so be Thayendanega's sneaks count on ambushin' us, I can tell you to a dot just where it'll be done. They will let this gang of men--you can't call 'em soldiers after what we have seen--get well into the ravine before makin' any attack. Consequently it will be about the centre of the line that suffers most." "Ay, lad, an' there's no question about our gettin' it hot there!" I am willing to confess that I grew more and more frightened as we neared the ravine, and but for the disgraceful scenes of insubordination which occurred earlier in the morning, I would have cried out against the folly of thus going blindly into such trap as Thayendanega's murderers had probably prepared for us. As it was, however, I would not let these mutinous men who called themselves soldiers see that we from Cherry Valley would question a commander's orders, whatever might be the situation, and I held my peace, but with much effort and inward fear. "Oh, you are the messengers who claim that Colonel Gansevoort asked us to remain idle until he should give the signal, eh?" the fellow said, in an offensive tone, and Sergeant Corney raised his rifle clubwise, as if to strike him down, but held his hand as he said, slowly, and in a tone which was full of menace: "But that you are already so near your death at the hands of the enemy, I would make certain you never again questioned my word! We did go to the fort, while you were engaged in the manly sport of badgerin' your commander, an old soldier who knows his business, an' had you been with us it is certain you'd never made the attempt to get back. Go on to your death, you fool, an' I'll hope it don't come so soon but that you'll have time to realize you did all in your power to bring it about the more speedily." By this time we were well within the ravine which has already been described, and the old soldier had hardly ceased speaking when from amid the foliage ahead and on every side came a circle of fire like unto the lightning's flash, followed by the crackling of firearms, which served to drown the death-cries from every portion of our lines. We had marched like children into the ambush, and on the instant a blind rage took possession of me because I had followed the mutineers when I knew full well to what they were hastening. Even as the flashes of light sprang out from among the leaves, I saw Colonel Cox, he who was responsible for all that flood of death, leap high in the air, only to fall back dead, and at the same moment General Herkimer's horse reared and screamed in a death-agony. More than the rear-guard would have beat a retreat at that moment, but for the fact that the baggage-wagons hemmed us in so that flight was well-nigh impossible. "It is for you an' I, lad, to look after the general! He is wounded!" Then it was that I realized the commander was pinned to the earth by his dead horse, and, without being really conscious of my movements, I ran to his side. Without really seeing it, I was conscious that all this was taking place around us, and then I heard Sergeant Corney say to the general, in a matter-of-fact tone: "That's a bad wound in your knee, sir." Acting under Sergeant Corney's commands, for the old man was as cool as if he had been born amid just such scenes of carnage, I helped raise the body of the horse until it was possible for General Herkimer to roll himself out from beneath the dead animal, and, while we worked to aid him, the commander was crying to his men to stand firm if they would save their own lives. "Rally, there!" he shouted, yet lying, unable to move, upon the ground. "Stand firm, and we yet have a good chance of holding our own!" All the while Sergeant Corney and I worked over him he continued to cheer the frightened men, until, by the time we had dragged him to where he could sit upright with his back against a huge tree, placing his saddle beneath him to serve as a prop, the men were beginning to understand that the only chance for life was to fight desperately. Sergeant Corney and I gave no heed to what was going on around us until we had bound up the general's knee in such a manner that there was no longer danger he would bleed to death, and when this had been done I noted that our people had taken shelter behind the trees, where they could strike a blow in their own defence. When Sergeant Corney and I had done all we could to render the commander more comfortable, we took our share in the fight, remaining close beside General Herkimer meanwhile, lest the Indians make an attempt to take him prisoner. "Tire 'em out, lads!" the general shouted, encouragingly. "You never yet saw a painted snake who could take much punishment, an' it's only a question of holding your own awhile longer. Make every bullet count, for, although we have ammunition in plenty, there is no good reason why we should waste any." Then the commander, most likely in order to set his men an example of coolness, rather than because he needed the fumes of tobacco, quietly lighted his pipe, and, seeing this, our people cheered at the same time they shot down every feather-bedecked form that was exposed to view. [Illustration: "'Tire 'em out, lads!' the General shouted"] A few moments later General Herkimer gave the word that our force form a circle, in order to meet the foe at every point, and after this had been done the enemy were the better held in check. Even at the moment I was surprised when I found myself thinking of the danger to which Jacob must be exposed, rather than of my own desperate plight. While on the alert for a living target, I speculated whether he was yet free, and if he had discovered the whereabouts of his father. Savages as well as white men were forced to cease their efforts to kill, and for a time we crouched beneath such poor shelter as the trees afforded, but drenched to the skin in a twinkling. General Herkimer was in no better plight than those who were the most exposed. The fire in his pipe was drowned out; but he continued to hold it between his teeth as he said, in a low tone, to Sergeant Corney: "Pass the word quietly for our people to close in where it will be possible to hear what I say. Thus far I've noted that the savages have watched until a rifle has been discharged, when they rush up and use their hatchets. We can put an end to that kind of butchery." The old soldier did as he had been bidden, moving to and fro without fear of exposing himself, for the downpour was so great that no man could have loaded a musket with dry powder, and even while the storm continued the circle was contracted until the commander was enclosed by a living hedge. Immediately the summer storm had so far sub-sided that the weapons could be loaded, the battle was continued, raging with even more fury than before, as the enemy tried to overwhelm us by a sudden rush, and in a very few seconds the painted fiends came to understand that it was no longer an easy matter to tomahawk a man immediately after he had fired a shot. When the savages found that their tactics were guarded against, it seemed as if they lost courage, and gradually fell back a little, having had quite as much of Whig marksmanship as was pleasing. "They are bringin' up the Tories! Here come the Johnson Greens!" I had thought that the men under General Herkimer's command fought bravely after the cowards were weeded out, and those who were left understood that, but for the mutiny in camp, the ambush would not have been successful; but now they seemed like veritable tigers as the Tories came into the battle. There was no longer any thought of fighting from behind trees, but each man pushed forward intent only on vanquishing the renegades, until none save Sergeant Corney and I were left to guard our wounded commander. I will set down here that account of the battle from this point, which I found some time since in a book containing the story of the fight in the ravine, sometimes called the Battle of Oriskany: "Major Watts came up with a detachment of Johnson's Greens to support them (the savages), but the presence of these men, mostly refugees from the Mohawk, made the patriots more furious, and mutual resentments, as the parties faced and recognized each other, seemed to give new strength to their arms. They leaped upon each other with the fierceness of tigers, and fought hand to hand and foot to foot with bayonets and knives." While this portion of the battle was at its height, we suddenly heard the reports of firearms from the direction of the fort, and my heart leaped into my throat, for I understood that Colonel Gansevoort was making the sortie for which we should have waited. Hemmed in as we were, our ranks thinned by death and the desertion of the rear-guard, it should have been possible for the enemy to cut us down to a man, and yet the retreating cry of the savages sufficed to send all that force back to the encampment, leaving us in possession of the field, even though we might not rightly be called victors. Some of our people, upon whom the fever of battle had fastened more firmly, would have pursued the cowards, even though it might have been to come directly upon the main army, who were then, doubtless, engaged in checking the sortie from the fort; but General Herkimer sent a squad of the cooler soldiers after them, with the result that the valiant Johnson Greens were allowed to continue their retreat unmolested. The contents of the baggage-wagons were thrown out to make room for our wounded, and, while the uproar of the battle near the fort rang in our ears, we retreated from that valley of death. Now those who had raised their voices against the general, accusing him of cowardice, did all within their power to make atonement by their care of him, and willing hands bore him on a litter that he might be spared the pain of transportation in the lumbering wagons. It was a sorry train that left the ravine, not stopping to bury the dead because of the certainty that St. Leger's army would come to finish the bloody work as soon as the force from the fort had been driven back, and when it was in motion Sergeant Corney gripped me by the arm, as he said: "Meanin' that we're to go back in search of Jacob?" I asked, feeling for the moment as if it would be impossible for me to voluntarily turn my face in the direction of the enemy, now that I was no longer animated by the fever of battle. "Ay, lad, our duty is now toward him, havin' done all we may under General Herkimer's command. As I figger it, we're free to do as we choose, for we can no longer aid those who are goin' back when, but for rankest mutiny, they might have entered the fort amid the cheers of victory. If Colonel Gansevoort is forced to surrender, it can all be set down to the credit of those who howled so loudly this mornin' that they could march straight through the enemy's lines." "There is little hope we can find Jacob after so long a time has passed," I said, thinking of the perils that must necessarily await us while we tried to make our way through Thayendanega's camp. "I grant you that, lad, an' yet we are bound to make the venture, or let it be said that we deserted a comrade when he needed us." "We did that same when we pressed on toward the fort," I suggested, feebly. "Ay, an' because we were in duty bound to carry the general's message. Now that work has been done, we are free." This we stuffed into the pockets of our shirts; filled our powder-horns and bullet-pouches from the ammunition on the dead bodies, and then we were ready to leave that valley of death. All this while it was possible to hear the din of that battle which was being fought near the fort; but as we advanced it became evident that the conflict was subsiding. Much to my surprise, Sergeant Corney appeared sadly disappointed when the tumult of battle died away, and I asked if he believed that the people from the fort should have made an attempt to inflict more punishment upon the enemy. "Not a bit of it, lad," the old soldier replied, promptly. "They have already done more than could have been expected; but yet I had a hope that the scrimmage would have lasted a bit longer." "Why?" I asked, in surprise. "Because we stand a better chance of circlin' around to where we left Jacob, while the villains have somethin' to keep 'em busy. Now there's no longer any need to fight, they'll likely keep sharper watch. Yet I count that Peter Sitz, if they haven't killed him already, has a bigger show of livin' a spell longer than he had last night." When we left the ravine in search of the lad, it was necessary we advance over much the same course as when we carried General Herkimer's message, and it was slightly in our favor that we knew fairly well at how great a distance from the general encampment of the enemy we must keep in order to avoid running into the Indians. It was also probable, as Sergeant Corney had suggested, that they had taken a number of prisoners during the fight with the garrison of the fort, as well as at the ravine, and the murderous scoundrels would be so occupied with making preparations for torturing such poor unfortunates as to neglect their duties as St. Leger's allies. When I had thus viewed the situation, it did not appear such a difficult matter for us to gain a station to the southward of Thayendanega's encampment; but coming across Jacob was quite a different proposition. Finding a needle in a hay-stack seemed much more simple than running upon a lad who was doing his best to remain hidden from view, unless, perchance, he had already been captured. "Suppose Jacob has been made prisoner? Would you risk your life to save him?" The old man made no reply until I had repeated the question, and then he said, slowly: Sergeant Corney had used a good many words in replying to my short question, and I believed he had done so to the end that I might not fully understand what he meant. As I made it out, however, he would turn his back on poor Jacob in case the savages had him in their power, and I asked myself again and again what course I should pursue in such a situation. "How far do you reckon we are from St. Leger's force?" I asked, when Sergeant Corney threw himself on the ground within shelter of a clump of bushes, as if for a long halt. "Unless he should see them torturin' his father, an' then it's certain he'd make a fight, no matter how great the odds against him," I suggested, thinking of what I would be tempted to do under similar circumstances. "In that case we're better off where we are. I don't allow that a lad has any right to deliberately throw away his own life, an' that's what Jacob would be doin' if he showed himself when the villains had his father at the stake." "He couldn't stand still an' see it done." "It's a mighty hard outlook," I said, with a sigh. "You're right, an' at the same time you ain't makin' matters any better by chewin' it over. A man don't fit himself for a fight by figgerin' out all the possible horrors." "An' you think we'll have a fight before this venture is ended?" "I'll leave it to you if somethin' of the kind don't seem reasonable," the old man replied, grimly, and then he set about making a dinner from the supply of provisions we had found in the ravine. Sergeant Corney gave no sign that he realized night had come, until I called his attention to the fact, and then he said: "Ay, lad, the time is drawin' nigh; but I reckon that we'll be wise to hold on as we are a spell longer." Then he lay back as if bent on going to sleep, and I held my peace, determined to say no more even though he remained there until sunrise. "How will you set about findin' Jacob?" I asked, giving words to the question which had been in my mind ever since we came to a halt. "Our only chance is to keep movin' nearabout Thayendanega's camp, an' trustin' to accident for comin' across him." Sergeant Corney strapped his rifle on his back, as if believing he would have no use for it; but he made certain his knife was loose in its sheath, and I understood that if we had trouble it would be at close quarters. At last we were ready, and this time the sergeant did not propose that I lead the way. He strode off in advance, with never a glance backward to see if I was following, and in silence we went on toward the danger-point at a swift pace, until the old man halted to say, in a whisper: "There should be sentinels nearabout, unless Thayendanega believes he has killed all the decent men in the Mohawk Valley; so have your wits about you, lad, for a mistake now will cost us dearly." I claim that it is nothing to my discredit when I say that there was a great fear in my heart while we advanced at a snail's pace, after having come to that point where we might reasonably expect the Indian sentinels would be posted. It was useless, however, to mourn over what could not be cured. We had come there voluntarily, and, unless both of us were willing to write ourselves down as cowards, must perform the task. It was well-nigh midnight before we heard anything of the enemy, and then a faint hum of voices in the distance told that Sergeant Corney had led the way truly and wonderfully well. Never again would I say that he was not thoroughly versed in woodcraft. The old soldier gripped my arm to make certain I understood that we had come near to the enemy, and then inch by inch we moved forward, halting a few moments every time we incautiously caused a rustling among the foliage. How long that slow progress continued I cannot rightly say; but it seemed to me as if the morning was near at hand when we were arrived, having miraculously passed such stragglers, scouts, or sentinels as might have been in the vicinity, at a point where we could have a view of this particular portion of the encampment. I knew sufficient of savage customs to understand that, if there had been any torturing of prisoners during the evening, such fiendish work was at an end, and that which we were witnessing was but the ending of the barbarous sport. Now it was that I mentally thanked Sergeant Corney for having delayed so long before starting, for it would have been agony indeed had we been forced to witness the horrible spectacle of a white man suffering under the knives and by the fire of these wolves in human form. Like a flash, after I succeeded in restraining myself from giving an alarm, came the knowledge, I know not how, that he who had stumbled upon me was no less frightened than I, and, clutching Sergeant Corney's leg nervously to attract his attention, I sprang upon the newcomer, believing him to be some Indian straggler whom it was absolutely necessary we should silence in order to save our own lives. So quick had been my motions that the fellow had no opportunity to get away, save at the cost of betraying himself to us, and by what seemed to be the most fortunate chance, I succeeded, when leaping blindly forward, in gripping him by the throat. We went down together, I on top striving most earnestly to strangle him to death, and he fighting quite as strenuously to throw off my hold. Then it was, and just as Sergeant Corney came up to us, that I loosened my grasp entirely in order to pass my hands over the stranger's face and head. There were no feathers, no daubs of paint, which should have been apparent to the touch, and I whispered, with my mouth close to the fellow's ear, while yet pinioning his arms in such a fashion that he could not well move: "A white man," came the reply, the words sounding thick and muffled because of the squeezing which the speaker's throat had received. Then like a flash came to me that which I should have suspected before! It was my comrade for whom we had been searching that I was grappling with, and, just as the old soldier knelt by my side knife in hand to put an end to the struggle, I whispered, for the darkness was so intense that I could not even see the face which was but a few inches from my own: "Are you Jacob Sitz?" "It is the sergeant an' Noel, lad, an' right glad am I that we came to know each other just as we did, else would your blood have been on our hands." "Where have you been all this time?" I asked, and Jacob replied, softly: "Have you seen your father?" Sergeant Corney asked, and the lad replied, triumphantly: "Ay, an' had speech with him." "In a lodge near Thayendanega's, an' until to-night there has been no great danger he would be tortured, as I believe because of the sachem's promise that he shall not be killed." "How did you get to speak with him?" I asked, in surprise. "If you got away, why could not he have done the same?" I asked, surprised that Jacob should have succeeded in making his way among the lodges. "Why did that stop you?" I asked. "Surely you had no part in it?" "Have you had nothin' to eat since we left you?" "I gathered some roots an' berries, but not enough to satisfy my hunger." "An' yet you would have stayed here longer in danger of starvation?" "Nothin' more," I said, not minded to let him know that if he could show any reasonable chance of rescuing Peter Sitz it was our purpose to give him aid. "Where have you been all this while?" As he ceased speaking, Sergeant Corney would have led us out of the thicket; but Jacob whispered, softly: "Lead the way, an' we will follow," the old man said, in a tone of command, and straightway Jacob did as he was thus ordered. Knowing, as the lad did, very nearly where the Indians might be found, we advanced with reasonable rapidity, until having come to the place of which he had spoken. When Jacob had eaten all the small store of provisions which I gave him without having apparently satisfied his hunger, he insisted on our telling him what we had done since he left us, and I related the story much as it is set down here, spending a full hour in the recital. When I had finally come to an end, the old soldier proposed that as soon as another day had passed we should turn our faces toward Cherry Valley, for, after receiving the commands of his father, Jacob could do no less than go home. I understood full well that the lad would have encountered any danger or suffered every privation rather than leave this place where his father was held prisoner, even though there was little or no hope he could aid him; but yet he did not argue against the plan, and thus was it settled that when night came again we would start on our journey. "You can do no better, lad. If Thayendanega has given his word to save your father's life, so will it be, despite all the howlin' wolves in his followin'. But if you should stay here and be discovered tryin' to rescue him, there is little doubt that it would result in the death of both." Jacob insisted that the old soldier and I give ourselves up to slumber while he kept guard, for he did not need the rest as much as we. Therefore it was that I slept soundly and sweetly until a full hour past noon, and when I awakened the sergeant was peering out through the leafy curtain in front of the cave, while Jacob was enjoying his turn at sleep. "Can you see the camp?" I asked, wriggling forward until my head was close beside his, and then it was not necessary he should make reply, for we had from this place of vantage a fairly good view of the red-skinned portion of St. Leger's army. There were both women and children in the camp, which struck me as being odd, for when savages set off on the war-path it is not customary for them to take their families; but I explained this peculiar state of affairs to myself by the supposition that the women had been brought that they might do the work, which is deemed unfitting a warrior. "To what end?" I asked, with somewhat of irritation, for it did not seem to me wise the lad should run the chances of capture when nothing was to be effected by taking such risks. "Only that he may speak with him." To this I could make no reply, as a matter of course; yet I was still firmly convinced that it was a foolhardy venture. If there had been a possibility of his doing the prisoner any good, then would I have said that we would stay on until further efforts were of no avail. As it was, however, Peter Sitz himself had said it was wiser for Jacob to go, and surely he, the most interested and the most experienced in such matters, should be the judge. I held my tongue, even though rebelling against the scheme, because of knowing that the lad was prompted only by love, and yet my heart grew heavy within me, until I had become convinced that something of evil would follow. So disturbed was I in mind that it was impossible to close my eyes in slumber again, even though knowing that my best preparation for the journey would consist in getting all the rest I could. We did not have supper for the very good reason that we had no provisions, but buckled our belts a bit tighter, because already was hunger beginning to assail us. As we waited for the lengthening of the night, Jacob went over in detail his experiences while Sergeant Corney and I were with General Herkimer, and this served to make the time seemingly pass more swiftly. The savages evidently had no fiendish sport on their programme for this evening, most likely because of having exhausted themselves the night previous, and at a reasonably early hour this portion of St. Leger's army was in a comparative state of quietude. "Now, if ever, is the time when you can go, lad; but remember that I advise against it, as would your father," Sergeant Corney said, gravely. "I am not minded to argue you out of what your heart is set upon, but ask that you give the matter due weight before goin' so far that retreat will be impossible." "Then God go with you," the old soldier said, solemnly, and in a twinkling my comrade had slipped out of the cave, being lost to our view almost immediately amid the foliage near at hand. When we were thus left alone a silence fell upon us. Because of the forebodings in my heart I was not inclined for conversation, and I dare venture to say the sergeant held his peace for much the same reason. Regarding him I had no further anxiety, and, without being aware that slumber was weighing heavily upon my eyelids, I fell asleep. I could not have been unconscious many moments, for it seemed as if my eyes had but just closed, when I was aroused by the pressure of Sergeant Corney's hand upon my arm, and as I would have sprung up he forced me down, whispering: "The savages are comin' this way, an' it looks to me mightily as if they counted on stoppin' hereabouts." "They have taken Jacob, an' he has told them where we are," I said on the impulse of the moment, not meaning to cast reproach upon the lad, but knowing what fiendish means those wretches employed in order to extort information. "We would have heard the noise of a squabble if he had been captured, an' I have stood watch ever since he left," Sergeant Corney said, decidedly. "Can they be followin' our trail in the darkness?" I cried, and my companion replied, grimly, drawing his rifle nearer to him: "It makes no difference to us, lad, why or how they are comin'. The question is whether, in case they find this place, we shall fight to the death or submit without resistance." It was a question I could not answer. I knew full well that we could not hope to hold the cave any considerable length of time, and that if, during the fight, we killed any of the villains, our end at the stake would come before morning, even though Thayendanega himself should do all he might to prevent it. "All we can hope for, if we should put up a fight, is to die with weapons in our hands, for death in some form would come to us within a few hours. While there's life there's a chance." "Meanin' that we had best give ourselves up?" I asked, in alarm. "Ay, lad, that is my idee, unless you can show me something better." "It shall be as you say, sergeant!" [Illustration: "With upraised hands, stepped out from amid the screen of foliage"] It was too dark for me to see the look of triumph on the faces of our captors; but I knew they wore such expressions, because of the cries of satisfaction and shouts of delight which burst from them when we, unarmed, stood in their midst. This idea of mine, although there was in it nothing favoring to us, gave me no little relief of mind, for it led to the conclusion that Jacob was yet free. I knew enough of savage customs to understand that we would be forced to submit to a certain amount of ill-treatment from the female portion of the band before the warriors decided upon our fate, and nerved myself to bear it as best I might, realizing that any show of weakness at such a time would work to our disadvantage later. Even at such a time, when our lives were literally hanging in the balance, I found somewhat of comfort in the thought that Sergeant Corney was with me, and not very far away Peter Sitz could probably see us. "It's plain that Jacob was not captured, else we would see him near by," Sergeant Corney said to me, and I tried my best to enter into conversation with him, to the end that I might in some slight degree take my mind from the torture which, perhaps, was but a foretaste of what I would be forced to suffer. "If he will but stop a moment to rigger the matter out, he'll understand that only by keepin' clear of this camp can he hope to help us," the old man replied, and I asked, sharply: "Tut, tut, lad; do not give yourself up for dead yet awhile. So long as there's life there's a chance. Peter Sitz has been in the clutches of these villains many a day, an' yet, 'cordin' to Jacob's story, he's as sound an' hearty as when he left Cherry Valley." I knew that Sergeant Corney would say many things which he himself did not believe, if he thought thereby he might strengthen my courage for the terrible ordeal which was probably before us; therefore his words of cheer had less weight than might otherwise have been the case. Not until it seemed to me every square inch of my hands had been burned to a blister, and there was a livid, red mark across my forehead, where an old hag had scorched me with a burning brand, did the squaws tire of their cruel sport, and then we were left comparatively alone, with sufficient of pain to keep us so keenly alive to the situation that weariness of body did not make itself apparent. "We came to aid Jacob, and now ourselves are standing in need of assistance," I said, bitterly, for this seemed like the irony of fate. "True for you, lad, an' yet we won't look at it in that light. But for marvellous good luck we would have been made prisoners before this, therefore let us reckon it simply as the fortune of war, and not count Jacob the cause of our trouble." I would have replied yet more bitterly than before, but for the fact that at the moment it so chanced my eyes were fixed upon the lodge wherein our comrade had said his father was held prisoner, and I saw the flap pulled cautiously aside. Then the face of a man could be seen close to the ground, and I said, eagerly, to my companion, who, perforce, had his head turned in the opposite direction: "Peter Sitz is lookin' at us." "I would he had remained ignorant of our whereabouts," Sergeant Corney muttered, and I asked, in surprise: "Because, in addition to his own sufferin', he must believe that we've been brought to this plight through tryin' to aid him, an' it only serves to make his troubles greater, without lessenin' ours." Sergeant Corney was rapidly becoming a hero in my eyes, for surely it is a brave man who, when he stands in most imminent danger, can think rather of others than himself. We spoke but little from this time on, the sergeant and I. The rawhides, which were tied so tightly as to nearly stop the circulation of blood, were eating their way into our flesh, and the pain thus caused became greater than the smarting of the blisters raised by the burning brands. We knew that those who formed that circle of painted forms but a short distance away were deciding whether we be put to torture immediately, or reserved for some especial time of rejoicing, and there grew upon me such a fascination as is sometimes brought about by keenest peril, until I almost forgot the desperate situation as I watched those who held our fate in their hands, trying to discover from the expression on their hideous faces what might be the result of the conference. As the moments passed I sank into a sort of apathy, until it was as if some other lad's fate trembled in the balance, and I myself was looking down upon the encampment from a secure place of refuge. "We can count on remainin' alive at least until to-morrow night," Sergeant Corney said, as if imparting some cheering information, "for these wretches do not torture a prisoner in the daytime." "Unless some change is made speedily I will not be in their power, for of a verity I am dyin', Sergeant Corney," I said, and he, thinking, of course, to cheer me, laughed almost merrily as he replied: "Nonsense, lad, you are a long ways from bein' dead. I allow your body is numbed, but that's all. If these strips of rawhide were slackened a bit, you'd soon find yourself feelin' as well as ever, save, perchance, for the blisters upon your hands." "If we _could_ stretch them a bit," I cried, trying vainly to change the position of my arms. "Ay, but you can't, lad, an' by makin' the effort you'll only cause them to bind the tighter." When the bonds had been removed the sergeant and I sank down upon the ground helpless, unable to move hand or foot, and in that condition we were dragged into the lodge where was Jacob's father. There we were bound quite as securely and cruelly as before, the thongs cutting fresh welts into our wrists and ankles; but the relief caused by the change of position was so great that it seemed as if I had every reason for thankfulness. Sergeant Corney, minded to save our neighbor from the self-reproach which might be his if he knew we were in such plight through desire to aid his son or himself, replied that we had been sent into the vicinity by General Herkimer, and then explained how we came across Jacob, as well was the manner in which we had been taken prisoners. "Will they torture us to death?" I asked, giving words to that question which had been uppermost in my mind from the moment we saw the painted sneaks approaching the cave, and Master Sitz replied, with a painful effort at cheerfulness: "It's for you to believe that they won't, lad. Remember how long I've been in their power, an' yet have come to no real harm, so far as life is concerned, although this bein' trussed up like a chicken ready for the roastin' is by no means pleasant or comfortable." Then it was that Sergeant Corney, minded as I now believe only to change the subject of conversation, asked Master Sitz why it was we had failed to see him during the march from Cherry Valley to the Indian village. The explanation was simple, and at the same time served to show, to my mind at least, that Jacob's father would not be led to the stake. When, immediately after the interview with General Herkimer, Thayendanega hurried his tribe on to join St. Leger's forces, he so far submitted to the demands of his followers as to allow them to take Peter Sitz on the war-path with them. Peter Sitz ceased speaking very suddenly, and I had not the courage to ask him how those prisoners suffered; I could imagine that they came to a most horrible end, and knew that my worst picturing of it would fall far short of the reality. Then Jacob's father spoke of the possibility that we might escape with our lives; but it was evident he did so with an effort, and I had it in mind that he only tried to cheer me, while he was convinced that his end, as well as ours, would come at the stake before the siege was finished. And now I do not propose to make any effort at giving in detail all that occurred while we lay cruelly bound, during a greater portion of the time, in this lodge, situate almost in the centre of the Indian camp. And now it must be understood that during all this time St. Leger's army was laying close siege to Fort Schuyler, and, strange as it may seem, we, closely confined in that lodge of skins, had a fairly good idea of what was happening. Thus it was we knew that Colonel Billinger and Major Frey, officers from General Herkimer's force, who had been taken prisoners by some of the British during the battle of Oriskany, had been compelled, under threats of torture, to write a letter to Colonel Gansevoort, misrepresenting St. Leger's strength, and advising him to surrender. We also knew that this letter, written under pressure, was delivered by Colonel Butler, who went to the fort with a flag of truce, and, when the commandant flatly refused to surrender, the Tory officer threatened that, in case it became necessary to take the fortification by force, the women and children inside would be delivered over to the mercies of the Indians. Fortunately Colonel Gansevoort was too brave a man to be frightened by such threats, and when Colonel Butler told him that Burgoyne had already taken possession of Albany, he became thoroughly well convinced that the officer was deliberately lying to him. We learned also, through different friendly visits which were paid to Joseph Brant by the officers, that General St. Leger was continuing the siege in true military fashion, advancing by parallels slowly but surely, and it was the belief of all our enemies that they must of a necessity soon succeed in their purpose. If, however, the garrison made such a resistance as we believed they would, and then were finally overcome, the Indians being allowed to wreak vengeance until their thirst for blood was satisfied, then was it probable we would go to the stake with a goodly company and little chance of escape. During the afternoon of this day Thayendanega's warriors had spent their time laying on an unusual quantity of paint, and arraying themselves to the last feather of their finery, therefore we knew that something of considerable importance was on foot. When they marched out of the encampment, the medicine-men leading the way, with the beating of drums and blowing of horns, we believed a council of war was to be held, in which these wretches, most likely to tickle their vanity, had been invited to take part. When, just as they were setting out, the rain began to fall heavily and the wind to blow in a manner which betokened a summer storm, I found the wildest delight in picturing to myself the discomforts which would be theirs unless St. Leger had tents sufficient to provide them all with shelter. "It is Jacob!" I cried, speaking incautiously loud. The silence remained unbroken, save for the lightest rustling of the skins, until, in the dim light to which my eyes had been so long accustomed, I saw Jacob's head and shoulders inside the lodge. It was only with difficulty I restrained myself from crying aloud with joy, for now it seemed, even surrounded by enemies though we were, that because my comrade had come were we rescued. So great was my delight at seeing Jacob slowly working his way into the lodge, that there was no room in my heart for surprise. I entirely forgot to be astonished because after so long a time he had returned, or to question why it was he dared venture within the encampment. Only the fact that he was there presented itself to my mind, and I gave no heed to anything else. I struggled violently to reach the dear lad, intent on throwing my arms around him in order to show how deeply I felt this devotion of his which had brought him back, perhaps, to a terrible death; but Master Sitz and Sergeant Corney remained silent and motionless until Jacob was well within the lodge. Then his father said, conveying reproach even in the whisper: It seemed to me as if the lad talked the veriest nonsense in speaking of our escape by simply crawling away from the lodge, situate as it was in the very midst of the encampment; but Jacob had the whole plan in his mind, and was not to be disheartened, however much cold water we might throw upon it. It may seem strange, but such is the fact, that even when thus surrounded by danger my curiosity was so great that I asked him, even before he had time to explain how he hoped to effect our rescue, where he had been so long. "At Cherry Valley," he replied, as if a journey there and back was the most simple thing imaginable. "Meanin' that you have been home since the night you left the cave?" I repeated, in astonishment. "Ay, no less than that." "But why did you do it?" I cried, speaking so loudly as to call forth a warning groan from Sergeant Corney. "Because I believed it might be possible for you to escape, providin' we had help enough near at hand," he replied, and I said, even more mystified than before: "Surely you could not expect to get help for us from Cherry Valley?" "Ay; and that is just what I did." "Who then did you expect would come to our aid?" I asked, and Jacob replied, with what sounded very like a chuckle of satisfaction: "Who else, save the Minute Boys of the Mohawk Valley?" But for the rawhide ropes which held me so cruelly immovable, I would have leaped to my feet in astonishment; as it was, I involuntarily gave so violent a start as to cause myself considerable pain, and then asked, in great heat: "Why do you play upon our hopes, so lately raised, by declaring that the company of lads is here?" During that night he kept us in view, until learning that we would not be put to death immediately, and then the lad searched in his mind for some plan which might give promise, however slight, of success. The only plan which Jacob had formed in his mind was to get speech with us as speedily as possible after arriving. Then, if needs be, he would make a dash upon the encampment, and trust to the Minute Boys fighting their way out with us in their midst. Fortunately, however, he saw very speedily after daybreak that something of import was taking place, and wisely waited until it could be seen that every warrior was making ready for a grand powwow. "There shall not be another victim added to our number," Jacob's father said, in a tone of determination. "Strike out for your comrades, in case the alarm is given, my boy, and if we are taken again leave us to our fate." Jacob made no reply to this; but I believed that if the need arose he would disobey his father's command without compunction. There was no time to linger. At any moment the powwow might be brought to an end, or some warrior return to the encampment, therefore it stood us in hand to move quickly, and so we did. The perspiration came out upon my forehead in great drops, caused, not by the heat, but by the mental anguish, and again and again I said to myself that Jacob had labored for naught, since it would be impossible I could crawl undetected even over the short distance. And when, in my excited frame of mind, it seemed as if the escape was but just begun, I found myself in the thicket amid those lads who had been my playmates since I could remember, while each strove to show in silence how delighted he was that I had come safely. Now we had only to wait for Sergeant Corney, and, having seen what he could do in the wilderness, I had no doubt but that he would succeed in his purpose, which he soon did. "What are we to do?" Sergeant Corney said, turning to me, as if I should resume command of this company of mine, and I replied, promptly, with never a thought of claiming my rights as captain: "Yet my idea of what is safest may seem to the rest of you like veriest folly," he replied, as if he would shirk the responsibility, and Master Sitz said, eagerly: "It all seems to me like a piece of folly, Sergeant Corney, even though because of it are we brought out from the power of our enemies. You can do no more hairbrained things than has already been done by my son." "Then, if the command be left to me, we shall make our way into Fort Schuyler, provided that be possible." "Fort Schuyler!" I cried, in dismay. "Ay, lad, an' we shall be there before another day dawns if we live, provided we make the start." "But why not put as many miles between us and this place as is possible?" I cried, with no slight show of irritation, for the imminence of the danger set every nerve tingling until I could think of nothing save the most hurried flight. "How do you make that out?" John Sammons asked, and I understood from his tone that he was not inclined for the hazard. "Think you Thayendanega's wolves will lose the prisoners whom they counted on seeing at the stake, without some effort to retake them?" the old man asked, sharply, and John Sammons replied: "All that we understand; but reckon on puttin' a goodly distance between us an' yonder encampment before to-morrow mornin'. Unless there is an accident the escape will not be known for many hours, and then should we have so much the lead that we could count with some degree of assurance upon gaining Cherry Valley." "Ay; but we should be able to hold in good play as many as may overtake us." "That must be accordin' to the fortunes of war. It is hardly to be reckoned that we could fight a pitched battle without losin' some portion of our company, and I would have this brave rescue of yours accomplished with as little cost as may be. Therefore have I in mind to enter Fort Schuyler." I cannot truly say that Sergeant Corney convinced us his plan was the best; but certain it is we were silenced, as was no more than proper, since it stood to reason he knew best about such affairs. After this, having made up our minds that we must attempt the perilous task, came the question of how it should be done, and on this point the old soldier gave us very little opportunity for discussion. The sergeant was right, as I now understood full well, and, although I craved not the dangerous work, because my comrades were near at hand I desired they should see that I shirked not peril. However, all seemed to understand that, if the sergeant's plan was to be carried out, he should arrange the details, and therefore I held my peace. Much time might have been saved had we crossed the Mohawk to the southward, without venturing near the camps of the British. Still acting under Sergeant Corney's directions, the greater part of the company kept at a respectful distance when we were come within the vicinity of St. Leger's headquarters, while he, Jacob, and I crept forward to reconnoitre. Because of the many fires and the apparent confidence of the enemy that no attempt would be made to surprise them, we had ample opportunity to see all that was required. "Whatever they've got on hand seems to be somethin' that'll last well through the night," Sergeant Corney said, as he lay amid the bushes watching the various groups of men, both white and red. "If Colonel Gansevoort could only know what's goin' on at this minute, I allow he'd make such a sortie as would raise this siege in quick order. We couldn't have a better night for enterin' the fort, an', if we don't succeed, it'll be our fault, or through the blundering of some fool sentinel." When Sergeant Corney had satisfied himself with a scrutiny of the camp, he led the way to the northward, where the Minute Boys were in hiding, and, arriving there, explained in few words the situation, to the end that they might be encouraged for that which was to come. I question if, after showing the bravery they already had, the lads needed any words to stiffen their backs; but it pleased the old soldier to make it appear as if we had clear sailing before us, and did no real harm. My company found fairly good hiding-places in the thicket near at hand, Jacob and I creeping out to the edge of the foliage in order to keep watch upon the old soldier as he made his way like a snake over the plain, which was almost entirely destitute of vegetation. Everything was in our favor on this night, otherwise Sergeant Corney's attempt would not have been the simple matter which it appears as set down by me. It seemed to me as if an hour elapsed from the time he disappeared before we saw any sign of him again. The minutes passed laggingly, although while there was no outcry we knew full well he had come to no harm; but yet I trembled with anxiety until we finally saw a figure upon the wall waving its arms, and I said to Jacob: "That is the signal for us to advance." "Advance where?" he asked, in perplexity. "Surely it is not possible for us to get in at any point." "We can at least hold communication with those inside if we creep to the new portion of the fort, which as yet is only a stockade--the same place where the sergeant and I had converse with Colonel Gansevoort." It appears, as I finally learned, that the sergeant believed I would have sufficient sense to understand it was at this place we must effect an entrance, if anywhere, and I ought to have known at the time, for, after waving his arms to attract attention, he walked along the wall, disappearing near what was known as the "horn-works," which as yet were enclosed only by a stockade of logs. To summon the Minute Boys and bring them to the edge of the clearing was but the work of a few moments, and then was done that which I venture to say has seldom been accomplished during such a siege as was then in progress. What a time of congratulation that was! The garrison pressed around to praise us and pat themselves on the head, because we had come at what was, for them, an opportune time. Not only was the fort reinforced by no inconsiderable number, but we brought with us fairly good information as to the condition of affairs in the enemy's camp. The men were yet praising and thanking us for having come at such a time, when an officer approached with the word that Colonel Gansevoort wished to speak with the leaders of the party. "That means you, Noel," the sergeant said, patting me on the shoulder. "The colonel quite rightly believes that we can give him valuable information, an' is eager to have it." "But I am not the leader of the party," I said, finding time to be a bit bashful, now that the imminent danger was passed. "Who is, if not the captain of the company?" the old man asked, with a smile. "You, an' you always were when we were at home, Sergeant Corney, therefore are you doubly the leader now, after having brought us safely in from the encampment." The old soldier flatly refused to present himself as being in command of the Minute Boys, and there is no saying how long we might have wrangled among ourselves had not Colonel Willett, impatient to see us, come up just at that moment. After asking a few questions, he settled the matter by saying: I am free to admit that it was childish in any of us to hang back at such a moment, but, thanks to Colonel Willett, the matter was arranged as he suggested, Sergeant Corney, John Sammons, Jacob, and I going to the commandant's quarters, escorted by the colonel and the messenger who had been sent for us. There was no real occasion for us to have been timid regarding the interview with the commandant of Fort Schuyler, for a more pleasantly spoken, neighborly-like man it was never my good fortune to come in contact with. Sergeant Corney flatly refused to tell the story, insisting that I was the better able to do so, and, in the presence of Colonel Gansevoort and all his principal officers, I related the events of that day when an able soldier and a brave man was forced by the prating of cowards to lead his soldiers where he knew, almost beyond a peradventure, he had no hope of winning a victory. Then Jacob and I in turn gave an account of what had been done, bringing our story up to the time when Sergeant Corney took the lead in the attempt to gain the fort, and the old man could not well refuse to describe what he had seen that night regarding the disposition of the enemy's forces. "I know of no greater favor which could have been done the garrison, save that of bringing in additional stores and larger reinforcements, than what has come to us through you," Colonel Gansevoort said, when we had imparted all our information. "I hope you will not regret having made this effort to aid us, and, if it so be an opportunity ever offers, I will see to it that, so far as is within my power, the Minute Boys of the Mohawk Valley shall receive substantial credit from their country-men because of services rendered. We will give you as good quarters as we have; but if the rations seem scanty now and then, you must remember that we are not in position to get all we may require in the way of eatables." "I would like to know, sir, simply from curiosity, an' not because it would make any difference with my desire to go or stay, if you have a good show of holdin' the fort against so strong a force as is under St. Leger's command?" "And I will go with you!" an officer, whom I afterward came to know was Lieutenant Stockwell cried heartily, whereupon the sergeant, puffed up because of what we had already done, declared that Jacob, he, and I would act as messengers. At this point the commandant suggested in the most friendly manner that perhaps we who had lately arrived might be in need of food, and I fancied he made this suggestion in order to be rid of us while he and his officers discussed the proposition. At all events, we left headquarters and were conducted by Lieutenant Stockwell to a portion of the barracks which was set aside especially for the Minute Boys, to the end that we might all be together. It was, as Sergeant Corney would put it, the fortune of war, or the accident of war, which enabled us to do as we had done, and only the old soldier himself could take personal credit for our being there. Late in the afternoon, on the day after we arrived, Colonel Willett came to our quarters, and, sitting down among us regardless of his rank and high attainments as a military officer, talked in the most neighborly fashion with us concerning the surrounding country, the different routes we had pursued when coming to or going from the fort, and, particularly, concerning what we might have heard regarding the movements of the enemy between Fort Schuyler and Oswego. Of course to this last question we could give no satisfactory reply; but certain it is that he gained very much of useful information which would serve him in his attempt to reach General Schuyler. Having come to an end of his inquiries, he told us that it had been determined between himself and the commandant that on the next stormy night he and Lieutenant Stockwell would make an effort to leave the fort on their way to Stillwater, where it seems he believed the general would be found. "You will remain where you are, sir, unless it is in your mind to leave here because of the danger which threatens. Already have you done enough in the way of scouting." "I hope you do not think, sir, that I would run away because of anythin' like that?" "No, my man, I am quite certain you never would; but you are not to gain all the credit in this siege, for I count on taking some of it myself, unless, peradventure, the enemy treat me worse than they did you." Then the colonel left us, and right glad was I that he had not accepted the sergeant's offer, for I might in some way have been dragged into the venture, and of a verity I had had enough in that line of work to last me so long as I might live. It is all very well when a fellow is beyond reach of danger to speculate upon what might be done to gain a name for himself; but quite another matter to take his life in his hand any oftener than may be absolutely necessary. On the following morning I presented myself to the commandant with a complaint, having been prompted thereto by Sergeant Corney. We had not yet been assigned to any duty, and each member of the garrison seemed particularly averse to allowing us to even help ourselves. There was not a member of our company who wished to remain there idle, and I visited headquarters to ask that we might be called upon for the regular garrison work, the same as if we were enlisted men. Colonel Gansevoort very kindly assured me that there was no real reason why we should do duty while the force was so large; but promised, if we insisted upon it, to consider us when making a detail, exactly as he would any of the others. "The lieutenant and I count on leaving the fort shortly before midnight. If you and your friends have any desire to see us set out, go down to the new works at about that time." By the "new works" he meant the stockade over which we had come, and I hastened to impart the information to Sergeant Corney and Jacob, knowing full well that they would be as interested in the venture as was I. The volunteer messengers could not have asked for a better night. When the day had come to an end the storm burst with no inconsiderable fury, and it was safe to predict that it would not clear away before sunrise. They carried no weapons save spears, wore no clothing except what was absolutely necessary for comfort, and, stripped to the lightest possible marching trim, they went out into the blackness of the night like true heroes, with a smile and a jest upon their lips. The darkness of night had literally swallowed them up, and the downpour of rain drowned every noise that might have been made by their advance. It was a brave venture, more particularly because, without chance of being accused in the slightest degree of cowardice, they might have yielded their places to others. Later in the day we learned that it was Colonel Willett's intention to push on to German Flats, and there, procuring horses, ride at full speed down the valley to General Schuyler's headquarters. This last was not believed probable. The officers of the garrison argued that neither the Indians nor the Tories could be depended upon to make a direct assault on such a fortification as Fort Schuyler, and that all St. Leger's efforts would be directed toward advancing his parallels until he was sufficiently near to mine. And yet how true is the old maxim that "it is always the unexpected which happens!" I was disposed to make light of the matter, not believing it possible the enemy could effect anything of importance, but lost somewhat of my confidence on observing the grave expression on the faces of the officers. "What is it?" I asked of Sergeant Corney. "Do they fancy for a moment that, even though the Indians should be willing to take part in the assault, the fort could be carried?" "No, lad, I reckon they're not sich fools as that; but it has come to my ears that ammunition for the cannon is runnin' mighty low, an' to repel an attack, even though there be no danger come from it, will be a serious matter." Even then I failed to understand what the old soldier meant, and asked him to explain more fully, which he did. Then I came to realize that to expend our ammunition for the big guns at that time might result disastrously for us later, when, the parallels having been brought nearer, an assault would be vastly more menacing. However, St. Leger had the right to do whatsoever he might, and he could not have chosen a wiser course had he known exactly the amount of powder in our magazine. It was not pleasant, this making ready for a battle. When we went into action with General Herkimer it was done quickly; we suspected something of the kind might happen, but were not certain of it. Now there could be no question but that, in a short time at the most, we would be striving to kill human beings, and unable, except at the cost of being branded as cowards, to do anything toward saving our own lives. If I have not spoken of Peter Sitz since he was rescued by the Minute Boys, it is because he did not remain in the barracks with us from Cherry Valley, but messed with some of his acquaintances from German Flats, therefore we saw very little of him until the garrison was mustered to repel the threatened attack. Then I noted that Colonel Gansevoort had entrusted to him the charge of a certain portion of the wall nearly opposite where the Minute Boys were stationed, and because he had been placed in command, even though it was of course only temporary, I judged, and truly, that Jacob's father was accounted an able assistant in such work as we most likely had before us. Sergeant Corney remained with the Minute Boys, as was his duty. I believe of a verity my company would have grumbled almost as loudly as had General Herkimer's men on the morning before the fight at Oriskany, had the old soldier taken station elsewhere, and yet it would have been but natural for him to go into the fight side by side with those of the garrison who were most experienced in warfare. As I have said, we were given a post which had in it no inconsiderable honor, since it was at that point where the most fighting might be expected, and from where we stood it was possible to have a fairly good view of the plain immediately surrounding the fort. "I am of the mind that the savages count on attacking the stockaded portion of the fortification," and the old man replied: "What portion of the force is on duty in the stockade?" Jacob asked, but none of our company could answer him. It was reasonable to suppose Colonel Gansevoort had stationed there those of his men who were most experienced in savage warfare, and we whose duty it was to hold the walls in the vicinity of the sally-port had no need to trouble our heads concerning them. "It looks to me much as if Colonel Willett an' Lieutenant Stockwell had been captured." "How do you figure that out?" "Because an assault is evidently about to be made. If they are not prisoners, the enemy has learned that they left the fort." I was still in darkness as to why he arrived at such conclusion, but found the reason exceedingly plain when he said: "If St. Leger knows that a man of Colonel Willett's rank was eager to take the chances of leaving the fortification to summon assistance, he must believe the garrison is in sore straits, an' therefore it is that I believe the mistake was made in allowin' him to go out when there were plenty of others here willin' to take the chances." It grieved me sorely to think that the brave officer might be at that moment in the hands of the savages, or, what amounted to much the same thing, in the custody of the Britishers, for it was charged openly that, in order to keep the Indian allies in good temper, prisoners taken by his Majesty's troops were often delivered over to the red-skinned wolves for torture. However, there was but little time left me in which to speculate upon this painful matter, for even as Sergeant Corney and I spoke together the British troops, supported by the Johnson Greens, came out into view from amid the encampment, marching directly toward the fort. "There is more in this than an ordinary assault," I heard the sergeant mutter, as he looked to the priming of his musket. "St. Leger would not expose his men to the slaughter which must follow without good and sufficient cause. I'm not overly given to praising the Britishers; but we must admit that he who's in command here is a thoroughly good soldier." The desire for revenge was greater than the fear of death. Before many moments passed Sergeant Corney hit upon what I firmly believed was the true answer to my question of why an assault was to be made at this time. The Britishers and Tories advanced in good order until facing the northerly and westerly sides of the fort, within musket-shot range, and from that distance poured their bullets into us without doing much execution; but calling for strict attention on our part lest a charge be made, for the ditch was not so wide or deep but that a body of trained soldiers could have overcome the obstacle. It looked much as if the king's forces were bent on continuing the battle with small arms at short range, for they discharged their pieces as rapidly as it was possible to reload them, making a great din even though the execution was slight. I understood the situation without further explanation, and, realizing the necessity for haste, went as rapidly as my legs would carry me to the northeast bastion, where I had last seen Colonel Gansevoort. It must be set down here that there were no cannon in this unfinished portion of the fortification. The so-called rebellion against the king had broken out before this very necessary adjunct to the strength of the fort could be completed, and, consequently, it was the weakest portion of our defence. A gigantic savage discharged his musket with seemingly true aim directly at my head; but, strangely enough, missed the target, and then he came at me, hatchet in hand, with such fury that for an instant it seemed as if I was at his mercy. So excited was I that my bullet, which should have found lodgment in his heart, went as wild as had his, and then was I forced to use a clubbed musket for defence. Already were my eyes becoming suffused with blood; my brain was in a whirl, as I leaped here or there, parrying with the butt of the musket the blows of his hatchet, and all the time he continued to press me nearer and nearer toward the wall, where my resistance would have been overcome within a very short time. I wondered why it was that Colonel Gansevoort delayed in the coming, and could see, without looking in any direction save at my foe, that the number of savages inside the stockade was increasing each moment. [Illustration: "The painted villain sank down upon the ground"] Only a brief delay now on the part of the commandant, and they would gain so great an advantage that such portion of the garrison as could be withdrawn from the walls where the Britishers were making the pretended attack, would not be able to dislodge them. Then suddenly, at the very moment when it seemed impossible I could struggle any longer, the painted villain sank down upon the ground as if having received his death-blow, and I dimly heard Sergeant Corney cry, cheerily: Now it was I knew that a shot from the old soldier's musket had put an end to the combat in which I was most deeply interested, and I strained every nerve to gather myself together as he had commanded. We were in good position for the enemy to mow us down with bullets, and in such close formation that only those in the outermost ranks could use their weapons to advantage. "It is all over," I said to myself, realizing that within a very few moments we must be killed or disabled under such a fire as Thayendanega's scoundrels were pouring upon us. Then from our rear I heard ringing cheers, the trampling of many feet, and realized that assistance had come at the most critical moment. "Give way, give way, lads in front!" I heard Colonel Gansevoort shout, and, hardly understanding the words, instinctively we surged either side of the passage, having hardly done so before a shower of grape-shot came hurtling between our ranks, dealing death to scores of the feather-bedecked wretches. "Stand to your muskets, you Minute Boys!" Sergeant Corney shouted, and the sound of his voice stiffened my courage wonderfully. "Now is the time to pay back some of our old scores, and every bullet should cut short a life from among those who would harry us of the valley." He had hardly more than ceased speaking when a great uproar could be heard from the distance, and, without turning my head, I understood that the British regulars and the Johnson Greens were pressing the attack on the west and the front, in order to hold our men at the walls that we might not be able to regain possession of the stockade. How long we struggled there hand to hand, stumbling now over the lifeless forms of our comrades, and again finding our way checked by the dead bodies of the savages, I cannot say; but certain it is that we finally drove the last of the hated foe over the stockade, and gave Thayendanega's boasting braves such a lesson as they would not need to have repeated for many days. I was not less wearied with the carnage than those around me. Even Sergeant Corney, to whom such scenes were not strange, leaned against a portion of the earthworks as if for support while he dashed the perspiration from his eyes, and then we knew by the sounds that the battle was being waged severely over against the sally-port. Then it was I called for the Minute Boys to follow me, as I ran at the best pace possible in that direction, for there was our post of duty. Now Colonel Gansevoort no longer husbanded his store of ammunition intended for the cannon, and every piece in the northern and eastern bastions was being worked with the utmost rapidity, sending among the Tories such a shower of iron as their cowardly hearts could not hold out against, and, when they turned with cries of fear to flee, the British regulars, understanding that they were too few in number to effect anything against us, joined in the retreat. The assault had come to an end, and we of the garrison were triumphant, but at such an expense of life that we could not well afford many more such victories. On the morning after the assault a white flag was raised over the fort, and when St. Leger sent in hot haste a messenger to learn what we wanted, thinking, most like, we had made up our minds to surrender, he was informed that Colonel Gansevoort was willing to grant an hour's truce that the British and Indian dead might be buried. "This would have been our last night on earth, had the Minute Boys not come to the rescue," Peter Sitz said to me, as we stood near the sally-port for an instant, listening to the wild cries, and, strong man though he was, I took note of the fact that his face shone pale in the faint light. It did not need that I should strain my imagination very much to paint a mental picture of our condition at that time, if we had remained in the power of the savages. Of a verity we would have tested their keenest torture before death came to our relief. "It would seem as if that company of ours had been formed to some purpose, an' not all of them were children," I said, minded that he who had laughed most heartily at what he was pleased to call our "pretensions," should give credit where it was due. "If I live to see home again, there is never a man in Cherry Valley who shall not hear from me what I owe to you lads!" "Don't forget that I had no part in the rescue, Master Sitz, for surely I was trussed up as stoutly as either you or Sergeant Corney." "Yet but for your persistence we would never have thought of enlisting the boys to aid in our defence, therefore must you take your portion of the praise, an' more especially since it is said by Sergeant Corney himself that you have proven yourself a man at every time when danger threatened." "Sergeant Corney has no idea how my knees shook beneath me when, as he believed, I was stout-hearted," I replied, with a careless laugh that served to cloak the feeling of pride which rose in my bosom when he gave good words to the Minute Boys. On the day following the truce, after the enemy had buried their dead, work on the parallels was continued, and it gave me no little satisfaction to see that the Tories were forced to perform the greater portion of the labor. After a certain time mining would probably be begun, and then, if our supply of ammunition had not been replenished, the end must be near at hand, when St. Leger would have opportunity to carry into execution his threat of allowing Thayendanega's murderers to work their cruel will. All this was talked over and commented upon by our people as the days wore on, and the more timid seemed to find delight in picturing what would take place if the fort was captured. "Why must they keep harpin' on that possibility all the time?" I asked, angrily, of Sergeant Corney, when I had turned away in disgust from a group of men who were painting horrible word-pictures, and the old soldier had followed me to the parade-ground beyond sound of such words. "What can that be?" I asked, in surprise. "How do they suppose any good can come of conjuring up everything horrible?" "They're of the same kidney that drove General Herkimer into the ambush, an' are tryin' to force the colonel to surrender." "True for you, lad, an' yet these cowards are ready to howl for capitulation rather than fight as men should, in the presence of such an enemy, to the last ditch," the sergeant replied, bitterly. I remained silent a full minute, horrified by the bare possibility, and then asked, in a voice which trembled despite all my efforts to render it steady: "Think you they can force him against his will, as the militia did General Herkimer?" At this moment Jacob came up, looking like his old self now that his father was safe, at least, for the time being, and to him I put the matter much as I had had it from the sergeant. Even then I refused to believe in what was as yet no more than a suspicion, and Sergeant Corney said, impatiently: "It won't cost you much time to find out for yourself, lad. Take a couple of turns around, an' I'll guarantee you'll agree that Peter Sitz an' I are not tryin' to make mountains out of mole-hills." "I'll go with you," Jacob said, promptly, and straightway we set out, keeping our ears open whenever we came within speaking distance of a group of men who appeared to be talking earnestly upon some particular subject. I was sick at heart and literally faint with fear when this knowledge was forced in upon me, for I knew only too well how idle would be all the promises of St. Leger if the savages were inclined to massacre the prisoners that were surrendered on promises of fair treatment. To me the strange part of it all was that these very simpletons who were howling so loudly for surrender would be among those counted as prisoners, and I failed utterly to understand how they could figure themselves as being better off in the power of Thayendanega's wolves, than in the fort where they had a chance of fighting to the death. Even to this day it seems so strange that I would not dare set it down as a fact unless those gentlemen who write history had spoken of it so plainly. "You can make up your mind that those fellows who are lettin' out the most noise are the ones who've got a cowardly streak in 'em somewhere," Sergeant Corney said, when Jacob and I, having satisfied ourselves that mutiny was rife in the fort, went to him for the purpose of talking the matter over. "The greater the cowards the less inclined they should be to surrender, as it seems to me," I replied, in perplexity. "Ay, lad, that's the way it looks to a decent man; but sich fellows as these here who are makin' a row, are the ones who're always lookin' ahead, thinkin' matters may be bettered, an' regardin' not the possibility of their growin' worse. Here they are, like to come on short allowance, an' obleeged to take their turn at bein' shot at now an' then, consequently, not havin' the heart to endure even the lightest sufferin', they say we can't be any worse off, an' ought to surrender." "But they know the nature of Thayendanega's wolves as well as do you or I." "Yes, they did know yesterday; but now, because their stomachs are not quite full, they're ready to admit that every redskin is an imitation angel." "Think you they can badger the colonel?" Jacob asked, thoughtfully, thus repeating my question in different words. "I will say to you as I did to Noel, that they're like to get the rough end of it before drivin' him into a mistake. We who are not inclined to be mutinous can help him out a good bit in this matter." "How?" I asked, in perplexity. It so chanced that during this day the rations dealt out to us were smaller than before, and this gave the fool croakers an opportunity of airing their grievances in fine style. Those who should have been steadily attentive to their duties, with never a thought in their minds of anything save besting the motley crew that besieged us, began to talk openly of starvation, as if there was no question whatsoever but that we had come nearly to the end of our provisions, and thus, as I believe, they brought over to their way of thinking many who never would have listened to such wild talk, but for the fact that it seemed probable the hour of surrender must be near at hand. I saw to it that none of the Minute Boys sided with these malcontents, while Sergeant Corney and Peter Sitz moved here and there throughout the day, trying to persuade the men to do only that which was for their own good, but without success. The longer such talk ran through the garrison the stronger it became, until shortly before sunset the mutiny was so well advanced that the commandant could do no less than take serious notice of it, and it pleased me that he did not delay. Save for the sentinels on the walls, the entire garrison was called out as for parade, and, having been clumsily formed in a hollow square, Colonel Gansevoort, surrounded by his staff of officers, undertook to still the rising tempest. He began by saying that it was the opinion of himself and his staff that the men ought to know exactly the condition of affairs, lest they be led astray by idle fears, and to that end he called upon the quartermaster for a detailed statement of the amount of eatables then on hand. True it is the supply was not large enough to admit of our gorging ourselves; but I dare venture to say that many there would have lived on much less had they been thrown upon their own resources in their own homes. After all these details, he described to the men what would likely be their fate in event of surrender, declaring that we had every reason and the ability to hold the fort if we were so minded, and urged us to be men rather than cowards. For a moment after the old man ceased speaking I fully expected he would be set upon and ill-treated by those whom he had so severely lashed with his tongue. "I wish they might! It's true I said more than I meant when declarin' my willingness to help 'em get away; but I promise you, Noel Campbell, that my hand never will be raised to stop them, if they try any sich fool trick." Peter Sitz claimed that, since he was not a soldier, he had no right to make what might seem to the commandant like a suggestion, and shoved all the responsibility on the sergeant. The old man declared, as he had previously, that the men might do as they pleased; that if it was possible to stop them by a single word his lips should remain closed. Not until I had spoken at some length would the old soldier give any heed, and then, upon a suggestion from Peter Sitz, he said: "This much I'm willin' to do, an' no more: from now till mornin' I'll make it my business, although clearly I am goin' beyond the bounds of ordinary duty, to move to an' fro around the fort, an' will summon the Minute Boys in case any point is left unguarded." Both Jacob and I proposed to share the labor with him; but he would have none of it. "Stay where you are," he said, "for I'm not minded you shall do that which may disgruntle the commandant. When he learns that we took it upon ourselves to look after the safety of the garrison without orders from him, there'll be a good chance for a row. I'll stand the brunt of it alone, without draggin' you lads into the scrape." I knew from the expression on his face that any attempt at argument with him at the time would be useless, therefore held my peace; but had it in mind that by thus interfering he might be committing an offence such as the commandant would not readily forget. If any number of men should desert on this night, there could not be any question but that we, having had an inkling of it, might justly be held accountable, but yet I was not pleased at the thought of doing or suffering to be done that which the old soldier had set his face against. However, as has been said, I could have done nothing to change matters save by going to the commandant, and therefore remained in the barracks, mightily uncomfortable in mind, but trying my best at holding conversation with Jacob on indifferent subjects. The majority of my company had no idea of what might be done that night, therefore they lay down to sleep as usual, Jacob and I seeking the open air after we found it was impossible to take interest in any subject save that which lay, just at that time, nearest our hearts. "Well, it's done," he said, abruptly, "an' to-morrow at this time I reckon there'll be less fools in the world." "How did they go?" Jacob asked, eagerly. "Out through the horn-works, an' over the stockade." "The rest of the mutinous ones were not quite sich fools when it came to the last pinch, an' I'm allowin' we're well rid of those who have gone, save that they can carry information to St. Leger of a kind he'll be glad to receive." "Did you stand quietly by while they went?" Jacob asked, in a tone of reproach. Jacob and I would have insisted that the old soldier tell us more regarding the desertion, although it was evident he had imparted all the information at his command; but he, bent on getting some rest before morning, entered the barracks, and we could hardly do better than follow him. Although it had not seemed possible I would close my eyes in slumber that night, with so much which was disagreeable to keep me awake, I did fall asleep, and that right soon after I lay down by the side of Jacob. "You might save the commandant a good bit of trouble by telling him what you know," Jacob suggested to Sergeant Corney, and the latter replied, grimly: With this the old man walked away, leaving us gazing at each other in something very like astonishment, for we understood by his tone that he was much the same as threatening us in case we should take it upon ourselves to tell what we knew regarding the matter. There was no real confusion in the fort, but a general air of disquietude and apprehension, which I thought quite wholesome, since it caused every man to do his duty more promptly and more thoroughly than I had ever seen it done. Well, by noon it seemed as if the matter had entirely blown over. Everything went along much as on the day previous, save that, according to my idea, there was a more healthy tone among the men, because we no longer heard talk of surrender, and I suggested that perhaps Colonel Gansevoort was as glad to be rid of his mutinous soldiers as Sergeant Corney had been to see them depart. The afternoon passed quietly and without unusual incident; but when the sun was just about to set we observed the Indians crossing the river from their encampment to the meadow at a point near the creek, where it was possible for us to hold them in plain view, while they were yet beyond range of any except the heavier guns, which could not be brought to bear upon them. "The savages are goin' to try their hand at an assault, an' we're like to have warm work before mornin'." "There's little fear anything of that kind will happen, lad. The painted devil never lived who was willin' to stand up an' fight face to face, man-fashion." "Then why are they goin' out of their encampment like a swarm of bees?" "There's some mischief afoot, though what it is I can't rightly make out. Perhaps St. Leger has summoned 'em to another powwow, in order that they may know of our condition, as has been told by the deserters." In a very few moments it was positive that this guess was not correct, for, instead of crossing the creek to approach the British encampment, the Indians halted when they were about midway between the fort, the camps of the British soldiers, and the quarters of the Tories. I dare venture to say that every man in the garrison, save perhaps the officers, was watching intently the movements of Thayendanega's gang, and it was as if the knowledge of what was about to be done burst upon us all at the same instant. "The Indians are going to torture prisoners!" Thayendanega's bloodthirsty crew was bent on showing us what would be our fate if we fell into their clutches. I saw Colonel Gansevoort and several of the officers come out from headquarters, having most likely been informed as to what was going on, and, when they stood where it was possible to have an unobstructed view of the horrible preparations, the entire garrison of Fort Schuyler were assembled as spectators. I cannot make the feeblest attempt at describing the horror which took possession of me as I realized that we could make no effort toward saving the unfortunate men, who were not the less to be pitied because they had brought about their own misery, and, unable longer to gaze at what was so soon to be such a terrible scene, I turned away with a mind to shut myself up in the barracks. Even the slight experience which I had had in savage warfare was sufficient to show me that there was nothing which we could do in behalf of the wretched men, and any plan, however promising, could not fail of exposing the entire garrison to the keenest peril. All knew that we inside the fortification were powerless to aid those who had wilfully gone to their doom, and none better than those same brave fellows who were ready to risk their lives in behalf of comrades who would have worked disaster to the entire garrison, yet they could not stand idle without at least a show of willingness to face danger in the hope of saving life. I had turned away from the scene sick with horror, even though the fiendish work had not yet begun; but as I stood near the barracks, trembling in every limb, the thought came that perhaps our deserters were not the ones for whom the stakes were intended. Of course, it would be equally terrible to see any human being tortured to death; but at the moment it seemed as if the frightfulness of it would in some degree be lessened if it were strangers who suffered, and straightway I went back to the walls, taking station by the side of Jacob, as I strained my eyes to see who the Indians led out. "Where is the sergeant?" I asked, in a whisper. "Do they want to compass their own death?" I asked, angrily. "I dare venture to say every Tory in yonder encampment is ready to cut off any who, from motives of mercy and pity, venture beyond the walls." "But we are not yet certain that it is our deserters who are to be put to death," I suggested, and at the moment a hoarse cry went up from all that company of heart-sick spectators. Accompanied by war-songs from the warriors and hoots and yells from the squaws and fiendish children, the unfortunate men were being brought across the river in triumph, and then a deep hush fell upon our garrison, as every person within the walls bent forward anxiously to get a glimpse of those who were being carried to the theatre of a terrible death. "There is Seth Morton!" "He wouldn't let you go?" I whispered, as the old man stood by my side. "No, lad, an' we should have had better sense than to ask him. A commandant who would agree to sich a plan has no right to expect his troops can rely upon his showin' good judgment in a tight fix." When the prisoners had been taken across the stream the savages lost no time in setting about their terrible work, and, although so many years have elapsed since then, I cannot bring myself to set down that which I know was done. While the poor fellows were being bound to the stakes, Jacob and I ran into the barracks, where we remained, trying to shut out from our ears the yells and whoops which told of what was going on. "And I would have suffered the same bitter death but for what you did, dear lad!" I said, hardly able to control my voice. "Don't think of it, Noel," he replied, soothingly, as he pressed my hand. "An', above everything, don't give me the credit. All our company had a part in that rescue." "Ay, yet they'd never known of our peril but for you, an' it was you alone, when they were arrived, who braved the danger of coming across the encampment to the lodge." "Talk of somethin' else, Noel Campbell!" Jacob cried, fiercely. "Even though the colonel knows best what should be done, it seems cowardly for us to be sittin' here in safety while those poor fellows are sufferin' all that men can!" It seemed to me like a very long time before the sergeant joined us, and then I knew that the unfortunate men were out of their misery at last. "They have paid a fearful price for their folly," the old man said, solemnly; "but by thus dyin' they've ensured the holdin' of this fort, for there's not a man within the walls who wouldn't delight in drawin' his last breath at the post of duty rather than take the chances of sich protection as St. Leger has shown he's ready to give. We'll have no more mutiny, an' all hands will be starved to death before the enemy gets possession of the fortification." "Of what kind?" I asked, not inclined to follow the old man's advice so far as to venture out while the howling Indians were making night something of which to be afraid. "It stands to reason that before the deserters were turned over to the painted wolves St. Leger got from them all the information concernin' this fort which they could give. The British general now knows that we haven't any too much ammunition for the cannon, an' it'll be odd if he don't give us a chance to spend a good bit more of it." This seemed a plausible line of reasoning, and yet I was not in the lightest degree troubled by the possibility; I had known so much of horror during the past few hours that an assault, however desperate, was something to be courted rather than feared. "Now this is somethin' like business," Sergeant Corney said, as if the sense of additional danger was most pleasing to him. "Barry St. Leger has just found out that there's a chance of takin' this fort by storm, an' from now on we'll have our hands full." Jacob and I were in the barracks trying to sleep when the old man burst in upon us with the remark I have set down, and as he spoke he began furbishing up his rifle with unusual care. "Have you any especial work on hand?" I asked, looking curiously at him. "Ay, lad, that's what I have. This 'ere garrison ain't in any very great danger of runnin' short of ammunition for the small arms, an' we're goin' to give the enemy lead in the place of iron for a spell." The force of sharpshooters to which Sergeant Corney was assigned had been stationed on the north and east sides of the fort, where they could command a view of the British and Tory encampments and the trenches. My lads could not have been stationed in any other position where they would have been as well satisfied, for thus were they fighting the savages who had threatened to ravage the Mohawk Valley, and every time we made a successful shot it was much as if we struck a blow in defence of our homes. "Does the commandant think we lads can handle that cannon properly?" I asked of the corporal who was superintending the work, and he replied, with a laugh of satisfaction: "I reckon he wasn't thinkin' very much about you when he gave orders to have the gun moved. That's to help out on our surprise-party; it'll carry a ball farther an' with truer aim than any other piece in the fort, as I know, havin' had somewhat to do with all of 'em." "Well, you see, lad, the chances are them bloody sneaks will soon try to work the same deviltry which we had to look at idly last night, for it stands to reason that all who deserted from this fort fell into their clutches. The next time they start in to kill a man by inches, believin' they're out of range, we'll plump a ball into the middle of the gang that'll make em' hop a bit." I laughed in glee at the prospect of turning the tables on the bloodthirsty wretches, but very shortly came the thought that the unfortunate prisoners would be in as much danger as the savages, and this I suggested to the corporal, whereupon he said, gravely: It would indeed be a mercy to kill the prisoners, if we could not save their lives; but of a verity we were come to hard lines when it was to be hoped our missiles would slay those who had been our comrades. I believed all the garrison were better content, now that Colonel Gansevoort was finding work for every man. Certainly there was less chance for searching out bugbears when they were busily engaged, and each of us felt a grim satisfaction at knowing that we inflicted some punishment on the enemy, however slight. It must not be supposed that our sharpshooters found all the targets they desired, else had we wiped St. Leger's force out in a twinkling; but there were in the white portion of his army a sufficient number who scorned to show fear of what we might be able to do, and these kept our men so engaged that the reports of the rifles were ringing out almost without intermission. Word was passed around the fort that the commandant counted on putting an end to their cruel sport, if perchance the distance was not greater than he had estimated, and by sunset every person inside the walls, save those who were acting as sentinels on the westerly side, had their faces turned in the direction of the Indian encampment. It was claimed that the corporal with whom I had previously spoken was the best gunner in the command, and to him had been entrusted the work of sighting the cannon. He had already charged it heavily, and when the savages began setting up new posts he knew the time had come to look for the proper range. Thayendanega's wolves did not count on keeping us waiting very long; but as soon as the sun had set began crossing the river with their unfortunate prisoners, singing and shouting, as if the capture and torturing of these unarmed men was some signal act of bravery. By this time Colonel Gansevoort himself had come up, and thus we understood that he was to direct the firing. If our cannon could carry a missile to the place of torture, then certain it was the red-skinned brutes would receive a lesson well calculated to surprise those who were left alive after the piece had been discharged. A puff of dense white smoke, a report which was almost deafening to those of us standing near by rang out. It was to be hoped the poor fellow had gone to his final account without pain, as would have been the case had the huge shot struck him. At that moment, while we were making the air ring with our shouts of triumph, I saw a figure emerge from that sinister pile of dead and maimed and come limpingly in the direction of the fort, moving evidently with great effort and slowly. "Reuben Cox! Reuben Cox!" "Ay, that he was," the corporal replied, "an' it looks much as if he stood a chance to gain the fort before those painted beauties dare stick their noses out from cover." As we watched it was possible to see that the man's arms were tied behind him, while it seemed as if his legs were fettered in some way; yet he was able to take short steps, and in his eagerness to make better speed he fell to the ground again and again, rising only with difficulty. The crews of the guns in the northeastern bastion were sent to their posts of duty, in order that the pieces might be used in case an opportunity presented itself, and, in fact, every possible effort, save the absolute sallying out of a relief party, was made to preserve the life of the man who by all military laws deserved death. It seemed to me as if I did not breathe while that poor, struggling creature was straining every effort to find a place of refuge among those whom he had wronged. It was as if the distance increased even as he came toward us, and I found it difficult to remain silent while he stumbled, fell, rose, and fell again during his painful flight. I believe at the moment that he entirely lost sight of the fact that this man could no longer claim the right of entrance, having forfeited it when he went over to the enemy. He, and all within the walls, saw before them only a wretched prisoner, striving to escape from those who would torture him to death, and had he been a dear friend no greater anxiety could have been shown for his safety. At the moment, however, we had no thought of the deserter, but saw before us only a former comrade who had come out from the very jaws of death to claim protection. The poor fellow had been cruelly cut on the legs and arms by the savages while they were bringing him across the river, and had lost much blood. His face and hands were covered with huge blisters, and it was not necessary either Sergeant Corney or I should ask how he came by them, for we knew through bitterest experience what the squaws and children would do when a white man was at their mercy. Their story was soon told; no attempt was made to hide the fact that they had deserted, for all believed that such a statement would ensure their receiving a hearty welcome from the commander. Much to their surprise, however, the British soldiers treated them with the utmost contempt and no slight degree of harshness. The Tories were the only white men who appeared particularly pleased with what had been done, and they gave the fellows a friendly reception only because, being renegades themselves, it gladdened them to know there were others in the valley who could be so contemptible. As a matter of course they were soon taken before the commander that he might question them; but even he evidently looked upon them with no slight disgust, for he forced them to remain standing while in his presence, and failed to give any instructions as to how they should be quartered or fed. Reuben Cox admitted, with many a groan and plea for mercy, that he and his companions had given St. Leger all the information concerning the fort which was in their power, and even made our situation appear more desperate than really was the case; but when they asked for permission to serve the king under his command, he roughly told them to present themselves to Sir John Johnson, declaring that the regulars would not receive them as companions-in-arms. Just at that moment it was impossible for them to find Sir John, and, more hungry than they had ever been inside Fort Schuyler, they wandered about until arriving face to face with a party of Indians, who had come from their encampment to lounge around near the white soldiers, from whom they begged rum and tobacco. That meeting sealed their fate, and the poor wretches came to understand what was in store for them, even before St. Leger had agreed that they might be turned over to the tender mercies of his savage allies. During an hour they did their best to escape, but only to be dragged back with many a kick and blow each time they endeavored to sneak out of the encampment. As nearly as the unhappy men could understand, there was a long, angry interview between Sir John, Thayendanega, and some of the British officers before the matter was settled, and then they were delivered up to the Indians, even the Tories shutting their ears to the prayers for mercy. It was not necessary I should hear what he had to say about the treatment the deserters received in the Indian encampment prior to being led out to the stake. I knew full well what suffering must have been theirs before the hour arrived when all was to be ended. I had had some slight experience as a prisoner in the power of the savages, and even then could not listen to another's story of similar treatment without severe mental pain. All this was repeated to me by Sergeant Corney, who had heard it from Reuben Cox himself, and when he was come to an end of the recital I asked: "Now that he is here, an' likely to live, what will be done with him?" I soon came to know that the question I had asked of the sergeant was being discussed by all the garrison, many of the men declaring that Reuben Cox deserved to be treated as any other deserter, while a large number claimed that the sufferings he had endured should be considered as having atoned for the crime. The arguments became so warm that it was evident Colonel Gansevoort would be forced to come to some decision regarding the matter, and so he did on this same day when we were called out on the parade-ground, being formed in a hollow square. "Discuss it thoroughly among yourselves," the colonel said, "and, having made up your minds as to what punishment should be dealt out to Cox, write the verdict on a bit of paper, signing your names thereto, and leave the same at headquarters. Whatsoever the majority of you declare just to all concerned, shall be done." Our Minute Boys were all of the same mind, and it gave me no little satisfaction to know that my company were of the mind that Cox had been fully punished for his wrong-doing. Without any delay we stated our views in few words at the top of a sheet of paper, and each member signed his name, after which I carried it to headquarters. It was Colonel Gansevoort himself whom I saw, and he asked, after glancing over the list of names: "How does it happen that you lads arrived at a decision so quickly? Desertion is a very serious offence, and, because of the lesson which others may receive, should be punished severely." "Are you speaking of yourself and the old soldier?" "And yet because of what Cox has told St. Leger you may soon be again in the power of the Indians." "Then you would rather die with a musket in your hands than fall into their clutches?" "Well, my lad, I will tell you this much for the gratification of yourself and friends: When it comes, if it ever does, that I am convinced, because of lack of food, ammunition, or any other contingency, that we cannot hold the fort, I will lead as many of the garrison as choose to follow me in an attempt to cut our way through the enemy's lines. I, like you, prefer to die fighting, rather than at the stake." These words gave me greatest relief of mind, even though to do as the colonel promised was much like going to certain death, and I asked: "May I repeat to my comrades what you have said, sir?" It would have given me greatest satisfaction to ask him a few questions concerning our supplies, which, when he made the statement to the garrison, had seemed so plentiful; but, fortunately, I had sense enough to understand that, for a lad like me, to make searching inquiries of the commandant of a fort was something which the most easy-going officer would not tolerate for an instant. Therefore, thanking him for having given me the assurance which he had, I took my leave, going with all speed to the barracks that I might acquaint Sergeant Corney with what I had heard. "It's good news, lad, though not much different from what I've come to expect from sich a soldier as the commandant. Now we've nothin' in particular to worry about, seem's there won't be any question of takin' advantage of the Britisher's offer, which would be kept in the case of all hands much as it was when our poor fools deserted. But what is this about short allowance? I thought it was proven to us that we had supplies in plenty for many days to come?" "I can only tell you what the commandant said." "I reckon he'll explain matters when he tells us why the rations are short, an' that he'll have to do in order to satisfy some of the imitation soldiers we've got in this 'ere fort." The Indians were not inclined to show themselves on this morning after we gave our surprise-party. I fancy they had come to understand it wouldn't be an easy matter to get the best of us, and were having considerably more of fighting than was pleasing. When another day had come, and the rations were reduced in size as the commandant had said they would be, there was a hum of dissatisfaction all over the fort, even those whom we counted as being the stoutest-hearted doing their full share of grumbling, and wholly because the commandant had so lately told them that we had sufficient of food for many days. They were not yet done with the business of deciding what punishment should be dealt out to Cox; but that was entirely lost sight of in face of this apparent change in the situation. It seemed as if the store of provisions must be very low indeed, else the rations would not have been cut down so soon after the statements made by the quartermaster. It is true that there was no mutinous talk to be heard; the fate of the deserters had taught the grumblers a lesson that would not soon be forgotten, but much was said that did not tend to improve the discipline. Therefore it was the men went about their work as usual, content to wait until night; but the commandant would have been unwise to keep them in ignorance longer. I had no time to reply to the old man, for, having thus relieved his mind, he passed on, and I went about my duties. The fate of Cox had been decided, and we were to be told about the reduction of rations, therefore nearly every man wore an expression of anxious expectation. Sergeant Corney was an exception to the general rule; he apparently had no particular interest in either matter, and obeyed the call as if he did so only because it was necessary. As on the previous occasion, we were drawn up in a hollow square, with Colonel Gansevoort and his staff inside, and without wasting many words in leading up to the subject, the commandant announced that the majority of the men had decided there was no need of further punishment for Reuben Cox; that the penalty which he had already paid was a sufficient lesson for those of us who entertained any idea of trusting to the promises made by the British commander. Then he spoke of our being put on short allowance, and straightway the men pricked up their ears, listening intently to the end that they might be able to prove the quartermaster had told a deliberate falsehood. "And what if General Schuyler has so much on his hands because of Burgoyne that he can't come to our relief?" In the midst of this involuntary token of good-will the officers very wisely went to their quarters, leaving us to stew over the situation in such fashion as best pleased us. Every man on the parade-ground understood full well that if he would save his life it stood him in hand to get back to his post of duty without unnecessary delay, and in a very few minutes those whose turn it was to go on duty were setting about the regular routine as laid down since the besiegers displayed unusual activity. Certain it was that we would hear no more about surrendering, therefore we need not fear another mutiny, and, as the old man said grimly: "If the men want more to eat, let 'em go outside to get it, for it won't do any good to whine after what has been said." During the week which followed every man did his full duty, and we heard very little grumbling, although I am sorry to set it down that some of the faint-hearted did wag their tongues more than was seemly; but on the whole the garrison showed themselves to be fairly good soldiers. "I would like to make the try, sir," Cox said, in a pleading tone, "an', if it so be that they get hold of me again, it'll be better to die in their hands than stay here where every man looks upon me as somethin' to be despised." "You can't be surprised, Cox, that the brave fellows, whose plight has been rendered more desperate by what you and your companions did, should be averse to making friendly with you." "I'm not surprised, sir, an' I'd like to end it all by showin' that I've still got man enough in me to die tryin' to repair the mischief that's been done." "The only way to make atonement is by doing whatsoever comes to your hand here in the fort. There's like to be plenty of fighting ahead of us, and you should be able to do more than your share." "Could it be fixed, sir, so that I might give up nearly all my rations to those who need 'em the most?" the poor fellow asked, in a tone so pitiful and weak that my heart really went out in sympathy to him. "We will stand or fall on the same footing, my man," the colonel said, as he walked away, and immediately I was relieved of duty I made it my business to repeat the conversation to every man I came across. We were all so near death just then that it surely seemed as if we should have forgiveness in our hearts for such as Cox, lest we be denied that same boon in the next world. We had been punishing so severely those who were working in the trenches, and had kept the savages such close prisoners in their own encampment, that it seemed only natural the more soldierly of the men in St. Leger's army should insist on being led against us. It was possible for us to tell by the shouts and yells that on a certain night Thayendanega's cowards had assembled in the British camp for a powwow, although they had taken good care not to let us see them going there, and Sergeant Corney said to me, as if he had a written programme of the entire proceedings: "To-morrow we will have redcoats in plenty at which to shoot." "Why do you say that?" I asked, in surprise. "He won't get the chance. The assault will be made before to-morrow night, an' never a feather can be seen." "Why are you so positive about that?" "I hope you may be right," I said, with a long-drawn sigh, "for if St. Leger has lost as many of his army as Thayendanega's crowd represents, it won't be such a desperate venture to cut our way through his lines when we've eaten the last ration." "Don't stop believin' that General Schuyler will contrive to give us a lift. I'm countin' that he's lookin' after the matter now," the sergeant replied, and then he walked away whistling softly, as if the thought of taking part against another assault pleased him mightily. The howling and yelling of the savages at the powwow continued until near to midnight, and the noise had hardly more than died away when the commandant came to where I was stationed, halting a moment to gaze in the direction of the Indian camp before he asked: "Have you seen any targets in this direction lately?" "It has been a good many days since any of the crew gave us a chance to show what we could do with a bullet, sir." "How long are you on duty to-night?" "Until morning, sir. Jacob Sitz and I have thought best to stay with the sentinels of our company during all the hours of darkness. We catch a cat-nap now and then, so it isn't like doin' extra work." "Your lads will make good names for themselves among those who love the Cause, if they keep on as they've begun," the colonel said in the most kindly tone, and the praise made me as proud as any peacock, for I had hoped we might be able to show him we could do the work of men. "See that a sharp watch be kept from now on, and do not hesitate to raise an alarm if anything unusual is seen, Captain Campbell." I am certain my cheeks reddened when he thus recognized my rank, yet I was such a simple that I could only stammer: "You must have in mind, sir, somethin' the same as has Sergeant Corney. He has lately been here predicting an assault for to-morrow." "The sergeant uses his ears to some purpose," the colonel said, with a laugh, and then he walked away, leaving me with a determination to keep guard as I had never kept it before. "Well, I don't know why we should be in a better position than any other to know what may be goin' on," he said, rubbing his eyes sleepily. "If the sergeant has the rights of it, an' the savages are done with the siege, then we're not likely to see much from this point." By this time Jacob was fully awake, and he set out along such portion of the wall as was under our charge, straining his eyes in the direction of the Indian encampment, but without seeing anything whatsoever. Not a camp-fire was burning, and I failed to hear even the howling of a dog, which was something so unusual as to cause us no little surprise. "Can it be that Thayendanega's gang has deserted General St. Leger?" I asked, in a whisper. "The sergeant will have it that they are done with the siege, in which case it wouldn't be surprisin' if they had sneaked away." "There's no such good news as that," Jacob said, with a laugh; "but I'm puzzled to make out why they're so quiet." "It seems as if all hands had it in mind that we need lookin' after," Jacob replied, grimly, and then his father asked if we had seen anything unusual since the powwow came to an end. "It's what we've neither seen nor heard that's puzzlin' us, sir," my comrade said, and then he called his father's attention to the remarkable quiet which reigned where, ordinarily, noises of some kind could be heard during every hour of the night. I have set all this down at considerable length because, in view of what finally occurred, it was much as if our people had a premonition of that which was to come. Of course these details are of no particular importance, and yet I have set them down in order to show how strong was the belief of every person in the fort that something unusual was about to happen, although, with the exception of the powwow held in St. Leger's camp the evening previous, we had seen nothing to betoken especial activity on the part of the enemy. "Here they come! Here they come!" I expected to see every man spring toward the walls in order to learn for himself what had caused the alarm, and at any other time they would have done so; but so great was the sense of impending danger that instinctively the garrison formed in line ready for orders. I had not yet been relieved from duty, and therefore remained where it was possible to have a fairly good view of all the encampments occupied by the enemy. A plentiful supply of ammunition was dealt out to our men, and the big guns were served as if our magazine was filled to overflowing, after which the garrison went to quarters, Reuben Cox being the happiest member of the army, for he believed the time was near at hand when it might be possible for him to wipe out some of the stain which rested upon him. The Minute Boys were ordered to remain at their post over the sally-port, much to my disappointment, for if the Indians did not take part in the assault, which we had every reason to believe was near at hand, then would our duties be so light that we could not hope to win much credit. Do not let it be supposed that I had become a swash-buckler of a soldier. The cold chill of fear still crept up and down my spine whenever I thought of taking part in an engagement; but I was becoming so nearly a man as to desire, in case it became necessary to fight, that I might gain some honor for standing stiffly when really my heart was faint. "What's the matter?" Jacob asked, nervously, as he pressed close to my side. "I wish I knew, lad," was my reply, in a voice that was not overly steady. "This waitin' while others are gettin' ready to try to kill a fellow is not to my likin'." "I had rather have a full hour of hot fightin' than such idleness, when we know that soon the bullets will be whistlin' around our ears," Jacob replied, and just then John Sammons came up, as he said: "I reckon they're goin' to bring their siege-guns with 'em this time. It looks to me much as if a big crowd was gatherin' in the rear of the line." Then it was that we could see the Tories running to and fro, each man for himself, and in a twinkling the line of regulars melted away. There was no longer any semblance of military formation to be seen, and yet certain it was that a few moments previous the enemy was nearly ready for an assault. We lads were not the only ones who felt disturbed because of this strange behavior on the part of the enemy. I could see that Colonel Gansevoort and all his officers were on that portion of the wall nearest the British camp, gazing earnestly toward it, while our men moved about uneasily, as if having forgotten that they had been sent to their several posts of duty. Strain our eyes as we might, it was impossible to make so much as a guess regarding what could be the cause of the odd proceedings, and it was in my mind to go in search of Sergeant Corney to ask his opinion of the situation, when John Sammons cried, suddenly: "Look there! The sneaks are comin' out at last! I reckon the Britishers have been waitin' for 'em!" "Here's a sight I never expected to see in this blessed country where private soldiers have the habit of commandin' their superiors! Why ain't you lads huntin' 'round to find out what's goin' on?" "We were ordered here, an' to be ready for action," I replied, not a little pleased to hear the old soldier's tone of approval. "This company will stay where it is until I have permission to break ranks." "It don't seem to be the military fashion for Americans to obey a command so strictly, an' I'm afraid you're settin' a bad example to them who demand that a list of the supplies be read to 'em whenever they're feelin' a bit out of sorts. There's a chance I'll grow proud of havin' licked you into shape if you don't change your ways mighty quick." "I don't fancy you came here just to see why we stayed on duty," Jacob said, with a laugh, which told me he was well pleased with what the old man had said. "We're expectin' you to answer that question, sergeant. You've never been backward in findin' fault with the ways of American soldiers, an' now perhaps you can tell what's gone wrong with the Britishers?" "I wish I knew, lad, an' that's the fact! It looks as if they'd clean forgot we're waitin' for 'em, an' as for them precious babies of Thayendanega's, they've gone out of their heads completely. It's a puzzle all 'round, an' I reckon the commandant is as much in the dark as are the rest of us." "Can't you make a guess?" Jacob asked, impatiently. "Not a bit of it, lad; but it's certain there's trouble of some kind at Barry St. Leger's quarters, an' I'm of the mind to find out, if you an' Jacob want to stir yourselves a bit." "Look at the Indian encampment; do you think there's anybody nearabout that place who's keepin' an eye on this 'ere fort?" "Well?" I asked, as the old man paused. "Well, if you an' Jacob feel like havin' a look around, I'll ask the commandant's permission to do a little scoutin' on our own account, agreein', in case we're laid by the heels, not to expect any help from this 'ere garrison." "The commandant never will give you permission. I heard him refuse Reuben Cox most emphatically." "But that was when everythin' seemed to be runnin' smooth, an' Cox only wanted to get himself killed. Now I'll go bail that Colonel Gansevoort is more eager than we to know the meanin' of this queer business, an' will jump at the plan." "You'll know better after you've asked him," I suggested. "If he gives permission, Jacob an' I are with you." The old man sauntered away as if he had nothing of importance to do, and with a look on his face which told that he was certain of getting the desired permission without very much difficulty. "Can it be possible that Colonel Gansevoort is seriously thinkin' of allowin' the sergeant to leave the fort in the daytime?" I asked of my comrade, as we went rapidly across the parade-ground to obey the summons. "Meanin' that you're not willin' to make the venture?" I asked, quickly, hoping my comrade would flatly refuse to go, for, now that the venture seemed countenanced by Colonel Gansevoort, I was growing mighty weak-kneed. "I would stick my nose into a good deal of danger before bein' willin' to go back on a promise made to the sergeant," Jacob replied, thoughtfully. "If he has told the commandant that we are minded to go, there's nothin' for it but to tackle the job." We were not called on to wait many seconds before learning the reason for the summons, since Colonel Gansevoort jumped into the subject by saying: "So you lads are keen for a hazardous venture, eh?" I would have given much if at that moment I could have called up sufficient courage to say that I was well content to remain within the walls of the fort; but instead of boldly declaring myself I remained silent until Jacob said, with only a faint show of enthusiasm: "We told Sergeant Corney that we would go with him to find out what may be the trouble in General St. Leger's camp, if so be you gave permission, sir." Now was I fully committed to a matter which was by no means to my liking, and, with a certain sense of being ill-treated, I listened to that which followed. "Under almost any other circumstances I would flatly refuse permission for any man to leave the fort; but now it seems as if it was of the highest importance we should know what is taking place in the enemy's camp. Whatever it may be is of such a serious nature as to attract the attention of the entire encampment so entirely that no attention whatsoever appears to be paid to us. I believe that, by leaving through the horn-works, you can make your way to the rear of the British encampment without incurring any very grave danger, and if it is the desire of you lads to go with the sergeant you have my permission." It was just what I didn't want, but, under the circumstances, I could do no less than look as if he had granted us the greatest favor possible, and at the same moment it would have done me solid good had I been able to kick the sergeant with sufficient vigor to convince him that he had made an ass of himself. Then the colonel, after receiving our thanks for permission to run our heads into unnecessary danger, went on to explain what he would have us do in case we lived long enough to get an idea of that which was going on in the enemy's camp. As he had already said, we were to scale the stockade in the horn-works, and then, making a detour to the westward, gain the cover of such shelter as might be found on the high lands, working well toward the ruins of Fort Newport before trying to strike across to and behind the line of earthworks which St. Leger had caused to be thrown up early in the siege. Sergeant Corney was inclined to boast of having succeeded when I had declared he must fail, and would have congratulated himself in great shape while we were crossing the parade-ground on our way to the barracks, but that I said, curtly: "Which is the same as sayin' that you've changed your mind about goin' out scoutin'?" he cried sharply, looking me squarely in the face. "There is no reason why you should go if the job isn't to your likin'." "Both Jacob an' I must keep on with you, or write ourselves down as cowards; but at the same time we have the right to think it a foolish venture." The old man must have understood that I spoke rather from nervousness than because I was really in anger, and immediately he acted as if nothing unpleasant had been said, but began to discuss the question of whether it would be wise to burden ourselves with weapons when, if brought to bay, we could not hope to fight our way through. Having gained the line of foliage which fringed the high tract of land, it was possible to march off at a smart pace without need of taking particular heed to our steps, and we travelled rapidly until having arrived at a point midway between our starting-place and the ruins of Fort Newport. The statement was made in the form of a question, and I replied that it suited me to do as he thought best, for when Colonel Gansevoort mapped out the route I believed he was sending us on a longer detour than was necessary. While we were going over the open country I kept my eyes fixed upon the British batteries and the redoubts thrown up to cover them, but failed to see any signs of human life. That the enemy had abandoned these posts even for a few moments seemed incredible, and yet it was all of the same piece with what we could see in their camp. Sergeant Corney led us directly into the redoubts which had made so much trouble for us in the fort, and, had we been disposed, we might have loaded ourselves down with plunder of every description, for the belongings of the men were strewn about as if cast aside in great haste. It was not safe to remain many moments where we were; in fact, I came near to believing the sergeant had lost his wits when he led us into the British nest, and we hurried out of the works, going directly toward St. Leger's quarters until we were sufficiently near to see men moving about excitedly, when he struck off for the rear of the encampment, where could be found such cover as stout bushes and small fir-trees would afford. We had advanced boldly on this last stage of the journey, emboldened to do so by the evidences of panic, or something near akin to it, which we saw on every hand, and trusting to the possibility that if seen it would be believed that we belonged to the encampment. The sun was yet an hour high in the heavens when we found a hiding-place overlooking the camp, and so easy of accomplishment had been our task, with nothing of danger attaching to it, that I was heartily ashamed of having displayed ill-temper in the sergeant's presence. Neither of us spoke when we were finally come to where we could have a fairly good view of the scene of confusion. The surprise at what we saw, and the perplexity because of it, was so great that we could do no more or no less than stare in bewilderment at this army, every member of which appeared to have suddenly been deprived of his reason. It was enough to make a fellow lose a full year's growth, thus seeing his Majesty's general in such company; but when the Oneidas appeared my surprise gave way to fear. We had always counted, and with good cause, on these Indians being friendly to our people who were struggling to throw off the yoke which the king had put upon us, yet the fact that they were in the encampment, apparently on friendly terms with our enemies, seemed to betoken still more trouble and misery for us of the valley. Jacob gripped my hand tightly as the Oneidas appeared, and I could see the corners of the sergeant's mouth twitching as if he had suddenly lost that feeling of security which had been so strong upon him until this moment. Then the foolish man began to tell a long story to the general, the Indians added a word now and then, and even Thayendanega began to wear a troubled look. The scenes shifted before us as if they had been painted on bubbles which were blown hither and thither by the wind. Even as we gazed at the leaders of the army while they stood listening to the foolish man as if believing him to be inspired, a mob of Tories and Indians surged toward that portion of the encampment, and in an instant St. Leger, Thayendanega, and Sir John Johnson were blotted out from our view. I saw Sergeant Corney shrug his shoulders, as if to say that he had given over even trying to guess what might have happened, and then he beckoned for us to follow as he crept straight away from the, to us, perplexing scene. There was little need for us to give much heed to our movements so far as concerned making a noise, for I dare venture to say that a full company of men might have marched boldly past without raising an alarm, so long as they remained hidden from view. "Well?" I said, irritably, vexed because of my bewilderment. "If you can't explain the situation there is no need to look at us. It beats anything I ever heard of or dreamed about. Have they all lost their senses?" "Somethin' is goin' mightily wrong!" Sergeant Corney said, impressively, as if he was imparting valuable information. "Goin' wrong!" Jacob repeated. "I should say it had already gone wrong with a vengeance. Can't you make some kind of a guess, sergeant?" "Well?" I asked again, as the old man ceased speaking. "Colonel Gansevoort must know how mixed up is this 'ere army." "We can go back an' tell him," Jacob replied, promptly. "I reckon we might walk straight out toward the fort, an' never a man here would give heed to us." It was not my desire to travel back alone to carry the tidings. There was no thought in my mind that any danger might threaten while the enemy was in such a state of confusion; and I was most eager to watch these apparently crazy people, in the hope of being able to come at a solution of the riddle, therefore I asked, sharply: "Who do you think should go back?" "Do either of you lads want to tackle the job?" the sergeant asked, and I understood by his tone that he was as loath to leave the place as was I. Neither of us made reply, and he went on, as if already having had the plan fixed in his mind: "He who gets the shortest goes back, eh?" Jacob asked, and I replied: They were all so nearly of a length that we were forced to measure each in order to learn who was the unfortunate, and then it was found that Jacob had been selected to play the part of messenger. Disappointed though the lad must have been, he did not make any delay, but asked as he rose to his feet: "What shall I say to the commandant?" Immediately the old man ceased speaking Jacob wheeled about, and in a twinkling was lost to our view in the gloom. By this time night had fully come, and I knew the lad would be in no danger if he made a direct line for the fort, therefore I ceased to think of him as I urged my companion to return with me to where we could overlook the scene of confusion. Had the camp been in the possession of an enemy there could not have been greater evidences of lawlessness, and again and again I asked myself what could have happened to bring about such a condition of affairs. It would be well-nigh impossible to set down all the wild pictures we saw during the hour which followed. Instead of recovering from their panic, insubordination, or whatever it may have been, the men were momentarily growing more disorderly, and that the officers made no effort to preserve even the semblance of order, we knew from seeing them from time to time moving about the encampment with no heed to what was being done. As can be supposed, in a comparatively short time the Indians were thoroughly under the influence of the enormous amount of strong drink which had been consumed, and ripe for mischief of any kind. Then the Indians began a war-dance, waving the bloody scalp in the air with frenzied gestures as they circled around and around the lifeless body, and many of the drunken white men applauded heartily, although it must be set down in extenuation that they were so drunk as not really to understand what had taken place. "It's a nice kind of a tea-party," Sergeant Corney whispered to me, while the orgy was at its height. "If the rum holds out these villains will settle matters among themselves, so that Colonel Gansevoort won't find any to stand against him when he arrives." The savages soon brought their dance to an end as they stumbled into this tent and that, searching for more spirits although the cask was not yet empty, and I was on the point of suggesting to Sergeant Corney that it would be wise to move back among the bushes lest some of the drunkards come upon us by mistake, when a heavy body suddenly fell, or was thrown, directly upon my back, pinning me to the earth. That which rendered my situation critical was the fact of my being virtually unarmed. It will be remembered that the rifle was strapped to my back, and even though I had been unhampered, it would have required no slight time in which to unsling it. My knife was quite as useless, because, borne to the earth as I had been, it could not be removed from my belt. Certain it is, however, that no alarm was raised even when the sergeant came to my relief, and in silence, save for the rustling of the foliage as we swayed to this side or that, the battle was continued until I felt the cruel fingers about my throat suddenly relax, while a warm liquid of a peculiar, salty odor poured down over my neck and head. When he who had been striving to kill me rolled from my back, I lay motionless, unable to raise a hand and gasping for breath, until Sergeant Corney lifted me up as he whispered in my ear: "Are you hurt, lad?" "Only choked well-nigh to death," I contrived to say, and then tried to struggle to my feet, but found myself yet pinned to the earth by the lifeless body which lay across my legs. "Let us get out of here," I said, after releasing myself from the sinister weight. "This is worse than such an ambush as we fell into on the Oriskany." "Ay, lad, I reckon you're right as to that; but it strikes me we're bound by the word I sent the commandant to stay here till we make certain these reptiles don't come to their senses." While he spoke the sergeant was helping me retreat yet farther among the bushes, for my knees bent beneath me, owing to the horror of it all, as well as the rough handling I had received. The old man was not willing to move so far away that it would not be possible to have a fairly good view of what might be going on; but we did walk to what I believed was a comparatively safe distance, and then sat down upon the ground on the alert for anything more of the same kind which had come so near to putting me out of the world. "It was a close shave, lad, an' ought'er be a lesson to sich fools as we've shown ourselves, never to carry good weapons where they can't be got hold of for use at a moment's notice." "A fellow isn't supposed to be on his guard against drunkards," I replied, curtly, caressing my throat, which was exceeding sore. "True for you, lad; but I'm free to say that, while we've had considerable experience in the business of fightin', I never run up agin quite sich a mess as this. It actually gives me a pain because I can't make head or tail of it." "It is no use to speculate as to how this thing came about," I said; "but it strikes me that you ought to post yourself so far as to be able to tell Colonel Gansevoort, or whoever he sends in command of the detachment, exactly where the blow may best be struck, for just now all we know is regardin' the row close hereabout." "You never spoke a truer word in your life, lad," the old man said, excitedly, as he rose to his feet. "I got so mixed up with this 'ere hubbub, tryin' to make out how it came about, as to have clean lost sight of all that a soldier ought to do. Jacob hasn't been gone over an hour, an' we have as much more time to find out how things are in the rest of the encampment, so let's set about it without delay." The scene immediately before us was so revolting that I had no desire to gaze at it longer, and there was a certain sense of relief in my mind when the sergeant, prompted by me, had thus decided upon a definite course of action. With so much of confusion and drunkenness everywhere around, it was a simple matter for us to go and come as we pleased, save by chance we might stumble upon those who yet remained sober, for all the men I had thus far seen, except the leaders themselves, were in such a maudlin condition as to be unable to distinguish friend from foe. During all this time of inspection we saw nothing of St. Leger, Sir John, or Thayendanega, and I was of the opinion that they had run away; but Sergeant Corney held to it that most like they were in the Indian encampment, proposing that we cross the river in order to hunt them up, but to this I would not listen. According to my mind, such of the Indians as remained sober, if there were any, would be in their own lodges, and because we had had such singular success in our scout thus far was no reason why we might not suddenly find ourselves face to face with the gravest danger, if we acted the fools by poking our noses among the camps of the savages. Just for an instant I was startled, fearing lest we might be discovered and find ourselves in trouble when we believed we were safest; but then, realizing that we had already met many who mistook us for comrades, I would have gone on but that Sergeant Corney halted suddenly, unslung the rifle from his back, and, presenting it full at the drunken renegades, said in a low, stern tone: I question if in the annals of warfare there be found anything that can match such a situation! "Are you goin' to take them into the fort, sergeant?" I asked, in a whisper, and he replied, speaking with difficulty because of his mirth: There could be little danger attending such a performance, save perchance we might come upon some of those who were sober, and that risk I was more than willing to take for the sake, as the sergeant had said, of being able to tell the story in the future. We marched our prisoners out past the batteries, they giving no heed to the direction we were going, evidently fancying we were taking them to the guard-tent, until arriving midway between the fort and the redoubts. [Illustration: "'Keep a-movin' unless you're achin' to have a bullet through the back'"] I walked with my rifle cocked and pointed at the man directly in front of me, prodding him with the muzzle now and then that he might know I was ready for action, and Sergeant Corney kept the whole party moving at a good smart pace, for we had no assurance that there were not sober men enough in the enemy's camp to play the mischief with our bold plan. "Report to the officer of the day that Captain Campbell, of the Minute Boys, an' Sergeant Braun, unattached, are come with a few prisoners as sample of what may be had for the takin'." This reply caused some mystification among the sentinels, as we could understand by the hum of conversation which followed; but the old man did not call a halt, and we continued straight on toward the sally-port, I feeling more than a bit nervous lest the sergeant's loud words might have been heard by such of the enemy as were able to come in pursuit. When we had come near the gate, the Tories now well sobered by fright, Colonel Gansevoort himself hailed, and again the sergeant replied, but this time in a respectful tone, after which we heard the command to open the port. A throng of curious, laughing men crowded around as we marched in, and not until the uniforms of our prisoners could be seen did they believe we had really made a capture. It was a squad of Johnson Greens which we had run across so fortunately and accidentally, and none of St. Leger's force could have been more welcome to our lads than they, for that organization was made up wholly of renegades from the Mohawk Valley, who needed such a lesson as we were now in position to give them. "When your messenger came in with his report, he admitted that you had seen but a small portion of the encampment, therefore I hesitated to accept it as a fact regarding the entire army; but now, after you have made a tour of the works, it would be worse than folly to delay," the commandant said to the sergeant. "If you who have so lately returned want to join in the sortie, it will be necessary to make your preparations quickly." And the old man replied, grimly: "The advance can't be made any too soon to please us, sir." "All of which means that you're entirely satisfied with everything this night?" I said, with a laugh, for the capture of the Tories had pleased me so thoroughly that my mouth was stretched in a grin nearly all the time. "That's about the size of it, lad, though in this case I couldn't find anythin' to be disgruntled with, however soreheaded I might be. The colonel is sendin' out men in plenty." It is well that I make the story short, so far as our own movements were concerned, for what we said or did before visiting the enemy's camp in force is of very little importance. We set off within an hour after Sergeant Corney and I brought in the prisoners, and were marched boldly across the plain on a bee-line for the batteries without hearing a single note of alarm. It seemed to me that even the noises of the orgy had died away. All these precautions were proper, and the captain would have been a poor soldier indeed had he failed to take them; but, as was soon shown, they were needless. When we arrived near General St. Leger's quarters we saw the last of the army fleeing as if panic-stricken in the direction of Oneida Lake, no longer preserving any semblance of military formation, but each man for himself, and, what was yet more puzzling, their Indian allies were in close pursuit, striking down laggards whenever the opportunity offered. Then we began the pursuit, and this, like the panic in the camp, was the oddest ever known. British regulars and Tories running helter-skelter, casting aside their weapons and accoutrements lest they be impeded in the unreasoning flight, and close at their heels the savages, who fell upon every unarmed man they saw, sometimes killing him outright, but, in many cases which came under my personal observation, disabling and then scalping the poor wretch, leaving him to a lingering death. It is almost impossible to give any details of that pursuit, which was not brought to an end until we were close upon the shore of Oneida Lake, because it was all so confusing--more like the wildest kind of a foot-race, wherein each man was trying to gain the lead, and the hindermost frantic with fear. In the excitement of the chase either Jacob or I would have passed it by as being of no particular value when there were so many things to be picked up; but the old man was too good and experienced a soldier not to realize the possibilities of the find, and, heedless of all the wild scenes around him, he seized upon it, breaking the lock with a rock. Then it was we learned that the apparently valueless case was none other than the writing-desk, or official portfolio, belonging to General St. Leger himself, and in it were not only private letters and documents, but all his correspondence and papers relating to the campaign, such as afterward served to show that the king's officers had actually hired the Indians to murder those whom they called "rebels." "I reckon we've captured the prize of the day," the sergeant said, gleefully, after making certain as to the contents of the case. "This is of more value than a score of prisoners, although there's far less satisfaction in seizin' it." A moment later the old man began to understand that if he held on to the prize he would be left far behind in the chase by our people, because it was far too cumbersome to be carried at a rapid pace, and then he regretted having found it. I believe that for a moment he had it in his mind to throw the heavy portfolio away, willing to lose what he believed to be the most valuable of all the plunder that might be found, rather than miss the excitement of the chase; but, fortunately, just then John Sammons came limping back with a wound in the leg which had been inflicted by a savage whom he afterward succeeded in killing. "It's the toughest kind of ill-fortune to be crippled just when the fun is the hottest," he said, after explaining how the wound had been received. "I can't go on, an' I don't want to miss the show when the crazy Britishers an' Tories arrive at the shore of the lake." "Of course you will, lad, an' I've got here that which will ensure you a warm reception by Colonel Gansevoort. Take this case to him, an' you'll be glad you had to go back." Then it was that I understood why the old man was so solicitous regarding John's injury. Sammons took up the bulky portfolio and limped back in the direction of the fort, the sergeant saying with a peculiar twinkle of the eyes as the lad passed beyond earshot: "Now I reckon there's nothin' to prevent us from goin' on so long as do the others. Strike out lively, lads; we've wasted too much time already!" Then we tailed on behind the crowd of our people who howled and yelled as if at a fair, shooting at every bunch of feathers we saw amid the foliage, but making no effort to capture the fugitives lest we find ourselves so hampered that further advance would be out of the question. There were many of our people who thought much as we did on that day, otherwise Fort Schuyler might have been crowded with prisoners before morning. We of the American army were far too few in numbers to risk an action by pressing on, for, no matter how demoralized the enemy had become during the flight, it was more than probable they would fight with desperation now safety was within view. The savages had no such reason for lagging, however, nor did they intend to fall upon their late friends in a manner which could involve them in a pitched battle; but yet they did a large amount of mischief without putting their precious bodies in danger. Wherever a squad of the fugitives was withdrawn from the main body, making ready a boat, the painted fiends would swoop down upon it, performing their murderous work and getting away with a fresh supply of scalps before the victims' friends could rush to their assistance. "The Indians, it is said, made merry at the precipitate flight of the whites, who threw away their arms and knapsacks, so that nothing should impede their progress. The savages also gratified their passion for murder and plunder by killing many of the retreating allies on the borders of the lake, and stripping them of every article of value. They also plundered them of their boats, and, according to St. Leger, 'became more formidable than the enemy they had to expect.'" It was late in the afternoon before Captain Jackman gave us the word to turn back. He would have returned sooner, but our men pleaded for permission to watch the fugitives until they had embarked, and he could hardly do otherwise than remain. A happy, light-hearted company it was that marched back to what had been the British encampment, there to find many of those we had left in the fort busily engaged hauling in the plunder abandoned by his Majesty's valiant army, to the fortification. Now we had ammunition in plenty, both for our own guns and those we brought in from the batteries, while there was such a store of provisions that the wagons were kept busy during the entire night transporting it. We feasted from sunset until sunrise, much after the fashion of the savages, for it made a fellow feel good to know from actual test that there was no longer any need of saving every scrap of food against that day when it might be necessary to fight and fast at the same time. Even though we had not thus made merry, I question if there was a man among us, from the highest to the lowest, who could have closed his eyes in slumber. The relief of mind was so great, and the wonderment because of what had happened so overpowering, that we were able to do nothing save discuss the matter again and again, but without coming to any satisfactory solution of the riddle. The Tory encampment, which was a long distance westward from St. Leger's quarters, presented the same scene of confusion and evidences of hasty departure as had the British, and from there we got a large quantity of plunder; but in the Indian camp was nothing left but the lodges, and these we carted into the fort, although they would be of little value to us. It was satisfying to despoil Thayendanega's snakes, even though only to a slight extent. It was downright hard work to handle shovel and pick hour after hour under the burning rays of the summer sun; but no fellow cared to show himself indolent after having had such rare good fortune, and we petitioned the commandant to let us continue the labor throughout the night, to the end that it might the sooner be performed. Messengers had been sent on the road toward Stillwater to learn, if possible, what had caused such a panic among the enemy, and Sergeant Corney said to Jacob and me while we were waiting with whatsoever of patience we could command for some definite information to be brought in: "How surprised the people of Cherry Valley will be when they hear all that we can tell them!" Jacob said, as if speaking to himself. "An' is it in your mind, lad, that we're to go back there rather than anywhere else?" "Where else could we go?" I asked, in surprise. "I've been thinkin' that we might do our people at home more good by marchin' the Minute Boys to where they could be of real service, than goin' back to let 'em loaf 'round the settlement." At that moment the old soldier was called away to attend to some duty, and Jacob and I had ample food for thought as we turned over in mind what he had said. Colonel Willett and Lieutenant Stockwell succeeded in getting past the several encampments without being discovered, and made their way to German Flats. There they procured horses, and rode at full speed until arriving at the headquarters of General Schuyler at Stillwater. Now it seems, as I have heard it said by those who knew, and, later, have seen it printed, that immediately the messengers from the besieged fort stated the purpose of their coming, General Schuyler, eager to send Colonel Gansevoort all the succor he might, called a council of war to decide upon what should be done, when, greatly to his surprise, he found that the members of his staff were bitterly opposed to weakening the force then at Stillwater by sending any away, even on so important a mission as that of aiding the beleaguered garrison. "'He only wants to weaken the army!' "At this vile accusation the indignant general set his teeth so hard as to bite through the stem of the pipe he was smoking, which fell on the floor and was smashed. "'Enough!' he cried. 'I assume the whole responsibility. Where is the brigadier who will go?' "The brigadiers all sat in sullen silence, and Arnold, who had been brooding over his private grievances, suddenly jumped up. "'Here!' said he. 'Washington sent me here to make myself useful. I will go.' "Yan Yost was summarily condemned to death, and his brother and gipsy-like mother, in wild alarm, hastened to the camp to plead for his life. Arnold for awhile was inexorable, but presently offered to pardon the culprit on condition that he should go and spread a panic in the camp of St. Leger. "Yan Yost joyfully consented, and started off forthwith, while his brother was detained as a hostage, to be hanged in case of his failure. To make the matter still surer, some friendly Oneidas were sent along to keep an eye upon him and act in concert with him. "As many knew him for a Tory, his tale found ready belief, and, when interrogated as to the numbers of the advancing host, he gave a warning frown and pointed significantly to the countless leaves that fluttered on the branches overhead." "The savages, now thoroughly alarmed, prepared to flee. St. Leger tried every means, by offers of bribes and promises, to induce them to remain, but the panic and suspicion of foul play had determined them to go. He tried to make them drunk, but they refused to drink. He then besought them to take the rear of his army in retreating; this they refused, and indignantly said: "Nothing more was needed to complete the panic. It was in vain that Sir John and St. Leger coaxed and threatened the savages. They were already filled with fear, and while a certain number deliberately ran away, taking their squaws with them, others drank rum until they were drunk, and began to assault the officers." That is the story as has been set down by others, and I have already told what we ourselves saw. All which seemed so unaccountable to us at that time, would have been as plain as the sun at noon-day had we possessed the key to the seeming riddle. On the morning after General Arnold's arrival, when we learned that the reinforcements which had been sent to us at Fort Schuyler were to be marched directly back to the main army then at Stillwater, the Minute Boys held a conference to decide what should be done, for it was in my mind that each member of the company had a right to discuss freely the question that must be settled without delay. We knew that Peter Sitz was to return to Cherry Valley as soon as he could make ready for the journey, and I was of the belief that Jacob desired to accompany his father; but never a word had passed between us on the subject. From all we could hear concerning affairs in the Mohawk Valley, it seemed much as if the senseless panic among St. Leger's force had resulted in breaking up the combination between the British and the Indians, in which case Thayendanega would not be able to ravage the country nearabout Cherry Valley, as he had doubtless counted on. When I considered the matter, with a sickness for home in my heart, it seemed much as if my proper place was with my parents, and there, if trouble should come, I would be able to strike a blow in defence of those I loved; but while listening to the conversation of the soldiers, and being brought to understand how sorely the colonists needed the aid which should come from their midst, I said to myself that strong, hulking lads like our Minute Boys ought to be ashamed to do other than remain in the service, doing their part in showing the king that we would have no more of his misrule. I have thus set down that which was in my mind at the time, not that it is of any especial importance, but to the end that he who reads may understand how undecided I was as to what my company had best do at such a time; and I believe every person will realize that a lad's love for country must be great when it prompts him to turn his back on home and loved ones after having passed through as many dangers as had our boys from Cherry Valley. We had come to consider him as the head and front of the Minute Boys, and his absence at such an important time seemed odd, to say the least. "I believe he has it in mind to join General Arnold's force," John Sammons said, when the hour for the conference had come and passed without the sergeant's having shown himself, and the idea of such a possibility brought a strange sensation of loneliness to my heart. He did not absolutely refuse to obey what might have been considered as an order from the captain, but tried to shift the duty by saying: "It would be of more avail for you to go, Noel, if so be the old man really has it in mind to enlist under General Arnold. You have ever been a favorite of his, whereas I am little more than an outsider, who has caused you an' he much trouble an' sufferin'." I set off without further parley, and to my great surprise found the old man on the parade-ground talking idly with Peter Sitz. "Not a bit of it, lad." "Then why didn't you come to the barracks?" "I knew you lads had somewhat of importance to decide, an' wasn't countin' on goin' where I might be said to have influenced you." "But don't you reckon yourself as belongin' any longer to the company?" "I didn't count on bein' able to pass myself off for a boy, even among blind men," the old soldier said, with a laugh, and I cried, hotly: "That isn't answerin' my question, sergeant. Is there any good reason why you should stand stiffly here while we're tryin' to make up our minds what to do?" "Yes, lad, I believe there is." "What may it be, if you're willin' to tell us?" "Not a bit of it; it strikes me your company has shown that it may be of value in any army, an' I'll go bail Colonel Gansevoort will agree with me. What say you, Peter Sitz?" "Speakin' for my Jacob, he's shown that his services are not to be despised in sich warfare as we're like to have in the valley; but it must be for him to say what he'll do, without word or look from me." However, I was determined that they should be present while we discussed the matter, and by dint of much coaxing finally succeeded in my purpose. There could be no question but that very many of us shared John's ideas, and then came the question as to how we might learn what we wanted to know. This we could not determine upon until Peter Sitz said, quietly: "Most likely Colonel Gansevoort can tell you in short order; but, if he can't, he won't be long in findin' out from General Arnold." This was just the suggestion we needed, and then came the question as to who would go to the commandant. I flatly refused, because it would look too much as if I was eager to hold my rank as captain, and after considerable tongue-wagging it was decided that Jacob should tackle the job, his father agreeing to go with him to headquarters. Sergeant Corney would take no part in the discussion. He flatly refused to give an opinion until after the matter had been fully decided; but I knew full well the old man would remain with us, even though we were only a company of boys. Then Jacob and his father returned, and there was no need of further talk. Then it was that Sergeant Corney had his say, and he was by no means niggardly with words. We were proud lads that day, for it seemed as if every officer and soldier in the fort was eager to give us some word of praise, and those with whom we had served watched jealously when our equipment was being selected from the plunder of the British camp, lest we might not get the best of everything. "I don't reckon your company is any place for a man who has shown himself sich a sneak as I am, eh?" "Would you like to go with us?" I asked, in surprise, and pitying from the bottom of my heart the man who was so deeply repentant. "But the men in the fort have been kind to you of late, Cox?" I said, questioningly. Had I felt at liberty to decide the matter then and there, Cox would have been a member of the Minute Boys without further parley; but it was only right I should consult the others, therefore I told him to come again within an hour, when I would give him an answer. He thanked me humbly, and was about to go away, when Sergeant Corney took him by the hand as he said: "What's in the past can't be brought back for the fixin'; but we've got in our own keepin' the shapin' of the to-morrows. I'm thinkin' you won't go astray agin, Reuben Cox, an' whenever I see a chance to speak a good word for you it shall be said." I called the lads together without loss of time, repeating to them what Cox had said, and again was I made glad when they agreed without hesitation to take him among us. John Sammons was sent to bring up the new member of the company, and Sergeant Corney said, grimly, as he tried without avail to pucker his wrinkled face into a frown: "At this rate you'll soon lose the right to call yourselves Minute _Boys_, because this 'ere company is fast becomin' a refuge for the aged and outcast." There was to be mourning as well as gladness among us on this the last day we were to spend in Fort Schuyler. Toward noon a messenger from the general commanding came in, bringing with him the sad news that General Herkimer was dead of his wounds, or, perhaps I should say, because of his wounds. The family doctor objected very strongly; but the general's family had faith in the Frenchman, although it is claimed he had evidently been drinking heavily, and the leg was cut off. The operation was performed so unskilfully that it was impossible to entirely check the flow of blood, and the Frenchman, indulging in more wine, became so badly intoxicated that, even had he known how, it would have been beyond his power to take the proper measures. "Murdered if ever a man was!" Sergeant Corney cried, when the sad story had been brought to an end, and I was of the same opinion. There are several forms of mutiny, and some of them are called by other names, but all as dangerous as they are wicked. Because many of those who badgered the brave old soldier to his death paid the full penalty of their crime in the ravine under the hatchet or knife of the savages, it may not be well to say harsh words concerning them; but so long as I live there will always be anger in my heart whenever I hear their names mentioned. Those under whom we served did not view the matter in the same light I did, however, for we kept the title we liked best during all the time we served in the army. It would please me to set down here an account of the adventures which were ours after becoming enlisted men, but it must not be done, else I might never bring the tale to a close, for we saw very much during the time our people were convincing the king, and surely did our duty at Bemis Heights, otherwise our company would never have been mentioned in the flattering terms it then was. It causes me most profound sorrow to say that our company was far away, fighting for the Cause to the best of our ability, when our homes at Cherry Valley were destroyed and many of our loved ones massacred by the fiendish savages, and there is always in my heart a cruel joy that we lads who had been trained by Sergeant Corney avenged that dastardly act of Thayendanega's in such manly fashion that he must have remembered the reprisals to his dying day.	redpajama-book	59,710
E-text prepared by Kevin Handy, Dave Maddock, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team AUTHOR OF "THE STORY OF SARAH," "THE SHIP OF DREAMS," ETC. V. THE HEAD OF THE CORNER VII. OLD LETTERS AND NEW VIII. THE ANNIVERSARY IX. A WINTER BUTTERFLY X. THE TURN OF THE TIDE XI. MENTAL TREATMENT XII. "A PASSEL OF MEDDLERS" XIII. THE PRODIGAL'S DEPARTURE XIV. CUTTING THE APRON-STRINGS XV. THE "HARDENING" PROCESS XVI. "A REG'LAR HOSS" XVIII. SAMUEL'S WELCOME XIX. EXCHANGING THE OLIVE-BRANCH XXI. "OUR BELOVED BROTHER" "But," the little wife had rejoined, "it'll be a mite o' comfort a-knowin' a body's so near, even ef yer can't git tew 'em." He leaned back in the old chair, creaking out a dismal echo to the auctioneer's, "Going, going, gone!" while the flush deepened in Angy's cheek. Again she fastened her gaze upon the indomitable red rose which hung a pendant ear-ring on the right side of Abraham's head. Abraham had risen with creaks of his rheumatic joints, and was now walking up and down the room, his feet lifted slowly and painfully with every step, yet still his blue eyes flashing with the fire of indignant protest. Both wink and smile, however, were lost upon Angy, who was busy dividing the apple-sauce in such a way that Abe would have the larger share without suspecting it, hoping the while that he would not notice the absence of butter at this last home meal. She herself had never believed in buttering bread when there was "sass" to eat with it; but Abe's extravagant tastes had always carried him to the point of desiring both butter and sauce as a relish to his loaf. "Naow, fur 's I'm concerned," pursued Abe, "I hain't got nothin' agin the poorhouse fer neither man ner woman. I'd as lief let yew go thar 'stid o' me; fer I know very well that's what yew're a-layin' out fer ter do. Yes, yes, Mother, yew can't fool me. But think what folks would say! Think what they would say! They 'd crow, 'Thar's Abe a-takin' his comfort in the Old Men's Hum, an' Angeline, she's a-eatin' her heart out in the poorhouse!'" "My dear, this is the fust chance since we've been married that I've had to take the wust of it. Don't say a word agin it naow, Mother, don't yer. I've brought yer ter this pass. Lemme bear the brunt o' it." "I'm a-thinkin', Father," she twittered, "that naow me an' yew be a-gwine so fur apart, we be a-gittin' closer tergether in sperit than we 've ever been afore." "We had bread an' tea an' apple-sass the day we set up housekeeping dew yew remember, Angy?" "An' I burned the apple-sass," she supplemented, whereupon Abe chuckled, and Angy went on with a thrill of genuine gladness over the fact that he remembered the details of that long-ago honeymoon as well as she: "Yew don't mind havin' no butter to-night, dew yer, Father?" When the last look of parting had been given to the old kitchen and the couple passed out-of-doors, hushed and trembling, they presented an incongruously brave, gala-day appearance. Both were dressed in their best. To be sure, Abraham's Sunday suit had long since become his only, every-day suit as well, but he wore his Sabbath-day hat, a beaver of ancient design, with an air that cast its reflection over all his apparel. Angeline had on a black silk gown as shiny as the freshly polished stove she was leaving in her kitchen--a gown which testified from its voluminous hem to the soft yellow net at the throat that Angeline was as neat a mender and darner as could be found in Suffolk county. "You're mine!" Angy's heart cried out to the shrub and to every growing thing in the garden. "You're mine. I planted you, tended you, loved you into growing. You're all the children I ever had, and I'm leaving you." But the old wife did not pluck a single flower, for she could never bear to see a blossom wither in her hand, while all she said aloud was: "I'm glad 't was Mis' Holmes that bought in the house. They say she's a great hand ter dig in the garden." Angy's voice faltered. Abe did not answer. Something had caused a swimming before his eyes which he did not wish his wife to see; so he let fall the handle of the express-wagon and, bending his slow back, plucked a sprig of "old-man." Though he could not have expressed his sentiments in words, the garden brought poignant recollections of the hopes and promises which had thrown their rose color about the young days of his marriage. His hopes had never blossomed into fulfilment. His promises to the little wife had been choked by the weeds of his own inefficiency. Worse than this, the bursting into bloom of seeds of selfish recklessness in himself was what had turned the garden of their life into an arid waste. And now, in their dry and withered old age, he and Angy were being torn up by the roots, flung as so much rubbish by the roadside. "Mother, I be dretful sorry ter take yew away from your posies," muttered Abraham as he arose with his green sprig in his hand. Fortunately, there was a way across lots to the Old Ladies' Home, an unfrequented by-path over a field and through a bit of woodland, which would bring the couple almost unobserved to a side gate. Under ordinary circumstances, Angeline would never have taken this path; for it exposed her carefully patched and newly polished shoes to scratches, her fragile, worn silk skirt and stiff, white petticoat to brambles. Moreover, the dragging of the loaded little wagon was more difficult here for Abraham. But they both preferred the narrower, rougher way to facing the curious eyes of all Shoreville now, the pitying windows of the village street. "Le' 's hurry," interrupted Abe almost gruffly. "Le' 's hurry." They stumbled forward with bowed heads in silence, until of a sudden they were startled by a surprised hail of recognition, and looked up to find themselves confronted by a bent and gray old man, a village character, a harmless, slightly demented public charge known as "Ishmael" or "Captain Rover." "Whar yew goin', Cap'n Rose?" The old couple had drawn back at the sight of the gentle vagabond, and Angy clutched at her husband's arm, her heart contracting at the thought that he, too, had become a pauper. "I'm a-takin' my wife ter jine the old ladies over thar ter the Hum," Abe answered, and would have passed on, shrinking from the sight of himself as reflected in poor Ishmael. But the "innocent" placed himself in their path. "Yew ain't a-goin' ter jine 'em, tew?" he bantered. Abe forced a laugh to his lips in response. "No, no; I'm goin' over ter Yaphank ter board on the county." "Here." He drew out a meager handful of nickels and pennies, his vacant smile grown wistful. "Here, take it, Cap'n Rose. It's all I got. I can't count it myself, but yew can. Don't yew think it's enough ter set yew up in business, so yew won't have ter go ter the poorhouse? The poorhouse is a bad place. I was there last winter. I don't like the poorhouse." "Much obliged, Cap'n Rover; but yew keep yer money fer terbaccy. I ain't so high-toned as yew. I'll take real comfort at the poorhouse. S' long; thank yer. S' long." Ishmael went on his way muttering to himself, unhappily jingling his rejected alms; while Angy and Abe resumed their journey. As they came to the gate of the Old Ladies' Home, Angy seized hold of her husband's arm, and looking up into his face pleaded earnestly: "Father, let's take the hunderd dollars fer a fambly tombstun an' go ter the poorhouse tergether!" He shook her off almost roughly and lifted the latch of the gate. "Folks'd say we was crazy, Mother." She made no answer. She told herself over and over that she must--simply must--stop that "all-of-a-tremble" feeling which was going on inside of her. She stepped from the gate to the bench blindly, with Abe's hand on her arm, though, still blindly, with exaggerated care she placed his carpet-bag on the grass beside her. He laid down his cane, took off his high hat and wiped his brow. He looked at her anxiously. Still she could not lift her blurred eyes, nor could she check her trembling. Seeing how she shook, he passed his arm around her shoulder. He murmured something--what, neither he nor she knew--but the love of his youth spoke in the murmur, and again fell the silence. Time passed swiftly. The silent hour sped on. The young blades of corn gossiped gently along the field. Above, the branches of the willow swished and swayed to the rhythm of the soft, south wind. "How still, how still it is!" whispered the breeze. "Rest, rest, rest!" was the lullaby swish of the willow. The old wife nestled closer to Abraham until her head touched his shoulder. He laid his cheek against her hair and the carefully preserved old bonnet. Involuntarily she raised her hand, trained by the years of pinching economy, to lift the fragile rose into a safer position. He smiled at her action; then his arm closed about her spasmodically and he swallowed a lump in his throat. The afternoon was waning. Gradually over the turmoil of their hearts stole the garden's June-time spirit of drowsy repose. They leaned even closer to each other. The gray of the old man's hair mingled with the gray beneath Angeline's little bonnet. Slowly his eyes closed. Then even as Angy wondered who would watch over the slumbers of his worn old age in the poorhouse, she, too, fell asleep. But he was gone. Sighing heavily, the matron put the meat in the ice-box, and then made her slow, lumbering way into the front hall, or community-room, where the sisters were gathered in a body to await the new arrival. "Waal, say!" she supplemented, after she had finished telling her pitiably brief story, "thar's trouble ernough ter go 'round, hain't thar?" Aunt Nancy Smith, who never believed in wearing her heart on her sleeve, sniffed and thumped her cane on the floor. But the matriarch's voice quavered even more than usual, and as she finished she hastily bent down and felt in her deep skirt-pocket for her snuff-box. "Oh!" Miss Ellie wrung her hands, "can't we do somethin'?" Aunt Nancy, who had been sneezing furiously at her own impotence, now found her speech again. "We've _got_ to do something," said Blossy firmly. "What would the directors say?" "What do they always say when we ask a favor?" demanded Blossy. "'How much will it cost?' It won't cost a cent." "Some men eat more an' some less," remarked Sarah Jane, as ill-favored a spinster as ever the sun shone on; "generally it means so much grub ter so much weight." Miss Abigail made hasty interruption: Every head nodded, "I am"; every eye was wet with the dew of merciful kindness; and Mrs. Homan and Sarah Jane, who had flung plates at each other only that morning, were observed to be holding hands. She paused, for Blossy was pulling at her sleeve, the real Blossy, warmhearted, generous, self-deprecating. The belle burst into hysterical and self-conscious laughter, as she found every glance bent upon her. "Oh, no, no; not that. But I confess that I am tired to death of this perpetual dove-party. I just simply can't live another minute without a man in the house. "Now, Miss Abigail," she added imperiously, "you run across lots and fetch him home." Ah! but Abraham slept that night as if he had been drawn to rest under the compelling shelter of the wings of all that flock which in happier days he had dubbed contemptuously "them air old hens." Never afterward could the dazed old gentleman remember how he had been persuaded to come into the house and up the stairs with Angeline. He only knew that in the midst of that heart-breaking farewell at the gate, Miss Abigail, all out of breath with running, red in the face, but exceedingly hearty of manner, had suddenly appeared. "Shoo, shoo, shoo!" this stout angel had gasped. "Naow, Cap'n Abe, yew needn't git narvous. We 're as harmless as doves. Run right erlong. Yew won't see anybody ter-night. Don't say a word. It's all right. Sssh! Shoo!" And then, lo! he was not in the County Almshouse, but in a beautiful bright bedchamber with a wreath of immortelles over the mantel, alone with Angy. "Aye, Mother, why didn't yew let me go on ter the County House? That air's the place fer a worn-out old hull like me. Hy-guy!" he ejaculated, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, "I'd ruther lay deown an' die th'n face them air women." "Thar, thar!" soothingly spoke Angy, laying her hand on his arm. "Thar, thar, Father! Jest think haow dretful I'd feel a-goin' deown without yer." "So you would!" strangely comforted. "So you would, my dear!" For her sake he tried to brighten up. He joked clumsily as they stood on the threshold of the chamber, whispering, blinking his eyes to make up for the lack of their usually ready twinkle. "Hol' on a minute; supposin' I fergit whether I be a man er a woman?" Her love gave inspiration to her answer: "I'll lean on yer, Abe." Picking up the hair-brush, he held it out at arm's length to Angy. "Won't yew slick up my hair a leetle bit, Mother?" he asked, somewhat shamefacedly. "I can't see extry well this mornin'." "The President!" Her mellow, well-modulated voice shook, and she laughed with a mingling of generous joy and tender pity. "Are we expecting the President? You dear modest man! We are welcoming--_you_!" And now as the tears cleared away he saw also, what Angy's eyes had already noted, the inscription in warm crimson letters on the shining blue side of the cup, "To Our Beloved Brother." THE HEAD OF THE CORNER This morning, however, no time was needed to demonstrate that everybody in the place had gotten out on the happy side of his couch. Even the deaf-and-dumb gardener had untwisted his surly temper, and as Abraham entered the dining-room, looked in at the east window with a conciliatory grin and nod which said as plainly as words: Sarah Jane blushed to the roots of her thin, straight hair and sat down, suddenly disarmed of every porcupine quill that she had hidden under her wings; while there was an agreeable little stir among the sisters. "I'll do my best," Abe hastened to assure her. "Hy-guy, that coffee smells some kind o' good, don't it? Between the smell o' the stuff an' the looks o' my cup, it'll be so temptin' that I'll wish I had the neck of a gi-raffe, an' could taste it all the way deown. Angy, I be afraid we'll git the gout a-livin' so high. Look at this here cream!" "My, but yew kin git 'em, can't yew?" spoke Miss Abigail admiringly. "Them tew be the very ones I tried ter ketch all day yiste'day; I kin see as a fly-ketcher yew be a-goin' ter be wuth a farm ter me. Set deown an' try some o' this here strawberry presarve." But Abe protested that he could not eat another bite unless he should get up and run around the house to "joggle deown" what he had already swallowed. He leaned back in his chair and surveyed the family: on his right, generous-hearted Blossy, who had been smiling approval and encouragement at him all through the repast; at his left, and just beyond Angy, Miss Abigail indulging in what remained on the dishes now that she discovered the others to have finished; Aunt Nancy keenly watching him from the head of the board; and all the other sisters "betwixt an' between." A flattered smile overspread Mrs. Homan's visage, and the other sisters, noting it, wondered how long it would be before she showed her claws in Abraham's presence. "Slander is a dretful long-legged critter," amended Miss Abigail, smiling and sighing in the same breath. "Sary Jane," inquired Mrs. Homan sweetly, "what 's the matter with that pepper-pot? Does it need fillin'?" And so began the reign of peace in the Old Ladies' Home. "How do you explain it?" they asked her. "We cast our bread on the waters," she answered, "an' Providence jest kept a-handin' out the loaves." Again she said, "'T was grinnin' that done it. Brother Abe he kept the gardener good-natured, an' the gardener he jest grinned at the garden sass until it was ashamed not ter flourish; an' Brother Abe kept the gals good-natured an' they wa'n't so _niasy_ about what they eat; an' he kept the visitors a-laughin' jest ter see him here, an' when yew make folks laugh they want ter turn around an' dew somethin' fer yew. I tell yew, ef yew kin only keep grit ernough ter grin, yew kin drive away a drought." "It's dretful becoming," insisted Angy, "bewtiful! Ain't it, gals?" Every old lady nodded her head with an air of proud proprietorship, as if to say, "Nothing could fail to become _our_ brother." And Angy nodded her head, too, in delighted approval of their appreciation of "our brother" and "my husband." Beautiful, joy-steeped, pleasure-filled days these were for the couple, who had been cramped for life's smallest necessities so many meager years. Angy felt that she had been made miraculously young by the birth of this new Abraham--almost as if at last she had been given the son for whom in her youth she had prayed with impassioned appeal. Her old-wife love became rejuvenated into a curious mixture of proud mother-love and young-wife leaning, as she saw Abe win every heart and become the center of the community. "Why, the sisters all think the sun rises an' sets in him," Angy would whisper to herself sometimes, awed by the glorious wonder of it all. "Don't scold him when he leaves the doors open. Don't tell him to wipe his feet. Don't ever mention gold-mines or shiftless husbands," etc., etc. Blossy left the room without a word, and went stealing up the stairs to the little cupboard where she now slept, and where was hung on the wall, in a frame of yellow hollyhocks, painted by her own hand, a photograph of Captain Samuel Darby, the man who had remained obstinately devoted to her since her days of pinafores. The picture betrayed that Captain Darby wore a wig designed for a larger man, and that the visage beneath was gnarled and weather-beaten, marked with the signs of a stubborn and unreasonable will. Even now the aged belle could hear him saying: "Here I be, come eround ter pop ag'in. Ready ter hitch?" Samuel's inelegant English had always been a source of distress to Blossy; yet still she stared long at the picture. Should she give the old unvarying answer to his tireless formula? She glanced around the tiny room. Ashamed though she was to admit it even to herself, she missed that ample and cozy chamber which she had so freely surrendered to Abraham and his wife. She missed it, as she felt they must crave their very own fireside; and the thought that they missed the old homestead made her yearn for the home that she might have had--the home that she still might have. Again she brought her eyes back to the portrait; and now she saw, not the characteristics which had always made it seem impossible for her and Samuel to jog together down life's road, but the great truth that the face was honest and wholesome, while the eyes looked back into hers with the promise of an unswerving care and affection. The next morning found Blossy kneeling before a plump, little, leather-bound, time-worn trunk which she kept under the eaves of the kitchen chamber. The trunk was packed hard with bundles of old letters. Some her younger fingers had tied with violet ribbon; some they had bound with pink; others she had fastened together with white silk cord; and there were more and more bundles, both slim and stout, which Blossy had distinguished by some special hue of ribbon in the long ago, each tint marking a different suitor's missives. To her still sentimental eye the colors remained unfaded, and each would bring to her mind instantly the picture of the writer as he had been in the golden days. But save to Blossy's eye alone there were no longer any rainbow tints in the little, old trunk; for every ribbon and every cord had faded into that musty, yellow brown which is dyed by the passing of many years. "Didn't see yer, till I 'most stumbled on yer," he began apologetically. "I come fer the apple-picker. Thar's a handful of russets in the orchard yit, that's calc'latin' ter spend Christmas up close ter heaven; but--Say, Blossy," he added more loudly, since she did not raise her head, "yew seen anythin' o' that air picker?" Blossy glanced up from her ragged-edged crackly _billet-doux_ with a start, and dropped the envelop to the floor. For the moment, so deep in reminiscence was she, she thought Captain Darby himself had surprised her; then, recognizing Abe and recalling that Samuel's winter visits were invariably paid in the afternoon, she broke into a shamefaced laugh. "Oh, is that you, Brother Abe? Don't tell the others what you found me doing. These," with a wave of her delicate, blue-veined hands over the trunk and its contents, "are all old love-letters of mine. Do you think I'm a silly old goose to keep them cluttering around so long?" Blossy, not always keen to see a joke, and with her vanity now in the ascendant, felt the color rise into her withered cheek. "Oh, you needn't take the trouble to speak a good word for me. Any man who could ever write a letter like this doesn't need to be coaxed. Just listen: "The man you take for a mate is the luckiest dog in the whole round world. I'd rather be him than king of all the countries on earth. I'd rather be him than strike a gold-mine reaching from here to China. I'd rather be him than master of the finest vessel that ever sailed blue water. That's what I would. Why, the man who couldn't be happy with you would spill tears all over heaven." "Brother Abe, now tell me honestly: do you think he would make a good husband?" Abe cleared his throat. Blossy was in earnest. Blossy could not be laughed at. She was his friend, and Angy's friend; and she had come to him as to a brother for advice. He too had known Samuel as man to man, which was more than any of the sisters could say. Stroking his beard thoughtfully, therefore, he seated himself upon a convenient wooden chest, while Blossy slipped her old love-letter in and out of the envelop, with that essentially feminine manner of weighing and considering. "I bet yer," agreed Abe. "Hain't never been no fly inside it, neither, I warrant yer. Fly can't light arter Sam'l's cleanin' up nohaow; he's got ter skate." "He says he built that little house for me," said the old lady, as she closed down the lid of the trunk. There was a wistful note in Blossy's voice, which made Abraham declare with a burst of sympathy: "Here's the apple-picker right over your head," interrupted Blossy tartly, and Abe felt himself peremptorily dismissed. Scarcely had he left the attic, however, than she too hastened down the steep, narrow stairs. She spent the remaining hours before train-time in donning her beautiful lace gown, and in making the woman within it as young and ravishing as possible. And lovely, indeed, Blossy looked this day, with a natural flush of excitement on her cheek, a new sparkle in her bright, dark eyes, and with her white hair arranged in a fashion which might have excited a young girl's envy. All the afternoon long Blossy wore her lace gown, thinking although there were no more trains from the eastward that day, that Samuel would still find his way to her. He might drive, as he usually did in June, or he might even walk from his home at Twin Coves, she said. The answer came back slowly by mail, to find Blossy on the verge of a nervous collapse, under the care of all the women in the house. DEAR BETSY ANN: I never felt better in my life. Ain't been sick a minute. Just made up my mind I was a old fool, and was going to quit. If you change your intentions at any time, just drop me a postal. As ever, "This, Captain Darby, makes your rejection final," vowed Blossy to herself, as she tore the note into fragments and drowned them in the spirits of lavender with which the sisters had been seeking to soothe her distracted nerves. About this time Blossy developed a tendency to draw Brother Abraham aside at every opportunity, convenient or inconvenient, in order to put such questions as these to him: However, Aunt Nancy could not refrain from carrying the gossip to Miss Ellie, adding that she herself had been suspicious of Abe's behavior from the start. "Oh, no, no!" cried the shocked and shrinking spinster. "And Angy so cheerful all the time? I don't believe it." But whisper, whisper, buzz, buzz, went the gossip, until finally it reached the pink little ears at the side of Miss Abigail's generously proportioned head. The pink ears turned crimson, likewise the adjoining cheeks, and Miss Abigail panted with righteous indignation. "Suppose the minister should walk in some Sabbath afternoon and find oil-cloth on the table, and ask the reason why?" Angy went out of doors with Miss Abigail, and puttered around among the flowers as if they were her own, thanking God for Abe's increasing popularity in the same breath that she gave thanks for the new buds of the spring. The anniversary of the Roses' entrance into the Home drew nearer, and Blossy suggested that the best way to celebrate the event would be by means of a "pink tea." Such preparations as were made for that tea! The deaf-and-dumb gardener was sent with a detachment of small boys to fetch from the wayside and meadows armfuls of wild roses for the decorations. Miss Abigail made pink icing for the cake. Ruby Lee hung bleeding-hearts over the dining-room door. Aunt Nancy resurrected from the bottom of her trunk a white lace cap with a rakish-looking pink bow for an adornment, and fastened it to her scant gray hairs in honor of the occasion. Blossy turned her pink china pig, his lid left up-stairs, into a sugar-bowl. Pink, pink, pink, everywhere; even in Angy's proud cheeks! Pink, and pink, and pink! Abe used to grow dizzy, afterward, trying to recall the various pink articles which graced that tea. After the presentation of this valuable gift, Abraham felt that the time had come for him to make a speech--practically his maiden speech. He said at the beginning, more suavely at his ease than he would have believed possible, secure of sympathy and approbation, with Angy's glowing old eyes upon her prodigy, that all the while he had been at the Home, he had never before felt the power to express his gratitude for the welcome which had been accorded him--the welcome which seemed to wear and wear, as if it were all wool and a yard wide, and could never wear out. As always when aught troubled his mind, "Father" turned to Angy; but instead of his composed and resourceful little wife he found a scared-faced and trembling woman. Angy had suddenly become conscious of the shadow of the green-eyed monster. Angy's loyal heart was crying out to her mate: "Don't git the sisters daown on yer, Abe, 'cuz then, mebbe, yew'll lose yer hum!" But poor Angeline's lips were so stiff with terror over the prospect of the County House for her husband, that she could not persuade them to speech. She swept out of the door, her skirts rustling behind her. Abe collected himself so far as to bow in the direction she had taken; then with lamblike eyes of inquiry met the exasperated glances cast upon him. Not a sister moved or spoke. They all sat as if glued to their chairs, in a silence that was fast growing appalling. "I don't want ter hear a word from yew, nor anybody else," sternly interposed Aunt Nancy. "I'm old enough ter be yer mother. Go up-stairs!" Angy's glance sought Miss Abigail, but the matron's eyes avoided hers. The little wife sighed, rose reluctantly, dropped her hand doubtfully reassuring on Abe's shoulder, and then went obediently to the door. Abraham caught his breath. Beads of sweat had appeared on his brow. He broke in huskily: "Wait a minute, Aunt Nancy. Jest tell me what I've been an' done." "Cap'n Rose," she vowed mournfully, "I've lived in this house fer many, many years, an' all the while I been here I never hearn tell o' a breath o' scandal ag'in' the place until yew come an' commenced ter kick up yer heels." Lazy Daisy, who had long been an inmate, also nodded her unwieldy head in confirmation, while a low murmur of assent arose from the others. Abraham could only pass his hand over his brow, uneasily shuffle his maligned heels over the floor and await further developments; for he did not have the slightest conception as to "what they were driving at." "Cap'n Rose," the matriarch proceeded, as in the earnestness of her indignation she arose, trembling, in her seat and stood with her palsied and shaking hands on the board, "Cap'n Rose, yer conduct with this here Mis' Betsey Ann Blossom has been somethin' _ree_diculous! It's been disgraceful!" Now, kindly, short-sighted Miss Abigail determined that it was time for the matron's voice to be heard. "Of course, Brother Abe, we understand perfectly that yew never stopped ter take inter consideration haow susceptible some folks is made." There being plain evidence from Abe's blank expression that he did not understand the meaning of the word, Ruby Lee hastened to explain. "Susceptible is the same as flighty-headed. Blossy allers was a fool over anything that wore breeches." "Seems ter me I'd have the decency ter show some shame!" grimly avowed Sarah Jane. Abe could not help it. He sputtered. Even Miss Abigail's, "Yew were a stranger an' we took yew in" did not sober him. Abraham's mobile face clouded over. "Yew don't think Angy's feelin's have been hurt--dew yew, gals?" Their faces softened, their figures relaxed, the tide of feeling changed in Abraham's favor. Miss Ellie spoke very softly: "Yew know that even 'the Lord thy God is a jealous God.'" "Angy!" he called, a fear of he knew not what gripping at his heart. "Angy!" he repeated as she did not answer. The little old wife had locked herself in out of very shame of the rare tears which had been brought to the surface by the sisters' cruel treatment of Abraham. When she heard his call she hastened to the blue wash-basin and began hurriedly to dab her eyes. He would be alarmed if he saw the traces of her weeping. Whatever had happened to him, for his sake she must face it valiantly. He called again. Again she did not answer, knowing that her voice would be full of the telltale tears. Abe waited. He heard the tramp of feet passing out of the dining-room into the hall. He heard Blossy emerge from her room at the end of the passage and go tripping down the stairs. The time to Angy, guiltily bathing her face, was short; the time to her anxious husband unaccountably long. The sound of wheels driving up to the front door came to Abe's ears. Still Angy made him no response. "Angy!" he raised his voice in piteous pleading. What mattered if the sisters gathered in the lower hall heard him? What mattered if the chance guest who had just arrived heard him also? He had his peace to make with his wife and he would make it. "Angy!" She flung the door open hastily. The signs of the tears had not been obliterated, and her face was drawn and old. Straightway she put her hand on his arm and searched his face inquiringly. "Poor leetle Mother!" he interrupted. "Poor leetle Mother!" a world of remorseful pity in his tone. "So yew been jealous of yer ole man?" But what was this? At the landing, Angy halted and so did Abe, for in the center of the sisters stood Blossy with her Sunday bonnet perched on her silver-gold hair and her white India shawl over her shoulders, and beside Blossy stood Captain Samuel Darby with a countenance exceedingly radiant, his hand clasped fast in that of the aged beauty. THE TURN OF THE TIDE "I told yer I never could stand it here amongst all these dratted women-folks," Abe would declare. "It's all your fault that I didn't go to the poorhouse in peace." "I notice yew didn't raise no objections until yew'd lived here a year," Angy would retort; but ignoring this remark, he would go on: It took very little to exhaust Angy's ability for this style of repartee, and she would rejoin with tender but mistaken efforts to soothe and comfort him: "Thar, thar, Father! don't git excited neow. Seems ter me ye 're a leetle bit feverish. Ef only yew 'd take this here tansy tea." "Tansy tea an' old women! Old women an' tansy tea! Tansy tea be durned!" "What's the matter with me?" he repeated, his eyes growing wilder and wilder. What the doctor really replied would be difficult to tell; but out of the confusion of his technicalities Abe caught the words, "nerves" and "hysteria." "Mother, yew hear that?" he cried. "I got narvous hysterics. I told yer somethin' would happen ter me a-comin' to this here place. All them old woman's diseases is ketchin'. Why on 'arth didn't yer let me go to the poorhouse?" He fell back on the pillow and drew the bedclothes up to his ears, while Angy followed the doctor out into the hall to receive, as Abe supposed, a more detailed description of his malady. He felt too weak, however, to question Angy when she returned, and stubbornly kept his eyes closed until he heard Mrs. Homan tiptoe into the room to announce in hushed tones that Blossy and Samuel Darby were below, and Samuel wanted to know if he might see the invalid. Then Abe threw off the covers in a hurry and sat up. "Sam'l Darby?" he asked, the strength coming back into his voice. "A man! Nary a woman ner a doctor! Yes--yes, show him up!" Angy nodded in response to Mrs. Homan's glance of inquiry; for had not the doctor told her that it would not hasten the end to humor the patient in any reasonable whim? And she also consented to withdraw when Abe informed her that he wished to be left alone with his visitor, as it was so long since he had been face to face with a man "an' no petticoat a-hangin' 'round the corner." "Naow, be keerful, Cap'n Darby," the little mother-wife cautioned at the door, "be very keerful. Don't stay tew long an' don't rile him up, fer he's dretful excited, Abe is." "Ain't yew a-goin' ter shake hands?" inquired Abraham at last, wondering at the long silence and the incomprehensible stare, his fears accentuated by this seeming indication of a supreme and hopeless pity. "Ain't yew a-goin' ter shake hands? Er be yew afeard of ketchin' it, tew?" For a moment longer Samuel continued to stare, then of a sudden he roared, "Git up!" "Huh?" queried Abe, not believing his own ears. "Why, Cap'n Sam'l, don't yew know that I'm a doomed man? I got the 'narvous hysterics.'" "Yew got the pip!" retorted Captain Darby contemptuously, and trotting quickly around to the side of the bed, he seized Abe by the shoulders and began to drag him out upon the floor, crying again, "Git up!" The sick man could account for this remarkable behavior in no way except by concluding that his old captain had gone into senile dementia--oh, cruel, cruel afflictions that life brings to old folks when life is almost done! Well, thought Abe, he would rather be sick and die in his right mind than go crazy. He began to whimper, whereupon Samuel threw him back upon his pillows in disgust. The patient shook his head and sank back, closing his eyes, more exhausted than ever. And he himself had heard Angy warn this man in a whisper not to "rile him up!" Remorselessly went on the rejuvenated Darby: "That's what I told Angy all along," he ventured. "I told her, I says, says I, 'Humbug! Foolishness! Ye 're a-makin' a reg'lar baby of me. Why,' I says, 'what's the difference between me an' these here women-folks except that I wear a beard an' smoke a pipe?'" "Then why don't yew git up?" demanded the inexorable Samuel. "Git up an' fool 'em; or, gosh-all-hemlock! they'll be measurin' yew fer yer coffin next week. When I come inter the hall, what dew yew think these here sisters o' yourn was a-discussin'? They was a-arguin' the p'int as to whether they'd bury yew in a shroud or yer Sunday suit." "Feel pooty good, don't yew?" demanded Samuel, but with less severity. "Hy-guy, but it's splendid to feel like a man ag'in!" The witch of Hawthorne's story never gazed more fondly at her "Feathertop" than Samuel now gazed at Abraham puffing away on his pipe; but he determined that Abraham's fate should not be as poor "Feathertop's." Abe must remain a man. "Connected with the Hum by marriage!" broke in Samuel with a snort of indignant protest. "Me!" Words failed him. He stared at Abe with burning eyes, but Abe only insisted sullenly: "Whar yew an' Blossy been all this time?" Abraham flushed. He did not care to recall Samuel's wedding-day. He hastened to ask the other what had decided him and Blossy to come to-day, and was informed that Miss Abigail had written to tell Blossy that if she ever expected to see her "Brother Abe" alive again, she must come over to Shoreville at the earliest possible moment. "Then I says ter Blossy," concluded Captain Darby, "I says, says I, 'Jest lemme see that air pore old hen-pecked Abe Rose. I'll kill him er cure him!' I says. Here, yer pipe 's out. Light up ag'in!" "I left Blossy an' Aunt Nancy a-huggin' an' a-kissin' down-stairs." Abe sighed: "Aunt Nancy allers was more bark than bite." "Humph! Barkin' cats must be tryin' ter live with. Abe," he tapped the old man's knee again, "dew yew know what yew need? A leetle vacation, a change of air. Yew want ter cut loose from this all-fired old ladies' shebang an' go sky-larkin'." Abe hung on Samuel's words, his eyes a-twinkle with anticipation. "Yes--yes, go sky-larkin'! Won't we make things hum?" "Thar's hummin' an' hummin'," objected Abe, with a sudden show of caution. "Miss Abigail thinks more o' wash-day than some folks does o' heaven. Wharabouts dew yew cak'late on a-goin'?" "Men, men, nawthin' but men!" Samuel exploded as if he had read the other's thought. "Nawthin' but men fer a hull week, that's my perscription fer yew! Haow dew yew feel naow, mate?" For answer Abe made a quick spring out of his chair, and in his bare feet commenced to dance a gentle, rheumatic-toe-considering breakdown, crying, "Hy-guy, Cap'n Sam'l, you've saved my life!" While Darby clapped his hands together, proud beyond measure at his success as the emancipator of his woman-ridden friend. "Blossy said you did!" interrupted Angy, a light of intense gratitude flashing across her face as she turned eagerly to Darby. "Lemme see the bottle." "I chucked it out o' the winder," affirmed Samuel without winking, and Abe hastened to draw Angy's attention back to himself. Samuel turned away and coughed. "Mother, Mother," cried Abe, "shet the door an' come set deown er all the sisters'll come a-pilin' in. I've had a invite, I have!" Angy closed the door and came forward, her wary suspicious eye trailing from the visitor to her husband. "Hy-guy, ain't it splendid!" Abe burst forth. "Me an' Cap'n Sam'l here is a-goin' over ter Bleak Hill fer a week." "He's got ter git hardened up," firmly interposed Dr. Darby; "it'll be the makin' o' him." Angy turned on Samuel with ruffled feathers. Here Abe's stubborn will, so rarely set against Angy's gentle persistence, rose up in defiance: "When?" asked Angy faintly, feeling Abe's brow, but to her surprise finding it cool and healthy. "Don't yer think yer'd better make it day after ter-morrer?" he ventured. "Or 'long erbout May er June?" Angy hastily amended. Samuel gave an exasperated grunt. "See here, whose spree is this?" Abe demanded of the little old wife. She sighed, then resolved on strategy: "Naow, Abe, ef yew be bound an' possessed ter go ter the Beach, yew go; but I'm a-goin' a-visitin' tew, an' I couldn't git the pair o' us ready inside a week. I'm a-goin' deown ter see Blossy. She ast me jist naow, pendin', she says, Cap'n Sam'l here cures Abe up ernough ter git him off. I thought she was crazy then." Samuel knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the window-sill and arose to go. A "scooter," it may be explained, is an ice-boat peculiar to the Great South Bay--a sort of modified dingy on runners. "Yes--yes, a scooter," repeated Samuel, turning suddenly on Abe with the sharp inquiry: "Air yew a-shiverin'? Hain't, eh? Waal then, a week from ter-day, so be it!" he ended. "But me an' Blossy is a-comin' ter see yew off an' on pooty frequent meanstwhile; an', Abe, ef ever I ketch yew a-layin' abed, I'll leave yew ter yer own destruction." "A PASSEL OF MEDDLERS" Abe and Samuel held stubbornly to their reckless intentions; and the sisters, sharing Angy's anxiety, grew solicitous almost to the point of active interference. They withheld nothing in the way of counsel, criticism, or admonition which could be offered. "Sho, thar hain't no danger of me ketchin' cold," decried Abe. "I didn't say yer thickest set of flannels; I said yer best. When a man gits throwed out onto the ice ker flump, the thickness of his clo'es ain't goin' to help him much. The fust thing I allus taught my husbands was to have everything clean an' whole on, when thar was any likelihood of a sudden death." Mrs. Homan, in no way nonplussed, boomed on: "Mis' Homan," he sputtered, rising to his feet, "I wouldn't wear a red an' green plaid tie to a eel's funeral!" Then with a somewhat ungracious "good-night" to the company in general, he trudged across the hall and up the stairs, muttering something to himself about a "passel of meddlers." "Naow, don't yew lose no sleep ter-night," she admonished, "a-worryin' erbout the change in yer vittles. I told Cap'n Sam'l that hardtack an' sech like wouldn't never do fer yer weak stummick, an' he promised me faithful he'd send somebody tew the mainland every day fer milk." "Dew yew think I be a baby?" shouted Abraham, turning on his heel. "I know now what makes my teeth so sore lately," mumbling to himself; "it's from this here arrer-root an' all these puddin'y messes. They need hardenin', tew." THE PRODIGAL'S DEPARTURE Abraham was up betimes in the morning to greet a day crisp and cold, quiet, yet with sufficient breeze stirring the evergreens in the yard outside to make him predict a speedy voyage. The old man was nervous and excited, and, in spite of his buoyant anticipations, somewhat oppressed, now that the day had actually come, with a sense of timidity and fear. Still, he put on a bold face while Angeline fastened his refractory collar and tied his cravat. So, the last finishing touches having been put upon his toilet, and Angy having made ready by lamplight for her own trip, even before the old man was awake, there seemed nothing left to be done until the breakfast bell should ring. "Wonder who made that necktie?" she questioned. "I'll bet yer 't was Aunt Nancy; she's got a sharp tongue, but a lot of silk pieces an' a tender spot in her heart fer yew, Abe. Ruby Lee says she never thought yew'd bring her around; yew're dretful takin' in yer ways, Father, thar's no use a-talkin'." Abraham glanced at himself in the glass, and pulled at his beard, his countenance not altogether free from a self-conscious vanity. "I hain't sech a bad-lookin' feller when I'm dressed up, be I, Mother? I dunno ez it's so much fer folks ter say I look like Abe Lincoln, after all; he was dretful humbly." "Father," Angy said coaxingly, "why don't yer put some o' that air 'sweet stuff' Miss Abigail give yer on yer hair? She'll feel real hurt ef she don't smell it on yer when yew go down-stairs." Abe made a wry face, took up the tiny bottle of "Jockey Club," and rubbed a few drops on his hands. His hands would wash, and so he could find some way of removing the odor before he reached the station and--the men. "I'll be some glad ter git away from these here fussy old hens fer a spell," he grumbled, as he slammed the vial back on the bureau; but Angy looked so reproachful and grieved that he felt ashamed of his ingratitude, and asked with more gentleness: "Yew goin' ter miss me, Mother?" Then the old wife was ashamed to find herself shaking of a sudden, and grown wretchedly afraid--afraid of the separation, afraid of the "hardening" process, afraid of she knew not what. "I'm glad 't ain't goin' ter be fer all winter this time," she said simply; then arose to open the door in order that he might not see the rush of tears to her foolish, old eyes. Abe was fuming and indignant, scornful of the contributions, and vowing that, though the sisters might regard a scooter as a freight ocean-liner, he would carry nothing with him but what he wore and his carpet-bag. "An' right yer be," pronounced Samuel, with a glance at the laden bench and a shake of his head which said as plainly as words, "Brother, from what am I not delivering thee?" He turned in his seat to wave to the group on the porch, his eyes resting in a sudden hunger upon Angeline's frail, slender figure, as he remembered. She knew that he had forgotten in the flurry of his leave-taking, and she would have hastened down the steps to stop the carriage; but all the old ladies were there to see, and she simply stood, and gazed after the vehicle as it rolled away slowly behind the jog trot of Samuel's safe, old calico-horse. She stood and looked, holding her chin very high, and trying to check its unsteadiness. A sense of loneliness and desolation fell over the Home. Piece by piece the sisters put away all the clothing they had offered in vain to Abe. They said that the house was already dull without his presence. Miss Abigail began to plan what she should have for dinner the day of his return. "Angy Rose, I jest thought of it. He never kissed yew good-by!" "Abe wouldn't think of kissin' me afore folks." Then quickly she turned again, and went to her room--their room--where she seated herself at the window, and pressed her hand against her heart which hurt with a new, strange, unfamiliar pain, a pain that she could not have shown "afore folks." CUTTING THE APRON-STRINGS The usual hardy pleasure-seekers that gather at the foot of Shore Lane whenever the bay becomes a field of ice and a field of sport as well were there to see the old men arrive, and as they stepped out of the carriage there came forward from among the group gathered about the fire on the beach the editor of the "Shoreville Herald." Ever since his entrance into the Old Ladies' Home, Abe had never stopped chafing in secret over the fact that until he died, and no doubt received a worthy obituary, he might never again "have his name in the paper." The Old Ladies' Home is making preparations for its annual quilting bee. Donations of worsted, cotton batting, and linings will be gratefully received. "Oh, nawthin', nawthin'," hastily replied Samuel, who believed that he hated publicity, as he gave Abe's foot a sly kick. "We was jest a-gwine ter take a leetle scooter sail." He adjusted the skirt of his coat in an effort to hide Abe's carpet-bag, his own canvas satchel, and a huge market-basket of good things which Blossy had cooked for the life-savers. "Seen anythink of that air Eph Seaman?" Samuel added; shading his eyes with his hand and peering out upon the gleaming surface of the bay, over which the white sails of scooters were darting like a flock of huge, single-winged birds. Abe grinned all over his face and cleared his throat importantly, but before he could answer, Samuel growled: "Ter me! His health an' his life both. I dragged him up out of a deathbed only a week ago." The editor took out his note-book and began scribbling. "What brought you so low, Captain Rose?" he inquired without glancing up. Again, before Abe could answer, Samuel trod on his toe. "I guess folks will see now that we're as young as we ever was!" "Abe, we've cut the apron-strings!" THE "HARDENING" PROCESS Abe lay asleep on the carpet-covered sofa which had been dragged out of the captain's room for him, so that the old man need not spend the night in the cold sleeping-loft above. He was fully dressed except for his boots; for he was determined to conform to the rules of the Service, and sleep with his clothes on ready for instant duty. "Talk erbout him a-dyin'!" growled Samuel to himself, lounging wearily in a chair beside the stove. "He's jest startin' his life. He's a reg'lar hoss. I didn't think he had it in him." Samuel's tone was resentful. He was a little jealous of the distinction which had been made between him and Abe; and drawing closer to the fire, he shivered in growing distaste for the cot assigned to him with the crew up-stairs, where the white frost lay on the window-latches. Why should he spend a week of his ever-shortening life with such inferior beings, just for Abraham's sake--for Abraham's sake, and to bear out a theory of his own, which he had already concluded a mistake? "Him need hardenin'?" muttered Samuel blackly. "Why, he's harder now 'n nails an' hardtack!" Again he ran over on his fingers the list of high crimes and misdemeanors of which Abe had been guilty. The keeper was a widower, all the other men bachelors. How could they be expected to understand? They burst into a guffaw of laughter, and Abe, not even conscious that he had betrayed a sacred confidence, sputtered and laughed with the rest. She wasn't used to keepin' house by herself, neither. Would she remember to wind the clock on Thursday, and feed the canary, and water the abutilon and begonias reg'lar? When Abe helped drag out the apparatus-cart over the heavy sands for the drill, Samuel helped, too. And how tugging at that rope brought back his lumbago! When Abe rode in the breeches-buoy, Samuel insisted on playing the sole survivor of a shipwreck, too, and went climbing stiffly and lumberingly up the practice-mast. Count, count went Captain Darby's fingers. He heard the keeper rattling papers in the office just across the threshold, heard him say he was about to turn in, and guessed Samuel had better do likewise; but Samuel kept on counting. Count, count went the arraigning fingers. Gradually he grew drowsy, but still he went over and over poor Abe's offenses, counting on until of a sudden he realized that he was no longer numbering the sins of his companion; he was measuring in minutes the time he must spend away from Blossy and Twin Coves, and the begonias, and the canary, and the cat. What would Blossy say if she could feel the temperature of the room in which he was supposed to sleep? What would Blossy say if she knew how his back ached? Whatever would Blossy do to Abe Rose if she could suspect how he had tuckered out her "old man?" "He's a reg'lar hoss," brooded Samuel. "Oh, my feet!" grabbing at his right boot. "I'll bet yer all I got it's them air chilblains. That's what," he added, unconsciously speaking aloud. Abe's lids slowly lifted. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. He turned his head on his hard, blue gingham-covered pillow, and stared sleepily at the other. He started up from the couch, but dropped back, too heavy with weariness to carry off his bravado. Samuel, however, not noticing the discrepancy between speech and action, was already at the door leading up-stairs. He flung open the door and went trudging as fast as his smarting feet could carry him up the steep and narrow steps, wherein the passing of other feet for many years had worn little hollows on either side. Abraham limped from the couch to the door himself, and called after him: "Sam'l, don't yew want tew sleep by the fire? Yew seem a leetle softer than I be. Let me come up-stairs." There was no answer beyond the vicious slamming of Samuel's boots upon the floor above. Abe raised his voice again, and now came in answer a roar of wrath from the cot next to Samuel's. Abe flung himself back on his hard couch, drew the thick, gray blanket over him, and straightway fell into a deep, childlike slumber from which he was aroused by the rough but hearty inquiry: "Say, Cap, like to have some oyster-stew and a cup of coffee?" Abe sat up, rubbing his eyes, wondering since when they had begun to serve oyster-stew for breakfast on the Beach; then he realized that he had not overslept, and that it was not morning. "Cap'n Sam'l does show his years," Abe admitted. "Much obliged fer yew a-wakin' me up, boys," as he drew on his boots. "I was dreamin' I was hungry. Law, I wish I had a dollar apiece fer all the eyester-stews I've et on this here table 'twixt sunset an' sunrise." Under the stimulus of the unaccustomed repast, Abe expanded and began to tell yarns of the old days on the Beach--the good old days. His cheeks grew red, his eyes sparkled. He smoked and leaned back from the table, and ate and drank, smoked and ate again. "A week amongst yew boys," he asserted gaily, "is a-goin' tew be the makin' of me. Haow Sam'l kin waste so much time in sleep, I can't understand." "Boys, you shouldn't have woke up Cap'n Rose," he said reprovingly. "I'm afraid, sir," turning to Abraham, "that you find our manners pretty rough after your life among the old ladies." Abe dropped his eyes in confusion. Was he never to be rid of those apron-strings: "Well, there's worse things than good women," proceeded the captain. "I wish we had a few over here." He sighed with the quiet, dull manner of the men who have lived long on the Beach. "Since they made the rule that the men must eat and sleep in the station, it's been pretty lonely. That's why there's so many young fellows in the Service nowadays; married men with families won't take the job." "Them empty cottages out thar," admitted Abe, pointing to the window, "does look kind o' lonesome a-goin' ter rack an' ruin. Why, the winter I was over here, every man had his wife an' young 'uns on the Beach, 'cept me an' Sam'l." The other man helped him clear the table. "I'm goin' to get married in June," he said suddenly, "and give up this here blamed Service." "A wife," pronounced Abe, carrying his own dishes into the kitchen, "is dretful handy, onct yew git used to her." The keeper went into the office with a somewhat hurried "Good-night," and soon Abe found himself alone again, the light in the kitchen beyond, no sound in the room save that of the booming of the surf, the rattling of the windows, and now and again the fall of a clinker in the stove. "Moo! Moo!" roared the breakers on the shore. "Serve you right for finding fault with the sisters!" Angy! That was why he could not go to sleep! He had forgotten to kiss her good-by! Wonder if she had noticed it? Wonder if she had missed him more on account of that neglect? Pshaw! What nonsense! Angy knew he wa'n't no hand at kissin', an' it was apt to give him rheumatism to bend down so far as her sweet old mouth. The sunrise patrol from the east, who had just returned, made reply that he had met Captain Abe walking along the surf to get up an appetite for his griddle-cakes and salt pork. Samuel sat down suddenly on the lounge and opened his mouth. "Didn't he have enough exercise yist'day, for marcy's sake! Put' nigh killed me. I was that tired las' night I couldn't sleep a wink. I declar', ef 't wa'n't fer that fool newspaper a-comin' out ter-night, I'd go home ter-day. Yer a-gwine acrost, hain't yer, Havens?" Havens laughed in response. Samuel glowered at him. "I want home comforts back," he vowed sullenly. "The Beach hain't what it used ter be. Goin' on a picnic with Abe Rose is like settin' yer teeth into a cast-iron stove lid covered with a thin layer o' puddin'. I'm a-goin' home." "That old feller bates a phonograph," affirmed the Irishman. "It's good ter hear that he'll be left anyhow for comp'ny with this storm a-comin' up." Samuel rushed to the window, for up-stairs the panes had been too frosty for him to see out. A storm coming up? The beach did look gray and desolate, dun-colored in the dull light of the early day, with the winter-killed grass and the stunted green growth of cedar and holly and pine only making splotches of darkness under a gray sky which was filled with scurrying clouds. The wind, too, had risen during the night, and the increased roar of the surf was telling of foul weather at sea. "When dew yew start, Havens?" demanded Samuel in shaking tones. "Le' 's get off afore Abe gits back an' tries ter hold me. He seems ter be so plagued stuck on the life over here, he'll think I must be tew." But, though Havens had to wait for the return of the man who had gone off duty yesterday morning, still Abe had not put in an appearance when Samuel and the life-saver trudged down the trail through the woods to the bay. As he stepped into the scooter, Samuel's conscience at last began to prick him. "Yew sure the men will look arter the old fellow well an' not let him over-dew?" But the whizz of the flight had already begun and the scooter's nose was set toward Twin Coves, her sail skimming swiftly with the ring of the steel against the ice over the shining surface of the bay. "Law, yes," Samuel eased his conscience; "of course they will. They couldn't hurt him, anyhow. I never seen nobody take so kindly ter hardenin' as that air Abe." The shore at Twin Coves was a somewhat lonely spot, owing to stretches of marshland and a sweep of pine wood that reached almost to the edge of the water. Samuel picked up his grip, trudged through the heavy sand of the narrow beach, and entered the sweet-smelling pine wood. He was stiff with cold after the rough, swift voyage; his feet alone were hot--burning hot with chilblains. Away down in his heart he was uneasy lest some harm should come to Abe and the old man be caught in the approaching storm on the Beach. But, oh, wasn't he glad to be home! "I'll tell Blossy haow that air Abe Rose behaved," he reassured himself, when he pictured his wife's astonished and perhaps reproachful greeting, "an' then she won't wonder that I had ter quit him an' come back." He recollected that Angy would be there, and hoped fervently that she might not prove so strenuous a charge as Abraham. Moreover, he hoped that she would not so absorb Blossy's attention as to preclude a wifely ministering to his aching feet and the application of "St. Jerushy Ile" to his lame and sore back. Abe had led him that chase over at the Station, Samuel was convinced, "a-purpose" to punish him for having so soundly berated him when he lay a-bed. That was all the thanks you ever got for doing things for "some folks." "Mis' Darby, yew're master o' the vessel naow; I'm jest fo'castle hand." He grinned as he pictured Abe's dismay on returning to the Station to find him gone. Still, he reflected, maybe Abe would have a better time alone with the young fellows; he had grown so plagued young himself all of a sudden. Samuel surely need not worry about him. More and more good-natured grew Samuel's face, until a sociable rabbit, peeping at him from behind a bush, decided to run a race with the old gentleman, and hopped fearlessly out into the open. "Ah, yew young rascal!" cried Samuel. "Yew're the feller that eat up all my winter cabbages." At this uncanny reading of his mind, Mr. Cottontail darted off into the woods again to seek out his mate and inform her that their guilt had been discovered. Finally, Samuel came to the break in the woodland, an open field of rye, green as springtime grass, and his own exquisitely neat abode beckoning across the gray rail-fence to him. How pretty Blossy's geraniums looked in the sitting-room windows! Even at this distance, too, he could see that she had not forgotten to water his pet abutilon and begonias. How welcome in the midst of this flurry of snow--how welcome to his eye was that smoke coming out of the chimneys! All the distress of his trip away from home seemed worth while now for the joy of coming back. Before he had taken down the fence-rail and turned into the path which led to his back door, he was straining his ears for the sound of Blossy's voice gossiping with Angy. Not hearing it, he hurried the faster. The kitchen door was locked. The key was not under the mat; it was not in the safe on the porch, behind the stone pickle-pot. He tried the door again, and then peered in at the window. Not even the cat could be discerned. The kitchen was set in order, the breakfast dishes put away, and there was no sign of any baking or preparations for dinner. Samuel became alarmed. He called sharply, "Blossy!" No answer. "Mis' Rose!" No answer. "Ezra!" And still no sound in reply. This structure stood to the north of the house, and fortunately had an old, discarded kitchen stove in it. There, if the wanderers had not taken that key also, he could build a fire, and stretch out before it on a bundle of sail-cloth. He gave a start of surprise, however, as he approached the place; for surely that was smoke coming out of the chimney! Ezra must have gone out with the horse, and Blossy must be entertaining Angy in some outlandish way demanded by the idiosyncrasies of the Rose temperament. EXCHANGING THE OLIVE-BRANCH The cat jumped off Abe's lap, running to Samuel with a mew of recognition. Abe turned his head, and made a startled ejaculation. "Sam'l Darby," he said stubbornly, "ef yew've come tew drag me back to that air Beach, yew 're wastin' time. I won't go!" Samuel closed the door and hung his damp coat and cap over a suit of old oilskins. He came to the fire, taking off his mittens and blowing on his fingers, the suspicious and condemnatory tail of his eye on Abraham. "Haow'd yew git here?" he burst forth. "What yew bin an' done with my wife, an' my horse, an' my man, an' my kerridge? Haow'd yew git here? What'd yew come fer? When'd yew git here?" "What'd yew come fer?" retorted Abe with some spirit. "Haow'd yew git here?" "None o' yer durn' business." A glimmer of the old twinkle came back into Abe's eye, and he began to chuckle. Samuel gave a weak smile, and drawing up a stool took the cat upon his knee. "Waal, I says tew 'em, I says: 'Want ter drop a passenger at Twin Coves?' 'Yes, yes,' they says. 'Jump in.' An' so, Sam'I, I gradooated from yer school o' hardenin' on top a ton o' squirmin' fish, more er less. I thought I'd come an' git Angy," he ended with a sigh, "an' yer hired man 'd drive us back ter Shoreville; but thar wa' n't nobody hum but a mewin' cat, an' the only place I could git inter was this here shop. Wonder whar the gals has gone?" No mention of the alarm that he must by this time have caused at the Station. No consciousness of having committed any breach against the laws of hospitality. But there was that in the old man's face, in his worn and wistful look, which curbed Samuel's tongue and made him understand that as a little child misses his mother so Abe had missed Angy, and as a little homesick child comes running back to the place he knows best so Abe was hastening back to the shelter he had scorned. So, with an effort, Samuel held his peace, merely resolving that as soon as he could get to a telephone he would inform their late hosts of Abe's safety. There was no direct way of telephoning; but a message could be sent to the Quogue Station, and from there forwarded to Bleak Hill. "I've had my lesson," said Abe. "The place fer old folks is with old folks." Toward noontime they heard the welcome sound of wheels, and on rushing to the door saw Ezra driving alone to the barn. He did not note their appearance in the doorway of the shop; but they could see from the look on his face that nothing had gone amiss. Samuel heard the shutting of the kitchen door, and knew that Blossy was at home, and a strange shyness submerged of a sudden his eagerness to see her. What would she say to this unexpected return? Would she laugh at him, or be disappointed? "Yew go fust," he urged Abe, "an' tell my wife that I've got the chilblains an' lumbago so bad I can't hardly git tew the house, an' I had ter come hum fer my 'St. Jerushy Ile' an' her receipt fer frosted feet." Abe had no such qualms as Samuel. He wanted to see Angy that minute, and he did not care if she did know why he had returned. He fairly ran to the back door under the grape arbor, so that Samuel, observing his gait, was seized with a fear that he might be that young Abe of the Beach, during his visit, after all. Abraham rushed into the kitchen without stopping to knock. "I'm back, Mother," he cried, as if that were all the joyful explanation needed. She was struggling with the strings of her bonnet before the looking-glass which adorned Blossy's parlor-kitchen. She turned to him with a little cry, and he saw that her face had changed marvelously--grown young, grown glad, grown soft and fresh with a new excited spirit of jubilant thanksgiving. "Oh, Father! Weren't yew s'prised tew git the telephone? I knowed yew'd come a-flyin' back." Blossy appeared from the room beyond, and slipped past them, knowing intuitively where she would find her lord and master; but neither of them observed her entrance or her exit. Angy clung to Abe, and Abe held her close. What had happened to her, the undemonstrative old wife? What made her so happy, and yet tremble so? Why did she cry, wetting his cheek with her tears, when she was so palpably glad? Why had she telephoned for him, unless she, too, had missed him as he had missed her? Recalling his memories of last night, the memories of that long-ago honeymoon-time, he murmured into his gray beard, "Dearest!" "Oh, Abe, ain't God been good to us? Ain't it jist bewtiful to be rich? Rich!" she cried. "Rich!" Abe sat down suddenly, and covered his face with his hands. In a flash he understood, and he could not let even Angy see him in the light of the revelation. "The minin' stock!" he muttered; and then low to himself, in an awed whisper: "Tenafly Gold! The minin' stock!" After a while he recovered himself sufficiently to explain that he had not received the telephone message, and therefore knew nothing. "Did I git a offer, Mother?" Abe stared at his wife, at her shining silk dress with its darns and careful patches, at her rough, worn hands, and at the much mended lace over her slender wrists. "But yer old beaver, Abe!" Angy protested. "It looks as ef it come out o'the Ark!" "Last Sunday yew said it looked splendid"; his tone was absent-minded again. He seemed almost to ramble in his speech. "We must see that Ishmael gits fixed up comfortable in the Old Men's Home; yew remember haow he offered us all his pennies that day we broke up housekeepin'. An' we must do somethin' handsome fer the Darbys, tew. Ef it hadn't been fer Sam'l, I might be dead naow, an' never know nothin' erbout this here streak o' luck. Tenafly Gold," he continued to mutter. "They must 'a' struck a new lead. An' folks said I was a fool tew invest." His face lightened. The weight of the shock passed. He threw off the awe of the glad news. He smiled the smile of a happy child. Angy laughed. She laughed softly and with unutterable pride in her husband. "Why, Father, don't yer see yew kin buy back the old chair, an' the old place, too, an' then have plenty ter spare?" "So we kin, Mother, so we kin"; he nodded his head, surprised. He plunged his hands into his pockets, as if expecting to find them filled with gold. "Wonder ef Sam'l wouldn't lend me a dollar or so in small change. Ef I only had somethin' ter jingle, mebbe I could git closer to this fac'." He drew her to him, and gave her waist a jovial squeeze. "Hy-guy, Mother, we're rich! Hain't it splendid?" Their laughter rang out together--trembling, near-to-tears laughter. The old place, the old chair, the old way, and--plenty! Plenty to mend the shingles. Aye, plenty to rebuild the house, if they chose. Plenty with which to win back the smiles of Angy's garden. The dreadful dream of need, and lack, and want, of feeding at the hand of charity, was gone by. Plenty! Ah, the goodness and greatness of God! Plenty! Abe wanted to cry it out from the housetops. He wanted all the world to hear. He wished that he might gather his wealth together and drop it piece by piece among the multitude. To give where he had been given, to blossom with abundance where he had withered with penury! The little wife read his thoughts. "We'll save jest enough fer ourselves ter keep us in comfort the rest of our lives an' bury us decent." They were quiet a long while, both sitting with bowed heads as if in prayer; but presently Angy raised her face with an exclamation of dismay: "Don't it beat all, that it happened jest tew late ter git in this week's 'Shoreville Herald'!" "Tew late?" exclaimed the new-fledged capitalist. "Thar hain't nothin' tew late fer a man with money. We'll hire the editor tew git out another paper, fust thing ter-morrer!" "OUR BELOVED BROTHER" The services of the "Shoreville Herald," however, were not required to spread the news. The happiest and proudest couple on Long Island saw their names with the story of their sudden accession to wealth in a great New York daily the very next morning. "This'll be good-by ter Brother Abe," Aunt Nancy had sniffed when the news came over the telephone the day before; and though Miss Abigail had assured her that she knew Abe would come to see them real often, the matriarch still failed to be consoled. "All I need's a shroud," interrupted Aunt Nancy grimly. Angy and Abe both stared at her. She did look gray this morning. She did seem feeble and her cough did sound hollow. The other sisters glanced also at Aunt Nancy, and Sarah Jane took her hand, while she nudged Mrs. Homan with her free elbow and Mrs. Homan nudged Ruby Lee and Ruby Lee glanced at Lazy Daisy and Lazy Daisy drawled out meaningly: Then Miss Abigail, twisting the edge of her apron nervously, spoke: "Much obliged to you I be in behalf o' all the sisters, Brother Abe an' ter Angy tew. We know yew'll treat us right. We know that yew," resting her eyes on Abe's face, "will prove ter be the 'angel unawares' that we been entertainin', but we don't want yew ter waste yer money on a cart-load o' silk dresses. All we ask o' yew is jest ernough tew allow us ter advertise fer another brother member ter take yer place." "This is a old ladies' home," he protested. "What right you got a-takin' in a good-fer-nuthin' old man? Mebbe he'd rob yew er kill yew! When men git ter rampagin', yew can't tell what they might dew." Sarah Jane nodded her head knowingly, as if to exclaim: But Miss Abigail hurriedly explained that it was a man and wife that they wanted. She blushed as she added that of course they would not take a man without his wife. "No, indeed! That'd be highly improper," smirked Ruby Lee. Then Abe went stamping to the stairway, saying sullenly: "Brother Abe," she called quaveringly after the couple, "I guess yew kin afford ter fix up any objections o' the directors." Angy pressed her husband's arm as she joined him in the upper hall. "Don't yer see, Abe. They don't realize that that poor old gentleman, whoever he may be, won't be yew. They jest know that _yew_ was _yew_; an' they want ter git another jest as near like yew as they kin." "That feller'll be lucky, gals," he added in tremulous tones. "I hope he'll appreciate yew as I allers done." Then Abe went to join Angy in the room which the sisters had given to him that bitter day when the cry of his heart had been very like unto: "_Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani_!" "Might better adopt the sisters"; he spoke almost gruffly. "I allers did think young 'uns would be the most comfort tew yew after they growed up." "A baby is dretful cunnin'," Angy persisted. "But," she added sadly, "I don't suppose a teethin' mite would find much in common with us." "Anyway," vowed Abe, suddenly beginning to unfasten the pillow-shams, "these belong ter us, an' I'm a-goin' ter take 'em." They went down-stairs silently, the shams wrapped in a newspaper carried under his arm. But Miss Abigail blocked the door, again blushing, again confused. She did not finish. She could not. She felt rather than saw the blazing of Abe's old eyes. Then the fire beneath his brows died out and a mist obscured his sight. "Gals," he asked humbly, "would yew ruther have a new 'beloved brother'?" For a space there was no answer. Aunt Nancy's head was bowed in her hands. Lazy Daisy was openly sobbing. Miss Ellie was twisting her fingers nervously in and out--she unwound them to clutch at Angy's arm as if to hold her. At last Miss Abigail spoke with so unaccustomed a sharpness that her voice seemed not her own: "Sech a foolish question as that nobody in their sound senses would ask." "Gals," he chuckled in his old familiar way, "I dunno how Sam'l Darby'll take it; but if Mother's willin', I guess I won't buy back no more of the old place, 'cept'n' jest my rockin'-chair with the red roses onto it; an' all the rest o' this here plagued money I'll hand over ter the directors, an' stay right here an' take my comfort." Angy bent down and whispered in his ear: "I'd ruther dew it, tew, Father. Anythin' else would seem like goin' a-visitin'. But yew don't want ter go an' blame me," she added anxiously, "ef yew git all riled up an' sick abed ag'in." "Pshaw, Mother," he protested; "yew fergit I was _adopted_ then; naow I be _adoptin_'. Thar's a big difference." She lifted her face, relieved, and smiled into the relieved and radiant faces of Abe's "children," and her own.	redpajama-book	16,918
E-text prepared by Carlo Traverso, Eric Casteleijn, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders. This file was produced from images generously made available by the Bibliotheque nationale de France (BnF/Gallica) at . [Transcriber's note: The spelling peculiarities of the original have been retained in this etext.] ELUCIDATIONS OF THE MARVELLOUS. "Bombastes kept the devil's bird, Shut in the pommel of his sword, And taught him all the cunning pranks, Of past and future mountebanks." _Hudibras_. Magic and Magical rites. On the several kinds of magic. Augury, or divinations drawn from the flight and feeding of birds. Aruspices, or divinations drawn from brute or human sacrifices. Divisions of divination by the ancients--prodigies, etc. History of Oracles--The principal oracles of antiquity. The oracle of Jupiter Hammon. The oracle of Delphos, or Pythian Apollo. Ceremonies practised on consulting oracles. Oracles often equivocal and obscure. Reputation of oracles, how lost. Cessation of oracles. Had demons any share in the oracles? Of oracles, the artifices of priests of false divinities. The British Druids, or magi--Origin of fairies--Ancient superstitions--Their skill in medicine, etc. Aesculapian mysteries, etc. Inferior deities attending mankind from their birth to their decease. Judicial astrology--Its chemical application to the prolongation of life and health--Alchymical delusions. Alchymical and astrological chimera. The Horoscope, a tale of the stars. The Fated Parricide; an oriental tale of the stars. Application of astrology to the prolongation of life, etc. Oneirocritical presentiment, illustrating the cause, effects, principal phenomena, and definition of dreams, etc. Poetical illustrations of the effects of the imagination in dreams. Principal phenomena in dreaming. Definition of dreams. On Incubation, or the art of healing by visionary divination. On amulets, charms, talismans--Philters, their origin and imaginary efficacy, etc. Amulets used by the common people. Eccentricities, caprices, and effects, of the imagination. Doctrine of Effluvia--Miraculous cures by means of charms, amulets, etc. On talismans--some curious natural ones, etc. On the medicinal powers attributed to music by the ancients. Presages, prodigies, presentiments, etc. Phenomena of meteors, optic delusions, spectra, etc. Elucidation of some ancient prodigies. Magical pretensions of certain herbs, etc. On the origin and superstitious influence of rings. Absurdities of Paracelsus, and Van Helmont. The Rosicrucians or Theosophists. ELUCIDATIONS OF THE MARVELLOUS. The devil has always, it would seem, been particularly partial to old women; the most ugly and hideous of whom he has invariably selected to do his bidding. Mother Shipton, for instance, our famous old English witch, of whom so many funny stories are still told, is evidently very much wronged in her picture, if she was not of the most terrible aspect imaginable; and, if it be true, Merlin, the famous Welch fortune-teller, was a most frightful figure. If we credit another story, he was begotten by "_old nick_" himself. To return, however, to the devil's agents being so infernally ugly, it need merely be remarked, that from time immemorial, he has invariably preferred such _rational_ creatures as most belied the "human form divine." When the devil for weighty despatches Wanted messengers cunning and bold, He pass'd by the beautiful faces And picked out the ugly and old. Of these he made warlocks and witches To run of his errands by night, Till the over-wrought hag-ridden wretches Were as fit as the devil to fright. But whoever has been his adviser, As his kingdom increases in growth, He now takes his measures much wiser, And trafics with beauty and youth. Disguis'd in the wanton and witty, He haunts both the church and the court; And sometimes he visits the city, Where all the best christians resort. To be brief, the devil, it appears, is by far too cunning still for mankind, and continues to manage things in his own way, in spite of bishops, priests, laymen, and new churches. He governs the vices and propensities of men by methods peculiarly his own; though every crime or extortion, subterfuge or design, whether it be upon the purse or the person, will not make a man a devil; it must nevertheless be confessed, that every crime, be its magnitude or complexion what it may, puts the criminal, in some measure, into the devil's power, and gives him an ascendancy and even a title to the delinquent, whom he ever afterwards treats in a very magisterial manner. To persons and places he sends his disguises, And dresses up all his banditti, Who, as pickpockets flock to country assizes, Crowd up to the court and the city. They're at every elbow, and every ear, And ready at every call, Sir; The vigilant scout, plants his agents about, And has something to do with us all, Sir. In some he has part, and some he has whole, And of some, (like the Vicar of _Baddow_) It can neither be said they have body or soul; And only are devils in shadow. The pretty and witty are devils in masque; The beauties are mere apparitions; The homely alone by their faces are known, And the good by their ugly conditions. He raises the vapours and prompts the desires, And to ev'ry dark deed holds the candle; The passions inflames and the appetite fires, And takes every thing by the handle. Thus he walks up and down in complete masquerade And with every company mixes; Sells in every shop, works at every trade, And ev'ry thing doubtful perplexes. The Jewish traditions concerning evil spirits are various, some of which are founded on Scripture, some borrowed from the opinions of the Pagans, some are fables of their own invention, and some are allegorical. The demons of the Jews were considered either as the distant progeny of Adam or Eve, resulting from an improper intercourse with supernatural beings, or of Cain. As the doctrine, however, was extremely revolting to some few of the early Christians, they maintained that demons were the souls of departed human beings, who were still permitted to interfere in the affairs of the Earth, either to assist their friends or to persecute their enemies. But this doctrine did not obtain. In the middle ages, when conjuration had attained a certain pitch of perfection, and was regularly practised in Europe, devils of distinction were supposed to make their appearance under decided forms, by which they were as well recognised, as the head of any ancient family would be by his crest and armorial bearings. The shapes they were accustomed to adopt were registered among their names and characters. Although the leading tenets of Demonology may be traced to the Jews and early Christians, yet they were matured by our early communications with the Moors of Spain, who were the chief philosophers of the dark ages, and between whom and the natives of France and Italy, a great communication existed. Toledo, Seville and Salamanca, became the greatest schools of magic. At the latter city predilections on the black art from a consistent regard to the solemnity of the subject were delivered within the walls of a vast and gloomy cavern. The schoolmen taught that all knowledge might be obtained from the assistance of the fallen angels. They were skilled in the abstract sciences, in the knowledge of precious stones, in alchymy, in the various languages of mankind and of the lower animals; in the Belles-Lettres, Moral Philosophy, Pneumatology, Divinity, Magic, History, and Prophecy. They could controul the winds and waters, and the stellar influences. They could cause earthquakes, induce diseases or cure them, accomplish all vast mechanical undertakings, and release souls out of Purgatory. They could influence the passions of the mind, procure the reconciliation of friends or of foes, engender mutual discord, induce mania, melancholy, or direct the force and objects of human affection. Such was the Demonology taught by its orthodox professors. Yet other systems of it were devised, which had their origin in the causes attending the propagation of christianity; for it must have been a work of much time to eradicate the almost universal belief in the pagan deities, which had become so numerous as to fill every creek and corner of the universe with fabulous beings. Many learned men, indeed, were induced to side with the popular opinion on the subject, and did nothing more than endeavour to unite it with their acknowledged systems of Demonology. They taught that the objects of heathen reverence were fallen angels in league with the Prince of Darkness, who, until the appearance of our Saviour, had been allowed to range on the earth uncontrolled, and to involve the world in spiritual darkness and delusion. MAGIC AND MAGICAL RITES, &C. Few subjects present to a philosophic eye more matter of curious, important and instructive research than the natural history of religion. Some sort of religious service has been found to prevail in all ages and nations, from the most rude and barbarous periods of human society, to those of cultivation and refinement. In these periods are to be traced specimens strongly marked with exertions of the feelings, and faculties of men in every situation almost that can be supposed. It is from the contemplation of these exertions that we learn what sort of creature man is; that we discover the extent of his powers, and the tendency of his desires: and that we become acquainted with the force of culture and civilization upon him, by comparing the degrees of improvement he has attained in the various stages of society through which he has passed. Among the ancients, this superstition was a great engine of state. The respect paid to omens, auguries and oracles, was profound and universal; and the persons in power monopolized the privilege of consulting and interpreting them. They joined the people in expressing their veneration; but there is little reason to doubt that they conducted the responses in such a manner as best suited the purposes of government. On this account, it would not be difficult for the oracle to emit predictions, which, to all those unacquainted with the secret, would appear altogether astonishing and unaccountable. It would seem that this principle alone is sufficient to explain all the phenomena of ancient oracles. That some judgment may be formed of de Haen's very extraordinary and curious production written in the latter part of the eighteenth century, we shall here furnish our readers with an abstract of its principles and reasoning, to which we shall subjoin some remarks. De Haen considers the case of the witch of Endor as an authority still more direct. He maintains that Samuel was actually called up, either under corporeal or fantastic form, and foretold Saul the fate of his engagements with the Philistines. Let us attend to the circumstances of the story, and examine whether it is absolutely necessary to have recourse to this supernatural hypothesis. The mind of Saul was distracted and agitated beyond measure by the most critical and alarming situation of his affairs; his distress was so great that, forgetting his dignity and safety, he dismissed his attendants, laid aside his royal robes, was unable to eat bread, and, dressed like the meanest of his people, he took his journey to the abode of the conjurer. In this state of mind, prepared for imposition, he arrives during the night at her residence. He prevails with her, by much solicitation, and probably by ample rewards, to call up Samuel. To discompose still further the disordered mind of Saul, she announces the pretended approach of the apparition by a loud acclamation, tells the king she knew him, which till now she affected not to do, and describes the resurrection of the prophet, under the awful semblance of God's rising out of the earth. We do not pretend to account so easily for many of the possessions recorded in the New Testament, though few of these only are applicable to the case of sorcery. We are well aware, that several writers of eminence, who cannot be supposed to entertain the least unfavourable sentiments of revelation, have undertaken to explain these possessions, without having recourse to any thing supernatural, by representing them as figurative descriptions of particular and local diseases. Being called to allay a pestilence which raged at Ephesus, he ordered an old beggar to be burned under the stones near the temple of Hercules, as an enemy to the gods. He commanded the people again to remove the stones, that they might see what sort of animal had been put to death. They found not a man, but a dog. The plague, however, ceased. A married woman of rank being dead, was carried out to be burned in an open litter, followed by her husband dissolved in tears. Apollonius approaching, requests him to stop the procession, and he would put an end to his grief. He asked the name of the woman, touched her, and muttered over her some words. She immediately revived, began to speak, and returned again to her own house. Fleury, who relates the miracle, remarks that some people doubted whether the woman had been really dead, as they had observed something like breath issue from her mouth. Others imagined she had been seized only with a tedious faint, and that the operation of the cold dews and damps upon her body might naturally recover her. On Fleury's remark de Haen most sagely observes, that the persons who observed the woman breathing could not surely have suppressed the joyful news, and would certainly have stopped the procession before the philosopher arrived. The last part of de Haen's work relates to the discovering and treating of magical diseases, to explain which seems to have been the chief purpose of the author in composing his book. Much caution, he observes, and attention are necessary on this head; and the physician should not readily admit the imputation of witchcraft. No absence of the ordinary symptoms, no uncommon alteration of the course of the distemper, are sufficient to infer this conclusion, because these may arise from unknown natural causes. What then are the marks of certain incantations? De Haen holds the following to be indisputable: "if, in any uncommon disease, there shall be found, in the stuffing of the cushions, or cielings of the room in which the patient lies, in the feather or the chaff of his bed, about the door, or under the threshold of his house, any strange characters, images, bones, hair, seeds, or roots of plants; and if upon the removal of these, or upon conveying the patient into another apartment, he shall suddenly recover; or if the patient himself, or his friends, shall be so wicked as to call a wizzard to their aid, by whom the malady shall be removed; or if insects and animals which do not lodge in the human body; if stones, metals, glass, knives, plaited hair, pieces of pitch, be ejected from particular parts of the body, of greater size, and weight and figure, than could be supposed to make their way through these parts, without much greater demolition and delaceration of the passages; in all these cases, the disease is unquestionably magical." The author proceeds to enquire whether the physician may presume to remove the instruments of incantation in order to relieve the patient without incurring the accusation of impiety by interfering with the implements and furniture of the devil; and concludes very formally that, after approaching them with all due ceremony and respect, after imploring with suitable devotion and ardour, the protection and direction of heaven in such a perilous undertaking, he may attempt to intermeddle, and may occasionally expect a successful issue. We are less acquainted with Indian magic than with that practised by any other Eastern nations. It may, however, be reasonably enough inferred that it was very similar to that for which the magi in general were held in such high estimation: although they were excluded, as beings of too sacred a nature, from the ordinary occurrences of life. Their Brahmins, or Gymnosophists, were regarded with as much reverence as the magi, and probably were more worthy of it. Some of them dwelt in woods, and others in the immediate vicinity of cities. Their skill in medicine was great; the care which they took in educating youth, in familiarizing it with generous and virtuous sentiments, did them peculiar honour; and their maxims and discourses, as recorded by historians, prove that they were much accustomed to profound reflection on the principles of civil polity, morality, religion and philosophy. ON THE SEVERAL KINDS OF MAGIC. But it can hardly be doubted, that magic in its grossest and most ridiculous sense was practised in Egypt, at least among some of the vulgar, long before Pythagoras or Empedocles travelled into that country. The Egyptians had been very early accustomed to vary the signification of their symbols, by adding to them several plants, ears of corn, or blades of grass, to express the different employments of husbandry; but understanding no longer their meaning nor the words that had been made use of on these occasions, which were equally unintelligible, the vulgar might mistake these for so many mysterious practices observed by their fathers; and hence they might conceive the notion, that a conjunction of plants, even without being made use of as a remedy, might be of efficacy to preserve or procure health. "Of these," adds the Abbe Pluche, "they made a collection, and an art by which they pretended to procure the blessings, and provide against the evils of life." By the assistance of these, men even attempted to hurt their enemies; and indeed the knowledge of poisonous or useful simples, might on particular occasions give sufficient weight to their empty curses and innovations. But these magic incantations, so contrary to humanity, were detested, and punished by almost all nations; nor could they be tolerated in any. Pliny, after mentioning an herb, the throwing of which into an army, it was said, was sufficient to put it to the route, asks, where was this herb when Rome was so distressed by the Cambri and Teutones? Why did not the Persians make use of it when Lucullus cut their troops to pieces? AUGURY, OR DIVINATIONS DRAWN FROM THE FLIGHT AND FEEDING OP BIRDS. The superstitious fondness of mankind for searching into futurity has given rise to an infinite variety of extravagant follies. The Romans, who were remarkably fertile in these sorts of demonological inventions, suggested numerous ways of divination. With them all Nature had a voice, and the most senseless beings, and most trivial things, the most trifling incidents, became presages of future events; which introduced ceremonies founded on a mistaken knowledge of antiquity, the most childish and ridiculous, and which were performed with all the air of solemnity and sanctity of devotion. Augury, or divinations founded on the flight of birds, were not only considered by the Egyptians as the symbols of the winds, but good and bad omens of every kind were founded or rather derived from the flying of the feathered tribe. The birds at this time had become wonderfully wise; and an owl, to whom, for reasons not precisely known, light is not so agreeable as darkness, could not pass by the windows of a sick person in the night, where the creature was not offended by the glimmerings of a light or candle, but his hooting must be considered as prophesying, that the life of the poor man was nearly wound up. Nothing can be so surprising than to find so wise and valorous a people as the Romans addicted to such childish fooleries. Scipio, Augustus, and many others, without any fatal consequences, despised the _sacred_ chickens, and other arts of divination: but when the generals had miscarried in any enterprise, the people laid the whole blame on the negligence with which these oracles had been consulted: and if an unfortunate general had neglected to consult them, the blame of miscarriage was thrown upon him who had preferred his own forecast to that of the fowls; while those who made these kinds of predictions a subject of raillery, were accounted impious and profane. Thus they construed, as a punishment of the gods, the defeat of Claudius Pulcher; who, when the sacred chickens refused to eat what was set before them, ordered them to be thrown into the sea; "If they won't eat," said he, "they shall drink." ARUSPICES, OR DIVINATIONS DRAWN FROM BRUTE, OR HUMAN SACRIFICES. DIVISIONS OP DIVINATION BY THE ANCIENTS--PRODIGIES, ETC. HISTORY OF ORACLES--THE PRINCIPAL ORACLES OF ANTIQUITY. THE ORACLE OP JUPITER HAMMON. Cato, full of the divinity that was within him, returned to Labrenus an answer worthy of an oracle: "On what account, Labrenus, would you have me consult Jupiter? Shall I ask him whether it be better to lose life than liberty? Whether life be a real good? We have within us, Labrenus, an oracle that can answer all these questions. Nothing happens but by the order of God. Let us not require of him to repeat to us what he has sufficiently engraved in our hearts. Truth has not withdrawn into those deserts; it is not graved on those sands. The abode of God is in heaven, in the earth, in the sea, and in virtuous hearts. God speaks to us by all that we see, by all that surrounds us. Let the inconstant and those that are subject to waver, according to events, have recourse to oracles. For my part, I find in nature every thing that can inspire the most constant resolution. The dastard, as well as the brave, cannot avoid death. Jupiter cannot tell us more." Cato thus spoke, and quitted the country without consulting the oracle. THE ORACLE OF DELPHOS, OR PYTHIAN APOLLO. CEREMONIES PRACTISED ON CONSULTING ORACLES. Tacitus thus speaks of the oracle of the Clarian Apollo: Germanicus went to consult the oracle of Claros. It is not a woman that delivers the oracle there, as at Delphos, but a man chosen out of certain families, and always of Miletum. It is sufficient to tell him the number and names of those who come to consult him; whereupon he retires into a grot, and having taken some water out of a well that lies hid in it, he answers you in verses to whatever you have thought of, though this man is often very ignorant. Dion Cassius explains the manner in which the oracle of Nymphoea, in Epirus, delivered its responses. The party that consulted took incense, and having prayed, threw the incense into the fire, the flame pursued and consumed it. But if the affair was not to succeed, the incense did not come near the fire, or if it fell into the flame, it started out and fled. It so happened for prognosticating futurity, in regard to every thing that was asked, except death and marriage, about which it was not allowed to ask any questions. Those who consulted the oracle of Amphiarus, lay on the skins of victims, and received the answer of the oracle in a dream. Virgil attests the same thing of the oracle of Faunus in Italy. In the temple of the goddess of Syria, when the statue of Apollo was inclined to deliver oracles, it deviated, moved, and was full of agitations on its pedestals. Then the priests carrying it on their shoulders, it pushed and turned them on all sides, and the high-priest, interrogating it on all sorts of affairs, if it refused its consent, it drove the priests back; if otherwise, it made them advance. ORACLES OFTEN EQUIVOCAL AND OBSCURE. The oracles, were often very equivocal, or so obscure that their signification was not understood but after the event. A few examples, out of a great many, will be sufficient. Croesus, having received from the Pythoness, this answer, that by passing the river Halys, he would destroy a great empire, he understood it to be the empire of his enemy, whereas he destroyed his own. The oracle consulted by Pyrrhus, gave him an answer, which might be equally understood of the victory of Pyrrhus, and the victory of the Romans his enemies. Aio te Aeacida, Romanos vincere posse. St. Jerome observes, that, if the devils speak any truth, by whatever accident they always join lies to it and use such ambiguous expressions, that they may be equally applied to contrary events. Whilst the false oracles of demons deceived the idolatrous nations, truth had retired from among the chosen people of God. The septuagint have interpreted _Urim_ and _Thummim_, manifestation and truth, [Greek: daelosin is alaetheian]; which expresses how different those divine oracles were from the false and equivocal demons. It is said, in the Book of Numbers, that Eleazar, the successor of Aaron, shall interrogate Urim in form, and that a resolution shall be taken according to the answer given. Several passages of Scripture leave room to believe, that an articulate voice came forth from the propitiatory, or holy of holies, beyond the veil of the tabernacle, and that this voice was heard by the high-priest. If the Urim and Thummim did not make answer, it was a sign of God's anger. Saul abandoned by the spirit of the Lord, consulted it in vain, and obtained no sort of answer. It appears by some passages of St. John's Gospel, that in the time of Christ, the exercise of the chief-priesthood, was still attended with the gift of prophecy. REPUTATION OF ORACLES, HOW LOST. Eusebius has preserved some fragments of this criticism on oracles by Oenomanus. "I might," says Origen, "have recourse to the authority of Aristotle, and the Peripatetics, to make the Pythoness much suspected. I might extract from the writings of Epicurus and his sectators an abundance of things to discredit oracles; and I might shew that the Greeks themselves made no great account of them." The reputation of oracles was greatly lessened when they became an artifice of politics. Themistocles, with a design of engaging the Athenians to quit Athens, in order to be in a better condition to resist Xerxes, made the Pythoness deliver an oracle, commanding them to take refuge in wooden walls. Demosthenes said, that the Pythoness philippised, to signify that she was gained over by Philip's presents. CESSATION OF ORACLES. The cessation of oracles is attested by several prophane authors, as Strabo, Juvenal, Lucien. "_To the eldest Son of God_." HAD DEMONS ANY SHARE IN THE ORACLES? The Emperor Julian, called the Apostate, consulting the oracle of Apollo, in the suburbs of Antioch, the devil could make him no other answer, than that the body of St. Babylas, buried in the neighbourhood, imposed silence on him. The Emperor, transported with rage and vexation, resolved to revenge his gods, by eluding a solemn prediction of Christ. He ordered the Jews to rebuild the temple of Jerusalem; but in beginning to dig the foundations, balls of fire burst out, and consumed the artificers, their tools and materials. These facts are attested by Ammianus Marcellinus, a pagan, and the emperor's historian; and by St. Chrysostom, St. Gregory Nazianzen, and Theodoret, Sozomen and Socrates, in their ecclesiastical histories. The sophist Libanius, who was an enemy of the Christians, confessed also that St. Babylas had silenced the oracle of Apollo, in the suburbs of Antioch. OF ORACLES, THE ARTIFICES OP PRIESTS OP FALSE DIVINITIES. Daniel discovered the imposture of the priests of Bel, who had a private way of getting into the temple, to take away the offered meats, and made the king believe that the idol consumed them. Mundus, being in love with Paulina, the eldest of the priestesses of Isis, went and told her that the god Anubis, being passionately fond of her, commanded her to give him a meeting. She was afterwards shut up in a dark room, where her lover Mundus (whom she believed to be the god Anubis,) was concealed. This imposture having been discovered, Tiberius ordered those detestable priests and priestesses to be crucified, and with them Iolea Mundus's free woman, who had conducted the whole intrigue. He also commanded the temple of Isis to be levelled with the ground, her statue to be thrown into the Tiber, and, as to Mundus, he contented himself with sending him into banishment. Theophilus, Bishop of Alexandria, not only destroyed the temples of the gods, but discovered the cheats of the priests, by shewing that the statues, some of which were of brass, and others of wood, were hollow within, and led into dark passages made in the wall. Lucius in discovering the impostures of the false prophet Alexander, says, that the oracles were chiefly afraid of the subtilties of the Epicureans and Christians. The false prophet Alexander sometimes feigned himself seized with a divine fury, and by means of the herb sopewort, which he chewed, frothed at the mouth in so extraordinary a manner, that the ignorant people attributed it to the power of the god he was possessed by. He had long before prepared the head of a dragon made of linen, which opened and shut its mouth by means of a horses hair. He went by night to a place where the foundations of a temple were digging, and having found water, either of a spring or rain that had settled there, he hid in it a goose egg, in which he had inclosed a little serpent that had just been hatched. The next day, very early in the morning, he came quite naked into the street, having only a scarf about his middle, holding in his hand a scythe, and tossing about his hair as the priests of Cybele; then getting on the top of a high altar, he said that the place was happy to be honoured by the birth of a god. Afterwards running down to the place where he had hid the goose egg, and going into the water, he began to sing the praises of Apollo and Aesculapius, and to invite the latter to come and shew himself to men; with these words he dips a bowl into the water and takes out a mysterious egg, which had a god enclosed in it, and when he held it in his hand, he began to say that he held Aesculapius, whilst all were eager to have a sight of this fine mystery, he broke the egg, and the little serpent starting out, twisted itself about his fingers. These examples shew clearly, that both Christians and pagans were so far agreed as to treat the greater number of oracles as purely human impostures. The inhabitants of Shetland and the Isles pour libations of milk or beer through a holed-stone, in honour of the spirit Brownie; and it is probable the Danmonii were accustomed to sacrifice to the same spirit, since the Cornish and the Devonians on the border of Cornwall, invoke to this day the spirit Brownie, on the swarming of their bees. From the animal, the Druids passed to the vegetable world; and these also displayed their powers, whilst by the charms of the misletoe, the selago, and the samopis, they prevented or repelled diseases. From the undulation or bubbling of water stirred by an oak branch, or magic wand, they foretold events that were to come. The superstition of the Druids is even now retained in the western counties. To this day, the Cornish have been accustomed to consult their famous well at Madem, or rather the _spirit_ of the well, respecting their future destiny. The Druids were also extremely superstitious in relation to the herb _selago_, which they reckoned a preservative against sore eyes, and almost all misfortunes. Another herb called samotis, which they imagined had a virtue to prevent diseases among cattle, they were very ceremonious about gathering. The person was obliged to be clad in white, and was not suffered to handle it; and the ceremony was preceded by a sacrifice of bread and wine. The Druids had another superstition amongst them, in regard to their serpents' eggs, which they supposed were formed of the saliva of many of those creatures, at a certain time of the moon: these they looked upon as a sure prognostic of getting the better of their enemies. These, with many other ridiculous fooleries, were imposed upon the credulous people, as they were very much attached to divination. The Druids regarded the misletoe as an antidote against all poisons, and they preserved their selago against all misfortunes. The Persians had the same confidence in the efficacy of several herbs, and used them in a similar manner. The Druids cut their misletoe with a golden hook, and the Persians cut the twigs of _Ghez_, or _haulm_, called _bursam_, with a peculiar sort of concentrated knife. The candidates for the British throne had recourse to the fatal stone to determine their pretensions; and on similar occasions the Persians had recourse to the _Artizoe_. AESCULAPIAN MYSTERIES, &C. In the city of Tetrapolis, which belonged to the Ionians, Aesculapius had a temple full of rare cures, dedicated to him by those who ascribed their recovery to him; and its walls were covered and hung with memorials of the miracles he had performed. The animals sacrificed to Aesculapius were the goat; some say on account of his having been nursed by this animal; others because this creature is unhealthy, as labouring under a perpetual fever. The dog and the cock were sacrificed to him, on account of their fidelity and vigilance; the raven was also devoted to him for its forecast, and being skilled in divination. Authors are not agreed as to his being the inventor of physic, some affirming he perfected that part only which relates to the regimen of the sick. INFERIOR DEITIES ATTENDING MANKIND PROM THEIR BIRTH TO THEIR DECEASE. JUDICIAL ASTROLOGY--ITS CHEMICAL APPLICATION TO THE PROLONGATION OF LIFE AND HEALTH--ALCHYMICAL DELUSIONS. According to Astrologers, the power of the ascending planet is greatly increased by that of an ascending sign; then the benign influences are all united, and fall together on the head of all the happy infants who at that moment enter the world; yet can anything be more contrary to experience, which shews us, that the characters and events produced by persons born under the same aspect of the stars, are so far from being alike, that they are directly opposite. But not content with such absurdities, which destroyed the very idea of liberty, they asserted that these stars, which had not the least connection with mankind, governed all the parts of the human body, and ridiculously affirmed that the ram presided over the head, the bull over the gullet, the twins over the breast, the scorpion over the entrails, the fishes over the feet, etc. The juggles of astrology have been admirably ridiculed by Butler in the following lines: That is, consult not the tables of planetary calculations used by astrologers of Babylonish origin. ALCHYMICAL AND ASTROLOGICAL CHIMERA. Having so far explained the fragile basis on which human knowledge may be said to have depended, during the obscurity and barbarity of the middle ages, when the progress of true knowledge was obstructed by the most absurd fancies, and puerile conceits: when conjectures, caprices, and dreams supplied the place of the most useful sciences, and of the most important truths, the subsequent illustrative reflections may serve as a guide to direct the attention of the reader to other delusions, which arose out of the general chaos. As the metal called gold always bore the highest value, these crude philosophers concluded, from a ridiculous analogy, that its value with respect to the preservation of health and the cure of diseases, must likewise surpass that of all other remedies. The nugatory art of dissolving it, so as to render it potable, and to prevent it from again being converted into metal, employed a multitude of busy idiots, not only in concealed corners, but in the splendid laboratories of the great. Sovereigns, magistrates, counsellors, and impostors, struck with the common frenzy, entered into friendship and alliance, formed private fraternities, and sometimes proceeded to such a pitch of extravagance, as to involve themselves and their posterity in ruinous debts. The real object of many was, doubtless, to gratify their avarice and desire of aggrandisement: although this sinister motive was concealed under the specious pretext of searching for a remedy that should serve as a tincture of life, both for the healthy and diseased, yet some among these whimsical mortals were actuated by more honourable motives, zealous only for the interest of truth, and the well-being of their fellow creatures. The common people, in some countries, particularly Italy, Germany, and France often denied themselves the common necessaries of life, to save as much as would purchase a few drops of the tincture of gold, which was offered for sale by some superstitious or fraudulent chemist: and so thoroughly persuaded were they of the efficacy of this remedy, that it afforded them in every instance the most confident and only hope of recovery. These beneficial effects were positively promised, but were looked for in vain. All subduing death would not submit to be bribed with gold, and disease refused to hold any intercourse with that powerful deity, who presides over the industry and commerce of all nations. As, however, these diversified and almost numberless experiments were frequently productive of useful inventions in arts and manufactures; and, as many chemical remedies of real value were thereby accidentally discovered, great and almost general attention to those bold projectors was constantly kept alive and excited. Indeed, we are indebted to their curious observations, or rather perhaps to chance, for several valuable medicines, the excellence of which cannot be disputed, but which, nevertheless, require more precaution in their use and application, and more perspicuity and diligence in investigating their nature and properties than the original preparers of such articles were able or willing to afford. All their endeavours to prolong life, by artificial means, could not be attended with beneficial effects; and the application of the remedies thus contrived, must necessarily, in many cases, have proved detrimental to the health of the patient. Some of these extravagant enthusiasts fancied that life resembled a flame, from which the body derived warmth, spirit, and animation. They endeavoured to cherish and increase the flame, and supplied the body with materials to feed it, as we pour oil into a burning lamp. Others imagined they had discovered something invisible and incorporeal in the air, that important medium which supports the life of man. They pretended to catch, refine, reduce, and materialize this indefinable something, so that it might be swallowed in the form of powders, and drops; that, by its penetrating powers, it might insinuate itself into the whole animal frame, invigorate, and consequently qualify it for a longer duration. Others again were foolish enough to indulge a notion that they could divest themselves of the properties of matter during this life; that in this manner they might be defended against the gradual approaches of dissolution, to which every animal body is subject: and that thus fortified, without quitting their terrestrial tabernacle, they could associate at pleasure with the inhabitants of the spiritual world. The sacred volume itself was interpreted and commented upon by alchymists, with a view to render it subservient to their intended designs. Indisputable historical facts, recorded in this invaluable book, were treated by them as hieroglyphical symbols of chemical processes: and the fundamental truths of the christian religion were applied, in a wanton and blasphemous manner, to the purposes of making gold, and distilling the elixir of life. The world of spirits was also invaded, and summoned, as it were, to contribute to the prolongation of human life. Spirits were supposed to have the dominion of air, fire, earth, and water; they were divided into distinct classes, and particular services ascribed to each. The malevolent spirits were opposed and counteracted by various means of prevention: the good and tutelary were obliged to submit to n sort of gentle, involuntary servitude. From invisible beings were expected and demanded visible means of assistance--riches, health, friends, and long life. Thus the poor spirits were profanely maltreated, nay, sometimes severely punished, and even miserably flogged in effigy, when they betrayed symptoms of disaffection, or want of implicit fealty. THE HOROSCOPE, A TALE OF THE STARS. "Lady," said the gipsey, "it is not food for the wretched body that I require; the herbs of the field, and the waters of the ditch, are good enough for that. I asked your alms for higher purposes. Do not distrust me, if my bearing be prouder than my garments; do not doubt the strength of my sunken eye, when I tell you that I can read the skies as they relate to the fate of men. Not more familiar is his hornbook to the scholar, than are the heavens to my knowledge." "If then," returned the lady, "I give thee more money, how will it be applied?" "That is not a courteous question, but I will answer it. The most cunning craftsman cannot work without his tools, and some of mine are broken, which I seek to repair: another crown will be enough." Within a week the birth of an heir awoke the clamorous joy of the vassals, and summoned the strange gipsey to ascertain the necessary points. These learned, he returned home; and the next day presented Sir Maurice with a scroll, containing the following lines: The knight read it; and in that age, when astrology was considered a science as unerring as holy prophecies, it would have been little less than infidelity to have doubted the truth of the prediction. Sir Maurice, however, was wise enough to withhold the paper from his lady; and in answer to her inquiries, continually asserted that the gipsey was an impostor, and that the object of his assuming the character was merely to increase her alms. It is not to be supposed that he took no precaution against the predicted event. Sometimes hope suggested that a mistake might have been made in the horoscope, or that the astrologer might have overlooked some sign which made the circumstance conditional; and in unison with the latter idea he determined to erect a strong building, where, during the year in which his doom was to be consumated, Walter might remain in solitude. He accordingly gave directions for raising a single tower, peculiarly formed to prevent ingress, except by permission of its inhabitants. The purpose of this strange building, however, he kept secret; and his neighbours, after numerous vain conjectures, gave it the name of "Cooke's Folly." Weeks and months thus passed, and Walter still was well and cheerful. His own and his sisters' hopes grew more lively, but the anxiety of Sir Maurice increased. The day drew near which was to restore his son to his arms in confident security, or to fulfil the prediction which left him without an heir to his name and honours. To this happy effort of the imagination in favour of prying into futurity, may be added, with the same intention. THE FATED PARRICIDE; AN ORIENTAL TALE OF THE STARS. This answer threw the sultan into the deepest consternation. He did not sink, however, into absolute despondency; his courage soon revived. He determined to take all the precautions which paternal tenderness could suggest, to defeat the prediction of the astrologers. He, therefore, caused a kind of subterranean palace to be made on the summit of a lofty mountain. The labour and expense of the excavation was prodigious. Extensive walks were formed, with a variety of apartments, in which every thing was provided that could contribute to the conveniences, and even the luxuries of life. In this magnificent cavern, Ibrahim, as it were, inhumed his son, together with his governess, of whose care, and fidelity he had no doubt. Provisions were constantly carried thither at stated periods. The king forgot not a single day to visit the mountain that contained his beloved treasure, and to be satisfied of his safety with his own eyes. With what delight did he behold the growing beauties of his son! With what pleasure and rapture did he listen to his sprightly saillies of wit, his smart repartees, and those pretty _nothings_ which a father, in particular, is fond to recollect and to repeat; at which the most rigid gravity may smile, and which are worth all the understanding of riper years. He was perpetually counting the hours and minutes that he had to spend with his son; and he incessantly reproached himself, for not seeing him more frequently. APPLICATION OF ASTROLOGY TO THE PROLONGATION OF LIFE, &C. Astrology was also made subservient to the means of prolonging human life; but how an art which determines the fate of mortals, and ascertains the impassable limits of the grave, could consistently be made subservient to such a purpose, we are rather at a loss to conceive, unless accounted for as follows. The teachers of divination maintained, that not only men, but all natural bodies, plants, animals, nay even whole countries, including every place and family, were under the government of some particular planet. As soon as the masters of the occult science had discovered by their tables, under what constellation the misfortune or distemper of any person originated, nothing farther was required, than that he should remove to a dwelling ruled by an opposite planet, and confine himself exclusively to such articles of food and drink as were under the influence of a different star. In this artificial manner they contrived to form a system, or peculiar classification of planets, namely, Lunar, Solar, Mercurial and the like--and hence arose a confused map of dictated rules, which, when considered with reference to the purposes of health, cleanliness, exercise etc. form remarkable contrasts to those of the Greeks. But this preventive and repulsive method was not merely confined to persons who suffered under some bodily disorder: even individuals, who enjoyed a good state of health, if an unlucky constellation happened to forebode a severe disease, or any other misfortune, were directed to choose a place of residence influenced by a more friendly star--or to adopt such aliment only, as being under the auspices of a propitious star, might counteract the malignant influence of its antagonist. "Now if God Almighty do not countermand or check the ordinary course of nature, or the matter of elementary bodies here below be not unproportionable, and thereby unapt to receive their impressions, there is no reason why, in a natural and physical necessity, astrological predictions should not succeed and take effect, and by how much the knowledge which we have by the known causes is more demonstrative and infallible than that which we have either by signs or effects, so much by this companion doth Astrology appear worthy to be preferred before Physic." Cardan, who was an excellent physician saith: "If by the art of Astrology he had not better attained to the knowledge of his diseases, than the physician that would have administered to him by his skill, he had been assuredly cured by death, rather than preserved alive by physic. (Vide his Comment. upon Ptol. Quidrepart.) From hence it appears it is necessary that the physician should be skilful in astrology, but on the contrary, _ex quovis legno non fit Mercurius_, every astrologer cannot be a physician; if the nativity be but precisely known, or if, but _tempus ablatum_ or _suppositum_, and withal some notable accidents of sickness, danger of drowning, peril by fire, marriage, or other, the like accidents may be foreseen." Cornelius Agrippa rightly designates astrologers "a perverse and preposterous generation of men, who profess to know future things, but in the meantime are altogether ignorant of past and present; and undertaking to tell all people most obscure and hidden secrets abroad, at the same time, know not what happens in their own houses." "The best time to cut hair. How moles and dreams are to be interpreted. When most proper season to bleed. Under what aspect of the moon best to draw teeth, and cut corns. Pairing of nails, on what day unlucky. What the kindest sign to graft or inoculate in; to open bee-hives, and kill swine. How many hours boiling my Lady Kent's pudding requires. With other notable questions, fully and faithfully resolved, by me Sylvester Patridge, student in physic and astrology, near the Gun in Moorfields." "Of whom likewise may be had, at reasonable rates, trusses, antidotes, elixirs, love-powders. Washes for freckles, plumpers, glass-eyes, false calves and noses, ivory-jaws, and a new receipt to turn red hair into black." ONEIROCRITICAL PRESENTIMENT, ILLUSTRATING THE CAUSE, EFFECTS, PRINCIPAL PHENOMENA, AND DEFINITION OF DREAMS, ETC. As we shall have to speak of the art practised through the medium, termed incubation, of curing diseases, it may be proper to say something previously on the interpretation of dreams through whose agency these events were said to be realized. Oneirocritics, or interpreters of dreams, were called conjecturers, a very fit and proper name for these worldly wise men, according to the following lines, translated from Euripides- He that conjectures least amiss Of all, the best of prophets is. To the delusion of dreams not a few of the ancient philosophers lent themselves. Among these were Democritus, Aristotle, and his follower Themistius, Siresius the Platonic; who so far relied on dreams which some accident or other brought about, that they thence endeavoured to persuade men there are no dreams but what are founded on realities. For, say they, as the celestial influences produce various forms and changes in corporeal matter, so out of certain influences, predominating over the power of the fancy, the impression of visions is made, being consentaneous, through the disposition of the heavens, to the effect produced; more especially in dreams, because the mind, being then at liberty from all corporeal cares and exercises, more freely receives the divine influences: it happens, therefore that many things are revealed to them that are asleep, which are concealed from them that are awake. With these and such reasons it is pretended that much is communicated through the medium of dreams: When soft sleep the body lays at ease, And from the heavy mass the fancy frees, Whate'er it is in which we take delight, And think of most by day we dream at night. Avicen makes the cause of dreams to be an ultimate intelligence moving the moon in the midst of that light with which the fancies of men are illuminated while they sleep. Aristotle refers the cause of them to common sense, but placed in the fancy. Averroes, an Arabian physician, places it in the imagination; Democritus ascribes it to little images, or representations, separated from the things themselves; Plato among the specific and concrete notions of the soul; Albertus to the superior influences, which continually flow from the sky, through many specific channels. Some physicians attribute the cause of dreams to vapours and humours, and the affections and cares of persons predominant when awake; for, say they, by reason of the abundance of vapours, which are exhaled in consequence of immoderate feeding, the brain is so stuffed by it, that monsters and strange chimera are formed, of which the most inordinate eaters and drinkers furnish us with sufficient instances. Some dreams, they assert, are governed partly by the temperature of the body, and partly by the humour which mostly abounds in it; to which may be added the apprehensions which have preceded the day before; and which are often remarked in dogs, and other animals, which bark and make a noise in their sleep. Dreams, they observe, proceed from the humours and temperature of the body; we see the choleric dreams of fire, combats, yellow colours, etc. the phlegmatic of water baths, of sailing on the sea; the melancholies of thick fumes, deserts, fantasies, hideous faces, etc. they that have the hinder part of their brain clogged, with viscous humours, called by physicians Ephialtes incubus, dream that they are suffocated. And those who have the orifice of their stomach loaded with malignant humours, are affrighted with strange visions, by reason of those venemous vapours that mount to the brain and distemper it. POETICAL ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE EFFECTS OF THE IMAGINATION IN DREAMS. Lucretius, and Petronius in his poem on the vanity of dreams, had preceded our immortal bard in a description of the effects of dreams on different kinds of persons. Both the passages here alluded to, only serve to shew the vast superiority of Shakspeare's boundless genius: their sense is thus admirably expressed by Stepney: PRINCIPAL PHENOMENA IN DREAMING. Dr. Beattie, in his "Dissertations moral and critical," has an ingenious essay on this subject, in which he attempts to ascertain, not so much the _efficient_ as the _final_ causes of the phenomenon, and to obviate those superstitions in regard to it, which have sometimes troubled weak minds. He labours, with great earnestness, to shew, that dreams may be of use in the way of physical admonition: that persons, who attend to them with this view, may make important discoveries with regard to their health; that they may be serviceable as the means of moral improvement; that, by attending to them, we may discern our predominant passions, and receive good hints for the regulation of them; that they may have been intended by Providence to serve as an amusement to the mental powers; and that dreaming is not universal, because, probably, all constitutions do not require such intellectual amusement. In observations of this kind, we may discover the ingenuity of fancy and the sagacity of conjecture. We may find amusement in the arguments, but we look in vain for satisfaction. Nature, certainly, does nothing in vain, yet we are far from thinking, that man is able, in every case, to discover her intentions. Final causes, perhaps, ought never to be the subject of human speculation, but when they are plain and obvious. To substitute vain conjectures, instead of the designs of Providence, on subjects where those designs are beyond our reach, serves only to furnish matter for the cavils of the sceptical, and the sneers of the licentious. Among the many striking phenomena in our dreams, it may be observed, that, while they last, the memory seems to lie wholly torpid, and the understanding to be employed only about such objects as are then presented, without comparing the present with the past. When we sleep, we often converse with a friend who is either absent or dead, without remembering that the grave or the ocean is between us. We float, like a feather, upon the wind; for we find ourselves this moment in England, and the next in India, without reflecting that the laws of nature are suspended, or inquiring how the scene could have been so suddenly shifted before us. We are familiar with prodigies; we accommodate ourselves to every event, however romantic; and we not only reason, but act upon principles, which are in the highest degree absurd and extravagant. Our dreams, moreover, are so far from being the effect of a voluntary effort, that we neither know of what we shall dream, or whether we shall dream at all. But sleep is not the only time in which strange and unconnected objects involve our ideas in confusion. Besides the _reveries_ of the day, already spoken of, we have, in a moral view, our _waking-dreams_, which are not less chimerical, and impossible to be realized, than the imaginations of the night. Sometimes in our sleeping dreams, we imagine ourselves involved in inextricable woe, and enjoy at waking, the ecstasy of a deliverance from it. "And such a deliverance," says Dr. Beattie, "will every good man meet with at last, when he is taken away from the evils of life, and awakes in the regions of everlasting light and peace; looking back upon the world and its troubles, with a surprise and satisfaction similar in kind (though far higher in degree) to that which we now feel, when we escape from a terrifying dream, and open our eyes to the sweet serenity of a summer morning." Sometimes, in our dreams, we imagine scenes of pure and unutterable joy; and how much do we regret at waking, that the heavenly vision is no more! But what must the raptures of the good man be, when he enters the regions of immortality, and beholds the radiant fields of permanent delight! The idea of such a happy death, such a sweet transition, from the dreams of earth to the realities of heaven, is thus beautifully described by Dryden, in his poem entitled Eleonora: DEFINITION OF DREAMS. Every thing capable of interrupting the tranquillity of mind and body, may produce dreams; such are the various kinds of grief and sorrow, exertions of the mind, affections and passions, crude and undigested food, a hard and inconvenient posture of the body. Those ideas which have lately occupied our minds or made a lively impression upon us, generally constitute the principal subject of a dream, and more or less employ our imagination, when we are asleep. Animals are likewise apt to dream, though seldom; and even men living temperately, and enjoying a perfect state of health, are seldom disturbed with this play of the fancy. And, indeed, there are examples of lively and spirited persons who never dream at all. The great physiologist Haller considers dreaming as a symptom of disease, or as a stimulating cause, by which the perfect tranquillity of the sensorium is interrupted. Hence, that sleep is the most refreshing, which is undisturbed by dreams, or, at least, when we have the distinct recollection of them. Most of our dreams are then nothing more than sports of the fancy, and derive their origin chiefly from external impressions; almost every thing we see and hear, when awake, leads our imagination to collateral notions or representations, which, in a manner, spontaneously, and without the least effort, associate with external sensations. The place where a person whom we love formerly resided, a dress similar to that which we have seen her wear, or the objects that employed her attention, no sooner catch our eye, than she immediately occupies our mind. And, though these images associating with external sensations, do not arrive at complete consciousness within the power of imagination, yet even in their latent state they may become very strong and permanent. If we make a resolution to rise earlier in the morning than usual; and if we impress the determination on our mind, immediately before going to rest, we are almost certain to succeed. Now it is self-evident that this success cannot be ascribed to the efforts of the body, but altogether to the mind, which probably, during sleep perceives and computes the duration of time, so that it makes an impression on the body, which enables us to awake at an appointed hour. Yet all this takes place, without our consciousness, and the representations remain obscure. Many productions of art are so complicated, that a variety of simple conceptions are requisite to lay the foundation of them; yet the artist is almost entirely unconscious of these individual notions. Thus a person performs a piece of music, without being obliged to reflect, in a conscious manner, on the signification of the notes, their value, and the order of the fingers he must observe; nay even without clearly distinguishing the strings of the harp, or the keys of the harpsichord. We cannot attribute this to the mechanism of the body, which might gradually accustom itself to the accurate placing of the fingers. This could be applied only where we place a piece of music, frequently practised; but it is totally inapplicable to a new piece, which is played by the professor with equal facility, though he has never seen it before. In the latter case there must arise, necessarily, an ideal representation, or an act of judgment, previous to every motion of the finger. We shall now proceed to notice the subject of dreams in another point of view--that is, as being employed as a medium of divination in the cure of diseases, in which the fancies of the brain appear, in reality, to as little advantage as they do with reference to any other considerations in which such pretended omens exist. ON INCUBATION; OR THE ART OF HEALING BY VISIONARY DIVINATION. It was not merely the sacerdotal dignity which rendered them objects of awe and reverence to the illiterate multitude; the priests were regarded as the depositaries of science and learning; and proved themselves as skilful as they were successful, in cementing their influence by those arts which were best calculated to inflame the prejudices of the vulgar in their favour. It is the work of ages to wean men and nations from popular illusions, and the deep-rooted opinions transmitted from sire to son: it cannot therefore surprise us, that even when the intellectual energy of Greece was signalizing itself by efforts which have commanded the admiration of after ages, it should still remain a popular dogma in medicine "that persons labouring under bodily infirmity, might be thrown into a state of charmed torpor, in which, though destitute of any previous medical knowledge, they would be enabled to ascertain the nature of their malady, as well as of the diseases of others, and devise the means of their cure." Upon this dogma was founded the mystery of incubations, or the art of healing by visionary divination. If all these preparations were unavailing, the officiants of the temple had still means in reserve, by which the credulous should be thrown into that bodily state which was indispensable to the divinatory sleep: of these, succeeding instances will be hereafter produced. In those days, there were however, some men from whom the somniferous faculty was withheld: they were, therefore, admonished to repeat their prayers and oblations, in order to win the divinity's favour: and the ultimate and customary resort was, if success did not crown his perseverance, to pronounce it a token, that such patients were an eyesore to the divinity. ON AMULETS, CHARMS, TALISMANS--PHILTERS, THEIR ORIGIN AND IMAGINARY EFFICACY, ETC. Amulets are certain substances worn about the neck or other parts of the body, under the superstitious impression of preventing diseases, of curing, or removing them. Nor were such means confined to dark and barbarous ages. Theophrastus pronounced Pericles to be insane in consequence of seeing him with an amulet suspended from his neck. And in the declining era of the Roman Empire, we find this superstitious custom so general that the Emperor Caracalla was induced to make a public edict, ordering, that no man should wear any superstitious amulets about his person. All remedies working as it were sympathetically, and plainly unequal to the effect, may be termed amulets; whether used at a distance by another person, or carried immediately about the patient. By the Jews, amulets were called _kamea_, and by the Greeks _phylacteries_. The latins called them _amuleta_ or _ligatura_; the catholics _agnus dei_, or consecrated relics; and the natives of Guinea _fetishes_. Various kinds of substances are employed by different people, and which they venerate and suppose capable of preserving them from danger and infection, as well as to remove disease when present. Plutarch says of Pericles, an Athenian general, that when a friend come to see him, and inquired after his health he reached out his hand and shewed him his amulet; by which he meant to intimate the truth of his illness, and, at the same time, the confidence he placed in these popular remedies. Amulets are still prevalent in catholic countries at the present day; the Spaniards and Portuguese maintain their popularity. Among the Jews they are equally venerated. Indeed, there are few instances of ancient superstition some portion of which has not been preserved, and not unfrequently have they been adopted by men of otherwise good understanding, who plead in excuse, that they are innoxious, cost little, and if they can do no good, they can do no harm. AMULETS USED BY THE COMMON PEOPLE. ECCENTRICITIES, CAPRICES, AND EFFECTS, OF THE IMAGINATION. On the power and pleasure of the imagination, from the pleasures and pains it administers here below, Addison concludes that God, who knows all the ways of afflicting us, may so transport us hereafter with such beautiful and glorious visions, or torment us with such hideous and ghastly spectres, as might even of themselves suffice to make up the entire heaven or hell of any future being. DOCTRINE OF EFFLUVIA--MIRACULOUS CURES BY MEANS OF CHARMS, AMULETS, ETC. Dr. Willis, in his Treatise on nervous disorders, does not hesitate to recommend amulets in epileptic disorders. "Take," says he, "some fresh peony roots, cut them into square bits, and hang them round the neck, changing them as often as they dry." It is not improbable that the hint was taken from this circumstance for the anodyne necklaces, which, some time ago, were in such repute, as the Doctor, some little way further on, prescribes the same root for the looseness, fevers, and convulsions of children, during the time of teething, mixed, to make it appear more miraculous, with some elk's hoof. ON TALISMANS--SOME CURIOUS, NATURAL ONES, ETC. The virtues attributed by the Maltese to those eyes and tongues, and to the white earth which is found in the island, particularly in St. Paul's cave, and which is kept for use by the apothecaries, as the American bole, are very singular; for they reckon them not only a preservative against all sorts of poison, and an efficacious remedy for those who have taken poison, but also good in a number of diseases. They are taken internally, infused in water, wine, or in any other convenient liquor; or let to lie for some hours in vessels made of the white earth; or the white earth is taken itself dissolved in those liquors. The eyes set as precious stones in rings, and so as to touch immediately the flesh, are worn by the inhabitants on the fingers; but the tongues are fastened about the arm, or suspended from the neck. ON THE MEDICINAL POWERS ATTRIBUTED TO MUSIC BY THE ANCIENTS. This is what Coelius Aurelianus calls _loca dolentia decantare_, enchanting the disordered places. He even tells us how the enchantment is brought about upon these occasions, in saying that the pain is relieved by causing a vibration of the fibres of the afflicted part. Galen speaks seriously of playing the flute on the suffering part, upon the principle, we suppose, of a medicated vapour bath. This is exactly what Plutarch means, who tells the story; and what Homer meant, in attributing the curation of the plague among the Greeks, at the siege of Troy, to music: For the poet in these lines seems only to say, that Apollo was rendered favourable, and had delivered the Greeks from the scourge with which they were attacked, in consequence of Chriseis having been restored to her father, and of sacrifices and offerings. The late learned Dr. Branchini, professor of physic at Udine, collected all the passages preserved in ancient authors, relative to the medicinal application of music, by Asclepiades; and it appears from this work that it was used as a remedy by the ancient Egyptians, Hebrews, Greeks, and Romans, not only in acute, but chronical disorders. This writer gives several cases within his own knowledge, in which music has been efficacious; but the consideration as well as the honour of these, more properly belong to _modern_ than to ancient music. This account was communicated to the Academy by M. Dodart, who had it well authenticated. PRESAGES, PRODIGES, PRESENTIMENTS, ETC. Politicians have also lent a helping hand to give presages a reputation, as an excellent scheme, either to intimidate the people, or to raise their drooping spirits. Had the Roman soldiers been free thinkers, Drusus, the son of Tiberius, had not been so fortunate as to quell a desperate mutiny among the legions of Pannonia, who utterly refused to obey his commands; but an eclipse, which critically intervened, broke their refractory spirits to such a degree, that Drusus, who managed their panic fear with great dexterity and address, did what he liked with them. "And though he be at liberty to believe or not, yet he has no regret, by suppressing them, to deprive the reader of his liberty, when he meets with passages of this kind, of judging as he thinks fit." This reflection (says Bayle) from so celebrated an historian, not suspected of favouring the Hugonot incredulity, is a strong presumption on my side. PHENOMENA OF METEORS, OPTIC DELUSIONS, SPECTRA, ETC. The following striking effects are known to proceed from this simple cause. A similar deception takes place in northern climates. Cities, battlements, houses, and all the accompaniments of populous places, are seen in desolate regions, where life goes out, and where human foot has never trod. When approached they vanish, and nothing remains but a rugged rock, or a misshapen iceberg. ELUCIDATION OF SOME ANCIENT PRODIGIES. MAGICAL PRETENSIONS OF CERTAIN HERBS, ETC. In the enumeration of plants possessing magical properties, Pliny mentions those which, according to Pythagoras, have the property of concealing water. Elsewhere, without having resource to magic, he assigns to hemp an analogous quality. According to him, the juice of this plant poured into water becomes suddenly inspissated and congealed. It is probable enough, that he indicated a species of mallow, the hemp-leaved marsh-mallow, of which the mucilaginous juice produces this effect to a certain point, and an effect which may also be obtained from every vegetable as rich in mucilage. There is every reason to believe that the Pagan priesthood were under the influence of some narcotic preparation during the display of their oracular power, but the effects produced would seem rather to resemble those of opium, or perhaps of stramonium, than of prussic acid, which the cherry-laurel water is known to contain. The priests of the American Indians, says Monardur, whenever they were consulted by the chief gentlemen, or _caciques_, as they are called, took certain leaves of the tobacco, and cast them into the fire, and then received the smoke thus produced by them into their mouths, which caused them to fall upon the ground. After having remained in this position for some time in a state of stupor, they recovered, and delivered the answers, which they pretended to have received during the supposed intercourse with the world of spirits. The belief in an universal remedy has long been abandoned, even among the vulgar, and long exploded in those classes of society, which are not influenced by prejudice, or tinctured with fanaticism. It is, however, sincerely to be regretted, that the daily press continues to be inundated with advertisements; and that the lower, and less informed class of the community, are still imposed upon by a set of privileged impostors, who frequently puzzle the intelligent to decide, whether the impudence or the industry with which they endeavour to establish the reputation of their respective poisons, be the most prominent feature in their character. In illustration of this last observation, it may further be observed, that most of the nostrums advertised as cough drops, etc., are preparations of opium, similar, but inferior, to the well-known paregoric elixir of the shops, but disguised and rendered more deleterious by the addition of heating and aromatic gums. The injury which may be occasioned by the indiscriminate employment of such medicines might be very serious and irremediable, as is well known to every person possessing the smallest portion of medical knowledge. The boasted, though groundless pretensions of certain illiterate empirics to cure diseases which have eluded the skill and penetration of the faculty, is another absurdity into which people of good common sense have been most woefully entrapped. The lessons of experience ought to prove the most useful, as purchased at the greatest trouble and expense; but if people choose to run over a precipice with their eyes open, they leave themselves nothing to regret, and the public less to lament, by their fall. Hence it becomes evident, that the results are not to be depended upon, nor the chance risked. The physician is obliged to employ all his sagacity, supported by his own experience, as well as by that of his predecessors; and yet he is often under the necessity of discovering, from the progress of the disease, what he could not derive from the minutest research. How then can it be expected, that a novice in the art of healing should be more successful, when the whole of his method of cure is either the impulse of the moment, or the effect of his own credulity? It may be therefore truly said, that life and death are frequently entrusted to chance! The late Dr. Huxham, a physician of some eminence in his day, when speaking of Asclepiades, the Roman empiric, says: "This man from a _declaimer_ turned _physician_, and set himself up to oppose all the physicians of his time; and the novelty of the thing bore him out, as it frequently doth the quacks of the present time; and ever _will while the majority of the world are fools_." In another place, he curiously contrasts the too timid practice of some regular physicians, with the hazardous treatment, which is the leading feature of quacks: "The timid, low, insipid practice with some, is almost as dangerous as the bold, unwarranted empiricism of others; time and opportunity, never to be regained, are often lost by the former; while with the latter, by a _bold push_, you are sent off the stage in a moment." Speaking of the green-beads (_contas verdas_) which are another object of superstition in South America, and of the reliance placed upon them by the Valentoens, a lawless description of persons among the colonists of Brazil; the same author gives us this further view of the _Mandingueiros_ and their charms. "These men," says he, "wore on their necks strings of green beads, which had either come from the coast of Africa, bearing the wonderful property of conveying in safety their possessors through all descriptions of perils, or were charmed by the Mandingueiros, African sorcerers, who had been brought over to the Brazils as slaves, and in secret continued the prohibited practice of imparting this virtue to them. Vincente had been acquainted with some of the men, and was firmly persuaded of the virtues of the green beads. When I expressed my doubts of the efficacy of the beads, against a musket ball well directed, his anger rose; but there was pity mingled with it." Beaver, in his African Memoranda, says, "There is another sort of people who travel about in the country, called Mandingo-men, (these are Mahommedans;) they do not work; they go from place to place, and when they find any chiefs or people, whom they think they can make anything of, they take up their abode sometime with them, and make _gree-grees_, and sometimes cast seed from them for which they make them pay." Mr. Long, in his history of the West Indies, states that, under the general name of Obi-men is also included the class of _Myal_ men, or those who, by means of a narcotic poison, made with the juice of an herb (said to be the branched Calalue, a species of solanum) which occasions a trance of a certain duration, endeavour to convince the deluded spectators of their power to reanimate dead bodies. It is remarkable, that while the Etymology of _Obi_ has been sought in the names of ancient deities of Egypt, and in that of the serpent in the language of the coast, the actual name of the evil deity or _Devil_, in the same language, appears to have escaped attention. That name is written by Mr. Edwards, _Obboney_; and the bearer of it is described as a malicious deity, the author of all evil, the inflictor of perpetual diseases, and whose anger is to be appeased only by human sacrifices. This evil deity is the Satan of our own faith; and it is the worship of Satan which, in all parts of the world constitutes the essence of sorcery. If doubts and difficulties envelope the discovery of poisons, whose distinguishing character is the rapidity of these effects, how much greater must be the uncertainty when we are required to ascertain the administrations of what are called slow poisons. This subject, indeed, is so closely entwined with popular superstitions, that it is difficult to separate truth from falsehood. In Italy, for example, it was formerly said, that poisons were made to destroy life at any stated period--from a few hows to a year. This, however, turns out to be a mere fiction; and, it is well understood, that we know of no substances that will produce death at a determinate epoch. The following case of the late Prince Charles of Augustenburgh, nevertheless, shows that the idea of slow poison is still very prevalent, even among the physicians of continental Europe. For the credit of the profession, this conjectural opinion met with decided reprobation from other medical men. It appeared that the Prince had, for several days previously, been subject to giddiness and pain in the head, and that all the symptoms were readily referable to a simple case of apoplexy, while the appearances on dissection showed that rapid tendency to putrefaction, which is frequently observed in similar cases. The public are highly indebted to professor Beckman for a very elaborate article, in which he has concentrated nearly all that is known concerning _secret poisoning_. Of this we shall here present our readers with an abstract, as peculiarly adapted to the demonology of medicine, aided with some facts from other sources. The Carthagenians seem also to have been acquainted with this act of diabolical poisoning; and they are said, on the authority of Aulus Gellius, to have administered some to Regulus, the Roman general. Contemporary writers, however, it must be added, do not mention this. The principal poisons known to the ancients were prepared from plants, and particularly aconite, hemlock, and poppy, or from animal substances; and among the latter none is more remarkable than that obtained from the sea-hare (_Lepus marinus_ or _Apylsia depilans_ of the system of nature). With this, Titus is said to have been dispatched by Domitian. They do not seem to have been acquainted with the common mineral poisons. There has been a great diversity of opinions as to the nature of these poisons. That prepared by Tofania appears to have been a clear insipid water, and the sale of aqua fortis was for a long time forbidden in Rome, because it was considered the principal ingredient. This, however, is not probable. ON THE ORIGIN AND SUPERSTITIOUS INFLUENCE OP RINGS. The ancient magicians, among other pretended extraordinary powers of accomplishing wonderful things by their superior knowledge of the secret powers of nature, of the virtues of plants and minerals, and of the motions and influence of the stars, attached no small degree of mystic importance to rings, the origin of which, their matter and uses, together with the supposed virtues of the stones set in them, afford a subject squaring so much with our design, and so deserving of notice from the curious, that no apology need be made for discoursing on them. Though Homer is silent in regard to rings, both in his Iliad and Odyssey, they were, notwithstanding, used in the time of the Greeks and Trojans; and from them they were received by several other nations. The Lacedemonians, as related by Alexander, ab. Alexandro, pursuant to the orders of their king, Lycurgus, had only iron rings, despising those of gold; either their king was thereby willing to retrench luxury, or to prohibit the use of them. By which it appears, that the fingers on which annuli were anciently worn were directed by the calling, or peculiarity of the party. Were it The medicinal or curative power of rings are numerous and, as a matter of course, founded on imaginary qualities. Thus the wedding ring rubbing upon that little abscess called the stye, which is frequently seen on the tarsi of the eyes, is said to remove it. Certain rings are worn as talismans, either on the fingers or suspended from the neck; the efficacy of which may be referred to the effects usually produced by these charms. CELESTIAL INFLUENCES--OMENS--CLIMACTERICS--PREDOMINATIONS--LUCKY AND UNLUCKY DAYS--EMPIRICS, &C. Astrologers, among other artifices, have used their best endeavours, and employed all the rules of their art, to render those years of our age, which they call climacterics, dangerous and formidable. Climacteric years are pretended, by some, to be fatal to political bodies, which, perhaps, may be granted, when they are proved to be so more than to natural ones; for it must be obvious that the reason of such danger can by no means be discovered, nor the relation it can have with any other of the numbers above mentioned. There is a work extant, though rather scarce, by Hevelius, under the title of _Annus Climactericus_, wherein he describes the loss he sustained by his observatory, &c. being burnt; which it would appear happened in his grand climacteric, of which he was extremely apprehensive. The fishermen who dwell on the coasts of the Baltic never use their nets between All-saints and St Martin's; they would then be certain of not taking any fish through the whole year: they never fish on St Blaise's day. On Ash Wednesday the women neither sew nor knit, for fear of bringing misfortune upon their cattle. They contrive so as not to use fire on St. Laurence's day; by taking this precaution they think themselves secure against fire for the rest of the year. If a fire breaks out, they think to stop its fury by throwing a black hen into the flames. This idea, of an expiatory sacrifice, offered to a malevolent and tutelary power, is a remnant of paganism. Various other traces of it are found among the Esthonians; for instance, at the beginning of their meals, they purposely let fall a piece of new bread, or some drops of liquor from a bottle as an offering to the divinity. When manna is carried into the fields, that which falls from the cart is not gathered up, lest mischievous insects and blights come upon the corn. In reading that pleasant volume, by the late Sir Humphrey Davy, entitled _Salmonia_, it is impossible not to be struck with his remark respecting omens, which is here briefly noticed, with an account of others, which it is imagined have not yet found their way far into print, in order to account for such seeming absurdities. "_Hal._ I have in life met with a few things which I have found it impossible to explain, either by chance coincidences, or by natural connections, and I have known minds of a very superior class affected by them--persons in the habit of reasoning deeply and profoundly." The French have observed that the feast of Pentecoste had been lucky to Henry III, King of France for on that day he was born, on that day elected King of Poland, and on that day he succeeded his brother Charles IX, on the throne of France. [Symbol: Sol] Sol, or the sun governs on Sunday. [Symbol: Luna] Luna, or the moon, Monday. [Symbol: Mars] Mars, Tuesday. [Symbol: Mercury] Mercury, Wednesday. [Symbol: Jupiter] Jupiter, Thursday, [Symbol: Venus] Venus. Friday. [Symbol: Saturn] Saturn, Saturday. Saturn reigning, is said to cause cold diseases, as the gout, leprosy, palsy, quartan agues, dropsies, catarrhs, colds, rheumatisms, etc. Jupiter causes cramps, numbness, inflammations of the liver, head-aches, pains in the shoulders, flatulency, inflammatory fevers, and all diseases caused by putrefaction, apoplexy, and quinsies. Mars, acute fevers and tartan agues, continual and intermitting fevers, imposthumes, erisepelas, carbuncles, fistulas, dysentery, and similar hot and dry diseases. Sol causes rheums in the eyes, coldness in the stomach and liver, syncope, catarrhs, pustular eruptions, hysterics, eruptions on the lower extremities. Venus causes sores, lientery, hysteria, sickness at the stomach, from cold and moist causes, disorders of the liver and lungs. Mercury causes hoarseness and distempers in the senses, impediments in the speech, falling sickness, coughs, jaundice, vomiting, catarrhs. The moon causes palsy, cholic, dropsy, imposthumes, dysenteries, and all diseases arising from obstructed circulation. ABSURDITIES OF PARACELSUS, AND VAN HELMONT. Van Helmont had several other famous nostrums, with which he pretended to perform wonders, as quacks have done in all ages, and as some do now: for empiricism was never more in fashion than at the present day, and the chemical art has supplied them with many more arcana and nostrums than the ancients had in all their antidotes and theriacas, etc. since chemistry was made subservient to medicine. Van Helmont, nevertheless was a learned man, and acquired a great name and reputation, at least for some time; but, as neither his theory nor his practice were founded on nature and reason, nor conformable to them, the more judicious physicians soon saw their errors, as well as the fallacy of his new invented chemical terms and unmeaning phrases, which only contained the shadow and not the substance of the medical science; therefore both his chemical theory and hot regimen, together with his writings, sunk soon after his death, into a state of merited oblivion. Other plans for the prolongation of life, little less absurd than animal magnetism, which have, like every other imposture, "fretted their hour," deserve to be noticed. The French and Germans have long stood pre-eminent in the empirical world, though the merit of ingenious and more plausible emanations of genius may fairly be attributed to the latter. Animal magnetism; physiognomy, a rational though fallacious science; phrenology, a doctrine abounding with many singular manifestions, and possessing claims not to be put down by mere force of prejudice, are all of German origin. The Count St. Germain, a Frenchman, realized large sums, by vending an artificial tea, chiefly composed of yellow saunders, senna leaves, and fennel seed, which was puffed off under the specious appellation of _Tea for prolonging life_; which, at that time, was swallowed with such voracity all over the continent, that few could subsist without it. Its celebrity was of short duration, and none ever lived long enough to realize its effects. The Chevalier d'Ailhoud, another brazen-faced adventurer, presented the world with a powder, which met with so large and rapid a sale, that he soon accumulated money enough to purchase a whole county. This famous powder, however, instead of adding to the means of securing a long and healthy life, is well known to produce constant indisposition, and at length to cause a most miserable death; being composed of certain drugs of a poisonous nature, though slow in their operation. The inspired father Gassner, of Bavaria, ascribed all diseases, lameness, palsy, etc, to diabolical agency, contending from the history of Job, Saul, and others recorded in sacred writ, that Satan, as the grand enemy of mankind, has a power to embitter and shorten our lives by diseases. Vast numbers of credulous and weak-minded people flocked to this fanatic, with a view of obtaining relief which he never had the means to administer. Multitudes of patients, afflicted with nervous and hypochondriacal complaints, besieged him daily; being all stimulated by a wild imagination, eager to view and acknowledge the works of Satan! Men eminent for their literary attainments, even the natural philosophers of Bavaria, were hurried away by the stream, and completely blinded by sanctified imposture. THE ROSICRUCIANS OR THEOSOPHISTS. This remarkable sect was founded upon the doctrines of Paracelsus, during the latter part of the sixteenth, and the beginning of the seventeenth centuries. The society was known by the name of the Rosencrucians or Rosecrucians; and as it has not been without its followers and propagators in different shapes, even to the present time, we shall here present the reader with a concise account of the origin and tenets of that fanatical sect. An adventurer of the name of Christian Rosenkreuz is said to have founded this order, in the fourteenth century after having been previously initiated in the sublime wisdom of the east, during his travels in Egypt and Fez. From what we are enabled to learn from this work, the intention of the founder and the final aim of the society, appear to have been the accumulation of wealth and treasures, by means of secrets known only to the members; and by a proper distribution of these treasures among princes and potentates, to promote the grand scheme of the society, by producing "a general revolution of all things." In their "confession of faith," there are many bold and singular dogmas; among others, that the end of the world is at hand; that a general reformation of men and manners will speedily take place; that the wicked shall be expelled or subdued, the Jews converted, and the doctrine of Christ propagated over the whole earth. The Rosencrucians not only believed that these events must happen, but they also endeavoured to accelerate them by unremitted exertions. To their faithful votaries and followers, they promised abundance of celestial wisdom, unspeakable riches, exemption from disease, an immortal state of man of ever blooming youth, and above all the _philosopher's stone_. Learning and improvement of the mind were, by this order, considered as superfluous and despised. They found all knowledge in the Bible; this, however, has been supposed rather a pretext to obviate a charge, which was brought against them, of not believing in the Christian religion. The truth is, they imagined themselves superior to divine revelation, and supposed every useful acquisition, every virtue to be derived from the influence of the Deity on the soul of man. In this, as well as in many other respects, they appear to be followers of Paracelsus, whom they profess to revere as a Messenger of the divinity. Like him, they pretend to cure all diseases; through _faith_ and the power of the imagination, to heal the most mortal disorders by a touch, or even by simply looking at the patient. The universal remedy was likewise a grand secret of the order, the discovery of which was promised to all its faithful members.	redpajama-book	19,549
E-text prepared by Ted Garvin, Brett Koonce, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders Editorial note: Many paragraphs in the original text ended without punctuation, and this state has been preserved in this Project Gutenberg edition. DONALD A. MACKENZIE. Miss YULE, of TARRADALE. The immemorial folk-beliefs of our native land are passing away, but they still retain for us a poetic appeal, not only on account of the glamour of early associations, but also because they afford us inviting glimpses of the mental habits and inherent characteristics of the men and women of past generations. When we re-tell the old tales of our ancestors, we sit beside them over the peat-fire; and, as we glory with them in their strong heroes, and share their elemental joys and fears, we breathe the palpitating air of that old mysterious world of theirs, peopled by spirits beautiful, and strange, and awe-inspiring. At the seasonal changes of the year, "the wee folk" were for several days on end inspired, like all other supernatural furies, with enmity against mankind. Their evil influences were negatived by spells and charms. We who still hang on our walls at Christmas the mystic holly, are unconsciously perpetuating an old-world custom connected with belief in the efficacy of the magical circle to protect us against evil spirits. And in our concern about luck, our proneness to believe in omens, the influence of colours and numbers, in dreams and in prophetic warnings, we retain as much of the spirit as the poetry of the religion of our remote ancestors. The heroes, with the exception of Cuchullin, who appear in this volume, figure in the tales and poems of the Ossianic or Fian Cycle, which is common to Ireland and to Scotland. They have been neglected by our Scottish poets since Gavin Douglas and Barbour. In Ireland the Fians are a band of militia--the original Fenians. In Scotland the tales vary considerably, and belong to the hunting period before the introduction of agriculture. But in this country, as well as in Ireland, they are evidently influenced by historic happenings. There are tales of Norse conflicts, as well as tales of adventure among giants and spirits. The cycle had evidently remote beginnings. When we find Diarmid and Grainne, like Paris and Helen, the cause of conflict and disaster; and Diarmid, like Achilles, charmed of body, and vulnerable only on his heel-spot, we incline to the theory that from a mid-European centre migrating "waves" swept over prehistoric Greece, and left traces of their mythology and folk-lore in Homer, while other "waves," sweeping northward, bequeathed to us as a literary inheritance the Celtic folk-tales, in which the deeds and magical attributes of remote tribal heroes and humanised deities are co-mingled and perpetuated. On fragments of these folk-tales the poet Macpherson reared his Ossianic epic, in imitation of the Iliad and Paradise Lost. Notes on the folk-beliefs and tales will be found at the end of this volume. Conn, Son of the Red The Blue Men of the Minch The Little Old Man of the Barn The Fians of Knockfarrel The Death of Cuchullin "Out of the Mouths of Babes" In the knoll that is the greenest, And the grey cliff side, And on the lonely ben-top The wee folk bide; They'll flit among the heather, And trip upon the brae-The wee folk, the green folk, the red folk and grey. When the golden moon is glinting In the deep, dim wood, There's a fairy piper playing To the elfin brood; They dance and shout and turn about, And laugh and swing and sway-The droll folk, the knoll folk, the folk that dance alway. O we that bless the wee folk Have naught to fear, And ne'er an elfin arrow Will come us near; For they'll give skill in music, And every wish obey-The wise folk, the peace folk, the folk that work and play. They'll hasten here at harvest, They will shear and bind; They'll come with elfin music On a western wind; All night they'll sit among the sheaves, Or herd the kine that stray-The quick folk, the fine folk, the folk that ask no pay. Betimes they will be spinning The while we sleep, They'll clamber down the chimney, Or through keyholes creep; And when they come to borrow meal We'll ne'er them send away-The good folk, the honest folk, the folk that work alway. O never wrong the wee folk- The red folk and green, Nor name them on the Fridays, Or at Hallowe'en; The helpless and unwary then And bairns they lure away-The fierce folk, the angry folk, the folk that steal and slay. (THE REMNANT BANNOCK.) The bread would not be lasting, 'Twould crumble in your hand; When fairies would be coming here To turn the meal to sand-But what will keep them dancing In their own green dell? O it's Finlay's little bannock For going to the well. Now, not a fairy finger Will do my baking harm-The little bannock with the hole, O it will be the charm. I knead it, I knead it, 'twixt my palms, And all the bairns I tell-O it's Finlay's little bannock For going to the well. Knee-deep she waded in the pool- The Banshee robed in green-She sang yon song the whole night long, And washed the linen clean; The linen that would wrap the dead She beetled on a stone, She stood with dripping hands, blood-red, Low singing all alone- _His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!_ 'Twas Fergus More rode o'er the hill, Come back from foreign wars, His horse's feet were clattering sweet Below the pitiless stars; And in his heart he would repeat- "O never again I'll roam; All weary is the going forth, But sweet the coming home!" _His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!_ He saw the blaze upon his hearth Come gleaming down the glen; For he was fain for home again, And rode before his men-"'Tis many a weary day," he'd sigh, "Since I would leave her side; I'll never more leave Scotland's shore And yon, my dark-eyed bride." _His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!_ So dreaming of her tender love, Soft tears his eyes would blind-When up there crept and swiftly leapt A man who stabbed behind-"'Tis you," he cried, "who stole my bride, This night shall be your last!" When Fergus fell, the warm, red tide Of life came ebbing fast _His linen robes are pure and white, For Fergus More must die to-night!_ CONN, SON OF THE RED. He knew The strange ship bore brave Conn, and blew Clear on his horn the Warning Call; And round him thronged the Fians all With wond'ring gaze. Pondering, he sat alone behind The broad sail swallowing the wind, As over the hollowing waves that leapt And snarled with foaming lips, and swept Around the bows in querulous fray, And tossed in curves of drenching spray, The belching ship with ardour drove; Then like a lordly elk that strove Amid the hounds and, charging, rent The pack asunder as it went, It bore round and in beauty sprang-The sea-wind through the cordage sang With high and wintry merriment That stirred the heart of Conn, intent On vengeance, and for battle keen-So hard, so steadfast, and serene. Then Ossian, sweet of speech, spake low, With musing eyes upon the foe, "Is Conn more noble than The Red, Whom Goll in battle vanquished?" "The Red was fiercer," Conan cried-"Nay, Conn is nobler," Finn replied, "More comely, stalwart, mightier far-What sayest thou, Goll, my man of war?" Then Goll made answer on the steep, Nor ceased to gaze on Conn full deep-"His equal never came before Across the seas to Alban shore, Nor ever have I peered upon A nobler, mightier man than Conn" The ship flew seaward, tacking wide, Contending with the wind and tide, And when upon the broad stream's track It baffled hung, or drifted back, With grunt and shriek, like battling boars, The shock and swing of bladed oars Came sounding o'er the sea The dusk Grew round the twilight, like a husk That holds a kernel choice, and keen, Cold stars impaled the sky serene, When Conn's ship through the slackening tide Drew round the wistful bay and wide, Behind the headlands high that snout The seas like giant whales, and spout The salt foam high and loud Then sighed The gasping men who all day plied Their oars in plunging seas, with hands Grown stiff, and arms, like twisted bands Drawn numbly, as they rose outspent, And staggering from their benches went The sail napped quarrelling, and drank The wind in broken gasps, and sank With sullen pride upon the boards, And smote the mast and shook the cords Darkly loomed that alien land, And darkly lowered the Fian band, For hovering on the shoreland grey The ship they followed round the bay Nor sought the sheltering woods until The shadows folded o'er the hill Full heavily, and night fell blind, And laid its spell upon the wind The swelling waters sank with sip And hollow gurgle round the ship, The long mast rocked against the dim, Soft heaven above the headland's rim But while the seamen crouched to sleep, Conn sat alone in reverie deep, And saw before him in a maze The mute procession of his days, In gloom and glamour wending fast-His heart a-hungering for the past-Again he leapt, a tender boy, To greet his sire with eager joy, When he came over the wide North Sea, Enriched with spoils of victory-Then heavily loomed that fateful morn When tidings of his fall were borne From Alban shore Again he saw The youth who went alone with awe To swear the avenging oath before The smoking altar red with gore. Ah! strange to him it seemed to be That hour was drawing nigh when he Would vengeance take And still more strange, O sorrow! it would bring no change Though blood for blood be spilled, and life For life be taken in fierce strife; 'Twill ne'er recall the life long sped, Or break the silence of the dead. The shredding dawn in beauty spread Its shafts of splendour, golden-red, High over the eastern heaven, and broke Through flaking clouds in silvern smoke That burst aflame, and fold o'er fold, Let loose their oozing floods of gold, Splashed over the foamless deep that lay Tremulous and clear. In fiery play The rippling beams that swept between The sea-cleft Sutor crags serene, Broke quivering where the waters bore The soft reflection of the shore. The pipes of morn were sounding shrill Through budding woods on plain and hill, And stirred the air with song to wake The sweet-toned birds within the brake. When, furrowing the sand, he drew His boat the shallowing water through, A giant he in stature rose Straight as a mast before his foes, With head thrown high, and shoulders wide And level, and set back with pride; His bared and supple arms were long As shapely oars: firm as a thong His right hand grasped his gleaming blade, Gold-hilted, and of keen bronze made In leafen shape. With stately stride He crossed the level sands and wide, Then on his shield the challenge gave-His broad sword thund'ring like a wave-For single combat. Red as gold His locks upon his shoulders rolled; A brazen helmet on his head Flashed fire; his cheeks were white and red; And all the Fians watched with awe That hero young with knotted jaw, Whose eyes, set deep, and blue and hard, Surveyed their ranks with cold regard; While his broad forehead, seamed with care, Drooped shadowily: his eyebrows fair Were sloping sideways o'er his eyes With pondering o'er the mysteries. The eyes of all the Fians sought Heroic Groll, whose face was wrought With lines of deep, perplexing thought-For gazing on the valiant Conn, He mourned that his own youth was gone, When, strong and fierce and bold, he shed The life-blood of the boastful Red, Whom none save he would meet. He heard The challenge, and nor spake, nor stirred, Nor feared; but now grown old, when hate And lust of glory satiate-His heart took pride in Conn, and shared The kinship of the brave. Old Goll Sat musing on a grassy knoll, They deemed he shared their dread Not so Wise Finn, who spake forth firm and slow-"Goll, son of Morna, peerless man, The keen desire of every clan, Far-famed for many a valiant deed, Strong hero in the time of need. I vaunt not Conn nor deem that thou Dost falter, save with meekness, now-But why shouldst thou not take the head Of this bold youth, as of The Red, His sire, in other days?" Goll spake-"O noble Finn, for thy sweet sake Mine arms I'd seize with ready hand, Although to answer thy command My blood to its last drop were spilled-By Crom! were all the Fians killed, My sword would never fail to be A strong defence to succour thee." Upon his hard right arm with haste His crooked and pointed shield he braced, He clutched his sword in his left hand-While round that hero of the band The Fian warriors pressed, and praised His valour Mute was Goll They raised, Smiting their hands, the battle-cry, To urge him on to victory. O great was Conn in that dread hour, And all the Fians feared his power, And watched, as in a darksome dream, The warriors meet They saw the gleam Of swift, up-lifted swords, and then A breathless moment came, as when The lithe and living lightning's flash Makes pause, until the thunder's crash Is splintered through the air. Loud o'er The blue sea and the shining shore Broke forth the crash of arms The roll Of Conn's fierce blows that baffled Goll On sword and shield resounding rang, While that old warrior stooped and sprang Sideways, and swerved, or backward leapt, As swiftly as the bronze blade swept Above him and around He swayed, Stumbling, but rose But, though his blade Was ever nimble to defend, The Fians feared the fight would end In victory for Conn. The wind Rose like a startled bird from out The heather at the huntsman's shout In swift and blust'ring flight At noon The sun rolled in a cloudy swoon Dimly, and over the rolling deep Gust followed gust with shadowy sweep; And waves that streamed their snowy locks Were tossing high against the rocks Seaward, while round the sands ebbed wide Scrambled the fierce devouring tide O, Conn was like a hound at morn, That springs upon an elk forlorn Among the hills. He was a proud Cascade that leaps a cliff with loud Unspending fall So fierce, so fair Was arrogant Conn, but Goll fought there Keen-eyed, with ready guard, at bay-He was as a boar in that fierce fray. The waves were humbled on the shore, And silent fell, amid the roar And crash of battle Mute and still The Fians watched; while on the hill The little elves came out and gazed, To be amused and were amazed They saw upon the shrinking sands The warriors with restless hands And busy blades, with shields that rose To buffet the unceasing blows; They saw before the rising flood The flash of fire, the flash of blood; And watched the men with panting breath, Striving to be the slaves of death; Now darting wide, now swerving round, Now clashed together in a bound, With splitting swords that smote so fast, As hour by hour unheeded past. The sands were torn and tossed like spray Before the whirlwind of the fray, That waged in fury till the sun Sank, and the day's last loops were spun-Then terrible was Goll He rose A tempest of increasing blows, More furious and fast, as dim, Uncertain twilight fell More grim And great he grew as, looming large, He fought, and pressing to the marge Of ocean, he o'erpowered and drave The Viking hero back; till wave O'er ready wave that hurried fleet, Snuffled and snarled about their feet Then with a mighty shout that made The rocks around him ring, his blade Swept like a flash of fire to smite The last fell blow in that fierce fight-So great Conn perished like The Red By Goll's left hand his life-blood spread Over the quenching sands where rolled His head entwined with locks of gold. Then passed like thunder o'er the sea The Fian shout of victory. And, trembling on the tossing ships, The Vikings heard, with voiceless lips And dim, despairing eyes Alone Stood Goll, and like a silent stone Bulking upon a ben-side bare, He bent above the hero fair-Remembering the mighty Red, And wondering that Conn lay dead. O Son of The Red, Undone and laid dead- The blood of a hero My cold blade hath shed. O blade that yon brave Low laid in the grave, Ye gladdened the Fians But grief to Conn gave. Stone-hearted and strong, Lone-hearted with long, Dark brooding, he sought to Avenge his deep wrong. O where shall be found To share with thee round The halls of Valhalla Thy glory renowned? O true as the blade That slew thee, and made My fear and thine anger For ever to fade- Ah! when upon earth Again will have birth A son of such honour And bravery and worth? Above thee in splendour A love that could render Brave service, burned star-like And constant and tender. With fearing my name, With hearing my fame, O none would dare combat With Goll till Conn came? O great was thine ire-The fate of thy sire, Awaiting thy coming, Consumed thee like fire. O Son of The Red, Undone and laid dead- The blood of a hero My cold blade hath shed. THE BLUE MEN OF THE MINCH. When the tide is at the turning and the wind is fast asleep, And not a wave is curling on the wide, blue Deep, O the waters will be churning on the stream that never smiles, Where the Blue Men are splashing round the charmed isles. As the summer wind goes droning o'er the sun-bright seas, And the Minch is all a-dazzle to the Hebrides; They will skim along like salmon--you can see their shoulders gleam, And the flashing of their fingers in the Blue Men's Stream. But when the blast is raving and the wild tide races, The Blue Men ere breast-high with foam-grey faces; They'll plunge along with fury while they sweep the spray behind, O, they'll bellow o'er the billows and wail upon the wind. And if my boat be storm-toss'd and beating for the bay, They'll be howling and be growling as they drench it with their spray-For they'd like to heel it over to their laughter when it lists, Or crack the keel between them, or stave it with their fists. O weary on the Blue Men, their anger and their wiles! The whole day long, the whole night long, they're splashing round the isles; They'll follow every fisher--ah! they'll haunt the fisher's dream-When billows toss, O who would cross the Blue Men's Stream? O the night I met the Urisk on the wide, lone moor! Ah! would I be forgetting of The Thing that came with me? For it was big and black as black, and it was dour as dour, It shrank and grew and had no shape of aught I e'er did see. For it came creeping like a cloud that's moving all alone, Without the sound of footsteps and I heard its heavy sighs Its face was old and grey, and like a lichen-covered stone, And its tangled locks were dropping o'er its sad and weary eyes. O eerie was the Urisk that convoy'd me o'er the moor! When I was all so helpless and my heart was full of fear, Nor when it was beside me or behind me was I sure-I knew it would be following--I knew it would be near! When Angus Ore, the wizard, His fearsome wand will raise, The night is filled with splendour, And the north is all ablaze; From clouds of raven blackness, Like flames that leap on high-All merrily dance the Nimble Men across the Northern Sky. Now come the Merry Maidens, All gowned in white and green, While the bold and ruddy fellows Will be flitting in between- O to hear the fairy piper Who will keep them tripping by!-The men and maids who merrily dance across the Northern Sky. O the weird and waesome music, And the never-faltering feet! O their fast and strong embraces, And their kisses hot and sweet! There's a lost and languished lover With a fierce and jealous eye, As merrily flit the Nimble Folk across the Northern Sky. Then up will leap the other, And up will leap his clan- O the lover and his company Will fight them man to man- All shrieking from the conflict The merry maidens fly-There's a Battle Royal raging now across the Northern Sky. Through all the hours of darkness The fearsome fight will last; They are leaping white with anger, And the blows are falling fast- And where the slain have tumbled A pool of blood will lie-O it's dripping on the dark green stones from out the Northern Sky. When my kine are on the hill, Who will charm them from all ill? While I'll sleep at ease until All the cocks are crowing clear. Who'll be herding them for me? It's the elf I fain would see-For they're safe as safe can be When the Gunna will be near. He will watch the long weird night, When the stars will shake with fright, Or the ghostly moon leaps bright O'er the ben like Beltane fire. If my kine would seek the corn, He will turn them by the horn-And I'll find them all at morn Lowing sweet beside the byre. He's so hungry, he's so thin, If he'd come we'd let him in, For a rag of fox's skin Is the only thing he'll wear. He'll be chittering in the cold As he hovers round the fold, With his locks of glimmering gold Twined about his shoulders bare. The lightsome lad wi' yellow hair, The elfin lad that is so fair, He comes in rich and braw attire-To loose the kine within the byre- My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there- I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair. He's dressed so fine, he's dressed so grand, A supple switch is in his hand; I've seen while I a-milking sat The shadow of his beaver hat. My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there- I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair. My chuckling lad, so full o' fun, Around the corners he will run; Behind the door he'll sometimes jink, And blow to make my candle blink. My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there- I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair. The elfin lad that is so braw, He'll sometimes hide among the straw; He's sometimes leering from the loft-He's tittering low and tripping soft. My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there- I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair. And every time I'll milk the kine He'll have his share--the luck be mine! I'll pour it in yon hollowed stone, He'll sup it when he's all alone- My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there- I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair. O me! if I'd his milk forget, Nor cream, nor butter I would get; Ye needna' tell--I ken full well-On all my kine he'd cast his spell. My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there- I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair. On nights when I would rest at ease, The merry lad begins to tease; He'll loose the kine to take me out, And titter while I move about. My lightsome lad, my leering lad, He's tittering here; he's tittering there- I'll hear him plain, but seek in vain To find my lad wi' yellow hair. THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF THE BARN. The Little Old Man of the Barn, Yon Little Old Man- A bodach forlorn will be threshing his corn, The Little Old Man of the Barn. When the peat will turn grey and the shadows fall deep, And weary Old Callum is snoring asleep; When yon plant by the door will keep fairies away, And the horse-shoe sets witches a-wandering till day. The Little Old Man of the Barn, Yon Little Old Man- Will thresh with no light in the mouth of the night, The Little Old Man of the Barn. For the bodach is strong though his hair is so grey, He will never be weary when he goes away-The bodach is wise--he's so wise, he's so dear-When the lads are all gone, he will ever be near. The Little Old Man of the Barn, Yon Little Old Man- So tight and so braw he will bundle the straw- The Little Old Man of the Barn. 'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals, Whose heart would never fail, Would hear yon fairy ban-dog fierce Come howling down the gale; The patt'ring of the paws would sound Like horse's hoofs on frozen ground, While o'er its back and curling round Uprose its fearsome tail. 'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals- Yon man that hath no fears-Beheld the dog with dark-green back That bends not when it rears; Its sides were blacker than the night, But underneath the hair was white; Its paws were yellow, its eyes were bright, And blood-red were its ears. 'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals- The man who naught will dread-Would wait it, stooping with his spear, As nigh to him it sped; The big black head it turn'd and toss'd, "I'll strike," cried he, "ere I'll be lost," For every living thing that cross'd Its path would tumble dead. 'Twas bold MacCodrum of the Seals- The man who ne'er took fright-Would watch it bounding from the hills And o'er the moors in flight. When it would leave the Uist shore, Across the Minch he heard it roar-Like yon black cloud it bounded o'er The Coolin Hills that night. O the Water-Horse will come over the heath, With the foaming mouth and the flashing eyes, He's black above and he's white beneath- The hills are hearing the awesome cries; The sand lies thick in his dripping hair, And his hoofs are twined with weeds and ware. Alas! for the man who would clutch the mane- There's no spell to help and no charm to save! Who rides him will never return again, Were he as strong, O were he as brave As Fin-mac-Coul, of whom they'll tell-He thrashed the devil and made him yell. He'll gallop so fierce, he'll gallop so fast, So high he'll rear, and so swift he'll bound-Like the lightning flash he'll go prancing past, Like the thunder-roll will his hoofs resound-And the man perchance who sees and hears, He would blind his eyes, he would close his ears. By night they came and from my bed They stole my babe, and left behind A thing I hate, a thing I dread- A changeling who is old and blind; He's moaning all the night and day For those who took my babe away. My little babe was sweet and fair, He crooned to sleep upon my breast-But O the burden I must bear! This drinks all day and will not rest-My little babe had hair so light-And his is growing dark as night. Yon evil day when I would leave My little babe the stook behind!-The fairies coming home at eve Upon an eddy of the wind, Would cast their eyes with envy deep Upon my heart's-love in his sleep. Thine eyes were glowing like blue-bells blowing, With dew-drops twinkling their silvery fires; Thine heart was panting with love enchanting, For mine was granting its fond desires. Thy brow had brightness and lily-whiteness, Thy cheeks were clear as yon crimson sea; Like broom-buds gleaming, thy locks were streaming, As I lay dreaming, my love, of thee. Thy lips that often with love would soften, They beamed like blooms for the honey-bee; Thy voice came ringing like some bird singing When thou wert bringing thy gifts to me. O thou'rt forgetting the hours we met in The Vale of Tears at the even-tide, Or thou'd come near me to love and cheer me, And whisper clearly, "O be my bride!" What spell can bind thee? I search to find thee Around the knoll that thy home would be-Where thou did'st hover, my fairy lover, The clods will cover and comfort me. THE FIANS OF KNOCKFARREL. (A Ross-shire Legend.) On steep Knockfarrel had the Fians made, For safe retreat, a high and strong stockade Around their dwellings. And when winter fell And o'er Strathpeffer laid its barren spell-When days were bleak with storm, and nights were drear And dark and lonesome, well they loved to hear The songs of Ossian, peerless and sublime-Their blind, grey bard, grown old before his time, Lamenting for his son--the young, the brave Oscar, who fell beside the western wave In Gavra's bloody and unequal fight. Round Ossian would they gather in the night, Beseeching him for song And when he took His clarsach, from the magic strings he shook A maze of trembling music, falling sweet As mossy waters in the summer heat; And soft as fainting moor-winds when they leave The fume of myrtle, on a dewy eve, Bound flush'd and teeming tarns that all night hear Low elfin pipings in the woodlands near. 'Twas thus he sang of love, and in a dream The fair maids sighed to hear. But when his theme Was the long chase that Finn and all his men Followed with lightsome heart from glen to glen-His song was free as morn, and clear and loud As skylarks carolling below a cloud In sweet June weather And they heard the fall Of mountain streams, the huntsman's windy call Across the heaving hills, the baying hound Among the rocks, while echoes answered round-They heard, and shared the gladness of the chase. Haggard and old, with slow And falt'ring steps, went Winter through the snow, As if its dreary round would ne'er be done-The last long winter of their days--begun Ere yet the latest flush of falling leaves Had faded in the breath of chilling eves; Nor ended in the days of longer light, When dawn and eve encroached upon the night-A weary time it was! The long Strath lay Snow-wreathed and pathless, and from day to day The tempests raved across the low'ring skies, And they grew weak and pale, with hollow eyes, The while their stores shrank low, waiting the dawn Of that sweet season when through woodlands wan Fresh flowers flutter and the wild birds sing-For Winter on the forelock of the Spring Its icy fingers laid. The huntsmen pined In their dim dwellings, wearily confined, While the loud, hungry tempest held its sway-The red-eyed wolves grew bold and came by day, And birds fell frozen in the snow. The dawn broke green-For the high huntsman of the morn had flung His mantle o'er his back: stooping, he strung His silver bow; then rising, bright and bold, He shot a burning arrow of pure gold That rent the heart of Night. Sullen and sunken lay the reef, with sleek And foaming lips, before the flooded creek Deep-bunched with arrowy weed, its green expanse Wind-wrinkled and translucent A bright trance Of sun-flung splendour lay athwart the wide Blue ocean swept with loops of silvern tide Heavily heaving in a long, slow swell. A lonely fisher in his coracle Came round a headland, lifted on a wave That bore him through the shallows to his cave, Nor other being he saw. The birds that flew Clamorous about the cliffs, and diving drew Their prey from bounteous waters, on him cast Cold, beady eyes of wonder, wheeling past And sliding down the wind. The warm sun shone On blind, grey Ossian musing all alone Upon a knoll before the high stockade, When Oscar's son came nigh. His hand he laid On the boy's curls, and then his fingers strayed Over the face and round the tender chin-"Be thou as brave as Oscar, wise as Finn," Said Ossian, with a sigh. "Nay, I would be A bard," the boy made answer, "like to thee." "Alas! my son," the gentle Ossian said, "My song was born in sorrow for the dead! O may such grief as Ossian's ne'er be thine!-If thou would'st sing, may thou below the pine Murmuring, thy dreams conceive, and happy be, Nor hear but sorrow in the breaking sea And death-sighs in the gale. Alas! my song That rose in sorrow must survive in wrong-My life is spent and vain--a day of thine Were better than a long, dark year of mine But come, my son--so lead me by the hand-To hear the sweetest harper in the land-The wild, free wind of Spring; all o'er the hills And under, let us go, by tuneful rills We'll wander, and my heart shall sweetened be With echoes of the moorland melody-My clarsach wilt thou bear." And so went they Together from Knockfarrel. Long they lay Within the woods of Brahan, and by the shore Of silvery Conon wended, crossing o'er The ford at Achilty, where Ossian told The tale of Finn, who there had slain the bold Black Arky in his youth. And ere the tale Was ended, they had crossed to Tarradale. Where dwelt a daughter of an ancient race Deep-learned in lore, and with the gift to trace The thread of life in the dark web of fate. And she to Ossian cried, "Thou comest late Too late, alas! this day of all dark days-Knockfarrel is before me all ablaze-A fearsome vision flaming to mine eyes-O beating heart that bleeds! I hear the cries Of those that perish in yon high stockade-O many a tender lad, and lonesome maid, Sweet wife and sleeping babe, and hero old-O Ossian could'st thou see--O child, behold Yon ruddy, closing clouds so falls the fate Of all the tribe Alas! thou comest late." The maids were wont to shower upon his head Their merry taunts, and oft from them he fled; For of their quips and jests he had more fear Than e'er he felt before a foeman's spear-And so he chose to be alone. The air Was heavily laden with the odour rare Of deep, wind-shaken fir trees, breathing sweet, As through the wood, the maids, with silent feet, Went treading needled sward, in light and shade, Now bright, now dim, like flow'rs that gleam and fade, And ever bloom and ever pass away Soft-couch'd upon a bank Lay Caoilte on the cliff-top, while he drank The sweetness of the morning air, that brought A spell of dreamful ease and pleasant thought, With mem'ries from the deeps of other years When Dermaid, unforgotten by his peers, And Oscar, fair and young, went forth with mirth A-hunting o'er the hills around the firth On such an April morn Then eager feast they made; and after long And frequent fast of winter, they grew strong As they had been of old. And of their fare The lean and scrambling hounds had ready share. Caoilte, who stood On a high ridge alone with eager eyes Scanning the prospect wide in mute surprise Saw rising o'er Knockfarrel, a dark cloud Of thick and writhing smoke Then fierce and loud Upon his horn he blew the warning blast-From out the woods the Fians hastened fast-Lo! when they stared towards the western sky, They saw their winter dwelling blazing high. Then fear possessed them for their own, and grief Unutterable. And thus spake their wise chief, To whom came knowledge and the swift, sure thought-"Alas! alas! an enemy hath wrought Black vengeance on our kind. In yonder gleam Of fearsome flame, the horrors of my dream Are now accomplished--all we loved and cherished, And sought, and fought for, in that pyre have perished!" White-lipped they heard Then, wailing loud, they ran, Following the nimble Caoilte, man by man, Towards Knockfarrel; leaping on their spears O'er marsh and stream. MacReithin, blind with tears, Tumbled or leapt into a swollen flood That swept him to the sea. But no man stood To help or mourn him, for the eve grew dim-And some there were, indeed, who envied him. Then Finn's wife came To set the women to the wheel and loom, With angry chiding; and a heavy gloom Fell on them all. "Who knoweth," thus she spake, "What evil may the Fian men o'ertake This day of evil omens. Yester-night I say the pale ghost of my sire with white And trembling lips At morn before my sight A raven darted from the wood, and slew A brooding dove What fear is mine! for who Would us defend if our fierce foemen came-When Garry is against us Much I blame Thy wanton deed." The women heard in shame, Nor answer made. Peewee, peewee, I'd be flying O'er the hills and o'er the sea, Till I found the love I long for Whereso'er he'd be- Peewee crying, I'd be flying, Could I fly like thee!_ Sleep, O sleep, nor sigh nor fret ye, And the goblins will not get ye, I will shield ye, I will pet ye- Moolachie, mine own._ The mother sang, the gentle babe made moan-And Garry heard them with a heart of stone With fiendish laugh, he saw the leaping flames Possess the pyre; he heard the shrieking dames, And maids and children, wailing in the gloom Of smothering smoke, e'er they had met their doom. Then when the high stockade was blazing red, Ere yet their cries were silenced, Garry fled, And westward o'er the shouldering hills he sped. A broad, faint twilight lingered to unfold The sun's slow-dying beams of tangled gold, And the long, billowy hills, in gathering shade, Their naked peaks and ebon crags displayed Sharp-rimmed against the tender heaven and pale; And misty shadows gathered in the vale-When Caoilte to Knockfarrel came, and saw Amid the dusk, with sorrow and with awe, The ruins of their winter dwelling laid In smouldering ashes; while the high stockade Around the rocky wall, like ragged teeth, Was crackling o'er the melting stones beneath, Still darting flame, and flickering in the breeze. He sped towards the wood, and through the trees Called loud for those who perished. On his fair And gentle spouse he called in his despair. His sweet son, and his sire, whose hair was white As Wyvis snow, he called for in the night. Full loud and long across the Strath he cried-The echoes mocked him from the mountain side. All night they kept lone watch, until the dawn With stealthy fingers o'er the east had drawn Its dewy veil and dim. Then Finn arose From deep and sleepless brooding o'er his woes, And spake unto the Fians, "Who shall rest While flees our evil foeman farther west? Arise!" "But who hath done this deed?" they sighed; And Finn made answer, "Garry." Then they cried For vengeance swift and terrible, and leapt To answer Finn's command. At even-fall They found him On the bald and rocky side Of steep Scour-Vullin, Garry lay to hide Within a cave, which, backward o'er the snow, He entered, that his steps might seem to show He had fled eastward by the path he came. All day he sought to flee them in his shame, Watching from lofty crag or deep ravine, And crouching in the heath, with haggard mien-He sought in vain to hide till darkness cast Its blinding cloak betwixt them. 'Twas so he lay to die But as the blade Swept bright, young Alvin, keen for vengeance, swayed, And slipped upon the sward And his fierce blow That Garry slew, the Fian chief laid low-A grievous wound was gaping on his thigh, And poured his life-blood forth A low, weird cry The great Finn gave, as he fell back and swooned-In vain they strove to stanch the fearsome wound-His life ebbed slowly with the sun's last ray In gathering gloom And when in death he lay, The glory of the Fians passed away. O Mairi Dhu, the weaver's wife, Will have the evil eye; The fear will come about my heart When she'll be passing by; She'll have the piercing look to wound The very birds that fly. I would not have her evil wish, I would not have her praise, For like the shadow would her curse, Me follow all my days-When she my churning will speak well, No butter can I raise. O Mairi Dhu will have the eye To wound the very deer-Ah! would she scowl upon my bairns When her they would come near? They'll have the red cords round their necks, So they'll have naught to fear. Your eye you'd put on yon sweet babe O' Lachlan o' Loch-Glass; He'd fill the wooden ladle where The dead and living pass-And with the water, silver-charmed, He'd save his little lass. I'll lock my cheese within the chest, My butter I will hide; I'll bar the byre at milking time, Although you'll wait outside-You'll maybe go another way- Who'll care for you to bide? Your chief he's the lord o' the lies! A wind-bag his wife wi' the brag! Your clan is the pride o' the thieves- Whose meal will you have in your bag? You'll spare me "so old and so frail, Fitter to die than to live?" But maybe I'll slay with the tongue And the heart that will never forgive The curse of the frail will be strong, The curse of the widow be sure; O the curse of the wrong'd will avenge, Black, black is the curse of the poor! Ha! laugh at your ease while you can- Laugh! it's the devil's turn next-For after I'm done with you all, O who will be doleful and vext? Bare-kneed on the ground will I go- My hair on my shoulders let fall, Now hear me and never forget My curses I'll cast on you all _Little increase to your clan! The down-mouth to you and to yours! The blight on your little black cave! The luck o' a Friday on moors! Fire upon land be your lot! Drowning in storm on the deep! Leave not a son to succeed! Leave not a daughter to weep! Would Murdo make the wry mouth? Is Ailie cross-eyed? O mock no more the beggar man, You'll scorn wi' pride! The wind that will be blowing west, Might turn and blow south-O, Ailie, it would fix your eyes And Murdo's wry mouth. 'Tis for thee I will be pining, _Tober Mhuire_. Thou art deep and sweet and shining, _Tober Mhuire_. In the dimness I'll be dying, And my soul for thee is sighing With the blessings on thee lying- _Tober Mhuire_. O thy cool, sweet waters dripping, _Tober Mhuire_, Now my sere lips would be sipping, _Tober Mhuire_. O my lips are sere and burning-For thy waters I'll be yearning, And yon road of no returning, _Tober Mhuire_. O thy coolness and thy sweetness, _Tober Mhuire_. O thy sureness and completeness, _Tober Mhuire_. O this life I would be leaving, With the greyness of its grieving, And the deeps of its deceiving, _Tober Mhuire_. I would sip thy waters holy, _Tober Mhuire_. While the drops of life drip slowly, _Tober Mhuire_-Till the wings of angel whiteness, With their softness and their lightness, Blind me, fold me, in their brightness- _Tober Mhuire_. (_Sung by Grainne to Diarmid in their Flight from the Fians_.) Sleep a little O Diarmid, Diarmid, Sleep in the deep lone cave; Sleep a little--a little little, Love whom my love I gave- Wearily falls O Diarmid, Diarmid, Wearily falls the wave. Sleep a little, O Diarmid, Diarmid, Sleep, and have never a fear; Sleep a little--a little little, Love whom I love so dear- A weary wind, O Diarmid, Diarmid, A weary wind I hear. Sleep a little, O Diarmid, Diarmid, Sleep, while I watch till you wake; Sleep a little--a little little, Love whom I'll ne'er forsake-Sleep a little, and blessings on you My lamb, or my heart will break. THE DEATH OF CUCHULLIN. Now when the last hour of his life drew nigh, Cuchullin woke from dreams forewarning death; And cold and awesome came the night-bird's cry- An evil omen the magician saith- A low gust panted like a man's last breath, As morning crept into the chamber black; Then all his weapons clashed and tumbled from the rack. For the last time his evil foemen came; The sons of Calatin by Lugaid led. The land lay smouldering with smoke and flame; The duns were fallen and the fords ran red; And widows fled, lamenting for their dead, To fair Emania on that fateful day, Where all forsworn with fighting great Cuchullin lay. Levarchan, whom he loved, a maid most fair, Rose-lipp'd, with yellow hair and sea-grey eyes, The evil tidings to Cuchullin bare. And, trembling in her beauty, bade him rise; Niamh, brave Conal's queen, the old, the wise, Urged him with clamour of the land's alarms, And, stirr'd with vengeful might, the hero sprang to arms. His purple mantle o'er his shoulders wide In haste he flung, and tow'ring o'er them stood All scarr'd and terrible in battle pride- His brooch, that clasp'd his mantle and his hood Then fell his foot to pierce, and his red blood Follow'd, like fate, behind him as he stepp'd Levarchan shriek'd, and Niamh moaned his doom and wept Thus sallying forth he called his charioteer, And bade him yoke the war-steeds of his choice- The Grey of Macha, shuddering in fear, Had scented death, and pranced with fearsome noise, But when it heard Cuchullin's chiding voice, Meekly it sought the chariot to be bound, And wept big tears of blood before him on the ground How vehement and how beautiful they swept- The Grey of Macha and the Black most bold And keen-eyed Laegh, the watchful and adept, Nor turn'd, nor spake, as on the chariot roll'd The steeds he urged with his red goad of gold Stooping he drave, with wing'd cloak and spheres, Slender and tall and red--the King of Charioteers! Cuchullin stood impatient for the fray, His golden hilted bronze sword on his thigh A sharp and venomous dart beside him lay, He clasp'd his ashen spear, bronze-tipp'd and high, As flames the sun upon the western sky, His round shield from afar was flashing bright, Figured with radiant gold and rimm'd with silver white Stern-lipp'd he stood, his great broad head thrown back, The white pearls sprayed upon his thick, dark hair, Deep set, his eyes, beneath his eyebrows black, Were swift and grey, and fix'd his fearless stare, Red-edg'd his white hood flamed, his tunic rare Of purple gleam'd with gold, his cloak behind His shoulders shone with silver, floating in the wind He fain would pass, but leapt upon the ground, The proud, the fearless! for sweet honour's sake- With spells and poisons had they cook'd a hound, Of which he was forbidden to partake But his name-charm the brave Cuchullin brake, And their foul food he in his left hand took-Eftsoons his former strength that arm and side forsook For, O Cuchullin! could'st thou ere forget, When fast by Culann's fort on yon black night, Thou fought'st and slew the ban-dog dark as jet, Which scared the thief, and put the foe to flight! A tender youth thou wert of warrior might, And all the land did with thy fame resound, As Cathbad, the magician, named thee 'Culann's hound' Loud o'er Mid Luachair road the chariot roll'd, Round Shab Fuad desolate and grand, Till Ere with hate the hero did behold, Hast'ning to sweep the foemen from the land, His sword flash'd red and radiant in his hand, In sunny splendour was his spear upraised, And hovering o'er his head the light of heroes blazed He comes! he comes!' cried Ere as he drew near 'Await him, Men of Erin, and be strong!' Their faces blanch'd, their bodies shook with fear- 'Now link thy shields and close together throng, And shout the war-cry loud and fierce and long Then Ere, with cunning of his evil heart, Set heroes forth in pairs to feign to fight apart As furious tempests, that in deep woods roar Assault the giant trees and lay them low, As billows toss the seaweed on the shore, As sweeping sickles do the ripe fields mow- Cuchullin, rolling fiercely on the foe, Broke through the linked ranks upon the plain, To drench the field with blood and round him heap the slain And when he reach'd a warrior-pair that stood In feigned strife upon a knoll of green, Their weapons clashing but unstained with blood, A satirist him besought to intervene, Whereat he slew them as he drave between- "Thy spear to me," the satirist cried the while, The hero answering, "Nay," he cried, "I'll thee revile." "O sons of Calatin," did Lugaid call, "What falleth by the weapon I hold here?" Together they acclaim'd, "A King will fall, For so foretold," they said, "the aged seer." Then at the chariot he flung the spear, And Laegh was stricken unto death and fell Cuchullin drew the spear and bade a last farewell The Black steed snapp'd the yoke, and left alone The King of Heroes dying on the plain: "I fain would drink," they heard Cuchullin groan, "From out yon loch" He thirsted in fierce pain. "We give thee leave, but thou must come again," His foemen said; then low made answer he, "If I will not return, I'll bid you come to me" His wound he bound, and to the loch did hie, And drank his drink, and wash'd, and made no moan. Then came the brave Cuchullin forth to die, Sublimely fearless, strengthless and alone He wended to the standing pillar-stone, Clutching his sword and leaning on his spear, And to his foemen called, "Come ye, and meet me here." A vision swept upon his fading brain- A passing vision glorious and sweet, That hour of youth return'd to him again When he took arms with fearless heart a-beat, As Cathbad, the magician, did repeat, "Who taketh arms upon this day of grief, His name shall live forever and his life be brief" Fronting his foes, he stood with fearless eye, His body to the pillar-stone he bound, Nor sitting nor down-lying would he die He would die standing so they gathered round In silent wonder on the blood-drench'd ground, And watch'd the hero who with Death could strive; But no man durst approach He seem'd to be alive Harp of my fathers--on the mouldering wall Of days forgotten--like a far-off wind Hushing the fir-wood at soft even-fall, Thy low-heard whispers to my heart recall The wistful songs, to Silence Old consigned, That Ossian sang when he was frail and blind. Thy fitful notes from the melodious trees, I fain would echo in my feeble rhyme-The inner music quivering on the breeze I hear; and throbbing from the beating seas, On ancient shores, the wearied pulse of Time That mingles with thy melodies sublime. 'Twas when I woke I knew it was a dream, Measured by moments, that to me did seem, A life-long spell of joy and peace to be- Will that last dream that comes ere death descends, From which I shall not wake to know it ends, Thus seem to live on through Eternity? Say not the will of man is free Within the limits of his soul-Who from his heritage can flee? Who can his destiny control? In vain we wage perpetual strife, 'Gainst instincts dumb and blind desires-Who leads must serve.. The pulse of life Throbs with the dictates of our sires. Since when the world began to be, And life through hidden purpose came, From sire to son unceasingly The task bequeathed hath been the same. We strive, while fetters bind us fast, We seek to do what needs must be-We move through bondage with the past In service to posterity. Weary of strife-The surge and clash of city life-I sought for peace in solitude, Within the hushed and darkened wood And on the lonesome moor-But found contending leaf and root Engaged in conflict fierce though mute, While what was frail was slain By what was strong in dire dispute-I sought for peace in vain! The world, sustained by strife, endures in pain. "All things that are in conflict be," I murmured on the shelving strand, Where struggling winds would fain be free-The tides in conflict with the wind's command, Turned tossing, wearily-I heard the loud sea labouring to the land-I saw the dumb land striving with the sea. (_Written in the Stone Gallery of St Paul's._) The drowsing city sparkles in the heat, And murmur in mine ears unceasingly The surging tides of that vast human sea-The billows of life that break with muffled beat And vibrate through this high and lone retreat; While over all, serene, and fair, and free, Thy dome is reared in naked majesty Grey, old St Paul's In thee the Ages meet, Slumbering amidst the trophies of their strife. And in their dreams thou hearest, while the cries Of triumph and despair ascend from Life, The murmurings of immortality-Thou Sentinel of Hope that doth despise What was and is not, waiting what shall be! "OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES." "Is baby dead?" he whispered, with wide eyes Tearless, but full of eloquent regret, His childish face grown prematurely wise- Pond'ring the problem death before him set. "Baby is dead," I answered, as I laid My hand on her frail forehead with a sigh; "Oh! daddy, why did God do this?" he said, And silently my heart made answer, "Why?" _The Urisk_ is, if anything, a personification of fear. It is a silent, cloudy shape which haunts lonely moors, and follows travellers, but rarely does more than scare them. _Nimble Men_ (Na Fir Chlis) are "The Merry Dancers," or Aurora Borealis. It was believed that, when the streamers were , the "men and maids" were dancing, and that after the dance the lovers fought for the love of the queen. When the streamers are particularly vivid, a pink cloud is seen below them, and this is called "the pool of blood." It drips upon blood-stones, the spots on which are referred to as fairy blood (fuil siochaire). A wizard could, by waving his wand, summon the "Nimble Men" to dance in the northern sky. _The Water Horse_ haunted lonely lochs, and lured human beings to a terrible death. When a hand was laid on its main, power to remove it was withdrawn. _A Cursing_--The Gaelic curses are quaint in translation, but terrible in the original. _Tober Mhuire_ (St Mary's Well) is situated at Tarradale, Ross-shire. When a sick person asks for a drink of Tober Mhuire water, it is taken as a sign of approaching death. It is a curious thing that this reverence for holy water should be perpetuated among a Presbyterian people. Wishing and curative wells are numerous in the North. _Death of Cuchullin_ is from the Cuchullin Cycle of Bronze Age heroic tales. The enemy have invaded and laid waste the province of Ulster, and the chief warriors of the Red Branch, except Cuchullin, who must needs fight alone, are laid under spells by the magicians of the invaders. The poem is suffused with evidences of magical beliefs and practices. Cuchullin goes forth knowing that he will meet his doom. His name signifies "hound of Culann." In his youth he slew Culann's ferocious watch-hound which attacked him, and took its place until another was trained. It was "geis" (taboo) for him to partake of the flesh of a hound (his totem), or eat at a cooking hearth; but he must needs accept the hospitality of the witches. The satirists are satirical bards who, it was believed, could not only lampoon a hero, but infuse their compositions with magical powers like incantations. Cuchullin cannot be slain except by his own spear, which he must deliver up to a satirist who demands it. Emania, the capital of Ulster, was the home of the Bed Branch warriors.	redpajama-book	12,370
E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Andrea Ball, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team Gutta Percha Willie: the Working Genius [Illustration: WILLIE'S HORSE-SHOEING FORGE.] I. WHO HE WAS AND WHERE HE WAS II. WILLIE'S EDUCATION III. HE IS TURNED INTO SOMETHING HE NEVER WAS BEFORE IV. HE SERVES AN APPRENTICESHIP V. HE GOES TO LEARN A TRADE VI. HOW WILLIE LEARNED TO READ BEFORE HE KNEW HIS LETTERS VII. SOME THINGS THAT CAME OF WILLIE'S GOING TO SCHOOL VIII. WILLIE DIGS AND FINDS WHAT HE DID NOT EXPECT IX. A MARVEL X. A NEW ALARUM XI. SOME OF THE SIGHTS WILLIE SAW XII. A NEW SCHEME XIII. WILLIE'S NEST IN THE RUINS XIV. WILLIE'S GRANDMOTHER XV. HYDRAULICS XVI. HECTOR HINTS AT A DISCOVERY XVII. HOW WILLIE WENT ON XVIII. WILLIE'S TALK WITH HIS GRANDMOTHER XIX. A TALK WITH MR SHEPHERD XX. HOW WILLIE DID HIS BEST TO MAKE A BIRD OF AGNES XXI. HOW AGNES LIKED BEING A BIRD XXII. WILLIE'S PLANS BUD XXIII. WILLIE'S PLANS BLOSSOM XXIV. WILLIE'S PLANS BEAR FRUIT WILLIE'S HORSE-SHOEING FORGE (FRONTISPIECE) MRS WILSON'S STORIES WILLIE WITH THE BABY WILLIE TAKEN TO SEE A WATER-WHEEL WILLIE TOLD HIS FATHER ALL ABOUT IT "THAT'S WILLIE AGAIN" WILLIE MAKES A BIRD OF AGNES WILLIE'S DREAM Gutta Percha Willie, the Working Genius for all reading ages. We and Willie discover the value of learning to be useful with our hands to do that which is good and before us. Reading Level: for all reading ages. THE HISTORY OF GUTTA-PERCHA WILLIE. WHO HE WAS AND WHERE HE WAS. The ruins were of considerable extent, with remains of Gothic arches, and carvings about the doors--all open to the sky except a few places on the ground-level which were vaulted. These being still perfectly solid, were used by the family as outhouses to store wood and peats, to keep the garden tools in, and for such like purposes. In summer, golden flowers grew on the broken walls; in winter, grey frosts edged them against the sky. [Illustration: "WILLIE LIKED MRS WILSON'S STORIES BETTER THAN HER SUGAR CANDY."] For a long time Willie had not uttered a single exclamation, and when the old woman looked up, fancying he must be asleep, she saw, to her disappointment, a cloud upon his face--amounting to a frown. "What's the matter with you, Willie, my chick?" she asked. "Have you got a headache?" "No, thank you, Mrs Wilson," answered Willie; "but I don't like that story at all." "Because he was a cheat. _He_ couldn't do the things; it was only the fairy's wand that did them." "But he was such a good lad, and had been so kind to the fairy." "That makes no difference. He _wasn't_ good. And the fairy wasn't good either, or she wouldn't have set him to do such wicked things." Mrs Wilson was disappointed--perhaps a little ashamed that she had not thought of this before; anyhow she grew cross; and because she was cross, she grew unfair, and said to Willie- "You think a great deal of yourself, Master Willie! Pray what could those idle little hands of yours do, if you were to try?" "I don't know, for I haven't tried," answered Willie. "It's a pity you shouldn't," she rejoined, "if you think they would turn out so very clever." "You ought to know that best yourself," she answered, still cross. "I suppose because you don't like work. Your good father and mother work very hard, I'm sure. It's a shame of you to be so idle." "Is it wrong to play about, Mrs Wilson?" he asked, after a pause of considerable duration. "No, indeed, my dear," she answered; for during the pause she had begun to be sorry for having spoken so roughly to her little darling. "Does everybody work?" "Everybody that's worth anything, and is old enough," she added. "Does God work?" he asked, after another pause, in a low voice. "No, child. What should He work for?" "If everybody works that is good and old enough, then I think God must work," answered Willie. "But I will ask my papa. Am I old enough?" "Well, you're not old enough to do much, but you might do something." "What could I do? Could I spin, Mrs Wilson?" "No, child; that's not an easy thing to do; but you could knit." "Could I? What good would it do?" "Why, you could knit your mother a pair of stockings." "Could I though? Will you teach me, Mrs Wilson?" Mrs Wilson very readily promised, foreseeing that so she might have a good deal more of the little man's company, if indeed he was in earnest; for she was very lonely, and was never so happy as when he was with her. She said she would get him some knitting-needles--wires she called them--that very evening; she had some wool, and if he came to-morrow, she would soon see whether he was old enough and clever enough to learn to knit. She advised him, however, to say nothing about it to his mother till she had made up her mind whether or not he could learn; for if he could, then he might surprise her by taking her something of his own knitting--at least a pair of muffetees to keep her wrists warm in the winter. Willie went home solemn with his secret. "No, papa," cried Willie; "I shouldn't stop loving, I'm sure." "Indeed you would, Willie." "Not you and mamma." "Yes; you wouldn't love us any more than if you were dead asleep without dreaming." "That would be dreadful." "Yes it would. So you see how good God is to us--to go on working, that we may be able to love each other." "Then if God works like that all day long, it must be a fine thing to work," said Willie. "You are right. It is a fine thing to work--the finest thing in the world, if it comes of love, as God's work does." This conversation made Willie quite determined to learn to knit; for if God worked, he would work too. And although the work he undertook was a very small work, it was like all God's great works, for every loop he made had a little love looped up in it, like an invisible, softest, downiest lining to the stockings. And after those, he went on knitting a pair for his father; and indeed, although he learned to work with a needle as well, and to darn the stockings he had made, and even tried his hand at the spinning--of which, however, he could not make much for a long time--he had not left off knitting when we come to begin the story in the next chapter. HE IS TURNED INTO SOMETHING HE NEVER WAS BEFORE. Hitherto I have been mixing up summer and winter and everything all together, but now I am going to try to keep everything in its own place. "Willie, your mamma wants you," she said; and Willie hastened up-stairs to his mother's room. Dark as was the air outside, he was surprised to find how dark the room was. And what surprised him more was a curious noise which he heard the moment he entered it, like the noise of a hedgehog, or some other little creature of the fields or woods. But he crept gently up to his mother's bed, saying- "Are you better this morning, mamma?" And she answered in a feeble sweet voice- "Yes, Willie, very much better. And, Willie, God has sent you a little sister." "O-o-o-oh!" cried Willie. "A little sister! Did He make her Himself?" "Yes; He made her Himself; and sent her to you last night." "How busy He must have been lately!" said Willie. "Where is she? I _should_ like to see her. Is she my very own sister?" "Yes, your very own sister, Willie--to love and take care of always." "Go and ask nurse to let you see her." Then Willie saw that there was a strange woman in the room, with something lying on her lap. He went up to her, and she folded back the corner of a blanket, and revealed a face no bigger than that of the big doll at the clergyman's house, but alive, quite alive--such a pretty little face! He stood staring at it for a while. "May I kiss her, nurse?" "Yes--gently--quite gently." In the afternoon, it was found that the lock of his mother's room not only would not catch easily, but made a noise that disturbed her. So his father got a screwdriver and removed it, making as little noise as he could. Next he contrived a way, with a piece of string, for keeping the door shut, and as that would not hold it close enough, hung a shawl over it to keep the draught out--all which proceeding Willie watched. As soon as he had finished, and the nurse had closed the door behind them, Mr Macmichael set out to take the lock to the smithy, and allowed Willie to go with him. By the time they reached it, the snow was an inch deep on their shoulders, on Willie's cap, and on his father's hat. How red the glow of the smith's fire looked! It was a great black cavern with a red heart to it in the midst of whiteness. As soon as the punch was driven through, and the smith had dropped his sledge-hammer, and begun to wipe his forehead, Willie spoke. "Mr Willet," he said, for he knew every man of any standing in the village by name and profession, "why did you put bits of coal into the hole you were making? I should have thought it would be in the way rather than help you." "But such little bits of coal couldn't do much?" said Willie. "I see! I see!" cried Willie. "I understand! But, papa, do you think Mr Willet is the proper person to ask to set your lock right?" "I haven't a doubt of it," said Mr Macmichael, taking it out of his greatcoat pocket, and unfolding the piece of paper in which he had wrapped it. "Why do you make a question of it?" "Because look what great big huge things he does! How could those tremendous hammers set such a little thing as that right? They would knock it all to pieces. Don't you think you had better take it to the watchmaker?" "If I did, Willie, do you know what you would say the moment you saw him at work?" "No, papa. What should I say?" "You would say, 'Don't you think, papa, you had better take it back to the smith?" "But why should I say that?" "Because, when you saw his tools beside this lock, you would think the tools so small and the lock so huge, that nothing could be done between them. Yet I daresay the watchmaker could set the lock all right if he chose to try. Don't you think so, Mr Willet?" "Not a doubt of it," answered the smith. "Had we better go to him then?" "Well," answered the smith, smiling, "I think perhaps he would ask you why you hadn't come to me. No doubt he could do it, but I've got better tools for the purpose. Let me look at the lock. I'm sure I shall be able to set it right." "Not with that great big hammer, then," said Willie. "No; I have smaller hammers than that. When do you want it, sir?" "And this is the lock of the room she's in," continued the doctor. He took the lock, drew several screws from it, and then forced it open. "It's nothing but the spring gone," he said, as he took out something and threw it away. Then out they went into the snowstorm again, Willie holding fast by his father's hand. "Suppose he couldn't have done it," said Willie. "Do you think the watchmaker could?" "Then we should have had to set our wits to work, and contrive some other way of fastening the door, so that mamma shouldn't take cold by its being open, nor yet be disturbed by the noise of it." "It would be so nice to be able to do everything!" said Willie. "So it would; but nobody can; and it's just as well, for then we should not need so much help from each other, and would be too independent." "Then shouldn't a body try to do as many things as he can?" "Yes, for there's no fear of ever being able to do without other people, and you would be so often able to help them. Both the smith and the watch maker could mend a lock, but neither of them could do without the other for all that." HE SERVES AN APPRENTICESHIP. "Really, my dear," said Mrs Macmichael, "I cannot have your rest disturbed in this way another night. You must go to Willie's room, and let me manage the little squalling thing myself." "Why shouldn't I take my share of the trouble?" objected her husband. "Because you may be called up any moment, and have no more sleep till next night; and it is not fair that what sleep your work does let you have should be so unnecessarily broken. It's not as if I couldn't manage without you." "But Willie's bed is not big enough for both of us," he objected. "Then Willie can come and sleep with me." "But Willie wants his sleep as much as I do mine." "There's no fear of him: he would sleep though all the babies in Priory Leas were crying in the room." "Would I really?" thought Willie, feeling rather ashamed of himself. "But who will get up and warm the milk-and-water for you?" pursued his father. "Oh! I can manage that quite well." "Couldn't I do that, mamma?" said Willie, very humbly, for he thought of what his mother had said about his sleeping powers. "No, my pet," she answered; and he said no more. "It seems to me," said his father, "a very clumsy necessity. I have been thinking over it. To keep a fire in all night only to warm such a tiny drop of water as she wants, I must say, seems like using a steam-engine to sweep up the crumbs. If you would just get a stone bottle, fill it with boiling water, wrap a piece of flannel about it, and lay it anywhere in the bed, it would be quite hot enough even in the morning to make the milk as warm as she ought to have it." "If you will go to Willie's room, and let Willie come and sleep with me, I will try it," she said. But when he woke, there lay his mother and his sister both sound asleep; the sun was shining through the blind; he heard Tibby about the house; and, in short, it was time to get up. At breakfast, his father said to him- "Well, Willie, how did Agnes behave herself last night?" Willie was so much ashamed of himself, although he wasn't in the least to blame, that he could hardly keep from crying. He did not say another word, except when he was spoken to, all through breakfast, and his father and mother were puzzled to think what could be the matter with him: He went about the greater part of the morning moodily thinking; then for advice betook himself to Mrs Wilson, who gave him her full attention, and suggested several things, none of which, however, seemed to him likely to succeed. "If I could but go to bed after mamma was asleep," he said, "I could tie a string to my hair, and then slip a loop at the other end over mamma's wrist, so that when she sat up to attend to Agnes, she would pull my hair and wake me. Wouldn't she wonder what it was when she felt it pulling _her_?" I don't know whether Willie did or did not ask God to wake him. I did not inquire, for what goes on of that kind, it is better not to talk much about. What I do know is, that he fell asleep with his head and heart full of desire to wake and help his mother; and that, in the middle of the night, he did wake up suddenly, and there was little Agnes screaming with all her might. He sat up in bed instantly. "What's the matter, Willie?" said his mother. "Lie down and go to sleep." "Baby's crying," said Willie. "Never you mind. I'll manage her." "Do you know, mamma, I think I was waked up just in time to help you. I'll take her from you, and perhaps she will take her drink from me." "Nonsense, Willie. Lie down, my pet." "But I've been thinking about it, mamma. Do you remember, yesterday, Agnes would not take her bottle from you, and screamed and screamed; but when Tibby took her, she gave in and drank it all? Perhaps she would do the same with me." [Illustration: "WILLIE SAT DOWN WITH THE BABY ON HIS KNEES, AND SHE STOPPED CRYING."] As he spoke he slipped out of bed, and held out his arms to take the baby. The light was already coming in, just a little, through the blind, for it was summer. He heard a cow lowing in the fields at the back of the house, and he wondered whether her baby had woke her. The next moment he had little Agnes in his arms, for his mother thought he might as well try, seeing he was awake. "Do take care and don't let her fall, Willie." "That I will, mamma. I've got her tight. Now give me the bottle, please." "I haven't got it ready yet; for you woke the minute she began to cry." So Willie walked about the room with Agnes till his mother had got her bottle filled with nice warm milk-and-water and just a little sugar. When she gave it to him, he sat down with the baby on his knees, and, to his great delight, and the satisfaction of his mother as well, she stopped crying, and began to drink the milk-and-water. "Why, you're a born nurse, Willie!" said his mother. But the moment the baby heard her mother's voice, she forsook the bottle, and began to scream, wanting to go to her. "O mamma! you mustn't speak, please; for of course she likes you better than the bottle; and when you speak that reminds her of you. It was just the same with Tibby yesterday. Or if you must speak, speak with some other sound, and not in your own soft, sweet way." A few moments after, Willie was so startled by a gruff voice in the room that he nearly dropped the bottle; but it was only his mother following his directions. The plan was quite successful, for the baby had not a suspicion that the voice was her mother's, paid no heed to it, and attended only to her bottle. "Willie!" she would say, "Willie! here's your baby wanting you." You may be sure his mamma let him have a long sleep in the morning always, to make up for being disturbed in the night. Agnes throve well, notwithstanding the weaning. She soon got reconciled to the bottle, and then Willie slept in peace. HE GOES TO LEARN A TRADE. You will understand by this already that the shoemaker thought after his own fashion, which is the way everybody who can think does think. What he thought about his trade and some other things we shall see by and by. When Willie entered his room, he greeted him with a very friendly nod; for not only was he fond of children, but he had a special favour for Willie, chiefly because he considered himself greatly indebted to him for something he had said to Mrs Wilson, and which had given him a good deal to think about. For Mrs Wilson often had a chat with Hector, and then she would not unfrequently talk about Willie, of whose friendship she was proud. She had told him of the strange question he had put to her as to whether God worked, and the shoemaker, thinking over it, had come to the same conclusion as Willie's father, and it had been a great comfort and help to him. "What can I do for you to-day, Willie?" he said; for in that part of the country they do not say _Master_ and _Miss_. "You look," he added, "if you wanted something." "I want you to teach me, please," answered Willie. "To teach you what?" asked Hector. "To make shoes, please," answered Willie. "Ah! but do you think that would be prudent of me? Don't you see, if I were to teach you to make shoes, people would be coming to you to make their shoes for them, and what would become of me then?" "But I only want to make shoes for Aggy's doll. She oughtn't to go without shoes in this weather, you know." "Certainly not. Well, if you will bring me the doll I will take her measure and make her a pair." "But I don't think papa could afford to pay for shoes for a doll as well as for all of us. You see, though it would be better, it's not necessary that a doll should have strong shoes. She has shoes good enough for indoors, and she needn't walk in the wet. Don't you think so yourself, Hector?" "But," returned Hector, "I shall be happy to make Agnes a present of a pair of shoes for her doll. I shouldn't think of charging your papa for that. He is far too good a man to be made to pay for everything." "But," objected Willie, "to let you make them for nothing would be as bad as to make papa pay for them when they are not necessary. Please, you must let me make them for Aggy. Besides, she's not old enough yet even to say thank you for them." "Then she won't be old enough to say thank you to you either," said Hector, who, all this time, had been losing no moment from his work, but was stitching away, with a bore, and a twiddle, and a hiss, at the sole of a huge boot. "Ah! but you see, she's my own--so it doesn't matter!" "Sit down there, then, Willie," he said; adding, as he handed him the calf-skin, "There's your leather, and my tools are at your service. Make your shoes, and welcome. I shall be glad of your company." Having thus spoken, he sat down again, caught up his boot hurriedly, and began stitching away as if for bare life. "No, thank you--not yet, please. I think I must go and look at her feet, for I can't recollect _quite_ how big they are. I'll just run home and look." "Do you think you will be able to carry the exact size in your head, and bring it back with you?" "Yes, I think I shall." "Thank you," said Willie, sitting down again. "I should like that very much. I will sit and look at you. I know what you are doing. You are fastening on the sole of a boot." "Yes. Do you see how it's done?" "Ah! but I don't sharpen my thread; I put a point upon it." "I see!" cried Willie; "there is a long bit of something else, not thread, upon it. What is it? It looks like a hair, only thicker, and it is so sharp at the point!" "Then I will tell you. It is a bristle out of a hog's back. I don't know what a shoemaker would do without them. Look, here's a little bunch of them." "That's a very clever use to put them to," said Willie. "Do you go and pluck them out of the pigs?" "How do you fasten them to the thread?" "Look here," said Hector. He took several strands of thread together, and drew them through and through a piece of cobbler's wax, then took a bristle and put it in at the end cunningly, in a way Willie couldn't quite follow; and then rolled and rolled threads and all over and over between his hand and his leather apron, till it seemed like a single dark- cord. "And what is the good of rubbing it so much with the cobbler's wax?" "No. It's not my business, you see, Willie." "But you've just been telling me so much about the moon, and the way she keeps turning her face always to us--in the politest manner, as you said!" "I got it all out of Mr Dick's book. I don't understand it. I don't know why she does so. I know a few things that are not my business, just as you know a little about shoemaking, that not being your business; but I don't understand them for all that." "Whose business is astronomy then?" "What is my business, Willie? Why, to keep people out of the dirt, of course." "How?" asked Willie again. "And God sets you to do it, Hector?" And Hector looked up with shining eyes in the face of the little boy, while he pulled at his rosin-ends as if he would make the boot strong enough to keep out evil spirits. "I think it's a fine thing to have to make nice new shoes," said Willie; "but I don't think I should like to mend them when they are soppy and muddy and out of shape." "If you would take your share in the general business, you mustn't be particular. It won't do to be above your business, as they say: for my part, I would say _below_ your business. There's those boots in the corner now. They belong to your papa. And they come next. Don't you think it's an honour to keep the feet of such a good man dry and warm as he goes about from morning to night comforting people? Don't you think it's an honour to mend boots for _him_, even if they should be dirty?" "Oh, yes--for _papa_!" said Willie, as if his papa must be an exception to any rule. "Well," resumed Hector, "look at these great lace-boots. I shall have to fill the soles of them full of hobnails presently. They belong to the best ploughman in the parish--John Turnbull. Don't you think it's an honour to mend boots for a man who makes the best bed for the corn to die in?" "I thought it was to grow in," said Willie. "All the same," returned Hector. "When it dies it grows--and not till then, as you will read in the New Testament. Isn't it an honour, I say, to mend boots for John Turnbull?" "Oh, yes--for John Turnbull! I know John," said Willie, as if it made any difference to his merit whether Willie knew him or not! "And there," Hector went on, "lies a pair of slippers that want patching. They belong to William Webster, the weaver, round the corner. They're very much down at heel too. But isn't it an honour to patch or set up slippers for a man who keeps his neighbours in fine linen all the days of their lives?" "Yes, yes. I know William. It must be nice to do anything for William Webster." "Suppose you didn't know him, would that make any difference?" "No," said Willie, after thinking a little. "Other people would know him if I didn't." "Yes, and if nobody knew him, God would know him; and anybody God has thought worth making, it's an honour to do anything for. Believe me, Willie, to have to keep people's feet dry and warm is a very important appointment." "But if you should get your feet wet, and catch cold?" "But Dolly's shoes!" suggested Willie. "Dolly can wait a bit. She won't take _her_ death of cold from wet feet. And let me tell you it is harder to make a small pair well than a large pair. You will do Dolly's ever so much better after you know how to make a pair for me." HOW WILLIE LEARNED TO READ BEFORE HE KNEW HIS LETTERS. People are often ashamed of what they need not be ashamed of. Again, they are often not at all ashamed of what they ought to be ashamed of, and will turn up their faces to the sun when they ought to hide them in the dust. If, for instance, Willie had ever put on a sulky face when his mother asked him to hold the baby for her, that would have been a thing for shame of which the skin of his face might well try to burn itself off; but not to be able to read before he had even been made to think about it, was not at all a thing to be ashamed of: it would have been more of a shame to be ashamed. Now that it had been put into his head, however, to think what a good thing reading was, all this would apply no longer. It was a very different thing now. The other subject which occupied his thoughts was this: "Isn't that a _b_?" she said, wishing to help him to find out a certain word for himself. "Don't you know your letters?" asked his mother. "No, mamma. Which are they? Are the rest yours and papa's?" "Oh, you silly dear!" she said. "Yes. And that's C," said his mother. His mother told him it was E. His mother laughed; but whoever gave it the name it has, would have done better to call it Fe, as Willie did. It would be much better also, in teaching children, at least, to call H, He, and W, We, and Y, Ye, and Z, Ze, as Willie called them. But it was easy enough for him to learn their names after he knew so much of what they could _do_. By this time, also, he understood all the particulars as to how a shoe is made, and had indeed done a few stitches himself, a good deal of hammering both of leather and of hob-nails, and a little patching, at which last the smallness of his hands was an advantage. "You told me you couldn't read, Willie." "Do then," said Hector. SOME THINGS THAT CAME OF WILLIE'S GOING TO SCHOOL. At school he found it more and more plain what a good thing it is that we haven't to find out every thing for ourselves from the beginning; that people gather into books what they and all who went before them have learned, so that we come into their property, as it were; and, after being taught of them, have only to begin our discoveries from where they leave off. In geography, for instance, what a number of voyages and journeys have had to be made, and books to record them written; then what a number of these books to be read, and the facts gathered out of them, before a single map could be drawn, not to say a geography book printed! Whereas now he could learn a multitude of things about the various countries, their peoples and animals and plants, their mountains and rivers and lakes and cities, without having set his foot beyond the parish in which he was born. And so with everything else after its kind. But it is more of what Willie learned to do than what he learned to know that I have to treat. "Do you think you're a doctor because your father is, you little ape?" they said. When the drawing of the letters was finished, there stood, all round the slate, "_Doctor Macmichael's Willie, The Ruins, Priory Leas_." It led to a strong friendship between him and Spelman, and to his going often to the workshop of the elder Spelman, the carpenter. He was a solemn, long-faced, and long-legged man, with reddish hair and pale complexion, who seldom or ever smiled, and at the bench always looked as if he were standing on a stool, he stooped so immoderately. A greater contrast than that between him and the shoemaker could hardly have been found, except in this, that the carpenter also looked sickly. He was in perfect health, however, only oppressed with the cares of his family, and the sickness of his wife, who was a constant invalid, with more children her husband thought than she could well manage, or he well provide for. But if he had thought less about it he would have got on better. He worked hard, but little fancied how many fewer strokes of his plane he made in an hour just because he was brooding over his difficulties, and imagining what would be the consequences if this or that misfortune were to befall him--of which he himself sought and secured the shadow beforehand, to darken and hinder the labour which might prevent its arrival. But he was a good man nevertheless, for his greatest bugbear was debt. If he could only pay off every penny he owed in the world, and if only his wife were so far better as to enjoy life a little, he would, he thought, be perfectly happy. His wife, however, was tolerably happy, notwithstanding her weak health, and certainly enjoyed life a good deal--far more at least than her husband was able to believe. So Spelman was as full of gratitude as he could hold. Except Hector Macallaster, the Doctor was almost his only creditor. Medicine and shoes were his chief trials: he kept on paying for the latter, but the debt for the former went on accumulating. [Illustration: WILLIE IS TAKEN TO SEE A WATER-WHEEL.] The carpenter having given him a short lecture on the different kinds of water-wheels, he decided on an undershot, and with Sandy's help proceeded to construct it--with its nave of mahogany, its spokes of birch, its floats of deal, and its axle of stout iron-wire, which, as the friction would not be great, was to run in gudgeon-blocks of some hard wood, well oiled. These blocks were fixed in a frame so devised that, with the help of a few stones to support it, the wheel might be set going in any small stream. WILLIE DIGS AND FINDS WHAT HE DID NOT EXPECT. He had been reading to Hector Sir Walter Scott's "Antiquary," in which occurs the narration of a digging for treasure in ruins not unlike these, only grander. It was of little consequence to Willie that no treasure had been found there: the propriety of digging remained the same; for in a certain spot he had often fancied that a hollow sound, when he stamped hard, indicated an empty place underneath. I believe myself that it came from above, and not from beneath; for although a portion of the vaulted roof of the little chamber had been broken in, the greater part of it still remained, and might have caused a reverberation. The floor was heaped up with fallen stones and rubbish. They were both so eager--for Sandy liked the idea of digging in the ruins much better than the work he was at--that they set off at full speed the moment they were out of the shop, and never slackened until they stood panting by the anchored pickaxe, upon which Spelman pounced, and being stronger than Willie, and more used to hard work, had soon dislodged both the stones which held it. They were so much larger, however, than any Willie had come upon before, that they had to roll them out of the little chamber, instead of lifting them; after which they got on better, and had soon piled a good heap against the wall outside. After they had had their tea, they set to work again, and worked till the twilight grew dark about them--by which time they had got the heap down to what seemed the original level of the floor. Still there were stones below, but what with fatigue and darkness, they were now compelled to stop, and Sandy went home, after promising to come as early as he could in the morning and call Willie, who was to leave the end of a string hanging out of the staircase window, whose other end should pass through the keyhole of his door and be tied to his wrist. He seemed to have hardly been in bed an hour, when he woke with his arm at full length, and the pulling going on as if it would pull him out of bed. He tugged again in reply, and jumped out. Having got out a few more stones, they began to fancy they heard a curious sound, which they agreed was more like that of running water than anything else they could think of. Now, except a well in the street, just before the cottage, there was no water they knew of much nearer than the river, and they wondered a good deal. "It's an old well," he said. "There can be no doubt of it." "Does it smell bad?" asked Willie, peeping down disappointed. "Not a bit," answered Sandy. "Then it's not stagnant," said Willie. "You might have told that by your ears without troubling your nose," said Sandy. "Didn't you hear it running?" "How can it be running when it's buried away down there?" said Willie. "How can it make a noise if it isn't running?" retorted Sandy--to which question Willie attempted no reply. "The treasure?" cried Willie. "Oh, jolly!" Sandy burst out laughing, and shouted- "The water!" "Bother the water!" growled Willie. "But go on, Sandy; the iron chest may be at the bottom of the water, you know." "All very well for you up there!" retorted Sandy. "But though I can get the stones out, I can't get the water out. And I've no notion of diving where there's pretty sure to be nothing to dive for. Besides, a body can't dive in a stone pipe like this. I should want weights to sink me, and I mightn't get them off in time. I want my breakfast dreadful, Willie." So saying, he scrambled up the side of the well, and the last of him that appeared, his boots, namely, bore testimony enough to his having reached the water. Willie peered down into the well, and caught the dull glimmer of it through the stones; then, a good deal disappointed, followed Sandy as he strode away towards the house. "You'll come and have your breakfast with me, Sandy, won't you?" he said from behind him. "No, thank you," answered Sandy. "I don't like any porridge but my mother's." And without looking behind him, he walked right through the cottage, and away home. Before Willie had finished his porridge, he had got over his disappointment, and had even begun to see that he had never really expected to find a treasure. Only it would have been fun to hand it over to his father! All through morning school, however, his thoughts would go back to the little vault, so cool and shadowy, sheltering its ancient well from the light that lorded it over all the country outside. No doubt the streams rejoiced in it, but even for them it would be too much before the evening came to cool and console them; while the slow wells in the marshy ground up on the mountains must feel faint in an hour of its burning eye. This well had always been, and always would be, cool and blessed and sweet, like--like a precious thing you can only think about. And wasn't it a nice thing to have a well of your own? Tibby needn't go any more to the village pump--which certainly was nearer, but stood in the street, not in their own ground. Of course, as yet, she could not draw a bucketful, for the water hardly came above the stones; but he would soon get out as many as would make it deep enough--only, if it was all Sandy could do to get out the big ones, and that with his help too, how was he to manage it alone? There was the rub! I must go back a little to explain how he came to think of a plan. After Hector and he had gone as far in Dr Dick's astronomy as they could understand, they found they were getting themselves into what seemed quite a jungle of planets, and suns, and comets, and constellations. "It seems to me," said the shoemaker, "that to understand anything you must understand everything." In this way he had soon got out so many that he was standing far above his ankles in the water, which was so cold that he was glad to get out to pull up every stone. By this time it was perfectly explained how the water made a noise, for he saw it escape by an opening in the side of the well. "Am I awake, Willie? or am I dreaming?" he asked. "Wide awake, papa," answered Willie. "Then what is the meaning of this? _You_ seem to be in the secret: where does this water come from? I feel as if I were in a fairy tale." "Isn't it lovely?" cried Willie. "I'll show you where it comes from. This way. You'll spoil your boots there. Look at the rhubarb-bed; it's turned into a swamp." "The garden will be ruined," said his father. "No, no, papa; we won't let it come to that. I've been watching it. There's no soil carried away yet. Do come and see." In mute astonishment, his father followed. "Mostly," said Willie. "Bury a beauty like that in a drain!" cried Willie. "O papa!" "Well, I don't know what else to do with it. How is it that it never found its way out before--somewhere or other?" "I'll soon show you that," said Willie. "I'll soon send it about its business." "Ah! now, now I understand!" cried Mr Macmichael. "It's the old well of the Priory you've come upon, you little burrowing mole." "Sandy helped me out with the stones. I thought there might be a treasure down there, and that set me digging. It was a funny treasure to find--wasn't it? No treasure could have been prettier though." "Yes, papa," said Willie, and bounded off. Meantime Mr Macmichael, having gone to see what course the water had taken, and how it had left the garden, found that, after a very circuitous route, it had run through the hedge into a surface drain in the field, and so down the hill towards the river. "It wouldn't have done much harm," said Willie. "It would have run along the slabs in the passage and out again, for the front door is lower than the back. It would have been such fun!" "But wouldn't it have been fun? And wouldn't it have been lovely--running through the house all the hot summer day?" "There may be a difference of opinion about that, Master Willie," said his mother. "You, for instance, might like to walk through water every time you went from the parlour to the kitchen, but I can't say I should." Curious to know whether the village pump might not be supplied from his well, Mr Macmichael next analysed the water of that also, and satisfied himself that there was no connection between them. Within the next fortnight Willie discovered that as often as the stream ran through the garden, the little brook in which he had set his water-wheel going was nearly dry. Before morning the water it left had all disappeared. It had soaked through the mounds, and into the gravel, but comforting the hot roots as it went, and feeding them with dissolved minerals. Doubtless, also, it lay all night in many a little hidden pool, which the heat of the next day's sun drew up, comforting again, through the roots in the earth, and through the leaves in the air, up into the sky. Willie could not help thinking that the garden looked refreshed; the green was brighter, he thought, and the flowers held up their heads a little better; the carrots looked more feathery, and the ferns more palmy; everything looked, he said, just as he felt after a good drink out of the Prior's Well. At all events, he resolved to do the same every night after sunset while the hot weather lasted--that was, if his father had no objection. Mr Macmichael said he might try it, only he must mind and not go to bed and leave the water running, else they would have a cartload of mud in the house before morning. Willie kept walking round and round it, as if it had been a wild beast trying to get out of its cage, and he had to watch and prevent it at every weak spot; or as if he were a magician, busily sustaining the charm by which he confined the gad-about creature. The moment he saw it beginning to get the better of him, he ran to the sluice and banished it to the regions below. Then he fetched an old newspaper, and sitting down on the borders of his lake, fashioned boat after boat out of the paper, and sent them sailing like merchant ships from isle to blooming isle. Night after night he flooded the garden, and always before morning the water had sunk away through the gravel. Soon there was no longer any doubt that everything was mightily refreshed by it; the look of exhaustion and hopelessness was gone, and life was busy in flower and tree and plant. This year there was not a garden, even on the banks of the river, to compare with it; and when the autumn came, there was more fruit than Mr Macmichael remembered ever to have seen before. Willie was always thinking what uses he could put things to. Only he was never tempted to set a fine thing to do dirty work, as dull-hearted money-grubbers do--mill-owners, for instance, when they make the channel of a lovely mountain-stream serve for a drain to carry off the filth from their works. If Dante had known any such, I know where he would have put them, but I would rather not describe the place. I have told you what Willie made the prisoned stream do for the garden; I will now tell you what he made the running stream do for himself, and you shall judge whether or not that was fit work for him to require of it. That afternoon he set poles up for guides, along the top of which the thread might run, and so keep clear of the bushes. But he fared no better the next night, for he never waked until the morning, when he found that the wheel stood stock still, for the thread, having filled the reel, had slipped off, and so wound itself about the wheel that it was choked in its many windings. Indeed, the thread was in a wonderful tangle about the whole machine, and it took him a long time to unwind--turning the wheel backwards, so as not to break the thread. That night the pull did indeed come, but, alas before he had even fallen asleep. Something seemed to be always going wrong! He concluded already that it was a difficult thing to make a machine which should do just what the maker wished. The spool had gone flying round, and had swallowed up the thread incredibly fast. He made haste to get the end off his wrist, and saw it fly through the little hole in the window frame, and away after the rest of it, to be wound on the whirling spool. "What _can_ this be now?" he said to himself. "Some new freak of Willie's, of course. Yes; the thread goes right up to his window! I dare say if I were to stop and watch I should see something happen in consequence. But I am too tired, and must go to bed." Just as he thought thus with himself, the wheel stopped. The next moment the blind of Willie's window was drawn up, and there stood Willie, his face and his white gown glimmering in the moonlight. He caught sight of his father, and up went the sash. "O papa!" he cried; "I didn't think it was you I was going to see!" "Who was it then you thought to see?" asked his father. "What new freak of yours is this, my boy?" said his father, smiling. "Wait a minute, and I'll tell you all about it," answered Willie. Out he came in his night-shirt, his bare feet dancing with pleasure at having his father for his midnight companion. On the grass, beside the ruins, in the moonlight, by the gurgling water, he told him all about it. "Yes, my boy; you are right," said his father. "God never sleeps; and it would be a pity if we never saw Him at his night-work." [Illustration: "ON THE GRASS, BESIDE THE RUINS, IN THE MOONLIGHT, WILLIE TOLD HIS FATHER ALL ABOUT IT."] SOME OF THE SIGHTS WILLIE SAW. I fancy some of my readers would like to hear what were some of the scenes Willie saw on such occasions. The little mill went on night after night--almost everynight in the summer, and those nights in the winter when the frost wasn't so hard that it would have frozen up the machinery. But to attempt to describe the variety of the pictures Willie saw would be an endless labour. Neither did he care to look long when a loud wind was out--except the moon was bright; for the most he could distinguish was the trees blowing against the sky, and they always seemed not to like it, and to want to stop. And if the big strong trees did not like it, how could the poor little delicate flowers, shivering and shaking and tossed to and fro? If he could have seen the wind itself, it would have been a different thing; but as it was, he could enjoy it more by lying in bed and listening to it. Then as he listened he could fancy himself floating out through miles and miles of night and wind, and moon-and-star-light, or moony snowflakes, or even thick darkness and rain; until, falling asleep in the middle of his fancy, it would thicken around him into a dream of delight. "It's a pity it's so late, or rather so early," said Mr Macmichael. "You, Willie, won't be able to see it." "Oh, yes, I shall, father," answered Willie. "I can't let you sit up so late. I shall be in the middle of Sedgy Moor most likely when it begins--and who is to wake you? I won't have your mother disturbed, and Tibby's not much to depend upon. She's too hard-worked to wake when she likes, poor old thing." "Oh, I can be woke without anybody to do it!" said Willie. "Well, it will be worth something to you, if it can do that!" said Mr Macmichael. And wake him it did. While his father was riding across the moor, in the strange hush of the blotted moon, Willie was out in the garden beside his motionless wheel, watching the fell shadow of the earth passing over the blessed face of the moon, and leaving her pure and clear, and nothing the worse. "I've had a letter from my mother, John," said Mrs Macmichael to her husband. "It's wonderful how well she manages to write, when she sees so badly." "She might see well enough--at least a great deal better--if she would submit to an operation, said the doctor. "At _her_ age, John!" returned his wife in an expostulatory tone. "Do you really think it worth while--for the few years that are left her?" "Worth while to see well for a few years!" exclaimed the doctor. "Indeed, I do." "I don't know, either--except you make her a present of Tibby," said her husband. "John!" exclaimed Mrs Macmichael; and "John" burst out laughing. "You don't think they'd pull together?" he said. "But I didn't even dream of it; I only said it," returned her husband. "It's time you knew when I was joking, wifie." "You joke so dreadfully like earnest!" she answered. "Ah!" returned his wife, eagerly, "that would be a blessing! And though Tibby would be a thorn in every inch of grandmamma's body, if they were alone together, I have no doubt they would get on very well with me between them." "I don't doubt it," said her husband, still thoughtfully. "I can't say I see how--at this moment," answered the doctor, "much as I should like it. But there's time yet, and we'll think it over, and talk about it, and perhaps we may hit upon some plan or other. Most things _may_ be done; and everything necessary _can_ be done _some_how. So we won't bother our minds about it, but only our brains, and see what they can do for us." With this he rose and went to his laboratory. "My room would do for grannie," he said to himself; "and I could sleep up there. A shake-down in the corner would do well enough for me." He drew in his head, came down the ladder with a rush, and hurried off to school. At supper he laid his scheme before his father and mother. "I'll engage to sleep wherever there's room to lie down; and if there isn't I'll engage to sleep sitting or standing," said Willie, whose mother had often said she wished she could sleep like Willie. "And as I don't walk in my sleep," he added, "the trap-door needn't be shut." "Mice, Willie!" said his mother, in a tone of much significance. "The cat and I are good friends," returned Willie. "She'll be pleased enough to sleep with me." "Ho! ho! ho!" laughed Willie; "then there would be the more room for grannie." His father laughed with him, but his mother looked a little shocked. Willie lay so long awake that night, thinking, that _Wheelie_ pulled him before he had had a wink of sleep. He got up, of course, and looked from the window. The day was dreaming grandly. The sky was pretty clear in front, and full of sparkles of light, for the stars were kept in the background by the moon, which was down a little towards the west. She had sunk below the top of a huge towering cloud, the edges of whose jags and pinnacles she bordered with a line of silvery light. Now this cloud rose into the sky from just behind the ruins, and looking a good deal like upheaved towers and spires, made Willie think within himself what a grand place the priory must have been, when its roofs and turrets rose up into the sky. "They say a lot of people lived in it then!" he thought with himself as he stood gazing at the cloud. Suddenly he gave a great jump, and clapped his hands so loud that he woke his father. "Is anything the matter, my boy?" he asked, opening Willie's door, and peeping in. "No, papa, nothing," answered Willie. "Only something that came into my head with a great bounce!" "Grand enough certainly to put many thoughts into a body's head, Willie. What did it put into yours?" "Not a bit, my boy. Tell me just when you please, or don't tell me at all. I should like to hear it, but only at your pleasure, Willie." "Thank you, father. I do want to tell you, you know, but not just yet." "Very well, my boy. Now go to bed, and sleep may better the thought before the morning." Willie soon fell asleep now, for he believed he had found what he wanted. He was up earlier than usual the next morning, and out in the garden. He went wandering about amongst them, like an undecided young bird looking for the very best possible spot to build its nest in. The spot Willie sought was that which would require the least labour and least material to make it into a room. WILLIE'S NEST IN THE RUINS. "But," said Willie, "that would turn it into the bottom of a cistern; for the walls above would hold the rain in, and what would happen then? Either it must gather till it reached the top, or the weight of it would burst the walls, or perhaps break through my roof and drown me." "I know!" cried Willie. "That's what they called a gurgoyle!" "I don't know anything about that," said the carpenter; "I know it will carry off the water." "To be sure," said Willie. "It's capital." "But," said Mr Spelman, "it's rather too serious a job this to set about before asking the doctor's leave. It will cost money." "Much?" asked Willie, whose heart sank within him. "Well, that depends on what you count much," answered Spelman. "All I can say is, it wouldn't be anything out of your father's pocket." "Your father and I will talk about it," said the carpenter mysteriously, and offered no further information. "There seems to be always some way of doing a thing," thought Willie to himself. The doctor being out at the time, the carpenter called again later in the evening; and they had a long talk together--to the following effect. Spelman having set forth his scheme, and the doctor having listened in silence until he had finished- "But," said Mr Macmichael, "that will cost a good deal, I fear, and I have no money to spare." "Mr Macmichael," said Spelman solemnly, his long face looking as if some awful doom were about to issue from the middle of it, "you forget how much I am in your debt." "No, I don't," returned the doctor. "But neither do I forget that it takes all your time and labour to provide for your family; and what will become of them if you set about this job, with no return in prospect but the satisfaction of clearing off of an old debt?" "It's a generous offer, Spelman," said the doctor, "and I accept it heartily, though you are turning the tables of obligation upon me. You'll have done far more for me than I ever did for you." "I wish that were like to be true, sir, but it isn't. My wife's not a giantess yet, for all you've done for her." "Oh! that doesn't signify," answered Willie. "Look how thick the walls are! and I shall have plenty of blankets on my bed. Besides, we can easily put a little stove in, if it's wanted." But when the windows were fitted and fixed, Mr Macmichael saw to his dismay that they were not made to open. They had not even a pane on hinges. "This'll never do, Willie," he said. "This is far worse than no chimney." Willie took his father by the coat, and led him to a corner, where a hole went right through the wall into another room--if that can be called a room which had neither floor nor ceiling. "There, father!" he said; "I am going to fit a slide over this hole, and then I can let in just as much or as little air as I please." "As soon as Mr Spelman has done with the job," said Willie, "I will make them both to come wide open on hinges; but I don't want to bother him about it, for he has been very kind, and I can do it quite well myself." This satisfied his father. In the meantime, his father and mother had both written to his grandmother, telling her how Willie had been using his powers both of invention and of labour to make room for her, and urging her to come and live with them, for they were all anxious to have her to take care of. But, in fact, small persuasion was necessary, for the old lady was only too glad to accept the invitation; and before the warm weather of autumn was over, she was ready to go to them. By this time Willie's room was furnished. All the things from his former nest had been moved into it; the bed with the chintz curtains, covered with strange flowers and birds; the old bureau, with the many drawers inside the folding cover, in which he kept all his little treasures; the table at which he read books that were too big to hold, such as Raleigh's History of the World and Josephus; the old oblong mirror that hung on the wall, with an outspread gilt eagle at the top of it; the big old arm-chair that had belonged to his great-grandfather, who wrote his sermons in it--for all the things the boy had about him were old, and in all his after-life he never could bear new furniture. And now his grandmother's furniture began to appear; and a great cart-load of it from her best bedroom was speedily arranged in Willie's late quarters, and as soon as they were ready for her, Mrs Macmichael set out in a post-chaise to fetch her mother. WILLIE'S GRANDMOTHER. "Sit down there," she said, pushing a little footstool towards him. Willie obeyed, and sat looking up in her face. "So," she said, "you're the little man that can do everything?" "Do you know what they call you?" "There!" said his grandmother. "I told you so." "Of course, grannie. Only I can't when I'm at school, you know." "I don't want to be told that. And I'm not going to be a tyrant. But I had no idea you were such a silly! For all your cleverness, you've positively never asked me what wages I would give you." "Oh! I don't want any wages, grannie. I _like_ to do things for people; and you're my very own grandmother, besides, you know." "Certainly not, grannie. I'm quite satisfied." "Meantime, no engagement of a servant ought to be counted complete without earnest." "I'm quite in earnest, grannie," said Willie, who did not know the meaning of the word as his new mistress used it. They all laughed. "I don't see what's funny," said Willie, laughing too, however. But when they explained to him what _earnest_ meant, then he laughed with understanding, as well as with good will. "So," his grandmother went on, "I will give you earnest, which, you know, binds you my servant. But for how long, Willie?" "We'll easily manage that. I'll arrange with them, as you say. And now, here's your earnest." As she spoke, she put into his hand what Willie took to be a shilling. But when he glanced at it, he found himself mistaken. "Thank you, grannie," he said, trying not to show himself a little disappointed, for he had had another scheme in his head some days, and the shilling would have been everything towards that. "Do you know what grannie has given you, Willie?" said his mother. "Yes, mother--such a pretty brass medal!" "No-o-o-o! Is it? O grannie!" he cried, and went dancing about the room, as if he would actually fly with delight. Willie had never seen a sovereign, for that part of the country was then like Holland--you never saw gold money there. To get it for him, his grandmother had had to send to the bank in the county town. The old lady generally spoke of him as if she were the chief if not the sole proprietor of the boy. "But, mother, you can't afford it." "How do you know that? I can afford it very well. I've no house-rent to pay; and I am certain it is the very best return I can make you for your kindness. What I do for Willie will prove to have been done for us all." "I'm very glad, anyhow, you put him to the trial," said his father. "It will do him good." "He wants less of that than most people, Mr Macmichael--present company _not_ excepted," said the old lady, rather nettled, but pretending to be more so than she really was. Hector could not imagine how the running water had got there, and Willie had to tell him what I am now going to tell my reader. His grandmother's sovereign and his own hydraulics had brought it there. Next he made a small wooden frame, which, by driving spikes between the stones, he fastened to the opening of the underground passage, so that a well-fitting piece of board could move up and down in it, by means of a projecting handle, and be a more manageable sluice than he had hitherto had. Then he made a strong wooden lid to the mouth of the well, and screwed it down to the wooden blocks he had built in. Through a hole in it, just large enough, came the handle of the sluice. Next, in the middle of the cover, he made a hole with a brace and centre-bit, and into it drove the end of a strong iron pipe, fitting tight, and long enough to reach almost to the top of the vault. As soon as this was fixed he shut down the sluice, and in a few seconds the water was falling in sheets upon him, and flooding the floor, dashed back from the vault, against which it rushed from the top of the pipe. This was enough for the present; he raised the sluice and let the water escape again below. It was plain, from the force with which the water struck the vault, that it would yet rise much higher. The chief difficulty was to pierce the other wall, for the mortar was very hard. The stones, however, just there were not very large, and, with Sandy's help, he managed it. At length Willie took his stand at the sluice, and told Sandy to scramble up to the end of the lead pipe, and shout when the water began to pour into the trough. His object was to find how far the sluice required to be shut down in order to send up just as much water as the pipe could deliver. More than that would cause a pressure which might strain, and perhaps burst, their apparatus. He pushed the sluice down a little, and waited a moment. "Is it coming yet, Sandy?" he cried. "Not a drop," shouted Sandy. Willie pushed it a little further, and then knew by the change in the gurgle below that the water was rising in the well; and it soon began to spout from the hole in the cover through which the sluice-handle came up. "It's coming," cried Sandy, after a pause; "not much, though." Down went the sluice a little further still. "It's pouring," echoed the voice of Sandy amongst the ruins; "as much as ever the pipe can give. Its mouth is quite full." Willie raised the sluice a little. "How is it now?" he bawled. "Less," cried Sandy. So Willie pushed it back to where it had been last, and made a notch in the handle to know the right place again. So the water from the Prior's Well went careering through Willie's bed-chamber, a story high. When he wanted to fill his bath, he had only to stop the run with his hand, and it poured over the sides into it; so that Tibbie was to be henceforth relieved of a great labour, while Willie's eyes were to be delighted with the vision, and his ears with the sounds of the water scampering through his room. An hour or so after, as he was finishing off something about the mouth of the well, he heard his father calling him. "Willie, Willie," he shouted, "is this any more of your kelpie work?" "What is it, father?" cried Willie, as he came bounding to him. He needed no reply when he saw a great pool of water about the back door, fed by a small stream from the direction of the woodhouse. Tibbie had come out, and was looking on in dismay. "That's Willie again, sir," she was saying. "You never can tell where he'll be spouting that weary water at you." [Illustration: TIBBIE, LOOKING ON IN DISMAY, SAID, "THAT'S WILLIE AGAIN."] The whole place'll be bog before long, and we'll be all turned into frogs, and have nothing to do but croak. That well 'll be the ruin of us all with cold and coughs." "You'll be glad enough of it to-night, Tibbie," said Willie, laughing prophetically. "A likely story!" she returned, quite cross. "It'll be into the house if you don't stop it." "I'll soon do that," said Willie. Thinking over it, however, he remembered that just on the other side of the wall was the stable where his father's horses lived, close to the parson's garden; and in the corner, at the foot of the wall, was a drain; so that all he had to do was to fit another spout to this, at right angles to it, and carry it over the wall. "You needn't take any water up for me tonight, Tibby," he said, as he went in to supper, for he had already filled his bath. "Nonsense, Willie," returned Tibbie, still out of temper because of the mess at the door. "Your papa says you must have your bath, and my poor old bones must ache for 't." "Now, don't you play tricks with _me_, Willie. I won't have any more of your joking," returned Tibbie. Nettled at the way she took the information with which he had hoped to please her, he left her to carry up her pail of water; but it was the last, and she thanked him very kindly the next day. The only remaining question was how to get rid of the bath-water. But he soon contrived a sink on the top step of the stair outside the door, which was a little higher than the wall of the stable-yard. From there a short pipe was sufficient to carry that water also over into the drain. I may mention, that although a severe winter followed, the Prior's Well never froze; and that, as they were always either empty, or full of _running_ water, the pipes never froze, and consequently never burst. HECTOR HINTS AT A DISCOVERY. The next day after Hector's visit, Willie went to see how he was, and found him better. "I certainly am better," he said, "and what's more, I've got a strange feeling it was that drink of water you gave me yesterday that has done it. I'm coming up to have some more of it in the evening, if you'll give it me." "As much of it as _you_ can drink, Hector, anyhow," said Willie. "You won't drink _my_ cow dry." "I wonder if it could be the water," said Hector, musingly. "My father says people used to think it cured them. That was some hundreds of years ago; but if it did so then, I don't see why it shouldn't now. My mother is certainly better, but whether that began since we found the well, I can't be very sure. For Tibbie--she is always drinking at it, she says it does her a world of good." "I've read somewhere," said the shoemaker, "that wherever there's a hurt there's a help; and when I was a boy, and stung myself with a nettle, I never had far to look for a dock-stalk with its juice. Who knows but the Prior's Well may be the cure for me? It can't straighten my back, I know, but it may make me stronger for all that, and fitter for the general business." "I will lay down a pipe for you, if you like, Hector, and then you can drink as much of the water as you please, without asking anybody," said Willie. "There's no fear of that," said Willie; "it's our business, you know, to try to cure people. I'll tell you what--couldn't you bring up a bit of your work, and sit in my room sometimes? It's better air there than down here." "You're very kind, indeed, Willie. We'll see. Meantime, I'll come up morning and evening, and have a drink of the water, as long at least as the warm weather lasts, and by that time I shall be pretty certain whether it is doing me good or not." So Hector went on drinking the water and getting a little better. He still employed his water-wheel to pull him out of bed in the middle of the night. He had, of course, to make considerable alterations in, or rather additions to, its machinery, after changing his bed-room, for it had then to work in a direction at right angles to the former; but this he managed perfectly. Perhaps there is not so much to be said for the next whim of Willie's; but a part at least of what I have just written will apply to it also. "Well, Mona, who would have thought of seeing you out so early?" "Mayn't a girl get up early, as well as a boy? It's not like climbing walls and trees, you know, though I can't see the harm of that either." "No more can I," said Willie, "if they're not too difficult, you know. But what brought you out now? Do you want me?" "Mayn't I stop with you? I saw you looking up, and I looked up too, and then I saw something flash; and I dressed as hard as I could, and ran out. Are you catching the lightning?" "No," said Willie; "something better than the lightning--the sunlight." "Is that all?" said Mona, disappointed. "Why, Mona, isn't the sunlight a better thing than the lightning?" said philosophical Willie. "Yes, I dare say; but you can have it any time." "That only makes it the more valuable. But it's not quite true when you think of it. You can't have it now, except from my ball." "Oh, yes, I can," cried Mona; "for there he comes himself." "Will you take me out with you next time, Willie?" asked Mona, pleadingly. "I do so like to be out in the morning, when the wind is blowing, and the clouds are flying about. I wonder why everybody doesn't get up to see the sun rise. Don't you think it is well worth seeing?" "Then you will let me come with you? I like it so much better when you are with me. Janet spoils it all." Janet was her old nurse, who seemed to think the main part of her duty was to check Mona's enthusiasm. "I will," said Willie, "if your papa has no objection." Mona did not even remember her mamma. She had died when she was such a little thing. "Come and ask him, then," said Mona. So soon as he had secured Sun-scout, as he called his kite with the golden head, she took his hand to lead him to her father. "He won't be up yet," said Willie. So Willie went with her, and there was Mr Shepherd, as she had said, already seated at breakfast. "What have you been about, Mona, my child?" he asked, as soon as he had shaken hands with Willie. "We've been helping the sun to rise," said Mona, merrily. "No, no," said Willie; "we've only been having a peep at him in bed, before he got up." But Willie did not like the word, and her father was of the same mind. "No, no," said Mr Shepherd; "that's not respectful, Mona. I don't like you to talk that way, even in fun, of the great light of the earth. There are more good reasons for objecting to it than you would quite understand yet. Willie would not talk like that, I am sure. Tell me what you have been about, my boy." Willie explained the whole matter, and asked if he might call Mona the next time he went out with his kite in the morning. Indeed, it was many years before Willie flew a kite again, for, after a certain conversation with his grandmother, he began to give a good deal more time to his lessons than hitherto; and while his recreations continued to be all of a practical sort, his reading was mostly such as prepared him for college. WILLIE'S TALK WITH HIS GRANDMOTHER. "Well, Willie," she said, "what would you like to be?" The old lady smiled. She had seen more black on Willie's hands than could have come from the coals, and judged from that and his answer that he had just come from the smithy. "It's a fine trade," she said; "thorough manly work, and healthy, I believe, notwithstanding the heat. But why would you take to it, Willie?" Willie fell back on his principles, and thought for a minute. "Of course, if I'm to be any good at all I must have a hand in what Hector calls the general business of the universe, grannie." "To be sure; and that, as a smith, you would have; but why should you choose to be a smith rather than anything else in the world?" "Because--because--people can't get on without horse-shoes, and ploughs and harrows, and tires for cart-wheels, and locks, and all that. It would help people very much if I were a smith." "I don't doubt it. But if you were a mason you could do quite as much to make them comfortable; you could build them houses." "Yes, I could. It would be delightful to build houses for people. I should like that." "It's very hard work," said his grandmother. "Only you wouldn't mind that, I know, Willie." "No man minds hard work," said Willie. "I think I should like to be a mason; for then, you see, I should be able to look at what I had done. The ploughs and carts would go away out of sight, but the good houses would stand where I had built them, and I should be able to see how comfortable the people were in them. I should come nearer to the people themselves that way with my work. Yes, grannie, I would rather be a mason than a smith." "A carpenter fits up the houses inside," said his grandmother. "Don't you think, with his work, he comes nearer the people that live in it than the mason does?" "To be sure," cried Willie, laughing. "People hardly see the mason's work, except as they're coming up to the door. I know more about carpenter's work too. _Yes_, grannie, I have settled now; I'll be a carpenter--there!" cried Willie, jumping up from his seat. "If it hadn't been for Mr Spelman, I don't see how we could have had _you_ with us, grannie. Think of that!" "Only, if you had been a tailor or a shoemaker, you would have come still nearer to the people themselves." "I don't know much about tailoring," returned Willie. "I could stitch well enough, but I couldn't cut out. I could soon be a shoemaker, though. I've done everything wanted in a shoe or a boot with my own hands already; Hector will tell you so. I could begin to be a shoemaker to-morrow. That is nearer than a carpenter. Yes." "I want you to think and find out." Willie thought, looked puzzled, and said he couldn't tell what it was. "Then you must think a little longer," said his grandmother. "And now go and wash your hands." A TALK WITH Mr SHEPHERD. "Well, now you've found what I meant, what do you think of it?" said his grandmother. "Why, of course, it's the best of all. When I was a little fellow, I used to think I should be a doctor some day, but I don't feel quite so sure of it now. Do you really think, grannie, I _could_ be a doctor like papa? You see that wants such a good head--and--and--everything." "Do you really think so, grannie?" cried Willie, delighted. "Then I shall ask papa to teach me." But Willie did not find his papa quite ready to take him in hand. The year was like a child waking up from a sleep into which he had fallen crying. Its life was returning to it, fresh and new. It was as if God were again drawing nigh to His world. All the winter through He had never left it, only had, as it were, been rolling it along the path before Him; but now had taken it up in His hand, and was carrying it for a while; and that was how its birds were singing so sweetly, and its buds were coming so blithely out of doors, and the wind blew so soft, and the rain fell so repentantly, and the earth sent up such a gracious odour. "Yes," answered Willie. "It's been all but dead, and has come to life again. It must have had the doctor to it." "Eh? What doctor, Willie?" "Yes, surely," returned Mr Shepherd. "And that brings me to what I wanted to talk to you about. I hear your father means to make a doctor of you." "Yes. Isn't it good of him?" said Willie. "Then you would like it?" "Yes; that I should!" "Why would you like it?" "Because I _must_ have a hand in the general business." Willie set forth Hector Macallaster's way of thinking about such matters. "Very good--very good indeed!" remarked Mr Shepherd. "But why, then, should you prefer being a doctor to being a shoemaker? Is it because you will get better paid for it?" "I never thought of that," returned Willie. "Of course I should be better paid--for Hector couldn't keep a horse, and a horse I must have, else some of my patients would be dead before I could get to them. But that's not why I want to be a doctor. It's because I want to help people." "What makes you want to help people?" "Because it's the best thing you can do with yourself." "Who told you that?" "I don't know. It seems as if everybody and everything had been teaching me that, ever since I can remember." "Well, it's no wonder it should seem as if everything taught you that, seeing that is what God is always doing--and what Jesus taught us as the law of His kingdom--which is the only real kingdom--namely, that the greatest man in it is he who gives himself the most to help other people. It was because Jesus Himself did so--giving Himself up utterly--that God has so highly exalted Him and given Him a name above every name. And, indeed, if you are a good doctor, you will be doing something of what Jesus did when He was in the world." "Yes; but He didn't give people medicine to cure them." "You really think then," Mr Shepherd resumed, after a pause, "that a doctor's is the best way of helping people?" "Yes, I do," answered Willie, decidedly. "A doctor, you see, comes nearest to them with his help. It's not the outside of a man's body he helps, but his inside health--how he feels, you know." Mr Shepherd again thought for a few moments. At length he said- "What's the difference between your father's work and mine?" "A great difference, of course," replied Willie. "Tell me then what it is?" "But not to give them the same help." "That's a riddle, I suppose," said Willie. "No, it's not. How is it your papa can come so near people to help them?" "He gives them things that make them well again." "What do they do with the things he gives them?" "Put them in their mouths and swallow them." "Couldn't they take them at their ears?" "No," answered Willie, laughing. "Because their ears aren't meant for taking them." "Aren't their ears meant for taking anything, then?" "If you were to take a few strong words, a few persuasive words, and a few tender words, mightn't you mix them so--that is, so set them in order--as to make them a good medicine for a sore heart, for instance?" "Ah! I see, I see! Yes, the medicine for the heart must go in at the ears." "At the ears, too, though," said Willie; "just as papa sometimes gives a medicine to be taken and to be rubbed in both." "I suppose it must go to the heart, if that's the place wants healing." "Does it go to what a doctor would call the heart, then?" "No, no; it must go to what--to what a clergyman--to what _you_ call the heart." "And which heart is nearer to the person himself?" Willie thought for a moment, then answered, merrily--the doctor's heart, to be sure!" "No, Willie; you're wrong there," said Mr Shepherd, looking, as he felt, a little disappointed. "Oh yes, please!" said Willie; "I'm almost sure I'm right this time." "No, Willie; what the clergyman calls the heart is the nearest to the man himself." "No, no," persisted Willie. "The heart you've got to do with _is_ the man himself. So of course the doctor's heart is the nearer to the man." Mr Shepherd laughed a low, pleasant laugh. "You're quite right, Willie. You've got the best of it. I'm very pleased. But then, Willie, doesn't it strike you that after all there might be a closer way of helping men than the doctor's way?" Again Willie thought a while. "There would be," he said, at length, "if you could give them medicine to make them happy when they are miserable." "Even the doctor can do a little at that," returned Mr Shepherd; "for when in good health people are much happier than when they are ill." "If you could give them what would make them good when they are bad then," said Willie. "Ah, there you have it!" rejoined Mr Shepherd. "That is the very closest way of helping men." "But nobody can do that--nobody can make a bad man good--but God," said Willie. "Certainly. But He uses medicines; and He sends people about with them, just like the doctors' boys you were speaking of. What else am _I_ here for? I've been carrying His medicines about for a good many years now." "Then _your_ work and not my father's comes nearest to people to help them after all! My father's work, I see, doesn't help the very man himself; it only helps his body--or at best his happiness: it doesn't go deep enough to touch himself. But yours helps the very man. Yours is the best after all." "I don't know," returned Mr Shepherd, thoughtfully. "It depends, I think, on the kind of preparation gone through." "Oh yes!" said Willie. "You had to go through the theological classes. I must of course take the medical." "The man must be good," said Willie. "I suppose that's it." "That doesn't make the difference exactly," returned Mr Shepherd. "It is as necessary for a doctor to be good as for a parson." "Yes," said Willie; "but though the doctor were a bad man, his medicines might be good." "Not by any means so likely to be!" said the parson. "You can never be sure that anything a bad man has to do with will be good. It may be, because no man is all bad; but you can't be sure of it. We are coming nearer it now. Mightn't the parson's medicines be good if he were bad just as well as the doctor's?" "Less likely still, I think," said Willie. "The words might be all of the right sort, but they would be like medicines that had lain in his drawers or stood in his bottles till the good was all out of them." "You're coming very near to the difference of preparation I wanted to point out to you," said Mr Shepherd. "It is this: that the physician of men's _selves_, commonly called _souls_, must have taken and must keep taking the medicine he carries about with him; while the less the doctor wants of his the better." "But," Mr Shepherd went on, "your father carries about both sorts of medicines in his basket. He is such a healthy man that I believe he very seldom uses any of his own medicines; but he is always taking some of the other sort, and that's what makes him fit to carry them about. He does far more good among the sick than I can. Many who don't like my medicine, will yet take a little of it when your father mixes it with his, as he has a wonderful art in doing. I hope, when your turn comes, you will be able to help the very man himself, as your father does." "Do you want me to be a doctor of _your_ kind, Mr Shepherd?" HOW WILLIE DID HIS BEST TO MAKE A BIRD OF AGNES. Then he would give an hour to preparation for the studies of next term; after which, until their early dinner, he would work at his bench or turning-lathe, generally at something for his mother or grandmother; or he would do a little mason-work amongst the ruins, patching and strengthening, or even buttressing, where he thought there was most danger of further fall--for he had resolved that, if he could help it, not another stone should come to the ground. "What is the matter with my pet?" said Willie. But instead of jumping up and flinging her arms about him, she only looked at him, gave a little sigh, drew her thumb from her mouth, pointed with it up into the tree, and said, "I can't get up there! I wish I was a bird," and put her thumb in her mouth again. "_I_ shouldn't mind. I would rather have wings and fly about in the trees." "If you had wings you couldn't have arms." "I'd rather have wings." "If you were a bird up there, you would be sure to wish you were a girl down here. For if you were a bird you couldn't lie in the grass and look up into the tree." "O Willie! you frightened me so!" she said--joining, however, in his laugh. "But _wouldn't_ it be nice," persisted Agnes, "to be so tall as the birds can make themselves with their wings? Fancy having your head up there in the green leaves--so cool! and hearing them all whisper, whisper, about your ears, and being able to look down on people's heads, you know, Willie! I do wish I was a bird! I do!" But with Willie to comfort and play with her, she soon forgot her soaring ambition. Willie, however, did not forget it. If Agnes wished to enjoy the privacy of the leaves up in the height of the trees, why shouldn't she? At least, why shouldn't she if he could help her to it. Certainly he couldn't change her arms into wings, or cover her with feathers, or make her bones hollow so that the air might get all through her, even into her quills; but he could get her up into the tree, and even something more, perhaps. He would see about it--that is, he would think about it, for how it was to be done he did not yet see. Long ago, almost the moment he arrived, he had set his wheel in order, and got his waking-machine into working trim. And now more than ever he enjoyed being pulled out of bed in the middle of the night--especially in the fine weather; for then, in that hushed hour when the night is just melting into the morn, and the earth looks as if she were losing her dreams, yet had not begun to recognise her own thoughts, he would not unfrequently go out into the garden, and wander about for a few thoughtful minutes. For, as I ought to have mentioned sooner, he had taken Mona into his confidence, and she had kept Agnes out of the way for now nearly a whole week of evenings. But she was finding it more and more difficult to restrain her from rushing off in search of Willie, and was very glad indeed when he told her that he was not going to keep the thing a secret any longer. [Illustration: WILLIE CARRIED AGNES UP THE STAIR INTO THE GREAT BRANCHES OF THE ELM TREE.] HOW AGNES LIKED BEING A BIRD. "Am I awake? Am I dreaming? It's so nice!" Willie did not answer her, and the little head sunk on his shoulder again. He drew the corner of the shawl over it, and carried her back to her bed. When he had laid her down, she opened her eyes wide, stared him in the face for a moment, as if she knew all about everything except just what she was looking at, put her thumb in her mouth, and was fast asleep. "Do you think the dream could have come of your wishing to be a bird, Agnes?" asked Willie. "I don't know. Perhaps," replied Agnes. "Are you angry with me for wishing I was a bird, Willie?" "No, darling. What makes you ask such a question?" "Because ever since then you won't let me go with you--when you are doing things, you know." "Why, you were in the laboratory with me yesterday!" said Willie. "Yes, but you wouldn't have me in the evening when you used to let me be with you always. What are you doing down amongst the trees _always_ now?" "If you will have patience and not go near them all day, I will show you in the evening." Just as he had finished the chair, he heard her voice calling, in a tone that grew more and more pitiful. He got down and ran to find her. She was at the window of his room, where she had gone to wait till he called her, but her patience had at last given way. "I'm _so_ tired, Willie! Mayn't I come yet?" As soon as he began to wrap it about her, Agnes said, thoughtfully- "Somebody did that to me before--not long ago--I remember: it was the angel in my dream." When Willie put the corner over her face, she said, "He did that too!" and when he took her in his arms, she said, "He did that too! How funny you should do just what the angel did in my dream!" Willie ran about with her here and there through the ruins, into the house, up and down the stairs, and through the garden in many directions, until he was satisfied he must have thoroughly bewildered her as to whereabouts they were, and then at last sped with her up the stair to the fork of the elm-tree. There he threw back the shawl, and told her to look. "Yes, it was, pet," said Willie. "It was all to make a bird of me--wasn't it?" she went on. "Yes--as much of a bird as I could. I couldn't give you wings, you know, and I hadn't any of my own to fly up with you to the moon, as the angel in your dream did. The dream was much nicer--wasn't it?" "I'm not sure about that--really I'm not. I think it is nicer to have a wind coming you don't know from where, and making all the leaves flutter about, than to have the wings of birdies making the wind. And I don't care about the man in the moon much. He's not so nice as you, Willie. And yon red ray of the sun through there on the fir-tree is as good nearly as the moon." "Oh! but you may have the moon, if you wait a bit. She'll be too late to-night, though." "But now I think of it, Willie," said Agnes, "I do believe it wasn't a dream at all." "Do you think a real angel carried you really up to the moon, then?" asked Willie. And Agnes threw her arms round his neck and hugged and kissed him. "Yes, pet, I daresay it was. But aren't you sorry to lose your big angel?" "The angel was only in a dream, and you're here, Willie. Besides, you'll be a big angel some day, Willie, and then you'll have wings, and be able to fly me about." "But you'll have wings of your own then, and be able to fly without me." "But I _may_ fold them up sometimes--mayn't I? for it would be much nicer to be carried by _your_ wings--sometimes, you know. Look, look, Willie! Look at the sunbeam on the trunk of the fir--how red it's got. I do wish I could have a peep at the sun. Where can he be? I should see him if I were to go into his beam there--shouldn't I?" "He's shining past the end of the cottage," said Willie. "Go, and you'll see him." "Go where?" asked Agnes. "Into the red sunbeam on the fir-tree." "I haven't got my wings yet, Willie." "That's what people very often say when they're not inclined to try what they can do with their legs." "But I can't go there, Willie." "You haven't tried." "You're not even trying to try. You're standing talking, and saying you can't." "Gently, gently! Don't bring the tree down with your tremendous weight," cried Willie, following her close behind. At the end of the stairs she sprang upon the bough of the fir, and in a moment more was sitting in the full light of the sunset. "O Willie! Willie! this _is_ grand! How good, how kind of you! You _have_ made a bird of me! What will papa and mamma say? Won't they be delighted? I must run and fetch Mona." So saying she hurried across again, and down the stair, and away to look for Mona Shepherd, shouting with delight as she ran. In a few minutes her cries had gathered the whole house to the bottom of the garden, as well as Mr Shepherd and Mona and Mrs Hunter. Mr Macmichael and all of them went up into the tree, Mr Shepherd last and with some misgivings; for, having no mechanical faculty himself, he could not rightly value Willie's, and feared that he might not have made the stair safe. But Mr Macmichael soon satisfied him, showing him how strong and firm Willie had made every part of it. So Willie was henceforth able to relieve his father by paying all his own college expenses. He laid by a little too, as his father wished him, until he should see how best to use it. His father always talked about _using_ never about _spending_ money. "My shoemaking is nearly over, Mr Willie," he said. "But I don't mind much; I'm sure to find a corner in the general business ready for me somewhere when I'm not wanted here any more." "Have you been drinking the water lately?" asked Willie. On the way back a thought struck him, about which, however, he would say nothing to Hector until he should have talked to his father and mother about it, which he did that same evening at supper. "But I should be such a trouble to you all, Mr Willie!" "They would only enjoy it the more that you enjoyed it," said Willie. It was all arranged. As soon as Hector was able to be moved, he was carried up to the Ruins, and there nursed by everybody. Nothing could exceed his comfort now but his gratitude. He was soon able to work again, and as he was evidently happier when doing a little towards the general business, Mr Macmichael thought it best for him. [Illustration: WILLIE'S DREAM.] WILLIE'S PLANS BLOSSOM. He had plenty of money for it, his grannie's legacy not being yet touched. He thought it all over himself, talked it all over with his father, and then consulted it all over with Spelman. The end was, that without nearly spending his little store, he had, before the time came for his return to the college, built another room. As the garret was full of his grandmother's furniture, nothing was easier than to fit it up--and that very nicely too. It remained only to find an occupant for it. This would have been easy enough also without going far from the door, but both Willie and his father were practical men, and therefore could not be content with merely doing good: they wanted to do as much good as they could. It would not therefore satisfy them to put into their new room such a person--say, as Mrs Wilson, who could get on pretty well where she was, though she might have been made more comfortable. But suppose they could find the sickly mother of a large family, whom a few weeks of change, with the fine air from the hills and the wonderful water from the Prior's well, would restore to strength and cheerfulness, how much more good would they not be doing in that way--seeing that to help a mother with children is to help all the children as well, not to mention the husband and the friends of the family! There were plenty such to be found amongst the patients he had to attend while at college. The expense of living was not great at Priory Leas, and Mr MacMichael was willing to bear that, if only to test the influences of the water and climate upon strangers. WILLIE'S PLANS BEAR FRUIT. When his studies were finished, Willie returned to assist his father, for he had no desire to settle in a great city with the ambition of becoming a fashionable doctor getting large fees and growing rich. He regarded the end of life as being, in a large measure, just to take his share in the general business. But Willie had come home with a new idea in his head. An old valetudinarian in the city, who knew every spa in Europe, wanted to try that of Priory Leas and had consulted him about it. Finding that there was no such accommodation to be had as he judged suitable, he seriously advised Willie to build a house fit for persons of position, as he called them, assuring him that they would soon make their fortunes if they did. Now although, as I have said, this was not the ambition of either father or son, for a fortune had never seemed to either worth taking trouble about, yet it suggested something that was better. "Why," said Willie to his father, "shouldn't we restore a bit of the Priory in such a way that a man like Mr Yellowley could endure it for a little while? He would pay us well, and then we should be able to do more for those that can't pay us." "We couldn't cook for a man like that," said his mother. "He wouldn't want that," said his father. "He would be sure to bring his own servants." They built great baths, hot and cold, and of all kinds--from baths where people could swim, to baths where they were only showered on by a very sharp rain. It was a great and admirable place. This is the story of Gutta Percha Willie.	redpajama-book	22,469
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team A SOLDIER OF VIRGINIA A TALE OF COLONEL WASHINGTON AND BRADDOCK'S DEFEAT BY BURTON EGBERT STEVENSON TO THE MEMORY OF THE GALLANT MEN WHO FELL WITH DUST OF FAILURE BITTER ON THEIR LIPS THAT OTHERS MIGHT BE TAUGHT THE LESSON OF THE WILDERNESS I. LIEUTENANT ALLEN GROWS INSULTING II. THE STORY OF FONTENOY III. IN WHICH I INTRODUCE MYSELF IV. THE ENDING OF THE HONEYMOON V. THE SECRET OF A HEART VI. I AM TREATED TO A SURPRISE VII. I DECIDE TO BE A SOLDIER VIII. A RIDE TO WILLIAMSBURG XI. DREAM DAYS AT RIVERVIEW XII. DOROTHY MAKES HER CHOICE XIII. LIEUTENANT ALLEN SHOWS HIS SKILL XIV. I CHANCE UPON A TRAGEDY XV. WE START ON A WEARY JOURNEY XVI. THE END IN SIGHT XVII. THE LESSON OF THE WILDERNESS XVIII. DEFEAT BECOMES DISHONOR XIX. ALLEN AND I SHAKE HANDS XX. BRADDOCK PAYS THE PRICE XXI. VIRGINIA BIDS US WELCOME XXII. A NEW DANGER AT RIVERVIEW XXIII. THE GOVERNOR SHOWS HIS GRATITUDE XXIV. A WARNING FROM THE FOREST XXV. I FIND MYSELF IN A DELICATE SITUATION XXVI. A DESPERATE DEFENSE XXVII. I COME INTO MY OWN XXVIII. AND SO, GOOD-BY LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "I DO NOT LOVE HIM, TOM" "FOR SHAME, GENTLEMEN!" THE SAVAGES POURED OVEB THE THRESHOLD A SOLDIER OF VIRGINIA LIEUTENANT ALLEN GROWS INSULTING It was not until he sneered at me openly across the board that I felt my self-control slipping from me. "Lieutenant Allen seems to have a poor opinion of the Virginia troops," I said, as calmly as I could. He paused to gulp down a glass of wine, of which I thought he had already drunk too much. The others around the table laughed in concert, and I could not but admit there was a grain of truth in the comparison. "Think you so?" and Allen laughed an insulting laugh. "There was that little brush at Fort Necessity last year, from which they brought away nothing but their skins, and damned glad they were to do that." Allen laughed again. "Ah, pardon me, Stewart," he said contemptuously, "I forgot that you were present on that glorious day." "Teach us?" cried Allen. "Curse me, sir, but you grow insulting! As for your learning, permit me to doubt your ability to learn anything. I have been trying to teach you provincials the rudiments of drill for the past fortnight, without success. In faith, you seem to know less now than you did before I began." "Yes?" I asked, my anger quite mastering me. "But may not that be the fault of the teacher, Lieutenant Allen?" He was out of his chair with an oath, and would have come across the table at me, but that those on either side held him back. "I suppose you considered your words before you spoke them, Lieutenant Stewart?" asked Preston, looking at me coldly, and still keeping tight hold on the swearing man at his side. "Fully," I answered, as I arose from my chair. "Certainly," I answered again. "I may be able to teach the gentleman a very pretty thrust in tierce." Upon this Allen fell to cursing again, but Preston silenced him with a gesture of his hand. Now all this was merely the empty braggartry of youth, which I blush to remember. Nor was Allen the blustering bully I then deemed him, as I was afterwards to find out for myself. But I know of nothing which will so gloss over and disguise a man's real nature as a glass of wine too much. "I shall be happy to do so, Lieutenant Stewart," cried my neighbor, stepping forward. "You would have me decline to meet him, then?" I asked, looking at him steadily. "A word of apology," he stammered, but he did not meet my eyes. His heart was not in his words. "In faith, I am wondrous glad to hear it!" he cried, his face brightening. "I could not do less than warn you." "And I thank you for your interest." He held out his hand, and I clasped it warmly. Then we turned again to the group about the table. "Well," cried Allen harshly, "does our Virginia friend desire to withdraw?" "On the contrary," answered Pennington quietly, "he has positively refused to withdraw," and as he spoke, I saw that the others looked at me with attentive eyes. "There is a little green just back of the barracks. Let us proceed to it," and he led the way toward the door. "We are ready, Lieutenant Stewart," called Pennington, and I shook my forebodings from me as I strode back toward him. "Lieutenant Stewart has no apologies to offer," I said shortly. "We are wasting time, gentlemen." "As you will," and Preston turned back to Allen. My coat was off in an instant, and I rolled the sleeve of my shirt above my elbow, the better to have it out of the way. "May I have your sword, lieutenant?" asked Pennington, and he walked with it over to where Preston stood. He was back in a moment. "Allen's sword is fully an inch the longer," he said. "I have insisted that he secure a shorter weapon." Pennington looked at me a moment in something like astonishment. "Very well," he said at last, and stepped over and spoke another word to Preston. Then he came back and handed me my sword. "You are a gallant man, Lieutenant Stewart," he said as he did so. "Ah, you break!" he cried. "'Tis not so easy as you fancied!" I did not answer, contenting myself with playing more cautiously than I had done in my self-satisfaction of a moment before. Out of the corners of my eyes, I could see a portion of the circle of white faces about us, but they made no sound, and what their expression was I could not tell. The night air and the fast work were doing much to sober my opponent, and I felt his wrist grow stronger as he held down my point for an instant. It was his turn to smile, and I felt my cheeks redden at the expression of his face. Again he got inside my guard, but again I was out of reach ere he could touch me. I saw that I was making but a sorry showing, and I tried the thrust of which I had had the bad taste to boast, but he turned it aside quite easily. And then, of a sudden, I heard the beat of a horse's hoofs behind me. "For shame, gentlemen!" cried a clear voice, which rang familiar in my ears. "Can the king's soldiers find no enemies to his empire that they must fight among themselves?" Our seconds struck up our swords, and Allen looked over my shoulder with a curse. "Another damned provincial, upon my life!" he cried. "Was there ever such impudence!" [Illustration: "FOR SHAME GENTLEMEN!"] As he spoke, the horseman swung himself from the saddle with an easy grace which declared long training in it, and walked coolly toward us. "So," sneered Allen, "'t is the hero of Fort Necessity! I can well believe him averse to fighting." My cheeks were hot with anger and I saw Washington flush darkly, but he gazed at Allen coldly, and his voice was calm as ever when he spoke. "It shall be my privilege at some future time," he said, "to call the gentleman to account for his words. At present, my sword is pledged to the king and may be drawn in no other service, more especially not in my own. I trust, Lieutenant Stewart, you will have the courage to sheathe your blade." I hesitated. It was a hard thing to ask a man to do. "Yes, put up your sword!" cried Allen scornfully. "Allow yourself to be reproved like a naughty boy by this hero who knows only how to retreat. On my soul, 't was well he arrived when he did. I should have finished with you long ere this." Washington looked at me steadily, without showing by the movement of a muscle that he had heard. My cheeks flushed again, this time with pleasure, and I picked up my scabbard and sent my blade home. "I must beg you to excuse me, Lieutenant Allen," I said. "Colonel Washington says right. My sword is not my own until we have met the French. Then I shall be only too pleased to conclude the argument." Allen's lips curved in a disdainful smile. I bit my lips to keep back the angry retort which leaped to them, and I saw Washington's hand trembling on his sword. It did me good to see that even he maintained his calmness only by an effort. "Oh, come, Allen," cried Pennington, "you go too far. There can be no question of Lieutenant Stewart's courage. He was ready enough to meet you, God knows! Colonel Washington is right, our swords belong to the king while he has work for them," and the young fellow, with flushed face, held out his hand to Washington, who grasped it warmly. "I thank you," he said simply. "I should be sorry to believe that all the king's officers could so far forget their duty. Come, lieutenant," he added to me, and taking me by the arm, he walked me out of the group, which opened before us, and I ventured to think that not all of the faces were unfriendly. "I have a message for Sir Peter Halket," he said, when we were out of earshot. "Show me his quarters, Tom, and so soon as I have finished my business, we will talk over this unhappy affair." "But the time will come," I said, speaking aloud before I thought. "Yes, the time will come, Tom," and Washington looked at me with a grim smile. "The time will come sooner than you think, perhaps, when these braggarts will be taught a lesson which they greatly need. Pray heaven the lesson be not so severe that it shake the king's empire on this continent." "Shake the king's empire?" I repeated, looking at him in amazement. "I do not understand." "No matter," he said shortly. "Here we are at headquarters. Do you wait for me. I will be but a moment;" and he ran up the steps, spoke a word to the sentry, and disappeared within. THE STORY OF FONTENOY "There was nothing to keep me at Riverview," I answered bitterly. "My absence is much preferred to my presence there. Had I not come to Winchester, I must have gone somewhere else. Your letter came most opportunely." "I have not yet thanked you, Colonel Washington," I said at last, "for securing me my appointment. I was eating my heart out to make the campaign, but saw no way of doing so until your message reached me." I opened my mouth to protest, but he silenced me with a gesture. "I can see it as though it were here before us," he continued. "The French and Indians on the knoll yonder, my own men kneeling in the trenches, almost waist-deep in water, trying in vain to keep their powder dry; here and there a wounded man lying in the mud and cursing, the rain and mist over it all, and the night coming on. And then, suddenly, the rush of Indians at our back, and over the breastwork. I had my pistol in my hand, you remember, Tom, but the powder flashed in the pan, and the foremost of the savages was upon me. I saw his tomahawk in the air, and I remember wondering who would best command when I was dead. But your aim was true and your powder dry, and when the tomahawk fell, it fell harmless, with its owner upon it." For a moment neither of us spoke. My eyes were wet at thought of the scene which I so well remembered, and when I turned to him, I saw that he was still brooding over this defeat, which had rankled as a poisoned arrow in his breast ever since that melancholy morning we had marched away from the Great Meadows with the French on either side and the Indians looting the baggage in the rear. As we reached my quarters, we turned by a common impulse and continued onward through the darkness. "'Gentlemen of the French Guard,' cried Lord Charles Hay, 'fire, if you please.' I lifted my hat from my head, and my lips were trembling. "I salute them," I said. "'T was well done. And was General Braddock present on that day?" "I shall not forget it." And then I added, "Perhaps the story you have told me will give me greater patience with our drill-master." As for myself, I confess I shared none of these forebodings, and welcomed the chance to turn our talk to a more cheerful subject. "But about yourself?" I questioned. "There is much I wish to know. Until your note reached me, I had not heard a word from you since you rode away from Mount Vernon with Dinwiddie's messenger." His face cleared, and he looked at me with a little smile. I shall think myself very happy to form an acquaintance with a person so universally esteemed, and shall use every opportunity of assuring you how much I am, Sir, your most obedient servant, ROBERT ORME, Aide-de-Camp. "And what make of man is the general?" I asked. A cloud settled on Washington's face. "I left them well enough," I answered shortly. Washington glanced keenly at my downcast face, for indeed the memory of what had occurred at Riverview was not pleasant to me. "Did you quarrel with your aunt before you came away?" he asked quietly. "Yes," I said, and stopped. How could I say more? We walked on in silence for some time, each busy with his own thoughts, and mine at least were not pleasant ones. "Tom," said Washington suddenly, "what was the quarrel about? Was it about the estate?" "Oh, no," I answered. "We shall never quarrel about the estate. We have already settled all that. It was something quite different." I could not tell him what it was; the secret was not my own. He looked at me again for a moment, and then, stopping suddenly, wheeled me around to face him, and caught my hand. "I think I can guess," he said warmly, "and I wish you every happiness, Tom." My lips were trembling so I could not thank him, but I think he knew what was in my heart. IN WHICH I INTRODUCE MYSELF "Married!" cried the elder Stewart. "Why, damme, sir, do you know who the Wyeths are?" "All this is beside the point, father," he said hotly. "My word is given, and I intend to keep it. Even if it were not given, I should still do my best to win Patricia, because I love her." "Love her, and welcome!" cried his father. "Marry her, if you want to. But you'll never bring a pauper like that inside my house while I am alive." "Nor after you are dead, if you do not wish it," answered Tom, with his head higher in the air than ever. "No, nor after I am dead!" thundered the old man, his anger no doubt carrying him farther than he intended going. "You are acting like a scoundrel, sir. You know well enough I can't cut you out of the estate, since you are the eldest, so you think to take advantage of me." "Never fear, sir," cried Tom, his lips white with anger and his eyes ablaze. "You shall ask me back to Riverview yourself ere I return there; yes, and beg my wife's pardon for insulting her." "Then, by God, you'll never return!" snorted his father, and without waiting to hear more, Tom stalked from the room and from the house. I think even then his father would have called him back, had the boy given him the chance, and his face was less red than usual when he heard the street door slam. THE ENDING OF THE HONEYMOON "Yes, it is true," he answered, and looked down at me, smiling sadly. "Shall I tell you the story, Thomas?" I nodded eagerly, for I loved to listen to stories, especially true ones. A great deal more he told me, which slipped from my memory, for I was thinking over what he had already said. "And your mother and father," I asked, as we started back together, "fled from France rather than give up their faith?" "Yes," he answered, and smiled down into my eyes, raised anxiously to his. "And were persecuted just as the early martyrs were?" "Yes, very much the same. All of their goods were taken from them, and they were long in prison." "But they were never sorry?" I trotted on in silence for a moment, holding tight to his kindly hand, and revolving this new idea in my mind. At last I looked up at him, big with purpose. "I am going to do something like that some day," I said. He gazed down at me, his eyes shining queerly. "God grant that you may have the strength, my boy," he said. He bent and kissed me, and we returned to the house together without saying another word. "Who are the gentlemen, mother?" I whispered, so soon as I could get her ear. "It is Colonel Byrd and his son come back from London," she answered. "Now take your eyes off them and attend the service." Presently the old overseer, whom Mr. Fontaine addressed as Murray, and who had grown from youth to trembling age in the Byrd service, came in to offer us refreshment, and over the table they fell to gossiping. Mr. Fontaine nodded over his tea. "Yes," he said, "Evelyn's death was a great blow to her father." "You may well say that, sir," assented Murray, with a sigh. "He was never the same man after. He used to sit there at that window and watch her in the garden, after they came back from London, and every day he saw her whiter and thinner. At night, after she was safe abed, I have seen him walking up and down over there along the river, sobbing like a baby. And when she died, he was like a man dazed, thinking, perhaps, it was he who had killed her." "I know," nodded Mr. Fontaine. "I was here." There was a moment's silence. I was bursting with questions, but I did not dare to speak. "The young master took him back to London after that," went on Murray, "hoping that a change would do him good and take his mind off Miss Evelyn, but I doubt he'll ever get over it. While they were in London, Sir Godfrey Kneller painted him and Miss Evelyn. Would you like to see the pictures, sir?" "Yes, I should like to see them," said Mr. Fontaine softly. "Evelyn was very dear to me." "Why did Miss Evelyn die?" I questioned, as soon as we were out of the avenue of tulips and in the highway. He looked down at me a moment, and seemed hesitating for an answer. "She loved a man in London," he said. "Her father would not let her marry him, and brought her home. She was not strong, and gossips say her heart was broken." "But why would he not let her marry him?" I asked. "He was not of her religion. Her father thought he was acting for her good." I pondered on this for a time in silence, and found here a question too great for my small brain. "But was he right?" I asked at last, falling back upon my companion's greater knowledge. He looked out across the fields with tender eyes and I slipped my hand in his. A vision of her sad face danced before me and I fell asleep, my head within his arm, to waken only when he lifted me down at our journey's end. All this came back to me with the vividness which childish recollections sometimes have, as I sat there in the pew at my mother's side. Only I could not quite believe that this little wrinkled old man was the same who looked so proudly from Kneller's canvas. But when the service ended and he stopped to exchange a word with father, I saw the face was indeed the same, though now writ over sadly by the hand of time weighted down with sorrow. It was the only time I ever saw him in the flesh, for he was near the end and died soon after. He was buried beside his daughter in the little graveyard near his home. It was Mr. Fontaine who closed his eyes in hope of resurrection and spoke the last words above his grave,-beloved in this great mansion as in the lowliest cabin at Charles City. I was awakened from the doze into which I had fallen by the sound of rapid hoof-beats down the road. We listened to them in silence, as they drew near and nearer. I did not doubt it was my father, for few others ever rode our way. He had been from home all day, as he frequently was of late, only he did not usually return so early in the evening. Something in my mother's face as she strained her eyes into the shadows to catch a glimpse of the advancing horseman drew me from my chair and to her side. "It is your father," she said, in a voice almost inaudible, and as she spoke, the rider leaped from the shadow of the trees. He drew his horse up before the porch with a jerk and threw himself from the saddle. As he came up the steps, I saw that his face was strangely flushed and his eyes gleaming in a way that made me shiver. I felt my mother's arm about me trembling as she drew me closer to her. "Well, it's over," he said, flinging himself down upon the upper step, "and damme if I'm sorry. Anything's better than living here in the woods like a lump on a log." "If you choose to call it that," said my father ungraciously, and he turned his back to us and gazed gloomily out over the water. For a moment there was silence. "Since we no longer possess this place," said my mother at last, "I suppose you intend to forget your foolish anger against your father, and claim your patrimony?" "You would make your boy a beggar to gratify a foolish whim!" retorted my mother, her voice trembling with passion. I had never seen her so, and even my father glanced at her furtively in some astonishment. "Very well. In that it is for you to do as you may choose, but his estate here, or what is left of it, shall be kept intact for him." My father started as though he had been struck across the face, but he was too far gone in anger to listen to the voice of reason. Indeed, I have always found that the more a man deserves rebuke, the less likely is he to take it quietly. "Come here, Tom," he said to me, and when I hesitated, added in a sterner tone, "come here, sir, I say." I had no choice but to go to him, nor did my mother seek to hold me back. He caught me by the arms and bent until his face was close to mine. "Yes," I faltered. "I promise you, sir." "Good!" he said. "And the other is that you will pay my debts of honor after I am dead, if they be not paid before. Promise me that also, Tom." His eyes were on mine, and I could do nothing but obey, even had I thought of resisting. "I promise that also, sir," I said. "Very well," and he retained his grasp on my arms yet a moment. "Remember, Tom, that a gentleman never breaks his word. It is his most priceless possession, the thing which above all others makes him a gentleman." THE SECRET OF A HEART "What is it?" I cried. "What has happened?" My old mammy had her arms around me and caught me up to her face, down which the tears were streaming. "Oh, Lawd, keep dis chile!" she sobbed, looking down at me with infinite tenderness. "Oh, Lawd, bless an' keep dis chile!" "But, mammy," I repeated impatiently, "what has happened?" Her trembling lips would not permit her answering, but she pointed to the door of my father's room and her tears broke forth afresh. "Is my mother there?" I asked. "Is it you, doctor?" asked my mother's voice. "No, mother, it is only I," I said. "Yes, mother," I answered, "I am here." "And you love me, do you not, Tom?" "Oh, yes, mother!" I cried; and I thank God to this day that there was so much of genuine feeling in my voice. "Then if you love me, Tom," she said, "you will go back to your room and not come near this door again. Promise me, Tom, that you will do as I ask you." "I promise, mother," I answered. "But what has happened? Is father dead?" "Mr. Fontaine will be here soon," she said, "and will explain it all to you. Now run back to your room, dearest, and go to bed." "Yes, mother," I said again, but as I turned to go, I heard a sound which struck me motionless. No, my father was not dead, for that was his voice I heard, pitched far above its usual key. "I shall never go back," he cried. "I shall never go back till he asks me." I felt the perspiration start from my forehead. "Have you gone, Tom?" asked my mother's voice. "I am just going, mother," I sobbed, and tore myself away from the door. My mammy's arms were about me again as I turned, and carried me back to my room. This time I did not resist, but as she sat down, still holding me, I laid my head upon her breast and sobbed myself to sleep. When I awoke, I found that I was in bed with the covers tucked close around me, and through my window I could see the gray dawn breaking. I lay and watched the light grow along the horizon and up into the heavens. And while I lay thus, with heart aching dully, the door of my room opened softly, and with joy inexpressible I saw that it was my beloved friend who entered. "Oh, Mr. Fontaine!" I cried, and stretched out my arms to him. He took me up as a mother might, and held me close against his heart. "Well, the trial has come, Tom, and I want you to be brave and strong. You are not going to disappoint me, are you?" Oh, it was hard, and I was only a child, but I sat upright on his knee and tried to dry my tears. "I will try," I said, but the sobs would come in spite of me. "That is right," and he was stroking my hair in that old familiar, tender way. "Your father is very ill, Tom." Well, if that was all, I could bear it, certainly. "But he will get well," I said. He was looking far out at the purple sky, and his face seemed old and gray. "I hope and pray so," he said at last. "He has the smallpox, Tom. There are some cases along the river near Charles City, and he must have caught it there. Doctor Brayle has done everything for him that can be done." "And my mother is with him!" I cried, and my heart seemed bursting. He held me tight against him, and I felt a tear fall upon my head. This was the trial, then--for him no less than me. "What is it?" I cried, and ran to him. He took my hands in his. "Your father died an hour ago, Tom," he said, and smoothed my hair in the familiar way which seemed to comfort him as well as me. "And my mother?" I asked, for it was of her I was thinking. "Your mother is ill, too," he said, and placed his arms about me and held me close, "but with God's grace we will save her life." But I had started from him. "If she is ill," I cried, "I must go to her. She will want me." He shook his head, still holding to my hands. "We must remain here," he said, and I dropped back beside him, and waited in a kind of stupor. "'I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.'" "'Now is Christ risen from the dead, and become the firstfruits of them that slept.'" On and on went the voice; there was nothing else in the whole wide world but that voice crying out over my mother's grave. "'I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me. Write. From henceforth blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.'" And then the voice faltered and broke. "She was the light of my life and the joy of my heart," it was no longer the ritual of the church; "and yet had I to walk beside her and tell her naught. And now is she taken from me, for the Lord hath received her to His bosom to live in the light of His love forevermore." I AM TREATED TO A SURPRISE The rain was falling dismally as the coach in which I had made the journey rolled up the drive to Riverview, and I caught but a glimpse of the house as I was rushed up the steps and into the wide hall. A lady dressed in a loose green gown was seated in an easy-chair before the open fire, and she did not rise as I entered, doubtless because her lap was full of knitting. "Gracious, how wet the child is!" she cried, looking me over critically. "Take him to his room, Sally, and see that he has a bath and change of clothing. I'm sure he needs both." He was seated at a great table, and had apparently been going over some accounts, for the board in front of him was littered with books and papers. I saw, even beneath the disguise of his red face and white hair, his strong resemblance to my father, and my heart went out to him on the instant. For I had loved my father, despite the wild behavior which marred his later clays. Indeed, I always think of him during that time as suffering with a grievous malady, of which he could not rid himself, and which ate his heart out all the faster because he saw how great was the anguish it caused the woman he loved. That it was some such disease I am quite certain, so different was his naturally strong and sunny disposition. My grandfather gazed at me some moments without speaking, as I stood there, longing to throw myself into his arms, and all the misery of the years that followed might never have been, had I buried my pride and followed the dictates of my heart. But I waited for him to speak, and the moment passed. "So this is Tom's boy," he said at last. "My God, how like he is!" I felt my cheeks flushing, but I judged it best to choke back the words which trembled on my lips. "I can read your thought," said my grandfather quickly. "You are thinking that the heir of Riverview could hardly be called a pauper. Do not forget that your father forfeited his claim to the estate by his ungentlemanly conduct." "I shall not forget it," I burst out. "My father made sure that I should never forget it. I shall never claim the estate. And my father's conduct was never ungentlemanly." I waited to hear no more, but with crimson cheeks and head in air, I turned on my heel and started for the door. "Damn my stars, sir!" he roared. "Wait to hear me out." "He's done been stealing Mas' Tom," answered Gump. "Ain' goin' t' hab no t'iefs roun' dis yere house, not if I knows it." "What did he steal, uncle?" I asked. "Dis yere whip," said Gump, and he held up an old riding-whip of mine. I looked at it and hesitated for a moment. Was it worth beating a child for? The little beady eyes were gazing at me in an agony of supplication. "Gump," I said, "don't beat him. That's all right. I want him to have the whip." Gump stared at me in astonishment. "Yes," I said, "I give him the whip, Gump," and luckily the old man could not distinguish between the past and present tenses of the verb, so that I was spared a lie. The little thief ran away with the whip in his hand, and it was long before the incident was recalled to me. So I returned again to my books, and to the silent but no less active antagonism toward my aunt. Yet, I would not paint her treatment of me in too gloomy colors. Doubtless I gave her much just cause for offense, for I had grown into a surly and quick-tempered boy, with raw places ever open to her touch. That she loved her children I know well, and her love for them was at the bottom of her dislike for me. I have learned long since that there is no heart wholly bad and selfish. "Good-morning, Thomas," she said politely enough, as I entered, and, as I returned her greeting, motioned me to a chair. She seemed to hesitate at a beginning, and in the moment of silence that followed, I saw that her face was growing thinner, and that her hair was streaked with gray. "I have sent for you, Thomas," she said at last, "to find out what your intention is with regard to this estate. You know, of course, that your father forfeited it voluntarily, and that you have no moral claim to it. Still, the law might sustain your claim, should you choose to assert it." "Very well," she said at last. "Your resolution does credit to your honor, and I will see that you do not regret it. I will undertake the management of both estates until my son becomes of age. You shall have an ample allowance. Let me see; how old are you?" "He was saying only yesterday that I should soon have to seek another tutor." "'T is as I thought. Well, what say you to a course at William and Mary?" She smiled again as she saw how my cheeks flushed. "I should like it above all things," I answered earnestly, and, indeed, I had often thought of it with longing, so lonely was my life at Riverview. "It shall be done," she said. "The year opens in a fortnight's time, and you must be there at the beginning." I thanked her and left the room, and ran to my tutor, who had arrived some time before, to acquaint him with my good fortune. He was no less pleased than I, and forthwith wrote me a letter to Dr. Thomas Dawson, president of the college, commending me to his good offices. So, in due course, I rode away from Riverview, not regretting it, nor, I dare say, regretted. In truth, I had no reason to love the place, nor had any within it reason to love me. "Dr. Price," I whispered eagerly, "will you do me the favor of presenting me to that young lady?" "Why, bless my soul!" he exclaimed, looking at me over his glasses in astonishment, "you seem quite excited. Which young lady?" He looked at me quizzically for a moment, and laughed to himself as though I had uttered a joke. "Why, certainly," he said. "Come with me." I could have kissed his hand in my gratitude, as he turned back toward the group. I followed a pace behind, and felt that my hands were trembling. The group opened a little as we approached, and in a moment we were before her. "Miss Randolph," said Dr. Price, "here is a young gentleman who has just begged of me the favor of an introduction. Permit me to present Mr. Thomas Stewart." "Why, 'pon my word," cried that young lady, "'t is cousin Tom!" and as I stood gaping at her like a fool, in helpless bewilderment, she came to me and gave me her hand with the prettiest grace in the world. I DECIDE TO BE A SOLDIER "Come, cousin," she cried, "you look as though you saw a ghost. I assure you I am not a ghost, but very substantial flesh and blood." Dorothy led the way, for I was too blinded with joy to see where I was going, and with a directness which showed acquaintance with the great house, proceeded to a corner under the stair which had a bit of tapestry before it that quite shut us out from interruption. She sat down opposite me, and I pinched my arm to make sure I was not dreaming. "Why, Tom," she cried, with a little laugh, as she saw me wince at the pain, "you surely do not think yourself asleep?" "I know not whether 't is dreaming or enchantment," said I; "but sleep or sorcery, 't is very pleasant and I trust will never end." "What is it that you think enchantment, Tom?" she asked. "Oh, what do you think it can be?" she questioned, pretending to look mightily concerned, "Do you think it is the fever, Tom?" But I was far past teasing. "To think that you should be Dorothy!" I said. "I may call you Dorothy, may I not?" "Why, of course you may!" she cried. "Are we not cousins, Tom?" "Such a big, overgrown fellow, with all his heart in his face. What a monstrous fine suit that is you have on, Tom!" "How old is this Mr. Washington?" I asked, when I had managed to get by her side again. "I dare say," I muttered, biting my lips with vexation, and avoiding Dorothy's laughing eyes. I was a mere puppy, or I should have known that a woman never praises openly the man she loves. "I am sure you will admire him when you meet him," she continued, "as I am determined you shall do this very night. He is a neighbor, you know, and I'll wager that when you come to live at Riverview, you will be forever riding over to Mount Vernon." "Oh, doubtless!" I said, between my teeth, and I longed to have Mr. Washington by the throat. "How comes it I heard nothing of him when I was at Riverview?" "'Tis only since last year he has been there," she answered. "The estate belonged to his elder brother, Lawrence, who died July a year ago, and Major Washington has since then been with his mother, helping her in its management. Before that time, he had been over the mountains surveying all that western country, and then to the West Indies, where he had the smallpox, because he would not break a promise to dine with a family where it was. But what is the matter? You seem quite ill." "It is nothing," I said, after a moment. "It was the smallpox which killed my father and my mother." "He is an extraordinary man," cried Dorothy, "as you will say when you meet him. A word of caution, Tom," she added, seeing my desperate plight, and relenting a little. "Say nothing to him of the tender passion, for he has lately been crossed in love, and is very sore about it. A certain Mistress Cary, to whom he was paying court, hath rejected him, and wounded him as much in his self-esteem as in his love, which, I fancy, was not great, but which, on that account, he is anxious to have appear even greater, as is the way with men." "Trust me," said I, with a great lightening of the heart; "I shall be very careful not to wound him, Dorothy." "Pray, why dost thou smile so, Tom?" she asked, her eyes agleam. "Is it that there is a pair of bright eyes here in Williamsburg which you are dying to talk about? Well, I will be your confidante." "Ah, you blush, you stammer!" cried my tormentor. "Come, I'll wager there's a pretty maid. Tell me her name, Tom." I looked at her and gripped my hands at my side. If only this crowd was not about us--if only we were alone together somewhere--I would be bold enough. "And why do you look so savage, Tom?" she asked, and I could have sworn she had read my thought. "You are not angry with me already! Why, you have known me scarce an hour!" I could endure no more, and I reached out after her, heedless of the time and of the place. Doubtless there would have been great scandal among the stately dames who surrounded us, but that she sprang away from me with a little laugh and ran plump into a man who had been hastening toward her. The sight of her in the arms of a stranger brought me to my senses, and I stopped dead where I was. "'Tis Mr. Washington!" she cried, looking up into his face, and as he set her gently on her feet, she held out her hand to him. He raised it to his lips with a courtly grace I greatly envied. "Mr. Washington, this is my cousin, Thomas Stewart." "Where is my mother, Dolly?" he asked. "I have news for her." "She is in the reception hall with the governor's wife," she answered. "But may we not have your news, Mr. Washington?" He paused and looked back at her a moment. "I was right, then!" she cried, her eyes sparkling in sympathy with his. "I was just telling cousin Tom I believed the governor had a mission for you." "Boston? New York? London?" she questioned, but he shook his head at each, smiling evermore broadly. "No, 't is none of those. 'T is Venango." "Venango?" cried Dorothy. "Where, in heaven's name, may that be?" Nor was I any the less at a loss. "'T is a French outpost in the Ohio country," answered Washington, "and my mission, in brief, is to warn the French off English territory." Dorothy gazed at him, eyes wide with amazement. There was something in the speaker's words and look which fired my blood. "You will need companions, will you not, Major Washington?" I asked. He smiled in comprehension, as he met my eyes. My disappointment must have shown in my face, for he gave me his hand again. "I thank you for your offer, Mr. Stewart," he said earnestly. "Believe me, if it were possible, I should ask no better companion. But do not despair. I have little hope the French will heed the warning, and 't will then be a question of arms. In such event, there will be great need of brave and loyal men, and you will have good opportunity to see the country beyond the mountains. But I must find my mother, and tell her of my great good fortune." "I am very sorry I teased you, cousin Tom," she said very softly, as I turned to her to say goodnight. "Your eagerness to go with Mr. Washington pleased me mightily. It is just what I should have done if I were a man. Good-night," and before I could find my tongue, she was again at Mrs. Washington's side. "Do you not see what it is, madam?" cried Dorothy, at last. "He has no wish for the society of women this morning. He has gone mad like the rest of them. He is dying to talk of war and the French and expeditions over the mountains, as Mr. Washington and his friends are doing. Is it not so, sir?" "Indeed, I cannot deny it," I said, with a very red face. "I am immensely interested in Major Washington's expedition." "Certainly," I answered warmly, "I shall be only too glad to be of service to you and to them, Mr. Washington," and I thought with tingling nerves that Dorothy and I could not fail to be thrown much together. "And is it for that only you are kind to me, Dorothy?" I asked. "Is it not a little for my own sake?" "Hoity-toity," she cried, "an you try me too far, I shall withdraw my favor altogether, sir. My cheeks burn still when I think what might have happened at the ball the other night, when you so far forgot yourself as to grab at me like a wild Indian. 'Twas well I had my wits about me." "But, indeed, Dorothy," I protested, "'twas all your fault. You had plagued me beyond endurance." "I fear you are a very bold young man," she answered pensively, and when I would have proved the truth of her assertion, sent me packing. A RIDE TO WILLIAMSBURG "'At the instant you see him about to fire, make your horse rear. This will throw your horse before you as a shield, and if the aim is true, 't will be your horse that is hit and not yourself. The life of a horse is valuable, but that of a man is more so. "If your horse has not been hit, or is not badly hurt, you have your adversary at your mercy, and can either kill him or take him prisoner, as you may choose. If he be well mounted, and well accoutred, it is usually wisest to take him prisoner. "'If your horse has been hit mortally, take care that in falling you get clear of him by holding your leg well out and so alighting on your feet. You can easily recover in time to pistol your adversary as he passes. "'Above everything, learn to aim quickly, with both eyes open, the arm slightly bent, the pistol no higher than the breast. When the arm is fully extended, the tension causes it to tremble and so destroys the aim, and the man who cannot hit the mark without sighting along the barrel is usually dead before he can pull the trigger.'" It was the thirteenth of January, and in the dusk of the evening I was riding back to the house as usual after my bout with Captain Paul, when I heard far up the road behind me the beat of horse's hoofs. Instinctively I knew it was Major Washington, and I drew rein and watched the rider swinging toward me. In a moment he was at my side, and we exchanged a warm handclasp from saddle to saddle. "I am on my way to Riverview," he said, as we again urged our horses forward. "I hope to stay there the night and start at daybreak for Williamsburg to make my report to the governor. Do you care to accompany me, Mr. Stewart?" "Do you need to ask?" I cried. "And what was the outcome of your mission, sir?" "There will be war," he said, and his face darkened. "It is as I foresaw. The French are impudent, and claim the land belongs to them and not to us." Neither of us spoke again, but I confess I was far from sharing the gloom of my companion. Had I not determined to be a soldier, and how was a soldier to find employment, but in war? I looked at him narrowly as we rode, and saw that he was thinner than when he had left us, and that his face was browned by much exposure. Right heartily was he welcomed to Riverview, and when dinner had been served and ended, nothing would do but that he should sit down among us and tell us the story of his mission. He could scarce have failed to draw inspiration from such an audience, for Dorothy's eyes were sparkling, and I was fairly trembling with excitement. Would that I could tell the story as he told it, but that were impossible. Long before the recital ended, I was out of my chair and pacing up and down the room, and Dorothy clapped her hands with joy when that perilous passage of the Allegheny had been accomplished. "So you think there will be war?" I asked. "But you do not know what M. de Saint-Pierre has written to the governor." "I can guess," he answered, with a smile. "Yes, there will be war." "And if there is?" I cried, all my eagerness in my face. "And if there is, Mr. Stewart," he said calmly, but with a deep light in his eyes, "depend upon it, you shall go with me." I wrung his hand madly. I could have embraced him. Dorothy laughed at my enthusiasm, but with a trace of tears in her eyes, or so I fancied. "You are to come with me, Mr. Stewart," he said, seeing that I hesitated. "'T will be a good time to present you to his Excellency," and we walked together up the wide steps which led to the veranda. Even as we reached the top, the door at the end of the hall was thrown violently open, and Governor Dinwiddie stumbled toward us, his face red with excitement. He had evidently just risen from table, for he carried a napkin in his hand, and there were traces of food on his expansive waistcoat, for he was anything but a dainty feeder. His uncertain gait showed that he still suffered from the effects of a recent attack of paralysis. "By God, Major Washington," he cried, "but I'm glad to see you! I'd begun to think the French or the Indians had gobbled you up. So you've got back, sir? And did you see the French?" "Glad to meet you, Mr. Stewart," said Dinwiddie, and he gave me his hand for an instant. "We may have need erelong of men of spirit." "I trust so, certainly, your Excellency," I cried, and bowed before him. Dinwiddie looked at me for an instant with a smile. "Not until I have made my report, Governor Dinwiddie," he said. Dinwiddie turned back to him. So Washington told again of the trip over the mountains and through the forests, Dinwiddie interrupting from time to time with an exclamation of wonder or approbation. "Here is the message from M. de Saint-Pierre," concluded Washington, drawing a sealed packet from an inner pocket. "'T is somewhat stained by water, but I trust still legible." We were all upon our feet. I drew a deep breath, and saw that Washington's hand was trembling on his sword-hilt. "Certainly," said the governor heartily. "From what I have seen of Mr. Stewart, I should conclude that nothing could be better;" and when I tried to stammer my thanks, he waved his hand to me kindly and rang for wine. "Let us drink," he said, as he filled the glasses, "to the success of our arms and the establishment of his Majesty's dominion on the Ohio." Not a moment was to be lost, for Colonel Washington, while at Fort le Boeuf, had observed the great preparations made by the French to descend the Allegheny in the spring and take possession of the Ohio valley, but we hoped to forestall them. The triangle between the forks of the Ohio was admirably adapted for fortification, and it was proposed to throw up a fort there so that the French would get a warm reception when their canoes came floating down the river, and be forced to retreat to the Lakes. Dinwiddie's energy was wide-felt, and the whole colony was soon astir. "What is it?" I cried, hastening to him, and then I saw that he had stopped a horseman. The horse was breathing in short, uncertain gasps, as though near winded. "A courier from the Ohio, so he says, sir," answered the sentry. "With an urgent message for Colonel Washington," added the man on horseback. "Very well," I said, "come with me," and catching the horse by the bridle, I started toward the commander's tent, in which a light was still burning. A word to the sentry before it brought Colonel Washington himself to the door, and he signed for us to enter. The courier slipped from his horse, and would have fallen, had I not caught him and placed him on his feet. "I bring bad news, Colonel Washington," he said. "Lieutenant Ward and his whole command were captured by the French on the seventeenth, and the fort at the forks of the Ohio is in their hands." I turned cold under the blow, but Washington did not move a muscle, only his mouth seemed to tighten at the corners. "How did it happen?" he asked. "On what terms?" questioned Washington quickly. "That we march out with the honors of war and return to Virginia." "And this was done?" "What is it?" I asked of Waggoner, who had got back to headquarters before me, but he shook his head to show that he knew no more than I. "Come here a moment, Lieutenant Peyronie," he called. "You understand French. What is this fellow saying?" Peyronie exchanged a few words with the prisoner, who stooped, drew a paper from the inner pocket of the dead officer's coat, and held it toward us. Peyronie took it, glanced over it with grave countenance, and turned to Colonel Washington. "This man is Ensign Marie Drouillon, sir," he said. "The party was in command of Ensign Coulon de Jumonville, whom you see lying dead there. M. Drouillon claims that the party did not come against us as spies, or for the purpose of fighting, but simply to bring a message to you from M. de Contrecoeur, who is in command of the fort at the forks of the Ohio, which, it seems, has been named Fort Duquesne. This is the message," and he held out the paper to Washington. "'Tis in French," said the latter, glancing over it. "What does it say?" "It warns you to return to the settlements," answered Peyronie, "on the pretext that all the land this side the mountains belongs to France." Here the prisoner, who was evidently laboring under great excitement, broke in, and said something rapidly in a loud voice, which made Peyronie flush, and drew nods and cries of approbation from the other prisoners. "What does he say?" asked Washington, seeing that Peyronie hesitated. "He says, sir," answered Peyronie, with evident reluctance, "that M. de Jumonville came in the character of an ambassador and has been assassinated." Washington flushed hotly and his eyes grew dark. Peyronie put the question, but Drouillon did not reply. Again Peyronie put the question, and again there was no answer. He turned away, and apparently dismissed the matter from his mind, but that it troubled him long afterward I am quite certain, though in the whole affair no particle of blame attached to him. The French made a great outcry about it, but I have never heard that any of them ever answered the questions which were put to M. Drouillon. The truth of the matter is, that they were only too eager for some pretext upon which to base the assertion that it was the English who began hostilities, and this flimsy excuse was the best they could invent. But that little brush under the trees on that windy May morning was to have momentous consequences, for it was the beginning of the struggle which drenched the continent in blood. "That is the point!" cried Stephen. "Let us not run away until we see something to run from. Your plan is the best possible under the circumstances, Colonel Washington." Yet, with all this, there was little murmuring, the example of our commander encouraging us all. At our council in our tent that evening, Peyronie, with invincible good humor, declared that no man could complain so long as the tobacco lasted, and in a cloud of blue-gray smoke, we gave our hastily constructed fort the suggestive name of "Fort Necessity." "Do you call this war?" asked Peyronie impatiently, after an hour of this gunnery. "In faith, had I thought 'twould be like this, I had been less eager to enlist. Why don't the cowards try an assault?" "Yes, why don't they?" and I looked gloomily at the wall of trees from which jets of smoke and flame puffed incessantly. "'Tis not the kind of fighting I've been used to," cried Peyronie. "In Europe we fight on open ground, where the best man wins; we do not skulk behind the trees and through the underbrush. I've a good notion to try a sally. What say you, Stewart?" "Here comes Colonel Washington," I answered. "Let us ask him." But he shook his head when we proposed it to him. I was sitting thus, looking gloomily out at the forest in front of me, and wondering why the fire from there had ceased, when I noticed that there seemed to be many more rocks and bushes scattered about the plain than I had ever before observed. The gloom of the evening had fallen, and I rubbed my eyes and looked again to make sure I was not mistaken. No, there was no mistake, and I suddenly understood what was about to happen. "Peyronie," I whispered to my neighbor, who was sitting in the mud, swearing softly under his mustache, "we are going to have some excitement presently. The Indians are creeping up to carry us by assault." "What?" he exclaimed, sitting suddenly upright. "Oh, no such luck!" "Yes, but they are," I insisted. "Watch those bushes out there. See, they 're moving up toward us." He rose to his knees and peered keenly out through the gloom. "Pardieu," he muttered after a moment, "so they are! Well, we shall be ready for them." "Tirez, tirez!" shouted Peyronie, forgetting his English in his excitement, and we sent a volley full into them. It was a warmer reception than they had counted on, and they wavered for a moment, but there must have been a Frenchman leading them, for they rallied, and came on again with a rush. We met them with fixed bayonets, but they outnumbered us so greatly that we must have given way before them had not Colonel Washington, hearing the uproar and guessing its meaning, dashed over at the head of reinforcements and given them another volley. As I was reloading with feverish haste, I saw an Indian rush at Colonel Washington with raised tomahawk. Washington raised his pistol, coolly took aim, and pulled the trigger, but the powder flashed and did not explode. With the sweat starting from my forehead, I dashed some powder into the pan of my pistol, jerked it up, and fired. Ah, Captain Paul, how I blessed your lessons in that moment! for the ball went true, and the Indian rolled in the mud almost at Washington's feet. They had had enough, and those who were still alive leaped the trench and disappeared into the outer darkness. "They won't try that again," I remarked to Peyronie, who was sitting against the breastwork. "But what is it, man? Are you wounded?" I cried, seeing that he was very pale and held both hands to his breast. "Yes, I am hit here," he answered, and added, as I fell on my knees beside him and began to tear the clothing from the wound, "but do not distress yourself, Stewart. I can be attended after the battle is won." "A bad case," he said. "Clear into the lungs, I think. But I have seen men recover of worse hurts," he added, seeing how pale I was. I watched him as he bound up the wound with deft fingers, and then between us we carried him to the little cabin, which had been converted from magazine to hospital, and was already crowded from wall to wall. It was with a sore heart that I left him and returned to the breastwork, for I had come to love Peyronie dearly. The event was not so serious as I then feared, for, after a gallant fight for life, he won the battle, recovered of his wound, and lived to do service in another war. The repulse of the Indians seemed to have disheartened the enemy, for their fire slackened until only a shot now and then broke the stillness of the night. Our condition was desperate as it could well be, yet I heard no word of surrender. I was sitting listlessly, thinking of Peyronie's wound, when a whisper ran along the lines that the French were sending a flag of truce. Sure enough, we could see a man in white uniform approaching the breastwork, waving a white flag above his head. He was halted by the sentries while yet some distance off, and Colonel Washington sent for. He appeared in a moment. "Where is Lieutenant Peyronie?" he asked. "We will have need of him." "He is wounded, sir," I answered. "He was shot through the breast during the assault." Washington glanced about at the circle of faces. "Is there any other here who speaks French?" he asked. There was a moment's silence. "Why, sir," said Vanbraam at last, "I have managed to pick up the fag ends of a good many languages during my life, and I can jabber French a little." "Very well," and Washington motioned him forward. "Mount the breastwork and ask this fellow what he wants." Vanbraam did as he was bid, and there was a moment's high-toned conversation between him and the Frenchman. "He says, sir," said Vanbraam, "that he has been sent by his commander, M. Coulon-Villiers, to propose a parley." Washington looked at him keenly. "And he wishes to enter the fort?" "He says he wishes to see you, sir." Washington glanced about at the mud-filled trenches, the ragged, weary men, the haggard faces of the officers, the dead scattered here and there along the breastwork, and his face grew stern. "'Tis a trick!" he cried. "He wishes to see how we are situated. Tell him that we do not care to parley, but are well prepared to defend ourselves against any force the French can muster." Washington looked around at the officers grouped about him. "It is clear that we must endeavor to make terms, gentlemen," he said. "The morning will disclose our plight to the enemy, and it will then be no longer a question of terms, but of surrender. At present they believe us capable of defense, hence they talk of concessions. What say you, gentlemen?" There was a moment's silence when Vanbraam had finished reading, and then, without raising his head, Colonel Washington signed, and threw the pen far from him. Then he arose and walked slowly to his quarters, and I saw him no more that night. Captain Mackay insisted also that he must sign the paper, and, to my intense disgust, wrote his name in above that of our commander. There was little sleep for any of us that night, and I almost envied Peyronie tossing on his blanket, oblivious to what was passing about him. Vanbraam and Robert Stobo were appointed to accompany the French back to the Ohio, to remain there as hostages, and we all shook hands with them before they went away through the darkness toward the French camp. DREAM DAYS AT RIVERVIEW In the many summer evenings which followed, I played the part of that broken soldier, who, as Mr. Goldsmith tells us so delightfully, "talked the night away, Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won." During the day, I saw but little of the other members of the family, and was left greatly to my own resources. My aunt was ever busy with the management of the estate, to every detail of which she gave personal attention, and which she administered with a thrift and thoroughness I could not but admire. The worry of incessant business left its mark upon her. The lines in her face deepened, and the silver in her hair grew more pronounced, but though she doubtless felt her strength failing, she clung grimly to the work. I would have offered to assist her but that I knew she would resent the suggestion, and would believe I made it to gain some knowledge of the income from the estate, of which I had always been kept in densest ignorance, and with which, indeed, I troubled myself but little. I think her old fear of my claiming the place came on her again, and though she always tried to treat me civilly, the effort in the end proved too great for her overwrought nerves, as you shall presently hear. Young James had also much to occupy his time. His mother was as yet in doubt whether he should complete his education at William and Mary, as I had done, or should be sent to London to acquire the true polish. The boy greatly favored the latter course, as any boy of spirit would have done, and his mother would have yielded to him readily, but for the stories she had heard of the riotous living which prevailed among the young blades in London, and of which she had had ample confirmation from Parson Scott, who, I suspect, before coming to his estate at Westwood, had ruffled it with the best of them. Whether it should be Williamsburg or London, the boy was required to be kept at his books every morning, and was off every afternoon to the Dumfries tavern, where there was always a crowd of ne'er-do-wells, promoting a cock-fight, or a horse race, or eye-gouging contest. Sometimes, he elected to spend the evening in this company, and it was then that Dorothy and I were left alone together on the seat beside the river. The gossip over, we drove home again to lunch, after which, on the wide veranda or the bench by the river's edge, I would read Dorothy some bits of Mr. Addison or Mr. Pope, which latter she could not abide, though his pungent verses fell in exceeding well with my melancholy humor. Evening past and bedtime come, I lighted Dorothy's candle for her at the table in the lower hall, where the silver sticks were set out in their nightly array like French soldiers, gleaming all in white, and when I gave it to her and bade her good-night at the stair-foot, I got her hand to hold for an instant. Then to my room, where over innumerable pipes of sweet-scented, I struggled with some halting verses of my own until my candle guttered in its stick. Hours and hours did I pass thinking how I might tell her of my love, but at the last I concluded it were better to say nothing, until I had something more to offer her. What right had I, I questioned bitterly, to offer marriage to any maid, when I had no home to which to take a wife, and I had never felt the irksomeness of my circumstances as I did at that moment. Something of my thought she must have understood, for she was very kind to me, and never by any word or act showed that she thought of the poverty of my condition. "Ah, Tom," he cried, "I thought I should see you soon," and he took my hand warmly. "Is it true," I asked, too anxious to delay an instant the solution of the mystery, "that you have left the service?" "And you will not make the campaign?" "I see no prospect now of doing so." "But why?" I asked. "Pardon me, if I am indiscreet." "'Tis a reason which all may know," and he smiled grimly, "which, indeed, I wish all to know, that my action may not be misjudged." We were walking up and down before the door, and he paused a moment as though to choose his words, lest he say more than he desired. "You know there has been great unpleasantness," he said at last, "between officers holding royal commissions and those holding provincial ones, concerning the matter of precedence. You may remember that Captain Mackay held himself my superior at Fort Necessity, because he had his commission from the crown." Of course I remembered it, as well as the many disagreements which the contention had occasioned. It was some minutes before I understood the full effect which such an order would have. "Unquestionably," and Washington looked away across the fields with a stern face. "But that is an outrage!" I cried. "What, every whippersnapper in the line be your superior? Why, it's rank folly!" "So I thought," said Washington, "and therefore I resigned, and refused to serve under such conditions." "And you did right," I said warmly. "You could have taken no other course." "Gen'leman t' see you, sah," he said to Colonel Washington. "I have a message for you from the governor, Colonel Washington," he said, saluting, and holding out a letter bearing the governor's great seal. Washington took it without a trace of emotion, though I doubt not his heart was beating as madly as my own. "Sit down, sir," he said heartily to the messenger, "and taste our punch. I am sure you will find it excellent;" and when he had seen him seated and served, he turned away to the window and opened the letter. I watched him eagerly as he read it, and saw a slow flush steal into his cheeks. "Gladly," answered the man, "and ride back with you." So it was settled. We were not long away from the women after that, for they must hear the great news. Colonel Washington refused to speculate about it, but I was certain he was to be proffered some employment in the coming campaign commensurate with his merit. The afternoon passed all too quickly, and the moment came for us to start back to Riverview. Dorothy ran upstairs to don her safeguard, the horses were brought out, and James and I struggled into our coats. Dorothy was back in a moment, kissed Mrs. Washington and Betty, and I helped her adjust her mask and lifted her to the saddle. I felt my cheeks burning as I turned to bid good-by to Colonel Washington, who had followed us from the house. "If it should be an appointment," I began, as I grasped his hand. "You maybe sure I shall not forget you, Tom," he said, smiling down into my eager face. "I think it very likely that we shall march together to fight the French." And those last words rang in my ears all the way back to Riverview. DOROTHY MAKES HER CHOICE "Pray, what was the color of your gown, Mr. Newton?" I inquired, with a polite show of interest. Newton rose slowly from his chair and came toward me. "You are to understand whatever you please," I answered hotly, throwing my book upon the table. "Tom," cried Dorothy, "for shame, sir! Have you taken leave of your senses?" "Injuring me, indeed!" I cried, springing to my feet, furious with rage, for I could not bear to be patronized. "It is you who are insulting, and by God you shall answer for it!" "As you will," he said, with a light laugh, and turned back to the fire. I did not wonder in the morning to receive a summons from my aunt, and I found her in her accustomed chair before the table piled with papers. She glanced at me coldly as I entered, and finished looking over a paper she held in her hand before she spoke to me. "I need not tell you," she said at length, "how greatly your boorish conduct of last night surprised me. To insult a guest, and especially to do so without provocation, is not the part of a gentleman." I flushed angrily, for the justness of this statement only irritated me the more. I think it is always the man who is in the wrong that shows the greatest violence, and the man that most deserves rebuke who is most impatient of it. "There is no need for you to counsel me how a gentleman should behave," I answered hotly. "I did not summon you here to counsel you," she said still more coldly, "but to inform you that this disgraceful affair is to go no further, at least beneath this roof. Mr. Newton has promised me to overlook your behavior, which is most generous on his part, and I trust you will see the wisdom of making peace with him." "And why, may I ask, madame?" "Because," she said, looking me in the eyes, "it is most likely that he will marry my daughter, and nothing is more vulgar than a family whose members are forever quarreling." I clenched my hands until the nails pierced the flesh. She had hit me a hard blow, and she knew it. "And what does Dorothy think of this arrangement?" I asked, with as great composure as I could muster. I had not waited so long, for settling my hat on my head, I set off up the road as fast as my legs would carry me. It seemed to me I should never reach the house, and I cursed the folly which had taken me so far away, but at last I ran up the steps and into the hall. As I entered, I caught a glimpse of a well-known gown in the hall above, and in an instant I was up the stairs. I must have been a surprising object, covered with dust and breathless, but she leaned toward me and gave me her other hand. "Yes, Tom," she said very softly, "I told him no. I do not love him, Tom, and I could not marry a man I do not love." "Oh, Dorothy," I cried, "if you knew how glad I am! If you knew how I was raging along the river at the very thought that he was asking you, and fearing for your reply; for he is a very fine fellow, Dorothy," and I realized with amazement that all my resentment and anger against Newton had vanished in an instant. "But when I saw him ride by like a madman, I knew you had said no, and I came back as fast as I could to make certain." Somehow, as I was speaking, I had drawn her toward me, and my arm was around her. "Can you not guess, dear Dolly," I whispered "why I was so angry with him last night? It was because I knew he was going to ask you, and I feared that you might say yes." I could feel her trembling now, and would have bent and kissed her, but that she sprang from me with a little frightened cry, and I turned to see her mother standing in the hall below. "So," she said, mounting the steps with an ominous calmness, "my daughter sees fit to reject the addresses of Mr. Newton and yet receive those of Mr. Stewart. I perceive now why he was so deeply concerned in what I had to tell him this morning. May I ask, Mr. Stewart, if you consider yourself a good match for my daughter?" "Good match or not, madame," I cried, "I love her, and if she will have me, she shall be my wife!" "Fine talk!" she sneered. "To what estate will you take her, sir? On what income will you support her? My daughter has been accustomed to a gentle life." "And if I have no estate to which to take her," I cried, "if I have no income by which to support her, remember, madame, that it is from choice, not from necessity!" I could have bit my tongue the moment the words were out. Her anger had carried her further than she intended going, but for my ungenerous retort there was no excuse. "Am I to understand this is a threat?" she asked, very pale, but quite composed. "No, it is not a threat," I answered. "The words were spoken in anger, and I am sorry for them. I have already told you my intentions in that matter, and have no purpose to change my mind. I will win myself a name and an estate, and then I will come back and claim your daughter. We shall soon both be of age." She laughed bitterly. "Until that day, then, Mr. Stewart," she said, "I must ask you to have no further intercourse with her. Perhaps at Williamsburg you will find a more congenial lodging while you are making your fortune." My blood rushed to my face at the insult, and I could not trust myself to answer. "Come, Dorothy," she continued, "you will go to your room," and she pushed her on before her. "What is it, Sam?" I asked, as he cantered up beside me. "Lettah f'um Kuhnal Washin'ton, sah," he said, and handed me the missive. I tore it open with a trembling hand. Your friend, G. WASHINGTON. "Sam," I said, "go back to the kitchen and tell Sukey to fill you up on the best she's got," and I turned and ran into the house. I tapped at the door of my aunt's room, and her voice bade me enter. "I have just received a note from Colonel Washington," I said, "in which he tells me that he has secured me a commission as lieutenant for the campaign, so I will not need to trespass on your hospitality longer than to-morrow morning." There was a queer gleam in her eyes, which I thought I could read aright. "Yes, there are many chances in war," I said bitterly, "and I am as like as another to fall." "I am not quite so bloodthirsty as you seem to think," she answered coldly, "and perhaps a moment ago I spoke more harshly than I intended. Everything you need for the journey you will please ask for. I wish you every success." "Thank you," I said, and left the room. My pack was soon made, for I had seen enough of frontier fighting to know no extra baggage would be permitted, and then I roamed up and down the house in hope of seeing Dorothy. But she was nowhere visible, and at last I gave up the search and went to bed. I was up long before daylight, donned my old uniform, saw my horse fed and saddled, ate my breakfast, and was ready to go. I took a last look around my room, picked up my pack, and started down the stairs. "Tom," whispered a voice above me, and I looked up and saw her. "Quick, quick," she whispered, "say good-by." "Oh, my love!" I cried, and I drew her lips down to mine. "And you will not forget me, Tom?" she said. "I shall pray for you every night and morning till you come back to me. Good-by." "Forget you, Dolly? Nay, that will never be." And as I rode away through the bleak, gray morning, the mist rolling up from hill and river disclosed a world of wondrous fairness. LIEUTENANT ALLEN SHOWS HIS SKILL "You are not ill?" I cried, as I grasped his hand. He passed his hand wearily before his eyes, and we walked some time in silence. "They will return," I said. "They have all promised to return." Washington shook his head. "They will not return. Gist knows the Indians as few other white men do, and he assures me that they will not return." "Well," I retorted hotly, "Indians or no Indians, the French cannot hope to resist successfully an army such as ours." For a moment Washington said nothing. "You must not think me a croaker, Tom," and he smiled down at me again, "but indeed I see many chances of failure. Even should we reach Fort Duquesne in safety, we will scarce be in condition to besiege it, unless the advance is conducted with rare skill and foresight." I had nothing to say in answer, for in truth I believed he was looking too much on the dark side, and yet did not like to tell him so. "How do you find the general?" I asked. "A proud, obstinate, brave man," he said, "who knows the science of war, perhaps, but who is ill fitted to cope with the difficulties he has met here and has still to meet. His great needs are patience and diplomacy and a knowledge of Indian warfare. I would he had been with us last year behind the walls of Fort Necessity." "He has good advisers," I suggested. "Surely you can tell him what occurred that day." But again Washington shook his head. "But if you had not, where should I have been?" I protested. "At least, you had been in no danger from Lieutenant Allen's sword," he laughed. "I have heard many stories of his skill since I have been in camp, and perhaps it is as well he was in wine that night, and so not at his best. How has he used you since?" Washington laughed again, and I was glad to see that I had taken his mind off his own affairs. I handed it to him without a word, wondering what the man would be at. He took it nonchalantly, tested it, and turned to Langlade. "An accident, I do not doubt," he said coolly. "Such accidents will happen sometimes. Will you try again?" "Really, I must go," he said at length. "The bout has done me a world of good. I trust you will profit by the lesson, Lieutenant Stewart," and he handed me back my foil, smiled full into my eyes, and walked away. We both stared after him, until he turned the corner and was out of sight. "He's the devil himself," gasped Langlade, as our eyes met. "I have never felt such a wrist. Did you see how he disarmed me? 'Twas no accident. My fingers would have broken in an instant more, had I not let go the foil. Who is he?" Langlade fell silent a moment. "And what was the result?" I questioned, looking out over the camp as though little interested in the answer. "Can you doubt?" asked Langlade. "Allen returned to England without a scratch, and his opponent was carried back to Paris with a sword-thrust through his heart, and buried beside his royal relatives at Saint Denis. I pity any man who is called upon to face him. He has need to be a master." I nodded gloomily, put up the foils, and returned to my quarters, for I was in no mood for further exercise that morning. What Allen had meant by his last remark I could not doubt. The lesson I was to profit by was that I should stand no chance against him. I CHANCE UPON A TRAGEDY Let me say here that I believe this purblind policy of delaying the expedition instead of freely aiding it had much to do with the result. Virginia did her part with some degree of willingness, but Pennsylvania, whence the general expected to draw a great part of his transport and provision, would do nothing. The Assembly spent its time bickering with the governor, and when asked to contribute toward its own defense, made the astounding statement that "they had rather the French should conquer them than give up their privileges." Some of them even asserted that there were no French, but that the whole affair was a scheme of the politicians, and acted, to use Dinwiddie's words, as though they had given their senses a long holiday. "What under heaven could have caused that?" asked Spiltdorph. "Wild turkeys," I answered quickly, for I had often seen the like under beeches and oaks as well as chestnuts. "Come on," I added, "perhaps they are not far away." "All right," said Spiltdorph, "a wild turkey would go exceeding well on our table;" and he followed me into the forest. The turkeys had evidently been frightened away by the approach of the pioneers, and had stopped here and there to hunt for food, so that their track was easily followed. I judged they could not be far away, and was looking every moment to see their blue heads bobbing about among the underbrush, when I heard a sharp fusilade of shots ahead. "Somebody 's found 'em!" I cried. "Come on. Perhaps we can get some yet." "Good God, man!" he cried, but I had my hand over his mouth before he could say more. "Be still," I whispered "an you value your life. Look over there." "The devils!" groaned Spiltdorph. "Oh, the devils!" and I felt my own blood boiling in my veins. "Not yet," I said. "They will stop so soon as they get to cover. Wait a bit." We washed the blood from the faces of the women and stood for a long time looking down at them. They were both comely, the younger just at the dawn of womanhood. They must have been talking merrily together, for their faces were smiling as they had been in life. As I stood looking so, I was startled by a kind of dry sobbing at my elbow, and turned with a jerk to find a man standing there. He was leaning on his rifle, gazing down at the dead, with no sound but the choking in his throat. A brace of turkeys over his shoulder showed that he had been hunting. In an instant I understood. It was the husband and father come home. He did not move as I looked at him nor raise his eyes, but stood transfixed under his agony. I glanced across at Spiltdorph, and saw that his eyes were wet and his lips quivering. I did not venture to speak, but my friend, who was ever more tactful than I, moved to the man's side and placed his hand gently on his shoulder. "They died an easy death," he said softly. "See, they are still smiling. They had no fear, no agony. They were dead before they knew that danger threatened. Let us thank God that they suffered no worse." The man breathed a long sigh and his strength seemed to go suddenly from him, for he dropped his rifle and fell upon his knees. "This was my wife," he whispered. "This was my sister. These were my children. What is there left on earth for me?" I no longer sought to control the working of my face, and the tears were streaming down Spiltdorph's cheeks. Great, gentle, manly heart, how I loved you! "Yes, there is something!" cried the man, and he sprang to his feet and seized his gun. "There is vengeance! Friends, will you help me bury my dead?" "Yes, we will help," I said. He brought a spade and hoe from a little hut near the stream, and we dug a broad and shallow trench and laid the bodies in it. "He is here," said Spiltdorph, opening his coat. "He is not dead. He may yet live." The father looked at the boy a moment, then fell on his knees and kissed him. "Thank God!" he cried, and the tears burst forth. We waited in silence until the storm of grief was past. At last he wrapped the coat about the child again, and came to us where we stood beside the grave. "Friends," he said, "does either of you know the burial service? These were virtuous and Christian women, and would wish a Christian burial." Spiltdorph sadly shook his head, and the man turned to me. Could I do it? I trembled at the thought. Yet how could I refuse? "I know the service," I said, and took my place at the head of the grave. The mists of evening were stealing up from the forest about us, and there was no sound save the plashing of the brook over the stones at our feet. Then it all faded from before me and I was standing again in a willow grove with an open grave afar off. "'I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord,'" It was not my voice, but another ringing up to heaven from beside me. And the voice kept on and on until the last amen. We filled in the shallow grave and covered it with logs and rocks. Night was at hand before we finished. "You must come with us," said Spiltdorph to the stranger. "The doctor at the fort will do what he can for the child. If you still think of vengeance, you can march with us against the Indians and the French who set them on." He made a gesture of assent, and we set off through the forest. "Stewart," asked Spiltdorph, in a low voice, after we had walked some time in silence, "how does it happen you knew the burial service?" He walked on for a moment, and then came close to me and caught my hand in his. "Forgive me," he said softly. "You have done a good and generous thing. I can judge how much it cost you," and we said no more until we reached the fort. We turned the child over to Doctor Craik, and took the man, whose name, it seemed, was Nicholas Stith, to our tent with us, where we gave him meat and drink, and did what we could to take his mind from his misfortune. He remained with us some days, until his child died, as it did at last, and then, finding our advance too slow to keep pace with his passion for revenge, secured a store of ball and powder from the magazine, slung his rifle across his back, and disappeared into the forest. WE START ON A WEARY JOURNEY "Do you call this going to war?" cried Waggoner. "I'm cursed if I do!" Peyronie laughed louder than ever, and Waggoner motioned him to the pipes and tobacco. "By God, Peyronie!" he said. "I believe you would laugh in the face of the devil." Peyronie filled his pipe, chuckling to himself the while, and when he had got it to drawing nicely, settled himself upon a stool. "Why, to tell the truth," said he, "I was feeling sober enough myself till I came in here, but the sight of you fellows sitting around for all the world like death-heads at an Egyptian feast was too much for me. And then," he added, "I have always found it better to laugh than to cry." Waggoner looked at him with a grim smile, and there was a gleam in Spiltdorph's eyes, though he tried to conceal himself behind a cloud of smoke. Peyronie's good humor was infectious. "And what day is this?" "And how far have we come?" I heard Spiltdorph choking behind his cloud of smoke. Waggoner snorted with anger. "Come, talk sense, Peyronie," he said. "What's to be done?" Peyronie smiled more blandly than ever. "I fancy that is just what's troubling the general," he remarked. "I met Colonel Washington a moment ago looking like a thunder-cloud, and he said a council of war had been called at the general's tent." "There was need of it," and Waggoner's brow cleared a little. "What think you they will do?" "Shut up, man!" cried Waggoner. "Do you want a court-martial?" And we fell silent, for indeed the excesses of the officers of the line was a sore subject with all of us. But Peyronie had made a good guess, as we found out when the result of the council was made known next day. "But I will conquer it," he said, with a smile. "I cannot afford to miss the end. From here, I believe our advance will be more rapid, for the general has decided that he will leave his baggage and push on with a picked body of the troops to meet the enemy." "This is the place, is it not," he asked, "where Colonel Washington made his gallant stand against the French and Indians last year?" "It was my great good fortune," I answered simply, but with a pride I did not try to conceal. "Let me introduce myself," he said, looking at me with greater interest. "I am Captain Robert Orme, of General Brad dock's staff, and I have come to admire Colonel Washington very greatly during the month that we have been associated." "And I," I said, "am Lieutenant Thomas Stewart, of Captain Waggoner's Virginia Company." "Lieutenant Stewart!" he cried, and his hand was clasping mine warmly. "I am happy to meet you. Colonel Washington has told me of the part you played." "Not more happy than am I, captain, I am sure," I answered heartily. "Colonel Washington has spoken to me of you and in terms of warmest praise." "Now 'tis my turn to blush!" he cried, laughing, and looking at my cheeks which had turned red a moment before, "but my blood has been so spent in this horrible march that I haven't a blush remaining." "And how is Colonel Washington?" I questioned, glad to change the subject. "The last I saw him, he seemed most ill." Captain Orme looked at me quickly, "Have you not heard?" he asked, and his face was very grave. "I have heard nothing, sir," I answered, with a sinking heart. "Pray tell me." "'Twas well done," said Orme, when I had finished. "I see not how it could have been better. And I trust the victory will be with us, not with the French, when we meet before Duquesne." "Faith, I believe so," laughed Orme. "My only fear is that they will run away, and not stay to give us battle. Our spies have told us that such was their intention," and he laughed again as he saw my fallen face. "Why, I believe you are as great a fire-eater as the best of us, lieutenant." "So the general believes," said a pleasant voice, and I turned with a start to see a gallant figure standing by the raised flap of the tent. "So we are not to stop here?" asked Peyronie, when the toast was drunk. "'Tis the wiser course," said Waggoner. "We have men in plenty." "So the general thinks," said Orme. "He has learned that there is only a small garrison at the fort, which can scarce hope to resist us. But 'twas not to talk of the campaign I came here. I had a note this evening from Colonel Washington, which I knew Lieutenant Stewart would wish to see." "Oh, yes!" I cried. "What says he, sir?" Orme glanced about at the circle of attentive faces. "I see Colonel Washington has many friends here," he said, with a smile. "He writes that he is improving, and hopes soon to join us, and implores me not to neglect to warn him so that he can be present when we meet the French. I shall not neglect it," he added. "Nay," protested Orme, bowing in his turn, "it was a little thing. I, too, think much of Colonel Washington. Good-evening, gentlemen," and we all arose and saluted him, remaining standing till he was out of sight. "Colonel Washington!" I cried, and as he checked his horse sharply, I was at his side. "Why, is it you, Tom?" he asked, and as I took his hand, I noticed how thin it was. "Well, it seems I am in time." "The French may run away." "True," he said, and sat for a moment thinking. "Yet it is not like them to run without striking a blow. No, I believe we shall have a battle, Tom, and I am glad that I am to be here to see it." "But are you strong enough?" I asked. "You have not yet the air of a well man." He laughed lightly as he gathered up his reins. "In truth, Tom," he said, "I am as weak as a man could well be and still sit his horse, but the fever is broken and I shall be stronger to-morrow. But I must report to the general. He may have work for me," and he set spurs to his horse and was off. I turned back to my station, musing on the iron will of this man, who could drag his body from a bed of sickness when duty called and yet think nothing of it. All about me gleamed the white tents in which the grenadiers and provincials were sleeping, dreaming perchance of victory. Alas, for how many of them was it their last sleep this side eternity! The hours passed slowly and quietly. Presently the moon rose and illumined the camp from end to end. Here and there I could see a picket pacing back and forth, or an officer making his rounds. At headquarters lights were still burning, and I did not doubt that an earnest consultation was in progress there concerning the orders for the morrow. At midnight came the relief, and I made the best of my way back to our quarters, crawled into the tent, whose flaps were raised to let in every breath of air stirring, and lay down beside Spiltdorph. I tried to move softly, but he started awake and put out his hand and touched me. "Is it you, Stewart?" he asked. "Yes," I said, "just in from picket. Colonel Washington reached camp an hour ago, to be here for to-morrow's battle." "To-morrow's battle," repeated Spiltdorph softly. "Ah, yes, I had forgot. Do you know, Stewart, if I were superstitious, I should fear the result of to-morrow's battle, for I had a dream about it." "What was the dream?" I asked. "No matter, we are not women," and he turned to go to sleep again. "Good-night." "Good-night," I said, and in a few moments his deep breathing told me he was again in the land of dreams. It was long before my own eyes closed, and my dreams were not of battle, but of a bench upon the river's bank, and a figure all in white sitting there beside me. THE LESSON OF THE WILDERNESS "Wake up, man, wake up!" cried a voice in my ear, and I opened my eyes to see Spiltdorph's kindly face bending over me. "I let you sleep as long as I could," he added, as I sat up and rubbed my eyes, "for I knew you needed it, but the order has come for us to march." "Do you know, Stewart," he said at last, "I am becoming timid as a girl. I told you I had a dream last night, and 't was so vivid I cannot shake it off." "Tell me the dream," I said. "I dreamed that we met the French, and that I fell. I looked up, and you were kneeling over me. But when I would have told you what I had to tell, my voice was smothered in a rush of blood." "Oh, come!" I cried, "this is mere foolishness. You do not believe in dreams, Spiltdorph?" "No," he answered. "And yet I never had such a dream as this." "Why, man," I said, "look around you. Do you see any sign of the French? And yet their fort is just behind the trees yonder." He looked at me in silence for a moment, and made as if to speak, but the tap of the drum brought us to our feet. "Come," he said, "the road is finished. We shall soon see what truth there is in dreams." So soon as the line was formed, the drums beat the forward, and the head of the column was soon out of sight among the trees, St. Clair's working party cutting the road as they advanced. We were nearing the tangle of underbrush, which I thought marked the course of a stream, when there came suddenly a tremendous burst of firing from the front, followed by a great uproar of yells. My heart leaped, for I knew the French were upon us. "Close up, men!" shouted Waggoner. "Bring your party up here, Stewart!" "We've got 'em now!" yelled Waggoner. "Give it to 'em, men!" and we poured a well-directed volley into the yelling mob. "You fools!" screamed Waggoner. "Oh, you fools!" and white with rage, he gave the order to retreat. A moment later, as I looked around, I saw that Spiltdorph was not with us. "Where is he?" I asked. "Where is Spiltdorph?" Waggoner motioned behind us. "He was hit," he said. "He was killed by those cowardly assassins." The Indians were pouring back into the ravine, and I knew I could stay no longer. So I laid him gently down, and with my heart aching as it had not ached since my mother died, made my way back to my company. "There is a girl," he had said, "at Hampton." What was it he had tried to tell? Well, if God gave me life, I would find out. At the moment I joined my company, General Braddock rode up, cursing like a madman, and spurred his horse among the men. I could see him giving an order, when his horse was hit and he barely saved himself from falling under it. Another horse was brought, and in a moment he was again raving up and down the lines. "What means this?" he screamed, coming upon us suddenly, where we were sheltering ourselves behind the trees and replying to the enemy's fire as best we could. "Are you all damned cowards?" "Ay, and be killed for our pains!" cried Waggoner. "What, sir!" and the general's face turned purple. "You dare dispute my order?" and he raised his sword to strike, but his arm was caught before it had descended. "These men know best, sir," cried Washington, reining in his horse beside him. "This is the only way to fight the Indians." The general wrenched his arm away and, fairly foaming at the mouth, spurred his horse forward and beat the men from behind the trees with the flat of his sword. "Back into the road, poltroons!" he yelled. "Back into the road! I'll have no cowards in my army!" Washington and Waggoner watched him with set faces, while the men, too astounded to speak, fell slowly back into the open. Not until that moment did I comprehend the blind folly of this man, determined to sacrifice his army to his pride. I nodded curtly, for the bullets were whistling about us in a manner far from pleasing, and between us we lifted Burton and started back toward the lines. "My left leg seems paralyzed," he said. "The bullet must have struck a nerve. If I could get on horseback, I should be all right again." And then he staggered and nearly fell, for Marsh lay crumpled up in a heap on the ground. "He is dead," said Burton, as I stared down in horror at what an instant before had been a brave, strong, hopeful human being. "A man never falls like that unless he is dead. He was doubtless shot through the heart. He was a brave boy. Did you know him?" "His name was Marsh," I answered hoarsely. "He was my cousin." "I shall not forget it," said Burton, and we stood a moment longer looking down at the dead. It was plain that all was lost, that there was nothing left but to retreat. We had no longer an army, but a mere mob of panic-stricken men. The hideous yelling of the savages, as they saw the slaughter they were doing and exulted in it, the rattle of the musketry, the groans and curses of the wounded who fell everywhere about us, the screams of the maddened horses, combined into a bedlam such as I hope never to hear again. Toward the last, the Virginia troops alone preserved any semblance of order. Away off to the right, I caught a glimpse of Peyronie rallying the remnant of his company, and I looked from them to the trembling regulars, and remembered with a rush of bitterness how they had laughed at us a month before. Of a sudden there was a dash of hoofs beside me, and I saw the general rein up beneath a tree and look up and down the field. Colonel Washington was at his side, and seemed to be unwounded, though he had been ever where the fight was thickest. "This is mere slaughter!" the general cried at last. "We can do no more. Colonel Washington, order the retreat sounded." And as the drums rolled out the dismal strain which meant disgrace for him and the blighting of all his hopes, he sat his horse with rigid face and eyes from which all life had fled. He had been taught the lesson of the wilderness. DEFEAT BECOMES DISHONOR "Come, sir," he cried to the general, as he gained his side, "you must leave the field. There is no hope of getting a guard from among these cowards or persuading them to make a stand." Braddock turned to answer him, but as he did so, threw up his hands and fell forward into the arms of his aide. I sprang to Orme's assistance, and between us we eased him down. His horse, doubtless also struck by a ball, dashed off screaming through the wood. "They have done for me!" he groaned, as we placed his back against a tree. "Curse them, they have done for me." Washington, who had left his horse the instant he saw the general fall, knelt and rested the wounded man's head upon his knee, and wiped the bloody foam from off his lips. "Where are you hit?" he asked. "Here," and the general raised his left hand and touched his side. "'Tis a mortal hurt, and I rejoice in it. I have no wish to survive this day's disgrace." He cast his bloodshot eyes at the rabble of fleeing men. "And to think that they are soldiers of the line!" he moaned, and closed his eyes, as though to shut out the sight. "'Tis useless," he said. "We cannot stop them. The devil himself could not stop them now." The general had lain with his eyes closed and scarce breathing, so that I thought that he had fainted. But he opened his eyes, and seemed to read at a glance the meaning of Orme's set face. "Gentlemen," he said, more gently than I had ever heard him speak, "I pray you leave me here and provide for your own safety. I have but a little time to live at best, and the Indians will be upon us in a moment. Leave them to finish me. You could not do a kinder thing. I have no wish that you should sacrifice your lives so uselessly by remaining here with me. There has been enough of sacrifice this day." "Quick!" I cried, "I cannot hold them long." "The general commands that a stand be made here," cried Washington, leaping from the cart, and Orme jumped down beside him, while I secured the horses. "He is brave and determined as ever," said Washington in a low tone, "though suffering fearfully. The ball has penetrated his lung, I fear, for he can breathe only with great agony, and is spitting blood." Colonel Burton joined us at that moment, and between us we lifted the general from the cart and laid him on a bed of branches on the ground. We walked on in silence until we reached headquarters, where Colonel Burton was also sitting, suffering greatly from his wound now he was no longer on horseback. "Lieutenant Stewart," he said to me, "I place you in charge of the sentries for the night. Will you make the rounds and see that all is well? I know the men are weary, but I need hardly tell you that our safety will depend upon their vigilance. Guard especially against a surprise from the direction of the river." I thought for a moment that in the darkness I must have missed the place, but as I looked about me more attentively, I saw that could not be. I walked up and down, but could find no trace of him. Could it be that the Indians had stolen upon him and killed him with a blow of knife or tomahawk before he could cry out? Yet if that had happened, where was the body? I hurried back to the camp, passing the spot where we had quartered the men whom we had rallied, but who were not placed on sentry duty. "All is well, I trust, Lieutenant Stewart?" asked Colonel Burton, as I approached. Then something in my face must have startled him, for he asked me sharply what had happened. "I fear we cannot remain here, sir," I said, as calmly as I could. "All of our men have deserted us. There is not a single sentry at his post;" and I told him what I had found. He listened without a word till I had finished. "You will get the tumbrel ready for the general, lieutenant," he said quietly. "I will report this sad news to him. It seems that our defeat is to become dishonor." An hour later, as I was plodding wearily along beside the cart, thinking over the events of this tragic day, I was startled by a white face peering from beneath the upraised curtain out into the darkness. It was the stricken man within, who was surveying the remnant of that gallant army which, a few short hours before, had passed along this road so gayly, thinking itself invincible. He held himself a moment so, then let the curtain drop and fell back upon his couch. ALLEN AND I SHAKE HANDS I was plodding along, wearily enough, thinking of all this, when I heard my name called, and glancing up, saw Allen looking round the corner of the wagon cover. I accepted gratefully, though somewhat astonished at his courtesy, and in a moment was on the seat beside him. He fell silent for a time, nor was I in any mood for talk, for Spiltdorph's fate and young Harry Marsh's sudden end weighed upon me heavily. "Lieutenant Stewart," he said at last, "I feel that I did you and the Virginia troops a grave injustice when I chose to question their courage. What I saw to-day has opened my eyes to many things. In all the army, the Virginia troops were the only ones who kept their wits about them and proved themselves men. I wish to withdraw the expressions I used that night, and to apologize for them most sincerely." My hand was in his in an instant. "I think there are many of us who have been too hasty in this campaign," he said. "It is easy enough to see now that regulars are worth little in this frontier warfare, where their manoeuvres count for nothing, and that the provincials should have been left to fight in their own fashion. It is not a pleasant thought that all my work in drilling them was worse than wasted, and that every new manoeuvre I taught them impaired their efficiency by just so much." "'Twas not quite so bad as that," I protested. "The Virginia troops have much to thank you for, and we shall know better how to deal with the enemy next time." "Next time?" he repeated despondently. "But when will next time be, think you?" He did not answer, and there was a moment's silence. I glanced at his face and saw that it was very grave. "I fear it is only too possible," he answered gloomily. "If the general lives, he may order another advance; indeed, I am sure he will, in the hope of saving some fragment of his reputation. But if he dies, as seems most likely, Colonel Dunbar, who succeeds to the command, is not the man to imperil his prestige by taking such a risk." "Risk?" I cried. "How is this any greater than the risk we took at the outset?" I could not but admit the truth of this, and said as much. "I," he cried, "am determined to go out against the enemy. I am certain of victory. What! Will you suffer your father to depart alone?" After our retreat, no pursuit was attempted, the Indians busying themselves killing and scalping the wounded and gathering up the rich booty which the army had left behind. They decked themselves in British uniforms, stuck the tall caps of the grenadiers above their painted faces, wound neck, wrist, and ankle with gold lace, made the wood to echo with the dreadful scalp-halloo. Such an orgy of blood they never had before; not another such will they ever have. Early the next morning, the Indians started westward to their homes, laden with booty, sated with slaughter, leaving the French to take care of themselves as best they might. The latter remained for a week in great fear of another attack, which they would have been quite unable to withstand, little thinking that our army was fleeing back to the settlements with feet winged by an unreasoning terror. "What is it?" I asked, almost before he had reached me. "Have you not heard?" and he looked meaningly back toward a spring near which a number of men were unheading some casks. "We are to destroy all our powder and stores, burn our wagons, and flee back to the settlements, like so many children." "Why, 'tis folly!" I cried. "'Tis monstrous! Who gave such an order?" BRADDOCK PAYS THE PRICE "Confess I was a true prophet, Lieutenant Stewart," he remarked, with a sorry attempt at a smile, "though damme if I could have foretold that act of folly back yonder! You see, I know our new commander better than do you." "So it seems," I answered, and at that moment caught Colonel Washington's astonished eyes fixed upon us. Allen followed my glance, and smiled as he saw the expression of Washington's face. "No more pleased than I, I assure you, colonel," I laughed. "Lieutenant Allen gave me a sample of his swordsmanship I shall not soon forget. I should have been as helpless before him as a lamb in the jaws of a tiger." "Now you are mocking me!" cried Allen, and as I related to Colonel Washington the story of his little bout with Langlade, we rode on laughing, the best of friends. "But, believe me, Lieutenant Stewart," he said, when I had finished, "it was not self-complacency which urged me to take up the foils that day. I merely wished to show you that you had need to keep in practice, and so prevent you from becoming over-sure." "'T was well done," said Washington heartily. "I appreciate your conduct, Lieutenant Allen." "Colonel Washington," he said in a low tone, "I feel that I have done you great injustice. Had I followed your advice, this catastrophe might not have happened. But my eyes were not opened until too late. Had I lived, I should not have forgot you. I am sure you cannot withhold your pardon from a dying man." Washington's lips were trembling as he bent over the litter. "If there is anything to pardon, general," he said softly, "be sure I pardon you with all my heart. You have the love of all your officers, sir, who revere you as a brave and gallant man." Orme and I bowed our assent, and Washington thanked him with a trembling voice. He was soon wandering again, this time, apparently, among the scenes of his earlier manhood. "Messieurs de la Garde Francaise," he cried, "tirez, s'il vous plait!" "Ah," murmured Orme, "he is at Fontenoy." "She was his sister," said Orme, answering our questioning glances. "She ruined herself at cards and then hanged herself. It was a sad story." "And how many were wounded?" Orme hesitated, fearing to disclose the extent of the disaster, but the general's eyes were on his and would take no denial. He turned his head away from us, and a great tear rolled down his cheek. Orme was crying like a child, and made no effort to conceal it, nor were Washington and I less moved. "At least," he said at last, turning back to us with a smile, "it were better to have died than to have lived. I am glad I do not have to live." "Dear Pop," he said, "we are sent like sacrifices to the altar. They have given me a handful of men and expect me to conquer whole nations. I know that I shall never see you more. Good-by, Pop, and God bless you." Orme turned away for a moment to master his emotion. "'T was his last night in London," he said when he could speak. "He was to set out on the morrow, and he asked Colonel Burton and myself to go with him to visit a very dear protegee of his, George Anne Bellamy, the actress, to whom, I think, he has left all his property. He used to her almost the same words he has just repeated." "So he had doubts of his success," said Washington musingly. "Well, he was a brave man, for he never permitted them to be seen." The sword he gave me hangs above my desk as I write. I am free to confess that I have performed no great exploits with it, and when I took it down from its hook the other day to look at it, I found that it had rusted in its scabbard. VIRGINIA BIDS US WELCOME The speaker was Colonel Henry Innes, commandant of the fort, but as he looked up and down the row of faces opposite him, he saw few which showed assent. Scarcely had the rear-guard of Dunbar's troops disappeared among the trees which lined the narrow military road, when Colonel Innes had called this meeting of the officers left at the fort, "to decide," as the summons put it, "on our future course of action." As if, I thought indignantly to myself, there could be any question as to what our future course of action should be. For a moment there was an ominous silence. "May I ask what it is you propose, Colonel Innes?" asked Captain Waggoner at last. "I propose to abandon the place," replied Innes, "and to fall back to Winchester or some other point where our wounded may lie in safety and our men have opportunity to recover from the fatigues of the campaign." Washington smiled disdainfully. I had never seen him so moved, and I caught the infection of his anger. "Colonel Washington is right!" I cried hotly. "Our place is here." Innes did not so much as look at me. His eyes were on Washington, and his face was very red. "Colonel Washington," he sneered, his lips curling away from his teeth with rage, "was, I believe, an aide on the general's staff. Since the general is dead, that position no longer exists. Consequently, Colonel Washington is no longer an officer of the army, and I fail to see what right he has to take part in this discussion." "Take care, sir," cried Innes, springing to his feet. "You forget there is such a thing as court-martial." "And you forget that I am no longer of the army, and so can defy its discipline." "'T is Colonel Washington, you understand, wife," he cried. "Colonel Washington, whose advice, had it been followed, would have saved the expedition." "Do not listen to him!" I cried. "'T is true, every word of it, and much more besides." Whereat the girls smiled at me very sweetly, our host wrung my hand again, and I swear there were tears in Washington's eyes as he looked at me in feigned anger. Such a night's entertainment as was given us I shall not soon forget, nor Colonel Washington either, I dare say. Word of our presence had got about the neighborhood with singular speed, and the people flocked in by dozens, until the great hallway, which ran through the house from front to rear, was crowded from end to end. Then, nothing would do but that Colonel Washington must tell the story of the advance, the ambuscade, and the retreat, which he did with such consummate slighting of his own part in the campaign that I interrupted him in great indignation, and, unheeding his protests, related some of the things concerning him which I have already written, and which, I swear, were very well received. "But Lieutenant Stewart says nothing of what he himself did," cried Washington, when I had finished. "Because I did nothing worth relating," I retorted, my cheeks hot with embarrassment at the way they looked at me. And then, of course, they all demanded that he tell the story, which he did with an exaggeration that I considered little less than shameful. In some mysterious manner, tankards of cold, bitter Dutch beer, the kind that is so refreshing after a journey or at the close of a hot day's work, had found their way into the right hand of every man present, and as Washington ended the story and I was yet denying, our host sprang to his feet. And such a greeting as it was! We all remained a space apart until Mrs. Washington had kissed her son, as something too sacred for our intrusion. But when he turned to greet his neighbors, I have rarely seen such genuine emotion shown even in our whole-hearted Virginia. At the great dinner which followed, with Mrs. Washington at the head of the table and her son at the foot, we told again the story of the campaign, and the men forgot to sip their wine until the tale was ended. Yet with all this largess of goodwill, I was not wholly happy. For I had no home to go to, nor was there any waiting to welcome me, and the woman I loved seemed farther away than ever, though now she was so near. A NEW DANGER AT RIVERVIEW "Sir," it ran, "since you no doubt will wish to recuperate from the fatigues of the campaign so unfortunately ended, and as there is no place where you can do this so well as at Riverview, I hasten to assure you that the place is entirely at your service." I paused a moment to get my breath. Her reference to the campaign was intended as a stab, of course, yet could it be she was relenting? But hope fell as I read on. Here was a blow, straight from the shoulder, and I winced under it. "I could never consent," the note concluded, "to any attachment of a serious nature between you, having quite other views for my daughter, which, I am sure, will be for her happiness and well-being." "And how is everything at Riverview, Sam?" I asked of the boy, as we struck into the road and settled our horses into an easy canter. He did not answer for a moment, and when I glanced at him to see the cause of his silence, I was astonished to find him rolling his eyes about as though he saw a ghost. "What's the matter, boy?" I asked sharply. "Come, speak out. What is it?" He looked behind him and all around into the woods, and then urged his horse close to mine. "Mas' Tom," he said, almost in a whisper, "dere's gwine t' be hell at d' plantation foh long. Youse stay 'way fum it." "See here, Sam," I said sharply, "if you have anything to tell, I want you to tell me right away. What are you afraid of?" "D' witch man," he whispered, his eyes almost starting from his head, and his forehead suddenly beading with perspiration. "The witch man? Has a witch man come to Riverview?" "And what is he doing there, Sam?" "He says d' French dun whopped d' English, an' a-comin' t' set all d' niggahs free. He says we mus' holp, an' dere won't be no mo' slaves. All ub us be free, jus' like white folks." "Help them how, Sam?" "By killing the English, Sam?" "I reckon dat 's it," he said reluctantly. "And burning down their houses, perhaps?" "I 'se hearn dat talked erboat, too." I drew my horse in with a jerk, and catching Sam's by the bridle, pulled it to me. He began to whimper. "I'll tell yo', Mas' Tom," he stuttered, "but yo' mus' n' hurt d' witch man." "Who is this witch man?" I demanded. But the boy only shook his head and sobbed the more. "Ef he's a-killed," he cried, "his ha'nt 'll come back fo' me." I saw in a moment what the boy was afraid of. It was not of old Polete in the flesh, but in the spirit. I thought for a moment. Well, I had no reason to wish Polete any harm, yet if it were discovered that he had been inciting the slaves to insurrection, there was no power in the colony could save his life. If his owner did not execute him, the governor would take the matter out of his hands, and order it done himself. "I tell you what I'll do, Sam," I said at last. "You tell me everything you know, and I'll do all I can to save Polete. I believe I can stop this thing without calling in any outside help." I rode on for some time in silence, thinking over this story and trying to decide what I would better do. I did not know until months later that signs of unrest had been observed among the slaves all over the colony, and that the governor had considered the situation so serious that he had sent out many warnings concerning the danger. It was as well, perhaps, that I did not know this then, for I might not have thought my own portion of the problem so easy of solution. At the time, I had no thought but that the outbreak was the result of old Polete's prophecies, and was confined alone to Riverview. Sam was cantering along behind me, his face still livid with terror, and as I caught sight of it again, I wondered what impulse it was had moved him to confide in me, with such fancied peril to himself. "I would n' tole nobody else," he said, in answer to my question, "but you tole a lie fo' me oncet, an' saved me a lickin'." "Told a lie for you, Sam?" I questioned in astonishment. "When was that?" "Don' yo' 'membah boat d' whip, Mas' Tom, what I stole?" he asked. I looked at him for a moment before that incident of my boyhood came back to me. "Why, yes, I remember it now," I said. "But that was years ago, Sam, and I had forgotten it. Besides, I didn't tell a lie for you. I only told old Gump that I wished to give you the whip." "Well," said Sam, looking at me doubtfully, "yo' saved me a lickin' anyhow, an' I did n' f 'git it," and he dropped back again. "You sent for me, Mr. Stewart?" he asked. "I saw you sitting here, and decided you were waiting for me." "Yes," I said, and I shook hands with him, for he was an honest man and a good workman. "I am glad to see you back again, sir, though looking so ill," he added. "I trust the air of Riverview will soon bring you around all right," and from his eyes I knew he meant it. "'Tis what I have always feared," he said, when I had finished. "There are too many of them in the colony, and they feel their strength. If they had a leader and a chance to combine, they might do a great deal of harm. However, we shall soon knock this in the head." "Undoubtedly that is the easiest way," I said, smiling, "but, unfortunately, I had to promise the person who gave me the information that Polete should not be harmed." Long stared at me for a moment in amazement. "It would be unfortunate if any of the other planters should hear of that promise, Mr. Stewart," he said at last. "They would probably take Polete's case into their own hands." I laughed at his evident concern. "Perhaps we are," he answered doubtfully. "What is your plan, sir?" "Polete will hold a meeting to-night over there in the woods. Well, we will be present at the meeting." He looked at me without saying a word. "Our visit will probably not be very welcome," I continued, "but I believe it will produce the desired effect. Will you go with me?" "Certainly," he answered readily, "but I still think my plan the best, sir." I covered with my hand the tiny letters on the arm of the bench, and, looking out across the broad river, drifted into the land of dreams, where Dorothy and I wandered together along a primrose path, with none to interfere. THE GOVERNOR SHOWS HIS GRATITUDE I ate my supper in solitary splendor in the old dining-room, with my grandfather's portrait looking down upon me, and Long found me an hour later sitting in the midst of a wreath of smoke just within the hallway out of the river mist. "Very well," I said, rising. "Wait till I get my hat, and I am with you." "But you will go armed?" he asked anxiously. I paused to think for a moment. "No, I will not," I said finally. "A brace of pistols would avail nothing against that mob, should they choose to resist us, and our going unarmed will have a great moral effect upon them as showing them that we are not afraid." "You have weighed fully the extent of the risk you are about to run, I hope, sir," protested Long. "Fully," I answered. "'T is not yet too late for you to turn back, you know. I have no right to ask you to endanger your life to carry out this plan of mine. Perhaps it would be wiser for you not to go." He caught my hand and wrung it heartily. "You are a brave man, Mr. Stewart," he exclaimed. "If I have shown any hesitation, 't was on your account, not on my own. I am ready to go with you," and as he spoke, he drew a brace of pistols from beneath his coat and laid them on the table by the fireplace. "Do you hear it?" I asked. "Do you know what it is?" A hoarse yell interrupted him, and I saw that something must be done. "Wait a minute, boys," I cried. "Let me ask Polete a question. You say you have seen the French marching, Polete?" "What was the color of their uniforms?" He hesitated a moment, but saw he must answer. I saw that my moment of triumph was at hand. "Yes, yes," yelled the mob. They were all silent for a moment, and I saw them eyeing Polete distrustfully. But he was foaming at the mouth with fury. "A lie!" he screamed. "A lie, same's de uddah. Don' yo' see what we mus' do? Kill 'em! Kill 'em, an' nobody else'll evah know!" That low growling which I had heard before again ran through the crowd. I must play my last card. "You fools!" I cried, "do you suppose we are the only ones who know? If so much as a hair of our heads is touched, if we are not back among our friends safe and sound when morning comes, every dog among you will yelp his life out with a circle of fire about him!" They were whining now, and I knew I had them conquered. I waved them away with my hand, and they slunk off by twos and threes until all of them had disappeared in the shadow of the wood. "And now, what shall we do with this cur?" asked Long, in a low voice, at my elbow. I turned and saw that he had old Polete gripped by the collar. "He tried to run away," he added, "but I thought you might have something to say to him." Polete was as near collapse as a man could be and yet be conscious. He was trembling like a leaf, his eyes were bloodshot, and his lower jaw was working convulsively. He turned an imploring gaze on me, and tried to speak, but could not. "Polete," I said sternly, "I suppose you know that if this night's work gets out, as it is certain to do sooner or later, no power on earth can save your life?" "Yes, massa," he muttered, and looked about him wildly, as though he already saw the flames at his feet. "Well, Polete," I went on, "after the way you have acted to-night, I see no reason why I should try to save you. You certainly did all you could to get me killed." "Yes, massa," he said again, and would have fallen had not Long held him upright by the collar. I waited a moment, for I thought he was going to faint, but he opened his eyes again and fixed them on me. "I'm going to let you go," I concluded. "I'd advise you to follow the river till you get beyond the settlements, and then try for Pennsylvania. I promise you there'll be no pursuit, but if you ever show your face around here again, you're as good as dead." "I'll nevah f'git yeh, Mas' Tom," he said. "I'll nevah f'git yeh." "Sit down a minute, Long," I said, as he started back to his quarters. "I don't believe we'll have any more trouble with those fellows, but perhaps it would be well to watch them." "Trust me for that, sir," he answered. "I'll see to it that there are no more meetings of that kind. With Polete away, there is little danger. The only question is whether he will stay away." "Yes," I answered, with a smile. "It was not so easy as I had expected. I want to thank you, Long, for going with me. It was a service on your part which showed you have the interest of the place at heart, and are not afraid of danger." "That's all right, sir," he said awkwardly. "Good-night." "Wait till I get your pistols," I said. "You left them in the hall, you know." The moonlight was streaming through the open window, and as I stepped into the hall, I rubbed my eyes, for I thought I must be dreaming. There in a great chair before the fireplace sat Colonel Washington. His head had fallen back, his eyes were closed, and from his deep and regular breathing I knew that he was sleeping. Marveling greatly at his presence here at this hour, I tiptoed around him, got Long's pistols, and took them out to him. Then I lighted my pipe and sat down in a chair opposite the sleeper, and waited for him to awake. I had not long to wait. Whether from my eyes on his face, or some other cause, he stirred uneasily, opened his eyes, and sat suddenly bolt upright. "Why, Tom," he cried, as he saw me, "I must have been asleep." "So you have," I said, shaking hands with him, and pressing him back into the chair, from which he would have risen. "But what fortunate chance has brought you here?" "The most fortunate in the world!" he cried, his eyes agleam. "You know I told you that the governor and House of Burgesses would not bear quietly the project to leave our frontier open to the enemy. Well, read this," and he drew from his pocket a most formidable looking paper. I took it with a trembling hand and carried it to the window, but the moon was almost set, and I could not decipher it. "What is it?" I asked, quivering with impatience. "And that is your commission!" I cried. "Is it not so?" "Yes," he said, scarce less excited than myself. "'Tis my commission as commander-in-chief of all the Virginia forces." I wrung his hand with joy unutterable. At last this man, who had done so much, was to know something beside disappointment and discouragement. "But you do not ask how you are concerned in all this," he continued, smiling into my face, "or why I rode over myself to bring the news to you. 'Tis because I set out to-morrow at daybreak for Winchester to take command, and I wish you to go with me, Tom, as aide-de-camp, with the rank of captain." A WARNING FROM THE FOREST "Shut up, boy," I cried, "and get off and see what ails the man. He can't hurt you." "What is it, Sam?" I asked impatiently. "Good Gawd, Mas' Tom," he cried, his teeth chattering together and cutting off his words queerly, "don' yo' see who 'tis? Don' yo' know him?" "Know him? No, of course not," I answered sharply. "Who is he?" "Polete," gasped Sam. "Polete, come back aftah me," and seemed incapable of another word. By this time Sam had partially recovered his wits, and being convinced that it was Polete in the flesh, not in the spirit, brought some water from a spring at the roadside. I bathed Polete's head as well as I could, and washed the blood from his face. Tearing open his shirt, I saw that blood was slowly welling from an ugly wound in his breast. He opened his eyes after a moment, and stared vacantly up into my face. "Debbils," he moaned, "debbils, t' kill a po' ole man. Ain't I said I done gwine t' lib wid yo'? Kain't trabble fas' 'nough fo' yo'? Don' shoot, oh, don' shoot! Ah!" He dropped back again into the road with a groan, and tossed from side to side. I thought he was dying, but when I dashed more water in his face, he opened his eyes again. This time he seemed to know me. "Is it Mas' Tom?" he gasped. "Mas' Tom what let me go?" "Yes, Polete," I answered gently, "it's Master Tom." "Whar am I?" he asked faintly. "Have dee got me 'gin? Dee gwine to buhn me?" "No, no," I said. "Nobody 's going to harm you, Polete. Where have you been all this time?" "In d' woods," he whispered, "hidin' in d' swamps, an' skulkin' long aftah night. Could n' nevah sleep, Mas' Tom. When I went t' sleep, seemed laike d' dogs was right aftah me." His head fell back again, and a rush of blood in his throat almost choked him. "Wish I'd stayed at d' plantation, Mas' Tom," he whispered. "Nothin' could n' been no wo'se 'n what I went frough. Kep' 'long d' ribbah, laike yo' said, but could n' git nothin' t' eat only berries growin' in d' woods. Got mighty weak, 'n' den las' night met d' Injuns." "Last night!" I cried. "Where, Polete?" "Obah dah 'long d' ribbah," he answered faintly. "Dee gib me some'n' t' eat, an' I frought maybe dee'd take me 'long, but dis mornin' dee had a big powwow, an' dee shot me an' knock me in d' haid. Seems laike dee 's gwine t' buhn a big plantation t'-night." "A big plantation, Polete?" I asked. "Where? Tell me--oh, you must tell me!" "Reckon it's all obah wid ole Polete, Mas' Tom," he whispered. "Where is this plantation, Polete?" I asked. "The plantation the Indians are going to attack. Quick, tell me." He looked at me a moment longer before answering. "Yes, sah," he gasped. He hesitated a moment. "What is it?" I cried. "You are not afraid, boy?" He rubbed his eyes and began to whimper. "Not fo' myself, Mas' Tom," he said. "But yo' gwine t' ride right into d' Injuns. Dee'll git yo' suah." "Nonsense!" I retorted sharply. "I'll get through all right, and we can easily hold out till reinforcements come. Now get on your horse. Remember, the faster you go, the surer you'll be to save us all." He swung himself into the saddle, and turned for a moment to look at me, the tears streaming down his face. He seemed to think me as good as dead already. "Good-by, Sam," I said. "Good-by, Mas' Tom," and he put spurs to his horse and set off down the road. But it was not this which drew my eyes. Far away on the other side, concealed from the house by a grove of trees, a shadowy line of tiny figures was emerging from the forest. Even as I looked, they vanished, and I rubbed my eyes in bewilderment. Yet I knew they had not deceived me. It was the war party preparing for the attack. I set spurs to my horse and galloped the jaded beast toward the house as fast as his weary legs would carry him. As I drew near, I saw it was a large and well-built mansion. Lights gleamed through the open doors and windows. Evidently none there dreamed of danger, and I thanked God that I should be in time. In a moment I was at the door, and as I threw myself from the saddle, I heard from the open window a ringing laugh which thrilled me through and through, for I knew that the voice was Dorothy's. I FIND MYSELF IN A DELICATE SITUATION "Where is your master?" I asked. "Kun'l Ma'sh 's obah at Frederick, sah," he answered, looking at me with astonished eyes. "A gen'leman t' see yo', Mis' Ma'sh," said my guide. I had not caught the name before, but now I understood, and as I looked at the woman before me, I saw her likeness to her son. "I am Captain Stewart, Mrs. Marsh," I said, controlling my voice as well as I could. "You may, perhaps, have heard of me. If not, there are others present who can vouch for me," but I did not move my eyes from her face. "That is quite unnecessary, Captain Stewart," she cried, coming to me and giving me her hand very prettily. "I knew your grandfather, and you resemble him greatly." And then she stopped suddenly and grew very pale. "I remember now," she said. "You were in dear Harry's company." "I was not in his company, but I knew and loved him well," I answered gently, taking both her hands and holding them tight in mine. "He was a brave and gallant boy, and lost his life while trying to save another's. I was with him when he fell." She came close to me, and I could feel that she was trembling. "And did he suffer?" she asked. "Oh, I cannot bear to think that he should suffer!" "He did not suffer," I said. "He was shot through the heart. He did not have an instant's pain." She was crying softly against my shoulder, but I held her from me. "Mrs. Marsh," I said, "it is not of Harry we must think now, but of ourselves. This afternoon I learned that the Indians had planned an attack upon this place to-night. I sent my servant back to the fort for reinforcements and rode on to give the alarm. As I neared the house, I saw their war party skulking in the woods, so that the attack may not be long delayed." Her face had turned ashen, and I was glad that I had kept her hands in mine, else she would have fallen. "There is no danger," I added cheerily. "We must close the doors and windows, and we can easily keep them off till morning. The troops will be here by that time." "Oh, do you think so?" she gasped. "I am sure of it. Now, will you give the orders to the servants?" But that was not necessary. The man who had shown me in had heard my words, and already had the other servants at work, closing and barring doors and windows. I saw that my assistance was not needed. "I beg you to believe, Mrs. Stewart," I said, "that I did not know you and your daughter were here. Indeed, I thought you both were back at Riverview ere this." "I believe you, Mr. Stewart," she answered softly. "I believe you to be a man of honor. I am sure I can trust you." There was a tone in her voice which I had never heard before. "Thank you," I said. "I shall try to deserve your trust," and then I turned away to look to our defenses. "Oh, they're all right, especially Pomp there. They'll help us all they can." "Try me," he answered simply. "Can we not be of use, Captain Stewart?" she asked. "We could at least load the muskets for you." "Load!" I shouted. "Load, Pomp! They will be back in a minute," and then I ran to the other door to see how Brightson fared. "What has happened?" I asked, as I reached his side, and for answer he pointed out through the loophole. "They've found a keg of rum which was in my quarters," remarked Brightson; "now they'll get crazy drunk. Our task has just begun, Captain Stewart." "They will soon be on us again," said Brightson in a low tone, but round and round they kept dancing, their leader in front in all his war trappings, the others almost naked, and for the most part painted black. No wonder I had been unable to see them in the darkness. "They are going to attack us again, Tom, are they not?" asked a low voice at my elbow. "You are treating me like a child," she protested, and her eyes flashed passionately. "Do you think we are cowards, we women? We will not be treated so! We have come to help you." "Very well," I said, yielding with an ill grace. "You may sit on the floor here and load the guns as we fire them. That will be of greater service than if you fired them yourselves, and you will be quite out of reach of the bullets." Dorothy sniffed contemptuously at my last words, but deigned to sit down beside the other women. I placed the powder and ball where they could reach them easily, shaded a candle so that it threw its light only on the floor beside them, gave them a few directions about loading, and rejoined Brightson at his loophole. The Indians had stopped dancing, and were engaged in heaping up a great pile of burning logs. "What are they about?" I asked. Brightson looked at me with a grim light in his eyes. I saw with a start that their firebrands were no longer in their hands, and a moment later a puff of smoke from the corner of the house and the exultant yells of the savages warned me of our new danger. As I turned from the door, I met Brightson coming to seek me with an anxious face. "They have fired the house, Captain Stewart," he said. "I fear so. We must find the place and put out the flames." Without a word he turned and followed me, and we opened the shutters a little here and there and looked out. We soon found what we were seeking. As the Indians had dashed around the house from front to rear, they had approached the side and piled their burning brands against the boards. We looked down from the window and saw that the house had already caught fire. In a few moments the flames would be beyond control. I was back to the hall in an instant. "Is there any water in the house?" I asked of Mrs. Marsh, who was seated on the floor reloading our guns with a coolness which told me where her son had got his gallantry. She looked at me an instant with face whitened by a new fear. "There is no water," I said to him briefly. "I am going to open the shutter, drop down, and knock the fire away from the house. Do you be ready to pull me back in again, when I have finished." "But it is death to do that," he exclaimed. "No, no," I said. "You and the boys can keep them off. There is no other way." He turned from me and looked about the room. "We will throw it through the window," he explained. "You can drop behind it, and the Indians' bullets cannot reach you." I saw his plan before he had finished, and we had the table at the window in an instant. "Now, boys, all together," I cried, and as I threw the shutter back, they lifted the table to the sill and pushed it through. Before the Indians understood what was happening, I had dropped beside it, pulled it around to screen me, and was kicking the brands away from the building. Then they understood, and made a rush for the house, but met so sharp a reception from Brightson and his men that they fell back, and contented themselves with keeping up a sharp fusilade upon my place of concealment. It was the work of only a few moments to kick away the brands and beat out the flames which were running along the side of the house. I signaled to Brightson that I was ready to return, and he opened a heavy fire upon the savages, which drove them for a moment out of musket range. Then throwing the shutter back, he leaned out, grasped my hands, and pulled me into the house without a scratch. "That's what I call genius," he observed, as he clapped the shutter tight and shot the bar into place. "I fancy they're getting about enough." "They haven't given it up yet," remarked Brightson grimly, "but they're going to advance under cover this time." "What new deviltry are they up to now?" I heard Brightson mutter to himself, but I could find no answer to his question, for I knew little of this kind of warfare. "Leave that to me, Captain Stewart," said Brightson quietly, and I never admired the courage of a man more than I did his at that moment. "I will get out on the roof, and throw the arrows down. I don't believe they can hit me." "Why not retreat to the roof?" she said. "They could not get at us there." "Well, he is no Indian," said Brightson, "in spite of his painted face. If they hadn't had that cask of rum and him to lead them, they would have cleared out of this long ago. They have no stomach for this kind of work, unless they are full of liquor." The sky in the east was turning from black to gray, and the dawn was not far distant. "Our troops will soon be here," I said, and went to the women where they were crouching behind a protecting gable. Dorothy, her mother, and Mrs. Marsh were sitting side by side, and they all smiled at me as I approached. "I think we are safe here," I said as cheerily as I could, "and the reinforcements cannot be far away. I know Colonel Washington too well to think he would delay a moment longer than necessary to start to our relief." "You have made a brave defense, Captain Stewart," said Mrs. Marsh earnestly. "I realize what would have been our fate long ere this, had you not been here." "Nay, madame," I interrupted, "I could have done little by myself. I have learned to-night that the women of Virginia are no less gallant than the men." "Come, come," laughed Dorothy, "this is not a drawing-room that you need think you must flatter us, Tom." I glanced at Mrs. Stewart, and saw with some surprise that she too was smiling. "'Twas not flattery," I protested, "but a simple statement of fact. And there is another here," I added, turning to Mrs. Marsh, "whose conduct should be remembered. I have never seen a braver man," and I glanced at Brightson where he sat, his musket across his knees. "I shall remember it," she said, as she followed my eyes. A burst of yells and a piercing cry from below interrupted us. "What was that?" asked Dorothy, white to the lips. "They are coming! They are coming!" screamed a shrill voice behind me, and I turned to see Dorothy upright on the roof, pointing away to the southward. And there, sure enough, at the edge of the clearing, was a troop of Virginians, galloping like mad. Ah, how welcome were those blue uniforms! We could hear them cheering, and, with a leaping heart, I saw it was Colonel Washington himself who led them. "Yes, Tom," she said, and she came to the bedside and laid her hand upon my head. Such a cool, soft little hand it was. "Why, the fever is quite gone! You will soon be well again." "Have I been ill?" I asked. "Very ill, Tom," she said. "But now you will get well very quickly." "What was the matter with me, Dorothy?" She looked at me a moment and seemed hesitating for an answer. "I think you would better go to sleep now, Tom," she said at last, "and when you wake again, I will tell you all about it." "Very well," I answered submissively, and indeed, at the time, my brain seemed so weary that I had no wish to know more. She gently took her hand from mine and went to a table, where she poured something from a bottle into a glass. I followed her with my eyes, noting how strong and confident and beautiful she was. "Drink this, Tom," she said, bringing the glass back to the bed and holding it to my lips. I gulped it down obediently, and then watched her again as she went to the window and drew the blind. She came back in a moment and sat down in the chair from which I had startled Sam. She picked up the fan which he had dropped, and waved it softly to and fro above me, smiling gently down into my face. And as I lay there watching her, the present seemed to slip away and leave me floating in a land of clouds. But when I opened my eyes again, it all came back to me in an instant, and I called aloud for Dorothy. She was bending over me almost before the sound of my voice had died away. "Yes, I am quite safe, Tom," she answered, and took my hand in both of hers. "And the Indians?" I asked. "Were frightened away by Colonel Washington and his men, who killed many of them." I closed my eyes for a moment, and tried to reconstruct the drama of that dreadful night. "Dorothy," I asked suddenly, "was Brightson killed?" "Yes, Tom," she answered softly. "He was a brave man," I said. "No man could have been braver." "Yes, Colonel Washington," I said, after a moment's thought. "Perhaps he is braver." "I was not thinking of Colonel Washington, Tom," and her lips began to tremble. I gazed at her a moment in amazement. She laid her fingers on my lips with the prettiest motion in the world. "Hush," she said. "I will not listen to such blasphemy." "Ah, you do not know my mother!" she cried. "But you shall know her some day, Tom. Nor has she known you, though I think she is beginning to know you better, now." "Why, aunt!" I cried, and would have drawn it from her. "Oh, Tom," she sobbed, and clung to it, "can you forgive me?" "Forgive you, aunt?" I cried again, yet more amazed. "What have you done that you should stand in need of my forgiveness?" "What have I done?" she asked, and raised her face to mine. "What have I not done, rather? I have been a cold, hard woman, Tom. I have forgot what right and justice and honor were. But I shall forget no longer. Do you know what I have here in my breast?" she cried, and she snatched forth a paper and held it before my eyes. "You could never guess. It is a letter you wrote to me." "It was nothing," I said. "Nothing. There was no real danger. Thank Long. He was with me. He is a better man than I." "Oh, yes," she cried, "they are all better men than you, I dare say! Do not provoke me, sir, or you will have me quarreling with you before I have said what I came here to say. Can you guess what that is?" and she paused again, to look at me with a great light in her eyes. But I was far past replying. I gazed up at her, bewildered, dazzled. I had never known this woman. "I see you cannot guess," she said. "Of course you cannot guess! How could you, knowing me as you have known me? 'Tis this. Riverview is yours, Tom, and shall be always yours from this day forth, as of right it has ever been." Riverview mine? No, no, I did not want Riverview. It was something else I wanted. What ailed the women? Here was Dorothy too on her knees and kissing my bandaged hand. "Oh, Tom, Tom," she cried, "do you not understand?" "Understand?" I repeated blankly. "Understand what, Dorothy?" "Don't you remember, dear, what happened just before the troops came?" "Yes," I said, "but you see I am not dying, nor like to die, dear Dorothy, so that I may still rejoin the troops erelong." She was looking at me with streaming eyes. "Oh, not so bad as that, dear!" she cried. "Thank God, not so bad as that! But your hand, Tom, your right hand is gone. You can never wield a sword again, dear, never go to war. You will have to stay at home with me." I know not how it was, but she was in my arms, and her lips were on mine, and I knew that was no more parting for us. It is the fashion, I know well, to stop the story on the altar's steps, and leave the reader to guess at all that may come after, but as I turn over the pages I have writ, they seem too much a tale of failure and defeat, and I would not have it so. For the lessons learned at Fort Necessity and Winchester and at Duquesne have given us strength to drive the French from the continent and the Indian from the frontier. So that now we dwell in peace, and live our lives in quiet and content, save for some disagreements with the king about our taxes, which Lord Grenville has made most irksome.	redpajama-book	34,687
Produced by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team [Illustration: An eagle pecking at the heart of a bearded man, chained to a rock, with the inscription: "Cor ex est numquam ex cordis regina volantum".] THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS: AND OTHER TALES HORACE HOWARD FURNESS AND GEORG BRANDES. DABO DUOBUS TESTIBUS MEIS THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS Truth fails not, but her outward forms that bear The longest date do melt like frosty rime. "Who art thou?" he exclaimed. "Gods! Thou speakest Greek!" "What else should I speak?" "What else? From whom save thee, since I closed my father's eyes, have I heard the tongue of Homer and Plato?" "Who is Homer? Who is Plato?" The maiden regarded him with a look of the deepest astonishment. "Surely," she said, "thy gift has been bestowed upon thee to little purpose. Say not, at least, that thou usest the speech of the Gods to blaspheme them. Thou art surely yet a votary of Zeus?" "I a votary of Zeus!" exclaimed the stranger. "By these fetters, no!" And, weak as he was, the forest rang with his disdainful laughter. "Farewell," said the maiden, as with dilating form and kindling eye she gathered up her robes. "I parley with thee no more. Thou art tenfold more detestable than the howling mob down yonder, intent on rapine and destruction. They know no better, and can no other. But thou, apt in speaking the sacred tongue yet brutally ignorant of its treasures, knowing the father of the Gods only to revile him! Let me pass." The stranger, if willing to hinder her, seemed little able. His eyes closed, his limbs relaxed, and without a cry he sank senseless on the sward. The observant maiden, meanwhile, felt her mood strangely altered. "So have I imaged Ulysses to myself," she thought as she gazed on the stranger's goodly form, full of vigour, though not without traces of age, the massive brow, the kindly mouth, the expression of far-seeing wisdom. "Such a man ignorant of letters, and a contemner of Zeus!" The stranger's eloquent thanks roused her from a reverie. The Greek tongue fell upon her ear like the sweetest music, and she grieved when its flow was interrupted by a question addressed directly to herself. "Can a God feel hunger and thirst?" "Surely no," she rejoined. "I should have said the same yesterday," returned the stranger. "Wherefore not to-day?" "Ha!" interrupted the stranger, "I see it all. Said I not so?" he shouted, gazing into the sky as if his eye could pierce and his voice reach beyond the drifting clouds. "But to thy own tale," he added, turning with a gesture of command to the astonished Elenko. "It is soon told," she said. "I knew that it was death to serve the Gods any more, yet none the less in my little temple did fire burn upon Apollo's altar this morning. Scarcely was it kindled ere I became aware of a ruffianly mob thronging to sack and spoil. I was ready for death, but not at their hands. I caught up this basket, and escaped up the mountain. On its inaccessible summit, it is reported, hangs Prometheus, whom Zeus (let me bow in awe before his inscrutable counsels) doomed for his benevolence to mankind. To him, as Aeschylus sings, Io of old found her way, and from him received monition and knowledge of what should come to pass. I will try if courage and some favouring God will guide me to him; if not, I will die as near Heaven as I may attain. Tell me on thy part what thou wilt, and let me depart. If thou art indeed Zeus's enemy, thou wilt find enough on thy side down yonder." "I have been Zeus's enemy," returned the stranger, mildly and gravely, "I am so no longer. Immortal hate befits not the mortal I feel myself to have become. Nor needest thou ascend the peak further. Maiden, I am Prometheus!" It is a prerogative of the Gods that, when they do speak sooth, mortals must needs believe them. Elenko hence felt no incredulity at the revelation of Prometheus, or sought other confirmation than the bonds and broken links of chain at his wrists and ankles. "Is this no sorrow to thee?" asked Elenko. "The pain of missing a certain fellow-mortal," answered Prometheus, with a look so expressive that the hitherto unawed maiden cast her eyes to the ground. Hastening away from the conversation to which, nevertheless, she inly purposed to return. "Is Man, then, the maker of Deity?" she asked. "Can the source of his being originate in himself?" asked Prometheus. "To assert this were self-contradiction, and pride inflated to madness. But of the more exalted beings who have like him emanated from the common principle of all existence, Man, since his advent on the earth, though not the creator, is the preserver or the destroyer. He looks up to them, and they are; he out-grows them, and they are not. For the barbarian and Triballian gods there is no return; but the Olympians, if dead as deities, survive as impersonations of Man's highest conceptions of the beautiful. Languid and spectral indeed must be their existence in this barbarian age; but better days are in store for them." "And for thee, Prometheus?" "There is now no place," replied he, "for an impeacher of the Gods. My cause is won, my part is played. I am rewarded for my love of man by myself becoming human. When I shall have proved myself also mortal I may haply traverse realms which Zeus never knew, with, I would hope, Elenko by my side." Elenko's countenance expressed her full readiness to accompany Prometheus as far beyond the limits of the phenomenal world as he might please to conduct her. A thought soon troubled her delicious reverie, and she inquired: "Peradventure, then, the creed which I have execrated may be truer and better than that which I have professed?" "If born in wiser brains and truer hearts, aye," answered Prometheus, "but of this I can have no knowledge. It seems from thy tale to have begun but ill. Yet Saturn mutilated his father, and his reign was the Golden Age." While conversing, hand locked in hand, they had been strolling aimlessly down the mountain. Turning an abrupt bend in the path, they suddenly found themselves in presence of an assembly of early Christians. "The heathen woman!" "With a heathen man!" And clubs began to be brandished, and stones to be picked up from the ground. "Do as I," cried Elenko to him, and crossed herself. Prometheus imitated her, not unsuccessfully for a novice. The uplifted arms were stayed, some even sank down. By this time the Bishop had bustled to the front, and addressed a torrent of questions to Prometheus, who merely shook his head, and turned to inspect the eagle. "Brethren," said the Bishop, "I smell a miracle!" And, turning to Elenko, he rapidly proceeded to cross-examine her. "Thou wert the priestess of this temple?" "Thou didst leave it this morning a heathen?" "Thou returnest a Christian?" Elenko blushed fire, her throat swelled, her heart beat violently. All her soul seemed concentrated in the gaze she fastened on the pale and bleeding Prometheus. She remained silent--but she crossed herself. "Who then has persuaded thee to renounce Apollo?" Elenko pointed to Prometheus. "An enemy of Zeus, then?" "Zeus has not such another enemy in the world." "I knew it, I was sure of it," exclaimed the Bishop. "I can always tell a Christian when I see him. Wherefore speaks he not?" "He is ancient, for all his vigorous mien. His martyrdom began ere our present speech was, nor could he learn this in his captivity." "Martyrdom! Captivity!" exclaimed the prelate gleefully, "I thought we were coming thither. An early martyr, doubtless?" "A very early martyr." "Fettered and manacled?" "Behold his wrists and ankles." "Tortured, of course?" "Miraculously kept alive to this day?" "In an entirely supernatural manner." "Now," said the Bishop, "I would wager my mitre and ring that his life was prolonged by the daily ministrations of yonder fowl that he caresses with such singular affection?" "Hurrah!" shouted the Bishop. "And now, its mission accomplished, the blessed creature, as I am informed, is found dead at the foot of the mountain. Saints and angels! this is glorious! On your knees, ye infidels!" And down they all went, the Bishop setting the example. As their heads were bowed to the earth, Elenko made a sign to Prometheus, and when the multitude looked up, it beheld him in the act of imparting the episcopal blessing. "Tell him that we are all his brethren," said the Bishop, which announcement became in Elenko's mouth, "Do as I do, and cleave to thy eagle." "You seem a sensible young person. Just hint to our friend that we don't want to hear anything about his theology, and the less he talks about the primitive Church the better. No doubt he is a most intelligent man, but he cannot possibly be up to all the recent improvements." Elenko promised most fervently that Prometheus' theological sentiments should remain a mystery to the public. She then began to reflect very seriously on the subject of her own morals. "This day," she said to herself, "I have renounced all the Gods, and told lies enough to last me my life, and for no other reason than that I am in love. If this is a sufficient reason, lovers must have a different code of morality from the rest of the world, and indeed it would appear that they have. Will you die for me? Yes. Admirable. Will you lie for me? No. Then you don't love me. [Greek: Ball' eis korakas, eis Tainaron, eis 'Ogg Kogg]." It was therefore with some trepidation that she received a summons to the private apartment of the Princess Miriam. "Dear friend," the Princess began, "thou knowest the singular affection which I have invariably entertained for thee." "It is this affection, dear friend," continued the Princess, "which induces me on the present occasion to transgress the limits of conventional propriety, and make a communication distressing to thee, but infinitely more so to myself." Elenko implored the Princess to make no such sacrifice in the cause of friendship, but the great lady was resolute. "People say," she continued- "What say they?" "That thy relation to Desmotes is indiscreet. That it is equivocal. That it is offensive. That it is sacrilegious. That, in a word, it is improper." Elenko defended herself with as much energy as her candour would allow. "Dear friend," said the Princess, "thou dost not imagine that I have part or lot in these odious imputations? Even could I deem them true, should I not think charitably of thee, but yesterday a heathen, and educated in impiety by a foul sorcerer? My poor lamb! But tongues must be stopped, and I have now to advise thee how this may be accomplished." Elenko intimated, perhaps with more warmth than necessary, her aversion to both propositions, and the extreme improbability of the Princess ever acquiring any knowledge of Greek by her instrumentality. "If this is the case," said the Princess, with perfect calmness, "I must have recourse to my other method, which is infallible." Elenko inquired what it might be. "Nay, sister, or sister-in-law," responded Prometheus, "if it comes to that, where were you while I was on Caucasus? The Oceanides ministered to me, Hermes came now and then, even Hercules left a card; but I never saw Pandora." "How could I compromise Epimetheus, Prometheus?" demanded Pandora. "Besides, my attendant Hope was always telling me that all would come right, without any meddling of mine." "Let her tell you so now," retorted Prometheus. "I am sure I am very sorry to hear it. Somehow, she never forsook _me_. I can't imagine how you Gods get on without her." And away she flounced, not noticing Elenko. Long and earnestly did the pair discuss the perils that menaced them, and at the end of their deliberations Elenko sought the Bishop, and briefly imparted the Princess Miriam's ultimatum. "It is painful to a spiritual man," replied the prelate, "to be accessory to a murder. It is also repugnant to his feelings to deny a beloved niece anything on which she has set her heart. To avoid such grievous dilemma, I judge it well that ye both ascend to heaven without further ceremony." The heaven to which Prometheus and Elenko had ascended was situated in a sequestered valley of Laconia. A single winding path led into the glen, which was inhabited only by a few hunters and shepherds, who still observed the rites of the ancient faith; and sometimes, deeming but to show kindness to a mortal, refreshed or sheltered a forlorn and hungry Deity. Saving at the entrance the vale was walled round by steep cliffs, for the most part waving with trees, but here and there revealing the naked crag. It was traversed by a silvery stream, in its windings enclosing Prometheus's and Elenko's cottage, almost as in an island. The cot, buried in laurel and myrtle, had a garden where fig and mulberry, grape and almond, ripened in their season. A few goats browsed on the long grass, and yielded their milk to the household. Bread and wine, and flesh when needed, were easily procured from the neighbours. Beyond necessary furniture, the cottage contained little but precious scrolls, obtained by Elenko from Athens and the newly founded city of Constantine. In these, under her guidance, Prometheus read of matters that never, while he dwelt on Olympus, entered the imagination of any God. The wise man's only Jupiter is this, To eat and drink during his little day, And give himself no care- "No," he said, "the Zeus that nailed me to the rock is better than this Zeus. But well for man to be rid of both, if he does not put another in their place; or, in dropping his idolatry, has not flung away his religion. Heaven has not departed with Zeus." And, taking his lyre, he sang: What floods of lavish splendour The lofty sun doth pour! What else can Heaven render? What room hath she for more? Yet shall his course be shortly done, And after his declining The skies that held a single Sun With thousands shall be shining. And the oracle came--in lyric verse, not to infringe any patent of Apollo's- When o'er the towers of Constantine An Orient Moon begins to shine, Waning nor waxing aught, and bright In daytide as in deep of night: Then, though the fane be brought To wreck, the God shall find, Enthroned in human thought, A temple in the mind. "And what becomes of us while this prodigious moonshine is concocting?" demanded Zeus, who had become the most sceptical of any of the gods. "Go to Elysium," suggested Prometheus. "There's an idea!" cried Zeus and Pallas together. "I go not," said Eros, "for where Love is, there is Elysium. And yonder rising moon tells me that my hour is come." And he flitted forth. "Neither go I," said an old blind god, "for where Plutus is, Elysium is not. Moreover, mankind would follow after me. But I too must away. Strange that I should have abode so long under the roof of a pair of perfect virtue." And he tottered out. But the other gods swept forth into the moonlight, and were seen no more. And Prometheus picked up the forsaken sandals of Hermes, and bound them on his own feet, and grasped Elenko, and they rose up by a dizzy flight to empty heaven. All was silent in those immense courts, vacant of everything save here and there some rusty thunderbolt or mouldering crumb of ambrosia. Above, around, below, beyond sight, beyond thought, stretched the still deeps of aether, blazing with innumerable worlds. Eye could rove nowhither without beholding a star, nor could star be beheld from which the Gods' hall, with all its vastness, would not have been utterly invisible. Elenko leaned over the battlements, and watched the racing meteors. Prometheus stood by her, and pointed out in the immeasurable distance the little speck of shining dust from which they had flown. "There? or here?" he asked. "There!" said Elenko. THE POTION OF LAO-TSZE In the days of the Tang dynasty China was long happy under the sceptre of a good Emperor, named Sin-Woo. He had overcome the enemies of the land, confirmed the friendship of its allies, augmented the wealth of the rich, and mitigated the wretchedness of the poor. But most especially was he admired and beloved for his persecution of the impious sect of Lao-tsze, which he had well-nigh exterminated. It was but natural that such an Emperor should congratulate himself upon his goodness and worth; yet, as no human bliss is perfect, sorrow could not fail to enter his mind. "It is grievous to reflect," said he to his courtiers, "that if, as ye all affirm, there hath not been any Emperor of equal merit with myself before my time, neither will any such arise after me, my subjects must inevitably be sufferers by my death." To which the courtiers unanimously responded, "O Emperor, live for ever!" "Happy thought!" exclaimed the Emperor; "but wherewithal shall it be executed?" "When the turn comes to me," murmured the inferior functionary, "I would say somewhat." "Speak!" commanded the Emperor. "O Uncle of the stars," said the Bonze, "there are those in your Majesty's dominions who possess the power of lengthening life, who have, in fact, discovered the Elixir of Immortality." "Let them be immediately brought hither," commanded the Emperor. "It has of late sometimes appeared to me," said the Emperor, "that there may be more good in that sect than I have been led to believe by my counsellors." "I have always thought," said the Prime Minister, "that they were rather misguided than wilfully wicked." "They are a kind of harmless lunatics," said the Chancellor; "they should, I think, be made wards in Chancery." "Their money does not appear different from other men's," said the Treasurer. "I," said the Chamberlain, "have known an old woman who had known another old woman who belonged to this sect, and who assured her that she had been very good when she was a little girl." That night all the members of the Lao-tsze sect inhabiting prisons under the jurisdiction of the Principal Bonze were decapitated, and the P.B. laid his own head upon his pillow with some approach to peace of mind, trusting that the knowledge of the Elixir of Immortality had perished with them. And having pointed out the direction of the cavern, he expired. "Can this indeed be but a trance?" simultaneously questioned several of the Bonze's followers. "_Fiat experimentum in corpore vili!_" exclaimed the Bonze; and he thrust his long hunting spear into the elder woman's bosom. Blood poured forth freely, but there was no change in the expression of the countenance. No struggle announced dissolution; not until the body grew chill and the limbs stiff could they be sure the old woman was indeed dead. "Carry the young woman like porcelain," ordered the priest, and like the most fragile porcelain the exquisite young beauty was borne from the cavern smiling in her trance and utterly unconscious, while the corpse of her aged companion was abandoned to the hyaenas. So often did the bearers pause to look on her beauty that it was found necessary to drape the countenance entirely, until reaching the closed sedan in which, vigilantly watched by the Bonze, she was transported to the Imperial palace. And so she was brought to the Emperor, and he worshipped her. She was laid on a couch of cloth of gold in the Imperial apartments. Wonderful was the contrast between her youthful beauty, so still in its repose, and the old haggard Emperor, fevered with the lust of beauty and love of life. "O Majesty," said his wisest counsellor, "is there any sect in thy dominions that possesses the secret of perpetual youth?" And the Emperor made proclamation, but no such sect could be found. And he mourned exceedingly, and caused strong perfumes to be burned around the sleeper, and conches to be blown and gongs beaten in her ears, hoping that she would awake ere he was dead or wholly decrepit. But she stirred not. And he shut himself up with her and passed his time praying to Fo for her awakening. "Sin-Woo," she cried, "thou hast not the heart of a man! Thou wouldest be deathless, leaving me to die! I shall be laid in the grave, and thou wilt reign with another! Wherefore have I been true to thee, if not that our ashes might mingle at the last? Thou hoary sensualist!" "Su-Ti," said the Emperor, with feeling, "thou dost grievously misjudge me. I am no heartless sensualist, no butterfly sipper at the lips of beauty. Is not my soul entirely possessed by this divine creature, whom I love with an affection infinitely exceeding that which I have entertained for thee at any period? And how knowest thou," added he, striving to soothe her, "that I will not give thee to drink of the miraculous potion?" "And keep my grey hairs and wrinkles through all time! Nay, Sin-Woo, I am no fool like thee, and were I so, I am not in love with any youth. And know I not that even if I would accept the boon, thou would'st never give it?" And she rushed away in fury and hanged herself by her Imperial girdle. Whereupon all the other wives and concubines of the Emperor did likewise, as custom and reason prescribe. All the palace was filled with lamentation and funerals. But the Emperor lamented not, nor turned his gaze from the sleeper, nor did the sleeper awaken. And his son came to him angry with exceeding wrath. "Thou hast murdered my mother. Thou would'st rob me of the crown that is rightfully mine. I, born to be an Emperor, shall die a subject! Nay, but I will save thee from thyself. I will pierce thy leman with the sword, or burn her with fire." "And when comes it?" asked the other. When the Emperor heard this he was wild with terror, and tottered to the couch on which the Sleeping Beauty lay. "Oh, awake!" he cried, "awake and save me ere it is too late!" And, oh wonder! the sleeper stirred, and opened her eyes. If she had been so beautiful while sleeping, what was she when awake! But the love of life had overcome the love of beauty in the Emperor's bosom, and he saw not the eyes like stars, and the bloom as of peaches and lilies, or the aspect grand and smiling as daybreak. He could only cry, "Give me the potion, lest I die, give me the potion!" "That cannot I," she said. "The secret was known only to my daughter." "Who is thy daughter?" "The hoary woman, she who slept with me in the cavern." "That aged crone thy daughter, daughter to thee so youthful and so fresh? "The Bonze shall be crucified!" yelled the Emperor. "It is too late," said she; "he is torn in pieces already." "By the multitude that are now coming to do the like unto thee." And as she spoke the doors were burst open, and in rushed the people, headed by the most pious Bonze in the Empire (after the late Principal Bonze), who plunged a sword into the Emperor's breast, exclaiming: "He who despises this life in comparison with another deserves to lose the life which he has." Words, saith the historian Li, which have been thought worthy to be inscribed in letters of gold in the Hall of Confucius. And the people were crying, "Kill the sorceress!" But she looked upon them, and they cried, "Be our Empress!" So she took the sceptre, and reigned gloriously. Among her good acts is enumerated her toleration of the followers of Lao-tsze. Since, however, they have ceased to be persecuted by man, it is observed that wild beasts have lost their ancient respect for them, and devour them with no less appetite than the members of other sects and denominations. An aged hermit named Sergius dwelt in the wilds of Arabia, addicting himself to the pursuit of religion and alchemy. Of his creed it could only be said that it was so much better than that of his neighbours as to cause him to be commonly esteemed a Yezidi, or devil worshipper. But the better informed deemed him a Nestorian monk, who had retired into the wilderness on account of differences with his brethren, who sought to poison him. The imputation of Yezidism against Sergius was the cause that a certain inquisitive young man resorted to him, trusting to obtain light concerning the nature of demons. But he found that Sergius could give him no information on that subject, but, on the contrary, discoursed so wisely and beautifully on holy things, that his pupil's intellect was enlightened, and his enthusiasm was inflamed, and he longed to go forth and instruct the ignorant people around him; the Saracens, and the Sabaeans, and the Zoroastrians, and the Carmathians, and the Baphometites, and the Paulicians, who are a remnant of the ancient Manichees. "Nay, good youth," said Sergius, "I have renounced the sending forth of missionaries, having made ample trial with my spiritual son, the Prophet Abdallah." "What!" exclaimed the youth, "was Abdallah the Adite thy disciple?" "Even so," said Sergius. "Hearken to his history. "'My son,' said I, 'I will not restrain thee: thou art no longer a child. Thou hast heard me discourse on the subject of persecution, and knowest that poison was administered to me personally on account of my inability to perceive the supernatural light emanating from the navel of Brother Gregory. Thou art aware that thou wilt be beaten with rods and pricked with goads, chained and starved in a dungeon, very probably blinded, very possibly burned with fire?' "'All these things I am prepared to undergo,' said Abdallah; and he embraced me and bid me farewell. "After certain moons he returned covered with weals and scars, and his bones protruded through his skin. "'Whence are these weals and scars?' asked I, 'and what signifies this protrusion of thy bones?' "'The weals and the scars,' answered he, 'proceed from the floggings inflicted upon me by command of the Caliph; and my bones protrude by reason of the omission of his officers to furnish me with either food or drink in the dungeon wherein I was imprisoned by his orders.' "'O my son,' exclaimed I, 'in the eyes of faith and right reason these scars are lovelier than the moles of beauty, and the sight of thy bones is like the beholding of hidden treasure!' "And after a space he returned, covered as before with wounds and bruises, but comely and somewhat fat. "'Whence this sleekness of body, my son?' I asked. "'How knewest thou this, my son?' I inquired. "'In truth, father,' he said, 'I did not know it; but I thought it probable.' "'O my son! my son!' exclaimed I, 'thou art on a dangerous road. To win over weak ignorant people by promises of what they shall receive in a future life, whereof thou knowest no more than they do! Knowest thou not that the inestimable blessings of religion are of an inward and spiritual nature? Did I ever promise any disciple any recompense for his enlightenment and good deeds, save flogging, starvation, and burning?' "He left me after a shorter stay than before, and again went forth to preach. After a long time he returned in good condition of body, yet manifestly having something upon his mind. "'Father,' he said, 'thy son hath preached with faithfulness and acceptance, and turned thousands unto righteousness. But a sorcerer hath arisen, saying, "Why follow ye Abdallah, seeing that he breathes not fire out of his mouth and nostrils?" And the people give ear unto the words that come from this man's lips, when they behold the flame that cometh from his nose. And unless thou teachest me to do as he doth I shall assuredly perish.' "A long time afterward Abdallah came to me again, this time with a joyful, and yet with somewhat of a troubled look, carrying a camel-hair blanket, which he undid, and lo! it was full of bones. "'O father,' he said, 'I bring thee happy tidings. We have found the bones of the camel of the prophet Ad, upon which his revelation was engraved by him.' "'If this be so,' said I, 'thou art acquainted with the precepts of the prophet, and hast no need of mine.' "'What!' I exclaimed, 'I forge a revelation in the name of the prophet Ad! Get thee behind me!' "'Thou knowest, father,' he rejoined, 'that if we had the original words of the prophet Ad here they would profit us nought, as by reason of their antiquity none would understand them. Seeing therefore that I myself cannot write, it is meet that thou shouldst set down in his name those things which he would have desired to deliver had he been now among us; but if thou wilt not, I shall ask Brother Gregory.' "And when I heard him speak of having recourse to that cheat and impostor my spirit was grieved within me, and I wrote the Book of Ad myself. And I was heedful to put in none but wholesome and profitable precepts, and more especially did I forbid polygamy, having perceived a certain inclination thereunto in my disciple. "After many days he came again, and this time he was in violent terror and agitation, and hair was wanting to the lower part of his countenance. "'O Abdallah,' I inquired, 'where is thy beard?' "'O father,' said Abdallah, 'thou hast brought me from death unto life! And thou, Zarah,' he continued, 'wilt lose nought, but gain exceedingly, in becoming the spouse of the wise and virtuous Sergius.' "'I marry Zarah!' I exclaimed, 'I! a monk!' "'Surely,' said he, 'thou would'st not take away her husband without giving her another in his stead?' "'If he does I will throttle him,' cried Zarah. "As I sat in my dwelling administering to the estate of my deceased wife, which consisted principally of wines and strong liquors, Abdallah again appeared before me. "'On the contrary,' said he, 'I am come to set thee at ease by proving to thee that I shall not again require thy assistance. Follow me.' "And I followed him to a great plain, where was a host of armed horsemen and footmen, more than I could number. And they bore banners on which the name of Abdallah was embroidered in letters of gold. And in the midst was an ark of gold, with the bones of Ad's camel, or cow. And by this was a great pile of the heads of men, and warriors were continually casting more and more upon the heap. "'How many?' asked Abdallah. "'Thou monster!' said I to Abdallah. "And he led me where a stake was driven into the earth, and a man was chained unto it, and fuel was heaped all around him, and many stood by with lighted torches in their hands. "'O Abdallah,' I exclaimed, 'wherefore this atrocity?' "'This man,' he replied, 'is a blasphemer, who hath said that the Book of Ad is written on the bones of a cow.' "'But it is written on the bones of a cow! 'I cried. "'Even so,' said he, 'and therefore is his heresy the more damnable, and his punishment the more exemplary. Had it been indeed written on the bones of a camel, he might have affirmed what pleased him.' "And I shook off the dust from my feet, and hastened to my dwelling. The rest of Abdallah's acts thou knowest, and how he fell warring with the Carmathians. And now I ask thee, art thou yet minded to go forth as a missionary of the truth?" "O Sergius," said the young man, "I perceive that the temptations are greater, and the difficulties far surpassing what I had thought. Yet will I go, and I trust by Heaven's grace not to fail utterly." ANANDA THE MIRACLE WORKER The holy Buddha, Sakhya Muni, on dispatching his apostles to proclaim his religion throughout the peninsula of India, failed not to provide them with salutary precepts for their guidance. He exhorted them to meekness, to compassion, to abstemiousness, to zeal in the promulgation of his doctrine, and added an injunction never before or since prescribed by the founder of any religion--namely, on no account to perform any miracle. "How blessed is the apostle who propagates truth by the efficacy of reason and virtuous example, combined with eloquence, rather than error by imposture and devil-mongering, like those miserable Brahmins!" When matters had reached this pass, Ananda lifted his eyes and discerned a number of Brahmins of the lower sort, busy about a boy who lay in a fit upon the ground. They had long been applying exorcisms and other approved methods with scant success, when the most sagacious among them suggested: "Let us render the body of this patient an uncomfortable residence for the demon; peradventure he will then cease to abide therein." "Surely the end sanctifies the means." As he propounded this heresy, the eminence of his merits was reduced to the dimensions of a mole-hill, and he ceased to be of account in the eyes of any of the saints, save only of Buddha, whose compassion is inexhaustible. The fame of his achievement, nevertheless, was bruited about the whole country, and soon reached the ears of the king, who sent for him, and inquired if he had actually expelled the demon. Ananda replied in the affirmative. "Alas! dread sovereign," modestly returned Ananda, "how should the merits which barely suffice to effect the cure of a miserable Pariah avail to restore the offspring of an Elephant among Kings?" "By what process are these merits acquired?" demanded the monarch. "By the exercise of penance," responded Ananda, "in virtue of which the austere devotee quells the winds, allays the waters, expostulates convincingly with tigers, carries the moon in his sleeve, and otherwise performs all acts and deeds appropriate to the character of a peripatetic thaumaturgist." "This being so," answered the king, "thy inability to heal my son manifestly arises from defect of merit, and defect of merit from defect of penance. I will therefore consign thee to the charge of my Brahmins, that they may aid thee to fill up the measure of that which is lacking." "Well, backsliding disciple, art thou yet convinced of thy folly?" Ananda relished neither the imputation on his orthodoxy nor that on his wisdom. He replied, notwithstanding, with all meekness: "Heaven forbid that I should repine at any variety of martyrdom that tends to the propagation of my master's faith." "How shall this be accomplished?" demanded Ananda. "By perseverance in the path of deceit and disobedience," returned the Glendoveer. Ananda winced, but maintained silence in the expectation of more explicit directions. "Know," pursued the spirit, "that the king's son will revive from his trance at the expiration of the thirtieth day, which takes place at noon to-morrow. Thou hast but to proceed at the fitting period to the couch whereon he is deposited, and, placing thy hand upon his heart, to command him to rise forthwith. His recovery will be ascribed to thy supernatural powers, and the establishment of Buddha's religion will result. Before this it will be needful that I should perform an actual cure upon thy back, which is within the compass of my capacity. I only request thee to take notice, that thou wilt on this occasion be transgressing the precepts of thy master with thine eyes open. It is also meet to apprise thee that thy temporary extrication from thy present difficulties will only involve thee in others still more formidable." "An incorporeal Glendoveer is no judge of the feelings of a flayed apostle," thought Ananda. "Heal me," he replied, "if thou canst, and reserve thy admonitions for a more convenient opportunity." [Footnote: The mystic formula of the Buddhists, read backwards.] The anger and amazement of the Brahmins may be conceived when, on returning equipped with fresh implements of flagellation, they discovered the salubrious condition of their victim. Their scourges would probably have undergone conversion into halters, had they not been accompanied by a royal officer, who took the really triumphant martyr under his protection, and carried him off to the palace. He was speedily conducted to the young prince's couch, whither a vast crowd attended him. The hour of noon not having yet arrived, Ananda discreetly protracted the time by a seasonable discourse on the impossibility of miracles, those only excepted which should be wrought by the professors of the faith of Buddha. He then descended from his pulpit, and precisely as the sun attained the zenith laid his hand upon the bosom of the young prince, who instantly revived, and completed a sentence touching the game of dice which had been interrupted by his catalepsy. "By the holy cow!" exclaimed the monarch, "this is something like a religion!" Ananda had the satisfaction of feeling able to forgive his adversaries, and of valuing himself accordingly; and to complete his felicity, he was received in the palace, and entrusted with the education of the king's son, which he strove to conduct agreeably to the precepts of Buddha. This was a task of some delicacy, as it involved interference with the princely youth's favourite amusement, which had previously consisted in torturing small reptiles. "My chief executioner and my chief tormentor," said the king. Ananda expressed his gratification at becoming acquainted with such exalted functionaries. Ananda expressed, as well as his terror would suffer him, his entire disapproval of both the courses recommended by the royal advisers. Ananda went, but not in peace. His alarm would have well-nigh deprived him of his faculties if he had not remembered the promise made him by his former deliverer. On reaching a secluded spot he pronounced the mystic formula, and immediately became aware of the presence, not of a radiant Glendoveer, but of a holy man, whose head was strewn with ashes, and his body anointed with cow-dung. "Thy occasion," said the Fakir, "brooks no delay. Thou must immediately accompany me, and assume the garb of a Jogi." "The hostile king is dead," said the Jogi; "and his army has dispersed. This will be attributed to thy incantations. They are coming in quest of thee even now. Farewell until thou again hast need of me." The Jogi disappeared, the tramp of a procession became audible, and soon torches glared feebly through the damp, cheerless dawn. The monarch descended from his state elephant, and, prostrating himself before Ananda, exclaimed: "Inestimable man! why didst thou not disclose that thou wert a Jogi? Never more shall I feel the least apprehension of any of my enemies, so long as thou continuest an inmate of this cemetery." A family of jackals were unceremoniously dislodged from a disused sepulchre, which was allotted to Ananda for his future residence. The king permitted no alteration in his costume, and took care that the food doled out to him should have no tendency to impair his sanctity, which speedily gave promise of attaining a very high pitch. His hair had already become as matted and his nails as long as the Jogi could have desired, when he received a visit from another royal messenger. The Rajah, so ran the regal missive, had been suddenly and mysteriously attacked by a dangerous malady, but confidently anticipated relief from Ananda's merits and incantations. Ananda resumed his thigh-bone and his skull, and ruefully began to thump the latter with the former, in dismal expectation of the things that were to come. But the spell seemed to have lost its potency. Nothing more unearthly than a bat presented itself, and Ananda was beginning to think that he might as well desist when his reflections were diverted by the apparition of a tall and grave personage, wearing a sad-coloured robe, and carrying a long wand, who stood by his side as suddenly as though just risen from the earth. "The caldron is ready," said the stranger. "What caldron?" demanded Ananda. "That wherein thou art about to be immersed." "I immersed in a caldron! wherefore?" "Thy spells," returned his interlocutor, "having hitherto failed to afford his majesty the slightest relief, and his experience of their efficacy on a former occasion forbidding him to suppose that they can be inoperative, he is naturally led to ascribe to their pernicious influence that aggravation of pain of which he has for some time past unfortunately been sensible. I have confirmed him in this conjecture, esteeming it for the interest of science that his anger should fall upon an impudent impostor like thee rather than on a discreet and learned physician like myself. He has consequently directed the principal caldron to be kept boiling all night, intending to immerse thee therein at daybreak, unless he should in the meantime derive some benefit from thy conjurations." "Heavens!" exclaimed Ananda, "whither shall I fly?" "Nowhere beyond this cemetery," returned the physician, "inasmuch as it is entirely surrounded by the royal forces." "Wherein, then," demanded the agonized apostle, "doth the path of safety lie?" "In this phial," answered the physician. "It contains a subtle poison. Demand to be led before the king. Affirm that thou hast received a sovereign medicine from the hands of benignant spirits. He will drink it and perish, and thou wilt be richly rewarded by his successor." "Ayaunt, tempter!" cried Ananda, hurling the phial indignantly away. "I defy thee! and will have recourse to my old deliverer--_Gnooh Imdap Inam Mua!"_ But the charm appeared to fail of its effect. No figure was visible to his gaze, save that of the physician, who seemed to regard him with an expression of pity as he gathered up his robes and melted rather than glided into the encompassing darkness. [Footnote: The Hindoo Pandemonium.] The horrified Ananda with much difficulty mustered resolution to inquire on what account the apostle in question was necessitated to take up his abode in the infernal regions. "On account of poisoning," returned the fiend laconically. "Damburanana, of course," snarled the other. "May I," inquired Ananda of the fiend he had before addressed, "presume to ask the signification of Kammuragha and Damburanana?" Ere Ananda had had time to digest this announcement a youthful imp descended from above with agility, and, making a profound reverence, presented himself before the disputants. The imp having thus spoken, the senior demons were amazed at his precocity, and performed a _pradakshina_, exclaiming, "Truly thou art a highly superior young devil!" They then departed to prepare the new infernal chamber, agreeably to his recipe. Ananda awoke, shuddering with terror. "Why," he exclaimed, "why was I ever an apostle? O Buddha! Buddha! how hard are the paths of saintliness! How prone to error are the well-meaning! How huge is the absurdity of spiritual pride!" "Thou hast discovered that, my son?" said a gentle voice in his vicinity. He turned and beheld the divine Buddha, radiant with a mild and benignant light. A cloud seemed rolled away from his vision, and he recognised in his master the Glendoveer, the Jogi, and the Physician. "O holy teacher!" exclaimed he in extreme perturbation, "whither shall I turn? My sin forbids me to approach thee." "Not on account of thy sin art thou forbidden, my son," returned Buddha, "but on account of the ridiculous and unsavoury plight to which thy knavery and disobedience have reduced thee. I have now appeared to remind thee that this day all my apostles meet on Mount Vindhya to render an account of their mission, and to inquire whether I am to deliver thine in thy stead, or whether thou art minded to proclaim it thyself." "I will render it with my own lips," resolutely exclaimed Ananda. "It is meet that I should bear the humiliation of acknowledging my folly." "Thou hast said well, my son," replied Buddha, "and in return I will permit thee to discard the attire, if such it may be termed, of a Jogi, and to appear in our assembly wearing the yellow robe as beseems my disciple. Nay, I will even infringe my own rule on thy behalf, and perform a not inconsiderable miracle by immediately transporting thee to the summit of Vindhya, where the faithful are already beginning to assemble. Thou wouldst otherwise incur much risk of being torn to pieces by the multitude, who, as the shouts now approaching may instruct thee, are beginning to extirpate my religion at the instigation of the new king, thy hopeful pupil. The old king is dead, poisoned by the Brahmins." "O master! master!" exclaimed Ananda, weeping bitterly, "and is all the work undone, and all by my fault and folly?" "That which is built on fraud and imposture can by no means endure," returned Buddha, "be it the very truth of Heaven. Be comforted; thou shalt proclaim my doctrine to better purpose in other lands. Thou hast this time but a sorry account to render of thy stewardship; yet thou mayest truly declare that thou hast obeyed my precept in the letter, if not in the spirit, since none can assert that thou hast ever wrought any miracle." THE CITY OF PHILOSOPHERS "I cannot," said Gallienus, when the project had been explained to him, "object in principle to aught so festive and jocose. The age is turned upside down; its comedians are lamentable, and its sages ludicrous. It must moreover, I apprehend, be sated with the earthquakes, famines, pestilences, and barbarian invasions with which it hath been exclusively regaled for so long, and must crave something enlivening, of the nature of thy proposition. But whether, when we arrive at the consideration of ways and means, I shall find my interview with my treasurer enlivening, is gravely to be questioned. I have heard homilies enough on my prodigality, which merely means that I prefer spending my treasures on myself to saving them for my successor, whose title will probably have been acquired by cutting my throat." "I know," said Plotinus, "that the expenses of administering an empire must necessarily be prodigious. I am aware that the principal generals are only kept to their allegiance by enormous bribes. I well understand that the Empress must have pearls, and that the Roman populace must have panthers; and that, since Egypt has revolted, the hippopotamus is worth his weight in gold. I am further aware that the proposed colossal statue of your Majesty in the same metal, including a staircase, with room in the head for a child, like another Pallas in the brain of Zeus, must alone involve very considerable outlay. But I am encouraged by your Majesty's wise and statesmanlike measure of debasing the currency; since, money having become devoid of value, there can be no difficulty in devoting any amount of it to any purpose required." And so Gallienus changed his silk for steel, and departed for his Gallic campaign, where he bore himself more stoutly than his light talk would have led those who judged him by it to expect. Plotinus, provided with an Imperial rescript, undertook the regulation of his philosophical commonwealth in Campania, where a brief experience of architects and sophists threw him into an ecstasy, not of joy, which endured an unusually long time. "Porphyry!" cried the master, and the faithful disciple was by his couch in a moment. We pass over the mutual joy, the greetings, the administration of restoratives and creature comforts, the eager interrogations of Porphyry respecting the things his master had heard and seen in his trance, which proved to be unspeakable. "And now," said Plotinus, who with all his mysticism was so good a man of business that, as his biographers acquaint us, he was in special request as a trustee, "and now, concerning this roll of thine. Is it possible that the accounts connected with the installation of a few abstemious lovers of wisdom can have swollen to such a prodigous bulk? But indeed, why few? Peradventure all the philosophers of the earth have flocked to my city." "It has, indeed," said Porphyry evasively, "been found necessary to incur certain expenses not originally foreseen." "For a library, perhaps?" inquired Plotinus. "I remember thinking, just before my ecstasy, that the scrolls of the divine Plato, many of them autographic, might require some special housing." "I rejoice to state," rejoined Porphyry, "that it is not these volumes that have involved us in our present difficulties with the superintendent of the Imperial treasury, nor can they indeed, seeing that they are now impignorated with him." "Plato's manuscripts pawned!" exclaimed Plotinus, aghast. "Wherefore?" "As part collateral security for expenses incurred on behalf of objects deemed of more importance by the majority of the philosophers." "Repairing bath and completing amphitheatre." "Bath! Amphitheatre!" gasped Plotinus. "And what can they want with an amphitheatre?" groaned Plotinus. "I must see to this as soon as I can get about," said Plotinus, turning to the accounts. "What's this? To couch and litter for head of Peripatetic school!" "Who is so enormously fat," explained Porphyry, "that these conveniences are really indispensable to him. The Peripatetic school is positively at a standstill." "And no great matter," said Plotinus; "its master Aristotle was at best a rationalist, without perception of the supersensual. What's this? To Maximus, for the invocation of demons." "I fear this must expose Platonic truth to the derision of Epicurean scoffers," remarked Plotinus. "O master, speak not of Epicureans, still less of Stoics! Wait till thou hast regained thy full strength, and then take counsel of some oracle." "What meanest thou?" exclaimed Plotinus, "I insist upon knowing." Porphyry was saved from replying by the hasty entrance of a bustling portly personage of loud voice and imperious manner, in whom Plotinus recognised Theocles, the chief of the Stoics. "I rejoice, Plotinus," he began, "that thou hast at length emerged from that condition of torpor, so unworthy of a philosopher, which I might well designate as charlatanism were I not so firmly determined to speak no word which can offend any man. Thou wilt now be able to reprehend the malice or obtuseness of thy deputy, and to do me right in my contention with these impure dogs." "Which be they?" asked Plotinus. "Do I not sufficiently indicate the followers of Epicurus?" demanded the Stoic. "O master," explained Porphyry, "in allotting and fitting up apartments designed for the respective sects of philosophers I naturally gave heed to what I understood to be the principles of each. To the Epicureans, as lovers of pleasure and luxury, I assigned the most commodious quarters, furnished the same with soft cushions and costly hangings, and provided a liberal table. I should have deemed it insulting to have offered any of these things to the frugal followers of Zeno, and nothing can surpass my astonishment at the manner in which the austere Theocles has incessantly persecuted me for choice food and wine, stately rooms and soft couches." "Thy female disciple!" exclaimed the horrified Plotinus. "Thou art worse than the Stoic!" "Plotinus," said the Epicurean, "consider well ere, as is the manner of Platonists, thou committest thyself to a proposition of a transparently foolish nature. Thou desirest to gather all sorts of philosophers around thee, but to what end, if they are restrained from manifesting their characteristic tenets? Thou mightest as well seek to illustrate the habits of animals by establishing a menagerie in which panthers should eat grass, and antelopes be dieted on rabbits. An Epicurean without his female companion, unless by his own choice, is no more an Epicurean than a Cynic is a Cynic without his rags and his impudence. Wilt thou take from me my Pannychis, an object pleasing to the eye, and leave yonder fellow his tatters and his vermin?" The apartment had gradually filled with philosophers, and Hermon was pointing to a follower of Diogenes whose robe so fully bespoke his obedience to his master's precepts that his skin seemed almost clean in comparison. "Consider also," continued the Epicurean, "that thou art thyself by no means exempt from scandal." "Get them away," whispered the disciple, "and I will tell thee." Plotinus hastily conceded the point raised with reference to the interesting Pannychis, and the philosophers went off to effect their exchange of quarters. As soon as the room was clear, he repeated: "I suppose he is thinking of Leaena," said Porphyry. "The most notorious character in Rome, who, finding her charms on the wane, has lately betaken herself to philosophy?" "O ye immortal Gods!" groaned Plotinus. "Here she is!" exclaimed Porphyry, as a woman of masculine stature and bearing, with the remains of beauty not unskilfully patched, forced an entrance into the room. "Plotinus," she exclaimed, "behold the most impassioned of thy disciples. Let us celebrate the mystic nuptials of Wisdom and Beauty. Let the claims of my sex to philosophic distinction be vindicated in my person." "How so? I deemed it had been determined long ago in favour of Aspasia?" "Aspasia," said Plotinus, "was a very exceptional woman." "How so? Am I inferior to Aspasia in beauty?" "I should hope not," said Plotinus ambiguously. "Or in the irregularity of my deportment?" "I should think not," said Plotinus, with more confidence. "Then why does the Plato of our age hesitate to welcome his Diotima?" "Because," said Plotinus, "you are not Diotima, and I am not Plato." "I am sure I am as much like Diotima as you are like Plato," retorted the lady. "But let us come to our own time. Do I not hear that that creature Pannychis has obtained the freedom of the philosophers' city, and the right to study therein?" "She takes private lessons from Hermon, who is responsible for her." "The very thing!" exclaimed Leaena triumphantly. "I take private lessons from thee, and thou art responsible for me. Venus! what's that?" The exclamation was prompted by the sudden appearance of an enormous serpent, which, emerging from a chink in the wall, glided swiftly towards the couch of Plotinus. He reached forward to greet it, uttering a cry of pleasure. "My guardian, my tutelary daemon," he exclaimed, "visible manifestation of AEsculapius! Then I am not forsaken by the immortal gods." "Take away the monster," cried Leaena, in violent agitation, "the nasty thing! Plotinus, how can you? Oh, I shall faint! I shall die! Take it away, I say. You must choose between it and me." "Then, Madam," said Plotinus, civilly but firmly, "I choose _it_." "Thank AEsculapius we are rid of her," he added, as Leaena vanished from the apartment. "I wish I knew that," said Porphyry. It was natural that Plotinus should appeal to Gallienus, now returned from the Gallic expedition, but he could extract nothing save mysterious intimations that the Emperor had his eye upon the philosophers, and that they might find him among them when they least expected it. Plotinus's spirits drooped, and Porphyry was almost glad when he again relapsed into an ecstasy. "All the slaves are sure to have gone to the show, unless any of them should be Christians. Besides, Porphyry would hear you, he's only in a cat's sleep," returned his companion. "How many gladiators, said you?" "How has it all come about?" "Couldn't we leave him to mind himself? He isn't likely to awake yet." "Try him with your cloak-pin." The student detached the implement in question, which was about the size of a small stiletto. Feeling uncertain what part of his person was to be the subject of experiment, Plotinus judged it advisable to manifest his recovery in an unmistakable fashion. "O dear Master, what joy!" cried both the students in a breath. "Porphyry! Porphyry!" "What means all this, Porphyry?" demanded Plotinus sternly. "The City of Philosophers polluted by human blood! The lovers of wisdom mingling with the dregs of the rabble!" "Porphyry," replied Plotinus, "I should esteem this disgrace to philosophy a disgrace to myself if I did not my utmost to avert it. Remain thou here, and perform my funeral rites if it be necessary." "Guard thyself!" cried the Goth, placing himself in an attitude of offence. "I spill not the blood of a fellow-creature," answered the other, casting his sword away from him. "Coward!" yelled well-nigh every voice in the amphitheatre. "No," answered the youth with a grave smile, "Christian." His shield and helmet followed his sword, he stood entirely defenceless before his adversary. "Throw him to my lion," cried Theocles. "Or thy lioness," suggested Hermon. This allusion to Leaena provoked a burst of laughter. Suddenly the Goth aimed a mighty blow at the head of the unresisting man. A shorn curl fell to the ground, the consummate skill of the swordsman averted all further contact between his blade and the Christian, who remained erect and smiling, without having moved a muscle or an eyelash. "Good," returned his lord, with a gesture of approval. "Retire both of you." A roar of disapprobation broke out from the spectators, which seemed not to produce the slightest effect on the lanista. "Turn out the next pair," they cried. "I shall not," said he. "Because I do not choose." "Rogue! Cheat! Swindler! Cast him into prison! Throw him to the lion!" Such epithets and recommendations rained from the spectators' seats, accompanied by a pelting of more substantial missiles. In an instant the yellow hair and common dress lay on the ground, and those who knew him not by the features could by the Imperial ornaments recognise the Emperor Gallienus. With no less celerity his followers, the Goth and the Christian excepted, disencumbered themselves of their exterior vesture, and stood forward in the character of Roman soldiers. "Friends," cried Gallienus, turning to the plebeian multitude, "I am not about to balk you of your sport." The honour of developing the Emperor's purpose was reserved for Theocles, who, with admirable presence of mind, had ever since he found he must fight been engaged in trying to select the weakest antagonist. After hesitating between the unwieldy chief of the Peripatetics and the feminine Leaena he fixed on the latter, partly moved, perhaps, by the hope of avenging his beard. With a martial cry he sprang towards her, and upraised his weapon for a swashing blow. But he had sadly miscalculated. Leaena was hardly less versed in the combats of Mars than in those of Venus, having, in fact, commenced her distinguished career as a camp-follower of the Emperor Gordian. A tremendous stroke caught him on the hand; his blade dropped to the earth; why did not the fingers follow? Leaena elucidated the problem by a still more violent blow on his face; torrents of blood gushed forth indeed, but only from the nose. The sword doubled up; it had neither point nor edge. Encouraged by this opportune discovery the philosophers attacked each other with infinite spirit and valour. Infuriated by the blows given and received, by the pokings and proddings of the military, and the hilarious derision of the public, they cast away the shivered blades and resorted to the weapons of Nature. They kicked, they cuffed, they scratched, they tore the garments from each other's shoulders, they foamed and rolled gasping in the yellow sand of the arena. At a signal from the Emperor the portal of the amphitheatre was thrown open, and the whole mass of clawing and cuffing philosophy was bundled ignominiously into the street. By this time Gallienus was seated on his tribunal, and Plotinus, released from his bonds, was standing by his side. "O Emperor," he murmured, deeply abashed, "what can I urge? Thou wilt surely demolish my city!" "No, Plotinus," replied Gallienus, pointing to the Goth and the Christian, "there are the men who will destroy the City of Philosophers. Would that were all they will destroy!" "So you won't sell me your soul?" said the devil. "Thank you," replied the student, "I had rather keep it myself, if it's all the same to you." The student shook his head. The student reflected for some minutes. "Agreed," he said at last. "You remember," said Silvester, "that you are not to ask anything exceeding my power to perform." "I have no such intention," said Lucifer. "On the contrary, I am about to solicit a favour which can be bestowed by you alone. You are Pope, I desire that you would make me a Cardinal. "In the expectation, I presume," returned Gerbert, "of becoming Pope on the next vacancy." "An expectation," replied Lucifer, "which I may most reasonably entertain, considering my enormous wealth, my proficiency in intrigue, and the present condition of the Sacred College." "You would doubtless," said Gerbert, "endeavour to subvert the foundations of the Faith, and, by a course of profligacy and licentiousness, render the Holy See odious and contemptible." "If it be so," said Gerbert, "let's be off!" "What!" exclaimed Lucifer, "you are willing to accompany me to the infernal regions!" "Assuredly, rather than be accessory to the burning of Plato and Aristotle, and give place to the darkness against which I have been contending all my life." "Gerbert," replied the demon, "this is arrant trifling. Know you not that no good man can enter my dominions? that, were such a thing possible, my empire would become intolerable to me, and I should be compelled to abdicate?" "I do know it," said Gerbert, "and hence I have been able to receive your visit with composure." "Ha!" exclaimed Lucifer, and an internal glow suffused his sooty hide, as the light of a fading ember is revived by breathing upon it. "You will find the Pontifical apparel in this cupboard," said Gerbert, and, taking his book of magic with him, he retreated through a masked door to a secret chamber. As the door closed behind him he chuckled, and muttered to himself, "Poor old Lucifer! Sold again!" If Lucifer was sold he did not seem to know it. He approached a large slab of silver which did duty as a mirror, and contemplated his personal appearance with some dissatisfaction. "Down with the sorcerer!" they cried, as they seized and gagged him. "Death to the Saracen!" "Practises algebra, and other devilish arts!" "Let him be deposed by a general council," said a young and inexperienced Cardinal. "I heartily approve of our brother Anno's proposition," said another, "the rather as we cannot possibly fail to discover such a mark, if, indeed, we desire to find it." The Holy Father had a cloven foot! "I always feared that we might be proceeding too precipitately," said another. "Brethren," said Anno, "this affair, as our brother Benno well remarks, doth indeed call for mature deliberation. I therefore propose that, instead of smothering his Holiness with cushions, as originally contemplated, we immure him for the present in the dungeon adjoining hereunto, and, after spending the night in meditation and prayer, resume the consideration of the business tomorrow morning." "Informing the officials of the palace," said Benno, "that his Holiness has retired for his devotions, and desires on no account to be disturbed." "I trust," he said, bowing courteously, "that I may be excused any slight breach of etiquette of which I may render myself culpable from the difficulty under which I labour of determining whether, under present circumstances, 'Your Holiness,' or 'Your Infernal Majesty' be the form of address most befitting me to employ." "Bub-ub-bub-boo," went Lucifer, who still had the gag in his mouth. "Heavens!" exclaimed the Cardinal, "I crave your Infernal Holiness's forgiveness. What a lamentable oversight!" And, relieving Lucifer from his gag and bonds, he set out the refection, upon which the demon fell voraciously. "Why the devil, if I may so express myself," pursued Anno, "did not your Holiness inform us that you _were_ the devil? Not a hand would then have been raised against you. I have myself been seeking all my life for the audience now happily vouchsafed me. Whence this mistrust of your faithful Anno, who has served you so loyally and zealously these many years?" Lucifer pointed significantly to the gag and fetters. "I shall never forgive myself," protested the Cardinal, "for the part I have borne in this unfortunate transaction. Next to ministering to your Majesty's bodily necessities, there is nothing I have so much at heart as to express my penitence. But I entreat your Majesty to remember that I believed myself to be acting in your Majesty's interest by overthrowing a magician who was accustomed to send your Majesty upon errands, and who might at any time enclose you in a box, and cast you into the sea. It is deplorable that your Majesty's most devoted servants should have been thus misled." "Reasons of State," suggested Lucifer. And the Cardinal proceeded to detail various circumstances of his past life, which certainly seemed to corroborate his assertion. He had not, however, proceeded far ere he was disturbed by the grating of another key in the lock, and had just time to whisper impressively, "Beware of Benno," ere he dived under a table. Lucifer, meanwhile, had repaired to Silvester, whom he found arrayed in all the insignia of his dignity; of which, as he remarked, he thought his visitor had probably had enough. "I should think so indeed," replied Lucifer. "But at the same time I feel myself fully repaid for all I have undergone by the assurance of the loyalty of my friends and admirers, and the conviction that it is needless for me to devote any considerable amount of personal attention to ecclesiastical affairs. I now claim the promised boon, which it will be in no way inconsistent with thy functions to grant, seeing that it is a work of mercy. I demand that the Cardinals be released, and that their conspiracy against thee, by which I alone suffered, be buried in oblivion." "I hoped you would carry them all off," said Gerbert, with an expression of disappointment. "Thank you," said the Devil. "It is more to my interest to leave them where they are." So the dungeon-door was unbolted, and the Cardinals came forth, sheepish and crestfallen. If, after all, they did less mischief than Lucifer had expected from them, the cause was their entire bewilderment by what had passed, and their utter inability to penetrate the policy of Gerbert, who henceforth devoted himself even with ostentation to good works. They could never quite satisfy themselves whether they were speaking to the Pope or to the Devil, and when under the latter impression habitually emitted propositions which Gerbert justly stigmatised as rash, temerarious, and scandalous. They plagued him with allusions to certain matters mentioned in their interviews with Lucifer, with which they naturally but erroneously supposed him to be conversant, and worried him by continual nods and titterings as they glanced at his nether extremities. To abolish this nuisance, and at the same time silence sundry unpleasant rumours which had somehow got abroad, Gerbert devised the ceremony of kissing the Pope's feet, which, in a grievously mutilated form, endures to this day. The stupefaction of the Cardinals on discovering that the Holy Father had lost his hoof surpasses all description, and they went to their graves without having obtained the least insight into the mystery. "For example?" inquired Photinius, who had the best reason for confiding in the efficacy of a drag administered with dexterity and discretion. "The Court physician," suggested Photinius. "Is only available," answered Eustathius, "in case his Majesty should send for him, which is most improbable. If he ever did, poison, praised be the Lord! would be totally unnecessary and entirely superfluous." "My dear friend," said Photinius, venturing at this favourable moment on a question he had been dying to ask ever since he had been an inmate of the convent, "would you mind telling me in confidence, did you ever administer any potion of a deleterious nature to his Sacred Majesty?" "What was the impediment?" "The perverse opposition of the cupbearer. It is idle attempting anything of the kind as long as she is about the Emperor." "_She_!" exclaimed Photinius. "Don't you know _that_?" responded Eustathius, with an air and manner that plainly said, "You don't know much." Humbled and ashamed, Photinius nevertheless wisely stooped to avow his nescience, and flattering his rival on his superior penetration, led him to divulge the State secret that the handsome cupbearer Helladius was but the disguise of the lovely Helladia, the object of Basil's tenderest affection, and whose romantic attachment to his person had already frustrated more conspiracies than the aged plotter could reckon up. This intelligence made Photinius for a season exceedingly thoughtful. He had not deemed Basil of an amorous complexion. At length he sent for his daughter, the beautiful and virtuous Euprepia, who from time to time visited him in the monastery. Euprepia was upright, candid, and loyal; but the best of women has something of the actress in her nature; and her histrionic talent was stimulated by her filial affection. Basil was for a moment fairly carried away by the consummate fact of her performance and the genuine feeling to her appeal; but he was himself again by the time he had finished perusing his late minister's long-winded and mendacious memorial. "What manner of woman was thy mother?" he inquired kindly Euprepia was eloquent in praise of her deceased parent's perfections of mind and person. "Then I can believe thee Photinius's daughter, which I might otherwise have doubted," returned Basil. "As concerns him, I can only say, if he feels himself innocent, let him come out of sanctuary, and stand his trial. But I will give thee a place at Court." This was about all that Photinius hoped to obtain, and he joyfully consented to his daughter's entering the Imperial court, exulting at having got in the thin end of the wedge. She was attached to the person of the Emperor's sister-in-law, the "Slayer of the Bulgarians" himself being a most determined bachelor. Time wore on. Euprepia's opportunities of visiting her father were less frequent than formerly. At last she came, looking thoroughly miserable, distracted, and forlorn. "What ails thee, child?" he inquired anxiously. "Oh, father, in what a frightful position do I find myself!" "Speak," he said, "and rely on my counsel." "I hope he is still thy friend," interrupted Photinius. "The good graces of an Imperial cupbearer are always important, and I would have bought those of Helladius with a myriad of bezants." "The Emperor! And, to shorten the story of my shame, I became his mistress." "The saints be praised!" shouted Photinius. "O my incomparable daughter!" "We know all about that already," interrupted Photinius. "Get on!" "Nothing romantic or sentimental, I trust, dear child," replied Photinius. "Torture me not, father. I came to thee for counsel." "Deliver my friend to the tormentors!" "Then," pursued Photinius, without hearing her, "thy claim on the Emperor's gratitude is boundless, and if he has any sense of what is seemly--and he is what they call chivalrous--he will make thee his lawful consort. I father-in-law of an Emperor! My brain reels to think of it. I must be cool. I must not suffer myself to be dazzled or hurried away. Let me consider. Thus acting, thou puttest all to the hazard of the die. For if Helladia should deny everything, as of course she would, and the Emperor should foolishly scruple to put her to the rack, she might probably persuade him of her innocence, and where wouldst thou be then? It might almost be better to be beforehand, and poison Helladia herself, but I fear there is no time now. Thou hast no evidence but her threats, I suppose? Thou hast not caught her tampering with poisons? There can of course be nothing in writing. I daresay I could find something, if I had but time. Canst thou counterfeit her signature?" But long ere this Euprepia, dissolved in tears, her bosom torn by convulsive sobs, had become as inattentive to her parent's discourse as he had been to her interjections. Photinius at last remarked her distress: he was by no means a bad father. "Poor child," he said, "thy nerves are unstrung, and no wonder. It is a terrible risk to run. Even if thou saidest nothing, and Helladia under the torture accused thee of having been privy to her design, it might have a bad effect on the Emperor's mind. If he put thee to the torture too--but no! that's impossible. I feel faint and giddy, dear child, and unable to decide a point of such importance. Come to me at daybreak to-morrow." But Euprepia did not reappear, and Photinius spent the day in an agony of expectation, fearing that she had compromised herself by some imprudence. He gazed on the setting sun with uncontrollable impatience, knowing that it would shine on the Imperial banquet, where so much was to happen. Basil was in fact at that very moment seating himself among a brilliant assemblage. By his side stood a choir of musicians, among them Euprepia. Soon the cup was called for, and Helladia, in her masculine dress, stepped forward, darting a glance of sinister triumph at her friend. Silently, almost imperceptibly to the bulk of the company, Euprepia glided forward, and hissed rather than whispered in Helladia's ear, ere she could retire from the Emperor's side. "Didst thou not say that if thou couldst discover her who had wronged thee, thou wouldst wreak thy vengeance on her, and molest Basil no further?" "I did, and I meant it." "See that thou keepest thy word. I am she!" And snatching the cup from the table, she quaffed it to the last drop, and instantly expired in convulsions. We pass over the dismay of the banqueters, the arrest and confession of Helladia, the general amazement at the revelation of her sex, the frantic grief of the Emperor. Basil's sorrow was sincere and durable. On an early occasion he thus addressed his courtiers: The courtiers hesitated, feeling themselves incompetent judges in problems of this nature. At length the youngest exclaimed: "O Emperor, how can we tell thee, unless we know what thou thinkest thyself?" "What!" exclaimed Basil, "an honest man in the Court of Byzantium! Let his mouth be filled with gold immediately!" This operation having been performed, and the precious metal distributed in fees among the proper officers, Basil thus addressed the object of his favour: "Manuel, thy name shall henceforth be Chrysostomus, in memory of what has just taken place. In further token of my approbation of thy honesty, I will confer upon thee the hand of the only other respectable person about the Court, namely, of Helladia. Take her, my son, and raise up a race of heroes! She shall be amply dowered out of what remains of the property of Photinius." "Gennadius," whispered a cynical courtier to his neighbour, "I hope thou admirest the magnanimity of our sovereign, who deems he is performing a most generous action in presenting Manuel with his cast-off mistress, who has tried to poison him, and with whom he has been at his wits' end what to do, and in dowering her at the expense of another." "Chrysostomus," pursued Basil, "we must now think of the hapless Photinius. That unfortunate father is doubtless in an agony of grief which renders the forfeiture of the remains of his possessions indifferent to him. Thou, his successor therein, mayest be regarded as in some sort his son-in-law. Go, therefore, and comfort him, and report to me upon his condition." Chrysostomus accordingly proceeded to the monastery, where he was informed that Photinius had retired with his spiritual adviser, and could on no account be disturbed. "It is on my head to see the Emperor's orders obeyed," returned Chrysostomus, and forced the door. The bereaved parent was busily engaged in sticking pins into a wax effigy of Basil, under the direction of Panurgiades, already honourably mentioned in this history. "Wretched old man!" exclaimed Chrysostomus, "is this thy grief for thy daughter?" "My grief is great," answered Photinius, "but my time is small. If I turn not every moment to account, I shall never be prime minister again. But all is over now. Thou wilt denounce me, of course. I will give thee a counsel. Say that thou didst arrive just as we were about to place the effigy of Basil before a slow fire, and melt it into a caldron of bubbling poison." "I shall report what I have seen," replied Chrysostomus, "neither more nor less. But I think I can assure thee that none will suffer for this mummery except Panurgiades, and that he will at most be whipped." "Chrysostomus," said Basil, on receiving the report, "lust of power, a fever in youth, is a leprosy in age. The hoary statesman out of place would sell his daughter, his country, his soul, to regain it: yea, he would part with his skin and his senses, were it possible to hold office without them. I commiserate Photinius, whose faculties are clearly on the decline; the day has been when he would not have wasted his time sticking pins into a waxen figure. I will give him some shadow of authority to amuse his old days and keep him out of mischief. The Abbot of Catangion is just dead. Photinius shall succeed him." So Photinius received the tonsure and the dignity, and made a very tolerable Abbot. It is even recorded to his honour that he bestowed a handsome funeral on his old enemy Eustathius. THE WISDOM OF THE INDIANS Everybody knows that in the reign of the Emperor Elagabalus Rome was visited by an embassy from India; whose members, on their way from the East, had held that memorable interview with the illustrious (though heretical) Christian philosopher Bardesanes which enabled him to formulate his doctrine of Fate, borrowed from the Indian theory of Karma, and therefore, until lately, grievously misunderstood by his commentators. It may not, however, be equally notorious that the ambassadors returned by sea as far as Berytus, and upon landing there were hospitably entertained by the sage Euphronius, the head of the philosophical faculty of that University. Euphronius naturally inquired what circumstance in Rome had appeared to his visitors most worthy of remark. "The extreme evil of the Emperor's Karma," said they. Euphronius requested further explanation. "What have ye found so exceedingly reprehensible in the Emperor's conduct?" demanded Euphronius. "To speak only," said the Indians, "of such of his doings as may fitly be recited to modest ears, we find him declaring war against Nature, and delighting in nothing that is not the contrary of what Heaven meant it to be. We see him bathing in perfumes, sailing ships in wine, feeding horses on grapes and lions on parrots, peppering fish with pearls, wearing gems on the soles of his feet, strewing his floor with gold-dust, paving the public streets with precious marbles, driving teams of stags, scorning to eat fish by the seaside, deploring his lot that he has never yet been able to dine on a phoenix. Enormous must have been the folly and wickedness which has incarnated itself in such a sovereign, and should his reign be prolonged, discouraging is the prospect for the morals of the next generation. "According to you, then," said Euphronius, "the fates of men are not spun for them by Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, but by their predecessors?" "These are abstruse matters," said Euphronius, "and I lament that your stay in Berytus will not be long enough to instruct me adequately therein." "Accompany us to India," said they, "and thou shalt receive instruction at the fountain head." "I am old and feeble," apologised Euphronius, "and adjusted by long habit to my present environment. Nevertheless I will propound the enterprise to my pupils, only somewhat repressing their ardour, lest the volunteers should be inconveniently numerous." "Ye would learn the secret of my celebrated dilemma," said he, "which no sophist can elude? 'Tis much; 'tis immoderate; 'tis enormous; nevertheless, bring the wisdom of India to Berytus, and the knowledge of the stratagem shall be yours." "No, Master," they said, "it is not thy dilemma of which we are enamoured. It is thy daughter." A vehement altercation ensued, but at length the old philosopher, who at the bottom of his heart was much readier to part with his daughter than his dilemma, was induced to promise her to whichever of the pupils should bring home the most satisfactory exposition of Indian metaphysics: provided always that during their absence he should not have been compelled to bestow her hand as the price of a quibble even more subtle than his own: but this he believed to be impossible. Mnesitheus and Rufus accordingly travelled with the embassy to India, and arrived in safety at the metropolis of Palimbothra. They had wisely devoted themselves meanwhile to learning the language, and were now able to converse with some fluency. On reaching their destination they were placed under the superintendence of competent instructors, who were commissioned to initiate them into the canon of Buddhist scriptures, comprising, to mention only a few of the principal, the Lalitavistara, the Dhammapada, the Kuddhapatha, the Palinokkha, the Uragavagga, the Kulavagga, the Mahavagga, the Atthakavagga, and the Upasampadakammavaca. These works, composed in dead languages, and written in strange and unknown characters, were further provided with commentaries more voluminous and inexplicable than the text. "Heavens," exclaimed Mnesitheus and Rufus, "can the life of a man suffice to study all this?" "Assuredly not," replied the Indians. "The diligent student will resume his investigations in a subsequent stage of existence, and, if endowed with eminent faculties, may hope to attain the end he proposes to himself at the fifteenth transmigration." "It is difficult to pronounce," said they, "for should the maiden, through the exercise of virtue, have merited to be born as a white elephant, her transmigrations must in the order of nature be but few; whereas should she have unfortunately become and remained a rat, a frog, or other shortlived animal, they cannot but be exceedingly numerous." "Undoubtedly," said the Indians, "by the practice of religious austerities." "Of what nature are these?" inquired the young men. "The intrepid disciple," said the sages, "may chain himself to a tree, and gaze upon the sun until he is deprived of the faculty of vision. He may drive an iron bar through his cheeks and tongue, thus preventing all misuse of the gift of speech. It is open to him to bury himself in the earth up to his waist, relying for his maintenance on the alms of pious donors. He may recline upon a couch studded with spikes, until from the induration of his skin he shall have merited the title of a rhinoceros among sages. As, however, these latter practices interfere with locomotion, and thus prevent his close attendance on his spiritual guide, it is rather recommended to him to elevate his arms above his head, and retain them in that position until, by the withering of the sinews, it is impossible for him to bring them down again." "In that case," cried Rufus, "farewell philosophy! farewell Euphronia!" There is reason to believe that Mnesitheus would have made exactly the same observation if Rufus had not been beforehand with him. The spirit of contradiction and the affectation of superiority, however, led him to reproach his rival with pusillanimity, and he went so far that at length he found himself committed to undergo the ordeal: merely stipulating that, in consideration of his being a foreigner, he should be permitted to elevate the right arm only. The king of the country most graciously came to his assistance by causing him to be fastened to a tree, with his uplifted arm secured by iron bands above his head, a fan being put in his other hand to protect him against the molestations of gnats and mosquitoes. By this means, and with the assistance of the monks who continually recited and expounded the Buddhist scriptures in his ears, some time even before his arm had stiffened for ever, the doctrine of the misery of existence had become perfectly clear to him. Released from his captivity, he hastened back to Europe to claim the guerdon of his sufferings. History is silent respecting his adventures until his arrival at Berytus, where the strange wild-looking man with the uplifted arm found himself the centre of a turbulent and mischievous rabble. As he seemed about to suffer severe ill-usage, a personage of dignified and portly appearance hastened up, and with his staff showered blows to right and left upon the rioters. "Scoundrels," he exclaimed, "finely have ye profited by my precepts, thus to misuse an innocent stranger! But I will no longer dwell among such barbarians. I will remove my school to Tarsus!" The mob dispersed. The victim and his deliverer stood face to face. "Call me Rufinianus," corrected the latter; "for such is the appellation which I have felt it due to myself to assume, since the enhancement of my dignity by becoming Euphronius's successor and son-in-law." "Son-in-law! Am I to lose the reward of my incredible sufferings?" "Thou forgettest," said Rufinianus, "that Euphronia's hand was not promised as the reward of any austerities, but as the meed of the most intelligent, that is, the most acceptable, account of the Indian philosophy, which in the opinion of the late eminent Euphronius, has been delivered by me. But come to my chamber, and let me minister to thy necessities." These having been duly attended to, Rufinianus demanded Mnesitheus's history, and then proceeded to narrate his own. "On my journey homeward," said he, "I reflected seriously on the probable purpose of our master in sending us forth, and saw reason to suspect that I had hitherto misapprehended it. For I could not remember that he had ever admitted that he could have anything to learn from other philosophers, or that he had ever exhibited the least interest in philosophic dogmas, excepting his own. The system of the Indians, I thought, must be either inferior to that of Euphronius, or superior. If the former, he will not want it: if the latter, he will want it much less. I therefore concluded that our mission was partly a concession to public opinion, partly to enable him to say that his name was known, and his teaching proclaimed on the very banks of the Ganges. I formed my plan accordingly, and disregarding certain indications that I was neither expected nor wanted, presented myself before Euphronius with a gladsome countenance, slightly overcast by sorrow on account of thee, whom I affirmed to have been devoured by a tiger. "'Well,' said Euphronius in a disdainful tone, 'and what about this vaunted wisdom of the Indians?' "'The wisdom of the Indians,' I replied, 'is entirely borrowed from Pythagoras.' "'Did I not tell you so? 'Euphronius appealed to his disciples. "'Invariably,' they replied. "'As if a barbarian could teach a Greek!' said he. "'Pythagoras, then,' said Euphronius addressing me,' did not resort to India to be instructed by the Gymnosophists?' "'On the contrary,' I answered, 'he went there to teach them, and the little knowledge of divine matters they possess is entirely derived from him. His mission is recorded in a barbarous poem called the Ramayana, wherein he is figuratively represented as allying himself with monkeys. He is worshipped all over the country under the appellations of Siva, Kamadeva, Kali, Gautama Buddha, and others too numerous to mention.' Many the Bacchi that brandish the rod: Few that be filled with the fire of the God. The guardians of the temple met to choose a successor, and, naturally desirous that the sanctity of the oracle should suffer no abatement, elected a young priest of goodly presence and ascetic life; the humblest, purest, most fervent, and most ingenuous of the sons of men. So rare a choice might well be expected to be accompanied by some extraordinary manifestation, and, in fact, a prodigy took place which filled the sacred authorities with dismay. The responses of the oracle ceased suddenly and altogether. No revelation was vouchsafed to the pontiff in his slumbers; no access of prophetic fury constrained him to disclose the secrets of the future; no voice rang from the shrine; and the unanswered epistles of the suppliants lay a hopeless encumbrance on the great altar. As a natural consequence they speedily ceased to arrive; the influx of offerings into the treasury terminated along with them; the temple-courts were bare of worshippers; and the only victims whose blood smoked within them were those slain by the priest himself, in the hope of appeasing the displeasure of Apollo. The modest hierophant took all the blame upon his own shoulders; he did not doubt that he had excited the Deity's wrath by some mysterious but heinous pollution; and was confirmed in this opinion by the unanimous verdict of all whom he approached. "Reverend mother," he addressed her, "doubtless thou comest to mingle with mine thy supplications to the Deity, that it may please him to indicate the cause, and the remedy of his wrath." "No, son," returned the venerable personage, "I propose to occasion no such needless trouble to Apollo, or any other Divinity. I hold within mine own hand the power of reviving the splendour of this forsaken sanctuary, and for such consideration as thou wilt thyself pronounce equitable, I am minded to impart the same unto thee." And as the astonished priest made no answer, she continued: "Wretch!" exclaimed the priest indignantly, "thy mercenary demand alone proves the vanity of thy pretence of being initiated into the secrets of the Gods. Depart my presence this moment!" The old woman retired without a syllable of remonstrance, and the incident soon passed from the mind of the afflicted priest. But on the following day, at the same hour, the aged woman again stood before him, and said: Again she was commanded to depart, and again obeyed without a murmur. But the adventure now occasioned the priest much serious reflection. To his excited fancy, the patient persistency of the crone began to assume something of a supernatural character. He considered that the ways of the Gods are not as our ways, and that it is rather the rule than the exception with them to accomplish their designs in the most circuitous manner, and by the most unlikely instruments. He also reflected upon the history of the Sibyl and her books, and shuddered to think that unseasonable obstinacy might in the end cost the temple the whole of its revenues. The result of his cogitations was a resolution, if the old woman should present herself on the following day, to receive her in a different manner. "Venerable ambassadress of Heaven," said the priest, "thy boon is granted thee. Relieve the anguish of my bosom as speedily as thou mayest." "And now," said the priest, when the operation was at length completed, "fulfil thy share of the compact." "The cause of the oracle's silence," returned the old woman, "is the unworthiness of the minister." "Alas! 'tis even as I feared," sighed the priest. "Declare now, wherein consists my sin?" And as the amazed priest preserved silence, she pursued: The young priest had hearkened to the crone's discourse with an expression of the most exquisite distress. When she had finished, he arose, and disregarding his repulsive companion's efforts to detain him, departed hastily from the temple. "As true as the oracle of Dorylaeum." The speaker was a countryman, who appeared to have been asseverating something regarded by the rest of the company as greatly in need of confirmation. The sudden start and stifled cry of the ex-priest drew all eyes to him, and he felt constrained to ask, with the most indifferent air he could assume: "Is the oracle of Dorylaeum, then, so exceedingly renowned for veracity?" "Whence comest thou to be ignorant of that?" demanded the countryman, with some disdain. "Hast thou never heard of the priest Eubulides?" "Eubulides!" exclaimed the young traveller, "that is my own name!" "Divinity!" exclaimed another. "Aye, if Phoebus himself ministered at his own shrine, he could wear no more majestic semblance than Eubulides." "Or predict the future more accurately," added a priest. "Or deliver his oracles in more exquisite verse," subjoined a poet. "Yet is it not marvellous," remarked another speaker, "that for some considerable time after his installation the good Eubulides was unable to deliver a single oracle?" "Ha!" exclaimed Eubulides, "how was that?" "He prognosticated her decease on the following day, which accordingly came to pass, from her being choked with a piece of gold, not lawfully appertaining to herself, which she was endeavouring to conceal under the root of her tongue." "The Gods be praised for that!" ejaculated Eubulides, under his breath. "Pshaw! as if there were Gods! If they existed, would they tolerate this vile mockery? To keep up the juggle--well, I know it must be so; but to purloin my name! to counterfeit my person! By all the Gods that are not, I will expose the cheat, or perish in the endeavour." In this ambiguous frame of mind he entered the temple. Before the high altar stood the officiating priest, a young man, the image, yet not the image, of himself. Lineament for lineament, the resemblance was exact, but over the stranger's whole figure was diffused an air of majesty, of absolute serenity and infinite superiority, which excluded every idea of deceit, and so awed the young priest that his purpose of rushing forward to denounce the impostor and drag him from the shrine was immediately and involuntarily relinquished. As he stood confounded and irresolute, the melodious voice of the hierophant rang through the temple: "Let the priest Eubulides stand forth." All was silence for a space. It was at length broken by Phoebus. "Well, Eubulides," inquired he, with the bland raillery of an Immortal, "has it at length occurred to thee that I may have been long enough away from Parnassus, filling thy place here while thou hast been disporting thyself amid heretics and barbarians?" The abashed Eubulides made no response. The Deity continued: "But now, Phoebus," Eubulides ventured to reply, "shall I not return to the shrine purified by thy presence, and again officiate as thy unworthy minister?" "To whose service, Phoebus?" inquired Eubulides. "To the service of Humanity, my son," responded Apollo. An assembly met daily in quest of a remedy, but its members were forbidden to propose anything old, and were unable to invent anything new. "Why not consult Manto, the alchemist's daughter, our prophetess, our Sibyl?" the young Benedetto asked at last. "Why not?" repeated Eustachio, an elderly man. "Why not, indeed?" interrogated Leonardo, a man of mature years. "And why should not Mantua have a tyrant?" demanded Benedetto. "The freedom of the mechanic is the bondage of the noble, who values no liberty save that of making the base-born do his bidding. 'Tis hell to a man of spirit to be contradicted by his tailor. If I could see my heart's desire on the knaves, little would I reck submitting to the sway of the Emperor." Benedetto departed in hot displeasure, and the alchemist came forward to announce that the commissioners waited. "And they call thee a philosopher and me a visionary!" said Manto, patting his cheek. The envoys' commission having been unfolded, she took not a moment to reply, "Be your Duke Virgil." The interpretation of Manto's oracle naturally provoked much diversity of opinion in the council. "Obviously," said a poet, "the prophetess would have us confer the ducal dignity upon the contemporary bard who doth most nearly accede to the vestiges of the divine Maro; and he, as I judge, is even now in the midst of you." "Canst thou balance our city upon an egg?" inquired Eustachio. "Better upon an egg than upon a quack!" retorted the priest. But such was not the opinion of Eustachio himself, who privately conferred with Leonardo. Eustachio had a character, but no parts; Leonardo had parts, but no character. "Surely," said Eustachio, "provided always that the servant is a man of exemplary character, and that he presumes not upon his lord's withdrawal to another sphere, trusting thereby to commit malpractices with impunity, but doth, on the contrary, deport himself as ever in his great taskmaster's eye." The councillors reassembled and passed resolutions. "Who but we?" asked Eustachio and Leonardo. "Are we not the heads of the Virgilian party?" "Your Majesty," Leonardo was saying, for it was he, "this madness will soon pass away. The people will weary of sacrificing themselves for a dead heathen." "And Liberty?" asked the Emperor, "is not that a name dear to those misguided creatures?" "And the citizens are really ready for this?" "All the respectable citizens. All of whom your Majesty need take account. All men of standing and substance." And, withdrawing a curtain, he disclosed the figure of Eustachio. "I thought he was asleep," muttered Eustachio. "That noodle to have been beforehand with me!" murmured Leonardo. "What perplexes me," continued Frederick, after enjoying the confusion of the pair for a few moments, "is that our masked friend here will have it that he is the man for the Dukedom, and offers to open the gates to me by a method of his own." "By fair fighting, an' please my liege," observed the visored personage, "not by these dastardly treacheries." "How inhuman!" sighed Eustachio. "How old-fashioned!" sneered Leonardo. Leonardo and Eustachio expressed their readiness to submit their credit with their fellow-citizens to any reasonable trial. "He proposes, then," pursued the Emperor, "that ye, disarmed and bound, should be placed at the head of the storming column, and in that situation should, as questionless ye would, exert your entire moral influence with your fellow-citizens to dissuade them from shooting you. If the column, thus shielded, enters the city without resistance, ye will both have earned the Dukedom, and the question who shall have it may be decided by single combat between yourselves. But should the people, rather than submit to our clemency, impiously slay their elected magistrates, it will be apparent that the methods of our martial friend are the only ones corresponding to the exigency of the case. Is the storming column ready?" "Fools and cowards!" she exclaimed, "must ye learn your duty from a woman?" And, seizing a catapult, she discharged a stone which laid the masked warrior stunned and senseless on the ground. The next instant Eustachio and Leonardo fell dead, pierced by showers of arrows. The Mantuans sallied forth. The dismayed Imperialists fled to their camp. The bodies of the fallen magistrates and of the unconscious chieftain in the mask were brought into the city. Manto herself undid the fallen man's visor, and uttered a fearful shriek as she recognised Benedetto. "What shall be done with him, mistress?" they asked. Manto long stood silent, torn by conflicting emotions. At length she said, in a strange, unnatural voice: "Put him into the Square Tower." "And now, mistress, what further? How to choose the new consuls?" "Ask me no more," she said. "I shall never prophesy again. Virtue has gone away from me." The leaders departed, to intrigue for the vacant posts, and devise tortures for Benedetto. Manto sat on the rampart, still and silent as its stones. Anon she rose, and roved about as if distraught, reciting verses from Virgil. Night had fallen. Benedetto lay wakeful in his cell. A female figure stood before him bearing a lamp. It was Manto. Trojaque nunc stares, Priamique arx alta maneres. But I can no other. I am a woman. May Mantua never entrust her fortunes to the like of me again! Come with me, I will release thee." She unlocked his chains; she guided him through the secret passage under the moat; they stood at the exit, in the open air. "Fly," she said, "and never again draw sword against thy mother. I will return to my house, and do that to myself which it behoved me to have done ere I released thee." "Manto," exclaimed Benedetto "a truce to this folly! Forsake thy dead Duke, and that cheat of Liberty more crazy and fantastic still. Wed a living Duke in me!" "Never!" exclaimed Manto. "I love thee more than any man living on earth, and I would not espouse thee if the earth held no other." "Thou canst not help thyself," he rejoined; "thou hast revealed to me the secret of this passage. I hasten to the camp. I return in an hour with an army, and wilt thou, wilt thou not, to-morrow's sun shall behold thee the partner of my throne!" Manto wore a poniard. She struck Benedetto to the heart, and he fell dead. She drew the corpse back into the passage, and hurried to her home. Opening her master's volume again, she read: Taedet coeli convexa tueri. A few minutes afterwards her father entered the chamber to tell her he had at last found the philosopher's stone, but, perceiving his daughter hanging by her girdle, he forbore to intrude upon her, and returned to his laboratory. It was time. A sentinel of the besiegers had marked Benedetto's fall, and the disappearance of the body into the earth. A pool of blood revealed the entrance to the passage. Ere sunrise Mantua was full of Frederick's soldiers, full also of burning houses, rifled sanctuaries, violated damsels, children playing with their dead mothers' breasts, especially full of citizens protesting that they had ever longed for the restoration of the Emperor, and that this was the happiest day of their lives. Frederick waited till everybody was killed, then entered the city and proclaimed an amnesty. Virgil's bust was broken, and his writings burned with Manto's body. The flames glowed on the dead face, which gleamed as it were with pleasure. The old alchemist had been slain among his crucibles; his scrolls were preserved with jealous care. But Manto found another father. She sat at Virgil's feet in Elysium; and as he stroked the fair head, now golden with perpetual youth, listened to his mild reproofs and his cheerful oracles. By her side stood a bowl filled with the untasted waters of Lethe. At last, however, a youth presented himself who, more courageous or more tipsy than his fellows, or more helplessly paralysed with horror than they, did not decline the proffered caress, and suffered himself to be drawn within the goblin's accursed embrace. Valiant or pot-valiant, great was his relief at finding himself clasped, instead of by a loathsome spectre, by a silver-haired man of noble presence, yet with a countenance indescribably haggard and anxious. "Come, my son," he cried, "hasten whither the rewards of thy intrepidity await thee. Impouch the purse of Fortunatus! Indue the signet of Solomon!" The young man hesitated. "Is there nought else?" he cautiously demanded. "Needs it not that I should renounce my baptism? Must I not subscribe an infernal compact?" "In thy own blood, my son," cheerfully responded the old gentleman. "Peradventure," hesitatingly interrogated the youth, "peradventure you are _he_?" "Not so, my son, upon honour," returned the mysterious personage. "I am but a distressed magician, at this present in fearful straits, from which I look to be delivered by thee." The youth gazed some moments at his companion's head, and then still more earnestly at his feet. He then yielded his own hand to him, and the pair crossed the piazza, almost at a run, the magician ever ejaculating, "Speed! speed!" They paused at the foot of a lofty tower, doorless and windowless, with no visible access of any kind. But the magician signed with his hand, pronounced some cabalistical words, and instantly stone and lime fell asunder and revealed an entrance through which they passed, and which immediately closed behind them. The youth quaked at finding himself alone in utter darkness with he knew not what, but the wizard whistled, and a severed hand appeared in air bearing a lamp which illuminated a long winding staircase. The old man motioned to the youth to precede him, nor dared he refuse, though feeling as though he would have given the world for the very smallest relic of the very smallest saint. The distorted shadows of the twain, dancing on stair and wall with the wavering lamp-shine, seemed phantoms capering in an infernal revel, and he glanced back ever and anon weening to see himself dogged by some frightful monster, but he saw only the silver hair and sable velvet of the dignified old man. After the ascent of many steps a door opened before them, and they found themselves in a spacious chamber, brightly, yet from its size imperfectly illumined by a single large lamp. It was wainscoted with ebony, and the furniture was of the same. A long table was covered with scrolls, skulls, crucibles, crystals, star-charts, geomantic figures, and other appurtenances of a magician's calling. Tomes of necromantic lore lined the walls, which were yet principally occupied with crystal vessels, in which foul beings seemed dimly and confusedly to agitate themselves. The magician signed to his visitor to be seated, sat down himself and began: Horror and thankfulness rushed together into the young man's mind, and there contended for some brief instants: but as the last stroke sounded all the crystal vials shivered with a stunning crash, and their hellish inmates, rejoicing in their deliverance, swarmed into the chamber. All made for the youth, who, tugged, clawed, fondled, bitten, beslimed, blinded, deafened, beset in every way by creatures of indescribable loathsomeness, grasped frantically as his sole weapon, the stylus; but it had become a writhing serpent. This was too much, sense forsook him on the spot. But his affright was groundless. The Inquisitors had already taken cognisance of Abano's scrolls, and found that, touching these at least, he had spoken sooth. Besides kings, princes, ministers, magistrates, and other secular persons who had owed their success in life to dealings with the devil under his mediation, the infernal bondsmen included so many pillars of the Church and champions of the Faith; prelates plenty, abbots in abundance, cardinals not a few, a (some whispered _the_) Pope; above all, so many of the Inquisitors themselves, that further inquiry could evidently nowise conduce to edification. The surgeon, therefore, infused an opiate into the veins of the unconscious youth, and he came to himself upon a galley speeding him to the holy war in Cyprus, where he fell fighting the Turk. ALEXANDER THE RATCATCHER "Rome and her rats are at the point of battle!" "Why tarries Cardinal Barbadico thus?" the Pope at last asked himself aloud. The inquiry was answered by a wild burst of squeaking and clattering and scurrying to and fro, as who should say, "We've eaten him! We've eaten him!" But this exultation was at least premature, for just as the terrified Pope clutched his bell, the door opened to the narrowest extent compatible with the admission of an ecclesiastical personage of dignified presence, and Cardinal Barbadico hastily squeezed himself through. "I shall hardly trust myself upon these stairs again," he remarked, "unless under the escort of your Holiness's terrier." "Take him, my son, and a cruse of holy water to boot," the Pope responded. "Now, how go things in the city?" "As ill as may be, your Holiness. Not a saint stirs a finger to help us. The country-folk shun the city, the citizens seek the country. The multitude of enemies increases hour by hour. They set at defiance the anathemas fulminated by your Holiness, the spiritual censures placarded in the churches, and the citation to appear before the ecclesiastical courts, although assured that their cause shall be pleaded by the ablest advocates in Rome. The cats, amphibious with alarm, are taking to the Tiber. Vainly the city reeks with toasted cheese, and the Commissary-General reports himself short of arsenic." "And how are the people taking it?" demanded Alexander. "To what cause do they attribute the public calamity?" "Generally speaking, to the sins of your Holiness," replied the Cardinal. "Cardinal!" exclaimed Alexander indignantly. "I crave pardon for my temerity," returned Barbadico. "It is with difficulty that I force myself to speak, but I am bound to lay the ungrateful truth before your Holiness. The late Pope, as all men know, was a personage of singular sanctity." "Far too upright for this fallen world," observed Alexander with unction. "_Lateat scintillula forsan_," said the Cardinal mysteriously. "Ha! How so?" eagerly demanded Alexander. "Our hopes," answered the Cardinal, "are associated with the recent advent to this city of an extraordinary personage." "Explain," urged the Pope. "I speak," resumed the Cardinal, "of an aged man of no plebeian mien or bearing, albeit most shabbily attired in the skins, now fabulously cheap, of the vermin that torment us; who, professing to practise as an herbalist, some little time ago established himself in an obscure street of no good repute. A tortoise hangs in his needy shop, nor are stuffed alligators lacking. Understanding that he was resorted to by such as have need of philters and love-potions, or are incommoded by the longevity of parents and uncles, I was about to have him arrested, when I received a report which gave me pause. This concerned the singular intimacy which appeared to subsist between him and our enemies. When he left home, it was averred, he was attended by troops of them obedient to his beck and call, and spies had observed him banqueting them at his counter, the rats sitting erect and comporting themselves with perfect decorum. I resolved to investigate the matter for myself. Looking into his house through an unshuttered window, I perceived him in truth surrounded by feasting and gambolling rats; but when the door was opened in obedience to my attendants' summons, he appeared to be entirely alone. Laying down a pestle and mortar, he greeted me by name with an easy familiarity which for the moment quite disconcerted me, and inquired what had procured him the honour of my visit. Recovering myself, and wishing to intimidate him: "'Call me Rattila,' he rejoined with unconcern, 'and state your further business.' "I felt myself on the wrong tack, and hastened to interrogate him respecting his relations with our adversaries. He frankly admitted his acquaintance with rattery in all its branches, and his ability to deliver the city from this scourge, but his attitude towards your Holiness was so deficient in respect that I question whether I ought to report it." "Proceed, son," said the Pope; "we will not be deterred from providing for the public weal by the ribaldry of a ratcatcher." "He scoffed at what he termed your Holiness's absurd position, and affirmed that the world had seldom beheld, or would soon behold again, so ridiculous a spectacle as a Pope besieged by rats. 'I can help your master,' he continued, 'and am willing; but my honour, like his, is aspersed in the eyes of the multitude, and he must come to my aid, if I am to come to his.' "I prayed him to be more explicit, and offered to be the bearer of any communication to your Holiness. "'Have a care!' he exclaimed sharply. 'You speak to his late Holiness's most intimate friend.' "'I guarantee his Holiness absolute immunity from cold,' he replied, 'and that none of my subjects shall molest him either going or returning.' "'But,' I objected, 'granting that you are not the Devil, how the devil, let me ask, do you expect to gain admittance at midnight to the Appartamento Borgia?' "'Think you I cannot pass through a stone wall?' answered he, and vanished in an instant. A tremendous scampering of rats immediately ensued, then all was silence. "On recovering in some measure from my astounded condition, I caused strict search to be made throughout the shop. Nothing came to light but herbalists' stuff and ordinary medicines. And now, Holy Father, your Holiness's resolution? Reflect well. This Rattila may be the King of the Rats, or he may be Beelzebub in person." "All powers of good forbid," he exclaimed, "that a Pope and a Prince should shrink from peril which the safety of the State summons him to encounter! I will confront this wizard, this goblin, in the place of his own appointing, under his late intimate friend's very nose. I am a man of many transgressions, but something assures me that Heaven will not deem this a fit occasion for calling them to remembrance. Time presses; I lead on; follow, Cardinal Barbadico, follow! Yet stay, let us not forget temporal and spiritual armouries." The wizard had kept his word. Not a rat was seen or heard upon the pilgrimage, which was exceedingly toilsome to the aged Pope, from the number of passages to be threaded and doors to be unlocked. At length the companions stood before the portal of the Appartamento Borgia. "Your Holiness must enter alone," Cardinal Barbadico admonished, with manifest reluctance. "I tell you what, my man," responded Alexander, feeling it very necessary to assert his dignity while any of it remained, "you are not to imagine that, because I have humoured you so far as to grant you an audience at an unusual place and time, I am going to stand any amount of your nonsense and impertinence. You can catch our rats, can you? Catch them then, and you need not fear that we shall treat you like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. You have committed sundry rascalities, no doubt? A pardon shall be made out for you. You want a patent or a privilege for your ratsbane? You shall have it. So to work, in the name of St. Muscipulus! and you may keep the tails and skins." "I believe I have seen your face before," said Alexander, "and all the more likely as I was inspector of prisons when I was Cardinal." "It isn't the heretics," Borgia insisted. "It is the degeneracy of the Popes. A shabby lot! You, Alexander, are about the best of them; but the least Cardinal about my Court would have thought himself bigger than you." Alexander's spirit rose. "I would suggest," he said, "that this haughty style is little in keeping with the sordid garb wherein your Holiness, consistent after death as in your life, masquerades to the scandal and distress of the faithful." "How can I other? Has your Holiness forgotten your Rabelais?" "Let me refresh your memory," rejoined Borgia, and, producing a volume of the Sage of Meudon, he turned to the chapter descriptive of the employments of various eminent inhabitants of the nether world, and pointed to the sentence: "Is this indeed sooth?" demanded his successor. "And therefore your Holiness has brought these rats upon us, enlisted, I nothing doubt, in the infernal regions?" "Precisely so: Plutonic, necyomantic, Lemurian rats, kindly lent by the Prince of Darkness for the occasion, and come dripping from Styx to squeak and gibber in the Capitol. But I note your Holiness's admission that they belong to a region exempt from your jurisdiction, and that, therefore, your measures against them, except as regards their status as belligerents, are for the most part illegitimate and _ultra vires_." "Unprecedented!" exclaimed Borgia. "Am I not the modern Coriolanus? Did Narses experience blacker ingratitude than I? Where would the temporal power be but for me? Who smote the Colonna? Who squashed the Orsini? Who gave the Popes to dwell quietly in their own house? Monsters of unthankfulness!" "I promise," he declared. "Your hand upon it!" Subduing his repugnance and apprehension by a strong effort, Alexander laid his hand within the spectre's clammy paw. An icy thrill ran through his veins, and he sank back senseless into his chair. THE REWARDS OF INDUSTRY "I fear, my sons, that among your multifarious pursuits and studies you must have omitted to include that of the laws of your country, or you would have learned that fortune is not to be acquired by the means which you have proposed to yourselves." "How so, father?" asked they. "It hath been justly deemed by our ancestors," said the old man, "that the reverence due to the great men who are worshipped in our temples, by reason of our indebtedness to them for the arts of life, could not but become impaired if their posterity were suffered to eclipse their fame by new discoveries, or presumptuously amend what might appear imperfect in their productions. It is therefore, by an edict of the Emperor Suen, forbidden to invent anything; and by a statute of the Emperor Wu-chi it is further provided that nothing hitherto invented shall be improved. My predecessor in the small office I hold was deprived of it for saying that in his judgment money ought to be made round instead of square, and I have myself run risk of my life for seeking to combine a small file with a pair of tweezers." Fu-su repaired to the artists who cut out characters in blocks of hard wood, to the end that books may be printed from the same. When he had fathomed their mystery he betook himself to a brass-founder, and learned how to cast in metal. He then sought a learned man who had travelled much, and made himself acquainted with the Greek, Persian, and Arabic languages. Then he cast a number of Greek characters in type, and putting them into a bag and providing himself with some wooden letter-tablets of his own carving, he departed to seek his fortune. After innumerable hardships and perils he arrived in the land of Persia, and inquired for the great king. "The great king is dead," they told him, "and his head is entirely separated from his body. There is now no king in Persia, great or small." "Where shall I find another great king?" demanded he. "In the city of Alexandria," replied they, "where the Commander of the Faithful is busy introducing the religion of the Prophet." Fu-su passed to Alexandria, carrying his types and tablets. As he entered the gates he remarked an enormous cloud of smoke, which seemed to darken the whole city. Before he could inquire the reason, the guard arrested him as a stranger, and conducted him to the presence of the Caliph Omar. And producing his tablets and types, he explained to the Caliph the entire mystery of the art of printing. "Thou seemest to be ignorant," said Omar, "that we have but yesterday condemned and excommunicated all books, and banished the same from the face of the earth, seeing that they contain either that which is contrary to the Koran, in which case they are impious, or that which is agreeable to the Koran, in which case they are superfluous. Thou art further unaware, as it would seem, that the smoke which shrouds the city proceeds from the library of the unbelievers, consumed by our orders. It will be meet to burn thee along with it." "O Commander of the Faithful," said an officer, "of a surety the last scroll of the accursed ceased to flame even as this infidel entered the city." The sentence was executed, and Fu-su was happy that the Court physician condescended to accept his little property in exchange for emetics. He begged his way slowly and painfully back to China, and arrived at the covenanted spot at the expiration of the thirtieth year. His father's modest dwelling had disappeared, and in its place stood a magnificent mansion, around which stretched a park with pavilions, canals, willow-trees, golden pheasants, and little bridges. "Tu-sin has surely made his fortune," thought he, "and he will not refuse to share it with me agreeably to our covenant." The brothers embraced with many tears, and after Tu-sin had learned Fu-su's history, he proceeded to recount his own. "I told him that I had discovered a secret which would make him the master of the world, and in particular would help him to drive away the Saracens, who threatened his empire with destruction. "'Thou must perceive,' he said, 'that I cannot possibly attend to thee until I have solved this problem. Yet, lest any should say that the Emperor neglects his duties, absorbed in idle amusement, I will refer thy invention to the chief armourers of my capital. And he gave me a letter to the armourers, and returned to his problem. And as I quitted the palace bearing the missive, I came upon a great procession. Horsemen and running footmen, musicians, heralds, and banner-bearers surrounded a Chinaman who sat in the attitude of Fo under a golden umbrella upon a richly caparisoned elephant, his pigtail plaited with yellow roses. And the musicians blew and clashed, and the standard-bearers waved their ensigns, and the heralds proclaimed, 'Thus shall it be done to the man whom the Emperor delights to honour.' And unless I was very greatly mistaken, the face of the Chinaman was the face of our brother Wang-li. "' Who will want breast-plates now?' cried the chief breast-plate maker. "'My swords will be of less account,' said a swordsmith. "'My arrows of none,' lamented an arrow-maker. "''Tis magic,' shouted another. They entered the gates, walked timidly up to the house, and prepared to fall at the feet of the master, but did not, for ere they could do so they recognised their brother Wang-li. It took Wang-li some time to recognise them, but when at length he knew them he hastened to provide for their every want. When they had well eaten and drunk, and had been clad in robes of honour, they imparted their histories, and asked for his. "The Emperor bade me choose any favour I would, but I said his liberality had left me nothing to ask for except the life of a poor countryman of mine who I had heard was in prison for burning the city. The Emperor bade me write his sentence with my own hand. Had I known that it was thou, Tu-sin, believe me I had shown more consideration for thy person. At length I departed for my native land, loaded with wealth, and travelling most comfortably by relays of swift dromedaries. I returned hither, bought our father's cottage, and on its site erected this palace, where I dwell meditating on the problems of chessplayers and the precepts of the sages, and persuaded that a little thing which the world is willing to receive is better than a great thing which it hath not yet learned to value aright. For the world is a big child, and chooses amusement before instruction." "Call you chess an amusement?" asked his brothers. Lucifer sat playing chess with Man for his soul. The game was evidently going ill for Man. He had but pawns left, few and straggling. Lucifer had rooks, knights, and, of course, bishops. It was but natural under such circumstances that Man should be in no great hurry to move. Lucifer grew impatient. "It is a pity," said he at last, "that we did not fix some period within which the player must move, or resign." "Oh, Lucifer," returned the young man, in heart-rending accents, "it is not the impending loss of my soul that thus unmans me, but the loss of my betrothed. When I think of the grief of the Lady Adeliza, that paragon of terrestrial loveliness!" Tears choked his utterance; Lucifer was touched. "Is the Lady Adeliza's loveliness in sooth so transcendent?" he inquired. "She is a rose, a lily, a diamond, a morning star!" "If that is the case," rejoined Lucifer, "thou mayest reassure thyself. The Lady Adeliza shall not want for consolation. I will assume thy shape and woo her in thy stead." The young man hardly seemed to receive all the comfort from this promise which Lucifer no doubt designed. He made a desperate move. In an instant the Devil checkmated him, and he disappeared. Lucifer had all but brought her to name the day, when he was informed that a gentleman of clerical appearance desired to wait upon him. "Wants money for a new church or mission, I suppose," said he. "Show him up." But when the visitor was ushered in, Lucifer found with discomposure that he was no earthly clergyman, but a celestial saint; a saint, too, with whom Lucifer had never been able to get on. He had served in the army while on earth, and his address was curt, precise, and peremptory. "I have called," he said, "to notify to you my appointment as Inspector of Devils." "What!" exclaimed Lucifer, in consternation. "To the post of my old friend Michael!" "Too old," said the Saint laconically. "Millions of years older than the world. About your age, I think?" Lucifer winced, remembering the particular business he was then about. The Saint continued: "Oh, my dear friend," exclaimed Lucifer, "what an inexpressibly blissful prospect you do open unto me!" "I don't know that," said the Saint. "I must remind you that the dominion of the infernal regions is unalterably attached to the person of the present Queen thereof. If you part with her you immediately lose all your authority and possessions. I don't care a brass button which you do, but you must understand that you cannot eat your cake and have it too. Good morning!" Feeling himself incapable of coming to a decision, he sent for Belial, unfolded the matter, and requested his advice. "Yes," replied Lucifer, "it is to be a Lucifer match." "The more fool you," rejoined Belial. "If you tempted her to commit a sin, she would be yours without any conditions at all." "Oh, Belial," said Lucifer, "I cannot bring myself to be a tempter of so much innocence and loveliness." And he meant what he said. "Well then, let me try," proposed Belial. "You?" replied Lucifer contemptuously; "do you imagine that Adeliza would look at _you_?" "Why not?" asked Belial, surveying himself complacently in the glass. He was humpbacked, squinting, and lame, and his horns stood up under his wig. The discussion ended in a wager after which there was no retreat for Lucifer. Not all the hustling, mowing, and gibbering of the fiends would under ordinary circumstances have kept Adeliza from her lover's side: but what is all hell to jealousy? "Let the monster go!" she exclaimed; "who cares? Come, my love, ascend the throne with me, and share the empire and the treasures of thy fond Luciferetta." "If you don't, back you go," interjected Belial. What might have been the young man's decision if Madam Lucifer had borne more resemblance to Madam Vulcan, it would be wholly impertinent to inquire, for the question never arose. "Take me away!" he screamed, "take me away, anywhere I anywhere out of her reach! Oh, Adeliza!" Lucifer, in fact, hastening to throw himself at Adeliza's feet and pray her to defer his bliss no longer, had been thunderstruck by the tidings of her elopement with Belial. Fearing to lose his wife and his dominions along with his sweetheart, he had sped to the nether regions with such expedition that he had had no time to change his costume. Hence the equivocation which confounded Adeliza, but at the same time preserved her from being torn to pieces by the no less mystified Madam Lucifer. Perceiving the state of the case, Lucifer with true gentlemanly feeling resumed his proper semblance, and Madam Lucifer's talons were immediately inserted into his whiskers. "My dear! my love!" he gasped, as audibly as she would let him, "is this the way it welcomes its own Lucy-pucy?" "Who is that person?" demanded Madam Lucifer. "I don't know her," screamed the wretched Lucifer. "I never saw her before. Take her away; shut her up in the deepest dungeon!" "Not if I know it," sharply replied Madam Lucifer, "You can't bear to part with her, can't you? You would intrigue with her under my nose, would you? Take that! and that! Turn them both out, I say! turn them both out!" "Certainly, my dearest love, most certainly," responded Lucifer. What a wondrous creature is man! What feats the humblest among us perform, which, if related of another order of beings, we should deem incredible! By what magic could the young student escape the weary old professor, who was prosily proving Time merely a form of thought; a proposition of which, to judge by the little value he appeared to set on the subject of his discourse, he must himself have been fully persuaded? Without exciting his suspicions in the smallest degree, the student stole away to a region inconceivably remote, and presented himself at the portal of a magnificent palace, guarded by goblins, imps, lions, serpents, and monsters whose uncouthness forbids description. "Yes," said the student. "Hast thou wedded a Salamander, and divorced her?" "I have," said the student. "Art thou at this present time betrothed to a Vampire?" "I am," said the student. "Hast thou sacrificed thy mother and sister to the infernal powers?" The student displayed his parchments. The imps cheered, the goblins congratulated, the serpents shrank hissing away, the lions fawned upon the student, a centaur bore him upon his back to the treasurer's presence. The treasurer, an old bent man, with a single lock of silvery hair, received the adventurer with civility. "I have come," said the student, "for the talismans in thy keeping, to the choice among which I have entitled myself." "Thou hast fairly earned them," replied the old man, "and I may not say thee nay. Thou canst, however, only possess any of them in the shape which it has received at my hands during the long period for which these have remained in my custody." "I must submit to the condition," said the student. "Behold, then, Aladdin's lamp," said the ancient personage, tendering a tiny vase hardly bigger than a pill-box, containing some grains of a coarse, rusty powder. "Aladdin's lamp!" cried the student. "All of it, at least, that I have seen fit to preserve," replied the old man. "Thou art but just in time for this even. It is proper to apprise thee that the virtues of the talisman having necessarily dwindled with its bulk, it is at present incompetent to evoke any Genie, and can at most summon an imp, of whose company thou wilt never be able to rid thyself, inasmuch as the least friction will inevitably destroy what little of the talisman remains." "Confusion!" cried the young man, "Show me, then, Aladdin's ring." "Here," replied the old man, producing a plain gold hoop. "This, at least," asked the student, "is not devoid of virtue?" "Assuredly not, if placed on the finger of some fair lady. For, its magic properties depending wholly upon certain engraved characters, which I have gradually obliterated, it is at present unadapted to any other use than that of a wedding-ring, which it would subserve to admiration." "Produce another talisman," commanded the youth. "This, at least, is bright and weighty," exclaimed the student, as the old man displayed the sword of sharpness. "In truth a doughty weapon," returned the treasurer, "if wielded by a stronger arm than thine, for it will no longer fly in the air and smite off heads of its own accord, since the new blade hath been fitted to the new hilt." After a hasty inspection of the empty frame of a magic mirror, and a fragment of the original setting of Solomon's seal, the youth's eye lighted upon a volume full of mysterious characters. "Whose book is this?" he inquired. "Heavens, it is Michael Scott's!" "Even so," returned the venerable man, "and its spells have lost nothing of their efficacy. But the last leaf, containing the formula for dismissing spirits after they have been summoned from the nether world, hath been removed by me. Inattention to this circumstance hath caused several most respectable magicians to be torn in pieces, and hath notably increased the number of demons at large." "Thou old villain!" shouted the exasperated youth, "is this the way in which the treasures in thy custody are protected by thee? Deemest thou that I will brook being thus cheated of my dear-bought talisman? Nay, but I will deprive thee of thine. Give me that lock of hair." "O good youth," supplicated the now terrified and humbled old man, "bereave me not of the source of all my power. Think, only think of the consequences!" "I will not think," roared the youth. "Deliver it to me, or I'll rend it from thy head with my own hands." With a heavy sigh, Time clipped the lock from his brow and handed it to the youth, who quitted the place unmolested by any of the monsters. Entering the great city, the student made his way by narrow and winding streets until, after a considerable delay, he emerged into a large public square. It was crowded with people, gazing intently at the afternoon sky, and the air was rife with a confused murmur of altercations and exclamations. "It is." "No, I tell you, it is impossible." "It cannot be." "I see it move." "No, it's only my eyes are dazzled." "Who could have believed it?" "Whatever will happen next?" Following the gaze of the people, the youth discovered that the object of their attention was the sun, in whose aspect, however, he could discover nothing unusual. "No," a man by him was saying, "it positively has not moved for an hour. I have my instruments by me. I cannot possibly be mistaken." "It ought to have been behind the houses long ago," said another. "Time is no more," proclaimed a leader among the people. "I am a ruined man," lamented a watchmaker. "And I," ejaculated a maker of almanacks. "We shall never see the moon again," sobbed a pair of lovers. "It is well this did not happen at night," observed an optimist. "Indeed?" questioned the director of a gas company. "I told you the Last Day would come in our time," said a preacher. As for our student, forgetting his faithful Vampire, he made his way to a young lady of great personal attractions, to whom he had been attached in former days. The sight of her beauty, and the thought that it would be everlasting, revived his passion. To convince her of the perpetuity of her charms, and establish a claim upon her gratitude, he cautiously revealed to her that he was the author of this blissful state of things, and that Time's hair was actually in his possession. "Oh, you dear good man!" she exclaimed, "how vastly I am obliged to you! Ferdinand will never forsake me now." "Ferdinand! Leonora, I thought you cared for _me_." "Oh!" she said, "you young men of science are so conceited!" The discomfited lover fled from the house, and sought the treasurer's palace. It had vanished with all its monsters. Long did he roam the city ere he mixed again with the crowd, which an old meteorologist was addressing energetically. "Certainly not," replied a geologist and a metaphysician together. "Rain being an agent of Time in the production of change, there can be no place for it under the present dispensation." "Then will not the crops be burned up? Will the fruits mature? Are they not withering already? What of wells and rivers, and the mighty sea itself? Who will feed your cattle? And who will feed _you_?" "This concerns us," said the butchers and bakers. "Us also," added the fishmongers. "I always thought," said a philosopher, "that this phenomenon must be the work of some malignant wizard." "Show us the wizard that we may slay him," roared the mob. When the people had somewhat recovered from their emotion, they fell to disputing as to the cause of the last marvel. No scientific man could get beyond a working hypothesis. The mystery was at length solved by a very humble citizen, a barber. "Why," he said, "the old gentleman's hair has grown again!" And so it had! And so it was that the unborn came to life, the dying gave up the ghost, Leonora pulled out a grey hair, and the student told the professor his dream. "Ye know, my sons," he began, "with what ardour I am reputed to have striven to penetrate the hidden secrets of Nature, and to solve the problems which have allured and baffled the sages of all time. In this rumour doth not err: such hath ever been my object; but, until yesterday, my fortune hath been like unto theirs who have preceded me. The little I could accomplish seemed as nothing in comparison with what I was compelled to leave unachieved. Even now my success is but partial. I have not learned to make gold; the talisman of Solomon is not mine; nor can I recall the principle of life to the dead, or infuse it into inanimate matter. But if I cannot create, I can preserve. I have found the Elixir of Life." An unanimous exclamation assured him that there need be no uncertainty on this point. "So be it," returned the sage, "and now hearken to the conditions. The young men remained silent and abashed, unwilling to acknowledge the justice of their master's taunt, and unable to deny it. They sought for some middle path, which did not readily present itself. On regaining their faculties they found themselves at the outside of Aboniel's dwelling, stunned by the shock, and humiliated by the part they had played. They jointly pledged inviolable secrecy, and returned to their homes. The intruders looked at each other, striving to penetrate the sense of Aboniel's last words. While yet they gazed, they were startled by a loud crash from an adjacent closet, and were even more discomposed as a large monkey bounded forth, whose sleek coat, exuberant playfulness, and preternatural agility convinced all that the deceased philosopher, under an inspiration of supreme irony, had administered to the creature every drop of the Elixir of Life. THE POET OF PANOPOLIS "These people did not exist in our time," said Apollo aloud, "or at least they knew their place, and behaved themselves." "Sir," said a comparatively grave and respectable demon, addressing the stranger, "I should wish your peregrinity to understand that these imps are mere schoolboys--my pupils, in fact. When their education has made further progress they will be more mannerly, and will comprehend the folly of pestering an unintellectual old gentleman like this worthy Pachymius with beauty for which he has no eyes, and gold for which he has no use, and dainties for which he has no palate, and learning for which he has no head. But _I'll_ wake him up!" And waving his pupils away, the paedagogic fiend placed himself at the anchorite's ear, and shouted into it- "Nonnus is to be Bishop of Panopolis!" The hermit's features were instantly animated by an expression of envy and hatred. "Nonnus!" he exclaimed, "the heathen poet, to have the see of Panopolis, of which _I_ was promised the reversion!" "My dear sir," suggested Apollo, "it is all very well to enliven the reverend eremite; but don't you think it is rather a liberty to make such jokes at the expense of my good friend Nonnus?" "There is no liberty," said the demon, "for there is no joke. Recanted on Monday. Baptized yesterday. Ordained to-day. To be consecrated to-morrow." The anchorite poured forth a torrent of the choicest ecclesiastical curses, until he became speechless from exhaustion, and Apollo, profiting by the opportunity, addressed the demon: "Would it be an unpardonable breach of politeness, respected sir, if I ventured to hint that the illusions your pupils have been trying to impose upon this venerable man have in some small measure impaired the confidence with which I was originally inspired by your advantageous personal appearance?" "Not in the least," replied the demon, "especially as I can easily make my words good. If you and Pachymius will mount my back I will transport you to Panopolis, where you can verify my assertion for yourselves." The Deity and the anchorite promptly consented, and seated themselves on the demon's shoulders. The shadow of the fiend's expanded wings fell black and vast on the fiery sand, but diminished and became invisible as he soared to a prodigious height, to escape observation from below. By-and-by the sun's glowing ball touched earth at the extremity of the horizon; it disappeared, the fires of sunset burned low in the west, and the figures of the demon and his freight showed like a black dot against a lake of green sky, growing larger as he cautiously stooped to earth. Grazing temples, skimming pyramids, the party came to ground in the precincts of Panopolis, just in time to avoid the rising moon that would have betrayed them. The demon immediately disappeared. Apollo hastened off to demand an explanation from Nonnus, while Pachymius repaired to a neighbouring convent, peopled, as he knew, by a legion of sturdy monks, ever ready to smite and be smitten in the cause of orthodoxy. "Nonnus," said Phoebus, passing noiselessly through the unresisting wall, "the tale of thy apostasy is then true?" It would be difficult to determine whether surprise, delight, or dismay preponderated in Nonnus's expression as he lifted up his eyes and recognised the God of Poetry. He had just presence of mind to shuffle his scroll under an enormous dictionary ere he fell at Apollo's feet. "O Phoebus," he exclaimed, "hadst thou come a week ago!" "It is true, then?" said Apollo. "Thou forsakest me and the Muses. Thou sidest with them who have broken our statues, unroofed our temples, desecrated our altars, and banished us from among mankind. Thou rejectest the glory of standing alone in a barbarous age as the last witness to culture and civilisation. Thou despisest the gifts of the Gods and the Muses, of which I am even now the bearer. Thou preferrest the mitre to the laurel chaplet, and the hymns of Gregory to the epics of Homer?" "And what demanded they?" asked Apollo. "Oh, a mere romance! Something entirely fabulous." "I must see it," persisted Apollo; and Nonnus reluctantly disinterred his scroll from under the big dictionary, and handed it up, trembling like a schoolboy who anticipates a castigation for a bad exercise. "What trash have we here?" cried Phoebus- [Greek: "Achronos aen, akichaetos, en arraetoos Logos archae,] [Greek: 'Isophuaes Genetaeros omaelikos Tios amaetoor,] [Greek: Kai Logos antophygoio Theou, phoos, ek phaeos phoos.] "If it isn't the beginning of the Gospel of John! Thy impiety is worse than thy poetry!" Apollo cast the scroll indignantly to the ground. His countenance wore an expression so similar to that with which he is represented in act to smite the Python, that Nonnus judged it prudent to catch up his manuscript and hold it shield-wise before his face. "Thou doest well," said Apollo, laughing bitterly; "that rampart is indeed impenetrable to my arrows." Nonnus seemed about to fall prostrate, when a sharp rap came to the door. "That is the Governor's knock," he exclaimed. "Do not forsake me utterly, O Phoebus!" But as he turned to open the door, Apollo vanished. The Governor entered, a sagacious, good-humoured-looking man in middle life. "Who was with thee just now?" he asked. "Methought I heard voices." "Merely the Muse," explained Nonnus, "with whom I am wont to hold nocturnal communings." "Indeed!" replied the Governor. "Then the Muse has done well to take herself off, and will do even better not to return. Bishops must have no flirtations with Muses, heavenly or earthly--not that I am now altogether certain that thou _wilt_ be a bishop." "How so?" asked Nonnus, not without a feeling of relief. "How so, while thou hast the Paraphrase of St. John?" demanded Apollo maliciously. "Indeed, good youth," said the Governor, who wished to favour Nonnus, "methinks the condition is somewhat exorbitant. A single book might suffice, surely!" "I am quite content," replied Apollo. "If he consents to burn any of his books he is no poet, and I wash my hands of him." "It must be with his own hands, please your Excellency," said Apollo. "The thirteenth book!" exclaimed Nonnus, "containing the contest between wine and honey, without which my epic becomes totally and entirely unintelligible!" "This, then," said the Governor, picking out another, which chanced to be the seventeenth. "In my seventeenth book," objected Nonnus, "Bacchus plants vines in India, and the superiority of wine to milk is convincingly demonstrated." "With my Hamadryad! I can never give up my Hamadryad!" "Then," said the Governor, contemptuously hurling the whole set in the direction of Nonnus, "burn which you will, only burn!" "Out on the vanity of these poets!" exclaimed the disappointed Governor. "It is not vanity," said Apollo, "it is paternal affection; and being myself a sufferer from the same infirmity, I rejoice to find him my true son after all." "Well," said the Governor, turning to the demon: "it is thy man's turn now. Trot him out!" "Brethren," said the demon to the assembly, "it is meet that he who aspires to the office of bishop should be prepared to give evidence of extraordinary self-denial. Ye have seen even our weak brother Nonnus adoring what he hath burned, albeit as yet unwilling to burn what he hath adored. How much more may be reasonably expected of our brother Pachymius, so eminent for sanctity! I therefore call upon him to demonstrate his humility and self-renunciation, and effectually mortify the natural man, by washing himself in this ample vessel provided for the purpose" "I thought it had been an angel," said the Governor. "A demon in the disguise of an angel of light," said Pachymius. A tumultuous discussion arose among Pachymius's supporters, some extolling his fortitude, others blaming his wrongheadedness. "What!" said he to the latter, "would ye rob me of my reputation? Shall it be written of me, The holy Pachymius abode in the precepts of the eremites so long as he dwelt in the desert where no water was, but as soon as he came within sight of a bath, he stumbled and fell?" "Oh, father," urged they, "savoureth not this of vaingloriousness? The demon in the guise of an angel of light, as thou so well saidest even now. Be strong. Quit thyself valiantly. Think of the sufferings of the primitive confessors." "St. Apocryphus was actually drowned," said another. All this time the crowd of his supporters had been pressing upon the anchorite, and had imperceptibly forced him nearer the edge of the vessel, purposing at a convenient season to throw him in. He was now near enough to catch a glimpse of the limpid element. Recoiling in horror, he collected all his energies, and with head depressed towards his chest, and hands thrust forth as if to ward off pollution--butting, kicking, biting the air--he rushed forwards, and with a preternatural force deserving to be enumerated among his miracles, fairly overthrew the enormous vase, the contents streaming on the crowd in front of the stage. "Take me to my hermitage!" he screamed. "I renounce the bishopric. Take me to my hermitage!" "Amen," responded the demon, and, assuming his proper shape, he took Pachymius upon his back and flew away with him amid the cheers of the multitude. Pachymius was speedily deposited at the mouth of his cavern, where he received the visits of the neighbouring anchorites, who came to congratulate him on the constancy with which he had sustained his fiery, or rather watery trial. He spent most of his remaining days in the society of the devil, on which account he was canonised at his death. "O Phoebus," said Nonnus, when they were alone, "impose upon me any penance thou wilt, so I may but regain thy favour and that of the Muses. But before all things let me destroy my paraphrase." "Thou shalt not destroy it," said Phoebus, "Thou shalt publish it. That shall be thy penance." "This upstart soldier of fortune," reflected he, "has an unseemly habit of overcoming and leading captive legitimate princes; thus prejudicing Divine right in the eyes of the vulgar. The skin of his predecessor Valerian, curried and stuffed with straw, hangs to this hour in the temple at Ctesiphon, a pleasing spectacle to the immortal gods. How would my own skin appear in the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus? This must not be. I will send an embassy to him, and impress him with my greatness. But how?" He accordingly convoked his counsellors; the viziers, the warriors, the magi, the philosophers; and addressed them thus: "The king deigns to consult ye touching a difficult matter. I would flatter the pride of Rome, without lowering the pride of Persia. I would propitiate Aurelian, and at the same time humble him. How shall this be accomplished?" "I approve thy advice," replied Bahram, "and in return will save thy life by banishing thee from my dominions. When my august consort shall learn that thou hast been the means of depriving her of her robe, she will undoubtedly request that thou mayest be flayed, and thou knowest that I can deny her nothing. I therefore counsel thee to depart with all possible swiftness. Repair to the regions where the purple is produced, and if thou returnest with an adequate supply, I undertake that my royal sceptre shall be graciously extended to thee." The philosopher forsook the royal presence with celerity, and his office of chief examiner of court spikenard was bestowed upon another; as also his house and his garden, his gold and his silver, his wives and his concubines, his camels and his asses, which were numerous. While the solitary adventurer wended his way eastward, a gorgeous embassy travelled westward in the direction of Rome. Arrived in the presence of Aurelian, and at the conclusion of his complimentary harangue, the chief envoy produced a cedar casket, from which he drew a purple robe of such surpassing refulgence, that, in the words of the historian who has recorded the transaction, the purple of the emperor and of the matrons appeared ashy grey in comparison. It was accompanied by a letter thus conceived: "Bahram to Aurelian: health! Receive such purple as we have in Persia." "Persia, forsooth!" exclaimed Sorianus, a young philosopher versed in natural science, "this purple never was in Persia, except as a rarity. Oh, the mendacity and vanity of these Orientals!" The ambassador was beginning an angry reply, when Aurelian quelled the dispute with a look, and with some awkwardness delivered himself of a brief oration in acknowledgment of the gift. He took no more notice of the matter until nightfall, when he sent for Sorianus, and inquired where the purple actually was produced. "In the uttermost parts of India," returned the philosopher. "I see what is passing in thy mind," resumed the latter, with a smile; "but be under no apprehension. I have not undergone the censure of any judicial tribunal. My crucifixion was merely a painful but necessary incident in my laudable enterprise of obtaining the marvellous purple dye, to which end I was despatched unto these regions by the Emperor Aurelian." "The purple dye!" exclaimed the Persian, for it was he. "Thou hast obtained it?" "Thou didst elude them? and afterwards?" inquired Marcobad, with eagerness. "Afterwards," repeated Sorianus, "I made my way into the valley, where I descried the remains of my immediate predecessor prefixed to a cross." "Thou didst bear away the tincture? thou hast it now?" impetuously interrogated the Persian. "To my vision," responded the Persian, peering at the vial, "it rather reveals a palace, and a dress of honour. But suffer me to contemplate it more closely, for my eyes have waxed dim by over application to study." So saying, he snatched the flask from Sorianus, and immediately turned to fly. The Greek sprang after his treasure, and failing to grasp Marcobad's wrist, seized his beard, plucking the hair out by handfuls. The infuriated Persian smote him on the head with the crystal flagon. It burst into shivers, and the priceless contents gushed forth in a torrent over the uncovered head and uplifted visage of Sorianus, bathing every hair and feature with the most vivid purple. The aghast and thunderstricken philosophers remained gazing at each other for a moment. "It is indelible!" cried Sorianus in distraction, rushing down, however, to the brink of the little stream, and plunging his head beneath the waters. They carried away a cloud of purple, but left the purple head stained as before. The grace of repentance is rarely denied us when our misdeeds have proved unprofitable. Marcobad awkwardly approached. So saying, he hastened up the path by which Sorianus had descended, and was speedily out of sight. Sorianus tarried long under the camphor tree, but at last, becoming weary, resumed his travels, until emerging from the wilderness he entered the dominions of the King of Ayodhya. His extraordinary appearance speedily attracted the attention of the royal officers, by whom he was apprehended and brought before his majesty. "It is evident," pronounced the monarch, after bestowing his attention on the case, "that thou art in possession of an object too rare and precious for a private individual, of which thou must accordingly be deprived. I lament the inconvenience thou wilt sustain. I would it had been thy hand or thy foot." Sorianus acknowledged the royal considerateness, but pleaded the indefeasible right of property which he conceived himself to have acquired in his own head. "In respect," responded the royal logician, "that thy head is conjoined to thy shoulders, it is thine; but in respect that it is purple, it is mine, purple being a royal monopoly. Thy claim is founded on anatomy, mine on jurisprudence. Shall matter prevail over mind? Shall medicine, the most uncertain of sciences, override law, the perfection of human reason? It is but to the vulgar observation that thou appearest to have a head at all; in the eye of the law thou art acephalous." "I would submit," urged the philosopher, "that the corporal connection of my head with my body is an essential property, the colour of it a fortuitous accident." "Thou mightest as well contend," returned the king, "that the law is bound to regard thee in thy abstract condition as a human being, and is disabled from taking cognisance of thy acquired capacity of smuggler--rebel, I might say, seeing that thou hast assumed the purple." "But the imputation of cruelty which might attach to your majesty's proceedings?" "There can be no cruelty where there is no injustice. If any there be, it must be on thy part, since, as I have demonstrated, so far from my despoiling thee of thy head, it is thou who iniquitously withholdest mine. I will labour to render this even clearer to thy apprehension. Thou art found, as thou must needs admit, in possession of a contraband article forfeit to the crown by operation of law. What then? Shall the intention of the legislature be frustrated because thou hast insidiously rendered the possession of _my_ property inseparable from the possession of _thine_? Shall I, an innocent proprietor, be mulcted of my right by thy fraud and covin? Justice howls, righteousness weeps, integrity stands aghast at the bare notion. No, friend, thy head has not a leg to stand on. Wouldst thou retain it, it behoves thee to show that it will be more serviceable to the owner, namely, myself, upon thy shoulders than elsewhere. This may well be. Hast thou peradventure any subtleties in perfumery? any secrets in confectionery? any skill in the preparation of soup?" "I have condescended to none of these frivolities, O king. My study hath ever consisted in divine philosophy, whereby men are rendered equal to the gods." "And yet long most of all for purple!" retorted the monarch, "as I conclude from perceiving thou hast after all preferred the latter. Thy head must indeed be worth the taking." The King of Ayodhya possessed, beyond all princes of his age, the art of gracefully interrupting an unseasonable discourse. He slightly signed to a courtier in attendance, a scimitar flashed for a moment from its scabbard, and the head of Sorianus rolled on the pavement; the lips murmuring as though still striving to dwell with inarticulate fondness upon the last word of hope for mankind. It soon appeared that the principle of life was essential to the resplendence of the Purple Head. Within a few minutes it had assumed so ghastly a hue that the Rajah himself was intimidated, and directed that it should be consumed with the body. A certain Magician had retired for the sake of study to a cottage in a forest. It was summer in a hot country. In the trees near the cottage dwelt a most beautiful Firefly. The light she bore with her was dazzling, yet soft and palpitating, as the evening star, and she seemed a single flash of fire as she shot in and out suddenly from under the screen of foliage, or like a lamp as she perched panting upon some leaf, or hung glowing from some bough; or like a wandering meteor as she eddied gleaming over the summits of the loftiest trees; as she often did, for she was an ambitious Firefly. She learned to know the Magician, and would sometimes alight and sit shining in his hair, or trail her lustre across his book as she crept over the pages. The Magician admired her above all things: "What eyes she would have if she were a woman!" thought he. "I am not happy," rejoined the Firefly; "what am I, after all, but a flying beetle with a candle in my tail? I wish I were a star." After some nights the Magician asked her if she was content. "The laws of nature will have it so," returned the Magician. "Don't talk to me of the laws of Nature," rejoined the Firefly. "I did not make them, and I don't see why I should be compelled to obey them. Make me something else." "What would you be?" demanded the accommodating Magician. "As I creep along here," replied the Star, "I see such a soft pure track of light. It proceeds from the lamp in your study. It flows out of your window like a river of molten silver, both cool and warm. Let me be such a lamp." "Be it so," answered the Magician: and the star became a lovely alabaster lamp, set in an alcove in his study. Her chaste radiance was shed over his page as long as he continued to read. At a certain hour he extinguished her and retired to rest. Next morning the Lamp was in a terrible humour. "I don't choose to be blown out," she said. "You would have gone out of your own accord else," returned the Magician. "What!" exclaimed the Lamp, "am I not shining by my own light?" "Certainly not: you are not now a Firefly or a Star. You must now depend upon others. You would be dark for ever if I did not rekindle you by the help of this oil." Iridion had broken her lily. A misfortune for any rustic nymph, but especially for her, since her life depended upon it. Meditation upon an utterly vague subject, whether of apprehension or of hope, speedily lapses into reverie. To Iridion, Death was as indefinable an object of thought as the twin omnipotent controller of human destiny, Love. Love, like the immature fruit on the bough, hung unsoliciting and unsolicited as yet, but slowly ripening to the maiden's hand. Death, a vague film in an illimitable sky, tempered without obscuring the sunshine of her life. Confronted with it suddenly, she found it, in truth, an impalpable cloud, and herself as little competent as the gravest philosopher to answer the self-suggested inquiry, "What shall I be when I am no longer Iridion?" Superstition might have helped her to some definite conceptions, but superstition did not exist in her time. Judge, reader, of its remoteness. Pan at that time inhabited a cavern hard by the maiden's dwelling, which the judicious reader will have divined could only have been situated in Arcadia. The honest god was on excellent terms with the simple people; his goats browsed freely along with theirs, and the most melodious of the rustic minstrels attributed their proficiency to his instructions. The maidens were on a more reserved footing of intimacy--at least so they wished it to be understood, and so it was understood, of course. Iridion, however, decided that the occasion would warrant her incurring the risk even of a kiss, and lost no time in setting forth upon her errand, carrying her poor broken flower in its earthen vase. It was the time of day when the god might be supposed to be arousing himself from his afternoon's siesta. She did not fear that his door would be closed against her, for he had no door. "Pan," she began, "I have broken my lily." "That is a sad pity, child. If it had been a reed, now, you could have made a flute of it." "I should not have time, Pan," and she recounted her story. A godlike nature cannot confound truth with falsehood, though it may mistake falsehood for truth. Pan therefore never doubted Iridion's strange narrative, and, having heard it to the end, observed, "You will find plenty more lilies in Elysium." "Common lilies, Pan; not like mine." "You are wrong. The lilies of Elysium--asphodels as they call them there--are as immortal as the Elysians themselves. I have seen them in Proserpine's hair at Jupiter's entertainment; they were as fresh as she was. There is no doubt you might gather them by handfuls--at least if you had any hands--and wear them to your heart's content, if you had but a heart." "That's just what perplexes me, Pan. It is not the dying I mind, it's the living. How am I to live without anything alive about me? If you take away my hands, and my heart, and my brains, and my eyes, and my ears, and above all my tongue, what is left me to live in Elysium?" As the maiden spake a petal detached itself from the emaciated lily, and she pressed her hand to her brow with a responsive cry of pain. "Poor child!" said Pan compassionately, "you will feel no more pain by-and-by." "I suppose not, Pan, since you say so. But if I can feel no pain, how can I feel any pleasure? "In an incomprehensible manner," said Pan. "How can I feel, if I have no feeling? and what am I to do without it?" "You can think!" replied Pan. "Thinking (not that I am greatly given to it myself) is a much finer thing than feeling; no right-minded person doubts that. Feeling, as I have heard Minerva say, is a property of matter, and matter, except, of course, that appertaining to myself and the other happy gods, is vile and perishable--quite immaterial, in fact. Thought alone is transcendent, incorruptible, and undying!" "I think," answered Pan evasively, "that you are a sensationalist, a materialist, a sceptic, a revolutionist; and if you had not sought the assistance of a god, I should have said not much better than an atheist. I also think it is time I thought about some physic for you instead of metaphysics, which are bad for my head, and for your soul." Saying this, Pan, with rough tenderness, deposited the almost fainting maiden upon a couch of fern, and, having supported her head with a bundle of herbs, leaned his own upon his hand, and reflected with all his might. The declining sun was now nearly opposite the cavern's mouth, and his rays, straggling through the creepers that wove their intricacies over the entrance, chequered with lustrous patches the forms of the dying girl and the meditating god. Ever and anon, a petal would drop from the flower; this was always succeeded by a shuddering tremor throughout Iridion's frame and a more forlorn expression on her pallid countenance: while Pan's jovial features assumed an expression of deeper concern as he pressed his knotty hand more resolutely against his shaggy forehead, and wrung his dexter horn with a more determined grasp, as though he had caught a burrowing idea by the tail. "Aha!" he suddenly exclaimed, "I have it!" "What have you, Pan?" faintly lisped the expiring Iridion. Instead of replying, Pan grasped a wand that leaned against the wall of his grot, and with it touched the maiden and the flower. O strange metamorphosis! Where the latter had been pining in its vase, a lovely girl, the image of Iridion, lay along the ground with dishevelled hair, clammy brow, and features slightly distorted by the last struggles of death. On the ferny couch stood an earthen vase, from which rose a magnificent lily, stately, with unfractured stem, and with no stain or wrinkle on its numerous petals. "Aha!" repeated Pan; "I think we are ready for him now." Then, having lifted the inanimate body to the couch, and placed the vase, with its contents, on the floor of his cavern, he stepped to the entrance, and shading his eyes with his hand, seemed to gaze abroad in quest of some anticipated visitor. The boughs at the foot of the steep path to the cave divided, and a figure appeared at the foot of the rock. The stranger's mien was majestic, but the fitness of his proportions diminished his really colossal stature to something more nearly the measure of mortality. His form was enveloped in a sweeping sad-coloured robe; a light, thin veil resting on his countenance, mitigated, without concealing, the not ungentle austerity of his marble features. His gait was remarkable; nothing could be more remote from every indication of haste, yet such was the actual celerity of his progression, that Pan had scarcely beheld him ere he started to find him already at his side. The stranger, without disturbing his veil, seemed to comprehend the whole interior of the grotto with a glance; then, with the slightest gesture of recognition to Pan, he glided to the couch on which lay the metamorphosed lily, upraised the fictitious Iridion in his arms with indescribable gentleness, and disappeared with her as swiftly and silently as he had come. The discreet Pan struggled with suppressed merriment until the stranger was fairly out of hearing, then threw himself back upon his seat and laughed till the cave rang. "And now," he said, "to finish the business." He lifted the transformed maiden into the vase, and caressed her beauty with an exulting but careful hand. There was a glory and a splendour in the flower such as had never until then been beheld in any earthly lily. The stem vibrated, the leaves shook in unison, the petals panted and suspired, and seemed blanched with a whiteness intense as the core of sunlight, as they throbbed in anticipation of the richer existence awaiting them. Impatient to complete his task, Pan was about to grasp his wand when the motion was arrested as the sinking beam of the sun was intercepted by a gigantic shadow, and the stranger again stood by his side. The unbidden guest uttered no word, but his manner was sufficiently expressive of wrath as he disdainfully cast on the ground a broken, withered lily, the relic of what had bloomed with such loveliness in the morning, and had since for a brief space been arrayed in the vesture of humanity. He pointed imperiously to the gorgeous tenant of the vase, and seemed to expect Pan to deliver it forthwith. "Be it so," returned the stranger, haughtily declining the proffered inspection. "You will find it is ill joking with Death." So saying, he quitted the cavern. Pan sat down chuckling, yet not wholly at ease, for if the charity of Death is beautiful even to a mortal, his anger is terrible, even to a god. Anxious to terminate the adventure, he reached towards the charmed wand by whose wonderful instrumentality the dying maiden had already become a living flower, and was now to undergo a yet more delightful metamorphosis. A PAGE FROM THE BOOK OF FOLLY "Must we then part?" They were folded in each other's arms. There never was such kissing. "How shall we henceforth exchange the sweet tokens of our undying affection, my Otto?" "Alas, my Aurelia, I know not! Thy Otto blushes to acquaint thee that he cannot write." "Blush not, my Otto, thou needest not reproach thyself. Even couldest thou write, thy Aurelia could not read. Oh these dark ages!" "We will exchange rings." They drew off their rings simultaneously. "This, Aurelia, was my grandfather's." "This, Otto, was my grandmother's, which she charged me with her dying breath never to part with save to him whom alone I loved." "Mine is a brilliant, more radiant than aught save the eyes of my Aurelia." And, in fact, Aurelia's eyes hardly sustained the comparison. A finer stone could not easily be found. "Mine is a sapphire, azure as the everlasting heavens, and type of a constancy enduring as they." In truth, it was of a tint seldom to be met with in sapphires. The exchange made, the lady seemed less anxious to detain her lover. But that ferocious young baron was accustomed to spend his time in a less romantic manner; and so it came to pass that Otto encountered him not. Days, weeks, months had passed by, and Otto, a wanderer in a foreign land, had heard no tidings of his Aurelia. Ye who have loved may well conceive how her ring was all in all to him. He divided his time pretty equally between gazing into its cerulean depths, as though her lovely image were mirrored therein, and pressing its chilly surface to his lips, little as it recalled the warmth and balminess of hers. "What hold you for the worth of this inestimable ring?" The jeweller, with no expression of surprise or curiosity, received the ring from Otto, held it to the light, glanced slightly at the stone, somewhat more carefully at the setting, laid the ring for a moment in a pair of light scales, and, handing it back to Otto, remarked with a tone and manner of the most entire indifference: "Caitiff of a huckster!" exclaimed Otto, bringing down his fist on the bench with such vigour that the pebbles leaped up and fell rattling down: "Sayest thou this of a gem framed by genii in the bowels of the earth?" "And the gold?" gasped Otto. "There is just as much gold in thy ring as sufficeth to gild handsomely a like superficies of brass, which is not saying much." And, applying a sponge dipped in some liquid to a small part of the hoop, the jeweller disclosed the dull hue of the baser metal so evidently that Otto could hardly doubt longer. He doubted no more when the lapidary laid his ring in the scales against another of the same size and make, and pointed to the inequality of the balance. "Thou seest," he continued, "that in our craft a very little gold goes a very great way. It is far otherwise in the world, as thou, albeit in no sort eminent for sapience, hast doubtless ere this ascertained for thyself. Thou art evidently a prodigious fool!" This latter disparaging observation could be safely ventured upon, as Otto had rushed from the shop, speechless with rage. Was Aurelia deceiver or deceived? Should he execrate her, or her venerable grandmother, or some unknown person? The point was too knotty to be solved in the agitated state of his feelings. He decided it provisionally by execrating the entire human race, not forgetting himself. In a mood like Otto's a trifling circumstance is sufficient to determine the quality of action. The ancient city of which he was at the time an inhabitant was traversed by a large river spanned by a quaint and many-arched bridge, to which his frantic and aimless wanderings had conducted him. Spires and gables and lengthy facades were reflected in the water, blended with the shadows of boats, and interspersed with the mirrored flames of innumerable windows on land, or of lanterns suspended from the masts or sterns of the vessels. The dancing ripples bickered and flickered, and seemed to say, "Come hither to us," while the dark reaches of still water in the shadow of the piers promised that whatever might be entrusted to them should be faithfully retained. Swayed by a sudden impulse, Otto drew his ring from his finger. It gleamed an instant aloft in air; in another the relaxation of his grasp would have consigned it to the stream. Otto turned, and perceived a singular figure by his side. The stranger was tall and thin, and attired in a dusky cloak which only partially concealed a flame-coloured jerkin. A cock's feather peaked up in his cap; his eyes were piercingly brilliant; his nose was aquiline; the expression of his features sinister and sardonic. Had Otto been more observant, or less preoccupied, he might have noticed that the stranger's left shoe was of a peculiar form, and that he limped some little with the corresponding foot. "Forbear, I say; thou knowest not what thou doest." "And what skills what I do with a piece of common glass?" "What may these virtues be?" eagerly demanded Otto. "Villain!" shouted Otto, "say that again, and I will transfix thee." "Thou mayest if thou canst," rejoined the stranger, with an expression of such cutting scorn that Otto's spirit quailed, and he felt a secret but overpowering conviction of his interlocutor's veracity. Rallying, however, in some measure, he exclaimed: "Aurelia is true! I will wager my soul upon it!" "Done!" screamed the stranger in a strident voice of triumph, while a burst of diabolical laughter seemed to proceed from every cranny of the eaves and piers of the old bridge, and to be taken up by goblin echoes from the summits of the adjacent towers and steeples. Otto's blood ran chill, but he mustered sufficient courage to inquire hoarsely: "What of its further virtues?" The speaker disappeared. Otto stood alone upon the bridge. He saw nothing around him but the stream, with its shadows and lights, as he slowly and thoughtfully turned round to walk to his lodgings. "If that fool Otto were here, he would buy it for me." What boots it to describe Otto's feelings upon this revelation of Aurelia's sentiments? For lovers, description would be needless; to wiser people, incomprehensible. Suffice it to say, that as his lady deemed him a fool he appeared bent on proving that she did not deem amiss. A long space of time elapsed without any further admonition from the ring. Perhaps Aurelia had no further occasion for his purse; perhaps she had found another pursebearer. The latter view of the case appeared the more plausible to Otto, and it hugely aggravated his torments. At last the moment came. It was the hour of midnight. Again Otto felt the sharp puncture, again the ruby drop started from his finger, again he turned the ring, and again beheld Aurelia. She was in her chamber, but not alone. Her companion was a youth of Otto's age. She was in the act of placing Otto's brilliant upon his finger. Otto turned his own ring, and heard her utter, with singular distinctness: The voice expired upon her lips, for Otto stood before her. Arnold precipitated himself from the window, carrying the ring with him. Otto, glaring at his faithless mistress, stood in the middle of the apartment with his sword unsheathed. Was he about to use it? None can say; for at this moment the young Baron burst into the room, and, without the slightest apology for the liberty he was taking, passed his sword through Otto's body. Otto groaned, and fell upon his face. He was dead. The young Baron ungently reversed the position of the corpse, and scanned its features with evident surprise and dissatisfaction. "It is not Arnold, after all!" he muttered. "Who would have thought it?" The brother looked mystified. There was something beyond his comprehension in the affair; yet he could not but acknowledge that Otto was the person who had rushed by him as he lay in wait upon the stairs. He finally determined that it was best to say nothing about the matter: a resolution the easier of performance as he was not wont to be lavish of his words at any time. He wiped his sword on his sister's curtains, and was about to withdraw, when Aurelia again spoke: "Ere thou departest, brother, have the goodness to ring the bell, and desire the menials to remove this carrion from my apartment." The young Baron sulkily complied, and retreated growling to his chamber. "Would have outraged my daughter, would he?" said the old Baron, when the transaction was reported to him. "Let him be buried in a concatenation accordingly." "What the guy dickens be a concatrenation, Geoffrey?" interrogated Giles. "Methinks it is Latin for a ditch," responded Geoffrey. Setting down the lantern, he commenced work, and with pious toil engraved on the stone in the Latin of the period: "HAC MAGNUS STULTUS JACET IN FOSSA SEPULTUS. MULIER CUI CREDIDIT MORTUUM ILLUM REDDIDIT." Here he paused, at the end of his strength and of his Latin. "Beshrew my old arms and brains!" he sighed. "Hem!" coughed a deep voice in his vicinity. The monk looked up. The personage in the dusky cloak and flame-coloured jerkin was standing over him. "Good monk," said the fiend, "what dost thou here?" "Good fiend," said the monk, "I am inscribing an epitaph to the memory of a departed friend. Thou mightest kindly aid me to complete it." "Truly," rejoined the demon, "it would become me to do so, seeing that I have his soul here in my pocket. Thou wilt not expect me to employ the language of the Church. Nathless, I see not wherefore the vernacular may not serve as well." And, taking the mallet and chisel, he completed the monk's inscription with the supplementary legend: THE BELL OF SAINT EUSCHEMON "What a happy reflection for a Saint," said Eulogius, who was rapidly passing from the mellow stage of good fellowship to the maudlin, "that even after his celestial assumption he is permitted to continue a source of blessing and benefit to his fellow-creatures as yet dwelling in the shade of mortality! The thought of the services of my bell, in averting lightning and inundation from the good people of Epinal, fills me with indescribable beatitude." "_Your_ bell!" interposed Eucherius, whose path had lain through the mellow to the quarrelsome. "_Your_ bell, quotha! You had as good clink this cannakin" (suiting the action to the word) "as your bell. It's my bell that does the business." "I think you might put in a word for _my_ bell," interposed Euschemon, a little squinting saint, very merry and friendly when not put out, as on the present occasion. "Your bell!" retorted the big saints, with incredible disdain; and, forgetting their own altercation, they fell so fiercely on their little brother that he ran away, stopping his ears with his hands, and vowing vengeance. In a trice priests and laymen swarmed to the belfry, and indignantly demanded of the sacristan what he meant. "To enlighten you," he responded. "To teach you to give honour where honour is due. To unmask those canonised impostors." And he called their attention to the fact that the clappers of the bells of Eulogius and Eucherius were so fastened up that they could not emit a sound, while that of Euschemon vibrated freely. "Ye see," he continued, "that these sound not at all, yet is the tempest stayed. Is it not thence manifest that the virtue resides solely in the bell of the blessed Euschemon?" "Carry him in procession!" shouted the crowd. "Amen, brethren; here I am," rejoined Euschemon, stepping briskly into the midst of the troop. "And why in the name of Zernebock should we carry _you?_" demanded some, while others ran off to lug forth the image, the object of their devotion. "Why, verily," Euschemon began, and stopped short. How indeed was he to prove to them that he _was_ Euschemon? His personal resemblance to his effigy, the work of a sculptor of the idealistic school, was in no respect remarkable; and he felt, alas! that he could no more work a miracle than you or I. In the sight of the multitude he was only an elderly sexton with a cast in his eye, with nothing but his office to keep him out of the workhouse. A further and more awkward question arose, how on earth was he to get back to Paradise? The ordinary method was not available, for he had already been dead for several centuries; and no other presented itself to his imagination. "If this goes on," said a voice behind him, "I shall get a holiday." Euschemon turned round, and with indescribable dismay perceived a gigantic demon, negligently resting his hand on the top of the bell, and looking as if it would cost him nothing to pitch it and Euschemon together to the other side of the town. "Avaunt, fiend," he stammered, with as much dignity as he could muster, "or at least remove thy unhallowed paw from my bell." "Come, Eusky," replied the fiend, with profane familiarity, "don't be a fool. You are not really such an ass as to imagine that your virtue has anything to do with the virtue of this bell?" "Whose virtue then?" demanded Euschemon. Euschemon energetically protested that he had been on earth but a simple laic, which was indeed the fact, and was also the reason why Eulogius and Eucherius despised him, but which, though he did not think it needful to tell the demon, he found a singular relief under present circumstances. It chanced that the Bishop of Metz, in whose diocese Epinal was situated, finding himself during a visitation journey within a short distance of the town, determined to put, up there for the night. He did not arrive until nightfall, but word of his intention having been sent forward by a messenger the authorities, civil and ecclesiastical, were ready to receive him. When, escorted in state, he had arrived at the house prepared for his reception, the Mayor ventured to express a hope that everything had been satisfactory to his Lordship. "What was that, my Lord?" "It hath," said the bishop, "usually been the practice to receive a bishop with the ringing of bells. It is a laudable custom, conducive to the purification of the air and the discomfiture of the prince of the powers thereof. I caught no sound of chimes on the present occasion, yet I am sensible that my hearing is not what it was." The civil and ecclesiastical authorities looked at each other. "That graceless knave of a sacristan!" said the Mayor. "He hath indeed of late strangely neglected his charge," said a priest. "Poor man, I doubt his wits are touched," charitably added another. And in spite of all remonstrances, off he started. The keys were brought, the doors flung open, the body of the church thoroughly examined, but neither in nave, choir, or chancel could the slightest trace of the sacristan be found. "Perhaps he is in the belfry," suggested a chorister. "We'll see," responded the bishop, and bustling nimbly up the ladder, he emerged into the open belfry in full moonlight. Heavens! what a sight met his eye! The sacristan and the devil sitting _vis-a-vis_ close by the miraculous bell, with a smoking can of hot spiced wine between them, finishing a close game of cribbage. "It _is_ up with you, my friend," shouted the bishop, bringing his crook down smartly on Euschemon's shoulders. "Deuce!" said the devil, and vanished into his bell. "I rejoice to hear it," said the bishop. "It will be an evil day for the church when these letters are understood." It was some time before Euschemon became sensible of the presence of any partner in his captivity, by reason of the trotting of the rats. At length, however, a deep sigh struck upon his ear. "Who art thou?" he exclaimed. "An unfortunate prisoner," was the answer. "What is the occasion of thy imprisonment?" "_Our_ profession!" exclaimed Euschemon. "Art thou not a sorcerer?" demanded the voice. "No," replied Euschemon, "I am a saint." This consolation had scarcely been administered ere the bolts flew back, the hinges grated, the door opened, and gaolers bearing torches informed the sorcerer that the bishop desired his presence. He found the bishop in his study, which was nearly choked up by Euschemon's bell. The prelate received him with the greatest affability, and expressed a sincere hope that the very particular arrangements he had enjoined for the comfort of his distinguished prisoner had been faithfully carried out by his subordinates. The sorcerer, as much a man of the world as the bishop, thanked his Lordship, and protested that he had been perfectly comfortable. "It will be a tough business," observed the sorcerer, surveying the bell with the eye of a connoisseur. "It will require fumigations." "Yes," said the bishop, "and suffumigations." "Aloes and mastic," advised the sorcerer. "Aye," assented the bishop, "and red sanders." "We must call in Primeumaton," said the warlock. "Clearly," said the bishop, "and Amioram." "Triangles," said the sorcerer. "Pentacles," said the bishop. "In the hour of Methon," said the sorcerer. "I should have thought Tafrac," suggested the bishop, "but I defer to your better judgment." "I can have the blood of a goat?" queried the wizard. "Yes," said the bishop, "and of a monkey also." "If absolutely necessary," said the bishop. "I am delighted to find such liberality of sentiment on your Lordship's part," said the sorcerer. "Your Lordship is evidently of the profession." "These are things which stuck by me when I was an inquisitor," explained the bishop, with some little embarrassment. BISHOP ADDO AND BISHOP GADDO Midday, midsummer, middle of the dark ages. Fine healthy weather at the city of Biserta in Barbary. Wind blowing strong from the sea, roughening the dark blue waters, and fretting their indigo with foam, as though the ocean's coursers champed an invisible curb. On land tawny sand whirling, green palm-fans swaying and whistling, men abroad in the noonday blaze rejoicing in the unwonted freshness. "She is standing in," they cried, "and, by the Prophet, she seemeth not a ship of the true believers." Experiments were instituted forthwith, and the problem was resolved in the affirmative. "This being so," declared the Emir, "honour and good faith towards Bishop Addo require that Bishop Gaddo be kept captive with all possible strictness. Yet bolts may be burst, fetters may be filed, walls may be scaled, doors may be broken through. Better to enchain the captive's soul, binding him with invisible bonds, and searing out of him the very wish to escape. Embrace the faith of the Prophet," continued he, addressing Gaddo; "become a Mollah." "No," said the deposed Bishop, "my inclination hath ever been towards a military life. At present, mutilated and banished as I am, I rather affect the crown of martyrdom." "Thou shalt receive it by instalments," said the Emir. "Thou shalt work at the new pavilion in my garden." "I will tear thee to pieces with pincers," shouted he to Gaddo. "Your Highness will not be guilty of that black action," responded Gaddo resolutely. "No?" roared the Emir. "No? and what shall hinder me?" "Thou sayest well," rejoined the Emir. "I may not slay thee. But my daughter is manifestly most inflammable, wherefore I will burn her." "Were it not better to circumcise me?" suggested Gaddo. "Methinks I see a ship even now," said Gaddo; and he was right. She anchored, the ambassadors landed and addressed the Emir: "Prince, we bring thee the stipulated tribute, yet not without a trifling deduction." "Deduction!" exclaimed the Emir, bending his brows ominously. "Then," pronounced the Emir sententiously, "the compact is broken, the ship is confiscated, and war is declared." "Not so, Highness," said they, "for the fiftieth cask is worth all the rest." "Let it be opened," commanded the Emir. It was accordingly hoisted out, deposited on the quay, and prized open; and from its capacious interior, in a deplorable plight from hunger, cramp, and sea-sickness, was extracted--Bishop Addo. "He stands before you," answered the Emir; "take him, an ye can prevail upon him to return with you." "Brethren," said Gaddo, taking compassion on their bewilderment, "behold me! I thank you for your kindly thought of me, but how to profit by it I see not. I have become a Saracen. I have pronounced the Mahometan confession. I am circumcised. I am known by the name of Mustapha." "I have also taken a wife," said Gaddo. They gathered up their garments and spat upon the ground. "A bishop, then," inquired Gaddo, "may be guilty of any enormity sooner than wedlock, which money itself cannot expiate?" "Such," they answered, "is the law and the prophets." THE PHILOSOPHER AND THE BUTTERFLIES The scene was in a garden on a fine summer morning, brilliant with slants of sunshine, yet chequered with clouds significant of more than a remote possibility of rain. All the animal world was astir. Birds flitted or hopped from spray to spray; butterflies eddied around flowers within or upon which bees were bustling; ants and earwigs ran nimbly about on the mould; a member of the Universal Knowledge Society perambulated the gravel path. The Universal Knowledge Society, be it understood, exists for the dissemination and not for the acquisition of knowledge. Our philosopher, therefore, did not occupy himself with considering whether in that miniature world, with its countless varieties of animal and vegetable being, something might not be found with which he was himself unacquainted; but, like the honey-freighted bee, rather sought an opportunity of disburdening himself of his stores of information than of adding to them. But who was to profit by his communicativeness? The noisy birds could not hear themselves speak, much less him; he shrewdly distrusted his ability to command the attention of the busy bees; and even a member of the Universal Knowledge Society may well be at a loss for a suitable address to an earwig. At length he determined to accost a Butterfly who, after sipping the juice of a flower, remained perched indolently upon it, apparently undecided whither to direct his flight. "It seems likely to rain," he said, "have you an umbrella?" The Butterfly looked curiously at him, but returned no answer. The Butterfly still left all the talk to the Philosopher. This was just what the latter desired. "I greatly fear," he continued, "that the omission to which I have reluctantly adverted is to a certain extent typically characteristic of the entire political and social economy of the lepidopterous order. It has even been stated, though the circumstance appears scarcely credible, that your system of life does not include the accumulation of adequate resources against the inevitable exigencies of winter." "What is winter?" asked the Butterfly, and flew off without awaiting an answer. The Philosopher remained for a moment speechless, whether from amazement at the Butterfly's nescience or disgust at his ill-breeding. Recovering himself immediately, he shouted after the fugitive: "Frivolous animal!" "It is this levity," continued he, addressing a group of butterflies who had gradually assembled in the air, attracted by the conversation, "it is this fatal levity that constrains me to despair wholly of the future of you insects. That you should persistently remain at your present depressed level! That you should not immediately enter upon a process of self-development! Look at the Bee! How did she acquire her sting, think you? Why cannot you store up honey, as she does?" "We cannot build cells," suggested a Butterfly. "How a beginning?" inquired a Butterfly. "I am alluding to your larval constitution as Caterpillars," returned the Philosopher. "Your advance upon that humiliating condition is, I admit, remarkable. I only wonder that it should not have proceeded much further. With such capacity for development, it is incomprehensible that you should so long have remained stationary. You ought to be all toads by this time, at the very least." "I beg your pardon," civilly interposed the Butterfly. "To what condition were you pleased to allude?" "To that of a Caterpillar," rejoined the Philosopher. "We know nothing of the sort," rejoined a Butterfly. "Can you possibly be plunged into such utter oblivion of your embryonic antecedents?" "We do not understand you. All we know is that we have always been Butterflies." "We should rather think not," chorussed all the Butterflies. "Look here," said the Philosopher, picking up and exhibiting a large hairy Caterpillar of very unprepossessing appearance. "Look here, what do you call this?" "An abnormal organisation," said the scientific Butterfly. "A nasty beast," said the others. "Heavens," exclaimed the Philosopher, "the obtuseness and arrogance of these creatures! No, my poor friend," continued he, addressing the Caterpillar, "disdain you as they may, and unpromising as your aspect certainly is at present, the time is at" hand when you will prank it with the gayest of them all." "I cry your mercy," rejoined the Caterpillar somewhat crossly, "but I was digesting a gooseberry leaf when you lifted me in that abrupt manner, and I did not quite follow your remarks. Did I understand you to mention my name in connection with those flutterers?" "I said the time would arrive when you would be even as they." "I," exclaimed the Caterpillar, "I retrograde to the level of a Butterfly! Is not the ideal of creation impersonated in me already?" "I was not aware of that," replied the Philosopher, "although," he added in a conciliatory tone, "far be it from me to deny you the possession of many interesting qualities." "You probably refer to my agility," suggested the Caterpillar; "or perhaps to my abstemiousness?" "I was not referring to either," returned the Philosopher. "To my utility to mankind?" "Not by any manner of means." "Well, if you must know, the best thing about you appears to me to be the prospect you enjoy of ultimately becoming a Butterfly." The Caterpillar erected himself upon his tail, and looked sternly at the Philosopher. The Philosopher's countenance fell. A thrush, darting from an adjacent tree, seized the opportunity and the insect, and bore the latter away in his bill. At the same moment the shower prognosticated by the Sage burst forth, scattering the Butterflies in all directions, drenching the Philosopher, whose foresight had not assumed the shape of an umbrella, and spoiling his new hat. But he had ample consolation in the superiority of his head. And the Caterpillar was right too, for after all he never did become a Butterfly. TRUTH AND HER COMPANIONS _Jupiter_. Daughter Truth, is this a befitting manner of presenting yourself before your divine father? You are positively dripping; the floor of my celestial mansion would be a swamp but for your praiseworthy economy in wearing apparel. Whence, in the name of the Naiads, do you come? _Truth_. From the bottom of a well, father. _Jupiter_. I thought, my daughter, that you had descended upon earth in the capacity of a benefactress of men rather than of frogs. _Truth_. Such, indeed, was my purpose, father, and I accordingly repaired to the great city. _Jupiter_. The city of the Emperor Apollyon? _Truth_. The same; and I there obtained an audience of the monarch. _Jupiter_. What passed? _Truth_. I took the liberty of observing to him, father, that, having obtained his throne by perjury, and cemented it by blood, and maintained it by hypocrisy, he could entertain no hope of preserving it unless the collective baseness of his subjects should be found to exceed his own, which was not probable. _Jupiter_. What reply did he vouchsafe to these admonitions? _Truth_. He threatened to cut out my tongue. Perceiving that this would interfere with my utility to mankind, I retired somewhat precipitately from the Imperial presence, marvelling that I should ever have been admitted, and resolved never to be found there for the future. I then proceeded to the Nobles. _Jupiter_. What said you to them? _Truth_. I represented to them that they were, as a class, both arrogant and luxurious, and would, indeed, have long ago become insupportable, only that the fabric which their rapacity was for ever striving to erect, their extravagance as perpetually undermined. I further commented upon the insecurity of any institution dependent solely upon prescription. Finding these suggestions unpalatable, I next addressed myself to the priesthood. _Jupiter_. Those holy men, my daughter, must have rejoiced at the opportunity of learning from you which portion of their traditions was impure or fabricated, and which authentic and sublime. _Jupiter_. Your reception from these professed lovers of wisdom, my daughter, was, no doubt, all that could be expected. _Truth_. It was all that could be expected, my father, from learned and virtuous men, who had already framed their own systems of the universe without consulting me. _Jupiter_. You probably next addressed yourself to the middling orders of society? _Jupiter_. You returned, then, to the latter with this design? _Jupiter_. That was indeed satisfactory, daughter. But when you proceeded to point out to these plebeians how much of their misery arose from their own idleness, and ignorance, and dissoluteness, and abasement before those higher in station, and jealousy of the best among themselves--what said they to that? _Truth_. They expressed themselves desirous of killing me, and indeed would have done so if my capital enemies, the priests, had not been beforehand with them. _Jupiter_. What did they? _Jupiter_. Burned you? _Truth_. Burned me in the market-place. And, but for my peculiar property of reviving from my ashes, I should not be here now. Upon reconsolidating myself, I felt in such a heat that I was fain to repair to the bottom of the nearest well. Finding myself more comfortable there than I had ever yet been on earth, I have come to ask permission to remain. _Jupiter_. It does not appear to me, daughter, that the mission you have undertaken on behalf of mankind can be efficiently discharged at the bottom of a well. _Truth_. No, father, nor in the middle of a fire either. _Jupiter_. I fear that you are too plain and downright in your dealings with men, and deter where you ought to allure. _Truth_. I were not Truth, else, but Flattery. My nature is a mirror's--to exhibit reality with plainness and faithfulness. _Jupiter_. It is no less the nature of man to shatter every mirror that does not exhibit to him what he wishes to behold. _Truth_. Let me, therefore, return to my well, and let him who wishes to behold me, if such there be, repair to the brink and look down. _Truth_. Oh, father, the beautiful nymph! how mature, and yet how comely! how good-humoured, yet how gentle and grave! Her robe is closely zoned; her upraised finger approaches her lip; her foot falls soft as snow. What is her name? _Jupiter_. Discretion. And this other? _Truth_. Oh, father! the cordial look, the blooming cheek, the bright smile that is almost a laugh, the buoyant step, and the expansive bosom! What name bears she? _Jupiter_. Good Nature. Return, my daughter, to earth; continue to enlighten man's ignorance and to reprove his folly; but let Discretion suggest the occasion, and Good Nature inspire the wording of your admonitions. I cannot engage that you may not, even with these precautions, sometimes pay a visit to the stake; and if, when an adventure of this sort appears imminent, Discretion should counsel a temporary retirement to your well, I am sure Good Nature will urge nothing to the contrary. "And my imperfections!" whispered the young spouse, but her tone was airy and confident. "Thy will is mine, Alonso," said his lady. While, therefore, the other pairs proceeded on the paths they had respectively chosen, this sage youth and his bride settled themselves at the parting of the ways, built their cot, tended their garden, tilled their field and raised fruits around them, including children. "Heavens!" exclaimed they simultaneously, "no! yes! 'tis surely they!" O friends! whence this forlorn semblance? whence this osseous condition?" "Of them anon," replied the attenuated youth, "but, before all things, dinner!" The restorative was speedily administered, and the pilgrim commenced his narration. "Guarded," he said, "though the Palace of Illusion was by every species of hippogriffic chimaera, my bride and I experienced no difficulty in penetrating inside its precincts. The giants lifted us in their arms, the dragons carried us on their backs, fairy bridges spanned the moats, golden ladders inclined against the ramparts, we scaled the towers and trod the courts securely, though constructed to all seeming of dissolving cloud. Delicate fare loaded every dish; smiling companions invited to every festivity; perfumes caressed our nostrils; music enwrapped our ears. "As this felicitation was proffered at the precise moment when I was engaged in staunching a rent in my cheek with a handful of my wife's hair, I was constrained to regard it as unseasonable, and expressed myself to that effect. "'What!' exclaimed he, with equal surprise, 'know ye not that this is the Palace of Illusion, where everything is inverted and appears the reverse of itself? Intense indeed must be the affection which can thus drive you to fisticuffs! Had I beheld you billing and cooing, truly I had counselled a judicial separation!' "My wife and I looked at each other, and by a common impulse made at our utmost speed for the gate of the Palace of Illusion. "The moment that we emerged from the enchanted castle we knew ourselves and each other for what we were, and fell weeping into each other's arms. So feeble were we that we could hardly move, nevertheless we have made a shift to crawl hither, trusting to your hospitality to recruit us from the sawdust and ditch-water which we vehemently suspect to have been our diet during the whole of our residence." "Eat and drink without stint and without ceremony," rejoined their host, "provided only that somewhat remain for the guests whom I see approaching." And in a few moments the fugitives from the Palace of Illusion were reinforced by travellers from the Palace of Truth, whose backs were most determinately turned to that august edifice. "And this palace is?" inquired Truth's runaways simultaneously. "The Palace of Convention," replied the youth. NEW READINGS IN BIOGRAPHY "Hail," they cried, "to Timon the munificent! Hail to Timon the compassionate! Hail to Timon the lover of his kind!" "I am none of these things," said Timon. "I am Timon the misanthrope." "This must be my Lord's wit and playfulness," said the bland man, "for how else should the Senate and the people have passed a decree, indited by myself, ordering an altar to be raised to Timon the Benefactor, and appointing him chief archon? But come, hand over thy treasure, that thy installation may take effect with due observance." "I have been deprived of my treasure," said Timon. But the ambassadors gave him no credit until they had searched every chink and crevice in the cavern, and dug up all the earth round the entrance. They then regarded each other with blank consternation. "Let us hang him up," said another. "Nay, friends," said the bland gentleman, "such confession of error would impeach our credit as statesmen. Moreover, should the people learn that Timon has lost his money, they will naturally conclude that we have taken it. Let us, therefore, keep this misfortune from their knowledge, and trust for relief to the chapter of accidents, as usual in State affairs." "Long live Alcibiades," cried Timon's followers, as they attacked Alcibiades's supporters to get their share. "Long live Timon," cried Alcibiades's party, as they defended themselves. Timon and Alcibiades extricated themselves from the scuffle, and walked away arm in arm. "My dear friend," said Timon, "how inexpressibly beholden I am to you for taking the burden of my wealth upon yourself! There is nothing I would not do to evince my gratitude." "Nothing?" queried Alcibiades. "Nothing," persisted Timon. "Then," said Alcibiades, "I will thank thee to relieve me of Timandra, who is as tired of me as I am of her." And in fine, Timon became very like any other Attic country gentleman, save that he always maintained that a young man did well to be a misanthrope until he got a loving and sensible wife, which, as he observed, could but seldom happen. And the Gods looked down upon him with complacency, and deferred the ruin of Athens until he should be no more. Napoleon Buonaparte sat in his garden at St. Helena, in the shadow of a fig-tree. Before him stood a little table, and upon the table stood a glass of sangaree. The day was hot and drowsy; the sea boomed monotonously on the rocks; the broad fig-leaves stirred not; great flies buzzed heavily in the sultry air. Napoleon wore a loose linen coat and a broad brimmed planter's hat, and looked as red as the sangaree, but nowise as comfortable. "To think," he said aloud, "that I should end my life here, with nothing to sweeten my destiny but this lump of sugar!" And he dropped it into the sangaree, and little ripples and beads broke out on the surface of the liquid. "Thou should'st have followed me," said a voice. "See," said the little old man, "that thou takest not what doth not belong to thee." "To whom belongeth it then?" asked Napoleon, "for I am a plain soldier, and have no skill in politics." "To Louis the Disesteemed," said the little old man, "for he is a great-great-nephew of the Princess of Schwoffingen, whose ancestors reigned here at the flood." "Where dwells Louis the Disesteemed?" asked Napoleon. "In England," said the little old man. "I am Louis the Esteemed, King of France and Navarre," replied the distrousered personage, "and I lament for my pantaloons, which I have been enforced to pawn, inasmuch as the broker would advance nothing upon my coat or my shirt." And Napoleon went upon his knees and divested himself of his own nether garments, and arrayed the king therein, to the great diversion of those who stood about. "Thou hast done wickedly," said the king when he heard who Napoleon was, "in that thou hast presumed to fight battles and win victories without any commission from me. Go, nevertheless, and lose an arm, a leg, and an eye in my service, then shall thy offence be forgiven thee." And Napoleon raised a great army, and gained a great battle for the king, and lost an arm. And he gained another greater battle, and lost a leg. And he gained the greatest battle of all; and the king sat on the throne of his ancestors, and was called Louis the Victorious: but Napoleon had lost an eye. And he came into the king's presence, bearing his eye, his arm, and his leg. "Thou art pardoned," said the king, "and I will even confer a singular honour upon thee. Thou shalt defray the expense of my coronation, which shall be the most splendid ever seen in France." So Napoleon lost all his substance, and no man pitied him. But after certain days the keeper of the royal wardrobe rushed into the king's presence, crying "Treason! treason! O Majesty, whence these republican and revolutionary pantaloons?" "They are those I deigned to receive from the rebel Buonaparte," said the king. "It were meet to return them. Where abides he now?" "Saving your Majesty's presence," they said, "he lieth upon a certain dunghill." "If this be so," said the king, "life can be no gratification to him, and it were humane to relieve him of it. Moreover, he is a dangerous man. Go, therefore, and strangle him with his own pantaloons. Yet, let a monument be raised to him, and engrave upon it, 'Here lies Napoleon Buonaparte, whom Louis the Victorious raised from the dunghill.'" They went accordingly; but behold! Napoleon already lay dead upon the dunghill. And this was told unto the king. "He hath ever been envious of my glory," said the king, "let him therefore be buried underneath." And it was so. And after no long space the king also died, and slept with his fathers. But when there was again a revolution in France, the people cast his bones out of the royal sepulchre, and laid Napoleon's there instead. And the dunghill complained grievously that it should be disturbed for so slight a cause. And Napoleon withdrew his hand from the hand of Loyalty, saying, "Pish!" And his eyes opened, and he heard the booming of the sea, and the buzzing of the flies, and felt the heat of the sun, and saw that the sugar he had dropped into his sangaree had not yet reached the bottom of the tumbler. And now the crowd before Daniel was greatly diminished, and consisted mainly of his enemies, for his friends had gone away to drown their sorrow. And the smug-faced man into whom Satan had entered came forth from among them, and said unto him, "O Daniel, inasmuch as I am a Dissenter I am greatly beholden to thee; but inasmuch as I am an honest tradesman I have somewhat against thee, for thou hast written concerning short weights and measures. And a man's shop is more to him than his country or his religion. Wherefore I must needs be avenged of thee. Yet shalt thou own that the tender mercies of the good man are piteous, and that even in his wrath he thinketh upon compassion." "Dissenters," said Daniel. But the time came when Daniel must be judged, and he went before the Lord. And all the court was full of Dissenters, and the Devil was there also. And the Dissenters testified many and grievous things against Daniel. "Daniel," said the Lord, "what answerest thou?" "Nothing, Lord," said Daniel. "Only I would that the Dissenter who threw that stone at me should receive due and condign punishment, adequate to his misdeed." "That," said the Devil, "is impossible." "Thou sayest well, Satan," said the Lord, "and therefore shall Daniel go free. For if anything can excuse the apostasy of the noble, it is the ingratitude of the base." So the Devil went to his own place, looking very small. And Daniel found himself in the same garret whence he had gone forth to the pillory; and before him were bread and cheese, and a pen and ink and paper. And he dipped the pen into the ink, and wrote _Robinson Crusoe_. "Dear me," said the Devil, "this will never do. I will see to it immediately." "How foolish you are!" he said; "what waste of money is this! If you saved it up, you would by-and-by be able to build an hospital for all the beggars in New York." "It would be a long time before there was enough," objected Cornelius. "Not at all," said the Devil, "if you let me invest your money for you." And he showed Cornelius the plan of a most splendid hospital, and across the front of it was inscribed in letters of gold, _Cornelius Diabolodorus_. And Cornelius was persuaded, and that evening he gave nothing to the poor. And the poor had come to think that Cornelius's money was their own, and abused him as though he had robbed them. And Cornelius drove them away: and his heart was hardened against them from that day forth. "O dear Mr. Devil," said Cornelius, "I am so glad that you have called, for I wanted to speak to you. It strikes me that there is a great defect in the plan which you have been so good as to draw for me." "What is that?" asked the Devil. "There is no place for black men," said Cornelius. "And you know white men will never let them come into the same hospital." And the Devil, to do him justice, talked very reasonably to Cornelius, and represented to him that there were very few black men in New York, and that these had very vigorous constitutions. But Cornelius was inflamed with enthusiasm, and frantic with philanthropy, and he vowed that he would not give a cent to an hospital that had not a wing for black men as big as all the rest of the building. And the Devil had to take his plan back, and come again in a year and a day. And when he did come back, Cornelius asked him if he did not think it would be a most excellent thing if all the Irishmen in New York could be shut up in an hospital or elsewhere; and he could not deny it. So he had to take his plan back again. And next year it was the turn of the Chinese, and then of the Red Indians, and then of the dogs and cats. And then Cornelius thought that he ought to provide room for all the people who had been ruined by his speculations, and the Devil thought so too, but doubted whether Cornelius would be able to afford it. And at last Cornelius said: "You are quite right," said the Devil; "that is exactly what I should do if I were you." So Cornelius put the plans behind a shelf in his counting-house, and the mice ate them. And he went on prospering and growing rich, until the Devil became envious of him, and insisted on changing places with him. So Cornelius went below, and the Devil came and dwelt in New York, where he still is. O not for him Blooms my dark nightshade, nor doth hemlock brew Murder for cups within her cavernous root. Grievous is the lot of the child, more especially of the female child, who is doomed from the tenderest infancy to lack the blessing of a mother's care. Gradually accustomed to this strange regimen, she had thriven on it marvellously, and was without a peer for beauty, sense, and goodness. Her father had watched over her education with care, and had instructed her in all lawful knowledge, save only the knowledge of poisons. As no other human being had entered the house, Mithridata was unaware that her bringing up had differed in so material a respect from that of other young people. "Father," said Mithridata, "either I shall love this young prince, or I shall not. If I do not love him, I am nowise minded to suffer him to caress me. If I do love him, I am as little minded to be the cause of his death." "Not even in consideration of the benefit which will accrue to thee by this event?" "Not even for that consideration." "O these daughters!" exclaimed the old man. "We bring them up tenderly, we exhaust all our science for the improvement of their minds and bodies, we set our choicest hopes upon them, and entrust them with the fulfilment of our most cherished aspirations; and when all is done, they will not so much as commit a murder to please us! Miserable ingrate, receive the just requital of thy selfish disobedience!" "O father, do not turn me into a tadpole!" "I will not, but I will turn thee out of doors." For the next few days messages came continually, urging her to haste to a youth dying for her sake, whom her presence would revive effectually. She steadily refused, but how much her refusal cost her! She wept, she wrung her hands, she called for death and execrated her nurture. With that strange appetite for self-torment which almost seems to diminish the pangs of the wretched, she collected books on poisons, studied all the symptoms described, and fancied her hapless lover undergoing them all in turn. At length a message came which admitted of no evasion. The King commanded her presence. Admonished by past experience, she provided herself with a veil and mask, and repaired to the palace. The old King seemed labouring under deep affliction; under happier circumstances he must have been joyous and debonair. He addressed her with austerity, yet with kindness. "Thy son!" she exclaimed, "The Prince! O father, thou art avenged for my disobedience!" "Surpasses what history hath hitherto recorded of the most obdurate monsters. Thou art indebted to him for thy honour, to preserve which he has risked his life. Thou bringest him to the verge of the grave by thy cruelty, and when a smile, a look from thee would restore him, thou wilt not bestow it." "Alas! great King," she replied, "I know too well what your Majesty's opinion of me must be. I must bear it as I may. Believe me, the sight of me could effect nothing towards the restoration of thy son." "Of that I shall judge," said the King, "when thou hast divested thyself of that veil and mask." Mithridata reluctantly complied. "By Heaven!" exclaimed the King, "such a sight might recall the departing soul from Paradise. Haste to my son, and instantly; it is not yet too late." "I am not aware of that," said the King. "Are not his entrails burned up with fire? Is not his flesh in a state of deliquescence? Has not his skin already peeled off his body? Is he not tormented by incessant gripes and vomitings?" "Not to my knowledge," said the King. "The symptoms, as I understand, are not unlike those which I remember to have experienced myself, in a milder form, certainly. He lies in bed, eats and drinks nothing, and incessantly calls upon thee." "This is most incomprehensible," said Mithridata. "There was no drug in my father's laboratory that could have produced such an effect." "If it must be so, I choose the scaffold," said Mithridata resolutely. "Believe me, O King, my appearance in thy son's chamber would but destroy whatever feeble hope of recovery may remain. I love him beyond everything on earth, and not for worlds would I have his blood on my soul." "Chamberlain," cried the monarch, "bring me a strait waistcoat." Driven into a corner, Mithridata flung herself at the King's feet, taking care, however, not to touch him, and confided to him all her wretched history. The venerable monarch burst into a peal of laughter. "A bon chat bon rat!" he exclaimed, as soon as he had recovered himself. "So thou art the daughter of my old friend the magician Locusto! I fathomed his craft, and, as he fed his child upon poisons, I fed mine upon antidotes. Never did any child in the world take an equal quantity of physic: but there is now no poison on earth can harm him. Ye are clearly made for each other; haste to his bedside, and, as the spell requires, rid thyself of thy venefic properties in his arms as expeditiously as possible. Thy father shall be bidden to the wedding, and an honoured guest he shall be, for having taught us that the kiss of Love is the remedy for every poison." [Transcriber's note: a misprint in the book was corrected in this edition, from "He martyrdom" to "His martyrdom".] End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Twilight of the Gods, and Other Tales, by Richard Garnett	redpajama-book	47,694
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Ted Garvin, L Barber and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team THE TROJAN WOMEN OF EURIPIDES TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH RHYMING VERSE WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES BY GILBERT MURRAY, LL.D., D.LITT. REGIUS PROFESSOR OF GREEK IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD "How are ye blind, Ye treaders down of cities, ye that cast Temples to desolation, and lay waste Tombs, the untrodden sanctuaries where lie The ancient dead; yourselves so soon to die!" To the cities of this present day might the prophetess Cassandra speak her message: "Would ye be wise, ye Cities, fly from war! Yet if war come, there is a crown in death For her that striveth well and perisheth Unstained: to die in evil were the stain!" If ever wars are to be ended, the imagination of man must end them. To the common mind, in spite of all its horrors, there is still something glorious in war. Preachers have preached against it in vain; economists have argued against its wastefulness in vain. The imagination of a great poet alone can finally show to the imagination of the world that even the glories of war are an empty delusion. Euripides shows us, as the centre of his drama, women battered and broken by inconceivable torture--the widowed Hecuba, Andromache with her child dashed to death, Cassandra ravished and made mad--yet does he show that theirs are the unconquered and unconquerable spirits. The victorious men, flushed with pride, have remorse and mockery dealt out to them by those they fought for, and go forth to unpitied death. Never surely can a great tragedy seem more real to us, or purge our souls more truly of the unreality of our thoughts and feelings concerning vital issues, than can The Trojan Women at this moment of the history of the world. FRANCIS HOVEY STODDARD. Pity is a rebel passion. Its hand is against the strong, against the organised force of society, against conventional sanctions and accepted Gods. It is the Kingdom of Heaven within us fighting against the brute powers of the world; and it is apt to have those qualities of unreason, of contempt for the counting of costs and the balancing of sacrifices, of recklessness, and even, in the last resort, of ruthlessness, which so often mark the paths of heavenly things and the doings of the children of light. It brings not peace, but a sword. CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY THE GODDESS PALLAS ATHENA. HECUBA, _Queen of Troy, wife of Priam, mother of Hector and Paris_. CASSANDRA, _daughter of Hecuba, a prophetess_. ANDROMACHE, _wife of Hector, Prince of Troy_. HELEN, _wife of Menelaus, King of Sparta; carried off by Paris, Prince of Troy_. TALTHYBIUS, _Herald of the Greeks_. MENELAUS, _King of Sparta, and, together with his brother Agamemnon, General of the Greeks_. SOLDIERS ATTENDANT ON TALTHYBIUS AND MENELAUS. CHORUS OF CAPTIVE TROJAN WOMEN, YOUNG AND OLD, MAIDEN AND MARRIED. _It is the dusk of early dawn, before sunrise. The figure of the god _ POSEIDON _ is dimly seen before the walls._ [_He turns to go; and another divine Presence becomes visible in the dusk. It is the goddess_ PALLAS ATHENA. His will it is: Kindred and long companionship withal, Most high Athena, are things magical. Thou hast some counsel of the Gods, or word Spoken of Zeus? Or is it tidings heard From some far Spirit? For this Ilion's sake, Whereon we tread, I seek thee, and would make My hand as thine. Hath that old hate and deep Failed, where she lieth in her ashen sleep? Thou pitiest her? Yea; but lay bare thy heart. For this land's sake Thou comest, not for Hellas? I would make Mine ancient enemies laugh for joy, and bring On these Greek ships a bitter homecoming. Swift is thy spirit's path, and strange withal, And hot thy love and hate, where'er they fall. A deadly wrong they did me, yea within Mine holy place: thou knowest? And no man rose and smote him; not a frown Nor word from all the Greeks! And 'twas thine hand That gave them Troy! Therefore with thee I stand To smite them. All thou cravest, even now Is ready in mine heart. What seekest thou? An homecoming that striveth ever more And cometh to no home. Here on the shore Wouldst hold them or amid mine own salt foam? When the last ship hath bared her sail for home! Zeus shall send rain, long rain and flaw of driven Hail, and a whirling darkness blown from heaven; To me his levin-light he promiseth O'er ships and men, for scourging and hot death: Do thou make wild the roads of the sea, and steep With war of waves and yawning of the deep, Till dead men choke Euboea's curling bay. So Greece shall dread even in an after day My house, nor scorn the Watchers of strange lands! How are ye blind, Ye treaders down of cities, ye that cast Temples to desolation, and lay waste Tombs, the untrodden sanctuaries where lie The ancient dead; yourselves so soon to die! _The day slowly dawns_: HECUBA _wakes_. Up from the earth, O weary head! This is not Troy, about, above- Not Troy, nor we the lords thereof. Thou breaking neck, be strengthened! Endure and chafe not. The winds rave And falter. Down the world's wide road, Float, float where streams the breath of God; Nor turn thy prow to breast the wave. Ah woe! For what woe lacketh here? My children lost, my land, my lord. O thou great wealth of glory, stored Of old in Ilion, year by year We watched and wert thou nothingness? What is there that I fear to say? And yet, what help? Ah, well-a-day, This ache of lying, comfortless And haunted! Ah, my side, my brow And temples! All with changeful pain My body rocketh, and would fain Move to the tune of tears that flow: For tears are music too, and keep A song unheard in hearts that weep. [_She rises and gazes towards the Greek ships far off on the shore._ Who am I that I sit Here at a Greek king's door, Yea, in the dust of it? A slave that men drive before, A woman that hath no home, Weeping alone for her dead; A low and bruised head, And the glory struck therefrom. [_She starts up from her solitary brooding, and calls to the other Trojan Women in the huts._ O Mothers of the Brazen Spear, And maidens, maidens, brides of shame, Troy is a smoke, a dying flame; Together we will weep for her: I call ye as a wide-wing'd bird Calleth the children of her fold, How say'st thou? Whither moves thy cry, Thy bitter cry? Behind our door We heard thy heavy heart outpour Its sorrow: and there shivered by Fear and a quick sob shaken From prisoned hearts that shall be free no more! Child, 'tis the ships that stir upon the shore The ships, the ships awaken! Dear God, what would they? Overseas Bear me afar to strange cities? Nay, child, I know not. Dreams are these, Fears of the hope-forsaken. Awake, O daughters of affliction, wake And learn your lots! Even now the Argives break Their camp for sailing! [_One of the huts on the left is now open, and the rest of the_ CHORUS _come out severally. Their number eventually amounts to fifteen_. Out of the tent of the Greek king I steal, my Queen, with trembling breath: What means thy call? Not death; not death! They would not slay so low a thing! O, 'tis the ship-folk crying To deck the galleys: and we part, we part! Nay, daughter: take the morning to thine heart. My heart with dread is dying! An herald from the Greek hath come! How have they cast me, and to whom A bondmaid? Peace, child: wait thy doom. Our lots are near the trying. Argos, belike, or Phthia shall it be, Or some lone island of the tossing sea, Far, far from Troy? And I the aged, where go I, A winter-frozen bee, a slave Death-shapen, as the stones that lie Hewn on a dead man's grave: The children of mine enemy To foster, or keep watch before The threshold of a master's door, I that was Queen in Troy! And thou, what tears can tell thy doom? The shuttle still shall flit and change Beneath my fingers, but the loom, Sister, be strange. Look, my dead child! My child, my love, The last look Oh, there cometh worse. A Greek's bed in the dark God curse That night and all the powers thereof! But not the hungry foam--Ah, never!-Of fierce Eurotas, Helen's river, To bow to Menelaus' hand, That wasted Troy with war! They told us of a land high-born, Where glimmers round Olympus' roots A lordly river, red with corn And burdened fruits. Aye, that were next in my desire To Athens, where good spirits dwell And, close beyond the narrowing sea, A sister land, where float enchanted Ionian summits, wave on wave, And Crathis of the burning tresses Makes red the happy vale, and blesses With gold of fountains spirit-haunted Homes of true men and brave! But lo, who cometh: and his lips Grave with the weight of dooms unknown: A Herald from the Grecian ships. Swift comes he, hot-foot to be done And finished. Ah, what bringeth he Of news or judgment? Slaves are we, Spoils that the Greek hath won! Thou know'st me, Hecuba. Often have I crossed Thy plain with tidings from the Hellene host. 'Tis I, Talthybius Nay, of ancient use Thou know'st me. And I come to bear thee news. Ah me, 'tis here, 'tis here, Women of Troy, our long embosomed fear! The lots are cast, if that it was ye feared. What lord, what land Ah me, Phthia or Thebes, or sea-worn Thessaly? Say then what lot hath any? What of joy Falls, or can fall on any child of Troy? I know: but make thy questions severally. Chosen from all for Agamemnon's prize! How, for his Spartan bride A tirewoman? For Helen's sister's pride? Nay, nay: a bride herself, for the King's bed. The sainted of Apollo? And her own Prize that God promised Out of the golden clouds, her virgin crown? He loved her for that same strange holiness. Is't not rare fortune that the King hath smiled On such a maid? What of that other child Ye reft from me but now? TALTHYBIUS (_speaking with some constraint_). Polyxena? Or what child meanest thou? The same. What man now hath her, or what doom? She rests apart, to watch Achilles' tomb. To watch a tomb? My daughter? What is this? Speak, Friend? What fashion of the laws of Greece? Count thy maid happy! She hath naught of ill To fear What meanest thou? She liveth still? What of Andromache, Wife of mine iron-hearted Hector, where Journeyeth she? Pyrrhus, Achilles' son, hath taken her. And I, whose slave am I, The shaken head, the arm that creepeth by, Staff-crutched, like to fall? Beat, beat the crownless head: Rend the cheek till the tears run red! A lying man and a pitiless Shall be lord of me, a heart full-flown With scorn of righteousness: O heart of a beast where law is none, Where all things change so that lust be fed, The oath and the deed, the right and the wrong, Even the hate of the forked tongue: Even the hate turns and is cold, False as the love that was false of old! O Women of Troy, weep for me! Yea, I am gone: I am gone my ways. Mine is the crown of misery, The bitterest day of all our days. Thy fate thou knowest, Queen: but I know not What lord of South or North has won my lot. Go, seek Cassandra, men! Make your best speed, That I may leave her with the King, and lead These others to their divers lords Ha, there! What means that sudden light? Is it the flare Of torches? There is no fire, no peril: 'tis my child, Cassandra, by the breath of God made wild. [_The door opens from within and_ CASSANDRA _enters, white-robed and wreathed like a Priestess, a great torch in her hand. She is singing softly to herself and does not see the Herald or the scene before her._ Lift, lift it high: [_Strophe_. Give it to mine hand! Lo, I bear a flame Unto God! I praise his name. I light with a burning brand This sanctuary. Blessed is he that shall wed, And blessed, blessed am I In Argos: a bride to lie With a king in a king's bed. Awake, O my feet, awake: [_Antistrophe_. Our father's hope is won! Dance as the dancing skies Over him, where he lies Happy beneath the sun! Lo, the Ring that I make [_She makes a circle round her with a torch, and visions appear to her_. Apollo! Ah, is it thou? O shrine in the laurels cold, I bear thee still, as of old, Mine incense! Be near to me now. [_She waves the torch as though bearing incense_. Come, greet ye Hymen, greet Hymen with songs of pride: Sing to him loud and long, Cry, cry, when the song Faileth, for joy of the bride! O Damsels girt in the gold Of Ilion, cry, cry ye, For him that is doomed of old To be lord of me! O hold the damsel, lest her tranced feet Lift her afar, Queen, toward the Hellene fleet! (_Checking herself_) But part I must let be, And speak not. Not the axe that craveth me, And more than me; not the dark wanderings Of mother-murder that my bridal brings, And all the House of Atreus down, down, down Nay, I will show thee. Even now this town Is happier than the Greeks. I know the power Of God is on me: but this little hour, Wilt thou but listen, I will hold him back! TALTHYBIUS (_at last breaking through the spell that has held him_). I swear, had not Apollo made thee mad, Not lightly hadst thou flung this shower of bad Bodings, to speed my General o'er the seas! 'Fore God, the wisdoms and the greatnesses Of seeming, are they hollow all, as things Of naught? This son of Atreus, of all kings Most mighty, hath so bowed him to the love Of this mad maid, and chooseth her above All women! By the Gods, rude though I be, I would not touch her hand! [_He moves as though to go, but turns to_ HECUBA, _and speaks more gently_. Nay: Why should Odysseus' labours vex my breath? On; hasten; guide me to the house of Death, To lie beside my bridegroom! Thou Greek King, Who deem'st thy fortune now so high a thing, Thou dust of the earth, a lowlier bed I see, In darkness, not in light, awaiting thee: And with thee, with thee there, where yawneth plain A rift of the hills, raging with winter rain, Dead and out-cast and naked It is I Beside my bridegroom: and the wild beasts cry, And ravin on God's chosen! [_She clasps her hands to her brow and feels the wreaths._ O, ye wreaths! Ye garlands of my God, whose love yet breathes About me, shapes of joyance mystical, Begone! I have forgot the festival, Forgot the joy. Begone! I tear ye, so, From off me! Out on the swift winds they go. With flesh still clean I give them back to thee, Still white, O God, O light that leadest me! [_Turning upon the Herald. [_She goes out, followed by Talthybius and the Soldiers_ Hecuba, _after waiting for an instant motionless, falls to the ground._ The Queen, ye Watchers! See, she falls, she falls, Rigid without a word! O sorry thralls, Too late! And will ye leave her downstricken, A woman, and so old? Raise her again! [_Some women go to HECUBA, but she refuses their aid and speaks without rising._ O Muse, be near me now, and make A strange song for Ilion's sake, Till a tone of tears be about mine ears And out of my lips a music break For Troy, Troy, and the end of the years: When the wheels of the Greek above me pressed, And the mighty horse-hoofs beat my breast; And all around were the Argive spears A towering Steed of golden rein- O gold without, dark steel within!-Ramped in our gates; and all the plain Lay silent where the Greeks had been. And a cry broke from all the folk Gathered above on Ilion's rock: "Up, up, O fear is over now! To Pallas, who hath saved us living, To Pallas bear this victory-vow!" Then rose the old man from his room, The merry damsel left her loom, And each bound death about his brow With minstrelsy and high thanksgiving! A very weariness of joy Fell with the evening over Troy: And lutes of Afric mingled there With Phrygian songs: and many a maiden, With white feet glancing light as air, Made happy music through the gloom: And fires on many an inward room All night broad-flashing, flung their glare On laughing eyes and slumber-laden. And forth, lo, the women go, The crown of War, the crown of Woe, To bear the children of the foe And weep, weep, for Ilion! [_As the song ceases a chariot is seen approaching from the town, laden with spoils. On it sits a mourning Woman with a child in her arms._ ANDROMACHE [_Strophe I._ Forth to the Greek I go, Driven as a beast is driven. AND. Nay, mine is woe: Woe to none other given, And the song and the crown therefor! AND. He hates thee sore! AND. No more, no more To aid thee: their strife is striven! HECUBA. [_Antistrophe I._ AND. Yea, and her treasure parted. HEC. Gone, gone, mine own Children, the noble-hearted! HEC. For me, for me! AND. Sing for the Great City, That falleth, falleth to be A shadow, a fire departed. Come to me, O my lover! HEC. The dark shroudeth him over, My flesh, woman, not thine, not thine! AND. Make of thine arms my cover! O thou whose wound was deepest, Thou that my children keepest, Priam, Priam, O age-worn King, Gather me where thou sleepest. ANDROMACHE (_her hands upon her heart_). O here is the deep of desire, HEC. (How? And is this not woe?) AND. For a city burned with fire; HEC. (It beateth, blow on blow.) AND. God's wrath for Paris, thy son, that he died not long ago: Who sold for his evil love Troy and the towers thereof: Therefore the dead men lie Naked, beneath the eye Of Pallas, and vultures croak And flap for joy: So Love hath laid his yoke On the neck of Troy! O mine own land, my home, AND. (I weep for thee, left forlorn,) HEC. See'st thou what end is come? AND. (And the house where my babes were born.) HEC. A desolate Mother we leave, O children, a City of scorn: How sweet are tears to them in bitter stress, And sorrow, and all the songs of heaviness. Mother of him of old, whose mighty spear Smote Greeks like chaff, see'st thou what things are here? I see God's hand, that buildeth a great crown For littleness, and hath cast the mighty down. I and my babe are driven among the droves Of plundered cattle. O, when fortune moves So swift, the high heart like a slave beats low. 'Tis fearful to be helpless. Men but now Have taken Cassandra, and I strove in vain. Ah, woe is me; hath Ajax come again? But other evil yet is at thy gate. Nay, Daughter, beyond number, beyond weight My evils are! Doom raceth against doom. Polyxena across Achilles' tomb Lies slain, a gift flung to the dreamless dead. My sorrow! 'Tis but what Talthybius said: So plain a riddle, and I read it not. I saw her lie, and stayed this chariot; And raiment wrapt on her dead limbs, and beat My breast for her. HECUBA (_to herself_). O the foul sin of it! The wickedness! My child. My child! Again I cry to thee. How cruelly art thou slain! She hath died her death, and howso dark it be, Her death is sweeter than my misery. Death cannot be what Life is, Child; the cup Of Death is empty, and Life hath always hope. Thy feet have trod the pathway of my feet, And thy clear sorrow teacheth me mine own. [_Enter_ TALTHYBIUS _with a band of Soldiers. He comes forward slowly and with evident disquiet._ What is it? Evil things Are on thy lips! Tis ordered, this child Oh, How can I tell her of it? Doth he not go With me, to the same master? There is none In Greece, shall e'er be master of thy son. How? Will they leave him here to build again The wreck? TALTHYBIUS. I know not how to tell thee plain! Thou hast a gentle heart if it be ill, And not good, news thou hidest! 'Tis their will Thy son shall die The whole vile thing is said Now! ANDROMACHE. Oh, I could have borne mine enemy's bed! And speaking in the council of the host Odysseus hath prevailed- ANDROMACHE. O lost! lost! lost! Forgive me! It is not easy God; may his own counsel fall On his own sons! ANDROMACHE (_to the child_). Quick: I must begone To the bridal I have lost my child, my own! [_The Soldiers close round her._ TALTHYBIUS (_bending over_ ANDROMACHE _and gradually taking the Child from her_). O Love, ancient Love, Of old to the Dardan given; Love of the Lords of the Sky; How didst thou lift us high In Ilion, yea, and above All cities, as wed with heaven! For Zeus--O leave it unspoken: But alas for the love of the Morn; Morn of the milk-white wing, The gentle, the earth-loving, That shineth on battlements broken In Troy, and a people forlorn! And, lo, in her bowers Tithonus, Our brother, yet sleeps as of old: O, she too hath loved us and known us, And the Steeds of her star, flashing gold, Stooped hither and bore him above us; Then blessed we the Gods in our joy. But all that made them to love us Hath perished from Troy. [_As the song ceases, the King_ MENELAUS _enters, richly armed and followed by a bodyguard of Soldiers. He is a prey to violent and conflicting emotions._ MENELAUS (_turning_). Ha! who is there That prayeth heaven, and in so strange a prayer? I bless thee, Menelaus, I bless thee, If thou wilt slay her! Only fear to see Her visage, lest she snare thee and thou fall! She snareth strong men's eyes; she snareth tall Cities; and fire from out her eateth up Houses. Such magic hath she, as a cup Of death! Do I not know her? Yea, and thou, And these that lie around, do they not know? [_The Soldiers return from the hut and stand aside to let_ HELEN _pass between them. She comes through them, gentle and unafraid; there is no disorder in her raiment_. And is it granted that I speak, or no, In answer to them ere I die, to show I die most wronged and innocent? I seek To kill thee, woman; not to hear thee speak! O hear her! She must never die unheard, King Menelaus! And give me the word To speak in answer! All the wrong she wrought Away from thee, in Troy, thou knowest not. The whole tale set together is a death Too sure; she shall not 'scape thee! 'Tis but breath And time. For thy sake, Hecuba, if she need To speak, I grant the prayer. I have no heed Nor mercy--let her know it well--for her! It may be that, how false or true soe'er Thou deem me, I shall win no word from thee. So sore thou holdest me thine enemy. Yet I will take what words I think thy heart Holdeth of anger: and in even part Set my wrong and thy wrong, and all that fell. [_Pointing to_ HECUBA. O Queen, think of thy children and thy land, And break her spell! The sweet soft speech, the hand And heart so fell: it maketh me afraid. Be strong, O King; give judgment worthily For thee and thy great house. Shake off thy long Reproach; not weak, but iron against the wrong! [_Turning furiously upon_ HELEN. Out, woman! There be those that seek thee yet With stones! Go, meet them. So shall thy long debt Be paid at last. And ere this night is o'er Thy dead face shall dishonour me no more! HELEN (_kneeling before him and embracing him_). Behold, mine arms are wreathed about thy knees; Lay not upon my head the phantasies Of Heaven. Remember all, and slay me not! Remember them she murdered, them that fought Beside thee, and their children! Hear that prayer! Peace, aged woman, peace! 'Tis not for her; She is as naught to me. (_To the Soldiers_) March on before, Ye ministers, and tend her to the shore And have some chambered galley set for her, Where she may sail the seas. If thou be there, I charge thee, let not her set foot therein! How? Shall the ship go heavier for her sin? [_Exit, following_ HELEN, _who is escorted by the Soldiers_. And children still in the Gate Crowd and cry, A multitude desolate, Voices that float and wait As the tears run dry: 'Mother, alone on the shore They drive me, far from thee: Lo, the dip of the oar, The black hull on the sea! Is it the Isle Immortal, Salamis, waits for me? Is it the Rock that broods Over the sundered floods Of Corinth, the ancient portal Of Pelops' sovranty?' Out in the waste of foam, Where rideth dark Menelaus, Come to us there, O white And jagged, with wild sea-light And crashing of oar-blades, come, O thunder of God, and slay us: While our tears are wet for home, While out in the storm go we, Slaves of our enemy! [_He goes out with his Soldiers, leaving the body of the Child in_ HECUBA'S _arms._ [_During these lines several Women are seen approaching with garlands and raiment in their hands_. Lo these, who bear thee raiment harvested From Ilion's slain, to fold upon the dead. [_During the following scene_ HECUBA _gradually takes the garments and wraps them about the Child_. CHORUS. _Some Women_. Deep in the heart of me I feel thine hand, Mother: and is it he Dead here, our prince to be, And lord of the land? Glory of Phrygian raiment, which my thought Kept for thy bridal day with some far-sought Queen of the East, folds thee for evermore. And thou, grey Mother, Mother-Shield that bore CHORUS. _Some Women._ Child of the Shield-bearer, Alas, Hector's child! Great Earth, the All-mother, Taketh thee unto her With wailing wild! _Others._ Mother of misery, Give Death his song! (HEC. Woe!) Aye and bitterly (HEC. Woe!) We too weep for thee, And the infinite wrong! [_During these lines_ HECUBA, _kneeling by the body, has been performing a funeral rite, symbolically staunching the dead Child's wounds._ [_She bows her head to the ground and remains motionless and unseeing._ Beat, beat thine head: Beat with the wailing chime Of hands lifted in time: Beat and bleed for the dead. Woe is me for the dead! O Women! Ye, mine own [_She rises bewildered, as though she had seen a vision_. Hecuba, speak! Oh, ere thy bosom break Go, women: lay our dead In his low sepulchre. He hath his meed Of robing. And, methinks, but little care Toucheth the tomb, if they that moulder there Have rich encerement. 'Tis we, 'tis we, That dream, we living and our vanity! [_The Women bear out the dead Child upon the shield, singing, when presently flames of fire and dim forms are seen among the ruins of the City_. CHORUS. _Some Women_. Woe for the mother that bare thee, child, Thread so frail of a hope so high, That Time hath broken: and all men smiled About thy cradle, and, passing by, Spoke of thy father's majesty. Low, low, thou liest! Ha! Who be these on the crested rock? Fiery hands in the dusk, and a shock Of torches flung! What lingereth still, O wounded City, of unknown ill, Ere yet thou diest? TALTHYBIUS (_coming out through the ruined Wall_). And for thee, O ancient woman most unfortunate, Follow: Odysseus' men be here, and wait To guide thee 'Tis to him thou go'st for thrall. Ah, me! and is it come, the end of all, The very crest and summit of my days? I go forth from my land, and all its ways Are filled with fire! Bear me, O aged feet, A little nearer: I must gaze, and greet My poor town ere she fall. Farewell, farewell! O thou whose breath was mighty on the swell Of orient winds, my Troy! Even thy name Shall soon be taken from thee. Lo, the flame Hath thee, and we, thy children, pass away To slavery God! O God of mercy! Nay: Why call I on the Gods? They know, they know, My prayers, and would not hear them long ago. Quick, to the flames! O, in thine agony, My Troy, mine own, take me to die with thee! [_She springs toward the flames, but is seized and held by the Soldiers._ [_He goes to watch over the burning of the City. The dusk deepens_. CHORUS. _Divers Women_. He seeth, only his heart is pitiless; And the land dies: yea, she, She of the Mighty Cities perisheth citiless! Troy shall no more be! Woe, woe, woe! Ilion shineth afar! Fire in the deeps thereof, Fire in the heights above, And crested walls of War! _Others_. As smoke on the wing of heaven Climbeth and scattereth, Torn of the spear and driven, The land crieth for death: O stormy battlements that red fire hath riven, And the sword's angry breath! [_A new thought comes to_ HECUBA; _she kneels and beats the earth with her hands_. O Earth, Earth of my children; hearken! and O mine own, Ye have hearts and forget not, ye in the darkness lying! Surely my knees are weary, but I kneel above your head; Hearken, O ye so silent! My hands beat your bed! I, I am near thee; I kneel to thy dead to hear thee, Kneel to mine own in the darkness; O husband, hear my crying! Even as the beasts they drive, even as the loads they bear, LEADER. (Pain; O pain!) We go to the house of bondage. Hear, ye dead, O hear! LEADER. (Go, and come not again!) Priam, mine own Priam, Lying so lowly, Thou in thy nothingness, Shelterless, comfortless, See'st thou the thing I am? Know'st thou my bitter stress? Nay, thou art naught to him! Out of the strife there came, Out of the noise and shame, Making his eyelids dim, Death, the Most Holy! [_The fire and smoke rise constantly higher_. [_Antistrophe_. O high houses of Gods, beloved streets of my birth, Ye have found the way of the sword, the fiery and blood-red river! Fall, and men shall forget you! Ye shall lie in the gentle earth. The dust as smoke riseth; it spreadeth wide its wing; It maketh me as a shadow, and my City a vanished thing! Out on the smoke she goeth, And her name no man knoweth; And the cloud is northward, southward; Troy is gone for ever! [_A great crash is heard, and the Wall is lost in smoke and darkness_. Ha! Marked ye? Heard ye? The crash of the towers that fall! Wrath in the earth and quaking and a flood that sweepeth all, And passeth on! [_The Greek trumpet sounds_. [_The trumpet sounds again, and the Women go out in the darkness._ NOTES ON THE TROJAN WOMEN To suit the Greek point of view all this had to be changed or explained away. In the _Iliad_ generally Athena is the proper War-Goddess of the Greeks. Poseidon had indeed built the wall for Laomedon, but Laomedon had cheated him of his reward--as afterwards he cheated Heracles, and the Argonauts and everybody else! So Poseidon hated Troy. Troy is chiefly defended by the barbarian Ares, the oriental Aphrodite, by its own rivers Scamander and Simois and suchlike inferior or unprincipled gods. Yet traces of the other tradition remain. Homer knows that Athena is specially worshipped in Troy. He knows that Apollo, who had built the wall with Poseidon, and had the same experience of Laomedon, still loves the Trojans. Zeus himself, though eventually in obedience to destiny he permits the fall of the city, nevertheless has a great tenderness towards it. What was the "device"? According to the _Odyssey_ and most Greek poets, it was a gigantic wooden figure of a horse. A party of heroes, led by Odysseus, got inside it and waited. The Greeks made a show of giving up the siege and sailed away, but only as far as Tenedos. The Trojans came out and found the horse, and after wondering greatly what it was meant for and what to do with it, made a breach in their walls and dragged it into the Citadel as a thank-offering to Pallas. In the night the Greeks returned; the heroes in the horse came out and opened the gates, and Troy was captured. Observe, too, what a climax of drama is reached by means of the very fact that Andromache, to the utmost of her power, tries to do nothing "dramatic," but only what will be best. Her character in Euripides' play, _Andromache_, is, on the whole, similar to this, but less developed. This Menelaus, however, is rather different from the traditional Menelaus. Besides being the husband of Helen, he is the typical Conqueror, for whose sake the Greeks fought and to whom the central prize of the war belongs. And we take him at the height of his triumph, the very moment for which he made the war! Hence the peculiar bitterness with which he is treated, his conquest turning to ashes in his mouth, and his love a confused turmoil of hunger and hatred, contemptible and yet terrible. The exit of the scene would leave a modern audience quite in doubt as to what happened, unless the action were much clearer than the words. But all Athenians knew from the _Odyssey_ that the pair were swiftly reconciled, and lived happily together as King and Queen of Sparta. This last religion, faint and shattered by doubt as it is, represents a return to the most primitive "Pelasgian" beliefs, a worship of the Dead which existed long before the Olympian system, and has long outlived it. Nothing definite is known of the Golden Images and the Moon-Feasts. "Deus," dist li Reis, "si penuse est ma vie!" Pluret des oilz, sa barbe blanche tiret End of Project Gutenberg's The Trojan women of Euripides, by Euripides	redpajama-book	7,657
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Dave Morgan and PG Distributed Proofreaders THE HEALING OF NATIONS AND THE HIDDEN SOURCES OF THEIR STRIFE "_The Tree of Life whose leaves are for the Healing of the Nations_" III. THE ROOTS OF THE GREAT WAR IV. THE CASE AGAINST GERMANY V. THE CASE FOR GERMANY VI. THE HEALING OF NATIONS VII. PATRIOTISM AND INTERNATIONALISM VIII. THE PSYCHOLOGY OF WAR AND RECRUITING X. HOW SHALL THE PLAGUE BE STAYED? XI. COMMERCIAL PROSPERITY THE PROSPERITY OF A CLASS XII. COLONIES AND SEAPORTS XIII. WAR AND THE SEX IMPULSE XIV. THE OVER-POPULATION SCARE XV. THE FRIENDLY AND THE FIGHTING INSTINCTS XVII. THE TREE OF LIFE APPENDIX- A New and Better Peace The Change from the Old Germany to the New Classes in Germany for and against the War Purpose of the War: Max Harden England's Perfidy: Professors Haeckel and Eucken Manifesto of Professor Eucken Nietzsche on Disarmament The Effect of Disarmament The Principle of Nationality: Winston Churchill Neutralization of the Sea: H.G. Wells The War and Democracy: Arnold Bennett The Future Settlement: G. Lowes Dickinson Brutality of Warfare: H.M. Tomlinson Patriotism: Romain Rolland No Patriotism in Business! Manifesto, Independent Labour Party Responsibility of the whole Capitalist Class Text of Karl Liebknecht's Protest in Reichstag Letter on Russia by P. Kropotkin On the Future of Europe, by the same Servia: R.W. Seton-Watson The Battlefield: Walt Whitman Chinese Christians on the War: Dr. A. Salter Essential Friendliness of Peoples Reconciliation in Death Letter from the Trenches by Baron Marschall von Bieberstein The following Studies and Notes, made during the earlier period of the present war and now collected together for publication, do not--as will be evident to the reader--pretend to any sort of completeness in their embrace of the subject, or finality in its presentation. Rather they are scattered thoughts suggested by the large and tangled drama which we are witnessing; and I am sufficiently conscious that their expression involves contradictions as well as repetitions. In saying this I do not by any means wish to say anything against the mere existence of Class, in itself. In a sense that is a perfectly natural thing. There _are_ different divisions of human activity, and it is quite natural that those individuals whose temperament calls them to a certain activity--literary or religious or mercantile or military or what not--should range themselves together in a caste or class; just as the different functions of the human body range themselves in definite organs. And such grouping in classes may be perfectly healthy _provided the class so created subordinates itself to the welfare of the Nation_. But if the class does _not_ subordinate itself to the general welfare, if it pursues its own ends, usurps governmental power, and dominates the nation for its own uses--if it becomes parasitical, in fact--then it and the nation inevitably become diseased; as inevitably as the human body becomes diseased when its organs, instead of supplying the body's needs, become the tyrants and parasites of the whole system. Still, even now, as Mr. Jerome himself contends, the term is partly justified by a certain fine feeling of which it is descriptive and which is indeed very noticeable in all ranks. Whether in the Army or Navy, among bluejackets or private soldiers or officers, the feeling is certainly very much that of a big game--with its own rules of honour and decency which must be adhered to, and carried on with extraordinary fortitude, patience, and good-humour. Whether it arises from the mechanical nature of the slaughter, or from any other cause, the fact remains that among our fighting people to-day--at any rate in the West--there is very little feeling of _hatred_ towards the "enemy." It is difficult, indeed, to hate a foe whom you do not even see. Chivalry is not dead, and at the least cessation of the stress of conflict the tendency to honour opponents, to fraternize with them, to succour the wounded, and so forth, asserts itself again. And chivalry demands that what feelings of this kind we credit to ourselves we should also credit to the other parties in the game. We do cordially credit them to our French and Belgian allies, and if we do not credit them quite so cordially to the Germans, that is _partly_ at least because every lapse from chivalrous conduct on the part of our opponents is immediately fastened upon and made the most of by our Press. Chivalry is by no means dead in the Teutonic breast, though the sentiment has certainly been obscured by some modern German teachings. Through all the mist of lies and slander created on such an occasion--by which each nation after a time succeeds in proving that its own cause is holy while that of its opponent is wicked and devilish; through the appeals to God and Justice, common to both sides; through the shufflings and windings of diplomats, and the calculated attitudes of politicians, adopted for public approval; through the very real rage and curses of soldiers, the desperate tears and agony of women, the murder of babes, and the smoke of burning towns and villages: it is difficult, indeed, to arrive at clear and just conclusions. Thus we are still left without any generally accepted conclusion in the matter. Moreover, we are struck, in considering the list of reasons cited, by a feeling that they are all in their way rather partial and superficial--that they do not go to the real root of the subject. It is, no doubt, pleasant in its way for us British to draw this picture of Germany, and to trace the causes which led the ruling powers there, years ago, to make up their minds for war, because, of course, the process in some degree exonerates us. But, as I have already said, I have dwelt on Germany, not only because she affords such a good illustration of what to avoid, but also because she affords so clear an example of what is going on elsewhere in Europe--in England and France and Italy, and among all the modern nations. We cannot blame Germany without implicitly also blaming these. From all this the danger of class-domination emerges more and more into relief. In Prussia the old Feudal caste remains--in a decadent state, certainly, but perhaps for that very reason more arrogant, more vulgar, and less conscious of any _noblesse oblige_ than even before. By itself, however, and if unsupported by the commercial class, it would probably have done little harm. In Britain the Feudal caste has ceased to be exclusively military, and has become blended with the commercial class. The British aristocracy now consists largely or chiefly of retired grocers and brewers. Commercialism here has become more confessedly dominant than in Germany, and whereas there the commercial class may _support_ the military in its ambitions, here the commercial class _uses_ the military as a matter of course and for its own ends. We have become a Nation of Shopkeepers having our own revolvers and machine-guns behind the counter. And yet not really a Nation of Shopkeepers, but rather a nation ruled by a shopkeeping _class_. What is clearly wanted--and indeed is the next stage of human evolution in England and in all Western lands--is that the people should emancipate themselves from class-domination, class-glamour, and learn to act freely from their own initiative. I know it is difficult. It means a spirit of independence, courage, willingness to make sacrifice. It means education, alertness to guard against the insidious schemes of wire-pullers and pressmen, as well as of militarists and commercials. It means the perception that only through eternal vigilance can freedom be maintained. Yet it is the only true Democracy; and the logic of its arrival is assured to us by the historical necessity that progress in all countries must pass through the preliminary stages of feudalism and commercialism on its way to realize the true life of the mass-peoples. THE CASE AGAINST GERMANY; With every wish to do justice to Germany, to whose literature I feel I owe such a debt, and among whose people I have so many personal friends; allowing also the utmost for the general causes in Europe which have been for years leading up towards war--and some of which I have indicated already in the pages above--I still feel it is impossible not to throw on her the _immediate_ blame for the present catastrophe. Germany's initiative in the matter is further evidenced by her _instant readiness_ to attack. She was in Luxemburg within a few hours of the declaration of war with Russia; and it was clearly her intention to "rush" Paris and then turn back upon Russia. England, as I say, is in no position herself to sit in judgment on Germany and lecture her--much as she undoubtedly enjoys doing so. England's long-standing policy of commercial greed, leading to political grab in every part of the world; her infidelity in late years towards small peoples, like the Boers and the Persians; her neglect of treaty obligations and silence about them when they do not suit her; her most dubious alliance with a military despotism like Russia: all render it impossible for her to accuse Germany. The extraordinary thing is that in the face of such prevarications as these, which are patent to the whole world, Britain at any moment of serious crisis always comes forward with the air of utmost sincerity and in an almost saintly pose as the champion of political morality! How is it? The world laughs and talks of _heuchlerei_ and _cant Britannique_. But I almost think (perhaps I stretch a point in order to save the credit of my country) that the real cause is not so much British hypocrisy as British _stupidity_--stupidity which keeps our minds in watertight compartments and prevents us perceiving how confused and inconsistent our own judgments are and how insincere they appear to our neighbours. At any rate, whether the cause is pure hypocrisy or pure stupidity, or whether a Scotch mixture of these, it cannot be denied that its result is most irritating to decent-minded people. It is curious how a certain strain or vein of temperament, like that just mentioned, will run through a nation's whole life, and colour its actions in all departments, recognized and commented on by the whole outside world, and yet remain unobserved by the nation itself. However that last point may be, it is certainly curious to think how--whether it be in the case of the German or the English or any other people--a vein of temperament or character may decide a nation's fate or colour its history quite as much as or even more than matters of wealth and armament. THE CASE FOR GERMANY Having put in the last chapter some of the points which seem to throw the immediate blame of the war on Germany, it would be only fair in the present chapter to show how in the long run and looking to the general European situation to-day as well as to the history of Germany in the past, the war had become inevitable, and in a sense necessary, as a stage in the evolution of European politics. If Wilhelm II was popular (as he was) among his own mass-people, it may well be guessed that he was a perfect terror to his own political advisers and generals. Undoubtedly a large share of responsibility for the failure of German diplomacy before the war, and of German strategy during the war, must be laid to the account of his ever-changing plans and ill-judged interferences. It is difficult, indeed, to imagine a character more dangerous as a great nation's leader. But out of dangers great things do often arise. A kind of fatality, as I have said, has enveloped the whole situation, and still leads on to new and pregnant evolutions for the German people and for the whole world. Germany will in the end be justified, but in a way far different from what she imagined. In this she had the example of Britain before her. Britain had laid land to land and market to market over the globe, and showed no particular scruple in the matter. Why should not Germany do the same? It was true that Britain always carried the Bible with her--but this was mere British cant. Britain carried the Bible in her left hand, but in her right a sword; and when she used the latter she always let the former drop. Germany could do likewise--but without that odious pretence of morality, and those crocodile tears over the unfortunates whom she devoured. It was only a question of Might and Organization and Armament. But however we choose to apportion the blame or at least the responsibility for the situation among the various Governments concerned, the main point and the main lesson of it all is to see that any such apportionment does not much matter! As long as our Governments are constructed as they are--that is, on the principle of representing, not the real masses of their respective peoples, but the interests of certain classes, especially the commercial, financial, and military classes--so long will such wars be inevitable. The real blame rests, not with the particular Foreign policy of this or that country but with the fact that Europe, already rising through her mass-peoples into a far finer and more human and spiritual life than of old, still lies bound in the chains of an almost Feudal social order. When the great German mass-peoples find this out, when they discover the little rift in the lute which now separates their real quality from the false standards of their own dominant military and commercial folk, then their true role in the world will begin, and a glorious role it will be. That in the future there will be an outcry in favour of Conscription made by certain parties in Britain goes without saying; but that must be persistently opposed. The nation says it is fighting to put down Militarism. Why, then, make compulsory militarism foundational in our national life? To abolish militarism _by_ militarism is like "putting down Drink" by swallowing it! The whole lesson of this war is against conscription. Germany could never have "imposed herself" on Europe without it. And yet her soldiers, brave as they naturally are, and skilfully as they have fought, have not done themselves justice. How could they under such conditions--forced into battle by their officers, flung in heaps on the enemy's guns? The voluntary response in Britain to the call to arms has been inspiriting; and if voluntaryism means momentary delay in a crisis, still it means success in the end. No troops have fought more finely than the British. Said Surgeon-General Evatt, speaking in London in October--and General Evatt's word in such a matter ought to carry weight: "After long experience in studying Russian, German, Bavarian, Saxon, French, Spanish, and American fighting units, my verdict is unhesitatingly in favour of the British What has occurred lately has been a splendid triumph of citizenship, because people were allowed their proper liberty and the consciousness of freely, sharing in a great Empire." Besides it must always be remembered that conscription gives a Government power to initiate an iniquitous war, whereas voluntaryism keeps the national life clean and healthy. A free people will not fight for the trumped-up schemes and selfish machinations of a class--not, indeed, unless they are grossly deceived by, Press and Class plots. Anyhow, to force men to fight in causes which they do not approve, to compel them to adopt a military career when their temperaments are utterly unsuited to such a thing, or when their consciences or their religion forbid them--these things are both foolish and wicked. Meanwhile, and until that era arrives, we can only insist (at any rate in our own country) on a different kind of foreign policy from what we have had--a policy open and strong, not founded on Spread-Eagleism, and decidedly not founded on commercialism and the interests of the trading classes (as the Empire League seem to desire), but directed towards the real welfare of the masses in our own and other lands. If our rulers and representatives really seek peace, here is the obvious way to ensue and secure it--namely, by making political friends of those in all countries who _desire peace_ and are already stretching hands of amity to each other. What simpler and more obvious way can there be? "We hail our working-class comrades of every land," says the Manifesto of the Independent Labour Party. "Across the roar of guns we send greeting to the German Socialists. They have laboured unceasingly to promote good relations with Britain, as we with Germany. They are no enemies of ours, but faithful friends. In forcing this appalling crime upon the nations, it is the rulers, the diplomats, the militarists, who have sealed their doom. In tears and blood and bitterness the greater Democracy will be born. With steadfast faith we greet the future; our cause is holy and imperishable, and the labour of our hands has not been in vain." Another thing that we must look to with some hope for the future is the influence of Women. Profoundly shocked as they are by the senseless folly and monstrous bloodshed of the present conflict, it is certain that when this phase is over they will insist on having a voice in the politics of the future. The time has gone by when the mothers and wives and daughters of the race will consent to sit by meek and silent while the men in their madness are blowing each other's brains out and making mountains out of corpses. It is hardly to be expected that war will cease from the earth this side of the millennium; but women will surely only, condone it when urged by some tremendous need or enthusiasm; they will not rejoice--as men sometimes do--in the mere lust of domination and violence. With their keen perception of the little things of life, and the way in which the big things are related to these, they will see too clearly the cost of war in broken hearts and ruined homes to allow their men to embark in it short of the direst necessity. PATRIOTISM AND INTERNATIONALISM It is an old story and an old difficulty. There comes a time when every institution of social life becomes rotten and diseased and has to be removed to make way for the new life which is expanding behind it. Broadly speaking, we may say that the institution of Patriotism is _approaching_ this period--at any rate over Western Europe. The outlines of an International life are becoming clearly visible behind it. What we have to do is to help on that international life and spirit to our best, and certainly clear out a lot of sham patriotism that stands in its way; but this has to be done with discrimination and a certain tact. People must be made to see that "my country, right or wrong," is not the genuine article. They must be made to understand how easily this sort of slapdash sentiment throws them into the hands of scheming politicians and wire-pullers for sinister purposes--how readily it can be made use of directly it has become a mere unreasoning instinct and habit. If a war is wanted, or conscription, or a customs tariff--it may be merely to suit the coward fears of autocratic rulers, or the selfish interests of some group of contractors or concession-hunters--all that the parties concerned have to do is to play the patriotic stop, and they stand a good chance of getting what they want. Just now there is a good bit of fleecing going on in this fashion--both of the public and the wage-workers. Even in its more healthy forms, when delayed in too long, patriotism easily becomes morbid and delays also the birth of the larger spirit which is waiting behind it. The Continental Socialists complain that their cause has hitherto made little progress in Alsace-Lorraine and Poland for the simple reason that political circumstances have over-accentuated the patriotic devotion in both these regions. THE PSYCHOLOGY OF, WAR AND RECRUITING I sometimes think the country-folk round about where I live the most sensible people I know. They say with regard to the War--or said at its outset: "What are they fighting about? _I_ can't make out, and nobody seems to know. What I've seen o' the Germans they're a decent enough folk--much like ourselves. If there's got to be fightin', why don't them as makes the quarrel go and fight wi' each other? But killing all them folk that's got no quarrel, and burnin' their houses and farms, and tramplin' down all that good corn--and all them brave men dead what can never live again--its scandalous, I say." This at the outset. But afterwards, when the papers had duly explained that the Germans were mere barbarians and savages, bent on reducing the whole world to military slavery, they began to take sides and feel there was good cause for fighting. Meanwhile almost exactly the same thing was happening in Germany, where England was being represented as a greedy and deceitful Power, trying to boss and crush all the other nations. Thus each nation did what was perhaps, from its own point of view, the most sensible thing to do--persuaded itself that it was fighting in a just and heroic cause, that it was a St. George against the Dragon, a David out to slay Goliath. There are others, again--perhaps a very large number--who do not care much about the war in itself, and probably have only the vaguest notion of what it is all about, but for them to join the ranks means adventure, comradeship, the open air--all fascinating things; and they hail the prospect with joy as an escape from intolerable dullness--from the monotony of the desk and the stuffy office, from the dreary round and mechanical routine of the factory bench, from the depressing environment of "home" and domestic squalor. As I say, I do not think that this influence in most cases has much to do with enthusiasm for the "cause" or any mere lust of "battle" (happily indeed for the most part they do not for a moment realize what modern battle means). It is simply escape from the hateful conditions of present-day commercialism and its hideous wage-slavery into something like the normal life of young manhood--a life in the open under the wide sky, blood-stirring enterprise, risk if you will, co-operation and _camaraderie_. These are the inviting, beckoning things, the things which swing the balance down--even though hardships, low pay, and high chances of injury and death are thrown in the opposite scale. Nevertheless, and despite these other considerations, there does certainly remain, in this as in other wars, a fair number of men among those who enlist who are _bona fide_ inspired by some Ideal which they feel to be worth fighting for. It may be Patriotism or love of their country; it may be "to put down militarism"; it may be Religion or Honour or what not. And it is fine that it should be so. They may in cases be deluded, or mistaken about facts; the ideal they fight for may be childish (as in the mediaeval Crusades); still, even so it is fine that people should be willing to give their lives for an idea--that they should be capable of being inspired by a vision. Humanity has at least advanced as far as that. I suppose patriotism, or love of country--when it comes to its full realization, as in the case of invasion by an enemy, is the most powerful and tremendous of such ideals, sweeping everything before it. It represents something ingrained in the blood. In that case all the other motives for fighting--economic or what not--disappear and are swallowed up. Material life and social conditions under a German government might externally be as comfortable and prosperous as under our own, but for most of us something in the soul would wither and sicken at the thought. Anyhow, whatever the motives may be which urge _individuals_ into war--whether sheer necessity or patriotism, or the prospect of wages or distinction, or the love of adventure--a nation or a people in order to fight _must_ have a "cause" to fight for, something which its public opinion, its leaders, and its Press can appropriate--some phrase which it can inscribe on its shield: be it "Country" or "God" or "Freedom from Tyranny," or "Culture _versus_ Barbarism." It must have some such cry, else obviously it could not fight with any whole-heartedness or any force. Since the early beginnings of the human race we can perceive the same processes in operation. We can almost guess the grade of advancement reached among primitive tribes by simply taking note of their _totems_. These were emblems of the things which held the mind of the tribe, as admirable or terrible, with which it was proud to identify itself--the fox, for instance, or the bear, the kangaroo, or the eagle. To be worthy of _such ideals_ men fought. Later, every little people, every knightly, family, every group of adventurers, adopted a device for its shield, a motto for its flag, a figure of some kind, human, or more often animal. Even the modern nations have not got much farther; and we can judge of _their_ stage of advancement by the beasts of prey they, flaunt on their banners or the deep-throat curses which resound in their national anthems. On the other hand, if we reject enforced militarism are we to throw overboard the idea of "national service" altogether? HOW SHALL THE PLAGUE BE STAYED? People ask what new arrangements of diplomacy or revivals of Christianity--what alliances, _ententes_, leagues of peace, Hague tribunals, regulation of armaments, weeks of prayer, or tons of Christmas puddings sent into the enemies' camps--will finally scotch this pestilence of war. And there is no answer, because the answer is too close at hand for us to see it. Is it any wonder that this principle of internecine warfare and rapacity which rules in our midst, this vulgar greed, which loads people's bodies with jewels and furs and their tables with costly food, regardless of those from whom these comforts are snatched, should eventuate ultimately in rapacity and violence on the vast stage of the drama of nations, and in red letters of war and conflict written across the continents? It is no good, with a pious snuffle, to say we are out to put down warfare and militarism, and all the time to encourage in our own lives, and in our Church and Empire Leagues and other institutions, the most sordid and selfish commercialism--which itself is in essence a warfare, only a warfare of a far meaner and more cowardly kind than that which is signalized by the shock of troops or the rage of rifles and cannon. COMMERCIAL PROSPERITY THE PROSPERITY OF A CLASS COLONIES AND SEAPORTS It is the same with seaports. Holland is delighted to provide passage for Germany's exports and imports, and probably does so at a minimum cost. The Berlin manufacturer or merchant would be no better off, as far as trade conditions are concerned, if Germany instead of Holland held the mouths of the Rhine. The same with a harbour like Salonika. Germany or Austria may covet dreadfully its possession; and for strategic or political reasons they may be right, but for pure trade purposes Salonika in the hands of the Greeks would probably (except for certain initial expenses in the enlargement of dock accommodation) serve them as well as in their own hands. Of course there _are_ other reasons which make nations desire colonies and ports. Such things may be useful for offensive or defensive purposes against other nations; they feed a jealous sense of importance and Imperialism; they provide outlets for population and access to lands where the institutions and customs of the Homeland prevail; they supply financiers with a field for the investment of capital under the protection of their own Governments; they favour the development of a national _carrying_ trade; and, above all, they supply plentiful official and other posts and situations for the young men of the middle and commercial classes; but for the mere extension and development of the nation's general trade and commerce it is doubtful whether they have anything like the importance commonly credited to them. WAR AND THE SEX IMPULSE But Logic and Morals are of no use on these occasions. They are too thin. They are only threads in a vast fabric. You extract a single thread from the weaving of a carpet, and note its colour and its concatenations, but that gives you no faintest idea of the pattern of the carpet; and then you extract another, and another, but you are no nearer the design. Logic and morals are similar threads in the great web of life. You may follow them in various directions, but without effective result. Life is so much greater than either; and War is a volcanic manifestation of Life which gives them little or no heed. And while the Nations fight, the little mortals who represent them have only the faintest idea of what is really going on, of what the warfare means. They _feel_ the sweep of immense passions; ecstasies and horrors convulse and dislocate their minds; but they do not, cannot, understand. And the dear creatures in the trenches and the firing-lines give their lives--equally beautiful, equally justified, on both sides: fascinated, rapt, beyond and beside themselves, as foes hating each other with a deadly hatred; seized with hideous, furious, nerve-racking passions; performing heroic, magnificent deeds, suffering untold, indescribable wounds and pains, and lying finally side by side (as not unfrequently happens) on the deserted battlefield, reconciled and redeemed and clasping hands of amity even in death. THE OVER-POPULATION SCARE All this, however, does not prove that a genuine over-population difficulty may not occur even now in localities, and possibly in some far future time over the whole earth. And it may be just as well to consider these possibilities. The aborigines of Australia are so ignorant that they do not even know that conception arises from the meeting of the male and female elements. They think that certain bushes and trees are haunted by the spirits of babies, which leap unawares into the bodies of passing women. It can be imagined what evils and delusions spring from such a theory. We do not want to return to such a period; and yet it would seem that many folk do not want to go forward from our present condition, with all _its_ evils and delusions, to something better and more intelligent. THE FRIENDLY AND THE FIGHTING INSTINCTS How are we to give effect to the cry? Must we not call upon the Workers of all countries--those who are the least responsible for the inception of wars, and yet who suffer most by them, who bear the brunt of the wounds, the slaughter, the disease, and the misery which are a necessary part of them--to rise up and forbid them for ever from the earth? Let us do so! For though few may follow and join with us to-day, yet to-morrow and every day in the future, and every year, as the mass-peoples come into their own, and to the knowledge of what they are and what they desire to be, those numbers will increase, till the cry itself is no longer a mere cry but an accomplished fact. Among such people there is no natural hatred of each other. Despite all the foam and fury of the Press over the present war, I doubt whether there is any really violent feeling of the working masses on either side between England and Germany. There certainly is no great amount in England, either among the country-folk or the town artisans and mechanics; and if there be much in Germany (which is quite doubtful) it is fairly obviously due to the _animus_ which has been aroused and the _virus_ which has been propagated by political and social schemers. We have had enough of Hatred and Jealousy. For a century now commercial rivalry and competition, the perfectionment of the engines of war, and the science of destruction have sufficiently occupied the nations--with results only of disaster and distress and ruin to all concerned. To-day surely another epoch opens before us--an epoch of intelligent helpfulness and fraternity, an epoch even of the simplest common sense. We have rejoiced to tread and trample the other peoples underfoot, to malign and traduce them, to single out and magnify their defects, to boast ourselves over them. And acting thus we have but made the more enemies. Now surely comes an era of recognition and understanding, and with it the glad assurance that we have friends in all the ends of the earth. We--and I speak of the European nations generally--have talked loudly of our own glory; but have we welcomed and acclaimed the glory and beauty of the other peoples and races around us--among whom it is our privilege to dwell? We have boasted to love each our own country, but have we cared at all for the other countries too? Verily I suspect that it is because we have _not_ truly loved our own countries, but have betrayed them for private profit, that we have thought fit to hate our neighbours and ill-use them for our profit too. Read the accounts of the Polynesian peoples at an early period--before commerce and the missionaries had come among them--as given in the pages of Captain Cook, of Herman Melville, or even as adumbrated in their past life in the writings of R.L. Stevenson--what a picture of health and gaiety and beauty! Surely never was there a more charming and happy folk--even if long-pig did occasionally in their feasts alternate with wild-pig. Or, again, of the East Indian peoples, so unfitted as a rule for making the best of this world, so passive, dreamy, subtle, unpractical, and yet with their marvellous spiritual gift, their intuition (also since the dawn of history) and conviction of another plane of being than that in which we mostly move, and their occasional power of distinctly sensing that plane and acting on its indications. Think of their ancient religious philosophy--their doctrine of world-unity--absolutely foundational and inexpugnable, the corner-stone of all metaphysics, science, and politics, and of the latest most modern democracy; and still realized and believed in in India as nowhere else in the world. Or think of the Servians--that hospitable people, good lovers and good haters, with their ancient, almost prehistoric, system of family communities surviving down to modern days, and blossoming out in a perfect genius for co-operative agriculture and Raffeisen banks! Or the Finns, the Swedes, the Norwegians, and the Danes (if I may class these together); what a clear, clean-minded, healthy people are these, so direct in their touch on Nature and the human instincts, so democratic, bold, and progressive in their social organizations--what a privilege to have them as our near neighbours and relatives! Or the Germans, in many ways resembling the last mentioned group, only richer and more varied in their culture and racial characteristics! Or the Dutch, so well-based and broad-seated both in body and mind, with their ample bowels of compassion and their well-equipped brains, so full of tenderness and of sturdy commonsense, what a gift has been theirs to Europe, what a legacy of artistic treasure and of heroic record! Or the Spanish with their beautiful and dignified women, or the French with their fine logical and artistic sense, or the Hungarians, Greeks, and Italians! [The following extracts, mostly from contemporaneous sources, are gathered together in an Appendix with the object of throwing side-lights, _often from opposing points of view_, on the questions raised in the text.] A NEW AND BETTER PEACE. THE CHANGE FROM THE GERMANY OF KANT AND GOETHE AND SCHUBERT TO THE GERMANY OF TO-DAY--AND THE DELUSION OF IMPERIALISM. On the other hand, in favour of war are the great, mainly Prussian, war party, consisting of the military aristocracy and nobility "who see with terror the democratization of Germany and the growing force of the Socialist party"; "others who consider war as necessary for economic reasons found in over-population and over-production, the need of markets and outlets"; the great _bourgeoisie_, "which also has its reasons of a social nature--the upper middle class being no less affected than the nobility by the democratization of Germany and, finally, the gun and armour-plate manufacturers, the great merchants who clamour for greater markets, and the bankers who speculate on the Golden Age and the indemnity of war. These, too, think that war would be good business." The whole paper is too long for extensive citation here, but is well worth reading. POLITICAL IGNORANCE IN GERMANY. "Not as weak-willed blunderers have we under-taken the fearful risk of this war. We wanted it. Because we had to wish it and could wish it. May the Teuton devil throttle those whiners whose pleas for excuses make us ludicrous in these hours of lofty experience. We do not stand, and shall not place ourselves, before the Court of Europe. Our power shall create new law in Europe. Germany strikes. If it conquers new realms for its genius, the priesthood of all the gods will sing songs of praise to the good war. "And the reason for all this? Because England was _envious_ of Germany's greatness, because she was bound to hinder further expansion of the German sphere at any cost! There cannot be the least doubt that England was determined from the start to break in upon Germany's great conflict for _national existence_, to cast as many stones as possible in Germany's path, and to block her every effort toward adequate expansion. England lay in wait until the favourable opportunity for inflicting a lasting injury upon Germany should come, and promptly seized upon _the unavoidable German invasion of Belgian territory_ as a pretext for draping her own brutal national egotism in a mantle of decency. "_Or is there in the whole world a person so simple as to believe that England would have declared war upon France, had the latter Power invaded Belgium?_ In that event, England would have shed hypocritical tears over the necessary violation of international law, while concealing a laughing face behind the mask. The most repulsive thing in the whole business is this hypocritical Pharisaism; it merits only contempt. FROM THE MANIFESTO OF PROFESSOR EUCKEN. "With them it is self-seeking, envy, calculation; with us the conviction that we are fighting for the holiest possessions of our people, for right and justice." NIETZSCHE ON DISARMAMENT. THE EFFECT OF DISARMAMENT. THE PRINCIPLE OF NATIONALITY. "If we, in a moment of unthinking panic, adopt the advice of our militarists and develop an Army based on universal service, we shall prepare for ourselves the very situation in which Germany finds itself at this moment. However much we may protest that our aims are pacific, and that our Army is intended only for defensive purposes, foreign nations will view it with alarm, and will reflect that, by the help of our Navy, we can land an armed force in any country that has a sea coast. We shall thus incur the risk of a coalition against us. It is said that if we had had a conscript Army, the present war would not have taken place. But it is not realized that a different and far more dangerous war would have been probable, a war in which we should have had no continental Allies, but should have been resisted, as Germany is being resisted, in order to relieve Europe of an intolerable terror H.G. WELLS ON THE REGULATION OF ARMAMENTS AND NEUTRALIZATION OF THE SEA. THE WAR AND DEMOCRACY. THE FUTURE SETTLEMENT. When this war is over Europe might be settled, then and there, if the peoples so willed it and made their will effective, in such a way that there would never again be a European War A WAR NOTE FOR DEMOCRATS. "It would seem, then, that love of our country can flourish only through the hatred of other countries, and the massacre of those who sacrifice themselves in defence of them. There is in this theory a ferocious absurdity, a Neronian dilettantism which repels me in the very depths of my being. No! Love of my country does not demand that I shall hate and slay those noble and faithful souls who also love their country, but rather that I should honour them, and seek to unite myself with them for our common good NO PATRIOTISM IN BUSINESS! MANIFESTO OF THE INDEPENDENT LABOUR PARTY. "To us who are Socialists the workers of Germany and Austria, no less than the workers of France and Russia, are comrades and brothers; in this hour of carnage and eclipse we have friendship and compassion to all victims of militarism. Our nationality and independence, which are dear to us, we are ready to defend, but we cannot rejoice in the organized murder of tens of thousands of workers of other lands who go to kill and be killed at the command of rulers to whom the people are as pawns. "The People must everywhere resist such territorial aggression and national abasement as will pave the way for fresh wars; and, throughout Europe, the workers must press for frank and honest diplomatic policies, controlled by themselves, for the suppression of militarism and the establishment of the United States of Europe, thereby advancing towards the world's peace. Unless these steps are taken Europe, after the present calamity, will be still more subject to the increasing domination of militarism, and liable to be drenched with blood." RESPONSIBILITY RESTS ON THE WHOLE CAPITALIST CLASS. TEXT OF LIEBKNECHT'S PROTEST. LETTER ON RUSSIA FROM P. KROPOTKIN. "'But what about the danger of Russia?' my readers will probably ask. THE FUTURE OF EUROPE. CHINESE CHRISTIANS ON THE WAR. ESSENTIAL FRIENDLINESS OF PEOPLES. RECONCILIATION IN DEATH. _Letter written by a French cavalry officer as he lay wounded and dying in Flanders._ "After the injection, feeling wonderfully at ease, we spoke of the lives we had lived before the war. We all spoke English, and we talked of the women we had left at home. Both the German and the Britisher had only been married a year. "I wondered, and I suppose the others did, why we had fought each other at all. I looked at the Highlander, who was falling to sleep exhausted, and in spite of his drawn face and mud-stained uniform he looked the embodiment of freedom. Then I thought of the tricolor of France, and all that France had done for liberty. Then I watched the German, who had ceased to speak. He had taken a prayer-book from his knapsack, and was trying to read a service for soldiers wounded in battle." _Letters from the Front (from the Daily Press)._ Unfortunately, the writer of this thoughtful letter fell on the battlefield. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Healing of Nations and the Hidden Sources of Their Strife, by Edward Carpenter	redpajama-book	9,386
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Ginny Brewer and PG Distributed Proofreaders By MRS. HUMPHRY WARD Author of "ENGLAND'S EFFORT," etc. With an introduction by THE HON. THEODORE ROOSEVELT To ANDRE CHEVRILLON True Son of France True Friend of England I dedicate this book. England has in this war reached a height of achievement loftier than that which she attained in the struggle with Napoleon; and she has reached that height in a far shorter period. Her giant effort, crowned with a success as wonderful as the effort itself, is worthily described by the author of this book. Mrs. Ward writes nobly on a noble theme. This war is the greatest the world has ever seen. The vast size of the armies, the tremendous slaughter, the loftiness of the heroism shown, and the hideous horror of the brutalities committed, the valour of the fighting men, and the extraordinary ingenuity of those who have designed and built the fighting machines, the burning patriotism of the people who defend their hearthstones, and the far-reaching complexity of the plans of the leaders--all are on a scale so huge that nothing in past history can be compared with them. The issues at stake are elemental. The free peoples of the world have banded together against tyrannous militarism and government by caste. It is not too much to say that the outcome will largely determine, for daring and liberty-loving souls, whether or not life is worth living. A Prussianised world would be as intolerable as a world ruled over by Attila or by Timur the Lame. It is in this immense world-crisis that England has played her part; a part which has grown greater month by month. Mrs. Ward enables us to see the awakening of the national soul which rendered it possible to play this part; and she describes the works by which the faith of the soul justified itself. There were in England--just as there are now in America--even worse foes to national honour and efficiency. Greed and selfishness, among capitalists and among labour leaders, had to be grappled with. The sordid baseness which saw in the war only a chance for additional money profits to the employer was almost matched by the fierce selfishness which refused to consider a strike from any but the standpoint of the strikers. But the chief obstacle to be encountered in rousing England was sheer short-sightedness. A considerable time elapsed before it was possible to make the people understand that this was a people's war, that it was a matter of vital personal concern to the people as a whole, and to all individuals as individuals. In America we are now encountering much the same difficulties, due to much the same causes. In England the most essential thing to be done was to wake the people to their need, and to guide them in meeting the need. The next most essential was to show to them, and to the peoples in friendly lands, whether allied or neutral, how the task was done; and this both as a reason for just pride in what had been achieved and as an inspiration to further effort. Even the Napoleonic contest was child's play compared to this. Never has Great Britain been put to such a test. Never since the spacious days of Elizabeth has she been in such danger. Never, in any crisis, has she risen to so lofty a height of self-sacrifice and achievement. In the giant struggle against Napoleon, England's own safety was secured by the demoralisation of the French fleet. But in this contest the German naval authorities have at their disposal a fleet of extraordinary efficiency, and have devised for use on an extended scale the most formidable and destructive of all instruments of marine warfare. In previous coalitions England has partially financed her continental allies; in this case the expenditures have been on an unheard-of scale, and in consequence England's industrial strength, in men and money, in business and mercantile and agricultural ability, has been drawn on as never before. As in the days of Marlborough and Wellington, so now, England has sent her troops to the continent; but whereas formerly her expeditionary forces, although of excellent quality, were numerically too small to be of primary importance, at present her army is already, by size as well as by excellence, a factor of prime importance, in the military situation; and its relative as well as absolute importance is steadily growing. And to her report of the present stage of Great Britain's effort in the war, Mrs. Ward has added some letters describing from her own personal experience the ruin wrought by the Germans in towns like Senlis and Gerbeviller, and in the hundreds of villages in Northern, Central, and Eastern France that now lie wrecked and desolate. And she has told in detail, and from the evidence of eye-witnesses, some of the piteous incidents of German cruelty to the civilian population, which are already burnt into the conscience of Europe, and should never be forgotten till reparation has been made. Mrs. Ward's book is thus of high value as a study of contemporary history. It is of at least as high value as an inspiration to constructive patriotism. We climb up to the high ground of the camp for a general view before we go on to G.H.Q. and I see it, as I saw it last year, spread under the March sunshine, among the sand and the pines--a wonderful sight. "Everything has grown, you see, except the staff!" says the Colonel, smiling, as we shake hands. "But we rub along!" The words were spoken so carelessly that for a few seconds I did not realise their meaning. But there was that in the expression of the man who spoke them which showed there was no lack of realisation there. How often I have recalled them, with a sore heart, in these recent weeks of heavy losses in the air-service--losses due, I have no doubt, to the special claims upon it of the German retreat. The schoolmistress and her little maid sat up for us, and shepherded us kindly to bed. Never was there a more strangely built little house! The ceilings came down on our heads, the stairs were perpendicular. But there was a stove in each room, and the beds though hard, and the floor though bare, were scrupulously clean. In the early morning I woke up and looked out. There had been a white frost, and the sun was just rising in a clear sky. Its yellow light was shining on the whitewashed wall of the next cottage, on which a large pear-tree was trained. All round were frost-whitened plots of garden or meadow--_preaux_--with tall poplars in the hedges cutting the morning sky. Suddenly, I heard a continuous murmur in the room beneath me. It was the schoolmistress and her maid at prayer. And presently the house door opened and shut. It was Mademoiselle who had gone to early Mass. For the school was an _ecole libre_, and the little lady who taught it was a devout Catholic. The rich yet cold light, the frosty quiet of the village, the thin French trees against the sky, the ritual murmur in the room below--it was like a scene from a novel by Rene Bazin, and breathed the old, the traditional France. But this letter is already too long! _America is with us!_ But let me go a little further with the new War Office facts. The motor has been waiting long at the door of the hospitable headquarters which have entertained us! Let me return to it, to the great spectacle of the present--after this retrospect of the Past. "We teach our men the old great game of war--wit against wit--courage against courage--life against life. We try many men here, and reject a good few. But the men who have gone through our training here are valuable, both for attack and defence--above all, let me repeat it, they are valuable for _protection_." Is it true or untrue that long habituation to the seeing or inflicting of pain and death, that the mere sights and sounds of the trenches tend with time to brutalise men, and will make them callous when they return to civil life? Do men grow hard and violent in this furnace after a while, and will the national character suffer thereby in the future? The General denies it strongly. "I see no signs of it. The kindness of the men to each other, to the wounded, whether British or German, to the French civilians, especially the women and children, is as marked as it ever was. It is astonishing the good behaviour of the men in these French towns; it is the rarest thing in the world to get a complaint." Here are a batch of letters written in January of this year from Hamburg and its neighbourhood: A letter written from Hamburg in February, and others from Coblenz are tragic reading: " We shall soon have nothing more to eat. We earn no money, absolutely none; it is sad but true. Many people are dying here from inanition or under-feeding." Or, take these from Neugersdorf, in Saxony: Or these from Itzehoe and Hanover: "If only peace would come soon! We have been standing to for an alarm these last days, as the people here are storming all the bakers' shops. It is a semi-revolution. It cannot last much longer." The extracts are taken from letters written mostly in December and January last: (_a_) " Dear wife, don't fret about me, because the English treat us very well. Only our own officers (N.C.O.'s) treat us even worse than they do at home in barracks; but that we're accustomed to " (_b_) " I'm now a prisoner in English hands, and I'm quite comfortable and content with my lot, for most of my comrades are dead. The English treat us well, and everything that is said to the contrary is not true. Our food is good. There are no meatless days, but we haven't any cigars " (_d_) " I am afraid I'm not in a position to send you very detailed letters about my life at present, but I can tell you that I am quite all right and comfortable, and that I wish every English prisoner were the same. Our new Commandant is very humane--strict, but just. You can tell everybody who thinks differently that I shall always be glad to prove that he is wrong " Out of the mist there emerges suddenly an anti-aircraft section; then a great Army Service dump; and presently we catch sight of a row of hangars and the following notice, "Beware of aeroplanes ascending and descending across roads." For a time the possibility of charging into a biplane gives zest to our progress, as we fly along the road which cuts the aerodrome; but, alack! there are none visible and we begin to drop towards Amiens. As we pass through Amiens arrangements are going on for the "taking over" of another large section of the French line, south of Albert; as far, it is rumoured, as Roye and Lagny. At last, with our new armies, we can relieve more of the French divisions, who have borne so gallantly and for so many months the burden of their long line. It is true that the bulk of the German forces are massed against the British lines, and that in some parts of the centre and the east, owing to the nature of the ground, they are but thinly strung along the French front, which accounts partly for the disproportion in the number of kilometres covered by each Ally. But, also, we had to make our Army; the French, God be thanked, had theirs ready, and gloriously have they stood the brunt, as the defenders of civilisation, till we could take our full share. Yet, in this "taking over" there are many feelings concerned. For the French _poilu_ and our Tommy it is mostly the occasion for as much fraternisation as their fragmentary knowledge of each other's speech allows; the Frenchman is proud to show his line, the Britisher is proud to take it over; there are laughter and eager good will; on the whole, it is a red-letter day. But sometimes there strikes in a note "too deep for tears." Here is a fragment from an account of a "taking over," written by an eye-witness: It has all been so quietly done! Yet it is really a great moment. The store of man power which Great Britain possesses is beginning to take practical effect. The French, who held the long lines at the beginning of war, who stood before Verdun and threw their legions on the road to Peronne, are now being freed for work elsewhere. They have "carried on" till Great Britain was ready, and now she is ready. A few more minutes, and we are through the town, moving slowly along the Albert-Bapaume road, that famous road which will be a pilgrims' way for generations to come. "The aftermath of an earthquake!" Do the words express the reality before us as we move along the mile of road between Albert and La Boisselle? Hardly. The earth-shudder that visits a volcanic district may topple towns and villages into ruins in a few minutes. It does not tear and grind and pound what it has overturned, through hour after hour, till there is nothing left but mud and dust. "Life is but the pebble sunk, Deeds the circle growing!" We know now that for any serious attack on an enemy who has plenty of machine-guns and plenty of successive well-wired positions a great mass of heavy and other artillery is absolutely indispensable. And over ground deliberately wrecked and obstructed such artillery _must_ take time to bring up. And yet--to repeat--how rapidly, how "persistently" all difficulties considered, to use the King's adjective, has the British Army pressed on the heels of the retreating enemy! The evening at the Chateau passed only too quickly, and we were sad to say good-bye, though it left me still the prospect of further conversation with some members of the Intelligence Staff on my return journey from Paris and those points of the French line for which, thanks to the courtesy of the French Headquarters, I was now bound. How much I have heard of _training_ since my arrival in France! It is not a word that has been so far representative of our English temper. Far from it. The central idea of English life and politics, said Mr. Bright, "is the assertion of personal liberty." It was, I suppose, this assertion of personal liberty which drove our extreme Liberal wing before the war into that determined fighting of the Naval and Military Estimates year after year, that determined hatred of anything that looked like "militarism," and that constant belittlement of the soldier and his profession which so nearly handed us over, for lack of a reasonable "militarism," to the tender mercies of the German variety. But, years ago, Matthew Arnold dared to say, in face of the general British approval of Mr. Bright, that there is, after all, something greater than the "assertion of personal liberty," than the freedom to "do as you like"; and he put forward against it the notion of "the nation in its collected and corporate character" controlling the individual will in the name of an interest wider than that of individuals. What he had in view was surely just what we are witnessing in Great Britain to-day--what we are about to witness in your own country--a nation becoming the voluntary servant of an idea, and for that idea submitting itself to forms of life quite new to it, and far removed from all its ordinary habits; giving up the freedom to do as it likes; accepting the extremities of discomfort, hardship, and pain--death itself--rather than abandon the idea; and so putting itself to school, resolutely and of its own free will, that when its piece of self-imposed education is done, it can no more be the same as it was before than the youth who has yielded himself loyally to the pounding and stretching of any strenuous discipline, intellectual or physical. But the stubbornness, the discipline, the sacrifice of the armies in the field are not all we want. The stubbornness of the nation _at home_, of the men and the women, is no less necessary to the great end. In these early days of March every week's news was bringing home to England the growing peril of the submarine attack. Would the married women, the elder women of the nation, rise to the demand for personal thought and saving, for _training_--in the matter of food--with the same eager goodwill as thousands of the younger women had shown in meeting the armies' demand for munitions? For the women heads of households have it largely in their hands. The answer at the beginning of March was matter for anxiety. It is still matter for anxiety now--at the beginning of May. I find, for instance, among my War Office Notes, a short address given in the ordinary course of duty by an unnamed commandant to his officer-cadets. It appears here, in its natural place, just as part of the whole; revealing for a moment the thoughts which constantly underlie it. "Believe me when I tell you that I have never found an officer who worked who did not come through. Only ill-health and death stand in your way. The former you can guard against in a great measure. The latter comes to us all, and for a soldier, a soldier's death is the finest of all. Fear of death does not exist for the man who has led a good and honest life. You must discipline your bodies and your minds--your bodies by keeping them healthy and strong, your minds by prayer and thought." "All the loving and tender thoughts that are lavished on them are not enough. There are no words to describe the large hearts of these men. God bless 'em! And what of the French on whose soil they lie? Can they ever forget the blood that is mingled with their own? I hope not. I don't think England has ever had as much cause to be proud as she has to-day." "A sergeant in my company [writes a young officer] was the other day buried by a shell. He was dug out with difficulty. As he lay, not seriously injured, but sputtering and choking, against the wall of the trench, his C.O. came by. 'Well, So-and-so, awfully sorry! Can I do anything for you?' 'Sir,' said the sergeant with dignity, still struggling out of the mud, '_I want a separate peace_!'" And here is another incident that has just come across me. Whether it is Humour or Pathos I do not know. In this scene they are pretty close together--the great Sisters! A young flying officer, in a night attack, was hit by a shrapnel bullet from below. He thought it had struck his leg, but was so absorbed in dropping his bombs and bringing down his machine safely that, although he was aware of a feeling of faintness, he thought no more of it till he had landed in the aerodrome. Then it was discovered that his leg had been shot away, was literally hanging by a shred of skin, and how he had escaped bleeding to death nobody could quite understand. As it was, he had dropped his bombs, and he insisted on making his report in hospital. He recovered from the subsequent operation, and in hospital, some weeks afterwards, his C.O. appeared, with the news of his recommendation for the D.S.O. The boy, for he was little more, listened with eyes of amused incredulity, opening wider and wider as the Colonel proceeded. When the communication was over, and the C.O., attributing the young man's silence to weakness or grateful emotion, had passed on, the nurse beside the bed saw the patient bury his head in the pillow with a queer sound of exasperation, and caught the words, "I call it _perfectly childish!_" That an act so simple, so all in the bargain, should have earned the D.S.O. seemed in the eyes of the doer to degrade the honour! "Many of them don't come back. What then? _They will have done their job._" It is a terrible list, and a terrible testimony to the extreme importance and intensity of the air-fighting now going on. How few of us, except those who have relatives or dear friends in the air-service, realise at all the conditions of this fighting--its daring, its epic range, its constant development! Ask the gunners in the batteries of the April advance, as they work below the signalling planes; ask the infantry whom the gunners so marvellously protect, as to the truth of the prophecy! "_Reparation--Restitution--Guarantees!_" How fiercely they had set their hearts on it, the old Cure of Senlis, who is the chief depository of the story of the town, was to make us feel anew. "I am, sir. What can I do for you?" Something was said about English ladies, and the Cure courteously turned back. "Will the ladies come into the Presbytere?" We followed him across the small cathedral square to the old house in which he lived, and were shown into a bare dining-room, with a table, some chairs, and a few old religious engravings on the walls. He offered us chairs and sat down himself. "You would like to hear the story of the German occupation?" He thought a little before beginning, and I was struck with his strong, tired face, the powerful mouth and jaw, and above them, eyes which seemed to have lost the power of smiling, though I guessed them to be naturally full of a pleasant shrewdness, of what the French call _malice_, which is not the English "malice." He was rather difficult to follow here and there, but from his spoken words and from a written account he placed in my hands, I put together the following story: The old Cure raised himself on his seat, trying to imitate the insolent bearing of the German cavalry as they led the way through the old town which they imagined would be the last stage on their way to Paris. "They came in, shouting '_Paris_--_Nach Paris!'_ maddened with excitement. They were all singing--they were like men beside themselves." "Oh, no, madame, not at all. They sang hymns. It was an extraordinary sight. They seemed possessed. They were certain that in a few hours they would be in Paris. They passed through the town, and then, just south of the town, they stopped. Our people show the place. It was the nearest they ever got to Paris. "Presently, an officer, with an escort, a general apparently, rode through the town, pulled up at the Hotel de Ville, and asked for the Maire--angrily, like a man in a passion. But the Maire--M. Odent--was there, waiting, on the steps of the Hotel de Ville. "Well, the German general said to him roughly: "'Is your town quiet? Can we circulate safely?' "M. Odent said, 'Yes. There is no quieter town in France than Senlis.' "'Are there still any soldiers here?' "M. Odent had seen the French troops defiling through the town all the morning. The bombardment had made it impossible to go about the streets. As far as he knew there were none left. He answered, 'No.' "The German officer questioned him again. "'So this is your quiet town, Monsieur le Maire! I arrest you, and you shall answer with your life for the lives of my soldiers.' "I went to the southern portal of the cathedral, and stood there trembling at every burst of shrapnel that struck the belfry and the roof, and running out into the open, at each pause, to be sure that the church was still there. When the firing ceased, I went back to the Presbytere. "'I know it. You have me in your hands.' I went up before them, as quickly as my age allowed. They searched everywhere, and, of course, found nothing. They ran down and disappeared." "I asked leave to go back to the Presbytere. "'Better stay here, Monsieur le Cure. You will be safer. The burning is going on. To-morrow, your town will be only a heap of ruins.' "'What is our crime?' "'And also from your belfry we have been fired on!' "At that I recovered myself. "'Sir--what may have passed in the streets, I cannot say. But as to the cathedral I formally deny your charge. Since war broke out, I have always had the keys of the belfry. I did not even give them to your soldiers, who made me take them there. Do you wish me to swear it?' "The officer looked at me. "'No need. You are a Catholic priest. I see you are sincere.' "Sometimes, as the motor draws near, a man or a woman emerges from a building, having still on their faces the terror of the hours they have lived through. They scarcely look at us. They are absorbed in their losses, in the struggle to rescue something from the wreck. As soon as they are sure it is not the Germans come back, they turn away, with slow steps, bewildered by what they have suffered." The small party in the motor includes a priest, and as it passes near Betz, at the northern end of the battle-field, they see a burying-party of French Territorials at work. The officer in charge beckons to the priest, and the priest goes to speak to him. So the Abbe goes to the new-made grave, reads the _De Profundis_, says a prayer, gives the benediction, and then speaks. Tears are on the strong, rugged faces of the bare-headed Bretons, as they gather round him. A group, some little distance off, which is writing the names of the dead on a white cross, pauses, catches what is going on, and kneels too, with bent heads It is good to linger on that little scene of human sympathy and religious faith. It does something to protect the mind from the horror of much that has happened here. "Already, perhaps, my last hour is hastening towards me. Accept the gift I make thee of my strength, my hopes, my joys and my sorrows, of all my being, filled with the passion of thee. Pardon thy children their errors of past days. Cover them with thy glory--put them to sleep in thy flag. Rise, victorious and renewed, upon their graves. Let our holocaust save thee--_Patrie, Patrie_!" An utterance which for tragic sincerity and passion may well compare with the letter of an English officer I printed at the end of _England's Effort_. But there is still a story left to tell--the story of Vareddes. Listen, at least, to what this old village of the Ile-de-France knows of Germany. But that was a mere prelude. But with the morning, the French mitrailleuses are heard. The soldiers disappear. The poor old women are free; they are able to leave their prison. Another hostage, a little farther on, who had also fallen was beaten to death before the eyes of the others. The following day, after having suffered every kind of insult and privation, the wretched remnant of the civilian prisoners reached Soissons, and were dispatched to Germany, bound for the concentration camp at Erfurt. _Reparation_--_Restitution_--_Guarantees_! All the same, let us insist again that no Army of the Allies, or of America, or of any British Dominion, would have been capable of the treatment given by the soldiers of Germany to the hostages of Vareddes. It brings out into sharp relief that quality, or "mentality," to use the fashionable word, which Germany shares with Austria--witness the Austrian doings in Serbia--and with Turkey--witness Turkey's doings in Armenia--but not with any other civilised nation. It is the quality of, or the tendency to, deliberate and pitiless cruelty; a quality which makes of the man or nation who shows it a particularly terrible kind of animal force; and the more terrible, the more educated. Unless we can put it down and stamp it out, as it has become embodied in a European nation, European freedom and peace, American freedom and peace, have no future. We were welcomed at Nancy by the Prefet of the Department, Monsieur Leon Mirman, to whom an old friend had written from Paris, and by the courteous French officer, Capitaine de B., who was to take us in charge, for the French Army, during our stay. M. Mirman and his active and public-spirited wife have done a great work at Nancy, and in the desolated country round it. From the ruined villages of the border, the poor _refugies_ have been gathered into the old capital of Lorraine, and what seemed to me a remarkably efficient and intelligent philanthropy has been dealing with their needs and those of their children. Nor is this all. M. Mirman is an old Radical and of course a Government official, sent down some years ago from Paris. Lorraine is ardently Catholic, as we all know, and her old Catholic families are not the natural friends of the Republican _regime_. But President Poincare's happy phrase, _l'union sacree_--describing the fusion of all parties, classes, and creeds in the war service of France, has nowhere found a stronger echo than in Lorraine. The Prefet is on the friendliest of terms with the Catholic population, rich and poor; and they, on their side, think and speak warmly of a man who is clearly doing his patriotic best for all alike. Gerbeviller and Soeur Julie are great names in France to-day. Gerbeviller, with Nomeny, Badonviller, and Sermaize, stand in France for what is most famous in German infamy; Soeur Julie, the "chere soeur" of so many narratives, for that form of courage and whole-hearted devotion which is specially dear to the French, because it has in it a touch of _panache_, of audacity! It is not too meek; it gets its own back when it can, and likes to punish the sinner as well as to forgive him. Sister Julie of the Order of St. Charles of Nancy, Madame Rigard, in civil parlance, had been for years when the war broke out the head of a modest cottage hospital in the small country town of Gerbeviller. The town was prosperous and pretty; its gardens ran down to the Mortagne flowing at its feet, and it owned a country house in a park, full of treasures new and old--tapestries, pictures, books--as Lorraine likes to have such things about her. "We are here in presence of an inexpiable crime. The crime was signed. Such signatures are soon rubbed out. I saw that of the murderer--and I bear my testimony. The German officers drew up, and asked for the Superior of the hospital. She went out to meet them. Here she tried to imitate the extraordinary arrogance of the German manner. "They told me they would have to burn the hospital, as they were informed men had been shooting from it at their troops. "I replied that if anyone had been shooting, it was the French Chasseurs, who were posted in a street close by, and had every right to shoot!" "I had to make way for them--I _had_ to say, '_Entrez, Messieurs!_'" Soeur Julie spoke emphatically of the drunkenness of the Germans. They discovered a store of "Mirabelle," a strong liqueur, in the town, and had soon exhausted it, with apparently the worst results. How much there would be still to say about the charm and the kindness of Lorraine, if only this letter were not already too long! But after the tragedy of Gerbeviller I must at any rate find room for the victory of Amance. So that we left the Grand Couronne with wet eyes, and hearts all passionate sympathy towards Lorraine and her people. _God, forbid!_ So says the whole English-speaking race, you on your side of the sea, and we on ours. "Liberty is like young wine--it mounts to your head sometimes, and liberty, as a force in the world, requires organisation and discipline There must be organisation, and there must be discipline. The Russian people are learning to-day the greatest lesson of life--that to be free you must work very hard and struggle very hard. They have the sensation of freedom, now that their bonds and shackles are gone, and no doubt they feel the joy, the intoxication, of their new experience; but they are living in a world which is not governed by formulas, however cleverly devised, but in a world of brute force, and unless that is smashed, even liberty itself will suffer and cannot live." "Serbia was the reason why we went to war. She was going to be crushed under the Austrian heel, and Russia said this shall not be allowed. Serbia has in that way become the occasion probably of the greatest movement for freedom the world has ever seen. Are we going to forget Serbia? No! We must stand by those martyr peoples who have stood by the great forces of the world. If the great democracies of the world become tired, if they become faint, if they halt by the way, if they leave those little ones in the lurch, then they shall pay for it in wars more horrible than human mind can foresee. I am sure we shall stand by those little ones. They have gone under, but we have not gone under. England and America, France and Russia, have not gone under, and we shall see them through, and shame on us if ever the least thought enters our minds of not seeing them through." So that in spite of the apparent lull in the Allied offensive on the French front, during the later weeks of May, all has really been going well. The only result of the furious German attempts to recover the ground lost in April has been to exhaust the strength of the attackers; and the Allied cause is steadily profited thereby. Our own troops have never been more sure of final victory. Let me quote a soldier's plain and graphic letter, recently published: But the Russian situation has no doubt: reacted to some extent on these April hopes. And it is clear that, during April and early May, under the stimulus of the submarine successes, German spirits have temporarily revived. Never have the Junkers been more truculent, never have the Pan-Germans talked wilder nonsense about "annexation" and "indemnities." Until quite recently at any rate, the whole German nation--except no doubt a cautious and intelligent few at the real sources of information--believed that the submarine campaign would soon "bring England to her knees." They were so confident, that they ran the last great risk--they brought America into the War! As to the energy that has been thrown into other means of food-supply, let the potatoes now growing in the flower-beds in front of Buckingham Palace stand for a symbol of it! The potato-crop of this year--barring accidents--will be enormous; and the whole life of our country villages has been quickened by the effort that has been made to increase the produce of the cottage gardens and allotments. The pride and pleasure of the women and the old men in what they have been able to do at home, while their sons and husbands are fighting at the front, is moving to see. Food prices are very high; life in spite of increased wages is hard. But the heart of England is set on winning this war; and the letters which pass between the fathers and mothers in this village where I live, and the sons at the front, in whom they take a daily and hourly pride, would not give Germany much comfort could she read them. I take this little scene, as an illustration, fresh from the life of my own village: Imagine a visitor, on behalf of the food-economy movement, endeavouring to persuade a village mother to come to some cookery lessons organised by the local committee. Mrs. S. is discovered sitting at a table on which are preparations for a meal. She receives the visitor and the visitor's remarks with an air--quite unconscious--of tragic meditation; and her honest labour-stained hand sweeps over the things on the table. A pause. The hand points in another direction. Then, with a catch in her voice: "But it's not the comin' home, Miss--it's _the goin' back again_! Yes, I'll come to the cookin', Miss, if I _possibly_ can!" There's the spirit of our country folk--patriotic, patient, true. But the nation has not spent in vain! Aye, we do consider--we do remember--these things! We feel that the goal is drawing slowly but steadily nearer, that ultimate victory is certain, and with victory, the dawn of a better day for Europe. But who, least of all a woman, can part from the tragic spectacle of this war without bitterness of spirit? _"Who will give us back our children?"_ Wickedness and wrong will find their punishment, and the dark Hours now passing, in the torch-race of time, will hand the light on to Hours of healing and of peace. But the dead return not. It is they whose appealing voices seem to be in the air to-day, as we think of America. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Towards The Goal, by Mrs. Humphry Ward	redpajama-book	8,151
Produced by Robert Connal and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. CHAPTER I. ANCESTRY AND FAMILY CHAPTER XI. CHARACTERISTICS, AND PLACE IN LITERATURE GENEALOGY OF THE BYRON FAMILY. THE BYRON FAMILY, FROM THE CONQUEST ANCESTRY AND FAMILY. For nobler combats here reserved his life, To lead the band where godlike Falkland foil." This voyage is the subject of a well-known apostrophe in _The Pleasures of Hope_, beginning- And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore The hardy Byron from his native shore. In torrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep, 'Twas his to mourn misfortune's rudest shock, Scourged by the winds and cradled by the rock. EARLY YEARS AND SCHOOL LIFE. This is all of any interest we know regarding the fitful connection of the guardian and ward. Towards Dr. Drury the poet continued through life to cherish sentiments of gratitude, and always spoke of him with veneration. "He was," he says, "the best, the kindest (and yet strict too) friend I ever had; and I look on him still as a father, whose warnings I have remembered but too well, though too late, when I have erred, and whose counsel I have but followed when I have done well or wisely." He was also of that band of scoffers who used to rouse Lort Mansel from his slumbers in the lodge of Trinity; and when he appeared at the window, foaming with wrath, and crying out, "I know you, gentlemen; I know you!" were wont to reply, "We beseech thee to hear us, good Lort. Good Lort, deliver us!" Of such materials are literary judgments made! and wrote to his mother from Athens: "I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind, instead of reading about them, and the bitter effects of staying at home with all the narrow prejudices of an islander, that I think there should be a law amongst us to send our young men abroad for a term, among the few allies our wars have left us." Et cantare pares et respondere parati. And he reply- Art thou the still more famed Tom Thumb the small? MARRIAGE, AND FAREWELL TO ENGLAND. "As for poets," says Scott, "I have seen all the best of my time and country, and, though Burns had the most glorious eye imaginable, I never thought any of them would come up to an artist's notion of the character, except Byron. His countenance is a thing to dream of." Coleridge writes to the same effect, in language even stronger. We have from all sides similar testimony to the personal beauty which led the unhappiest of his devotees to exclaim, "That pale face is my fate!" I saw him stand Before an altar with a gentle bride: Her face was fair, but was not that which made The starlight of his boyhood. He could see Not that which was--but that which should have been- But the old mansion, the accustom'd hall. And she who was his destiny came back, And thrust herself between him and the light. In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wild waste there still is a tree; And a bird in the solitude singing, That speaks to my spirit of thee. The fashionable world was tired of its spoilt child, and he of it. Hunted out of the country, bankrupt in purse and heart, he left it, never to return; but he left it to find fresh inspiration by the "rushing of the arrowy Rhone," and under Italian skies to write the works which have immortalized his name. DESCENT OF LADY BYRON AND LADY C. LAMB We have only a few glimpses of Byron's progress. At Brussels the Napoleonic coach was set aside for a more serviceable caleche. During his stay in the Belgian capital lie paid a visit to the scene of Waterloo, wrote the famous stanzas beginning, "Stop, for thy tread is on an empire's dust!" and in unpatriotic prose, recorded his impressions of a plain which appeared to him to "want little but a better cause" to make it vie in interest with those of Platea and Marathon. My sister! My sweet sister! If a name Dearer and purer were, it should be thine; The mind, which is immortal, makes itself Requital for its good or evil thoughts, Is its own origin of ill and end, And its own place and time, Of his songs: "There be none of Beauty's daughters," "She walks in beauty," "Maid of Athens," "I enter thy garden of roses," the translation "Sons of the Greeks," and others, have a flow and verve that it is pedantry to ignore; but in general Byron was too much of the earth earthy to be a great lyrist. Some of the greatest have lived wild lives, but their wings were not weighted with the lead of the love of the world. 'Lucrezia Picini Implora eterna quiete.'" The introduction to _Julian and Maddalo_, directly suggested by this visit, under the slight veil of a change in the name, gives a summary of the view of his friend's character which he continued to entertain. "He is a person of the most consummate genius, and capable if he would direct his energies to such an end, of becoming the redeemer of his degraded country. But it is his weakness to be proud; he derives, from a comparison of his own extraordinary mind with the dwarfish intellects that surround him, an intense apprehension of the nothingness of human life. His passions and his powers are incomparably greater than those of other men; and instead of the latter having been employed in curbing the former, they have mutually lent each other strength;" but "in social life no human being can be more gentle, patient, and unassuming. He is cheerful, frank, and witty. His more serious conversation is a sort of intoxication; men are held by it as by a spell." "The sun," he says, at a later date, "has extinguished the glowworm;" and again, "I despair of rivalling Lord Byron, as well I may; and there is no other with whom it is worth contending." On Theresa's recovery, in dread of a possible separation he proposed to fly with her to America, to the Alps, to "some unsuspected isle in the far seas;" and she suggested the idea of feigning death, like Juliet, and rising from the tomb. Neither expedient was called for. When the Count went to Bologna, in August, with his wife, Lord Byron was allowed to follow; and--after consoling himself during an excursion which the married pair made to their estate, by hovering about her empty rooms and writing in her books--he established himself, on the Count's return to his headquarters, with her and Allegra at Bologna. Meanwhile, Byron had written _The Prophecy of Dante_, and in August the prose letter, _To the Editor of the British Review_, on the charge of bribery in _Don Juan_. Than this inimitable epistle no more laughter-compelling composition exists. About the same time, we hear of his leaving the theatre in a convulsion of tears, occasioned by the representation of Alfieri's _Mirra_. RAVENNA--DRAMAS--CAIN--VISION OF JUDGMENT. I. BER. They never fail who die In a great cause: the block may soak their gore; Their heads may sodden in the sun; their limbs Be strung to city gates and castle walls, But still their spirit walks abroad. LUCIFER. But had done better in not planting it. Again, a kid, after suffering agonies from the sting of a reptile, is restored by antidotes- Behold, my son! said Adam, how from evil Springs good! LUCIFER. What didst thou answer? CAIN. Nothing; for He is my father; but I thought, that 'twere A better portion for the animal Never to have been stung at all. Her subsequent contrast of Lucifer with the other angels is more after the style of Shelley than anything else in Byron- As the silent sunny moon, All light, they look upon us. But thou seemst Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds Streak the deep purple, and unnumber'd stars Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault With things that look as if they would be suns- So beautiful, unnumber'd and endearing; Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them, They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. Of swimming shadows and enormous shapes, ADAH. Why all have left thee. CAIN. And wherefore lingerest thou? Dost thou not fear? ADAH. I fear Nothing, except to leave thee. CAIN. Eastward from Eden will we take our way. ADAH. Leave! thou shalt be my guide; and may our God Be thine! Now let us carry forth our children. CAIN. And _he_ who lieth there was childless. I Have dried the fountain of a gentle race. O Abel! ADAH. Peace be with him. CAIN. But with _me_! PISA--GENOA--DON JUAN. i.e. to prefer the claw of the Tartar savage to the paternal hug of the great Bear- Better still toil for masters, than await, The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate. When Bishop Berkeley said there was no matter, And proved it, 'twas no matter what he said, is as cogent a refutation of idealism as the cumbrous wit of Scotch logicians. as a perfectly sincere comment on the most sincere, and therefore in many respects the most effective, of his works. He has, after his way, endeavoured in grave prose and light verse to defend it against its assailants; saying, "In _Don Juan_ I take a vicious and unprincipled character, and lead him through those ranks of society whose accomplishments cover and cloak their vices, and paint the natural effects;" and elsewhere, that he means to make his scamp "end as a member of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, or by the guillotine, or in an unhappy marriage." It were easy to dilate on the fact that in interpreting the phrases of the satirist into the language of the moralist we often require to read them backwards: Byron's own statement, "I hate a motive," is, however, more to the point: But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd, Unless it were to be a moment merry- A novel word in my vocabulary. She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere, As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear, Perhaps, because 'twas fallen: her sires were proud Of deeds and days, when they had fill'd the ear Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd To novel power; and, as she was the last, She held her old faith and old feelings fast. She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, As seeking not to know it; silent, lone, As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, And kept her heart serene within its zone. It was the natural conclusion of the foregone stage of Byron's career. Years had given him power, but they were years in which his energies were largely wasted. Self-indulgence had not petrified his feeling, but it had thrown wormwood into its springs. He had learnt to look on existence as a walking shadow, and was strong only with the strength of a sincere despair. POLITICS--THE CARBONARI--EXPEDITION TO GREECE--DEATH. His serious political verses are all in the strain of the lines on Wellington- Never had mortal man such opportunity- Except Napoleon--or abused it more; You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity Of tyrants, and been blessed from shore to shore. At length the long looked-for fleet arrived, and the Turkish squadron, with the loss of a treasure-ship, retired up the Gulf of Lepanto. Mavrocordatos on entering Mesolonghi lost no time in inviting the poet to join him, and placed a brig at his disposal, adding, "I need not tell you to what a pitch your presence is desired by everybody, or what a prosperous direction it will give to all our affairs. Your counsels will be listened to like oracles." and ending- Seek out--less often sought than found- A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest. CHARACTERISTICS, AND PLACE IN LITERATURE. Byron, like Pope, was given to playing monkey-like tricks, mostly harmless, but offensive to their victims. His peace of mind was dependent on what people would say of him, to a degree unusual even in the irritable race; and when they spoke ill he was, again like Pope, essentially vindictive. The _Bards and Reviewers_ beats about, where the lines to Atticus transfix with Philoctetes' arrows; but they are due to a like impulse. Byron affected to contemn the world; but, say what he would, he cared too much for it. He had a genuine love of solitude as an alterative; but he could not subsist without society, and, Shelley tells us, wherever he went, became the nucleus of it. He sprang up again when flung to the earth, but he never attained to the disdain he desired. If we turn from his manner to his matter, we cannot claim for Byron any absolute originality. His sources have been found in Rousseau, Voltaire, Chateaubriand, Beaumarchais, Lauzun, Gibbon, Bayle, St. Pierre, Alfieri, Casti, Cuvier, La Bruyore, Wieland, Swift, Sterne, Le Sage, Goethe, scraps of the classics, and the Book of Job. Absolute originality in a late age is only possible to the hermit, the lunatic, or the sensation novelist. Byron, like the rovers before Minos, was not ashamed of his piracy. He transferred the random prose of his own letters and journals to his dramas, and with the same complacency made use of the notes jotted down from other writers as he sailed on the Lake of Geneva. But he made them his own by smelting the rough ore into bell metal. He brewed a cauldron like that of Macbeth's witches, and from it arose the images of crowned kings. If he did not bring a new idea into the world, he quadrupled the force of existing ideas and scattered them far and wide. Southern critics have maintained that he had a southern nature and was in his true element on the Lido or under an Andalusian night. Others dwell on the English pride that went along with his Italian habits and Greek sympathies. The truth is, he had the power of making himself poetically everywhere at home; and this, along with the fact of all his writings being perfectly intelligible, is the secret of his European influence. He was a citizen of the world; because he not only painted the environs, but reflected the passions and aspirations of every scene amid which he dwelt. Spell-bound, within the clustering Cyclades. In good portraits his head has a lurid look, as if it had been at a higher temperature than that of other men. That high temperature was the source of his inspiration, and the secret of a spell which, during his life, commanded homage and drew forth love. Mere artists are often mannikins. Byron's brilliant though unequal genius was subordinate to the power of his personality; he We may learn much from him still, when we have ceased to disparage, as our fathers ceased to idolize, a name in which there is so much warning and so much example. _Abydos, Bride of_ Adeline (Lady), analysis of female character Albrizzi (Countess), salon of Ali Pasha, his reception of Byron Allegra, Byron's daughter Athenians, character of Athens Aurora Raby, La Guiccioli idealised Dallas, R.C. Dante D'Arcy, Amelia (Countess Conyers) _Darkness_ Davies, Scrope Davy, Sir H. _Deformed Transformed_ _Don Juan_ criticism of Doomsday Book Dramas (Byron's) _Dream, The_ Drury, Dr. Joseph Drury, Henry Drury Lane Theatre Drury, Mark Dryden Duff, Mary, intimacy with Dulwich Eddlestone, the chorister _Edinburgh Review_ Ekenhead, Lieutenant Eldon, Lord Elgin, Lord Elze England's vice of hypocrisy _English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_ English character English literature _Faery Queene_ (Spenser's) Falkland, Lord _Faust_, influence of, on Byron Ferrara Fletcher (valet) Florence _Foscari, The Two_ _Francesca of Rimini_ Frere Galt Gamba Gell Geneva Genoa George, Prince of Denmark George III. _Giaour_ Gibbon Gibraltar Gifford _Glenarvon_ (Lady Caroline Lamb's novel) Glennie, Dr. Goethe Gray, May, her influence over Byron Gray (poet) Greece Grindelwald Guiccioli Hailstone, Prof. Hanson, Mr., solicitor Harness, a school-fellow Harrogate, trip to Harrow Hawthorne _Heaven and Earth_ Heber, Bishop _Hebrew Melodies_ _Hints from Horace_ Hiron, a Cambridge tradesman Hobhouse Hodgson, Rev. F. Holderness, Earl of Holland, Lord Hoppner _Hours of Idleness_ Howard, Hon. F. Howitt, William Hucknall Torkard, church _Hudibras_ Hunt, John Hunt, Leigh Ilissus Ilium _Island, The_ Italy Ithaca Jackson, Mr., a pugilist Janina Jeffrey Jones (tutor) Journal (Byron's) Juliet, story of Jungfrau _Juvenilia_ Keats Kemble, Frances Ann, memoirs of Kennedy, Dr. Kharyati Kinnaird, Douglas Kirkby Mallory _Lalla Rookh_ Lamb, Lady Caroline La Mira _Landlord, Tales of a_ Landor Lanfranchi _Lara_ Lausanne Lavender, a quack Lee, Harriet Leeds, Duke of Leghorn Leigh, Colonel Leigh, Mrs. (poet's sister Augusta) Loman, Lake Lepanto Lewis _Liberal_, the Lido Lion (pet dog) Lisbon Lisle, Rouget de Loch Leven Locke Lockhart London Londonderry, Lord Long, Edward Noel Longman Loughborough Lucca Lucifer Lushington, Dr. Macaulay Mackenzie (the Man of Feeling) Mafra Magellan, Straits of Mallet Malta Mandeville, Sir John _Manfred_ criticism of Mansel, Dr. Lort Marathon Marilyn, Mrs. _Marina Faliero_ criticism of Marius Marlowe Martineau, Miss Matlock Matthews, C.S. Mavrocordatos, Prince Alexander Mayor, Dr. _Mazeppa_ Mazzini Medora (daughter of Mrs. Leigh) Medwin, Captain Meister, Wilhelm Melbourne Memoirs (Byron's) Mesolonghi Milan Milbanke, Sir Ralph Milligen (a physician) Milton Moore Morea Morgan, Lady _Morgantc Maggiore_ Murray, Joe (butler) Murray, John Musters Napier, Colonel Naples Napoleon Newark Newbury, battle of Nowstead Noel, Lady Norton, Mrs. _Nottingham_ Odysseus Ossington Oxford _Rambler_ Raphael Ravenna Regent, the Regillus Reid, Dr. _Rejected Addresses_ Revolution, the French Rhine Rhoetian hill Richter Robinson, Crabb Rochdale Rochester Rogers, Samuel, (poet) Rogers (tutor) Roman Catholic Emancipation, speech on behalf of Roman Catholic religion Rome Ross (a tutor) Rossina Rousseau Rubens Rushton, Robert Ruskin Russell, Lord John Russia Ruthyn, Lord Grey de Sainte Beuve Santa Croce _Saragassa, Maid of_ Sardanapalus _Saturday Review_ Schlegel, F. Scotland, allusions to Scott, Sir Walter Seaham Segati, Mariana, intimacy with Seville Shakespeare Shelley Shelley, Mrs. Shepherd, Mrs., letter of Sheridan Siddons, Mrs. Sinclair, George, friend of Byron Sligo, Marquis of Smith, Mrs. Spencer ("Florence") Smith, Sir Henry Smyrna Socrates Soraete Southey Southwell Spain Spectator Spencer, Earl Spenser Spielberg Spinoza Stael, Madame de Stanhope, Colonel Stanhope, Lady Hester Staubbach Stendhal Stephen, Leslie Stromboli Suliotes Swift Swinstead Switzerland Taafe Taine Tasso Tavell (a tutor) _Telegrapho_(newspaper) Tennant Tennyson Tepaleni Thackeray Thebes Theresa (Maid of Athens) Thorwaldsen Tickhill Titian Trelawny Turkey Tusculum _Vampire, The_ Vanessa Vathi Venice Verona "Victory," the _Vision of Judgment_ Voltaire "Wager," the _Waltz, The,_ Washington Waterloo Watkins, Dr. John Wellington Wengern _Werner_ West (artist) Westminster Abbey Wildman Williams, Captain Wingfield, John Woodhouselee, Lord Wordsworth _World_ Wycliffe End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Byron, by John Nichol	redpajama-book	4,072
Produced by PG Distributed Proofreaders Illustrated by A. D. M'Cormick I THE HOME ON THE GREAT PLAIN, II THE SPOONBILL AND THE CLOUD, III CHASING A FLYING FIGURE, IV MARTIN IS FOUND BY A DEAF OLD MAN, V THE PEOPLE OF THE MIRAGE, VI MARTIN MEETS WITH SAVAGES, VII ALONE IN THE GREAT FOREST, VIII THE FLOWER AND THE SERPENT, IX THE BLACK PEOPLE OF THE SKY, X A TROOP OF WILD HORSES, XI THE LADY OF THE HILLS, XII THE LITTLE PEOPLE UNDERGROUND, XIII THE GREAT BLUE WATER, XIV THE WONDERS OF THE HILLS, XV MARTIN'S EYES ARE OPENED, XVI THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST, XVII THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA, XVIII MARTIN PLAYS WITH THE WAVES, THE HOME ON THE GREAT PLAIN But how about Martin himself? You might think that with no other child to prattle to and play with or even to see, it was too lonely a home for him. Not a bit of it! No child could have been happier. He did not want for company; his playfellows were the dogs and cats and chickens, and any creature in and about the house. But most of all he loved the little shy creatures that lived in the sunshine among the flowers--the small birds and butterflies, and little beasties and creeping things he was accustomed to see outside the gate among the tall, wild sunflowers. There were acres of these plants, and they were taller than Martin, and covered with flowers no bigger than marigolds, and here among the sunflowers he used to spend most of the day, as happy as possible. "What have you got now?" cried his father and mother in a breath, getting up to peep at his treasure, for Martin was always fetching in the most curious out-of-the-way things to show them. "My pretty shaving," said Martin proudly. When they looked they were amazed and horrified to see a spotted green snake coiled comfortably up in the pinafore. It didn't appear to like being looked at by them, for it raised its curious heart-shaped head and flicked its little red, forked tongue at them. His mother gave a great scream, and dropped the jug she had in her hand upon the floor, while John rushed off to get a big stick. "Drop it, Martin--drop the wicked snake before it stings you, and I'll soon kill it." Martin stared, surprised at the fuss they were making; then, still tightly holding the ends of his pinafore, he turned and ran out of the room and away as fast as he could go. Away went his father after him, stick in hand, and out of the gate into the thicket of tall wild sunflowers where Martin had vanished from sight. After hunting about for some time, he found the little run-away sitting on the ground among the weeds. "Where's the snake?" he cried. "Gone!" said Martin, waving his little hand around. "I let it go and you mustn't look for it." John picked the child up in his arms and marched back to the room and popped him down on the floor, then gave him a good scolding. "It's a mercy the poisonous thing didn't sting you," he said. "You're a naughty little boy to play with snakes, because they're dangerous bad things, and you die if they bite you. And now you must go straight to bed; that's the only punishment that has any effect on such a harebrained little butterfly." Martin, puckering up his face for a cry, crept away to his little room. It was very hard to have to go to bed in the daytime when he was not sleepy, and when the birds and butterflies were out in the sunshine having such a good time. "It's not a bit of use scolding him--I found that out long ago," said Mrs. John, shaking her head. "Do you know, John, I can't help thinking sometimes that he's not our child at all." "Whose child do you think he is, then?" said John, who had a cup of water in his hand, for the chase after Martin had made him hot, and he wanted cooling. "People often do have curious dreams," said wise old John. "No more they do," said John. THE SPOONBILL AND THE CLOUD Every day Martin ran down to the stream to gather flowers and shells; for many curious water-snails were found there with brown purple-striped shells; and he also liked to watch the small birds that build their nests in the rushes. At length he made the discovery that the water of the stream was perpetually running away. If he dropped a leaf on the surface it would hasten down stream, and toss about and fret impatiently against anything that stood in its way, until, making its escape, it would quickly hurry out of sight. Whither did this rippling, running water go? He was anxious to find out. At length, losing all fear and fired with the sight of many new and pretty things he found while following it, he ran along the banks until, miles from home, he came to a great lake he could hardly see across, it was so broad. It was a wonderful place, full of birds; not small, fretful creatures flitting in and out of the rushes, but great majestic birds that took very little notice of him. Far out on the blue surface of the water floated numbers of wild fowl, and chief among them for grace and beauty was the swan, pure white with black head and neck and crimson bill. There also were stately flamingoes, stalking along knee-deep in the water, which was shallow; and nearer to the shore were flocks of rose- spoonbills and solitary big grey herons standing motionless; also groups of white egrets, and a great multitude of glossy ibises, with dark green and purple plumage and long sickle-like beaks. When he related his wonderful experience at home, and heard from his father that the sounds he had heard were only echoes from the beds of rushes, he was not a bit wiser than before, so that the echoes remained to him a continual wonder and source of never-failing pleasure. "Now, birdies, you don't know what a fright I'm going to give you--off you go!" he cried, and pulled the trigger. The roar of the loud report travelled all over the wide lake, creating a great commotion among the feathered people, and they rose up with a general scream into the air. Martin ran to it, full of keen distress, but was powerless to help; its life's blood was fast running away from the shot wounds it had received in its side, staining the grass with crimson. Presently it closed its beautiful ruby- eyes and the quivering wings grew still. "Oh, poor bird," he cried suddenly, "open your wings and fly away!" Then Martin got up and stared all round him at the wide landscape, and everything looked strange and dim and sorrowful. A shadow passed over the lake, and a murmur came up out of the rushes that was like a voice saying something that he could not understand. A great cry of pain rose from his heart and died to a whisper on his lips; he was awed into silence. Sinking down upon the grass again, he hid his face against the rosy-breasted bird and began to sob. How warm the dead bird felt against his cheek--oh, so warm--and it could not live and fly about with the others. At length he sat up and knew the reason of that change that had come over the earth. A dark cloud had sprung up in the south-west, far off as yet, and near the horizon; but its fringe already touched and obscured the low-hanging sun, and a shadow flew far and vast before it. Over the lake flew that great shadow: the waters looked cold and still, reflecting as in a polished glass the motionless rushes, the glassy bank, and Martin, sitting on it, still clasping in his arms the dead rose- bird. He heard the rushing sound of the mighty wings: the wind they created smote on the waters in a hurricane, so that the reeds were beaten flat on the surface, and a great cry of terror went up from all the wild birds. It passed, and when Martin raised his bowed head and looked again, the sun, just about to touch the horizon with its great red globe, shone out, shedding a rich radiance over the earth and water; while far off, on the opposite side of the heavens, the great cloud-bird was rapidly fading out of sight. CHASING A FLYING FIGURE "You _are_ a funny little thing!" exclaimed Martin, feeling now less like crying than laughing. The wee beetle, satisfied and refreshed, climbed up the grass-blade, and when it reached the tip lifted its dusty black wing-cases just enough to throw out a pair of fine gauzy wings that had been neatly folded up beneath them, and flew away. Martin, following its flight, had his eyes quite dazzled by the intense glitter of the False Water, which now seemed to be only a few yards from him: but the strangest thing was that in it there appeared a form--a bright beautiful form that vanished when he gazed steadily at it. Again he got up and began running harder than ever after the flying mocking Mirage, and every time he stopped he fancied that he could see the figure again, sometimes like a pale blue shadow on the brightness; sometimes shining with its own excessive light, and sometimes only seen in outline, like a figure graved on glass, and always vanishing when looked at steadily. Perhaps that white water-like glitter of the Mirage was like a looking-glass, and he was only chasing his own reflection. I cannot say, but there it was, always before him, a face as of a beautiful boy, with tumbled hair and laughing lips, its figure clothed in a fluttering dress of lights and shadows. It also seemed to beckon to him with its hand, and encourage him to run on after it with its bright merry glances. At length when it was past the hour of noon, Martin sat down under a small bush that gave just shade enough to cover him and none to spare. It was only a little spot of shade like an island in a sea of heat and brightness. He was too hot and tired to run more, too tired even to keep his eyes open, and so, propping his back against the stem of the small bush, he closed his tired hot eyes. MARTIN IS FOUND BY A DEAF OLD MAN "Boy, what may you being a doing of here?" bawled this old man at the top of his voice: for he was as deaf as a post, and like a good many deaf people thought it necessary to speak very loud to make himself heard. "Playing," answered Martin innocently. But he could not make the old man hear until he stood up on tip-toe and shouted out his answer as loud as he could. "Playing," exclaimed the old man. "Well, I never in all my life! When there ain't a house 'cepting my own for leagues and leagues, and he says he's playing! What may you be now?" he shouted again. "A little boy," screamed Martin. "I knowed that afore I axed," said the other. Then he slapped his legs and held up his hands with astonishment, and at last began to chuckle. "Will you come home along o' me?" he shouted. "Will you give me something to eat?" asked Martin in return. "Haw, haw, haw," guffawed the old fellow. It was a tremendous laugh, so loud and hollow, it astonished and almost frightened Martin to hear it. "Well I never!" he said. "He ain't no fool, neither. Now, old Jacob, just you take your time and think a bit afore you makes your answer to that." This curious old man, whose name was Jacob, had lived so long by himself that he always thought out loud--louder than other people talk: for, being deaf, he could not hear himself, and never had a suspicion that he could be heard by others. Martin stood quietly listening to all this, not quite understanding the old man's kind intentions. Then old Jacob, promising to give him something to eat, pulled him up on to his horse, and started home at a gallop. "Now, little boy," he cried, "let's have a jolly evening together. Your very good health, little boy," and here he jingled his mug against Martin's, and took a sip of tea. "Would you like to hear a song, little boy?" he said, after finishing his pipe. "My name is Jacob, that's my name; And tho' I'm old, the old man's game- The air it is so good, d'ye see: And on the plain my flock I keep, And sing all day to please my sheep, And never lose them like Bo-Peep, Becos the ways of them are known to me." This song, accompanied with loud raps on the table, was bellowed forth in a dreadfully discordant voice; and very soon all the dogs rushed into the room and began to bark and howl most dismally, which seemed to please the old man greatly, for to him it was a kind of applause. But the noise was too much for Martin; so he stopped up his ears, and only removed his fingers from them when the performance was over. After the song the old man offered to dance, for he had not yet had amusement enough. At length they both grew tired, and then after resting and sipping some more cold tea, prepared to go to bed. Some sheep-skins were piled up in a corner for Martin to sleep on, and old Jacob covered him with a horse-rug, and tucked him in very carefully. Then the kind old man withdrew to his own bed on the opposite side of the room. About midnight Martin was wakened by loud horrible noises in the room, and started up on bed trembling with fear. The sounds came from the old man's nose, and resembled a succession of blasts on a ram's horn, which, on account of its roughness and twisted shape, makes a very bad trumpet. As soon as Martin discovered the cause of the noise he crept out of bed and tried to waken the old snorer by shouting at him, tugging at his arms and legs, and finally pulling his beard. He refused to wake. Then Martin had a bright idea, and groping his way to the bucket of cold water standing beside the fire-place, he managed to raise it up in his arms, and poured it over the sleeper. The snoring changed to a series of loud choking snorts, then ceased. Martin, well pleased at the success of his experiment, was about to return to his bed when old Jacob struggled up to a sitting posture. "Hullo, wake up, little boy!" he shouted. "My bed's all full o' water--goodness knows where it comes from." "I poured it over you to wake you up. Don't you know you were making a noise with your nose?" cried Martin at the top of his voice. "You--you--you throwed it over me! You--O you most wicked little villain you! You throwed it over me, did you!" and here he poured out such a torrent of abusive words that Martin was horrified and cried out, "O what a naughty, wicked, bad old man you are!" It was too dark for old Jacob to see him, but he knew his way about the room, and taking up the wet rug that served him for covering he groped his way to Martin's bed and began pounding it with the rug, thinking the naughty little boy was there. At length, tired with running, he coiled himself in a large tussock of dry grass and went to sleep, just as if he had been accustomed to sleep out of doors all his life. THE PEOPLE OF THE MIRAGE Now this hot, shadeless plain seemed to be the very home and dwelling-place of the False Water. It sparkled and danced all round him so close that there only appeared to be a small space of dry ground for him to walk on; only he was always exactly in the centre of the dry spot; for as he advanced, the glittering whiteness, that looked so like shiny water, flew mockingly before his steps. But he hoped to get to it at last, as every time he flagged in the chase the mysterious figure of the day before appeared again to lure him still further on. At length, unable to move another step, Martin sat right down on the bare ground: it was like sitting on the floor of a heated oven, but there was no help for it, he was so tired. The air was so thick and heavy that he could hardly breathe, even with his mouth wide open like a little gasping bird; and the sky looked like metal, heated to a white heat, and so low down as to make him fancy that if he were to throw up his hands he would touch it and burn his fingers. "Little weed, little weed, In such need, Must you pain, ask in vain, Die for rain, Never bloom, never seed, Little weed? O, no, no, you shall not die, From the sky With my pitcher down I fly. Drink the rain, grow again, Bloom and seed, Little weed." Martin held up his hot little hands to catch some of the falling drops; then the girl, raising her pitcher, poured a stream of cool water right into his face, and laughing at what she had done, went away with a hop, skip, and jump after her companions. Then, when he was gone from sight; when the solemn sound of the voices began to grow fainter in the distance like the sound of a storm when it passes away, his heaviness of heart and sorrow left him, and he began to listen to the shouts and cries and clanging of noisy instruments of music swiftly coming nearer and nearer; and then all round and past him came a vast company of youths and maidens singing and playing and shouting and dancing as they moved onwards. They were the most beautiful beings he had ever seen in their shining dresses, some all in white, others in amber-colour, others in sky-blue, and some in still other lovely colours. "The Queen! the Queen!" they were shouting. "Stand up, little boy, and bow to the Queen." "The Queen! Kneel to the Queen, little boy," cried others. Then many others in the company began crying out together, "The Queen! lie down flat on the ground, little boy." "The Queen! Shut your eyes and open your mouth, little boy." "The Queen! Run away as fast as you can, little boy." "Stand on your head to the Queen, little boy!" "Crow like a cock and bark like a dog, little boy!" "Child, you have followed me far," said the Queen, "and now you are rewarded, for you have looked on my face and I have refreshed you; and the Sun, my father, will never more hurt you for my sake." "He cried for the poor slain bird," replied the Queen. "He will never remember it without grief, and I forgive him." "He went away from his home and thinks no more of his poor old father and mother, who cry for him and are seeking for him on the great plain," continued the voice. "I forgive him," returned the Queen. "He is such a little wanderer--he could not always rest at home." At that there was great laughter; even the Queen laughed when she said that she forgave him that too. And Martin when he remembered old Jacob, and saw that they only made a joke of it, laughed with them. But the accusing voice still went on: Another burst of laughter followed; then a youth in a shining, violet- dress suddenly began twanging on his instrument and wildly capering about in imitation of old Jacob's dancing, and while he played and danced he sang- "Ho, sheep whose ways are known to me, Both ewe and lamb And horned ram Wherever can that Martin be? All day for him I ride Over the plains so wide, And on my horn I blow, Just to let him know That Jacob's on his track, And soon will have him back, I look and look all day, And when I'm home I say: He isn't like a mole To dig himself a hole; Them little legs he's got They can't go far, trot, trot, They can't go far, run run, Oh no, it is his fun; I'm sure he's near, He must be here A-skulking round the house Just like a little mouse. I'll get a mouse-trap in a minute, And bait with cheese that's smelly To bring him helter-skelly- That little empty belly, And then I'll have him in it. Where have he hid, That little kid, That good old Jacob was so kind to? And when a rest I am inclined to Who'll boil the cow and dig the kittles And milk the stockings, darn the wittles? Who mugs of tea Will drink with me? When round and round I pound the ground With boots of cowhide, boots of thunder, Who'll help to make the noise, I wonder? Who'll join the row Of loud bow-wow With din of tin and copper clatter With bang and whang of pan and platter? O when I find Him fast I'll bind And upside down I'll hold him; And when a-home I gallop late-o I'll give him no more cold potato, But cuff him, box him, bang him, scold him, And drench him with a pail of water, And fill his mouth with wool and mortar, Because he don't do things he oughter, But does the things he ought not to, Then tell me true, Both ram and ewe, Wherever have that Martin got to? For Jacob's old and deaf and dim And never knowed the ways of him." "Well spoken!" cried the Queen. "A wanderer he is to be," said another: "let the sea do him no harm--that is my gift." "Kneel and thank the Queen for her gifts," said a voice to Martin. He dropped on to his knees, but could speak no word; when he raised his eyes again the whole glorious company had vanished. Martin laughed, and in the middle of his laugh he fell asleep. MARTIN MEETS WITH SAVAGES These strange, rude-looking people were savages, and are supposed to be cruel and wicked, and to take pleasure in torturing and killing any lost or stray person that falls into their hands; but indeed it is not so, as you shall shortly find. Poor ignorant little Martin, who had never read a book in his life, having always refused to learn his letters, knew nothing about savages, and feared them no more than he had feared old Jacob, or the small spotted snake, the very sight of which had made grown-up people scream and run away. So he marched boldly up and stared at them, and they in turn stared at him out of their great, dark, savage eyes. "Melu-melumia quiltahou papa shani cha silmata," she spoke, gazing very earnestly into his face. They had all been talking among themselves while he was eating; but he did not know that savages had a language of their own different from ours, and so thought that they had only been amusing themselves with a kind of nonsense talk, which meant nothing. Now when the woman addressed this funny kind of talk to him, he answered her in her own way, as he imagined, readily enough: "Hey diddle-diddle, the cat's in the fiddle, fe fo fi fum, chumpty-chumpty-chum, with bings on her ringers, and tells on her boes." They all listened with grave attention, as if he had said something very important. Then the woman continued: "Huanatopa ana ana quiltahou." To which Martin answered, "Theophilus Thistle, the thistle-sifter, sifted a sieve of unsifted thistles; and if Theophilus--oh, I won't say any more!" Then she said, "Quira-holata silhoa mari changa changa." "Cock-a-doodle-do!" cried Martin, getting tired and impatient. "Baa, baa, black sheep, bow, wow, wow; goosey, goosey gander; see-saw, Mary Daw; chick-a-dee-dee, will you listen to me. And now let me go!" Next morning the hills looked nearer than ever just across the river; but little he cared for hills now, and when the little savage children went out to hunt for berries and sweet roots he followed and spent the day agreeably enough in their company. When the children went out next day he followed them, watching and waiting for a chance to recover anything that belonged to him; and at last, seeing the little boy who wore his cap off his guard, he made a sudden rush, and snatching it off the young savage's head, put it firmly upon his own. But the little savage now regarded that cap as his very own: he had taken it by force or stratagem, and had worn it on his head since the day before, and that made it his property; and so at Martin he went, and they fought stoutly together, and being nearly of a size, he could not conquer the little white boy. Then he cried out to the others to help him, and they came and overthrew Martin, and deprived him not only of his cap, but of his little skin cloak as well, and then punished him until he screamed aloud with pain. Leaving him crying on the ground, they ran back to the camp. He followed shortly afterwards, but got no sympathy, for, as a rule, grown-up savages do not trouble themselves very much about these little matters: they leave their children to settle their own disputes. ALONE IN THE GREAT FOREST It was terrible to watch him and seem to hear such words. He was nearer now--scarcely a yard away, still with his beady glaring eyes fixed on Martin's face: and Martin was powerless to fly from him--powerless even to stir a step or to lift a hand. His heart jumped so that it choked him, his hair stood up on his head, and he trembled so that he was ready to fall. And at last, when about to fall to the ground, in the extremity of his terror, he uttered a great scream of despair; and the sudden scream so startled the weasel, that he jumped up and scuttled away as fast as he could through the creepers and bushes, making a great rustling over the dead leaves and twigs; and Martin, recovering his strength, listened to that retreating sound as it passed away into the deep shadows, until it ceased altogether. THE FLOWER AND THE SERPENT His escape from the horrible black animal made Martin quite happy, in spite of hunger and fatigue, and he pushed on as bravely as ever. But it was slow going and very difficult, even painful in places, on account of the rough thorny undergrowth, where he had to push and crawl through the close bushes, and tread on ground littered with old dead prickly leaves and dead thorny twigs. After going on for about an hour in this way, he came to a stream, a branch of the river he had left, and much shallower, so that he could easily cross from side to side, and he could also see the bright pebbles under the clear swift current. The stream appeared to run from the east, the way he wished to travel towards the hills, so that he could keep by it, which he wras glad enough to do, as it was nice to get a drink of water whenever he felt thirsty, and to refresh his tired and sore little feet in the stream. "O, poor flower!" said Martin, and, coming closer he touched it gently with his finger-tips; and then, standing on tiptoe, he touched its petals with his lips, just as his mother had often and often kissed his little hand when he had bruised it or pricked it with a thorn. Poor Martin, trembling with fright, crouched lower down in his mossy bed, thinking that the awful people of the forest must have seen him, and would be upon him in a few moments. But though he stared with wide-open eyes into the gloom he could see nothing but the trees, standing silent and motionless, and no sound of approaching footsteps could he hear. The owl kept staring at Martin for some time, swaying his body this way and that, and lowering then raising his head so as to get a better view. And Martin, on his side, stared back at the owl, and at last he exclaimed, "O what a great big owl you are! Please say _Who's that_? again." But before the owl said anything Martin was fast asleep in his mossy bed. THE BLACK PEOPLE OF THE SKY Martin thought they must be the black people of the sky; he wondered why they were black and not white, like white birds, or blue, and of other brilliant colours like the people of the Mirage. "We must not be in a hurry," he said. "We must wait." "It certainly does seem hard," said yet another, "to see our dinner before us and not be allowed to touch it." "Not so fast, my friends, I beg," exclaimed the man with the knife. "I have already explained the case, and I do think you are a little unfair in pressing me as you do." "No, sir, certainly not," replied the other. "Such matters must be left to my discretion entirely, and I must also remind you that there is such a thing as the _carver's privilege_, and it is possible that in this instance he may think fit to retain the liver for his own consumption." "Oh no; no indeed; not just yet," said the other. The man with the knife turned on him and replied with dignity, "I am really surprised at such a remark after all I have said on the subject. I do wish you would consider the circumstances of the case. They are peculiar, for this person--this Martin--is not an ordinary person. We have been keeping our eyes on him for some time past, and have witnessed some remarkable actions on his part, to put it mildly. Let us keep in mind the boldness, the resource, the dangerous violence he has displayed on so many occasions since he took to his present vagabond way of life." "Yes, I know, I have also heard of that plan. Very simple, as you say; but who is to try it? I invite the person who makes the suggestion to put it in practice." "With pleasure," said the other, coming forward with a tripping gait and an air of not being in the least afraid. But on coming near the supposed corpse he paused to look round at the others, then pulling out his black silk handkerchief he wiped his black wrinkled forehead and bald head. "Whew!" he exclaimed, "it's very hot to-day." "I don't find it so," said the man with the knife. "It is sometimes a matter of nerves." "What is it? What did you see?" cried the others. "I'm not sure there wasn't a twitch of the eyelid," he replied. "That's all very well," he returned, "but how would you like it yourself? Will _you_ come and do it?" "No, no!" they all cried. "You have undertaken this, and must go through with it." But you see Martin was not dead after all, and so they had to go away without their dinner. A TROOP OF WILD HORSES It seemed so lonely to Martin when the vultures had gone up out of sight in the sky, so silent and solitary on that immense level plain, that he could not help wishing them back for the sake of company. They were an amusing people when they were walking round him, conversing together, and trying without coming too near to discover whether he was dead or only sleeping. All that day it was just as lonely, for though he went on as far as he could before night, he was still on that great level plain of dry yellow grass which appeared to have no end, and the blue hills looked no nearer than when he had started in the morning. He was hungry and thirsty that evening, and very cold too when he nestled down on the ground with nothing to cover him but the little heap of dry grass he had gathered for his bed. Would they never end--these high barren ridges and the long green valleys between! When he toiled slowly up out of this last green resting-place it was growing late in the day, and he was very tired. Then he came to the top of another ridge like the others, only higher and more barren, and when he could see the country beyond, lo! another valley, greener and broader than those he had left behind, and a river flowing in it, looking like a band of silver lying along the green earth--a river too broad for him to cross, stretching away north and south as far as he could see. How then should he ever be able to get to the hills, still far, far away beyond that water? "Who are you?" said Martin in astonishment. "It's grass, and I sha'n't eat it!" screamed Martin, crying with anger at being so treated, and spewing the green stuff out of his mouth. Of what happened after that Martin did not know much, except that the man seemed very happy after feeding him. He set Martin on the back of a horse, then jumped and danced round him, making funny chuckling noises, after which he rolled horse-like on the grass, his arms and legs up in the air, and finally, pulling Martin down, he made him roll too. But the little fellow was too tired to keep his eyes any longer open, and when he next opened them it was morning, and he found himself lying wedged in between a mare and her young foal lying side by side close together. There too was the wild man, coiled up like a sleeping dog, his head pillowed on the foal's neck, and the hair of his great shaggy beard thrown like a blanket over Martin. He very soon grew accustomed to the new strange manner of life, and even liked it. Those big, noble-looking wild horses, with their shining coats, brown and bay and black and sorrel and chestnut, and their black manes and tails that swept the grass when they moved, were so friendly to him that he could not help loving them. As he went about among them when they grazed, every horse he approached would raise his head and touch his face and arms with his nose. "O you dear horse!" Martin would exclaim, rubbing the warm, velvet-soft, sensitive nose with his hand. The air was hot and close and still down there on the ground, but by leaning his head back, and staring straight up he could see the pale night sky sprinkled with stars in the openings between the dry leaves and spikes of the reeds. Poor Martin could do nothing but gaze up at the little he could see of the sky in that close, black place, until his neck ached with the strain; but at last, to make him hope, he heard a sound--the now familiar long shrill cry of the wild man. Then, as it came nearer, the sound of tramping hoofs and neighing of the horses was heard, and the cries and hoof-beats grew louder and then fainter in turns, and sounded now on this side, now on that, and he knew that they were looking for him. "I'm here, I'm here," he cried; "oh, dear horses, come and take me away!" But they could not hear him, and at last the sound of their neighing and the wild long cries died away altogether, and Martin was left alone in that black silent place. THE LADY OF THE HILLS No escape was possible for poor little Martin so long as it was dark, and there he had to stay all night, but morning brought him comfort; for now he could see the reed-stems that hemmed him in all round, and by using his hands to bend them from him on either side he could push through them. By-and-by the sunlight touched the tops of the tall plants, and working his way towards the side from which the light came he soon made his escape from that prison, and came into a place where he could walk without trouble, and could see the earth and sky again. Further on, in a grassy part of the valley, he found some sweet roots wrhich greatly refreshed him, and at last, leaving the valley, he came out on a high grassy plain, and saw the hills before him looking very much nearer than he had ever seen them look before. Up till now they had appeared like masses of dark blue banked up cloud resting on the earth, now he could see that they were indeed stone--blue stone piled up in huge cliffs and crags high above the green world; he could see the roughness of the heaped up rocks, the fissures and crevices in the sides of the hills, and here and there the patches of green colour where trees and bushes had taken root. How wonderful it seemed to Martin that evening standing there in the wide green plain, the level sun at his back shining on his naked body, making him look like a statue of a small boy carved in whitest marble or alabaster. Then, to make the sight he gazed on still more enchanting, just as the sun went down the colour of the hills changed from stone blue to a purple that was like the purple of ripe plums and grapes, only more beautiful and bright. In a few minutes the purple colour faded away and the hills grew shadowy and dark. It was too late in the day, and he was too tired to walk further. He was very hungry and thirsty too, and so when he had found a few small white partridge-berries and had made a poor supper on them, he gathered some dry grass into a little heap, and lying down in it, was soon in a sound sleep. Then a cloud came over the sun, and a sharp wind sprang up that made him shiver with cold: then followed a shower of rain; and now Martin, feeling sore and miserable, crept into a cavity beneath a pile of overhanging rocks for shelter. He was out of the rain there, but the wind blew in on him until it made his teeth chatter with cold. He began to think of his mother, and of all the comforts of his lost home--the bread and milk when he was hungry, the warm clothing, and the soft little bed with its snowy white coverlid in which he had slept so sweetly every night. "O mother, mother!" he cried, but his mother was too far off to hear his piteous cry. "I am called the Lady of the Hills, and I live here alone in the mountain. Tell me, why do you cry, Martin?" "Because I'm so cold, and--and my legs hurt so, and--and because I want to go back to my mother. She's over there," said he, with another sob, pointing vaguely to the great plain beneath their feet, extending far, far away into the blue distance, where the crimson sun was now setting. "I will be your mother, and you shall live with me here on the mountain," she said, caressing his little cold hands with hers. "Will you call me mother?" "You are _not_ my mother," he returned warmly. "I don't want to call you mother." "When I love you so much, dear child?" she pleaded, bending down until her lips were close to his averted face. "How that great spotted cat stares at me!" he suddenly said. "Do you think it will kill me?" "No, no, he only wants to play with you. Will you not even look at me, Martin?" Dropping his eyes and with trembling lips, feeling a little ashamed at being conquered at last, he whispered "Mother." THE LITTLE PEOPLE UNDERGROUND When he awoke Martin found himself lying on a soft downy bed in a dim stone chamber, and feeling silky hair over his cheek and neck and arms, he knew that he was still with his new strange mother, the beautiful Lady of the Mountain. She, seeing him awake, took him up in her arms, and holding him against her bosom, carried him through a long winding stone passage, and out into the bright morning sunlight. There by a small spring of clearest water that gushed from the rock she washed his scratched and bruised skin, and rubbed it with sweet-smelling unguents, and gave him food and drink. The great spotted beast sat by them all the time, purring like a cat, and at intervals he tried to entice Martin to leave the woman's lap and play with him. But she would not let him out of her arms: all day she nursed and fondled him as if he had been a helpless babe instead of the sturdy little run-away and adventurer he had proved himself to be. She also made him tell her the story of how he had got lost and of all the wonderful things that had happened to him in his wanderings in the wilderness--the people of the Mirage, and old Jacob and the savages, the great forest, the serpent, the owl, the wild horses and wild man, and the black people of the sky. But it was of the Mirage and the procession of lovely beings about which he spoke most and questioned her. "Do you think it was all a dream?" he kept asking her, "the Queen and all those people?" She held him away from her, seating him on her knees, to look at his face, and said, "For oh, dear little Martin, you are lovely and sweet to look at, and you are mine, my own sweet child, and so long as you live with me on the hills, and love me and eall me mother, you shall be happy, and everything you see, sleeping and waking, shall seem strange and beautiful." It was quite true that he was sweet to look at, very pretty with his rosy-white skin deepening to red on his cheeks; and his hair curling all over his head was of a bright golden chestnut colour; and his eyes were a very bright blue, and looked keen and straight at you just like a bird's eyes, that seem to be thinking of nothing, and yet seeing everything. "Do you not know that there are things just as strange underground as above it?" said the voice. Martin could not see the speaker, but he answered quite boldly: "No--there's nothing underground except earth and worms and roots. I've seen it when they've been digging." "Oh, but there is!" said the voice. "You can see for yourself. All you've got to do is to find a path leading down, and to follow it. There's a path over there just in front of you; you can see the opening from where you are lying." He looked, and sure enough there _was_ an opening, and a dim passage running down through the solid rock. Up he jumped, fired at the prospect of seeing new and wonderful things, and without looking any more to see who had spoken to him, he ran over to it. The passage had a smooth floor of stone, and sloped downward into the earth, and went round and round in an immense spiral; but the circles were so wide that Martin scarcely knew that he was not travelling in a straight line. Have you by chance ever seen a buzzard, or stork, or vulture, or some other great bird, soaring upwards into the sky in wide circles, each circle taking it higher above the earth, until it looked like a mere black speck in the vast blue heavens, and at length disappeared altogether? Just in that way, going round and round in just such wide circles, lightly running all the time, with never a pause to rest, and without feeling in the least tired, Martin went on, only down and down and further down, instead of up and up like the soaring bird, until he was as far under the mountain as ever any buzzard or crane or eagle soared above it. Just then Martin heard a very low voice close to his ear speaking to him, but when he looked round he could see no person near him. He knew it was the same voice which had spoken to him in the cave where he slept, and had told him to go down into that place underground. "Do not fear," said the gentle voice to Martin. "Say to the little men that you have lost your clothes, and ask them for something to put on." With a glad cry Martin pulled them out, but the next moment a very important-looking Little Man, with a great white beard, sprang forward and snatched them out of his hand. "No, no," he shouted. "These are not fit for Martin to wear! They will soil!" Saying which, he flung them down on that dusty floor with its litter of cinders and dirt, and began to trample on them as if in a great passion. Then he snatched them up again and shook them, and all could see that they were unsoiled and just as bright and beautiful as before. Then Martin tried to take them from him, but the other would not let him. "Never shall Martin wear such poor clothes," shouted the old man. "They will not even keep out the wet," and with that he thrust them into a great tub of water, and jumping in began treading them down with his feet. But when he pulled them out again and shook them before their faces, all saw that they were as dry and bright as before. "Give them to me!" cried Martin, thinking that it was all right now. "Never shall Martin wear such poor clothes--they will not resist fire," cried the old man, and into the flames he flung them. His head was lying on his new mother's arm, and she was awake watching him. "O, mother, what a nice dream I had! O such pretty clothes--why did I wake so soon?" She laughed and touched his arms, showing him that they were still clasping that beautiful suit of clothes to his breast--the very clothes of his wonderful dream! THE GREAT BLUE WATER In the morning on waking he would always find himself lying still clasped to her breast in that great dim cavern; and almost always when he woke he would find her crying. Sometimes on opening his eyes he would find her asleep, but with traces of tears on her face, showing that she had been awake and crying. "Take me there--take me there!" he cried. She only shook her head and tried to laugh him out of such a wish; but by-and-by when she attempted to carry him back down the mountain he refused to move from the spot; nor would he speak to her nor look up into her pleading face, but kept his eyes fixed on that distant blue ocean which had so enchanted him. For it seemed to Martin the most wonderful thing he had ever beheld. At length it began to grow cold on the summit; then with gentle caressing words she made him turn and look to the opposite side of the heavens, where the sun was just setting behind a great mass of clouds--dark purple and crimson, rising into peaks that were like hills of rose- pearl, and all the heavens beyond them a pale primrose- flame. Filled with wonder at all this rich and varied colour he forgot the ocean for a moment, and uttered an exclamation of delight. "Do you know, dear Martin," said she, "what we should find there, where it all looks so bright and beautiful, if I had wings and could fly with you, clinging to my bosom like a little bat clinging to its mother when she flies abroad in the twilight?" "What?" asked Martin. Martin shivered and nestled closer to her; and then while the shadows of evening were gathering round them, she sat rocking herself to and fro on a stone, murmuring many tender, sweet words to him, until the music of her voice and the warmth of her bosom made him sleep. THE WONDERS OF THE HILLS Now, although Martin had gone very comfortably to sleep in her arms and found it sweet to be watched over so tenderly, he was not the happy little boy he had been before the sight of the distant ocean. And she knew it, and was troubled in her mind, and anxious to do something to make him forget that great blue water. She could do many things, and above all she could show him new and wonderful things in the hills where she wished to keep him always with her. To caress him, to feed and watch over him by day, and hold him in her arms when he slept at night--all that was less to him than the sight of something new and strange; she knew this well, and therefore determined to satisfy his desire and make his life so full that he would always be more than contented with it. In the morning he went out on the hillside, wandering listlessly among the rocks, and when the big cat found him there and tried to tempt him to a game he refused to play, for he had not yet got over his disappointment, and could think of nothing but the sea. But the cat did not know that anything was the matter with him, and was more determined to play than ever; crouching now here, now there among the stones and bushes, he would spring out upon Martin and pull him down with its big paws, and this so enraged him that picking up a stick he struck furiously at his tormentor. But the cat was too quick for him; he dodged the blows, then knocked the stick out of his hand, and finally Martin, to escape from him, crept into a crevice in a rock where the cat could not reach him, and refused to come out even when the Lady of the Hills came to look for him and begged him to come to her. When at last, compelled by hunger, he returned to her, he was silent and sullen and would not be caressed. He saw no more of the cat, and when next day he asked her where it was, she said that it had gone from them and would return no more--that she had sent it away because it had vexed him. This made Martin sulk, and he would have gone away and hidden himself from her had she not caught him up in her arms. He struggled to free himself, but could not, and she then carried him away a long distance down the mountain-side until they came to a small dell, green with creepers and bushes, with a deep carpet of dry moss on the ground, and here she sat down and began to talk to him. "The cat was a very beautiful beast with his spotted hide," she said; "and you liked to play with him sometimes, but in a little while you will be glad that he has gone from you." "Because though he was fond of you and liked to follow you about and play with you, he is very fierce and powerful, and all the other beasts are afraid of him. So long as he was with us they would not come, but now he has gone they will come to you and let you go to them." "Where are they?" said Martin, his curiosity greatly excited. So they waited and were silent, and as nothing came and nothing happened, Martin sitting on the mossy ground began to feel a strange drowsiness stealing over him. He rubbed his eyes and looked round; he wanted to keep very wide awake and alert, so as not to miss the sight of anything that might come. He was vexed with himself for feeling drowsy, and wondered why it was; then listening to the low continuous hum of the bees, he concluded that it was that low, soft, humming sound that made him sleepy. He began to look at the bees, and saw that they were unlike other wild bees he knew, that they were like humble-bees in shape but much smaller, and were all of a golden brown colour: they were in scores and hundreds coming and going, and had their home or nest in the rock a few feet above his head. He got up, and climbing from his mother's knee to her shoulder, and standing on it, he looked into the crevice into which the bees were streaming, and saw their nest full of clusters of small round objects that looked like white berries. Then he came down and told her what he had seen, and wanted to know all about it, and when she answered that the little round fruit-like objects he had seen were cells full of purple honey that tasted sweet and salt, he wanted her to get him some. "Not now--not to-day," she replied, "for now you love me and are contented to be with me, and you are my own darling child. When you are naughty, and try to grieve me all you can, and would like to go away and never see me more, you shall taste the purple honey." He looked up into her face wondering and troubled at her words, and she smiled down so sweetly on his upturned face, looking very beautiful and tender, that it almost made him cry to think how wilful and passionate he had been, and climbing on to her knees he put his little face against her cheek. "Yes," said Martin eagerly, forgetting his quarrel with her; then taking him up in her strong arms she walked rapidly away, and brought him to that very spot where he had seen the doe and fawn. MARTIN'S EYES ARE OPENED "O the dear birds--they are all gone!" cried Martin. "Mother, where are they going?" She told him of a far-away land in the south, from which, when autumn comes, the birds migrate north to a warmer country hundreds of leagues away, and that birds of all kinds were now travelling north, and would be travelling through the sky above them for many days to come. Martin looked up at the sky, and said he could see no birds now that the buzzards were all gone. "I can see them," she returned, looking up and glancing about the sky. "O mother, I wish I could see them!" he cried. "Why can't I see them when you can?" "Because your eyes are not like mine. Look, can you see this?" and she held up a small stone phial which she took from her bosom. He took it in his hand and unstopped and smelt at it. "Is it honey? Can I taste it?" he asked. "O mother, do you see that bull?" cried Martin in delight. "Yes, I see him," she returned. "Sometimes he brings his herd to feed on the hillside, and when I see him here another time I shall take you to him, and put you on his back. But look now at the sky, Martin." He looked up, and was astonished to see numbers of great birds flying north, where no birds had appeared before. They were miles high, and invisible to ordinary sight, but he could see them so distinctly, their shape and colours, that all the birds he knew were easily recognized. There were swans, shining white, with black heads and necks, flying in wedge-shaped flocks, and rosespoonbills, and flamingoes with scarlet wings tipped with black, and ibises, and ducks of different colours, and many other birds, both water and land, appeared, flock after flock, all flying as fast as their wings could bear them towards the north. He continued watching them until it was past noon, and then he saw fewer and fewer, only very big birds, appearing; and then these were seen less and less until there were none. Then he turned his eyes on the plain and tried to find the herd of wild cattle, but they were no longer visible; it was as he had seen it in the morning with the pale blue haze over all the distant earth. He was told that the power to see all distant things with a vision equal to his mother's was now exhausted, and when he grieved at the loss she comforted him with the promise that it would be renewed at some other time. She put her hand on him, then drew him up to her side, with his feet on the stone she was standing by. "Would you like to see what I see, Martin?" she asked, and taking the phial from her bosom she rubbed the white thick liquid on his eye-balls, and in a little while, when the mistiness passed off, she pointed with her hand and told him to look there. "O, poor little Martin," she said, "what a poor, weak little boy you are to lose your senses at the lightning and thunder! I was angry when I saw them coming to the hill, for they are wicked, cruel men, stained with blood, and I made the storm to drive them away. They are gone, and the storm is over now, and it is late--come, let us go to our cave;" and she took him up and carried him in her arms. THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST It was a great thing to see, and made him cry out aloud for joy: and then as the sun rose higher into the pure, blue sky the grey mist changed to silvery white, and the white changed in places to shining gold: and it drifted faster and faster away before the sun, and began to break up, and when a cloud of mist swept by the rock on which he stood it beat like a fine rain upon his face, and covered his bright clothes with a grey beady moisture. Again and again, until the whole vast multitude of the mist people had gone by, a shell was held to his ear; and when they were all gone, when he had watched them fade like a white cloud over the plain, and float away and disappear in the blue sky, he sat down on the rock and cried with the desire that was in him. When his mother found him with traces of tears on his cheeks; and he was silent when she spoke to him, and had a strange look in his eyes as if they were gazing at some distant object, she was angrier than ever with the sea, for she knew that the thought of it had returned to him and that it would be harder than ever to keep him. "Ah, now I know why she cries every morning," thought Martin; "it is because I must go away and leave her here alone on the hills." Then it was easier walking, and he went on a little until he heard a voice crying, "Martin! Martin!" and, looking back, he saw the Lady of the Hills standing on a great stone near the foot of the mountain, gazing sadly after him. "Martin, oh, my child, come back to me," she called, stretching out her arms towards him. "Oh, Martin, I cannot leave the hills to follow you and shield you from harm and save you from death, Where will you go? Oh me, what shall I do without you?" All that day he journeyed on towards the ocean over a great plain. There was no trees and no rocks nor hills, only grass on the level earth, in some places so tall that the spikes, looking like great white ostrich plumes, waved high above his head. But it was easy walking, as the grass grew in tussocks or bunches, and underneath the ground was bare and smooth so that he could walk easily between the bunches. "You bad boy!" exclaimed this curious, little, old man; whereupon Martin stopped in his walk and stood still, gazing in the greatest surprise at him. "You bad boy!" repeated the strange little man. "You bad boy!" answered the little grey man without moving. "Perhaps he's deaf, just like that other old man," said Martin to himself, and throwing out his arms he shouted at the top of his voice, "Go away!" And away with a scream he went, for it was only a little grey burrowing owl after all! Martin laughed a little at his own foolishness in mistaking that common bird he was accustomed to see every day for a little old man. Very much puzzled and confused, and perhaps a little frightened at these curious deceptions, he laid himself down on the grass and shut his eyes so as to go to sleep; but no sooner had he shut his eyes than he heard a soft, soft little voice calling, "Martin! Martin!" He started up and listened. It was only a field cricket singing in the grass. But often as he lay down and closed his eyes the small voice called again, plainly as possible, and oh so sadly, "Martin! Martin!" It made him remember his beautiful mother, now perhaps crying alone in the cave on the mountain, no little Martin resting on her bosom, and he cried to think of it. And still the small voice went on, calling, "Martin! Martin!" sadder than ever, until, unable to endure it longer, he jumped up and ran away a good distance, and at last, too tired to go any further, he crept into a tussock of tall grass and went to sleep. THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA Next day Martin journeyed on in the old way, jumping up and taking a good long run, then dropping into a trot, then a walk, and finally sitting down to rest. Then up again and another run, and so on. But although feeling hungry and thirsty, he was so full of the thought of the great blue water he was going to see, so eager to look upon it at last after wishing for it so long, that he hardly gave himself any time to hunt for food. Nor did he think of his mother of the hills, alone to-day, and grieving at his loss, so excited was he at the prospect of what lay before him. Martin stared at this strange uncouth visitor from the sea; while he in turn, leaning over the rock, stared back into Martin's face with his immense fishy eyes. "Who are you?" shouted Martin at last. "And how did you know I was Martin?" "How did I know as you was Martin? Why, bless your innocent heart, I knowed it all along of course. How d'ye think I wouldn't know that? Why, I no sooner saw you there among them rocks than I says to myself, 'Hullo,' says I, bless my eyes if that ain't Martin looking at my cows, as I calls 'em. Of course I knowed as you was Martin." "And what made you go and live in the sea, Old--Bill?" questioned Martin, "and why did you grow so big?" "And do you like to be always in the sea, Old Bill?" asked Martin. And having said this, he opened his vast cavernous mouth and roared out his hoarse ho, ho, ho! louder than before, and at the same time he rose up higher above the water and the black rock he had been leaning on, until he stood like a stupendous tower above Martin--a man-shaped tower of water and spray, and white froth and brown seaweed. Then he slowly fell backwards out upon the sea, and falling upon the sea caused so mighty a wave that it went high over the black rock and washed the face of the cliff, sweeping Martin back among the rocks. MARTIN PLAYS WITH THE WAVES Arrived at the cliff, he began walking along the edge, and in about an hour's time came to the end of it, for there it sloped down to the water, and before him, far as he could see, there was a wide, shingled beach with low sand-hills behind it. With a shout of joy he ran down to the margin, and the rest of that day he spent dabbling in the water, gathering beautiful shells and seaweed and strangely-painted pebbles into heaps, then going on and on again, still picking up more beautiful riffraff on the margin, only to leave, it all behind him at last. Never had he spent a happier day, and when it came to an end he found a sheltered spot not far from the sea, so that when he woke in the night he would still hear the deep, low murmur of the waves on the beach. Many happy days he spent in the same way, with no living thing to keep him company, except the little white and grey sanderlings that piped so shrill and clear as they flitted along the margin before him; and the great sea-gulls that uttered hoarse, laughter-like cries as they soared and hovered above his head. "Oh, happy birds!" exclaimed Martin, clapping his hands, and shouting in answer to their cries. He was not calling to his own mother far away on the great plain; he had forgotten her. Now he only thought of the beautiful woman of the Hills, who was so strong, and loved him and made him call her "Mother"; and to her he cried in his need for help. Now he remembered her warm, protecting bosom, and how she had cried every night at the fear of losing him; how when he ran from her she followed him, calling to him to return. Ah, how cold was the sea's bosom, how bitter its lips! By-and-by the cloud-like face disappeared, and did not return though he watched for it a long time. Then sitting on the black, rotten wood and brown seaweed he gazed over the ocean, a vast green, sunlit expanse with no shore and no living thing upon it. But after a while he began to think that there was some living thing in it, which was always near him though he could not see what it was. From time to time the surface of the sea was broken just as if some huge fish had risen to the surface and then sunk again without showing itself. It was something very big, judging from the commotion it made in the water; and at last he did see it or a part of it--a vast brown object which looked like a gigantic man's shoulder, but it might have been the back of a whale. It was no sooner seen than gone, but in a very short time after its appearance cries as of birds were heard at a great distance. The cries came from various directions, growing louder and louder, and before long Martin saw many birds flying towards him. On arrival they began to soar and circle round above him, all screaming excitedly. They were white birds with long wings and long sharp beaks, and were very much like gulls, except that they had an easier and swifter flight. Overcome with terror he fell flat on the raft, hiding his face in the brown seaweed that covered it; then in a few minutes the sea became agitated and rocked him in his raft, and a wave came over him which almost swept him into the sea. At the same time the outcry of the birds were redoubled until he was nearly deafened by their screams, and the screams seemed to shape themselves into words. "Martin! Martin!" the birds seemed to be screaming. "Look up, Martin, look up, look up!" The whole air above and about him seemed to be full of the cries, and every cry said to him, "Martin! Martin! lookup! lookup!" But he was only sleeping. _When I arranged with Mr. Hudson for the publication of an American Edition of_ A Little Boy Lost, _I asked him to write a special foreword to his American readers. He replied with a characteristic letter, and, taking him at his word. I am printing it on the following pages_. The trouble is that I know so little about it. Did I write this book? What then made me do it? Little men may admire but must not try to imitate these gestures of the giants. And as a result of a little quiet thinking it over I seem able to recover the idea I had in my mind when I composed this child's story and found a title for it in Blake. Something too of the semi-wild spirit of the child hero in the lines: "Naught loves another as itself And, father, how can I love you Or any of my brothers more? I love you like the little birds That pick up crumbs about the door." There nature is, after picking up the crumbs to fly away. That's the story of my story, and to the question in your publisher's practical mind, I'm sorry to have to say I don't know. I have no way of finding out, since children are not accustomed to write to authors to tell them what they think of their books. And after all these excuses it just occurs to me that children do not read forewords and introductions; they have to be addressed to adults who do not read children's books, so that in any case it would be thrown away. Still if a foreword you must have, and from me, I think you will have to get it out of this letter. Yours cordially, W. H. HUDSON. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Little Boy Lost, by Hudson, W. H.	redpajama-book	15,415
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Susan Woodring and PG Distributed Proofreaders _The Mystery of a Silent Love_ By CHEVALIER WILLIAM LE QUEUX _Author of "The Closed Book," Etc._ I. HIS BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S SERVICE II. WHY THE SAFE WAS OPENED III. THE HOUSE "OVER THE WATER" IV. IN WHICH THE MYSTERY INCREASES V. CONTAINS CERTAIN CONFIDENCES VI. THE GATHERING OF THE CLOUDS VII. CONTAINS A SURPRISE VIII. LIFE'S COUNTER-CLAIM IX. STRANGE DISCLOSURES ARE MADE XI. THE CASTLE OF THE TERROR XII. "THE STRANGLER" XIV. HER HIGHNESS IS INQUISITIVE XV. JUST OFF THE STRAND XVII. THE TRUTH ABOUT THE "LOLA" XVIII. CONTAINS ELMA'S STORY HIS BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S SERVICE "There was a mysterious affair last night, signore." "Oh!" I exclaimed. "Anything that interests us?" The faithful Francesco, whose English had mostly been acquired from sea-faring men, and was not the choicest vocabulary, nodded, and, true Tuscan that he was, placed his finger upon his closed lips, indicative of silence. "Hulloa, what's that?" I enquired, startled. "Only a mad stoker off the _Oleander_, signore. The captain has brought him for you to see. They want to send him back to his friends at Newcastle." "Oh! a case of madness!" I exclaimed. "Better get Doctor Ridolfi to see him. I'm not an expert on mental diseases." My old friend Frank Hutcheson, His Britannic Majesty's Vice-Consul at the port of Leghorn, was away on leave in England, his duties being relegated to young Bertram Cavendish, the pro-Consul. The latter, however, had gone down with a bad touch of malaria which he had picked up in the deadly Maremma, and I, as the only other Englishman in Leghorn, had been asked by the Consul-General in Florence to act as pro-Consul until Hutcheson's return. "I don't know him. He will give no name, but wants to see the Signor Console." "All right, show him in," I said lazily, and a few moments later a tall, smartly-dressed, middle-aged Englishman, in a navy serge yachting suit, entered, and bowing, enquired whether I was the British Consul. "And you are now in harbor?" "You are alone, then?" "I have a friend with me," was the answer. "And how many of the crew are there?" "English, I suppose?" "Not all. I find French and Italians are more sober than English, and better behaved in port." After we had arranged that his captain should come to me in the afternoon and make a formal report of the accident, we went out together across the white sunny piazza to Nasi's, the well-known pastry-cook's, where it is the habit of the Livornese to take their ante-luncheon vermouth. The more I saw of Hornby, the more I liked him. He was chatty and witty, and treated his accident as a huge joke. "We shall be here quite a week, I suppose," he said as we were taking our vermouth. "We're on our way down to the Greek Islands, as my friend Chater wants to see them. The engineer says there's something strained that we must get mended. But, by the way," he added, "why don't you dine with us on board to-night? Do. We can give you a few English things that may be a change to you." "Very fortunate it wasn't more serious, sir," he added, after telling me his story, which I wrote at his dictation for the ultimate benefit of the Board of Trade. "Didn't you send up signals of distress?" I Inquired. "No, sir--never thought of it." "And yet you knew that you might be lost?" I remarked with recurring suspicion. The canny Scot, whose name was Mackintosh, hesitated a few moments, then answered- "Well, sir, you see the fishing-boat had sighted us, and we saw her turning back to port to fetch help." "How long have you been in Mr. Hornby's service?" I inquired. "And you've never been into Leghorn before?" I dismissed the captain with a distinct impression that he had not told me the whole truth. That cicatrice did not improve his personal appearance. He had left his certificates on board, he said, but if I wished he would bring them to me on the morrow. "My friend, Hylton Chater--Mr. Gordon Gregg," he said, introducing us, and then when, as we shook hands, the clean-shaven man exclaimed, smiling pleasantly- "Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Gregg. You are not a stranger by any means to Hornby or myself. Indeed, we've got a couple of your books on board. But I had no idea you lived out here." "I've been the whole afternoon at them--confound them!" declared the owner of the _Lola_ with a laugh. "But, of course, I didn't want to make a lot of errors in spelling. These Italians are so very punctilious." "Well, you certainly did the right thing to thank the Admiral," I said. "It's very unusual for him to send out torpedo-boats to help a vessel in distress. That is generally left to the harbor tug." "Yes, I feel that it was most kind of him. That's why I took all the trouble to write. I don't understand a word of Italian, neither does Chater." Hornby and Chater exchanged glances--glances of distinct uneasiness, I thought. Then the owner of the _Lola_ said- "Yes, they are useful for making arrangements and buying things in Italian ports. We have a Spaniard, a Greek, and a Syrian, all of whom act as interpreters in different places." "And make a handsome thing in the way of secret commissions, I suppose?" I laughed. "Did you have any trouble here?" I inquired. "They didn't visit us," he said with a smile, and at the same time he rubbed his thumb and finger together, the action of feeling paper money. This increased my surprise, for I happened to know that the Leghorn Customs officers were not at all given to the acceptance of bribes. They were too well watched by their superiors. If the yacht had really escaped a search, then it was a most unusual thing. Besides, what motive could Hornby have in eluding the Customs visit? They would, of course, seal up his wines and liquors, but even if they did, they would leave him out sufficient for the consumption of himself and his friends. No. Philip Hornby had some strong motive in paying a heavy bribe to avoid the visit of the _dogana_. If he really had paid, he must have paid very heavily; of that I was convinced. Was it possible that some mystery was hidden on board that splendidly appointed craft? Presently the gong sounded, and we went below into the elegantly fitted saloon, where was spread a table that sparkled with cut glass and shone with silver. Around the center fresh flowers had been trailed by some artistic hand, while on the buffet at the end the necks of wine bottles peered out from the ice pails. Both carpet and upholstery were in pale blue, while everywhere it was apparent that none but an extremely wealthy man could afford such a magnificent craft. "You've seen our ass of a captain, Mr. Gregg?" he remarked presently. "What do you think of him?" "Well," I said rather hesitatingly, "to tell the truth, I don't think very much of his seamanship--nor will the Board of Trade when his report reaches them." "You knew nothing of him previously?" "And he engaged the crew?" I asked. "Are they all fresh hands?" I was silent. I did not like Mackintosh. Indeed, I entertained a distinct suspicion of both master and crew. "He fell down the other day," explained Chater, with a rather sickly smile, I thought. "His face caught the edge of an iron stair in the engine-room, and caused a nasty gash." I smiled within myself, for I knew too well that the ugly wound in the captain's face had never been inflicted by falling on the edge of a stair. But I remained silent, being content that they should endeavor to mislead me. After dessert had been served we rose, and in the summer twilight, when all the ports were opened, Hornby took me over the vessel. Everywhere was abundant luxury--a veritable floating palace. To each of the cabins of the owner and his guests a bathroom was attached with sea-water or fresh water as desired, while the ladies' saloon, the boudoir, the library, and the smoking-room were furnished richly with exquisite taste. As he was conducting me from his own cabin to the boudoir we passed a door that had been blown open by the wind, and which he hastened to close, not, however, before I had time to glance within. To my surprise I discovered that it was an armory crammed with rifles, revolvers and ammunition. It had not been intended that I should see that interior, and the reason why the Customs officers had been bribed was now apparent. I passed on without remark, making believe that I had not discerned anything unusual, and we entered the boudoir, Chater having gone back to the saloon to obtain cigars. The dainty little chamber was upholstered in carnation-pink silk with furniture of inlaid rosewood, and bore everywhere the trace of having been arranged by a woman's hand, although no lady passenger was on board. Just as we had entered, and I was admiring the dainty nest of luxury, Chater shouted to his host asking for the keys of the cigar cupboard, and Hornby, excusing himself, turned back along the gangway to hand them to his friend, thus leaving me alone for a few moments. It seemed as though it had been torn up surreptitiously by someone who had been sitting on that couch, and who had had no opportunity of casting the fragments away through the port-hole into the water. I looked at the back of the torn photograph, and saw that it had been taken by a well-known and fashionable firm in New Bond Street. About the expression of that pictured face was something which I cannot describe--a curious look in the eyes which was at the same time both attractive and mysterious. In that brief moment the girl's features were indelibly impressed upon my memory. Why, I wondered, had the picture been destroyed--and by whom? The face of the empty frame had been purposely turned towards the panelling, therefore when he entered he did not notice that the picture had been destroyed; but after a brief pause, explaining that that cosy little place was his wife's particular nook, he conducted me on through the ladies' saloon and afterwards on deck, where we flung ourselves into the long chairs, took our coffee and certosina, that liqueur essentially Tuscan, and smoked on as the moon rose and the lights of the harbor began to twinkle in the steely night. As I sat talking, my thoughts ran back to that torn photograph. To me it seemed as though some previous visitor that day had sat upon the couch, destroyed the picture, and cast it where I had found it. But for what reason? Who was the merry-faced girl whose picture had aroused such jealousy or revenge? I purposely led the conversation to Hornby's family, and learned from him that he had no children. "You'll get the repairs to your engines done at Orlando's, I suppose?" I remarked, naming the great shipbuilding firm of Leghorn. "Yes. I've already given the order. They are contracted to be finished by next Thursday, and then we shall be off to Zante and Chio." For what reason, I wondered, recollecting that formidable armory on board. Already I had seen quite sufficient to convince me that the _Lola_, although outwardly a pleasure yacht, was built of steel, armored in its most vulnerable parts, and capable of resisting a very sharp fire. The hours passed, and beneath the brilliant moon we smoked long into the night, for after the blazing sunshine of that Tuscan town the cool sea-wind at night is very refreshing. From where we sat we commanded a view of the whole of the sea-front of Leghorn and Ardenza, with its bright open-air cafe-concerts and restaurants in full swing--all the life and gayety of that popular watering-place. I looked at my companion in surprise. He was either telling the truth, or else he was endeavoring to allay my suspicions by an extremely clever ruse. Now I had already decided that Philip Hornby was no eccentric, but a particularly level-headed and practical man. Therefore I instantly arrived at the conclusion that the clean-shaven fellow who looked so much like a London barrister had some distinct and ulterior purpose in arousing within my mind suspicion of his host's sanity. Next morning, on my arrival at the Consulate, old Francesco, who had entered only a moment before, met me with blanched face, gasping- "There have been thieves here in the night, signore! The Signor Console's safe has been opened!" "The safe!" I cried, dashing into Hutcheson's private room, and finding to my dismay the big safe, wherein the seals, ciphers and other confidential documents were kept, standing open, and the contents in disorder, as though a hasty search had been made among them. Was it possible that the thieves had been after the Admiralty and Foreign Office ciphers, copies of which the Chancelleries of certain European Powers were ever endeavoring to obtain? I smiled within myself when I realized how bitterly disappointed the burglars must have been, for a British Consul when he goes on leave to England always takes his ciphers with him, and deposits them at the Foreign Office for safekeeping. Hutcheson had, of course, taken his, according to the regulations. Curiously enough, however, the door of the Consulate and the safe had been opened with the keys which my friend had left in my charge. Indeed, the small bunch still remained in the safe door. In an instant the recollection flashed across my mind that I had felt the keys in my pocket while at dinner on board the _Lola_. Had I lost them on my homeward drive, or had my pocket been picked? Carducci, with an Italian's volubility, commenced to hurl imprecations upon the heads of the unknown sons of dogs who dared to tamper with his master's safe, and while we were engaged in putting the scattered papers in order the door-bell rang, and the clerk went to attend to the caller. In a few moments he returned, saying- "The English yacht left suddenly last night, signore, and the Captain of the Port has sent to inquire whether you know to what port she is bound." "Left!" I gasped in amazement "Why, I thought her engines were disabled!" "Do you know, Signor Commendatore," he said, "some mystery surrounds that vessel. She is not the _Lola_, for yesterday we telegraphed to Lloyd's, in London, and this morning I received a reply that no such yacht appears on their register, and that the name is unknown. The police have also telegraphed to your English police inquiring about the owner, Signor Hornby, with a like result. There is no such place as Woodcroft Park, in Somerset, and no member of Brook's Club of the name of Hornby." I sat staring at the official, too amazed to utter a word. Certainly they had not allowed the grass to grow beneath their feet. "Leaving the man and the woman?" "Leaving them, of course. They are probably still in the town. The police are now searching for traces of them." "But could not you have detained the vessel?" I suggested. I told him how the Consul's safe had been opened during the night, and he sat listening with wide-open eyes. "You dined with them last night," he said at last. "They may have surreptitiously stolen your keys." "They may," was my answer. "Probably they did. But with what motive?" The Captain of the Port elevated his shoulders, exhibited his palms, and declared- "The whole affair from beginning to end is a complete and profound mystery." WHY THE SAFE WAS OPENED His conjecture was the same as my own, namely, that the reason of Hornby's call upon me was to ascertain the situation of the Consulate and the whereabouts of the safe, which, by the way, stood in a corner of the Consul's private room. Captain Mackintosh, too, had taken his bearings, and probably while I sat at dinner on board the _Lola_ my keys had been stolen and passed on to the scarred Scotsman, who had promptly gone ashore and ransacked the place while I had remained with his master smoking and unsuspicious. But what was the motive? Why had they ransacked all those confidential papers? My own idea was that they were not in search of the ciphers at all, but either wanted some blank form or other, or else they desired to make use of the Consular seal. The latter, however, still remained on the floor near the safe, as though it had rolled out and been left unheeded. As far as Francesco and I could ascertain, nothing whatever had been taken. Therefore, we re-arranged the papers, re-locked the safe and resolved not to telegraph to Hutcheson and unduly disturb him, as in a few days he would return from England, and there would be time enough then to explain the remarkable story. "They were English!" remarked the sturdy, brown-faced toilers of the sea, grinning knowingly. "And the English, when they drink their cognac, know not what they do." "Did you get any reward for returning to harbor and reporting?" I asked. For purposes of their own the police kept the affair out of the papers, and when Frank Hutcheson stepped out of the sleeping-car from Paris on to the platform at Pisa a few nights afterwards, I related to him the extraordinary story. "The scoundrels wanted these, that's evident," he responded, holding up the small, strong, leather hand-bag he was carrying, and which contained his jealously-guarded ciphers. "By Jove!" he laughed, "how disappointed they must have been!" "It may be so," I said, as we entered the midnight train for Leghorn. "But my own theory is that they were searching for some paper or other that you possess." "No. But you may have something in there which might be of value to them. You're often the keeper of valuable documents belonging to Englishmen abroad, you know." "Certainly. But there's nothing in there just now except, perhaps, the registers of births, marriages and deaths of British subjects, and the papers concerning a Board of Trade inquiry. No, my dear Gordon, depend upon it that the yacht running ashore was all a blind. They did it so as to be able to get the run of the Consulate, secure the ciphers, and sail merrily away with them. It seems to me, however, that they gave you a jolly good dinner and got nothing in return." "They might very easily have carried me off too," I declared. "Perhaps it would have been better if they had. You'd at least have had the satisfaction of knowing what their little game really was!" "But the man and the woman who left the yacht an hour before she sailed, and who slipped away into the country somewhere! I wonder who they were? Hornby distinctly told me that he and Chater were alone, and yet there was evidently a lady and a gentleman on board. I guessed there was a woman there, from the way the boudoir and ladies' saloon were arranged, and certainly no man's hand decorated a dinner table as that was decorated." "Ingenuity! I should think so! The whole affair was most cleverly planned. Hornby would have deceived even you, my dear old chap. He had the air of the perfect gentleman, and a glance over the yacht convinced me that he was a wealthy man traveling for pleasure." "You said something about an armory." "They would not have aroused mine," replied my friend. "Yachts carry arms for protection in many cases, especially if they are going to cruise along uncivilized coasts where they must land for water or provisions." I told him of the torn photograph, which caused him some deep reflection. "I wonder why the picture had been torn up. Had there been a row on board--a quarrel or something?" "It had been destroyed surreptitiously, I think." "Pity you didn't pocket the fragments. We could perhaps have discovered from the photographer the identity of the original." "Ah!" I sighed regretfully. "I never thought of that. I recollect the name of the firm, however." "Then these fellows might be another pair of London burglars!" I exclaimed eagerly, as the startling theory occurred to me. "They might be. But, of course, we can't form any opinion until we hear what Scotland Yard has to say. I'll write a full report in the morning if you will give me minute descriptions of the men, as well as of the captain, Mackintosh." Next morning I handed over my charge of the Consulate to Frank, and then assisted him to go through the papers in the safe which had been examined by the thieves. "Which shows that had they been in search for the cipher-books they would only have looked for them alone," I remarked decisively. "What on earth could interest them in all these dry, unimportant shipping reports and things?" "Why? There must be some motive!" "But they would have to be obliterated by the Consular stamp," remarked Cavendish. I took it in my hand, and there, sure enough, I saw traces of violet ink upon it--the ink of the pad for the date-stamp upon the Consul's table. "Then some document has been stamped and sealed!" I gasped. "Yes. And my signature forged to it, no doubt. They've fabricated some certificate or other which, bearing the stamp, seal and signature of the Consulate, will be accepted as a legal document. I wonder what it is?" "The reason the papers are all upset is because they were evidently in search of some blank form or other, which they hoped to find," remarked my friend. "As you say, the whole affair was most carefully and ingeniously planned." "As far as I could make out, signore," he said, "the man was an Englishman, wearing a soft black felt hat and a suit of dark blue serge. He had hair just turning gray, a small dark mustache and rather high cheek-bones. In his hand he carried a small bag of tan leather of that square English shape. He seemed in no hurry, for he was calmly smoking a cigarette as he went across to the ticket office." "And his companion?" asked the Consul. "She was in black. Rather tall and slim. Her hair was fair, I noticed, but she wore a black veil which concealed her features." "Was she young or old?" "Young--from her figure," replied the police agent. "As she passed me her eyes met mine, and I thought I saw a strange fixed kind of glare in them--the look of a woman filled with some unspeakable horror." Next day the town of Leghorn awoke to find itself gay with bunting, the Italian and English flags flying side by side everywhere, and the Consular standard flapping over the Consulate in the piazza. In the night the British Mediterranean fleet, cruising down from Malta, had come into the roadstead, and at the signal from the flagship had maneuvered and dropped anchor, forming a long line of gigantic battleships, swift cruisers, torpedo-boat destroyers, torpedo-boats, despatch-boats, and other craft extending for several miles along the coast. Myself, I had taken a boat out to the _Bulwark_, the great battleship flying the Admiral's flag, and was sitting on deck with my old friend Captain Jack Durnford, of the Royal Marines. Each year when the fleet put into Leghorn we were inseparable, for in long years past, at Portsmouth, we had been close friends, and now he was able to pay me annual visits at my Italian home. He was on duty that morning, therefore could not get ashore till after luncheon. "Your time's soon up, isn't it?" I remarked, as I lolled back in the easy deck-chair, and gazed away at the white port and its background of purple Apennines. "How's Hutcheson?" he asked a moment later, turning and facing me. "Fit as a fiddle. Just back from his month's leave at home. His wife is still up in Scotland, however. She can't stand Leghorn in summer." "No wonder. It's a perfect furnace when the weather begins to stoke up." "A mystery--tell me," he exclaimed, suddenly interested. "Well, a yacht--a pirate yacht, I believe it was--called here." "Well, she was English. Listen, and I'll tell you the whole affair. It'll be something fresh to tell at mess, for I know how you chaps get played out of conversation." "By Jove, yes! Things slump when we get no mail. But go on--I'm listening," he added, as an orderly came up, saluted, and handed him a paper. "Well," I said, "let's cross to the other side. I don't want the sentry to overhear." "You'll understand when I tell you the story." And then, standing together beneath the awning, I related to my friend the whole of the curious circumstances, just as I have recorded them in the foregoing pages. "Confoundedly funny!" he remarked with his dark eyes fixed upon mine. "A mystery, by Jove, it is! What name did the yacht bear?" "What!" he gasped, suddenly turning pale. "The _Lola_? Are you quite sure it was the _Lola_--_L-O-L-A_?" "Absolutely certain," I replied. "But why do you ask? Do you happen to know anything about the craft?" "Me!" he stammered, and I could see that he had involuntarily betrayed the truth, yet for some reason he wished to conceal his knowledge from me. "Me! How should I know anything about such a craft? They were thieves on board evidently--perhaps pirates, as you say." "But the name _Lola_ is familiar to you, Jack! I'm sure it is, by your manner." He paused a moment, and I could see what a strenuous effort he was making to avoid betraying knowledge. "Pleasant ones--I hope." Was he telling the truth, I wondered? Some tragic romance or other concerning a woman had, I knew, overshadowed his life in the years before we had become acquainted. But the real facts he had never revealed to me. He had never before referred to the bitterness of the past, although I knew full well that his heart was in secret filled by some overwhelming sorrow. Outwardly he was as merry as the other fellows who officered that huge floating fortress; on board he was a typical smart marine, and on shore he danced and played tennis and flirted just as vigorously as did the others. But a heavy heart beat beneath his uniform. When he returned to where I stood I saw that his face had changed: it had become drawn and haggard. He bore the appearance of a man who had been struck a blow that had staggered him, crushing out all life and hope. "What's the matter, Jack?" I asked. "Come! Tell me--what ails you?" "Nothing, my dear old chap," he answered hoarsely. "Really nothing--only a touch of the blues just for a moment," he added, trying hard to smile. "It'll pass." "What I've just told you about that yacht has upset you. You can't deny it" He started. His mouth was, I saw, hard set. He knew something concerning that mysterious craft, but would not tell me. The sound of a bugle came from the further end of the ship, and immediately men were scampering along the deck beneath as some order or other was being obeyed with that precision that characterizes the "handy man." "Why are you silent?" I asked slowly, my eyes fixed upon my friend the officer. "I have told you what I know, and I want to discover the motive of the visit of those men, and the reason they opened Hutcheson's safe." "How can I tell you?" he asked in a strained, unnatural voice. "I believe you know something concerning them. Come, tell me the truth." "I admit that I have certain grave suspicions," he said at last, standing astride with his hands behind his back, his sword trailing on the white deck. "You say that the yacht was called the _Lola_--painted gray with a black funnel." "No, dead white, with a yellow funnel." "Yes," I cried. "You are right. I remember them! You've surely been on board her!" "And there is a ladies' saloon and a small boudoir in pink beyond, while the smoking-room is entirely of marble for the heat?" "Exactly--the same yacht, no doubt! But what do you know of her?" "The captain, who gave his name to you as Mackintosh, is an undersized American of a rather low-down type?" "I took him for a Scotsman." "And the--the man who gave his name as Philip Hornby?" Durnford's mouth closed with a snap. He drew a long breath, his eyes grew fierce, and he bit his lip. "Ah! I see he is not exactly your friend," I said meaningly. "You are right, Gordon--he is not my friend," was his slow, meaning response. "Then why not be outspoken and tell me all you know concerning him? Frank Hutcheson is anxious to clear up the mystery because they've tampered with the Consular seals and things. Besides, it would be put down to his credit if he solved the affair." "Well, to tell you the truth, I'm mystified myself. I can't yet discern their motive." "But at any rate you know the men," I argued. "You can at least tell us who they really are." He shook his head, still disinclined, for some hidden reason, to reveal the truth to me. "You saw no woman on board?" he asked suddenly, looking straight into my eyes. "No. Hornby told me that he and Chater were alone." "And yet an hour after you left a man and a woman came ashore and disappeared! Ah! If we only had a description of that woman it would reveal much to us." "She was young and dark-haired, so the detective says. She had a curious fixed look in her eyes which attracted him, but she wore a thick motor veil, so that he could not clearly discern her features." "And her companion?" "Middle-aged, prematurely gray, with a small dark mustache." Jack Durnford sighed and stroked his chin. "Ah! Just as I thought," he exclaimed. "And they were actually here, in this port, a week ago! What a bitter irony of fate!" "I don't understand you," I said. "You are so mysterious, and yet you will tell me nothing!" "The police, fools that they are, have allowed them to escape, and they will never be caught now. Ah! you don't know them as I do! They are the cleverest pair in all Europe. And they have the audacity to call their craft the _Lola_--the _Lola_, of all names!" "But as you know who and what the fellows are, you ought, I think, in common justice to Hutcheson, to tell us something," I complained. "If they are adventurers, they ought to be traced." "What can I do--a prisoner here on board?" he argued bitterly. "How can I act?" "Leave it all to me. I'm free to travel after them, and find out the truth if only you will tell me what you know concerning them," I said eagerly. "Gordon, let me be frank and open with you, my dear old fellow. I would tell you everything--everything--if I dared. But I cannot--you understand!" And his final words seemed to choke him. I stood before him, open-mouthed in astonishment. "What does the mystery concern?" I asked, in breathless eagerness. "It concerns a woman." THE HOUSE "OVER THE WATER" London, the same dear, dusty old London, only perhaps more dear and more dusty than ever, was my native city; hence I always spent a few weeks in it, even though all the world might be absent in the country, or at the seaside. "Why, Olinto!" I exclaimed, surprised, as I halted. "You--in London--eh? Well, and how are you getting on?" "Most excellently, signore," he answered in broken English, smiling. "But it is so pleasant for me to see my generous padrone again. What fortune it is that I should pass here at this very moment!" "Where are you working?" I inquired. "At the Restaurant Milano, in Oxford Street--only a small place, but we gain discreetly, so I must not complain. I live over in Lambeth, and am on my way home." "I heard you married after you left me. Is that true?" When I tried to slip some silver into his hand he refused to take it, and with a merry laugh said- "I wonder if you would be offended, signore, if I told you of something for which I had been longing and longing?" I felt in my pocket, laughing, and discovered that I had a couple of those long thin penny cigars which I always smoke in Italy, and which are so dear to the Tuscan palate. These I handed him, and he took them with delight as the greatest delicacy I could have offered him. Poor fellow! As an exiled Italian he clung to every little trifle that reminded him of his own beloved country. When we halted before the National Gallery prior to parting I made some further inquiries regarding Armida, the black-eyed, good-looking housemaid whom he had married. He thanked me profusely when I consented to go with him. "Ah, signor padrone!" he said gratefully, "she will be so delighted. It is so very good of you." A low-looking, evil-faced fellow opened the door to us and growled acquaintance with Olinto, who, striking a match, ascended the worn, carpetless stairs before me, apologizing for passing before me, and saying in Italian- "We live at the top, signore, because it is cheaper and the air is better." "Quite right," I said. "Quite right. Go on." And I thought I heard my cab driving away. Contrary to my expectations, the sitting-room we entered on the top floor was quite comfortably furnished, clean and respectable, even though traces of poverty were apparent. A cheap lamp was burning upon the table, but the apartment was unoccupied. Olinto, in surprise, passed into the adjoining room, returning a moment later, exclaiming- "Armida must have gone out to get something. Or perhaps she is with the people, a compositor and his wife, who live on the floor below. They are very good to her. I'll go and find her. Accommodate yourself with a chair, signore." And he drew the best chair forward for me, and dusted it with his handkerchief. I allowed him to go and fetch her, rather surprised that she should be well enough to get about after all he had told me concerning her illness. Yet consumption does not keep people in bed until its final stages. Olinto returned in a few moments, saying that his wife had evidently gone to do some shopping in the Lower-Marsh, for it is the habit of the denizens of that locality to go "marketing" in the evening among the costermongers' stalls that line so many of the thoroughfares. Perishable commodities, the overplus of the markets and shops, are cheaper at night than in the morning. "I hope you are not pressed for time, signore?" he said apologetically. "But, of course, the poor girl does not know the surprise awaiting her. She will surely not be long." "Then I'll wait," I said, and flung myself back into the chair he had brought forward for me. "I have nothing to offer you, signer padrone," he said, with a laugh. "I did not expect a visitor, you know." "No, no, Olinto. I've only just had dinner. But tell me how you have fared since you left me." "I'll see what I can do for you," I said. "I know several hotel-managers who might have a vacancy." "Ah, signore!" he cried, filled with gratification. "If you only would! A word from you would secure me a good position. I can work, that you know--and I do work. I will work--for her sake." "I have promised you," I said briefly. "And how can I sufficiently thank you?" he cried, standing before me, while in his eyes I thought I detected a strange wild look, such as I had never seen there before. "You served me well, Olinto," I replied, "and when I discover real sterling honesty I endeavor to appreciate it. There is, alas! very little of it in this world." "Yes," he said in a hoarse voice, his manner suddenly changing. "You have to-night shown me, signore, that you are my friend, and I will, in return, show you that I am yours." And suddenly grasping both my hands, he pulled me from the chair in which I was sitting, at the same time asking in a low intense whisper: "Do you always carry a revolver here in England, as you do in Italy?" "Yes," I answered in surprise at his action and his question. "Why?" "Because there is danger here," he answered in the same low earnest tone. "Get your weapon ready. You may want it." "I don't understand," I said, feeling my handy Colt in my back pocket to make sure it was there. "Forget what I have said--all--all that I have told you to-night, sir," he said. "I have not explained the whole truth. You are in peril--in deadly peril!" "How?" I exclaimed breathlessly, surprised at his extraordinary change of manner and his evident apprehension lest something should befall me. "My enemies! Who are they?" In an instant a bright blue flash shot through the place, and the irons fell aside, fused and twisted out of all recognition. I stood aghast, utterly unable for the moment to sufficiently realize how narrowly I had escaped death. I stood stock-still, not daring to move lest I might come into contact with some hidden wire, the slightest touch of which must bring instant death upon me. "I will not prejudge you until I've heard your explanation," I said. "I certainly owe my life to you to-night." "Then quick! Fly from this house this instant. If you are stopped, then use your revolver. Don't hesitate. In a moment they will be here upon you." "But who are they, Olinto? You must tell me," I cried in desperation. "_Dio!_ Go! Go!" he cried, pushing me violently towards the door. "Fly, or we shall both die--both of us! Run downstairs. I must make feint of dashing after you." I turned, and seeing his desperate eagerness, precipitately fled, while he ran down behind me, uttering fierce imprecations in Italian, as though I had escaped him. A man in the narrow dark passage attempted to trip me up as I ran, but I fired point blank at him, and gaining the door unlocked it, and an instant later found myself out in the street. Even Olinto had played me false! I was filled with chagrin, for I had trusted him as honest, upright, and industrious; and was puzzled to know the reason he had deceived me, and why he had enticed me to the very brink of the grave. He had told me that he himself had fallen into the trap laid by my enemies, and yet he had steadfastly refused to tell me who they were! The whole thing was utterly inexplicable. Gradually it became impressed upon me that my ex-servant had somehow gained knowledge that I was in London, that he had watched my exit from the club, and that all his pitiful story regarding Armida was false. He was the envoy of my unknown enemies, who had so ingeniously and so relentlessly plotted my destruction. My unknown enemies had secured the services of Olinto in their dastardly plot to kill me. With what motive? I wondered as I crossed Waterloo Bridge to the Strand, whether Olinto Santini would again approach me and make the promised explanation. I had given my word not to prejudge him until he revealed to me the truth. Yet I could not, in the circumstances, repose entire confidence in him. That day I did my business in the city with a distrust of everyone, not knowing whether I was not followed or whether those who sought my life were not plotting some other equally ingenious move whereby I might go innocently to my death. I endeavored to discover Olinto by every possible means during those stifling days that followed. The heat of London was, to me, more oppressive than the fiery sunshine of the old-world Tuscany, and everyone who could be out of town had left for the country or the sea. The only trace I found of the Italian was that he was registered at the office of the International Society of Hotel Servants, in Shaftesbury Avenue, as being employed at Gatti's Adelaide Gallery, but on inquiry there I found he had left more than a year before, and none of his fellow-waiters knew his whereabouts. Thus being defeated in every inquiry, and my business at last concluded in London, I went up to Dumfries on a duty visit which I paid annually to my uncle, Sir George Little. Having known Dumfries since my earliest boyhood, and having spent some years of my youth there, I had many friends in the vicinity, for Sir George and my aunt were very popular in the county and moved in the best set. Each time I returned from abroad I was always a welcome guest at Greenlaw, as their place outside the city of Burns was called, and this occasion proved no exception, for the country houses of Dumfries are always gay in August in prospect of the shooting. "Some new people have taken Rannoch Castle. Rather nice they seem," remarked my aunt as we were sitting together at luncheon the day after my arrival. "Their name is Leithcourt, and they've asked me to drive you over there to tennis this afternoon." "I'm not much of a player, you know, aunt. In Italy we don't believe in athletics. But if it's out of politeness, of course, I'll go." "There are several nice girls there, Gordon," remarked my uncle mischievously. "You have a good time, so don't think you are going to be bored." We could see its great round towers, standing grim and gray on the hillside commanding the whole of the valley, long before we approached it, and when we drove into the grounds we found a gay party in summer toilettes assembled on the ancient bowling-green, now transformed into a modern tennis-lawn. Mrs. Leithcourt and her husband, a tall, thin, gray-headed, well-dressed man, both came forward to greet us, and after a few introductions I joined a set at tennis. They were a merry crowd. The Leithcourts were entertaining a large house-party, and their hospitality was on a scale quite in keeping with the fine old place they rented. Tea was served on the lawn by the footmen, and afterwards, being tired of the game, I found myself strolling with Muriel Leithcourt, a bright, dark-eyed girl with tightly-bound hair, and wearing a cotton blouse and flannel tennis skirt. I was apologizing for my terribly bad play, explaining that I had no practice out in Italy, whereupon she said- "I know Italy slightly. I was in Florence and Naples with mother last season." And then we began to discuss pictures and sculptures and the sights of Italy generally. I discerned from her remarks that she had traveled widely; indeed, she told me that both her father and mother were never happier than when moving from place to place in search of variety and distraction. We had entered the huge paneled hall of the Castle, and had passed up the quaint old stone staircase to the long banqueting hall with its paneled oak ceiling, which in these modern days had been transformed into a bright, pleasant drawing-room, from the windows of which was presented a marvelous view over the lovely Nithsdale and across to the heather-clad hills beyond. It was pleasant lounging there in the cool old room after the hot sunshine outside, and as I gazed around the place I noted how much more luxurious and tasteful it now was to what it had been in the days when I had visited its owner several years before. She attracted me on account of her bright vivacity, quick wit and keen sense of humor, therefore I sat listening to her pleasant chatter. Exiled as I was in a foreign land, I seldom spoke English save with Hutcheson, the Consul, and even then we generally spoke Italian if there were others present, in order that our companions should understand. Therefore her gossip interested me, and as the golden sunset flooded the handsome old room I sat listening to her, inwardly admiring her innate grace and handsome countenance. The mention of yachting brought back to my mind the visit of the _Lola_ and its mysterious sequel. "Your father has a yacht, then?" I remarked, with as little concern as I could. "So you must have made many long voyages, and seen many odd corners of the world, Miss Leithcourt?" I remarked, my interest in her increasing, for she seemed so extremely intelligent and well-informed. "Oh, yes. We've been to Mexico, and to Panama, besides Morocco, Egypt, and the West Coast of Africa." "And you've actually landed at Leghorn!" I remarked. "Yes, but we didn't stay there more than an hour--to send a telegram, I think it was. Father said there was nothing to see there. He and I went ashore, and I must say I was rather disappointed." "You are quite right. The town itself is ugly and uninteresting. But the outskirts--San Jacopo, Ardenza and Antigniano are all delightful. It was unfortunate that you did not see them. Was it long ago when you put in there?" "Not very long. I really don't recollect the exact date," was her reply. "We were on our way home from Alexandria." "Have you ever, in any of the ports you've been, seen a yacht called the _Lola_?" I asked eagerly, for it occurred to me that perhaps she might be able to give me information. "The _Lola_!" she gasped, and instantly her face changed. A flush overspread her cheeks, succeeded next moment by a death-like pallor. "The _Lola_!" she repeated in a strange, hoarse voice, at the same time endeavoring strenuously not to exhibit any apprehension. "No. I have never heard of any such a vessel. Is she a steam-yacht? Who's her owner?" What could she possibly know concerning the mysterious craft? "I don't know the owner's name," I said, still affecting not to have noticed her alarm and apprehension. "The vessel ran aground at the Meloria, a dangerous shoal outside Leghorn, and through the stupidity of her captain was very nearly lost." "Yes," was the only word I uttered. A silence fell between us, and as my eyes fixed themselves upon her, I saw that from her handsome mobile countenance all the light and life had suddenly gone out, and I knew that she was in secret possession of the key to that remarkable enigma that so puzzled me. Of a sudden the door opened, and a voice cried gayly- "Why, I've been looking everywhere for you, Muriel. Why are you hidden here? Aren't you coming?" We both turned, and as she did so a low cry of blank dismay involuntarily escaped her. Next instant I sprang to my feet. The reason of her cry was apparent, for there, in the full light of the golden sunset streaming through the long open windows, stood a broad-shouldered, fair-bearded man in tennis flannels and a Panama hat--the fugitive I knew as Philip Hornby! I faced him, speechless. IN WHICH THE MYSTERY INCREASES Neither of us spoke. Equally surprised at the unexpected encounter, we stood facing each other dumbfounded. Hornby started quickly as soon as his eyes fell upon me, and his face became blanched to the lips, while Muriel Leithcourt, quick to notice the sudden change in him, rose and introduced us in as calm a voice as she could command. "I don't think you are acquainted," she said to me with a smile. "This is Mr. Martin Woodroffe--Mr. Gordon Gregg." "I think not," was her reply. "We've been out there the whole afternoon, and I'm rather tired. But they're still on the lawn. You can surely get a game with someone." "If you don't play, I shan't. I returned to keep the promise I made this morning," he laughed, standing before the big open fireplace, holding his tennis racquet behind his back. I examined his countenance, and was more than ever convinced that he was actually the man who gave me the name of Hornby and the false address in Somerset. The pair seemed to be on familiar terms, and I wondered whether they were engaged. In any case, the man seemed quite at home there. As he chatted with the daughter of the house, he cast a quick, covert glance at me, and then darted a meaning look at her--a look of renewed confidence, as though he felt that he had successfully averted any suspicions I might have held. "My friend Leithcourt is awfully fortunate in getting such a splendid old place as this. On every hand I hear glowing accounts of the number of birds. The place has been well preserved in the past, and there's plenty of good cover." "Yes, but every year they are getting rarer and rarer in this part of Scotland. A really fine black-cock is quite an event nowadays," I said. While we were talking, or rather while I was carefully watching the rapid working of his mind, Leithcourt himself entered and joined us. He had been playing tennis, and had come in to rest and cool. It seemed as though she wished purposely to take me away from that man's presence, fearing that by remaining there longer my suspicions might become confirmed. She was acting in conjunction with the man whom I had known as Hornby. Among the party strolling and lounging there prior to departure were quite a number of people I knew, people who had shooting-boxes in the vicinity and were my uncle's friends. In Scotland there is always a hearty hospitality among the sporting folk, and the laws of caste are far less rigorous than they are in England. "Oh! Mr. Woodroffe is most amusing," declared the bright little woman. "He's always playing some practical joke or other. After dinner he is usually the life and soul of our party." "Yes," I said, "I like what little I have seen of him. He's a very good fellow, I should say. I've heard that he's engaged to Muriel," I hazarded. "Is that true?" "Leithcourt and he are evidently most intimate friends." "Oh, quite inseparable!" she laughed. "And the other man who is always with them is that short, stout, red-faced old fellow standing over there with the lady in pale blue, Sir Ughtred Gardner. Mr. Woodroffe has nicknamed him 'Sir Putrid.'" And we both laughed. "Of course, don't say I said so," she whispered. "They don't call him that to his face, but it's so easy to make a mistake in his name when he's not within hearing. We women don't care for him, so the nickname just fits." During the week that followed I sought to learn all I could regarding the new people at the castle. "Exactly. There are some well-known people among them, too," said my aunt. "I've asked them over to-morrow afternoon, and they've accepted." "Excellent!" I exclaimed, for I wanted an opportunity for another chat with the dark-eyed girl who was engaged to the man whose alias was Hornby. I particularly desired to ascertain the reason of her fear when I had mentioned the _Lola_, and whether she possessed any knowledge of Hylton Chater. As I expected, Woodroffe did not accompany the party. Mrs. Leithcourt, a slightly fussy little woman, apologized for his absence, explaining that he had been recalled to London suddenly a few days before, but was returning to Rannoch again at the end of the week. "We couldn't afford to lose him," she declared to my aunt. "He is so awfully humorous--his droll sayings and antics keep us in a perfect roar each night at dinner. He's such a perfect mimic." I turned away and strolled with Muriel, pleading an excuse to show her my uncle's beautiful grounds, not a whit less picturesque than those of the castle, and perhaps rather better kept. "I only heard yesterday of your engagement, Miss Leithcourt," I remarked presently when we were alone. "Allow me to offer my best congratulations. When you introduced me to Mr. Woodroffe the other day I had no idea that he was to be your husband." She glanced at me quickly, and I saw in her dark eyes a look of suspicion. Then she flushed slightly, and laughing uneasily said, in a blank, hard voice- "It's very good of you, Mr. Gregg, to wish me all sorts of such pleasant things." "And when is the happy event to take place?" "The date is not exactly fixed--early next year, I believe," and I thought she sighed. "And you will probably spend a good deal of time yachting?" I suggested, my eyes fixed upon her in order to watch the result of my pointed remark. But she controlled herself perfectly. "I love the sea," she responded briefly, and her eyes were set straight before her. "Mr. Woodroffe has gone up to town, your mother says." "Yes. He received a wire, and had to leave immediately. It was an awful bore, for we had arranged to go for a picnic to Dundrennan Abbey yesterday." "But he'll be back here again, won't he?" "I really don't know. It seems quite uncertain. I had a letter this morning which said he might have to go over to Hamburg on business, instead of coming up to us again." There was disappointment in her voice, and yet at the same time I could not fail to recognize how the man to whom she was engaged had fled from Scotland because of my presence. How I longed to ask her point-blank what she really knew of the yachtsman who was shrouded in so much mystery. Yet by betraying any undue anxiety I should certainly negative all my efforts to solve the puzzling enigma, therefore I was compelled to remain content with asking ingeniously disguised questions and drawing my own conclusions from her answers. I read tragedy in the dark luminous eyes of Muriel Leithcourt. I knew that her young heart was over-burdened by some secret sorrow or guilty knowledge that she would reveal to me if she dared. Her own words told me that she was perplexed; that she longed to confide and seek advice of someone, yet by reason of some hidden and untoward circumstance her lips were sealed. I tried to question her further regarding Woodroffe, of what profession he followed and of his past. But she evidently suspected me, for I had unfortunately mentioned the _Lola_. She wanted to speak to me in confidence, and yet she would reveal to me nothing--absolutely nothing. Martin Woodroffe did not rejoin the house-party at Rannoch. Although I remained the guest of my uncle much longer than I intended, indeed right through the shooting season, in order to watch the Leithcourts, yet as far as we could judge they were extremely well-bred people and very hospitable. Thus I gained many opportunities of talking with Muriel, and of watching her closely. I had the reputation of being a confirmed bachelor, and on account of that it seemed that she was in no way averse to my companionship. She could handle a rook-rifle as well as any woman, and was really a very fair shot. Therefore we often found ourselves alone tramping across the wide open moorland, or along those delightful glens of the Nithsdale, glorious in the autumn tints of their luxurious foliage. Her father, on the other hand, seemed to view me with considerable suspicion, and I could easily discern that I was only asked to Rannoch because it was impossible to invite my uncle without including myself. Leithcourt, who perhaps thought I was courting his daughter, was ever endeavoring to avoid me, and would never allow me to walk with him alone. Why? I wondered. Did he fear me? Had Woodroffe told him of our strange encounter in Leghorn? In my youth I had sat many a quiet hour there in the darkening gloom and shot many a pigeon, therefore I knew the wood well, and was able to watch the tenant of Rannoch from points where he least suspected the presence of another. Often when alone I reflected upon my curious adventure on that night when I met Olinto, and of my narrow escape from the hands of my unknown enemies. I wondered if that ingenious and dastardly attempt upon my life had really any connection with that strange incident at Leghorn. As day succeeded day, my mind became filled by increasing suspicion. Mystery surrounded me on every hand. "Yes, I was after snipe, and slipped into a bog," I laughed. "But it was early this morning, and the mud has dried." She laughed when I expressed admiration of her little den, and said- "I believe it was the armory in the old days. But it makes quite a comfy little boudoir. I can lock myself in and be quite quiet when the party are too noisy," she added merrily. But as my eyes wandered around they suddenly fell upon an object which caused me to start with profound wonder--a cabinet photograph in a frame of crimson leather. The picture was that of a young girl--a duplicate of the portrait I had found torn across and flung aside on board the _Lola_! The merry eyes laughed out at me as I stood staring at it in sheer bewilderment. "What a pretty girl!" I exclaimed quickly, concealing my surprise. "Who is she?" My companion was silent a moment, her dark eyes meeting mine with a strange look of inquiry. "Yes," she laughed, "everyone admires her. She was a schoolfellow of mine--Elma Heath." "Heath!" I echoed. "Where was she at school with you?" "She's very beautiful!" I declared, taking up the photograph and discovering that it bore the name of the same well-known photographer in New Bond Street as that I had found on the carpet of the _Lola_ in the Mediterranean. "Yes. She's really prettier than her photograph. It hardly does her justice." "And where is she now?" "Why are you so very inquisitive, Mr. Gregg?" laughed the handsome girl. "Have you actually fallen in love with her from her picture?" "I'm hardly given to that kind of thing, Miss Leithcourt," I answered with mock severity. "I don't think even my worst enemy could call me a flirt, could she?" "No. I will give you your due," she declared. "You never do flirt. That is why I like you." "Thanks for your candor, Miss Leithcourt," I said. "Only," she added, "you seem smitten with Elma's charms." "I think she's extremely pretty," I remarked, with the photograph still in my hand. "Do you ever see her now?" "Never," she replied. "Since the day I left school we have never met. She was several years younger than myself, and I heard that a week after I left Chichester her people came and took her away. Where she is now I have no idea. Her people lived somewhere in Durham. Her father was a doctor." Her reply disappointed me. Yet I had, at least, retained knowledge of the name of the original of the picture, and from the photographer I might perhaps discover her address, for to me it seemed that she was somehow intimately connected with those mysterious yachtsmen. What Muriel told me concerning her, I did not doubt for a single instant. Yet it was certainly more than a coincidence that a copy of the picture which had created such a deep impression upon me should be preserved in her own little boudoir as a souvenir of a devoted school-friend. "Then you have heard absolutely nothing as to her present position or whereabouts--whether she is married, for instance?" "Ah!" she cried mischievously. "You betray yourself by your own words. You have fallen in love with her, I really believe, Mr. Gregg. If she knew, she'd be most gratified--or at least, she ought to be." At which I smiled, preferring that she should adopt that theory in preference to any other. She spoke frankly, as a pure honest girl would speak. She was not jealous, but she nevertheless resented--as women do resent such things--that I should fall in love with a friend's photograph. There was a mystery surrounding that torn picture; of that I was absolutely certain. The remembrance of that memorable evening when I had dined on board the _Lola_ arose vividly before me. Why had the girl's portrait been so ruthlessly destroyed and the frame turned with its face to the wall? There was some reason--some distinct and serious motive in it. Had Muriel told me the truth, I wondered, or was she merely seeking to shield the suspected man who was her lover? Hour by hour the mystery surrounding the Leithcourts became more inscrutable, more intensely absorbing. I had searched a copy of the London Directory at the Station Hotel at Carlisle, and found that no house in Green Street was registered as occupied by the tenant of Rannoch; and, further, when I came to examine the list of guests at the castle, I found that they were really persons unknown in society. They were merely of that class of witty, well-dressed parasites who always cling on to the wealthy and make believe that they are smart and of the _grande monde_. Rannoch was an expensive place to keep up, with all that big retinue of servants and gamekeepers, and with those nightly dinners cooked by a French _chef_; yet Leithcourt seemed to possess a long pocket and smiled upon those parasites, officers of doubtful commission and younger sprigs of the pseudo-aristocracy who surrounded him, while his wife, keen-eyed and of superb bearing, was punctilious concerning all points of etiquette, and at the same time indefatigable that her mixed set of guests should enjoy a really good time. "Better not say anything about it," I urged. "It's Leithcourt's own affair, uncle--not ours." "Yes, but if a man sets up a position in the country he mustn't be allowed to ask us to meet such fellows. It's coming it a little too thick, Gordon. We men can stand the women of the party, but the men--well, I tell you candidly, I shan't accept his invites to shoot again." "No, no, uncle," I protested. "Probably it's owing to ignorance. You'll be able, a little later on, to give him valuable tips. He's a good fellow, and only wants experience in Scotland to get along all right." "Yes. But I don't like it, my boy, I don't like it! It isn't playing a fair game," declared the rigid old gentleman, coloring resentfully. "I'm not going to return the invitation and ask that sharper, Cadby, to my house--and I tell you that plainly." I halted. Yes. Men were talking in low tones of confidence, and in that calm stillness of evening they appeared nearer to me than they actually were. I listened, trying to distinguish the words uttered, but could make out nothing. They were moving slowly together, in close vicinity to myself, for their feet stirred the dry leaves, and I could hear the boughs cracking as they forced their way through them. Of a sudden, while standing there not daring to breathe lest I should betray my presence, a strange sound fell upon my eager ears. Next moment I realized that I was at that place where Leithcourt so persistently kept his disappointed tryst, having approached it from within the wood. The sound alarmed me, and yet it was neither an explosion of fire-arms nor a startling cry for help. Heedless of the risk I ran and the peril to which I exposed myself, I dashed forward with a resolve to penetrate the mystery, until I came to the gap in the rough stone wall where Leithcourt's habit was to halt each day at sundown. There, in the falling darkness, the sight that met my eyes at the spot held me rigid, appalled, stupefied. In that instant I realized the truth--a truth that was surely the strangest ever revealed to any man. CONTAINS CERTAIN CONFIDENCES As I dashed forward to the gap in the boundary wall of the wood, I nearly stumbled over a form lying across the narrow path. Was she dead, I wondered? That cry--that single word of reproach--sounded in my ears, and it seemed plain that she had been struck down ruthlessly after an exchange of angry words. I felt in my pocket for my vestas, but unfortunately my box was empty. Yet just at that moment my strained ears caught a sound--the sound of someone moving stealthily among the fallen leaves. Seizing my gun, I demanded who was there. There was, however, no response. The instant I spoke the movement ceased. It seemed evident that a tragedy had occurred, and that the victim at my feet was a woman. But whom? I sprang through the gap, straining my eyes into the gloom, and as I did so could just distinguish a dark figure receding quickly beneath the wall of the wood. I stood out of breath, the perspiration pouring from me, undecided how to act. Was it Leithcourt himself whom I had surprised? "Hulloa, Gregg!" he exclaimed heartily, holding out his hand. "Had a long day of it, evidently. Good sport with Carmichael--eh?" "Very fair," I said. "I remained longer with him than I ought to have done, and have got belated on my way home, so looked in for a refresher." "Quite right," he laughed merrily. "You're always welcome, you know. I'd have been annoyed if I knew you had passed without coming in." And Muriel, a pretty figure in a low-cut gown of turquoise chiffon, standing behind her father, smiled secretly at me. I smiled at her in return, but it was a strange smile, I fear, for with the knowledge of that additional mystery within me--the mystery of the woman lying unconscious or perhaps dead, up in the wood--held me stupefied. I had suspected Leithcourt because of his constant trysts at that spot, but I had at least proved that my suspicions were entirely without foundation. He could not have got home and dressed in the time, for I had taken the nearest route to the castle while the fugitive would be compelled to make a wide detour. And yet when I recollected that hoarse cry that rang out in the darkness, I knew too well that she had been struck fatally. It was this latter conviction that prevented me from turning back to the wood. You will perhaps blame me, but the fact is I feared that if I went there suspicion might fall upon me, now that the real culprit had so ingeniously escaped. If the victim were dead, what aid could I render? A knife had, I believed, been used, for my foot caught against it when I had started off after the fugitive. The only doubt in my own mind was whether the unfortunate woman was actually dead, for if she were not then my disinclination to return to the scene of the tragedy was culpable. Whether or not I acted rightly in remaining away from the place, I leave it to you to judge in the light of the amazing truth which afterwards transpired. I decided to walk straight back to my uncle's, and dinner was over before I had had my tub and dressed. I therefore ate my meal alone, Davis, the grave old butler, serving me with that stateliness which always amused me. I usually chatted with him when others were not present, but that night I remained silent, my mind full of that strange and startling affair of which I alone held secret knowledge. Next day the body would surely be found; then the whole countryside would be filled with horror and surprise. Was it possible that Leithcourt, that calm, well-groomed, distinguished-looking man, held any knowledge of the ghastly truth? No. His manner as he stood in the hall chatting gayly with me was surely not that of a man with a guilty secret. I became firmly convinced that although the tragedy affected him very closely, and that it had occurred at the spot which he had each day visited for some mysterious purpose, yet up to the present he was in ignorance of what had transpired. But who was the woman? Was she young or old? I longed for the coming of the dawn when the Rannoch keepers would most certainly discover her. Then at least I should know the truth, for I might go and see the body out of curiosity without arousing any suspicion. I tried to play my usual game of billiards with my uncle, but my hand was so unsteady that the old gentleman began to chaff me. "It's the gun, I suppose," I remarked. "I've been carrying it all day, and am tired out. I walked all the way home from Crossburn." "The Carmichaels are very thick with the Leithcourts, I hear," my uncle remarked. "Strange they didn't ask Leithcourt to their shoot." "They did, but he'd got another engagement--over at Kenmure Castle, I think." I retired to my room that night full of fevered apprehension. Had I acted rightly in not returning to that lonely spot on the brow of the hill? Had I done as a man should do in keeping the tragic secret to myself? I opened my window and gazed away across the dark Nithsdale, where, in the distant gloom, the black line of wood loomed up against the stormy sky. The stars were no longer shining and the rain clouds had gathered. I stood with my face turned to the dark indistinct spot that held the secret, lost in wonderment. At last I closed the window and turned in, but no sleep came to my eyes, so full was my mind of the startling events of those past few months and of that gruesome discovery I had made. Had the fugitive actually recognized me? Probably my voice when I had called out had betrayed me. Hour after hour I lay puzzling, trying to arrive at some solution of that intricate problem which now presented itself. Muriel could tell me what I wished to know. Of that I was certain. Yet she dared not speak. Some inexpressible terror held her dumb--she was affianced to the man Martin Woodroffe. I was crossing the stable-yard where I had gone to order the carriage for my aunt, when an English groom, suddenly emerging from the harness-room, touched his cap, saying- "Have you 'eard, sir, of the awful affair up yonder?" "Of what?" I asked quickly. "A dead body!" I exclaimed, feigning great surprise. "Yes, sir--a youngish man. He'd been stabbed to the heart." "Yes, sir--so Holden says." "Call Holden. I'd like to know all he's heard," I said. And presently, when the gardener emerged from the grape-house, I sought of him all the particulars he had gathered. "The body was that of a man, then?" I asked, trying to conceal my utter bewilderment. A man! And yet the body I found was that of a woman--that I could swear. After lunch I took the dog-cart and drove alone into Dumfries. The sight was ghastly and gruesome; the body lay there awaiting the official inquiry into the cause of death. The silence of the tomb was unbroken, save for the heavy tread of the policeman, who having removed his helmet in the presence of the dead, lifted the end of the sheet, revealing to me a white, hard-set face, with closed eyes and dropped jaw. I started back as my eyes fell upon the dead countenance. I was entirely unprepared for such a revelation. The truth staggered me. The victim was the man who had acted as my friend--the Italian waiter, Olinto. I advanced and peered into the thin inanimate features, scarce able to realize the actual fact. But my eyes had not deceived me. Though death distorts the facial expression of every man, I had no difficulty in identifying him. "You recognize him, sir?" remarked the officer. "Who is he? Our people are very anxious to know, for up to the present moment they haven't succeeded in establishing his identity." I bit my lips. I had been an arrant fool to betray myself before that man. Yet having done so, I saw that any attempt to conceal my knowledge must of necessity reflect upon me. "I will see your inspector," I answered with as much calmness as I could muster. "Where has the poor fellow been wounded?" "Through the heart," responded the constable, as turning the sheet further down he showed me the small knife wound which had penetrated the victim's jacket and vest full in the chest. "This is the weapon," he added, taking from a shelf close by a long, thin poignard with an ivory handle, which he handed to me. It was still blood-stained, but as I took the deadly thing in my hand I saw that its blade was beautifully damascened, a most elegant specimen of a medieval arm. Yet surely none but an Italian would use such a weapon, or would aim so truly as to penetrate the heart. And yet the person struck down was a woman, and not a man! A wound from a _misericordia_ always proves fatal, because the shape of the blade cuts the flesh into little flaps which, on withdrawing the knife, close up and prevent the blood from issuing forth. At the same time, however, no power can make them heal again. A blow from such a weapon is as surely fatal as the poisoned poignard of the Borgia or the Medici. I handed the stiletto back to the man without comment. My resolve was to say as little as possible, for I had no desire to figure publicly at the inquiry, and consequently negative all my own efforts to solve the mystery of the Leithcourts and of Martin Woodroffe. I returned to where the figure was lying so ghastly and motionless, and looked again for the last time upon the dead face of the man who had served me so well, and yet who had enticed me so nearly to my death. In the latter incident there was a deep mystery. He had relented at the last moment, just in time to save me from my secret enemies. Could it be that my enemies were his? Had he fallen a victim by the same hand that had attempted so ingeniously to kill me? Why had Leithcourt gone so regularly up to Rannoch Wood? Was it in order to meet the man who was to be entrapped and killed? What was Olinto Santini doing so far from London, if he had not come expressly to meet someone in secret? As I glanced down at the cold, inanimate countenance upon which mystery was written, I became seized by regret. He had been a faithful and honest servant, and even though he had enticed me to that fatal house in Lambeth, yet I recollected his words, how he had done so under compulsion. I remembered, too, how he had implored me not to prejudge him before I became aware of the full facts. With my own hand I re-covered the face with the sheet, and inwardly resolved to avenge the dastardly crime. I regretted that I was compelled to reveal the dead man's name to the police, yet I saw that to make some statement was now inevitable, and therefore I accompanied the constable to the inspector's office some distance across the town. Having been introduced to the big, fair-haired man in a rough tweed suit, who was apparently directing the inquiries into the affair, he took me eagerly into a small back room and began to question me. I was, however, wary not to commit myself to anything further than the identification of the body. "The fact is," I said confidentially, "you must omit me from the witnesses at the inquest." "Why?" asked the detective suspiciously. "Then you know something of the affair?" he said, with a strong Highland accent. "I know nothing," I declared. "Nothing except his name." "H'm. And you say he's a foreigner--an Italian--eh?" "He was in my service in Leghorn for several years, and on leaving me he came to London and obtained an engagement as waiter in a restaurant. His father lived in Leghorn; he was doorkeeper at the Prefecture." "But why was he here, in Scotland?" "You therefore think he will betray himself?" "By the fact that the man was attacked with an Italian stiletto, it would seem that his assailant was a fellow-countryman," suggested the detective. "The evidence certainly points to that," I replied. I responded in the negative. "Most probably," I said. "A vendetta, perhaps. I live in Italy, and therefore know the Italians well," I added. I had given him my card, and told him with whom I was staying. "Where were you yesterday, sir?" he inquired presently. "I was shooting--on the other side of the Nithsdale," I answered, and then went on to explain my movements, without, however, mentioning my visit to Rannoch. "And although you know the murdered man so intimately, you have no suspicion of anyone in this district who was acquainted with him?" "You say he was engaged in service in London?" "You don't know the name of the restaurant?" "He did tell me, but unfortunately I have forgotten." The detective drew a deep breath of regret. "Someone who waited for him on the edge of that wood stepped out and killed him--that's evident," he said. With his latter remark I entirely coincided. In my own mind that was the strongest argument in favor of Leithcourt's innocence. That the tenant of Rannoch had kept that secret tryst in daily patience I knew from my own observations, yet to me it scarcely seemed feasible that he would use a weapon so peculiarly Italian and yet so terribly deadly. And then when I reflected further, recollecting that the body I had discovered was that of a woman and not a man, I stood staggered and bewildered by the utterly inexplicable enigma. I promised the burly detective that in exchange for his secrecy regarding my statement that I would assist him in every manner possible in the solution of the problem. "The real name of the murdered man must be at all costs withheld," I urged. "It must not appear in the papers, for I feel confident that only by the pretense that he is unknown can we arrive at the truth. If his name is given at the inquiry, then the assassin will certainly know that I have identified him." "Well," I said with some hesitation, "while I am believed to be in ignorance we shall have opportunity for obtaining the truth." "Then you do really suspect?" he said, again looking at me with those cold, blue eyes. "Not to my knowledge." "We might obtain his address in London through his father in Leghorn," suggested the officer. "I will write to-day if you so desire," I said readily. "Indeed, I will get my friend the British Consul to go round and see the old man and telegraph the address if he obtains it." "Capital!" he declared. "If you will do us this favor we shall be greatly indebted to you. It is fortunate that we have established the victim's identity--otherwise we might be entirely in the dark. A murdered foreigner is always more or less of a mystery." Therefore, then and there, I took a sheet of paper and wrote to my old friend Hutcheson at Leghorn, asking him to make immediate inquiry of Olinto's father as to his son's address in London. I said nothing to the police of that strange adventure of mine over in Lambeth, or of how the man now dead had saved my life. That his enemies were my own he had most distinctly told me, therefore I felt some apprehension that I myself was not safe. Yet in my hip pocket I always carried my revolver--just as I did in Italy--and I rather prided myself on my ability to shoot straight. We sat for a long time discussing the strange affair. In order to betray no eagerness to get away, I offered the big Highlander a cigar from my case, and we smoked together. The inquiry would be held on the morrow, he told me, but as far as the public was concerned the body would remain as that of some person "unknown." "And you had better not come to my uncle's house, or send anyone," I said. "If you desire to see me, send me a line and I will meet you here in Dumfries. It will be safer." The officer looked at me with those keen eyes of his, and said: "Really, Mr. Gregg, I can't quite make you out, I confess. You seem to be apprehensive of your own safety. Why?" "Italians are a very curious people," I responded quickly. "Their vendetta extends widely sometimes." "Then you have reason to believe that the enemy of this poor fellow Santini may be your enemy also?" "Ah! what you read about them is often very much exaggerated," I assured him. "It is the vendetta which is such a stain upon the character of the modern Italian; and depend upon it this affair in Rannoch Wood is the outcome of some revenge or other--probably over a love affair." "But you will assist us, sir?" he urged. "You know the Italian language, which will be of great advantage; besides, the victim was your servant." "Be discreet," I said. "And in return I will do my very utmost to assist you in hunting down the assassin." As I descended from the cart and gave it over to a groom, old Davis, the butler, came forward, saying in a low voice: "There's Miss Leithcourt waiting to see you, Mr. Gordon. She's in the morning-room, and been there an hour. She asked me not to tell anyone else she's here, sir." "Then my aunt has not seen her?" I exclaimed, scenting mystery in this unexpected visit. "No, sir. She wishes to see you alone, sir." I walked across the big hall and along the corridor to the room the old man had indicated. And as I opened the door and Muriel Leithcourt in plain black rose to meet me, I plainly saw from her white, haggard countenance that something had happened--that she had been forced by circumstances to come to me in strictest confidence. Was she, I wondered, about to reveal to me the truth? THE GATHERING OF THE CLOUDS "Mr. Gregg," exclaimed the girl with agitation, as she put forth her black-gloved hand, "I--I suppose you know--you've heard all about the discovery to-day up at the wood? I need not tell you anything about it" "Yes, Miss Leithcourt, I only wish you would tell me about it," I said gravely, inviting her to a chair and seating myself. "I've heard some extraordinary story about a man being found dead, but I've been in Dumfries nearly all day. Who is the man?" "Ah! that we don't know," she replied, pale-faced and anxious. Her attitude was as though she wished to confide in me and yet still hesitated to do so. "No. I wanted to see you alone--that's the reason I am here. They must not know at home that I've been over here, so I purposely asked the man not to announce me to your aunt." "You want to see me privately," I said in a low, earnest voice. "Why? Is there any service I can render you?" "I shall esteem it the highest honor if you will trust me," I said in deep earnestness. "I can only assure you that I will remain loyal to your interests and to yourself." A silence fell between us as she sat with her gloved hands lying idly in her lap. Her lips moved nervously, but no sound came from them, so agitated was she, so eager to tell me something; and yet at the same time reluctant to take me into her confidence. "Well?" I asked at last in a low voice. "I am quite ready to render you any service, if you will only command me." "Ah! But I fear what I require will strike you as so unusual--you will hesitate to act when I explain what service I require of you," she said doubtfully. "I cannot tell you until I hear your wishes," I said, smiling, and yet puzzled at her attitude. "It concerns the terrible discovery made up in Rannoch Wood," she said in a hoarse, nervous voice at last. "That unknown man was murdered--stabbed to the heart." "Well," she said, scarcely above a whisper, "I have suspicions." "Of the murdered man's identity?" "No. Of the assassin." I glanced at her sharply and saw the intense look in her dark, wide-open eyes. "You believe you know who dealt the blow?" "I have a suspicion--that is all. Only I want you to help me, if you will." "Most certainly," I responded. "But if you believe you know the assassin you probably know something of the victim?" "Only that he looked like a foreigner." "Then you have seen him?" I exclaimed, much surprised. My remark caused her to hold her breath for an instant. Then she answered, rather lamely, it seemed to me: "I saw him when the keepers brought the body to the castle." Now, according to the account I had heard, the police had conveyed the dead man direct from the wood into Dumfries. Was it possible, therefore, that she had seen Olinto before he met with his sudden end? I feared to press her for an explanation at that moment, but, nevertheless, the admission that she had seen him struck me as a very peculiar fact. "You judge him to be a foreigner?" I remarked as casually as I could. "From his features and complexion I guessed him to be Italian," she responded quickly, at which I pretended to express surprise. "I saw him after the keepers had found him." "Is that your own suspicion?" She hesitated a moment, then in a low, eager voice she said: "That's pretty strong evidence," I declared. "The person in question will have to prove that he was not in Rannoch Wood last evening at nightfall." "I merely surmised that it was," I responded, inwardly blaming myself for my ill-timed admission. "Ah!" she said with a slight sigh, "there is more mystery in this affair than we have yet discovered, Mr. Gregg. What, I wonder, brought the unfortunate young man up into our wood?" "An appointment, without a doubt. But with whom?" She shook her head, saying: "My father often goes to that spot to shoot pigeon in the evening. He told us so at luncheon to-day. How fortunate he was not there last night, or he might be suspected." "Yes," I said. "It is a very fortunate circumstance, for it cannot be a pleasant experience to be under suspicion of being an assassin. He was at home last night, was he?" I added casually. "Then what is your theory regarding the affair?" I inquired, rather puzzled why she should so decisively prove an alibi for her father. "It seems certain that the poor fellow went to the wood by appointment, and was killed. But have you been up to the spot since the finding of the body?" "Yes. The affair interested me, and as soon as I recognized the old Italian knife in the hand of the keeper, I went up there and looked about. I am glad I did so, for I found something which seems to have escaped the notice of the detectives." "And what's that?" I asked eagerly. "There may have been a struggle at that spot, and the man may have staggered some distance before he fell dead." I gazed at her open-mouthed. Did she, I wondered, know the actual truth? Was she aware that the woman who had fallen there had disappeared? "It is for this reason, Mr. Gregg, that I have sought you in confidence. Nobody must know that I have come here to you, or they would suspect; and if suspicion fell upon me it would bring upon me a fate worse than death. Remember, therefore, that my future is entirely in your hands." "I don't quite understand," I said, rising and standing before her in the fading twilight, while the rain drove upon the old diamond window panes. "But I can only assure you that whatever confidence you repose in me, I shall never abuse, Miss Leithcourt." "But if we succeed in finding it, could we place our hand upon the assassin?" I asked, looking straight at her. "If we find it, the crime would then tell its own tale--it would convict the person in whose hand I have seen that fatal weapon," was her clear, bold answer. "Then you wish me to assist you in this search, Miss Leithcourt?" I said, wondering if her suspicions rested upon that mysterious yachtsman, Philip Hornby, the man to whom she was engaged. "But my search may bring suspicion upon me," I remarked. "It will be difficult to examine the whole wood without arousing the curiosity of somebody--the keeper or the police." "I have already thought of that," she said. "I will pretend to-morrow to lose this watch-bracelet in the wood," and she held up her slim wrist to show me the little enameled watch set in her bracelet. "Then you and I will search for it diligently, and the police will never suspect the real reason of our investigation. To-morrow I shall write to you telling you about my loss, and you will come over to Rannoch and offer to help me." I was silent for a moment. "Is Mr. Woodroffe back at the castle? I heard he was to return to-day." "No. I had a letter from him from Bordeaux a week ago. He is still on the Continent. I believe, indeed, he has gone to Russia, where he sometimes has business." "I asked you the question, Miss Muriel, because I thought if Mr. Woodroffe were here, he might object to our searching in company," I explained, smiling. Her cheeks flushed slightly, as though confused at my reference to her engagement, and she said mischievously: "I don't see why he should object in the least. If you are good enough to assist me to search for my bracelet, he surely ought to be much obliged to you." What secret knowledge could be possessed by that smart, handsome girl before me? That her suspicions were in the right direction I felt confident, yet if the dead woman had been removed and hidden by the assassin it must have been after the discovery made by me. The fellow must have actually dared to return to the spot and carry off the victim. Yet if he had actually done that, why did he allow the corpse of the Italian to remain and await discovery? He might perhaps have been disturbed and compelled to make good his escape. "If the woman was really removed the assassin must surely have had some assistance," I pointed out. "He could not have carried the body very far unaided." "Have you any idea as to the motive?" I asked her, eager to hear her reply. "Well," she answered hesitatingly, "if the woman has fallen a victim, the motive will become plain; but if not, then the matter must remain a complete mystery." "You tell me, Miss Muriel, that you suspect the truth, and yet you deny all knowledge of the murdered man!" I exclaimed in a tone of slight reproach. "Then a man is the assassin, you think?" I exclaimed quickly. Rannoch Wood was already in its gold-brown glory of autumn, and as I stood with Muriel Leithcourt on the edge of it, near the spot where Olinto Santini had fallen, the morning sun was shining in a cloudless sky. On arrival at the wood I asked her opinion which was the most likely corner, but she replied: And so together, after taking our bearings, we started off, working our way into the thick undergrowth, beating with our sticks, and making minute examination of every bush or heap of dead leaves. In parts, the great spreading trees shut out the light, rendering our investigations very difficult; but we kept on, my companion advancing with an eagerness which showed that the fact of the woman's body being there was no mere surmise. "Now what untruth must I invent to account for that?" When Hutcheson replied from Leghorn, and when I discovered where Olinto was employed, I might perhaps follow up the clues from that end. I might find his wife Armida and learn something of importance from her. So I was hopeful, and by reason of that hope remained silent. Muriel was untiring in her activity. Hither and thither she went, beating down the high bracken and tangles of weeds, poking with her stick into every hole and corner, and going further and further into the wood in the certainty that the body was therein concealed. "This is a most likely place," declared my dainty little companion as we approached it. "Anything could easily be concealed in that high bracken down there. Let us search the whole glen from end to end," she cried with enthusiasm. "It doesn't matter in the least, if we only find what we're in search of." And then, undaunted, she went on, springing from stone to stone and steadying herself with her stick. If we could only discover the body of the dead woman, then the rest would be clear, she declared. She would openly denounce the assassin. The sun had set, and the sky above showed the crimson of the distant afterglow, warning us that it was time we began to think of how to make our exit. We were passing around a sharp bend in the glen where the boulders were so thickly moss-grown that our feet fell noiselessly, when I thought I heard a voice, and raising my hand we both halted suddenly. "Someone is there," I whispered quickly. "Behind that rock." She nodded in the affirmative, for she, too, had heard the voice. We listened, but the sound was not repeated. That someone was on the other side of the rock I knew, for in a tree in the vicinity a thrush was hopping from twig to twig, sounding its alarm-cry and objecting to being disturbed. Therefore we crept silently forward together to ascertain who were the intruders. The only manner, however, in which to get a view beyond the huge rock that, having fallen across the stream centuries ago, had diverted its channel, was to clamber up its mossy sides to the summit. This we did eagerly and breathlessly, without betraying our presence by the utterance of a single word. "Who are they, I wonder?" I asked. "Do you recognize them?" "Wasn't it a gun? I thought it was." "No, he wasn't carrying it like he'd carry a gun. It was short--and seemed more like a spade." "A spade!" she gasped quickly in a low voice. "A spade! Are you certain of that?" "No, not at all certain. We only had an instantaneous glance of them. We were unfortunately too late to see them face to face." "It is a spade the man is carrying!" I cried excitedly. "Look down there! They've just been burying something!" Her quick eyes followed the direction I indicated, and she answered: "I really believe they have concealed something!" Then when we had allowed the men to get beyond hearing, we both slipped down to the other side of the boulder and there discovered many signs that the earth had been hurriedly excavated and only just replaced. Quicker than it takes to describe the exciting incident which followed, we broke down the branch of a tree and with it commenced moving the freshly disturbed earth, which was still soft and easily removed. Digging with a piece of wood was hard and laborious work and it was a long time before we removed sufficient earth to make a hole of any size. But Muriel exerted all her energy, and both of us worked on in dogged silence full of wonder and anticipation. With a spade we should have soon been able to investigate, but the earth having apparently been stamped down hard prior to the last covering being put upon it, our progress was very slow and difficult. "Look! Look, Mr. Gregg! Why--whatever is that?" I bent forward as she indicated, and my eyes met an object so unexpected that I was held dumb and motionless. By what we had succeeded in discovering, the mystery was increased rather than diminished. I gave vent to an ejaculation of complete bewilderment, and looked blankly into my companion's face. The amazing enigma was surely complete! With frantic eagerness I got into the hole we had made and removed the soil with my hands, until I suddenly touched something hard. A body lay there, doubled up and crushed into the well-like hole the men had dug. Together we pulled it out, when, to my surprise, on wiping away the dirt from the hard waxen features, I recognized it as the body of Armida, the woman who had been my servant in Leghorn and who had afterwards married Olinto. Both had been assassinated! When Muriel gazed upon the dead woman's face she gave vent to an expression of surprise. The body was evidently not that of the person she had expected to find. "Who is she, I wonder?" my companion ejaculated. "Not a lady, evidently, by her dress and hands." "Evidently not," was my response, for I still deemed it best to keep my own counsel. I recollected the story Olinto had told me about his wife; of her illness and her longing to return to Italy. Yet the dead woman's countenance must have been healthy enough in life, although her hands were rough and hard, showing that she had been doing manual labor. Armida had been a particularly good housemaid, a black-haired, black-eyed Tuscan, quick, cleanly, and full of a keen sense of humor. It was a great shock to me to find her lying there dead. The breast of her dress was stained with dried blood, which, on examination, I found had issued from a deep and fatal wound beneath the ear where she had been struck an unerring blow that had severed the artery. "Yes," I said. "Let us go after them. They must not escape us." Then, leaving the exhumed body beneath a tree, I caught Muriel by the waist and waded across the deep channel worn by the stream at that point, after which we both ascended the steep bank where the pair had disappeared in the darkness of the wood. We went on, striking straight for the open moorland which we knew bounded the woods in that direction, and before the light had entirely faded we found ourselves out amongst the heather with the distant hills looming dark against the horizon. But we saw no sign of the men who had so secretly concealed the body of their victim. "I will take you back to the castle, Miss Leithcourt," I said. "And then I'll drive on into Dumfries and see the police. These men must be arrested." "Yes, do," she urged. "I will get into the house by the stable-yard, for they must not see me in this terrible plight." It was rough walking, therefore at my invitation she took my arm, and as she did so I felt that she was shivering. "You are very wet," I remarked. "I hope you won't take cold." "Oh! I'm used to getting wet. I drive and cycle a lot, you know, and very often get drenched," was her reply. Then after a pause she said: "We must discover who that woman was. She seems, from her complexion and her hair, to be a foreigner, like the man." "Yes, I think so," was my reply. "I will tell the police all that we have found out, and they will go there presently and recover the body." "You expected to discover another woman, did you not, Miss Leithcourt?" I asked presently, as we walked across the moor. "Yes," she answered. "I expected to find an entirely different person." "And if you had found her it would have proved the guilt of someone with whom you are acquainted?" She nodded in the affirmative. "Then what we have found this evening does not convey to you the identity of the assassins?" "No, unfortunately it does not. We must for the present leave the matter in the hands of the police." "But if the identity of the dead woman is established?" I asked. "It might furnish me with a clue," she exclaimed quickly. "Yes, try and discover who she is." "Who was the woman you expected to find?" "A friend--a very dear friend." "Will you not tell me her name?" I inquired. "No, it would be unfair to her," she responded decisively, an answer which to me was particularly tantalizing. On we plodded in silence, our thoughts too full for words. Was it not strange that the mysterious yachtsman should be her lover, and stranger still that on recognizing me he should have escaped, not only from Scotland, but away to the Continent? Was not that, in itself, evidence of guilt and fear? It was quite dark when I took leave of my bright little companion, who, tired out and yet uncomplaining, pressed my hand and wished me good fortune in my investigations. "I shall await you to-morrow afternoon. Call and tell me everything, won't you?" I promised, and then she disappeared into the great stable-yard behind the castle, while I went on down the dark road and then struck across the open fields to my uncle's house. When we were seated in his room beneath the hissing gas-jet, I related my adventure and the result of my investigation. "What?" he cried, jumping up. "You've unearthed another body--a woman's?" "I have. And what is more, I can identify her," I replied. "Her name is Armida, and she was wife of the murdered man Olinto Santini." "Then both husband and wife were killed?" His question nonplused me for the moment. "Well, you see, I had identified the young man Olinto, and knowing him to be married and devoted to his wife, I suspected that she had accompanied him here. It was entirely a vague surmise. I wondered whether, if the poor fellow had fallen a victim to his enemies, she had not also been struck down." "Then the body is still in the glen, where you left it?" "Yes. If you wish, I will take you to the spot. I can drive you and your assistant up there." "Yes, sir," answered the man; and the door again closed. "They were already across the stream, and disappearing into the thicket before I mounted the rock," I explained. "Besides, at the moment I had no suspicion of what they'd been doing. I believed them to be stragglers from a neighboring shooting-party who had lost their way." "Ah, most unfortunate!" he said. "I hope they don't escape us. If they're foreigners, they are not likely to get away. But if they're English or Scots, then I fear there's but little chance of us coming up with them. Yesterday at the inquest the identity of the murdered man was strictly preserved, and the inquiry was adjourned for a fortnight." "Of course my name was not mentioned?" I said. "Of course not," was the detective's reply. Then he asked: "When do you expect to get a telegram from your friend, the Consul at Leghorn? I am anxious for that, in order that we may commence inquiries in London." "Yes. It was here. Look! this is the hole where they buried it! But they evidently returned, and finding it exhumed, they've retaken possession of it and carried it away!" As we stood there dumbfounded at the disappearance of the body, the Highlander's quick glance caught something, and stooping he picked it up and examined the little object by the aid of his lantern. Within his palm I saw lying a tiny little gold cross, about an inch long, enameled in red, while in the center was a circular miniature of a kneeling saint, an elegant and beautifully executed little trinket which might have adorned a lady's bracelet. "This is a pretty little thing!" remarked the detective. "It may possibly lead us to something. But, Mr. Gregg," he added, turning to me, "are you quite certain you left the body here?" "Certain?" I echoed. "Why, look at the hole I made. You don't think I have any interest in leading you here on a fool's errand, do you?" "Unless they watched me exhume it, and feared the consequences if it fell into your hands," I suggested. "Of course they might have watched you from behind the trees, and when you had gone they came and carried it away somewhere else," he remarked dubiously; "but even if they did, it must be in this wood. They would never risk carrying a body very far, and here is surely the best place of concealment in the whole country." "Most probably they are. We must take every precaution," he said decisively. And then, with our lanterns lowered, we made an examination of the vicinity, without, however, discovering anything else to furnish us with a clew. While I had been absent the body of the unfortunate Armida had disappeared--a fact which, knowing all that I did, was doubly mysterious. The pair had, without doubt, watched Muriel and myself, and as soon as we had gone they had returned and carried off the ghastly remains of the poor woman who had been so foully done to death. But who were the men--the fellow with the broad shoulders whom Muriel recognized, and the slim seafarer in his pilot-coat and peaked cap? The enigma each hour became more and more inscrutable. I called on Muriel as arranged, and explained how the body had so suddenly disappeared, whereupon she stared at me pale-faced, saying- "The assassins must have watched us! They are aware, then, that we have knowledge of their crime?" "Of course," I said. "Ah!" she cried hoarsely. "Then we are both in deadly peril--peril of our own lives! These people will hesitate at nothing. Both you and I are marked down by them, without a doubt. We must both be wary not to fall into any trap they may lay for us." Her very words seemed an admission that she was aware of the identity of the conspirators, and yet she would give me no clue to them. We went out and up the drive together to the kennels, where her father, a tall, imposing figure in his shooting-kit, was giving orders to the keepers. "Thanks," I said, accepting with pleasure, for by so doing I saw that I might be afforded an opportunity of being near Muriel. The fact that the assassins were aware of our knowledge seemed to have caused her the greatest apprehension lest evil should befall us. Then, as we turned away to go back to the house, Leithcourt said to me- "You know all about the discovery up at the wood the other day! Horrible affair--a young foreigner found murdered." "Yes. I've heard about it," I responded. "And the police are worse than useless," he declared with disgust. "They haven't discovered who the fellow is yet. Why, if it had happened anywhere else but in Scotland, they'd have arrested the assassin before this." "He's an entire stranger, I hear," I remarked. And then added: "You often go up to the wood of an evening after pigeons. It's fortunate you were not there that evening, eh?" He glanced at me quickly with his brows slightly contracted, as though he did not exactly comprehend me. In an instant I saw that my remark had caused him quick apprehension. "Yes," he answered with a sickly smile which he intended should convey to me utter unconcern. "They might have suspected me." This puzzled her, for I had not, of course, revealed to her that I had identified Olinto. Yet I managed to make such excuses and promises to return that I think allayed all her suspicions, and that night, after calling upon the detective Mackenzie, I took the sleeping-car express to Euston. "I wish to see Signor Ferrari," I said, addressing him. "There is no Ferrari, he is dead," responded the man in broken English. "My name is Odinzoff. I bought the place from madame." "You are Russian, I presume?" "Polish, m'sieur--from Varsovie." "I have come to inquire after a waiter you have in your service, an Italian named Santini. He was my servant for some years, and I naturally take an interest in him." This reply surprised me. I had expected the restaurant-keeper to express regret at his disappearance, yet he spoke as though he had been at work as usual on the previous day. "You find Olinto a good servant, I suppose?" I said, for want of something else to say. "Excellent. The Italians are the best waiters in the world. I am Russian, but dare not employ a Russian waiter. These English would not come to my shop if I did." "How long has Olinto been with you?" I inquired. "About a year--perhaps a little more. I trust him implicitly, and I leave him in charge when I go away for holidays. He does not get along very well with the cook--who is Milanese. These Italians from different provinces always quarrel," he added, laughing. "If you live in Italy you know that, no doubt." The Russian was by no means nonplused, but merely remarked- "He is late sometimes, but not often. He lives on the other side of London--over at Camberwell." His confidence that the waiter would return struck me as extremely curious; nevertheless I possessed myself in patience, strolled up and down the restaurant, and then stood watching the traffic in the Grove outside. The suspicion held me breathless. "That was your cook, wasn't it? The Milanese who is quarrelsome?" I laughed, when the side door had closed. "Yes, m'sieur. But Emilio is a very good workman--and very honest, even though I had constantly to complain that he uses too much oil in his cooking. These English do not like the oil." This was my opportunity, and quick as thought I moved towards where the unhealthy youth was at work, and whispered: "Was he here the day before?" "He's been away too, sir." I had no time to put any further question, for the Russian re-entered at that moment, and the youth busied himself rubbing the front of the counter in pretense that I had not spoken to him. Indeed, I had some difficulty in slipping the promised coin into his hand at a moment when his master was not looking. Then I paced up and down the restaurant, waiting patiently and wondering whether the absence of Emilio had any connection with the tragedy up in Rannoch Wood. And yet as I watched I saw that over the top of his paper he was carefully taking in the general appearance of the place, and his eyes were keenly following the Russian's movements. The latter shouted--in French--the order for the chop through the speaking-tube to the man Emilio, and then returning to his customer he spread out a napkin and placed a small cruet, with knife, fork, and bread before him. But the customer seemed immersed in his paper, and never looked up until after the Russian's back was turned. Then so deep was his interest in the place, and so keen those dark eyes of his, that the truth suddenly dawned upon me. Mackenzie had telegraphed to Scotland Yard, and the customer sitting there was a detective who had come to investigate. I had advanced to the counter to chat again with the proprietor, when a quick step behind me caused me to turn. Before me stood the slim figure of a man in a straw hat and rather seedy black jacket. "_Dio Signor Padrone!_" he cried. I staggered as though I had received a blow. Olinto Santini in the flesh, smiling and well, stood there before me! LIFE'S COUNTER-CLAIM No words of mine can express my absolute and abject amazement when I faced the man, whom I had seen lying cold and dead upon that gray stone slab in the mortuary at Dumfries. My eye caught the customer who, on the entry of Olinto, had dropped his paper and sat staring at him in wonderment. The detective had evidently been furnished with a photograph of the dead man, and now, like myself, discovered him alive and living. "Signor Padrone!" cried the man whose appearance was so absolutely bewildering. "How did you find me here? I admit that I deceived you when I told you I worked at the Milano," he went on rapidly in Italian. "But it was under compulsion--my actions that night were not my own--but those of others." "Yes, I understand," I said. "But come out into the street. I don't wish to speak before these people. Your padrone knows Italian, no doubt." "Ah! only a very little," he answered, smiling. "Have no fear of him." "But there is Emilio, the cook?" "Then you have met him!" he exclaimed quickly, with a strange look of apprehension. "He is an undesirable person, signore." "So I gather," I answered. "But I desire to speak to you outside--not here." And then turning with a smile to the Pole, I apologized for taking away his servant for a few minutes. "Recollect, I am his old master, I added." "Of course, m'sieur," answered the Pole, bowing politely. "Speak with him where and how long you will. He is entirely at your service." And when we were outside in Westbourne Grove, Olinto walking by my side in wonderment, I asked suddenly: "Tell me. Have you ever been in Scotland--at Dumfries?" "Never, signore, in my life. Why?" "Answer me another question," I said quickly. "You married Armida at the Italian Consulate. Where is she now--where is she this morning?" He turned pale, and I saw a complete change in his countenance. "Ah, signore!" he responded, "I only wish I could tell." "It is untrue that she is an invalid," I went on, "or that you live in Lambeth. Your address is in Albany Road, Camberwell. You can't deny these facts." "I do not deny them, Signor Commendatore. But how did you learn this?" "The authorities in Italy know everything," I answered. "Like that of all your countrymen, your record is written down at the Commune." "I cast no reflection whatever upon you, Olinto," I answered. "I have merely inquired after your wife, and you do not give me a direct reply." We had walked to the Royal Oak, and stood talking on the curb outside. "I give you no reply, because I can't," he said in Italian. "Armida--my poor Armida--has left home." "Why did you tell me such a tale of distress regarding her?" "As I have already explained, signore, I was not then master of my own actions. I was ruled by others. But I saved your life at risk of my own. Some day, when it is safe, I will reveal to you everything." "Let us allow the past to remain," I said. "Where is your wife now?" He hesitated a moment, looking straight into my face. "Well, Signor Commendatore, to tell the truth, she has disappeared." "Disappeared!" I echoed. "And have you not made any report to the police?" "For reasons known only to myself I did not wish the police to pry into my private affairs." "Yes, Signor Commendatore. But I was a youth then--a mere boy." "Then tell me the circumstances In which Armida has disappeared," I urged, for I saw quite plainly that his sudden meeting with me had upset him, and that he was trying to hold back from me some story which he was bursting to tell. "Well, signore," he said at last in a low tone of confidence, "I don't like to trouble you with my private affairs after those untruths I told you when we last met." "Go on," I said. "Tell me the truth." "She spoke English, I suppose?" I glanced across the road, and saw that the detective who had ordered his chop and coffee had stopped to light his pipe and was watching us. "Have you any idea where your wife is, or what has induced her to go away from home? Perhaps you had some words!" "Words, signore!" he echoed. "Why, we were the happiest pair in all London. No unkind word ever passed between us. There seems absolutely no reason whatever why she should go away without wishing me a word of farewell." "But why haven't you told the police?" "For reasons that I have already stated. I prefer to make inquiries for myself." "And in what have your inquiries resulted?" "Nothing--absolutely nothing," he said gravely. "You do not suspect any plot? I recollect that night in Lambeth you told me that you had enemies?" "Ah! so I have, signore--and so have you!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Yes, my poor Armida may have been entrapped by them." "And if entrapped, what then?" "Then they would kill her with as little compunction as they would a fly," he said. "Ah! you do not know the callousness of those people. I only hope and pray that she may have escaped and is in hiding somewhere, and will arrive unexpectedly and give me a startling surprise. She delights in startling me," he added with a laugh. Poor fellow, I thought, she would never again be able to startle him. She had actually fallen a victim just as he dreaded. "Then you think she must have been called away from home by some urgent message?" I suggested. "Tell me, Olinto," I said as we moved forward again in the direction of Paddington Station, "have you any knowledge of a man named Leithcourt?" He started suddenly and looked at me. "I have heard of him," he answered very lamely. "And of his daughter--Muriel?" "And also of her. But I am not acquainted with them--nor, to tell the truth, do I wish to be." "Because they are enemies of mine--bitter enemies." His declaration was strange, for it threw some light upon the tragedy in Rannoch Wood. "And of your wife also?" "I do not know that," he responded. "My enemies are my wife's also, I suppose." "You have not told me the secret of that dastardly attempt upon me when we last met," I said in a low voice. "Why not tell me the truth? I surely ought to know who my enemies really are, so as to be warned against any future plot." "You shall know some day, signore. I dare not tell you now." "You said that before," I exclaimed with dissatisfaction. "If you are faithful to me, you ought at least to tell me the reason they wished to kill me in secret." "Because they fear you," was his answer. "Why should they fear me?" But he shrugged his shoulders, and made a gesture with his hands indicative of utter ignorance. The young Italian paused, and then answered: "He is not your friend. I am quite well aware of that." "And his daughter? She is engaged, I hear." "Suddenly became rich--eh?" "Bought a fine house in the country; lives mostly at the Carlton when he and his wife and daughter are in London--although I believe they now have a house somewhere in the West End--and he often makes long cruises on his steam-yacht." "And how did he make his money?" Again Olinto elevated his shoulders, without replying. If he would only betray to me the reason he had been induced to entice me to that house, I might then be able to form some conclusion regarding the tenants of Rannoch and their friends. Who was the man who, having represented the man now before me, had been struck dead by an unerring hand? Was it possible that Armida had been called by telegram to meet her husband, and recognizing the fraud perpetrated upon her threatened to disclose it and, for that reason, shared the same fate as the masquerader? He walked with me as far as the end of Bishop's Road, endeavoring with all the Italian's exquisite diplomacy to obtain from me what I knew concerning the Leithcourts. But I told him nothing, nor did I reveal that I had only that morning returned from Scotland. Then at last we parted, and he retraced his steps to the little restaurant in Westbourne Grove, while I entered a hansom and drove to the well-known photographer's in New Bond Street, whose name had been upon the torn photograph of the young girl in the white pique blouse and her hair fastened with a bow of black ribbon, the picture that I had found on board the _Lola_ on that memorable night in the Mediterranean, and a duplicate of which I had seen in Muriel's cosy little room up at Rannoch. I recollected that she had told me the name of the original was Elma Heath, and that she had been a schoolfellow of hers at Chichester. Therefore I inquired of the photographer's lady-clerk whether she could supply me with a print of the negative. For a considerable time she searched in her books for the name, and at last discovered it. Then she said: "I regret, sir, that we can't give you a print, for the customer purchased the negative at the time." "Ah, I'm very sorry for that," I said. "To what address did you send it?" "Did this gentleman come with the young lady when her portrait was taken?" I inquired. "The photographer would know, perhaps?" "He's a new man, sir. He only came a month ago. In fact, the business changed hands a year ago, and none of the previous employees have remained." "Ah! that's unfortunate," I said, greatly disappointed; and having copied the address to which the negative and prints had been sent, I thanked her and left. Who, I wondered, was this Baron Oberg, and what relation was he to Elma Heath? The picture of the girl in the white blouse somehow exercised a strange attraction for me. Who was this Baron Oberg? The name was German undoubtedly, yet he lived in the Russian capital. From London to Petersburg is a far cry, yet I resolved that if it were necessary I would travel there and investigate. "Oh, yes, sir. The foreigners are respectable enough. Always pays me ready money for everythink, except the milk. That they pays for weekly." "I understand that the wife has disappeared. What have you heard about that?" "They do say, sir, that they 'ad some words together the other day, and that the woman's took herself off in a tantrum. Only you can't believe all you 'ear, you know." "Did they often quarrel?" "Not to my knowledge, sir. They were really very quiet, respectable persons for foreigners." I repassed the house of the dead woman, and then regaining the busy Camberwell Road I took an omnibus back to the Hotel Cecil in the Strand where I had put up, tired and disappointed. To the principal, an elderly lady of a somewhat severe aspect, I said: "Well," I said, "there has been some little friction in the family, and I am making inquiries on behalf of another branch of it--an aunt who desires to ascertain the girl's whereabouts." "Had she no school-friend to whom she would probably write?" "There was a girl named Leithcourt--Muriel Leithcourt--who was her friend, but who has also left." The principal was silent and reflective. "I should esteem it a great favor if you would give me that young lady's address," I said, whereupon she unlocked a drawer in her writing-table and took therefrom a thick, leather-bound book which she consulted for a few minutes, at last exclaiming: And with that I took my leave, thanking her, and returned to London. Could Lydia Moreton furnish any information? If so, I might find this girl whose photograph had aroused the irate jealousy of the mysterious unknown. When I descended at the door and rang, the footman was not aware whether Miss Lydia was in. He looked at me somewhat suspiciously, I thought, until I gave my card and impressed upon him meaningly that I had come from London purposely to see his young mistress upon a very important matter. "Tell her," I said, "that I wish to see her regarding her friend, Miss Elma Heath." "Miss Elma 'Eath," repeated the man. "Very well, sir. Will you walk this way?" And then I followed him across the big old oak-paneled hall, filled with trophies of the chase and arms of the civil wars, into a small paneled room on the left, the deep-set window with its diamond panes giving out upon the old bowling-green and the flower-garden beyond. Presently the door opened, and a tall dark-haired girl in white entered with an enquiring expression upon her face as she halted and bowed to me. "Ah! she would never say. She had some deep-rooted terror of her uncle, Baron Oberg, who lived in St. Petersburg, and who came over at long intervals to see her. But possibly you know the whole story?" "I know nothing," I cried eagerly. "You will be furthering her interests, as well as doing me a great personal favor, if you will tell me what you know." "It is very little," she answered, leaning back against the edge of the table and regarding me seriously. "Poor Elma! Her people treated her very badly indeed. They sent her no money, and allowed her no holidays, and yet she was the sweetest-tempered and most patient girl in the whole school." "Well--and the story regarding her?" "It was supposed that her people at Durham did not exist," she explained. "Elma had evidently lived a greater part of her life abroad, for she could speak French and Italian better than the professor himself, and therefore always won the prizes. The class revolted, and then she did not compete any more. Yet she never told us of where she had lived when a child. She came from Durham, she said--that was all." "You had a letter from her after the Baron came and took her away?" "Yes, from London. She said that she had been to several plays and concerts, but did not care for life in town. There was too much bustle and noise and study of clothes." "And what other letters did you receive from her?" "Yes, the last?" I gasped eagerly, interrupting her. "Well, the last I received only a fortnight ago. If you will wait a moment I will go and get it. It was so strange that I haven't destroyed it." And she went out, and I heard by the frou-frou of her skirts that she was ascending the stairs. "It is not in her handwriting--I wonder why?" The paper was of foreign make, with blue lines ruled in squares. Written in a hand that was evidently foreign, for the mistakes in the orthography were many, was the following curious communication: "It is all I ask of you, Lydia, and I know that if this reaches you, you will not refuse me. You have been my only friend and confidante, but I now bid you farewell, for the unknown beckons me, and from the grave I cannot write. Again farewell, and for ever. "Your loving and affectionate friend, "A very strange letter, is it not?" remarked the girl at my side. "I can't make it out. You see there is no address, but the postmark is Russian. She is evidently in Russia." "In Finland," I said, examining the stamp and making out the post town to be Abo. "But have you been to London and executed this strange commission?" "No. We are going up next week. I intend to call upon this person named Woodroffe." "Poor Elma, you see, speaks in her letter of some secret, Mr. Gregg," my companion said. "She says she wishes this Mr. Woodroffe, whoever he is, to know that she has kept her promise and has not divulged it. This only bears out what I have all along suspected." "What are your suspicions?" STRANGE DISCLOSURES ARE MADE The strange letter of Elma Heath, combined with what Lydia Moreton had told me, aroused within me a determination to investigate the mystery. From the moment I had landed from the _Lola_ on that hot, breathless night at Leghorn, mystery had crowded upon mystery until it was all bewildering. It was now proved that the sweet-faced girl, the original of the torn photograph, held a secret, and that, by her own words, she knew that death was approaching. The incomprehensible attempt upon my life, the strange actions of Hornby and Chater--who, by the way, seemed to have entirely disappeared--the assassination of the man who by masquerading as the Italian waiter had met his death, and the murder of Olinto's wife were all problems which required solution. Had it not been for the mystery of it all--and mystery ever arouses the human curiosity--I should have given up trying to get at the truth. Yet as a man with some leisure, and knowing by that letter of Elma Heath's that she was in sore distress, I redoubled my efforts to ascertain the reason of it all. The mystery of the _Lola_ was still a mystery along the Mediterranean. At every French and Italian port the yacht's false name and general build was written in the police-books, while at Lloyd's the name _Lola_ was marked down as among the mysterious craft at sea. Chater was missing, while Hornby was abroad. Perhaps they were both cruising again, with their yacht repainted and bearing a fresh name. But why? What had been their motive? Fortunately I had been careful not to show my hand to anyone, and this perhaps gave me a distinct advantage. On my journey back to London, as the train swung through Peterborough and out across the rich level lands towards Hitchin, I recollected Jack Durnford's words when I had mentioned the _Lola_. What, I wondered, did he know? I called at the house in Cork Street indicated by Elma, and learned from the old commissionaire who acted as lift-man and porter, that Mr. Woodroffe's chambers were closed. "'E's nearly always away, sir--abroad, I think," was all I could get out of the old soldier, who, like his class, was no doubt well paid to keep his mouth closed. I would have approached him and explained the ghastly truth, had it not been for the fact that the poor woman's body was missing. Sir George, who was sitting alone--it not being my aunt's habit to appear early--welcomed me, and then in his bluff manner sniffed and exclaimed: "Nice goings on up at Rannoch! Have you heard of them?" "No. What?" I cried breathlessly, staring at him. "Well, my suspicions that those Leithcourts were utter outsiders turns out to be about correct." "Flight!" I gasped. "What, have they gone?" "Chater!" I cried, starting up. "Are you certain of that name?" "I only know what Cowan told me," was my uncle's reply. "But do you know him?" "Not at all. Only I've heard that name before," I said. "I knew a man out in Italy of the same name. But where is the visitor now?" "In the hospital at Dumfries. They took him there in preference to leaving him alone at Rannoch." "Certainly, it is a most extraordinary story," I declared. "Leithcourt evidently wished to escape from his visitor, and that's why he drugged him." He was a spare, short, fair man, a trifle bald, and when I was shown in he welcomed me warmly, speaking with his pronounced Galloway accent. "Well, it is a very mysterious case, Mr. Gregg," he said, after I had told him the object of my visit. "The gentleman is still in the hospital, and I have to keep him very quiet. He was poisoned without a doubt, and has had a very narrow escape of his life. The police got wind of the affair, and Mackenzie called to question him. But he refused to make any statement whatever, apparently treating the affair very lightly. The police, however, are mystified as to the reason of Mr. Leithcourt's sudden flight, and are anxious to get at the bottom of the curious affair." "Naturally. And more especially after the tragedy up in Rannoch Wood a short time ago," I said. "That's just it," said the doctor, removing his pince-nez and rubbing them. "Mackenzie seems to suspect some connection between Leithcourt's sudden disappearance and that mysterious affair. It seems very evident that the telegram was a warning to Leithcourt of the man Chater's intention of calling, and that the last-named was shown in just at the moment when the fugitive was on the point of leaving." "Chater." I echoed. "Do you know his Christian name?" "Hylton Chater. He is apparently a gentleman. Curious that he will tell us nothing of the reason he called, and of the scene that occurred between them." Knowing all that I did, I was not surprised. Leithcourt had undoubtedly taken him unawares, but knights of industry never betray each other. "Ah, Mr. Gregg!" he cried gladly, as he came in to find me seated in a chair patiently reading the newspaper. "You are the very person I wish to see. Have you heard of this strange affair at Rannoch?" "I have," was my answer. "Has the man in the hospital made any statement yet?" "Well, the waiter Olinto Santini is alive and well in London." "What!" he gasped, starting up. "Then he is not the person you identified him to be?" "But you identified him positively?" "When a person is dead it is very easy to mistake countenances. Death alters the countenance so very much." "That's true," he said reflectively. "But if the man we've buried is not the Italian, then the mystery is considerably increased. Why was the real man's wife here?" "And where has her body been concealed? That's the question." "Yes, and have spoken with him." "I sent up to London asking that inquiries should be made at the restaurant in Bayswater, but up to the present I have received no report." "I have chatted with Olinto. His wife has mysteriously disappeared, but he is in ignorance that she is dead." "You did not tell him anything?" "Ah, you did well. There is widespread conspiracy here, depend upon it, Mr. Gregg. It will be an interesting case when we get to the bottom of it all. I only wish this fellow Chater would tell us the reason he called upon Leithcourt." "Merely that he has no wish to prosecute, and that he has no statement to make." "Can't you compel him to say something?" I asked. "No, I can't. That's the infernal difficulty of it. If he don't choose to speak, then we must still remain in ignorance, although I feel confident that he knows something of the strange affair up in the wood." And although I was silent, I shared the Scotch detective's belief. The afternoon was chill and wet as I climbed the hill to Greenlaw. What, I wondered, had transpired in the library of that gray old castle which stood out boldly before me, dark and grim, as I plodded on through the rain? How had Leithcourt succeeded in rendering his enemy insensible and hiding him in that cupboard? Did he believe that he had killed him? If I went boldly to Chater, then it would only be the betrayal of myself. No. I decided that the man who had smoked and chatted with me so affably on that hot, breathless night in the Mediterranean must remain in ignorance of my presence, or of my knowledge. Therefore I stayed for a week at Greenlaw with eyes and ears ever open, yet exercising care that the patient in the hospital should be unaware of my presence. Time after time I searched the wood alone, on the pretense of shooting pigeon, but discovered nothing. When not having sport on my uncle's property, I joined various parties in the neighborhood, not because Scotland at that time attracted me, but because I desired to watch events. Chater, as soon as he recovered, left the hospital and went south--to London, I ascertained--leaving the police utterly in the dark and filled with suspicion of the fugitives from Rannoch. I longed to know the whereabouts of Muriel, hoping to gain from her some information regarding their visitor who had so nearly escaped with his life. That she was aware of the object of his visit was plain from the statements of the servants, all of whom had been left without either money or orders. The woman told me that she distinctly heard Miss Muriel sobbing, while her father walked up and down the room speaking rapidly in a low tone. Then he came out again and returned to his dressing-room, while Miss Muriel presumably changed from her evening-gown into a dark traveling-dress. "Did she say anything to you?" I inquired. "Only that they were called away suddenly, sir. But," the domestic added, "the young lady was very pale and agitated, and we all knew that something terrible had happened. Mrs. Leithcourt gave orders that nothing was to be told to the guests, who dined alone, believing that their host and hostess had gone down to the village to see an old man who was dying. That was the story we told them, sir." "And in the meantime the Leithcourts were in the express going to Carlisle?" "Yes, sir. They say in Dumfries that the police telegraphed after them, but they had reached Carlisle and evidently changed there, and so got away." By the administration of a judicious tip I was allowed to go up to Miss Muriel's room, an elegantly furnished little chamber in the front of the fine old place, with a deep old-fashioned window commanding a magnificent view across the broad Nithsdale. Another object in the room also attracted my attention--a pair of long field-glasses. Had she used these to keep watch upon that spot? I took them up and focused them upon the boundary of the wood, finding that I could distinguish everything quite plainly. "That's where they found the man who was murdered," explained the servant, who still stood in the doorway. "I know," I replied. "I was just trying the glasses." Then I put them down, and on turning saw upon the mantelshelf a small, bright-red candleshade, which I took in my hand. It was made, I found, to fit upon the electric table-lamp. "Miss Muriel was very fond of a red light," explained the young woman; and as I held it I wondered if that light had ever been placed upon the toilet-table and the blind drawn up--whether it had ever been used as a warning of danger? "Has the gentleman who called on the evening of Mr. Leithcourt's disappearance been back here again since he left the hospital?" I inquired as a sudden idea occurred to me. "The gentleman might have been in there now had I not gone into the library and found a lot of illustrated papers, which I always put in the cupboard to keep the place tidy, thrown out on to the floor. I went to put them back but discovered the door locked. The key I afterwards found in the grate, where Mr. Leithcourt had evidently thrown it, and on opening the door imagine the shock I had when I found the visitor lying doubled up. I, of course, thought he was dead." "And when he returned here on his recovery, did he question you?" "Oh, yes. He asked about the Leithcourts, and especially about Miss Muriel. I believe he's rather sweet on her, by the way he spoke. And really no better or kinder lady never breathed, I'm sure. We're all very sorry indeed for her." "But she had nothing to do with the affair." "Disgraceful!" I ejaculated. "Then as soon as the host and hostess had gone, they simply swept through the rooms and cleared them?" "Yes, sir. They took away all that was most valuable. They'd have had the silver, only Mason had thrown it into the plate-chest, all dirty as it was, locked it up and hid the key. The plate was Mr. Gilrae's, you know, sir, and Mason was responsible." "He acted wisely," I said, surprised at the domestic's story. "Why, the guests acted like a gang of thieves." "They were, sir. They rushed all over the house like demons let loose, and they even stole some of our things. I lost a silver chain." "And what did the stranger say when you told him of this?" "He smiled. It did not seem to surprise him in the least, for after all his visit was the cause of the sudden breaking up of the party, wasn't it?" "And did you show him over the whole house?" I inquired. "He came into this room, I suppose?" "Yes, sir," she responded, with just a slight hesitation, I thought. "This was the room where he stayed the longest. There was a photograph in that frame over there," she added, indicating the frame that had held the picture of Elma Heath, "a portrait of a young lady, which he begged me to give him." "And you gave it to him?" I cried quickly. "Well--yes, sir. He begged so hard for it, saying that it was the portrait of a friend of his." "And he gave you something handsome for it--eh?" "And who put that picture in its place?" I asked. "I did, sir. I found it upstairs." "He didn't tell you who the young lady was, I suppose?" "No, sir. He only said that that was the only photograph that existed, and that she was dead." "Dead!" I gasped, staring at her. "Yes, sir. That was why he was so anxious for the picture." Elma Heath dead! Could it be true? That sweet-pictured face haunted me as no other face had ever impressed itself upon my memory. It somehow seemed to impel me to endeavor to penetrate the mystery, and yet Hylton Chater had declared that she was dead! I recollected the remarkable letter from Abo, and her own declaration that her end was near. That letter was, she said, the last she should write to her friend. Did Hylton Chater actually possess knowledge of the girl's death? Had he all along been acquainted with her whereabouts? What the young woman told me upset all my plans. If Elma Heath were really dead, then she was beyond discovery, and the truth would be hidden forever. "After he had put the photograph in his pocket, the gentleman made a most minute search in this room," the domestic went on. "He consulted his plan, took several measurements, and then tapped on the paneling all along this wall, as though he were searching for some hidden cupboard or hiding place. I looked at the plan, and saw a mark in red ink upon it. He was trying to discover that spot, and was greatly disappointed at not being able to do so. He was in here over an hour, and made a most careful search all around." "And what explanation did he give?" "He made no other remark about the young lady's death?" I inquired anxiously. "No. Only he sighed, and looked steadily for a long time at the photograph. I saw his lips moving, but his words were inaudible." "You haven't any idea of the reason why he called upon Mr. Leithcourt, I suppose?" "From what he said, I've formed my own conclusions," was her answer. "And what is your opinion?" "Well, I feel certain that there is, or was, something concealed in this house that he's very anxious to obtain. He came to demand it of Mr. Leithcourt, but what happened in the library we don't know. He, however, believes that Mr. Leithcourt has not taken it away, and that, whatever it may be, it is still hidden here." The twentieth! That meant nearly a month of inactivity. In that time I could cross to Abo, make inquiries there, and ascertain, perhaps, if Elma Heath were actually dead as Chater had declared. Next day I spent in making inquiries with a view to discovering the house said to be occupied by Leithcourt. As it was not either in the Directory or the Blue Book, I concluded that he had perhaps rented it furnished, and after many inquiries and considerable difficulties I found that such was the fact. He had occupied the house of Lady Heathcote, a few doors from Grosvenor Square, for the previous season, although he had lived there but very little. Where the fugitives were in hiding I had no idea. I longed to meet Muriel again and tell her what I had discovered, yet it was plain that the trio were concealing themselves from Hylton Chater, whom I supposed to be now back in London. The autumn days were dull and rainy, and the streets were muddy and unpleasant, as they always are at the fall of the year. Compelled to remain inactive, I idled in the club with the recollection of that pictured face ever before me--the face of the unfortunate girl who wished her last message to be conveyed to Philip Hornby. What, I wondered, was her secret? What was really her fate? This latter question troubled me until I could bear it no longer. I felt that it was my duty to go to Finland and endeavor to learn something regarding this Baron Oberg and his niece. Frank Hutcheson had written me declaring that the weather in Leghorn was now perfect, and expressing wonder that I did not return. I was his only English friend, and I knew how dull he was when alone. Even his Majesty's Consuls sometimes suffer from homesickness, and long for the smell of the London gutters and a glass of homely bitter ale. In the wooden passport office the uniformed official, on examining my passport, discovered that at the Russian Consulate-General they had forgotten to date the vise which had been impressed with a rubber stamp. It was signed by the Consul-General, but the date was missing, whereupon the man shook his head and handed back the document curtly, saying in Russian, which I understood fairly well, although I spoke badly- "This is not in order. It must be returned to London and dated before you can proceed." "But it is not my fault," I protested. "It is the fault of the clerk at the Consulate-General." "You should have examined it before leaving. You must send it to London, and return to Stockholm by to-night's boat." "But this is outrageous!" I cried, as he had already taken the papers of a passenger behind me and was looking at them with unconcern. "Enough!" he exclaimed, glaring at me. "You will return to-night, or if you choose to stay you will be arrested for landing without a passport." "I shall not go back!" I declared defiantly. "Your Consul-General vised my passport, and I claim, under international law, to be allowed to proceed without hindrance." "I am English, recollect," I said. "To me it does not matter what or who you are. Your passport, undated, is worthless." "I shall complain to the Ambassador at Petersburg." "Your Ambassador does not interest me in the least. He is not Ambassador here in Finland. There is no Czar here." "Oh! Who is ruler in this country, pray?" "His Excellency the Governor-General, an official who has love for neither England nor the pigs of English. So recollect that." "Yes," I said meaningly, "I shall recollect it." And I turned and went out of the little wooden office, replacing my passport in my pocket-book. After taking my rooms, I strolled about the flat, uninteresting town, wondering how best to commence my search. If I had but a photograph to show people it would give me a great advantage, but I had nothing. I had never, indeed, set eyes upon the unfortunate girl. I accompanied them to the police-office, where I was ushered into the presence of the big, bristly Russian who held the town of Abo in terror, the Chief of Police. The officials which Russia sends into Finland are selected for their harsh discipline and hide-bound bureaucracy, and this human machine in uniform was no exception. Had he been the Minister of the Interior himself, he could not have been more self-opinionated. "Well?" he snapped, looking up at me as I was placed before him. "Your name is Gordon Gregg, English, from Stockholm. No passport, and decline to leave even though warned--eh?" "I have a passport," I said firmly, producing it. He looked at it, and pointing with his finger, said: "It has no date, and is therefore worthless." "The fault is not mine, but that of a Russian official. If you wish it to be dated, you may send it to your Consulate-General in London." "Oh! so you will commit an Englishman to prison for a month, without trial--eh? That's very interesting! Perhaps if you attempt such a thing as that they may have something to say about it in Petersburg." "Not in the least. I have presented my passport and demand common courtesy." My blood was up at this insult, yet I bit my lips and remained quite calm. "Perhaps you will kindly tell me who you are?" I asked in as quiet a voice as I could command. "With pleasure. I am Michael Boranski, Chief of Police of the Province of Abo-Biornebourg." "Ah! Well, Michael Boranski, I shall trouble you to pick up my passport, stick it together again, and apologize to me." "Apologize! Me apologize!" And the fellow laughed aloud, while the police officers on either side of me grinned from ear to ear. "Refuse? Certainly I do!" "Very well, then," I said, re-opening my pocket-book and taking out an open letter. "Perhaps you will kindly glance at that. It is in Russian, so you can read it." He snatched it from me with ill-grace, but not without curiosity. And then, as he read the lines, his face changed and he went paler. Raising his head, he stood staring at me open-mouthed in amazement. "I apologize to your Excellency!" he gasped, blanched to the lips. "I most humbly apologize. I--I did not know. You told me nothing!" "Perhaps you will kindly mend my passport, and give it a proper vise." In an instant he was up from his chair, and having gathered the torn paper from the floor, proceeded to paste it together. On the back he endorsed that it had been torn by accident, and then gave it the proper vise, affixing the stamps. "I trust, Excellency," he said, bowing low as he handed it to me, "I trust that this affair will not trouble you further. I assure you I had no intention of insulting you." "Yes, you had!" I said. "You insulted me merely because I am English. But recollect in future that the man who insults an Englishman generally pays for it, and I do not intend to let this pass. There is a higher power in Finland than even the Governor-General." And he took up the letter I had given him, holding it gingerly with trembling fingers. And well he might, for the document was headed: "MINISTER OF THE IMPERIAL HOUSEHOLD, PALACE OF PETERHOF. "I will atone for the insult in any way your high Excellency desires," declared the official. "I will serve your Excellency in any way he may command." His words suggested a brilliant idea. I had this man in my power; he feared me. "Well," I said after some reluctance, "there is a little matter in which you might be of some assistance. If you will, I will reconsider my decision of complaining to Petersburg." "And what is that, Excellency?" he gasped eagerly. "Baron Oberg!" he repeated, looking at me rather strangely, I thought. "Yes, as she is a foreigner she will be registered in your books. She is somewhere in your province, but where I do not know. Tell me where she is, and I will say nothing more about my passport," I added. "Then your high Excellency wishes to see the young lady?" he said reflectively, with the paper in his hand. "In that case, it being commanded by the Emperor that I shall serve your Excellency, I will have immediate inquiries made," was his answer. "When I discover her whereabouts, I will do myself the pleasure of calling at your Excellency's hotel." And I left the fellow, very satisfied that I had turned his officiousness and hatred of the English to very good account. I looked upon the gray dismal scene, the empty port, the silent quay, the dark line of gloomy pine forest away beyond the town, the broken coast and the wide expanse of water glittering in the northern sunset. Yes. The very silence seemed to forbode evil and mystery. Truly what I saw of Finland impressed me even more than what I had witnessed in the far-off eastern provinces of European Russia. My object, however, was not to inquire into the internal condition of Finland, or of her resentment of her powerful conqueror. I was there to find that unfortunate girl who had written so strangely to her old school friend and whose portrait had, for some hidden reason, been destroyed. "Your Excellency, may I be permitted to speak with you in private?" "Certainly," I responded, rising and conducting him to my bedroom, where I closed the door, invited him to a seat, and myself sat upon the edge of the bed. "I have made various inquiries," he said, "and I think I have found the lady your Excellency is seeking. My information, however, must be furnished to you in strictest confidence," he added, "because there are reasons why I should withhold her whereabouts from you." "Well--the lady is living in Finland in secret." "Then she is alive!" I exclaimed quickly. "I thought she was dead." "To the world she is dead," responded Michael Boranski, stroking his red beard. "For that reason the information I give you must be treated as confidential." "Why should she be in hiding? She is guilty of no offense--is she?" The man shrugged his shoulders, but did not reply. "And this Baron Oberg? You tell me nothing of him," I said with dissatisfaction. "How can I when I know nothing, Excellency?" was his response. "As I have already said, Excellency, I am desirous of atoning for my insult, and will serve you in every manner I can. For that reason I had sought news of the young English lady--the Mademoiselle Heath." "No, the lady was not registered," he said. "There was a reason." "I have told you, Excellency. She is in hiding." "No. Away in the country. If your Excellency will be down at the end of the quay to-morrow at noon you will find a carriage in waiting, and the driver will have full instructions how to take you to her and how to act. Follow his directions implicitly, for he is a man I can trust." "To-morrow!" I cried anxiously. "Why not to-day? I am ready to go at any moment." The Chief of Police remained thoughtful for a few moments, then said- "Well, if I could find the man, you might go to-day. Yet it is a long way, and you would not return before to-morrow." "The roads are safe, I suppose? I don't mind driving in the night." "At noon. Very well. I shall keep the appointment." "And after seeing her, you will of course keep your promise of secrecy regarding our little misunderstanding?" he asked anxiously. And then the instant I was seated, and before I could close the door, the horses plunged forward and we were tearing at full gallop out of the town. "Where are we going?" I took him to imply kilometres, as being a Finn he would not speak of versts. "The Chief of Police has given you directions?" I asked. "His high Excellency has told me exactly what to do," was the man's answer, as he took out his huge wooden pipe and filled it. "You wish to see the young lady?" "Beyond Nystad," was his vague answer with a wave of his big fat hand in the direction of the dark pine forest that stretched before us. "We shall be there about an hour after sundown." Then I re-entered the stuffy old conveyance that rocked and rolled as we dashed away over the uneven forest road, and sat wondering to what manner of place I was being conducted. Elma Heath was in hiding. Why? I recollected her curious letter and remembered every word of it. She wished Hornby to know that she had never revealed her secret. What secret, I wondered? Then, resuming our journey, the short day quickly drew to a close, the sun sank yellow and watery over the towering pines through which we went mile after mile, a dense, interminable forest wherein the wolves lurked in winter, often rendering the road dangerous. The temperature fell, and it froze again. Through the window in front I could see the big Finn driver throwing his arms across his shoulders to promote circulation, in the same manner as does the London "cabby." When night drew on we changed horses again at a small, dirty post-house in the forest, at the edge of a lake, and then pushed forward again, although it was already long past the hour at which he had said we should arrive. Indeed, I suppose I must have slept, for I was awakened by a light shining into my face and the driver shaking me by the shoulder. When I roused myself and, naturally, inquired the reason, he placed his finger mysteriously upon my lips, saying: THE CASTLE OF THE TERROR The big Finn had, I found, tied up his horses, and in the heavy old boat he rowed me down the swollen river which ran swift and turbulent around a sudden bend and then seemed to open out to a great width. In the starlight I could distinguish that it stretched gray and level to a distance, and that the opposite bank was fringed with pines. "Where are we going?" I asked my guide in a low voice. But he only whispered: "Hush! Excellency! Remain patient, and you shall see the young Englishwoman." With great caution he approached the place, keeping in the deep shadow of the bank until we came exactly opposite the flanking-tower. In the lighted window I distinctly saw a dark figure of someone appear for a moment, and then my guide struck a match and held it in his fingers until it was wholly consumed. "Your high nobility may disembark. There is at present no danger." I rose, gripped a big rusty chain to steady myself, and climbed into the narrow doorway in the ponderous wall, where I found myself in the darkness beside the female who had apparently been expecting our arrival and watching our signal. Without a word she led me through a short passage, and then, striking a match, lit a big old-fashioned lantern. As the light fell upon her features I saw they were thin and hard, with deep-set eyes and a stray wisp of silver across her wrinkled brow. Around her head was a kind of hood of the same stuff as her dress, a black, coarse woolen, while around her neck was a broad linen collar. In an instant I recognized that she was a member of some religious order, some minor order perhaps, with whose habit we, in Italy, were not acquainted. The thin ascetic countenance was that of a woman of strong character, and her funereal habit seemed much too large for her stunted, shrunken figure. "The sister speaks French?" I hazarded in that language, knowing that in most convents throughout Europe French is known. "Oui, m'sieur," was her answer. "And a leetle Engleesh, too--a ve-ry leetle," she smiled. "Well--because no strangers are permitted here, you know. If your presence here was discovered you would not leave this place alive--so I warn you." "I am prepared to risk that," I said, smiling; at the same time my hand instinctively sought my hip-pocket to ascertain that my weapon was safe. "I wish to see Miss Elma Heath." "Remember that if you are discovered here you exonerate me of all blame?" she said, raising her head and peering into my face with her keen gray eyes. "By admitting you I am betraying my trust, and that I should not have done were it not compulsory." "The order of the Chief of Police. Even here, we cannot afford to offend him." So the fellow Boranski had really kept faith with me, and at his order the closed door of the convent had been opened. "Of course not," I answered. "Russian officialdom is all-powerful in Finland nowadays. But where is the lady?" "You are still prepared to risk your liberty and life?" she asked in a hoarse voice, full of grim meaning. "I am," I said. "Lead me to her." "And when you see her you will make no effort to speak with her? Promise me that." "Ah, Sister!" I cried. "You are asking too great a sacrifice of me. I come here from England, nay, from Italy in search of her, to question her regarding a strange mystery and to learn the truth. Surely I may be permitted to speak with her?" "No, I am not her lover," I answered. "Indeed, we have never yet met. But I am in search of the truth from her own lips." "That you will never learn," she said, in a hard, changed voice. "Because there is a conspiracy to preserve the secret!" I cried. "But I intend to solve the mystery, and for that reason I have traveled here from England." The woman with the lantern smiled sadly, as though amused by my impetuosity. "Baron Oberg--Governor-General of Finland!" I gasped. "And he is uncle of this young lady, Elma Heath?" But the woman gave me no reason; she only exhibited her palms and sighed. She seemed to have compassion upon the girl I sought; her heart was really softer than I had believed it to be. "Where does this Baron live?" I asked, surprised that he should occupy so high a place in Russian officialdom--the representative of the Czar, with powers as great as the Emperor himself. "At the Government Palace, in Helsingfors." "And Elma Heath is here--in this grim fortress! Why?" "Ah, m'sieur, how can I tell? By reason of family secrets, perhaps. They account for so much, you know." "That is exactly my opinion," I said. "She has been brought here against her will." "Cannot I see her?" I asked, feeling that we had remained too long there. If my presence in that place was perilous the sooner I escaped from it the better. "Yes, come," she said. "But silence! Walk softly," and holding up the old horn lantern to give me light, she led me out into the low stone corridor again, conducting me through a number of intricate passages, all bare and gloomy, the stones worn hollow by the feet of ages. On we crept noiselessly past a number of low arched doors studded with big nails in the style of generations ago, then turning suddenly at right angles, I saw that we were in a kind of _cul de sac,_ before the door of which at the end she stopped and placed her finger upon her lips. Then, motioning me to remain there, she entered, closing the door after her, and leaving me in the pitch darkness. I stepped into a small, square chamber, the floor of which was carpeted, and where, suspended high above, was a lamp that shed but a faint light over the barely-furnished place. It seemed to me to be a kind of sitting-room, with a plain deal table and a couple of chairs, but there was no stove, and the place looked chill and comfortless. Beyond was another smaller room into which the old nun disappeared for a moment; then she came forth leading a strange wan little figure in a gray gown, a figure whose face was the most perfect and most lovely I had ever seen. Her wealth of chestnut hair fell disheveled about her shoulders, and as her hands were clasped before her she looked straight at me in surprise as she was led towards me. She walked but feebly, and her countenance was deathly pale. Her dress, as she came beneath the lamp, was, I saw, coarse, yet clean, and her beautiful, regular features, which in her photograph had held me in such fascination, were even more sweet and more matchless than I had believed them to be. I stood before her dumbfounded in admiration. In silence she bowed gracefully, and then looked at me with astonishment, apparently wondering what I, a perfect stranger, required of her. "Miss Elma Heath, I presume?" I exclaimed at last. "May I introduce myself to you? My name is Gordon Gregg, English by birth, cosmopolitan by instinct. I have come here to ask you a question--a question that concerns yourself. Lydia Moreton has sent me to you." I noticed that her great brown eyes watched my lips and not my face. Her own lips moved, but she looked at me with an inexpressible sadness. No sound escaped her. She was both deaf and dumb! She raised her clasped hands to me in silence, yet with tears welling in her splendid eyes. I saw that upon her wrists were a pair of bright steel gyves. "What is this place?" I demanded of the woman in the religious habit, when I recovered from the shock of the poor girl's terrible affliction. "Where am I?" "This is the Castle of Kajana--the criminal lunatic asylum of Finland," was her answer. "The prisoner, as you see, has lost both speech and hearing." "Deaf and dumb!" I cried, looking at the beautiful original of that destroyed photograph on board the _Lola_. "But she has surely not always been so!" I exclaimed. "No. I think not always," replied the sister quietly. "But you said you intended to question her, and did I not tell you that to learn the truth was impossible?" "But she can write responses to my questions?" I argued. "Alas! no," was the old woman's whispered reply. "Her mind is affected. She is, unfortunately, a hopeless lunatic." I looked straight into those sad, wide-open, yet unflinching brown eyes utterly confounded. Those white wrists held in steel, that pale face and blanched lips, the inertness of her movements, all told their own tragic tale. And yet that letter I had read, dictated in secret most probably because her hands were not free, was certainly not the outpourings of a madwoman. She had spoken of death, it was true, yet was it not to be supposed that she was slowly being driven to suicide? She had kept her secret, and she wished the man Hornby--the man who was to marry Muriel Leithcourt--to know. The room in which we stood was evidently an apartment set apart for her use, for beyond was the tiny bedchamber; yet the small, high-up window was closely barred, and the cold bareness of the prison was sufficient indeed to cause anyone confined there to prefer death to captivity. She placed her clasped hands to her mouth and made signs by shaking her head that she could neither understand nor respond. I therefore took my wallet from my pocket and wrote upon a piece of paper in a large hand the words: "_I come from Lydia Moreton. My name is Gordon Gregg_." When her eager gaze fell upon the words she became instantly filled with excitement, and nodded quickly. Then holding her steel-clasped wrists towards me she looked wistfully at me, as though imploring me to release her from the awful bondage in that silent tomb. Though the woman who had led me there endeavored to prevent it, I handed her the pencil, and placed the paper on the table for her to write. The nun tried to snatch it up, but I held her arm gently and forcibly, saying in French: "No. I wish to see if she is really insane. You will at least allow me this satisfaction." And while we were in altercation, Elma, with the pencil in her fingers, tried to write, but by reason of her hands being bound so closely was unable. At length, however, after several attempts, she succeeded in printing in uneven capitals the response: "I know you. You were on the yacht. I thought they killed you." The thin-faced old woman saw her response--a reply that was surely rational enough--and her brows contracted with displeasure. "Why are you here?" I wrote, not allowing the sister to get sight of my question. In response, she wrote painfully and laboriously: "I am condemned for a crime I did not commit. Take me from here, or I shall kill myself." "Ah!" exclaimed the old woman. "You see, poor girl, she believes herself innocent! They all do." "But why is she here?" I demanded fiercely. "I do not know, m'sieur. It is not my duty to inquire the history of their crimes. When they are ill I nurse them; that is all." "And who is the commandant of this fortress?" "Colonel Smirnoff. If he knew that I had admitted you, you would never leave this place alive. This is the Schusselburg of Finland--the place of imprisonment for those who have conspired against the State." "The prison of political conspirators, eh?" "Alas, m'sieur, yes! The place in which some of the poor creatures are tortured in order to obtain confessions and information with as much cruelty as in the black days of the Inquisition. These walls are thick, and their cries are not heard from the oubliettes below the lake." I had long ago heard of the horrors of Schusselburg. Indeed who has not heard of them who has traveled in Russia? The very mention of the modern Bastille on Lake Ladoga, where no prisoner has ever been known to come forth alive, is sufficient to cause any Russian to turn pale. And I was in the Schusselburg of Finland! I turned over the sheet of paper and wrote the question- "Did Baron Oberg send you here?" In response, she printed the words- "I believe so. I was arrested in Helsingfors. Tell Lydia where I am." "Do you know Muriel Leithcourt?" I inquired by the same means, whereupon she replied that they were at school together. "Did you see me on board the _Lola_?" I wrote. Her allegation startled me. She had been purposely afflicted! "A doctor, I suppose. They put me under chloroform." "People who said they were my friends." I turned to the woman in the religious habit, and cried- "Do you see what she has written? She has been maimed by some friends who intended that the secret she holds should be kept. They feared to kill her, so they bribed a doctor to deliberately operate upon her so that she could neither speak nor hear. And now they are driving her to suicide!" "M'sieur, I am astounded!" declared the nun. "I have always believed that she was not in her right mind, yet assuredly she seems to be as sane as I am, only willfully mutilated by some pretended friend who determined that no further word should pass her lips." "A shameful mutilation has been committed upon this poor defenseless girl!" I cried in anger. "And I will make it my duty to discover and punish the perpetrators of it." "Ah, m'sieur. Do not act rashly, I pray of you," the woman said seriously, placing her hand upon my arm. "Recollect you are in Finland--where the Baron Oberg is all-powerful." "I do not fear the Baron Oberg," I exclaimed. "If necessary, I will appeal to the Czar himself. Mademoiselle is kept here for the reason that she is in possession of some secret. She must be released--I will take the responsibility." Again I turned to Elma, who stood in anxious wonder of the subject of our conversation, and had suddenly taken the old nun's hand and kissed it affectionately, perhaps in order to show me that she trusted her. Then upon the paper I wrote- "Is the Baron Oberg your uncle?" She shook her head in the negative, showing that the dreaded Governor-General of Finland had only acted a part towards her in which she had been compelled to concur. "Who is Philip Hornby?" I inquired, writing rapidly. "My friend--at least, I believe so." Friend! And I had all along believed him to be an adventurer and an enemy! "Why did he go to Leghorn?" I asked. "For a secret purpose. There was a plot to kill you, only I managed to thwart them," were the words she printed with much labor. "Then I owe my life to you," I wrote. "And in return I will do my utmost to rescue you from here, if you do not fear to place yourself in my hands." And to this she replied- "I shall be thankful, for I cannot bear this awful place longer. I believe they must torture the women here. They will torture me some day. Do your best to get me out of here and I will tell you everything. But," she wrote, "I fear you can never secure my release. I am confined here on a life sentence." "But you are English, and if you have had no trial I can complain to our Ambassador." "No, I am a Russian subject. I was born in Russia, and went to England when I was a girl." Yet she promised to tell me the truth if I could but secure her release! Could I allow this refined defenseless girl to remain an inmate of that Bastille, the terrors of which I had heard men in Russia hint at with bated breath? They had willfully maimed her and deprived her of both hearing and the power of speech, and now they intended that she should be driven mad by that silence and loneliness that must always end in insanity. "I have decided," I said suddenly, turning to the woman who had conducted me there, and having now removed the steel bonds of the prisoner with a key she secretly carried, stood with folded hands in the calm attitude of the religious. "You will not act with rashness?" she implored in quick apprehension. "Remember, your life is at stake, as well as my own." "Her enemies intended that I, too, should die!" I answered, looking straight into those deep mysterious brown eyes which held me as beneath a spell. "They have drawn her into their power because she had no means of defense. But I will assume the position of her friend and protector." "The man is awaiting me in the boat outside. I intend to take her with me." "But, m'sieur, why that is impossible!" cried the old woman in a hoarse voice. "If you were discovered by the guards who patrol the lake both night and day they would shoot you both." "I will risk it," I said, and without another word dashed into the tiny bed chamber and tore an old brown blanket from off the narrow truckle bed. Then, linking my arm in that of the woman whose lovely countenance had verily become the sun of my existence, I made a sign, inviting her to accompany me. The sister barred the door, urging me to reconsider my decision. "Leave her alone in secret, and act as you will, appeal to the Baron, to the Czar, but do not attempt, m'sieur, to rescue a prisoner from here, for it is an impossibility. The man who brought you here from Abo will not dare to accept such responsibility." "Come," I said to Elma, although, alas! she could not hear my voice. "Let us at least make a dash for freedom." She recognized my intentions in a moment, and allowed herself to be conducted down the long intricate corridor, walking stealthily, and making no noise. Without a sound we crept forward until within a few yards from that unlocked door where the boat awaited us below, when, of a sudden, the uncertain light of the lantern fell upon something that shone and a deep voice cried out of the darkness in Russian- "Halt! or I fire!" And, startled, we found ourselves looking down the muzzle of a loaded carbine. The big, bearded fellow demanded fiercely who I was. My heart sank within me. I had acted recklessly, and had fallen into the hands of his Excellency, the Baron Xavier Oberg, the unscrupulous Governor-General--fallen into a trap which, it seemed, had been very cleverly prepared for me. I was a prisoner in the terrible fortress whence no single person save the guards had ever been known to emerge--the Bastille of "The Strangler of Finland!" "Speak!" cried the fellow. "Who are you?" An oath escaped him, yet in that moment Elma succeeded in twisting the gun from his sinewy hands, which I now held with a strength begotten of a knowledge of my imminent peril. My whole future, as well as hers, depended upon my success in that desperate encounter. He was huge and powerful, with a strength far exceeding my own, yet I had been reckoned a good wrestler at Uppingham, and now my knowledge of that most ancient form of combat held me in good stead. We struggled desperately, swaying to and fro, he trying to throw me, while I, at every turn, practiced upon him the tricks learned in my youth. It seemed an even match, however, for he kept his feet by sheer brute force, and his muscles seemed hard and unbending as steel. Suddenly, however, as we were striving so vigorously and desperately, the English girl slipped past us with the carbine in her hand, and with a quick movement dragged open the heavy door that gave exit to the lake. At that instant I unfortunately made a false move, and his hand closed upon my throat like a band of steel. I fought and struggled to loose myself, exerting every muscle, but alas! he gained the advantage. I heard a splash, and saw that Elma no longer held the sentry's weapon in her hands, having thrown it into the water. Then at the same moment I heard a voice outside cry in a low tone: "Courage, Excellency! Courage! I will come and help you." It was the faithful Finn, who had been awaiting me in the deep shadow, and with a few strokes pulled his boat up to the narrow rickety ledge outside the door. "Take the lady!" I succeeded in gasping in Russian. "Never mind me," and I saw to my satisfaction that he guided Elma to step into the boat, which at that moment drifted past the little platform. I struggled valiantly, but against such a man of brute strength I was powerless. He held my throat, causing me excruciating pain, and each moment I felt my chance of victory grow smaller. My strength was failing. While I held his arms at his sides, I could keep him secure without much effort, but now with his fingers pressing in my windpipe I could not breathe. I was slowly being strangled. There was the sound of the crashing of wood as the rotten platform gave way, a loud splash, and next instant the dark waters closed over the big, bearded fellow who would have snatched Elma Heath from me, and have held me prisoner in that castle of terrors. He sank like a stone, for although I stood watching for him to rise, I could only distinguish the woodwork floating away with the current. In a moment, however, even as I stood there in horror at my deed of self-defense, the place suddenly resounded with shouts of alarm, and in the tower above me the great old rusty bell began to swing, ringing its brazen note across the broad expanse of waters. The fair-bearded Finn again shot the boat across to where I stood, crying- "Jump, Excellency! For your life, jump! The guards will be upon us!" "Row!" I shrieked, turning to see if my fair companion had been hit. "Keep cool, Excellency," urged the Finn. "See, right away there in the shadow. We might trick them, for the patrol-boat will be at the head of the river waiting to cut us off." Again the guards fired upon us, but in the darkness their aim was faulty. Lights appeared in the high windows of the castle, and we could see that the greatest commotion had been caused by the escape of the prisoner. The men at the door in the tower were shouting to the patrol-boats, which were nowhere to be seen, calling them to row us down and capture us, but by plying our oars rapidly we shot straight across the lake until we got under the deep shadow of the opposite shore, and then crept gradually along in the direction we had come. "If we meet the boats, Excellency, we must run ashore and take to the woods," explained the Finn. "It is our only chance." "Look!" cried our guide, backing water, and bringing the boat to a standstill. "They are in search of us! If we are discovered they will fire. It is their orders. No boat is allowed upon this lake." Elma sat watching our pursuers, but still calm and silent. She seemed to intrust herself entirely to me. The guards were rowing rapidly, the oars sounding in the rowlocks, evidently in the belief that we had made for the river. But the Finlander had apparently foreseen this, and for that reason we were lying safe from observation in the deep shadow of an overhanging tree. A gray mist was slowly rising from the water, and the Finn, noticing it, hoped that it might favor us. In Finland in late autumn the mists are often as thick as our proverbial London fogs, only whiter, denser, and more frosty. "What do you advise? We are entirely in your hands. The Chief of Police told me he could trust you." "I think it will be best to risk it," he said in Russian after a brief pause. "We will tie up the boat, and I will go along the bank and see what the guards are doing. You will remain here, and I shall not be seen. The rushes and undergrowth are higher further along. But if there is danger while I am absent get out and go straight westward until you find the marsh, then keep along its banks due south," and drawing up the boat to the bank the shrewd, big-boned fellow disappeared into the dark undergrowth. There were no signs yet of the break of day. Indeed, the stars were now hidden, and the great plane of water was every moment growing more indistinct as we both sat in silence. My ears were strained to catch the dipping of an oar or a voice, but beyond the lapping of the water beneath the boat there was no other sound. I took the hand of the fair-faced girl at my side and pressed it. In return she pressed mine. Still holding her hands in both my own I gripped them to show her that I intended to be her champion, while she turned to me in confidence as though happy that it should be so. What, I wondered, was her history? What was the mystery surrounding her? What could be that secret which had caused her enemies to thus brutally maim and mutilate her, and afterwards send her to that grim, terrible fortress that still loomed up before us in the gloom? Surely her secret must affect some person very seriously, or such drastic means would never be employed to secure her silence. Suddenly I heard a stealthy footstep approaching, and next moment a low voice spoke which I recognized as that of our friend, the Finn. So dark that we could see before us hardly a foot, we were compelled to place our hands in front of us to avoid collision with the big tree trunks, while ever and anon we found ourselves entangled in the mass of dead creepers and vegetable parasites that formed the dense undergrowth. Around us on every side we heard the shouts and curses of our pursuers, while above the rest we heard an authoritative voice, evidently that of a sergeant of the guard, cry- "Shoot the man, but spare the woman! The Colonel wants her back. Don't let her escape! We shall be well rewarded. So keep on, comrades! _Mene edemmaeski!_" Our gallant guide, on the other hand, seemed to utterly disregard the danger and kept on, every now and then stretching out his hand and helping along the afflicted girl we had rescued from that living tomb. Headlong we went in a straight line, until suddenly we began to feel our feet sinking into the soft ground, and then the Finlander turned to the left, at right angles, and we found ourselves in a denser undergrowth, where in the darkness our hands and faces became badly scratched. "Let us turn straight back," he urged breathlessly. "We may yet elude them." At last, breathless, we halted to listen. We were already in sight of the gray mist where lay the silent lake that held so many secrets. There was not a sound. The guards had gone straight on, believing they had driven us into that deadly bog wherein, if we had entered, we must have been slowly sucked down and engulfed. They were surrounding it, no doubt, feeling certain of their prey. Elma noticed it, and kept her great brown eyes fixed upon it thoughtfully. It was the dawn for her--the dawn of a new life. Our eyes met; she smiled at me, and then gazed again eastward, full of silent meaning. Having landed, we drew the boat up and concealed it in the undergrowth so that the guards, on searching, should not know the direction we had taken, and then we went straight on northward across the low-lying lands, to where the forest showed dark against the morning gray. The mist had now somewhat cleared, but the air was keen and frosty. How many miles we trudged I have no idea. It was a consolation to know that we now had no pursuers, yet what fate lay before us we knew not. If we could only find that forest-road we might come across some wood-cutter's hut, where we could obtain rough food of some sort, yet our guide, used as he was to those enormous woods of central Finland, was utterly out of his bearings, and no mark of civilization attracted his quick, experienced eye. The light above gradually faded, and over a sharp stone Elma stumbled and ripped her shoe. While there was still a ray of light I watched her white refined features as she slept, and was sorely tempted to bend and imprint a kiss upon that soft inviting cheek. Yet I had no right to do so--no right to take such an advantage. The long cold night passed wearily, and the howling of the wolves caused me to grip my revolver, yet at daybreak we arose refreshed, and notwithstanding the terrible pangs of hunger now gnawing at our vitals, we were prepared to renew our desperate dash for liberty. Although I had paper, I possessed no pencil with which to write, therefore I could only communicate by signs with the mysterious prisoner of Kajana, the beautiful dark-eyed girl who held me irrevocably beneath the spell of her beauty. All the little acts of homage I was able to perform she accepted with a quiet, calm dignity, while in her deep luminous eyes I read an unfathomable mystery. The mist had not cleared, for it was soon after dawn when we again moved along, hungry, chill, and yet hopeful. At a spring we obtained some water, and then, in silent procession, pressed forward in search of the rough track of the woodcutters. Elma's torn shoe gave her considerable trouble, and noticing her limping, I induced her to sit down while I took it off, hoping to be able to mend it, but, having unlaced it, I saw that upon her stocking was a large patch of congealed blood, where her foot itself had also been cut. I managed to beat the nails of the shoe with a stone, so that its sole should not be lost, and she readjusted it, allowing me to lace it up for her and smiling the while. Suddenly, just as the yellow sunlight overhead had begun to fade, the flat-faced Finn, whose name he had told me was Felix Estlander, cried joyfully- "_Polushaite!_ Look, Excellency! Ah! The road at last!" And as we glanced before us we saw that his quick, well-trained eyes had detected away in the twilight, at some distance, a path traversing our vista among the gray-green tree-trunks. Then, hurrying along, we found ourselves upon a track, on which we turned to the right--a track, rough and deeply-rutted by the felled trunks that were dragged along it to the nearest river. We heard a low growl like a muttered imprecation within, and when the door opened there stood upon the threshold a tall, bearded, muscular old fellow in a dirty red shirt, with a big revolver shining in his hand. A quick glance at us satisfied him that we were not thieves, and he invited us in while Felix explained that we had landed from the lake, and our boat having drifted away we had been compelled to take to the woods. The man heard the Finn's picturesque story, and then said something to me which Felix translated into Russian. "Your Excellency is welcome to all the poor fare he has. He gives up his bed in the room yonder to the lady, so that she may rest. He is honored by your Excellency's presence." After we had finished our meal, I asked the sturdy old fellow for a pencil, but the nearest thing he possessed was a stick of thick charcoal, and with that it was surely difficult to communicate with our fair companion. Therefore she rose, gave me her hand, bowed smilingly, and then passed into the inner room and closed the door. The old wood-cutter gave us some coarse tobacco, and after smoking and chatting for an hour we threw ourselves wearily upon the wooden benches and slept soundly. Suddenly, however, at early dawn, we were startled by a loud banging at the door, the clattering of hoofs, and authoritative shouts in Russian. The old wood-cutter sprang up, and looking through a chink in the heavy shutters turned to us with blanched face, whispering breathlessly- "The police! What can they want of me?" "Open!" shouted the horsemen outside. "Open in the name of his Majesty!" Felix and I sprang up facing each other. "Gone!" I cried, dismayed, rushing into the little room, where I found the truckle couch empty, and the door leading outside wide open. She had actually disappeared! Our host told them his name, and asked why they wished to enter. "We are searching for a woman who has escaped from Kajana," was the reply. "Have you seen any woman here?" "No," responded the wood-cutter. "We never see any woman out in these woods." "That is my own affair," I answered. The mystery of Elma's disappearance while we had slept annoyed me. She seemed to have fled from me in secret. Yet could she have received some warning that the police were in search of her? She was deaf, therefore she could not have been alarmed by the banging on the door. "Who is your chief?" I inquired, as a sudden thought occurred to me. "Melnikoff, at Helsingfors." "Then this is not in the district of Abo?" "No. But what difference does it make? Who are you?" "Gordon Gregg, British subject," I replied. "And you are the drosky-driver from Abo," remarked the fellow, turning to Felix. "Exactly as I thought. You are the pair who bribed the nun at Kajana, and succeeded in releasing the Englishwoman. In the name of the Czar, I arrest you!" The old wood-cutter turned pale as death. We certainly were in grave peril, for I foresaw the danger of falling into the hands of Baron Oberg, the Strangler of Finland. Yet we had a satisfaction in knowing that, be the mystery what it might, Elma had escaped. "And on what charge, pray, do you presume to arrest me?" I inquired as coolly as I could. "For aiding a prisoner to escape." "It is outside my district," growled the fellow, but I saw that his hesitancy was due to his uncertainty as to whom I really might be. "I desire you to take me to the Chief of Police Boranski, who will make all the explanation necessary. Until we have an interview with him, I refuse to give any information concerning myself," I said. "But you have a passport?" I drew it from my pocket, saying- "It proves, I think, that my name is what I have told you." The fellow, standing astride, read it, and handed it back to me. "Where is the woman?" he demanded. "Tell me." "I don't know," was my reply. "Perhaps you will tell me," he said, turning to the old wood-cutter with a sinister expression upon his face. "Remember, these fugitives are found in your house, and you are liable to arrest." "I don't know--indeed I don't!" protested the old fellow, trembling beneath the officer's threat. Like all his class, he feared the police, and held them in dread. "Enough!" blared the bristly officer. "You have given shelter to conspirators. You know the penalty in Finland for that, surely?" "But these gentlemen are surely not conspirators!" the poor old man protested. "His Excellency is English, and the English do not plot." "You may find papers or letters," said the officer. "Search thoroughly." And in every corner they rummaged, even to taking up a number of boards in the inner room which Elma had occupied. But they found nothing. "I refuse to go to Helsingfors," I said defiantly. "I am a British subject, and demand to be taken back to the port where my passport was vised." This argument I repeated time after time, until at length I succeeded in convincing him that I really had a right to be taken to Abo, and to seek the aid of the British Vice-Consul if necessary. What, we wondered, had really happened to Elma? It was evident that she had not fallen into the hands of the police; nevertheless, the fact that the door of the inner room was open caused them to look upon the statement of the wood-cutter with distinct suspicion and disbelief. Our captors explained who we were, and then we were pushed forward again, skirting a great wide lake called the Nasjarvi, along the wooded shore of which we walked the whole day long until, at sundown, we came to a picturesque little log-built town facing the water, called Filppula. Here we obtained a hasty meal, and afterwards took the train down to Abo, where we arrived next morning, after a very uncomfortable and sleepless journey. "The prisoner, your Excellency, desired to be brought here to you before being taken to Helsingfors. He said you would be aware of the facts." "But, Excellency, the Governor-General has issued orders for the prisoner's arrest and deportation to Helsingfors." "That may be. But I am Chief of Police in Abo, and I release him." The officer looked at me in such blank astonishment that I could not resist smiling. "I am well aware of the reason of this Englishman's visit to the north," added Boranski. "More need not be said. Has the lady been arrested?" "No, your Excellency. Every effort is being made to find her. Colonel Smirnoff has already been relieved of his post as Governor of Kajana, and many of the guards are under arrest for complicity in the plot to allow the woman to escape." "Ah, yes. I see from the despatches that a reward is offered for her recapture." "The Governor-General is determined that she shall not escape," remarked the other. "She is probably hidden in the forest, somewhere or other." "Of course. They are making a thorough search over every verst of it. If she is there, she will most certainly be found." "But your Excellency does this upon his own responsibility," he said anxiously. "Remember that I brought them to you under arrest." "And I release them entirely at my own discretion," he said. "As Chief of Police of this province, I am permitted to use my jurisdiction, and I exercise it in this matter. You are liberty to report that at Helsingfors, if you so desire, but I should suggest that you say nothing unless absolutely obliged--you understand?" The manner in which Boranski spoke apparently decided my captor, for after a moment's hesitation he said, saluting: "If that is really your wish, then I will obey." And he left. "But why is Baron Oberg so extremely anxious to recapture Miss Heath?" I asked earnestly. "I have no idea," was his reply. "The secret orders from Helsingfors to me are to arrest her at all hazards--alive or dead." "Which means that the Baron would not regret if she was dead," I remarked, in response to which he nodded in the affirmative. I told him of the faithful services of Felix, the Finlander, whereupon he said simply: "I told you that you might trust him implicitly." "But now that you have shown yourself my friend," I said, "you will assist Miss Heath to escape this man, who desires to hold her prisoner in that awful place. They are driving her mad." "I will do my best," he answered, but shaking his head dubiously. "But you must recollect that Baron Oberg is Governor-General of Finland, with all the powers of the Czar himself." "And if Elma Heath again falls into his unscrupulous hands, she will die," I declared. Where was Elma? What was the cause of her inexplicable disappearance into the gloomy forest while we had slept? Michael Boranski had given his pledge to assist me, yet he had most plainly explained to me his fears. The Baron was intent upon again getting Elma into his power. Was it at his orders, I wondered, that the sweet-faced girl had been deprived of speech and hearing? Had she fallen an innocent victim to his infamous scheming? About me men were eating strange dishes and talking in Finnish, while others were smoking and drinking their vodka; but I was in no mood for observation. My only thought was of she who was now lost to me. Why had she disappeared without warning I was at loss to imagine, yet I could only surmise that her flight had been compulsory. Some women possess a mysterious sense of intuition, a curious and indescribable faculty of knowing when evil threatens them, that presents a strange and puzzling problem to our scientists. It is unaccountable, and yet many women possess it in a very marked degree. Was it, therefore, possible that Elma had awakened, and being warned of her peril had fled without arousing us? The suggestion was possible, but I feared improbable. Another very curious feature in the affair was the sudden manner in which Michael Boranski had exerted his power and influence in order to render me that service. He had actually bribed the guards of Kajana; he had instructed the faithful Felix, he had provided our boat, and he had ordered the nun to open the water-gate to me. Why? "The Baron lives up at the Palace, m'sieur--that great building opposite the Salutong. The driver of your drosky will point it out to you." "Is his Excellency in Helsingfors at the present moment?" I asked. "The Baron never leaves the Palace, m'sieur," responded the man. "This is a strange country, you know," he added, with a grin. "It is said that his Excellency is in hourly fear of assassination." "Perhaps not without cause," I remarked in a low voice, at which he elevated his shoulders and smiled. At noon I descended from a drosky before a long, gray, massive building, over the big doorway of which was a large escutcheon bearing the Russian arms emblazoned in gold, and on entering where a sentry stood on either side, a colossal concierge in livery of bright blue and gold came forward to meet me, asking in Russian: "Whom do you wish to see?" "His Excellency, the Governor-General." "Have you an appointment?" "I am not here on public business, but upon a private matter," I explained. "Perhaps I may see his Excellency's secretary?" I knew this quite well, for the "Strangler of Finland," fearful of assassination, was as unapproachable as the Czar himself. Following the directions of the concierge, however, I crossed a great bare courtyard, and, ascending a wide stone staircase, was confronted by a servant, who, on hearing my inquiry took me into a waiting-room, and left with my card to Colonel Luganski, whom he informed me was the Baron's private secretary. "The Colonel will see you if you will please step this way," and following him he conducted me into the richly furnished private apartments of the Palace, across a great hall filled with fine paintings, and then up a long thickly-carpeted passage to a small, elegant room, where a tall bald-headed man in military uniform stood awaiting me. "Your name is M'sieur Gregg," he exclaimed in very good French, "and I understand you desire audience of his Excellency, the Governor-General. I regret, however, that he never gives audience to strangers." "The matter upon which I desire to see his Excellency is of a purely private and confidential nature," I said, for used as I was to the ways of foreign officialdom, I spoke with the same firm courtesy as himself. "I am very sorry, m'sieur, but I fear it will be necessary in that case for you to write to his Excellency, and mark your letter 'personal.' It will then go into the Governor-General's own hands." "What I have to say cannot be committed to writing," was my reply. "I must see Baron Oberg upon a matter which affects him personally, and which admits of no delay." He glanced at me quickly, and then in a low voice inquired: "Is it in regard to a--well, a conspiracy?" His question instantly suggested to me a ruse, and I replied in the affirmative. "Then you can place the facts before me without the slightest hesitation," he said, going to the door and slipping the bolt into its socket. "Anything spoken into my ear is as though it were spoken into that of his Excellency himself." "I much regret, M'sieur the Colonel, that I must see the Baron in person." "Has the plot assassination as its object--or revolt?" he asked pointedly. "That I will explain to the Baron only." At a glance I saw that this elegant Colonel, who seemed to take the greatest pride over his exquisitely kept person and his spotless uniform, did not intend to allow me the satisfaction of an audience of that most hated official of the Czar. The latter was in fear of the dagger, the pistol, or the bomb, and consequently hedged himself in by persons of the Colonel's type--courteous, diplomatic, but utterly unbending. After some further argument, I said at last in a firm tone: "I wish to impress upon you the extreme importance of the information I have to impart, and can only repeat that it is a matter concerning his Excellency privately. Will you therefore do me the favor to take my name to him?" "His Excellency refuses to be troubled with the names of strangers," was his cold reply, as he turned over my card in his hand. "But if I write upon it the nature of my business, and enclose it in an envelope, will you then take it to him?" I suggested. He hesitated for a short time, twisting his mustache, and then replied with great reluctance: "Well, if you are so determined, you may write your business upon your card." "_To give information regarding Miss Elma Heath_." This I enclosed in the envelope he handed to me, when, ringing a bell, he handed it to the footman who appeared, with orders to take it to his Excellency and await a reply. The response came in a few minutes. "His Excellency will give audience to the English m'sieur." "Well?" he snapped in French in a high-pitched voice. "You want to see me concerning that mad English girl? What picturesque lies do you intend to tell me concerning her?" "She has told you something! Ah! I guessed as much. I expected this!" And I saw that his thin, crafty face went pale, while his eyes glanced evilly upon me. He believed that she had revealed to me her secret. He placed his hand upon the back of a chair wherein was concealed an electric button, and next instant a little stout man in shabby black appeared as though by magic through a secret door hidden in the dark paneling of the audience chamber--the man who was his personal guard against the plots for his assassination. His Excellency spoke, and the words he uttered staggered me. I stood aghast. "Seize that man!" he cried, pointing to me. "He is armed! He has just threatened to kill me! He is the man against whom we were recently warned--the Englishman!" "Ah!" I cried, standing before the thin-faced official of the Czar, the unscrupulous man who had crushed Finland beneath the iron heel of Russia, and who, by his lying allegation, now held me in his power. "I see your object, Baron Oberg! You intend to arrest me as a conspirator!" "Search the fellow. He has a revolver there in his hip-pocket," declared the Governor-General, and in an instant the short, ferret-eyed little man had run his hands down me and felt my weapon. I drew it forth and handed it to him, saying: "You are quite welcome to it if you fear that I am here with any sinister motive." "He obtained admission by a clever ruse," the Baron explained to the police agent. "And then he threatened me." "It's untrue," I protested hotly. "I have merely called to see you regarding the young English lady, Elma Heath--the unfortunate lady whom you consigned to the fortress of Kajana." "She is not mad," I cried, "but as sane as you yourself. It is you who intended that the horrors of the castle should drive her insane, and thus your secret should be kept!" "What do you suggest?" he demanded, stepping a few paces towards me. "You see?" he laughed, turning to the stout man at my side. "The fellow is insane. He does not know what he is talking about. Ah, my dear Malkoff, I've had a narrow escape! He came here intending to shoot me." "I did not," I protested. "I am here to demand satisfaction on behalf of Miss Heath." "The lady has escaped you, and it is therefore hardly likely she will willingly return to Helsingfors," I said. "It was you who succeeded, by throwing the guard into the water, in abducting her from the castle," he remarked. "But," he added sneeringly, with a sinister smile, "I presume your gallantry was prompted by affection--eh?" "That is my own affair." "A deaf and dumb woman is surely not a very cheerful companion!" "And who caused her that affliction?" I cried hotly. "When she was at Chichester she possessed speech and hearing as other girls. Indeed, she was not afflicted when on board the _Lola_ in Leghorn harbor only a few months ago. Perhaps you recollect the narrow escape the yacht had on the Meloria sands?" His eyes met mine, and I saw by his drawn face and narrow brows that my words were causing him the utmost consternation. My object was to make him believe that I knew more than I really did--to hold him in fear, in fact. "Perhaps the man whom some know as Hornby, or Woodroffe, could tell an interesting story," I went on. "He will, no doubt, when he meets Elma Heath, and finds the terrible affliction of which she has been the victim." His thin, bony countenance was bloodless, his mouth twitched and his gray brows contracted quickly. "Send out this man," I said, pointing to the detective Malkoff, who had appeared from behind the paneling of the audience-chamber. "Send him out, and I will tell you." But the representative of the Czar, always as much in dread of assassination as his imperial master, refused. I saw that what I had said had upset him, and that he was not at all clear as to how much or how little of the true facts I knew. The connection between the little miniature cross of the Order of St. Anne and that red and yellow ribbon in his button-hole struck me forcibly at that moment, and I said: His lips were pressed together, and I noticed how he started when I uttered the name of that woman whom I had found dead in Rannoch Wood, and whose body had so mysteriously disappeared. "And what on earth can the woman concern me?" he asked, with a brave attempt to remain cool, still speaking in French. "Only that you knew her," was my brief reply. Then, with my eyes still fixed upon his, I asked: "Will you not now request this gentleman to retire?" He hesitated a moment, and then with a wave of his hand dismissed the man he had summoned to his aid. A moment later the "Strangler's" personal protector had disappeared through that secret door in the paneling by which he had entered. "Well?" asked the Baron, turning quickly to me again, his dark, evil eyes trying to fathom my intentions. "Well?" I asked. "And what, pray, can you profit by denouncing me as an assassin? Remember, Baron, that your secret is mine," I said in a clear voice full of meaning. "And your intention is blackmail--eh?" he snapped, walking to the window and back again. "How much do you want?" "My intention is nothing of the kind. My object is to avenge the outrageous injury to Elma Heath." "Of course. That is only natural, m'sieur, if you have fallen in love with her," he said. "But are not your intentions somewhat ill-advised considering her position as a criminal lunatic?" "She is neither," I protested quickly. "Very well. You know better than myself," he laughed. "The offense for which she was condemned to confinement in a fortress was the attempted assassination of Madame Vakuroff, wife of the General commanding the Uleaborg Military Division." "Assassination!" I cried. "Have you actually sent her to prison as a murderess?" "I have not. The Criminal Court of Abo did so," he said dryly. "The offense has since been proved to have been the outcome of a political conspiracy, and the Minister of the Interior in Petersburg last week signed an order for the prisoner's transportation to the island of Saghalien." "Ah!" I remarked with set teeth. "Because you fear lest she shall write down your secret." "You are insulting! You evidently do not know what you are saying," he exclaimed resentfully. "I know what I am saying quite well. You have requested her removal to Saghalien in order that the truth shall be never known. But Baron Oberg," I added with mock politeness, "you may do as you will, you may send Elma Heath to her grave, you may hold me prisoner if you dare, but there are still witnesses of your crime that will rise against you." In an instant he went ghastly pale, and I knew that my blind shot had struck its mark. The man before me was guilty of some crime, but what it was only Elma herself could tell. That he had had her arrested for an attempted political assassination only showed how ingeniously and craftily the heartless ruler of that ruined country had laid his plans. He feared Elma, and therefore had conspired to have her sent out to that dismal penal island in the far-off Pacific. "You do not fear arrest, m'sieur?" he asked, as though with some surprise. "Not in the least--at least, not arrest by you. You may be the representative of the Emperor in Finland, but even here there is justice for the innocent." A sinister smile played around the thin, gray lips of the man whose very name was hated through the great empire of the Czar, and was synonymous of oppression, injustice, and heartless tyranny. "All I can repeat," he said, "is that if you bring the young Englishwoman here I shall be quite prepared to hear her appeal." And he laughed harshly. "You ask that because you know it is impossible," I said, whereat he again laughed in my face--a laugh which made me wonder whether Elma had not already fallen into his hands. The uncertainty of her fate held me in terrible suspense. "I merely wish to impress upon you the fact that I have not the slightest interest whatsoever in the person in question," he said coldly. "You seem to have formed some romantic attachment towards this young woman who attempted to poison Madame Vakuroff, and to have succeeded in rescuing her from Kajana. You afterwards disregard the fact that you are liable to a long term of imprisonment yourself, and actually have the audacity to seek audience of me and make all sorts of hints and suggestions that I have held the woman a prisoner for my own ends!" "Not only do I repeat that, Baron Oberg," I said quickly. "But I also allege that it was at your instigation that in Siena an operation was performed upon the unfortunate girl which deprived her of speech and hearing." "At my instigation?" He laughed again, but uneasily, a forced laugh, and leaned against the edge of the big writing-table near the window. "Well, what next?" he inquired, pretending to be interested in my allegations. "What do you want of me?" "I desire you to give the Mademoiselle Heath her complete freedom," I said. "All--for the present." "But her future is not in my hands. The Minister in Petersburg has decreed her removal to Saghalien as a person dangerous to the State." "Which means that she will be ill-treated--knouted to death, perhaps." "We do not use the knout in the Russian prisons nowadays," he said briefly. "His Majesty has decreed its abolition." "But you adopt torture in Kajana and Schusselburg instead." "My time is too limited to discuss our penal system, m'sieur," he exclaimed impatiently, while I could well see that he was anxious to escape before I made any further charges against him. I had already shown him that Elma had spoken, and he feared that she had told the truth. While this would embitter him against her and cause him to seek to silence her at all hazards, it was of course in my own interests that he should fear any revelations that I might make. "You have posed in England as the uncle of Elma Heath, and yet you here hold her prisoner. For what reason?" I demanded. "She is held prisoner by the State--for conspiracy against Russian rule--not by herself personally." "Who enticed her here? Why you, yourself. Who conspired to throw the guilt of this attempted murder of the general's wife upon her? You--you, the man whom they call 'The Strangler of Finland'! But I will avenge the cruel and abominable affliction you have placed upon her. Her secret--your secret, Baron Oberg--shall be published to the world. You are her enemy--and therefore mine!" "Very well," he growled between his teeth, advancing towards me threateningly, his fists clenched in his rage. "Recollect, m'sieur, that you have insulted me. Recollect that I am Governor-General of Finland." "If you were Czar himself, I should not hesitate to denounce you as the tyrant and mutilator of a poor defenseless woman." "I do not threaten," I said in open defiance, "I shall act." "And so shall I," he said with an evil grin upon his bony face as he blotted what he had written and took it up, adding: "In the darkness and silence of your living tomb, you can tell whatever strange stories you like concerning me. They are used to idiots where you are going," he added grimly. "Oh! And where am I going?" I laughed aloud, and my hand sought my wallet wherein was that all-powerful document--the order of the Emperor which gave me, as an imperial guest, immunity from arrest. I would produce it as my trump-card. His own personal interest would be to consign me to a living tomb in that grim fortress of Kajana, the horrors of which were unspeakable. I had seen enough during my inspection of the Russian prisons as a journalist to know that there, in strangled Finland, I should not be treated with the same consideration or humanity as in Petersburg or Warsaw. The Governor-General consigned me to Kajana as a "political," which was synonymous with a sentence of death in those damp, dark _oubliettes_ beneath the water-dungeons every whit as awful as those of the Paris Bastile. We faced each other, and I looked straight into his gray, bony face, and answered in a tone of defiance: "You are Governor-General, it is true, but you will, I think, reflect before you consign me, an Englishman, to prison without trial. I know full well that the English are hated by Russia, yet I assure you that in London we entertain no love for your nation or its methods." "Yes," he laughed, "you are quite right. Russia has no use for an effete ally such as England is." "Effete or powerful, my country is still able to present an ultimatum when diplomacy requires it," I said. "Therefore I have no fear. Send me to prison, and I tell you that the responsibility rests upon yourself." And folding my arms I kept my eyes intently upon his, so that he should not see that I wavered. "As for the responsibility, I certainly do not fear that, m'sieur," he said. "Which they will not give." "We shall see," he growled. "You will not. You are under arrest." I laughed heartily and snapped my fingers, saying: "I don't understand you." "You have merely to send my name and description to the Minister and ask for a reply," I said. "He will give you instructions--or, if you so desire, ask his Majesty yourself." "You will learn later, after I am confined in Kajana and your secret is known in Petersburg." My words, purposely enigmatical, misled him. He saw the drift of my argument, and being of course unaware of how much I knew, he was still in fear of me. My only uncertainty was of the actual fate of poor Elma. My wallet had been stolen--with a purpose, without a doubt--for the thief had deprived me of that most important of all documents, the open sesame to every closed door, the ukase of the Czar. "You defy me!" he said hoarsely, turning back to the window with the written order for my imprisonment as a political still in his hand. "But we shall see." "You rule Finland," I said in a hard tone, "but you have no power over Gordon Gregg." "I have power, and intend to exert it." "For your own ruin," I remarked with a self-confident smile. "You may give your torturers orders to kill me--orders that a fatal accident shall occur within the fortress--but I tell you frankly that my death will neither erase nor conceal your own offenses. There are others, away in England, who are aware of them, and who will, in order to avenge my death, speak the truth. Remember that although Elma Heath has been deprived of both hearing and of speech, she can still write down the true facts in black and white. The Czar may be your patron, and you his favorite, but his Majesty has no tolerance of officials who are guilty of what you are guilty of. You talk of arresting me!" I added with a smile. "Why, you ought rather to go on your knees and beg my silence." He went white with rage at my cutting sarcasm. He literally boiled over, for he saw that I was quite cool and had no fear of him or of the terrible punishment to which he intended to consign me. Besides which, he was filled with wonder regarding the exact amount of information which Elma had imparted to me. "There are certain persons," I went on, "to whom it would be of intense interest to know the true reason why the steam-yacht _Lola_ put into Leghorn; why I was entertained on board her; why the safe in the British Consulate was rifled, and why the unfortunate girl, kept a prisoner on board, was taken on shore just before the hurried sailing of the vessel. And there are other mysteries which the English police are trying to solve, namely, the reason Armida Santini and a man disguised as her husband died in Scotland at the hand of an assassin. But surely I need say no more. It is surely sufficient to convince you that if the truth were spoken, the revelations would be distinctly awkward." "For whom?" he asked, opening his eyes. "For you. Come, Baron," I said, "can we not yet speak frankly?" If my journey there was in order to meet my love, I would not have cared. It was the ignorance of her whereabouts or of her fate that held me in such deep, all-consuming anxiety. Each hour that passed increased my fond and tender affection for her. And yet what irony of circumstance! She had been cruelly snatched from me at the very moment that freedom had been ours. "Arrest me if you like. Denounce me by means of any lie that arises to your lips, but remember that the truth is known beyond the confines of the Russian Empire, and for that reason traces will be sought of me and full explanation demanded. I have taken precaution, Xavier Oberg," I added, "therefore do your worst. I repeat again that I defy you!" He paced the big room, his thin claw-like hands still clenched, his yellow teeth grinding, his dark, deep-set eyes fixed straight before him. If he had dared, he would have struck me down at his feet. But he did not dare. I saw too plainly that even though my wallet was gone I still held the trump-card--that he feared me. The mention I had made of the Minister of Finance, however, seemed to cause him considerable hesitation. That high official had the ear of the Emperor, and if I were a friend there might be inquiries. As I stood before him leaning against a small buhl table, I watched all the complex workings of his mind, and tried to read the mysterious motive which had caused him to consign poor Elma to Kajana. These and other thoughts ran through my mind in the silence that followed our heated argument, for I saw well that he was in actual fear of me. I had led him to believe that I knew everything, and that his future was in my hands, while he, on his part, was anxious to hold me prisoner, and yet dared not do so. My wallet had probably been stolen by some lurking police-spy, for Russian agents abound everywhere in Finland, reporting conspiracies that do not exist and denouncing the innocent as "politicals." A long silence had fallen between us, and it now occurred to me to take advantage of his hesitation. Therefore I said in a firm voice, in French- "I think, Baron, our interview is at an end, is it not? Therefore I wish you good-day." He turned upon me suddenly with an evil flash in his dark eyes, and a snarling imprecation in Russian upon his lips. His hand still held the order committing me to the fortress. "But before I leave you will destroy that document. It may fall into other hands, you know," and I walked towards him with quick determination. "I shall do nothing of the kind!" he snapped. Without further word I snatched the paper from his thin white fingers and tore it up before his face. His countenance went livid. I do not think I have ever seen a man's face assume such an expression of fiendish vindictiveness. It was as though at that instant hell had been let loose within his heart. But I turned upon my heel and went out, passing the sentries in the ante-room, along the flower-filled corridors and across the courtyard to the main entrance where the gorgeous concierge saluted me as I stepped forth into the square. I had escaped by means of my own diplomacy and firmness. The Czar's representative--the man who ruled that country--feared me, and for that reason did not hold me prisoner. Yet when I recalled that evil look of revenge on my departure, I could not help certain feelings of grave apprehension arising within me. Returning to my hotel, I smoked a cigar in my room and pondered. Where was Elma? was the chief question which arose within my mind. By remaining in Helsingfors I could achieve nothing further, now that I had made the acquaintance of the oppressor, whereas if I returned to Abo I might perchance be able to obtain some clue to my love's whereabouts. I call her my love because I both pitied and loved the poor afflicted girl who was so helpless and defenseless. "Well?" I inquired. "And what of the lady? Has she been found?" "Ah! your Excellency. It is a pity you were not here yesterday," he said with a sigh. "Why? Tell me quickly. What has happened?" "I have been assisting the police as spy, Excellency, as I often do, and I have seen her." "Seen her! Where?" I cried in quick anxiety. "Here, in Abo. She arrived yesterday morning from Tammerfors accompanied by an Englishman. She had changed her dress, and was all in black. They lunched together at the Restaurant du Nord opposite the landing stage, and an hour later left by steamer for Petersburg." "An Englishman!" I cried. "Did you not inform the Chief of Police, Boranski?" "Then their passports were vised here on embarking?" I exclaimed. "What was the name upon that of the Englishman?" "I have it here written down, Excellency. I cannot pronounce your difficult English names." And he produced a scrap of dirty paper whereon was written in a Russian hand the name- "Martin Woodroffe." "Neither can I," I said. "I know the man who is with her, and cannot help fearing that he is her bitterest enemy--that he is acting in concert with the Baron." "Then why is he taking her to the capital--beyond the jurisdiction of the Governor-General?" "I am going straight to Petersburg to ascertain," I said. "I have only come to thank you for your kindness in this matter. Truth to tell, I have been somewhat surprised that you should have interested yourself on my behalf," I added, looking straight at the uniformed official. "It was not on yours, but on hers," he answered, somewhat enigmatically. "I know something of the affair, but it was my duty as a man to help the poor girl to escape from that terrible place. She has, I know, been unjustly condemned for the attempted assassination of the wife of a General--condemned with a purpose, of course. Such a thing is not unusual in Finland." "Abominable!" I cried. "Oberg is a veritable fiend." But the man only shrugged his shoulders, saying- "The orders of his Excellency the Governor-General have to be obeyed, whatever they are. We often regret, but we dare not refuse to carry them out." "Russian rule is a disgrace to our modern civilization," I declared hotly. "I have every sympathy with those who are fighting for freedom." For nearly an hour I sat with him, surprised to find how, although his exterior was so harsh and uncouth, yet his heart really bled for the poor starving people he was so constantly forced to oppress. I was alone in the compartment, and sat moodily watching the panorama of wood and river as we slowly wound up the tortuous ascents and descended the steep gradients. I had not even a newspaper with which to while away the time, only my own apprehensive thoughts of whither my helpless love was being conducted. Surely to no man was there ever presented such a complicated problem as that which I was now trying so vigorously to solve. I loved Elma Heath. The more I reflected, the deeper did her sweet countenance and tender grace impress themselves upon my heart. I loved her, therefore I was striving to overtake her. The steamer, I learned, would call at Hango and Helsingfors. Would they, I wonder, disembark at either of those places? Was the man whom I had known as Hornby, the owner of the _Lola_, taking her to place her again in the fiendish hands of Xavier Oberg? The very thought of it caused me to hold my breath. Daylight came at last, cold and gray, over those dreary interminable marshes where game, especially snipe, seemed abundant, and at a small station at the head of a lake called Davidstadt I took my morning glass of tea; then we resumed our journey down to Viborg, where a short, thick-set Russian of the commercial class, but something of a dandy, entered my compartment, and we left express for Petersburg. We had passed by a small station called Galitsina, near which were many villas occupied in summer by families from Petersburg, and were traveling through the dense gloomy pine-woods, when my fellow-traveler, having asked permission to smoke, commenced to chat affably. He seemed a pleasant fellow, and told me that he was a wool merchant, and that he had been having a pleasant vacation trout fishing in the Vuoski above the falls of the Imatra, where the pools between the rapids abound with fish. He had told me that on account of the shore being so full of weeds and the clearness of the water, fishing from the banks was almost an impossibility, and how they had to accustom themselves to troll from a boat so small as to only accommodate the rower and the fisherman. Then he remarked suddenly- "You are English, I presume--possibly from Helsingfors?" "No," I answered. "From Abo. I crossed from Stockholm, and am going to Petersburg." The fellow meant mischief--that I knew. If Elma was flying in secret and he watched me, he would know that she was in Petersburg. At all hazards, for my love's sake as well as for mine, I saw that I must escape him. The ingeniousness and cleverness of Oberg's spies was proverbial throughout Finland, therefore he might not be alone, or in any case, on arrival in Petersburg would obtain assistance in keeping observation upon me. I knew that the Baron desired my death, and that therefore I could not be too wary of pitfalls. That fatal chair so cunningly prepared for me in Lambeth was still vividly within my memory. As we passed Lanskaya, and ran through the outer suburbs of Petersburg, my fellow-traveler became inquisitive as to where I was going, but I was somewhat unresponsive, and busied myself with my bag until we entered the great echoing terminus whence I could see the Neva gleaming in the pale sunlight and the city beyond. The fellow made no attempt to follow me--he was too clever a secret agent for that. He merely wished me "_sdravstvuite_" raised his hat politely and disappeared. "Well, m'sieur," he answered, looking at me with some surprise. "They would be acceptable. I am a married man." "Well, I want to escape from this place without being observed. There is a disagreeable little matter regarding a lady, and I fear a fracas with a man who is awaiting me outside in the Nevski." Then, seeing that he hesitated, I assured him that I had committed no crime, and that I should return for my baggage that evening. "You could pass through the kitchen and out by the servants' entrance," he said, after a moment's reflection. "If m'sieur so desires, I will conduct him out. The exit is in a back street which leads on to the Catherine Canal." "Excellent!" I said. "Let us go. Of course you will say nothing?" Twilight deepened into night, and the rain fell heavily, yet I still paced the wet flags in patience, my eyes ever seaward for the light of the vessel which I hoped bore my love. My presence there aroused some speculation among the loungers, I think; nevertheless, I waited in deepest anxiety whether, after all, Elma and Hornby had not disembarked at Helsingfors. Without betraying my presence I watched them pass through the passport-office and Custom House, and then, overhearing the address which Martin Woodroffe gave the _isvoshtchik_, I stood aside, wet to the skin, and saw them drive away. "Ah, poor young lady!" the man exclaimed as he stood in my room answering my questions, "What an affliction! She writes down all her orders--for she can utter no word." "Has the Englishman received any visitors?" I asked. "If he receives anyone else, let me know," I said. "And I want you to give Mademoiselle a letter from me in secret." I turned to the little writing-table and scribbled a few hasty lines to my love, announcing my presence, and asking her to grant me an interview in secret as soon as Woodroffe was absent. I also warned her of the search for her instigated by the Baron, and urged her to send me a line in reply. The note was delivered into her hand, but although I waited in suspense nearly all day she sent no reply. While Woodroffe was in the hotel I dared not show myself lest he should recognize me, therefore I was compelled to sham indisposition and to eat my meals alone in my room. Both the means by which she had met Martin Woodroffe and the motive were equally an enigma. By that letter she had written to her schoolfellow it was apparent that she had some secret of his, for had she not wished to send him a message of reassurance that she had divulged nothing? This would seem that they were close friends; yet, on the other hand, something seemed to tell me that he was acting falsely, and was really an ally of the Baron's. For several hours I sat at my window watching the life and movement down in the street below, my mind full of wonder and dark forebodings. Was Martin Woodroffe playing her false? My love was in peril! It was just as I had feared. I thanked Providence that I had been sent to help her and extricate her from that awful fate to which "The Strangler of Finland" had consigned her. At the hour she named, after the waiter had come to me and announced the Englishman's departure, I descended to her sitting-room and entered without rapping, for if I had rapped she could not, alas! have heard. I took her hands in mine and held them tightly in silence for some moments, as I looked earnestly into those wonderfully brilliant eyes of hers. She turned away laughing, a slight flush rising to her cheeks in her confusion. Then she led me to a chair, and motioned me to be seated. Ours was a silent meeting, but her gestures and the expression of her eyes were surely more eloquent than mere words. I knew well what pleasure that re-encounter caused her--equal pleasure with that it gave to me. Until that moment I had never really loved. I had admired and flirted with women. What man has not? Indeed, I had admired Muriel Leithcourt. But never until now had I experienced in my heart the real flame of true burning affection. The sweetness of her expression, the tender caress of those soft, tapering hands, the deep mysterious look in those magnificent eyes, and the incomparable grace of all her movements, combined to render her the most perfect woman I had ever met--perfect in all, alas! save speech and hearing, of which, with such dastard wantonness, she had been deprived. She touched her red lips with the tip of her forefinger, opened her hands, and shrugged her shoulders with a sad gesture of regret. Then turning quickly to some paper on the little table at her side she wrote something with a gold pencil and handed to me. It read- "Surely Providence has sent you here! Mr. Woodroffe must have followed you from England. He is my enemy. You must take me from here and hide me. They intend to send me into exile. Have you ever been in Petersburg before? Do you know anyone here?" "Does your secret concern him?" I asked in writing. "Yes," she wrote in response. "It would be equally in his interests as well as those of Baron Oberg if I were sent to Saghalien and my identity effaced. I am a Russian subject, as I have already told you, therefore with a Ministerial order against me I am in deadliest peril." "Trust in me," I scribbled quickly. "I will act upon any suggestion you make. Have you any female friend in whom you could trust to hide you until this danger is past?" Then rising, she obtained some ink and pen and wrote a letter, the contents of which she did not show me before she sealed it. I sat watching her beautiful head bent beneath the shaded lamplight, catching her profile and noticing how eminently handsome it was, superb and unblemished in her youthful womanhood. The house was, I found, somewhat smaller than its neighbors, but not let out in flats as the others. Upon the door was a large brass plate bearing the name, "Olga Stassulevitch: modes." I pressed the electric button, and in answer a tall, clean-shaven Russian servant opened the door. "Madame is not at home," was his brief reply to my inquiry. For a few minutes I waited there, until the door reopened, and there entered a man of medium height, with a shock of long snow-white hair and almost patriarchal beard, whose dark eyes that age had dimmed flashed out at me with a look of curious inquiry, and whose movements were those of a person not quite at his ease. "I have called on behalf of Mademoiselle Elma Heath, to give this letter to Madame Stassulevitch, or if she is absent to place it in the hands of the Red Priest," I explained in my best Russian. "Very well, sir," the old man responded in quite good English. "I am the person you seek," and taking the letter he opened it and read it through. I saw by the expression on his furrowed face that its contents caused him the utmost consternation. His countenance, already pale, blanched to the lips, while in his eyes there shot a fire of quick apprehension. The thin, almost transparent hand holding the letter trembled visibly. "You know Mademoiselle--eh?" he asked in a hoarse, strained voice as he turned to me. "You will help her to escape?" "I will risk my own life in order to save hers," I declared. "And your devotion to her is prompted by what?" he inquired suspiciously. I was silent for a moment. Then I confessed the truth. "Ah!" he sighed deeply. "Poor young lady! She, who has enemies on every hand, sadly needs a friend. But can we trust you--have you no fear?" "Of being implicated in the coming revolution in Russia? Remember I am the Red Priest. Have you never heard of me? My name is Otto Kampf." "I shall say nothing," I said, gazing at the strangely striking figure before me--the unknown man who directed the great upheaval that was to revolutionize Russia. "My only desire is to save Mademoiselle Heath." "And you are prepared to do so at risk of your own liberty--your own life? Ah! you said you love her. Would not this be a test of your affection?" "I am prepared for any test, as long as she escapes the trap which her enemies have set for her. I succeeded in saving her from Kajana, and I intend to save her now." Our eyes met, and he recognized me, notwithstanding my light overcoat and new hat. Then, with heart-sinking, the ghastly truth flashed upon me. All had been in vain. Elma was lost to me. HER HIGHNESS IS INQUISITIVE Instantly the danger was apparent, and instead of driving back to the hotel, I called out to the man to take me to the Moscow railway station, in order to put the spy off the scent. I knew he would follow me, but as he was on foot, with no drosky in sight, I should be able to reach the station before he could, and there elude him. I found Elma in her room, ready dressed to go out, wearing a long traveling-cloak, and in her hand was a small dressing-case. She was pale and full of anxiety until I showed her the slip of paper which Otto Kampf had given me with the address written upon it, and then together we hurried forth. He closed the door, leaving us in the wide carpeted hall, the statuary in which showed us that it was a richly-furnished place, and when a few minutes later he returned, he conducted us upstairs to a fine gilded salon, where an elderly gray-haired lady in black stood gravely to receive us. "Allow me to present Mademoiselle Elma Heath, Princess," I said, speaking in French and bowing, and afterwards telling her my own name. Our hostess welcomed my love in a graceful speech, but I said- "Mademoiselle unfortunately suffers a terrible affliction. She is deaf and dumb." "Ah, how very, very sad!" she exclaimed sympathetically. "Poor girl! poor girl!" and she placed her hand tenderly upon Elma's shoulder and looked into her eyes. Then, turning to me, she said: "So the Red Priest has sent you both to me! You are in danger of arrest, I suppose--you wish me to conceal you here?" "I would only ask sanctuary for Mademoiselle," was my reply. "For myself, I have no fear. I am English, and therefore not a member of the Party." "The Mademoiselle fears arrest?" "There is an order signed for her banishment to Saghalein," I said. "She was imprisoned at Kajana, the fortress away in Finland, but I succeeded in liberating her." "She has actually been in Kajana!" gasped the Princess. "Ah! we have all heard sufficient of the horrors of that place. And you liberated her! Why, she is the only person who has ever escaped from that living tomb to which Oberg sends his victims." "I believe so, Princess." "And may I take it, m'sieur, that the reason you risked your life for her is because you love her? Pardon me for suggesting this." "You have guessed correctly," I answered. Then, knowing that Elma could not hear, I added: "I love her, but we are not lovers. I have not told her of my affection. Hers is a long and strange story, and she will perhaps tell you something of it in writing." "Well," exclaimed the gray-haired lady smiling, leading my love across the luxurious room, the atmosphere of which was filled with the scent of flowers, and taking off her cloak with her own hands, "you are safe here, my poor child. If spies have not followed you, then you shall remain my guest as long as you desire." "I am sure it is very good of you, Princess," I said gratefully. "Miss Heath is the victim of a vile and dastardly conspiracy. When I tell you that she has been afflicted as she is by her enemies--that an operation was performed upon her in Italy while she was unconscious--you will readily see in what deadly peril she is." "What!" she cried. "Have her enemies actually done this? Horrible!" "She will perhaps tell you of the strange romance that surrounds her--a mystery which I have not yet been able to fathom. She is a Russian subject, although she has been educated in England. Baron Oberg himself is, I believe, her worst and most bitter enemy." "Ah! the Strangler!" she exclaimed with a quick flash in her dark eyes. "But his end is near. The Movement is active in Helsingfors. At any moment now we may strike our blow for freedom." "Who is this man Martin Woodroffe, of whom she speaks?" asked the Princess presently, turning to me. "He may be in love with her, and desires to force her into marriage," she suggested, expressing amazement at the curious narrative I had related. "Leithcourt? Leithcourt?" repeated the Princess, knitting her brows with a puzzled air. "Do you happen to know her father's name?" "Philip Leithcourt." "And has he actually been living in Scotland?" Princess Zurloff sat with her lips pressed close together, looking straight at the silent girl before her. Elma had removed her hat and cloak, and now sat in a deep easy chair of yellow silk, with the lamplight shining on her chestnut hair, settled and calm as though already thoroughly at home. I smiled to myself as I thought of the chagrin of Woodroffe when he returned to find his victim missing. "Your Highness evidently knows the Leithcourts," I hazarded, after a brief silence. At that moment the long white doors of the handsome salon were thrown open by the faithful Tartar servitor, and there entered a man whose hair fell over the collar of his heavy overcoat, but whom, in an instant, I recognized as Otto Kampf. Both Elma and I sprang to our feet, while advancing to the Princess he bent and gallantly kissed the hand she held forth to him. Then he shook hands with Elma, and acknowledging my own greetings, took off his coat and threw it upon a chair with the air of an accustomed visitor. "I come, Princess, in order to explain to you," he said. "Mademoiselle fears rearrest, and the only house in Petersburg that the police never suspect is this. Therefore I send her to you, knowing that with your generosity you will help her in her distress." "It is all arranged," was her Highness's response. "She will remain here, poor girl, until it is safe for her to get out of Russia." Then, after some further conversation, and after my well-beloved had made signs of heartfelt gratitude to the man known from end to end of the Russian empire as "The Red Priest," the Princess turned to me, saying: "I would much like to know what occurred before the Leithcourts left Scotland." "The Leithcourts!" exclaimed Kampf in utter surprise. "Do you know the Leithcourts--and the English officer Durnford?" I looked into his eyes in abject amazement. What connection could Jack Durnford, of the Marines, have with the adventurer Philip Leithcourt? I, however, recollected Jack's word, when I had described the visit of the _Lola_ to Leghorn, and further I recollected that very shortly he would be back in London from his term of Mediterranean service. "Well," I said after a pause, "I happen to know Captain Durnford very well, but I had no idea that he was friendly with Leithcourt." The Red Priest smiled, stroking his white beard. "Explain to her Highness what she desires to know, and I will tell you." My eyes met Elma's, and I saw how intensely eager and interested she was, watching the movement of my lips and trying to make out what words I uttered. "Well," I said, "a mysterious tragedy occurred on the edge of a wood near the house rented by Leithcourt--a tragedy which has puzzled the police to this day. An Italian named Santini and his wife were found murdered." "Santini!" gasped Kampf, starting up. "But surely he is not dead?" "No. That's the curious part of the affair. The man who was killed was a man disguised to represent the Italian, while the woman was actually the waiter's wife herself. I happen to know the man Santini well, for both he and his wife were for some years in my employ." The Princess and the director of the Russian revolutionary movement exchanged quick glances. It was as though her Highness implored Kampf to reveal to me the truth, while he, on his part, was averse to doing so. "And upon whom does suspicion rest?" asked her Highness. "There is no suspicion upon Leithcourt?" she asked with some undue anxiety I thought. "Did he entertain any guests at the shooting-box?" "No foreigners among them?" "I never met any. They seemed all people from London--a smart set for the most part." "Then why did the Leithcourts disappear so suddenly?" "Because of the appearance of the man Chater," I replied. "It is evident that they feared him, for they took every precaution against being followed. In fact, they fled leaving a big party of friends in the house. The man Woodroffe, now at the Hotel de Paris, is a friend of Leithcourt as well as of Chater." "He was not a guest of Leithcourt when this man representing Santini was assassinated?" asked Kampf, again stroking his beard. "No. As soon as Woodroffe recognized me as a visitor he left--for Hamburg." "Ah, Princess!" I cried. "If you will only help and protect her, you will be doing an act of mercy to a defenseless woman. I love her--I admit it. I have done my utmost: I have striven to solve the dark mystery, but up to the present I have been unsuccessful, and have only remained, even till to-day, the victim of circumstance." "Let her stay with me," the kindly woman answered, smiling tenderly upon my love. "She will be safe here, and in the meantime we will endeavor to discover the real and actual truth." And in response I took the Princess's hand and pressed it fervently. Although that striking, white-headed man and the rather stiff, formal woman in black were the leaders of the great and all-powerful movement in Russia known through the civilized world as "The Terror," yet they were nevertheless our friends. They had pledged themselves to help us thwart our enemies. I scribbled a few hasty words upon paper and handed it to Elma. And for answer she smiled contentedly, looking into my eyes with an expression of trust, devotion and love. A week had gone by. The Nord Express had brought me posthaste across Europe from Petersburg to Calais, and I was again in London. I had left Elma in the care of the Princess Zurloff, whom I knew would conceal her from the horde of police-agents now in search of her. "I haven't exactly deserted it," I said. "But I really don't love it like he does." Then a silence fell between us, and I sat eating on until the end of the meal, wondering how to broach the question I so desired to put to him. "I shall try if I can get on recruiting service at home for a bit," he said presently. "There's an appointment up in Glasgow vacant, and I shall try for it. It'll be better, at any rate, than China or the Pacific." "Oh, Major!" I cried, rising and grasping his hand. "I haven't seen you since Scotland, and the extraordinary ending to your house-party." "No," he laughed. "It was an amazing affair, wasn't it? After the Leithcourts left it was like pandemonium let loose; the guests collared everything they could lay their hands upon! It's a wonder to me the disgraceful affair didn't get into the papers." "But where's Leithcourt now?" I asked anxiously. "Haven't the ghost of an idea," replied the Major, standing astride with his hands in his pockets. "Young Paget of ours told me the other day that he saw Muriel driving in the Terminus Road at Eastbourne, but she didn't notice him. They were a queerish lot, those Leithcourts," he added. "Hulloa! What are you saying about the Leithcourts, Charley?" exclaimed Durnford, turning quickly from Hanbury. "I know some people of that name--Philip Leithcourt, who has a daughter named Muriel." "Well, they sound much the same. But if you know them, my dear old chap, I really don't envy you your friends," declared the Major with a laugh. "Well, Gregg will tell you," he said. "He knows, perhaps, more than I do. But," he added, "they may not, of course, be the same people." "He left Rannoch very suddenly," remarked Bartlett. "We understood that he was engaged to marry Muriel. If so, I'm sorry for her, poor girl." "What!" cried Durnford, starting up. "That man to marry Muriel Leithcourt?" "Yes," I said. "Why?" But his countenance had turned pale, and he gave no answer to my question. "Perhaps our Leithcourts are not the same as those Jack knows," I remarked, in order to escape from a rather difficult situation; whereupon Durnford, as though eager to conceal his surprise, said with a forced laugh, "Oh! probably not," and reseated himself at table. Then the Major quickly changed the topic of conversation, and afterwards he and his friend passed along to their table and sat down to eat. I could not help noticing that Jack Durnford was upset at what he had learnt, yet I hesitated just then to put any question to him. I resolved to approach the subject later, so as to allow him time to question me if he wished to do so. "You've been a bit down in the mouth to-night, Jack," I said presently, after we had been watching the cabs coming up, depositing the home-coming revelers from the Savoy or the Carlton. "Yes," he sighed. "And surely I have enough to cause me--after what I've heard from Bartlett." "What! Did the facts he told us convey any bad news to you?" I inquired with pretended ignorance. "Yes," he said hoarsely, after a brief pause. Then he added: "Bartlett said you could tell me what happened up in Scotland, where Leithcourt had shooting. Tell me everything," he added with the air of a man in whom all hope is dead. "I remember every word," was his answer. "Go on. What did you do?" "Nothing. I held my tongue. But when I discovered that the fellow who called himself Woodroffe--the man who had represented himself as the owner of the _Lola_, and who, no doubt, had had a hand in breaking open Hutcheson's safe in the Consulate--was engaged to Muriel, I became full of suspicion." "What! They've killed Olinto?" he gasped, starting from his chair. "No. The fellow was made up very much like him. But his wife Armida was killed." "They killed the woman, and believed they had also killed her husband, eh?" he said bitterly through his teeth, and I saw that his strong hands grasped the arms of his chair firmly. "And Martin Woodroffe is engaged to Muriel Leithcourt. Are you certain of this?" "Yes; quite certain." "And is there no suspicion as to who is the assassin of the woman Santini and this mysterious man who posed as her husband?" For some time Jack Durnford smoked in silence, and I could just distinguish his white, hard face in the faint light, for it was now late, and the big electric lamps had been turned out and we were in semi-darkness. "That fellow shall never marry Muriel," he declared in a fierce, hoarse voice. "What you have just told me reveals the truth. Did you meet Chater?" "He appeared suddenly at Rannoch, and the Leithcourts fled precipitately and have not since been heard of." "Ah, no wonder!" he remarked with a dry laugh. "No wonder! But look here, Gordon, I'm not going to stand by and let that scoundrel Woodroffe marry Muriel." "You love her, perhaps?" I hazarded. "Yes, I do love her," he admitted. "And, by heaven!" he cried, "I will tell the truth and crush the whole of their ingenious plot. Have you met Elma Heath?" he asked. "Yes," I said in quick anxiety. "Then listen," he said in a low, earnest voice. "Listen, and I'll tell you something. "Unless, of course, she desired to gain time," I suggested. But my friend was silent; his brows were deep knit. "Woodroffe is at the present moment in Petersburg," I said. "I've just come back from there." "In St. Petersburg!" he gasped, surprised. "Then he is with that villainous official, Baron Oberg, the Governor-General of Finland." "No; Oberg is living shut up in his palace at Helsingfors, fearing to go out lest he shall be assassinated," was my answer. "And Elma? What has become of her?" "She is in hiding in Petersburg, awaiting such time as I can get her safely out of Russia," and then, continuing, I explained how she had been maimed and rendered deaf and dumb. "What!" he cried fiercely. "Have they actually done that to the poor girl? Then they feared that she should reveal the nature of their plot, for she had seen and heard." "Seen and heard what?" "Be patient; we will elucidate this mystery, and the motive of this terrible infliction upon her. Muriel wrote to me saying that poor Elma, her friend, had disappeared, and she feared that some evil had also happened to her. So Oberg had sent her to his fortress--his own private Bastille--the place to which, on pretended charges of conspiracy against Russia, he sends those who thwart him to a living tomb." "I have seen him, and I have defied him," I said. "You have! Man alive! be careful. He's not a fellow who sticks at trifles," said Jack warningly. "I don't fear," I replied. "Elma's enemies are also mine." "Then I take it, old fellow, that notwithstanding her affliction, you are actually in love with her?" "I intend to rescue, and to marry her," I answered quite frankly. "But from whom do you expect I can obtain the true facts concerning her, and the reason of the baron's desire to keep her silent?" "But what was the motive in breaking open the Consul's safe, if not to obtain the Foreign Office or Admiralty ciphers? Perhaps they wanted to steal them and sell them to a foreign government?" "But he is on extremely friendly terms with Elma. It was he who succeeded in finding her in Finland, and taking her beyond Oberg's sphere of influence to Petersburg." "Then it is certainly only an affected friendship, with some sinister motive underlying it." "She wrote a letter from her island prison to an old schoolfellow named Lydia Moreton, asking her to see Woodroffe at his rooms in Cork Street, and tell him that through all she was suffering she had kept her promise to him, and that the secret was still safe." "Exactly. And now the fellow fears that as you are so actively searching out the truth, she may yield to your demands and explain. He therefore intends to silence her." "Well, he might do so, in order to save himself, you see," Jack replied, adding: "He certainly would have no compunction if he thought that it would not be brought home to him. Only he, no doubt, fears you, because you have found her, and are in love with her." I tried to get from him all that he knew concerning Elma, but he seemed, for some curious reason, disinclined to tell. All I could gather was that Leithcourt was in league with Chater and Woodroffe, and that Muriel had acted as an entirely innocent agent. What the conspiracy was, or what was its motive, I could not discern. I was as far off the solution of the problem as ever. "But surely you know where she is? She writes to you," I said. "But you have an address where you always write to her, I suppose?" "You did not know that they had fled, and were in hiding?" "Of course not. What I've heard to-night is news to me--amazing news." "And does it not convey to you the truth?" "It does--a ghastly truth concerning Elma Heath," he answered in a low voice, as though speaking to himself. "Tell me. What? I'm dying, Jack, to know everything concerning her. Who is that fellow Oberg?" "Her enemy. She, by mere accident, learned his secret and Woodroffe's, and they now both live in deadly fear of her." "And for that reason she was taken to Siena, where some villainous Italian doctor was bribed to render her deaf and dumb." He nodded in the affirmative. "I know very little concerning him. He may have conspired with them, or he may be innocent. It seems as though he were antagonistic to their schemes, if Leithcourt and his family really fled from him." "And yet he was on board the _Lola_. Indeed, he may have helped to commit the burglary at the Consulate," I said. "Shall we go to Eastbourne?" I suggested eagerly. "I'll go there with you in the morning." "Or would it not be best to send an urgent wire to the address where I always write? She would then reply here, no doubt. If she's in Eastbourne, there may be reasons why she cannot come up to town. If her people are in hiding, of course she won't come. But she'll make an appointment with me, no doubt." "Very well. Send a wire," I said. "And make it urgent. It will then be forwarded. But as regards Olinto? Would you like to see him? He might tell you more than he has told me." "No; by no means. He must not know that I have returned to London," declared my friend quickly. "You had better not see him--you understand." "Then his interests are--well, not exactly our own?" "But why don't you tell me more about Elma?" I urged, for I was eager to learn all he knew. "Come, do tell me!" I implored. "I've told you practically everything, my dear old fellow," was his response. "The revelation of the true facts of the affair can be made only by Muriel. I tell you, we must find her." "Yes, we must--at all hazards," I said. "Let's go across to the telegraph office opposite Charing Cross. It's open always." And we rose and walked out along the Strand, now nearly deserted, and despatched an urgent message to Muriel at an address in Hurlingham Road, Fulham. "A fellow I know has just gone by, I think." "Yes," I said. "And you will help me?" "With all my heart, old fellow," answered my friend, warmly grasping my hand, and then we parted, he strolling along towards the National Gallery on his way back to the "Junior," while I returned to the _Cecil_ alone. "Captain Durnford?" I inquired of the hall-porter of the club next morning. "But he slept here last night," I remarked. "I have an appointment with him." The man consulted the big book before him, and answered: In an instant I recollected what Jack had told me, and regarded him with some suspicion. "Signor Commendatore," he said in a low voice, as though fearing to be overheard, "may I be permitted to speak in private with you?" "Certainly," I said, and I took him in the lift up to my room. "And who are they, pray?" I asked, biting my lips. "The same, I suppose, who prepared that ingenious trap in Lambeth?" "I am not here to reveal to you who they are, signore, only to warn you to have a care of yourself," was the Italian's reply. "Look here, Olinto!" I exclaimed determinedly, "I've had enough of this confounded mystery. Tell me the truth regarding the assassination of your poor wife up in Scotland." "Ah, signore!" he answered sadly in a changed voice, "I do not know. It was a plot. Someone represented me--but he was killed also. They believed they had struck me down," he added, with a bitter laugh. "Poor Armida's body was found concealed behind a rock on the opposite side of the wood. I saw it--ah!" he cried shuddering. "Then you are ignorant of the identity of your wife's assassin?" I was silent. The faint suspicion that Oberg had been at that spot was now entirely removed. The only clue I had was satisfactorily accounted for. "Why do you ask, Signor Commendatore?" he added. "Because the cross was found at the spot, and was believed to have been dropped by the assassin," I said. The police had, it seemed, succeeded in discovering the unfortunate woman after all, and had found that she was his wife. "You know a man named Leithcourt?" I asked a few moments later. "Now, tell the truth. In this affair, Olinto, our interests are mutual, are they not?" He nodded, after a moment's hesitation. "And you know also a man named Archer--who is sometimes known as Hornby, or Woodroffe--as well as a friend of his called Chater." "Si, signore," he said. "I have met them all--to my regret." "And have you ever met a Russian--a certain Baron Oberg--and his niece, Elma Heath?" "His niece? She isn't his niece." "Then who is she?" I demanded. "Well, because my own hands were not quite clean," he answered after a pause, his eyes fixed upon mine the while. "I knew they intended to silence her, but I was powerless to save her, poor young lady. They took her on board Leithcourt's yacht, the _Iris_, and they sailed for the Mediterranean, I believe." "Then the name and appearance of the yacht was altered on the voyage, and it became the _Lola_," I said. "And who is this Oberg?" I inquired, urging him to reveal to me all he knew concerning him. "He stands in great fear of the poor young lady, I believe, for it was at his instigation that Leithcourt and his friends took her on that fatal yachting cruise." "And what was your connection with them?" "Well, I was Leithcourt's servant," was his reply. "I was steward on the _Iris_ for a year, until I suppose they thought that I began to see too much, and then I was placed in a position ashore." "And what did you see?" "More than I care to tell, signore. If they were arrested I should be arrested, too, you see." "If the signore solves it himself, then I cannot be charged with revealing the truth," was the man's diplomatic reply. "But I fear that they are far too wary." "Armida has lost her life. Surely that is sufficient incentive for you to bring them all to justice?" "Of course. But if the law falls upon them, it will also fall upon me." I explained the terrible affliction to which my love had been subjected by those heartless brutes, whereupon he cried enthusiastically: "Then she is not dead! She can tell us everything!" "But cannot you tell us?" "No; not all. The secret she knows has never been revealed. They feared she might be incautious, and for that reason Oberg made the villainous suggestion of the yachting trip. She was to be drowned--accidentally, of course." "She is in St. Petersburg now. I left her a week ago." "In Russia! Ah, signore, for her sake, don't allow the young lady to remain there. The Baron is all-powerful. He does what he wishes in Russia, and the more merciless he is to the people he governs, the greater rewards he receives from the Czar. I have never been in Russia, but surely it must be a strange country, signore!" "Well," I said, sitting upon the edge of the bed and looking at him. "Are you prepared to denounce them if I bring the Signorina Heath here, to England?" "Ah, signore, she was such a pleasant and kind-hearted young lady. I always felt very sorry for her. She was in deadly fear of them." "Because they were thieves?" I hazarded. "But why did they induce you to entice me to that house in Lambeth? Why did they so evidently desire that I should be killed?" "By accident," he interrupted, correcting me. "Always by accident," and he smiled grimly. "Surely you know their secret motive?" I remarked. "At the time I did not," he declared. "I acted on their instructions, being compelled to, for they hold my future in their hands. Therefore I could not disobey. You knew too much, therefore you were marked down for death--just as you are now." "And who is it who is now seeking my life?" I inquired gravely. "I only returned from Russia yesterday." "Your movements are well known," answered the young Italian. "You cannot be too careful. Woodroffe has been in Russia with you, has he not?" I replied in the affirmative, whereupon he said: "I thought so, but was not quite sure." "And Chater?" I inquired; "where is he?" "And the Leithcourts?" He shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of ignorance, adding: "The Signorina Muriel returned to London from Eastbourne this morning." "Where can I find her?" I inquired eagerly. "It is of the utmost importance that I should see her." "She is with a relation, a cousin, I think, at Bassett Road, Notting Hill. The house is called 'Holmwood.'" "You have seen her?" "No. I heard she had returned." "And her father is still in hiding from Chater?" "He is still in hiding, but Chater is his best friend." "That is curious," I remarked, recollecting the hurried departure from Rannoch. "They've made it up, I suppose?" "They never quarreled, to my knowledge." "Then why did Leithcourt leave Scotland so hurriedly on Chater's arrival? You know all about the affair, of course?" "But I can't understand that," I said. "Why should Leithcourt have attacked Chater, rendered him unconscious, and shut him up in the cupboard in the library?" "Was it Leithcourt who did that?" he asked dubiously. "I think not. It was another of the guests who was Chater's bitterest enemy. But Philip Leithcourt took advantage of the fracas in order to make believe that he had fled because of Chater's arrival. Ah!" he added, "you haven't any idea of their ruses. They are amazing!" "Then who was the man who attacked Chater?" I asked. "And you say that the flight had been prearranged?" I remarked. "Yes, with a distinct motive," he said; then, after a pause, he added, with a strange, earnest look in his dark eyes, "Pardon me, Signor Commendatore, if I presume to suggest something, will you not?" "Certainly. What do you suggest?" "That you should remain here, in this hotel, and not venture out." "For fear of something unfortunate happening to me!" I laughed. "I'm really not afraid, Olinto," I added. "You know I carry this," and I drew out my revolver from my hip-pocket. "I know, signore," he said anxiously. "But you might not be afforded opportunity for using it. When they lay a trap they bait it well." "I know. They're a set of the most ingenious scoundrels in London, it is very evident. Yet I don't fear them in the least," I declared. "I must rescue the Signorina Heath." "But, signore, have a care for yourself," cried the Italian, laying his hand upon my arm. "You are a marked man. Ah! do I not know," he exclaimed breathlessly. "If you go out you may run right into--well, the fatal accident." The next moment he grew serious again, and said: "I only warn the signore that if he goes out it is at his own peril." "I should think this is the gentleman, sir," he said. And he read to me the entry as follows: "He has uttered no words?" I asked anxiously. "Made no statement?" "None. He has never regained consciousness, and I fear, sir, he never will. It is a case of deliberate murder, the police told me early this morning." I clenched my fists and swore a fierce revenge for that dastardly act. And as I stood beside the narrow bed, I realized that what Olinto had said regarding my own peril was the actual truth. I was a marked man. Was I never to penetrate that inscrutable and ever-increasing mystery? THE TRUTH ABOUT THE "LOLA" "What is it?" she gasped quickly. "It concerns Captain Durnford," I replied. "He has been injured in the street, and is in Charing Cross Hospital." "Ah!" she cried. "I see. You do not explain the truth. By your face I can tell there is something more. He's dead! Tell me the worst." "No, Miss Leithcourt," I said gravely, "not dead, but the doctors fear that he may not recover. His wound is dangerous. He has been shot by some unknown person." "Shot!" she echoed, bursting into tears. "Then they have followed him, after all! They have deceived me, and now, as they intend to take him from me, I will myself protect him. You, Mr. Gregg, have been in peril of your life, that I know, but Jack's enemies are yours, and they shall not go unpunished. May I see him?" "I fear not, but we will ask at the hospital." And after the exchange of some further explanations, we took a hansom back to Charing Cross. The girl at my side burst into low sobbing. "Tell him," she said, "that Muriel is here--that she has seen him, and is waiting for him to recover." We were not allowed to linger there, and on leaving the hospital I took her back again to Notting Hill, promising to keep her well informed of Jack's condition. He had returned to consciousness, therefore there was now a faint hope for his recovery. I knew what that meant. Use was to be made of certain Russian officials who were secretly allied with the Revolutionists in order to secure her safe conduct beyond the power of that order of exile of the tyrant de Plehve. I wrote to her under cover to the Princess, but there had been no time yet for a reply. "It is true that he asked me to marry him," she responded. "But there were reasons why I did not accept." "Reasons connected with his past, eh?" She smiled, and then said: "Ah, Mr. Gregg, it is all a strange and very tragic story. I must see Jack. When do you think they will allow me to go to him?" "But who were the men? Did you recognize them?" "No, not at all. That's the worst of it." "But Muriel knows who they were!" I said. Then I told him how she had looked upon him while unconscious, and how I had taken the daily bulletin to her. For an hour I talked with him, urging him to get well soon, so that we could unite in probing the mystery, and bringing to justice those responsible for the dastardly act. "Muriel knows, and if she loves you she will no doubt assist us," I said. "Oh, she does love me, Gordon, I know that," said the prostrate man, smiling contentedly, and when I left I promised to bring her there on the morrow. This I did, but having conducted her to the bed at the end of the ward I discreetly withdrew. What she said to him I am not, of course, aware. All I know is that an hour later when I returned I found them the happiest pair possible to conceive, and I clearly saw that Jack's trust in her was not ill-placed. Jack, now thoroughly recovered, called almost daily at Bassett Road, and would often bring Muriel to the Cecil to tea or to luncheon. Often I inquired the whereabouts of her father and of Hylton Chater, but she declared herself in entire ignorance, and believed they were abroad. The drawing-room into which we were ushered was familiar to me as the apartment wherein I had told Muriel of the attempt upon her lover's life. "Gordon," he said to me with a sudden seriousness when tea had ended and we had placed down our cups. "I want to tell you something--something I've been longing always to tell you, and now I have got dear Muriel's consent. I want to tell you about her father and his friends." "And about Elma, too?" I said in quick eagerness. "Yes, tell me everything." "Well?" I asked, much interested. "But what was in the safe?" I asked. "Fortunately nothing. But you see they knew that our squadron was due in Leghorn, and that some extremely important despatches were on the way to the Admiral--secret orders based upon the decision of the British Cabinet as to the vexed question of Russian ships passing the Dardanelles--they expected that they would be lodged in the safe until the arrival of the squadron, as they always are. They were, however, bitterly disappointed because the despatches had not arrived." "Well, the only Russian who appeared to have any connection with them was Baron Oberg, the Governor-General of Finland, whose habit it was to spend part of the winter in the Mediterranean. From Elma Heath's conversation at dinner that evening at Nice I gathered that she and her uncle had been guests on the _Iris_ on several occasions, although I must say that Muriel was extremely reticent regarding all that concerned the yacht." "Of course," she said quickly. "Now that I have told you the truth, Jack, don't you think it was only natural?" "And the crew?" I asked, after a pause. "They were, of course, well paid, and were kept in ignorance of what the supposed owner and his friends did ashore." "But Oberg's connection with it?" I asked, surprised at those revelations. "Yes," I said, for they were all robberies of which I had read in the newspapers a couple of years before. "But that night in Leghorn?" I said. "What happened to poor Elma?" "But she is not the Baron's niece?" I said. "No. There is some mystery," declared Muriel. "She holds some secret which he fears she may divulge. But of what nature, I am in ignorance." "Then you say that your father has never taken any active part in the robberies?" I remarked. "And where is your father now?" I asked. "Ah!" she exclaimed sadly, her face pale and haggard. "I have heard that the vessel was scuttled somewhere in the Baltic." She was silent, and I saw tears standing in her eyes. "There was a tragedy," Jack explained in a low, hoarse voice. "He and the captain did not, unfortunately, get sufficiently far from the yacht when they blew her up, and they went down with her." And I looked in silence at Muriel, who stood with her head bent and her white face covered with her hands. Almost at the same moment there was a low tap at the door, and the servant-maid announced: "Mr. Santini, miss." "Ah!" exclaimed Jack quickly, as Olinto entered the room. "Then you had my note! We have asked you here to reveal to us this dastardly plot which seemed to have been formed against Mr. Gregg and myself. As you know, I've had a narrow escape." "I know, signore. And the Signor Commendatore is also threatened." "By those who killed my poor wife, and who intended also to silence me," was his answer. "The same who compelled you take me to that house where the fatal chair was prepared, eh?" "Not by Chater, for he was in London on that night." "Then by Woodroffe?" Durnford said. "Without a doubt. It was all most cleverly thought out. It was to his advantage alone to close our lips, because in that same fatal chair in Lambeth old Jacob Moser, the Jew bullion-broker of Hatton Garden, met his death--a most dastardly crime, with which none of his friends were associated, and of which we alone held knowledge. He therefore wrote to us as though from Leithcourt, calling us up to Rannoch, in order to strike the blows in the darkness," he added in his peculiar Italian manner. "Besides, he feared we would tell the signore the truth." "You have not told the police?" "I dare not, signore. Surely the less the police know about this matter the better, otherwise the Signorina Leithcourt must suffer for her father's avarice and evil-doing." "Yes," cried Jack anxiously. "That's right, Olinto. The police must know nothing. The reprisals we must make ourselves. But who was it who shot me in Suffolk Street?" "The same man, Martin Woodroffe." "Then the assassin is back from Russia?" "He followed closely behind the Signor Commendatore. Markoff, a clever secret agent of Baron Oberg's, came with him." "I trust that the Signorina Leithcourt has explained the story of the yacht and its crew," Olinto remarked. "And has also shown you how I was implicated. You will therefore discern the reason why I have hitherto feared to give you any explanation." "Yes," I said, "Miss Leithcourt has told me a great deal, but not everything. I cannot yet gather for what reason she and her father fled from Rannoch." "And what of poor Elma--and of her secret? When, I wonder, shall I see her?" I cried in despair. "You will see her now, signore," answered Olinto. "A servant of the Princess Zurloff brought her to London this afternoon, and I have just conveyed her from the station. She is in the next room, in ignorance, however, that you are here." And without another word I fled forward joyfully, and threw open the folding-doors which separated me from my silent love. Silent, yes! But she could, nevertheless, tell her story--surely the strangest that any woman has ever lived to tell. CONTAINS ELMA'S STORY Before me stood my love, a slim, tragic, rather wan figure in a heavy dark traveling-coat and felt toque, her sweet lips parted and a look of bewildered amazement upon her countenance as I burst in so suddenly upon her. In silence I grasped her tiny black-gloved hand, and then, also in silence, raised it passionately to my eager lips. Her soft, dark eyes--those eyes that spoke although she was mute--met mine, and in them was a look that I had never seen there before--a look which as plainly as any words told me that my wild fevered passion was reciprocated. She gazed beyond into the room where the others had assembled, and then looked at me inquiringly, whereupon I led her forward to where they were, and Muriel fell upon her and kissed her with tears streaming from her eyes. "I prepared this surprise for you, Mr. Gregg," Muriel said, laughing through her tears of joy. "Olinto learnt that she was on her way to London, and I sent him to meet her. The Princess has managed magnificently, has she not?" "Yes. Thank God she is free!" I exclaimed. "But we must induce her to tell us everything." Muriel was already helping my love out of her heavy Russian coat, a costly garment lined with sable, and when, after greeting Jack and Olinto, she was comfortably seated, I took some notepaper from the little writing-table by the window and scribbled in pencil the words: Muriel, standing behind her chair, tenderly stroked back the wealth of chestnut hair from her white brow. Her complexion was perfect, even though her face was pale and jaded, and her eyes heavy, consequent upon her long, weary journey from the now frozen North. Presently, when by signs both Jack and Olinto had urged her to write, she bent suddenly, and her pencil began to run swiftly over the paper. I watched her sweet face bent so intently, and as the firelight fell across it found it incomparable. Yes; she was afflicted by loss of speech, it was true, yet she was surely inexpressibly sweet and womanly, peerless above all others. With a deep-drawn sigh she at last finished, and, her head still bowed in an attitude of humiliation, it seemed, she handed what she had written to me. In breathless eagerness I read as follows: "Is it true, dear love--for I call you so in return--that you were impelled towards me by the mysterious hand that directs all things? You came in search of me, and you risked your life for mine at Kajana, therefore you have a right to know the truth. You, as my champion, and the Princess as my friend, have contrived to effect my freedom. Were it not for you, I should ere this have been on my way to Saghalien, to the tomb to which Oberg had so ingeniously contrived to consign me. Ah! you do not know--you never can know--all that I have suffered ever since I was a girl." Here the statement broke off, and recommenced as follows: "The infernal scoundrel!" I ejaculated, when I read her words, while from Jack, who had been looking over my shoulder, escaped a fierce and forcible vow of vengeance. "The Baron took me with him to Petersburg when he went on official business, and we remained there nearly a month," the narrative went on. "While there I received a secret message from 'The Red Priest,' the unseen and unknown power of Nihilism, who has for so many years baffled the police. I went to see him, and he revealed to me how Oberg had contrived to have my mother banished upon a false charge. He warned me against the man who had pretended to be my father's friend, and also told me that he had known my father intimately, and that if I got into any further difficulty I was to communicate with him and he would assist me. Oberg took me back to Helsingfors a few months later, and in summer we went to England. He was a marvelously clever diplomatist. His tactics he could change at will. When I was at school he was rough and brutal in his manner towards me, as he was to all; but now he seemed to be endeavoring to inspire my confidence by treating me with kindly regard and pleasant affability. "I replaced the panel and kept careful watch. At Marseilles, where we called, more jewelry and a heavy bagful of plate was brought aboard and secreted behind another panel. Then I knew that the men were thieves. "I watched his rage, unable to utter a single word. I saw him, after he had searched the dead man's pockets, raise the inert body with its awful featureless face and drag it to the bulwarks. Then I rushed forward and faced him. Elma pointed to the paper, and made a sign that I was to read on. This I did, and the statement ran as follows: "The real reason why the Baron spared my life was because, if I died, my fortune would pass to a distant cousin living at Durham. Yet his manner towards me was now most polite and pleasant--a change that I felt boded no good. He intended to obtain my money by marrying me to his son Michael, whose evil reputation as a gambler was well known in Petersburg. We traveled back to Finland in the autumn, and in the winter he took me to stay with his sister in Nice. Yet almost daily he referred to that tragedy at Naples, and threatened me with death if ever I uttered a single word, or even admitted that I had ever seen the man who was his rival and his victim." "The Baron pretended to be greatly concerned about me," it went on, "but I quickly realized that I had been the victim of a foul and dastardly plot, and that he had conceived it, fearing lest I might speak the truth concerning the Privy-Councillor Polovstoff, for of exposure he lived in constant fear. To encompass my end would be against his own interests, as he would lose my fortune, so he had silenced me lest I should reveal the terrible truth concerning both him and his associates. He was not rich, and I have reason to believe that from time to time he gave information as to persons who possessed valuable jewels, and thus shared in the plunder obtained by those on the yacht. She watched every expression of my countenance, and then, when I had finished reading and placed my arm tenderly about her slim waist, she raised her beautiful face to mine to receive the passionate kiss I imprinted upon those soft, full lips. "This, of course, makes everything plain," exclaimed Jack. "Polovstoff was a very liberal-minded and upright official who was greatly in the favor of the Czar, and a serious rival to Oberg, whose drastic and merciless methods in Finland were not exactly approved by the Emperor. The Baron was well aware of this, and by ingeniously enticing him on board the _Iris_ he succeeded by handing that small bomb concealed in a cigar--a Nihilist contrivance that had probably been seized by his police in Finland--in freeing himself from the rival who was destined to occupy his post." "Yes," I said with a sigh. "The mystery is cleared up, it is true, yet my poor Elma is still the victim." And I kissed my love passionately again and again upon the lips. You read in the newspapers, without a doubt, how the Baron Xavier Oberg, the persecutor of Finland, the enemy of education, the relentless foe of the defenseless, the man who ordered women to be knouted to death in Kajana, the heartless official whom the Finns called "The Strangler," was blown to pieces by a bomb thrown beneath his carriage as he drove to the railway station at Helsingfors on his way to have audience with the Emperor. Olinto Santini has recently opened a small restaurant in Western Road, Brighton, and is, I believe, doing very well. And ourselves! Well, what can I really tell you? Mere words fail to tell you of the completeness of our happiness. It is idyllic--that is all I can say. My proposal of marriage was made to Elma a very few days after she wrote down her startling and romantic story, and a year ago at a little village church in Hertfordshire we became man and wife, there being present at our wedding Madame Heath, my bride's mother, to whom, by my exertions in official quarters in Petersburg, the Czar's clemency was extended, and she was released from that far-off Arctic prison to which she had been sent with such cruel injustice. After all the storms and perils of the past, our lives are now indeed full of a calm, sweet peace. In our own comfortable little house, with its trellised porch covered with roses and honeysuckle, that faces the blue Channel at St. Margaret's Bay, beyond Dover, we lead a life of mutual trust and boundless love. We are supremely content--the happiest pair in all the world, we think. Often as we sit together at evening, gazing out upon the great ships passing darkly away into the mysterious afterglow, our hands clasp mutually in a silence more eloquent than words, and as we gaze into each other's eyes there occurs to us the Divine injunction: "WHOM GOD HATH JOINED, LET NO MAN PUT ASUNDER." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Czar's Spy, by William Le Queux	redpajama-book	63,670
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team The Postmaster's Daughter Author of "The Terms of Surrender," "The Wings of the Morning," etc., etc. I. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW II. P. C ROBINSON "TAKES A LINE" III. THE GATHERING CLOUDS V. THE SEEDS OF MISCHIEF VI. SCOTLAND YARD TAKES A HAND VII. "ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS" VIII. AN INTERRUPTED SYMPOSIUM IX. HE WHOM THE CAP FITS- X. THE CASE AGAINST GRANT XI. P. C. ROBINSON TAKES ANOTHER LINE XII. WHEREIN WINTER GETS TO WORK XIII. CONCERNING THEODORE SIDDLE XIV. ON BOTH SIDES OF THE RIVER XV. A MATTER OF HEREDITY XVI. FURNEAUX MAKES A SUCCESSFUL BID XVII. AN OFFICIAL HOUSEBREAKER XVIII. THE TRUTH AT LAST THE FACE AT THE WINDOW But John Menzies Grant seemed to have no eye for a scene that would have delighted a painter. He turned to the light, scrutinized so closely a strip of turf which ran close to the wall that he might have been searching for a lost diamond, and then peered through the lowermost left-hand pane of the small window into the room he had just quitted. A stout, elderly, red-faced woman, who had entered the room soon after she heard Grant's chair being moved, caught sight of the intent face. She screamed loudly, and dropped a cup and saucer with a clatter on to a Japanese tray. Grant hurried back to the French window. In his haste he did not notice a long shoot of a Dorothy Perkins rose which trailed across his path, and it struck him smartly on the cheek. "I'm afraid I startled you, Mrs. Bates," he said, smiling so pleasantly that no woman or child could fail to put trust in him. "You did that, sir," agreed Mrs. Bates, collapsing into the chair Grant had just vacated. Like most red-faced people, Mrs. Bates turned a bluish purple when alarmed, and her aspect was so distressing now that Grant's smile was banished by a look of real concern. "I'm very sorry," he said contritely. "I had no notion you were in the room. Shall I call Minnie?" "Nun-no, sir," stuttered the housekeeper. "It's stupid of me. But I'm not so young as I was, an' me heart jumps at little things." Grant saw that she was recovering, though slowly. He thought it best not to make too much of the incident; but asked solicitously if he might give her some brandy. "Am I dreaming, or are there visions about?" he murmured. "Oh, dash it all!" he growled good-humoredly, "I'm getting nervy. I must chuck this bad habit of working late, and use the blessed hours of daylight." But he was no long-haired dreamer of impossible things. Erect and square-shouldered, he had passed through Sandhurst into the army, a profession abandoned because of its humdrum nature, when an unexpectedly "fat" legacy rendered him independent. He looked exactly what he was, a healthy, clean-minded young Englishman, with a physique that led to occasional bouts of fox-hunting and Alpine climbing, and a taste in literature that brought about the consumption of midnight oil. This latter is not a mere trope. Steynholme is far removed from such modern "conveniences" as gas and electricity. He was so surprised that he spoke aloud. "What in the world is that?" he almost gasped; a premonition of evil was so strong in him that he actually gazed in stupefaction at a blob of water and a quick-spreading ring where a fat trout rose lazily in midstream. An answering hail came from behind a screen of laurels on the right of the house. There lay the stables, and Bates would surely be grooming the cob which supplied a connecting link between The Hollies and the railway for the neighboring market-town. Bates came, a sturdy block of a man who might have been hewn out of a Sussex oak. His face, hands, and arms were the color of oak, and he moved with a stiffness that suggested wooden joints. Evidently, he expected an order for the dogcart, and stood stock still when he reached the lawn. But Grant, who had gathered his wits, summoned him with crooked forefinger, and Bates jerked slowly on. "What hev' ye done to yer face, sir?" he inquired. Grant was surprised. He expected no such question. "So far as I know, I've not been making any great alteration in it," he said. "But it's all covered wi' blood," came the disturbing statement. "Oh, it is nothing," he said. "I remember now--a rose shoot caught me as I went back into the dining-room a moment ago. I shouted for you to come and see _this_." "Now who put _that_ there?" said Bates, not asking a question but rather stating a thesis. "It was not here yesterday," commented his master, accepting all that Bates's words implied. "No, sir, that it wasn't. I was a-cuttin' the lawn till nigh bed-time, an' it wasn't there then." Grant was himself again. He stooped and grabbed the rope. "Suppose we solve the mystery," he said. "No need to dirty your hands, sir," put in Bates. "Let I haul 'un in." In a few seconds the oaken tint in his face grew many shades lighter. "Good Gawd!" he wheezed. At the end of the rope was the body of a woman. There are few more distressing objects than a drowned corpse. On that bright June morning a dreadful apparition lost little of its grim repulsiveness because the body was that of a young and good-looking woman. "By gum!" he said, "this be a bad business, Mr. Grant. Who is she? She's none of our Steynholme lasses." Still Grant uttered no word. He just looked in horror at the poor husk of a woman who in life had undoubtedly been beautiful. She was well but quietly dressed, and her clothing showed no signs of violence. The all-night soaking in the river revealed some pitiful little feminine secrets, such as a touch of make-up on lips and cheeks, and the dark roots of abundant hair which had been treated chemically to lighten its color. The eyes were closed, and for that Grant was conscious of a deep thankfulness. Had those sightless eyes stared at him he felt he would have cried aloud in terror. The firm, well-molded lips were open, as though uttering a last protest against an untimely fate. Of course, both men were convinced that murder had been done. Not only were arms and body bound in a manner that was impossible of accomplishment by the dead woman herself, but an ugly wound on the smooth forehead seemed to indicate that she had been stunned or killed outright before being flung into the river. And then, the rope and the staple suggested an outlandish, maniacal disposal of the victim. Here was no effort at concealment, but rather a making sure, in most brutal and callous fashion, that early discovery must be unavoidable. The bucolic mind works in well-scored grooves. Receiving no assistance from his master, Bates pulled the body a little farther up on the strip of gravel so that it lay clear of the water. "I mum fetch t' polis," he said. The phrase, with its vivid significance, seemed to galvanize Grant into a species of comprehension. "Not so well! Her ate a rare good breakfast for a sick 'un!" Grant, too, was slowly regaining poise. "I hardly know what I am saying," he muttered. "At any rate, bring a rug. I'll mount guard till you return with the policeman. There can be no doubt, I suppose, that this poor creature is dead." "Dead as a stone," said Bates with conviction. "Why, her's bin in there hours," and he nodded toward the water. "Besides, if I knows anythink of a crack on t'head, her wur outed before she went into t'river But who i' t'world can she be?" "If you don't fetch that rug I'll go for it myself," said Grant, whereupon Bates made off. He was soon back again with a carriage rug, which Grant helped him to spread over the dripping body. Then he hastened to the village, taking a path that avoided the house. Then, hardly knowing what he was about, he relighted his pipe, but had hardly put it in his mouth before he knocked out the tobacco. Clearly, he was thinking hard, mapping out some line of conduct, and the outlook must have been dark indeed, judging by his somber and undecided aspect. He was not disturbed in that way, however. Fish rose in the river; birds sang in the trees; a water-wagtail skipped nimbly from rock to rock in the shallows; honey-laden bees hummed past to the many hives in the postmaster's garden. These were the normal sights and sounds of a June morning--that which was abnormal and almost grotesque in its horror lay hidden beneath the carriage rug. These details were helpful. Naturally, Bates had explained his errand, and the law, in the person of the policeman, was prepared for all eventualities. "Yes," agreed Grant. "I had better tell you that I have recognized the poor lady. Her name is Adelaide Melhuish. Her residence is in the Regent's Park district of London." "Oh," he said, drawing a line under the last entry in the note-book, and writing the date and hour in heavy characters beneath. "Married or single?" "Married, but separated from her husband when last I had news of her." "And when was that, sir?" "And you have not seen her since?" "You didn't see her last night?" Grant positively started, but he looked at the policeman squarely. "About what o'clock would this be, Mr. Grant?" "Well, sir, and what next?" he went on. Robinson began solemnly to jot down a summary of Grant's words, and thereby stirred the owner of The Hollies to a fury which was repressed with difficulty. Realizing, however, the absolute folly of expressing any resentment, Grant turned, and, without meaning it, looked again in the direction of the cottage on the crest of the opposite bank. This time a girl was leaning out of the dormer window. She had shaded her eyes with a hand, because the sun was streaming into her face, but when she saw that Grant was looking her way she waved a handkerchief. He fluttered his own blood-stained handkerchief in brief acknowledgment, and wheeled about, only to find P. C. Robinson watching him furtively, having suspended his note-taking for the purpose. P.C. ROBINSON "TAKES A LINE" "It will help me a lot, sir," he said, "if you tell me now what you know about this matter. If, as seems more than likely, murder has been done, I don't want to lose a minute in starting my inquiries. In a case of this sort I find it best to take a line, and stick to it." "Do you really insist on conducting your investigation while the body is lying here?" demanded Grant, deliberately turning his back on the girl in the distant cottage. "For goodness' sake, what are they?" "I walked out into the garden after finishing breakfast a few minutes ago, and noticed the rope attached to the staple, just as you see it now." "Did you walk straight here?" "Her would, too," put in Bates. "Her'd take 'ee for Owd Ben's ghost." "You shut up, Bates," said the policeman. "Don't interrupt Mr. Grant." Grant was conscious of an undercurrent of suspicion in the constable's manner. He was wroth with the man, but recognized that he had to deal with narrow-minded self-importance, so contrived again to curb his temper. "Is it likely, sir, that any other person saw her in these grounds a bit earlier?" Grant met the policeman's inquiring glance squarely before he answered. "It is possible, of course," he said, "but most unlikely." "Were you alone here at that hour?" Again Grant sought and held that inquisitive gaze, held it until Robinson affected to consult his notes. There was a moment of tense silence. Then the reply came with an icy stubbornness that was not to be denied. "I decline absolutely to be cross-examined about my movements. If you are unable or unwilling to order the removal of the body, I'll telegraph to the chief of police at Knolesworth, and ask him to act. Further, I shall request Dr. Foxton to examine the poor lady's injuries. It strikes me as a monstrous proceeding that you should attempt to record my evidence at this moment, and I refuse to become a party to it." "Now, then, Robinson, stop yer Sherlock Holmes work, an' help me to lift this poor woman on to the stretcher," said Bates gruffly. "I'll do all that's necessary in that way, sir," he said stiffly. "I suppose you have no objection to my askin' if you noticed any strange footprints on the ground hereabouts?" "Were they wide apart or close together, sir?" Bates had a trick of grasping a handful of his short whiskers when puzzled; he did so now; it seemed to be an unconscious effort to pull his jaws apart in order to emit speech. "I've a sort of idee, sir," he said slowly, "that Robinson saw Doris Martin on the lawn with 'ee last night." Grant turned on his henchman in a sudden heat of anger. "Miss Martin's name must be kept out of this matter," he growled. But Sussex is not easily browbeaten when it thinks itself in the right. "All very well a-sayin' that, sir, but a-doin' of it is a bird of another color," argued Bates firmly. "How did you know that Miss Martin was here?" "Bless your heart, sir, how comes it that us Steynholme folk know everythink about other folk's business? Sometimes we know more'n they knows themselves. You've not walked a yard wi' Doris that the women's tittle-tattle hasn't made it into a mile." No man, even the wisest, likes to be told an unpalatable truth. For a few seconds, Grant was seriously annoyed with this village Solon, and nearly blurted out an angry command that he should hold his tongue. Luckily, since Bates was only trying to be helpful, he was content to say sarcastically: "Of course, if you are so well posted in my movements last night, you can assure the coroner and the Police that I did not strangle some strange woman, tie a rope around her, and throw her in the river." He was stung into impetuous action by seeing the policeman halt and exchange some words with the girl. He began to run, with the quite definite if equally mad intent of punching Robinson into reasonable behavior. He was saved from an act of unmitigated folly by the girl herself. She caught sight of him, apparently broke off her talk with the policeman abruptly, and, in her turn, took to her heels. Though almost breathless, and wide-eyed with horror, her opening words were very much to the point. Now, the name of the dead woman was literally the last thing Grant expected to hear from this girl's lips, and the astounding fact momentarily banished all other worries. "You knew her?" he gasped. "No, not exactly. But I couldn't avoid recognizing her when she asked for her letters, and sent a telegram." "Oh, Robinson told me she was dead. I see now what is puzzling you." The girl's pretty face crimsoned, and then grew pale. "I--had no idea--she was--a friend of yours, Mr. Grant," she stammered. "After you had gone home. I was doing some work, and, having occasion to consult a book, lighted a candle, and put it in the small window near the bookcase. Then I fancied I saw a woman's face, _her_ face, peering in, and was so obsessed by the notion that I went outside, but everything was so still that I persuaded myself I was mistaken." "Oh, is that what it was?" Grant threw out his hands in a gesture that was eloquent of some feeling distinctly akin to despair. "There is no enigma," she said calmly. "My room overlooks your lawn. Before retiring for the night I went to the window, just to have another peep at Sirius and its changing lights, so I could not help seeing you fling open the French windows, stand a little while on the step, and go in again." Grant was certainly far from being in his normal state of mind, or he would have caught the tender gleam which lighted the girl's eyes when she understood that his concern was for her, not for himself. As it was, several things had escaped him during that brief talk on the sunlit road. On her part, Doris Martin was now in full control of her emotions, and she undoubtedly took a saner view of a difficult situation. "Robinson is a vain man," she said thoughtfully. "He will not let go the chance of notoriety given him by the murder of a well-known actress. Was she really murdered? Robinson said so when I met him on the bridge." "I'm afraid he is justified in that belief, at any rate." Grant, however, was not to be soothed by this matter-of-fact reasoning. "I am vexed at the mere notion of your name, and possibly your portrait, appearing in the newspapers," he protested. "Miss Melhuish was a celebrated actress. The press will make a rare commotion about her death. Look at the obvious questions that will be raised. What was she doing here? Why was she found in the river bordering the grounds of my house? Don't you see? I had to decide pretty quickly whether or not I would admit any previous knowledge of her. I suppose I acted rightly?" "Why hide anything, Mr. Grant? Surely it is always best to tell the truth!" He looked into those candid blue eyes, and drew from their limpid depths an element of strength and fortitude. "By Jove, Doris, small wonder if a jaded man of the world, such as I was when I came to Steynholme, found new faith and inspiration in friendship with you," he said gratefully. "But I am wool-gathering all the time this morning, it would seem. Won't you come into the house? If we have to discuss a tragedy we may as well sit down to it." Returning to the house by way of the main gate, which gave on to the highway, he bethought him of Mrs. Bates and Minnie. They must be enlightened, and warned as to the certain influx of visitors. He resolved now to tackle a displeasing task boldly. Realizing that the worst possible policy lay in denying himself to the representatives of the press, who would simply ascertain the facts from other sources, and unconsciously adopt a critical vein with regard to himself, he determined to go to the other extreme, and receive all comers. Of course, there would be reservations in his story. That is what every man decides who faces a legal inquiry as a novice. It is a decision too often regretted in the light of after events. Meanwhile, P. C. Robinson was hard at work. In his own phrase, he "took a line," and the trend of his thoughts was clearly demonstrated when a superintendent motored over from Knoleworth in response to a telegram. He told how the body had been found, and then went into details gathered in the interim. "Oh, she came here on Sunday, did she?" he asked. "Yes, sir. Yesterday, too, she spoke of Mr. Grant to Hobbs, the butcher, and Siddle, the chemist." "Who is that fellow in the leggings?" inquired the superintendent irrelevantly. He was looking through the window, and Robinson considered that the question showed a lack of interest in his statement, though he dared not hint at such a thing. "How does Mr. Elkin make a living?" broke in the other. "He breeds hacks and polo ponies," said Robinson, rather shortly. "Ah, I thought so. Well, go on with your story." Robinson was irritated, and justly so. His superior had put him off his "line." He took it up again sharply, leaving out of court for the moment the various rills of evidence which, in his opinion, united into a swift-moving stream. "The fact is, sir," he blurted out, "there is an uncommonly strong case against Mr. John Menzies Grant." "Phew!" whistled the superintendent. THE GATHERING CLOUDS "I imagined so. Until this horrible thing became known I had persuaded myself that the vision was a piece of sheer hallucination." "Let us assume that the lady actually came here, and looked in. Evidently, her face was sufficiently familiar that you should know instantly who this unusual visitor was. I understand, though, that you had not the least notion she was staying in Steynholme?" "How long ago is it since you last saw her?" "We were so well acquainted that I asked the lady to be my wife." "Ah," said the superintendent. His placid, unemotional features, however, gave no clew to his opinions. Not so P. C. Robinson, who tried to look like a judge, whereas he really resembled a bull-terrier who has literally, not figuratively, smelt a rat. Despite his earlier good resolutions, Grant was horribly impatient of this inquisition. He admitted that the superintendent was carrying through an unpleasant duty as inoffensively as possible, but the attitude of the village policeman was irritating in the extreme. Nothing would have tended so effectively to relieve his surcharged feelings as to supply P. C. Robinson then and there with ample material for establishing a charge of assault and battery. "Did she reveal her husband's name?" "Yes--a Mr. Ingerman." The superintendent looked grave. That was a professional trick of his. He had never before in his life heard of Mr. Ingerman, but encouraged the notion that this gentleman was thoroughly, and not quite favorably, known to him. Sometimes it happened that a witness, interpreting this sapient look by the light of his or her personal and intimate knowledge, would blurt out certain facts, good or bad as the case might be, concerning the person under discussion. Still, he carried other shots in his locker. In fact, Mr. Fowler, had he taken in youth to nicer legal subtleties than handcuffs and summonses, would have become a shrewd lawyer. "We'll leave Mr. Ingerman for the moment," he said, implying, of course, that on returning to him there might be revelations. "I gather that you and Miss Melhuish did not agree, shall I put it? as to the precise bearing of the marriage tie on your love affair?" "I'm afraid I don't quite follow your meaning," and Grant's tone stiffened ominously, but his questioner was by no means abashed. "I have no great acquaintance with the stage or its ways, but I have always understood that divorce proceedings among theatrical folk were, shall we say? more popular than, in the ordinary walks of life," said Mr. Fowler. Grant's resentment vanished. The superintendent's calm method, his interpolated apologies, as it were, for applying the probe, were beginning to interest him. "Ah," murmured Fowler again, as though the discreditable implication fitted in exactly with the life history of a noted scoundrel in a written _dossier_ then lying in his office. "You objected, may I suggest, to that somewhat doubtful means of settling a difficulty?" "Something of the kind." "You might be a trifle more explicit, Mr. Grant," said the superintendent, almost reproachfully. "What, then, may I ask, could bear on it more forcibly? The lady admittedly visits you, late at night, and is found dead in a river bordering the grounds of your house next morning, all the conditions pointing directly to murder. Moreover--it is no secret, as the truth must come out at the inquest--she had passed a good deal of her time while in Steynholme, unknown to you, in making inquiries concerning you, your habits, your surroundings, your friends. Surely, Mr. Grant, you must see that the history of your relations with this lady, though, if I may use the phrase, perfectly innocent, may possibly supply that which is at present lacking--a clew, shall I term it, to the motive which inspired the man, or woman, who killed her?" "Possibly. You may know more about him than I." "Even then, we have not traveled far as yet." Fowler was puzzled, and did not hesitate to show it. He believed, not without reasonable cause, that this young man was concealing some element in the situation which might prove helpful in the quest for the murderer. He resolved to strike off along a new track. "I am informed," he went on, speaking with a deliberateness meant to be impressive, "that you did entertain another lady as a visitor last night." Grant allowed his glance to dwell on Robinson for an instant. Hitherto he had ignored the man. Now he surveyed him as if he were a viper. "Why is it so heavy?" "For observation purposes an astronomical telescope is not of much use unless the movement of the earth is counteracted," he said. "Usually, the dome of an observatory swings on a specially contrived axis, but that is a very expensive structure, so my telescope is governed by a clockwork attachment and moves on its own axis." Mr. Fowler nodded. He was really a very well informed man for a country police-officer; he understood clearly. "Most instructive, I'm sure," put in the superintendent. He smiled genially, so genially that Grant dismissed the notion that the other might, in vulgar parlance, be pulling his leg. "Well, that is the be-all and end-all of Miss Martin's presence. It would be cruel, and unfair, if a girl of her age were forced into a distasteful prominence in connection with a crime with which she is no more related than with Sirius itself." The older man shook his head in regretful dissent. "That is just where you and I differ," he said. "That very point leads us back to your past friendship with the dead woman." "What in Heaven's name are you driving at?" "You must not impute motives, sir. I am seeking them, not supplying them." "But what am I to say?" "Perhaps you will now tell me just how Miss Melhuish and you parted." The fencers were coming to close quarters. Even P. C. Robinson had to admit that his "boss" had cornered the suspect rather cleverly. Grant realized that there was no room for squeamishness in this affair. If he did not speak out now, his motives might be woefully misunderstood. "We parted in wrath and tears," he said sadly. "Miss Melhuish could not, or did not, appreciate my scruples. She professed to be in love with me. She even went so far as to threaten suicide. I--hardly believed in her sincerity, but thought it advisable to temporize, and asked for a few days' delay before we came to a final decision. We met again, as I have said, and discussed matters in calmer mood. Ultimately, she professed agreement with my point of view, and we parted, ostensibly to remain good friends, but really to separate for ever." "Thank you. That's better. What _was_ your point of view, Mr. Grant?" "Surely I have made it clear. I could not regard my wife as purchasable. The proposed compact was, I believe, illegal. But that consideration did not sway me. I had been dreaming, and thought I was roaming in an enchanted garden. I awoke, and found myself in a morass." The superintendent nodded again. Singularly enough, Grant's somewhat high-flown simile appeared to satisfy his craving for light. "So she went off and got someone to kill her, and tie her body with a rope, and arrange a dramatic setting whereby it would be patent to the meanest intelligence that I was the criminal?" Mr. Fowler smiled, and looked fixedly at P.C. Robinson. "I suppose it is necessary." "Oh, yes. You found the body, you know. Besides, you may be the only person who can give evidence of identity. In fact, you and the doctor will be the only witnesses called." "Has he made a post-mortem?" "He is doing so now. You see, there is clear indication that this unfortunate lady was struck a heavy blow, perhaps killed, before she was put in the river." "Good Heavens! Somehow, I was so stunned that I never thought of looking for signs of any injury of that sort." The superintendent walked a few yards in silence. Even when he spoke, his gaze was introspective, and seemed to ignore his companion. "I'm inclined to agree with you, Robinson," he said, speaking very slowly. "We have a big case in our hands, a very big case. We must tread warily. You, in particular, mixing with the village folk, should listen to all but say nothing. Don't depend on your memory. Write down what you hear and see. People's actual words, and the exact time of an occurrence, often have an extraordinarily illuminating effect when weighed subsequently. But don't let Mr. Grant think you suspect him. There is no occasion for that--yet." Yet that was exactly what a dunderheaded policeman believed. P.C. Robinson had revealed himself by many a covert glance and prick-eared movement. Grant squirmed uneasily at the crass conceit, as there was no denying that circumstances tended towards a certain doubt, if no more, in regard to his own association with the crime. The reporter went with him to the river, and scrutinized the marks, now rapidly becoming obliterated, of the body having been drawn ashore. Grant was astounded at his own failure to make any inquiry whatsoever concerning this vital matter. He laughed grimly. "You can imagine the state of my mind," he said, "when I assure you that, until this moment, it never occurred to me even to ask where these articles came from or what had become of them." "I can sympathize with you," said the journalist. "A brutal murder seems horribly out of place in this environment. It is a mysterious business altogether. I wonder if Scotland Yard will take it up." Grant surprised him by clapping him on the back. The newspaper man had his doubts. The "Yard," he said, acted in the provinces only if appealed to by the authorities directly concerned. But Grant was not to be stayed by a trifle like that. He hurried to the post office, hoping that Doris Martin might walk back with him. The girl and her father were busy behind the counter when he entered. He noticed that Doris was rather pale. She was about to attend to him, but Mr. Martin intervened. It struck Grant that the postmaster was purposely preventing his daughter from speaking to him. For some inexplicable reason, he felt miserably tongue-tied, and was content to write a message to the Chief Commissioner of Police, London, asking that a skilled detective should be sent forthwith to Steynholme. Mr. Martin read it gravely, stated the cost, and procured the requisite stamps. In the event, Grant quitted the place without exchanging a word with Doris, while her father, usually a chatty man, said not a syllable beyond what was barely needed. As he passed down the hill and by the side of the Green he was aware of being covertly watched by many eyes. He saw P.C. Robinson peering from behind a curtained window. Siddle, the chemist, came to the shop door, and looked after him. Hobbs, the butcher, ceased sharpening a knife and gazed out. Tomlin, landlord of the Hare and Hounds Inn, surveyed him from the "snug." But that day of events had not finished for him yet. He had, perforce, eaten a good meal, and was thinking of going to the post office in order to clear up an undoubted misapprehension in Mr. Martin's mind, when Minnie Bates came with a card. "If you please, sir," said the girl, "this gentleman is very pressing. He says he's sure you'll give him an interview when you see his name." MR. ISIDOR G. INGERMAN _Prince's Chambers, London, W._ "Show him in," he said, almost gruffly, thus silencing shy intuition, as it were. He threw the card on the table. Mr. Ingerman entered. He did not offer any conventional greeting, but nodded, or bowed. Grant could not be sure which form of salutation was intended, because the visitor promptly sat down, uninvited. Minnie hesitated at the door. Her master's callers were usually cheerful Bohemians, who chatted at sight. Then she caught Grant's eye, and went out, banging the door in sheer nervousness. There was some advantage, too, in this species of stage wait. It enabled him to take the measure of Adelaide Melhuish's husband, if, indeed, the visitor was really the man he professed to be. Meanwhile, the visitor, finding that the clear-eyed young man seated in an easy chair (from which he had not risen) could seemingly regard him with blank indifference during the next hour, thought fit to say something. "Is my name familiar to you, Mr. Grant?" he inquired. The voice was astonishingly soft and pleasant, and the accent agreeably refined. Evidently, there were surprising points about Mr. Ingerman. Long afterwards, Grant learned, by chance, that the man had been an actor before branching off into that mysterious cosmopolitan profession known as "a financier." The other man's sallow cheeks grew a shade more sallow. Grant supposed that this slight change of color indicated annoyance. Of course, the association of ideas in that curt answer was intolerably rude. But Grant had been tried beyond endurance that day. He was in a mood to be brusque with an archbishop. Grant realized instantly that Isidor G. Ingerman was a foeman worthy of even a novelist's skill in repartee. Thus far, he, Grant, had been merely uncivil, using a bludgeon for wit, whereas the visitor was making play with a finely-tempered rapier. "Now that you have established your identity, Mr. Ingerman, perhaps you will tell me why you are here," he said. "I have come to Steynholme to inquire into my wife's death." "Until last night!" repeated Ingerman, almost in a startled tone. "You admit that?" Grant turned and pointed. "What was she doing here?" "She arrived in Steynholme on Sunday evening, I am told." "I heard that, too." "You imply that you did not meet her?" "Strange as it may sound, I am inclined to believe you." Grant said nothing. He wanted to get up and pitch Ingerman into the road. "But who else will take that charitable view?" purred the other, in that suave voice which so ill accorded with his thin lips and slightly hooked nose. "I really don't care," was the weary answer. "Why, then, may I ask, do you so obviously resent my questions? Who has so much right to put them as I?" Grant found that he must bestir himself. Thus far, the honors lay with this rather sinister-looking yet quiet-mannered visitor. "I am sorry if anything I have said lends color to that belief," he answered. "Candidly, I began by assuming that you forfeited any legal right years ago to interfere in behalf of Miss Melhuish, living or dead. Let us, at least, be candid with each other. Miss Melhuish herself told me that you and she had separated by mutual consent." "Allow me to emulate your candor. The actual fact is that you weaned my wife's affections from me." "That is a downright lie," said Grant coolly. Ingerman's peculiar temperament permitted him to treat this grave insult far more lightly than Grant's harmless, if irritating, reference to the police. "Let us see just what 'a lie' signifies," he said, almost judicially. "If a lady deserts her husband, and there is good reason to suspect that she is, in popular phrase, 'carrying on' with another man, how can the husband be lying if he charges that man with being the cause of the domestic upheaval?" "So marriage was out of the question?" "If you expect an answer--yes." Ingerman rested the handle of his stick against his lips. "That isn't how the situation was represented to me at the time," he said thoughtfully. "I neither know nor care what representations may have been made to you," he retorted. "I merely tell you the literal truth." "Possibly. Possibly. It was not I who used the word 'lie,' remember. But if you are ungracious enough to refuse to withdraw the offensive phrase, let it pass. We are not in France. This deadly business will be fought out in the law courts. I am here to-night of my own initiative. I thought it only fair and reasonable that you and I should meet before we are brought face to face at a coroner's inquest, and, it may be, in an Assize Court No, no, Mr. Grant. Pray do not put the worst construction on my words. _Someone_ murdered my wife. If the police show intelligence and reasonable skill, _someone_ will be tried for the crime. You and I will certainly be witnesses. That is what I meant to convey. The doubt in my mind was this--whether to be actively hostile or passively friendly to the man who, next to me, was interested in the poor woman now lying dead in a wretched stable of this village." "Is your friendship purchasable?" he inquired, making the rush without further preamble. "My wife was, I was led to believe," came the calm retort. Grant threw scruples to the wind now. Adelaide Mulhuish was being defamed, not by him, but by her husband. "We are at cross purposes," he said, weighing each word. "Your wife, who knew your character fairly well, I am convinced, thought that you were open to receive a cash consideration for your connivance in a divorce." "She had told me plainly that she would never live with me again. I was too fair-minded a man to place obstacles in the way when she wished to regain her freedom." "Nor am I. As a mere matter of pounds, shillings, and pence, it was a serious matter for me when my wife's earnings ceased to come into the common stock." "You are talking at random, Mr. Grant. The levying of blackmail connotes that the person bled desires that some discreditable, or dangerous, fact should be concealed." "Such is not my position." "I can relieve you of any oppressive doubt. I informed the police some few hours ago that you have appeared already in a similar role." "Oh, you did, did you?" snarled Ingerman, suddenly abandoning his pose, and gazing at Grant with a curiously snakelike glint in his black eyes. "Yes. It interested them, I fancied." Grant was sure of his man now, and rather relieved that the battle of wits was turning in his favor. "So you have begun already to scheme your defense?" "Hadn't you better go?" was the contemptuous retort. "You refuse to answer any further questions?" "Have I offered to sell it?" "I gathered as much." Ingerman rose. He was still master of himself, though his lanky body was taut with rage. He spoke calmly and with remarkable restraint. And Isidor G. Ingerman walked out, leaving Grant uncomfortably aware that he had not seen the last of an implacable and bitter enemy. He went to bed rather early, but could not sleep until the small hours. Probably his rest, such as it was, would have been even more disturbed had he been able to accompany Ingerman to the Hare and Hounds Inn. But this was a special occasion. Never before had there been a Steynholme murder before the symposium. Hitherto, such a grewsome topic was supplied, for the most part, by faraway London. To-night the eeriness and dramatic intensity of a notable crime lay at the very doors of the village. So Tomlin was more portentous than usual; Hobbs, the butcher, more assertive, Elkin, the "sporty" breeder of polo ponies, more inclined to "lay odds" on any conceivable subject, and Siddle, the chemist, a reserved man at the best, even less disposed to voice a definite opinion. They were discussing the murder, of course, when Ingerman entered, and ordered a whiskey and soda. Instantly there was dead silence. Looks and furtive winks were exchanged. There had been talk of a detective being employed. Perhaps this was he. Mr. Tomlin knew the stranger's name, as he had taken a room, but that was the extent of the available information. "A fine evenin', sir," said Tomlin, drawing a cork noisily. "Looks as though we were in for a spell o' settled weather." "Yes," agreed Ingerman, summing up the conclave at a glance. "Somehow, such a lovely night ill accords with the cause of my visit to Steynholme." "Well, you and these other gentlemen may judge for yourselves. It will be no secret tomorrow. I am the husband of the lady who was found in the river outside Mr. Grant's residence this morning." Sensation, as the descriptive reporters put it. Mr. Tomlin was dumbly but unanimously elected chairman of the meeting, and was vaguely aware of his responsibilities. He drew himself a fresh glass of bitter. "You don't tell me, sir!" he gasped. "Well, the idee! The pore lady's letters were addressed to Miss Adelaide Melhuish. Perhaps you don't know, sir, that she stayed here!" "Oh, yes. I was told that by the local police-constable. Have I, by any chance, been given her room?" "No, sir. Not likely. It's locked, and the police have the key till the inquest is done with." "As for the name," explained Ingerman, in his suave voice, "that was a mere stage pseudonym, an adopted name. My wife was a famous actress, and there is a sort of tacit agreement that a lady in the theatrical profession shall be known to the public as 'Miss' rather than 'Mrs.'" "Well, there!" wheezed Tomlin. "Who'd ever ha' thought it?" The landlord was not quite rising to the occasion. He was, in fact, stunned by these repeated shocks. So Hobbs took charge. "Ingerman is my name, but my wife will certainly be alluded to by the press as Miss Melhuish." Mr. Hobbs hesitated again. He also felt that the situation was rather beyond him. "But my wife was flung into the river and drowned," said Ingerman sadly. "No, sir. She was killed fust. It was a brutal business, so I'm told." "Yes, sir. An' the wust thing is, none of us can guess who could ha' done it." Then Mr. Siddle put in a mild word. That was a sobering thought. Elkin subsided, and Hobbs looked critically at the remains of a gill of beer. But there was no need to hurry. Next day's inquest would be a mere formality. The real struggle would begin a week or a fortnight later. "You have said a very wise thing, sir," he murmured appreciatively. "Even my feelings must be kept under better control. But this is no ordinary murder. Before it is cleared up there will be astounding revelations. Mark the word--astounding." Hobbs, whose heavy cheeks were of a brick-red tint, almost startled the conclave by a sudden outburst which gave him an apoplectic appearance. "Look here, Hobbs, just keep Doris Martin's name out of it!" shouted Elkin, smiting the table with his fist till the glasses danced. "Gentlemen!" protested Siddle gently. "I seem to have brought discord into a friendly gathering," came the mournful comment. "Such was far from being my intent. Landlord, the round is on me, with cigars. Now, let us talk of anything but this horror. If I forget myself again, pull me up short, and fine me another round." THE SEEDS OP MISCHIEF Ingerman was a shrewder judge of human nature than the village chemist. As well try to stem the flowing tide as stop tongues from wagging when such a theme offered. Tomlin created a momentary diversion by clattering in the bar. After this professional interlude, Ingerman ignored his own compact. Siddle stirred uneasily, but the others were still as partridges in stubble. Ingerman did not intend to alarm the shy bird of the covey, however. "I'm not," said Elkin, "but I'll lay you long odds I will be soon." "Good luck to you, sir," he said, "but--take no offense--don't marry an actress. There's an old adage, 'Birds of a feather flock together.' I would go farther, and interpolate the word 'should.' If Adelaide Melhuish had never met me, but had married the man who could write her plays, this tragedy in real life would never have been." "D--n him," muttered Elkin fiercely. "He's done for now, anyhow. He'll turn no more girls' heads for a bit." Hobbs shook his head, and gazed at Elkin as though the latter was a refractory bullock. "Siddle's a fair-minded chap," he said. "He can't stand 'earin' any of us 'angin' a man without a fair trial." And now, by cruel chance, their names were linked by scandal in its most menacing form, since there was no gainsaying the fact that Doris's star-gazing on that fatal Monday night was indissolubly bound up with the death of Adelaide Melhuish. Grant ate his breakfast in wrath. In wrath, too, he glanced through the morning newspapers, and saw his own name figuring large in the "story" of the "alleged" murder. The reporters had missed nothing. They had even got hold of the "peculiar coincidence" of his (Grant's) glimpse of a face at the window. His play was recalled, and Adelaide Melhuish's success in the title-role. Then Mr. Isidor G. Ingerman was introduced. He was described as "a man fairly well known in the City." That was all. The press could say nothing as yet of marital disagreements, nor was any hint concerning Doris Martin allowed to appear. But these journalistic fire-works were only held in reserve. "Dramatic and sensational developments" were promised, and police activity in "an unexpected direction" fore-shadowed. All of which, of course, was mere journalistic paraphrasing of circumstances already known to the writers, and none the less galling to Grant on that account. Calm analysis of Ingerman's nebulous threats had revealed a hostile force not to be despised. Possibly, the man was already in league with that narrow-minded village constable, so every passing hour made more urgent the need of a trained intelligence being brought to bear on the mystery of Adelaide Melhuish's killing. Grant racked his brains to discover who could possibly have a motive for committing the crime. Naturally, his thoughts flew to Ingerman. Surely that sinister-looking person should be forced to give an account of himself instead of, as was probable, being allowed to instill further nonsense into the suspicious mind of P.C. Robinson. "Hello, Robinson!" he cried cheerfully. "What's the rush? Surely our rural peace has not been disturbed again?" Robinson knew he had been "sold," but rose to the occasion. "Excuse me, Mr. Grant," he puffed. "Can't wait now. Have an appointment. I'll see you later." He turned sharply. This was Mr. Elkin. "Good morning!" he said. "Have you seen the superintendent?" "What? Mr. Fowler? No. Is _he_ here so early?" "I must have missed him." "Well, you'll hardly find him on Bush Walk," which was the name of the path. "You never can tell," came the dark answer. "My! You look as though you'd run a mile," commented Elkin. "This murder has kept me busy," growled the other, frankly mopping his forehead. "I've met him. The dead woman's husband." "Oh, perhaps you've got his yarn already?" "It all depends what he said to you." "Well, he hinted things. Unless I'm greatly mistaken, you'll soon be making an arrest." "I believe I could put my hand on the murderer this very minute," said Robinson vindictively. The policeman realized that he had allowed annoyance to shake his wits. He looked at Elkin rather sharply, and noticed that the horse-breeder seemed to be nervous and ill. "Too much whiskey and tobacco. I'll call at Siddle's for a 'pick-me-up.' Am I wanted for the jury?" "Yes. I left a notice at your place last evening." "No. Fact is, I went home late, and didn't bother about letters this morning. What time is the inquest?" "Will that fellow, Grant, be there?" "Rather. Dr. Foxton warned him yesterday." "Good! What about Doris Martin? Will she be a witness?" He had not answered Mr. Siddle's greeting, but gazed moodily through a barricade of specifics piled in the window. Then he swore. "What's wrong now?" inquired the chemist quietly. "That Grant. Got a nerve, hasn't he?" "I can't say, unless you explain." "He's just gone into the post office." "Why shouldn't he? He wants stamps, may be; plenty of 'em, I should imagine." "Oh, you're a fish, Siddle. You aren't crazy about a girl, like I am. The sooner Grant's in jail the better I'll be pleased." "If you take my advice, which you won't, I know, you will not utter that sort of remark publicly." "Can't help it. Bet you a fiver I'm engaged to Doris Martin within a week." Mr. Siddle took thought. "Why so quickly?" he asked, after a pause. "I'll catch her on the hop, of course. If she's engaged to me it'll help her a lot when this case comes into court." "I cannot believe that Doris would accept any man for such a reason." "I'm not 'any man.' She knows I'm after her. Will you take my bet, even money?" "Well, you needn't put a damper on me. In fact, you can't. Have you that last prescription of Dr. Foxton's handy? My liver wants a tonic." The chemist thumbed a dog-eared volume, read an entry carefully, and retired to a dispensing counter in the rear of the shop. "Shall I send it?" came his voice. "No. I'll wait. Give me a dose now, if you don't mind." For some reason, Fred Elkin was not himself that day. He was moody, and fretful as a sick colt. But he had diagnosed his ailment and its cause accurately; a discreet doctor was probably aware of his failings, and had considered them in the "mixture." The post office was not busy when Grant entered. A young man, a stranger, was seated at the telegraphist's desk, tapping a new instrument. The G. P. O., forewarned, had lent an expert to deal with press messages. Mr. Martin, sorting some documents, came forward when he saw Grant. His kindly, somewhat pre-occupied face was long as a fiddle. "Good morning, Mr. Martin," said Grant. "Good morning. What can I do for you?" was the stiff reply. Grant was in no mind to be rebuffed, however. "I must have a word with you in private," he said. "I'm sorry--but my time is quite full." "I'm sorry, too, but the matter is urgent." The click of the sounder became less businesslike. There was an element in the tone of each voice that drew the London telegraphist's attention. Martin, usually the mildest-mannered man in Sussex, was obviously ill at ease. But he simply could not hold out against Grant's compelling gaze. "Come into the back room," he said nervously. "Call me if I'm needed," he added, nodding to his assistant. Grant did not hesitate an instant when the postmaster reached the "back parlor" through another door. The open window, draped in clematis, gave a delightful glimpse of The Hollies. A window-box of mignonette filled the air with its delicate perfume. Grant hoped that Doris would be there, but the only signs of her recent presence were a hat and an open book on the table. "Now, Mr. Martin," he said gravely, "you and I should have a serious talk. It is idle to deny that gossip is spreading broadcast certain malicious and absurd rumors which closely concern Doris and myself. To me these things are of slight consequence. To a girl of your daughter's age they are poisonous. If you, her father, know the whole truth, you can regulate your actions so as to defeat the scandalmongers. That is why I am here to-day. That is why I came here yesterday, but your attitude took me aback, and I was idiot enough to go without a word of explanation. I was too shaken then to see my clear course, and follow it regardless of personal feelings. This morning I am master of myself, and I insist that you listen now while I tell you exactly what occurred on Monday night." "Surely--these matters--are--for the authorities," stammered the older man. "What? Your daughter's good name?" Mr. Martin reddened. His agitation was pitiful. "That is hardly in question, sir," he said brokenly. "I am speaking of the tongue of slander. Heaven help and direct me! I would suffer death rather than see Doris subjected to the leers and innuendoes of every lout in the village." Grant's earnestness could hardly fail to impress his friend. But Martin had either made up his mind or been warned not to discuss the murder, and adhered loyally to that line of conduct. He retreated toward the door leading to the post office proper. "It is too late to interfere now," he said. "The whole--of the circumstances--are being inquired into by the police," came the hesitating answer. "Has that prying scoundrel, Robinson, dared to cross-examine Doris?" "He came here, of course, but Scotland Yard has taken up the inquiry." "A detective--here?" "Yes. He is with Doris in the garden at this moment." Doris, standing with her hands behind her back, was looking at The Hollies, and deep in conversation with an alert and natty little man who was evidently absorbed in what she was saying. Doris was flustered. Her Romney face held a look of scare. "Oh, here is Mr. Grant!" she said, striving vainly to speak with composure. The little man pierced Grant with an extraordinarily penetrating glance from very bright and deeply-recessed black eyes. "Ah, Mr. Grant, is it!" he chirped pleasantly. "Good morning! So _you're_ the villain of the piece, are you?" SCOTLAND YARD TAKES A HAND It was a singular greeting, to say the least, and the person who uttered it was quite as remarkable as his queer method of expressing himself seemed to indicate. During his theatrical experiences he had come across scores of such men, dapper little fellows, wizened of face yet curiously youthful in manner; but they, each and all, were labeled "low comedian." Certainly, a rare intelligence gleamed from this man's eyes, but that is an attribute not often lacking in humorists who command high salaries because of their facility in laughter-making. This man, too, had the wide, thin-lipped, mobile mouth of the actor. His ivory-white, wrinkled forehead and cheeks, the bluish tint on jaws and chin, his voice, his perky air, the very tilt of his straw hat, were eloquent of the footlights. Even his opening words, bizarre and cheerfully impertinent, smacked of "comic relief." "I figure prominently in this particular 'piece,'" snapped Grant. "May I ask your name, sir?" "A wise precaution with suspicious characters," rejoined the other, smiling. Grant was suddenly reminded of a Japanese grinning at a joke, but he bent over a card which the stranger had whisked out of a waistcoat pocket. He read: MR. CHARLES F. FUENEAUX, _Criminal Investigation Department_, NEW SCOTLAND YARD, S.W. He could not control himself. He gazed at Mr. Charles F. Furneaux with a surprise that was not altogether flattering. "Did the Commissioner of Police send _you_ in response to my telegram?" he said. "That is what lawyers call a leading question," came the prompt retort. "And I hate lawyers. They darken understanding, and set honest men at loggerheads." "But it happens to be very much to the point at this moment." "Well, Mr. Grant, if you really press for an answer, it is 'Yes' and 'No.' The Commissioner received a certain telegram, but he may have acted on other grounds. Even Commissioners can be creatures of impulse, or expediency, just as the situation demands. "You are here, at any rate." "That is what legal jargon terms an admitted fact." "Then you had better begin by assuming that I am no villain." "It is assumed. It couldn't well be otherwise after the excellent character you have been given by this young lady." "She, at least, will speak well of me, I do believe," said Grant, with a strange bitterness, for his heart was sore because of the seeming defection of his friend, the postmaster. "What I actually had in mind was the stupidity of the local policeman, who is convinced that I am both a criminal and a fool." Grant, who had cooled down considerably, found a hint of badinage in this comment. "You have evidently been told that Miss Martin and I were star-gazing in the garden of my house," he said. "It happens to be true." "Oh, yes. There was a very fine cluster of small stars in Canis Major, south of Sirius, that night." "You know something about the constellations, then?" was the astonished query. "Will you come to my place?" he asked. "I have much to say. Let me assure you now, in Miss Martin's presence, that she is no more concerned in this ghastly business than any other young lady in the village." Furneaux spoke emphatically. Even Doris put in a timid plea. "Perhaps that would be the best thing to do," she said. "Mr. Furneaux has been most sympathetic. I am sure he understands things already in a way that is quite wonderful to me." The very sound of her voice was comforting. Grant might have argued with the detective, but could not resist Doris. Without further demur he went through the whole story, giving precise details of events on the Monday night. Then the recital widened out into a history of his relations with Adelaide Melhuish. He omitted nothing. Doris gasped when she heard Superintendent Fowler's version of the view a coroner's jury might take of her presence in the garden of The Hollies at a late hour. But Grant did not spare her. He reasoned that she ought to be prepared for an ordeal which could not be avoided. He was governed by the astute belief that his very outspokenness in this respect would weaken the inferences which the police might otherwise draw from it. "Isidor G. Ingerman?" he cried. "Is he a tall, lanky, cadaverous, rather crooked person, with black hair turning gray, and an absurdly melodious voice?" "You have described him without an unnecessary word," said Grant. Furneaux clicked his tongue in a peculiar fashion. "Go on!" he said. "It's a regular romance--quite in your line, Mr. Grant, of course, but none the less enthralling because, as you so happily phrased Miss Martin's lesson in astronomy, it happens to be true." "May I leave you now?" she inquired. "Father may be wanting help in the office." Doris answered without hesitation: "Did Mr. Grant draw any blind or curtains?" Furneaux measured an imaginary line drawn from Doris's bedroom to the edge of the cliff, and prolonged it. "Nor can you see the river or foot of the lawn from your room," he commented. "No. In winter I can just make out the edge of the lawn. When the trees are in leaf, all the lower part is hidden." "So if Mr. Grant came out again you would not know?" Doris blushed furiously, but her reply was unfaltering. "You have an unshakable witness in Miss Martin," said Furneaux, stabbing a finger at Grant. "Now, I'll hurry off. You and I, Mr. Grant, meet at Philippi, otherwise known as the crowner's quest." He was about to reach the street quick on Furneaux's heels when the little man turned suddenly. "By the way, don't you want a shilling's worth of stamps?" he said. When he entered the street the detective had vanished. He walked down the hill at a rapid pace, disregarding the eyes peeping at him through open doorways, over narrow window-curtains, and covertly staring when people passed in the roadway. The sensitive side of his temperament shrank from this thinly-veiled hostility. He was by way of being popular in Steynholme, yet not a soul spoke to him. Before he reached the bridge, the other side of him, the man of action, of cool resource in an emergency, rose in rebellion against the league of silly clodhoppers. Back he strode to the post office and dashed off a telegram. It ran: "Walter Hart, Savage Club, Adelphi, London. Come here and help to lay a ghost." He signed it in full, name and address. Doris was gone, but her father received it, and read the text in a bewildered way. Fred Elkin was quick-witted enough to appreciate Grant's unspoken comment. He was also unmannerly enough to put out his tongue. Then Grant laughed, and turned on his heel. The tenant of The Hollies actually dreaded the loneliness of his dwelling now, though it was that very quality which had drawn him to Steynholme a year earlier. Work or reading was equally out of the question that day. He sought the industrious Bates, who was trenching celery in the kitchen garden. "Have 'ee made out owt about un, sir?" inquired that hardy individual, pausing to spit on the handle of his spade. "No," said Grant. "The thing is a greater mystery than ever." "Ax me another," growled Bates. "Who is spreading this rumor? Robinson?" "'E dussen't, sir. 'E looks fierce, but 'e'll 'old 'is tongue. T'super will see to that." "Someone is talking. That is quite certain." "There's a chap in the 'Are an' 'Ounds--kem 'ere last night." "Ay, sir, that's the name. 'E's makin' a song of it, I hear." "Fred Elkin is gassin' about. Do 'ee know un? Breeds 'osses at Mount Farm, a mile that-a-way," and Bates pointed to the west. Grant hazarded a guess, and described the face of condemnation seen at the inn. Bates nodded. "That's un," he said. Then he drove the spade into the rich loam. "They do say," he added, apparently as an after-thought, "as Fred Elkin is mighty sweet on Doris, but her'll 'ave nowt to do wi' un." Grant whistled softly. This explanation threw light on a dark place. "The plot thickens," he said. "Mr. Elkin becomes more interesting than he looks. Are there other disappointed swains in the offing?" "Has Miss Martin any other suitors?" "Lots of 'em 'ud be after her like wasps round a plum-tree if she'd give 'em 'alf a chance. But _you_ put a stopper on 'em." Bates was blunt of speech, though a philosopher withal. "Elkin is my only serious rival, then?" laughed Grant, passing off as a joke a thrust which was shrewder than the gardener knew. "'E 'as plenty of brass, but I reckon nowt on 'im," was the contemptuous answer. "Well, he is not a likely person to kill a woman he had never before seen. Miss Martin will marry whom she chooses, no doubt. The present problem is to find out who murdered Miss Melhuish. Now, had _I_ been the victim you would be thinking hard, Bates." Nor was Bates to be moved from that opinion. He held to it, through thick and thin, for many days. Yet he was not blameworthy for failing to solve a mystery which was rapidly establishing a record for bewildering elements. Wherein he did err most lamentably was in his reading of a woman's heart. No answering telegram came from his friend in London. The day wore slowly till it was time to attend the inquest. He found a crowd gathered in front of the Hare and Hounds. Superintendent Fowler was there, and quite a number of policemen, whose presence was explained when a buzz of excitement heralded Grant's arrival. He decided not to stand this sort of persecution a moment longer. "I cannot help feeling," he said, in slow, incisive accents which carried far, "that a set of peculiar circumstances has led you Steynholme folk to suspect me of being responsible, in some way, for the death of the lady whose body was found in the river near my house. Now, I want to tell you that I am not only an innocent but a much-maligned man. The law of the land will establish both facts in due season. But I want to warn some of you, too, I shall not trouble to issue writs for libel. If any blackguard among you dares to insult me openly, I shall smash his face." He knew when to stop. Superintendent Fowler's nudge was not called for, as the orator simply met the scrutiny of all those eyes without another word. Curiously enough, the sense of justice is inherent in every haphazard gathering of the public. Grant's soldierly bearing, his calm defiance of hostile opinion, the outspoken threat which he so plainly meant, won instant favor. Someone shouted, "Hear, hear!" and the crowd applauded. From that moment he had little to complain of in the attitude of the community as a whole. There were subtle and dangerous enemies to be fought and conquered, but Steynholme looked on, keen to learn of any new sensation, of course, but placidly content that the final verdict should be left in the hands of the authorities. "ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS" Grant eyed the somewhat soiled volume, and opened it before putting it to his lips. The action probably did not please the jury. Elkin nudged Tomlin, and sniggered at the rest of his colleagues, as much as to say: "What did I tell you? The cheek of him!" Elkin, by the way, looked ill. When his interest flagged for an instant his haggard aspect became more noticeable. Ingerman was there, of course. Furneaux sat beside Mr. Fowler. A stranger, whom Grant did not recognize, proved to be the County Chief Constable. There was a strong muster of police, and the representatives of the press completely monopolized the scanty accommodation for the public. To Grant's relief, Doris Martin was not in attendance. "Did you recognize the body!" inquired Mr. Belcher. "Then you can give the jury her name?" Before Grant could answer, Ingerman sprang up, his sallow face livid with passion. "I protest, sir, against this man being permitted to identify my wife," he said. He was either deeply moved, or proved himself an excellent actor. His flute-like voice vibrated with an intense emotion. Thus might Mark Antony have spoken when vowing that Brutus was an honorable man. "Who are you?" demanded the coroner sharply. "Isidor George Ingerman, husband of the deceased lady," came the clear-toned reply. "Well, sit down, sir, and do not interrupt the court again," said the coroner. "I demand, sir, that you note my protest." "Sit down! Were you any other person I would have you removed. As it is, I am prepared to regard your feelings to the extent of explaining that the witness is not identifying the body but relating a fact within his own knowledge." Ingerman bowed, and resumed his seat. For some reason, Grant stared blankly at Furneaux. The latter did not meet his glance, but put a finger on those thin lips. It might, or might not, be a warning to repress any retort he had in mind. At any rate, obeying a nod from the coroner, he merely said: "She was a well-known actress, Miss Adelaide Melhuish." Mr. Belcher's pen hesitated a little. Then it scratched on. Undoubtedly, he was himself exercising the restraint he meant to impose on others. "You are quite sure?" he said, after a pause. "Thank you, Mr. Grant. Wait here until you sign your deposition. Of course, you are aware that this inquiry will stand adjourned, and the whole matter will be gone into fully at a later date." "So I have been informed, sir." Ingerman was the next witness. _He_, like a good democrat, kissed the cover of the Bible. The coroner began by giving him some advice. "This is a purely formal inquiry, to permit of a death certificate being issued. You will oblige me, therefore, by answering my questions without introducing any extraneous subject." Bates followed, and evoked a snigger by the outspokenness of blunt Sussex. "I hauled 'um in," he said, "an' knew it wur a dead 'un by the feel of the rope." The coroner was not curious. He merely wished to put on record the time and manner in which Mr. Grant summoned assistance. He told how, "from information received," he went to The Hollies, and found Mr. Grant standing near the river with a dead body at his feet. If the policeman was minded to create a sensation, he certainly succeeded. A slight hum ran through the court, and then all present seemed to restrain their breathing lest a word of the evidence should be lost. The mention of "blood" in a murder case was a more adroit dodge than Robinson himself guessed, perhaps. Few of his hearers troubled to reflect that a smudge of fresh gore on Grant's cheek could hardly have any bearing on the death of a woman whose body had admittedly lain all night in the river. It sufficed that Robinson had introduced a touch of the right color into the inquiry. Even the coroner was worried. "Well!" he said testily. "I took down his statement, sir," said the witness, well knowing that he had wiped off Grant's morning score in the matter of Bush Walk. "Never mind his statement. That must await the adjourned hearing. What did you do with the body?" "Took it to the stable of the Hare and Hounds, sir." "Where it was viewed recently by the jury?" "It is the body identified by Mr. Ingerman as that of his wife?" "Yes, sir," said the superintendent. "Then the inquest stands adjourned until that day and hour. Gentlemen of the jury, you must be here punctually." "Can't we ask any questions?" cried Elkin, in an injured tone. "No. You cannot," snapped the coroner emphatically. "No," was the curt answer. "I'm busy. I'll see you later." It was difficult to reconcile the detective's present stand-off manner with his earlier camaradie, to say nothing of the seemingly friendly hint conveyed by the signal to pass no comment on Ingerman's interruption. The onlookers laughed, but Grant helped the photographer to rise. The pressman was grateful, because Grant's action had tended to mitigate his discomfiture. "Come along, then, and I'll pose for you." The photographer was surprised, but joyfully accepted the gifts the gods gave. He could not guess that his host was pining for human companionship. He could not fathom Grant's disappointment, on reaching The Hollies, at finding no telegram from a trusted friend, Walter Hart. And he was equally unconscious of the immense service he rendered by compelling his host to talk and act naturally. He enlightened Grant, too, in the matter of inquests. "Thank you," said Grant, smiling at the journalist's tact. "I'll order tea to be got ready while you're taking your pictures. By the way, what sort of detective is Mr. Charles F. Furneaux?" "A pocket marvel," was the enthusiastic answer. "Haven't you heard of him before? Well, you wouldn't, unless you followed famous cases professionally. He seldom appears in the courts--generally manages to wriggle out of giving direct evidence. But I've never known him to fail. He either hangs his man or drives him to suicide. If I committed a crime, and was told that Furneaux was after me, I'd own up and save trouble, because I wouldn't have the ghost of a chance of winning clear." "Yes. Lots of people have thought that, and they're either disappearing in quicklime beneath some corridor of a prison, or doing time at Portland. I wonder if Winter also is coming down on this job." "Then the sooner Mr. Winter visits Steynholme the better I shall be pleased. This tragedy is becoming a perfect nightmare. You heard that fat-headed policeman speak of my face being covered with blood. He did it purposely. I made a fool of him this morning, so he paid me out, the literal truth being that a branch of that Dorothy Perkins rose there caught my cheek as I entered this room on Tuesday morning--before I discovered the body--and broke the skin. I suppose the cut is visible still? I saw it to-day while shaving." "How fortunate that the Dorothy Perkins is popular!" laughed Grant. "Will your paper publish photographs of the principals in this affair?" "I expect so. I've a fine collection--the jury, all in a row--and you, making that speech to the mob." "Oh! Will that appear?" "By Jove, yes, sir. It was wired off before the inquest opened." Grant reddened slightly. His own impetuous action had blurted out to the whole world that which Steynholme was only thinking. No wonder Furneaux had warned him to go slow. Perhaps the little man was annoyed because of his challenge to the village crowd? Well, be it so. He meant, and would live up to, every word of it! The afternoon dragged after the pressman's departure. What Grant really hungered for was a heart-to-heart talk between Doris Martin and himself. But, short of a foolish attempt to carry the post office by storm, he saw no means of realizing his desire. He must, perforce, await the less troubled hours of the morrow or next day. Doris would surely give her father an exact account of the conversation between Grant, Furneaux, and herself that morning, and that greatly perplexed man could hardly fail to see how unjust was the tittle-tattle of the village. "Hullo! Wally! Glad to see you!" shouted Grant joyously. The sleeper stirred. "Get up, you rascal, or I'll spill you out of the chair!" said Grant. A lazy hand removed the hat, and a pair of peculiarly big and bright eyes gazed up into his. "Oh, it's you, is it?" drawled a quiet voice. "Why the blazes did you send for me? And, having sent, why wake me out of the best sleep I've had for a week?" "But why didn't you let me know you were coming? I would have met the train." "I did. Here's the telegram. That pink-cheeked maid of yours nearly had a fit when I opened it to show her that I was expected." "You wired from Victoria, I suppose?" "Would you have preferred Charing Cross, or the Temple? Isn't Victoria respectable?" "I'm a sort of outlaw. That's why I sought your help," explained Grant. "I must interview Elkin." "Look here, Wally," broke in Grant anxiously. "Are you serious? Did Furneaux really say he was coming here?" "He did, and more--he expressed a partiality for a chicken roasted on a spit. You have a spit in your kitchen, he says, and a pair of chickens in your larder." "How did you contrive to meet him?" "Have you warned Mrs. Bates?" "No, sir. If she's anything like your housemaid, I'm glad I didn't, or I should have been chucked into the road. I had the deuce of a job to reach the lawn. Had I ordered dinner I might now have been in the village lockup." "Please, sir," tittered Minnie, "the gentleman prefers to stay indoors. He said his complexion won't stand the glare." "Very well," smiled Grant, rising. "Put the sherry and bitters on the sideboard." "Say," murmured Hart, "is this chap really a detective?" "Yes. He stands high at Scotland Yard." "Can you trust Bates?" he said to Grant. It was a wholly unexpected question, and Grant answered sharply: "Ye gods!" cackled Hart ecstatically. "Why all these precautions?" demanded Grant, rather amused now. "I'm supposed to be on the very verge of arresting you, and it would weaken the faith of my allies if I were seen drinking your wines and eating your chicken." "By the way, how did you know I had chickens in store, and a spit on which to roast them?" AN INTERRUPTED SYMPOSIUM "Have a cigarette," said Grant to Furneaux, when the blinds were drawn, a lamp lighted, and the sherry dispensed. "Why 'Hawknose'?" he inquired. "You prefer Furshaw, perhaps?" "If it's a fair question, what the devil do _you_ smoke?" cried Hart. "Nothing. I'm a non-smoker. My profession demands a clear intellect, not a brain atrophied by nicotine." "Piffle! Carlyle and Bismarck were smokers." "At last I know why I smoke like a Thames tug," laughed Hart, "but I'm blest if I can understand why _you_ make such a study of the vile weed." "Most criminals are addicted to the habit. I classify them by their brand of tobacco. For instance, a clever forger would never descend to thick twist, while a swell mobsman would turn with horror from a woodbine." Minnie entered, and nodded, whereupon Grant led the others upstairs to wash. From the bathroom he looked out over a darkening landscape. Doris's dormer window was open. She was leaning on the sill, but he could not tell whether or not her eyes were turned his way. Her attitude was pensive, disconsolate, curiously forlorn for a girl normally high-spirited. He was on the point of signaling to her when he remembered Furneaux's presence. There was something impish, almost diabolically clever, in that little man's characteristics which induced wariness. To talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-Of cabbages--and kings. He was in excellent form, and the others played up to him. Hart's slow drawl was ever trenchant and witty, and Grant forgot his woes in congenial company. As for the mercurial detective himself, it might be said of him as of the school-master of Auburn: It was he who dropped them with a bounce from the realm of fancy to the unpleasing region of ugly fact. No sooner had Minnie cleared the table, and brought in the coffee, than he whisked around on Grant as though hitherto he had been only awaiting an opportunity of scarifying him. "Now," he said, propping an elbow on the table, and supporting his chin on a clenched fist, "the embargo is off the Steynholme affair. _You_ didn't kill Adelaide Melhuish, Mr. Grant. Who did?" "I wish I could tell you," was the emphatic answer. "Do you suspect anybody? You needn't fear the libel law in confiding your secret thought to me, and I assume that Mr. Hart is trustworthy--where his friends are concerned?" "Why that unkind differentiating clause, my pocket Vidocq?" put in Hart. "I must have annoyed 'em most damnably." "You had. I congratulate you, but Heaven only knows where I may convoy you some day on an extradition warrant Proceed, Mr. Grant." "I assure you, on my honor, that the only reasonable suggestion I can make is that put forward by my gardener to-day," said Grant. "He thinks that the murder must have been committed by a lunatic. I can offer no other hypothesis." "Your gardener may be right. But what lunatic, barring yourself and the horse-coper, Elkin, is in love with Doris Martin?" Like Elkin the previous night, Grant struck the table till things rattled. "Keep her name out of it," he cried fiercely. "You are a man of the world, not a suspicious idiot of the Robinson type. You heard to-day the full and true explanation of her presence here on Monday night. It was a sheer accident. Why harp on Doris Martin rather than any member of the Bates family?" "Who, may I ask, is Doris Martin?" put in Hart. "Sir," said Hart, brandishing his pipe again, "I suggest that you and I, here and now, form a mutual admiration society." "It is a cruel and bitter thing that an innocent girl should be dragged into association with a foul crime," said Grant stubbornly. "I am not disputing the force of your acumen, Mr. Furneaux. My only desire is to shield the good name of a very charming young lady." "What's done can't be undone," countered the detective, well knowing that Grant confessed himself beaten. "But what is all the bother about? You heard from Miss Martin's own lips absolutely the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Put her in the witness-box, and what more can she tell you?" "I am not worrying about her appearance in the witness-box," said Furneaux dryly. "Long before that stage is reached I shall be hunting a star burglar, or, perhaps, looking into the Foreign Office _dossier_ of our worthy friend here, as to-day's papers hint at trouble in Venezuela. No, sir. The county police will get all the credit. P.C. Robinson will be swanking about then, telling the yokels what _he_ did. I, with Olympic nod, say, 'There's your man!' and the handcuffs' brigade do the rest. So far as I can foresee, Miss Martin's name may be spared any undue prominence in this inquiry. I go even farther, and promise that anything I can do in that way shall be done." "That is very kind and considerate of you," said Grant gratefully. "Has the postmaster's daughter a delectable sister, O Liliputian cop?" demanded Hart. Grant leaned forward. He spoke very earnestly. "I want you to believe me when I tell you," he said, "that I never gave serious thought to the notion of marrying Miss Martin until such a possibility was suggested last night by that swab, Ingerman." "Ah, Ingerman! You kept a record of what he said, I gather?" "By the way, as you're on your feet, Mr. Grant," said Furneaux, "you might just show me exactly where you were standing when you saw the face at the window." "For the love of Mike, what's this?" gurgled Hart. "'The face at the window'; 'the postmaster's daughter.' How many more catchy cross-heads will you bring into the story?" "Shall I ever forget it? You bored me stiff about it. Then, when the crash came, you walked me off my legs in the Upper Engadine. Ugh! That night on the Forno glacier. It gives me a chill to think of it now. Furneaux, pass the port. Your name is wrongly spelt. It should be fourneau, not Furneaux. A little oven. Hot stuff. Got me?" "My _dear_ Hart, you flatter me," retorted the detective instantly. "How long am I to pose here?" snapped Grant. "Sorry," said Furneaux. "These interruptions are banal. Is that where you were?" "Yes. I had my hand outstretched for a book. It's dark in this corner. When I want to find a book I light a candle, which is always placed on the ledge of the window for the purpose. The blind was not drawn that night. It seldom is. I had the book in my hand, and had found the required passage when I chanced to look at the window and saw _her_ face." "Do you mind reconstructing the scene. This lamp was on the table, I suppose?" "Well, pull up the blind, light your candle, and find the book. Act the whole incident, in fact." Grant obeyed. He held the candlestick until he had picked out the particular volume; then he placed it in the recess of the window, and searched through the pages of the book. "What fool's game are you playing?" shrilled Furneaux, nevertheless active as a wildcat in his spring to the French window, there to snatch at the blind and turn the knob which controlled a lever bolt. "You must be mad, mad!" shrieked the detective, tearing open the window, and vanishing. "For Heaven's sake, Wally, no more shooting!" cried Grant, running after Furneaux. Minnie and her mother appeared at the dining-room door. Finding the place in semi-obscurity, and reeking with gunpowder, they screamed loudly. "Bub-bub-but who's shot, sir?" gasped Minnie. "A ghost, a most scoundrelly apparition, with fearsome eyes, offensive whiskers, and a hat which is a base copy of mine." "Owd Ben!" sighed Mrs. Bates, collapsing straightway in a faint. Luckily, Minnie caught her mother and broke her fall, because the housekeeper was large and solid, and might have been seriously injured otherwise. Hart was distressed by this development, but, being eminently a ready person in an emergency, he rose to the occasion by extracting the empty case from the revolver, and holding it to the poor woman's nostrils, while supporting her with an arm and a knee. "This is far more effective than burnt brown paper, Minnie," he said. "Now, don't get excited, but mix some brandy and water, and we'll have your mother telling us who Owd Ben is, or was, before Hawk-eye comes back to disturb us. Judging by the noises I hear, he's busy outside." "That's father!" shrieked Minnie hysterically. For an instant, Hart was nearly alarmed, but Grant's voice came authoritatively: "It's all right, Bates. Let go, I tell you!" "Phew!" said Hart. "I was on the point of confusing your respected dad with Owd Ben That's it, ma! Sniff hard! As a cook you're worth your weight in gold, which is some cook." "Friend," he said, "some men have fame thrust upon them, but you have achieved it. To-night you pierced the heel of Achilles. Here's to you!" "I dunno wot 'ee's saying mister, but 'good health'," said Bates, swigging the wine with gusto. "Now, for your master's sake, not a word to a soul about this hubbub." A determined knock and ring came at the front door. Minnie, helped by Hart, had just escorted Mrs. Bates to the kitchen. "Let _me_ go!" said Furneaux, darting out into the hall. He opened the door, and thrust his face into the police-constable's, startling the latter considerably. Before Robinson could utter a syllable, the detective hissed a question. "Did anyone cross the bridge after that shot was fired?" "Nun--No, sir," stuttered the other. "Very well. Glad to find you're on the job. Don't let on you met me here. Good-night!" Mighty is Scotland Yard with the provincial police. Robinson was back on his self-imposed beat before he well realized that he knew neither why nor by whom nor by what sort of weapon the commotion had been created. But he was quite sure the noise came from the garden front of Mr. Grant's house. He heard footsteps coming down a paved footpath which ran like a white riband through the cobble-beaded width of the high-street, and withdrew swiftly to the shelter of a disused tannery adjoining the village end of the bridge. A cloaked female figure sped past. Though the night was rather dark for June, he had no difficulty in recognizing Doris Martin's graceful movements. No other girl in Steynholme walked like her. She was slim enough to dispense with tight corsets, and tall enough to wear low-heeled shoes, nor did she need to pinch her toes in order to gain the semblance of small feet. For a man of his height and somewhat ponderous build, the policeman followed with real stealth. Thus, when she turned in at the gate, he was there by the time she had reached the front door. He heard her pull the bell. Curiously enough, to his thinking, Furneaux again appeared. "Is Mr. Grant at home?" he heard Doris say. "Yes. Will you come in?" replied the detective. "Is he--is all well here?" Doris, after hesitating a little, entered. Robinson crept on tiptoe over a stretch of gravel, and took to the shrubbery. It was high time, he thought, that the local constabulary learnt what was going on in that abode of mystery. HE WHOM THE CAP FITS- "The next point of vital interest in the narrative is to establish, by such evidence as is available, who Owd Ben is, or was," he said. "I presume, since he had attained local celebrity as a ghost, he has passed over, as the spiritists say." "Sit down!" cried Furneaux savagely. Hart sat down, and began filling that portentous pipe. "You fellows merely ran into each other outside, I take it," he said, apparently by way of a chatty remark. "The crack of the pistol-shot and the supposed resurrection of Owd Ben threw Mrs. Bates temporarily off her balance, so I helped in reviving her. Between such a cook and such a ghost, who would hesitate?" When Furneaux was really irritated, he swore in French. _"Nom d'un bon petit homme gris!"_ he almost squealed, "why did you whip out that infernal revolver? You spoiled everything, everything! Have you no sense in that picturesque head of yours? Your skull is big enough to hold brains, not soap-bubbles." "And now you're insulting my mother," yelped the detective. "Not I. You know nothing about the finest race of little women in the world, or you would not even imagine such rubbish." "But why, why, didn't you tell me that you saw someone outside?" "You wouldn't have believed me. The goblin was disappearing. I had to shoot quick." "Sir, there are certain manifestations I object to on principle. What self-respecting ghost ever wore whiskers?" "This was no ghost. You shot the man's hat off." "Ah! You remember, at last," and the detective smiled sourly. "But, consider, Carlo mio! A spook with whiskers! What court would find me guilty? Let me produce the authentic record of Owd Ben, and I have no doubt but that the Lord Chief Justice himself would have potted his representative. He'd be bound to confess it." Furneaux was cooling down. "You've shaken my confidence," he said. "Unless I have your promise that you will never do such a thing again while in my company, I shall ban you from this inquiry with bell, book, and candle." "Very well. It's a bargain. Now let us ponder Exhibit A." He stretched a long arm over the table, and took the hat. "Put it on!" commanded the detective. Hart did so, and scowled frightfully. Furneaux bent forward and squinted. "Notice the line of those bullet-holes," he said to Grant. "Any man wearing that hat must have had his scalp ploughed up," said Grant instantly. "Well, we know that nothing of the kind happened. Why?" "It was perched on top of a wig," drawled Hart. Furneaux was slightly disappointed--there was no denying it. Being a vain little person, he liked to show off in a minor matter such as this. "Yes," he admitted, "and what's the corollary?" "That the wearer is probably a clean-shaven person with thin hair, a daring scoundrel who is well posted in the leading characteristics of Owd Ben. Charles le Petit, time is now ripe for details of that hairy goblin." "Where did you dig him up from, anyhow?" said the detective testily. "Mrs. Bates recognized him from my vivid description." "Her husband can tell us the story," put in Grant. "I'll fetch him." "Here is Owd Ben himself, I expect," said Hart. But it was Doris Martin, and very pretty she looked as she entered the room, her high color being the joint outcome of a rapid walk and a very natural embarrassment at finding the frankly admiring eyes of a stranger fixed on her. "I don't quite know why I'm here," she said, with a nervous laugh, addressing Grant directly. "You will think I am always gazing in the direction of The Hollies, but my room commands this house so fully that I cannot help seeing or hearing anything unusual. A few minutes ago I heard what I thought was a muffled gunshot. I looked out, and saw your window thrown open, though the light was dim, and only a candle was showing in the smaller window. I was alarmed, so came to inquire what had happened. You'll pardon me, I'm sure." "Say you don't, Jack, I implore you, and let me apologize for you," pleaded Hart. "Doris, this is my good friend, Wally Hart," smiled Grant. "Won't you sit down? We have an exciting story for you." "Father will be horribly anxious if he knows I have gone out." Nevertheless, there was sufficient spice of Mother Eve in Doris that she should take the proffered chair. "Sorry to interrupt," broke in Furneaux. "Did you meet P.C. Robinson!" "You came by way of the bridge?" The detective whirled round on Grant. "Thanks," said Hart. Doris, more self-possessed now, read the meaning of the quip promptly. "Mr. Grant has often spoken of you," she said. "You talk, and we'll listen." "Not so, divinity," came the retort. "I may be a parrot, but I don't want my neck wrung when you've gone." "Don't encourage him, Doris," said Grant, "or you'll be here till midnight." "If that's the best you can do, you had better leave the recital to me," laughed Hart. Meanwhile, Furneaux had stolen noiselessly to the bedroom overhead. The casement window was open--he had noted that fact while in the garden. He peeped out, and was just in time to see Robinson emulating a Sioux Indian on the war-path. The policeman removed his helmet, and was about to peer cautiously through the small window. The detective's blood ran cold. What if Hart discovered yet another ghost? "Robinson--go home!" he said, in sepulchral tones. The constable positively jumped. He gaped on all sides in real terror. He, too, had heard hair-raising tales of Owd Ben. "Go home!" hissed Furneaux, leaning out. Then the other looked up. "Oh, it's you, sir!" he gasped, sighing with relief. "Man, you've had the closest shave of your life! There's a fellow below there who shoots at sight." "But I'm on duty, sir." "You'll be in Kingdom Come if you gaze in at that window. Be off!" "Robinson, you and I will quarrel if you don't do as I bid you. And that would be a pity, because I want to inform Mr. Fowler that he has a particularly smart man in Steynholme." "Very well, sir, if _you're_ satisfied, I _must_ be." And away went the eavesdropper, crushed, still tingling with that fear of the supernatural latent in every heart, but far from convinced. "Now, young lady, you're coming with me," he said, grinning amiably. "The Sussex constabulary is quelled for the hour." "But, Mr. Furneaux, I recognize that hat!" said Doris, and it was notable that even Hart remained silent. The detective looked at her strangely, but put no question. "I am almost sure it belongs to our local Amateur Dramatic Society," went on the girl. "It was worn by Mr. Elkin last November. He played a burlesque of Svengali. I was Trilby, and caught a horrid cold from walking about without shoes or stockings." "Oh, the ghost!" said Doris eagerly. "The Bateses would think of him, of course. An old farmer named Ben Robson used to live in this house about the time of Napoleon. He was suspected by the authorities to be an agent of the smugglers, and the story goes that his own daughter quarreled with him and betrayed him. He narrowly escaped hanging, owing to his age, I believe, and was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. At last he was released, being then a very old man, and he came straight here and strangled his daughter. It is quite a terrible story. He was found dead by her side. Then people remembered that she had spoken of someone scaring her by looking in through that small window some nights previously. Naturally, a ghost was soon manufactured. I really wonder why the man who rebuilt and renamed the place in the middle of last century didn't have the window removed altogether." "Why did you never tell me that scrap of history, Doris?" inquired Grant. The hall clock had no doubt on the point. Furneaux pocketed the written notes regarding Ingerman, and grabbed the hat off the table. Grant, for some reason, was aware that the detective repressed an obvious reference to the last occasion on which the girl had heard that same clock announce the hour. Furneaux would allow no other escort. He and Doris made off immediately. When they were gone, Hart stared fixedly at an empty decanter. "My dim recollection of your port, Jack, is that it was a wine of many virtues and few vices," he mused aloud. Grant took the hint, and went to a cellar. Returning, he found his crony poring over the book which, singularly enough, figured prominently on each occasion when the specter-producing window was markedly in evidence. Hart glanced up at his host, and nodded cheerfully at a dust-laden bottle. "What is there in 'The Talisman' which needed so much research?" he asked. "Some lines by Sir David Lindsay, quoted by Scott," was the answer. "Are these they?" And Hart read: "Love isn't mentioned. The fair Doris will be true. You're in luck, my boy. But somebody is out for your blood, and here is clear warning. Gee whizz! If I remain in Steynholme a week I shall become an occultist. What is a lyme-hound?" "'Lyme,' or 'leam,' is the old-time word for 'leash.'" "Good!" said Hart. "That will appeal to Furneaux. Have him in to dinner every day, Jack. He's a tonic!" "Run away home now, little girl. Sleep well, and don't worry. The tangle will right itself in time." "Poor Mr. Grant is suffering," she ventured to murmur. "And a good thing, too. It will steady him. Hurry, please. I'll wait here till you are behind a locked door." "You never can tell. I'm not taking any chances to-night, however." The detective walked straight there, and tapped lightly on the window. Robinson, after an affected delay, came to the door. "Who's there?" he demanded. "As if you didn't know," laughed Furneaux. Robinson turned a key, and looked out. "Oh, it's you, sir?" he cried. "You'll get tired of saying that before I quit Steynholme," said the detective. "May I come in? No, don't show a light here. Let's chat in the back kitchen." "I was just going to have a bite of supper, sir," began Robinson apologetically. "It's laid in the kitchen. On'y bread and cheese an' a glass of beer. Will you join me?" Robinson had turned up a lamp, and hospitably installed Furneaux in his own easy-chair. "The 'actual murder,' you said, sir?" he repeated. "Yes. It was his presence at The Hollies which brought an infatuated woman there, and thus directly led to her death. That is all. Grant is telling the truth. I assure you, Robinson, I never allow myself to break bread with a man whom I may have to convict. So, I'll change my mind, and take a snack of your bread and cheese." The village constable, by no means a fool, grinned at the implied tribute. What he did not appreciate so readily was the fact that his somewhat massive form was being twiddled round the detective's little finger. "Right you are, sir," he cried cheerily. "But, if Mr. Grant didn't kill Miss Melhuish, who did!" He examined the hat as though it were a new form of bomb. "By gum!" he muttered. "Are these bullet-holes?" "An' is this what someone fired at?" He checked himself in time. He did not want to admit that he had been watching the only recognized road to Grant's house all the evening. Robinson suspected that, as he himself would have put it, his leg was being pulled rather violently. Furneaux read his face like a printed page. Chewing, much against his will, a mouthful of bread and cheese, he mumbled in solemn, broken tones: "Think--Robinson. Don't--answer--offhand. Has--anybody--ever worn--such things--in a play?" Then the policeman was convinced, galvanized by memory, as it were. "By gum!" he cried again. "Fred Elkin--in a charity performance last winter." Furneaux choked with excitement. "A horsey-looking chap, on to-day's jury," he gurgled. "No wonder he looked ill." "No wonder, indeed. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done!" Robinson was flabbergasted. He could only murmur "Fred Elkin!" in a dazed way. While walking up the hill Furneaux fanned himself with the straw hat. When Tomlin admitted him to the Hare and Hounds, he buttonholed the landlord, who, at that hour, was usually somewhat obfuscated. "Sir," said the detective gravely, "I am told that you Steynholme folk indulge occasionally in such frivolities as amateur theatricals?" "Not to-night. I've mixed port and beer already, and I'm only a little fellow. Now you, Mr. Tomlin, can mix anything, I fancy?" "I've tried a few combinations in me time, sir." "But, about these theatrical performances--is there any scenery, costumes, 'props' as actors call them?" "Yes, sir. They're stored in the loft over the club-room--the room where the inquest wur held." Furneaux's shrill cry scared Mr. Tomlin. "Y-yes, sir," he stuttered. "Is that my candle?" said the detective tragically. "I'm tired, dead beat. To-night, Mr. Tomlin, you are privileged to see the temporary wreck of a noble mind. God wot, 'tis a harrowing spectacle." Furneaux skipped nimbly upstairs. Tomlin proceeded to lock up. "It's good for trade," he mumbled, "but I'll be glad when these 'ere Lunnon gents clears out. They worry me, they do. Fair gemme a turn, 'e did. A tec', indeed! He's nothin' but a play-hactor hisself!" THE CASE AGAINST GRANT Next morning, after a long conference with Superintendent Fowler, from which, to his great chagrin, P. C. Robinson was excluded, Furneaux went to the post office, dispatched an apparently meaningless telegram to a code address, and exchanged a few orthodox remarks with Doris and her father about the continued fine weather. While he was yet at the counter, Ingerman crossed the road and entered the chemist's shop. "Let me see," said the detective musingly, "by committing a slight trespass on your left-hand neighbor's garden, can I reach the yard of the inn?" "What the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve over," smiled Doris. "Mrs. Jefferson went to Knoleworth early to-day, and took her maid. By shopping at the stores there, they save their fares, and have a day out each week." "May I go that way, then?" he said. "Suppose you send that goggle-eyed skivvy of yours on an errand." This was done, and Furneaux made the desired transit. Soon, however, Ingerman led Elkin and Hobbs to the inn. Evidently, the "financier" had been making some small purchases. He was in high spirits. Ordering appetizers before the mid-day meal, he announced that he was returning to London that afternoon, but would be in Steynholme again for the adjourned inquest. "Water?" wheezed Tomlin indignantly. _"Water?"_ "Well, no offense. I can't taste anything. I believe I could swallow dope and not feel it on my tongue." "You do look bad, an' no mistake, Fred," agreed Hobbs. "Are you vettin' yerself? Don't. Every man to his trade, sez I. Give Dr. Foxton a call." "I'm taking his medicine regular. Perhaps I need a change." "'Ave a week-end in Lunnon," said Hobbs, with a broad wink. "You look like a honeymooner, I don't think," guffawed Hobbs. "You wouldn't laugh if I told _you_ what you really look like," cried Elkin angrily. "Bet you a level fiver I'm married this year. Now, put up or shut up!" Furneaux peeped in, through a door, always open, which led to the stairs. "Can I have my account, Mr. Tomlin?" he said. "I'm going to town by the next train." "Did I say that?" inquired the detective meekly. "Great mistake. Look at our worthy landlord. He's been drawing inferences as well as corks, and he's beat to the world." Tomlin was, indeed, gazing at his smaller guest open-mouthed. "Bad habit," and Furneaux crooked a waggish forefinger at him. "Even the wisest among us may err. Last night, for instance, I blundered. I really fancied I had a clew to the Steynholme murderer. And where do you think it ended? In the loft of your club-room, Mr. Tomlin. In a box of old clothes at that. Silly, isn't it?" "Wot! Them amatoor play-hactin' things?" Elkin grunted, though intending to laugh. "Not so sharp for a London 'tec, I must say," he cried. "Why, those props have been there since before Christmas." Tomlin tried hard to look knowing. "Oh, is that wot you wur drivin' at?" he said. "Dang me, mister, I could soon ha' put you right 'ad you tole me." "Well, well. Can't be helped. I may do better in London. What do _you_ say, Mr. Ingerman? The City is the real mint of money and crime. Who knows but that a stroll through Cornhill may have some bearing on the Steynholme mystery?" "May be you'd get a bit nearer if you took a stroll along the Knoleworth Road, and not so very far, either," guffawed Elkin. "I'm traveling by your train," cried Ingerman. "So I understood," said Furneaux over his shoulder. There was silence for a moment after he had gone. Ingerman looked thoughtful, even puzzled. He was casting back in his mind to discover just how and when the detective "understood" that his departure was imminent, since he himself had only arrived at a decision after leaving the chemist's. "That chap is no good," announced Elkin. "I'll back old Robinson against him any day." "Sh-s-sh! He may 'ear you," muttered the landlord. "Don't care if he does. Cornhill! What the blazes has Cornhill to do with the murder at The Hollies?" Ingerman, however, did not inform the company that his office lay in an alley off Cornhill. He elected to rub in Elkin's words. "Mr. Siddle seemed to object to The Hollies being mentioned as the scene of the crime," he said. "I wonder why?" "Because he's an old molly-coddle," snapped the horse-dealer. "Thinks everyone is like himself, a regular slow-coach." "Wot's this about them amatoor clo'es?" he inquired portentously. "Oo 'as the key of that box?" "_I_ have," said Elkin. "I locked it after the last performance, and, unless you've been up to any monkey tricks, Tomlin, the duds are there yet." "You're bitin' me 'ead off all the mornin', Fred," protested the aggrieved landlord. "Fust, the gin was wrong, an' now I'm supposed to 'ave rummidged yur box. Wot for?" "My bill ready?" he squeaked. The door closed behind him. Tomlin shook his head. "Box! Jack-in-the-box, I reckon," he said darkly, turning to a dog-eared ledger. Ingerman would have been more than surprised were he privileged to overhear a conversation which began and ended before he reached his flat in North Kensington. "What's wrong with the toofa?" inquired Furneaux testily. "My own carelessness. Stupid things, bands on cigars Well, what's the rush?" Mr. James Leander Winter, Chief Inspector under the Criminal Investigation Department, whistled softly. "Tell me how it struck you. Sometimes the uninformed brain is vouchsafed a gleam of unconscious genius." "Yes, the postmaster's daughter, Doris Martin." "Shy, pretty little bird, of course?" "Everything that is good and beautiful." "Is Grant a Lothario?" "Never heard it called _that_ before." "This time the statement happens to be strictly accurate." The cigar was behaving itself at last, having burnt down to the fracture, so Winter's thoughts could be given exclusively to the less important matter of the Steynholme affair. "To begin with," he said instantly. "Ingerman can establish a cast-iron alibi." "So I imagined. But he's a bad lot. I throw in that item gratuitously." The oddly-assorted pair walked in silence until Vauxhall Bridge was in sight. Winter pulled out a watch. "What time did you say my train left Victoria?" he inquired. "Plenty of time yet to make your guess and listen to further details," scoffed Furneaux. "Frankly, I give it up. But, if I must share in the hunt, I tell you now that, metaphorically speaking, I shall cling to the postmaster's daughter till torn away by sheer force of evidence." Furneaux dug his colleague in the ribs. Few Treasury barristers, leading for the Crown, could have marshaled the facts with such lucidity and fairness as Furneaux during that saunter to Victoria Station. "Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice," said Othello to Lodovico, and these Scotland Yard men, charged with so great a responsibility, never forgot the great-hearted Moor's advice. "Nice quiet place you've got here, Mr. Ingerman," interrupted the detective. "Artistically furnished, too," went on Furneaux dreamily. "Oak, self-toned carpets and rugs, restful decorations. Those etchings, also, show taste in the selection. 'The Embankment--by Night.' Fitting sequel to 'The City--by Day.' I'm a child in such matters, but, 'pon my honor, if tempted to pour out my hard-earned savings into the lap of a City magnate, I would disgorge here more readily than in some saloon-bar of finance, where the new mahogany glistens, and the typewriters click like machine-guns." Ingerman was nettled. He glanced at his correspondence. "You have a somewhat far-fetched notion of my position," he said, with a staccato quality in his velvet voice. "I am not a magnate, and I toil here to make, not to lose, money for my clients." "A noble ideal. Forgive me if my rhapsody took the wrong line." "Yes. I avoided you purposely." "My mind was weary. I wanted my wits about me when I tackled you." Ingerman smiled, and leaned back, resting both elbows on the arms of the chair, and bringing the tips of his fingers together. "You prefer that I should drag out a statement piecemeal rather than receive it _en bloc_?" "Put it that way, if you like." Ingerman's finger-tips whitened under a sudden pressure, but his voice remained calm. "An unfortunate episode," he said. "And the Aegean Transport Company, Limited?" "Into which I was inveigled by Greeks. But why this history of ruined enterprises?" "It's a sort of schooling. I have noticed that the smartest counsel invariably begin with a few fireworks in order to induce the proper frame of mind in a witness." "I want to hear what you have to say about the death of your wife. You forced the cross-examining role on me. I'm doing my best." Ingerman kept silent during many seconds. When he spoke, his cultured voice was suave as ever. "Perhaps it was my fault, Mr. Furneaux," he said. "You gave me a strong hint. I should have taken it, and we might have started an interesting chat on pleasanter lines. So, with apologies for my insistence about the train, I make a fresh start. I believe firmly that Grant was directly concerned in the murder. And I shall justify my belief. Within the past fortnight a _rapprochement_ between my wife and myself became possible. It was spoken of, even reduced to the written word. I have her letters. Mine should be found among her belongings. May I take it that they _have_ been found?" "Yes," said Furneaux. "Is that your case, Mr. Ingerman?" "It assumes that the police adopt your view." "Not necessarily. The police must do their work without fear or favor. But Grant can be committed for trial on a coroner's warrant." "Grant is certainly in an awkward place." "Only a little while ago you dismissed my theory of the crime as airy persiflage." "That was before you quoted Horace. I have a great respect for Horace. His ode to the New Year is a gem." "Would you care to see my wife's recent letters?" "They are at my flat, I'll send you copies. The originals are always at your disposal for comparison, of course. Now may I, without offense, ask a question?" "Is it wise that the emissary of Scotland Yard should leave Steynholme?" "But didn't I tell you that I might obtain light in the neighborhood of Cornhill?" "True. I could have given you the facts in Steynholme." "I'm a greater believer in what the theater people call 'atmosphere.' Some of your facts, Mr. Ingerman, remind me of an expert's report in a mining prospectus. When tested by cyanide of potassium the gold in the ore often changes into iron pyrites. But don't hug the delusion that I shall neglect Steynholme. The murderer is there, not in London, and, unless my intellect is failing, he will be tried for his life at the next Lewes Assizes. Meanwhile, may I give you a bit of advice?" When the door closed on Furneaux, Ingerman smiled. "I've given that little Frenchman furiously to think," he murmured. But the "little Frenchman" was smiling, too. He had elaborated the scheme already discussed with Winter. It was much to his liking, though unorthodox, rather crack-brained, more than risky, and altogether opposed to the instructions of the Police Manual. Each of these drawbacks was a commendation to Furneaux. In fact, the Steynholme mystery had taken quite a favorable turn during that talk with Ingerman. P. C. ROBINSON TAKES ANOTHER LINE "I am sensitive to ridicule," he professed. "The village urchins will christen me 'Owd Ben,' and the old gentleman's character was such that I would feel hurt. So, for to-day, I'll join the no hat brigade." "I wonder if we'll meet Furneaux," said Grant, selecting a walking-stick. "It's odd that we should have seen nothing of him this morning." "It would be still more odd if we had, remembering the precautions he took not to be observed coming here last night." "Of the best. That little man is a live wire of intelligence. He's wasted on Scotland Yard. He ought to be a dramatist or an ambassador." "Quaint alternatives, those." "Not at all. Each profession demands brains, and is at its best in coining cute phrases. I've met scores of both tribes, and they're like as peas in a pod." "That's the front door," said Grant. "It's Furneaux himself, I hope." But the visitor was P.C. Robinson, who actually smiled and saluted. "Glad I've caught you before you went out, sir," he said. "Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell you he had to hurry back to London. I was also to mention that he had got the whiskers." "What whiskers? Whose whiskers?" "That's all he said, sir--he'd got the whiskers." "Why, Owd Ben's whiskers, of course. How dense you are, Jack!" put in Hart. But, Owd Ben! What figure did that redoubtable ghost cut in the mystery? "There are certain _lacunae_ in your otherwise vigorous and thrilling story, constable," went on Hart. "Very likely, sir," agreed Robinson, much to the surprise of his hearers. He had not the slightest notion what a _lacuna_, or its plural, signified. He was only adopting Furneaux's advice, and trying to be civil. The policeman, whose wits were thoroughly on the alert, realized that he had scored a point, though he knew not how. "He did not tell me, sir," he answered. "It's a rum business, that's what it is, no matter what way you look at it." Grant, agreeably aware of the village constable's change of front, accepted the olive branch readily. "Well, sir, meals are a trifle irregular during a busy time like this," admitted Robinson, feeling that his luck was in, because tongues would surely be loosened in the kitchen to an official guest introduced by the master of the establishment. He was right. No member of the Bates family dreamed of reticence, now that the household was restored to favor with "the force." Before Robinson departed, he was full of information and good food. Each was eager to question the other, but Elkin opened fire. "Anything fresh?" he cried. "You have a fair course now, Robinson. That little London 'tec has bunked home." "Has he?" In the language of the ring, Robinson thought fit to spar for an opening. "That's as may be, Mr. Elkin. But this affair seems to have gripped you for fair. You look thoroughly run down. Sleepin' badly?" "Rotten! Hardly got a wink last night." "That inquest broke up the day yesterday, so I was delayed at Knoleworth." "What time did you reach home?" "Furneaux," said Robinson, who was clever enough not to appear too secretive, and was thanking his stars that Elkin had introduced the very topic he wanted to discuss. "Ay, Furneaux. I remember now. He worried old Tomlin last night about that box, which is kept in the loft over the club-room. So Tomlin and I, and Hobbs, just to satisfy ourselves, went up there as soon as Furneaux left to-day. And, what do you think? The box was unlocked, though I locked it myself, and have the key; and a hat and wig and whiskers I wore when we played a skit on 'Trilby' were missing. If that isn't a clew, what is?" "A clew!" repeated the bewildered Robinson. "Yes. I'm telling you, though I kept dark before the other fellows. Didn't you say Grant's cheek was bleeding on Tuesday morning?" "By jing, you've got your knife into Mr. Grant, an' no mistake," commented Robinson. "You yourself gave him a nasty jab at the inquest," sneered Elkin. "I was just tellin' the facts." "So am I. I think you ought to know about that hat and the other things. I would recognize them anywhere. Furneaux had something up his sleeve, too, or he wouldn't have pumped Tomlin Woa, boy! So long, Robinson! I must put this youngster into his stall." "I'll wait, Mr. Elkin," said Robinson solemnly. "I want to have a word with you." The policeman was glad of the respite. He needed time to collect his thoughts. The story of the dinner-party and its excitement disposed completely of Elkin's malicious theory with regard to Grant, but, since the horse-dealer was minded to be communicative, it would be well to encourage him. "Come in, and have a drink," said Elkin, when the colt had been stabled. "No, thanks--not when I'm on duty." Elkin raised his eyebrows sarcastically. He could not possibly guess that Robinson was adopting Furneaux's pose of never accepting hospitality from a man whom he might have to arrest. "Well, blaze away. I'm ready." The younger man leaned against a gate. He looked ill and physically worn. Elkin laughed in a queer, croaking way. "Last night my mare brought me home. I was decidedly sprung, Robinson. Glad you didn't spot me, or there might have been trouble. What between the inquest, an' no food, an' more than a few drinks at Knoleworth, I'd have passed Owd Ben himself without seeing him, though I believe I did squint in at The Hollies as I went by." "What time would that be?" "Nothing much," was the answer. "You see, I'm anxious to find out who might be stirring at that hour, an' you know everybody for miles around. I'd like to fix your journey by the clock, if I could." "Dash it all, man, I was full to the eyes. There! You have it straight." "Were you out on Monday night?" "The night of the murder?" "Who was there with you?" The monosyllable seemed to lack Elkin's usual confidence. It sounded as if he had been making up his mind what to say, yet faltered at the last moment. "Well, we don't seem to get any forrarder," he said. "You ought to take more care of your health, Mr. Elkin. You're a changed man these days." "I'll be all right when this murder is off our chests, Robinson. You won't have a tiddley? Right-o! So long!" "You, too? Good egg!" was the cry. The gentleman thus addressed did not seem to relish this geniality. "Where the deuce are you off to?" he demanded. "To Steynholme--same as you, of course." "That's so. I've got you. May I take it that you will reciprocate when the time comes?" "Have I ever failed you?" "No. We meet as strangers." Peters bustled off. He had the reputation of being the smartest "writer up" in London of mystery cases. The Steynholme affair had interested both him and a shrewd news-editor. "Have you a nice chicken?" he inquired. Yes, Mr. Tomlin had a veritable spring chicken in the larder at that moment. "And do you think your cook could provide a _tourne-dos_?" "A what-a, sir?" wheezed Tomlin. Peters had gobbled his chop before Franklin entered the dining-room, but they met later in the snug, where Elkin was being chaffed by Hobbs anent his carryin's on in Knoleworth the previous night. Siddle came in, but the chatter was not so free as when the habitues had the place to themselves. "I suppose you local gentlemen have been greatly disturbed by this sensational murder?" he said. Hobbs took refuge in a glass of beer. Siddle gazed contemplatively at his neat boots. Tomlin meant to say something; Elkin, eying the stranger, and summing him up as a detective, answered brusquely: "What murder are you discussing, may I ask?" put in Franklin. Peters turned on him with astonishment in every line of a peculiarly mobile face. "I seldom, if ever, read such things in the newspapers, and, as I landed in England only a week ago from France, my ignorance, though abyssmal, is pardonable. Moreover, I can say truly that I am far more interested in pedigree horses than in vulgar criminals." Peters explained fluently. This was no ordinary crime. A beautiful and popular actress had been done to death in a brutal way, and the country was already deeply stirred by the story. Elkin waited impatiently till the journalist drew breath. Then he broke in. "Pedigree horses you mentioned, sir," he said, his rancor against Grant being momentarily conquered by the pertinent allusion to his own business. "What sort? Racing, coaching, roadsters, or hacks?" "All sorts. The Argentine, where I have connections, offers an ever-open door to good horseflesh." "Are you having a look round?" "Yes. There are several decent studs within driving distance of Steynholme. Isn't that so, landlord?" "Lots, sir," said Tomlin. "An' the very man you're talkin' to has some stuff not to be sneezed at." "Is that so?" Mr. Franklin gazed at Elkin in a very friendly manner. "May I ask your name, sir?" Elkin produced a card. Every hoof in his stables appreciated in value forthwith, but he was far too knowing that he should appear to rush matters. "An' you want it, too, Fred," said Hobbs. "Dash me, you're as thin as a herrin'. Stop whiskey an' drink beer, like me." "And you might also follow that gentleman's example," interposed Siddle quietly, nodding towards Mr. Franklin. "What's that?" snapped Elkin. "Don't worry about murders." The chemist made no reply, but Hobbs stepped into the breach valiantly. "Keep yer 'air on, Fred," he vociferated. "Siddle means no 'arm. But wot else are yer a-doing of, mornin', noon, an' night?" Elkin laughed, with his queer croak. "Possibly," smiled Franklin. "Of course there is always the lady's point of view. The sex is proverbially fickle, you know. 'Woman, thy vows are traced in sand,' Lord Byron has it." "Ay, an' some men's, too," guffawed Hobbs. "Wot about Peggy Smith, Fred?" Elkin blew a mouthful of cigarette smoke at the butcher. "What about that tough old bull you bought at Knoleworth on Monday?" he retorted. Hobbs's face grew purple. Mr. Franklin beckoned to Tomlin. "Ask these gentlemen what they'll have," he said gently. The landlord made a clatter of glasses, and the threatened storm passed. "None whatever," said Peters. "That's what you may call the police opinion," broke in Elkin. "We Steynholme folk have a pretty clear notion, I can assure you." "The matter is still _sub judice_, and may remain so a long time," said Siddle. "It is simply stupid to attach a kind of responsibility to the man who happens to occupy the house associated with the crime. I have no patience with that sort of reasoning." Hobbs, who did not want to quarrel with Elkin, suddenly championed him. "That's all very well," he rumbled. "But the hevidence you an' me 'eard, Siddle, an' the hevidence we know we're goin' to 'ear, is a lot stronger than that." "I'm sure you'll pardon me, friends," said Siddle, rising with an apologetic smile, "but I happen to be foreman of the coroner's jury, and I feel that this matter is not for me, at any rate, to discuss publicly." Out he went, not even heeding Tomlin's appeal to drink the ginger-ale he had just ordered. "Just like 'im," sighed Hobbs. "Good-'earted fellow! Would find hexcuses for a black rat." Thus, he received yet another shock when Mr. Franklin addressed him by name. "Good evening, Robinson," said the pleasant, clear-toned voice. "I've been expecting you to turn up. Kindly go back home, and leave the door open. I want to slip in quietly. I am Chief Inspector Winter, of Scotland Yard." "You don't say so, sir!" stammered Robinson. Robinson made off, and Winter lounged along the Knoleworth road. He met Bates, going to the post with letters. Naturally, Bates looked him over. Returning from the post office, he kept a sharp eye for the unknown loiterer, but saw him not. He even walked quickly to the bend of the road, but the other man had vanished. Grant and Hart were talking of anything but the murder when Bates thrust his head in. He was grasping his goatee beard, sure sign of some weight on his mind. "Beg pardon," he said, "but I thought you'd like to know. The place is just swarmin' with 'em." "Bees?" inquired Hart. "No, sir, 'tecs," he said. "There's a big 'un now--just the opposite to the little 'un, Hawkshaw. I 'ope I 'aven't to tackle this customer, though. He'd gimme a doin', by the looks of 'im." Bates had disappeared before Grant remembered that the press photographer had mentioned the Big 'Un and the Little 'Un of the Yard. "Now, I wonder," he said. His wonder could hardly have equaled Winter's had he heard the gardener's words. The guess was a distinct score for blunt Sussex, though it was founded solely on the assumption that all comers now, unless Bates was personally acquainted with them, were limbs of the law. WHEREIN WINTER GETS TO WORK He found the policeman awaiting him in the dark, because a voice said: "Beg pardon, sir, but the other gentleman from the 'Yard' asked me to take him into the kitchen. A light in the front room might attract attention, he thought." "Just what Mr. Furneaux would suggest, and I agree with him," said Winter, quite alive to the canny discretion behind those words, "the other gentleman." Robinson led the way. Supper was laid on the table. Poor Mrs. Robinson had again beaten a hasty retreat. So the policeman listened to a clear summary of the Steynholme case as it was known to the authorities. "I did not warn either Mr. Fowler or you of my visit because a telegram could hardly be explicit enough," concluded Winter. "At the inn I am Mr. Franklin, an Argentine importer of blood stock in the horse line. At this moment the only other man beside yourself in Steynholme who is aware of my official position is Mr. Peters, and he is pledged to secrecy. To-morrow or any other day until further notice, you and I meet as strangers in public. By the way, Mr. Furneaux asked me to tell you that he found the wig and the false beard in the river early this morning. The wearer had apparently flung them off while crossing the foot-bridge leading from Bush Walk, having forgotten that they would not sink readily. Perhaps he didn't care. At any rate, Mr. Hart's bullet seems to have laid Owd Ben's ghost. Now, what of this fellow, Elkin? He worries me." "Can I offer you a glass of beer, sir?" "With pleasure. May I smoke while you eat? You see, I differ from Mr. Furneaux in both size and habits." Robinson poured out the beer. He was preternaturally grave. The somewhat incriminating statements he had wormed out of the horse-dealer that afternoon lay heavy upon him. But he told his story succinctly enough. Winter nodded to emphasize each point, and congratulated him at the end. "You arranged that very well," he said. "I gather, though, that Elkin spoke rather openly." "Just as I've put it, sir. He tripped a bit over the time on Monday night. But it's only fair to say that he might have had Tomlin's license in mind." "That issue will be settled to-morrow. I'll find out the commercial traveler's name, and send a telegram from Knoleworth before noon Who is Peggy Smith?" Robinson set down an empty glass with a stare of surprise. "Bob Smith's daughter, sir," he answered. "No doubt. But, proceed." "Not more than the rest of 'em, sir." "Have you seen her flirting with Elkin?" Robinson took thought. "In that case, he can hardly grumble if the postmaster's daughter has an eye for another young man." "Miss Martin!" snorted Robinson. "She wouldn't look the side of the road he was on. Fred Elkin isn't her sort." "But he said to-night in the Hare and Hounds that he and Miss Martin were practically engaged." "Stuff an' nonsense! Sorry, sir, but I admire Doris Martin. I like to see a girl like her liftin' herself out of the common gang. She's the smartest young lady in the village, an' not an atom of a snob. No, no. She isn't for Fred Elkin. Before this murder cropped up everybody would have it that Mr. Grant would marry her." "How does the murder intervene?" "Who, indeed? But this Elkin--surely he had some ground for a definite boast, made openly, among people acquainted with all the parties?" "There's more than Elkin would marry Doris if she lifted a finger, sir." "Can you name them?" "Well, Tomlin wants a wife." Winter laughed joyously. "They say that Mr. Siddle is a widower." "The chemist? Foreman of the jury?" "From appearances, he is a likelier candidate than either Elkin or Tomlin. Anybody else?" "I shouldn't be far wrong if I gave you the name of most among the young unmarried men in the parish." "Dear me! I must have a peep at this charmer. But I want those names, Robinson." Winter produced a note-book, so he was evidently taking the matter seriously. The policeman, however, was flustered. His thoughts ran on Elkin, whereas this masterful person from London insisted on discussing Doris Martin. "My difficulty is, sir, that she has never kep' company with any of 'em," he said. "Never mind. Give me the name of every man who, no matter what his position or prospects, might be irritated, if no more, if he knew that Miss Martin and Mr. Grant were presumably spooning in a garden at a rather late hour." Winter departed soon afterwards. Before going to the inn he had a look at the forge. A young woman, standing at the open door of the adjoining cottage, favored him with a frank stare. There was no light in the dwelling. When he returned, after walking a little way down the road, the door was closed. Next morning, Bates heard of Peters as the detective and of Mr. Franklin as a "millionaire" from South America. Moreover, he scrutinized both in the flesh, and saw Robinson salute Peters but pass the financial potentate with indifference. "I was mistook, sir," he reported to Grant later. "There's another 'tec about, but 'e ain't the chap I met last night. They say this other bloke is rollin' in money, an' buyin' hosses right an' left." "Then he'll soon be rolling in the mud, and have no money," put in Hart. "Who is he?" inquired Grant carelessly. "A Mr. Franklin, from South America, sir." Grant and Hart exchanged glances. Curiously enough, Hart remained silent till Bates had gone. "I must look this joker up, Jack," he said then. "To me the mere mention of South America is like Mother Gary's chickens to a sailor, a harbinger of storm." But Hart consumed Tomlin's best brew to no purpose--in so far as seeing Mr. Franklin was concerned, since the latter was in Knoleworth, buying a famous racing stud. Being in the village, however, this fisher in troubled waters was not inclined to return without a bag of some sort. He walked straight into the post office. Doris and her father were there, the telegraphist being out. The postmaster gazed helplessly at this free-and-easy stranger. Doris laughed, and blushed a little. "This is Mr. Hart, a friend of Mr. Grant's, dad," she explained. "I'm afraid we cannot accept the invitation. We are so busy." "The worst of excuses," said Hart. "But there is a London correspondent here who hands in a long telegram at that hour." The whirlwind subsided, but quickly materialized again. Meanwhile, father and daughter had decided that there was no valid reason why they should not dine with Mr. Grant. Martin already regretted his aloofness on the day of the inquest, though, truth to tell, Hart's expert knowledge of bee-culture was the determining factor. On her part, Doris was delighted. Her world had gone awry that week, and this small festivity might right it. Hart introduced the journalist, saying casually: "Jimmie is coming to dinner, Jack." "Delighted," said Grant, of course. Peters looked slightly surprised, but passed no comment. Then Doris and her father appeared. They joined the others, shook hands, and, to Grant's secret perplexity, the whole party moved off down the hill in company. When the Martins turned with the rest to cross the bridge, Grant began to suspect his friend. "Wally," he managed to whisper, "what game have you been playing?" "Aren't you satisfied?" murmured Hart. "Sdeath, as they used to say in the Surrey Theater, you're as bad as Furshaw!" Yes, a spacious dinner-table was laid at The Hollies. Doris, Mr. Martin, and Peters soon strolled out on to the lawn. The pedestrians had obviously gone upstairs to wash after their tramp. Mr. Siddle rather forgot himself. He stared so long and earnestly through the field-glasses that he ran full tilt into Mrs. Jefferson and maid before regaining the high-street. But the chemist was a ready man. He lifted his hat with an inquiring smile. "Didn't you say you wanted some anti-arthritic salts early in the week?" he asked. "Yes," said Mrs. Jefferson, "but I got some to-day in Knoleworth, thank you." "Well, I was just making up an indent, and might as well include your specific if you really needed it." Which was kind and thoughtful of Mr. Siddle, but not quite true, though it fully explained his presence at Mrs. Jefferson's gate. Mr. Franklin, escorting a fragrant Havana up the hill (he had traveled by the same train) saw the meeting, and, being aware of Mrs. Jefferson's frugal habits, since Furneaux had omitted no item of his movements in Steynholme, remembered it later during the nightly gathering in the inn. Elkin greeted Mr. Franklin respectfully when the great man joined the circle. "Did you see anything worth while at Knoleworth, sir?" he said. "No. I was unlucky. All the principals were at a race meeting." "By gum! That's right. It's Gatwick today. Dash! I might have saved you a journey." "Oh, it doesn't matter. In my business there is no call for hurry." Elkin looked around. "Where's our friend, the 'tec?" he said. "I think you're wrong about 'im, meanin' Mr. Peters," said Tomlin. "'E's 'ere for a noospaper, not for the Yard." "That's his blarney," smirked Elkin. "A detective doesn't go about telling everybody what he is." "Whatever his profession may be," put in Siddle's quiet voice, "I happen to know that he is dining with Mr. Grant. So are Mr. Martin and Doris. By mere chance I called at Mrs. Jefferson's. I went to the back door, and, finding it closed, looked into the garden. From there I couldn't help seeing the assembly on the lawn of The Hollies." "What's wrong?" stormed the horse-dealer. "Why, everything's wrong! The bounder ought to be in jail instead of giving dinner-parties. Imagine Doris eating in that house!" Elkin was pallid with wrath. He glared at Hobbs. "What I had in my mind was the impudence of the blighter," he said shrilly. "That poor woman's body leaves here to-morrow for some cemetery in London, and Grant invites folk to a small dinner to-night!" He stopped. Mr. Siddle coughed. "Bed! Me! Not likely. I'm going to kick up a row. What are the police doing? A set of blooming old women, that's what they are. But I'll stir 'em up, if I have to write to the Home Secretary." Elkin was obviously seeking for some retort which, though forcible, would not offend a possible patron. But Siddle answered far more deftly than might be looked for from the horse-dealer. "Your contention, sir, is just what the man of the world would hold," he said, "but, in this village, where we live on neighborly terms, such an incident would be impossible in almost any other house than The Hollies." Mr. Franklin nodded. He was convinced. Tomlin, Hobbs, and a local draper bore out the chemist's reasonable theory. Next morning Steynholme was again united in condemning Grant, while the postmaster and his daughter were not wholly exempted from criticism. Peters, meeting Mr. Franklin on the stairs of the inn, put a note into his hand. It read: "Why don't you have a chat with Grant? The public mind is being inflamed against him. It's hardly fair." By a singular coincidence, not ridiculously beyond the ken of a verger, when Doris went to church on Sunday morning, she found herself beside Mr. Franklin. At the close of the service the same big man whom she had noticed as a neighbor in the pew overtook her at the post office door. He lifted his hat. A passer-by heard him say distinctly: "Pardon me for troubling you, but can you tell me at what time the mail closes for London?" No other person overheard Mr. Franklin's next words: Doris was startled, as well she might be. But--she went straight for the letter. It was marked: "Private and Urgent," and ran: Chief Inspector, C.I.D., Scotland Yard, S.W. "Mr. Siddle! Why?" she gasped. "I must get some cakes. We have none." "Well, that's simple. I wonder if that fellow Hart really understands apiaculture? You might invite him, too." With that letter in her pocket Doris had suddenly grown wary. Hart and Siddle would not mix, and her woman's intuition warned her that Siddle had chosen the tea-hour purposely in order to have an uninterrupted conversation with her. She disliked Mr. Siddle, in a negative way, but the very nearness of the detective was stimulating. Let Mr. Siddle come, then, and come alone! "No, dad," she laughed. "Mr. Hart's knowledge will be available to-morrow. In his presence, poor Mr. Siddle would be dumb." CONCERNING THEODOEE SIDDLE Winter, being a cheerful cynic, had not erred when he appealed to that love of mystery which, especially if it is spiced with a hint of harmless intrigue, is innate in every feminine heart. Indeed, he was so assured of the success of his somewhat dramatic move that as he walked to a rendezvous arranged with Superintendent Fowler on the Knoleworth road he reviewed carefully certain arguments meant to secure Doris's assistance. Passing The Hollies, he smiled at the notion that Furneaux would undoubtedly have brought Grant to the conclave. It was just the sort of difficult situation in which his colleague would have reveled. But the Chief Inspector was more solid, more circumspect, even, singularly enough, more sensitive to the probable comments of a crusty judge if counsel for the defense contrived to elicit the facts. "Anything fresh?" inquired the superintendent, when a smart car drew up, and Winter entered. "Yes, a little," said Winter, as the chauffeur put the engine in gear. "Your man, Robinson, has been drawing Elkin, or Elkin drew him--I am not quite sure which, but think it matterless either way." He sketched Robinson's activities briefly, but in sufficient outline. "A new figure has come on the screen--Siddle, the chemist," he added thoughtfully. "Siddle!" Mr. Fowler was surprised. "Why, he is supposed to be a model of the law-abiding citizen." "I think not. Robinson can tell us." "Robinson says he 'believes' Siddle is a widower. That doesn't argue long and close knowledge." The superintendent was perplexed, or he would not have adopted his professional method of semi-apologetic questions with a man from the C.I.D. "I hardly know what I'm interested in," laughed Winter. "Grant didn't kill the lady. I shall be slow to credit Elkin with being the scoundrel he looks. Siddle, and Tomlin, if you please, are regarded as starters in the Doris Martin Matrimonial Stakes, and I don't think Tomlin could ever murder anything but the King's English. It is Siddle's _volte face_ that bothers me." "Um!" murmured Mr. Fowler. He was not an uneducated man, but _volte face_, correctly pronounced, was unfamiliar in his ears. "The change was so marked," went on the detective. "I gather that Siddle is a stickler for charity and fair dealing. He didn't abandon the role, of course. It was the sheer ingenuity of his method that caught my attention. So I simply catalogue him for research." "Has Miss Martin promised to meet us?" inquired the other, feeling that he was on the track of _volte face_. "I'm sure of nothing with regard to this case. But I have great faith in Furneaux's flair for the true scent. It has never failed yet." "Good day, Mr. Winter," she said. "I have a well-developed bump of curiosity these days. Who is it, may I ask?" "Mr. Siddle, the local chemist." "Indeed. An old friend, I suppose?" "Ah. He is not a native of the place?" "No. He bought Mr. Benson's business. He's a Londoner, I believe." "Is there--a Mrs. Siddle?" "No. I--er--that is to say, gossip has it that he was married, but his wife died." "You've invited him to tea, at any rate," laughed Winter. "No," said Doris. "He invited himself. At least, so I gathered from dad." "Ah, well. He feels lonely, no doubt, and wishes to chat about recent strange events in Steynholme. And that brings me to the reason why I sought this chat under such peculiar conditions. You realize my handicap, Miss Martin? If I were seen talking to you, or even entering your house as apart from the post office, people would begin to wonder. You follow that, don't you?" Yes, Doris did follow it. What she did not follow was the veiled admiration in Superintendent Fowler's glance at the detective. Those few inconsequential questions had shed a flood of light on Siddle's past and present, yet the informant was blissfully unaware of their real purport. And the way was opened so deftly. The purchase of a chemist's business would almost certainly be negotiated through a local lawyer. Let him be found, and Siddle's pre-Steynholme days could be "looked into," as the police phrase has it. The superintendent had the rare merit of being candid with himself. He had no previous experience of Scotland Yard men or methods, and was inclined to be skeptical about Furneaux. But Winter's prompt use of a chance opening, and the restraint which cut off the investigation before the girl could suspect any ulterior motive, displayed a technique which the Sussex Constabulary had few opportunities of acquiring. "Now, Miss Martin," began Winter, "if ever you have the misfortune to fall ill--touch wood, please--and call in a doctor, you'll tell him the facts, eh?" "Why consult him at all, if I don't?" she smiled. "Exactly. To-day I'm somewhat in the position of a Harley-street specialist, summoned to assist an eminent local practitioner in Dr. Fowler. That's a sort of gentle preliminary, leading up to the disagreeable duty of putting some questions of a personal nature. What you may answer will not go beyond ourselves. I promise you that. You will not be quoted, or requested to prove your statements. Such a thing would be absurd. If I were really a doctor, and you needed my advice, you might easily describe your symptoms all wrong. It would be my business to listen, and deduce the truth, and I would never dream of rating you for having misled me. You see my point?" "Yes, but Mr. Win--Mr. Franklin, I know nothing whatever about the murder." "I'm sure you don't. It was a wicked trick of Fate that took you to Mr. Grant's garden last Monday night." Poor Doris! She little guessed how accurately this skilled student of human nature read the hidden thought behind that vehement protest. Even the note of vague rebellion against social disabilities was pathetic yet illuminating. Of course, he took her quite seriously. Doris uttered a little laugh of dismay. Winter's emphatic words had astounded her, but the horse-dealer's name acted as comic relief. "I can't bear the man," she protested. "I have no doubt. But you ought to know that he is loudly proclaiming his determination to marry you before the year is out." The girl's face reddened again, and her eyes sparkled. "I wouldn't marry him if he were a peer of the realm," she said indignantly. "Quite so. But he is an avowed suitor. Now don't be vexed. Has he never declared his intentions to _you_?" "Exit Fred!" said Winter solemnly. "Next!" "What am I to say?" she cried. "Do you want a list of all the young men who make sheep's eyes at me?" "No. I can get that from the Census Bureau. Come, now, Miss Martin. _You_ know. Has any man in the village led you to suspect, shall we put it? that sometime or other, he might ask you to become his wife?" Lo, and behold! Doris's pretty eyes filled with tears. Superintendent Fowler was so pleased at hearing Scotland Yard introducing a parenthetical query into its sentences that he, sitting opposite, was taken aback when Winter said in a fatherly way: "It isn't that," sobbed Doris. "I hate to put my thoughts into words. That's all. There _is_ a man whom I'm--afraid of." She turned on Winter a face of sudden awe. "How can you possibly guess?" she said wonderingly, and sheer bewilderment dried her tears. "He certainly would not," declared the girl emphatically. "You believe he is coming for a purpose?" "Elkin--I must drag him in again for an instant--pretends that the commotion aroused in the village by this murder would incline you favorably to a proposal of marriage. Mr. Siddle may have discovered some virtue in the theory." "Did Mr. Elkin really hint that I needed _him_ as a shield?" Doris was genuinely angry now. She little imagined that Winter was playing on her emotions with a master hand. "Don't waste any wrath on Elkin," he soothed her. "The fellow isn't worth it. But his crude idea might be developed more subtly by an abler man." "I think it odd that Mr. Siddle should choose to-day, of all days, for a visit," she admitted. Winter relapsed into silence for a while. The car was running through a charming countryside, and a glimpse of the sea was obtainable from the crest of each hill. Mr. Fowler was too circumspect to break in on the thread of his coadjutor's thoughts. The inquiry had taken a curious turn, and was momentarily beyond his grasp. "It's singular, but it's true," said the detective musingly when next he spoke, "that I am now going to ask you to act differently than was in my mind when I sought this interview. I should vastly like to be present when Siddle bares his heart to you this afternoon. "I can invite you to tea." "I think it bad, most disagreeable." There were no tears in Doris's eyes. They were wide open in wonderment. "About his attitude to this tragedy. Do this, and you will be giving Mr. Grant the greatest possible help. He needs it. Next Wednesday, at the adjourned inquest, he will be put on the rack. Ingerman will fee counsel to be vindictive, merciless. Such men are to be hired. Their reputation is built up on the slaughter of reputations. I want to understand Siddle before Wednesday. By the way, what's his other name?" "You said you had something altogether different in view before we met. What was it?" "I'll tell you--let me see--I'll tell you on Thursday." "Yes. What man won't get mad if he notices that his best girl is thinking about a rival." This time Doris did not blush. She was troubled and serious, very serious. "I'll do what I can," she promised. "When shall I see you again?" "Soon. There's no hurry. All this is preparatory for Wednesday." "Am I to tell my father nothing?" "Please yourself. Not at present. I recommend you." "A fine bit of work, if I may say so," exclaimed Fowler appreciatively. "But I am jiggered if I can imagine what you're driving at." Winter was cutting the end off a big cigar. He finished the operation to his liking before answering earnestly: The superintendent drove on alone. He pondered the Steynholme affair in all its bearings, but mostly did he weigh up Winter and Furneaux. At last, he sighed. "London ways, and London books, and London detectives!" he muttered. "We're not up to date in Sussex. Now, if I could please myself, I'd be hot-foot after Elkin. I see what Winter has in his mind, but surely Elkin fills the bill, and Siddle doesn't What was that word--volt what!" Doris was lucky. She met Mr. Siddle as she emerged from the back passage to the cake-shop. Resolving instantly that if an unpleasant thing had to be done it should at least be done well, she smiled brightly. "See what you have driven me to--breaking the Sabbath," she cried, holding up the bag of cakes. "Tea and bread-and-butter with you would be a feast for the gods," said Siddle. "Now you're adapting Omar Khayyam." "A Persian poet of long ago." "I never read poetry. But, if your tastes lie that way, I'll accomplish some more adaptation." "Oh, no, please. Cakes for you, Mr. Siddle; poets for giddy young things like me." There was a sting in the words. Doris preened herself on having carried out the detective's instructions to the letter thus far. Arrived in the house she found her father still in the garden, examining some larvae under a microscope. He looked severe rather than studious. He might have been an omnipotent being who had detected a malefactor in a criminal act. Was Steynholme and its secret felon being regarded in that way by the providence which, for some inscrutable purpose, permitted, yet would infallibly punish, a dreadful murder? She was a girl of devout mind, and the notion was appalling in its direct application to current events. In the meantime the chemist, evidently taking a Sunday afternoon constitutional, came on Winter, who was leaning on a wall of the bridge and looking down stream--Grant's house being on the left. He would have passed, in his wonted unobtrusive way, but the detective hailed him with a cheery "Good day, Mr. Siddle. Are you a fisherman?" "No, Mr. Franklin, I'm not," he answered. "Well, now, I'm surprised. You are just the sort of man whom I should expect to find attached to a rod and line--even watching a float." "Why not ask Mr. Grant's permission? It would be interesting to learn whether he will allow others to try their luck." Mr. Siddle strolled on. Winter bent over, keen to discern the gray-backed fish which must be lurking in those clear depths and rippling shallows. ON BOTH SIDES OF THE BIVEE He had an eye for The Hollies, of course, though neither he nor anybody else could discern more than the bare edge of the lawn from bridge or road, owing to the dense screen of evergreen trees and shrubs planted by the tenant who remodeled the property. "Mr. Grant at home?" inquired Robinson, when Minnie appeared. "Come along, Robinson, and manacle this reprobate," he shouted. "He's nothing but a narrow-minded pre-Rafaelite. A period in prison will dust the cobwebs out of his attic." "Hello, Robinson!" said, Grant. "Anything stirring?" "Not much, sir. I just popped in to ask if you remembered exactly how the body was roped?" "Propound, justiciary," said Hart. "You've started well, anyhow. The connection between a line and a rope should be obvious even to a judge As a pipe-opener, have a drink!" Robinson had removed his helmet, and was flourishing a red handkerchief, not without cause, the day being really very hot. "Not for a few minutes, thank you, sir," said the policeman. "May I ask Bates for a sack and a cord?" He went to the kitchen. Hart was "tickled to death," he vowed. Grant was not so pleased. The memory of a distressing vision was beginning to blur, and this ponderous policeman must come and revive it. Yet, even he grew interested when Robinson illustrated a nebulous idea by knotting a clothesline around a sack stuffed with straw, having brought Bates to bear him out in the matter of accuracy. "There you are, gentlemen!" he said, puffing after the slight exertion. "That's the way of it. How does it strike you?" "We have no sailors in Steynholme, sir," said the policeman. "How about a--a farmer, sir?" That was as near as Robinson dared to go to "horse-dealer." "I think a farmer would be more likely to adopt a timber hitch, which is made in several ways. Here are samples." And Grant busied himself with rope and sack. Robinson watched closely. "Yes," he nodded. "I've seen those knots in a farmyard Well, it's something--not much--but a trifle better than nothing All right, Bates. You can take 'em away." "Have you shown that knot to Mr. Furneaux?" inquired Grant. "No, sir. I've kept that up me sleeve, as the sayin' is." Robinson shuffled uneasily on his feet. "These Scotland Yard men will hardly listen to a uniformed constable, sir," he said. "I'll tell 'em all about it at the inquest on Wednesday." "In effect, John P. Robinson he sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee," quoted Hart. "You've got my name pat," grinned the policeman, whose Christian names were "John Price." "My name is Walter, not Patrick," retorted Hart. Robinson continued to smile, though he failed to grasp the joke until late that evening. "Did you make up that verse straight off, sir," he asked. "No. It's a borrowed plume, plucked from an American quill pen." Hart gave "plume" a French sound, and Robinson was puzzled to know why Grant bade his friend stop profaning a peaceful Sunday afternoon. "You'll have a glass of beer now?" went on the host. "I don't mind if I do, sir, though it's tea-time, and I make it a rule on Sundays to have tea with the missis. A policeman's hours are broken up, and his wife hardly ever knows when to have a meal ready." "Well!" cried the chemist icily, "I wonder what Superintendent Fowler would say to that if he knew it?" "What is there particularly wrong about Robinson drinking a glass of beer?" demanded Doris, more alive to the insinuation in Siddle's words than was quite permissible under the role imposed on her by Winter. She waved her hand to the party on the lawn. Grant, whose eyes ever roved in that direction, had seen her white muslin dress the moment she appeared. "Who the deuce is that with Miss Martin?" he said, returning her signal. "Siddle, the chemist," announced Robinson, not too well pleased himself at being "spotted" so openly. "Well, gentlemen, I'll be off," and he vanished by the side path through the laurels. "Siddle!" repeated Grant vexedly. "So it is. And she dislikes the man, for some reason." "Let's go and rescue the fair maid," prompted Hart. "No, no. If Doris wanted me she would let me know." "How? At the top of her voice?" "You're far too curious, Wally." "Semaphore, of course," drawled Hart. "When are you going to marry the girl, Jack!" "As soon as this infernal business has blown over." "You haven't asked her, I gather?" "Tell me when you do, and I'll hie me to London town, though in torrid June. You're unbearable in love." "The lash of your wit cuts deeply sometimes," said Grant quietly. "Dash it all, old chap, I was talking at random. Very well. I'll do penance in sackcloth and ashes by remaining here, and applauding your poetic efforts. I'll even help. I'm a dab at sonnets." Meanwhile, Mr. Siddle had regained his poise. "I meant nothing offensive to the donor of the beer," he said, tuning his voice to an apologetic note. "But I take it Robinson is conducting certain inquiries, and I imagine that his superiors demand a degree of circumspection in such conditions. That is all." "Surely you do not rank with the stupid crowd in its suspicions of Mr. Grant?" said the girl. "I'm pleased to think you refuse to class me with the gossip-mongers of Steynholme, Doris," was the guarded answer. "A tom-boy occupation," laughed Doris. "But dad encouraged that and skipping, as the best possible means of exercise." "He was right. Look how straight and svelte you are! Few, if any, among our community can have watched your progress to womanhood as closely as I. You see, living opposite, as I do, I kept track of you more intimately than your other neighbors." Siddle was trimming his sails cleverly. The concluding sentence robbed his earlier comments of their sentimental import. "If we live long enough we may even see each other in the sere and yellow leaf," said Doris flippantly. "As a study in contrasts, that would be hard to beat," he said, after a long pause. "Contrasts!" she echoed. "Well, yes. Even an uncontentious man like myself can hardly fail to compare Sunday afternoon with Tuesday morning." "Why not Monday night?" she flashed. "Monday night, in part, remains a mystery yet to be unveiled. I blot Monday night from my mind. I have no alternative, being on the jury which has to arrive at a just verdict. Now, if Fred Elkin were here, he would foam at the mouth." "Happily, Fred Elkin is _not_ here." "Ah, I am glad, glad, to hear you say that. You don't like him?" "He makes out, to put it mildly, that you are great friends." "I agree with you most heartily. I'm sorry I ever mentioned him." Yet Doris was well aware that the chemist had dragged in Elkin by the scruff of the neck, probably for the sake of getting him disposed of thoroughly and for all time. Rather on the tiptoe of expectation, she awaited the next move. It was slow in coming, so again she looked wistfully at the distant tea-drinkers. She found slight difficulty in carrying out this portion of the stage directions. Truth to tell, she would gleefully have gone and joined them. Siddle was not altogether at ease. The conversation was too spasmodic to suit his purpose. Though slow of speech he was nimble of brain, and, knowing Doris so well, he had anticipated a livelier duel of wits. In all likelihood, he cursed the tea-party on the lawn. He had not foreseen this drawback. But, being a masterful man, he tackled the situation boldly. "I seized the opportunity of a friendly chat with you to-day, Doris," he went on, leaning over the fence to inhale the scent of a briar rose. "The story runs through the village that you and your father dined at The Hollies on Friday evening. Is that true?" Now, Doris had it on reliable authority that Siddle himself had been the runner who spread that story, and the knowledge steeled her heart against him. "Yes," she said composedly. "It was kind and neighborly of you to accept the invitation, but a mistake." She turned and faced him. His expression was baffling. She thought she saw in his sallow, clean-cut features the shadow of a confident smile. "Good gracious!" cried Doris, genuinely amazed. "How do you come to know all this?" "I listen to the words of those qualified to speak with knowledge and authority. I have mixed in varied company this past week, wholly on your account. Don't be led away by the mere formalities of the opening day of the inquest. The coroner deliberately shut off all real evidence except as to the cause of death. On Wednesday the situation will change, and you cannot fail to be shocked by what you hear, because you will be there." "I am given to understand that, even if I am called, my testimony will be of no importance." "Has he told you that?" "So, although foreman of the jury, you have not declined to hobnob with a man who is avowedly Mr. Grant's enemy?" "I would hobnob with worse people if, by so doing, I might serve you." "Mr. Grant signals that he and Mr. Hart are going for a walk; he wants me to accompany them. But I can't, unfortunately. I promised dad to help with the accounts." Siddle's voice was well under control, but his eyes glinted dangerously. His state was that of a man torn by passion who nevertheless felt that any display of the rage possessing him would be fatal to his cause. But, rather unexpectedly, Doris took fire. Siddle's innuendoes and protestations were sufficiently hard to bear without the added knowledge that a ridiculous convention denied her the companionship of a man whom she loved, and who, she was beginning to believe, loved her. She swept round on Siddle like a wrathful goddess. Siddle caught her arm. The girl wrested herself free from his grip. She realized what was coming, and forestalled it. "I care nothing for your motive," she cried. "You forget yourself! Please go!" She literally ran into the house. The chemist, unless he elected to behave like a love-sick fool, had no option but to follow, and make his way to the street by the side door. The only other happening of significance that Sunday was an unheralded visit by Winter to the policeman's residence. He popped in after dusk, opening the door without knocking. "You in, Robinson?" he inquired. "Shan't detain you more than a minute. At the inquest you said that you personally untied the rope which bound Miss Melhuish's body. Here are a piece of string and a newspaper. Would you mind showing me what sort of knot was used?" "Ah, thanks," said Winter, and was off in a jiffy. From the window of a darkened room Robinson watched the erect, burly figure of the detective until it was merged in the mists of night. "John, what are you swearing about?" demanded his wife from the kitchen. He bustled into his coat, and hastened to The Hollies. No, neither Mr. Grant nor Mr. Hart had spoken to a soul about the knot. Nor had Bates. Of course, Robinson did not venture to describe Winter. Finally, he put the incident aside as a clear case of thought-reading. A MATTER OF HEREDITY Doris was checking and distributing the stock of stamps which had arrived that morning; her father was counting mail-bags in a small annex to the main room, the Knoleworth office having acquired a habit of making up shortages by docking the country branches. No member of the public happened to be present. The girl could have heard what the Morse code was tapping forth had she chosen, but she had trained herself to disregard the telegraph when occupied on other work. Suddenly, however, the telegraphist's pencil paused. "Hello!" he said. "Theodore Siddle! That's the chemist opposite, isn't it!" "Yes," said Doris, suspending her calculations at mention of the name. "Well, his mother's dead." "Dead?" she echoed vacantly. Somehow, it had never hitherto dawned on her that the chemist might possess relatives in some part of the country. "That's what it says," went on the other. "'Regret inform you your mother died this morning. Superintendent, Horton Asylum.'" "In an asylum, too," said the girl, speaking at random. "Yes. Horton is the place for epileptic lunatics, near Epsom, you know." "So I should imagine, from the wording. If a nurse, or a matron, they'd surely describe her as such." "I suppose we ought not to discuss Mr. Siddle's telegram," said Doris, after a pause. "Gone to his dinner. Father will take it. By the way, say nothing to him as to the contents. Would you mind calling him?" Doris hurried swiftly to the sitting-room, and thence upstairs. The telegraphist explained the absence of a messenger, so Mr. Martin delivered the telegram in person. Crossing the street, he detected a dead bee. He picked it up, horrified at the thought that the Isle of Wight disease might have reached Sussex. So it was an absent-minded postmaster who handed the telegram over Siddle's counter, inquiring laconically: "Is there any answer?" Siddle opened the buff envelope, and read. He glanced sharply at Martin. "No," he said. "What's wrong with that bee?" "I don't know. I have my doubts. When I have a moment to spare I'll put it under the microscope." "Did you receive this telegram a few minutes ago!" he inquired. The young man became severely official. "Which telegram?" he said stiffly. "Yes," was the answer. "Excuse me, but--er--are its contents known to you only?" "I'm sorry. Pray don't take offense. I--I'm anxious that my friends, Mr. and Miss Martin, should not hear of it. That is what I really have in mind." The telegraphist cooled down. "You may be quite sure that neither they nor any other person in Steynholme will ever see the duplicate," he said confidentially. "I make up a package containing duplicates each evening, and it is sent to headquarters. If it will please you, I'll lock the copy now in my desk." "You can depend on me, sir." Siddle hastened back to his shop. The telegraphist looked after him. Doris, watching from an upper room, saw the visitor, and timed him. She imagined he had dispatched an answer. Being a woman, she sought enlightenment a few minutes later. "Mr. Siddle came in," she said tentatively. "Yes," said the specialist, smiling. "And I agree with you, Miss Martin. We mustn't talk about telegrams, even among ourselves, unless it is necessary departmentally." Doris was silenced, but she read the riddle correctly. The chemist was particularly anxious that no Steynholme resident should be made aware of his mother's death. She wondered why. She was enlightened when Furneaux paid a call about tea-time. She took him into the garden. The lawn at The Hollies was empty. "Well, you entertained an acquaintance yesterday?" he began. "Yes. Am I to tell you what happened?" "Not a great deal, I imagine," he said, with a puzzling laugh. "No names!" broke in the detective hastily. "Names, especially modern ones, destroy romance. Even the Georgian method of using initials, or leaving out vowels, lend an air of intrigue to the veriest balderdash." "How true!" said Furneaux. "Pardon me, Miss Martin. Tell the story in your own way." Doris had a good memory. She was invariably letter-perfect in a play after a couple of rehearsals, and could prompt others if they faltered. The detective listened in silence while she repeated the conversation between Siddle and herself. He took no notes. In fact, he hardly ever did make any record in a case unless it was essential to prove the exact words of a suspected person. "Good!" he said, when she had finished. "That sounds like the complete text." "I don't think I have left out anything of importance--that is, if a single word of it _is_ important." "Oh, heaps," he assured her. "It's even better than I dared hope. Can you tell me if Siddle's mother is dead yet?" The question found Doris so thoroughly unprepared that she blurted out: "Have you had a telegram, too, then?" "Do you want me to believe that he is liable to attack me?" demanded the girl, her naturally courageous spirit coming to her aid. "I do," said Furneaux, speaking with marked earnestness. "Yet you ask me to endure his company if he chooses to force himself on me?" "But it may be a few years?" "No. That is not to be thought of. Leave it to me to devise a way. Besides, you need not allow him so many opportunities that the strain would become unbearable. You are busy, owing to the certain increase of work brought about by this murder. Your time will be greatly occupied. But, don't render him morbidly suspicious. For instance, no more dinners at The Hollies. No more gadding about by night, if you hear weird noises on the other side of the river. And you must absolutely deny yourself the pleasurable excitement of Mr. Grant's company." "You are carrying a warning to its extreme limit." "And am I to keep this knowledge to myself?" "In whom would you confide?" "My father, of course." "I know you better," and the detective's voice took on a profoundly serious note. "Your father would never admit that what he knows to be true of bees is equally true of humanity. You can trust the police to keep a pretty sharp eye on Siddle, of course, but the present is a strenuous period, both for us and for people with maniacal tendencies, so accidents may happen." "You have distressed me immeasurably," said the girl, striving to pierce the mask of that inscrutable face. "There was a Mrs. Siddle, junior, then?" "Last month!" gasped Doris, feeling vaguely that she was moving in a maze of deceit and subterfuge. She hesitated, hardly able to put her jumbled thoughts into words. "Yes. That's so," said the detective instantly. "Never mind. It's a fairly decent world, taken _en bloc_. I ought to speak with authority. I see enough of the seamy side of it, goodness knows. Now, forewarned is forearmed. Don't be nervous. Don't take risks. Everything will come right in time. Remember, I'm not far away in an emergency. Should I chance to be absent if you need advice, send for Mr. Franklin. You can easily devise some official excuse, a mislaid letter, or an error in a telegram." "I think I shall feel confident if both of you are near," and the ghost of a smile lit Doris's wan features. "Is Mr. Grant in any danger?" inquired Doris suddenly. "Very well," she said. "I'm to behave. Am I to regard myself as a decoy duck?" The detective returned to the Hare and Hounds, and went upstairs. He met Peters on the landing. "The devil!" he cried. "My _dear_ pal!" retorted the journalist. "Are you living here?" "Why not, indeed? Where the eagles are there is the carcase." "Your misquotation is offensive." "It was so intended." "Come and have a drink." "I say 'yes.' You'll thank me on your bended knees afterwards. The South American gent is having the time of his life. I've just been to my room for _Whitaker's Almanack_, wherewith a certain Don Walter Hart purposes flooring him." "Ha!" shouted Hart, when Furneaux came in with Peters. "Here's the pocket marvel who'll answer any question straight off. What is the staple export of the Argentine!" "How often have you been there?" demanded the detective dryly. "And you've lived there?" This to Winter. "Yes," glowered the big man, fearing the worst. "Then the answer is 'fools,'" cackled Furneaux. Wally laughed. He had remembered, just in time, that he had no right to claim acquaintance with the representative of Scotland Yard, and there were some farmers present, each of whom had a "likely animal" to offer the buyer of blood stock. "Gad, I think you're right," he said. "You wanted me to say 'sheep,' I suppose?" "Just what my friend, Don Manoel Alcorta, of Los Andes ranch, Catamarca, always held," put in Winter, drawing the bow at a venture. Hart cocked an eye at him. "My doctor forbids me to touch wine," said Winter mournfully. "A word with you, scribe," he said. "Good-day, gentlemen. I leave you to your nags. Treat Mr. Franklin fairly. The friend of Don Manoel Alcorta must be a true man." Winter heaved a sigh of relief when the professional revolutionist had vanished. "Do as I tell you," he hissed. "Of course, I know now that the big fellow is the man Grant heard of a week ago. I was an idiot to take him seriously about the Argentine. Bring the pair of 'em, I tell you. We'll make a night of it." "I'll try," said Peters faintly, "but if you stir up that wine so vigorously I won't answer for the consequences." Winter, wishing devoutly that would-be sellers of horseflesh were not so numerous in the district, noted the names and addresses of the local men, and promised to write when he could make an appointment. Then he escaped upstairs, whither Furneaux soon followed. Winter had secured an extra bedroom, overlooking the river, which Tomlin had converted into a sitting-room. Thus, he held a secure observation post both in front and rear of the hotel. "Well, how did she take it!" inquired the Chief Inspector, when he and his colleague were safe behind a closed door. "Sensible girl," said Furneaux. "By the way, Siddle's mother is dead. Telegram came this morning. Things should happen now." "I don't quite see why." "No. You're still muddled after floundering in the mud of South America. What possessed you to let that cheerful idiot, Wally Hart, put you in the cart?" "Stop!" yelped Furneaux. "Another platitude, and I'll assault you with the tongs!" It was the invariable habit of the Big 'Un and Little 'Un to quarrel like cat and dog when the toils were closing in around a suspect. Woe, then, to the malefactor! His was a parlous state. "But he won't. He trusts to Ingerman playing that part of the game. He's as artful as a pet fox. I bought soap, and a pound of sal volatile, but he did up each parcel with sealing-wax." "Sal volatile!" smiled Winter. "I, too, went in for soap, but my imagination would not soar beyond a packet of cotton-wool. It was the lumpiest thing I could think of." Furneaux would surely have thrown back the jest had not a knock on the door interrupted him. "Who's there? I'm busy," cried Winter. "Me-ow!" whined Peters's voice. "Oh, it's you, Tom. Come in!" The journalist crept in on tiptoe. There was silence for a little while. The detectives looked at each other. "At what time?" said Winter, at last. Peters was astonished, and showed it. "Why, I assured him it was absolutely imposs.," he cried. "Well, it isn't. In fact, it suits our plans. I want exercise, and shall walk back from Knoleworth. Furneaux will make his own arrangements. Tell Grant that I shall drop in without knocking." "And tell him I shall arrive by parachute," added Furneaux. "In case of accidents, and there is a shoot-up, with myself as the unresisting victim, my front name is James," said Peters. "The only good point about you," scoffed Winter. "You're strong on names to-day," tittered the journalist. "Don Manoel Alcorta was a superb effort as an authority on gee-gees. Wally tells me his donship is the recognized expert south of the line on seismic disturbances, and spends his days and nights watching a needle making scratches on a sensitive plate." "Ah, thanks! Is that a tip?" "Not for publication. What you must say is that this affair looks like baffling the shrewdest wits in Scotland Yard." "My very phrase--my own ewe lamb. Pardon. I shouldn't have alluded to sheep." "The only known representative of the Yard in Steynholme is Furneaux," smiled the Chief Inspector. Furneaux was drumming on a window-pane with his finger-tips. "True," he cackled. "Just to prove it, he now informs you that Siddle, finding trade slow, has called on Mr. John Menzies Grant!" FURNEAUX MAKES A SUCCESSFUL BID The lawn front of The Hollies was not visible from the upper story of the Hare and Hounds owing to a clump of pines which had found foothold on the cliff, but, through the gap formed by the end of the post office garden, the entrance to the house from the Knoleworth road was discernible. "Having warned Grant off Miss Doris Martin, and been cursed for his pains, the foreman of the jury does not trouble to await further evidence, but arrives at a true and lawful verdict straight off," announced the little man. "We ought to hear things to-night," said Peters. "We?" inquired Winter. "Yes. Didn't I make it clear that I shared in the dinner invitation?" "Don't say it!" pleaded the journalist. "If I fell from grace to-day, remember my unswerving loyalty since the hour we met on the platform at Knoleworth! Haven't I kept close as an oyster? And would any consideration on earth move me to publish an accurate and entertaining account of the roasting of Chief Inspector Winter by Wally Hart? Think what I'm sacrificing--a column of the best." Winter bent a weighing look on the speaker. There was treason in the thought, as King James remarked to the barber who tried to prove his loyalty by pointing out how easily he might cut his majesty's throat any morning. But Peters maintained the expression of a sphinx, and the big man relaxed. "The conditions are that not a word about this business appears in print, either now or in the future until we have a criminal in the dock," he said. "Accepted," said Peters. A pert maid-servant took Furneaux's card, blanched when she read it, and forgot to close the door of the dining-room. Hence, the detective heard Elkin's gruff comments: "What? _That_ chap? Wants to see me? Not more than I want to see him. Show him in." "Good day," he said, finding Elkin drinking tea, and eating a boiled egg. "You're feeling better, I'm glad to see." Now, no matter how ungracious a man may be, a courteous solicitude as to his health demands a certain note of civility in return. "Yes," he said. "Sit down. Will you join me?" "I'll have a cup of tea, with pleasure," said Furneaux. "Right-o! Just touch that bell, will you?" "Nice lot of pictures, those," he said cheerfully, when the frightened maid, much to her relief, had been told to bring another cup and a fresh supply of toast. "Are they?" Elkin had taken them and some kitchen furniture for a bad debt. "Yes. Will you sell them?" "Well, I haven't thought about it. What'll you give?" Elkin valued the lot at that figure, but Furneaux was a fool, and should be treated as such. "Oh, come now!" he cried roguishly. "They're worth more than that." Furneaux reflected again. Furneaux counted out the money, wrote a receipt on a leaf torn from his pocket-book, and stamped it. "Sign that," he said, "pocket the cash, send the set to the Hare and Hounds for me in a dog-cart now, and the deal is through." "And how are things going in the murder at The Hollies?" inquired the horse-dealer, by way of a polite leading up to the visitor's unexplained business. "Me!" roared Elkin, his pale blue eyes assuming a fiery tint. "_Me!_" He literally howled an oath at his torturer. Furneaux was shocked. "No, no," he protested in a horrified tone. "Don't swear at your best friend." Elkin, despite all his faults, was endowed with the shrewdness inseparable from his business, because no man devoid of brains ever yet throve as a horse-dealer. He smothered his rage, thinking he might learn more from this strange-mannered detective by seeming complaisance. "You're a bit rough on a fellow," he growled sulkily, pouring out the tea. "For your good, my boy, solely for your good. Now, own up about Peggy." "Yes. That's right. She'd prove an alibi, so your torn-fool case breaks down when the flag falls." "I thought Grant was guilty, and I think so still," came the savage retort. "A nice juryman you are, I must say! May I trouble you to pass the sugar?" "Look here! What are you gettin' at? Damme if I can see through your game. What is it?" "Dr. Foxton jolly near knocked me up," said Elkin. "I took his medicine till I was sick as a cat." "But you took spirits, too." "That's nothing fresh. Anyhow, I've dropped both, and am picking up every hour." "Since yesterday morning, if you want to know." "I do. I'm most interested. Dr. Foxton doesn't compound his own prescriptions, does he?" "No. I get 'em made up at Siddle's." "Ah. These country chemists often keep drugs in stock till they deteriorate, or even set up chemical changes. Have you the bottles?" "Anything left in them?" "What a cross-grained chap you are? I buy your pictures, drink your tea, rescue you from a positively dangerous position, warn you against carrying any farther a most serious libel, yet you won't let me help you in a matter affecting your health!" "Even you, I suppose, realize that Scotland Yard employs skilled analysts. Give me your bottles, in strict confidence, of course, and I'll tell you what they really contain. Then you can compare the analyses with the doctor's prescriptions. The knowledge should be useful, to say the least. Siddle's reputation needn't suffer, but, unless I am greatly mistaken, you will have the whip hand of him in future." The prospect was alluring. Elkin would enjoy showing up the chemist, who had treated him rather as a precocious infant of late. "By jing!" he cried, "I'm on that. Bet you a quid--But, no. You'd hardly lay against your own opinion. Just wait a tick. I'll bring 'em." Furneaux stared fixedly at the table while his host was absent. His conscience was not pricking him with regard to an unmerited slur on the country chemists of Great Britain. All is fair in love and the detection of crime, and he simply had to get hold of those bottles by some daring yet plausible ruse. "Now--I wonder!" he muttered, as Elkin's step sounded on the stairs. Furneaux drew the corks out of both bottles, and sniffed the contents. Then he tasted, with much tongue-smacking. "Um!" he said. "Stale laudanum, for a start. I expected as much. Bought by the gallon and sold by the drop. Is that the dogcart with my pictures?" "Hail your man. He can give me a lift." "Probably. I'm here to put questions, not to give information. I've gone a long way beyond the official tether already. If you've a grain of sense, and I think you're not altogether lacking in that respect, you'll keep a close tongue, and act on the tips thrown out. You'll find pearls of price among the rubbish-heap of my remarks generally. Good-by. See you on Wednesday." And Furneaux climbed into the cart, holding the pictures so that they would not rattle, and perhaps loosen the old gilded frames. "Rather good," he said. "Where did you pick them up?" "Indeed. What an unexpected place!" "That's the only way a poor man can get hold of a decent thing nowadays. The dealers grab everything, and sell them as collections." "Art is not in my line, though anyone can see that these are excellent." "How did you persuade Elkin to part with them?" "By paying him a tempting price, of course. I'm a weak-minded ass in such matters." The chemist busied himself to oblige the detective, wrapping and tying the packages neatly. Furneaux insisted on paying sixpence for the paper, string, and labor. There was quite a friendly argument, but he carried his point. The dog-cart then brought him to the station, where he tipped and dismissed the man; a little later, he caught a London-bound train. Grant was waiting in the hall, and greeted him pleasantly. "Here's a telegram which is meant for you, I fancy," he said. "Sorry to spoil your party. Compelled to travel to London. Returning early to-morrow. F." "That's pretty Fanny's way," smiled the Chief Inspector. "But there's something in the wind, or he would never have hurried off in this fashion. He tells me that the only pleasant evening he spent in Steynholme was under your roof, Mr. Grant." "Come along in, Don Jaime!" drawled Hart's voice from the "den," which had been cleared of its litter, the lawn being deemed somewhat unsuitable for the purposes of a drawing-room on that occasion. It was overlooked from too many quarters. "Ah, we meet now under less uneven conditions, Mr. Hart," said Winter. "Do you know that Enrico Suarez is in London?" "Since when?" he cried. "He crossed from Lisbon last week." Hart took a revolver from his hip pocket, and opened it, apparently making sure that it was properly loaded. A bell sounded, and Peters came in. He glanced around. "Where's Furneaux?" he demanded. "Gone to London. Why this keen interest?" said Winter. "There's something up. Elkin dropped in at the Hare and Hounds. He was simply bursting with curiosity, and had to talk to somebody. So he chose me." "He would," was the dry comment. "Fact, 'pon me honor. I didn't lead him on an inch. It seems that Furneaux bought some prints which caught his eye in Elkin's house, and Tomlin says that that hexplains hit." "Furneaux's visit to Siddle, and certain bulky parcels brought in and brought out again." "But who will be the villain?" said Peters. "Draw lots. I am indifferent," he said. AN OFFICIAL HOUSEBREAKER "Is that where the ghost appears!" he inquired. "Yes," said Grant. "You know the whole story, of course?" "Furneaux misses nothing, I assure you." "That Siddle called, and implored you to consider Doris Martin's future by avoiding her at present," put in the Chief Inspector. "You Scotland Yard men seem to know everything," he said. "A mere pretense. Try him on sheep-raising in the Argentine, Jack," murmured Hart. "Wally, this business is developing a very serious side," protested Grant. Hart stretched a long arm for the port decanter. "Come, friend!" he addressed it gravely. "Let us commune! You and I together shall mingle joyous memories of "A draught of the Warm South, The true, the blushful Hippocrene." "We read Siddle's visit aright, it would appear," said Winter quietly. "Yes. That was his mission, put in a nutshell." "And what did you say?" "I told him that, after Wednesday, I would ask Doris Martin to marry me, which is the best answer I can give him and all the world." "Why 'after Wednesday'?" "Because I shall know then the full extent of the annoyance which Ingerman can inflict." "Did you give Siddle that reason?" "You literary gentlemen are all alike," he said vexedly. "You become such adepts in analyzing human duplicity in your books that you never dream of trying to be wise as a serpent in your own affairs. The author who will split legal hairs by way of brightening his work will sign a contract with a publisher that draws tears from his lawyer when a dispute arises. Why be so candid with a rank outsider, like Siddle?" "I distrust the man. Doris distrusts him, too." "So you take him into your confidence." "No. I merely give him chapter and verse to prove that his interference is useless." "Have you engaged a lawyer for Wednesday" "No. Why should I? My hands are clean." "But your clothes may suffer if enough mud is slung at you. Wire to this man in the morning, and mention my name--Winter, of course, not Franklin." "Codlin's your friend, not Short," said Hart. "Sorry. It's a time-worn jape, but it fitted in admirably." The detective scribbled a name and address on a card. "I don't think you need worry about Ingerman," he went on, "though it's well to be prepared. A smart solicitor can stop irrelevant statements, especially if ready for them. But there must be no more of this heart-opening to all and sundry, Mr. Grant. Siddle is your rival. He, too, wants to marry Miss Martin, and regards you now as the only stumbling-block." "Siddle! That stick!" gasped Grant. "Ridiculous, indeed monstrous," agreed Winter, rather heatedly, "but nevertheless a candidate for the lady's hand." "You've bothered me," he went on. "I thought you had more sense. Don't you understand that all these bits of gossip reach Ingerman through the filter of the snug at the Hare and Hounds?" "The man's visit was unexpected, and his mission even more so. I just blurted out the facts." "Well, you've rendered the services of a solicitor absolutely indispensable now." Grant, by no means so clear-headed these days as was his wont, followed the scent of Winter's red herring like the youngest hound in a pack; but Wally Hart and Peters, lookers-on in this chase, harked back to the right line. "Thanks," said the journalist. "May I put a question, Winter?" "A score, if you like." "Sometimes we never get him." "Oh, come a bit closer than that." "Wednesday, in effect?" "Can't say, this time?" "Suppose, as a hypothesis, you are convinced of a man's guilt, but can obtain little or no evidence?" "He goes through life a free and independent citizen of this or any other country. Arrests on suspicion are not my long suit." "If you had shot that specter the other night there would have been the deuce to pay." "But you would now be sure of the murderer?" "Why do you assume that?" "Like Eugene Aram, he can't keep away from the scene of his crime." Winter felt he was skating on thin ice, so hastened to escape. The journalist knew that he was being told peremptorily to cease prying. He kicked Hart under the table. "Hi!" yelled Wally. "What's the matter? Strike your matches on your own shin, not mine." "Peters is announcing that the discussion is now closed," said Winter firmly. "Meanwhile, Robinson is hot-foot on the Elkin trail," laughed Peters. "His face was a study to-day when the groom supplied details of the picture-buying." "Furneaux wanted that transaction to be widely known," said Winter. "He gave every publicity to it." "Did he secure a bargain, I wonder?" said Grant. "Oh, I expect so. He doesn't waste his hard-earned money, even for official purposes." He was shaving next morning when his colleague entered, spruce as ever in attire, but looking rather weary. The little man flung himself at full length on Winter's bed. Winter finished carefully the left side of his broad expanse of face. "You came down by the mail, I suppose?" he said casually. "What a genius you are!" sighed Furneaux. "If _I_ were trembling with expectation I could no more put a banal question like that than swallow the razor after I was done with it. You might at least have the common decency to thank me for leaving you to gorge on rare meats and vintage wines while I dallied with the deadly railway sandwich." Winter scraped the other cheek, his chin, and upper lip. "How about the knots? Hurry! I hate the feeling of soap drying on my skin." "Good! Charles, we're going to pull off a real twister." "_We!_ Well, that tikes it, as the girl said when her hat blew off with the fluffy transformation pinned to it." Winter rushed to the bathroom, and Furneaux crept languidly to bed. Before going to Knoleworth, Mr. Franklin consulted with Tomlin as to a suitable dinner, to which the other guests staying in the inn, namely, Mr. Peters and the Scotland Yard gentleman--the little man with the French name--might be invited. This important point settled, Mr. Franklin caught an early train, and was absent all day, being, in fact, closeted with Superintendent Fowler and a Treasury solicitor. "Least said soonest mended," he communed, "but we may all be murdered in our beds if them's the sort of 'tecs we 'ave to look arter us." However, he cheered up towards night. Ingerman, a lawyer, and some pressmen, arriving for the inquest, filled every available room, and the kitchen was redolent of good fare. All parties gathered in the dining-room, of course, and Ingerman had an eye for Mr. Franklin's party. The scraps of talk he overheard were nothing more exciting than the prospects of a certain horse for the Stewards' Cup. Peters had the tip straight from the stables. A racing certainty, with a stone in hand. After dinner the financier was surprised when Furneaux approached, and tapped him professionally on the shoulder. "A word with you outside," he said. Ingerman was irritated--perhaps slightly alarmed. "Can't we talk here?" he said, in that singularly melodious voice of his. "Anything my legal adviser might wish to hear?" "Not from me. Tell him yourself afterwards, if you like." In the quiet street the detective suddenly linked arms with his companion. Probably he smiled sardonically when he felt a telltale quiver run through Ingerman's lanky frame. "You've brought down Norris, I see?" he began. "Meaning to make things hot for Grant tomorrow?" "Cut the cackle, Isidor. I know you, and it's high time you knew me. Grant has retained Belcher. Ah! that gets you, does it? You haven't forgotten Belcher. Now, be reasonable! Or, rather, don't run your head into a noose. Grant had no more to do with the murder of your wife than you had. Call off Norris, and Grant withdraws Belcher. Twig? It's dead easy, because the Treasury solicitor will simply ask for another week's adjournment, as the police are not ready to go on. In the meantime, you pay off Norris, and save your face. Is it a deal?" "Don't wriggle! The key of the situation is held by Belcher. Name of a pipe! What prompting does Belcher need from me or anybody else after the Bokfontein Lands case?" "Isidor, this is the last word. I was at the funeral on Saturday, and met your wife's mother and sister. They do love you, don't they?" "If I have your assurance that Mr. Grant is really innocent of Adelaide's death, that is sufficient," he said slowly. "Well, if it pleases you to put it that way, I'm agreeable. Which is your road? Back to the hotel? I'm for a short stroll. Mind you, no wobbling! Go straight, and I'll attend to Belcher. But, good Lord! How his eyes will sparkle when they light on you to-morrow!" Near Mr. Franklin sat a few village notabilities, who, since they had not the remotest connection with anyone concerned in the tragedy, have been left hitherto in their Olympian solitude. He listened to their comments. "Yes, 'following up important clews,' the newspapers say," scoffed another. "It's a disgraceful thing if a crime like this goes undetected and unpunished." "Which is the Scotland Yard man!" "The small chap, in the blue suit." "What? _That_ little rat!" Mr. Franklin grinned amiably; Hobbs, the butcher, intercepting his eye, grinned back. It is not difficult to imagine what portion of the foregoing small talk reached Furneaux subsequently. Oddly enough, both detectives had missed a brief but illuminating incident which took place in the Hare and Hounds the previous night, while Winter was finishing a cigar with Peters, and Furneaux was bludgeoning Ingerinan into compliance with his wishes. Elkin's remarkable improvement in health was commented on by Hobbs, and Siddle took the credit. "That last mixture has proved beneficial, then?" he said, eying the horse-dealer closely. "Top-hole," smirked Elkin. "But it's only fair to say that I've chucked whiskey, too." "Did you finish the bottle?" "I'll tell my housekeeper to look 'em up," he said. After the inquest he communicated this episode to Furneaux as a great joke. "It'll be fully a week yet," said the detective. "Government offices are not run like express trains, and this is a free job, you know. But, be advised by me. Stick to plain food, and throw physic to the dogs." Next morning, however, there was real cause for talk. Siddle's shop was closed. Over the letter-box, neatly printed, was gummed a notice: Everyone who passed stopped to read. Even Mr. Franklin joined Furneaux and Peters in a stroll across the road to have a look. "I want you a minute," said the big man suddenly to Furneaux. There was that in his tone which forbade questioning, so Peters sheered off, well content with the share permitted him in the inquiry thus far. "Bet you a new hat I went over the ground before you did." "Get over it quickly now, and get something out of it, and I'll _give_ you a new hat. Got any tools?" Luckily, Winter was a good judge of a horse. When the cob was stabled, and the farmer came to the inn to have a drink, he was forced to admit a tendency to cow hocks, which, it would seem, is held a fatal blemish in the Argentine. Nimble as a squirrel, and risking everything, he climbed to the roof of an outhouse, and tried a bedroom window. Here he succeeded. When the catch was forced, there were no further obstacles. In he went, pausing only to look around and see if any curious or alarmed eye was watching him. He wondered why every back yard on that side of the high-street was empty, not even a maid-servant or woman washing clothes being in sight, but understood and grinned when the commotion Winter was creating came in view from a front room. A safe in the little dispensing closet at the back of the shop promised sheer defiance until Furneaux saw a bunch of keys resting beside a methylated spirit lamp. "'Twas ever thus!" he cackled, lighting the lamp. "Heaven help us poor detectives if it wasn't!" In a word, since murder will out, Siddle had forgotten his keys! Probably, he had gone to the safe for money, and, while writing the notice as to his absence, had laid down the keys and omitted to pick them up again. Furneaux disregarded ledgers and account books. He examined a bank pass-book and a check-book. In a drawer which contained these and a quantity of gold he found a small, leather-bound book with a lock, which no key on the bunch was tiny enough to fit. A bit of twisted wire soon overcame this difficulty, and Furneaux began to read. There were quaint diagrams, and surveyor's sketches, both in plan and section, with curious notes, and occasional records of what appeared to be passages from letters or conversations. The detective read, and read, referring back and forth, absorbed in his task, no doubt, but evidently puzzled. Then he went to the kitchen, replaced all catches and the lock of the door, and let himself out by the way he had come. Winter saw him from afar, and hastened upstairs to the private sitting-room. Furneaux appeared there soon. "Well?" said the Chief Inspector eagerly. "Got him, I think," said Furneaux. Not much might be gathered from that monosyllabic question and its answer, but its significance in Siddle's ears, could he have heard, would have been that of the passing bell tolling for the dead. Not often did Furneaux qualify an opinion by that dubious phrase, "I think," which, in its colloquial sense, implies that the thought contains a reservation as to possible error. "You've got something, I see," he said, trying to speak encouragingly, and glancing at the bundle of clothing which Furneaux had wrapped in a newspaper before dropping from the bedroom window of Siddle's house. "A tactical error? Perhaps. Immovable." Then, taking the order backward: "Scout the very notion of such an infamy. You and every scandal-monger in S. may do your worst." "Visit for such a purpose a piece of unheard-of impudence." "Quite clearly a _precis_ of Grant's remarks when Siddle called on Monday," said Winter. At any other time, Furneaux would have waxed sarcastic. Now he merely nodded. "Stops in a queer way," he muttered. "Not a word about the inquest or the missing bottles." The preceding page held even more disjointed entries, which, nevertheless, provided a fair synopsis of Doris's spirited words on the Sunday afternoon. "Malice and ignorance." "Patient because of years." "Loyal comrade. Shall remain." "No difference in friendship." "E. hopeless. Contempt." "Isidor G. Ingerman. Useful. Inquire." "E.'s boasts? Nonsensical, surely!" Both men paused at that line. "Detective?" suggested Winter. "That's how I take it," agreed Furneaux. "Elkin's mixture was not 'as before.' It was fortified," grinned Furneaux. "That's the exact increase of nicotine. By the way, I have a sample. We can take care of him on that charge, without a shadow of doubt." Winter blew softly on the back of his friend's head. "You're thorough, Charles, thorough!" he murmured. "It's a treat to work with you when you get really busy." Furneaux ran his thumb across the end of several leaves. "I can tell you now," he said, "that there's nothing of real value in the earlier notes. So far as I can judge, they refer either to a sort of settlement with his wife or chance phrases used by Doris Martin which might imply that she was heart whole and fancy free. There's not a bally word dealing with the murder, or that can be twisted into the vaguest allusion to it. But here's a plan and section which have a sort of significance. I've seen the place, so recognized it, or thought I did. We must check it, of course. Here you are! You know the footbridge across the river from Bush Walk?" "What's that on the opposite page?" "I give it up--at present." This somewhat rare display of modesty on Furneaux's part was readily understandable. A series of straight lines and angles conveyed very little hint of their purport; but Winter smiled behind his friend's back. "I've been prowling about this wretched inn longer than you," he said. "Look outside, to the left." "Dished completely." "I'm afraid so. Have a look." "Just a minute. I want to think." Winter turned and gazed through the open window. Seldom had a more gracious June decked England with garlands. The hour was then high noon, and a pastoral landscape was drowned in sunshine. The Chief Inspector cut the end off a cigar dreamily but with care. In sheer despair he struck a match. There was a knock at the door. "Let me in, quick!" came Peters's voice, and the handle was tried forcibly. "Go away! I'm busy!" cried Winter. "This is urgent, devilish urgent," said Peters. Furneaux snatched up the note-book, and Winter tore off his coat, throwing it over the package which reposed in an armchair. Then the Chief Inspector unlocked the door, blocking the way aggressively. But Peters clutched his shoulder with a nervous hand. "Siddle has just hurried up the street and entered his shop," he hissed. "Buncoed! He's missed his keys!" shrilled Furneaux. "Confound the man! He might at least have attended his mother's funeral!" stormed Winter, retrieving his coat. At that instant Siddle quitted his shop, and headed straight for the post office. In his right hand he carried an automatic pistol. The street was wide. Furneaux, absolutely fearless in the performance of his duty, ran in a curve so as to bar the chemist's path, and it was then that Siddle saw him. The man's face was terrible to behold. His eyes were rolling, his teeth gnashing; he had bitten his tongue and cheeks, and his stertorous breathing ejected from his mouth foam tinged with blood. "Ha!" he screamed in a falsetto of fury, "not yet, little man, not yet!" With that he raised the pistol, and fired point-blank at the detective. Furneaux ducked, and seized a small stone, being otherwise quite unarmed. He threw it with unerring aim, and, as was determined subsequently, struck the hand holding the weapon. Possibly, almost by a miracle, the blow caused a faulty pressure, because the action jammed, though the pistol itself was most accurate and deadly in its properties. "I call on you in the King's name!" he shouted. "We must force that door! Then stand clear, all of you!" "The nicotine is gone!" yelped Furneaux; both saw that the safe stood open. Furneaux soon brought an emetic, which failed to act. Siddle breathed his last while the glass was at his lips. Furneaux was white and shaken when Winter escorted the stretcher-bearers to the orchard. "Poor devil!" he said, as the men lifted the body. "Foredoomed from birth! We can eradicate these diseases from cattle. Why not from men!" The villagers could not understand him. Already, in some mysterious way, the word had gone around that Siddle had murdered the actress, and taken his own life to avoid arrest, after shooting at the detective who was hot on his trail. Not until Peters's articles came back to Steynholme did the public at large realize that the chemist undoubtedly meant to kill Doris Martin. He was going straight to the post office when the way was barred by Furneaux. The bullet which missed the latter actually pierced the zinc plate of the letter-box, and scored a furrow, inches long, in an oak counter which it struck laterally. Even Fred Elkin, ignorant as yet of his own peril, yielded to the influences of the moment and bustled through the crowd. "Mr. Grant," he cried outspokenly, "I ask your pardon. I seem to have made a d--d fool of myself!" "Easier done than said," chimed in Hart. "But, among all this bell-ringing, can anyone tell what has actually happened? Where's Peters?" "In the post office." Doris was sitting there, crying bitterly. Poor girl! She had seen that portion of the drama which was enacted in the street, and the shock of it was still poignant. She looked up and met her lover's eyes. Neither uttered a word, but Grant did a very wise thing. He caught her by the shoulders, raised her to her feet, and, after kissing her squarely on the lips, gave her a comforting hug. "It will be all right now, Doris," he whispered tenderly. "Such thunderstorms clear the air." Certain rills of evidence accumulated into a fair-sized stream before night fell. P.C. Robinson, for instance, scored a point by ascertaining that Peggy Smith had seen Furneaux dropping from the bedroom window of the chemist's shop. She was some hundreds of yards away, and could not be positive that some man, perhaps a glazier, had not been there legitimately effecting repairs. Still, when she met Siddle hurrying from the station, she told him of the incident. "He never even thanked me," she said, "but broke into a run. The look in his eyes was awful." The girl had, in fact, confirmed his worst fears, and her neighborly solicitude had merely hastened the end. Again, the railway officials showed that Siddle had returned from Victoria instead of taking train to the asylum. Furneaux had guessed aright. The discovery that his keys had been left behind drove the man into a panic of fright. Of course, the whole history of those trying days had to come out in open court, and the postmaster's daughter was given a descriptive and pictorial boom which many an actress envied. Peters was restored to grace when he showed plainly that his articles had kept the fickle barometer of public opinion at "set fair," in so far as Grant and Doris were concerned. "But," as Hart drawled during a dinner of reconciliation, "you needn't have been so infernally personal about my hat." Grant and Doris were married before the year was out. Mr. Martin retired on a pension, and the young couple decided that they could never dissociate The Hollies from the tragic memories bound up with its ghost-window and lawn. So the place was sold, and Steynholme knows "the postmaster's daughter" no more. Winter and Furneaux week-ended with them recently at a pretty little nook in Dorset. Hart, just home from the Balkans, traveled from town with the detectives, and Doris, a radiant young matron, was as flippant as the best of them. "Go on, Charles; don't be theatrical," jeered Winter. "You've got the story pat. Even that simile of the jumping fish is mine." "True," agreed Furneaux. "I only brought it in as a sop. But, to continue, as the tub-thumper says. Isn't it permissible to assume that Siddle accompanied the lady, either by prior arrangement or by contriving a meeting which looked like mere chance? We know that she went to his shop. We know, too, that he was clever and unscrupulous, and any allusion to Grant would stir his wits to the uttermost. He would see instantly how interested Miss Melhuish was in the owner of The Hollies, while she, a smart Londoner, would recognize in Siddle an informant worth all the rest of the babblers in Steynholme. At any rate, no matter how the thing was brought about, it is self-evident that Siddle brought his intended victim into the grounds, and told her of the small uncovered window through which she could peer at Grant after Miss Doris had gone. He showed her which path to use, and undoubtedly waited for her, and stayed her flight when Grant rose from his chair. She was close to him, and wholly unafraid, finding in him an ally. They were purposely hidden, in the gloom of dense foliage, and remained there until Grant had closed the window again. Then, and not till then, did the murderer strike, probably stifling her with his free hand. He had the implement in his pocket. The rope was secreted among the bushes. He could carry through the whole wretched crime in little more than a minute. And his psychology went far deeper than Peters gave him credit for. He had weighed up the situation to a nicety. No matter who found the body, Mr. Grant was saddled with a responsibility which might well prove disastrous, and was almost sure to affect his relations with the Martin household. For instance, nothing short of a miracle could have stopped Robinson from arresting him on a charge of murder." "You, then, are a miracle?" put in Hart, pointing the pipe at the little man. "To the person of ordinary intelligence--yes." "After that," said Winter, "there is nothing more to be said. Let's see who secures the pocket marvel as a partner at auction." As a fitting end to the strange story of wayward love and maniacal frenzy which found an unusual habitat in a secluded hamlet like Steynholme, a small vignette of its normal life may be etched in. The trope is germane to the scene. On a wet afternoon in October Hobbs and Elkin had adjourned to the Hare and Hounds. Tomlin was reading a newspaper spread on the bar counter. He was alone. The day was Friday, and the last "commercial" of the week had departed by the mid-day train. "Wot's yer tonic?" demanded the butcher. "A glass of beer," threw Elkin over his shoulder. He had walked to the window, and was gazing moodily at the sign of the "plumber and decorator" who had taken Siddle's shop. The village could not really support an out-and-out chemist, so a local grocer had elected to stock patent medicines as a side line. Tomlin made play with a beer-pump. "Where's yer own?" inquired Hobbs hospitably. Elkin came and drank. After an interlude, Tomlin ran a finger down a column of the newspaper. "By the way, Fred, didn't you tell me about that funny little chap, Furno, the 'tec, buyin' some pictures of yours?" he said. "I did. Had him there, anyhow," chuckled Elkin. "How much did you stick 'im for?" "They can't ha' bin this lot, then, though I've a notion it wur the same name, 'Aylesbury Steeplechase.'" "What are you talking about?" Tomlin turned the paper, and Elkin read: "No," he said thickly. "They're not mine. No such luck!"	redpajama-book	45,838
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team Boys and Girls from Thackeray By Kate Dickinson Sweetser Pictures by GEORGE ALFRED WILLIAMS William Makepeace Thackeray--the name is dear to all lovers of classic fiction, who have wandered in enchanted lands, following the fortunes of Colonel Newcome, Becky Sharp, Henry Esmond, and a host of other familiar characters created by the great novelist. To an unusual degree, Thackeray dwells on the childhood and youth of the characters he depicts, lingering fondly and in details over the pranks and pastimes, the school and college days of his heroes and heroines, as though he wished to call especial attention to the interest of that portion of their career. That Thackeray has so emphasised his sketches of juvenile life, warrants the presentation of those sketches in this volume and as complete stories, without the adult intrigue and plot with which they are surrounded in the novels from which they are taken. The object in so presenting them is twofold: namely, to create an interest in Thackeray's work among young readers to whom he has heretofore been unknown, and to form a companion volume to those already given such a hearty welcome--Boys and Girls from Dickens and George Eliot. BECKY SHARP AT SCHOOL CUFF'S FIGHT WITH "FIGS" GEORGE OSBORNE--RAWDON CRAWLEY CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME BOYS AND GIRLS _from_ THACKERAY [Illustration: HENRY ESMOND AND THE CASTLEWOODS.] The new and fair lady of Castlewood found the sad, lonely little occupant of this gallery busy over his great book, which he laid down when he was aware that a stranger was at hand. And, knowing who that person must be, the lad stood up and bowed before her, performing a shy obeisance to the mistress of his house. She stretched out her hand--indeed, when was it that that hand would not stretch out to do an act of kindness, or to protect grief and ill-fortune? "And this is our kinsman, I believe," she said; "and what is your name, kinsman?" "My name is Henry Esmond," said the lad, looking up at her in a sort of delight and wonder, for she appeared the most charming object he had ever looked on. Her golden hair was shining in the gold of the sun; her complexion was of a dazzling bloom; her lips smiling and her eyes beaming with a kindness which made Harry Esmond's heart to beat with surprise. "So this is the little priest!" says my lord, who knew for what calling the lad was intended, and adding: "Welcome, kinsman." "_Le pauvre enfant, il n'a que nous_," says the lady, looking to her lord; and the boy, who understood her, though doubtless she thought otherwise, thanked her with all his heart for her kind speech. "And he shan't want for friends here," says my lord in a kind voice. "Shall he, little Trix?" When my lord and lady were going away from the book-room, the little girl, still holding him by the hand, bade him come too. "If thou canst not be happy here," says my lord, looking round at the scene, "thou art hard to please, Rachel." "You know, Frank, I will do anything to please you," says she, "and I promise you I will grow older every day." "You mustn't call papa Frank; you must call him 'my lord,' now," says Miss Beatrix, with a toss of her little head; at which the mother smiled, and the good-natured father laughed, and the little trotting boy laughed, not knowing why--but because he was happy, no doubt--as everyone seemed to be there. Harry Esmond blushed: "I--I have supper with Mrs. Worksop," says he. Later, when Harry got to his little chamber, it was with a heart full of surprise and gratitude towards the new friends whom this happy day had brought him. The next morning he was up and watching long before the house was astir, longing to see that fair lady and her children again; and only fearful lest their welcome of the past night should in any way be withdrawn or altered. But presently little Beatrix came out into the garden, and her mother followed, who greeted Harry as kindly as before and listened while he told her the histories of the house, which he had been taught in the old lord's time, and to which she listened with great interest; and then he told her, with respect to the night before, that he understood French and thanked her for her protection. "Do you?" says she, with a blush; "then, sir, you shall teach me and Beatrix." And she asked him many more questions regarding himself, to which she received brief replies, the substance of which was afterward amplified into certain facts concerning the past of the orphan boy, which it is well to note here and now. When he said so, Bon Papa used to look up from the loom, where he was embroidering beautiful silk flowers, and shake his head. He had a little room where he always used to preach and sing hymns out of his great old nose. Little Harry did not like the preaching; he liked better the fine stories which aunt used to tell him. Bon Papa's new wife never told him pretty stories; she quarrelled with Uncle George, and he went away. Mr. Holt, the priest, took the child by the hand and brought him to this grand languid nobleman, who sat in a great cap and flowered morning-gown, sucking oranges. He patted Harry on the head and gave him an orange, and directed Blaise to take him out for a holiday; and out for a holiday the boy and the valet went. Harry went jumping along; he was glad enough to go. "This, Harry, is Castlewood church," says Mr. Holt, "and this is the pillar thereof, learned Dr. Tusher. Take off your hat, sirrah, and salute Dr. Tusher!" "Come up to supper, Doctor," says my lord; at which the Doctor made another low bow, and the party moved on towards a grand house that was before them, with many grey towers, and vanes on them, and windows flaming in the sunshine, and they passed under an arch into a courtyard, with a fountain in the centre, where many men came and held my lord's stirrup as he descended, and paid great respect to Mr. Holt likewise. "I present to your ladyship your kinsman and little page of honour, Master Henry Esmond," Mr. Holt said, bowing lowly, with a sort of comical humility. "Make a pretty bow to my lady, Monsieur; and then another little bow, not so low, to Madame Tusher." Upon my lady the boy's whole attention was for a time directed. He could not keep his great eyes from her. Since the Empress of Ealing, he had seen nothing so awful. "Does my appearance please you, little page?" asked the lady. "He would be very hard to please if it didn't," cried Madame Tusher. "To kiss that hand would make many a pretty fellow happy!" cried Mrs. Tusher; on which my lady cried out, "Go, you foolish Tusher!" and tapping her with her great fan, Tusher ran forward to seize her hand and kiss it. Fury arose and barked furiously at Tusher; and Father Holt looked on at this queer scene, with arch, grave glances. The awe exhibited by the little boy perhaps pleased the lady on whom this artless flattery was bestowed, for, having gone down on his knee (as Father Holt had directed him, and the fashion then was) and performed his obeisance, she asked, "Page Esmond, my groom of the chamber will inform you what your duties are, when you wait upon my lord and me; and good Father Holt will instruct you as becomes a gentleman of our name. You will pay him obedience in everything, and I pray you may grow to be as learned and as good as your tutor." "She is Madame Tusher, the parson's wife of Castlewood. She has a son of your age, but bigger than you." "Why does she like so to kiss my lady's hand? It is not good to kiss." "Tastes are different, little man. Madame Tusher is attached to my lady, having been her waiting-woman before she was married, in the old lord's time. She married Dr. Tusher, the chaplain. The English household divines often marry the waiting-women." "You will not marry the French woman, will you? I saw her laughing with Blaise in the buttery." "I belong to a church that is older and better than the English church," Mr. Holt said (making a sign, whereof Esmond did not then understand the meaning, across his breast and forehead); "in our church the clergy do not marry. You will understand these things better soon." The Father said, "Yes, he was." "But Saint Peter was married, for we heard only last Sunday that his wife's mother lay sick of a fever." On which the Father again laughed, and said he would understand this too better soon, and talked of other things, and took away Harry Esmond, and showed him the great old house which he had come to inhabit. It was a market-day, and the country-people were all assembled with their baskets of poultry, eggs, and such things; the postilion had no sooner lashed the man who would have taken hold of his horse, but a great cabbage came whirling like a bombshell into the carriage, at which my lord laughed more, for it knocked my lady's fan out of her hand, and plumped into Father Holt's stomach. Then came a shower of carrots and potatoes. The little page was outside the coach on the step, and a fellow in the crowd aimed a potato at him, and hit him in the eye, at which the poor little wretch set up a shout The man, a great big saddler's apprentice of the town, laughed, and stooped to pick up another potato. The crowd had gathered quite between the horses and the inn door by this time, and the coach was brought to a dead standstill. My lord jumped as briskly as a boy out of the door on his side of the coach, squeezing little Harry behind it; had hold of the potato-thrower's collar in an instant, and the next moment the brute's heels were in the air, and he fell on the stones with a thump. "You hulking coward!" says he, "you pack of screaming blackguards! how dare you attack children, and insult women? Fling another shot at that carriage, you sneaking pigskin cobbler, and by the Lord I'll send my rapier through you!" "Make way there," says he (he spoke with a great air of authority). "Make way, and let her ladyship's carriage pass." The men actually did make way, and the horses went on, my lord walking after them with his hat on his head. "Who's there?" cried out the boy. "_Silentium!_" whispered the other; "'tis I, my boy!" holding his hand out, and Harry recognised Father Holt. A curtain was over the window that looked to the court, and he saw that the smoke came from a great flame of papers burning in a bowl when he entered the Chaplain's room. After giving a hasty greeting and blessing to the lad, who was charmed to see his tutor, the Father continued the burning of his papers, drawing them from a cupboard over the mantelpiece wall, which Harry had never seen before. "I know I would go to the stake for you," said Harry. "I don't want your head," said the Father, patting it kindly; "all you have to do is to hold your tongue. Let us burn these papers, and say nothing to anybody. Should you like to read them?" Harry Esmond blushed, and held down his head; he _had_ looked, but without thinking, at the paper before him; but though he had seen it before, he could not understand a word of it. They burned the papers until scarce any traces of them remained. Harry was alarmed at the notion that his friend was about to leave him; but "No," the priest said, "I may very likely come back with my lord in a few days. We are to be tolerated; we are not to be persecuted. But they may take a fancy to pay a visit at Castlewood ere our return; and, as gentlemen of my cloth are suspected, they might choose to examine my papers, which concern nobody--at least not them." And to this day, whether the papers in cipher related to politics, or to the affairs of that mysterious society whereof Father Holt was a member, his pupil, Harry Esmond, remains in entire ignorance. "Will not Lockwood let you out, sir?" Esmond asked. Holt laughed; he was never more gay or good-humoured than when in the midst of action or danger. And with this the intrepid Father mounted the buffet with great agility and briskness, stepped across the window, lifting up the bars and framework again from the other side, and only leaving room for Harry Esmond to stand on tiptoe and kiss his hand before the casement closed, the bars fixing as firmly as ever, seemingly, in the stone arch overhead. Esmond, young as he was, would have died sooner than betray his friend and master, as Mr. Holt well knew; so, then, when Holt was gone, and told Harry not to see him, it was as if he had never been. And he had this answer pat when he came to be questioned a few days later. He did not know what the message meant at the time, nor what was happening, which may as well, however, for clearness' sake, be explained here. The Prince of Orange being gone to Ireland, where the King was ready to meet him with a great army, it was determined that a great rising of his Majesty's party should take place in this country; and my lord was to head the force in the Castlewood's county. Of late he had taken a greater lead in affairs than before, having the indefatigable Mr. Holt at his elbow, who was the most considerable person in that part of the county for the affairs of the King. It was arranged that the regiment of Scots Greys and Dragoons, then quartered at Newbury, should declare for the King on a certain day, when likewise the gentry loyal to his Majesty's cause were to come in with their tenants and adherents to Newbury, march upon the Dutch troops at Reading under Ginckel; and, those overthrown, and their indomitable little master away in Ireland, it was thought that their side might move on London itself, and a confident victory was predicted for the King. "My lord, God speed you!" she said, stepping up and embracing my lord in a grand manner. "Mr. Holt, I ask your blessing," and she knelt down for that, whilst Mrs. Tusher tossed her head up. As they crossed the bridge, Harry could see an officer in scarlet ride up touching his hat, and address my lord. My lord replied that riding was good for his health, that if the Captain chose to accompany him he was welcome; and it was then that he made a bow, and they cantered away together. When he came on to Wansey Down, my lord all of a sudden pulled up, and the party came to a halt at the cross-way. "Your road is mine, my lord," says the officer. Her gentlewoman, Victoire, persuaded her that her prudent course was, as she could not fly, to receive the troops as though she suspected nothing, and that her chamber was the best place wherein to await them. So her black Japan casket, which Harry was to carry to the coach, was taken back to her ladyship's chamber, whither the maid and mistress retired. Victoire came out presently, bidding the page to say her ladyship was ill, confined to her bed with the rheumatism. By this time the soldiers had reached Castlewood, and, preceded by their commander and a lawyer, were conducted to the stair leading up to the part of the house which my lord and lady inhabited. The Captain and the lawyer came through the ante-room to the tapestry parlour, where now was nobody but young Harry Esmond, the page. "Tell your mistress, little man," says the Captain kindly, "that we must speak to her." "My mistress is ill a-bed," said the page. "What complaint has she?" asked the Captain. The boy said, "The rheumatism!" "Rheumatism! that's a bad complaint," continues the good-natured Captain; "and the coach is in the yard to fetch the doctor, I suppose?" "I don't know," says the boy. "And how long has her ladyship been ill?" "I don't know," says the boy. "When did my lord go away?" "And which way did they travel?" asks the lawyer. "They travelled without me," says the page. "We must see Lady Castlewood." "Stuff! we must see Lady Castlewood," says the lawyer, pushing by. The curtains of her ladyship's room were down, and the chamber dark, and she was in bed with a nightcap on her head, and propped up by her pillows. "Is that the doctor?" she said. "There is no use with this deception, madam," Captain Westbury said (for so he was named). "My duty is to arrest the person of Thomas, Viscount of Castlewood, of Robert Tusher, Vicar of Castlewood, and Henry Holt, known under various other names, a Jesuit priest, who officiated as chaplain here in the late king's time, and is now at the head of the conspiracy which was about to break out in this country against the authority of their Majesties King William and Queen Mary--and my orders are to search the house for such papers or traces of the conspiracy as may be found here. Your ladyship will please give me your keys, and it will be as well for yourself that you should help us, in every way, in our search." "You see, sir, that I have the rheumatism, and cannot move," said the lady, looking uncommonly ghastly as she sat up in her bed. But Captain Westbury would open it, still with a smile on his face, which, when the box was opened, turned into a fair burst of laughter. It contained--not papers regarding the conspiracy--but my lady's wigs, washes, and rouge-pots, and Victoire said men were monsters, as the Captain went on with his search. He tapped the back to see whether or no it was hollow, and as he thrust his hands into the cupboard, my lady from her bed called out, with a voice that did not sound like that of a very sick woman: "Is it your commission to insult ladies as well as to arrest gentlemen, Captain?" "These articles are only dangerous when worn by your ladyship," the Captain said, with a low bow, and a mock grin of politeness. "I have found nothing which concerns the government as yet--only the weapons with which beauty is authorised to kill," says he, pointing to a wig with his sword-tip. "We must now proceed to search the rest of the house." "You are not going to leave that wretch in the room with me," cried my lady, pointing to the soldier. "Sir!" screamed out my lady. "Sir! you don't strike a _man_ when he is down," said my lady, with some dignity; "can you not spare a woman?" "Your ladyship must please to rise, and let me search the bed," said the Captain; "there is no more time to lose in bandying talk." And here we may relate, though he was then too young to know all that was happening, what the papers contained, of which Captain Westbury had made a seizure, and which papers had been transferred from the japan-box to the bed when the officers arrived. The seizure of the papers effected, the gentlemen did not pursue their further search through Castlewood House very rigorously. They only examined Mr. Holt's room, being led thither by his pupil, who showed, as the Father had bidden him, the place where the key of his chamber lay, opened the door for the gentlemen, and conducted them into the room. "They're written in a foreign language," says the lawyer. "What are you laughing at, little whelp?" he added, turning round as he saw the boy smile. "Mr. Holt said they were sermons," Harry said, "and bade me to burn them;" which indeed was true of those papers. "Sermons, indeed--it's treason, I would lay a wager," cries the lawyer. "Egad! it's Greek to me," says Captain Westbury. "Can you read it, little boy?" "Yes, sir, a little," Harry said. "Then read, and read in English, sir, on your peril," said the lawyer. And Harry began to translate: The lawyer said, "This boy is deeper than he seems: who knows that he is not laughing at us?" "Let's have in Dick the Scholar," cried Captain Westbury, laughing, and he called to a trooper out of the window, "Ho, Dick, come in here and construe." A soldier, with a good-humoured face, came in at the summons, saluting his officer. "Tell us what is this, Dick Steele," says the lawyer. "'Tis Latin," says Dick, glancing at it, and again saluting his officer, "and from a sermon of Mr. Cudworth's," and he translated the words pretty much as Henry Esmond had rendered them. "What a young scholar you are," says the Captain to the boy. "Depend on't, he knows more than he tells," says the lawyer. "I think we will pack him off in the coach with the old lady." "For construing a bit of Latin?" said the Captain, very good-naturedly. "I would as lief go there as anywhere," Harry Esmond said, simply, "for there is nobody to care for me." There must have been something touching in the child's voice, or in this description of his solitude, for the Captain looked at him very good-naturedly, and the trooper called Steele put his hand kindly on the lad's head, and said some words in the Latin language. "What does he say?" says the lawyer. "I said I was not ignorant of misfortune myself, and had learned to succor the miserable, and that's not your trade, Mr. Sheepskin," said the trooper. "You had better leave Dick the Scholar alone, Mr. Corbett!" the Captain said. And Harry Esmond, always touched by a kind face and a kind word, felt very grateful to this good-natured champion. The horses were by this time harnessed to the coach; and my Lady Isabella was consigned to that vehicle and sent off to Hexton, with her woman and the man-of-law to bear her company, a couple of troopers riding on either side of the coach. And Harry was left behind at the Hall, belonging, as it were, to nobody, and quite alone in the world. The Captain and a guard of men remained in possession there; and the soldiers, who were very good-natured and kind, ate my lord's mutton and drank his wine, and made themselves comfortable, as they well might do in such pleasant quarters. After the departure of the countess, Dick the Scholar took Harry Esmond under his special protection, and would talk to him both of French and Latin, in which tongues the lad found that he was even more proficient than Scholar Dick. Hearing that he had learned them from a Jesuit, in the praise of whom and whose goodness Harry was never tired of speaking, Dick, rather to the boy's surprise, showed a great deal of theological science, and knowledge of the points at issue between the Catholic and Protestant churches; so that he and Harry would have hours of controversy together, with which conversations the long days of the trooper's stay at Castlewood were whiled away. Though the other troopers were all gentlemen, they seemed ignorant and vulgar to Harry Esmond, with the exception of this good-natured Corporal Steele, Scholar, although Captain Westbury and Lieutenant Trant were always kind to the lad. They remained for some months at Castlewood, and Harry learned from them, from time to time, how Lady Isabella was being treated at Hexton Castle, and the particulars of her confinement there. King William was disposed to deal very leniently with the gentry who remained faithful to the old king's cause; and no Prince usurping a crown as his enemies said he did, ever caused less blood to be shed. As for women-conspirators, he kept spies on the least dangerous, and locked up the others. Lady Castlewood had the best rooms in Hexton Castle, and the gaoler's garden to walk in; and though she repeatedly desired to be led out to execution like Mary Queen of Scots, there never was any thought of taking her painted old head off. She even found that some were friends in her misfortune, whom she had, in her prosperity, considered as her worst enemies. Colonel Francis Esmond, my lord's cousin and her ladyship's hearing of his kinswoman's scrape, came to visit her in prison, offering any friendly services which lay in his power. He brought, too, his lady and little daughter, Beatrix, the latter a child of great beauty and many winning ways, to whom the old viscountess took not a little liking, and who was permitted after that to go often and visit the prisoner. And now there befell an event by which Lady Isabella recovered her liberty, and the house of Castlewood got a new owner, Colonel Francis Esmond, and fatherless little Harry Esmond, the new and most kind protector and friend, whom we met at the opening of this story. My Lord of Castlewood was wounded at the battle of the Boyne, flying from which field he lay for a while concealed in a marsh, and more from cold and fever caught in the bogs than from the steel of the enemy in the battle, died. Harry Esmond well remembered the receipt of this letter, which was brought in as Captain Westbury and Lieutenant Trant were on the Green playing at Bowls, young Esmond looking on at the sport. "Something has happened to Lord Castlewood," Captain Westbury said, in a very grave tone. "He is dead of a wound received at the Boyne, fighting for King James. I hope he has provided for thee somehow. Thou hast only him to depend on now." He remembered to his dying day the thoughts and tears of that long night--was there any child in the whole world so unprotected as he? Then came my lord and lady into their new domain, and my lady's introduction to the little lad, whom she found in the book-room, as we have seen. As for my Lord Castlewood, he was good-humoured, of a temper naturally easy, liking to joke, especially with his inferiors, and charmed to receive the tribute of their laughter. All exercises of the body he could perform to perfection--shooting at a mark, breaking horses, riding at the ring, pitching the quoit, playing at all games with great skill. He was fond of the parade of dress, and also fond of having his lady well dressed; who spared no pains in that matter to please him. Indeed, she would dress her head or cut it off if he had bidden her. My Lord Viscount took young Esmond into his special favour, luckily for the lad. A very few months after my lord's coming to Castlewood in the winter time, little Frank being a child in petticoats, trotting about, it happened that little Frank was with his father after dinner, who fell asleep, heedless of the child, who crawled to the fire. As good fortune would have it, Esmond was sent by his mistress for the boy, just as the poor little screaming urchin's coat was set on fire by a log. Esmond, rushing forward, tore the dress off, so that his own hands were burned more than the little boy's, who was frightened rather than hurt by the accident. As my lord was sleeping heavily, it certainly was providential that a resolute person should have come in at that instant, or the child would have been burned to death. Ever after this, the father was loud in his expressions of remorse, and of admiration for Harry Esmond, and had the tenderest regard for his son's preserver. His burns were tended with the greatest care by his kind mistress, who said that Heaven had sent him to be the guardian of her children, and that she would love him all her life. And it was after this, and from the very great love and tenderness which grew up in this little household, that Harry came to be quite of the religion of his house, and his dear mistress, of which he has ever since been a professing member. But as Esmond grew, and observed for himself, he found much to read and think of outside that fond circle of kinsfolk. He read more books than they cared to study with him; was alone in the midst of them many a time, and passed nights over labours, useless perhaps, but in which they could not join him. His dear mistress divined his thoughts with her usual jealous watchfulness of affection; began to forebode a time when he would escape from his home nest; and at his eager protestations to the contrary, would only sigh and shake her head, knowing that some day her predictions would come true. Now there was a pretty girl at this Inn, Nancy Sievewright, the blacksmith's daughter, a bouncing, fresh-looking lass, with whom Harry Esmond in his walks and rambles often happened to fall in; or, failing to meet her, he would discover some errand to be done at the blacksmith's, or would go to the Inn to find her. When, then, Dr. Tusher brought the news that the little boy at the Inn was ill with the smallpox, poor Harry Esmond felt a shock of alarm, not so much for himself as for little Frank, whom he might have brought into peril. Beatrix, who had by this time pouted sufficiently (and who, whenever a stranger appeared, began from infancy almost to play off little graces to catch his attention), her brother being now gone to bed, was for taking her place upon Esmond's knee: for though the Doctor was very attentive to her, she did not like him because he had thick boots and dirty hands (the pert young miss said), and because she hated learning the catechism. But as she advanced toward Esmond, he started back, and placed the great chair on which he was sitting between him and her--saying in French to Lady Castlewood, "Madam, the child must not approach me; I must tell you that I was at the blacksmith's to-day, and had his little boy upon my lap." Here my lady burst into a flood of tears, and quitted the room, as my lord raised up Harry Esmond from his kneeling posture, put his broad hand on the lad's shoulder, and spoke kindly to him. Then, suddenly remembering that Harry might have brought the infection with him, he stepped back suddenly, saying, "Keep off, Harry, my boy; there is no good in running into the wolf's jaws, you know!" My lady, who had now returned to the room, said: "There is no use, my lord. Frank was on his knee as he was making pictures, and was running constantly from Henry to me. The evil is done, if any." "Not with me!" cried my lord. "I've been smoking, and it keeps off infection, and as the disease is in the village, plague take it, I would have you leave it. We'll go to-morrow to Wolcott." "I won't run the risk," said my lord; "I am as bold as any man, but I'll not bear that." "Take Beatrix with you and go," said my lady. "For us the mischief is done." Then my lord, calling away Tusher, bade him come to the oak parlour and have a pipe. When my lady and Harry Esmond were alone there was a silence of some moments, after which her ladyship spoke in a hard, dry voice of her objections to his intimacy with the blacksmith's daughter, and she added, "Under all the circumstances I shall beg my lord to despatch you from this house as quick as possible; and will go on with Frank's learning as well as I can. I owe my father thanks for a little grounding, and you, I am sure, for much that you have taught me. And--I wish you a good-night." And with this she dropped a stately curtsy, and, taking her candle, went away through the tapestry door which led to her apartments. Esmond stood by the fireplace, blankly staring after her. Indeed, he scarce seemed to see until she was gone; and then her image was impressed upon him, and remained forever fixed upon his memory. He saw her retreating, the taper lighting up her marble face, her scarlet lip quivering, and her shining golden hair. He went to his own room, and to bed, where he tried to read, as his custom was; but he never knew what he was reading. And he could not get to sleep until daylight, and woke with a violent headache, and quite unrefreshed. He had brought the contagion with him from the Inn, sure enough, and was presently laid up with the smallpox, which spared the Hall no more than it did the cottage. The sight of these on the face of the lady whom he loved best filled Esmond's heart with a soft of rage of pity, and the young blunderer sank down on his knees and besought her to pardon him, saying that he was a fool and an idiot, that he was a brute to make such a speech, he, who caused her malady; and Dr. Tusher told him that he was a bear indeed, and a bear he would remain, after which speech poor young Esmond was so dumb-stricken that he did not even growl. "Madam, you have the dearest, and kindest, and sweetest face in the world, I think," the lad said. "Will my lord think so when he comes back?" the lady asked with a sigh, and another look at her glass. Then turning to her young son she said, "Come, Frank, come, my child. You are well, praised be Heaven. _Your_ locks are not thinned by this dreadful smallpox; nor your poor face scarred--is it, my angel?" Frank began to shout and whimper at the idea of such a misfortune, for from the very earliest time the young lord had been taught by his mother to admire his own beauty; and esteemed it very highly. At length, when the danger was quite over, it was announced that my lord and Beatrix would return. Esmond well remembered the day. My lady was in a flurry of fear. Before my lord came she went into her room, and returned from it with reddened cheeks. Her fate was about to be decided. Would my lord--who cared so much for physical perfection--find hers gone, too? A minute would say. She saw him come riding over the bridge, clad in scarlet, and mounted on his grey hackney, his little daughter beside him, in a bright riding dress of blue, on a shining chestnut horse. My lady put her handkerchief to her eyes, and withdrew it, laughing hysterically. She ran to her room again, and came back with pale cheeks and red eyes, her son beside her, just as my lord entered, accompanied by young Esmond, who had gone out to meet his protector, and to hold his stirrup as he descended from horseback. "What, Harry boy!" he exclaimed good-naturedly, "you look as gaunt as a greyhound. The smallpox hasn't improved your beauty, and you never had too much of it--ho!" And he laughed and sprang to the ground, looking handsome and red, with a jolly face and brown hair. Esmond, kneeling again, as soon as his patron had descended, performed his homage, and then went to help the little Beatrix from her horse. "They are both very fat, and smelt of brandy," the child said. Papa roared with laughing. "Brandy!" he said. "And how do you know, Miss Pert?" "Because your lordship smells of it after supper, when I kiss you before I go to bed," said the young lady, who indeed was as pert as her father said, and looked as beautiful a little gipsy as eyes ever gazed on. "And now for my lady," said my lord, going up the stairs, and passing alone under the tapestry curtain that hung before the drawing-room door. Esmond always remembered that noble figure, handsomely arrayed in scarlet. Within the last few months he himself had grown from a boy to be a man, and with his figure his thoughts had shot up, and grown manly. Indeed, "Mr. Tutor," as my lady called Esmond, had now business enough on his hands in Castlewood house. He had his pupils, besides writing my lord's letters, and arranging his accounts for him, when these could be got from his indolent patron. When Thomas Tusher was gone, a feeling of no small depression and disquiet fell upon young Esmond, of which, though he did not complain, his kind mistress must have guessed the cause: for, soon after, she showed not only that she understood the reason of Harry's melancholy, but could provide a remedy for it. All the notice, however, which she seemed to take of his melancholy, was by a gaiety unusual to her, attempting to dispel his gloom. She made his scholars more cheerful than ever they had been before, and more obedient, too, learning and reading much more than they had been accustomed to do. "For who knows," said the lady, "what may happen, and whether we may be able to keep such a learned tutor long?" Frank Esmond said he for his part did not want to learn any more, and cousin Harry might shut up his book whenever he liked, if he would come out a-fishing; and little Beatrix declared she would send for Tom Tusher, and _he_ would be glad enough to come to Castlewood, if Harry chose to go away. When my lord heard of the news, he made no pretence of grieving. "Another use, my dear; and what do you know about money?" said my lord. "And what the devil is there that I don't give you which you want?" "I intend this money for Harry Esmond to go to college," says my lady. "You mustn't stay longer in this dull place, but make a name for yourself, and for us, too, Harry." "But he will come back; and this will always be his home," cried my lady, with blue eyes looking a celestial kindness. "And his scholars will always love him, won't they?" The Lady Castlewood looked after him with sad penetrating glances. "He wishes to be gone already, my lord," said she to her husband. The young man hung back abashed. "Indeed, I would stay forever if your ladyship bade me," he said. "And thou wouldst be a fool for thy pains," said my lord. "Tut, tut, man. Go and see the world. Sow thy wild oats; and take the best luck that fate sends thee. I wish I were a boy again, that I might go to college and taste the Thumpington ale." "Indeed, you are best away," said my lady, laughing, as she put her hand on the boy's head for a moment. "You shall stay in no such dull place. You shall go to college and distinguish yourself as becomes your name. That is how you shall please me best; and--and if my children want you, or I want you, you shall come to us; and I know we may count on you." "May Heaven forsake me if you may not!" Harry said, getting up from his knee. "And my knight longs for a dragon this instant that he may fight," said my lady, laughing; which speech made Harry Esmond start, and turn red; for indeed the very thought was in his mind, that he would like that some chance should immediately happen whereby he might show his devotion. And it pleased him to think that his lady had called him "her knight," and often and often he recalled this to his mind, and prayed that he might be her true knight, too. My lady's bed-chamber window looked out over the country, and you could see from it the purple hills beyond Castlewood village, the green common betwixt that and the Hall, and the old bridge which crossed over the river. When Harry Esmond went away to Cambridge, little Frank ran alongside his horse as far as the bridge, and there Harry stopped for a moment, and looked back at the house where the best part of his life had been passed. This change in his life was a very fine thing indeed for Harry, who rode away in company of my lord, who said he should like to revisit the old haunts of his youth, and so accompanied Harry to Cambridge. Their road lay through London, where my Lord Viscount would have Harry stay a few days to see the pleasures of the town before he entered upon his university studies, and whilst here Harry's patron conducted the young man to my lady dowager's house near London. Lady Isabella received them cordially, and asked Harry what his profession was to be. Upon hearing that the lad was to take orders, and to have the living of Castlewood when old Dr. Tusher vacated it, she seemed glad that the youth should be so provided for. Henry Esmond was entered at Trinity College, Cambridge, to which famous college my lord had also in his youth belonged. My Lord Viscount was received with great politeness by the head master, as well as by Mr. Bridge, who was appointed to be Harry's tutor. Tom Tusher, who was by this time a junior Soph, came to take Harry under his protection; and comfortable rooms being provided for him, Harry's patron took leave of him with many kind words and blessings, and an admonition to have to behave better at the University than my lord himself had ever done. As for Beatrix, Esmond found her grown to be taller than her mother, a slim and lovely young girl, with cheeks mantling with health and roses; with eyes like stars shining out of azure, with waving bronze hair clustered about the fairest young forehead ever seen; and a mien and shape haughty and beautiful, such as that of the famous antique statue of the huntress Diana. This bright creature was the darling and torment of father and mother. She intrigued with each secretly, and bestowed her fondness and withdrew it, plied them with tears, smiles, kisses, caresses; when the mother was angry, flew to the father; when both were displeased, transferred her caresses to the domestics, or watched until she could win back her parents' good graces, either by surprising them into laughter and good-humour, or appeasing them by submissive and an artful humility. She had been a coquette from her earliest days; had long learned the value of her bright eyes, and tried experiments in coquetry upon rustics and country 'squires until she should have opportunity to conquer a larger world in later years. Such was the group who welcomed Henry Esmond on his return from college. Not anticipating the future, not looking ahead, let us leave beautiful Beatrix, imperious young Frank, sweet Lady Castlewood, giving a glad welcome to their old friend and tutor. Truly we carry away a pretty picture as we finish this chapter of Esmond's youth. [Illustration: WARRINGTON AND GEORGE WASHINGTON.] Having lost his wife, his daughter took the management of the Colonel and his estate, and managed both with the spirit and determination which governed her management of every person and thing which came within her jurisdiction. The black martyr was an impudent, lazy, saucy little personage, who would be none the worse for a whipping, as the Colonel, who was then living, no doubt thought; for he acquiesced in the child's punishment when Madame Esmond insisted upon it, and only laughed in his good-natured way when his indignant grandson called out: "You let mamma rule you in everything, grandpapa." "Why so I do," says grandpapa. "Rachel, my love, the way in which I am petticoat-ridden is so evident that even this baby has found it out." "Then why don't you stand up like a man?" says little Harry, who always was ready to abet his brother. Grandpapa looked queerly. "Because I like sitting down best, my dear," he said. "I am an old gentleman, and standing fatigues me." "Books, papa, I can fancy to be a good choice," she replied to her father, who tried to convince her that George had a right to his opinion, "though I am sure you must have pretty nigh all the books in the world already. But I never can desire--I may be wrong--but I never can desire, that my son, and the grandson of the Marquis of Esmond, should be a fiddler." "Should be a fiddlestick, my dear," the old Colonel answered. "Remember that Heaven's ways are not ours, and that each creature born has a little kingdom of thought of his own, which it is a sin in us to invade. Suppose George loves music? You can no more stop him than you can order a rose not to smell sweet, or a bird not to sing." "A bird! A bird sings from nature; George did not come into the world with a fiddle in his hand," says Mrs. Warrington, with a toss of her head. "I am sure I hated the harpsichord when a chit at Kensington school, and only learned it to please my mamma. Say what you will, I cannot believe that this fiddling is work for persons of fashion." "And King David who played the harp, my dear?" "I wish my papa would read him more, and not speak about him in that way," said Mrs. Warrington. "Nay, my dear, it was but by way of illustration," the father replied gently. It was Colonel's Esmond's nature always to be led by a woman, and he spoiled his daughter; laughing at her caprices, but humouring them; making a joke of her prejudices, but letting them have their way; indulging, and perhaps increasing, her natural imperiousness of character, which asserted itself to an unusual degree after her father's death. A very early difference which occurred between the queen and crown prince arose out of the dismissal of the lad's tutor, Mr. Dempster, who had also been the late Colonel's secretary. Upon his retirement George vowed he never would forsake his old tutor, and kept his promise. Another cause of dispute between George and his mother presently ensued. "You will give me plenty while you live, and George will give me plenty when you die," says Harry gaily. "Not until he changes in _spirit_, my dear," says the lady grimly, glancing at her elder boy. "Not unless Heaven softens his heart and teaches him _charity_, for which I pray day and night; as Mountain knows; do you not, Mountain?" "Oh, no! no need!" cries the widow, rustling in her silks; "of course I have no need to be disturbed, because my eldest born is _a disobedient son and an unkind brother;_ because he has an estate, and my poor Harry, bless him, but a _mess of pottage_." "_Hold your tongue, I say_!" roars out Harry. "It's a shame to speak so to him, ma'am." "And so it is, Harry," says Mrs. Mountain, shaking his hand. "You never said a truer word in your life." "Turn me and my child into the street? Do," says Mrs. Mountain. "That will be a fine revenge because the English lawyer won't give you the boy's money. Find another companion who will tell you black is white, and flatter you; it is not my way, madam. When shall I go? I shan't be long a-packing. I did not bring much into Castlewood house, and I shall not take much out." They found him a bad scholar, a dull fellow, and ill-bred to boot. George knew much more Latin and Greek than his master; Harry, who could take much greater liberties than were allowed to his elder brother, mimicked Ward's manner of eating and talking, so that Mrs. Mountain and even Madame Esmond were forced to laugh, and little Fanny Mountain would crow with delight. Madame Esmond would have found the fellow out for a vulgar quack but for her son's opposition, which she, on her part, opposed with her own indomitable will. George now began to give way to a sarcastic method, took up Ward's pompous remarks and made jokes of them so that that young divine chafed and almost choked over his great meals. He made Madame Esmond angry, and doubly so when he sent off Harry into fits of laughter. Her authority was defied, her officer scorned and insulted, her youngest child perverted by the obstinate elder brother. She made a desperate and unhappy attempt to maintain her power. "The very words he used to me," cries Harry. "He told me that he did not like to meddle with other folks' affairs, but that our mother was very angry, and he begged me to obey Mr. Ward, and to press George to do so." "Let him manage his own house, not mine," says George very haughtily. And the caution, far from benefiting him, only made the lad more scornful and rebellious. On the next day the storm broke. Words were passed between George and Mr. Ward during the morning study. The boy was quite disobedient and unjust. Even his faithful brother cried out, and owned that he was in the wrong. Mr. Ward bottled up his temper until the family met at dinner, when he requested Madame Esmond to stay, and laid the subject of discussion before her. He asked Master Harry to confirm what he had said; and poor Harry was obliged to admit all his statements. George, standing under his grandfather's portrait by the chimney, said haughtily that what Mr. Ward had said was perfectly correct. "To be a tutor to such a pupil is absurd," said Mr. Ward, making a long speech containing many scripture phrases, at each of which young George smiled scornfully; and at length Ward ended by asking her honour's leave to retire. "Not before you have punished this wicked and disobedient child," said Madame Esmond. "Punish!" exclaimed George. "He owns it! He asks pardon!" cries Harry. "That's right, George! That's enough, isn't it?" "No, it is _not_ enough! I know that he who spares the rod spoils the child, ungrateful boy!" says Madame Esmond, with more references of the same nature, which George heard, looking very pale and desperate. Upon the mantelpiece stood a china cup, by which the widow set great store, as her father had always been accustomed to drink from it. George suddenly took it, and a strange smile passed over his pale face. George, after looking at the cup, raised it, opened his hand and let it fall on the marble slab before him. Harry had tried in vain to catch it. "It is too late, Hal," George said. "You will never mend that again--never. Now, mother, I am ready, as it is your wish. Will you come and see whether I am afraid? Mr. Ward, I am your servant. Your servant? Your slave! And the next time I meet Mr. Washington, Madame, I will thank him for the advice which he gave you." "Stop! For God's sake, mother, stop!" cried poor Hal. But passion was boiling in the little woman's heart, and she would not hear the boy's petition. "You only abet him, sir!" she cried. "If I had to do it myself, it should be done!" And Harry, with sadness and wrath in his countenance, left the room by the door through which Mr. Ward and his brother had just issued. The widow sank down in a great chair near it, and sat a while vacantly looking at the fragments of the broken cup. Then she inclined her head towards the door. For a while there was silence; then a loud outcry, which made the poor mother start. Mr. Ward came out bleeding from a great wound on his head, and behind him Harry, with flaring eyes, and brandishing a little ruler of his grandfather, which hung, with others of the Colonel's weapons, on the library wall. The widow gave a great gasp and a sigh as she looked at the young champion and his victim. She must have suffered terribly during the few minutes of the boys' absence; and the stripes which she imagined had been inflicted on the elder had smitten her own heart. She longed to take both boys to it. She was not angry now. Very likely she was delighted with the thought of the younger's prowess and generosity. "You are a very naughty, disobedient child," she said in an exceedingly peaceable voice. "My poor Mr. Ward! What a rebel to strike you! Let me bathe your wound, my good Mr. Ward, and thank Heaven it was no worse. Mountain! Go fetch me some court-plaster. Here comes George. Put on your coat and waistcoat, child! You were going to take your punishment, sir, and that is sufficient. Ask pardon, Harry, of good Mr. Ward, for your wicked, rebellious spirit. I do, with all my heart, I am sure. And guard against your passionate nature, child, and pray to be forgiven. My son, oh my son!" The widow was scared, as after her embrace she looked up at George's pale face. In reply to her eager caresses, he coldly kissed her on the forehead, and separated from her. "You meant for the best, mother," he said, "and I was in the wrong. But the cup is broken; and all the king's horses and all the king's men cannot mend it. There--put the fair side outwards on the mantelpiece, and the wound will not show." Then George went up to Mr. Ward, who was still piteously bathing his eye and forehead in the water. "I ask pardon for Hal's violence, sir," he said in great state. "You see, though we are very young, we are gentlemen, and cannot brook an insult from strangers. I should have submitted, as it was mamma's desire; but I am glad she no longer entertains it." "And pray, sir, who is to compensate me?" says Mr. Ward; "who is to repair the insult done to _me_?" "You are not a clergyman yet. We thought you might like to be considered as a gentleman. We did not know." "A gentleman! I am a Christian, sir!" says Ward, glaring furiously, and clenching his great fists. "Well, well, if you won't fight, why don't you forgive?" says Harry. "If you won't forgive, why don't you fight? That's what I call the horns of a dilemma." And he laughed his jolly laugh. "_Rulers_," says George, looking at Harry. "Rulers!" says Hal, putting his hand to his eye, where the poor tutor still bore marks of the late scuffle. "Rulers, o-ho!" It was too much. The boys burst out in an explosion of laughter. Mrs. Mountain, who was full of fun, could not help joining in the chorus; and little Fanny Mountain, who had always behaved very demurely and silently at these ceremonies, crowed again, and clapped her little hands at the others laughing, not in the least knowing the reason why. Now Mrs. Mountain had a great turn for match-making, and fancied that everybody had a design to marry everybody else. As a consequence of this weakness she was able to persuade George Warrington that Mr. Washington was laying siege to Madame Esmond's heart, which idea was anything but agreeable to George's jealous disposition. "Absurd! Why absurd? Mr. Washington is constantly with the widow. She never tires of pointing out his virtues as an example to her sons. She consults him on every question respecting her estate and its management. There is a room at Castlewood regularly called Mr. Washington's room. He actually leaves his clothes here, and his portmanteau when he goes away. Ah, George, George! The day will come when he won't go away!" groaned Mrs. Mountain, and in consequence of the suspicions which her words aroused in him Mr. George adopted toward his mother's favourite a frigid courtesy, at which the honest gentleman chafed but did not care to remonstrate; or a stinging sarcasm which he would break through as he would burst through so many brambles on those hunting excursions in which he and Harry Warrington rode so constantly together; while George, retreating to his tents, read mathematics and French and Latin, or sulked in his book-room. A company called the Ohio Company, having grants from the Virginia government of lands along that river, found themselves invaded in their settlement's by French military detachments, who roughly ejected the Britons from their holdings. These latter applied for protection to Mr. Dinwiddie, lieutenant governor of Virginia, who determined upon sending an ambassador to the French commanding officer on the Ohio demanding that the French should desist from their inroads upon the territories of his Majesty King George. On his return from this expedition, which he had conducted with an heroic energy and simplicity, Major Washington was a greater favourite than ever with the lady of Castlewood. She pointed him out as a model to both of her sons. "Ah, Harry!" she would say, "think of you, with your cock-fighting and your racing matches, and the Major away there in the wilderness, watching the French, and battling with the frozen rivers! Ah, George! learning may be a very good thing, but I wish my elder son were doing something in the service of his country!" His command was over, his regiment disbanded after the fruitless, inglorious march and defeat. Saddened and humbled in spirit, the young officer presented himself after a while to his old friends at Castlewood. But surely no man can have better claims to sympathy than bravery, youth, good looks, and misfortune. Mr. Washington's room at Castlewood was more than ever Mr. Washington's room now. Madame Esmond raved about him and praised him in all her companies. She more than ever pointed out his excellences to her sons, contrasting his sterling qualities with Harry's love of pleasure and George's listless musing over his books. George was not disposed to like Mr. Washington any better for his mother's extravagant praises. He coaxed the jealous demon within him until he must have become a perfect pest to himself and all his friends round about him. He uttered jokes so deep that his simple mother did not know their meaning, but sat bewildered at his sarcasms. The arrival of the General and his little army caused a mighty excitement all through the provinces, and nowhere greater than at Castlewood. Harry was off forthwith to see the troops under canvas at Alexandria. The sight of their lines delighted him, and the inspiring music of their fifes and drums. He speedily made acquaintance with the officers of both regiments; he longed to join in the expedition upon which they were bound, and was a welcome guest at their mess. Madame Esmond made her boys bearers of the letter in reply to his Excellency's message, accompanying her note with handsome presents for the General's staff and officers, which they were delighted to accept. On their arrival at home the boys told their mother of General Braddock's offer. "The youngest ought to go, mother; of course I ought to go!" cries Harry, turning very red. "Of course, he ought," said Mrs. Mountain, who was present at their talk. "Yes, George," said poor Harry; "I own I should." "You will stay at home, and take care of Castlewood and our mother. If anything happens to me, you are here to fill my place. I should like to give way, my dear, as you, I know, would lay down your life to serve me. But each of us must do his duty. What would our grandfather say if he were here?" On the day set for Madame Esmond's entertainment to General Braddock the House of Castlewood was set out with the greatest splendour; and Madame Esmond arrayed herself in a much more magnificent dress than she was accustomed to wear, while the boys were dressed alike in gold-corded frocks, braided waistcoats, silver-hilted sword, and wore each a solitaire. "If you are not fond of sporting and that, being cleverer than me, why shouldst thou not stop at home and be quiet, and let me go out with Colonel George and Mr. Braddock? That's what I say," says Harry, flushing with excitement. "Fricasseed by French," cries Harry; "the best troops of the world are Englishmen. I should like to see them fricasseed by the French! what a mortal thrashing you will give them!" and the brave lad sighed to think he should not be present at the combat. George sat down to the harpsichord and was playing when the Colonel re-entered, saying that his Excellency's coach would be here almost immediately, and asking leave to retire to his apartment, to put himself in a fit condition to appear before her ladyship's company. As the widow was conducting Mr. Washington to his chamber, George gave way to a fit of wrath, ending in an explanation to his astonished brother of the reason of it, and telling him of Mrs. Mountain's suspicions concerning the Colonel's attitude towards their mother, which he confirmed by showing Harry the letter of Colonel Washington's which Mrs. Mountain had found and preserved. "Indeed, to be frank with you, I do not know what has come over George," says Mr. Washington. "He has some grievance against me which I do not understand, and of which I don't care to ask the reason. He spoke to me before the gentlemen in a way which scarcely became him. We are going to the campaign together, and 'tis a pity we begin such ill friends." "He has been ill. He is always wild and wayward and hard to understand, but he has the most affectionate heart in the world. You will bear with him, you will protect him. Promise you will." "Dear lady, I will do so with my life," Mr. Washington said heartily. "You know I would lay it down cheerfully for you or any you love." "And my father's blessing and mine go with you, dear friend!" cried the widow. As they talked, they had quitted the porch and were pacing a walk before the house. Young George Warrington, from his place at the head of the table in the dining-room, could see them, and after listening in a very distracted manner for some time to the remarks of the gentlemen around him, he jumped up and pulled his brother Harry by the sleeve, turning him so that he, too, could see his mother and the Colonel. Harry saw the profound truth conveyed in George's statement, and admired his brother's immense sagacity. "No, George," says he, "you are right. Mother can't marry our murderer; she won't be as bad as that. And if we pink him, he is done for. Shall I send my boy with a challenge to Colonel George now?" "We can't insult a gentleman in our own house," said George with great majesty; "the laws of honour forbid such inhospitable treatment. But, sir, we can ride out with him, and, as soon as the park gates are closed, we can tell him our mind." "This is _my_ turn, brother," Harry pleaded. "If you go to the campaign, I ought to have the other affair. Indeed, indeed, I ought." And he prayed for this bit of promotion. "Again the head of the house must take the lead, my dear," George said with a superb air. "If I fall, my Harry will avenge me. But I must fight George Washington, Hal; and 'tis best I should; for, indeed, I hate him the worst. Was it not he who counselled my mother to order that wretch, Ward, to lay hands on me?" The grandsire's old Bordeaux had set George's ordinarily pale countenance into a flame. Harry, his brother's fondest worshipper, could not but admire George's haughty bearing and rapid declamation, and prepared himself, with his usual docility, to follow his chief. So the boys went to their beds, the elder conveying special injunctions to his junior to be civil to all the guests so long as they remained under the maternal roof on the morrow. The widow, occupied as she had been with the cares of a great dinner, followed by a great breakfast on the morning ensuing, had scarce leisure to remark the behaviour of her sons very closely, but at least saw that George was scrupulously polite to her favourite, Colonel Washington, as to all the other guests of the house. And now the great coach was again called into requisition, the General's escort pranced round it, the other guests and their servants went to horse. No man could be more courteous in demeanour than George Warrington to his neighbour and name-sake, the Colonel, who was pleased and surprised at his young friend's altered behaviour. The community of danger, the necessity of future fellowship, the softening influence of the long friendship which bound him to the Esmond family, the tender adieux which had just passed between him and the mistress of Castlewood, inclined the Colonel to forget the unpleasantness of the past days, and made him more than usually friendly with his young companion. George was quite gay and easy: it was Harry who was melancholy now; he rode silently and wistfully by his brother, keeping away from Colonel Washington, to whose side he used always to press eagerly before. If the honest Colonel remarked his young friend's conduct, no doubt he attributed it to Harry's known affection for his brother, and his natural anxiety to be with George now the day of their parting was so near. So the party rode amicably together, until they reached a certain rude log-house, called Benson's, where they found a rough meal prepared for such as were disposed to partake. A couple of Halkett's officers, whom our young gentlemen knew, were sitting under the porch, with the Virginian toddy bowl before them, and the boys joined them and sent for glasses and more toddy, in a very grown-up manner. George called out to Colonel Washington, who was at the porch, to join his friends and drink, with the intention of drawing Mr. Washington into some kind of a disagreement. The lad's tone was offensive, and resembled the manner lately adopted by him, which had so much chafed Mr. Washington. He bowed, and said he was not thirsty. "Nay, the liquor is paid for," says George; "never fear, Colonel." "I said I was not thirsty. I did not say the liquor was not paid for," said the young Colonel, drumming with his foot. "When the King's health is proposed, an officer can hardly say no. I drink the health of his Majesty, gentlemen," cried George. "Colonel Washington can drink it or leave it. The King!" Then Captain Grace proposed "The Duke and the Army," which toast there was likewise no gainsaying. Colonel Washington had to swallow "The Duke and the Army." "You don't seem to stomach the toast, Colonel," said George. "I tell you again, I don't want to drink," replied the Colonel. "It seems to me the Duke and the Army would be served all the better if their healths were not drunk so often." "A British officer," said Captain Grace, with doubtful articulation," never neglects a toast of that sort, nor any other duty. A man who refuses to drink the health of the Duke--hang me, such a man should be tried by a court-martial!" "A cursed provincial officer say I'm drunk!" shrieks out Captain Grace. "Waring, do you hear that?" "_I_ heard it, sir!" cried George Warrington. "We all heard it. We entered at my invitation--the liquor called for was mine; the table was mine--and I am shocked to hear such monstrous language used at it as Colonel Washington has just employed towards my esteemed guest, Captain Waring." "You would what, sir," says George, very quietly, "if you did not love my grandfather, and my brother, and my mother? You are making her petticoat a plea for some conduct of yours! You would do what, sir, may I ask again?" "I would put you across my knee and whip you, you snarling little puppy! That's what I would do!" cried the Colonel, who had found breath by this time, and vented another explosion of fury. "Because you have known us all our lives, and made our house your own, that is no reason why you should insult either of us!" here cried Harry, starting up. "What you have said, George Washington, is an insult to me and my brother alike. You will ask our pardon, sir!" "Or give us the reparation that is due to gentlemen," continues Harry. The evil spirit was awake and victorious in young George Warrington; his black eyes shot out scorn and hatred at the simple and guileless gentleman before him. "You are shirking from the question, sir, as you did from the toast just now," he said. "I am not a boy to suffer under your arrogance. You have publicly insulted me in a public place, and I demand a reparation." "As you please, George Warrington--and God forgive you, George! God pardon you, Harry! for bringing me into this quarrel," said the Colonel, with a face full of sadness and gloom. The Colonel started back, turning very red, and as if struck by a sudden remembrance. "Great heavens, George! is it that boyish quarrel you are still recalling?" "Who made you overseer of Castlewood?" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "I am not your slave, George Washington, and I never will be. I hated you then, and I hate you now. And you have insulted me, and I am a gentleman, and so are you. Is that not enough?" "Too much, only too much," said the Colonel, with a genuine grief on his face, and at his heart "Do you bear malice, too, Harry? I had not thought this of thee!" "I stand by my brother," said Harry, turning away from the Colonel's look, and grasping George's hand. The sadness on their adversary's face did not depart. "Heaven be good to us! 'Tis all clear now," he muttered to himself. "The time to write a few letters, and I am at your service, Mr. Warrington," he said. "You have your own pistols at your saddle. I did not ride out with any; but will send Sady back for mine. That will give you time enough, Colonel Washington?" "Plenty of time, sir." And each gentleman made the other a low bow, and, putting his arm in his brother's, George walked away. The Virginian officer looked towards Captain Benson, the master of the tavern, saying, "Captain Benson, you are an old frontier man, and an officer of ours, before you turned farmer and taverner. You will help me in this matter with yonder young gentleman?" said the Colonel. "Will you be pleased to send my man with my valise, Captain, into any private room which you can spare me? I must write a few letters before this business comes on. God grant it were well over!" And the Captain led the Colonel into a room of his house where he remained occupied with gloomy preparations for the ensuing meeting. His adversary in the other room also thought fit to make his testamentary dispositions, too, dictated by his own obedient brother and secretary, a grandiloquent letter to his mother, of whom, and by that writing, he took a solemn farewell. She would hardly, he supposed, pursue _the scheme which she had in view_, after the event of that morning, should he fall, as probably would be the case. "My dear, dear George, don't say that!" cried the affrighted secretary. "Never meant to take possession of Castlewood; never gave himself airs, and patronised us there; never advised my mother to have me flogged; never intended to marry her; never insulted me, and was insulted before the King's officers; never wrote to his brother to say that we should be the better for his parental authority? The paper is there," cried the young man, slapping his breast-pocket, "and if anything happens to me, Harry Warrington, you will find it on my corpse!" "Write, yourself, Georgie, I _can't_ write," says Harry, digging his fists into his eyes, and smearing over the whole composition, bad spelling and all, with his elbows. "It's no good!" cried out Harry, flinging his arms round his brother. "If he fights you, I'll fight him, too. If he kills my Georgie, he shall have a shot at me!" cried the poor lad. It was the landlord of the tavern who communicated these facts to the young men. The Captain had put on his old militia uniform to do honour to the occasion, and informed the boys that the "Colonel was walking up and down the garden a-waiting for 'em, and that the Reg'lars was a'most sober, too, by this time." "Sady, sir, come here!" roars out Master Harry. "Sady, come here, confound you!" shouts Master George. "Come directly, Mas'r," says Sady. He grins. He takes the pistols out of the holster. He snaps the locks. He points them at a grunter, which plunges through the farm-yard. He points down the road, over which he has just galloped, and says again, "Comin', Mas'r. Everybody a-comin'." And now, the gallop of other horses is heard. And who is yonder? Little Mr. Dempster, spurring and digging into his pony; and that lady in a riding-habit on Madame Esmond's little horse--can it be Madame Esmond? No. It is too stout. As I live it is Mrs. Mountain on Madame's grey!" "O Lor'! O Golly! Hoop! Here dey come! Hurray!" Dr. Dempster and Mrs. Mountain having clattered into the yard, jumped from their horses, and ran to the garden where George and Harry were walking, their tall enemy stalking opposite to them; and almost ere George Warrington had time sternly to say, "What do you here, Madame?" Mrs. Mountain flung her arms round his neck and cried: "Oh, George, my darling! It's a mistake! It's a mistake, and is all my fault!" "What's a mistake?" asks George, majestically separating himself from the embrace. "What is it, Mounty?" cries Harry, all of a tremble. "What will Mr. Washington and those gentlemen think of my servant telling my mother at home that I was going to fight a duel?" growled Mr. George in wrath. "You should have shown your proofs before, George," says Harry, respectfully. "And, thank Heaven, you are not going to fight our old friend. For it was a mistake; and there is no quarrel now, dear, is there? You were unkind to him under a wrong impression." There was a custom in those days which has disappeared from our manners now, but which then lingered. When Harry had finished his artless story his friend the Colonel took him fairly to his arms, and held him to his heart; and his voice faltered as he said, "Thank God, thank God for this!" "Oh, George," said Harry, who felt now he loved his friend with all his heart, "how I wish I was going with you on the campaign!" The other pressed both the boy's hands in a grasp of friendship, which, each knew, never would slacken. Then the Colonel advanced, gravely holding out his hand to Harry's elder brother. But, though hands were joined, the salutation was only formal and stern on both sides. "I find I have done you a wrong, Colonel Washington," George said, "and must apologise, not for the error, but for much of my late behaviour, which has resulted from it." "The error was mine! It was I who found that paper in your room and showed it to George, and was jealous of you, Colonel. All women are jealous," cried Mrs. Mountain. "'Tis a pity you could not have kept your eyes off my paper, Madame," said Mr. Washington. "You will permit me to say so. A great deal of mischief has come because I chose to keep a secret which concerned only myself and another person. For a long time George Warrington's heart has been black with anger against me, and my feeling towards him has, I own, scarce been more friendly. All this pain might have been spared to both of us had my private papers only been read by those for whom they were written. I shall say no more now, lest my feelings again should betray me into hasty words. Heaven bless thee, Harry! Farewell, George! And take a true friend's advice, and try to be less ready to think evil of your friends. We shall meet again at the camp, and will keep our weapons for the enemy. Gentlemen! if you remember this scene tomorrow, you will know where to find me." And with a very stately bow to the English officers, the Colonel left the abashed company, and speedily rode away. We must fancy that the parting between the brothers is over, that George has taken his place in Mr. Braddock's family, and Harry has returned home to Castlewood and his duty. His heart is with the army, and his pursuits at home offer the boy no pleasure. He does not care to own how deep his disappointment is, at being obliged to stay under the homely, quiet roof, now more melancholy than ever since George is away. Harry passes his brother's empty chamber with an averted face; takes George's place at the head of the table, and sighs as he drinks from his silver tankard. Madame Warrington calls the toast of "The King" stoutly every day; and on Sundays when Harry reads the Service, and prays for all travellers by land and by water, she says, "We beseech Thee to hear us," with a peculiar solemnity. Mrs. Mountain is constantly on the whimper when George's name is mentioned, and Harry's face frequently wears a look of the most ghastly alarm; but his mother's is invariably grave and sedate. She makes more blunders at piquet and backgammon than you would expect from her; and the servants find her awake and dressed, however early they may rise. She has prayed Mr. Dempster to come back into residence at Castlewood. She is not severe or haughty, as her wont certainly was, with any of the party, but quiet in her talk with them, and gentle in assertion and reply. She is forever talking of her father and his campaigns, who came out of them all with no very severe wounds to hurt him; and so she hopes and trusts will her eldest son. "It must be owned that the provinces are acting scurvily by his Majesty King George, and his representative here is in a flame of fury. Virginia is bad enough, and poor Maryland not much better, but Pennsylvania is worst of all. We pray them to send us troops from home to fight the French; and we propose to maintain the troops when they come. We not only don't keep our promise, and make scarce any provision for our defenders, but our people insist upon the most exorbitant prices for their cattle and stores, and actually cheat the soldiers who are come to fight their battles. No wonder the General swears, and the troops are sulky. The delays have been endless. Owing to the failure of the several provinces to provide their promised stores and means of locomotion, weeks and months have elapsed, during which time no doubt the French have been strengthening themselves on our frontier and in the forts they have turned us out of. Though there never will be any love lost between me and Colonel Washington, it must be owned that _your favourite_ (I am not jealous, Hal) is a brave man and a good officer. The family respect him very much, and the General is always asking his opinion. Indeed, he is almost the only man who has seen the Indians in their war-paint, and I own I think he was right in firing upon Mons. Jumonville last year." Harry resumes: "We keep the strictest order here in camp, and the orders against drunkenness and ill behaviour on the part of the men are very severe. The roll of each company is called at morning, noon, and night, and a return of the absent and disorderly is given in by the officer to the commanding officer of the regiment, who has to see that they are properly punished. Each regiment has Divine Service performed at the head of its colours every Sunday. The General does everything in the power of mortal man to prevent plundering, and to encourage the people round about to bring in provisions. He has declared soldiers shall be shot who dare to interrupt or molest the market people. He has ordered the price of provisions to be raised a penny a pound, and has lent money out of his own pocket to provide the camp. Altogether he is a strange compound, this General, and shows many strange inconsistencies in his conduct. "Colonel Washington has had the fever very smartly, and has hardly been well enough to keep up with the march. When either of us is ill, we are almost as good friends again as ever, and though I don't love him as you do, I know he is a good soldier, a good officer, and a brave, honest man; and, at any rate, shall love him none the worse for not wanting to be our step-father." "When our march is over, you should see our camp, and all the care bestowed on it. Our baggage and our General's tents and guard are placed quite in the centre of the camp. We have outlying sentries by twos, by threes, by tens, by whole companies. At the least surprise, they are instructed to run in on the main body and rally round the tents and baggage, which are so arranged themselves as to be a strong fortification. Sady and I, you must know, are marching on foot now, and my horses are carrying baggage. The Pennsylvanians sent such rascally animals into camp that they speedily gave in. What good horses were left 'twas our duty to give up; and Roxana has a couple of packs upon her back instead of her young master. She knows me right well, and whinnies when she sees me, and I walk by her side, and we have many a talk together on the march. Mr. Washington had had a sufficient ride already, and counted as certainly upon the hospitality of Castlewood as he would upon the shelter of his own house. "The time to feed my horse, and a glass of water for myself, and I will trouble Castlewood hospitality no farther," Mr. Washington said. "Sure, George, you have your room here, and my mother is above stairs getting it ready!" cries Harry. "That poor horse of yours stumbled with you, and can't go farther this evening." "Hush! Your mother won't see him, child," whispered Mrs. Mountain. "Not see George? Why, he is like a son of the house," cries Harry. "She had best not see him. I don't meddle any more in family matters, child; but when the Colonel's servant rode in, and said you were coming, Madame Esmond left this room and said she felt she could not see Mr. Washington. Will you go to her?" Harry took Mrs. Mountain's arm, and excusing himself to the Colonel, to whom he said he would return in a few minutes, he left the parlour in which they had assembled, and went to the upper rooms, where Madame Esmond was. But when he besought her to go downstairs, and give her a hand of welcome to George Washington, who had accompanied him, the lady's excitement painfully increased. She said she should shudder at touching his hand. She declared Mr. Washington had taken her son from her; she could not sleep under the same roof with him. "No gentleman," cried Harry, warmly, "was ever refused shelter under my grandfather's roof." "You do not grieve more than I do that it is otherwise, Madame," said the Colonel. "I might have wished that the meeting had been spared, that I might not have kept you from friends whom you are naturally anxious to see, that my boy's indisposition had not detained you. Home and his good nurse Mountain, and his mother and our good Dr. Dempster will soon restore him. 'Twas scarce necessary, Colonel, that you who have so many affairs on your hands, military and domestic, should turn doctor too." "Harry was ill and weak, and I thought it was my duty to ride by him," faltered the Colonel. "You yourself, sir, have gone through the _fatigues_ and _dangers_ of the campaign in the most wonderful manner," said the widow, curtseying again, and looking at him with her impenetrable black eyes. "I wish to Heaven, Madame, someone else had come back in my place!" As for Mr. Washington, she would never, with her own good will, behold him again. He had promised to guard George's life with his own, and where was her boy. So, if Harry wanted to meet his friend, he had to do so in secret. Madame Esmond was exceedingly excited when she heard that the Colonel and her son absolutely had met, and said to Harry, "How you can talk, sir, of loving George, and then go and meet your Mr. Washington, I can't understand." Accordingly he took passage on the "Young Rachel," Virginian ship, Edward Franks master. She proceeded to Bristol and moored as near as possible to Trail's wharf, to which she was consigned. Mr. Trail, who could survey his ship from his counting-house windows, straightway took boat and came up her side, and gave the hand of welcome to Captain Franks, congratulating the Captain upon the speedy and fortunate voyage which he had made. "And this passenger, who has the whole cabin, don't pay nothin'," continued the Captain. "Swear now, it will do you good, Mr. Trail, indeed it will. I have tried the medicine." "A passenger take the whole cabin and not pay? Gracious mercy, are you a fool, Captain Franks?" Mr. Trail scowled at the young passenger who had paid no money for his passage. He scarcely nodded his head to the stranger, when Captain Franks said: "This here gentleman is Mr. Trail, sir, whose name you have a-heerd of." "It's pretty well known in Bristol, sir," says Mr. Trail, majestically. "And this is Mr. Warrington, Madame Esmond Warrington's son, of Castlewood," continued the Captain. The British merchant's hat was instantly off his head, and the owner of the beaver was making a prodigious number of bows, as if a crown-prince were before him. "Gracious powers, Mr. Warrington! This is a delight, indeed! What a crowning mercy that your voyage should have been so prosperous! You have my boat to go on shore. Let me cordially and respectfully welcome you to England! Let me shake your hand as the son of my benefactress and patroness, Mrs. Esmond Warrington, whose name is known and honoured on Bristol 'Change, I warrant you. Isn't it, Franks?" "It is for their good, my dear young sir! We purchased the poor creatures only for their benefit; let me talk this matter over with you at my own house. I can introduce you to a happy home, a Christian family, and a British merchant's honest fare. Can't I, Captain Franks?" Not choosing to take any notice of this remark, Mr. Trail continued in his low tone: "Business is business, my dear young sir, and I know 'tis only my duty, the duty of all of us, to cultivate the fruits of the earth in their season. As the heir of Lady Esmond's estate--for I speak, I believe, to the heir of the great property?" The young gentleman made a bow. "I would urge upon you, at the very earliest moment, the duty of increasing the ample means with which Heaven has blessed you. As an honest factor, I could not do otherwise: as a prudent man, should I scruple to speak of what will tend to your profit and mine? No, my dear Mr. George." "My name is not George; my name is Henry," said the young man as he turned his head away, and his eyes filled with tears. "Hold your tongue, you fool!" cried Mr. Franks, striking the merchant a tough blow on his sleek sides, as the young lad turned away. "Don't you see the young gentleman a-swabbing his eyes, and note his black clothes?" "Mr. George is there," said the Captain, pointing with his thumb to the deck. "Where?" cries the factor. And still more glad would he have been had he known that the near future was to verify his mother's belief; to restore to him the twin-brother now mourned as dead. And glad are we, in looking beyond this story of boyhood days, to find that though in the Revolutionary War the subjects of this sketch fought on different sides in the quarrel, they came out peacefully at its conclusion, as brothers should, their love never having materially diminished, however angrily the contest divided them. The colonel in scarlet and the general in blue and buff hang side by side in the wainscoted parlour of the Warringtons in England, and the portraits are known by the name of "The Virginians." BECKY SHARP AT SCHOOL [Illustration: BECKY SHARP LEAVING CHISWICK.] "Have you completed all the necessary preparations incident to Miss Sedley's departure, Miss Jemima?" asked Miss Pinkerton, that majestic lady, the friend of the famous literary man, Dr. Johnson, the author of the great Dixonary of the English language, called commonly the great Lexicographer. "Say a bouquet, sister Jemima, 'tis more genteel." In the present instance Miss Pinkerton's "billet" was to the following effect: In the principles of religion and morality, Miss Sedley will be found worthy of an establishment which has been honoured by the presence of The Great Lexicographer, and the patronage of the admirable Mrs. Chapone. In leaving them all, Miss Amelia carries with her the hearts of her companions, and the affectionate regards of her mistress, who has the honour to subscribe herself, Madam, your most obliged humble servant, This letter completed, Miss Pinkerton proceeded to write her own name and Miss Sedley's in the fly-leaf of a Johnson's Dictionary, the interesting work which she invariably presented to her scholars on their departure from the Mall. On the cover was inserted a copy of "Lines addressed to a young lady on quitting Miss Pinkerton's school, at the Mall; by the late revered Dr. Samuel Johnson." In fact, the Lexicographer's name was always on the lips of this majestic woman, and a visit he had paid to her was the cause of her reputation and her fortune. "For whom is this, Miss Jemima?" said Miss Pinkerton, with awful coldness. "For Becky Sharp," answered Jemima, trembling very much, and blushing over her withered face and neck, as she turned her back on her sister. "For Becky Sharp. She's going, too." "MISS JEMIMA!" exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, in the largest capitals. "Are you in your senses? Replace the Dixonary in the closet, and never venture to take such a liberty in future." Then came the ending of Becky's studio days, and, an orphan, she was transplanted to the Mall as her home. "A viper--a fiddlestick!" said Miss Sharp to the old lady, who was almost fainting with astonishment. "You took me because I was useful. There is no question of gratitude between us. I hate this place, and want to leave it. I will do nothing here but what I am obliged to do." "Send my letters under cover to my grandpa, the Earl of Dexter," said Miss Saltire. "Never mind the postage, but write every day, you dear darling," said the impetuous and woolly-headed, but generous and affectionate, Miss Schwartz; and little Laura Martin took her friend's hand and said, looking up in her face wistfully, "Amelia, when I write to you I shall call you mamma." All of these details, foolish and sentimental as they may seem, go to show the extreme popularity and personal charm of Amelia. "You'll go in and say good-bye to Miss Pinkerton, Becky!" said Miss Jemima to that young lady, of whom nobody took any notice, and who was coming downstairs with her own bandbox. "I suppose I must," said Miss Sharp calmly, and much to the wonder of Miss Jemima; and the latter, having knocked at the door, and receiving permission to come in, Miss Sharp advanced in a very unconcerned manner, and said in French, and with a perfect accent, _"Mademoiselle, je viens vous faire mes adieux."_ "Come away, Becky," said Miss Jemima, pulling the young woman away in great alarm, and the drawing-room door closed upon them forever. Then came the struggle and parting below. Words refuse to tell it. All the servants were there in the hall--all the dear friends--all the young ladies--even the dancing master, who had just arrived; and there was such a scuffling, and hugging, and kissing, and crying, with the hysterical _yoops_ of Miss Schwartz, the parlour boarder, from her room, as no pen can depict, and as the tender heart would feign pass over. The embracing was over; they parted--that is, Miss Sedley parted from her friends. Miss Sharp had demurely entered the carriage some minutes before. Nobody cried for leaving _her_. "Stop!" cried Miss Jemima, rushing to the gate with a parcel. And the kind creature retreated into the garden, overcome with emotion. But, lo! and just as the coach drove off, Miss Sharp suddenly put her pale face out of the window, and flung the book back into the garden--flung it far and fast--watching it fall at the feet of astonished Miss Jemima; then sank back in the carriage, exclaiming: "So much for the 'Dixonary'; and, thank God, I am out of Chiswick!" The shock of such an act almost caused Jemima to faint with terror. CUFFS FIGHT WITH "FIGS" [Illustration: CUFF'S FIGHT WITH "FIGS."] Young Dobbin had no peace after that. The jokes were frightful and merciless against him. Now, William Dobbin, from an incapacity to acquire the rudiments of the Latin language, as they are propounded in that wonderful book, the Eton Latin Grammar, was compelled to remain among the very last of Dr. Swishtail's scholars, and was "taken down" continually by little fellows with pink faces and pinafores when he marched up with the lower form, a giant amongst them, with his downcast, stupefied look, his dog's-eared primer, and his tight corduroys. High and low, all made fun of him. They sewed up those corduroys, tight as they were. They cut his bed-springs. They upset buckets and benches, so that he might break his shins over them, which he never failed to do. They sent him parcels, which, when opened, were found to contain the paternal soap and candles. There was no little fellow but had his jeer and joke at Dobbin; and he bore everything quite patiently, and was entirely dumb and miserable. "I can't," says Dobbin; "I want to finish my letter." "You _can't?_" says Mr. Cuff, laying hold of that document (in which many words were scratched out, many were misspelt, on which had been spent I don't know how much thought, and labour, and tears; for the poor fellow was writing to his mother, who was fond of him, although she was a grocer's wife, and lived in a back parlour in Thames Street). "You _can't?"_ says Mr. Cuff. "I should like to know why, pray? Can't you write to old Mother Figs tomorrow?" "Don't call names," Dobbin said, getting off the bench, very nervous. "Well, sir, will you go?" crowed the cock of the school. "Put down the letter," Dobbin replied; "no gentleman readth letterth." "Well, _now_ will you go?" says the other. "No, I won't. Don't strike, or I'll _thmash_ you," roars out Dobbin, springing to a leaden inkstand, and looking so wicked that Mr. Cuff paused, turned down his coat sleeves again, put his hands into his pockets, and walked away with a sneer. But he never meddled personally with the grocer's boy after that; though we must do him the justice to say he always spoke of Mr. Dobbin with contempt behind his back. Some time after this interview it happened that Mr. Cuff, on a sunshiny afternoon, was in the neighbourhood of poor William Dobbin, who was lying under a tree in the playground, spelling over a favourite copy of the "Arabian Nights" which he had--apart from the rest of the school, who were pursuing their various sports--quite lonely, and almost happy. It was the lad who had peached upon him about the grocer's cart, but he bore little malice, not at least towards the young and small. "How dare you, sir, break the bottle?" says Cuff to the little urchin, swinging a yellow cricket-stump over him. "How dare you, sir, break it?" says Cuff; "you blundering little thief. You drank the shrub, and now you pretend to have broken the bottle. Hold out your hand, sir." "Hold out your other hand, sir," roars Cuff to his little school-fellow, whose face was distorted with pain. Dobbin quivered, and gathered himself up in his narrow old clothes. "Take that, you little devil!" cried Mr. Cuff, and down came the wicket again on the child's hand. Down came the wicket again, and Dobbin started up. "Or you'll what?" Cuff asked in amazement at this interruption. "Hold out your hand, you little beast." "After school," says he, "of course," after a pause and a look, as much as to say, "Make your will, and communicate your last wishes to your friends between this time and that." "As you please," Dobbin said. "You must be my bottle-holder, Osborne." "Well, if you like," little Osborne replied; for you see his papa kept a carriage, and he was rather ashamed of his champion. Cuff went down this time, to the astonishment of the assembly. "Well hit, by Jove," says little Osborne, with the air of a connoisseur, clapping his man on the back. "Give it to him with the left, Figs, my boy." "I think _that_ will do for him," Figs said, as his opponent dropped as neatly on the green as I have seen Jack Spot's ball plump into the pocket at billiards; and the fact is, when time was called, Mr. Reginald Cuff was not able, or did not choose, to stand up again. And now all the boys set up such a shout for Figs as would have made you think he had been their darling champion through the whole battle; and as absolutely brought Dr. Swishtail out of his study, curious to know the cause of the uproar. He threatened to flog Figs violently, of course; but Cuff, who had come to himself by this time, and was washing his wounds, stood up and said, "It's my fault, sir--not Figs's--not Dobbin's. I was bullying a little boy; and he served me right." By which magnanimous speech he not only saved his conqueror a whipping, but got back all his ascendancy over the boys which his defeat had nearly cost him. Young Osborne wrote home to his parents an account of the transaction: GEORGE SEDLEY OSBORNE. In consequence of Dobbin's victory, his character rose prodigiously in the estimation of all his school fellows, and the name of Figs, which had been a byword of reproach, became as respectable and popular a nickname as any other in use in the school. "After all, it's not his fault that his father's a grocer," George Osborne said, who, though a little chap, had a very high popularity among the Swishtail youth; and his opinion was received with great applause. It was voted low to sneer at Dobbin about this accident of birth. "Old Figs" grew to be a name of kindness and endearment, and the sneak of an usher jeered at him no longer. Dobbin was much too modest a young fellow to suppose that this happy change in all his circumstances arose from his own generous and manly disposition; he chose, from some perverseness, to attribute his good fortune to the sole agency and benevolence of little George Osborne, to whom henceforth he vowed such a love and affection as is only felt by children, an affection as we read of in the charming fairy-book, which uncouth Orson had for splendid young Valentine, his conqueror. He flung himself down at little Osborne's feet, and loved him. Even before they were acquainted, he had admired Osborne in secret. Now he was his valet, his dog, his man Friday. He believed Osborne to be the possessor of every perfection, to be the handsomest, the bravest, the most active, the cleverest, the most generous of boys. He shared his money with him, bought him uncountable presents of knives, pencil cases, gold seals, toffee, little warblers, and romantic books, with large pictures of knights and robbers, in many of which latter you might read inscriptions to George Sedley Osborne, Esquire, from his attached friend William Dobbin--which tokens of homage George received very graciously, as became his superior merit, as often and as long as they were proffered him. GEORGE OSBORNE--RAWDON CRAWLEY [Illustration: GEORGE OSBORNE AND RAWDON CRAWLEY.] Rebecca sharp, the teacher of French at Miss Pinkerton's Academy for young ladies, and intimate friend of Miss Amelia Sedley, the most popular scholar in Miss Pinkerton's select establishment, left the institution at the same time to become a governess in the family of Sir Pitt Crawley. Amelia was the only daughter of John Sedley, a wealthy London stock broker, and upon leaving school was to take her place in fashionable society. Being the sweetest, most kind-hearted girl in the world, Amelia invited Becky to visit her in London before taking up her new duties as governess; which invitation Becky was only too glad to accept. From that time she and Amelia did not meet for many months, during which Amelia had become the wife of George Osborne, and Rebecca Sharp had married Rawdon Crawley, son of Sir Pitt Crawley, Baronet. The circumstances of Amelia's life during these months altered greatly, for shortly after she left school honest John Sedley met with such severe losses that his family were obliged to live in a much more modest way than formerly. Because of this misfortune, the course of Amelia's love affair with young Lieutenant Osborne did not run smoothly; for his father was far too ambitious to consent to his only son's marriage with the daughter of a ruined man, although John Sedley was his son's godfather, and George had been devoted to Amelia since early boyhood. Lieutenant Osborne therefore went away with his regiment, and poor little Amelia was left behind, to pine and mourn until it seemed there was no hope of saving her life unless happiness should speedily come to her. Then it was that Major Dobbin, George Osborne's staunch friend of schooldays, and also an ardent admirer of Amelia's, saw how she was grieving and took upon himself to inform George Osborne of the state of affairs. The young lieutenant came hurrying home just in time to save a gentle little heart from wearing itself away with sorrowing, and married Amelia without his father's consent. This so enraged the old gentleman that he refused to have his name mentioned in the home where the boy had grown up; the veriest tyrant and idol of his sisters and father. As for little Rawdon Crawley, Becky's only child, he had few early happy recollections of his mother. She had not, to say the truth, seen much of the young gentleman since his birth. After the amiable fashion of French mothers, she had placed him out at nurse in a village in the neighbourhood of Paris, where little Rawdon lived, not unhappily, with a numerous family of foster brothers in wooden shoes. His father, who was devotedly attached to the little fellow, would ride over many a time to see him here, and the elder Rawdon's paternal heart glowed to see him rosy and dirty, shouting lustily, and happy in the making of mud-pies under the superintendence of the gardener's wife, his nurse. So with little care and less love his childhood passed until presently he went with his father and mother, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley, to London, to their new home in Curzon Street, Mayfair. There little Rawdon's time was mostly spent hidden upstairs in a garret somewhere, or crawling below into the kitchen for companionship. His mother scarcely ever took notice of him. He passed the days with his French nurse as long as she remained in the family, and when she went away, a housemaid took compassion on the little fellow, who was howling in the loneliness of the night, and got him out of his solitary nursery into her bed in the garret and comforted him. Mr. Rawdon Crawley had stolen off, however, to look after his son and heir; and came back to the company when he found that honest Dolly was consoling the child. The Colonel's dressing-room was in those upper regions. He used to see the boy there in private. They had interviews together every morning when he shaved; Rawdon minor sitting on a box by his father's side, and watching the operation with never-ceasing pleasure. He and the sire were great friends. The father would bring him sweet-meats from the dessert, and hide them in a certain old epaulet box where the child went to seek them, and laughed with joy on discovering the treasure; laughed, but not too loud; for mamma was asleep and must not be disturbed. She did not go to rest until very late, and seldom rose until afternoon. Rawdon minor had made up his face for a tremendous howl, but just as he was going to begin, the father interposed. His father used to take him out of mornings, when they would go to the stables together and to the park. Little Lord Southdown, the best natured of men, who would make you a present of a hat from his head, and whose main occupation in life was to buy nicknacks that he might give them away afterwards, bought the little chap a pony, not much bigger than a large rat, and on this little black Shetland pony young Rawdon's great father would mount the boy, and walk by his side in the Park. "Good-morning, your honour," said Clink, in reply to the "How do, Clink?" of the Colonel. "This 'ere young gentleman is about the little Colonel's age, sir," continued the Corporal. "His father was a Waterloo man, too," said the old gentleman who carried the boy. "Wasn't he, Georgie?" "Yes, sir," said Georgie. He and the little chap on the pony were looking at each other with all their might, solemnly scanning each other as children do. "His father was a captain in the--the regiment," said the old gentleman rather pompously. "Captain George Osborne, sir--perhaps you knew him. He died the death of a hero, sir, fighting against the Corsican tyrant" "I knew him very well, sir," said Colonel Crawley, "and his wife, his dear little wife, sir--how is she?" "She is my daughter, sir," said the old gentleman proudly, putting down the boy, and taking out his card, which he handed to the Colonel, while little Georgie went up and looked at the Shetland pony. "Should you like to have a ride?" said Rawdon minor from the saddle. "Yes," said Georgie. The Colonel, who had been looking at him with some interest, took up the child and put him on the pony behind Rawdon minor. "Take hold of him, Georgie," he said; "take my little boy around the waist; his name is Rawdon." And both the children began to laugh. The funeral over, Rebecca and her husband remained for a visit at Queen's Crawley, which assumed its wonted aspect. Rawdon senior received constant bulletins respecting little Rawdon, who was left behind in London, and sent messages of his own. "I am very well," he wrote. "I hope you are very well. I hope mamma is very well. The pony is very well. Grey takes me to ride in the Park. I can canter. I met the little boy who rode before. He cried when he cantered. I do not cry." Rawdon read these letters to his brother, and Lady Jane, who was delighted with them, gave Rebecca a banknote, begging her to buy a present with it for her little nephew. His mother came out and struck him violently a couple of boxes on the ear. He heard a laugh from the Marquis in the inner room, and fled down below to his friends of the kitchen, bursting in an agony of grief. After this incident the mother's dislike increased to hatred; the consciousness that the child was in the house was a reproach and a pain to her. His very sight annoyed her. Fear, doubt, and resistance sprang up too, in the boy's own bosom. He and his mother were separated from that day of the boxes on the ear. Presently the boy fell asleep, and it was dark when he was wakened up to enter his uncle's carriage at Mudbury, and he sat and looked out of it wondering as the great iron gates flew open, and at the white trunks of the limes as they swept by, until they stopped at length before the lighted windows of the Hall, which were blazing and comfortable with Christmas welcome. The hall-door was flung open; a big fire was burning in the great old fireplace, a carpet was down over the chequered black flags, and the next instant Becky was kissing Lady Jane. Then the kind hostess conducted her guests to snug apartments blazing with cheerful fires, and after some conversation with the fine young ladies of the house, the great dinner bell having rung, the family assembled at dinner, at which meal Rawdon junior was placed by his aunt, and exhibited not only a fine appetite, but a gentlemanlike behaviour. "I like to dine here," he said to his aunt when he had completed his meal, at the conclusion of which, and after a decent grace by Sir Pitt, the younger son and heir was introduced and was perched on a high chair by the Baronet's side, while the daughter took possession of the place prepared for her, near her mother. "I like to dine here," said Rawdon minor, looking up at his relation's kind face. "Why?" said the good Lady Jane. "I dine in the kitchen when I am at home," replied Rawdon minor, "or else with Briggs." This honest confession was fortunately not heard by Becky, who was deep in conversation with the Baronet, or it might have been worse for little Rawdon. Queen's Crawley had been much improved since the young Baronet's brief reign, and was pronounced by Becky to be perfect, charming, delightful, when she surveyed it in his company. As for little Rawdon, who examined it with the children for his guides, it seemed to him a perfect palace of enchantment and wonder. There were long galleries, and ancient state bed-rooms; there were pictures and old china and armour which enchanted little Rawdon, who had never seen their like before, and who, poor child, had never before been in such an atmosphere of kindness and good cheer. He looked her full in the face after the operation, trembling and turning very red, as his wont was when moved. "You never kiss me at home, Mamma," he said; at which there was a general silence and consternation, and by no means a pleasant look in Becky's eyes; but she was obliged to allow the incident to pass in silence. But the greatest day of all was that on which Sir Huddlestone Fuddlestone's hounds met upon the lawn at Queen's Crawley. Many young gentlemen cantered up on thoroughbred hacks, spatter-dashed to the knee, and entered the house to pay their respects to the ladies, or, more modest and sportsmanlike, divested themselves of their mud-boots, exchanged their hacks for their hunters, and warmed their blood by a preliminary gallop round the lawn. Then they collected round the pack in the corner, and talked with Tom Moody of past sport, and the merits of Sniveller and Diamond, and of the state of the country and of the wretched breed of foxes. It was honest Briggs who made up the little kit for the boy which he was to take to school. Molly, the housemaid, blubbered in the passage when he went away. Mrs. Becky could not let her husband have the carriage to take the boy to school. Take the horses into the city! Such a thing was never heard of. Let a cab be brought. She did not offer to kiss him when he went, nor did the child propose to embrace her, but gave a kiss to old Briggs and consoled her by pointing out that he was to come home on Saturdays, when she would have the benefit of seeing him. As the cab rolled towards the city Becky's carriage rattled off to the park. She gave no thought to either of them when the father and son entered at the old gates of the school, where Rawdon left the child, then walked home very dismally, and dined alone with Briggs, to whom he was grateful for her love and watchfulness over the boy. They talked about little Rawdon a long time, and Mr. Crawley went off to drink tea with Lady Jane, who was very fond of Rawdon, as was her little girl, who cried bitterly when the time for her cousin's departure came. Rawdon senior now told Lady Jane how little Rawdon went off like a trump, and how he was to wear a gown and little knee breeches, and Jack Blackball's son of the old regiment had taken him in charge and promised to be kind to him. The Colonel went to see his son a short time afterwards, and found the lad sufficiently well and happy, grinning and laughing in his little black gown and little breeches. As a protege of the great Lord Steyne, the nephew of a county member, and son of a Colonel and C.B. whose names appeared in some of the most fashionable parties in the Morning Post, perhaps the school authorities were disposed not to look unkindly on the child. He had plenty of pocket-money, which he spent in treating his comrades royally to raspberry tarts, and he was often allowed to come home on Saturdays to his father, who always made a jubilee of that day. When free, Rawdon would take him to the play, or send him thither with the footman; and on Sundays he went to church with Briggs and Lady Jane and his cousins. Rawdon marvelled over his stories about school, and fights, and fagging. Before long he knew the names of all the masters and the principal boys as well as little Rawdon himself. He invited little Rawdon's crony from school and made both the children sick with pastry, and oysters, and porter after the play. He tried to look knowing over the Latin grammar when little Rawdon showed him what part of that work he was "in." "Stick to it, my boy," he said to him with much gravity, "there's nothing like a good classical education! Nothing!" As for George Osborne, the little boy whom Rawdon Crawley had given a ride on his pony long years before, the fates had been much kinder to him than to Rawdon. He had had no lonely childhood, for although he had no recollection of his handsome young father, from baby days he was surrounded by the utmost adoration by a doting mother. Poor Amelia, deprived of the husband whom she adored, lavished all the pent-up love of her gentle bosom upon the little boy with the eyes of George who was gone--a little boy as beautiful as a cherub, and there was never a moment when the child missed any office which love or affection could give him. His grandfather Sedley also adored the child, and it was the old man's delight to take out his little grandson to the neighbouring parks of Kensington Gardens, to see the soldiers or to feed the ducks. Georgie loved the red coats, and his grandpapa told him how his father had been a famous soldier, and introduced him to many sergeants and others with Waterloo medals on their breasts, to whom the old grandfather pompously presented the child; as on the occasion of their meeting with Colonel Rawdon Crawley and his little son. Old Sedley was disposed to spoil little Georgie, sadly gorging the boy with apples and peppermint to the detriment of his health, until Amelia declared that Georgie should never go out with his grandpapa again unless the latter solemnly promised on his honour not to give the child any cakes, lollipops, or stall produce whatever. Amelia's days were full of active employment, for besides caring for Georgie, she devoted much time to her old father and mother, with whom she and the child lived, and who were much broken by their financial reverses. She also personally superintended her little son's education for several years. She taught him to read and to write, and a little to draw. She read books, in order that she might tell him stories. As his eyes opened, and his mind expanded, she taught him to the best of her humble power to acknowledge the Maker of All; and every night and every morning he and she--the mother and the little boy--prayed to our Father together, the mother pleading with all her gentle heart, the child lisping after her as she spoke. And each time they prayed to God to bless dear papa, as if he were alive and in the room with them. Amidst humble scenes and associates Georgie's early youth was passed, and the boy grew up delicate, sensitive, imperious, woman-bred--domineering over the gentle mother whom he loved with passionate affection. He ruled all the rest of the little world round about him. As he grew, the elders were amazed at his haughty manner and his constant likeness to his father. He asked questions about everything, as inquiring youth will do. The profundity of his remarks and questions astonished his old grandfather, who perfectly bored the club at the tavern with stories about the little lad's learning and genius. He suffered his grandmother with a good-humoured indifference. The small circle round about him believed that the equal of the boy did not exist upon the earth. Georgie inherited his father's pride, and perhaps thought they were not wrong. Sometimes, too, the Major's sisters, the Misses Dobbin, would call in the family carriage to take Amelia and the little boy a drive. The patronage of these ladies was very uncomfortable to Amelia, but she bore it meekly enough, for her nature was to yield; and besides, the carriage and its splendours gave little Georgie immense pleasure. The ladies begged occasionally that the child might pass a day with them, and he was always glad to go to that fine villa on Denmark Hill, where there were such fine grapes in the hot-house and peaches on the walls. The woman burst into tears. "Oh, sir," she said, "I've seen little Georgie. He is as beautiful as an angel--and so like _him!_" The old man opposite to her did not say a word, but flushed up, and began to tremble in every limb, and that night he bade his daughter good-night in rather a kindly voice. And he must have made some inquiries of the Misses Dobbin regarding her visit to them when she had seen Georgie, for a fortnight afterwards he asked her where was her little French watch and chain she used to wear. "I bought it with my money, sir," she said in a great fright, not daring to tell what she had done with it. "Go and order another like it, or a better, if you can get it," said the old gentleman, and lapsed again into silence. She was going to place the books on Georgie's table, when in the passage she and her mother met. The gilt bindings of the little volumes caught the old lady's eye. "What are those?" she said. "Some books for Georgie," Amelia replied. "I--I promised them to him at Christmas." "Books!" cried the old lady indignantly; books! when the whole house wants bread! Oh, Amelia! You break my heart with your books, and that boy of yours, whom you are ruining, though part with him you will not! Oh, Amelia, may God send you a more dutiful child than I have had! There's Joseph deserts his father in his old age; and there's George, who might be rich, going to school like a lord, with a gold watch and chain round his neck, while my dear, dear, old man is without a sh-shilling." Hysterical sobs ended Mrs. Sedley's grief, which quite melted Amelia's tender heart. "Nothing, my child," she said, and stooped down and kissed him. That night Amelia made the boy read the story of Samuel to her, and how Hannah, his mother, having weaned him, brought him to Eli the High Priest to minister before the Lord. And he read the song of gratitude which Hannah sang; and which says: "Who is it who maketh poor and maketh rich, and bringeth low and exalteth, how the poor shall be raised up out of the dust, and how, in his own might, no man shall be strong." Then he read how Samuel's mother made him a little coat, and brought it to him from year to year when she came up to offer the yearly sacrifice. And then, in her sweet, simple way, George's mother made commentaries to the boy upon this affecting story. How Hannah, though she loved her son so much, yet gave him up because of her vow. And how she must always have thought of him as she sat at home, far away, making the little coat, and Samuel, she was sure, never forgot his mother; and how happy she must have been as the time came when she should see her boy, and how good and wise he had grown. This little sermon she spoke with a gentle, solemn voice, and dry eyes, until she came to the account of their meeting. Then the discourse broke off suddenly, the tender heart overflowed, and taking the boy to her breast, she rocked him in her arms, and wept silently over him. In simple terms, Amelia told her the reasons which had induced her to change her mind respecting her boy. Her father had met with fresh misfortunes which had entirely ruined him. Her own pittance was so small that it would barely enable her to support her parents and would not suffice to give George the advantages which were his due. Great as her sufferings would be at parting with him, she would, by God's help, endure them for the boy's sake. She knew that those to whom he was going would do all in their power to make him happy. She described his disposition, such as she fancied it; quick and impatient of control or harshness, easily to be moved by love and kindness. In a postscript, she stipulated that she should have a written agreement that she should see the child as often as she wished; she could not part with him under any other terms. "What? Mrs. Pride has come down, has she?" old Osborne said, when with a tremulous voice Miss Osborne read him the letter. "Reg'lar starved out, hey? Ha, ha! I knew she would!" He tried to keep his dignity and to read his paper as usual, but he could not follow it. At last he flung it down: and scowling at his daughter, as his wont was, went out of the room and presently returned with a key. He flung it to Miss Osborne. "Get the room over mine--his room that was--ready," he said. "Yes, sir," his daughter replied in a tremble. "And I'll go and see her to-morrow?" Miss Osborne asked. "That's your lookout. She don't come in _here_, mind. But she mustn't want now. So look out, and get things right." With which brief speeches Mr. Osborne took leave of his daughter, and went on his accustomed way. At last the day came, the carriage drove up, the little humble packets containing tokens of love and remembrance were ready and disposed in the hall long since. George was in his new suit, for which the tailor had come previously to measure him. He had sprung up with the sun and put on the new clothes. Days before Amelia had been making preparations for the end; purchasing little stores for the boy's use; marking his books and linen; talking with him and preparing him for the change, fondly fancying that he needed preparation. George stood by his mother, watching her final arrangements without the least concern, then said a gay farewell, went away smiling, and the widow was quite alone. "I bought it with my own money, mamma," he said. "I thought you'd like it." At his new home Master George ruled like a lord, and charmed his old grandfather by his ways. "Look at him," the old man would say, nudging his neighbour with a delighted purple face, "did you ever see such a chap? Lord, Lord! he'll be ordering a dressing-case next, and razors to shave with; I'm blessed if he won't." This young Todd, of Coram Street, Russell Square, was Master George's great friend and admirer. They both had a taste for painting theatrical characters; for hardbake and raspberry tarts; for sliding and skating in the Regent's Park and the Serpentine, when the weather permitted; for going to the play, whither they were often conducted, by Mr. Osborne's orders, by Rowson, Master George's appointed body-servant, with whom they sate in great comfort in the pit. In the company of this gentleman they visited all the principal theatres of the metropolis--knew the names of all the actors from Drury Lane to Sadler's Wells; and performed, indeed, many of the plays to the Todd family and their youthful friends, with West's famous characters, on their pasteboard theatre. Georgie, after breakfast, would sit in the arm-chair in the dining-room, and read the Morning Post, just like a grown-up man. Those who remembered the Captain, his father, declared Master George was his pa, every inch of him. He made the house lively by his activity, his imperiousness, his scolding, and his good-nature. George's education was confided to the Reverend Lawrence Veal, a private pedagogue who "prepared young noblemen and gentlemen for the Universities, the Senate, and the learned professions; whose system did not embrace the degrading corporal severities still practised at the ancient places of education, and in whose family the pupils would find the elegances of refined society and the confidence and affection of a home," as his prospectus stated. Georgie was only a day pupil; he arrived in the morning, and if it was fine would ride away in the afternoon, on his pony. The wealth of his grandfather was reported in the school to be prodigious. The Reverend Mr. Veal used to compliment Georgie upon it personally, warning him that he was destined for a high station; that it became him to prepare for the lofty duties to which he would be called later; that obedience in the child was the best preparation for command in the man; and that he therefore begged George would not bring toffee into the school and ruin the health of the other pupils, who had everything they wanted at the elegant and abundant table of Mrs. Veal. We see by these examples that we are not to consult our own interest and ambition, but that we are to consider the interests of others as well as our own. GEORGE SEDLEY OSBORNE. After the funeral the widow went back to the bereaved old father, who was stunned and broken by the loss of his wife, his honour, his fortune, in fact, everything he loved best. There was only Amelia now to stand by the tottering, heart-broken old man. This she did, to the best of her ability, all unconscious that on life's ocean a bark was sailing headed towards her with those aboard who were to bring change and comfort to her life. "My God, how like he is!" said the long gentleman, with a start. "Can you guess who we are, George?" The boy's face flushed up, and his eyes brightened. "I don't know the other," he said, "but I should think you must be Major Dobbin." If there was a sincere liking between George and the Major, it must be confessed that between the boy and his Uncle Joseph no great love existed. George had got a way of blowing out his cheeks, and putting his hands in his waistcoat pockets, and saying, "God bless my soul, you don't say so," so exactly after the fashion of old Jos, that it was impossible to refrain from laughter. The servants would explode at dinner if the lad, asking for something which wasn't at table, put on that countenance and used that favourite phrase. Even Dobbin would shoot out a sudden peal at the boy's mimicry. If George did not mimic his uncle to his face, it was only by Dobbin's rebukes and Amelia's terrified entreaties that the little scapegrace was induced to desist. And Joseph, having a dim consciousness that the lad thought him an ass, and was inclined to turn him into ridicule, used to be of course doubly pompous and dignified in the presence of Master George. When it was announced that the young gentleman was expected to dine with his mother, Mr. Jos commonly found that he had an engagement at the Club, and perhaps nobody was much grieved at his absence. "Look here, mother," said George, standing by the window, "here's G.O. scratched on the glass with a diamond; I never saw it before. I never did it." "It was your father's room long before you were born, George," she said, and she blushed as she kissed the boy. She was very silent as they drove back to Richmond, where they had taken a temporary house, but after that time practical matters occupied her mind. There were many directions to be given and much business to transact, and Amelia immediately found herself in the whirl of quite a new life, and experienced the extreme joy of having George continually with her, as he was at that time removed from Mr. Veal's on an unlimited holiday. Jos was in an arbour, placidly dipping strawberries into wine, and the Major was giving a back to George, who chose to jump over him. He went over his head, and bounded into the little group of Bullocks, with immense black bows on their hats, and huge black sashes, accompanying their mourning mamma. "I know you well enough," George said; "but I don't like kissing, please," and he retreated from the obedient caresses of his cousin. Because of this wish, some time later, on a fine morning, when the Batavier steamboat was about to leave its dock, we see among the carriages being taken on, a very neat, handsome travelling carriage, from which a courier, Kirsch by name, got out and informed inquirers that the carriage belonged to an enormously rich Nabob from Calcutta and Jamaica, with whom he was engaged to travel. At this moment a young gentleman who had been warned off the bridge between the paddle-boxes, and who had dropped thence onto the roof of Lord Methusala's carriage, from which he made his way over other carriages until he had clambered onto his own, descended thence and through the window into the body of the carriage to the applause of the couriers looking on. "_Nous allons avoir une belle traversee_, Monsieur George," said Kirsch with a grin, as he lifted his gold laced cap. "Bother your French!" said the young gentleman. "Where's the biscuits, ay?" Whereupon Kirsch answered him in such English as he could command and produced the desired repast. When the coach that was to carry old Dob away drew up before the door, Georgie gave an exclamation of surprise. "Hello!" said he, "there's Dob's trap! There's Francis coming out with the portmanteau, and the postilion. Look at his boots and yellow jacket--why--they are putting the horses to Dob's carriage. Is he going anywhere?" "Yes," said Amelia, "he is going on a journey." "Going on a journey! And when is he coming back?" "He is--not coming back," answered Amelia. "Not coming back!" cried out Georgie, jumping up. "Stay here," roared out Jos. "Stay, Georgie," said his mother, with a very sad face. The boy stopped, kicked about the room, jumped up and down from the window seat, and finally, when the Major's luggage had been carried out, gave way to his feelings again. "By Jove, I _will_ go!" screamed out George, and rushed downstairs and flung across the street in a minute. The yellow postilion was cracking his whip gently. William had got into the carriage, George bounded in after him, and flung his arms around the Major's neck, asking him multiplied questions. William kissed Georgie, spoke gently and sadly to him, and the boy got out, doubling his fists into his eyes. The yellow postilion cracked his whip again, up sprang Francis to the box, and away Dobbin was carried, never looking up as he passed under Amelia's window; and Georgie, left alone in the street, burst out crying in the face of all the crowd and continued his lamentations far into the night, when Amelia's maid, who heard him howling, brought him some preserved apricots to console him. "How she does pitch! There goes a wave slap over her bows. There's a man lying down, and a--chap--in a--cloak with a--Hurrah! It's _Dob_, by jingo!" He clapped to the telescope and flung his arms round his mother, then ran swiftly off; and Amelia was left to make her peace alone with the faithful Major, who had returned at her request. Some days later Becky Sharp felt it wise to leave for Bruges, and in the little church at Ostend there was a wedding, at which the only witnesses were Georgie and his Uncle Jos. Amelia Osborne had decided to accept the Major's protection for life, to the never-ending satisfaction of George, to whom the Major had always been comrade and father. Immediately after his marriage Colonel Dobbin quitted the service and rented a pretty little country place in Hampshire, not far from Queen's Crawley, where Sir Pitt and his family constantly resided now, and where Rawdon Crawley was regarded as their son. CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME [Illustration: CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME.] Old Thomas Newcome would have liked to leave all his private fortune to his son Thomas, for the twins were only too well provided for, but he dared not, for fear of his wife, and he died, and poor Tom was only secretly forgiven. So much for the history of Clive Newcome's father and grandfather. Having related it in full detail, we can now proceed to the narrative of Clive's life, he being the hero of this tale. Let us glance at a few extracts from letters received by Colonel Newcome after his boy had reached England. The aunt to whose care he was entrusted wrote as follows: With the most heartfelt joy, my dear Major, I take up my pen to announce to you the happy arrival of the Ramchunder and the dearest and handsomest little boy who, I am sure, ever came from India. Little Clive is in perfect health. He speaks English wonderfully well. He cried when he parted from Mr. Sneid, the supercargo, who most kindly brought him from Southhampton in a postchaise, but these tears in childhood are of very brief duration! Your grateful and affectionate, In a round hand and on lines ruled with pencil: _Dearest Papa_ I am very well I hope you are Very Well. Mr. Sneed brought me in a postchaise I like Mr. Sneed very much. I like Aunt Martha I like Hannah. There are no ships here I am your affectionate son CLIVE NEWCOME. There was also a note from Colonel Newcome's stepbrother, Bryan, as follows: Yours affectionately, And another from Miss Honeyman's brother, containing the following: _My Dear Colonel_: Clive is everything that a father's and uncle's, a pastor's, a teacher's, affections could desire. He is not a premature genius; he is not, I frankly own, more advanced in his classical and mathematical studies than some children even younger than himself; but he has acquired the rudiments of health; he has laid in a store of honesty and good-humour which are not less likely to advance him in life than mere science and language etc., etc., Your affectionate brother-in-law, Another letter from Miss Honeyman herself said: Instead then of allowing Clive to be with Charles in London next month I shall send him to Doctor Timpany's school, Marine Parade, of which I hear the best account; but I hope you will think of soon sending him to a great school. My father always said it was the best place for boys, and I have a brother to whom my poor mother spared the rod, and who I fear has turned out but a spoiled child. I am, dear Colonel, your most faithful servant, After that day's school I met my little protege in the neighbourhood of the pastry cook's, regaling himself with raspberry tarts. "You must not spend all the money, sir, which your uncle gave you," said I, "in tarts and ginger-beer." The urchin rubbed the raspberry jam off his mouth, and said, "It don't matter, sir, for I've got lots more." "How much?" says the Grand Inquisitor: for the formula of interrogation used to be, when a new boy came to the school, "What's your name? Who's your father? and how much money have you got?" "And who is Ethel?" I ask, smiling at the artless youth's confessions. "And how old is Egbert?" asks the smiling senior. So, being called away from the school, I said "Farewell and God bless you," to the brave little man, who remained a while at the Grey Friars, where his career and troubles had only just begun, and lost sight of him for several years. Nor did we meet again until I was myself a young man occupying chambers in the Temple. And now enjoining the boy to be ready against his return, the Colonel whirled away in his cab to the city to shake hands with his brothers, whom he had not seen since they were demure little men in blue jackets under charge of a serious tutor. Hobson Newcome, Esquire, was more portly than his elder brother, and allowed his red whiskers to grow on his cheeks and under his chin. He wore thick shoes with nails in them, and affected the country gentleman in his appearance. His hat had a broad brim, and his ample pockets always contained agricultural produce, samples of bean or corn, or a whiplash or balls for horses. In fine, he was a good old country gentleman, and a better man of business than his more solemn brother, at whom he laughed in his jocular way; and said rightly that a gentleman must get up very early to get ahead of him. These gentlemen each received the Colonel in a manner consistent with his peculiar nature. Sir Bryan regretted that Lady Ann was away from London, being at Brighton with the children, who were all ill of the measles. Hobson said, "Maria can't treat you to such good company as Lady Ann could give you; but when will you take a day and come and dine with us? Let's see, to-day is Wednesday; to-morrow we are engaged. Friday, we dine at Judge Budge's; Saturday I am going down to Marblehead to look after the hay. Come on Monday, Tom, and I'll introduce you to the missus and the young uns." "I will bring Clive," says Colonel Newcome, rather disturbed at this reception. "After his illness my sister-in-law was very kind to him." "No, hang it, don't bring boys; there's no good in boys; they stop the talk downstairs, and the ladies don't want 'em in the drawing-room. Send him to dine with the children on Sunday, if you like, and come along down with me to Marblehead, and I'll show you such a crop of hay as will make your eyes open. Are you fond of farming?" "I have not seen my boy for years," says the Colonel; "I had rather pass Saturday and Sunday with him, if you please, and some day we will go to Marblehead together." "Well, an offer's an offer. I don't know any pleasanter thing than getting out of this confounded city and smelling the hedges, and looking at the crops coming up, and passing the Sunday in quiet." And his own tastes being thus agricultural, the worthy gentleman thought that everybody else must delight in the same recreation. "In the winter, I hope, we shall see you at Newcome," says the elder brother, blandly smiling. "I can't give you any tiger-shooting, but I'll promise you that you shall find plenty of pheasants in our jungle," and he laughed very gently at this mild sally. At this moment a fair-haired young gentleman, languid and pale, and dressed in the height of fashion, made his appearance and was introduced as the Baronet's oldest son, Barnes Newcome. He returned Colonel Newcome's greeting with a smile, saying, "Very happy to see you, I am sure. You find London very much changed since you were here? Very good time to come, the very full of the season." "Tell me about your uncles, Clive," said the Colonel, as they walked on arm in arm. "What about them, sir?" asks the boy. "I don't think I know much." "You have been to stay with them. You wrote about them. Were they kind to you?" "Well, he must see you to give you the sovereign," says Clive's father, laughing. The boy blushed rather. "Why, how are you to judge?" asks the father, amused at the lad's candid prattle, "and where does the difference lie?" "Oh, she's not the ticket?" says the Colonel, much amused. "I thought we were going to speak no ill of them," says the Colonel, smiling. "That's a man," said the Colonel, with delight; though had he said, "That's a boy," he had spoken more correctly. "That's a man," cried the Colonel; "never be ashamed of your father, Clive." "_Ashamed of my father_!" says Clive, looking up to him, and walking on as proud as a peacock. "I say," the lad resumed, after a pause- "Say what you say," said the father. "My brother said he was engaged to dinner to-day," said the Colonel. "Does Mrs. Newcome give parties when he is away?" The Colonel's countenance fell. "He has a great dinner, and does not ask his own brother!" Newcome thought. "Why, if he had come to India with all his family, he might have stayed for a year, and I should have been offended had he gone elsewhere." A hot menial in a red waistcoat came and opened the door, and without waiting for preparatory queries said, "Not at home." "It's my father, John," said Clive. "My aunt will see Colonel Newcome." "Upon my life, they actually shut the door in our faces," said the poor gentleman. The Colonel surveyed his little nieces with that kind expression which his face always wore when it was turned toward children. "Have you heard of your uncle in India?" he asked them. "Yes," says Fannie. "You know mademoiselle said that if we were naughty we should be sent to our uncle in India. I think I should like to go with you." "Oh, you silly child!" cries Maria. "Yes, I should, if Clive went, too," says little Fanny. Clive ran towards his aunt. She bent over the carriage languidly towards him. She liked him. "What, you, Clive!" she said, "How come you away from school of a Thursday, sir?" "It is a holiday," said he. "My father is come; and he is come to see you." And again the Colonel was favoured with a shake of the hand, and the lady sailed up the stair, and passed in at the door, with not the faintest idea but that the hospitality which she was offering to her kinsman was of the most cordial and pleasant kind. "Isn't he a fine fellow, James?" says the Colonel, lighting a cheroot as he sits on the table. Was it joy, or the bedroom candle with which he lighted his cigar, which illuminated his honest features so, and made them so to shine? "What do you think of his Latin and Greek?" asked the Colonel. Before going out to his party Newcome had laid a deep scheme with Binnie, and it had been agreed that the latter should examine the young fellow in his humanities. "My dear Binnie, is it possible? You, the best scholar in all India!" With this the jolly gentleman nodded over his candle to his friend, and trotted off to bed. The Colonel and his friend were light sleepers and early risers. The next morning when Binnie entered the sitting-room he found the Colonel had preceded him. "Hush," says the Colonel, putting a long finger up to his mouth, and advancing towards him as noiselessly as a ghost. "What's in the wind now?" asks the little Scot; "and what for have ye not got your shoes on?" "Clive's asleep," says the Colonel, with a countenance full of extreme anxiety. "The darling boy slumbers, does he?" said the wag. "Mayn't I just step in and look at his beautiful countenance whilst he's asleep, Colonel?" "You may if you take off those confounded creaking, shoes," the other answered, quite gravely: and Binnie turned away to hide his jolly round face, which was screwed up with laughter. "Have ye been breathing a prayer over your rosy infant's slumbers, Tom?" asks Mr. Binnie. There came into the "Cave" a gentleman with a lean brown face and long black moustaches, dressed in very loose clothes, and evidently a stranger to the place. At least he had not visited it for a long time. He was pointing out changes to a lad who was in his company; and, calling for sherry and water, he listened to the music, and twirled his moustaches with great enthusiasm. "What the deuce brings you here?" said I. Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome's father, strode across the room twirling his moustaches, and came up to the table where we sat, making a salutation with his hat in a very stately and polite manner, so that Hoskins himself felt obliged to bow; the glee-singers murmured among themselves, and that mischievous little wag, little Nadab the Improvisatore, began to mimic him, feeling his imaginary whiskers, after the manner of the stranger, and flapping about his pocket-handkerchief in the most ludicrous manner. Hoskins checked this sternly, looking towards Nadab, and at the same time calling upon the gents to give their orders. Newcome's father came up and held out his hand to me, and he spoke in a voice so soft and pleasant, and with a cordiality so simple and sincere, that my laughter shrank away ashamed; and gave place to a feeling much more respectful and friendly. And so they were. A lady's school might have come in, and have taken no harm by what happened. It was worth a guinea to see the simple Colonel and his delight at the music. He forgot all about the distinguished wits whom he had expected to see, in his pleasure over the glees, and joined in all the choruses with an exceedingly sweet voice. And now Mr. Hoskins, asking if any gentleman would volunteer a song, what was our amazement when the simple Colonel offered to sing himself, at which the room applauded vociferously; whilst methought poor Clive Newcome hung down his head, and blushed as red as a peony. The Colonel selected the ditty of "Wapping Old Stairs," which charming old song he sang so pathetically that even the professional gentlemen buzzed a sincere applause, and some wags who were inclined to jeer at the beginning of the performance, clinked their glasses and rapped their sticks with quite a respectful enthusiasm. When the song was over, Clive held up his head too; looked round with surprise and pleasure in his eyes; and we, I need not say, backed our friend, delighted to see him come out of his queer scrape so triumphantly. The Colonel bowed and smiled with very pleasant good-nature at our plaudits. There was something touching in the naivetee and kindness of the placid and simple gentleman. "Hear, hear!" cried certain wags at a farther table. "Go on, Costigan!" said others. "Go on!" cries the Colonel in his high voice, trembling with anger. "Does any gentleman say go on? Does any man who has a wife and sisters or children at home, say go on? Do you dare, sir, to call yourself a gentleman, and to say that you hold the King's commission, and to sit amongst Christians and men of honour, and defile the ears of young boys with this wicked balderdash?" "Why do you bring young boys here, old boy?" cries a voice of the malcontents. Clive seemed rather shamedfaced, but I fear the rest of the company looked still more foolish. For if the truth be told that uplifted cane of the Colonel's had somehow fallen on the back of every man in the room. "Are the apartments for you, sir?" says Miss Honeyman, looking up at the large gentleman. "For my lady," answers the man. "Had you not better take off your hat?" asks Miss Honeyman. "Oh, what a piano! Why, it is as cracked as Miss Quigley's voice!" "My dear!" says mamma. The little languid boy bursts out into a jolly laugh. "What funny pictures, mamma! Action with Count de Grasse; the death of General Wolfe; a portrait of an officer, an old officer in blue, like grandpapa; Brasenose College, Oxford; what a funny name." At the idea of Brasenose College, another laugh comes from the invalid. "I suppose they've all got _brass noses_ there," he says; and he explodes at this joke. The poor little laugh ends in a cough, and mamma's travelling basket, which contains everything, produces a bottle of syrup, labelled "Master A. Newcome. A teaspoonful to be taken when the cough is troublesome." "Oh, the delightful sea! the blue, the fresh, the ever free," sings the young lady, with a shake. "How much better is this than going home and seeing those horrid factories and chimneys! I love Dr. Goodenough for sending us here. What a sweet house it is. What nice rooms!" Presently little Miss Honeyman makes her appearance in a large cap bristling with ribbons, with her best chestnut front and her best black silk gown, on which her gold watch shines very splendidly. She curtseys with dignity to her lodger, who vouchsafes a very slight inclination of the head, saying that the apartments will do very well. "And they have such a beautiful view of the sea!" cries Ethel. A heavy shower of rain was descending at this moment, and little Miss Honeyman, looking at her lodger, who had sat down and taken up her book, said, "Have your ladyship's servants unpacked your trunks?" "What on earth, madam, have you--has that to do with the question?" "Do you know who I am?" asks Lady Ann, rising. "Perfectly well, madam," says the other, "And had I known, you should never have come into my house, that's more." "Madam!" cries the lady, on which the poor little invalid, scared and nervous, and hungry for his dinner, began to cry from his sofa. "Gracious goodness! Who is the woman?" cries Lady Ann. "I never was so insulted in my life." "Oh, it was mamma began! I'm so hungry! I'm so hungry!" howled the little man on the sofa, or off it rather, for he was now down on the ground kicking away the shawls which enveloped him. "What is it, my boy? What is it, my blessed darling? You _shall_ have your dinner! Give her all, Ethel. There are the keys of my desk, there's my watch, there are my rings. Let her take my all. The monster! The child must live! It can't go away in such a storm as this. Give me a cloak, a parasol, anything--I'll go forth and get a lodging. I'll beg my bread from house to house, if this fiend refuses me. Eat the biscuits, dear! A little of the syrup, Alfred darling; it's very nice, love, and come to your old mother--your poor old mother." "Is it--is it for my child?" cried Lady Ann, reeling against the bannister. "Yes, it's for the child," says Miss Honeyman, tossing up her head. "But nobody else has anything in the house." "God bless you! God bless you! A mother's bl--l-ess-ings go with you," gurgled the lady, who was not, it must be confessed, a woman of strong moral character. It was good to see the little man eating the fowl. Ethel, who had never cut anything in her young existence, except her fingers now and then with her brother's and her governess's penknives, bethought her of asking Miss Honeyman to carve the chicken. Lady Ann, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, sat looking on at the ravishing scene. The reconciliation between Miss Honeyman and her lodger was perfect, and for a brief season Lady Ann Newcome was in rapture with her new lodgings and every person and thing which they contained. The drawing-rooms were fitted with the greatest taste; the dinner was exquisite; were there ever such delicious veal cutlets, such fresh French beans? "Indeed they were very good," said Miss Ethel, "I am so glad you like the house, and Clive, and Miss Honeyman." "Ethel is a trump, mam," says Lord Kew, slapping his hand on his knee. "Ethel is a brick, and Alfred is a trump, I think you say," remarks Lady Kew, "and Barnes is a snob. This is very satisfactory to know." There is a brother of Sir Brian Newcome's staying with them, Lord Kew perceives; an East India Colonel, a very fine-looking old boy. He was on the lookout for them, and when they came in sight he despatched a boy who was with him, running like a lamplighter, back to their aunt to say all was well. And he took little Alfred out of the carriage, and then helped out Ethel, and said, "My dear, you are too pretty to scold; but you have given us all a great fright." And then he made Kew and Jack a low bow, and stalked into the lodgings. Then they went up and made their peace and were presented in form to the Colonel and his youthful cub. "As fine a fellow as I ever saw," cries Jack Belsize. "The young chap is a great hand at drawing--upon my life the best drawings I ever saw. And he was making a picture for little What-do-you-call-'im, and Miss Newcome was looking over them. And Lady Ann pointed out the group to me, and said how pretty it was." In consequence of this conversation, which aroused her curiosity, Lady Kew sent a letter that night to Lady Ann Newcome, desiring that Ethel should be sent to see her grandmother; Ethel, who was no weakling in character despite her youth, and who always rebelled against her grandmother and always fought on her Aunt Julia's side when that amiable invalid lady, who lived with her mother, was oppressed by the dominating older woman. Hannah, grinning, acted as mistress of the ceremonies, calling out the names of "Miss Newcome, Master Newcome, to see the Colonel, if you please, ma'am," bobbing a curtsey, and giving a knowing nod to Master Clive, as she smoothed her new silk apron. Miss Ethel did not cease blushing as she advanced towards her uncle; and the honest campaigner started up, blushing too. Mr. Clive rose also, as little Alfred, of whom he was a great friend, ran towards him. Clive rose, laughed, nodded at Ethel, and ate ginger-bread nuts all at the same time. As for Colonel Thomas Newcome and his niece, they fell in love with each other instantaneously, like Prince Camaralzaman and the Princess of China. "Mamma has sent us to bid you welcome to England, uncle," says Miss Ethel, advancing, and never thinking for a moment of laying aside that fine blush which she brought into the room, and which was her pretty symbol of youth and modesty and beauty. He took a little slim white hand and laid it down on his brown palm, where it looked all the whiter; he cleared the grizzled moustache from his mouth, and stooping down he kissed the little white hand with a great deal of grace and dignity, after which he was forever the humble and devoted admirer of that bright young girl. When this little party had gone out smiling to take its walk on the sea shore, the Colonel from his balcony watched the slim figure of pretty Ethel, looked fondly after her, and as the smoke of his cigar floated in the air, formed a fine castle in it, whereof Clive was Lord, and Ethel Lady. "What a frank, generous, bright young creature is yonder!" thought he. "How cheering and gay she is; how good to Miss Honeyman, to whom she behaved with just the respect that was the old lady's due. How affectionate with her brothers and sisters! What a sweet voice she had! What a pretty little white hand it is! When she gave it me, it looked like a little white bird lying in mine." "You are always sneering about our uncle," broke in Ethel, impetuously, "and saying unkind things about Clive. Our uncle is a dear, good, kind man, and I love him. He came to Brighton to see us, and went out every day for hours and hours with Alfred; and Clive, too, drew pictures for him. And he is good, and kind, and generous, and honest as his father. Barnes is always speaking ill of him behind his back; and Miss Honeyman is a dear little old woman too. Was not she kind to Alfred, mamma, and did not she make him nice jelly?" "My darling love, who _is_ Mrs. Mason?" asks Lady Ann. "She was no such thing, sir," roars Sir Brian. "And so they should go down and see her, and so the Colonel should love his nurse and not forget his relations if they are old and poor!" cries Ethel, with a flush on her face, and tears starting in her eyes. "The Colonel went to her like a kind, dear, good brave uncle as he is. The very day I go to Newcome I'll go to see her." She caught a look of negation in her father's eye. "I will go--that is, if papa will give me leave," says Miss Ethel, adding simply, "if we had gone sooner there would not have been all this abuse of us in the papers." To which statement her worldly father and brother perforce agreeing, we may congratulate good old nurse Sarah upon adding to the list of her friends such a frank, open-hearted, high-spirited young woman as Miss Ethel Newcome. The Colonel's organ of benevolence was so large that he would have liked to administer bounties to the young folks his nephews and nieces in Brianstone Square, as well as to their cousins in Park Lane; but Mrs. Newcome was a great deal too virtuous to admit of such spoiling of children. She took the poor gentleman to task for an attempt upon her boys when those lads came home for their holidays, and caused them ruefully to give back the shining gold sovereigns with which their uncle had thought to give them a treat. So the Colonel was obliged to confine his benevolence to that branch of the family where it was graciously accepted. "Oh," says Clive, if you talk to him now about those early days, "it was a jolly time! I do not believe there was any young fellow in London so happy." "What a genius the lad has," the complimentary Mr. Smee averred; "what a force and individuality there is in all his drawings! Look at his horses! Capital, by Jove, capital! And Alfred on his pony, and Miss Ethel in her Spanish hat, with her hair flowing in the wind! I must take this sketch, I positively must now, and show it to Landseer." Well, then; Clive having decided to become an artist, on a day marked with a white stone, Colonel Newcome with his son and Mr. Smee, R. A., walked to Gandish's and entered the would-be artist on the roll call of that famous academy, and of J. J. as well, for the Colonel had insisted upon paying his expenses as an art student together with his son. When Hobson Newcome's boys came home for the holidays, their kind uncle was for treating them to the sights of the town, but here Virtue again interposed, and laid his interdict upon pleasure. "Thank you, very much, my dear Colonel," says Virtue; "there never was surely such a kind, affectionate, unselfish creature as you are, and so indulgent for children, but my boys and yours are brought up on a _very different plan_. Excuse me for saying that I do not think it is advisable that they should even see too much of each other, Clive's company is not good for them." Maria turned very red; she had said not more than she meant, but more than she meant to say. "My dear Colonel, how hot we are! how angry you Indian gentlemen become with us poor women! Your boy is much older than mine. He lives with artists, with all sorts of eccentric people. Our children are bred on _quite a different plan_. Hobson will succeed his father in the bank, and dear Samuel, I trust, will go into the church. I told you before the views I had regarding the boys; but it was most kind of you to think of them--most generous and kind." "I will order a new uniform, Ethel," says her uncle. The girl laughs. "When little Egbert took hold of your sword, and asked you how many people you had killed, do you know I had the same question in my mind? I thought perhaps the King would knight you instead of that horrid little Sir Danby Jilks, and I won't have you knighted anymore!" "Oh, how I wish it was next year!" says Miss Ethel. Many a splendid assembly and many a brilliant next year will the young creature enjoy; but in the midst of her splendour and triumphs she will often think of that quiet happy season before the world began for her, and of that dear old friend on whose arm she leaned while she was yet a young girl. On account of the ugly rumours spread abroad concerning young Clive's extravagant habits and gaiety of living, also on account of the profession he had chosen, Sir Bryan Newcome's family preferred to have young Clive see as little of his handsome Cousin Ethel as possible, and Ethel's brother, Barnes, whose hatred for Clive was not untinged by jealousy, was the most vigorous of the family in spreading disagreeable reports about his cousin, whom he spoke of as an impudent young puppy. Lady Kew, coming to London, attended on the party, and presented her granddaughter with a sixpenny pincushion. The Colonel had sent Ethel a beautiful little gold watch and chain. Her aunt had complimented her with that refreshing work, "Allison's History of Europe," richly bound. Lady Kew's pincushion made rather a poor figure among the gifts, whence probably arose her ladyship's ill-humour. Ethel's grandmother became exceedingly testy, when, the Colonel arriving, Ethel ran up to him and thanked him for the beautiful watch, in return for which she gave him a kiss, which I daresay amply repaid Colonel Newcome; and shortly after him Mr. Clive arrived. As he entered, all the girls who had been admiring his pictures began to clap their hands. Mr. Clive Newcome blushed, and looked none the worse for that indication of modesty. With the clapping of hands that greeted Clive's arrival, the Countess was by no means more good-humoured. Not aware of her wrath, the young fellow, who had also previously been presented to her, came forward presently to make her his compliments. "Pray, who are you?" she said, looking at him very earnestly in the face. He told her his name. "H'm," said Lady Kew, "I have heard of you, and I have heard very little good of you." "Will your ladyship please to give me your informant?" cried out Colonel Newcome. Barnes Newcome, who had condescended to attend his sister's little party, and had been languidly watching the frolics of the young people, looked very much alarmed, and hastened to soften the incident by a change of conversation. But those who had no cause to fear her keenness or her coldness admired her beauty; nor could the famous Parisian model whom Clive said she resembled be more perfect in form than this young lady. Her hair and eyebrows were jet black, but her complexion was dazzlingly fair and her cheeks as red as those belonging by right to a blonde. In her black hair there was a slight natural ripple. Her eyes were grey; her mouth rather large; her teeth were regular and white, her voice was low and sweet; and her smile, when it lighted up her face and eyes, as beautiful as spring sunshine; also her eyes could lighten and flash often, and sometimes, though rarely, rain. As for her figure, the tall, slender form clad in a simple white muslin robe in which her fair arms were enveloped, and which was caught at her slim waist by a blue ribbon, let us make a respectful bow to that fair image of youth, health, and modesty, and fancy it as pretty as we will. "J. J. says, 'I think the birds began to sing louder when she came.' We have both agreed that she is the handsomest woman in England. It's not her form merely, which is certainly as yet too thin and a little angular; it is her colour. I do not care for women or pictures without colour. Oh, ye carnations! Oh, such black hair and solemn eyebrows. It seems to me the roses and carnations have bloomed again since we saw them last in London, when they were drooping from the exposure to night air, candle light, and heated ballrooms. So they travelled by the accustomed route to the prettiest town of all places where Pleasure has set up her tents, and there enjoyed themselves to the fullest extent. [Illustration: ARTHUR PENDENNIS AT FAIR-OAKS.] They seldom occurred in his presence. However frisky they were before, mother and child were hushed and quiet when Mr. Pendennis walked into the drawing-room, his newspaper under his arm. And here, while little Pen, buried in a great chair, read all the books on which he could lay hold, the Squire perused his own articles in the Gardener's Gazette, or took a solemn hand at piquet with Mrs. Pendennis, or an occasional friend from the village. Young Pen saw by his uncle's face that something had happened at home. "Is there anything the matter with--my mother?" he said. He could hardly speak for emotion and the tears which were ready to start. "No," said the Major, "but your father's very ill. Go and pack your trunk directly; I have got a post-chaise at the gate." Pen went off quickly to his boarding-house to do as his uncle bade him; and the Doctor, now left alone in the schoolroom, came out to shake hands with the Major. "There is nothing serious, I hope," said the Doctor. "It is a pity to take the boy otherwise. He is a good boy, rather idle and unenergetic, but an honest, gentleman-like little fellow, though I can't get him to construe as I wish. Won't you come in and have some luncheon? My wife will be very happy to see you." But Major Pendennis declined the luncheon. He said his brother was very ill, and had had a fit the day before, and it was a great question if they should see him alive. "There's no other son, is there?" said the Doctor. The Major answered "No." "And there's a good eh--a good eh--property, I believe?" asked the other in an off-hand way. "H'm--so-so," said the Major. Whereupon this colloquy came to an end. And Arthur Pendennis got into a post-chaise with his uncle, never to come back to school any more. As the chaise drove through Clavering, the ostler standing whistling under the archway of the Clavering Arms winked to the postilion ominously, as much as to say all was over. The gardener's wife came and opened the lodge-gates and let the travellers through with a silent shake of the head. All the blinds were down at Fair-Oaks; and the face of the old footman was as blank when he let them in. Arthur's face was white, too, with terror more than with grief. Whatever of warmth and love the deceased man might have had, and he adored his wife, and loved and admired his son with all his heart, he had shut them up within himself; nor had the boy ever been able to penetrate that frigid outward barrier. A little girl, who was Mrs. Pendennis's adopted daughter, the child of a dear old friend, peered for a moment under the blinds as the chaise came up, opened the door from the stairs into the hall, and there taking Arthur's hand silently as he stooped down to kiss her, led him upstairs to his mother. What passed between that lady and the boy is not of import; a veil should be thrown over those sacred emotions of love and grief. As for Arthur Pendennis, after that awful shock which the sight of his dead father must have produced on him, and the pity and feeling which such an event no doubt occasioned, I am not sure that in the very moment of the grief, and as he embraced his mother and tenderly consoled her and promised to love her forever, there was not springing up in his breast a sort of secret triumph and exultation. He was the chief now and lord. He was Pendennis; and all round about him were his servants and handmaids. "You'll never send me away," little Laura said, tripping by him and holding his hand. "You won't send me to school, will you, Arthur?" She thought him the noblest creature in the world. But Major Pendennis, when the offer of the commission was acknowledged and refused, wrote back a curt and somewhat angry letter to the widow, and thought his nephew was rather a spooney. He was contented, however, when he saw the boy's performances out hunting at Christmas, when the Major came down as usual to Fair-Oaks. Pen had a very good mare, and rode her with uncommon pluck and grace. He took his fences with great coolness and judgment. He wrote to the chaps at school about his topboots, and his feats across country. He began to think seriously of a scarlet coat: and his mother must own that she thought it would become him remarkably well; though, of course, she passed hours of anguish during his absence, and daily expected to see him brought home on a shutter. With these amusements, in rather too great plenty, it must not be assumed that Pen neglected his studies altogether. He had a natural taste for reading every possible kind of book which did _not_ fall into his school course. It was only when they forced his head into the waters of knowledge that he refused to drink. He devoured all the books at home and ransacked the neighbouring book-cases. He found at Clavering an old cargo of French novels which he read with all his might; and he would sit for hours perched on the topmost bar of Dr. Portman's library steps with an old folio on his knees. Mr. Smirke, Dr. Portman's curate, was engaged at a liberal salary to pass several hours daily with the young gentleman. He was a decent scholar and mathematician, and taught Pen as much as the lad was ever disposed to learn, which was not much. Pen soon took the measure of his tutor, who, when he came riding into the court-yard at Fair-Oaks on his pony, turned out his toes so absurdly, and left such a gap between his knees and the saddle, that it was impossible for any lad endowed with a sense of humour to respect such a rider. He nearly killed Smirke with terror by putting him on his mare, and taking him a ride over a common where the county fox-hounds happened to meet. Pen laughed and declined to tell her. Then she asked him why he had got on his fine pin and beautiful new waistcoat? Pen blushed and said that Mr. Foker was reading with a tutor at Baymouth, a very learned man; and as he was himself to go to college he was anxious to ride over--and--just see what their course of reading was. The truth was Pen had resolved that he must see Foker that morning and find out all that was possible concerning the object of his last night's enthusiasm; and soon after breakfast he was on his horse galloping away towards Baymouth like a madman. From that time the lad's chief object in life was visiting the theatre, or Miss Fotheringay herself, to whom he had speedily received an introduction; and although she was a young woman not at all conversant with the social side of life with which he was familiar, she was nevertheless fascinating to Pen, who saw her always in the glamour of lime lights and applause. It was not long before Mrs. Pendennis discovered the lad's new interest, which naturally disquieted her. Finally, however, for reasons of her own, she assented to Pen's suggestion that Miss Fotheringay was to appear as Ophelia in a benefit performance. "Who is that odd-looking person bowing to you, Arthur?" Mrs. Pendennis asked of her son, after a critical examination of the audience. Pen blushed a great deal. "His name is Captain Costigan, ma'am," he said, "a Peninsular officer." Pen did not volunteer anything more; and how was Mrs. Pendennis to know that Mr. Costigan was the father of Miss Fotheringay? We have nothing to do with the play except to say that Ophelia looked lovely, and performed with admirable wild pathos, laughing, weeping, gazing wildly, waving her beautiful white arms and flinging about her snatches of flowers and songs with the most charming madness. What an opportunity her splendid black hair had of tossing over her shoulders! She made the most charming corpse ever seen, and while Hamlet and Laertes were battling in her grave she was looking out from the back scenes with some curiosity towards Pen's box, and the family party assembled in it. When the curtain fell upon that group of slaughtered personages who are despatched so suddenly at the end of "Hamlet," and whose death astonished poor little Laura, there was an immense shouting and applause from all quarters of the house. There was a roar of bravoes rang through the house; Pen bellowing with the loudest. "Fotheringay! Fotheringay!" Even Mrs. Pendennis began to wave about her pocket-handkerchief, and little Laura danced, laughed, clapped, and looked up at Pen with wonder. If Pen had been alone with his mother in the carriage as they drove home that night he would have told her the extent of his devotion for Miss Fotheringay, but he had no chance to do so, and it remained for that good lady to hear of her boy's intimacy with the actress from good Dr. Portman, who, on the following evening, happening to see Pen in Miss Fotheringay's company and much absorbed by her charms, lost no time in hurrying to Mrs. Pendennis with the news. Now, although Mrs. Pendennis had been wise enough to appreciate Pen's infatuation, she had looked upon it as the merest boyish fancy, induced by the glamour of the stage, and did not dream that there was a personal intimacy behind it. She heard Dr. Portman's statement in horrified silence, and before she slept that night had despatched letters to Major Pendennis demanding his immediate return from London to help her in the management of her son at this critical point in his youthful career. Although loath to leave London, Major Pendennis straightway came to Fair-Oaks. He came; he saw the situation at a glance; and after a prolonged conversation with Mrs. Pendennis he summoned Pen himself. That young man having strung up his nerves, and prepared himself for the encounter, determined to face the awful uncle, with all the courage and dignity of the famous family which he represented. He marched into Major Pendennis's presence with a most severe and warlike expression, as if to say, "Come on, I am ready." The old man of the world, as he surveyed the boy's demeanour, could hardly help a grin at his admirable pompous simplicity, and having a shrewd notion that threats and tragic exaltations would have no effect upon the boy, said with the most good-humoured smile in the world, as he shook Pen's passive fingers gaily: "Well, Pen, my boy, tell us all about it!" Helen was delighted with the generosity of the Major's good-humour. On the contrary, it quite took aback and disappointed poor Pen, whose nerves were strung up for a tragedy, and who felt that his grand entrance was altogether balked and ludicrous. He blushed and winced with mortified vanity and bewilderment. He felt immensely inclined to begin to cry. "I--I didn't know you were come till just now," he said; "is--is--town very full, I suppose?" Captain Costigan was as good as his word, and his letter to Pen was sent immediately. A few lines from Miss Costigan were enclosed. She agreed in the decision of her papa, pointed out several reasons why they should meet no more, and thanked him for his kindness and friendship. Major Pendennis had won a complete victory, and his secret delight at having rescued Pen from an unwise attachment was only equalled by his regret at the real suffering he was obliged to allow the lad to go through. Dr. Portman was of the opinion that Pen should go to college. He thought the time had come for the boy to leave his old surroundings, and, besides study, have a moderate amount of the best society, too. Pen, who was thoroughly out of harmony with his present surroundings, gloomily said he would go, and in consequence of this decision not many weeks later the widow and Laura nervously set about filling trunks with his books, and linen, and making all necessary preparation for his departure, writing cards with the name of Arthur Pendennis, Esquire, which were duly nailed on the boxes; at which both the widow and Laura looked with tearful eyes. A night soon came when the coach, with echoing horn and blazing lamps, stopped at the lodge gate of Fair-Oaks, and Pen's trunks and his Uncle's were placed on the roof of the carriage, into which the pair presently afterwards entered. Mrs. Pendennis and Laura were standing by the evergreens of the shrubbery, their figures lighted up by the coach lamps. The guard cried "All right"; in another instant the carriage whirled onward; the lights disappeared, and his mother's heart and prayers went with them. Her sainted benedictions followed the departing boy. He had left the home-nest in which he had been chafing; eager to go forth and try his restless wings. How lonely the house was without him! The corded trunks and book-boxes were there in his empty study. Laura asked leave to come and sleep in her aunt's room: and when she cried herself to sleep there, the mother went softly into Pen's vacant chamber, and knelt down by the bed on which the moon shone, and there prayed for her boy, as mothers only know how to plead. Mrs. Pendennis was for her part quite satisfied that her darling boy should pursue that branch of learning for which he had the greatest inclination; and only besought him not to ruin his health by too much study, for she had heard the most melancholy stories of young students who by overfatigue had brought on brain-fevers, and perished untimely in the midst of their university career. Pen's health, which was always delicate, was to be regarded, as she justly said, beyond all considerations or vain honours. Pen, although not aware of any lurking disease which was likely to endanger his life, yet kindly promised his mamma not to sit up reading too late of nights, and stuck to his word in this respect with a great deal more tenacity of resolution than he exhibited upon some other occasions, when perhaps he was a little remiss. Arthur's allowances were liberal at this time, and thus he, the only son of a country gentleman, and of a gentleman-like bearing and person, was looked up to as a lad of much more consequence than he really was. His manner was frank, brave and perhaps a little impertinent, as becomes a high-spirited youth. He was generous and freehanded with his money, loved joviality, and had a good voice for a song. He rode well to hounds, appeared in pink as became a young buck, and managed to run up fine bills in a number of quarters. In fact, he had almost every taste to a considerable degree. He was very fond of books of all sorts and had a very fair taste in matters of art; also a great partiality for fine clothes and expensive jewellery. Vacation after vacation passed without the desired news that Pen had sat for any scholarship or won any honour, and Pen grew rebellious and unhappy, and there was a tacit feud between Dr. Portman, who was disappointed in Arthur, and the lad himself. Mrs. Pendennis, hearing Dr. Portman prophesy that Pen would come to ruin, trembled in her heart, and little Laura also--Laura who had grown to be a fine young stripling, graceful and fair, clinging to her adopted mother and worshipping her with a passionate affection. Both of these women felt that their boy was changed. He was no longer the artless Pen of old days, so brave, so impetuous, so tender. He spent little of his vacations at home, but went on visits, and scared the quiet pair at Fair-Oaks by stories of great houses to which he had been invited, and by talking of lords without their titles. Perhaps it was because she was so tender and good that Pen was terrified lest his mother should know of his sins. "I can't bear to break it to her," he said to the tutor, in an agony of grief. "Oh! sir, I've been a villain to her!" They were not shy of him, but Pen thought they were, and slunk from them during his last terms at college. He was as gloomy as a death's-head at parties, which he avoided of his own part, or to which his young friends soon ceased to invite him. Everybody knew that Pendennis was "hard up." "I am going where I deserve to go," said Pen. Pen looked at his early acquaintance who had been plucked, who had been rusticated, who had only after repeated failures learned to read and write correctly, but who, in spite of all these drawbacks had attained the honour of a degree. "This man has passed," he thought, "and I have failed." It was almost too much for him to bear. "Good-bye," said he; "I am very glad you are through. Don't let me keep you. I am in a hurry--I am going to town to-night." "Gammon!" said his friend, "this ain't the way to town; this is the Fenbury road, I tell you." "I was just going to turn back," Pen said. "Good 'evens! Mr. Arthur, what 'as 'appened, sir?" asked the valet, who was just carrying in his wig to the Major. "I want to see my uncle," Pen cried in a ghastly voice, and flung himself down on a chair. The valet backed before the pale and desperate-looking young man, with terrified and wondering glances, and disappeared into his master's apartment, whence the Major put out his head as soon as he had his wig on. Pen was standing with his back to the window, so that his uncle could not see the expression of gloomy despair on the young man's face. But when he held out his hand to Pen, and was about to address him in his cheery, high-toned voice, he caught sight of the boy's face; and dropping his hand said, "Why, Pen, what's the matter?" "You'll see it in the papers at breakfast, sir," Pen said. "My name isn't there, sir." "Hang it, why _should_ it be?" asked the Major, more perplexed. "I have lost everything, sir," groaned out Pen; "my honour's gone; I'm ruined irretrievably; I can't go back to Oxbridge." Pen laughed bitterly at the word feather, and repeated it. "No, it isn't that, sir. I'm not afraid of being shot; I wish anybody would shoot me. I have not got my degree. I--I'm plucked, sir." The Major had heard of plucking, but in a very vague and cursory way, and concluded that it was some ceremony performed corporally upon rebellious university youth. "I wonder you can look me in the face after such a disgrace, sir," he said; "I wonder you submitted to it as a gentleman." "I couldn't help it, sir. I did my classical papers well enough: it was those infernal mathematics, which I have always neglected." "Was it--was it done in public, sir?" the Major said. "The--the plucking?" asked the guardian, looking Pen anxiously in the face. Pen perceived the error under which his guardian was labouring, and in the midst of his misery the blunder caused the poor wretch a faint smile, and served to bring down the conversation from the tragedy-key in which Pen had been disposed to carry it on. He explained to his uncle that he had gone in to pass his examination, and failed. On which the Major said, that though he had expected far better things of his nephew, there was no great misfortune in this, and no dishonour as far as he saw, and that Pen must try again. "Me again at Oxbridge!" Pen thought, "after such a humiliation as that?" He felt that, except he went down to burn the place, he could not enter it. But it was when he came to tell his uncle of his debts that the other felt surprise and anger most keenly, and broke out into speeches most severe upon Pen, which the lad bore, as best he might, without flinching. "You need not press a man who is down, sir," Pen said to his uncle, gloomily. "I know very well how wicked and idle I have been. My mother won't like to see me dishonoured, sir," he continued, with his voice failing; "and I know she will pay these accounts. But I shall ask her for no more money." And so with flushing cheeks and eyes bright with anger this young creature reasoned, and went up and seized Helen's hand and kissed her in the Doctor's presence; and her looks braved the Doctor and seemed to ask how he dared to say a word against her darling mother's Pen? Directly the Doctor was gone, Laura ordered fires to be lighted in Mr. Arthur's rooms, and his bedding to be aired; and by the time Helen had completed a tender and affectionate letter to Pen, Laura had her preparations completed, and, smiling fondly, went with her mamma into Pen's room, which was now ready for him to occupy. Laura also added a postscript to Helen's letter, in which she called him her dearest friend, and bade him come home _instantly_ and be happy with his mother and his affectionate Laura. That night when Mrs. Pendennis was lying sleepless, thinking of Pen, a voice at her side startled her, saying softly: "Mamma, are you awake?" What Mrs. Pendennis replied to this speech need not be repeated, but we may be sure that its terms were those of the deepest gratitude, and that the widow lost no time in writing off to Pen an account of the noble, the magnificent offer of Laura, filling up her letter with a profusion of benedictions upon both her children. As for Pen, after being deserted by the Major, and writing his letter to his mother, he skulked about London streets for the rest of the day, fancying that everybody was looking at him and whispering to his neighbour, "That is Pendennis of Boniface, who was plucked yesterday." His letter to his mother was full of tenderness and remorse: he wept the bitterest tears over it, and the repentance soothed him to some degree. So Pen went back to Fair-Oaks. True, he had retrieved his failure, had won his honours, but he came back to his home a very different fellow from the bright-faced youth who had gone out into college life some years before. He no longer laughed, sang, or rollicked about the house as of old; he had tasted of the fruit of the awful Tree of Life which from the beginning had tempted all mankind, and which had changed Arthur Pendennis the light-hearted boy into a man. Young, he is, of course, and still awaiting the development which life's deeper experiences are to bring, but nevertheless he is not again to taste the joy, the zest, or the enthusiasm which come to careless boyhood. Arthur Pendennis is now a competitor among the ranks of men striving after life's prizes, and this narrative of his boyhood ends. [Illustration: Miss CAROLINE AND BECKY.] Soon after their marriage Mr. and Mrs. James Gann returned to England and occupied a house in Thames Street, City, until the death of Gann, Sr., when his son, becoming head of the firm, mounted higher on the social ladder and went to live in the neighbourhood of Putney, where a neat box, a couple of spare bedrooms, a good cellar, and a smart gig made a real gentleman of him. About this period, a daughter was born to him, called Caroline Blandenburg Gann, so named after a large mansion near Hammersmith, and an injured queen who lived there at the time of the little girl's birth. Little Caroline, then, had her maid, her airy nursery, her little carriage to drive in, the promise of her grandmamma's money, and her mamma's undivided affection. Gann, too, loved her sincerely in his careless good-humoured way; but he determined, notwithstanding, that his step-daughters should have something handsome at his death, but--but for a great But. As for Mrs. Gann, she had changed, too, under the pressure of misfortune. Her chief occupation was bragging of her former acquaintances, taking medicine, and mending and altering her gowns. She had a huge taste for cheap finery, loved raffles, tea-parties, and walks on the pier, where she flaunted herself and daughters as gay as butterflies. She stood upon her rank, did not fail to tell her lodgers that she was "a gentlewoman," and was mighty sharp with Becky, the maid, and Carrie, her youngest child. For the sentimental, too, as well as the terrible, Miss Caroline and the cook had a strong predilection, and had wept their poor eyes out over "Thaddeus of Warsaw" and the "Scottish Chiefs." Fortified by the examples drawn from those instructive volumes, Becky was firmly convinced that her young mistress would meet with a great lord some day or other, or be carried off, like Cinderella, by a brilliant prince, to the mortification of her elder sisters, whom Becky hated. When, therefore, a new lodger came, lonely, mysterious, melancholy, elegant, with the romantic name of George Brandon--when he actually wrote a letter directed to a lord, and Miss Caroline and Becky together examined the superscription, Becky's eyes were lighted up with a preternatural look of wondering wisdom; whereas, after an instant, Caroline dropped hers, and blushed and said, "Nonsense, Becky!" The Misses Wellesley McCarty voted this Mr. Fitch an elegant young fellow, and before long the intimacy between the young people was considerable, for Mr. Fitch insisted upon drawing the portraits of the whole family. "Mr. Fitch might as well paint Becky, our maid!" cried Miss Bella. "Is that--that young lady your daughter?" asked Mr. Fitch, surprised, for he fancied Carrie was a humble companion of the family. "Yes, she is, and a very good daughter, too, sir," answered Mr. Gann. "_Fetch_ and Carrie I call her, or else Carry-van; she is so useful. Ain't you, Carrie?" "I'm very glad if I am, Papa," said the young lady, blushing violently. "Hold your tongue, Miss!" said her mother; "you are, very expensive to us, that you are, and need not brag about the work you do, and if your sisters and me starve to keep you, and some other folks" (looking fiercely at Mr. Gann), "I presume you are bound to make some return." Mr. Fitch stood close at hand, for at the time he was painting Mrs. Gann's portrait--and he was hastily making towards her with his tumbler, when Miss Linda cried out, "Stop! the water is full of paint!" and straightway burst out laughing. Mrs. Gann jumped up at this, cured suddenly, and left the room, looking somewhat foolish. "You don't know Ma," said Miss Linda, still giggling; "she's always fainting." "Poor dear lady!" said the artist; "I pity her from my inmost soul. Doesn't the himmortal bard observe how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child? And is it true, ma'am, that that young woman has been the ruin of her family?" "What, then, it _isn't_ true!" cried simple-minded Fitch. To which neither of the young ladies made any answer in words, nor could the little artist comprehend why they looked at each other and burst out laughing. But he retired pondering on what he had seen and heard, and being a very soft young fellow, most implicitly believed the accusations of poor dear Mrs. Gann for a time. Presently, however, those opinions changed, and the change was brought about by watching closely the trend of domestic affairs in the Gann establishment. After a fortnight of close observation the artist, though by no means quick of comprehension, began to see that the nightly charges brought against poor Caroline could not be founded upon truth. "You are very late, miss!" cried Mrs. Gann, who affected not to know what had caused her daughter's delay. "You are always late!" and the elder girls stared and grinned at each other knowingly, as they always did when mamma made such attacks upon Caroline, who only kept her eyes down upon the table-cloth, and began to eat her dinner without saying a word. "Come, come, my dear," cried honest Gann, "if she _is_ late, you know why! Our Carrie has been downstairs making the pudding for her old pappy; and a good pudding she makes, I can tell you!" Miss Caroline blushed more deeply than ever; Mr. Fitch stared her full in the face; Mrs. Gann said "Nonsense!" and "Stuff!" very majestically; Mr. Brandon alone interposed in Caroline's favour; and the words that he said were so kindly, so inspiring to Caroline that she cared not a straw whatever else might be said about her. "Mamma may say what she pleases to-day," thought Caroline. "I am too happy to be made angry by her." "What's the gals giggling and oggling about?" asked Mr. Gann innocently. "What is it, my darling love?" asked stately Mrs. Gann. "Why, don't you see, Ma?" said Linda. "Look at Miss Carrie! I'm blessed if she hasn't got on Becky's collar and brooch, that Sims the pilot gave her!" The young ladies fell back in uproarious fits of laughter, and laughed all the time that their mamma was declaring her daughter's conduct unworthy a gentlewoman, and bidding her leave the room and take off those disgraceful ornaments. But Cinderella's kitchen days were fast drawing to an end, even as she, a pale slip of a girl, was budding into womanhood. "Carrie, indeed, will stop at home!" said her mamma. At this poor Fitch's jaw fell; he had agreed to accompany the party only for the pleasure of being in the company of little Caroline, nor could he escape now, having just accepted so eagerly. "Oh, don't let's have that proud Brandon!" exclaimed the young ladies, in consequence of which that gentleman was not invited to join the excursion. Caroline, too, the Cinderella of this little tale, was left at home; and thereby were placed in the hand of Fate all necessary instruments of revenge to be used in the punishment of Mrs. Gann and the Misses McCarty for their ill-treatment of our little Cinderella. The story of Caroline Brandenburg Gann's youth is told. The fairy prince is at hand, and the short chapter of girlhood and misery is finished.	redpajama-book	43,212
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, David King, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team THE GREAT EVENTS BY FAMOUS HISTORIANS A COMPREHENSIVE AND READABLE ACCOUNT OF THE WORLD'S HISTORY. EMPHASIZING THE MORE IMPORTANT EVENTS, AND PRESENTING THESE AS COMPLETE NARRATIVES IN THE MASTER-WORDS OF THE MOST EMINENT HISTORIANS NON-SECTARIAN NON-PARTISAN NON-SECTIONAL ON THE PLAN EVOLVED FROM A CONSENSUS OF OPINIONS GATHERED FROM THE MOST DISTINGUISHED SCHOLARS OF AMERICA AND EUROPE, INCLUDING BRIEF INTRODUCTIONS BY SPECIALISTS TO CONNECT AND EXPLAIN THE CELEBRATED NARRATIVES, ARRANGED CHRONOLOGICALLY, WITH THOROUGH INDICES, BIBLIOGRAPHIES, CHRONOLOGIES, AND COURSES OF READING ROSSITER JOHNSON, LL.D. CHARLES F. HORNE, Ph.D. JOHN RUDD, LL.D. The binding of this volume is a facsimile of the original on exhibition in the Bibliotheque Nationale. An Outline Narrative of the Great Events, CHARLES F. HORNE Painting by Prof, A. Maccari. Painting by Claudius Harper. Death of Alexander the Great after a prolonged debauch, Painting by Carl von Piloty. AN OUTLINE NARRATIVE TRACING BRIEFLY THE CAUSES, CONNECTIONS, AND CONSEQUENCES OF (FROM THE RISE OF GREECE TO THE CHRISTIAN ERA) CHARLES F. HORNE, Ph.D. Earth's upward struggle has been baffled by so many stumbles that critics have not been lacking to suggest that we do not advance at all, but only swing in circles, like a squirrel in its cage. Certain it is that each ancient civilization seemed to bear in itself the seeds of its own destruction. Yet it may be held with equal truth that each new power, rising above the ruins of the last, held something nobler, was borne upward by some truth its rival could not reach. No man and no nation has ever yet been intrusted with the government of the entire globe. None has proved sufficiently fitted for the giant task. Each empire has been, as it were, but an experiment; and beyond the border line of seas and deserts which ringed each boastful conqueror, there were always other races developing along slower, and it may be surer, lines. In those old days our world was in truth too big for conquest. Armies marched on foot. Provisions could not be carried in any quantity, unless a general clung to the sea-shore and depended on his ships. What Alexander might with more truth have sighed for, was some modern means of swift transportation, possessed of which he might still have enjoyed many interesting, bloody battles in more distant lands. THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE GREEKS Among these Athens held the foremost rank. She was, as we have previously seen, far more truly representative of the Greek spirit than her rival. Sparta was aristocratic and conservative; Athens democratic and progressive. The genius of her leaders gathered the lesser towns into a great naval league, in which she grew ever more powerful. Her allies sank to be dependent and unwilling vassals, forced to contribute large sums to the treasury of their overlord. Amid such splendor it seems captious to point out the flaw. Yet Athenian and all Greek civilization did ultimately decline. It represented intellectual, but not moral culture. The Greeks delighted intensely in the purely physical life about them; they had small conception of anything beyond. To enjoy, to be successful, that was all their goal; the means scarce counted. The Athenians called Aristides the Just; but so little did they honor his high rectitude that they banished him for a decade. His title, or it may have been his insistence on the subject, bored them. How deep was the change, made upon the imbruted Asiatics, we may perhaps question. Our own age has seen how much of education may be lavished on an inferior race without materially altering the brute instincts within. The building-up of the soul in man is not a matter of individuals, but of centuries. Yet in at least a superficial way Greek thought became the thought of all mankind. We may dismiss Alexander's savage conquests with a sigh of pity; but we cannot deny him recognition as a most potent teacher of the world. This gave opportunity to the growing powers of the West. Alexander is scarce gone ere we hear Carthage boasting that the Mediterranean is but a private lake in her possession. She rules all Western Africa and Spain, Sardinia and Corsica. She masters the Greeks of Sicily, against whom Athens failed. Rome is compelled to sign treaties with her as an inferior. Our modern philosophers, being Aryan, assure us that the victory of Carthage would have been an irretrievable disaster to mankind; that her falsity, her narrow selfishness, her bloody inhumanity, would have stifled all progress; that her dominion would have been the tyranny of a few heartless masters over a world of tortured slaves. On the other hand, Rome up to this point had certainly been a generous mistress to her subjects. She had left them peace and prosperity among themselves; she had given them as much political freedom as was consistent with her sovereignty; she had wellnigh succeeded in welding all Italy into a Roman nation. It is noteworthy that the large majority of the Italian cities clung to her, even in the darkest straits to which she was reduced by Hannibal. Yet when the fall of her last great rival left Rome irresistible abroad, her methods changed. It is hard to see how even Carthaginians could have been more cruel, more grasping, more corrupt than the Roman rulers of the provinces. Having conquered the governments of the world, Rome had to face outbreak after outbreak from the unarmed, unsheltered masses of the people. Her barbarity drove them to mad despair. "Servile" wars, slave outbreaks are dotted over all the last century of the Roman Republic. In the battles against Carthage, the mass of Rome's armies had consisted of her own citizens or of allies closely united to them in blood and fortune. Her later victories were won by hired troops, men gathered from every clime and every race. Roman generals still might lead them, Roman laws environ them, Roman gold employ them. Yet the fact remained, that in these armies lay the strength of the Republic, no longer within her own walls, no longer in the stout hearts of her citizens. THE STRUGGLE OF INDIVIDUALS FOR SUPREMACY The Roman people, the mighty race who had defied a Hannibal at their gates, were clearly come to an end. Sulla had proved the power of the Republic to be an empty shell. After his death, men used the empty forms awhile; but the surviving aristocrats had learned their awful lesson. They put no further faith in the strength of the city; they watched the armies and the generals; they intrigued for the various commands. It was an exciting game. Life and fortune were the stakes they risked; the prize--the mastery of a helpless world, waiting to be plundered. Rome was checked at last. No civilized nation had been able to stand against her; but the wild tribes of the Germans and the Parthians did. Barbarism had still by far the larger portion of the world wherein to live and develop, and gather brain and brawn. Rome could not conquer the wilderness. (For the next section of this general survey see Volume III.) INSTITUTION AND FALL OF THE DECEMVIRATE IN ROME (When wars and pestilence had laid a heavy burden upon the Roman people, there appears to have been a period in which internal commotions and civil strife were stilled, and the quarrels of patricians and plebeians gave way to temporary truce. On the inevitable renewal of the old struggle the college of tribunes adopted a measure favorable to the plebeians in so far as it provided means for checking the abuse of power on the part of consuls in punishing members of that class in connection with the prosecution of suits against them. The passage of this measure had the effect of reopening former conflicts, the patrician elements becoming greatly alarmed at what they regarded as a fresh encroachment upon their hereditary rights. The contest was long and bitter, each side either bringing forward or rejecting again and again the same measures or the same representatives. The patrician burgesses endeavored to wrest independence from the "plebs" after the battle of Lake Regillus; and the latter, ruined by constant wars with the neighboring nations, being compelled to make good their losses by borrowing money from patrician creditors, and liable to become bondsmen in default of payment, at length deserted the city, and only returned on condition of being protected by tribunes of their own; they then, by the firmness of Publilius Volero and Laetorius, obtained the right of electing these tribunes at their own assembly, the "Comitia of the Tribes." Finally the great consul Spurius Cassius endeavored to relieve the commonalty by an agrarian law, so as to better their condition permanently. Then followed the danger of the AEquian invasion, to which the legend of Cincinnatus, as given above, refers. The stern old man used his dictatorial power quite as much to crush the tribunes at home as to conquer the enemies abroad. LEGEND OF SICCIUS DENTATUS Such was the state of things in the Sabine army. Meantime the people at home had risen against Appius, and after driving him from the Forum they joined their armed fellow-citizens upon the Aventine. There the whole body of the commons, armed and unarmed, hung like a dark cloud ready to burst upon the city. Then remembrances of the great secession came back upon the minds of the patricians, and the senate, observing the calm and resolute bearing of the plebeian leaders, compelled the decemvirs to resign, and sent back Valerius and Horatius to negotiate anew. PERICLES RULES IN ATHENS (Under the sway of Pericles many changes occurred in the civil affairs of Athens affecting the constitution of the state and the character and administration of its laws. Events of magnitude marked the struggles of the Athenians with other powers. The development of art and learning was carried to an unprecedented height, and the Age of Pericles is the most illustrious in ancient history. Pericles began his career by opposing the aristocratic party of Athens, led by Cimon. In this policy he was aided by complications arising with Sparta and Argos. Directing his attack particularly against the Areopagus, he succeeded in greatly modifying the composition of that body and diminishing its powers. The exile of Cimon, the strengthening of Athens by new alliances, and the vigorous prosecution of wars against Persia and Corinth combined to establish his supremacy, which was still further confirmed by the building of the long walls connecting Athens with the sea, and by the acquisition of neighboring territory. In the later wars of Athens the renown of Pericles was still further enhanced; but his chief glory arose from the architectural adornment of the city, and especially from the building of the Parthenon and the splendid decoration of the Acropolis; while his work of judicial reform remains an added monument to his fame, and among the masters of eloquence his orations preserve for him a foremost place.) "From Chronos old and faction Is sprung a tyrant dread, And all Olympus calls him The man-compelling head." And again in the play of _Nemesis_: "Come, hospitable Zeus, with lofty head." Teleclides, too, speaks of him as sitting "Bowed down With a dreadful frown, Because matters of state have gone wrong, Until at last, From his head so vast, His ideas burst forth in a throng." "The great headpiece of those below." Pericles greatly admired Anaxagoras, and became deeply interested in grand speculations, which gave him a haughty spirit and a lofty style of oratory far removed from vulgarity and low buffoonery, and also an imperturbable gravity of countenance and a calmness of demeanor and appearance which no incident could disturb as he was speaking, while the tone of his voice never showed that he heeded any interruption. These advantages greatly impressed the people. The poet Ion, however, says that Pericles was overbearing and insolent in conversation, and that his pride had in it a great deal of contempt for others, while he praises Cimon's civil, sensible, and polished address. But we may disregard Ion as a mere dramatic poet who always sees in great men something upon which to exercise his satiric vein; whereas Zeno used to invite those who called the haughtiness of Pericles a mere courting of popularity and affectation of grandeur, to court popularity themselves in the same fashion, since the acting of such a part might insensibly mould their dispositions until they resembled that of their model. Wishing to adopt a style of speaking consonant with his haughty manner and lofty spirit, Pericles made free use of the instrument which Anaxagoras, as it were, put into his hand, and often tinged his oratory with natural philosophy. He far surpassed all others by using this "lofty intelligence and power of universal consummation," as the divine Plato calls it; in addition to his natural advantages, adorning his oratory with apt illustrations drawn from physical science. For this reason some think that he was nicknamed the Olympian; though some refer this to his improvement of the city by new and beautiful buildings, and others from his power both as a politician and a general. It is not by any means unlikely that these causes all combined to produce the name. The overseer and manager of the whole was Phidias, although there were other excellent architects and workmen, such as Callicrates and Ictinus, who built the Parthenon on the site of the old Hecatompedon, which had been destroyed by the Persians, and Coroebus, who began to build the Temple of Initiation at Eleusis, but who only lived to see the columns erected and the architraves placed upon them. On his death, Metagenes, of Xypete, added the frieze and the upper row of columns, and Xenocles, of Cholargos, crowned it with the domed roof over the shrine. As to the long wall, about which Socrates says that he heard Pericles bring forward a motion, Callicrates undertook to build it. The Odeum, which internally consisted of many rows of seats and many columns, and externally of a roof sloping on all sides from a central point, was said to have been built in imitation of the king of Persia's tent, and was built under Pericles' direction. Pericles, however, restrained these outbursts, and would not allow the people to meddle with foreign states, but used the power of Athens chiefly to preserve and guard her already existing empire, thinking it to be of paramount importance to oppose the Lacedaemonians, a task to which he bent all his energies, as is proved by many of his acts, especially in connection with the Sacred War. In this war the Lacedaemonians sent a force to Delphi, and made the Phocians, who held it, give it up to the people of Delphi: but as soon as they were gone Pericles made an expedition into the country, and restored the temple to the Phocians; and as the Lacedaemonians had scratched the oracle which the Delphians had given them, on the forehead of the brazen wolf there, Pericles got a response from the oracle for the Athenians, and carved it on the right side of the same wolf. Simultaneously with his victory and the flight of the enemy he obtained command of the harbor of Samos, and besieged the Samians in their city. They, in spite of their defeat, still possessed courage enough to sally out and fight a battle under the walls; but soon a larger force arrived from Athens, and the Samians were completely blockaded. After these events, as the clouds were gathering for the Peloponnesian war, Pericles persuaded the Athenians to send assistance to the people of Corcyra, who were at war with the Corinthians, and thus to attach to their own side an island with a powerful naval force, at a moment when the Peloponnesians had all but declared war against them. Now, as the Lacedaemonians knew that if he could be removed from power they would find the Athenians much more easy to deal with, they bade them "drive forth the accursed thing," alluding to Pericles' descent from the Alcmaeonidae by his mother's side, as we are told by Thucydides the historian. But this attempt had just the contrary effect to that which they intended; for, instead of suspicion and dislike, Pericles met with much greater honor and respect from his countrymen than before, because they saw that he was an object of especial dislike to the enemy. For this reason, before the Peloponnesians, under Archidamus, invaded Attica, he warned the Athenians that if Archidamus, when he laid waste everything else, spared his own private estate because of the friendly private relations existing between them, or in order to give his personal enemies a ground for impeaching him, he should give both the land and the farm buildings upon it to the state. He soon regained his public position, for the people's outburst of anger was quenched by the blow they had dealt him, just as a bee leaves its sting in the wound; but his private affairs were in great distress and disorder, as he had lost many of his relatives during the plague, while others were estranged from him on political grounds. Yet he would not yield, nor abate his firmness and constancy of spirit because of these afflictions, but was not observed to weep or mourn, or attend the funeral of any of his relations, until he lost Paralus, the last of his legitimate offspring. Crushed by this blow, he tried in vain to keep up his grand air of indifference, and when carrying a garland to lay upon the corpse he was overpowered by his feelings, so as to burst into a passion of tears and sobs, which he had never done before in his whole life. Athens made trial of her other generals and public men to conduct her affairs, but none appeared to be of sufficient weight or reputation to have such a charge intrusted to him. The city longed for Pericles, and invited him again to lead its counsels and direct its armies; and he, although dejected in spirits and living in seclusion in his own house, was yet persuaded by Alcibiades and his other friends to resume the direction of affairs. Events soon made the loss of Pericles felt and regretted by the Athenians. Those who during his lifetime had complained that his power completely threw them into the shade, when after his death they had made trial of other orators and statesmen, were obliged to confess that with all his arrogance no man ever was really more moderate, and that his real mildness in dealing with men was as remarkable as his apparent pride and assumption. His power, which had been so grudged and envied, and called monarchy and despotism, now was proved to have been the saving of the State; such an amount of corrupt dealing and wickedness suddenly broke out in public affairs, which he before had crushed and forced to hide itself, and so prevented its becoming incurable through impunity and license. GREAT PLAGUE AT ATHENS (Almost at the beginning of the Peloponnesian war, when the prosperity of Athens had placed her at the height of her power and given her unquestioned supremacy among the Grecian states, her strength was greatly impaired by a visitation against which there was nothing in military prowess or patriotic pride and devotion that could prevail. The irresistible reason, as well as the proud and resolute bearing of this discourse, set forth with an eloquence which it was not possible for Thucydides to reproduce--together with the age and character of Pericles--carried the assent of the assembled people, who when in the Pnyx, and engaged according to habit on public matters, would for a moment forget their private sufferings in considerations of the safety and grandeur of Athens. Possibly, indeed, those sufferings, though still continuing, might become somewhat alleviated when the invaders quitted Attica, and when it was no longer indispensable for all the population to confine itself within the walls. Accordingly, the assembly resolved that no further propositions should be made for peace, and that the war should be prosecuted with vigor. In the midst of these several personal trials he received the intimation, through Alcibiades and some other friends, of the restored confidence of the people toward him, and of his reelection to the office of strategus. But it was not without difficulty that he was persuaded to present himself again at the public assembly and resume the direction of affairs. The regret of the people was formally expressed to him for the recent sentence--perhaps, indeed, the fine may have been repaid to him, or some evasion of it permitted, saving the forms of law--in the present temper of the city; which was further displayed toward him by the grant of a remarkable exemption from a law of his own original proposition. DEFEAT OF THE ATHENIANS AT SYRACUSE SIR EDWARD SHEPHERD CREASY (That great writer of the history of the Romans, Thomas Arnold, says of the defeat of the Athenian fleet at Syracuse: "The Romans knew not, and could not know, how deeply the greatness of their own posterity, and the fate of the whole western world, were involved in the destruction of the fleet of Athens in the harbor of Syracuse. Had that great expedition proved victorious, the energies of Greece during the next eventful century would have found their field in the West no less than in the East; Greece, and not Rome; might have conquered Carthage; Greek instead of Latin might have been at this day the principal element of the language of Spain, of France, and of Italy; and the laws of Athens, rather than of Rome, might be the foundation of the law of the civilized world." The foregoing, the author's own selection, really sums up all that need be said as to the importance of the great event so finely treated by Creasy.) The present city of Syracuse is a place of little or no military strength, as the fire of artillery from the neighboring heights would almost completely command it. But in ancient warfare its position, and the care bestowed on its walls, rendered it formidably strong against the means of offence which were then employed by besieging armies. The Syracusan orator told his countrymen to dismiss with scorn the visionary terrors which a set of designing men among themselves strove to excite, in order to get power and influence thrown into their own hands. He told them that Athens knew her own interest too well to think of wantonly provoking their hostility: "Even if the enemies were to come," said he, "so distant from their resources, and opposed to such a power as ours, their destruction would be easy and inevitable. Their ships will have enough to do to get to our island at all, and to carry such stores of all sorts as will be needed. They cannot therefore carry, besides, an army large enough to cope with such a population as ours. They will have no fortified place from which to commence their operations, but must rest them on no better base than a set of wretched tents, and such means as the necessities of the moment will allow them. But, in truth, I do not believe that they would even be able to effect a disembarkation. Let us, therefore, set at naught these reports as altogether of home manufacture; and be sure that if any enemy does come, the state will know how to defend itself in a manner worthy of the national honor." Alcibiades--the most complete example of genius without principle that history produces; the Bolingbroke of antiquity, but with high military talents superadded to diplomatic and oratorical powers--on being summoned home from his command in Sicily to take his trial before the Athenian tribunal, had escaped to Sparta, and had exerted himself there with all the selfish rancor of a renegade to renew the war with Athens and to send instant assistance to Syracuse. When we read his words in the pages of Thucydides--who was himself an exile from Athens at this period, and may probably have been at Sparta, and heard Alcibiades speak--we are at a loss whether most to admire or abhor his subtle counsels. After an artful exordium, in which he tried to disarm the suspicions which he felt must be entertained of him, and to point out to the Spartans how completely his interests and theirs were identified, through hatred of the Athenian democracy, he thus proceeded: The renegade then proceeded to urge on them the necessity of encouraging their friends in Sicily, by showing that they themselves were in earnest in hostility to Athens. He exhorted them not only to march their armies into Attica again, but to take up a permanent fortified position in the country; and he gave them in detail information of all that the Athenians most dreaded, and how his country might receive the most distressing and enduring injury at their hands. So nearly, indeed, had Nicias completed his beleaguering lines, and so utterly desperate had the state of Syracuse seemingly become, that an assembly of the Syracusans was actually convened, and they were discussing the terms on which they should offer to capitulate, when a galley was seen dashing into the great harbor, and making her way toward the town with all the speed which her rowers could supply. From her shunning the part of the harbor where the Athenian fleet lay, and making straight for the Syracusan side, it was clear that she was a friend; the enemy's cruisers, careless through confidence of success, made no attempt to cut her off; she touched the beach, and a Corinthian captain, springing on shore from her, was eagerly conducted to the assembly of the Syracusan people just in time to prevent the fatal vote being put for a surrender. Providentially for Syracuse, Gongylus, the commander of the galley, had been prevented by an Athenian squadron from following Gylippus to South Italy, and he had been obliged to push direct for Syracuse from Greece. The attention of all Greece was now fixed on Syracuse, and every enemy of Athens felt the importance of the opportunity now offered of checking her ambition, and, perhaps, of striking a deadly blow at her power. Larger reinforcements from Corinth, Thebes, and other cities now reached the Syracusans, while the baffled and dispirited Athenian general earnestly besought his countrymen to recall him, and represented the further prosecution of the siege as hopeless. This defeat was decisive of the event of the siege. The Athenians afterward struggled only to protect themselves from the vengeance which the Syracusans sought to wreak in the complete destruction of their invaders. Never, however, was vengeance more complete and terrible. A series of sea-fights followed, in which the Athenian galleys were utterly destroyed or captured. The mariners and soldiers who escaped death in disastrous engagements, and a vain attempt to force a retreat into the interior of the island, became prisoners of war. Nicias and Demosthenes were put to death in cold blood, and their men either perished miserably in the Syracusan dungeons or were sold into slavery to the very persons whom, in their pride of power, they had crossed the seas to enslave. Cyrus had considered himself as deeply wronged by his elder brother, who had thrown him into prison on the death of their father, Darius. Escaping from prison, he formed a design to wrest the throne from Artaxerxes. For this purpose he engaged the forces of Proxenus, and to this army Xenophon attached himself. The rendezvous was Sardis, from which the army marched east under the pretext of chastising the revolting mountaineers of Pisidia. Instead of attacking the Pisidians, the followers of Cyrus proceeded east through Asia and Babylonia till they met the forces of Artaxerxes at Cunaxa. A furious battle took place, and the rout of the king's army had begun when Cyrus, elated with the victory that seemed just within his grasp, challenged his brother to single combat. In the duel that ensued Cyrus was slain. Proxenus had already fallen, and the virtual command of the Greek army soon devolved upon Xenophon, who thereupon began the famous retreat. At the point where the climax of the story, which is presented here, may be said to begin, the Greeks have entered Armenia, passed the sources of the Tigris, and reached the Teleboas. Having made a treaty with Tiribazus, governor of the province, and discovered his insincerity, and that he was ready to attack them in their passage over the mountains, they resolved upon a quick resumption of their march. It was thought necessary to march away as fast as possible, before the enemy's force should be reassembled, and get possession of the pass. They continued to burn fires through the whole night, for there was plenty of wood at the place of encampment. But those who came up late could get no wood; those, therefore, who had arrived before and had kindled fires would not admit the late comers to the fire unless they gave them a share of the corn or other provisions that they had brought. Thus they shared with each other what they respectively had. In the places where the fires were made, as the snow melted, there were formed large pits that reached down to the ground, and here there was accordingly opportunity to measure the depth of the snow. "But," said Chirisophus, "the instant we offer to go to the part covered with trees, the stones fly in great numbers." "That," cried Xenophon, "would be the very thing we want, for thus they will exhaust their stones the sooner. Let us then advance, if we can, to the point whence we shall have but a short way to run, and from which we may, if we please, easily retreat." This plan was approved, and they threw the companies into columns. Xenophon, riding along from the right wing to the left, said: "Soldiers, the enemy whom you see before you is now the only obstacle to hinder us from being where we have long been eager to be. These, if we can, we must eat up alive." "But how will they be able," said they, "to wrestle on ground so rough and bushy?" CONDEMNATION AND DEATH OF SOCRATES It is quite certain that Socrates disliked the Athenian government and considered democracy as tyrannical as despotism. But there was no law at Athens by which he could be put to death for his words and actions, and the vague charge could never have been made unless the whole trial of the philosopher had been a party movement, headed by men like Lycon and Anytus, whose support of the unjust measure made the condemnation of Socrates a foregone conclusion. Xenophon, the pupil and admirer of the philosopher, expresses in his _Memorabilia of Socrates_ his surprise that the Athenians should have condemned to death a man of such exalted character and transparent innocence. But the influence of the teacher with his pupils, most of them sons of the wealthiest citizens, might well have been dreaded by those in office and engaged in the conduct of public business. By them, the common politicians of the day, Socrates, with his keen and witty criticism of political corruption and demagogism, must have been considered a formidable adversary. The literary portraits of Socrates furnished by himself, and the writings of Plato, are among the most precious monuments of antiquity, and the life and death of such a man form a memorable era in the moral and intellectual history of mankind. Echecrates. Were you personally present, Phaedo, with Socrates on that day when he drank the poison in prison? or did you hear an account of it from someone else? _Phaed._ I was there myself, Echecrates. _Phaed._ And did you not hear about the trial how it went off? _Phaed._ An accidental circumstance happened in his favor, Echecrates: for the poop of the ship which the Athenians send to Delos, chanced to be crowned on the day before the trial. _Ech._ But what is this ship? _Ech._ And what, Phaedo, were the circumstances of his death? what was said and done? and who of his friends were with him? or would not the magistrates allow them to be present, but did he die destitute of friends? _Phaed._ By no means; but some, indeed several, were present. _Ech._ Take the trouble, then, to relate to me all the particulars as clearly as you can, unless you have any pressing business. _Ech._ And indeed, Phaedo, you have others to listen to you who are of the same mind. However, endeavor to relate everything as accurately as you can. _Ech._ How should I not? _Phaed._ He, then, was entirely overcome by these emotions; and I too was troubled, as well as the others. _Ech._ But who were present, Phaedo? _Phaed._ Of his fellow-countrymen, this Apollodorus was present, and Critobulus, and his father Crito, moreover Hermogenes, Epigenes, AEschines, and Antisthenes; Ctesippus the Paeanian, Menexenus, and some other of his countrymen were also there: Plato I think was sick. _Ech._ Were any strangers present? _Phaed._ Yes: Simmias the Theban, Cebes, and Phaedondes: and from Megara, Euclides and Terpsion. _Ech._ But what! were not Aristippus and Cleombrotus present? _Phaed._ No: for they were said to be at AEgina. _Ech._ Was anyone else there? _Phaed._ I think that these were nearly all who were present. _Ech._ Well, now, what do you say was the subject of conversation? Hereupon Cebes, interrupting him, said: "By Jupiter, Socrates, you have done well in reminding me. With respect to the poems which you made, by putting into metre those Fables of AEsop and the hymn to Apollo, several other persons asked me, and especially Evenus recently, with what design you made them after you came here, whereas before, you had never made any. If, therefore, you care at all that I should be able to answer Evenus when he asks me again--for I am sure he will do so--tell me what I must say to him." "Tell this then to Evenus, Cebes, and bid him farewell, and, if he is wise, to follow me as soon as he can. But I depart, as it seems, to-day; for so the Athenians order." To this Simmias said: "What is this, Socrates, which you exhort Evenus to do? for I often meet with him; and from what I know of him, I am pretty certain that he will not at all be willing to comply with your advice." "What then," said he, "is not Evenus a philosopher?" "To me he seems to be so," said Simmias. "Nothing very clearly, Socrates." Then Cebes, gently smiling, said, speaking in his own dialect, "Jove be witness." "It does," replied Cebes. "Certainly," he replied. "Perhaps then, in this point of view, it is not unreasonable to assert, that a man ought not to kill himself before the deity lays him under a necessity of doing so, such as that now laid on me." Whereupon Simmias replied: "But indeed, Socrates, Cebes appears to me, now, to say something to the purpose; for with what design should men really wise fly from masters who are better than themselves, and so readily leave them? And Cebes appears to me to direct his argument against you, because you so easily endure to abandon both us and those good rulers--as you yourself confess--the gods." "Certainly," replied Simmias. "What then, Socrates," said Simmias, "would you go away keeping this persuasion to yourself, or would you impart it to us? For this good appears to me to be also common to us; and at the same time it will be an apology for you, if you can persuade us to believe what you say." "I was almost certain what you would say," answered Crito, "but he has been some time pestering me." "Never mind him," he rejoined. "But now I wish to render an account to you, my judges, of the reason why a man who has really devoted his life to philosophy, when he is about to die appears to me, on good grounds, to have confidence, and to entertain a firm hope that the greatest good will befall him in the other world, when he has departed this life. How then this comes to pass, Simmias and Cebes, I will endeavor to explain. "For as many as rightly apply themselves to philosophy seem to have left all others in ignorance, that they aim at nothing else than to die and be dead. If this then is true, it would surely be absurd to be anxious about nothing else than this during their whole life, but when it arrives, to be grieved at what they have been long anxious about and aimed at." Upon this, Simmias, smiling, said: "By Jupiter, Socrates, though I am not now at all inclined to smile, you have made me do so; for I think that the multitude, if they heard this, would think it was very well said in reference to philosophers, and that our countrymen particularly would agree with you, that true philosophers do desire death, and that they are by no means ignorant that they deserve to suffer it." "Certainly," replied Simmias. "Is it anything else than the separation of the soul from the body? and is not this to die, for the body to be apart by itself separated from the soul, and for the soul to subsist apart by itself separated from the body? Is death anything else than this?" "No, but this," he replied. "Consider then, my good friend, whether you are of the same opinion as me; for thus I think we shall understand better the subject we are considering. Does it appear to you to be becoming in a philosopher to be anxious about pleasures, as they are called, such as meats and drinks?" "By no means, Socrates," said Simmias. "But what? about the pleasures of love?" "What then? does such a man appear to you to think other bodily indulgences of value? for instance, does he seem to you to value or despise the possession of magnificent garments and sandals, and other ornaments of the body, except so far as necessity compels him to use them?" "The true philosopher," he answered, "appears to me to despise them." "Does not, then," he continued, "the whole employment of such a man appear to you to be, not about the body, but to separate himself from it as much as possible, and be occupied about his soul?" "And it appears, Simmias, to the generality of men, that he who takes no pleasure in such things, and who does not use them, does not deserve to live; but that he nearly approaches to death who cares nothing for the pleasures that subsist through the body." "You speak very truly." "Certainly," he replied. "When, then," said he, "does the soul light on the truth? for, when it attempts to consider anything in conjunction with the body, it is plain that it is then led astray by it." "Must it not then be by reasoning, if at all, that any of the things that really are become known to it?" "And surely the soul then reasons best when none of these things disturbs it, neither hearing, nor sight, nor pain, nor pleasure of any kind, but it retires as much as possible within itself, taking leave of the body, and, as far as it can, not communicating or being in contact with it, it aims at the discovery of that which is." "Does not then the soul of the philosopher, in these cases, despise the body, and flee from it, and seek to retire within itself?" "But what as to such things as these, Simmias? Do we say that justice itself is something or nothing?" "We say it is something, by Jupiter." "And that beauty and goodness are something?" "Now, then, have you ever seen anything of this kind with your eyes?" "By no means," he replied. "Did you ever lay hold of them by any other bodily sense? but I speak generally, as of magnitude, health, strength, and, in a word, of the essence of everything, that is to say, what each is. Is then the exact truth of these perceived by means of the body, or is it thus, whoever among us habituates himself to reflect most deeply and accurately on each several thing about which he is considering, he will make the nearest approach to the knowledge of it?" "You speak with wonderful truth, Socrates," replied Simmias. "Wherefore," he said, "it necessarily follows from all this, that some such opinion as this should be entertained by genuine philosophers, so that they should speak among themselves as follows: 'A by-path, as it were, seems to lead us on in our researches undertaken by reason,' because as long as we are encumbered with the body, and our soul is contaminated with such an evil, we can never fully attain to what we desire; and this, we say, is truth. For the body subjects us to innumerable hinderances on account of its necessary support, and moreover if any diseases befall us, they impede us in our search after that which is; and it fills us with longings, desires, fears, all kinds of fancies, and a multitude of absurdities, so that, as it is said in real truth, by reason of the body it is never possible for us to make any advances in wisdom. "Most assuredly, Socrates." "This earth and the whole region here are decayed and corroded, as things in the sea by the saltness; for nothing of any value grows in the sea, nor, in a word, does it contain anything perfect, but there are caverns, and sand, and mud in abundance, and filth in whatever parts of the sea there is earth, nor are they at all worthy to be compared with the beautiful things with us. But, on the other hand, those things in the upper regions of the earth would appear far more to excel the things with us. For, if we may tell a beautiful fable, it is well worth hearing, Simmias, what kind the things are on the earth beneath the heavens." "Indeed, Socrates," said Simmias, "we should be very glad to hear that fable." "But their seasons are of such a temperament that they are free from disease, and live for a much longer time than those here, and surpass us in sight, hearing, and smelling, and everything of this kind, as much as air excels water, and ether air, in purity. Moreover, they have abodes and temples of the gods, in which gods really dwell, and voices and oracles, and sensible visions of the gods, and such-like intercourse with them; the sun, too, and moon, and stars, are seen by them such as they really are, and their felicity in other respects is correspondent with these things. "And such, indeed, is the nature of the whole earth and the parts about the earth; but there are many places all round it throughout its cavities, some deeper and more open than that in which we dwell: but others that are deeper have less chasm than in our region, and other are shallower in depth than they are here, and broader. "And the reason why all streams flow out from thence and flow into it is because this liquid has neither bottom nor base. Therefore it oscillates and fluctuates up and down, and the air and the wind around it do the same; for they accompany it, both when it rushes to those parts of the earth, and when to these. And as in respiration the flowing breath is continually breathed out and drawn in, so there the wind, oscillating with the liquid, causes certain vehement and irresistible winds both as it enters and goes out. When, therefore, the water rushing in descends to the place which we call the lower region, it flows through the earth into the streams there and fills them, just as men pump up water. But when again it leaves those regions and rushes hither, it again fills the rivers here, and these, when filled, flow through channels and through the earth, and having severally reached the several places to which they are journeying, they make seas, lakes, rivers, and fountains. "But those who are found to have lived an eminently holy life, these are they who, being freed and set at large from these regions in the earth, as from a prison, arrive at the pure abode above, and dwell on the upper parts of the earth. And among these, they who have sufficiently purified themselves by philosophy shall live without bodies, throughout all future time, and shall arrive at habitations yet more beautiful than these, which it is neither easy to describe nor at present is there sufficient time for the purpose. "But for the sake of these things which we have described, we should use every endeavor, Simmias, so as to acquire virtue and wisdom in this life; for the reward is noble, and the hope great. When he had thus spoken, Crito said: "So be it, Socrates, but what commands have you to give to these or to me, either respecting your children or any other matter, in attending to which we can most oblige you?" "What I always say, Crito," he replied, "nothing new; that by taking care of yourselves you will oblige both me and mine and yourselves, whatever you do, though you should not now promise it; but if you neglect yourselves, and will not live as it were in the footsteps of what has been now and formerly said, even though you should promise much at present, and that earnestly, you will do no good at all." "We will endeavor then so to do," he said; "but how shall we bury you?" "Just as you please," he said, "if only you can catch me, and I do not escape from you." And at the same time smiling gently, and looking round on us, he said: "I cannot persuade Crito, my friends, that I am that Socrates who is now conversing with you, and who methodizes each part of the discourse; but he thinks that I am he whom he will shortly behold dead, and asks how he should bury me. But that which I some time since argued at length, that when I have drunk the poison I shall no longer remain with you, but shall depart to some happy state of the blessed, this I seem to have urged to him in vain, though I meant at the same time to console both you and myself. Be ye then my sureties to Crito," he said, "in an obligation contrary to that which he made to the judges; for he undertook that I should remain; but do you be sureties that, when I die, I shall not remain, but shall depart, that Crito may more easily bear it, and when he sees my body either burnt or buried, may not be afflicted for me, as if I suffered some dreadful thing, nor say at my interment that Socrates is laid out, or is carried out, or is buried. "For be well assured," he said, "most excellent Crito, that to speak improperly is not only culpable as to the thing itself, but likewise occasions some injury to our souls. You must have a good courage, then, and say that you bury my body, and bury it in such a manner as is pleasing to you, and as you think is most agreeable to our laws." Then Crito said: "But I think, Socrates, that the sun is still on the mountains and has not yet set. Besides, I know that others have drunk the poison very late, after it had been announced to them, and have supped and drunk freely, and some even have enjoyed the objects of their love. Do not hasten, then, for there is yet time." Upon this Socrates replied: "These men whom you mention, Crito, do these things with good reason, for they think they shall gain by so doing, and I too with good reason shall not do so; for I think I shall gain nothing by drinking a little later, except to become ridiculous to myself, in being so fond of life, and sparing of it when none any longer remains. Go, then," he said, "obey, and do not resist." Crito having heard this, nodded to the boy that stood near. And the boy having gone out, and stayed for some time, came, bringing with him the man that was to administer the poison, who brought it ready pounded in a cup. And Socrates, on seeing the man, said: "Well, my good friend, as you are skilled in these matters, what must I do?" "Nothing else," he replied, "than when you have drunk it walk about until there is a heaviness in your legs, then lie down; thus it will do its purpose." And at the same time he held out the cup to Socrates. And he having received it very cheerfully, Echecrates, neither trembling nor changing at all in color or countenance, but, as he was wont, looking steadfastly at the man, said: "What say you of this potion, with respect to making a libation to anyone, is it lawful or not?" "We only pound so much, Socrates," he said, "as we think sufficient to drink." "I understand you," he said; "but it is certainly both lawful and right to pray to the gods, that my departure hence thither may be happy; which therefore I pray, and so may it be." And as he said this he drank it off readily and calmly. Thus far, most of us were with difficulty able to restrain ourselves from weeping, but when we saw him drinking, and having finished the draught, we could do so no longer; but in spite of myself the tears came in full torrent, so that, covering my face, I wept for myself, for I did not weep for him, but for my own fortune, in being deprived of such a friend. But Crito, even before me when he could not restrain his tears, had risen up. But Apollodorus, even before this, had not ceased weeping, and then bursting into an agony of grief, weeping and lamenting, he pierced the heart of everyone present except Socrates himself. But he said: "What are you doing, my admirable friends? I indeed, for this reason chiefly, sent away the women that they might not commit any folly of this kind. For I have heard that it is right to die with good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and bear up." When we heard this we were ashamed and restrained our tears. But he, having walked about, when he said that his legs were growing heavy, laid down on his back; for the man so directed him. And at the same time he who gave him the poison, taking hold of him, after a short interval examined his feet and legs; and then having pressed his foot hard, he asked if he felt it. He said that he did not. And after this he pressed his thighs; and thus going higher, he showed us that he was growing cold and stiff. Then Socrates touched himself, and said that when the poison reached his heart he should then depart. But now the parts around the lower belly were almost cold; when, uncovering himself (for he had been covered over), he said, and they were his last words: "Crito, we owe a cock to Aesculapius; pay it, therefore, and do not neglect it!" "It shall be done," said Crito; "but consider whether you have anything else to say?" To this question he gave no reply; but shortly after he gave a convulsive movement, and the man covered him, and his eyes were fixed; and Crito, perceiving it, closed his mouth and eyes. This, Echecrates, was the end of our friend, a man, as we may say, the best of all of his time that we have known, and, moreover, the most wise and just. BARTHOLD GEORG NIEBUHR At that time no Roman foresaw the calamity which was threatening the empire. Rome had become great, because the country which she had conquered was weak through its oligarchical institutions; the subjects of the other states gladly joined the Romans, because under them their lot was more favorable, and probably because they were kindred nations. But matters went with the Romans as they did with Basilius, who subdued the Armenians when they were threatened by the Turks, and who soon after attacked the whole Greek empire and took away far more than had been gained before. There was no other passage for the Gauls except either across the Little St. Bernard or across the Simplon; it is not probable that they took the former road, because their country extended only as far as the Ticinus, and if they had come across the Little St. Bernard, they would naturally have occupied also all the country between that mountain and the Ticinus. The Salassi may indeed have been a Gallic people, but it is by no means certain; moreover, between them and the Gauls who had come across the Alps the Laevi also lived; and there can be no doubt that at that time Ligurians still continued to dwell on the Ticinus. But the Apennines which separate Tuscany from the Romagna are very difficult to cross, especially for sumpter-horses; as therefore the Gauls could not enter Etruria on that side--which the Etruscans had intentionally allowed to grow wild--and as they had been convinced of this in an unsuccessful attempt, they crossed the Apennines in the neighborhood of Clusium, and appeared before that city. Clusium was the great bulwark of the valley of the Tiber; and if it were taken, the roads along the Tiber and the Arno would be open, and the Gauls might reach Arezzo from the rear: the Romans therefore looked upon the fate of Clusium as decisive of their own. The Clusines sued for a treaty with the mighty city of Rome, and the Romans were wise enough readily to accept the offer: they sent ambassadors to the Gauls, ordering them to withdraw. According to a very probable account, the Gauls had demanded of the Clusines a division of their territory as the condition of peace, and not, as was customary with the Romans, as a tax upon a people already subdued: if this is correct, the Romans sent the embassy confiding in their own strength. But the Gauls scorned the ambassadors, and the latter, allowing themselves to be carried away by their warlike disposition, joined the Etruscans in a fight against the Gauls. This was probably only an insignificant and isolated engagement. Such is the account of Livy, who goes on to say that the Gauls, as soon as they perceived this violation in the law of nations, gave the signal for a retreat, and, having called upon the gods to avenge the wrong, marched against Rome. Terror preceded the Gauls as they laid waste everything on their way, and this paralyzed the courage of the Romans, instead of rousing them to a desperate resistance. The Romans therefore were defeated on the Alia in the most inglorious manner. The Gauls had taken them in their rear, and cut off their return to Rome. A portion fled toward the Tiber, where some effected a retreat across the river, and others were drowned; another part escaped into a forest. The loss of life must have been prodigious, and it is inconceivable how Livy could have attached so much importance to the mere disgrace. If the Roman army had not been almost annihilated, it would not have been necessary to give up the defence of the city, as was done, for the city was left undefended and deserted by all. Many fled to Veii instead of returning to Rome: only a few, who had escaped along the high road, entered the city by the Colline gate. Rome was exhausted, her power shattered, her legions defenceless, and her warlike allies had partly been beaten in the same battle, and were partly awaiting the fearful enemy in their own countries. At Rome it was believed that the whole army was destroyed, for nothing was known of those who had reached Veii. In the city itself there were only old men, women, and children, so that there was no possibility of defending it. It is, however, inconceivable that the gates should have been left open, and that the Gauls, from fear of a stratagem, should have encamped for several days outside the gates. A more probable account is that the gates were shut and barricaded. We may form a vivid conception of the condition of Rome after this battle, by comparing it with that of Moscow before the conflagration: the people were convinced that a long defence was impossible, since there was probably a want of provisions. The Ardeatans, whose territory was likewise invaded by the Gauls, opposed them, under the command of Camillus; the Etruscans would seem to have endeavored to avail themselves of the opportunity of recovering Veii, for we are told that the Romans at Veii, commanded by Caedicius, gained a battle against them, and that, encouraged by this success, they began to entertain a hope of regaining Rome, since by this victory they got possession of arms. A Roman of the name of Fabius Dorso is said to have offered up, in broad daylight, a _gentilician_ sacrifice on the Quirinal; and the astonished Gauls are said to have done him no harm--a tradition which is not improbable. Even as late as the time of Cicero and Caesar, the spot was shown at Rome in the Carinae, where the Gauls had heaped up and burned their dead; it was called _busta Gallica_, which was corrupted in the Middle Ages into Protogallo, whence the church which was built there was in reality called _S. Andreas in bustis Gallicis_, or, according to the later Latinity, _in busta Gallica--busta Gallica_ not being declined. The Gauls departed with their gold, which the Romans had been compelled to pay on account of the famine that prevailed in the Capitol, which was so great that they pulled the leather from their shields and cooked it, just as was done during the siege of Jerusalem. The Gauls were certainly not destroyed. Justin has preserved the remarkable statement that the same Gauls who sacked Rome went to Apulia, and there offered for money their assistance to the elder Dionysius of Syracuse. From this important statement it is at any rate clear that they traversed all Italy, and then probably returned along the shore of the Adriatic: their devastations extended over many parts of Italy, and there is no doubt that the AEquians received their death-blow at that time, for henceforth we hear no more of the hostilities of the AEquians against Rome. Praeneste, on the other hand, which must formerly have been subject to the AEquians, now appears as an independent town. The AEquians, who inhabited small and easily destructible towns, must have been annihilated during the progress of the Gauls. TARTAR INVASION OF CHINA BY MEHA DEMETRIUS CHARLES BOULGER The weak successors of Hwangti finally gave way to the usurper, Kaotsou, who had been originally the ruler of a small town, and had borne the name of Lieou Pang. The reign of Kaotsou was distinguished by the consolidation of the empire; the connection of Western with Eastern China by high walls and bridges, some of which are still in perfect condition, and the institution of an elaborate code of court etiquette. His attention to these things was, however, rudely interrupted by an irruption of the Hiongnou Tartars.) Meha's successes followed rapidly upon each other. Issuing from the desert, and marching in the direction of China, he wrested many fertile districts from the feeble hands of those who held them; and while establishing his personal authority on the banks of the Hoangho, his lieutenants returned laden with plunder from expeditions into the rich provinces of Shensi and Szchuen. He won back all the territory lost by his ancestors to Hwangti and Moungtien, and he paved the way to greater success by the siege and capture of the city of Maye, thus obtaining possession of the key of the road to Tsinyang. Several of the border chiefs and of the Emperor's lieutenants, dreading the punishment allotted in China to want of success, went over to the Tartars, and took service under Meha. The closing acts of the war were the lavishing of rewards on the head of the general to whose warnings he had paid no heed, and the execution of the scouts who had been misled by the wiles of Meha. ALEXANDER REDUCES TYRE: LATER FOUNDS ALEXANDRIA After Thebes came the invasion of Asia. The invincible Macedonian had fought and won the battle of the Granicus. In this battle nearly all of the Persian leaders were slain, and its result spread terror throughout Persia. Halicarnassus was next reduced. The march of Alexander was ever onward. In the citadel of Gordium he cut the "Gordian knot," and prophecy marked him for the lord of Asia. And now Darius marched to meet him, making a fatally bad choice of battle-ground. Darius was totally defeated at the celebrated battle of Issus, although he had anticipated a victory. After the Persian rout and the flight of Darius, whose numbers counted for nothing before the Macedonian's skill, Lindon welcomed the invaders, and Alexander determined to take Tyre. This was accomplished after a siege, which was attended with much cruelty. Alexander was desirous of gaining the place rather by treaty than by force of arms, and with this in view sent heralds into the town with offers of peace; but the inhabitants were so far from listening to his proposals, or endeavoring to avert his resentment by any kind of concession, that they actually killed his ambassadors and threw their bodies from the top of the walls into the sea. It is easy to imagine what effect so shocking an outrage must produce in a mind like Alexander's. He instantly resolved to besiege the place, and not to desist until he had made himself master of it and razed it to the ground. These favorable circumstances were announced by the augurs as intimations from above; and every heart was in consequence cheered. The soldiers, as if that moment arrived before the city, forgetting all the toils they had undergone and the disappointments they had suffered, began to raise a new mole, at which they worked incessantly. To protect them from being annoyed by the ships of the enemy, Alexander fitted out a fleet, with which he not only secured his own men, but offered the Tyrians battle, which, however, they thought proper to decline, and withdrew all their galleys into the harbor. The besiegers, now allowed to proceed unmolested, went on with the work with the utmost vigor, and in a little time completed it and brought it close to the walls. A general attack was therefore resolved on, both by sea and land, and with this in view the King, having manned his galleys and joined them together with strong cables, ordered them to approach the walls about midnight and attack the city with resolution. But just as the assault was going to begin, a dreadful storm arose, which not only shook the ships asunder, but even shattered them in a terrible manner, so that they were all obliged to be towed toward the shore, without having made the least impression on the city. To annoy the ships which advanced against their walls, they fixed grappling irons and scythes to joists or beams; then, straining their catapultas--an enormous kind of crossbow--they laid those great pieces of timber upon them instead of arrows, and shot them off on a sudden at the enemy. These crushed some of their ships by their great weight, and, by means of the hooks or hanging scythes, tore others to pieces. They also had brazen shields, which they drew red-hot out of the fire; and filling these with burning sand, hurled them in an instant from the top of the wall upon the enemy. There was nothing the Macedonians dreaded so much as this fatal instrument; for the moment the burning sand got to the flesh through the crevices of the armor, it penetrated to the very bone, and stuck so close that there was no pulling it off; so that the soldiers, throwing down their arms, and tearing their clothes to pieces, were in this manner exposed, naked and defenceless, to the shot of the enemy. At the same time, Tyre being taken on that side which lay toward the harbor, a general carnage of the citizens ensued, and none was spared, except the few that fell into the hands of the Siclonians in Alexander's army, who--considering the Tyrians as countrymen--granted them protection and carried them privately on board their ships. From Tyre, Alexander marched to Jerusalem, fully determined to punish that city for having refused to supply his army with provisions during the siege; but his resentment was mollified by a deputation of the citizens coming out to meet him, with their high priest, Taddua, before them, dressed in white, and having a mitre on his head, on the front of which the name of God was written. The moment the King perceived the high priest, he advanced toward him with an air of the most profound respect, bowed his body, adored the august name upon his front, and saluted him who wore it with religious veneration. And when some of his courtiers expressed their surprise that he, who was adored by everyone, should adore the high priest of the Jews: "I do not," said he, "adore the high priest, but the God whose minister he is; for while I was at Dium in Macedonia, my mind wholly fixed on the great design of the Persian war, as I was revolving the methods how to conquer Asia, this very man, dressed in the same robes, appeared to me in a dream, exhorted me to banish my fear, bade me cross the Hellespont boldly, and assured me that God would march at the head of my army and give me the victory over the Persians." This speech, delivered with an air of sincerity, no doubt had its effect in encouraging the army and establishing an opinion that his mission was from heaven. Nothing could be more dreary than the desert through which he passed, nor anything more charming--according to the fabulous accounts of the poets--than the particular spot where the temple was situated. It was a perfect paradise in the midst of an immeasurable wilderness. At last, having reached the place, and appeared before the altar of the deity, the priest, who was no stranger to Alexander's wishes, declared him to be the son of Jupiter. The conqueror, elated with this high compliment, asked whether he should have success in his expedition. The priest answered that he should be monarch of the world. The conqueror inquired if his father's murderers were punished. The priest replied that his father Jupiter was immortal, but that the murderers of Philip had all been extirpated. THE BATTLE OF ARBELA SIR EDWARD SHEPHERD CREASY After he had next invaded and subjugated Egypt and there founded the city of Alexandria, he pursued King Darius, who had taken flight, into the very heart of his empire, where the Persian monarch, on the plains of Gaugamela, near the village of Arbela, made his last stand against his invincible foe. Of the battle to which Arbela gave its name, and which proved the death-blow of the Persian empire, Creasy's narrative furnishes a realistic description.) The truth of many a brilliant narrative of brilliant exploits has of late years been triumphantly demonstrated, and the shallowness of the sceptical scoffs with which little minds have carped at the great minds of antiquity has been in many instances decisively exposed. The laws, the politics, and the lines of action adopted or recommended by eminent men and powerful nations have been examined with keener investigation and considered with more comprehensive judgment than formerly were brought to bear on these subjects. The result has been at least as often favorable as unfavorable to the persons and the states so scrutinized, and many an oft-repeated slander against both measures and men has thus been silenced, we may hope forever. The veracity of Herodotus, the pure patriotism of Pericles, of Demosthenes, and of the Gracchi, the wisdom of Clisthenes and of Licinius as constitutional reformers, may be mentioned as facts which recent writers have cleared from unjust suspicion and censure. And it might be easily shown that the defensive tendency which distinguishes the present and recent great writers of Germany, France, and England has been equally manifested in the spirit in which they have treated the heroes of thought and heroes of action who lived during what we term the Middle Ages, and whom it was so long the fashion to sneer at or neglect. The name of the victor of Arbela has led to these reflections; for, although the rapidity and extent of Alexander's conquests have through all ages challenged admiration and amazement, the grandeur of genius which he displayed in his schemes of commerce, civilization, and of comprehensive union and unity among nations, has, until lately, been comparatively unhonored. This long-continued depreciation was of early date. The ancient rhetoricians--a class of babblers, a school for lies and scandal, as Niebuhr justly termed them--chose, among the stock themes for their commonplaces, the character and exploits of Alexander. Arrian, who wrote his history of Alexander when Hadrian was emperor of the Roman world, and when the spirit of declamation and dogmatism was at its full height, but who was himself, unlike the dreaming pedants of the schools, a statesman and a soldier of practical and proved ability, well rebuked the malevolent aspersions which he heard continually thrown upon the memory of the great conqueror of the East. "Let the evil-speaker against Alexander bear all this in mind, and then let him reflect on his own insignificance, the pettiness of his own circumstances and affairs, and the blunders that he makes about these, paltry and trifling as they are. Let him then ask himself whether he is a fit person to censure and revile such a man as Alexander. I believe that there was in his time no nation of men, no city, nay, no single individual with whom Alexander's name had not become a familiar word. I therefore hold that such a man, who was like no ordinary mortal, was not born into the world without some special providence." Throughout Asia Minor, Syria, and Egypt the Hellenic character that was thus imparted remained in full vigor down to the time of the Mahometan conquests. The infinite value of this to humanity in the highest and holiest point of view has often been pointed out, and the workings of the finger of Providence have been gratefully recognized by those who have observed how the early growth and progress of Christianity were aided by that diffusion of the Greek language and civilization throughout Asia Minor, Syria, and Egypt which had been caused by the Macedonian conquest of the East. It is well known that Western Europe in the Middle Ages drew its philosophy, its arts, and its science principally from Arabian teachers. And thus we see how the intellectual influence of ancient Greece, poured on the Eastern world by Alexander's victories, and then brought back to bear on mediaeval Europe by the spread of the Saracenic powers, has exerted its action on the elements of modern civilization by this powerful though indirect channel, as well as by the more obvious effects of the remnants of classic civilization which survived in Italy, Gaul, Britain, and Spain, after the irruption of the Germanic nations. These considerations invest the Macedonian triumphs in the East with never-dying interest, such as the most showy and sanguinary successes of mere "low ambition and the pride of kings," however they may dazzle for a moment, can never retain with posterity. Whether the old Persian empire which Cyrus founded could have survived much longer than it did, even if Darius had been victorious at Arbela, may safely be disputed. That ancient dominion, like the Turkish at the present time, labored under every cause of decay and dissolution. The satraps, like the modern pachas, continually rebelled against the central power, and Egypt in particular was almost always in a state of insurrection against its nominal sovereign. There was no longer any effective central control, or any internal principle of unity fused through the huge mass of the empire, and binding it together. Alexander's victory at Arbela not only overthrew an oriental dynasty, but established European rulers in its stead. It broke the monotony of the eastern world by the impression of western energy and superior civilization, even as England's present mission is to break up the mental and moral stagnation of India and Cathay by pouring upon and through them the impulsive current of Anglo-Saxon commerce and conquest. The position of the Persian King near Mesopotamia was chosen with great military skill. It was certain that Alexander, on his return from Egypt, must march northward along the Syrian coast before he attacked the central provinces of the Persian empire. A direct eastward march from the lower part of Palestine across the great Syrian Desert was then, as ever, utterly impracticable. Marching eastward from Syria, Alexander would, on crossing the Euphrates, arrive at the vast Mesopotamian plains. The wealthy capitals of the empire, Babylon, Susa, and Persepolis, would then lie to the south; and if he marched down through Mesopotamia to attack them, Darius might reasonably hope to follow the Macedonians with his immense force of cavalry, and, without even risking a pitched battle, to harass and finally overwhelm them. The phalangite soldier was fully equipped in the defensive armor of the regular Greek infantry. And thus the phalanx presented a ponderous and bristling mass, which, as long as its order was kept compact, was sure to bear down all opposition. The defects of such an organization are obvious, and were proved in after-years, when the Macedonians were opposed to the Roman legions. But it is clear that under Alexander the phalanx was not the cumbrous, unwieldy body which it was at Cynoscephate and Pydna. His men were veterans; and he could obtain from them an accuracy of movement and steadiness of evolution such as probably the recruits of his father would only have floundered in attempting, and such as certainly were impracticable in the phalanx when handled by his successors, especially as under them it ceased to be a standing force, and became only a militia. A little before the end of August, Alexander crossed the Euphrates at Thapsacus, a small corps of Persian cavalry under Mazaeus retiring before him. Alexander was too prudent to march down through the Mesopotamian deserts, and continued to advance eastward with the intention of passing the Tigris, and then, if he was unable to find Darius and bring him to action, of marching southward on the left side of that river along the skirts of a mountainous district where his men would suffer less from heat and thirst, and where provisions would be more abundant. Not knowing that these marks had been caused by the Persians having levelled the ground for the free use of their war chariots, Alexander suspected that hidden pitfalls had been prepared with a view of disordering the approach of his cavalry. He summoned a council of war forthwith. Some of the officers were for attacking instantly, at all hazards; but the more prudent opinion of Parmenio prevailed, and it was determined not to advance farther till the battle-ground had been carefully surveyed. On Alexander's return to his headquarters, he summoned his generals and superior officers together, and telling them that he knew well that _their_ zeal wanted no exhortation, he besought them to do their utmost in encouraging and instructing those whom each commanded, to do their best in the next day's battle. They were to remind them that they were now not going to fight for a province as they had hitherto fought, but they were about to decide by their swords the dominion of all Asia. Each officer ought to impress this upon his subalterns, and they should urge it on their men. Their natural courage required no long words to excite its ardor; but they should be reminded of the paramount importance of steadiness in action. The silence in the ranks must be unbroken as long as silence was proper; but when the time came for the charge, the shout and the cheer must be full of terror for the foe. The officers were to be alert in receiving and communicating orders; and everyone was to act as if he felt that the whole result of the battle depended on his own single good conduct. Having thus briefly instructed his generals, Alexander ordered that the army should sup and take their rest for the night. Darkness had closed over the tents of the Macedonians when Alexander's veteran general, Parmenio, came to him and proposed that they should make a night attack on the Persians. The King is said to have answered that he scorned to filch a victory, and that Alexander must conquer openly and fairly. Arrian justly remarks that Alexander's resolution was as wise as it was spirited. Besides the confusion and uncertainty which are inseparable from night engagements, the value of Alexander's victory would have been impaired if gained under circumstances which might supply the enemy with any excuse for his defeat, and encourage him to renew the contest. It was necessary for Alexander not only to beat Darius, but to gain such a victory as should leave his rival without apology and without hope of recovery. The Persians, in fact, expected and were prepared to meet a night attack. Such was the apprehension that Darius entertained of it that he formed his troops at evening in order of battle, and kept them under arms all night. The effect of this was that the morning found them jaded and dispirited, while it brought their adversaries all fresh and vigorous against them. The written order of battle which Darius himself caused to be drawn up fell into the hands of the Macedonians after the engagement, and Aristobulus copied it into his journal. We thus possess, through Arrian, unusually authentic information as to the composition and arrangement of the Persian army. On the extreme left were the Bactrian, Daan, and Arachosian cavalry. Next to these Darius placed the troops from Persia proper, both horse and foot. Then came the Susians, and next to these the Cadusians. These forces made up the left wing. Darius' own station was in the centre. This was composed of the Indians, the Carians, the Mardian archers, and the division of Persians who were distinguished by the golden apples that formed the knobs of their spears. Here also were stationed the bodyguard of the Persian nobility. Besides these, there were, in the centre, formed in deep order, the Uxian and Babylonian troops and the soldiers from the Red Sea. The brigade of Greek mercenaries whom Darius had in his service, and who alone were considered fit to stand the charge of the Macedonian phalanx, was drawn up on either side of the royal chariot. Such was the general nature of the disposition which Alexander made of his army. But we have in Arrian the details of the position of each brigade and regiment; and as we know that these details were taken from the journals of Macedonian generals, it is interesting to examine them, and to read the names and stations of King Alexander's generals and colonels in this the greatest of his battles. Next to Craterus' infantry were placed the cavalry regiments of the allies, with Eriguius for their general. The Thessalian cavalry, commanded by Philippus, were next, and held the extreme left of the whole army. The whole left wing was intrusted to the command of Parmenio, who had round his person the Pharsalian regiment of cavalry, which was the strongest and best of all the Thessalian horse regiments. Conspicuous by the brilliancy of his armor, and by the chosen band of officers who were round his person, Alexander took his own station, as his custom was, in the right wing, at the head of his cavalry; and when all the arrangements for the battle were complete, and his generals were fully instructed how to act in each probable emergency, he began to lead his men toward the enemy. It was ever his custom to expose his life freely in battle, and to emulate the personal prowess of his great ancestor, Achilles. Perhaps, in the bold enterprise of conquering Persia, it was politic for Alexander to raise his army's daring to the utmost by the example of his own heroic valor; and, in his subsequent campaigns, the love of the excitement, of "the raptures of the strife," may have made him, like Murat, continue from choice a custom which he commenced from duty. But he never suffered the ardor of the soldier to make him lose the coolness of the general. Great reliance had been placed by the Persian King on the effects of the scythe-bearing chariots. It was designed to launch these against the Macedonian phalanx, and to follow them up by a heavy charge of cavalry, which, it was hoped, would find the ranks of the spearmen disordered by the rush of the chariots, and easily destroy this most formidable part of Alexander's force. In front, therefore, of the Persian centre, where Darius took his station, and which it was supposed that the phalanx would attack, the ground had been carefully levelled and smoothed, so as to allow the chariots to charge over it with their full sweep and speed. Darius now directed the scythe-armed chariots to be driven against Alexander's horse-guards and the phalanx, and these formidable vehicles were accordingly sent rattling across the plain, against the Macedonian line. When we remember the alarm which the war chariots of the Britons created among Caesar's legions, we shall not be prone to deride this arm of ancient warfare as always useless. The object of the chariots was to create unsteadiness in the ranks against which they were driven, and squadrons of cavalry followed close upon them to profit by such disorder. But the Asiatic chariots were rendered ineffective at Arbela by the light-armed troops, whom Alexander had specially appointed for the service, and who, wounding the horses and drivers with their missile weapons, and running alongside so as to cut the traces or seize the reins, marred the intended charge; and the few chariots that reached the phalanx passed harmlessly through the internals which the spearmen opened for them, and were easily captured in the rear. In the early part of the battle Darius had showed skill and energy; and he now, for some time, encouraged his men, by voice and example, to keep firm. But the lances of Alexander's cavalry and the pikes of the phalanx now pressed nearer and nearer to him. His charioteer was struck down by a javelin at his side; and at last Darius' nerve failed him, and, descending from his chariot, he mounted on a fleet horse and galloped from the plain, regardless of the state of the battle in other parts of the field, where matters were going on much more favorably for his cause, and where his presence might have done much toward gaining a victory. Alexander's operations with his right and centre had exposed his left to an immensely preponderating force of the enemy. Parmenio kept out of action as long as possible; but Mazaeus, who commanded the Persian right wing, advanced against him, completely outflanked him, and pressed him severely with reiterated charges by superior numbers. Just at this crisis, Alexander had been recalled from his pursuit of Darius by tidings of the distress of Parmenio and of his inability to bear up any longer against the hot attacks of Mazaeus. Taking his horse-guards with him, Alexander rode toward the part of the field where his left wing was fighting; but on his way thither he encountered the Persian and Indian cavalry on their return from his camp. Relieved of these obstinate enemies, Alexander again formed his regiments of horse-guards, and led them toward Parmenio; but by this time that general also was victorious. Probably the news of Darius' flight had reached Mazaeus, and had damped the ardor of the Persian right wing, while the tidings of their comrades' success must have proportionally encouraged the Macedonian forces under Parmenio. His Thessalian cavalry particularly distinguished themselves by their gallantry and persevering good conduct; and by the time that Alexander had ridden up to Parmenio, the whole Persian army was in full flight from the field. The narrow bridge was soon choked up by the flying thousands who rushed toward it, and vast numbers of the Persians threw themselves, or were hurried by others, into the rapid stream, and perished in its waters. Darius had crossed it, and had ridden on through Arbela without halting. Alexander reached the city on the next day, and made himself master of all Darius' treasure and stores; but the Persian King, unfortunately for himself, had fled too fast for his conqueror, but had only escaped to perish by the treachery of his Bactrian satrap, Bessus. Pyrrhus, now that he had lost Macedonia, might have spent his days peacefully ruling his own subjects in Epirus; but he could not endure repose, thinking that not to trouble others and be troubled by them was a life of unbearable ennui, and, like Achilles in the _Iliad_, "he could not rest in indolence at home, He longed for battle, and the joys of war." As he desired some new adventures he embraced the following opportunity. The Romans were at war with the Tarentines; and as that people were not sufficiently powerful to carry on the war, and yet were not allowed by the audacious folly of their mob orators to make peace, they proposed to make Pyrrhus their leader and to invite him to be their ally in the war, because he was more at leisure than any of the other kings, and also was the best general of them all. Of the older and more sensible citizens some endeavored to oppose this fatal decision, but were overwhelmed by the clamor of the war party, while the rest, observing this, ceased to attend the public assembly. "All can be done by words Which foemen wish to do with conquering swords." "What you say," answered Cineas, "is very probably true. But is this conquest of Sicily to be the extreme limit of our campaign?" "Heaven," answered Pyrrhus, "alone can give us victory and success; but these conquests would merely prove to us the stepping-stones to greater things. Who could refrain from making an attempt upon Carthage and Libya when he was so close to them, countries which were all but conquered by Agathocles when he ran away from Syracuse with only a few ships? and if we were masters of these countries, none of the enemies who now give themselves such airs at our expense will dare to resist us." "Certainly not," answered Cineas; "with such a force at our disposal we clearly could recover Macedonia, and have the whole of Greece at our feet. And after we have made all these conquests, what shall we do then?" Having brought Pyrrhus to say this, Cineas asked in reply: "But what prevents our carousing and taking our ease now, since we have already at hand all those things which we propose to obtain with much bloodshed, and great toils and perils, and after suffering much ourselves and causing much suffering to others?" By talking in this manner Cineas vexed Pyrrhus, because he made him reflect on the pleasant home which he was leaving, but his reasoning had no effect in turning him from his purpose. With these Pyrrhus marched to Tarentum; Cineas, as soon as he heard of his arrival, bringing out the Tarentine army to meet him. When he reached the city he did nothing to displease the Tarentines until his fleet returned to the coast and he had assembled the greater part of his army. But then, as he saw that the populace, unless ruled by a strong hand, could neither help him nor help themselves, but intended to stay idling about their baths and entertainments at home, while he fought their battles in the field, he closed the gymnasia and public walks, in which the people were wont to waste their time in empty talk about the war. He forbade all drinking, feasting, and unseasonable revels, and forced the people to take up arms, proving himself inexorable to everyone who was on the muster-roll of able-bodied citizens. This conduct made him much disliked, and many of the Tarentines left the city in disgust; for they were so unused to discipline that they considered that not to be able to pass their lives as they chose was no better than slavery. When news came that Laevinus, the Roman consul, was marching to attack him with a large force, and was plundering the country of Lucania as he advanced, while Pyrrhus' allies had not yet arrived, he thought it a shameful thing to allow the enemy to proceed any farther, and marched out with his army. He sent before him a herald to the Roman general, informing him that he was willing to act as arbitrator in the dispute between the Romans and the Greek cities of Italy, if they chose to terminate it peacefully. On receiving for an answer that the Romans neither wished for Pyrrhus as an arbitrator, nor feared him as an enemy, he marched forward, and encamped in the plain between the city of Pandosia and Heraclea. Pyrrhus answered: "Leonnatus, no man can avoid his fate; but neither that Italian nor anyone else who attacks me will do so with impunity." While they were yet talking the Italian levelled his lance and urged his horse in full career against Pyrrhus. He struck the King's horse with his spear, and at the same instant his own horse was struck a sidelong blow by Leonnatus. Both horses fell; Pyrrhus was saved by his friends, and the Italian perished fighting. He was of the nation of the Frentani, Hoplacus by name, and was the captain of a troop of horse. The Romans did not remove Laevinus from his office of consul, although Caius Fabricius is reported to have said that it was not the Epirotes who had conquered the Romans, but Pyrrhus who had conquered Laevinus; meaning that he thought that the defeat was owing not to the greater force but the superior generalship of the enemy. They astonished Pyrrhus by quickly filling up their ranks with fresh levies, and talking about the war in a spirit of fearless confidence. He decided to try whether they were disposed to make terms with him, as he perceived that to capture Rome and utterly subdue the Roman people would be a work of no small difficulty, and that it would be vain to attempt it with the force at his disposal, while after his victory he could make peace on terms which would reflect great lustre on himself. Cineas was sent as ambassador to conduct this negotiation. At this crisis Appius Claudius, an illustrious man, but who had long since been prevented by old age and blindness from taking any active part in politics, when he heard of the proposals of Pyrrhus, and that the question of peace or war was about to be voted upon by the senate, could no longer endure to remain at home, but caused his slaves to carry him through the Forum to the senate house in a litter. When he reached the doors of the senate house his sons and sons-in-law supported him and guided him into the house, while all the assembly observed a respectful silence. Speaking from where he stood, he addressed them as follows: "My countrymen, I used to grieve at the loss of my sight, but now I am sorry not to be deaf also, when I hear the disgraceful propositions with which you are tarnishing the glory of Rome. What has become of that boast which we were so fond of making before all mankind, that if Alexander the Great had invaded Italy, and had met us when we were young, and our fathers when they were in the prime of life, he would not have been reputed invincible, but would either have fled or perhaps even have fallen, and added to the glory of Rome? After this Caius Fabricius came to arrange terms for the exchange of prisoners; a man whom Cineas said the Romans especially valued for his virtue and bravery, but who was excessively poor. Pyrrhus, in consequence of this, entertained Fabricius privately, and made him an offer of money, not as a bribe for any act of baseness, but speaking of it as a pledge of friendship and sincerity. As Fabricius refused this, Pyrrhus waited till the next day, when, desirous of making an impression on him, as he had never seen an elephant, he had his largest elephant placed behind Fabricius during their conference, concealed by a curtain. At a given signal, the curtain was withdrawn, and the creature reached out his trunk over the head of Fabricius with a harsh and terrible cry. Fabricius, however, quietly turned round, and then said to Pyrrhus with a smile, "You could not move me by your gold yesterday, nor can you with your beast to-day." Fabricius is said to have quietly answered: "That, O King, will not be to your advantage; for those who now obey you, and look up to you, if they had any experience of me, would prefer me to you for their king." Pyrrhus was not angry at this speech, but spoke to all his friends about the magnanimous conduct of Fabricius, and intrusted the prisoners to him alone, on the condition that, if the senate refused to make peace, they should be allowed to embrace their friends, and spend the festival of the Saturnalia with them, and then be sent back to him. And they were sent back after the Saturnalia, for the senate decreed that any of them who remained behind should be put to death. After this, when C. Fabricius was consul, a man came into his camp bringing a letter from King Pyrrhus' physician, in which he offered to poison the King if he could be assured of a suitable reward for his services in thus bringing the war to an end without a blow. Fabricius, disgusted at the man's treachery, brought his colleague to share his views, and in haste sent off a letter to Pyrrhus, bidding him be on his guard. The letter ran as follows: "Caius Fabricius and Quintus AEmilius, the Roman consuls, greet King Pyrrhus. You appear to be a bad judge both of your friends and of your enemies. You will perceive, by reading the enclosed letter which has been sent to us, that you are fighting against good and virtuous men, and trusting to wicked and treacherous ones. We do not give you this information out of any love we bear you, but for fear that we might be charged with having assassinated you and be thought to have brought the war to a close by treachery because we could not do so by manhood." As it was now necessary that Pyrrhus should fight another battle, he advanced with his army to the city of Asculum, and attacked the Romans. Here he was forced to fight on rough ground, near the swampy banks of a river, where his elephants and cavalry were of no service, and he was forced to attack with his phalanx. After a drawn battle, in which many fell, night parted the combatants. Next day Pyrrhus manoeuvred so as to bring the Romans fairly into the plain, where his elephants could act upon the enemy's line. He occupied the rough ground on either side, placed many archers and slingers among his elephants, and advanced with his phalanx in close order and irresistible strength. The wars progressed in a spirit of deadly hatred, constantly intensified on both sides, and the Roman determination, of which Cato was the mouthpiece, that Carthage must be destroyed, met its stubborn answer in the endeavors of the Carthaginians to turn this vengeance against Rome herself. Carthage had been mistress of the world, the richest and most powerful of cities. Her naval supremacy alone had sufficed to secure her safety and superiority over all rivals or possible combinations of force. But the strength of her government lay not so much in her people, or even in her statesmen and soldiers, as in her men of wealth. A political establishment founded upon such supports was peculiarly liable to all the dangers of corruption and of public ignorance and apathy in the conduct of affairs. These causes appear conspicuously in the history of the Punic wars, as contributing largely to the overthrow and final extinguishment of Carthage, which left to her successful rival the open way to universal dominion. The victor-people of Italy, having now spread over the land as far as the sea, checked its course for a little, like a fire, which, having consumed the woods lying in its track, is stopped by some intervening river. But soon after, seeing at no great distance a rich prey, which seemed in a manner detached and torn away from their own Italy, they were so inflamed with a desire to possess it that, since it could neither be joined to their country by a mole or bridge, they resolved that it should be secured by arms and war, and reunited, as it were, to their continent. And behold! as if the Fates themselves opened a way for them, an opportunity was not wanting, for Messana, a city of Sicily in alliance with them, happened then to make a complaint concerning the tyranny of the Carthaginians. As the Romans coveted Sicily, so likewise did the people of Carthage; and both at the same time, with equal desires and equal forces, contemplated the attainment of the empire of the world. Under the pretext, therefore, of assisting their allies, but in reality being allured by the prey, that rude people, that people sprung from shepherds, and merely accustomed to the land, made it appear, though the strangeness of the attempt startled them (yet such confidence is there in true courage), that to the brave it is indifferent whether a battle be fought on horseback or in ships, by land or by sea. In the consulship of Lucius Cornelius Scipio, when Sicily was become as a suburban province of the Roman people, and the war was spreading farther, they crossed over into Sardinia, and into Corsica, which lies near it. In the latter they terrified the natives by the destruction of the city of Olbia, in the former by that of Aleria; and so effectually humbled the Carthaginians, both by land and sea, that nothing remained to be conquered but Africa itself. Accordingly, under the leadership of Marcus Atilius Regulus, the war passed over into Africa. Nor were there wanting some on the occasion who mutinied at the mere name and dread of the Punic sea, a tribune named Mannius increasing their alarm; but the general, threatening him with the axe if he did not obey, produced courage for the voyage by the terror of death. They then hastened their course by the aid of winds and oars, and such was the terror of the Africans at the approach of the enemy that Carthage was almost surprised with its gates opened. O amazing confidence in the midst of so much adversity! O extraordinary courage and spirit of the Roman people in such oppressive and distressing circumstances! At a time when they were uncertain of preserving their own Italy, they yet ventured to look to other countries; and when the enemy were at their throat, flying through Campania and Apulia, and making an Africa in the middle of Italy, they at the same time both withstood that enemy and dispersed their arms over the earth into Sicily, Sardinia, and Spain. Sardinia Gracchus reduced; the savageness of the inhabitants, and the vastness of its Mad Mountains--for so they are called--availed it nothing. Great severity was exercised upon its cities, and upon Caralis, the city of its cities, that a nation, obstinate and regardless of death, might at least be humbled by concern for the soil of its country. BATTLE OF THE METAURUS SIR EDWARD SHEPHERD CREASY Nor is the parallel between them limited to their military characters and exploits. Scipio, like Wellington, became an important leader of the aristocratic party among his countrymen, and was exposed to the unmeasured invectives of the violent section of his political antagonists. When, early in the last reign, an infuriated mob assaulted the Duke of Wellington in the streets of the English capital on the anniversary of Waterloo, England was even more disgraced by that outrage than Rome was by the factious accusations which demagogues brought against Scipio, but which he proudly repelled on the day of trial by reminding the assembled people that it was the anniversary of the battle of Zama. Happily, a wiser and a better spirit has now for years pervaded all classes of our community, and we shall be spared the ignominy of having worked out to the end the parallel of national ingratitude. Scipio died a voluntary exile from the malevolent turbulence of Rome. Englishmen of all ranks and politics have now long united in affectionate admiration of our modern Scipio; and even those who have most widely differed from the duke on legislative or administrative questions, forget what they deem the political errors of that time-honored head, while they gratefully call to mind the laurels that have wreathed it. It is difficult, amid the glimmering light supplied by the allusions of the classical writers, to gain a full idea of the character and institutions of Rome's great rival. But we can perceive how inferior Carthage was to her competitor in military resources, and how far less fitted than Rome she was to become the founder of centralized and centralizing dominion that should endure for centuries, and fuse into imperial unity the narrow nationalities of the ancient races that dwelt around and near the shores of the Mediterranean Sea? Although essentially a mercantile and seafaring people, the Carthaginians by no means neglected agriculture. On the contrary, the whole of their territory was cultivated like a garden. The fertility of the soil repaid the skill and toil bestowed on it; and every invader, from Agathocles to Scipio AEmilianus, was struck with admiration at the rich pasture lands carefully irrigated, the abundant harvests, the luxuriant vineyards, the plantations of fig and olive trees, the thriving villages, the populous towns, and the splendid villas of the wealthy Carthaginians, through which his march lay, as long as he was on Carthaginian ground. Although the Carthaginians abandoned the AEgean and the Pontus to the Greek, they were by no means disposed to relinquish to those rivals the commerce and the dominion of the coasts of the Mediterranean westward of Italy. For centuries the Carthaginians strove to make themselves masters of the islands that lie between Italy and Spain. They acquired the Balearic Islands, where the principal harbor, Port Mahon, still bears the name of a Carthaginian admiral. They succeeded in reducing the greater part of Sardinia; but Sicily could never be brought into their power. They repeatedly invaded that island, and nearly overran it; but the resistance which was opposed to them by the Syracusans under Gelon, Dionysius, Timoleon, and Agathocles preserved the island from becoming Punic, though many of its cities remained under the Carthaginian rule until Rome finally settled the question to whom Sicily was to belong by conquering it for herself. With respect to the composition of their armies, it is observable that, though thirsting for extended empire, and though some of her leading men became generals of the highest order, the Carthaginians, as a people, were anything but personally warlike. As long as they could hire mercenaries to fight for them, they had little appetite for the irksome training and the loss of valuable time which military service would have entailed on themselves. In this emergency the Romans looked among themselves earnestly and anxiously for leaders fit to meet the perils of the coming campaign. "The same charge must have taken place in fighting with the sword, which, when the same tactics were adopted on both sides, was anything but a confused _melee_; on the contrary, it was a series of single combats." He adds that a military man of experience had been consulted by him on the subject and had given it as his opinion "that the change of the lines as described above was by no means impracticable; but, in the absence of the deafening noise of gunpowder, it cannot have had even any difficulty with well-trained troops." SCIPIO AFRICANUS CRUSHES HANNIBAL AT ZAMA AND SUBJUGATES CARTHAGE In answer to these things the Roman general spoke nearly to the following effect: "I was aware that it was in consequence of the expectation of your arrival that the Carthaginians violated the existing faith of the truce and broke off all hope of a peace. Nor, indeed, do you conceal the fact, inasmuch as you artfully withdraw from the former conditions of peace every concession except what relates to those things which have for a long time been in our own power. But as it is your object that your countrymen should be sensible how great a burden they are relieved from by your means, so it is incumbent upon me to endeavor that they may not receive, as the reward of their perfidy, the concessions which they formerly stipulated, by expunging them now from the conditions of the peace. Though you do not deserve to be allowed the same conditions as before, you now request even to be benefited by your treachery. Thus, without effecting an accommodation, when they had returned from the conference to their armies, they informed them that words had been bandied to no purpose, that the question must be decided by arms, and that they must accept that fortune which the gods assigned them. Scipio drew up his troops, posting the hastati in front, the principes behind them, and closing his rear line with the triarii. He did not draw up his cohorts in close order, but each before their respective standards; placing the companies at some distance from each other, so as to leave a space through which the elephants of the enemy passing might not at all break their ranks. Laelius, whom he had employed before as lieutenant-general, but this year as quaestor, by special appointment, according to a decree of the senate, he posted with the Italian cavalry in the left wing, Masinissa and the Numidians in the right. The open spaces between the companies of those in the van he filled with velites, which then formed the Roman light-armed troops, with an injunction that on the charge of the elephants they should either retire behind the files, which extended in a right line, or, running to the right and left and placing themselves by the side of those in the van, afford a passage by which the elephants might rush in between weapons on both sides. Different grounds of hope and fear were represented to different persons. The view of the Carthaginians was directed to the walls of their city, their household gods, the sepulchres of their ancestors, their children and parents, and their trembling wives; they were told that either the destruction of their city and slavery or the empire of the world awaited them; that there was nothing intermediate which they could hope for or fear. While the general was thus busily employed among the Carthaginians, and the captains of the respective nations among their countrymen, most of them employing interpreters among troops intermixed with those of different nations, the trumpets and cornets of the Romans sounded; and such a clamor arose that the elephants, especially those in the left wing, turned round upon their own party, the Moors and Numidians. Masinissa had no difficulty in increasing the alarm of the terrified enemy, and deprived them of the aid of their cavalry in that wing. A few, however, of the beasts which were driven against the enemy, and were not turned back through fear, made great havoc among the ranks of the velites, though not without receiving many wounds themselves; for when the velites, retiring to the companies, had made way for the elephants, that they might not be trampled down, they discharged their darts at them; exposed as they were to wounds on both sides, those in the van also keeping up a continual discharge of javelins, until driven out of the Roman line by the weapons which fell upon them from all quarters, these elephants also put to flight even the cavalry of the Carthaginians posted in their right wing. Laelius, when he saw the enemy in disorder, struck additional terror into them in their confusion. JUDAS MACCAAEBUS LIBERATES JUDEA When Apollonius, the general of the Samaritan forces, heard this he took his army and made haste to go against Judas, who met him and joined battle with him, and beat him and slew many of his men, and among them Apollonius himself, their general, whose sword, being that which he happened then to wear, he seized upon and kept for himself; but he wounded more than he slew, and took a great deal of prey from the enemy's camp, and went his way; but when Seron, who was general of the army of Celesyria, heard that many had joined themselves to Judas, and that he had about him an army sufficient for fighting and for making war, he determined to make an expedition against him, as thinking it became him to endeavor to punish those that transgressed the King's injunctions. He then got together an army as large as he was able, and joined to it the renegade and wicked Jews, and came against Judas. When he had thus disposed his soldiers he encouraged them to fight by the following speech, which he made to them: "O my fellow-soldiers, no other time remains more opportune than the present for courage and contempt of dangers; for if you now fight manfully you may recover your liberty, which, as it is a thing of itself agreeable to all men, so it proves to be to us much more desirable, by its affording us the liberty of worshipping God. Since, therefore, you are in such circumstances at present, you must either recover that liberty and so regain a happy and blessed way of living, which is that according to our laws and the customs of our country, or to submit to the most opprobrious sufferings; nor will any seed of your nation remain if you be beat in this battle. Fight therefore manfully, and suppose that you must die though you do not fight; but believe that besides such glorious rewards as those of the liberty of your country, of your laws, of your religion, you shall then obtain everlasting glory. Prepare yourselves, therefore, and put yourselves into such an agreeable posture that you may be ready to fight with the enemy as soon as it is day to-morrow morning." And just as he was speaking to his soldiers, Gorigas' men looked down into that army which they left in their camp and saw that it was overthrown and the camp burned; for the smoke that arose from it showed them, even when they were a great way off, what had happened. When, therefore, those that were with Gorgias understood that things were in this posture, and perceived that those that were with Judas were ready to fight them, they also were affrighted and put to flight; but then Judas, as though he had already beaten Gorgias' soldiers without fighting, returned and seized on the spoils. He took a great quantity of gold and silver and purple and blue, and then returned home with joy, and singing hymns to God for their good success; for this victory greatly contributed to the recovery of their liberty. When, therefore, the generals of Antiochus' armies had been beaten so often, Judas assembled the people together, and told them that after these many victories which God had given them, they ought to go up to Jerusalem and purify the Temple and offer the appointed sacrifices. But as soon as he with the whole multitude was come to Jerusalem and found the Temple deserted and its gates burned down and plants growing in the Temple of their own accord on account of its desertion, he and those that were with him began to lament and were quite confounded at the sight of the Temple; so he chose out some of his soldiers and gave them orders to fight against those guards that were in the citadel until he should have purified the Temple. When therefore he had carefully purged it and had brought in new vessels, the candlestick, the table [of shewbread], and the altar [of incense], which were made of gold, he hung up the veils at the gates and added doors to them. When these things were over, the nations round about the Jews were very uneasy at the revival of their power and rose up together and destroyed many of them, as gaining advantage over them by laying snares for them and making secret conspiracies against them. Judas made perpetual expeditions against these men, and endeavored to restrain them from those incursions and to prevent the mischiefs they did to the Jews. So he fell upon the Idumeans, the posterity of Esau, at Acra-battene, and slew a great many of them and took their spoils. He also shut up the sons of Bean, that laid wait for the Jews; and he sat down about them, and besieged them, and burned their towers and destroyed the men [that were in them]. After this he went thence in haste against the Ammonites who had a great and a numerous army, of which Timotheus was the commander. And when he had subdued them he seized on the city of Jazer, and took their wives and their children captives and burned the city and then returned into Judea. But when the neighboring nations understood that he was returned they got together in great numbers in the land of Gilead and came against those Jews that were at their borders, who then fled to the garrison of Dathema, and sent to Judas to inform him that Timotheus was endeavoring to take the place whither they were fled. And as these epistles were reading, there came other messengers out of Galilee who informed him that the inhabitants of Ptolemais, and of Tyre and Sidon, and strangers of Galilee, were gotten together. But not long after this Timotheus prepared a great army, and took many others as auxiliaries, and induced some of the Arabians by the promise of rewards to go with him in this expedition, and came with his army beyond the brook over against the city Raphon; and he encouraged his soldiers, if it came to a battle with the Jews, to fight courageously, and to hinder their passing over the brook; for he said to them beforehand that "if they come over it we shall be beaten." And when Judas heard that Timotheus prepared himself to fight he took all his own army and went in haste against Timotheus, his enemy; and when he had passed over the brook he fell upon his enemies, and some of them met him, whom he slew, and others of them he so terrified that he compelled them to throw down their arms and fly, and some of them escaped; but some of them fled to what was called the temple of Carnaim, and hoped thereby to preserve themselves, but Judas took the city and slew them and burned the temple, and so used several ways of destroying his enemies. THE GRACCHI AND THEIR REFORMS (Cornelia, whose father was Scipio Africanus, preferred to be called "Mother of the Gracchi" rather than daughter of the conqueror of Numantia. Tiberius and Caius Gracchus, her sons, were born at a time when the social condition of Rome was rank with corruption. The small farmer class were deprived of holdings, the soil was being worked by slaves, and its products wasted on pleasure and debauchery by the rich; the law courts were controlled by the wealthy and powerful, while oppression, bribery, and fraud were generally rampant in the city. The power of Gracchus rested on the mercantile class and the proletariat; primarily on the latter, which in this conflict--wherein neither side had any military reserve--acted, as it were, the part of an army. It was clear that the senate was not powerful enough to wrest either from the merchants or from the proletariat their new privileges; any attempt to assail the corn laws or the new jury arrangement would have led under a somewhat grosser or somewhat more civilized form to a street riot, in presence of which the senate was utterly defenceless. But it was no less clear that Gracchus himself and these merchants and proletarians were only kept together by mutual advantage, and that the men of material interests were ready to accept their posts, and the populace, strictly so called, its bread, quite as well from any other as from Caius Gracchus. We find isolated enactments of Drusus--such as the regulation that the punishment of scourging might only be inflicted on the Latin soldier by the Latin officer set over him, and not by the Roman officer--which were to all appearance intended to indemnify the Latins for other losses. The plan was not the most refined. The attempt at rivalry was too clear; the endeavor to draw the fair bond between the nobles and the proletariat still closer by their exercising jointly a tyranny over the Latins was too transparent; the inquiry suggested itself too readily. The leaders of the democracy had gone from the Capitol to their houses; Marcus Flaccus had spent the night in preparing for the war in the streets, while Gracchus apparently disdained to strive with destiny. Next morning when they learned of the preparations made by their opponents at the Capitol and the Forum, both proceeded to the Aventine, the old stronghold of the popular party in the struggles between the patricians and the plebeians. Gracchus went thither silent and unarmed. Flaccus called the slaves to arms and intrenched himself in the temple of Diana, while he at the same time sent his younger son Quintus to the enemy's camp in order if possible to arrange a compromise. The latter returned with the announcement that the aristocracy demanded unconditional surrender. At the same time he brought a summons from the senate to Gracchus and Flaccus to appear before it and to answer for their violation of the majesty of the tribunes. (In Caesar's military performances the Gallic war plays the most important part, as shown in his _Commentaries_, his sole extant literary work and almost the only authority for this part of Roman history. The story of the long war, with its various campaigns, has become familiar to the world's readers through the masterly account of Caesar himself, known to "every schoolboy" who advances to the dignity of classical studies. In the end the country between the Pyrenees and the Rhine was subjugated, and for several centuries it remained a Roman province. The distinguished author of the article says he wrote "for the purpose of proving that when Providence raises up such men as Caesar, Charlemagne, and Napoleon it is to trace out to peoples the path they ought to follow, to stamp with the seal of their genius a new era, and to accomplish in a few years the work of many centuries." The work was prepared [_vide Manual of Historical Literature_: Adams] with the utmost care--a care which extended in some instances to special surveys, to insure perfect accuracy in the descriptions, etc.) His sudden arrival in the midst of men without distrust, who were spread over the open country, produced the result which he expected. They were surprised before they could enter into their _oppidae_--for Caesar had strictly forbidden everything which might have raised their suspicion; especially the application of fire, which usually betrays the sudden presence of an enemy. Several thousands of captives were made. Those who succeeded in escaping sought in vain a refuge among the neighboring nations. Caesar, by forced marches, came up with them everywhere and obliged each tribe to think of its own safety before that of others. This activity held the populations in their fidelity, and through fear engaged the wavering to submit to the conditions of peace. Thus the Bituriges, seeing that Caesar offered them an easy way to recover his protection, and that the neighboring states had suffered no other chastisement than that of having to deliver hostages, did not hesitate in submitting. On his approach the Carnutes, taught by the fate of others, abandoned their miserable huts--which they had erected on the site of their burgs and oppida destroyed in the last campaign--and fled in every direction. Caesar, unwilling to expose his soldiers to the rigor of the season, established his camp at Genabum (Gien), and lodged them partly in the huts which had remained undestroyed, partly in tents under penthouses covered with straw. The cavalry and auxiliary infantry were sent in pursuit of the Carnutes, who, hunted down everywhere, and without shelter, took refuge in the neighboring counties. When this army was assembled he marched against the Bellovaci, established his camp on their territory, and sent cavalry in every direction in order to make some prisoners and learn from them the designs of the enemy. The cavalry reported that the emigration was general, and that the few inhabitants who were to be seen were not remaining behind in order to apply themselves to agriculture, but to act as spies upon the Romans. The enemy remained for several days shut up in its impregnable position. Caesar judged that an assault would cost too many lives; an investment alone seemed to him opportune, but it would require a greater number of troops. There he collected his troops and advanced in order of battle up to the extremity of the plateau, whence the engines placed in battery could reach the masses of the enemy with their missiles. The Bellovaci and their allies, informed by the fugitives of the death of Correus, of the loss of their cavalry and the flower of their infantry, and fearing every moment to see the Romans appear, convoked by sound of trumpet a general assembly and decided by acclamation to send deputies and hostages to the proconsul. The barbarians implored forgiveness, alleging that this last defeat had ruined their power, and that the death of Correus, the instigator of the war, delivered them from oppression, for, during his life, it was not the senate which governed, but an ignorant multitude. To their prayers Caesar replied that last year the Bellovaci had revolted in concert with the other Gaulish peoples, but that _they_ alone had persisted in the revolt. It was very convenient to throw their faults upon those who were dead, but how could it be believed that with nothing but the help of a weak populace a man should have had sufficient influence to raise and sustain a war contrary to the will of the chiefs, the decision of the senate, and the desire of honest people? However, the evil which they had drawn upon themselves was for him a sufficient reparation. The following night the Bellovaci and their allies submitted, with the exception of Commius, who fled to the country from which he had but recently drawn support. He had not dared to trust the Romans for the following reason: "The year before, in the absence of Caesar, T. Labienus, informed that Commius was conspiring and preparing an insurrection, thought that without accusing him of bad faith," says Hirtius, "he could repress his treason." ("Under pretext of an interview he sent C. Volusenus Quadratus, with some centurions, to kill him; but when they were in the presence of the Gaulish chief the centurion who was to strike him missed his blow and only wounded him; swords were drawn on both sides and Commius had time to escape.") Meanwhile, the lieutenant, Caius Fabius, occupied in pacifying several other tribes, learned from Caninius Rebilus what was going on in the country of the Pictones and marched without delay to the assistance of Duratius. The news of the march of Fabius deprived Dumnacus of all hope of opposing, at the same time, the troops shut up in Lemonum and the relieving army. He abandoned the siege again in great haste, not thinking himself safe until he had placed the Loire between himself and the Romans; but he could only pass that river where there was a bridge (at Saumur). Before he had joined Rebilus, before he had even obtained a sight of the enemy, Fabius, who came from the North, and had lost no time, doubted not, from what he heard from the people of the country, that Dumnacus, in his fear, had taken the road which led to that bridge. He therefore marched thither with his legions, preceded at a short distance by his cavalry. The latter surprised the column of Dumnacus on its march, dispersed it, and returned to the camp laden with booty. They took the direction of the Narbonnese with the Cadurcan Lucterius who had before attempted a similar invasion. As soon as the ensigns appeared, the cavalry redoubled its ardor; the cohorts rushed forward from all sides and the Gauls were taken or killed. The booty was immense and Drappes fell into the hands of the Romans. This man was brought in and delivered up. Although Caesar was naturally inclined to be indulgent, he could not resist the tumultuous entreaties of his soldiers, who made that chief responsible for all the dangers they had run and for all the misery they had suffered. Gutruatus died under the stripes and was afterward beheaded. It was in the land of the Carnutes that Caesar received news, by the letters of Rebilus, of the events which had taken place at Uxellodunum and of the resistance of the besieged. Although a handful of men shut up in a fortress was not very formidable, he judged it necessary to punish their obstinacy, for fear that the Gauls should entertain the conviction that it was not strength, but constancy, which had failed them in resisting the Romans; and lest this example might encourage the other states which possessed fortresses advantageously situated, to recover their independence. Notwithstanding the difficult nature of the ground and the increasing danger, the Romans still persevered in their struggle. The battle took place on a height within sight of the army. Loud cries were raised on both sides. Each individual sought to rival his fellow in zeal, and the more he was exposed to view the more courageously he faced the missiles and the fire. Caesar, as he was sustaining great loss, determined to feign an assault. In order to create a diversion he ordered some cohorts to climb the hill on all sides, uttering loud cries. This movement terrified the besieged, who, fearing to be attacked at other points, called back to the defence of the wall those who were setting fire to the works. Then the Romans were enabled to extinguish the flames. The Gauls, although exhausted by thirst and reduced to a small number, ceased not to defend themselves vigorously. At length the subterranean gallery having reached the source of the spring, the supply was turned aside. The besieged, beholding the fountain suddenly become dry, believed in their despair that it was an intervention of the gods, and, submitting to necessity, surrendered. Caesar considered that the pacification of Gaul would never be completed if as strong a resistance was encountered in other towns. He thought it advisable to spread terror by a severe example--so much the more so as "the well-known mildness of his temper," says Hirtius, "would not allow this necessary rigor to be ascribed to cruelty." He ordered that all those who had borne arms should have their hands cut off, and sent them away living examples of the punishment reserved for rebels. Banished far from their country they died in obscurity. ROMAN INVASION AND CONQUEST OF BRITAIN He pursued the same policy with regard to the Britons, who, according to information received by him, had sent aid to the Gauls in their struggle with Rome. His ships were brought round from the Loire to that part of the French coast now known as Boulogne, and he set out for Britain, where he landed, and eventually received the submission of the British chieftains.) Cassibelaunus was chosen to conduct the common cause, and for some time he harassed the Romans in their march and revived the desponding hopes of his countrymen. But no opposition that undisciplined strength could make was able to repress the vigor and intrepidity of Caesar. He discomfited the Britons in every action; he advanced into the country, passed the Thames in the face of the enemy, took and burned the capital city of Cassibelaunus, established his ally Mandubratius as sovereign of the Trinobantes; and having obliged the inhabitants to make new submissions, he again returned with his army into Gaul, having made himself rather the nominal than the real possessor of the island. The wild extravagances of Caligula by which he threatened Britain with an invasion served rather to expose him to ridicule than the island to danger. The Britons therefore for almost a century enjoyed their liberty unmolested, till at length the Romans in the reign of Claudius began to think seriously of reducing them under their dominion. The expedition for this purpose was conducted in the beginning by Plautius and other commanders, with that success which usually attended the Roman arms. Claudius himself, finding affairs sufficiently prepared for his reception, made a journey thither and received the submission of such states as living by commerce were willing to purchase tranquillity at the expense of freedom. It is true that many of the inland provinces preferred their native simplicity to imported elegance and, rather than bow their necks to the Roman yoke, offered their bosoms to the sword. But the southern coast with all the adjacent inland country was seized by the conquerors, who secured the possession by fortifying camps, building fortresses, and planting colonies. The other parts of the country, either thought themselves in no danger or continued patient spectators of the approaching devastation. After an interval, Cerealis received the command from Vespasian, and by his bravery propagated the terror of the Roman arms. Julius Frontinus succeeded Cerealis both in authority and reputation. The general who finally established the dominion of the Romans in this island was Julius Agricola, who governed it during the reigns of Vespasian, Titus, and Domitian, and distinguished himself as well by his courage as humanity. He was opposed by Galgacus at the head of a numerous army, whom he defeated in a decisive action, in which considerable numbers were slain. Being thus successful, he did not think proper to pursue the enemy into their retreats; but embarking a body of troops on board his fleet, he ordered the commander to surround the whole coast of Britain, which had not been discovered to be an island till the preceding year. This armament, pursuant to his orders, steered to the northward, and there subdued the Orkneys; then making the tour of the whole island, it arrived in the port of Sandwich, without having met with the least disaster. During these military enterprises, Agricola was ever attentive to the arts of peace. He attempted to humanize the fierceness of those who acknowledged his power, by introducing the Roman laws, habits, manners, and learning. He taught them to desire and raise all the conveniences of life, instructed them in the arts of agriculture, and, in order to protect them in their peaceable possessions, he drew a rampart, and fixed a train of garrisons between them and their northern neighbors, thus cutting off the ruder and more barren parts of the island and securing the Roman province from the invasion of a fierce and necessitous enemy. In this manner the Britons, being almost totally subdued, now began to throw off all hopes of recovering their former liberty, and, having often experienced the superiority of the Romans, consented to submit, and were content with safety. From that time the Romans seemed more desirous of securing what they possessed than of making new conquests, and were employed rather in repressing than punishing their restless northern invaders. CLEOPATRA'S CONQUEST OF CAESAR AND ANTONY Yet the plain history of this "Sorceress of the Nile," with her "infinite variety," as told by Plutarch and the other ancients, and retold, with whatever advantages gained from critical research, by the modern masters, makes the same impression of moral contrast and inscrutability as that imparted by the greatest poet who has dramatized the character of Cleopatra.) Cleopatra, watching from Egypt the great civil war which ensued, summoned and commanded by the various leaders to send aid in ships and money, threatened with plunder and confiscation by those who were now exhausting Asia Minor and the islands with monstrous exactions, had ample occupation for her talents in steering safely among these constant dangers. Appian says she pleaded famine and pestilence in her country in declining the demands of Cassius for subsidies. The latter was on the point of invading Egypt, at the moment denuded of defending forces and _wasted with famine_, when he was summoned to Philippi by Brutus. No sooner had Antony reached Syria than the fell influence of the Egyptian Queen revived. In the words of Plutarch: After much dallying the triumvir really started for the wild East, whither it is not our business to follow him. Cleopatra he sent home to Egypt, to await his victorious return, and it was on this occasion that she came in state to Jerusalem to visit Herod the Great--probably the most brilliant scene of the kind which had taken place since the queen of Sheba came to learn the wisdom of Solomon. But it was a very different wisdom that Herod professed, and in which he was verily a high authority, nor was the subtle daughter of the Ptolemies a docile pupil, but a practised expert in the same arts of cruelty and cunning; wherewith both pursued their several courses of ambition and sought to wheedle from their Roman masters cities and provinces. The reunion of Antony and Cleopatra must have greatly alarmed Herod, whose plans were directly thwarted by the freaks of Antony, and he must have been preparing at the time to make his case with Octavian, and seek from his favor protection against the new caprices of the then lord of the East. "We hear that she actually attempted to seduce Herod, but failed, owing to his deep devotion to his wife Mariamne. The prosaic Josephus adds that Herod consulted his council whether he should not put her to death for this attempt upon his virtue. He was dissuaded by them on the ground that Antony would listen to no arguments, not even from the most persuasive of the world's princes, and would take awful vengeance when he heard of her death. So she was escorted with great gifts and politenesses back to Egypt." "Titius and Plancus, men of consular dignity and friends to Antony, having been ill-used by Cleopatra, whom they had most resisted in her design of being present in the war, came over to Caesar, and gave information of the contents of Antony's will, with which they were acquainted. It was deposited in the hands of the vestal virgins, who refused to deliver it up, and sent Caesar word, if he pleased, he should come and seize it himself, which he did. And, reading it over to himself, he noted those places that were most for his purpose, and, having summoned the senate, read them publicly. Many were scandalized at the proceeding, thinking it out of reason and equity to call a man to account for what was not to be until after his death. Caesar specially pressed what Antony said in his will about his burial, for he had ordered that even if he died in the city of Rome, his body, after being carried in state through the Forum, should be sent to Cleopatra at Alexandria. ASSASSINATION OF CAESAR NIEBUHR and PLUTARCH After various successful engagements Caesar marched against Pharnaces, now established in the kingdom of the Bosphorus, gaining at Zela, in Pontus, the decisive victory which he announced in the famous despatch, _Veni, vidi, vici_ ["I came, I saw, I conquered"]. His unbounded affability, his liveliness and cordiality, his unaffected kindness to his friends had made him popular with the high as well as the low. His ambition began to show itself. During the wrangles over the election of Afranius as consul, Caesar returned from his brilliant successes in Spain. The troops saluted him as imperator and the senate voted a thanksgiving in his honor. He was now strong enough to take his place as the leader of the popular party. He was elected consul in spite of the hostility of the senate. All these triumphs had caused jealousies. It was thought that he aspired to become king, and this led to his fall.) Brutus had qualities which Cato did not possess. The latter had something of an ascetic nature, and was, if I may say so, a scrupulously pious character; but Brutus had no such scrupulous timidity; his mind was more flexible and lovable. Cato spoke well, but could not be reckoned among the eloquent men of his time. Brutus' great talents had been developed with the utmost care, and if he had lived longer and in peace he would have become a classical writer of the highest order. He had been known to Cicero from his early age, and Cicero felt a fatherly attachment to him; he saw in him a young man who he hoped would exert a beneficial influence upon the next generation. Caesar's conduct toward those who had fought in the ranks of Pompey and afterward returned to him was extremely noble, and he regarded the reconciliation of those men as a personal favor conferred upon himself. All who knew Cicero must have been convinced that he would not have given his consent to the plan of the conspirators; and if they ever did give the matter a serious thought, they must have owned to themselves that every wise man would have dissuaded them from it; for it was in fact the most complete absurdity to fancy that the republic could be restored by Caesar's death. Goethe says somewhere that the murder of Caesar was the most senseless act that the Romans ever committed; and a truer word was never spoken. The result of it could not possibly be any other than that which did follow the deed. Some impeached Brutus after the conspiracy was formed; but, instead of listening to them, he laid his hand on his body and said, "Brutus will wait for this skin"; intimating that though the virtue of Brutus rendered him worthy of empire, he would not be guilty of any ingratitude or baseness to obtain it. Those, however, who were desirous of a change kept their eyes upon him only, or principally at least; and as they durst not speak out plain, they put billets night after night in the tribunal and seat which he used as praetor, mostly in these terms: "Thou sleepest, Brutus," or, "Thou art not Brutus." He was not gone far from the door when a slave, who belonged to some other person, attempted to get up to speak to him, but finding it impossible, by reason of the crowd that was about him, he made his way into the house, and putting himself into the hands of Calpurnia desired her to keep him safe till Caesar's return, because he had matters of great importance to communicate. These things might, indeed, fall out by chance; but as in the place where the senate was that day assembled, and which proved the scene of that tragedy, there was a statue of Pompey, and it was an edifice which Pompey had consecrated for an ornament to his theatre, nothing can be clearer than that some deity conducted the whole business and directed the execution of it to that very spot. Even Cassius himself, though inclined to the doctrines of Epicurus, turned his eye to the statue of Pompey, and secretly invoked his aid, before the great attempt. The arduous occasion, it seems, overruled his former sentiments, and laid them open to all the influence of enthusiasm. Antony, who was a faithful friend to Caesar, and a man of great strength, was held in discourse without, by Brutus Albinus, who had contrived a long story to detain him. Next day Brutus and the rest of the conspirators came down from the Capitol and addressed the people, who attended to their discourse without expressing either dislike or approbation of what was done. But by their silence it appeared that they pitied Caesar, at the same time that they revered Brutus. The senate passed a general amnesty; and, to reconcile all parties, they decreed Caesar divine honors and confirmed all the acts of his dictatorship; while on Brutus and his friends they bestowed governments and such honors as were suitable; so that it was generally imagined the Commonwealth was firmly established again, and all brought into the best order. ROME BECOMES A MONARCHY DEATH OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA HENRY GEORGE LIDDELL Lepidus moved his troops to the Campus Martius. But Antony had no thoughts of using force; for in that case probably Lepidus would have become master of Rome. During the night he took possession of the treasure which Caesar had collected to defray the expenses of his Parthian campaign, and persuaded Calpurnia to put into his hands all the dictator's papers. Possessed of these securities, he barricaded his house on the Carinae, and determined to watch the course of events. In the evening Cicero, with other senators, visited the self-styled liberators in the Capitol. They had not communicated their plot to the orator, through fear (they said) of his irresolute counsels; but now that the deed was done, he extolled it as a godlike act. Next morning, Dolabella, Cicero's son-in-law, whom Caesar had promised should be his successor in the consulship, assumed the consular fasces and joined the liberators; while Cinna, son of the old Marian leader and therefore brother-in-law to Caesar, threw aside his praetorian robes, declaring he would no longer wear the tyrant's livery. Dec. Brutus, a good soldier, had taken a band of gladiators into pay, to serve as a bodyguard of the liberators. Thus strengthened, they ventured again to descend into the Forum. Brutus mounted the tribune, and addressed the people in a dispassionate speech, which produced little effect. But when Cinna assailed the memory of the dictator, the crowd broke out into menacing cries, and the liberators again retired to the Capitol. On the next day Caesar's acts were formally confirmed, and among them his will was declared valid, though its provisions were yet unknown. After this, it was difficult to reject the proposal that the dictator should have a public burial. Old senators remembered the riots that attended the funeral of Clodius and shook their heads. Cassius opposed it. But Brutus, with imprudent magnanimity, decided in favor of allowing it. To seal the reconciliation, Lepidus entertained Brutus at dinner and Cassius was feasted by Mark Antony. A curiate law passed, by which Octavius was adopted into the patrician gens of the Julii, and was put into legal possession of the name which he had already assumed--C. Julius Caesar Octavianus. We shall henceforth call him Octavian. The change in his policy was soon indicated by a law in which he formally separated himself from the senate. Pedius brought it forward. By its provisions all Caesar's murderers were summoned to take their trial. Of course none of them appeared and they were condemned by default. By the end of September Octavian was again in Cisalpine Gaul and in close negotiation with Antony and Lepidus. The fruits of his conduct soon appeared. Plancus and Pollio declared against Caesar's murderers. Dec. Brutus, deserted by his soldiery, attempted to escape into Macedonia through Illyricum; but he was overtaken near Aquileia and slain by order of Antony. Determined to bring on an action, Antony began works for the purpose of cutting off Cassius from the sea. Cassius had always opposed a general action, but Brutus insisted on putting an end to the suspense, and his colleague yielded. The day of the attack was probably in October. Brutus attacked Octavian's army, while Cassius assaulted the working parties of Antony. Cassius' assault was beaten back with loss, but he succeeded in regaining his camp in safety. Meanwhile, Messalla, who commanded the right wing of Brutus' army, had defeated the host of Octavian, who was still too ill to appear on the field, and the republican soldiers penetrated into the triumvirs' camp. Presently his litter was brought in stained with blood, and the corpse of a young man found near it was supposed to be Octavian's. But Brutus, not receiving any tidings of the movements of Cassius, became so anxious for his fate that he sent off a party of horse to make inquiries, and neglected to support the successful assaults of Messalla. Cassius, on his part, discouraged at his ill-success, was unable to ascertain the progress of Brutus. When he saw the party of horse he hastily concluded that they belonged to the enemy, and retired into his tent with his freedman Pindarus. What passed there we know not for certain. Cassius was found dead, with the head severed from the body. Pindarus was never seen again. It was generally believed that Pindarus slew his master in obedience to orders; but many thought that he had dealt a felon blow. The intelligence of Cassius' death was a heavy blow to Brutus. He forgot his own success, and pronounced the elegy of Cassius in the well-known words, "There lies the last of the Romans." The praise was ill-deserved. Except in his conduct of the war against the Parthians, Cassius had never played a worthy part. The name of Brutus has, by Plutarch's beautiful narrative, sublimed by Shakespeare, become a byword for self-devoted patriotism. This exalted opinion is now generally confessed to be unjust. Brutus was not a patriot, unless devotion to the party of the senate be patriotism. Toward the provincials he was a true Roman, harsh and oppressive. He was free from the sensuality and profligacy of his age, but for public life he was unfit. His habits were those of a student. His application was great, his memory remarkable. But he possessed little power of turning his acquirements to account; and to the last he was rather a learned man than a man improved by learning. In comparison with Cassius, he was humane and generous; but in all respects his character is contrasted for the worse with that of the great man from whom he accepted favors and then became his murderer. Meanwhile Octavian was not without his difficulties. He was so ill at Brundusium that his death was reported at Rome. The veterans, eager for their promised rewards, were on the eve of mutiny. In a short time Octavian was sufficiently recovered to show himself. But he could find no other means of satisfying the greedy soldiery than by a confiscation of lands more sweeping than that which followed the proscription of Sylla. The towns of Cisalpine Gaul were accused of favoring Dec. Brutus, and saw nearly all their lands handed over to new possessors. The young poet, Vergil, lost his little patrimony, but was reinstated at the instance of Pollio and Maecenas, and showed his gratitude in his _First Eclogue_. Other parts of Italy also suffered: Apulia, for example, as we learn from Horace's friend Ofellus, who became the tenant of the estate which had formerly been his own. But these violent measures deferred rather than obviated the difficulty. The expulsion of so many persons threw thousands loose upon society, ripe for any crime. Many of the veterans were ready to join any new leader who promised them booty. Such a leader was at hand. Fulvia, wife of Antony, was a woman of fierce passions and ambitious spirit. She had not been invited to follow her husband to the East. She saw that in his absence imperial power would fall into the hands of Octavian. Lucius, brother of Mark Antony, was consul for the year, and at her instigation he raised his standard at Praeneste. But L. Antonius knew not how to use his strength; and young Agrippa, to whom Octavian intrusted the command, obliged Antonius and Fulvia to retire northward and shut themselves up in Perusia. Their store of provisions was so small that it sufficed only for the soldiery. Early in the next year Perusia surrendered, on condition that the lives of the leaders should be spared. The town was sacked; the conduct of L. Antonius alienated all Italy from his brother. Before winter, Antony sailed for Athens in company with Octavia, who for the time seems to have banished Cleopatra from his thoughts. But he disgusted all true Romans by assuming the attributes of Grecian gods and indulging in Grecian orgies. He found the state of things in the East greatly changed since his departure. He had commissioned P. Ventidius Bassus, an officer who had followed Fulvia from Italy, to hold the Parthians in check till his return. Ventidius was son of a Picenian nobleman of Asculum, who had been brought to Rome as a captive in the Social War. In his youth he had been a contractor to supply mules for the use of the Roman commissariat. But in the civil wars which followed, men of military talent easily rose to command; and such was the lot of Ventidius. While Antony was absent in Italy, he drove Q. Labienus into the defiles of Taurus, and here that adventurer was defeated and slain. The conqueror then marched rapidly into Syria, and forced Pacorus also to withdraw to the eastern bank of the Euphrates. Lepidus had assisted in the campaign; but after the departure of Sextus he openly declared himself independent of his brother triumvirs. Octavian, with prompt and prudent boldness, entered the camp of Lepidus in person with a few attendants. The soldiers deserted in crowds, and in a few hours Lepidus was fain to sue for pardon, where he had hoped to rule. He was treated with contemptuous indifference, Africa was taken from him; but he was allowed to live and die at Rome in quiet enjoyment of the chief pontificate. While Antony was engaged in voluptuous dalliance, Octavian was resolutely pursuing the work of consolidating his power in the West. His patience, his industry, his attention to business, his affability, were winning golden opinions and rapidly obliterating all memory of the bloody work by which he had risen to power. He had won little glory in war; but so long as the corn fleets arrived daily from Sicily and Africa, the populace cared little whether the victory had been won by Octavian or by his generals. In Agrippa he possessed a consummate captain, in Maecenas a wise and temperate minister. It is much to his credit that he never showed any jealousy of the men to whom he owed so much. He flattered the people with the hope that he would, when Antony had fulfilled his mission of recovering the standards of Crassus, engage him to join in putting an end to their sovereign power and restoring constitutional liberty. Octavian now began to feel that any appearance of friendship with Antony was a source of weakness rather than of strength at Rome. Misunderstandings had already broken out. Antony complained that Octavian had given him no share in the provinces wrested from Sext. Pompeius and Lepidus. Octavian retorted by accusing his colleague of appropriating Egypt and Armenia, and of increasing Cleopatra's power at the expense of the Roman Empire. Popular indignation rose to its height when Plancus and Titius, who had been admitted to Antony's confidence, passed over to Octavian, and disclosed the contents of their master's will. In that document Antony ordered that his body should be buried at Alexandria, in the mausoleum of Cleopatra. Men began to fancy that Cleopatra had already planted her throne upon the Capitol. These suspicions were sedulously encouraged by Octavian. But Antony, though his fleet was superior to that of Octavian, allowed Agrippa to sweep the Ionian Sea, and to take possession of Methone, in Messenia, as a station for a flying squadron to intercept Antony's communications with the East, nay, even to occupy Corcyra, which had been destined for his own place of rendezvous. Antony's fleet now anchored in the waters of the Ambracian Gulf, while his legions encamped on a spot of land which forms the northern horn of that spacious inlet. But the place chosen for the camp was unhealthy; and in the heats of early summer his army suffered greatly from disease. Agrippa lay close at hand watching his opportunity. In the course of the spring Octavian joined him in person. Antony, full of repentance and despair, shut himself up in Pharos, and there remained in gloomy isolation. After he had breathed his last, she consented to see Octavian. Her penetration soon told her that she had nothing to hope from him. She saw that his fair words were only intended to prevent her from desperate acts and reserve her for the degradation of his triumph. This impression was confirmed when all instruments by which death could be inflicted were found to have been removed from her apartments. But she was not to be so baffled. She pretended all submission; but when the ministers of Octavian came to carry her away, they found her lying dead upon her couch, attended by her faithful waiting-women, Iras and Charmion. The manner of her death was never ascertained; popular belief ascribed it to the bite of an asp which had been conveyed to her in a basket of fruit. Thus died Antony and Cleopatra. Antony was by nature a genial, open-hearted Roman, a good soldier, quick, resolute, and vigorous, but reckless and self-indulgent, devoid alike of prudence and of principle. The corruptions of the age, the seductions of power, and the evil influence of Cleopatra paralyzed a nature capable of better things. We know him chiefly through the exaggerated assaults of Cicero in his _Philippic_, and the narratives of writers devoted to Octavian. But after all deductions for partial representation, enough remains to show that Antony had all the faults of Caesar, with little of his redeeming greatness. GERMANS UNDER ARMINIUS REVOLT AGAINST ROME SIR EDWARD SHEPHERD CREASY They were great fighters and, as a natural sequence, mighty hunters. When warfare did not occupy their attention, hunting, feasting, and drinking took its place. Tacitus writes: "To drink continuously, night and day, was no shame for them." Their chief beverage was barley beer, though, in the South, wine was used to some extent. Rome had garrisons throughout the whole land, and the fortunes of the Germans were at a low ebb. Freedom seemed stifled forever when Arminius led his forces against the Roman hosts in the forest of Teutoburgium. Rightly does Creasy rate this important battle so highly, for it meant the final uplifting of the Teuton, and with him the English-speaking races of a later time.) The German chieftain knew well the gigantic power of the oppressor. Arminius was no rude savage, fighting out of mere animal instinct or in ignorance of the might of his adversary. He was familiar with the Roman language and civilization; he had served in the Roman armies; he had been admitted to the Roman citizenship, and raised to the rank of the equestrian order. It was part of the subtle policy of Rome to confer rank and privileges on the youth of the leading families in the nations which she wished to enslave. Among other young German chieftains, Arminius and his brother, who were the heads of the noblest house in the tribe of the Cherusci, had been selected as fit objects for the exercise of this insidious system. Roman refinements and dignities succeeded in denationalizing the brother, who assumed the Roman name of Flavius, and adhered to Rome throughout all her wars against his country. Arminius remained unbought by honors or wealth, uncorrupted by refinement or luxury. He aspired to and obtained from Roman enmity a higher title than ever could have been given him by Roman favor. It is in the page of Rome's greatest historian that his name has come down to us with the proud addition of "_Liberator hand dubie Germaniae_." While the progress of the Roman arms thus pressed the Germans from the south, still more formidable inroads had been made by the imperial legions on the west. Roman armies, moving from the province of Gaul, established a chain of fortresses along the right as well as the left bank of the Rhine, and, in a series of victorious campaigns, advanced their eagles as far as the Elbe, which now seemed added to the list of vassal rivers, to the Nile, the Rhine, the Rhone, the Danube, the Tagus, the Seine, and many more, that acknowledged the supremacy of the Tiber. Roman fleets also, sailing from the harbors of Gaul along the German coasts and up the estuaries, cooeperated with the land forces of the empire, and seemed to display, even more decisively than her armies, her overwhelming superiority over the rude Germanic tribes. Throughout the territory thus invaded the Romans had with their usual military skill established fortified posts; and a powerful army of occupation was kept on foot, ready to move instantly on any spot where a popular outbreak might be attempted. Vast, however, and admirably organized as the fabric of Roman power appeared on the frontiers and in the provinces, there was rottenness at the core. In Rome's unceasing hostilities with foreign foes, and still more in her long series of desolating civil wars, the free middle classes of Italy had almost wholly disappeared. Above the position which they had occupied, an oligarchy of wealth had reared itself; beneath that position a degraded mass of poverty and misery was fermenting. Slaves; the chance sweepings of every conquered country; shoals of Africans, Sardinians, Asiatics, Illyrians, and others made up the bulk of the population of the Italian peninsula. The foulest profligacy of manners was general in all ranks. In universal weariness of revolution and civil war, and in consciousness of being too debased for self-government, the nation had submitted itself to the absolute authority of Augustus. Adulation was now the chief function of the senate; and the gifts of genius and accomplishments of art were devoted to the elaboration of eloquently false panegyrics upon the prince and his favorite courtiers. With bitter indignation must the German chieftain have beheld all this and contrasted with it the rough worth of his own countrymen: their bravery, their fidelity to their word, their manly independence of spirit, their love of their national free institutions, and their loathing of every pollution and meanness. Above all, he must have thought of the domestic virtues that hallowed a German home; of the respect there shown to the female character, and of the pure affection by which that respect was repaid. His soul must have burned within him at the contemplation of such a race yielding to these debased Italians. It was not merely the number, but the quality of this force that made them formidable; and, however contemptible Varus might be as a general, Arminius well knew how admirably the Roman armies were organized and officered, and how perfectly the legionaries understood every manoeuvre and every duty which the varying emergencies of a stricken field might require. Stratagem was, therefore, indispensable; and it was necessary to blind Varus to their schemes until a favorable opportunity should arrive for striking a decisive blow. Meanwhile a succession of heavy rains rendered the country more difficult for the operations of regular troops, and Arminius, seeing that the infatuation of Varus was complete, secretly directed the tribes near the Weser and the Ems to take up arms in open revolt against the Romans. This was represented to Varus as an occasion which required his prompt attendance at the spot; but he was kept in studied ignorance of its being part of a concerted national rising; and he still looked on Arminius as his submissive vassal, whose aid he might rely on in facilitating the march of his troops against the rebels and in extinguishing the local disturbance. He therefore set his army in motion, and marched eastward in a line parallel to the course of the Lippe. For some distance his route lay along a level plain; but on arriving at the tract between the curve of the upper part of that stream and the sources of the Ems, the country assumes a very different character; and here, in the territory of the modern little principality of Lippe, it was that Arminius had fixed the scene of his enterprise. Contrary to the usual strict principles of Roman discipline, Varus had suffered his army to be accompanied and impeded by an immense train of baggage wagons and by a rabble of camp followers, as if his troops had been merely changing their quarters in a friendly country. When the long array quitted the firm, level ground and began to wind its way among the woods, the marshes, and the ravines, the difficulties of the march, even without the intervention of an armed foe, became fearfully apparent. In many places the soil, sodden with rain, was impracticable for cavalry and even for infantry, until trees had been felled and a rude causeway formed through the morass. The duties of the engineer were familiar to all who served in the Roman armies. But the crowd and confusion of the columns embarrassed the working parties of the soldiery, and in the midst of their toil and disorder the word was suddenly passed through their ranks that the rear-guard was attacked by the barbarians. Varus resolved on pressing forward; but a heavy discharge of missiles from the woods on either flank taught him how serious was the peril, and he saw his best men falling round him without the opportunity of retaliation; for his light-armed auxiliaries, who were principally of Germanic race, now rapidly deserted, and it was impossible to deploy the legionaries on such broken ground for a charge against the enemy. Arminius now gave the signal for a general attack. The fierce shouts of the Germans pealed through the gloom of the forests, and in thronging multitudes they assailed the flanks of the invaders, pouring in clouds of darts on the encumbered legionaries as they struggled up the glens or floundered in the morasses, and watching every opportunity of charging through the intervals of the disjointed column, and so cutting off the communication between its several brigades. Arminius, with a chosen band of personal retainers round him, cheered on his countrymen by voice and example. He and his men aimed their weapons particularly at the horses of the Roman cavalry. The wounded animals, slipping about in the mire and their own blood, threw their riders and plunged among the ranks of the legions, disordering all round them. Varus now ordered the troops to be countermarched, in the hope of reaching the nearest Roman garrison on the Lippe. But retreat now was as impracticable as advance; and the falling back of the Romans only augmented the courage of their assailants and caused fiercer and more frequent charges on the flanks of the disheartened army. The Roman officer who commanded the cavalry, Numonius Vala, rode off with his squadrons in the vain hope of escaping by thus abandoning his comrades. Unable to keep together or force their way across the woods and swamps, the horsemen were overpowered in detail and slaughtered to the last man. The Roman infantry still held together and resisted, but more through the instinct of discipline and bravery than from any hope of success or escape. Never was victory more decisive; never was the liberation of an oppressed people more instantaneous and complete. Throughout Germany the Roman garrisons were assailed and cut off; and within a few weeks after Varus had fallen, the German soil was freed from the foot of an invader. Augustus himself was not free from superstition; but on this occasion no supernatural terrors were needed to increase the alarm and grief that he felt, and which made him, even months after the news of the battle had arrived, often beat his head against the wall and exclaim, "Quintilius Varus, give me back my legions." We learn this from his biographer Suetonius; and, indeed, every ancient writer who alludes to the overthrow of Varus attests the importance of the blow against the Roman power, and the bitterness with which it was felt. Being thus the nearest heirs of the glory of Arminius, we may fairly devote more attention to his career than, in such a work as the present, could be allowed to any individual leader; and it is interesting to trace how far his fame survived during the Middle Ages, both among the Germans of the Continent and among ourselves. The effect of it was to make Germanicus resolve on retreating to the Rhine. He himself, with part of his troops, embarked in some vessels on the Ems, and returned by that river, and then by sea; but part of his forces were intrusted to a Roman general named Caecina, to lead them back by land to the Rhine. Arminius followed this division on its march, and fought several battles with it, in which he inflicted heavy loss on the Romans, captured the greater part of their baggage, and would have destroyed them completely had not his skilful system of operations been finally thwarted by the haste of Inguiomerus, a confederate German chief, who insisted on assaulting the Romans in their camp, instead of waiting till they were entangled in the difficulties of the country, and assailing their columns on the march. In the following year the Romans were inactive, but in the year afterward Germanicus led a fresh invasion. He placed his army on shipboard and sailed to the mouth of the Ems, where he disembarked and marched to the Weser, there encamping, probably in the neighborhood of Minden. Arminius had collected his army on the other side of the river; and a scene occurred, which is powerfully told by Tacitus, and which is the subject of a beautiful poem by Praed. It has been already mentioned that the brother of Arminius, like himself, had been trained up while young to serve in the Roman armies; but, unlike Arminius, he not only refused to quit the Roman service for that of his country, but fought against his country with the legions of Germanicus. He had assumed the Roman name of Flavius, and had gained considerable distinction in the Roman service, in which he had lost an eye from a wound in battle. When the Roman outposts approached the river Weser, Arminius called out to them from the opposite bank and expressed a wish to see his brother. Flavius stepped forward, and Arminius ordered his own followers to retire, and requested that the archers should be removed from the Roman bank of the river. This was done; and the brothers, who apparently had not seen each other for some years, began a conversation from the opposite sides of the stream, in which Arminius questioned his brother respecting the loss of his eye, and what battle it had been lost in, and what reward he had received for his wound. Flavius told him how the eye was lost, and mentioned the increased pay that he had on account of its loss, and showed the collar and other military decorations that had been given him. Arminius mocked at these as badges of slavery; and then each began to try to win the other over--Flavius boasting the power of Rome and her generosity to the submissive; Arminius appealing to him in the name of their country's gods, of the mother that had borne them, and by the holy names of fatherland and freedom, not to prefer being the betrayer to being the champion of his country. They soon proceeded to mutual taunts and menaces, and Flavius called aloud for his horse and his arms, that he might dash across the river and attack his brother; nor would he have been checked from doing so had not the Roman general Stertinius run up to him and forcibly detained him. Arminius stood on the other bank, threatening the renegade, and defying him to battle. I shall not be thought to need apology for quoting here the stanzas in which Praed has described this scene--a scene among the most affecting, as well as the most striking, that history supplies. It makes us reflect on the desolate position of Arminius, with his wife and child captives in the enemy's hands, and with his brother a renegade in arms against him. The great liberator of our German race was there, with every source of human happiness denied him except the consciousness of doing his duty to his country. "Back, back! he fears not foaming flood Who fears not steel-clad line: No warrior thou of German blood, No brother thou of mine. Go, earn Rome's chain to load thy neck, Her gems to deck thy hilt; And blazon honor's hapless wreck With all the gauds of guilt. "I curse him by the gifts the land Hath won from him and Rome, The riving axe, the wasting brand, Rent forest, blazing home. I curse him by our country's gods, The terrible, the dark, The breakers of the Roman rods, The smiters of the bark. "Oh, misery that such a ban On such a brow should be! Why comes he not in battle's van His country's chief to be? To stand a comrade by my side, The sharer of my fame, And worthy of a brother's pride And of a brother's name? "To-night, to-night, when we shall meet In combat face to face, Then only would Arminius greet The renegade's embrace. The canker of Rome's guilt shall be Upon his dying name; And as he lived in slavery, So shall he fall in shame." When we remember that his father-in-law and his brother were renegades, we can well understand that a party among his kinsmen may have been bitterly hostile to him, and have opposed his authority with the tribe by open violence, and, when that seemed ineffectual, by secret assassination. "The deeds he did, the fields he won, The freedom he restored." CHRONOLOGY OF UNIVERSAL HISTORY Events treated at length are here indicated in large type; the numerals following give volume and page. Separate chronologies of the various nations, and of the careers of famous persons, will be found in the INDEX VOLUME, with volume and page references showing where the several events are fully treated. "Est" means date uncertain. Alcibiades born.[Est] Athens is now the principal seat of Greek philosophy, literature, and art. Peace of Callias between the Greeks and Persians. Birth of Xenophon, general and historian. Thucydides exiled Athens. Comedies prohibited performance at Athens. Ahala impeached and exiled Rome. Potidaea reduced by the Athenians. Attica again invaded. Mount AEetna in eruption. Ochus (Darius Nothus) rids himself of Sogdianus and succeeds him on the Persian throne. The league between Athens and Argos dissolved. The Romans capture Bolae, an AEquian town; the division of the booty causes a mutiny among the soldiers, who slay the quaestor and the military tribune, M. Postumius. Psammeticus is king of Egypt. Dionysius the Elder becomes ruler of Syracuse. Artaxerxes II succeeds Darius II on the Persian throne. Successful revolt of the Egyptians against the Persians; the independence of Egypt secured. Tissaphernes' Persian army is defeated by Agesilaus, near Sardis. Agesilaus is recalled from Asia; commanding the Spartans, he gains a victory over the confederate Greeks at Coronea. Thebes is betrayed to Sparta, during her war against Olynthus. The Arcadians found Megalopolis, which they make the capital of the Arcadian confederacy. The Carthaginians at war with Dionysius; but, after losing Selinus and other towns, they make peace. A celestial globe brought into Greece from Egypt. Amphipolis captured by Philip of Macedon; he loses his right eye by an arrow from Astor. Birth of Alexander the Great. Dion frees Syracuse from Dionysius the Younger; he is expelled from Sicily. Dionysius the Younger again assumes power in Syracuse. Artaxerxes III is succeeded by Arses in Persia. Arses is succeeded by Darius III (Codomannus) in Persia. Rome concludes a peace with Gaul. Darius is defeated at Issus; his family are among Alexander's captives. The Lucanians and Bruttians defeat and slay Alexander of Epirus, his ambitious designs in Italy having been betrayed. Darius is seized and laden with chains by Bessus, a Bactrian satrap who soon after slays him. Alexander captures Bessus and delivers him to Oxathres, the brother of Darius, by whom he is executed. Alexander pursues his conquests in Parthia, Media, Bactria, and on the shores of the Caspian. The consuls at Rome are granted a triumph and the surname of "Privernas," for the conquest of Privernum. Harpalus flees from Babylon with immense treasures, which he conveys to Athens. The Samnites sue for peace, but reject the terms on which it is offered by the Romans. The confederate Greeks are defeated by Antipater at Crannon; end of the Lamian War. Demosthenes, who was accused by the Macedonians of being privy to the looting of the treasury by Harpalus, after the battle of Crannon fled to Calauria; he was captured by the Macedonian troops and thereupon poisoned himself. Perdiccas assails Ptolemy in Egypt; Perdiccas is slain in a mutiny. In Asia Minor, Eumenes triumphs over Craterus, who is killed. Polysperchon's elevation to power is followed by a league against him, formed by Antipater's son Cassander, Antigonus, and Ptolemy. Eumenes lends his support to Polysperchon, after escaping from Nora. Polysperchon prevailed over by Cassander in the struggle for power in Greece and Macedonia. Athens he places under the rule of Phalereus. Olympias is put to death by Cassander. Eumenes, being betrayed to Antigonus, is put to death; Antigonus holds the supreme power in Asia. The Romans take Fregellae and other towns from the Samnites. Ptolemy conquers Judea; he transplants many Jews to Alexandria and Cyrene, where their industry is encouraged and their religion protected. Zeno institutes the sect of Stoics at Athens. Roxana, the widow of Alexander the Great, and her young son Alexander Aegas, are put to death by Cassander. The Roman consul Bubulcus penetrates into Samnium, where he is surrounded, and cuts his way through with great courage. The Etruscans take up arms in favor of the Samnites. Civil war in the little kingdom of Bosporus; Satyrus II, king for a few months, falls in battle. The Romans are victorious over the Samnites and the Etruscans. Flavius reconciles all orders of the Roman state and erects a temple of Concord. Demetrius Poliorcetes besieges Rome. Seleucus Nicator builds Antioch, which he makes the capital of his kingdom of Syria. The Samnites, Etruscans, Umbrians, and Gauls unite against Rome. Q. Fabius Rullianus and P. Decimo Mus defeat the Samnites and Gauls at Sentinum. Demetrius Poliorcetes retakes Athens; Lysimachus and Ptolemy deprive him of all he possesses. Lysimachus and Pyrrhus, King of Epirus, wrest Macedonia from Demetrius Poliorcetes; immediately after, Lysimachus expels Pyrrhus. The Roman consul Aemilius invades the territory of Tarentum. Alliance formed between Rome and Carthage. Pyrrhus wars against Carthage in Sicily. Pyrrhus expels the Carthaginians from most of their possessions in Sicily. Tarentum surrenders to the Romans. Lucania and Brittium also submit to Rome. Philetaerus at his death appoints his nephew, Eumenes, King of Pergamus; the competition for books between him and Ptolemy Philadelphus causes the latter to prohibit the export of papyrus from Egypt; this leads to the invention of parchment at Pergamus, whence it takes its name. Hiero makes peace with the Romans; he becomes their most trusted ally. Regelus is sent to Rome to propose an exchange of prisoners; on his return the Carthaginians put him to death with the utmost cruelty. Ptolemy Euergetes succeeds his father Ptolemy Philadelphus on the throne of Egypt. Scipio Africanus born. On the death of Hamilcar, his son-in-law, Hasdrubal, takes his place in Spain; he founds Carthago Nova (Carthagena). Philip V, of Macedon, is victorious in his campaigns against the Aetolian League. Hannibal defeats the Romans at the Trasimene Lake. Antiochus the Great cedes Coele-Syria and Palestine to Egypt. Marcellus is sent into Sicily and besieges Syracuse, which had declared against Rome. Hwangti crushes out literature in China. The Aetolian League with its allies assists Rome against Macedon. Agrigentum, being conquered by Caevinus, places all Sicily again under Roman subjection. A signal victory is achieved by Philopoemen, general of the Achaean League, with Macedon, over the Spartans at Matinea. The Carthaginian power in Spain completely destroyed by Scipio. The Jews become subject to the Seleucid monarchy. All the Peloponnesus is included in the Achaean League, which attains its apogee. Thessaly relapses under the Macedonian influence. Mithridates VI of the Arsacidae begins his reign and prepares the elevation of Parthia to great power. Death of Cleopatra, who, in the name of her young son, had been regent of Egypt. Menelaus, another brother, supplants Jason in the high-priesthood of Jerusalem. Antiochus invades Egypt and takes Memphis. Perseus negotiates with Antiochus, Prusias, and many Greek states to form a coalition against Rome; even Eumenes begins to treat with him. Ptolemy Physcon is associated with his brother as joint King of Egypt. Antiochus lays siege to Alexandria; the Egyptians apply to Rome for aid. Antiochus, awed by the Roman ambassador Popillius and the fate of Perseus, evacuates Egypt. In his retreat he plunders Jerusalem and despoils the Temple, in which he sets up the statue of Jupiter Olympias. Arms are taken up by the Asmoneans against Antiochus, King of Syria. Mummius, commanding in Greece, defeats the Archaeans at Leucopetra; he captures and destroys Corinth. The treasures of Grecian art conveyed to Rome. Greece becomes a Roman province. Demetrius Nicator slays Alexander Bala in battle and becomes king of Syria. Silanus, accused by the Macedonians of corrupt practices, is condemned by his father, Torquatus, and takes his own life. [Est]Viriathus, the Lusitanian leader against the Romans in Spain, is assassinated by order of the consul Caepio. Scipio Africanus the Younger reduces Numantia. Attalus III of Pergamus bequeaths his kingdom, which embraces a great part of Asia Minor, to the Romans. John Hyrcanus, the Jewish Prince and high-priest, defeats Ptolemy Lathyrus and captures Samaria.[Est] The Cimbri request an allotment of land from the Romans, whereon to settle; it is refused; they ravage the country, but are checked in Thrace by Nimicus Rufus. The Cimbri defeat the consul Scaurus in Gaul. Mithridates of Pontus secretly prepares to regain by force the province of Phrygia, which the Romans took from him during his minority. Cassius, Roman consul, is defeated and slain by the Cimbri in Gaul. Jugurtha is betrayed by Bocchus, King of Mauretania, into the hands of the Romans, which ends the Jugurthine War. Aristobulus, son of John Hyrcanus, succeeds his father and assumes the title of king of Judea. Birth of Julius Caesar. The Roman senate promises aid to Cappadocia against Mithridates. Cleopatra is put to death by her son Alexander, who is expelled from Egypt, and Ptolemy Soter restored. Mithridates, King of Pontus, occupies Phrygia; he asks all Asia Minor to join him; a general massacre of the Romans occurs. The consul Cinna, deposed by the senate, calls Marius from Africa, raises an Italian army, and reinstates himself in office; bloody proscriptions by Marius and Cinna follow. Sulla captures the revolted city of Athens and defeats the army of Mithridates under Archelaus. A sedition of the Jews is quelled with merciless severity by Alexander Jannaeus. Caesar serves as a cadet at the siege of Mitylene; he receives a civic crown for saving the life of a citizen. Alexander Jannaeus, King of Judea, is succeeded on his death by his widow Alexandra. King Mithridates is driven from his dominions by Lucullus; the King takes refuge in Armenia. Pompey crushes the pirates of Cilicia and makes it a Roman province. Julius Caesar is quaestor in Spain. Metellus completes the conquest of Crete for the Romans. Mithridates makes a successful advance. Antiochus XIII is deposed by Pompey; this puts an end to the kingdom of the Seleucidas (Syria). Hyrcanus takes up arms against his brother Aristobulus in Judea. Mithridates, betrayed by his son, poisons himself. Cicero frustrates the conspiracy of Catiline, having for its object the cancellation of debts, the proscription of the wealthy, and the distribution among the conspirators of all the offices of honor and emolument. Discord arises between Caesar, now praetor, and Cato, tribune of the people. Cicero exiled from Rome; he had saved the Republic at the time of the Catiline conspiracy, but had broken the constitution, which forbade capital punishment without the sentence of the assembly of the people. Cicero recalled to Rome. Mithridates of Parthia is murdered by his brother Orodes. The calendar is reformed by Caesar. Conflict for power between Antony and Octavius; Cicero's oration secures Octavius' success in Rome. Murder of Cicero. Birth of Ovid. Egypt becomes a Roman province. The temple of Janus is closed. Last German campaign and death of Drusus. Probable date of the birth of Jesus.	redpajama-book	39,795
Transcribed by David Price, email ALL SAINTS' DAY AND OTHER SERMONS The following Sermons could not be arranged according to any proper sequence. Those, however, which refer to doctrine and the Church Seasons will mostly be found at the beginning of the volume, whilst those which deal with practical subjects are placed at the close. A few of the Sermons have already appeared in "Good Words;" but by far the greater number were never prepared by their author for the press. They were written out very roughly--sometimes at an hour's notice, as occasion demanded--and were only intended for delivery from the pulpit. The original MSS. have been adhered to as closely as possible. It is thought that many to whom the late Rector of Eversley was dear will welcome the publication of these earnest words, and find them helpful in the Christian life. "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them." SERMON I. ALL SAINTS' DAY To-day is All Saints' Day. On this day we commemorate--and, as far as our dull minds will let us, contemplate--the saints; the holy ones of God; the pure and the triumphant--be they who they may, or whence they may, or where they may. We are not bidden to define and limit their number. We are expressly told that they are a great multitude, which no man could number, of all nations, and kindreds, and peoples, and tongues; and most blessed news that is for all who love God and man. We are not told, again--and I beg you all to mark this well--that this great multitude consists merely of those who, according to the popular notion, have "gone to heaven," as it is called, simply because they have not gone to hell. Not so, not so! The great multitude whom we commemorate on All Saints' Day, are SAINTS. They are the holy ones, the heroes and heroines of mankind, the elect, the aristocracy of grace. These are they who have kept themselves unspotted from the world. They are the pure who have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb, which is the spirit of self-sacrifice. They are those who carry the palmbranch of triumph, who have come out of great tribulation, who have dared, and fought, and suffered for God, and truth, and right. Nay, there are those among them, and many, thank God--weak women, too, among them--who have resisted unto blood, striving against sin. And who are easy-going folk like you and me, that we should arrogate to ourselves a place in that grand company? Not so! What we should do on All Saints' Day is to place ourselves, with all humility, if but for an hour, where we can look afar off upon our betters, and see what they are like, and what they do. And what are they like, those blessed beings of whom the text speaks? The Gospel for this day describes them to us; and we may look on that description as complete, for He who gives it is none other than our Lord Himself. "Blessed are the poor in spirit; for their's is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for their's is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven." And what do they do, those blessed beings? Whatever else they do, or do not do, this we are told they do--they worship. They satisfy, it would seem, in perfection, that mysterious instinct of devotion--that inborn craving to look upward and adore, which, let false philosophy say what it will, proves the most benighted idolater to be a man, and not a brute--a spirit, and not a merely natural thing. "Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come." SERMON II. PREPARATION FOR ADVENT Amos is specially the poor man's prophet, for he was a poor man himself; not a courtier like Isaiah, or a priest like Jeremiah, or a sage like Daniel; but a herdsman and a gatherer of sycamore fruit in Tekoa, near Bethlehem, where Amos was born. Yet to this poor man, looking after sheep and cattle on the downs, and pondering on the wrongs and misery around, the word of the Lord came, and he knew that God had spoken to him, and that he must go and speak to men, at the risk of his life, what God had bidden, against all the nations round and their kings, and against the king and nobles and priests of Israel, and the king and nobles and priests of Judah, and tell them that the day of the Lord is at hand, and that they must prepare to meet their God. And he said what he felt he must say with a noble freedom, with a true independence such as the grace of God alone can give. Amaziah, the priest of Bethel, who was worshipping (absurd as it may seem to us) God and the golden calf at the same time in King Jeroboam's court, complained loudly, it would seem, of Amos's plain speaking. How uncourteous to prophesy that Jeroboam should die by the sword, and Israel be carried captive out of their own land! Let him go home into his own land of Judah, and prophesy there; but not prophesy at Bethel, for it was the king's chapel and the king's court. Amos went, I presume, in fear of his life. But he left noble words behind him. "I was no prophet," he said to Amaziah, "nor a prophet's son, but a herdsman, and a gatherer of wild figs. And the Lord took me as I followed the flock, and said, Go, prophesy unto my people Israel." And then he turned on that smooth court-priest Amaziah, and pronounced against him, in the name of the Lord, a curse too terrible to be repeated here. So it was then, my friends, and so it will be till the end of this wicked world. The way to please men, and be popular, always was, and always will be, Amaziah's way; to tell men that they may worship God and the golden calf at the same time, that they may worship God and money, worship God and follow the ways of this wicked world which suit their fancy and their interest; to tell them the kingdom of God is not over you now, Christ is not ruling the world now; that the kingdom of God will only come, when Christ comes at the last day, and meanwhile, if people will only believe what they are told, and live tolerably respectable lives, they may behave in all things else as if there was no God, and no judgments of God. Seeking the righteousness of God, say these preachers of Amaziah's school, only means, that if Christ's righteousness is imputed to you need not be righteous yourselves, but will go to heaven without having been good men here on earth. That is the comfortable message which the world delights to hear, and for which the world will pay a high price to its flatterers. "Let the sea make a noise, and all that therein is: the round world, and they that dwell therein. "Let the floods clap their hands, and let the hills be joyful together before the Lord: for He cometh to judge the earth. "With righteousness shall He judge the world: and the people with equity. "Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost; "As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen." SERMON III. THE PURIFYING HOPE "And she shall bend her ear In many a secret place, Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty, born of murmuring sound, Shall pass into her face." Assurance, my friends, may be reasonable enough when it is founded on repentance and hatred of evil, and love and practice of what is good. But, again, assurance may be as unreasonable as it is offensive. We blame a man who has too much assurance about earthly things. Let us beware that we have not too much assurance about heavenly things. For our assurance will surely be too great, unreasonable, built upon the sand, if it be built on mere self-conceit of our own orthodoxy, and our own privileges, or our own special connection with God. To which end may God of His mercy bring us, and all we love. Amen. SERMON IV. THE LORD COMING TO HIS TEMPLE Consider that last thought. And consider, too, that those to whom the fascination of such a personage might be so intolerable, that it might turn to utter hate, would probably be those whose moral sense was so perverted, that they thought they were doing right when they were doing wrong, and speaking truth when they were telling lies. It is an awful thought. But we know that there were such men, and too many, among the scribes and Pharisees of Jerusalem. And human nature is the same in every age. Be that as it may--however retired His life, He could not long be hid. He would shortly exercise, almost without attempting it, an enormous public influence. SERMON V. ADVENT LESSONS So the man gains hope and heart for himself, and so, if he will but think rationally and humbly, he may gain hope and heart for this poor sinful world. For what has come true for him may come true for any man. Who is he that God should care more for him than for others? Who is he that God should help him when he prays, more than He will help His whole church if it will but pray? He says to himself, all this knowledge of what is right; all these good desires, all these longings after a juster, purer, nobler, happier state of things; there they are up and down the world already, though, alas! they have borne little enough fruit as yet. Be it so. But God put them into my heart. And who save God has put them into the world's heart? It was God who sowed the seed in me; surely it is God who has sowed it in other men? And if God has made it bear even the poorest fruit in me, why should He not make it bear fruit in other men and in all the world? All they need is that God should stir up their wills, that they may do the good they know, and attain the blessedness after which they long. This, then, is the lesson why we are met together this Advent day. We are met to pray that God would so help us by His grace and mercy that we may bring forth the fruit of good works, and that when our Lord Jesus Christ shall come in His glorious majesty to judge the quick and the dead, we, and our descendants after us, may be found an acceptable people in His sight. We are met to pray, in a National Church, for the whole nation of England, that all orders and degrees therein may, each in his place and station, help forward the hallowing of God's name, the coming of His kingdom, the doing of His will on earth. We are met to pray for the Queen and all that are in authority, that these Advent collects may be fulfilled in them, and by them, for the good of the whole people; for the ministers and stewards of Christ's mysteries, that the same collects may be fulfilled by them and in them, till they turn the hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just; for the Commons of this nation, that each man may he delivered, by God's grace and mercy, from the special sin which besets him in this faithless and worldly generation and hinders him from running the race of duty which is set before him, and get strength from God so to live that in that dread day he may meet his Judge and King, not in tenor and in shame, but in loyalty and in humble hope. But more--we are here to worship God in Christ, both God and man. To confess that without Him we can do nothing, that unless He enlighten our understandings we are dark, unless He stir up our wills we are powerless for good. To confess that though we have forgotten Him, yet He has not forgotten us. That He is the same gracious and generous Giver and Saviour. That though we deny Him He cannot deny Himself. That He is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever as when He came to visit this earth in great humility. That the Lord is King, though the earth be moved. He sitteth upon His throne, be the nations never so unquiet. We are here to declare to ourselves and all men, and the whole universe, that we at least believe that the heavens and earth are full of His glory. We are here to declare that, whether or not the kings of the earth are wise enough, or the judges of it learned enough, to acknowledge Christ for their king, we at least will worship the Son lest He be angry, and so we perish from the right way; for if His wrath be kindled, yea but a little, then blessed are they, and they only, who put their trust in Him. We are here to join our songs with angels round the throne, and with those pure and mighty beings who, in some central sanctuary of the universe, cry for ever, "Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honour and power: for Thou hast created all things, and for Thy pleasure they are and were created." SERMON VI. CAPITAL PUNISHMENT You all know that there is now-a-days a strong feeling among some persons about capital punishment; that there are those who will move heaven and earth to interfere with the course of justice, and beg off the worst of murderers, on any grounds, however unreasonable, fanciful, even unfair; simply because they have a dislike to human beings being hanged. I believe, from long consideration, that these persons' strange dislike proceeds from their not believing sufficiently that man is made in the image of God. And, alas! it proceeds, I fear, in some of them, from not believing in a God at all--believing, perhaps, in some mere maker of the world, but not in the living God which Scripture sets forth. For how else can they say, as I have known some say, that capital punishment is wrong, because "we have no right to usher a man into the presence of his Maker." Into the presence of his Maker! Why, where else is every man, you and I, heathen and Christian, bad and good, save in the presence of his Maker already? Do we not live and move and have our being in God? Whither can we go from His spirit, or whither can we flee from His presence? If we ascend into heaven, He is there. If we go down to hell He is there also. And if the law puts a man to death, it does not usher him into the presence of his Maker, for he is there already. It simply says to him, "God has judged you on earth, not we. God will judge you in the next world, not we. All we know is, that you are not fit to live in this world. All our duty is to send you out of it. Where you will go in the other world is God's matter, not ours, and the Lord have mercy on your soul." But there is another objection to capital punishment, which we must deal with much more respectfully and tenderly; for it is made by certain good people, people whom we must honour, though we differ from them, for no set of people have done more (according to their numbers) for education, for active charity, and for benevolence, and for peace and good will among the nations of the earth. And they say, you must not take the life of a murderer, just because he is made in God's image. Well, I should have thought that God Himself was the best judge of that. That, if God truly said that man was made in His image, and said, moreover, as it were at the same moment, that, therefore, whoso sheds man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed--our duty was to trust God, to obey God, and to do our duty against the murderer, however painful to our feelings it might be. But I believe these good people make their mistake from forgetting this; that if the murderer be made in God's image and likeness, so is the man whom he murders; and so also is the jury who convict him, the judge who condemns him, and the nation (the society of men) for whom they act. And if this be so--if Christ be a God of severity as well as a God of love, a God who punishes sinners as well as a God who forgives penitents-what then? We are, He tells us, made in His likeness. Then, according to His likeness we must behave. We must copy His love, by helping the poor and afflicted, the weak and the oppressed. But we must copy His severity, by punishing whenever we have the power, without cowardice or indulgence, all wilful offenders; and, above all, the man who destroys God's image in himself, by murdering and destroying the mortal life of a man made in the image of God. And more; if we be made in the likeness of God and of Christ, we must remember, morning and night, and all day long, that most awful and most blessed fact. We must say to ourselves, again and again, "I am not a mere animal, and like a mere animal I must not behave; I dare not behave like a mere animal, for I was made in the likeness of God; and when I was baptised the Spirit of God took possession of me to restore me to God's likeness, and to call out and perfect God's likeness in me all my life long. Therefore, I am no mere animal; and never was intended to be. I am the temple of God; my body and soul belong to God, and not to my own fancies and passions and lusts, and whosoever defiles the temple of God, him will God destroy." And from that may Christ in His mercy deliver us all. Amen. SERMON VII. TEMPTATION Well, my friends, and the very danger of these spiritual temptations is-that they do not look like temptations. They do not look ugly, absurd, wrong, they look pleasant, reasonable, right. Do I say this to frighten you away from being religious? God forbid. Better to be religious and to fear and love God, though you were tempted by all the devils out of the pit, than to be irreligious and a mere animal, and be tempted only by your own carnal nature, as the animals are. Better to be tempted, like the hermits of old, and even to fall and rise again, singing, "Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy, when I fall I shall arise;" than to live the life of the flesh, "like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains." It is the price a man must pay for hungering and thirsting after righteousness, for longing to be a child of God in spirit and in truth. "The devil," says a wise man of old, "does not tempt bad men, because he has got them already; he tempts good men, because he has NOT got them, and wants to get them." But how shall we know these temptations? God knows, my friends, better than I; and I trust that He will teach you to know, according to what each of you needs to know. But as far as my small experience goes, the root of them all is pride and self-conceit. Whatsoever thoughts or feelings tempt us to pride and self-conceit are of the devil, not of God. The devil is specially the spirit of pride; and, therefore, whatever tempts you to fancy yourself something different from your fellow-men, superior to your fellow men, safer than them, more favoured by God than them, that is a temptation of the spirit of pride. Whatever tempts you to think that you can do without God's help and God's providence; whatever tempts you to do anything extraordinary, and show yourself off, that you may make a figure in the world; and above all, whatever tempts you to antinomianism, that is, to fancy that God will overlook sins in you which He will not overlook in other men--all these are temptations from the spirit of pride. They are temptations like our Lord's temptations. These temptations came on our Lord more terribly than they ever can on you and me, just because He was the Son of Man, the perfect Man, and, therefore, had more real reason for being proud (if such a thing could be) than any man, or than all men put together. But He conquered the temptations because He was perfect Man, led by the Spirit of God; and, therefore, He knew that the only way to be a perfect man was not to be proud, however powerful, wise, and glorious He might be; but to submit Himself humbly and utterly, as every man should do, to the will of His Father in Heaven, from whom alone His greatness came. I say these last words with all diffidence and humility, and trusting that the Lord will pardon any mistake which I may make about His Divine Words. I only say them because wiser men than I have often taken the same view already. Of course there is more, far more, in this wonderful saying than we can understand, or ever will understand. But this I think is plain--that our Lord determined to behave as any and every other man ought to have done in His place; in order to shew all God's children the example of perfect humility and perfect obedience to God. But again, the devil asked our Lord to fall down and worship him. Now how could that be a temptation to pride? Surely that was asking our Lord to do anything but a proud action, rather the most humiliating and most base of all actions. My friends, it seems to me that if our Lord had fallen down and worshipped the evil spirit, He would have given way to the spirit of pride utterly and boundlessly; and I will tell you why. Now, is not this self-conceit? What would you think of a servant who disobeyed you, cheated you, and yet said to himself--No matter, my master dare not turn me off: I am so useful that he cannot do without me. Even so in all ages, and now as much as, or more than ever, have men said, We are so necessary to God and God's cause, that He cannot do without us; and therefore though He hates sin in everyone else, He will excuse sin in us, as long as we are about His business. Oh, my friends, in all your projects for good, as in all other matters which come before you in your mortal life, keep innocence and take heed to the thing that is right. For that, and that alone, shall bring a man peace at the last. To which, may God in His mercy bring us all. Amen. SERMON VIII. MOTHER'S LOVE The Epistle for the day tells men and women that they must lead moral, pure, and modest lives. It does not advise them to do so. It does not say, It will be better to do so, more proper and conducive to the good of society, more likely to bring you to heaven at last. It says, You must, for it is the commandment of the Lord Jesus, and the will of God. Let no man encroach on or defraud his brother in the matter, says St Paul; by which he means, Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife. And why? "Because that the Lord is the avenger of all such, as we also have forewarned you and testified." My friends, people talk loosely of the Thunder of Sinai and the rigour of Moses' law, and set them against what they call the gentle voice of the Gospel, and the mild religion of Christ. Why, here are the Thunders of Sinai uttered as loud as ever, from the very foot of the Cross of Christ; and the terrible, "Thou shalt not," of Moses' law, with the curse of God for a penalty on the sinner, uttered by the Apostle of Faith, and Freedom, in the name of Christ and of God. St Paul is not afraid to call Christ an Avenger. How could he be? He believed that it was Christ who spoke to Moses on Sinai--the very same Christ who prayed for His murderers, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." And he knew that Christ was the eternal Son of God, the same yesterday, today, and for ever; that He had not changed since Moses' time, and could never change; that what He forbade in Moses' time, hated in Moses' time, and avenged in Moses' time, He would forbid, and hate, and avenge for ever. And that, therefore, he who despises the warnings of the Law despises not man merely, but God, who has also given to us His Holy Spirit to know what is unchangeable, the everlastingly right, from what is everlastingly wrong. So much for that side of our Lord's character; so much for sinners who, after their hardness and impenitent hearts, treasure up for themselves wrath against the day of wrath and revelation of the righteous judgment of God, in the day when God shall judge the secrets of men by Jesus Christ, according to St Paul's Gospel. Yes, my friends, such is our Lord, and such is our God. Infinite in severity to the scornful, the proud, the disobedient: infinite in tenderness to the earnest, the humble, the obedient. Let us come to Him, earnest, humble, obedient, and we shall find Him, indeed, a refuge of the soul and body in spirit and in truth. Thou, O Lord, art all I want. All and more in thee I find. Amen. SERMON IX. GOOD FRIDAY This is a very solemn day; for on this day the Lord Jesus Christ was crucified. The question for us is, how ought we to keep it? that is, what sort of thoughts ought to be in our minds upon this day? Now, many most excellent and pious persons, and most pious books, seem to think that we ought to-day to think as much as possible of the sufferings of our Blessed Lord; and because we cannot, of course, understand or imagine the sufferings of His Spirit, to think of what we can, that is, His bodily sufferings. They, therefore, seem to wish to fill our minds with the most painful pictures of agony, and shame, and death, and sorrow; and not only with our Lord's sorrows, but with those of His Blessed Mother, and of the disciples, and the holy women who stood by His cross; they wish to stir us up to pity and horror, and to bring before us the saddest parts of Holy Scripture, such as the Lamentations of Jeremiah; as well as dwell at great length upon very painful details, which may be all quite true, but of which Scripture says nothing; as so to make this day a day of darkness, and sorrow, and horror, just such as it would have been to us if we had stood by Christ's cross, like these holy women, without expecting Him to rise again, and believing that all was over--that all hope of Israel's being redeemed was gone, and that the wicked Jews had really conquered that perfectly good, and admirable Saviour, and put Him out of the world for ever. Now, I judge no man; to his own master he standeth or falleth; yea, and he shall stand, for God is able to make him stand. But it does seem to me that these good people are seeking the living among the dead, and forgetting that Christ is neither on the cross nor in the tomb, but that He is risen; and it seems to me better to bid you follow to-day the Bible and the Church Service, and to think of what they tell you to think of. True, this is a solemn day, for on it the Son of God fought such a fight, that He could only win it at the price of His own life's blood; and a humiliating day, for our sins helped to nail Him on the cross--and therefore a day of humiliation and of humility. Proud, self-willed thoughts are surely out of place to-day (and what day are they in place?) On this day God agonised for man: but it is a day of triumph and deliverance; and we must go home as men who have stood by and seen a fearful fight--a fight which makes the blood of him who watches it run cold; but we have seen, too, a glorious victory--such a victory as never was won on earth before or since; and we therefore must think cheerfully of the battle, for the sake of the victory that was won; and remember that on this day death was indeed swallowed up in victory--because death was the victory itself. Therefore, my dear friends, if we wish to keep Good Friday in spirit and in truth, we cannot do so better than by trying to carry out the very end for which Christ died on this day; and doing our part, small though it be, toward bringing those poor heathens home into Christ's fold, and teaching them the gospel and good news that for them, too, Christ died, and over them, too, Christ reigns alive for evermore; and bringing them home into His flock, that they, too, may find a place in His great family, and have their calling and ministry appointed to them among the nations of those who are saved and walk in the light of God and of the Lamb. SERMON X. THE IMAGE OF THE EARTHLY AND THE HEAVENLY So thought Solomon, in spite of all his wisdom, because he had not heard the good news of Easter day. And so think many now, who are called wise men and philosophers; because they, alas! for them, will not believe the good news of Easter day. To be good ourselves, and to live for ever in good company--ah my friends, that is true bliss. If we cannot reach that after death, it were better for us that death should make an end of us, and that when our body decays in the grave we should be annihilated, and become nothing for ever. But Easter day says to us, If you labour to create good company in this life, by trying to make other people round you good, you shall enjoy for ever in the next world the good company which you have helped to make. If you labour to make yourself good in this life, you shall enjoy the fruit of your labour in the next life by being good, and, therefore, blessed for ever. Easter day says, Your labour is not vanity and vexation of spirit. It is solid work, which shall receive solid pay from God hereafter. Easter day is a pledge--I may say a sacrament--from God to us, that He will righteously reward all righteous work; and that, therefore, it is worth any man's while to labour, to suffer, if need be even to die, in trying to be good, noble, useful, self-sacrificing, as Christ toiled and suffered and died and sacrificed Himself to do good. For then he will share Christ's reward, as he has shared Christ's labour, and be rewarded, as Christ was, by resurrection to eternal life. And so Easter day should give us strength to live like men--the only truly manly, truly human life; the life of being good and doing good. But when they think of actually dying, they feel as if to go into the next world was to be turned out into the dark night, into an unknown land, away from house and home, and all they have known, and all they have loved; and they are ready to say with the good old heathen emperor, when he lay a-dying- "Little soul of mine, wandering, kindly, Companion and guest of my body; Into what place art thou now departing, Shivering, naked, and pale?" And so they shrink from death. They must shrink from death, unless they will believe with their whole hearts the good news of Easter day. The more thoughtful and clever they are, the more they will shrink from death, and dread the thought of losing their bodies. They have always had bodies here on earth. They only know themselves as souls embodied, living in bodies; and they cannot think of themselves in the next world with any comfort, if they may not think of themselves as having bodies. And so, as Easter day has given us strength to live, let Easter day, too, give us strength to die. SERMON XI. EASTER DAY And what are those heavenly places? And what is our duty in them? Let St Paul himself answer. "If ye then be risen with Christ, seek those things which are above, where Christ sitteth at the right hand of God." SERMON XII. PRESENCE IN ABSENCE And if it be so with Christ, then it is so with those who are Christ's, with those whom we love. It is the Christ in them which we love; and that Christ in them is their hope of glory; and that glory is the glory of Christ. They are partakers of His death, therefore they are partakers of His resurrection. Let us believe that blessed news in all its fulness, and be at peace. A little while and we see them; and again a little while and we do not see them. But why? Because they are gone to the Father, to the source and fount of all life and power, all light and love, that they may gain life from His life, power from His power, light from His light, love from His love--and surely not for nought? Surely not for nought, my friends. For if they were like Christ on earth, and did not use their powers for themselves alone, if they are to be like Christ when they shall see Him as He is, then, more surely, will they not use their powers for themselves, but, as Christ uses His, for those they love. SERMON XIII. ASCENSION DAY Let us consider these words awhile. They are most fit for our thoughts on this glorious day, on which the Lord Jesus ascended to His Father, and to our Father, to His God, and to our God, that He might be glorified with the glory which He had with the Father before the making of the world. For it is clear that we shall better understand Ascension Day, just as we shall better understand Christmas or Eastertide, the better we understand Who it was who was born at Christmas, suffered and rose at Eastertide, and, as on this day, ascended into heaven. Who, then, was He whose ascent we celebrate? What was that glory which, as far as we can judge of divine things, He resumed as on this day? Let us think a few minutes, with all humility, not rashly intruding ourselves into the things we have not seen, or meddling with divine matters which are too hard for us, but taking our Lord's words simply as they stand, and where we do not understand them, believing them nevertheless. Now it is clear that the book of Exodus and our Lord's words speak of the same person. The Old Testament tells of a personage who appeared to Moses in the wilderness, and who called Himself "the Lord God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob." But this personage also calls Himself "I AM." "I AM THAT I AM:" "and He said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM hath sent me unto you." Let us think awhile over this wonder of all wonders. The more we think over it, we shall find it not only the wonder of all wonders, but the good news of all good news. The deepest and soundest philosophers will tell us that there must be an "I Am." That is, as they would say, a self-existent Being; neither made nor created, but who has made and created all things; who is without parts and passions, and is incomprehensible, that is cannot be comprehended, limited, made smaller or weaker, or acted on in any way by any of the things that He has made. So that this self-existing Being whom we call God, would be exactly what He is now, if the whole universe, sun, moon, and stars, were destroyed this moment; and would be exactly what He is now, if there had never been any universe at all, or any thing or being except His own perfect and self-existent Self. For He lives and moves and has His being in nothing. But all things live and move and have their being in Him. He was before all things, and by Him all things consist. And this is the Catholic Faith; and not only that, this is according to sound and right reason. But more: the soundest philosophers will tell you that God must be not merely a self-existent Being, but the "I Am:" that if God is a Spirit, and not merely a name for some powers and laws of brute nature and matter, He must be able to say to Himself, "I Am:" that He must know Himself, that He must be conscious of Himself, of who and what He is, as you and I are conscious of ourselves, and more or less of who and what we are. And this, also, I believe to be true, and rational, and necessary to the Catholic Faith. But they will tell you again--and this, too, is surely true--that I Am must be the very name of God, because God alone can say perfectly, "I Am," and no more. You and I dare not, if we think accurately, say of ourselves, "I am." We may say, I am this or that; I am a man; I am an Englishman; but we must not say, "I am;" that is, "I exist of myself." We must say--not I am; but I become, or have become; I was made; I was created; I am growing, changing; I depend for my very existence on God and God's will, and if He willed, I should be nothing and nowhere in a moment. God alone can say, I Am, and there is none beside Me, and never has, nor can be. I exist, absolutely, and simply; because I choose to exist, and get life from nothing; for I Am the Life, and give life to all things. But you may say, What is all this to us? It is very difficult to understand, and dreary, and even awful. Why should we care for it, even if it be true? Yes, my friends; philosophy may be true, and yet be dreary, and awful, and have no gospel and good news in it at all. I believe it never can have; that only in Revelation, and in the Revelation of our Lord Jesus Christ, can poor human beings find any gospel and good news at all. And sure I am, that that is an awful thought, a dreary thought, a crushing thought, which makes a man feel as small, and worthless, and helpless, and hopeless, as a grain of dust, or a mote in the sunbeam--that thought of God for ever contained in Himself, and saying for ever to Himself, "I Am, and there is none beside Me." SERMON XIV. THE COMFORTER the life-giving Spirit of whom it is written, Thou sendest forth Thy Spirit, and things live, and Thou renewest the face of the earth. Another mistake which really pious and good people commit, is, that they think the Holy Spirit of God to be merely, or little beside, certain pleasant frames, and feelings, and comfortable assurances, in their own minds. They do not know that these pleasant frames and feelings really depend principally on their own health: and, then, when they get out of health, or when their brain is overworked, and the pleasant feelings go, they are terrified and disheartened, and complain of spiritual dryness, and cry out that God's Spirit has deserted them, and are afraid that God is angry with them, or even that they have committed the unpardonable sin: not knowing that God is not a man that He should lie, nor a son of man that He should repent; that God is as near them in the darkness as in the light; that whatever their own health, or their own feelings may be, yet still in God they live, and move, and have their being; that to God's Spirit they owe all which raises them above the dumb animals; that nothing can separate them from the love of Him who promised that He would not leave us comfortless, but send to us His Holy Ghost to comfort us, and exalt us to the same place whither He has gone before. Now, why do I say all this? To take away comfort from you? To make you fear and dread the Spirit of God? God forbid! Who am I, to take away comfort from any human being! I say it to give yon true comfort, to make you trust and love the Holy Spirit utterly, to know Him--His strength and His wisdom as well as His tenderness and gentleness. You know that afflictions do come--terrible bereavements, sorrows sad and strange. My sermon does not make them come. There they are, God help us all, and too many of them, in this world. But from whom do they come? Who is Lord of life and death? Who is Lord of joy and sorrow? Is not that the question of all questions? And is not the answer the most essential of all answers? It is the Holy Spirit of God; the Spirit who proceedeth from the Father and the Son; the Spirit of the Father who so loved the world that He spared not His only begotten Son; the Spirit of the Son who so loved the world, that He stooped to die for it upon the Cross; the Spirit who is promised to lead you into all truth, that you may know God, and in the knowledge of Him find everlasting life; the Spirit who is the Comforter, and says, I have seen thy ways and will heal thee, I will lead thee also, and restore comforts to thee and to thy mourners. I speak peace to him that is near, and to him that is far off, saith the Lord; and I will heal him. Is it not the most blessed news, that He who takes away, is the very same as He who gives? That He who afflicts is the very same as He who comforts? That He of whom it is written that, "as a lion, so will He break all my bones; from day even to night wilt Thou make an end of me;" is the same as He of whom it is written, "He shall gather the lambs in His arms, and carry them, and shall gently lead those that are with young;" and, again, "as a beast goeth down into the valley, so the Spirit of the Lord caused him to rest?" That He of whom it is written, "Our God is a consuming fire," is the same as He who has said, "When thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned?" That He who brings us into "the valley of the shadow of death," is the same as He of whom it is said, "Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me?" Is not that blessed news? Is it not the news of the Gospel; and the only good news which people will really care for, when they are tormented, not with superstitious fears and doctrines of devils which man's diseased conscience has originated, but tormented with the real sorrows, the rational fears of this stormy human life. SERMON XV. THOU ART WORTHY I am going to speak to you on a deep matter, the deepest and most important of all matters, and yet I hope to speak simply. I shall say nothing which you cannot understand, if you will attend. I shall say nothing, indeed, which you could not find out for yourselves, if you will think, and use your own common sense. I wish to speak to you of Theology--of God Himself. For this Trinity Sunday of all the Sundays of the year, is set apart for thinking of God Himself--not merely of our own souls, though we must never forget them, nor of what God has done for our souls, though we must never forget that--but of what God is Himself, what He would be if we had no souls--if there were, and had been from the beginning, no human beings at all upon the earth. SERMON XVI. THE GLORY OF THE TRINITY Therefore, everything which you see, is, as it were, a thought of God's, an action of God's; a message to you from God. Therefore you can look at nothing in the earth without seeing God Himself at work thereon. As our Lord said, "My Father worketh hitherto, and I work." You can look neither at the sun in the sky, nor at the grass beneath your feet, without being brought face to face with God, the ever blessed Trinity. The tiniest gnat which dances in the sun, was conceived by God the Father, in whose eternal bosom are the ideas and patterns of all things, past, present, and to come; it was created by God the Son, by whom the Father made all things, and without whom nothing is made: and it is kept alive by God the Holy Spirit, the Lord and giver of life, of whom it is written, "Thou sendest forth thy Spirit, they are created; and thou renewest the face of the earth." Yes; awful as is the thought of God's perfection in the material world about us, more awful still is the thought of His perfection in the spiritual world. So awful, that we might well be overwhelmed with dread and horror at the sight of God's righteousness and our sinfulness; were it not for the gracious message of revelation that tells us, that God, the Father of heaven, is OUR Father likewise, who so loved us that He gave for us His only begotten, God the Son; that for His sake our sins might be freely forgiven us; that God the Son is our Atonement, our Redeemer, our King, our Intercessor, our Example, our Saviour in life and death; and God the Holy Ghost, our Comforter, our Guide, our Inspirer, who will give to our souls the eternal life which will never perish, even as He gives to our bodies the mortal life which must perish. On the mercy and the love of the ever blessed Trinity, shown forth in Christ upon His cross, we can cast ourselves with all our sins; we can cry to Him, and not in vain, for forgiveness and for sanctification; for a clean heart and a right spirit; and that we may become holy and humble men of heart. We can join our feeble praises to that hymn of praise which goes up for ever to God from suns and stars, clouds and showers, beasts and birds, and every living thing, giving Him thanks for ever for His great glory. O all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever. O ye holy and humble Men of heart, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever. SERMON XVII. LOVE OF GOD AND MAN SERMON XVIII. COURAGE Last Thursday was St Peter's Day. The congregation on that day was, as far as I could perceive, no larger than usual; and this is not a matter of surprise. Since we gave up at the Reformation the superstitious practice of praying to the saints, saints' days have sunk--and indeed sunk too much--into neglect. For most men's religion has a touch of self-interest in it; and therefore when people discovered that they could get nothing out of St Peter or St John by praying to them, they began to forget the very memory, many of them, of St Peter, St John, and other saints and apostles. They forget, too often, still, that though praying to any saint, or angel, or other created being, is contrary both to reason and to Scripture; yet it is according to reason and to Scripture to commemorate them. That is to remember them, to study their characters, and to thank God for them--both for the virtues which He bestowed on them, and the example which He has given us in them. "We will not fear," said the Psalmist, "though the earth be removed, and though the hills be carried into the midst of the sea." "The just man, who holds firm to his purpose," says a wise old heathen, "he will not be shaken from his solid mind by the rage of the mob bidding him do base things or the frowns of the tyrant who persecutes him. Though the world were to crumble to pieces round him, its ruins would strike him without making him tremble." "Whether it be right," said Peter and John to the great men and judges of the Jews, "to hearken to God more than to you, judge ye. We cannot but speak the things which we have seen and heard." We cannot but speak what we know to be true. So it has been in all ages, and so it will be for ever. Faith, the certainty that a man is right, will give him a courage which will enable him to resist, if need be, the rich ones, the strong ones, the learned ones of the earth. It has made poor unlearned men heroes and deliverers of their countrymen from slavery and ignorance. It has made weak women martyrs and saints. It has enabled men who made great discoveries to face unbelief, ridicule, neglect, poverty; knowing that their worth would be acknowledged at last, their names honoured at last as benefactors by the very men who laughed at them and reviled them. It has made men, shut up in prison for long weary years for doing what was right and saying what was true, endure manfully for the sake of some good cause, and say, "Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage. If I have freedom in my thought, And in my love am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty." But if you will do the thing you know to be right, and say the thing you know to be true, then what can harm you? Who will harm you, asks St Peter himself, "if you be followers of that which is good? For the eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, and His ears are open to their prayers. But if ye suffer for righteousness' sake, happy are ye; and be not afraid of those who try to terrify you, neither be troubled, but sanctify the Lord God in your hearts. Remember that He is just and holy, and a rewarder of all who diligently seek Him. Worship Him in your hearts, and all will be well. For says David again, "Lord, who shall dwell in Thy tabernacle, or who shall rest upon Thy holy hill? Even he that leadeth an uncorrupt life, and doeth the thing which is right, and speaketh the truth from his heart. Whoso doeth these things shall never fall." Pray for that spirit, I say; for we all need help. There are too many people in the world--too many, perhaps, among us here--who are not what they ought to be, and what they really wish to be, because they are weak. They see what is right, and admire it; but they have not courage or determination to do it. Most sad and pitiable it is to see how much weakness of heart there is in the world--how little true moral courage. I suppose that the reason is, that there is so little faith; that people do not believe heartily and deeply enough in the absolute necessity of doing right and being honest. They do not believe heartily and deeply enough in God to trust Him to defend and reward them, if they will but be true to Him, and to themselves. And therefore they have no moral courage. They are weak. They are kind, perhaps, and easy; easily led right; but, alas! just as easily led wrong. Their good resolutions are not carried out; their right doctrines not acted up to; and they live pitiful, confused, useless, inconsistent lives; talking about religion, and yet denying the power of religion in their daily lives; playing with holy and noble thoughts and feelings, without giving themselves up to them in earnest, to be led by the Spirit of God, to do all the good works which God has prepared for them to walk in. Pray all of you, then, for the spirit of faith, to believe really in God; and for the spirit of ghostly strength, to obey God honestly. No man ever asked earnestly for that spirit but what he gained it at last. And no man ever gained it but what he found the truth of St Peter's own words, "Who will harm you if ye be followers of that which is good?" SERMON XIX. GOOD DAYS My friends, my friends, as long as a man talks so, blaspheming God's world--which, when He made it, behold it was all very good--and laying the blame of their own ignorance and peevishness on God who made them, they must expect nothing but tribulation and sorrow. But the tribulation and the sorrow will be their own fault, and not God's. If religious professors will not take St. Peter's advice and the Psalmist's advice; if they will go on coveting and scheming about money, and how they may get money; if they will go on being neither pitiful, courteous, nor forgiving, and hating and maligning whether it be those who differ from them in doctrine, or those who they fancy have injured them, or those who merely are their rivals in the race of life; then they are but too likely to find this world a thorny place, because they themselves raise the thorns; and a disorderly place, because their own tempers and desires are disorderly; and a wilderness, because they themselves have run wild, barbarians at heart, however civilised in dress and outward manners. St. James tells them that of old. "From whence," he says, "come wars and quarrels among you? Come they not hence, even of the lusts which war in your members? You long, and have not. You fight and war, yet you have not, because you ask not. You ask, and have not. You pray for this and that, and God does not give it you. Because you ask amiss, selfishly to consume it on your lusts." And then you say, This world is an evil place, full of temptations. What says St. James to that? "Let no man say when he is tempted, I am tempted of God: for God cannot be tempted with evil, neither tempteth He any man. But every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed." He hath made you of a blessed race, created in His own likeness, to whom He hath put all things in subjection, making man a little lower than the angels, that He might crown him with glory and worship: a race so precious in God's eyes--we know not why--that when mankind had fallen, and seemed ready to perish from their own sin and ignorance, God spared not His only begotten Son, but freely gave Him for us, that the world by Him might be saved. And God hath put you in a blessed place, even His wondrous and fruitful world, which praises God day and night, fulfilling His word; for it continues this day as in the beginning, and He has given it a law which cannot be broken. He has made you citizens of a blessed kingdom, even the kingdom of heaven, into which you were baptised; and has given you the Holy Bible, that you might learn the laws of the kingdom, and live for ever, blessing and blest. And the Head of this blessed race, the Maker of this blessed world, the King of this blessed kingdom, is the most blessed of all beings, Jesus Christ, the only-begotten Son, both God and man. He has washed you freely from your sins in His own blood; He has poured out on you freely His renewing Spirit. And He asks you to enter into your inheritance; that you may love your life, and see good days, by living the blessed life, which is the life of self-sacrifice. But not such self-sacrifices as too many have fancied who did not believe that mankind was a blessed race, and this earth a blessed place. He does not ask you to give up wife, child, property, or any of the good things of this life. He only asks you to give up that selfishness which will prevent you enjoying wife, child, or property, or anything else in earth, or in heaven either. He asks you not to give up anything which is AROUND you, for that which cometh from without defileth not a man; but to give up something which is within you, for that which cometh from within, that defileth a man. Now, to know what grace means, we must know what St John and St Paul meant by it, and what the word meant in their time, and what the Ephesians, and Corinthians, and Romans, to whom they wrote, would have understood by this word grace. This was what the apostles taught the heathen, and their words were true. You may see them come true round you every day. For, my friends, just as far as people pray for Christ's grace, and give themselves up to be led by God's Spirit, they become full of grace themselves, courteous and civil, loving and amiable, true and honourable--a pleasure to themselves and to all round them. While, on the other hand; all rudeness, all illtemper, all selfishness, all greediness are just so many sins against the grace of Christ, which grieve the Spirit of God, at the same time that they grieve our neighbours for whom Christ died, and cut us off, as long as we give way to them, from the communion of saints. SERMON XXI. FATHER AND CHILD And yet he begins by thanking God for them, by speaking of them, and to them, in this cheerful and hopeful tone. I know many people do not think thus. They think of God as looking only at our faults; as extreme to mark what is done amiss; as never content with us; as always crying to men, Yes, you have done this and that well, and yet not quite well, for even in what you have done there are blots and mistakes; but this and that you have not done, and therefore you are still guilty, still under infinite displeasure. And they think that they exalt God's holiness by such thoughts, and magnify His hatred of sin thereby. And they invent arguments to prove themselves right, such as this: That because God is an infinite being, every sin committed against Him is infinite; and therefore deserves an infinite punishment; which is a juggle of words of which any educated man ought to be ashamed. "Can such a wretch as I Escape this dreadful end?" Believe this, then, you who wish to be Churchmen in spirit and in truth. Believe that St Paul's conduct is to you a type and pattern of what God does, and what you ought to do. That God's method of winning you to do right is to make you love Him and trust Him; and that your method of winning your children to do right is to make them love and trust you. Let us remember that if our children are not perfect, they at least inherited their imperfections from us; and if our Father in heaven, from whom we inherit no sin, but only good, have patience with us, shall we not have patience with our children, who owe to us their fallen nature? SERMON XXII. GOD IS OUR REFUGE This is a noble psalm, full of hope and comfort; and it will be more and more full of hope and comfort, the more faithfully we believe in the incarnation, the passion, the resurrection, and the ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ. For if we are to give credit to His express words, and to those of every book of the New Testament, and to the opinion of that Church into which we are baptised, then Jesus Christ is none other than the same Jehovah, Lord, and God who brought the Jews out of Egypt, who guided them and governed them through all their history--teaching, judging, rewarding, punishing them and all the nations of the earth. This psalm, therefore, is concerning our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom all power is given in heaven and earth, and who ascended up on high; that He might be as He had been from the beginning, King of kings and Lord of lords, the Master of this world and all the nations in it. This psalm, therefore, is a hymn concerning the kingdom of Christ and of God. It tells us something of the government which Christ has been exercising over the world ever since the beginning of it, and which He is exercising over this world now. It bids us be still, and know that He is God--that He will be exalted among the nations, and will be exalted in the earth, whether men like it or not; but that they ought to like it and rejoice in it, and find comfort in the thought that Christ Jesus is their refuge and their strength--a very present help in trouble--as the old Jew who wrote this psalm found comfort. I hope you do have that trust, for your own sakes, for the sake of your own happiness, your own sound peace of mind; for then, and then only, you can afford to be hopeful concerning yourselves, your families, your country, and the whole human race. It must be so. If you believe that He who hung upon the cross for all mankind is your refuge and strength, and the refuge and strength of all mankind, then, amid all the changes and chances of this mortal life, you can afford to be still calm in sudden calamity, patient in long afflictions; for you know that He is God, He is the Lord, He is the Redeemer, He is the King. He knows best. He must be right, whosoever else is wrong. Let Him do what seemeth Him good. Now I cannot but feel (what wiser and better men than I am feel more deeply), that this old-fashioned faith in the living Christ is dying out among us. That men do not believe as they used to do in the living Lord and in His government, in that perpetual divine providence which the Scriptures call "the kingdom of God." They have lost faith in Christ's immediate and personal government of the world and its nations; and, therefore, they are tempted more and more, either to try to misgovern the world themselves, or to fancy that Christ has entrusted His government, as to a substitute and vicar, to an aged priest at Rome. They have lost faith, likewise, in Christ's immediate government of themselves; their own fortunes, their own characters, and inmost souls; and, therefore, they are tempted either to follow no rule or guidance save their own instincts, passions, fancies; or else, in despair at their own inward anarchy, to commit the keeping of their souls to directors and confessors, instead of to Christ Himself, the Lord of the spirits of all flesh. Moreover, it is written, "Be still, and know that I am God." And if men will not be still, they will not know that He is God. And if they do not know that the gracious Christ is God, they will not be still; and therefore they will grow more and more restless, discontented, envious, violent, irreverent, full of passions which injure their own souls, and sap the very foundations of order and society and civilised life. And what can come out of all these selfish passions, when they are let loose, but that in which selfishness must always end, but that same mistrust and anarchy, ending in that same poverty and wretchedness, under which so many countries of the world now lie, as it were, weltering in the mire. Alas! say rather weltering in their own life-blood--and all because they have forgotten the living God? SERMON XXIII. PRIDE AND HUMILITY Let me, this evening, say a few words to you on theology, that is, on the being and character of God. You need not be afraid that I shall use long or difficult words. Sound theology is simple enough, and I hope that my words about it will be simple enough for the worst scholar here to understand. But that is not the God of the Bible, my friends, nor the God of Nature either, the God who made the world and man. For He is not a tyrant, but a Father. He wishes men not to be His slaves, but His children. And if He resists the proud, it is because children have no right to be proud. If He resists the proud, it is in fatherly love, because it is bad for them to be proud. Not because the proud are injuring God, but because they are injuring themselves, does God resist them, and bring them low, and show them what they are, and where they are, that they may repent, and be converted, and turned back into the right way. Remember always that God is your Father. This question, like all questions between God and man, is a question between a father and a child; and if you see it in any other light, and judge it by any other rule, you see it and judge it wrongly, and learn nothing about it, or worse than nothing. If God were really angry with, really hated, the proud man, or any other man, would He need only to resist him? would He have to wait till the next life to punish him? My dear friends, if God really hated you or me, do you not suppose that He would simply destroy us--get rid of us--abolish us and annihilate us off the face of the earth, just as we crush a gnat when it bites us? That God can do; and more--He does it now and then. He will endure with much long suffering vessels of wrath, fitted to destruction: but a moment sometimes comes when He will endure them no longer, and He destroys them with the destruction for which they have fitted themselves. In them is fulfilled the parable of the rich man, who said to himself, "Soul, thou hast much good laid up for many years; take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry. But God said unto him, Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee." Why is it so? Why has God so ordered the world and human nature, that pride punishes itself? Because, I presume, pride is begotten and born of a lie, and God hates a lie, because all lies lead to ruin, and this lie of pride above all. It is as it were the root lie of all lies. The very lie by which, as old tales tell, Satan fell from heaven, and when he tried to become a god in his own right, found himself, to his surprise and disappointment, only a devil. For pride and self-conceit contradict the original constitution of man and the universe, which is this--that of God are all things, and in God are all things, and for God are all things. Man depends on God. Self tells him that he depends on himself. Man has nothing but what he receives from God. Self tells him that what he has is his own, and that he has a right to do with it what he likes. Man knows nothing but what God teaches him. Self tells him that he has found out everything for himself, and can say what he thinks fit without fear of God or man. Therefore the proud, self-willed, self-conceited man must come to harm, like Malvolio in the famous play, merely because he is in the blackest night of ignorance. He has mistaken who he is, what he is, where he is. He is fancying himself, as many mad men do, the centre of the universe; while God is the centre of the universe. He is just as certain to come to harm as a man would be on board a ship, who should fancy that he himself, and not the ship, was keeping him afloat, and step overboard to walk upon the sea. We all know what would happen to that man. Let us thank God our Father that He not only knows what would happen to such men: but desires to save them from the consequences of their own folly, by letting them feel the consequences of their own folly. Oh my friends, let us search our hearts, and pray to our Father in Heaven to take out of them, by whatever painful means, the poisonous root of pride, self-conceit, self-will. So only shall we be truly strong--truly wise. So only shall we see what and where we are. "So runs my dream; but what am I? An infant crying in the night; An infant crying for the light; And with no language but a cry." SERMON XXIV. WORSHIP Now I am not going to scold--even to blame. To do so would be not only unjust, but ungrateful in me, to a congregation which is as attentive and as reverent as you are. Indeed, I am the only person to blame, for I ought to have spoken on the subject long ago. Now, it is always best to begin at the root of a matter. So to begin at the root of this. Why do we come to church at all? Others will answer--very many, indeed, will answer--we come to church because--because, we hardly know why, but because we ought to come to church. I know what seeming exceptions there are to this rule, especially in these days. But I say that they are only seeming exceptions. I never knew yet (and I have known many of them) a virtuous and high-minded unbeliever: but what there was in him the instinct of worshipping--the longing to worship--he knew not what, the spirit of reverence, which confesses its own ignorance and weakness, and is ready to set up, like the Athenians of old, an altar--in the heart at least--to the unknown God. "I heard a great voice of much people in heaven, singing Alleluia; salvation, and glory, and honour, and power, unto the Lord our God; for true and righteous are His judgments." What the special judgment was, for which these blessed souls worshipped God, I shall not argue here. It is enough for us that they worshipped God, as we should worship Him, because His judgments were righteous and true, were like Himself, proved Him to be what He was, worthy in Himself, because He is righteous and true. And consider then, again--the text. Before Him, the righteous and true Being who has created all things for His pleasure, and therefore has made them wisely and well; before Him who reigns, and will reign till He has put all His enemies under His foot; before Him, I say, bow down yourselves, and find true nobleness in confessing your own paltriness, true strength in confessing your own weakness, true wisdom in confessing your own ignorance, true holiness in confessing your own sins. SERMON XXV. THE PEACE OF GOD The peace of God. That is what the priest will invoke for you all, when you leave this abbey. Do you know what it is? Whether you do or not, let me tell you in a few words, what I seem to myself to have learned concerning that peace. What it is? how we can obtain it? and why so many do not obtain it, and are, therefore, not at peace? "Is not as idle ore, But heated hot with burning fears, And bathed in baths of hissing tears, And batter'd, with the shocks of doom, To shape and use." Therefore he is at peace, for he is, as it were, intrenched in an impregnable fortress, against all men and all evil influences. And that castle is his own soul. And the keeper of that castle is none other than Almighty God, Jesus Christ our Lord, to whose keeping he has committed his soul, as unto a faithful and merciful Saviour, able to keep to the uttermost that which is committed to Him in faith and holiness. But, more, that man is at peace with God. He is at peace with God the Father; for he is behaving as the Father wishes His children to behave. He is at peace with God the Son; for he is trying to do that which God the Son did when He came not to do His own will, but His Father's; not to grasp at anything for himself, but simply to sacrifice himself for duty, for the good of man. And he is at peace with God the Holy Spirit; for he is obeying the gracious inspirations of that Spirit, and growing a better man day by day. And so the peace of God keeps that man's heart free from vain desires and angry passions, and his mind from those false and foolish judgments which make the world think things important which are quite unimportant; and, again, fancy things unimportant which are more important to them than the riches of the whole world. My dear friends, take my words home with you, and if you wish for the only true and sound peace, which is the peace of God, do your duty. Try to be as good as you can, each in his station in life. So help you God. SERMON XXVI. SINS OF PARENTS VISITED This is a precious chapter, and a comfortable chapter likewise, for it helps us to clear up a puzzle which has tormented the minds of men in all ages whenever they have thought of God, and of whether God meant them well, or meant them ill. For what happens, by God's eternal and unchangeable laws of retribution, to a whole nation, or a whole family, may happen to you--to each individual man. They fall by sin; they rise again by repentance and amendment. They may rise punished by their sins, and punished for a long time, heavily weighted by the consequences of their own folly, and heavily weighted for a long time. But they rise--they enter into their new life weak and wounded, from their own fault. But they enter in. And from that day things begin to mend--the weather begins to clear, the soil begins to yield again--punishment gradually ceases when it has done its work, the weight lightens, the wounds heal, the weakness strengthens, and by God's grace within them, and by God's providence outside them, they are made men of again, and saved. So you will surely find it in the experience of life. No doubt in general, in most cases, The child is father of the man for good and evil. A pious and virtuous youth helps, by sure laws of God, towards a pious and virtuous old age. And on the other hand, an ungodly and profligate youth leads, by the same laws, toward an ungodly and profligate old age. That is the law. But there is another law which may stop that law--just as the stone falls to the ground by the natural law of weight, and yet you may stop that law by using the law of bodily strength, and holding it up in your hand. And what is the gracious law which will save you from the terrible law which will make you go on from worse to worse? SERMON XXVII. AGREE WITH THINE ADVERSARY Our Lord there is speaking of the sins of the whole Jewish nation. Here He is speaking rather of each man's private sins. But He applies the same parable to both. He gives the same warning to both. Not to go too far on the wrong road, lest they come to a point where they cannot turn back, but must go on to just punishment, if not to utter destruction. Do you not understand me? Then I will give you an example. Suppose the case of a man hurting his health by self-indulgence of any kind. Then his adversaries are the laws of health. Let him agree with them quickly, while he has the power of conquering his bad habits, by recovering his health, lest the time come when his own sins deliver him up to God his judge; and God to His terrible officers of punishment, the laws of Disease; and they cast him into a prison of shame and misery from which there is no escape--shame and misery, most common perhaps among the lower classes: but not altogether confined to them--the weakened body, the bleared eye, the stupified brain, the premature death, the children unhealthy from their parents' sins, despising their parents, and perhaps copying their vices at the same time. Many a man have I seen in that prison, fast bound with misery though not with iron, and how he was to pay his debt and escape out of it I know not, though I hope that God does know. Are any of you, again, in the habit of cheating your neighbours, or dealing unfairly by them? Your adversary is the everlasting law of justice, which says, Do as you would be done by, for with what measure you mete to others, it shall be measured to you again. SERMON XXVIII. ST JOHN THE BAPTIST Our blessed Lord said, "Among them that are born of women there hath not risen a greater than John the Baptist, notwithstanding, he that is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he." These are serious words; for which of us dare to say that we are greater than John the Baptist? But let us at least think a while what John the Baptist was like. So we shall gain at least the sight of an ideal man. It is not the highest ideal. Our Lord tells us that plainly; and we, as Christians, should know that it is not. The ideal man is our Lord Christ Himself, and none other. Still, he that has not mounted the lower step of the heavenly stair, has certainly not mounted the higher; and therefore, if we have not attained to the likeness of John the Baptist, still more, we have not attained to the likeness of Christ. What, then, was John the Baptist like? What picture of him and his character can we form to ourselves in our own imaginations? for that is all we have to picture him by--helped-always remember that--by the Holy Spirit of God, who helps the imagination, the poetic and dramatic faculty of men; just as much as He helps the logical and argumentative faculty to see things and men as they really are, by the spirit of love, which also is the spirit of true understanding. And now let us bless God's holy name for all His servants departed in His faith and fear, and especially for His servant St John the Baptist, beseeching Him to give us grace, so to follow his doctrine and holy life, that we may truly repent after his preaching and after his example. May the Lord forgive our exceeding cowardice, and help us constantly to speak the truth, boldly rebuke vice, and patiently suffer for the truth's sake; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. SERMON XXIX. THE PRESENT RECOMPENSE This is the key-note of the Book of Proverbs--that men are punished or rewarded according to their deeds in this life; nay, it is the key-note of the whole Old Testament. "The eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, and His ears are open unto their prayers; the countenance of the Lord is against them that do evil, to root out the remembrance of them from the earth." Now is not the answer to the puzzle this: That God is impartial; that He is no respecter of persons, but causing His sun to shine on the evil and on the good, and His rain to fall on the just and on the unjust; and so rewarding every man according to his work, paying him for all work done, of whatever kind it may be? Some work for this world, which we do see, and God gives them what they earn in this life; some work for the world above, which we cannot see, and God gives them what they earn in this life, for ever and ever likewise. If a man wishes for treasure on earth, he can have it if he will, and enjoy it as long as it lasts. If a man wishes for treasure in heaven, he can have it if he will, and enjoy it as long as it lasts. God deals fairly with both, and pays both what they have earned. Some set their hearts on this world; some want money, some want power, some want fame and admiration from their fellow-men, some want merely to amuse themselves. Then they will have what they want if they will take the right way to get it. If a man wishes to make a large fortune, and die rich, he will very probably succeed, if he will only follow diligently the laws and rules by which God has appointed that money should be made. If a man longs for power and glory, and must needs be admired and obeyed by his fellow-men, he can have his wish, if he will go the right way to get what he longs for; especially in a free country like this, he will get most probably just as much of them as he deserves--that is, as much as he has talent and knowledge enough to earn. So did the Pharisees in our Lord's time. They wanted power, fame, and money as religious leaders, and they knew how to get them as well as any men who ever lived; and they got them. Our Lord did not deny that. They had their reward, He said. They succeeded--those old Pharisees--in being looked up to as the masters of the Jewish mob, and in crucifying our Lord Himself. They had their reward; and so may you and I. If we want any earthly thing, and have knowledge of the way to get it, and have ability and perseverance enough, then we shall very probably get it, and much good it will do us when we have got it after all. We shall have had our treasure upon earth and our hearts likewise; and when we come to die we shall leave both our treasure and our hearts behind us, and the Lord have mercy on our souls. SERMON XXX. THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN This parable, if we understand it aright, will help to teach us theology-that is, the knowledge of God, and of the character of God. For it is a parable concerning the kingdom of heaven, and the laws and customs of the kingdom of heaven--that is, the spiritual and eternal laws by which God governs men. An awful thought and yet a blessed thought. Think of it, my friends-think of it day and night. Under God's anger, or under God's love, we must be, whether we will or not. We cannot flee from His presence. We cannot go from His spirit. If we are loving, and so rise up to heaven, God is there--in love. If we are cruel, and wrathful, and so go down to hell, God is there also--in wrath: with the clean He will be clean, with the froward man He will be froward. In God we live and move, and have our being. On us, and on us alone, it depends, what sort of a life we shall live, and whether our being shall be happy or miserable. On us, and on us alone, it depends, whether we shall live under God's anger, or live under God's love. On us, and on us alone, it depends whether the eternal and unchangeable God shall be to us a consuming fire, or light, and life, and bliss for evermore. Let us lay this to heart, and say, there can be no doubt--I at least have none--that there is growing up among us a serious divorce between faith and practice; a serious disbelief that the kingdom of heaven is about us, and that Christ is ruling us, as He told us plainly enough in His parables, by the laws of the kingdom of heaven; and that He does, and will punish and reward each man according to those laws, and according to nothing else. "And what will ye do in the end thereof?" asks Jeremiah. What indeed! What the Jews did in the end thereof you may read in the book of the prophet Jeremiah. They did nothing, and could do nothing--with their morality their manhood was gone. Sin had borne its certain fruit of anarchy and decrepitude. The wrath of God revealed itself as usual, by no miracle, but through inscrutable social laws. They had to submit, cowardly and broken-hearted, to an invasion, a siege, and an utter ruin. I do not say, God forbid, that we shall ever sink so low, and have to endure so terrible a chastisement: but this I say, that the only way in which any nation of which I ever read in history, can escape, sooner or later, from such a fate, is to remember every day, and all day long, that the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ill-doing of men, who hold the truth in unrighteousness, knowing what is true and what is right, yet telling lies, and doing wrong. Let us lay this to heart, with seriousness and godly fear. For so we shall look up with reverence, and yet with hope, to Christ the ascended king, to whom all power is given in heaven and earth; for ever asking Him for His Holy Spirit, to put into our minds good desires, and to enable us to bring these desires to good effect. And so we shall live for ever under our great taskmaster's eye, and find out that that eye is not merely the eye of a just judge, not merely the eye of a bountiful king, but more the eye of a loving and merciful Saviour, in whose presence is life even here on earth; and at whose right hand, even in this sinful world, are pleasures for evermore. SERMON XXXI. THE UNCHANGEABLE CHRIST Others, again, have withdrawn themselves in disgust, not indeed from their God and Saviour, but from their fellow-men, and buried themselves in deserts, hoping thereby to escape what they despaired of conquering, the chances and changes of this mortal life. Thus they, alas, threw away the gold of human affections among the dross of this world's comfort and honour. Wiser they were, indeed, than those last mentioned; but yet shew I you a more excellent way. It is strange, and mournful, too, that this complaint, of unsatisfied hopes and longings should still be often heard from Christian lips! Strange, indeed, when the object and founder of our religion, the king and head of all our race, the God whom we are bound to worship, the eldest brother whom we are bound to love, the Saviour who died upon the cross for us, is "the same yesterday, and to-day, and for ever!" Strange, indeed, when we remember that God was manifest in the flesh, that He might save humanity and its hopes from perpetual change and final destruction, and satisfy all those cravings after an immutable object of man's loyalty and man's love. Christ our Lord and Saviour is a witness to us of the enduring, the everlasting nature of all that human life contains of beauty and holiness, and real value. He is a witness to us that Wisdom is eternal; that that all-embracing sight, that all-guiding counsel, which the Lord "possessed in the beginning of His way, before His works of old," He who "was set up from everlasting," who was with Him when He made the world, still exists, and ever shall exist, unchanged. The word of the Lord standeth sure! That Word which was "in the beginning," and "was with God," and "was God!" Glorious truth! that, amid all the inventions which man has sought out, while every new philosopher has been starting some new method of happiness, some new theory of human life and its destinies, God has still been working onward, unchecked, unaltered, "the same yesterday, and to-day, and for ever." O, sons of men! perplexed by all the apparent contradictions and cross purposes and opposing powers and principles of this strange, dark, noisy time, remember to your comfort that your King, a man like you, yet very God, now sits above, seeing through all which you cannot see through; unravelling surely all this tangled web of time, while under His guiding eye all things are moving silently onward, like the stars in their courses above you, toward their appointed end, "when He shall have put down all rule and all authority, and power, for He must reign, till He hath put all enemies under His feet." And then, at last, this cloudy sky shall be all clear and bright, for He, the Lamb, shall be the light thereof. "Choose well, your choice is Brief but yet endless; From Heaven, eyes behold you In eternity's stillness. There all is fullness, Ye brave to reward you; Work and despair not." SERMON XXXII. REFORMATION LESSONS And now, my dear friends, what has this to do with us? If this chapter was a lesson to our forefathers, how is it to be a lesson to us likewise? I have always told you (as those who have really understood their Bibles in all ages have told men) that the Bible sets forth the eternal laws of God's kingdom--the laws by which God, that is, our Lord Jesus Christ, governs nations and kingdoms--and not only nations and kingdoms, but you and me, and every individual Christian man; "all these things," says St Paul, are "written for our admonition." The history of the Jews is, or may be, your history or mine, for good or for evil; as God dealt with them, so is He dealing with you and me. By their experience we must learn. By their chastisements we must be warned. So says St Paul. So have all preachers said who have understood St Paul--and so say I to you. And the lesson that we may learn from this chapter is, that we may repent and yet be punished. "What?" some will say, "is it not expressly written in Scripture that 'when the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive?' and 'all his transgressions that he hath committed they shall not be mentioned unto him,' but that 'in his righteousness which he hath done he shall live?'" No. After the forgiveness of sin must come the cure of sin. And that cure, like most cures, is a long and a painful process. The sin may have been some animal sin, like drunkenness; and we all know how difficult it is to cure that. Or it may have been a spiritual sin--pride, vanity, covetousness. Can any man put off these bad habits in a moment, as he puts off his coat? Those who so fancy, can know very little of human nature, and have observed their own hearts and their fellow creatures very carelessly. If you will look at facts, what you will find is this:-that all sins and bad habits fill the soul with evil humours, just as a fever or any other severe disease fills the body; and that, as in the case of a fever, those evil humours remain after the acute disease is past, and are but too apt to break out again, to cause relapses, to torment the poor patient, perhaps to leave his character crippled and disfigured all his life--certainly to require long and often severe treatment by the heavenly physician, Christ, the purifier as well as the redeemer of our sin-sick souls. Heavy, therefore, and bitter and shameful is the burden which many a man has to bear after he has turned from self to God, from sin to holiness. He is haunted, as it were, by the ghosts of his old follies. He finds out the bitter truth of St Paul's words, that there is another law in his body warring against the law of his mind, of his conscience, and his reason; so that when he would do good, evil is present with him. The good that he would do he does not do; and the evil that he would not do he does. Till he cries with St Paul, "O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?" and feels that none can deliver him, save Jesus Christ our Lord. That is what we need to be--just, merciful, pure, faithful, loyal, useful, honourable with true honour, in the sight of God and man. That is what we need to be. That is what we shall be at last, if we put ourselves into Christ's hand, and ask Him for the clean heart and the right spirit, which is His own spirit, the spirit of all goodness. And provided we attain, at last, to that--provided we attain, at last, to the truly heroic and divine life, which is the life of virtue, it will matter little to us by what wild and weary ways, or through what painful and humiliating processes, we have arrived thither. If God has loved us, if God will receive us, then let us submit loyally and humbly to His law. "Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom He receiveth." SERMON XXXIII. HUMAN SOOT And this leads me to ask you plainly--what do you consider to be your duty toward those children; what is your duty toward those dangerous and degraded classes, from which too many of them spring? You all know the parable of the Good Samaritan. You all know how he found the poor wounded Jew by the wayside; and for the mere sake of their common humanity, simply because he was a man, though he would have scornfully disclaimed the name of brother, bound up his wounds, set him on his own beast, led him to an inn, and took care of him. But, as in the case of the manufactures, the Nemesis comes, swift and sure. As the foul vapours of the mine and the manufactory destroy vegetation and injure health, so does the Nemesis fall on the world of man; so does that human soot, these human poison gases, infect the whole society which has allowed them to fester under its feet. As surely as I believe that there is a God, so surely do I believe that commerce is the ordinance of God; that the great army of producers and distributors is God's army. But for that very reason I must believe that the production of human refuse, the waste of human character, is not part of God's plan; not according to His ideal of what our social state should be; and therefore what our social state can be. For God asks no impossibilities of any human being. "Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home." Truly, and too truly, alas! he goes on to say- "Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy." Will you let the shades of that prison-house of mortality be peopled with little save obscene phantoms? Truly, and too truly, he goes on- "The youth, who daily further from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid, Is on his way attended." Will you leave the youth to know nature only in the sense in which an ape or a swine knows it; and to conceive of no more splendid vision than that which he may behold at a penny theatre? Truly again, and too truly, he goes on- "At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day." Yes, to weak, mortal man the prosaic age of manhood must needs come, for good as well as for evil. But will you let that age be--to any of your fellow citizens--not even an age of rational prose, but an age of brutal recklessness; while the light of common day, for him, has sunk into the darkness of a common sewer? SERMON XXXIV. NATIONAL SORROWS AND NATIONAL LESSONS On the illness or the Prince of Wales. If those men who have been so heartily loyal of late--respectable, business-like, manful persons, of a race in nowise given to sentimental excitement--had been asked the cause of the intense feeling which they have shown during the last few days, they would probably, most of them, find some difficulty in giving it. Many would talk frankly of their dread lest business should be interfered with; and no shame to them, if they live by business. Others would speak of possible political complications; and certainly no blame to them for dreading such. But they would most of them speak, as frankly, of a deeper and less selfish emotion. They would speak, not eloquently it may be, but earnestly, of sympathy with a mother and a wife; of sympathy with youth and health fighting untimely with disease and death--they would plead their common humanity, and not be ashamed to have yielded to that touch of nature, which makes the whole world kin. And that would be altogether to their honour. Honourably and gracefully has that sympathy showed itself in these realms of late. It has proved that in spite of all our covetousness, all our luxury, all our frivolity, we are not cynics yet, nor likely, thanks be to Almighty God, to become cynics; that however encrusted and cankered with the cares and riches of this world, and bringing, alas, very little fruit to perfection, the old British oak is sound at the root--still human, still humane. This was the instinct of the old Teutonic races. They were often unfaithful to it--as all men are to their higher instincts; and fulfilled it very imperfectly--as all men fulfil their duties. But it was there-in their heart of hearts. It helped to make them; and, therefore, it helped to make us. It ennobled them; it called out in them the sense of unity, order, discipline, and a lofty and unselfish affection. And I thank God, as an Englishman, for any event, however exquisitely painful, which may call out those true graces in us, their descendants. And, therefore, my good friends, if any cynic shall sneer, as he may, after the present danger is past, at this sudden outburst of loyalty, and speak of it as unreasoning and childish, answer not him. "Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you." But answer yourselves, and answer too your children, when they ask you what has moved you thus--answer, I say, not childishly, but childlike: "We have gone back, for a moment at least, to England's childhood--to the mood of England when she was still young. And we are showing thereby that we are not yet decayed into old age. That if we be men, and not still children, yet the child is father to the man; and the child's heart still beats underneath all the sins and all the cares and all the greeds of our manhood." Therefore, my friends, be not ashamed to have felt acutely. Be not ashamed to feel acutely still, till all danger is past, or even long after all danger is past; when you look back on what might have been, and what it might have brought, ay, must have brought, if not to you, still to your children after you. For so you will show yourselves worthy descendants of your forefathers: so you will show yourselves worthy citizens of this British empire. So you will show yourselves, as I believe, worthy Christian men and women. For Christ, the King of kings and subjects, sends all sorrow, to make us feel acutely. We do not, the great majority of us, feel enough. Our hearts are dull and hard and light, God forgive us; and we forget continually what an earnest, awful world we live in--a whole eternity waiting for us to be born, and a whole eternity waiting to see what we shall do now we are born. Yes; our hearts are dull and hard and light; and, therefore, Christ sends suffering on us to teach us what we always gladly forget in comfort and prosperity--what an awful capacity of suffering we have; and more, what an awful capacity of suffering our fellow-creatures have likewise. We sit at ease too often in a fool's paradise, till God awakens us and tortures us into pity for the torture of others. And so, if we will not acknowledge our brotherhood by any other teaching, He knits us together by the brotherhood of common suffering. For him himself I have no fear. We have committed him to God. It may be that he has committed himself to God. It may be that he has already learned lessons which God alone can teach. It may be that those lessons will bring forth hereafter royal fruit right worthy of a royal root. At least we can trust him in God's hands, and believe that if this great woe was meant to ennoble us it was meant to ennoble him; that if it was meant to educate us it was meant to educate him; that God is teaching him; and that in God's school-house he is safe. For think, my friends, if we, who know him partly, love him much; then God, who knows him wholly, loves him more. And so God be with him, and with you, and with your prayers for him. Amen. SERMON XXXV. GRACE AND GLORY The Greek's meaning of glory is equally notorious. He called it wisdom. We call it craft--the glory of the sophist, who could prove or disprove anything for gain or display; the glory of the successful adventurer, whose shrewdness made its market out of the stupidity and vice of the barbarian. But this is not the glory of Christ, for St. John saw that it was full of truth. That St. John would have assented to these bold and honest words, that such is St. John's conception of human and divine morality, the story in the text shows, to my mind, especially. It is, so to speak, a crucial experiment, by which the truth of the Scripture theory is verified. The difficulty in all ages about a standard of morality has been--How can we fix it? Even if we agree that man's goodness ought to be the counterpart of God's goodness, we know that in practice it is not, as mankind has differed in all ages and countries about what is right and wrong. The Hindoo thinks it right to burn widows, wrong to eat animal food; and between such extremes there are numberless minor differences. Hardly any act is conceivable which has not been thought by some man, somewhere, somehow, morally right or morally wrong. If all that we can do is, to choose out those instances of morality which seem to us most right, and impute them to God, shall we not have an ever-shifting, probably a merely conventional standard of right and wrong? And worse--shall we not be always in danger of deifying our own superstitions--perhaps our own vices: of making a God in our own image, because we cannot know that God in whose image we are made? Most true, unless "we believe rightly the incarnation of our Lord Jesus Christ," "perfect God and perfect man." In Him, says the Bible, the perfect human morality is manifested, and shown by His life and conduct to be identical with the divine. He bids us be perfect even as our Father in heaven is perfect; and He only has a right-in the sense of a sound and fair reason--for so doing; because He can say, and has said, "He that hath seen me hath seen the Father." Life is made up of little things, say the practically wise, and they say true, for our Lord says so likewise. "He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much." If you look on morality, virtue, goodness, holiness, sanctification--call it what you will--as merely the obligation of an EXTERNAL law, you will be tempted to say, "Let me be faithful to it in its greater and more important cases, and that is enough. The pettier ones must take care of themselves, I have not time enough to attend to them, and God will not, it may be, require them of me." But if the morality, goodness, holiness be in you what it was in Christ, without measure--a SPIRIT, even the spirit of God--a spirit within you, possessing you, and working on you, and in you--then that which seems most petty and unimportant will often be most important, the test of the soundness of your heart, of the reality of your feelings. I might say much more on the point; how He showed these by His truth; how He proved that He, and therefore His Father and your Father, was not that Deus quidam deceptor, whom some suppose Him, mocking the intellect of His creatures by the FACTS of nature which He has created, tempting the souls of His creatures by the very faculties and desires which He Himself has given them. Thus, if you will receive it; if you will believe a truth which is too often hidden from the wise and prudent, and yet revealed unto babes; which will never be understood by the proud Pharisee, the sour fanatic, the ascetic who dreads and distrusts his Father in heaven; but which is clear and simple enough to many a clear and simple heart, honest and single-eyed, sunny itself, and bringing sunshine wherever it comes, because it is inspired by the gracious spirit of God, and delights to show kindness for kindness' sake, and to make happy for happiness' sake, taking no merit to itself for doing that, which is as instinctive as its very breath. This is the character of God, unless Scripture be a dream of man's imagination. Thus far you may know God; thus far you may see God as He is; and know and see that He is just with the justice of a man, only more just; merciful with the mercy of a man, only more merciful; truthful with the truthfulness of a man, only more truthful; gracious with the graciousness of a man, only more gracious; and loving? That we dare not say: for if we say so much, the Scripture commands us to say more. The Scripture tells us that the whole absolute morality of God is summed up-as our own human morality ought to be--in His Love. That love is the fulfilment of the Moral Law in Him as in us; that it is the root and cause and spirit of His justice, mercy, truth, and graciousness; that it belongs not to His attributes, as they may be said to be, but to His essence and His spirit; that we must not, if we be careful of our words, say, God is loving, because we are bidden to say, "God is Love." Thus, the commands, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God--and thy neighbour as thyself, are shown to be not arbitrary and impossible demands, miscalled moral obligations, while they are merely legal and external ones; but true moral obligations, in the moral sense, to which heart and spirit can answer, "I rejoice to do thy will, O God; Thy law is within my heart." You ought to love God, because He is supremely loveable and worthy of your love. You can love God, because you can appreciate and know God; for you are His child, made in His moral likeness, and capable of seeing Him as He is morally, and of seeing in Him the full perfection of all that attracts your moral sense, when it is manifested in any human being. And you can love your neighbour as yourselves, because, and in as far as you have in you the Spirit of God, the spirit of universal love, which proceedeth out for ever both from the Father and the Son to all beings and things which They have made. SERMON XXXVI. USELESS SACRIFICE I have been asked to plead to-day for the mission of the Good Shepherd in Portsea. You ask, with astonishment and disgust, how comes that there? and are told, to your fresh astonishment and disgust, that that is only where the servants sweep the litter. But crouching behind the litter, in the darkest corner, something moves. You go up to it, in spite of the entreaties of your guide, and find an aged idiot gibbering in her rags. And yet such, literally such and no better, is the refinement of modern England; such, and no better, is the civilization of our great towns. Such I fear from what I am told, is the civilization of Southsea, beside the barbarism to be found in Portsea close at hand. Dirt and squalor, brutality and ignorance close beside such luxury as the world has not seen, it may be, since the bad days of Heathen Rome. But more, if you turned away, you would say to yourselves, if you were thoughtful persons--not only what barbarism, but what folly. The owner and his household are in daily danger. The idiot in discontent, or even in mere folly, may seize a lighted candle, burn petroleum, as she did in Paris of late, and set the whole palace on fire. And more, the very dirt is in itself inflammable, and capable, as it festers, of spontaneous combustion. How many a stately house has been burnt down ere now, simply by the heating of greasy rags, thrust away in some neglected closet. Let the owner of the house beware. He is living, voluntarily, over a volcano of his own making. Ladies, to you I appeal, not merely as women, but as Ladies, if (as I am assured by those who know you), ladies you are, in the grand old meaning of that grand old word. If so--you know then, what it is to be a lady and what not. You know that it is not to go, like the daughters of Zion in Isaiah's time, with mincing gait, and borrowed head-gear, and tasteless finery, the head well-nigh empty, the heart full of little save vanity and vexation of spirit, busy all the week over cheap novels and expensive dresses, and on Sunday over a little dilettante devotion. You know, I take for granted, that whatever the world may think or say, that to be that, is not to be a lady. To you I appeal; to as many in this church as are ladies, not in name only, but in spirit and in truth. Say to your fathers, husbands, brothers, sons, and say too, and that boldly, to the tradesmen with whom you deal--Do you hear this? Do you hear that there are savages and heathens, generations of them, within a rifle-shot of the house? And you cannot exterminate them; cannot drive them out, much less kill them. You must convert them, improve them, make them civilized and Christian, if not for their own sakes, at least for our sakes, and for our children. And if they should answer: My dears, it is too true. But we did not make them or put them there, and they are not in our parish. They are no concern of ours, and besides they will not hurt us. And say to them, if you be prudent and thrifty housewives, Do not tell us that their condition costs you nothing. Even in pocket you are suffering now--as all England is suffering--from the existence of heathens and savages, reckless, profligate, pauperized. For if you pay no poor-rates for their support, the shop-keepers with whom you deal pay poor-rates; and must and do repay themselves, out of your pockets, in the form of increased prices for their goods. Not almsgiving. I had almost said, anything but that; making bad worse, the improvident more improvident, the liar more ready to lie, the idler more ready to idle. But the Charity which is Humanity, which is the spirit of pure pity, the Spirit of Christ and of God. If the refined and pure-minded lady does not pity such beings as that, I know not of what her refinement is made. If the religious lady will not bestir herself, and make sacrifices to teach such people that that is not what God meant them to be--to stir up in them a noble self-discontent, a noble self-abhorrence, which may be the beginning of repentance and amendment of life--I know not of what her religion is made. SERMON XXXVII. THE SURPRISE OF THE RIGHTEOUS "Let us pity the poor white man; He has no mother to make his bed, No wife to grind his corn." Perhaps it is such as those, who have succoured human beings they knew not why, simply from a divine instinct, from the voice of Christ within their hearts, which they felt they must obey, though they knew not whose voice it was. Perhaps, I say, it is such as those, that Christ will astonish at the last day by the words, "Come ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world." SERMON XXXVIII. THE LORD'S PRAYER Let us think for a while on these great words. Let us remember that some day or other they will certainly be fulfilled. Let us remember that Christ would not have bidden us use them, unless He intended that they should be fulfilled. And let us remember, likewise, that we must help to fulfil them. We need to be reminded of this from time to time, for we are all inclined to forget it. We are inclined to forget that mankind has a Father in heaven, who is ruling, and guiding, and educating us, His human children, to We are apt to fancy that the world will always go on very much as it goes on now; that it will be guided, not by the will of God, but by the will of man; by man's craft; by man's ambition; by man's self-interest; by man's cravings after the luxuries, and even after the mere necessities of this life. In a word, we are apt to fancy that man, not God, is the master of this earth on which we live, and that men have no king over them in heaven. He bids us pray for that because it will bring blessings. Blessings to every soul of man who desires to be good and true. Because it will satisfy every aspiration which has ever risen up from the heart of man after what is noble, what is generous, what is just, what is useful, what is pure. Surely it is so. Consider but these short words of my text, and think what the world would be like if they were fulfilled; what the next world will actually be like when they are fulfilled. To such we may answer, hallow your Father's name, and be of good cheer. YOUR FATHER has given you your work. Because He is a Father, He is surely educating you for your work. Because He is a Father, He will surely set you no task which you are unable to fulfil. Because He is a Father, He will help you to fulfil your task. Your station and calling is His will; and because it is a Father's will it is a good will. And the Judge of your work--He is no stern taskmaster, no unfeeling tyrant, but Jesus Christ, your Lord, who died for you on the Cross. He knows what is in man. He remembereth that we are but dust. Else the spirit would fail before Him and the souls which He has made. He can be touched with the feeling of our infirmities, seeing that He was tempted in all things like as we are, yet without sin. He can sympathise utterly; He can make all just allowances; He will judge not by outward results, but by the inward will and desire. He will judge not by the hearing of the ear, nor the seeing of the eye, as the shallow cruel world judges, but He will judge righteous judgment. Trust your cause to Him, and trust yourself to Him. Believe that if He can sympathise, He can also help; for from Him, as well as from His Father, proceeds the Holy Spirit, the Lord and giver of life, the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of power and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord, and He will inspire you to see your duty, and do your duty, and rejoice in your duty, in spite of weariness and failure, and all the burdens of the flesh and of the spirit. "Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven." If that were done, it would abolish all the vice of the world, and therefore the misery which springs from vice. Ah, that God's will were but done on earth as it is in the material heaven overhead, in perfect order and obedience, as the stars roll in their courses, without rest, yet without haste; as all created things, even the most awful, fire and hail, snow and vapour, wind and storm, fulfil God's word, who hath made them sure for ever and ever, and given them a law which shall not be broken. But above them; above the divine and wonderful order of the material universe, and the winds which are God's angels, and the flames of fire which are His messengers; above all, the prophets and apostles have caught sight of another divine and wonderful order of RATIONAL beings, of races, loftier and purer than man--angels and archangels, thrones and dominions, principalities and powers, fulfilling God's will in heaven as it is not alas! fulfilled on earth. SERMON XXXIX. THE DISTRACTED MIND For so only will he come to the day's end in that wholesome and manful temper, contented if not cheerful, satisfied with the work he has had to do, if not satisfied with the way in which he has done it, which will leave his mind free to remember all his comforts, all his blessings, even to those commonest of all blessings, which we are all too apt to forget, just because they are as necessary as the air we breathe; which will show him how much light there is, even on the darkest day. He has not got this or that fine thing, it may be, for which he longed: but he has at least his life, at least his reason, at least his conscience, at least his God. Are not they enough to possess? Are not they enough wherewith to lie down at night in peace, and rise to-morrow to take what comes to-morrow, even as he took what came to-day? And will he not be most fit to take what comes to-morrow like a Christian man, whether it be good or evil, with his spirit braced and yet chastened, by honest and patient labour, instead of being weakened and irritated by idling over to-day, while he dreamed and fretted about to-morrow? Yes, my dear friends, this is the true philosophy, the philosophy which Christ preaches to us all--to old and young, rich and poor, ploughman and scholar, maid, wife, and widow, all alike. Fret not. Plot not. Look not too far ahead. Fret not--lest you lose temper, and be moved to do evil. Plot not--lest you lose faith in God, and be moved to be dishonest. Look not too far ahead--So far only, as to keep yourselves out of open and certain danger-lest you see what is coming before you are ready for the sight. If we foresaw the troubles which may be coming, perhaps it would break our hearts; and if we foresaw the happiness which is coming, perhaps it would turn our heads. Let us not meddle with the future, and matters which are too high for us, but refrain our souls, and keep them low, like little children, content with the day's food, and the day's schooling, and the day's play-hours, sure that the Divine Master knows that all is right, and how to train us, and whither to lead us, though we know not, and need not know, save this--that the path by which He is leading each of us--if we will but obey and follow, step by step--leads up to Everlasting Life. SERMON XL. THE LESSON OF LIFE This is the lesson of life. This is God's way of educating us, of making us men and women worthy of the name of men and women, worthy of the name of children of God. As Christ learnt, so must we. If it was necessary for Him who know no sin, how much more for us who have sins enough and to spare. Though He was the eternal Son of God, yet He learnt obedience by the things which He suffered. Though we are God's adopted children, we must learn obedience by what we suffer. He had to offer up prayer with strong crying. So shall we have to do again and again before we die. He was heard in that He feared God, and said, "Father not my will, but Thine be done." And so shall we. He was perfected by sufferings. God grant that we may be so likewise. He had to do like us. God grant that we may do like Him. "Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who never in the midnight hours Sat weeping on his lonely bed, He knows you not, you Heavenly Powers." In any case, if it is so, it is better to remember that it is so. And Lent, and Passion Week, and Good Friday are meant to put us in mind of it year by year, because we are all of us only too ready to forget it, and shut our eyes to it. Lent and Passion Week, I say, are meant to put us in mind. And the preacher is bound to put you in mind of it now and then. He is bound, not too often perhaps, lest he should discourage young hearts, but now and then, to put you in mind of the old Greek proverb, the very words of which St. Paul uses in the text, that ta pa??æata æa??æata--sorrows are lessons; and that the most truly pitiable people often are those who have no sorrows, and ask for no man's pity. No, my dear young friends, this is good for a man. It is necessary for a man, if he is to be a man and a child of God, and not a mere animal, to have to work hard whether he likes or not. It is good for a man to bear the yoke in his youth, as Jeremiah told the Jews, when, because they would not bear God's light yoke in their youth, but ran riot into luxury and wantonness, and superstition and idolatry which come thereof, they had to bear the heavy yoke of the Babylonish captivity in their old age. It is good for a man to be checked, crossed, disappointed, made to feel his own ignorance, weakness, folly; made to feel his need of God; to feel that, in spite of all his cunning and self-confidence, he is no better off in this world than a lost child in a dark forest, unless he has a Father in Heaven, who loves him with an eternal love, and a Holy Spirit in Heaven, who will give him a right judgment in all things; who will put into his mind good desires, and enable him to bring those desires to good effect; and a Saviour in Heaven who can be touched with the feeling of his infirmities, because He too was made perfect by sufferings; He too was tempted in all points like as we are, yet without sin. So truly our way to eternal joy is to labour and to suffer here with Christ. It is true, and you will find it true, when years hence you look back, as I trust you all will, calmly and intelligently, on the events of your own lives--you will find, I say, that the very events in your lives which seemed at the time most trying, most vexing, most disastrous, have been those which wore most necessary for you, to call out what was good in you, and to purge out what was bad; that by those very troubles your Lord, who knows the value of suffering, because He has suffered Himself, was making true men, true women of you; hardening your heads, while He softened your hearts; teaching you to obey Him, while He taught you not to obey your own fancies and your own passions; refining and tempering your characters in the furnace of trial, as the smith refines soft iron into trusty steel; teaching you, as the great poet says- "That life is not as idle ore, But heated hot with burning fears, And bathed in baths of hissing tears, And battered with the strokes of doom, To shape and use." SERMON XLI. SACRIFICE TO CAESAR OR TO GOD Even if, which God forbid, the connection between Church and State were dissolved; even if, which God forbid, the Church of England were destroyed for a while--if all Churches were destroyed--yea, if not a place of worship were left for a while in this or any other land; yet even then, I say, we could still render to God the things which are God's, and offer to Him spiritual sacrifices, more pleasing to Him than the most gorgeous ceremonies which the devotion, and art, and wealth of man ever devised--sacrifices, by virtue of which the Church would arise out of her ruins, like the Jewish Church after the captivity, more pure, more glorious, and more triumphant than ever. Now what are these spiritual sacrifices? Yes--every time we perform an act of kindness to any human being, aye, even to a dumb animal; every time we conquer our own worldliness, love of pleasure, ease, praise, ambition, money, for the sake of doing what our conscience tells us to be our duty, we are indeed worshipping God the Father in spirit and in truth, and offering him a sacrifice which He will surely accept, for the sake of His beloved Son, by whose spirit all good deeds and thoughts are inspired. Think of these things, my friends, always, but, above all, think of them as often as you come--as would to God all would come--to the altar of the Lord, and the Holy Communion of His body and blood. For there, indeed, you render to God that which is God's--namely, yourselves; there you offer to God the true sacrifice, which is the sacrifice of yourselves-the sacrifice of repentance, the sacrifice of thanksgiving, the sacrifice of righteousness, or at least of hunger and thirst after righteousness; and there you receive in return your share of God's sacrifice, the sacrifice which you did not make for Him, but which He made for you, when He spared not His only-begotten Son but freely gave Him for us. SERMON XLII. THE UNJUST STEWARD SERMON XLIII. THE RICH AND THE POOR I do not say that such words are wise. I believe them to be foolish-suicidal. I believe that it is those who patiently wait on the Lord, and not the discontented who fret themselves till they do evil, who will inherit the land, and be refreshed in peace. I believe that all those who take the sword will perish by the sword; that those who appeal to brute force will always find it--just because it is brute force--always strongest on the side of the rich, who can hire it for evil, as for good. So long as the great mass of the poor of any city know nothing of the great mass of the rich of that city, save as folk who roll past them in their carriages, seemingly easy while they are struggling, seemingly happy while they are wretched, so long will the rich of that city be supposed, however falsely, to be what the French workmen used to call mangeurs d'hommes--exploiteurs d'hommes--to get their wealth by means of the poverty, their comfort by means of the misery of their fellow-men; and so long will they be exposed to that mere envy and hatred which pursues always the more prosperous, till, in some national crisis, when the rich and poor meet together, both parties will be but too apt to behave, through mutual fear and hate, as if not God, but the devil, was the maker of them all. The children of this world are--in their generation--wiser than the children of light. But how long their generation will last, depends mainly (we are told) on how far they make themselves friends out of the mammon of unrighteousness. Bring yourselves then boldly into contact with these classes, and especially into contact with the women--with the wives and mothers. For it is through the women, through them mainly, if not altogether, that civilization and religion can be introduced among any degraded class. It was so in the Middle Age. The legends which tell us how woman was then the civilizer, the softener, the purifier, the perpetual witness to fierce and coarse men, that there were nobler aims in life than pleasure, and power, and the gratification of revenge; that not self-assertion, but self-sacrifice was the Divine ideal, toward which all must aspire. These old legends are immortal; for they speak of facts and laws which will endure as long as there are women upon earth. Through the woman, the civilizer and the Christianizer must reach the man. Through the wife, he must reach the husband. Through the mother, he must reach the children. I say he must. It is easy to complain that the clergy in every age and country have tried to obtain influence over women. They have been forced to do so, because otherwise they could obtain no influence at all. And if a priesthood should arise hereafter, whose calling was to teach not religion but irreligion, not the good news that there is a good God, and that we can know Him; but the bad news that there is no God, or, if there is, we cannot know Him; then would that priesthood find it necessary to appeal like all other priesthoods, to the women, and to teach them how to teach their children. And how can you best do that? Not by giving her shillings, not by preaching at her, not by scolding her: but by behaving to her as what she is--a woman and a sister--and cheering her heavy heart by simple human kindliness. What she wants amid all her poverty and toil, her child-bearing and child-rearing, what she wants, I say, to keep her brave and strong, is to know by actual sight and speech that she is still not an outcast; not alone; that she is still a member of the human family, that her fellow-woman has not forgotten her; and that, therefore, it may be, He that was born of woman has not forgotten her either. That she has, after all, a God in heaven, who can be touched with the feeling of her infirmities, and can help her and those she loves, to struggle through all their temptations, seeing that He too was tempted in all things like them, yet without sin. It is only personal intercourse with them--only the meeting of the rich and poor together, in the belief that God is the maker of them all, that will do that. But it will do it. Only personal intercourse will reconcile these people to their condition, in as far as they OUGHT to be reconciled to it. But personal intercourse will reconcile them to it, as far as it ought, but no further. And I think that the system of personal intercourse attempted by this Society is, on the whole, the best yet devised. It is imperfect, as all attempts to make that straight which is crooked, and to number that which is wanting--to patch, in a word, a radically vicious system of society,-must be imperfect; but it is the best plan which I have yet seen. I find no fault with other plans, God forbid! Wisdom is justified of all her children; and the amount of evil is so great, and (as I believe, so dangerous), that I must bid God-speed to any persons who will do anything, always saving and excepting indiscriminate almsgiving. But it seems to me that the soothing and civilizing, and in due time Christianising, effect of personal intercourse cannot begin better than through a woman, herself of the working class, who has struggled as these poor souls have struggled, and conquered, more or less, where they are failing. That through her they should be brought in contact with women of the more comfortable and cultivated class, who are their immediate employers, if not their immediate neighbours; and through them, again, brought in contact with women of that class, of whom I shall only say, that if they were not meant for some such noble work as this--and not for mere pleasure and mere display, then for what purpose, in heaven or earth, were they made? and why has Providence taken the trouble (as it were) to elaborate, by long ages of civilization, that most exquisite of all products of nature and of art--A Lady? God grant that we, who have just seen the most cunningly organized and daintily bedizened specimen of a world, which ever flaunted on the earth since men began to build their towers of Babel, collapse and crumble at a single blow, may take God's hint, that the fashion of this world passeth away. Let the idle, the frivolous, the sensual, and those who, like Figaro's Marquis, have earned all earthly happiness by only taking the trouble to be born--let them look back on this last awful Christmas-tide, and hear, speaking in fact unmistakeable, the voice of the Lord. Think ye that they whose blood Pilate mingled with their sacrifices were sinners above all the Galilaeans, because they suffered such things? I tell you, "Nay: but except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish." Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all. As those who neglect their fellow-creatures will discover, by the most patent undeniable proofs, in that last great day, when the rich and poor shall meet together, and then, at least, discover that the Lord is the maker of them all.	redpajama-book	30,049
Produced by David Starner, Tam and PG Distributed Proofreaders THE FOLK-LORE OF PLANTS Apart from botanical science, there is perhaps no subject of inquiry connected with plants of wider interest than that suggested by the study of folk-lore. This field of research has been largely worked of late years, and has obtained considerable popularity in this country, and on the Continent. T.F. THISELTON-DYER. II. PRIMITIVE AND SAVAGE NOTIONS RESPECTING PLANTS IV. LIGHTNING PLANTS V. PLANTS IN WITCHCRAFT VI. PLANTS IN DEMONOLOGY VII. PLANTS IN FAIRY-LORE X. PLANTS AND THE WEATHER XII. PLANTS AND THEIR CEREMONIAL USE XVI. DOCTRINE OF SIGNATURES XVII. PLANTS AND THE CALENDAR XVIII. CHILDREN'S RHYMES AND GAMES XX. PLANT SUPERSTITIONS XXI. PLANTS IN FOLK-MEDICINE XXII. PLANTS AND THEIR LEGENDARY HISTORY XXIII. MYSTIC PLANTS "Loud through the air resounds the woodman's stroke, When, lo! a voice breaks from the groaning oak, 'Spare, spare my life! a trembling virgin spare! Oh, listen to the Hamadryad's prayer! No longer let that fearful axe resound; Preserve the tree to which my life is bound. See, from the bark my blood in torrents flows; I faint, I sink, I perish from your blows.'" Aubrey, referring to this old superstition, says: It is to this notion that Shakespeare alludes in "Hamlet," where Laertes wishes that violets may spring from the grave of Ophelia (v. I): "Lay her in the earth, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring." "E tumulo fortunataque favilla, Nascentur violae;" And an idea, too, which Tennyson seems to have borrowed: "And from his ashes may be made, The violet of his native land." In connection with the myths of plant life may be noticed that curious species of exotic plants, commonly known as "sensitive plants," and which have generally attracted considerable interest from their irritability when touched. Shelley has immortalised this curious freak of plant life in his charming poem, wherein he relates how, "The sensitive plant was the earliest, Up-gathered into the bosom of rest; A sweet child weary of its delight, The feeblest and yet the favourite, Cradled within the embrace of night." PRIMITIVE AND SAVAGE NOTIONS RESPECTING PLANTS "Spirit they owned not, Sense they had not, Blood nor vigour, Nor colour fair. Spirit gave Odhinn, Thought gave Hoenir, Blood gave Lodr And colour fair." "Jove's own tree, High as his topmost boughs to heaven ascend, So low his roots to hell's dominions tend." Mr. Fergusson in his elaborate researches has traced many indications of tree-adoration in Germany, noticing their continuance in the Christian period, as proved by Grimm, whose opinion is that, "the festal universal religion of the people had its abode in woods," while the Christmas tree of present German celebration in all families is "almost undoubtedly a remnant of the tree-worship of their ancestors." "Rejoice not, oaks; Rejoice not, green oaks. Not to you go the maidens; Not to you do they bring pies, Cakes, omelettes. So, so, Semik and Troitsa [Trinity]! Rejoice, birch trees, rejoice, green ones! To you go the maidens! To you they bring pies, Cakes, omelettes." "Health to thee, good apple tree, Well to bear pocket fulls, hat fulls, Peck fulls, bushel bag fulls." "Wassail the trees, that they may bear You many a plum and many a pear; For more or less fruit they will bring, As you do them wassailing." Survivals of this kind show how tenaciously old superstitious rites struggle for existence even when they have ceased to be recognised as worthy of belief. "Rowan-ash, and red thread, Keep the devils from their speed." In the same way the mothers in Esthonia put some red thread in their babies' cradles as a preservative against danger, and in China something red is tied round children's wrists as a safeguard against evil spirits. By the aid of comparative folk-lore it is interesting, as in this case, to trace the same notion in different countries, although it is by no means possible to account for such undesigned resemblance. The common ash (_Fraxinus excelsior_), too, is a lightning plant, and, according to an old couplet: "Avoid an ash, It counts the flash." PLANTS IN WITCHCRAFT. "Amid this dread exuberance of woe Ran naked spirits winged with horrid fear, Nor hope had they of crevice where to hide, Or heliotrope to charm them out of view." "Yes, I have brought to help our vows, Horned poppy, cypress boughs, The fig tree wild that grows on tombs, And juice that from the larch tree comes." "I last night lay all alone On the ground, to hear the mandrake groan; And plucked him up, though he grew full low, And, as I had done, the cock did crow." "Rowan-tree and red thread, Put the witches to their speed." "The spells were vain, the hag returned To the queen in sorrowful mood, Crying that witches have no power, Where there is row'n-tree wood." Hence persons carry an ashen twig in their pocket, and according to a Yorkshire proverb: "If your whipsticks made of row'n, You may ride your nag through any town;" "Had it not been For your quicken tree goad, And your yew tree pin, You and your cattle Had all been drawn in." PLANTS IN DEMONOLOGY. Closely allied with this part of our subject are those plants connected with serpents, here forming a very numerous class. Indeed, it was only natural that our ancestors, from their dread of the serpent on account of its poisonous sting, as well as from their antipathy to it as the symbol of evil, should ascertain those plants which seemed either attractive, or antagonistic, to this much-dreaded reptile. Accordingly certain plants, from being supposed to be distasteful to serpents, were much used as amulets to drive them away. Foremost among these may be mentioned the ash, to escape contact with which a serpent, it has been said, would even creep into the fire, in allusion to which Cowley thus writes: Gerarde notices this curious belief, and tells us that, "the leaves of this tree are so great virtue against serpents that they dare not so much as touch the morning and evening shadows of the tree, but shun them afar off." "Beyond the farthest tents rich fires they build, That healthy medicinal odours yield, There foreign galbanum dissolving fries, And crackling flames from humble wallwort rise. There tamarisk, which no green leaf adorns, And there the spicy Syrian costos burns; There centaury supplies the wholesome flame, That from Therssalian Chiron takes its name; The gummy larch tree, and the thapsos there, Woundwort and maidenweed perfume the air, There the long branches of the long-lived hart With southernwood their odours strong impart, The monsters of the land, the serpents fell, Fly far away and shun the hostile smell." PLANTS IN FAIRY-LORE. Sometimes their mantles are made of the gossamer, the cobwebs which may be seen in large quantities on the furze bushes; and so of King Oberon we are told: "A rich mantle did he wear, Made of tinsel gossamer, Bestarred over with a few Diamond drops of morning dew." "By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms." "And nightly, meadow-fairies, look, you sing, Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring; The expressure that it bears, green let it be, More fertile-fresh than all the field to see." "In their courses make that round, In meadows and in marshes found, Of them so called the fayrie ground, Of which they have the keeping." It is generally agreed that fairies were extremely fond of dancing around oaks, and thus in addressing the monarch of the forest a poet has exclaimed: "The fairies, from their nightly haunt, In copse or dell, or round the trunk revered Of Herne's moon-silvered oak, shall chase away Each fog, each blight, and dedicate to peace Thy classic shade." In Sweden the miliary fever is said by the peasantry to be caused by the elf-mote or meeting with elves, as a remedy for which the lichen aphosus or lichen caninus is sought. The toadstools often found near these so-called fairy-rings were also thought to be their workmanship, and in some localities are styled pixy-stools, and in the North of Wales "fairy-tables," while the "cheeses," or fruit of the mallow, are known in the North of England as "fairy-cheeses." Browne, in his "Britannia's Pastorals," makes the table on which they feast consist of: "For a year and a day I promise to stay." Soon she was an inhabitant of fairyland, and was lost to mortal gaze until she had fulfilled her stipulated engagement. Another tribe of water-fairies are the nixes, who frequently assume the appearance of beautiful maidens. On fine sunny days they sit on the banks of rivers or lakes, or on the branches of trees, combing and arranging their golden locks: "Know you the Nixes, gay and fair? Their eyes are black, and green their hair, They lurk in sedgy shores." Then there are the wood and forest folk of Germany, spirits inhabiting the forests, who stood in friendly relation to man, but are now so disgusted with the faithless world, that they have retired from it. Hence their precept- "Peel no tree, Relate no dream, _Pipe_ no bread, _or_ Bake no cumin in bread, So will God help thee in thy need." "They've baken for me cumin bread, That on this house brings great distress." Plants have always been largely used for testing the fidelity of lovers, and at the present day are still extensively employed for this purpose by the rustic maiden. As in the case of medical charms, more virtue would often seem to reside in the mystic formula uttered while the flower is being secretly gathered, than in any particular quality of the flower itself. Then, again, flowers, from their connection with certain festivals, have been consulted in love matters, and elsewhere we have alluded to the knowledge they have long been supposed to give in dreams, after the performance of certain incantations. "Pippin, pippin, paradise, Tell me where my true love lies, East, west, north, and south, Pilling Brig, or Cocker Mouth." There are numerous charms connected with the ash-leaf, and among those employed in the North of England we may quote the following: Even ash, even ash, I pluck thee, This night my true love for to see, Neither in his rick nor in his rear, But in the clothes he does every day wear." And there is the well-known saying current throughout the country: "In the golden weather the maize was husked, and the maidens Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover, But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-field: Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover." "La blanche et simple Paquerette, Que ton coeur consult surtout, Dit, Ton amant, tendre fillette, T'aime, un peu, beaucoup, point du tout." Perhaps Brown alludes to the same species of divination when he writes of: "The gentle daisy with her silver crown, Worn in the breast of many a shepherd lass." In England the marigold, which is carefully excluded from the flowers with which German maidens tell their fortunes as unfavourable to love, is often used for divination, and in Germany the star-flower and dandelion. "Or trying simple charms and spells, Which rural superstition tells, They pull the little blossom threads From out the knotweed's button heads, And put the husk, with many a smile, In their white bosom for a while; The garden scene in "Faust" is a well-known illustration of the employment of the centaury or bluebottle for testing the faith of lovers, for Margaret selects it as the floral indication whence she may learn the truth respecting Faust: "And that scarlet poppies around like a bower, The maiden found her mystic flower. 'Now, gentle flower, I pray thee tell If my love loves, and loves me well; So may the fall of the morning dew Keep the sun from fading thy tender blue; Now I remember the leaves for my lot- He loves me not--he loves me--he loves me not- He loves me! Yes, the last leaf--yes! I'll pluck thee not for that last sweet guess; He loves me!' 'Yes,' a dear voice sighed; And her lover stands by Margaret's side." On the other hand, it was customary in the North of England to rub a young woman with pease-straw should her lover prove unfaithful: "If you meet a bonnie lassie, Gie her a kiss and let her gae; If you meet a dirty hussey, Fie, gae rub her o'er wi' strae!" From an old Spanish proverb it would seem that the rosemary has long been considered as in some way connected with love: "Who passeth by the rosemarie And careth not to take a spraye, For woman's love no care has he, Nor shall he though he live for aye." Of flowers and plants employed as love-charms on certain festivals may be noticed the bay, rosebud, and the hempseed on St. Valentine's Day, nuts on St. Mark's Eve, and the St. John's wort on Midsummer Eve. "The moss-rose that, at fall of dew, Ere eve its duskier curtain drew, Was freshly gathered from its stem, She values as the ruby gem; And, guarded from the piercing air, With all an anxious lover's care, She bids it, for her shepherd's sake, Awake the New Year's frolic wake: When faded in its altered hue, She reads--the rustic is untrue! But if its leaves the crimson paint, Her sick'ning hopes no longer faint; The rose upon her bosom worn, She meets him at the peep of morn." On the Continent the rose is still thought to possess mystic virtues in love matters, as in Thuringia, where girls foretell their future by means of rose-leaves. "Wee Jenny to her granny says, 'Will ye gae wi' me, granny? I'll eat the apple at the glass I gat frae uncle Johnny.' She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, In wrath she was sae vap'rin, She notic't na an aizle brunt Her braw new worset apron Out thro' that night. 'Ye little skelpie limmer's face! I daur you try sic sportin' As seek the foul thief ony place, For him to spae your fortune; Nae doubt but ye may get a sight! Great cause ye hae to fear it, For mony a ane has gotten a fright, And lived and died deleeret On sic a night.'" Hallowe'en also is still a favourite anniversary for all kinds of nut-charms, and St. Thomas was long invoked when the prophetic onion named after him was placed under the pillow. Rosemary and thyme were used on St. Agnes' Eve with this formula: "St. Agnes, that's to lovers kind, Come, ease the troubles of my mind." "'Twas the maiden's matchless beauty That drew my heart a-nigh; Not the fern-root potion, But the glance of her blue eye." "Full in the midst a spreading elm displayed His aged arms, and cast a mighty shade; Each trembling leaf with some light visions teems, And leaves impregnated with airy dreams." At the present day, the yarrow or milfoil is used by love-sick maidens, who are directed to pluck the mystic plant from a young man's grave, repeating meanwhile this formula: Of the many plants which have been considered of good omen when seen in dreams, may be mentioned the palm-tree, olive, jasmine, lily, laurel, thistle, thorn, wormwood, currant, pear, &c.; whereas the greatest luck attaches to the rose. On the other hand, equally numerous are the plants which denote misfortune. Among these may be included the plum, cherry, withered roses, walnut, hemp, cypress, dandelion, &c. Beans are still said to produce bad dreams and to portend evil; and according to a Leicestershire saying, "If you wish for awful dreams or desire to go crazy, sleep in a bean-field all night." Some plants are said to foretell long life, such as the oak, apricot, apple, box, grape, and fig; and sickness is supposed to be presaged by such plants as the elder, onion, acorn, and plum. Some plants are said to denote riches, such as the oak, marigold, pear and nut tree, while the gathering of nuts is said to presage the discovery of unexpected wealth. Again, to dream of fruit or flowers out of season is a bad omen, a notion, indeed, with which we find various proverbs current throughout the country. Thus, the Northamptonshire peasant considers the blooming of the apple-tree after the fruit is ripe as a certain omen of death--a belief embodied in the following proverb: "A bloom upon the apple-tree when the apples are ripe, Is a sure termination to somebody's life." "To dream of eating onions means Much strife in thy domestic scenes, Secrets found out or else betrayed, And many falsehoods made and said." According to old dream-books, the dreaming of yew indicates the death of an aged person, who will leave considerable wealth behind him; while the violet is said to devote advancement in life. Similarly, too, the vine foretells prosperity, "for which," says a dream interpreter, "we have the example of Astyages, king of the Medes, who dreamed that his daughter brought forth a vine, which was a prognostic of the grandeur, riches, and felicity of the great Cyrus, who was born of her after this dream." Plucking ears of corn signifies the existence of secret enemies, and Mr. Folkard quotes an old authority which tells us that the juniper is potent in dreams. Thus, "it is unlucky to dream of the tree itself, especially if the person be sick; but to dream of gathering the berries, if it be in winter, denotes prosperity. To dream of the actual berries signifies that the dreamer will shortly arrive at great honours and become an important person. To the married it foretells the birth of a male child." Again, eating almonds signifies a journey, its success or otherwise being denoted by their tasting sweet or the contrary. Dreaming of grass is an auspicious omen, provided it be green and fresh; but if it be withered and decayed, it is a sign of the approach of misfortune and sickness, followed perhaps by death. Woe betide, too, the person who dreams that he is cutting grass. Christmas, New Year's Day, Midsummer, and All Hallowe'en. This said, hasten to sleep, and in the soft slumbers of night's repose, the very man whom you shall marry shall appear before you." Lastly, certain plants have been largely used by gipsies and fortune-tellers for invoking dreams, and in many a country village these are plucked and given to the anxious inquirer with various formulas. PLANTS AND THE WEATHER. Many of the old gardening books give the same advice, although by some it has been severely ridiculed. On this assumption may be explained the idea that the, "moon's wane makes things on earth to wane; when it is new or full it is everywhere the proper season for new crops to be sown." In the Hervey Islands cocoa-nuts are generally planted in the full of the moon, the size of the latter being regarded as symbolical of the ultimate fulness of the fruit. In the same way the weather of certain seasons of the year is supposed to influence the vegetable world, and in Rutlandshire we are told that "a green Christmas brings a heavy harvest;" but a full moon about Christmas Day is unlucky, hence the adage: "Light Christmas, light wheatsheaf, Dark Christmas, heavy wheatsheaf." Or, in other words, "you must plant your trees in the fall of the leaf." And again, "Apples, pears, hawthorn-quick, oak; set them at All-hallow-tide and command them to prosper; set them at Candlemas and entreat them to grow." The meaning being that an abundance of rowans--the fruit of the mountain-ash--denote a deficient harvest. Again, many of our peasantry have long been accustomed to arrange their farming pursuits from the indications given them by sundry trees and plants. Thus it is said- "When the sloe tree is as white as a sheet, Sow your barley whether it be dry or wet." According to an old proverb, "You must look for grass on the top of the oak tree," the meaning being, says Ray, that "the grass seldom springs well before the oak begins to put forth." Formerly certain agricultural operations were regulated by the seasons, and an old rule tells the farmer- "Upon St. David's Day, put oats and barley in the clay." But "Midsummer rain spoils hay and grain," whereas it is commonly said that, "A leafy May, and a warm June, Bring on the harvest very soon." A further admonition advises the farmer to "Sow wheat in dirt, and rye in dust;" "He that goes barefoot must not plant thorns," "An apple, an egg, and a nut, You may eat after a slut." The coolness of the cucumber has long ago become proverbial for a person of a cold collected nature, "As cool as a cucumber," and the man who not only makes unreasonable requests, but equally expects them to be gratified, is said to "ask an elm-tree for pears." Then, again, foolish persons who have no power of observation, are likened to "a blind goose that knows not a fox from a fern bush." A popular phrase speaks of "An owl in an ivy-bush," which perhaps was originally meant to denote the union of wisdom with conviviality, equivalent to "Be merry and wise." Formerly an ivy-bush was a common tavern sign, and gave rise to the familiar proverb, "Good wine needs no bush," this plant having been selected probably from having been sacred to Bacchus. The meaning being that the ash when green burns well, but when dry or withered just the reverse. In allusion, it has been suggested, to the fact that the ash is a capital tree for draining the soil in its vicinity. In connection with hops, the proverb runs that "hops make or break;" and no hop-grower, writes, In Devonshire it may be noted that this plant is used to denote anything of value; and it is related of a farmer near Exeter who, when praising a certain farm, remarked, "'Tis a very pretty little place; he'd let so dear as saffron." Which, as Mr. Hazlitt remarks, "although not originally proverbial, or in its nature, or even in the poet's intention so, has acquired that character by long custom." Is generally said of a man who is accredited with large means, and another adage tells us that, "The higher the plum-tree, the riper the plum." To lurk amidst the labours of her loom, And crown her kerchiefs clean with micklc rare perfume." Of fruit proverbs we are told that, "If you would enjoy the fruit, pluck not the flower." This list of plant proverbs might easily be extended, but the illustrations quoted in the preceding pages are a fair sample of this portion of our subject. Whereas many are based on truth, others are more or less meaningless. At any rate, they still thrive to a large extent among our rural community, by whom they are regarded as so many household sayings. PLANTS AND THEIR CEREMONIAL USE. In the earliest period of primitive society flowers seem to have been largely used for ceremonial purposes. Tracing their history downwards up to the present day, we find how extensively, throughout the world, they have entered into sacred and other rites. This is not surprising when we remember how universal have been the love and admiration for these choice and lovely productions of nature's handiwork. From being used as offerings in the old heathen worship they acquired an additional veneration, and became associated with customs which had important significance. Hence the great quantity of flowers required, for ceremonial purposes of various kinds, no doubt promoted and encouraged a taste for horticulture even among uncultured tribes. Thus the Mexicans had their famous floating gardens, and in the numerous records handed down of social life, as it existed in different countries, there is no lack of references to the habits and peculiarities of the vegetable world. Again, from all parts of the world, the histories of bygone centuries have contributed their accounts of the rich assortment of flowers in demand for the worship of the gods, which are valuable as indicating how elaborate and extensive was the knowledge of plants in primitive periods, and how magnificent must have been the display of these beautiful and brilliant offerings. Amongst some tribes, too, so sacred were the flowers used in religious rites held, that it was forbidden so much as to smell them, much less to handle them, except by those whose privileged duty it was to arrange them for the altar. Coming down to the historic days of Greece and Rome, we have abundant details of the skill and care that were displayed in procuring for religious purposes the finest and choicest varieties of flowers; abundant allusions to which are found in the old classic writings. "Love-sick swains Compose rush-rings and myrtle-berry chains, And stuck with glorious kingcups, and their bonnets Adorn'd with laurell slips, chaunt their love sonnets." It was also customary to plant a rose-bush at the head of the grave of a deceased lover, should either of them die before the wedding. Sprigs of bay were also introduced into the bridal wreath, besides ears of corn, emblematical of the plenty which might always crown the bridal couple. Nowadays the bridal wreath is almost entirely composed of orange-blossom, on a background of maiden-hair fern, with a sprig of stephanotis interspersed here and there. Much uncertainty exists as to why this plant was selected, the popular reason being that it was adopted as an emblem of fruitfulness. According to a correspondent of _Notes and Queries_, the practice may be traced to the Saracens, by whom the orange-blossom was regarded as a symbol of a prosperous marriage--a circumstance which is partly to be accounted for by the fact that in the East the orange-tree bears ripe fruit and blossom at the same time. And Electra is represented as complaining that the tomb of her father, Agamemnon, had not been duly adorned with myrtle- "With no libations, nor with myrtle boughs, Were my dear father's manes gratified." And among the Chinese, roses, the anemone, and a species of lycoris are planted over graves. The Malays use a kind of basil, and in Tripoli tombs are adorned with such sweet and fragrant flowers as the orange, jessamine, myrtle, and rose. In Mexico the Indian carnation is popularly known as the "flower of the dead," and the people of Tahiti cover their dead with choice flowers. In America the Freemasons place twigs of acacia on the coffins of brethren. The Buddhists use flowers largely for funeral purposes, and an Indian name for the tamarisk is the "messenger of Yama," the Indian God of Death. The people of Madagascar have a species of mimosa, which is frequently found growing on the tombs, and in Norway the funeral plants are juniper and fir. In France the custom very largely nourishes, roses and orange-blossoms in the southern provinces being placed in the coffins of the young. Indeed, so general is the practice in France that, "sceptics and believers uphold it, and statesmen, and soldiers, and princes, and scholars equally with children and maidens are the objects of it." Again, in Oldenburg, it is said that cornstalks must be scattered about a house in which death has entered, as a charm against further misfortune, and in the Tyrol an elder bush is often planted on a newly-made grave. "To her sweet mem'ry flowing garlands strung, On her now empty seat aloft were hung." Indeed, in all the ceremonial observances of life, from the cradle to the grave, flowers have formed a prominent feature, the symbolical meaning long attached to them explaining their selection on different occasions. Some idea of the wide area covered by the nomenclature of plants, as seen in the gradual evolution and descent of vernacular names, may be gathered even from a cursory survey of those most widely known in our own and other countries. Apart, too, from their etymological associations, it is interesting to trace the variety of sources from whence plant names have sprung, a few illustrations of which are given in the present chapter. As the authors of "English Plant Names" remark (Intr. xv.), many north-country names are derived from Swedish and Danish sources, an interesting example occurring in the word _kemps_, a name applied to the black heads of the ribwort plantain (_Plantago lanceolata_). The origin of this name is to be found in the Danish _kaempe_, a warrior, and the reason for its being so called is to be found in the game which children in most parts of the kingdom play with the flower-stalks of the plantain, by endeavouring to knock off the heads of each other's mimic weapons. Again, as Mr. Friend points out, the birch would take us back to the primeval forests of India, and among the multitudinous instances of names traceable to far-off countries may be mentioned the lilac and tulip from Persia, the latter being derived from _thoulyban_, the word used in Persia for a turban. Lilac is equivalent to _lilag_, a Persian word signifying flower, having been introduced into Europe from that country early in the sixteenth century by Busbeck, a German traveller. But illustrations of this land are sufficient to show from how many countries our plant names have been brought, and how by degrees they have become interwoven into our own language, their pronunciation being Anglicised by English speakers. Many plants, again, have been called in memory of leading characters in days gone by, and after those who discovered their whereabouts and introduced them into European countries. Thus the fuchsia, a native of Chili, was named after Leonard Fuchs, a well-known German botanist, and the magnolia was so called in honour of Pierre Magnol, an eminent writer on botanical subjects. The stately dahlia after Andrew Dahl, the Swedish botanist. But, without enumerating further instances, for they are familiar to most readers, it may be noticed that plants which embody the names of animals are very numerous indeed. In many cases this has resulted from some fancied resemblance to some part of the animal named; thus from their long tongued-like leaves, the hart's-tongue, lamb's-tongue, and ox-tongue were so called, while some plants have derived their names from the snouts of certain animals, such as the swine's-snout (_Lentodon taraxacum_), and calf's-snout, or, as it is more commonly termed, snapdragon (_Antirrhinum majus_). The gaping corollas of various blossoms have suggested such names as dog's-mouth, rabbit's-mouth, and lion's-snap, and plants with peculiarly-shaped leaves have given rise to names like these--mouse-ear (_Stachys Zanaia_), cat's-ears, and bear's-ears. Numerous names have been suggested by their fancied resemblance to the feet, hoofs, and tails of animals and birds; as, for instance, colt's-foot, crow-foot, bird's-foot trefoil, horse-shoe vetch, bull-foot, and the vervain, nicknamed frog's-foot. Then there is the larkspur, also termed lark's-claw, and lark's-heel, the lamb's-toe being so called from its downy heads of flowers, and the horse-hoof from the shape of the leaf. Among various similar names may be noticed the crane's-bill and stork's-bill, from their long beak-like seed-vessels, and the valerian, popularly designated capon's-tail, from its spreading flowers. Many plant names have animal prefixes, these indeed forming a very extensive list. But in some instances, "the name of an animal prefixed has a totally different signification, denoting size, coarseness, and frequently worthlessness or spuriousness." Thus the horse-parsley was so called from its coarseness as compared with smallage or celery, and the horse-mushroom from its size in distinction to a species more commonly eaten. The particular uses to which certain plants have been applied have originated their names: the horse-bean, from being grown as a food for horses; and the horse-chestnut, because used in Turkey for horses that are broken or touched in the wind. Parkinson, too, adds how, "horse-chestnuts are given in the East, and so through all Turkey, unto horses to cure them of the cough, shortness of wind, and such other diseases." The germander is known as horse-chere, from its growing after horse-droppings; and the horse-bane, because supposed in Sweden to cause a kind of palsy in horses--an effect which has been ascribed by Linnaeus not so much to the noxious qualities of the plant itself, as to an insect (_Curculio paraplecticus_) that breeds in its stem. The dog has suggested sundry plant names, this prefix frequently suggesting the idea of worthlessness, as in the case of the dog-violet, which lacks the sweet fragrance of the true violet, and the dog-parsley, which, whilst resembling the true plant of this name, is poisonous and worthless. In like manner there is the dog-elder, dog's-mercury, dog's-chamomile, and the dog-rose, each a spurious form of a plant quite distinct; while on the other hand we have the dog's-tooth grass, from the sharp-pointed shoots of its underground stem, and the dog-grass (_Triticum caninu_), because given to dogs as an aperient. The cat has come in for its due share of plant names, as for instance the sun-spurge, which has been nicknamed cat's-milk, from its milky juice oozing in drops, as milk from the small teats of a cat; and the blossoms of the talix, designated cats-and-kittens, or kittings, probably in allusion to their soft, fur-like appearance. Further names are, cat's-faces (_Viola tricolor_), cat's-eyes (_Veronica chamcaedrys_), cat's-tail, the catkin of the hazel or willow, and cat's-ear (_Hypochaeris maculata_). The bear is another common prefix. Thus there is the bear's-foot, from its digital leaf, the bear-berry, or bear's-bilberry, from its fruit being a favourite food of bears, and the bear's-garlick. There is the bear's-breech, from its roughness, a name transferred by some mistake from the Acanthus to the cow-parsnip, and the bear's-wort, which it has been suggested "is rather to be derived from its use in uterine complaints than from the animal." Many curious names have resulted from the prefix pig, as in Sussex, where the bird's-foot trefoil is known as pig's-pettitoes; and in Devonshire the fruit of the dog-rose is pig's-noses. A Northamptonshire term for goose-grass (_Galium aparine_) is pig-tail, and the pig-nut (_Brunium flexuosum_) derived this name from its tubers being a favourite food of pigs, and resembling nuts in size and flavour. The common cyclamen is sow-head, and a popular name for the _Sonchus oleraceus_ is sow-thistle. Among further names also associated with the sow may be included the sow-fennel, sow-grass, and sow-foot, while the sow-bane (_Chenopodium rubrum_), is so termed from being, as Parkinson tells us, "found certain to kill swine." Among further animal prefixes may be noticed the wolfs-bane (_Aconitum napellus_), wolf's-claws (_Lycopodium clavatum_), wolf's-milk (_Euphorbia helioscopia_), and wolfs-thistle (_Carlina acaulis_). The mouse has given us numerous names, such as mouse-ear (_Hieracium pilosella_), mouse-grass (_Aira caryophyllea_), mouse-ear scorpion-grass (_Myosotis palustris_), mouse-tail (_Myosurus minimus_), and mouse-pea. The term rat-tail has been applied to several plants having a tail-like inflorescence, such as the _Plantago lanceolata_ (ribwort plantain). The term toad as a prefix, like that of dog, frequently means spurious, as in the toad-flax, a plant which, before it comes into flower, bears a tolerably close resemblance to a plant of the true flax. The frog, again, supplies names, such as frog's-lettuce, frog's-foot, frog-grass, and frog-cheese; while hedgehog gives us such names as hedgehog-parsley and hedgehog-grass. Names in which the devil figures have been noticed elsewhere, as also those in which the words fairy and witch enter. As the authors, too, of the "Dictionary of Plant Names" have pointed out, a great number of names may be called dedicatory, and embody the names of many of the saints, and even of the Deity. The latter, however, are very few in number, owing perhaps to a sense of reverence, and "God Almighty's bread and cheese," "God's eye," "God's grace," "God's meat," "Our Lord's, or Our Saviour's flannel," "Christ's hair," "Christ's herb," "Christ's ladder," "Christ's thorn," "Holy Ghost," and "Herb-Trinity," make up almost the whole list. On the other hand, the Virgin Mary has suggested numerous names, some of which we have noticed in the chapter on sacred plants. Certain of the saints, again, have perpetuated their names in our plant nomenclature, instances of which are scattered throughout the present volume. Hence in numerous instances a meaning, wholly misguiding, has been assigned to various plants, and has given rise to much confusion. This, too, it may be added, is the case in other countries as well as our own. And in some parts of the Continent churches are adorned at Christmas-tide with the amaranth, as a symbol "of that immortality to which their faith bids them look." Then, again, the cypress, in floral language, denotes mourning; and, as an emblem of woe, may be traced to the familiar classical myth of Cyparissus, who, sorrow-stricken at having skin his favourite stag, was transformed into a cypress tree. Its ominous and sad character is the subject of constant allusion, Virgil having introduced it into the funeral rites of his heroes. Shelley speaks of the unwept youth whom no mourning maidens decked, "With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath, The love-couch of his everlasting sleep." And Byron describes the cypress as, "Dark tree! still sad when other's grief is fled, The only constant mourner o'er the dead." Like the rose, the myrtle is the emblem of love, having been dedicated by the Greeks and Romans to Venus, in the vicinity of whose temples myrtle-groves were planted; hence, from time immemorial, "Sacred to Venus is the myrtle shade." The poppy, from its somniferous effects, has been made symbolic of sleep and oblivion; hence Virgil calls it the Lethean poppy, whilst our old pastoral poet, William Browne, speaks of it as "sleep-bringing poppy." The heliotrope denotes devoted attachment, from its having been supposed to turn continually towards the sun; hence its name, signifying the _sun_ and _to turn_. The classic heliotrope must not be confounded with the well-known Peruvian heliotrope or "cherry-pie," a plant with small lilac-blue blossoms of a delicious fragrance. It would seem that many of the flowers which had the reputation of opening and shutting at the sun's bidding were known as heliotropes, or sunflowers, or turnesol. Shakespeare alludes to the, "Marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, And with him rises weeping." The almond, again, is regarded as expressive of haste, in reference to its hasty growth and early maturity; while the evening primrose, from the time of its blossoms expanding, indicates silent love--refraining from unclosing "her cup of paly gold until her lowly sisters are rocked into a balmy slumber." The bramble, from its manner of growth, has been chosen as the type of lowliness; and "from the fierceness with which it grasps the passer-by with its straggling prickly stems, as an emblem of remorse." In some cases flowers seem to have derived their symbolism from certain events associated with them. Thus the periwinkle signifies "early recollections, or pleasures of memory," in connection with which Rousseau tells us how, as Madame Warens and himself were proceeding to Charmattes, she was struck by the appearance of some of these blue flowers in the hedge, and exclaimed, "Here is the periwinkle still in flower." The curious traditions of imaginary plants found amongst most nations have partly a purely mythological origin. Frequently, too, they may be attributed to the exaggerated accounts given by old travellers, who, "influenced by a desire to make themselves famous, have gone so far as to pretend that they saw these fancied objects." Anyhow, from whatever source sprung, these productions of ignorance and superstition have from a very early period been firmly credited. But, like the accounts given us of fabulous animals, they have long ago been acknowledged as survivals of popular errors, which owed their existence to the absence of botanical knowledge. Meyer wrote a treatise on this strange "bird without father or mother," and Sir Robert Murray, in the "Philosophical Transactions," says that, "these shells are hung at the tree by a neck, longer than the shell, of a filmy substance, round and hollow and creased, not unlike the windpipe of a chicken, spreading out broadest where it is fastened to the tree, from which it seems to draw and convey the matter which serves for the growth and vegetation of the shell and the little bird within it. In every shell that I opened," he adds, "I found a perfect sea-fowl; the little bill like that of a goose, the eyes marked; the head, neck, breast, wing, tail, and feet formed; the feathers everywhere perfectly shaped, and the feet like those of other water-fowl." The Chinese have a tradition of certain trees, the leaves of which were finally changed into birds. Alas! what lock or iron engine is't, That can thy subtle secret strength resist, Still the best farrier cannot set a shoe So sure, but thou (so shortly) canst undo." The blasting-root, known in Germany as spring-wurzel, and by us as spring-wort, possesses similar virtues, for whatever lock is touched by it must yield. It is no easy matter to find this magic plant, but, according to a piece of popular folk-lore, it is obtained by means of the woodpecker. When this bird visits its nest, it must have been previously plugged up with wood, to remove which it goes in search of the spring-wort. On holding this before the nest the wood shoots out from the tree as if driven by the most violent force. Meanwhile, a red cloth must be placed near the nest, which will so scare the woodpecker that it will let the fabulous root drop. There are several versions of this tradition. According to Pliny the bird is the raven; in Swabia it is the hoopoe, and in Switzerland the swallow. In Russia, there is a plant growing in marshy land, known as the rasir-trava, which when applied to locks causes them to open instantly. In Iceland similar properties are ascribed to the herb-paris, there known as lasa-grass. "Living mortals hearing them run mad." DOCTRINE OF SIGNATURES. "_Chamberlain_. Nay, by my faith, I think you are more beholding to the night than to fern-seed for your walking invisible." PLANTS AND THE CALENDAR. A goodly array of plants have cast their attractions round the festivals of the year, giving an outward beauty to the ceremonies and observances celebrated in their honour. These vary in different countries, although we frequently find the same flower almost universally adopted to commemorate a particular festival. Many plants, again, have had a superstitious connection, having in this respect exercised a powerful influence among the credulous of all ages, numerous survivals of which exist at the present day. Thus, in Westphalia, it is said that if the sun makes its appearance on New Year's Day, the flax will be straight; and there is a belief current in Hessia, that an apple must not be eaten on New Year's Day, as it will produce an abscess. And James Montgomery notices this cheerful plant, speaking of it as the, "Fair tree of winter, fresh and flowering, When all around is dead and dry, Whose ruby buds, though storms are lowering, Spread their white blossoms to the sky." "Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower, For spirits of the dead at night's enchanted hour." The dainty crocus is said to blow "before the shrine at vernal dawn of St. Valentine." And we may note here how county traditions affirm that in some mysterious way the vegetable world is affected by leap-year influences. A piece of agricultural folk-lore current throughout the country tells us how all the peas and beans grow the wrong way in their pods, the seeds being set in quite the contrary to what they are in other years. The reason assigned for this strange freak of nature is that, "it is the ladies' year, and they (the peas and beans) always lay the wrong way in leap year." In Catholic countries Lent cakes were flavoured with the herb-tansy, a plant dedicated to St. Athanasius. In Silesia, on Mid-Lent Sunday, pine boughs, bound with variegated paper and spangles, are carried about by children singing songs, and are hung over the stable doors to keep the animals from evil influences. Palm Sunday receives its English and the greater part of its foreign names from the old practice of bearing palm-branches, in place of which the early catkins of the willow or yew have been substituted, sprigs of box being used in Brittany. On Good Friday, in the North of England, an herb pudding was formerly eaten, in which the leaves of the passion-dock (_Polygonum bistorta_) formed the principal ingredient. In Lancashire fig-sue is made, a mixture consisting of sliced figs, nutmeg, ale, and bread. Of the flowers associated with Eastertide may be mentioned the garden daffodil and the purple pasque flower, another name for the anemone (_Anemone pulsatilla_), in allusion to the Passover and Paschal ceremonies. White broom is also in request, and indeed all white flowers are dedicated to this festival. On Easter Day the Bavarian peasants make garlands of coltsfoot and throw them into the fire; and in the district of Lechrain every household brings to the sacred fire which is lighted at Easter a walnut branch, which, when partially burned, is laid on the hearth-fire during tempests as a charm against lightning. In Slavonian regions the palm is supposed to specially protect the locality where it grows from inclement weather and its hurtful effects; while, in Pomerania, the apple is eaten against fevers. In years past the milkwort (_Polygala vulgaris_), from being carried in procession during Rogation Week, was known by such names as the rogation-flower, gang-flower, procession-flower, and cross-flower, a custom noticed by Gerarde, who tells us how, "the maidens which use in the countries to walke the procession do make themselves garlands and nosegaies of the milkwort." On Ascension Day the Swiss make wreaths of the edelweisse, hanging them over their doors and windows; another plant selected for this purpose being the amaranth, which, like the former, is considered an emblem of immortality. In Italy the festival is designated "Pasqua Rosata," from falling at a time when roses are in bloom, while in Germany the peony is the Pentecost rose. "When yew is out then birch comes in, And May-flowers beside, Both of a fresh and fragrant kinne, To honour Whitsontide." At this season, too, box-boughs were gathered to deck the large open fire-places then in fashion, and the guelder rose was dedicated to the festival. Certain flower-sermons have been preached in the city at Whitsuntide, as, for instance, that at St. James's Church, Mitre Court, Aldgate, and another at St. Leonard's Church, Shoreditch, known as the Fairchild Lecture. Turning to the Continent, it is customary in Hanover on Whit-Monday to gather the lily of the valley, and at the close of the day there is scarcely a house without a large bouquet, while in Germany the broom is a favourite plant for decorations. In Russia, at the completion of Whitsuntide, young girls repair to the banks of the Neva and cast in wreaths of flowers in token of their absent friends. In commemoration of the Restoration of Charles II., oak leaves and gilded oak apples have been worn; oak branches having been in past years placed over doors and windows. Hemp was also in demand, many forms of divination having been practised by means of its seed. According to a belief in Iceland, the trijadent (_Spiraea ulmaria_) will, if put under water on this day, reveal a thief; floating if the thief be a woman, and sinking if a man. CHILDREN'S RHYMES AND GAMES. Children are more or less observers of nature, and frequently far more so than their elders. This, perhaps, is in a great measure to be accounted for from the fact that childhood is naturally inquisitive, and fond of having explained whatever seems in any way mysterious. Such especially is the case in the works of nature, and in a country ramble with children their little voices are generally busy inquiring why this bird does this, or that plant grows in such a way--a variety of questions, indeed, which unmistakably prove that the young mind instinctively seeks after knowledge. Hence, we find that the works of nature enter largely into children's pastimes; a few specimens of their rhymes and games associated with plants we quote below. In Cumberland, the _Primula farinosa_, commonly known as bird's-eye, is called by children "bird-een." "The lockety-gowan and bonny bird-een Are the fairest flowers that ever were seen." The word oblionker apparently being a meaningless invention to rhyme with the word conquer, which has by degrees become applied to the fruit itself. Closely allied with plant-worship is the sacred and superstitious reverence which, from time immemorial, has been paid by various communities to certain trees and plants. In many cases this sanctity originated in the olden heathen mythology, when "every flower was the emblem of a god; every tree the abode of a nymph." From their association, too, with certain events, plants frequently acquired a sacred character, and occasionally their specific virtues enhanced their veneration. In short, the large number of sacred plants found in different countries must be attributed to a variety of causes, illustrations of which are given in the present chapter. "Old Hindu mythologies, wherein The lotus, attribute of Ganga--embling The world's great reproductive power--was held In veneration." The pomegranate, with its mystic origin and early sacred associations, was long reverenced by the Persians and Jews, an old tradition having identified it as the forbidden fruit given by Eve to Adam. Again, as a sacred plant the basil has from time immemorial been held in high repute by the Hindus, having been sacred to Vishnu. Indeed it is worshipped as a deity itself, and is invoked as the goddess Tulasi for the protection of the human frame. It is further said that "the heart of Vishnu, the husband of the Tulasi, is agitated and tormented whenever the least sprig is broken of a plant of Tulasi, his wife." Then there is "Our Lady's bed-straw," which filled the manger on which the infant Jesus was laid; while of the plant said to have formed the Virgin's bed may be mentioned the thyme, woodroof, and groundsel. The white-spotted green leaves of "Our Lady's thistle" were caused by some drops of her milk falling upon them, and in Cheshire we find the same idea connected with the pulmonaria or "lady's milk sile," the word "sile" being a provincialism for "soil," or "stain." A German tradition makes the common fern (_Polypodium vulgare_) to have sprung from the Virgin's milk. Of the many other plants dedicated to the Virgin may be mentioned the snowdrop, popularly known as the "fair maid of February," opening its floweret at the time of Candlemas. According to an old monkish tradition it blooms at this time, in memory of the Virgin having taken the child Jesus to the temple, and there presented her offering. A further reason for the snowdrop's association with the Virgin originated in the custom of removing her image from the altar on the day of the Purification, and strewing over the vacant place with these emblems of purity. The bleeding nun (_Cyclamen europoeum_) was consecrated to the Virgin, and in France the spearmint is termed "Our Lady's mint." In Germany the costmary (_Costaminta vulgaris_) is "Our Lady's balsam," the white-flowered wormwood the "smock of our Lady," and in olden days the iris or fleur-de-lis was held peculiarly sacred. Many plants have been associated with St. John the Baptist, from his having been the forerunner of Christ. Thus, the common plant which bears his name, St. John's wort, is marked with blood-like spots, known as the "blood of St. John," making their appearance on the day he was beheaded. The scarlet lychnis, popularly nicknamed the "great candlestick," was commonly said to be lighted up for his day. The carob tree has been designated "St. John's bread," from a tradition that it supplied him with food in the wilderness; and currants, from beginning to ripen at this time, have been nicknamed "berries of St. John." The artemisia was in Germany "St. John's girdle," and in Sicily was applied to his beard. St. James is associated with several plants--the St. James' wort (_Senecio Jacoboea_), either from its having been much used for the diseases of horses, of which the saint was the patron, or owing to its blossoming on his festival. The same name was applied to the shepherd's purse and the rag-weed. Incidentally, too, in our chapter on the calendar we have alluded to many flowers associated with the saints, and spoken of the customs observed in their honour. PLANT SUPERSTITIONS. Then there is the moonwort, famous for drawing the nails out of horses' shoes, and hence known by the rustic name of "unshoe the horse;" while the mouse-ear was credited with preventing the horses being hurt when shod. Numerous plants are said to be either lucky or the reverse, and hence have given rise to all kinds of odd beliefs, some of which still survive in our midst, having come down from a remote period. Lupton, in his "Notable Things," tells us that, "If a fir-tree be touched, withered, or burned with lightning, it signifies that the master or mistress thereof shall shortly die." In Germany, the marigold is with the greatest care excluded from the flowers with which young women test their love-affairs; and in Austria it is held unlucky to pluck the crocus, as it draws away the strength. PLANTS IN FOLK-MEDICINE. The _Angelica sylvestris_ was popularly known as "Holy Ghost," from the angel-like properties therein having been considered good "against poisons, pestilent agues, or the pestilence." The mystical history of the apple accounts for its popularity as a medical agent, although, of course, we must not attribute all the lingering rustic cures to this source. Thus, according to an old Devonshire rhyme, "Eat an apple going to bed, Make the doctor beg his bread." Its juice has long been deemed potent against warts, and a Lincolnshire cure for eyes affected by rheumatism or weakness is a poultice made of rotten apples. Shakespeare speaks of it as an opiate, and on the Continent it was much used for amulets. It gave new strength and fearless mood, And gladiators, fierce and rude, Mingled it in their daily food, And he who battled and subdued, The wreath of fennel wore." The cat-mint, when chewed, created quarrelsomeness, a property said by the Italians to belong to the rampion. For depression, thyme was recommended, and a Manx preservative against all kinds of infectious diseases is ragwort. The illustrations we have given above show in how many ways plants have been in demand as popular curatives. And although an immense amount of superstition has been interwoven with folk-medicine, there is a certain amount of truth in the many remedies which for centuries have been, with more or less success, employed by the peasantry, both at home and abroad. PLANTS AND THEIR LEGENDARY HISTORY. "Wheresoe'er they move, before them Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo, Swarms the bee, the honey-maker; Wheresoe'er they tread, beneath them Springs a flower unknown among us, Springs the white man's foot in blossom." The angel's mission ended, he departed, but where he had stood a ring of snowdrops formed a lovely posy. End of Project Gutenberg's The Folk-lore of Plants, by T. F. Thiselton-Dyer	redpajama-book	12,036
Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon, Sjaani and PG Distributed Proofreaders With Introduction and Notes by WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI PREFACE MEMOIR OF SHELLEY MEMOIR OF KEATS ADONAIS: ITS COMPOSITION AND BIBLIOGRAPHY ITS ARGUMENT GENERAL EXPOSITION BION AND MOSCHUS ADONAIS: PREFACE ADONAIS CANCELLED PASSAGES OF ADONAIS AND ITS PREFACE NOTES The health of Keats having broken down, and consumption having set in, Shelley wrote to him from Pisa urging him to come over to Italy as his guest. Keats did not however go to Pisa, but, along with the young painter Joseph Severn, to Naples, and thence to Rome. I here subjoin Shelley's letter. 'I have lately read your _Endymion_ again, and even with a new sense of the treasures of poetry it contains--though treasures poured forth with indistinct profusion. This people in general will not endure; and that is the cause of the comparatively few copies which have been sold. I feel persuaded that you are capable of the greatest things, so you but will. I always tell Ollier to send you copies of my books. _Prometheus Unbound_ I imagine you will receive nearly at the same time with this letter. _The Cenci_ I hope you have already received: it was studiously composed in a different style. In poetry I have sought to avoid system and mannerism. I wish those who excel me in genius would pursue the same plan. 'Whether you remain in England, or journey to Italy, believe that you carry with you my anxious wishes for your health and success--wherever you are, or whatever you undertake--and that I am 'I am glad you take any pleasure in my poor poem--which I would willingly take the trouble to unwrite if possible, did I care so much as I have done about reputation. 'Most sincerely yours, " Original Poetry, by Victor and Cazire. Withdrawn, and ever since unknown. " Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson. Balderdash, partly (it would appear) intended as burlesque. In June of the same year Keats set off with his chief intimate, Charles Armitage Brown (a retired Russia merchant who afterwards wrote a book on Shakespeare's Sonnets), on a pedestrian tour in Scotland, which extended into North Ireland as well. In July, in the Isle of Mull, he got a bad sore throat, of which some symptoms had appeared also in earlier years: it may be regarded as the beginning of his fatal malady. He cut short his tour and returned to Hampstead, where he had to nurse his younger brother Tom, a consumptive invalid, who died in December of the same year. As to the relations between Shelley and Keats, I have to refer back to the preceding memoir of Shelley. ITS COMPOSITION AND BIBLIOGRAPHY. A letter to Mr. Ollier followed immediately afterwards. 'MY DEAREST FRIENDS, A letter to Mr. Ollier was probably a little later. It says: 'I send you a sketch for a frontispiece to the poem _Adonais_. Pray let it be put into the engraver's hands immediately, as the poem is already on its way to you, and I should wish it to be ready for its arrival. The poem is beautifully printed, and--what is of more consequence--correctly: indeed, it was to obtain this last point that I sent it to the press at Pisa. In a few days you will receive the bill of lading.' Nothing is known as to the sketch which Shelley thus sent. It cannot, I presume, have been his own production, nor yet Severn's: possibly it was supplied by Lieutenant Williams, who had some aptitude as an amateur artist. Earlier than the latest of these extracts Shelley had sent to Mr. Severn a copy of _Adonais_, along with a letter which I append. 'I send you the Elegy on poor Keats, and I wish it were better worth your acceptance. You will see, by the preface, that it was written before I could obtain any particular account of his last moments. All that I still know was communicated to me by a friend who had derived his information from Colonel Finch, I have ventured [in the Preface] to express as I felt the respect and admiration which _your_ conduct towards him demands. 'I have little hope therefore that the poem I send you will excite any attention, nor do I feel assured that a critical notice of his writings would find a single reader. But for these considerations, it had been my intention to have collected the remnants of his compositions, and to have published them with a Life and criticism. Has he left any poems or writings of whatsoever kind, and in whose possession are they? Perhaps you would oblige me by information on this point. 'Should you ever pass through Pisa, I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you, and of cultivating an acquaintance into something pleasant, begun under such melancholy auspices. 'Accept, my dear Sir, the assurance of my highest esteem, and believe me 'Your most sincere and faithful servant, 'Do you know Leigh Hunt? I expect him and his family here every day.' "Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such are daffodils, With the green world they live in; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms; And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead," &c. Here it is clear that the word, and not the idea, _moon_, produces the simple sheep and their shady _boon_, and that "the _dooms_ of the mighty dead" would never have intruded themselves but for the "fair musk-rose _blooms_." "For 'twas the morn. Apollo's upward fire Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre Of brightness so unsullied that therein A melancholy spirit well might win Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine Into the winds. Rain-scented eglantine Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun; The lark was lost in him; cold springs had run To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass; Man's voice was on the mountains; and the mass Of Nature's lives and wonders pulsed tenfold To feel this sunrise and its glories old." Here Apollo's _fire_ produces a _pyre_--a silvery pyre--of clouds, _wherein_ a spirit might _win_ oblivion, and melt his essence _fine_; and scented _eglantine_ gives sweets to the _sun_, and cold springs had _run_ into the _grass_; and then the pulse of the _mass_ pulsed _tenfold_ to feel the glories _old_ of the new-born day, &c. "Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings, such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked brain; be still the leaven That spreading in this dull and clodded earth, Gives it a touch ethereal--a new birth." "Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, The passion poesy, glories infinite. "So plenteously all weed-hidden roots. "Of some strange history, potent to send. "Before the deep intoxication. "Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion. "The stubborn canvas for my voyage prepared. "Endymion, the cave is secreter Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys And trembles through my labyrinthine hair." 'By this time our readers must be pretty well satisfied as to the meaning of his sentences and the structure of his lines. We now present them with some of the new words with which, in imitation of Mr. Leigh Hunt, he adorns our language. 'We are told that turtles _passion_ their voices; that an arbour was _nested_, and a lady's locks _gordianed_ up; and, to supply the place of the nouns thus verbalized, Mr. Keats, with great fecundity, spawns new ones, such as men-slugs and human _serpentry_, the _honey-feel_ of bliss, wives prepare _needments_, and so forth. 'Then he has formed new verbs by the process of cutting off their natural tails, the adverbs, and affixing them to their foreheads. Thus the wine out-sparkled, the multitude up-followed, and night up-took: the wind up-blows, and the hours are down-sunken. But, if he sinks some adverbs in the verbs, he compensates the language with adverbs and adjectives which he separates from the parent stock. Thus a lady whispers _pantingly_ and close, makes _hushing_ signs, and steers her skiff into a _ripply_ cove, a shower falls _refreshfully_, and a vulture has a _spreaded_ tail. On the whole I am strongly of opinion that the Urania of _Adonais_ is Aphrodite, and not the Muse. 'A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.' The passages of _Adonais_ which can be traced back to Bion and Moschus are not the finest things in the poem: mostly they fill out its fabular 'argument' with brilliancy and suavity, rather than with nerve and pathos. The finest things are to be found in the denunciation of the 'deaf and viperous murderer;' in the stanzas concerning the 'Mountain Shepherds,' especially the figure representing Shelley himself; and in the solemn and majestic conclusion, where the poet rises from the region of earthly sorrow into the realm of ideal aspiration and contemplation. _Coleridge._--Not a single instance. In all these cases, as in that of Shelley's _Adonais_, I have taken no count of those instances of lax sound-rhyme which are correct letter-rhyme--such as the coupling of _move_ with _love_, or of _star_ with _war_; for these, however much some more than commonly purist ears may demur to them, appear to be part and parcel of the rhyming system of the English language. I need hardly say that, if these cases had been included, my list would in every instance have swelled considerably; nor yet that I am conscious how extremely partial and accidental is the test, as to comparative number of laxities, which I have here supplied. The reader familiar with _Adonais_ will recognise the passages in that poem of which we here have the originals. To avoid repetition, I do not cite them at the moment, but shall call attention to them successively in my Notes at the end of the volume. AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS, Author of _Endymion, Hyperion,_ etc. Astaer prin men elampes eni zooisin eoos. Nun de thanon lampeis esperos en phthimenois.] Pharmakon aelthe Bion poti son stoma, pharmakon eides. Pos teu tois cheilessi potedrame kouk eglukanthae; Tis de Brotos tossouton anameros ae kerasai toi, Ae dounai laleonti to pharmakon; ekphugen odan.] MOSCHUS, EPITAPH. BION. CANCELLED PASSAGES OF ADONAIS, Reviewers, with some rare exceptions, are a most stupid and malignant race. As a bankrupt thief turns thief-taker in despair, so an unsuccessful author turns critic. But a young spirit panting for fame, doubtful of its powers, and certain only of its aspirations, is ill-qualified to assign its true value to the sneer of this world. He knows not that such stuff as this is of the abortive and monstrous births which time consumes as fast as it produces. He sees the truth and falsehood, the merits and demerits, of his case, inextricably entangled No personal offence should have drawn from me this public comment upon such stuff. The offence of this poor victim seems to have consisted solely in his intimacy with Leigh Hunt, Mr. Hazlitt, and some other enemies of despotism and superstition. My friend Hunt has a very hard skull to crack, and will take a deal of killing. I do not know much of Mr. Hazlitt, but I knew personally but little of Keats; but, on the news of his situation, I wrote to him, suggesting the propriety of trying the Italian climate, and inviting him to join me. Unfortunately he did not allow me. His song, though very sweet, was low and faint, A simple strain. 'Thou wert the morning star among the living, Ere thy fair light had fled:-Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving New splendour to the dead.' 'The beautiful rebuke that looks surprise. The gentle vengeance of averted eyes;' also (a line which has borne, and may yet bear, frequent re-quoting) 'Last at his cross, and earliest at his grave.' 'And the swift boat the little waves which bore Were cut by its keen keel, though slantingly,' 'O fortunati nimium sua si bona norint Agricolae.' 'Hung over her sweet basil evermore, And moistened it with tears unto the core.' I give Shelley's words 'true love tears' as they appear in the Pisan edition: 'true-love tears' might be preferable. 'How wonderful is Death,-Death, and his brother Sleep!' &c. The mind may also revert to the noble passage in Byron's _Giaour_- though the idea of actual sleep is not raised in this admirably beautiful and admirably realistic description. Perhaps the poem, of all others, in which the conception of death is associated with that of sleep with the most poignant pathos, is that of Edgar Poe entitled _For Annie_- where real death is spoken of throughout, in a series of exquisite and thrilling images, as being real sleep. In Shelley's own edition of _Adonais_, the lines which we are now considering are essentially different. They run 'Till darkness and the law Of mortal change shall fill the grave which is her maw.' 'For on a silken couch of rosy pride, In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth Of fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth, Than sighs could fathom or contentment reach. 'Therein A melancholy spirit well might win Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine Into the winds.' 'As the _blue bells_ Of hyacinth tell Apollo's written grief.' 'And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying.' 'The stream flows, The wind blows, The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die. Nothing will die; All things will change Through eternity.' 'Wildered, ungirt, unsandalled--the thorns pierce Her hastening feet, and drink her sacred blood.' 'Our feet now, every palm, Are sandalled with calm'; 'As she moved under the mass Of the deep cavern, and, with palms so tender Their tread broke not the mirror of the billow, Glided along the river.' Perhaps Shelley got this usage from the Italian: in that language the web-feet of aquatic birds are termed 'palme.' 'Peace is in the grave: The grave holds all things beautiful and good, I am a God, and cannot find it _there_.' 'For we were nursed upon the self-same _hill_, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.' 'Yes, it is Hate--that shapeless fiendly thing Of many names, all evil, some divine-Whom self-contempt arms with a mortal sting,' &c. 'But, in this life Of error, ignorance, and strife, Where nothing is but all things seem. And we the shadows of the dream, That garden sweet, that Lady fair, And all sweet shapes and odours there, In truth have never passed away: 'Tis we, 'tis ours, are changed; not they. For love, and beauty, and delight, There is no death nor change; their might Exceeds our organs, which endure No light, being themselves obscure.' _I have employed my poetical compositions and publications simply as the instruments of that sympathy between myself and others which the ardent and unbounded love I cherished for my kind incited me to acquire._ This is an important indication of the spirit in which Shelley wrote, and consequently of that in which his reader should construe his writings. He poured out his full heart, craving for 'sympathy.' Loving mankind, he wished to find some love in response. Light around thee, and thou hearest The loud flames ascend, and fearest. Grovel on the earth! ay, hide In the dust thy purple pride!' End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Adonais, by Shelley	redpajama-book	3,394
Produced by Ted Garvin, Carol David and PG Distributed Proofreaders WITH MANY ILLUSTRATIONS BY GORDON HOME "Sweete Themmes runne softly till I end my song"; "The goodly Severn bravely sings The noblest of her British kings, At Caesar's landing what we were, And of the Roman conquest here " Within England of my heart, in the whole breadth of her delight, there is no industrial city such as infests, ruins, and spoils other lands, and in this she resembles her great and dear mother Italy. Like her, too, she is full of very famous towns scarcely to be matched for beauty and ancientness in the rest of the world, and their names which are like the words of a great poet, and which it is a pleasure to me to recite, are Canterbury, Chichester, Winchester, Salisbury, Bath, Wells, Exeter, and her ports, whose names are as household words, even in Barbary, are Dover, Portsmouth, Plymouth, Falmouth, and Bristol. All these she may well boast of, for what other land can match them quite? There is so much to know, and all must be got by heart, for all is a part of us and of that mighty fruitful and abiding past out of which we are come, which alone we may really love, and which holds for ever safe for us our origins. After all, we live a very little time, the future is not ours, we hold the present but by a brittle thread; it is the past that is in our hearts. And so it is that to go afoot through Southern England is not less than to appeal to something greater and wiser than ourselves, out of which we are come, to return to our origins, to appeal to history, to the divine history of the soul of a people. And so I look upon England of my heart and am certain I am of the civilisation of Christ. He hath said, ye shall not die but live-England blossoms in fulfilment. He hath founded his Church, whose children we are, whether we will or no, and after a far wandering presently shall return homeward. For those words endure and will endure; more living than the words even of our poets, more lasting than the cliffs of the sea, or the rocks of the mountains, or the sands of the deserts, because they are as the flowers by the wayside. CHAPTER I TO CANTERBURY THE PILGRIMS' ROAD TO DARTFORD CHAPTER II THE PILGRIMS' ROAD TO ROCHESTER CHAPTER III THE PILGRIMS' ROAD--ROCHESTER CHAPTER IV THE PILGRIMS' ROAD TO FAVERSHAM CHAPTER V THE PILGRIMS' ROAD TO CANTERBURY CHAPTER VI THE CITY OF ST THOMAS CHAPTER VII CAESAR IN KENT CHAPTER VIII THE WEALD AND THE MARSH CHAPTER IX RYE AND WINCHELSEA CHAPTER X THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS CHAPTER XI LEWES AND SIMON DE MONTFORT CHAPTER XII THE DOWNS CHAPTER XIII THE WEALD CHAPTER XIV TO ARUNDEL AND CHICHESTER CHAPTER XV CHICHESTER CHAPTER XVI SELSEY, BOSHAM AND PORCHESTER CHAPTER XVII SOUTHAMPTON CHAPTER XVIII BEAULIEU AND CHRISTCHURCH CHAPTER XIX THE NEW FOREST AND ROMSEY ABBEY CHAPTER XX WINCHESTER CHAPTER XXI SELBORNE LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS CHEYNEY COURT AND THE CLOSE GATE, WINCHESTER DARTFORD CHURCH AND BRIDGE THE GATEWAY OF THE MONASTERY CLOSE, ROCHESTER CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL FROM CHRISTCHURCH GATE WEST GATE, CANTERBURY ON THE STOUR NEAR CANTERBURY A CORNER OF ROMNEY MARSH THE WEALD OF SUSSEX, NORTH OF LEWES THE MARKET CROSS, CHICHESTER THE TUDOR HOUSE, OPPOSITE ST MICHAEL'S CHURCH, SOUTHAMPTON NORTH TRANSEPT, WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL ST CROSS, WINCHESTER SELBORNE FROM THE HANGER THE PILGRIMS' ROAD TO CANTERBURY FROM THE TABARD INN TO DARTFORD And yet she is ours after all; she belongs to us, is more perhaps our very likeness and self than the capital of any other people. What is Berlin but a brutalised village, or Paris now but cosmopolis, or Rome but a universe? She is ours, the very gate of England of my heart. For she stands there striding the boundary of my country, the greatest of our cities, the greatest even of our industrial cities--a negative to all the rest. To the North she says Nay continually, for she is English, the greater successor of Winchester, and in her voice is the soul of the South, the real England, the England of my heart. Ah, we have never known her or loved her enough or understood that she is a universe, without the self-consciousness of lesser things or the prepared beauty of mortal places. Indeed, she has something of the character of the sea which is our home, its changefulness, its infinity, its pathos in the toiling human life that traverses it. Almost featureless if you will, she is always under the guidance of her ample sky, responding immediately to every mood of the clouds; and in her, beauty grows up suddenly out of life and is gone e'er we can apprehend it The old hostelry, which besides its own beauty had this claim also upon our reverence, that it represented in no unworthy fashion the birthplace as it were of English poetry, owes of course all its fame to Chaucer, who lay there on the night before he set out for Canterbury as he tells us: Greet chere made our hoste us everichon And to the soper sette us anon; And served us with vitaille at the beste, Strong was the wyn, and wel to drinke us leste. A semely man our hoste was with alle For to han ben a marshal in an halle; A large man he was eyen stepe, A fairer burgeys is ther noon in Chepe; Bold of his speche and wys, and wel y-taught, And of manhod him lakkede right naught. Eek therto he was right a mery man, And after soper pleyen he bigan, And spak of mirthe amonges others thinges, Whan that we hadde maad our rekeninges Such a wonder was, however, by no means the only memorial here, at the very opening of the way, of the great and holy end and purpose of it. A-morwe, whan that day bigan to springe, Up roes our host, and was our aller cok, And gadrede us togirde, alle in a flok, And forth we riden, a litel more than pas Unto the watering of seint Thomas. And there our host bigan his hors areste, And seyde; Lordinges, herkneth, if yow leste. Ye woot your forward, and it yow recorde If even-song and morwe-song acorde, Lat see now who shal telle the firste tale Lo, Greenwich, ther many a shrewe is inne. London doth pour out her citizens The mayor and all his brethren in best sort Like to the senators of the antique Rome With the plebeians swarming at their heels, Go forth and fetch their conquering Caesar in! [Illustration: SHOOTERS' HILL] For we turn to gaze on London, the Protestant, not the Catholic, city: A mighty mass of brick and smoke and shipping, Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amid the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge dun cupola like a foolscap crown On a fool's head--and there is London town! Don Juan had got out on Shooters' Hill Sunset the time, the place the same declivity Which looks along that vale of good and ill Where London streets ferment in full activity; While everything around was calm and still Except the creak of wheels which on their pivot he Heard--and that bee-like, babbling, busy hum Of cities, that boil over with their scum. The road runs straight on through a rather sophisticated countryside, almost into Crayford, but in preparing to cross the Cray the old road has apparently been lost. We may be sure, however, of not straying more than a few yards out of the way, if we keep as straight on as maybe, that is to say, if we take the road to the right at the fork, which later passes Crayford church on the south. FROM DARTFORD TO ROCHESTER It may well have been when the bell of that convent was ringing the Angelus that Chaucer and his pilgrims entered Dartford on that April evening so long ago. As they came down the steep hill, before they entered the town, they would pass an almshouse or hospital, midway upon the hill, a leper-house in all likelihood, dedicated in honour of St Mary Magdalen. Something of this remains to us in the building we see, which, however, is later than the Reformation. [Illustration: DARTFORD CHURCH AND BRIDGE] The churchyard upon which John Grovehurst was allowed to erect a chimney was till about the middle of the nineteenth, century larger than it now is, part of it at that time being taken "to make the road more commodious for passengers." This road was of course the Pilgrims' Road, the Watling Street. That this always passed to the south of the church is certain, but it may have turned a little in ancient time to take the ford. It turns a little to-day to approach the bridge, and thereafter climbs the East Hill. If Dartford is poor in history, nevertheless it is worth a visit of more than an hour or so for its own sake, as I have said. It boasts of a good inn also, and the country and villages round about are delicious. All that upper valley of the Darent, for instance, in which lie Darenth, Sutton-at-Hone, Horton Kirby, and, a little way off Fawkham, Eynsford, and Lullingstone, is worth the trouble of seeing for its own beauty and delight. But the goal of my journey from the highway was reached at Eynsford. Here indeed I found my justification for leaving the road while on pilgrimage to Canterbury. For not only is Eynsford a beautiful place in itself, beautifully situated, but it was the quarrel which William de Eynesford had with St Thomas Becket, when the great archbishop was in residence at Otford Castle, that led to the murder in Canterbury Cathedral and the great pilgrimage which has brought even us at this late day on our way. St Martin's Church, whose spire rises so charmingly out of the orchards white with spring, has a fine western doorway and tower of Norman work, and a chancel and south transept lighted by Early English lancets. That tower certainly heard the rumour of St Thomas's murder, and frightened men no doubt crowded into that western door to hear William de Eynesford denounced from the altar. Now when I had seen all this and reminded myself thus of that great tale which is England, I set out on my way back to Dartford, passing by the footpath through the park to the south-east towards Lullingstone Castle, which, however, is not older in the main than the end of the eighteenth century. They prevailed according to the legend and this as some say is the difference between the Men of Kent and the Kentish Men, for the former retained their old liberties and were never conquered, and these dwelt in the valley of Holmsdale; but the rest were merely _victi_. As the old rhyme has it- The vale of Holmsdale Never conquered, never shall. [Illustration: THE GATEWAY OF THE MONASTERY CLOSE, ROCHESTER] [Illustration: ROCHESTER] They might seem to have died in vain; their cause, as old as Christendom, might seem to have been long since defeated. Not so: this battle truly is decided, but in their favour, and my little son may live to see the glory of their victory. For he shall know and believe in his heart that his love and hope are set upon a country and a city founded in the heavens of which David sang, to which St John looked forth from Patmos, and of which these our Saints have told us. ROCHESTER TO FAVERSHAM Now, as to this story, all I have to say of it is that I do not believe a word of it. Not because I am blinded by any sentimentalism of to-day, which, as in a child's story, brings all right for everyone in the end; but for this very cogent reason that of all created beings Our Lady is the most merciful, loving and tender--Refugium Peccatorum. Here Sampietro, who is always impetuous and knew very well what He meant, dared to interrupt, "Il Santissimo can't blame me," said he huffily. "Il Santissimo does not suppose they all come in by the gate? _Che Che!_" St Christopher who bore Our Lord Across the flood--O precious Load So I prayed, "er I come to Sidingborne," as Chaucer says. From Sittingbourne I wandered out to Borden, lovely in itself and in its situation upon the rising ground under the North Downs. It possesses a very fine church with a low Norman tower and western door of the same date. Within is a very nobly carved Norman arch under the belfry. If Schamel was, as it were, the western part of Sittingbourne with its chapel and hermitage, Swanstree was the eastern part, and it, too, had its chapel of St Cross and its hospital of St Leonard. There is, however, this difference, that, whereas the priest and people of Sittingbourne did all they could to suppress the chapel and hermitage of Schamel, they on the contrary did all they could to encourage the chapel and hospital of Swanstree. Why? Because pilgrims coming from London or the north with full pockets towards Canterbury, would reach Schamel _before_ passing through Sittingbourne, but Swanstree only _after_ passing through the town! Almost every stone has disappeared of the abbey church in which lay Stephen, his Queen, and their son. It stood on the northern side of the town, where indeed the Abbey Farm still remains. It is to the parish church of Our Lady of Charity that we must turn for any memory of the conventual house where many a pilgrim must often have knelt to venerate the relic of the Holy Cross. We are told by local tradition or gossip that the tomb at the end of the south aisle is that of King Stephen. This, however, could only be true if this were indeed the church of the monastery. The tomb is Decorated in style and has a canopy, but is without inscription. Our Lady of Charity was, however, chiefly famous for its chapel of St Thomas of Canterbury on the north side of the chancel, and for its altars of SS. Crispin and Crispian and of St Erasmus. Many pilgrims turned aside from the road to visit Faversham which was not a station on the pilgrimage, for the sake of these shrines and altars and especially to pray in the chapel of St Thomas. This day is called the feast of Crispian; He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by From this day to the ending of the world, But we on it shall be remembered. Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter, Warwick, and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester FAVERSHAM TO CANTERBURY The older part of the parish of Boughton is South Street, where, however, nothing now remains older than the sixteenth century at the earliest. Here, however, was anciently a wayside chapel to the south of the road where now Holy Lane turns out of it. About a mile, or rather less, to the south, and clean off the road, stands on the crest of a steep, though not a high hill, the lovely village of Boughton under Blee, which, curiously enough, if we consider what is omitted, is mentioned by Chaucer, All that wonder which greets you from Mad Tom's corner upon Boughton Hill is, rightly understood, the work of St Thomas, and we might say indeed that the great Angel Steeple was the last of his miracles for it is the last of the Gothic in England, and it rose above his tomb, while that tomb was still a shrine and a monument in the hearts of men. For "the church dedicated to St Thomas erects itself," as Erasmus says, "with such majesty towards Heaven that even from a distance it strikes religious awe into the beholders." So I went on my way in the mid-afternoon down hill to what in my heart I knew to be Bob-up-and-down on the far side of which lies and climbs Harbledown and the hospital of St Nicholas. Wite ye nat wher ther stant a litel town Which that y-cleped is Bop-up-and-down Under the Blee in Caunterbury weye? The chapel became in time the parish church of this little place on the hillside which grew up about the hospital which itself was probably placed here on account of the spring of water known as St Thomas's or the Black Prince's well, south and west of the building. Most of the chapel is of Norman building, the western doorway for instance, the pillars and round arches on the north of the nave dating from Lanfranc's time. But the south side is later, of the thirteenth century, and the font and choir are later still, being Perpendicular fifteenth century work. Below the hospital in the orchard is the old well known as St Thomas's. Above it grows an elder, surely a relic of the days of the Pilgrimage. For the elder was known as the wayfaring tree and was sacred to pilgrims and travellers. It is not strange then, that it should cool with its shade the spring of St Thomas; it is only strange that the vandal has spared it for us to bless. But why the elder was sacred to travellers I do not know. Wayfaring Tree! What ancient claim Hast thou to that right pleasant name? Was it that some faint pilgrim came Unhopedly to thee In the brown desert's weary way 'Midst thirst and toils consuming sway, And there, as 'neath thy shade he lay, Blessed the Wayfaring Tree? But doggerel never solved anything. In truth a very different story is told of the elder and on good authority too. For if we may not trust Sir John Maundeville who tells us that, "Fast by the Pool of Siloe is the elder tree on which Judas hanged himself when he sold and betrayed our Lord," Shakespeare says that, "Judas was hanged on an elder," and Piers Plowman records: Judas he japed With Jewish siller And sithen on an elder tree Hanged himsel. Felix locus, felix ecclesia In qua Thomae vivit memoria: Felix terra quae dedit praesulem Felix ilia quae fovit exsulem. In that hour of twilight, when even the modern world is hushed and it is possible to believe in God, I looked with a long look towards that glory which had greeted so often and for so many centuries the eager gaze of my ancestors, but I could not see for my eyes like theirs were full of tears. THE CITY OF ST THOMAS When a man, alone or in a company, entered Canterbury at last by the long road from London, in the thirteenth, fourteenth or fifteenth century, he came into a city as famous as Jerusalem, as lovely as anything even in England, and as certainly alive and in possession of a soul as he was himself. When a man comes into Canterbury to-day he comes into a dead city. I say Canterbury is dead, for when the soul has departed from the body, that is death. Canterbury has lost its soul. Laureata novo Thoma, Sicut suo Petro Roma, Gaude Cantuaria! [Illustration: CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL FROM CHRISTCHURCH GATE] "When the King of France had made accord between St Thomas and King Henry, the Archbishop," Voragine tells us, "came home to Canterbury, where he was received worshipfully, and sent for them that had trespassed against him, and by the authority of the Pope's Bull openly denounced them accursed, unto the time they came to amendment. And when they heard this they came to him and would have made him assoil them by force; and sent word over to the King how he had done, whereof the King was much wroth and said: If he had men in his land that loved him they would not suffer such a traitor in his land alive. "On Christmas Day St Thomas made a sermon at Canterbury in his own church and, weeping, prayed the people to pray for him, for he knew well his time was nigh, and there executed the sentence on them that were against the right of Holy Church. And that same day as the King sat at meat all the bread that he handled waxed anon mouldy and hoar that no man might eat of it, and the bread that they touched not was fair and good for to eat. [Illustration: WEST GATE, CANTERBURY] Something of the great masterpiece that then perished is left to us especially without, and it is perhaps the most charming work remaining in the city, the tower of St Anselm, for instance, and much of the transept beside it. Of bishops and abbots, prior and parsons, Of earls and of barons and of many knights thereto, Of sergeants and of squires and of his husbandmen enow, And of simple men eke of the land--so thick hither drew. So was St Thomas vindicated and God avenged. And St Thomas reigned as was thought for ever on high, in the new sanctuary of his Cathedral Church. It has been said that the failure of William of Sens' design was due to the meanness of the monks of Christ Church. But meanness is not an English failing; on the contrary, our great fault is the very opposite, extravagance. It was surely not meanness and at such a time and in such a cause that forced the monastery to deny William of Sens the free hand he desired; it was prejudice and a fear, almost barbaric; of destruction. The monks forced their builder to accommodate the new choir to what remained of the old work. They refused to sacrifice St Anselm's tower on the south or the tower of St Andrew on the north, therefore the wide choir of Canterbury, already wider than the nave and growing wider still as it went eastward, had to be strangled between them, and to open again as well as it could into the Trinity Chapel and the Corona. All that was old, too, and that they loved they used; the old piers of the crypt were to remain and still to support the pillars of the choir, which were thus, no doubt to William's disgust, unequally placed so that here the arches are pointed but there round. In many ways William must have considered his employers barbarians, and in the true sense of that much abused term, he was right. No man brought up in the Greek and Latin traditions would have hesitated to destroy in order to build anew. The English cannot do that; they patch and make do, and what must be new they cannot love until it is old; their buildings are not so much works of art as growths, and there is much to be said for them. Only here at Canterbury their prejudice has been a misfortune. Not even the most convinced Englishman can look upon the twisted and constricted choir of Canterbury and rejoice. French, spoiled by English prejudice, but undoubtedly French for all that. To the same period belong the great western screen of the choir, the Chapel of St Michael and the Warrior's Chapel in the south transept, the Lady Chapel in the north transept, the Chantry and the tomb of Henry IV. in the Trinity Chapel, the Black Prince's Chantry and the screens of the Lady Chapel in the Crypt, the upper part of the Chapter House, now lost to us by restoration, and the south-west Tower. But in Canterbury to-day St Thomas is really a stranger, no relic, scarcely a remembrance of him remains; yet he was the soul of the city, he is named in the calendar of his Church St Thomas of Canterbury. And He looked at me and smiled, and stretching forth His hands and looking all about He answered: "But I spoke of the flowers." THE VALLEY OF THE STOUR [Illustration: ON THE STOUR NEAR CANTERBURY] Now, when I had well considered all this, I went on to that loveliness which is Chilham; passing as I went, that earthwork older than any history called Julaber's Grave, marked by a clump of fir trees. Here of old they thought to find the grave of that Quintus Laberius, who fell as Caesar relates, at the head of his men, on the march to the Thames; but it was probably already older when Caesar passed by, than it would have been now if he had built it. [Illustration: CHILHAM] By a bank as I lay, I lay, Musing on things past, heigh ho! In the merry month of May O towards the close of day- Methought I heard at last- O the gentle nightingale, The lady and the mistress of all musick; She sits down ever in the dale Singing with her notes smale And quavering them wonderfully thick. O for joy my spirits were quick To hear the bird how merrily she could sing, And I said, good Lord, defend England with Thy most holy hand And save noble George our King. THE WEALD AND THE MARSH I went under a fine rain on a day of married white and blue, and even before I had forgot Ashford, which was long before I crossed the Stour, the rain had ceased, the sun shone forth and a great wind came out of the marsh and the sea full of good tidings, so that climbing up to Great Chart I laughed in my heart to be in England on such a day and on such a road. was only the consequent on time; not flowing from, but following after the building of that steeple." Post hoc, propter hoc and this silly old man has been held up to all ensuing ages as an absurdly simple old fellow. But what after all if he should be right in part at least? Tenterden church, we are told, belonged to the Abbey of St Augustine in Canterbury, which also owned the Goodwin Sands, part, it is said, of the immense domain of Earl Godwin. Now it was in their hands that the money collected throughout Kent for the building and fencing of the coast against the sea had always been placed. We learn that "when the sea had been very quiet for many years without any encroachings," the abbot commuted that money to the building of a steeple and endowing of the church in Tenterden, so that the sea walls were neglected. If this be so, that oldest inhabitant was not such a fool as he seems to look. I slept under the shadow of Tenterden steeple and very early in the morning set out for Appledore, where I crossed the canal and came into the Marsh. I cannot hope to express my enthusiasm for this strange and mysterious country so full of the music of running water, with its winding roads, its immense pastures, its cattle and sheep and flowers, its far away great hills and at the end, though it has no end, the sea. It mixes with the sea indeed as the sky does, so that no man far off can say this is land or this is water. [Illustration: A CORNER OF ROMNEY MARSH] Nothing so glorious and so old remains in Old Romney, where the church of St Clement has nothing I think, earlier than the thirteenth century, and little of that, being mainly a building of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and yet it is not to be despised, for where else in the Marsh will you find anything more picturesque or anything indeed more English? Indeed, to liken Rye to any other place is to do her wrong, for both in herself and in that landscape over which she broods, there is enough beauty and enough character to give her a life and a meaning altogether her own. From afar off, from Winchelsea, for instance, in the sunlight, she seems like a town in a missal, crowned by that church which seems so much bigger than it is, gay and warm and yet with something of the greyness of the sea and the sea wind about her, a place that, as so few English places do, altogether makes a picture in the mind, and is at unity with itself. So far as we know the only religious to be found in What comforte reste them then To ease them of ther smarte But for to thincke and myndful bee Of them they love in harte? And sicke that they assured bee Ehche toe another in harte That nothinge shall them seperate Untylle deathe doe them parte? And thoughe the dystance of the place Doe severe us in twayne, Yet shall my harte thy harte imbrace Tyll we doe meete agayne. [Illustration: WINCHELSEA CHURCH] But Winchelsea has other ruins and other memories besides those to be found in the parish church. THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS [Illustration: BATTLE ABBEY] What spoliation, time and neglect have left of the Abbey is beautiful, especially the great fourteenth century gateway which faces the Market Green. Nothing save the foundations is left of the great church. From the terrace, doubtless, we look across the battlefield, but all is so changed, the bleak hill-top has become a superb garden, that it is impossible to realise still less to reconstruct the battle, and indeed since we can only visit the place amid a crowd of tourists, our present discomfort makes any remembrance of the fight or of the great and solemn abbey which for so long turned that battlefield into a sanctuary impossible. LEWES AND SIMON DE MONTFORT I do not know of a more beautiful town than Lewes in all the wide south country; it is beautiful not only in itself but in its situation, set there upon an isolated hill over the Ouse and surrounded, as though they were great natural bastions set there in her defence, by Malling Hill on the north, Mount Caburn on the west, the broken heights of the Downs to the south, through which the Ouse flows towards Newhaven and the sea, and on the east by Mount Harry under which was fought the very famous battle of Lewes in which Simon de Montfort took his king prisoner. [Illustration: LEWES CASTLE] Let me now return to the Priory which, in the development of the town, played a part at least as great as that of the Castle. But it is not in the churches we have in Lewes that we shall to-day find the symbol, as it were, of that old town, still so fair a thing, which held the passage of the Ouse through the Downs and in the thirteenth century witnessed the great battle in which Simon de Montfort, mystic and soldier, defeated and took captive his king. For that we must go to the Castle ruin that crowns Lewes as with a battlement. Such was the battle of Lewes, which gave all England to De Montfort for more than a year; till indeed Lewes was reversed, by Prince Edward who, escaping from his hands at Hereford, gathered a new army about him and forced Simon to meet him upon the field of Evesham where, when the great soldier-mystic saw the royal banners upon the dawn, he cried out that last great word of his, "The Lord have mercy on our souls for our bodies are Prince Edward's": to be answered when he demanded mercy, "there is no treating with traitors." [Illustration: THE DOWNS] For me indeed the Downs, long as I have known them, remain most dear as a spectacle, but this you will miss altogether if you are actually upon them, lost amid their rolling waves of green turf with only the sky and the wind and the sun for companions. Therefore when I set out from Lewes to go westward I did not take the way up past the racecourse over the battlefield south of Mount Harry towards Ditchling Camp and Beacon. Let me confess it, I followed the road. And what a road! In all South England I know no other that offers the traveller such a spectacle, where above him, in full view, that great rampart stands up like a wall, peak speaks to peak, till presently with a majesty and a splendour, not to be matched I think in our island, Chanctonbury stands forth like a king crowned as with laurel towering upon the horizon. Such is the aspect of this great country as we see it to-day from any of the heights north and south of it; but what is its true character and what is its history? Such then was the nature of the barrier which lay between the ports of the Channel and the valley of the Thames. The Weald was indeed inhuman, and this helps to explain why it was not only a barrier but a refuge. All this came out of the Weald; but it is most significant for us because it allows us to understand the nature of this refuge and what it offered in the way of safety to an exile. [Illustration: THE WEALD OF SUSSEX, NORTH OF LEWES] But it is not in honour of St Hugh, Bishop of Grenoble, that the monastery at Parkminster is dedicated, but of quite another saint. When Henry II. set out to found a Carthusian house in England in obedience to the Pope, the place he chose for it was Witham in Selwood, a solitude, for the Rule of the Order demanded it, and that is also why we have this monastery in the Weald to-day. It bears witness as nothing else could do to-day, perhaps, to the true character of the Weald. And at any rate, even though you may not agree with me so far, in this at least I shall carry you with me, when I say that this monastery, and especially because it is Carthusian, bears out the old character of the Weald and endorses it. I have said the Weald was ever a wild and inhuman place where only few men could go together, without great towns and with only infrequent villages; not a thick or impenetrable woodland but a difficult and a lonely country sparsely scattered with steadings. Well, it is such places that the Carthusians have ever sought out for their houses, such was Witham and such was the Grande Chartreuse also. That a Carthusian monastery should have been founded to-day in the midst of the Weald proves, if anything can, that it has not yet wholly lost its character. TO ARUNDEL AND CHICHESTER William de Braose, who made Bramber his chief seat, must have had an enormous influence upon building in this neighbourhood, which abounds in Norman churches such as those of Botolphs and Coombes, to say nothing of those at Shoreham Old and New; but he was by no means the only renewer of life here. Now, when I had been reminded of all this, I was directed to visit Buncton Chapel to the north of Wiston Park, where I found indeed some Norman work in the nave and chancel arch. And so I went on my way through the failing afternoon by that beautiful road within sight of the high Downs to the Washington Inn, where I slept, for it is a quiet place not to be passed by. And on the morrow I went on my way, still through as fair a country as is to be found in all South England, through Storrington, and so by way of Parham Park, with its noble Elizabethan house and little church with the last leaden font in Sussex, a work of the fourteenth century, to Amberley in the meads of the Arun, a dear and beautiful place. [Illustration: ARUNDEL CASTLE] I had often read of the unique vaulting of the choir of Boxgrove Priory, but the twilight was so deep in the church, for it was already evening, that I could not see it. I saw, however, the empty tomb, very fine and splendid, of the Earl de la Warr, who begged Boxgrove of Thomas Cromwell unsuccessfully; and then I went out and marched on into Chichester, the East Gate of which I entered not long after dark. [Illustration: THE MARKET CROSS, CHICHESTER] St Richard was not only a popular hero and saint both before and after his death, to him and his shrine is due very much that is most lovely in the Cathedral, and it was he who really reformed the chapter there. No cathedral, I think, and certainly no lesser church in England is so completely representative of the whole history of our architecture as is Chichester. In Salisbury we have the most uniform building in our island, in Chichester the most various, for it possesses work in every style, from the time of the Saxons to that of Sir Gilbert Scott. A few tombs of interest or beauty, which the Puritans failed to destroy, remain to this great Catholic building. These are the tombs of St Richard, of which I have spoken, in the north transept against the choir, the restored Arundel Chantry and tomb of Richard Fitzalan in the north aisle of the nave, and the exquisite Decorated tomb in the chapel of St John Baptist at the eastern end of this aisle; little beside. At any rate it is by far the most interesting thing left to us in the city. The other churches, except perhaps St Olave's, are not worth a visit; even in St Olave's everything has been done to make it as little interesting as possible. SELSEY, BOSHAM AND PORCHESTER The church and monastery which St Wilfrid thus founded at Selsey, thereby establishing the bishopric of Sussex, have long since disappeared beneath the sea. Camden, however, tells us that he saw the foundations at low water; they lay about a mile to the east of the little church of Our Lady, which remained complete until the middle of the nineteenth century, when it was all pulled down except the chancel which we see to-day in the graveyard which it serves as chapel. It is a work of the fourteenth century, and within is the fine sixteenth-century monument of John Lews and his wife. The old Norman font has been removed to the new church of St Peter at Selsey, built largely out of old materials. There, too, is an Elizabethan chalice and paten of the sixteenth century. It is as though at Bosham we were able to catch a glimpse, as it were, of all that darkness out of which we are come by the guiding of a star. [Illustration: BOSHAM] At any rate, the mediaeval builder of Porchester Castle used, with the help of rebuildings and patchings, the Roman fortifications, which did not perhaps differ very much, and not at all in form, from those we see. Roman Porchester was just what mediaeval Porchester was, a great fortress, not a "city," nor a village, but a port similar to the others that lined the Saxon shore from the Wash to Beachey Head. As we see it to-day the keep of Porchester Castle resembles that of Rochester, not only in its appearance, though there it comes short, but in its arrangement. It is, however, surrounded by some later ruins of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the use of which has, I think, never been ascertained. When I left Porchester I went on into Fareham to sleep, and next morning set out by train, for it was raining, to go to Clausentum. Before I left the railway, however, the weather began to clear, and presently the sun broke through the clouds, so that when I came into Clausentum the whole world was again full of joy. Of the greatness of Southampton in the Middle Age, however, there can be no doubt. It was the best exit out of that England into Normandy, the natural port of the capital Winchester, and its whole record is full of glory. It was in a very real sense the gate of England. Hither came the great ships from the South and the East, from the ports of Normandy and Anjou, from Bayonne and Venice, with wine and Eastern silks, leather from Cordova, swords and daggers from Toledo, spices from India, and sugars from Egypt. Here the merchants disembarked to trade in the capital or to attend the great fair of St Giles; hither came the pilgrims, thousands upon thousands, to follow the old road from Winchester to the Shrine of St Thomas at Canterbury; while out of Southampton streamed the chivalry of the Crusades; hence "cheerly to sea" sailed the fleets of Coeur de Lion for Palestine, of Edward III. for France, the army that won at Crecy, the army that won at Agincourt. All the glory of mediaeval England Southampton has seen pass by. That the abandonment of Guienne and Aquitaine by the English was a severe blow to Southampton is certain, but still it had the Venice trade, the "Flanders Galleys" laden with the spoil of the East, the wines of the Levant, the "fashions of proud Italy"; and the real decline of Southampton dates from the moment when Venice too was wounded even to death by the discovery of the Cape route to the East and the rise of Portugal. [Illustration: THE TUDOR HOUSE, OPPOSITE ST MICHAEL'S CHURCH, SOUTHAMPTON] BEAULIEU AND CHRISTCHURCH I do not know how this strikes another who shall see it to-day, in all its useless beauty, in the midst of our restless and unhappy England; but what I felt has already been expressed and by so good an Englishman as William Cobbett. "Now I daresay," he writes, "that you are a very good Protestant; and I am a monstrous good Protestant too. We cannot bear the Pope, nor "they there priests that makes men confess there sins and go down upon their marrow-bones before them." But let us give the devil his due; and let us not act worse by these Roman Catholics (who by the by were our forefathers) than we are willing to act by the devil himself. Now then here were a set of monks. None of them could marry, of course none of them could have wives and families. They could possess no private property; they could bequeath nothing; they could own nothing but that which they owned in common with the rest of their body. They could hoard no money; they could save nothing. Whatever they received as rent for their lands, they must necessarily spend upon the spot, for they never could quit that spot. They did spend it all upon the spot; they kept all the poor. Beaulieu and all round about Beaulieu saw no misery, and had never heard the damned name of pauper pronounced as long as those Monks continued. It was not without due cause and reason that I wished to see, instead of an Apostle disputing, England before the fall. Indeed I am sure that I should not have been unwise to exchange "Rome in her flower" for such a sight as that; Christchurch proves it. The report stated that the church was superfluous. It was the only true word written there. When a religion is destroyed, its temples are certainly superfluous. However, there was a considerable influence brought to bear by the people of the neighbourhood, and the church itself was granted them for their use. The Priory, which stood to the south of the church, was, of course, destroyed. Now when I had seen all this, to say nothing of the old school-room over the Lady Chapel and the Norman house and castle mound of the De Redvers, somewhat sorrowful for many things, I began to think again of the Forest, and immediately set out where the road led to Lyndhurst, and this just before midday. THE NEW FOREST AND ROMSEY ABBEY Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat; Come hither, come hither, come hither There are days in life of which it can only be said, that they are blessed; golden days, upon which, looking back, the sun seems to shine; they dazzle in the memory. Such was the day I spent in the byways of Holmsley and Burley, in the upper valleys of Avon water, Ober water and Black water, forest streams; in the silent woods, where all day long the sun showered its gold, sprinkling the deep shade with flowers and blossoms of light, where there was no wind but only the sighing of the woods, no sound but the whisper of the leaves or the rare flutter of a bird's wings, no thoughts but joyful thoughts filling the heart with innocence. Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats And pleased with what he gets; Come hither, come hither, come hither At evening I came to Lyndhurst. Athelstan king, Lord among earls, Bracelet bestower and Baron of barons; He with his brother Edmund Atheling Gaining a lifelong Glory in battle. Slew with the sword-edge, There by Brunanburh, Brake the shield wall, _Hew'd the lindenwood_, Hack'd the battleshield, Sons of Edward with hammered brands. Oak, beech, and holly, which so largely make up the woodland of the New Forest we have always had in England, but the limes which named Lyndhurst it is said we owe to someone else, and if so it can only be to the Roman. Of this great New Forest, Lyndhurst was made the capital and the administrative centre, and such it is still. In Domesday Book we read: "The King himself holds Lyndhurst, which appertained to Amesbury, which is of the King's farm." The memorial and inscription are of iron. The most famous thing that ever befell in the New Forest was this strange murder or misfortune which cost the Red King his life. It haunts the whole forest, and rightly understood fills it with meaning and can never have been or be far from the thoughts of anyone who wanders there, even as I have done in the excellent days of Spring. [Illustration: IN THE NEW FOREST] It would seem, according to Ordericus, that the whole country was full of stories of terrible visions concerning the end of the King long before his sudden death. Henry of Huntingdon, for instance, tells us that "blood had been seen to spring from the ground in Berkshire," and adds that "the King was rightly cut off in the midst of his injustice," for "England could not breathe under the burdens laid upon it." Ordericus himself says that "terrible visions respecting him were seen in the monasteries and cathedrals by the clergy of both classes, and becoming the talk of the vulgar in the market-places and churchyards, could not escape the notice of the King." He then gives a particular instance: "A certain monk of good repute and still better life, who belonged to the Abbey of St Peter at Gloucester, related that he had a dream in the visions of the night to this effect: 'I saw,' he said, 'the Lord Jesus seated on a lofty throne, and the glorious host of heaven, with the company of the saints, standing round. But while, in my ecstasy, I was lost in wonder, and my attention deeply fixed on such an extraordinary spectacle, I beheld a virgin resplendent with light cast herself at the feet of the Lord Jesus, and humbly address to Him this petition, "O Lord Jesus Christ, the Saviour of mankind, for which Thou didst shed Thy precious blood when hanging on the Cross, look with an eye of compassion on Thy people, which now groan under the yoke of William. Thou avenger of wickedness, and most just judge of all men, take vengeance I beseech Thee on my behalf of this William and deliver me out of his hands, for as far as lies in his power he hath polluted and grievously afflicted me." The Lord replied, "Be patient and wait awhile, and soon thou wilt be fully avenged of him." I trembled at hearing this and doubt not that the divine anger presently threatens the King; for I understood that the cries of the holy virgin, our mother the Church, had reached the ears of the Almighty by reason of the robberies, the foul adulteries and the heinous crimes of all sorts which the King and his courtiers cease not daily of committing against the divine law.'" On being informed of this, the venerable Abbot Serle wrote letters which he despatched in a friendly spirit from Gloucester informing the King very distinctly of all the monk had seen in his vision. "Nevertheless," adds William of Malmesbury, "being greatly moved, the King hesitated a long while whether he should go out to hunt as he designed; his friends persuading him not to suffer the truth of the dreams to be tried at his personal risk. In consequence he abstained from the chase before dinner, dispelling the uneasiness of his unregulated mind by serious business. They relate that having plentifully regaled that day, he soothed his cares with a more than usual quantity of wine." All this, I suppose, befell in the Castle of Malwood. Now when I had well considered all this, not without an orison for that misguided King, I set off for Cadnam, and holding now only to the road, marching fast, for it was late, I came over the ridge beyond Black water into the valley of the Test, and so entered Romsey a little after it was dark. [Illustration: ROMSEY ABBEY] And so considering all these strange things I went on to Winchester. The com kyng Egbryth Ant wyth batyle ant fyht Made al Englond yhol Falle to ys oune dol; Ant sethe he reignede her Ahte ant tuenti folle yer: At Wynchestre lyggeth ys bon, Buried in a marble-ston. [Illustration: NORTH TRANSEPT, WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL] Doubtless we are the heirs of the Ages, into our hearts and minds the Empire, the Middle Age and the Renaissance have poured their riches. Doubtless we are the flower of Time and our Age, the rose of all the Ages. That is why, in our wisdom, we have superseded such places as St Cross by our modern workhouses. [Illustration: ST CROSS, WINCHESTER] Now, though for any man who follows that road to-day it is filled with these great companies of pilgrims, there are older memories, too, which it evokes and which, if the history of England is precious to him, he cannot ignore. I considered these unfortunate and shameful things as I went on along this British, Roman, Saxon and English way, the way of armies and of pilgrims into Headbourne Worthy, whose church stands by the roadside on the north. The little village thus founded, certainly still existed in the time of the Conquest, and such it would always have remained but for Godfrey de Lucy, Bishop of Winchester, who, among his many achievements, numbers this chiefly that he made the Itchen navigable not only from Southampton to Winchester but here also in its headwaters, and this by means of the great reservoir, known as Alresford Pond, into which he gathered the waters of many streams to supply his navigation. In return, King John not only gave him the royalty of the river, but a weekly market here for which he rebuilt the place and called it New Market a name which was soon lost, the people preferring their old name New Alresford. So the market town of New Alresford came into existence, and, but for the unfortunate fires of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, would bear upon its face the marks it now lacks of antiquity. [Illustration: SELBORNE FROM THE HANGER] Bishop Sutton was the last place I was to see upon the old road, for a mile beyond that village I left it where it turned northward, to go east into Ripley and so by the byways to climb into the hills, and crossing them to descend steeply at evening into the village of Selborne by the Oakhanger stream just before it enters that narrow brief pass into the Weald. There in the twilight I stayed for awhile under the yew tree in the churchyard to think of the writer, for love of whom I had made this journey all the way from Winchester. End of Project Gutenberg's England of My Heart--Spring, by Edward Hutton	redpajama-book	11,490
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Beth Trapaga and PG Distributed Proofreaders THE LITERATURE OF ARABIA With Critical and Biographical Sketches by Epiphanius Wilson, A.M. THE ROMANCE OF ANTAR Introduction The Early Fortunes of Antar Khaled and Djaida The Absians and Fazareans THE ROMANCE OF ANTAR [_Translation by Etienne Delecluse and Epiphanius Wilson_] THE EARLY FORTUNES OF ANTAR At the time the "Romance of Antar" opens, the most powerful and the best governed of the Bedouin tribes were those of the Absians and the Adnamians. King Zoheir, chief of the Absians, was firmly established upon his throne, so that the kings of other nations, who were subject to him, paid him tribute. The whole of Arabia in short became subject to the Absians, so that all the chiefs of other tribes and all inhabitants of the desert dreaded their power and depredations. Among the young women was Ibla, daughter of Malek, the son of Zoheir. Ibla, fair as the full moon, was somewhat younger than Antar. She was accustomed to banter him in a familiar way, feeling that he was her slave. "And you," she said to him, "you, born so low, how dared you kill the slave of a prince? What provocation can you have against him?" "Mistress," replied Antar, "I struck that slave because he deserved it, for he had insulted a poor woman. He knocked her down, and made her the laughing stock of all the servants." "Of course you were right," answered Ibla, with a smile, "and we were all delighted that you escaped from the adventure safe and sound. Because of the service you have rendered us by your conduct, our mothers look upon you as a son, and we as a brother." It was from this incident that the love of Antar for the daughter of his uncle took its origin. He saw how Ibla shone in society, and his passion grew to such an extent that he ventured to sound her praises, and to express the feeling she excited in him by writing verses which, while they gained the admiration of the multitude, incurred also the envy of the chieftains. Moreover his father could not pardon the presumption of Antar, who, born a slave, had dared to cast eyes on his free-born cousin. When therefore he slew a slave who had slandered him, his father ordered him to be flogged, and sent away to watch over the cattle in the pastures. He had now before him a fresh opportunity for exhibiting his prodigious strength and invincible courage. A lion attempted to attack the herds committed to his care. He killed it at the very moment that his father Shedad, enraged against him, had come, accompanied by his brother, to do him ill. But a mingled feeling of admiration and fear held their hands, and in the evening, when Antar returned from the pastures, his father and his uncle made him seat himself at dinner with them, while the rest of the attendants stood behind them. In compliance with this request he recited a poem in praise of warriors and war, and the king and all the court manifested their delight. Zoheir bade Antar approach, gave him a robe of honor, and thanked him. That evening Antar departed with his father Shedad, his heart full of joy over the honors which had been lavished on him, and his love for Ibla still more heightened. In spite of the indisputable virtues of Antar, in spite of the great services he had rendered the Absians, the chieftains of this tribe still regarded him as merely a common slave and tender of cattle. The beginning of his rise to favor excited a feeling of keen hatred, and caused many plots to be laid against him. A series of intrigues was entered upon, the aim of which was the death of the hero. But each attack upon his reputation and his life redounded to his benefit, and furnished him with an opportunity of putting his enemies to silence and defeat. For by his generosity and magnanimity, even his envious foes felt themselves under obligation to him. On each of his triumphs the mutual love between himself and Ibla went on increasing. After the performance of many feats as a horseman, Antar came into possession of a famous horse named Abjer, and a sword of marvellous temper, Djamy--and every time he appeared on the field of combat, as well as when he returned victorious from the fight, he made a poetic address, finishing with the words, "I am the lover of Ibla." At the conclusion of a war in which he had performed prodigies of valor, King Zoheir gave him the surname of Alboufauris, which means, "The Father of Horsemen." The greater grew his name, the more highly he was honored by King Zoheir, so much the more did the hatred of the chieftains and the love of Ibla towards him increase. But it came to pass that Ibla was asked in marriage by Amarah, a stupid youth, puffed up by his wealth and lineage. Antar, on hearing the news, was transported with rage, and attacked his young rival with such violence that all the Arabian chiefs begged of Zoheir to punish the aggressor. The king left to Shedad, Antar's father, the pronouncing of sentence. Shedad had, like the others, viewed the rise of Antar, the black slave, to favor, with jealous eye, and sent him back to the pastures to keep the herds. These words of Ibla filled with rapture the heart of Antar, as he started for the pastures in company with his brothers, Djaris and Shidoub. At this time the tribe of Abs, which Zoheir ruled over, was at war with that of Tex, on account of the carrying off of Anima, daughter of the chief of the Tex, a man known as "The Drinker of Blood." Animated by the desire to take vengeance and recover his daughter, this chief and his army fell upon the Absians like a thunderbolt. The Absians were defeated, and their women, among whom was Ibla, taken prisoners. All pride was then, in this time of need, laid aside, and to their assistance Antar was summoned. But before acting Antar laid down his conditions, and stipulated that, in case he succeeded in subduing the foe and recovering the women, Ibla should be given him in marriage. Malek, the father of Ibla, and Shedad, the father of Antar, assented, and bound themselves by an oath to fulfil these conditions and to reinstate Antar in all the honors and dignities belonging to him. On his return Antar was received with a rapturous welcome by the Absian tribe. But the hostile and the envious continued to plot against him. They still aimed at preventing his marriage, and compassing his death. Amarah, who aspired to Ibla's hand, backed by all the chieftains hostile to Antar, renewed his suit and pretensions. Ibla was carried off from her house among the Absians, and taken to another tribe. Then Antar set out in search of her, and at length rescued her: their mutual love was intensified by this reunion. By a series of wiles and intrigues skilfully conducted, the chiefs who surrounded Ibla persuaded her to demand still further dowry from Antar. She spoke of Khaled and Djaida, whose history has already been related; she said, in presence of Antar, that that young warrior girl would not consent to marry Khaled, saving on the condition that her camel's bridle be held by the daughter of Moawich. This word was sufficient for Antar, and he promised to Ibla that Djaida should hold the bridle of her camel on her wedding day; and more than that, the head of Khaled should be slung round the neck of the warrior girl. Thus the hero, constantly loving and beloved by Ibla, incessantly deceived by the cunningly devised obstacles raised by his foes, sustained his reputation for greatness of character and strength of arm, submitted with resignation to the severest tests, and passed victoriously through them all. After the death of King Zoheir, whom he avenged, he undertook to assist Cais, Zoheir's son, in all his enterprises, and after a long series of adventures which tired the patience, love, and courage of Antar, this hero, recognized as chief among Arabian chieftains, obtained the great reward of his long struggles and mighty toils, by marriage to his well-loved Ibla. Zahir continued his journey, until he reached the Saad tribe, when he dismounted from his horse. He was cordially received and was pressed to take up his abode with them. His wife was at that time soon to become a mother, and he said to her: "If a son is given to us, he will be right welcome; but if it be a daughter, conceal her sex and let people think we have a male child, so that my brother may have no reason to crow over us." When her time came Zahir's wife brought into the world a daughter. They agreed that her name should be actually Djaida, but that publicly she should be known as Djonder, that people might take her for a boy. In order to promote this belief, they kept up feasting and entertainment early and late for many days. About the same time Moharib, the other brother, had a son born to him, whom he named Khaled (The Eternal). He chose this name in gratitude to God, because, since his brother's departure, his affairs had prospered well. Her cousin Khaled, on the other hand, distinguished himself equally by his brilliant courage. His father Moharib, a wise and prudent chief, had built houses of entertainment for strangers; all horsemen found a welcome there. Khaled had been brought up in the midst of warriors. In this school his spirit had been formed, here he had learned to ride, and at last had become an intrepid warrior, and a redoubtable hero. It was soon perceived by the rest of the army that his spirit and valor were unconquerable. The soul of Djaida felt keenly this indignity. She brooded over it--sleepless and without appetite. Some days afterwards, as her father was preparing with his horsemen to make a foray against his foes, his glance fell on Djaida, and seeing how altered she was in face, and dejected in spirit, he refrained from saying anything, thinking and hoping that she would surely become herself again after a short time. Khaled filled with confusion withdrew to his tent, not knowing what to do, nor what would be the end of the passionate love which he suddenly felt rise within him. He was seized with disgust for all these warlike habits and tastes, which had reduced him to the melancholy plight in which he found himself. His distaste for women was changed into love. He sent for his mother and related to her all that had occurred. "My son," she said, "all these circumstances should render Djaida still dearer to you. Wait patiently a little, until I have been able to go and ask her of her mother." She straightway mounted her camel, and started through the desert on the tracks of Djaida, who immediately on her arrival home had told her mother all that had happened. As soon as the mother of Khaled had arrived, she flung herself into the arms of her kinswoman and demanded Djaida in marriage for her son, for Zahir had not yet returned from his foray. When Djaida heard from her mother the request of Khaled, she said, "This shall never be, though I be forced to drink the cup of death. That which occurred at his tents was brought about by me to quench the fire of my grief and unhappiness, and soothe the anguish of my heart." Khaled proceeded to rejoin the slaves whom he had left a little way off, and ordered them to carry to the tents the beasts he had slain. Trembling with fright at the view of what Khaled had done, they extolled him with admiration above all other champions of the land. The feasts meanwhile went on, and all who came were welcomed with magnificence. The maidens sounded their cymbals; the slaves waved their swords in the air, and the young girls sang from morn till evening. It was in the midst of such rejoicings that Djaida and Khaled were married. Amima, the daughter of Moawich, held the reins of the young bride's camel, and men and women alike extolled the glory of Djaida. THE ABSIANS AND FAZAREANS The tribe highly applauded this act, and Jahir was so humiliated by the generosity with which he had been treated, that he returned mare and colt to Kerim, adding to the gift a pair of male and a pair of female camels. Dahir soon became a horse of absolute perfection in every point, and when his master Kerim undertook to race him with another horse, he rode the animal himself, and was in the habit of saying to his antagonist, "Even should you pass me like an arrow, I could catch you up, and distance you," and in fact this always happened. As soon as King Cais heard tell of this horse, he became beside himself with longing and mortification, and his sleep left him. He sent to Kerim, offering to buy the horse for as much gold or silver as the owner demanded, and adding that the price would be forwarded without delay. This message enraged Kerim. "Is not this Cais a fool, or a man of no understanding?" he exclaimed. "Does he think I am a man of traffic--a horse-dealer, who cannot mount the horses he owns? I swear by the faith of an Arab that if he had asked for Dahir, as a present, I would have sent the horse, and a troop of camels besides: but if he thinks of obtaining him by bidding a price, he will never have him; even were I bound to drink the cup of death." The messenger returned to Cais, and gave him the answer of Kerim, at which the latter was much annoyed. "Am I a king over the tribes of Abs, of Adnan, of Fazarah, and of Dibyan," he exclaimed, "and yet a common Arab dares to oppose me!" He summoned his people and his warriors. Immediately there was the flash of armor, of coats of mail, and swords and helmets appeared amid the tents; the champions mounted their steeds, shook their spears, and marched forth against the tribe of Byah. As soon as they reached their enemy's territory they overran the pastures, and gathered an immense booty in cattle, which Cais divided among his followers. They next made for the tents and surprised the dwellers there, who were not prepared for such an attack: Kerim being absent with his warriors on an expedition of the same sort. Cais at the head of the Absians, pushing his way into the dwellings, carried off the wives and daughters of his foe. Now it came to pass that at this time Hadifah gave a great feast, and Carwash, kinsman of King Cais, was present. At the end of the meal, and while the wine circulated freely the course of conversation turned to the most famous chiefs of the time. The subject being exhausted, the guests began to speak about their most celebrated horses, and next, of the journeys made by them in the desert. "Kinsmen," said Carwash, "none of you ever saw a horse like Dahir, which belongs to my ally Cais. It is vain to seek his equal; his pace is absolutely terrifying. He chases away sorrow from the heart of him who beholds him, and protects like a strong tower the man who mounts him." Carwash did not stop here, but continued to praise, in the highest and most distinguished language, the horse Dahir, until all of the tribe of Fazarah and of the family of Zyad, felt their hearts swell with rage. "Do you hear him, brother?" said Haml to Hadifah; "come, that is enough," he added, turning towards Carwash. "All that you have said about Dahir is absolute nonsense--for at present there are no horses better or finer than mine, and those of my brother." As soon as King Cais had regained his tents he hastened to tell his slaves to begin the training of his horses, and to pay especial attention to Dahir. Then he told his kinsmen all that had taken place between himself and Hadifah. Antar was present at this recital, and as he took great interest in all that concerned the king, he said, "Cais, calm your fears, keep your eyes well open, run the race, and have no fear. For, by the faith of an Arab, if Hadifah makes any trouble or misunderstanding, I will kill him, as well as the whole tribe of Fazarah." "If Hadifah had not been surrounded by certain chiefs, who gave him treacherous counsels, I could have arranged the whole affair," answered Cais. "There is now nothing left but to carry out the race and the bet." At these words the heart of Hadifah swelled with rage and indignation, and he swore with an oath that he would not let his horse run that day, but that he wished the race to take place at sunrise, next morning. This delay was indispensable to him in preparing the act of perfidy which he meditated, for he had no sooner seen Dahir than he was speechless with astonishment at the beauty and perfections of the horse. All the spectators were astounded on seeing the agility and endurance of Shidoub; but as soon as Ghabra had reached the finish the Fazareans uttered loud shouts of joy. Dahir was led home all bleeding, and his rider told the men of the tribe of Abs what the slave had done. Cais examined the wound of his horse and asked for full details of the occurrence. Antar grew crimson with anger, and laid his hand upon his invincible sword, as if impatient to annihilate the tribe of the Fazareans. But the sheiks restrained him, although with difficulty, after which they went to Hadifah to cover him with shame, and to reproach him with the infamous deed he had done. Hadifah denied it, with false oaths, affirming that he knew nothing of the blow dealt to Dahir; then he added, "I demand the camels which are due to me, and I do not admit the treacherous pretext on which they are being withheld." As Abou-Firacah reminded his father that it was now near night-fall, the message was postponed until the next day. As for Cais, when he re-entered his home, he learned from his wife that Abou-Firacah had come to ask for the camels. "By the faith of an Arab," he said, "if I had been here I would have slain him. But the matter is closed; let us think no more of it." Yet King Cais passed the night in grief and annoyance until sunrise, at which time he betook himself to his tent Antar came to see him. Cais rose, and making him take a seat, mentioned the name of Hadifah. "Would you believe he had the shamelessness to send his son to demand the camels of me? Ah, if I had been present I would have slain the messenger." Scarcely had he finished uttering these words when Abou-Firacah presented himself on horseback. Without dismounting, and uttering no word of salutation or preface, he said: "Cais, my father desires that you send him that which is his due; by so doing your conduct will be that of a generous man; but if you refuse, my father will come against you, carry off his property by force, and plunge you into misfortune." At break of day Hadifah was on horseback; the warriors were ready, and only women and children and the feeble were left in the tents. Cais, on the other hand, after slaying Abou-Firacah, expected that the Fazareans would come and attack himself and his warriors; he therefore prepared for battle. Antar was charged with taking the necessary reconnoitre. He left in the tents only women, children, and those too feeble to bear the sword; then he put himself in command of the heroes of Carad. Nothing could be more brilliant than the ranks of the Absians in their coats of mail and gleaming weapons. These preparations caused an anxious moment for both parties. They marched forth against each other, and the sun had scarcely appeared, before scimitars flashed, and the whole country was in a turmoil. SELECTIONS FROM ARABIAN POETRY [_Translation by J.D. Carlyle_] "Nor want nor weakness still conspires To bind us to a sordid state; The fly that with a touch expires, Sips honey from the royal plate." This is undoubtedly a very original way of stating the philosophic axiom of the Augustan poet, "The lord of boundless revenues, Do not salute as happy." Rayana say, how many a tedious year Its hallow'd circle o'er our heads hath roll'd, Since to my vows thy tender maids gave ear, And fondly listened to the tale I told? How oft, since then, the star of spring, that pours A never-failing stream, hath drenched thy head? How oft, the summer cloud in copious showers Or gentle drops its genial influence shed? How oft since then, the hovering mist of morn Hath caus'd thy locks with glittering gems to glow? How oft hath eve her dewy treasures borne To fall responsive to the breeze below? The large-eyed mother of the herd that flies Man's noisy haunts, here finds a sure retreat, Here watches o'er her young, till age supplies Strength to their limbs and swiftness to their feet. Save where the swelling stream hath swept those walls And giv'n their deep foundations to the light (As the retouching pencil that recalls A long-lost picture to the raptur'd sight). Save where the rains have wash'd the gathered sand And bared the scanty fragments to our view, (As the dust sprinkled on a punctur'd hand Bids the faint tints resume their azure hue). Yet, midst those ruin'd heaps, that naked plain, Can faithful memory former scenes restore, Recall the busy throng, the jocund train, And picture all that charm'd us there before. Ne'e shall my heart the fatal morn forget That bore the fair ones from these seats so dear- I see, I see the crowding litters yet, And yet the tent-poles rattle in my ear. I see the maids with timid steps descend, The streamers wave in all their painted pride, The floating curtains every fold extend, And vainly strive the charms within to hide. What graceful forms those envious folds enclose! What melting glances thro' those curtains play! Sure Weira's antelopes, or Tudah's roes Thro' yonder veils their sportive young survey! The band mov'd on--to trace their steps I strove, I saw them urge the camel's hastening flight, Till the white vapor, like a rising grove, Snatch'd them forever from my aching sight. _Lebid Ben Rabiat Alamary_. Friends of my heart, who share my sighs! Go seek the turf where Mano lies, And woo the dewy clouds of spring, To sweep it with prolific wing. Within that cell, beneath that heap, Friendship and Truth and Honor sleep, Beneficence, that used to clasp The world within her ample grasp. But tho' in dust thy relics lie, Thy virtues, Mano, ne'er shall die; Tho' Nile's full stream be seen no more, That spread his waves from shore to shore, Still in the verdure of the plain His vivifying smiles remain. Blest are the tenants of the tomb! With envy I their lot survey! For Sayid shares the solemn gloom, And mingles with their mouldering clay. Dear youth! I'm doom'd thy loss to mourn When gathering ills around combine; And whither now shall Malec turn, Where look for any help but thine? At this dread moment when the foe My life with rage insatiate seeks, In vain I strive to ward the blow, My buckler falls, my sabre breaks. Upon thy grassy tomb I knelt, And sought from pain a short relief- Th' attempt was vain--I only felt Intenser pangs and livelier grief. The bud of woe no more represt, Fed by the tears that drench'd it there, Shot forth and fill'd my laboring breast Soon to expand and shed despair. But tho' of Sayid I'm bereft, From whom the stream of bounty came, Sayid a nobler meed has left- Th' exhaustless heritage of fame. Tho' mute the lips on which I hung, Their silence speaks more loud to me Than any voice from mortal tongue, "What Sayid was let Malec be." _Abd Almalec Alharithy_. _Abu Saher Alhedily_. What bliss can wealth afford to me When life's last solemn hour I see, When Mavia's sympathizing sighs Will but augment my agonies? Can hoarded gold dispel the gloom That death must shed around his tomb? Or cheer the ghost which hovers there, And fills with shrieks the desert air? What boots it, Mavia, in the grave, Whether I lov'd to waste or save? The hand that millions now can grasp, In death no more than mine shall clasp. With brow unalter'd I can see The hour of wealth or poverty: I've drunk from both the cups of fate, Nor this could sink, nor that elate. With fortune blest, I ne'er was found To look with scorn on those around; Nor for the loss of paltry ore, Shall Hatem seem to Hatem poor. "And is the conflict o'er," we cried, "And lie we at your feet? And dare you vauntingly decide The fortune we must meet? "A brighter day we soon shall see, Tho' now the prospect lowers, And conquest, peace, and liberty Shall gild our future hours." Then, as they writh'd in death's cold grasp, We cried, "Our choice is made, These hands the sabre's hilt shall clasp, Your hearts shall have the blade." VERSES TO MY ENEMIES Why thus to passion give the rein? Why seek your kindred tribe to wrong? Why strive to drag to light again The fatal feud entomb'd so long? Think not, if fury ye display, But equal fury we can deal; Hope not, if wrong'd, but we repay Revenge for every wrong we feel. Why thus to passion give the rein? Why seek the robe of peace to tear? Rash youths desist, your course restrain, Or dread the wrath ye blindly dare. Yet friendship we not ask from foes, Nor favor hope from you to prove, We lov'd you not, great Allah knows, Nor blam'd you that ye could not love. To each are different feelings given, This slights, and that regards his brother; 'Tis ours to live--thanks to kind heav'n- Hating and hated by each other. _Alfadhel Ibn Alabas_. Yes, Leila, I swore by the fire of thine eyes, I ne'er could a sweetness unvaried endure; The bubbles of spirit, that sparkling arise, Forbid life to stagnate and render it pure. But yet, my dear maid, tho' thy spirit's my pride, I'd wish for some sweetness to temper the bowl; If life be ne'er suffer'd to rest or subside, It may not be flat, but I fear 'twill be foul. _Nabegat Beni Jaid_. The russet suit of camel's hair, With spirits light, and eye serene, Is dearer to my bosom far Than all the trappings of a queen. The humble tent and murmuring breeze That whistles thro' its fluttering wall, My unaspiring fancy please Better than towers and splendid halls. Th' attendant colts that bounding fly And frolic by the litter's side, Are dearer in Maisuna's eye Than gorgeous mules in all their pride. The watch-dog's voice that bays whene'er A stranger seeks his master's cot, Sounds sweeter in Maisuna's ear Than yonder trumpet's long-drawn note. The rustic youth unspoilt by art, Son of my kindred, poor but free, Will ever to Maisuna's heart Be dearer, pamper'd fool, than thee. Must then my failings from the shaft Of anger ne'er escape? And dost thou storm because I've quaff'd The water of the grape? That I can thus from wine be driv'n Thou surely ne'er canst think- Another reason thou hast giv'n Why I resolve to drink. Not always wealth, not always force A splendid destiny commands; The lordly vulture gnaws the corse That rots upon yon barren sands. Nor want, nor weakness still conspires To bind us to a sordid state; The fly that with a touch expires Sips honey from the royal plate. _Imam Shafay Mohammed Ben Idris_. Religion's gems can ne'er adorn The flimsy robe by pleasure worn; Its feeble texture soon would tear, And give those jewels to the air. _Ibrahim Ben Adham_. Th' affrighted sun ere while he fled, And hid his radiant face in night; A cheerless gloom the world overspread- But Harun came, and all was bright. Again the sun shoots forth his rays, Nature is deck'd in beauty's robe- For mighty Harun's sceptre sways, And Yahia's arm sustains the globe. No, Barmec! Time hath never shown So sad a change of wayward fate; Nor sorrowing mortals ever known A grief so true, a loss so great. Spouse of the world! Thy soothing breast Did balm to every woe afford; And now no more by thee caress'd, The widow'd world bewails her Lord. Then bending down with looks of love, Her arms she round me flung, And, as the gale hangs on the grove, Upon my breast she hung. My willing arms embraced the maid, My heart with raptures beat; While she but wept the more and said, "Would we had never met!" Ungenerous and mistaken maid, To scorn me thus because I'm poor! Canst thou a liberal hand upbraid For dealing round some worthless ore? To spare's the wish of little souls, The great but gather to bestow; Yon current down the mountain rolls, And stagnates in the swamp below. Come, Leila, fill the goblet up, Reach round the rosy wine, Think not that we will take the cup From any hand but thine. A draught like this 'twere vain to seek, No grape can such supply; It steals its tint from Leila's cheek, Its brightness from her eye. _Abd Alsalam Ben Ragban_. Tenants of yon hallow'd fane! Let me your devotions share, There increasing raptures reign- None are ever sober there. Crowded gardens, festive bowers Ne'er shall claim a thought of mine; You can give in Khabbet's towers- Purer joys and brighter wine. Tho' your pallid faces prove How you nightly vigils keep, 'Tis but that you ever love Flowing goblets more than sleep. Tho' your eye-balls dim and sunk Stream in penitential guise, 'Tis but that the wine you've drunk Bubbles over from your eyes. RAKEEK TO HIS FEMALE COMPANIONS Tho' the peevish tongues upbraid, Tho' the brows of wisdom scowl, Fair ones here on roses laid, Careless will we quaff the bowl. Let the cup, with nectar crown'd, Thro' the grove its beams display, It can shed a lustre round, Brighter than the torch of day. Let it pass from hand to hand, Circling still with ceaseless flight, Till the streaks of gray expand O'er the fleeting robe of night. Maid of sorrow, tell us why Sad and drooping hangs thy head? Is it grief that bids thee sigh? Is it sleep that flies thy bed? Ah! I mourn no fancied wound, Pangs too true this heart have wrung, Since the snakes which curl around Selim's brows my bosom stung. Slumber may desert my bed, Tis not slumber's charms I seek- 'Tis the robe of beauty spread O'er my Selim's rosy cheek. When I beheld thy blue eyes shine Thro' the bright drop that pity drew, I saw beneath those tears of thine A blue-ey'd violet bath'd in dew. The violet ever scents the gale, Its hues adorn the fairest wreath, But sweetest thro' a dewy veil Its colors glow, its odors breathe. And thus thy charms in brightness rise- When wit and pleasure round thee play, When mirth sits smiling in thine eyes, Who but admires their sprightly ray? But when thro' pity's flood they gleam, Who but must love their soften'd beam? Poor Cassim! thou art doom'd to mourn By destiny's decree; Whatever happens it must turn To misery for thee. No wonder thou shouldst droop with woe, Of such a child bereft; But now thy tears must doubly flow, For, ah! the other's left. _Aly Ben Ahmed Ben Mansour_. When born, in tears we saw thee drown'd, While thine assembled friends around, With smiles their joy confest; So live, that at thy parting hour, They may the flood of sorrow pour, And thou in smiles be drest! Poor Puss is gone! 'Tis fate's decree- Yet I must still her loss deplore, For dearer than a child was she, And ne'er shall I behold her more. With many a sad presaging tear This morn I saw her steal away, While she went on without a fear Except that she should miss her prey. I saw her to the dove-house climb, With cautious feet and slow she stept Resolv'd to balance loss of time By eating faster than she crept. Her subtle foes were on the watch, And mark'd her course, with fury fraught, And while she hoped the birds to catch, An arrow's point the huntress caught. In fancy she had got them all, And drunk their blood and suck'd their breath; Alas! she only got a fall, And only drank the draught of death. Why, why was pigeons' flesh so nice, That thoughtless cats should love it thus? Hadst thou but liv'd on rats and mice, Thou hadst been living still, poor Puss. Curst be the taste, howe'er refined, That prompts us for such joys to wish, And curst the dainty where we find Destruction lurking in the dish. _Ibn Alalaf Alnaharwany_. _Mohammed Ben Zeid Almotakalam_. The loftiest cedars I can eat, Yet neither paunch nor mouth have I, I storm whene'er you give me meat, Whene'er you give me drink, I die. Leila, whene'er I gaze on thee My altered cheek turns pale, While upon thine, sweet maid, I see A deep'ning blush prevail. Leila, shall I the cause impart Why such a change takes place? The crimson stream deserts my heart, To mantle on thy face. _The Caliph Radhi Billah_. ON THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE Mortal joys, however pure, Soon their turbid source betray; Mortal bliss, however sure, Soon must totter and decay. Ye who now, with footsteps keen, Range through hope's delusive field, Tell us what the smiling scene To your ardent grasp can yield? Other youths have oft before Deem'd their joys would never fade, Till themselves were seen no more Swept into oblivion's shade. Who, with health and pleasure gay, E'er his fragile state could know, Were not age and pain to say Man is but the child of woe? _The Caliph Radhi Billah_. The Dove to ease an aching breast, In piteous murmurs vents her cares; Like me she sorrows, for opprest, Like me, a load of grief she bears. Her plaints are heard in every wood, While I would fain conceal my woes; But vain's my wish, the briny flood, The more I strive, the faster flows. Sure, gentle Bird, my drooping heart Divides the pangs of love with thine, And plaintive murm'rings are thy part, And silent grief and tears are mine. Bright smil'd the morn, till o'er its head The clouds in thicken'd foldings spread A robe of sable hue; Then, gathering round day's golden king, They stretch'd their wide o'ershadowing wing, And hid him from our view. The rain his absent beams deplor'd, And, soften'd into weeping, pour'd Its tears in many a flood; The lightning laughed with horrid glare; The thunder growl'd, in rage; the air In silent sorrow stood. _Ibrahim Ben Khiret Abou Isaac_. TO MY FAVORITE MISTRESS I saw their jealous eyeballs roll, I saw them mark each glance of mine, I saw thy terrors, and my soul Shar'd ev'ry pang that tortur'd thine. In vain to wean my constant heart, Or quench my glowing flame, they strove; Each deep-laid scheme, each envious art, But wak'd my fears for her I love. 'Twas this compelled the stern decree, That forc'd thee to those distant towers, And left me nought but love for thee, To cheer my solitary hours. _Saif Addaulet, Sultan of Aleppe_. Whatever thy fate, in life and death, Thou'rt doom'd above us still to rise, Whilst at a distance far beneath We view thee with admiring eyes. The gazing crowds still round thee throng, Still to thy well-known voice repair, As when erewhile thy hallow'd tongue Pour'd in the Mosque the solemn prayer. Still, generous Vizir, we survey Thine arms extended o'er our head, As lately, in the festive day, When they were stretch'd thy gifts to shed. Earth's narrow boundaries strove in vain To limit thy aspiring mind, And now we see thy dust disdain Within her breast to be confin'd. _Abou Hassan Alanbary_. Why should I blush that Fortune's frown Dooms me life's humble paths to tread? To live unheeded, and unknown? To sink forgotten to the dead? 'Tis not the good, the wise, the brave, That surest shine, or highest rise; The feather sports upon the wave, The pearl in ocean's cavern lies. Each lesser star that studs the sphere Sparkles with undiminish'd light: Dark and eclips'd alone appear The lord of day, the queen of night. _Shems Almaali Cabus_. Like sheep, we're doom'd to travel o'er The fated track to all assign'd, These follow those that went before, And leave the world to those behind. As the flock seeks the pasturing shade, Man presses to the future day, While death, amidst the tufted glade, Like the dun robber,[A] waits his prey. Lowering as Barkaidy's face The wintry night came in, Cold as the music of his bass, And lengthen'd as his chin. Sleep from my aching eyes had fled, And kept as far apart, As sense from Ebn Fahdi's head, Or virtue from his heart. The dubious paths my footsteps balk'd, I slipp'd along the sod, As if on Jaber's faith I'd walk'd, Or on his truth had trod. At length the rising King of day Burst on the gloomy wood, Like Carawash's eye, whose ray Dispenses every good. Tyrant of man! Imperious Fate! I bow before thy dread decree, Nor hope in this uncertain state To find a seat secure from thee. Life is a dark, tumultuous stream, With many a care and sorrow foul, Yet thoughtless mortals vainly deem That it can yield a limpid bowl. Think not that stream will backward flow, Or cease its destin'd course to keep; As soon the blazing spark shall glow Beneath the surface of the deep. Believe not Fate at thy command Will grant a meed she never gave; As soon the airy tower shall stand, That's built upon a passing wave. Life is a sleep of threescore years, Death bids us wake and hail the light, And man, with all his hopes and fears, Is but a phantom of the night. _Aly Ben Mohammed Altahmany_. Leila, with too successful art, Has spread for me love's cruel snare; And now, when she has caught my heart, She laughs, and leaves it to despair. Thus the poor sparrow pants for breath, Held captive by a playful boy, And while it drinks the draught of death, The thoughtless child looks on with joy. Ah! were its flutt'ring pinions free, Soon would it bid its chains adieu, Or did the child its suff'rings see, He'd pity and relieve them too. How oft does passion's grasp destroy The pleasure that it strives to gain? How soon the thoughtless course of joy Is doom'd to terminate in pain? When prudence would thy steps delay, She but restrains to make thee blest; Whate'er from joy she lops away, But heightens and secures the rest. Wouldst thou a trembling flame expand, That hastens in the lamp to die? With careful touch, with sparing hand, The feeding stream of life supply. But if thy flask profusely sheds A rushing torrent o'er the blaze, Swift round the sinking flame it spreads, And kills the fire it fain would raise. _Abou Alcassim Ebn Tabataba_. The intertwining boughs for thee Have wove, sweet dell, a verdant vest, And thou in turn shalt give to me A verdant couch upon thy breast. To shield me from day's fervid glare Thine oaks their fostering arms extend, As anxious o'er her infant care I've seen a watchful mother bend. A brighter cup, a sweeter draught, I gather from that rill of thine, Than maddening drunkards ever quaff'd, Than all the treasures of the vine. So smooth the pebbles on its shore, That not a maid can thither stray, But counts her strings of jewels o'er, And thinks the pearls have slipp'd away. _Ahmed Ben Yousef Almenazy_. Hail, chastening friend Adversity! 'Tis thine The mental ore to temper and refine, To cast in virtue's mould the yielding heart, And honor's polish to the mind impart. Without thy wakening touch, thy plastic aid, I'd lain the shapeless mass that nature made; But form'd, great artist, by thy magic hand, I gleam a sword to conquer and command. _Abou Menbaa Carawash_. Think not, Abdallah, pride and fame Can ever travel hand in hand; With breast oppos'd, and adverse aim, On the same narrow path they stand. Thus youth and age together meet, And life's divided moments share; This can't advance till that retreat, What's here increas'd, is lessen'd there. And thus the falling shades of night Still struggle with the lucid ray, And e'er they stretch their gloomy flight Must win the lengthen'd space from day. THE DEATH OF NEDHAM ALMOLK Thy virtues fam'd thro' every land, Thy spotless life, in age and youth, Prove thee a pearl, by nature's hand, Form'd out of purity and truth. Too long its beams of Orient light Upon a thankless world were shed; Allah has now reveng'd the slight, And call'd it to its native bed. When you told us our glances soft, timid and mild, Could occasion such wounds in the heart, Can ye wonder that yours, so ungovern'd and wild, Some wounds to our cheeks should impart? The wounds on our cheeks are but transient, I own, With a blush they appear and decay; But those on the heart, fickle youths, ye have shown To be even more transient than they. While these dear maids in beauty's bloom, With want opprest, with rags o'erspread, By sordid labors at the loom Must earn a poor, precarious bread. Those feet that never touched the ground, Till musk or camphor strew'd the way, Now bare and swoll'n with many a wound. Must struggle thro' the miry clay. Those radiant cheeks are veil'd in woe, A shower descends from every eye, And not a starting tear can flow, That wakes not an attending sigh. Fortune, that whilom own'd my sway, And bow'd obsequious to my nod, Now sees me destin'd to obey, And bend beneath oppression's rod. Ye mortals with success elate, Who bask in hope's delusive beam, Attentive view Mohammed's fate, And own that bliss is but a dream. _Mohammed Bed Abad_. Sure Harut's[B] potent spells were breath'd Upon that magic sword, thine eye; For if it wounds us thus while sheath'd, When drawn, 'tis vain its edge to fly. How canst thou doom me, cruel fair, Plung'd in the hell[C] of scorn to groan? No idol e'er this heart could share, This heart has worshipp'd thee alone. [B] A wicked angel who is permitted to tempt mankind by teaching them magic; see the legend respecting him in the Koran. [C] The poet here alludes to the punishments denounced in the Koran against those who worship a plurality of Gods: "their couch shall be in hell, and over them shall be coverings of fire." When I sent you my melons, you cried out with scorn, They ought to be heavy and wrinkled and yellow; When I offer'd myself, whom those graces adorn, You flouted, and call'd me an ugly old fellow. From our distended eyeballs flow A mingled stream of tears and blood; No care we feel, nor wish to know, But who shall pour the largest flood. But what defense can tears afford? What aid supply in this dread hour? When kindled by the sparkling sword War's raging flames the land devour. No more let sleep's seductive charms Upon your torpid souls be shed: A crash like this, such dire alarms, Might burst the slumbers of the dead. Think where your dear companions lie- Survey their fate, and hear their woes- How some thro' trackless deserts fly, Some in the vulture's maw repose; While some more wretched still, must bear The tauntings of a Christian's tongue- Hear this--and blush ye not to wear The silken robe of peace so long? Remember what ensanguin'd showers The Syrian plains with crimson dyed, And think how many blooming flowers In Syrian forts their beauties hide. Arabian youths! In such a cause Can ye the voice of glory slight? Warriors of Persia! Can ye pause, Or fear to mingle in the fight? If neither piety nor shame Your breasts can warm, your souls can move, Let emulation's bursting flame Wake you to vengeance and to love. _Almodhafer Alabiwerdy_. No, Abla, no--when Selim tells Of many an unknown grace that dwells In Abla's face and mien, When he describes the sense refin'd, That lights thine eye and fills thy mind, By thee alone unseen. Tis not that drunk with love he sees Ideal charms, which only please Thro' passion's partial veil, 'Tis not that flattery's glozing tongue Hath basely fram'd an idle song, But truth that breath'd the tale. Thine eyes unaided ne'er could trace Each opening charm, each varied grace, That round thy person plays; Some must remain conceal'd from thee, For Selim's watchful eye to see, For Selim's tongue to praise. Whoever has recourse to thee Can hope for health no more, He's launched into perdition's sea, A sea without a shore. ON A LITTLE MAN WITH A VERY LARGE BEARD How can thy chin that burden bear? Is it all gravity to shock? Is it to make the people stare? And be thyself a laughing stock? When I behold thy little feet After thy beard obsequious run, I always fancy that I meet Some father followed by his son. A man like thee scarce e'er appear'd- A beard like thine--where shall we find it? Surely thou cherishest thy beard In hope to hide thyself behind it. _Isaai, Ben Khalif_. No kind supporting hand I meet, But Fortitude shall stay my feet; No borrow'd splendors round me shine, But Virtue's lustre all is mine; A Fame unsullied still I boast, Obscur'd, conceal'd, but never lost- The same bright orb that led the day Pours from the West his mellow'd ray. Zaura, farewell! No more I see Within thy walls, a home for me; Deserted, spurn'd, aside I'm toss'd, As an old sword whose scabbard's lost: Around thy walls I seek in vain Some bosom that will soothe my pain- No friend is near to breathe relief, Or brother to partake my grief. For many a melancholy day Thro' desert vales I've wound my way; The faithful beast, whose back I press, In groans laments her lord's distress; In every quiv'ring of my spear A sympathetic sigh I hear; The camel bending with his load, And struggling thro' the thorny road, 'Midst the fatigues that bear him down, In Hassan's woes forgets his own; Yet cruel friends my wanderings chide, My sufferings slight, my toils deride. What, tho' with magic influence, sleep, O'er every closing eyelid creep: Tho' drunk with its oblivious wine Our comrades on their bales recline, My Selim's trance I sure can break- Selim, 'tis I, 'tis I who speak. Dangers on every side impend, And sleep'st thou, careless of thy friend? Thou sleep'st while every star on high, Beholds me with a wakeful eye- Thou changest, ere the changeful night Hath streak'd her fleeting robe with white. 'Tis love that hurries me along- I'm deaf to fear's repressive song- The rocks of Idham I'll ascend, Tho' adverse darts each path defend, And hostile sabres glitter there, To guard the tresses of the fair. Ah, Selim! shall the spells of ease Thy friendship chain, thine ardor freeze! Wilt thou enchanted thus, decline Each gen'rous thought, each bold design? Then far from men some cell prepare; Or build a mansion in the air- But yield to us, ambition's tide, Who fearless on its waves can ride; Enough for thee if thou receive The scattered spray the billows leave. Contempt and want the wretch await Who slumbers in an abject state- 'Midst rushing crowds, by toil and pain The meed of Honor we must gain; At Honor's call, the camel hastes Thro' trackless wilds and dreary wastes, Till in the glorious race she find The fleetest coursers left behind: By toils like these alone, he cries, Th' adventurous youths to greatness rise; If bloated indolence were fame, And pompous ease our noblest aim, The orb that regulates the day Would ne'er from Aries' mansion stray. I've bent at Fortune's shrine too long- Too oft she heard my suppliant tongue- Too oft has mock'd my idle prayers, While fools and knaves engross'd her cares, Awake for them, asleep to me, Heedless of worth she scorn'd each plea. Ah! had her eyes, more just survey'd The diff'rent claims which each display'd, Those eyes from partial fondness free Had slept to them, and wak'd for me. But, 'midst my sorrows and my toils, Hope ever sooth'd my breast with smiles; Her hand remov'd each gathering ill, And oped life's closing prospects still. Yet spite of all her friendly art The specious scene ne'er gain'd my heart; I lov'd it not altho' the day Met my approach, and cheer'd my way; I loath it now the hours retreat, And fly me with reverted feet. My soul from every tarnish free May boldly vaunt her purity, But ah, how keen, however bright, The sabre glitter to the sight, Its splendor's lost, its polish vain, Till some bold hand the steel sustain. Why have my days been stretch'd by fate, To see the vile and vicious great- While I, who led the race so long, Am last and meanest of the throng? Ah, why has death so long delay'd To wrap me in his friendly shade, Left me to wander thus alone, When all my heart held dear is gone! But let me check these fretful sighs- Well may the base above me rise, When yonder planets as they run Mount in the sky above the sun. Resigned I bow to Fate's decree, Nor hope his laws will change for me; Each shifting scene, each varying hour, But proves the ruthless tyrants' power. Contentment's realms no fears invade, No cares annoy, no sorrows shade, There plac'd secure, in peace we rest, Nor aught demand to make us blest. While pleasure's gay fantastic bower, The splendid pageant of an hour, Like yonder meteor in the skies, Flits with a breath no more to rise. As thro' life's various walks we're led, May prudence hover o'er our head! May she our words, our actions guide, Our faults correct, our secrets hide! May she, where'er our footsteps stray, Direct our paths, and clear the way! Till, every scene of tumult past, She bring us to repose at last, Teach us to love that peaceful shore, And roam thro' folly's wilds no more! _Mauid Eddin Alhassan Abou Ismael Altograi_. Yes, youth, thou'rt fled, and I am left, Like yonder desolated bower, By winter's ruthless hand bereft Of every leaf and every flower. With heaving heart and streaming eyes I woo'd thee to prolong thy stay, But vain were all my tears and sighs, Thou only fled'st more fast away. Yet tho' thou fled'st away so fast, I can recall thee if I will; For I can talk of what is past, And while I talk, enjoy thee still. The circle's bounding line are they, Its centre is my heart, My ready love the equal ray That flows to every part. As drench'd in wine, the other night, Zeid from the banquet sallied, Thus I reprov'd his drunken plight, Thus he my prudence rallied; "Rash youth, thy guilty joys resign." "I will," at length he said, "I vow I'll bid adieu to wine As soon as I am dead." _Yahia Ben Salamet_. Say that you hate, and freely show That age displeases youth; And I may love you when I know That you can tell the truth. _Caliph Almonklafi Laimrillah_. Youth is a drunken noisy hour, With every folly fraught; But man, by age's chast'ning power, Is sober'd into thought. Then we resolve our faults to shun, And shape our course anew; But ere the wise reform's begun Life closes on our view. The travellers thus who wildly roam, Or heedlessly delay, Are left, when they should reach their home, Benighted on the way. _Hebat Allah Ibn Altalmith_. Soon hast thou run the race of life, Nor could our tears thy speed control- Still in the courser's gen'rous strife The best will soonest reach the goal. Thy name, by every breath convey'd, Stretch'd o'er the globe its boundless flight; Alas! in eve the lengthening shade But lengthens to be lost in night! If gracious Allah bade thee close Thy youthful eyes so soon on day, 'Tis that he readiest welcomes those Who love him best and best obey. _Alnassar Ledin Allah_. Darkness clos'd around, loud the tempest drove, When thro' yonder glen I saw my lover rove, Dearest youth! Soon he reach'd our cot--weary, wet, and cold, But warmth, wine, and I, to cheer his spirits strove, Dearest youth! How my love, cried I, durst thou hither stray Thro' the gloom, nor fear the ghosts that haunt the grove? Dearest youth! In this heart, said he, fear no seat can find, When each thought is fill'd alone with thee and love, Dearest maid! [_Selected tales edited by Andrew Lang_] "What," replied he, "do you live in Bagdad, and not know that here lives the noble Sindbad the Sailor, that famous traveller who sailed over every sea upon which the sun shines?" Hindbad was not a little surprised at this summons, and feared that his unguarded words might have drawn upon him the displeasure of Sindbad, so he tried to excuse himself upon the pretext that he could not leave the burden which had been intrusted to him in the street. However the lackey promised him that it should be taken care of, and urged him to obey the call so pressingly that at last the porter was obliged to yield. He followed the servant into a vast room, where a great company was seated round a table covered with all sorts of delicacies. In the place of honor sat a tall, grave man, whose long white beard gave him a venerable air. Behind his chair stood a crowd of attendants eager to minister to his wants. This was the famous Sindbad himself. The porter, more than ever alarmed at the sight of so much magnificence, tremblingly saluted the noble company. Sindbad, making a sign to him to approach, caused him to be seated at his right hand, and himself heaped choice morsels upon his plate, and poured out for him a draught of excellent wine, and presently, when the banquet drew to a close, spoke to him familiarly, asking his name and occupation. "My lord," replied the porter, "I am called Hindbad." "I am glad to see you here," continued Sindbad. "And I will answer for the rest of the company that they are equally pleased, but I wish you to tell me what it was that you said just now in the street." For Sindbad, passing by the open window before the feast began, had heard his complaint and therefore had sent for him. At this question Hindbad was covered with confusion, and hanging down his head, replied, "My lord, I confess that, overcome by weariness and ill-humor, I uttered indiscreet words, which I pray you to pardon me." "Oh!" replied Sindbad, "do not imagine that I am so unjust as to blame you. On the contrary, I understand your situation and can pity you. Only you appear to be mistaken about me, and I wish to set you right. You doubtless imagine that I have acquired all the wealth and luxury that you see me enjoy without difficulty or danger, but this is far indeed from being the case. I have only reached this happy state after having for years suffered every possible kind of toil and danger. "Captain," said I, "I am that Sindbad whom you believe to be dead, and these are my possessions!" When the captain heard these words he cried out in amazement, "Lackaday! and what is the world coming to? In these days there is not an honest man to be met with. Did I not with my own eyes see Sindbad drown, and now you have the audacity to tell me that you are he! I should have taken you to be a just man, and yet for the sake of obtaining that which does not belong to you, you are ready to invent this horrible falsehood." "Have patience, and do me the favor to hear my story," said I. "Speak then," replied the captain, "I am all attention." The porter retired quite overcome by so much generosity, and you may imagine that he was well received at home, where his wife and children thanked their lucky stars that he had found such a benefactor. The valley in which I found myself was deep and narrow, and surrounded by mountains which towered into the clouds, and were so steep and rocky that there was no way of climbing up their sides. As I wandered about, seeking anxiously for some means of escaping from this trap, I observed that the ground was strewed with diamonds, some of them of an astonishing size. This sight gave me great pleasure, but my delight was speedily dampened when I saw also numbers of horrible snakes so long and so large that the smallest of them could have swallowed an elephant with ease. Fortunately for me they seemed to hide in caverns of the rocks by day, and only came out by night, probably because of their enemy the roc. You may imagine the rage and terror that seized us as we watched them, neither daring to hinder them nor able to speak a word to deter them from their purpose, whatever it might be. Of this we were not left long in doubt. Hoisting the sails, and cutting the cable of the anchor, they sailed our vessel to an island which lay a little further off, where they drove us ashore; then taking possession of her, they made off to the place from which they had come, leaving us helpless upon a shore avoided with horror by all mariners for a reason which you will soon learn. "Listen, my brothers," I added. "You know that plenty of driftwood lies along the shore. Let us make several rafts, and carry them to a suitable place. If our plot succeeds, we can wait patiently for the chance of some passing ship which would rescue us from this fatal island. If it fails, we must quickly take to our rafts; frail as they are, we have more chance of saving our lives with them than we have if we remain here." I consented gladly, for I did not like standing by idle. Whereupon he pointed the bales out to me, and sent for the person whose duty it was to keep a list of the goods that were upon the ship. When this man came he asked in what name the merchandise was to be registered. "In the name of Sindbad the Sailor," replied the captain. "So, captain," said I, "the merchant who owned those bales was called Sindbad?" "You suppose him to have perished then?" said I. "Alas! yes," he answered. "Why, captain!" I cried, "look well at me. I am that Sindbad who fell asleep upon the island and awoke to find himself abandoned!" The captain stared at me in amazement, but was presently convinced that I was indeed speaking the truth, and rejoiced greatly at my escape. "I am glad to have that piece of carelessness off my conscience at any rate," said he. "Now take your goods, and the profit I have made for you upon them, and may you prosper in future." "Heaven preserve you," said I, "and send you a long life!" "Alas!" he replied, "what is the good of saying that when I have but an hour left to live!" "Come, come!" said I, "surely it is not so bad as all that. I trust that you may be spared to me for many years." "I hope," answered he, "that your life may be long, but as for me, all is finished. I have set my house in order, and to-day I shall be buried with my wife. This has been the law upon our island from the earliest ages--the living husband goes to the grave with his dead wife, the living wife with her dead husband. So did our fathers, and so must we do. The law changes not, and all must submit to it!" As he spoke the friends and relations of the unhappy pair began to assemble. The body, decked in rich robes and sparkling with jewels, was laid upon an open bier, and the procession started, taking its way to a high mountain at some distance from the city, the wretched husband, clothed from head to foot in a black mantle, following mournfully. You may imagine that I was no unmoved spectator of these proceedings; to all the others it was a thing to which they had been accustomed from their youth up; but I was so horrified that I could not help telling the King how it struck me. "Sire," I said, "I am more astonished than I can express to you at the strange custom which exists in your dominions of burying the living with the dead. In all my travels I have never before met with so cruel and horrible a law." "But, your Majesty," said I, "dare I ask if this law applies to foreigners also?" "Why, yes," replied the king smiling, in what I could but consider a very heartless manner: "they are no exception to the rule if they have married in the country." When the time came all were in their places, and when they had eaten and drunk of all that was set before them Sindbad began his tale. "Go with them," said he, "and do as they do, but beware of losing sight of them, for if you strayed your life would be in danger." This speech discouraged us much, and we began to lament over our sad fate. "I am Sindbad," I replied, "whom men call 'the Sailor,' for I have voyaged much upon many seas." "And how came you here?" asked the King. I told my story, concealing nothing, and his surprise and delight were so great that he ordered my adventures to be written in letters of gold and laid up in the archives of his kingdom. After a long and prosperous voyage we landed at Balsora, and I made haste to reach Bagdad, and taking the King's letter I presented myself at the palace gate, followed by the beautiful slave, and various members of my own family, bearing the treasure. As soon as I had declared my errand I was conducted into the presence of the Caliph, to whom, after I had made my obeisance, I gave the letter and the King's gift, and when he had examined them he demanded of me whether the Prince of Serendib was really as rich and powerful as he claimed to be. "Further, my lord, in Serendib no judge is needed, for to the King himself his people come for justice." The Caliph was well satisfied with my report. "From the King's letter," said he, "I judged that he was a wise man. It seems that he is worthy of his people, and his people of him." So saying he dismissed me with rich presents, and I returned in peace to my own house. The Caliph's commandment fell upon me like a thunderbolt. "Commander of the Faithful," I answered, "I am ready to do all that your Majesty commands, but I humbly pray you to remember that I am utterly disheartened by the unheard-of sufferings I have undergone. Indeed, I have made a vow never again to leave Bagdad." With this I gave him a long account of some of my strangest adventures, to which he listened patiently. "I admit," said he, "that you have indeed had some extraordinary experiences, but I do not see why they should hinder you from doing as I wish. You have only to go straight to Serendib and give my message, then you are free to come back and do as you will. But go you must; my honor and dignity demand it." I answered that I was a rich merchant who had been captured by pirates, and therefore I knew no trade. "Tell me," said he, "can you shoot with a bow?" Whereupon I turned and made for the city as fast as I could go, not seeing a single elephant by the way, which convinced me that they had retired deeper into the forest to leave the way open to the Ivory Hill, and I did not know how sufficiently to admire their sagacity. After a day and a night I reached my master's house, and was received by him with joyful surprise. "Ah! poor Sindbad," he cried, "I was wondering what could have become of you. When I went to the forest I found the tree newly uprooted, and the arrows lying beside it, and I feared I should never see you again. Pray tell me how you escaped death." To which I replied, "Master, I thank you, and wish you all prosperity. For myself I only ask liberty to return to my own country." "It is well," he answered, "the monsoon will soon bring the ivory ships hither, then I will send you on your way with somewhat to pay your passage." By his orders this story and the others I had told him were written by his scribes in letters of gold, and laid up among his treasures. I took my leave of him, well satisfied with the honors and rewards he bestowed upon me; and since that time I have rested from my labors, and given myself up wholly to my family and my friends. Hindbad drew near, and kissing his hand respectfully, replied, "Sir, you have indeed known fearful perils; my troubles have been nothing compared to yours. Moreover, the generous use you make of your wealth proves that you deserve it. May you live long and happily in the enjoyment of it." ALADDIN'S WONDERFUL LAMP "I am, sir," replied Aladdin; "but he died a long while ago." On this the stranger, who was a famous African magician, fell on his neck and kissed him, saying: "I am your uncle, and knew you from your likeness to my brother. Go to your mother and tell her I am coming." Aladdin ran home, and told his mother of his newly-found uncle. "Indeed, child," she said, "your father had a brother, but I always thought he was dead." Next day the magician led Aladdin into some beautiful gardens a long way outside the city gates. They sat down by a fountain, and the magician pulled a cake from his girdle, which he divided between them. They then journeyed onwards till they almost reached the mountains. Aladdin was so tired that he begged to go back, but the magician beguiled him with pleasant stories, and led him on in spite of himself. "We will go no farther," said the false uncle. "I will show you something wonderful; only do you gather up sticks while I kindle a fire." When it was lit the magician threw on it a powder he had about him, at the same time saying some magical words. The earth trembled a little and opened in front of them, disclosing a square flat stone with a brass ring in the middle to raise it by. Aladdin tried to run away, but the magician caught him and gave him a blow that knocked him down. At the word treasure, Aladdin forgot his fears, and grasped the ring as he was told, saying the names of his father and grandfather. The stone came up quite easily and some steps appeared. He drew a ring from his finger and gave it to Aladdin, bidding him prosper. The magician left Persia forever, which plainly showed that he was no uncle of Aladdin's, but a cunning magician who had read in his magic books of a wonderful lamp, which would make him the most powerful man in the world. Though he alone knew where to find it, he could only receive it from the hand of another. He had picked out the foolish Aladdin for this purpose, intending to get the lamp and kill him afterwards. Aladdin fearlessly replied: "Deliver me from this place!" whereupon the earth opened, and he found himself outside. As soon as his eyes could bear the light he went home, but fainted on the threshold. When he came to himself he told his mother what had passed, and showed her the lamp and the fruits he had gathered in the garden, which were in reality precious stones. He then asked for some food. "Alas! child," she said, "I have nothing in the house, but I have spun a little cotton and will go and sell it." "Ask not, but eat," replied Aladdin. So they sat at breakfast till it was dinner-time, and Aladdin told his mother about the lamp. She begged him to sell it, and have nothing to do with devils. Next day, at a sign from the vizir, she went up to the foot of the throne, and remained kneeling till the Sultan said to her: "Rise, good woman, and tell me what you want." She hesitated, so the Sultan sent away all but the vizir, and bade her speak freely, promising to forgive her beforehand for anything she might say. She then told him of her son's violent love for the princess. "I prayed him to forget her," she said, "but in vain; he threatened to do some desperate deed if I refused to go and ask your Majesty for the hand of the princess. Now I pray you to forgive not me alone, but my son Aladdin." The Sultan asked her kindly what she had in the napkin, whereupon she unfolded the jewels and presented them. "Do you not know," was the answer, "that the son of the grand-vizir is to marry the Sultan's daughter to-night?" Aladdin replied: "The Sultan, as thou knowest, has broken his promise to me, and the vizir's son is to have the princess. My command is that to-night you bring hither the bride and bridegroom." "Master, I obey," said the genie. Aladdin then went to his chamber, where, sure enough at midnight the genie transported the bed containing the vizir's son and the princess. "Take this new-married man," he said, "and put him outside in the cold, and return at daybreak." Whereupon the genie took the vizir's son out of bed, leaving Aladdin with the princess. "Fear nothing," Aladdin said to her; "you are my wife, promised to me by your unjust father, and no harm shall come to you." The princess was too frightened to speak, and passed the most miserable night of her life, while Aladdin lay down beside her and slept soundly. At the appointed hour the genie fetched in the shivering bridegroom, laid him in his place, and transported the bed back to the palace. Presently the Sultan came to wish his daughter good-morning. The unhappy vizir's son jumped up and hid himself, while the princess would not say a word, and was very sorrowful. The Sultan sent her mother to her, who said: "How comes it, child, that you will not speak to your father? What has happened?" The princess sighed deeply, and at last told her mother how, during the night, the bed had been carried into some strange house, and what had passed there. Her mother did not believe her in the least, but bade her rise and consider it an idle dream. The following night exactly the same thing happened, and next morning, on the princess's refusing to speak, the Sultan threatened to cut off her head. She then confessed all, bidding him ask the vizir's son if it were not so. The Sultan told the vizir to ask his son, who owned the truth, adding that, dearly as he loved the princess, he had rather die than go through another such fearful night, and wished to be separated from her. His wish was granted, and there was an end of feasting and rejoicing. She gave Aladdin the message, adding: "He may wait long enough for your answer!" He hesitated no longer, but said: "Good woman, return and tell your son that I wait for him with open arms." No sooner said than done. Aladdin mounted his horse and passed through the streets, the slaves strewing gold as they went. Those who had played with him in his childhood knew him not, he had grown so handsome. When the Sultan saw him he came down from his throne, embraced him, and led him into a hall where a feast was spread, intending to marry him to the princess that very day. But Aladdin refused, saying, "I must build a palace fit for her," and took his leave. "Princess," he said, "blame your beauty for my boldness if I have displeased you." She told him that, having seen him, she willingly obeyed her father in this matter. After the wedding had taken place Aladdin led her into the hall, where a feast was spread, and she supped with him, after which they danced till midnight. "No, sir, by design," returned Aladdin. "I wished your Majesty to have the glory of finishing this palace." The Sultan was pleased, and sent for the best jewellers in the city. He showed them the unfinished window, and bade them fit it up like the others. "Sir," replied their spokesman, "we cannot find jewels enough." Aladdin had won the hearts of the people by his gentle bearing. He was made captain of the Sultan's armies, and won several battles for him, but remained modest and courteous as before, and lived thus in peace and content for several years. But far away in Africa the magician remembered Aladdin, and by his magic arts discovered that Aladdin, instead of perishing miserably in the cave, had escaped, and had married a princess, with whom he was living in great honor and wealth. He knew that the poor tailor's son could only have accomplished this by means of the lamp, and travelled night and day till he reached the capital of China, bent on Aladdin's ruin. As he passed through the town he heard people talking everywhere about a marvellous palace. "Forgive my ignorance," he asked, "what is this palace you speak of?" "Have you not heard of Prince Aladdin's palace," was the reply, "the greatest wonder of the world? I will direct you if you have a mind to see it." "Madam," replied the slave, "who can help laughing to see an old fool offering to exchange fine new lamps for old ones?" Now this was the magic lamp, which Aladdin had left there, as he could not take it out hunting with him. The princess, not knowing its value, laughingly bade the slave take it and make the exchange. She went and said to the magician: "Give me a new lamp for this." He snatched it and bade the slave take her choice, amid the jeers of the crowd. Little he cared, but left off crying his lamps, and went out of the city gates to a lonely place, where he remained till nightfall, when he pulled out the lamp and rubbed it. The genie appeared, and at the magician's command carried him, together with the palace and the princess in it, to a lonely place in Africa. Aladdin now begged to know what he had done. "False wretch!" said the Sultan, "come hither," and showed him from the window the place where his palace had stood. Aladdin was so amazed that he could not say a word. The genie he had seen in the cave appeared, and asked his will. "Save my life, genie," said Aladdin, "and bring my palace back." "That is not in my power," said the genie; "I am only the Slave of the Ring; you must ask the Slave of the Lamp." He was awakened by the singing of the birds, and his heart was lighter. He saw plainly that all his misfortunes were owing to the loss of the lamp, and vainly wondered who had robbed him of it. "Alas!" she said, "I am the innocent cause of our sorrows," and told him of the exchange of the lamp. "Now I know," cried Aladdin, "that we have to thank the African magician for this! Where is the lamp?" "He carries it about with him," said the princess, "I know, for he pulled it out of his breast to show me. He wishes me to break my faith with you and marry him, saying that you were beheaded by my father's command. He is forever speaking ill of you, but I only reply by my tears. If I persist, I doubt not that he will use violence." "Put on your most beautiful dress," he said to her, "and receive the magician with smiles, leading him to believe that you have forgotten me. Invite him to sup with you, and say you wish to taste the wine of his country. He will go for some, and while he is gone I will tell you what to do." The magician flew to his cellar, and the princess put the powder Aladdin had given her in her cup. When he returned she asked him to drink her health in the wine of Africa, handing him her cup in exchange for his as a sign she was reconciled to him. The African magician had a younger brother, who was, if possible, more wicked and more cunning than himself. He travelled to China to avenge his brother's death, and went to visit a pious woman called Fatima, thinking she might be of use to him. He entered her cell and clapped a dagger to her breast, telling her to rise and do his bidding on pain of death. He changed clothes with her, colored his face like hers, put on her veil and murdered her, so that she might tell no tales. Then he went towards the palace of Aladdin, and all the people thinking he was the holy woman, gathered round him, kissing his hands and begging his blessing. When he got to the palace there was such a noise going on round him that the princess bade her slave look out of the window and ask what was the matter. The slave said it was the holy woman, curing people by her touch of their ailments, whereupon the princess, who had long desired to see Fatima, sent for her. On coming to the princess the magician offered up a prayer for her health and prosperity. When he had done the princess made him sit by her, and begged him to stay with her always. The false Fatima, who wished for nothing better, consented, but kept his veil down for fear of discovery. The princess showed him the hall, and asked him what he thought of it. "And what is that?" said the princess. "If only a roc's egg," replied he, "were hung up from the middle of this dome, it would be the wonder of the world." After this the princess could think of nothing but a roc's egg, and when Aladdin returned from hunting he found her in a very ill humor. He begged to know what was amiss, and she told him that all her pleasure in the hall was spoilt for the want of a roc's egg hanging from the dome. "If that is all," replied Aladdin, "you shall soon be happy." He left her and rubbed the lamp, and when the genie appeared commanded him to bring a roc's egg. The genie gave such a loud and terrible shriek that the hall shook. "Wretch!" he said, "is it not enough that I have done everything for you, but you must command me to bring my master and hang him up in the midst of this dome? You and your wife and your palace deserve to be burnt to ashes; but this request does not come from you, but from the brother of the African magician whom you destroyed. He is now in your palace disguised as the holy woman--whom he murdered. He it was who put that wish into your wife's head. Take care of yourself, for he means to kill you." So saying the genie disappeared. Aladdin went back to the princess, saying his head ached, and requesting that the holy Fatima should be fetched to lay her hands on it. But when the magician came near, Aladdin, seizing his dagger, pierced him to the heart. "What have you done?" cried the princess. "You have killed the holy woman!" "Not so," replied Aladdin, "but a wicked magician," and told her of how she had been deceived. After this Aladdin and his wife lived in peace. He succeeded the Sultan when he died, and reigned for many years, leaving behind him a long line of kings. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Oriental Literature, by Anonymous	redpajama-book	17,871
E-text prepared by Ted Garvin, Sjaani, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders FAIRIES AND FUSILIERS THE ROYAL WELCH FUSILIERS _I have to thank Mr. Harold Monro, of The Poetry Book Shop, for permission to include in this volume certain poems of which he possesses the copyright; also the editor of the "Nation" for a similar courtesy._ TO AN UNGENTLE CRITIC _The great sun sinks behind the town Through a red mist of Volnay wine _ But what's the use of setting down That glorious blaze behind the town? You'll only skip the page, you'll look For newer pictures in this book; You've read of sunsets rich as mine. _A fresh wind fills the evening air With horrid crying of night birds _ But what reads new or curious there When cold winds fly across the air? You'll only frown; you'll turn the page, But find no glimpse of your "New Age Of Poetry" in my worn-out words. No, no! my chicken, I shall scrawl Just what I fancy as I strike it, Fairies and Fusiliers, and all Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl Across my verse in the classic way. And, sir, be careful what you say; There are old-fashioned folk still like it. Let statesmen bluster, bark and bray, And so decide who started This bloody war, and who's to pay, But he must be stout-hearted, Must sit and stake with quiet breath, Playing at cards with Death. Don't plume yourself he fights for you; It is no courage, love, or hate, But let us do the things we do; It's pride that makes the heart be great; It is not anger, no, nor fear-Lucasta he's a Fusilier, And his pride keeps him here. And have we done with War at last? Well, we've been lucky devils both, And there's no need of pledge or oath To bind our lovely friendship fast, By firmer stuff Close bound enough. By wire and wood and stake we're bound, By Fricourt and by Festubert, By whipping rain, by the sun's glare, By all the misery and loud sound, By a Spring day, By Picard clay. Here by a snowbound river In scrapen holes we shiver, And like old bitterns we Boom to you plaintively: Robert how can I rhyme Verses for your desire-Sleek fauns and cherry-time, Vague music and green trees, Hot sun and gentle breeze, England in June attire, And life born young again, For your gay goatish brute Drunk with warm melody Singing on beds of thyme With red and rolling eye, All the Devonian plain, Lips dark with juicy stain, Ears hung with bobbing fruit? Why should I keep him time? Why in this cold and rime, Where even to dream is pain? No, Robert, there's no reason: Cherries are out of season, Ice grips at branch and root, And singing birds are mute. Old Mr. Philosopher Comes for Ben and Claire, An ugly man, a tall man, With bright-red hair. "All that matters now Is getting the fun. Come along, Ben and Claire; Plenty to be done." Then old Philosopher, Wisest man alive, Plays at Lions and Tigers Down along the drive- Gambolling fiercely Through bushes and grass, Making monstrous mouths, Braying like an ass, Twisting buttercups In his orange hair, Hopping like a kangaroo, Growling like a bear. Right up to tea-time They frolic there. "My legs _are_ wingle," Says Ben to Claire. The cruel Moon hangs out of reach Up above the shadowy beech. Her face is stupid, but her eye Is small and sharp and very sly. Nurse says the Moon can drive you mad? No, that's a silly story, lad! Though she be angry, though she would Destroy all England if she could, Yet think, what damage can she do Hanging there so far from you? Don't heed what frightened nurses say: Moons hang much too far away. Feet and faces tingle In that frore land: Legs wobble and go wingle, You scarce can stand. The skies are jewelled all around, The ploughshare snaps in the iron ground, The Finn with face like paper And eyes like a lighted taper Hurls his rough rune At the wintry moon And stamps to mark the tune. When a dream is born in you With a sudden clamorous pain, When you know the dream is true And lovely, with no flaw nor stain, O then, be careful, or with sudden clutch You'll hurt the delicate thing you prize so much. Dreams are like a bird that mocks, Flirting the feathers of his tail. When you seize at the salt-box Over the hedge you'll see him sail. Old birds are neither caught with salt nor chaff: They watch you from the apple bough and laugh. Poet, never chase the dream. Laugh yourself and turn away. Mask your hunger, let it seem Small matter if he come or stay; But when he nestles in your hand at last, Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast. Under this loop of honeysuckle, A creeping, caterpillar, I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray, I nibble it leaf by leaf away. Down beneath grow dandelions, Daisies, old-man's-looking-glasses; Rooks flap croaking across the lane. I eat and swallow and eat again. Here come raindrops helter-skelter; I munch and nibble unregarding: Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm. I'll mind my business: I'm a good worm. When I'm old, tired, melancholy, I'll build a leaf-green mausoleum Close by, here on this lovely spray, And die and dream the ages away. Some say worms win resurrection, With white wings beating flitter-flutter, But wings or a sound sleep, why should I care? Either way I'll miss my share. When outside the icy rain Comes leaping helter-skelter, Shall I tie my restive brain Snugly under shelter? Shall I make a gentle song Here in my firelit study, When outside the winds blow strong And the lanes are muddy? With old wine and drowsy meats Am I to fill my belly? Shall I glutton here with Keats? Shall I drink with Shelley? Tobacco's pleasant, firelight's good: Poetry makes both better. Clay is wet and so is mud, Winter rains are wetter. Yet rest there, Shelley, on the sill, For though the winds come frorely, I'm away to the rain-blown hill And the ghost of Sorley. Here in turn succeed and rule Carter, smith, and village fool, Then again the place is known As tavern, shop, and Sunday-school; Now somehow it's come to me To light the fire and hold the key, Here in Heaven to reign alone. All the walls are white with lime, Big blue periwinkles climb And kiss the crumbling window-sill; Snug inside I sit and rhyme, Planning, poem, book, or fable, At my darling beech-wood table Fresh with bluebells from the hill. Through the window I can see Rooks above the cherry-tree, Sparrows in the violet bed, Bramble-bush and bumble-bee, And old red bracken smoulders still Among boulders on the hill, Far too bright to seem quite dead. But old Death, who can't forget, Waits his time and watches yet, Waits and watches by the door. Look, he's got a great new net, And when my fighting starts afresh Stouter cord and smaller mesh Won't be cheated as before. Nor can kindliness of Spring, Flowers that smile nor birds that sing. Bumble-bee nor butterfly, Nor grassy hill nor anything Of magic keep me safe to rhyme In this Heaven beyond my time. No! for Death is waiting by. The bugler sent a call of high romance-"Lights out! Lights out!" to the deserted square. On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer, "God, if it's _this_ for me next time in France O spare the phantom bugle as I lie Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns, Dead in a row with the other broken ones Lying so stiff and still under the sky, Jolly young Fusiliers too good to die." So when I'm killed, don't wait for me, Walking the dim corridor; In Heaven or Hell, don't wait for me, Or you must wait for evermore. You'll find me buried, living-dead In these verses that you've read. So when I'm killed, don't mourn for me, Shot, poor lad, so bold and young, Killed and gone--don't mourn for me. On your lips my life is hung: O friends and lovers, you can save Your playfellow from the grave. LETTER TO S.S. FROM MAMETZ WOOD I never dreamed we'd meet that day In our old haunts down Fricourt way, Plotting such marvellous journeys there For jolly old "Apres-la-guerre." So then we'll kiss our families, And sail across the seas (The God of Song protecting us) To the great hills of Caucasus. Robert will learn the local _bat_ For billeting and things like that, If Siegfried learns the piccolo To charm the people as we go. The jolly peasants clad in furs Will greet the Welch-ski officers With open arms, and ere we pass Will make us vocal with Kavasse. In old Bagdad we'll call a halt At the Sashuns' ancestral vault; We'll catch the Persian rose-flowers' scent, And understand what Omar meant. Bitlis and Mush will know our faces, Tiflis and Tomsk, and all such places. Perhaps eventually we'll get Among the Tartars of Thibet. Hobnobbing with the Chungs and Mings, And doing wild, tremendous things In free adventure, quest and fight, And God! what poetry we'll write! To you who'd read my songs of War And only hear of blood and fame, I'll say (you've heard it said before) "War's Hell!" and if you doubt the same, Today I found in Mametz Wood A certain cure for lust of blood: Where, propped against a shattered trunk, In a great mess of things unclean, Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk With clothes and face a sodden green, Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired, Dribbling black blood from nose and beard. Here down this very way, Here only yesterday King Faun went leaping. He sang, with careless shout Hurling his name about; He sang, with oaken stock His steps from rock to rock In safety keeping, "Here Faun is free, Here Faun is free!" Today against yon pine, Forlorn yet still divine, King Faun leant weeping. "They drank my holy brook, My strawberries they took, My private path they trod." Loud wept the desolate God, Scorn on scorn heaping, "Faun, what is he, Faun, what is he?" My familiar ghost again Comes to see what he can see, Critic, son of Conscious Brain, Spying on our privacy. Slam the window, bolt the door, Yet he'll enter in and stay; In tomorrow's book he'll score Indiscretions of today. Whispered love and muttered fears, How their echoes fly about! None escape his watchful ears, Every sigh might be a shout. No kind words nor angry cries Turn away this grim spoilsport; No fine lady's pleading eyes, Neither love, nor hate, nor port. My familiar ghost again Stands or squats where suits him best; Critic, son of Conscious Brain, Listens, watches, takes no rest. THE SHIVERING BEGGAR Near Clapham village, where fields began, Saint Edward met a beggar man. It was Christmas morning, the church bells tolled, The old man trembled for the fierce cold. Saint Edward cried, "It is monstrous sin A beggar to lie in rags so thin! An old grey-beard and the frost so keen: I shall give him my fur-lined gaberdine." Said Edward, "Sir, it would seem you freeze Most bitter at your extremities. Here are gloves and shoes and stockings also, That warm upon your way you may go." The man took stocking and shoe and glove, Blaspheming Christ our Saviour's love, Yet seemed to find but little relief, Shaking and shivering like a leaf. Said the saint again, "I have no great riches, Yet take this tunic, take these breeches, My shirt and my vest, take everything, And give due thanks to Jesus the King." The saint stood naked upon the snow Long miles from where he was lodged at Bowe, Praying, "O God! my faith, it grows faint! This would try the temper of any saint. "Make clean my heart, Almighty, I pray, And drive these sinful thoughts away. Make clean my heart if it be Thy will, This damned old rascal's shivering still!" He stooped, he touched the beggar man's shoulder; He asked him did the frost nip colder? "Frost!" said the beggar, "no, stupid lad! 'Tis the palsy makes me shiver so bad." A purple whale Proudly sweeps his tail Towards Nineveh; Glassy green Surges between A mile of roaring sea. "O town of gold, Of splendour multifold, Lucre and lust, Leviathan's eye Can surely spy Thy doom of death and dust." With swift lament Those Ninevites repent. They cry in tears, "Our hearts fail! The whale, the whale! Our sins prick us like spears." Jonah is vexed; He cries, "What next? what next?" And shakes his fist. "Stupid city, The shame, the pity, The glorious crash I've missed." Away goes Jonah grumbling, Murmuring and mumbling; Off ploughs the purple whale, With disappointed tail. What could be dafter Than John Skelton's laughter? What sound more tenderly Than his pretty poetry? So where to rank old Skelton? He was no monstrous Milton, Nor wrote no "Paradise Lost," So wondered at by most, Phrased so disdainfully, Composed so painfully. He struck what Milton missed, Milling an English grist With homely turn and twist. He was English through and through, Not Greek, nor French, nor Jew, Though well their tongues he knew, The living and the dead: Learned Erasmus said, _Hie 'unum Britannicarum Lumen et decus literarum._ But oh, Colin Clout! How his pen flies about, Twiddling and turning, Scorching and burning, Thrusting and thrumming! How it hurries with humming, Leaping and running, At the tipsy-topsy Tunning Of Mistress Eleanor Rumming! How for poor Philip Sparrow Was murdered at Carow, How our hearts he does harrow Jest and grief mingle In this jangle-jingle, For he will not stop To sweep nor mop, To prune nor prop, To cut each phrase up Like beef when we sup, Nor sip at each line As at brandy-wine, Or port when we dine. But angrily, wittily, Tenderly, prettily, Laughingly, learnedly, Sadly, madly, Helter-skelter John Rhymes serenely on, As English poets should. Old John, you do me good! I WONDER WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE DROWNED? I can make caves, By lifting up the island and huge waves And storms, and then with head and ears well under Blow bubbles with a monstrous roar like thunder, A bull-of-Bashan sound. The seas run high and the boats split asunder _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_ The thin soap slips And slithers like a shark under the ships. My toes are on the soap-dish--that's the effect Of my huge storms; an iron steamer's wrecked. The soap slides round and round; He's biting the old sailors, I expect _I wonder what it feels like to be drowned?_ It's stupid to be an engine-driver, And soldiers are horrible men. I won't be a tailor, I won't be a sailor, And gardener's taken by Ben. It's unfair if you say that you'll write great music, you horrid, you unkind (I simply loathe you, though you are my sister), you beast, cad, coward, cheat, bully, liar! Well? Say what's left for me then! But _we_ won't go to your ugly music. (Listen!) Ben will garden and dig, And Claire will finish her wondrous pictures All flaming and splendid and big. And I'll be a perfectly marvellous carpenter, and I'll make cupboards and benches and tables and and baths, and nice wooden boxes for studs and money, And you'll be jealous, you pig! I'D LOVE TO BE A FAIRY'S CHILD "What do you think The bravest drink Under the sky?" "Strong beer," said I. "There's a place for everything, Everything, anything, There's a place for everything Where it ought to be: For a chicken, the hen's wing; For poison, the bee's sting; For almond-blossom, Spring; A beerhouse for me." "Tell us, now, how and when We may find the bravest men?" "A sure test, an easy test: Those that drink beer are the best, Brown beer strongly brewed, English drink and English food." Oh, never choose as Gideon chose By the cold well, but rather those Who look on beer when it is brown, Smack their lips and gulp it down. Leave the lads who tamely drink With Gideon by the water brink, But search the benches of the Plough, The Tun, the Sun, the Spotted Cow, For jolly rascal lads who pray, Pewter in hand, at close of day, "Teach me to live that I may fear The grave as little as my beer." With a fork drive Nature out, She will ever yet return; Hedge the flowerbed all about, Pull or stab or cut or burn, She will ever yet return. Look: the constant marigold Springs again from hidden roots. Baffled gardener, you behold New beginnings and new shoots Spring again from hidden roots. Pull or stab or cut or burn, They will ever yet return. THE LADY VISITOR IN THE PAUPER WARD Why do you break upon this old, cool peace, This painted peace of ours, With harsh dress hissing like a flock of geese, With garish flowers? Why do you churn smooth waters rough again, Selfish old skin-and-bone? Leave us to quiet dreaming and slow pain, Leave us alone. LOVE AND BLACK MAGIC "Oh, here have I ever lain forlorn: My father died ere I was born, Mother was by a wizard wed, And oft I wish I had died instead-Often I wish I were long time dead. But, delving deep in my master's lore, I have won of magic power such store I can turn a skull--oh, fiddlededee For all this curious craft!" quo' she. "A soldier is the lad for me; Hey and hither, my lad! BOY Most venerable and learned sir, Tall and true Philosopher, These rings of smoke you blow all day With such deep thought, what sense have they? PHILOSOPHER Small friend, with prayer and meditation I make an image of Creation. And if your mind is working nimble Straightway you'll recognize a symbol Of the endless and eternal ring Of God, who girdles everything-God, who in His own form and plan Moulds the fugitive life of man. These vaporous toys you watch me make, That shoot ahead, pause, turn and break-Some glide far out like sailing ships, Some weak ones fail me at my lips. He who ringed His awe in smoke, When He led forth His captive folk, In like manner, East, West, North, and South, Blows us ring-wise from His mouth. Through long nursery nights he stood By my bed unwearying, Loomed gigantic, formless, queer, Purring in my haunted ear That same hideous nightmare thing, Talking, as he lapped my blood, In a voice cruel and flat, Saying for ever, "Cat! Cat! Cat! " He had faded, he was gone Years ago with Nursery Land When he leapt on me again From the clank of a night train, Overpowered me foot and head, Lapped my blood, while on and on The old voice cruel and flat Says for ever, "Cat! Cat! Cat! " Morphia drowsed, again I lay In a crater by High Wood: He was there with straddling legs, Staring eyes as big as eggs, Purring as he lapped my blood, His black bulk darkening the day, With a voice cruel and flat, "Cat! Cat! Cat! " he said, "Cat! Cat! " When I'm shot through heart and head, And there's no choice but to die, The last word I'll hear, no doubt, Won't be "Charge!" or "Bomb them out!" Nor the stretcher-bearer's cry, "Let that body be, he's dead!" But a voice cruel and flat Saying for ever, "Cat! Cat! Cat!" And sleep lurks in the luscious plum and apple. He crunches, swallows, stiffens, seems to grapple With the all-powerful poppy then a snore, A crash; the beast blocks up the corridor With monstrous hairy carcase, red and dun-Too late! for I've sped through. O Life! O Sun! THE BOUGH OF NONSENSE Said he, "Before this quaint mood fails, We'll sit and weave a nonsense hymn," _R_. "Hanging it up with monkey tails In a deep grove all hushed and dim " _S_. "To glorious yellow-bunched banana-trees," _R_. "Planted in dreams by pious Portuguese," I tell him old Galatian tales; He caps them in quick Portuguese, While phantom creatures with green scales Scramble and roll among the trees. The hymn swells; on a bough above us sings A row of bright pink birds, flapping their wings. Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain, I know that David's with me here again. All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. Caressingly I stroke Rough hark of the friendly oak. A brook goes bubbling by: the voice is his. Turf burns with pleasant smoke; I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses. All that is simple, happy, strong, he is. Over the whole wood in a little while Breaks his slow smile. "Gabble-gabble, brethren, gabble-gabble!" My window frames forest and heather. I hardly hear the tuneful babble, Not knowing nor much caring whether The text is praise or exhortation, Prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation. Outside it blows wetter and wetter, The tossing trees never stay still. I shift my elbows to catch better The full round sweep of heathered hill. The tortured copse bends to and fro In silence like a shadow-show. The parson's voice runs like a river Over smooth rocks. I like this church: The pews are staid, they never shiver, They never bend or sway or lurch. "Prayer," says the kind voice, "is a chain That draws down Grace from Heaven again." It's pleasant here for dreams and thinking, Lolling and letting reason nod, With ugly serious people linking Sad prayers to a forgiving God But a dumb blast sets the trees swaying With furious zeal like madmen praying. THE POET IN THE NURSERY The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling In a dim library, just behind the chair From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling A song about some Lovers at a Fair, Pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling That rhymes were beastly things and never there. And as I groped, the whole time I was thinking About the tragic poem I'd been writing, An old man's life of beer and whisky drinking, His years of kidnapping and wicked fighting; And how at last, into a fever sinking, Remorsefully he died, his bedclothes biting. But suddenly I saw the bright green cover Of a thin pretty book right down below; I snatched it up and turned the pages over, To find it full of poetry, and so Put it down my neck with quick hands like a lover, And turned to watch if the old man saw it go. The book was full of funny muddling mazes, Each rounded off into a lovely song, And most extraordinary and monstrous phrases Knotted with rhymes like a slave-driver's thong. And metre twisting like a chain of daisies With great big splendid words a sentence long. Cherries of the night are riper Than the cherries pluckt at noon Gather to your fairy piper When he pipes his magic tune: Merry, merry, Take a cherry; Mine are sounder, Mine are rounder, Mine are sweeter For the eater Under the moon. And you'll be fairies soon. In the cherry pluckt at night, With the dew of summer swelling, There's a juice of pure delight, Cool, dark, sweet, divinely smelling. Merry, merry, Take a cherry; Mine are sounder, Mine are rounder Mine are sweeter For the eater In the moonlight. And you'll be fairies quite. When I sound the fairy call, Gather here in silent meeting, Chin to knee on the orchard wall, Cooled with dew and cherries eating. Merry, merry, Take a cherry; Mine are sounder, Mine are rounder, Mine are sweeter. For the eater When the dews fall. And you'll be fairies all. Dear, you've been everything that I most lack In these soul-deadening trenches--pictures, books, Music, the quiet of an English wood, Beautiful comrade-looks, The narrow, bouldered mountain-track, The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black, And Peace, and all that's good. I now delight In spite Of the might And the right Of classic tradition, In writing And reciting Straight ahead, Without let or omission, Just any little rhyme In any little time That runs in my head; Because, I've said, My rhymes no longer shall stand arrayed Like Prussian soldiers on parade That march, Stiff as starch, Foot to foot, Boot to boot, Blade to blade, Button to button Cheeks and chops and chins like mutton. No! No! My rhymes must go Turn 'ee, twist 'ee, Twinkling, frosty, Will-o'-the-wisp-like, misty; Rhymes I will make Like Keats and Blake And Christina Rossetti, With run and ripple and shake. How pretty To take A merry little rhyme In a jolly little time And poke it, And choke it, Change it, arrange it, Straight-lace it, deface it, Pleat it with pleats, Sheet it with sheets Of empty conceits, And chop and chew, And hack and hew, And weld it into a uniform stanza, And evolve a neat, Complacent, complete, Academic extravaganza!	redpajama-book	5,479
E-text prepared by Afra Ullah, Josephine Paolucci, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team XXIX THE MAJOR DEMANDS AN EXPLANATION BETH RECEIVES AN INVITATION. Professor De Graf was sorting the mail at the breakfast table. "Here's a letter for you, Beth," said he, and tossed it across the cloth to where his daughter sat. The girl raised her eyebrows, expressing surprise. It was something unusual for her to receive a letter. She picked up the square envelope between a finger and thumb and carefully read the inscription, "Miss Elizabeth De Graf, Cloverton, Ohio." Turning the envelope she found on the reverse flap a curious armorial emblem, with the word "Elmhurst." Finding her father and mother both occupied, the girl ventured to open her letter. It was written in a sharp, angular, feminine hand and read as follows: A low exclamation from Elizabeth caused her father to look in her direction. He saw the bank check lying beside her plate and the sight lent an eager thrill to his voice. "A letter from Aunt Jane." Mrs. De Graf gave a jump and crushed the newspaper into her lap. "What!" she screamed. "How big is the check, Beth?" enquired the Professor, in a low tone. "Huh! Of course you won't go near that dreadful old cat, so we can use the money to better advantage." The harsh, cutting voice was that of his wife, and the Professor shrank back in his chair. "My sister Jane is a very wealthy woman, and she's a Merrick," returned the lady, severely. "How dare you--a common De Graf--asperse her character?" "The De Grafs are a very good family," he retorted. "I can't," said the Professor. "But they're decent, and they're generous, which is more than can be said for your tribe." "Elizabeth must go to Elmhurst," said Mrs. De Graf, ignoring her husband's taunt. "Adolph, try to conceal the fact that you're a fool," said his wife. "Jane is in a desperate state of health, and can't live very long at the best. I believe she's decided to leave her money to Elizabeth, or she never would have invited the child to visit her. Do you want to fly in the face of Providence, you doddering old imbecile?" "No," said the Professor, accepting the doubtful appellation without a blush. "How much do you suppose Jane is worth?" "If she gets the money, which I doubt," returned the Professor, gloomily. "Why should you doubt it, after this letter?" "You had another sister and a brother, and they both had children," said he. "They each left a girl. I admit. But Jane has never favored them any more than she has me. And this invitation, coming; when Jane is practically on her death bed, is a warrant that Beth will get the money." "I hope she will," sighed the music teacher. "We all need it bad enough, I'm sure." Presently she rose from her seat, glanced at the clock, and then went into the hall to get her hat and school-books. The prospect of being an heiress some day had no present bearing on the fact that it was time to start for school. Her father came to the door with the check in his hand. "Just sign your name on the back of this, Beth," said he, "and I'll get it cashed for you." The girl shook her head. "No, father," she answered. "If I decide to go to Aunt Jane's I must buy some clothes; and if you get the money I'll never see a cent of it." "When will you decide?" he asked. "There's no hurry. I'll take time to think it over," she replied. "I hate Aunt Jane, of course; so if I go to her I must be a hypocrite, and pretend to like her, or she never will leave me her property. "Perhaps it will be worth while; but if I go into that woman's house I'll be acting a living lie." "But think of the money!" said her mother. "Good-bye; I'm late now," she continued, in the same quiet tone, and walked slowly down the walk. "Beth's a mighty queer girl," he muttered. "She's very like her Aunt Jane," returned Mrs. De Graf, thoughtfully gazing after her daughter. "But she's defiant and wilful enough for all the Merricks put together. I do hope she'll decide to go to Elmhurst." MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. Upon a taboret beside her stood a box of bonbons, the contents of which she occasionally nibbled as she turned the pages of her novel. The room was tastefully though somewhat elaborately furnished; yet everything in it seemed as fresh and new as if it had just come from the shop--which was not far from the truth. The apartment itself was new, with highly polished floors and woodwork, and decorations undimmed by time. Even the girl's robe, which she wore so gracefully, was new, and the books upon the center-table were of the latest editions. The portiere was thrust aside and an elderly lady entered the room, seating herself quietly at the window, and, after a single glance at the form upon the couch, beginning to embroider patiently upon some work she took from a silken bag. She moved so noiselessly that the girl did not hear her and for several minutes absolute silence pervaded the room. Then, however, Louise in turning a leaf glanced up and saw the head bent over the embroidery. She laid down her book and drew an open letter from between the cushions beside her, which she languidly tossed into the other's lap. "Who is this woman, mamma?" she asked. Mrs. Merrick glanced at the letter and then read it carefully through, before replying. "Jane Merrick is your father's sister," she said, at last, as she thoughtfully folded the letter and placed it upon the table. "Why have I never heard of her before?" enquired the girl, with a slight accession of interest in her tones. "That I cannot well explain. I had supposed you knew of your poor father's sister Jane, although you were so young when he died that it is possible he never mentioned her name in your presence." "They were not on friendly terms, you know. Jane was rich, having inherited a fortune and a handsome country place from a young man whom she was engaged to marry, but who died on the eve of his wedding day." "How romantic!" exclaimed Louise. "It does seem romantic, related in this way," replied her mother. "But with the inheritance all romance disappeared from your aunt's life. She became a crabbed, disagreeable woman, old before her time and friendless because she suspected everyone of trying to rob her of her money. Your poor father applied to her in vain for assistance, and I believe her refusal positively shortened his life. When he died, after struggling bravely to succeed in his business, he left nothing but his life-insurance." "Thank heaven he left that!" sighed Louise. "Yes; we would have been beggared, indeed, without it," agreed Mrs. Merrick. "Yet I often wonder, Louise, how we managed to live upon the interest of that money for so many years." "We didn't live--we existed," corrected the girl, yawning. "We scrimped and pinched, and denied ourselves everything but bare necessities. And had it not been for your brilliant idea, mater dear, we would still be struggling in the depths of poverty." Mrs. Merrick frowned, and leaned back in her chair. "I sometimes doubt if the idea was so brilliant, after all," she returned, with a certain grimness of expression. "We're plunging, Louise; and it may be into a bottomless pit." "You ought to," returned the mother, thoughtfully. "But if you fail, we shall be entirely ruined." Mrs. Merrick stared silently out of the window, and for a few moments seemed lost in thought. "Jane was always a whimsical woman. Perhaps she thinks we are quite destitute, and fears you would not be able to present a respectable appearance at Elmhurst without this assistance. But it is an evidence of her good intentions. Finding death near at hand she is obliged to select an heir, and so invites you to visit her that she may study your character and determine whether you are worthy to inherit her fortune." The girl laughed, lightly. Mrs. Merrick did not reply. She stitched away in a methodical manner, as if abstracted, and Louise crossed her delicate hands behind her head and gazed at her mother reflectively. Presently she said: "Tell me more of my father's family. Is this rich aunt of mine the only relative he had?" "A daughter, eh," said Louise, musingly. "Then this rich Aunt Jane has another niece besides myself." "What was her name?" asked Louise. "I cannot remember. But it is unimportant. You are the only Merrick of them all, and that is doubtless the reason Jane has sent for you." The girl shook her blonde head. "I don't like it," she observed. "All this string of relations. It complicates matters." Mrs. Merrick seemed annoyed. The girl yawned and took up her neglected novel. "Nevertheless, mater dear," she said briefly, "I shall go." "Now, Major, stand up straight and behave yourself! How do you expect me to sponge your vest when you're wriggling around in that way?" "Patsy, dear, you're so sweet this evening, I just had to kiss your lips." "Don't do it again, sir," replied Patricia, severely, as she scrubbed the big man's waistcoat with a damp cloth. "And tell me, Major, how you ever happened to get into such a disgraceful condition." "The soup just shpilled," said the Major, meekly. "Now, sir, you're fairly decent again," she said, after a few vigorous scrubs. "So put on your hat and we'll go out to dinner." After threading their way for several blocks they turned in at the open door of an unobtrusive restaurant where many of the round white tables were occupied by busy and silent patrons. The proprietor nodded to the major and gave Patricia a smile. There was no need to seat them, for they found the little table in the corner where they were accustomed to eat, and sat down. "Did you get paid tonight?" asked the girl. "To be sure, my Patsy." "Then hand over the coin," she commanded. "Remember, Major, no riotous living! Make that go as far as you can, and take care not to invite anyone to drink with you." "And now I'll order the dinner." The waiter was bowing and smiling beside her. Everyone smiled at Patsy, it seemed. They gave the usual order, and then, after a moment's hesitation, she added: "And a bottle of claret for the Major." Her father fairly gasped with amazement. People at the near-by tables looked up as her gay laugh rang out, and beamed upon her in sympathy. "I'm not crazy a bit. Major," said she, patting the hand he had stretched toward her, partly in delight and partly in protest. "I've just had a raise, that's all, and we'll celebrate the occasion." Her father tucked the napkin under his chin then looked at her questioningly. "Sufferin' Moses!" ejaculated the astonished major, staring back into her twinkling eyes, "if this kapes on, we'll be millionaires, Patsy." "What! You spoke to old Conover about me?" "This noon. It's all arranged, daddy, and you'll just have a glorious time with the old colonel. Bless his dear heart, he'll be overjoyed to have you with him, at last." The major pulled out his handkerchief, blew his nose vigorously, and then surreptitiously wiped his eyes. "Ah, Patsy, Patsy; it's an angel you are, and nothing less at all, at all." "Rubbish, Major. Try your claret, and see if it's right. And eat your fish before it gets cold. I'll not treat you again, sir, unless you try to look happy. Why, you seem as glum as old Conover himself!" The major was positively beaming. "Would it look bad for me to kiss you, Patsy?" "Now and right here in this very room!" "Of course it would. Try and behave, like the gentleman you are, and pay attention to your dinner!" Over his coffee the major gave a sudden start and looked guiltily into Patricia's eyes. "Now, then," she said, quickly catching the expression, "out with it." "It's a letter," said the major. "It came yesterday, or mayhap the day before. I don't just remember." "A letter! And who from?" she cried, surprised. "And who may that be?" "Your mother's sister Jane. I can tell by the emblem on the flap of the envelope," said he, drawing a crumpled paper from his breast pocket. "Oh, _that_ person," said Patsy, with scorn. "Whatever induced her to write to _me?_" "You might read it and find out," suggested the major. Patricia tore open the envelope and scanned the letter. Her eyes blazed. "What is it, Mavoureen?" "An insult!" she answered, crushing the paper in her hand and then stuffing it into the pocket of her dress. "Light your pipe, daddy, dear. Here--I'll strike the match." LOUISE MAKES A DISCOVERY. "How did you enjoy the reception, Louise?" "Very well, mamma. But I made the discovery that my escort. Harry Wyndham, is only a poor cousin of the rich Wyndham family, and will never have a penny he doesn't earn himself." "I knew that," said Mrs. Merrick. "But Harry has the entree into some very exclusive social circles. I hope you treated him nicely, Louise. He can be of use to us." "Oh, yes, I think I interested him; but he's a very stupid boy. By the way, mamma, I had an adventure last evening, which I have had no time to tell you of before." "It has given me quite a shock. You noticed the maid you ordered to come from Madam Borne to dress my hair for the reception?" "I merely saw her. Was she unsatisfactory?" "She was very clever. I never looked prettier, I am sure. The maid is a little, demure thing, very young for such a position, and positively homely and common in appearance. But I hardly noticed her until she dropped a letter from her clothing. It fell just beside me, and I saw that it was addressed to no less a personage than my rich aunt, Miss Jane Merrick, at Elmhurst. Curious to know why a hair-dresser should be in correspondence with Aunt Jane, I managed to conceal the letter under my skirts until the maid was gone. Then I put it away until after the reception. It was sealed and stamped, all ready for the post, but I moistened the flap and easily opened it. Guess what I read?" "I've no idea," replied Mrs. Merrick. "Here it is," continued Louise, producing a letter and carefully unfolding it. "Listen to this, if you please: 'Aunt Jane.' She doesn't even say 'dear' or 'respected,' you observe." 'Your indignant niece, "What do you think of that, mamma?'" "It's very strange, Louise. This hair-dresser is your own cousin." "She has a temper though, as this letter proves," said Mrs. Merrick; "and I admire her for the stand she has taken." "So do I," rejoined Louise with a laugh, "for it removes a rival from my path. You will notice that Aunt Jane has sent her a check for the same amount she sent me. Here it is, folded in the letter. Probably my other cousin, the De Graf girl, is likewise invited to Elmhurst? Aunt Jane wanted us all, to see what we were like, and perhaps to choose between us." "Quite likely," said Mrs. Merrick, uneasily watching her daughter's face. "That being the case," continued Louise, "I intend to enter the competition. With this child Patricia out of the way, it will be a simple duel with my unknown De Graf cousin for my aunt's favor, and the excitement will be agreeable even if I am worsted." "They shall be mine," said the daughter, with assurance. "Unless, indeed, the De Graf girl is most wonderfully clever. What is her name?" "Anyway I shall accept my Aunt Jane's invitation, and make the acceptance as sweet as Patricia Doyle's refusal is sour. Aunt Jane will be simply furious when she gets the little hair-dresser's note." "Will you send it on?" "Why not? It's only a question of resealing the envelope and mailing it. And it will be sure to settle Miss Doyle's chances of sharing the inheritance, for good and all." "Oh, I shall leave the check inside the envelope. It wouldn't be at all safe to cash it, you know." "But if you took it out Jane would think the girl had kept tit money, after all, and would be even more incensed against her." "No," said Louise, after a moment's thought, "I'll not do a single act of dishonesty that could ever by any chance be traced to my door. To be cunning, to be diplomatic, to play the game of life with the best cards we can draw, is every woman's privilege. But if I can't win honestly, mater dear, I'll quit the game, for even money can't compensate a girl for the loss of her self-respect." Mrs. Merrick cast a fleeting glance at her daughter and smiled. Perhaps the heroics of Louise did not greatly impress her. "Lift me up, Phibbs--no, not that way! Confound your awkwardness--do you want to break my back? There! That's better. Now the pillow at my head. Oh--h. What are you blinking at, you old owl?" "Are you better this morning, Miss Jane?" asked the attendant, with grave deference. "You look brighter, Miss Jane." "Don't be stupid, Martha Phibbs. I know how I am, better than any doctor, and I tell you I'm on my last legs." "Anything unusual, Miss?" "Of course. I can't be on my last legs regularly, can I?" "I'm sure you'll feel better soon, Miss. Can't I wheel you into the garden? It's a beautiful day, and quite sunny and warm already." "Be quick about it, then; and don't tire me out with your eternal doddering. When a thing has to be done, do it. That's my motto." Slowly and with care the old attendant wheeled her mistress's invalid chair through the doorway of the room, along a stately passage, and out upon a broad piazza at the back of the mansion. Here were extensive and carefully tended gardens, and the balmy morning air was redolent with the odor of flowers. Jane Merrick sniffed the fragrance with evident enjoyment, and her sharp grey eyes sparkled as she allowed them to roam over the gorgeous expanse of colors spread out before her. "I'll go down, I guess, Phibbs. This may be my last day on earth, and I'll spend an hour with my flowers before I bid them good-bye forever." "How are the roses coming on, James?" "Poorly, Miss," he answered, and turning his back returned to his work around the corner. If he was surly, Miss Jane seemed not to mind it. Her glance even softened a moment as she followed his retreating form. But now she was revelling amongst the flowers, which she seemed to love passionately. Phibbs wheeled her slowly along the narrow paths between the beds, and she stopped frequently to fondle a blossom or pull away a dead leaf or twig from a bush. The roses were magnificent, in spite of the old gardener's croaking, and the sun was warm and grateful and the hum of the bees musical and sweet. "It's hard to die and leave all this, Phibbs," said the old woman, a catch in her voice. "But it's got to be done." "Not for a while yet, I hope, Miss Jane." "It won't be long, Phibbs. But I must try to live until my nieces come, and I can decide which of them is most worthy to care for the old place when I am gone." "And somebody's got to have my money and dear Elmhurst when I'm through with them. Who will it be, Phibbs?" "I'm sure I don't know, Miss." "Nor do I. The money's mine, and I can do what I please with it; and I'm under no obligation to anyone." "Except Kenneth," said a soft voice behind her. Jane Merrick gave a start at the interruption and turned red and angry as, without looking around, she answered: "Stuff and nonsense! I know my duties and my business, Silas Watson." "To be sure," said a little, withered man, passing around the chair and facing the old woman with an humble, deprecating air. He was clothed in black, and his smooth-shaven, deeply lined face was pleasant of expression and not without power and shrewd intelligence. The eyes, however, were concealed by heavy-rimmed spectacles, and his manner was somewhat shy and reserved. However, he did not hesitate to speak frankly to his old friend, nor minded in the least if he aroused her ire. "He placed me under no obligations to leave the boy any money," snapped the old woman, white with suppressed wrath, "you know that well enough, Silas Watson, for you drew up the will." The old gentleman slowly drew a pattern upon the gravelled walk with the end of his walking-stick. "Bah! An imbecile--an awkward, ill-mannered brat who is only fit for a stable-boy! I know him, Silas, and I know he'll never amount to a hill of beans. Leave _him_ my money? Not if I hadn't a relative on earth!" "You misjudge him, Jane. Kenneth is all right if you'll treat him decently. But he won't stand your abuse and I don't think the less of him for that." "Why abuse? Haven't I given him a home and an education, all because Thomas asked me to look after his relatives? And he's been rebellious and pig-headed and sullen in return for my kindness, so naturally there's little love lost between us." "All right, Jane; fly at me if you will," said the little man, with a smile; "but I intend to tell you frankly what I think of your actions, just as long as we remain friends." Her stern brows unbent a trifle. "That's why we are friends, Silas; and it's useless to quarrel with you now that I'm on my last legs. A few days more will end me, I'm positive; so bear with me a little longer, my friend." He took her withered hand in his and kissed it gently. "You're not so very bad, Jane," said he, "and I'm almost sure you will be with us for a long time to come. But you're more nervous and irritable than usual, I'll admit, and I fear this invasion of your nieces won't be good for you. Are they really coming?" "My glasses, Phibbs!" cried Miss Jane, eagerly, and the attendant started briskly for the house to get them. "What do you know about these girls?" asked the old lawyer curiously. "And Kenneth?" he asked. "Perhaps not," he answered. "Then I'll leave every cent to charity--except Kenneth's annuity." "Let us hope," said he, "that they will prove all you desire. It would break my heart, Jane, to see Elmhurst turned into a hospital." Phibbs arrived with the spectacles, and Jane Merrick read her letter, her face growing harder with every line she mastered. Then she crumpled the paper fiercely in both hands, and a moment later smoothed it out carefully and replaced it in the envelope. Silas Watson had watched her silently. "Well," said he, at last, "another acceptance?" "No, a refusal," said she. "A refusal from the Irishman's daughter, Patricia Doyle." "That's bad," he remarked, but in a tone of relief. "I don't see it in that light at all," replied Miss Jane. "The girl is right. It's the sort of letter I'd have written myself, under the circumstances. I'll write again, Silas, and humble myself, and try to get her to come." "You surprise me!" said the lawyer. She accepted the obligation reluctantly enough, giving the child a small room in the left wing, as far removed from her own apartments as possible, and transferring all details of his care to Misery Agnew, the old housekeeper. Misery endeavored to "do her duty" by the boy, but appreciating the scant courtesy with which he was treated by her mistress, it is not surprising the old woman regarded him merely as a dependent and left him mostly to his own devices. He was short of stature and thin, with a sad drawn face and manners that even his staunch friend, Silas Watson, admitted were awkward and unprepossessing. What he might have been under different conditions or with different treatment, could only be imagined. Slowly climbing the stairs to the little room Kenneth inhabited, Mr. Watson was forced to conclude, with a sigh of regret, that he could not blame Miss Jane for wishing to find a more desirable heir to her estate than this graceless, sullen youth who had been thrust upon her by a thoughtless request contained in the will of her dead lover--a request that she seemed determined to fulfil literally, as it only required her to "look after" Tom's relatives and did not oblige her to leave Kenneth her property. Yet, strange as it may seem, the old lawyer was exceedingly fond of the boy, and longed to see him the master of Elmhurst. Sometimes, when they were alone, Kenneth forgot his sense of injury and dependence, and spoke so well and with such animation that Mr. Watson was astonished, and believed that hidden underneath the mask of reserve was another entirely different personality, that in the years to come might change the entire nature of the neglected youth and win for him the respect and admiration of the world. But these fits of brightness and geniality were rare. Only the lawyer had as yet discovered them. Today he found the boy lying listlessly upon the window-seat, an open book in his hand, but his eyes fixed dreamily upon the grove of huge elm trees that covered the distant hills. "Morning, Ken," said he, briefly, sitting beside his young friend and taking the book in his own hand. The margins of the printed pages were fairly covered with drawings of every description. The far away trees were there and the near-by rose gardens. There was a cat spitting at an angry dog, caricatures of old Misery and James, the gardener, and of Aunt Jane and even Silas Watson himself--all so clearly depicted that the lawyer suddenly wondered if they were not clever, and an evidence of genius. But the boy turned to look at him, and the next moment seized the book from his grasp and sent it flying through the open window, uttering at the same time a rude exclamation of impatience. The lawyer quietly lighted his pipe. "Why did you do that, Kenneth?" he asked. "The pictures are clever enough to be preserved. I did not know you have a talent for drawing." The boy glanced at him, but answered nothing, and the lawyer thought best not to pursue the subject After smoking a moment in silence he remarked: "Your aunt is failing fast." Although no relative, Kenneth had been accustomed to speak of Jane Merrick as his aunt. Getting neither word nor look in reply the lawyer presently continued: "I do not think she will live much longer." The boy stared from the window and drummed on the sill with his fingers. "When she dies," said Mr. Watson, in a musing tone, "there will be a new mistress at Elmhurst and you will have to move out." The boy now turned to look at him, enquiringly. The boy shrugged his shoulders. "When will Aunt Jane die?" he asked. "I hope she will live many days yet. She may die tomorrow." "When she does, I'll answer your question." said the boy, roughly. "When I'm turned out of this place--which is part prison and part paradise--I'll do something. I don't know what, and I won't bother about it till the time comes. But I'll do something." "Could you earn a living?" asked the old lawyer. "I don't know. It depends on whether Aunt Jane leaves you anything in her will." "I hope she won't leave me a cent!" cried the boy, with sudden fierceness. "I hate her, and will be glad when she is dead and out of my way!" "Kenneth--Kenneth, lad!" "I hate her!" he persisted, with blazing eyes. "She has insulted me, scorned me, humiliated me every moment since I have known her. I'll be glad to have her die, and I don't want a cent of her miserable money." "Uncle Tom was good to my father," said the boy, softening. "Who will have Elmhurst?" asked the boy. "Girls! Girls at Elmhurst?" cried the boy, shrinking back with a look of terror in his eyes. "She has none," declared the boy. Kenneth smiled, and with the change of expression his face lighted wonderfully. "And her flowers," suggested the lawyer. "Oh, yes; and perhaps James. Tell me, why should she love James, who is a mere gardener, and hate me?" "James tends the flowers, and the flowers are Jane Merrick's very life. Isn't that the explanation?" "The girls need not worry you, Kenneth. It will be easy for you to keep out of their way." "When will they come?" "Next week, I believe." The boy looked around helplessly, with the air of a caged tiger. "Perhaps they won't know I'm here," he said. "Thank you, Mr. Watson," more graciously than was his wont. "It isn't that I'm afraid of girls, you know; but they may want to insult me, just as their aunt does, and I couldn't bear any more cruelty." "I know nothing about them," said the lawyer, "so I can't vouch in any way for Aunt Jane's nieces. But they are young, and it is probable they'll be as shy and uncomfortable here at Elmhurst as you are yourself. And after all, Kenneth boy, the most important thing just now is your own future. What in the world is to become of you?" "What is it, ma'am?" she asked, tremblingly. "My leg! I can't move my leg," gasped the mistress of Elmhurst. "Rub it, you old fool! Rub it till you drop, and see if you can bring back the life to it." Martha rubbed, of course, but the task was useless. Oscar the groom was sent on horseback for the nearest doctor, who came just as day was breaking. He gave the old woman a brief examination and shook his head. "Is it paralysis?" asked Jane Merrick. "Yes; a slight stroke." "But I'll have another?" "It may be a week--or a month--or a year. Sometimes there is never another stroke. Don't worry, ma'am. Just lie still and be comfortable." "Shall I draw your will, Jane?" he asked. "No!" she snapped. "I'm not going to die just yet, I assure you. I shall live to carry out my plans, Silas." She did live, and grew better as the days wore on, although she never recovered the use of the paralyzed limb. Beth looked very charming and fresh in her new gown, and she greeted her aunt with a calm graciousness that would have amazed the professor to behold. She had observed carefully the grandeur and beauty of Elmhurst, as she drove through the grounds, and instantly decided the place was worth an effort to win. "So, this is Elizabeth, is it?" asked Aunt June, as the girl stood before her for inspection. "You may kiss me, child." Elizabeth advanced, striving to quell the antipathy she felt to kiss the stern featured, old woman, and touched her lips to the wrinkled forehead. Jane Merrick laughed, a bit sneeringly, while Beth drew back, still composed, and looked at her relative enquiringly. "Well, what do you think of me?" demanded Aunt Jane, as if embarrassed at the scrutiny she received. "Why shouldn't you like me?" cried the old woman. "Why must you try to like your mother's sister?" Beth flushed. She had promised herself not to become angry or discomposed, whatever her aunt might say or do; but before she could control herself an indignant expression flashed across her face and Jane Merrick saw it. "There are reasons," said Beth, slowly, "why your name is seldom mentioned in my father's family. Until your letter came I scarcely knew I possessed an aunt. It was your desire we should become better acquainted, and I am here for that purpose. I hope we shall become friends, Aunt Jane, but until then, it is better we should not discuss the past." The woman frowned. It was not difficult for her to read the character of the child before her, and she knew intuitively that Beth was strongly prejudiced against her, but was honestly trying not to allow that prejudice to influence her. She decided to postpone further interrogations until another time. "Your journey has tired you," she said abruptly. "I'll have Misery show you to your room." She touched a bell beside her. "I'm not tired, but I'll go to my room, if you please," answered Beth, who realized that she had in some way failed to make as favorable an impression as she had hoped. "When may I see you again?" "When I send for you," snapped Aunt Jane, as the housekeeper entered. "I suppose you know I am a paralytic, and liable to die at any time?" "I am very sorry," said Beth, hesitatingly. "You do not seem very ill." "I'm on my last legs. I may not live an hour. But that's none of your business, I suppose. By the way, I expect your cousin on the afternoon train." Beth gave a start of surprise. "My cousin?" she asked. "Yes, Louise Merrick." "Oh!" said Beth, and stopped short. "Well, she's alive. Very much alive, I believe. And she's coming to visit me, while you are here. I expect you to be friends." "To be sure," said Beth, nevertheless discomfited at the news. Suddenly she noticed the old housekeeper standing before her and regarding her with a kindly interest. In an instant she sprang up, threw her arms around Misery and kissed her furrowed cheek. "Thank you for being so kind," said she. "I've never been away from home before and you must be a mother to me while I'm at Elmhurst." Old Misery smiled and stroked the girl's glossy head. "Bless the child!" she said, delightedly; "of course I'll be a mother to you. You'll need a bit of comforting now and then, my dear, if you're going to live with Jane Merrick." "Is she cross?" asked Beth, softly. "Thank you," said the girl. "I'll try not to mind." "Do you need anything else, deary?" asked Misery, with a glance around the room. "Nothing at all, thank you." The housekeeper nodded and softly withdrew. Aunt Jane was in her garden, enjoying the flowers. This was her especial garden, surrounded by a high-box hedge, and quite distinct from the vast expanse of shrubbery and flower-beds which lent so much to the beauty of the grounds at Elmhurst. Aunt Jane knew and loved every inch of her property. She had watched the shrubs personally for many years, and planned all the alterations and the construction of the flower-beds which James had so successfully attended to. Each morning, when her health permitted, she had inspected the greenhouses and issued her brief orders--brief because her slightest word to the old gardener incurred the fulfillment of her wishes. But this bit of garden adjoining her own rooms was her especial pride, and contained the choicest plants she had been able to secure. So, since she had been confined to her chair, the place had almost attained to the dignity of a private drawing-room, and on bright days she spent many hours here, delighting to feast her eyes with the rich coloring of the flowers and to inhale their fragrance. For however gruff Jane Merrick might be to the people with whom she came in contact, she was always tender to her beloved flowers, and her nature invariably softened when in their presence. By and by Oscar, the groom, stepped through an opening in the hedge and touched his hat. "Has my niece arrived?" asked his mistress, sharply. "She's on the way, mum," the man answered, grinning. "She stopped outside the grounds to pick wild flowers, an' said I was to tell you she'd walk the rest o' the way." "To pick wild flowers?" "That's what she said, mum. She's that fond of 'em she couldn't resist it. I was to come an' tell you this, mum; an' she'll follow me directly." Aunt Jane stared at the man sternly, and he turned toward her an unmoved countenance. Oscar had been sent to the station to meet Louise Merrick, and drive her to Elmhurst; but this strange freak on the part of her guest set the old woman thinking what her object could be. Wild flowers were well enough in their way; but those adjoining the grounds of Elmhurst were very ordinary and unattractive, and Miss Merrick's aunt was expecting her. Perhaps- A sudden light illumined the mystery. "See here, Oscar; has this girl been questioning you?" "She asked a few questions, mum." "Some of 'em, if I remember right, mum, was about you." "And you told her I was fond of flowers?" "I may have just mentioned that you liked 'em, mum." Aunt Jane gave a scornful snort, and the man responded in a curious way. He winked slowly and laboriously, still retaining the solemn expression on his face. "You may go, Oscar. Have the girl's luggage placed in her room." He touched his hat and then withdrew, leaving Jane Merrick with a frown upon her brow that was not caused by his seeming impertinence. Presently a slight and graceful form darted through the opening in the hedge and approached the chair wherein Jane Merrick reclined. "Oh, my dear, dear aunt!" cried Louise. "How glad I am to see you at last, and how good of you to let me come here!" and she bent over and kissed the stern, unresponsive face with an enthusiasm delightful to behold. "This is Louise, I suppose," said Aunt Jane, stiffly. "You are welcome to Elmhurst." "Tell me how you are," continued the girl, kneeling beside the chair and taking the withered hands gently in her own. "Do you suffer any? And are you getting better, dear aunt, in this beautiful garden with the birds and the sunshine?" "Get up," said the elder woman, roughly. "You're spoiling your gown." Louise laughed gaily. "Never mind the gown," she answered. "Tell me about yourself. I've been so anxious since your last letter." Aunt Jane's countenance relaxed a trifle. To speak of her broken health always gave her a sort of grim satisfaction. "I'm dying, as you can plainly see," she announced. "My days are numbered, Louise. If you stay long enough you can gather wild flowers for my coffin." Louise flushed a trifle. A bunch of butter-cups and forget-me-nots was fastened to her girdle, and she had placed a few marguerites in her hair. "Don't laugh at these poor things!" she said, deprecatingly. "I'm so fond of flowers, and we find none growing wild in the cities, you know." Jane Merrick looked at her reflectively. "How old are you, Louise," she asked. "Elizabeth De Graf, your cousin. She arrived at Elmhurst this morning, and will be your companion while you are here." "That is nice," said Louise. "I hope you will be friends." "Run away," repeated the woman. "I want to be alone." The girl sighed and kissed her again, stroking the gray hair softly with her white hand. She looked around her, enquiringly, and Aunt Jane pointed a bony finger at the porch. "I shall count the minutes," said Louise, and with a laugh and a graceful gesture of adieu, turned to follow Martha into the house. Jane Merrick looked after her with a puzzled expression upon her face. "Were she in the least sincere," she muttered, "Louise might prove a very pleasant companion. But she's not sincere; she's coddling me to win my money, and if I don't watch out she'll succeed. The girl's a born diplomat, and weighed in the balance against sincerity, diplomacy will often tip the scales. I might do worse than to leave Elmhurst to a clever woman. But I don't know Beth yet. I'll wait and see which girl is the most desirable, and give them each an equal chance." "Come in," called Beth, answering a knock at her door. Louise entered, and with a little cry ran forward and caught Beth in her arms, kissing her in greeting. "You must be my new cousin--Cousin Elizabeth--and I'm awfully glad to see you at last!" she said, holding the younger girl a little away, that she might examine her carefully. "Won't you sit down?" "Of course; we must get acquainted," replied Louise, gaily, and perched herself cross-legged upon the window-seat, surrounded by a mass of cushions. "I didn't know you were here, until an hour ago," she continued. "But as soon as Aunt Jane told me I ran to my room, unpacked and settled the few traps I brought with me, and here I am--prepared for a good long chat and to love you just as dearly as you will let me." "I knew you were coming, but not until this morning," answered Beth, slowly. "Perhaps had I known, I would not have accepted our Aunt's invitation." "Ah! Why not?" enquired the other, as if in wonder. "Have you known Aunt Jane before today?" she asked. "Well?" queried Louise, evidently amused. "Oh, yes, she has" corrected Louise. "What do you know of her?" "Where does she live?" "I haven't the faintest idea." Louise spoke as calmly as if she had not mailed Patricia's defiant letter to Aunt Jane, or discovered her cousin's identity in the little hair-dresser from Madame Borne's establishment. "Has Aunt Jane mentioned her?" continued Beth. "Not in my presence." Louise laughed merrily. "How funny!" she exclaimed, after a moment during which Beth frowned at her darkly. "Why, my dear cousin, I don't want Aunt Jane's money." "Not a penny of it; nor Elmhurst; nor anything you can possibly lay claim to, my dear. My mother and I are amply provided for, and I am only here to find rest from my social duties and to get acquainted with my dead father's sister. That is all." "Oh!" said Beth, lying back in her chair with a sigh of relief. "Poor as poverty," said Beth, gloomily. "My father teaches music, and mother scolds him continually for not being able to earn enough money to keep out of debt." "Hasn't Aunt Jane helped you?" "That's strange. She seems like such a dear kindly old lady," said Louise, musingly. "I think she's horrid," answered Beth, angrily; "but I mustn't let her know it. I even kissed her, when she asked me to, and it sent a shiver all down my back." Louise laughed with genuine amusement. "You must dissemble, Cousin Elizabeth," she advised, "and teach our aunt to love you. For my part, I am fond of everyone, and it delights me to fuss around invalids and assist them. I ought to have been a trained nurse, you know; but of course there's no necessity of my earning a living." "I suppose not," said Beth. Then, after a thoughtful silence, she resumed abruptly; "What's to prevent Aunt Jane leaving you her property, even if you are rich, and don't need it? You say you like to care for invalids, and I don't. Suppose Aunt Jane prefers you to me, and wills you all her money?" "Why, that would be beyond my power to prevent," answered Louise, with a little yawn. Beth's face grew hard again. "You're deceiving me," she declared, angrily. "You're trying to make me think you don't want Elmhurst, when you're as anxious to get it as I am." "They call me Beth," sullenly. "But suppose she leaves it to you?" persisted Beth. "You wouldn't refuse it, I imagine." Louise seemed to meditate. "Is there much more?" asked Beth. "I haven't any list of Aunt Jane's possessions, so I don't know. But you shall have Elmhurst, if I get it, because the place would be of no use to me." "It's a magnificent estate," said Beth, looking at her cousin doubtfully. "It shall be yours, dear, whatever Aunt Jane decides. See, this is a compact, and I'll seal it with a kiss." She sprang up and, kneeling beside Beth, kissed her fervently. "Now shall we be friends?" she asked, lightly. "Now will you abandon all those naughty suspicions and let me love you?" Beth hesitated. The suggestion seemed preposterous. Such generosity savored of play acting, and Louise's manner was too airy to be genuine. Somehow she felt that she was being laughed at by this slender, graceful girl, who was scarcely older than herself; but she was too unsophisticated to know how to resent it. Louise insisted upon warding off her enmity, or at least establishing a truce, and Beth, however suspicious and ungracious, could find no way of rejecting the overtures. "Were I in your place," she said, "I would never promise to give up a penny of the inheritance. If I win it, I shall keep it all." "To be sure. I should want you to, my dear." "Then, since we have no cause to quarrel, we may as well become friends," continued Beth, her features relaxing a little their set expression. Louise laughed again, ignoring the other's brusqueness, and was soon chatting away pleasantly upon other subjects and striving to draw Beth out of her natural reserve. The younger girl had no power to resist such fascinations. Louise knew the big world, and talked of it with charming naivete, and Beth listened rapturously. Such a girl friend it had never been her privilege to have before, and when her suspicions were forgotten she became fairly responsive, and brightened wonderfully. They dressed in time for dinner, and met Aunt Jane and Silas Watson, the lawyer, in the great drawing-room. The old gentleman was very attentive and courteous during the stately dinner, and did much to relieve the girls' embarrassment. Louise, indeed, seemed quite at home in her new surroundings, and chatted most vivaciously during the meal; but Aunt Jane was strangely silent, and Beth had little to say and seemed awkward and ill at ease. The old lady retired to her own room shortly after dinner, and presently sent a servant to request Mr. Watson to join her. "Silas," she said, when he entered, "what do you think of my nieces?" "They are very charming girls," he answered, "although they are at an age when few girls show to good advantage. Why did you not invite Kenneth to dinner, Jane?" "Yes. They would be more at ease in the society of a young gentleman more nearly their own age." "Kenneth is a bear. He is constantly saying disagreeable things. In other words, he is not gentlemanly, and the girls shall have nothing to do with him." "Very well," said the lawyer, quietly. "Which of my nieces do you prefer?" asked the old lady, after a pause. "I cannot say, on so short an acquaintance," he answered, with gravity. "Which do you prefer, Jane?" "Yes. Find her and argue with her. Tell her I am a crabbed old woman with a whim to know her, and that I shall not die happy unless she comes to Elmhurst. Bribe her, threaten her--kidnap her if necessary, Silas; but get her to Elmhurst as quickly as possible." "I'll do my best, Jane. But why are you so anxious?" "My time is drawing near, old friend," she replied, less harshly than usual, "and this matter of my will lies heavily on my conscience. What if I should die tonight?" "She may prove even more undesirable," said the lawyer. "I'll do the best I can, Jane," repeated the old lawyer. THE MAN WITH THE BUNDLE. In the harness-room above the stable sat Duncan Muir, the coachman and most important servant, with the exception of the head gardener, in Miss Merrick's establishment. Duncan, bald-headed but with white and bushy side-whiskers, was engaged in the serious business of oiling and polishing the state harness, which had not been used for many months past. But that did not matter. Thursday was the day for oiling the harness, and so on Thursday he performed the task, never daring to entrust a work so important to a subordinate. Finally the aged coachman, without looking up, enquired: "What do ye think o' 'em, Kenneth lad?" "Think o' whom, Don?" "The young leddies." "What young ladies?" "Miss Jane's nieces, as Oscar brought from the station yesterday." The boy looked astonished, and leaned over the box in his lap eagerly. "Tell me, Don," he said. "I was away with my gun all yesterday, and heard nothing of it." "Why, it seems Miss Jane's invited 'em to make her a visit." "But not yet, Don! Not so soon." "Na'theless, they're here." "Girls?" with an accent of horror. "Young females, anyhow," said Donald, polishing a buckle briskly. The boy glared at him fixedly. "Will they be running about the place, Don?" "Most likely, 'Twould be a shame to shut them up with the poor missus this glad weather. But why not? They'll be company for ye, Kenneth lad." "How long will they stay?" The boy sat silent a moment, thinking upon this speech. Then, with a cry that was almost a scream, he dashed the box upon the floor and flew out the door as if crazed, and Donald paused to listen to his footsteps clattering down the stairs. Donald was not only deeply impressed by such an exhibition of art; he was highly gratified at being pictured, and full of wonder that the boy could do such a thing; "wi' a wee pencil an' a bit o' board!" He turned the box this way and that to admire the sketch, and finally arose and brought a hatchet, with which he carefully pried the board away from the box. Then he carried his treasure to a cupboard, where he hid it safely behind a row of tall bottles. Meantime Kenneth had reached the stable, thrown a bridle over the head of a fine sorrel mare, and scorning to use a saddle leaped upon her back and dashed down the lane and out at the rear gate upon the old turnpike road. His head was whirling with amazement, his heart full of indignation. Girls! Girls at Elmhurst--nieces and guests of the fierce old woman he so bitterly hated! Then, indeed, his days of peace and quiet were ended. These dreadful creatures would prowl around everywhere; they might even penetrate the shrubbery to the foot of the stairs leading to his own retired room; they would destroy his happiness and drive him mad. Perhaps Donald did. Good old Don was friendly and seldom bothered him by talking. Perhaps old Misery liked him a bit, also. But these were only servants, and almost as helpless and dependent as himself. Still, he had been happy. He began to realize it, now that these awful girls had come to disturb his peace. The thought filled him with grief and rebellion and resentment; yet there was nothing he could do to alter the fact that Donald's "young females" were already here, and prepared, doubtless, to stay. The sorrel was dashing down the road at a great pace, but the boy clung firmly to his seat and gloried in the breeze that fanned his hot cheeks. Away and away he raced until he reached the crossroads, miles away, and down this he turned and galloped as recklessly as before. The sun was hot, today, and the sorrel's flanks begun to steam and show flecks of white upon their glossy surface. He turned again to the left, entering upon a broad highway that would lead him straight home at last; but he had almost reached the little village of Elmwood, which was the railway station, before he realized his cruelty to the splendid mare he bestrode. Then indeed, he fell to a walk, patting Nora's neck affectionately and begging her to forgive him for his thoughtlessness. The mare tossed her head in derision. However she might sweat and pant, she liked the glorious pace even better than her rider. Through the village he paced moodily, the bridle dangling loosely on the mare's neck. The people paused to look at him curiously, but he had neither word nor look for any. Involuntarily he drew rein, and stopped beside the traveler with a look of inquiry. "Sorry to trouble you, sir," remarked the little man, in a cheery voice, "but I ain't just certain about my way." "Where do you want to go?" asked the boy. "To Jane Merrick's place. They call it Elmhurst, I guess." "It's straight ahead," said Kenneth, as the mare walked on. His questioner also started and paced beside him. The boy did not reply to this. There was nothing offensive in the man's manner. He spoke with an easy familiarity that made it difficult not to respond with equal frank cordiality, and there was a shrewd expression upon his wrinkled, smooth-shaven face that stamped him a man who had seen life in many of its phases. Kenneth, who resented the companionship of most people, seemed attracted by the man, and hesitated to gallop on and leave him. "Know Jane Merrick?" asked the stranger. "I hate her," he said, savagely. The man laughed, a bit uneasily. "Then it's the same Jane as ever," he responded, with a shake of his grizzled head. "Do you know, I sort o' hoped she'd reformed, and I'd be glad to see her again. They tell me she's got money." The boy looked at him in surprise. "Aunt Jane?" echoed the man, quickly. "What's your name, lad?" A shake of the head. "Don't recollect any Forbeses in the family." "She isn't really my aunt," said the boy, "and she doesn't treat me as an aunt, either; but she's my guardian, and I've always called her Aunt, rather than say Miss Merrick." "She's never married, has she?" "No. She was engaged to my Uncle Tom, who owned Elmhurst. He was killed in a railway accident, and then it was found he'd left her all he had." "So, when my parents died, Aunt Jane took me for Uncle Tom's sake, and keeps me out of charity." "I see." Quite soberly, this time. The boy slid off the mare and walked beside the little man, holding the bridle over his arm. They did not speak again for some moments. Finally the stranger asked: "Are Jane's sisters living--Julia and Violet?" "Girls," with bitterness. "I haven't seen them." The stranger whistled. "Don't like girls, I take it?" Another long pause. Then the boy suddenly turned questioner. "You know Aunt--Miss Merrick, sir?" "I used to, when we were both younger." "Any relation, sir?" "Just a brother, that's all." Kenneth stopped short, and the mare stopped, and the little man, with a whimsical smile at the boy's astonishment, also stopped. "I didn't know she had a brother, sir--that is, living." "That's me. I went west a long time ago; before you were born, I guess. We don't get much news on the coast, so I sort of lost track of the folks back east, and I reckon they lost track of me, for the same reason." "You were the tinsmith?" "The same. Bad pennies always return, they say. I've come back to look up the family and find how many are left. Curious sort of a job, isn't it." The boy glanced at the bundle, pityingly, and the little man caught the look and smiled his sweet, cheery smile. "My valise was too heavy to carry," he said; "so I wrapped up a few things in case Jane wanted me to stay over night. And that's why I didn't get a horse at the livery, you know. Somebody'd have to take it back again." "I'm sure she'll ask you to stay, sir. And if she doesn't, you come out to the stable and let me know, and I'll drive you to town again. Donald--that's the coachman--is my friend, and he'll let me have the horse if I ask him." "We're here at last," said the boy, turning: into the drive-way. "Seeing that you're her brother, sir, I advise you to go right up to the front door and ring the bell." "I will," said the man. "I always go around the back way, myself." The boy turned away, but in a moment halted again. His interest in Miss Jane's brother John was extraordinary. "Another thing," he said, hesitating. "You'd better not say you met me, you know. It wouldn't be a good introduction. She hates me as much as I hate her." "Very good, my lad. I'll keep mum." The boy nodded, and turned away to lead Nora to the stable. The man looked after him a moment, and shook his head, sadly. "Poor boy!" he whispered. Then he walked up to the front door and rang the bell. "This seems to be a lazy place," said Louise, as she stood in the doorway of Beth's room to bid her good night. "I shall sleep until late in the morning, for I don't believe Aunt Jane will be on exhibition before noon." "To study my lessons and help get the breakfast." "Don't you keep a maid?" "No," said Beth, rather surlily; "we have hard work to keep ourselves." "But you must be nearly through with school by this time. I finished my education ages ago." "Did you graduate?" asked Beth. "No; it wasn't worth while," declared Louise, complacently. "I'm sure I know as much as most girls do, and there are more useful lessons to be learned from real life than from books." "Good night," said Beth. "Good night," answered the older girl, and shut the door behind her. Beth sat for a time moodily thinking. She did not like the way in which her cousin assumed superiority over her. The difference in their ages did not account for the greater worldly wisdom Louise had acquired, and in much that she said and did Beth recognized a shrewdness and experience that made her feel humbled and, in a way, inferior to her cousin. Nor did she trust the friendship Louise expressed for her. Somehow, nothing that the girl said seemed to ring true, and Beth already, in her mind, accused her of treachery and insincerity. It was no wonder her unsophisticated country cousin failed to comprehend her, although Beth's intuition was not greatly at fault. If she became an heiress she would not need to teach, but she was not at all confident of her prospects, and the girl's practical nature prompted her to carry out her plans until she was sure of the future. In the hall she met Phibbs, shuffling along as if in pain. "Good morning, miss," said the old servant. Beth looked at her thoughtfully. This was Aunt Jane's special and confidential attendant. "Do your feet hurt you?" she asked. "Yes, miss; in the mornin' they's awful bad. It's being on 'em all the day, 'tendin' to Miss Jane, you know. But after a time I gets more used to the pain, and don't feel it. The mornin's always the worst." She was passing on, but Beth stopped her. "Come into my room," she said, and led the way. Martha Phibbs followed reluctantly. Miss Jane might already be awake and demanding her services, and she could not imagine what the young lady wanted her for. But she entered the room, and Beth went to a box and brought out a bottle of lotion. "Mother has the same trouble that you complain of," she said, practically, "and here is a remedy that always gives her relief. I brought it with me in case I should take long tramps, and get sore feet." She gently pushed the old woman into a chair, and then, to Phibbs' utter amazement, knelt down and unfastened her shoes and drew off her stockings. A moment later she was rubbing the lotion upon the poor creature's swollen feet, paying no attention to Martha's horrified protests. "There. Now they're sure to feel better," said Beth, pulling the worn and darned stockings upon the woman's feet again. "And you must take this bottle to your room, and use it every night and morning." "I'm glad to help you," said Beth, rinsing her hands at the wash stand and drying them upon a towel. "It would be cruel to let you suffer when I can ease your pain." "But what would Miss Jane say?" wailed old Martha, throwing up her hands in dismay. "She'll never know a thing about it. It's our secret, Martha, and I'm sure if I ever need a friend you'll do as much for me." "I'll do anything for you, Miss Elizabeth," was the reply, as the woman took the bottle of lotion and departed. "That was not a bad thought," she said to herself, again starting for the gardens. "I have made a firm friend and done a kindly action at the same time--and all while Cousin Louise is fast asleep." The housekeeper let her out at the side door, after Beth had pressed her hand and kissed her good morning. "You're looking quite bonny, my dear," said the old woman. "Do you feel at home, at all, in this strange place?" She found a path between high hedges, that wandered away through the grounds, and along this she strolled until she reached a rose arbor with a comfortable bench. Here she seated herself, looking around her curiously. The place seemed little frequented, but was kept with scrupulous care. Even at this hour, a little way off could be heard the "click-click!" of hedge-shears, and Beth noted how neatly the paths were swept, and how carefully every rose on the arbor was protected. Elmhurst was a beautiful place. Beth sighed as she wondered if it would ever be hers. Then she opened her book and began to work. "Good morning," she said, pleasantly. James stared at her, but made no reply save a slight inclination of his head. "Am I in your way?" she asked. He turned his back to her, then, and began clipping away as before. Beth sprang up and laid a hand upon his arm, arresting him. Again he turned to stare at her, and in his eyes was a look almost of fear. "Why won't you speak to me?" enquired the girl, gently. "I'm a stranger at Elmhurst, but I want to be your friend. Won't you let me?" To her amazement James threw up his hands, letting the shears clatter to the ground, and with a hoarse cry turned and fled up the path as swiftly as he could go. Beth was really puzzled, but as she stood silently looking after the gardener she heard a soft laugh, and found old Misery beside her. "He isn't dumb, is he?" asked Beth. "Lor', no! But he's that odd an' contrary he won't talk to a soul. Never did, since the day Master Tom was killed. James was travellin' with Master Tom, you know, and there was an accident, an' the train run off'n the track an' tipped over. James wasn't hurt at all, but he dragged Master Tom out'n the wreck and sat by him until he died. Then James brought Master Tom's body back home again; but his mind seemed to have got a shock, in some way, and he never was the same afterwards. He was powerful fond of young Master Tom. But then, we all was." "Poor man!" said Beth. "But why should I frighten him?" asked the girl. "Thank you," said Beth, turning to walk beside the housekeeper. According to Aunt Jane's instructions the breakfast was served in her own room, and presently Louise, dressed in a light silk kimona, came in bearing her tray "to keep her cousin company," she laughingly announced. "I should have slept an hour longer," she yawned, over her chocolate, "but old Misery--who seems rightly named--insisted on waking me, just that I might eat. Isn't this a funny establishment?" "It's different from everything I'm used to," answered Beth, gravely; "but it seems very pleasant here, and everyone is most kind and attentive." "Now I'll dress," said Louise, "and we'll take a long walk together, and see the place." So it happened that Kenneth clattered down the road on the sorrel mare just a moment before the girls emerged from the house, and while he was riding off his indignation at their presence at Elmhurst, they were doing just what his horrified imagination had depicted--that is, penetrating to all parts of the grounds, to every nook in the spacious old gardens and even to the stables, where Beth endeavored to make a friend of old Donald the coachman. However, the gray-whiskered Scotsman was not to be taken by storm, even by a pretty face. His loyalty to "the boy" induced him to be wary in associating with these strange "young females" and although he welcomed them to the stable with glum civility he withheld his opinion of them until he should know them better. In their rambles the girls found Kenneth's own stair, and were sitting upon it when Phibbs came to summon Louise to attend upon Aunt Jane. She obeyed with alacrity, for she wished to know more of the queer relative whose guest she had become. "Sit down," said Aunt Jane, very graciously, as the girl entered. Louise leaned over the chair, kissed her and patted her cheek affectionately, and then shook up the pillows to make them more comfortable. "I want you to talk to me," announced Aunt Jane, "and to tell me something of the city and the society in which you live. I've been so long dead to the world that I've lost track of people and things." "Let me dress your hair at the same time," said Louise, pleadingly. "It looks really frowsy, and I can talk while I work." "I can't lift my left hand," said the invalid, flushing, "and Phibbs is a stupid ass." Indeed, Aunt Jane was really startled. "However did your mother manage to gain an entree into society?" she asked. "Your father was a poor man and of little account. I know, for he was my own brother." "Are you rich?" asked Aunt Jane, sharply. "Mercy, no!" laughed Louise, who had finished her work and now sat her aunt's feet. "But we have enough for our requirements, and that makes us feel quite independent. By the way, auntie, I want to return that check you sent me. It was awfully good and generous of you, but I didn't need it, you know, and so I want you to take it back." She drew the slip of paper from her pocket and pressed it into Aunt Jane's hand. "It's quite enough for you to give me this nice treat in the country," resumed the girl, calmly. "The change from the city will do me a world of good, and as I wanted to be quiet, and rest I declined all my other invitations for the summer to accept yours. Isn't it glorious that we can get acquainted at last? And I quite love Elmhurst, already!" Louise had read her nature correctly. It had been a little hard to return so large a check, but the girl's policy was not to appear before Aunt Jane as a poor relation, but rather as a young lady fitted by social education and position to become a gracious mistress of Elmhurst. This she believed would give her a powerful advantage over all competitors. Whether she was right or not in this surmise it is certain that she rose several points in Aunt Jane's estimation during this interview, and when she was dismissed it was so graciously that she told herself the money her little plot had cost had been well expended. Afterward Elizabeth was summoned to attend her aunt. "I want to be amused. Can you read aloud?" said the invalid. "Not very well, I'm afraid. But I'll be glad to try," answered Beth. "What do you like?" "Select your own book," said Aunt Jane, pointing to a heap of volumes beside her. The girl hesitated. Louise would doubtless have chosen a romance, or some light tale sure to interest for the hour, and so amuse the old lady. But Beth erroneously judged that the aged and infirm love sober and scholarly books, and picked out a treatise that proved ineffably dull and tedious. Aunt Jane sniffed, and then smiled slyly and proceeded to settle herself for a nap. If the girl was a fool, let her be properly punished. Beth read for an hour, uncertain whether her aunt were intensely interested or really asleep. At the end of that dreadful period old Misery entered and aroused the sleeper without ceremony. "What's the matter?" asked Aunt Jane, querrulously, for she resented being disturbed. "There's a man to see you, Miss." "Send him about his business!" "I won't see him, I tell you!" "But he says he's your brother, Miss." Miss Jane stared as if bewildered. "Your brother John, Miss." The invalid sank back upon her cushions with a sigh of resignation. "I thought he was dead, long ago; but if he's alive I suppose I'll have to see him," she said. "Elizabeth, leave the room. Misery, send the man here!" UNCLE JOHN GETS ACQUAINTED. Beth went out to find Louise, and discovered her standing near the stables, where a boy was rubbing down the sides of a sorrel mare with wisps of straw. "Something has happened," she said to Louise in a troubled voice. "A man has arrived who says he is Aunt Jane's brother." "Impossible! Have you seen him?" "No; he says he's Aunt Jane's brother John." "Oh; I know. The peddler, or tinker, or something or other who disappeared years ago. But it doesn't matter." "It may matter a good deal," said practical Beth. "Aunt Jane may leave him her money." "Why, he's older than she is. I've heard mother say he was the eldest of the family. Aunt Jane wont leave her money to an old man, you may be sure." "I wonder who that is," said Beth. She walked into the stable, followed by her cousin, and found the groom tying the mare. "Who was the young man?" she asked. "Which young man, Miss?" "Oh; that's Master Kenneth, Miss," answered Oscar, with a grin. "Where did he come from?" "Master Kenneth? Why, he lives here." "Master Tom's nephew--he as used to own Elmhurst, you know." "Mr. Thomas Bradley?" "Ah. How long has Master Kenneth lived here?" "A good many years. I can't just remember how long." The girls walked away, and when they were alone Louise remarked: "Here is a more surprising discovery than Uncle John, Beth. The boy has a better right than any of us to inherit Elmhurst." "Then why did Aunt Jane send for us?" "It's a mystery, dear. Let us try to solve it." "Come; we'll ask the housekeeper," said Beth. "I'm sure old Misery will tell us all we want to know." So they returned to the house and, with little difficulty, found the old housekeeper. "Master Kenneth?" she exclaimed. "Why, he's just Master Tom's nephew, that's all." "Is this his home?" asked Beth. "All the home he's got, my dear. His father and mother are both dead, and Miss Jane took him to care for just because she thought Master Tom would 'a' liked it." "Is she fond of him?" enquired Louise. "Fond of the boy? Why, Miss Jane just hates him, for a fact. She won't even see him, or have him near her. So he keeps to his little room in the left wing, and eats and sleeps there." "It's strange," remarked Beth, thoughtfully. "Isn't he a nice boy?" "We're all very fond of Master Kenneth," replied the housekeeper, simply. "But I'll admit he's a queer lad, and has a bad temper. It may be due to his lack of bringin' up, you know; for he just runs wild, and old Mr. Chase, who comes from the village to tutor him, is a poor lot, and lets the boy do as he pleases. For that reason he won't study, and he won't work, and I'm sure I don't know whatever will become of him, when Miss Jane dies." "Thank you," said Beth, much relieved, and the girls walked away with lighter hearts. After luncheon, which they ate alone and unattended save by the maid Susan, who was old Misery's daughter, the girls walked away to the rose arbor, where Beth declared they could read or sew quite undisturbed. But sitting upon the bench they found a little old man, his legs extended, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and a look of calm meditation upon his round and placid face. Between his teeth was a black brier pipe, which he puffed lazily. Beth was for drawing back, but Louise took her arm and drew her forward. "Isn't this Uncle John?" she asked. The little man turned his eyes upon them, withdrew his hands from his pockets and his pipe from his mouth, and then bowed profoundly. "If you are my nieces, then I am Uncle John," he said, affably. "Sit down, my dears, and let us get acquainted." Louise smiled, and her rapid survey took in the man's crumpled and somewhat soiled shirt-front, the frayed black necktie that seemed to have done years of faithful service, and the thick and dusty cow-hide boots. His clothing was old and much worn, and the thought crossed her mind that Oscar the groom was far neater in appearance than this newly-found relative. Beth merely noticed that Uncle John was neither dignified nor imposing in appearance. She sat down beside him--leaving a wide space between them--with a feeling of disappointment that he was "like all the rest of the Merricks." "You have just arrived, we hear," remarked Louise. "Why, Patricia Doyle." "Doyle? Doyle? Don't remember the name." "I believe your sister Violet married a man named Doyle." "So she did. Captain Doyle--or Major Doyle--or some such fellow. But what is your name?" "I am Louise Merrick, your brother Will's daughter." "Oh! And you?" turning to Beth. "My mother was Julia Merrick," said Beth, not very graciously. "She married Professor DeGraf. I am Elizabeth DeGraf." "Yes, yes," observed Uncle John, nodding his head. "I remember Julia very well, as a girl. She used to put on a lot of airs, and jaw father because he wouldn't have the old top-buggy painted every spring. Same now as ever, I s'pose?" "Sir," said Louise, much offended, "you are speaking of my mother." "Thank you," said Louise, rather coldly. "You're a competent judge, sir, I suppose." "Tolerable," he responded, with a chuckle. "So good a judge that I've kep' single all my life." "Where did you come from?" asked the girl. "From out on the coast," tossing his grizzled head toward the west. "What brought you back here, after all these years?" "Family affection, I guess. Wanted to find out what folks yet belonged to me." An awkward silence followed this, during which Uncle John relighted his pipe and Beth sat in moody silence. Louise drew a pattern in the gravel with the end of her parasol. This new uncle, she reflected, might become an intolerable bore, if she encouraged his frank familiarity. "Now that you are here," she said, presently, "what are you going to do?" "Have you any money?" He looked at her with a droll expression. "Might have expected that question, my dear," said he; "but it's rather hard to answer. If I say no, you'll be afraid I'll want to borrow a little spendin' money, now an' then; and if I say yes, you'll take me for a Rockyfeller." "Not exactly," smiled Louise. "Well, then, if I figure close I won't have to borrow," he responded, gravely. "And here's Jane, my sister, just rolling in wealth that she don't know what to do with. And she's invited me to stay a while. So let's call the money question settled, my dear." Another silence ensued. Louise had satisfied her curiosity concerning her new uncle, and Beth had never had any. There was nothing more to say, and as Uncle John showed no intention of abandoning the arbored seat, it was evident they must go themselves. Louise was about to rise when the man remarked: "Jane won't last long". "You think not?" she asked. "Uncle John," said Beth, "I had hoped I would like you. But if you are going to be so very disagreeable, I'll have nothing more to do with you!" With this she arose and marched up the path, vastly indignant, and Louise marched beside her. At the bend in the walk they glanced back, and saw Uncle John sitting upon the bench all doubled up and shaking with silent laughter. "Don't judge hastily, Beth," replied Louise, reflectively. "I can't make up my mind, just yet, whether Uncle John is a fool or not." "Anyhow," snapped Beth, "he's laughing at us." "And that," said her cousin, softly, "is the strongest evidence of his sanity. Beth, my love, Aunt Jane has placed us in a most ridiculous position." After it was finished Uncle John strolled into the garden to smoke his pipe under the stars and Louise sang a few songs for Aunt Jane in the dimly-lit drawing room. Beth, who was a music teacher's daughter, could not sing at all. It was some time later when John Merrick came to his sister's room to bid her good night. "Well," she asked him, "what do you think of the girls?" "During my lifetime," said the old man, "I've always noticed that girls are just girls--and nothing more. Jane, your sex is a puzzle that ain't worth the trouble solving. You're all alike, and what little I've seen of my nieces convinces me they're regulation females--no better nor worse than their kind." "Beth has no tact at all," replied Aunt Jane. "But then, she's younger than Louise." "Yes. The other's coming. Silas Watson, my lawyer, has just telegraphed from New York that he's bringing Patricia back with him." "Had to send for her, eh?" "Yes. She's Irish, and if I remember rightly her father is a disgraceful old reprobate, who caused poor Violet no end of worry. The girl may be like him, for she wrote me a dreadful letter, scolding me because I hadn't kept her parents supplied with money, and refusing to become my guest." "But she's changed her mind?" "I sent Watson after her, and he's bringing her. I wanted to see what the girl is like." Uncle John whistled a few bars of an ancient tune. "My advice is," he said, finally, "to let 'em draw cuts for Elmhurst. If you want to leave your money to the best o' the lot, you're as sure of striking it right that way as any other." "Nonsense!" said Jane Merrick, sharply. "I don't want to leave my money to the best of the lot." "I see. Jane, I'll repeat my former observation. Your sex is a puzzle that isn't worth solving. Good night, old girl." Patricia sat down opposite her Aunt Jane. She still wore her hat and the gray wrap. "Well, here I am," she exclaimed, with a laugh; "but whether I ought to be here or not I have my doubts." Aunt Jane surveyed her critically. "You're a queer little thing," she said, bluntly. "I wonder why I took so much trouble to get you." "So do I," returned Patsy, her eyes twinkling. "You'll probably be sorry for it." Lawyer Watson, who had remained standing, now broke in nervously. "I explained to Miss Doyle," said he, "that you were ill, and wanted to see her. And she kindly consented to come to Elmhurst for a few days." "Why did you object to come here?" asked Aunt Jane. "Well, I didn't know you; and I didn't especially want to know you. Not that I bear grudges, understand, although you've been little of a friend to my folks these past years. But you are rich and proud--and I suspect you're a little cross, Aunt Jane--while we are poor and proud and like to live our lives in our own way." "Are you a working girl?" enquired Miss Merrick. "Surely," said Patsy, "and drawing a big lump of salary every Saturday night. I'm a hair-dresser, you know--and by the way, Aunt Jane, it puzzles me to find a certain kink in your hair that I thought I'd invented myself." "Louise dressed my hair this way," said Miss Merrick, a bit stiffly. "My niece, Louise Merrick." Patsy whistled, and then clapped her hand over her mouth and looked grave. "Is she here?" she asked, a moment later. "Yes, and your other cousin, Elizabeth De Graf, is here also." "That's just the trouble," cried Patsy, energetically. "That's why I didn't want to come, you know." "I don't understand you, Patricia." "The others you'll throw over, and the favorite will get your money." "Haven't I a right to do that?" asked the invalid, in an amazed tone. "Perhaps you have. But we may as well understand each other right now, Aunt Jane. I won't touch a penny of your money, under any circumstances." "I don't think you will, Patricia." The girl laughed, with a joyous, infectious merriment that was hard to resist. "Stick to that, aunt, and there's no reason we shouldn't be friends," she said, pleasantly. "I don't mind coming to see you, for it will give me a bit of a rest and the country is beautiful just now. More than that, I believe I shall like you. You've had your own way a long time, and you've grown crochetty and harsh and disagreeable; but there are good lines around your mouth and eyes, and your nature's liable to soften and get sunny again. I'm sure I hope so. So, if you'd like me to stay a few days, I'll take off my things and make myself at home. But I'm out of the race for your money, and I'll pay my way from now on just as I have always done." But Patricia's manner was not at all offensive. Her big eyes were as frank as her words, but they glistened with kindliness and good nature, and it was evident the girl had no doubt at all of her aunt's reply, for she straightway begun to take off her hat. The invalid had kept her eyes sternly fastened upon her young niece ever since the beginning of the interview. Now she reached out a hand and touched her bell. "Misery," she said to the old housekeeper, "show my niece, Miss Patricia, to the rose chamber. And see that she is made comfortable." "Thank you," said Patsy, jumping up to go. "Make yourself perfectly free of the place," continued Aunt Jane, in an even tone, turning to Patricia, "and have as good a time as you can. I'm afraid it's rather stupid here for girls, but that can't be helped. Stay as long as you please, and go home whenever you like; but while you are here, if you ever feel like chatting with a harsh and disagreeable old woman, come to me at any time and you will be welcome." Patsy, standing before her, looked down into her worn face with a pitying expression. "Go now," replied Aunt Jane, turning in her chair rather wearily. "But come to me again whenever you like." Patsy nodded, and followed the housekeeper to the rose chamber--the prettiest room old Elmhurst possessed, with broad windows opening directly upon the finest part of the garden. Lawyer Watson sat opposite his old friend for some moments in thoughtful silence. "The child is impossible." he said, at last. "You think so?" she enquired, moodily. "You bore me, Silas," she answered, coldly. "The boy is the most impossible of all." It was the old protest and the old reply. He had hardly expected anything different. After a period of thought he asked; "What is this I hear about John Merrick having returned from the West?" "He came yesterday. It was a great surprise to me." "I never knew this brother, I believe." "No; he had gone away before I became acquainted with either you or Tom." "What sort of a man is he?" "Honest and simple, hard-headed and experienced." "Is he independent?" "I believe so; he has never mentioned his affairs to me. But he has worked hard all his life, he says, and now means to end his days peacefully. John is not especially refined in his manner, nor did he have much of an education; but he seems to be a good deal of a man, for all that. I am very glad he appeared at Elmhurst just at this time." "You had believed him dead?" "Yes. He had passed out of my life completely, and I never knew what became of him." "He must be an eccentric person," said Mr. Watson, with a smile. "He is." she acknowledged. "But blood is thicker than water, Silas, and I'm glad brother John is here at last." The boy and a little stout man were playing chess at a table, and both were in a deep study of the game. The boy's back was toward him, but the man observed the newcomer and gave a nod. Then he dropped his eyes again to the table. Kenneth was frowning sullenly. "You're bound to lose the pawn, whichever way you play," said the little man quietly. The boy gave an angry cry, and thrust the table from him, sending the chess-men clattering into a corner. Instantly the little man leaned over and grasped the boy by the collar, and with a sudden jerk landed him across his own fat knees. Then, while the prisoner screamed and struggled, the man brought his hand down with a slap that echoed throughout the room, and continued the operation until Master Kenneth had received a sound spanking. Then he let the boy slip to the floor, from whence he arose slowly and backed toward the door, scowling and muttering angrily. "You broke the bargain, and I kept my word," said Uncle John, calmly taking his pipe from his pocket and filling it. "The compact was that if you raised a rough-house, like you did yesterday, and got unruly, that I'd give you a good thrashing. Now, wasn't it?" "Yes," acknowledged the boy. "Well, that blamed temper o' your'n got away with you again, and you're well spanked for not heading it off. Pick up the board. Ken, my lad, and let's try it again." Uncle John struck a match, and lighted his pipe. "A bargain's a bargain," he observed, composedly. "He whipped me!" sobbed the boy. "He whipped me like a child." "Your own fault," said Uncle John. "You wanted me to play a game with you, and I agreed, providin' you behaved yourself. And you didn't. Now, look here. Do you blame me any?" "No harm's done, is there?" "Then stop blubberin', and introduce me to your friend," continued Uncle John. "Name's Watson, ain't it." "Silas Watson, sir, at your service," said the lawyer, smiling. "And this must be John Merrick, who I understand has arrived at Elmhurst during my absence." "Glad to welcome you to Elmhurst, sir," continued the lawyer. "I've known it ever since I was a boy, when it belonged to my dear friend Thomas Bradley. And I hope you'll love it as much as I do, when you know it better." "Bradley must have been a fool to give this place to Jane," said Uncle John, reflectively. "He was in love, sir," observed the other, and they both smiled. Then the lawyer turned to Kenneth. "How are things going?" he asked. "Have the girls bothered you much, as yet?" "No," said the boy. "I keep out of their way." "That's a good idea. By the bye, sir," turning to John Merrick. "I've just brought you a new niece." "I think you'll like Patsy, anyhow. And so will you, Kenneth." The boy gave an indignant roar. "I hate all girls!" he said. "A strange boy," said Uncle John, presently. "There's considerable character about the lad," said John Merrick; "but he's been spoiled and allowed to grow up wild, like a weed. He's got it in him to make a criminal or a gentleman, whichever way his nature happens to develop." "He ought to go to a military school," replied Lawyer Watson. "Proper training would make a man of Kenneth; but I can't induce Jane to spend the money on him. She gives him food and clothing and lodging--all of the simplest description--but there her generosity ends. With thousands of dollars lying idle, she won't assist the only nephew of Tom Bradley to secure a proper education." KENNETH IS FRIGHTENED. Lawyer Watson, unable to direct events at Elmhurst, became a silent spectator of the little comedy being enacted there, and never regretted that, as Uncle John expressed it, he "had a reserved seat at the show." Jane Merrick, formerly the most imperious and irrascible of women, had become wonderfully reserved since the arrival of her nieces, and was evidently making a sincere effort to study their diverse characters. Day by day the invalid's health was failing visibly. She had no more strokes of paralysis, but her left limb did not recover, and the numbness was gradually creeping upward toward her heart. Perhaps the old woman appreciated this more fully than anyone else. At any event, she became more gentle toward Phibbs and Misery, who mostly attended her, and showed as much consideration as possible for her nieces and her brother. Silas Watson she kept constantly by her side. He was her oldest and most trusted friend, and the only differences they had ever had were over the boy Kenneth, whom she stubbornly refused to favor. So Miss Merrick asked Louise to look over the weekly accounts, and in this way came to depend upon her almost as much as she did upon Lawyer Watson. As for Patsy, she made no attempt whatever to conciliate her aunt, who seldom mentioned her name to the others but always brightened visibly when the girl came into her presence with her cheery speeches and merry laughter. She never stayed long, but came and went, like a streak of sunshine, whenever the fancy seized her; and Silas Watson, shrewdly looking on, saw a new light in Jane's eyes as she looked after her wayward, irresponsible niece, and wondered if the bargain between them, regarding the money, would really hold good. It was all an incomprehensible problem, this matter of the inheritance, and although the lawyer expected daily to be asked to draw up Jane Merrick's will, and had, indeed, prepared several forms, to be used in case of emergency, no word had yet passed her lips regarding her intentions. "Ah, you are Kenneth Forbes, I suppose," she began, pleasantly. "I am very glad to make your acquaintance. I am Louise Merrick, Miss Merrick's niece, and have come to visit her." The boy shrank back as fur as possible, staring her full in the face, but made no reply. "You needn't be afraid of me," continued Louise. "I'm very fond of boys, and you must be nearly my own age." "I suppose you don't know much of girls and are rather shy," she persisted. "But I want to be friendly and I hope you'll let me. There's so much about this interesting old place that you can tell me, having lived here so many years. Come, I'll sit beside you on this bench, and we'll have a good talk together." "Go away!" cried the boy, hoarsely, raising his hands as if to ward off her approach. Louise looked surprised and pained. "Why, we are almost cousins," she said. "Cannot we become friends and comrades?" With a sudden bound he dashed her aside, so rudely that she almost fell, and an instant later he had left the summer house and disappear among the hedges. Louise laughed at her own discomfiture and gave up the attempt to make the boy's acquaintance. "He's a regular savage," she told Beth, afterward, "and a little crazy, too, I suspect." "Never mind," said Beth, philosophically. "He's only a boy, and doesn't amount to anything, anyway. After Aunt Jane dies he will probably go somewhere else to live. Don't let us bother about him." Unfortunately, Louise and Beth soon discovered the boy's secluded retreat, and loved to torment him by entering his own bit of garden and even ascending the stairs to his little room. He could easily escape them by running through the numerous upper halls of the mansion; but here he was liable to meet others, and his especial dread was encountering old Miss Merrick. So he conceived a plan for avoiding the girls in another way. The girls discovered this plan, and were wicked enough to surprise the boy often and force him to cross the dizzy plank to the tree. Having frightened him away they would laugh and stroll on, highly amused at the evident fear they aroused in the only boy about the place. "Doesn't Kenneth usually ride Nora?" "Yes, Miss," answered the man. "Then I'd better take Sam this morning," she decided. But the groom demurred. "I think I'll ask him," said she, after a moment, and turned away into the garden, anxious to have this plausible opportunity to speak to the lonely boy. PATSY MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT. "Get out of here!" shouted the boy, angrily, as Patsy appeared at the foot of his stair. "I won't!" she answered indignantly. "I've come to speak to you about the mare, and you'll just treat me decently or I'll know the reason why!" But he didn't wait to hear this explanation. He saw her advancing up the stairs, and fled in his usual hasty manner to the hall and up the ladder to the roof. Patsy stepped back into the garden, vexed at his flight, and the next instant she saw him appear, upon the sloping roof and start to run down the plank. Even as she looked the boy slipped, fell headlong, and slid swiftly downward. In a moment he was over the edge, clutching wildly at the plank, which was a foot or more beyond his reach. Headforemost he dove into space, but the clutching hand found something at last--the projecting hook of an old eaves-trough that had long since been removed--and to this he clung fast in spite of the jerk of his arrested body, which threatened to tear away his grip. "Hold fast!" called Patsy. "I'm coming." She sprang up the steps, through the boy's room and into the hallway. There she quickly perceived the ladder, and mounted it to the roof. Taking in the situation at a glance she ran with steady steps down the sloping roof to where the plank lay, and stepped out upon it far enough to see the boy dangling beside her. Then she decided instantly what to do. "Now, then," said she, "let go the hook." "If I do," answered the boy, his white face upturned to hers, "I'll drag you down with me." "No you won't. I'm very strong, and I'm sure I can save you. Let go," she said, imperatively. "I'm not afraid to die," replied the boy, his voice full of bitterness. "Take away your hands, and I'll drop." But Patsy gripped him more firmly than ever. "Don't be a fool!" she cried. "There's no danger whatever, if you do just what I tell you." His eyes met hers in a mute appeal; but suddenly he gained confidence, and resolved to trust her. In any event, he could not cling to the hook much longer. He released his hold, and swung in mid-air just beneath the plank, where the girl lay holding him by his wrists. "Now, then," she said, quietly, "when I lift you up, grab the edges of the plank." Patricia's strength was equal to her courage, and under the excitement of that desperate moment she did what few other girls of her size could ever have accomplished. She drew the boy up until his eager hands caught the edges of the plank, and gripped it firmly. Then she released him and crept a little back toward the roof. "Now swing your legs up and you're safe!" she cried. He tried to obey, but his strength was failing him, and he could do no more than touch the plank with his toes. This time she caught his feet as they swung upward, and drew his legs around the plank. "Can you climb up, now?" she asked, anxiously. "I'll try," he panted. The plank upon which this little tragedy was being enacted was in full view of the small garden where Aunt Jane loved to sit in her chair and enjoy the flowers and the sunshine. She could not see Kenneth's wing at all, but she could see the elevated plank leading from the roof to the oak tree, and for several days had been puzzled by its appearance and wondered for what purpose it was there. This they watched her move, and saw her lie down upon it. "She's trying to save him--he must be caught somewhere!" cried the lawyer, and both men started at full speed to reach the spot by the round-about paths through the garden. Aunt Jane sat still and watched. Suddenly the form of the boy swung into view beneath the plank, dangling from the girl's outstretched arms. The woman caught her breath, wondering what would happen next. Patricia drew him up, until he seized the plank with his hands. Then the girl crept back a little, and as the boy swung his feet upward she caught them and twined his legs over the plank. And now came the supreme struggle. The girl could do little more to help him. He must manage to clamber upon the top of the plank himself. "Bravely done!" she murmured, but even as the sound came from her lips the girl upon the bridge seemed in the exertion of the struggle to lose her balance. She threw out her arms, leaned sidewise, and then fell headlong into the chasm and disappeared from view. Aunt Jane's agonized scream brought Phibbs running to her side. At a glance she saw that her mistress had fainted, and looking hastily around to discover the cause she observed the boy crawl slowly across the plank, reach the tree, and slide down its trunk to pass out of view behind the high hedge. "Drat the boy!" growled the old servant, angrily, "he'll be the death of Miss Jane, yet." Uncle John could not run so swiftly as the lawyer, but he broke through a gap in the hedge and arrived at a point just beneath the plank at the same time that Silas Watson did. There was little time for the men to consider their actions. Involuntarily they tried to catch Patricia, whose body struck them sharply, felling them to the ground, and then bounded against the hedge and back to the pavement. A moment more and the boy was kneeling beside her, striving to stay the bleeding with his handkerchief. "Do something! For God's sake try to do something," he wailed, piteously. "Can't you see she's killed herself to save me?" Uncle John knelt down and took the still form in his arms. "Quiet, my lad," he said. "She isn't dead. Get Nora, and fetch the doctor as soon as you can." The boy was gone instantly, his agony relieved by the chance of action, and followed by the lawyer, Uncle John carried his niece to the rose chamber and laid her upon her white bed. Misery met them, then, and following her came Louise and Beth, full of horror and pity for the victim of the dreadful accident. "I don't know, Miss Jane. Why should she be dead?" And so Phibbs came to the rose chamber and found the little group bending over the girl's unconscious form. "Is she dead, sir? Miss Jane wants to know," said the old servant, in awe-struck tones. Misery was something of a nurse, it seemed, and with the assistance of Louise, who proved most helpful in the emergency, she bathed the wound in the girl's forehead and bandaged it as well as she was able. Between them the women also removed Patricia's clothing and got her into bed, where she lay white and still unconscious, but breathing so softly that they knew she was yet alive. The doctor was not long in arriving, for Kenneth forced him to leap upon Nora's back and race away to Elmhurst, while the boy followed as swiftly as he could on the doctor's sober cob. Dr. Eliel was only a country practitioner, but his varied experiences through many years had given him a practical knowledge of surgery, and after a careful examination of Patricia's injuries he was able to declare that she would make a fine recovery. "Her leg is fractured, and she's badly bruised," he reported to Aunt Jane, who sent for him as soon as he could leave the sick room. "But I do not think she has suffered any internal injuries, and the wound on her forehead is a mere nothing. So, with good care, I expect the young lady to get along nicely." "Do everything you can for her," said the woman, earnestly. "You shall be well paid, Dr. Eliel." Louise and Beth hovered over her constantly, ministering to every possible want and filled with tenderest sympathy for their injured cousin. The accident seemed to draw them out of their selfishness and petty intrigues and discovered in them the true womanly qualities that had lurked beneath the surface. The boy paced constantly up and down outside Patricia's door, begging everyone who left the room, for news of the girl's condition. All his reserve and fear of women seemed to have melted away as if by magic. Even Beth and Louise were questioned eagerly, and they, having learned the story of Patricia's brave rescue of the boy, were very gentle with him and took pains not to frighten or offend him. Toward evening Louise asked Patricia if she would see Kenneth for a moment, and the girl nodded a ready assent. He came in awkward and trembling, glancing fearfully at the bandaged forehead and the still white face. But Patricia managed to smile reassuringly, and held out a little hand for him to take. The boy grasped it in both his own, and held it for several minutes while he stood motionless beside her, his wide eyes fixed intently upon her own. Then Louise sent him away, and he went to his room and wept profusely, and then quieted down into a sort of dull stupor. The next morning Uncle John dragged him away from Patricia's door and forced him to play chess. The boy lost every game, being inattentive and absorbed in thought, until finally Uncle John gave up the attempt to amuse him and settled himself on the top stair for a quiet smoke. The boy turned to the table, and took a sheet of paper from the drawer. For an hour, perhaps, neither of these curious friends spoke a word, but at the end of that time Uncle John arose and knocked the ashes from his pipe. Kenneth did not notice him. The man approached the table and looked over the boy's shoulder, uttering an exclamation of surprise. Upon the paper appeared a cleverly drawn pencil sketch of Patricia lying in her bed, a faint smile upon her face and her big blue eyes turned pleasantly upon a shadowy form that stood beside her holding her hand. The likeness was admirable, and if there were faults in the perspective and composition Uncle John did not recognize them. He gave a low whistle and turned thoughtfully away, and the young artist was so absorbed that he did not even look up. Strolling away to the stables, Uncle John met old Donald, who enquired: "How is Miss Patsy this morning, sir?" It was the name she had given, and preferred to be called by. "She's doing finely," said Uncle John. "A brave girl, sir!" "Why, he seems changed, in some way, Donald. Not so nervous and wild as usual, you know. I've just left him drawing a picture. Curious. A good picture, too." "Ah, he can do that, sir, as well as a real artist." "Have you known him to draw, before this?" "Why, he's always at it, sir, in his quieter moods. I've got a rare good likeness o' myself, as he did long ago, in the harness-room." "With pleasure, sir." Donald led the way to the harness-room, and took from the cupboard the precious board he had so carefully preserved. Uncle John glanced at it and laughed aloud. He could well appreciate the humor of the sketch, which Donald never had understood, and the caricature was as clever as it was amusing. He handed the treasure back to Donald and went away even more thoughtful than before. Kenneth's heart bounded with joy. Here was wealth, indeed, greater than he had ever hoped for. He puzzled his brain for weeks to discover how this fairy gift had ever come to him, but he was happier in its possession than he had ever been before in all his life. Kenneth, also came daily to the sick room for a visit, and Patsy had a way of drawing the boy out and making him talk that was really irresistible. After his fairy gift arrived he could not help telling the girls all about it and then he brought the things down and displayed them, and promised Patsy he would make a picture of the garden for her. Then, after the girl got better, he brought his easel down to her room, where she could watch him work, and began upon the picture, while the cousins joined him in speculations as to who the mysterious donor could he. "I don't believe he has a penny in the world," said Louise, who sat by with some needle-work. "All he owns," remarked Beth, with a laugh, "is an extra necktie, slightly damaged." "But he's a dear old man," said Patsy, loyally, "and I'm sure he would have given all those things to Kenneth had he been able." "Then who was it?" asked the boy. "Why, Aunt Jane, to be sure," declared Patsy. The boy scowled, and shook his head. "She wouldn't do anything to please me, even to save her life," he growled. "She hates me, I know that well enough." "Oh, no; I'm sure she doesn't," said Patsy. "Aunt Jane has a heap of good in her; but you've got to dig for it, like you do for gold. 'Twould be just like her to make you this present and keep it a secret." "But I must have my picture, anyhow," said the girl. "Make it in pen and ink or pencil, Ken. and I'm sure it will be beautiful." "You need instruction, to do water color properly," suggested Louise. Aunt Jane was not in an especially amiable mood. "Well, girl, how do you like being a fool?" she demanded, as Patsy's chair came to a stand just opposite her own. "It feels so natural that I don't mind it," replied Patsy, laughing. "You might have killed yourself, and all for nothing," continued the old woman, querulously. "Are you feeling better, dear?" asked the girl. "I shall never be better," said Jane Merrick, sternly. "The end is not far off now." "Not yet," she answered, cheerfully. "But I'm doing finely, Uncle John, and it won't be long before I can get about as well as ever." "And to think," said Aunt Jane, bitterly, "that all this trouble was caused by that miserable boy! If I knew where to send him he'd not stay at Elmhurst a day longer." "Why, he's my best friend, aunt," announced Patsy, quietly. "I don't think I could be happy at Elmhurst without Kenneth." "He has quite reformed," said Louise, "and seems like a very nice boy." Her brother drew his hands from his pockets, looked around in a helpless and embarrassed way, and then tried fumblingly to fill his pipe. Did she ever think of it? Why, it was this very fact that made the boy odious to her. The woman grew white with rage. "John Merrick, leave my presence." He stopped to light his pipe, and then slowly walked away, leaving an embarrassed group behind him. "Nonsense," said Beth. "She has said she wouldn't accept a penny of it, and I'm positive she'll keep her word." AUNT JANE'S HEIRESS. "Silas," said Aunt Jane to her lawyer, the next morning after her interview with Patsy, "I'm ready to have you draw up my will." Mr. Watson gave a start of astonishment. In his own mind he had arrived at the conclusion that the will would never be executed, and to have Miss Merrick thus suddenly declare her decision was enough to startle even the lawyer's natural reserve. "Very well, Jane," he said, briefly. They were alone in the invalid's morning room, Phibbs having been asked to retire. "There is no use disguising the fact, Silas, that I grow weaker every day, and the numbness is creeping nearer and nearer to my heart," said Miss Merrick, in her usual even tones. "It is folly for me to trifle with these few days of grace yet allowed me, and I have fully made up my mind as to the disposition of my property." "Yes?" he said, enquiringly, and drew from his pocket a pencil and paper. "Yes, Jane," jotting down the memorandum. The lawyer seemed disappointed. He tapped the pencil against his teeth, musingly, for a moment, and then wrote down the amount. "Yes. That should be enough to take care of him as long as he lives. He seems quite simple in his tastes, and he is an old man." The lawyer wrote it down. "All my other remaining property, both real and personal, I shall leave to my niece, Patricia Doyle." "Then do as I bid you, Silas Watson." He leaned back in his chair and looked at her thoughtfully. "I am not only your lawyer, Jane; I am also your friend and counsellor. Do you realize what this bequest means?" he asked, gently. "She is very young and unsophisticated," said the lawyer, "and of all your nieces she will least appreciate your generosity." "You are to be my executor, and manage the estate until the girl comes of age. You will see that she is properly educated and fitted for her station in life. As for appreciation, or gratitude, I don't care a snap of my finger for such fol-de-rol." "But the boy, Jane? You seem to have forgotten him," he said. "Drat the boy! I've done enough for him already." "Wouldn't Tom like you to provide for Kenneth in some way, however humbly?" She glared at him angrily. "How do you know what Tom would like, after all these years?" she asked, sternly. "And how should I know, either? The money is mine, and the boy is nothing to me. Let him shift for himself." He wrote down the amount as calmly as he had done the others. "And the boy?" he asked, persistently. Aunt Jane sighed wearily, and leaned against her pillows. He bowed gravely, and left the room. Toward evening the lawyer came again, bringing with him a notary from the village. Dr. Eliel, who had come to visit Patricia, was also called into Jane Merrick's room, and after she had carefully read the paper in their presence the mistress of Elmhurst affixed her signature to the document which transferred the great estate to the little Irish girl, and the notary and the doctor solemnly witnessed it and retired. "Now, Silas," said the old woman, with a sigh of intense relief, "I can die in peace." They conversed genially enough, for a time, until an unfortunate remark of Aunt Jane's which seemed to asperse her father's character aroused Patricia's ire. Then she loosened her tongue, and in her voluable Irish way berated her aunt until poor Phibbs stood aghast at such temerity, and even Mr. Watson, who arrived to enquire after his client and friend, was filled with amazement. He cast a significant look at Miss Merrick, who answered it in her usual emphatic way. "Patricia is quite right, Silas," she declared, "and I deserve all that she has said. If the girl were fond enough of me to defend me as heartily as she does her father, I would be very proud, indeed." So harmony was restored, and Mr. Watson wondered more and more at this strange perversion of the old woman's character. Heretofore any opposition had aroused in her intense rage and a fierce antagonism, but now she seemed delighted to have Patsy fly at her, and excused the girl's temper instead of resenting it. After that it became the daily program for Patsy to spend her mornings in Aunt Jane's little garden, and although they sometimes clashed, and, as Phibbs told Beth, "had dreadful fights," they both enjoyed these hours very much. Louise had also become, by this time, the managing housekeeper of the establishment, and it was certain that Aunt Jane looked upon her eldest and most competent niece with much favor. Beth, with all her friends to sing her praises, seemed to make less headway with her aunt than either of the others, and gradually she sank into a state of real despondency. "I've done the best I could," she wrote her mother, "but I'm not as clever as Louise nor as amusing as Patricia; so Aunt Jane pays little attention to me. She's a dreadful old woman, and I can't bring myself to appear to like her. That probably accounts for my failure; but I may as well stay on here until something happens." The boy's old acquaintances could hardly recognize him as the same person they had known before Patricia's adventure on the plank. His fits of gloomy abstraction and violent bursts of temper had alike vanished, or only prevailed at brief intervals. Nor was he longer rude and unmannerly to those with whom he came in contact. Awkward he still was, and lacking in many graces that education and good society can alone confer; but he was trying hard to be, as he confided to old Uncle John, "like other people," and succeeded in adapting himself very well to his new circumstances. The girl was also responsible for Kenneth's sudden advancement in the household at Elmhurst. "I've invited Kenneth to dinner this evening." The woman flew angry in an instant. "Who gave you such authority?" she demanded. "He shall not come," declared Aunt Jane, sternly. "I'll have no interference from you, Miss, with my household arrangements. Phibbs, call Louise!" Patsy's brow grew dark. Presently Louise appeared. "Instruct the servants to forbid that boy to enter my dining room this evening," she said to Louise. Then she burst into laughter; she could not help it, the sight was too ridiculous. A moment later Patsy was laughing, too, and then Aunt Jane allowed a grim smile to cross her features. "Never mind, Louise," she said, with remarkable cheerfulness; "We'll compromise matters." Patsy was radiant with delight, and the next day Aunt Jane remarked casually that she did not object to the boy's presence at dinner, at all, and he could come whenever he liked. This arrangement gave great pleasure to both Uncle John and Mr. Watson, the latter of whom was often present at the "state dinner," and both men congratulated Patsy upon the distinct victory she had won. No more was said about her leaving Elmhurst. The Major wrote that he was having a splendid time with the colonel, and begged for an extension of his vacation, to which Patsy readily agreed, she being still unable on account of her limb to return to her work at Madam Borne's. And so the days glided pleasantly by, and August came to find a happy company of young folks at old Elmhurst, with Aunt Jane wonderfully improved in health and Uncle John beaming complacently upon everyone he chanced to meet. PATRICIA SPEAKS FRANKLY. It was Lawyer Watson's suggestion that she was being unjust to Beth and Louise, in encouraging them to hope they might inherit Elmhurst, that finally decided Aunt Jane to end all misunderstandings and inform her nieces of the fact that she had made a final disposition of her property. Patsy came in last, hobbling actively on her crutches, although the leg was now nearly recovered, and seated herself somewhat in the rear of the apartment. By this time the hearts of Louise and Beth were fluttering with excitement, and even Patsy looked interested. Uncle John sat a little apart, watching them with an amused smile upon his face, and the lawyer sat silent with his eyes fixed upon a pattern in the rug. "Well said, Jane," remarked Uncle John, nodding his head approvingly. She did not notice the interruption, but presently continued: Louise laughed nervously, and threw out her hands with an indifferent gesture. "Many thanks, Aunt," she said, lightly. Beth's heart sank, and tears forced themselves into her eyes in spite of her efforts to restrain them. She said nothing. Aunt Jane turned to her brother. "Silence!" she cried, sternly. "I expect neither thanks nor protests. If you take care of the money, John, it will last you as long as you live." Uncle John laughed. He doubled up in his chair and rocked back and forth, shaking his little round body as if he had met with the most amusing thing that had ever happened in his life. Aunt Jane stared at him, while Louise and Beth looked their astonishment, but Patsy's clear laughter rang above Uncle John's gasping chuckles. "I hope, dear Uncle," said she, mischievously, "that when poor Aunt Jane is gone you'll be able to buy a new necktie." He looked at her whimsically, and wiped the tears from his eyes. "Thank you, Jane," said the little man to his sister. "It's a lot of money, and I'll be proud to own it." "Why did you laugh." demanded Aunt Jane. She turned from him with an expression of scorn. For a moment the room was intensely still. Then Patricia said, with quiet determination: "You may as well make another will, Aunt. I'll not touch a penny of your money." "Why not?" asked the woman, almost fiercely. "I demand to know them!" "Ah, aunt; can't you understand, without my speaking?" "No," said the other; but a flush crossed her pale cheek, nevertheless. Patsy arose and stumped to a position directly in front of Jane Merrick, where she rested on her crutches. Her eyes were bright and full of indignation, and her plain little face was so white that every freckle showed distinctly. "There was a time, years ago," she began in a low voice, "when you were very rich and your sister Violet, my mother, was very poor. Her health was bad, and she had me to care for, while my father was very ill with a fever. She was proud, too, and for herself she would never have begged a penny of anyone; but for my sake she asked her rich sister to loan her a little money to tide her over her period of want. What did you do, Jane Merrick, you who lived in a beautiful mansion, and had more money than you could use? You insulted her, telling her she belonged to a family of beggars, and that none of them could wheedle your money away from you!" "It was true," retorted the elder woman, stubbornly. "They were after me like a drove of wolves--every Merrick of them all--and they would have ruined me if I had let them bleed me as they wished." She paused, and again the room seemed unnaturally still. "I'm sorry, girl," said Aunt Jane, at last, in trembling tones. "I was wrong. I see it now, and I am sorry I refused Violet." "Then I forgive you!" said Patsy, impulsively. "I forgive you all, Aunt Jane; for through your own selfishness you cut yourself off from all your family--from all who might have loved you--and you have lived all these years a solitary and loveless life. There'll be no grudge of mine to follow you to the grave, Aunt Jane. But," her voice hardening, "I'll never touch a penny of the money that was denied my poor dead mother. Thank God the old Dad and I are independent, and can earn our own living." Uncle John came to where Patsy stood and put both arms around her, pressing her--crutches and all--close to his breast. Then he released her, and without a word stalked from the room. "Leave me, now," said Aunt Jane, in a husky voice. "I want time to think." "That's right," she whispered. "Think it over, dear. It's all past and done, now, and I'm sorry I had to hurt you. But--not a penny, aunt--remember, not a penny will I take!" Then she left the room, followed by Louise and Beth, both of whom were glad to be alone that they might conquer their bitter disappointment. Louise, however, managed to accept the matter philosophically, as the following extract from her letter to her mother will prove: Aunt Jane had a bad night, as might have been expected after her trials of the previous day. She sent for Patricia early in the forenoon, and when the girl arrived she was almost shocked by the change in her aunt's appearance. The invalid's face seemed drawn and gray, and she lay upon her cushions breathing heavily and without any appearance of vitality or strength. Even the sharpness and piercing quality of her hard gray eyes was lacking and the glance she cast at her niece was rather pleading than defiant. "I want you to reconsider your decision of yesterday, Patricia," she begun. "Don't ask me to do that, aunt," replied the girl, firmly. "My mind is fully made up." "I have made mistakes, I know," continued the woman feebly; "but I want to do the right thing, at last." "Because your nature is quite like my own, child, and I admire your independence and spirit." "But my cousins are much more deserving," said she, thoughtfully. "Louise is very sweet and amiable, and loves you more than I do, while Beth is the most sensible and practical girl I have ever known." "But that is quite wrong, aunt, and if you desire me to inherit your wealth you will be disappointed. A moment ago you said you wished to do the right thing, at last. Don't you know what that is?" "Perhaps you will tell me," said Aunt Jane, curiously. "With pleasure," returned Patsy. "Mr. Bradley left you this property because he loved you, and love blinded him to all sense of justice. Such an estate should not have passed into the hands of aliens because of a lover's whim. He should have considered his own flesh and blood." "But the property ought to be his," said Patricia, earnestly. "It would please me beyond measure to have you make your will in his favor, and you would be doing the right thing at last." "I won't," said Aunt Jane, angrily. "It would also be considerate and just to the memory of Mr. Bradley," continued the girl. "What's going to became of Kenneth?" "Not enough to educate him properly," replied Patsy, with a shake of her head. "Why, the boy might become a famous artist, if he had good masters; and a person with an artistic temperament, such as his, should have enough money to be independent of his art." Aunt Jane coughed, unsympathetically. "The boy is nothing to me," she said. "But he ought to have Elmhurst, at least," pleaded the girl. "Won't you leave it to him, Aunt Jane?" "Then do as you please," cried Patsy, flying angry in her turn. "As a matter of justice, the place should never have been yours, and I won't accept a dollar of the money if I starve to death!" "Think of your father," suggested Aunt Jane, cunningly. "Ah, I've done that," said the girl, "and I know how many comforts I could buy for the dear Major. Also I'd like to go to a girl's college, like Smith or Wellesley, and get a proper education. But not with your money, Aunt Jane. It would burn my fingers. Always I would think that if you had not been hard and miserly this same money would have saved my mother's life. No! I loathe your money. Keep it or throw it to the dogs, if you won't give it to the boy it belongs to. But don't you dare to will your selfish hoard to me." "Let us change the subject, Patricia." "Will you change your will?" "Then I won't talk to you. I'm angry and hurt, and if I stay here I'll say things I shall be sorry for." With these words she marched out of the room, her cheeks flaming, and Aunt Jane looked after her with admiring eyes. "She's right," she whispered to herself. "It's just as I'd do under the same circumstances!" This interview was but the beginning of a series that lasted during the next fortnight, during which time the invalid persisted in sending for Patricia and fighting the same fight over and over again. Always the girl pleaded for Kenneth to inherit, and declared she would not accept the money and Elmhurst; and always Aunt Jane stubbornly refused to consider the boy and tried to tempt the girl with pictures of the luxury and pleasure that riches would bring her. The interviews were generally short and spirited, however, and during the intervals Patsy associated more than ever with her cousins, both of whom grew really fond of her. Patricia never told them she was pleading so hard for the boy. It would only pain her cousins and make them think she was disloyal to their interests; but she lost no opportunity when with her Aunt Jane of praising Kenneth and proving his ability, and finally she seemed to win her point. Aunt Jane was really worn out with the constant squabbling with her favorite niece. She had taken a turn for the worse, too, and began to decline rapidly. So, her natural cunning and determination to have her own way enhanced by her illness, the woman decided to deceive Patricia and enjoy her few remaining days in peace. "Suppose," she said to Mr. Watson, "my present will stands, and after my death the estate becomes the property of Patricia. Can she refuse it?" "Not legally," returned the lawyer. "It would remain in her name, but under my control, during her minority. When she became of age, however, she could transfer it as she might choose." "By that time she will have gained more sense," declared Aunt Jane, much pleased with this aspect of the case, "and it isn't reasonable that having enjoyed a fortune for a time any girl would throw it away. I'll stick to my point, Silas, but I'll try to make Patricia believe she has won me over." Therefore, the very next time that the girl pleaded with her to make Kenneth her heir, she said, with a clever assumption of resignation: "Very well, Patricia; you shall have your way. My only desire, child, is to please you, as you well know, and if you long to see Kenneth the owner of Elmhurst I will have a new will drawn in his favor." Patricia could scarcely believe her ears. Patricia thanked her aunt with eager words, and said, as indeed she felt, that she could almost love Aunt Jane for her final, if dilatory, act of justice. Mr. Watson chanced to enter the room at that moment, and the girl cried out: "There is no reason for haste," said Aunt Jane, meeting; the lawyer's questioning gaze with some embarrassment. "I have promised Patricia that you shall draw a new will, leaving all my estate to Kenneth Forbes, except for the bequests that are mentioned in the present paper." The lawyer regarded her with amazement. Then his brow darkened, for he thought she was playing with the girl, and was not sincere. "Tell him to draw up the paper right away, aunt!" begged Patricia, with sparkling eyes. "As soon as you can, Silas," said the invalid. "And, aunt, can't you spare a little more to Louise and Beth? It would make them so happy." "Can it all be ready to sign tonight?" asked Patsy, excitedly. "I'll try, my dear," replied the old lawyer, gravely. Then he turned to Jane Merrick. "Are you in earnest?" he asked. Patsy's heart suddenly sank. "Yes," was the reply. "I am tired of opposing this child's wishes. What do I care what becomes of my money, when I am gone? All that I desire is to have my remaining days peaceful." The girl spring forward and kissed her rapturously. "They shall be, aunt!" she cried. "I promise it." Noting this, Aunt Jane decided to complete her act of deception. She signed the will in the girl's presence, with Oscar and Susan to witness her signature. Lawyer Watson was not present on this occasion, and as soon as Patsy had left her Miss Merrick tore off the signatures and burned them, wrote "void" in bold letters across the face of the paper, and then, it being rendered of no value, she enclosed it in a large yellow envelope, sealed it, and that evening handed the envelope to Mr. Watson with the request that it be not opened until after her death. Patricia, in her delight, whispered to the lawyer that the paper was really signed, and he was well pleased and guarded the supposed treasure carefully. The girl also took occasion to inform both Beth and Louise that a new will had been made in which they both profited largely, but she kept the secret of who the real heir was, and both her cousins grew to believe they would share equally in the entire property. So now an air of harmony settled upon Elmhurst, and Uncle John joined the others in admiration of the girl who had conquered the stubbornness of her stern old aunt and proved herself so unselfish and true. "James has been neglecting his work, lately," she said, sharply, to her attendant. "He's very queer, ma'am," replied old Martha, "ever since the young ladies an' Master John came to Elmhurst. Strangers he never could abide, as you know, and he runs and hides himself as soon as he sees any of 'em about." "Poor James!" said Miss Merrick, recalling her old gardener's infirmity. "But he must not neglect my flowers in this way, or they will be ruined." "He isn't so afraid of Master John," went on Phibbs, reflectively, "as he is of the young ladies. Sometimes Master John talks to James, in his quiet way, and I've noticed he listens to him quite respectively--like he always does to you, Miss Jane." "Go and find James, and ask him to step here," commanded the mistress, "and then guard the opening in the hedge, and see that none of my nieces appear to bother him." Phibbs obediently started upon her errand, and came upon James in the tool-house, at the end of the big garden. He was working among his flower pots and seemed in a quieter mood than usual. "I've come, Miss," said James; and then, getting; no reply, he looked into her face. A gleam of sunlight filtered through the bushes and fell aslant Jane Merrick's eyes; but not a lash quivered. John Merrick and Mr. Watson, who were not far off, aroused by the bloodcurdling screams, ran toward Aunt Jane's garden, and saw in a glance what had happened. "Poor Jane," whispered the brother, bending over to tenderly close the staring eyes, "her fate has overtaken her unawares." "Better so," said the lawyer, gently. "She has found Peace at last." Together they wheeled her back into her chamber, and called the women to care for their dead mistress. The girls wept a little, but it was more on account of the solemnity following the shadow of death than for any great affection they bore their aunt. Patsy, indeed, tried to deliver a tribute to Aunt Jane's memory; but it was not an emphatic success. "I'm sure she had a good heart," said the girl, "and if she had lived more with her own family and cultivated her friends she would have been much less hard and selfish. At the last, you know, she was quite gentle." "I hadn't noticed it," remarked Beth. "I'm glad to hear that" said Louise. "Tell us, Patsy, what does the will say? You must know all about it." "Mr. Watson is going to read it, after the funeral," replied the girl, "and then you will know as much about it as I do. I mustn't tell secrets, my dear." But Patsy, believing he would soon know of his good fortune, watched him curiously during the ride, and beamed upon him as frequently as her own low spirits would permit. "You know, Ken," she reminded him, "that whatever happens we are always to remain friends." "Of course," replied the boy, briefly. The girl had thrown aside her crutches, by this time, and planned to return to her work immediately after the funeral. The brief services at the cemetery being concluded, the little cavalcade returned to Elmhurst, where luncheon was awaiting them. Then Mr. Watson brought into the drawing room the tin box containing the important Elmhurst papers in his possession, and having requested all present to be seated he said: "In order to clear up the uncertainty that at present exists concerning Miss Merrick's last will and testament, I will now proceed to read to you the document, which will afterward be properly probated according to law." There was no need to request their attention. An intense stillness pervaded the room. The lawyer calmly unlocked the tin box and drew out the sealed yellow envelope which Miss Merrick had recently given him. Patsy's heart was beating with eager expectancy. She watched the lawyer break the seal, draw out the paper and then turn red and angry. He hesitated a moment, and then thrust the useless document into its enclosure and cast it aside. "Is anything wrong?" asked the girl in a low whisper, which was yet distinctly heard by all. Mr. Watson seemed amazed. Jane Merrick's deceitful trickery, discovered so soon after her death, was almost horrible for him to contemplate. He had borne much from this erratic woman, but had never believed her capable of such an act. So he said, in irritable tones: "Me! Me inherit?" exclaimed the boy. "That is what she promised me," declared Patsy, while tears of indignation stood in her eyes, "I saw her sign it, myself, and if she has fooled me and destroyed the signature she's nothing but an old fraud--and I'm glad she's dead!" With this she threw herself, sobbing, upon a sofa, and Louise and Beth, shocked to learn that after all their cousin had conspired against them, forebore any attempt to comfort her. But Uncle John, fully as indignant as Patricia, came to her side and laid a hand tenderly on the girl's head. Meantime the lawyer had been fumbling in the box, and now drew out the genuine will. "Give me your attention, please," said he. Patsy sat up and glared at him. "I won't take a cent of it!" she exclaimed. "Be silent!" demanded the lawyer, sternly. "You have all, I believe, been told by Miss Merrick of the terms of this will, which is properly signed and attested. But it is my duty to read it again, from beginning to end, and I will do so." "As far as I am concerned," said Patsy, defiantly, "you may as well tear up this will, too. I won't have that shameful old woman's money." "That is a matter the law does not allow you to decide," returned the lawyer, calmly. "You will note the fact that I am the sole executor of the estate, and must care for it in your interests until you are of age. Then it will he turned over to you to do as you please with." "Can I give it away, if I want to?" "Certainly. It is now yours without recourse, and although you cannot dispose of it until you are of legal age, there will be nothing then to prevent your transfering it to whomsoever you please. I called Miss Merrick's attention to this fact when you refused to accept the legacy." "That you would be more wise then, and would probably decide to keep it." Patsy turned impulsively to the boy. "Kenneth," she said, "I faithfully promise, in the presence of these witnesses, to give you Elmhurst and all Aunt Jane's money as soon as I am of age." "Good for you, Patsy," said Uncle John. The boy seemed bewildered. "It's yours," said Patsy, with a grand air. "You can live here forever." Mr. Watson seemed puzzled. "If that is your wish, Miss Patricia," bowing gravely in her direction, "I will see that it is carried out. Although I am, in this matter, your executor, I shall defer to your wishes as much as possible." "I will consider that matter," he replied; "perhaps it can be arranged." They were expressing to Patsy their gratitude when old Donald suddenly appeared in the doorway and beckoned to Uncle John. "Will you please come to see James, sir?" he asked. "The poor fellow's dying." JAMES TELLS A STRANGE STORY. Uncle John followed the coachman up the stairs to the little room above the tool-house, where the old man had managed to crawl after old Sam had given him a vicious kick in the chest. "Is he dead?" he asked. "No, sir; but mortally hurt, I'm thinkin'. It must have happened while we were at the funeral." He opened the door, outside which Susan and Oscar watched with frightened faces, and led John Merrick into the room. James lay upon his bed with closed eyes. His shirt, above the breast, was reeking with blood. "The doctor should be sent for," said Uncle John. "Quite right, Donald." "Ah, it's Donald," he said. "Yes, old friend," answered the coachman. "And this is Mr. John." "Mr. John? Mr. John? I don't quite remember you, sir," with a slight shake of the gray head. "And Donald, lad, you've grown wonderful old, somehow." "It's the years, Jeemes," was the reply. "The years make us all old, sooner or later." The gardener seemed puzzled, and examined his companions more carefully. He did not seem to be suffering any pain. Finally he sighed. "The dreams confuse me," he said, as if to explain something. "I can't always separate them, the dreams from the real. Have I been sick, Donald?" "Yes, lad. You're sick now." The gardener closed his eyes, and lay silent. "Do you think he's sane?" whispered Uncle John. James looked at them again, and slowly raised his hand to wipe the damp from his forehead. "About Master Tom," he said, falteringly. "Master Tom's dead, ain't he?" "That was real, then, an' no dream. I mind it all, now--the shriek of the whistle, the crash, and the screams of the dying. Have I told you about it, Donald?" His voice sank to a low mumble, and he closed his eyes wearily. The watchers at his side stood still and waited. It might be that death had overtaken the poor fellow. But no; he moved again, and opened his eyes, continuing his speech in a stronger tone. "It was hard work to get the paper for Master Tom," he said; "but he swore he must have it before he died. I ran all the way to the station house and back--a mile or more--and brought the paper and a pen and ink, besides. It was but a telegraph blank--all I could find. Naught but a telegraph blank, lad." "He mustn't die yet!" said the little man; and the coachman leaned over the wounded form and said, distinctly: "Yes, lad; I'm listening." "To be sure," said James, brightening a bit. "So I held the paper for him, and the brakeman supported Master Tom's poor body, and he wrote out the will as clear as may be." "Sure enough; Master Tom's last will. Isn't my name on it, too, where I signed it? And the conductor's beside it, for the poor brakeman didn't dare let him go? Of course. Who should sign the will with Master Tom but me--his old servant and friend? Am I right, Donald?" "The paper, James!" cried Uncle John, recalling the dying man to the present. "What became of it?" "Sir, I do not know you," answered James, suspiciously. "The paper's for Lawyer Watson. It's he alone shall have it." "Here I am, James," cried the lawyer, thrusting the others aside and advancing to the bed. "Give me the paper. Where is it? I am Lawyer Watson!" The gardener laughed--a horrible, croaking laugh that ended with a gasp of pain. "_You_ Lawyer Watson?" he cried, a moment later, in taunting tones. "Why, you old fool, Si Watson's as young as Master Tom--as young as I am! You--_you_ Lawyer Watson! Ha, ha, ha!" "Where is the paper?" demanded the lawyer fiercely. James stared at him an instant, and then suddenly collapsed and fell back inert upon the bed. "Have you heard all?" asked John Merrick, laying his hand on the lawyer's shoulder. "Yes; I followed you here as soon as I could. Tom Bradley made another will, as he lay dying. I must have it, Mr. Merrick." "Then you must find it yourself," said Donald gravely, "for James is dead." The doctor, arriving a few minutes later, verified the statement. It was evident that the old gardener, for years insane, had been so influenced by Miss Merrick's death that he had wandered into the stables where he received his death blow. When he regained consciousness the mania had vanished, and in a shadowy way he could remember and repeat that last scene of the tragedy that had deprived him of his reason. The story was logical enough, and both Mr. Watson and John Merrick believed it. "Tom Bradley was a level-headed fellow until he fell in love with your sister," said the lawyer to his companion. "But after that he would not listen to reason, and perhaps he had a premonition of his own sudden death, for he made a will bequeathing all he possessed to his sweetheart. I drew up the will myself, and argued against the folly of it; but he had his own way. Afterward, in the face of death, I believe he became more sensible, and altered his will." "Yet James' story may all be the effect of a disordered mind," said Uncle John. "I do not think, so; but unless he has destroyed the paper in his madness, we shall he able to find it among his possessions." With this idea in mind, Mr. Watson ordered the servants to remove the gardener's body to a room in the carriage-house, and as soon as this was done he set to work to search for the paper, assisted by John Merrick. "It was a telegraph blank, he said." "Then we cannot mistake it, if we find any papers at all," declared the lawyer. The most likely places in James' room for anything to be hidden were a small closet, in which were shelves loaded with odds and ends, and an old clothes-chest that was concealed underneath the bed. While busy over these, he heard Uncle John say, quietly: The lawyer bounded from the closet. The little man had been searching the pockets of the clothing taken from the chest, and from a faded velvet coat he drew out the telegraph blank. "Is it the will?" asked the lawyer, eagerly. "Read it yourself," said Uncle John. Mr. Watson put on his glasses. "Yes; this is Tom Bradley's handwriting, sure enough. The will is brief, but it will hold good in law. Listen: I bequeath to Jane Merrick, my affianced bride, the possession and use of my estate during the term of her life. On her death all such possessions, with their accrument, shall be transferred to my sister, Katherine Bradley, if she then survives, to have and to hold by her heirs and assignees forever. But should she die without issue previous to the death of Jane Merrick, I then appoint my friend and attorney, Silas Watson, to distribute the property among such organized and worthy charities as he may select.' That is all." "Quite enough," said Uncle John, nodding approval. "And it is properly signed and witnessed. The estate is Kenneth's, sir, after all, for he is the sole heir of his mother. Katherine Bradley Forbes. Hurrah!" ended the lawyer, waving the yellow paper above his head. PATSY ADOPTS AN UNCLE. Uncle John and Mr. Watson did not appear at dinner, being closeted in the former's room. This meal, however, was no longer a state function, being served by the old servants as a mere matter of routine. Indeed, the arrangements of the household had been considerably changed by the death of its mistress, and without any real head to direct them the servants were patiently awaiting the advent of a new master or mistress. It did not seem clear to them yet whether Miss Patricia or Lawyer Watson was to take charge of Elmhurst: but there were few tears shed for Jane Merrick, and the new regime could not fail to be an improvement over the last. Blank looks followed Mr. Watson's statement. "Don't we get anything at all?" asked Beth, with quivering lip. "No, my dear," answered the lawyer, gently. "Your aunt owned nothing to give you." Patsy laughed. She felt wonderfully relieved. "I used mine," said Beth, bitterly. "It's all I'll ever get, it seems." And then the thought of the Professor and his debts overcame her and she burst, into tears. The boy sat doubled within his chair, so overcome by the extraordinary fortune that had overtaken him that he could not speak, nor think even clearly as yet. Patsy tried to comfort Beth. "Never mind, dear," said she. "We're no worse off than before we came, are we? And we've had a nice vacation. Let's forget all disappointments and be grateful to Aunt Jane's memory. As far as she knew, she tried to be good to us." "I'm going home today," said Beth, angrily drying her eyes. "We'll all go home," said Patsy, cheerfully. "For my part," remarked Uncle John, in a grave voice, "I have no home." Patsy ran up and put her arm around his neck. "Poor Uncle John!" she cried. "Why, you're worse off than any of us. What's going to become of you, I wonder?" "I'm wondering that myself," said the little man, meekly. "Ah! You can stay here," said the boy, suddenly arousing from his apathy. "No," replied Uncle John, "the Merricks are out of Elmhurst now, and it returns to its rightful owners. You owe me nothing, my lad." "But I like you," said Kenneth, "and you're old and homeless. Stay at Elmhurst, and you shall always be welcome." Uncle John seemed greatly affected, and wrung the boy's hand earnestly. But he shook his head. "I've wandered all my life," he said. "I can wander yet." Louise smiled rather scornfully, and Beth scowled. "Father can hardly support his own family," said the other; "but I will talk to my mother about Uncle John when I get home, and see what she says." "Oh, you don't need to, indeed!" cried Patsy, in great indignation. "Uncle John is my dear mother's brother, and he's to come and live with the Major and me, as long as he cares to. There's room and to spare, Uncle," turning to him and clasping his hand, "and a joyful welcome into the bargain. No, no! say nothing at all, sir! Come you shall, if I have to drag you; and if you act naughty I'll send for the Major to punish you!" Uncle John's eyes were moist. He looked on Patsy most affectionately and cast a wink at Lawyer Watson, who stood silently by. "Thank you, my dear," said he; "but where's the money to come from?" "Money? Bah!" she said. "Doesn't the Major earn a heap with his bookkeeping, and haven't I had a raise lately? Why, we'll be as snug and contented as pigs in clover. Can you get ready to come with me today, Uncle John?" "Yes," he said slowly. "I'll be ready, Patsy." "It's so much easier than walking," she said to Uncle John, "that the common car is good enough," and the old man readily agreed with her. Kenneth and Mr. Watson came to the station to see them off, and they parted with many mutual expressions of friendship and good will. Louise, especially, pressed an urgent invitation upon the new master of Elmhurst to visit her mother in New York, and he said he hoped to see all the girls again. They were really like cousins to him, by this time. And after they were all gone he rode home on Nora's back quite disconsolate, in spite of his wonderful fortune. The lawyer, who had consented to stay at the mansion for a time, that the boy might not be lonely, had already mapped put a plan for the young heir's advancement. As he rode beside Kenneth he said: "You ought to travel, and visit the art centers of Europe, and I shall try to find a competent tutor to go with you." "Can't you go yourself?" asked the boy. The lawyer hesitated. "I'm getting old, and my clients are few and unimportant, aside from the Elmhurst interests," he said. "Perhaps I can manage to go abroad with you." "I'd like that," declared the boy. "And we'd stop in New York, wouldn't we, for a time?" "Of course. Do you want to visit New York especially?" "It's rather a stupid city," said the lawyer, doubtfully. "That may be," answered the boy. "But Patsy will be there, you know." The Major was at the station to meet them. Uncle John had shyly suggested a telegram, and Patsy had decided they could stand the expense for the pleasure of seeing the old Dad an hour sooner. He could hardly see Patsy at all, the Major wrapped her in such an ample embrace; but bye and bye she escaped to get her breath, and then her eyes fell upon the meek form holding her bundles. "Oh, Dad," she cried, "here's Uncle John, who has come to live with us; and if you don't love him as much as I do I'll make your life miserable!" "On which account," said the Major, grasping the little man's hand most cordially, "I'll love Uncle John like my own brother. And surely," he added, his voice falling tenderly, "my dear Violet's brother must be my own. Welcome, sir, now and always, to our little home. It's modest, sir; but wherever Patsy is the sun is sure to shine." "I can believe that," said Uncle John, with a nod and smile. They boarded a car for the long ride up town, and as soon as they were seated Patsy demanded the story of the Major's adventures with his colonel, and the old fellow rattled away with the eagerness of a boy, telling every detail in the most whimsical manner, and finding something humorous in every incident. "Oh, but it was grand, Patsy!" he exclaimed, "and the Colonel wept on my neck when we parted and stained the collar of me best coat, and he give me a bottle of whiskey that would make a teetotaler roll his eyes in ecstacy. 'Twas the time of my life." His face grew grave. "But how about the money, Patsy dear?" he asked. "Did you get nothing out of Jane Merrick's estate?" "Not a nickle, Dad. 'Twas the best joke you ever knew. I fought with Aunt Jane like a pirate and it quite won her heart. When she died she left me all she had in the world." "Look at that, now!" said the Major, wonderingly. "Which turned out to be nothing at all," continued Patsy. "For another will was found, made by Mr. Thomas Bradley, which gave the money to his own nephew after Aunt Jane died. Did you ever?" "Wonderful!" said the Major, with a sigh. "It didn't hurt you, did it?" asked the Major. "You weren't vexed with disappointment, were you, Patsy?" "Not at all, Daddy." "Then don't mind it, child. Like as not the money would be the ruination of us all. Eh, sir?" appealing to Uncle John. "Quite right, sir," approved the Major, sympathetically, "although it's easier not to expect anything at all, than to set your heart on a thing and then not get it. In your case, it won't matter. Our house is yours, and there's plenty and to spare." "Thank you," said Uncle John, his face grave but his eyes merry. "Oh, Major!" cried Patsy, suddenly. "There's Danny Reeves's restaurant. Let's get off and have our dinner now; I'm as hungry as a bear." So they stopped the car and descended, lugging all the parcels into the little restaurant, where they were piled into a chair while the proprietor and the waiters all gathered around Patsy to welcome her home. My, how her eyes sparkled! She fairly danced for joy, and ordered the dinner with reckless disregard of the bill. "Ah, but it's good to be back," said the little Bohemian, gleefully. "The big house at Elmhurst was grand and stately, Major, but there wasn't an ounce of love in the cupboard." "Wasn't I there. Patsy?" asked Uncle John, reproachfully. "True, but now you're here; and our love, Uncle, has nothing to do with Elmhurst. I'll bet a penny you liked it as little as I did." "You'd win," admitted the little man. Danny Reeves himself came instead, and made a nice little speech, saying that Patsy had always brought good luck to the place, and this dinner was his treat to welcome her home. "It's no palace," said Patsy, entering to throw down the bundles as soon as the Major unlocked the door, "but there's a cricket in the hearth, and it's your home, Uncle John, as well as ours." "It's cozy enough, my child; and I thank you for my welcome," said he. "But may I enquire where on earth you expect to stow me in this rather limited establishment?" "Where? Have you no eyes, then?" she asked, in astonishment. "It's the finest sofa in the world, Uncle John, and you'll sleep there like a top, with the dear Colonel's own picture looking down at you to keep you safe and give you happy dreams. Where, indeed!" "Ah; I see," said Uncle John. "And you can wash in my chamber," added the Major, with a grand air, "and hang your clothes on the spare hooks behind my door." "I haven't many," said Uncle John, looking thoughtfully at his red bundle. The Major coughed and turned the lamp a little higher. "I'm sure to be happy here," said Uncle John, taking out his pipe. "May I smoke?" "Of course; but don't spoil the lace curtains, dear," answered Patsy, mischievously. And then, turning to her father, she exclaimed: "Oh, daddy! What will the Uncle do all the day while we're at work?" "That's as he may choose," said the Major, courteously. "Couldn't we get him a job?" asked Patsy, wistfully. "Not where there'll be much work, you know, for the Uncle is old. But just to keep him out of mischief, and busy. He can't hang around all day and be happy, I suppose." "Meantime," said Uncle John, smiling at them, "I'll look around myself." There was a moment of thoughtful silence after this, and then Patsy said: "You know it won't matter, Uncle John, if you don't work. There'll easy be enough for all, with the Major's wages and my own." "By the bye," added the Major, "if you have any money about you, which is just possible, sir, of course, you'd better turn it over to Patsy to keep, and let her make you an allowance. That's the way I do--it's very satisfactory." "The Major's extravagant," exclaimed Patsy; "and if he has money he wants to treat every man he meets." Uncle John shook his head, reproachfully, at the Major. "A very bad habit, sir," he said. "I acknowledge it, Mr. Merrick," responded the Major. "But Patsy is fast curing me. And, after all, it's a wicked city to be carrying a fat pocketbook around in, as I've often observed." "My pocketbook is not exactly fat," remarked Uncle John. "But you've money, sir, for I marked you squandering it on the train," said Patsy, severely. "So out with it, and we'll count up, and see how much of an allowance I can make you 'till you get the job." Uncle John laughed and drew his chair up to the table. Then he emptied his trousers' pockets upon the cloth, and Patsy gravely separated the keys and jackknife from the coins and proceeded to count the money. "Good gracious!" she cried, delightedly. "All this wealth, and you pleading poverty?" "I never said I was a pauper," returned Uncle John, complacently. "He smokes," observed the Major, significantly. "You've now a home, and a manager, sir, with money in the bank of Patsy & Company, Limited," announced the Major. "You ought to be very contented, sir." "I am," replied Uncle John. UNCLE JOHN ACTS QUEERLY. He seemed to be in no hurry, for it was early yet, and few of the lower Broadway establishments were open. To pass the time he turned into a small restaurant and had coffee and a plate of cakes, in spite of the fact that Patsy had so recently prepared coffee over the sheet-iron stove and brought some hot buns from a near-by bakery. He was not especially hungry; but in sipping the coffee and nibbling the cakes he passed the best part of an hour. Another hour was spent in looking in at the shop windows. Then, suddenly noting the time. Uncle John started down the street at a swinging pace, and presently paused before a building upon which was a sign, reading: "Isham, Marvin & Co., Bankers and Brokers." A prosperous looking place, it seemed, with a host of clerks busily working in the various departments. Uncle John walked in, although the uniformed official at the door eyed him suspiciously. "Mr. Marvin in?" he inquired, pleasantly. "Not arrived yet," said the official, who wore a big star upon his breast. "I'll wait," announced Uncle John, and sat down upon a leather-covered bench. The official strutted up and down, watching the customers who entered the bank or departed, and keeping a sharp watch on the little man upon the bench. Another hour passed. Presently Uncle John jumped up and approached the official. "Hasn't Mr. Marvin arrived yet?" he enquired, sharply. "An hour ago," was the reply. "Then why didn't you let me know? I want to see him." "He's busy mornings. Has to look over the mail. He can't see you yet." "Well, he will see me, and right away. Tell him John Merrick is here." "I haven't any. My name will do." The official hesitated, and glanced at the little man's seedy garb and countryfied air. But something in the angry glance of the shrewd eye made him fear he had made a mistake. He opened a small door and disappeared. In a moment the door burst open to allow egress to a big, red-bearded man in his shirtsleeves, who glanced around briefly and then rushed at Uncle John and shook both his hands cordially. This last was directed at the head of the amazed porter, who, as the door slammed in his face, nodded solemnly and remarked: "Fooled ag'in, and I might 'a' known it. Drat these 'ere billionaires! Why don't they dress like decent people?" Yet Uncle John seemed in no way elated by this reception. He retained his simple manner, although his face was more grave than Patsy had often seen it; and he talked with easy familiarity of preferred stocks and amalgamated interests and invested, securities and many other queer things that the banker seemed to understand fully and to listen to with respectful deference. Then they returned to the bank for another long session together, and there was quite an eager bustle among the clerks as they stretched their necks to get a glimpse of Mr. Marvin's companion. "I showed him in myself. And he came into the bank as quiet like as anyone else would." But he didn't go away quietly, you may be sure. Mr. Marvin and Mr. Isham both escorted their famous client to the door, where the Marvin carriage had been ordered to be in readiness for Mr. Merrick's service. But Uncle John waived it aside disdainfully. "I'll walk," he said. "There are some other errands to attend to." "I'm sorry," he said, humbly; "but it's a long way here from downtown." "Didn't you take a car?" "I'm all right," declared Uncle John, cordially shaking hands with Patsy's father. "Have you had a good day?" "Fine," said the Major. "They'd missed me at the office, and were glad to have me back. And what do you think? I've got a raise." "Really?" said Uncle John, seeing it was expected of him. "Is that enough?" asked Uncle John, doubtfully. "What pay do you get, Patsy?" asked Uncle John. "Any luck today, sir," asked the Major, tucking a napkin under his chin and beginning on the soup. Uncle John shook his head. "Of course not," said Patsy, quickly. "It's too early, as yet. Don't hurry, Uncle John. Except that it'll keep you busy, there's no need for you to work at all." "You're older than I am," suggested the Major, "and that makes it harder to break in. But there's no hurry, as Patsy says." Uncle John did not seem to be worrying over his idleness. He kept on questioning his brother-in-law and his niece about their labors, and afterward related to them the sights he had seen in the shop windows. Of course he could not eat much after the feast he had had at luncheon, and this disturbed Patsy a little. She insisted he was tired, and carried her men away to the tenement rooms as soon as possible, where she installed them at the table to play cribbage until bed-time. "You must be nearly bankrupt, by this time," said Patsy on Tuesday evening. "It's an expensive city to live in," sighed Uncle John. "How about the bills?" he inquired. "Don't I pay my share of them?" "Your expenses are nothing at all," declared the Major, with a wave of his hand. "But my dinners at Danny Reeves' place must cost a lot," protested Uncle John. "Surely not; Patsy has managed all that for a trifle, and the pleasure of your company more than repays us for the bit of expense." "Tomorrow is the day of rest," announced Patsy, "so we'll all go for a nice walk in the parks after breakfast." "And the eggs for breakfast?" "It's our Sunday morning extra--an egg apiece. The Major is so fond of them." "And so am I, Patsy." "And now we'll have our cribbage and get to bed early. Heigho! but Sunday's a great day for folks that work." "Look at his recklessness!" cried Patsy, laughing. "You're just as bad as the Major, every bit. If you men hadn't me for a guardian you'd be in the poorhouse in a month." Just then someone pounded on the door, and the girl ran to open it. There was a messenger boy outside, looking smart and neat in his blue-and-gold uniform, and he touched his cap politely to the girl. "Miss Patricia Doyle?" "A parcel for you. Sign here, please." Patsy signed, bothering her head the while to know what the little package contained and who could have sent it. Then the boy was gone, and she came back slowly to the breakfast table, with the thing in her hand. "What is it, Patsy?" asked the Major, curiously. "I'm dying to know, myself," said the girl. Uncle John finished his coffee, looking unconcerned. "A good way is to open it," remarked the Major. The Major stared open-mouthed. Uncle John leaned back in his chair and watched the girl's face. "Why not read the letter?" suggested the Major. So she opened the big envelope and unfolded the stiff paper and read as follows: "Isham, Marvin & Co." Having read this to the end, in a weak voice and with many pauses, Miss Patricia Doyle sat down in her chair with strange abruptness and stared blankly at her father. The Major stared back. So did Uncle John, when her eyes roved toward his face. Patricia turned the keys over, and jingled them. Then she referred to the letter again. The Major shook his head. So did Uncle John. "Might look in a directory" suggested the latter, uncertainly. "Of course," added the Major. "That isn't the point," observed the Major, reflectively. "Who's their unknown and mysterious client? That's the question." "To be sure," said Uncle John. "They're only the agents. You must have a fairy godmother, Patsy." She laughed at the idea, and shook her head. "They don't exist in these days, Uncle John. But the whole thing must be a joke, and nothing more." "We'll discover that," asserted the Major, shrewdly scrutinizing the letter, which he had taken from Patsy's hands. "It surely looks genuine enough, on the face of it. I've seen the bank letter-head before, and this is no forgery, you can take my word. Get your things on, Patsy. Instead of walking in the park we'll hunt up Willing Square, and we'll take the keys with us." "A very good idea," said Uncle John. "I'd like to go with you, if I may." Patsy noticed this, when she came out of her closet, and laughed merrily. "You mustn't be getting excited, Uncle John, until we see how this wonderful adventure turns out." she said. "But I really must wash and iron that necktie for you, if you're going to wear it on Sundays." "Not a bad idea," said the Major. "But come, are we all ready?" They walked down the rickety steps very gravely and sedately, Patsy jingling the keys as they went, and made their way to the corner drug store, where the Major searched in the directory for Willing Square. To his surprise it proved to be only a few blocks away. "Really, it's no use going, Dad," she protested. "It isn't in reason that I'd have a place presented me in a dead swell neighborhood. Now, is it?" "We'll have to go, just the same," said Uncle John. "I couldn't sleep a wink tonight if we didn't find out what this all means." "True enough," agreed the Major. "Come along, Patsy; it's this way." A porter appeared at the front door, which stood open, and examined the group upon the sidewalk with evident curiosity. Patsy walked up to him, and ignoring the big gold figures over the entrance she enquired: "Yes, Miss," answered the porter; "are you Miss Doyle?" "I am," she answered, surprised. "Let's go up," said the Major, in a husky voice, and proceeded to mount the stairs. "Well, well!" gasped the Major. "Who'd have thought it, at all at all!" The sun was shining brilliantly into a tiny reception hall, furnished most luxuriously. The Major placed his hat on the rack, and Uncle John followed suit. Beyond was a pantry with well filled shelves and then the kitchen--this last filled with every article that could possibly be needed. In a store-room were enough provisions to stock a grocery-store and Patsy noted with amazement that there was ice in the refrigerator, with cream and milk and butter cooling beside it. "This will be Patsy's room," said the Major, with a vast amount of dignity. "Of course," said Uncle John. "The pins on the cushion spell 'Patricia,' don't they?" "So they do!" cried Patsy, greatly delighted. "And this room," continued the Major, passing into the next, "will be mine. There are fine battle-scenes on the wall; and I declare, there's just the place for the colonel's photograph over the dresser!" "Cigars, too," said Patsy, opening a little cabinet; "but 'twill be a shame to smoke in this palace." "Mine?" enquired Uncle John in mild surprise. Uncle John's eyes twinkled. "I hope the bed is soft," he remarked, pressing it critically. "It's as good as the old sofa, any day," said Patsy, indignantly. "What'll we do?" asked Patsy, in distress. "Better open it," suggested Uncle John, calmly. "This is my new mistress, I suppose," she said, looking at Patsy. "I am your servant, Miss Patricia." Patsy sat down, from sheer lack of strength to stand up. "Who hired you, then?" she asked. "A gentleman from the bank," was the reply. "I'm Mary, if you please, Miss. And my wages are all arranged for in advance, so there will be nothing for you to pay," said the little maid. "Can you cook?" asked Patsy, curiously. "Oh; you've been here before, then?" "And where will you sleep?" "I've a little room beyond the kitchen. Didn't you see it, Miss Patricia?" "Anything more at present, Miss Patricia?" The maid bowed again, and disappeared toward the kitchen, leaving an awe-struck group behind her. The Major whistled softly. Uncle John seemed quite unconcerned. Patsy took out her handkerchief. The tears _would_ come in spite of her efforts. "I--I--I'm going to have a good cry," she sobbed, and rushed into the living-room to throw herself flat upon the divan. By and bye Patsy joined them, no longer crying but radiant with glee. "Tell me, Daddy," said she, perching on the arm of the Major's chair, "who gave me all this, do you think?" "And you robbed me of all my money when I came to town," said Uncle John. "Stop joking," said the girl. "There's no doubt this place is intended for us, is there?" "Well, then, do you think it's Kenneth?" The Major shook his head. "I don't know the lad." he said, "and he might be equal to it, although I doubt it. But he can't touch his money till he comes of age, and it isn't likely his lawyer guardian would allow such extravagances." "Then who can it be?" "It doesn't seem to matter," remarked Uncle John, lighting a fresh pipe. "You're not supposed to ask questions, I take it, but to enjoy your new home as much as you can." "Ex--actly!" agreed the Major. "I suppose I'll have to," she answered, thoughtfully. "We'll have to go back to Becker's flats to pack up our traps," said the Major, "so we might as well go now." "I hate to leave here for a single moment," replied the girl. "I'm afraid it will all disappear again." "Nonsense!" said Uncle John. "For my part, I haven't any traps, so I'll stay here and guard the treasure till you return." "Dinner is served, Miss Patricia," said the small maid, appearing in the doorway. "Then let's dine!" cried Patsy, clapping her hands gleefully; "and afterward the Major and I will make our last visit to Becker's flats." LOUISE MAKES A DISCOVERY. Uncle John did not stay to guard the treasure, after all, for he knew very well it would not disappear. It was near by, and he soon found the place--a pretty flat in a fashionable building, although not so exclusive a residence district as Willing Square. A maid opened it and looked at him enquiringly. "Are the ladies in?" he asked. "I'll see. Your card, sir?" "Yes, John Merrick." She closed the door entirely, and was gone several minutes. Then she came back and ushered him through the parlor into a small rear room. Mrs. Merrick arose from her chair by the window and advanced to meet him. "You are John Merrick?" she enquired. "Your husband's brother, ma'am," he replied. "How do you do, Uncle John?" called Louise, from the sofa. "Excuse my getting up, won't you? And where in the world have you come from?" Mrs. Merrick sat down again. "Won't you take a chair?" she said, stiffly. "I believe I will," returned Uncle John. "I just came to make a call, you know." "Louise has told me of you," said the lady. "It was very unfortunate that your sister's death deprived you of a home. An absurd thing, altogether, that fiasco of Jane Merrick's." "But I might have expected it, knowing the woman's character as I did." Uncle John wondered what Jane's character had to do with the finding of Tom Bradley's last will; but he said nothing. "Where are you living?" asked Louise. "Not anywhere, exactly," he answered, "although Patsy has offered me a home and I've been sleeping on a sofa in her living-room, the past week." "I advise you to stay with the Doyles," said Mrs. Merrick, quickly. "We haven't even a sofa to offer you here, our flat is so small; otherwise we would be glad to be of some help to you. Have you found work?" "I haven't tried to, yet, ma'am." "It will be hard to get, at your age, of course. But that is a matter in which we cannot assist you." "Oh, I'm not looking for help, ma'am." She glanced at his worn clothing and soiled white necktie, and smiled. "Perfectly. It's very simple," said the old man. "I'd forgotten that," said Uncle John. "Well, we haven't. We don't want to appear ungenerous in your eyes. Some day we may need help ourselves. But just now we can't offer you a home, and, as mother says, you'd better stay with the Doyles. We have talked of making you a small allowance; but that may not be necessary. When you need assistance you must come to us, and we'll do whatever we can, as long as our money lasts. Won't that be the better way?" Uncle John was silent for a moment. Then he asked: "Why have you thought it necessary to assist me?" Louise seemed surprised. "Enough for my present needs," he said, smiling. Mrs. Merrick seemed greatly relieved. "Then there is no need of our trying to be generous," she said, "and I am glad of that on all accounts." "I just called for a little visit," said Uncle John. "It seemed unfriendly not to hunt you up, when I was in town." "I'm glad you did," replied Mrs. Merrick, glancing at the clock. "But Louise expects a young gentleman to call upon her in a few minutes, and perhaps you can drop in again; another Sunday, for instance." "Perhaps so," said Uncle John, rising with a red face. "I'll see." "Good bye, Uncle," exclaimed Louise, rising to take his hand. "Don't feel that we've hurried you away, but come in again, whenever you feel like it." "Thank you, my dear," he said, and went away. Louise approached the open window, that led to a broad balcony. The people in the next flat--young Mr. Isham, the son of the great banker, and his wife--were sitting on the balcony, overlooking the street, but Louise decided to glance over the rail to discover if the young gentleman she so eagerly awaited chanced to be in sight. As she did so Mr. Isham cried in great excitement: "There he is, Myra--that's him!" and pointed toward the sidewalk. "Whom?" enquired Mrs. Isham, calmly. "Why John Merrick! John Merrick, of Portland, Oregon." "And who is John Merrick?" asked the lady. Louise drew back from the window, pale and trembling. Then she caught up a shawl and rushed from the room. Uncle John must be overtaken and brought back, at all hazards. The elevator was coming down, fortunately, and she descended quickly and reached the street, where she peered eagerly up and down for the round, plump figure of the little millionaire. But by some strange chance he had already turned a corner and disappeared. While she hesitated the young man came briskly up, swinging his cane. "Why, Miss Louise," he said in some surprise, "were you, by good chance, waiting for me?" "No, indeed," she answered, with a laugh; "I've been saying good-bye to my rich uncle, John Merrick, of Portland, who has just called." "John Merrick, the tin-plate magnate? Is he your uncle?" "My father's own brother," she answered, gaily. "Come upstairs, please. Mother will be glad to see you!" PATSY LOSES HER JOB. Uncle John reached Willing Square before Patsy and her father returned, but soon afterward they arrived in an antiquated carriage surrounded by innumerable bundles. "Daddy," she said, impressively, "it must have cost a big fortune to furnish these little rooms. They're full of very expensive things, and none of the grand houses Madam Borne has sent me to is any finer than ours. I'm sure the place is too good for us, who are working people. Do you think we ought to stay here?" Uncle John stroked the girl's head softly. "You are quite right," he said. "There is nothing too good for a brave, honest girl who's heart is in the right place." "And that's Patsy," declared the Major, as if the question were finally settled. "I'm going to buy my new suit, today, and a new necktie," he said. "What, the neckties?" "No, the clothes. Good-bye, and don't be late to dinner. Mary might scold." "I'll remember. Good-bye, my dear." Patsy was almost singing for joy when she walked into Madam Borne's hair-dressing establishment. "Don't take off your things," said the Madam, sharply, "Your services are no longer required." Patsy looked at her in amazement. Doubtless she hadn't heard aright. "I have another girl in your place," continued Madam Borne, "so I'll bid you good morning." Patsy's heart was beating fast. "That's it precisely." "Have I done anything wrong, Madam?" "It isn't that," said Madam, pettishly. "I simply do not require your services. You are paid up to Saturday night, and I owe you nothing. Now, run along." Patsy stood looking at her and wondering what to do. To lose this place was certainly a great calamity. "You'll give me a testimonial, won't you, Madam?" she asked, falteringly. "I don't give testimonials," was the reply. "Do run away, child; I'm very busy this morning." Patsy went away, all her happiness turned to bitter grief. What would the Major say, and what were they to do without her wages? Then she remembered Willing Square, and was a little comforted. Money was not as necessary now as it had been before. "Miss Doyle?" enquired the lady. "Yes, ma'am," said Patsy. Patsy plumped down upon a chair and looked her amazement. "May I ask who engaged you?" she ventured to enquire. "A gentleman from the bank of Isham, Marvin & Co. made the arrangement. May I take off my things?" "If you please," said the girl, quietly. Evidently this explained why Madam Borne had discharged her so heartlessly. The gentleman from Isham, Marvin & Co. had doubtless interviewed the Madam and told her what to do. And then, knowing she would be at liberty, he had sent her this private instructor. She found Mrs. Wilson a charming and cultivated lady, who proved so gracious and kindly that the girl felt quite at ease in her presence. She soon discovered how woefully ignorant Patsy was, and arranged a course of instruction that would be of most benefit to her. "I have been asked to prepare you to enter a girls' college," she said, "and if you are attentive and studious I shall easily accomplish the task." Patsy invited her to stay to luncheon, which Mary served in the cosy dining-room, and then Mrs. Wilson departed and left her alone to think over this new example of her unknown friend's thoughtful care. Meantime the Major was having his own surprises. At the office the manager met him on his arrival and called him into his private room. "Major Doyle," said he, "it is with great regret that we part with you, for you have served our house most faithfully." The Major was nonplussed. "But," continued the manager, "our bankers, Messers. Isham, Marvin & Co., have asked us to spare you for them, as they have a place requiring a man of your abilities where you can do much better than with us. Take this card, sir, and step over to the bankers and enquire for Mr. Marvin. I congratulate you, Major Doyle, on your advancement, which I admit is fully deserved." The Major seemed dazed. Like a man walking in a dream he made his way to the great banking house, and sent in the card to Mr. Marvin. That gentleman greeted him most cordially. His little office was very cosy, too; and the work of auditing the accounts of the most important customers of the house required accuracy but no amount of labor. It was an ideal occupation for a man of his years and limited training. As he let himself in he heard an awkward drumming and strumming on the piano, and peering slyly through the opening in the portierre he was startled to find Patsy herself making the dreadful noise, while a pretty girl sat beside her directing the movements of her fingers. The Major watched for several minutes, in silent but amazed exultation; then he tiptoed softly to his room to smoke a cigar and wait until his daughter was at liberty to hear his great news and explain her own adventures. When Uncle John came home to dinner he found father and daughter seated happily together in a loving embrace, their faces wreathed with ecstatic smiles that were wonderful to behold. Uncle John was radiant in a brand new pepper-and-salt suit of clothes that fitted his little round form perfectly. Patsy marvelled that he could get such a handsome outfit for the money, for Uncle John had on new linen and a new hat and even a red-bordered handkerchief for the coat pocket--besides the necktie, and the necktie was of fine silk and in the latest fashion. The transformation was complete, and Uncle John had suddenly become an eminently respectable old gentleman, with very little to criticise in his appearance. "Do I match the flat, now?" he asked. "To a dot!" declared Patsy. "So come to dinner, for it's ready and waiting, and the Major and I have some wonderful fairy tales to tell you." THE MAJOR DEMANDS AN EXPLANATION. That was a happy week, indeed. Patsy devoted all her spare time to her lessons, but the house itself demanded no little attention. She would not let Mary dust the ornaments or arrange the rooms at all, but lovingly performed those duties herself, and soon became an ideal housekeeper, as Uncle John approvingly remarked. The position at the bank had raised the good man's importance several notches. The clerks treated him with fine consideration and the heads of the firm were cordial and most pleasant. His fine, soldierly figure and kindly, white-moustached face, conferred a certain dignity upon his employers, which they seemed to respect and appreciate. But it was not until Saturday morning that the truth dawned upon him, and struck him like a blow from a sledge-hammer. He had occasion to visit Mr. Marvin's private office, but being told that the gentleman was engaged with an important customer, he lingered outside the door, waiting. Presently the door was partly opened. "I'll not forget, Mr. Merrick," answered the banker. "And buy that property on Bleeker street at the price offered. It's a fair proposition, and I need the land." "Very well, Mr. Merrick. Would it not be better for me to send these papers by a messenger to your house?" The Major stared at him haughtily, but made no attempt to openly recognize the man. Uncle John gave a start, laughed, and then walked away briskly, throwing a hasty "good-bye" to the obsequious banker, who followed him out, bowing low. Patsy asked anxiously if anything had happened, when she saw his face; but the Major shook his head. Uncle John arrived just in time for dinner, in a very genial mood, and he and Patsy kept up a lively conversation at the table while the Major looked stern every time he caught the little man's eye. When dinner was over the Major led them into the sitting-room, turned up the lights, and then confronted the little man with a determined and majestic air. "Sir," said he, "give an account of yourself." "John Merrick, millionaire and impostor, who came into my family under false pretenses and won our love and friendship when we didn't know it, give an account of yourself!" "What are you up to, Daddy?" she demanded. "What has Uncle John been doing?" "Deceiving us, my dear." "Nonsense," said Uncle John, lighting his old briar pipe, "you've been deceiving yourselves." "Didn't you convey the impression that you were poor?" demanded the Major, sternly. "Aren't you worth millions and millions of dollars--so many that you can't count them yourself?" Patsy stood pale and trembling, her round eyes fixed upon her uncle's composed face. "Uncle John!" she faltered. "Is it all true? Are you so very rich?" "Of course, Patsy. Why not?" She threw herself into his arms, sobbing happily as he clasped her little form to his bosom. And the Major coughed and blew his nose, and muttered unintelligible words into his handkerchief. Then Patsy sprang up and rushed upon her father, crying; "Oh, Daddy! Aren't you glad it's Uncle John?" "I have still to hear his explanation," said the Major. Uncle John beamed upon them. Perhaps he had never been so happy before in all his life. "I never married, for all my heart was in the business, and I thought of nothing else. But a while ago a big consolidation of the canning industries was effected, and the active management I resigned to other hands, because I had grown old, and had too much money already. "It was then that I remembered the family, and went back quietly to the village where I was born. They were all dead or scattered, I found; but because Jane had inherited a fortune in some way I discovered where she lived and went to see her. I suppose it was because my clothes were old and shabby that Jane concluded I was a poor man and needed assistance; and I didn't take the trouble to undeceive her. "It was very wicked of you," said Patsy, soberly, from her father's lap. "And that's the whole story, my friends. After Jane's death you offered me a home--the best you had to give--and I accepted it. I had to come to New York anyway, you know, for Isham, Marvin & Co. have been my bankers for years, and there was considerable business to transact with them. I think that's all, isn't it?" "Then this house is yours?" said Patsy, wonderingly. "Why are you so good to me, Uncle John?" "Just because I like you, Patsy, and you are my niece." "And the other nieces?" "How fine!" cried Patsy, clapping her hands joyfully. "Indeed she will!" said Patsy. "And now," said Uncle John, "I want to know if I can keep my little room in your apartments, Patsy; or if you'd prefer me to find another boarding place." "Your home is here as long as you live, Uncle John. I never meant to part with you, when I thought you poor, and I'll not desert you now that I know you're rich." "Well said, Patsy!" cried the Major. And Uncle John smiled and kissed the girl and then lighted his pipe again, for it had gone out.	redpajama-book	41,002
E-text prepared by Afra Ullah, Josephine Paolucci, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team AUNT JANE'S NIECES AND UNCLE JOHN AUTHOR OF "AUNT JANE'S NIECES," "AUNT JANE'S NIECES ABROAD," "AUNT JANE'S NIECES AT MILLVILLE," "AUNT JANE'S NIECES AT WORK." "AUNT JANE'S NIECES IN SOCIETY," ETC. INTRODUCING "MUMBLES" Major Gregory Doyle paced nervously up and down the floor of the cosy sitting room. "Something's surely happened to our Patsy!" he exclaimed. A little man with a calm face and a bald head, who was seated near the fire, continued to read his newspaper and paid no attention to the outburst. "Something has happened to Patsy!" repeated the Major, "Patsy" meaning his own and only daughter Patricia. "Something is always happening to everyone," said the little man, turning his paper indifferently. "Something is happening to me, for I can't find the rest of this article. Something is happening to you, for you're losing your temper." "I'm not, sir! I deny it." "What would you propose doing?" asked Uncle John, looking up with a smile. "Then we ought to get out the fire department. Call Mary to put on more coal and let's have it warm and cheerful when Patsy comes in." He paused, for a pass-key rattled in the hall door and a moment later Patsy Doyle, rosy and animated, fresh from the cold and wet outside, smilingly greeted them. She had an umbrella, but her cloak was dripping with moisture and in its ample folds was something huddled and bundled up like a baby, which she carefully protected. "So, then," exclaimed the Major, coming forward for a kiss, "you're back at last, safe and sound. Whatever kept ye out 'til this time o' night, Patsy darlin'?" he added, letting the brogue creep into his tone, as he did when stirred by any emotion. Uncle John started to take off her wet cloak. "Look out!" cried Patsy; "you'll disturb Mumbles." "What on earth is Mumbles?" inquired the other. The bundle squirmed and wriggled. Patsy sat down on the floor and carefully unwound the folds of the cloak. A tiny dog, black and shaggy, put his head out, blinked sleepily at the lights, pulled his fat, shapeless body away from the bandages and trotted solemnly over to the fireplace. He didn't travel straight ahead, as dogs ought to walk, but "cornerwise," as Patsy described it; and when he got to the hearth he rolled himself into a ball, lay down and went to sleep. During this performance a tense silence had pervaded the room. The Major looked at the dog rather gloomily; Uncle John with critical eyes that held a smile in them; Patsy with ecstatic delight. "Isn't he a dear!" she exclaimed. "Pshaw!" said Uncle John. "Speak for yourself, Major. I wasn't worried a bit." "Of course," said Uncle John, nodding wisely. "I cuffed the boy, and he said he'd take it out on Mumbles, as soon as I'd gone away. I didn't like that. I offered to buy the dog, but the boy didn't dare sell him. He said it belonged to his father, who'd kill him and kick up a row besides if he didn't bring Mumbles home. So I found out where they lived and as it wasn't far away I went home with him." "Crazy Patsy!" smiled Uncle John. "And the dinner waiting!" groaned the Major, reproachfully. "Which of course you refused to do." "Of course. I'd made up my mind to have that dog." "Dogs," said the Major, "invariably are nuisances." "Why not?" said Patsy. "Don't you like him, Daddy?" "He can't hunt, Patsy; he's not even a mouser." "We haven't a mouse in the house." "He's neither useful nor ornamental. From the looks o' the beast he's only good to sleep and eat." "What's the odds?" laughed Patsy, coddling Mumbles up in her arms. "We don't expect use or ornamentation from Mumbles. All we ask is his companionship." Mary called them to dinner just then, and the girl hurried to her room to make a hasty toilet while the men sat down at the table and eyed their soup reflectively. "You are not running this present establishment. It belongs exclusively to Patsy." "I've always hated the sight of a woman coddling a dog," added the Major, frowning. "I know. I feel the same way myself. But it isn't the dog's fault. It's the woman's. And Patsy won't make a fool of herself over that frowsy puppy, I assure you. On the contrary, she's likely to get a lot of joy out of her new plaything, and if you really want to make her happy, Major, don't discourage this new whim, absurd as it seems. Let Patsy alone. And let Mumbles alone." Patsy always livened things up. Nothing could really depress this spirited girl for long, and she was always doing some interesting thing to create a little excitement. "Mumbles," said Patsy, merrily. "The boy said they called him that because he mumbled in his sleep. Listen!" Indeed, the small waif by the fire was emitting a series of noises that seemed a queer mixture of low growls and whines--evidence unimpeachable that he had been correctly named. "That settles it," said the Major, as his daughter began feeding the dog. "Our happy home is broken up." "Perhaps not," suggested Uncle John, reaching out to pat the soft head of Mumbles. "It may be the little beggar will liven us all up a bit." "I have an idea," he announced. "Did you find it in your dreams, then?" asked the Major, sharply. "Why, Daddy, how cross you are!" cried Patsy. "Can't Uncle John have an idea if he wants to?" "I'm afraid of his ideas," admitted the Major, suspiciously. "Every time he goes to sleep and catches a thought, it means trouble." Patsy laughed, looking at her uncle curiously, and the little man smiled at her genially in return. "It takes me a long time to figure a thing out," he said; "and when I've a problem to solve a bit of a snooze helps wonderfully. Patsy, dear, it occurs to me we're lonely." "We surely are, Uncle!" she exclaimed. "Our spirits are at the bottom of the bottomless pit." "So what we need is--a change." "Why not?" mildly inquired Uncle John. "But I'm planning to take you along, this time. Major," observed Uncle John reflectively. "Oh. Hum! Well, I can't go. There's too much business to be attended to--looking after your horrible money." "Take a vacation. You know I don't care anything about the business. It can't go very wrong, anyhow. What does it matter if my income isn't invested properly, or the bond coupons cut when they're due? Drat the money!" "That's what I say," added Patsy eagerly. "Be a man, Major Doyle, and put the business out of your mind. Let's go somewhere and have a good romp. It will cheer us up." "What's the programme, John?" he asked stiffly. "It's going to be a cold winter," remarked the little man, bobbing his head up and down slowly. "It is!" cried Patsy, clasping her hands fervently. "I can feel it in my bones." "So we're going," said Uncle John, impressively, "to California--where they grow sunshine and roses to offset our blizzards and icicles." "Hurray!" shouted Patsy. "I've always wanted to go to California." "California!" said the Major, amazed; "why, it's farther away than Europe. It takes a month to get there." There was a silence, oppressive on the Major's part, ecstatic as far as Patsy was concerned. Uncle John found the railway folder, put on his spectacles, and began to examine it. "At my time of life," remarked Major Doyle, who was hale and hearty as a boy, "such a trip is a great undertaking." Uncle John looked thoughtful. Then he lay back in his chair and spread his handkerchief over his face again. "Yucatan," remarked Mr. Merrick, composedly, his voice muffled by the handkerchief, "isn't a bad suggestion." "I knew it!" wailed the Major. "How would Ethiopia or Hindustan strike you?" Patsy laughed at him. She knew something good was in store for her and like all girls was enraptured at the thought of visiting new and interesting scenes. "Don't bother Uncle John, Daddy," she said. "You know very well he will carry out any whim that seizes him; especially if you oppose the plan, which you usually do." "Oh, bother society! I hate it." "You know nothing about it," observed Patsy, demurely, "and that is why you love to rail at society. The things you know, Daddy dear, are the things you never remark upon." "Huh!" grunted the Major, and relapsed into silence. "Thank goodness," sighed the Major. "The little black rascal has providently prevented you from evolving another idea." "Not so," responded Mr. Merrick amiably. "I've thought the thing all out, and completed our programme." "Is it still to be California?" anxiously inquired Patsy. "Conquering Caesar! A month!" ejaculated the old soldier, a desperate look on his face. "Yes. Listen, both of you. We'll get to Chicago in a night and a day. We will stop off there and visit the stockyards, and collect a few squeals for souvenirs." "No, we won't!" declared Patsy, positively. "There are other sights to be seen in Chicago," continued Uncle John. "Anyhow, we'll stop off long enough to get rested. Then on to Denver and Pike's Peak." "That sounds good," said Patsy. "At Denver," said Uncle John, "we will take a touring car and cross the mountains in it. There are good roads all the way from there to California." "Who told you so?" demanded the Major. "It will be glorious!" prophesied Patsy, delightedly. The Major looked grave, but could find no plausible objection to offer. He really knew nothing about the West and had never had occasion to consider such a proposition before. "We'll talk to Haggerty," he said. "But you must remember he's a desperate liar, John, and can't be trusted as a guidepost. When do you intend to start?" "Why not to-morrow?" asked Uncle John mildly. Even Patsy demurred at this. "We will take Beth along, of course." Beth was Elizabeth De Graf, another niece. "But Beth is fortunately the sort of girl who can pull up stakes and move on at an hour's notice." "Beth is always ready for anything," agreed Patsy. "But if we are going to a warm climate we will need summer clothes." "You can't lug many clothes in a motor car," observed the Major. "No; but we can ship them on ahead." "Who is Haggerty?" asked Patsy. "A liar," answered the Major, positively. "The Major's going to California just to prove that Haggerty can't speak the truth," observed that gentleman, tersely heading off any threatened criticism. "I see there is no opposing your preposterous scheme, John, so we will go with you and make the best of it. But I'm sure it's all a sad mistake. What else did Haggerty tell you?" "He says it's best to pick up a motor car and a chauffeur in Denver, rather than ship them on from here. There are plenty of cars to be had, and men who know every inch of the road." "That seems sensible," declared Patsy, "and we won't lose time waiting for our own car to follow by freight. I think, Uncle John, I can be ready by next Tuesday." "Cut the business off short," suggested his brother-in-law. "You've to cut it somewhere, you know, or you'll never get away; and, as it's my business, I hereby authorize you to neglect it from this moment until the day of our return. When we get back you can pick up the details again and worry over it as much as you please." "Will we ever get back?" asked the Major, doubtingly. "If we don't, the business won't matter." "That's the idea," cried Patsy, approvingly. "Daddy has worked hard all summer, Uncle John, looking after that annoying money of yours, and a vacation will do him oodles of good." "Never mind Haggerty. We'll find out for ourselves." "And, after all," said Patsy, "there are the sunshine and roses at the end of the journey, and they ought to make up for any amount of bother in getting there." "Girl, you're attempting to deceive me--to deceive your old Daddy," said the Major, shaking his head at her. "You wouldn't have any fun riding to California in a palace car; even the sunshine and roses couldn't excite you under such circumstances; but if there's a chance for adventure--a chance to slide into trouble and make a mighty struggle to get out again--both you and that wicked old uncle of yours will jump at it. I know ye both. And that's the real reason we're going to travel in an automobile instead of progressing comfortably as all respectable people do." "You're a humbug," retorted Mr. Merrick. "You wouldn't go by train if I'd let you." "No," admitted the Major; "I must be on hand to rescue you when you and Patsy go fighting windmills." "And it's beginning to snow," observed Patricia Doyle, beside her. "I'm afraid this weather isn't very propitious for an automobile trip." "Uncle John doesn't worry," said Beth. "He believes there is perpetual sunshine west of Denver." "Yes; a man named Haggerty told him. But you'll notice that Daddy doesn't seem to believe the tale. Anyhow, we shall soon know the truth, Beth, and the trip is somewhat on the order of a voyage of discovery, which renders it fascinating to look forward to. There is such fun in not knowing just what is going to happen next." "See!" she cried, clasping Beth's arm; "there is that lovely girl at the window again. I've noticed her ever since the train left Chicago, and she is always in the same seat in that tourist coach. I wonder why she doesn't get out for a bit of fresh air now and then." At the cry of "all aboard!" a scramble was made for the coaches and Beth and Patsy, re-entering their staterooms, found their Uncle and the Major still intent upon their interminable game of cribbage. "Let's go back and talk to the girl," suggested Patsy. "Somehow, the poor thing seems lonely, and her smile was more pathetic than cheerful." "Wasn't that enough?" inquired Myrtle innocently. "I can still sew," returned the girl, courageously, "although of course I cannot get about easily to search for employment." "But why did you leave Chicago?" asked Beth. "To _find_ him!" exclaimed Patsy. "Don't you know his address?" "Does he know you are coming?" asked Beth, thoughtfully. "Have you money?" asked Beth. "What a cruel old woman!" cried Patsy, wrathfully. "She ought to be horsewhipped!" "I am sure it was wrong for her to cast you off in this heartless way," added Beth, more conservatively. "She is not really bad," returned Myrtle, the tears starting to her eyes. "But Aunt Martha has grown selfish, and does not care for me very much. I hope Uncle Anson will be different. He is my mother's brother, you know, while Aunt Martha is only my father's sister, and an old maid who has had rather a hard life. Perhaps," she added, wistfully, "Uncle Anson will love me--although I'm not strong or well." Both Patsy and Beth felt desperately sorry for the girl. "What is Uncle Anson's other name?" asked the latter, for Beth was the more practical of Uncle John's nieces and noted for her clear thinking. "Jones. Mr. Anson Jones." "Rather a common name, if you have to hunt for him," observed the questioner, musingly. "Has he been in Leadville long?" "Suppose he should be wandering now?" suggested Patsy; but at the look of alarm on Myrtle's face she quickly changed the subject, saying: "You must come in to dinner with us, my dear, for you have had nothing but cold truck to eat since you left Chicago. They say we shall be in Denver in another hour, but I'm afraid to believe it. Anyhow, there is plenty of time for dinner." "Oh, I can't go, really!" cried the girl. "It's--it's so hard for me to walk when the train is moving; and--and--I wouldn't feel happy in that gay, luxurious dining car." "Well, we must go, anyway, or the Major will be very disagreeable," said Patsy. "Good-bye, Myrtle; we shall see you again before we leave the train." "I'm afraid that poor thing will be greatly disappointed when she gets to Leadville. Imagine anyone sending a child on such a wild goose chase--and an injured and almost helpless child, at that!" "I can pass the night in this seat very comfortably, so please don't worry about me. It is warm here, you know, and I won't mind a bit the sitting up. Thank you all very much for your kindness, and good-bye. I'll be all right, never fear." Uncle John stood looking down at her thoughtfully. "Did you engage a carriage, Major?" he asked. "All right. Now, then, my dear, let's wrap this blanket around you tight and snug." "What are you going to do?" asked Myrtle with a startled look. "Carry you outside. It's pretty cold and snowy, so we must wrap you up. Now, Major, take hold on the other side. Here we go!" Patsy smiled--rather pitifully--at the expression of bewilderment on Myrtle's face. Uncle John and the Major carried her tenderly to a carriage and put her in the back seat. Patsy sprang in next, with Mumbles clasped tightly in her arms, the small dog having been forced to make the journey thus far in the baggage car. Beth and the Major entered the carriage next, while Uncle John mounted beside the driver and directed him to the Crown Palace Hotel. Patsy finally aroused her, opening the blinds to let in the sunshine and then sitting beside Myrtle's bed to stroke her fair hair and tell her it was nearly noon. "But my train!" wailed the girl, greatly distressed. "Oh, the train has gone hours ago. But never mind that, dear. Uncle John has telegraphed to Leadville and found that Anson Jones is not there. He left months ago, and is now wandering; in fields and pastures unknown." Myrtle sat up in bed and glared at Patsy wild-eyed. "Gone!" she said. "Gone! Then what am I to do?" "I can't imagine, dear," said Patsy, soothingly. "What do you think you will do?" The girl seemed dazed and for a time could not reply. "You must have thought of this thing," suggested her new friend, "for it was quite possible Anson Jones would not be in Leadville when you arrived there." "And she knew you to be so helpless!" "In other words," exclaimed Patsy, indignantly, "she wanted to get rid of you, and did not care what became of you." "She was afraid I would cost her money," admitted the poor child, with shamed, downcast eyes. Patsy went to the window and stood looking out for a time. Myrtle began to dress herself. As she said, she was not utterly helpless, moving the upper part of her body freely and being able to walk slowly about a room by holding on to chairs or other furniture. "I'm afraid I'm causing you a lot of worry over me," said she, smiling sadly as Patsy turned toward her; "and that is ungrateful when I remember how kind you have all been. Why, these hours since I met you have seemed like fairyland. I shall treasure them as long as I live. There must be another train to Leadville soon, and I'll take that. As soon as I am ready I will go to the depot and wait there." "Tell me," she said; "why should you go to Leadville at all, now that you have no friend or relative there to care for you?" "My ticket is to Leadville, you know," replied Myrtle. "If I did not go I would waste the money it cost." Patsy laughed at this. Then she went away to join a conference in Uncle John's sitting room. Major Doyle was speaking when she entered and his voice was coldly ironical. Uncle John, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, paced thoughtfully up and down the room. "Didn't I give you Haggerty's record, then?" asked the Major. "If you want the exact truth it's safe to go directly opposite to what Haggerty says." "He's a very decent fellow," protested Mr. Merrick, "and is considered in the city to be strictly honest." "Are they all named Haggerty?" asked the Major, scornfully. "Then we had best go south to Santa Fe and take the route of the old Santa Fe Trail as far as Albuquerque, or even to El Paso. Either way we will be sure to find fine weather, and good roads into California." "It stands to reason," continued Mr. Merrick, "that on the Southern route we will escape the severe weather. So I have decided to adopt that plan." "I think you are quite wise in that," broke in Patsy, before her father could object. "All those queer Spanish names sound interesting," said Beth. "When do we start, Uncle?" "Unless we run into more snowstorms." Of course it was the Major who said that, and pointedly ignoring the remark Uncle John turned to Patsy and said: "How did you find Myrtle Dean this morning?" "She is rested, and seems very bright and cheerful, Uncle; but of course she is much distressed by the news that her Uncle Anson has vanished from Leadville. Yet she thinks she will continue her journey by the next train, as she has paid for her ticket and can't afford to waste the money." "It would be absurd for the child to go to Leadville on that account. A mining camp is no place for such a frail thing," returned Mr. Merrick. "What would you suggest, Patsy?" "Really, Uncle John, I don't know what to suggest." "She can never earn her living by sewing," declared Beth. "What she ought to have is a trained nurse and careful attention." "I'll have a doctor up to look her over," said Uncle John, in his decisive way. He was a mild little man generally, but when he made up his mind to do a thing it was useless to argue with him. Even Major Doyle knew that; but the old soldier was so fond of arguing for the sake of argument, and so accustomed to oppose his wealthy brother-in-law--whom he loved dearly just the same--that he was willing to accept defeat rather than permit Mr. Merrick to act without protest. AN INTERESTING PROTEGE A young physician was appointed by the management to attend any guest who might require his services, and Uncle John had a talk with him and sent him to Myrtle's room to give her a thorough examination. This he did, and reported that the girl's present condition was due largely to mismanagement of her case at the time she was injured. With care she would get better and stronger rapidly, but the hip joint was out of its socket and only a skillful operation would serve to permanently relieve her of lameness. "What she needs just now," continued the doctor, "is a pair of crutches, so she can get around better and be in the fresh air and sunshine as much as possible. She is a very frail little woman at present and must build up her health and strength before submitting to the operation I have mentioned. Then, if it is properly done, she ought to recover completely and be as good as new." "I must inform you," said Uncle John, "that Myrtle Dean is just a little waif whom my nieces picked up on the train. I believe she is without friends or money. Such being the circumstances, what would you advise?" The doctor shook his head gravely. "Thank you," said Uncle John, thoughtfully nodding his bald head. "I'll think it over and see you again, doctor, before I leave." An hour later Myrtle was fitted with crutches of the best sort obtainable, and was overjoyed to find how greatly they assisted her. The Major, a kindly man, decided to take Myrtle out for a drive, and while they were gone Uncle John had a long conversation with Beth and Patsy. "Here is a case," said he, "where my dreadful money can do some good. I am anxious to help Myrtle Dean, for I believe she is deserving of my best offices. But I don't exactly know what to do. She is really _your_ protege, my dears, and I am going to put the affair in your hands for settlement. Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it. Spend my money as freely upon Myrtle as you please." The girls faced the problem with enthusiasm. "She's a dear little thing," remarked Patsy, "and seems very grateful for the least kindness shown her. I am sure she has never been treated very nicely by that stony-hearted old aunt of hers." "In all my experience," said Beth, speaking as if her years were doubled, "I have never known anyone so utterly helpless. She is very young and inexperienced, with no friends, no money, and scarcely recovered from an accident. It is clearly our duty to do something for Myrtle, and aside from the humane obligation I feel that already I love the child, having known her only a day." "Admitting all this, Beth," returned her uncle, "you are not answering my question. What shall we do for Myrtle? How can we best assist her?" "Why not take her to California with us?" inquired Patsy, with sudden inspiration. "The sunshine and roses would make a new girl of her in a few weeks." "Could she ride so far in an automobile?" asked Beth, doubtfully. "Why not? The fresh air would be just the thing for her. You'll get a big touring car, won't you, Uncle John?" "Good gracious! Where did you find the thing so suddenly?" cried Patsy. "I made the purchase this morning, bright and early, before you were up," replied Mr. Merrick, smilingly. "It is a fine new car, and as soon as I saw it I knew it was what I wanted. It is now being fitted up for our use." "Yes. I've an idea in my head to make it a movable hotel. If we're going to cross the plains and the mountains and the deserts, and all that sort of thing, we must be prepared for any emergencies. I've also sent for a chauffeur who is highly recommended. He knows the route we're going to take; can make all repairs necessary in case of accident, and is an experienced driver. I expect him here any minute. His name is Wampus." "But about Myrtle,"' said Beth. "Can we make her comfortable on a long ride?" "Certainly," asserted Uncle John. "We are not going to travel day and night, my dear, for as soon as we get away from this frozen country we can take our time and journey by short stages. My notion is that we will have more fun on the way than we will in California." "Myrtle hasn't any proper clothes," observed Patsy, reflectively. "We'll have to shop for her, Beth, while Uncle is getting the car ready." "Are you sure to leave to-morrow, Uncle John?" inquired Beth. "To-morrow or the next day. There's no use leaving before the 'Autocrat' is ready to ship." "Oh; we're not going to ride in it, then?" "Not just yet. We shall take the train south to Santa Fe, and perhaps to Albuquerque. I'll talk to Wampus about that. When we reach a good climate we'll begin the journey overland--and not before." "Then," said Patsy, "I'm sure we shall have time to fit out Myrtle very nicely." "They tell me," said Mr. Merrick, "that you are an experienced chauffeur." "I am celebrate," replied Wampus. "Not as chauffeur, but as expert automobilist." He was a little man and quite thin. His legs were short and his arms long. He had expressionless light gray eyes and sandy hair cropped close to his scalp. His mouth was wide and good-humored, his chin long and broad, his ears enormous in size and set at right angles with his head. His cheek bones were as high and prominent as those of an Indian, and after a critical examination of the man Uncle John was impelled to ask his nationality. "I am born in Canada, at Quebec Province," he answered. "My father he trapper; my mother squaw. For me, I American, sir, and my name celebrate over all the world for knowing automobile like father knows his son." He paused, and added impressively: "I am Wampus!" "Have you ever driven an 'Autocrat' car?" asked Mr. Merrick. "'Autocrat?' I can take him apart blindfold, an' put him together again." "Have you ever been overland to California?" "Then you know the country?" "In the dark. I am Wampus." The man seemed somewhat offended by the question. "When you have Wampus, what more you want?" he inquired. "Maybe you not know Wampus. You come from far East. All right. You go out and ask automobile man about Wampus. Ask ever'body. When you have inquire you feel more happy. I come again." He started to go, but Mr. Merrick restrained him. "You have been highly recommended already," said he. "But you cannot expect me to have as high an opinion of you as you have of yourself; at least, until I know you better. Would you like to undertake this engagement?" "Yes. Just now I free. My business is expert automobilist. I am Wampus. But perhaps you want cheap man. My price high." "What is your price?" "I do not object to your price. Come out with me to the garage and I will show you my car and explain what is being done to it." Although all the automobile men seemed to defer most respectfully to Wampus, Mr. Merrick did not neglect to make proper inquiries in regard to the man. Locally he really was "celebrate" and Uncle John was assured on all sides that he was fortunate to get so intelligent and experienced a chauffeur as this same Wampus. "I've noticed that," returned Mr. Merrick. "Another thing," said the gentleman; "don't believe implicitly all that Wampus tells you. He has a habit of imagining things. But he is a faithful, honest fellow, for all that, and will handle your car better than any other man you could get in Denver--or anywhere in the West, I imagine." So Wampus was engaged, and putting the man's references and indorsements all together Mr. Merrick felt that he had gained a prize. When the big Major, returning from his drive, escorted Myrtle Dean to the elevator, the girl was joyously using her new crutches. Patsy and Beth met her and said they had important news to communicate. Not until she was in her own room, seated in a comfortable chair and gazing at them anxiously, did they tell the poor waif of the good fortune in store for her. "Uncle John," announced Patsy, "has invited you to join our party and go to California with us." "Oh, you are all so kind to me!" she sobbed, losing her composure. "But I can't go! Of course I can't go." "Why not?" asked Beth, smiling. "I'm mighty glad," added Patsy, "your Uncle Anson ran away from Leadville. If he hadn't done that we should have had to give you up; but now we may keep you as long as we wish, for you haven't any particular engagement to interfere with our plans." Next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, the girls took Myrtle out with them to some of the shops, fitting her to shoes and gloves and having her try on some ready-made gowns so that they might be quickly altered for her use. Patsy also bought her a set of soft and pretty furs, thinking she might need them on the journey if the weather continued cool, and this seemed to cap the climax of Myrtle's happiness. "What 'stonishes me most," gasped the child, trying to get her breath between the surprises she experienced, "is how you can think of so many things to do for me. Of course I know you are rich; but I've never before heard of rich people being so very generous to poor ones." "Perhaps so," replied Myrtle, smiling gaily and much comforted by the explanation. "But, oh dear! I'm so glad you found me!" "We are glad, too," said Patsy. "But here it is, time for luncheon, and we've wasted the whole morning in shopping. I'm sure the Major will be cross if we do not hurry back to the hotel." Uncle John laughed, for he knew his brother-in-law had never conquered his antipathy for poor Mumbles, and realized why. "Take care that you do not get jealous of Myrtle," he replied. "You're a selfish old beast, and don't wish Patsy to love anyone but yourself." "And why should she?" was the inquiry. "Any dutiful daughter ought to be satisfied with loving such a father as I am." "And in that," remarked Uncle John, whimsically, "you remind me of Wampus. You should strut around and say: 'Behold me! I am Patsy's father!'" The Major was full of news at luncheon time. "What do you think, my dears?" he said, addressing the girls. "Your crazy uncle must have had another snooze, unbeknown to us, for he's got the wildest idea into his head that human brains--or lack of them--ever conceived." "You are not very respectful, sir," retorted Mr. Merrick stiffly, as he ate his salad. "But we must not expect too much of a disabled soldier--and an Irishman to boot--who has not been accustomed to good society." Major Doyle looked at his brother-in-law with an approving smile. "But what's the news?" asked Patsy impatiently. "What new idea has Uncle John conceived?" "Be sensible, Daddy." "It's my strong point. If I'm any judge of character this Wampus is a speed fiend." "He is recommended as a very careful driver," said Mr. Merrick; "and moreover he has signed a contract to obey my orders." "Very good," said Beth. "I'm not afraid of Mr. Wampus. What next, Major?" "You said a freight car," observed Patsy. "True. A small barn or a big freight car. The seats are to be made convertible into sleeping berths, so if we get caught out overnight we have all the comforts of a hotel except the bell boys." "I'll be the bell boy," promised Patsy. "Also we're to take a portable kitchen along, like they use in the army, with a gasoline stove all complete. The thing fits under the back seat, I believe." "All this," said Beth, "strikes me as being very sensible and a credit to Uncle John's genius. I'm a good cook, as you know, and the kitchen outfit appeals to me. But how about provisions?" "Provisions are being provided," replied her uncle, genially smiling at her praise. However scornfully the Major might view his preparations he was himself mightily proud of them. "Tinned stuff, I presume," remarked his brother-in-law. "John Merrick has a weakness for tin cans, having got his money out of them." "You're wrong," protested Uncle John. "I merely made my money from the tin the cans were made of. But we won't get money out of these cans when they're opened; it will be something better, such as sardines and hominy, preserved cream and caviar, beans and boned chicken." "Sounds fine!" cried Patsy with enthusiasm. "But how can you arrange to carry so much, Uncle?" "The limousine body is pretty big, as the Major says, and high enough to allow me to put in a false bottom. In the space beneath it I shall stow all the bedding, the eatables and kitchen utensils, and a small tent. Then we shall be prepared for whatever happens." "I doubt it," objected the Major. "There's gasoline to be reckoned with. It's well enough to feed ourselves, but what if we ran short of the precious feed for the engines?" "You see, Daddy, our Uncle John is an experienced traveler, while you are not," declared Patsy. "In all our journeys together I've found him full of resources and very farsighted. This trip doesn't worry me at all." "Nor me," added Beth. "We are sure to have a delightful time under Uncle's auspices." "Wampus," said Uncle John, "is so pleased with my preparations that he wants us to start in the car from here." "Can you put it on runners, like a sledge?" asked the Major. "That's the only way it could travel through this snow. Or perhaps you'll hire a snowplow to go ahead of it." "No; I told Wampus it was impracticable," was the reply. "We shall load our machine on a flat car and ship it to Albuquerque, which is in New Mexico and almost directly south of Denver. We shall then be over the worst grades of the Rocky Mountains." "And which way do we go then?" inquired Beth. "I have not yet decided. We can go still farther south, into Texas, or make our way down into Phoenix and across the prairies to Imperial Valley, or follow the Santa Fe route by way of the Grand Canyon." "Oh, let's go that way!" exclaimed Patsy. "And freeze to death?" asked the Major. "It's the northernmost route." "I guessed it!" groaned the Major. "If Haggerty recommends this trip we'll surely be in trouble." "Aside from Haggerty, Wampus knows that country thoroughly," said Uncle John stoutly. "Tell me: did Haggerty recommend Wampus?" "Then there's hopes of the fellow. As you say, John, there is no need to decide until we get to Albuquerque. When do we make the start?" "Day after to-morrow. The car will be shipped to-morrow night, but our party will follow by daylight, so as to see Colorado Springs, Pike's Peak and Pueblo as we pass by them." "So this is Albuquerque," observed Patsy Doyle, as they alighted from the train. "Is it a big town playing peek-a-boo among those hills, Uncle John, or is this really all there is to the place?" "It's a pretty big town, my dear. Most of the houses are back on the prairie, but fortunately our hold is just here at the depot." It was a quaint, attractive building, made of adobe cement, in the ancient mission style; but it proved roomy and extremely comfortable. "Seems to me," whispered Myrtle to Beth, "we're high up on the mountains, even yet." Myrtle flushed painfully. The air was delightfully invigorating here in the mountains, yet it was not at all cold. The snow, as Uncle John had predicted, had all been left behind them. After dinner they took a walk through the pretty town and were caught in the dark before they could get back. The twilights are very brief in Albuquerque. "This is a very old town," remarked Uncle John. "It was founded by a Spanish adventurer named Cabrillo in the seventeenth century, long before the United States came into existence. But of course it never amounted to anything until the railroad was built." Next day they were sitting in a group before the hotel when a man was seen approaching them with shuffling steps. Uncle John looked at him closely and Mumbles leaped from Patsy's lap and rushed at the stranger with excited barks. "Why, it's Wampus," said Mr. Merrick. "The car must have arrived." Wampus caught up the baby dog and held it under his arm while he took his cap off and bowed respectfully to his employer. "He an' me, we here," he announced. "Who is 'he,' Wampus?" "When did you arrive?" Wampus hesitated, looking sheepish. "I been arrest," he said. "Arrested! For what?" "I make speed. They not like it. They arrest me--_Me_--Wampus!" He straightened his slim little form with an assumption of dignity. "But--dear me!" said Uncle John; "how could you be arrested for speeding when the automobile was on a fiat car?" "Freight train make pretty slow time," began the chauffeur. "I know you in hurry, so freight train he make me nervous. I say polite to conductor I like to go faster. He laugh. I say polite to brakeman we must go faster. He make abusing speech. I climb into engine an' say polite to engineer to turn on steam. He insult me. So I put my foot on him an' run engine myself. I am Wampus. I understan' engine--all kinds. Brakeman he swear; he swear so bad I put him off train. Conductor must have lump of coal in eye to keep quiet. Fireman he jus' smile an' whistle soft an' say nothing; so we friends. When I say 'shovel in coal,' he shovel. When we pass stations quick like, he whistle with engine loud. So now we here an' I been arrest." "You're a brave man, sir, for a chauffeur," he said. "I congratulate you," Wampus still looked uneasy. "I been arrest," he repeated. Uncle John beckoned the railroad men to come forward. "Is this story true?" he asked. Mr. Merrick was very sober now. "The matter is serious," he said. "This man is in my employ, but I did not hire him to steal a railway train or fight its crew. Not badly hurt, I hope, sir?" "How about the brakeman he threw off the train?" "Why, we were not going fast, just then, and it didn't hurt him. We saw him get up and shake his fist at the robber. If he ever meets Mr. Wampus again he'll murder him." The conductor scratched his head doubtfully. "I suspected he was crazy," he replied, "and that's why I didn't hurt him. But if he's crazy he's the most deliberate loonatic I ever run acrost." "You're not worth all this bother," said Mr. Merrick to the humbled Wampus, when the final settlement had been made, "but chauffeurs are scarce in Albuquerque and I can't be delayed. Never, sir, while you are in my employ, must you allow yourself to be guilty of such an act again!" "Never," he promised, "will I ride by freight train again. Send car by express. I am Wampus. Freight train he make me nervous." "Which way do we go?" asked the Major. "We'll have a talk with Wampus this evening and decide," said Uncle John. "Don't leave out the Grand Canyon!" begged Patsy. "Nor the Petrified Forests." added Beth. "And couldn't we visit the Moki Indian reservation?" But the conference evolved the fact, according to Wampus, that the best and safest roads were for a time along the line of the Santa Fe, directly west; and this would enable them to visit most of the scenes the girls were eager to see. "No boulevard in mountain anywhere," remarked Wampus; "but road he good enough to ride on. Go slow an' go safe. I drive 'Autocrat' from here to Los Angeles blindfold." "Of course people _do_ make the trip from here to the coast," he said; "but it's mighty seldom, and they all swear they'll never do it again. It's uncomfortable, and it's dangerous." "Why?" asked Uncle John. "You're headed through a wild country, settled only by Mexicans, Indians, and gangs of cowboys still worse. The roads are something awful. That man Wampus is an optimist, and will tackle anything and then be sorry for it afterward. The towns are scattered from here on, and you won't strike a decent meal except at the railway stations. Taking all these things into consideration, I advise you to make your headquarters here for the winter." "Thank you," returned Mr. Merrick pleasantly. "It's too late for us to back out now, even if we felt nervous and afraid, which I assure you we do not." "We are not looking for excessive comfort on this journey, you know," remarked Patsy. "But thank you for your warning, sir. It has given us great pleasure; for if there were no chance of adventure before us we should all be greatly disappointed." Again the landlord shook his head. "Right?" asked Wampus, at the wheel. "Go ahead," said Mr. Merrick, and slowly the big car started upon its journey into the Golden West. The air was keen and bracing, but not chilly. The sunshine flooded the landscape on every side. All the windows of the limousine had been lowered. "It doesn't seem to be much uphill," returned the girl, "and the road is very good." "We make time here," observed the driver. "By'm-by we find rock an' bad road. Then we go slow." The Major was watching the new chauffeur carefully, and despite his dismal forebodings the man seemed not at all reckless but handled his car with rare skill. So the critic turned to his brother-in-law and asked: "Is it fully decided which way we shall go?" "I've left it to Wampus and the girls," was the reply. "On account of our little invalid here we shall take the most direct route to California. It isn't a short route, at that. On Beth's account we shall visit the Moki and Navajo reservations, and on Patsy's account we're going by way of the Grand Canyon of Arizona. Wampus says he knows every inch of the road, so for my part I'm content to be just a passenger." "Which remark," said the Major, "indicates that I'm to be just a passenger also. Very well, John; I'm willing. There may be trouble ahead of us, but to-day is so magnificent that it's wise to forget everything but the present." THE CHAUFFEUR IMPROVES Wampus shook his head. "Never carry him," he replied. "All gun he make trouble. Sometime he shoot wrong man. Don't like gun. Why should I? I am Wampus!" The Major entered the hotel frowning. "That fellow," he muttered, "is a natural-born coward, and we needn't expect help from him if trouble comes." No trouble came that night, however, and in the early morning, while the sky was still reddened by the rising sun, they were off again, following more closely now the railroad, as rocky defiles began to loom up before them. The sky was still aglow, although the sun had set, and in the subdued light the coarse adobe huts and rickety frame dwellings were endowed with a picturesque appearance they did not really possess. Beth and Patsy came to the end of the main street rather suddenly, and stood a moment looking at the shadows cast by the rocky cliffs near by. Some of the peaks had snow upon them, and there was a chill in the air, now that the sun had withdrawn its warmth. The girls turned presently and took another route that might bring them quicker to the hotel, but had only proceeded a short way when in passing a rather solitary adobe structure a man stepped from the shadow of the wall and confronted them. He wore a red flannel shirt and a broad sombrero, the latter scarcely covering his dark, evil features. The cousins stopped short. Then Beth whispered: "Let's go the other way." But as they were about to turn the Mexican drew a revolver and said in harsh, uneven English: "You halt. Keep a-still, or I shoot." "What do you want?" asked Beth, quietly. "Money. All you got. Jew'lry--all you got. Give 'm quick, or I shoot!" As they stood hesitating a sound of footsteps was heard and someone approached quickly from behind them. Patsy looked hurriedly around and saw Wampus. He was walking with his thin little form bent and his hands deep in his trousers pockets. Incidentally Wampus was smoking the stub of a cigar, as was his custom when off duty. "You stop--halt!" he exclaimed fiercely. Wampus did not halt. His eyes fixed upon the bandit's ugly features, still puffing his cigar and with hands in his pockets he walked deliberately past Patsy and Beth and straight up to the muzzles of the revolvers. "Stop!" cried the Mexican; and again: "Stop!" "Let him go," he said, not raising his voice. The man stared into the little chauffeur's eyes and released his hold of the revolver. Wampus looked at it, grunted, and put it in his pocket. "Now the other gun," he said. "No, no!" said Wampus, as if annoyed. "You give me gun. See--I am Wampus!" Sheepishly enough the Mexican surrendered the other weapon. "Now turn aroun' an' go to hotel," commanded the chauffeur. The man obeyed. Wampus turned to the girls, who were now not only relieved but on the verge of laughter and said deprecatingly: "Do not be scare, for poor man he make no harm. He jus' try a goozle--no dare shoot here in town. Then come; I go back with you." The Mexican "went along" briskly and the dusk soon swallowed him up. "Thank you, Wampus," said Patsy, gratefully; "you've saved us from a dreadful experience." "Oh, that!" snapping his fingers scornfully. "He not a good bad-man, for he too much afraid. I have no gun, for I do not like gun. Still, if I not come, he make you give him money an' trinkets." "You were very kind," replied Beth, "and I thank you as much as Patsy does. If you had not arrived just when you did I might have killed the man." "You?" inquired Wampus, doubtingly. "Yes." She showed him a small pearl-handled revolver which she carried in the pocket of her jacket. "I can shoot, Wampus." The little chauffeur grinned; then looked grave and shook his head. Patsy laughed merrily; but Beth saw he was offended and hastened to say: "All right," he said more cheerfully. "I am Wampus. I will be there, Miss 'Lizbeth." "Our rosebud is unfolding, petal by petal, and beginning to bloom gloriously," said Patsy to sympathetic Uncle John. "Could anyone be more sweet or lovely?" The barbaric rites seemed more picturesque, as well as more revolting, in that they took place by the flickering light of torches and bonfires in a rock strewn plain usually claimed by nature. When the dancers were more frenzied they held the squirming serpents in their mouths by the middle and allowed them to coil around their necks, dancing wildly the while. The whole affair was so nauseating and offensive that as soon as it was possible the visitors withdrew and retired to their "camp." It was now almost midnight, but the path was lighted by the little lanterns they carried. As they approached the automobile Uncle John was disturbed not to see Wampus at his post. A light showed from the front of the car, but the chauffeur seemed to be missing. Coming nearer, however, they soon were greeted by a joyous barking from Mumbles and discovered Wampus squatting upon the ground, puffing at the small end of the cigar and seeming quite composed and tranquil. "What are you doing there?" demanded the Major, raising his lantern the better to light the scene. "I play jailer," grunted Wampus, without moving. "Him want to steal; Mumble he make bark noise; for me, I steal too--I steal Injun." A dusky form, prone upon the ground, began to squirm under Wampus, who was then discovered to be sitting upon a big Indian and holding him prisoner. The chauffeur, partly an Indian himself, knew well how to manage his captive and quieted the fellow by squeezing his throat with his broad stubby fingers. "How long have you had him there?" inquired Uncle John, looking at the discomfited "brave" curiously. "About an hour," was the reply. "Let him go, then. We have no prison handy, and the man has perhaps been punished enough." "I have wait to ask permission to kill him," said Wampus solemnly. "He know English talk, an' I have told him he is to die. I have describe, sir, several torture we make on Injun who steal, which make him think he die several time. So he is now prepare for the worst." The Indiam squirmed again, and with a sigh Wampus arose and set him free. The Indian listened intently and then slunk away into the darkness without reply. The night had no further event and in spite of their unusual experiences all slept excellently and awoke in the morning refreshed and ready for new adventures. NATURE'S MASTERPIECE From the reservation to the Grand Canyon of the Colorado was not far, but there was no "crosscut" and so they were obliged to make a wide detour nearly to Williams before striking the road that wound upward to the world's greatest wonder. Eagerly enough they escaped from the automobile where they had been shut in and entered the spacious lobby of the hotel, where a merry throng of tourists had gathered. "Dinner and bed," said Patsy, decidedly. "I'm all tired out, and poor Myrtle is worn to a frazzle. There's no chance of seeing the canyon to-night, and as for the dancing, card playing and promiscuous gaiety, it doesn't appeal much to a weary traveler." The others did not reply in words, but they all began to dress together with nervous haste, and then made their way down to the canyon's brink. Others were before them, standing upon the ample porches in interested groups; but such idleness would not content our girls, who trooped away for a more intimate acquaintance with the wonderful gorge. Presently Uncle John and the Major came out to join them and they all wandered along the edge until they came to a huge rock that jutted out far over the monster gulf. On the furthermost point of this rock, standing with his feet at the very brink, was a tall, thin man, his back toward them. It seemed a fearful thing to do--to stand where the slightest slip would send him reeling into the abyss. "It's like tempting fate," whispered Patsy, a safe distance away. "I wish he would step back a little." "Oh, dear!" whispered Myrtle, clinging to Beth's arm with trembling fingers, "I'm afraid he's going to--to commit suicide!" "Nonsense!" answered Beth, turning pale nevertheless. The figure was motionless as before. Uncle John and the Major started along the path but as Beth attempted to follow them Myrtle broke away from her and hobbled eagerly on her crutches toward the stranger. She did not go quite to the end of the jutting rock, but stopped some feet away and called in a low, intense voice: The man turned again, with no more expression in his eyes or face than before. He looked at Myrtle steadily a moment, then turned and slowly left the edge, walking to firm ground and back toward the hotel without another glance at the girl. "I'm so ashamed," said Myrtle, tears of vexation in her eyes as she rejoined her friends. "But somehow I felt I must warn him--it was an impulse I just couldn't resist." "Why, no harm resulted, in any event, my dear," returned Beth. "I wouldn't think of it again." They took so long a walk that all were nearly famished when they returned to the hotel for breakfast. Of course Patsy and Beth wanted to go down Bright Angel Trail into the depths of the canyon, for that is the thing all adventurous spirits love to do. "I'm too fat for such foolishness," said Uncle John, "so I'll stay up here and amuse Myrtle." Myrtle and Uncle John spent the morning on the porch of the hotel. At breakfast the girl had noticed the tall man they had encountered at the canyon's edge quietly engaged in eating at a small table in a far corner of the great dining room. During the forenoon he came from the hotel to the porch and for a time stood looking far away over the canyon. Aroused to sympathy by the loneliness of this silent person, Uncle John left his chair and stood beside him at the railing. "It's a wonderful sight, sir," he remarked in his brisk, sociable way; "wonderful indeed!" For a moment there was no reply. "It's a wonder to me it doesn't call more people to see it," observed Mr. Merrick, cheerfully. "Think of this magnificent thing--greater and grander than anything the Old World can show, being here right in the heart of America, almost--and so few rush to see it! Why, in time to come, sir," he added enthusiastically, "not to have seen the Grand Canyon of Arizona will be an admission of inferiority. It's--it's the biggest thing in all the world!" The stranger made no reply. He had not even glanced at Uncle John. Now he slowly turned and stared fixedly at Myrtle for a moment, till she cast down her eyes, blushing. Then he re-entered the hotel; nor was he again seen by them. The little man was indignant at the snub. Rejoining Myrtle he said to her: Which speech showed that gentle, kindly Mr. Merrick was really annoyed. But a moment later he was all smiles again and Myrtle found him a delightful companion because he knew so well how to read people's thoughts, and if they were sad had a tactful way of cheering them. The girls and the Major returned from their trip to the plateau full of rapture at their unique experiences. "It was great," said Patsy; "but I'm tuckered out." "We might hunt for a ranch house and beg for shelter," said he, "but from the stories I've heard of the remittance men I am sure we will enjoy ourselves better if we rely entirely upon our own resources." The girls were, of course, delighted at the prospect of such an experience, for the silent, solitary mesa made them feel they were indeed "in the wilds of the Great American Desert." The afternoon had been hot and the ride dusty, but there was now a cooler feeling in the air since the sun had fallen low in the horizon. The Major coughed and resumed his seat. Uncle John stood looking into the darkness as if trying to discern the creature. "Are coyotes considered dangerous?" he asked the Canadian. "Then let it burn--all night," said Mr. Merrick. "There he goes again--and another with him! What a horrible wail it is." "I rather like it," said Patsy, with her accustomed calmness. "It is certainly an added experience to be surrounded by coyotes. Probably our trip wouldn't have been complete without it." "A little of that serenade will suffice me," admitted Beth, as the howls grew nearer and redoubled in volume. Myrtle's eyes were big and earnest. She was not afraid, but there was something uncanny in being surrounded by such savage creatures. "I guess you girls had better go to bed," remarked Uncle John, a bit nervously. "There's no danger, you know--none at all. Let the brutes howl, if they want to--especially as we can't stop them. But you are tired, my dears, and I'd like to see you settled for the night." Somewhat reluctantly they entered the limousine, drew the curtains and prepared for bed. Certainly they were having a novel experience, and if Uncle John would feel easier to have them listen to the howling coyotes from inside the limousine instead of outside, they could not well object to his request. Presently Wampus asked the Major for his revolver, and on obtaining the weapon he walked a few paces toward the coyotes and fired a shot into their group. They instantly scattered and made off, only to return in a few moments to their former position. "Will they continue this Grand Opera chorus all night?" asked Uncle John. "Perhap," said Wampus. "They hungry, an' smell food. Coyote can no reason. If he could, he know ver' well we never feed him." "It have never happen, sir," observed Wampus, shaking his head gravely. "Coyote all born hungry; he live hungry; he die hungry. If ever coyote was not hungry he would not be coyote." "In that case, Major," said Uncle John, "let us go to bed and try to sleep. Perhaps in slumber we may forget these howling fiends." "Very well," agreed Major Doyle, rising to enter the little tent. Wampus unexpectedly interposed. "Wait," called the little chauffeur. "Jus' a minute, if you please." The Major was about to follow Wampus when a revolver shot arrested him. This sound was followed by a quick thumping against the ground of the steel bar, and then Wampus emerged from the tent holding a dark, squirming object on the end of the rod extended before him. "What is it?" asked Mr. Merrick, somewhat startled. "Rattlesnake," said Wampus, tossing the thing into the sagebrush. "I see him crawl in tent while you eat supper." "Why did you not tell us?" cried the Major excitedly. "I thought him perhaps crawl out again. Him sometime do that. But no. Mister snake he go sleep in tent which is reserve for his superior. I say nothing, for I do not wish to alarm the young ladies. That is why I hold the dog Mumble so tight, for he small eye see snake too, an' fool dog wish to go fight him. Rattlesnake soon eat Mumble up--eh? But never mind; there is no worry. I am Wampus, an' I am here. You go to bed now, an' sleep an' be safe." He said this rather ostentatiously, and for that reason neither of the others praised his watchful care or his really brave act. That Wampus was proving himself a capable and faithful servant even the Major was forced to admit, yet the man's bombast and self-praise robbed him of any word of commendation he justly earned. "I think," said Uncle John, "I'll bunk on the front seat to-night. I'm short, you see, and will just about curl up in the space. I believe snakes do not climb up wheels. Make my bed on the front seat, Wampus." The man grinned but readily obeyed. The Major watched him thoughtfully. "For my part," he said, "I'll have a bed made on top the roof." "Pshaw!" said Uncle John; "you'll scratch the paint." "That is a matter of indifference to me," returned the Major. "You'll roll off, in your sleep, and hurt yourself." "I'll risk that, sir." "Are you afraid, Major?" "Afraid! Me? Not when I'm awake, John. But what's to prevent more of those vermin from crawling into the tent during the night?" "Such thing very unusual." remarked Wampus, placing the last blanket on Mr. Merrick's improvised bed. "Perhaps you sleep in tent a week an' never see another rattler." "Just the same," concluded the Major, "I'll have my bed on top the limousine." The girls, having entered the limousine from the door opposite the tent, were all unaware of the rattlesnake episode and supposed the shot had been directed against the coyotes. They heard the Major climbing upon the roof, but did not demand any explanation, being deep in those bedtime confidences so dear to all girls. Even they came to disregard the persistent howls of the coyotes, and in time fell asleep. Wampus did not seem afraid of snakes. The little chauffeur went to bed in the tent and slept soundly upon his cot until daybreak, when the coyotes withdrew and the Canadian got up to make the coffee. The Major peered over the edge of the roof to watch him. He had a sleepy look about his eyes, as if he had not rested well. Uncle John was snoring with gentle regularity and the girls were still asleep. "Wampus," said the Major, "do you know the proper definition of a fool?" Wampus reflected, stirring the coffee carefully. The Major felt comforted. "It occurred to me," he said, beginning to climb down from the roof, "that a fool was a man who left a good home for this uncomfortable life on a barren desert. This country wasn't made for humans; it belongs to the coyotes and the rattlesnakes. What right have we to intrude upon them, then?" Wampus did not reply. It was not his business to criticise his employers. A REAL ADVENTURE AT LAST Uncle John woke up when the Major inadvertently placed a heel upon his round stomach on the way to the ground. The chubby little millionaire had slept excellently and was in a genial humor this morning. He helped Wampus fry the bacon and scramble the eggs, while the Major called the girls. It proved a glorious sunrise and the air was full of pure ozone. They had suffered little from cold during the trip, although it was in the dead of winter and the altitude considerable. Just now they were getting closer to California every hour, and when they descended from the mesa it would gradually grow warmer. They were all becoming expert at "breaking camp," and preparing for the road. Beth and Patsy put away the bedding and "made up" the interior of the limousine for traveling. The Major and Uncle John folded the tent and packed it away, while Wampus attended to the dishes and tinware and then looked over his car. In a surprisingly short time they were all aboard and the big machine was gliding over the faint trail. It being an event to meet anyone in this desolate place Wampus involuntarily brought the car to a halt, while the riders lined up beside it and stared rather rudely at the party. They were dressed as cowboys usually are, with flannel shirts, chapelets and sombrero hats; but their faces were not rugged nor healthy, as is the case with most Western cowboys, but bore marks of dissipation and hard living. "Remittance men," whispered Wampus. "A merry morning to you, fair ladies--or angels--I much misdoubt which we have chanced upon. Anyhow, welcome to Hades!" "Back up, Algy, and give your betters a chance. You're out of it, old man." "I have no betters," he retorted. Then, turning to the girls again and ignoring the presence of the men accompanying them, he continued: "Beauteous visions, since you have wilfully invaded the territory of Hades Ranch, of which diabolical domain I, Algernon Tobey, am by grace of his Satanic majesty the master, I invite you to become my guests and participate in a grand ball which I shall give this evening in your honor." "Good for you, Algy. A dance--that's the thing!" "Why, we haven't had the chance of a dance for ages," said another approvingly. "Sir," said Major Doyle, stiffly, "you are pleased to be impertinent. Ride on, you rascals, and spare us further sight of you." The man turned upon him a scowling face. "Don't interfere," he said warningly. "This isn't your party, you old duffer!" "Drive ahead, Wampus," commanded Uncle John. Wampus had to get out and crank the engines, which he calmly proceeded to do. The man who had called himself Algernon Tobey perceived his intention and urged his pony to the front of the car. "Let that thing alone. Keep your hands off!" he said. Wampus paid no attention. The fellow brought his riding whip down sharply on the chauffeur's shoulders, inflicting a stinging blow. Instantly little Wampus straightened up, grasped Tobey by the leg and with a swift, skillful motion jerked him from his horse. The man started to draw his revolver, but in an instant he and Wampus were rolling together upon the ground and the Canadian presently came uppermost and held his antagonist firmly between his knees. Then with deliberation he raised his clinched fist and thrust it forcibly against Mr. Tobey's eye, repeating the impact upon his nose, his chin and his cheek in a succession of jarring thumps that were delivered with scientific precision. Algy fairly howled, kicking and struggling to be free. None of his comrades offered to interfere and it seemed they were grimly enjoying the punishment that was being; inflicted upon their leader. "Au revoir! I shall expect you all at my party. I'm going now to get the fiddler." He rejoined his comrades then, and they all clattered away until a roll of the mesa hid them from sight. Uncle John got down from his seat to assist his chauffeur. "Thank you, Wampus," he said. "Perhaps you should have killed him while you had the opportunity; but you did very well." Wampus was wrestling with the tire. "I have never start a private graveyard," he replied, "for reason I am afraid to hurt anyone. But I am Wampus. If Mister Algy he dance to-night, somebody mus' lead him, for he will be blind." "But they are in Arizona--in the wilderness," said Uncle John gravely. "If there are laws here such people do not respect them." Now that they were alone with their friends the girls were excitedly gossiping over the encounter. "Perhaps we shall pass by their ranch house," suggested Beth. "If we do," Uncle John answered, "I'll have Wampus put on full speed. Even their wild ponies can't follow us then, and if they try shooting up the tires again they are quite likely to miss as we spin by." "Isn't there any other road?" the Major asked. Wampus shook his head. "Did your friend say anything about Hades Ranch?" continued the questioner. "H-m," murmured Uncle John, "I'm not so sure of that, Wampus. There seems to be a good many of those insolent rascals, and I hope we shall not meet them again. They may give us trouble yet." "Never be afraid," advised the chauffeur. "I am Wampus, an' I am here!" Admitting that evident truth, our tourists were not greatly reassured. Wampus could not tell where the road might lead them, for he did not know, save that it led by devious winds to Parker, on the border between Arizona and California; but what lay between them and that destination was a sealed book to them all. "Pretty good road here," said Wampus. "Hold tight an' don't get scare. We make a race of it." "Go ahead," returned Uncle John, grimly. "If any of those scoundrels get in your way, run them down." "I never like to hurt peoples; but if that is your command, sir, I will obey," said Wampus, setting his jaws tightly together. "Look out!" shouted Uncle John. "Stop, Wampus; stop her, I say!" "Welcome to Hades!" cried a stout little man in a red blouse, sticking his leering countenance through the door of the limousine. "Shut up, Stubby," commanded a hoarse voice from the group. "Haven't you any manners? You haven't been introduced yet." The Major sprang out and confronted the band. "What are we to understand by this outrage?" he demanded fiercely. "It means you are all invited to a party, and we won't accept any regrets," replied a laughing voice. Mr. Merrick noted the fact that the remittance men were an unkempt, dissipated looking crew, but that their faces betokened reckless good humor rather than desperate evil. There was no doubt but most of them were considering this episode in the light of a joke, and were determined to enjoy the experience at the expense of their enforced guests. "Sir," he said calmly but with pointed emphasis, "I believe you were born a gentleman, as were your comrades here." They shouted approval. "But if you oppose us and act ugly about this fete, gentlemen, we shall be obliged to put a few bullets into you, and decide afterward what disposition to make of the girls. About the best stunt we do is shooting. We can't work; we're too poor to gamble much; but we hunt a good bit and we can shoot straight. I assure you we wouldn't mind losing and taking a few lives if a scrimmage is necessary. Eh, boys?" Myrtle was trembling in her corner of the limousine. Beth sat still with a curl on her lips. But Patsy was much interested in the proceedings and had listened attentively to the above conversation. Now the girl suddenly swung open the door and sprang out beside her father, facing the group of cowboys. "Very good, Miss Doyle," remarked Tobey, with forced cheerfulness. "You are quite sensible to submit to the inevitable. Bring out your friends and introduce them, and then we'll all go in to luncheon and prepare for the dance." "I won't submit to this!" cried the Major, stamping his foot angrily. "Yes, you will," said Uncle John, with a motion preventing his irate brother-in-law from drawing a revolver, "Patsy is quite right, and we will submit with as much dignity as we can muster, being overpowered by numbers." He beckoned to Beth, who stepped out of the car and assisted Myrtle to follow her. A little cheer of bravado had arisen from the group, inspired by their apparent victory; but when Myrtle's crutches appeared and they saw the fair, innocent face of the young girl who rested upon them, the shout died away in a hush of surprise. "This is my cousin, Elizabeth De Graf," announced Patsy, with cold deliberation, determined that the proprieties should be observed in all intercourse with these people. "And I present our friend, Myrtle Dean. Under ordinary circumstances I believe Myrtle would be excused from dancing, but I suppose no brute in the form of a man would have consideration for her infirmity." This time even Tobey flushed. "You've a sharp tongue, Miss Doyle, and it's liable to lead you into trouble," he retorted, losing for the moment his suave demeanor. "We may be brutes--and I imagine we are--but we're not dangerous unless provoked." It was savagely said, and Uncle John took warning and motioned Patsy to be silent. "Lead the way, sir," he said. "Our chauffeur will of course remain with the car." Wampus had kept his seat, motionless and silent. He only nodded in answer to Mr. Merrick's instructions and was entirely disregarded by the remittance men. The man called "Stubby," who had a round, good-humored face, stepped eagerly to Myrtle's side and exclaimed: "Let me assist you, please." "No," she said, shaking her head with a wan smile; "I am quite able to walk alone." He followed her, though, full of interest and with an air of deep respect that belied his former actions. Tobey, content with his present success, walked beside Mr. Merrick and led the procession toward the ranch house. The Major followed, his tall form upright, his manner bellicose and resentful, with Beth and Patsy on either side of him. The remittance men followed in a straggling crowd, laughing and boisterously talking among themselves. Just as they reached the house a horseman came clattering down the road and all paused involuntarily to mark the new arrival. The rider was a handsome, slim young fellow, dressed as were the other cowboys present, and he came on at a breakneck speed that seemed only warranted by an errand of life and death. In front of him, tied to the saddle, appeared a huge bundle, and as the horse dashed up to the group standing by the ranch house the rider gracefully threw himself off and removed his hat with a sweeping gesture as he observed the young ladies. "I've got him, Algy!" he cried merrily. "Dan'l?" asked Tobey. "Dan'l himself." He pointed to the bundle, which heaved and wriggled to show it was alive. "He refused to come willingly, of course; so I brought him anyhow. Never yet was there a fiddler willing to be accommodating." "Where's the fiddle?" demanded Tobey, and Tim unhooked a calico bag from the saddlebow and held it out. A laugh greeted the gesture. "Dan'l said he be hanged if he'd come," announced Tim, with a grim appreciation of the humorous side of the situation; "so I hung him and brought him along--and his fiddle to boot. But don't boot it until after the dance." "I've a good mind to skin you alive," continued the leader, in a savage tone. "You'll either obey my orders or I'll throw you into the snake pit." At this a roar of protest arose and Tobey turned and said sullenly: "Come in, all of you. We'll settle the order of dancing later on." There were plenty of benches and chairs, with a long mess table occupying the center of the room. In a corner was an old square piano, which a Mexican was trying to dust as the party entered. "Welcome to Hades!" exclaimed Tobey, with an absurd gesture. "Be good enough to make yourselves at home and I'll see if those devils of Chinamen are getting luncheon ready." Mr. Merrick engaged Stubby in conversation. "Does Mr. Tobey own this place?" he asked. "Can he manage to do that?" asked Uncle John. "Up in Oregon," said Mr. Merrick, "I've known of some very successful and prosperous ranchmen among the remittance men." "Oh, we're all kinds, I suppose, good and bad," admitted Stubby. "This crew's mostly bad, and they're moderately proud of it. It's a devil of a life, sir, and Hades Ranch is well named. I've only been here a month. Had a little property up North; but the sheriff took it for debt, and that forced me to Algy, whom I detest. I think I'll move on, before long. But you see I'm limited. Can't leave Arizona or I'll get my remittance cut off." "Why were you sent here into exile?" asked Myrtle artlessly. He turned red and refused to meet her eyes. "Went wrong, Miss," he said, "and my folks wouldn't stand for it. We're all in the same boat," sweeping his arm around, "doing punishment for our misdeeds." "Do none of you ever reform?" inquired Patsy. "I would think," said Uncle John musingly, "that the manly way would be to cut yourself off entirely from your people at home and go to some city in the United States where honesty and industry would win a new name for you. Then you could be respected and happy and become of use to the world." "That has been tried," he replied; "but few ever made a success of it. We're generally the kind that prefers idleness to work. My family is wealthy, and I don't mind taking from them what little they give me willingly and all that I can screw out of them besides. I'm in for life, as the saying is, and I've no especial ambition except to drink myself to death as soon as possible." Patsy shuddered. It seemed a horrible thing to be so utterly hopeless. Could this young fellow have really merited his fate? Tim had listened carelessly to the conversation until now, when he said listlessly: "Don't think us all criminals, for we're not. In my own case I did nothing to deserve exile except that I annoyed my elder brother by becoming more popular with our social set than he was. He had all the property and I was penniless, so he got rid of me by threatening to cut off my allowance unless I went to America and stayed there." "And you accepted such a condition?" cried Patsy, scornfully. "Why were you not independent enough to earn your own living?" He shrugged his shoulders, yet seemed amused. "I simply couldn't," said he. "I was not educated to work, you know, and to do so at home would be to disgrace my noble family. I've too much respect for my lineage to labor with my hands or head." "And he earns it himself and can do what he likes with it," added Uncle John, impatiently. "Your system of inheritance and entail may be somewhat to blame, but your worst fault is in rearing a class of mollycoddles and social drones who are never of benefit to themselves or the world at large. You, sir, I consider something less than a man." "I agree with you," replied Tim, readily. "I'm only good to cumber the earth, and if I get little pleasure out of life I must admit that it's all I'm entitled to." "And you can't break your bonds and escape?" asked Patsy. "I don't care to. People who are ambitious to do things merely bore me. I don't admire them or care to imitate them." From that moment they took no further interest in the handsome outcast. His world was not their world. "I'm sorry we have no wine; but there's plenty of whiskey, if you like it," remarked Tobey. "Algy's afraid you'll balk at the dance; so he wants to please you however he can," remarked the round faced youth. "You won't mind being left alone, will you?" "We prefer it, sir," answered the Major, stiffly. "Perhaps they still have some gentlemanly instincts," suggested Patsy. "Are we to have no choice in the matter of partners?" inquired Beth curiously. "None whatever. There would surely be a row, in that case, and we intend to have everything; pass off pleasantly if we have to kill a few to keep the peace." With this Stubby bowed low and retreated toward the door, which suddenly opened to admit old Dan'l the fiddler, who was thrust in so violently that his body collided with that of Stubby and nearly knocked him over. "That's all right," laughed the remittance man, recovering from the shock. "You mustn't escape, you know, Dan'l, for we depend on you for the music." Dan'l stood in the middle of the room, motionless for a moment. Then he raised his wrinkled face and clinched his fists, shaking them in the direction of the living-room. "Me!" he muttered; "me play for dese monkeys to dance--me! a maestro--a composer--a artiste! No; I vill nod! I vill die before I condescention to such badness, such mockery!" "If the dance depends upon us, there will be no dance," said Patsy, firmly. "I thought you advised submitting to the whim of these ruffians," said Uncle John in surprise. "Only to gain time, Uncle. And the scheme has succeeded. Now is our time to plot and plan how to outwit our enemies." "Goot!" cried Dan'l approvingly. "I help you. Dey are vermin--pah! I vould kill dem all mitout mercifulness, unt be glad!" "It won't be necessary to kill them, I hope," said Beth, smiling. "All we wish is to secure our escape." "It certainly is, sir," said Uncle John. "But do not worry. These girls have some plan in their heads, I'm sure, and if we manage to escape we will carry you home in safety. Now, my dears, what is it?" "Oh, we've only begun to think yet," said Patsy, and walked to the window. All but Myrtle and Dan'l followed her. Below the window was a jungle of cactus, with hundreds of spines as slender and sharp as stilettos sticking in every direction. "It also makes an excellent prison," added Patsy. "But I suspected something of this sort when I saw they had left the window open. We can't figure on getting out that way, you see." "Id vould be suiciding," Dan'l said, mournfully shaking his head. "If dese fiends were as goot as dey are clefer, dey vould be angels." "No argument seems to prevail with them," remarked Beth. "They are lawless and merciless, and in this far-away country believe they may do as they please." "They're as bad as the bandits of Taormina," observed Patsy, smiling at the recollection of an adventure they had abroad; "but we must find some way to evade them." From the big hall, or living room, at the right came a dull roar of voices, subdued shouts and laughter, mingled with the clinking of glasses. All the remittance men were gathered there deep in the game of dice which was to determine the order in which they were to dance with Beth and Patsy. The servants were out of sight. Wampus had the field to himself. "Come here," said Uncle John to the girls, and when they stood beside him pointed to the car. "Wampus is making ready for the escape," he continued. "He has cleared the road and the way is now open if we can manage to get to the machine. Has your plan matured yet?" Patsy shook her head. "Not yet, Uncle," she replied. "Couldn't Wampus throw us a rope?" inquired the Major. "He could," said Uncle John; "but we would be unable to use it. Those terrible cactus spines are near enough to spear anyone who dared try to slide down a rope. Think of something else." They all tried to do that, but no practical idea seemed forthcoming. "Oh, no," Dan'l was saying to Myrtle; "dey are nod afraid to shoot; bud dey vill nod shoot ladies, belief me. Always dey carry refolfers in deir belts--or deir holsterses. Dey eat mit refolfers; dey schleep mit refolfers; dey hunt, dey quarrel, unt sometimes dey shoot each odder--de best enactionment vot dey do. Bud dey do nod shoot at ladies--nefer." "Will they wear their revolvers at the dance?" asked Beth, overhearing this speech. "I belief id," said Dan'l, wagging his ancient head. "Dey like to be ready to draw quick like, if anybody shteps on anybody's toes. Yes; of course." "What a horrible idea!" exclaimed Patsy. "They're quite liable to dance and murder in the same breath," the Major observed, gloomily. "I don't like it," said Beth. "It's something awful just to think of. Haven't they any gallantry?" "Ah! shtick to dat fine expressionment," cried Dan'l, eagerly. "Shtick to id! Say you won't dance if dey wear de refolfers--unt den we win de schweepstakes!" Patsy looked at him critically, in the instant catching a part of his idea. Dan'l explained, while they all listened carefully, absorbed in following in thought his unique suggestions. "Let's do it!" exclaimed Beth. "I'm sure the plan will succeed." "It's leaving a good deal to chance," objected Uncle John, with a touch of nervousness. "There is an element of chance in everything," declared Patsy. "But I'm sure we shall escape, Uncle. Why it's a regular coup!" "We take them by surprise, you know," explained the Major, who heartily favored the idea. They talked it over for a time, perfecting the details, and then became as calm and composed as a group of prisoners might. Uncle John waved his handkerchief to attract the attention of Wampus, who stole softly around the corner of the house and approached the window, taking care to keep at a respectful distance from the dangerous cactus. "Is everything ready?" inquired Uncle John in a subdued voice. "To be sure all is ready. Why not? I am Wampus!" was the reply, in cautious tones. "Go back to the machine and guard it carefully, Wampus," commanded Mr. Merrick. "We expect to escape soon after dark, so have the headlights going, for we shall make a rush for it and there mustn't be a moment's delay." "It is," agreed Uncle John. "Go back to the car now, and wait for us. Don't get impatient. We don't know just when we will join you, but it will be as soon as we can manage it. What is Mumbles doing?" "Mumble he learn to be good automobilist. Jus' now he sit on seat an' watch wheel to see nobody touch. If anybody touch, Mumble he eat him up." They all laughed at this whimsical notion and it served to relieve the strain of waiting. Wampus, grinning at the success of his joke, went back to the limousine to inspect it carefully and adjust it in every part until it was in perfect order. Now that a definite plan of action had been decided upon their spirits rose considerably, and they passed the afternoon in eager anticipation of the crisis. "We shall have to clear away for the dance," added Stubby, "so we want to get the feast over with as quickly as possible. I hope you are all hungry, for Algy has spread himself on this dinner and we are to have every delicacy the ranch affords, regardless of expense. We can economize afterward to make up for it." Elaborate preparations were not greatly in evidence, however. The Mexican servants had washed themselves and the floor of the big room had been swept and cleared of some of its rubbish; but that was all. The remittance men were in their usual rough costumes and the air was redolent with the fumes of liquor. The remittance men applauded this oratory, and incidentally attacked the eatables with evident determination to obey their leader's injunction. "We can eat any time," remarked Stubby, with his mouth full; "but his Satanic majesty only knows when Hades Ranch will see another dance--with real ladies for partners." Dan'l said nothing and offered no resistance. He sat plaintively sawing upon his ancient but rich-toned violin while the floor was brushed, the chairs and benches pushed against the wall and the room prepared for action. Behind the violinist was a low, broad window facing a grass plot that was free from the terrifying cactus, and the old man noted with satisfaction that it stood wide open. Uncle John's party had pressed close to the table and stood watching the proceedings. "Ready now!" called Tobey; "the Grand March is about to begin. Take your partners, boys. Look sharp, there, Dan'l, and give us a martial tune that will lift our feet." Dan'l meekly set the violin underneath his chin and raised the bow as if in readiness. "Knuckles," a brawny fellow with a florid face and a peculiar squint, approached Patsy and bowed. "You're to lead with me, Miss," he said. "Are you ready?" "Not quite," she returned with dignified composure; "for I perceive you are not quite ready yourself." "Eh? Why not?" he inquired, surprised. "You are still wearing your firearms," she replied. "I cannot and will not dance with a man who carries a revolver." "That's nothing," he retorted. "We always do." "That's it," said Patsy, firmly. "The weapons must all be surrendered before we begin. We positively refuse to dance if rioting and shooting are likely to occur." A murmur of protest arose at this speech, for all the remittance men had gathered around to listen to the argument. "That's all tommy-rot," observed Handsome Tim, in a sulky tone. "We're not spoiling for a row; it's the dance we're after." "Then give up the revolvers," said Beth, coming to her cousin's assistance. "If this is to be a peaceful entertainment you will not need to be armed, and it is absurd to suppose a lady will dance with a gentleman who is a walking arsenal." "You must decide which you prefer--the revolvers or the dance," remarked Patsy, staring coolly into the ring of faces. "Would your English ladies at home consent to dance with armed men?" asked Beth. "They're quite right, boys," said Stubby, nodding his bullethead. "Let's agree to deposit all the shooting irons 'til the dance is over." "I won't!" cried Knuckles, his scowl deepening. "Put them on the table there, by the old fiddler," said Patsy; "then we will know we are perfectly safe." Rather unwillingly they complied, each man walking up to the table and placing his revolver at Dan'l's feet. The girls watched them intently. "That man over there is still armed," called Beth, pointing to a swarthy Mexican who squatted near the door. "That's all right," said Tobey, easily. "He's our guard, Pedro. I've stationed him there so you won't attempt to escape till we get ready to let you go." "There's little danger of that," she said. "All ready, now!" exclaimed Knuckles, impatiently. "We're all as harmless as doves. Let 'er go, Dan'l!" As Beth and Patsy turned, panting, and from their elevation looked up the room, the cowboys gave a bellow of rage and rushed forward. Noting the grim determination in the old soldier's eye, they hesitated and came to a halt. He turned and passed Myrtle out of the window where Wampus took her in his arms, crutches and all, and carried her to the automobile. The remittance men, unarmed and confronted by their own revolvers, stood gaping open-mouthed and seemingly dazed. "Let's rush 'em, boys!" shouted Handsome Tim, defiantly. "Rush 'em alone, if you like," growled Knuckles. "I'm not ready for the graveyard yet." "You are vot iss called cowardices," said Dan'l, flourishing the revolvers he held. "Come on mit der courage, somebotty, so I can shoot holes in you." "You're building your own coffin just now, Dan'l," retorted Tobey, in baffled rage. "We know where to get you, old boy, and we'll have revenge for this night's work." "I vill take some popguns home mit me," was the composed reply. "Den, ven you come, I vill make a receptioning for you. Eh?" Uncle John, Patsy and Beth had followed Myrtle through the window and disappeared. "Now, sir," said the Major to the old fiddler, "make your escape while I hold them at bay." "Nod yet," replied Dan'l. "Ve must gif ourselves de most protectionment ve can." "Dit ve say shtand still, or dit ve nod say shtand still?" asked Dan'l, sternly. "If somebody gets hurt, it iss because he don'd obey de orderations." "Go, sir!" commanded the Major. "I vill; bud I go last," declared the old man. "I follow you--see? Bud you take my violin, please--unt be very tender of id, like id vas your sveetheardt." He slowly backed away from the window, and so thoroughly cowed was the group of ruffians that the old fiddler had been lifted hastily into the automobile before the cowboys mustered courage to leap through the window and search in the darkness for their revolvers, which lay scattered widely upon the ground. Wampus, chuckling gleefully, jerked the hoods off his glaring searchlights, sprang to his seat and started the machine down the road before the crack of a single revolver was heard in protest. The shots came thicker after that, but now the automobile was bowling merrily along the road and soon was out of range. "De road iss exceptionalment goot," remarked Dan'l. "Dere iss no dangerousness from here to der rifer." "Danger?" said the chauffeur, scornfully. "Who cares for danger? I am Wampus, an' I am here!" "We are all here," said Patsy, contentedly nestling against the cushions; "and I'm free to confess that I'm mighty glad of it!" THE ROMANCE OF DAN'L It did not take them very long to reach the river, a muddy little stream set below high banks. By Dan'l's direction they turned to the left and followed the wind of the river for a mile or so until suddenly out of the darkness loomed a quaint little bungalow which the old German claimed to be his home. "I haf architectured it mineself, unt make it built as I like it. You vill come in unt shtop der night mit me," he said, as Wampus halted the machine before the door. There was a little murmur of protest at this, for the house appeared to be scarcely bigger than the automobile. But Uncle John pointed out, sensibly enough, that they ought not to undertake an unknown road at nighttime, and that Spotville, the town for which they were headed, was still a long way off. The Major, moreover, had a vivid recollection of his last night's bed upon the roof of the limousine, where he had crept to escape rattlesnakes, and was in no mood to again camp out in the open while they traveled in Arizona. So he advocated accepting Dan'l's invitation. The girls, curious to know how so many could be accommodated in the bungalow, withdrew all further objections and stood upon the low, pergola-roofed porch while their host went inside to light the lamps. "I haf much blankets," he said; "dere vill be no troubles to keep varm." Afterward they sat before the fire and by the dim lights of the kerosene lamps chatted together of the day's adventures. Uncle John asked Dan'l what had brought him to this deserted, out-of-the-way spot, and the old man told his story in a manner that amused them all greatly. "I go home unt say: 'Who am I?' I answer: 'Nobody!' Am I now great? No; I am a speck. Vot can I do? Veil, I go avay. I haf some money--a leedle. I come to America. I do not like crowds any more. I like to be alone mit my violin. I find dis place; I build dis house; I lif here unt make happiness. My only neighbors are de remittance men, who iss more mischiefing as wicked. Dey vill nod bother me much. So after a time I die here. Vy nod? I am forgot in Stuttgart." Dan'l took a violin from a shelf and began to play, softly but with masterly execution. He caught their mood instantly. The harmony was restful and contented. Patsy turned down the lamps, to let the flicker of the firelight dominate the room, and Dan'l understood and blended the flickering light into his melody. For a long time he continued to improvise, in a way that fairly captivated his hearers, despite their varied temperaments, and made them wonder at his skill. Then without warning he changed to a stirring, martial air that filled the room with its rich, resonant tones. There was a fugue, a wonderful finale, and while the concluding notes rang in their ears the old man laid his violin in his lap, leaned back against his cushions and heaved a deep sigh. They forebore disturbing him for a while. How strange it seemed that this really talented musician should be banished to a wilderness while still possessing power to stir the souls of men with his marvelous execution. Truly he was a "maestro," as he had said; a genius whose star had risen, flashed across the sky and suddenly faded, leaving his future a blank. Wampus moved uneasily in his chair. "I like to know something," he remarked. Dan'l roused himself and turned to look at the speaker. "No," grunted Dan'l. "Bad eye he no make himself," persisted the little chauffeur. "What make him, then?" "Can you nod guess?" he said. "Herr Gabert hurt mine eye." "Oh!" exclaimed Wampus, nodding approvingly "You fight duel with him? Of course. It mus' be." "I know," said Wampus. "But Herr Gabert. What happen to him?" Again there was a pause. Then the German said slowly: "I am nod rich; but efery year I send a leetle money to Stuttgart to put some flowers on Herr Gabert's grave." The chauffeur's face brightened. He got up from his chair and solemnly shook Dan'l's hand. "You are great musician," he announced. "You can believe it, for it is true. An' you have shake the hand of great chauffeur. I am Wampus." Dan'l did not answer. He had covered his good eye with his hand. THE LODGING AT SPOTVILLE "To think of our getting up at such unearthly hours!" cried Patsy cheerfully. "But I don't mind it in the least, Beth; do you?" "I love the daybreak," returned Beth, softly. "We've wasted the best hours of morning abed, Patsy, these many years." "But there's a difference," said Myrtle, earnestly. "I know the daybreak in the city very well, for nearly all my life I have had to rise in the dark in order to get my breakfast and be at work on time. It is different from this, I assure you; especially in winter, when the chill strikes through to your bones. Even in summer time the air of the city is overheated and close, and the early mornings cheerless and uncomfortable. Then I think it is best to stay in bed as long as you can--if you have nothing else to do. But here, out in the open, it seems a shame not to be up with the birds to breathe the scent of the fields and watch the sun send his heralds ahead of him to proclaim his coming and then climb from the bottomless pit into the sky and take possession of it." Myrtle's sweet face rivaled the sunrise for a moment. She made no reply but only smiled pathetically. Uncle John's knock upon the door found them ready for breakfast, which old Dan'l had skilfully prepared in the tiny kitchen and now placed upon a round table set out upon the porch. By the time they had finished the simple meal Wampus had had his coffee and prepared the automobile for the day's journey. A few minutes later they said good-bye to the aged musician and took the trail that led through Spotville. "Want meat fer supper?" asked the landlord, a tall, gaunt man who considered himself dressed when he was in his shirt sleeves. "What kind of meat?" inquired Uncle John, cautiously. "Kin give yeh fried pork er jerked beef. Ham 'a all out an' the chickens is beginnin' to lay." "Of course, stranger. Thet's the on'y thing Spotville chickens lay, nowadays. I s'pose whar yeh come from they lay biscuits 'n' pork chops." "No. Door knobs, sometimes," said Mr. Merrick, "but seldom pork chops. Let's have eggs, and perhaps a little fried pork to go with them. Any milk?" The landlord looked at him steadily. "Yeh've come a long-way, stranger," he said, "an' yeh must 'a' spent a lot of money, here 'n' there. Air yeh prepared to pay fer thet order in solid cash?" Uncle John seemed startled, and looked at the Major, who smiled delightedly. "Are such things expensive, sir?" the latter asked the landlord. "Perhaps," said Uncle John mildly, "we can stand the expense--if we won't rob the babies." Beth, Patsy and Myrtle retired early, as did Uncle John. The Major, smoking his "bedtime cigar," as he called it, strolled out into the yard and saw Wampus seated in the automobile, also smoking. "We get an early start to-morrow, Wampus," said the Major. "Better get to bed." "Here is my bed," returned the chauffeur, quietly. "But there's a room reserved for you in the hotel." "I know. Don't want him. I sleep me here." The Major looked at him reflectively. "Ever been in this town before, Wampus?" he asked. "No, sir. But I been in other towns like him, an' know this kind of hotel. Then why do I sleep in front seat of motor car?" "Because you are foolish, I suppose, being born that way and unable to escape your heritage. For my part, I shall sleep in a bed; like a Christian," said the Major rather testily. "Even Christian cannot sleep sometime," returned Wampus, leaning back in his seat and puffing a cloud of smoke into the clear night air. "For me, I am good Christian; but I am not martyr." "Do you sometime gamble?" inquired Wampus softly. The Major coughed. Then he frowned. "Is it so bad as that?" he asked. The Major walked away with an exclamation of impatience. He had never possessed much confidence in the Canadian's judgment and on this occasion he considered the fellow little wiser than a fool. "Wampus," she said, "let me into the limousine, please. The night is so perfect I've decided to sleep here in the car." The chauffeur jumped down and opened the door. "Never mind that," Beth answered. "The others are all asleep, I'm sure." Wampus shook his head. "They all be here pretty soon," he predicted, and proceeded to deftly prepare the interior of the limousine for the expected party. When Beth had entered the car Wampus pitched the lean-to tent and arranged the cots as he was accustomed to do when they "camped out." Scarcely had he completed this task when Patsy and Myrtle appeared. They began to explain their presence, but Wampus interrupted them, saying: "All right, Miss Patsy an' Miss Myrtle. Your beds he made up an' Miss 'Lizbeth already asleep in him." So they crept inside with sighs of relief, and Wampus had just mounted to the front seat again and disposed himself to rest when Uncle John trotted up, clad in his trousers and shirt, with the balance of his apparel clasped in his arms. He looked at the tent with pleased approval. "Good boy, Wampus!" he exclaimed. "That room they gave me is an inferno. I'm afraid our young ladies won't sleep a wink." "I'm glad of it. How was your own room, Wampus?" "I have not seen him, sir. But I have suspect him; so I sleep here." "You are a wise chauffeur--a rare genus, in other words. Good night, Wampus. Where's the Major?" "In hotel. Sir, do the Major swear sometime?" Uncle John crept under the tent. "If he does," he responded, "he's swearing this blessed minute. Anyhow, I'll guarantee he's not asleep." Wampus again mounted to his perch. "No use my try to sleep 'til Major he come," he muttered, and settled himself to wait. Wampus leaped down and lifted the flap of the tent. The Major paused long enough in the moonlight to stare at the chauffeur and say sternly: Wampus was discreet. He said not a word. "So this is California!" exclaimed Patsy gleefully, as the automobile left Parker and crossed the Arizona line. "But it doesn't look any different," said Myrtle, peering out of the window. "Of course not," observed Uncle John. "A State boundary is a man-made thing, and doesn't affect the country a bit. We've just climbed a miniature mountain back in Arizona, and now we must climb a mate to it in California. But the fact is, we've entered at last the Land of Enchantment, and every mile now will bring us nearer and nearer to the roses and sunshine." "There's sunshine here now," declared the Major. "We've had it right along. But I haven't seen the roses yet, and a pair of ear muffs wouldn't be uncomfortable in this cutting breeze." The Major coughed derisively and Mumbles barked and looked at Uncle John sagaciously. "Is that a rabbit or a squirrel? Something has caught the eye of our Mumbles," interrupted the Major, pointing vaguely across the mesa. "I wonder if Mumbles could catch 'em," remarked the Major, with complacence. "He says that every mile we travel brings us nearer the scent of the orange blossoms and the glare of the yellow poppies," persisted Uncle John. "You see, we've taken the Southern route, after all, for soon we shall be on the Imperial road, which leads to San Diego--in the heart of the gorgeous Southland." "What is the Imperial road?" inquired Beth. "How remarkable!" exclaimed the Major, gazing straight ahead. And again Mumbles, curled in Patsy's lap, lifted his shaggy head and gave a wailing bark. Uncle John frowned, but was loyal to Haggerty. "He says that if America was now unknown to all the countries of the world, Imperial would soon make it famous. They grow wonderful crops there--strawberries and melons the year around, as well as all the tropical and semi-tropical fruits and grains, flowers and vines known to any country yet discovered." "Do we go to Imperial?" asked Myrtle, eagerly. "I think not, my dear; we just skirt the edge of the Valley. It's rather wild and primitive there yet; for although many settlers are flocking to that favored district Imperial is large enough to be an empire by itself. However, we shall find an ideal climate at Coronado, by the edge of the blue Pacific, and there and at Los Angeles we shall rest from our journey and get acquainted with the wonders of the Golden State. Has the trip tired you, girls?" "Not me," answered Beth, promptly. "I've enjoyed every mile of the way." "And so have I," added Patsy; "except perhaps the adventure with the remittance men. But I wouldn't care to have missed even that, for it led to our acquaintance with old Dan'l." "For my part," said Myrtle softly, "I've been in a real fairyland. It has seemed like a dream to me, all this glorious journey, and I shall hate to wake up, as I must in time." "Don't worry just yet about the awakening, dear," returned Patsy, leaning over to kiss her little friend. "Just enjoy it while you can. If fairylands exist, they were made for just such as you, Myrtle." "I can _feel_ it," returned Myrtle, happily. "And don't you notice how well I walk, and how little use I have now for the crutches?" "And can you feel the rosy cheeks and bright eyes, too?" asked Uncle John, regarding her with much satisfaction. "The trip was just the thing for Myrtle," added Patsy. "She has grown stronger every day; but she is not quite well yet, you know, and I depend a good deal upon the genial climate of California to insure her complete recovery." Uncle John did not reply. He remembered the doctor's assertion that a painful operation would be necessary to finally restore Myrtle to a normal condition, and his kindly heart disliked to reflect upon the ordeal before the poor girl. It was not long before they encountered the roses and carnations growing on every side, which the Major had persistently declared to be mythical. "It seems all wrong," asserted Patsy's father, moodily, "for such delicate flowers to be growing out of doors in midwinter. And look at the grass! Why, the seasons are changed about. It's Springtime just now in California." "The man at the last stop we made told me his roses bloomed the year round," said Patsy, "And just smell the orange blossoms, will you! Aren't they sweet, and don't they remind you of brides?" Descending the hills as they neared San Diego they passed through fields of splendid wild flowers so extensive and beautiful that our girls fairly gasped in wonder. The yellow and orange poppies predominated, but there were acres of wild mustard throwing countless numbers of gorgeous saffron spikes skyward, and vistas of blue carconnes, white daisies and blood-red delandres. The yucca was in bloom, too, and added its mammoth flower to the display. Even the Major smiled benignantly when he reached his appointed room in the magnificent Hotel del Coronado, which is famed throughout the world. "Why, Daddy, it isn't like New York at all," protested Patsy, standing beside him at the broad window overlooking the ocean. "Did you ever see a palm tree waving in New York; or daisy bushes as tall as a man; or such masses of roses and flowering vines? And then just notice the mountains over there--they're in Mexico, I'm told--and this great headland in the other direction; it's called Point Loma. Oh, I never imagined any place could be so beautiful!" The others were equally excited, and Uncle John said, smiling broadly: "Well, we're here at last, my dears, and I'm sure we are already well paid for our trip across the continent. What pleasant rooms these are. If the hotel table is at all to be compared with the house itself we shall have a happy time here, which means we will stay as long as possible." "I'm sorry," said this gentle boniface, "that I could not reserve better rooms for you--for there are some choice views from some locations. I had a corner suite saved for your party, a suite I consider the most desirable in the hotel; but an eccentric individual arrived yesterday who demanded the entire suite, and I had to let him have it. He will not stay long, and as soon as he goes you shall have the rooms." "Who is he?" asked Uncle John. "A rich miner; a most melancholy and peculiar person, by the way," replied landlord Ross. "I believe his name is Jones." Mr. Merrick started. "Jones, and a miner?" he said. "What's his other name--Anson?" "We'll look and see," replied Mr. Ross, turning to the hotel register. "No; not Anson. He is registered as C.B. Jones, of Boston." "Oh; that's not the Jones at all," said Uncle John, disappointed. "It's the Jones who is our guest," replied the landlord, smiling. "Don't let's return just yet," begged Myrtle. "I want to see the sun set." "It will be gorgeous," said Patsy, glancing at the sky; "but we can see it from our windows, and as we're a long way from the hotel now I believe Beth's suggestion is wise." So they began to retrace their steps. Myrtle still walked with some difficulty, and they had not proceeded far when Beth exclaimed: "Look at that man down there!" Her companions followed her direction and saw standing upon a huge pile of rocks at the water's edge a slight, solitary figure. Something in the poise, as he leaned forward staring at the darkened waves--for the sun was low and cast shadows aslant the water--struck Myrtle as familiar. "Oh, girls!" she exclaimed; "it's the Grand Canyon man." "Why, I believe it is," agreed Patsy. "What is he doing?" "Nothing," said Beth, briefly. "But he is going to do something, I think." "Don't!" cried Myrtle, her clear voice ringing over the lap of the waves; "please don't!" He swung around and turned his gaunt features upward to where the young girl leaned upon her crutches, with clasped hands and a look of distress upon her sweet face. "Don't!" she repeated, pleadingly. He passed his hand over his eyes with a very weary gesture and looked at Myrtle again--this time quite steadily. She was trembling in every limb and her cheeks were white with fear. Slowly--very slowly--the man turned and began to climb the rocks; not directly upward to where the girls stood, but diagonally, so as to reach the walk some distance ahead of them. They did not move until he had gained the path and turned toward the hotel. Then they followed and kept him in sight until he reached the entrance to the court and disappeared within. "I wonder," said Patsy, as they made their way to their rooms, "whether he really was thinking of plunging into the ocean; or whether that time at the Grand Canyon he had a notion of jumping into the chasm." "Perhaps," said Myrtle, hesitatingly, "I am quite wrong, and the strange man had no intention of doing himself an injury. But each time I obeyed an impulse that compelled me to cry out; and afterward I have been much ashamed of my forwardness." "But I am not especially pleased to encounter him again," he said with a slight frown; "for, if I remember aright, he acted very rudely to Myrtle and proved unsociable when I made overtures and spoke to him." "I wonder who he is?" mused Patsy, watching the weary, haggard features as his eyes slowly followed the lines of his magazine. "I'll inquire and find out," replied her uncle. The cherubic landlord was just then pacing up and down the lobby, pausing here and there to interchange a word with his guests. Uncle John approached him and said: "Can you tell me, Mr. Ross, who the gentleman is in the corner?" The landlord looked around at the corner and smiled. "That," said he, "is the gentleman we spoke of this afternoon--Mr. C.B. Jones--the man who usurped the rooms intended for you." "Rooms?" repeated Uncle John. "Has he a large party, then?" "You were justified," said Mr. Merrick, thought fully. "Thank you, sir, for the information." Even as he rejoined the girls, who were seated together upon a broad divan, the man arose, laid down his magazine and came slowly down the room, evidently headed for the elevator. But with a start he recognized the girl who had accosted him on the beach, and the others with her, and for an instant came to a full stop before the group, his sad eyes fixed intently upon Myrtle's face. The situation was a bit awkward, and to relieve it Uncle John remarked in his cheery voice: "Well, Mr. Jones, we meet again, you see." The man turned slowly and faced him; then bowed in a mechanical way and proceeded to the elevator, into which he disappeared. Naturally Uncle John was indignant. "Confound the fellow!" he exclaimed. "He's worse than a boor. But perhaps his early education was neglected." "Did you call him Mr. Jones, sir?" asked Myrtle in a voice that trembled with excitement. "Yes, my dear; but it is not your Uncle Anson. I've inquired about him. The Joneses are pretty thick, wherever you go; but I hope not many are like this fellow." "Something's wrong with him," declared Patsy. "He's had some sad bereavement--a great blow of some sort--and it has made him somber and melancholy. He doesn't seem to know he acts rudely. You can tell by the man's eyes that he is unhappy." "His eyes have neither color nor expression," remarked Beth. "At his best, this Mr. Jones must have been an undesirable acquaintance." "You can't be sure of that," returned Patsy; "and I'm positive my theory is correct. More and more am I inclined to agree with Myrtle that he is disgusted with life, and longs to end it." "Let him, then," retorted Uncle John. "I'm sure such a person is of no use to the world, and if he doesn't like himself he's better out of it." That kindly Mr. Merrick should give vent to such a heartless speech proved how much annoyed he had been by Mr. Jones' discourtesy. Myrtle did not reply to this, although it pleased her. She presently pleaded weariness and asked permission to return to her room. Beth and Patsy wanted to go into the great domed ballroom and watch the dancing; so Myrtle bade them good night and ascended by the elevator to her floor. Her heart gave a sudden thump of mingled fear and dismay. She knew intuitively what that "something" was. "Let him," Uncle John had said; but Myrtle instantly determined _not_ to let him. She hesitated a moment; but seeing that the man remained motionless, his eyes still covered, as if lost to all his surroundings, she softly crept forward and entered the room. She held the crutches under her arms, but dared not use them for fear of making a noise. Step by step she stole forward until the table was within reach. Then she stretched out her hand, seized the revolver, and hid it in the folds of her blouse. Turning for a final glance at the man she was startled to find he had removed his hands and was steadfastly regarding her. Myrtle leaned heavily on her crutches. She felt faint and miserable, like a criminal caught in the act. As her eyes fell before the intent gaze her face turned scarlet with humiliation and chagrin. Still, she did not attempt to escape, the idea not occurring to her; so for a time the tableau was picturesque--the lame girl standing motionless with downcast eyes and the man fixedly staring at her. Myrtle tried to be brave and meet his gaze. It was not quite so difficult now the silent man had spoken. Words failed her, but he nodded to show he understood. "Because," said he, "I am tired; very tired, my child. It's a big world; too big, in fact; but there's nothing in it for me any more." There was expression enough in his voice now; expression of utter despondency. "Why?" asked Myrtle, somewhat frightened to find herself so bold. He did not answer for a long time, but sat reading her mobile face until a gentler look came into his hard blue eyes. "It is a story too sad for young ears," he finally replied. "Perhaps, too, you would not understand it, not knowing or understanding me. I'm an odd sort of man, well along in years, and I've lived an odd sort of life. But my story, such as it is, has ended, and I'm too weary to begin another volume." "Oh, no!" exclaimed Myrtle, earnestly. "Surely this cannot be the fulfillment and end of your life. If it were, why should _I_ come into your life just now?" He stared at her with a surprised--an even startled--look. "Have you come into my life?" he inquired, in a low, curious tone. "I know," he interrupted hastily. "That was your mistake; and mine. You should not have interfered. I should not have let you interfere." "But I did," said Myrtle. "Yes. Somehow your voice sounded like a command, and I obeyed it; perhaps because no living person has a right to command me. You--you took me by surprise." He passed his hand over his eyes with that weary gesture peculiar to him, and then fell silent. Myrtle had remained standing. She did not know what to do in this emergency, or what more to say. The conversation could not be ended in this summary fashion. The hopeless man needed her in some way; how, she did not know. Feeling weak and very incompetent to meet the important crisis properly, the girl crept to a chair opposite the man and sank into it. Then she leaned her chin upon her hand and looked pleadingly at her strange acquaintance. He met her eyes frankly. The hard look in his own seemed to have disappeared, dispelled by a sympathy that was new to him. He did not reply, and another period of silence ensued. But his next speech showed he had been considering her words. "Because you have suffered," he said, "you have compassion for others who suffer. But your trouble is over now?" "Almost," she said, smiling brightly. He sighed, but questioned her no farther. "A while ago," she volunteered, "I had neither friends nor relatives." He gave her a queer look, then. "I had no money. I had been hurt in an accident and was almost helpless. But I did not despair, sir--and I am only an inexperienced girl. "A few days ago," she continued earnestly, "we were crossing the Arizona deserts. It was not pleasant, but we did not despair, for we knew the world is not all desert and that the land of roses and sunshine lay just beyond. Now that we're in California we've forgotten the dreary desert. But you--Why, sir, you've just crossed your desert, and you believe all the world is bitter and cruel and holds no joy for you! Why don't you step out bravely into the roses and sunshine of life, and find the joy that has been denied you?" "Do you believe there can be joy for me anywhere in the world?" he asked. "Of course. I tell you there's just as much sweet as there is bitter in life. Don't I know it? Haven't I proved it? But happiness doesn't chase people who try to hide from it. It will meet you halfway, but you've got to do your share to deserve it. I'm not preaching; I've lived this all out, in my own experience, and know what I'm talking about. Now as for you, sir, I can see very plainly you haven't been doing your duty. You've met sorrow and let it conquer you. You've taken melancholy by the hand and won't let go of it. You haven't tried to fight for your rights--the rights God gave to every man and expects him to hold fast to and take advantage of. No, indeed!" This naive suggestion did not affect him as much as the fact that this fair young girl had confessed herself his friend. He did not look at Myrtle now; he stared straight ahead, at the wall paper, and his brow was furrowed as if he was thinking deeply. Perhaps any other man would have thanked the girl for her sympathy and her proffered friendship, or at the least have acknowledged it. But not so this queer Mr. Jones; eccentric, indeed, as the shrewd landlord had described him. Nor did Myrtle seem to expect an acknowledgment. It was enough for her that her speech had set him thinking along new lines. He sat musing for so long that she finally remembered it was growing late, and began to fear Patsy and Beth would seek their rooms, which connected with her own, and find her absent. That would worry them. So at last she rose softly, took her crutches and turned to go. "Good night, my--friend," she said. "Good night, my child," he answered in a mechanical tone, without rousing from his abstraction. Myrtle went to her room and found it was not so late as she had feared. She opened a drawer and placed the revolver in it, not without a little shudder. "At any rate," she murmured, with satisfaction, "he will not use this to-night." "Perhaps," reflected Patsy, "we've been misjudging him. I never beheld such a stolid, unimpressive countenance in my life; but the man must have a soul of some sort, or he would not think of sending flowers to his new friend." "It's a pretty idea," said Beth. "He wanted to assure Myrtle that he appreciated her kindness." "I'm sure he likes me," declared Myrtle, simply. "He wasn't a bit cross when I ran in and took away his pistol, or when I preached to him. I really gave him a good talking to, and he didn't object a bit." "What he needs," commented Beth, "is to get away from himself, and mingle with people more. I wonder if we could coax him to join us in our ride to Point Loma." "Would we care to ask him?" said Patsy. "He's as sour and crabbed in looks as he is in disposition, and has treated Uncle John's advances shamefully. I'd like to help Myrtle bring the old fellow back to life; but perhaps we can find an easier way than to shut him up with us in an automobile." "He wouldn't go, I'm sure," declared Myrtle. "He has mellowed a little--a very little--as these roses prove. But he treated me last night just as he does Mr. Merrick, even after our conversation. When I said 'Good night' I had to wait a long time for his answer. But I'd like you to meet him and help cheer him up; so please let me introduce him, if there's a chance, and do be nice to him." "She has a right to, for she saved his life," said Beth. Uncle John heard the story of Myrtle's adventure with considerable surprise, and he too expressed a wish to aid her in winning Mr. Jones from his melancholy mood. "Is Mr. Jones rich, then?" inquired Beth. "According to the landlord he's rich as Croesus. Made his money in mining--manipulating stocks, I suppose. But evidently his wealth hasn't been a comfort to him, or he wouldn't want to shuffle off his mortal coil and leave it behind" The view from the Point is unsurpassed. Wampus stopped his car beside a handsomely appointed automobile that was just then deserted. Now, when they had reached the narrow beach, Mumbles ran ahead, passed around the corner of a cliff that almost touched the water, and was presently heard barking furiously. "Sounds as if he scented game," said Patsy. "A turtle, perhaps, or a big fish washed ashore," suggested the Major. But now the small dog's voice changed suddenly and became a succession of yelps expressing mingled pain and terror. "Oh, he's hurt!" cried Myrtle; and they all hurried forward, Uncle John leading them on a run, and passed around the big rock to rescue their pet. But help was at hand. A tall, thin man hurried to the rescue, and just as Uncle John came in sight, leading his procession, a knife severed the crab's claw and Mumbles was free. Seeing his mistress, the puppy, still whining with pain, hurried to her for comfort, while Uncle John turned to the man and said: "Thank you, Mr. Jones, for assisting our poor beast. Mumbles is an Eastern dog, you know, and inexperienced in dealing with crabs." Mr. Jones was examining the claw, the despoiled owner of which had quickly slid into the water. "It is a species of crawfish," he observed, meditatively. Then, seeing the girls approach, he straightened up and rather awkwardly lifted his hat. The gesture surprised them all. Heretofore, when they had met, the man had merely stared and turned away, now his attempt at courtesy was startling because unexpected. Myrtle came close to his side. "How nice to find you here, Mr. Jones," she said brightly. "And oh, I must thank you for my lovely roses." He watched her face with evident interest and it seemed that his own countenance had become less haggard and sad than formerly. "Let me introduce my friends," said the girl, with sudden recollection of her duty. "This is Mr. Merrick, my good friend and benefactor; and this is Major Doyle and his daughter Miss Patricia Doyle, both of whom have the kindest hearts in the world; Miss Beth De Graf, Mr. Merrick's niece, has watched over and cared for me like a sister, and--oh, I forgot; Miss Patsy is Mr. Merrick's niece, too. So now you know them all." The man nodded briefly his acknowledgment. "You--you are Mr. Jones, I believe, of--of Boston?" "Why--what--I don't understand," she faltered. "Have I overlooked anyone?" "Only yourself," he said. "Oh; but I--I met you last night." "You did not tell me your name," he reminded her. "I'm Myrtle," she replied, smiling in her relief. "Myrtle Dean." "Myrtle Dean!" His voice was harsh; almost a shout. "Myrtle Dean. And I--I'm from Chicago; but I don't live there any more." He stood motionless, looking at the girl with a fixed expression that embarrassed her and caused her to glance appealingly at Patsy. Her friend understood and came to her rescue with some inconsequent remark about poor Mumbles, who was still moaning and rubbing; his pinched nose against Patsy's chin to ease the pain. Mr. Jones paid little heed to Miss Doyle's observation, but as Myrtle tried to hide behind Beth Mr. Merrick took the situation in hand by drawing the man's attention to the scenery, and afterward inquiring if he was searching for moonstones. The conversation now became general, except that Mr. Jones remained practically silent He seemed to try to interest himself in the chatter around him, but always his eyes would stray to Myrtle's face and hold her until she found an opportunity to turn away. "We've luncheon in the car," announced Uncle John, after a time. "Won't you join us, Mr. Jones?" "Yes," was the unconventional reply. The man was undoubtedly abstracted and did not know he was rude. He quietly followed them up the rocks and when they reached the automobile remained by Myrtle's side while Wampus brought out the lunch basket and Beth and Patsy spread the cloth upon the grass and unpacked the hamper. Mr. Jones ate merely a mouthful, but he evidently endeavored to follow the conversation and take an interest in what was said. He finally became conscious that his continuous gaze distressed Myrtle, and thereafter strove to keep his eyes from her face. They would creep back to it, from time to time; but Beth, who was watching him curiously, concluded he was making a serious effort to deport himself agreeably and credited him with a decided improvement in manners as their acquaintance with him progressed. After luncheon, when their return by way of Old Town and the Spanish Mission was proposed, Mr. Jones said, pointing to the car that stood beside their own: "This is my automobile. I drive it myself. I would like Myrtle Dean to ride back with me." The girl hesitated, but quickly deciding she must not retreat, now she had practically begun the misanthrope's reformation, she replied: He looked down at his feet, thoughtfully considering the proposition. "I'll go with you," said Beth, promptly. "Get into the front seat with Mr. Jones, Myrtle, and I'll ride behind." The man made no protest. He merely lifted Myrtle in his arms and gently placed her in the front seat. Beth, much amused, took the seat behind, unassisted save that the Major opened the door for her. Mr. Jones evidently understood his car. Starting the engines without effort he took his place at the wheel and with a nod to Mr. Merrick said: "Lead on, sir; I will follow." "Don't worry," said the Major, consolingly. "I'll keep my eye on the rascal. But he's a fine driver, isn't he?" "Oh, _that_!" retorted Wampus, scornfully. "Such little cheap car like that he drive himself." At Old Town Mr. Jones left them, saying he had been to the Mission and did not care for it. But as he drove his car away there was a gentler and more kindly expression upon his features than any of them had ever seen there before, and Myrtle suspected her charm was working and the regeneration really begun. That evening after dinner, as Mr. Merrick sat alone in the hotel lobby, the girls having gone to watch the Major bowl tenpins, Mr. Jones approached and sat down in the chair beside him. Uncle John greeted the man with an attempt at cordiality. He could not yet bring himself to like his personality, but on Myrtle's account and because he was himself generous enough to wish to be of service to anyone so forlorn and unhappy, he treated Mr. Jones with more respect than he really thought he deserved. "Tell me, Mr. Merrick," was the abrupt request, "where you found Myrtle Dean." Uncle John told him willingly. There was no doubt but Myrtle had interested the man. "My girls found her on the train between Chicago and Denver," he began. "She was on her way to join her uncle in Leadville." "What is her uncle's name?" Mr. Jones nodded absently. "Tell me the rest," he said. Uncle John complied. He related the manner in which Beth and Patsy had adopted Myrtle, the physician's examination and report upon her condition, and then told the main points of their long but delightful journey from Albuquerque to San Diego in the limousine. The other man had listened intently, and when the story was finished he sat silent for a time, as if considering and pondering over what he had heard. Then, without warning, he announced quietly: Uncle John fairly gasped for breath. "_You_ Anson Jones!" he exclaimed. Then, with plausible suspicion he added: "I myself saw that you are registered as C.B. Jones." "It is the same thing," was the reply. "My name is Collanson--but my family always called me 'Anson', when I had a family--and by that name I was best known in the mining camps. That is what deceived you." "Probably not. Her mother, sir, my sister, was my only remaining relative, the only person on earth who cared for me--although I foolishly believed another did. I worked for success as much on Kitty's account--Kitty was Myrtle's mother--as for my own sake. I intended some day to make her comfortable and happy, for I knew her husband's death had left her poor and friendless. I did not see her for years, nor write to her often; it was not my way. But Kitty always knew I loved her." He paused and sat silent a moment. Then he resumed, in his quiet, even tones: Uncle John, now thoroughly interested and sympathetic, leaned over and said solemnly: "The hand of God was in that!" "I am beginning to believe it," he replied. "The girl's face won me even in that despairing mood. She has Kitty's eyes." Mr. Jones nodded again. His mood had changed again since they began to speak of Myrtle. His eyes now glowed with pleasure and pride. He clasped Mr. Merrick's hand in his own as he said with feeling: "And now you are sure of it," cried Uncle John, emphatically. "But who is to break the news to Myrtle?" "I shall respect your wish, sir," said Mr. Merrick. The girls came trooping back then, and instead of running away Anson Jones remained to talk with them. It was on their return from such a day's outing that Myrtle met with her life's greatest surprise. Indeed, the surprise was shared by all but Uncle John, who had religiously kept the secret of Mr. Jones' identity. As they reached the hotel this eventful evening Mr. Merrick said to the girls: "After you have dressed for dinner meet us on the parlor floor. We dine privately to-night." They were mildly astonished at the request, but as Uncle John was always doing some unusual thing they gave the matter little thought. However, on reaching the parlor floor an hour later they found Mr. Merrick, the Major and Mr. Jones in a group awaiting them, and all were garbed in their dress suits, with rare flowers in their buttonholes. "What is it, then?" asked Patsy. "A treat?" "I think so," said Uncle John, smiling. "Your arm, please, Miss Doyle." "Goodness me!" exclaimed Patsy, laughing gleefully. "This seems to be our little Myrtle's especial spread. Who is the host, Uncle John?" "Mr. Jones, of course," announced Beth, promptly. Myrtle blushed and glanced shyly at Mr. Jones. His face was fairly illumined with pleasure. He placed her in the seat of honor and said gravely: "This is indeed Myrtle's entertainment, for she has found something. It is also partly my own thanksgiving banquet, my friends; for I, too, have found something." His tone was so serious that all remained silent as they took their seats, and during the many courses served the conversation was less lively than on former occasions when there had been no ceremony. Myrtle tried hard to eat, but there was a question in her eyes--a question that occupied her all through the meal. When, finally, the dessert was served and the servants had withdrawn and left them to themselves, the girl could restrain her curiosity no longer. "Tell me, Mr. Jones," she said, turning to him as he sat beside her; "what have you found?" He was deliberate as ever in answering. "You must not call me 'Mr. Jones,' hereafter," said he. "Why not? Then, what _shall_ I call you?" she returned, greatly perplexed. "I think it would be more appropriate for you to call me 'Uncle Anson.'" She paused, utterly bewildered, but with a sudden suspicion that made her head whirl. "It strikes me, Myrtle," said Uncle John, cheerfully, "that you have never been properly introduced to Mr. Jones. If I remember aright you scraped acquaintance with him and had no regular introduction. So I will now perform that agreeable office. Miss Myrtle Dean, allow me to present your uncle, Mr. Collanson B. Jones." "Collanson!" repeated all the girls, in an astonished chorus. During this long speech Myrtle had sat wide eyed and white, watching his face and marveling at the strangeness of her fate. But she was very, very glad, and young enough to quickly recover from the shock. There was a round of applause from Patsy, Beth, the Major and Uncle John, which served admirably to cover their little friend's embarrassment and give her time to partially collect herself. Then she turned to Mr. Jones and with eyes swimming with tears tenderly kissed his furrowed cheek. "Oh, Uncle Anson; I'm _so_ happy!" she said. Patsy Doyle, as owner of the pretty flat building on Willing Square, has rented to Uncle Anson the apartment just opposite that of the Doyles, and Mr. Jones has furnished it cosily to make a home for his niece, to whom he is so devoted that Patsy declares her own doting and adoring father is fairly outclassed. The Major asserts this is absurd; but he has acquired a genuine friendship for Anson Jones, who is no longer sad but has grown lovable under Myrtle's beneficent influence.	redpajama-book	30,261
Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon, Sjaani, Tom Allen and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. LAUREL-CROWNED LETTERS No assemblage of letters, parallel or kindred to that in the hands of the reader, if we consider its width of range, the fruitful period over which it stretches, and its typical character, has ever been produced. W.C. HAZLITT ON LAMB'S LETTERS. THE BEST LETTERS OF CHARLES LAMB Edited with an Introduction BY EDWARD GILPIN JOHNSON LETTER I. To Samuel Taylor Coleridge II. To Coleridge III. To Coleridge IV. To Coleridge V. To Coleridge VI. To Coleridge VII. To Coleridge VIII. To Coleridge IX. To Coleridge X. To Coleridge XI. To Coleridge XII. To Coleridge XIII. To Coleridge XIV. To Coleridge XV. To Robert Southey XVI. To Southey XVII. To Southey XVIII. To Southey XIX. To Thomas Manning XX. To Coleridge XXI. To Manning XXII. To Coleridge XXIII. To Manning XXIV. To Manning XXV. To Coleridge XXVI. To Manning XXVII. To Coleridge XXVIII. To Coleridge XXIX. To Manning XXX. To Manning XXXI. To Manning XXXII. To Manning XXXIII. To Coleridge XXXIV. To Wordsworth XXXV. To Wordsworth XXXVI. To Manning XXXVII. To Manning XXXVIII. To Manning XXXIX. To Coleridge XL. To Manning XLI. To Manning XLII. To Manning XLIII. To William Godwin XLIV. To Manning XLV. To Miss Wordsworth XLVI. To Manning XLVII. To Wordsworth XLVIII. To Manning XLIX. To Wordsworth L. To Manning LI. To Miss Wordsworth LII. To Wordsworth LIII. To Wordsworth LIV. To Wordsworth LV. To Wordsworth LVI. To Southey LVII. To Miss Hutchinson LVIII. To Manning LIX. To Manning LX. To Wordsworth LXI. To Wordsworth LXII. To H. Dodwell LXIII. To Mrs. Wordsworth LXIV. To Wordsworth LXV. To Manning LXVI. To Miss Wordsworth LXVII. To Coleridge LXVIII. To Wordsworth LXIX. To John Clarke LXX. To Mr. Barren Field LXXI. To Walter Wilson LXXII. To Bernard Barton LXXIII. To Miss Wordsworth LXXIV. To Mr. and Mrs. Bruton LXXV. To Bernard Barton LXXVI. To Miss Hutchinson LXXVII. To Bernard Barton LXXVIII. To Mrs. Hazlitt LXXIX. To Bernard Barton LXXX. To Bernard Barton LXXXI. To Bernard Barton LXXXII. To Bernard Barton LXXXIII. To Bernard Barton LXXXIV. To Bernard Barton LXXXV. To Bernard Barton LXXXVI. To Wordsworth LXXXVII. To Bernard Barton LXXXVIII. To Bernard Barton LXXXIX. To Bernard Barton XC. To Southey XCI. To Bernard Barton XCII. To J.B. Dibdin XCIII. To Henry Crabb Robinson XCIV. To Peter George Patmore XCV. To Bernard Barton XCVI. To Thomas Hood XCVII. To P.G. Patmore XCVIII. To Bernard Barton XCIX. To Procter C. To Bernard Barton CI. To Mr. Gilman CII. To Wordsworth CIII. To Mrs. Hazlitt CIV. To George Dyer CV. To Dyer CVI. To Mr. Moxon CVII. To Mr. Moxon His countenance is thus described by Thomas Hood: The psychology of madness is a most subtle inquiry. How slight the mysterious touch that throws the smooth-running human mechanism into a chaos of jarring elements, that transforms, in the turn of an eyelash, the mild humanity of the gentlest of beings into the unreasoning ferocity of the tiger. "For a few days prior to this, the family had observed some symptoms of insanity in her, which had so much increased on the Wednesday evening that her brother, early the next morning, went to Dr. Pitcairn; but that gentleman was not at home. With the tragical events just narrated, the storm of calamity seemed to have spent its force, and there were thenceforth plenty of days of calm and of sunshine for Charles Lamb. The stress of poverty was lightened and finally removed by successive increases of salary at the India House; the introductions of Coleridge and his own growing repute in the world of letters gathered about him a circle of friends--Southey, Wordsworth, Hazlitt, Manning, Barton, and the rest--more congenial, and certainly more profitable, than the vagrant _intimados_, "to the world's eye a ragged regiment," who had wasted his substance and his leisure in the early Temple days. Later in March we learn that he had signified to the directors his willingness to resign, "'The little bird that wings the sky Knows no such liberty,' As to the plan on which the selections for this volume have been made, it needs only to be said that, in general, the editor has aimed to include those letters which exhibit most fully the writer's distinctive charm and quality. This plan leaves, of course, a residue of considerable biographical and critical value; but it is believed that to all who really love and appreciate him, Charles Lamb's "Best Letters" are those which are most uniquely and unmistakably Charles Lamb's. TO SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. With these lines, and with that sister's kindest remembrances to Cottle, I conclude. Your parcel _is_ come; you have been _lavish_ of your presents. "Believe thou, O my soul, Life is a vision shadowy of Truth; And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave, Shapes of a dream!" I thank you for these lines in the name of a necessarian, and for what follows in next paragraph, in the name of a child of fancy. After all, you cannot nor ever will write anything with which I shall be so delighted as what I have heard yourself repeat. You came to town, and I saw you at a time when your heart was yet bleeding with recent wounds. Like yourself, I was sore galled with disappointed hope; you had "Many an holy lay That, mourning, soothed the mourner on his way." "But soon upon his poor unsheltered head Did Penury her sickly mildew shed; Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal grace, And joy's wild gleams that lightened o'er his face." Then "youth of tumultuous soul" to "sigh," as before. The rest may all stand down to "gaze upon the waves below." What follows now may come next as detached verses, suggested by the "Monody," rather than a part of it. They are, indeed, in themselves, very sweet; "And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng, Hanging enraptured on thy stately song!" Reject you, if you please, with as little remorse as you would the color of a coat or the pattern of a buckle, where our fancies differed. "Then up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink, Craigdoroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink." God Almighty have us all in his keeping! Mention nothing of poetry. I have destroyed every vestige of past vanities of that kind. Do as you please, but if you publish, publish mine (I give free leave) without name or initial, and never send me a book, I charge you. Your own judgment will convince you not to take any notice of this yet to your dear wife. You look after your family; I have my reason and strength left to take care of mine. I charge you, don't think of coming to see me. Write. I will not see you, if you come, God Almighty love you and all of us! Coleridge, continue to write, but do not forever offend me by talking of sending me cash. Sincerely and on my soul, we do not want it. God love you both! I will write again very soon. Do you write directly. BY CHARLES LAMB, OF THE INDIA HOUSE. Under this title the following motto, which, for want of room, I put over-leaf, and desire you to insert whether you like it or no. May not a gentleman choose what arms, mottoes, or armorial bearings the herald will give him leave, without consulting his republican friend, who might advise none? May not a publican put up the sign of the Saracen's Head, even though his undiscerning neighbor should prefer, as more genteel, the Cat and Gridiron? THE FEW FOLLOWING POEMS, CREATURES OF THE FANCY AND THE FEELING IN LIFE'S MORE VACANT HOURS, PRODUCED, FOR THE MOST PART, BY LOVE IN IDLENESS, ARE, WITH ALL A BROTHER'S FONDNESS, INSCRIBED TO THE AUTHOR'S BEST FRIEND ANB SISTER. The music of poesy may charm for a while the importunate, teasing cares of life; but the teased and troubled man is not in a disposition to make that music. "The eye, That of the circling throng and of the visible world, Unseeing, saw the shapes of holy phantasy." "Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze Views all creation." In your notice of Southey's new volume you omit to mention the most pleasing of all, the "Miniature." "There were Who formed high hopes and flattering ones of thee, Young Robert!" "Spirit of Spenser! was the wanderer wrong?" My sister, I thank God, is nigh recovered; she was seriously ill. Do, in your next letter, and that right soon, give me some satisfaction respecting your present situation at Stowey. Is it a farm that you have got? and what does your worship know about farming? Accept my kindest love, and believe me yours, as ever. (_A precious rascal_.) "Why, this is something." I am glad you have put me on the scent after old Quarles. If I do not put up those eclogues, and that shortly, say I am no true-nosed hound. I have had a letter from Lloyd; the young metaphysician of Caius is well, and is busy recanting the new heresy, metaphysics, for the old dogma Greek. My sister, I thank you, is quite well. She had a slight attack the other day, which frightened me a good deal; but it went off unaccountably. Love and respects to Edith. Your recipe for a Turk's poison is invaluable and truly Marlowish Lloyd objects to "shutting up the womb of his purse" in my Curse (which for a Christian witch in a Christian country is not too mild, I hope): do you object? I think there is a strangeness in the idea, as well as "shaking the poor like snakes from his door," which suits the speaker. Witches illustrate, as fine ladies do, from their own familiar objects, and snakes and shutting up of wombs are in their way. I don't know that this last charge has been before brought against 'em, nor either the sour milk or the mandrake babe; but I affirm these be things a witch would do if she could. When you write to Lloyd, he wishes his Jacobin correspondents to address him as _Mr._ C. L. Love and respects to Edith. I hope she is well. "Young hopes, and love's delightful dreams," God bless him for it, and God bless you, Southey! "'Other joys Are but toys.' I am in much better spirits than when I wrote last. I have had a very eligible offer to lodge with a friend in town. He will have rooms to let at midsummer, by which time I hope my sister will be well enough to join me. It is a great object to me to live in town, where we shall be much more _private_, and to quit a house and neighborhood where poor Mary's disorder, so frequently recurring, has made us a sort of marked people. We can be nowhere private except in the midst of London. We shall be in a family where we visit very frequently; only my landlord and I have not yet come to a conclusion. He has a partner to consult. I am still on the tremble, for I do not know where we could go into lodgings that would not be, in many respects, highly exceptionable. Only God send Mary well again, and I hope all will be well! The prospect, such as it is, has made me quite happy. I have just time to tell you of it, as I know it will give you pleasure. Farewell. N.B. It would not be amiss if you were to accompany your _present_ with a dissertation on negative quantities. God bless me, here are the birds, smoking hot! Avaunt friendship and all memory of absent friends! Pray let us have no more complaints about shadows. We are in a fair way, _through you_, to surfeit sick upon them. Our loves and respects to your host and hostess. Our dearest love to Coleridge. Farewell, dear Substance. Take no umbrage at anything I have written. C. LAMB (as you may guess). "She lived unknown; and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in the grave, and oh, The difference to me!" "_And never would cease sending forth her dusters to the spring_. They still crowd out so: this flock here, that there, belaboring The loaded flowers. So," etc. What _endless egression of phrases_ the dog commands! I will tell you more about Chapman and his peculiarities in my next. I am much interested in him. Yours ever affectionately, and Pi-Pos's, God bless you! do come to England. Air and exercise may do great things. Talk with some minister. Why not your father? God dispose all for the best! I have discharged my duty. Your sincere friend, VIRGIN AND CHILD, L. DA VINCI. "Maternal Lady, with thy virgin-grace, Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth, sure, And thou a virgin pure. Lady most perfect, when thy angel face Men look upon, they wish to be A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee." This is a little unfair, to tell so much about ourselves, and to advert so little to your letter, so full of comfortable tidings of you all But my own cares press pretty close upon me, and you can make allowance. That you may go on gathering strength and peace is my next wish to Mary's recovery. God bless you in every way you can form a wish! May He give you health, and safety, and the accomplishment of all your objects, and return you again to us to gladden some fireside or other (I suppose we shall be moved from the Temple). I will nurse the remembrance of your steadiness and quiet, which used to infuse something like itself into our nervous minds. Mary called you our ventilator. Farewell! and take her best wishes and mine. Good by. [_Copy of a letter from Mr. R. Wroughton_.] I am, sir, your obedient servant, [Illustration: Admit to Boxes. Mr. H. _Ninth Night_ Charles Lamb] The same form, only I think without the Apollo, will serve for the pit and galleries. I think it will be best to write my name at full length; but then if I give away a great many, that will be tedious. Perhaps _Ch. Lamb_ will do. BOXES, now I think on it, I'll have in capitals; the rest, in a neat Italian hand. Or better, perhaps, BORES in Old English characters, like Madoc or Thalaba? Mary's love to all of you; I wouldn't let her write. "Queens drop away, while blue-legged Maukin thrives, And courtly Mildred dies, while country Madge survives." The conclusion of this epistle getting gloomy, I have chosen this part to desire _our_ kindest loves to Mrs. Wordsworth and to Dorothea. Will none of you ever be in London again? Again let me thank you for your present, and assure you that fireworks and triumphs have not distracted me from receiving a calm and noble enjoyment from it (which I trust I shall often), and I sincerely congratulate you on its appearance. With kindest remembrances to you and household, we remain, yours sincerely, Farewell, in haste, from a head that is too ill to methodize, a stomach to digest, and all out of tune. Better harmonies await you! Excuse this maddish letter; I am too tired to write _in forma_. Yours, dear W., and all yours, It struck me forcibly that the feeling of these last lines might have been suggested to you by the Cartoon of Paul at Athens. Certain it is that a better motto or guide to that famous attitude can nowhere be found. I shall adopt it as explanatory of that violent but dignified motion. Of Coleridge I hear nothing, nor of the Morgans. I hope to have him like a reappearing star, standing up before me some time when least expected in London, as has been the case whilere. Come as soon as you can. God bless you! Your old friend, Tell Miss Hutchinson my sister is every day wishing to be quietly sitting down to answer her very kind letter; but while C. stays she can hardly find a quiet time. God bless him! Mary's love to all; she is quite well. I am called off to do the deposits on Cotton Wool. But why do I relate this to you, who want faculties to comprehend the great mystery of deposits, of interest, of warehouse rent, and contingent fund? Adieu! Adieu! ye fields, ye shepherds and--herdesses, and dairies and cream-pots, and fairies and dances upon the green. I come, I come. Don't drag me so hard by the hair of my head, Genius of British India! I know my hour is come, Faustus must give up his soul, O Lucifer, O Mephistopheles! Can you make out what all this letter is about? I am afraid to look it over. Given in haste from my desk at Leadenhall. Yours, and yours most sincerely, But when Providence, who is better to us all than our aunts, gives me a pig, remembering my temptation and my fall, I shall endeavor to act towards it more in the spirit of the donor's purpose. Yours (short of pig) to command in everything, Yours, with every kind remembrance, Since I saw you I have been in France, and have eaten frogs. The nicest little rabbity things you ever tasted. Do look about for them. Make Mrs. Clare pick off the hind-quarters, boil them plain, with parsley and butter. The fore-quarters are not so good. She may let them hop off by themselves. TO MR. BARRON FIELD. The letter is wanted, and I am wanted. Imagine the blank filled up with all kind things. Our joint, hearty remembrances to both of you. Yours as ever, I am pleased with your liking "John Woodvil," and amused with your knowledge of our drama being confined to Shakspeare and Miss Baillie. What a world of fine territory between Land's End and Johnny Groat's have you missed traversing! I could almost envy you to have so much to read. I feel as if I had read all the books I want to read. Oh, to forget Fielding, Steele, etc., and read 'em new! Mary perfectly approves of the appropriation of the _feathers,_ and wishes them peacock's for your fair niece's sake. Having now answered most of the points contained in your letter, let me end with assuring you of our very best kindness, and excuse Mary for not handling the pen on this occasion, especially as it has fallen into so much better hands! Will Dr. W. accept of my respects at the end of a foolish letter? It came in boots, too, which I took as a favor. Generally these petty-toes, pretty toes I are missing: but I suppose he wore them to look taller. He must have been the least of his race. His little foots would have gone into the silver slipper. I take him to have beec a Chinese and a female. He crackled delicately. I have my sight, hearing, taste, pretty perfect, and can read the Lord's Prayer in common type, by the help of a candle, without making many mistakes Many happy returns, not of the pig, but of the New Year, to both. Mary, for her share of the pig and the memoirs, desires to send the same. Throw yourself on the world without any rational plan of support beyond what the chance employ of booksellers would afford you! Keep your good spirits up, dear B. B., mine will return; they are at present in abeyance, but I am rather lethargic than miserable. I don't know but a good horsewhip would be more beneficial to me than physic. My head, without aching, will teach yours to ache. It is well I am getting to the conclusion. I will send a better letter when I am a better man. Let me thank you for your kind concern for me (which I trust will have reason soon to be dissipated), and assure you that it gives me pleasure to hear from you. Yours ever truly, C. L. I am thoroughly pleased with him. He is firm, out-speaking, intrepid, and docile as a pupil of Pythagoras. You must like him. Yours, in tremors of painful hope, Address me, in future, Colebrooke Cottage, Islington, I am really nervous (but that will wear off), so take this brief announcement. I am yours and A.K.'s truly, We shall be soon again at Colebrooke. TO HENRY CRABB ROBINSON. TO PETER GEORGE PATMORE. Dash is frightful this morning. He whines and stands up on his hind legs. He misses Becky, who is gone to town. I took him to Barnet the other day, and he couldn't eat his vittles after it. Pray God his intellectuals be not slipping. Mary is gone out for some soles. I suppose 'tis no use to ask you to come and partake of 'em; else there is a steam vessel. Oh, I am so poorly! I _waked_ it at my cousin's the bookbinder, who is now with God; or if he is not,'tis no fault of mine. We hope the Frank wines do not disagree with Mrs. Patmore. By the way, I like her. Did you ever taste frogs? Get them if you can. They are like little Lilliput rabbits, only a thought nicer. "No shrimps!" (that's in answer to Mary's question about how the soles are to be done.) "If he bring but a _relict_ away, He is happy, nor heard to complain." Do you observe my direction? Is it Gallic, classical? Do try and get some frogs. You must ask for "grenouilles" (green eels). They don't understand "frogs," though 't is a common phrase with us. If you go through Bulloign (Boulogne), inquire if Old Godfrey is living, and how he got home from the Crusades. He must be a very old man. Give our kind loves to all at Highgate, and tell them that we have finally torn ourselves outright away from Colebrooke, where I had _no_ health, and are about to domiciliate for good at Enfield, where I have experienced _good_. See the rest in the "Compleat Angler." We have got our books into our new house. I am a dray-horse if I was not ashamed of the indigested, dirty lumber, as I toppled 'em out of the cart, and blessed Becky that came with 'em for her having an unstuffed brain with such rubbish. We shall get in by Michael's Mass. 'T was with some pain we were evulsed from Colebrooke. Oh, the curds-and-cream you shall eat with us here! Oh, the turtle-soup and lobster-salads we shall devour with you there! Oh, the old books we shall peruse here! Oh, the new nonsense we shall trifle over there! Oh, Sir T. Browne, here! Oh, Mr. Hood and Mr. Jerdan, there! If you do, can you bear new designs from Martin, enamelled into copper or silver plate by Heath, accompanied with verses from Mrs. Hemans's pen? Oh, how unlike his own! "Wouldst thou divert thyself from melancholy? Wouldst thou be pleasant, yet be far from folly? Wouldst thou read riddles and their explanation? Or else be drowned in thy contemplation? Dost thou love picking meat? or wouldst thou see A man i' the clouds, and hear him speak to thee? Wouldst thou be in a dream, and yet not sleep? Or wouldst thou in a moment laugh and weep? Or wouldst thou lose thyself, and catch no harm, And find thyself again without a charm? Wouldst read _thyself_, and read thou knowest not what, And yet know whether thou art blest or not By reading the same lines? Oh, then come hither, And lay my book, thy head, and heart together." We both join in kindest loves to you and yours. C. LAMB _redivivus_. _Erratum_ in sonnet. Last line but something, for "tender" read "tend," The Scotch do not know our law terms, but I find some remains of honest, plain old writing lurking there still. They were not so mealy mouthed as to refuse my verses. Maybe, 't is their oatmeal, TO BERNARD BARTON. ENFIELD CHASE SIDE, "What have I with time to do? Slaves of desks, 't was meant for you." Mary's love? Yes. Mary Lamb quite well. Ayrton was here yesterday, and as _learned_ to the full as my fellow-traveller. What a pity that he will spoil a wit and a devilish pleasant fellow (as he is) by wisdom! He talked on Music; and by having read Hawkins and Burney recently I was enabled to talk of names, and show more knowledge than he had suspected I possessed; and in the end he begged me to shape my thoughts upon paper, which I did after he was gone, and sent him "Free Thoughts on Some Eminent Composers." "Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart, Just as the whim bites. For my part, I do not care a farthing candle For either of them, or for Handel," etc. I am tired with this long scrawl; but I thought in your exile you might like a letter. Commend me to all the wonders in Derbyshire, and tell the devil I humbly kiss my hand to him. What can make her so fond of a gingerbread watch? Well, if "love me, love my watch," answers, she will keep time to you. It goes right by the Horse-Guards. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Best Letters of Charles Lamb Edited by Edward Gilpin Johnson	redpajama-book	5,549
Many thanks to Peter Moulding who transcribed this eText. email: p e t e r @ m o u l d i n g n a m e . i n f o LANCASHIRE FACTORY FOLK DURING THE COTTON FAMINE Author of "Lancashire Sketches", "Poems and Lancashire Songs", "Tufts of Heather from the Northern Moors", etc, etc. LETTERS AND SPEECHES UPON THE COTTON FAMINE AMONG THE PRESTON OPERATIVES. "Then aw said to eawr Margit, while we're upo' the floor, 'We's never be lower i' this world, aw'm sure; Iv ever things awtern they're likely to mend, For aw think i' my heart that we're both at th' fur end; For meight we ban noan, Nor no looms to weighve on, An' egad, they're as good lost as fund.'" Old age and infirmity, too, had found Ruth out, in her penurious obscurity; and she was disposed to complain a little, like Nan, sometimes, of "the ills that flesh is heir to:" "Fro' t' wind i't stomach, rheumatism, Tengin pains i't gooms, An' coughs, an' cowds, an' t' spine o't back, I suffer martyrdom. "Yet nob'dy pities mo, or thinks I'm ailin' owt at all; T' poor slave mun tug an' tew wi't wark, Wolivver shoo can crawl." "Oh, let us bear the present as we may, Nor let the golden past be all forgot; Hope lifts the curtain of the future day, Where peace and plenty smile without a spot On their white garments; where the human lot Looks lovelier and less removed from heaven; Where want, and war, and discord enter not, But that for which the wise have hoped and striven-The wealth of happiness, to humble worth is given. AMONG THE WIGAN OPERATIVES People of this temper are more numerous amongst our working population than the world believes, because they are exactly of the kind least likely to be heard of. They will fight their share of the battle of this time out as nobly as they have begun it; and it will be an ill thing for the land that owns them if full justice is not done to their worth, both now and hereafter. Happily, such weakness as this is not characteristic of the English people; but "they are well kept that God keeps," and perhaps it would not be wise to cramp the hand of relief too much at a time like this, to a people who have been, and will be yet, the hope and glory of the land. AN INCIDENT BY THE WAYSIDE. WANDERING MINSTRELS; OR, WAILS OF THE WORKLESS POOR. "Suppliants who would blush To wear a tatter'd garb, however coarse; Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth; Who ask with painful shyness, and refused, Because deserving, silently retire." It is a tune often sung by country people in Lancashire at funerals; and, if I remember right, the same melody is cut upon Leech's gravestone in the old Wesleyan Chapel-yard, at Rochdale. I saw a company of minstrels of the same class going through Brown Street, the other day, playing and singing, "In darkest shades, if Thou appear, My dawning is begun." LETTER AND SPEECHES UPON THE COTTON FAMINE LETTERS OF A LANCASHIRE LAD ON THE COTTON FAMINE. Those of us who are men would rather do much than let our sisters go begging. May not some of us take to doing more to prevent it? I remember some poetry about the 'Sister bloodhounds, Want and Sin,' MR COBDEN'S SPEECH ON THE COTTON FAMINE. This would only be done by an active effort from the centre here, and I submit that we shall not be doing justice to this effort unless we give to the whole country an opportunity of co-operating in that way, and throw upon every part of the kingdom a share of the responsibility of this great crisis and emergency. I submit that there is every motive why this community, as well as the whole kingdom, should wish to preserve this industrious population in health and in the possession of their energies. There is every motive why we should endeavour to keep this working population here rather than drive them away from here, as you will do if they are not sufficiently fed and clothed during the next winter. They will be wanted again if this district is to revive, as we all hope and believe it will revive. Your fixed capital here is of no use without the population. It is of no use without your raw material. Lancashire is the richest county in the kingdom when its machinery is employed; it is the poorest county in the kingdom when its machinery and fixed capital are paralysed, as at present. Therefore, I say it is the interest, not only of this community, but of the kingdom, that this population should be preserved for the time--I hope not a distant time--when the raw material of their industry will be supplied to this region. SPEECH OF THE EARL OF DERBY But, gentlemen, we have happier and more gratifying subjects of contemplation. I have pointed to the noble conduct which must make us proud of our countrymen in the mmiufacturing districts; I have pointed to the noble and heroic submission to difficulties they could never foresee, and privations they never expected to encounter; but again, we have another feeling which I am sure will not be disappointed, which the country has nobly met--that this is an opportunity providentially given to those who are blessed with wealth and fortune to show their sympathy--their practical, active, earnest sympathy--with the sufferings of their poorer brethren, and, with God's blessing, used as I trust by God's blessing it will be, it may be a link to bind together more closely than ever the various classes in this great community, to satisfy the wealthy that the poor have a claim, not only to their money, but to their sympathy-to satisfy the poor also that the rich are not overbearing, grinding tyrants, but men like themselves, who have hearts to feel for suffering, and are prompt to use the means God has given to them for the relief of that suffering. Gentlemen, a few words more, and I will not further trespass on your attention. But I feel myself called on, as chairman of that executive committee to which my noble friend in the chair has paid so just a compliment, to lay before you some answer to objections which have been made, and which in other counties, if not in this, may have a tendency to check the contributions which have hitherto so freely flowed in. Before doing so, allow me to say (and I can do it with more freedom, because in the, earlier stages of its organisation I was not a member of that committee) it is bare justice to them to say that there never was an occasion on which greater or more earnest efforts were made to secure that the distribution of those funds intrusted to them should be guarded against all possibility of abuse, and be distributed without the slightest reference to political or religious opinions; distributed with the most perfect impartiality, and in every locality, through the instrumentality of persons in whom the neighbourhood might repose entire confidence. Such has been our endeavour, and I think to a great extent we have been successful. I may say that, although the central executive committee is composed of men of most discordant opinions in politics and religion, nothing for a single moment has interfered with the harmony--I had almost said with the unanimity--of our proceedings. There has been nothing to produce any painful feelings among us, nor any desire on the part of the representatives of different districts to obtain an undue share for the districts they represented from the common fund. SONGS OF DISTRESS, CHIEFLY WRITTEN DURING THE COTTON FAMINE. STANZAS TO MY STARVING KIN IN THE NORTH. BY ELIZA COOK. Sad are the sounds that are breaking forth From the women and men of the brave old North! Sad are the sights for human eyes, In fireless homes, 'neath wintry skies; Where wrinkles gather on childhood's skin, And youth's "clemm'd" cheek is pallid and thin; Where the good, the honest--unclothed, unfed, Child, mother, and father, are craving for bread! But faint not, fear not--still have trust; Your voices are heard, and your claims are just. England to England's self is true, And "God and the People" will help you through. Brothers and sisters! full well ye have stood, While the gripe of gaunt Famine has curdled your blood! No murmur, no threat on your lips have place, Though ye look on the Hunger-fiend face to face; But haggard and worn ye silently bear, Dragging your death-chains with patience and prayer; With your hearts as loyal, your deeds as right, As when Plenty and Sleep blest your day and your night, Brothers and sisters! oh! do not believe It is Charity's GOLD ALONE ye receive. Ah, no! It is Sympathy, Feeling, and Hope, That pull out in the Life-boat to fling ye a rope. Fondly I've lauded your wealth-winning hands, Planting Commerce and Fame throughout measureless lands; And my patriot-love, and my patriot-song, To the children of Labour will ever belong. Women and men of this brave old soil! I weep that starvation should guerdon your toil; But I glory to see ye--proudly mute-Showing SOULS like the HERO, not FANGS like the brute. Oh! keep courage within; be the Britons ye are; HE, who driveth the storm hath His hand on the star! England to England's sons shall be true, And "God and the People" will carry ye through! STRANGER! who to buy art willing, Seek not here for talent rare; Mine's no song of love or beauty, But a tale of want and care. Ah! perchance the landscape fairer Charms your taste, your artist-eye; Little do you guess how dearly Costs that now unclouded sky. "Better far it were, most surely, Never more such clouds to see, Bringing taint o'er nature's beauty, With their foul obscurity." Ah! to them each smokeless chimney Is a signal of despair; They see hunger, sickness, ruin, Written in that pure, bright air. "Mother! mother! see! 'twas truly Said last week the mill would stop; Mark yon chimney, nought is going, There's no smoke from 'out o'th top!' "Father! father! what's the reason That the chimneys smokeless stand? Is it true that all through strangers, We must starve in our own land?" Low upon her chair that mother Droops, and sighs with tearful eye; At the hearthstone lags the father, Musing o'er the days gone by. Days which saw him glad and hearty, Punctual at his work of love; When the week's end brought him plenty, And he thanked the Lord above. When his wages, earned so justly, Gave him clothing, home, and food; When his wife, with fond caresses, Blessed his heart, so kind and good. Neat and clean each Sunday saw them, In their place of prayer and praise, Little dreaming that the morrow Piteous cries for help would raise. Now the things, so long and dearly Prized before, are pledged away; Clock and Bible, marriage-presents, Both must go--how sad to say! Charley trots to school no longer, Nelly grows more pale each day; Nay, the baby's shoes, so tiny, Must be sold, for bread to pay. They who loathe to be dependent Now for alms are forced to ask Hard is mill-work, but, believe me, Begging is the bitterest task. Soon will come the doom most dreaded, With a horror that appals; Lo! before their downcast faces Grimly stare the workhouse walls. Stranger, if these sorrows touch you, Widely bid your bounty flow; And assist my poor endeavours To relieve this load of woe. Rather pray that peace, soon bringing Work and plenty in her train, We may see these smokeless chimneys Blackening all the land again. THE MILL-HAND'S PETITION. The following verses are copied from "Lancashire Lyrics," edited by John Harland, Esq., F.S.A. They are extracted from a song "by some 'W.C.,' printed as a street broadside, at Ashton-under-Lyne, and sung in most towns of South Lancashire." We have come to ask for assistance; At home we've been starving too long; An' our children are wanting subsistence; Kindly aid us to help them along. For humanity is calling; Don't let the call be in vain; But help us; we're needy and falling; And God will return it again. War's clamour and civil commotion Has stagnation brought in its train; And stoppage bring with it starvation, So help us some bread to obtain. For humanity is calling. The American war is still lasting; Like a terrible nightmare it leans On the breast of a country, now fasting For cotton, for work, and for means. And humanity is calling. Cheer up a bit longer, mi brothers i' want, There's breeter days for us i' store; There'll be plenty o' tommy an' wark for us o' When this 'Merica bother gets o'er. Yo'n struggled reet nobly, an' battled reet hard, While things han bin lookin' so feaw; Yo'n borne wi' yo're troubles and trials so long, It's no use o' givin' up neaw. (From "Phases of Distress--Lancashire Rhymes.") BY JOSEPH RAMSBOTTOM. Confound it! aw ne'er wur so woven afore; My back's welly brocken, mi fingers are sore; Aw've been starin' an' rootin' amung this Shurat, Till aw'm very near getten as bloint as a bat. O dear! iv yon Yankees could nobbut just see, Heaw they're clemmin' an' starvin' poor weavers loike me, Aw think they'd soon sattle their bother, an' strive To send us some cotton to keep us alive. There's theawsan's o' folk, just i'th best o' their days, Wi' traces o' want plainly sin i' their faze; An' a futur afore 'em as dreary an' dark; For, when th' cotton gets done, we's be o' eawt o' wark. We'n bin patient an' quiet as lung as we con; Th' bits o' things we had by us are welly o' gone; Mi clogs an' mi shoon are both gettin' worn eawt, An' my halliday clooas are o' gone "up th' speawt!" Mony a time i' my days aw've sin things lookin' feaw, But never as awkard as what they are neaw; Iv there isn't some help for us factory folk soon, Aw'm sure 'at we's o' be knock'd reet eawt o' tune. God help the poor, who in this wintry morn, Come forth of alleys dim and courts obscure; God help yon poor, pale girl, who droops forlorn, And meekly her affliction doth endure! God help the poor who in lone valleys dwell, Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow Theirs is a story sad indeed to tell! Yet little cares the world, nor seeks to know The toil and want poor weavers undergo. The irksome loom must have them up at morn; They work till worn-out nature will have sleep; They taste, but are not fed. Cold snow drifts deep Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door; The night-storm howls a dirge o'er moss and moor! And shall they perish thus, oppress'd and lorn? Shall toil and famine hopeless still be borne!-No! GOD will yet arise, and HELP THE POOR! Iv a mon be both honest an' willin', An' never a stroke to be had, An' clemmin' for want ov a shillin',-It's likely to make him feel sad; It troubles his heart to keep seein' His little brids feedin' o'th air; An' it feels very hard to be deein', An' never a mortal to care. But life's sich a quare bit o' travel,-A warlock wi' sun an' wi' shade,-An' then, on a bowster o' gravel, They lay'n us i' bed wi' a spade; It's no use o' peawtin' an' fratchin'; As th' whirligig's twirlin' areawn'd, Have at it again; an' keep scratehin', As lung as your yed's upo' greawnd. There's danger i' every station, I'th palace, as weel as i'th cot; There's hanker i' every condition, An' canker i' every lot; There's folk that are weary o' livin', That never fear't hunger nor cowd; An' there's mony a miserly crayter 'At's deed ov a surfeit o' gowd. JOHN HEYWOOD, PRINTER, MANCHESTER. The Moorland Flower--To the Rose-Tree on my Window Sill--Keen Blows the North Wind--Now Summer's Sunlight Glowing--The Moorland Witch-The Church Clock--God Bless Thee, Old England--All on a Rosy Morn of June--Glad Welcome to Morn's Dewy Hours--Alas, how Hard it is to Smile--Ye Gallant Men of England--Here's to my Native Land--What Makes your Leaves Fall Down--Oh, had she been a Lowly Maid--The Old Bard's Welcome Home--Oh, Come Across the Fields--Oh, Weave a Garland for my Brow--The Wanderer's Hymn--Alone upon the Flowery Plain-Life's Twilight--Time is Flying--The Moorlands--The Captain's Friends--The World--To a Married Lady--Cultivate your Men--Old Man's Song--Bide on--Christmas Song--Love and Gold--When Drowsy Daylight-Mary--To the Spring Wind--Nightfall--To a Young Lady--Poor Travellers all--The Dying Rose--Lines--The Man of the Time-Christmas Morning. SONGS IN THE DIALECT. WAUGH'S LANCASHIRE SONGS. WAUGH'S LANCASHIRE SONGS. Another song, called 'The Surat Weyver,' was written by William Billington of Blackburn. It is in the form of a lament by a body of Lancashire weavers, who declare that they had " 'Borne what mortal man could bear, Affoore they'd weave Surat.' But they had been compelled to weave it, though " 'Stransportashun's not as ill As weyvin rotten Su'.' The song concludes with the emphatic execration, " 'To hell wi' o' Surat!'"	redpajama-book	3,770
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Keith M. Eckrich, Tom Allen and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. THE GREAT EVENTS BY FAMOUS HISTORIANS A comprehensive and readable account of the world's history, emphasizing the more important events, and presenting these as complete narratives in the master-words of the most eminent historians. Non-sectarian, non-partisan and non-sectional. On the plan evolved from a consensus of opinions gathered from the most distinguished scholars of America and Europe, including brief introductions by specialists to connect and explain the celebrated narratives, arranged chronologically, with thorough indices, bibliographies, chronologies, and courses of reading. Editor-in-Chief: Rossiter Johnson, LL.D. Associate Editors: Charles F. Horne, Ph.D. and John Rudd, LL.D. With a staff of specialists CONTENTS of VOLUME XVII AN OUTLINE NARRATIVE OF THE GREAT EVENTS, Charles F. Horne The mutinous Sepoys blown from the mouths of cannon by the English at Cawnpore, Painting by Basil Verestchagin. AN OUTLINE NARRATIVE (Tracing briefly the causes, connections, and consequences of the great events.) THE TRIUMPH OF DEMOCRACY, Charles F. Horne The changes were symbolic, perhaps, of the more rapid rate at which the forces of society were soon to move. Over all Europe and America great events were shaping themselves with lightning speed. Tremendous changes political and economic, social and scientific, were hurrying to an issue. Also in that same year, gold was discovered in California. Thousands of eager adventurers flocked thither, and thus the vast wilderness that Mexico had lightly surrendered had hardly become United States territory ere it was filled with people, not listless semi-savages, but eager, energetic men, resolute and resourceful. The West joined the march of progress; it doubled the wealth and prowess of the East. [Footnote: See _Discovery of Gold in California_.] THE UPRISING OF THE PEOPLES Yet against all these difficulties the military power of the Austrian Government began to make determined headway. The Bohemians were crushed by force of arms. In Italy the Austrian general-in-chief withdrew slowly before his many foes, until his Government could reenforce him. Then he turned on them, completely defeated the Sardinian King at Custozza and the next year at Novara, and therby restored Austrian supremacy in Northern Italy. Only in Hungary were the royal armies baffled. There a regular republican government was established under Louis Kossuth. Hungarian armies were raised, and, defeating the Austrians in pitched battles, drove them from the land. The Austrian Emperor in despair appealed to Russia for aid; and the Czar having just trampled out an incipient Polish rebellion of his own, came willingly to the aid of his brother autocrat. Just as Austrian troops had so often done in Italy, so now a huge Russian horde poured over Hungary, beat down all resistance, and having reduced the land to helplessness returned it to the angry grip of its insulted sovereign. [Footnote: See _The Revolt of Hungary_.] Hundreds of thousands of the poorer classes starved. Then began a stream of emigration to America. Under pressure of such facts as these, the English "Corn Laws" were repealed, and gradually Great Britain assumed more and more positively the attitude of "free trade." [Footnote: See _Repeal of the English Corn Laws_.] EXPANSION OF EUROPEAN INFLUENCE [For the next section of this general survey, see volume XVIII.] Meanwhile other inventors were still working for the same results, in many parts of the world, and it has been significantly said that "the electric telegraph had, properly speaking, no inventor; it grew up little by little." Nevertheless with respect to the distinctive character of Morse's improvements, and his title to a peculiar place among those through whose labors the electric telegraph "grew," there can be no question. Shortly thereafter the apparatus was taken to Philadelphia and exhibited at the Franklin Institute, where he received the highest commendation from the committee of science and arts, with a strong expression in favor of government aid for the purpose of demonstrating the practical usefulness of the system. An amusing incident was related of the means used to keep from public knowledge the desperate situation. Professor Morse finally visited the scene of activity where the pipe-laying was proceeding, and, calling the superintendent aside, confided to him the fact that the work must be stopped without the newspapers finding out the true reason of its suspension. The quick-witted superintendent was equal to the occasion, and, starting the ponderous machine, soon managed to run foul of a protruding rock and break the plough. The newspapers published sensational accounts of the accident and announced that it would require several weeks to repair damages. Thus the real trouble was kept from the public until new plans could be determined upon. The true spirit of enterprise, which has so grandly developed the resources of our imperial domain, has generally been found to prevail among people of modest means. Thus, nearly every dollar of capital contributed toward the establishment of telegraph lines in this country came from the offerings of people in very moderate circumstances. In this connection, therefore, it is extremely gratifying to state that very few enterprises of any kind have returned such generous recompense for the amount of capital invested as the telegraph and telephone lines in America. Considering the apparently temporary and short-lived character of the structures erected for these purposes, it seems difficult to comprehend the truth of this statement. A Cabinet council was held almost immediately after the publication of Lord John Russell's letter, and Peel recommended the summoning of Parliament in order to take instant measures to cope with the distress in Ireland, and also to introduce legislation distinctly intended to prepare the way for the repeal of the corn laws. Lord Stanley could not accept the proposition. The Duke of Wellington was himself of opinion that the corn laws ought to be maintained, but at the same time he declared that he considered good government for the country more important than corn laws or any other considerations, and that he was therefore ready to support Sir Robert Peel's Administration through thick and thin. Lord Stanley and the Duke of Buccleuch, however, declared that they could not be parties to any legislation which tended toward the repeal of the corn-laws. Sir Robert Peel did not feel himself strong enough to carry out his project in the face of such opposition in the Cabinet itself, and he tendered his resignation to the Queen. The Queen sent for Lord John Russell, but Russell's party were not very strong in the country and they had not a majority in the House of Commons. Lord John tried, however, to form a ministry without a Parliamentary majority, and even although Sir Robert Peel would not give any pledge to support a measure for the immediate and complete repeal of the corn laws, Lord John Russell was not successful. The moment after Sir Robert Peel succeeded in passing his great measure of free trade he himself fell from power. His political epitaph, perhaps, could not be better written than in the words with which he closed the speech that just preceded his fall: "It may be that I shall leave a name sometimes remembered with expressions of good-will in those places which are the abode of men whose lot it is to labor and to earn their daily bread by the sweat of their brow--a name remembered with expressions of good-will when they shall recreate their exhausted strength with abundant and untaxed food, the sweeter because it is no longer leavened with a sense of injustice." Many of the old Antislavery party found themselves deceived by this fallacy, and inclined to join the agitation against the reduction of the duty on foreign sugar. On the other hand, it was made tolerably clear that the labor was not so scarce or so dear in the colonies as had been represented, and that colonial sugar grown by free labor really suffered from no inconvenience except the fact that it was still manufactured on the most crude, old-fashioned, and uneconomical methods. Besides, the time had gone by when the majority of the English people could be convinced that a lesson on the beauty of freedom was to be conveyed to foreign sugar-growers and slave-owners by the means of a tax upon the products of their plantations. Therefore, after a long and somewhat eager struggle, the principle of free trade was allowed to prevail in regard to sugar. The duties on sugar were made equal. The growth of the sugar plantations was admitted on the same terms into that country, without any reference either to the soil from which it had sprung or to the conditions under which it was grown. From the time of Sir William Herschel the science of stellar astronomy, revealing the enormous distances of the stars--none of them really fixed, but all having real or apparent motions--was rapidly developed. The discovery of stellar planets, at almost incalculable distances, still further changed the aspect of the heavens as viewed by astronomers, and when the capital discovery of Neptune was made those men of science were well prepared for studying its nature and importance. These matters, as well as the simultaneous calculation of the place of Neptune by Adams and Leverrier, and its actual discovery by Galle, are set forth by Sir Oliver Lodge in a manner as charming for simplicity as it is valuable in its summary of scientific learning. The ordinary problem of perturbation is difficult enough: Given a disturbing planet in such and such a position, to find the perturbations it produces. This was the problem that Laplace worked out in the _Mecanique Celeste_. It may seem a pity to many that the Greenwich equatorial was not pointed at the place, just to see whether any foreign object did happen to be in that neighborhood; but it is no light matter to derange the work of an observatory, and alter the plans laid out for the staff, into a sudden sweep for a new planet on the strength of a mathematical investigation just received by post. If observatories were conducted on these unsystematic and spasmodic principles they would not be the calm, accurate, satisfactory places they are. He then set to work to consider the perturbations produced by Jupiter and Saturn to see whether they had been accurately allowed for, or whether some minute improvements could be made sufficient to destroy the irregularities. He introduced several fresh terms into these calculations, but none of them of sufficient importance to do more than partly explain the mysterious perturbations. He next examined the various hypotheses that had been suggested to account for them. Were they caused by a failure in the law of gravitation or by the presence of a resisting medium? Were they due to some large but unseen satellite or to a collision with some comet? "The past year has given to us the new [minor] planet Astraea; it has done more--it has given us the probable prospect of another. We see it as Columbus saw America from the shores of Spain. Its movements have been felt trembling along the far-reaching line of our analysis with a certainty hardly inferior to ocular demonstration." Leverrier was likewise engaged in improving this theory and in considering how best the optical search could be conducted. Actuated probably by the knowledge that in such matters as cataloguing and mapping Germany was then, as now, far ahead of all the other nations, he wrote in September (the same year that Sir John Herschel delivered his eloquent address at Southampton) to Berlin. Leverrier wrote to Doctor Galle, head of the observatory at Berlin, saying to him, clearly and decidedly, that the new planet was now in or close to such and such a position, and that if he would point his telescope to that part of the heavens he would see it; and moreover that he would be able to tell it from a star by its having a sensible magnitude, or disk, instead of being a mere point. As may have been expected, the sailors and marines were ashore, and the strict discipline which "the deck" had inculcated appears to have been left on board the frigate. As a necessary consequence the camp displayed but little of the order which such a locality should have insured; and many and marvellous were the adventures of that night; while, on the other hand, the enemy profited by the delay, by the moral effect of the disorder with which the march had been conducted, and by the entire absence of any artillery. The story of the Arab hero from this point in his career is told by Sanderson, the faithful commemorator of great nineteenth-century patriots, a high authority on modern Africa. The treaty was held by the French Government to be a high stroke of policy, converting an enemy into an ally. The French people regarded it as a humiliating surrender of French territory to a rival power. It was the culminating point of Abd-el-Kader's career. The plan of campaign was formidable for the Arabs, but it was encountered by the Sultan with wonderful skill and daring in a struggle which involved some thrilling episodes, Lamoriciere, in his efforts to overtake the foe, was constantly baffled. Hearing that Abd-el-Kader was before Mascara, he hurried thither by forced marches, only to find that his enemy had passed by his rear and was raiding a tribe friendly to the French. Pursuing in the new direction, the French leader was outmaneuvre by the Sultan's bold and rapid dash across the Cheliff, placing his Arabs between Bugeaud and the sea, and recovering his ascendency over the tribes in that region. Abd-el-Kader then swept in a _razzia_ to the south of Miliana, and soon appeared in full force in the Sahara as the bewildered French pursuers returned to their cantonments in despair of reaching him. This is a sample of the evolutions by which genius made amends for inferiority of force. The ablest military combinations were rendered abortive by an enemy that was ever slipping between columns, flitting in the front, hovering on the flanks, assailing the rear, and, with perfect knowledge of the country, was sometimes in the mountains and again in the plains, ubiquitous, unattainable for serious conflict. Lamoriciere, on receiving the news of his presence, hastened back to find his recent work undone and to be assailed by the tribes who had so lately joined him. Fighting his way bravely on to an encounter with the great leader of the Arabs, the French general heard of him as in force at Tekedemt. When he reached that place he found that Abd-el-Kader had fallen on Changarnier toward Miliana. That general, knowing nothing of the Sultan's approach, found himself enveloped by a vast force of Arabs and Kabyles, regulars and irregulars, horse and foot, led on by Abd-el-Kader in person and charging furiously on all sides. In spite of his wonderful efforts, the Sultan could not but feel that he was struggling with adverse fortune. The enemy by the seizure of his fixed establishments had gained possession of a large part of his territory and of the strongholds that had contained his stores of war. His regular army had almost disappeared, and much of his credit among the Arabs had departed. The _ketna_, which was his ancestral abode, had been laid waste. He could not protect the families of his most faithful adherents from constant exposure, in spite of his vigilant activity, to the outrages of the detested infidels. In this position, he resolved to remove from the scene of warfare those whom it was impossible for him to desert with any regard to feelings of religion and humanity. He formed his famous _smala_, a new and remarkable organization consisting of a gathering of private families. To this moving asylum of refuge and safety the Arab tribes sent their treasure, their herds, their women and children, their sick and aged persons. The indicated place of encampment was found empty, and the French column wandered about in uncertain fashion. The blow was, on the whole, irreparable in its effects upon the influence of the Sultan. Every day brought tidings of the defection of some great tribe. The ranks of his enemies were swelled by large contingents of Arabs. The end of the great career was rapidly coming. After another vain appeal to the Moorish ruler even Abd-el-Kader felt that all was lost. A French writer in the _Biographie generale_ truly declares: "The greatness of the man was strikingly displayed in the very hour of his downfall. Destitute of resources, surrounded by foes, at open enmity with the Emperor of Morocco, wandering like a hunted lion, with hardly any comrade but his horse, no shelter except his tent, Abd-el-Kader still inspired a terror which forced his enemies to keep a great army on foot in Algeria for protection against possible attacks at his hand." It was a fearful time for men who loved their country, not only with deep affection, but with a wise and forecasting interest. A revolution of the worst type was in progress. Not the present alone, but the future, was being laid waste. The marvellous reform accomplished by Father Mathew, the self-reliance which had grown up in the era of monster meetings, and the moral teachings of Davis and his friends were being fast swallowed up by this calamity. The youth and manhood of the middle classes were scrambling for pauper places from the Board of Works, and the peasants were being transformed into mendicants by process of law. These calamities, related of a distant and savage tribe, would move a generous heart; but seeing them befall our own people, the children of the same mother, and foreseeing all the black, unfathomable misery they foreshadowed, it was hard to preserve the sober rule of reason. On the relief committees, doctors, clergymen, and country gentlemen bore the burden of the work, but a multitude of the gentry stood apart as if the transaction did not concern them. They were busy in transferring the harvest to England or clearing the population off their estates. The English officials in Ireland accused them of jobbing in public works, or quartering their relations and dependents on the Relief Fund, as overseers, and, in some extreme cases, of obtaining grants for their own families of money designed for the suffering poor on their estates. The benevolence of the minority could not counterbalance these odious offences, and deadly hatred was sown, which has since borne an abundant harvest. "The town of Westport was in itself a strange and fearful sight, like what we read of in beleaguered cities; its streets crowded with gaunt wanderers, sauntering to and fro with hopeless air and hunger-stricken look; a mob of starved, almost naked women around the poorhouse clamoring for soup tickets; our inn, the headquarters of the road-engineer and pay-clerks, beset by a crowd begging for work." As he approached Galway, the rural population were found to be in a more miserable condition: "Some of the women and children that we saw on the road were abject cases of poverty and almost naked. The few rags they had on were with the greatest difficulty held together, and in a few weeks, as they are utterly unable to provide themselves with fresh clothes unless they be given them, they must become absolutely naked." And in another district: "As we went along our wonder was not that the people died, but that they lived; and I have no doubt whatever that in any other country the mortality would have been far greater; that many lives have been prolonged, perhaps saved, by the long apprenticeship to want in which the Irish peasant has been trained, and by that lovely, touching charity which prompts him to share his scanty meal with his starving neighbor." When the increased mortality was pressed on the attention of the Government, Lord John Russell replied that the owners of property in Ireland ought to support the poor born on their estates. It was a perfectly just proposition if the ratepayers were empowered to determine the object and method of the expenditure; but prohibiting productive work, and forcing them to turn strong men into paupers and keep them sweltering in workhouses instead of laboring to reclaim the waste lands--this was not justice. The _Times_, commenting on the new policy, declared that Ireland was as well able to help herself as France or Belgium, and that the whole earth was doing duty for inhuman Irish landlords. An unanswerable case, if Ireland, like France and Belgium, had the power of collecting and applying her own revenue; otherwise not difficult to answer. They permitted me also to ascend into the steeple to see where it had been struck by lightning on the Sabbath before; and to look out, east and south, on wasted farms--like those I had seen near the city--extending till they were lost in the distance. Close to the scar left by the thunderbolt were fragments of food, cruses of liquor and broken drinking-vessels, with a bass-drum and a steamboat signal-bell, of which, with pain, I learned the use. Dreadful indeed was the suffering of these forsaken beings. Cowed and cramped by cold and sunburn alternating as each weary day and night dragged on, they were, almost all of them, the crippled victims of disease. They were there because they had no homes, nor hospital, nor poorhouse, nor friends to offer them any. They could not minister to the needs of their sick; they had no bread to quiet the fractious, hungry cries of their children. Mothers and babes, daughters and grandparents, all alike were clothed in tatters, lacking even sufficient covering for the fever-stricken sufferers. Some renewed symptoms of hostile feeling had however determined the pioneer party to begin their work before the spring. It was of course anticipated that this would be a perilous service; but it was regarded as a matter of self-denying duty. The ardor and emulation of many, particularly the devout and the young, were stimulated by the difficulties it involved; and the ranks of the party were therefore filled up with volunteers from among the most effective and responsible members of the sect. They began their march in midwinter; and by the beginning of February nearly all of them were on the road, many of their wagons having crossed the Mississippi on the ice. Under the most favoring circumstances, an expedition of this sort, undertaken at such a season of the year, could scarcely fail to be disastrous. But the pioneer company had to set out in haste, and were very imperfectly supplied with necessaries. The cold was intense. They moved in the teeth of keen-edged northwest winds, such as sweep down the Iowa peninsula from the icebound regions of the timber-shaded Slave Lake and Lake of the Woods. Along the scattered watercourses, where they broke the thick ice to give their cattle drink, the annual autumn fires had left but little firewood. To men, insufficiently furnished with tents and other appliances of shelter, wood was almost a necessary of life. After days of fatigue their nights were often passed in restless efforts to prevent themselves from freezing. Their stock of food also proved inadequate; and as their constitutions became more debilitated their suffering from cold increased. Afflicted with catarrhal affections, manacled by the fetters of dreadfully acute rheumatism, some contrived for a while to get over the shortening day's march and drag along some others. But the sign of an impaired circulation soon began to show itself in the liability of all to be dreadfully frost-bitten. The hardiest and strongest became helplessly crippled. About the same time the strength of their draught animals began to fail. The small supply of provender they could carry with them had given out. The winter-bleached prairie straw proved devoid of nourishment; and they could only keep them from starving by seeking for the "browse," as it is called, this being the green bark and tender buds and branches of the cottonwood and other stunted growths in the hollows. To return to Nauvoo was apparently the only escape; but this would have been to give occasion for fresh mistrust and so to bring new trouble to those they had left there behind them. They resolved at least to hold their ground, and to advance as they might, were it only by limping through the deep snows a few slow miles a day. They found a sort of comfort in comparing themselves to the exiles of Siberia, and sought consolation in earnest prayers for the spring. The frequent burials discouraged and depressed the hardiest spirits; but the general hopefulness of human nature was well illustrated by the fact that even the most provident were found unfurnished with burial necessaries, and as a result they were often driven to the most melancholy makeshifts. The hardships and trials which they had suffered developed a spirit of self-sacrifice among these indomitable people. Hale young men gave up their own food and shelter to the old and helpless, and worked their way back to parts of the frontier States, chiefly Missouri and Iowa where they were not recognized, and hired themselves out for wages, to purchase more. Others were sent there to exchange for meal and flour, or wheat and corn, the table-and bed-furniture and other remaining articles of personal property which a few had still retained. Through all this the pioneers found comfort in the thought that their own suffering was the price of immunity from similar hardships their friends at home, in following their trail, would otherwise have had to pay. But the arrival of spring proved this a delusion. Before the warm weather had made the earth dry enough for easy travel, messengers came in from Nauvoo to overtake the party with fear-exaggerated tales of outrage, and to urge the chief men to hurry back to the city that they might give counsel and assistance there. The enemy had only waited until the emigrants were supposed to be gone on their road too far to return to interfere with them, and then renewed their aggressions. Therefore, though their enemies drove on them ruthlessly, they succeeded in parrying the last sword-thrust, till they had completed even the gilding of the angel and trumpet on the summit of its lofty spire. As a closing work, they placed on the entablature of the front, like a baptismal mark on the forehead, these words: THE HOUSE OF THE LORD: BUILT BY THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS. HOLINESS TO THE LORD! Then, at high noon, under the bright sunshine of May, the next after its completion, they consecrated it to divine service. There was a carefully studied ceremonial for the occasion. It was said the high elders of the sect travelled furtively from the camp of Israel in the wilderness, and, throwing off ingenious disguises, appeared in their own robes of office to give it splendor. After this consecration, which was construed to indicate an insincerity on the part of the Mormons as to their stipulated departure, or at least a hope of return, their foes set upon them with renewed bitterness. As many fled as were at all prepared; but by the very fact of their so decreasing the already diminished forces of the city's defenders, they encouraged the enemy to greater boldness. It soon became apparent that nothing short of an immediate emigration could save the remnant. Like the wounded birds of a flock fired into toward nightfall, they came straggling on with faltering steps, many of them without bag or baggage, beast or barrow, all asking shelter or burial, and forcing a fresh repartition of the already divided rations of their friends. It was plain now that every energy must be taxed to prevent the entire expedition from perishing. Further emigration for the time was out of the question, and the whole people prepared themselves for encountering another winter on the prairie. They were pleased with the Mormons. They would have been pleased with any whites who would not cheat them, nor sell them whiskey, nor whip them for their poor gypsy habits, nor conduct themselves indecently toward their women, many of whom among the Pottawottomis--especially those of nearly unmixed French descent--are singularly comely, and some of them educated. But all Indians have something like a sentiment of reverence for the insane, and admire those who sacrifice, without apparent motive, their worldly welfare to the triumph of an idea. They understand the meaning of what they call a great vow, and think it the duty of the right-minded to lighten the votary's penance under it. To this feeling they united the sympathy of fellow-sufferers for those who could talk to them of their own Illinois, and tell the story of how they also had been ruthlessly expelled from it. Their hospitality was sincere, almost delicate. Fanny le Clerc, the spoiled child of the great brave Pied Riche, interpreter of the nation, would have the paleface Miss Devine learn duets with her on the guitar; and the daughter of substantial Joseph la Framboise, the United States interpreter for the tribe (she died of the fever that summer) welcomed all the nicest young Mormon women to a party at her father's house, which was probably the best cabin in that village. They made the Mormons at home, there and elsewhere. Upon all their lands they formally gave them leave to remain as long as suited their own good pleasure. I will not take it upon myself to describe their order of ceremonies; indeed, I ought not, since I have never been able to view the habits and customs of our aborigines in any other light than that of a sorrowful subject of jest. Besides, in this instance, the powwow and the expected flow of turgid eloquence were both moderated probably by the conduct of the entire transaction on temperance principles. I therefore content myself with observing generally that the proceedings were such as in every way became the dignity of the parties interested, and the magnitude of the interests involved. When the red men had indulged to satiety in tobacco-smoke from their peace-pipes, and in what they love still better--their peculiar metaphoric rhodomontade, which, beginning with the celestial bodies, and coursing downward over the grandest sublunary objects, always managed to alight at last on their "Great Father," Polk, and the tenderness with which his affectionate red children regarded him. All the solemn funny fellows present, who played the part of chiefs, signed formal articles of convention with their unpronounceable names. And thus ended the powwow. I give this speech as a morsel of real Indian. It was recited to me after the treaty by the Pottawottomi orator in French, which language he spoke with elegance. _Bon jour_ ["good day"] is the French, Indian, and English hail, and farewell of the Pottawottomis. The same season these were joined by a part of the battalion and other members of the Church who came eastward from California and the Sandwich Islands. Together they fortified themselves strongly with sun-dried brick walls and blockhouses, and, living safely through the winter, were able to reap crops that yielded ample provision for the ensuing year. Francis Bowen, whose review of Pope Pius's career, from his entrance upon the papal office until his temporary withdrawal from Rome, is here presented, is a well-known authority in this as also in other fields of history, and his recital is based upon the best contemporary accounts. The Pope would have been more than man if his head had not been a little turned with all this adulation, which came to him from many foreign lands as well as from Italy. But his simple and modest character bore the trial well; he manifested no undue elation, and formed his plans tranquilly and without hurry for the improvement of his people. Cardinal Gizzi, well known as a friend to reform, and much attached to the Pope, was named Secretary of State; and he wrote letters to the presidents of the provinces, inviting them, the municipal magistrates, ecclesiastics, and all respectable citizens, to prepare and offer schemes for promoting popular education, and especially for the moral, religious, and industrial instruction of the children of the poor. Commissions were appointed to deliberate and advise upon many subjects of proposed reform. Great, indeed, was the need of change in the institutions of the Pontifical States; but the Government had a delicate part to play in amending them, and it wisely determined not to be precipitate in its measures. "Already the Liberals had conceived boundless desires, and the Retrogradists were haunted with unreasonable fears. The Government had, to-day, to moderate on the left, circulate despatches, wellnigh to scold men for hoping too much." But the friends of change, says Farini, were for the most part measured in their wishes and cautious in their proceedings; for all prudent men were exerting themselves strenuously to keep the impatient in hand, with excellent effect. The Pope protested in a firm but temperate tone, and his indignant people would fain have hurried him into a war; but he bridled their impatience and the matter ended in a compromise. Tuscany caught the generous flame of freedom; and though there was not so much to be accomplished there, as the Government had long been mild and discreet, the good Archduke [Leopold II] professed the utmost admiration for Pius, and began to imitate his measures. The King of Sardinia was moved to enthusiasm; during the difficulty with Austria about Ferrara he offered the Pope whatever succor of ships or men he might need, and an asylum in his dominions if he should be compelled to leave Rome. He did more; he relaxed the bonds of the press, improved the administration of justice, deprived the police of their discretionary power, enlarged and amended the Council of State, emancipated the communes, and allowed their officers to be chosen by popular vote. The character and example of Pius seemed likely to effect as great and as beneficial changes out of his dominions as within them. Those of the Italian sovereigns who were not willing to follow his lead of their own accord, were obliged to yield in dismay before the spirit which he had awakened in their subjects. The silly Duke of Lucca, a fanatic, a prodigal, and a despot, after attempting in vain to cudgel his people into submission, fled in terror from their aroused wrath, and consented to the annexation of his dominions to Tuscany, whereby they shared in the reforms instituted by Leopold. "At these words the silence of deep feeling was broken by a sudden thunder of acclamation, 'Yes, I swear,' and Pius proceeded: "'I warn you, however, against the raising of certain cries, that are not of the people, but of a few individuals, and against making any such requests to me as are incompatible with the sanctity of the Church; for these I cannot, I may not, and I will not grant. This being understood, with my whole soul, I bless you.'" They were to have authority to make laws on all subjects, excepting ecclesiastical matters and the canons and discipline of the Church, but including the imposition of taxes; the Pope, however, like most monarchs, reserved to himself the right of negativing a law. All discussions, also, of the diplomatico-religious relations of the Holy See with foreign powers were forbidden. Money bills were to originate in the lower house, and direct taxes could be granted for only a year. The Deputies had a right to impeach ministers, who, if they were laymen, were to be tried by the High Council; if ecclesiastics, by the Sacred College. The unlimited right of petition to the lower house was assured and ministers were responsible for every ministerial act; they had the right of sitting and debating, but not of voting, in both Councils. A portion of the revenue of the State, for the support of the cardinals, the ecclesiastical congregations, and generally for the transaction of purely ecclesiastical business, was to be secured to the Pope, and to be borne on the estimates every year. These are obvious and necessary considerations; and the Pope expressly recognizes them in the ordinance accompanying the grant of the constitution. "We intend," he says, "to maintain intact our authority in matters that by their nature are related to the Catholic religion and its rule of morals. And this is due from us as a guaranty to the whole of Christendom, that, in the States of the Church reorganized in this new form, nothing shall be derogated from the liberties and rights of the Church herself, and of the Holy See, nor any precedent be established for violating the sacredness of the religion which it is our duty and mission to preach to the whole world, as the only scheme of covenant between God and man, the only pledge of that heavenly benediction by which states subsist and nations flourish." "Pius IX had applied himself to political reform, not so much for the reason that his conscience as an honorable man and a most pious sovereign enjoined it, as because his high view of the papal office prompted him to employ the temporal power for the benefit of his spiritual authority. A meek man and a benevolent prince, Pius IX was, as a pontiff, lofty even to sternness. With a soul not only devout, but mystical, he referred everything to God, and respected and venerated his own person as standing in God's place. He thought it his duty to guard with jealousy the temporal sovereignty of the Church, because he thought it essential to the safe-keeping and the apostleship of the faith. "By this he was greatly stimulated and encouraged, and perhaps he gave in to the seduction of applause and the temptations of popularity more than is fitting for a man of decision or for a prudent prince. But when, after a little, Europe was shaken by universal revolution, the work he had commenced was, in his view, marred; he then retired within himself and took alarm. "Every bell in the city pealed for joy; from palace and from hovel, from magazine and workshop, the townspeople poured in throngs into the streets and squares; some took to letting off firearms, some to strewing flowers; some hoisted flags on the towers, some decked with them their balconies; everybody was shouting '_Italia! Italia!_' and cursing the Empire. In an access of fury, the Austrian arms were torn down, dashed to pieces, and befouled amid the applause of the crowd in spite of the dissuasion of the public functionaries and of prudent persons." "The Government perhaps had no choice, so swiftly and impetuously did the torrent of popular commotion roll. I will not affirm that the Pope and the Government ought to have exposed to the last hazard the security of the State for an ineffectual defence of the fraternity. What I wish to observe is that if there were among the Jesuits men stained with guilt, and mischievous plotters, they ought to have been watched and punished as bad citizens; but it was incompatible with propriety or justice to condemn and punish a religious association, as such, in a place where the Pope held both his own seat and the supreme authority of the Church. None but the Pope had the power to condemn the society as a whole, and no condemnation but his could be just or valid in the opinion and conscience of the Catholics, or produce the desired political effects." On the same day that the Jesuits were expelled, the Pope issued a noble proclamation, breathing the best spirit of religion. The following excerpt is a portion of it: "_Pius Papa IX to the People of the States of Italy--Health and Apostolic Benediction_: Pius also wrote an earnest letter to the Emperor of Austria, entreating him to put a stop to the war by acknowledging the independence of Venetia and Lombardy. "Let not the generous German nation take it ill," he said, "if we invite them to lay resentment aside, and to convert into the beneficial relations of friendly neighborhood a domination which could never be prosperous or noble while it depended solely on the sword." But the prayers of the Pope had now little influence either with the Emperor or with his own subjects; he had long ago forfeited the favor of the Absolutists by his political reforms, and he had now lost the love of his people by his reluctance to gratify their passion for sway. Yet if he had basely yielded to their wishes, against his judgment and his conscience, he would have injured only the cause of the papacy in foreign lands, and the issue of the war would not have been changed. As it was, his troops were actively engaged in the contest till the time of their capture at Vicenza by the Austrians. The fatal blow was given to the hopes of Italy by the King of Naples withdrawing his troops at a critical moment, when their loss could not be replaced. "There were no longer any judges, or any officers of the police; those who had escaped death either had fled or had hidden themselves; the Civic Guard was disarmed, the citizens killed, the few soldiers of the line either mixed with the insurgents or were wholly without spirit; the carbineers and dragoons in hesitation, the volunteer legions and free corps a support to the rioters, not to the authority of Government. We sent to Rome for leave to declare Bologna in a state of siege; but the answer was that the Ministry having taken the opinion of the Council of State considered that order might be restored without recourse to this extreme measure. He suggested to the Pope that he was probably odious to the court on account of his previous employments and his writings; that some would perhaps look very coldly on a minister who had married a Protestant wife; and that the French Republic might be displeased if he should hold a high post at Rome. But in the middle of September the solicitations of the Pope and of many respectable persons in the State became so urgent that Rossi consented to serve; the opinion was universal that no other person possessed the requisite abilities, character, and experience to carry on the Government at this perilous crisis; and that, if he failed, all indeed was lost. He selected for his colleagues men of liberal politics, but temperate in their opinions. He announced his intention to carry into effect the Fundamental Statute, in all its parts, according to constitutional usage; to counteract and repress both parties opposed to that instrument; to abolish exemptions, restore the finances, and reorganize the army; to conclude a league with Piedmont and Tuscany, even if it should be impossible with Naples; and to fix the contingent of troops which the Pope was to supply, so that he need not in any way mingle in the war. Several of his friends came and remonstrated with him against such an exposure of his life. "To all this he answered that he had taken the measures which he thought suitable for keeping the seditious in order, and that he could not, on account of risk that he might personally run, forego repairing to the Council according to his duty; that perhaps these were idle menaces; but if anyone thirsted for his blood, he would have the means of shedding it elsewhere on some other day, even if, on that day, he should lose his opportunity. He would therefore go." He was elated by the confidence which the Pope had in him, and expected both trust and aid from the Parliament, to which he was so soon to explain his ideas and intentions. "When the ordinary hour of the parliamentary sitting, which was about noon, arrived, the people began to gather in the square of the Cancellaria, and by degrees in the courtyard and then in the public galleries of the hall. Soon these were all full. A battalion of the Civic Guard was drawn up in the square; in the court and hall there was no guard greater than ordinary. There were, however, not a few individuals, armed with their daggers, in the dress of the volunteers returned from Vicenza, and wearing the medals with which the municipality of Rome had decorated them. They stood together and formed a line from the gate up to the staircase of the palace. Sullen visages were to be seen and ferocious imprecations heard among them. During the time when the Deputies were slowly assembling, and business could not commence because there was not yet a quorum present, a cry for help suddenly proceeded from the extremity of the public gallery, on which everyone turned thither a curious eye; but nothing more was heard or seen, and those who went to get some explanation of the circumstances returned without success. Galletti was then asked to propose his list of ministers, from which the Pope indignantly struck out the name of the Neapolitan Salicetti, but admitted without a word the names of Sterbini, Lunati, and Galletti. Their appointment was signed on the spot, and the news being told to the insurgents "they fired muskets in token of joy, and went off with hymns for Italy and cheers for the Italian Constituent Assembly and the democratic Ministry." Guizot, whose account of the "February Revolution" is here given, was the chief minister of Louis Philippe; and however partisan the author's narrative may seem, it rests upon an intimate knowledge of the events recorded. "_Et se cupit ante videri_." It had succeeded well enough in making itself seen. The Government could no longer shut their eyes. They had tolerated the banquets so long as they could believe, or seem to believe, that the parliamentary opposition directed, or at least ruled, the movement. When it became evident that the anarchical impulse was more and more gaining upon the parliamentary opposition, and that the latter was becoming the instrument instead of remaining the master, then only they forbade the banquets. It was their duty. "The maintenance of the unity of the Conservative party," said Guizot, "the maintenance of conservative policy and power, will be the fixed idea and rule of conduct in the Cabinet. They will make sincere efforts to maintain or restore the unity of the Conservative party upon that question, in order that it may be the Conservative party itself in its entirety that undertakes and gives to the country its solution. If such an operation in the midst of the Conservative party is possible, it will take place. If that is not possible--if by the question of reforms the Conservative party cannot succeed in making a common arrangement and maintaining the power of the Conservative policy, the Cabinet will leave to others the sad task of presiding over the disorganization of the Conservative party and the ruin of its policy." The question was not destined to be taken up again by the Chambers, having escaped from the weak hands that aspired to direct it. The courtesy of the Conservative reformers had no result except disquieting the Government, a sort of precursory sign of the tempest. Even the parliamentary opposition found themselves baffled in their prudent efforts. A manifesto published in the _National_ newspaper organized a noisy demonstration in the streets, though forbidden in the banquet-hall, the National Guard being called to arms by the insurrection, and their services arranged beforehand. The convention was clearly violated, and the legal appeal to the tribunals therefore abandoned: the Revolution itself declared it would decide the question. In such a situation, sorrowfully admitted by those who had negotiated the evening before, the Government officially forbade the banquet. The evening papers announced that the Deputies of the opposition had given up the intention of being present, and therefore the proposed manifestation was deprived of all importance. The revolutionary leaders in their turn declared that the banquet would not take place. The truth, however, was now becoming manifest, both in the King's mind as to the tendency of his ideas, and in the eyes of his ministers as to the determination now being formed in the palace. By the very statement of the question it was resolved upon. Guizot and Duchatel thus expressed it to the King: "It is for your Majesty to decide. The Cabinet is ready either to defend to the last the King and conservative policy which we profess, or to accept without a murmur the King's determination to call other men to power. At present, more than ever, in order to continue the struggle successfully, the Cabinet has need of the King's decided support. As soon as the public should learn, as they inevitably must, that the King hesitates, the Cabinet would lose all moral influence and be unable to accomplish their task." The King seemed still in perplexity, and said he should prefer to abdicate. "You cannot say that, my dear," replied the Queen, who was present at the interview with the Dukes of Nemours and Montpensier; "you belong to France, and not to yourself." "That is true," said the King, as Louis XVI had formerly said to Malesherbes; "I am more unfortunate than the ministers, I cannot resign." The ministers then in King Louis Philippe's Cabinet had not resigned. The King, having made his decision, said, "It is with the keenest regret that I separate myself from you, but necessity and the safety of the monarchy demand this sacrifice. My will gives way; much time will be needed to regain the ground I am about to lose." There were tears in many eyes. The King sent for Mole, and Guizot himself announced to the Chamber of Deputies the change of the Ministry. The King sat at his writing-table, agitated and perplexed. He had begun to write his abdication, when Marshal Bugeaud entered, having just learned what was taking place in the Tuileries, and excited by the sound of some shooting which had already begun. "It is too late, sire," said he; "your abdication would complete the demoralization of the troops. Your Majesty can hear the shooting. There is nothing left but to fight." The Queen seconded this advice, and Piscatory and several others were of the same opinion. The King rose without finishing his writing, and then other voices were raised to insist upon the King's promise. He sat down again, wrote and signed his abdication. By this time the troops had received orders to fall back, and Marshal Gerard took the place of Bugeaud as commandant-general. The columns were marched toward the barracks, and there was no detachment around the Palais-Bourbon, where the same disorder reigned, and the same efforts were made in vain. The Duchesse d'Orleans presented herself before the Chamber of Deputies as soon as the abdication of the King was known. The Duc de Nemours accompanied her, leading the Comte de Paris by the hand; and the Duc de Chartres, who was weak and ill, was wrapped up in a mantle and leaned on Ary Scheffer's arm. Before joining the Princess at the gate of the Chamber the Duc de Nemours had, with his brother the Duc de Montpensier, seen the King, their father, take his melancholy departure, to escape the insurrection, against which he could not make up his mind to use force. Shouts of protest were heard on several benches. "It is too late!" exclaimed Lamartine, as he went to the tribune, eager to urge this difficulty, reject the regency, and demand a provisional government so that the bloodshed might be stopped. Some others were already mentioning the word "Republic." The crowd were gradually pouring into the Chamber from the corriders, and Sauzet, the President, requested strangers to withdraw, and made a special appeal to the Duchess herself. "Sir, this is a royal sitting!" she replied; and when her friends urged her, "If I leave this Chamber, my son will no more return to it." A few minutes before her arrival, Thiers had entered the Chamber in the greatest agitation. "The tide is rising, rising, rising!" he said to those who crowded round him, and then disappeared. Several voices were heard together in confusion; among the speakers were La Rochejacquelein, Ledru-Rollin, Marie, and Berryer. Wanderers and fugitives across their kingdom, after kneeling for the last time beside the tomb of their children at Dreux, and asking the hospitality of some friends who were still faithful, and without a single attempt to recover the crown they had lost, King Louis Philippe and Queen Marie-Amelie at last reached the seacoast, and set sail toward England, that safe and well-known refuge of unfortunate princes. Thunderstruck like them, and at their wits' end, the most faithful of their servants and partisans waited for some sign authorizing them to protest against the unparalleled surprise to which France had been subjected. The fugitive King made no protest. His sons quietly followed him into exile. Those who were serving France abroad learned at the same time the news of their fall and the rise of a new power, and thought it their duty to bow to the national will, resolving that not a single drop of French blood should be shed in their cause. "At last Blum appeared on the balcony of the Town Council House. His voice alone controlled the whole market-place, and was even heard in the neighboring streets. He too sought, by trying to quiet them, to turn them away from the subject of the address and of the King's answer. But the people broke uproariously into his speech with the demand, 'The answer! The answer!' It could no longer be concealed that the petitions of the town had received harsh rejection. Then came a loud and passionate murmur. The masses had firmly hoped that the deputation would bring with them from Dresden the news of the dismissal of the hated ministers. "But Blum continued his speech, and they renewed their attention to him. 'In constitutional countries,' said he, 'it is not the King, but the ministers who are responsible. They, too, bear the responsibility of the rejection of the Leipsic proposals. The people must press for their removal.' He added that he would bring forward in the next meeting of the town representatives the proposal that the King should dismiss the Ministry, 'which does not possess the confidence of the people.' Amid shouts of exultation and applause, the appeased assembly dispersed." But great as was the alarm caused by the South German risings, and great as were the hopes which they kindled in the Viennese, the word that was to give definiteness and importance to the impulses that were stirring in Vienna could not come from Bavaria or Saxony. Much as they might wish to connect themselves with a German movement, the Viennese could not get rid of the fact that they were, for the present, bound up with a different political system. Nor was it wholly clear that the German movement was as yet completely successful. The King of Prussia seemed to be meditating a reactionary policy and had even threatened to despatch troops to put down the Saxon Liberals; and the King of Hanover also was disposed to resist the movement for a German Parliament. It was from a country more closely bound up with the Viennese Government, and yet enjoying traditions of more deeply rooted liberty, that the utterance was to come which was eventually to rouse the Viennese to action. He then urged that the future of the dynasty depended on the hearty union between the nations which lived under it. "This union," he said, "can be brought about only by respecting the nationalities, and by that bond of constitutionalism which can produce a kindred feeling. The bureau and the bayonet are miserable bonds." He then went on to apologize for not examining the difficulties between Hungary and Croatia. The solution of the difficulties of the empire would, he held, solve the Croatian question too. If it did not, he promised to consider that question with sympathy, and examine it in all its details. He concluded by proposing an address to the Emperor which should point out that it was the want of constitutional life in the whole empire which hindered the progress of Hungary; and that, while an independent government and a separate responsible ministry were absolutely essential to Hungary, it was also necessary that the Emperor should surround his throne, in all matters of the Government, with such constitutional arrangements as were indispensably demanded by the needs of the time. The writer of this answer called attention to the terrible scenes which he said were being enacted in Paris, which proved according to him that the only safety for the governed was in rallying round the government. This utterance naturally excited only contempt and disgust; and the ever-arriving news of new constitutions granted in Germany swelled the enthusiasm which had been roused by Kossuth's speech. The expression of desire for reform now became much more general and even some members of the Estates prepared an appeal to their colleagues against the bureaucratic system. But the character and tone of the utterances of these new reformers somewhat weakened the effect which had been produced by the bolder complaints of the earlier leaders of the movement, for while the students of the University and some of their professors still showed a desire for bold and independent action, the merchants caught eagerly at the sympathy of the Archduke Francis Charles, while the booksellers addressed to the Emperor a petition in which servility passes into blasphemy. The chief leader of the more moderate party in the meeting was Heinrich von Gagern, the representative of Hesse-Darmstadt. Fuester, who had recently preached on the duty of devotion to the cause of the country, now endeavored, by praises of the Emperor, to check the desire of the students for immediate action; but he was shouted down. Hye then appealed to them to wait a few days, in hopes of a further answer from the Emperor. They answered with a shout that they would not wait an hour; and then they raised the cry of "Landhaus!" Breaking loose from all further restraint they set out on their march, and as they went numbers gathered round them. The people of Vienna had already been appealed to, by a placard on St. Stephen's Church, to free the good Emperor Ferdinand from his enemies; and the placard further declared that he who wished for the rise of Austria must wish for the fall of the present ministers of state. Again the leaders of the crowd repeated, in slightly altered form, the demands originally formulated by Fischhof. At last, after considerable discussion, Montecuccoli was preparing to start for the Castle at the head of the Estates when a regiment of soldiers arrived, but they were unable to make their way through the crowd, and were even pressed back out of the Herren Gasse. The desire now arose for better protection for the people; and a deputation tried to persuade the burgomaster of Vienna to call out the City Guard. Czapka, the burgomaster, was, however, a mere tool of the Government; and he declared that the Archduke Albert, as Commander-in-Chief of the Army, had alone the power of calling out the guard. The Archduke Albert was, perhaps next to Louis, the most unpopular of the royal house. He indignantly refused to listen to any demands of the people, and, hastening to the spot, rallied the soldiers and led them to the open space at the corner of the Herren Gasse, which is known as the "Freyung." The inner circle of Vienna was at this time surrounded with walls, outside of which were the large suburbs in which chiefly workmen lived. It was this aspect of the insurrection which encouraged the nobles to believe that, by calling out the guard, they would induce the richer citizens to take arms against the workmen; and this policy was carried still further when, on the application of the rector of the University, the students also were allowed the privilege of bearing arms. But the ruse entirely failed; the people recognized the City Guard as their friends, and refused to attack them; and the rumor soon spread that the police had fired on the City Guard. It was now evident that the citizen soldiers were on the side of the people; and the richer citizens sent a deputation to entreat that Metternich should be dismissed. These doctrines formed a sharp contrast to the views of Count Stephen Szechenyi, views which, owing to the social position of the man who held them, were not devoid of a certain aristocratic tinge, and according to which the most important part in the regeneration of the Hungarian nation was assigned to the aristocracy. It was a part, however, which the Hungarian aristocracy was itself by no means disposed to assume. Among its younger members, indeed, could be found, here and there, enthusiastic men who were devotedly attached to the person of the lordly reformer, but the great majority of his class were hostilely arrayed against Szechenyi's aims, and, obstructing the granting of even the most inoffensive demands of the nation, supported the Viennese Government; which was rigidly opposed to political reforms and to any changes in the public institutions of the country. This attitude of the aristocracy compelled Szechenyi to avoid as much as possible all questions concerning constitutionality and liberty, and to confine the work of reform chiefly to the sphere of internal improvements. The wealth of ideas thus daily communicated to the country appeared in the most attractive garb, for Kossuth possessed a masterly style, and his leaders and shorter articles showed off to advantage so many unexpected beauties of the Hungarian language that his readers were fairly enchanted and carried away by them. His articles were a happy compound of poetical elevation and oratorical power, gratifying common-sense and the imagination at the same time, appealing by their lucid exposition to the reader's intelligence, and exciting and warming his fancy by their fervor. Kossuth always rightly guessed what questions most interested the nation, and the daily press became, in his hands, a power in Hungary, electrifying the masses, who were always ready to give their unconditional support to his bold and far-reaching schemes. The extraordinary influence obtained by Kossuth through his paper frightened Szechenyi, and, to even a greater degree, those whose prejudices were shocked or ancient privileges and interests were endangered by the democratic agitations for reform. Kossuth was attacked in books, pamphlets, and newspapers, but he came out victorious from all contests. In vain did Szechenyi himself, backed by his great authority in the land, assail him, declaring that he did not object to Kossuth's ideas, but that his manner and his tactics were reprehensible, and that the latter were sure to lead to a revolution. The great mass of the people felt instinctively that revolution had become a necessity and was unavoidable if Hungary was to pass from the old mediaeval order to the establishment of modern institutions and was to become a state where equality before the law should be the ruling standard. The masses were strengthened in this conviction by the unreasonable, short-sighted, and violent policy pursued by the Government of Vienna, which obstructed the slightest reforms in the ancient institutions and opposed every national aspiration, and under whose protecting wing the reactionary elements of the Upper House were constantly paralyzing the noblest and best efforts made by the Lower House for the public weal, while the same Government arbitrarily supported claims of the Catholic clergy, in flat contradiction to the rights and liberties of the various denominations inhabiting the country. "Arise, O Magyar! thy country calls. Here is the time, now or never. Shall we be slaves or free? That is the question--choose! We swear by the God of the Magyars, We swear, to be slaves no longer!" The court and the standing army, the party of the soldier class, feared that their commanding position would be impaired by the predominating influence of the people. The non-Hungarian portion of the inhabitants, choosing to ignore the fact that the new laws secured, without distinction of nationality, equal rights to every citizen of the State, were apprehensive lest the liberal constitution would benefit chiefly the Hungarian element of the nation. They, therefore, encouraged by the secret machinations of the Government of Vienna, took up arms, in order to drag the country, which was preparing to take possession of her new liberties, into a civil war. The Croatians, under the lead of Ban Jellachich, and the Wallachs and Serbs, led by other imperial officers, and yielding to their persuasions, rose in rebellion against Hungary, and began to persecute, plunder, and murder the Hungarians living among them. Dreadful atrocities were committed in the southern and eastern portions of Hungary, hundreds and hundreds of families were massacred in cold blood, and entire villages and cities were deserted by their inhabitants, just as had previously happened at the approach of the Turks, and thousands were compelled to abandon their all to the rebels, in order to escape with their bare lives. In the course of a few weeks, the flames of rebellion had spread over a large part of the country, and the Hungarian element, instead of enjoying the liberties won for the whole nation after a bitter struggle of many decades, was under the sad necessity of resorting to armed force in order to reestablish the internal peace. The Hungarians now had to prove on the battlefield and in bloody engagements that they were worthy of liberty and capable of defending it. The Government, which, by virtue of the new laws, had meanwhile transferred its seat to Budapest, displayed extraordinary energy in the face of the sad difficulties besetting it. As it was impossible to rely upon the Austrian soldiers who were still in the country, it exerted itself to create and to organize a national army. A portion of the National Guard entered the national army under the name of _honveds_ ("defenders of the country"), a name which became before long famous throughout the civilized world for the brilliant military achievements connected with it. The Hungarian soldiers garrisoning the Austrian principalities hastened home, braving the greatest dangers, partly accompanied by their officers and partly without them. The famous Hungarian hussars, especially, returned in great number to offer their services to their imperilled country. But all this proved insufficient, and as soon as the National Assembly, elected under the new constitution, met, Kossuth, who had been the life and soul of the Government during this trying and critical period, called upon the nation to raise large armies for the defence of the country. Jellachich's incursion had other important political consequences. The attack on Hungary had been made by Jellachich in the name of the Viennese Government, and the intimate connection between the domestic disorders and the court of Vienna became more and more apparent. This state of things rendered inevitable a struggle between Hungary and the unconstitutional action of the court. The Austrian forces were arming against Hungary on every side. Vienna, too, rose in rebellion against the court, and now the Hungarians hastened to assist the revolutionists in the Austrian capital. Unfortunately the young national army was not ripe yet for so great a military enterprise, and Prince Windischgraetz, having crushed the revolution in Vienna, invaded Hungary. Others saw how he did it, followed his example, found that the work was profitable, and abandoned all other occupations. The news of their success spread; people flocked to the place, learned how to use the rocker, discovered new diggings, and in the course of a few months the country had been overturned by a social and industrial revolution. About the middle of March, P.B. Reading, an American, now a prominent and wealthy citizen of the State, then the owner of a large ranch on the western bank of the Sacramento River, near where it issues from the mountains, came to Coloma, and after looking about at the diggings, said that if similarity in the appearance of the country could be taken as a guide there must be gold in the hills near his ranch; and he went off, declaring his intention to go back and make an examination of them. John Bidwell, another American, now a wealthy and influential citizen, then residing on his ranch on the bank of Feather River, came to Coloma about a week later, and he said there must be gold near his ranch, and he went off with expressions similar to those used by Reading. In a few weeks news came that Reading had found diggings near Clear Creek, at the head of the Sacramento Valley, and was at work there with his Indians; and not long after, it was reported that Bidwell was at work with his Indians on a rich bar of Feather River, since called "Bidwell's Bar." None of the gold had been seen in San Francisco; but at Sutter's Fort men had begun to buy and sell with it. The whole world felt a beneficent influence from the great gold yield of the Sacramento Basin. Labor rose in value, and industry was stimulated from St. Louis to Constantinople. The news, however, was not welcome to all classes. Many of the capitalists feared that gold would soon be so abundant as to be worthless, and European statesmen feared the power to be gained by the arrogant and turbulent democracy of the New World. Of the many sublime pages traced in the blood of Italian patriots, the sublimest in our eyes is that of the defence of Rome. No writer of genius has yet been inspired to narrate the heroic deeds enacted, the pain, privation, anguish, borne joyfully to save "that city of the Italian soul" from desecration by the foreigner. Mazzini's beloved disciple, Mameli, the soldier-poet, died with the flower of the student youth; the survivors, exiled, dispersed, heartbroken, or intent only on preparing for the next campaign, have left us but fugitive records, partial episodes, or dull military chronicles. Margaret Fuller Ossoli, competent by love and genius to be the historian and who had collected the materials day by day, lived the life of the combatants hour by hour, was wrecked with "Ossoli, Angelo" and her manuscript, in sight of her native shore. This sentence sums up the sentiments of all: of Garibaldi, who, after recording his vote, returned to his troops at Rieti and drew up an admirable plan for attacking the Austrians bent on subjugating the Roman Provinces and for carrying revolution into the Kingdom of Naples; of Mazzini, who, so far from having imposed on the Romans a republic by the force of his tyrannical will, was--during its proclamation--in Tuscany, striving to induce Guerrazzi and his fellow-triumvirs to unite with Rome and organize a strong army for the renewal of the Lombard War. Austria crossed the Po and occupied Ferrara, marching thence on Bologna; the Neapolitan troops from the south marched upward to the Roman frontier; even Spain sent her contingent to Fiumicino. But only when it was known that the French Republic had voted an expedition, with the specious object of guaranteeing the independence of the supreme Pontiff, did the Romans and their rulers realize that the existence of Rome and her newborn liberties was seriously menaced. Garibaldi wrote from Rieti, in April, an enthusiastic letter worth recording here: But the people had no desire for such reconciliation; the Assembly decreed that Rome should have no garrison but the National Roman Guard: that if the Republic were invaded by force, the invaders by force should be repelled. A commission of barricades established, the people flocked to erect and remained to man them. The National Guard summoned by Mazzini all answered, "Present," and served enthusiastically throughout the siege; all the troops dispersed in the Provinces were summoned to the capital, and Garibaldi and his volunteers marched into the city amid the acclamations of the populace, too thankful to welcome them to demur at the strange appearance they presented. Garibaldi altered in nothing his South American modes of warfare. He and his staff, in red shirts and ponchos, with hats of every form and color, no distinctions of rank or military accoutrements, rode on their American saddles, which when unrolled served each as a small tent. When their troops halted and the soldiers piled their arms, the General and all his staff attended each to the wants of his own horse, then to securing provisions for their men. When these were not at hand, the officers, springing on their barebacked horses, lasso on wrists, dashed full speed along the Campagna, till oxen, sheep, pigs, kids, or poultry in sufficient quantities were secured and paid for; then, dividing their spoil among the companies, officers and men fell to killing, quartering, and roasting before huge fires in the open air. Again, it must not be forgotten that the grounds on which France explained her interference was the imposition by "foreigners" of a republic on the Roman people, desirous only to receive the Pope with open arms; that Austria, Piedmont, and the Ultramontane faction in England represented the Roman States as handed over to the demagogues, to the riffraff of European revolutionists. Hence the absolute necessity that presented itself to the minds of the Triumvirs for filling the civil and military offices as far as possible with citizens of Rome or the Roman States. Unfortunately, no capable Roman commander-in-chief existed. Rosselli was chosen as the least incapable; but throughout, Garibaldi was regarded as the soul, the genius of the defence. "Unchangingly yours, "GIUSEPPE GARIBALDI." Again, Garibaldi disapproved the conduct of Mazzini and the Triumvirate because they refused to allow any acts of violence against religion or the professors of religion. They had abolished the Inquisition, and used the edifice to house the people driven from their homes by the siege; had invited and aided monks and nuns to return to their homes and to lead the life of citizens. But they had not allowed the confessionals to be burned in the public market-place. A wretch named Zambianchi, who ill-treated some inoffending priests, was severely punished "for thus dishonoring the Republic and humanity." Moreover, the Easter ceremonies were celebrated as usual; the Triumvirate and the Assembly stood among the people in the church and in the square to receive the blessing from the outer balcony of St. Peter's. "CITIZEN TRIUMVIR: I have received your letter. I am somewhat better and at my post. I have spoken with Pisacane [chief of Rosselli's staff]; we are perfectly agreed. Both animated by the same spirit, it is impossible for petty jealousies to come between us. Be assured of this. I have begged General Garibaldi to return to San Pancrazio, so as not to deprive that post at this moment of his legion and his efficacious power. He promises me that before dawn all will be here. Everything is quiet. This was Manara's last letter to Mazzini; at that same Villa Spada the yearned-for bullet pierced his heroic heart. Manara died as the barbarians entered Rome. And here, to all appearances, is Garibaldi's last letter written in Rome to Mazzini: "We have retaken our positions outside San Pancrazio. Let General Rosselli send me orders; this is now no time for change. Yours, None of Livingstone's predecessors equalled the achievements of this Scottish missionary and explorer, who combined with his zeal in the cause of religion and humanity a spirit of investigation and adventure that made him also the servant of science, the "advance-agent" of discovery, settlement, and civilization. These are at last bringing the "Dark Continent" into the light of a new day that begins to dawn in the remotest corners of the earth. He intended to proceed up to her uncle Shinte's town in canoes: she insisted that they should march by land, and ordered her people to shoulder his baggage in spite of him. "My men succumbed, and left me powerless. I was moving off in high dudgeon to the canoes, when she kindly placed her hand on my shoulder, and with a motherly look said, 'Now, my little man, just do as the rest have done.' My feeling of annoyance of course vanished, and I went out to try for some meat. My men, in admiration of her pedestrian powers, kept remarking, 'Manenko is a soldier,' and we were all glad when she proposed a halt for the night." Soon they were out of Shinte's territory, and Intemese became the plague of the party, though unluckily they could not dispense with him altogether in crossing the great flooded plains of Lebala. They camped at night on mounds, where they had to trench round each hut and use the earth to raise their sleeping places. "My men turned out to work most willingly, and I could not but contrast their conduct with that of Intemese, who was thoroughly imbued with the slave spirit, and lied on all occasions to save himself trouble." He lost the pontoon, too, thereby adding greatly to their troubles. He now struck north to avoid the Chiboque, and made for the Portuguese settlement of Cassange through dense forest and constant wet. Here another fever fit came on, so violent that "I could scarcely, after some hours' trial, get a lunar observation in which I could repose confidence. Those who know the difficulties of making observations and committing them all to paper will sympathize with me in this and many similar instances." "By this act alone, the President is deprived of all authority; the citizens are bound to withhold their obedience, the executive power passes in full right to the National Assembly. The judges of the High Court of Justice will meet immediately, under pain of forfeiture; they will convoke the juries in the place which they will select to proceed to the judgment of the President and his accomplices; they will nominate the magistrates charged to fulfil the duties of public ministers. "And seeing that the National Assembly is prevented by violence from exercising its powers, it decrees as follows, viz.: Louis Napoleon Bonaparte is deprived of all authority as President of the Republic. The citizens are enjoined to withhold their obedience. The executive power has passed in full right to the National Assembly. The judges of the High Court of Justice are enjoined to meet immediately, under pain of forfeiture, to proceed to the judgment of the President and his accomplices; consequently, all the officers and functionaries of power and of public authority are bound to obey all requisitions made in the name of the National Assembly, under pain of forfeiture and of high treason. Care had been taken to circulate a report among the crowd and the troops that a meeting of Socialist and Red Republican Deputies had been arrested. But when the people beheld among those who were thus dragged through the mud of Paris on foot, like a gang of malefactors, men the most illustrious by their talents and their virtues--ex-ministers, ex-ambassadors, generals, admirals, great orators, great writers, surrounded by the bayonets of the line--a shout was raised, "_Vive l'Assemblee nationale!_" The Representatives were attended by these shouts until they reached the barracks of the Quai d'Orsay, where they were shut up. Such is the condition in which we stand. Force overturning law, trampling on the liberty of the press and of the person, deriding the popular will, in whose name the Government pretends to act. France torn from the alliance of free nations to be classed with the despotic monarchies of the Continent--such is the result of this _coup d'etat_. The story of the great Australian gold discovery is here told in an authentic and highly interesting manner by the historian of the Australasian colonies. Now began a period which can have no complete parallel in earlier history, save the almost contemporaneous parallel of California. Warned by events in New South Wales, the governments of the other Australian colonies had made preparations for the crisis. Western Australia was too remote to be much affected; and her newly arrived supply of convict labor rendered her contented. But South Australia and Tasmania suffered severely from the drain of population, which set in toward the diggings. In South Australia, the effect was in some districts almost as if a pestilence had swept away the men, leaving the women and children untouched. Some of the emigrants really deserted their families, but the bulk were honorable men, and remittances of gold soon began to find their way to Adelaide for distribution among relatives in the colony. The events of the next few months formed a crisis in the history, not only of Victoria, but of Australia. Naturally there is much dispute concerning them, and, as the following account is taken chiefly from Sir Charles Hotham's reports, it is possible that the acts of his opponents may not obtain strict justice. But it is admitted on all sides that Sir Charles acted with the most perfect good faith; and the accounts given by the insurgents are far too contradictory and prejudiced to receive much credit. The commission strongly recommended the granting of the political franchise to holders of "miners' rights," and the provision of liberal facilities for the acquisition of land by the miners. It also advocated the simplification of the existing complex system of government in the mining districts, whereby commissioners, police authorities, commissariat officials, and magistrates all worked independently of each other, and suggested the substitution therefor of experienced "wardens" at the head of elective boards, who should not only dispose, with the aid of skilled assessors, of disputes specially connected with mining operations, but who should have power to issue by-laws adapted to the special requirements of each district. Have we no tendency to the latter condition? Let anyone who doubts, carefully contemplate that now almost complete legal combination--piece of machinery, so to speak--compounded of the Nebraska doctrine and the Dred Scott decision. Let him consider, not only what work the machinery is adapted to do, and how well adapted, but also let him study the history of its construction, and trace, if he can, or rather fail, if he can, to trace the evidences of design, and concert of action, among its chief architects, from the beginning. This necessity had not been overlooked, but had been provided for, as well as might be, in the notable argument of "squatter sovereignty," otherwise called "sacred right of self-government," which latter phrase, though expressive of the only rightful basis of any government, was so perverted in this attempted use of it as to amount to just this: That if any _one_ man choose to enslave _another_, no _third_ man shall be allowed to object. That argument was incorporated into the Nebraska Bill itself, in the language which follows: "It being the true intent and meaning of this act not to legislate slavery into any Territory or State, nor to exclude it therefrom, but to leave the people thereof perfectly free to form and regulate their domestic institutions in their own way, subject only to the Constitution of the United States." Then opened the roar of loose declamation in favor of "squatter sovereignty" and "sacred right of self-government." "But," said opposition members, "let us amend the bill so as to expressly declare that the people of the Territory may exclude slavery." "Not we," said the friends of the measure; and down they voted the amendment. The reputed author of the Nebraska Bill finds an early occasion to make a speech at this capital indorsing the Dred Scott decision, and vehemently denouncing all opposition to it. The new President, too, seizes the early occasion of the Silliman letter to indorse and strongly construe that decision, and to express his astonishment that any different view had ever been entertained! Secondly. That, "subject to the Constitution of the United States," neither Congress nor a Territorial Legislature can exclude slavery from any United States Territory. This point is made in order that individual men may fill up the Territories with slaves, without danger of losing them as property, and thus to enhance the chances of permanency to the institution through all the future. Auxiliary to all this, and working hand in hand with it, the Nebraska doctrine, or what is left of it, is to educate and mould public opinion, at least Northern public opinion, not to care whether slavery is voted down or voted up. This shows exactly where we now are, and partially, also, whither we are tending. It will throw additional light on the latter to go back and run the mind over the string of historical facts already stated. Several things will now appear less dark and mysterious than they did when they were transpiring. The people were to be left "perfectly free," "subject only to the Constitution." What the Constitution had to do with it outsiders could not then see. Plainly enough now, it was an exactly fitted niche for the Dred Scott decision to come in afterward, and declare the perfect freedom of the people to be just no freedom at all. Why was the amendment, expressly declaring the right of the people, voted down? Plainly enough now, the adoption of it would have spoiled the niche for the Dred Scott decision. Why was the court decision held up? Why even a Senator's individual opinion withheld, till after the Presidential election? Plainly enough now, the speaking out then would have damaged the perfectly free argument upon which the election was to be carried. Why the outgoing President's felicitation on the indorsement? Why the delay of a reargument? Why the incoming President's advance exhortation in favor of the decision? These things look like the cautious patting and petting of a spirited horse preparatory to mounting him, when it is dreaded that he may give the rider a fall. And why the hasty after-indorsement of the decision by the President and others? Such a decision is all that slavery now lacks of being alike lawful in all the States. Welcome or unwelcome, such decision is probably coming, and will soon be upon us, unless the power of the present political dynasty shall be met and overthrown. We shall lie down pleasantly dreaming that the people of Missouri are on the verge of making their State free, and we shall awake to the reality instead that the Supreme Court has made Illinois a slave State. To meet and overthrow the power of that dynasty is the work now before all who would prevent that consummation. That is what we have to do. How can we best do it? Senator Douglas holds, we know, that a man may rightfully be wiser to-day than he was yesterday; that he may rightfully change when he finds himself wrong. But can we, for that reason, run ahead, and infer that he will make any particular change, of which he himself has given no intimation? Can we safely base our action upon any such vague inference? Now, as ever, I wish not to misrepresent Judge Douglas's position, question his motives, or do aught that can be personally offensive to him. Whenever, if ever, he and we can come together on principle so that our cause may have assistance from his great ability, I hope to have interposed no adventitious obstacle. But clearly he is not now with us; he does not pretend to be--he does not promise ever to be. The Commodore, accordingly, landed at Yokohama, with a suite of officers and his interpreters, and was received at the treaty-house with the usual ceremonies by the high commissioners. The large reception-room was crowded with the presents. The objects were of Japanese manufacture, and consisted of specimens of rich brocades and silks; of their famous lacquered ware, such as _chow-chow_ boxes, tables, trays, and goblets, all skilfully wrought and finished with an exquisite polish; of porcelain cups of wonderful lightness and transparency, adorned with figures and flowers in gold and variegated colors, and exhibiting a workmanship that surpassed even that of the ware for which the Chinese are remarkable. Fans, pipe-cases, and articles of apparel in ordinary use, of no great value but of exceeding interest, were scattered among the more luxurious and costly objects. After this preliminary display, the commissioners proposed that the Commodore and his party should retire to the treaty-house, where they would have an opportunity of seeing the wrestlers exhibit their professional feats. From the brutal performance of these wrestlers, the Americans turned with pride to the exhibition--to which the Japanese commissioners were now in their turn invited--of the telegraph and the railroad. It was a happy contrast, which a higher civilization presented, to the disgusting display on the part of the Japanese officials. In place of the show of brute animal force there was a triumphant revelation, to a partially enlightened people, of the success of science and enterprise. After this, a detachment of marines from the squadron were put through their various evolutions, while the bands furnished martial music. The Japanese commissioners seemed to take a very great interest in this military display, and expressed themselves much gratified at the soldierly air and excellent discipline of the men. This closed the performances of the day. After the feast, which passed pleasantly and convivially, compliments being freely exchanged, and healths drunk in Liliputian cups of sake, the commissioners expressed great anxiety about the proposed visit of the Commodore to Yedo. They earnestly urged him not to take his ships any farther up the bay, as they said it would lead to trouble by which the populace might be disturbed and their own lives perhaps jeoparded. The Commodore argued the matter with them for some time, and, as they still pertinaciously urged their objections to his visit to the capital, it was agreed that the subject should be further discussed by an interchange of notes. The meeting then broke up. The Commodore caused to be prepared, in the Chinese characters, a transcript of the treaty, with such verbal alterations as would make it applicable to Japan, with the view of exhibiting it to the Imperial commissioners of that country should he be so successful as to open negotiations. He was not sanguine enough to hope that he could procure an entire adoption of the Chinese treaty by the Japanese. He was not ignorant of the difference in national characteristics between the inhabitants of China and the more independent, self-reliant, and sturdy natives of the Japanese islands. He knew that the latter held the former in some degree of contempt and treated them in the matter of trade very much as they treated the Dutch. He was also aware that the Chinese, when they made their treaty, did know something of the advantages that might result from intercourse with the rest of the world; while as to the Japanese, in their long-continued isolation, either they neither knew nor desired such advantages, or, if they knew them, feared they might be purchased at too high a price in the introduction of foreigners, who, as in the case of the Portuguese, centuries before, might seek to overturn the empire. It was too much, therefore, to expect that the Japanese would in all the particulars of a treaty imitate the Chinese. _Japanese_. We wish for time to have the document translated into the Japanese language. _Perry_. The duties of a consul are to report all difficulties that arise between American citizens and Japanese to his Government in an authentic manner, assist the Japanese in carrying out their laws and the provisions of the treaty and recovering debts made by the Americans; and also communicating to the Government at Washington whatever the Japanese wish, as no letters can be received after this through the Dutch; and if no consuls are received, then a ship-of-war must remain in Japan constantly, and her captain must do the duties of a consul. _Japanese_. If we had not felt great confidence in you, we should not have consented to open our ports at all. Consuls may be accepted by and by, after experience has shown their need; and we hope that all American citizens obey the laws of their country and behave properly. And thus it was that the Commodore had to explain everything and feel his way, step by step, in the progress of the whole negotiation. _Japanese_. The commissioners wish every point desired by the Admiral to be stated clearly, for the Japanese are not equal to the Americans, and have not much to give in exchange. _Japanese_. We have found restrictions necessary against the Portuguese and the English. Mr. Portman, interpreter, then read in Dutch that portion of the treaty which contained such points as had been already agreed upon. _Japanese_. It is all correct except that we have objection to opening the port of Simoda immediately; if any vessels were to go there in distress, we should be glad to furnish them with provisions, wood, and water. _Japanese_. We are willing to put it in the treaty "to be opened now," if you will give us a letter or promise that no ships will come here before the President gives his permission. _Japanese_. If ships go there before that time we shall not be able to give them other than provisions, wood, and water. _Japanese_. When you come back from Matsumai, we shall have plenty of provisions at Simoda for the whole squadron; but to other ships we cannot furnish more than wood, water, etc. _Perry_. When we return from Matsumai we shall not want many provisions, as we shall be going to a place where we shall get plenty. It is only the principle I wish settled now. I have come here as a peacemaker, and I desire to settle everything now, and thus prevent trouble hereafter; I wish to write home to my Government that the Japanese are friends. _Perry_. Very well; I will. _Japanese_. [Entering on another part of the terms agreed on.] We will not confine Americans, or prevent them from walking around; but we should like to place a limit to the distance they may walk. _Perry_. I am prepared to settle that matter now, but they must not be confined to any particular house or street. Suppose we make the distance they may walk, the same distance that a man can go and come in a day. Or, if you choose, the number of _lis_ or _ris_ may be agreed upon. _Japanese_. We are willing that they shall walk as far as they can go and come in a day. _Japanese_. We do not wish any women to come and remain at Simoda. _Japanese_. When you come back from Matsumai we should like _you_ to settle the distance that Americans are to walk. It is difficult for _us_ to settle the distance. _Japanese_. Very well. A few miles will make no difference. You are requested not to leave agents until after you have experienced that it is necessary. The only permanent residence to which they gave assent, and that most reluctantly, was the residence of a consul. Temporary residence was allowed to our shipwrecked citizens, as well as to those who went to Simoda or Hakodate on commercial business. They are allowed to land, to walk where they please within certain limits, to enter shops and temples without restriction, to purchase in the shops, and have the articles sent to the proper public office duly marked, where they will pay for them, to resort to public-houses or inns that are to be built for their refreshment "when on shore" at Simoda and Hakodate; and until built, a temple, at each place, is assigned "as a resting-place for persons in their walks." They may accept invitations to partake of the hospitality of any of the Japanese; but they are not permitted to enter "military establishments or private houses without leave." Without leave, our citizens cannot enter them within the territories of any nation with which we have a treaty. In short, the whole treaty shows that the purpose of the Japanese was to make the experiment of intercourse with us before they made it as extensive or as intimate as it was between us and the Chinese. It was all they could do at the time, and much, very much, was obtained on the part of our negotiator in procuring a concession even to this extent. "Article IX. This is a most important article, as there can be little doubt that, on hearing of the success of this mission, the English, French, and Russians will follow our example; and it may be reasonable to suppose that each will gain some additional advantage, until a commercial treaty is accomplished. Article IX will give to Americans, without further consultation, all these advantages." All other powers were forced to be content in obtaining just what we, as pioneers, obtained. Their treaties were like ours. That of Russia was copied from ours, with no change but that of the substitution of the port of Nagasaki for Napha in Riu Kiu. We respectfully submit, therefore, that all, and indeed more than all, under the circumstances, that could have been reasonably expected has been accomplished. SIR EDWARD BRUCE HAMLEY The defenders of the works were packed in caves under the parapets; the gunners lay dead in heaps on the batteries; the wounded could not be removed by day, because the communications with the rear were now searched throughout by the fire of the allies, and so lay where they fell, in torment in the sun beside the more fortunate slain. On landing, the Prince had passed the hospitals, full to overflowing, and the ambulances with the wounded crowding what had been the squares. There was nothing to relieve the horrible monotony of destruction and devastation except the bridge, which promised retreat from this misery, and which was approaching completion. Accordingly, a council of war considered the matter. After the members had delivered their opinions, Pelissier expressed himself thus: "I too have my plan, but I will not breathe it to my pillow." There is, however, no need to be so reticent with the reader. The French commander had learned that the relief of the troops in the works before him took place at noon, and that in order to avoid the great additional loss which would be caused by introducing the new garrisons before the old ones moved out, the contrary course was followed of marching out most of the occupants before replacing them. Thus noon was the time when the Malakoff would be found most destitute of defenders, and noon was to be the hour of the assault. Also another advantage was offered to the French. The salient of the Malakoff had been adapted to the form of the tower which it covered, and was therefore circular; consequently there was a space in it which could not be seen or fired on from the flanks; that was the space upon which the troops were to be directed. No attack on the Redan would have been undertaken by the English as an isolated operation. Our compulsory distance from that work, the want of a place of arms (that is to say, a covered space in the advanced trenches of sufficient extent to harbor large bodies of troops), the construction of which was forbidden by the rocky soil, and the still unsubdued fire from the ramparts, all condemned an assault. But it was deemed necessary as a distraction in aid of the French, and it fulfilled the purpose. They had been overwhelmed by the numbers which the Russians brought into the open work; and as they hurried back they suffered not less heavily than in their advance. It was unfortunate for them that the French had spiked the guns in the Malakoff instead of turning them on the enemy moving into the Redan, as they ought to have done. With the immense increase of difficulties in making way through the crowded trenches, and renewing the attack against works now fully armed and manned, the attempt was postponed till next day, when fresh troops, headed by the Highlanders, were to renew it. SIR HENRY EVELYN WOOD It may render my narrative of the final assault more readily comprehensible if I begin by saying that, the Malakoff being now considered the key of the Russian position, it was determined that all other attacks should be considered subsidiary to that which was to be directed against it. The French had taken great trouble to screen the concentration of their troops from the sight of the enemy. Each division had a separate access to the advanced trenches in which the storming parties were to assemble. In places where the parapets, having sunk, might have disclosed to the view of the enemy the troops moving into position, they had been carefully raised. Cuts had been made through parapets to admit of the supports moving forward in bodies, and to allow field-artillery batteries, which were stationed at the Victoria redoubt and the old Lancaster battery, to pass through to the front. These apertures had been filled up with gabions, and carefully concealed, so that their position remained unknown to the enemy. Bosquet, surrounded by several Russian officers, who were prisoners, and their guards, was interrogating the captives when a shell burst over them, killing or wounding both them and the guard--the General only escaping. Later, when leaning on the parapet watching the progress of the fight, he was struck in the face by a fragment of a shell. He had just strength to send word to General Dulac to take his place, when he fainted. When the Russians withdrew, General MacMahon, contemplating the possibility of further explosions from undiscovered mines, in order to minimize possible loss of life, sent back the brigade under Colonel Decaen, whom he ordered to hold himself in readiness, and, if Vinoy's brigade should be blown into the air, to come forward immediately and replace it. Then, turning to General Vinoy, MacMahon observed, "It is possible, General, that your brigade will be blown up, but Decaen will replace you immediately, so we shall still hold our position." MacMahon himself remained in the Malakoff with Vinoy's brigade. The allies were now in possession of the bloodstained ruins of Sebastopol, and the last of the Black Sea fleet was at the bottom of the harbor. Perhaps it was well that peace ensued. Although we might have dislodged the Russians from their position on the heights, it would have been difficult to obtain any further material advantage in the Crimea. The immediate provocation of the great mutiny among the sepoys or native troops in the British East-Indian service is well shown, and the entire story of the revolt is equally well told, by Mr. Wheeler. This author, while a secretary to the Government of India in the latter part of the nineteenth century, enjoyed peculiar advantages for study and research. These advantages he turned to account by writing an authoritative and interesting history of the land of his official residence. The sepoys had proved themselves brave under fire, and loyal to their salt in sharp extremities; but they are the most credulous and excitable soldiery in the world. They regarded steam and electricity as so much magic; and they fully believed that the British Government was binding India with chains, when it was only laying down railway lines and telegraph wires. The Enfield rifle was a new mystery; and the busy brains of the sepoys were soon at work to divine the motive of the English in greasing cartridges with cow's fat. They had always taken to themselves the sole credit of having conquered India for the company; and they now imagined that the English wanted them to conquer Persia and China. Accordingly, they suspected that Lord Canning was going to make them as strong as Europeans by destroying caste, forcing them to become Christians, and making them eat beef and drink beer. The story of the greased cartridges, with all its absurd embellishments, ran up the Ganges and Jumna to Benares, Allahabad, Agra, Delhi, and the great cantonment at Meerut; while another current of lies ran back again from Meerut to Barrackpur. It was noised abroad that the bones of cows and pigs had been ground into powder, and thrown into wells and mingled with flour and butter, in order to destroy the caste of the masses and convert them to Christianity. For a brief interval it was hoped that the disaffection was suppressed. Excitement manifested itself in various ways at different stations throughout the length of Hindustan and the Punjab--at Benares, Lucknow, Agra, Ambala, and Sealkote. In some stations there were incendiary fires; in others the sepoys were wanting in their usual respect to their European officers. But it was believed that the storm was spending itself, and that the dark clouds were passing away. In spite of the presence of Europeans there were more indications of excitement at Meerut than at any other station in the northwest. At Meerut the story of the greased cartridges had been capped by the story of the bonedust; and there were the same kind of incendiary fires, the same lack of respect toward European officers, and the same whispered resolve not to touch the cartridges, as at Barrackpur. The station was commanded by General Hewitt, whose advancing years unfitted him to cope with the storm which was bursting upon Hindustan. Brigadier Graves did his best to protect the city and cantonment until the arrival of the expected Europeans from Meerut. Indeed, throughout the morning and greater part of the afternoon everyone in Delhi was expecting the arrival of the Europeans. Brigadier Graves ordered all the non-military residents, including women and children, to repair to Flagstaff Tower--a round building of solid brickwork at some distance from the city. Late detachments of sepoys were sent from the Ridge to the Cashmere gate, under the command of their European officers, to help the sepoys on duty to maintain order in the city. Presently the rebel troops from Meerut came up, accompanied by the insurgent rabble of Delhi. The English officers prepared to charge them, and gave the order to fire, but some of the sepoys refused to obey or only fired into the air. The English officers held on, expecting the European soldiers from Meerut. The sepoys hesitated to join the rebels, out of dread of the coming Europeans. At last the Delhi sepoys threw in their lot with the rebels and shot down their own officers. The revolt spread throughout the whole city; and the suspense of the English on the Ridge and at Flagstaff Tower began to give way to the agony of despair. The news of the revolt at Meerut threw the sepoys into a ferment at every military station in Hindustan. Rumors of mutiny or coming mutiny formed almost the only topic of conversation; yet in nearly every sepoy regiment the European officers put faith in their men, and fondly believed that, though the rest of the army might revolt, yet their own corps would prove faithful. Such was eminently the case at Cawnpore, yet General Wheeler seems to have known better. While the European officers continued to sleep every night in the sepoy lines, the veteran made his preparations for meeting the coming storm. Meanwhile the brain of Nana Sahib had been turned by wild dreams of vengeance and sovereignty. He thought not only to wreak his malice upon the English, but to restore the extinct Mahratta Empire, and reign over Hindustan as the representative of the forgotten peshwas. The stampede of the sepoys to Delhi was fatal to his mad ambition. He overtook the mutineers, dazzled them with fables of the treasures in Wheeler's intrenchment, and brought them back to Cawnpore to carry out his vindictive and visionary schemes. Meanwhile Colonel Neill, commanding the Madras Fusiliers, was pushing up from Calcutta. He was bent on the relief of Cawnpore and Lucknow, but was delayed on the way by the mutinies at Benares and Allahabad. In July he was joined at Allahabad by a column under General Havelock, who was destined within a few weeks to win a lasting name in history. Meanwhile, in the absence of railways, there were unfortunate delays in bringing up troops and guns to stamp out the fires of rebellion at the head centre. The highway from Calcutta to Delhi was blocked up by mutiny and insurrection; and every European soldier sent up from Calcutta was stopped for the relief of Benares, Allahabad, Cawnpore, or Lucknow. But the possession of the Punjab at this crisis proved to be the salvation of the empire. Sir John Lawrence, Chief Commissioner in the Punjab, was called upon for almost superhuman work; to maintain order in a conquered province; to suppress mutiny and disaffection among the very sepoy regiments from Bengal that were supposed to garrison the country; and to send reenforcements of troops and guns, and supplies of all descriptions, to the siege of Delhi. Fortunately the Sikhs had been only a few short years under British administration; they had not forgotten the miseries that prevailed under the native Government, and could appreciate the many blessings they enjoyed under British rule. They were stanch to the British Government, and eager to be led against the rebels. In some cases terrible punishment was meted out to mutinous Bengal sepoys within the Punjab, but the Imperial interests at stake were sufficient to justify every severity, although all must regret the painful necessity that called for such extreme measures. The defence of the British residency at Lucknow is a glorious episode in the national annals. The fortitude of the beleaguered garrison was the admiration of the world. The women nursed the wounded and performed every womanly duty with self-sacrificing heroism; and when the fight was over they received the well-merited thanks of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. Now ensued a genuine declaration of hostilities, and most joyfully did Victor Emmanuel make the following announcement to his troops: "Soldiers! Austria, who masses her armies on our frontiers and threatens to invade our country because liberty and order rule there; because concord and affection between sovereign and people--and not force--sway the State; because there the anguished cry of oppressed Italy is listened to--Austria dares to tell us, who are armed only in our own defence, to lay down those arms and put ourselves in her power. Such an outrageous suggestion surely merits a condign response, and I have indignantly refused her request. I announce this to you in the certainty that you will make the wrong done to your King and to your nation your own. Hence mine is a proclamation of war: arm yourselves therefore in readiness for it! "You will have as comrades those intrepid French troops--the conquerors in so many distinguished campaigns--with whom you fought side by side at Tchernaya, whom Napoleon III, always prompt to further the defence of a righteous cause and the victory of civilization, generously sends in great numbers to our aid. March then, confident of success, and wreathe with fresh laurels that standard which, rallying from all quarters the flower of Italian youth to its threefold colors, points out your task of accomplishing that righteous and sacred enterprise--the independence of Italy, wherein we find our war-cry." By this movement Vercelli was abandoned by the Austrians and it was immediately reoccupied by the Sardinians. Napoleon now prepared a bold flank movement, by leaving the Po for the Ticino, and to mask this manoeuvre ordered the Sardinians to make an advance. Thus, while Victor Emmanuel, at the head of his men, flung himself from Vercelli on Palestro--meriting, by the skill of his military tactics, the acclamations of a regiment of zouaves whom he headed as corporal--the French, taking ad vantage of the Alessandria, Casale, and Novara Railway, made for the bridge of Buffalora over the Ticino. Only then did Gyulai perceive this clever stratagem which threw Lombardy open to the allies, and he was consequently obliged to cross the Ticino to block the enemy's way to Milan. After a few days' rest the Franco-Sardinian army crossed the Mincio and besieged Peschiera. Now there seemed a chance of the Italians fulfilling the hope they had so long cherished, of expelling the foreigners. They confidently awaited news of fresh feats of arms in the Quadrilateral and of the success of the fleet sent by France and Sardinia into Adriatic waters, but instead came the most unexpected tidings imaginable. The duchies of Parma and Modena had also been deserted by their dukes, and the papal legates had to quit Romagna, whose inhabitants now suddenly announced their fusion with Sardinia. Indeed this impulse for annexation now began to spread, and to the cry of "Victor Emmanuel" the Marches and Umbria revolted against the Pontiff, but in these regions the movement was sanguinarily suppressed by the Swiss troops. Napoleon III was displeased to note how all Italian aspirations tended to unity, and thus it was that he had signed the Treaty of Villafranca. Peace was concluded at Zurich in the November following, and there the idea of an Italian confederation was mooted afresh. The fugitive princes ought to have returned to their States, but how was it possible? They certainly could not hope to be recalled by their subjects, for the latter had expelled them; occupying their kingdoms with troops of their own was out of the question, because they had none; foreign aid, moreover, was not to be looked for, since Napoleon III had established the principle of non-intervention. Then the people of Central Italy showed themselves capable of a bold political _coup:_ under the leadership of Bettino Ricasoli, dictator in Tuscany, and Luigi Carlo Farini--who held a similar office in Emilia and Romagna--they declared, by means of their assembled Deputies, their earnest desire to be incorporated with Sardinia. Whatever may be said of the credit due to other scientists for investigation or discovery in natural selection, the preeminence of Darwin in this field is undisputed. If of any scientific book it can be said that its appearance was "epoch-making" it is true of Darwin's work _On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favored Races in the Struggle for Life_. Not only did it command the earnest attention of the scientific and literary world, but it awakened the interest of thoughtful persons everywhere. Later research and criticism have modified the effect of his conclusions and led to new results, but the "Darwinian theory" or "Darwinism" still holds and seems likely long to maintain a central place in the history of modern scientific development. Since it is not an uncommon error to confound natural selection with evolution, it may be well to point out that, while based on evolution, Darwinism is distinct from it. Evolution is the development of new organisms through heredity, variation, and adaptation. Darwinism, or the doctrine of natural selection, as best defined in these pages by Darwin himself, is seen to involve quite different factors from those of evolution as thus restricted. For candor and childlike simplicity, the writings of Darwin are especially noteworthy among the modest utterances of great men, and nowhere are these qualities more strikingly revealed than in the following account of the production of his principal work. It was evident that such facts as these, as well as many others, could be explained only on the supposition that species gradually become modified; and the subject haunted me. But it was equally evident that neither the action of the surrounding conditions nor the will of the organisms (especially in the case of plants) could account for the innumerable cases in which organisms of every kind are beautifully adapted to their habits of life--for instance, a woodpecker or a tree-frog to climb trees, or a seed for dispersal by hooks or plumes. I had always been much struck by such adaptations, and until these could be explained it seemed to me almost useless to endeavor to prove by indirect evidence that species have been modified. Hardly any point gave me so much satisfaction, when I was at work on the _Origin_, as the explanation of the wide difference in many classes between the embryo and the adult animal, and of the close resemblance of the embryos within the same class. No notice of this point was taken, as far as I remember, in the early reviews of the _Origin_, and I recollect expressing my surprise on this head in a letter to Asa Gray. Within late years several reviewers have given the whole credit to Fritz Mueller and Haeckel, who undoubtedly have worked it out much more fully and in some respects more correctly than I did. I had materials for a whole chapter on the subject, and I ought to have made the discussion longer; for it is clear that I failed to impress my readers; and he who succeeds in doing so deserves, in my opinion, all the credit. This leads me to remark that I have almost without exception been treated honestly by my reviewers, passing over those without scientific knowledge as not worthy of notice. My views have often been grossly misrepresented, bitterly opposed and ridiculed, but this has been generally done, as I believe, in good faith. On the whole I do not doubt that my works have been repeatedly and greatly overpraised. I rejoice that I have avoided controversies, and this I owe to Lyell, who many years ago, in reference to my geological works, strongly advised me never to get entangled in a controversy, as it rarely did any good and caused a miserable loss of time and temper. Men of high rank--that is, the privileged class--before risking anything in an enterprise wish to assure themselves which way the wind of fortune blows and where the large battalions are; and then the victorious force may be certain of finding them compliant, cordial, and even enthusiastic if need be. Is not this the history of human selfishness in every country? The poor people, on the other hand, welcomed us with applause and with unmistakable tokens of affection. They thought of nothing but the sacredness of the sacrifice, the difficult and noble task undertaken by that handful of gallant young fellows, who had come from such a distance to the succor of their brethren. Victor Emmanuel sought to dissuade Garibaldi from an enterprise so full of danger as that of marching upon Naples against the wishes of the united cabinets of Continental Europe. The King desired that matters should proceed by negotiation, the basis of which should be that Neapolitans and Sicilians should be allowed to decide their future destinies for themselves. Garibaldi, who loved and trusted the honest King, replied that the actual state of Italy compelled him to disobey his majesty. "When," said the noble-hearted patriot, "I shall have delivered the populations from the yoke that weighs them down, I will throw my sword at your feet, and will then obey you for the rest of my life." In truth, Italians of all ranks were now so roused that neither Victor Emmanuel, Cavour, nor even Garibaldi himself could have stayed the movement. Austria too had her own difficulties to encounter, and they were both numerous and complicated. Her military and priestly despotism had suffered defeat; her people disliked its rule and desired freer institutions; her finances were terribly disordered. At Cosenza in Calabria, and at Potenza in the Basilicata, provisional governments were proclaimed and were hailing with delight the progress of Garibaldi. The forces of Francis were disappearing from those provinces and leaving the road to Naples unprotected. The fleet was as little to be counted on as the army. Garibaldi united the Neapolitan to the Sardinian fleet, so forming an Italian naval force. He appointed a ministry comprising Liborio Romano (who had served under Francis II), Scialoia, Cosenz, and Pisanelli; he then proceeded to promulgate the Sardinian Constitution throughout the Neapolitan Provinces. But the Bourbon forces were still in possession of Capua and Gaeta. It became necessary, therefore, to undertake military operations against them. It is gratifying to remember that at this very critical juncture in the cause of Italian unity and independence, the English Government gave its very cordial support to that cause, and ably defended the course pursued by King Victor Emmanuel, his ministers, and his people. Close upon the end of the fifteenth century the Muscovite ideas of right were subjected to the strong mind of Ivan the Great and compressed into a code. Therein were embodied the best processes known to his land and time: for discovering crime, torture and trial by battle; for punishing crime, the knout and death. The greatest grief of the Muscovite nobles seemed to be that the peasants could escape from their oppression by the emigration allowed on St. George's Day. Boris saw his opportunity: he cut off the privilege of St. George's Day, and the peasant was fixed to the soil forever. No Russian law ever directly enslaved the peasantry, but, through this decree of Boris, the lord who owned the soil came to own the peasants, just as he owned its immovable boulders and ledges. To this the peasants submitted; but history has not been able to drown their sighs over this wrong; their proverbs and ballads make St. George's Day representative of all ill-luck and disappointment. A few years later Boris made another bid for oligarchic favor. He issued a rigorous fugitive-serf law, and even wrenched liberty from certain free peasants who had entered service for wages before his edicts. This completed the work, and Russia, which never had had the benefits of feudalism, had now fastened upon her feudalism's worst curse, a serf caste, bound to the glebe. The great good things done by Peter the world knows by heart. The world knows well how he tore his way out of the fetichism of his time; how, despite ignorance and unreason, he dragged his nation after him; how he dowered the nation with things and thoughts that transformed it from a petty Asiatic horde to a great European Power. Her murders and orgies were soon forgotten in the new hopes for Russian regeneration. Her dealings with Russia strengthened these hopes. The official style required that all persons presenting petitions should subscribe themselves "Your Majesty's humble serf." This formula she abolished, and boasted that she had cast out the word serf from the Russian language. Poets and philosophers echoed this boast over Europe--and the serfs waited. Again she aroused hope. It was given out that her most intense delight came from the sight of happy serfs and prosperous villages. Accordingly, in her journey to the Crimea, Potemkin squandered millions on millions in rearing pasteboard villages, in dragging forth thousands of wretched peasants to fill them, in costuming them to look thrifty, in training them to look happy. Catharine was rejoiced, Europe sang paeans--the serfs waited. As Russia entered the nineteenth century, the hearts of earnest men must have sunk within them. For Paul I, Catharine's son and successor, was infinitely more despotic than Catharine, and infinitely less restrained by public opinion. He had been born with savage instincts, and educated into ferocity. Tyranny was written on his features in his childhood. If he remained in Russia his mother sneered and showed hatred of him; if he journeyed in Western Europe crowds gathered about his coach to jeer at his ugliness. Most of those who have seen Gillray's caricature of him, issued in the height of English spite at Paul's homage to Bonaparte, have thought it hideously overdrawn; but those who have seen the portrait of Paul in the Cadet-Corps of St. Petersburg know well that Gillray did not exaggerate Paul's ugliness, for he could not. The Czar now sought to foster other good efforts, especially those made by some earnest nobles to free their serfs by will. But this plan also the serf-owning caste entangled and thwarted. At last the storm of war set in with such fury that all internal reforms must be lost sight of. Russia had to make ready for those campaigns in which Napoleon gained every battle. Then came that peaceful meeting on the raft at Tilsit--worse for Russia than any warlike meeting; for thereby Napoleon seduced Alexander, for years, from plans of bettering his empire into dreams of extending it. After these good efforts, Alexander stopped, discouraged. A few patriotic nobles stood apart from their caste, and strengthened his hands, as Lafayette and Lincourt strengthened Louis XVI. They even drew up a plan of voluntary emancipation; formed an association for the purpose and gained many signatures; but the great weight of that besotted serf-owning caste was thrown against them, and all came to naught. Alexander was at last walled in from the great object of his ambition. Pretended theologians built, between him and emancipation, walls of Scriptural interpretation; pretended philosophers built walls of false political economy; pretended statesmen built walls of sham common-sense. If the Czar could but have mustered courage to cut the knot! Alas for Russia and for him, he wasted himself in efforts to untie it. His heart sickened at it; he welcomed death, which alone could remove him from it. Alexander's successor, Nicholas I, had been known before his accession as a mere martinet, a good colonel for parade days, wonderful in detecting soiled uniforms, terrible in administering petty punishments. It seems like the story of stupid Brutus over again. Altered circumstances made a new man of him; and few things are more strange than the change wrought in his whole bearing and look by that week of energy in climbing his brother's throne. The great article in Nicholas's creed was a complete, downright faith in despotism, and in himself as despotism's apostle. Hence he hated, above all things, a limited monarchy. He told De Custine that a pure monarchy or pure republic he could understand; but that anything between these he could not understand. Of his former rule of Poland, as constitutional monarch, he spoke with loathing. There was in this attitude toward Europe--in this standing forth as the representative man of absolutism, and breasting the nineteenth century--something of greatness; but in his attitude toward Russia this greatness was wretchedly diminished. For, as Alexander I was a good man enticed out of goodness by the baits of Napoleon, Nicholas was a great man scared out of greatness by the ever-recurring phantom of the French Revolution. We have shown this vague fear in Nicholas's mind thus at length and in different workings, because thereby alone can be grasped the master-key to his dealings with the serf system. Toward his toiling millions Nicholas always showed sympathy. Let news of a single wrong to a serf get through the hedges about the Russian majesty, and woe to the guilty master! Many of these wrongs came to Nicholas's notice; and he came to hate the system, and tried to undermine it. Opposition met him, of course; not so much the ponderous laziness of Peter's time as an opposition, polite and elastic, which never ranted and never stood up--for then Nicholas would have throttled it and stamped upon it. But it did its best to entangle his reason and thwart his action. He was told that the serfs were well-fed, well-housed, well-clothed, well-provided with religion; were contented, and had no wish to leave their owners. Now Nicholas was not strong at spinning sham reasons nor subtle at weaving false conscience; but, to his mind, the very fact that the system had so degraded a man that he could laugh and dance and sing, while other men took his wages, his wife, and homestead, was the crowning argument against the system. Then the political economists beset him, proving that without forced labor Russia must sink into sloth and poverty. Strong as Alexander showed himself by these words, he showed himself stronger by acts. A policy properly mingling firmness and conciliation brought peace to Europe and showed him equal to his father; a policy mingling love of liberty with love of order brought the dawn of prosperity to Russia and showed him the superior of his father. The reforms now begun were not stinted as of old, but free and hearty. In rapid succession were swept away restrictions on telegraphic communication, on printing, on the use of the Imperial Library, on strangers entering the country, on Russians leaving the country. A policy in public works was adopted which made Nicholas's greatest efforts seem petty; a vast network of railways was begun. A policy in commercial dealings with Western Europe was adopted, in which Alexander, though not apparently so imposing as Nicholas, was really far greater; he dared advance toward freedom of trade. Time after time we have entered the serf field and serf hut; have seen the simple round of serf toils and sports; have heard the simple chronicles of self joys and sorrows: but whether his livery were filthy sheepskin or gold-laced caftan; whether he lay on carpets at the door of his master, or in filth on the floor of his cabin; whether he gave us cold, stupid stories of his wrongs, or flippant details of his joys; whether he blessed his master or cursed him--we have wondered at the power which a serf system has to degrade and imbrute the image of God. The next movement of the retrograde party was to misunderstand everything. The plainest things were found to need a world of debate; the simplest things became entangled; the noble assemblies played solemnly a ludicrous game of cross-purposes. Straightway came a notice from the Emperor which, stripped of official verbiage, said that they must understand. This set all in motion again. Imperial notices were sent to province after province, explanatory documents were issued, good men and strong were set to talk and work. The opposition now made the most brilliant stroke of its campaign. Just as James II of England prated of toleration and planned the enslavement of all thought, so now the bigoted plotters against emancipation began to prate of constitutional liberty. But Alexander held right on. It was even hinted that visions of a constitutional monarchy pleased him. But then came tests of Alexander's strength far more trying. Masses of peasants, hearing vague news of emancipation--learning, doubtless, from their masters' own spiteful lips that the Emperor was endeavoring to tear away property in serfs--took the masters at their word, and determined to help the Emperor. They rose in insurrection. To the bigoted serf-owners this was a godsend. They paraded it in all lights; therewith they threw life into all the old commonplaces on the French Revolution; timid men of good intentions wavered. The Czar would surely now be scared back. All the district assemblies, after voting for the formation of the administrative committee, named the deputies for the larger assembly in the chief town in the province, which in its turn chose among its own members the members for the provincial administrative committee. The central committee seemed to interest the peasants less than those of the districts, and this too is owing to their modesty and moderation. Events treated at length are here indicated in large type; the numerals following give volume and page. Separate chronologies or the various nations, and of the careers of famous persons, will be found in the INDEX VOLUME, with references showing where the several events are fully treated. Bomarsund; the allies land in the Crimea; battles of the Alma, of Balaklava, of Inkerman, siege of Sebastopol. The decision in the Dred Scott case extends slavery into the Territories. Sicily; they capture Naples. Victor Emmanuel seizes the States of the Church. See "THE KINGDOM OF ITALY ESTABLISHED."	redpajama-book	28,639
This Project Gutenberg Etext was prepared by Barry Haworth. Mr. Bedford Meets Mr. Cavor at Lympne The sun had set, the sky was a vivid tranquillity of green and yellow, and against that he came out black--the oddest little figure. He was a short, round-bodied, thin-legged little man, with a jerky quality in his motions; he had seen fit to clothe his extraordinary mind in a cricket cap, an overcoat, and cycling knickerbockers and stockings. Why he did so I do not know, for he never cycled and he never played cricket. It was a fortuitous concurrence of garments, arising I know not how. He gesticulated with his hands and arms, and jerked his head about and buzzed. He buzzed like something electric. You never heard such buzzing. And ever and again he cleared his throat with a most extraordinary noise. There had been rain, and that spasmodic walk of his was enhanced by the extreme slipperiness of the footpath. Exactly as he came against the sun he stopped, pulled out a watch, hesitated. Then with a sort of convulsive gesture he turned and retreated with every manifestation of haste, no longer gesticulating, but going with ample strides that showed the relatively large size of his feet--they were, I remember, grotesquely exaggerated in size by adhesive clay--to the best possible advantage. "Not in the least," said I, placing myself beside him. "My habits are regular. My time for intercourse--limited." "This, I presume, is your time for exercise?" "It is. I come here to enjoy the sunset." "You never look at it." He looked at me--reflected. "Perhaps I do, now I come to think of it. But what was it you wanted to speak to me about?" "Like this." I imitated his buzzing noise. He looked at me, and it was evident the buzzing awakened distaste. "Do I do that?" he asked. "Every blessed evening." He stopped dead. He regarded me gravely. "Can it be," he said, "that I have formed a Habit?" "Well, it looks like it. Doesn't it?" He pulled down his lower lip between finger and thumb. He regarded a puddle at his feet. "My mind is much occupied," he said. "And you want to know why! Well, sir, I can assure you that not only do I not know why I do these things, but I did not even know I did them. Come to think, it is just as you say; I never _have_ been beyond that field And these things annoy you?" For some reason I was beginning to relent towards him. "Not annoy," I said. "But--imagine yourself writing a play!" "Well, anything that needs concentration." "Ah!" he said, "of course," and meditated. His expression became so eloquent of distress, that I relented still more. After all, there is a touch of aggression in demanding of a man you don't know why he hums on a public footpath. "You see," he said weakly, "it's a habit." "Oh, I recognise that." "But not if it puts you out. After all, I had no business--it's something of a liberty." "I am greatly obliged to you. In fact, I know I am getting absurdly absent-minded. You are quite justified, sir--perfectly justified. Indeed, I am indebted to you. The thing shall end. And now, sir, I have already brought you farther than I should have done." "Not at all, sir, not at all." We regarded each other for a moment. I raised my hat and wished him a good evening. He responded convulsively, and so we went our ways. At the stile I looked back at his receding figure. His bearing had changed remarkably, he seemed limp, shrunken. The contrast with his former gesticulating, zuzzoing self took me in some absurd way as pathetic. I watched him out of sight. Then wishing very heartily I had kept to my own business, I returned to my bungalow and my play. For a time I was puzzled to think what had brought him. He made indifferent conversation in the most formal way, then abruptly he came to business. He wanted to buy me out of my bungalow. "You see," he said, "I don't blame you in the least, but you've destroyed a habit, and it disorganises my day. I've walked past here for years--years. No doubt I've hummed You've made all that impossible!" I suggested he might try some other direction. "But why not come by still?" "It would be all different. I should be self-conscious. I should think of you at your play--watching me irritated--instead of thinking of my work. No! I must have the bungalow." At last he rose to depart, with an apology for the length of his call. Talking over his work was, he said, a pleasure enjoyed only too rarely. It was not often he found such an intelligent listener as myself, he mingled very little with professional scientific men. I stopped. He was considering. Evidently the thing, attracted him. "But I'm afraid I should bore you," he said. "You think I'm too dull?" "Anyhow, you've interested me immensely this afternoon." "My dear sir, say no more." "But really can you spare the time?" "There is no rest like change of occupation," I said, with profound conviction. The affair was over. On my verandah steps he turned. "I am already greatly indebted to you," he said. I made an interrogative noise. "You have completely cured me of that ridiculous habit of humming," he explained. I think I said I was glad to be of any service to him, and he turned away. Immediately the train of thought that our conversation had suggested must have resumed its sway. His arms began to wave in their former fashion. The faint echo of "zuzzoo" came back to me on the breeze Well, after all, that was not my affair And now, as to the nature of these inquiries. Here, unhappily, comes a grave difficulty. I am no scientific expert, and if I were to attempt to set forth in the highly scientific language of Mr. Cavor the aim to which his experiments tended, I am afraid I should confuse not only the reader but myself, and almost certainly I should make some blunder that would bring upon me the mockery of every up-to-date student of mathematical physics in the country. The best thing I can do therefore is, I think to give my impressions in my own inexact language, without any attempt to wear a garment of knowledge to which I have no claim. Now all known substances are "transparent" to gravitation. You can use screens of various sorts to cut off the light or heat, or electrical influence of the sun, or the warmth of the earth from anything; you can screen things by sheets of metal from Marconi's rays, but nothing will cut off the gravitational attraction of the sun or the gravitational attraction of the earth. Yet why there should be nothing is hard to say. Cavor did not see why such a substance should not exist, and certainly I could not tell him. I had never thought of such a possibility before. He showed me by calculations on paper, which Lord Kelvin, no doubt, or Professor Lodge, or Professor Karl Pearson, or any of those great scientific people might have understood, but which simply reduced me to a hopeless muddle, that not only was such a substance possible, but that it must satisfy certain conditions. It was an amazing piece of reasoning. Much as it amazed and exercised me at the time, it would be impossible to reproduce it here. "Yes," I said to it all, "yes; go on!" Suffice it for this story that he believed he might be able to manufacture this possible substance opaque to gravitation out of a complicated alloy of metals and something new--a new element, I fancy--called, I believe, _helium_, which was sent to him from London in sealed stone jars. Doubt has been thrown upon this detail, but I am almost certain it was _helium_ he had sent him in sealed stone jars. It was certainly something very gaseous and thin. If only I had taken notes But then, how was I to foresee the necessity of taking notes? I took my line straight away. I knew I was staking everything, but I jumped there and then. "It's vanished!" I cried. "My dear sir, don't you see what you've got? Don't you see what you're going to do?" His idea was that the profits I spoke of might go to endow research, but that, of course, was a matter we had to settle later. "That's all right," I shouted, "that's all right." The great point, as I insisted, was to get the thing done. "And as it happens you have just talked to the right man!" He paused. I stood still. "We'll tackle the hitch when it comes." said I. In that instant the whole face of the world had changed. The tranquil sunset had vanished, the sky was dark with scurrying clouds, everything was flattened and swaying with the gale. I glanced back to see if my bungalow was still in a general way standing, then staggered forwards towards the trees amongst which Cavor had vanished, and through whose tall and leaf-denuded branches shone the flames of his burning house. For a moment I did not recognise this earthy lump, and then I saw that it was Cavor, caked in the mud in which he had rolled. He leant forward against the wind, rubbing the dirt from his eyes and mouth. He extended a muddy lump of hand, and staggered a pace towards me. His face worked with emotion, little lumps of mud kept falling from it. He looked as damaged and pitiful as any living creature I have ever seen, and his remark therefore amazed me exceedingly. "Gratulate me," he gasped; "gratulate me!" "Congratulate you!" said I. "Good heavens! What for?" "You _have_. What on earth caused that explosion?" I repeated my suggestion of getting back to my bungalow, and this time he understood. We clung arm-in-arm and started, and managed at last to reach the shelter of as much roof as was left to me. For a space we sat in arm-chairs and panted. All the windows were broken, and the lighter articles of furniture were in great disorder, but no irrevocable damage was done. Happily the kitchen door had stood the pressure upon it, so that all my crockery and cooking materials had survived. The oil stove was still burning, and I put on the water to boil again for tea. And that prepared, I could turn on Cavor for his explanation. "Quite correct," he insisted; "quite correct. I've done it, and it's all right." "My dear sir," I cried, "don't you see you've done thousands of pounds' worth of damage?" "There, I throw myself on your discretion. I'm not a practical man, of course, but don't you think they will regard it as a cyclone?" "It was not an explosion. It's perfectly simple. Only, as I say, I'm apt to overlook these little things. It's that zuzzoo business on a larger scale. Inadvertently I made this substance of mine, this Cavorite, in a thin, wide sheet " He paused. "You are quite clear that the stuff is opaque to gravitation, that it cuts off things from gravitating towards each other?" "Yes," said I. "Yes." "I know that," said I. "Go on." "You perceive," he said, "it formed a sort of atmospheric fountain, a kind of chimney in the atmosphere. And if the Cavorite itself hadn't been loose and so got sucked up the chimney, does it occur to you what would have happened?" I thought. "I suppose," I said, "the air would be rushing up and up over that infernal piece of stuff now." "Spouting into space! Good heavens! Why, it would have squirted all the atmosphere of the earth away! It would have robbed the world of air! It would have been the death of all mankind! That little lump of stuff!" He paused and regarded me. A man of such possibilities, I reflected, is no ordinary guest to entertain. "Perhaps," said I, rising to my feet, "we had better begin by looking for a trowel," and I led the way to the scattered vestiges of the greenhouse. "Of course we must make it again," he said, with a sort of glee I had not expected in him, "of course we must make it again. We have caught a Tartar, perhaps, but we have left the theoretical behind us for good and all. If we can possibly avoid wrecking this little planet of ours, we will. But--there must be risks! There must be. In experimental work there always are. And here, as a practical man, _you_ must come in. For my own part it seems to me we might make it edgeways, perhaps, and very thin. Yet I don't know. I have a certain dim perception of another method. I can hardly explain it yet. But curiously enough it came into my mind, while I was rolling over and over in the mud before the wind, and very doubtful how the whole adventure was to end, as being absolutely the thing I ought to have done." The Building of the sphere I remember the occasion very distinctly when Cavor told me of his idea of the sphere. He had had intimations of it before, but at the time it seemed to come to him in a rush. We were returning to the bungalow for tea, and on the way he fell humming. Suddenly he shouted, "That's it! That finishes it! A sort of roller blind!" "Finishes what?" I asked. "Space--anywhere! The moon." I saw I was out of it, and for a time I let him talk in his own fashion. I hadn't the ghost of an idea then of his drift. But after he had taken tea he made it clear to me. "It's like this," he said. "Last time I ran this stuff that cuts things off from gravitation into a flat tank with an overlap that held it down. And directly it had cooled and the manufacture was completed all that uproar happened, nothing above it weighed anything, the air went squirting up, the house squirted up, and if the stuff itself hadn't squirted up too, I don't know what would have happened! But suppose the substance is loose, and quite free to go up?" "Exactly. With no more disturbance than firing a big gun." "But what good will that do?" "I'm going up with it!" I put down my teacup and stared at him. "But how will you get inside?" "There was a similar problem about a dumpling." "Yes, I know. But how?" "That's perfectly easy. An air-tight manhole is all that is needed. That, of course, will have to be a little complicated; there will have to be a valve, so that things may be thrown out, if necessary, without much loss of air." "Like Jules Verne's thing in _A Trip to the Moon_." But Cavor was not a reader of fiction. "Practically we shall be able to tack about in space just as we wish. Get attracted by this and that." "I don't quite see what we shall do it for! It's really only jumping off the world and back again." "We should see--Oh! consider the new knowledge." "Is there air there?" "They're out of the question, because of the air difficulty." "Why not apply that idea of spring blinds--Cavorite blinds in strong steel cases--to lifting weights?" "It wouldn't work," he insisted. "After all, to go into outer space is not so much worse, if at all, than a polar expedition. Men go on polar expeditions." "Not business men. And besides, they get paid for polar expeditions. And if anything goes wrong there are relief parties. But this--it's just firing ourselves off the world for nothing." "Call it prospecting." "I have no doubt there will be minerals," said Cavor. "Oh! sulphur, ores, gold perhaps, possibly new elements." "It seems to me it wouldn't cost much to cart any weight anywhere if you packed it in a Cavorite case." I had not thought of that. "Delivered free on head of purchaser, eh?" "It isn't as though we were confined to the moon." "There's Mars--clear atmosphere, novel surroundings, exhilarating sense of lightness. It might be pleasant to go there." "Is there air on Mars?" "Seems as though you might run it as a sanatorium. By the way, how far is Mars?" An extraordinary possibility came rushing into my mind. Suddenly I saw, as in a vision, the whole solar system threaded with Cavorite liners and spheres deluxe. "Rights of pre-emption," came floating into my head--planetary rights of pre-emption. I recalled the old Spanish monopoly in American gold. It wasn't as though it was just this planet or that--it was all of them. I stared at Cavor's rubicund face, and suddenly my imagination was leaping and dancing. I stood up, I walked up and down; my tongue was unloosened. "I'm beginning to take it in," I said; "I'm beginning to take it in." The transition from doubt to enthusiasm seemed to take scarcely any time at all. "But this is tremendous!" I cried. "This is Imperial! I haven't been dreaming of this sort of thing." "We'll settle all that!" he said in answer to some incidental difficulty that had pulled me up. "We'll soon settle that! We'll start the drawings for mouldings this very night." "We'll start them now," I responded, and we hurried off to the laboratory to begin upon this work forthwith. And then we had to discuss and decide what provisions we were to take--compressed foods, concentrated essences, steel cylinders containing reserve oxygen, an arrangement for removing carbonic acid and waste from the air and restoring oxygen by means of sodium peroxide, water condensers, and so forth. I remember the little heap they made in the corner--tins, and rolls, and boxes--convincingly matter-of-fact. "But look here, Cavor," I said. "After all! What's it all for?" He smiled. "The thing now is to go." "The moon," I reflected. "But what do you expect? I thought the moon was a dead world." He shrugged his shoulders. "We're going to see." "Are we?" I said, and stared before me. "You are tired," he remarked. "You'd better take a walk this afternoon." "No," I said obstinately; "I'm going to finish this brickwork." I got out of bed and wandered about. I sat at the window and stared at the immensity of space. Between the stars was the void, the unfathomable darkness! I tried to recall the fragmentary knowledge of astronomy I had gained in my irregular reading, but it was all too vague to furnish any idea of the things we might expect. At last I got back to bed and snatched some moments of sleep--moments of nightmare rather--in which I fell and fell and fell for evermore into the abyss of the sky. I astonished Cavor at breakfast. I told him shortly, "I'm not coming with you in the sphere." I met all his protests with a sullen persistence. "The thing's too mad," I said, "and I won't come. The thing's too mad." "How would you like a trip to the moon?" I cried. The next day I returned to Cavor. "I am coming," I said. "I've been a little out of order, that's all." That was the only time I felt any serious doubt our enterprise. Nerves purely! After that I worked a little more carefully, and took a trudge for an hour every day. And at last, save for the heating in the furnace, our labours were at an end. By Cavor's direction I placed the packages, the cylinders of oxygen, and so forth, loosely about my feet, and soon we had everything in. He walked about the roofless shed for a time seeking anything we had overlooked, and then crawled in after me. I noted something in his hand. "What have you got there?" I asked. "Haven't you brought anything to read?" "We shall be floating in this sphere with absolutely no occupation." He peered out of the manhole. "Look!" he said. "There's something there!" "We shall be an hour." I took the book from his hand and read, "The Works of William Shakespeare". "He knew a little, you know--in an irregular sort of way." "Precisely what I am told," said Cavor. I assisted him to screw in the glass cover of the manhole, and then he pressed a stud to close the corresponding blind in the outer case. The little oblong of twilight vanished. We were in darkness. For a time neither of us spoke. Although our case would not be impervious to sound, everything was very still. I perceived there was nothing to grip when the shock of our start should come, and I realised that I should be uncomfortable for want of a chair. "Why have we no chairs?" I asked. "I've settled all that," said Cavor. "We won't need them." "You will see," he said, in the tone of a man who refuses to talk. I stopped. He made no answer. "Confound it!" I cried; "I'm a fool! What business have I here? I'm not coming, Cavor. The thing's too risky. I'm getting out." "You can't," he said. "Can't! We'll soon see about that!" I heard a click, and a little glow lamp came into being. "Well, we're committed," I said at last. "Yes," he said, "we're committed." "Don't move," he exclaimed, at some suggestion of a gesture. "Let your muscles keep quite lax--as if you were in bed. We are in a little universe of our own. Look at those things!" He pointed to the loose cases and bundles that had been lying on the blankets in the bottom of the sphere. I was astonished to see that they were floating now nearly a foot from the spherical wall. Then I saw from his shadow that Cavor was no longer leaning against the glass. I thrust out my hand behind me, and found that I too was suspended in space, clear of the glass. I did not cry out nor gesticulate, but fear came upon me. It was like being held and lifted by something--you know not what. The mere touch of my hand against the glass moved me rapidly. I understood what had happened, but that did not prevent my being afraid. We were cut off from all exterior gravitation, only the attraction of objects within our sphere had effect. Consequently everything that was not fixed to the glass was falling--slowly because of the slightness of our masses--towards the centre of gravity of our little world, which seemed to be somewhere about the middle of the sphere, but rather nearer to myself than Cavor, on account of my greater weight. "We must turn round," said Cavor, "and float back to back, with the things between us." The Journey to the Moon Presently Cavor extinguished the light. He said we had not overmuch energy stored, and that what we had we must economise for reading. For a time, whether it was long or short I do not know, there was nothing but blank darkness. A question floated up out of the void. "How are we pointing?" I said. "What is our direction?" Came a click, and then a window in the outer case yawned open. The sky outside was as black as the darkness within the sphere, but the shape of the open window was marked by an infinite number of stars. For a space I had to stare at Cavor and the white-lit things about me to season my eyes to light again, before I could turn them towards that pallid glare. The reader may imagine it best if he will lie on the ground some warm summer's night and look between his upraised feet at the moon, but for some reason, probably because the absence of air made it so much more luminous, the moon seemed already considerably larger than it does from earth. The minutest details of its surface were acutely clear. And since we did not see it through air, its outline was bright and sharp, there was no glow or halo about it, and the star-dust that covered the sky came right to its very margin, and marked the outline of its unilluminated part. And as I stood and stared at the moon between my feet, that perception of the impossible that had been with me off and on ever since our start, returned again with tenfold conviction. "Cavor," I said, "this takes me queerly. Those companies we were going to run, and all that about minerals?" "I don't see 'em here." "No," said Cavor; "but you'll get over all that." "That copy of _Lloyd's News_ might help you." "Are we visible from the earth?" I asked. "It would need the most powerful telescope on earth even now to see us as the minutest speck." For a time I stared in silence at the moon. "People!" he exclaimed. "No! Banish all that! Think yourself a sort of ultra-arctic voyager exploring the desolate places of space. Look at it!" "I didn't know they'd traced even that." "By the way," I asked, "how small a thing will the biggest telescopes show upon the moon?" "By the bye," I said, "why didn't we bring a gun?" He did not answer that question. "No," he concluded, "we just have to go. We shall see when we get there." I remembered something. "Of course, there's my minerals, anyhow," I said; "whatever the conditions may be." When at last things settled themselves in my mind again, it seemed quite beyond question that the moon was "down" and under my feet, and that the earth was somewhere away on the level of the horizon--the earth that had been "down" to me and my kindred since the beginning of things. The Landing on the Moon But little time we had for watching then. For now we had come to the real danger of our journey. We had to drop ever closer to the moon as we spun about it, to slacken our pace and watch our chance, until at last we could dare to drop upon its surface. For Cavor that was a time of intense exertion; for me it was an anxious inactivity. I seemed perpetually to be getting out of his way. He leapt about the sphere from point to point with an agility that would have been impossible on earth. He was perpetually opening and closing the Cavorite windows, making calculations, consulting his chronometer by means of the glow lamp during those last eventful hours. For a long time we had all our windows closed and hung silently in darkness hurling through space. Then for a flash Cavor opened a window moonward, and we saw that we were dropping towards a huge central crater with a number of minor craters grouped in a sort of cross about it. And then again Cavor flung our little sphere open to the scorching, blinding sun. I think he was using the sun's attraction as a brake. "Cover yourself with a blanket," he cried, thrusting himself from me, and for a moment I did not understand. Over, clutch, bump, clutch, bump, over We were still alive, and we were lying in the darkness of the shadow of the wall of the great crater into which we had fallen. The thing was exasperating--it was absurd. Here we were just arrived upon the moon, amidst we knew not what wonders, and all we could see was the gray and streaming wall of the bubble in which we had come. "Confound it!" I said, "but at this rate we might have stopped at home;" and I squatted on the bale and shivered, and drew my blanket closer about me. Abruptly the moisture turned to spangles and fronds of frost. "Can you reach the electric heater," said Cavor. "Yes--that black knob. Or we shall freeze." "Of course. We shall have to wait until our air gets warm again, and then this glass will clear. We can't do anything till then. It's night here yet; we must wait for the day to overtake us. Meanwhile, don't you feel hungry?" For a space I did not answer him, but sat fretting. I turned reluctantly from the smeared puzzle of the glass and stared at his face. "Yes," I said, "I am hungry. I feel somehow enormously disappointed. I had expected--I don't know what I had expected, but not this." We peered out upon the landscape of the moon. "It is air," said Cavor. "It must be air--or it would not rise like this--at the mere touch of a sun-beam. And at this pace " He peered upwards. "Look!" he said. "In the sky. Already. On the blackness--a little touch of blue. See! The stars seem larger. And the little ones and all those dim nebulosities we saw in empty space--they are hidden!" Swiftly, steadily, the day approached us. Gray summit after gray summit was overtaken by the blaze, and turned to a smoking white intensity. At last there was nothing to the west of us but a bank of surging fog, the tumultuous advance and ascent of cloudy haze. The distant cliff had receded farther and farther, had loomed and changed through the whirl, and foundered and vanished at last in its confusion. Nearer came that steaming advance, nearer and nearer, coming as fast as the shadow of a cloud before the south-west wind. About us rose a thin anticipatory haze. Cavor gripped my arm. "What?" I said. "Look! The sunrise! The sun!" He turned me about and pointed to the brow of the eastward cliff, looming above the haze about us, scarce lighter than the darkness of the sky. But now its line was marked by strange reddish shapes, tongues of vermilion flame that writhed and danced. I fancied it must be spirals of vapour that had caught the light and made this crest of fiery tongues against the sky, but indeed it was the solar prominences I saw, a crown of fire about the sun that is forever hidden from earthly eyes by our atmospheric veil. Steadily, inevitably came a brilliant line, came a thin edge of intolerable effulgence that took a circular shape, became a bow, became a blazing sceptre, and hurled a shaft of heat at us as though it was a spear. It seemed verily to stab my eyes! I cried aloud and turned about blinded, groping for my blanket beneath the bale. Everything seemed swaying for a space, but that was simply my giddiness. I perceived that he had closed some of the shutters in the outer sphere to save me--from the direct blaze of the sun. I was aware that everything about us was very brilliant. "I don't know--the chronometer is broken. Some little time My dear chap! I have been afraid " I lay for a space taking this in. I saw his face still bore evidences of emotion. For a while I said nothing. I passed an inquisitive hand over my contusions, and surveyed his face for similar damages. The back of my right hand had suffered most, and was skinless and raw. My forehead was bruised and had bled. He handed me a little measure with some of the restorative--I forget the name of it--he had brought with us. After a time I felt a little better. I began to stretch my limbs carefully. Soon I could talk. "It wouldn't have done," I said, as though there had been no interval. "No! it _wouldn't_." He thought, his hands hanging over his knees. He peered through the glass and then stared at me. "Good Lord!" he said. "No!" "What has happened?" I asked after a pause. "Have we jumped to the tropics?" "It was as I expected. This air has evaporated--if it is air. At any rate, it has evaporated, and the surface of the moon is showing. We are lying on a bank of earthy rock. Here and there bare soil is exposed. A queer sort of soil!" It occurred to him that it was unnecessary to explain. He assisted me into a sitting position, and I could see with my own eyes. The harsh emphasis, the pitiless black and white of scenery had altogether disappeared. The glare of the sun had taken upon itself a faint tinge of amber; the shadows upon the cliff of the crater wall were deeply purple. To the eastward a dark bank of fog still crouched and sheltered from the sunrise, but to the westward the sky was blue and clear. I began to realise the length of my insensibility. His eyes followed my pointing finger. "Eh?" he said. "It is a seed," said Cavor. And then I heard him whisper very softly, "Life!" "Life!" And immediately it poured upon us that our vast journey had not been made in vain, that we had come to no arid waste of minerals, but to a world that lived and moved! We watched intensely. I remember I kept rubbing the glass before me with my sleeve, jealous of the faintest suspicion of mist. They did not stand for long. The bundle-like buds swelled and strained and opened with a jerk, thrusting out a coronet of little sharp tips, spreading a whorl of tiny, spiky, brownish leaves, that lengthened rapidly, lengthened visibly even as we watched. The movement was slower than any animal's, swifter than any plant's I have ever seen before. How can I suggest it to you--the way that growth went on? The leaf tips grew so that they moved onward even while we looked at them. The brown seed-case shrivelled and was absorbed with an equal rapidity. Have you ever on a cold day taken a thermometer into your warm hand and watched the little thread of mercury creep up the tube? These moon plants grew like that. I turned about, and behold! along the upper edge of a rock to the eastward a similar fringe in a scarcely less forward condition swayed and bent, dark against the blinding glare of the sun. And beyond this fringe was the silhouette of a plant mass, branching clumsily like a cactus, and swelling visibly, swelling like a bladder that fills with air. Imagine it! Imagine that dawn! The resurrection of the frozen air, the stirring and quickening of the soil, and then this silent uprising of vegetation, this unearthly ascent of fleshiness and spikes. Conceive it all lit by a blaze that would make the intensest sunlight of earth seem watery and weak. And still around this stirring jungle, wherever there was shadow, lingered banks of bluish snow. And to have the picture of our impression complete, you must bear in mind that we saw it all through a thick bent glass, distorting it as things are distorted by a lens, acute only in the centre of the picture, and very bright there, and towards the edges magnified and unreal. We ceased to gaze. We turned to each other, the same thought, the same question in our eyes. For these plants to grow, there must be some air, however attenuated, air that we also should be able to breathe. "The manhole?" I said. "Yes!" said Cavor, "if it is air we see!" "That's easy," he said, and set about proving it. He produced a big piece of crumpled paper from the bale, lit it, and thrust it hastily through the man-hole valve. I bent forward and peered down through the thick glass for its appearance outside, that little flame on whose evidence depended so much! I saw the paper drop out and lie lightly upon the snow. The pink flame of its burning vanished. For an instant it seemed to be extinguished. And then I saw a little blue tongue upon the edge of it that trembled, and crept, and spread! Quietly the whole sheet, save where it lay in immediate contact with the snow, charred and shrivelled and sent up a quivering thread of smoke. There was no doubt left to me; the atmosphere of the moon was either pure oxygen or air, and capable therefore--unless its tenuity was excessive--of supporting our alien life. We might emerge--and live! Presently the glass stopper of the manhole was so far undone that the denser air within our sphere began to escape along the thread of the screw, singing as a kettle sings before it boils. Thereupon he made me desist. It speedily became evident that the pressure outside was very much less than it was within. How much less it was we had no means of telling. My blood-vessels began to throb in my ears, and the sound of Cavor's movements diminished. I noted how still everything had become, because of the thinning of the air. As our air sizzled out from the screw the moisture of it condensed in little puffs. Presently I experienced a peculiar shortness of breath that lasted indeed during the whole of the time of our exposure to the moon's exterior atmosphere, and a rather unpleasant sensation about the ears and finger-nails and the back of the throat grew upon my attention, and presently passed off again. "Well?" said Cavor, in the ghost of a voice. I thought. "Is this all?" "If you can stand it." By way of answer I went on unscrewing. I lifted the circular operculum from its place and laid it carefully on the bale. A flake or so of snow whirled and vanished as that thin and unfamiliar air took possession of our sphere. I knelt, and then seated myself at the edge of the manhole, peering over it. Beneath, within a yard of my face, lay the untrodden snow of the moon. There came a little pause. Our eyes met. "It doesn't distress your lungs too much?" said Cavor. "No," I said. "I can stand this." As he stepped forward he was refracted grotesquely by the edge of the glass. He stood for a moment looking this way and that. Then he drew himself together and leapt. In a puzzled state of mind I too dropped through the manhole. I stood up. Just in front of me the snowdrift had fallen away and made a sort of ditch. I made a step and jumped. I found myself flying through the air, saw the rock on which he stood coming to meet me, clutched it and clung in a state of infinite amazement. I gasped a painful laugh. I was tremendously confused. Cavor bent down and shouted in piping tones for me to be careful. "We are out of Mother Earth's leading-strings now," he said. "It seems to be deserted," said Cavor, "absolutely desolate." "It looks as though these plants had it to themselves," I said. "I see no trace of any other creature." "No insects--no birds, no! Not a trace, not a scrap nor particle of animal life. If there was--what would they do in the night? No; there's just these plants alone." "This is only the fresh morning," said Cavor. He sighed and looked about him. "This is no world for men," he said. "And yet in a way--it appeals." He became silent for a time, then commenced his meditative humming. I started at a gentle touch, and found a thin sheet of livid lichen lapping over my shoe. I kicked at it and it fell to powder, and each speck began to grow. "Look!" said I, turning, and behold Cavor had vanished. I looked about me. "Cavor!" I cried; but no Cavor was visible. "Cavor!" I cried louder, and the rocks echoed me. I turned fiercely to the rocks and clambered to the summit of them. "Cavor!" I cried. My voice sounded like the voice of a lost lamb. The sphere, too, was not in sight, and for a moment a horrible feeling of desolation pinched my heart. I made a step back, gathered myself together, and leapt with all my might. I seemed to shoot right up in the air as though I should never come down. It was horrible and delightful, and as wild as a nightmare, to go flying off in this fashion. I realised my leap had been altogether too violent. I flew clean over Cavor's head and beheld a spiky confusion in a gully spreading to meet my fall. I gave a yelp of alarm. I put out my hands and straightened my legs. I hit a huge fungoid bulk that burst all about me, scattering a mass of orange spores in every direction, and covering me with orange powder. I rolled over spluttering, and came to rest convulsed with breathless laughter. I became aware of Cavor's little round face peering over a bristling hedge. He shouted some faded inquiry. "Eh?" I tried to shout, but could not do so for want of breath. He made his way towards me, coming gingerly among the bushes. "We've got to be careful," he said. "This moon has no discipline. She'll let us smash ourselves." He helped me to my feet. "You exerted yourself too much," he said, dabbing at the yellow stuff with his hand to remove it from my garments. I stood passive and panting, allowing him to beat off the jelly from my knees and elbows and lecture me upon my misfortunes. "We don't quite allow for the gravitation. Our muscles are scarcely educated yet. We must practise a little, when you have got your breath." And all this time the lunar plants were growing around us, higher and denser and more entangled, every moment thicker and taller, spiked plants, green cactus masses, fungi, fleshy and lichenous things, strangest radiate and sinuous shapes. But we were so intent upon our leaping, that for a time we gave no heed to their unfaltering expansion. "By the way," I said, "where exactly is the sphere?" Cavor looked at me. "Eh?" The full meaning of what we were saying struck me sharply. "Cavor!" I cried, laying a hand on his arm, "where is the sphere?" Lost Men in the Moon His face caught something of my dismay. He stood up and stared about him at the scrub that fenced us in and rose about us, straining upward in a passion of growth. He put a dubious hand to his lips. He spoke with a sudden lack of assurance. "I think," he said slowly, "we left it somewhere about _there_." He pointed a hesitating finger that wavered in an arc. "I'm not sure." His look of consternation deepened. "Anyhow," he said, with his eyes on me, "it can't be far." We had both stood up. We made unmeaning ejaculations, our eyes sought in the twining, thickening jungle round about us. "I think after all," he said, pointing suddenly, "it might be over there." "No," I said. "We have turned in a curve. See! here is the mark of my heels. It's clear the thing must be more to the eastward, much more. No--the sphere must be over there." "I _think_," said Cavor, "I kept the sun upon my right all the time." "Every leap, it seems to me," I said, "my shadow flew before me." "Good heavens! What fools we have been!" "It's evident that we must find it again," said Cavor, "and that soon. The sun grows stronger. We should be fainting with the heat already if it wasn't so dry. And I'm hungry." He stood up with a look of active resolution. "Certainly we must find the sphere." As calmly as possible we surveyed the interminable reefs and thickets that formed the floor of the crater, each of us weighing in silence the chances of our finding the sphere before we were overtaken by heat and hunger. "That is all we can do," I said, without any alacrity to begin our hunt. "I wish this confounded spike bush did not grow so fast!" "That's just it," said Cavor. "But it was lying on a bank of snow." It came from beneath our feet, a sound in the earth. We seemed to hear it with our feet as much as with our ears. Its dull resonance was muffled by distance, thick with the quality of intervening substance. No sound that I can imagine could have astonished us more, or have changed more completely the quality of things about us. For this sound, rich, slow, and deliberate, seemed to us as though it could be nothing but the striking of some gigantic buried clock. Sound suggestive of still cloisters, of sleepless nights in crowded cities, of vigils and the awaited hour, of all that is orderly and methodical in life, booming out pregnant and mysterious in this fantastic desert! To the eye everything was unchanged: the desolation of bushes and cacti waving silently in the wind, stretched unbroken to the distant cliffs, the still dark sky was empty overhead, and the hot sun hung and burned. And through it all, a warning, a threat, throbbed this enigma of sound. "Count," was Cavor's belated suggestion, and at that word the striking ceased. I felt the pressure of Cavor's hand upon my arm. He spoke in an undertone, as though he feared to wake some sleeping thing. "Let us keep together," he whispered, "and look for the sphere. We must get back to the sphere. This is beyond our understanding." "Which way shall we go?" He hesitated. An intense persuasion of presences, of unseen things about us and near us, dominated our minds. What could they be? Where could they be? Was this arid desolation, alternately frozen and scorched, only the outer rind and mask of some subterranean world? And if so, what sort of world? What sort of inhabitants might it not presently disgorge upon us? And then, stabbing the aching stillness as vivid and sudden as an unexpected thunderclap, came a clang and rattle as though great gates of metal had suddenly been flung apart. It arrested our steps. We stood gaping helplessly. Then Cavor stole towards me. "I do not understand!" he whispered close to my face. He waved his hand vaguely skyward, the vague suggestion of still vaguer thoughts. "A hiding-place! If anything came " I looked about us. I nodded my head in assent to him. We started off, moving stealthily with the most exaggerated precautions against noise. We went towards a thicket of scrub. A clangour like hammers flung about a boiler hastened our steps. "We must crawl," whispered Cavor. The lower leaves of the bayonet plants, already overshadowed by the newer ones above, were beginning to wilt and shrivel so that we could thrust our way in among the thickening stems without serious injury. A stab in the face or arm we did not heed. At the heart of the thicket I stopped, and stared panting into Cavor's face. "Subterranean," he whispered. "Below." "They may come out." "We must find the sphere!" "Yes," I said; "but how?" "Crawl till we come to it." "Keep hidden. See what they are like." "We will keep together," said I. He thought. "Which way shall we go?" "We must take our chance." And ever and again came gusts of turmoil, hammering, the clanging and throb of machinery, and presently--the bellowing of great beasts! The Mooncalf Pastures In spite of his heavy-looking clothing, he was progressing with what would be, from the terrestrial point of view, very considerable strides, and his clanging arm was busy. The quality of his motion during the instant of his passing suggested haste and a certain anger, and soon after we had lost sight of him we heard the bellow of a mooncalf change abruptly into a short, sharp squeal followed by the scuffle of its acceleration. And gradually that bellowing receded, and then came to an end, as if the pastures sought had been attained. We listened. For a space the moon world was still. But it was some time before we resumed our crawling search for the vanished sphere. For a little while the noises from below ceased and everything, save for the faint stir of the growing vegetation, was very still. Then abruptly there began an uproar, louder, more vehement, and nearer than any we had so far heard. Of a certainty it came from below. Instinctively we crouched as flat as we could, ready for a prompt plunge into the thicket beside us. Each knock and throb seemed to vibrate through our bodies. Louder grew this throbbing and beating, and that irregular vibration increased until the whole moon world seemed to be jerking and pulsing. "Cover," whispered Cavor, and I turned towards the bushes. At that instant came a thud like the thud of a gun, and then a thing happened--it still haunts me in my dreams. I had turned my head to look at Cavor's face, and thrust out my hand in front of me as I did so. And my hand met nothing! I plunged suddenly into a bottomless hole! My chest hit something hard, and I found myself with my chin on the edge of an unfathomable abyss that had suddenly opened beneath me, my hand extended stiffly into the void. The whole of that flat circular area was no more than a gigantic lid, that was now sliding sideways from off the pit it had covered into a slot prepared for it. I was none too soon. Cavor's back vanished amidst the bristling thicket, and as I scrambled up after him, the monstrous valve came into its position with a clang. For a long time we lay panting, not daring to approach the pit. For a time that stupendous gulf of mystery held us so that we forgot even our sphere. In time, as we grew more accustomed to the darkness, we could make out very small, dim, elusive shapes moving about among those needle-point illuminations. We peered amazed and incredulous, understanding so little that we could find no words to say. We could distinguish nothing that would give us a clue to the meaning of the faint shapes we saw. "What can it be?" I asked; "what can it be?" "The engineering! They must live in these caverns during the night, and come out during the day." "Cavor!" I said. "Can they be--that--it was something like--men?" "_That_ was not a man." "We dare risk nothing!" "We dare do nothing until we find the sphere!" "We _can_ do nothing until we find the sphere." He assented with a groan and stirred himself to move. He stared about him for a space, sighed, and indicated a direction. We struck out through the jungle. For a time we crawled resolutely, then with diminishing vigour. Presently among great shapes of flabby purple there came a noise of trampling and cries about us. We lay close, and for a long time the sounds went to and fro and very near. But this time we saw nothing. I tried to whisper to Cavor that I could hardly go without food much longer, but my mouth had become too dry for whispering. "Cavor," I said, "I must have food." He turned a face full of dismay towards me. "It's a case for holding out," he said. "But I _must_," I said, "and look at my lips!" "I've been thirsty some time." "If only some of that snow had remained!" "It's clean gone! We're driving from arctic to tropical at the rate of a degree a minute " "The sphere!" he said. "There is nothing for it but the sphere." I picked up a fragment and sniffed at it. "Cavor," I said in a hoarse undertone. He glanced at me with his face screwed up. "Don't," he said. I put down the fragment, and we crawled on through this tempting fleshiness for a space. "Cavor," I asked, "why not?" "Poison," I heard him say, but he did not look round. We crawled some way before I decided. "I'll chance it," said I. He made a belated gesture to prevent me. I stuffed my mouth full. He crouched watching my face, his own twisted into the oddest expression. "It's good," I said. He watched me munch, his face wrinkled between desire and disapproval, then suddenly succumbed to appetite and began to tear off huge mouthfuls. For a time we did nothing but eat. "Its good," said I. "Infernally good! What a home for our surplus population! Our poor surplus population," and I broke off another large portion. It filled me with a curiously benevolent satisfaction that there was such good food in the moon. The depression of my hunger gave way to an irrational exhilaration. The dread and discomfort in which I had been living vanished entirely. I perceived the moon no longer as a planet from which I most earnestly desired the means of escape, but as a possible refuge from human destitution. I think I forgot the Selenites, the mooncalves, the lid, and the noises completely so soon as I had eaten that fungus. I looked at him, shocked at his suddenly hoarse voice, and by the badness of his articulation. It occurred to me in a flash that he was intoxicated, possibly by the fungus. It also occurred to me that he erred in imagining that he had discovered the moon; he had not discovered it, he had only reached it. I tried to lay my hand on his arm and explain this to him, but the issue was too subtle for his brain. It was also unexpectedly difficult to express. After a momentary attempt to understand me--I remember wondering if the fungus had made my eyes as fishy as his--he set off upon some observations on his own account. "We are," he announced with a solemn hiccup, "the creashurs o' what we eat and drink." Certainly I was intoxicated. From that point my memory of the action of that abominable fungus becomes confused. I remember vaguely that we declared our intention of standing no nonsense from any confounded insects, that we decided it ill became men to hide shamefully upon a mere satellite, that we equipped ourselves with huge armfuls of the fungus--whether for missile purposes or not I do not know--and, heedless of the stabs of the bayonet scrub, we started forth into the sunshine. For a moment I was sobered. "Insects," murmured Cavor, "insects! And they think I'm going to crawl about on my stomach--on my vertebrated stomach! "Stomach," he repeated slowly, as though he chewed the indignity. My next clear recollection is that we were prisoners at we knew not what depths beneath the moon's surface; we were in darkness amidst strange distracting noises; our bodies were covered with scratches and bruises, and our heads racked with pain. "Cavor," I said, "cannot we have some light?" There came no answer. "Cavor!" I insisted. I was answered by a groan. "My head!" I heard him say; "my head!" I attempted to press my hands to my brow, which ached, and discovered they were tied together. This startled me very much. I brought them up to my mouth and felt the cold smoothness of metal. They were chained together. I tried to separate my legs and made out they were similarly fastened, and also that I was fastened to the ground by a much thicker chain about the middle of my body. I was more frightened than I had yet been by anything in all our strange experiences. For a time I tugged silently at my bonds. "Cavor!" I cried out sharply. "Why am I tied? Why have you tied me hand and foot?" "I haven't tied you," he answered. "It's the Selenites." The Selenites! My mind hung on that for a space. Then my memories came back to me: the snowy desolation, the thawing of the air, the growth of the plants, our strange hopping and crawling among the rocks and vegetation of the crater. All the distress of our frantic search for the sphere returned to me Finally the opening of the great lid that covered the pit! Then as I strained to trace our later movements down to our present plight, the pain in my head became intolerable. I came to an insurmountable barrier, an obstinate blank. "How should I know?" "They've got us, then!" He made no answer but a grunt. The lingering traces of the poison seemed to make him oddly irritable. "How should I know what to do?" "Oh, very well!" said I, and became silent. Presently, I was roused from a stupor. "O Lord!" I cried; "I wish you'd stop that buzzing!" "Look!" whispered Cavor very softly. His ear vanished--gave place to an eye! Suddenly the crack that had been admitting the light broadened out, and revealed itself as the space of an opening door. Beyond was a sapphire vista, and in the doorway stood a grotesque outline silhouetted against the glare. He was a blank, black figure to us, but instinctively our imaginations supplied features to his very human outline. I, at least, took it instantly that he was somewhat hunchbacked, with a high forehead and long features. For a moment my eyes sought him in the wrong place, and then I perceived him standing facing us both in the full light. Only the human features I had attributed to him were not there at all! There the thing was, looking at us! At the time my mind was taken up by the mad impossibility of the creature. I suppose he also was amazed, and with more reason, perhaps, for amazement than we. Only, confound him! he did not show it. We did at least know what had brought about this meeting of incompatible creatures. But conceive how it would seem to decent Londoners, for example, to come upon a couple of living things, as big as men and absolutely unlike any other earthly animals, careering about among the sheep in Hyde Park! It must have taken him like that. Cavor broke the silence; started to speak, went hoarse, and cleared his throat. Outside began a terrific bellowing, as if a mooncalf were in trouble. It ended in a shriek, and everything was still again. Mr. Cavor Makes Some Suggestions For a time neither of us spoke. To focus together all the things we had brought upon ourselves seemed beyond my mental powers. "They've got us," I said at last. "It was that fungus." "Well--if I hadn't taken it we should have fainted and starved." "We might have found the sphere." "What do you make of it, anyhow?" I asked humbly. "They are reasonable creatures--they can make things and do things. Those lights we saw " He stopped. It was clear he could make nothing of it. He stopped irritatingly. "I suppose, anyhow--on any planet where there is an intelligent animal--it will carry its brain case upward, and have hands, and walk erect." Presently he broke away in another direction. I had not noted that, but I did now. "The air is denser. We must be some depths--a mile even, we may be--inside the moon." "We never thought of a world inside the moon." He thought for a time. "Now," he said, "it seems such an obvious thing." "Of course! The moon must be enormously cavernous, with an atmosphere within, and at the centre of its caverns a sea. His voice had the interest now of a man who has discerned a pretty sequence of reasoning. "Yes," he said, "Kepler with his sub-volvani was right after all." "I wish you had taken the trouble to find that out before we came," I said. He answered nothing, buzzing to himself softly, as he pursued his thoughts. My temper was going. "What do you think has become of the sphere, anyhow?" I asked. "Lost," he said, like a man who answers an uninteresting question. "Among those plants?" "Unless they find it." "Cavor," I said, with a sort of hysterical bitterness, "things look bright for my Company " "Rubbish!" said Cavor. We ceased to converse. For a time Cavor kept up a broken monologue without much help from me. "Look here, Bedford," said Cavor, "you came on this expedition of your own free will." "You said to me, 'Call it prospecting'." "There's always risks in prospecting." "Especially when you do it unarmed and without thinking out every possibility." "I was so taken up with the sphere. The thing rushed on us, and carried us away." "Rushed on me just as much. How was I to know when I set to work on molecular physics that the business would bring me here--of all places?" "It's this accursed science," I cried. "It's the very Devil. The medieval priests and persecutors were right and the Moderns are all wrong. You tamper with it--and it offers you gifts. And directly you take them it knocks you to pieces in some unexpected way. Old passions and new weapons--now it upsets your religion, now it upsets your social ideas, now it whirls you off to desolation and misery!" "Anyhow, it's no use your quarrelling with me now. These creatures--these Selenites, or whatever we choose to call them--have got us tied hand and foot. Whatever temper you choose to go through with it in, you will have to go through with it We have experiences before us that will need all our coolness." He paused as if he required my assent. But I sat sulking. "Confound your science!" I said. "The problem is communication. Gestures, I fear, will be different. Pointing, for example. No creatures but men and monkeys point." That was too obviously wrong for me. "Pretty nearly every animal," I cried, "points with its eyes or nose." Cavor meditated over that. "Yes," he said at last, "and we don't. There's such differences--such differences!" "The things are outside us," I said. "They're more different from us than the strangest animals on earth. They are a different clay. What is the good of talking like this?" "Well, are they? They're much more like ants on their hind legs than human beings, and who ever got to any sort of understanding with ants?" "It's insurmountable." He fell silent. I sat meditating his words. For a time his wild hope of communication, of interpretation, with these weird beings held me. Then that angry despair that was a part of my exhaustion and physical misery resumed its sway. I perceived with a sudden novel vividness the extraordinary folly of everything I had ever done. "Ass!" I said; "oh, ass, unutterable ass I seem to exist only to go about doing preposterous things. Why did we ever leave the thing? Hopping about looking for patents and concessions in the craters of the moon! If only we had had the sense to fasten a handkerchief to a stick to show where we had left the sphere!" I looked up, and stopped in mid-sentence. The darkness had given place to that bluish light again. The door was opening, and several noiseless Selenites were coming into the chamber. I became quite still, staring at their grotesque faces. Experiments in intercourse "They seem to be releasing us," said Cavor. "Remember we are on the moon! Make no sudden movements!" "Are you going to try that geometry?" "Do they want us to imitate those sounds?" I asked Cavor. "I don't think so," he said. "It seems to me that they are trying to make us understand something." "Let us shake our heads at him." "Cavor," I shouted, "they want us to get up!" He stared open-mouthed. "That's it!" he said. "But this is stupendous!" I said. "What can it be for?" The thick-set Selenite had gone some paces unheeded. He came back and stood between us and the great machine. I avoided seeing him, because I guessed somehow that his idea was to beckon us onward. He walked away in the direction he wished us to go, and turned and came back, and flicked our faces to attract our attention. "Cannot we show him we are interested in the machine?" I said. "Yes," said Cavor. "We'll try that." He turned to our guide and smiled, and pointed to the machine, and pointed again, and then to his head, and then to the machine. By some defect of reasoning he seemed to imagine that broken English might help these gestures. "Me look 'im," he said, "me think 'im very much. Yes." "Isn't there some geometrical point you might bring in apropos of that affair?" I suggested, as the Selenites conferred again. "He pricked me!" said Cavor, with a catching of the voice. "I saw him," I answered. "Confound it!" I said to the Selenites; "we're not going to stand that! What on earth do you take us for?" Just for a moment that hostile pause endured. I suppose that both we and the Selenites did some very rapid thinking. My clearest impression was that there was nothing to put my back against, and that we were bound to be surrounded and killed. The overwhelming folly of our presence there loomed over me in black, enormous reproach. Why had I ever launched myself on this mad, inhuman expedition? Cavor came to my side and laid his hand on my arm. His pale and terrified face was ghastly in the blue light. "We can't do anything," he said. "It's a mistake. They don't understand. We must go. As they want us to go." "It's no use," he panted. And he turned about and led the way in the direction that had been indicated for us. Clang, clang, clang, we passed right under the thumping levers of another vast machine, and so came at last to a wide tunnel, in which we could even hear the pad, pad, of our shoeless feet, and which, save for the trickling thread of blue to the right of us, was quite unlit. The shadows made gigantic travesties of our shapes and those of the Selenites on the irregular wall and roof of the tunnel. Ever and again crystals in the walls of the tunnel scintillated like gems, ever and again the tunnel expanded into a stalactitic cavern, or gave off branches that vanished into darkness. If I tried to do it very gradually, would they see I was slipping my wrist out of the looser turn? If they did, what would they do? "Bedford," said Cavor, "it goes down. It keeps on going down." His remark roused me from my sullen pre-occupation. "If they wanted to kill us," he said, dropping back to come level with me, "there is no reason why they should not have done it." "No," I admitted, "that's true." "When you trace those geometrical problems," said I. We tramped on for a space. "You see," said Cavor, "these may be Selenites of a lower class." "The infernal fools!" said I viciously, glancing at their exasperating faces. "We've got to endure it," said I. "There may be others less stupid. This is the mere outer fringe of their world. It must go down and down, cavern, passage, tunnel, down at last to the sea--hundreds of miles below." "And the goad," I said. "Don't forget the goad!" He walked a little in front of me for a time. "I was angry at the time. But--it was perhaps necessary we should get on. They have different skins, and probably different nerves. They may not understand our objection--just as a being from Mars might not like our earthly habit of nudging." "They'd better be careful how they nudge me." "And about that geometry. After all, their way is a way of understanding, too. They begin with the elements of life and not of thought. Food. Compulsion. Pain. They strike at fundamentals." "There's no doubt about that," I said. "We shan't see much if the light isn't better," I remarked. "Some rare sort of animal," I said, "might comfort himself in that way while they were bringing him to the Zoo It doesn't follow that we are going to be shown all these things." "When they find we have reasonable minds," said Cavor, "they will want to learn about the earth. Even if they have no generous emotions, they will teach in order to learn And the things they must know! The unanticipated things!" He went on to speculate on the possibility of their knowing things he had never hoped to learn on earth, speculating in that way, with a raw wound from that goad already in his skin! Much that he said I forget, for my attention was drawn to the fact that the tunnel along which we had been marching was opening out wider and wider. We seemed, from the feeling of the air, to be going out into a huge space. But how big the space might really be we could not tell, because it was unlit. Our little stream of light ran in a dwindling thread and vanished far ahead. Presently the rocky walls had vanished altogether on either hand. There was nothing to be seen but the path in front of us and the trickling hurrying rivulet of blue phosphorescence. The figures of Cavor and the guiding Selenite marched before me, the sides of their legs and heads that were towards the rivulet were clear and bright blue, their darkened sides, now that the reflection of the tunnel wall no longer lit them, merged indistinguishably in the darkness beyond. And soon I perceived that we were approaching a declivity of some sort, because the little blue stream dipped suddenly out of sight. For a moment I and Cavor stood as near the edge as we dared, peering into a blue-tinged profundity. And then our guide was pulling at my arm. Then he left me, and walked to the end of that plank and stepped upon it, looking back. Then when he perceived we watched him, he turned about and went on along it, walking as surely as though he was on firm earth. For a moment his form was distinct, then he became a blue blur, and then vanished into the obscurity. I became aware of some vague shape looming darkly out of the black. "What is that beyond there?" I asked. "We can't cross this at any price," said I. We looked at each other's drawn faces in blank consternation. "They can't know what it is to be giddy!" said Cavor. "It's quite impossible for us to walk that plank." "I don't believe they see as we do. I've been watching them. I wonder if they know this is simply blackness for us. How can we make them understand?" "Anyhow, we must make them understand." I shook my head violently. "No go," I said, "no use. You don't understand." Another Selenite added his compulsion. I was forced to step forward. "I've got an idea," said Cavor; but I knew his ideas. By way of answer he pricked me forthwith. There came another of these beastly surprises of which the moon world is full. I leaped right at him with all my might as the goad flew over me. He turned to run as I jumped, and I bore him to the ground, came down right upon him, and slipped upon his smashed body and fell. He seemed to wriggle under my foot. I came into a sitting position, and on every hand the blue backs of the Selenites were receding into the darkness. I bent a link by main force and untwisted the chain that had hampered me about the ankles, and sprang to my feet, with the chain in my hand. Another goad, flung javelin-wise, whistled by me, and I made a rush towards the darkness out of which it had come. Then I turned back towards Cavor, who was still standing in the light of the rivulet near the gulf convulsively busy with his wrists, and at the same time jabbering nonsense about his idea. "My hands!" he answered. Then, realising that I dared not run back to him, because my ill-calculated steps might carry me over the edge, he came shuffling towards me, with his hands held out before him. "Where are they?" he panted. "Run away. They'll come back. They're throwing things! Which way shall we go?" "By the light. To that tunnel. Eh?" "Yes," said I, and his hands were free. I dropped on my knees and fell to work on his ankle bonds. Whack came something--I know not what--and splashed the livid streamlet into drops about us. Far away on our right a piping and whistling began. I whipped the chain off his feet, and put it in his hand. "Hit with that!" I said, and without waiting for an answer, set off in big bounds along the path by which we had come. I had a nasty sort of feeling that these things could jump out of the darkness on to my back. I heard the impact of his leaps come following after me. We were both very much out of breath. We spoke in panting, broken sentences. "You've spoilt it all!" panted Cavor. "Nonsense," I cried. "It was that or death!" "What are we to do?" We strode on, and presently came to a radiating dark cavern. Cavor was in front. He hesitated, and chose a black mouth that seemed to promise good hiding. He went towards it and turned. "It's dark," he said. "Your legs and feet will light us. You're wet with that luminous stuff." A tumult of sounds, and in particular a sound like a clanging gong, advancing up the main tunnel, became audible. It was horribly suggestive of a tumultuous pursuit. We made a bolt for the unlit side cavern forthwith. As we ran along it our way was lit by the irradiation of Cavor's legs. "It's lucky," I panted, "they took off our boots, or we should fill this place with clatter." On we rushed, taking as small steps as we could to avoid striking the roof of the cavern. After a time we seemed to be gaining on the uproar. It became muffled, it dwindled, it died away. I stopped and looked back, and I heard the pad, pad of Cavor's feet receding. Then he stopped also. "Bedford," he whispered; "there's a sort of light in front of us." He did not dare to say the thing he hoped. Then came a pause. Suddenly I knew by the sound of his feet that he was striding towards that pallor. I followed him with a beating heart. The light grew stronger as we advanced. In a little time it was nearly as strong as the phosphorescence on Cavor's legs. Our tunnel was expanding into a cavern, and this new light was at the farther end of it. I perceived something that set my hopes leaping and bounding. "Cavor," I said, "it comes from above! I am certain it comes from above!" He made no answer, but hurried on. Indisputably it was a gray light, a silvery light. In another moment we were beneath it. It filtered down through a chink in the walls of the cavern, and as I stared up, drip, came a drop of water upon my face. I started and stood aside--drip, fell another drop quite audibly on the rocky floor. "I'll lift you," he said, and incontinently hoisted me as though I was a baby. I wedged myself between the sides of the cleft, rested knee and foot on the ledge, and extended a hand. I could not see Cavor, but I could hear the rustle of his movements as he crouched to spring. Then whack and he was hanging to my arm--and no heavier than a kitten! I lugged him up until he had a hand on my ledge, and could release me. "It's phosphorescence again!" I said. "No need to hurry. Sit down and make yourself at home." And as he spluttered over our disappointment, I began to lob more of these growths into the cleft. "I thought it was daylight," he said. "Daylight!" cried I. "Daybreak, sunset, clouds, and windy skies! Shall we ever see such things again?" As I spoke, a little picture of our world seemed to rise before me, bright and little and clear, like the background of some old Italian picture. "The sky that changes, and the sea that changes, and the hills and the green trees and the towns and cities shining in the sun. Think of a wet roof at sunset, Cavor! Think of the windows of a westward house!" He made no answer. "Here we are burrowing in this beastly world that isn't a world, with its inky ocean hidden in some abominable blackness below, and outside that torrid day and that death stillness of night. And all these things that are chasing us now, beastly men of leather--insect men, that come out of a nightmare! After all, they're right! What business have we here smashing them and disturbing their world! For all we know the whole planet is up and after us already. In a minute we may hear them whimpering, and their gongs going. What are we to do? Where are we to go? Here we are as comfortable as snakes from Jamrach's loose in a Surbiton villa!" "It was your fault," said Cavor. "My fault!" I shouted. "Good Lord!" "Under those goads?" "Yes. They would have carried us!" "Yes. They must have carried us from outside." "I'd rather be carried by a fly across a ceiling." I resumed my destruction of the fungi. Then suddenly I saw something that struck me even then. "Cavor," I said, "these chains are of gold!" He was thinking intently, with his hands gripping his cheeks. He turned his head slowly and stared at me, and when I had repeated my words, at the twisted chain about his right hand. "So they are," he said, "so they are." His face lost its transitory interest even as he looked. He hesitated for a moment, then went on with his interrupted meditation. I sat for a space puzzling over the fact that I had only just observed this, until I considered the blue light in which we had been, and which had taken all the colour out of the metal. And from that discovery I also started upon a train of thought that carried me wide and far. I forgot that I had just been asking what business we had in the moon. Gold He paused. "Yes?" I said, though I knew what was coming. "I _won't_," I said. "They must exist, or whence came those tremendous machines?" "How do we know their eyes would see the sort of marks we made?" "That's possible, of course." I took up a new thread of thought. "After all," I said, "I suppose you don't think these Selenites so infinitely wiser than men." "They must know a lot more--or at least a lot of different things." "I think you'll quite admit, Cavor, that you're rather an exceptional man." "Well, you--you're a rather lonely man--have been, that is. You haven't married." "And you never grew richer than you happened to be?" "Never wanted that either." "You've just rooted after knowledge?" "Well, suppose there are a few philosophers like yourself. They are just the very Selenites who'll never have heard of our existence. Suppose a Selenite had dropped on the earth when you were at Lympne, you'd have been the last man in the world to hear he had come. You never read a newspaper! You see the chances against you. Well, it's for these chances we're sitting here doing nothing while precious time is flying. I tell you we've got into a fix. We've come unarmed, we've lost our sphere, we've got no food, we've shown ourselves to the Selenites, and made them think we're strange, strong, dangerous animals; and unless these Selenites are perfect fools, they'll set about now and hunt us till they find us, and when they find us they'll try to take us if they can, and kill us if they can't, and that's the end of the matter. If they take us, they'll probably kill us, through some misunderstanding. After we're done for, they may discuss us perhaps, but we shan't get much fun out of that." "We might put the thing on a sounder footing. Come back in a bigger sphere with guns." "Good Lord!" cried Cavor, as though that was horrible. I shied another luminous fungus down the cleft. He reflected. "When I came to the moon," he said, "I ought to have come alone." "The question before the meeting," I said, "is how to get back to the sphere." For a time we nursed our knees in silence. Then he seemed to decide for my reasons. "But suppose the gully is too narrow?" "We'll come down again." "Ssh!" I said suddenly; "what's that?" "They're coming along that passage," said Cavor. "They'll not think of the cleft. They'll go past." I listened again for a space. "This time," I whispered, "they're likely to have some sort of weapon." I didn't finish my sentence. I turned about and made a leap over the fungus tops towards the upper end of the cavity. I saw that the space turned upward and became a draughty cleft again, ascending to impenetrable darkness. I was about to clamber up into this, and then with a happy inspiration turned back. "What are you doing?" asked Cavor. The Fight in the Cave of the Moon Butchers Indisputably there were several Selenites, perhaps a considerable number, in this space, for we could hear the noises of their intercourse, and faint sounds that I identified as their footfalls. There was also a succession of regularly repeated sounds--chid, chid, chid--which began and ceased, suggestive of a knife or spade hacking at some soft substance. Then came a clank as if of chains, a whistle and a rumble as of a truck running over a hollowed place, and then again that chid, chid, chid resumed. The shadows told of shapes that moved quickly and rhythmically, in agreement with that regular sound, and rested when it ceased. We put our heads close together, and began to discuss these things in noiseless whispers. "They are occupied," I said, "they are occupied in some way." "They're not seeking us, or thinking of us." "Perhaps they have not heard of us." "There might be a chance to parley," said Cavor. "No," I said. "Not as we are." For a space we remained, each occupied by his own thoughts. Chid, chid, chid went the chipping, and the shadows moved to and fro. "Don't do anything hastily," whispered Cavor, as I twisted myself up through the opening I had enlarged. I had a glimpse of busy figures as I came through the grating, and immediately bent down, so that the rim of the depression in which the grating lay hid me from their eyes, and so lay flat, signalling advice to Cavor as he also prepared to come through. Presently we were side by side in the depression, peering over the edge at the cavern and its occupants. We lay for a long time noting all these things in silence. "Well?" said Cavor at last. I crouched over and turned to him. I had come upon a brilliant idea. "Unless they lowered those bodies by a crane," I said, "we must be nearer the surface than I thought." "The mooncalf doesn't hop, and it hasn't got wings." I stopped him by a grip on his arm. I had heard a noise from the cleft below us! We twisted ourselves about, and lay as still as death, with every sense alert. In a little while I did not doubt that something was quietly ascending the cleft. Very slowly and quite noiselessly I assured myself of a good grip on my chain, and waited for that something to appear. "Just look at those chaps with the hatchets again," I said. "They're all right," said Cavor. I took a sort of provisional aim at the gap in the grating. I could hear now quite distinctly the soft twittering of the ascending Selenites, the dab of their hands against the rock, and the falling of dust from their grips as they clambered. I shouted with triumph as I felt the hold of the Selenite resist my pull for a moment and give, and then I was jabbing down through the bars, amidst squeals from the darkness, and Cavor had snapped off the other spear, and was leaping and flourishing it beside me, and making inefficient jabs. Clang, clang, came up through the grating, and then an axe hurtled through the air and whacked against the rocks beyond, to remind me of the fleshers at the carcasses up the cavern. He was leaping from side to side of the grating, making threatening jabs with his broken spear. That was all right. It would keep the Selenites down--for a time at any rate. I looked up the cavern again. What on earth were we going to do now? "Bedford!" cried Cavor, and behold! he was halfway between me and the grating. "They've got--it's like a gun!" And struggling in the grating between those defensive spears appeared the head and shoulders of a singularly lean and angular Selenite, bearing some complicated apparatus. I realised Cavor's utter incapacity for the fight we had in hand. For a moment I hesitated. Then I rushed past him whirling my crowbars, and shouting to confound the aim of the Selenite. He was aiming in the queerest way with the thing against his stomach. "Chuzz!" The thing wasn't a gun; it went off like cross-bow more, and dropped me in the middle of a leap. I dropped a crowbar, pulled the spear out of my shoulder, and began to jab it down the grating into the darkness. At each jab came a shriek and twitter. Finally I hurled the spear down upon them with all my strength, leapt up, picked up the crowbar again, and started for the multitude up the cavern. "Bedford!" cried Cavor. "Bedford!" as I flew past him. I seem to remember his footsteps coming on behind me. I looked round for Cavor, and for a moment it seemed as if he had vanished from the world. Then he came out of the darkness between the row of the carcasses and the rocky wall of the cavern. I saw his little face, dark and blue, and shining with perspiration and emotion. He was saying something, but what it was I did not heed. I had realised that we might work from mooncalf to mooncalf up the cave until we were near enough to charge home. It was charge or nothing. "Come on!" I said, and led the way. "Bedford!" he cried unavailingly. "Bedford!" panted Cavor behind me. I glanced back. "What?" said I. He was pointing upward over the carcasses. "White light!" he said. "White light again!" "Keep close," I said. A flat, long Selenite dashed out of the darkness, and squealed and fled. I halted, and stopped Cavor with my hand. I hung my jacket over my crowbar, ducked round the next carcass, dropped jacket and crowbar, showed myself, and darted back. "Now!" said I, and thrust out the jacket. "Chuzz-zz-zz-zz! Chuzz!" In an instant my jacket had grown a thick beard of arrows, and they were quivering all over the carcass behind us. Instantly I slipped the crowbar out of the jacket, dropped the jacket--for all I know to the contrary it is lying up there in the moon now--and rushed out upon them. What Cavor did I do not know. For a space it seemed that this fighting had lasted for an age, and must needs go on for ever. Then suddenly it was all over, and there was nothing to be seen but the backs of heads bobbing up and down as their owners ran in all directions I seemed altogether unhurt. I ran forward some paces, shouting, then turned about. I was amazed. I had come right through them in vast flying strides, they were all behind me, and running hither and thither to hide. I felt an enormous astonishment at the evaporation of the great fight into which I had hurled myself, and not a little exultation. It did not seem to me that I had discovered the Selenites were unexpectedly flimsy, but that I was unexpectedly strong. I laughed stupidly. This fantastic moon! I glanced for a moment at the smashed and writhing bodies that were scattered over the cavern floor, with a vague idea of further violence, then hurried on after Cavor. "Come on!" I said, leading the way. For a moment I listened, then tightened my grip on my crowbar, and led the way up the gallery. "This must be the shaft we looked down upon," said Cavor. "Under that lid." "And below there, is where we saw the lights." "The lights!" said he. "Yes--the lights of the world that now we shall never see." "We'll come back," I said, for now we had escaped so much I was rashly sanguine that we should recover the sphere. His answer I did not catch. "It doesn't matter," he answered, and we hurried on in silence. And it is strange that we men, to whom this very vegetation had seemed so weird and horrible a little time ago, should now behold it with the emotion a home-coming exile might feel at sight of his native land. We welcomed even the rareness of the air that made us pant as we ran, and which rendered speaking no longer the easy thing that it had been, but an effort to make oneself heard. Larger grew the sunlit circle above us, and larger, and all the nearer tunnel sank into a rim of indistinguishable black. We saw the dead bayonet shrub no longer with any touch of green in it, but brown and dry and thick, and the shadow of its upper branches high out of sight made a densely interlaced pattern upon the tumbled rocks. And at the immediate mouth of the tunnel was a wide trampled space where the mooncalves had come and gone. The air was intensely hot, and we were in great physical discomfort, but for all that we were no longer in a nightmare. We seemed to have come to our own province again, beneath the stars. All the fear and stress of our flight through the dim passages and fissures below had fallen from us. That last fight had filled us with an enormous confidence in ourselves so far as the Selenites were concerned. We looked back almost incredulously at the black opening from which we had just emerged. Down there it was, in a blue glow that now in our memories seemed the next thing to absolute darkness, we had met with things like mad mockeries of men, helmet-headed creatures, and had walked in fear before them, and had submitted to them until we could submit no longer. And behold, they had smashed like wax and scattered like chaff, and fled and vanished like the creatures of a dream! I rubbed my eyes, doubting whether we had not slept and dreamt these things by reason of the fungus we had eaten, and suddenly discovered the blood upon my face, and then that my shirt was sticking painfully to my shoulder and arm. "Confound it!" I said, gauging my injuries with an investigatory hand, and suddenly that distant tunnel mouth became, as it were, a watching eye. "Cavor!" I said; "what are they going to do now? And what are we going to do?" "It depends on what they think of us, and I don't see how we can begin to guess that. And it depends upon what they have in reserve. It's as you say, Cavor, we have touched the merest outside of this world. They may have all sorts of things inside here. Even with those shooting things they might make it bad for us "If we were to set fire to all this stuff," I said, "we might find the sphere among the ashes." Cavor did not seem to hear me. He was peering under his hand at the stars, that still, in spite of the intense sunlight, were abundantly visible in the sky. "How long do you think we've have been here?" he asked at last. "But why should time seem different because we are on a smaller planet?" "I don't know. There it is!" He stood up beside me. "We must keep on looking." He look this way and that, glanced up at the sky and down at the tunnel, and astonished me by a sudden gesture of impatience. "Oh! but we have done foolishly! To have come to this pass! Think how it might have been, and the things we might have done!" "We might do something yet." His voice for all that speech sounded like the voice of someone heard in a telephone, weak and far away. "But the darkness," I said. He stood for a moment with his hands held down and a rueful face, staring out over the waste that defied him. Then with a gesture of renunciation he turned towards me with proposals for the systematic hunting of the sphere. "We can return," I said. "We can take back an earnest of success in this gold." "There are methods of secrecy," I said. "We aren't improving our chances," said I, "by sitting here." We stood up side by side. "He must come back to the white handkerchief, and stand by it and signal to the other." Cavor glanced up at the sun. "We go on seeking until the night and cold overtake us." "Suppose the Selenites have found the sphere and hidden it?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Or if presently they come hunting us?" "You had better take a club," I said. He shook his head, and stared away from me across the waste. But for a moment he did not start. He looked round at me shyly, hesitated. "Au revoir," he said. When presently I looked for Cavor he was hidden from my eyes, but the handkerchief showed out bravely on its headland, white in the blaze of the sun. I determined not to lose sight of that handkerchief whatever might betide. Why had we come to the moon? The thing presented itself to me as a perplexing problem. What is this spirit in man that urges him for ever to depart from happiness and security, to toil, to place himself in danger, to risk even a reasonable certainty of death? It dawned upon me up there in the moon as a thing I ought always to have known, that man is not made simply to go about being safe and comfortable and well fed and amused. Almost any man, if you put the thing to him, not in words, but in the shape of opportunities, will show that he knows as much. Against his interest, against his happiness, he is constantly being driven to do unreasonable things. Some force not himself impels him, and go he must. But why? Why? Sitting there in the midst of that useless moon gold, amidst the things of another world, I took count of all my life. Assuming I was to die a castaway upon the moon, I failed altogether to see what purpose I had served. I got no light on that point, but at any rate it was clearer to me than it had ever been in my life before that I was not serving my own purpose, that all my life I had in truth never served the purposes of my private life. Whose purposes, what purposes, was I serving? I ceased to speculate on why we had come to the moon, and took a wider sweep. Why had I come to the earth? Why had I a private life at all? I lost myself at last in bottomless speculations The sun was certainly lower, much lower than it had been; the air was very much cooler. I perceived I must have slept some time. It seemed to me that a faint touch of misty blueness hung about the western cliff I leapt to a little boss of rock and surveyed the crater. I could see no signs of mooncalves or Selenites, nor could I see Cavor, but I could see my handkerchief far off, spread out on its thicket of thorns. I looked bout me, and then leapt forward to the next convenient view-point. I did not find it so much as it found me. It was lying much farther to the westward than I had gone, and the sloping rays of the sinking sun reflected from its glass had suddenly proclaimed its presence in a dazzling beam. For an instant I thought this was some new device of the Selenites against us, and then I understood. I thought of nothing but the sphere until I reached it, I forgot even my trouble of Cavor's whereabouts. My last leap flung me with my hands hard against its glass; then I lay against it panting, and trying vainly to shout, "Cavor! here is the sphere!" When I had recovered a little I peered through the thick glass, and the things inside seemed tumbled. I stooped to peer closer. Then I attempted to get in. I had to hoist it over a little to get my head through the manhole. The screw stopper was inside, and I could see now that nothing had been touched, nothing had suffered. It lay there as we had left it when we had dropped out amidst the snow. For a time I was wholly occupied in making and remaking this inventory. I found I was trembling violently. It was good to see that familiar dark interior again! I cannot tell you how good. Presently I crept inside and sat down among the things. I looked through the glass at the moon world and shivered. I placed my gold clubs upon the table, and sought out and took a little food; not so much because I wanted it, but because it was there. Then it occurred to me that it was time to go out and signal for Cavor. But I did not go out and signal for Cavor forthwith. Something held me to the sphere. Some day, thought I, I will have an inscription standing there right in the midst of the hollow. It came to me, if only this teeming world within knew of the full import of the moment, how furious its tumult would become! But as yet it could scarcely be dreaming of the significance of our coming. For if it did, the crater would surely be an uproar of pursuit, instead of as still as death! I looked about for some place from which I might signal Cavor, and saw that same patch of rock to which he had leapt from my present standpoint, still bare and barren in the sun. For a moment I hesitated at going so far from the sphere. Then with a pang of shame at that hesitation, I leapt From this vantage point I surveyed the crater again. Far away at the top of the enormous shadow I cast was the little white handkerchief fluttering on the bushes. It was very little and very far, and Cavor was not in sight. It seemed to me that by this time he ought to be looking for me. That was the agreement. But he was nowhere to be seen. It had an effect of emptiness that chilled me. And it was still. Any sound from the Selenites in the world beneath had died away. It was as still as death. Save for the faint stir of the shrub about me in the little breeze that was rising, there was no sound nor shadow of a sound. And the breeze blew chill. I took a deep breath. I put my hands to the sides of my mouth. "Cavor!" I bawled, and the sound was like some manikin shouting far away. I looked at the handkerchief, I looked behind me at the broadening shadow of the westward cliff, I looked under my hand at the sun. It seemed to me that almost visibly it was creeping down the sky. A last leap and I was in the depression below our handkerchief, a stride, and I stood on our former vantage point within arms' reach of it. I stood up straight and scanned the world about me, between its lengthening bars of shadow. Far away, down a long declivity, was the opening of the tunnel up which we had fled, and my shadow reached towards it, stretched towards it, and touched it, like a finger of the night. I saw then that the scattered branches about it had been forcibly smashed and trampled. I hesitated, stepped forward, and picked it up. It was a little piece of paper crumpled tightly, as though it had been clutched tightly. I picked it up, and on it were smears of red. My eye caught faint pencil marks. I smoothed it out, and saw uneven and broken writing ending at last in a crooked streak up on the paper. I set myself to decipher this. "I have been injured about the knee, I think my kneecap is hurt, and I cannot run or crawl," it began--pretty distinctly written. "They have larger brain cases--much larger, and slenderer bodies, and very short legs. They make gentle noises, and move with organized deliberation Then came the sudden streak of the pencil across the paper, and on the back and edges--blood! It echoed about the crater, it seemed to throb with the throbbing of the greater stars, the blood-red crescent of the sun's disc sank as it tolled out: Boom! Boom! Boom! What had happened to Cavor? All through that tolling I stood there stupidly, and at last the tolling ceased. And suddenly the open mouth of the tunnel down below there, shut like an eye and vanished out of sight. Then indeed was I alone. Over me, around me, closing in on me, embracing me ever nearer, was the Eternal; that which was before the beginning, and that which triumphs over the end; that enormous void in which all light and life and being is but the thin and vanishing splendour of a falling star, the cold, the stillness, the silence--the infinite and final Night of space. The sense of solitude and desolation became the sense of an overwhelming presence that stooped towards me, that almost touched me. "No," I cried. "No! Not yet! not yet! Wait! Wait! Oh, wait!" My voice went up to a shriek. I flung the crumpled paper from me, scrambled back to the crest to take my bearings, and then, with all the will that was in me, leapt out towards the mark I had left, dim and distant now in the very margin of the shadow. My whole being became anguish. "Lie down!" screamed my pain and despair; "lie down!" The nearer I struggled, the more awfully remote it seemed. I was numb, I stumbled, I bruised and cut myself and did not bleed. I fell on all fours, and my lungs whooped. I crawled. The frost gathered on my lips, icicles hung from my moustache, I was white with the freezing atmosphere. I touched it, and halted. "Too late!" screamed despair; "lie down!" The snowflakes--the airflakes--danced in about me, as I tried with chilling hands to thrust the valve in and spun it tight and hard. I sobbed. "I will," I chattered in my teeth. And then, with fingers that quivered and felt brittle, I turned to the shutter studs. As I fumbled with the switches--for I had never controlled them before--I could see dimly through the steaming glass the blazing red streamers of the sinking sun, dancing and flickering through the snowstorm, and the black forms of the scrub thickening and bending and breaking beneath the accumulating snow. Thicker whirled the snow and thicker, black against the light. What if even now the switches overcame me? Then something clicked under my hands, and in an instant that last vision of the moon world was hidden from my eyes. I was in the silence and darkness of the inter-planetary sphere. Mr. Bedford in Infinite Space He was already infinitesimal. I tried to imagine what could have happened to him. But at that time I could think of nothing but death. I seemed to see him, bent and smashed at the foot of some interminably high cascade of blue. And all about him the stupid insects stared I set myself to decide just exactly how the return to earth could be contrived. As I struggled with that problem I ceased to worry about what I should do when I got there. At last my only care was to get back. I puzzled out at last that my best chance would be to drop back towards the moon as near as I dared in order to gather velocity, then to shut my windows, and fly behind it, and when I was past to open my earthward windows, and so get off at a good pace homeward. But whether I should ever reach the earth by that device, or whether I might not simply find myself spinning about it in some hyperbolic or parabolic curve or other, I could not tell. Later I had a happy inspiration, and by opening certain windows to the moon, which had appeared in the sky in front of the earth, I turned my course aside so as to head off the earth, which it had become evident to me I must pass behind without some such expedient. I did a very great deal of complicated thinking over these problems--for I am no mathematician--and in the end I am certain it was much more my good luck than my reasoning that enabled me to hit the earth. Had I known then, as I know now, the mathematical chances there were against me, I doubt if I should have troubled even to touch the studs to make any attempt. And having puzzled out what I considered to be the thing to do, I opened all my moonward windows, and squatted down--the effort lifted me for a time some feet or so into the air, and I hung there in the oddest way--and waited for the crescent to get bigger and bigger until I felt I was near enough for safety. Then I would shut the windows, fly past the moon with the velocity I had got from it--if I did not smash upon it--and so go on towards the earth. And that is what I did. At last I felt my moonward start was sufficient. I shut out the sight of the moon from my eyes, and in a state of mind that was, I now recall, incredibly free from anxiety or any distressful quality, I sat down to begin a vigil in that little speck of matter in infinite space that would last until I should strike the earth. The heater had made the sphere tolerably warm, the air had been refreshed by the oxygen, and except for that faint congestion of the head that was always with me while I was away from earth, I felt entire physical comfort. I had extinguished the light again, lest it should fail me in the end; I was in darkness, save for the earthshine and the glitter of the stars below me. Everything was so absolutely silent and still that I might indeed have been the only being in the universe, and yet, strangely enough, I had no more feeling of loneliness or fear than if I had been lying in bed on earth. Now, this seems all the stranger to me, since during my last hours in that crater of the moon, the sense of my utter loneliness had been an agony I still reasoned that all this was hallucination due to my solitude, and the fact that I had lost all weight and sense of resistance. I endeavoured to recover that sense by banging myself about the sphere, by pinching my hands and clasping them together. Among other things, I lit the light, captured that torn copy of _Lloyd's_, and read those convincingly realistic advertisements about the Cutaway bicycle, and the gentleman of private means, and the lady in distress who was selling those "forks and spoons." There was no doubt _they_ existed surely enough, and, said I, "This is your world, and you are Bedford, and you are going back to live among things like that for all the rest of your life." But the doubts within me could still argue: "It is not you that is reading, it is Bedford, but you are not Bedford, you know. That's just where the mistake comes in." "Confound it!" I cried; "and if I am not Bedford, what am I?" But in that direction no light was forthcoming, though the strangest fancies came drifting into my brain, queer remote suspicions, like shadows seen from away. Do you know, I had a sort of idea that really I was something quite outside not only the world, but all worlds, and out of space and time, and that this poor Bedford was just a peephole through which I looked at life? Bedford! However I disavowed him, there I was most certainly bound up with him, and I knew that wherever or whatever I might be, I must needs feel the stress of his desires, and sympathise with all his joys and sorrows until his life should end. And with the dying of Bedford--what then? Until at last I began to feel the pull of the earth upon my being, drawing me back again to the life that is real for men. And then, indeed, it grew clearer and clearer to me that I was quite certainly Bedford after all, and returning after amazing adventures to this world of ours, and with a life that I was very likely to lose in this return. I set myself to puzzle out the conditions under which I must fall to earth. Mr. Bedford at Littlestone The sphere hit the water with a huge splash: it must have sent it fathoms high. At the splash I flung the Cavorite shutters open. Down I went, but slower and slower, and then I felt the sphere pressing against my feet, and so drove up again as a bubble drives. And at the last I was floating and rocking upon the surface of the sea, and my journey in space was at an end. But at last I ceased to move about, and sat, wrists on knees, staring at a distant red light. It swayed up and down, rocking, rocking. My excitement passed. I realised I had yet to spend another night at least in the sphere. I perceived myself infinitely heavy and fatigued. And so I fell asleep. A change in my rhythmic motion awakened me. I peered through the refracting glass, and saw that I had come aground upon a huge shallow of sand. Far away I seemed to see houses and trees, and seaward a curve, vague distortion of a ship hung between sea and sky. The air hit me on the chest so that I gasped. I dropped the glass screw. I cried out, put my hands to my chest, and sat down. For a time I was in pain. Then I took deep breaths. At last I could rise and move about again. I tried to thrust my head through the manhole, and the sphere rolled over. It was as though something had lugged my head down directly it emerged. I ducked back sharply, or I should have been pinned face under water. After some wriggling and shoving I managed to crawl out upon sand, over which the retreating waves still came and went. I did not attempt to stand up. It seemed to me that my body must be suddenly changed to lead. Mother Earth had her grip on me now--no Cavorite intervening. I sat down heedless of the water that came over my feet. For a long time I sat there, yawning and rubbing my face. At last I struggled to rise. It made me feel that I was lifting a weight. I stood up. "Hullo yourself!" said I. He advanced, reassured by that. "What on earth is that thing?" he asked. "Can you tell me where I am?" I asked. "That's Littlestone," he said, pointing to the houses; "and that's Dungeness! Have you just landed? What's that thing you've got? Some sort of machine?" "Have you floated ashore? Have you been wrecked or something? What is it?" "Come up to the hotel," said the foremost little man. "We'll look after that thing there." "Oh, it's gold!" said another. Then they all stared at me, and then they all stared at the ship lying at anchor. "I say!" cried the little man. "But where did you get that?" I was too tired to keep up a lie. "I got it in the moon." "And how about that thing?" I glanced back after him. "He won't touch it," said the stout young man reassuringly, and I was only too willing to be reassured. "Well," said I, "as you press me--I got it in the moon." "Yes, the moon in the sky." "What I say, confound it!" "Then you have just come from the moon?" "Exactly! through space--in that ball." And I took a delicious mouthful of egg. I made a private note that when I went back to the moon I would take a box of eggs. "Just pass me that toast-rack," I said, and shut him up completely. "Ah, well," said I, and shrugged my shoulders. "He doesn't want to tell us," said the youngest young man in a stage aside; and then, with an appearance of great sang-froid, "You don't mind if I take a cigarette?" There was a pause, a doubt who should answer me. "It's near the ebb," said the fat little man. "Well, anyhow," I said, "it won't float far." "Oh, not in the least!" said the youngest young man affably. "We can quite understand," and staring hard at me all the time, he heeled his chair back until it very nearly upset, and recovered with some exertion. "Not a bit of it," said the fat young man. "The weather," the fat little man remarked presently, "has been immense, has it not? I don't know when we have had such a summer." Phoo-whizz! Like a tremendous rocket! And somewhere a window was broken "What's that?" said I. All the others rushed to the window likewise. I sat staring at them. "It's that boy!" I cried, bawling in hoarse fury; "it's that accursed boy!" and turning about I pushed the waiter aside--he was just bring me some more toast--and rushed violently out of the room and down and out upon the queer little esplanade in front of the hotel. For a time I stood there, too overwhelmed by this new development to think of the people. "I say," said the voice of the little man behind. "I say, you know." "I _can't_," I shouted. "I tell you I can't! I'm not equal to it! You must puzzle and--and be damned to you!" I gesticulated convulsively. He receded a step as though I had threatened him. I made a bolt through them into the hotel. I charged back into the coffee-room, rang the bell furiously. I gripped the waiter as he entered. "D'ye hear?" I shouted. "Get help and carry these bars up to my room right away." I was the sole survivor, and that was all. Whatever I did I was resolved that I would keep myself level and right side up. The Astonishing Communication of Mr. Julius Wendigee You can imagine how amazed Mr. Wendigee must have been when he discovered his record of electromagnetic disturbances interlaced by Cavor's straightforward English. Mr. Wendigee knew nothing of our wild journey moonward, and suddenly--this English out of the void! (He says, you observe, nothing of his own concession to these same "vesicles.") And with that Cavor dismisses me and goes on to more interesting topics. I dislike the idea of seeming to use my position as his editor to deflect his story in my own interest, but I am obliged to protest here against the turn he gives these occurrences. He said nothing about that gasping message on the blood-stained paper in which he told, or attempted to tell, a very different story. The dignified self-surrender is an altogether new view of the affair that has come to him, I must insist, since he began to feel secure among the lunar people; and as for the "stealing a march" conception, I am quite willing to let the reader decide between us on what he has before him. I know I am not a model man--I have made no pretence to be. But am I that? He gives us a gleam of description. "Among their catch was a many-tentaculate, evil-eyed black thing, ferociously active, whose appearance they greeted with shrieks and twitters, and which with quick, nervous movements they hacked to pieces by means of little hatchets. All its dissevered limbs continued to lash and writhe in a vicious manner. Afterwards, when fever had hold of me, I dreamt again and again of that bitter, furious creature rising so vigorous and active out of the unknown sea. It was the most active and malignant thing of all the living creatures I have yet seen in this world inside the moon The Natural History of the Selenites "Looking up, I saw the very fellow of the downward vision; it had, of course, the effect of looking into a very steep cone. A wind was blowing down the shaft, and far above I fancy I heard, growing fainter and fainter, the bellowing of the mooncalves that were being driven down again from their evening pasturage on the exterior. And up and down the spiral galleries were scattered numerous moon people, pallid, faintly luminous beings, regarding our appearance or busied on unknown errands. "Either I fancied it or a flake of snow came drifting down on the icy breeze. And then, falling like a snowflake, a little figure, a little man-insect, clinging to a parachute, drove down very swiftly towards the central places of the moon. "It was an incredible crowd. Suddenly and violently there was forced upon my attention the vast amount of difference there is amongst these beings of the moon. "The rest of the head is distended into a huge globe and the chitinous leathery cuticle of the mooncalf herds thins out to a mere membrane, through which the pulsating brain movements are distinctly visible. He is a creature, indeed, with a tremendously hypertrophied brain, and with the rest of his organism both relatively and absolutely dwarfed." In another passage Cavor compares the back view of him to Atlas supporting the world. Tsi-puff it seems was a very similar insect, but his "face" was drawn out to a considerable length, and the brain hypertrophy being in different regions, his head was not round but pear-shaped, with the stalk downward. There were also litter-carriers, lopsided beings, with enormous shoulders, very spidery ushers, and a squat foot attendant in Cavor's retinue. The manner in which Phi-oo and Tsi-puff attacked the problem of speech was fairly obvious. They came into this "hexagonal cell" in which Cavor was confined, and began imitating every sound he made, beginning with a cough. He seems to have grasped their intention with great quickness, and to have begun repeating words to them and pointing to indicate the application. The procedure was probably always the same. Phi-oo would attend to Cavor for a space, then point also and say the word he had heard. Subsequently it seems they brought an artist with them to assist the work of explanation with sketches and diagrams--Cavor's drawings being rather crude. "He was," says Cavor, "a being with an active arm and an arresting eye," and he seemed to draw with incredible swiftness. "Thus he would discourse. Imagine him explaining his artist. "It is more wonderful to me than I dreamt that anything ever could be again, to hear, in this perpetual obscurity, these extraordinary creatures--for even familiarity fails to weaken the inhuman effect of their appearance--continually piping a nearer approach to coherent earthly speech--asking questions, giving answers. I feel that I am casting back to the fable-hearing period of childhood again, when the ant and the grasshopper talked together and the bee judged between them " "'You talk to other?' he asked, watching me. "'Others,' he said. 'Oh yes, Men?' "And I went on transmitting." "Or, again, a Selenite appointed to be a minder of mooncalves is from his earliest years induced to think and live mooncalf, to find his pleasure in mooncalf lore, his exercise in their tending and pursuit. He is trained to become wiry and active, his eye is indurated to the tight wrappings, the angular contours that constitute a 'smart mooncalfishness.' He takes at last no interest in the deeper part of the moon; he regards all Selenites not equally versed in mooncalves with indifference, derision, or hostility. His thoughts are of mooncalf pastures, and his dialect an accomplished mooncalf technique. So also he loves his work, and discharges in perfect happiness the duty that justifies his being. And so it is with all sorts and conditions of Selenites--each is a perfect unit in a world machine "I have already mentioned the retinues that accompany most of the intellectuals: ushers, bearers, valets, extraneous tentacles and muscles, as it were, to replace the abortive physical powers of these hypertrophied minds. Porters almost invariably accompany them. There are also extremely swift messengers with spider-like legs and 'hands' for grasping parachutes, and attendants with vocal organs that could well nigh wake the dead. Apart from their controlling intelligence these subordinates are as inert and helpless as umbrellas in a stand. They exist only in relation to the orders they have to obey, the duties they have to perform. "The making of these various sorts of operative must be a very curious and interesting process. I am very much in the dark about it, but quite recently I came upon a number of young Selenites confined in jars from which only the fore-limbs protruded, who were being compressed to become machine-minders of a special sort. The extended 'hand' in this highly developed system of technical education is stimulated by irritants and nourished by injection, while the rest of the body is starved. Phi-oo, unless I misunderstood him, explained that in the earlier stages these queer little creatures are apt to display signs of suffering in their various cramped situations, but they easily become indurated to their lot; and he took me on to where a number of flexible-minded messengers were being drawn out and broken in. It is quite unreasonable, I know, but such glimpses of the educational methods of these beings affect me disagreeably. I hope, however, that may pass off, and I may be able to see more of this aspect of their wonderful social order. That wretched-looking hand-tentacle sticking out of its jar seemed to have a sort of limp appeal for lost possibilities; it haunts me still, although, of course it is really in the end a far more humane proceeding than our earthly method of leaving children to grow into human beings, and then making machines of them. "'Mooneys eat these?' said I to Phi-oo. "'Goodness me!' I cried; 'what's that?' "My eye had just caught the figure of an exceptionally big and ungainly Selenite lying motionless among the stems, face downward. We stopped. "'Dead?' I asked. (For as yet I have seen no dead in the moon, and I have grown curious.) "'No!' exclaimed Phi-oo. 'Him--worker--no work to do. Get little drink then--make sleep--till we him want. What good him wake, eh? No want him walking about.' "'There's another!' cried I. "My alternative route takes me round by a huge, shadowy cavern, very crowded and clamorous, and here it is I see peering out of the hexagonal openings of a sort of honeycomb wall, or parading a large open space behind, or selecting the toys and amulets made to please them by the dainty-tentacled jewellers who work in kennels below, the mothers of the moon world--the queen bees, as it were, of the hive. They are noble-looking beings, fantastically and sometimes quite beautifully adorned, with a proud carriage, and, save for their mouths, almost microscopic heads. "Of the condition of the moon sexes, marrying and giving in marriage, and of birth and so forth among the Selenites, I have as yet been able to learn very little. With the steady progress of Phi-oo in English, however, my ignorance will no doubt as steadily disappear. I am of opinion that, as with the ants and bees, there is a large majority of the members in this community of the neuter sex. Of course on earth in our cities there are now many who never live that life of parentage which is the natural life of man. Here, as with the ants, this thing has become a normal condition of the race, and the whole of such replacement as is necessary falls upon this special and by no means numerous class of matrons, the mothers of the moon-world, large and stately beings beautifully fitted to bear the larval Selenite. Unless I misunderstand an explanation of Phi-oo's, they are absolutely incapable of cherishing the young they bring into the moon; periods of foolish indulgence alternate with moods of aggressive violence, and as soon as possible the little creatures, who are quite soft and flabby and pale , are transferred to the charge of celibate females, women 'workers' as it were, who in some cases possess brains of almost masculine dimensions." The missing words of the following sentence are probably "the crowd." There follows quite clearly: "grew ever denser as we drew near the palace of the Grand Lunar--if I may call a series of excavations a palace. Everywhere faces stared at me--blank, chitinous gapes and masks, eyes peering over tremendous olfactory developments, eyes beneath monstrous forehead plates; and undergrowth of smaller creatures dodged and yelped, and helmet faces poised on sinuous, long-jointed necks appeared craning over shoulders and beneath armpits. Keeping a welcome space about me marched a cordon of stolid, scuttle-headed guards, who had joined us on our leaving the boat in which we had come along the channels of the Central Sea. The quick-eyed artist with the little brain joined us also, and a thick bunch of lean porter-insects swayed and struggled under the multitude of conveniences that were considered essential to my state. I was carried in a litter during the final stage of our journey. This litter was made of some very ductile metal that looked dark to me, meshed and woven, and with bars of paler metal, and about me as I advanced there grouped itself a long and complicated procession. "I must confess that all this multitude made me feel extremely shabby and unworthy. I was unshaven and unkempt; I had brought no razor; I had a coarse beard over my mouth. On earth I have always been inclined to despise any attention to my person beyond a proper care for cleanliness; but under the exceptional circumstances in which I found myself, representing, as I did, my planet and my kind, and depending very largely upon the attractiveness of my appearance for a proper reception, I could have given much for something a little more artistic and dignified than the husks I wore. I had been so serene in the belief that the moon was uninhabited as to overlook such precautions altogether. As it was I was dressed in a flannel jacket, knickerbockers, and golfing stockings, stained with every sort of dirt the moon offered, slippers (of which the left heel was wanting), and a blanket, through a hole in which I thrust my head. (These clothes, indeed, I still wear.) Sharp bristles are anything but an improvement to my cast of features, and there was an unmended tear at the knee of my knickerbockers that showed conspicuously as I squatted in my litter; my right stocking, too, persisted in getting about my ankle. I am fully alive to the injustice my appearance did humanity, and if by any expedient I could have improvised something a little out of the way and imposing I would have done so. But I could hit upon nothing. I did what I could with my blanket--folding it somewhat after the fashion of a toga, and for the rest I sat as upright as the swaying of my litter permitted. "As I entered the penultimate hall the music rose and expanded into an imperial magnificence of sound, and the shrieks of the news-bearers died away "I entered the last and greatest hall "That humming ceased. "I became aware of a faint wheezy noise. The Grand Lunar was addressing me. It was like the rubbing of a finger upon a pane of glass. "I watched him attentively for a time, and then glanced at the alert Phi-oo. I felt amidst these slender beings ridiculously thick and fleshy and solid; my head all jaw and black hair. My eyes went back to the Grand Lunar. He had ceased; his attendants were busy, and his shining superfices was glistening and running with cooling spray. "'M'm--the Grand Lunar--wished to say--wishes to say--he gathers you are--m'm--men--that you are a man from the planet earth. He wishes to say that he welcomes you--welcomes you--and wishes to learn--learn, if I may use the word--the state of your world, and the reason why you came to this.' "He paused. I was about to reply when he resumed. He proceeded to remarks of which the drift was not very clear, though I am inclined to think they were intended to be complimentary. He told me that the earth was to the moon what the sun is to the earth, and that the Selenites desired very greatly to learn about the earth and men. He then told me no doubt in compliment also, the relative magnitude and diameter of earth and moon, and the perpetual wonder and speculation with which the Selenites had regarded our planet. I meditated with downcast eyes, and decided to reply that men too had wondered what might lie in the moon, and had judged it dead, little recking of such magnificence as I had seen that day. The Grand Lunar, in token of recognition, caused his long blue rays to rotate in a very confusing manner, and all about the great hall ran the pipings and whisperings and rustlings of the report of what I had said. He then proceeded to put to Phi-oo a number of inquiries which were easier to answer. "The iris was quite a new organ to the Grand Lunar. For a time he amused himself by flashing his rays into my face and watching my pupils contract. As a consequence, I was dazzled and blinded for some little time "But in spite of that discomfort I found something reassuring by insensible degrees in the rationality of this business of question and answer. I could shut my eyes, think of my answer, and almost forget that the the Grand Lunar has no face "When I had descended again to my proper place the Grand Lunar asked how we sheltered ourselves from heat and storms, and I expounded to him the arts of building and furnishing. Here we wandered into misunderstandings and cross-purposes, due largely, I must admit, to the looseness of my expressions. For a long time I had great difficulty in making him understand the nature of a house. To him and his attendant Selenites it seemed, no doubt, the most whimsical thing in the world that men should build houses when they might descend into excavations, and an additional complication was introduced by the attempt I made to explain that men had originally begun their homes in caves, and that they were now taking their railways and many establishments beneath the surface. Here I think a desire for intellectual completeness betrayed me. There was also a considerable tangle due to an equally unwise attempt on my part to explain about mines. Dismissing this topic at last in an incomplete state, the Grand Lunar inquired what we did with the interior of our globe. "He reverted to the question of weather, and I tried to describe the perpetually changing sky, and snow, and frost and hurricanes. 'But when the night comes,' he asked, 'is it not cold?' "I told him it was colder than by day. "'And does not your atmosphere freeze?' "I told him not; that it was never cold enough for that, because our nights were so short. "'Not even liquefy?' "He talked with his attendants, as I suppose, upon the strange superficiality and unreasonableness of (man) who lives on the mere surface of a world, a creature of waves and winds, and all the chances of space, who cannot even unite to overcome the beasts that prey upon his kind, and yet who dares to invade another planet. During this aside I sat thinking, and then at his desire I told him of the different sorts of men. He searched me with questions. 'And for all sorts of work you have the same sort of men. But who thinks? Who governs?' "I gave him an outline of the democratic method. "When I had done he ordered cooling sprays upon his brow, and then requested me to repeat my explanation conceiving something had miscarried. "'Do they not do different things, then?' said Phi-oo. "Some, I admitted, were thinkers and some officials; some hunted, some were mechanics, some artists, some toilers. 'But _all_ rule,' I said. "'And have they not different shapes to fit them to their different duties?' "'None that you can see,' I said, 'except perhaps, for clothes. Their minds perhaps differ a little,' I reflected. "'Their minds must differ a great deal,' said the Grand Lunar, 'or they would all want to do the same things.' "He interrupted me to recall me to my previous statements. 'But you said all men rule?' he pressed. "'To a certain extent,' I said, and made, I fear, a denser fog with my explanation. "'But how do you keep even such wisdom as you have?' he asked; and I explained to him the way we helped our limited" [A word omitted here, probably "brains."] "with libraries of books. I explained to him how our science was growing by the united labours of innumerable little men, and on that he made no comment save that it was evident we had mastered much in spite of our social savagery, or we could not have come to the moon. Yet the contrast was very marked. With knowledge the Selenites grew and changed; mankind stored their knowledge about them and remained brutes--equipped. He said this " [Here there is a short piece of the record indistinct.] "'Our States and Empires are still the rawest sketches of what order will some day be,' I said, and so I came to tell him " "The Grand Lunar was greatly impressed by the folly of men in clinging to the inconvenience of diverse tongues. 'They want to communicate, and yet not to communicate,' he said, and then for a long time he questioned me closely concerning war. "I told him that was perfectly correct. "He asked for particulars to assist his imagination. "'But do not ships and your poor little cities get injured?' he asked, and I found the waste of property and conveniences seemed to impress him almost as much as the killing. 'Tell me more,' said the Grand Lunar; 'make me see pictures. I cannot conceive these things.' "And so, for a space, though something loath, I told him the story of earthly War. "'But surely they do not like it!' translated Phi-oo. "I assured them men of my race considered battle the most glorious experience of life, at which the whole assembly was stricken with amazement. "'But what good is this war?' asked the Grand Lunar, sticking to his theme. "'Oh! as for _good_!' said I; 'it thins the population!' "There came a pause, the cooling sprays impinged upon his brow, and then he spoke again." " interrogated me very closely upon my secret. I was able in a little while to get to an understanding with them, and at last to elucidate what has been a puzzle to me ever since I realised the vastness of their science, namely, how it is they themselves have never discovered 'Cavorite.' I find they know of it as a theoretical substance, but they have always regarded it as a practical impossibility, because for some reason there is no helium in the moon, and helium " [Across the last letters of helium slashes the resumption of that obliterating trace. Note that word "secret," for that, and that alone, I base my interpretation of the message that follows, the last message, as both Mr. Wendigee and myself now believe it to be, that he is ever likely to send us.] The Last Message Cavor sent to the Earth It may be he made a hasty attempt to spell "useless" when his fate was close upon him. Whatever it was that was happening about that apparatus we cannot tell. Whatever it was we shall never, I know, receive another message from the moon. For my own part a vivid dream has come to my help, and I see, almost as plainly as though I had seen it in actual fact, a blue-lit shadowy dishevelled Cavor struggling in the grip of these insect Selenites, struggling ever more desperately and hopelessly as they press upon him, shouting, expostulating, perhaps even at last fighting, and being forced backwards step by step out of all speech or sign of his fellows, for evermore into the Unknown--into the dark, into that silence that has no end	redpajama-book	30,050
Produced by William Flis, Keren Vergon, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. CHARLES AND MARY LAMB TALES FROM SHAKESPEAR THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL CHARLES AND MARY LAMB TALES FROM SHAKESPEAR The following Tales are meant to be submitted to the young reader as an introduction to the study of Shakespear, for which purpose, his words are used whenever it seemed possible to bring them in; and in whatever has been added to give them the regular form of a connected story, diligent care has been taken to select such words as might least interrupt the effect of the beautiful English tongue in which he wrote: therefore words introduced into our language since his time have been as far as possible avoided. In those Tales which have been taken from the Tragedies, as my young readers will perceive when they come to see the source from which these stories are derived, Shakespear's own words, with little alteration, recur very frequently in the narrative as well as in the dialogue; but in those made from the Comedies I found myself scarcely ever able to turn his words into the narrative form; therefore I fear in them I have made use of dialogue too frequently for young people not used to the dramatic form of writing. But this fault, if it be as I fear a fault, has been caused by my earnest wish to give as much of Shakespear's own words as possible: and if the "_He said_" and "_She said_" the question and the reply, should sometimes seem tedious to their young ears, they must pardon it, because it was the only way I knew of, in which I could give them a few hints and little foretastes of the great pleasure which awaits them in their elder years, when they come to the rich treasures from which these small and valueless coins are extracted; pretending to no other merit than as faint and imperfect stamps of Shakespear's matchless image. Faint and imperfect images they must be called, because the beauty of his language is too frequently destroyed by the necessity of changing many of his excellent words into words far less expressive of his true sense, to make it read something like prose; and even in some few places, where his blank verse is given unaltered, as hoping from its simple plainness to cheat the young readers into the belief that they are reading prose, yet still his language being transplanted from its own natural soil and wild poetic garden, it must want much of its native beauty. What these Tales have been to you in childhood, that and much more it is my wish that the true Plays of Shakespear may prove to you in older years--enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a lesson of all sweet and honourable thoughts and actions, to teach you courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity: for of examples, teaching these virtues, his pages are full. There was a certain island in the sea, the only inhabitants of which were an old man, whose name was Prospero, and his daughter Miranda, a very beautiful young lady. She came to this island so young, that she had no memory of having seen any other human face than her father's. The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mischievous in his nature, except that he took rather too much pleasure in tormenting an ugly monster called Caliban, for he owed him a grudge because he was the son of his old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban Prospero found in the woods, a strange misshapen thing, far less human in form than an ape: he took him home to his cell, and taught him to speak; and Prospero would have been very kind to him, but the bad nature, which Caliban inherited from his mother Sycorax, would not let him learn any thing good or useful: therefore he was employed like a slave, to fetch wood, and do the most laborious offices; and Ariel had the charge of compelling him to these services. When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel (who was invisible to all eyes but Prospero's) would come slyly and pinch him, and sometimes tumble him down in the mire; and then Ariel, in the likeness of an ape, would make mouths at him. Then swiftly changing his shape, in the likeness of a hedgehog he would lie tumbling in Caliban's way, who feared the hedgehog's sharp quills would prick his bare feet. With a variety of such-like vexatious tricks Ariel would often torment him, whenever Caliban neglected the work which Prospero commanded him to do. Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will, Prospero could by their means command the winds, and the waves of the sea. By his orders they raised a violent storm, in the midst of which, and struggling with the wild sea-waves that every moment threatened to swallow it up, he shewed his daughter a fine large ship, which he told her was full of living beings like themselves. "O my dear father," said she, "if by your art you have raised this dreadful storm, have pity on their sad distress. See! the vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls! they will all perish. If I had power, I would sink the sea beneath the earth, rather than the good ship should be destroyed, with all the precious souls within her." "Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda. "By what?" asked Prospero; "by any other house or person? Tell me what you can remember, my child." Prospero answered, "You had, and more. How is it that this still lives in your mind? Do you remember how you came here?" "No, sir," said Miranda, "I remember nothing more." "Wherefore," said Miranda, "did they not that hour destroy us?" "O my father," said Miranda, "what a trouble must I have been to you then!" "No, my love," said Prospero, "you were a little cherub that did preserve me. Your innocent smiles made me to bear up against my misfortunes. Our food lasted till we landed on this desert island, since when my chief delight has been in teaching you, Miranda, and well have you profited by my instructions." "Heaven thank you, my dear father," said Miranda. "Now pray tell me, sir, your reason for raising this sea-storm." "Know then," said her father, "that by means of this storm my enemies, the king of Naples, and my cruel brother, are cast ashore upon this island." Having so said, Prospero gently touched his daughter with his magic wand, and she fell fast asleep; for the spirit Ariel just then presented himself before his master, to give an account of the tempest, and how he had disposed of the ship's company; and, though the spirits were always invisible to Miranda, Prospero did not choose she should hear him holding converse (as would seem to her) with the empty air. "Well, my brave spirit," said Prospero to Ariel, "how have you performed your task?" "That's my delicate Ariel," said Prospero. "Bring him hither: my daughter must see this young prince. Where is the king, and my brother?" "Ariel," said Prospero, "thy charge is faithfully performed: bur there is more work yet." "Sir, in Algiers," said Ariel. "O was she so?" said Prospero. "I must recount what you have been, which I find you do not remember. This bad witch Sycorax, for her witchcrafts, too terrible to enter human hearing, was banished from Algiers, and here left by the sailors; and because you were a spirit too delicate to execute her wicked commands, she shut you up in a tree, where I found you howling. This torment, remember, I did free you from." "Pardon me, dear master," said Ariel, ashamed to seem ungrateful; "I will obey your commands." "O my young gentleman," said Ariel, when he saw him, "I will soon move you. You must be brought, I find, for the lady Miranda to have a sight of your pretty person. Come, sir, follow me." He then began singing, This strange news of his lost father soon roused the prince from the stupid fit into which he had fallen. He followed in amazement the sound of Ariel's voice, till it led him to Prospero and Miranda, who were sitting under the shade of a large tree. Now Miranda had never seen a man before, except her own father. "Miranda," said Prospero, "tell me what you are looking at yonder." "O father," said Miranda, in a strange surprise, "surely that is a spirit. Lord! how it looks about! Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful creature. It is not a spirit?" "No, girl," answered her father; "it eats, and sleeps, and has senses such as we have. This young man you see was in the ship. He is somewhat altered by grief, or you might call him a handsome person. He has lost his companions, and is wandering about to find them." Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and grey beards like her father, was delighted with the appearance of this beautiful young prince; and Ferdinand, seeing such a lovely lady in this desert place, and from the strange sounds he had heard expecting nothing but wonders, thought he was upon an inchanted island, and that Miranda was the goddess of the place, and as such he began to address her. "Come on, young man," said Prospero to the prince, "you have no power to disobey me." Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within the cell: he soon brought out his prisoner, and set him a severe task to perform, taking care to let his daughter know the hard labour he had imposed on him, and then pretending to go into his study he secretly watched them both. "O my dear lady," said Ferdinand, "I dare not. I must finish my task before I take my rest." "If you will sit down," said Miranda, "I will carry your logs the while." But this Ferdinand would by no means agree to. Instead of a help, Miranda became a hindrance, for they began a long conversation, so that the business of log-carrying went on very slowly. Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this task merely as a trial of his love, was not at his books, as his daughter supposed, but was standing by them invisible, to overhear what they said. Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told, saying it was against her father's express command she did so. In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said exceeded all the women in the world, she replied, "I do not remember the face of any woman, nor have I seen any more men than you, my good friend, and my dear father. How features are abroad, I know not; but believe me, sir, I would not wish any companion in the world but you, nor can my imagination form any shape but yours that I could like. But, sir, I fear I talk to you too freely, and my father's precepts I forget." At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head as much as to say, "This goes on exactly as I could wish; my girl will be queen of Naples." And then Ferdinand, in another fine long speech (for young princes speak in courtly phrases), told the innocent Miranda he was heir to the crown of Naples, and that she should be his queen. "Ah! sir," said she, "I am a fool to weep at what I am glad of. I will answer you in plain and holy innocence. I am your wife, if you will marry me." Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by appearing visible before them. "Fear nothing, my child," said he; "I have overheard, and approve of all you have said. And, Ferdinand, if I have too severely used you, I will make you rich amends by giving you my daughter. All your vexations were but my trials of your love, and you have nobly stood the test. Then as my gift, which your true love has worthily purchased, take my daughter, and do not smile that I boast she is above all praise." He then, telling them that he had business which required his presence, desired they would sit down and talk together, till he returned; and this command Miranda seemed not at all disposed to disobey. When Prospero left them, he called his spirit Ariel, who quickly appeared before him, eager to relate what he had done with Prospero's brother and the king of Naples. Ariel said, he had left them almost out of their senses with fear, at the strange things he had caused them to see and hear. When fatigued with wandering about, and famished for want of food, he had suddenly set before them a delicious banquet, and then, just as they were going to eat, he appeared visible before them in the shape of a harpy, a voracious monster with wings, and the feast vanished away. Then, to their utter amazement, this seeming harpy spoke to them, reminding them of their cruelty in driving Prospero from his dukedom, and leaving him and his infant daughter to perish in the sea; saying, that for this cause these terrors were suffered to afflict them. The king of Naples, and Antonio the false brother, repented the injustice they had done to Prospero: and Ariel told his master he was certain their penitence was sincere, and that he, though a spirit, could not but pity them. "Then bring them hither, Ariel," said Prospero: "if you, who are but a spirit, feel for their distress, shall not I, who am a human being like themselves, have compassion on them? Bring them, quickly, my dainty Ariel." Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, and old Gonzalo in their train, who had followed him, wondering at the wild music he played in the air to draw them on to his master's presence. This Gonzalo was the same who had so kindly provided Prospero formerly with books and provisions, when his wicked brother left him, as he thought, to perish in an open boat in the sea. Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and the son at this unexpected meeting, for they each thought the other drowned in the storm. "O wonder!" said Miranda, "what noble creatures these are! It must surely be a brave world that has such people in it." "Then I must be her father," said the king; "but oh! how oddly will it sound, that I must ask my child forgiveness." "No more of that," said Prospero: "let us not remember our troubles past, since they so happily have ended." And then Prospero embraced his brother, and again assured him of his forgiveness; and said that a wise, over-ruling Providence had permitted that he should be driven from his poor dukedom of Milan, that his daughter might inherit the crown of Naples, for that by their meeting in this desert island it had happened, that the king's son had loved Miranda. These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning to comfort his brother, so filled Antonio with shame and remorse, that he wept and was unable to speak; and the kind old Gonzalo wept to see this joyful reconciliation, and prayed for blessings on the young couple. Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed Ariel from his service, to the great joy of that lively little spirit; who, though he had been a faithful servant to his master, was always longing to enjoy his free liberty, to wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, under green trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling flowers. "My quaint Ariel," said Prospero to the little sprite when he made him free, "I shall miss you; yet you shall have your freedom." "Thank you, my dear master," said Ariel; "but give me leave to attend your ship home with prosperous gales, before you bid farewel to the assistance of your faithful spirit; and then, master, when I am free, how merrily I shall live!" Here Ariel sung this pretty song: "Where the bee sucks, there suck I; In a cowslip's bell I lie: There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily, shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough." Prospero then buried deep in the earth his magical books, and wand, for he was resolved never more to make use of the magic art. And having thus overcome his enemies, and being reconciled to his brother and the king of Naples, nothing now remained to complete his happiness, but to revisit his native land, to take possession of his dukedom, and to witness the happy nuptials of his daughter Miranda and prince Ferdinand, which the king said should be instantly celebrated with great splendour on their return to Naples. At which place, under the safe convoy of the spirit Ariel, they after a pleasant voyage soon arrived. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM There was a law in the city of Athens, which gave to its citizens the power of compelling their daughters to marry whomsoever they pleased: for upon a daughter's refusing to marry the man her father had chosen to be her husband, the father was empowered by this law to cause her to be put to death; but as fathers do not often desire the death of their own daughters, even though they do happen to prove a little refractory, this law was seldom or never put in execution, though perhaps the young ladies of that city were not unfrequently threatened by their parents with the terrors of it. Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that Demetrius had formerly professed love for her dear friend Helena, and that Helena loved Demetrius to distraction; but this honourable reason which Hermia gave for not obeying her father's command moved not the stern Egeus. Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these evil tidings; but recollecting that he had an aunt who lived at some distance from Athens, and that at the place where she lived the cruel law could not be put in force against Hermia (this law not extending beyond the boundaries of the city), he proposed to Hermia, that she should steal out of her father's house that night, and go with him to his aunt's house, where he would marry her. "I will meet you," said Lysander, "in the wood a few miles without the city; in that delightful wood, where we have so often walked with Helena in the pleasant month of May." The wood, in which Lysander and Hermia proposed to meet, was the favourite haunt of those little beings known by the name of _Fairies_. Oberon the king, and Titania the queen, of the Fairies, with all their tiny train of followers, in this wood held their midnight revels. Between this little king and queen of sprites there happened, at this time, a sad disagreement: they never met by moonlight in the shady walks of this pleasant wood, but they were quarrelling, till all their fairy elves would creep into acorn-cups and hide themselves for fear. The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Titania's refusing to give Oberon a little changeling boy, whose mother had been Titania's friend: and upon her death the fairy queen stole the child from its nurse, and brought him up in the woods. The night on which the lovers were to meet in this wood, as Titania was walking with some of her maids of honour, she met Oberon attended by his train of fairy courtiers. "Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania," said the fairy king. The queen replied, "What, jealous Oberon, is it you? Fairies, skip hence; I have forsworn his company." "Tarry, rash fairy," said Oberon; "am not I thy lord? Why does Titania cross her Oberon? Give me your little changeling boy to be my page." "Set your heart at rest," answered the queen; "your whole fairy kingdom buys not the boy of me." She then left her lord in great anger. "Well, go your way," said Oberon: "before the morning dawns I will torment you for this injury." Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite and privy counsellor. Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly diverted with this intended frolic of his master, and ran to seek the flower; and while Oberon was waiting the return of Puck, he observed Demetrius and Helena enter the woods: he overheard Demetrius reproaching Helena for following him, and after many unkind words on his part, and gentle expostulations from Helena, reminding him of his former love and professions of true faith to her, he left her (as he said) to the mercy of the wild beasts, and she ran after him as swiftly as she could. When the fairies had sung their queen asleep with this pretty lullaby, they left her, to perform the important services she had enjoined them. Oberon then softly drew near his Titania, and dropt some of the love-juice on her eye-lids, saying, What thou seest when thou dost wake, Do it for thy true-love take. Hermia was as much surprised as Helena: she knew not why Lysander and Demetrius, who both before loved her, were now become the lovers of Helena; and to Hermia the matter seemed to be no jest. The ladies, who before had always been the dearest of friends, now fell to high words together. "I am amazed at your passionate words," said Hermia: "I scorn you not; it seems you scorn me." "Aye, do," returned Helena, "persevere; counterfeit serious looks, and make mouths at me when I turn my back; then wink at each other, and hold the sweet jest up. If you had any pity, grace, or manners, you would not use me thus." While Helena and Hermia were speaking these angry words to each other, Demetrius and Lysander left them, to fight together in the wood for the love of Helena. Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon seeing a clown near her, who had lost his way in the wood, and was likewise asleep: "This fellow," said he, "shall be my Titania's truelove;" and clapping an ass's head over the clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it had grown upon his own shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass's head on very gently, it awakened him, and rising up, unconscious of what Oberon had done to him, he went towards the bower where the fairy queen slept. "Ah! what angel is that I see?" said Titania, opening her eyes, and the juice of the little purple flower beginning to take effect; "Are you as wise as you are beautiful?" "Why, mistress," said the foolish clown, "if I have wit enough to find the way out of this wood, I have enough to serve my turn." "Out of the wood do not desire to go," said the enamoured queen. "I am a spirit of no common rate. I love you. Go with me, and I will give you fairies to attend upon you." "Attend," said the queen, "upon this sweet gentleman; hop in his walks, and gambol in his sight; feed him with grapes and apricots, and steal for him the honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit with me," said she to the clown, "and let me play with your amiable hairy cheeks, my beautiful ass! and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle joy!" "Where is Pease-blossom?" said the ass-headed clown; not much regarding the fairy queen's courtship, but very proud of his new attendants. "Here, sir," said little Pease-blossom. "Scratch my head," said the clown. "Where is Cobweb?" "Here, sir," said Cobweb. "Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, "kill me the red humble-bee on the top of that thistle yonder; and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb, and take care the honey-bag break not; I should be sorry to have you overflown with a honey-bag. Where is Mustard-seed?" "Here, sir," said Mustard-seed; "what is your will?" "Nothing," said the clown, "good Mr. Mustard-seed, but to help Mr. Pease-blossom to scratch: I must go to a barber's, Mr. Mustard-seed, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face." "My sweet love," said the queen, "what will you have to eat? I have a venturous fairy shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch you some new nuts." "I had rather have a handful of dried pease," said the clown, who with his ass's head had got an ass's appetite. "But, I pray, let none of your people disturb me, for I have a mind to sleep." "Sleep, then," said the queen, "and I will wind you in my arms. O how I love you! how I doat upon you!" When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping in the arms of his queen, he advanced within her sight, and reproached her with having lavished her favours upon an ass. This she could not deny, as the clown was then sleeping within her arms, with his ass's head crowned by her with flowers. When Oberon had teased her for some time, he again demanded the changeling-boy; which she, ashamed of being discovered by her lord with her new favourite, did not dare to refuse him. Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had so long wished for to be his page, took pity on the disgraceful situation into which, by his merry contrivance, he had brought his Titania, and threw some of the juice of the other flower into her eyes; and the fairy queen immediately recovered her senses, and wondered at her late dotage, saying how she now loathed the sight of the strange monster. Oberon likewise took the ass's head from off the clown, and left him to finish his nap with his own fool's head upon his shoulders. Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly reconciled, he related to her the history of the lovers, and their midnight quarrels; and she agreed to go with him, and see the end of their adventures. The fairy king and queen found the lovers and their fair ladies, at no great distance from each other, sleeping on a grass-plot; for Puck, to make amends for his former mistake, had contrived with the utmost diligence to bring them all to the same spot, unknown to each other; and he had carefully removed the charm from off the eyes of Lysander with the antidote the fairy king gave to him. Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake; and a sweet sleep having quieted Helena's disturbed and angry spirits, she listened with delight to the professions of love which Demetrius still made to her, and which, to her surprise as well as pleasure she began to perceive were sincere. The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spectators of this reconciliation, and now saw the happy ending of the lovers' history brought about through the good offices of Oberon, received so much pleasure, that these kind spirits resolved to celebrate the approaching nuptials with sports and revels throughout their fairy kingdom. And now, if any are offended with this story of fairies and their pranks, as judging it incredible and strange, they have only to think that they have been asleep and dreaming, and that all these adventures were visions which they saw in their sleep: and I hope none of my readers will be so unreasonable as to be offended with a pretty harmless Midsummer Night's Dream. At length, after repeated invitations, Polixenes came from Bohemia to the Sicilian court, to make his friend Leontes a visit. When after a long stay Polixenes was preparing to depart, Hermione, at the desire of her husband, joined her intreaties to his that Polixenes would prolong his visit. Camillo was a good man; and he, well knowing that the jealousy of Leontes had not the slightest foundation in truth, instead of poisoning Polixenes, acquainted him with the king his master's orders, and agreed to escape with him out of the Sicilian dominions; and Polixenes, with the assistance of Camillo, arrived safe in his own kingdom of Bohemia, where Camillo lived from that time in the king's court, and became the chief friend and favourite of Polixenes. Mamillus, though but a very young child, loved his mother tenderly; and when he saw her so dishonoured, and found she was taken from him to be put into a prison, he took it deeply to heart, and drooped and pined away by slow degrees, losing his appetite and his sleep, till it was thought his grief would kill him. When Hermione had been a short time in prison, she was brought to bed of a daughter; and the poor lady received much comfort from the sight of her pretty baby, and she said to it, "My poor little prisoner, I am as innocent as you are." Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing herself into the king's presence, notwithstanding her husband, fearing the king's anger, endeavoured to prevent her, she laid the babe at its father's feet, and Paulina made a noble speech to the king in defence of Hermione, and she reproached him severely for his inhumanity, and implored him to have mercy on his innocent wife and child. But Paulina's spirited remonstrances only aggravated Leontes's displeasure, and he ordered her husband Antigonus to take her from his presence. When Paulina went away, she left the little baby at its father's feet, thinking, when he was alone with it, he would look upon it, and have pity on its helpless innocence. The good Paulina was mistaken; for no sooner was she gone than the merciless father ordered Antigonus, Paulina's husband, to take the child, and carry it out to sea, and leave it upon some desert shore to perish. Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear affectionate child, who had lost his life in sorrowing for her misfortune, fainted; and Leontes, pierced to the heart by the news, began to feel pity for his unhappy queen, and he ordered Paulina, and the ladies who were her attendants, to take her away, and use means for her recovery. Paulina soon returned, and told the king that Hermione was dead. When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he repented of his cruelty to her; and now that he thought his ill usage had broken Hermione's heart, he believed her innocent; and he now thought the words of the oracle were true, as he knew "if that which was lost was not found," which he concluded was his young daughter, he should be without an heir, the young prince Mamillus being dead; and he would give his kingdom now to recover his lost daughter: and Leontes gave himself up to remorse, and passed many years in mournful thoughts and repentant grief. The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant princess out to sea was driven by a storm upon the coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom of the good king Polixenes. Here Antigonus landed, and here he left the little baby. Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes where he had left his daughter, for as he was going back to the ship, a bear came out of the woods, and tore him to pieces; a just punishment on him for obeying the wicked order of Leontes. The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels; for Hermione had made it very fine when she sent it to Leontes, and Antigonus had pinned a paper to its mantle, with the name of _Perdita_ written thereon, and words obscurely intimating its high birth and untoward fate. Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only son, whose name was Florizel. As this young prince was hunting near the shepherd's dwelling, he saw the old man's supposed daughter; and the beauty, modesty, and queen-like deportment of Perdita caused him instantly to fall in love with her. He soon, under the name of Doricles, and in the disguise of a private gentleman, became a constant visitor at the old shepherd's house. Florizel's frequent absences from court alarmed Polixenes; and setting people to watch his son, he discovered his love for the shepherd's fair daughter. Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faithful Camillo, who had preserved his life from the fury of Leontes; and desired that he would accompany him to the house of the shepherd, the supposed father of Perdita. Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived at the old shepherd's dwelling while they were celebrating the feast of sheep-shearing; and though they were strangers, yet at the sheep-shearing every guest being made welcome, they were invited to walk in, and join in the general festivity. Nothing but mirth and jolity was going forward. Tables were spread, and great preparations were making for the rustic feast. Some lads and lasses were dancing on the green before the house, while others of the young men were buying ribbands, gloves, and such toys, of a pedlar at the door. While this busy scene was going forward, Florizel and Perdita sat quietly in a retired corner, seemingly more pleased with the conversation of each other, than desirous of engaging in the sports and silly amusements of those around them. The king was so disguised that it was impossible his son could know him; he therefore advanced near enough to hear the conversation. The simple yet elegant manner in which Perdita conversed with his son did not a little surprise Polixenes: he said to Camillo, "This is the prettiest low-born lass I ever saw; nothing she does or says but looks like something greater than herself, too noble for this place." Camillo replied, "Indeed she is the very queen of curds and cream." Polixenes then addressed his son. "How now, young man!" said he: "your heart seems full of something that takes off your mind from feasting. When I was young, I used to load my love with presents; but you have let the pedlar go, and have bought your lass no toy." "Mark your divorce, young sir," said the king, discovering himself. Polixenes then reproached his son for daring to contract himself to this low-born maiden, calling Perdita "shepherd's-brat, sheep-hook," and other disrespectful names; and threatening, if ever she suffered his son to see her again, he would put her, and the old shepherd her father, to a cruel death. The king then left them in great wrath, and ordered Camillo to follow him with prince Florizel. The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with the spirit and propriety of Perdita's behaviour; and perceiving that the young prince was too deeply in love to give up his mistress at the command of his royal father, he thought of a way to befriend the lovers, and at the same time to execute a favourite scheme he had in his mind. To this proposal they joyfully agreed; and Camillo, who conducted every thing relative to their flight, allowed the old shepherd to go along with them. When the old shepherd heard how much notice the king had taken of Perdita, and that he had lost a daughter, who was exposed in infancy, he fell to comparing the time when he found the little Perdita with the manner of its exposure, the jewels and other tokens of its high birth; from all which it was impossible for him not to conclude, that Perdita and the king's lost daughter were the same. Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Paulina, were present when the old shepherd related to the king the manner in which he had found the child, and also the circumstance of Antigonus's death, he having seen the bear seize upon him. He shewed the rich mantle in which Paulina remembered Hermione had wrapped the child; and he produced a jewel which she remembered Hermione had tied about Perdita's neck, and he gave up the paper which Paulina knew to be the writing of her husband; it could not be doubted that Perdita was Leontes' own daughter: but oh! the noble struggles of Paulina, between sorrow for her husband's death, and joy that the oracle was fulfilled, in the king's heir, his long-lost daughter, being found. When Leontes heard that Perdita was his daughter, the great sorrow that he felt that Hermione was not living to behold her child, made him that he could say nothing for a long time, but "O thy mother, thy mother!" Paulina interrupted this joyful yet distressful scene, with saying to Leontes, that she had a statue, newly finished by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano, which was such a perfect resemblance of the queen, that would his majesty be pleased to go to her house and look upon it, he would be almost ready to think it was Hermione herself. Thither then they all went; the king anxious to see the semblance of his Hermione, and Perdita longing to behold what the mother she never saw did look like. When Paulina drew back the curtain which concealed this famous statue, so perfectly did it resemble Hermione, that all the king's sorrow was renewed at the sight: for a long time he had no power to speak or move. Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling, and beholding in silent admiration the statue of her matchless mother, said now, "And so long could I stay here, looking upon my dear mother." "Either forbear this transport," said Paulina to Leontes, "and let me draw the curtain; or prepare yourself for more amazement. I can make the statue move indeed; aye, and descend from off the pedestal, and take you by the hand. But then you will think, which I protest I am not, that I am assisted by some wicked powers." "What you can make her do," said the astonished king, "I am content to look upon. What you can make her speak, I am content to hear; for it is as easy to make her speak as move." Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn music, which she had prepared for the purpose, to strike up; and to the amazement of all the beholders, the statue came down from off the pedestal, and threw its arms around Leontes' neck. The statue then began to speak, praying for blessings on her husband, and on her child, the newly found Perdita. No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes' neck, and blessed her husband and her child. No wonder; for the statue was indeed Hermione herself, the real, the living queen. Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death of Hermione, thinking that the only means to preserve her royal mistress's life; and with the good Paulina Hermione had lived ever since, never choosing Leontes should know she was living, till she heard Perdita was found; for though she had long forgiven the injuries which Leontes had done to herself, she could not pardon his cruelty to his infant daughter. His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost daughter found, the long-sorrowing Leontes could scarcely support the excess of his own happiness. Nothing but congratulations and affectionate speeches were heard on all sides. Now the delighted parents thanked prince Florizel for loving their lowly-seeming daughter; and now they blessed the good old shepherd for preserving their child. Greatly did Camillo and Paulina rejoice, that they had lived to see so good an end of all their faithful services. And as if nothing should be wanting to complete this strange and unlooked-for joy, king Polixenes himself now entered the palace. Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the long-suffering Hermione rewarded. That excellent lady lived many years with her Leontes and her Perdita, the happiest of mothers and of queens. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING Beatrice was of a lively temper, and loved to divert her cousin Hero, who was of a more serious disposition, with her sprightly sallies. Whatever was going forward was sure to make matter of mirth for the light-hearted Beatrice. At the time the history of these ladies commences, some young men of high rank in the army, as they were passing through Messina on their return from a war that was just ended, in which they had distinguished themselves by their great bravery, came to visit Leonato. Among these were Don Pedro, the prince of Arragon; and his friend Claudio, who was a lord of Florence; and with them came the wild and witty Benedick, and he was a lord of Padua. These strangers had been at Messina before, and the hospitable governor introduced them to his daughter and his niece as their old friends and acquaintance. Claudio was to wait but a few days before he was to be married to his fair lady; yet he complained of the interval being tedious, as indeed most young men are impatient, when they are waiting for the accomplishment of any event they have set their hearts upon: the prince therefore, to make the time seem short to him, proposed as a kind of merry pastime, that they should invent some artful scheme to make Benedick and Beatrice fall in love with each other. Claudio entered with great satisfaction into this whim of the prince, and Leonato promised them his assistance, and even Hero said she would do any modest office to help her cousin to a good husband. The device the prince invented was, that the gentlemen should make Benedick believe that Beatrice was in love with him, and that Hero should make Beatrice believe that Benedick was in love with her. The prince affected to hearken to all this with great compassion for Beatrice, and he said, "It were good that Benedick were told of this." "To what end?" said Claudio; "he would but make sport of it, and torment the poor lady worse." "And if he should," said the prince, "it were a good deed to hang him; for Beatrice is an excellent sweet lady, and exceeding wise in every thing but in loving Benedick." Then the prince motioned to his companions that they should walk on, and leave Benedick to meditate upon what he had overheard. Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and told them that Hero was an imprudent lady, and that she talked with men from her chamber-window at midnight. Now this was the evening before the wedding, and he offered to take them that night, where they should themselves hear Hero discoursing with a man from her window; and they consented to go along with him, and Claudio said, "If I see any thing to-night why I should not marry her, to-morrow in the congregation, where I intended to wed her, there will I shame her." The prince also said, "And as I assisted you to obtain her, I will join with you to disgrace her." When Don John brought them near Hero's chamber that night, they saw Borachio standing under the window, and they saw Margaret looking out of Hero's window, and heard her talking with Borachio; and Margaret being dressed in the same clothes they had seen Hero wear, the prince and Claudio believed it was the lady Hero herself. The next day, when they were all met to celebrate the marriage, and Claudio and Hero were standing before the priest, and the priest, or friar as he was called, was proceeding to pronounce the marriage-ceremony, Claudio, in the most passionate language, proclaimed the guilt of the blameless Hero, who, amazed at the strange words he uttered, said meekly, "Is my lord well, that he does speak so wide?" Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the prince, "My lord, why speak not you?" "What should I speak?" said the prince; "I stand dishonoured, that have gone about to link my dear friend to an unworthy woman. Leonato, upon my honour, myself, my brother, and this grieved Claudio, did see and hear her last night at midnight talk with a man at her chamber-window." Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard, said, "This looks not like a nuptial." "True, O God!" replied the heart-struck Hero; and then this hapless lady sunk down in a fainting fit, to all appearance dead. The prince and Claudio left the church, without staying to see if Hero would recover, or at all regarding the distress into which they had thrown Leonato. So hard-hearted had their anger made them. When Hero had recovered from the swoon into which she had fallen, the friar said to her, "Lady, what man is he you are accused of?" Hero replied, "They know that do accuse me; I know of none:" then turning to Leonato, she said, "O my father, if you can prove that any man has ever conversed with me at hours unmeet, or that I yesternight changed words with any creature, refuse me, hate me, torture me to death." "There is," said the friar, "some strange misunderstanding in the prince and Claudio;" and then he counselled Leonato, that he should report that Hero was dead; and he said, that the death-like swoon in which they had left Hero, would make this easy of belief; and he also advised him, that he should put on mourning, and erect a monument for her, and do all rites that appertain to a burial. "What shall become of this?" said Leonato; "What will this do?" The friar replied, "This report of her death shall change slander into pity; that is some good, but that is not all the good I hope for. When Claudio shall hear she died upon hearing his words, the idea of her life shall sweetly creep into his imagination. Then shall he mourn, if ever love had interest in his heart, and wish he had not so accused her: yea, though he thought his accusation true." Benedick now said, "Leonato, let the friar advise you; and though you know how well I love the prince and Claudio, yet on my honour I will not reveal this secret to them." Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded; and he said sorrowfully, "I am so grieved, that the smallest twine may lead me." The kind friar then led Leonato and Hero away to comfort and console them, and Beatrice and Benedick remained alone; and this was the meeting from which their friends, who contrived the merry plot against them, expected so much diversion; those friends who were now overwhelmed with affliction, and from whose minds all thoughts of merriment seemed for ever banished. Borachio made a full confession to the prince in Claudio's hearing, that it was Margaret dressed in her lady's clothes that he had talked with from the window, whom they had mistaken for the lady Hero herself; and no doubt continued on the minds of Claudio and the prince of the innocence of Hero. If a suspicion had remained, it must have been removed by the flight of Don John, who, finding his villanies were detected, fled from Messina to avoid the just anger of his brother. And the repentant Claudio implored forgiveness of the old man Leonato for the injury he had done his child; and promised, that whatever penance Leonato would lay upon him for his fault in believing the false accusation against his betrothed wife, for her dear sake he would endure it. The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to marry the next morning a cousin of Hero's who, he said, was now his heir, and in person very like Hero. Claudio, regarding the solemn promise he had made to Leonato, said, he would marry this unknown lady, even though she were an Ethiop: but his heart was very sorrowful, and he passed that night in tears, and in remorseful grief, at the tomb which Leonato had erected for Hero. The duke, who was thus driven from his dominions, retired with a few faithful followers to the forest of Arden; and here the good duke lived with his loving friends, who had put themselves into a voluntary exile for his sake, while their lands and revenues enriched the false usurper; and custom soon made the life of careless ease they led here more sweet to them than the pomp and uneasy splendour of a courtier's life. Here they lived like the old Robin Hood of England, and to this forest many noble youths daily resorted from the court, and did fleet the time carelessly, as they did who lived in the golden age. In the summer they lay along under the fine shade of the large forest trees, marking the playful sports of the wild deer; and so fond were they of these poor dappled fools, who seemed to be the native inhabitants of the forest, that it grieved them to be forced to kill them to supply themselves with venison for their food. When the cold winds of winter made the duke feel the change of his adverse fortune, he would endure it patiently, and say, "These chilling winds which blow upon my body, are true counsellors, they do not flatter, but represent truly to me my condition; and though they bite sharply, their tooth is nothing like so keen as that of unkindness and ingratitude. I find that, howsoever men speak against adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be extracted from it; like the jewel, precious for medicine, which is taken from the head of the venomous and despised toad." In this manner did the patient duke draw an useful moral from everything that he saw; and by the help of this moralising turn, in that life of his, remote from public haunts, he could find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in every thing. The banished duke had an only daughter, named Rosalind, whom the usurper, duke Frederick, when he banished her father, still retained in his court as a companion for his own daughter Celia. A strict friendship subsisted between these ladies, which the disagreement between their fathers did not in the least interrupt, Celia striving by every kindness in her power to make amends to Rosalind for the injustice of her own father in deposing the father of Rosalind; and whenever the thoughts of her father's banishment, and her own dependance on the false usurper, made Rosalind melancholy, Celia's whole care was to comfort and console her. When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he said, "How now, daughter and niece, are you crept hither to see the wrestling? You will take little delight in it, there is such odds in the men: in pity to this young roan, I would wish to persuade him from wrestling. Speak to him, ladies, and see if you can move him." And now the wrestling-match began. Celia wished the young stranger might not be hurt; but Rosalind felt most for him. The friendless state which he said he was in, and that he wished to die, made Rosalind think that he was like herself unfortunate; and she pitied him so much, and so deep an interest she took in his danger while he was wrestling, that she might almost be said at that moment to have fallen in love with him. The kindness shewn this unknown youth by these fair and noble ladies gave him courage and strength, so that he performed wonders; and in the end completely conquered his antagonist, who was so much hurt, that for a while he was unable to speak or move. The duke Frederick was much pleased with the courage and skill shewn by this young stranger; and desired to know his name and parentage, meaning to take him under his protection. The stranger said his name was Orlando, and that he was the youngest son of sir Rowland de Boys. Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had been dead some years; but when he was living, he had been a true subject and dear friend of the banished duke: therefore when Frederick heard Orlando was the son of his banished brother's friend, all his liking for this brave young man was changed into displeasure, and he left the place in very ill humour. Hating to hear the very name of any of his brother's friends, and yet still admiring the valour of the youth, he said, as he went out, that he wished Orlando had been the son of any other man. Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new favourite was the son of her father's old friend; and she said to Celia, "My father loved sir Rowland de Boys, and if I had known this young man was his son, I would have added tears to my entreaties before he should have ventured." The ladies then went up to him; and seeing him abashed by the sudden displeasure shewn by the duke, they spoke kind and encouraging words to him; and Rosalind, when they were going away, turned back to speak some more civil things to the brave young son of her father's old friend; and taking a chain from off her neck, she said, "Gentleman, wear this for me. I am out of suits with fortune, or I would give you a more valuable present." When the ladies were alone, Rosalind's talk being still of Orlando, Celia began to perceive her cousin had fallen in love with the handsome young wrestler, and she said to Rosalind, "Is it possible you should fall in love so suddenly?" Rosalind replied, "The duke, my father, loved his father dearly." "But," said Celia, "does it therefore follow that you should love his son dearly? for then I ought to hate him, for my father hated his father; yet I do not hate Orlando." Frederick being enraged at the sight of sir Rowland de Boys' son, which reminded him of the many friends the banished duke had among the nobility, and having been for some time displeased with his niece, because the people praised her for her virtues, and pitied her for her good father's sake, his malice suddenly broke out against her; and while Celia and Rosalind were talking of Orlando, Frederick entered the room, and with looks full of anger ordered Rosalind instantly to leave the palace, and follow her father into banishment; telling Celia, who in vain pleaded for her, that he had only suffered Rosalind to stay upon her account. "I did not then," said Celia, "entreat you to let her stay; for I was too young at that time to value her; but now that I know her worth, and that we so long have slept together, rose at the same instant, learned, played and eat together, I cannot live out of her company." Frederick replied, "She is too subtle for you; her smoothness, her very silence, and her patience, speak to the people, and they pity her. You are a fool to plead for her, for you will seem more bright and virtuous when she is gone; therefore open not your lips in her favour, for the doom which I have passed upon her is irrevocable." When Celia found she could not prevail upon her father to let Rosalind remain with her, she generously resolved to accompany her; and, leaving her father's palace that night, she went along with her friend to seek Rosalind's father, the banished duke, in the forest of Arden. In this disguise, and taking their money and jewels to defray their expences, these fair princesses set out on their long travel; for the forest of Arden was a long way off, beyond the boundaries of the duke's dominions. The lady Rosalind (or Ganimed as she must now be called) with her manly garb seemed to have put on a manly courage. The faithful friendship Celia had shewn in accompanying Rosalind so many weary miles, made the new brother, in recompence for this true love, exert a cheerful spirit, as if he were indeed Ganimed, the rustic and stout-hearted brother of the gentle village maiden, Aliena. The man replied, that he was only a servant to a shepherd, and that his master's house was just going to be sold, and therefore they would find but poor entertainment; but that if they would go with him, they should be welcome to what there was. They followed the man, the near prospect of relief giving them fresh strength; and bought the house and sheep of the shepherd, and took the man who conducted them to the shepherd's house, to wait on them; and being by this means so fortunately provided with a neat cottage, and well supplied with provisions, they agreed to stay here till they could learn in what part of the forest the duke dwelt. Orlando was the youngest son of sir Rowland de Boys, who when he died left him (Orlando being then very young) to the care of his eldest brother Oliver, charging Oliver on his blessing to give his brother a good education, and provide for him as became the dignity of their ancient house. Oliver proved an unworthy brother; and disregarding the commands of his dying father, he never put his brother to school, but kept him at home untaught and entirely neglected. But in his nature and in the noble qualities of his mind Orlando so much resembled his excellent father, that without any advantages of education he seemed like a youth who had been bred with the utmost care; and Oliver so envied the fine person and dignified manners of his untutored brother, that at last he wished to destroy him; and to effect this he set on people to persuade him to wrestle with the famous wrestler, who, as has been before related, had killed so many men. Now it was this cruel brother's neglect of him which made Orlando say he wished to die, being so friendless. Together then this faithful servant and his loved master set out; and Orlando and Adam travelled on, uncertain what course to pursue, till they came to the forest of Arden, and there they found themselves in the same distress for want of food, that Ganimed and Aliena had been. They wandered on, seeking some human habitation, till they were almost spent with hunger and fatigue. Adam at last said, "O my dear master, I die for want of food, I can go no farther!" He then laid himself down, thinking to make that place his grave, and bade his dear master farewel. Orlando, seeing him in this weak state, took his old servant up in his arms, and carried him under the shelter of some pleasant trees, and he said to him, "Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary limbs here a while, and do not talk of dying!" Orlando then searched about to find some food, and he happened to arrive at that part of the forest where the duke was; and he and his friends were just going to eat their dinner, this royal duke being seated on the grass, under no other canopy than the shady covert of some large trees. The duke enquired who Orlando was, and when he found that he was the son of his old friend, sir Rowland de Boys, he took him under his protection, and Orlando and his old servant lived with the duke in the forest. Orlando had not been in the forest many days before Ganimed and Aliena arrived there, and (as has been before related) bought the shepherd's cottage. Ganimed and Aliena were strangely surprised to find the name of Rosalind carved on the trees, and love-sonnets fastened to them, all addressed to Rosalind; and while they were wondering how this could be, they met Orlando, and they perceived the chain which Rosalind had given him about his neck. Orlando little thought that Ganimed was the fair princess Rosalind, who by her noble condescension and favour had so won his heart, that he passed his whole time in carving her name upon the trees, and writing sonnets in praise of her beauty: but being much pleased with the graceful air of this pretty shepherd-youth, he entered into conversation with him, and he thought he saw a likeness in Ganimed to his beloved Rosalind, but that he had none of the dignified deportment of that noble lady; for Ganimed assumed the forward manners often seen in youths when they are between boys and men, and with much archness and humour talked to Orlando of a certain lover, "who," said he, "haunts our forest, and spoils our young trees with carving Rosalind upon their barks; and he hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles, all praising this same Rosalind. If I could find this lover, I would give him some good counsel that would soon cure him of his love." Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of whom he spoke, and asked Ganimed to give him the good counsel he talked of. The remedy Ganimed proposed, and the counsel he gave him, was that Orlando should come every day to the cottage where he and his sister Aliena dwelt: "And then," said Ganimed, "I will feign myself to be Rosalind, and you shall feign to court me in the same manner as you would do if I was Rosalind, and then I will imitate the fantastic ways of whimsical ladies to their lovers, till I make you ashamed of your love; and this is the way I propose to cure you." Orlando had no great faith in the remedy, yet he agreed to come every day to Ganimed's cottage, and feign a playful courtship; and every day Orlando visited Ganimed and Aliena, and Orlando called the shepherd Ganimed his Rosalind, and every day talked over all the fine words and flattering compliments, which young men delight to use when they court their mistresses. It does not appear however that Ganimed made any progress in curing Orlando of his love for Rosalind. Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive play (not dreaming that Ganimed was his very Rosalind), yet the opportunity it gave him of saying all the fond things he had in his heart, pleased his fancy almost as well as it did Ganimed's, who enjoyed the secret jest in knowing these fine love-speeches were all addressed to the right person. The wound in Orlando's arm having bled very much, he found himself too weak to go to visit Ganimed, and therefore he desired his brother to go, and tell Ganimed, "whom," said Orlando, "I in sport do call my Rosalind," the accident which had befallen him. Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganimed and Aliena how Orlando had saved his life: and when he had finished the story of Orlando's bravery, and his own providential escape, he owned to them that he was Orlando's brother, who had so cruelly used him; and then he told them of their reconciliation. The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his offences made such a lively impression on the kind heart of Aliena, that she instantly fell in love with him; and Oliver observing how much she pitied the distress he told her he felt for his fault, he as suddenly fell in love with her. But while love was thus stealing into the hearts of Aliena and Oliver, he was no less busy with Ganimed, who hearing of the danger Orlando had been in, and that he was wounded by the lioness, fainted; and when he recovered, he pretended that he had counterfeited the swoon in the imaginary character of Rosalind, and Ganimed said to Oliver, "Tell your brother Orlando how well I counterfeited a swoon." But Oliver saw by the paleness of his complexion that he did really faint, and much wondering at the weakness of the young man, he said, "Well, if you did counterfeit, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man." "So I do," replied Ganimed (truly), "but I should have been a woman by right." "You have my consent," said Orlando. "Let your wedding be to-morrow, and I will invite the duke and his friends. Go and persuade your shepherdess to agree to this: she is now alone; for look, here comes her brother." Oliver went to Aliena; and Ganimed, whom Orlando had perceived approaching, came to enquire after the health of his wounded friend. When Orlando and Ganimed began to talk over the sudden love which had taken place between Oliver and Aliena, Orlando said he had advised his brother to persuade his fair shepherdess to be married on the morrow, and then he added how much he could wish to be married on the same day to his Rosalind. Ganimed, who well approved of this arrangement, said, that if Orlando really loved Rosalind as well as he professed to do, he should have his wish; for on the morrow he would engage to make Rosalind appear in her own person, and also that Rosalind should be willing to marry Orlando. This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Ganimed was the lady Rosalind, he could so easily perform, he pretended he would bring to pass by the aid of magic, which he said he had learnt of an uncle who was a famous magician. The next morning, Oliver having obtained the consent of Aliena, they came into the presence of the duke, and with them also came Orlando. The duke, hearing that it was his own daughter that was to be brought in this strange way, asked Orlando if he believed the shepherd-boy could really do what he had promised; and while Orlando was answering that he knew not what to think, Ganimed entered, and asked the duke, if he brought his daughter, whether he would consent to her marriage with Orlando. "That I would," said the duke, "if I had kingdoms to give with her." Ganimed then said to Orlando, "And you say you will marry her if I bring her here." "That I would," said Orlando, "if I were king of many kingdoms." While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando, that he thought the shepherd Ganimed very like his daughter Rosalind; and Orlando said, he also had observed the resemblance. They had no time to wonder how all this would end, for Rosalind and Celia in their own clothes entered; and no longer pretending that it was by the power of magic that she came there, Rosalind threw herself on her knees before her father, and begged his blessing. It seemed so wonderful to all present that she should so suddenly appear, that it might well have passed for magic; but Rosalind would no longer trifle with her father, and told him the story of her banishment, and of her dwelling in the forest as a shepherd-boy, her cousin Celia passing as her sister. The duke ratified the consent he had already given to the marriage; and Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver and Celia, were married at the same time. And though their wedding could not be celebrated in this wild forest with any of the parade or splendour usual on such occasions, yet a happier wedding-day was never passed: and while they were eating their venison under the cool shade of the pleasant trees, as if nothing should be wanting to complete the felicity of this good duke and the true lovers, an unexpected messenger arrived to tell the duke the joyful news, that his dukedom was restored to him. The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding those true friends who had staid with him in his banishment; and these worthy followers, though they had patiently shared his adverse fortune, were very well pleased to return in peace and prosperity to the palace of their lawful duke. They parted with mutual expressions of unalterable friendship. "Sweet Valentine, adieu!" said Protheus; "think on me, when you see some rare object worthy of notice in your travels, and wish me partaker of your happiness." Valentine began his journey that same day towards Milan; and when his friend had left him, Protheus sat down to write a letter to Julia, which he gave to her maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress. Julia loved Protheus as well as he did her, but she was a lady of a noble spirit, and she thought it did not become her maiden dignity too easily to be won; therefore she affected to be insensible of his passion, and gave him much uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit. In this manner she went on talking with a pretty lady-like childishness, till finding herself unable to make out the whole, and vext at her own ingratitude in destroying such sweet and loving words, as she called them, she wrote a much kinder letter to Protheus than she had ever done before. Protheus was greatly delighted at receiving this favourable answer to his letter; and while he was reading it, he exclaimed, "Sweet love, sweet lines, sweet life!" In the midst of his raptures he was interrupted by his father. "How now!" said the old gentleman; "what letter are you reading there?" "My lord," replied Protheus, "it is a letter from my friend Valentine, at Milan." "Lend me the letter," said his father: "let me see what news." "There are no news, my lord," said Protheus, greatly alarmed, "but that he writes how well beloved he is of the duke of Milan, who daily graces him with favours; and how he wishes me with him, the partner of his fortune." "And how stand you affected to his wish?" asked the father. Now it had happened that Protheus' father had just been talking with a friend on this very subject: his friend had said, he wondered his lordship suffered his son to spend his youth at home, while most men were sending their sons to seek preferment abroad; "some," said he, "to the wars, to try their fortunes there, and some to discover islands far away, and some to study in foreign universities; and there is his companion Valentine, he is gone to the duke of Milan's court. Your son is fit for any of these things, and it will be a great disadvantage to him in his riper age, not to have travelled in his youth." Protheus knew it was of no use to make objections to his father, who never suffered him to dispute his will; and he blamed himself for telling his father an untruth about Julia's letter, which had brought upon him the sad necessity of leaving her. Now that Julia found she was going to lose Protheus for so long a time, she no longer pretended indifference; and they bade each other a mournful farewell with many vows of love and constancy. Protheus and Julia exchanged rings, which they both promised to keep for ever in remembrance of each other; and thus, taking a sorrowful leave, Protheus set out on his journey to Milan, the abode of his friend Valentine. Valentine was in reality what Protheus had feigned to his father, in high favour with the duke of Milan; and another event had happened to him, of which Protheus did not even dream, for Valentine had given up the freedom of which he used so much to boast, and was become as passionate a lover as Protheus. She who had wrought this wondrous change in Valentine, was the lady Silvia, daughter of the duke of Milan, and she also loved him; but they concealed their love from the duke, because although he shewed much kindness for Valentine, and invited him every day to his palace, yet he designed to marry his daughter to a young courtier whose name was Thurio. Silvia despised this Thurio, for he had none of the fine sense and excellent qualities of Valentine. "Welcome him then according to his worth," said the duke: "Silvia, I speak to you, and you, sir Thurio; for Valentine, I need not bid him do so." They were here interrupted by the entrance of Protheus, and Valentine introduced him to Silvia, saying, "Sweet lady, entertain him to be my fellow-servant to your ladyship." When Valentine and Protheus had ended their visit, and were alone together, Valentine said, "Now tell me how all does from whence you came? How does your lady, and how thrives your love?" Protheus replied, "My tales of love used to weary you. I know you joy not in a love-discourse." "Aye, Protheus," returned Valentine, "but that life is altered now. I have done penance for condemning love. For in revenge of my contempt of Love, Love has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes. O gentle Protheus, Love is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled me, that I confess there is no woe like his correction, nor no such joy on earth as in his service. I now like no discourse except it be of love. Now I can break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep, upon the very name of love." Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend's dearest secrets, it is hardly possible to be believed, but so it was, that Protheus resolved to go to the duke, and disclose the whole to him. This false friend began his tale with many artful speeches to the duke, such as that by the laws of friendship he ought to conceal what he was going to reveal, but that the gracious favour the duke had shewn him, and the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell that, which else no worldly good should draw from him: he then told all he had heard from Valentine, not omitting the ladder of ropes, and the manner in which Valentine meant to conceal them under a long cloak. The duke thought Protheus quite a miracle of integrity, in that he preferred telling his friend's intention rather than he would conceal an unjust action; highly commended him, and promised him not to let Valentine know from whom he had learnt this intelligence, but by some artifice to make Valentine betray the secret himself. For this purpose the duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the evening, whom he soon saw hurrying towards the palace, and he perceived somewhat was wrapped within his cloak, which he concluded was the rope-ladder. The duke upon this stopped him, saying, "Whither away so fast, Valentine?" "May it please your grace," said Valentine, "there is a messenger, that stays to bear my letters to my friends, and I am going to deliver them." Now this falsehood of Valentine's had no better success in the event than the untruth Protheus told his father. "Be they of much import?" said the duke. "No more, my lord," said Valentine, "than to tell my father I am well and happy at your grace's court." "Nay, then," said the duke, "no matter: stay with me a while. I wish your counsel about some affairs that concern me nearly." He then told Valentine an artful story, as a prelude to draw his secret from him, saying, that Valentine knew he wished to match his daughter with Thurio, but that she was stubborn and disobedient to his commands, "neither regarding," said he, "that she is my child, nor fearing me as if I were her father. And I may say to thee, this pride of hers has drawn my love from her. I had thought my age should have been cherished by her childlike duty. I now am resolved to take a wife, and turn her out to whosoever will take her in. Let her beauty be her wedding-dower, for me and my possessions she esteems not." Valentine, wondering where all this would end, made answer, "And what would your grace have me to do in all this?" "Why," said the duke, "the lady I would wish to marry is nice and coy, and does not much esteem my aged eloquence. Besides, the fashion of courtship is much changed since I was young: now I would willingly have you to be my tutor to instruct me how I am to woo." Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes of courtship then practised by young men, when they wished to win a fair lady's love, such as presents, frequent visits, and the like. The duke replied to this, that the lady did refuse a present which he sent her, and that she was so strictly kept by her father, that no man might have access to her by day. "Why then," said Valentine, "you must visit her by night." "But at night," said the artful duke, who was now coming to the drift of his discourse, "her doors are fast locked." While Protheus at Milan was thus injuring Valentine, Julia at Verona was regretting the absence of Protheus; and her regard for him at last so far overcame her sense of propriety, that she resolved to leave Verona, and seek her lover at Milan; and to secure herself from danger on the road, she dressed her maid Lucetta and herself in men's clothes, and they set out in this disguise, and arrived at Milan, soon after Valentine was banished from that city through the treachery of Protheus. Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up her abode at an inn; and her thoughts being all on her dear Protheus, she entered into conversation with the innkeeper, or host, as he was called, thinking by that means to learn some news of Protheus. The host was greatly pleased that this handsome young gentleman (as he took her to be), who from his appearance he concluded was of high rank, spoke so familiarly to him; and being a good-natured man, he was sorry to see him look so melancholy; and to amuse his young guest he offered to take him to hear some fine music, with which, he said, a gentleman that evening was going to serenade his mistress. The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was, that she did not well know what Protheus would think of the imprudent step she had taken; for she knew he had loved her for her noble maiden-pride and dignity of character, and she feared she should lower herself in his esteem: and this it was that made her wear a sad and thoughtful countenance. She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go with him, and hear the music; for she secretly hoped she might meet Protheus by the way. But when she came to the palace whither the host conducted her, a very different effect was produced to what the kind host intended; for there, to her heart's sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant Protheus, serenading the lady Silvia with music, and addressing discourse of love and admiration to her. And Julia overheard Silvia from a window talk with Protheus, and reproach him for forsaking his own true lady, and for his ingratitude to his friend Valentine: and then Silvia left the window, not choosing to listen to his music and his fine speeches; for she was a faithful lady to her banished Valentine, and abhorred the ungenerous conduct of his false friend Protheus. Though Julia was in despair at what she had just witnessed, yet did she still love the truant Protheus; and hearing that he had lately parted with a servant, she contrived with the assistance of her host, the friendly innkeeper, to hire herself to Protheus as a page; and Protheus knew not she was Julia, and he sent her with letters and presents to her rival Silvia, and he even sent by her the very ring she gave him as a parting gift at Verona. But to return to the banished Valentine; who scarce knew which way to bend his course, being unwilling to return home to his father a disgraced and banished man: as he was wandering over a lonely forest, not far distant from Milan, where he had left his heart's dear treasure, the lady Silvia, he was set upon by robbers, who demanded his money. Valentine told them, that he was a man crossed by adversity, that he was going into banishment, and that he had no money, the clothes he had on being all his riches. The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed man, and being struck with his noble air and manly behaviour, told him, if he would live with them, and be their chief, or captain, they would put themselves under his command: but that if he refused to accept their offer, they would kill him. Valentine, who cared little what became of himself, said, he would consent to live with them and be their captain, provided they did no outrage on women or poor passengers. Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin Hood, of whom we read in ballads, a captain of robbers and outlawed banditti: and in this situation he was found by Silvia, and in this manner it came to pass. Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom her father insisted upon her no longer refusing, came at last to the resolution of following Valentine to Mantua, at which place she had heard her lover had taken refuge; but in this account she was misinformed, for he still lived in the forest among the robbers, bearing the name of their captain, but taking no part in their depredations, and using the authority which they had imposed upon him in no other way, than to compel them to shew compassion to the travellers they robbed. The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the terror she was in, bid her not be alarmed, for that he was only going to carry her to a cave where his captain lived, and that she need not be afraid, for their captain had an honourable mind, and always shewed humanity to women. Silvia found little comfort in hearing she was going to be carried as a prisoner before the captain of a lawless banditti. "O Valentine," she cried, "this I endure for thee!" But as the robber was conveying her to the cave of his captain, he was stopped by Protheus, who, still attended by Julia in the disguise of a page, having heard of the flight of Silvia, had traced her steps to this forest. Protheus now rescued her from the hands of the robber; but scarce had she time to thank him for the service he had done her, before he began to distress her afresh with his love-suit: and while he was rudely pressing her to consent to marry him, and his page (the forlorn Julia) was standing beside him in great anxiety of mind, fearing lest the great service which Protheus had just done to Silvia should win her to shew him some favour, they were all strangely surprised with the sudden appearance of Valentine, who having heard his robbers had taken a lady prisoner, came to console and relieve her. Protheus and Valentine were expressing their happiness in their reconciliation, and in the love of their faithful ladies, when they were surprised with the sight of the duke of Milan and Thurio, who came there in pursuit of Silvia. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice: he was an usurer, who had amassed an immense fortune by lending money at great interest to Christian merchants. Shylock being a hard-hearted man, exacted the payment of the money he lent with such severity, that he was much disliked by all good men, and particularly by Anthonio, a young merchant of Venice; and Shylock as much hated Anthonio, because he used to lend money to people in distress, and would never take any interest for the money he lent; therefore there was great enmity between this covetous Jew and the generous merchant Anthonio. Whenever Anthonio met Shylock on the Rialto (or Exchange), he used to reproach him with his usuries and hard dealings; which the Jew would bear with seeming patience, while he secretly meditated revenge. Anthonio had no money by him at that time to lend his friend; but expecting soon to have some ships come home laden with merchandise, he said he would go to Shylock, the rich money-lender, and borrow the money upon the credit of those ships. "Content," said Anthonio: "I will sign to this bond, and say there is much kindness in the Jew." Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed, "O father Abraham, what suspicious people these Christians are! Their own hard dealings teach them to suspect the thoughts of others. I pray you tell me this, Bassanio: if he should break this day, what should I gain by the exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man, is not so estimable, nor profitable neither, as the flesh of mutton or of beef. I say, to buy his favour I offer this friendship: if he will take it, so; if not, adieu." At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, notwithstanding all the Jew had said of his kind intentions, did not like his friend should run the hazard of this shocking penalty for his sake, Anthonio signed the bond, thinking it really was (as the Jew said) merely in sport. The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry lived near Venice, at a place called Belmont: her name was Portia, and in the graces of her person and her mind she was nothing inferior to that Portia, of whom we read, who was Cato's daughter, and the wife of Brutus. Bassanio, being so kindly supplied with money by his friend Anthonio at the hazard of his life, set out for Belmont with a splendid train, and attended by a gentleman of the name of Gratiano. Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia in a short time consented to accept of him for a husband. Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and wonder at the gracious manner in which the rich and noble Portia accepted of a man of his humble fortunes, that he could not express his joy and reverence to the dear lady who so honoured him by any thing but broken words of love and thankfulness: and taking the ring, he vowed never to part with it. Gratiano, and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid, were in attendance upon their lord and lady, when Portia so gracefully promised to become the obedient wife of Bassanio; and Gratiano, wishing Bassanio and the generous lady joy, desired permission to be married at the same time. "With all my heart, Gratiano," said Bassanio, "if you can get a wife." Gratiano then said that he loved the lady Portia's fair waiting gentlewoman, Nerissa, and that she had promised to be his wife, if her lady married Bassanio. Portia asked Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa replied, "Madam, it is so, if you approve of it." Portia willingly consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said, "Then our wedding-feast shall be much honoured by your marriage, Gratiano." The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew would not accept of the money which Bassanio offered him, but insisted upon having a pound of Anthonio's flesh. A day was appointed to try this shocking cause before the Duke of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspence the event of the trial. Portia had a relation who was a counsellor in the law; to this gentleman, whose name was Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case to him desired his opinion, and that with his advice he would also send her the dress worn by a counsellor. When the messenger returned, he brought letters from Bellario of advice how to proceed, and also every thing necessary for her equipment. Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men's apparel, and putting on the robes of a counsellor, she took Nerissa along with her as her clerk; and setting out immediately, they arrived at Venice on the very day of the trial. The cause was just going to be heard before the duke and senators of Venice in the senate-house, when Portia entered this high court of justice, and presented a letter from Bellario, in which that learned counsellor wrote to the duke, saying, he would have come himself to plead for Anthonio, but that he was prevented by sickness, and he requested that the learned young doctor Balthasar (so he called Portia) might be permitted to plead in his stead. This the duke granted, much wondering at the youthful appearance of the stranger, who was prettily disguised by her counsellor's robes and her large wig. And now began this important trial. Portia looked around her, and she saw the merciless Jew; and she saw Bassanio, but he knew her not in her disguise. He was standing beside Anthonio, in an agony of distress and fear for his friend. Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady was not at all offended with her husband for expressing the love he owed to so true a friend as Anthonio in these strong terms, yet could not help answering, "Your wife would give you little thanks, if she were present, to hear you make this offer." And then Gratiano, who loved to copy what his lord did, thought he must make a speech like Bassanio's, and he said, in Nerissa's hearing, who was writing in her clerk's dress by the side of Portia, "I have a wife, whom I protest I love; I wish she were in heaven, if she could but entreat some power there to change the cruel temper of this currish Jew." "It is well you wish this behind her back, else you would have but an unquiet house," said Nerissa. Shylock now cried out impatiently, "We trifle time; I pray pronounce the sentence." And now all was awful expectation in the court, and every heart was full of grief for Anthonio. Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the flesh; and she said to the Jew, "Shylock, you must have some surgeon by, lest he bleed to death." Shylock, whose whole intent was that Anthonio should bleed to death, said, "It is not so named in the bond." Portia replied, "It is not so named in the bond, but what of that? It were good you did so much for charity." To this all the answer Shylock would make was, "I cannot find it; it is not in the bond." "Then," said Portia, "a pound of Anthonio's flesh is thine. The law allows it, and the court awards it. And you may cut this flesh from off his breast. The law allows it, and the court awards it." Again Shylock exclaimed, "O wise and upright judge! A Daniel has come to judgment!" And then he sharpened his long knife again, and looking eagerly on Anthonio, he said, "Come, prepare!" The generous Anthonio then said, that he would give up his share of Shylock's wealth, if Shylock would sign a deed to make it over at his death to his daughter and her husband; for Anthonio knew that the Jew had an only daughter, who had lately married against his consent to a young Christian, named Lorenzo, a friend of Anthonio's, which had so offended Shylock, that he had disinherited her. The duke now released Anthonio, and dismissed the court. He then highly praised the wisdom and ingenuity of the young counsellor, and invited him home to dinner. Portia, who meant to return to Belmont before her husband, replied, "I humbly thank your grace, but I must away directly." The duke said he was sorry he had not leisure to stay and dine with him; and turning to Anthonio, he added, "Reward this gentleman; for in my mind you are much indebted to him." Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the money; but upon Bassanio still pressing her to accept of some reward, she said, "Give me your gloves; I will wear them for your sake:" and then Bassanio taking off his gloves, she espied the ring which she had given him upon his finger: now it was the ring the wily lady wanted to get from him to make a merry jest when she saw her Bassanio again, that made her ask him for his gloves; and she said, when she saw the ring, "And for your love I will take this ring from you." Bassanio was sadly distressed, that the counsellor should ask him for the only thing he could not part with, and he replied in great confusion, that he could not give him that ring, because it was his wife's gift, and he had vowed never to part with it: but that he would give him the most valuable ring in Venice, and find it out by proclamation. On this Portia affected to be affronted, and left the court, saying, "You teach me, sir, how a beggar should be answered." "Dear Bassanio," said Anthonio, "let him have the ring; let my love and the great service he has done for me be valued against your wife's displeasure." Bassanio, ashamed to appear so ungrateful, yielded, and sent Gratiano after Portia with the ring; and then the _clerk_ Nerissa, who had also given Gratiano a ring, she begged his ring, and Gratiano (not choosing to be outdone in generosity by his lord) gave it to her. And there was laughing among these ladies to think, when they got home, how they would tax their husbands with giving away their rings, and swear that they had given them as a present to some woman. Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper of mind which never fails to attend the consciousness of having performed a good action; her cheerful spirits enjoyed every thing she saw: the moon never seemed to shine so bright before; and when that pleasant moon was hid behind a cloud, then a light which she saw from her house at Belmont as well pleased her charmed fancy, and she said to Nerissa, "That light we see is burning in my hall; how far that little candle throws its beams, so shines a good deed in a naughty world:" and hearing the sound of music from her house, she said, "Methinks that music sounds much sweeter than by day." And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, and dressing themselves in their own apparel, they awaited the arrival of their husbands, who soon followed them with Anthonio; and Bassanio presenting his dear friend to the lady Portia, the congratulations and welcomings of that lady were hardly over, when they perceived Nerissa and her husband quarrelling in a corner of the room. "A quarrel already?" said Portia. "What is the matter?" Gratiano replied, "Lady, it is about a paltry gilt ring that Nerissa gave me, with words upon it like the poetry on a cutler's knife; _Love me, and leave me not_." "Ah!" said Anthonio, "I am the unhappy cause of these quarrels." When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was strangely surprised to find it was the same he gave away; and then Portia told him, how she was the young counsellor, and Nerissa was her clerk; and Bassanio found to his unspeakable wonder and delight, that it was by the noble courage and wisdom of his wife that Anthonio's life was saved. And Portia again welcomed Anthonio, and gave him letters which by some chance had fallen into her hands, which contained an account of Anthonio's ships, that were supposed lost, being safely arrived in the harbour. So these tragical beginnings of this rich merchant's story were all forgotten in the unexpected good fortune which ensued; and there was leisure to laugh at the comical adventure of the rings, and the husbands that did not know their own wives: Gratiano merrily swearing, in a sort of rhyming speech, that During the time of Augustus Caesar, emperor of Rome, there reigned in England (which was then called Britain) a king whose name was Cymbeline. Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen's husband) was the best scholar and most accomplished gentleman of that age. His father died fighting in the wars for Cymbeline, and soon after his birth his mother died also for grief at the loss of her husband. Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this orphan, took Posthumus (Cymbeline having given him that name because he was born after his father's death), and educated him in his own court. Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by the same masters, and were play-fellows from their infancy: they loved each other tenderly when they were children, and their affection continuing to increase with their years, when they grew up they privately married. The disappointed queen soon learnt this secret, for she kept spies constantly in watch upon the actions of her daughter-in-law, and she immediately told the king of the marriage of Imogen with Posthumus. Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbeline, when he heard that his daughter had been so forgetful of her high dignity as to marry a subject. He commanded Posthumus to leave Britain, and banished him from his native country for ever. The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for the grief she suffered at losing her husband, offered to procure them a private meeting, before Posthumus set out on his journey to Rome, which place he had chosen for his residence in his banishment: this seeming kindness she shewed, the better to succeed in her future designs in regard to her son Cloten; for she meant to persuade Imogen, when her husband was gone, that her marriage was not lawful, being contracted without the consent of the king. Imogen and Posthumus took a most affectionate leave of each other. Imogen gave her husband a diamond ring which had been her mother's, and Posthumus promised never to part with the ring; and he fastened a bracelet on the arm of his wife, which he begged she would preserve with great care, as a token of his love: they then bid each other farewel with many vows of everlasting love and fidelity. Imogen remained a solitary and dejected lady in her father's court, and Posthumus arrived at Rome, the place of his banishment. Iachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained admittance and a courteous welcome from Imogen, as a friend of her husband; but when he began to make professions of love to her, she repulsed him with disdain, and he soon found that he could have no hope of succeeding in his dishonourable design. The desire Iachimo had to win the wager made him now have recourse to a stratagem to impose upon Posthumus, and for this purpose he bribed some of Imogen's attendants, and was by them conveyed into her bedchamber, concealed in a large trunk, where he remained shut up till Imogen was retired to rest, and had fallen asleep; and then getting out of the trunk, he examined the chamber with great attention, and wrote down every thing he saw there, and particularly noticed a mole which he observed upon Imogen's neck, and then softly unloosing the bracelet from her arm, which Posthumus had given to her, he retired into the chest again; and the next day he set off for Rome with great expedition, and boasted to Posthumus that Imogen had given him the bracelet, and likewise permitted him to pass a night in her chamber: and in this manner Iachimo told his false tale; "Her bed-chamber," said he, "was hung with tapestry of silk and silver, the story was _the proud Cleopatra when she met her Anthony_, a piece of work most bravely wrought." "This is true," said Posthumus; "but this you might have heard spoken of without seeing." "Then the chimney," said Iachimo, "is south of the chamber, and the chimney-piece is _Diana bathing_; never saw I figures livelier expressed." "This is a thing you might have likewise heard," said Posthumus; "for it is much talked of." Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this artful recital in an agony of doubt, now broke out into the most passionate exclamations against Imogen. He delivered up the diamond ring to Iachimo, which he had agreed to forfeit to him, if he obtained the bracelet from Imogen. When their journey was nearly at an end, Pisanio, who, though faithful to Posthumus, was not faithful to serve him in an evil deed, disclosed to Imogen the cruel order he had received. Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving and beloved husband, found herself doomed by that husband to suffer death, was afflicted beyond measure. The queen, who hated Pisanio because he was a friend to Imogen and Posthumus, gave him this phial which she supposed contained poison, she having ordered her physician to give her some poison, to try its effects (as she said) upon animals: but the physician, knowing her malicious disposition, would not trust her with real poison, but gave her a drug which would do no other mischief than causing a person to sleep with every appearance of death for a few hours. This mixture, which Pisanio thought a choice cordial, he gave to Imogen, desiring her, if she found herself ill upon the road, to take it; and so with blessings and prayers for her safety and happy deliverance from her undeserved troubles he left her. "What is the matter, sir?" said the young men. "By Jupiter," said Bellarius again, "there is an angel in the cave, or if not, an earthly paragon." So beautiful did Imogen look in her boy's apparel. She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth from the cave, and addressed them in these words: "Good masters, do not harm me; before I entered your cave, I had thought to have begged or bought what I have eaten. Indeed I have stolen nothing, nor would I, though I had found gold strewn on the floor. Here is money for my meat, which I would have left on the board when I had made my meal, and parted with prayers for the provider." They refused her money with great earnestness. "I see you are angry with me," said the timid Imogen: "but, sirs, if you kill me for my fault, know that I should have died if I had not made it." "Whither are you bound?" asked Bellarius, "and what is your name?" "Fidele is my name," answered Imogen. "I have a kinsman, who is bound for Italy; he embarked at Milford-Haven, to whom being going, almost spent with hunger, I am fallen into this offence." "Prithee, fair youth," said old Bellarius, "do not think us churls, nor measure our good minds by this rude place we live in. You are well encountered; it is almost night. You shall have better cheer before you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome." The gentle youths, her brothers, then welcomed Imogen to their cave with many kind expressions, saying they would love her (or, as they said, _him_) as a brother; and they entered the cave, where (they having killed venison when they were hunting) Imogen delighted them with her neat housewifery, assisting them in preparing their supper; for though it is not the custom now for young women of high birth to understand cookery, it was then, and Imogen excelled in this useful art; and, as her brothers prettily expressed it, Fidele cut their roots in characters, and sauced their broth, as if Juno had been sick, and Fidele were her dieter. "And then," said Polidore to his brother, "how angel-like he sings!" They also remarked to each other, that though Fidele smiled so sweetly, yet so sad a melancholy did overcloud his lovely face, as if grief and patience had together taken possession of him. For these her gentle qualities (or perhaps it was their near relationship, though they knew it not) Imogen (or, as the boys called her, _Fidele_) became the doating-piece of her brothers, and she scarcely less loved them, thinking that but for the memory of her dear Posthumus, she could live and die in the cave with these wild forest-youths; and she gladly consented to stay with them, till she was enough rested from the fatigue of travelling to pursue her way to Milford-Haven. When the venison they had taken was all eaten, and they were going out to hunt for more, Fidele could not accompany them because she was unwell. Sorrow, no doubt, for her husband's cruel usage, as well as the fatigue of wandering in the forest, was the cause of her illness. They then bid her farewel, and went to their hunt, praising all the way the noble parts and graceful demeanour of the youth Fidele. Imogen was no sooner left alone than she recollected the cordial Pisanio had given her, and drank it off, and presently fell into a sound and death-like sleep. Bellarius also proposed to carry her out into the forest, and there celebrate her funeral with songs and solemn dirges, as was then the custom. When they had finished her funeral obsequies, they departed very sorrowful. But great events were happening at this time, of which Imogen knew nothing; for a war had suddenly broken out between the Roman emperor Augustus Caesar, and Cymbeline the king of Britain: and a Roman army had landed to invade Britain, and was advanced into the very forest over which Imogen was journeying. With this army came Posthumus. Imogen, before she reached Milford-Haven, fell into the hands of the Roman army; and her presence and deportment recommending her, she was made a page to Lucius, the Roman general. Cymbeline's army now advanced to meet the enemy, and when they entered this forest, Polidore and Cadwal joined the king's army. The young men were eager to engage in acts of valour, though they little thought they were going to fight for their own royal father; and old Bellarius went with them to the battle. He had long since repented of the injury he had done to Cymbeline in carrying away his sons; and having been a warrior in his youth, he gladly joined the army to fight for the king he had so injured. Imogen saw Posthumus and knew him, though he was in the disguise of a peasant; but he did not know her in her male attire: and she knew Iachimo, and she saw a ring on his finger which she perceived to be her own, but she did not know him as yet to have been the author of all her troubles: and she stood before her own father a prisoner of war. Posthumus waited in silence to hear the welcome sentence of his own death; and he resolved not to disclose to the king that he had saved his life in the battle, lest that should move Cymbeline to pardon him. Cymbeline looked earnestly on his daughter Imogen. He knew her not in that disguise; but it seemed that all-powerful Nature spake in his heart, for he said, "I have surely seen him, his face appears familiar to me. I know not why or wherefore I say, Live, boy: but I give you your life, and ask of me what boon you will, and I will grant it you. Yea, even though it be the life of the noblest prisoner I have." "I humbly thank your highness," said Imogen. This seeming want of gratitude in the boy astonished the Roman general. Imogen then fixing her eye on Iachimo, demanded no other boon than this, that Iachimo should be made to confess whence he had the ring he wore on his finger. Cymbeline granted her this boon, and threatened Iachimo with the torture if he did not confess how he came by the diamond ring on his finger. Iachimo then made a full acknowledgment of all his villainy, telling, as has been before related, the whole story of his wager with Posthumus, and how he had succeeded in imposing upon his credulity. Imogen could not see her beloved husband in this distress without discovering herself, to the unutterable joy of Posthumus, who was thus relieved from a weight of guilt and woe, and restored to the good graces of the dear lady he had so cruelly treated. Cymbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as he with joy, at finding his lost daughter so strangely recovered, received her to her former place in his fatherly affection, and not only gave her husband Posthumus his life, but consented to acknowledge him for his son-in-law. Cymbeline forgave old Bellarius; for who could think of punishments at a season of such universal happiness: to find his daughter living, and his lost sons in the persons of his young deliverers, that he had seen so bravely fight in his defence, was unlooked-for joy indeed! Imogen was now at leisure to perform good services for her late master, the Roman general Lucius, whose life the king her father readily granted at her request; and by the mediation of the same Lucius a peace was concluded between the Romans and the Britons, which was kept inviolate many years. Then turning to his youngest daughter Cordelia, whom he called his joy, he asked what she had to say; thinking no doubt that she would glad his ears with the same loving speeches which her sisters had uttered, or rather that her expressions would be so much stronger than theirs, as she had always been his darling, and favoured by him above either of them. But Cordelia, disgusted with the flattery of her sisters, whose hearts she knew were far from their lips, and seeing that all their coaxing speeches were only intended to wheedle the old king out of his dominions, that they and their husbands might reign in his life-time, made no other reply but this, that she loved his majesty according to her duty, neither more nor less. The king, shocked with this appearance of ingratitude in his favourite child, desired her to consider her words, and to mend her speech, lest it should mar her fortunes. Cordelia, who in earnest loved her old father, even almost as extravagantly as her sisters pretended to do, would have plainly told him so at any other time, in more daughter-like and loving terms, and without these qualifications which did indeed sound a little ungracious: but after the crafty flattering speeches of her sisters, which she had seen draw such extravagant rewards, she thought the handsomest thing she could do was to love and be silent. This put her affection out of suspicion of mercenary ends, and shewed that she loved, but not for gain; and that her professions, the less ostentatious they were, had so much the more of truth and sincerity than her sisters. The king of France and duke of Burgundy were now called in to hear the determination of Lear about his youngest daughter, and to know whether they would persist in their courtship to Cordelia, now that she was under her father's displeasure, and had no fortune but her own person to recommend her: and the duke of Burgundy declined the match, and would not take her to wife upon such conditions; but the king of France, understanding what the nature of the fault had been which had lost her the love of her father, that it was only a tardiness of speech, and the not being able to frame her tongue to flattery like her sisters, took this young maid by the hand, and saying that her virtues were a dowry above a kingdom, bade Cordelia to take farewel of her sisters, and of her father, though he had been unkind, and she should go with him, and be queen of him and of fair France, and reign over fairer possessions than her sisters: and he called the duke of Burgundy in contempt a waterish duke, because his love for this young maid had in a moment run all away like water. Then Cordelia with weeping eyes took leave of her sisters, and besought them to love their father well, and make good their professions: and they sullenly told her not to prescribe to them, for they knew their duty; but to strive to content her husband, who had taken her (as they tauntingly expressed it) as Fortune's alms. And Cordelia with a heavy heart departed, for she knew the cunning of her sisters, and she wished her father in better hands than she was about to leave him in. This Caius quickly found means to shew his fidelity and love to his royal master: for Gonerill's steward that same day behaving in a disrespectful manner to Lear, and giving him saucy looks and language, as no doubt he was secretly encouraged to do by his mistress, Caius not enduring to hear so open an affront put upon majesty, made no more ado but presently tript up his heels, and laid the unmannerly slave in the kennel: for which friendly service Lear became more and more attached to him. For sudden joy did weep, And he for sorrow sung, That such a king should play bo-peep, And go the fools among. This was but a bad omen of the reception which he was to expect; but a worse followed, when upon enquiry for his daughter and her husband, he was told they were weary with travelling all night, and could not see him: and when lastly, upon his insisting in a positive and angry manner to see them, they came to greet him, whom should he see in their company but the hated Gonerill, who had come to tell her own story, and set her sister against the king her father! While he was thus idly threatening what his weak arm could never execute, night came on, and a loud storm of thunder and lightning with rain; and his daughters still persisting in their resolution not to admit his followers, he called for his horses, and chose rather to encounter the utmost fury of the storm abroad, than stay under the same roof with these ungrateful daughters: and they saying that the injuries which wilful men procure to themselves are their just punishment, suffered him to go in that condition, and shut their doors upon him. The winds were high, and the rain and storm increased, when the old man sallied forth to combat with the elements, less sharp than his daughters' unkindness. For many miles about there was scarce a bush; and there upon a heath, exposed to the fury of the storm in a dark night, did king Lear wander out, and defy the winds and the thunder: and he bid the winds to blow the earth into the sea, or swell the waves of the sea till they drowned the earth, that no token might remain of any such ungrateful animal as man. The old king was now left with no other companion than the poor fool, who still abided with him, with his merry conceits striving to out-jest misfortune, saying, it was but a naughty night to swim in, and truly the king had better go in and ask his daughter's blessing: But he that has a little tiny wit, With heigh ho, the wind and the rain! Must make content with his fortunes fit, Though the rain it raineth every day: and swearing it was a brave night to cool a lady's pride. And from this and many such wild speeches which he uttered, the good Caius plainly perceived that he was not in his perfect mind, but that his daughters' ill usage had really made him go mad. And now the loyalty of this worthy earl of Kent shewed itself in more essential services than he had hitherto found opportunity to perform. For with the assistance of some of the king's attendants who remained loyal, he had the person of his royal master removed at day-break to the castle of Dover, where his own friends and influence, as earl of Kent, chiefly lay: and himself embarking for France, hastened to the court of Cordelia, and did there in such moving terms represent the pitiful condition of her royal father, and set out in such lively colours the inhumanity of her sisters, that this good and loving child with many tears besought the king her husband, that he would give her leave to embark for England with a sufficient power to subdue these cruel daughters and their husbands, and restore the old king her father to his throne; which being granted, she set forth, and with a royal army landed at Dover. Lear having by some chance escaped from the guardians which the good earl of Kent had put over him to take care of him in his lunacy, was found by some of Cordelia's train, wandering about the fields near Dover, in a pitiable condition, stark mad and singing aloud to himself, with a crown upon his head which he had made of straw, and nettles, and other wild weeds that he had picked up in the corn-fields. By the advice of the physicians, Cordelia, though earnestly desirous of seeing her father, was prevailed upon to put off the meeting, till, by sleep and the operation of herbs which they gave him, he should be restored to greater composure. By the aid of these skilful physicians, to whom Cordelia promised all her gold and jewels for the recovery of the old king, Lear was soon in a condition to see his daughter. While the eyes of all men were upon this event, admiring the justice displayed in their deserved deaths, the same eyes were suddenly taken off from this sight to admire at the mysterious ways of the same power in the melancholy fate of the young and virtuous daughter, the lady Cordelia, whose good deeds did seem to deserve a more fortunate conclusion: but it is an awful truth, that innocence and piety are not always successful in this world. The forces which Gonerill and Regan had sent out under the command of the bad earl of Gloucester were victorious, and Cordelia by the practices of this wicked earl, who did not like that any should stand between him and the throne, ended her life in prison. Thus, Heaven took this innocent lady to itself in her young years, after shewing her to the world an illustrious example of filial duty. Lear did not long survive this kind child. When Duncan the Meek reigned king of Scotland, there lived a great thane, or lord, called Macbeth. This Macbeth was a near kinsman to the king, and in great esteem at court for his valour and conduct in the wars; an example of which he had lately given, in defeating a rebel army assisted by the troops of Norway in terrible numbers. Turning to Banquo, he said, "Do you not hope that your children shall be kings, when what the witches promised to me has so wonderfully come to pass?" "That hope," answered the general, "might enkindle you to aim at the throne; but oftentimes these ministers of darkness tell us truths in little things, to betray us into deeds of greatest consequence." But the wicked suggestions of the witches had sunk too deep into the mind of Macbeth, to allow him to attend to the warnings of the good Banquo. From that time he bent all his thoughts how to compass the crown of Scotland. Macbeth had a wife, to whom he communicated the strange prediction of the weird sisters, and its partial accomplishment. She was a bad ambitious woman, and so as her husband and herself could arrive at greatness, she cared not much by what means. She spurred on the reluctant purpose of Macbeth, who felt compunction at the thoughts of blood, and did not cease to represent the murder of the king as a step absolutely necessary to the fulfilment of the flattering prophecy. The castle of Macbeth was pleasantly situated, and the air about it was sweet and wholesome, which appeared by the nests which the martlet, or swallow, had built under all the jutting friezes and buttresses of the building, wherever it found a place of advantage: for where those birds most breed and haunt, the air is observed to be delicate. The king entered, well pleased with the place, and not less so with the attentions and respect of his honoured hostess, lady Macbeth, who had the art of covering treacherous purposes with smiles; and could look like the innocent flower, while she was indeed the serpent under it. So, taking the dagger in his hand, he softly stole in the dark to the room where Duncan lay; and as he went, he thought he saw another dagger in the air, with the handle towards him, and on the blade and at the point of it drops of blood: but when he tried to grasp at it, it was nothing but air, a mere phantasm proceeding from his own hot and oppressed brain and the business he had in hand. Again he thought he heard a voice which cried, "Sleep no more: Macbeth doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, that nourishes life." Still it cried, "Sleep no more," to all the house. "Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more." With such horrible imaginations, Macbeth returned to his listening wife, who began to think he had failed of his purpose, and that the deed was somehow frustrated. He came in so distracted a state, that she reproached him with his want of firmness, and sent him to wash his hands of the blood which stained them, while she took his dagger, with purpose to stain the cheeks of the grooms with blood, to make it seem their guilt. The king's sons, who should have succeeded him, having thus vacated the throne, Macbeth as next heir was crowned king, and thus the prediction of the weird sisters was literally accomplished. Though placed so high, Macbeth and his queen could not forget the prophecy of the weird sisters, that, though Macbeth should be king, yet not his children, but the children of Banquo, should be kings after him. The thought of this, and that they had defiled their hands with blood, and done so great crimes, only to place the posterity of Banquo upon the throne, so rankled within them, that they determined to put to death both Banquo and his son, to make void the predictions of the weird sisters, which in their own case had been so remarkably brought to pass. He sought them in a cave upon the heath, where they, who knew by foresight of his coming, were engaged in preparing their dreadful charms, by which they conjured up infernal spirits to reveal to them futurity. Their horrid ingredients were toads, bats, and serpents, the eye of a newt, and the tongue of a dog, the leg of a lizard, and the wing of the night-owl, the scale of a dragon, the tooth of a wolf, the maw of the ravenous salt-sea shark, the mummy of a witch, the root of the poisonous hemlock (this to have effect must be digged in the dark), the gall of a goat, and the liver of a Jew, with slips of the yew tree that roots itself in graves, and the finger of a dead child: all these were set on to boil in a great kettle, or cauldron, which, as fast as it grew too hot, was cooled with a baboon's blood: to these they poured in the blood of a sow that had eaten her young, and they threw into the flame the grease that had sweaten from a murderer's gibbet. By these charms they bound the infernal spirits to answer their questions. These and such-like deeds alienated the minds of all his chief nobility from him. Such as could, fled to join with Malcolm and Macduff, who were now approaching with a powerful army which they had raised in England; and the rest secretly wished success to their arms, though for fear of Macbeth they could take no active part. His recruits went on slowly. Every body hated the tyrant, nobody loved or honoured him, but all suspected him, and he began to envy the condition of Duncan whom he had murdered, who slept soundly in his grave, against whom treason had done its worst: steel nor poison, domestic malice nor foreign levies, could hurt him any longer. While these things were acting, the queen, who had been the sole partner in his wickedness, in whose bosom he could sometimes seek a momentary repose from those terrible dreams which afflicted them both nightly, died, it is supposed by her own hands, unable to bear the remorse of guilt, and public hate; by which event he was left alone, without a soul to love or care for him, or a friend to whom he could confide his wicked purposes. He grew careless of life, and wished for death; but the near approach of Malcolm's army roused in him what remained of his ancient courage, and he determined to die (as he expressed it) "with armour on his back." Besides this, the hollow promises of the witches had filled him with false confidence, and he remembered the sayings of the spirits, that none of woman born was to hurt him, and that he was never to be vanquished till Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane, which he thought could never be. So he shut himself up in his castle, whose impregnable strength was such as defied a siege: here he sullenly waited the approach of Malcolm. When, upon a day, there came a messenger to him, pale and shaking with fear, almost unable to report that which he had seen: for he averred, that as he stood upon his watch on the hill, he looked towards Birnam, and to his thinking the wood began to move! "Liar and slave," cried Macbeth; "if thou speakest false, thou shalt hang alive upon the next tree, till famine end thee. If thy tale be true, I care not if thou dost as much by me:" for Macbeth now began to faint in resolution, and to doubt the equivocal speeches of the spirits. He was not to fear, till Birnam wood should come to Dunsinane: and now a wood did move! "However," said he, "if this which he avouches be true, let us arm and out. There is no flying hence, nor staying here. I begin to be weary of the sun, and wish my life at an end." With these desperate speeches he sallied forth upon the besiegers, who had now come up to the castle. And now a severe skirmishing took place, in which Macbeth, though feebly supported by those who called themselves his friends, but in reality hated the tyrant and inclined to the party of Malcolm and Macduff, yet fought with the extreme of rage and valour, cutting to pieces all who were opposed to him, till he came to where Macduff was fighting. Seeing Macduff, and remembering the caution of the spirit who had counselled him to avoid Macduff above all men, he would have turned, but Macduff, who had been seeking him through the whole fight, opposed his turning, and a fierce contest ensued; Macduff giving him many foul reproaches for the murder of his wife and children. Macbeth, whose soul was charged enough with blood of that family already, would still have declined the combat; but Macduff still urged him to it, calling him tyrant, murderer, hell-hound, and villain. "Despair thy charm," said Macduff, "and let that lying spirit whom thou hast served, tell thee, that Macduff was never born of woman, never as the ordinary manner of men is to be born, but was untimely taken from his mother." "Then, live!" said the scornful Macduff; "we will have a show of thee, as men shew monsters, and a painted board, on which shall be written, Here men may see the tyrant!" "Never," said Macbeth, whose courage returned with despair; "I will not live to kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, and to be baited with the curses of the rabble. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, and thou opposed to me who wast never born of woman, yet will I try the last." With these frantic words he threw himself upon Macduff, who, after a severe struggle in the end overcame him, and cutting off his head, made a present of it to the young and lawful king, Malcolm; who took upon him the government which by the machinations of the usurper he had so long been deprived of, and ascended the throne of Duncan the Meek amid the acclamations of the nobles and the people. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL Bertram, count of Rossilion, had newly come to his title and estate, by the death of his father. The king of France loved the father of Bertram, and when he heard of his death, he sent for his son to come immediately to his royal court in Paris; intending, for the friendship he bore the late count, to grace young Bertram with his especial favour and protection. Bertram now bade his mother farewel. The countess parted with this dear son with tears and many blessings, and commended him to the care of Lafeu, saying, "Good my lord, advise him, for he is an unseasoned courtier." Bertram's last words were spoken to Helena, but they were words of mere civility, wishing her happiness; and he concluded his short farewel to her with saying, "Be comfortable to my mother your mistress, and make much of her." Helena had long loved Bertram, and when she wept in sad and mournful silence, the tears she shed were not for Gerard de Narbon. Helena loved her father, but in the present feeling of a deeper love, the object of which she was about to lose, she had forgotten the very form and features of her dead father, her imagination presenting no image to her mind but Bertram's. Bertram's absence filled her eyes with tears, and her heart with sorrow; for though she loved without hope, yet it was a pretty comfort to her to see him every hour, and Helena would sit and look upon his dark eye, his arched brow, and the curls of his fine hair, till she seemed to draw his portrait on the tablet of her heart, that heart too capable of retaining the memory of every line in the features of that loved face. Helena was no sooner married, than she was desired by Bertram to apply to the king for him for leave of absence from court; and when she brought him the king's permission for his departure, Bertram told her that as he was not prepared for this sudden marriage, it had much unsettled him, and therefore she must not wonder at the course he should pursue. If Helena wondered not, she grieved, when she found it was his intention to leave her. He ordered her to go home to his mother. When Helena heard this unkind command, she replied, "Sir, I can nothing say to this, but that I am your most obedient servant, and shall ever with true observance seek to eke out that desert, wherein my homely stars have failed to equal my great fortunes." But this humble speech of Helena's did not at all move the haughty Bertram to pity his gentle wife, and he parted from her without even the common civility of a kind farewel. Back to the countess then Helena returned. She had accomplished the purport of her journey, she had preserved the life of the king, and she had wedded her heart's dear lord, the count Rossilion; but she returned back a dejected lady to her noble mother-in-law, and as soon as she entered the house, she received a letter from Bertram which almost broke her heart. The next morning Helena was missing. She left a letter to be delivered to the countess after she was gone, to acquaint her with the reason of her sudden absence: in this letter she informed her, that she was so much grieved at having driven Bertram from his native country and his home, that to atone for her offence she had undertaken a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Jaques le Grand, and concluded with requesting the countess to inform her son that the wife he so hated had left his house for ever. Bertram, when he left Paris, went to Florence, and there became an officer in the duke of Florence's army, and after a successful war, in which he distinguished himself by many brave actions, Bertram received letters from his mother, containing the acceptable tidings that Helena would no more disturb him; and he was preparing to return home, when Helena herself, clad in her pilgrim's weeds, arrived at the city of Florence. Though Bertram did not like the marriage forced on him by the king, it seems he was not insensible to love, for since he had been stationed with the army at Florence, he had fallen in love with Diana, a fair young gentlewoman, the daughter of this widow who was Helena's hostess; and every night, with music of all sorts, and songs composed in praise of Diana's beauty, he would come under her window, and solicit her love: and all his suit to her was that she would permit him to visit her by stealth after the family were retired to rest; but Diana would by no means be persuaded to grant this improper request, nor give any encouragement to his suit, knowing him to be a married man; for Diana had been brought up under the counsels of a prudent mother, who, though she was now in reduced circumstances, was well-born, and descended from the noble family of the Capulets. All this the good lady related to Helena, highly praising the virtuous principles of her discreet daughter, which she said were entirely owing to the excellent education and good advice she had given her; and she farther said, that Bertram had been particularly importunate with Diana to admit him to the visit he so much desired that night, because he was going to leave Florence early the next morning. In the evening, after it was dark, Bertram was admitted into Diana's chamber, and Helena was there ready to receive him. The flattering compliments and love-discourse he addressed to Helena were precious sounds to her, though she knew they were meant for Diana; and Bertram was so well pleased with her, that he made her a solemn promise to be her husband, and to love her for ever; which she hoped would be prophetic of a real affection, when he should know it was his own wife, the despised Helena, whose conversation had so delighted him. Helena prevailed on the widow and Diana to accompany her to Paris, their farther assistance being necessary to the full accomplishment of the plan she had formed. When they arrived there, they found the king was gone upon a visit to the countess of Rossilion, and Helena followed the king with all the speed she could make. Thus Helena at last found that her father's legacy was indeed sanctified by the luckiest stars in heaven; for she was now the beloved wife of her dear Bertram, the daughter-in-law of her noble mistress, and herself the countess of Rossilion. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW Katherine, the shrew, was the eldest daughter of Baptista, a rich gentleman of Padua. She was a lady of such an ungovernable spirit and fiery temper, such a loud-tongued scold, that she was known in Padua by no other name than Katherine the Shrew. It seemed very unlikely, indeed impossible, that any gentleman would ever be found who would venture to marry this lady, and therefore Baptista was much blamed for deferring his consent to many excellent offers that were made to her gentle sister Bianca, putting off all Bianca's suitors with this excuse, that when the eldest sister was fairly off his hands, they should have free leave to address young Bianca. It happened however that a gentleman, named Petruchio, came to Padua, purposely to look out for a wife, who, nothing discouraged by these reports of Katherine's temper, and hearing she was rich and handsome, resolved upon marrying this famous termagant, and taming her into a meek and manageable wife. And truly none was so fit to set about this herculean labour as Petruchio, whose spirit was as high as Katherine's, and he was a witty and most happy-tempered humourist, and withal so wise, and of such a true judgment, that he well knew how to feign a passionate and furious deportment, when his spirits were so calm that he himself could have laughed merrily at his own angry feigning, for his natural temper was careless and easy; the boisterous airs he assumed when he became the husband of Katherine being but in sport, or, more properly speaking, affected by his excellent discernment, as the only means to overcome in her own way the passionate ways of the furious Katherine. A strange courtship they made of it. She in loud and angry terms shewing him how justly she had gained the name of Shrew, while he still praised her sweet and courteous words, till at length, hearing her father coming, he said, (intending to make as quick a wooing as possible) "Sweet Katherine, let us set this idle chat aside, for your father has consented that you shall be my wife, your dowry is agreed on, and whether you will or no, I will marry you." And now Baptista entering, Petruchio told him his daughter had received him kindly, and that she had promised to be married the next Sunday. This Katherine denied, saying she would rather see him hanged on Sunday, and reproached her father for wishing to wed her to such a mad-cap ruffian as Petruchio. Petruchio desired her father not to regard her angry words, for they had agreed she should seem reluctant before him, but that when they were alone he had found her very fond and loving; and he said, "Give me your hand, Kate; I will go to Venice to buy you fine apparel against our wedding-day. Provide the feast, father, and bid the wedding guests. I will be sure to bring rings, fine array, and rich clothes, that my Katherine may be fine; and kiss me, Kate, for we will be married on Sunday." Petruchio could not be persuaded to change his dress; he said Katherine was to be married to him, and not to his clothes; and finding it was in vain to argue with him, to the church they went, he still behaving in the same mad way, for when the priest asked Petruchio if Katherine should be his wife, he swore so loud that she should, that all amazed the priest let fall his book, and as he stooped to take it up, this mad-brained bridegroom gave him such a cuff, that down fell the priest and his book again. And all the while they were being married he stampt and swore so, that the high-spirited Katherine trembled and shook with fear. After the ceremony was over, while they were yet in the church he called for wine, and drank a loud health to the company, and threw a sop which was at the bottom of the glass full in the sexton's face, giving no other reason for this strange act, than that the sexton's beard grew thin and hungerly, and seemed to ask the sop as he was drinking. Never sure was there such a mad marriage; but Petruchio did but put this wildness on, the better to succeed in the plot he had formed to tame his shrewish wife. Petruchio mounted his wife upon a miserable horse, lean and lank, which he had picked out for the purpose, and himself and his servant no better mounted, they journeyed on through rough and miry ways, and ever when this horse of Katherine's stumbled, he would storm and swear at the poor jaded beast, who could scarce crawl under his burthen, as if he had been the most passionate man alive. At length, after a weary journey, during which Katherine had heard nothing but the wild ravings of Petruchio at the servant and the horses, they arrived at his house. Petruchio welcomed her kindly to her home, but he resolved she should have neither rest nor food that night. The tables were spread, and supper soon served; but Petruchio, pretending to find fault with every dish, threw the meat about the floor, and ordered the servants to remove it away, and all this he did, as he said, in love for his Katherine, that she might not eat meat that was not well dressed. And when Katherine weary and supperless retired to rest, he found the same fault with the bed, throwing the pillows and bed-clothes about the room, so that she was forced to sit down in a chair, where if she chanced to drop asleep, she was presently awakened by the loud voice of her husband, storming at the servants for the ill-making of his wife's bridal-bed. When they entered, Baptista welcomed them to the wedding feast, and there was present also another newly-married pair. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS AEgeon, an old merchant of Syracuse, was discovered in the streets of Ephesus, and brought before the duke, either to pay this heavy fine, or to receive sentence of death. AEgeon had no money to pay the fine, and the duke, before he pronounced the sentence of death upon him, desired him to relate the history of his life, and to tell for what cause he had ventured to come to the city of Ephesus, which it was death for any Syracusan merchant to enter. Here the hapless AEgeon ended the account of his misfortunes; and the duke, pitying this unfortunate father, who had brought upon himself this great peril by his love for his lost son, said, if it were not against the laws, which his oath and dignity did not permit him to alter, he would freely pardon him; yet, instead of dooming him to instant death, as the strict letter of the law required, he would give him that day, to try if he could beg or borrow the money to pay the fine. AEgeon supposed he knew no person in Ephesus; but at the very time he was in danger of losing his life through the careful search he was making after his youngest son, that son and his eldest son also were both in the city of Ephesus. Antipholis and Dromio were sold by them to duke Menaphon, a famous warrior, who was uncle to the duke of Ephesus, and he carried the boys to Ephesus, when he went to visit the duke his nephew. The duke of Ephesus taking a liking to young Antipholis, when he grew up, made him an officer in his army, in which he distinguished himself by his great bravery in the wars, where he saved the life of his patron the duke, who rewarded his merit by marrying him to Adriana, a rich lady of Ephesus; with whom he was living (his slave Dromio still attending him) at the time his father came there. Dromio was a pleasant fellow, and when Antipholis was dull and melancholy, he used to divert himself with the odd humours and merry jests of his slave, so that the freedoms of speech he allowed in Dromio were greater than is usual between masters and their servants. When Antipholis of Syracuse had sent Dromio away, he stood a while thinking over his solitary wanderings in search of his mother and his brother, of whom in no place where he landed could he hear the least tidings; and he said sorrowfully to himself, "I am like a drop of water in the ocean, which seeking to find its fellow-drop, loses itself in the wide sea. So I unhappily, to find a mother and a brother, do lose myself." Adriana, the wife of Antipholis of Ephesus, was very angry, when she heard that her husband said he had no wife; for she was of a jealous temper, and she said her husband meant that he loved another lady better than herself; and she began to fret, and say unkind words of jealousy and reproach of her husband; and her sister Luciana, who lived with her, tried in vain to persuade her out of her groundless suspicions. While Antipholis of Syracuse was dining with his brother's wife, his brother, the real husband, returned home to dinner with his slave Dromio; but the servants would not open the door, because their mistress had ordered them not to admit any company; and when they repeatedly knocked, and said they were Antipholis and Dromio, the maids laughed at them, and said that Antipholis was at dinner with their mistress, and Dromio was in the kitchen; and though they almost knocked the door down, they could not gain admittance, and at last Antipholis went away very angry, and strangely surprised at hearing a gentleman was dining with his wife. When Antipholis of Syracuse had finished his dinner, he was so perplexed at the lady's still persisting in calling him husband, and at hearing that Dromio had also been claimed by the cook-maid, that he left the house, as soon as he could find any pretence to get away; for though he was very much pleased with Luciana, the sister, yet the jealous-tempered Adriana he disliked very much, nor was Dromio at all better satisfied with his fair wife in the kitchen; therefore both master and man were glad to get away from their new wives as fast as they could. The moment Antipholis of Syracuse had left the house, he was met by a goldsmith, who mistaking him, as Adriana had done, for Antipholis of Ephesus, gave him a gold chain, calling him by his name; and when Antipholis would have refused the chain, saying it did not belong to him, the goldsmith replied he made it by his own orders; and went away, leaving the chain in the hands of Antipholis, who ordered his man Dromio to get his things on board a ship, not choosing to stay in a place any longer, where he met with such strange adventures that he surely thought himself bewitched. As Antipholis was going to prison, he met Dromio of Syracuse, his brother's slave, and mistaking him for his own, he ordered him to go to Adriana his wife, and tell her to send the money for which he was arrested. Dromio wondering that his master should send him back to the strange house where he dined, and from which he had just before been in such haste to depart, did not dare to reply, though he came to tell his master the ship was ready to sail; for he saw Antipholis was in no humour to be jested with. Therefore he went away, grumbling within himself that he must return to Adriana's house, "Where," said he, "Dowsabel claims me for a husband: but I must go, for servants must obey their masters' commands." Adriana gave him the money, and as Dromio was returning, he met Antipholis of Syracuse, who was still in amaze at the surprising adventures he met with; for his brother being well known in Ephesus, there was hardly a man he met in the streets but saluted him as an old acquaintance: some offered him money which they said was owing to him, some invited him to come and see them, and some gave him thanks for kindnesses they said he had done them, all mistaking him for his brother. A taylor shewed him some silks he had bought for him, and insisted upon taking measure of him for some clothes. Antipholis began to think he was among a nation of sorcerers and witches, and Dromio did not at all relieve his master from his bewildered thoughts, by asking him how he got free from the officer who was carrying him to prison, and giving him the purse of gold which Adriana had sent to pay the debt with. This talk of Dromio's of the arrest and of a prison, and of the money he had brought from Adriana, perfectly confounded Antipholis, and he said, "This fellow Dromio is certainly distracted, and we wander here in illusions;" and quite terrified at his own confused thoughts, he cried out, "Some blessed power deliver us from this strange place!" And now another stranger came up to him, and she was a lady, and she too called him Antipholis, and told him he had dined with her that day, and asked him for a gold chain which she said he had promised to give her. Antipholis now lost all patience, and calling her a sorceress, he denied that he had ever promised her a chain, or dined with her, or had even seen her face before that moment. The lady persisted in affirming he had dined with her, and had promised her a chain, which Antipholis still denying, she farther said, that she had given him a valuable ring, and if he would not give her the gold chain, she insisted upon having her own ring again. On this Antipholis became quite frantic, and again calling her sorceress and witch, and denying all knowledge of her or her ring, ran away from her, leaving her astonished at his words and his wild looks, for nothing to her appeared more certain than that he had dined with her, and that she had given him a ring, in consequence of his promising to make her a present of a gold chain. But this lady had fallen into the same mistake the others had done, for she had taken him for his brother; the married Antipholis had done all the things she taxed this Antipholis with. Adriana believed the story the lady told her of her husband's madness must be true, when he reproached her for shutting him out of his own house; and remembering how he had protested all dinner-time that he was not her husband, and had never been in Ephesus till that day, she had no doubt that he was mad; she therefore paid the jailor the money, and having discharged him, she ordered her servants to bind her husband with ropes, and had him conveyed into a dark room, and sent for a doctor to come and cure him of his madness: Antipholis all the while hotly exclaiming against this false accusation, which the exact likeness he bore to his brother had brought upon him. But his rage only the more confirmed them in the belief that he was mad; and Dromio persisting in the same story, they bound him also, and took him away along with his master. Soon after Adriana had put her husband into confinement, a servant came to tell her that Antipholis and Dromio must have broken loose from their keepers, for that they were both walking at liberty in the next street. On hearing this, Adriana ran out to fetch him home, taking some people with her to secure her husband again; and her sister went along with her. When they came to the gates of a convent in their neighbourhood, there they saw Antipholis and Dromio, as they thought, being again deceived by the likeness of the twin-brothers. Antipholis of Syracuse was still beset with the perplexities this likeness had brought upon him. The chain which the goldsmith had given him was about his neck, and the goldsmith was reproaching him for denying that he had it, and refusing to pay for it, and Antipholis was protesting that the goldsmith freely gave him the chain in the morning, and that from that hour he had never seen the goldsmith again. And now Adriana came up to him, and claimed him as her lunatic husband, who had escaped from his keepers; and the men she brought with her were going to lay violent hands on Antipholis and Dromio; but they ran into the convent, and Antipholis begged the abbess to give him shelter in her house. And now came out the lady abbess herself to enquire into the cause of this disturbance. She was a grave and venerable lady, and wise to judge of what she saw, and she would not too hastily give up the man who had sought protection in her house; so she strictly questioned the wife about the story she told of her husband's madness, and she said, "What is the cause of this sudden distemper of your husband's? Has he lost his wealth at sea? Or is it the death of some dear friend that has disturbed his mind?" Adriana replied, that no such things as these had been the cause. "Perhaps," said the abbess, "he has fixed his affections on some other lady than you his wife; and that has driven him to this state." Adriana said she had long thought the love of some other lady was the cause of his frequent absences from home. Now it was not his love for another, but the teazing jealousy of his wife's temper, that often obliged Antipholis to leave his home; and (the abbess suspecting this from the vehemence of Adriana's manner) to learn the truth, she said, "You should have reprehended him for this." "Why, so I did," replied Adriana. "Aye," said the abbess, "but perhaps not enough." Adriana, willing to convince the abbess that she had said enough to Antipholis on this subject, replied, "It was the constant subject of our conversation: in bed I would not let him sleep for speaking of it. At table I would not let him eat for speaking of it. When I was alone with him, I talked of nothing else; and in company I gave him frequent hints of it. Still all my talk was how vile and bad it was in him to love any lady better than me." The lady abbess, having drawn this full confession from the jealous Adriana, now said, "And therefore comes it that your husband is mad. The venomous clamour of a jealous woman is a more deadly poison than a mad dog's tooth. It seems his sleep was hindered by your railing; no wonder that his head is light; and his meat was sauced with your upbraidings; unquiet meals make ill digestions, and that has thrown him into this fever. You say his sports were disturbed by your brawls; being debarred from the enjoyment of society and recreation, what could ensue but dull melancholy and comfortless despair? The consequence is then, that your jealous fits have made your husband mad." Luciana would have excused her sister, saying, she always reprehended her husband mildly; and she said to her sister, "Why do you hear these rebukes without answering them?" But the abbess had made her so plainly perceive her fault, that she could only answer, "She has betrayed me to my own reproof." Adriana, though ashamed of her own conduct, still insisted on having her husband delivered up to her; but the abbess would suffer no person to enter her house, nor would she deliver up this unhappy man to the care of the jealous wife, determining herself to use gentle means for his recovery, and she retired into her house again, and ordered her gates to be shut against them. During the course of this eventful day, in which so many errors had happened from the likeness the twin brothers bore to each other, old AEgeon's day of grace was passing away, it being now near sunset: and at sunset he was doomed to die, if he could not pay the money. The place of his execution was near this convent, and here he arrived just as the abbess retired into the convent; the duke attending in person, that if any offered to pay the money, he might be present to pardon him. Adriana stopped this melancholy procession, and cried out to the duke for justice, telling him that the abbess had refused to deliver up her lunatic husband to her care. While she was speaking, her real husband and his servant Dromio, who had got loose, came before the duke to demand justice, complaining that his wife had confined him on a false charge of lunacy; and telling in what manner he had broken his bands, and eluded the vigilance of his keepers. Adriana was strangely surprised to see her husband, when she thought he had been within the convent. When the fishermen took the eldest Antipholis and Dromio away from her, she entered a nunnery, and by her wise and virtuous conduct she was at length made lady abbess of this convent, and in discharging the rites of hospitality to an unhappy stranger she had unknowingly protected her own son. Adriana had so well profited by the good counsel of her mother-in-law, that she never after cherished unjust suspicions, or was jealous of her husband. The good duke perceived with sorrow this growing evil among his subjects; but he thought that a sudden change in himself from the indulgence he had hitherto shewn, to the strict severity requisite to check this abuse, would make his people (who had hitherto loved him) consider him as a tyrant: therefore he determined to absent himself a while from his dukedom, and depute another to the full exercise of his power, that the law against these dishonourable lovers might be put in effect, without giving offence by an unusual severity in his own person. It happened just about the time that Angelo was invested with his new dignity, that a gentleman, whose name was Claudio, had seduced a young lady from her parents; and for this offence, by command of the new lord deputy, Claudio was taken up and committed to prison, and by virtue of the old law which had been so long neglected, Angelo sentenced Claudio to be beheaded. Great interest was made for the pardon of young Claudio, and the good old lord Escalus himself interceded for him. "Alas," said he, "this gentleman whom I would save had an honourable father, for whose sake I pray you pardon the young man's transgression." But Angelo replied, "We must not make a scare-crow of the law, setting it up to frighten birds of prey, till custom, finding it harmless, makes it their perch, and not their terror. Sir, he must die." Lucio, the friend of Claudio, visited him in the prison, and Claudio said to him, "I pray you, Lucio, do me this kind service. Go to my sister Isabel, who this day proposes to enter the convent of Saint Clare; acquaint her with the danger of my state; implore her that she make friends with the strict deputy; bid her go herself to Angelo. I have great hopes in that; for she can discourse with prosperous art, and well she can persuade; besides, there is a speechless dialect in youthful sorrow, such as moves men." Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said, that day entered upon her noviciate in the convent, and it was her intent after passing through her probation as a novice, to take the veil, and she was enquiring of a nun concerning the rules of the convent, when they heard the voice of Lucio, who, as he entered that religious house, said, "Peace be in this place!" "Who is it that speaks?" said Isabel. "It is a man's voice," replied the nun: "Gentle Isabel, go to him, and learn his business; you may, I may not. When you have taken the veil, you must not speak with men but in the presence of the prioress; then if you speak, you must not shew your face, or if you shew your face, you must not speak." "And have you nuns no farther privileges?" said Isabel. "Are not these large enough?" replied the nun. "Yes, truly," said Isabel: "I speak not as desiring more, but rather wishing a more strict restraint upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare." Again they heard the voice of Lucio, and the nun said, "He calls again. I pray you answer him." Isabel then went out to Lucio, and in answer to his salutation, said, "Peace and prosperity! Who is it that calls?" Then Lucio, approaching her with reverence, said, "Hail, virgin, if such you be, as the roses in your cheeks proclaim you are no less! can you bring me to the sight of Isabel, a novice of this place, and the fair sister to her unhappy brother Claudio?" "Why her unhappy brother?" said Isabel, "let me ask: for I am that Isabel, and his sister." "Fair and gentle lady," he replied, "your brother kindly greets you by me; he is in prison." "Woe is me! for what?" said Isabel. Lucio then told her, Claudio was imprisoned for seducing a young maiden. "Ah," said she, "I fear it is my cousin Juliet." Juliet and Isabel were not related, but they called each other cousin in remembrance of their school-days friendship; and as Isabel knew that Juliet loved Claudio, she feared she had been led by her affection for him into this transgression. "She it is," replied Lucio. "Why then let my brother marry Juliet," said Isabel. Lucio replied, that Claudio would gladly marry Juliet, but that the lord deputy had sentenced him to die for his offence; "Unless," said he, "you have the grace by your fair prayer to soften Angelo, and that is my business between you and your poor brother." "Alas," said Isabel, "what poor ability is there in me to do him good? I doubt I have no power to move Angelo." "Our doubts are traitors," said Lucio, "and make us lose the good we might often win, by fearing to attempt it. Go to lord Angelo! When maidens sue, and kneel, and weep, men give like gods." "I will see what I can do," said Isabel: "I will but stay to give the prioress notice of the affair, and then I will go to Angelo. Commend me to my brother: soon at night I will send him word of my success." In the guilty conflict in his mind Angelo suffered more that night, than the prisoner he had so severely sentenced; for in the prison Claudio was visited by the good duke, who in his friar's habit taught the young man the way to Heaven, preaching to him the words of penitence and peace. But Angelo felt all the pangs of irresolute guilt: now wishing to seduce Isabel from the paths of innocence and honour, and now suffering remorse and horror for a crime as yet but intentional. But in the end his evil thoughts prevailed; and he who had so lately started at the offer of a bribe resolved to tempt this maiden with so high a bribe, as she might not be able to resist, even with the precious gift of her dear brother's life. When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo desired she might be admitted alone to his presence; and being there, he said to her, if she would yield to him her virgin honour, and transgress even as Juliet had done with Claudio, he would give her her brother's life: "for," said he, "I love you, Isabel." "My brother," said Isabel, "did so love Juliet, and yet you tell me he shall die for it." "But," said Angelo, "Claudio shall not die, if you will consent to visit me by stealth at night, even as Juliet left her father's house at night to come to Claudio." Isabel in amazement at his words, that he should tempt her to the same fault for which he passed sentence of death upon her brother, said, "I would do as much for my poor brother as for myself; that is, were I under sentence of death, the impression of keen whips I would wear as rubies, and go to my death as to a bed that longing I had been sick for, ere I would yield myself up to this shame." And then she told him, she hoped he only spoke these words to try her virtue. But he said, "Believe me on my honour, my words express my purpose." Isabel, angered to the heart to hear him use the word Honour to express such dishonourable purposes, said, "Ha! little honour, to be much believed; and most pernicious purpose. I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for it! Sign me a present pardon for my brother, or I will tell the world aloud what man thou art!" "Who will believe you, Isabel?" said Angelo: "my unsoiled name, the austereness of my life, my word vouched against yours, will outweigh your accusation. Redeem your brother by yielding to my will, or he shall die to-morrow. As for you, say what you can, my false will overweigh your true story. Answer me to-morrow." "To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, who would believe me?" said Isabel, as she went towards the dreary prison where her brother was confined. When she arrived there, her brother was in pious conversation with the duke, who in his friar's habit had also visited Juliet, and brought both these guilty lovers to a proper sense of their fault; and unhappy Juliet with tears and a true remorse confessed, that she was more to blame than Claudio, in that she willingly consented to his dishonourable solicitations. Early in the morning Isabel came to the prison, and the duke, who there awaited her coming, for secret reasons thought it good to tell her that Claudio was beheaded; therefore when Isabel enquired if Angelo had sent the pardon for her brother, he said, "Angelo has released Claudio from this world. His head is off, and sent to the deputy." The much-grieved sister cried out, "O unhappy Claudio, wretched Isabel, injurious world, most wicked Angelo!" The seeming friar bid her take comfort, and when she was become a little calm, he acquainted her with the near prospect of the duke's return, and told her in what manner she should proceed in preferring her complaint against Angelo; and he bade her not to fear if the cause should seem to go against her for a while. Leaving Isabel sufficiently instructed, he next went to Mariana, and gave her counsel in what manner she also should act. The duke, as the best reply he could make to this noble petitioner for her enemy's life, sending for Claudio from his prison-house, where he lay doubtful of his destiny, presented to her this lamented brother living; and he said to Isabel, "Give me your hand, Isabel; for your lovely sake I pardon Claudio. Say you will be mine, and he shall be my brother too." By this time lord Angelo perceived he was safe; and the duke observing his eye to brighten up a little, said, "Well, Angelo, look that you love your wife; her worth has obtained your pardon: joy to you, Mariana! Love her, Angelo! I have confessed her, and know her virtue." Angelo remembered, when drest in a little brief authority, how hard his heart had been, and felt how sweet is mercy. The duke commanded Claudio to marry Juliet, and offered himself again to the acceptance of Isabel, whose virtuous and noble conduct had won her prince's heart. Isabel, not having taken the veil, was free to marry; and the friendly offices, while hid under the disguise of a humble friar, which the noble duke had done for her, made her with grateful joy accept the honour he offered her; and when she became duchess of Vienna, the excellent example of the virtuous Isabel worked such a complete reformation among the young ladies of that city, that from that time none ever fell into the transgression of Juliet, the repentant wife of the reformed Claudio. And the mercy-loving duke long reigned with his beloved Isabel, the happiest of husbands and of princes. She having observed a fair behaviour in the captain, and that he shewed a friendly concern for her welfare, intrusted him with her design, and he readily engaged to assist her. Viola gave him money, and directed him to furnish her with suitable apparel, ordering her clothes to be made of the same colour and in the same fashion her brother Sebastian used to wear, and when she was dressed in her manly garb, she looked so exactly like her brother, that some strange errors happened by means of their being mistaken for each other; for, as will afterwards appear, Sebastian was also saved. Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song, which in such true simplicity described the pangs of unrequited love, and she bore testimony in her countenance of feeling what the song expressed. Her sad looks were observed by Orsino, who said to her, "My life upon it, Cesario, though you are so young, your eye has looked upon some face that it loves; has it not, boy?" "A little, with your leave," replied Viola. "And what kind of woman, and of what age is she?" said Orsino. "Of your age, and of your complexion, my lord," said Viola; which made the duke smile to hear this fair young boy loved a woman so much older than himself, and of a man's dark complexion; but Viola secretly meant Orsino, and not a woman like him. No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim was made upon her valour. A gentleman, a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had learned how that lady had favoured the duke's messenger, challenged him to fight a duel. What should poor Viola do, who, though she carried a manlike outside, had a true woman's heart, and feared to look on her own sword! Anthonio and Sebastian had landed together but a few hours before Anthonio met Viola. He had given his purse to Sebastian, desiring him to use it freely if he saw any thing he wished to purchase, telling him he would wait at the inn, while Sebastian went to view the town: but Sebastian not returning at the time appointed, Anthonio had ventured out to look for him, and Viola being dressed the same, and in face so exactly resembling her brother, Anthonio drew his sword (as he thought) in defence of the youth he had saved, and when Sebastian (as he supposed) disowned him, and denied him his own purse, no wonder he accused him of ingratitude. A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia came out of the house, and she too mistaking Sebastian for Cesario, invited him to come into her house, expressing much sorrow at the rude attack he had met with. Though Sebastian was as much surprised at the courtesy of this lady as at the rudeness of his unknown foe, yet he went very willingly into the house, and Olivia was delighted to find Cesario (as she thought him) become more sensible of her attentions; for though their features were exactly the same, there was none of the contempt and anger to be seen in his face, which she had complained of when she told her love to Cesario. When all the errors were cleared up which the extreme likeness between this twin brother and sister had occasioned, they laughed at the lady Olivia for the pleasant mistake she had made in falling in love with a woman; and Olivia shewed no dislike to her exchange, when she found she had wedded the brother instead of the sister. Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that heart, which she had so ungraciously rejected, to Viola, invited them to enter her house, and offered the assistance of the good priest, who had married her to Sebastian in the morning, to perform the same ceremony in the remaining part of the day for Orsino and Viola. Thus the twin brother and sister were both wedded on the same day: the storm and shipwreck, which had separated them, being the means of bringing to pass their high and mighty fortunes. Viola was the wife of Orsino, the duke of Illyria, and Sebastian the husband of the rich and noble countess, the lady Olivia. Timon, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of a princely fortune, affected a humour of liberality which knew no limits. His almost infinite wealth could not flow in so fast, but he poured it out faster upon all sorts and degrees of people. Not the poor only tasted of his bounty, but great lords did not disdain to rank themselves among his dependants and followers. His table was resorted to by all the luxurious feasters, and his house was open to all comers and goers at Athens. His large wealth combined with his free and prodigal nature to subdue all hearts to his love; men of all minds and dispositions tendered their services to lord Timon, from the glass-faced flatterer, whose face reflects as in a mirror the present humour of his patron, to the rough and unbending cynic, who affecting a contempt of men's persons, and an indifference to worldly things, yet could not stand out against the gracious manners and munificent soul of lord Timon, but would come (against his nature) to partake of his royal entertainments, and return most rich in his own estimation if he had received a nod or a salutation from Timon. If a poet had composed a work which wanted a recommendatory introduction to the world, he had no more to do but to dedicate it to lord Timon, and the poem was sure of sale, besides a present purse from the patron, and daily access to his house and table. If a painter had a picture to dispose of, he had only to take it to lord Timon, and pretend to consult his taste as to the merits of it; nothing more was wanting to persuade the liberal-hearted lord to buy it. If a jeweller had a stone of price, or a mercer rich costly stuffs, which for their costliness lay upon his hands, lord Timon's house was a ready mart always open, where they might get off their wares or their jewellery at any price, and the good natured lord would thank them into the bargain, as if they had done him a piece of courtesy in letting him have the refusal of such precious commodities. So that by this means his house was thronged with superfluous purchases, of no use but to swell uneasy and ostentatious pomp; and his person was still more inconveniently beset with a crowd of these idle visitors, lying poets, painters, sharking tradesmen, lords, ladies, needy courtiers, and expectants, who continually filled his lobbies, raining their fulsome flatteries in whispers in his ears, sacrificing to him with adulation as to a God, making sacred the very stirrup by which he mounted his horse, and seeming as though they drank the free air but through his permission and bounty. This was the last feast which ever Timon made, and in it he took farewell of Athens and the society of men; for, after that, he betook himself to the woods, turning his back upon the hated city and upon all mankind, wishing the walls of that detestable city might sink, and the houses fall upon their owners, wishing all plagues which infest humanity, war, outrage, poverty, diseases, might fasten upon its inhabitants, praying the just gods to confound all Athenians, both young and old, high and low; so wishing, he went to the woods, where he said he should find the unkindest beast much kinder than those of his own species. He stripped himself naked, that he might retain no fashion of a man, and dug a cave to live in, and lived solitary in the manner of a beast, eating the wild roots, and drinking water, flying from the face of his kind, and choosing rather to herd with wild beasts, as more harmless and friendly than man. What a change from lord Timon the rich, lord Timon the delight of mankind, to Timon the naked, Timon the manhater! Where were his flatterers now? Where were his attendants and retinue? Would the bleak air, that boisterous servitor, be his chamberlain, to put his shirt on warm? Would those stiff trees, that had outlived the eagle, turn young and airy pages to him, to skip on his errands when he bade them? Would the cool brook, when it was iced with winter, administer to him his warm broths and caudles when sick of an over-night's surfeit? Or would the creatures that lived in those wild woods, come and lick his hand, and flatter him? A deputation of the senators was chosen in this emergency to wait upon Timon. To him they come in their extremity, to whom, when he was in extremity, they had shewn but small regard; as if they presumed upon his gratitude whom they had disobliged, and had derived a claim to his courtesy from their own most discourteous and unpiteous treatment. Now they earnestly beseech him, implore him with tears, to return and save that city, from which their ingratitude had so lately driven him; now they offer him riches, power, dignities, satisfaction for past injuries, and public honours and the public love; their persons, lives, and fortunes, to be at his disposal, if he will but come back and save them. But Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater, was no longer lord Timon, the lord of bounty, the flower of valour, their defence in war, their ornament in peace. If Alcibiades killed his countrymen, Timon cared not. If he sacked fair Athens, and slew her old men and her infants, Timon would rejoice. So he told them; and that there was not a knife in the unruly camp which he did not prize above the reverendest throat in Athens. This was all the answer he vouchsafed to the weeping disappointed senators; only at parting, he bade them commend him to his countrymen, and tell them, that to ease them of their griefs and anxieties, and to prevent the consequences of fierce Alcibiades' wrath, there was yet a way left, which he would teach them, for he had yet so much affection left for his dear countrymen as to be willing to do them a kindness before his death. These words a little revived the senators, who hoped that his kindness for their city was returning. Then Timon told them that he had a tree, which grew near his cave, which he should shortly have occasion to cut down, and he invited all his friends in Athens, high or low, of what degree soever, who wished to shun affliction, to come and take a taste of his tree before he cut it down; meaning, that they might come and hang themselves on it, and escape affliction that way. And this was the last courtesy, of all his noble bounties, which Timon shewed to mankind, and this the last sight of him which his countrymen had: for not many days after, a poor soldier, passing by the sea-beach, which was at a little distance from the woods which Timon frequented, found a tomb on the verge of the sea, with an inscription upon it, purporting that it was the grave of Timon the man-hater, who "While he lived, did hate all living men, and dying, wished a plague might consume all caitiffs left!" Whether he finished his life by violence, or whether mere distaste of life and the loathing he had for mankind brought Timon to his conclusion, was not clear, yet all men admired the fitness of his epitaph, and the consistency of his end; dying, as he had lived, a hater of mankind: and some there were who fancied a conceit in the very choice which he had made of the sea-beach for his place of burial, where the vast sea might weep for ever upon his grave, as in contempt of the transient and shallow tears of hypocritical and deceitful mankind. The dancing being done, Romeo watched the place where the lady stood; and under favour of his masking habit, which might seem to excuse in part the liberty, he presumed in the gentlest manner to take her by the hand, calling it a shrine, which if he prophaned by touching it, he was a blushing pilgrim, and would kiss it for atonement. "Good pilgrim," answered the lady, "your devotion shews by far too mannerly and too courtly: saints have hands, which pilgrims may touch, but kiss not." "Have not saints lips, and pilgrims too?" said Romeo. "Aye," said the lady, "lips which they must use in prayer." "O then, my dear saint," said Romeo, "hear my prayer and grant it, lest I despair." In such like allusions and loving conceits they were engaged, when the lady was called away to her mother. And Romeo enquiring who her mother was, discovered that the lady whose peerless beauty he was so much struck with, was young Juliet, daughter and heir to the lord Capulet, the great enemy of the Mountagues; and that he had unknowingly engaged his heart to his foe. This troubled him, but it could not dissuade him from loving. As little rest had Juliet, when she found that the gentleman that she had been talking with was Romeo and a Mountague, for she had been suddenly smit with the same hasty and inconsiderate passion for Romeo, which he had conceived for her; and a prodigious birth of love it seemed to her, that she must love her enemy, and that her affections should settle there, where family considerations should induce her chiefly to hate. Now was Romeo blest indeed, and Juliet, who knew his intent from a messenger which she had dispatched according to promise, did not fail to be early at the cell of friar Lawrence, where their hands were joined in holy marriage; the good friar praying the heavens to smile upon that act, and in the union of this young Mountague and young Capulet to bury the old strife and long dissensions of their families. The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened home, where she staid impatient for the coming of night, at which time Romeo promised to come and meet her in the orchard, where they had met the night before; and the time between seemed as tedious to her, as the night before some great festival seems to an impatient child, that has got new finery which it may not put on till the morning. This was but the beginning of the tragedy of this pair of star-crossed lovers. Romeo had not been gone many days, before the old lord Capulet proposed a match for Juliet. The husband he had chosen for her, not dreaming that she was married already, was count Paris, a gallant, young, and noble gentleman, no unworthy suitor to the young Juliet, if she had never seen Romeo. Going from the monastery, she met the young count Paris, and, modestly dissembling, promised to become his bride. This was joyful news to the lord Capulet and his wife. It seemed to put youth into the old man: and Juliet, who had displeased him exceedingly by her refusal of the count, was his darling again, now she promised to be obedient. All things in the house were in a bustle against the approaching nuptials. No cost was spared to prepare such festival rejoicings, as Verona had never before witnessed. On the Wednesday night Juliet drank off the potion. She had many misgivings, lest the friar, to avoid the blame which might be imputed to him for marrying her to Romeo, had given her poison; but then he was always known for a holy man: then lest she should awake before the time that Romeo was to come for her; whether the terror of the place, a vault full of dead Capulets' bones, and where Tybalt, all bloody, lay festering in his shroud, would not be enough to drive her distracted: again she thought of all the stories she had heard of spirits haunting the places where their bodies are bestowed. But then her love for Romeo, and her aversion for Paris, returned, and she desperately swallowed the draught, and became insensible. For now the hour was arrived at which the friar had promised that she should awake; and he, having learned that his letters which he had sent to Mantua, by some unlucky detention of the messenger, had never reached Romeo, came himself, provided with a pick-axe and lantern, to deliver the lady from her confinement; but he was surprised to find a light already burning in the Capulets' monument, and to see swords and blood near it, and Romeo and Paris lying breathless by the monument. Before he could entertain a conjecture, to imagine how these fatal accidents had fallen out, Juliet awoke out of her trance, and seeing the friar near her, she remembered the place where she was, and the occasion of her being there, and asked for Romeo: but the friar, hearing a noise, bade her come out of that place of death, and of unnatural sleep, for a greater power than they could contradict had thwarted their intents; and being frighted by the noise of people coming, he fled; but when Juliet saw the cup closed in her true love's hands, she guessed that poison had been the cause of his end, and she would have swallowed the dregs if any had been left, and she kissed his still warm lips to try if any poison yet did hang upon them: then hearing a nearer noise of people coming, she quickly unsheathed a dagger which she wore, and stabbing herself, died by her true Romeo's side. The watch by this time had come up to the place. A page belonging to count Paris, who had witnessed the fight between his master and Romeo, had given the alarm, which had spread among the citizens, who went up and down the streets of Verona confusedly, exclaiming, A Paris, a Romeo, a Juliet, as the rumour had imperfectly reached them, till the uproar brought lord Mountague and lord Capulet out of their beds, with the prince, to enquire into the causes of the disturbance. The friar had been apprehended by some of the watch, coming from the church-yard, trembling, sighing, and weeping, in a suspicious manner. A great multitude being assembled at the Capulets' monument, the friar was commanded by the prince to deliver what he knew of these strange and disastrous accidents. HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK What mostly troubled him was an uncertainty about the manner of his father's death. It was given out by Claudius, that a serpent had stung him: but young Hamlet had shrewd suspicions that Claudius himself was the serpent; in plain English, that he had murdered him for his crown, and that the serpent who stung his father did now sit on the throne. How far he was right in this conjecture, and what he ought to think of his mother, how far she was privy to this murder, and whether by her consent or knowledge, or without, it came to pass, were the doubts which continually harassed and distracted him. The young prince, strangely amazed at their relation, which was too consistent and agreeing with itself to disbelieve, concluded that it was his father's ghost which they had seen, and determined to take his watch with the soldiers that night, that he might have a chance of seeing it: for he reasoned with himself, that such an appearance did not come for nothing, but that the ghost had something to impart, and though it had been silent hitherto, yet it would speak to him. And he waited with impatience for the coming of night. And when Hamlet was left alone, he took up a solemn resolution, that all he had in his memory, all that he had ever learned by books or observation, should be instantly forgotten by him, and nothing live in his brain but the memory of what the ghost had told him, and enjoined him to do. And Hamlet related the particulars of the conversation which had passed to none but his dear friend Horatio; and he enjoined both to him and Marcellus the strictest secrecy as to what they had seen that night. The terror which the sight of the ghost had left upon the senses of Hamlet, he being weak and dispirited before, almost unhinged his mind, and drove him beside his reason. And he, fearing that it would continue to have this effect, which might subject him to observation, and set his uncle upon his guard, if he suspected that he was meditating any thing against him, or that Hamlet really knew more of his father's death than he professed, took up a strange resolution from that time to counterfeit as if he were really and truly mad; thinking that he would be less an object of suspicion when his uncle should believe him incapable of any serious project, and that his real perturbation of mind would be best covered and pass concealed under a disguise of pretended lunacy. From this time Hamlet affected a certain wildness and strangeness in his apparel, his speech, and behaviour, and did so excellently counterfeit the madman, that the king and queen were both deceived, and not thinking his grief for his father's death a sufficient cause to produce such a distemper, for they knew not of the appearance of the ghost, they concluded that his malady was love, and they thought they had found out the object. But Hamlet's malady lay deeper than she supposed, or than could be so cured. His father's ghost, which he had seen, still haunted his imagination, and the sacred injunction to revenge his murder gave him no rest till it was accomplished. Every hour of delay seemed to him a sin, and a violation of his father's commands. Yet how to compass the death of the king, surrounded as he constantly was with his guards, was no easy matter. Or if it had been, the presence of the queen, Hamlet's mother, who was generally with the king, was a restraint upon his purpose, which he could not break through. Besides, the very circumstance that the usurper was his mother's husband filled him with some remorse, and still blunted the edge of his purpose. The mere act of putting a fellow-creature to death was in itself odious and terrible to a disposition naturally so gentle as Hamlet's was. His very melancholy, and the dejection of spirits he had so long been in, produced an irresoluteness and wavering of purpose, which kept him from proceeding to extremities. Moreover, he could not help having some scruples upon his mind, whether the spirit which he had seen was indeed his father, or whether it might not be the devil, who he had heard has power to take any form he pleases, and who might have assumed his father's shape only to take advantage of his weakness and his melancholy, to drive him to the doing of so desperate an act as murder. And he determined that he would have more certain grounds to go upon than a vision, or apparition, which might be a delusion. It was by desire of the king that the queen sent for Hamlet, that she might signify to her son how much his late behaviour had displeased them both; and the king, wishing to know all that passed at that conference, and thinking that the too partial report of a mother might let slip some part of Hamlet's words, which it might much import the king to know, Polonius, the old counsellor of state, was ordered to plant himself behind the hangings in the queen's closet, where he might unseen hear all that passed. This artifice was particularly adapted to the disposition of Polonius, who was a man grown old in crooked maxims and policies of state, and delighted to get at the knowledge of matters in an indirect and cunning way. And now Hamlet was at leisure to consider who it was that in his unfortunate rashness he had killed: and when he came to see that it was Polonius, the father of the lady Ophelia, whom he so dearly loved, he drew apart the dead body, and, his spirits being now a little quieter, he wept for what he had done. Brabantio, the rich senator of Venice, had a fair daughter, the gentle Desdemona. She was sought to by divers suitors, both on account of her many virtuous qualities and for her rich expectations. But among the suitors of her own clime and complexion she saw none whom she could affect: for this noble lady, who regarded the mind more than the features of men, with a singularity rather to be admired than imitated, had chosen for the object of her affections a Moor, a black, whom her father loved, and often invited to his house. His story being done, she gave him for his pains a world of sighs: she swore a pretty oath, that it was all passing strange, and pitiful, wondrous pitiful: she wished (she said) she had not heard it, yet she wished that heaven had made her such a man: and then she thanked him, and told him, if he had a friend who loved her, he had only to teach him how to tell his story, and that would woo her. Upon this hint, delivered not with more frankness than modesty, accompanied with a certain bewitching prettiness, and blushes, which Othello could not but understand, he spoke more openly of his love, and in this golden opportunity gained the consent of the generous lady Desdemona privately to marry him. Neither Othello's colour nor his fortune were such, that it could be hoped Brabantio would accept him for a son-in-law. He had left his daughter free; but he did expect that, as the manner of noble Venetian ladies was, she would choose ere long a husband of senatorial rank or expectations: but in this he was deceived; Desdemona loved the Moor, though he was black, and devoted her heart and fortunes to his valiant parts and qualities: so was her heart subdued to an implicit devotion to the man she had selected for a husband, that his very colour, which to all but this discerning lady would have proved an insurmountable objection, was by her esteemed above all the white skins and clear complexions of the young Venetian nobility, her suitors. Their marriage, which, though privately carried, could not long be kept a secret, came to the ears of the old man, Brabantio, who appeared in a solemn council of the senate, as an accuser of the Moor Othello, who by spells and witchcraft (he maintained) had seduced the affections of the fair Desdemona to marry him, without the consent of her father, and against the obligations of hospitality. The age and senatorial character of old Brabantio commanded a most patient hearing from that grave assembly; but the incensed father conducted his accusation with so much intemperance, producing likelihoods and allegations for proofs, that, when Othello was called upon for his defence, he had only to relate a plain tale of the course of his love; which he did with such an artless eloquence, recounting the whole story of his wooing, as we have related it above, and delivered his speech with so noble a plainness (the evidence of truth), that the duke, who sat as chief judge, could not help confessing, that a tale so told would have won his daughter too: and the spells and conjurations, which Othello had used in his courtship, plainly appeared to have been no more than the honest arts of men in love; and the only witchcraft which he had used the faculty of telling a soft tale to win a lady's ear. This statement of Othello was confirmed by the testimony of the lady Desdemona herself, who appeared in court, and professing a duty to her father for life and education, challenged leave of him to profess a yet higher duty to her lord and husband, even so much as her mother had shewn in preferring him (Brabantio) above _her_ father. The old senator, unable to maintain his plea, called the Moor to him with many expressions of sorrow, and, as an act of necessity, bestowed upon him his daughter, whom, if he had been free to withhold her, (he told him) he would with all his heart have kept from him; adding, that he was glad at soul that he had no other child, for this behaviour of Desdemona would have taught him to be a tyrant, and hang clogs on them for her desertion. This difficulty being got over, Othello, to whom custom had rendered the hardships of a military life as natural as food and rest are to other men, readily undertook the management of the wars in Cyprus: and Desdemona, preferring the honour of her lord (though with danger) before the indulgence of those idle delights in which new-married people usually waste their time, cheerfully consented to his going. No sooner were Othello and his lady landed in Cyprus, than news arrived, that a desperate tempest had dispersed the Turkish fleet, and thus the island was secure from any immediate apprehension of an attack. But the war, which Othello was to suffer, was now beginning; and the enemies, which malice stirred up against his innocent lady, proved in their nature more deadly than strangers or infidels. Iago was artful, and had studied human nature deeply, and he knew that of all the torments which afflict the mind of man (and far beyond bodily torture), the pains of jealousy were the most intolerable, and had the sorest sting. If he could succeed in making Othello jealous of Cassio, he thought it would be an exquisite plot of revenge, and might end in the death of Cassio or Othello, or both; he cared not. The arrival of the general and his lady in Cyprus, meeting with the news of the dispersion of the enemy's fleet, made a sort of holiday in the island. Every body gave themselves up to feasting and making merry. Wine flowed in abundance, and cups went round to the health of the black Othello, and his lady the fair Desdemona. Cassio had the direction of the guard that night, with a charge from Othello to keep the soldiers from excess in drinking, that no brawl might arise, to fright the inhabitants, or disgust them with the new-landed forces. That night Iago began his deep-laid plans of mischief; under cover of loyalty and love to the general, he enticed Cassio to make rather too free with the bottle (a great fault in an officer upon guard). Cassio for a time resisted, but he could not long hold out against the honest freedom which Iago knew how to put on, but kept swallowing glass after glass (as Iago still plied him with drink and encouraging songs), and Cassio's tongue ran over in praise of the lady Desdemona, whom he again and again toasted, affirming that she was a most exquisite lady: until at last the enemy which he put into his mouth, stole away his brains; and upon some provocation given him by a fellow whom Iago had set on, swords were drawn, and Montano, a worthy officer, who interfered to appease the dispute, was wounded in the scuffle. The riot now began to be general, and Iago, who had set on foot the mischief, was foremost in spreading the alarm, causing the castle-bell to be rung (as if some dangerous mutiny instead of a slight drunken quarrel had arisen): the alarm-bell ringing awakened Othello, who, dressing in a hurry, and coming to the scene of action, questioned Cassio of the cause. Cassio was now come to himself, the effect of the wine having a little gone off, but was too much ashamed to reply; and Iago, pretending a great reluctance to accuse Cassio, but as it were forced into it by Othello, who insisted to know the truth, gave an account of the whole matter (leaving out his own share in it, which Cassio was too far gone to remember) in such a manner, as while he seemed to make Cassio's offence less, did indeed make it appear greater than it was. The result was, that Othello, who was a strict observer of discipline, was compelled to take away Cassio's place of lieutenant from him. Cassio, whom this misfortune had entirely sobered, now lamented to his seeming friend Iago that he should have been such a fool as to transform himself into a beast. He was undone, for how could he ask the general for his place again! he would tell him he was a drunkard. He despised himself. Iago, affecting to make light of it, said, that he, or any man living, might be drunk upon occasion; it remained now to make the best of a bad bargain; the general's wife was now the general, and could do any thing with Othello; that he were best to apply to the lady Desdemona to mediate for him with her lord; that she was of a frank, obliging disposition, and would readily undertake a good office of this sort, and set Cassio right again in the general's favour; and then this crack in their love would be made stronger than ever. A good advice of Iago, if it had not been given for wicked purposes, which will after appear. What cause she could have ministered to him she knew not, and then she accused herself for accusing the noble Othello, and thought to be sure that some untoward news from Venice, or some state troubles, had puddled his spirits, and made his temper not so sweet as formerly. And she said, "Men are not gods, and we must not look for that observance from them when they are married, which they shew us on the bridal day." And she beshrewed herself for so unkindly judging of his unkindness. Again Othello and Desdemona met, and he accused her more plainly of being unfaithful, and of loving another man, but he did not name whom: and Othello wept, and Desdemona said, "Alas! the heavy day! why do you weep?" And Othello told her, he could have borne all sorts of evils with fortitude--poverty, and disease, and disgrace; but her infidelity had broken his heart: and he called her a weed, that looked so fair, and smelled so sweet, that the sense ached at it; and wished she had never been born. And when he had left her, this innocent lady was so stupefied with wonder at her lord's untrue suspicion of her, that a weight-like sleep came over her, and she only desired her attendant to make her bed, and to lay her wedding-sheets upon it, saying, that when people teach their babes, they do it by gentle means and easy tasks, and Othello might have chid her so; for in good faith she was but a child when she was chidden. And this was all the complaint which this gentle lady made. Desdemona being retired to bed expecting her lord would follow her, soon fell into a slumber the effect of her troubled spirits, when Othello entered the chamber, full of the black purpose which he had meditated of putting his lady to death. But when he saw her asleep, he thought he would not shed her blood, nor scar that white skin of hers, more white than alabaster. But he was resolved she should die; else (as he said) she would live to betray more men, as she had done him. Then he kissed her for the last time (as he said), and that kiss was so sweet, he must needs kiss her again: and he wept, but he said they were cruel tears. Desdemona was awakened with his kisses, and she looked upon Othello, and she saw him gnaw his under-lip, and roll his eyes, and she knew he was always fatal when he looked so: and he bade her prepare for death, and to say her prayers, for he would not kill her soul. And this innocent wife, as she lay at his mercy, begged for compassion, and to know her fault, and then he named Cassio, and the handkerchief which (he said) she had given him; and as the guiltless lady was proceeding to clear herself, he suddenly would hear no more, but covering her up in the bed-clothes, stifled her till she died. This discovery was as a thunderstroke to Othello, who now plainly saw that he was no better than a murderer, and that his wife (poor innocent lady) had been ever faithful to him; the extreme anguish of which discovery making life insupportable, he fell upon his sword, and throwing himself upon the body of his dear injured lady, expired. These rash acts raised much passion of horror and amazement in the by-standers, for Othello had borne a fair reputation, and till he was wrought upon by the arts of a villain, which his own noble nature never gave him leave to suspect, he was a loving and a doting husband. He had loved, not wisely, but too well; and his manly eyes (when he learned his mistake), though not used to weep on every small occasion, dropt tears as fast as the Arabian trees their gum. And when he was dead all his former merits and his valiant acts were remembered. Nothing now remained for his successor, but to put the utmost censure of the law in force against Iago, who was executed with strict tortures; and to send word to the state of Venice of the lamentable death of their renowned general. PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE Pericles, prince of Tyre, became a voluntary exile from his dominions, to avert the dreadful calamities which Antiochus, the wicked emperor of Greece, threatened to bring upon his subjects and city of Tyre, in revenge for a discovery which the prince had made of a shocking deed which the emperor had done in secret; as commonly it proves dangerous to pry into the hidden crimes of great ones. Leaving the government of his people in the hands of his able and honest minister, Hellicanus, Pericles set sail from Tyre, thinking to absent himself till the wrath of Antiochus, who was mighty, should be appeased. The good Symonides so well approved of the valour and noble qualities of Pericles, who was indeed a most accomplished gentleman, and well learned in all excellent arts, that though he knew not the rank of this royal stranger (for Pericles for fear of Antiochus gave out that he was a private gentleman of Tyre), yet did not Symonides disdain to accept of the valiant unknown for a son-in-law, when he perceived his daughter's affections were firmly fixed upon him. Pericles had not been many months married to Thaisa, before he received intelligence that his enemy Antiochus was dead; and that his subjects of Tyre, impatient of his long absence, threatened to revolt, and talked of placing Hellicanus upon his vacant throne. This news came from Hellicanus himself, who being a loyal subject to his royal master, would not accept of the high dignity offered him, but sent to let Pericles know their intentions, that he might return home and resume his lawful right. It was matter of great surprise and joy to Symonides, to find that his son-in-law (the obscure knight) was the renowned prince of Tyre; yet again he regretted that he was not the private gentleman he supposed him to be, seeing that he must now part both with his admired son-in-law and his beloved daughter, whom he feared to trust to the perils of the sea, because Thaisa was with child; and Pericles himself wished her to remain with her father till after her confinement, but the poor lady so earnestly desired to go with her husband, that at last they consented, hoping she would reach Tyre before she was brought to-bed. The storm still continuing to rage furiously, and the sailors having a superstition that while a dead body remained in the ship the storm would never cease, they came to Pericles to demand that his queen should be thrown overboard; and they said, "What courage, sir? God save you!" "Courage enough," said the sorrowing prince: "I do not fear the storm; it has done to me its worst; yet for the love of this poor infant, this fresh new sea-farer, I wish the storm was over." "Sir," said the sailors, "your queen must overboard. The sea works high, the wind is loud, and the storm will not abate till the ship be cleared of the dead." Though Pericles knew how weak and unfounded this superstition was, yet he patiently submitted, saying, "As you think meet. Then she must overboard, most wretched queen!" And now this unhappy prince went to take a last view of his dear wife, and as he looked on his Thaisa, he said, "A terrible child-bed hast thou had, my dear; no light, no fire; the unfriendly elements forgot thee utterly, nor have I time to bring thee hallowed to thy grave, but must cast thee scarcely coffined into the sea, where for a monument upon thy bones the humming waters must overwhelm thy corpse, lying with simple shells. O Lychorida, bid Nestor bring me spices, ink, and paper, my casket and my jewels, and bid Nicandor bring me the satin coffin. Lay the babe upon the pillow, and go about this suddenly, Lychorida, while I say a priestly farewel to my Thaisa." Pericles carried his young daughter (whom he named Marina, because she was born at sea) to Tharsus, intending to leave her with Cleon, the governor of that city, and his wife Dionysia, thinking, for the good he had done to them at the time of their famine, they would be kind to his little motherless daughter. When Cleon saw prince Pericles, and heard of the great loss which had befallen him, he said, "O your sweet queen, that it had pleased heaven you could have brought her hither to have blessed my eyes with the sight of her!" Pericles replied, "We must obey the powers above us. Should I rage and roar as the sea does in which my Thaisa lies, yet the end must be as it is. My gentle babe, Marina here, I must charge your charity with her. I leave her the infant of your care, beseeching you to give her princely training." And then turning to Cleon's wife, Dionysia, he said, "Good madam, make me blessed in your care in bringing up my child:" and she answered, "I have a child myself who shall not be more dear to my respect than yours, my lord;" and Cleon made the like promise, saying, "Your noble services, prince Pericles, in feeding my whole people with your corn (for which in their prayers they daily remember you) must in your child be thought on. If I should neglect your child, my whole people that were by you relieved would force me to my duty; but if to that I need a spur, the gods revenge it on me and mine to the end of generation." Pericles being thus assured that his child would be carefully attended to, left her to the protection of Cleon and his wife Dionysia, and with her he left the nurse Lychorida. When he went away, the little Marina knew not her loss, but Lychorida wept sadly at parting with her royal master. "O, no tears, Lychorida," said Pericles; "no tears; look to your little mistress, on whose grace you may depend hereafter." The pirate who had made Marina his prize carried her to Metaline, and sold her for a slave, where, though in that humble condition, Marina soon became known throughout the whole city of Metaline for her beauty and her virtues; and the person to whom she was sold became rich by the money she earned for him. She taught music, dancing, and fine needle works, and the money she got by her scholars she gave to her master and mistress; and the fame of her learning and her great industry came to the knowledge of Lysimachus, a young nobleman who was the governor of Metaline, and Lysimachus went himself to the house where Marina dwelt, to see this paragon of excellence, whom all the city praised so highly. Her conversation delighted Lysimachus beyond measure, for though he had heard much of this admired maiden, he did not expect to find her so sensible a lady, so virtuous, and so good, as he perceived Marina to be; and he left her, saying, he hoped she would persevere in her industrious and virtuous course, and that if ever she heard from him again, it should be for her good. Lysimachus thought Marina such a miracle for sense, fine breeding, and excellent qualities, as well as for beauty and all outward graces, that he wished to marry her, and notwithstanding her humble situation, he hoped to find that her birth was noble; but ever when they asked her parentage, she would sit still and weep. Meantime, at Tharsus, Leoline, fearing the anger of Dionysia, told her he had killed Marina; and that wicked woman gave out that she was dead, and made a pretended funeral for her, and erected a stately monument; and shortly after Pericles, accompanied by his loyal minister Hellicanus, made a voyage from Tyre to Tharsus, on purpose to see his daughter, intending to take her home with him; and, he never having beheld her since he left her an infant in the care of Cleon and his wife, how did this good prince rejoice at the thoughts of seeing this dear child of his buried queen! but when they told him Marina was dead, and showed the monument they had erected for her, great was the misery this most wretched father endured, and not being able to bear the sight of that country where his last hope and only memory of his dear Thaisa was entombed, he took ship, and hastily departed from Tharsus. From the day he entered the ship, a dull and heavy melancholy seized him. He never spoke, and seemed totally insensible to every thing around him. While he slept, Pericles dreamed a dream which made him resolve to go to Ephesus. His dream was, that Diana, the Goddess of the Ephesians, appeared to him, and commanded him to go to her temple at Ephesus, and there before her altar to declare the story of his life and misfortune; and by her silver bow she swore, that if he performed her injunction, he should meet with some rare felicity. When he awoke, being miraculously refreshed, he told his dream, and that his resolution was to obey the bidding of the Goddess. And Marina said, "My heart leaps to be gone into my mother's bosom." Then did Pericles shew his daughter to her mother, saying, "Look who kneels here, flesh of thy flesh, thy burthen at sea, and called Marina, because she was yielded there." "Blest and my own!" said Thaisa: and while she hung in rapturous joy over her child, Pericles knelt before the altar, saying, "Pure Diana, bless thee for thy vision. For this, I will offer oblations nightly to thee." And then and there did Pericles, with the consent of Thaisa, solemnly affiance their daughter, the virtuous Marina, to the well-deserving Lysimachus in marriage. Thus have we seen in Pericles, his queen, and daughter, a famous example of virtue assailed by calamity (through the sufferance of Heaven, to teach patience and constancy to men), under the same guidance becoming finally successful, and triumphing over chance and change. In Hellicanus we have beheld a notable pattern of truth, of faith, and loyalty, who, when he might have succeeded to a throne, chose rather to recall the rightful owner to his possession, than to become great by another's wrong. In the worthy Cerimon, who restored Thaisa to life, we are instructed how goodness directed by knowledge, in bestowing benefits upon mankind, approaches to the nature of the gods. It only remains to be told, that Dionysia, the wicked wife of Cleon, met with an end proportionable to her deserts; the inhabitants of Tharsus, when her cruel attempt upon Marina was known, rising in a body to revenge the daughter of their benefactor, and setting fire to the palace of Cleon, burnt both him and her, and their whole household: the gods seeming well pleased, that so foul a murder, though but intentional, and never carried into act, should be punished in a way befitting its enormity. THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES This work is designed as a supplement to the Adventures of Telemachus. It treats of the conduct and sufferings of Ulysses, the father of Telemachus. The picture which it exhibits is that of a brave man struggling with adversity; by a wise use of events, and with an inimitable presence of mind under difficulties, forcing out a way for himself through the severest trials to which human life can be exposed; with enemies natural and preternatural surrounding him on all sides. The agents in this tale, besides men and women, are giants, enchanters, sirens: things which denote external force or internal temptations, the twofold danger which a wise fortitude must expect to encounter in its course through this world. The fictions contained in it will be found to comprehend some of the most admired inventions of Grecian mythology. "Ho! guests, what are you? merchants or wandering thieves?" he bellowed out in a voice which took from them all power of reply, it was so astounding. Only Ulysses summoned resolution to answer, that they came neither for plunder nor traffick, but were Grecians who had lost their way, returning from Troy; which famous city, under the conduct of Agamemnon, the renowned son of Atreus, they had sacked, and laid level with the ground. Yet now they prostrated themselves humbly before his feet, whom they acknowledged to be mightier than they, and besought him that he would bestow the rites of hospitality upon them, for that Jove was the avenger of wrongs done to strangers, and would fiercely resent any injury which they might suffer. "Cyclop," he said, "take a bowl of wine from the hand of your guest: it may serve to digest the man's flesh that you have eaten, and shew what drink our ship held before it went down. All I ask in recompence, if you find it good, is to be dismissed in a whole skin. Truly you must look to have few visitors, if you observe this new custom of eating your guests." The brute took and drank, and vehemently enjoyed the taste of wine, which was new to him, and swilled again at the flaggon, and entreated for more, and prayed Ulysses to tell him his name, that he might bestow a gift upon the man who had given him such brave liquor. The Cyclops (he said) had grapes, but this rich juice (he swore) was simply divine. Again Ulysses plied him with the wine, and the fool drank it as fast as he poured out, and again he asked the name of his benefactor, which Ulysses cunningly dissembling, said, "My name is Noman: my kindred and friends in my own country call me Noman." "Then," said the Cyclop, "this is the kindness I will show thee, Noman: I will eat thee last of all thy friends." He had scarce expressed his savage kindness, when the fumes of the strong wine overcame him, and he reeled down upon the floor and sank into a dead sleep. Indignation seized AEolus to behold him in that manner returned; and he said, "Ulysses, what has brought you back? are you so soon tired of your country? or did not our present please you? we thought we had given you a kingly passport." Ulysses made answer; "My men have done this ill mischief to me: they did it while I slept." "Wretch," said AEolus, "avaunt, and quit our shores: it fits not us to convoy men whom the gods hate, and will have perish." On went the single ship till it came to the island of AEaea, where Circe the dreadful daughter of the Sun dwelt. She was deeply skilled in magic, a haughty beauty, and had hair like the Sun. The Sun was her parent, and begot her and her brother AEastes (such another as herself) upon Perse, daughter to Oceanus. Eurylochus and his party proceeded up the country, till in a dale they descried the house of Circe, built of bright stone, by the road's side. Before her gate lay many beasts, as wolves, lions, leopards, which, by her art, of wild, she had rendered tame. These arose when they saw strangers, and ramped upon their hinder paws, and fawned upon Eurylochus and his men, who dreaded the effects of such monstrous kindness; and staying at the gate they heard the enchantress within, sitting at her loom, singing such strains as suspended all mortal faculties, while she wove a web, subtle and glorious, and of texture inimitable on earth, as all the housewiferies of the deities are. Strains so ravishingly sweet, provoked even the sagest and prudentest heads among the party to knock and call at the gate. The shining gate the enchantress opened, and bad them come in and feast. They unwise followed, all but Eurylochus, who staid without the gate, suspicious that some train was laid for them. Being entered, she placed them in chairs of state, and set before them meal and honey, and Smyrna wine; but mixed with baneful drugs of powerful enchantment. When they had eaten of these, and drunk of her cup, she touched them with her charming-rod, and straight they were transformed into swine, having the bodies of swine, the bristles, and snout, and grunting noise of that animal; only they still retained the minds of men, which made them the more to lament their brutish transformation. Having changed them, she shut them up in her sty with many more whom her wicked sorceries had formerly changed, and gave them swine's food, mast, and acorns, and chestnuts, to eat. Eurylochus, who beheld nothing of these sad changes from where he was stationed without the gate, only instead of his companions that entered (who he thought had all vanished by witchcraft) beheld a herd of swine, hurried back to the ship, to give an account of what he had seen: but so frightened and perplexed, that he could give no distinct report of any thing, only he remembered a palace, and a woman singing at her work, and gates guarded by lions. But his companions, he said, were all vanished. Then Ulysses suspecting some foul witchcraft, snatched his sword, and his bow, and commanded Eurylochus instantly to lead him to the place. But Eurylochus fell down, and embracing his knees, besought him by the name of a man whom the gods had in their protection, not to expose his safety, and the safety of them all, to certain destruction. "Do thou then stay, Eurylochus?" answered Ulysses: "eat thou and drink in the ship in safety; while I go alone upon this adventure: necessity, from whose law is no appeal, compels me." Ulysses's soul melted at her moving narration, and forgetting the state of the dead, and that the airy texture of disembodied spirits does not admit of the embraces of flesh and blood, he threw his arms about her to clasp her: the poor ghost melted from his embrace, and looking mournfully upon him vanished away. But now came a mournful ghost, that late was Agamemnon, son of Atreus, the mighty leader of all the host of Greece and their confederate kings that warred against Troy. He came with the rest to sip a little of the blood at that uncomfortable banquet. Ulysses was moved with compassion to see him among them, and asked him what untimely fate had brought him there, if storms had overwhelmed him coming from Troy, or if he had perished in some mutiny by his own soldiers at a division of the prey. "By none of these," he replied, "did I come to my death; but slain at a banquet to which I was invited by AEgisthus after my return home. He conspiring with my adulterous wife, they laid a scheme for my destruction, training me forth to a banquet as an ox goes to the slaughter, and there surrounding me they slew me with all my friends about me. "Clytemnestra, my wicked wife, forgetting the vows which she swore to me in wedlock, would not lend a hand to close my eyes in death. But nothing is so heaped with impieties as such a woman, who would kill her spouse that married her a maid. When I brought her home to my house a bride, I hoped in my heart that she would be loving to me and to my children. Now, her black treacheries have cast a foul aspersion on her whole sex. Blest husbands will have their loving wives in suspicion for her bad deeds." "Alas!" said Ulysses, "there seems to be a fatality in your royal house of Atreus, and that they are hated of Jove for their wives. For Helen's sake, your brother Menelaus's wife, what multitudes fell in the wars of Troy!" To this Ulysses replied that he had received no certain tidings where Orestes abode, only some uncertain rumours which he could not report for truth. While they held this sad conference, with kind tears striving to render unkind fortunes more palatable, the soul of great Achilles joined them. "What desperate adventure has brought Ulysses to these regions," said Achilles, "to see the end of dead men, and their foolish shades?" Ulysses answered him that he had come to consult Tiresias respecting his voyage home. "But thou, O son of Thetis," said he, "why dost thou disparage the state of the dead? seeing that as alive thou didst surpass all men in glory, thou must needs retain thy pre-eminence here below: so great Achilles triumphs over death." But Achilles made reply, that he had much rather be a peasant-slave upon the earth, than reign over all the dead. So much did the inactivity and slothful condition of that state displease his unquenchable and restless spirit. Only he enquired of Ulysses if his father Peleus were living, and how his son Neoptolemus conducted himself. This made the soul of Achilles to tread a swifter pace, with high-raised feet, as he vanished away, for the joy which he took in his son being applauded by Ulysses. Then Ulysses saw a throne on which was placed a judge distributing sentence. He that sat on the throne was Minos, and he was dealing out just judgments to the dead. He it is that assigns them their place in bliss or woe. Then came by a thundering ghost, the large-limbed Orion, the mighty hunter, who was hunting there the ghosts of the beasts which he had slaughtered in desart hills upon the earth. For the dead delight in the occupations which pleased them in the time of their living upon the earth. There was Tantalus, plagued for his great sins, standing up to the chin in water, which he can never taste, but still as he bows his head, thinking to quench his burning thirst, instead of water he licks up unsavoury dust. All fruits pleasant to the sight, and of delicious flavour, hang in ripe clusters about his head, seeming as though they offered themselves to be plucked by him; but when he reaches out his hand, some wind carries them far out of his sight into the clouds: so he is starved in the midst of plenty by the righteous doom of Jove, in memory of that inhuman banquet at which the sun turned pale, when the unnatural father served up the limbs of his little son in a dish, as meat for his divine guests. There was Sisyphus, that sees no end to his labours. His punishment is, to be for ever rolling up a vast stone to the top of a mountain, which when it gets to the top, falls down with a crushing weight, and all his work is to be begun again. He was bathed all over in sweat, that reeked out a smoke which covered his head like a mist. His crime had been the revealing of state secrets. There Ulysses saw Hercules: not that Hercules who enjoys immortal life in heaven among the gods, and is married to Hebe or Youth; but his shadow which remains below. About him the dead flocked as thick as bats, hovering around, and cuffing at his head: he stands with his dreadful bow, ever in the act to shoot. There also might Ulysses have seen and spoken with the shades of Theseus, and Pirithous, and the old heroes; but he had conversed enough with horrors: therefore covering his face with his hands, that he might see no more spectres, he resumed his seat in his ship, and pushed off. The bark moved of itself without the help of any oar, and soon brought him out of the regions of death into the cheerful quarters of the living, and to the island of AEaea, whence he had set forth. With these prophetic greetings great Circe met Ulysses on his return. He besought her to instruct him in the nature of the Sirens, and by what method their baneful allurements were to be resisted. Then Ulysses enquired, in case he should escape Charybdis, whether he might not assail that other monster with his sword: to which she replied that he must not think that he had an enemy subject to death, or wounds, to contend with: for Scylla could never die. Therefore, his best safety was in flight, and to invoke none of the gods but Cratis, who is Scylla's mother, and might perhaps forbid her daughter to devour them. For his conduct after he arrived at Trinacria she referred him to the admonitions which had been given him by Tiresias. Ulysses having communicated her instructions, as far as related to the Sirens, to his companions, who had not been present at that interview; but concealing from them the rest, as he had done the terrible predictions of Tiresias, that they might not be deterred by fear from pursuing their voyage: the time for departure being come, they set their sails, and took a final leave of great Circe; who by her art calmed the heavens, and gave them smooth seas, and a right fore wind (the seaman's friend) to bear them on their way to Ithaca. Come here, thou, worthy of a world of praise, That dost so high the Grecian glory raise; Ulysses! stay thy ship; and that song hear That none past ever, but it bent his ear, But left him ravish'd, and instructed more By us, than any, ever heard before. For we know all things, whatsoever were In wide Troy labour'd; whatsoever there The Grecians and the Trojans both sustain'd: By those high issues that the gods ordain'd: And whatsoever all the earth can show To inform a knowledge of desert, we know. These were the words, but the celestial harmony of the voices which sang them no tongue can describe: it took the ear of Ulysses with ravishment. He would have broke his bonds to rush after them; and threatened, wept, sued, entreated, commanded, crying out with tears and passionate imprecations, conjuring his men by all the ties of perils past which they had endured in common, by fellowship and love, and the authority which he retained among them, to let him loose; but at no rate would they obey him. And still the Sirens sang. Ulysses made signs, motions, gestures, promising mountains of gold if they would set him free; but their oars only moved faster. And still the Sirens sung. And still the more he adjured them to set him free, the faster with cords and ropes they bound him; till they were quite out of hearing of the Sirens' notes, whose effect great Circe had so truly predicted. And well she might speak of them, for often she had joined her own enchanting voice to theirs, while she has sat in the flowery meads, mingled with the Sirens and the Water Nymphs, gathering their potent herbs and drugs of magic quality: their singing altogether has made the gods stoop, and "heaven drowsy with the harmony." In the morning Ulysses urged them again to a religious observance of the oath that they had sworn, not in any case to attempt the blood of those fair herds which they saw grazing, but to content themselves with the ship's food; for the god who owned those cattle sees and hears all. But to their feast they fell, dividing the roasted portions of the flesh, savoury and pleasant meat to them, but a sad sight to the eyes, and a savour of death in the nostrils, of the waking Ulysses; who just woke in time to witness, but not soon enough to prevent, their rash and sacrilegious banquet. He had scarce time to ask what great mischief was this which they had done unto him, when behold, a prodigy! the ox-hides which they had stripped, began to creep, as if they had life; and the roasted flesh bellowed as the ox used to do when he was living. The hair of Ulysses stood up on end with affright at these omens; but his companions, like men whom the gods had infatuated to their destruction, persisted in their horrible banquet. The Sun from his burning chariot saw how Ulysses's men had slain his oxen, and he cried to his father Jove, "Revenge me upon these impious men who have slain my oxen, which it did me good to look upon when I walked my heavenly round. In all my daily course I never saw such bright and beautiful creatures as those my oxen were." The father promised that ample retribution should be taken of those accursed men: which was fulfilled shortly after, when they took their leaves of the fatal island. A memorable example of married love, and a worthy instance how dear to every good man his country is, was exhibited by Ulysses. If Circe loved him sincerely, Calypso loves him with tenfold more warmth and passion: she can deny him nothing, but his departure; she offers him every thing, even to a participation of her immortality: if he will stay and share in her pleasures, he shall never die. But death with glory has greater charms for a mind heroic, than a life that shall never die, with shame; and when he pledged his vows to his Penelope, he reserved no stipulation that he would forsake her whenever a goddess should think him worthy of her bed, but they had sworn to live and grow old together: and he would not survive her if he could, nor meanly share in immortality itself, from which she was excluded. His message struck a horror, checked by love, through all the faculties of Calypso. She replied to it incensed: "You gods are insatiate past all that live, in all things which you affect; which makes you so envious and grudging. It afflicts you to the heart, when any goddess seeks the love of a mortal man in marriage, though you yourselves without scruple link yourselves to women of the earth. So it fared with you, when the delicious-fingered Morning shared Orion's bed; you could never satisfy your hate and your jealousy, till you had incensed the chastity-loving dame, Diana, _who leads the precise life_, to come upon him by stealth in Ortygia, and pierce him through with her arrows. And when rich-haired Ceres gave the reins to her affections, and took Iasion (well worthy) to her arms, the secret was not so cunningly kept but Jove had soon notice of it, and the poor mortal paid for his felicity with death, struck through with lightnings. And now you envy me the possession of a wretched man, whom tempests have cast upon my shores, making him lawfully mine; whose ship Jove rent in pieces with his hot thunderbolts, killing all his friends. Him I have preserved, loved, nourished, made him mine by protection, my creature, by every tie of gratitude, mine; have vowed to make him deathless like myself; him you will take from me. But I know your power, and that it is vain for me to resist. Tell your king that I obey his mandates." She said to him: "Unhappy man, no longer afflict yourself with pining after your country, but build you a ship, with which you may return home; since it is the will of the gods: who doubtless as they are greater in power than I, are greater in skill, and best can tell what is fittest for man. But I call the gods, and my inward conscience, to witness, that I had no thought but what stood with thy safety, nor would have done or counselled any thing against thy good. I persuaded thee to nothing which I should not have followed myself in thy extremity: for my mind is innocent and simple. O, if thou knewest what dreadful sufferings thou must yet endure, before ever thou reachest thy native land, thou wouldest not esteem so hardly of a goddess's offer to share her immortality with thee; nor, for a few years enjoyment of a perishing Penelope, refuse an imperishable and never-dying life with Calypso." Neptune returning from visiting his favourite AEthiopians, from the mountains of the Solymi, descried Ulysses ploughing the waves, his domain. The sight of the man he so much hated for Polyphemus's sake, his son, whose eye Ulysses had put out, set the god's heart on fire; and snatching into his hand his horrid sea-sceptre, the trident of his power, he smote the air and the sea, and conjured up all his black storms, calling down night from the cope of heaven, and taking the earth into the sea, as it seemed, with clouds, through the darkness and indistinctness which prevailed, the billows rolling up before the fury of all the winds, that contended together in their mighty sport. Then the knees of Ulysses bent with fear, and then all his spirit was spent, and he wished that he had been among the number of his countrymen who fell before Troy, and had their funerals celebrated by all the Greeks, rather than to perish thus, where no man could mourn him or know him. She guided his wearied and nigh-exhausted limbs to the mouth of the fair river Callicoe, which not far from thence disbursed its watery tribute to the ocean. Here the shores were easy and accessible, and the rocks, which rather adorned than defended its banks, so smooth, that they seemed polished of purpose to invite the landing of our sea-wanderer, and to atone for the uncourteous treatment which those less hospitable cliffs had afforded him. And the god of the river, as if in pity, stayed his current and smoothed his waters, to make his landing more easy: for sacred to the ever-living deities of the fresh waters, be they mountain-stream, river, or lake, is the cry of erring mortals that seek their aid, by reason that being inland-bred they partake more of the gentle humanities of our nature than those marine deities, whom Neptune trains up in tempests in the unpitying recesses of his salt abyss. Then he kissed the humble earth in token of safety, and on he went by the side of that pleasant river, till he came where a thicker shade of rushes that grew on its banks seemed to point out the place where he might rest his sea-wearied limbs. And here a fresh perplexity divided his mind, whether he should pass the night, which was coming on, in that place, where, though he feared no other enemies, the damps and frosts of the chill sea-air in that exposed situation might be death to him in his weak state; or whether he had better climb the next hill, and pierce the depth of some shady wood, in which he might find a warm and sheltered though insecure repose, subject to the approach of any wild beast that roamed that way. Best did this last course appear to him, though with some danger, as that which was more honourable and savoured more of strife and self-exertion, than to perish without a struggle the passive victim of cold and the elements. "Nausicaa, why do you lie sleeping here, and never bestow a thought upon your bridal ornaments, of which you have many and beautiful, laid up in your wardrobe against the day of your marriage, which cannot be far distant; when you shall have need of all, not only to deck your own person, but to give away in presents to the virgins that honouring you shall attend you to the temple? Your reputation stands much upon the timely care of these things; these things are they which fill father and reverend mother with delight. Let us arise betimes to wash your fair vestments of linen and silks in the river; and request your sire to lend you mules and a coach, for your wardrobe is heavy, and the place where we must wash is distant, and besides it fits not a great princess like you to go so far on foot." So saying she went away, and Nausicaa awoke, full of pleasing thoughts of her marriage, which the dream had told her was not far distant; and as soon as it was dawn, she arose and dressed herself, and went to find her parents. "My father," she said, "will you not order mules and a coach to be got ready, that I may go and wash, I and my maids, at the cisterns that stand without the city?" "What washing does my daughter speak of?" said Alcinous. She used this plea, modestly dissembling her care of her own nuptials to her father; who was not displeased at this instance of his daughter's discretion: for a seasonable care about marriage may be permitted to a young maiden, provided it be accompanied with modesty and dutiful submission to her parents in the choice of her future husband: and there was no fear of Nausicaa chusing wrongly or improperly, for she was as wise as she was beautiful, and the best in all Phaeacia were suitors to her for her love. So Alcinous readily gave consent that she should go, ordering mules and a coach to be prepared. And Nausicaa brought from her chamber all her vestments, and laid them up in the coach, and her mother placed bread and wine in the coach, and oil in a golden cruse, to soften the bright skins of Nausicaa and her maids when they came out of the river. Nausicaa making her maids get up into the coach with her, lashed the mules, till they brought her to the cisterns which stood a little on the outside of the town, and were supplied with water from the river Callicoe. At the sound of female voices Ulysses crept forth from his retirement, making himself a covering with boughs and leaves as well as he could to shroud his nakedness. The sudden appearance of his weather-beaten and almost naked form, so frighted the maidens that they scudded away into the woods and all about to hide themselves, only Minerva (who had brought about this interview to admirable purposes, by seemingly accidental means) put courage into the breast of Nausicaa, and she stayed where she was, and resolved to know what manner of man he was, and what was the occasion of his strange coming to them. He not venturing (for delicacy) to approach and clasp her knees, as suppliants should, but standing far off, addressed this speech to the young princess: She making answer that she was no goddess, but a mortal maid, he continued: Ulysses retiring a little out of sight, cleansed him in the cisterns from the soil and impurities with which the rocks and waves had covered all his body, and clothing himself with befitting raiment, which the princess's attendants had given him, he presented himself in more worthy shape to Nausicaa. She admired to see what a comely personage he was, now he was dressed in all parts; she thought him some king or hero: and secretly wished that the gods would be pleased to give her such a husband. Then causing her attendants to yoke her mules, and lay up the vestments, which the sun's heat had sufficiently dried, in the coach, she ascended with her maids, and drove off to the palace; bidding Ulysses, as she departed, keep an eye upon the coach, and to follow it on foot at some distance: which she did, because if she had suffered him to have rode in the coach with her, it might have subjected her to some misconstructions of the common people, who are always ready to vilify and censure their betters, and to suspect that charity is not always pure charity, but that love or some sinister intention lies hid under its disguise. So discreet and attentive to appearance in all her actions was this admirable princess. He seemed a petitioner of so great state and of so superior a deportment, that Alcinous himself arose to do him honour, and causing him to leave that abject station which he had assumed, placed him next to his throne, upon a chair of state, and thus he spake to his peers: When it was day-light, Alcinous caused it to be proclaimed by the heralds about the town, that there was come to the palace a stranger, shipwrecked on their coast, that in mien and person resembled a god: and inviting all the chief people of the city to come and do honour to the stranger. This brave contention he expressed so to the life, in the very words which they both used in the quarrel, as brought tears into the eyes of Ulysses at the remembrance of past passages of his life, and he held his large purple weed before his face to conceal it. Then craving a cup of wine, he poured it out in secret libation to the gods, who had put into the mind of Demodocus unknowingly to do him so much honour. But when the moving poet began to tell of other occurrences where Ulysses had been present, the memory of his brave followers who had been with him in all difficulties, now swallowed up and lost in the ocean, and of those kings that had fought with him at Troy, some of whom were dead, some exiles like himself, forced itself so strongly upon his mind, that forgetful where he was, he sobbed outright with passion; which yet he restrained, but not so cunningly but Alcinous perceived it, and without taking notice of it to Ulysses, privately gave signs that Demodocus should cease from his singing. Next followed dancing in the Phaeacian fashion, when they would shew respect to their guests; which was succeeded by trials of skill, games of strength, running, racing, hurling of the quoit, mock fights, hurling of the javelin, shooting with the bow: in some of which Ulysses modestly challenging his entertainers, performed such feats of strength and prowess as gave the admiring Phaeacians fresh reason to imagine that he was either some god, or hero of the race of the gods. "The courtesies which ye all have shewn me, and in particular yourself and princely daughter, O king Alcinous, demand from me that I should no longer keep you in ignorance of what or who I am; for to reserve any secret from you, who have with such openness of friendship embraced my love, would argue either a pusillanimous or an ungrateful mind in me. Know then that I am that _Ulysses_, of whom I perceive ye have heard something; who heretofore have filled the world with the renown of my policies. I am he by whose counsels, if Fame is to be believed at all, more than by the united valour of all the Grecians, Troy fell. I am that unhappy man whom the heavens and angry gods have conspired to keep an exile on the seas, wandering to seek my home which still flies from me. The land which I am in quest of is Ithaca; in whose ports some ship belonging to your navigation-famed Phaeacian state may haply at some time have found a refuge from tempests. If ever you have experienced such kindness, requite it now; by granting to me, who am the king of that land, a passport to that land." He whose life past had been a series of disquiets, in seas among rude waves, in battles amongst ruder foes, now slept securely, forgetting all; his eye-lids bound in such deep sleep, as only yielded to death: and when they reached the nearest Ithacan port by the next morning, he was still asleep. The mariners not willing to awake him, landed him softly, and laid him in a cave at the foot of an olive tree, which made a shady recess in that narrow harbour, the haunt of almost none but the sea-nymphs, which are called Naiads; few ships before this Phaeacian vessel having put into that haven, by reason of the difficulty and narrowness of the entrance. Here leaving him asleep, and disposing in safe places near him the presents with which king Alcinous had dismissed him, they departed for Phaeacia; where these wretched mariners never again set foot; but just as they arrived, and thought to salute their country earth; in sight of their city's turrets, and in open view of their friends who from the harbour with shouts greeted their return; their vessel and all the mariners which were in her were turned to stone, and stood transformed and fixed in sight of the whole Phaeacian city, where it yet stands, by Neptune's vindictive wrath; who resented thus highly the contempt which those Phaeacians had shown in convoying home a man whom the god had destined to destruction. Whence it comes to pass that the Phaeacians at this day will at no price be induced to lend their ships to strangers, or to become the carriers for other nations, so highly do they still dread the displeasure of the sea-god, while they see that terrible monument ever in sight. "I had thought," said he, "that all people knew our land. It is rocky and barren, to be sure; but well enough: it feeds a goat or an ox well; it is not wanting neither in wine or in wheat; it has good springs of water, some fair rivers; and wood enough, as you may see: it is called Ithaca." Ulysses looked again; and he saw, not a shepherd, but a beautiful woman, whom he immediately knew to be the goddess Minerva, that in the wars of Troy had frequently vouchsafed her sight to him; and had been with him since in perils, saving him unseen. And Minerva knew his thoughts, and she said, "I will be strongly with thee, if thou fail not to do thy part. And for a sign between us that I will perform my promise, and for a token on thy part of obedience, I must change thee, that thy person may not be known of men." To complete his humiliation, and to prove his obedience by suffering, she next directed him in this beggarly attire to go and present himself to his old herdsman Eumaeus, who had the care of his swine and his cattle, and had been a faithful steward to him all the time of his absence. Then strictly charging Ulysses that he should reveal himself to no man, but to his own son, whom she would send to him when she saw occasion, the goddess went her way. The transformed Ulysses bent his course to the cottage of the herdsman, and entering in at the front court, the dogs, of which Eumaeus kept many fierce ones for the protection of the cattle, flew with open mouths upon him, as those ignoble animals have oftentimes an antipathy to the sight of any thing like a beggar, and would have rent him in pieces with their teeth, if Ulysses had not had the prudence to let fall his staff, which had chiefly provoked their fury, and sat himself down in a careless fashion upon the ground: but for all that some serious hurt had certainly been done to him, so raging the dogs were, had not the herdsman, whom the barking of the dogs had fetched out of the house, with shouting and with throwing of stones repressed them. Then he had his guest into the house, and set meat and drink before him; and Ulysses said, "May Jove and all the other gods requite you for the kind speeches and hospitable usage which you have shewn me!" Ulysses gave good ear to his words, and as he ate his meat, he even tore it and rent it with his teeth, for mere vexation that his fat cattle should be slain to glut the appetites of those godless suitors. And he said, "What chief or what ruler is this, that thou commendest so highly, and sayest that he perished at Troy? I am but a stranger in these parts. It may be I have heard of some such in my long travels." For this saying of Eumaeus the waters stood in Ulysses's eyes, and he said, "My friend, to say and to affirm positively that he cannot be alive, is to give too much licence to incredulity. For, not to speak at random, but with as much solemnity as an oath comes to, I say to you that Ulysses shall return, and whenever that day shall be, then shall you give to me a cloak and a coat; but till then, I will not receive so much as a thread of a garment, but rather go naked; for no less than the gates of hell do I hate that man, whom poverty can force to tell an untruth. Be Jove then witness to my words, that this very year, nay ere this month be fully ended, your eyes shall behold Ulysses, dealing vengeance in his own palace upon the wrongers of his wife and his son." So while they sat discoursing in this manner, supper was served in, and the servants of the herdsman, who had been out all day in the fields, came in to supper, and took their seats at the fire, for the night was bitter and frosty. After supper, Ulysses, who had well eaten and drunken, and was refreshed with the herdsman's good cheer, was resolved to try whether his host's hospitality would extend to the lending him a good warm mantle or rug to cover him in the night-season; and framing an artful tale for the purpose, in a merry mood, filling a cup of Greek wine, he thus began: The herdsmen crowded about him eager to hear any thing which related to their king Ulysses and the wars of Troy, and thus he went on: The tale pleased the herdsmen; and Eumaeus, who more than all the rest was gratified to hear tales of Ulysses, true or false, said, that for his story he deserved a mantle, and a night's lodging, which he should have; and he spread for him a bed of goat and sheep skins by the fire; and the seeming beggar, who was indeed the true Ulysses, lay down and slept under that poor roof, in that abject disguise to which the will of Minerva had subjected him. When morning was come, Ulysses made offer to depart, as if he were not willing to burthen his host's hospitality any longer, but said, that he would go and try the humanity of the town's folk, if any there would bestow upon him a bit of bread or a cup of drink. Perhaps the queen's suitors (he said) out of their full feasts would bestow a scrap on him: for he could wait at table, if need were, and play the nimble serving-man, he could fetch wood (he said) or build a fire, prepare roast meat or boiled, mix the wine with water, or do any of those offices which recommended poor men like him to services in great men's houses. "Alas! poor guest," said Eumaeus, "you know not what you speak. What should so poor and old a man as you do at the suitors' tables? Their light minds are not given to such grave servitors. They must have youths, richly tricked out in flowing vests, with curled hair, like so many of Jove's cup-bearers, to fill out the wine to them as they sit at table, and to shift their trenchers. Their gorged insolence would but despise and make a mock at thy age. Stay here. Perhaps the queen, or Telemachus, hearing of thy arrival, may send to thee of their bounty." "He brags himself to be a Cretan born," said Eumaeus, "and that he has been a soldier and a traveller, but whether he speak the truth or not, he alone can tell. But whatsoever he has been, what he is now is apparent. Such as he appears, I give him to you; do what you will with him; his boast at present is that he is at the very best a supplicant." "Be he what he may," said Telemachus, "I accept him at your hands. But where I should bestow him I know not, seeing that in the palace his age would not exempt him from the scorn and contempt which my mother's suitors in their light minds would be sure to fling upon him. A mercy if he escaped without blows: for they are a company of evil men, whose profession is wrongs and violence." Ulysses answered: "Since it is free for any man to speak in presence of your greatness, I must say that my heart puts on a wolfish inclination to tear and to devour, hearing your speech, that these suitors should with such injustice rage, where you should have the rule solely. What should the cause be? do you wilfully give way to their ill manners? or has your government been such as has procured ill will towards you from your people? or do you mistrust your kinsfolk and friends in such sort, as without trial to decline their aid? a man's kindred are they that he might trust to when extremities ran high." Telemachus replied: "The kindred of Ulysses are few. I have no brothers to assist me in the strife. But the suitors are powerful in kindred and friends. The house of old Arcesius has had this fate from the heavens, that from old it still has been supplied with single heirs. To Arcesius Laertes only was born, from Laertes descended only Ulysses, from Ulysses I alone have sprung, whom he left so young, that from me never comfort arose to him. But the end of all rests in the hands of the gods." Then Eumaeus departing to see to some necessary business of his herds, Minerva took a woman's shape, and stood in the entry of the door, and was seen to Ulysses, but by his son she was not seen, for the presences of the gods are invisible save to those to whom they will to reveal themselves. Nevertheless the dogs which were about the door saw the goddess, and durst not bark, but went crouching and licking of the dust for fear. And giving signs to Ulysses that the time was now come in which he should make himself known to his son, by her great power she changed back his shape into the same which it was before she transformed him; and Telemachus, who saw the change, but nothing of the manner by which it was effected, only he saw the appearance of a king in the vigour of his age where but just now he had seen a worn and decrepit beggar, was struck with fear, and said, "Some god has done this house this honour," and he turned away his eyes, and would have worshipped. But his father permitted not, but said, "Look better at me; I am no deity, why put you upon me the reputation of godhead? I am no more but thy father: I am even he; I am that Ulysses, by reason of whose absence thy youth has been exposed to such wrongs from injurious men." Then kissed he his son, nor could any longer refrain those tears which he had held under such mighty restraint before, though they would ever be forcing themselves out in spite of him; but now, as if their sluices had burst, they came out like rivers, pouring upon the warm cheeks of his son. Nor yet by all these violent arguments could Telemachus be persuaded to believe that it was his father, but he said, some deity had taken that shape to mock him; for he affirmed, that it was not in the power of any man, who is sustained by mortal food, to change his shape so in a moment from age to youth: for "but now," said he, "you were all wrinkles, and were old, and now you look as the gods are pictured." Then said Ulysses, "Tell me who these suitors are, what are their numbers, and how stands the queen thy mother affected to them?" Then said Ulysses, "Reckon up their numbers that we may know their strength and ours, if we having none but ourselves may hope to prevail against them." "Thinkest thou," said his father, "if we had Minerva and the king of skies to be our friends, would their sufficiencies make strong our part; or must we look out for some further aid yet?" "They you speak of are above the clouds," said Telemachus, "and are sound aids indeed; as powers that not only exceed human, but bear the chiefest sway among the gods themselves." Then Ulysses gave directions to his son, to go and mingle with the suitors, and in no wise to impart his secret to any, not even to the queen his mother, but to hold himself in readiness, and to have his weapons and his good armour in preparation. And he charged him, that when he himself should come to the palace, as he meant to follow shortly after, and present himself in his beggar's likeness to the suitors, that whatever he should see which might grieve his heart, with what foul usage and contumelious language soever the suitors should receive his father, coming in that shape, though they should strike and drag him by the heels along the floors, that he should not stir nor make offer to oppose them, further than by mild words to expostulate with them, until Minerva from heaven should give the sign which should be the prelude to their destruction. And Telemachus promising to obey his instructions departed; and the shape of Ulysses fell to what it had been before, and he became to all outward appearance a beggar, in base and beggarly attire. Then Antinous, who was a great lord, and of chief note among the suitors, said, "Prince Telemachus does ill to encourage these wandering beggars, who go from place to place, affirming that they have been some considerable persons in their time, filling the ears of such as hearken to them with lies, and pressing with their bold feet into kings' palaces. This is some saucy vagabond, some travelling Egyptian." "I see," said Ulysses, "that a poor man should get but little at your board, scarce should he get salt from your hands, if he brought his own meat." Lord Antinous, indignant to be answered with such sharpness by a supposed beggar, snatched up a stool, with which he smote Ulysses where the neck and shoulders join. This usage moved not Ulysses; but in his great heart he meditated deep evils to come upon them all, which for a time must be kept close, and he went and sat himself down in the door-way to eat of that which was given him, and he said, "For life or possessions a man will fight, but for his belly this man smites. If a poor man has any god to take his part, my lord Antinous shall not live to be the queen's husband." Then Antinous raged highly, and threatened to drag him by the heels, and to rend his rags about his ears, if he spoke another word. The suitors applauded in their vain minds the issue of the contest, and rioted in mirth at the expense of poor Irus, who they vowed should be forthwith embarked, and sent to king Echetus; and they bestowed thanks on Ulysses for ridding the court of that unsavory morsel, as they called him; but in their inward souls they would not have cared if Irus had been victor, and Ulysses had taken the foil, but it was mirth to them to see the beggars fight. In such pastimes and light entertainments the day wore away. When evening was come the suitors betook themselves to music and dancing. And Ulysses leaned his back against a pillar from which certain lamps hung which gave light to the dancers, and he made show of watching the dancers, but very different thoughts were in his head. And as he stood near the lamps, the light fell upon his head, which was thin of hair and bald, as an old man's. And Eurymachus, a suitor, taking occasion from some words which were spoken before, scoffed and said, "Now I know for a certainty that some god lurks under the poor and beggarly appearance of this man, for as he stands by the lamps, his sleek head throws beams around it, like as it were a glory." And another said, "He passes his time too not much unlike the gods, lazily living exempt from labour, taking offerings of men." "I warrant," said Eurymachus again, "he could not raise a fence or dig a ditch for his livelihood, if a man would hire him to work in a garden." They bit their lips and frowned for anger, to be checked so by a youth; nevertheless for that time they had the grace to abstain, either for shame, or that Minerva had infused into them a terror of Ulysses's son. Then was Ulysses right glad to hear himself named by his queen, to find himself in no wise forgotten, nor her great love towards him decayed in all that time that he had been away. And he stood before his queen, and she knew him not to be Ulysses, but supposed that he had been some poor traveller. And she asked him of what country he was. In this manner Ulysses told his wife many tales of himself, at most but painting, but painting so near to the life, that the feeling of that which she took at her ears became so strong, that the kindly tears ran down her fair cheeks, while she thought upon her lord, dead as she thought him, and heavily mourned the loss of him whom she missed, whom she could not find, though in very deed he stood so near her. Ulysses was moved to see her weep, but he kept his own eyes as dry as iron or horn in their lids, putting a bridle upon his strong passion, that it should not issue to sight. Then said Ulysses, "This dream can endure no other interpretation than that which the hawk gave to it, who is your lord, and who is coming quickly to effect all that his words told you." "Your words," she said, "my old guest, are so sweet, that would you sit and please me with your speech, my ears would never let my eyes close their spheres for very joy of your discourse; but none that is merely mortal can live without the death of sleep, so the gods who are without death themselves have ordained it, to keep the memory of our mortality in our minds, while we experience that as much as we live we die every day: in which consideration I will ascend my bed, which I have nightly watered with my tears since he that was the joy of it departed for that bad city:" she so speaking, because she could not bring her lips to name the name of Troy so much hated. So for that night they parted, Penelope to her bed, and Ulysses to his son, and to the armour and the lances in the hall, where they sat up all night cleaning and watching by the armour. But Theoclymenus (for that was the prophet's name) whom Minerva had graced with a prophetic spirit, that he foreseeing might avoid the destruction which awaited them, answered and said: "Eurymachus, I will not require a guide of thee for I have eyes and ears, the use of both my feet, and a sane mind within me, and with these I will go forth of the doors because I know the imminent evils which await all you that stay, by reason of this poor guest who is a favourite with all the gods." So saying he turned his back upon those inhospitable men, and went away home, and never returned to the palace. These words which he spoke were not unheard by Telemachus, who kept still his eye upon his father, expecting fervently when he would give the sign, which was to precede the slaughter of the suitors. They dreaming of no such thing, fell sweetly to their dinner, as joying in the great store of banquet which was heaped in full tables about them; but there reigned not a bitterer banquet planet in all heaven, than that which hung over them this day by secret destination of Minerva. There was a bow which Ulysses left when he went for Troy. It had lain by since that time, out of use and unstrung, for no man had strength to draw that bow, save Ulysses. So it had remained, as a monument of the great strength of its master. This bow, with the quiver of arrows belonging thereto, Telemachus had brought down from the armoury on the last night along with the lances; and now Minerva, intending to do Ulysses an honour, put it into the mind of Telemachus, to propose to the suitors to try who was strongest to draw that bow; and he promised that to the man who should be able to draw that bow, his mother should be given in marriage; Ulysses's wife the prize to him who should bend the bow of Ulysses. There was great strife and emulation stirred up among the suitors at those words of the prince Telemachus. And to grace her son's words, and to confirm the promise which he had made, Penelope came and shewed herself that day to the suitors; and Minerva made her that she appeared never so comely in their sight as that day, and they were inflamed with the beholding of so much beauty, proposed as the price of so great manhood; and they cried out, that if all those heroes who sailed to Colchos for the rich purchase of the golden-fleeced ram, had seen earth's richer prize, Penelope, they would not have made their voyage, but would have vowed their valours and their lives to her, for she was at all parts faultless. And she said, "The gods have taken my beauty from me, since my lord went for Troy." But Telemachus willed his mother to depart and not be present at that contest, for he said, "It may be, some rougher strife shall chance of this, than may be expedient for a woman to witness." And she retired, she and her maids, and left the hall. Then Ulysses prayed them that he might have leave to try; and immediately a clamour was raised among the suitors, because of his petition, and they scorned and swelled with rage at his presumption, and that a beggar should seek to contend in a game of such noble mastery. But Telemachus ordered that the bow should be given him, and that he should have leave to try, since they had failed; "for," he said, "the bow is mine, to give or to withhold:" and none durst gainsay the prince. The upper rags which Ulysses wore fell from his shoulder, and his own kingly likeness returned, when he rushed to the great hall door with bow and quiver full of shafts, which down at his feet he poured, and in bitter words presignified his deadly intent to the suitors. "Thus far," he said, "this contest has been decided harmless: now for us there rests another mark, harder to hit, but which my hands shall essay notwithstanding, if Phoebus god of archers be pleased to give me the mastery." With that he let fly a deadly arrow at Antinous, which pierced him in the throat as he was in the act of lifting a cup of wine to his mouth. Amazement seized the suitors, as their great champion fell dead, and they raged highly against Ulysses, and said that it should prove the dearest shaft which he ever let fly, for he had slain a man, whose like breathed not in any part of the kingdom: and they flew to their arms, and would have seized the lances, but Minerva struck them with dimness of sight that they went erring up and down the hall, not knowing where to find them. Yet so infatuated were they by the displeasure of heaven, that they did not see the imminent peril which impended over them, but every man believed that this accident had happened beside the intention of the doer. Fools! to think by shutting their eyes to evade destiny, or that any other cup remained for them, but that which their great Antinous had tasted! Then certain of the queen's household went up and told Penelope what had happened, and how her lord Ulysses was come home, and had slain the suitors. But she gave no heed to their words, but thought that some frenzy possessed them, or that they mocked her: for it is the property of such extremes of sorrow as she had felt, not to believe when any great joy cometh. And she rated and chid them exceedingly for troubling her. But they the more persisted in their asseverations of the truth of what they had affirmed; and some of them had seen the slaughtered bodies of the suitors dragged forth of the hall. And they said, "That poor guest whom you talked with last night was Ulysses." Then she was yet more fully persuaded that they mocked her, and she wept. But they said, "This thing is true which we have told. We sat within, in an inner room in the palace, and the doors of the hall were shut on us, but we heard the cries and the groans of the men that were killed, but saw nothing, till at length your son called to us to come in, and entering we saw Ulysses standing in the midst of the slaughtered." But she persisting in her unbelief, said, that it was some god which had deceived them to think it was the person of Ulysses. So from that time the land had rest from the suitors. And the happy Ithacans with songs and solemn sacrifices of praise to the gods celebrated the return of Ulysses: for he that had been so long absent was returned to wreak the evil upon the heads of the doers; in the place where they had done the evil, there wreaked he his vengeance upon them. MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL: THE HISTORY OF SEVERAL YOUNG LADIES, RELATED BY THEMSELVES THE YOUNG LADIES AT AMWELL SCHOOL My dear young friends, Though released from the business of the school, the absence of your governess confines me to Amwell during the vacation. I cannot better employ my leisure hours than in contributing to the amusement of you my kind pupils, who, by your affectionate attentions to my instructions, have rendered a life of labour pleasant to me. On your return to school I hope to have a fair copy ready to present to each of you of your own biographical conversations last winter. Accept my thanks for the approbation you were pleased to express when I offered to become your _amanuensis_. I hope you will find I have executed the office with a tolerably faithful pen, as you know I took notes each day during those conversations, and arranged my materials after you were retired to rest. I invited you to draw near a bright fire which blazed in the chimney, and looked the only cheerful thing in the room. After many objections of not knowing what to say, or how to begin, which I overcame by assuring you how easy it would be, for that every person is naturally eloquent when they are the hero or heroine of their own tale, the _Who should begin_ was next in question. If in my report of her story, or in any which follow, I shall appear to make her or you speak an older language than it seems probable that you should use, speaking in your own words, it must be remembered, that what is very proper and becoming when spoken, requires to be arranged with some little difference before it can be set down in writing. Little inaccuracies must be pared away, and the whole must assume a more formal and correct appearance. My own way of thinking, I am sensible, will too often intrude itself, but I have endeavoured to preserve, as exactly as I could, your own words, and your own peculiarities of style and manner, and to approve myself Your faithful historiographer, as well as true friend, When my uncle saw me sitting on the stile, and heard me pronounce my mother's name, he looked earnestly in my face, and began to fancy a resemblance to his sister, and to think I might be her child. I was too intent on my employment to observe him, and went spelling on. "Who has taught you to spell so prettily, my little maid?" said my uncle. "Mamma," I replied; for I had an idea that the words on the tombstone were somehow a part of mamma, and that she had taught me. "And who is mamma?" asked my uncle. "Elizabeth Villiers," I replied; and then my uncle called me his dear little niece, and said he would go with me to mamma: he took hold of my hand, intending to lead me home, delighted that he had found out who I was, because he imagined it would be such a pleasant surprise to his sister to see her little daughter bringing home her long lost sailor uncle. How long my uncle remained in this agony of grief I know not; to me it seemed a very long time: at last he took me in his arms, and held me so tight, that I began to cry, and ran home to my father, and told him, that a gentleman was crying about mamma's pretty letters. My uncle soon learned from Susan that this place was our constant haunt; she told him she did verily believe her master would never get the better of the death of her mistress, while he continued to teach the child to read at the tombstone; for, though it might sooth his grief, it kept it for ever fresh in his memory. The sight of his sister's grave had been such a shock to my uncle, that he readily entered into Susan's apprehensions; and concluding, that if I were set to study by some other means there would no longer be a pretence for these visits to the grave, away my kind uncle hastened to the nearest market-town to buy me some books. My uncle had brought himself into rather a troublesome office; he had heard me spell so well, that he thought there was nothing to do but to put books into my hand, and I should read; yet, notwithstanding I spelt tolerably well, the letters in my new library were so much smaller than I had been accustomed to, they were like Greek characters to me; I could make nothing at all of them. The honest sailor was not to be discouraged by this difficulty; though unused to play the schoolmaster, he taught me to read the small print, with unwearied diligence and patience; and whenever he saw my father and me look as if we wanted to resume our visits to the grave, he would propose some pleasant walk; and if my father said it was too far for the child to walk, he would set me on his shoulder, and say, "Then Betsy shall ride;" and in this manner has he carried me many many miles. In the winter our walks were shorter and less frequent. My books were now my chief amusement, though my studies were often interrupted by a game of romps with my uncle, which too often ended in a quarrel because he played so roughly; yet long before this I dearly loved my uncle, and the improvement I made while he was with us was very great indeed. I could now read very well, and the continual habit of listening to the conversation of my father and my uncle made me a little woman in understanding; so that my father said to him, "James, you have made my child quite a companionable little being." I ran about the house talking of where I was going, and rejoicing so that it was my birthday, that when I got into the chaise I was tired and fell asleep. When I awoke, I saw the green fields on both sides of the chaise, and the fields were full, quite full, of bright shining yellow flowers, and sheep and young lambs were feeding in them. I jumped, and clapped my hands together for joy, and I cried out This is "Abroad in the meadows to see the young lambs," for I knew many of Watts's hymns by heart. There was no end to the curiosities that Sarah had to shew me. There was the pond where the ducks were swimming, and the little wooden houses where the hens slept at night. The hens were feeding all over the yard, and the prettiest little chickens, they were feeding too, and little yellow ducklings that had a hen for their mamma. She was so frightened if they went near the water. Grandmamma says a hen is not esteemed a very wise bird. We went out of the farm-yard into the orchard. O what a sweet place grandmamma's orchard is! There were pear-trees, and apple-trees, and cherry-trees, all in blossom. These blossoms were the prettiest flowers that ever were seen, and among the grass under the trees there grew butter-cups, and cowslips, and daffodils, and blue-bells. Sarah told me all their names, and she said I might pick as many of them as ever I pleased. I filled my lap with flowers, I filled my bosom with flowers, and I carried as many flowers as I could in both my hands; but as I was going into the parlour to shew them to my mamma, I stumbled over a threshold which was placed across the parlour, and down I fell with all my treasure. There were rows of cabbages and radishes, and peas and beans. I was delighted to see them, for I never saw so much as a cabbage growing out of the ground before. Mamma said, "Have you nothing to say to these pretty bees, Louisa?" Then I said to them, "How doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day from every opening flower." They had a most beautiful flower-bed to gather it from, quite close under the hives. After seeing the garden, I saw the cows milked, and that was the last sight I saw that day; for while I was telling mamma about the cows, I fell fast asleep, and I suppose I was then put to bed. A hen, she said, was a hospitable bird, and always laid more eggs than she wanted, on purpose to give her mistress to make puddings and custards with. I do not know which pleased grandmamma best, when we carried her home a lap-full of eggs, or a few violets; for she was particularly fond of violets. Violets were very scarce; we used to search very carefully for them every morning, round by the orchard hedge, and Sarah used to carry a stick in her hand to beat away the nettles; for very frequently the hens left their eggs among the nettles. If we could find eggs and violets too, what happy children we were! It was a grief, indeed, to me, to lose all my pretty flowers; yet, when we are in great distress, there is always, I think, something which happens to comfort us, and so it happened now, that gooseberries and currants were almost ripe, which was certainly a very pleasant prospect. Some of them began to turn red, and, as we never disobeyed grandmamma, we used often to consult together, if it was likely she would permit us to eat them yet, then we would pick a few that looked the ripest, and run to ask her if she thought they were ripe enough to eat, and the uncertainty what her opinion would be, made them doubly sweet if she gave us leave to eat them. When the currants and gooseberries were quite ripe, grandmamma had a sheep-shearing. All the sheep stood under the trees to be sheared. They were brought out of the field by old Spot, the shepherd. I stood at the orchard-gate, and saw him drive them all in. When they had cropped off all their wool, they looked very clean, and white, and pretty; but, poor things, they ran shivering about with cold, so that it was a pity to see them. Great preparations were making all day for the sheep-shearing supper. Sarah said, a sheep-shearing was not to be compared to a harvest-home, _that_ was so much better, for that then the oven was quite full of plum-pudding, and the kitchen was very hot indeed with roasting beef; yet I can assure you there was no want at all of either roast beef or plum-pudding at the sheep-shearing. My sister and I were permitted to sit up till it was almost dark, to see the company at supper. They sate at a long oak table, which was finely carved, and as bright as a looking-glass. I obtained a great deal of praise that day, because I replied so prettily when I was spoken to. My sister was more shy than me; never having lived in London was the reason of that. After the happiest day bedtime will come! We sate up late; but at last grandmamma sent us to bed: yet though we went to bed we heard many charming songs sung: to be sure we could not distinguish the words, which was a pity, but the sound of their voices was very loud and very fine indeed. When old Spot was seated, the milk was hung in a skillet over the fire, and then the men used to come and sit down at the long white table. Alas! I am a changeling, substituted by my mother for the heiress of the Lesley family: it was for my sake she did this naughty deed; yet, since the truth has been known, it seems to me as if I had been the only sufferer by it; remembering no time when I was not Harriot Lesley, it seems as if the change had taken from me my birthright. She had been nursing miss Lesley a few days, when a girl who had the care of me brought me into the nursery to see my mother. It happened that she wanted something from her own home, which she dispatched the girl to fetch, and desired her to leave me till her return. In her absence she changed our clothes: then keeping me to personate the child she was nursing, she sent away the daughter of sir Edward to be brought up in her own poor cottage. When my mother sent away the girl, she affirmed she had not the least intention of committing this bad action; but after she was left alone with us, she looked on me, and then on the little lady-babe, and she wept over me to think she was obliged to leave me to the charge of a careless girl, debarred from my own natural food, while she was nursing another person's child. The laced cap and the fine cambric robe of the little Harriot were lying on the table ready to be put on: in these she dressed me, only just to see how pretty her own dear baby would look in missy's fine clothes. When she saw me thus adorned, she said to me, "O, my dear Ann, you look as like missy as any thing can be. I am sure my lady herself, if she were well enough to see you, would not know the difference." She said these words aloud, and while she was speaking, a wicked thought came into her head--How easy it would be to change these children! On which she hastily dressed Harriot in my coarse raiment. She had no sooner finished the transformation of miss Lesley into the poor Ann Withers, than the girl returned, and carried her away, without the least suspicion that it was not the same infant that she had brought thither. When lady Harriot began to recover, and the nurse saw me in her arms caressed as her own child, all fears of detection were over; but the pangs of remorse then seized her: as the dear sick lady hung with tears of fondness over me, she thought she should have died with sorrow for having so cruelly deceived her. When I was a year old Mrs. Withers was discharged; and because she had been observed to nurse me with uncommon care and affection, and was seen to shed many tears at parting from me; to reward her fidelity sir Edward settled a small pension on her, and she was allowed to come every Sunday to dine in the housekeeper's room, and see her little lady. When she went home it might have been expected she would have neglected the child she had so wickedly stolen; instead of which she nursed it with the greatest tenderness, being very sorry for what she had done: all the ease she could ever find for her troubled conscience, was in her extreme care of this injured child; and in the weekly visits to its father's house she constantly brought it with her. At the time I have the earliest recollection of her, she was become a widow, and with the pension sir Edward allowed her, and some plain work she did for our family, she maintained herself and her supposed daughter. The doting fondness she shewed for her child was much talked of; it was said, she waited upon it more like a servant than a mother, and it was observed, its clothes were always made, as far as her slender means would permit, in the same fashion, and her hair cut and curled in the same form as mine. To this person, as having been my faithful nurse, and to her child, I was always taught to shew particular civility, and the little girl was always brought into the nursery to play with me. Ann was a little delicate thing, and remarkably well-behaved; for though so much indulged in every other respect, my mother was very attentive to her manners. As the child grew older, my mother became very uneasy about her education. She was so very desirous of having her well-behaved, that she feared to send her to school, lest she should learn ill manners among the village children, with whom she never suffered her to play; and she was such a poor scholar herself, that she could teach her little or nothing. I heard her relate this her distress to my own maid, with tears in her eyes, and I formed a resolution to beg of my parents that I might have Ann for a companion, and that she might be allowed to take lessons with me of my governess. My birth-day was then approaching, and on that day I was always indulged in the privilege of asking some peculiar favour. "And what boon has my annual petitioner to beg to-day?" said my father, as he entered the breakfast-room on the morning of my birth-day. Then I told him of the great anxiety expressed by nurse Withers concerning her daughter; how much she wished it was in her power to give her an education, that would enable her to get her living without hard labour. I set the good qualities of Ann Withers in the best light I could, and in conclusion I begged she might be permitted to partake with me in education, and become my companion. "This is a very serious request indeed, Harriot," said sir Edward; "your mother and I must consult together on the subject." The result of this consultation was favourable to my wishes: in a few weeks my foster-sister was taken into the house, and placed under the tuition of my governess. In a few days after this important discovery, Ann was sent home to pass a few weeks with her mother, on the occasion of the expected arrival of some visitors to our house; they were to bring children with them, and these I was to consider as my own guests. Thus I reasoned as I wrote my drama, beginning with the title, which I called "The Changeling," and ending with these words, _The curtain drops, while the lady clasps the baby in her arms, and the nurse sighs audibly_. I invented no new incident, I simply wrote the story as Ann had told it to me, in the best blank verse I was able to compose. When we thought ourselves quite perfect in our several parts, we announced it for representation. Sir Edward and lady Harriot, with their visitors, the parents of my young troop of comedians, honoured us with their presence. The servants were also permitted to go into a music gallery, which was at the end of a ball-room we had chosen for our theatre. In the midst of the performance, as I, in the character of the nurse, was delivering the wrong child to the girl, there was an exclamation from the music gallery, of "Oh, it's all true! it's all true!" This was followed by a bustle among the servants, and screams as of a person in a hysteric fit. Sir Edward came forward to enquire what was the matter. He saw it was Mrs. Withers who had fallen into a fit. Ann was weeping over her, and crying out, "O miss Lesley, you have told all in the play!" Mrs. Withers was brought out into the ball-room; there, with tears and in broken accents, with every sign of terror and remorse, she soon made a full confession of her so long concealed guilt. The strangers assembled to see our childish mimicry of passion, were witness to a highly wrought dramatic scene in real life. I had intended they should see the curtain drop without any discovery of the deceit; unable to invent any new incident, I left the conclusion imperfect as I found it: but they saw a more strict poetical justice done; they saw the rightful child restored to its parents, and the nurse overwhelmed with shame, and threatened with the severest punishment. "Take this woman," said sir Edward, "and lock her up, till she be delivered into the hands of justice." I thought within myself, if in the integrity of my heart, refusing to participate in this unjust secret, I had boldly ventured to publish the truth, I might have had some consolation in the praises which so generous an action would have merited: but it is through the vanity of being supposed to have written a pretty story, that I have meanly broken my faith with my friend, and unintentionally proclaimed the disgrace of my mother and myself. While thoughts like these were passing through my mind, Ann had obtained my mother's pardon. Instead of being sent away to confinement and the horrors of a prison, she was given by sir Edward into the care of the housekeeper, who had orders from lady Harriot to see her put to bed and properly attended to, for again this wretched woman had fallen into a fit. Ann would have followed my mother, but sir Edward brought her back, telling her that she should see her when she was better. He then led Ann towards lady Harriot, desiring her to embrace her child; she did so, and I saw her, as I had phrased it in the play, _clasped in her mother's arms_. This scene had greatly affected the spirits of lady Harriot; through the whole of it it was with difficulty she had been kept from fainting, and she was now led into the drawing-room by the ladies. The gentlemen followed, talking with sir Edward of the astonishing instance of filial affection they had just seen in the earnest pleadings of the child for her supposed mother. Ann too went with them, and was conducted by her whom I had always considered as my own particular friend. Lady Elizabeth took hold of her hand, and said, "Miss Lesley, will you permit me to conduct you to the drawing-room?" My poor mother continued very ill for many weeks: no medicine would remove the extreme dejection of spirits she laboured under. Sir Edward sent for the clergyman of the parish to give her religious consolation. Every day he came to visit her, and he would always take miss Lesley and me into the room with him. I think, miss Villiers, your father must be just such another man as Dr. Wheelding, our worthy rector; just so I think he would have soothed the troubled conscience of my repentant mother. How feelingly, how kindly he used to talk of mercy and forgiveness! Dr. Wheelding had been observing me: he took me into the garden, and drew from me the subject of my petition. "Your prayers, my good young lady," said he, "I hope are heard; sure I am they have caused me to adopt a resolution, which, as it will enable you to see your mother frequently, will, I hope, greatly assist your pious wishes. With the approbation of sir Edward and lady Harriot, my mother was removed in a few days to Dr. Wheelding's house: there she soon recovered--there she at present resides. She tells me she loves me almost as well as she did when I was a baby, and we both wept at parting when I came to school. I should be perfectly unkind if I were to complain of miss Lesley--indeed, I have not the least cause of complaint against her. As my companion, her affection and her gratitude had been unbounded; and now that it was my turn to be the humble friend, she tried by every means in her power, to make me think she felt the same respectful gratitude, which in her dependant station she had so naturally displayed. Only in a few rarely constituted minds, does that true attentive kindness spring up, that delicacy of feeling, which enters into every trivial thing, is ever awake and keeping watch lest it should offend. Myself, though educated with the extremest care, possessed but little of this virtue. Virtue I call it, though among men it is termed politeness, for since the days of my humiliating reverse of fortune I have learned its value. I am under the greatest obligation in the world to this good Dr. Wheelding. He has made my mother quite a respectable woman, and I am sure it is owing a great deal to him that she loves me as well as she does. Miss Lesley had made some progress in reading and writing during the time she was my companion only, it was highly necessary that every exertion should be now made--the whole house was, as I may say, in requisition for her instruction. Sir Edward and lady Harriot devoted great part of the day to this purpose. A well educated young person was taken under our governess, to assist her in her labours, and to teach miss Lesley music. A drawing-master was engaged to reside in the house. At this time I was not remarkably forward in my education. My governess being a native of France, I spoke French very correctly, and I had made some progress in Italian. I had only had the instruction of masters during the few months in the year we usually passed in London. Music I never had the least ear for, I could scarcely be taught my notes. This defect in me was always particularly regretted by my mother, she being an excellent performer herself both on the piano and on the harp. Nothing makes the heart ache with such a hopeless, heavy pain, as envy. Neither dancing, nor any foolish lectures could do much for miss Lesley, she remained wanting in gracefulness of carriage; but all that is usually attributed to dancing, music effected. When she was sitting before the instrument, a resemblance to her mother became apparent to every eye. Her attitudes and the expression of her countenance were the very same. This soon followed her into every thing; all was ease and natural grace; for the music, and with it the idea of lady Harriot, was always in her thoughts. It was a pretty sight to see the daily improvement in her person, even to me, poor envious girl that I was. Soon after lady Harriot had hurt me by calling my little efforts to improve her daughter trifling, she made me large amends in a very kind and most unreserved conversation that she held with me. Encouraged by her returning kindness, I owned how much I had suffered, and ventured to express my fears, that I had hardly courage enough to bear the sight of my former friends, under a new designation, as I must now appear to them, on our removal to London, which was expected to take place in a short time. I knew that this proposal was kindly intended to spare me the mortifications I so much dreaded; therefore I endeavoured to submit to my hard fate with cheerfulness, and prepared myself, not without reluctance, to quit a mansion which had been the scene of so many enjoyments, and latterly of such very different feelings. When I was very young, I had the misfortune to lose my mother. My father very soon married again. In the morning of the day in which that event took place, my father set me on his knee, and, as he often used to do after the death of my mother, he called me his dear little orphaned Elinor, and then he asked me if I loved miss Saville. I replied "Yes." Then he said this dear lady was going to be so kind as to be married to him, and that she was to live with us, and be my mamma. My father told me this with such pleasure in his looks, that I thought it must be a very fine thing indeed to have a new mamma; and on his saying it was time for me to be dressed against his return from church, I ran in great spirits to tell the good news in the nursery. I found my maid and the house-maid looking out of the window to see my father get into his carriage, which was new painted; the servants had new liveries, and fine white ribbands in their hats; and then I perceived my father had left off his mourning. The maids were dressed in new gowns and white ribbands. On the table I saw a new muslin frock, trimmed with fine lace ready for me to put on. I skipped about the room quite in an ecstasy. When the carriage drove from the door, the housekeeper came in to bring the maids new white gloves. I repeated to her the words I had just heard, that that dear lady miss Saville was going to be married to papa, and that she was to live with us, and be my mamma. The housekeeper shook her head, and said, "Poor thing! how soon children forget every thing!" I could not imagine what she meant by my forgetting every thing, for I instantly recollected poor mamma used to say I had an excellent memory. The women began to draw on their white gloves, and the seams rending in several places, Anne said, "This is just the way our gloves served us at my mistress's funeral." The other checked her, and said "Hush!" I was then thinking of some instances in which my mamma had praised my memory, and this reference to her funeral fixed her idea in my mind. When I was drest in my new frock, I wished poor mamma was alive to see how fine I was on papa's wedding-day, and I ran to my favourite station at her bed-room door. There I sat thinking of my mamma, and trying to remember exactly how she used to look; because I foolishly imagined that miss Saville was to be changed into something like my own mother, whose pale and delicate appearance in her last illness was all that I retained of her remembrance. When my father returned home with his bride, he walked up stairs to look for me, and my new mamma followed him. They found me at my mother's door, earnestly looking through the keyhole; I was thinking so intently on my mother, that when my father said, "Here is your new mamma, my Elinor," I turned round, and began to cry, for no other reason than because she had a very high colour, and I remembered my mamma was very pale; she had bright black eyes, my mother's were mild blue eyes; and that instead of the wrapping gown and close cap in which I remembered my mamma, she was drest in all her bridal decorations. I said, "Miss Saville shall not be my mamma," and I cried till I was sent away in disgrace. Every time I saw her for several days, the same notion came into my head, that she was not a bit more like mamma than when she was miss Saville. My father was very angry when he saw how shy I continued to look at her; but she always said, "Never mind. Elinor and I shall soon be better friends." Then she said I had a little kind heart, and I should not have any occasion, for she would take me into the room herself; and she rung the bell, and ordered the key of that room to be brought to her; and the housekeeper brought it, and tried to persuade her not to go. But she said, "I must have my own way in this;" and she carried me in her arms into my mother's room. O I was so pleased to be taken into mamma's room! I pointed out to her all the things that I remembered to have belonged to mamma and she encouraged me to tell her all the little incidents which had dwelt on my memory concerning her. She told me, that she went to school with mamma when she was a little girl, and that I should come into this room with her every day when papa was gone out, and she would tell me stories of mamma when she was a little girl no bigger than me. When my father came home, we were walking in a garden at the back of our house, and I was shewing her mamma's geraniums, and telling her what pretty flowers they had when mamma was alive. My father was astonished; and he said, "Is this the sullen Elinor? what has worked this miracle?" "Ask no questions," she replied, "or you will disturb our new-born friendship. Elinor has promised to love me, and she says too that she will call me 'mamma.'" "Yes, I will, mamma, mamma, mamma," I replied, and hung about her with the greatest fondness. After this she used to pass great part of the mornings with me in my mother's room, which was now made the repository of all my playthings, and also my school-room. Here my new mamma taught me to read. I was a sad little dunce, and scarcely knew my letters; my own mamma had often said, when she got better she would hear me read every day, but as she never got better it was not her fault. I now began to learn very fast, for when I said my lesson well, I was always rewarded with some pretty story of my mother's childhood; and these stories generally contained some little hints that were instructive to me, and which I greatly stood in want of; for, between improper indulgence and neglect, I had many faulty ways. In this kind manner my mother-in-law has instructed and improved me, and I love her because she was my mother's friend when they were young. She has been my only instructress, for I never went to school till I came here. She would have continued to teach me, but she has not time, for she has a little baby of her own now, and that is the reason I came to school. Mrs. Beresford lived in a large old family mansion; she kept no company, and never moved except from the breakfast-parlour to the eating-room, and from thence to the drawing-room to tea. Hogarth's prints were below the Caesars: I was very fond of looking at them, and endeavouring to make out their meaning. From this room I usually proceeded to the garden. When I was weary of the garden I wandered over the rest of the house. The best suite of rooms I never saw by any other light than what glimmered through the tops of the window-shutters, which however served to shew the carved chimney-pieces, and the curious old ornaments about the rooms; but the worked furniture and carpets, of which I heard such constant praises, I could have but an imperfect sight of, peeping under the covers which were kept over them, by the dim light; for I constantly lifted up a corner of the envious cloth, that hid these highly-praised rarities from my view. If you never spent whole mornings alone in a large library, you cannot conceive the pleasure of taking down books in the constant hope of finding an entertaining book among them; yet, after many days, meeting with nothing but disappointment, it becomes less pleasant. All the books within my reach were folios of the gravest cast. I could understand very little that I read in them, and the old dark print and the length of the lines made my eyes ache. I sate myself down to read this book with the greatest eagerness. The title of it was "Mahometism Explained." It was a very improper book, for it contained a false history of Abraham and his descendants. All my desire was now to tell them the discovery I had made; for I thought, when they knew of the existence of "Mahometism Explained," they would read it, and become Mahometans, to ensure themselves a safe passage over the silken bridge. But it wanted more courage than I possessed, to break the matter to my intended converts; I must acknowledge that I had been reading without leave; and the habit of never speaking, or being spoken to, considerably increased the difficulty. My anxiety on this subject threw me into a fever. I was so ill, that my mother thought it necessary to sleep in the same room with me. In the middle of the night I could not resist the strong desire I felt to tell her what preyed so much on my mind. I awoke her out of a sound sleep, and begged she would be so kind as to be a Mahometan. She was very much alarmed, for she thought I was delirious, which I believe I was; for I tried to explain the reason of my request, but it was in such an incoherent manner that she could not at all comprehend what I was talking about. The next day a physician was sent for, and he discovered, by several questions that he put to me, that I had read myself into a fever. He gave me medicines, and ordered me to be kept very quiet, and said, he hoped in a few days I should be very well; but as it was a new case to him, he never having attended a little Mahometan before, if any lowness continued after he had removed the fever, he would, with my mother's permission, take me home with him to study this extraordinary case at his leisure; and added, that he could then hold a consultation with his wife, who was often very useful to him in prescribing remedies for the maladies of his younger patients. In a few days he fetched me away. His wife was in the carriage with him. Having heard what he said about her prescriptions, I expected, between the doctor and his lady, to undergo a severe course of medicine, especially as I heard him very formally ask her advice what was good for a Mahometan fever, the moment after he had handed me into the carriage. She studied a little while, and then she said, A ride to Harlow fair would not be amiss. He said he was entirely of her opinion, because it suited him to go there to buy a horse. O what a cheerful sight it was to me, to see so many happy faces assembled together, walking up and down between the rows of booths that were full of showy things; ribbands, laces, toys, cakes, and sweetmeats! While the doctor was gone to buy his horse, his kind lady let me stand as long as I pleased at the booths, and gave me many things which she saw I particularly admired. My needle-case, my pin-cushion, indeed my work-basket, and all its contents, are presents which she purchased for me at this fair. After we returned home, she played with me all the evening at a geographical game, which she also bought for me at this cheerful fair. Yet this good lady did not suffer all my time to pass in mirth and gaiety. Before I went home, she explained to me very seriously the error into which I had fallen. I found that so far from "Mahometism Explained" being a book concealed only in this library, it was well known to every person of the least information. I have heard my papa observe, girls who are not well managed are a most quarrelsome race of little people. My cousins very often quarrelled with me, and then they always said, "I will go and tell my mamma, cousin Emily;" and then I used to be very disconsolate because I had no mamma to complain to of my grievances. My aunt always took Sophia's part because she was so young; and she never suffered me to oppose Mary, or Elizabeth, because they were older than me. Then there was another complaint against me; that I was so shy before strangers. Whenever any strangers spoke to me, before I had time to think what answer I should give, Mary or Elizabeth would say, "Emily is so shy, she will never speak." Then I, thinking I was very shy, would creep into a corner of the room, and be ashamed to look up while the company staid. Though I often thought of my papa and mamma, by degrees the remembrance of their persons faded out of my mind. When I tried to think how they used to look, the faces of my cousins' papa and mamma only came into my mind. When it grew dark, we entered a large city; the chaise began to roll over the stones, and I saw the lamps ranged along London streets. My mamma ordered tea. Whenever I happen to like my tea very much, I always think of the delicious cup of tea mamma gave us after our journey. I think I see the urn smoking before me now, and papa wheeling the sopha round, that I might sit between them at the table. Mamma called me Little Run-away, and said it was very well it was only papa. I told her how we frightened the old gardener, and opened my eyes to shew her how he stared, and how my papa made the milliner believe we were going to Gretna Green. Mamma looked grave, and said she was almost frightened to find I had been so fearless; but I promised her another time I would not go into a post-chaise with a gentleman, without asking him who he was; and then she laughed, and seemed very well satisfied. Mamma, to my fancy, looked very handsome. She was very nicely dressed, quite like a fine lady. I held up my head, and felt very proud that I had such a papa and mamma. I thought to myself, "O dear, my cousins' papa and mamma are not to be compared to mine." The next morning my papa was going to the Bank to receive some money, and he took mamma and me with him, that I might have a ride through London streets. Everyone that has been in London must have seen the Bank, and therefore you may imagine what an effect the fine large rooms, and the bustle and confusion of people had on me; who was grown such a little wondering rustic, that the crowded streets and the fine shops, alone kept me in continual admiration. The joy I discovered at possessing things I could call my own, and the frequent repetition of the words, _My own, my own_, gave my mamma some uneasiness. She justly feared that the cold treatment I had experienced at my uncle's had made me selfish, and therefore she invited a little girl to spend a few days with me, to see, as she has since told me, if I should not be liable to fall into the same error from which I had suffered so much at my uncle's. As my mamma had feared, so the event proved; for I quickly adopted my cousins' selfish ideas, and gave the young lady notice that they were my own plaything's, and she must not amuse herself with them any longer than I permitted her. Then presently I took occasion to begin a little quarrel with her, and said, "I have got a mamma now, miss Frederica, as well as you, and I will go and tell her, and she will not let you play with my doll any longer than I please, because it is my own doll." And I very well remember I imitated as nearly as I could, the haughty tone in which my cousins used to speak to me. "Oh, fie! Emily," said my mamma; "can you be the little girl, who used to be so distressed because your cousins would not let you play with their dolls? Do you not see you are doing the very same unkind thing to your play-fellow, that they did to you?" Then I saw as plain as could be what a naughty girl I was, and I promised not to do so any more. "Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast:" In a few days I knew my error; I learned why Maria had been so kind, and why she had said she was sorry. It was for me, proud disdainful girl that I was, that she was sorry; she knew, though I did not, that my father was on the brink of ruin; and it came to pass, as she had feared it would, that in a few days my play-room was as empty as Maria's closet, and all my grandeur was at an end. My father had what is called an execution in the house; every thing was seized that we possessed. Our splendid furniture, and even our wearing apparel, all my beautiful ball-dresses, my trinkets, and, my toys, were taken away by my father's merciless creditors. The week in which this happened was such a scene of hurry, confusion and misery, that I will not attempt to describe it. In a few days Mrs. Hartley ordered her daughter to instruct me in such useful works and employments as Maria knew. Of every thing which she called useful I was most ignorant. My accomplishments I found were held in small estimation here, by all indeed except Maria. She taught me nothing without the kindest apologies for being obliged to teach me, who, she said, was so excellent in all elegant arts, and was for ever thanking me for the pleasure she had formerly received, from my skill in music and pretty fancy works. The distress I was in, made these complimentary speeches not flatteries, but sweet drops of comfort to my degraded heart, almost broken with misfortune and remorse. It was on a Sunday morning that we set out, my little heart beating with almost breathless expectation. The day was fine, and the roads as good as they ever are in those parts. I was so happy and so proud. I was lost in dreams of what I was going to see. At length the tall steeple of St. Mary's church came in view. It was pointed out to me by my father, as the place from which that music had come which I have heard over the moor, and had fancied to be angels singing. I was wound up to the highest pitch of delight at having visibly presented to me the spot from which had proceeded that unknown friendly music; and when it began to peal, just as we approached the village, it seemed to speak. _Susan is come_, as plainly as it used to invite me _to come_, when I heard it over the moor. I pass over our alighting at the house of a relation, and all that passed till I went with my father and mother to church. THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS Showing how notably the Queen made her tarts, and how scurvily the Knave stole them away, with other particulars belonging thereunto [Illustration: _The Queen of Hearts_] [Illustration: _She made some Tarts_] The Queen here by the King's commands, Who does not like Cook's dirty hands, Makes the court-pastry all herself. Pambo the knave, that roguish elf, Watches each sugary sweet ingredient, And slily thinks of an expedient. [Illustration: _All on a Summer's day_] [Illustration: _The Knave of Hearts_] [Illustration: _He stole those Tarts_] [Illustration: _And took them quite away_] How like a thievish Jack he looks! I wish for my part all the cooks Would come and baste him with a ladle As long as ever they were able, To keep his fingers ends from itching After sweet things in the Queen's kitchen. [Illustration: _The King of Hearts_] [Illustration: _Call'd for those Tarts_] The meat removed and dinner done, The knives are wip'd and cheese put on. The King aloud for Tarts does bawl, Tarts, tarts, resound through all the Hall. Pambo with tears denies the Fact, But Mungo saw him in the act. [Illustration: _And beat the Knave full sore_] Behold the due reward of sin, See what a plight rogue Pambo's in. The King lays on his blows so stout, The Tarts for fear come tumbling out O King! be merciful as just, You'll beat poor Pambo into dust [Illustration: _The Knave of Hearts_] [Illustration: _Brought back those Tarts_] The Knave brings back the tarts he stole. The Queen swears, that is not the whole. What should poor Pambo do? hard prest Owns he has eaten up the rest. The King takes back, as lawful debt, Not all, but all that he can get. [Illustration: _And vow'd he'd steal no more_] Lo! Pambo prostrate on the floor Vows he will be a thief no more. O King your heart no longer harden, You've got the tarts, give him his pardon. The best time to forgive a sinner Is always after a good dinner. "How say you Sir? tis all a joke- Great Kings love tarts like other folk!" If for a truth you'll not receive it, Pray, view the picture, and believe it. Sly Pambo too has got a share, And eats it snug behind the chair. This rose-tree is not made to bear The violet blue, nor lily fair, Nor the sweet mignionet: And if this tree were discontent, Or wish'd to change its natural bent, It all in vain would fret. And should it fret, you would suppose It ne'er had seen its own red rose, Nor after gentle shower Had ever smell'd it rose's scent, Or it could ne'er be discontent With its own pretty flower. Like such a blind and senseless tree As I've imagin'd this to be, All envious persons are: With care and culture all may find Some pretty flower in their own mind, Some talent that is rare. While the mother is reaping, the infant is sleeping; Not the basket that holds the provision is less By the hard-working Reaper, than this little sleeper, Regarded, till hunger does on the babe press. Then it opens its eyes, and it utters loud cries, Which its hard-working mother afar off will hear; She comes at its calling, she quiets its squalling, And feeds it, and leaves it again without fear. When you were as young as this field-nursed daughter, You were fed in the house, and brought up on the knee; So tenderly watched, thy fond mother thought her Whole time well bestow'd in nursing of thee. Do, my dearest brother John, Let that Butterfly alone. What harm now do I do? You're always making such a noise- SISTER O fie, John; none but naughty boys Say such rude words as you. And ever lecture, John, I will, When such sad things I hear. But talk not now of what is past; The moments fly away too fast, Though endlessly they seem to last To that poor soul in fear. Well, soon (I say) I'll let it loose; But, sister, you talk like a goose, There's no soul in a fly. It has a form and fibres fine, Were temper'd by the hand divine Who dwells beyond the sky. Look, brother, you have hurt its wing-And plainly by its fluttering You see it's in distress, Gay painted Coxcomb, spangled Beau, A Butterfly is call'd you know, That's always in full dress: The finest gentleman of all Insects he is--he gave a Ball, You know the Poet wrote. Let's fancy this the very same, And then you'll own you've been to blame To spoil his silken coat. Your dancing, spangled, powder'd Beau, Look, through the air I've let him go: And now we're friends again. As sure as he is in the air, From this time, Ann, I will take care, And try to be humane. Yet though each share was very small, We own'd when it was eaten, Being so little for us all Did its fine flavour heighten. The tear was in our parent's eye, It seem'd quite out of season; When we ask'd wherefore she did cry, She thus explain'd the reason. "The cause, my children, I may say, Was joy, and not dejection; The Peach, which made you all so gay, Gave rise to this reflection: Now I wonder what would please her, Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa. Ann and Mary, they're too common; Joan's too formal for a woman; Jane's a prettier name beside; But we had a Jane that died. They would say, if 'twas Rebecca, That she was a little Quaker, Edith's pretty, but that looks Better in old English books; Ellen's left off long ago; Blanche is out of fashion now. None that I have nam'd as yet Are so good as Margaret. Emily is neat and fine. What do you think of Caroline? How I'm puzzled and perplext What to chuse or think of next! I am in a little fever. Lest the name that I shall give her Should disgrace her or defame her I will leave Papa to name her. A bird appears a thoughtless thing, He's ever living on the wing, And keeps up such a carolling, That little else to do but sing A man would guess had he. No doubt he has his little cares, And very hard he often fares, The which so patiently he bears, That, list'ning to those cheerful airs, Who knows but he may be In want of his next meal of seeds? I think for _that_ his sweet song pleads. If so, his pretty art succeeds. I'll scatter there among the weeds All the small crumbs I see. THE ROOK AND THE SPARROWS A little boy with crumbs of bread Many a hungry sparrow fed. It was a child of little sense, Who this kind bounty did dispense; For suddenly it was withdrawn, And all the birds were left forlorn, In a hard time of frost and snow, Not knowing where for food to go. He would no longer give them bread, Because he had observ'd (he said) That sometimes to the window came A great blackbird, a rook by name, And took away a small bird's share. So foolish Henry did not care What became of the great rook, That from the little sparrows took, Now and then, as 'twere by stealth, A part of their abundant wealth; Nor ever more would feed his sparrows. _Thus ignorance a kind heart narrows._ I wish I had been there; I would Have told the child, rooks live by food In the same way that sparrows do. I also would have told him too, Birds act by instinct, and ne'er can Attain the rectitude of man. Nay that even, when distress Does on poor human nature press, We need not be too strict in seeing The failings of a fellow being. DISCONTENT AND QUARRELLING O mother, hear my sister Jane, How foolishly she does complain, And teaze herself for nought. But 'tis the way of all her sex, Thus foolishly themselves to vex. Envy's a female fault. O brother Robert, say not so; It is not very long ago, Ah! brother, you've forgot, When speaking of a boy you knew, Remember how you said that you Envied his happy lot. O _may be, may be_, very well: And may be, brother, I don't tell Tales to mamma like you. O cease your wrangling, cease, my dears; You would not wake a mother's fears Thus, if you better knew. REPENTANCE AND RECONCILIATION Mamma is displeased and looks very grave, And I own, brother, I was to blame Just now when I told her I wanted to have, Like Miss Lydia, a very fine _name_. 'Twas foolish, for, Robert, Jane sounds very well, When mamma says, "I love my good Jane." I've been lately so naughty, I hardly can tell If she ever will say so again. We are each of us foolish, and each of us young, And often in fault and to blame. Jane, yesterday I was too free with my tongue, I acknowledge it now to my shame. For a speech in my good mother's hearing I made, Which reflected upon her whole sex; And now like you, Jenny, I am much afraid That this might my dear mother vex. But yet, brother Robert, 'twas not quite so bad As that naughty reflection of mine, When I grumbled because Liddy Bellenger had Dolls and dresses expensive and fine. For then 'twas of her, her own self, I complain'd; Since mamma does provide all I have. Your repentance, my children, I see is unfeign'd, You are now my good Robert, and now my good Jane; And if you never will be naughty again, Your fond mother will never look grave. In your garb and outward clothing A reserved plainness use; By their neatness more distinguish'd Than the brightness of their hues. Yet the swan that swims in rivers, Pleases the judicious sight; Who, of brighter colours heedless, Trusts alone to simple white. Yet all other hues, compared With his whiteness, show amiss; And the peacock's coat of colours Like a fool's coat looks by his. And that is all which is quite clear, Ev'n to philosophy, my dear. The God that made us can alone Reveal from whence a spirit's brought Into young life, to light, and thought; And this the wisest man must own. (And very naturally) wonder What happy star he was born under, That he should be the only care Of the dear sweet-food-giving lady, Who fondly calls him her own baby, Her darling hope, her infant heir. MOTES IN THE SUN-BEAMS The motes up and down in the sun Ever restlessly moving we see; Whereas the great mountains stand still, Unless terrible earthquakes there be. If these atoms that move up and down Were as useful as restless they are, Than a mountain I rather would be A mote in the sun-beam so fair. Sister, I know, you jesting are, Yet O! of jealousy beware. If the smallest seed should be In your mind of jealousy, It will spring, and it will shoot, Till it bear the baneful fruit. I remember you, my dear, Young as is this infant here. There was not a tooth of those Your pretty even ivory rows, But as anxiously was watched, Till it burst its shell new hatched, As if it a Phoenix were, Or some other wonder rare. So when you began to walk- So when you began to talk- As now, the same encomiums past. 'Tis not fitting this should last Longer than our infant days; A child is fed with milk and praise. TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED Smiling river, smiling river, On thy bosom sun-beams play; Though they're fleeting and retreating, Thou hast more deceit than they. In thy channel, in thy channel, Choak'd with ooze and grav'lly stones, Deep immersed and unhearsed, Lies young Edward's corse: his bones Ever whitening, ever whitening, As thy waves against them dash; What thy torrent, in the current, Swallow'd, now it helps to wash. As if senseless, as if senseless Things had feeling in this case; What so blindly, and unkindly, It destroy'd, it now does grace. "Tell me what is the reason you hang down your head; From your blushes I plainly discern, You have done something wrong. Ere you go up to bed, I desire that the truth I may learn." "O mamma, I have long'd to confess all the day What an ill-natured thing I have done; I persuaded myself it was only in play, But such play I in future will shun. "The least of the ladies that live at the school, Her whose eyes are so pretty and blue, Ah! would you believe it? an April fool I have made her, and call'd her so too. "Yet the words almost choak'd me; and, as I spoke low, I have hopes that she might them not hear. I had wrapt up some rubbish in paper, and so, The instant the school-girls drew near, "No doubt she concluded some sweetmeats were there, For the paper was white and quite clean, And folded up neatly, as if with great care. O what a rude boy I have been! All-endearing Cleanliness, Virtue next to Godliness, Easiest, cheapest, needful'st duty, To the body health and beauty, Who that's human would refuse it, When a little water does it? He leans on me, when we to school Do every morning walk; I cheer him on his weary way, He loves to hear my talk: "Led by your little elder hand, I learn'd to walk alone; Careful you us'd to be of me, My little brother John. "For our kind master never minds, If we're the very last; He bids us never tire ourselves With walking on too fast." O hush, my little baby brother; Sleep, my love, upon my knee. What though, dear child, we've lost our mother; That can never trouble thee. My only solace, only joy, Since the sad day I lost my mother, Is nursing her own Willy boy, My little orphan brother. Again said he, "My little maid, What in the sermon did you hear; Come tell me that, for that may aid Me to find out the text, my dear." A tear stole down each blushing cheek, She wish'd she better had attended; She sobbing said, when she could speak, She heard not till 'twas almost ended. "No, Sir," said William, "though perplext And much disturbed by my sister, I in this matter of the text, I thank my memory, can assist her. Recited gospel, chapter, verse- I should be loth to spoil in metre All the good words he did rehearse, As spoken by our Lord to Peter. In every point of view he plac'd it, As he the Doctor's self had been, With emphasis and action grac'd it: But from his self-conceit 'twas seen Who had brought home the words, and who had A little on the meaning thought; Eliza now the old man knew had Learn'd that which William never caught. Without impeaching William's merit, His head but served him for the letter, Hers miss'd the words, but kept the spirit; Her memory to her heart was debtor. "Our Governess is not in school, So we may talk a bit; Sit down upon this little stool, Come, little Mary, sit: "And, my dear play-mate, tell me why In dismal black you're drest? Why does the tear stand in your eye? With sobs why heaves your breast? "When we're in grief, it gives relief Our sorrows to impart; When you've told why, my dear, you cry, 'Twill ease your little heart." "Beyond the seas my father went, 'Twas very long ago; And he last week a letter sent (I told you so, you know) "The end of May was yesterday, We all expected him; And in our best clothes we were drest, Susan, and I, and Jim. "O how my poor dear mother smil'd, And clapt her hands for joy; She said to me, 'Come here, my child, And Susan, and my boy. "'Come all, and let us think,' said she, 'What we can do to please Your father, for to-day will he Come home from off the seas. "'That you have won, my dear young son, A prize at school, we'll tell, Because you can, my little man, In writing all excel; "'And you have made a poem, nearly All of your own invention: Will not your father love you dearly, When this to him I mention? "'Your sister Mary, she can say Your poetry by heart; And to repeat your verses may Be little Mary's part, "'Susan, for you, I'll say you do Your needlework with care, And stitch so true the wristbands new, Dear father's soon to wear!' "'My husband's come!' 'My father's here! But O, alas, it was not so; It was not as we said: A stranger seaman did appear, On his rough cheek there stood a tear, For he brought to us a tale of woe, Our father dear was dead." He laughs, and thinks it a fine joke, That he our new wax doll has broke. Anger will never teach him better; We will the spirit and the letter Of courtesy to him display, By taking in a friendly way These baby frolics, till he learn True sport from mischief to discern. THE DUTY OF A BROTHER Why, when she gently proffers speech, Do you ungently turn your head? Since the same sire gave life to each; With the same milk ye both were fed. Such treatment to a female, though A perfect stranger she might be, From you would most unmanly show; In you to her 'tis worse to see. When any ill-bred boys offend her, Showing their manhood by their sneers, It is your business to defend her 'Gainst their united taunts and jeers. And not to join the illiberal crew In their contempt of female merit; What's bad enough in them, from you Is want of goodness, want of spirit. What if your rougher out-door sports Her less robustious spirits daunt; And if she join not the resorts, Where you and your wild playmates haunt: Her milder province is at home; When your diversions have an end, When over-toil'd from play you come, You'll find in her an in-doors friend. Leave not your sister to another; As long as both of you reside In the same house, who but her brother Should point her books, her studies guide? If Nature, who allots our cup, Than her has made you stronger, wiser; It is that you, as you grow up, Should be her champion, her adviser. It is the law that Hand intends, Which fram'd diversity of sex; The man the woman still defends, The manly boy the girl protects. The wall-trees are laden with fruit; The grape, and the plum, and the pear, The peach, and the nect'rine, to suit Ev'ry taste in abundance, are there. As that wasp will soon sadly perceive, Who has feasted awhile on a plum; And, his thirst thinking now to relieve, For a sweet liquid draught he is come. "Ah say," my dear friend, "is it right, These glass bottles are hung upon trees: 'Midst a scene of inviting delight, Should we find such mementoes as these?" "From such sights," said my friend, "we may draw A lesson, for look at that bee; Compar'd with the wasp which you saw, He will teach us what we ought to be. "If a _simile_ ever you need, You are welcome to make a wasp do; But you ne'er should mix fiction indeed With things that are serious and true." Then tell me, brother, and pray mind, Brother, you tell me true: What sort of thing is _fancy_? By all that I can ever find, 'Tis something that is very new, And what no dunces _can see_. Sister, I think 'twere quite as well That you should find it out; So think the matter o'er. It's what comes in our heads when we Play at "Let's make believe," And when we play at "Guessing." And I have heard it said to be A talent often makes us grieve, And sometimes proves a blessing. In a stage-coach, where late I chanc'd to be, A little quiet girl my notice caught; I saw she look'd at nothing by the way, Her mind seem'd busy on some childish thought. I with an old man's courtesy address'd The child, and call'd her pretty dark-eyed maid And bid her turn those pretty eyes and see The wide extended prospect. "Sir," she said, "I cannot see the prospect, I am blind." Never did tongue of child utter a sound So mournful, as her words fell on my ear. Her mother then related how she found Her child was sightless. On a fine bright day She saw her lay her needlework aside, And, as on such occasions mothers will, For leaving off her work began to chide. "I'll do it when 'tis day-light, if you please; I cannot work, Mamma, now it is night." The sun shone bright upon her when she spoke, And yet her eyes receiv'd no ray of light. My neat and pretty book, when I thy small lines see, They seem for any use to be unfit for me. My writing, all misshaped, uneven as my mind, Within this narrow space can hardly be confin'd. Yet I will strive to make my hand less aukward look; I would not willingly disgrace thee, my neat book! The finest pens I'll use, and wond'rous pains I'll take, And I these perfect lines my monitors will make. And every day I will set down in order due, How that day wasted is; and should there be a few At the year's end that shew more goodly to the sight, If haply here I find some days not wasted quite, If a small portion of them I have pass'd aright, Then shall I think the year not wholly was misspent, And that my Diary has been by some good Angel sent. "For gold could Memory be bought, What treasures would she not be worth! If from afar she could be brought, I'd travel for her through the earth!" If Memory indeed it were, Or such it only feign'd to be- A female figure came to her, Who said, "My name is Memory: "Gold purchases in me no share, Nor do I dwell in distant land; Study, and thought, and watchful care, In every place may me command. "I am not lightly to be won; A visit only now I make: And much must by yourself be done, Ere me you for an inmate take. "The only substitute for me Was ever found, is call'd a pen: The frequent use of that will be The way to make me come again." From what could vanity proceed In such a little lisping lad? Or was it vanity indeed? Or was he only very glad? For he without his maid may go To the heath with elder boys, And pluck ripe berries where they grow: Well may William then rejoice. Be careful of your little charge; Elder boys, let him not rove; The heath is wide, the heath is large, From your sight he must not move. Mind not the elder boys' distress; Let them run, and let them fly. Their own neglect and giddiness They are justly suffering by. William had cours'd them o'er the heath, After them his steps did wander; When he was nearly out of breath, The last bee his foot was under. A cruel triumph, which did not Last but for a moment's space, For now he finds that he has got Out of sight of every face. What are the berries now to him? What the bees which he hath slain? Fear now possesses every limb, He cannot trace his steps again. The poor bees William had affrighted In more terror did not haste, Than he from bush to bush, benighted And alone amid the waste. A fever follow'd from the fright, And from sleeping in the dew; He many a day and many a night Suffer'd ere he better grew. His aching limbs while sick he lay Made him learn the crush'd bees' pain; Oft would he to his mother say, "I ne'er will kill a bee again." THE JOURNEY FROM SCHOOL AND TO SCHOOL O what a joyous joyous day Is that on which we come At the recess from school away, Each lad to his own home! What though the coach is crammed full, The weather very warm; Think you a boy of us is dull, Or feels the slightest harm? The dust and sun is life and fun; The hot and sultry weather A higher zest gives every breast, Thus jumbled all together. Sometimes we laugh aloud aloud, Sometimes huzzah, huzzah. Who is so buoyant, free, and proud, As we home-travellers are? But sad, but sad is every lad That day on which we come, That last last day on which away We all come from our home. Soon we exclaim, O shame, O shame, This hot and sultry weather, Who but our master is to blame, Who pack'd us thus together! Not now the joyous laugh goes round, We shout not now huzzah; A sadder group may not be found Than we returning are. THE YOUNG LETTER-WRITER And bite his pen, and lift his eyes, As if he thinks to find in air The wish'd-for following words, or tries To fix his thoughts by fixed stare. And when maturer age he sees With ready pen so swift inditing, With envy he beholds the ease Of long-accustom'd letter-writing. Courage, young friend; the time may be, When you attain maturer age, Some young as you are now may see You with like ease glide down a page. In the depth of her affliction Martha now receiv'd conviction, That a true and faithful friend Can the surest comfort lend. Night and day, with friendship tried, Ever constant by her side Was her gentle Mary found, With a love that knew no bound; And the solace she imparted Sav'd her dying' broken-hearted. Truth explain'd is to suspicion Evermore the best physician. Soon her visits had the effect; All that Margaret did suspect, From her fancy vanish'd clean; She was soon what she had been, And the colour she did lack To her faded cheek came back. Wounds which love had made her feel, Love alone had power to heal. With such speeches, smoothly made, She found methods to persuade Margaret (who, being sore From the doubts she'd felt before, Was prepared for mistrust) To believe her reasons just; Quite destroy'd that comfort glad, Which in Mary late she had; Made her, in experience' spite, Think her friend a hypocrite, And resolve, with cruel scoff, To renounce and cast her off. But sweet Mary, still the same, Kindly eas'd them of their shame; Spoke to them with accents bland, Took them friendly by the hand; Bound them both with promise fast, Not to speak of troubles past; Made them on the spot declare A new league of friendship there; Which, without a word of strife, Lasted thenceforth long as life. Martha now and Margaret Strove who most should pay the debt Which they ow'd her, nor did vary Ever after from their Mary. ON THE LORD'S PRAYER I have taught your young lips the good words to say over, Which form the petition we call the Lord's Pray'r, And now let me help my dear child to discover The meaning of all the good words that are there. "Our Father," the same appellation is given To a parent on earth, and the parent of all- O gracious permission, the God that's in heaven Allows his poor creatures him Father to call. His "will done on earth, as it is done in heaven," Is a wish and a hope we are suffer'd to breathe, That such grace and favour to us may be given, Like good angels on high we may live here beneath. "Our daily bread give us," your young apprehension May well understand is to pray for our food; Although we ask bread, and no other thing mention, God's bounty gives all things sufficient and good. You pray that your "trespasses may be forgiven, As you forgive those that are done unto you;" Before this you say to the God that's in heaven, Consider the words which you speak. Are they true? We pray that "temptations may never assail us," And "deliverance beg from all evil" we find; But we never can hope that our pray'r will avail us, If we strive not to banish ill thoughts from our mind. "For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, For ever and ever," these titles are meant To express God's dominion and majesty o'er ye: And "Amen" to the sense of the whole gives assent. "SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN, AND FORBID THEM NOT, TO COME UNTO ME" To Jesus our Saviour some parents presented Their children--what fears and what hopes they must feel! When this the disciples would fain have prevented, Our Saviour reprov'd their unseas'nable zeal. Not only free leave to come to him was given, But "Of such" were the blessed words Christ our Lord spake, "Of such is composed the kingdom of heaven:" The disciples, abashed, perceiv'd their mistake. With joy then the parents their children brought nigher, And earnestly begg'd that his hands he would lay On their heads; and they made a petition still higher, That he for a blessing upon them would pray. O happy young children, thus brought to adore him, To kneel at his feet, and look up in his face; No doubt now in heaven they still are before him, Children still of his love, and enjoying his grace. For being so blest as to come to our Saviour, How deep in their innocent hearts it must sink! 'Twas a visit divine; a most holy behaviour Must flow from that spring of which then they did drink. THE MAGPYE'S NEST OR A LESSON OF DOCILITY When the arts in their infancy were, In a fable of old 'tis exprest, A wise Magpye constructed that rare Little house for young birds, call'd a nest. This was talk'd of the whole country round, You might hear it on every bough sung, "Now no longer upon the rough ground Will fond mothers brood over their young. "For the Magpye with exquisite skill Has invented a moss-cover'd cell, Within which a whole family will In the utmost security dwell." To her mate did each female bird say, "Let us fly to the Magpye, my dear; If she will but teach us the way, A nest we will build us up here. "It's a thing that's close arch'd over head, With a hole made to creep out and in; We, my bird, might make just such a bed, If we only knew how to begin." To the Magpye soon every bird went, And in modest terms made their request, That she would be pleas'd to consent To teach them to build up a nest. "O yes, certainly," said the Jack Daw, "That must follow of course, I have thought; Though I never before building saw, I guess'd that without being taught." "More moss, straw, and feathers, I place, In this manner," continued the Pye. "Yes, no doubt, Madam, that is the case; Though no builder myself, even I," Said the Starling, "conjectur'd 'twas so; It must of necessity follow: For more moss, straw, and feathers, I know, It requires, to be soft, round, and hollow." Whatever she taught them beside, In his turn every bird of them said, Though the nest-making art he ne'er tried, He had just such a thought in his head. THE BOY AND THE SKY-LARK "A wicked action fear to do, When you are by yourselves; for though You think you can conceal it, A little bird that's in the air The hidden trespass shall declare, And openly reveal it." Richard this saying oft had heard, Until the sight of any bird Would set his heart a quaking; He saw a host of winged spies For ever o'er him in the skies, Note of his actions taking. This pious precept, while it stood In his remembrance, kept him good When nobody was by him; For though no human eye was near, Yet Richard still did wisely fear The little bird should spy him. When on a day, as he abroad Walk'd by his mother, in their road He heard a sky-lark singing; Smit with the sound, a flood of tears Proclaim'd the superstitious fears His inmost bosom wringing. His mother, wond'ring, saw him cry, And fondly ask'd the reason why; Then Richard made confession, And said, he fear'd the little bird He singing in the air had heard Was telling his transgression. The words which Richard spoke below, As sounds by nature upwards go, Were to the sky-lark carried; The airy traveller with surprise To hear his sayings, in the skies On his mid journey tarried. His anger then the bird exprest: "Sure, since the day I left the nest, I ne'er heard folly utter'd So fit to move a sky-lark's mirth, As what this little son of earth Hath in his grossness mutter'd. "Dull fool! to think we sons of air On man's low actions waste a care, His virtues or his vices; Or soaring on the summer gales, That we should stoop to carry tales Of him or his devices! "Unless it be in what green field Or meadow we our nest may build, Midst flowering broom, or heather; From whence our new-fledg'd offspring may With least obstruction wing their way Up to the walks of ether. THE MEN AND WOMEN, AND THE MONKEYS His observation none impeach'd or blam'd, But every man and woman when 'twas nam'd Drew in the head, or slunk away asham'd. "The slights and coolness of this human nation Should give a sensible ape no mort'fication; 'Tis thus they always serve a poor relation." LOVE, DEATH, AND REPUTATION Death said: "My fellow tourists, I am going To seek for harvests in th' embattled plain; Where drums are beating, and loud trumpets blowing, There you'll be sure to meet with me again" THE SPARROW AND THE HEN A Sparrow, when Sparrows like Parrots could speak, Addressed an old Hen who could talk like a Jay: Said he, "It's unjust that we Sparrows must seek Our food, when your family's fed every day. "Were you like the Peacock, that elegant bird, The sight of whose plumage her master may please, I then should not wonder that you are preferr'd To the yard, where in affluence you live at your ease. "I affect no great style, am not costly in feathers, A good honest brown I find most to my liking, It always looks neat, and is fit for all weathers, But I think your gray mixture is not very striking. "We know that the bird from the isles of Canary Is fed, foreign airs to sing in a fine cage; But your note from a cackle so seldom does vary, The fancy of man it cannot much engage. "My chirp to a song sure approaches much nearer, Nay, the Nightingale tells me I sing not amiss; If voice were in question I ought to be dearer; But the Owl he assures me there's nothing in this. "Nor is it your proneness to domestication, For he dwells in man's barn, and I build in man's thatch, As we say to each other--but, to our vexation, O'er your safety alone man keeps diligent watch." "Have you e'er learned to read?" said the Hen to the Sparrow. "No, Madam," he answer'd, "I can't say I have," "Then that is the reason your sight is so narrow," The old Hen replied, with a look very grave. "Mrs. Glasse in a Treatise--I wish you could read- Our importance has shown, and has prov'd to us why Man shields us and feeds us: of us he has need Ev'n before we are born, even after we die." WHICH IS THE FAVOURITE? Then nought too good for him to wear, With cherub face and flaxen hair, In fancy's choicest gauds array'd, Cap of lace with rose to aid, Milk-white hat and feather blue, Shoes of red, and coral too With silver bells to please his ear, And charm the frequent ready tear. Now abject, stooping, old, and wan, Neglected is the beggar man. See the boy advance in age, And learning spreads her useful page; In vain! for giddy pleasure calls, And shews the marbles, tops, and balls. What's learning to the charms of play? The indulgent tutor must give way. A heedless wilful dunce, and wild, The parents' fondness spoil'd the child; The youth in vagrant courses ran; Now abject, stooping, old, and wan, Their fondling is the beggar man. CHOOSING A PROFESSION As busy Aurelia, 'twixt work and 'twixt play, Was lab'ring industriously hard To cull the vile weeds from the flow'rets away, Which grew in her father's court-yard; In her juvenile anger, wherever she found, She pluck'd, and she pull'd, and she tore; The poor passive suff'rers bestrew'd all the ground; Not a weed of them all she forbore. At length 'twas her chance on some nettles to light (Things, till then, she had scarcely heard nam'd); The vulgar intruders call'd forth all her spite; In a transport of rage she exclaim'd, "Shall briars so unsightly and worthless as those Their great sprawling leaves thus presume To mix with the pink, the jonquil, and the rose, And take up a flower's sweet room?" On the odious offenders enraged she flew; But she presently found to her cost A tingling unlook'd for, a pain that was new, And rage was in agony lost. To her father she hastily fled for relief, And told him her pain and her smart; With kindly caresses he soothed her grief, Then smiling he took the weed's part. "The world, my Aurelia, this garden of ours Resembles: too apt we're to deem In the world's larger garden ourselves as the flow'rs, And the poor but as weeds to esteem. "But them if we rate, or with rudeness repel, Though some will be passive enough, From others who're more independent 'tis well If we meet not a _stinging rebuff_." PARENTAL RECOLLECTIONS A child's a plaything for an hour; Its pretty tricks we try For that or for a longer space; Then tire, and lay it by. Of sufferings the poor have many, Which never can the rich annoy. I soon perceiv'd another boy Who look'd as if he'd not had any Food for that day at least, enjoy The sight of cold meat in a tavern larder. This boy's case, thought I, is surely harder, Thus hungry longing, thus without a penny, Beholding choice of dainty dressed meat: No wonder if he wish he ne'er had learn'd to eat. "Tell me, would you rather be Chang'd by a fairy to the fine Young orphan heiress Geraldine, Or still be Emily? "Consider, ere you answer me, How many blessings are procur'd By riches, and how much endur'd By chilling poverty." After a pause, said Emily: "In the words orphan heiress I Find many a solid reason why I would not changed be. "Think you that for wealth I'd be Of ev'n the least of them bereft, Or lose my parent, and be left An orphan'd Emily? "Still should I be Emily, Although I look'd like Geraldine; I feel within this heart of mine No change could worked be." THE SISTER'S EXPOSTULATION ON THE BROTHER'S LEARNING LATIN "Your prayers you have said, and you've wished Good night: What cause is there yet keeps my darling awake? This throb in your bosom proclaims some affright Disturbs your composure. Can innocence quake? "Why thus do you cling to my neck, and enfold me, What fear unimparted your quiet devours?" "O mother, there's reason--for Susan has told me, A dead body lies in the room next to ours." "I know it; and, but for forgetfulness, dear, I meant you the coffin this day should have seen, And read the inscription, and told me the year And day of the death of your poor old Nurse Green." "O not for the wealth of the world would I enter A chamber wherein a dead body lay hid, Lest somebody bolder than I am should venture To go near the coffin and lift up the lid." "And should they do so and the coffin uncover, The corpse underneath it would be no ill sight; This frame, when its animal functions are over, Has nothing of horror the living to fright. "To start at the dead is preposterous error, To shrink from a foe that can never contest; Shall that which is motionless move thee to terror; Or thou become restless, 'cause they are at rest? "To think harm of her our good feelings forbid us By whom when a babe you were dandled and fed; Who living so many good offices did us, I ne'er can persuade me would hurt us when dead. "But if no endeavour your terrors can smother, If vainly against apprehension you strive, Come, bury your fears in the arms of your mother; My darling, cling close to me, I am alive." In whatsoever place resides Good Temper, she o'er all presides; The most obdurate heart she guides. Even Anger yields unto her power, And sullen Spite forgets to lour, Or reconciled weeps a shower; Reserve she softens into Ease, Makes Fretfulness leave off to teaze, She Waywardness itself can please. Her handmaids they are not a few: Sincerity that's ever true, And Prompt Obedience always new, Urbanity that ever smiles, And Frankness that ne'er useth wiles, And Friendliness that ne'er beguiles, And Firmness that is always ready To make young good-resolves more steady, The only safeguard of the giddy; And blushing Modesty, and sweet Humility in fashion neat; Yet still her train is incomplete, Unless meek Piety attend Good Temper as her surest friend, Abiding with her to the end. The drunkard's sin, excess in wine, Which reason drowns, and health destroys, As yet no failing is of thine, Dear Jim; strong drink's not given to boys. You from the cool fresh steam allay Those thirsts which sultry suns excite; When choak'd with dust, or hot with play, A cup of water yields delight. And reverence still that temperate cup, And cherish long the blameless taste; To learn the faults of men grown up, Dear Jim, be wise and do not haste. Prefer with plain food to be fed, Rather than what are dainties styl'd; A sweet tooth in an infant's head Is pardon'd, not in a grown child. If parent, aunt, or liberal friend, With splendid shilling line your purse, Do not the same on sweetmeats spend, Nor appetite with pampering nurse. Go buy a book; a dainty eaten Is vanish'd, and no sweets remain; They who their minds with knowledge sweeten, The savour long as life retain. Purchase some toy, a horse of wood, A pasteboard ship; their structure scan; Their mimic uses understood, The school-boy make a kind of man. Go see some show; pictures or prints; Or beasts far brought from Indian land; Those foreign sights oft furnish hints, That may the youthful mind expand. And something of your store impart, To feed the poor and hungry soul; What buys for you the needless tart, May purchase him a needful roll. Incorrectness in your speech Carefully avoid, my Anna; Study well the sense of each Sentence, lest in any manner It misrepresent the truth; Veracity's the charm of youth. O why your good deeds with such pride do you scan, And why that self-satisfied smile At the shilling you gave to the poor working man, That lifted you over the stile? The money perhaps by your father or mother Was furnish'd you but with that view; If so, you were only the steward of another, And the praise you usurp is their due. But if every penny you gave were your own, And giving diminish'd your purse; By a child's slender means think how little is done, And how little for it you're the worse. You eat, and you drink; when you rise in the morn, You are cloth'd; you have health and content; And you never have known, from the day you were born, What hunger or nakedness meant. I've been told by my friends (if they do not belie me) My promise was such as no parent would scorn; The wise and the aged who prophesied by me, Augur'd nothing but good of me when I was born. But vain are the hopes which are form'd by a parent, Fallacious the marks which in infancy shine; My frail constitution soon made it apparent, I nourish'd within me the seeds of decline. On a sick bed I lay, through the flesh my bones started, My grief-wasted frame to a skeleton fell; My physicians foreboding took leave and departed, And they wish'd me dead now, who wished me well. Life and soul were kept in by a mother's assistance, Who struggled with faith, and prevail'd 'gainst despair; Like an angel she watch'd o'er the lamp of existence, And never would leave while a glimmer was there. The chance-rooted tree that by way-sides is planted, Where no friendly hand will watch o'er its young shoots, Has less blame if in autumn, when produce is wanted, Enrich'd by small culture it put forth small fruits. But that which with labour in hot-beds is reared, Secur'd by nice art from the dews and the rains, Unsound at the root may with justice be feared, If it pay not with int'rest the tiller's hard pains. THE BEASTS IN THE TOWER Within the precincts of this yard, Each in his narrow confines barr'd, Dwells every beast that can be found On Afric or on Indian ground. How different was the life they led In those wild haunts where they were bred, To this tame servitude and fear, Enslav'd by man, they suffer here! In that uneasy close recess Couches a sleeping Lioness; The next den holds a Bear; the next A Wolf, by hunger ever vext; There, fiercer from the keeper's lashes, His teeth the fell Hyena gnashes; That creature on whose back abound Black spots upon a yellow ground, A Panther is, the fairest beast That haunteth in the spacious East. He underneath a fair outside Does cruelty and treach'ry hide. That lordly creature next to him A Lion is. Survey each limb. Observe the texture of his claws, The massy thickness of those jaws; His mane that sweeps the ground in length, Like Samson's locks, betok'ning strength. In force and swiftness he excels Each beast that in the forest dwells; The savage tribes him king confess Throughout the howling wilderness. Woe to the hapless neighbourhood, When he is press'd by want of food! Of man, or child, of bull, or horse, He makes his prey; such is his force. A waste behind him he creates, Whole villages depopulates. Yet here within appointed lines How small a grate his rage confines! This place methinks resembleth well The world itself in which we dwell. Perils and snares on every ground Like these wild beasts beset us round. But Providence their rage restrains, Our heavenly Keeper sets them chains; His goodness saveth every hour His darlings from the Lion's power. Anna was always full of thought As if she'd many sorrows known, Yet mostly her full heart was fraught With troubles that were not her own; For the whole school to Anna us'd to tell Whatever small misfortunes unto them befell. And being so by all belov'd, That all into her bosom pour'd Their dearest secrets, she was mov'd To pity all--her heart a hoard, Or storehouse, by this means became for all The sorrows can to girls of tender age befall. Though individually not much Distress throughout the school prevail'd, Yet as she shar'd it all, 'twas such A weight of woe that her assail'd, She lost her colour, loath'd her food, and grew So dull, that all their confidence from her withdrew. And in the next is vanish'd quite. A bird devours it in his flight- Or come a cold blast in the night, There's no breath in it. The bird but seeks his proper food- And Providence, whose power endu'd That fly with life, when it thinks good, May justly take it. But you have no excuses for't- A life by Nature made so short, Less reason is that you for sport Should shorter make it. Can have but fibres, nerves, and flesh, And these the smallest ones possess, Although their frame and structure less Escape our seeing. Lucy, what do you espy In the cast in Jenny's eye That should you to laughter move? I far other feelings prove. When on me she does advance Her good-natur'd countenance, And those eyes which in their way Saying much, so much would say, They to me no blemish seem, Or as none I them esteem; I their imperfection prize Above other clearer eyes. Eyes do not as jewels go By the brightness and the show, But the meanings which surround them, And the sweetness shines around them. Isabel's are black as jet, But she cannot that forget, And the pains she takes to show them Robs them of the praise we owe them. Ann's, though blue, affected fall; Kate's are bright, but fierce withal; And the sparklers of her sister From ill-humour lose their lustre. Only Jenny's eyes we see, By their very plainness, free From the vices which do smother All the beauties of the other. "O no, Papa, they'd soil my glove, and be Quite odious things to carry. O no--see, This little bit of gold is surely all That I shall want; for I shall only call For a small purchase I shall make, Papa, And a mere trifle I'm to buy Mamma, Just to make out the change: so there's no need To carry Penny Pieces, Sir, indeed." WHY NOT DO IT, SIR, TO-DAY? "Why so I will, you noisy bird, This very day I'll advertise you, Perhaps some busy ones may prize you. A fine-tongu'd parrot as was ever heard, I'll word it thus--set forth all charms about you, And say no family should be without you." With the apples and the plums Little Carolina comes, At the time of the dessert she Comes and drops her new last curt'sy; Graceful curt'sy, practis'd o'er In the nursery before. What shall we compare her to? The dessert itself will do. Like preserves she's kept with care, Like blanch'd almonds she is fair, Soft as down on peach her hair, And so soft, so smooth is each Pretty cheek as that same peach, Yet more like in hue to cherries; Then her lips, the sweet strawberries, Caroline herself shall try them If they are not like when nigh them; Her bright eyes are black as sloes, But I think we've none of those Common fruit here--and her chin From a round point does begin, Like the small end of a pear; Whiter drapery she does wear Than the frost on cake; and sweeter Than the cake itself, and neater, Though bedeck'd with emblems fine, Is our little Caroline. TO A YOUNG LADY, ON BEING TOO FOND OF MUSIC Why is your mind thus all day long Upon your music set; Till reason's swallow'd in a song, Or idle canzonet? I grant you, Melesinda, when Your instrument was new, I was well pleas'd to see you then Its charms assiduous woo. The rudiments of any art Or mast'ry that we try, Are only on the learner's part Got by hard industry. But we misconstrue, and defeat The end of any good; When what should be our casual treat, We make our constant food. While, to th' exclusion of the rest, This single art you ply, Your nobler studies are supprest, Your books neglected lie. Could you in what you so affect The utmost summit reach; Beyond what fondest friends expect, Or skilful'st masters teach: The skill you learn'd would not repay The time and pains it cost, Youth's precious season thrown away, And reading-leisure lost. In many a lecture, many a book, You all have heard, you all have read, That time is precious. Of its use Much has been written, much been said. The accomplishments which gladden life, As music, drawing, dancing, are Encroachers on our precious time; Their praise or dispraise I forbear. They should be practis'd or forborne, As parents wish, or friends desire: What rests alone in their own will Is all I of the young require. There's not a more productive source Of waste of time to the young mind Than dress; as it regards our hours My view of it is now confin'd. Write in your memorandum-book The time you at your toilette spend; Then every moment which you pass, Talking of dress with a young friend: And ever when your silent thoughts Have on this subject been intent, Set down as nearly as you can How long on dress your thoughts were bent. If faithfully you should perform This task, 'twould teach you to repair Lost hours, by giving unto dress Not more of time than its due share. CONQUEST OF PREJUDICE But soon with alter'd looks askance They view his sable face and form, When they perceive the scornful glance Of the head boy, young Henry Orme. His words were quickly whisper'd round, And every boy now looks offended; The master saw the change, and found That Orme a mutiny intended. Said he to Orme, "This African It seems is not by you approv'd; I'll find a way, young Englishman, To have this prejudice remov'd. "Nearer acquaintance possibly May make you tolerate his hue; At least 'tis my intent to try What a short month may chance to do." He lock'd them in, secur'd the key, That all access to them was stopt; They from without can nothing see; Their food is through a sky-light dropt. A month in this lone chamber Orme Is sentenc'd during all that time To view no other face or form Than Juba's parch'd by Afric clime. Of ships and seas, and foreign coast, Juba can speak, for he has been A voyager: and Orme can boast He London's famous town has seen. In eager talk they pass the day, And borrow hours ev'n from the night; So pleasantly time past away, That they have lost their reckoning quite. And when their master set them free, They thought a week was sure remitted, And thank'd him that their liberty Had been before the time permitted. Now Orme and Juba are good friends; The school, by Orme's example won, Contend who most shall make amends For former slights to Afric's son. THE GREAT GRANDFATHER Though years lie on him like a load, A happier man you will not see Than he, whenever he can get His great grand-children on his knee. When we our parents have displeas'd, He stands between us as a screen; By him our good deeds in the sun, Our bad ones in the shade are seen. His love's a line that's long drawn out, Yet lasteth firm unto the end; His heart is oak, yet unto us It like the gentlest reed can bend. A fighting soldier he has been- Yet by his manners you would guess, That he his whole long life had spent In scenes of country quietness. The deeds of this eventful age, Which princes from their thrones have hurl'd, Can no more interest wake in him Than stories of another world. When I his length of days revolve, How like a strong tree he hath stood, It brings into my mind almost Those patriarchs old before the flood. When I the memory repeat Of the heroic actions great, Which, in contempt of pain and death, Were done by men who drew their breath In ages past, I find no deed That can in fortitude exceed The noble Boy, in Sparta bred, Who in the temple minist'red. By the sacrifice he stands, The lighted incense in his hands. Through the smoking censer's lid Dropp'd a burning coal, which slid Into his sleeve, and passed in Between the folds ev'n to the skin. Dire was the pain which then he prov'd; But not for this his sleeve he mov'd, Or would the scorching ember shake Out from the folds, lest it should make Any confusion, or excite Disturbance at the sacred rite. But close he kept the burning coal, Till it eat itself a hole In his flesh. The slanders by Saw no sign, and heard no cry, Of his pangs had no discerning, Till they smell'd the flesh aburning All this he did in noble scorn, And for he was a Spartan born. Young student, who this story readest, And with the same thy thoughts now feedest, Thy weaker nerves might thee forbid To do the thing the Spartan did; Thy feebler heart could not sustain Such dire extremity of pain. But in this story thou mayst see, What may useful prove to thee. By his example thou wilt find, That to the ingenuous mind Shame can greater anguish bring Than the body's suffering; That pain is not the worst of ills, Not when it the body kills; That in fair religion's cause, For thy country, or the laws, When occasion due shall offer 'Tis reproachful _not to suffer._ If thou shouldst a soldier be, And a wound should trouble thee, If without the soldier's fame Thou to chance shouldst owe a maim, Do not for a little pain On thy manhood bring a stain; But to keep thy spirits whole, Think on the Spartan and the _coal._ QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM ON A PICTURE OF THE FINDING OF MOSES BY PHARAOH'S DAUGHTER This Picture does the story express Of Moses in the Bulrushes. How livelily the painter's hand By colours makes us understand! It is not always to the strong Victorious battle shall belong. This found Goliath huge and tall: Mightiest giant of them all, Who in the proud Philistian host Defied Israel with boast. With loud voice Goliath said: "Hear, armed Israel, gathered, And in array against us set: Ye shall alone by me be met. For am not I a Philistine? What strength may be compar'd to mine? "The king," they unto David say, "Most amply will that man repay, He and his father's house shall be Evermore in Israel free. With mighty wealth Saul will endow That man: and he has made a vow; Whoever takes Goliath's life, Shall have Saul's daughter for his wife." His eldest brother, who had heard His question, was to anger stirr'd Against the youth: for (as he thought) Things out of his young reach he sought. Said he, "What mov'd thee to come here, To question warlike men? say, where And in whose care are those few sheep, That in the wilderness you keep? I know thy thoughts, how proud thou art: In the naughtiness of thy heart, Hoping a battle thou mayst see, Thou comest hither down to me." Then answer'd Jesse's youngest son In these words: "What have I done? Is there not cause?" Some there which heard, And at the manner of his word Admir'd, report this to the king. By his command they David bring Into his presence. Fearless then, Before the king and his chief men, He shews his confident design To combat with the Philistine. Saul with wonder heard the youth, And thus address'd him: "Of a truth, No pow'r thy untried sinew hath To cope with this great man of Gath." DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM The Swallow is a summer bird; He in our chimneys, when the weather Is fine and warm, may then be heard Chirping his notes for weeks together. In dreary days of snow and frost Closer to Man will cling the Sparrow: Old friends, although in life we're crost, Their hearts to us will never narrow. Can I, all gracious Providence! Can I deserve thy care: Ah! no; I've not the least pretence To bounties which I share. Have I not been defended still From dangers and from death; Been safe preserv'd from ev'ry ill E'er since thou gav'st me breath? Tho' dazzling splendour, pomp, and show, My fortune has denied, Yet more than grandeur can bestow, Content hath well supplied. I ask and wish not to appear More beauteous, rich, or gay: Lord, make me wiser every year, And better every day. THE BOY, THE MOTHER, AND THE BUTTERFLY Young William held the Butterfly in chase, And it was pretty to observe the race Betwixt the Fly and Child, who nigh had caught him But for a merry jest his Mother taught him. "My valiant Huntsman, fie!" she said, "for shame, You are too big a match for so small game, To catch the Hare, or nimble Squirrel try, Remember, William, He is BUT A FLY." Not always is Humanity imprest By serious schooling; a light word or jest Will sometimes leave a moral sting behind When graver lessons vanish out of mind. FLATTERY PUT OUT OF COUNTENANCE A POETICAL VERSION OF AN ANCIENT TALK In days of yore, as Ancient Stories tell, A King in love with a great Princess fell. Long at her feet submiss the Monarch sigh'd, While she with stern repulse his suit denied. Yet was he form'd by birth to please the fair, Dress'd, danc'd, and courted with a Monarch's air; But Magic Spells her frozen breast had steel'd With stubborn pride, that knew not how to yield. This to the King' a courteous Fairy told, And bade the Monarch in his suit be bold; For he that would the charming Princess wed, Had only on her cat's black tail to tread, When straight the Spell would vanish into air, And he enjoy for life the yielding fair. So spake the King, self-flatter'd in his thought, Then with impatient step the Princess sought. His urgent suit no longer she withstands, But links with him in Hymen's knot her hands. Almost as soon a widow as a bride, Within a year the King her husband died; And shortly after he was dead and gone, She was deliver'd of a little son, The prettiest babe, with lips as red as rose, And eyes like little stars--but such a nose- The tender Mother fondly took the boy Into her arms, and would have kiss'd her joy; His luckless nose forbade the fond embrace- He thrust the hideous feature in her face. Then all her Maids of Honour tried in turn, And for a Prince's kiss in envy burn; By sad experience taught, their hopes they miss'd, And mourn'd a Prince that never could be kiss'd. While doctrines such as these his guides instill'd, His Palace was with long-nosed people fill'd; At Court, whoever ventured to appear With a short nose, was treated with a sneer. Each courtier's wife, that with a babe is blest, Moulds its young nose betimes; and does her best, By pulls, and hauls, and twists, and lugs and pinches, To stretch it to the standard of the Prince's. The Princess's affections being gain'd, What but her Sire's approval now remain'd? Ambassadors with solemn pomp are sent To win the aged Monarch to consent (Seeing their States already were allied) That Dorus might have Claribel to bride. Her Royal Sire, who wisely understood The match propos'd was for both kingdoms' good, Gave his consent; and gentle Claribel With weeping bids her Father's court farewell. With gallant pomp, and numerous array, Dorus went forth to meet her on her way; But when the Princely pair of lovers met, Their hearts on mutual gratulations set, Sudden the Enchanter from the ground arose, (The same who prophesied the Prince's nose) And with rude grasp, unconscious of her charms, Snatch'd up the lovely Princess in his arms, Then bore her out of reach of human eyes, Up in the pathless regions of the skies. But his kind Hostess, who had vainly tried The force of ridicule to cure his pride, Fertile in plans, a surer method chose, To make him see the error of his nose; For till he view'd that feature with remorse, The Enchanter's direful spell must be in force. The painful Truth, which Flattery long conceal'd, Rush'd on his mind, and "O!" he cried, "I yield; Wisest of Fairies, thou wert right, I wrong- _I own, I own, I have a Nose too long_." The frank confession was no sooner spoke, But into shivers all the palace broke, His Nose of monstrous length, to his surprise Shrunk to the limits of a common size; And Claribel with joy her Lover view'd, Now grown as beautiful as he was good. The aged Fairy in their presence stands, Confirms their mutual vows, and joins their hands. The Prince with rapture hails the happy hour, That rescued him from self-delusion's power; And trains of blessings crown the future life Of Dorus, and of Claribel, his wife. CHARLES LAMB AND BOOKS FOR CHILDREN Hence when the time came Lamb was all ready with a nursery method of his own. "So much, only begging you to tear out the cuts and give them to Johnny, as 'Mrs. Godwin's fancy'. The former part hath a more feminine turn and does hold me up something as an instructor to young ladies: but upon my modesty's honour I wrote it not. "Godwin told my Sister that the Baby chose the subjects: a fact in taste." "I will tell you more about Chapman and his peculiarities in my next. I am much interested in him." A brief correspondence which passed between Godwin and Lamb just before the publication of _The Adventures of Ulysses_ may be given here. WILLIAM GODWIN TO CHARLES LAMB It is strange with what different feelings an author and a bookseller looks at the same manuscript. I know this by experience: I was an author, I am a bookseller. The author thinks what will conduce to his honour: the bookseller what will cause his commodities to sell. You, or some other wise man, I have heard to say, It is children that read children's books, when they are read, but it is parents that choose them. The critical thought of the tradesman put itself therefore into the place of the parent, and what the parent will condemn. Nothing is more easy than to modify these things if you please, and nothing, I think, is more indispensable. Give me, as soon as possible, your thoughts on the matter. CHARLES LAMB TO WILLIAM GODWIN Lamb adapted Chapman very freely. For the material in Chapter I. we must go to Chapman, Books IX. and X.; for Chapter II., to Books X. and XL; for Chapter III., to Book XII.; for Chapter IV., to the early books; for Chapters V., VI. and VII., to Chapman, Books V.-IX. and XIII.; for Chapter VIII., to Books XIII. and XIV.; and for Chapter IX. to the end, to Chapman, Book XVI. and onwards. It must be agreed that Lamb performed a difficult task with great skill and success, especially when we consider his want of interest, frequently admitted, in stories. But the pleasure of adding dignity and sweetness to the character of Ulysses seems to have been very considerable as he worked (or so I imagine), and he made practically a new thing, a very persuasive blend of ancient and modern. The book has not been so popular as the _Tales from Shakespear_, but it has, I think, finer literary merits and may perhaps be read by older intellects with more satisfaction. _Mrs. Leicester's School_ calls for little annotation, except for the purpose of relating the stories to the lives of their writers; for it contains some very valuable autobiographical matter. But there are a few minor points too. In the choice of Amwell School as the name of Mrs. Leicester's establishment Mary (or Charles) returned after an inveterate Lamb habit to the old Hertfordshire days. Amwell, where the New River rises, is only a few miles from Widford and Blakesware. The signature to the dedication, "M.B.," may have been a little joke for the amusement of Martin Burney, who had taken such interest in the progress of the _Tales from Shakespear_ and was in those days a special favourite with Mary Lamb. By Mary Lamb. The story of the little girl learning her letters from her mother's grave may have belonged to Widford churchyard; otherwise there seems to be no personal memory here. By Mary Lamb. It is this story which Landor so much admired (see above). The pretty song, "Balow, my babe," was probably "Ann Bothwell's Lament," beginning "Balow, my boy." Lamb told Coleridge, in a letter upon his aunt's death, "she was to me the 'cherisher of infancy.'" By Charles Lamb. Nothing else that Lamb wrote is quite so far from the ordinary run of his thoughts; and nothing has, I think, more charm. "I write of Tarts; how sweet a tale! You'll lick your lips to hear it told: I show you mighty Kings and Queens, Robes of scarlet, Crowns of gold." I have placed against the poems, in the notes that follow, the authorship--brother or sister's--which seems to me the more probable. But I hope it will be understood that I do this at a venture, and, except in a few cases, with no exact knowledge. By Charles Lamb; as we know from a letter from Lamb to Robert Lloyd. The mother was, of course, terrified, but waited until the boy had finished his meal, when she called in the neighbours and killed the adder. Mary Lamb. The last line was quoted by Lamb in his Popular Fallacy "That Home is Home": "It has been prettily said, that 'a babe is fed with milk and praise.'" (?) Mary Lamb, amended by Charles Lamb. (?) Mary Lamb. With this poem ended Vol. I. of the original edition of _Poetry for Children_. With the following poem Vol. II. began. (?) Mary Lamb. In this poem some trace of John Lamb senior's poetical manner may be seen. Fables drawn from bird life stand at the beginning of his _Poetical Pieces on Several Occasions_ (see Vol. II.). (?) Charles Lamb. The frontispiece to Vol. II. of _Poetry for Children_ took its subject from this poem. By John Lamb, Charles and Mary's brother; as we know from a letter from Charles Lamb to Robert Lloyd. By Mary Lamb, as we know on the evidence of Robert Lloyd. This also, on Robert Lloyd's evidence, is by Mary Lamb. By Mary Lamb. Quoted by Lamb, as by "a quaint poetess," in his _Elia_ essay "Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading." (?) Charles Lamb. Many years later Mary Lamb wrote a sonnet in _Blackwood_ on a kindred subject, addressed to Emma Isola. Mary Lamb taught Latin to Mary Cowden Clarke (when Mary Victoria Novello) and to William Hazlitt's son, also to Miss Kelly. (?) Mary Lamb. The "splendid shilling" (borrowed from Phillips' parody of Milton) suggests a touch of Charles Lamb. (?) Charles Lamb. There is a hint of Blake's "Tiger, tiger burning bright" (which Lamb so greatly admired) in- That cat-like beast that to and fro Restless as fire doth ever go. (?) Mary Lamb. Melesinda also was the name of the heroine in "Mr. H." End of Project Gutenberg's Books for Children, by Charles and Mary Lamb	redpajama-book	85,975
Produced by Ted Garvin, Sjaani and PG Distributed Proofreaders HEWLETT! as ship to ship Let us the ensign dip. There may be who despise For dross our merchandise, Our balladries, our bales Of woven tales; Yet, Hewlett, the glad gales Favonian! And what spray Our dolphins toss'd in play, Full in old Triton's beard, on Iris' shimmering veils! Scant tho' the freight of gold Commercial in our hold, Paestum, Eridanus Perchance have barter'd us 'Bove chrematistic care _Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit eras amet_. Conpari Venus pudore mittit ad te virgines: Ruris hic erunt puellae, vel puellae montium, Quaeque silvas, quaeque lucos, quaeque fontes incolunt: Inbuit, jussitque mundum nosse nascendi vias. _Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit cras amet._ She, she, to the womb drave the knowledge, and open'd the ecstasy through. _Now learn ye to love who loved never--now ye who have loved, love anew!_ THE "ONLIE BEGETTER" CARL'ANTONIO, _Duke of Adria_ TONINO, _his young son_ LUCIO; _Count of Vallescura, brother to the Duchess_ CESARIO, _Captain of the Guard_ OTTILIA, _Duchess and Regent of Adria_ LUCETTA, _a Lady-in-Waiting_ FULVIA, _a Lady of the Court_ _Courtiers, Priests, Choristers, Soldiers, Mariners, Townsfolk, etc._ _The Scene is the Ducal Palace of Adria, in the N. Adriatic_ _As the curtain rises, a crowd of town and country folk is being herded to the back of the terrace by the Ducal Guard, under Cesario. Within the Chapel, to_ _the sound of an organ, boys' voices are chanting the service of the Mass._ _Cesario, Gamba the Fool, Guards, Populace._ _Cesario._ Way there! Give room! The Regent comes from Mass. Guards, butt them on the toes--way there! give room! Prick me that laggard's leg-importunate fools! _Guards._ Room for the Regent! Room! [_The sacring bell rings within the Chapel._ _Cesario._ Hark there, the bell! [_A pause. Men of the crowd take off their caps._ _Crowd._ Long live the Duke! _Cesario._ The devil, then! Why darken his approach? _Cesario._ And you a Fool, and on your own showing stand in your own light. _(Strikes his viol and sings.)_ _Cesario (calling up to watchman on the Chapel roof)._ Ho there! What news? _A Voice._ Captain, no sail! _Cesario._ Where sits The wind? _Voice._ Nor' west, and north a point! _Cesario._ Perchance They have down'd sail and creep around the flats. [_Noise of commotion in the city below._ _Cesario_. Watchman, what news? _A Voice_. Sir, on the sea no sail! _One of the Crowd_. But through the town below a horseman spurs-I think, Count Lucio! Yes--Count Lucio! He nears, draws rein, dismounts! _Cesario_. Sure, he brings news. _Gamba_. I think he brings word the Duke is sick; his loyal folk have drunk so much of his health. [_A murmur has been growing in the town below. It breaks into cheers as Count Lucio comes springing up to the terrace._ _Crowd._ Long live the Duke! _Lucio._ Hark to the tocsin! I have carried fire-Wildfire! Why, where's my sister? I've a mind- [_He strides towards the door of the Chapel; but pauses at the sound of chanting within, and comes back to Cesario._ Man, are you mute? I say the town's aflame Below! But here, up here, you stand and stare Like prisoners loosed to daylight. Rub your eyes, Believe! _Cesario (musing)._ It has been long. _Lucio._ As tapestry Pricked out by women's needles; point-device As saints in fitted haloes. Yet they stab, Those needles. Oh, the devil take their tongues! _Cesario._ Why, what's the matter? _Lucio._ P'st! another lie Against the Countess Fulvia; and the train Laid to my sister's ear. Cesario, My sister is a saint--and yet she married: Therefore should understand Would saints, like cobblers, Stick but to business in this naughty world! Ah, well! the Duke comes home. _Cesario._ And what of that? _Lucio (mocking a chant within the Chapel)._ From priests and petticoats Deliver us, Good Lord! _Gamba (strikes a chord on viol). AMEN!_ _Lucio._ Why, soothly, she's my sister! _Cesario._ 'But the court Is dull? No masques, few banquetings--and prayers Be long, and youth for pastime leaps the gate?' Yet if the money husbanded on feasts Have fed our soldiery against the Turk, Year after year, and still the State not starved; Was't not well done? And if, responsible To God, and lonely, she has leaned on God Too heavily for our patience, was't not wise?-And well, though weary? _Lucio._ I tell you, she's my sister! _Lucio._ The devil! For what? _Cesario._ For that A lady, whose lord keeps summer in the hills To nurse a gouty foot, should penalize His dutiful return by shutting doors And hanging out a ladder made of rope, Or prove its safety by rehearsing it Upon a heavier man. _Lucio._ I'll go to her. Oh, this is infamous! _Cesario._ Nay, be advised: No hardship irks the lady, save to sit At home and feed her sparrows; nor no worse Annoy than from her balcony to spy (Should the eye rove) a Switzer of the Guard At post between her raspberry-canes, to watch And fright the thrushes from forbidden fruit. _Lucio._ Infamous! infamous! _Cesario._ Enough, my lord: The Regent! [_Doors of the Chapel open. The organ sounds, with voices of choir chanting the recessional. The Court enters from Mass, attending the Regent Ottilia and her son Tonino. She wears a crown and heavy dalmatic. Her brother Lucio, controlling himself with an effort, kisses her hand and conducts her to the marble bench, which serves for her Chair of State. She bows, receiving the homage of the crowd; but, after seating herself, appears for a few moments unconscious of her surroundings. Then, as her rosary slips from her fingers and falls heavily at her feet, she speaks._ _Cesario._ Aloft! What news? _Voice above._ No sail as yet! _Regent._ Ah, pardon, sirs! My ears are strung to-day, And play false airs invented by the wind. Methought a hawse-pipe rattled _Gamba (chants to his viol). Shepherds, see-Lo! What a mariner love hath made me!_ _Regent._ What chants the Fool? _Gamba._ Madonna, 'tis a trifle Made by a silly poet on wives that stand All night at windows listening the surf-_Now he comes! Will he come? Alas! no, no!_ _Regent._ Praise God! dear Lucio! [_She has seated herself again. She takes Lucio's hand and speaks, petting it._ What? Glowing with my happiness? That's like you. But for yourself the hour, too, holds release. _Lucio (between sullenness and shame, with a glance at Cesario)._ "Release?" _Regent._ You will forgive? I have great need To be forgiven: sadly I have been slack In guardianship, and by so much betrayed My promise to our mother's passing soul. Myself in cares immersed, I left the child Among his toys--and turn to find him man-But yet so much a boy that boyhood can _(Wistfully)_ Laugh in his honest eyes? Forgive me, Lucio! Tell me, whate'er have slackened, there has slipped No knot of love. To-morrow we'll make sport, Be playmates and invent new games, and old-Wreath flowers for crowns- [_He drags his hand away. She gazes at him wistfully, and turns to the Captain of the Guard._ Cesario, What are the suits? [_The Regent laughs and nods to the Guard to release him._ _Regent._ What next? _Nicolo._ Lies! lies! _Old Woman._ I would your Highness saw her! When that thief Hangs upon Lazarus' bosom, he'll be bidding A ducat for each drop of milk he's cost me, To cool his tongue. _Regent._ Ay--ay, the cow is sick, I think; and mind me, being country-bred, Of a cure for such: which is, to buy a comb And comb the sufferer's tail at feeding-time. If Zia Agnese do but this, she'll counter The Evil Eye, and maybe with her own Detect who thieves her Serafina's hay. _Old Woman._ God bless your Highness! _Nicolo._ God bless your Highness! _A Young Peasant (shrugs his shoulders)._ As the woman will! I'll not deny I beat her. _Young Peasant._ My lady- _Wife._ Nay, my lady- _Regent._ Eh? What's this? _Wife._ The poor _bambino_! Nay, 'twas not the suit! How should Giuseppe, being a fool, a man- _Young Peasant._ Aye, aye: that's sense. I love him: still, you see- _Regent._ An if my judgment suit you not, go home, The pair. _(As they are going she calls the woman back.)_ Costanza! hath your husband erred With other woman? _Young Peasant_. Never! _Wife_. I'll not charge him With that. _Regent_. But, yes, you may. This man hath held Another woman to his breast. _Wife_. Her name? That I may tear her eyes! _Regent_. Her name's Costanza. The same Costanza that, with body washed, With ribbon in her hair, light in her eyes, Arrayed a cottage to allure his heart. Go home, poor fools, and find her! Heigh! No others? [_Heaves a sigh._ Captain, dismiss the Guard. The watch, aloft-Set him elsewhere. We would not be o'erlooked. You only, Lucio--you, Lucetta--stay; You for a while, Cesario. [_Exeunt Courtiers, Guard, Crowd, etc._ _Regent_. Go, bring her, Captain. _Lucio_. Why, who--who hath maligned The Countess? _Regent_ Not maligned. Lucetta, here- _Lucio_. Lucetta! Curse Lucetta and her tongue! Am I a child, to be nagged by waiting-maids? _Regent_. No, but a man, and shall weigh evidence. _Lucio_. But I'll not hear it! If her viper tongue Can kill, why kill it must. But send me a man, And I will smite his mouth--ay, slit his tongue- That dares defame the Countess! _Regent_. Stay: she comes. [_Enter the Countess Fulvia, Cesario attending._ Madam, the reason wherefore you are summoned No doubt you guess, from a rude earlier call Our Captain paid you. Certain practices, Which you may force me name, are charged upon you On testimony you may force me call And may with freedom question. _Fulvia_. I'll not question: No, nor I will not answer. _Lucio_. Then I'll answer!' For me, for all, she is innocent! _Regent_. For you? We'll hope it: but 'for all' 's more wide an oath Than you can swear, sir. I'll not bandy you Words nor debate. Myself the ladder saw; Lucetta, here, the ladder and the man. _What_ man she will not say. Cesario Has tracked his footprint on her garden plots. Must we say more? _Fulvia_. No need. Her fingering mind Is a close cupboard turning all things rancid. _Lucio_. Yea, for such wry-necks all the world's a lawn To peek and peer and pounce a sinful worm; The fatter, the more luscious. _Regent. _ Lucio, This woman nought gainsays. _Fulvia (fiercely)._ As why should I? I'll question not, nor answer. 'Neath your brow My sentence hunches, crawls, like cat to spring. Pah! there's no prude will match your virtuous wife You'd banish me? _Regent._ I do. Cesario, See to it the City gate shuts not to-night. And she this side. _Regent. _ Captain, remove her. Lucio, remain. _[Exeunt the Countess Fulvia, Cesario following]_ _Regent._ Is't so, I wonder? Go, Lucetta, fetch My glass, if haply I may tell. Is't so? And have these years enforced, encrusted me To something monstrous, neither woman nor man? My lord, my lord! too heavy was the load You laid! Yet I'll not blame you: for myself Ruled the straight path the long account correct As in these books, my ledgers [_While she turns the pages, Gamba the Fool creeps in and hoists himself on the balustrade. He tries his viol, and sings_. Bird of the South, my Rondinello- _Regent_. Hey? That Song! _Regent_. Ay, fool. Sit Here at my feet, sing on. Bird of the South, my Rondinello Under thy wing my heart hath lain Till the rain falling on last leaves yellow Drumm'd to thee, calling southward again. Home, to me, home! 'Love, love, I come!' Ah, love, the pain! _Addio, addio! ed un' altra volt' addio! La lundananza tua, 'l desiderio mio! (Pause)._ A foolish rustic thing the shepherd wives In our Abruzzi croon by winter fires, Of their husbands in the plains. _Voice of Watchman_. Sail ho! a sail! a sail! _[Murmur of populace below. It grows and swells to a roar as enter hurriedly courtiers, guards, and others: Cesario; Lucetta with mirror._] _Regent_. O, could my heart keep tally with the surge That here comes crowding! _Lucetta_. Joy, my lady! Joy! _All_. Joy! Joy, my lady! _[They press flowers on her. A pause, while they watch. On the canal the galleys come into sight. They near: and as the oars rise and fall, the rowers' chorus is borne from the distance. It is the Rondinello song_ _Chorus in Distance. La lundananza tua, 'l desiderio mio!_ _Regent_. Thanks, my good, good friends! And deem it not discourteous if alone I'd tune my heart to bliss. My glass, Lucetta! _[They go out, leaving the Regent alone._] [_She catches up flowers from the baskets left by the courtiers, and decks herself mildly._ _[Fanfare of trumpets in the distance.]_ _[The shouts of acclamation are heard now close under the terrace. Spears and banners are seen trooping past. Beside herself, she throws flowers to them, laughing, weeping the while. Then, running to the Chapel door, she prostrates herself before the image of the Virgin that crowns its archway.]_ O Mary, Mother! Thou, in whose breast all women's thoughts have moved, All woman's passions heaved. Lo! I adore! Sweet Mother, hold my hands, rejoice with me: My bridegroom cometh! _Regent_ (_turns, looks up, and falls on her face_). Oh! I am slain! [_She passes down the steps as Lucetta runs in.]_ _Lucetta_ (_helpless, wringing her hands_). Madam! [_She wraps herself carefully in her mantle as the courtiers pour in. The child Tonino runs to her and stands by her side. Lucio, Cesario, all the Court, group themselves round her as the Duke enters. He rushes in eagerly; but she sets her teeth on her anguish, and receives him with a low reverence._ _Regent._ Good my lord, Welcome! This day is bright restores you to Your loyal Duchy. Duke (_impatient_). Wife! Ottilia! _Regent_ (_she lifts a hand to keep him at distance_). There must be forms, my lord--some forms! Cesario, Render the Duke his sceptre. As bar to socket, When the gate closes on a town secure, So locks this rod back to his manly clutch-Cry all, 'Long live the Duke!' _All._ Long live the Duke! _Duke._ Wife, make an end with forms! _Lucio_ (_to Cesario_). And so say I! A man would think my sister had no blood In her body. _Cesario_ (_watching the Regent_). Peace, man: something there's amiss. _Regent._ Ay! a scratch, no worse, Here, when I pinned my robe. _Duke_ (_continuing_). Nay, friends, this moment My Duchy her dear hand restores to me To me's a dream. More buoyant would I tread Dumb street, deserted square, climb ruin'd wall, Where in a heap beneath a broken flag Lay Adria.-So that amid the ruins stood my love And stretched her hands so faintly--stretched her hands So faintly. See! She's mine! She lifts them- _Regent_ (_totters and falls into his arms with a tired, happy laugh, which ends in a cry as his arms enfold her_). Ah! _Duke_. (_after a moment, releasing her a little_). What's here? Ottilia! _Lucetta._ My mistress swoons! _A Courtier._ 'Tis happiness- _Duke._ Fetch water! _Lucio._ Nay this blood- Came of no scratch! _Lucetta._ Loosen her bodice- _Duke._ Blood? Why blood? Where's blood? (_Stares as the mantle is imclasped and falls open_). Ah, my God! _Lucetta._ Murder! murder! The Countess Fulvia- _Cesario._ Speak! _Lucetta._ There--while she knelt-Stabbed her, and fled. _Cesario._ Which way? [_Lucetta points to the stairs. He dashes off in pursuit._ _Duke._ All-seeing God! Where were thine eyes, or else thy justice? Dead? O, never dead! _Lucio._ Ay, Duke, push God aside, As I push thee. I have the better right: I killed her--I. O never pass, sweet soul, Till thou hast drunk a shudder of this wretch, Thy brother, playmate, murderer! _Duke._ Wine! bring wine- _Regent_ (_as the wine is brought and revives her_). Flower, he will crush thee--but the bliss, the bliss! I swim in bliss. What Lucio? Where's my lord? Dear, bring him: he was here awhile and held me. Say he must hold, or the light air will lift And bear me quite away. _Cesario._ Dead. I raised the cry: the people pointed after; Ran with me, ravening. Just this side the bridge She heard our howl and turned--drew back the dagger Red with our lady's blood, then drove it home Clean to her own black heart. _Regent._ God pardon her! I would what blood of mine clung to the blade Might mix with hers and sweeten it for mercy. _Lucio._ Will you forgive her? Then forgive not me! _Cesario._ Sooth, madonna, I flung it To the river's will, to roll it down to sea Or cast on muddy bar, for dogs to gnaw. _Regent._ The river? Ah! How strong the river rolls! Hold me, my lord- _Duke._ Love, love, I hold you _Regent._--Ay! The child, too--You will hold the child? This roar Deafens but will not drown us. [_Within the Chapel the choir is chanting a dirge. Gamba goes and closes the door on the sound: then creeps to the foot of the couch. The dying woman gently motions aside the cross a priest is holding to her, and looks up at her husband._ [_Below the terrace a voice is heard singing the Rondinello song._ [_The Courtiers lift the body in silence and bear it to the Chapel, the Duke and his train following. The doors close on them. On the stage are left only Cesario, standing by the balustrade; and Gamba, who has seated himself with his viol and touches it, as still the voice sings below--_ Addio, Addio! ed un'altra volt'addio! La lundananza tua, 'l desiderio mio! [_On the last note a string of the viol cracks, and with a cry the Fool flings himself, heart-broken, on the empty couch. Cesario steps forward and stands over him, touching his shoulder gently._ Beneath the bough and the star, In a whispering foreign tongue, They talked of a land afar And the merry days so young! Beneath the dawn and the bough I heard them arise and go: And my heart it is aching now For the more it will never know. From my farm, from her farm Furtively we came. In either home a hearth was warm: We nursed a hungrier flame. Our feet were foul with mire, Our faces blind with mist; But all the night was naked fire About us where we kiss'd. To her farm, to my farm, Loathing we returned; Pale beneath a gallow's arm The planet Saturn burned. O'er the tears that we shed, dear The bitter vines twist, And the hawk and the red deer They keep where we kiss'd: All broken lies the shieling That sheltered from rain, With a star to pierce the ceiling, And the dawn an empty pane. Thro' the mist, up the moorway, Fade hunters and pack; From the ridge to thy doorway Happy voices float back O, between the threads o' mist, love, Reach your hands from the house. Only mind that we kiss'd, love, And forget the broken vows! _When winter trees bestrew the path, Still to the twig a leaf or twain Will cling and weep, not Winter's wrath, But that foreknown forlorner pain- To fall when green leaves come again._ They bore him aside to the trees, there, By his undigg'd grave content To lie on his back at ease there, And hark how the battle went. The battle went by the village, And back through the night were borne Far cries of murder and pillage, With smoke from the standing corn. But when they came on the morrow, They talk'd not over their task, As he listen'd there by the furrow; For the dead mouth could not ask- _How went the battle, my brothers?_ But that he will never know: For his mouth the red earth smothers As they shoulder their spades and go. _When winter trees bestrew the path, Still to the twig a leaf or twain Will cling and weep, not Winter's wrath, But that foreknown, forlorner pain-To fall when green leaves come again!_ The bold Marine comes back from war, So kind: The bold Marine comes back from war, So kind: With a raggety coat and a worn-out shoe. "Now, poor Marine, say, whence come you, All so kind?" I travel back from the war, madame, So kind: I travel back from the war, madame, So kind: For a glass of wine and a bowl of whey, 'Tis I will sing you a ballad gay, All so kind. The bold Marine he sips his whey, So kind: He sips and he sings his ballad gay, So kind: But the dame she turns toward the wall, To wipe her tears that fall and fall, All so kind. What aileth you at my song, madame, So kind? I hope that I sing no wrong, madame, So kind? Or grieves it you a beggar should dine On a bowl of whey and the good white wine, All so kind? It ails me not at your ballad gay, So kind: It ails me not for the wine and whey, So kind: "A letter came from the war, Marine, So kind: A letter came from the war, Marine, So kind: A while I wept for the good man dead, But another good man in a while I wed, All so kind." The bold Marine he drained his glass, So kind: The bold Marine he drained his glass, So kind. He said not a word, though the tears they flowed, But back to his regiment took the road, All so kind. O Mary Leslie, blithe and shrill The bugles blew for Spain: And you below the Castle Hill Stood in the crowd your lane. Then hearts were wild to watch us pass, Yet laith to let us go! While mine said, "Fare-ye-well, my lass!" And yours, "God keep my Jo!" Where yonder, yonder by the stars, Nightlong there rins a burn, And maids with lovers at the wars May list their wraiths' return. More careless yet my spirit grows Of fame, more sick of blood: But I can think of Badajoz, And yet that God is good. Beyond the siege, beyond the stour, Beyond the sack of towns, I reach to pluck ae lily-floo'r Where leaders press for crowns. O Mary! lily! bow'd and wet With mair than mornin's rain! The bugles up the Lawnmarket Shall sound us home again. Then fare-ye-well, these foreign lands, And be damn'd their bitter drouth. With your dear face between my hands And the cup held to my mouth, My love, It's clean cup to my mouth! Small is my secret--let it pass- Small in your life the share I had, Who sat beside you in the class, Awed by the bright superior lad: Whom yet with hot and eager face I prompted when he missed his place. For you the call came swift and soon: But sometimes in your holidays You meet me trudging home at noon To dinner through the dusty ways, And recognized, and with a nod Passed on, but never guessed--thank God! Truly our ways were separate. I bent myself to hoe and drill, Yea, with an honest man to mate, Fulfilling God Almighty's will; And bore him children. But my prayers Were yours--and, only after, theirs. While you--still loftier, more remote, You sprang from stair to stair of fame, And you've a riband on your coat, And you've a title to your name; But have you yet a star to shine Above your bed, as I o'er mine? _From "Arion," an unpublished Masque_ _He._ Aglai-a! Aglai-a! Sweet, awaken and be glad. _She._ Who is this that calls Aglaia? Is it thou, my dearest lad? _He._ 'Tis Arion, 'tis Arion, Who calls thee from sleep- From slumber who bids thee To follow and number His kids and his sheep. _She._ Nay, leave to entreat me! If mother should spy on Us twain, she would beat me. _He._ Then come, my love, come! And hide with Arion Where green woods are dumb! _She._ Ar-i-on! Ar-i-on! Closer, list! I am afraid! _He._ Whisper, then, thy love Arion, From thy window, lily maid. _She._ Yet Aglaia, yet Aglaia Hath heard them debate Of wooing repenting- "Who trust to undoing, Lament them too late." _He._ Nay, nay, when I woo thee, Thy mother might spy on All harm I shall do thee. _She._ I come, then--I come! To follow Arion Where green woods be dumb. Sparrow of Love, so sharp to peck, Arrow of Love--I bare my neck Down to the bosom. See, no fleck Of blood! I have never a wound; I go Forth to the greenwood. Yet, heigh-ho! What 'neath my girdle flutters so? 'Tis not a bird, and yet hath wings, 'Tis not an arrow, yet it stings; While in the wound it nests and sings- Heigh-ho! _He._ Of Arion, of Arion That wound thou shalt learn; What nothings 'tis made of, And soft pretty soothings In shade of the fern. _She._ When maids have a mind to, Man's word they rely on, Old warning are blind to- I come, then--I come To walk with Arion Where green woods are dumb! _He._ Dear my love, and O my love, And O my love so lately! Did we wander yonder grove And sit awhile sedately? For either you did there conclude To do at length as I did, Or passion's fashion's turn'd a prude, And troth's an oath derided. _She._ Yea, my love--and nay, my love- And ask me not to tell, love, While I delay'd an idle day What 'twixt us there befell, love. Yet either I did sit beside And do at length as you did, Or my delight is lightly by An idle lie deluded! THE STATUES AND THE TEAR Till hate had frozen speech, Each hated each, Hated and died, and went unto his place: And still inveterate They lean and hate With glare of stone implacable, face to face. Go, nuptial night! the floor of Ocean tressing With moon and star; With benediction go and breathe thy blessing On coasts afar. Hark! the theorbos thrum O'er the arch'd wave that in white smother booms "Mother of Mystery, come! Fain for thee wait other brides, other grooms!" Go, nuptial night, my breast of hers bereaving! Yet, O, tread soft! Grow day, blithe day, the mountain shoulder heaving More gold aloft! Gold, rose, bird of the dawn, All to her balcony gather unseen-Thrill through the curtain drawn, Bless her, bedeck her, and bathe her, my Queen! O Hesperus! O happy star! to bend O'er Helen's bosom in the tranced west- To watch the hours heave by upon her breast And at her parted lip for dreams attend: If dawn defraud thee, how shall I be deem'd. Who house within that bosom, and am dreamed? CHANT ROYAL OF HIGH VIRTUE Who lives in suit of armour pent And hides himself behind a wall, For him is not the great event, The garland nor the Capitol. And is God's guerdon less than they? Nay, moral man, I tell thee Nay: Nor shall the flaming forts be won By sneaking negatives alone, By Lenten fast or Ramazan; But by the challenge proudly thrown-_Virtue is that becrowns a Man!_ God, in His Palace resident Of Bliss, beheld our sinful ball, And charged His own Son innocent Us to redeem from Adam's fall. "Yet must it be that men Thee slay." "Yea, tho' it must, must I obey," Said Christ; and came, His royal Son, To die, and dying to atone For harlot, thief, and publican. Read on that rood He died upon- _Virtue is that becrowns a Man!_ High Virtue's best is eloquent With spur and not with martingall: Swear not to her thou'rt continent: BE COURTEOUS, BRAVE, AND LIBERAL. God fashion'd thee of chosen clay For service, nor did ever say, "Deny thee this," "Abstain from yon," But to inure thee, thew and bone. To be confirmed of the clan That made immortal Marathon- _Virtue is that becrowns a Man!_ Young Knight, the lists are set to-day! Hereafter shall be time to pray In sepulture, with hands of stone. Ride, then! outride the bugle blown! And gaily dinging down the van, Charge with a cheer--_"Set on! Set on! Virtue is that becrowns a Man!"_ _Tune_--Luther's Chorale "Ein' feste burg ist unser Gott" Of old our City hath renown. Of God are her foundations, Wherein this day a King we crown Elate among the nations. Acknowledge, then, thou King- And you, ye people, sing- What deeds His arm hath wrought: Yea, let their tale be taught To endless generations. So long, so far, Jehovah guides His people's path attending, By pastures green and water-sides Toward His hill ascending; Whence they beneath the stars Shall view their ancient wars, Their perils, far removed. O might of mercy proved! O love past comprehending! He was that God, for man which spake From Sinai forth in thunder; He was that Love, for man which brake The dreadful grave asunder. Lord over every lord, His consecrating word An earthly prince awaits; Lift then your heads, ye gates! Your King comes riding under. Be ye lift up, ye deathless doors; Let wave your banners o'er Him! Exult, ye streets; be strewn, ye floors, With palm, with bay, before Him! With transport fetch Him in, Ye ransom'd folk from sin- Your Lord, return'd to bless! O kneeling king, confess- O subject men, adore Him! The Church's outpost on a neck of land- By ebb of faith the foremost left the last- Dull, starved of hope, we watched the driven sand Blown through the hour-glass, covering our past, Counting no hours to our relief--no hail Across the hills, and on the sea no sail! Sick of monotonous days we lost account, In fitful dreams remembering days of old And nights--th' erect Archangel on the Mount With sword that drank the dawn; the Vase of Gold The moving Grail athwart the starry fields Where all the heavenly spearmen clashed their shields. Aloft with us! And while another stone Swings to its socket, haste with trowel and hod! Win the old smile a moment ere, alone, Soars the great soul to bear report to God. Night falls; but thou, dear Captain, from thy star Look down, behold how bravely goes the war! Many had builded, and, the building done, Through our adorned gates with din Came Prince and Priest, with pipe and clarion Leading the right God in. Yet, had the perfect temple quickened then And whispered us between our song, _"Give God the praise. To whom of living men Shall next our thanks belong?"_ Then had the few, the very few, that wist His Atlantean labour, swerved Their eyes to seek, and in the triumph missed, The man that most deserved. Better than ye what made th' old temples great, Because he loved, he understood; Indignant that his darling, less in state, Should lack a martyr's blood. She hath it now. O mason, strip away Her scaffolding, the flower disclose! Lay by the tools with his o'er-wearied clay- But She shall bloom unto its Judgment Day, His ever-living Rose! Prince of courtesy defeated, Heir of hope untimely cheated, Throned awhile he sat, and, seated, Saw his Cornish round him gather; "Teach us how to live, good Father!" How to die he taught us rather: Heard the startling trumpet sound him, Smiled upon the feast around him, Rose, and wrapp'd his coat, and bound him When beyond the awful surges, Bathed in dawn on Syrian verges, God! thy star, thy Cross emerges. _And so sing we all to it--_ Crux, in coelo lux superna, Sis in carnis hac taberna Mihi pedibus lucerna: Quo vexillum dux cohortis Sistet, super flumen Mortis, Te, flammantibus in portis! _Know you her secret none can utter?_ Hers of the Book, the tripled Crown? Still on the spire the pigeons flutter, Still by the gateway flits the gown; Still on the street, from corbel and gutter, Faces of stone look down. Faces of stone, and stonier faces- Some from library windows wan Forth on her gardens, her green spaces, Peer and turn to their books anon. Hence, my Muse, from the green oases Gather the tent, begone! Reins lay loose and the ways led random- Christ Church meadow and Iffley track, "Idleness horrid and dog-cart" (tandem), Aylesbury grind and Bicester pack- Pleasant our lines, and faith! we scanned 'em: Having that artless knack. Still on her spire the pigeons hover; Still by her gateway haunts the gown. Ah! but her secret? You, young lover, Drumming her old ones forth from town, Know you the secret none discover? Tell it--when _you_ go down. Yet if at length you seek her, prove her, Lean to her whispers never so nigh; Yet if at last not less her lover You in your hansom leave the High; Down from her towers a ray shall hover- Touch you, a passer-by! Friend, old friend in the Manse by the fireside sitting, Hour by hour while the grey ash drips from the log; You with a book on your knee, your wife with her knitting, Silent both, and between you, silent, the dog. Not my stirring awakened the flame that behind her Lit up a face in the leathern dusk of the shelves. Where is her laughter now? Old tarnished covers- You that reflect her with fresh young face unchanged- Tell that we met, that we parted, not as lovers; Time, chance, brought us together, and these estranged. Loyal were we to the mood of the moment granted, Bruised not its bloom, but danced on the wave of its joy; Passion--wisdom--fell back like a fence enchanted, Ringing a floor for us both--whole Heaven for the boy! Far old friend in the Manse, by the green ash peeling Flake by flake from the heat in the Yule log's core, Look past the woman you love. On wall and ceiling Climbs not a trellis of roses--and ghosts--of yore? Deep, Love, yea, very deep. And in the dark exiled, I have no sense of light but still to creep And know the breast, but not the eyes. Thy child Saw ne'er his mother near, nor if she smiled; But only feels her weep. Yet clouds and branches green There be aloft, somewhere, And winds, and angel birds that build between, As I believe--and I will not despair; For faith is evidence of things not seen. Love! if I could be there! I will be patient, dear. Perchance some part of me Puts forth aloft and feels the rushing year And shades the bird, and is that happy tree Then were it strength to serve and not appear, And bliss, though blind, to be. TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME A BOX OF VIOLETS Nay, more than violets These thoughts of thine, friend! Rather thy reedy brook-Taw's tributary-At midnight murmuring, Descried them, the delicate Dark-eyed goddesses, There by his cressy bed Dissolved and dreaming Dreams that distilled into dew All the purple of night, All the shine of a planet. Whereat he whispered; And they arising- Of day's forget-me-nots The duskier sisters-Descended, relinquished The orchard, the trout-pool, Torridge and Tamar, The Druid circles, Sheepfolds of Dartmoor, Granite and sandstone; By Roughtor, Dozmare, Down the vale of the Fowey Moving in silence, Brushing the nightshade By bridges cyclopean, By Trevenna, Treverbyn, Lawharne and Largin, By Glynn, Lanhydrock, Restormel, Lostwithiel, Dark wood, dim water, dreaming town; Down the vale of the Fowey To the tidal water Washing the feet Of fair St Winnow-Each, in her exile Musing the message, Passed, as the starlit Shadow of Ruth from the land of the Moabite. So they came, Valley-born, valley-nurtured-Came to the tideway The jetties, the anchorage, The salt wind piping, Snoring in Equinox, By ships at anchor, By quays tormented, Storm-bitten streets; Came to the Haven Crying, "Ah, shelter us, The strayed ambassadors, Love's lost legation On a comfortless coast!" Nay, but a little sleep, A little folding Of petals to the lull Of quiet rainfalls-Here in my garden, In angle sheltered From north and east wind-Softly shall recreate The courage of charity, Henceforth not to me only Breathing the message. Clean-breath'd Sirens! Hencefore the mariner. Here in the fairway Fetching--foul of keel, Long-stray but fortunate-Out of the fogs, the vast Atlantic solitudes. Shall, by the hawser-pin Waiting the signal _Leave--go--anchor!_ Scent the familiar, The unforgettable Fragrance of home; So in a long breath Bless us unknowing: Bless them, the violets, Bless me, the gardener, Bless thee, the giver. You and I and Burd so blithe- Burd so blithe, and you, and I-The Mower he would whet his scythe Before the dew was dry. And he woke soon, but we woke soon And drew the nursery blind, All wondering at the waning moon With the small June roses twined: Low in her cradle swung the moon With an elfin dawn behind. In whispers, while our elders slept, We knelt and said our prayers, And dress'd us and on tiptoe crept Adown the creaking stairs. The world's possessors lay abed, And all the world was ours-"Nay, nay, but hark! the Mower's tread! And we must save the flowers!" The Mower knew not rest nor haste- That old unweary man: But we were young. We paused and raced And gather'd while we ran. O youth is careless, youth is fleet, With heart and wing of bird! The lark flew up beneath our feet, To his copse the pheasant whirr'd; The cattle from their darkling lairs Heaved up and stretch'd themselves; Almost they trod at unawares Upon the busy elves That dropp'd their spools of gossamer, To dangle and to dry, And scurried home to the hollow fir Where the white owl winks an eye. Nor you, nor I, nor Burd so blithe Had driven them in this haste; But the old, old man, so lean and lithe, That afar behind us paced; So lean and lithe, with shoulder'd scythe, And a whetstone at his waist. And while as from his level ray We stood our eyes to screen. The world was not as yesterday Our homelier world had been-So grey and golden-green it lay All in his quiet sheen, That wove the gold into the grey, The grey into the green. Sure never hand of Puck, nor wand Of Mab the fairies' queen, Nor prince nor peer of fairyland Had power to weave that wide riband Of the grey, the gold, the green. But the Gods of Greece had been before And walked our meads along, The great authentic Gods of yore That haunt the earth from shore to shore Trailing their robes of song. And where a sandall'd foot had brush'd, And where a scarfed hem, The flowers awoke from sleep and rush'd Like children after them. Pell-mell they poured by vale and stream, By lawn and steepy brae-"O children, children! while you dream, Your flowers run all away!" But afar and abed and sleepily The children heard us call; And Burd so blithe and you and I Must be gatherers for all. The meadow-sweet beside the hedge, The dog-rose and the vetch, The sworded iris 'mid the sedge, The mallow by the ditch- With these, and by the wimpling burn, Where the midges danced in reels, With the watermint and the lady fern We brimm'd out wicker creels: Flower after flower--for some there were The noonday heats had dried, And some were dear yet could not bear A lovelier cheek beside, And some were perfect past compare-Ah, darlings! what a world of care It cost us to decide! Natheless we sang in sweet accord, Each bending o'er her brede-"O there be flowers in Oxenford, And flowers be north of Tweed, And flowers there be on earthly sward That owe no mortal seed!" But hark! but look! the warning rook Wings home in level flight; The children tired with play and book Have kiss'd and call'd Good-night! Ah, sisters, look! What fields be these That lie so sad and shorn? What hand has cut our coppices, And thro' the trimm'd, the ruin'd, trees Lets wail a wind forlorn? 'Tis Time, 'tis Time has done this crime And laid our meadows waste-The bent unwearied tyrant Time, That knows nor rest nor haste. Yet courage, children; homeward bring Your hearts, your garlands high; For we have dared to do a thing That shall his worst defy. We cannot nail the dial's hand; We cannot bind the sun By Gibeon to stay and stand, Or the moon o'er Ajalon; We cannot blunt th' abhorred shears, Nor shift the skeins of Fate, Nor say unto the posting years "Ye shall not desolate." TO A MOTHER, ON SEEING HER SMILE REPEATED IN HER DAUGHTER'S EYES Within the greenwood girl and boy Had loiter'd to their lure, And men in cities closed their books To dream of Spring and running brooks And all that ever was of joy For manhood to abjure. And I'd have made them strong, so strong Outlasting towers and towns-Millennial shepherds 'neath the thorn Had piped them to a world reborn, And danced Delight the dale along And up the daisied downs. End of Project Gutenberg's The Vigil of Venus and Other Poems by "Q", by Q	redpajama-book	8,944
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Josephine Paolucci, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team THE READERS'S LIBRARY THE GREAT ENGLISH SHORT-STORY WRITERS WITH INTRODUCTORY ESSAYS BY WILLIAM J. DAWSON AND CONINGSBY W. DAWSON I. THE EVOLUTION OF THE SHORT-STORY The Evolution of the Short-Story "Alexander was a prince of great power, and a disciple of Aristotle, who instructed him in every branch of learning. The Queen of the North, having heard of his proficiency, nourished her daughter from the cradle upon a certain kind of deadly poison; and when she grew up, she was considered so beautiful, that the sight of her alone affected many to madness. The queen sent her to Alexander to espouse. He had no sooner beheld her than he became violently enamoured, and with much eagerness desired to possess her; but Aristotle, observing his weakness, said: 'Do not touch her, for if you do, you will certainly perish. She has been nurtured upon the most deleterious food, which I will prove to you immediately. Here is a malefactor who is already condemned to death. He shall be united to her, and you shall soon see the truth of what I advance.' "Accordingly the culprit was brought without delay to the girl; and scarcely had he touched her lips, before his whole frame was impregnated with poison, and he expired. Alexander, glad at his escape from such imminent destruction, bestowed all thanks on his instructor, and returned the girl to her mother." After which follows the monkish application of the moral, as long as the entire story: Alexander being made to stand for a good Christian; the Queen of the North for "a superfluity of the things of life, which sometimes destroys the spirit, and generally the body"; the Poison Maid for luxury and gluttony, "which feed men with delicacies that are poison to the soul"; Aristotle for conscience and reason, which reprove and oppose any union which would undo the soul; and the malefactor for the evil man, disobedient unto his God. For our purpose, that of tracing the evolution of the English short-story, its history commences with the _Gesta Romanorum_. At the authorship of this collection of mediaeval tales, many guesses have been made. Nothing is known with certainty; it seems probable, however, judging from the idioms which occur, that it took its present form in England, about the end of the thirteenth or the beginning of the fourteenth century, and thence passed to the Continent. The work is written in Latin, and was evidently compiled by a man in holy orders, for its guiding purpose is to edify. In this we can trace the influence of Aesop's beast-fables, which were moral lessons drawn from the animal creation for the instruction of mankind. Every chapter of the _Gesta Romanorum_ consists of a moral tale; so much so that in many cases the application of the moral is as long as the tale itself. The title of the collection, _The Deeds of the Romans_, is scarcely justified; in the main it is a garnering of all the deathless plots and dramatic motives which we find scattered up and down the ages, in the legend and folklore of whatsoever nation. The themes of many of its stories were being told, their characters passing under other names, when Romulus and Remus were suckled by their wolf-mother, before there was a Roman nation or a city named Rome. The influence of the _Gesta Romanorum_ is most conspicuously to be traced in the work of Gower, Chaucer, and Lydgate; but it has served as a source of inspiration to the flagging ingenuity of each succeeding generation. It would be tedious to enter on an enumeration of the various indebtednesses of English literature to these early tales. A few instances will serve as illustration. The technique of the English prose short-story had a tardy evolution. That there were any definite laws, such as obtain in poetry, by which it must abide was not generally realized until Edgar Allan Poe formulated them in his criticism of Nathaniel Hawthorne. "It felle abowght the Lamasse tyde, When husbands wynn ther haye, The dowghtye Dowglasse bowynd hym to ryde In England to take a praye." The _Morte D'Arthur_ of Malory is again a collection of traditional stories, as is the _Gesta Romanorum_, and not the creative work of a single intellect. As might be expected, it straggles, and overlays its climax with a too-lavish abundance of incidents; it lacks the _harmony of values_ which results from the introduction of a unifying purpose--_i.e_., of art. Imaginative and full of action though the books of the _Morte D'Arthur_ are, it remained for the latter-day artist to exhaust their individual incidents of their full dramatic possibilities. From the eyes of the majority of modern men the brilliant quality of their magic was concealed, until it had been disciplined and refashioned by the severe technique of the short-story. By the eighteenth century the influence of Malory was scarcely felt at all; but his imaginativeness, as interpreted by Tennyson, in _The Idylls of the King_, and by William Morris, in his _Defence of Guinevere_, has given to the Anglo-Saxon world a new romantic background for its thoughts. _The Idylls of the King_ are not Tennyson's most successful interpretation. The finest example of his superior short-story craftsmanship is seen in the triumphant use which he makes of the theme contained in _The Book of Elaine_, in his poem of _The Lady of Shalott_. Not only has he remodelled and added fantasy to the story, but he has threaded it through with _atmosphere_--an entirely modern attribute, of which more must be said hereafter. Apuleius was an unconventional cosmopolitan in that ancient world which he so vividly portrays; he was a barbarian by birth, a Greek by education, and wrote his book in the Romans' language. In his use of luminous slang for literary purposes he was Rudyard Kipling's prototype. In the intense and visual quality of the atmosphere with which he pervades his narrative he has no equal among the writers of English prose-fiction until Sir Walter Scott appears. "Apuleius has enveloped his world of marvels in a heavy air of witchery and romance. You wander with Lucius across the hills and through the dales of Thessaly. With all the delight of a fresh curiosity you approach its far-seen towns. You journey at midnight under the stars, listening in terror for the howling of the wolves or the stealthy ambush. At other whiles you sit in the robbers' cave and hear the ancient legends of Greece retold. The spring comes on, and 'the little birds chirp and sing their steven melodiously.' Secret raids, ravished brides, valiant rescues, the gayest intrigues--these are the diverse matters of this many- book." The blighting influence of constitutional strife and intestine war which followed in the Stuarts' reigns turned the serious artist's thoughts aside to grave and prophetic forms of literary utterance, while writers of the frivolous sort devoted their talent to a lighter and less sincere art than that of the short-story--namely, court-poetry. It was an age of extremes which bred despair and religious fervor in men of the Puritan party, as represented by Bunyan and Milton, and conscious artificiality and mock heroics in those of the Cavalier faction, as represented by Herrick and the Earl of Rochester. The impression created by the old technique, such as it was, when contrasted with the new, when legitimately handled, is the difference between reading a play and seeing it staged. As regards immediateness of narration, Laurence Sterne may, perhaps, be pointed out as an example. But he is not immediate in the true sense; he is abrupt, and this too frequently for his own sly purposes--which have nothing to do with either technique or the short-story. Most of the English short-stories, previous to those written by James Hogg, are either prefaced with a biography of their main characters or else the biography is made to do service as though it were a plot--nothing is left to the imagination. Even in the next century, when the short-story had come to be recognized in America, through the example set by Hawthorne and Poe, as a distinct species of literary art, the productions of British writers were too often nothing more than compressed novels. In fact, it is true to say that there is more of short-story technique in the short-story essays of Goldsmith and Lamb than can be found in many of the brief tales of Dickens and Anthony Trollope, which in their day passed muster unchallenged as short-stories. For the imparting of _atmosphere_ to his stories, a talent so conspicuously lacking not only in his predecessors, but also in many of his contemporaries, he had a native faculty. The author of _Bonny Kilmeny_ could scarcely fail in this respect, when he turned his attention from poetry to prose. He had lived too close to nature to be able ever to keep the green and silver of woods and rivers far from his thoughts; they were the mirrors in which his fancy saw itself. Professor Wilson, who had known him as a friend, writing of him in _Blackwood's_ after his death, says: "Living for years in solitude, he unconsciously formed friendships with the springs, the brooks, the caves, the hills, and with all the more fleeting and faithless pageantry of the sky, that to him came in place of those human affections from whose indulgence he was debarred by the necessities that kept him aloof from the cottage fire and up among the mists of the mountain-top. The still green beauty of the pastoral hills and vales where he passed his youth inspired him with ever-brooding visions of fairyland, till, as he lay musing in his lonely shieling, the world of fantasy seemed, in the clear depths of his imagination, a lovelier reflection of that of nature, like the hills and heavens more softly shining in the water of his native lake." THE APPARITION OF MRS. VEAL Mrs. Bargrave never varies in her story, which puzzles those who doubt of the truth, or are unwilling to believe it. A servant in the neighbor's yard adjoining to Mrs. Bargrave's house heard her talking to somebody an hour of the time Mrs. Veal was with her. Mrs. Bargrave went out to her next neighbor's the very moment she parted with Mrs. Veal, and told her what ravishing conversation she had had with an old friend, and told the whole of it. Drelincourt's _Book of Death_ is, since this happened, bought up strangely. And it is to be observed that, notwithstanding all the trouble and fatigue Mrs. Bargrave has undergone upon this account, she never took the value of a farthing, nor suffered her daughter to take anything of anybody, and therefore can have no interest in telling the story. This thing has very much affected me, and I am as well satisfied as I am of the best-grounded matter of fact. And why we should dispute matter of fact, because we cannot solve things of which we can have no certain or demonstrative notions, seems strange to me; Mrs. Bargrave's authority and sincerity alone would have been undoubted in any other case. This song was the Laird singing, while, at the same time, he was smudging and laughing at the catastrophe, when, ere ever aware, he beheld, a short way before him, an uncommonly elegant and beautiful girl walking in the same direction with him. "Aye," said the Laird to himself, "here is something very attractive indeed! Where the deuce can she have sprung from? She must have risen out of the earth, for I never saw her till this breath. Well, I declare I have not seen such a female figure--I wish I had such an assignation with her as the Laird of Windy-wa's had with his sweetheart." In the middle of his career he met with Mr. McMurdie, of Aulton, who hailed him with, "Hilloa, Birkendelly! Where the deuce are you flying at that rate?" "I was riding after a woman," said the Laird, with great simplicity, reining in his steed. "Then I am sure no woman on earth can long escape you, unless she be in an air balloon." "I don't know that. Is she far gone?" "Aha-ha-ha! Hee-hee-hee!" nichered McMurdie, misconstruing the Laird's meaning. "What do you laugh at, my dear sir? Do you know her, then?" "Ho-ho-ho! Hee-hee-hee! How should I, or how can I, know her, Birkendelly, unless you inform me who she is?" "I know that," said the Laird, biting his lip and looking greatly puzzled; "but confound me if I understand this; for I was within speech of her just now on the top of the Birky Brow there, and, when I think of it, she could not have been even thus far as yet. She had on a pure white gauze frock, a small green bonnet and feathers, and a green veil, which, flung back over her left shoulder, hung below her waist, and was altogether such an engaging figure that no man could have passed her on the road without taking some note of her. Are you not making game of me? Did you not really meet with her?" "On my word of truth and honor, I did not. Come, ride back with me, and we shall meet her still, depend on it. She has given you the go-by on the road. Let us go; I am only to call at the mill about some barley for the distillery, and will return with you to the big town." "Well, this is the most extraordinary thing that I ever knew!" exclaimed the Laird. "What is it, sir?" said M'Murdie. "How that young lady could have eluded me," returned the Laird. "See, here she is still!" "I beg your pardon, sir, I don't see her. Where is she?" "There, on the other side of the angle; but you are shortsighted. See, there she is ascending the other eminence in her white frock and green veil, as I told you. What a lovely creature!" "Well, well, we have her fairly before us now, and shall see what she is like at all events," said McMurdie. "Why, man, you are dreaming still," said McMurdie. "But never mind; it is quite common for men of your complexion to dream of beautiful maidens with white frocks, and green veils, bonnets, feathers, and slender waists. It is a lovely image, the creation of your own sanguine imagination, and you may worship it without any blame. Were her shoes black or green? And her stockings--did you note them? The symmetry of the limbs, I am sure you did! Good-bye; I see you are not disposed to leave the spot. Perhaps she will appear to you again." So saying, McMurdie rode on toward the mill, and Birkendelly, after musing for some time, turned his beast's head slowly round, and began to move toward the great muckle village. The Laird's feelings were now in terrible commotion. He was taken beyond measure with the beauty and elegance of the figure he had seen, but he remembered, with a mixture of admiration and horror, that a dream of the same enchanting object had haunted his slumbers all the days of his life; yet, how singular that he should never have recollected the circumstance till now! But farther, with the dream there were connected some painful circumstances which, though terrible in their issue, he could not recollect so as to form them into any degree of arrangement. He alighted at the Queen's Head, called for some brandy and water, quite forgot what was his errand to the great muckle town that afternoon, there being nothing visible to his mental sight but lovely images, with white gauze frocks and green veils. His friend M'Murdie joined him; they drank deep, bantered, reasoned, got angry, reasoned themselves calm again, and still all would not do. The Laird was conscious that he had seen the beautiful apparition, and, moreover, that she was the very maiden, or the resemblance of her, who, in the irrevocable decrees of Providence, was destined to be his. It was in vain that M'Murdie reasoned of impressions on the imagination, and "Of fancy moulding in the mind, Light visions on the passing wind." He was now in such a state of excitement that he could not exist; he grew listless, impatient, and sickly, took to his bed, and sent for M'Murdie and the doctor; and the issue of the consultation was that Birkendelly consented to leave the country for a season, on a visit to his only sister in Ireland, whither we must accompany him for a short space. The plan was all concocted. There was to be a grand dinner at the Hall, at which the damsels were to appear in all their finery. A ball to follow, and note be taken which of the young ladies was their guest's choice, and measures taken accordingly. The dinner and the ball took place; and what a pity I may not describe that entertainment, the dresses, and the dancers, for they were all exquisite in their way, and _outre_ beyond measure. But such details only serve to derange a winter evening's tale such as this. He posted up the ascent to overtake her. When at the top she turned, smiled, and curtsied. Good heavens! it was the identical lady of his fondest adoration herself, but lovelier, far lovelier, than ever. He expected every moment that she would vanish, as was her wont; but she did not--she awaited him, and received his embraces with open arms. She was a being of real flesh and blood, courteous, elegant, and affectionate. He kissed her hand, he kissed her glowing cheek, and blessed all the powers of love who had thus restored her to him again, after undergoing pangs of love such as man never suffered. The men smiled at her incoherent earnestness, but the lady, with true feminine condescension, informed her, in a loud voice, that Allan had an engagement in Scotland on St. Lawrence's Eve. She then started up, extended her shrivelled hands, that shook like the aspen, and panted out: "Aih, aih? Lord preserve us! Whaten an engagement has he on St. Lawrence's Eve? Bind him! bind him! Shackle him wi' bands of steel, and of brass, and of iron! O may He whose blessed will was pleased to leave him an orphan sae soon, preserve him from the fate which I tremble to think on!" "Oh, for Heaven's sake, burn it, and renounce the giver!" cried she. "If you have any regard for your peace here or your soul's welfare hereafter, burn that ring! If you saw with your own eyes, you would easily perceive that that is not a ring befitting a Christian to wear." This speech confounded Birkendelly a good deal. He retired by himself and examined the ring, and could see nothing in it unbecoming a Christian to wear. It was a chased gold ring, with a bright emerald, which last had a red foil, in some lights giving it a purple gleam, and inside was engraven "_Elegit_," much defaced, but that his sister could not see; therefore he could not comprehend her vehement injunctions concerning it. But that it might no more give her offence, or any other, he sewed it within his vest, opposite his heart, judging that there was something in it which his eyes were withholden from discerning. It was, moreover, now remembered by many, and among the rest by the Rev. Joseph Taylor, that he had frequently observed a young lady, in white and green, sauntering about the spot on a St. Lawrence's Eve. When Captain Bryan and his lady arrived to take possession of the premises, they instituted a strict inquiry into every circumstance; but nothing further than what was related to them by Mr. M'Murdie could be learned of this Mysterious Bride, besides what the Laird's own letter bore. It ran thus: "ALLAN GEORGE SANDISON. That very same year, an old woman, named Marion Haw, was returned upon that, her native parish, from Glasgow. She had led a migratory life with her son--who was what he called a bell-hanger, but in fact a tinker of the worst grade--for many years, and was at last returned to the muckle town in a state of great destitution. She gave the parishioners a history of the Mysterious Bride, so plausibly correct, but withal so romantic, that everybody said of it (as is often said of my narratives, with the same narrow-minded prejudice and injustice) that it was a _made story_. There were, however, some strong testimonies of its veracity. As they were quite incapable of conceiving from Marion's description anything of the spot, Mr. M'Murdie caused her to be taken out to the Birky Brow in a cart, accompanied by Mr. Taylor and some hundreds of the town's folks; but whenever she saw it, she said, "Aha, birkies! the haill kintra's altered now. There was nae road here then; it gaed straight ower the tap o' the hill. An' let me see--there's the thorn where the cushats biggit; an' there's the auld birk that I ance fell aff an' left my shoe sticking i' the cleft. I can tell ye, birkies, either the deer's grave or bonny Jane Ogilvie's is no twa yards aff the place where that horse's hind-feet are standin'; sae ye may howk, an' see if there be ony remains." Tom Walker, however, was not a man to be troubled with any fears of the kind. He reposed himself for some time on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, listening to the boding cry of the tree-toad, and delving with his walking-staff into a mound of black mould at his feet. As he turned up the soil unconsciously, his staff struck against something hard. He raked it out of the vegetable mould, and lo! a cloven skull, with an Indian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before him. The rust on the weapon showed the time that had elapsed since this death-blow had been given. It was a dreary memento of the fierce struggle that had taken place in this last foothold of the Indian warriors. "Humph!" said Tom Walker, as he gave it a kick to shake the dirt from it. He scowled for a moment at Tom with a pair of great red eyes. "What are you doing on my grounds?" said the black man, with a hoarse, growling voice. "Your grounds!" said Tom, with a sneer; "no more your grounds than mine; they belong to Deacon Peabody." "Deacon Peabody be damned," said the stranger, "as I flatter myself he will be, if he does not look more to his own sins and less to those of his neighbors. Look yonder, and see how Deacon Peabody is faring." "He's just ready for burning!" said the black man, with a growl of triumph. "You see I am likely to have a good stock of firewood for winter." "But what right have you," said Tom, "to cut down Deacon Peabody's timber?" "And, pray, who are you, if I may be so bold?" said Tom. "Oh, I go by various names. I am the wild huntsman in some countries; the black miner in others. In this neighborhood I am known by the name of the black woodsman. I am he to whom the red men consecrated this spot, and in honor of whom they now and then roasted a white man, by way of sweet-smelling sacrifice. Since the red men have been exterminated by you white savages, I amuse myself by presiding at the persecutions of Quakers and Anabaptists; I am the great patron and prompter of slave-dealers and the grand-master of the Salem witches." "The upshot of all which is, that, if I mistake not," said Tom, sturdily, "you are he commonly called Old Scratch." When Tom reached home he found the black print of a finger burned, as it were, into his forehead, which nothing could obliterate. Tom recollected the tree which his black friend had just hewn down, and which was ready for burning. "Let the freebooter roast," said Tom; "who cares!" He now felt convinced that all he had heard and seen was no illusion. He was not prone to let his wife into his confidence; but as this was an uneasy secret, he willingly shared it with her. All her avarice was awakened at the mention of hidden gold, and she urged her husband to comply with the black man's terms, and secure what would make them wealthy for life. However Tom might have felt disposed to sell himself to the devil, he was determined not to do so to oblige his wife; so he flatly refused, out of the mere spirit of contradiction. Many and bitter were the quarrels they had on the subject; but the more she talked, the more resolute was Tom not to be damned to please her. At length she determined to drive the bargain on her own account, and, if she succeeded, to keep all the gain to herself. Being of the same fearless temper as her husband, she set off for the old Indian fort toward the close of a summer's day. She was many hours absent. When she came back, she was reserved and sullen in her replies. She spoke something of a black man, whom she had met about twilight hewing at the root of a tall tree. He was sulky, however, and would not come to terms; she was to go again with a propitiatory offering, but what it was she forbore to say. The next evening she set off again for the swamp, with her apron heavily laden. Tom waited and waited for her, but in vain; midnight came, but she did not make her appearance; morning, noon, night returned, but still she did not come. Tom now grew uneasy for her safety, especially as he found she had carried off in her apron the silver tea-pot and spoons, and every portable article of value. Another night elapsed, another morning came; but no wife. In a word, she was never heard of more. The most current and probable story, however, observes that Tom Walker grew so anxious about the fate of his wife and his property that he set out at length to seek them both at the Indian fort. During a long summer's afternoon he searched about the gloomy place, but no wife was to be seen. He called her name repeatedly, but she was nowhere to be heard. The bittern alone responded to his voice, as he flew screaming by; or the bull-frog croaked dolefully from a neighboring pool. At length, it is said, just in the brown hour of twilight, when the owls began to hoot and the bats to flit about, his attention was attracted by the clamor of carrion crows hovering about a cypress-tree. He looked up and beheld a bundle tied in a check apron and hanging in the branches of the tree, with a great vulture perched hard by, as if keeping watch upon it. He leaped with joy, for he recognized his wife's apron, and supposed it to contain the household valuables. "Let us get hold of the property," said he, consolingly, to himself, "and we will endeavor to do without the woman." As he scrambled up the tree, the vulture spread its wide wings and sailed off, screaming, into the deep shadows of the forest. Tom seized the checked apron, but, woful sight! found nothing but a heart and liver tied up in it! Such, according to this most authentic old story, was all that was to be found of Tom's wife. She had probably attempted to deal with the black man as she had been accustomed to deal with her husband; but though a female scold is generally considered a match for the devil, yet in this instance she appears to have had the worst of it. She must have died game, however; for it is said Tom noticed many prints of cloven feet deeply stamped about the tree, and found handfuls of hair, that looked as if they had been plucked from the coarse black shock of the woodsman. Tom knew his wife's prowess by experience. He shrugged his shoulders as he looked at the signs of fierce clapper-clawing. "Egad," said he to himself, "Old Scratch must have had a tough time of it!" Tom consoled himself for the loss of his property, with the loss of his wife, for he was a man of fortitude. He even felt something like gratitude toward the black woodsman, who, he considered, had done him a kindness. He sought, therefore, to cultivate a further acquaintance with him, but for some time without success; the old black-legs played shy, for, whatever people may think, he is not always to be had for the calling; he knows how to play his cards when pretty sure of his game. Finding Tom so squeamish on this point, he did not insist upon it, but proposed, instead, that he should turn usurer; the devil being extremely anxious for the increase of usurers, looking upon them as his peculiar people. To this no objections were made, for it was just to Tom's taste. "You shall open a broker's shop in Boston next month," said the black man. "I'll do it to-morrow, if you wish," said Tom Walker. "I'll drive them to the devil," cried Tom Walker. "_You_ are the usurer for my money!" said black-legs with delight. "When will you want the rhino?" "Done!" said the devil. "Done!" said Tom Walker. So they shook hands and struck a bargain. A few days' time saw Tom Walker seated behind his desk in a counting-house in Boston. At this propitious time of public distress did Tom Walker set up as usurer in Boston. His door was soon thronged by customers. The needy and adventurous, the gambling speculator, the dreaming land-jobber, the thriftless tradesman, the merchant with cracked credit--in short, everyone driven to raise money by desperate means and desperate sacrifices hurried to Tom Walker. In this way he made money hand over hand, became a rich and mighty man, and exalted his cocked hat upon "Change." He built himself, as usual, a vast house, out of ostentation, but left the greater part of it unfinished and unfurnished, out of parsimony. He even set up a carriage in the fulness of his vain-glory, though he nearly starved the horses which drew it; and, as the ungreased wheels groaned and screeched on the axle-trees, you would have thought you heard the souls of the poor debtors he was squeezing. Still, in spite of all this strenuous attention to forms, Tom had a lurking dread that the devil, after all, would have his due. That he might not be taken unawares, therefore, it is said he always carried a small Bible in his coat-pocket. He had also a great folio Bible on his counting-house desk, and would frequently be found reading it when people called on business; on such occasions he would lay his green spectacles in the book, to mark the place, while he turned round to drive some usurious bargain. Some say that Tom grew a little crack-brained in his old days, and that, fancying his end approaching, he had his horse new shod, saddled, and bridled, and buried with his feet uppermost; because he supposed that at the last day the world would be turned upside-down; in which case he should find his horse standing ready for mounting, and he was determined at the worst to give his old friend a run for it. This, however, is probably a mere old wives' fable. If he really did take such a precaution, it was totally superfluous; at least so says the authentic old legend, which closes his story in the following manner: "My family will be ruined, and brought upon the parish," said the land-jobber. "You have made so much money out of me," said the speculator. Tom lost his patience and his piety. "The devil take me," said he, "if I have made a farthing!" "Tom, you're come for," said the black fellow, gruffly. Tom shrank back, but too late. He had left his little Bible at the bottom of his coat-pocket and his big Bible on the desk buried under the mortgage he was about to foreclose: never was sinner taken more unawares. The black man whisked him like a child into the saddle, gave the horse the lash, and away he galloped, with Tom on his back, in the midst of the thunder-storm. The clerks stuck their pens behind their ears, and stared after him from the windows. Away went Tom Walker, dashing down the streets, his white cap bobbing up and down, his morning-gown fluttering in the wind, and his steed striking fire out of the pavement at every bound. When the clerks turned to look for the black man, he had disappeared. Tom Walker never returned to foreclose the mortgage. A countryman, who lived on the border of the swamp, reported that in the height of the thunder-gust he had heard a great clattering of hoofs and a howling along the road, and running to the window caught sight of a figure, such as I have described, on a horse that galloped like mad across the fields, over the hills, and down into the black hemlock swamp toward the old Indian fort, and that shortly after a thunder-bolt falling in that direction seemed to set the whole forest in a blaze. Such was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotten wealth. Let all gripping money-brokers lay this story to heart. The truth of it is not to be doubted. The very hole under the oak-trees, whence he dug Kidd's money, is to be seen to this day; and the neighboring swamp and old Indian fort are often haunted in stormy nights by a figure on horseback, in morning-gown and white cap, which is doubtless the troubled spirit of the usurer. In fact, the story has resolved itself into a proverb, and is the origin of that popular saying, so prevalent throughout New England, of "The devil and Tom Walker." DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT "My dear old friends," repeated Doctor Heidegger, "may I reckon on your aid in performing an exceedingly curious experiment?" "Nonsense!" said the Widow Wycherley, with a peevish toss of her head. "You might as well ask whether an old woman's wrinkled face could ever bloom again." "See!" answered Doctor Heidegger. "That is certainly a very pretty deception," said the doctor's friends; careless, however, for they had witnessed greater miracles at a conjurer's show; "pray how was it effected?" "But did Ponce de Leon ever find it?" said the Widow Wycherley. "No," answered Doctor Heidegger, "for he never sought it in the right place. The famous Fountain of Youth, if I am rightly informed, is situated in the southern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from Lake Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several magnolias, which, though numberless centuries old, have been kept as fresh as violets, by the virtues of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of mine, knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent me what you see in the vase." "Ahem!" said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not a word of the doctor's story; "and what may be the effect of this fluid on the human frame?" "You shall judge for yourself, my dear Colonel," replied Doctor Heidegger; "and all of you, my respected friends, are welcome to so much of this admirable fluid as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For my own part, having had much trouble in growing old, I am in no hurry to grow young again. With your permission, therefore, I will merely watch the progress of the experiment." "Drink, then," said the doctor, bowing: "I rejoice that I have so well selected the subjects of my experiment." "Give us more of this wondrous water!" cried they, eagerly. "We are younger--but we are still too old! Quick--give us more!" "My dear widow, you are charming!" cried Colonel Killigrew, whose eyes had been fixed upon her face, while the shadows of age were flitting from it like darkness from the crimson daybreak. As for the Widow Wycherley, she stood before the mirror, courtesying and simpering to her own image, and greeting it as the friend whom she loved better than all the world beside. She thrust her face close to the glass to see whether some long-remembered wrinkle or crow's-foot had indeed vanished. She examined whether the snow had so entirely melted from her hair that the venerable cap could be safely thrown aside. At last, turning briskly away, she came with a sort of dancing step to the table. "My dear old doctor," cried she, "pray favor me with another glass!" "Certainly, my dear madam, certainly!" replied the complaisant doctor. "See! I have already filled the glasses." But the next moment the exhilarating gush of young life shot through their veins. They were now in the happy prime of youth. Age, with its miserable train of cares, and sorrows, and diseases, was remembered only as the trouble of a dream, from which they had joyously awoke. The fresh gloss of the soul, so early lost, and without which the world's successive scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again threw its enchantment over all their prospects. They felt like new-created beings in a new-created universe. "We are young! We are young!" they cried, exultingly. "Pray excuse me," answered the doctor, quietly. "I am old and rheumatic, and my dancing days were over long ago. But either of these gay young gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a partner." "Dance with me, Clara!" cried Colonel Killigrew. "My poor Sylvia's rose!" ejaculated Doctor Heidegger, holding it in the light of the sunset clouds; "it appears to be fading again." "I love it as well thus as in its dewy freshness," observed he, pressing the withered rose to his withered lips. While he spoke, the butterfly fluttered down from the doctor's snowy head, and fell upon the floor. "Are we grown old again so soon?" cried they, dolefully. In truth, they had. The Water of Youth possessed merely a virtue more transient than that of wine. The delirium which it created had effervesced away. Yes, they were old again! With a shuddering impulse, that showed her a woman still, the widow clasped her skinny hands over her face, and wished that the coffin lid were over it, since it could be no longer beautiful. "Yes, friends, ye are old again," said Doctor Heidegger; "and lo! the Water of Youth is all lavished on the ground. Well, I bemoan it not; for if the fountain gushed at my doorstep, I would not stoop to bathe my lips in it--no, though its delirium were for years instead of moments. Such is the lesson ye have taught me!" "If it is any point requiring reflection," observed Dupin, as he forebore to enkindle the wick, "we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark." "That is another of your odd notions," said the Prefect, who had the fashion of calling everything "odd" that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of "oddities." "Very true," said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe, and rolled toward him a comfortable chair. "And what is the difficulty now?" I asked. "Nothing more in the assassination way, I hope?" "Oh no, nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is _very_ simple indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it sufficiently well ourselves; but then I thought Dupin would like to hear the details of it, because it is so excessively _odd_." "Simple and odd," said Dupin. "Why, yes; and not exactly that, either. The fact is, we have all been a good deal puzzled because the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us altogether." "Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you at fault," said my friend. "What nonsense you _do_ talk!" replied the Prefect, laughing heartily. "Perhaps the mystery is a little _too_ plain," said Dupin. "Oh, good heavens! who ever heard of such an idea?" "A little _too_ self-evident." "And what, after all, _is_ the matter on hand?" I asked. "Or not," said Dupin. "How is this known?" asked Dupin. "Be a little more explicit," I said. "Still I do not quite understand," said Dupin. "Here, then," said Dupin to me, "you have precisely what you demand to make the ascendancy complete--the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber." "Yes," replied the Prefect, "and the power thus attained has, for some months past, been wielded, for political purposes, to a very dangerous extent. The personage robbed is more thoroughly convinced, every day, of the necessity of reclaiming her letter. But this, of course, cannot be done openly. In fine, driven to despair, she has committed the matter to me." "Than whom," said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, "no more sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired, or even imagined." "You flatter me," replied the Prefect; "but it is possible that some such opinion may have been entertained." "It is clear," said I, "as you observe, that the letter is still in the possession of the Minister; since it is this possession, and not any employment of the letter, which bestows the power. With the employment the power departs." "But," said I, "you are quite _au fait_ in these investigations. The Parisian police have done this thing often before." "But is it not possible," I suggested, "that although the letter may be in the possession of the Minister, as it unquestionably is, he may have concealed it elsewhere than upon his own premises?" "Its susceptibility of being produced?" said I. "That is to say, of being _destroyed_," said Dupin. "True," I observed; "the paper is clearly, then, upon the premises. As for its being upon the person of the Minister, we may consider that as out of the question." "True," said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his meerschaum, "although I have been guilty of certain doggrel myself." "Suppose you detail," said I, "the particulars of your search." "Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged piece of furniture, is removed by the person wishing to conceal an article; then the leg is excavated, the article deposited within the cavity, and the top replaced. The bottoms and tops of bedposts are employed in the same way." "But could not the cavity be detected by sounding?" I asked. "By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient wadding of cotton be placed around it. Besides, in our case, we were obliged to proceed without noise." "But you could not have removed--you could not have taken to pieces _all_ articles of furniture in which it would have been possible to make a deposit in the manner you mention. A letter may be compressed into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in shape or bulk from a large knitting-needle, and in this form it might be inserted into the rung of a chair, for example. You did not take to pieces all the chairs?" "Certainly not; but we did better--we examined the rungs of every chair in the hotel, and, indeed, the jointings of every description of furniture, by the aid of a most powerful microscope. Had there been any traces of recent disturbance we should not have failed to detect it instantly. A single grain of gimlet-dust, for example, would have been as obvious as an apple. Any disorder in the gluing--any unusual gaping in the joints--would have sufficed to insure detection." "I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the boards and the plates, and you probed the beds and the bedclothes, as well as the curtains and carpets." "We had; but the reward offered is prodigious." "You include the _grounds_ about the houses?" "All the grounds are paved with brick. They gave us comparatively little trouble. We examined the moss between the bricks, and found it undisturbed." "You explored the floors beneath the carpets?" "Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and examined the boards with the microscope." "And the paper on the walls?" "You looked into the cellars?" "Then," I said, "you have been making a miscalculation, and the letter is _not_ upon the premises, as you suppose." "I fear you are right there," said the Prefect. "And now, Dupin, what would you advise me to do?" "To make a thorough research of the premises." "I have no better advice to give you," said Dupin. "You have, of course, an accurate description of the letter?" "Oh yes!" And here the Prefect, producing a memorandum book, proceeded to read aloud a minute account of the internal, and especially of the external, appearance of the missing document. Soon after finishing the perusal of this description, he took his departure, more entirely depressed in spirits than I had ever known the good gentleman before. In about a month afterward he paid us another visit, and found us occupied very nearly as before. He took a pipe and a chair, and entered into some ordinary conversation. At length I said: "Confound him, say I--yes; I made the re-examination, however, as Dupin suggested--but it was all labor lost, as I knew it would be." "How much was the reward offered, did you say?" asked Dupin. "No; hang Abernethy!" "'We will suppose,' said the miser, 'that his symptoms are such and such; now, doctor, what would _you_ have directed him to take?' "'Take!' said Abernethy. 'Why, take _advice_, to be sure.'" "In that case," replied Dupin, opening a drawer, and producing a check-book, "you may as well fill me up a check for the amount mentioned. When you have signed it, I will hand you the letter." When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanation. "So far as his labors extended?" said I. "Yes," said Dupin. "The measures adopted were not only the best of their kind, but carried out to absolute perfection. Had the letter been deposited within the range of their search, these fellows would, beyond a question, have found it." I merely laughed--but he seemed quite serious in all that he said. "It is merely," I said, "an identification of the reasoner's intellect with that of his opponent." "And the identification," I said, "of the reasoner's intellect with that of his opponent, depends, if I understand you aright, upon the accuracy with which the opponent's intellect is admeasured." "Yes," said I, "I remember his merriment well. I really thought he would have fallen into convulsions." "I have never given the matter a thought," I said. "To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and lamented the necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I cautiously and thoroughly surveyed the whole apartment, while seemingly intent only upon the conversation of my host. "How? Did you put anything particular in it?" They are to be found in Crebillon's _Atree_." Well, Bob and I are up, and find it is not over; a small thoroughbred, white bull-terrier is busy throttling a large shepherd's dog, unaccustomed to war but not to be trifled with. They are hard at it; the scientific little fellow doing his work in great style, his pastoral enemy fighting wildly, but with the sharpest of teeth and a great courage. Science and breeding, however, soon had their own; the Game Chicken, as the premature Bob called him, working his way up, took his final grip of poor Yarrow's throat--and he lay gasping and done for. His master, a brown, handsome, big, young shepherd from Tweedsmuir, would have liked to have knocked down any man, would "drink up Esil, or eat a crocodile," for that part, if he had a chance; it was no use kicking the little dog; that would only make him hold the closer. Many were the means shouted out in mouthfuls of the best possible ways of ending it. "Water!" but there was none near, and many cried for it who might have got it from the well at Blackfriar's Wynd. "Bite the tail!" and a large, vague, benevolent, middle-aged man, more desirous than wise, with some struggle got the bushy end of Yarrow's tail into his ample mouth and bit it with all his might. This was more than enough for the much-enduring, much-perspiring shepherd, who, with a gleam of joy over his broad visage, delivered a terrific facer upon our large, vague, benevolent, middle-aged friend, who went down like a shot. Still the Chicken holds; death not far off. "Snuff! a pinch of snuff!" observed a calm, highly dressed young buck with an eye-glass in his eye. "Snuff, indeed!" growled the angry crowd, affronted and glaring. "Snuff! a pinch of snuff!" again observes the buck, but with more urgency; whereon were produced several open boxes, and from a mull which may have been at Culloden he took a pinch, knelt down, and presented it to the nose of the Chicken, The laws of physiology and of snuff take their course; the Chicken sneezes, and Yarrow is free! The young pastoral giant stalks off with Yarrow in his arms--comforting him. There, under the single arch of the South Bridge, is a huge mastiff, sauntering down the middle of the causeway, as if with his hands in his pockets; he is old, brindled, as big as a little Highland bull, and has the Shakespearean dewlaps shaking as he goes. The Chicken makes straight at him, and fastens on his throat. To our astonishment, the great creature does nothing but stand still, hold himself up, and roar--yes, roar, a long, serious, remonstrative roar. How is this? Bob and I are up to them. _He is muzzled_! The bailies had proclaimed a general muzzling, and his master, studying strength and economy mainly, had encompassed his huge jaws in a home-made apparatus constructed out of the leather of some ancient _breechin_. His mouth was open as far as it could; his lips curled up in rage--a sort of terrible grin; his teeth gleaming, ready, from out the darkness; the strap across his mouth tense as a bowstring; his whole frame stiff with indignation and surprise; his roar asking us all round, "Did you ever see the like of this?" He looked a statue of anger and astonishment done in Aberdeen granite. He looked down at his victim appeased, ashamed, and amazed; sniffed him all over, stared at him, and, taking a sudden thought, turned round and trotted off. Bob took the dead dog up, and said, "John, we'll bury him after tea." "Yes," said I, and was off after the mastiff. He made up the Cowgate at a rapid swing; he had forgotten some engagement. He turned up the Candlemaker Row, and stopped at the Harrow Inn. There was a carrier's cart ready to start, and a keen, thin, impatient, black-a-vised little man, his hand at his gray horse's head, looking about angrily for something. "Rab, ye thief!" said he, aiming a kick at my great friend, who drew cringing up, and, avoiding the heavy shoe with more agility than dignity and watching his master's eye? slunk dismayed under the cart--his ears down, and as much as he had of tail down, too. By this time I saw the woman's face; she was sitting on a sack filled with straw, with her husband's plaid round her, and his big-coat, with its large, white metal buttons, over her feet. Rab had the dignity and simplicity of great size; and, having fought his way all along the road to absolute supremacy, he was as mighty in his own line as Julius Caesar or the Duke of Wellington, and had the gravity of all great fighters. You must have often observed the likeness of certain men to certain animals, and of certain dogs to men. Now, I never looked at Rab without thinking of the great Baptist preacher, Andrew Fuller. The same large, heavy, menacing, combative, sombre, honest countenance, the same deep, inevitable eye; the same look, as of thunder asleep, but ready--neither a dog nor a man to be trifled with. Up ran the youths, eager to secure good places; in they crowded, full of interest and talk. "What's the case?" "Which side is it?" Don't think them heartless; they are neither better nor worse than you or I; they get over their professional horrors, and into their proper work; and in them pity, as an _emotion_, ending in itself or at best in tears and a long-drawn breath, lessens, while pity, as a _motive_, is quickened, and gains power and purpose. It is well for poor human nature that it is so. It is over; she is dressed, steps gently and decently down from the table, looks for James; then turning to the surgeon and the students, she curtsies, and in a low, clear voice, begs their pardon if she has behaved ill. The students--all of us--wept like children; the surgeon wrapped her up carefully, and, resting on James and me, Ailie went to her room, and Rab followed. We put her to bed. James took off his heavy shoes, crammed with tackets, heel-capped and toe-capped, and put them carefully under the table, saying: "Maister John, I'm for nane o' yer strynge nurse bodies for Ailie. I'll be her nurse, and I'll gang aboot on my stockin' soles as canny as pussy." And so he did; and handy and clever, and swift and tender as any woman was that horny-handed, snell, peremptory little man. Everything she got he gave her; he seldom slept; and often I saw his small, shrewd eyes out of the darkness, fixed on her. As before, they spoke little. Rab behaved well, never moving, showing us how meek and gentle he could be, and occasionally, in his sleep, letting us know that he was demolishing some adversary. He took a walk with me every day, generally to the Candlemaker Row; but he was sombre and mild; declined doing battle, though some fit cases offered, and indeed submitted to sundry indignities; and was always very ready to turn, and came faster back, and trotted up the stair with much lightness, and went straight to that door. Jess, the mare, had been sent, with her weather-beaten cart, to Howgate, and had doubtless her own dim and placid meditations and confusions on the absence of her master and Rab and her unnatural freedom from the road and her cart. "The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way"; she sang bits of old songs and Psalms, stopping suddenly, mingling the Psalms of David and the diviner words of his Son and Lord with homely odds and ends of ballads. Nothing more touching, or in a sense more strangely beautiful, did I ever witness. Her tremulous, rapid, affectionate, eager, Scotch voice--the swift, aimless, bewildered mind, the baffled utterance, the bright and perilous eye; some wild words, some household cares, something for James, the names of the dead, Rab called rapidly and in a "fremyt" voice, and he starting up, surprised, and slinking off as if he were to blame somehow, or had been dreaming he heard. Many eager questions and beseechings which James and I could make nothing of, and on which she seemed to set her all, and then sink back ununderstood. It was very sad, but better than many things that are not called sad. James hovered about, put out and miserable, but active and exact as ever; read to her, when there was a lull, short bits from the Psalms, prose and metre, chanting the latter in his own rude and serious way, showing great knowledge of the fit words, bearing up like a man, and doating over her as his "ain Ailie." "Ailie, ma woman!" "Ma ain bonnie wee dawtie!" Rab all this time had been full awake and motionless; he came forward beside us; Ailie's hand, which James had held, was hanging down; it was soaked with his tears; Rab licked it all over carefully, looked at her, and returned to his place under the table. I believe he never did; nor after either. "Rab!" he said, roughly, and, pointing with his thumb to the bottom of the bed. Rab leaped up and settled himself, his head and eye to the dead face. "Maister John, ye'll wait for me," said the carrier; and disappeared in the darkness, thundering down-stairs in his heavy shoes. I ran to a front window; there he was, already round the house and out at the gate, fleeing like a shadow. I stood till they passed through the long shadow of the College and turned up Nicolson Street. I heard the solitary cart sound through the streets, and die away and come again; and I returned, thinking of that company going up Libberton Brae, then along Roslin Muir, the morning light touching the Pentlands, and making them like onlooking ghosts; then down the hill through Auchindinny woods, past "haunted Woodhouselee"; and as daybreak came sweeping up the bleak Lammermuirs, and fell on his own door, the company would stop, and James would take the key, and lift Ailie up again, laying her on her own bed, and, having put Jess up, would return with Rab and shut the door. And what of Rab? I asked for him next week at the new carrier who got the good-will of James's business and was now master of Jess and her cart. "How's Rab?" He put me off, and said, rather rudely, "What's _your_ business wi' the dowg?" I was not to be so put off. "Where's Rab?" He, getting confused and red, and intermeddling with his hair, said, "'Deed, sir, Rab's deid." "Dead! What did he die of?" "Weel, sir," said he, getting redder, "he didna' exactly dee; he was killed. I had to brain him wi' a rack-pin; there was nae doin' wi' him. He lay in the treviss wi' the mear, and wadna come oot. I tempit him wi' kail and meat, but he wad tak naething, and keepit me frae feeding the beast, and he was aye gurrin', and grup, gruppin' me by the legs. I was laith to mak' awa' wi' the auld dowg, his like wasna atween this and Thornhill--but, 'deed, sir, I could do naething else." I believed him. Fit end for Rab, quick and complete. His teeth and his friends gone, why should he keep the peace and be civil? THE BOOTS AT THE HOLLY-TREE INN Where had he been in his time? he repeated, when I asked him the question, Lord, he had been everywhere! And what had he been? Bless you, he had been everything you could mention, a'most! Seen a good deal? Why, of course he had. I should say so, he could assure me, if I only knew about a twentieth part of what had come in _his_ way. Why, it would be easier for him, he expected, to tell what he hadn't seen than what he had. Ah! a deal, it would. "Are you, indeed, sir? I hope you'll have a pleasant time. I am going into Yorkshire, myself, when I leave here." "Are you going to your grandmamma's, Cobbs?" "No, sir. I haven't got such a thing." "Not as a grandmamma, Cobbs?" The boy looked on at the watering of the flowers for a little while, and then said, "I shall be very glad indeed to go, Cobbs--Norah's going." "You'll be all right, then, sir," says Cobbs, "with your beautiful sweetheart by your side." "Cobbs," returned the boy, flushing, "I never let anybody joke about it when I can prevent them." "I am glad of that, Cobbs, because I like you, you know, and you're going to live with us. Cobbs!" "What do you think my grandmamma gives me when I go down there?" "I couldn't so much as make a guess, sir." "I believe you, sir!" "Cobbs," said the boy, "I'll tell you a secret. At Norah's house they have been joking her about me, and pretending to laugh at our being engaged--pretending to make game of it, Cobbs!" "Such, sir," says Cobbs, "is the depravity of human natur'." The boy, looking exactly like his father, stood for a few minutes with his glowing face toward the sunset, and then departed with, "Good-night, Cobbs. I'm going in." If I was to ask Boots how it happened that he was a-going to leave that place just at that present time, well, he couldn't rightly answer me. He did suppose he might have stayed there till now if he had been anyways inclined. But you see, he was younger then, and he wanted change. That's what he wanted--change. Mr. Walmers, he said to him when he gave him notice of his intentions to leave, "Cobbs," he says, "have you anythink to complain of? I make the inquiry, because if I find that any of my people really has anythink to complain of, I wish to make it right if I can." "No, sir," says Cobbs; "thanking you, sir, I find myself as well sitiwated here as I could hope to be anywheres. The truth is, sir, that I'm a-going to seek my fortun'." "Oh, indeed, Cobbs!" he says; "I hope you may find it." And Boots could assure me--which he did, touching his hair with his bootjack, as a salute in the way of his present calling--that he hadn't found it yet. Well, sir! Boots left the Elmses when his time was up, and Master Harry, he went down to the old lady's at York, which old lady would have given that child the teeth out of her head (if she had had any), she was so wrapped up in him. What does that Infant do--for Infant you may call him, and be within the mark--but cut away from that old lady's with his Norah, on a expedition to go to Gretna Green and be married! So Boots goes up-stairs to the Angel, and there he finds Master Harry, on a e'normous sofa--immense at any time, but looking like the Great Bed of Ware, compared with him--a-drying the eyes of Miss Norah with his pocket-hankecher. Their little legs was entirely off the ground, of course, and it really is not possible for Boots to express to me how small them children looked. "It's Cobbs! It's Cobbs!" cries Master Harry, and comes running to him on t'other side, and catching hold of his t'other hand, and they both jump for joy. "I see you a-getting out, sir," says Cobbs. "I thought it was you. I thought I couldn't be mistaken in your height and figure. What's the object of your journey, sir? Matrimonial?" "We're going to be married, Cobbs, at Gretna Green," returned the boy. "We have run away on purpose. Norah has been in rather low spirits, Cobbs; but she'll be happy, now we have found you to be our friend." "Thank you, sir, and thank _you_, miss," says Cobbs, "for your good opinion. _Did_ you bring any luggage with you, sir?" "What may be the exact nature of your plans, sir?" says Cobbs. "Just so, sir," says Cobbs. "Would it meet your views, sir, if I was to accompany you?" When Cobbs said this, they both jumped for joy again, and cried out, "Oh yes, yes, Cobbs! Yes!" "Well, sir!" says Cobbs. "If you will excuse me having the freedom to give an opinion, what I should recommend would be this. I am acquainted with a pony, sir, which, put in a pheayton that I could borrow, would take you and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior (myself driving, if you approved), to the end of your journey in a very short space of time. I am not altogether sure, sir, that this pony will be at liberty to-morrow, but even if you had to wait over to-morrow for him, it might be worth your while. As to the small account here, sir, in case you was to find yourself running at all short, that don't signify; because I am a part proprietor of this inn, and it could stand over." "Is there anything you want just at present, sir?" says Cobbs, mortally ashamed of himself. "It shall be ordered at the bar, sir," says Cobbs; and away he went. "Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, fatigued, sir?" says Cobbs. "Yes, she is tired, Cobbs; but she is not used to be away from home, and she has been in low spirits again. Cobbs, do you think you could bring a biffin, please?" "I think a Norfolk biffin would rouse her, Cobbs. She is very fond of them." After breakfast Boots is inclined to consider they drawed soldiers--at least he knows that many such was found in the fireplace, all on horseback. In the course of the morning Master Harry rang the bell--it was surprising how that there boy did carry on--and said, in a sprightly way, "Cobbs, is there any good walks in this neighborhood?" "Yes, sir," says Cobbs. "There's Love Lane." "Begging your pardon, sir," says Cobbs, "there _really is_ Love Lane. And a pleasant walk it is, and proud shall I be to show it to yourself and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior." "Norah, dear," says Master Harry, "this is curious. We really ought to see Love Lane. Put on your bonnet, my sweetest darling, and we will go there with Cobbs." A biled fowl and baked bread-and-butter pudding brought Mrs. Walmers up a little; but Boots could have wished, he must privately own to me, to have seen her more sensible of the woice of love, and less abandoning of herself to currants. However, Master Harry, he kept up, and his noble heart was as fond as ever. Mrs. Walmers turned very sleepy about dusk, and began to cry. Therefore, Mrs. Walmers went off to bed as per yesterday; and Master Harry ditto repeated. I may be surprised to hear Boots say it, perhaps; but Boots assures me that his heart beat like a hammer, going up-stairs. "I beg your pardon, sir," says he, while unlocking the door; "I do hope you are not angry with Master Harry. For Master Harry is a fine boy, sir, and will do you credit and honor." And Boots signifies to me that, if the fine boy's father had contradicted him in the daring state of mind in which he then was, he thinks he should have "fetched him a crack," and taken the consequences. But Mr. Walmers only says: "No, Cobbs. No, my good fellow. Thank you!" And, the door being opened, goes in. Boots goes in, too, holding the light, and he sees Mr. Walmers go up to the bedside, bend gently down, and kiss the little sleeping face. Then he stands looking at it for a minute, looking wonderfully like it (they do say he ran away with Mrs. Walmers); and then he gently shakes the little shoulder. "Harry, my dear boy! Harry!" Master Harry starts up and looks at him. Looks at Cobbs, too. Such is the honor of that mite, that he looks at Cobbs, to see whether he has brought him into trouble. "I'm not angry, my child. I only want you to dress yourself and come home." Master Harry dresses himself quickly. His breast begins to swell when he has nearly finished, and it swells more and more as he stands, at last, a-looking at his father; his father standing a-looking at him, the quiet image of him. "You may, my child." When he approached the conclusion of his sermon, Brother Peter closed with a bang the Bible, which, although he could not read a word of it, always lay open before him while he preached, and delivered the concluding exhortation of his sermon. "Now, my dear brev'ren ob dis congregation," he said, "I want you to understan' dat dar's nuffin in dis yer sarmon wot you've jus' heerd ter make you think yousefs angels. By no means, brev'ren; you was all brung up by women, an' you've got ter lib wid' em, an ef anythin' in dis yer worl' is ketchin', my dear brev'ren, it's habin debbils, an' from wot I've seen ob some ob de men ob dis worl' I 'spect dey is persest ob 'bout all de debbils dey got room fur. But de Bible don' say nuffin p'intedly on de subjec' ob de number ob debbils in man, an' I 'spec' dose dat's got 'em--an' we ought ter feel pow'ful thankful, my dear brev'ren, dat de Bible don' say we all's got 'em--has 'em 'cordin to sarcumstances. But wid de women it's dif'rent; dey's got jus' sebin, an' bless my soul, brev'ren, I think dat's 'nuff. As might have been expected, this sermon produced a great sensation, and made a deep impression on the congregation. As a rule, the men were tolerably well satisfied with it; and when the services were over many of them made it the occasion of shy but very plainly pointed remarks to their female friends and relatives. Some of the more vigorous-minded women, not seeing their minister among the other people in the clearing in front of the log church, went to look for him, but he was not to be found. His wife had ordered him to be home early, and soon after the congregation had been dismissed he departed by a short cut through the woods. That afternoon an irate committee, composed principally of women, but including also a few men who had expressed disbelief in the new doctrine, arrived at the cabin of their preacher, but found there only his wife, cross-grained old Aunt Rebecca. She informed them that her husband was not at home. Any such intention as this was instantaneously denied, and Aunt Rebecca was informed of the subject upon which her visitors had come to have a very plain talk with her husband. Strange to say, the announcement of the new and startling dogma had apparently no disturbing effect upon Aunt Rebecca. On the contrary, the old woman seemed rather to enjoy the news. Judging from her chuckles and waggings of the head when she made this remark, it might be imagined that Aunt Rebecca was rather proud of the fact that her husband thought her capable of exhibiting a different kind of diabolism every day in the week. A meeting of the disaffected church-members was held the next night at Susan Henry's cabin, or rather in the little yard about it, for the house was not large enough to hold the people who attended it. The meeting was not regularly organized, but everybody said what he or she had to say, and the result was a great deal of clamor, and a general increase of indignation against Uncle Pete. "Look h'yar!" cried Susan, at the end of some energetic remarks, "is dar enny pusson h'yar who kin count up figgers?" A middle-aged man now lifted up his voice and said: "I's been thinkin' ober dis h'yar matter and I's 'cluded dat p'r'aps de words ob de preacher was used in a figgeratous form o' sense. P'r'aps de seben debbils meant chillun." These remarks were received with no favor by the assemblage. "Oh, you git out!" cried Susan. "Your ole woman's got seben chillun, shore 'nuf, an' I s'pec' dey's all debbils. But dem sent'ments don't apply ter all de udder women h'yar, 'tic'larly ter dem dar young uns wot ain't married yit." This was good logic, but the feeling on the subject proved to be even stronger, for the mothers in the company became so angry at their children being considered devils that for a time there seemed to be danger of an Amazonian attack on the unfortunate speaker. This was averted, but a great deal of uproar now ensued, and it was the general feeling that something ought to be done to show the deep-seated resentment with which the horrible charge against the mothers and sisters of the congregation had been met. Many violent propositions were made, some of the younger men going so far as to offer to burn down the church. It was finally agreed, quite unanimously, that old Peter should be unceremoniously ousted from his place in the pulpit which he had filled so many years. As the week passed on, some of the older men of the congregation who had friendly feelings toward their old companion and preacher talked the matter over among themselves, and afterward, with many of their fellow-members, succeeded at last in gaining the general consent that Uncle Pete should be allowed a chance to explain himself, and give his grounds and reasons for his astounding statement in regard to womankind. If he could show biblical authority for this, of course nothing more could be said. But if he could not, then he must get down from the pulpit, and sit for the rest of his life on a back seat of the church. This proposition met with the more favor, because even those who were most indignant had an earnest curiosity to know what the old man would say for himself. During all this time of angry discussion, good old Peter was quietly and calmly cutting and hauling wood on the Little Mountain. His mind was in a condition of great comfort and peace, for not only had he been able to rid himself, in his last sermon, of many of the hard thoughts concerning women that had been gathering themselves together for years, but his absence from home had given him a holiday from the harassments of Aunt Rebecca's tongue, so that no new notions of woman's culpability had risen within him. He had dismissed the subject altogether, and had been thinking over a sermon regarding baptism, which he thought he could make convincing to certain of the younger members of his congregation. "Wot I says in de pulpit," he remarked, "I'll 'splain in de pulpit, an' you all ud better git 'long to de chu'ch, an' when de time fur de sarvice come, I'll be dar." Uncle Peter made no answer, but, ascending the little pulpit, he put his hat on the bench behind him where it was used to repose, took out his red cotton handkerchief and blew his nose in his accustomed way, and looked about him. The house was crowded. Even Aunt Rebecca was there. Bill Hines having nodded and modestly grunted assent, the preacher continued. "An' dars' Ann' Priscilla's boy, Jake, who ain't a brudder yit, though he's plenty old 'nuf, min', I tell ye; an' he kin read de Bible, fus' rate, an' has read it ter me ober an' ober ag'in. Ain't dat so, Jake?" Jake grinned, nodded, and hung his head, very uncomfortable at being thus publicly pointed out. A murmur of assent came from the congregation, Most of them remembered that. "But did enny ob you ebber read, or hab read to you, dat he ebber cas' 'em out o' enny udder woman?" Negative grunts and shakes of the head signified that nobody had ever heard of this. "Well, den," said the preacher, gazing blandly around, "all de udder women got 'em yit." A deep silence fell upon the assembly, and in a few moments an elderly member arose. "Brudder Pete," he said, "I reckin you mought as well gib out de hyme." You can see by these things that she was of a rather vain and frivolous character; still, she had virtues, and enough to make up, I think. She had a kind heart and gentle ways, and never harbored resentments for injuries done her, but put them easily out of her mind and forgot them; and she taught her children her kindly way, and from her we learned also to be brave and prompt in time of danger, and not to run away, but face the peril that threatened friend or stranger, and help him the best we could without stopping to think what the cost might be to us. And she taught us, not by words only, but by example, and that is the best way and the surest and the most lasting. Why, the brave things she did, the splendid things! she was just a soldier; and so modest about it--well, you couldn't help admiring her, and you couldn't help imitating her; not even a King Charles spaniel could remain entirely despicable in her society. So, as you see, there was more to her than her education. So we said our farewells, and looked our last upon each other through our tears; and the last thing she said--keeping it for the last to make me remember it the better, I think--was, "In memory of me, when there is a time of danger to another do not think of yourself, think of your mother, and do as she would do." Do you think I could forget that? No. "Begone, you cursed beast!" and I jumped to save myself; but he was wonderfully quick, and chased me up, striking furiously at me with his cane, I dodging this way and that, in terror, and at last a strong blow fell upon my left fore-leg, which made me shriek and fall, for the moment, helpless; the cane went up for another blow, but never descended, for the nurse's voice rang wildly out, "The nursery's on fire!" and the master rushed away in that direction, and my other bones were saved. It was muffled by distance, but that could not take the terror out of it, and it was the most dreadful sound to me that I had ever heard. It went all about, everywhere, down there: along the halls, through all the rooms, in both stories, and in the basement and the cellar; then outside, and further and further away--then back, and all about the house again, and I thought it would never, never stop. But at last it did, hours and hours after the vague twilight of the garret had long ago been blotted out by black darkness. That was despair. There was no plan for me; I saw that; I must stay where I was; stay, and wait, and take what might come--it was not my affair; that was what life is--my mother had said it. Then--well, then the calling began again! All my sorrows came back. I said to myself, the master will never forgive. I did not know what I had done to make him so bitter and so unforgiving, yet I judged it was something a dog could not understand, but which was clear to a man and dreadful. I broke in with _such_ a grateful little yelp, and the next moment Sadie was plunging and stumbling through the darkness and the lumber and shouting for the family to hear, "She's found! she's found!" They disputed and disputed, and _I_ was the very centre and subject of it all, and I wished my mother could know that this grand honor had come to me; it would have made her proud. "There, I've won--confess it! He's as blind as a bat!" "It's so--you've proved your theory, and suffering humanity owes you a great debt from henceforth," and they crowded around him, and wrung his hand cordially and thankfully, and praised him. "Those poor creatures! They do not suspect. They will come home in the morning, and eagerly ask for the little doggie that did the brave deed, and who of us will be strong enough to say the truth to them: 'The humble little friend is gone where go the beasts that perish.'" Mr. Oakhurst's calm, handsome face betrayed small concern in these indications. Whether he was conscious of any predisposing cause was another question. "I reckon they're after somebody," he reflected; "likely it's me." He returned to his pocket the handkerchief with which he had been whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from his neat boots, and quietly discharged his mind of any further conjecture. Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included in this category. A few of the committee had urged hanging him as a possible example, and a sure method of reimbursing themselves from his pockets of the sums he had won from them. "It's agin justice," said Jim Wheeler, "to let this yer young man from Roaring Camp--an entire stranger--carry away our money." But a crude sentiment of equity residing in the breasts of those who had been fortunate enough to win from Mr. Oakhurst overruled this narrower local prejudice. A body of armed men accompanied the deported wickedness of Poker Flat to the outskirts of the settlement. Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who was known to be a coolly desperate man, and for whose intimidation the armed escort was intended, the expatriated party consisted of a young woman familiarly known as the "Duchess"; another who had won the title of "Mother Shipton"; and "Uncle Billy," a suspected sluice-robber and confirmed drunkard. The cavalcade provoked no comments from the spectators, nor was any word uttered by the escort. Only when the gulch which marked the uttermost limit of Poker Flat was reached, the leader spoke briefly and to the point. The exiles were forbidden to return at the peril of their lives. The road to Sandy Bar--a camp that, not having as yet experienced the regenerating influences of Poker Flat, consequently seemed to offer some invitation to the emigrants--lay over a steep mountain range. It was distant a day's severe travel. In that advanced season, the party soon passed out of the moist, temperate regions of the foot-hills into the dry, cold, bracing air of the Sierras. The trail was narrow and difficult. At noon the Duchess, rolling out of her saddle upon the ground, declared her intention of going no farther, and the party halted. Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment, still less with propriety; but he had a vague idea that the situation was not fortunate. He retained, however, his presence of mind sufficiently to kick Uncle Billy, who was about to say something, and Uncle Billy was sober enough to recognize in Mr. Oakhurst's kick a superior power that would not bear trifling. He then endeavored to dissuade Tom Simson from delaying further, but in vain. He even pointed out the fact that there was no provision, nor means of making a camp. But, unluckily, the Innocent met this objection by assuring the party that he was provided with an extra mule loaded with provisions, and by the discovery of a rude attempt at a log-house near the trail. "Piney can stay with Mrs. Oakhurst," said the Innocent, pointing to the Duchess, "and I can shift for myself." As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a slight breeze rocked the tops of the pine-trees, and moaned through their long and gloomy aisles. The ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine-boughs, was set apart for the ladies. As the lovers parted they unaffectedly exchanged a kiss, so honest and sincere that it might have been heard above the swaying pines. The frail Duchess and the malevolent Mother Shipton were probably too stunned to remark upon this last evidence of simplicity, and so turned without a word to the hut. The fire was replenished, the men lay down before the door, and in a few minutes were asleep. Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning he awoke benumbed and cold. As he stirred the dying fire, the wind, which was now blowing strongly, brought to his cheek that which caused the blood to leave it--snow! He started to his feet with the intention of awakening the sleepers, for there was no time to lose. But turning to where Uncle Billy had been lying, he found him gone. A suspicion leaped to his brain and a curse to his lips. He ran to the spot where the mules had been tethered; they were no longer there. The tracks were already rapidly disappearing in the snow. "I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord, And I'm bound to die in His army." The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above the miserable group, and the flames of their altar leaped heavenward, as if in token of the vow. When night crept up again through the gorges, the reedy notes of the accordion rose and fell in fitful spasms and long-drawn gasps by the flickering camp-fire. But music failed to fill entirely the aching void left by insufficient food, and a new diversion was proposed by Piney--story-telling. Neither Mr., Oakhurst nor his female companions caring to relate their personal experiences, this plan would have failed, too, but for the Innocent. Some months before he had chanced upon a stray copy of Mr. Pope's ingenious translation of the _Iliad_. He now proposed to narrate the principal incidents of that poem--having thoroughly mastered the argument and fairly forgotten the words--in the current vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so for the rest of that night the Homeric demigods again walked the earth. Trojan bully and wily Greek wrestled in the winds, and the great pines in the canon seemed to bow to the wrath of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst listened with quiet satisfaction. Most especially was he interested in the fate of "Ash-heels," as the Innocent persisted in denominating the "swift-footed Achilles." The lovers parted with a long embrace. "You are not going, too?" said the Duchess, as she saw Mr. Oakhurst apparently waiting to accompany him. "As far as the canon," he replied. He turned suddenly and kissed the Duchess, leaving her pallid face aflame and her trembling limbs rigid with amazement. The women slept but little. In the morning, looking into each other's faces, they read their fate. Neither spoke; but Piney, accepting the position of the stronger, drew near and placed her arm around the Duchess's waist. They kept this attitude for the rest of the day. That night the storm reached its greatest fury, and, rending asunder the protecting pines, invaded the very hut. Toward morning they found themselves unable to feed the fire, which gradually died away. As the embers slowly blackened, the Duchess crept closer to Piney, and broke the silence of many hours: "Piney, can you pray?" "No, dear," said Piney, simply. The Duchess, without knowing exactly why, felt relieved, and, putting her head upon Piney's shoulder, spoke no more. And so reclining, the younger and purer pillowing the head of her soiled sister upon her virgin breast, they fell asleep. The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them. Feathery drifts of snow, shaken from the long pine-boughs, flew like white-winged birds, and settled about them as they slept. The moon through the rifted clouds looked down upon what had been the camp. But all human stain, all trace of earthly travail, was hidden beneath the spotless mantle mercifully flung from above. They slept all that day and the next, nor did they waken when voices and footsteps broke the silence of the camp. And when pitying fingers brushed the snow from their wan faces, you could scarcely have told, from the equal peace that dwelt upon them, which was she that had sinned. Even the law of Poker Flat recognized this, and turned away, leaving them still locked in each other's arms. WHO STRUCK A STREAK OF BAD LUCK HANDED IN HIS CHECKS Among the few features of agricultural England which retain an appearance but little modified by the lapse of centuries, may be reckoned the high, grassy and furzy downs, coombs, or ewe-leases, as they are indifferently called, that fill a large area of certain counties in the south and southwest. If any mark of human occupation is met with hereon, it usually takes the form of the solitary cottage of some shepherd. On the hearth, in front of a back-brand to give substance, blazed a fire of thorns, that crackled "like the laughter of the fool." While these cheerful events were in course of enactment within Fennel's pastoral dwelling, an incident having considerable bearing on the party had occurred in the gloomy night without. Mrs. Fennel's concern about the growing fierceness of the dance corresponded in point of time with the ascent of a human figure to the solitary hill of Higher Crowstairs from the direction of the distant town. This personage strode on through the rain without a pause, following the little-worn path which, further on in its course, skirted the shepherd's cottage. By the time that he had arrived abreast of the shepherd's premises the rain came down, or rather came along, with yet more determined violence. The outskirts of the little settlement partially broke the force of wind and rain, and this induced him to stand still. The most salient of the shepherd's domestic erections was an empty sty at the forward corner of his hedgeless garden, for in these latitudes the principle of masking the homelier features of your establishment by a conventional frontage was unknown. The traveller's eye was attracted to this small building by the pallid shine of the wet slates that covered it. He turned aside, and, finding it empty, stood under the pent-roof for shelter. In his indecision he turned and surveyed the scene around. Not a soul was anywhere visible. The garden-path stretched downward from his feet, gleaming like the track of a snail; the roof of the little well (mostly dry), the well-cover, the top rail of the garden-gate, were varnished with the same dull liquid glaze; while, far away in the vale, a faint whiteness of more than usual extent showed that the rivers were high in the meads. Beyond all this winked a few bleared lamplights through the beating drops--lights that denoted the situation of the county-town from which he had appeared to come. The absence of all notes of life in that direction seemed to clinch his intentions, and he knocked at the door. Within, a desultory chat had taken the place of movement and musical sound. The hedge-carpenter was suggesting a song to the company, which nobody just then was inclined to undertake, so that the knock afforded a not unwelcome diversion. "Walk in!" said the shepherd, promptly. Their light disclosed that the stranger was dark in complexion and not unprepossessing as to feature. His hat, which for a moment he did not remove, hung low over his eyes, without concealing that they were large, open, and determined, moving with a flash rather than a glance round the room. He seemed pleased with his survey, and, baring his shaggy head, said, in a rich, deep voice: "The rain is so heavy, friends, that I ask leave to come in and rest awhile." "Nor less," spoke up a woman. "For 'tis best to get your family over and done with, as soon as you can, so as to be all the earlier out of the fag o't." "And what may be this glad cause?" asked the stranger. "A birth and christening," said the shepherd. Mrs. Shepherd Fennel assented, and made room for the self-invited comer, who, having got completely inside the chimney-corner, stretched out his legs and arms with the expansiveness of a person quite at home. "Not quite that--further up the country." "I thought so. And so be I; and by your tongue you come from my neighborhood." "But you would hardly have heard of me," he said quickly. "My time would be long before yours, ma'am, you see." This testimony to the youthfulness of his hostess had the effect of stopping her cross-examination. "I'll fill your pipe," said the shepherd. "I must ask you to lend me a pipe likewise." "A smoker, and no pipe about 'ee?" "I have dropped it somewhere on the road." The shepherd filled and handed him a new clay pipe, saying, as he did so, "Hand me your baccy-box--I'll fill that too, now I am about it." The man went through the movement of searching his pockets. "Lost that too?" said his entertainer, with some surprise. "I am afraid so," said the man with some confusion. "Give it to me in a screw of paper." Lighting his pipe at the candle with a suction that drew the whole flame into the bowl, he resettled himself in the corner and bent his looks upon the faint steam from his damp legs, as if he wished to say no more. Meanwhile the general body of guests had been taking little notice of this visitor by reason of an absorbing discussion in which they were engaged with the band about a tune for the next dance. The matter being settled, they were about to stand up when an interruption came in the shape of another knock at the door. THERE IS NO FUN UNTILL I CUM. "I knew it!" said the toper to the shepherd with much satisfaction. "When I walked up your garden before coming in, and saw the hives all of a row, I said to myself, 'Where there's bees there's honey, and where there's honey there's mead,' But mead of such a truly comfortable sort as this I really didn't expect to meet in my older days." He took yet another pull at the mug, till it assumed an ominous elevation. "Glad you enjoy it!" said the shepherd warmly. "Ha, ha, ha!" said the man in the chimney-corner, who, in spite of the taciturnity induced by the pipe of tobacco, could not or would not refrain from this slight testimony to his comrade's humor. "Well, well, as I say," he resumed, "I am going to Casterbridge, and to Casterbridge I must go. I should have been almost there by this time; but the rain drove me into your dwelling, and I'm not sorry for it." "You don't live in Casterbridge?" said the shepherd. "Going to set up in trade, perhaps?" "No, no," said the shepherd's wife. "It is easy to see that the gentleman is rich, and don't want to work at anything." "Poor man! Then, in spite o' seeming, you be off than we." replied the shepherd's wife. "But he's in the house, my honey; and 'tis a wet night, and a christening. Daze it, what's a cup of mead more or less? There'll be plenty more next bee-burning." "I don't know. I'll ask him again." The latter did not immediately reply, and the man in the chimney-corner, with sudden demonstrativeness, said, "Anybody may know my trade--I'm a wheelwright." "A very good trade for these parts," said the shepherd. "And anybody may know mine--if they've the sense to find it out," said the stranger in cinder-gray. "You may generally tell what a man is by his claws," observed the hedge-carpenter, looking at his own hands. "My fingers be as full of thorns as an old pin-cushion is of pins." The hands of the man in the chimney-corner instinctively sought the shade, and he gazed into the fire as he resumed his pipe. The man at the table took up the hedge-carpenter's remark, and added smartly, "True; but the oddity of my trade is that, instead of setting a mark upon me, it sets a mark upon my customers." "And waft 'em to a far countree!" The singer thoroughly moistened himself from his lips inward, and went on with the next stanza as requested: "My tools are but common ones, Simple shepherds all- My tools are no sight to see: A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing, Are implements enough for me!" The door was gently opened, and another man stood upon the mat. He, like those who had preceded him, was a stranger. This time it was a short, small personage, of fair complexion, and dressed in a decent suit of dark clothes. "To-morrow is my working day, Simple shepherds all- To-morrow is a working day for me: For the farmer's sheep is slain, and the lad who did it ta'en, And on his soul may God ha' merc-y!" The stranger in the chimney-corner, waving cups with the singer so heartily that his mead splashed over on the hearth, repeated in his bass voice as before: "And on his soul may God ha' merc-y!" "What a man can it be?" said the shepherd. The stillness was unexpectedly broken. The distant sound of a gun reverberated through the air--apparently from the direction of the county-town. "Be jiggered!" cried the stranger who had sung the song, jumping up. "A prisoner escaped from the jail--that's what it means." "I wonder if it is _my_ man?" murmured the personage in cinder-gray. "Surely it is!" said the shepherd involuntarily. "And surely we've zeed him! That little man who looked in at the door by now, and quivered like a leaf when he zeed ye and heard your song!" "His teeth chattered, and the breath went out of his body," said the dairyman. "And his heart seemed to sink within him like a stone," said Oliver Giles. "And he bolted as if he'd been shot at," said the hedge-carpenter. "True--his teeth chattered, and his heart seemed to sink; and he bolted as if he'd been shot at," slowly summed up the man in the chimney-corner. "I didn't notice it," remarked the hangman. The firing of the alarm-gun went on at intervals, low and sullenly, and their suspicions became a certainty. The sinister gentleman in cinder-gray roused himself. "Is there a constable here?" he asked, in thick tones. "If so, let him step forward." "You are a sworn constable?" "I will, sir, I will--when I've got my staff. I'll go home and get it, and come sharp here, and start in a body." "But I can't do nothing without my staff--can I, William, and John, and Charles Jake? No; for there's the king's royal crown a-painted on en in yaller and gold, and the lion and the unicorn, so as when I raise en up and hit my prisoner, 'tis made a lawful blow thereby. I wouldn't 'tempt to take up a man without my staff--no, not I. If I hadn't the law to gie me courage, why, instead o' my taking up him he might take up me!" "Now, I'm a king's man myself, and can give you authority enough for this," said the formidable officer in gray. "Now then, all of ye, be ready. Have ye any lanterns?" "Able-bodied men--yes--the rest of ye!" said the constable. "Staves and pitchforks--in the name o' the law! And take 'em in yer hands and go in quest, and do as we in authority tell ye!" A shepherd is always well provided with lanterns; and, lighting these hastily, and with hurdle-staves in their hands, they poured out of the door, taking a direction along the crest of the hill, away from the town, the rain having fortunately a little abated. "O--you here?" said the latter, smiling. "I thought you had gone to help in the capture." And this speaker also revealed the object of his return by looking solicitously round for the fascinating mug of old mead. "And I thought you had gone," said the other, continuing his skimmer-cake with some effort. "True; so it is. And I felt as you did, that there were enough without me." "I don't want to break my limbs running over the humps and hollows of this wild country." "Nor I neither, between you and me." "These shepherd-people are used to it--simple-minded souls, you know, stirred up to anything in a moment. They'll have him ready for me before the morning, and no trouble to me at all." "They'll have him, and we shall have saved ourselves all labor in the matter." "True, true. Well, my way is to Casterbridge; and 'tis as much as my legs will do to take me that far. Going the same way?" "No, I am sorry to say! I have to get home over there" (he nodded indefinitely to the right), "and I feel as you do, that it is quite enough for my legs to do before bedtime." The other had by this time finished the mead in the mug, after which, shaking hands heartily at the door, and wishing each other well, they went their several ways. "Your money or your life!" said the constable sternly to the still figure. "No, no," whispered John Pitcher. "'Tisn't our side ought to say that. That's the doctrine of vagabonds like him, and we be on the side of the law." "Well, travellers," he said, "did I hear you speak to me?" On hearing the charge, the man seemed enlightened, and, saying not another word, resigned himself with preternatural civility to the search-party, who, with their staves in their hands, surrounded him on all sides, and marched him back toward the shepherd's cottage. "The man," said the constable. "Hey--what?" said the magistrate, coming forward after inquiring particulars from the shepherd in the background. "Haven't you got the man after all?" "Well, sir," said the constable, "he's the man we were in search of, that's true; and yet he's not the man we were in search of. For the man we were in search of was not the man we wanted, sir, if you understand my every-day way; for 'twas the man in the chimney-corner!" The narrator's manner and tone had the stamp of truth, and his story made a great impression on all around. "And do you know where your brother is at the present time?" asked the magistrate. "I do not. I have never seen him since I closed this door." "I can testify to that, for we've been between ye ever since." said the constable. "He's a watch-and-clock-maker, sir." "'A said 'a was a wheelwright--a wicked rogue," said the constable. "The wheels of clocks and watches he meant, no doubt," said Shepherd Fennel. "I thought his hands were palish for's trade." "Well, it appears to me that nothing can be gained by retaining this poor man in custody," said the magistrate; "your business lies with the other, unquestionably." And so the little man was released off-hand; but he looked nothing the less sad on that account, it being beyond the power of magistrate or constable to raze out the written troubles in his brain, for they concerned another whom he regarded with more solicitude than himself. When this was done, and the man had gone his way, the night was found to be so far advanced that it was deemed useless to renew the search before the next morning. Next day, accordingly, the quest for the clever sheep-stealer became general and keen, to all appearance at least. But the intended punishment was cruelly disproportioned to the transgression, and the sympathy of a great many country-folk in that district was strongly on the side of the fugitive. Moreover, his marvellous coolness and daring in hob-and-nobbing with the hangman, under the unprecedented circumstances of the shepherd's party, won their admiration. So that it may be questioned if all those who ostensibly made themselves so busy in exploring woods and fields and lanes were quite so thorough when it came to the private examination of their own lofts and outhouses. Stories were afloat of a mysterious figure being occasionally seen in some old overgrown trackway or other, remote from turnpike roads; but when a search was instituted in any of these suspected quarters nobody was found. Thus the days and weeks passed without tidings. In brief, the bass-voiced man of the chimney-corner was never recaptured. Some said that he went across the sea, others that he did not, but buried himself in the depths of a populous city. At any rate, the gentleman in cinder-gray never did his morning's work at Casterbridge, nor met anywhere at all, for business purposes, the genial comrade with whom he had passed an hour of relaxation in the lonely house on the coomb. She had walked with her friend to the top of the wide steps of the Museum, those that descended from the galleries of painting, and then, after the young man had left her, smiling, looking back, waving all gayly and expressively his hat and stick, had watched him, smiling too, but with a different intensity--had kept him in sight till he passed out of the great door. She might have been waiting to see if he would turn there for a last demonstration; which was exactly what he did, renewing his cordial gesture and with his look of glad devotion, the radiance of his young face, reaching her across the great space, as she felt, in undiminished truth. Yes, so she could feel, and she remained a minute even after he was gone; she gazed at the empty air as if he had filled it still, asking herself what more she wanted and what, if it didn't signify glad devotion, his whole air could have represented. "I want you to tell the truth for me--as you only can. I want you to say that I was really all right--as right as you know; and that I simply acted like an angel in a story-book, gave myself away to have it over." "You're not engaged to Mr. French?" It was all, clearly, a wondrous show for him, but his immediate surprise, oddly, might have been greatest for that. It did indeed sufficiently stagger him. "It's a lovely idea for the moment when I was just saying to myself--as soon as I saw you--that you'd speak the truth for _me_!" "Ah, what's the matter with 'you'?" Julia sighed with an impatience not sensibly less sharp for her having so quickly scented some lion in her path. "Oh, lordy, lordy!" the girl emulously groaned. It was such a relieving cry. "Well, _I_ won't talk to her!" she declared. "Yes, Julia--right here. It's where we usually meet"; and he was wreathed again, this time as if for life, in his large slow smile. "She loves this place--she's awfully keen on art. Like _you_, Julia, if you haven't changed--I remember how you did love art." He looked at her quite tenderly, as to keep her up to it. "You must still of course--from the way you're here. Just let her _feel_ that," the poor man fantastically urged. And then with his kind eyes on her and his good ugly mouth stretched as for delicate emphasis from ear to ear: "Every little helps!" "Why, such a dear thing, Julia--Mrs. David E. Drack. Have you heard of her?" he almost fluted. Hard, at any rate--whether pathetic or not--was the look she gave him back. "Well, so has--or so _will_ have--Basil French. And more of them than Mrs. Drack, I guess," Julia quavered. "Oh, I know what _they've_ got!" He took it from her--with the effect of a vague stir, in his long person, of unwelcome embarrassment. But was she going to give up because he was embarrassed? He should know at least what he was costing her. It came home to her own spirit more than ever, but meanwhile he had found his footing. "I don't see how your mother matters. It isn't a question of his marrying _her_." Julia stared. "Then aren't you her lover?" "That, dear child," he humorously wailed, "is what I want you to find out! But I'll handle your rings all right," he more lucidly added. "You'll 'handle' them?" "I'll fix your lovers. I'll lie about _them_, if that's all you want." "But what other people?" "Gad, I wish he would, Julia!" said Mr. Pitman, with his kind eyes on her. "Well then, I'd tell him!" And she held her head again high. "But he won't." It determined in her loveliness almost a sudden glare. "Glad to swear they never had anything to do with such a creature? Then _I'd_ be glad to swear they had lots!" "Yes--yes; I do mind _him_." "Why, you foolish thing, Murray Brush is in New York!" It had quite brightened him up. Julia too had been affected by it; it had brought, in a rich wave, her hot color back. But she gave the strangest dim smile. "He _was_!" "Then get hold of him, and--if he's a gentleman--he'll prove for you, to the hilt, that he wasn't." It lighted in her face, the kindled train of this particular sudden suggestion, a glow, a sharpness of interest, that had deepened the next moment, while she gave a slow and sad head-shake, to a greater strangeness yet. "He isn't a gentleman." "You see there are only a few gentlemen--not enough to go round--and that makes them count so!" It had thrust the girl herself, for that matter, into depths; but whether most of memory or of roused purpose he had no time to judge--aware as he suddenly was of a shadow (since he mightn't perhaps too quickly call it a light) across the heaving surface of their question. It fell upon Julia's face, fell with the sound of the voice he so well knew, but which could only be odd to her for all it immediately assumed. "As far as that goes till I'm black in the face!" And then while he glowed at her and she wondered if he would pointedly look his lies that way, and if, in fine, his florid, gallant, knowing, almost winking intelligence, _common_ as she had never seen the common vivified, would represent his notion of "blackness": "See here, Julia; I'll do more." "Well, the biggest _kind_ of rose- mantle!" And this time, oh, he did wink: it _would_ be the way he was going to wink (and in the grandest good faith in the world) when indignantly denying, under inquisition, that there had been "a sign or a scrap" between them. But there was more to come; he decided she should have it all. "Julia, you've got to know now." He hung fire but an instant more. "Julia, I'm going to be married." His "Julias" were somehow death to her; she could feel that even _through_ all the rest. "Julia, I announce my engagement." "Oh, lordy, lordy!" she wailed: it might have been addressed to Mr. Pitman. A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT "Doubles or quits?" said Thevenin. Montigny nodded grimly. "_Some may prefer to dine in state_" wrote Villon, "_On bread and cheese on silver plate_. Or--or--help me out, Guido!" "_Or parsley on a silver dish_" scribbled the poet. The wind was freshening without; it drove the snow before it, and sometimes raised its voice in a victorious whoop, and made sepulchral grumblings in the chimney. The cold was growing sharper as the night went on. Villon, protruding his lips, imitated the gust with something between a whistle and a groan. It was an eerie, uncomfortable talent of the poet's, much detested by the Picardy monk. Dom Nicolas winked both his big eyes, and seemed to choke upon his Adam's apple. Montfaucon, the great grisly Paris gibbet, stood hard by the St. Denis Road, and the pleasantry touched him on the raw. As for Tabary, he laughed immoderately over the medlars; he had never heard anything more light-hearted; and he held his sides and crowed. Villon fetched him a fillip on the nose, which turned his mirth into an attack of coughing. "Oh, stop that row," said Villon, "and think of rhymes to 'fish.'" "Doubles or quits," said Montigny doggedly. "With all my heart," quoth Thevenin. "Is there any more in that bottle?" asked the monk. "Open another," said Villon. "How do you ever hope to fill that big hogshead, your body, with little things like bottles? And how do you expect to get to heaven? How many angels, do you fancy, can be spared to carry up a single monk from Picardy? Or do you think yourself another Elias--and they'll send the coach for you?" "_Hominibus impossibile_" replied the monk, as he filled his glass. Tabary was in ecstasies. Villon filliped his nose again. "Laugh at my jokes, if you like," he said. "It was very good," objected Tabary. Villon made a face at him. "Think of rhymes to 'fish,'" he said. "What have you to do with Latin? You'll wish you knew none of it at the great assizes, when the devil calls for Guido Tabary, clericus--the devil with the humpback and red-hot finger-nails. Talking of the devil," he added, in a whisper, "look at Montigny!" "He looks as if he could knife him," whispered Tabary, with round eyes. The monk shuddered, and turned his face and spread his open hands to the red embers. It was the cold that thus affected Dom Nicolas, and not any excess of moral sensibility. "My God!" said Tabary, and he began to pray in Latin. Villon broke out into hysterical laughter. He came a step forward and clucked a ridiculous bow at Thevenin, and laughed still louder. Then he sat down suddenly, all of a heap, upon a stool, and continued laughing bitterly as though he would shake himself to pieces. The monk received his share with a deep sigh, and a single stealthy glance at the dead Thevenin, who was beginning to sink into himself and topple sideways off the chair. Tabary was the last to help himself; he made a dash at the money, and retired to the other end of the apartment. Montigny stuck Thevenin upright in the chair, and drew out the dagger, which was followed by a jet of blood. "You fellows had better be moving," he said, as he wiped the blade on his victim's doublet. "I think we had," returned Villon with a gulp. "Damn his fat head!" he broke out. "It sticks in my throat like phlegm. What right has a man to have red hair when he is dead?" And he fell all of a heap again upon the stool, and fairly covered his face with his hands. Montigny and Dom Nicolas laughed aloud, even Tabary feebly chiming in. "Cry baby," said the monk. The wind had triumphed and swept all the clouds from heaven. Only a few vapors, as thin as moonlight, fleeted rapidly across the stars. It was bitter cold; and by a common optical effect, things seemed almost more definite than in the broadest daylight. The sleeping city was absolutely still: a company of white hoods, a field full of little Alps, below the twinkling stars. Villon cursed his fortune. Would it were still snowing! Now, wherever he went he left an indelible trail behind him on the glittering streets; wherever he went he was still tethered to the house by the cemetery of St. John; wherever he went he must weave, with his own plodding feet, the rope that bound him to the crime and would bind him to the gallows. The leer of the dead man came back to him with a new significance. He snapped his fingers as if to pluck up his own spirits, and choosing a street at random, stepped boldly forward in the snow. He ran there all the way, and knocked timidly. There was no answer. He knocked again and again, taking heart with every stroke; and at last steps were heard approaching from within. A barred wicket fell open in the iron-studded door, and emitted a gush of yellow light. "Hold up your face to the wicket," said the chaplain from within. "It's only me," whimpered Villon. "Oh, it's only you, is it?" returned the chaplain; and he cursed him with foul unpriestly oaths for disturbing him at such an hour, and bade him be off to hell, where he came from. "You should have come earlier," said the ecclesiastic, coolly. "Young men require a lesson now and then." He shut the wicket and retired deliberately into the interior of the house. Villon was beside himself; he beat upon the door with his hands and feet, and shouted hoarsely after the chaplain. "Wormy old fox," he cried. "If I had my hand under your twist, I would send you flying headlong into the bottomless pit." A door shut in the interior, faintly audible to the poet down long passages. He passed his hand over his mouth with an oath. And then the humor of the situation struck him, and he laughed and looked lightly up to heaven, where the stars seemed to be winking over his discomfiture. "I shall never finish that ballade," he thought to himself; and then, with another shudder at the recollection, "Oh, damn his fat head!" he repeated fervently, and spat upon the snow. "You knock late, sir," said the old man in resonant, courteous tones. Villon cringed, and brought up many servile words of apology; at a crisis of this sort, the beggar was uppermost in him, and the man of genius hid his head with confusion. "You are cold," repeated the old man, "and hungry? Well, step in." And he ordered him into the house with a noble enough gesture. "Will you seat yourself," said the old man, "and forgive me if I leave you? I am alone in my house to-night, and if you are to eat I must forage for you myself." No sooner was his host gone than Villon leaped from the chair on which he just seated himself, and began examining the room, with the stealth and passion of a cat. He weighed the gold flagons in his hand, opened all the folios, and investigated the arms upon the shield, and the stuff with which the seats were lined. He raised the window-curtains, and saw that the windows were set with rich stained glass in figures, so far as he could see, of martial import. Then he stood in the middle of the room, drew a long breath, and retaining it with puffed cheeks, looked round and round him, turning on his heels, as if to impress every feature of the apartment on his memory. And just then, hearing the old man's tread returning along the corridor, he stole back to his chair, and began toasting his wet legs before the charcoal pan. "I drink to your better fortune," he said, gravely touching Villon's cup with his own. "To our better acquaintance," said the poet, growing bold. A mere man of the people would have been awed by the courtesy of the old seigneur, but Villon was hardened in that matter; he had made mirth for great lords before now, and found them as black rascals as himself. And so he devoted himself to the viands with a ravenous gusto, while the old man, leaning backward, watched him with steady, curious eyes. "You have blood on your shoulder, my man," he said. Montigny must have laid his wet right hand upon him as he left the house. He cursed Montigny in his heart. "It was none of my shedding," he stammered. "I had not supposed so," returned his host quietly. "A brawl?" "Well, something of that sort," Villon admitted with a quaver. "Perhaps a fellow murdered?" "Oh, no, not murdered," said the poet, more and more confused. "It was all fair play--murdered by accident. I had no hand in it, God strike me dead!" he added fervently. "You may dare to say that," agreed Villon, infinitely relieved. "As big a rogue as there is between here and Jerusalem. He turned up his toes like a lamb. But it was a nasty thing to look at. I dare say you've seen dead men in your time, my lord?" he added, glancing at the armor. "Many," said the old man. "I have followed the wars, as you imagine." Villon laid down his knife and fork, which he had just taken up again. "Were any of them bald?" he asked. "Oh, yes, and with hair as white as mine." "I don't think I would mind the white so much," said Villon. "His was red." And he had a return of his shuddering and tendency to laughter, which he drowned with a great draught of wine. "I'm a little put out when I think of it," he went on. "I knew him--damn him! And the cold gives a man fancies--or the fancies give a man cold, I don't know which." "Have you any money?" asked the old man. "I," said the old man, "am Enguerrand de la Feuillee, seigneur de Brisetout, bailly du Patatrac. Who and what may you be?" "No servant of mine," said the knight; "my guest for this evening, and no more." "A very grateful guest," said Villon, politely; and he drank in dumb show to his entertainer. "You are shrewd," began the old man, tapping his forehead, "very shrewd; you have learning; you are a clerk; and yet you take a small piece of money off a dead woman in the street. Is it not a kind of theft?" "It is a kind of theft much practised in the wars, my lord." "The wars are the field of honor," returned the old man proudly. "There a man plays his life upon the cast; he fights in the name of his lord the king, his Lord God, and all their lordships the holy saints and angels." "Put it," said Villon, "that I were really a thief, should I not play my life also, and against heavier odds?" "For gain, and not for honor." "These things are a necessity of war, which the low-born must endure with constancy. It is true that some captains drive overhard; there are spirits in every rank not easily moved by pity; and, indeed, many follow arms who are no better than brigands." "You see," said the poet, "you cannot separate the soldier from the brigand; and what is a thief but an isolated brigand with circumspect manners? I steal a couple of mutton chops, without so much as disturbing the farmer's sheep; the farmer grumbles a bit, but sups none the less wholesomely on what remains. You come up blowing gloriously on a trumpet, take away the whole sheep, and beat the farmer pitifully into the bargain. I have no trumpet; I am only Tom, Dick, or Harry; I am a rogue and a dog, and hanging's too good for me--with all my heart--but just you ask the farmer which of us he prefers, just find out which of us he lies awake to curse on cold nights." "As far as to the moon," Villon acquiesced. "But if I had been born lord of Brisetout, and you had been the poor scholar Francis, would the difference have been any the less? Should not I have been warming my knees at this charcoal pan, and would not you have been groping for farthings in the snow? Should not I have been the soldier, and you the thief?" "A thief!" cried the old man. "I a thief! If you understood your words, you would repent them." Villon turned out his hands with a gesture of inimitable impudence. "If your lordship had done me the honor to follow my argument!" he said. "I claim the sacred rights of hospitality," returned the poet. "My lord, I am." "You are very young," the knight continued. "You may still repent and change." "I repent daily," said the poet. "There are few people more given to repentance than poor Francis. As for change, let somebody change my circumstances. A man must continue to eat, if it were only that he may continue to repent." "The change must begin in the heart," returned the old man solemnly. "My dear lord," answered Villon, "do you really fancy that I steal for pleasure? I hate stealing, like any other piece of work or danger. My teeth chatter when I see a gallows. But I must eat, I must drink, I must mix in society of some sort. What the devil! Man is not a solitary animal--_Cui Deus foeminam tradit_. Make me king's pantler--make me abbot of St. Denis; make me bailly of the Patatrac; and then I shall be changed indeed. But as long as you leave me the poor scholar Francis Villon, without a farthing, why, of course, I remain the same." "The grace of God is all-powerful." The lord of Brisetout walked to and fro with his hands behind his back. Perhaps he was not yet quite settled in his mind about the parallel between thieves and soldiers; perhaps Villon had interested him by some cross-thread of sympathy; perhaps his wits were simply muddled by so much unfamiliar reasoning; but whatever the cause, he somehow yearned to convert the young man to a better way of thinking, and could not make up his mind to drive him forth again into the street. The old man stretched out his right arm. "I will tell you what you are," he said. "You are a rogue, my man, an impudent and a black-hearted rogue and vagabond. I have passed an hour with you. Oh! believe me, I feel myself disgraced! And you have eaten and drank at my table. But now I am sick at your presence; the day has come, and the night-bird should be off to his roost. Will you go before, or after?" The old man preceded him from a point of self-respect; Villon followed, whistling, with his thumbs in his girdle. "God pity you," said the lord of Brisetout at the door. "Good-bye, papa," returned Villon, with a yawn. "Many thanks for the cold mutton." The door closed behind him. The dawn was breaking over the white roofs. A chill, uncomfortable morning ushered in the day. Villon stood and heartily stretched himself in the middle of the road. "A very dull old gentleman," he thought. "I wonder what his goblets may be worth." Aesop beast-fables Apuleius _The Golden Ass_ likeness to Kipling Aristotle _Secretum Secretorum_ Cable _Strange True Stories of Louisiana_ Cervantes _Don Quixote_ Chaucer Coleridge _Ancient Mariner_ Fenton, Geoffrey _Tragical Discourses_ Fuller, Thomas Garnett, Richard _The Poison Maid_ _Gesta Romanorum, The_ Kipling, Rudyard _Just-so Stories_ _Jungle-Book_ _Finest Story in the World_ _The Man Who Would be King_ Laws of the short-story _Leech of Folkstone, The_ Malory, _Morte D'Arthur_ Matthews, Professor Brander Morris, William, _Defence of Guinevere_ Nathaniel Hawthorne, _Rappaccini's Daughter_ North, Sir Thomas, _Plutarch's Lives_ _Of Temporal Tribulation_ _Of the Transgressions and Wounds of the Soul_ _Redgauntlet_ _Roderick Random_ Rossetti, _White Ship_ Underdown, Thomas, _Heliodorus_ _Vicar of Wakefield_ Walton, Isaak Wilson, Professor, on James Hogg	redpajama-book	27,435
E-text prepared by Joshua Hutchinson, Bob Blair, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY. A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS. Up stairs is a very sweet Annunciation. The subdued, demure, somewhat astonished joy of the Virgin is poetically rendered, both in face and attitude, and the figure of the angel has much grace. A small, but beautiful composition, the Coronation of the Virgin, is perhaps the most impressive of the whole series. The Sagrestia Nuova was built by Michel Angelo, to hold his monuments to Lorenzo de' Medici, duke of Urbino, and grandson of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and to Julian de' Medici, son of Lorenzo Magnifico. It is not edifying to think of the creative soul and plastic hands of Buonarotti employed in rendering worship to such creatures. This Lorenzo is chiefly known as having married Madeleine de Boulogne, and as having died, as well as his wife, of a nameless disorder, immediately after they had engendered the renowned Catharine de' Medici, whose hideous life was worthy of its corrupt and poisoned source. The figure of Julian is not agreeable. The neck, long and twisted, suggests an heroic ostrich in a Roman breastplate. The attitude, too, is ungraceful. The hero sits with his knees projecting beyond the perpendicular, so that his legs seem to be doubling under him, a position deficient in grace and dignity. After this epoch, and with the expiration of the imperial house of the Hohenstaufen, the nobles here, as in Switzerland, sought to popularize themselves, to become municipal. Der Adel steigt von seinen alten Burgen, Und schwoert den Staedten seinen Buerger-Eid, said the prophetic old Attinghausen, in his dying moments. The change was even more extraordinary in Florence. The expulsion of some of the patrician families was absolute. Others were allowed to participate with the plebeians in the struggle for civic honors, and for the wealth earned in commerce, manufactures, and handicraft. It became a severe and not uncommon punishment to degrade offending individuals or families into the ranks of nobility, and thus deprive them of their civil rights. Hundreds of low-born persons have, in a single day, been declared noble, and thus disfranchised. And the example of Florence was often followed by other cities. The result was twofold upon the aristocracy. Those who municipalized themselves became more enlightened, more lettered, more refined, and, at the same time, less chivalrous and less martial than their ancestors. The characters of buccaneer, land-pirate, knight-errant could not be conveniently united with those of banker, exchange broker, dealer in dry goods, and general commission agents. Meanwhile a gigantic despotism was maturing, which was eventually to crush the power, glory, wealth, and freedom of Italy. This _palazzo_ of Cosmo the Elder is a good type of Florentine architecture at its ultimate epoch, just as Cosmo himself was the largest expression of the Florentine citizen in the last and over-ripe stage. It would appear that this people had rather a tendency to the useful, than to the beautiful. Unable to assimilate the elements of beauty and grace furnished by more genial races, this mystic and vanished nation was rather prone to the stupendously and minutely practical, than devoted to the beautiful for its own sake. Florence is stone dead. 'Tis but a polished tortoise-shell, of which the living inhabitant has long since crumbled to dust; but it still gleams in the sun with wondrous radiance. Just at your feet, as you stand on the convent terrace, is the Villa Mozzi, where, not long ago, were found buried jars of Roman coins of the republican era, hidden there by Catiline, at the epoch of his memorable conspiracy. Upon the same spot was the favorite residence of Lorenzo Magnifico; concerning whose probable ponderings, as he sat upon his terrace, with his legs dangling over Florence, much may be learned from the guide-book of the immortal Murray, so that he who runs may read and philosophize. THE BATTLE OF LEPANTO. The principal captains now came on board the _Real_ to receive the last orders of the commander-in-chief. Even at this late hour there were some who ventured to intimate their doubts of the expediency of engaging the enemy in a position where he had a decided advantage. But Don John cut short the discussion. "Gentlemen," he said, "this is the time for combat, not for counsel." He then continued the dispositions he was making for the assault. In the centre of the extended line, and directly opposite to the station occupied by the captain-general of the League, was the huge galley of Ali Pasha. The right of the armada was commanded by Mehemet Siroco, viceroy of Egypt, a circumspect as well as courageous leader; the left by Uluch Ali, dey of Algiers, the redoubtable corsair of the Mediterranean. Ali Pasha had experienced a similar difficulty with Don John, as several of his officers had strongly urged the inexpediency of engaging so formidable an armament as that of the allies. But Ali, like his rival, was young and ambitious. He had been sent by his master to fight the enemy; and no remonstrances, not even those of Mehemet Siroco, for whom he had great respect, could turn him from his purpose. The illusion was soon dispelled by the fierce yells which rose on the air from the Turkish armada. It was the customary war-cry with which the Moslems entered into battle. Very different was the scene on board of the Christian galleys. Don John might be there seen, armed cap-a-pie, standing on the prow of the _Real_, anxiously awaiting the coming conflict. In this conspicuous position, kneeling down, he raised his eyes to heaven, and humbly prayed that the Almighty would be with his people on that day. His example was speedily followed by the whole fleet. Officers and men, all falling on their knees, and turning their eyes to the consecrated banner which floated from the _Real_, put up a petition like that of their commander. They then received absolution from the priests, of whom there were some in each vessel; and each man, as he rose to his feet, gathered new strength from the assurance that the Lord of Hosts would fight on his side. The fall of their commander gave the final blow to his followers. Without further attempt to prolong the fight, they fled before the avenging swords of the Venetians. Those nearest the land endeavored to escape by running their vessels ashore, where they abandoned them as prizes to the Christians. Yet many of the fugitives, before gaining the shore, perished miserably in the waves. Barberigo, the Venetian admiral, who was still lingering in agony, heard the tidings of the enemy's defeat, and exclaiming, "I die contented," he breathed his last. THE WIND AND STREAM. "Kate will go with you," said she. "No, she won't!" ejaculated that young woman. "The key, if you please!" I meekly interposed. Mrs. Tucker was fast stunning me! "What can we do?" asked Peggy, in the most plaintive voice, as the feeble "week! week!" of the little turkey was gasped out, more feebly every time. "Give it some whiskey-punch!" growled Peter, whose strict temperance principles were shocked by the remedies prescribed for Peggy's ague. "So I would," said Kate, demurely. "Why, you told me to, Kate!" "Oh, give it to the thing!" growled Peter; "it will die, of course." "I shall give it!" said Peggy, resolutely; "it does _me_ good, and I will try." So I held the little creature up, while Peggy carefully tipped the dose down its throat. How it choked, kicked, and began again with "week! week!" when it meant "strong!" but it revived. Peggy held it in the sun till it grew warm, gave it a drop more, fed it with bread-crumbs from her own plate, and laid it on the south window-sill. There it lay when we went to tea; when we came back, it lay on the floor, dead; either it was tipsy, or it had tried its new strength too soon, and, rolling off, had broken its neck! Poor Peggy! "Can't we buy some young turkeys?" timidly suggested Peggy. "I know," said I; "Mrs. Amzi Peters, up on the hill over Taunton, has got some." "Who told you about Mrs. Peters's turkeys, Cousin Sam?" said Peggy, wondering. "Melindy," said I, quite innocently. Peter whistled, Peggy laughed, Kate darted a keen glance at me under her long lashes. "I know the way there," said mademoiselle, in a suspiciously bland tone. "Can't you drive there with me, Cousin Sam, and get some more?" "I shall be charmed," said I. "Drunk with morning's dewy wine." "Why how do yew do, Mister Greene? I declare I ha'n't done a-thinkin' of that 'ere story you told us the day you was here, 'long o' Melindy." (Kate gave an ominous little cough.) "I was a-tellin' husband yesterday 't I never see sech a master hand for stories as you be. Well, yis, we hev _got_ turkeys, young 'uns; but my stars! I don't know no more where they be than nothin'; they've strayed away into the woods, I guess, and I do'no' as the boys can skeer 'em up; besides, the boys is to school; h'm--yis! Where did you and Melindy go that day arter berries?" "Up in the pine-lot, ma'am. You think you can't let us have the turkeys?" "How magnificent!" was all she said, in a deep, low tone, her dark cheek flushing with the words. Melindy and I had looked off there together. "It's real good land to farm," had been the sweet little rustic's comment. How charming are nature and simplicity! Presently we came to Mrs. Bemont's, a brown house in a cluster of maples; the door-yard full of chickens, turkeys, ducks, and geese. Kate took the reins, and I knocked. Mrs. Bemont herself appeared, wiping her red, puckered hands on a long brown towel. "Can you let me have some of your young turkeys, ma'am?" said I, insinuatingly. "Both, I believe," was my meek answer. "I suppose so; but Mrs. Smith's turkeys have all died, and she likes to raise them." "I rather think not," said I, laughing; "that is the reason we want some of yours." "Well, I should think you could hev some on 'em. What be you calc'latin' to give?" "Whatever you say. I do not know at all the market price." "But how will you catch them?" "Oh, I'll ketch 'em, easy!" She went into the house and reappeared presently with a pan of Indian meal and water, called the chickens, and in a moment they were all crowding in and over the unexpected supper. "Now you jes' take a bit o' string an' tie that 'ere turkey's legs together; 'twon't stir, I'll ensure it!" "Confound these turkeys!" muttered I, as I jumped over the basket. "Why?" said Kate, "I suspect they are confounded enough already!" "They make such a noise, Kate!" So they did; "week! week! week!" all the way, like a colony from some spring-waked pool. "Their song might be compared To the croaking of frogs in a pond!" "How sweet and mystical this hour is!" said I to Kate, in a high-flown manner; "it is indeed "Week! week! week!" chimed in those confounded turkeys. Kate burst into a helpless fit of laughter. What could I do? I had to laugh myself, since I must not choke the turkeys. "I've brought your book, Melindy," said I. "Thank you, sir," returned she, crisply. "How pretty you look to-day." condescendingly remarked I. "'Praise to the face Is open disgrace!'" was all the response. "How are the turkeys to-day. Melindy?" Here Joe, an _enfant terrible,_ came upon the scene suddenly. "How do the turkeys come on, Mrs. Tucker?" said I, by way of conversation. "She a'n't nuther!" roared the terrible Joe, from behind the door, where he had retreated at my coming. "She's settin' on a flour-barrel down by the well, an' George Bemont's a-huggin' on her" Good gracious! what a slap Mrs. Tucker fetched that unlucky child, with a long brown towel that hung at hand! and how he howled! while Kate exploded with laughter, in spite of her struggles to keep quiet. "He _is_ the dre'fullest boy!" whined Mrs. Tucker. "Melindy tells how he sassed you 'tother day, Mr. Greene. I shall hev to tewtor that boy; he's got to hev the rod, I guess!" I bade Mrs. Tucker good night, for Kate was already out of the door, and, before I knew what she was about, had taken a by-path in sight of the well; and there, to be sure, sat Melindy, on a prostrate flour-barrel that was rolled to the foot of the big apple-tree, twirling her fingers in pretty embarrassment, and held on her insecure perch by the stout arm of George Bemont, a handsome brown fellow, evidently very well content just now. We were sitting round the open door an hour after, listening to a whippoorwill, and watching the slow moon rise over a hilly range just east of Centreville, when that elvish little "week! week!" piped out of the wood that lay behind the house. "That is hopeful," said Kate; "I think Melindy and George must have tracked the turkeys to their haunt, and scared them homeward." "George--who?" said Peggy. "I'm very glad; he is a clever fellow," said Peter. "Aw, yes, well enough for a rustic," said I, languidly. "I never could endure red hair, though!" Kate stopped on the door-sill; she had risen to go up stairs. But securely established as Robin Hood is in popular esteem, his historical position is by no means well ascertained, and his actual existence has been a subject of shrewd doubt and discussion. "A tale of Robin Hood" is an old proverb for the idlest of stories; yet all the materials at our command for making up an opinion on these questions are precisely of this description. They consist, that is to say, of a few ballads of unknown antiquity. These ballads, or others like them, are clearly the authority upon which the statements of the earlier chroniclers who take notice of Robin Hood are founded. They are also, to all appearance, the original source of the numerous and wide-spread traditions concerning him; which, unless the contrary can be shown, must be regarded, according to the almost universal rule in such cases, as having been suggested by the very legends to which, in the vulgar belief, they afford an irresistible confirmation. "'God hears the man who often hears the mass.'" The most important of these arguments are those which are based on the peculiar connection between Robin Hood and the month of May. Mr. Wright has justly remarked, that either an express mention of this month, or a vivid description of the season, in the older ballads, shows that the feats of the hero were generally performed during this part of the year. Thus, the adventure of "Robin Hood and the Monk" befell on "a morning of May." "Robin Hood and the Potter" and "Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne" begin, like "Robin Hood and the Monk," with a description of the season when leaves are long, blossoms are shooting, and the small birds are singing; and this season, though called summer, is at the same time spoken of as May in "Robin Hood and the Monk," which, from the description there given, it needs must be. The liberation of Cloudesly by Adam Bel and Clym of the Clough is also achieved "on a merry morning of May." Why the adventures of Robin Hood should be specially assigned, as they are in the old ballads, to the month of May, remains unexplained. We have no exquisite reason to offer, but we may perhaps find reason good enough in the delicious stanzas with which some of these ballads begin. "In summer when the shawes be sheen, And leaves be large and long, It is full merry in fair forest To hear the fowles song; To see the deer draw to the dale, And leave the hilles hee, And shadow them in the leaves green Under the green-wood tree." The poetical character of the season affords all the explanation that is required. We have taken no notice of the later fortunes of Robin Hood in his true and original character of a hero of romance. Towards the end of the sixteenth century Anthony Munday attempted to revive the decaying popularity of this king of good fellows, who had won all his honors as a simple yeoman, by representing him in the play of "The Downfall of Robert, Earl of Huntington" as a nobleman in disguise, outlawed by the machinations of his steward. This pleasing and successful drama is Robin's sole patent to that title of Earl of Huntington, in confirmation of which Dr. Stukeley fabricated a pedigree that transcends even the absurdities of heraldry, and some unknown forger an epitaph beneath the skill of a Chatterton. Those who desire a full acquaintance with the fabulous history of Robin Hood will seek it in the well-known volumes of Ritson, or in those of his recent editor, Gutch, who does not make up by superior discrimination for his inferiority in other respects to that industrious antiquary. THE GHOST REDIVIVUS. _"Pazienza!"_ in such disasters exclaim the inhabitants of the _Riviera_, with a melancholy shrug of the shoulders. And they needs must have patience until the weather clears and the ground dries, before they can secure such of the olives as may happily be uninjured. At this moment the Doctor himself entered, his cloak and hat dripping. "Heugh! heugh!" he exclaimed, in a voice of disgust, as his wife helped him out of his covering; "what weather!" He went towards the fire, and spread out his hands to catch the heat of the glowing embers, on which sat a saucepan. "Horrid weather! The wind played the very mischief with us last night!" "Many branches broken, Padrone?" asked Beppo, eagerly. "Branches, eh? Aye, aye; saw away; burn away; don't be afraid of a supply failing," said the Doctor, dryly. "Oh, Santa Maria!" sighed Signora Martina, in sad presentiment. "Take care," said the Doctor, "take care of repining! Little misfortunes are like a rash, which carries off bad humors from a too robust body. Suppose the storm had laid my head low, and turned up my toes; what then, eh, little girls?" turning to the group of young creatures standing with their eyes very wide open at the recital of the misdeeds of the turbulent wind, and now as suddenly off into a laugh at the image of the Doctor's decease so represented. "Ah! you giggling set! Happy you that have no branches to be broken, and no olive-pickers to pay! _Per Bacco!_ you are well off, if you only knew it!" He walked over to where his weeping wife sat, laid his hand on her head, and stooping, kissed her brow. The girls laughed again. "Be quiet, all of you! Do you think that only smooth brows and bright cheeks ought to be kissed? Be good loving wives, and I promise you your husbands will be blind to your wrinkles. I could not be happy without the sight of this well-known face; it is the record of happiness for me. I wish you all our luck, my dears!" All simpered or laughed, and Martina's brow smoothed. Signora Martina smiled rather a grim smile at this compliment to her olives. "But I told him," went on Doctor Morani, with a certain look of pride, "that we were not going to sell; we intended to make oil for ourselves. And so we will, Martina, with the olives that have been blown down, hoping the best for those still on the trees. Now let us talk of something more pleasant. Pasqualina, suppose you tell us a story; you are our best hand, I believe." "I am sure, Signor Dottore, I have nothing worth your listening to," answered Pasqualina, blushing. "Tell us about the ghost your uncle saw," suggested another of the girls. "I did not see it myself; I do but believe what my uncle told me," said Pasqualina, with a gravity that had a shade of resentment. "Ah! and so we have witches too?" groaned the Doctor. "As to that," resumed Pasqualina, with a dignified look, "I can't help believing my own eyes, and those of all the people of our village." "Well," exclaimed Doctor Morani, "let us hear all about the witch." "Oh! Signor Dottore, you put things so strangely! just listen to the truth. So this old woman came and mumbled some of her spells, and then my poor sister fell down again, and has since had fits as bad as ever. But my father and brother were not going to take it so easily, and they beat the bad old witch till she couldn't move, and had to be carried to the hospital. I hope she may die, with all my heart I do!" "You had better hope she will get well," observed the Doctor, coolly; "for if she should happen to die, my good Pasqualina, it would be very possible that your father and brother might be sent to the galleys." Here Pasqualina set up a howl. "A trick, and a stupid trick," persisted her husband. "Not at all a trick, Doctor," said Martina, shaking her head. "Did you see it yourself, Martina?" This assertion produced such a hubbub as sent the Doctor growling from the room, and left Signora Martina at liberty to comply with the general petition for the story. "This was a sad business; for, if the Padre had come in time, at all events Hans's soul would have been safe, and his body buried in consecrated ground. My husband went to the Rector and told his Reverence that Hans had renounced his errors, and had made a full profession of the Catholic faith to him; but his Reverence shook his head, and said that was not the same thing as if Padre Michele had received Hans into the true fold. Then my husband said it was a pity Hans should suffer because the Padre had been out of the way; but his Reverence always answered, 'No,' and so 'No' it was. The clergy were not to attend, and the body was to be put into the ground just as you might bury a dog. What could my husband do more? So he went his way to his patients. It happened that he had to see several, far in the country, and so did not come home till late at night. Beppo ceased speaking, and a shuddering silence fell on the listeners. Martina alone ventured on the awe-struck whisper of "What was it like, Beppo?" After a moment's silence, the lady asked in a softer tone, "Now do tell me, Morani, is it true that poor Hans recanted before he died?" "Yes, sir, I cut a cross on it," replied the abashed climber of olive-trees; "and by all the Saints, there it is still! Pasqualina, my girl," turning to her, "your uncle's ghost will turn out to be somebody." "Bravo! Beppo," cried the Doctor. THE GOLDEN MILE-STONE. [The _Milliorium Aureum,_ or Golden Mile-Stone, was a gilt marble pillar in the Forum at Rome, from which, as a central point, the great roads of the empire diverged through the several gates of the city, and the distances were measured.] Leafless are the trees; their purple branches Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral Rising silent In the Red Sea of the winter sunset. On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing, And, like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree, For its freedom Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them. By the fireside there are old men seated, Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, Asking sadly Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them. By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, Building castles fair with stately stairways, Asking blindly Of the Future what it cannot give them. By the fireside there are peace and comfort, Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces, Waiting, watching For a well-known footstep in the passage. In his farthest wanderings still he sees it; Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind, As he heard them When he sat with those who were, but are not. Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, Nor the march of the encroaching city, Drives an exile From the hearth of his ancestral homestead! We may build more splendid habitations, Fill our rooms with paintings and with sculptures, But we cannot Buy with gold the old associations. THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. EVERY MAN HIS OWN BOSWELL. "Nothing but a very dusty street," he said, "and a man driving a sprinkling-machine through it." "Why don't you tell the man he is wasting that water? What would be the state of the highways of life, if we did not drive our _thought-sprinklers_ through them with the valves open, sometimes? After this little episode, I continued, to some few that remained balancing teaspoons on the edges of cups, twirling knives, or tilting upon the hind legs of their chairs until their heads reached the wall, where they left gratuitous advertisements of various popular cosmetics.] It is awful to be in the hands of the wholesale professional dealers in misfortune; undertakers and jailers magnetize you in a moment, and you pass out of the individual life you were living into the rhythmical movements of their horrible machinery. Do the worst thing you can, or suffer the worst that can be thought of, you find yourself in a category of humanity that stretches back as far as Cain, and with an expert at your elbow that has studied your case all out beforehand, and is waiting for you with his implements of hemp or mahogany. I believe, if a man were to be burned in any of our cities to-morrow for heresy, there would be found a master of ceremonies that knew just how many fagots were necessary, and the best way of arranging the whole matter. Now just compare the racer with the trotter for a moment. The racer is incidentally useful, but essentially something to bet upon, as much as the thimble-rigger's "little joker." The trotter is essentially and daily useful, and only incidentally a tool for sporting men. What better reason do you want for the fact that the racer is most cultivated and reaches his greatest perfection in England, and that the trotting horses of America beat the world? And why should we have expected that the pick--if it was the pick--of our few and far-between racing stables should beat the pick of England and France? Throw over the fallacious time-test, and there was nothing to show for it but a natural kind of patriotic feeling, which we all have, with a thoroughly provincial conceit, which some of us must plead guilty to. Such hospitality as that island has seen there has not been the like of in these our New England sovereignties. There is nothing in the shape of kindness and courtesy that can make life beautiful, which has not found its home in that ocean-principality. It has welcomed all who were worthy of welcome, from the pale clergyman who came to breathe the sea-air with its medicinal salt and iodine, to the great statesman who turned his back on the affairs of empire, and smoothed his Olympian forehead, and flashed his white teeth in merriment over the long table, where his wit was the keenest and his story the best. Thus drifting afar to the dim-vaulted caves Where life and its ventures are laid, The dreamers who gaze while we battle the waves May see us in sunshine or shade; Yet true to our course, though our shadow grow dark, We'll trim our broad sail as before, And stand by the rudder that governs the bark, Nor ask how we look from the shore! Now, then, for my prologue. I am not going to change my caesuras and cadences for anybody; so if you do not like the heroic, or iambic trimeter brachycatalectic, you had better not wait to hear it. Woman! thy falchion is a glittering eye; If death lurks in it, oh, how sweet to die! Thou takest hearts as Rudolph took the head; We die with love, and never dream we're dead! "_Edward!_". Chains and slavery! Here is a little poem I sent a short time since to a committee for a certain celebration. I understood that it was to be a festive and convivial occasion, and ordered myself accordingly. It seems the president of the day was what is called a "teetotaller." I received a note from him in the following words, containing the copy subjoined, with the emendations annexed to it: "Yours with respect." logwood While the <nectar> still reddens our cups as they flow? decoction Pour out the <rich juices> still bright with the sun, dye-stuff Till o'er the brimmed crystal the <rubies> shall run. taste sugar of lead How sweet is the <breath> of the <fragrance they shed>! rank poisons _wines!!!_ For summer's <last roses> lie hid in the <wines> scowl howl scoff sneer Then a <smile>, and a <glass>, and a <toast>, and a <cheer>, strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer! For <all the good-wine, and we've some of it here> In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall, Now as no stream had been mentioned, I was perplexed to know what it meant. It proved, on inquiry, to be only a misprint for "dream." Think of it! No wonder so many poets die young. Coleridge had already formed a school both of divinity and philosophy. He had his disciples, as well as those far-off gazers who looked upon him with amazement and trembling, not knowing what to make of the phenomenon, or whether to regard him as friend or foe to the old dispensation and the established order of things. He had written books and poems, preached Unitarian sermons, recanted, and preached philosophy and Church-of-Englandism. To the dazzled eyes of all ordinary mortals, content to chew the cud of parish sermons, and swallow, Sunday after Sunday, the articles of common belief, he seemed an eccentric comet. But a better astronomy recognized him as a fixed star, for he was unmistakable by that fitting Few whose verdict is both history and immortality. "An infant crying in the night, An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry." "This is our little Katy, Cousin Harry," said she, leading me towards him. "Our little Katy's most obedient!" replied he, taking off his broad-brimmed straw hat, and making a flourishing bow nearly to the ground. "Don't be afraid of him, Katy dear; he's nobody," said my aunt, laughing. Cousin Harry was a very tall, very pale, very black-haired and black-eyed young gentleman, with a high, open brow, and a very fascinating smile. The next day I heard it said that Cousin Harry was gone away. The little rose was brought into the house and installed in the bow-window of my aunt's room, where it was watched and tended by us both with the greatest care. Some time after this, the news came that Cousin Harry was married. The next morning I missed my little favorite from the window. My aunt was reading when I waked. "Oh, Aunty!" I cried, "where is our little rose?" "It was too much trouble, Katy," said she, quietly; "I have put it into the garden." "But isn't it going to stand in our window any more?" "No, dear, I am tired of it." "Oh, do bring it back! I will take the whole care of it," said I, beginning to cry. "Katy," said my aunt, taking me into her lap, and looking steadily, but kindly, into my face, "listen to me. I do not wish to have that rose in my room any more; and if you love me, you will never mention it again." Something in her manner prevented my uttering a word more in behalf of the poor little exile. As soon as I was dressed, I ran down into the garden to visit it. It looked very lonely, I thought; I could hardly bear to leave it. The day following, it disappeared from the garden, and old Nanny, the housemaid, told me that my aunt had given it away. I never saw it again. "But, Aunty," I cried, "what a horribly prosy, matter-of-fact affair life would be in any other view! I believe poetry itself would become extinct." "Oh, the poor old wretch, with her rags and dirt and gin-bottle! Has she a story?" "If you only spoke experimentally, dear Aunty! Oh that Plato, or John Milton, or Sir Philip Sydney would reappear, and lay all his genius and glory at your feet! I wonder if you'd be of the same mind then!" "But let me hear; there's some spice of poetry in it, I know." "But could I have seen him? Did I arrive before he had left?" "Oh, yes, very likely; but of course you can have no recollection of him, such a chit as you were then." "What was his name?" I cried, eagerly. A long-silent chord of memory began to give forth a vague, uncertain murmur. "Oh, no matter, Kate. I would a little rather you shouldn't know. It doesn't affect the moral of the story, which was all I had in view in relating it." "A plague take the moral, Aunty! The romance is what I want; and what's that without 'the magic of a name'?" "Cousin Harry!" I screamed, starting forward, and staring at her with eyes wide open. "Yes; but what ails you, child? You glare upon me like a maniac." "Hush! hush! don't speak!" said I. "What, Kate?" said Aunt Linny, now opening her large blue eyes with a strange look. "Did you give away the flower-pot too? That was so pretty! Whom did you give it to?" "Incredible!" she exclaimed, coloring, and with the strongest expression of surprise. "Truly, little pitchers have not been slandered!" "But the wonderful humming-bird, Aunty! What had that to do with it?" "Even so, Katy!" she replied, quietly; "and to that early disappointment I owe more than to anything that ever befell me." She said this with a smile; but her voice trembled a little, and I perceived that a soft dew had gathered over her eyes. By an irresistible impulse I rose, and stealing softly behind her, clasped my arms round her neck, and kissing her forehead whispered, "Forgive me, sweet Aunty!" "Not a bit of harm, Katy," she replied, drawing me down for a warm kiss. "But what a gypsy you must be," she added, in her usually lively tone, "to have trudged along so many years with this precious little bundle, and said never a word to anybody!" "I've not thought of it myself, these ever so many years," said I, "and it seems like witchwork that it should all have come to me at this moment." "But stay a moment," said I; "let me fetch our garden bonnets, that we may enjoy it in the very scene of the romance." "Did you know anything of the young lady?" "But what base conduct towards you!" "But why, then, did he cease to write? why not share his new happiness with so dear a friend?" "That was not unnatural, after what he had said of the young lady's deficiencies. Probably the awkwardness of the thing led him to defer writing from time to time, till he had become so absorbed in his domestic relations and his business, that he had ceased to think of it. Life's early dewdrops often exhale in that way, Kate!" "Then life is a hateful stupidity!" "Well, let me hear how you were inured." "Do so, Kate, and your good angel will doubtless inspire in me a suitable response." "But tell me now, Aunt Linny, who the living man was. Was he a real cousin?" "I may as well tell you, Kate, or you will get it from your 'familiar.' You have heard of our rich cousin in Cuba, Henry Morrison?" "I should have waked you before, Katy," said she, "if you had not seemed to be enjoying yourself so much. Come, unfold your dream. I presume it will save me the trouble of telling you the contents of this wonderful epistle which I hold in my hand." "It's from Cousin Harry! Huzza!" cried I, springing up to snatch it. But she held it out of my reach. "Softly! good Mistress Fortuneteller," said she. "Read me the letter without seeing it, and then I shall know that you can tell the interpretation thereof." "The hateful, prosy man! I'll not do anything to make his visit agreeable," said I, pettishly. "Why, Kate, what are you conjuring up in your foolish little noddle?" "Oh, I supposed an _eclaircissement_ would come round somehow, and we should finish the romance in style." "Why, Kate, do you really wish to get rid of me?" "See you aught, Sister Annie?" called my aunt from below. "You are right, Kate, it must be he," said she, glancing through the window, and then following me quietly down stairs. "But, cousin," said she, smiling, "what gem have you there, hidden in the carriage, too precious to be seen? We have a place in our hearts for the fair stranger, I assure you." "Ah, poor thing! I had quite forgotten her," said he, coloring and laughing, as he turned towards the carriage. "Permit me," said he, smiling, "to present Miss Caroline Morrison, 'sole daughter of my house and heart.'" "But the stranger, the foreign lady?" inquired Aunt Linny, as she kissed and welcomed the child. "We expected a lady with a few more years on her head," interposed grandpapa; "but the little pet is just as welcome. There, Katy, this curly-pate will answer as well as a wax doll for you." The dear old gentleman could never realize that I was grown up to be a woman. Of course, I was now introduced in due form, and we went together up the steps. "How could I forget?" was the answer, in a low tone, full of feeling, his own eyes filling with moisture. "My dear aunt! I shed many tears with and for you, when I heard of her death." He looked extremely amiable at this moment; I knew that I should love him. "It used to be my name," said the little smiler; "but papa always calls me Linny now, because he thinks it sweeter." "What say you to the humming-bird now?" I whispered to my aunt, as we were a moment alone in the tea-room. "But I may give you just a look, now and then?" "Do you wish me to repent having trusted you, Kate?" "Nonsense! Go, call them to tea." "What is that remark of Byron about young ladies' friendship? Take care, take care!" said I, shaking my head, gravely; "receive the warning of a calm observer!" At the end of the week our kinsman left us for a fortnight's visit to the metropolis. Intending to give us a call on his return south, he willingly complied with our desire to leave his little girl with us. As we were sitting together in my aunt's room after his departure, the child brought her a small packet which her father had intrusted to her. "I believe," said the little smiler, "he said it was a story for you to read. Won't you please to read it to me?" She took it with a look of surprise and curiosity, and immediately opened it and began to read. But her color soon began to vary, her hand trembled, and presently laying down the sheets in her lap, she sat lost in thought. "It seems a moving story!" I remarked, dryly. She left the room, and I heard the key turn in the lock as she entered another chamber. In about an hour she came out very composedly, and said nothing more on the subject. After our little guest was asleep at night, I could restrain myself no longer. "You are treating me shabbily, aunty," said I. "See if I am ever a good girl again to please you!" "But where is the nosegay, aunty?" With a beautiful flush, as if the sunset of that vanished day were reddening the sky of memory, she drew a small packet from her bosom, and in it I found a withered rose-bud tied up with a shrivelled sprig of mignonette. I am afraid that my Aunt Linny's answer was a great deal more proper than I should have wished; and yet, with all its emphatic expressions of duty towards her father and the impossibility of leaving him, there must have been something between the lines which I could not read. I have since discovered that all such epistles have their real meaning concealed in some kind of more rarefied sympathetic ink, which betrays itself only under the burning hands of a lover. "So, then," said Aunt Linny, as she was sealing this letter, "you see, Katy, that your romance has come to an untimely end." I turned round her averted face with both my hands, and looked in her eyes till she blushed and laughed in spite of herself. "My knowledge of symptoms is not large," said I, "but I have a conviction that his health will now endure a northern climate." "Let's talk no more of this!" said she, putting me aside with a gentle gravity, which checked my nonsense. But as I was unable to detect in her, on this or the following day, the slightest depression of spirits, I shrewdly guessed that our anticipations of the result were not very dissimilar. "Well, you will allow that it's a great paradox, aunty! If you believe in my doctrine, it turns out a mere delusion; if you don't believe in it, 'tis sure to come true." OUR BIRDS, AND THEIR WAYS. Among our summer birds, the vast majority are but transient visitors, born and bred far to the northward, and returning thither every year. The North, then, is their proper domicile, their legal "place of residence," which they have never renounced, but only temporarily desert, for special reasons. Their sojourn with us, or farther south, is merely an exile by stress of climate, like the flitting of the Southern planters from the rice-fields to the mountains in summer, or the pleasure tour or watering-place visit customary with the citizens of Boston and New York. The blue jay is a near relative of the crow, and, like him, omnivorous, harsh-voiced, predaceous, a robber of birds' nests; so that if you hear the robins during their nesting-time making an unusual clamor about the house, the chances are you will get a glimpse of this brilliant marauder, sneaking away with a troop of them in pursuit. His usual voice is a harsh scream, but he has some low flute-like notes not without melody. The presence of a hawk, or more particularly an owl in the woods, is often made known by the screaming of the jays, who flock together about him with ever-increasing noise, like a troop of jackals about a lion, pressing in upon him closer and closer in a paroxysm of excitement, while the owl, thus taken at disadvantage, sidles along his bough seeking concealment, and at length softly flaps off to some more undisturbed retreat. This winter activity of the birds ought to be taken into account by those who accuse them of mischief-doing in summer. In winter, at least, no mischief can be done; there is no fruit to steal; and even sap-sucking, if such a practice at any time be not altogether fabulous, certainly cannot be carried on now. Nothing can be destroyed now except the farmer's enemies, or at best neutrals. Yet the birds keep at work all the time. In the spring they come in greater numbers, and other species arrive: the great saddle-back, from the similarity of coloring almost to be mistaken for the white-headed eagle, as he sits among the broken ice at the edge of the channel; and the beautiful little Bonaparte's gull. The ducks, too, still resort to our rivermouth, in spite of the railroads and the tall chimneys by which their old feeding-grounds are surrounded. As long as the channel is open, you may see the golden-eyes, or "whistlers," in extended lines, visible only as a row of bright specks, as their white breasts rise and fall on the waves; and farther than you can see them, you may hear the whistle of their wings as they rise. Spring and fall the "black ducks" still come to find the brackish waters which they like, and to fill their crops with the seeds of the eel-grass and the mixed food of the flats. In the late twilight you may sometimes catch sight of a flock speeding in, silent and swift, over the Mill-dam, or hear their sonorous quacking from their feeding-ground. The sea keeps its own climate, and keeps its highways open, after all on the land is shut up by frost. The sea-birds, accordingly, seem to lead an existence more independent of latitude and of seasons. In midwinter, when the seashore watering-places are forsaken by men, you may find Nahant or Nantasket Beach more thronged with bipeds of this sort than by the featherless kind in summer. The Long Beach of Nahant at that season is lined sometimes by an almost continuous flock of sea-ducks, and a constant passing and repassing are kept up between Lynn Bay and the surf outside. If the close of this revolt be not stained with retaliating cruelties, if English soldiers remember mercy, then the whole history of this time will be a proud addition to the annals of England. For though it will display the incompetency and the folly of her governments, it will show how these were remedied by the energy and spirit of individuals; it will tell of the daring and gallantry of her men, of their patient endurance, of their undaunted courage, and it will tell, too, with a voice full of tears, of the sorrows, and of the brave and tender hearts, and of the unshaken religious faith supporting them to the end, of the women who died in the hands of their enemies. The names of Havelock and Lawrence will be reckoned in the list of England's worthies, and the story of the garrison of Cawnpore will be treasured up forever among England's saddest and most touching memories. "It is said that Nadir Shah, during the massacre that he had commanded, sat in gloomy silence in the little mosque of Rokn-u-doulah, which stands at the present day in the Great Bazaar. Here the Emperor and his nobles at length took courage to present themselves. They stood before him with downcast eyes, until Nadir commanded them to speak, when the Emperor burst into tears and entreated Nadir to spare his subjects."] SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. Body of turkey, head of owl, Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, Feathered and ruffled in every part, Captain Ireson stood in the cart. Scores of women, old and young, Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, Shouting and singing the shrill refrain: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase Bacchus round some antique vase, Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang, Over and over the Maenads sang: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" Sweetly along the Salem road Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. Little the wicked skipper knew Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. Riding there in his sorry trim, Like an Indian idol glum and grim, Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear Of voices shouting far and near: "Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt By the women o' Morble'ead!" SOLITUDE AND SOCIETY. We pray to be conventional. But the wary Heaven takes care you shall not be, if there is anything good in you. Dante was very bad company, and was never invited to dinner. Michel Angelo had a sad, sour time of it. The ministers of beauty are rarely beautiful in coaches and saloons. Columbus discovered no isle or key so lonely as himself. Yet each of these potentates saw well the reason of his exclusion. Solitary was he? Why, yes; but his society was limited only by the amount of brain Nature appropriated in that age to carry on the government of the world. "If I stay," said Dante, when there was question of going to Rome, "who will go? and if I go, who will stay?" Put any company of people together with freedom for conversation, and a rapid self-distribution takes place into sets and pairs. The best are accused of exclusiveness. It would be more true to say, they separate as oil from water, as children from old people, without love or hatred in the matter, each seeking his like; and any interference with the affinities would produce constraint and suffocation. All conversation is a magnetic experiment. I know that my friend can talk eloquently; you know that he cannot articulate a sentence: we have seen him in different company. Assort your party, or invite none. Put Stubbs and Byron, Quintilian and Aunt Miriam, into pairs, and you make them all wretched. 'Tis an extempore Sing-Sing built in a parlor. Leave them to seek their own mates, and they will be as merry as sparrows. "I like her well enough to hope she'll stay, mum," quoth he, in reply to an inquisitive neighbor. "And for my part, Miss Prouty," he added, nodding and winking at his questioner, "I'd like to see it fixed so she'd alwus stay; and if the Doctor _doos_ think he can't do no better'n to have her bimeby, when the time comes, who's a right to say a word agin it?" "Pray, what have you got such a spite against the Jayneses for?" asked Cornelia. "But you don't like Mrs. Jaynes," persisted Cornelia. "But why don't you like her, Tira?" asked Helen. "Good!" said little Helen; "hurrah for Aunt Eunice!" "And what did Mrs. Jaynes say?" asked little Helen, when Tira finally came to a pause. "But you ought not to blame Laura because her sister affronted you," said Helen. "Oh, thank you, thank you!" cried Laura, with such a burst of passionate emotion that Miss Blake's eyes watered at the sight of it. "My dear, dear, dear good friend! you don't know how glad I shall be, if you will let me do as you say, and tell me what to do, and scold me, and admonish and warn me! Oh, it will be such happiness to have somebody to tell all my _real_ secrets and troubles to! I do so need such a friend sometimes!" "Don't I know it, you poor dear?" said Miss Blake, wiping her eyes. "Ha'n't I been through the same straits myself? None but them that's been a young gal themselves, an orphan without a mother to confide in and to warn and guide 'em, knows what it is. But I do, my dear; and though I shall be a pretty poor substitute for an own mother, I'll do the best I can." "Oh, I shall never have any such secrets," said Laura, blushing; "my sister never lets the beaux come to see me, you know. I'm going to be an old maid." "Well, perhaps you will be," said Miss Blake; "only they gen'ally don't make old maids of such lookin' girls as you be." When this speech of his housekeeper came to the Doctor's ears, he expressed so warm an approval of its sentiments, that several who heard him began to be confirmed in suspicions they had previously entertained, the nature of which may be inferred from a remark which Mrs. Prouty confided to the ear of a trusty friend and crony. "Now do you mind what I say, Miss Baker," said she, shaking her snuffy forefinger in Mrs. Baker's face; "Doctor Bugbee'll marry Tira Blake yet. Now do you just stick a pin there." [To be continued in the next Number.] MY PORTRAIT GALLERY. As the observation of nature has extended, and as mankind have approached the state of only _semi_-barbarism in which they now exist, there has been an improvement. The materia medica has been weeded; much that was worthless and revolting has been thrown overboard; simplicity has been introduced into prescriptions; and the whole business of _drugging_ the sick has undergone a most salutary reform. The great fact has been practically recognized, that the movements of life in disease obey laws which, under the circumstances, are on the whole salutary, and only require a limited and occasional interference by any special disturbing agents. The list of specifics has been reduced to a very brief catalogue, and the delusion which had exaggerated the power of drugging for so many generations has been tempered down by sound and systematic observation. "Paris, la cour, le monde, l'univers," is a gospel down to this day; and no country can so justly complain of being constantly misunderstood and misrepresented by French tourists as ours. The more difficult it is for a Frenchman not to glance through spectacles from the Palais Royal at whatever does not belong to "the Great Nation," the more praise those few of them deserve who give to the world correct and impartial impressions of travel and reliable ethnological works. Trees, that from winter's gray eclipse Of late but pushed their topmost plume, Or felt with green-touched finger-tips For spring, their perfect robes assume. While, vague no more, the mountains stand With quivering line or hazy hue; But drawn with finer, firmer, hand, And settling into deeper blue. From his cold nest the skylark springs; Sings, pauses, sings; shoots up anew; Attains his topmost height, and sings Quiescent in his vault of blue. Brow-bound with myrtle and with gold, Spring, sacred now from blasts and blights, Lifts in a firm, untrembling hold Her chalice of fulfilled delights. Confirmed around her queenly lip The smile late wavering, on she moves; And seems through deepening tides to step Of steadier joys and larger loves. When all the breathless woods aloof Lie hushed in noontide's deep repose The dove, sun-warmed on yonder roof, With what a grave content she coos! All day with down-dropt lids I sat In trance; the present scene foregone. When Hesper rose, on Ararat, Methought, not English hills, he shone. Back to the Ark, the waters o'er, The primal dove pursued her flight: A branch of that blest tree she bore Which feeds the Church with holy light.	redpajama-book	11,965
E-text prepared by Charles Aldarondo, Tam, Tom Allen, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team THE FAITH OF THE MILLIONS A SELECTION OF PAST ESSAYS GEORGE TYRRELL, S.J. _Nil Obstat:_ J. GERARD, S.J. CENS. THEOL. DEPUTATUS. _Imprimatur:_ HERBERTUS CARD. VAUGHAN, ARCHIEP. WESTMON. It is, however, not only to these occasional obscurities and ambiguities that we are to ascribe the comparative oblivion into which so remarkable a book has fallen; but also to the fact that its noteworthiness is perhaps more evident and relative to us than to our forefathers. It cannot but startle us to find doubts that we hastily look upon as peculiarly "modern," set forth in their full strength and wrestled with and overthrown by an unlettered recluse of the fourteenth century. In some sense they are the doubts of all time, with perhaps just that peculiar complexion which they assume in the light of Christianity. Yet, owing to the modern spread of education, or rather to the indiscriminate divulgation of ideas, these problems are now the possession of the man in the street, whereas in former days they were exclusively the property of minds capable--not indeed of answering the unanswerable, but at least of knowing their own limitations and of seeing why such problems must always exist as long as man is man. Dark as the age of Mother Juliana was as regards the light of positive knowledge and information; yet the light of wisdom burned at least as clearly and steadily then as now; and it is by that light alone that the shades of unbelief can be dispelled. Of course, wisdom without knowledge must starve or prey on its own vitals, and this was the intellectual danger of the middle ages; but knowledge without wisdom is so much food undigested and indigestible, and this is the evil of our own day, when to be passably well-informed so taxes our time and energy as to leave us no leisure for assimilating the knowledge with which we have stuffed ourselves. It is not then so wonderful that this wise and holy woman should have faced the problems presented by the apparent discord between the truths of faith and the facts of human life--a discord which is felt in every age by the observant and thoughtful, but which in our age is a commonplace on the lips of even the most superficial. But an age takes its tone from the many who are the children of the past, rather than from the few who are the parents of the future. Mother Juliana's book could hardly have been in any sense "popular" until these days of ours, in which the particular disease of mind to which it ministers has become epidemic. Having thus sketched the circumstances of the revelations, we may now address ourselves to their character and substance. Perhaps the similarity of the phenomena which attend both on extraordinary psychic weakness and passivity, and on extraordinary energy and activity may excuse a confusion common enough, and which we have dwelt on elsewhere. But obviously as far as the natural consequences of a given psychic state are concerned, it is indifferent how that state is brought about. Thus, that extreme concentration of the attention, that perfect abstraction from outward things, which in hysterical persons is the effect of weakness and passive-mindedness--of the inability to resist and shake off the spell of passions and emotions; is in others the effect of active self-control, of voluntary concentration, of a complete mastery over passions and emotions. Yet though the causes of the abnormal state are different, its effects may well be the same. But to determine, with respect to these and kindred revelations, how far they may be regarded as an expression of the recipient's own mind and latent consciousness, will need a digression which the general interest of the question must excuse. There is a tendency in the modern philosophy of religion (for example, in Mr. Balfour's _Foundations of Belief_) to rationalize inspired revelation and to explain it as altogether kindred to the apparently magical intuitions of natural genius in non-religious matters; as the result, in other words, of a rending asunder of the veil that divides what is called "super-liminal" from "subliminal" consciousness; to find in prophecy and secret insight the effect of a flash of unconscious inference from a mass of data buried in the inscrutable darkness of our forgotten self. Together with this, there is also a levelling-up philosophy, a sort of modernized ontologism, which would attribute all natural intuition to a more immediate self-revelation on God's part than seems quite compatible with orthodoxy. Saints and contemplatives are wont--not without justification--to speak of their lights in prayer, and of the ordinary intuitions of their mind, under the influence of grace, as Divine utterances in a secondary sense; to say, "God said to me," or "seemed to say to me," or "God showed me," and so on. But to confound these products of their own mind with revelation is the error only of the uninstructed or the wilfully self-deluded. Therefore, as commonly understood, "revelation" implies the conscious control of the mind by another mind; just as its usual correlative, "inspiration," implies the conscious control of the will by another will. There can be no doubt whatever but that Mother Juliana of Norwich considered her revelations to be of this latter description, and not to have been merely different in degree from those flashes of spiritual insight with which she was familiar in her daily contemplations and prayers. How far, then, her own mind may have supplied the material from which the tissues were woven, or lent the colours with which the pictures were painted, or supplied the music to which the words were set, is what we must now try to determine. With regard to the will, it is a commonplace of mystical theology that God, who gave it its natural and essential bent towards the good of reason, i.e., towards righteousness and the Divine will; who created it not merely as an irresistible tendency towards the happiness and self-realization of the rational subject, but as a resistible tendency towards its _true_, happiness and _true_ self-realization--that this same God can directly modify the will without the natural mediation of some suggested thought. We ourselves, by the laborious cultivation of virtue, gradually modify the response of our will to certain suggestions, making it more sensitive to right impulses, more obtuse to evil impulses. According to mystic theology, it is the prerogative of God to dispense with this natural method of education, and, without violating that liberty of choice (which no inclination can prejudice), to incline the rational appetite this way or that; not only in reference to some suggested object, but also without reference to any distinct object whatsoever, so that the soul should be abruptly filled with joy or sadness, with fear or hope, with desire or aversion, and yet be at a loss to determine the object of these spiritual passions. St. Ignatius Loyola, in his "Rules for Discerning Spirits," borrowed no doubt from the current mystical theology of his day, makes this absence of any suggested object a criterion of "consolation" coming from God alone--a criterion always difficult to apply owing to the lightning subtlety of thoughts that flash across the soul and are forgotten even while their emotional reverberation yet remains. Where there was a preceding thought to account for the emotion, he held that the "consolation" might be the work of spirits (good or evil) who could not influence the will directly, but only indirectly through the mind; or else it might be the work of the mind itself, whose thoughts often seem to us abrupt through mere failure of self-observation. In these and like instances, we find will-movements not caused by the subjects' own cognitions and perceptions, but contrariwise, giving birth to cognitions, setting the mind to work to interpret the said movements, and to seek out their satisfying objects. Turning now to "revelation" in the stricter sense of a preternatural enlightenment of the mind, it might conceivably be either by way of a real accretion of knowledge--an addition to the contents of the mind--or else by way of manipulating contents already there, as we ourselves do by reminiscence, by rumination, comparison, analysis, inference. Thus we can conceive the mind being consciously controlled in these operations, as it were, by a foreign will; being reminded of this or that; being shown new consequences, applications, and relations of truths already possessed. Now from all this tedious division and sub-division it may perhaps be clear in how many different senses the words of such a professed revelation as Mother Juliana has left on record can be regarded as preternatural utterances; or rather, in how many different ways she herself may have considered them such, and wished them so to be considered. Indeed, as we shall see, she has done a good deal more to determine this, in regard to the various parts of her record, than most have done, and it is for that reason that we have taken the opportunity to open up the general question. Such a record might then be, either wholly or in part: (a) The work of religious "inspiration" or genius, in the sense in which rationalists use the word, levelling the idea down to the same plane as that of artistic inspiration. (b) Or else it might be "inspired" as mystic philosophy or ontologism uses the expression, when it ascribes all natural insight to a more or less directly divine enlightenment. (d) Or, the matter being in no way from preternatural sources, the strong and perhaps irresistible impulse to record and publish it, might be preternatural. (e) Or (in addition to or apart from such an impulse), it might be a record of certain truths already contained implicitly in the writer's mind, but brought to remembrance or into clear recognition, not by the ordinary free activity of reason, but, as it were, by an alien will controlling the mind. (f) Or, if really new truths or facts are communicated to the mind from without, this may be effected in various ways: (i) By the way of verbal "inspiration," as when the very words are received apparently through the outer senses; or else put together in the imagination. (ii) Or, the matter is presented pictorially (be it fact or symbol) to the outer senses or to the imagination; and then described or "word-painted" according to the writer's own ability. (iii) Or, the truth is brought home directly to the intelligence; and gets all its imaginative and verbal clothing from the recipient. Just as in the setting forth of these spiritual apprehensions, the words and imagery are usually her own, so in the description of bodily vision she uses her own language and comparisons. For example, the following realism: "The great drops of blood fell down from under the garland like pellets, seeming as it had come out of the veins; and in coming out they were brown red, for the Blood was full thick, and in spreading abroad they were bright red The plenteousness is like to drops of water that fall off the eavings after a great shower of rain And for roundness they were like to the scales of herrings in the spreading of the forehead," &c. These similes, she tells us, "came to my mind in the time." In other instances, the comparisons and illustrations of what she saw with her eyes or with her understanding, were suggested to her; so that she received the expression, as well as the matter expressed, from without. Rarely, however, are the different modes so entangled as here, and for the most part we have little difficulty in discerning the precise origin to which she wishes her utterances to be attributed--a fact that makes her book an unusually interesting study in the theory of inspiration. The more I consider the subject of the marriage of the Blessed Virgin, the more clearly I see that it is the _one_ absolutely lovely and perfect subject for poetry. Perfect humanity, verging upon, but never entering the breathless region of the Divinity, is the real subject of _all_ true love-poetry; but in all love-poetry hitherto, an "ideal" and not a reality has been the subject, more or less. It was, at all events, the predominance of this conception which bound together his whole life's work, rendering coherent and individualizing all which he thought, wrote, or uttered, and those who study Patmore without this key are little likely to understand him. And it is the persistent and not always sufficiently restrained use of this category that made much of his writing just a trifle shocking to sensitive minds. To their infidelity to this contract he ascribes the subsequent degradation of human love through sensuality; and all the sin and selfishness thence deriving to our fallen race: Whom nothing succour can Until a heaven-caress'd and happier Eve Be joined with some glad Saint In like espousals, blessed upon Earth, And she her fruit forth bring; No numb chill-hearted shaken-witted thing, 'Plaining his little span. But of proud virgin joy the appropriate birth, The Son of God and Man. It would not perhaps be hard to reconcile this view with some utterances in the Gospel of seemingly opposite import; or to find it often implied in the words and actions of Catholic Saints; but to square it with the general ascetic traditions of the faithful at large is exceedingly difficult. Patmore would no doubt have allowed the expediency of celibacy in the case of men and women devoted to the direct ministry of good works, spiritual and corporal: a devotion incompatible with domestic cares; he could and did allow the superiority of voluntary virginity and absolute chastity over the contrary state of lawful use; but he could hardly have justified--hardly not have condemned those who leave father, friend, or spouse, not merely externally in order to be free for good works, but internally in order that their hearts may be free for the contemplation and love of God viewed apart from creatures and not merely in them. He might perhaps say that, as we cannot go to God through all creatures, but only through some (since we are not each in contact with all), we must select according to our circumstances those which will give the greatest expansion and elevation to our natural affections; and that for some, the home is wisely sacrificed for the community or the church. Yet this hardly consists with the pre-eminence he gives to married love as the nearest symbol and sacrament of divine. Both these modes of imagining the truth, whatever their inconveniences, are helpful as imperfect formulations of Catholic instinct; both mischievous, if viewed as adequate and close-fitting explanations. Patmore was characteristically enthusiastic for his own aspect of the truth; and characteristically impatient of the other. Thus, of a Kempis he says: There is much that is quite unfit for, and untrue of, people who live in the ordinary relations of life. I don't think I like the book quite so much as I did. There is a hot-house, egotistical air about much of its piety. Other persons are, ordinarily, the appointed means of learning the love of God; and to stifle human affections must be very often to render the love of God impossible. As a convert, Patmore is most uninteresting to the controversialist. His mind was altogether concrete, affirmative, and synthetic, with a profound distrust of abstract and analytical reasoning. As we have said, Christianity and, later, Catholicism appealed profoundly to his intellectual imagination in virtue of some of their deeper tenets, for whose sake he took over all the rest _per modum unius_. The idea [of the Incarnation] no sooner flashed upon me as a possible reality than it became, what it has ever since remained, the only reality worth seriously caring for; a reality so clearly seen and possessed that the most irrefragable logic of disproof has always affected me as something trifling and irrelevant. Of the efforts of Manning and de Vere to proselytize him, he says: It may well be that this judicial impartiality may meet with its usual reward of pleasing neither side altogether. Some will complain that she brings no idealizing love to her subject, and does little to bring out the greatness and glory of her religion. Yet this would be a hasty and ill-judging criticism; for our faith is no less to be commended for the restraint it exercises over the multitude of ordinary men and women, than for the effect it produces in souls of a naturally heroic type. That it should bring a certain largeness into the smallest life, that it should impart a strange stability to a naturally unstable and frivolous character; that it should check the worldly-minded with a sense of the superior claims of the other world--all this impresses us, if not with the sublimity or mystic beauty, at least with the solid reality and penetrating power of the Catholic faith. The most loyal and deep-seated love needs not to shut its eyes to all defects and limitations, but can face them unchilled; and similarly there is often more faith and reverence and quiet enthusiasm in this seemingly cold and critical attitude towards the cause or party we love, than in the extravagant idealism that depends for its maintenance on an ignoring of things as they are. Nothing perhaps is more unintelligible to the Protestant critic of Catholicism, nothing more needs to be brought out prominently, than the firm hold our religion can exercise over souls that are naturally irreligious. This very phrase "naturally irreligious" will fall with a shock on sensitive Protestant ears; yet we use it advisedly. While all men are capable of faith and of substantial fidelity to the law of God, it is undeniable that but few are by natural inclination "religious" in the common acceptation of the term. As there is a poetic or mystical temperament, so also there is a religious temperament--not quite so rare, but still something exceptional. We find it so in all ages, ancient and modern; in all religions, Christian and non-Christian--nay, even amid agnostics and unbelievers we often detect the now aimless, unused faculty. But most men have, naturally, no ardent spiritual sympathy with holiness, or mysticism, or heroism; their interests are elsewhere; and even where there are latent capacities of that kind, they are not usually developed until life's severest lessons have been learnt. Thus the young, who have just left the negative faith and innocence of the nursery behind them and stand inexperienced on the threshold of life, are not normally religious; whereas we naturally expect those who have passed through the ordeal, and been disillusioned, to begin to think about their souls, since there is nothing else left to think about. Protestantism of the Calvinistic or Puritan type shows little consciousness of the distinction we are insisting upon. It is disposed to draw a hard-and-fast line between the "converted" and the reprobate. Those who are not religious-minded, or who do not take a serious turn, are scarcely recognized as "saved" although they may not be convicted of any very flagrant or definite breach of the divine law. Their morality or their "good works" go for little if they do not experience that sense of goodness, or of being saved, which is called faith. Much stress is laid on "feeling good" and little value allowed to what we might call an unsympathetic and grudging keeping of God's law--however much more it may cost, from the very fact that it is in some way unsympathetic, and against the grain. The service of fear and reverence, which Catholicism regards as the basis and back-bone of love, is held to be abject and unworthy--almost sinful. Hence it befalls that no place is found in the Protestant heaven for the great majority of ordinary people who do not feel a bit good or religious, who rather dislike going to church and keeping the commandments, and yet who keep them all the same, because they believe in God and fear His judgments and honour His law, and even love Him in the solid, undemonstrative way in which a naughty and troublesome child loves its parents. Thus it is that the Church reckons among her obedient children thousands of very imperfect and non-religious people for whom Protestantism can find no place among the elect. To those for whom the lawfulness of re-marriage for an innocent divorcee is, like the rest of their religious beliefs, a matter of opinion, the scruple of a character like Madge Riversdale is unthinkable and incredible. Such women do not trouble their heads about theological points; still less, make heroic sacrifices for their private and peculiar convictions. But those for whom the Church is a definite concrete reality--almost a person--governing and teaching with divine authority, will easily understand the firm grip she can and does exert on those who have no other internal principle of restraint; who would shake themselves free if they dared. Let those who despise the results of such a constraint be consistent and abolish all parental and tutorial control; all educative government of whatsoever description; nay, the imperious restraint of conscience itself, which is often obeyed but grudgingly. While some features of this portrait of Catholic life are common to all its phases, others are peculiar to the aspect it presents in England, where Catholics being a small and weak minority are, so to say, self-conscious in their faith--continually aware that they are not as the rest of men; disposed therefore to be apologetic or aggressive or defensive. Again, the circumstance of their long exclusion from the social and intellectual life of their country is accountable for other undesirable peculiarities which Mrs. Wilfrid Ward sees no reason to spare. A LIFE OF DE LAMENNAIS. It is not our purpose here to summarize Mr. Gibson's admirable work, or to give even an outline of so well-known a history; but rather to attempt some brief criticism of the man himself, and incidentally of his views. Had he possessed that intellectual patience in perplexity, without which not only faith, but true science, is impossible, he would have been driven not to apostasy, but to a careful re-sifting of his views, issuing, perhaps, in a reconciliation of apparently adverse positions, or at all events in a confession of subjective, uncertainty and confusion. Faith, in the wider sense of the word, would have bid him to believe, without seeing, what we have lived to see under Leo XIII. It is vain to contend that he was not a man of prayer. That he had a keen discernment in spiritual things is evident from his _Commentary on the Imitation_ and his other spiritual writings, as well as from the testimony of his young disciples at La Chenaie, to whom he was not merely a brilliant teacher, a most affectionate friend and father, but also a trusted guide in the things of God. Yet this would be little had we not also assurance of his personal and private devoutness. LIPPO, THE MAN AND THE ARTIST. As most of the useful arts perfect man's executive faculties, and thus are said to improve upon, while in a certain sense they imitate nature; so the fine arts extend and exalt man's faculty of expression, or self-utterance, regarded not precisely as useful and _propter aliud_; but as pleasurable and _propter se_. Even the most uncultivated savage finds pleasure in some discordant utterance of his subjective frame of mind; and it is really hard to find any tribe so degraded as to show no rudiment of fine art, no sign of reflex pleasure in expression, and of inventiveness in extending the resources nature has provided us with for that end. THROUGH ART TO FAITH. That his works have commanded attention, and awakened keen interest among members of the most varying and opposite schools of thought, is an undeniable fact which at all events proves them to be worth careful consideration. But what will give most offence, and tend to alienate a certain amount of intelligent and valuable sympathy, is the violence, and even the coarseness, with which the author, or at least his hero, handles, not only the opinions, but the very persons of those from whom he differs; the intemperance of his invective, the narrow intolerance and absolute self-confidence with which he sits in judgment on men and things. There is certainty no more unpardonable fallacy than that of "Bible Christians," who assume that the Church in the Apostolic age had reached its full expansion and expression, and therefore in respect of polity, liturgy, doctrinal statement and discipline must be regarded as an immutable type for all ages and countries; from which all departure is necessarily a corruption. They take the flexible sapling and compare it with aged knotty oak, and shake their heads over the lamentable unlikeness: "That this should be the natural outgrowth of that! _O tempora, O mores!_" In this sense we can with some caution speak of "Catholic art" in music, architecture, and painting, so far, that is, as we can determine the extent and nature of the Church's action, and therefore the tendency of her influence in the way of stimulus and restraint with regard to subject and treatment. We do not unjustly discern an author's style as a personal element distinct from the language and phraseology of which no item is his own. The manner in which he uses that language, his selections and refusals make, in union with the borrowed elements, a tongue that may be called his, in an exclusive sense. The Church, too, has her style, which, though difficult to discern amid her use of a Pentecostal variety of languages, is no doubt always the same--at least in tendency. We are now in a position to consider the surface objection that will present itself to many a reader concerning Durtal's conversion. "He has been converted," it will be said, "by a fallacy. He has identified the Catholic religion with the cause of plain-chaunt and Gothic architecture, and of all that is, or that he considers to be, best in art. He has laid hold not of Catholicism, but of its merest accessories, which it might shake off any day, and him along with them. Indeed, he scarcely makes any pretence at being in sympathy with the Catholicism of to-day, which he regards as almost entirely philistine and degenerate, if we except La Trappe and Solesmes and a few other corners where the old observances linger on. 'It was so ugly, so painfully adorned with images, that only by shutting his eyes could Durtal endure to remain in Notre Dame de la Breche.' Yes, but what sort of convert is this who is so insensible to substantials, so morbidly sensitive about mere accidentals? We come to the Church for the true faith and the sacraments, not for 'sensations.' In fine, Durtal has not observed the route prescribed by the apologetics for reaching the door of the sheep-fold, but has climbed over in his own way, like a thief and a robber; he has not (as a recent critic says of him) _tombe entre les bras maternals de l'Eglise selon toutes les regles_." Our subjective faith in the Church must be like the faith of the disciples of Christ, an entirely personal relation; an act of implicit trust based on no lean argument or chain of reasoning, but on the irresistible spell, the overmastering impression created upon us by a character manifested in life, action, speech, even in manner; as impossible to state in its entirety and as impossible to doubt as are our reasons for loving or loathing, for trusting or fearing. No doubt we hear of men of intellect and learning "reading" or "reasoning" themselves into the Church; but others as able have read and reasoned along the same line, and yet have not come; for in truth, reason at the most can set free a force of attraction created by motives other than reason. Who shall say, then, that to an eye and heart attuned to quick sympathy, any indication is too small to betray the inward spirit and character of the Catholic Church, or to magnetize a soul and render it restless, until it obeys her attraction and rests in union with her? Those who, influenced by such considerations, would have us extend our efforts from the narrowing circle of Anglo-Catholicism to the ever-widening circle of doubt and negation, are not always clear about the practically important distinction to be drawn between the active leaders of doubt, and those who are passively led; the more or less independent few, and the more or less dependent many; between the man of the study and the man of the street--a distinction analogous to that between the _Ecclesia docens_ and _Ecclesia discens_, and which permeates every well-established school of belief, whether historical, ethical, political, or religious. And this brings us to the problem which gave birth to the present essay. Though this is not so, yet moral truthfulness forbids us to assent to what we, however falsely, believe to be untrue. Hence while the virtue of faith remains untouched, its exercise with regard to particular points may be inculpably suspended through ignorance, stupidity, misinformation, and other causes. That we do not sufficiently realize the dialectical incompetence of the uneducated is partly to be explained by the fact that they often get bits of reasoning by rote, much as young boys learn their Euclid; and that they frequently seem to understand principles because they apply them in the right cases, just as we often quote a proverb appropriately without the slightest idea of its origin or meaning beyond that it is the right thing to say in a certain connection. As we ascend in the scale of education, there is more and more of this reasoning by rote, so that critical incompetence is more easily concealed and may lurk unsuspected even in the pulpit and the professorial chair, where logic alone seems paramount. The "hagnostic" greengrocer, in all the self-confidence of his ignorance, is but the lower extreme of a class that runs up much higher in the social scale and spreads out much wider in every direction. AN APOSTLE OF NATURALISM. Mr. Laing is not regretfully forced into materialism by some mental confusion or obscurity, but he revels in it, and invites all to taste and see how gracious a philosophy it is. There is an ill-concealed levity and coarseness in his handling of religious subjects which breaks, At seasons, through the gilded pale, These citations embody Mr. Laing's opinions on this point, and show very clearly his utter incapacity for elementary philosophic thought. Here, as elsewhere, as soon as he leaves the bare record of facts and embarks in any kind of speculation, he shows himself helpless; however, he tries to fortify his own courage and that of his readers, with "it is clear," "it is evident," "it is certain." These strictures are directed chiefly to showing Mr. Laing's incapacity for anything like coherent reasoning in historical matters. Subsequently he uses these most lame and impotent conclusions as demonstrated certainties, without the faintest qualification, and builds up on them his refutation of dogmatic Christianity. However, it is only in his more recent work on _Human Origins_ that he thus comes forward as an historian, in preparation for which he seems to have devoted himself to the study of cuneiform and hieroglyphs and mastered the subject thoroughly and exhaustively, before bursting forth from behind the clouds to flood the world with new-born light. It is deep down in the bowels of the earth, at the bottom of a geological well, that he has found not only truth but, also man--among the monsters, Dragons of the prime Who tare each other in their slime, The evolution of man is practically taken for granted, the only question being the _when_. As to his treatment of the Bible, it evinces everywhere the crudest anthropomorphic method of interpretation such as we should expect to find in a child or very ignorant person. In truth, Mr. Laing is in a perfectly childish state of mind both as regards the Christian religion and as regards philosophy, sciences, and all the subjects he dabbles with. "THE MAKING OF RELIGION." Starting with the assumptions of evolutionists, the theory is plausible enough. Nor is it inconceivable that God, without using error and evil directly as a means to truth and good, should passively permit error for the sake of the truth that He foresees will come out of it. Astrology was not incipient astronomy; nor was alchemy primitive chemistry; the end and aim in each case was wholly different. Yet the pseudo-science gave birth to the true; as false premisses often lead by bad logic to sound conclusions. Totemism, "a perfectly crazy and degrading belief," says Mr. Lang, "rendered possible--nay, inevitable--the union of hostile groups into large and relatively peaceful tribal societies We should never have educated the world thus; and we do not see why it should have been thus done. But we are very anthropomorphic, and totally ignorant of the conditions of the problem." In like manner it might have been, that God willed to let men wander through the slums and backways of animism into the open road of theism. But our concern is not with what might have been, but with what was. However wide the range of experience upon which physical generalizations are based, it can never be so wide as on this score alone to prove the inherent possibility of exceptions; more especially when we consider the confinement of the human race to what is relatively a momentary existence on a whirling particle of dust in a sandstorm. There may indeed be abundant evidence of a certain impetus or tendency enduring from a comparatively distant and indefinite past and making for an equally indefinite future; but there is not, cannot be evidence against the possibility of interference from other laws whose paths, at points unknown and incalculable, intersect those followed by the (to us) ordinary course of events. And in this wholesome agnosticism we are confirmed when we see that while some animals are deprived of certain senses which we possess, and all of them of the gift of reason, others are apparently endowed with senses unknown to us, and are taught by seeming instincts which surpass what reason could effect; whence we may infer that the likelihood of our being _en rapport_ with the greater part of the _possible_ phenomena amidst which we live, or of our possessing all possible senses or the best of those possible, is infinitely small. What a magician a man with eyes would be among a race of sightless men; or a man with ears among a deaf population! How studiously would the scientists explain the effects of sight as produced by subtilty of hearing; and those of hearing as due to abnormal sensitiveness in some other respect! But have we really disposed of ghosts if we prove the appearance to be caused by a subjective modification of the perceiver's sensorium and not by a modification of the external medium--the air or the ether? Since it is a question of a spiritual substance independent of spatial dimensions and relations, said to be present only so far and where its effects and manifestations are present, what does it matter whether it reports itself by an effect outside or inside the percipient--whether it be a "vision sensible to feeling, as to sight," or but "a false creation proceeding from a heat-oppressed brain"? Is not this very distinction of outside and inside in the matter of perceptions open to no slight ambiguity? The savage, familiar with the electric sparks caused by the friction of deer-skins, ascribes the _aurora borealis_ to the friction of a jostling herd of celestial deer. "Nonsense," says science, after centuries of false hypotheses, "it is nothing more nor less than electricity." This is very much the way she is dealing with the supernormal at present; brushing aside as wholly nonsensical, beliefs that envelope a core of useful fact in a wrapping of crude explanation, and then receiving the same facts as new discoveries, because she has fitted them into an involucre more to her own liking, though perhaps but little less crude. "Not deer-skin," says science, "but amber; not miracle, but faith-cure; not prophetic insight, but thought-transference; not apparition, but hallucination." And so with the rest. From this ever-growing mass of evidence, it would appear that the universal belief among savages in a spirit-world is mainly strengthened and sustained, not by the phenomena of dreaming but by what Mr. Spencer would call "alleged" supernormal manifestations, such as those of clairvoyance, crystal-gazing, apparitions, miracles, prophecies, possession, and the like. For belief in such marvels exists beyond doubt, and furnishes a very obvious and logical basis for the further belief in the invisible causes of these visible effects; nor should we have recourse to an hypothetical and more indirect explanation of belief in a spirit-world when an actual and direct explanation is at hand. If we see the branch growing out of the tree, we need not inquire what trunk it sprang from, unless we have strong evidence that it is only a graft. All investigation tends to show that savages believe in spirits and in the spirit-world because they witness, or firmly believe they witness, supernormal phenomena. The supposition is somewhat favoured if we give ear to that crowd of witnesses whose combined evidence, duly discounted and tested, makes it clear that even among those who ought to have been civilized out of all belief in aught behind the veil, the very same superstitions break out, or creep in, time after time, with new names perhaps, new clothes, new faces, but in substance identical with those held by what we esteem the most benighted races. Further, it is evident that savages pay attention--over-attention, no doubt--to these supernormal phenomena, being free from hostile philosophic bias in the matter, and bent the other way; and that in consequence they have everywhere observed, classified, and systematized them in their own rude, simple way, and have thus forestalled what the S.P.R., in the teeth of science, is now endeavouring to do scientifically. With us, moreover, it is mere chance that reveals a "medium," or hypnotic subject here and there: but with savages they are sought out diligently, and all who have any latent aptitude that way are detected and utilized; and thus the field of their experience is considerably widened. But besides all this, it seems more than plausible to suppose that among primitive and undeveloped races such preternatural phenomena either occur, or seem to occur, much more frequently and extensively; and that apparently supernormal faculties are more often developed. What we gain is no doubt our own in a truer sense than that we had when we hung upon Nature's breast, and were guided passively by instincts and intuitions to purposes that reason can never reach to. By far the most wonderful and seemingly intelligent work of the soul is that by which it builds up, nourishes, repairs, developes, and finally reproduces the body it dwells in. Yet in all this it is almost as passive and unconscious as a vegetable. The effect is (as far as our comprehension of it goes) altogether preternatural and inexplicable; yet it is far less _our_ effect than what we do by reason and by taking thought. What we pay for in dignity we lose in efficiency. While Nature carries us in her arms we move swiftly enough, but when she sets us on our feet to learn independence and self-rule, we cut a sorry figure. In our helplessness she does all for us as though we were yet part of her; but in the measure that we are weaned and begin to fend for ourselves as responsible agents, we are deprived of the aids and easements befitting the childhood of our race. If this be true, if man in his primitive state possessed intuitive powers which have sunk into abeyance, either through the diversion of psychic energy to the development of other powers, or through desuetude, or as the instincts of the new-born babe are lost when their brief purpose is fulfilled; if the occasional recrudescence of these powers among civilized peoples is really a survival of an earlier state; then indeed we can understand that the evidence, or apparent evidence, for the existence of an X-region, or spirit-world, may have been immeasurably more abundant in the infancy of the human race, than it is now even among contemporary savages. We know only too well that there are universal fallacies as well as universal truths of the human mind. For the practical necessities of life the imagination stands to man in good stead, but as the inadequate instrument of speculative thought its fertile deceitfulness is betrayed in his very earliest attempts at philosophy; nor are his subsequent efforts directed to anything else than the endeavour to correct and allow for its refractions and distortions, to transcend its narrow limitations, to force it to express, meanly and clumsily, truths which otherwise it would entirely obscure and deny. There might well be facts, nay, there are undoubtedly facts, which to the untutored mind necessarily and always seem altogether supernormal, but which science rightly explains to be, however unusual, yet natural, and in no way outside the ordinary laws. So far as the marvels of sorcerers and medicine-men are the work of chicanery, they will lack that persistence and ubiquity which justifies the investigation of other marvels for whose universality some basis must be sought in the uniform nature of things. Cheats will not always and everywhere hit on the same plan, nor will the independent testimony of false witnesses be found agreeing. On the animistic hypothesis we should be prepared to find the notion of God, as above stated, to be of very late development and accepted only by races fairly advanced in culture. We should, _a priori_, deem it impossible to discover more among the lower savages than a rude religion of ghost-worship, without any consciousness of a moral Supreme Being, the father and friend of man. Whatever might seem to suggest the contrary, would be explainable by some infiltration of more civilized beliefs. Armed with this hypothesis the eye is quick "to see that it brings with it the power of seeing," and to impose its own forms and schemata on the phenomena offered to its observation. The "animist" ill-acquainted with the savage's language and modes of thought; excluded from those inner "mysteries" which figure in nearly every savage religion; confounding the symbolism, the popular mythology, and also the corruptions, distortions, and abuses which are the parasites of all religion, with the religion itself, can easily come away with the impression that there is nothing but ghost-worship, priestcraft, and superstition, no conception whatever of a personal "Power that makes for Righteousness." If Protestants have almost as crude an idea of the religion of their Catholic fellow-Christians with whom they live side by side, and converse in the same language, if they are so absolutely dominated by their own form of religious thought, as to be as helpless as idiots in the presence of any other, can we expect that the ordinary British traveller, "brandishing his Bible and his bath," strong in the smug conviction of his mental, moral, and religious preeminence, will be a very sympathetic, conscientious, and reliable interpreter of the religion of the Zulu or the Andamanese? But before discussing the relation of this assumption to existing facts and so bringing it to an _a posteriori_ test, let us examine its _a priori_ supports. Another assumption underlying the animistic hypothesis, and also borrowed from Christian teaching, is that the savage regards the soul or ghost as the liberated and consummated man, and that therefore he will place God rather in the category of disembodied than of embodied men. Yet not only the Greek and Roman, but even the Jew, looked on the shade of the departed as a mere fraction of humanity, as a miserable residue of man, helpless and hopeless, and withal disposed to be mischievous and exacting, and therefore needing to be humoured in various ways. Nay, even Christianity with its dogma of the bodily resurrection, denies that Platonic doctrine which views the body as the prison rather than as the complement and consort of the soul; although it holds the soul to be of an altogether higher, because spiritual, order. But to the primitive savage, who everywhere regards death as non-natural, as accidental and violent, the surviving spirit, however uncertain-tempered and incalculable in its movements, however much to be feared and propitiated, does not command reverence as a being of a superior order. At best it is: "Alas! poor ghost!" Better a live dog than a dead lion; better the meanest slave that draws breath, than the monarch of Orcus. Surely it is not in the region of shadows that the savage will look for the great "all-father;" but in the world of solid, tangible realities. But when Mr. Lang, who has no hypothesis of his own as to the origin of belief in God, brings the animistic theory to an _a posteriori_ test, he finds it encumbered with still greater difficulties; for nothing is as, _a priori_, it ought to be. But surely, it will be said, all this is too paradoxical, too violently in conflict with what is notorious concerning the religion and morality of savages. Scant, however, as may be the amount of direct worship accorded to the Supreme God, compared with that received by subordinate spiritual powers, yet it is _sui generis_, and of an infinitely higher order. The familiar distinction of _latria_ and _dulia_ seems to obtain everywhere; as also that between _Elohim_ and _Javeh_, that is, between supernal beings in general, and the Supreme Being who is also supernal. Yet so excessive in quantity is the secondary cultus compared with the primary, that an outsider may well be pardoned for thinking that there is nothing beyond what meets the eye on every side. As has been said, the Supreme Being alone is usually considered above the weakness of caring for sacrifice, or for external worship in "temples made with hands." His name is commonly tabooed, only to be whispered in those mysteries of initiation which are met with so universally. Outside these mysteries He may only be spoken of in parables and myths, grotesque, irreverent, designed to conceal rather than to reveal. But rarely is there an image or an altar to this unknown God. It is part of the very economy of the Incarnation to meet this weakness, to provide for this want of the human mind; to satisfy the imagination as well as the intelligence. Here Divine truth has received a Divine embodiment, has been set forth in the language of deeds, in a real and not in a fictitious history. Sacrifice and sacrament, and every kind of natural religious symbolism, has been appropriated and consecrated to the service of truth and to the fullest utterance of God that such weak accents will stretch to. Here the channel of communication between Heaven and earth is not of man's creation but of God's; or at least is of God's composition. This is the great difference between the ethnic religions and a religion that professes to be revealed--that is, spoken by God and put into language by Him. The latter is, so to say, cased in an incorruptible body, its very expression being chosen and sealed for ever with Divine approval, and rescued from the fluent and unstable condition of religions whose clothes are the works of men's hands. Here it is that Catholic Christianity stands out as altogether catholic and human, adapted as it is to the world-wide cravings of the religious instinct; satisfying the imagination and the emotions, no less than the intellect and the will; and yet saving us from the perils of the myth-making tendency of our mind. How far God can be said actually to "speak" to the soul through conscience or through Nature so as to make faith, in the strict sense of reliance on the word of another, possible, is for theologians to discuss. If besides expressing these truths in creation or in conscience, He also expresses in some way His intention to reveal them to the particular soul, we have all that is requisite. In what way, or innumerable ways He makes His voice heard in every human heart day by day, and causes general truths to be brought near and recognized and received as a particular message, each can answer best for himself. Will a man be excused for deliberately dashing his foot against a stone because forsooth he has persuaded himself with Zeno, that there is no such thing as motion; or with Berkeley, that the externality of the world is a delusion; or will he be pardoned in his unbelief because he could not justify by philosophy the truth which conscience and nature are dinning into his ears: that there is a God the Rewarder of them that seek Him? Apart from this preparation of the intellect, to which perhaps the name "apologetic" should be more strictly reserved, a prior and more important need was the disposing of the will and affections to the acceptance of the truth. For, in a very real sense, love is the root of faith; and the wish that a thing should be true, not only stimulates the mind to inquire and investigate, but also creates a fear of self-deception and a spirit of incredulity which is the fruitful parent of intellectual difficulties. Undoubtedly then the advantages resulting from a belief in religion, whether valid or illusory, are such as to incline not only the higher and more unselfish minds, but even those which are more prudential and self-regarding, to wish to hold that belief--to be unwilling to hear arguments against it. But among the former class will be found many intellectually conscientious and even scrupulous persons, whom the recognition of this inevitable bias will drive to an extreme of caution. Not so much because the facts believed-in are of such intense moment, but rather because the belief itself, whether true or false, is so consoling and helpful, that there seems to them a danger of self-deception just proportioned to their wish to believe. It were then no small rest and relief to such, could it be shown that what they deem a reason for doubt, is really a reason for belief; that the welcome which all that is best in them gives to a belief, affords some sort of philosophical justification thereof. Now if, like the key in our illustration, the religion in question were something given _in rerum natura_ independent of human origination in any form, this argument would be practically irresistible. That besides those beliefs which lead man on to an ever fuller understanding of his better self, and stimulate and direct his moral progress, Christianity imposes others more principal, of which man as yet has no exigency, and which hint at some future order of existence that new faculties will disclose--all this, in no wise makes the argument inapplicable. The whole system of beliefs is accepted for the sake, and on the credit, of that part which so admirably unlocks the soul to her own gaze. "Now are we the sons of God, but it doth not yet appear what we shall be;" if besides satisfying our present ideal of religion, Christianity hints at and prepares us for such a transition as that from merely organic to sensitive life, or from this, to rational life, it rather adds to than detracts from the force of the argument. Yet all this supposes that Christianity is something found by man outside himself, with whose origination he had nothing to do; but, if this be established, its supernatural origin, and therefore, supposing theism, its truth, is already proved, and can only receive confirmation from the argument of adaptability. If the Book of Mormon really came down from Heaven, my conviction that polygamy is not for the best, would seem a feeble objection against its claims. That the Judaeo-Christian religion is supernatural and is from without, not only with respect to the individual but to the race; that it is an external, God-given rule, awakening, explaining, developing man's natural religious instinct, correcting his own clumsy interpretations thereof, is just what gives it its claim to pre-eminence over all, even the most highly conceived, man-made interpretations of the same instinct. Yet though claiming to be a God-made interpretation, it is confessedly through human agency, through the human mind and lips of the prophets and of Christ that this revelation has come to us. Moreover, it involves, though it transcends, all those religious beliefs of which human nature seems exigent and which are, absolutely speaking, attainable by what might be called the "natural inspiration" of religious genius. Viewing the whole revelation in itself, its adaptability is evident only in respect to that part which might have originated with those minds through which it was delivered to us. If the beliefs proposed seem to have anticipated moral and intellectual needs not felt in the prophet's own age or society, this might be paralleled from the inspiration of genius in other departments, and could not of itself be regarded as establishing the _ab extra_ character of the revelation. Plainly, then, so far as a religion claims to be from outside, its adaptability to our religious and moral instincts may confirm but cannot establish its Divine origin, which, given theism, is equivalent to its truth. For to show that it is from outside, is to show that it is from God. Such, in substance, is the argument from adaptability founded on the assumption of theism and applied to the criticism or establishment of further religious beliefs. It is indeed somewhat stronger when we remember that the self-consciousness, with which we fictitiously endowed the lock, plays chief part in the very design and structure of man; that his self-knowledge, his moral and religious instincts, his desire and power of interpreting them, are all from the Author of his nature. Of this difference Tennyson takes note in applying the argument from adaptability to the immortality of the soul: Thou wilt not leave us in the dust; Thou madest man, he knows not why; He thinks he was not made to die, And Thou hast made him, Thou art just. But so far as the argument presupposes theism it cannot be made to support or even confirm theism. If, then, we want to make the argument absolutely universal with regard to religious beliefs--theism included and not presupposed--and so to make it available for apologetic purposes in regard to those whose doubt is more deep-seated, we must inquire whether any basis can be found for it in non-theistic philosophy; whether, prescinding from Divine governance and from an intelligent purpose running through nature, the adaptability of a belief to the higher needs of mankind can be considered in any way to prove its truth. So far we have only shown that such a conclusion results from a clearer insight into the theistic conception. Can we show that it springs, co-ordinately with theism, from some conception prior to both? Now, if I take any single organism and study it carefully, simply as a biologist or physiologist, I shall recognize in it certain regularities of structure and function and development, upon which I can found various arguments and predictions. I can argue from its general characteristics, to the nature of its environment and habits and modes of life; or from its earlier stages, to what it will be when more fully developed; and these arguments will be quite unaffected by any theory I may hold as to the origin of these changes, and as to the causes of these adaptations. The order and regularity on which my predictions are based is an admitted fact. Theism or materialism are only theories by which that fact is explained. Now, for mind in the abstract, theism is really as much a presupposition of that fact, as the predicted truth is a consequence of it. Both are logically connected with it, and yet neither is derived from it through the other. Perhaps, the best and most finished attempt to explain the world independently of finality is the philosophy of Evolution, so widely popularized in our own day; and since it is in the region of organic existence, that finalism looks for its chief basis, it is especially by Darwinistic Evolution that its force is supposed to be destroyed. Any form of "monism" gets rid of finality more easily than does any form of dualism; and again, any form of materialism, more easily than idealism; and therefore as monistic and materialistic (at least in some sense of the term), popular Evolutionism is the best plea for non-finalist philosophy. We propose therefore briefly to examine this philosophy, so far as it claims to be such, and to see whether it in any way touches the validity of the argument from adaptability. The most that observation gives us is the very imperfect suggestion of the track that such a movement would have left behind it, not unlike the scraps that boys litter along the road in a paper-chase. Similarly, if in the case of organic Evolution we deny all latent potentialities and preordained ends and throw the whole burden on accidental variations and natural selection; if we regard the whole process as no more intelligent or designed than that by which water seeks and finds its own level; yet as in the case of water we must perforce introduce "a gravitating tendency," so in the case of living organisms a "persisting" or "struggling tendency," as an hypothesis to give unity to our facts or to account for their uniformity. But these tendencies are as little matter of observation as the aforesaid latent potentialities or preordained ends. In fine, Evolution, whatever form it take, gets rid of theism and finality only by slipping into their place some tendency or indefinable power which it considers adequate to account for the facts to be explained. Let us now see if there be room in this philosophy for our argument from adaptability, and whether it will allow us to infer that because belief in theism and in future retribution are beliefs postulated by our higher moral aspirations, therefore they answer to reality more or less approximately; whether, in short, under certain conditions (specified in our last essay) the wish to believe may be a valid reason for believing. Now Evolution as a philosophy or explanatory hypothesis owes its popularity to its apparent simplicity. Wrapped in its wordy envelope, the notion as formulated by Spencer needs no subtilty of apprehension, but only a dictionary. Nor is the Darwinian theory of Natural Selection more difficult. For we cannot any longer determine the rank of an animal by its organic complexity, since, _ceteris paribus_, this is a defect rather than otherwise. To secure life more simply is better than to secure the same amount by means of complex apparatus. Of course when the favouring conditions are altered, then any apparatus that makes life still possible is an advantage; but till that crisis arises it is only an encumbrance. When life can be secured only at the cost of greater labour and exertion and cunning, it is well to be capable of these things, but surely those animals are more to be envied that have no need of these things. It is only on the hypothesis of an unkindly environment that complexity of organization is an excellence. Plainly, our argument from the adaptability of a belief to man's higher moral needs, vanishes into thin air as soon as the key to the order of nature is thus sought in a blind non-moral tendency, and when that which is lowest is put at the top, and everything above it made to minister to it. And therefore to return to our former assertion, whatever we seem to gain in simplicity of statement by this form of the Evolution theory, we pay for dearly when we come to its application; nay more, as soon as we attempt to translate the words into clear and distinct ideas, we are left with nothing coherent that the mind can get hold of; and it is only at this price that we can cut away the basis of the "argument from adaptability," and with it the basis of all reason and morality. We must therefore go on to examine if there be any alternative form of the same philosophy more bearable. I have forborne all criticism of the supposed _facts_ on which Evolution is based; as others have dealt frequently with their various weaknesses. Nor do I think it necessary to deal with the extravagant subordinate hypotheses by aid of which facts are forced under the main hypothesis, e.g., those which explain how the horse grew out of the hipparion. The crudest finalists have been everywhere out-stripped by Evolutionists in dextrous application of the argument _a posse ad esse_. Assuming still that the facts collected and arranged by experimental science in favour of the hypothesis are such as to demand some kind of Evolution-philosophy; assuming that the very imperfect serial classification of living things according to their degree of organic definiteness, coherence, and heterogeneity not merely represents a variety which has always coexisted since life was possible on this earth, but rather traces out or hints at the genetic process by which this variety has been produced, let us see if there be any other governing principle directing the process, more intelligible than the persistence of that mere organic life which cannot even be thought of as distinct from those appliances and functions which it is supposed to have evolved for its own service by "natural selection." Thus conceived, the course of evolution is comparable, not as before, to the gradual unveiling of a blank canvas, revealing simply a greater extent of the same appearance, but to the gradual unveiling of a picture whose full unity of meaning is held in suspense till the disclosure is completed. We do not now interpret the higher by the lower, but the lower by the higher; the beginning by the end. This may seem perilously near to finalism, yet it is no more necessarily so, than the process of photography; we only need a self-adaptive tendency in life-matter responsive to the stimulating-tendency of the environment. Not, of course, that this bundle of words really explains anything, but that like other formulae of the kind, it prescinds from the question of ends and origins, by making a statement of what happens serve as a cause of what happens, and calling it a Law or a Tendency, or a Latent Potentiality--thus filling the gap which mere agnosticism creates in our thought. The part played by struggle and competition in this process of Evolution is naturally exaggerated by those who deny any latent tendency other than that of mere persistence in being; who repudiate an internal expansiveness towards fuller kinds of existence, drawn out or checked by the environment. Competition plays a prominent part when there is question of the lower grades of life, in so far as these depend on a pabulum that is limited in quantity. In such cases competition, within certain limits, will secure the bringing-out of latent powers by which the lower level of life is maintained and a higher level entered upon; the lower being secured by the superimposition of the higher. This supposition is not adverse to the derivation of species from a common stock, but rather favours the notion that as in the case of the individual the period of plasticity is short compared with that of morphological stability, so if there was such an arboreal branching out of species from a common root, it took place rapidly in conditions as different from ours as those of uterine from extra-uterine life; and that the stage of inflexibility may have been reached before any time of which we have record. But in truth when we see in the world of chemical substances an altogether similar sedation of species where there can be no question of common descent as its cause, we may well suspend our judgment till the established facts have excluded the many hypotheses other than Evolution by which they may be explained. As long as Evolution claims to be no more than a working scientific hypothesis, like ether or electric fluid--a sort of frame or subjective category into which observed facts are more conveniently fitted, it cannot justly be pressed for a solution of ultimate problems; but when it claims to be a complete philosophy and as such to extrude other philosophies previously in possession, it must show that it can rest the mind where they leave it restless; or that it has proved their proffered solutions spurious. This, so far, it has absolutely failed to do. At most it may determine more accurately the way in which God works out His Idea in Creation. It can stand as long as it is content to prescind from the question of ends and origins; but then it is no longer a complete philosophy. As soon as it attempts to solve those problems it becomes incoherent and unthinkable. Its true complement is theism and finality, which flow from it as naturally, if not quite so immediately as the "argument from adaptability." _Deus creavit_ is so far the only moderately intelligible, or at least not demonstrably unintelligible, answer given to the problem of _In principio_. IDEALISM IN STRAITS. "Can any good come out of Trinity?" is a question that has been asked and answered in various senses during the recent Catholic University controversies in Ireland; but for whatever other good Catholics might look to that staunchly Elizabethan institution, they would scarcely turn thither for theological guidance. Yet all definition is negative as well as positive; exclusive as well as inclusive; and we always know our position more deeply and accurately in the measure that we comprehend those other positions to which it is opposed. The educative value of comparing notes, quite apart from all prospect of coming to an agreement, or even of flaying our adversaries alive, is simply inestimable; we do not rightly know where we stand, except in so far as we know where others stand--for place is relative. The unification it effects when treated rigorously as a complete philosophy leaves out of account the best part of what it was bound to account for. In spite of idealism, the idealist goes on _believing_ in other persons or spheres of experience, and in Nature as the experience of a Divine Person. But since, on his principles, persons are mutually exclusive, and none can enter the sphere of another's experience, to see with his eyes, or to feel with his nerves, since, Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe Our hermit spirits dwell and range apart, We have but hinted at the barest outlines of Mr. D'Arcy's argument which, as against Idealism, is close-reasoned and subtle; and now we have left but little space to deal with the more really interesting chapter on the "Ultimate Unity." It is not pretended that we can form any conception of the precise nature of that unity, but merely that some such unknown kind of unity is needed to deliver us from the antinomies of thought. As we could never rise to the intrinsic conception of personal unity from the consideration of some lower unity, material or mechanical; so neither can we pass from the notion of personal to that of superpersonal unity or being. That God is love; and that love, which as an affection, produces an affective unity between separate persons, can as the subsistent and primal unity produce a substantial and ineffable union of which the other is a shadow, is a view towards which revelation points. That the mere affection of love, the moral union of wills, is an insufficient unification of personalities is implied by the fact that love always tends to some sort of real union and communication; and still more, that it springs from a sense of inexplicable identity. It is almost a crime in criticism to deal with such a multitude of deep problems in so brief and hasty an essay. But if we have roughly indicated the main outlines of the author's position, we shall have done as much as can be reasonably expected of us; though it is with great reluctance that we pass over many points, and even whole chapters, bristling with interest.	redpajama-book	14,959
Produced by Simon Page THE LURE OF THE DIM TRAILS CHAPTER I. IN SEARCH OF THE WESTERN TONE "A meal and a bed--that's good; you must think I live like a king." "And I notice you hate like the mischief to fail, even though." "Only I never have failed," put in Reeve-Howard, with the amused complacency born of much adulation. Thurston kicked a foot-rest out of his way. "Well, I have. The fashion now is for swashbuckling tales with a haze of powder smoke rising to high heaven. The public taste runs to gore and more gore, and kidnappings of beautiful maidens-bah!" "Follow the fashion then--if you must write. Get out of your pink tea and orchid atmosphere, and take your heroines out West--away out, beyond the Mississippi, and let them be kidnapped. Or New Mexico would do." "New Mexico is also beyond the Mississippi, I believe," Thurston hinted. "I have," Thurston sighed. "My last rejection states that the local color is weak and unconvincing. Hang the local color!" The foot-rest suffered again. While he brooded grew a keen longing to see again the little town huddled under the bare, brown hills that shut out the world; to see the gay-blanketed Indians who stole like painted shadows about the place, and the broad river always hurrying away to the sunrise. He had been afraid of the river and of the bare hills and the Indians. He felt that his mother, also, had been afraid. He pictured again--and he picture was blurred and indistinct-the day when strange men had brought his father mysteriously home; men who were silent save for the shuffling of their feet, and who carried their big hats awkwardly in their hands. Thurston glanced up impersonally, hesitated between annoyance and a natural desire to, be courteous, and replied that he had no memory of any previous meeting. "Mebby not," admitted the other, and searched the face of Thurston with his keen eyes. It came to Phil that they were also a bit wistful, but he went unsympathetically back to his reading. Phil stared and confessed to all but the "Bud." "That's what me and your dad always called yuh," the man asserted. "Well, I'll be hanged! But I knew it. I knew I'd run acrost yuh somewheres. You're the dead image uh your dad, Bill Thurston. And me and Bill freighted together from Whoop-up to Benton along in the seventies. Before yuh was born we was chums. I don't reckon you'd remember me? Hank Graves, that used to pack yuh around on his back, and fill yuh up on dried prunes--when dried prunes was worth money? Yuh used to call 'em 'frumes,' and--Why, it was me with your dad when the Indians pot-shot him at Chimney Rock; and it was me helped your mother straighten things up so she could pull out, back where she come from. She never took to the West much. How is she? Dead? Too bad; she was a mighty fine woman, your mother was. "Well, I'll-be-hanged! Bud Thurston little, tow-headed Bud that used to holler for 'frumes' if he seen me coming a mile off. Doggone your measly hide, where's all them pink apurns yuh used to wear?" He leaned back and laughed--a silent, inner convulsion of pure gladness. So, borne swiftly into the West they talked, and the time seemed short. The train had long since been racing noisily over the silent prairies spread invitingly with tender green--great, lonely, inscrutable, luring men with a spell as sure and as strong as is the spell of the sea. CHAPTER II. LOCAL COLOR IN THE RAW For a long time the gaze of Thurston clung fascinated to the wide prairie land, feeling again the stir in his blood. Then, when a deep cut shut from him the sight of the wilderness, he chanced to turn his head, and looked straight into the clear, blue-gray eyes of a girl across the aisle. Thurston considered himself immune from blue-gray--or any other-eyes, so that he permitted himself to regard her calmly and judicially, his mind reverting to the fact that he would need a heroine to be kidnapped, and wondering if she would do. She was a Western girl, he could tell that by the tan and by her various little departures from the Eastern styles--such as doing her hair low rather than high. Where he had been used to seeing the hair of woman piled high and skewered with many pins, hers was brushed smoothly back-smoothly save for little, irresponsible waves here and there. Thurston decided that the style was becoming to her. He wondered if the fellow beside her were her brother; and then reminded himself sagely that brothers do not, as a rule, devote their time quite so assiduously to the entertainment of their sisters. He could not stare at her forever, and so he gave over his speculations and went back to the prairies. Another hour, and Thurston was stiffing a yawn when the coaches bumped sharply together and, with wheels screeching protest as the brakes clutched them, the train, grinding protest in every joint, came, with a final heavy jar, to a dead stop. Thurston thought it was a wreck, until out ahead came the sharp crackling of rifles. A passenger behind him leaned out of the window and a bullet shattered the glass above his head; he drew back hastily. Thurston had never before seen death come to a man, and the very suddenness of it unnerved him. All his faculties were numbed before that terrible, pitiless form in the door, and the limp, dead body at his feet in the aisle. He did not even remember that here was the savage local color he had come far a-seeking. He quite forgot to improve the opportunity by making mental note of all the little, convincing details, as was his wont. Presently he awoke to the realization of certain words spoken insistently close beside him. He turned his eyes and saw that the girl, her eyes staring straight before her, her slim, brown hands uplifted, was yet commanding him imperiously, her voice holding to that murmuring monotone more discreet than a whisper. "The gun--drop down--and get it. He can't see to shoot for the seat in front. Get the gun. Get the gun!" was what she was saying. Thurston looked at her helplessly, imploringly. In truth, he had never fired a gun in all his peaceful life. "The gun--get it--and shoot!" Her eyes moved quickly in a cautious, side-long glance that commanded impatiently. Her straight eyebrows drew together imperiously. Then, when he met her eyes with that same helpless look, she said another word that hurt. It was "Coward!" Thurston looked down at the gun, and at the huddled form. A tiny river of blood was creeping toward him. Already it had reached his foot, and his shoe was red along the sole. He moved his foot quickly away from it, and shuddered. "Coward!" murmured the girl contemptuously again, and a splotch of anger showed under the tan of her cheek. Thurston caught his breath and wondered if he could do it; he looked toward the door and thought how far it was to send a bullet straight when a man has never, in all his life, fired a gun. And without looking he could see that horrible, red stream creeping toward him like some monster in a nightmare. His flesh crimpled with physical repulsion, but he meant to try; perhaps he could shoot the man in the mask, so that there would be another huddled, lifeless Thing on the floor, and another creeping red stream. Then a puff of cool, prairie breeze came in through the shattered window behind Thurston, and the smoke-cloud lifted like a curtain blown upward in the wind. The tawny-haired young fellow was walking coolly down the aisle, the smoking revolver pointing like an accusing finger toward the outlaw who lay stretched upon his face, his fingers twitching. News of the holdup had been telegraphed ahead, and all Shellanne--which was not much of a crowd--gathered at the station to meet the train and congratulate the heroes. Thurston alighted almost shamefacedly into the midst of the loud-voiced commotion. While he was looking uncertainly about him, wondering where to go and what to do, a voice he knew hailed him with drawling welcome. "Hello, Bud. Got back quicker than you expected, didn't yuh? It's lucky I happened to be in town--yuh can ride out with me. Say, yuh got quite a bunch uh local color for a story, didn't yuh? You'll be writing blood-and-thunder for a month on the strength of this little episode, I reckon." his twinkling eyes teased, though his face was quite serious, as was his voice. She of the blue-gray eyes turned and measured Thurston with a deliberate, leisurely glance, and her mouth still had that unpleasant expression. Thurston guiltily, but Hank Graves lifted his hat and called her Mona, and asked her if she wasn't scared stiff, and if she were home to stay. Then he beckoned to the tawny-haired fellow with his finger, and winked at Mona--a proceeding which shocked Thurston considerably. Miss Stevens gave him a chilly smile, the kind that is worse than none at all and turned her back, thinly pretending that she heard her brother calling her, which she did not. Her brother was loudly explaining what would have happened if he had been on that train and had got a whack at the robbers, and his sister was far from his mind. Graves slapped the shoulder of the fellow they had called Park. "You young devil, next time I leave the place for a week--yes, or overnight--I'll lock yuh up in the blacksmith shop. Have yuh got to be Mona's special escort, these days?" "Wish I was," Park retorted, unmoved. Late that night Thurston lay upon a home-made bed and listened to the frogs croaking monotonously in the hollow behind the house, and to the lone coyote which harped upon the subject of his wrongs away on a distant hillside, and to the subdued snoring of Hank Graves in the room beyond. He was trying to adjust himself to this new condition of things, and the new condition refused utterly to be measured by his accepted standard. According to that standard, he should feel repulsed and annoyed by the familiarity of strangers who persisted in calling him "Bud" without taking the trouble to find out whether or not he liked it. And what puzzled Thurston and put him all at sea was the consciousness that he did like it, and that it struck familiarly upon his ears as something to which he had been accustomed in the past. Also, according to his well-ordered past, he should hate this raw life and rawer country where could occur such brutal things as he had that day witnessed. He should dislike a man like Park Holloway who, having wounded a man unto death, had calmly dismissed the subject with the regret that his aim had not been better, so that he could have saved the county the expense of trying and hanging the fellow. Thurston was amazed to find that, down in the inner man of him, he admired Park Holloway exceedingly, and privately resolved to perfect himself in the use of fire-arms, he who had been wont to deplore the thinly veneered savagery of men who liked such things. After much speculation he decided that Mona Stevens would not do for a kidnapped heroine. He could not seem to "see" her in such a position, and, besides, he told himself that such a type of girl did not attract him at all. She had called him a coward--and why? simply because he, straight from the trammels of civilization, had not been prepared to meet the situation thrust upon him-which she had thrust upon him. She had demanded of him something he had not the power to accomplish, and she had called him a coward. And in his heart Thurston knew that it was unjust, and that he was not a coward. Properly humbled in spirit, he sat down to the kitchen table and ate his belated breakfast, while the cook kneaded bread at the other end of the same table and eyed Thurston with frank amusement. Thurston had never before been conscious of feeling ill at ease in the presence of a servant, and hurried through the meal so that he could escape into the clear sunshine, feeling a bit foolish in the unaccustomed bagginess of his riding breeches and the snugness of his leggings; for he had never taken to outdoor sports, except as an onlooker from the shade of a grand stand or piazza. "Heavy, ain't it?" Park laughed, and slipped the bridle down over the ears of his horse and dismissed him with a slap on the rump. "Don't yuh like the looks of it?" he added indulgently. Thurston, engaged in wondering what all those little strings were for, felt the indulgence and straightened. "How should I know?" he retorted. "Anyone can see that my ignorance is absolute. I expect you to laugh at me, Mr. Holloway." Thurston had not intended getting out and actually living the life he had come to observe, but something got in his nerves and his blood and bred an impulse to which he yielded without reserve. "Park, see here," he said eagerly. "Graves said he'd turn me over to you, so you could--er--teach me wisdom. It's deuced rough on you, but I hope you won't refuse to be bothered with me. I want to learn--everything. And I want you to find fault like the mischief, and--er--knock me into shape, if it's possible." He was very modest over his ignorance, and his voice rang true. Park studied him gravely. "Bud," he said at last, "you'll do. You're greener right now than a blue-joint meadow in June, but yuh got the right stuff in yuh, and it's a go with me. You come along with us after that trail-herd, and you'll get knocked into shape fast enough. Smoke?" Thurston shook his head. "Not those." "I dunno I'm afraid yuh can't be the real thing unless yuh fan your lungs with cigarette smoke regular." The twinkle belied him, though. "Say, where did you pick them bloomers?" "They were made in New York." Thurston smiled in sickly fashion. He had all along been uncomfortably aware of the sharp contrast between his own modish attire and the somewhat disreputable leathern chaps of his host's foreman. "Well," commented Park, "you told me to find fault like the mischief, and I'm going to call your bluff. This here's Montana, recollect, and I raise the long howl over them habiliments. The best thing you can do is pace along to the house and discard before the boys get sight of yuh. They'd queer yuh with the whole outfit, sure. Uh course," he went on soothingly when he saw the resentment in Thurston's eyes, "I expect they're real stylish--back East--but the boys ain't educated to stand for anything like that; they'd likely tell yuh they set like the hide on the hind legs of an elephant--which is a fact. I hate to say it, Kid, but they sure do look like the devil." "So would you, in New York," Thurston flung back at him. Thurston, albeit in resentful mood, went meekly and did as he was commanded to do; and no man save Park and the cook ever glimpsed those smart riding clothes of English cut. "A string? I'm afraid I don't quite understand." "Why, Bud, if you're a man, you'll be plumb spoiled for your little old East." Then he swung back his feet and the horses broke into a lope which jarred the unaccustomed frame of Thurston mightily, though he kept the pace doggedly. "I've got to go down to the Stevens place," Park informed him. "You met Mona yesterday--it was her come down on the train with me, yuh remember." Thurston did remember very distinctly. "Hank says yuh compose stories. Is that right?" "Well, there's a lot in this country that ain't ever been wrote about, I guess; at least if it was I never read it, and I read considerable. But the trouble is, them that know ain't in the writing business, and them that write don't know. The way I've figured it, they set back East somewhere and write it like they think maybe it is; and it's a hell of a job they make of it." "I didn't know," said Thurston dubiously, "that you ever shipped cattle into this country. I supposed you shipped them out. Is Mr. Graves buying some?" CHAPTER IV. THE TRAIL-HERD Thurston tucked the bulb of his camera down beside the bellows and closed the box with a snap. "I wonder what old Reeve would say to that view," he mused aloud. "Oh, a fellow back in New York. Jove! he'd throw up his dry-point heads and take to oils and landscapes if he could see this." The "this" was a panoramic view of the town and surrounding valley of Billings. The day was sunlit and still, and far objects stood up with sharp outlines in the clear atmosphere. Here and there the white tents of waiting trail-outfits splotched the bright green of the prairie. Horsemen galloped to and from the town at top speed, and a long, grimy red stock train had just snorted out on a siding by the stockyards where the bellowing of thirsty cattle came faintly like the roar of pounding surf in the distance. "Perhaps," he remarked hopefully, "the next train will be ours." Strange how soon a man may identify himself with new conditions and new aims. He had come West to look upon the life from the outside, and now his chief thought was of the coming steers, which he referred to unblushingly as "our cattle." Such is the spell of the range. "Let's ride on over, Bud," Park proposed. "That's likely the Circle Bar shipment. Their bunch comes from the same place ours does, and I want to see how they stack up." "I'm going to take my Kodak," said he. "I like to watch them unload, and I can get some good pictures, with this sunlight." It was an old story with Park, and Thurston's enthusiasm struck him as a bit funny. He perched upon a corner of the fence out of the way, and smoked cigarettes while he watched the cattle and shouted pleasantries to the men who prodded and swore and gesticulated at the wild-eyed huddle in the pens. Soon his turn would come, but just now he was content to look on and take his ease. "Good shot," Park encouraged, "but I'd advise yuh to take another target. You'll have the tent down over Scotty's ears, and then you'll think yuh stirred up a mess uh hornets. "Well," Park retorted, "it'll be your own funeral if yuh get fired. Better stake yourself to a pair uh chaps; you'll need 'em on the trip." "Also a large, rainbow-hued silk handkerchief if I want to look the part," Thurston bantered. When he went back into the dust and roar, Park ordered him curtly to tend the branding fire, since both crews would brand that afternoon and get the corrals cleared for the next shipment. Thurston thanked Park mentally; tending branding-fire sounded very much like child's play. Soon the gray dust-cloud took on a shade of blue in places where the smoke from the fires cut through; a new tang smote the nostrils: the rank odor of burning hair and searing hides; a new note crept into the clamoring roar: the low-keyed blat of pain and fright. "I hope so; at any rate, I have a deep, inner knowledge of the joys of branding cattle." "Roll out, boys--we got a train pulling in!" CHAPTER V. THE STORM "Aw, they'll be miles away by then," Bob assured him unfeelingly. "By the signs, you can take snap-shots by lightning in another hour. Got your slicker, Bud?" Thurston said he hadn't, and Bob shook his head prophetically. "You'll sure wish yuh had it before yuh hit camp again; when yuh get wise, you'll ride with your slicker behind the cantle, rain or shine. They'll need singing to, to-night." Thurston prudently kept silent, since he knew nothing whatever about it, and Bob gave him minute directions about riding his rounds, and how to turn a stray animal back into the herd without disturbing the others. The man they relieved met them silently and rode away to camp. Off to the right an animal coughed, and a black shape moved out from the shadows. "She's o-only a bird in a gil-ded cage, A beautiful sight to see-e-e; You may think she seems ha-a-aappy and free from ca-a-re.." "Her beauty was so-o-old For an old man's go-o-old, She's a bird in a gilded ca-a-age." "I stood in a church-yard just at ee-eve, While the sunset adorned the west." "Say," Bob began when he came near enough, "do yuh know the words uh that piece? It's a peach; I wisht you'd sing it." He rode on, still humming the woes of the lady who married for gold. Thurston obeyed while the high-piled thunder-heads rumbled deep accompaniment, like the resonant lower tones of a bass viol. "Last night I lay a-sleeping, there came a dream so fair; I stood in old Jerusalem, beside the temple there." A steer stepped restlessly out of the herd, and Thurston's horse, trained to the work, of his own accord turned him gently back. "I heard the children singing; and ever as they sang, Me thought the voice of angels from heaven in answer rang." From the west the thunder boomed, drowning the words in its deep-throated growl. "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, lift up your gates and sing." "Hit her up a little faster, Bud, or we'll lose some. They're getting on their feet with that thunder." Sunfish, in answer to Thurston's touch on the reins, quickened to a trot. The joggling was not conducive to the best vocal expression, but the singer persevered: "Hosanna in the highest, Hosanna to your King!" Flash! the lightning cut through the storm-clouds, and Bob, who had contented himself with a subdued whistling while he listened, took up the refrain: "Jerusalem, Jerusalem." "Keep a-hollering, Bud!" came the command, and after it Bob's voice trilled high above the thunder-growl: "Hosanna in the high-est. Hosanna to your King!" "There's a bunch a-running," called Bob from across the frightened herd. "If they hit us, give Sunfish his head, he's been there before--and keep on the outside!" That was what saved him, for he had the sense to obey. After a few minutes of breathless racing, with a roar as of breakers in his ears and the crackle of clashing horns and the gleaming of rolling eyeballs close upon his horse's heels, he found himself washed high and dry, as it were, while the tumult swept by. Presently he was galloping along behind and wondering dully how he got there, though perhaps Sunfish knew well enough. He heard a man's voice calling to him, and distinguished the dim shape of a rider close by. He shouted that password of the range, "Hello!" "What outfit is this?" the man cried again. Down the long length of the valley they swept, gathering to themselves other herds and other riders as incensed as were themselves. It is not pretty work, nor amusing, to gallop madly in the wake of a stampede at night, keeping up the stragglers and taking the chance of a broken neck with the rain to make matters worse. Bob MacGregor sought Thurston with much shouting, and having found him they rode side by side. And always the thunder boomed overhead, and by the lightning flashes they glimpsed the turbulent sea of cattle fleeing, they knew not where or why, with blind fear crowding their heels. The noise of it roused the camps as they thundered by; men rose up, peered out from bed-tents as the stampede swept past, cursed the delay it would probably make, hoped none of the boys got hurt, and thanked the Lord the tents were pitched close to the creek and out of the track of the maddened herds. Then they went back to bed to wait philosophically for daylight. When Sunfish, between flashes, stumbled into a shallow washout, and sent Thurston sailing unbeautifully over his head, Bob pulled up and slid off his horse in a hurry. "Yuh hurt, Bud?" he cried anxiously, bending over him. For Thurston, from the very frankness of his verdant ignorance, had won for himself the indulgent protectiveness of the whole outfit; not a man but watched unobtrusively over his welfare--and Bob MacGregor went farther and loved him whole-heartedly. His voice, when he spoke, was unequivocally frightened. Thurston sat up and wiped a handful of mud off his face; if it had not been so dark Bob would have shouted at the spectacle. "I'm 'kinda sorter shuck up like,"' he quoted ruefully. "And my nose is skinned, thank you. Where's that devil of a horse?" Bob stood over him and grinned. "My, I'm surprised at yuh, Bud! What would your Sunday-school teacher say if she heard yuh? Anyway, yuh ain't got any call to cuss Sunfish; he ain't to blame. He's used to fellows that can ride." "Shut up!" Thurston commanded inelegantly. "I'd like to see you ride a horse when he's upside down!" "Aw, come on," urged Bob, giving up the argument. "We'll be plumb lost from the herd if we don't hustle." They got into their saddles again and went on, riding by sound and the rare glimpses the lightning gave them as it flared through the storm away to the east. "Wet?" Bob sung out sympathetically from the streaming shelter of his slicker. Thurston, wriggling away from his soaked clothing, grunted a sarcastic negative. Thurston took up his station next to Bob; rode until he met the next man, and then retraced his steps till he faced Bob again; rode until the world seemed unreal and far away, with nothing left but the night and the riding back and forth on his beat, and the rain that oozed through his clothes and trickled uncomfortably down inside his collar. He lost all count of time, and was startled when at last came gray dawn. "Lord! Bud, you're a sight! Did the bunch walk over yuh?" he greeted. "No, only Sunfish," snapped Thurston crossly. Time was when Philip Thurston would not have answered any man abruptly, however great the provocation. He was only lately getting down to the real, elemental man of him; to the son of Bill Thurston, bull-whacker, prospector, follower of dim trails. He rode silently back to camp with Bob, ate his breakfast, got into dry clothes and went out and tied his slicker deliberately and securely behind the cantle of his saddle, though the sun was shining straight into his eyes and the sky fairly twinkled, it was so clean of clouds. "We've got to go back and help with the herd, haven't we?" Thurston asked. "The horses are all out." "Yep. They'll stay out, too, till noon, m'son. We hike to bed, if anybody should ask yuh." Bob told him it was the biggest mix-up he had ever seen, and Bob had ridden the range in every State where beef grows wild. He was in the thickest of the huddle, was Bob, working as if he did not know the meaning of fatigue. Thurston, watching him thread his way in and out of the restless, milling herd, only to reappear unexpectedly at the edge with a steer just before the nose of his horse, rush it out from among the others--wheeling, darting this way and that, as it tried to dodge back, and always coming off victor, wondered if he could ever learn to do it. Being in pessimistic mood, he told himself that he would probably always remain a greenhorn, to be borne with and coached and given boy's work to do; all because he had been cheated of his legacy of the dim trails and forced to grow up in a city, hedged about all his life by artificial conditions, his conscience wedded to convention. "I wish I could handle a gun," Thurston said between his teeth. "I'd go after them myself. I wish I'd been left to grow up out here where I belong. I'm all West but the training--and I never knew it till a month ago! I ought to ride and rope and shoot with the best of you, and I can't do a thing. All I know is books. I can criticize an opera and a new play, and I'm considered something of an authority on clothes, but I can't shoot." "I brought my gun along," Bob told him apologetically when they were left to themselves. "It's a habit I've got when I know there's bad men rampaging around the country. The boys kinda gave me the laugh when they seen me haul it out uh my war bag, but I just told 'em to go to thunder." "Naw. Uh course not. I just pack it on general principles, same as an old woman packs her umbrella." "Too bad yuh don't smoke, Bud. There's nothing like a good, smooth rock to your back and a cigarette in your face, on a nice, lazy day like this. It's the only kind uh day-herding I got any use for." "I'll take the rock to my back, if you'll just slide along and make room," Thurston laughed. "I don't hanker for a cigarette, but I do wish I had my Kodak." "Aw, t'ell with your Kodak!" Bob snorted. "Can't yuh carry this layout in your head? I've got a picture gallery in mine that I wouldn't trade for a farm; I don't need no Kodak in mine, thankye. You just let this here view soak into your system, Bud, where yuh can't lose it." "The composer would feel flattered if he heard that," Thurston laughed. He wanted to be left alone to day-dream and watch the clouds trail lazily across to meet the hills; and there was an embryonic poem forming, phrase by phrase, in his mind. But he couldn't refuse Bob anything, so he sat a bit straighter and cleared his throat. He sang well--well enough indeed to be sought after at informal affairs among his set at home. When he came to the refrain Bob took his cigarette from between his lips and held it in his fingers while he joined his voice lustily to Thurston's: "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Lift up your gates and sing Hosanna in the high-est. Hosanna to your King!" Tamale lifted his head and gazed inquiringly up the hill; but Bob was not observant of signs just then. He was Striving with his recreant memory for the words that came after: "The sun grew dark with mystery, The morn was cold and still, As the shadow of a cross arose Upon a lonely hill." Tamale stirred restlessly with head uplifted and ears pointed straight before up the steep bluff. Old Ironsides, Thurston's mount, was not the sort to worry about anything but his feed, and paid no attention. Bob turned and glanced the way Tamale was looking; saw nothing, and settled down again on the small of his back. "He sees a badger or something," he Said. "Go on, Bud, with the chorus." "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Lift up your gates and sing." "Lift up your hands damn quick!" mimicked a voice just behind. "If yuh ain't got anything to do but lay in the shade of a rock and yawp, we'll borrow your cayuses. You ain't needin' 'em, by the looks!" Just then a rifle cracked, and Bob toppled drunkenly and went limply to the grass. When the rank timber-growth hid their flying figures he crawled over to where Bob lay and tried to lift him. "Art you hurt?" was the idiotic question he asked. "I'm afraid not," Thurston confessed, and immediately after wished that he had lied and said yes. "Are you hurt?" he repeated senselessly. "Who, me?" Bob's eyes wavered in their directness. "Don't yuh bother none about me," evasively. "Well--I guess they got me, all right. But don't let that worry yuh; it don't me." He tried to speak carelessly and convincingly, but it was a miserable failure. He did not want to die, did Bob, however much he might try to hide the fact. Bob tried to lift himself to his elbow; failing that, he put out a hand and laid it on Thurston's shoulder. "Did they--get you--too?" he queried anxiously. "It's nothing; just a leg put out of business," Thurston hurried to assure him. "Where are you hurt, Bob?" "Aw, I ain't any X-ray," Bob retorted weakly but gamely. "Somewheres inside uh me. It went in my side but the Lord knows where it wound up. It hurts, like the devil." He lay quiet a minute. "I wish--do yuh feel--like finishing--that song, Bud?" Thurston gulped down a lump that was making his throat ache. When he answered, his voice was very gentle: "I'll try a verse, old man." "You're not!" Thurston contradicted fiercely, as if that could make it different. He thought he could not bear those jerky sentences. "All right--Bud. We won't fight over it. Go ahead. The last verse." Thurston eased his leg to a better position, drew himself up till his shoulders rested against the rock and began, with an occasional, odd break in his voice: And so Park and his men, hurrying to the sound of the shooting, found them in the shadow of the rock. CHAPTER VII. AT THE STEVENS PLACE When the excitement of the outrage had been pushed aside by the insistent routine of everyday living, Thurston found himself thrust from the fascination of range life and into the monotony of invalidism, and he was anything but resigned. To be sure, he was well cared for at the Stevens ranch, where Park and the boys had taken him that day, and Mrs. Stevens mothered him as he could not remember being mothered before. Thurston told him he hoped they would be caught and--yes, hanged; though he had never before advocated capital punishment. But when he thought of Bob, the care-naught, whole-souled fellow. He was glad that it was Mona who smiled down at him instead of a grand-mother or an aunt. For Mona did smile, and in spite of the cheap crudity the smile was roguish, with little dimply creases at the corners of the mouth, and not at all unpleasant. If the girl would only look like that in real life, he told himself, a fellow would probably get to liking her. He supposed she thought him a greater coward than ever now, just because he hadn't got killed. If he had, he would be a hero now, like Bob. Well, Bob was a hero; the way he had jumped up and begun shooting required courage of the suicidal sort. He had stood up and shot, also and had succeeded only in being ridiculous; he hoped nobody had told Mona about his hitting that steer. When he could walk again he would learn to shoot, so that the range stock wouldn't suffer from his marksmanship. When he wrote a story about a fellow being laid up in the same house with a girl--a girl with big, blue-gray eyes and ripply brown hair--he would have the girl treat the fellow at least decently. She would read poetry to him and bring him flowers, and do ever so many nice things that would make him hate to get well. He decided that he would write just that kind of story; he would idealize it, of course, and have the fellow in love with the girl; you have to, in stories. In real life it doesn't necessarily follow that, because a fellow admires a girl's hair and eyes, and wants to be on friendly terms, he is in love with her. For example, he emphatically was not in love with Mona Stevens. He only wanted her to be decently civil and to stop holding a foolish grudge against him for not standing up and letting himself be shot full of holes because she commanded it. In the afternoons, Mrs. Stevens would sit beside him and knit things and talk to him in a pleasantly garrulous fashion, and he would lie and listen to her--and to Mona, singing somewhere. Mona sang very well, he thought; he wondered if she had ever had any training. Also, he wished he dared ask her not to sing that song about "She's only a bird in a gilded cage." It brought back too vividly the nights when he and Bob stood guard under the quiet stars. He was sitting, revolver in hand, watching the Wagners give a practical demonstration of the extent of their appetites, when Thurston limped in from the porch, his eyes darker than usual. "There are a lot of riders coming, Mr. Lauman," he announced quietly. "It sounds like a whole roundup. I thought you ought to know." The prisoners went white, and put down knife and fork. If they had never feared before, plainly they were afraid then. Lauman's face did not in the least change. "Put the hand-cuffs on, Waller," he said. "If you've got a room that ain't easy to get at from the outside, Mrs. Stevens, I guess I'll have to ask yuh for the use of it." Mrs. Stevens had lived long in Valley County, and had learned how to meet emergencies. "Put 'em right down cellar," she invited briskly. "There's just the trap-door into it, and the windows ain't big enough for a cat to go through. Mona, get a candle for Mr. Lauman." She turned to hurry the girl, and found Mona at her elbow with a light. "That's the kind uh woman I like to have around," Lauman chuckled. "Come on, boys; hustle down there if yuh want to see Glasgow again." Trembling, all their dare-devil courage sapped from them by the menace of Thurston's words, they stumbled down the steep stairs, and the darkness swallowed them. Lauman beckoned to his deputy. "You go with 'em, Waller," he ordered. "If anybody but me offers to lift this trap, shoot. Don't yuh take any chances. Blow out that candle soon as you're located." "Why, hello, boys," he greeted cheerfully. But for the rifle you never would have guessed he knew their errand. "Hello, Lauman," answered Park, matching him for cheerfulness. Then: "I'll hang 'em just as dead as you can," Lauman argued. "But yuh won't do it so quick," Park lashed back. "They're spoiling the air every breath they draw. We want 'em, and I guess that pretty near settles it." "Not by a damn sight it don't! I've never had a man took away from me yet, boys, and I've been your sheriff a good many years. You hike right back to camp; yuh can't have 'em." But the men were pressing closer, and their very calmness, had he known it, was ominous. Lauman shifted his rifle ready for instant aim. "There's never been a man hung by law in this county yet," a voice cried angrily and impatiently. "That ain't saying there never will be," Lauman flung back. "Don't yuh worry, they'll get all that's coming to them, all right." "How about the time yuh had 'em in your rotten old jail, and let 'em get out and run loose around the country, killing off white men?" drawled another-a Circle-Bar man. Moved by an impulse he had no name for, Thurston snatched the sheriff's revolver from its scabbard. As the heap squirmed pantingly upon the porch he stepped into the doorway to avoid being tripped, which was the wisest move he could have made, for it put him in the shadow--and there were men of the Circle Bar whose trigger-finger would not have hesitated, just then, had he been in plain sight and had they known his purpose. "Aw, put it down, Bud," Park admonished. "That's too dangerous a toy for you to be playing with--and yuh know damn well yuh can't hit anything." "I know I can't shoot straight," he went on frankly, "but you're taking that much the greater chance. If I have to, I'll cut loose--and there's no telling where the bullets may strike." "That's right," Park admitted. "Stand still, boys; he's more dangerous than a gun that isn't loaded. What d'yuh want, m'son?" "That's what struck me most," he continued. "You know what I thought of Bob, don't you? And I didn't thank them for boring a hole in my leg; it wasn't any kindness of theirs that it didn't land higher--they weren't shooting at me for fun. And I'd have killed them both with a clear conscience, if I could. I tried hard enough. But it was different then; out in the open, where a man had an even break. I don't believe if I had shot as straight as I wanted to that I'd ever have felt a moment's compunction. But now, when they're disarmed and shackled and altogether helpless, I couldn't walk up to them deliberately and kill them could you? "I do," a voice spoke, somewhere in the darkness. "Lawyer from Helena. Never lost a case." "I'm glad to hear it, for he's the man that will prosecute. They haven't a ghost of a show to get out of it. Lauman here is responsible for their safe keeping and I guess, now that he knows them better, we needn't be afraid they'll escape again. And it's as Lauman said; he'll hang them quite as dead as you can. He's drawing a salary to do these things, make him earn it. It's a nasty job, boys, and you wouldn't get anything out of it but a nasty memory." A hand that did not feel like the hand of a man rested for an instant on his arm. Mona brushed by him and stepped out where the rising moon shone on her hair and into her big, blue-gray eyes. "I wish you all would please go away," she said. "You are making mamma sick. She's got it in her head that you are going to do something awful, and I can't convince her you're not. I told her you wouldn't do anything so sneaking, but she's awfully nervous about it. Won't you please go, right now?" A little ripple of laughter went through the crowd. Then they swung up on their horses and galloped away in the moonlight. CHAPTER VIII. A QUESTION OF NERVE Thurston's face turned red. But presently he forgot everything in his amazement, for Mona the dignified, Mona of the scornful eyes and the chilly smile, actually giggled--giggled like any ordinary girl, and shot him a glance that had in it pure mirth and roguish teasing, and a dash of coquetry. He sat down and giggled with her, feeling idiotically happy and for no reason under the sun that he could name. This was the reason inspired by his great desire: he was going to write a story, and Mona was unconsciously to furnish the material for his heroine, and so, of course, he needed to be there so that he might study his subject. That sounded very well, to himself, but to Hank Graves, for some reason, it seemed very funny. When Thurston told him, Hank was taken with a fit of strangling that turned his face a dark purple. Afterward he explained brokenly that something had got down his Sunday throat--and Thurston, who had never heard of a man's Sunday throat, eyed him with suspicion. Hank blinked at him with tears still in his quizzical eyes and slapped him on the back, after the way of the West--and any other enlightened country where men are not too dignified to be their real selves--and drawled, in a way peculiar to himself: "You're getting things mixed," Thurston interrupted, rather testily. "I'm not in love with her. I, well, it's like this: if you were going to paint a picture of those mountains off there, you'd want to be where you could look at them--wouldn't you? You wouldn't necessarily want to--to own them, just because you felt they'd make a fine picture. Your interest would be, er, entirely impersonal." "Uh-huh," Hank agreed, his keen eyes searching Phil's face amusedly. "Therefore, it doesn't follow that I'm getting foolish about a girl just because I--hang it! what the Dickens makes you look at a fellow that way? You make me?" "'Ripple--to have waves--like running water.'" (That was just the way her hair looked, especially over the temples and at the nape of her neck--Jove, what a tempting white neck it was!) "Um-m. 'Ripple; wave; undulate; uneven; irregular.'" (Lord, what fools are the men who write dictionaries!) "'Antonym--hang the antonyms!" The kitchen door slammed. He craned again. It was Jack--going to town most likely. Thurston shrewdly guessed that Mrs. Stevens leaned far more upon Mona than she did upon Jack, although he could hardly accuse her of leaning on anyone. But he observed that the men looked to her for orders. He perceived that the point was gone from his pencil, and proceeded to sharpen it. Then he heard Mona singing in the kitchen, and recollected that Mrs. Stevens had promised him warm doughnuts for supper. Perhaps Mona was frying them at that identical moment--and he had never seen anyone frying doughnuts. He caught up his cane and limped out to investigate. That is how much his heart just then was set upon writing a story that would breathe of the plains. A love story without a hero, while it would no doubt be original and all that, would hardly appeal to an editor. Phil tried heroes wholly imaginary, but he had a trick of making his characters seem very real to himself and sometimes to other people as well. So that, after a few passages of more or less ardent love-making, he would in a sense grow jealous and spoil the story by annihilating the hero thereof. Mona moved a little farther away from him, and when she answered she did not choose her words. "Of all things," she said, evenly, "I admire a brave man and despise a coward. You were chicken-hearted that day, and you know it; you've just admitted it. Why, in another minute I'd have had that gun myself, and I'd have shown you--but Park got it before I really had a chance. I hated to seem spectacular, but it served you right. If you'd had any nerve I wouldn't have had to sit there and tell you what to do. If ever I marry anybody, Mr. Thurston, it will be a man." "Not even if you--liked him?" his smile was wistful. "Not even if I loved him!" Mona declared, and fled into the house. Thurston was going up the stairs to his old room, and Hank could not swear positively to the reply he got. But he thought it sounded like, "Oh, damn the story!" CHAPTER IX. THE DRIFT OF THE HERDS How he filled in the hours he could scarcely have told; certain it is that he accomplished nothing at all so far as Western stories were concerned. Reeve-Howard wrote in slightly shocked phrases to ask what was keeping him so long; and assured him that he was missing much by staying away. Thurston mentally agreed with him long enough to begin packing his trunk; it was idiotic to keep staying on when he was clearly receiving no benefit thereby. When, however, he picked up a book which he had told Mona he would take over to her the next time he went, he stopped and considered: He sat down and wrote at length to Reeve-Howard, explaining very carefully--and not altogether convincingly--just why he could not possibly go home at present. After that he saddled and rode over to the Stevens place with the book, leaving his trunk yawning emptily in the middle of his badly jumbled belongings. Likewise the long hours which he spent on day-herd, when the wind was raw and penetrating and like to blow him out of the saddle; also standing at the stockyard chutes and forcing an unwilling stream of rollicky, wild-eyed steers up into the cars that would carry them to Chicago. He was tanned a fine brown, which became him well. His eyes had lost the dreamy, introspective look of the student and author, and had grown keen with the habit of studying objects at long range. He walked with that peculiar, stiff-legged gait which betrays long hours spent in the saddle, and he wore a silk handkerchief around his neck habitually and had forgotten the feel of a dress-suit. He answered to the name "Bud" more readily than to his own, and he made practical use of the slang and colloquialisms of the plains without any mental quotation marks. Gene Wasson came in and slammed the door emphatically shut after him. "She's sure coming," he complained, while he pulled the icicles from his mustache and cast them into the fire. "She's going to be a real, old howler by the signs. What yuh doing, Bud? Writing poetry?" Thurston nodded assent with certain mental reservations; so far the editors couldn't seem to make up their minds that it was poetry. "I've got some mail for yuh, Bud. And old Hank wanted me to ask yuh if you'd like to go to Glasgow next Thursday and watch old Lauman start the Wagner boys for wherever's hot enough. He can get yuh in, you being in the writing business. He says to tell yuh it's a good chance to take notes, so yuh can write a real stylish story, with lots uh murder and sudden death in it. We don't hang folks out here very often, and yuh might have to go back East after pointers, if yuh pass this up." "Gee! they say here they want a lot the same brand, and at any old price yuh might name. I wouldn't mind writing stories myself." Gene kicked a log back into the flame where it would do the most good. His big, square-shouldered figure stood out sharply against the glow. The winter settled down with bared teeth like a bull-dog, and never a chinook came to temper the cold and give respite to man or beast. Blizzards that held them, in fear of their lives, close to shelter for days, came down from the north; and with them came the drifting herds. By hundreds they came, hurrying miserably before the storms. When the wind lashed them without mercy even in the bottom-land, they pushed reluctantly out upon the snow-covered ice of the Missouri. Then Gene and Thurston watching from their cabin window would ride out and turn them pitilessly back into the teeth of the storm. "Lord! I dunno," Gene answered, shrugging his shoulders against the pity of it. "I seen some brands yesterday that I know belongs up in the Cypress Hills country. If things don't loosen up pretty soon, the whole darned range will be swept clean uh stock as far north as cattle run. I'm looking for reindeer next." "Something ought to be done," Thurston declared uneasily, turning away from the sight. "I've had the bellowing of starving cattle in my ears day and night for nearly a month. The thing's getting on my nerves." "It's getting on the nerves uh them that own 'em a heap worse," Gene told him grimly, and piled more wood on the fire; for the cold bit through even the thick walls of the cabin when the flames in the fireplace died, and the door hinges were crusted deep with ice. "There's going to be the biggest loss this range has ever known." "It's the owners' fault," snapped Thurston, whose nerves were in that irritable state which calls loudly for a vent of some sort. Even argument with Gene, fruitless though it perforce must be, would be a relief. "It's their own fault. I don't pity them any--why don't they take care of their stock? If I owned cattle, do you think I'd sit in the house and watch them starve through the winter?" "He could buy hay," Thurston persisted. "Some of them belong in Canada--you said so yourself." "I know it, but look at all the country south of us: all the other cow States. Why, Bud, when yuh talk about feeding every critter that runs the range, you're plumb foolish." "Anyway, it's a damnable pity!" Thurston asserted petulantly. Thurston laughed shortly. "I suppose it's safe to say I will," he answered. "I ought to have gone last fall, but I didn't. It will probably be the same thing over again; I ought to go in the spring, but I won't." "You bet you won't. Talk about big roundups! what yuh seen last spring wasn't a commencement. Every hoof that crosses this river and lives till spring will have to be rounded up and brought back again. They'll be scattered clean down to the Yellowstone, and every Northern outfit has got to go down and help work the range from there back. I tell yuh, Bud, yuh want to lay in a car-load uh films and throw away all them little, jerk-water snap-shots yuh got. There's going to be roundups like these old Panhandle rannies tell about, when the green grass comes." Gene, thinking blissfully of the tented life, sprawled his long legs toward the snapping blaze and crooned dreamily, while without the blizzard raged more fiercely, a verse from an old camp song: "Out on the roundup, boys, I tell yuh what yuh get Little chunk uh bread and a little chunk uh meat; Little black coffee, boys, chuck full uh alkali, Dust in your throat, boys, and gravel in your eye! So polish up your saddles, oil your slickers and your guns, For we're bound for Lonesome Prairie when the green grass comes." CHAPTER X. THE CHINOOK Thurston drew the blanket up over his ears, for the fire had died to a heap of whitening embers and the cold of the cabin made the nose of him tingle. The roar grew louder and nearer-then the cabin shivered and creaked in the suddenness of the blast that struck it. A clod of dirt plumbed down upon his shoulder, bringing with it a shower of finer particles. "Another blizzard!" he groaned, "and the worst we've had yet, by the sound." The wind shrieked down the chimney and sought the places where the chinking was loose. It howled up the coulees, putting the wolves themselves to shame. Gene flopped over like a newly landed fish, grunted some unintelligible words and slept again. He pitied the poor cattle still fighting famine and frost as only range-bred stock can fight. He pictured them drifting miserably before the fury of the wind or crowding for shelter under some friendly cutback, their tails to the storm, waiting stolidly for the dawn that would bring no relief. Then, with the roar and rattle in his ears, he fell asleep. In that particular line-camp on the Missouri the cook's duties began with building a fire in the morning. Thurston waked reluctantly, shivered in anticipation under the blankets, gathered together his fortitude and crept out of his bunk. While he was dressing his teeth chattered like castanets in a minstrel show. He lighted the fire hurriedly and stood backed close before it, listening to the rage of the wind. He was growing very tired of the monotony of winter; he could no longer see any beauty in the high-turreted, snow-clad hills, nor the bare, red faces of the cliffs frowning down upon him. "Uh-huh!" Gene knuckled his eyes and sat up. "Chinook struck us in the night. Didn't yuh hear it?" Thurston pulled open the door and stood face to face with the miracle of the West. He had seen Mother Nature in many a changeful mood, but never like this. The wind blew warm from the southwest and carried hints of green things growing and the song of birds; he breathed it gratefully into his lungs and let it riot in his hair. The sky was purplish and soft, with heavy, drifting clouds high-piled like a summer storm. It looked like rain, he thought. The bare hills were sodden with snow-water, and the drifts in the coulees were dirt-grimed and forbidding. The great river lay, a gray stretch of water-soaked snow over the ice, with little, clear pools reflecting the drab clouds above. A crow flapped lazily across the foreground and perched like a blot of fresh-spilled ink on the top of a dead cottonwood and cawed raucous greeting to the spring. After breakfast he left the dishes un-washed upon the table and went out and made merry with nature. He could scarce believe that yesterday he had frosted his left ear while he brought a bucket of water up from the river, and that it had made his lungs ache to breathe the chill air. Now the path to the river was black and dry and steamed with warmth. Across the water cattle were feeding greedily upon the brown grasses that only a few hours before had been locked away under a crust of frozen snow. "They won't starve now," he exulted, pointing them out to Gene. "No, you bet not!" Gene answered. "If this don't freeze up on us the wagons 'll be starting in a month or so. I guess we can be thinking about hitting the trail for home pretty soon now. The river'll break up if this keeps going a week. Say, this is out uh sight! It's warmer out uh doors than it is in the house. Darn the old shack, anyway! I'm plumb sick uh the sight of it. It looked all right to me in a blizzard, but now--it's me for the range, m'son." He went off to the stable with long, swinging strides that matched all nature for gladness, singing cheerily: "So polish up your saddles, oil your slickers and your guns, For we're hound for Lonesome Prairie when the green grass comes." CHAPTER XI. FOLLOWING THE DIM TRAILS! Thurston did not go on the horse roundup. He explained to the boys, when they clamored against his staying, that he had a host of things to write, and it would keep him busy till they were ready to start with the wagons for the big rendezvous on the Yellowstone, the exact point of which had yet to be decided upon by the Stock Association when it met. The editors were after him, he said, and if he ever expected to get anywhere, in a literary sense, it be-hooved him to keep on the smiley side of the editors. He packed his trunk carefully with everything he would not need on the roundup, and his typewriter he put in the middle. He told himself bitterly that he had done with crimply haired girls, and with every other sort of girl. If he could figure in something heroic--only he said melodramatic--he might possibly force her to think well of him. But heroic situations and opportunities come not every day to a man, and girls who demand that their knights shall be brave in face of death need not complain if they are left knightless at the last. "I think you're loading me," Thurston retorted calmly, winding up the roll for another exposure. "All right--suit yourself about it." Park walked off and left him peering into the view-finder. Still they came. From Swift Current to the Cypress Hills the Canadian cattlemen sent their wagons to join the big meet. From the Sweet Grass Hills to the mouth of Milk River not a stock-grower but was represented. From the upper Musselshell they came, and from out the Judith Basin; from Shellanne east to Fort Buford. Truly it was a gathering of the clans such as eastern Montana had never before seen. There would be no calf roundup proper that spring, for all calves were branded as they were gathered. Many there were among the she-stock that would not cross the river again; their carcasses made unsightly blots in the coulee-bottoms and on the wind-swept levels. Of the calves that had followed their mothers on the long trail, hundreds had dropped out of the march and been left behind for the wolves. But not all. Range-bred cattle are blessed with rugged constitutions and can bear much of cold and hunger. The cow that can turn tail to a biting wind the while she ploughs to the eyes in snow and roots out a very satisfactory living for herself breeds calves that will in time do likewise and grow fat and strong in the doing. He is a sturdy, self-reliant little rascal, is the range-bred calf. He still agreed with the meadow larks that the world was good, but he had made himself believe that he really thought the civilized portion of it was better, especially when the uncivilized part holds a girl who persists in saying no when she should undoubtedly say yes, and insists that a man must be a hero, else she will have none of him. CHAPTER XII. HIGH WATER "Thank the Lord that's done with," sighed Park when he saw the last of the herd climb, all dripping, up the north bank of the Milk River. "To-morrow we can turn 'em loose. And I tell yuh, Bud, we didn't get across none too soon. Yuh notice how the river's coming up? A day later and we'd have had to hold the herd on the other side, no telling how long." Park came up to him and looked down upon the little valley. "I never did see any sense in Jack Stevens building where he did," he remarked. "There ain't a June flood that don't put his corral under water, and some uh these days it's going to get the house. He was too lazy to dig a well back on high ground; he'd rather take chances on having the whole business washed off the face uh the earth." "I'll course there's danger, with all that snow coming out uh the mountains. And like as not Jack's in Shellanne roosting on somebody's pool table and telling it scary, instead uh staying at home looking after his stuff. Where yuh going, Bud?" "I'm going to ride down there," Thurston answered constrainedly. "The women may be all alone." "Well, I'll go along, if you'll hold on a minute. Jack ain't got a lick uh sense. I don't care if he is Mona's brother." Park smiled vaguely. He was afraid it would not be polite to agree with her as emphatically as he would like to have done. But Thurston had no smile ready, polite or otherwise. Instead he drew down his brows in a way not complimentary to Jack. "Where is your mother?" he asked, almost peremptorily. Thurston did know, but he passed over the subject. "And you're alone?" he demanded. "The river's coming up pretty fast, Mona," he ventured. "Don't yuh think yuh ought to pull out and go visiting?" "No, I don't." Mona's tone was very decided. "I wouldn't drop down on a neighbor without warning just because the river happens to be coming up. It has 'come up' every June since we've been living here, and there have been several of them. At the worst it never came inside the gate." "No, I can't." Mona's chin went up perversely. "I'm no coward, I hope, even if there was any danger which there isn't." "Anyway," she added hurriedly, "Jack will be here; he's likely to come any minute now." She wrinkled her nose at him also with the freedom of an old friend and Thurston stirred restlessly in his chair. He did not like even Park to be too familiar with Mona, though he knew there was a girl in Shellanne whose name Park sometimes spoke in his sleep. She lifted the big glass lamp down from its place on the clock shelf and lighted it with fingers not quite steady. "You men," she remarked, "think women ought to be wrapped in pink cotton and put in a glass cabinet. If, by any miracle, the river should come up around the house, I flatter myself I should be able to cope with the situation. I'd just saddle my horse and ride out to high ground!" "It won't get up here, though," Mona asserted coolly. "It never has." Whereupon Mona got upon her pedestal and smiled her unpleasant smile, against which even Park had no argument ready. They lingered till long after all good cowpunchers are supposed to be in their beds--unless they are standing night-guard--but Jack failed to appear. The rain drummed upon the roof and the river swished and gurgled against the crumbling banks, and grumbled audibly to itself because the hills stood immovably in their places and set bounds which it could not pass, however much it might rage against their base. "I guess we'll have to be going," Park said with some ceremony. "I kept think ing maybe Jack would show up; it ain't right to leave yuh here alone like this." "I don't see why not; I'm not the least bit afraid," Mona said. Her tone was impersonal and had in it a note of dismissal. So, there being nothing else that they could do, they said good-night and took themselves off. "This is sure fierce," Park grumbled when they struck the lower ground. "Darn a man like Jack Stevens! He'll hang out there in town and bowl up on other men's money till plumb daylight. It's a wonder Mona didn't go with her mother. But no--it'd be awful if Jack had to cook his own grub for a week. Say, the water has come up a lot, don't yuh think, Bud? If it raises much more Mona'll sure have a chance to 'cope with the situation. It'd just about serve her right, too." Thurston did not think so, but he was in too dispirited a mood to argue the point. It had not been good for his peace of mind to sit and watch the color come and go in Mona's cheeks, and the laughter spring unheralded into her dear, big eyes, and the light tangle itself in the waves of her hair. He guided his horse carefully through the deep places, and noted uneasily how much deeper it was than when they had crossed before. He cursed the conventions which forbade his staying and watching over the girl back there in the house which already stood upon an island, cut off from the safe, high land by a strip of backwater that was widening and deepening every minute, and, when it rose high enough to flow into the river below, would have a current that would make a nasty crossing. "Oh, come on," Park cried impatiently. "We can't do any good sitting out here in the rain. I don't suppose the water will get clear up to the house; it'll likely do things to the sheds and corrals, though, and serve Jack right. Come on, Bud. Mona won't have us around, so the sooner we get under cover the better for us. She's got lots uh nerve; I guess she'll make out all right." There was common sense in the argument, and Thurston recognized it and rode on to camp. But instead of unsaddling, as he would naturally have done, he tied Sunfish to the bed-wagon and threw his slicker over his back to protect him from the rain. And though Park said nothing, he followed Thurston's example. CHAPTER XIII. "I'll STAY--ALWAYS" For a long time Thurston lay with wide-open eyes staring up at nothing, listening to the rain and thinking. By and by the rain ceased and he could tell by the dim whiteness of the tent roof that the clouds must have been swept away from before the moon, then just past the full. A step sounded just behind. A hand, the hand of Park, rested upon his shoulder. "Looks kinda dubious, don't it, kid? Was yuh thinking about riding down there?" "Yes," Thurston answered simply. "Are you coming?" "Sure," Park assented. They got upon their horses and headed down the trail to the Stevens place. Thurston would have put Sunfish to a run, but Park checked him. "Go easy," he admonished. "If there's swimming to be done and it's a cinch there will be, he's going to need all the wind he's got." Down the hill they stopped at the edge of a raging torrent and strained their eyes to see what lay on the other side. While they looked, a light twinkled out from among the tree-tops. Thurston caught his breath sharply. "She's upstairs," he said, and his voice sounded strained and unnatural. "It's just a loft where they store stuff." He started to ride into the flood. He led the way upstream, skirting under the bluff, and Thurston, chafing against the delay, followed obediently. Trees were racing down, their clean-washed roots reaching up in a tangle from the water, their branches waving like imploring arms. A black, tar-papered shack went scudding past, lodged upon a ridge where the water was shallower, and sat there swaying drunkenly. Upon it a great yellow cat clung and yowled his fear. "That's old Dutch Henry's house," Park shouted above the roar. "I'll bet he's cussing things blue on some pinnacle up there." He laughed at the picture his imagination conjured, and rode out into the swirl. Thurston kept close behind, mindful of Park's command to give Sunfish his head. Sunfish had carried him safely out of the stampede and he had no fear of him now. His chief thought was a wish that he might do this thing quite alone. He was jealous of Park's leading, and thought bitterly that Mona would thank Park alone and pass him by with scant praise and he did so want to vindicate himself. The next minute he was cursing his damnable selfishness. A tree had swept down just before him, caught Park and his horse in its branches and hurried on as if ashamed of what it had done. Thurston, in that instant, came near jerking Sunfish around to follow; but he checked the impulse as it was formed and left the reins alone which was wise. He could not have helped Park, and he could very easily have drowned himself. Though it was not thought of himself but of Mona that stayed his hand. They landed at the gate. Sunfish scrambled with his feet for secure footing, found it and waded up to the front door. The water was a foot deep on the porch. Thurston beat an imperative tattoo upon the door with the butt of his quirt, and shouted. And Mona's voice, shorn of its customary assurance, answered faintly from the loft. He shouted again, giving directions in a tone of authority which must have sounded strange to her, but which she did not seem to resent and obeyed without protest. She had to wade from the stairs to the door and when Thurston stooped and lifted her up in front of him, she looked as if she were very glad to have him there. "You didn't 'cope with the situation,' after all," he remarked while she was settling herself firmly in the saddle. "Then what?" he demanded maliciously. "Were you afraid?" "A little," she confessed reluctantly. Thurston gloated over it in silence--until he remembered Park. After that he could think of little else. As before, now Sunfish battled as seemed to him best, for Thurston, astride behind the saddle, held Mona somewhat tighter than he need to have done, and let the horse go. And from somewhere down the river came a faint reassuring whoop. "Little girl--oh, little girl," he said softly, and stopped. For the crowding emotions in his heart and brain the English language has no words. Mona lifted her face and looked into his eyes. Her own were soft and shining in the moonlight, and she was smiling a little--the roguish little smile of the imitation pastel portrait. "You--you'll unpack your typewriter, won't you please, and--and stay?" "You dear!" Mona snuggled close and learned how it feels to be kissed, if she had never known before. There was a sound of scrambling foot-steps and Park came dripping up to them. "Well, say!" he greeted. "Ain't yuh got anything to do but set here and er--look at the moon? Break away and come up to camp. I'll rout out the cook and make him boil us some coffee." Thurston turned joyfully toward him. "Park, old fellow, I was afraid." "Yuh better reform and quit being afraid," Park bantered. "I got out uh the mix-up fine, but I guess my horse went on down--poor devil. I was poking around below there looking for him." Mona stood up, and her shining eyes were turned to Thurston. "I don't care," she asserted with reddened cheeks. "I'm just glad it did get through." "Same here," said Thurston with much emphasis. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lure of the Dim Trails, by by (AKA B. M. Sinclair) B. M. Bower	redpajama-book	15,941
Produced by Distributed Proofreaders Rhetoric and Poetry in the Renaissance A Study of Rhetorical Terms in English Renaissance Literary Criticism Donald Lemen Clark, Ph.D. Assistant Professor of English in Columbia University To my Father and Mother The greatest pleasure that I derive from this writing is that of acknowledging my obligations to my friends and colleagues at Columbia University who have so generously assisted me. Professor G.P. Krapp aided me by his valuable suggestions before and after writing and generously allowed me to use several summaries which he had made of early English rhetorical treatises. Professor J.B. Fletcher helped me by his friendly and penetrating criticism of the manuscript. I am further indebted to Professor La Rue Van Hook, Dr. Mark Van Doren, Dr. S.L. Wolff, Mr. Raymond M. Weaver, and Dr. H.E. Mantz for various assistance, and to the Harvard and Columbia University Libraries for their courtesy. My greatest debt is to Professor Charles Sears Baldwin, whose constant inspiration, enlightened scholarship, and friendly encouragement made this book possible. The General Theory of Rhetoric and of Poetry By definition the renaissance was primarily a literary and scholarly movement derived from the literature of classical antiquity. Thus the historical, philosophical, pedagogical, and dramatic literatures of the renaissance cannot be accurately understood except in the light of the Greek and Roman authors whose writings inspired them. To this general rule the literary criticism of the renaissance is no exception. The interpretation of the critical terms used by the literary critics of the English renaissance must depend largely on the classical tradition. This tradition, as the labors of many scholars, especially Spingarn, have shown, reached England both directly through the publication of classical writings and to an even greater degree indirectly through the commentaries and original treatises of Italian scholars. To the Greeks and Romans rhetoric meant the theory of oratory. As a pedagogical mechanism it endeavored to teach students to persuade an audience. The content of rhetoric included all that the ancients had learned to be of value in persuasive public speech. It taught how to work up a case by drawing valid inferences from sound evidence, how to organize this material in the most persuasive order, how to compose in clear and harmonious sentences. Thus to the Greeks and Romans rhetoric was defined by its function of discovering means to persuasion and was taught in the schools as something that every free-born man could and should learn. The same essential difference between classical rhetoric and poetic appears in the content of classical poetic. Whereas classical rhetoric deals with speeches which might be delivered to convict or acquit a defendant in the law court, or to secure a certain action by the deliberative assembly, or to adorn an occasion, classical poetic deals with lyric, epic, and drama. It is a commonplace that classical literary critics paid little attention to the lyric. It is less frequently realized that they devoted almost as little space to discussion of metrics. By far the greater bulk of classical treatises on poetic is devoted to characterization and to the technic of plot construction, involving as it does narrative and dramatic unity and movement as distinct from logical unity and movement. In view of these modern efforts to make a more scientific differentiation between kinds of literature than is possible on the basis of the traditional distinction between prose and poetry, the present historical study of the distinction made by Aristotle and other Greek writers between rhetoric and poetic may be suggestive. Furthermore, the magnitude which this dramatic movement should possess is also discussed not in terms of bulk, but of length. Aristotle's theory of poetry, which influenced so profoundly the criticism of the renaissance, was not followed by other classical treatises of the same scope. In fact, very little Greek or Roman literary criticism is concerned with poetical theory as compared with the keen interest of many critics in oratory. Perhaps the most significant and valuable critical treatise after Aristotle is that golden pamphlet _On the Sublime_ erroneously ascribed to Longinus, which, anonymous and mutilated as it is, still holds our attention by its sincerity, insight, and enthusiastic love for great poetry. There the poet saw the Furies with his own eyes, and what his imagination presented he almost compelled his hearers to behold. And after an imaginative passage from the lost _Phaethon_, of the same author, he says: Would you not say that the soul of the writer treads the car with the driver, and shares the peril, and wears wings as the horses do? Because the imaginative realization of poetry is characterized by passion, intensity, and immediacy, the author of the treatise feels with Aristotle that the dramatic is the most characteristically poetic. On this basis he judges the _Odyssey_ to be less great than the _Iliad_. It is narrative instead of dramatic; fable prevails over action; passion has degenerated into character-drawing. This grouping of drama, action, and passion as the qualities of great poetry is significant. Bald narrative can never realize character or situation as can the dramatic form, either in narrative or for the stage, when the whole action takes place before the mind's eye instead of being told. "The author of the _Arimaspeia_ thinks these lines terrible: "Here too, is mighty marvel for our thought: 'Mid seas men dwell, on water, far from land: Wretches they are, for sorry toil is theirs; Eyes on the stars, heart on the deep they fix; Oft to the gods, I ween, their hands are raised; Their inward parts in evil case upheaved. "Anyone, I think, will see that there is more embroidery than terror in it all. Now for Homer: The remains of Roman literary criticism are not so philosophical as are the Greek. The treatise of Horace is not in Aristotle's sense a _poetic_; it is an _ars poetica_. _Ars_, to the Roman, meant a body of rules which a practitioner would find useful as a guide in composing. As a practitioner himself, Horace is more interested in the craft of poetry than in its philosophy or theory. He writes as a poet to young men who desire to become poets. The essence of poetry he ignores or takes for granted. He says, in effect, "Here are some practical suggestions which I have found of assistance." Thus classical rhetoric was almost exclusively restricted to the practical oratory of persuasion. In the republics of Greece and Rome a mastery of rhetoric gave its possessor political power; for by persuasive public speech a public man could gain a following by defending his clients in the law courts, and influence the destinies of the state by his deliberations in the legislative assembly. As long as these republican institutions prevailed, the theory and practice of rhetoric continued to be sound and practical. Implicit in Aristotle and throughout classical literary criticism there is a clear-cut distinction between poetic and rhetoric. Aside from the metrical form of poetic, accepted by all but Aristotle as a distinguishing characteristic, and the non-metrical form of rhetoric, the essentially practical nature of rhetoric marked it off to the Greeks and Romans as something quite different from poetic and infinitely more important in education and public life. But however clear-cut this distinction may be in principle, in practical application there is rarely to be found such ideal isolation. Classical Blending of Rhetoric and Poetic Such a digest shows better than any generalization a complete confusion of poetic and rhetoric. Poems were to be written according to the formulae of orations; allegory throve. Infinite pains were to be expended on the worthless niceties of conceited metrical structure and rhetorical figures. Garland has neither real poetic nor real rhetoric. _Introductory verses._ O Clyo lady moost facundyous O ravysshynge delyte of eloquence O gylted goddes gaye and gloryous Enspyred with the percynge influence Of delycate hevenly complacence Within my mouth let dystyll of thy shoures And forge my tonge to gladde myn auditoures. Myn ignoraunce whome clouded hath eclyppes With thy pure bemes illumynyne all aboute Thy blessyd brethe let refleyre in my lyppes And with the dewe of heven thou them degoute So that my mouth may blowe an encense oute The redolent dulcour aromatyke Of thy deputed lusty rhetoryke. _The section of rhetoric._ Dame Rethoryke moder of eloquence Moost elegaunt moost pure and gloryous With lust delyte, blysse, honour and reverence Within her parlour fresshe and precyous Was set a quene, whose speche delycyous Her audytours gan to all Joye converte Eche worde of her myght ravysshe every herte. And many clerke had lust her for to here Her speche to them was parfyte sustenance Eche worde of her depured was so clere And illumyned with so parfyte pleasaunce That heven it was to here her beauperlaunce Her termes gay as facunde soverayne Catephaton in no poynt myght dystane. She taught them the crafte of endytynge Whiche vyces ben that sholde avoyded be Whiche ben the coulours gay of that connynge Theyr dyfference and eke theyr properte Eche thynge endyte how it sholde poynted be Dystynctyon she gan clare and dyscusse Whiche is Coma Colym perydus. Who so thynketh my wrytynge dull and blont And wolde conceyve the colours purperate Of Rethoryke, go he to tria sunt And to Galfryde the poete laureate To Janneus a clerke of grete estate Within the fyrst parte of his gramer boke Of this mater there groundely may he loke. In Tullius also moost eloquent The chosen spouse unto this lady free His gylted craft and gloyre in content Gay thynges I made eke, yf than lust to see Go loke the Code also the dygestes thre The bookes of lawe and of physyke good Of ornate speche there spryngeth up the flood. In prose and metre of all kynde ywys This lady blyssed had lust for to playe With her was blesens Richarde pophys Farrose pystyls clere lusty fresshe and gay With maters vere poetes in good array Ovyde, Omer, Vyrgyll, Lucan, Orace Alane, Bernarde, Prudentius and Stace. But Lydgate's rhetoric was not only restricted to style; it was expanded to include the style of the poets as well as that of the prose writers, as the last stanza shows. If Lydgate thought poetry to include anything more than this style, he does not say so. And in another place, again addressing Lydgate, he exclaims: In the chapter on Disposicion, instead of discussing the arrangement of a speech, Hawes devotes most of his space to praise of the rhetoricians because they turned the guidance of the drifting barge, the world, over to competent pilots, the kings. Here, perhaps, Hawes is using the word rhetorician more closely than usual in its classical sense. He may even have known that the fact of kingship had robbed rhetoric of its purpose. At any rate, his Disposicion is like the classical _dispositio_ only in name, and again it is transferred from rhetoric to poetic. Pronunciation (_pronuntiatio_), or delivery, of course applies to either poets or orators. But whereas classical writers applied it to the orator's use of voice and gesture, Hawes applies it only to the poet's reading aloud. He recommends that when a poet reads his verses, he should make his voice dolorous in bewailing a woeful tragedy, and his countenance glad in joyful matter. It is important, however, that the reading poet be not boisterous or unmannered. Let him be moderate, gentle, and seemly. The final section, that on memory, comes closer to its classical sense than does any other. Here the mnemonic system of "places," supposedly invented by Simonides, is explained obscurely. Even more obscure is its applicability to Hawes's subject. Logic and Rhetoric in the English Renaissance Following this lead, Thomas Wilson, the English rhetorician and statesman, defines logic and rhetoric as follows: This perversion of rhetorical theory in the middle ages and early renaissance had resulted not from mere wrong-headedness on the part of the rhetoricians, but from the limited knowledge of classical tradition during the middle ages. Especially was this true in those parts of western Europe, such as England, which were remote from the Mediterranean countries which better preserved the heritage of Greece and Rome. Moreover, the most important classical treatises on the theory of poetry--by Aristotle and Longinus--were almost unknown throughout the middle ages, and the rhetorical writings of Cicero and Quintilian were known only in fragments. Whether Farnaby had read the works of these gentlemen through from cover to cover is another matter. He at least knew their names, and had read in Vossius, whose footnotes would refer him to all these sources as well as to others, both classical and mediaeval. The development of Aristotelian poetic in the Italian renaissance is a separate inquiry, which has been made extensively, and need not be gone into here. The results which bear upon the present inquiry may be summarized as follows: As an interpretation of classical doctrine this is not illegitimate; but Pontanus runs into confusion by applying to the narrative of epic the _narratio_ of classical rhetoric, which meant the lawyer's statement of facts. Confusing the _narratio_ of oratory with narrative, Pontanus says: Theories of Poetry in the English Renaissance Spingarn has carefully traced the introduction of the theories of poetry formulated by the Italian critics into England at the end of the sixteenth century. It is the purpose of this study not to go over the ground which Spingarn has so admirably covered, but to point out in English renaissance theories of poetry those elements which derive from the mediaeval tradition and from the classical rhetorics, and to trace the gradual displacements of these elements by the sounder classical tradition which reached England from Italy. Thus in accord with the mediseval tradition he analyzes poetry into profitable subject matter and style. Thus rhetoric is considered merely as style; and the implication seems to be that the poets who would improve their style might well imitate Lyly. Webbe evidently means what he says in identifying poetry and rhetoric in style. He adds: The confusion thus is carried pretty far by Webbe, who makes poetry and rhetoric the same in style, both aiming at persuasion. Not only have poetic and rhetoric for him a common ground in diction, but the ideal of diction is the same for both. The diction of poetry is the same as the diction of oratory. The only difference to him is that poetry is in verse and oratory in prose. Puttenham was writing in the same age and with the same tradition which defined Rhetoric as the art of ornament in speech. The only difference between oratory and poetry lay in that the latter was composed in verse. This amateur character of English critics accounts in a measure for the slowness with which classical and Italian renaissance critical theories filtered into England; for a statesman or a soldier is less likely to be up-to-date on theories of poetry than is a professional critic whose business it is to know what is written on his specialty. Another powerful influence in the same direction was the characteristic English conservatism which preferred the traditional paths of thought to Italian innovations. This same common-sense conservatism accounts also for the modifications of Italian renaissance critical theories before they were incorporated into the fund of English criticism. Classical meters, slavish imitation of the ancients, close adherence to the rules of unity and decorum never made much headway in the English renaissance. Such contaminations of poetic by rhetoric as are clearest seem to arise not from the new Italian influence, but from the mediaeval tradition. On its creative side the renaissance sought to produce in the vernacular a literature comparable to that of Greece or Rome. Thus literary criticism was prescriptive, and the typical treatises were text-books. Rhetoric, which had long been taught, very naturally furnished the methods, the teachers, and in many cases the subject matter for this instruction in poetry. As has been shown in the preceding section of this study, the renaissance theory of poetry was rhetorical in its obsession with style, especially the figures of speech, in its abiding faith in the efficacy of rules; and in its belief that the poet, no less than the orator, is occupied with persuasion. This latter rhetorical view that the poet's office is to persuade will be studied more fully in the following section on "The Purpose of Poetry." The traditional view is that by persuading the reader to adhere to the good and shun the evil the poet achieves the proper end of poetry--moral improvement. The Purpose of Poetry The Classical Conception of the Purpose of Poetry The real opinions of Plato are here difficult to discover. In the _Protagoras_, however, he puts into the mouth of that famous sophist an exposition of the conventional Greek opinion. Strabo in a famous passage records an exceptional hedonism in Greek thought and goes on to expound the conventional belief. But aside from the desirability of mingling pleasure with profit in his poetry in order to gain the greatest popularity, the poet does have an educational value in the training of youths by presenting in an attractive manner examples of noble conduct which the young people may desire to emulate. Although Lucretius may not have been assured of the moral value, he was so convinced of the seductive powers of poetry that he deliberately utilized them to make palatable the forbidding thoughts of his essay _On the Nature of Things_. The long passage is worth quoting entire because his comparison is borrowed so frequently by renaissance critics to illustrate the poetic doctrine of pleasurable profit. Lucretius says: When the Roman arms conquered a new city, the story runs, the commander of the forces took over in the name of the Emperor the gods; but before the gates of Jerusalem this ceremony proved ineffective. The fathers of the Christian church, Tatian, Hermas, Theophilus, and Tertullian, believing that all the truth was contained in Christianity, utterly condemned the philosophy and religion of the Greeks and consequently the poetry which, according to Greek popular belief, was the inspired vehicle for its presentation. Furthermore, the gods of the Greeks were immoral and furnished their worshippers with bad examples of conduct. Long before Tertullian the moral philosophers of antiquity had already attacked the poetry of Greece and Rome on the ground of immorality. Plato in his day called the war between philosophy and poetry "age-long." The ancient Greeks had considered Homer and Hesiod as the inspired recorders of the facts of religion. They had looked to the poets for moral dogma and example. Of necessity the philosophers condemned the poets for the immorality of their thievish, lying, and adulterous pantheon. Thus the general consensus of classical opinion agreed that poetry has inescapable moral effects on those who listen or read. The moralists, especially the Stoics, when confronted with traditional poetry whose literal significance was immoral, leaned toward allegorical interpretations which brought out a kernel of truth. The greater number, however, of Greeks and Romans in the classical period believed that poetry exerted the most potent influence for good when it enunciated crisp moral maxims and afforded examples of heroic conduct which young people could be induced to follow. Mediaeval Ideas of the Purpose of Poetry With the breaking up of the Empire the stream of classical culture was restricted to a narrow channel--the Church. Opposed as it was to pagan morals and theology, the church could honestly retain classical literature only if it were allegorized. This explains the allegorical nature of mediaeval poetry and of poetical theory. The poet, to Isidore, was the inspired bard who sings of the gods and the eternal verities, not directly, but under the veil of a beautiful allegory. Among these allegorical or indirect means of expression used by the poet to veil truth are fables. His illustrations of a fable show that he is talking about allegory. For instance, the fable of the centaur was invented to show, by the union of man and horse, the swiftness of human life. The purpose of poetry is to her what it had been throughout the entire period of the middle ages. The poet presents truth under the guise of allegory. This, says Dame Rethoryke, has the sanction of antiquity; for the old poets, who are famous for their wisdom and the imaginative power of their invention, pronounced truth under cloudy figures. This fortified the poets against sloth. The special treasure Of new invencion, of ydleness the foo! Then she addresses herself directly to the poets to laud their virtues. Your hole desyre was set Fables to fayne to eschewe ydleness, To dysnull vyce and the vycious to blame. Furthermore she praises them for recording the honorable deeds of great conquerors and for furnishing the modern poets with such illustrious models of the poetic art. This praise of the poets is complementary to a condemnation of the foolish public, whose limited intelligence prevents them from seeing the cloaked truth of the poets. Thus the dull, rude people, when they are unable to understand the moral implications of the poet's allegory, call the poets liars, deceivers, and flatterers. This, she insists, is the fault not of the poets, but of the people. If the people would take the trouble to understand these clouded truths, they would praise and appreciate the moral poets. The conclusion is not difficult. The mediaeval poets are on the defensive, as their brothers had been through all the past. To justify art, the middle ages had to show its usefulness not only to morals, but to theology. Thus Dame Rethoryke in her talk on _inventio_, is conducting a defense of poetry on the following grounds: it teaches profound truth under the guise of allegory; it blames the vicious and overcomes vice; it is the enemy of sloth; it records the honorable deeds of great men. The chapter on style only continues the song. It is the art, says Hawes, to cloak the meaning under misty figures of many colors, as the old poets did, who took similitudes from beasts and birds. The poets praised--Gower, Chaucer, and Lydgate--deserve their fame, he says, for their morality. They cleanse our vices. They kindle our hearts with love of virtue. Lydgate's _Falls of Princes_ is an especially great poem, Rhetorical Elements in Italian Renaissance Conceptions of the Purpose of Poetry Aut prodesse volunt aut delectare poetae. Thus by the end of the sixteenth century, the Italian critics had formulated a logical and self-consistent theory of the purpose of poetry. Inheritors of the allegorical theory of the middle ages, which they in part discarded, and discoverers of classical rhetoric which they carried over bodily into their theories of poetry, they passed on to France, Germany, and England their rhetorical theories. The purpose of poetry, as well as of rhetoric, was to them persuasion--to teach, to please, to move. The instrument of poetry was the rhetorical example. English Renaissance Ideas of the Purpose of Poetry In England the Italian interpretations of the literary criticism of Greece and Rome made slow headway against the established traditions of the middle ages. In particular the vogue of allegory did not yield to the idea of the moral example transferred from rhetoric to poetic. Allegory in its more general mediaeval sense of the kernel of moral truth within the brilliant husk of the poet's fables he discusses at greater length elsewhere with full exemplification. For by them we may talke at large and win men by persuasion, if we declare beforehand that these tales were not fained of such wisemen without cause. This obvious rhetorical discussion of the use of poetical illustrations by orators leads him to express his conviction of the moral value of poetry. That poetry did have this improving effect he is quite sure. But Wilson is a rhetorician, not a theorist of poetry; he is not concerned with the moral example as the purpose of poetry. In his section on example as a rhetorical argument he shows how stories and fables may enliven and enforce a point. He illustrates by Pliny's story of the grateful dragon, and by Appian's story of the grateful lion, how a speaker may enlarge on the duty of gratitude among men. But though he does not postulate pleasurable instruction as the aim of poetry, he clearly implies it in his comment on the use of stories in argument. Thus he defends poetry bcause it teaches morality by example and by allegory. The effectiveness of poetry, then, in accomplishing this moral end lies in its pleasantness. The poet, says Sidney, in that most famous passage which is too frequently quoted incompletely, Abelard Aeschylus Aesop Agathon Agricola, Rudolph Alanus de Insulis Alciati Alcidamas Albucius Aldus Alfarabi Alstedius Anaxagoras Annaeus Florus Appian Apsinus Apthonius Apuleius Aristenetus Aristophanes Aristotle Aristides Ascham Athenagoras Augustine Averroes Bacon, Francis Barclay, John Barton, John Basil the Great Bede Bokenham Boccaccio Bolton, Edmund Bornecque, Henri Boethius Brunetto Latini Butcher, S.H. Buchanan, George Budé Butler, Charles Can Grande Campano, G. Campion, Thomas Casaubon Cassiodorus Castelvetro Castiglione Cato Caussinus, N. Chapman, G. Chaucer Chemnicensis, Georgius Cicero Clement of Alexandria Cox, Leonard Croce, B. Croll, Morris Curio Fortunatus Daniel, Samuel Daniello Dante Darwin, Charles Demetrius Demosthenes de Worde, Wynkyn Dio Chrysostom Dionysius of Halicarnassus Dolce Drant, Thomas Drummond of Hawthornden DuBellay Ducas DuCygne, M. Dunbar, William Earle, John Eastman, Max Empedocles Emporio Erasmus Eratosthenes Estienne, Henri Etienne de Rouen Euripides Farnaby, Thomas Fenner, Dudley Filelfo Fraunce, Abraham Gascoigne George of Trebizond (Trapezuntius) Gorgias Gosson, Stephen Gower Gregory Nazianzen Guarino Guevara Hall, Joseph Harington, John Harvey, Gabriel Hawes, Stephen Heinsius, D. Henryson Heliodorus Herodotus Hermagoras Hermannus Allemanus Hermogenes Hilary of Poitiers Holland, P. Homer Horace Hermas Hesiod Heywood, John Isidore of Seville Isocrates James I James VI Jerome John of Garland John of Salisbury Jonson, Ben Julian Lactantius Langhorne Lipisius Livy Lodge Lombardus, B. Longinus Loyola Lucan Lucian Lucretius Lydgate, John Lyly, John Lyndesay, David. Lysias Maggi Martial Martianus Capella Mazzoni Melanchthon Menander Menenius Agrippa Milton Minturno Nash, T. Newman, J.H. Norden, Eduard North, Sir Thomas Origen Overbury, Thomas Ovid Palmieri Pazzi Peacham, Henry Petrarch Piccolomini Pico della Mirandola Plato Plautus Pliny Plutarch Poggio Pontanus, Jacob Prickard, A. O. Puttenham Rabelais Ramus, Peter Reynolds, Henry Robortelli Ronsard Rufinus Sappho Savonarola Scaliger, J.C. Schelling, Felix Segni Seneca Servatus Lupus Shakespeare Sherry, Richard Sidney Sidonius, Apollinaris Simonides Smith, John Soarez Socrates Sopatrus Sophocles Sophron Spenser Spingarn, J.E. Stanyhurst Stesimbrotus of Thasos Strabo Strebaeus Sturm, John Tacitus Tasso, B. Tatian Terence Tertullian Theognis of Rhegium Theon Theophilus Theophrastus Themistocles Thomas Aquinas Thomasin von Zirclaria Tifernas Timocles Valla Valladero, A. Van Hook, L. Varchi Vettore Vicars, Thomas Victor, Julius Victorino, Mario Vida Virgil Vives, L. Vossius (J.G. Voss) Vossler, Karl Wackernagel, Jacob Walton, John Watson, Thomas Webbe, William Whetstone, George William of Malmesbury Wilson, Thomas Aut prodesse volunt, aut delectare poetae Aut simul et jucunda et idonea dicere vitae Centuriae seniorum agitant expertia frugis; Celsi praetereunt austera poemata Rhamnes: Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci, Lectorem delectando, periterque monendo. Hic meret aera liber Sosiis; hic et mare transit, Et longum noto scriptori prorogat aevum. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rhetoric and Poetry in the Renaissance by Donald Lemen Clark	redpajama-book	5,898
E-text prepared by Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders A Discourse on the Life, Character and Writings of Gulian Crommelin Verplanck By William Cullen Bryant. New York: Printed for the Society MDCCCLXX On its conclusion HUGH MAXWELL submitted the following resolution, which was adopted unanimously: _Resolved_, That the thanks of this Society be presented to Mr. BRYANT for his eloquent and instructive discourse, delivered this evening, and that he be requested to furnish a copy for publication. Extract from the Minutes, Andrew Warner, _Recording Secretary_. The lady from Amsterdam was particularly accomplished, and versed not only in several modern languages, but in Greek and Latin, speaking fluently the Latin, of which the Colloquies of her great countryman, Erasmus, furnish so rich a store of phrases for ordinary dialogue. Her conversation is said to have been uncommonly brilliant and her society much sought. During the revolutionary war her house was open to the British officers, General Howe, and others, accomplished men, of whom she had many anecdotes to relate to her grandson, when he came under her care. For the greater part of this time her husband remained at the country seat in Fishkill, quietly occupied with his books and the care of his estate. Meantime, she wrote anxious letters to her father, in Amsterdam, which were answered in neat French. The banker consoled his daughter by saying that "Mr. Samuel Verplanck was a man so universally known and honored, both for his integrity and scholarly attainments, that in the end all would be well." This proved true; the extensive estate at Fishkill was never confiscated, and its owner was left unmolested. I have said that his relatives on the mother's side were of a different political school from his high tory grandmother. From them he would hear of the inalienable rights of the people, and the duty, under certain circumstances, of revolution; from her he would hear of the obligation of loyalty and obedience. The Johnsons would speak of the patriotism, the wisdom, and the services of Franklin; the grandmother of the virtues and accomplishments of Cornwallis. The boy, of course, had to choose between these different sides, and he chose the side of his country and of the people. I think that I perceive in these circumstances how it was that the mind of Verplanck was educated to that independence of judgment, and that self-reliance, which in after life so eminently distinguished it. He never adopted an opinion for the reason that it had been adopted by another. On some points--on more, I think, than is usual with most men--he was content not to decide, but when he formed an opinion it was his own. He had no hesitation in differing from others if he saw reason; indeed, he sometimes showed that he rather liked to differ, or chose at least, by questioning their opinions, to intimate that they were prematurely formed. Another result of the peculiar political education which I have described, was the fairness with which he judged of the characters and motives of men who were not of his party. I saw much, very much of him while he was a member of Congress, when political animosities were at their fiercest, and I must say that I never knew a party man who had less party rancor, or who was more ready to acknowledge in his political opponents the good qualities which they really possessed. There is this extenuation of the rashness of these young men, that Dr. Mason, to whom was attributed the attempt to suppress certain passages in Stevenson's oration, was himself in the habit of giving free expression to his political sentiments in the pulpit. He belonged to the federal party, Stevenson to the party then called republican. The war went on until Clinton or some friend was provoked to answer in a pamphlet entitled An Account of Abimelech Coody and other celebrated Worthies of New York, in a Letter from a Traveller. The writer saterizes not only Verplanck, but James K. Paulding and Washington Irving, of whose History of New York he speaks disparagingly. In what he says of Verplanck he allows himself to refer to his figure and features as subjects of ridicule. This war I think was closed by the publication of "The Bucktail Bards," as the little volume is called, which contains The State Triumvirate, a Political Tale, and the Epistles of Brevet Major Pindar Puff. These I have heard spoken of as the joint productions of Verplanck and Rudolph Bunner, a scholar and a man of wit. The State Triumvirate is in octo-syllabic verse, and in the manner of Swift, but the allusions are obscure, and it is a task to read it. The notes, in which the hand of Verplanck is very apparent, are intelligible enough and are clever, caustic and learned. The Epistles, which are in heroic verse, have striking passages, and the notes are of a like incisive character. De Witt Clinton, then Governor of the State, valued himself on his devotion to science and literature, but he was sometimes obliged, in his messages and public discourses, to refer to compends which are in every body's hands, and his antagonists made this the subject of unsparing ridicule. "You may expect another explosion of mad poetry from Lord Byron. Lord Holland, who returned from Geneva, a few days ago, told Mr. Gallatin that he was the bearer of a considerable cargo of verses from his lordship to Murray the publisher, the subject not known. That you may have a higher relish for the new poem, I give you a little anecdote which is told in London. Some time ago Lord Byron's books were sold at auction, where a gentleman purchased a splendid edition of Shakespeare. When it was sent home a volume was missing. After several fruitless inquiries of the auctioneer the purchaser went to Byron. 'What play was in the volume?' asked he. 'I think Othello,' 'Ah! I remember. I was reading that when Lady Byron did something to vex me. I threw the book at her head and she carried it out of the room. Inquire of some of her people and you will get your book.'" With their denial of the binding force of any law of Congress which a State might think proper to set aside, these men combined another argument. They denied the power of Congress, under the Constitution, to levy duties on imported merchandize, for the purpose of favoring the home manufacturer, and maintained that it could only lay duties for the sake of raising a revenue. Mr. Verplanck favored neither this view nor their theory of nullification. He held that the power to lay duties being given to Congress, without reservation by the Constitution, the end or motive of laying them was left to the discretion of the Legislature. He showed also that the power to regulate commerce given to that body in the Constitution, was, from an early period in our history, held to imply a right, by laying duties, to favor particular traffics, products or fabrics. It was while this controversy was going on that President Jackson issued his proclamation warning those who resisted the revenue laws that their resistance was regarded as rebellion, and would be quelled at the bayonet's point. Mr. Calhoun and his friends were not prepared for this: indeed, I do not think that in any of his plans for the separate action of the slave States, he contemplated a resort to arms on either side. They looked about them to find some plausible pretext for submission, and this the country was not unwilling to give. It was generally admitted that the duties on imported goods ought to be reduced, and Mr. McLane, Secretary of the Treasury, and Mr. Verplanck, Chairman of the Committee of Ways and Means, each drew up a plan for lessening the burdens of the tariff. Christmas was merry Christmas at the old family mansion in Fishkill. He caused the day to be kept with many of the ancient usages, to the great satisfaction of the younger members of the household. He was fond of observing particular days and seasons, and marking them by some pleasant custom of historical significance--for with all the ancient customs and rites and pastimes pertaining to them he was as familiar as if they were matters of to-day. It distressed him even to tears when, last Christmas, he found that his health did not allow him to make the journey to Fishkill as usual. He made much of the birthdays of his grandchildren, and taught them to observe that of Shakespeare by adorning the dwelling with the flowers mentioned in those aerial verses of the Winters Tale- "daffodils, That come before the swallow dares and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses That die unmarried," &c., &c. I have spoken of the hopefulness of his temper. This was doubtless in a great degree constitutional, for he is said to have been an utter stranger to physical fear, preserving his calmness on occasions when others would be in a fever of alarm. He loved our free institutions, he had a serene and steady confidence in their duration and his published writings are for the most part eloquent pleas for freedom, political equality and toleration. Even the shameless corruption which has seized on the local government of this city, did not dismay or discourage him. He maintained, in a manner which it was not easy to controvert, that the great cities of Europe are quite as grossly misgoverned, and that every overgrown community like ours must find it a difficult task to rid itself of the official leeches that seek to fatten on its blood. In looking back upon the public services of our friend it occurs to me that his life is the more to be held up as an example, inasmuch as, though possessed of an ample fortune, he occupied himself as diligently in gratuitous labors for the general good as other men do in the labors of their profession. In the dispensation of his income he leaned, perhaps, to the side of frugality, but his daily thought and employment were to make his fellow men happier and better; yet I never knew a man who made less parade of his philanthropy. He rarely, and never, save when the occasion required it, spoke of what he had done for others. I never heard, I think no man ever heard, anything like a boast proceed from his lips, nor did he practice any, even the most innocent expedients, to attract attention to his public services. Not that I suppose him insensible to the good will and good word of his fellow men. He valued them, doubtless, as every wise man must, but sought them not, except as they might be earned by the unostentatious performance of his duty. If they came they were welcome, if not, he was content with the testimony of his own conscience and the approval of Him who seeth in secret. Farewell--thou who hast already entered upon thy reward! happy in this, that thou wert not called from thy beneficent labors before the night. Thou hadst already garnered an ample harvest; the sickle was yet in thy hand; the newly reaped sheaves lay on the field at thy side, when, as the beams of the setting sun trembled on the horizon, the voice of the Master summoned thee to thine appointed rest. May all those who are as nobly endowed as thou, and who as willingly devote themselves to the service of God and mankind be spared to the world as long as thou hast been.	redpajama-book	2,545
Produced by Jonathan Ingram and PG Distributed Proofreaders PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. "It is more dangerous to be a baby in London than a soldier in France," said Mrs. H. B. IRVING at the National Baby Week Exhibition. The same disability--namely, middle-age--has prevented us from taking up either of these perilous _roles_. L.C.C. tram-tickets, says a news item, are now thinner. Other means of increasing the space available for passengers are also under consideration. Humanitarians who have been urging the Government not to stain its hands with the more painful forms of reprisal, have received a nasty shock. A German spy has been arrested in London! The rubber cushions of billiard tables are now being taken by the German military authorities. Meanwhile the enemy Press continues to take its cue from HINDENBURG. A notorious Petrograd anarchist is reported to be ill, and has been ordered to take a complete rest by his doctor. He has therefore decided not to throw any bombs for awhile at least. Further evidence of the Eastern talent for adopting Western ideas and improving on them comes from China, where the EX-EMPEROR HSUAN TUNG has celebrated Baby Week by issuing a decree announcing his return to the Throne. Several milkmen have reduced their prices from sixpence to fivepence. Other good results from the timely rains are expected. Large quantities of food have been carried off by a burglar from several houses in the Heathfield district. Knowing our War bread, we are confident that it did not give in without a struggle. We are sorry to find _The Globe_ making playful reference to the many postponements of certain music-hall revues. Mr. Justice DARLING will agree that these things cannot be postponed too often. "How can I distinguish poisonous from edible fungi?" asks a correspondent of _The Daily Mail_. The most satisfactory test is to look for them. If you find them they are likely to be poisonous. If they have been already gathered they were probably edible. It is now admitted that the conscientious objectors undergoing sentence at Dartmoor are allowed to have week-ends occasionally. This concession, it appears, had to be granted as several of them threatened to leave the place. We have heard so little of the Hidden Hand this past week or so that we are tempted to ask whether it is suffering from writer's cramp. "Justices cannot guarantee results to litigants in advance," said the Willesden magistrate recently. Not without trespassing on the privileges of the Bar. As a demonstration of allegiance to their country's cause the Apaches of Northern America are to hold a great "Devil Dance" in Arizona. It only needed this to convince us that all was well with America. Those grandchildren must be getting a little old for active service. [As indicated on another page, TINO'S actual opinion of his Imperial brother-in-law is probably not too amiable; but it has to be disguised in his letters, which are liable to be censored by his wife.] Thank you, dear William, I am fairly well. The climate suits me and the simple life- No diplomats to spoil the scenery's spell, And only faintest echoes of the strife; The Alps are mirrored in a lake of blue; Over my straw-crowned poll the blue skies laugh; A waterfall (no charge) completes a view Equal to any German oleograph. There are no bugle blares to make me jump, But just the jodler calling to his kine; A few good Teuton toadies, loud and plump, More than suffice me in the _levee_ line; And, when poor ALEXANDER, there in Greece, Writes of your "agents" rounded up and sacked, I am content with privacy and peace, Having, at worst, retained my head intact. SOPHIE and I have thought of you a lot (We have so very few distractions here; We chat about the weather, which is hot, And then we turn to talk of your career); For rumour says this bloody war will last Until the Hohenzollerns get the boot; And through my brain the bright idea has passed That you had better do an early scoot. Were it not wise, dear WILLIAM, ere the day When Revolution goes for crowns and things, To cut your loss betimes and come this way And start a coterie of Exiled Kings? You might (the choice of safe retreats is poor) Do worse than join me in this happy land, And spend your last phase, careless, if obscure, With your devoted TINO hand-in-hand. I found him the same genial soul as ever, though a shade stouter perhaps and greyer at the temples, and I flatter myself that it was with a smile of genuine pleasure that he led me to my old table in a corner of the room. When the crowd of diners had thinned he came to me for a chat. "It is indeed a pleasure to see M'sieur after so long a time," said he, "for, alas, there are so many others of our old clients who will not ever return." I told him that I too was glad to be sitting in the comparative quiet of the Mazarin, and asked him how he fared. I offered him my warmest congratulations. If ever a man deserved success it was he, and it was good to see the look of pleasure on his face as I told him so. "And now," said I presently, "I also have a surprise for you, Joseph." He laughed. "Eh bien, M'sieur, it is your turn to take my breath away." "My last billet in France, before being wounded," I told him, "was in a Picardy village called Flechinelle." He raised his hands. "Mon Dieu," he cried, "it is my own village!" "It is my mother's shop!" he exclaimed breathlessly. Then I told him how bent and old his mother was, and how lonesome she had seemed all by herself in the cottage, and as I spoke of the shop which she still kept going in her front-room the tears fairly rained down his face. "But, M'sieur," said he, "that which you tell me is indeed strange; for those letters which she writes to me week by week are always gay, and it 'as seemed to me that my mother was well content." Then he struck his fist on the table. "I 'ave it," he said. "She shall come to live 'ere with me in Londres. All that she desires shall be 'ers, for am I not a rich man?" I shook my head. "She would never leave her village now," I told him. "And I know well that she desires nothing in the world except to see you again." Then as I rose to go, "Good night, M'sieur," said Joseph a little sadly. "Be very sure that there is always a welcome for you 'ere." As the man spoke the gold-and-white walls of the restaurant faded, the clatter of plates and dishes died away, and I was back again in a tiny village shop in Picardy. Across the counter, packed with its curious stock, I saw Monsieur Joseph, with shirt-sleeves rolled up, gravely handing a stick of chocolate to a child, and taking its sou in return. In the diminutive kitchen behind sat a little white-haired old lady with such a look of content on her face as I have rarely seen. Then suddenly I found myself back again in the London restaurant. "Yes," I said to the waiter, "it is possible, as you say, that Monsieur Joseph heard of something better in France." And raising my glass I drank a silent toast. [Illustration: THE TUBER'S REPARTEE. GERMAN PIRATE. "GOTT STRAFE ENGLAND!" BRITISH POTATO. "TUBER UeBER ALLES!"] But we who have met heroes know that they are very seldom of the type which achieves the immortality of the picture post-card. The Reverend Paul Grayne, V.C., sometime curate of Thorpington Parva, in the county of Hampshire, was no exception to this rule. AEsthetically he was a blot on the landscape; among all the heroes I have met I never saw anything less heroically moulded. He hadn't meant to intrude, he twittered; Peter had brought him; it was Peter's fault; Peter was very eccentric. Peter, I gathered, was the fat cob, who by this time had butted into the lines and was tearing at a hay net as if he hadn't had a meal for years. His alleged master looked at me hopeless, helpless. What was he to do? "Well, since Peter is evidently stopping to tea with my horses," said I, "the only thing you can do is to come to tea with us." So I lifted him down and bore him off to the cow-shed inhabited by our mess at the time and regaled him on chlorinated Mazawattee, marmalade and dog biscuit. An hour later, Peter willing, he left us. We saw a lot of the Padre after that. Peter, it appeared, had taken quite a fancy to us and frequently brought him round to meals. The Padre had no word of say in the matter. He confessed that, when he embarked upon Peter in the morning, he had not the vaguest idea where mid-day would find him. Nothing but the black cob's fortunate rule of going home to supper saved the Padre from being posted as a deserter. Then the spinster ladies of his old parish of Thorpington Parva gave him a Ford car, and with this he scoured back areas for provisions and threaded his tin buggy in and out of columns of dusty infantry and clattering ammunition limbers, spectacles gleaming, cap slightly awry, while his batman (a wag) perched precariously a-top of a rocking pile of biscuit tins, cigarette cases and boxes of tinned fruit, and shouted after the fashion of railway porters, "By your leave! Fags for the firin' line. Way for the Woodbine Express." In the course of time the Antrims went into the Push, but on this occasion they refused to take the Padre with them, explaining that Pushes were noisy affairs with messy accidents happening in even the best regulated battalions. He sat down and buried his face in his hands. The redoubtable Antrims had come to the end. Suddenly came a shout from the Senior Captain, "Good Lord, what's that fellow after? Who the devil is it?" They all turned and saw a tiny figure, clad only in underclothes, marching deliberately over the ridge towards the Germans. "Oo's that blinkin' fool?" "Wot's 'e doin' of?" A man rose to his knees, from his knees to his feet, and stumbled forward, mumbling, "'E give me a packet of fags when I was broke." "Me too," growled another, and followed his chum. "They'll shoot 'im in a minute," a voice shouted, suddenly frightened. "'Ere, this ain't war, this is blasted baby-killin'." When the tumult and shouting had died Patrick went in quest of the little Padre. He discovered him sitting on the wreck of his bivouac of the night; he was clasping some small article to his bosom, and the look in his face was that of a man who had found his heart's desire. Patrick sat himself down on a box of bombs, and looked humbly at the Reverend Paul. It is an awful thing for a man suddenly to find he has been entertaining a hero unawares. "Oh, Dicky Bird, Dicky Bird, why did you do it?" he inquired softly. "Oh dear--you know how absurdly absent-minded I am; well, I suddenly remembered I had left my teeth behind." [Illustration: _Old Lady._ "And what regiment are you in?" _Old Lady._ "Really! Now _do_ tell me why the officers get so fond of regiments with aren't their own."] These mines are very tricky things. That captain was an "as." Domestic Intelligence. I STOOD AGAINST THE WINDOW. I stood against the window And looked between the bars, And there were strings of fairies Hanging from the stars; Everywhere and everywhere In shining swinging chains, Like rainbows spun from moonlight And twisted into skeins. They kept on swinging, swinging, They flung themselves so high They caught upon the pointed moon And hung across the sky; And when I woke next morning There still were crowds and crowds In beautiful bright bunches All sleeping on the clouds. The long arm of the law resents such presumptuous rivalry. This looks uncommonly like an offer to trade with the enemy. [Illustration: _Wife (to warrior, whose politeness to the waitress has been duly noted)_. "HUM! YOU SEEM TO 'AVE COME BACK 'ALF FRENCH."] The gipsy wife came to my door with pegs and brooms to sell They make by many a roadside fire and many a greenwood dell, With bee-skeps and with baskets wove of osier, rush and sedge, And withies from the river-beds and brambles from the hedge. I wonder if the Eastern skies and Eastern odours seem Familiar to that gipsy man, as memories of a dream; Does Tigris' flow stir ancient dreams from immemorial rest Ere ever gipsy poached the trout of Itchen and of Test? Does something in him seem to know those red and arid lands Where dust of ancient cities sleeps beneath the drifted sands? Do Kurdish girls with lustrous eyes beneath their drooping lids And Eastern babes look strangely like the Missis and the kids? I wonder if the waving palms, when desert winds do blow, In their dry rustling seem to sing a song he used to know; Or does he only curse the heat and wish that he were laid Beneath the spread of RUFUS' oaks or Harewood's beechen shade? Which he promptly passed on to the enemy. There are still a few that the old country could spare. [Illustration: THE BRUSILOFF HUG. THE KAISER. "I'M ALL FOR FRATERNISATION, BUT I CALL THIS OVERDOING IT."] ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT. [Illustration: NO KILL-JOY. MR. BONAR LAW.] Mr. HOGGE was in his place again. It had been reported that, consequent upon a hasty pledge to remain in Liverpool until his candidate was returned, he was now doomed for ever to wander an unquiet sprite upon the banks of Mersey. But he has wisely determined that Parliament must not suffer to please his private whim. When the report comes up for formal discussion Lord CURZON will doubtless have something to say, and will say it in vigorous fashion. To-day, with the air and mien of a highly respectable undertaker, he contented himself with acknowledging Lord HARDINGE'S contribution and deprecated further debate. Lord ROBERT CECIL, safely back from his travels, does not appear to have kept himself up to date in the interval, for he was ignorant of the refusal of the Allies to allow Greece to set up a republic, although Mr. KING, with his superior sources of information, knows all about it. [Illustration: PARENTAL PRIDE. LORD DERBY.] Mr. LYNCH'S latest suggestion for the furtherance of his Republican propaganda is that the COMMISSIONER OF WORKS should remove from the streets all statues of deceased monarchs, and replace them by those of great leaders of thought. Sir ALFRED MOND absolutely refused. The worst kings sometimes make the best statues, and he is not prepared to sacrifice JAMES II. from the Admiralty even to put Mr. LYNCH himself on the vacant pedestal. [Illustration: _Gunner (home on leave)_. "WAITER, MY NEIGHBOUR'S EFFORTS WITH HIS SOUP (BY THE WAY, I'M SURE HE OUGHT TO BE INTERNED) ARE MORE THAN I CAN BEAR. WOULD YOU OBLIGE ME BY ASKING THE BAND TO PUT UP A BARRAGE?"] I watched the PRESIDENT and thought (Unjustly) he was canting; I watched our late PRIME MINISTER When furious scribes were ranting, And vigilantly bent my looks On HARDEN and on BRANTING. I watched JONESCU, also JONES (Great KENNEDY) and HUGHES; I sought illumination from BILLING'S momentous views; I watched Freemasons, Socialists, And Salonica Jews. I've glued my eye on seer and sage, On Mecca's brave Sherif; I've fastened it on what's-his-name, The famed Albanian chief, Till, wearying of the watcher's task, At length I crave relief. So when I'm bidden at this stage To start the game anew And keep KAROLYI constantly And carefully in view, I think I'm wholly justified In answering, "Nah Poo!" AN EQUIVOCAL COMPLIMENT. Evidently "l" itself would not sever Mr. CHURCHILL'S connection with his old friends. It looks like being "bad for the coow." GEMS FROM THE JUNIORS. Never believe what Berlin says. "MRS. POMEROY'S REPUTATION." Candour (subacid virtue) compels me to set down that there was nothing very notable or novel about the manipulation, by Messrs. HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL and THOMAS COBB, of the comedy of needless complications entitled _Mrs. Pomeroy's Reputation_. The occasion was chiefly notable for the return of Miss VIOLET VANBRUGH to active service and the welcome she was given by her splendidly loyal following. [Illustration: LETTICE AND IMPROMPTU DRESSING. _Lettice_ MISS LETTICE FAIRFAX. _Georgina_ MISS VIOLET VANBRUGH. _Vincent Dampier_ MR. FRANK ESMOND.] Miss VIOLET VANBRUGH was patently nervous with her part, a little jerky and restless. She needn't have been. Loyalty would have carried her through a duller play, to say nothing of her charming looks and her queenly way of wearing a beautiful gown. Mr. LOWNE, as the baronet, made effective play with a quite impossible part in a quite futile situation, and held the reflector up to the best Mayfair Cockney with "_Georginar_ explains." He needn't apologise; we know it's true to life! The piece of acting that most cheered me was Mr. GRAHAME HERINGTON as the philanderer's manservant--a very tactful and observant performance. Mr. FRANK ESMOND, the philanderer, seemed ill at ease (partly art but partly nature, I judged, perhaps unjustly). Miss LETTICE FAIRFAX as the little goose was what I believe is known as adequate. We hope the British piano will resist the temptation. A happy thought to prepare the new voters for taking the plunge. A little hard on the eagle. The General _will_ be pleased. The oldest inhabitant, however, is still undefeated. For months I had been chasing Cuthbert. I had a store of withering phrases burning to be poured over his unmentionable head. Last Tuesday my opportunity arrived. "Nothing whatever to do with the Army," he snapped, and a Prussian-blue opponent was smacked off into an arid and hoopless waste. "Ah!" I exclaimed, "then he's only a rabbit after all." The old thing gave me an unfriendly glance and then missed his hoop badly. I strolled across and sat down beside the newcomer. He smiled at me in a frank and disarming manner. "What do you think of our courts?" I said by way of a start. "Top-hole," he replied; "I'm looking forward to some jolly games on 'em." His obvious disregard of perspective annoyed me. In our village, tennis is now played for hygienic reasons only. "I'm afraid we can't offer you much of a game," I said. "You see there's a war on, and--but perhaps I can fix up a single for you after tea with old Patterby. I believe he was very hot stuff in the seventies." "That's very good of you. I expect he'll knock my head off; I'm no use at the game yet." He spoke as though an endless and blissful period of practice was in front of him. "I suppose you'll be going back soon?" "Oh, I'm out of a job just now." So it was genuine blatant indifference. I looked round for something with which to slay him. "I wonder," he said thoughtfully, "if I shall ever find my tennis legs again." "Have you lost them?" I asked sarcastically. "Yes, Fritzie got it at Jutland; but these new mark gadgets are top-hole. I can nearly dance the fox-trot with mine already." He stretched out the gadget in question and patted it affectionately. [Illustration: "OLE BILL SEZ 'E 'ARDLY NEVER SEES 'IS MISSUS NAH." "OH! 'OW'S THAT, THEN?" "COS SHE'S ALL MORNIN' AN' ARTERNOON IN A SUGAR CUE, AND 'E'S ALL EVENIN' IN A BEER CUE."] HEART-TO-HEART TALKS. (_The German CROWN PRINCE and Ex-King CONSTANTINE._) _Crown Prince_. My poor old TINO, you are certainly not looking yourself. Have a drink? _Tino._ No, thank you. I really don't feel up to it. _Tino._ Well, if I must I must (_drinks_). Yes, there's no fault to be found with it. _C. P._ You're looking better already. Now you can tell me all about it. _Tino_ (_bitterly_). Oh, there's not much to tell, except that I was lured on by the promise of help, and when the crisis came there was no help, and so I had to go. _C. P._ (_humming an air_). And so, and so He had, he had to go. _Tino_. I beg your pardon. _C. P._ Sorry, old man, but the words fitted into the tune so nicely I really couldn't resist trying it. Fire ahead. _Tino_. I said, I think, that I was promised help. _C. P._ Yes, you said that all right. _Tino_. And I added that there was no help when the trouble came. _C. P._ You said "crisis," not "trouble," but we won't insist on a trifle like that. Who was the rascal who broke his promise and refused to help you? _Tino_. You know well enough that it was your most gracious father. _C.P._ What! The ALL-HIGHEST! The INMOSTLY BELOVED! The BEYOND-ALL-POWERFUL! Was it really he? And you believed him, did you? What a cunning old fox it is, to be sure. _C. P._ To tell you the truth, I don't take him as seriously as he takes himself. Nobody could. _Tino_. After what has happened I certainly shall not again. It's entirely owing to him that I've lost my kingdom and that the hateful VENIZELOS is back in Athens and that ALEXANDER is seated on my throne. If your beloved father had only left me alone I should have worried through all right. _C. P._ I always tell him he tries to do too much, but he's so infatuated with being an Emperor that there's no holding him. You know he's absolutely convinced that he and the Almighty are on special terms of partnership. _Tino_. I've done a bit myself in that line and I know it doesn't pay. _C. P._ I daresay I shall do it when my time comes. _Tino_. If it ever comes. _C. P._ If it depended on me alone things would go all right. I'm told the people like me, and even the Socialists swear by me. _Tino_. How can you believe such nonsense? I tried to act on that principle and here I am. And poor Russian NICKIE has had an even worse fall--all through believing he had the people on his side. _Tino_. Well, we must try to bear up, even if he should go the way NICKIE has gone. In the meantime the War doesn't look particularly promising, does it? _C. P._ It certainly doesn't; and the Americans will be at our throats directly. Do you know, I never thought very much of HINDENBURG. _Tino_. I suppose you know someone who is younger and could do it much better. [Illustration: SOMEWHERE UP NORTH. _Naval Officer (to native)_. "CAN YOU TELL ME WHERE THE GOLF COURSE IS?" Tough fellows, these detectives. Stopping a single bullet would put most men out of action. So convenient for friends to drop in. With his new pedal equipment the British bull-dog should give the German eagle pause. We are asked to state that a recently published work on _Beds and Hunts_ (METHUEN) is not a companion-volume to _Minor Horrors of War_. TO THE MEN WHO HAVE DIED FOR ENGLAND. All ye who fought since England was a name, Because Her soil was holy in your eyes; Who heard Her summons and confessed Her claim, Who flung against a world's time-hallow'd lies The truth of English freedom--fain to give Those last lone moments, careless of your pain, Knowing that only so must England live And win, by sacrifice, the right to reign- Be glad, that still the spur of your bequest Urges your heirs their threefold way along- The way of Toil that craveth not for rest, Clear Honour, and stark Will to punish wrong! The seed ye sow'd God quicken'd with His Breath; The crop hath ripen'd--lo, there is no death! [Illustration: THE LINKS BEING DEVOTED TO ALLOTMENTS, MR. AND MRS. BUNKER-BROWNE PRACTISE APPROACH SHOTS, WITH THE IDEA OF FILLING THEIR BASKET WITH POTATOES AT THE SAME TIME.] (_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._) [Illustration: [Owing to a scarcity of literary matter at the Front, our soldiers are sometimes reduced to telling each other tales.] Private Jones. "AND SHE _SAYS_, 'OH! WOT BLINKIN' GREAT EYES YOU 'AVE, GRANDMOTHER!' AND THE WOLF, 'E SAYS, 'ALL THE BETTER TER SEE YER WIV, MY DEAR.'"]	redpajama-book	5,348
E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, L. Barber, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders TURKEY: A PAST AND A FUTURE We are thus witnessing the foundation of a new era as momentous, if not as dramatic, as Alexander's passage of the Dardanelles. The Ottoman vesture has waxed old, and something can be discerned of the new forms that are emerging from beneath it; their outstanding features are worth our attention. The new Turkish Nationalism is the immediate factor to be reckoned with. It is very new--newer than the Young Turks, and sharply opposed to the original Young Turkish programme--but it has established its ascendancy. It decided Turkey's entry into the War, and is the key to the current policy of the Ottoman Government. "The Turks realised that, in order to live, they must become essentially Turkish, become a nation, be themselves The Turkish nation turned aside its gaze from the lost territory and looked instead upon Turania, the ideal country of the future." On this issue the Nationalists broke a lance with the _Islamjis_, or "clericals," as Tekin Alp prefers to call them. "Because it is written in the Koran that Islam knows no nationalities, but only Believers, the _Islamjis_ thought that to occupy oneself with national questions was to act against the interests and principles of Islam itself According to the Nationalists, the pronouncement in the Koran was directed exclusively against the very frequent dissensions of clans and parties in the various Arab races." (A sneer which is meant to have a modern application.) "Although the Nationalists proclaim themselves the most zealous followers of Mohammed, nevertheless they do not conceal the fact that their interpretation of Islam is not the same as that of the Arabs. They maintain that the Turks cannot interpret the Koran in the same manner as the Arabs Their idea of God is also different." This amazing _Kulturkampf_ is quite possibly a reminiscence of Bismarckian Germany, for Turkish Nationalism is saturated with forgotten European moods, and its vein of Romanticism is as antiquated as the Kaiser's. It has taken Attila to its heart, and rehabilitated Jenghis Khan, Timur, Oghuz, and the rest with the erudition of a Turanian Walter Scott. "They sought after a judicious mingling of the religious and national impulses. They realised only too clearly that the still abstract ideals of Nationalism could not be expected to attract the masses, the lower classes, composed of uneducated and illiterate people. It was found more expedient to reach these classes under the flag of religion." "Turkey's entry into the War," he writes, "was unwelcome to Turkish society in Constantinople, whose sympathies were with France, as well as to the mass of the people, but the Panislamic propaganda and the military dictatorship were able to stifle all opposition. The proclamation of the 'Holy War' produced a general agitation of the Mohammedan against the Christian elements in the Empire, and the Christian nationalities had soon good reason to fear that Turkish chauvinism would make use of Mohammedan fanaticism to make the War popular with the mass of the Mohammedan population." Thus in the Armenian atrocities the Young Turks made Panislamism and Turkish Nationalism work together for their ends, but the development of their policy shows the Islamic element receding and the Nationalist gaining ground. "The formation of new parties in the Chamber or in the country must be suppressed and the emergence of new 'liberal ideas' prevented. Turkey must become a really Mohammedan country, and Moslem ideas and Moslem influence must be preponderant. Every other religious propaganda must be suppressed. The existence of the Empire depends on the strength of the Young Turkish Party and the suppression of all antagonistic ideas "All Ottomans are not Turks," he said, "and if the Empire were to be considered purely Turkish, then all the non-Turkish elements would be foreign to it, instead of being living members of the political body known as the Ottoman Empire, fighting the common fight for it and for Islam." To this the Professor is reported to have replied: "Although you are an Arab, yet you and your race are subject to Turkey. Have not the Turks colonised your country, and have they not conquered it by the sword? The Ottoman State, which you plead, is nothing but a social trick, to which you resort in order to attain your ends. As to religion, it has no connexion with politics. We shall soon march forward in the name of Turkey and the Turkish flag, casting aside religion, as it is only a personal and secondary question. You and your nation must realise that you are Turks, and that there is no such thing as Arab nationality and an Arab fatherland." It is said that the Arab officers present handed in a joint protest to the Minister of War, asking for the Professor's dismissal, and that Enver Bey's answer was to have them all sent to the front-line trenches. Certainly the Turkish Nationalists have not concealed their attitude towards the Arabs since the War began. And Ahmed Sherif Bey, again, has written as follows in the _Tanin_: "The Arabs speak their own language and are as ignorant of Turkish as if their country were not a dependency of Turkey. It is the business of the _Porte_ to make them forget their own language and to impose upon them instead that of the nation which rules them. If the Porte loses sight of this duty it will be digging its grave with its own hands, for if the Arabs do not forget their language, their history, and their customs, they will seek to restore their ancient empire on the ruins of Ottomanism and of Turkish rule in Asia." A Turkish pamphleteer wrote that "the Arabs have been a misfortune to Turkey," and that "a Turkish conqueror's war-horse is better than the Prophet of any other nation." This pamphlet was distributed in the Caucasus at the Ottoman Government's expense as Turkish propaganda. But the aims of Turkish Nationalists are not limited by the Ottoman frontiers. If they are resolved to clear their Empire of every non-Turkish element, that is only a step towards extending it over everything Turkish that lies outside. The Turks have not only aliens to get rid of, but an irredenta to win. "Turkish irredentism may be directed towards material or moral reforms according to circumstances. If the geographical position favours the venture, the Turks can free their brothers from foreign rule. In the other case, they can carry it on on moral or intellectual lines. "Our participation in the world war represents the vindication of our national ideal. The ideal of our nation and people leads us towards the destruction of our Muscovite enemy, in order to obtain thereby a natural frontier to our empire, which should include and unite all branches of our race." "Observers," he writes, "who, like myself, are Macedonians, and, like myself, had ample opportunity of gaining an intimate knowledge of the irredentist propaganda of the Bulgars, Greeks, Serbs, and Vlachs, are able to judge the significance of this striving after a national ideal, and how sweet and inspiring it is to go through the greatest dangers for such a cause. This is best illustrated by a few living examples" (which he proceeds to give) "Will the Young Turks emulate the self-sacrifice of these men?" Russia and Persia are the fields marked out for such activity: "In some places ordinary propaganda is sufficient, but in hotly-contested territory recourse is to be had to the more violent measures used in Macedonia. The neighbouring land of Persia is without doubt the best of all countries with Turkish population for spreading the new ideas, and it has been found that simple propaganda is amply sufficient to produce a satisfactory effect on this fruitful soil." "There is no power in Persia to put down such a movement, because it could do no harm to anyone. The nationalisation of the Persian Turks would even be a great and unexpected help to the Persian Government Persia would be situated with regard to the Turkish Government as Bavaria towards Prussia." And this is only a stage towards a higher goal: "The united Turks should form the centre of gravity of the world of Islam. The Arabs of Egypt, Morocco and Tunisia, the Persians, Afghans, etc., must enjoy complete independence in their own affairs, but outwardly the world of Islam must present a perfectly united front." The Arabs of North Africa and the Shias of Iran can appraise the "independence" held out to them by the "unity" which Turkish Nationalism has been presenting already to Syria and Irak, the Yemen and the Hedjaz. But Tekin Alp deals even less tenderly with Russia. In explaining the bond of interest between Turkish Nationalism and Germany he remarks that The "et cetera" proves to be nothing less than the province of Kazan: This Nationalism, which dominates Turkey's present, has also decided the question of her future. If such a movement has taken possession of the Osmanlis, the Osmanlis must lose possession of their Empire. Turkish Nationalism now directs the Ottoman Government, wields its pretensions, is master within its frontiers; and how does it use its mastery? To make a hell of Armenia and Syria, and to plot out new Macedonias in Persia and the heart of Russia. Thus Turkish Nationalism shows where the Turk is intolerable and must go, but it also shows where he has some right to stay. If the Turkish Nationalists had confined themselves to economic weapons, the Turks' economic ineptitude would have prevented them from doing serious harm; but by abusing the political and military powers of the Ottoman State to perpetrate the recent atrocities they have struck a mortal blow at the prosperity of Western Asia. And this is the universal judgment of those in a position to know. The German memorialist presses the indictment: What forces will be released in Western Asia when the Turk has met his fate? Who will repair the ruin he leaves behind? Dr. Wiedenfeld drives this home. "The importance of the Syrian railway system lies in this, that, if the need arose, it would be the direct instrument for the exercise of pressure upon England supposing that German-Austro-Turkish co-operation became necessary in the direction of Egypt." Germany's control over Turkey depends upon the maintenance of a corrupt minority in power--too weak and corrupt to remain in it without Germany's guarantee, and corrupt enough, when secured in it, to put it at Germany's disposal. A free hand at home in return for servitude in diplomacy and war--the deal is called "Hegemony," and is as old as Ancient Greece. By her hegemony over the Ottoman Government Germany threatens the British and Russian Empires from all the Ottoman frontiers; and with the free hand that is their price the Young Turks inflict on all lands and peoples within those frontiers whatever evils conduce to the maintenance of their pretensions. As Rohrbach and Wiedenfeld point out, this political understanding underlies all Germany's economic efforts in Western Asia, and we can see how it has warped them from their proper ends. The track of the Bagdad Railway, for example, has not been selected in the economic interests of the lands and peoples which it ostensibly serves. Dr. Rohrbach himself admits that "If merely economic and not political advantages were taken into account," Dr. Rohrbach concedes, "the question might perhaps be raised whether it would not be better to leave the Anatolian section alone altogether and begin the Bagdad Railway from Seleucia" (on the Syrian coast). "The future export trade in grain, wool, and cotton will in any case do all it can to lengthen the cheap sea-passage and shorten correspondingly the section on which it must pay railway freights. The fact that the route connecting Bagdad with the Mediterranean coast in the neighbourhood of Antioch is the oldest, greatest, and still most promising trade-route of Western Asia is independent of all railway projects." "The necessity," he declares, "consists in Turkey's military interests, which obviously would be very poorly served" (by German railway enterprise) "if troops could not be transported by train without a break from Bagdad and Mosul to the extremity of Anatolia, and _vice versa_." "Germany has an important interest in effecting and maintaining contact with the Armenian nation. We have set before ourselves the necessary and legitimate aim of spreading and enrooting German influence in Turkey, not only by military missions and the construction of railways, but also by the establishment of intellectual relations, by the work of German _Kultur_--in a word, by moral conquests; and we are determined, by pacific means, to reach an amicable understanding with the Turks and the other nations in the Turkish Empire. Our ulterior object in this is to strengthen the Turkish Empire internally with the aid of German science, education, and training, and for this work the Armenians are indispensable." "For the rise of the carpet industry," our German memorialised writes, "Turkey has to thank capitalists and exporters who are almost all Armenians, Greeks, Jews, or Europeans. Like the cotton cultivation introduced by Germany into Cilicia, this carpet industry, in the eastern provinces, has been deprived of the hands essential to it by the Armenian deportations." "I have nothing to say," writes Dr. Niepage, the German teacher from Aleppo, "about the opinion of the German officers in Turkey. I often noticed among them an ominous silence or a convulsive effort to change the subject, when any German of warm feelings and independent judgment talked in their presence of the fearful sufferings of the Armenians." This moral bankruptcy is more fatal to the future of Germany in Western Asia than all the material havoc which the Armenian deportations have caused. For Dr. Niepage is convinced that the blood of the Armenians will be on Germany's head: "'The teaching of the Germans,' is the simple Turk's explanation, and more sensitive Mohammedans, Turks and Arabs alike, cannot believe that their own Government has ordered these horrors. They lay all excesses at the Germans' door, for the Germans, during the War, are regarded as Turkey's schoolmasters in everything. The mollahs declare in the mosques that the German officers, and not the Sublime Porte, have ordered the maltreatment and extermination of the Armenians Others say: 'Perhaps the German Government has its hands tied by certain agreements defining its powers, or perhaps it is not an opportune moment for intervention.' "We think it our duty to draw attention to the fact that our educational work in Turkey forfeits its moral basis and the natives' esteem, if the German Government is not in a position to prevent the brutalities inflicted here upon the wives and children of murdered Armenians. "If we persist in treating the massacres of Christians as an internal affair of Turkey, which is only important to us because it ensures us the Turks' friendship, then we must change the orientation of our German _Kulturpolitik_. We must stop sending German teachers to Turkey, and we teachers must give up telling our pupils in Turkey about German poets and philosophers, German culture and German ideals, to say nothing of German Christianity. "The things of which everybody here has been a witness for months past remain as a stain on Germany's shield in the minds of Oriental nations." Happily there are other representatives of culture, other indigenous nationalities, other possibilities of economic development, which will remain in Western Asia when the Turk and German have gone, and which may be equal to repairing the ruin they will leave behind. "The Oriental Churches need assistance from their brethren abroad. Our object is not to subvert them: you are not sent among those Churches to proselytise. Let the Armenian remain an Armenian if he will, the Greek a Greek, the Nestorian a Nestorian, the Oriental an Oriental. "The suppression of the schools founded and directed by ecclesiastical missions or by individuals belonging to enemy nations is as important a measure as the abolition of the Capitulations. Thanks to their schools, foreigners were able to exercise great moral influence over the young men of the country, and they were virtually in charge of its spiritual and intellectual guidance. By closing them the Government has put an end to a situation as humiliating as it was dangerous." But the missionaries' spirit was something they could not destroy. Germany may not relish her kinship with these lost Teutonic tribes, but Dr. Davis-Trietsch makes a satirical exposure of such scruples: "In this unenviable competition for the prize of hate, Turkey, too, has a word to say, for the unspeakable Turk' is a rhetorical commonplace of English politics." Having thus isolated the Jews from humanity and pilloried them with the German and the Turk, the writer expounds their function in the Turco-German system: And from this he passes to a wider vision: Dr. Trietsch himself accepts this settlement, but does not abandon his idea: Other Powers than Germany may take these possibilities to heart. Here far-sighted engineers and stronghanded rulers turned the waters of Babylon into waters of life, and the _Sawad_ became a great heart of civilisation, breathing in man-power--Sumerians and Amorites and Kassites and Aramaeans and Chaldeans and Persians and Greeks and Arabs--and breathing out the works of man--grain and wool and Babylonish garments, inventions still used in our machine-shops, and emotions still felt in our religion. Harnessed in the irrigation channels, the Tigris and Euphrates had become as mighty forces of production as the Nile and the Ganges, the Yangtse and the Hoang-Ho. "But even," he continues, "if the Turks thought of foreign colonisation in Syria and Mesopotamia, to hold the Arabs in check" (the political factor again), "that would be little help to us Germans, for only very limited portions of those countries have a climate in which Germans can work on the land or perform any kind of heavy manual labour." And Germany herself is hard up for men. "For all prospective developments in Turkey," writes Dr. Trietsch, "not merely scientific knowledge, capital, and organisation are wanted, but men, and Germany has no resources in men worth speaking of for opening up the Islamic world." That narrows the field to India and Egypt, and drives Turco-German policy upon the horns of a dilemma: "In due time," the memorandum proceeds, "a comprehensive scheme for the whole of Mesopotamia must be carried out, but, apart from the question of expense, it is clear that the public works involved will not be justified until Turkey is in a position to colonise these extensive districts, and this question cannot be considered till we have succeeded in getting rid of the Capitulations." This is the Ottoman pretension. Egypt, rid of the Osmanli, and India, where he never ruled, have kept their ancient wealth of harvests and population, and have man-power to spare for the reclamation of the _Sawad_. All the means are at hand for bringing the land to life--the water, the engineer, the capital, the labour; only the Ottoman pretension stands in the way, and condemns the _Sawad_ to lie dead and unharvested so long as it endures. Turkey, which claims the present in Western Asia, is nothing but an overthrow of the past and an obstruction of the future.	redpajama-book	4,170
Produced by David Widger, Ted Garvin and PG Distributed Proofreaders THE MERRY ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD FROM THE AUTHOR TO THE READER And now I lift the curtain that hangs between here and No-man's-land. Will you come with me, sweet Reader? I thank you. Give me your hand. How Robin Hood Came To Be An Outlaw Robin Hood And The Tinker The Shooting Match At Nottingham Town Will Stutely Rescued By His Companions Robin Hood Turns Butcher Little John Goes To Nottingham Fair How Little John Lived At The Sheriff's Little John And The Tanner Of Blyth Robin Hood And Will Scarlet The Adventure With Midge, The Miller's Son Robin Hood And Allan A Dale Robin Hood Seeks The Curtal Friar Robin Hood Compasses A Marriage Robin Hood Aids A Sorrowful Knight How Sir Richard Of The Lea Paid His Debts Little John Turns Barefoot Friar Robin Hood Turns Beggar Robin Hood Shoots Before Queen Eleanor The Chase Of Robin Hood Robin Hood And Guy Of Gisbourne King Richard Comes To Sherwood Forest Epilogue Giving an account of Robin Hood and his adventure with the King's Foresters. Also telling how his band gathered around him, and of the merry adventure that gained him his good right hand man, the famous Little John. How Robin Hood Came to Be an Outlaw And now I will tell how it came about that Robin Hood fell afoul of the law. Then Robin grew angry, for no stripling likes to be taunted with his green years. "Now," quoth he, "my bow and eke mine arrows are as good as shine; and moreover, I go to the shooting match at Nottingham Town, which same has been proclaimed by our good Sheriff of Nottinghamshire; there I will shoot with other stout yeomen, for a prize has been offered of a fine butt of ale." And another cried, "He will be taking ale with his milk next." Then Robin took his good yew bow in his hand, and placing the tip at his instep, he strung it right deftly; then he nocked a broad clothyard arrow and, raising the bow, drew the gray goose feather to his ear; the next moment the bowstring rang and the arrow sped down the glade as a sparrowhawk skims in a northern wind. High leaped the noblest hart of all the herd, only to fall dead, reddening the green path with his heart's blood. "Nay," cried he, "the wager is none of thine, and get thee gone, straightway, or, by all the saints of heaven, I'll baste thy sides until thou wilt ne'er be able to walk again." "Knowest thou not," said another, "that thou hast killed the King's deer, and, by the laws of our gracious lord and sovereign King Harry, thine ears should be shaven close to thy head?" Never a word said Robin Hood, but he looked at the foresters with a grim face; then, turning on his heel, strode away from them down the forest glade. But his heart was bitterly angry, for his blood was hot and youthful and prone to boil. "Ye said I was no archer," cried he aloud, "but say so now again!" The shaft flew straight; the archer fell forward with a cry, and lay on his face upon the ground, his arrows rattling about him from out of his quiver, the gray goose shaft wet with his; heart's blood. Then, before the others could gather their wits about them, Robin Hood was gone into the depths of the greenwood. Some started after him, but not with much heart, for each feared to suffer the death of his fellow; so presently they all came and lifted the dead man up and bore him away to Nottingham Town. Meanwhile Robin Hood ran through the greenwood. Gone was all the joy and brightness from everything, for his heart was sick within him, and it was borne in upon his soul that he had slain a man. "Nay," answered the stranger, "then stand back shine own self, for the better man, I wet, am I." "That will we presently see," quoth Robin, "and meanwhile stand thou where thou art, or else, by the bright brow of Saint AElfrida, I will show thee right good Nottingham play with a clothyard shaft betwixt thy ribs." "Now," quoth the stranger, "I will tan thy hide till it be as many colors as a beggar's cloak, if thou darest so much as touch a string of that same bow that thou holdest in thy hands." "Thou pratest like an ass," said Robin, "for I could send this shaft clean through thy proud heart before a curtal friar could say grace over a roast goose at Michaelmastide." "And thou pratest like a coward," answered the stranger, "for thou standest there with a good yew bow to shoot at my heart, while I have nought in my hand but a plain blackthorn staff wherewith to meet thee." "Now," quoth Robin, "by the faith of my heart, never have I had a coward's name in all my life before. I will lay by my trusty bow and eke my arrows, and if thou darest abide my coming, I will go and cut a cudgel to test thy manhood withal." "Ay, marry, that will I abide thy coming, and joyously, too," quoth the stranger; whereupon he leaned sturdily upon his staff to await Robin. "Marry, that meeteth my whole heart!" cried the stranger, twirling his staff above his head, betwixt his fingers and thumb, until it whistled again. "And where art thou now, my good lad?" shouted the stranger, roaring with laughter. "Oh, in the flood and floating adown with the tide," cried Robin, nor could he forbear laughing himself at his sorry plight. Then, gaining his feet, he waded to the bank, the little fish speeding hither and thither, all frightened at his splashing. "Give me thy hand," cried he, when he had reached the bank. "I must needs own thou art a brave and a sturdy soul and, withal, a good stout stroke with the cudgels. By this and by that, my head hummeth like to a hive of bees on a hot June day." "And thou," quoth the stranger, laughing, "takest thy cudgeling like a brave heart and a stout yeoman." "Good master," cried Will, "how is this? Truly thou art all wet from head to foot, and that to the very skin." "Why, marry," answered jolly Robin, "yon stout fellow hath tumbled me neck and crop into the water and hath given me a drubbing beside." "Then shall he not go without a ducking and eke a drubbing himself!" cried Will Stutely. "Have at him, lads!" Then Will and a score of yeomen leaped upon the stranger, but though they sprang quickly they found him ready and felt him strike right and left with his stout staff, so that, though he went down with press of numbers, some of them rubbed cracked crowns before he was overcome. "That know I not," quoth the stranger surlily, for he was angry at being so tumbled about. "If ye handle yew bow and apple shaft no better than ye do oaken cudgel, I wot ye are not fit to be called yeomen in my country; but if there be any man here that can shoot a better shaft than I, then will I bethink me of joining with you." "Ay, marry, that will I," answered he. "Give me a good stout bow and a fair broad arrow, and if I hit it not, strip me and beat me blue with bowstrings." Then he chose the stoutest bow among them all, next to Robin's own, and a straight gray goose shaft, well-feathered and smooth, and stepping to the mark--while all the band, sitting or lying upon the greensward, watched to see him shoot--he drew the arrow to his cheek and loosed the shaft right deftly, sending it so straight down the path that it clove the mark in the very center. "Aha!" cried he, "mend thou that if thou canst"; while even the yeomen clapped their hands at so fair a shot. "That is a keen shot indeed," quoth Robin. "Mend it I cannot, but mar it I may, perhaps." Then taking up his own good stout bow and nocking an arrow with care, he shot with his very greatest skill. Straight flew the arrow, and so true that it lit fairly upon the stranger's shaft and split it into splinters. Then all the yeomen leaped to their feet and shouted for joy that their master had shot so well. "Then have I gained a right good man this day," quoth jolly Robin. "What name goest thou by, good fellow?" "Men call me John Little whence I came," answered the stranger. Then Will Stutely, who loved a good jest, spoke up. "Nay, fair little stranger," said he, "I like not thy name and fain would I have it otherwise. Little art thou indeed, and small of bone and sinew, therefore shalt thou be christened Little John, and I will be thy godfather." Then Robin Hood and all his band laughed aloud until the stranger began to grow angry. "An thou make a jest of me," quoth he to Will Stutely, "thou wilt have sore bones and little pay, and that in short season." "Nay, good friend," said Robin Hood, "bottle thine anger, for the name fitteth thee well. Little John shall thou be called henceforth, and Little John shall it be. So come, my merry men, we will prepare a christening feast for this fair infant." Then when the feast was done Will Stutely spoke up. "It is now time, I ween, to christen our bonny babe, is it not so, merry boys?" And "Aye! Aye!" cried all, laughing till the woods echoed with their mirth. "That do I," answered Will Stutely. "And what name callest thou him?" "Little John call I him." "Now Little John," quoth the mock priest, "thou hast not lived heretofore, but only got thee along through the world, but henceforth thou wilt live indeed. When thou livedst not thou wast called John Little, but now that thou dost live indeed, Little John shalt thou be called, so christen I thee." And at these last words he emptied the pot of ale upon Little John's head. Robin Hood and the Tinker Then he called up a messenger in whom he placed great trust, and bade him saddle his horse and make ready to go to Lincoln Town to see whether he could find anyone there that would do his bidding and win the reward. So that same morning the messenger started forth upon his errand. The messenger was glad enough to sit down along with the others who were there, for his limbs were weary and the ale was good. "Now art thou the man for my farthing," cried the messenger. "And back thou goest with me to Nottingham Town." "Nay," quoth the Tinker, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Go I with no man gin it be not with mine own free will." "Nay, nay," said the messenger, "no man is there in Nottinghamshire could make thee go against thy will, thou brave fellow." "Ay, that be I brave," said the Tinker. "Ay, marry," said the messenger, "thou art a brave lad; but our good Sheriff hath offered fourscore angels of bright gold to whosoever shall serve the warrant upon Robin Hood; though little good will it do." "Then I will go with thee, lad. Do but wait till I get my bag and hammer, and my cudgel. Ay, let' me but meet this same Robin Hood, and let me see whether he will not mind the King's warrant." So, after having paid their score, the messenger, with the Tinker striding beside his nag, started back to Nottingham again. "Halloa, good friend!" cried Robin. "Halloa!" cried Robin again. "Halloa! Art thou deaf, man? Good friend, say I!" "And who art thou dost so boldly check a fair song?" quoth the Tinker, stopping in his singing. "Halloa, shine own self, whether thou be good friend or no. But let me tell thee, thou stout fellow, gin thou be a good friend it were well for us both; but gin thou be no good friend it were ill for thee." "And whence comest thou, my lusty blade?" quoth Robin. "I come from Banbury," answered the Tinker. "Alas!" quoth Robin, "I hear there is sad news this merry morn." "Ha! Is it indeed so?" cried the Tinker eagerly. "Prythee tell it speedily, for I am a tinker by trade, as thou seest, and as I am in my trade I am greedy for news, even as a priest is greedy for farthings." "Now by the pewter platter of Saint Dunstan," cried the Tinker, "I have a good part of a mind to baste thy hide for thine ill jest. But gin men be put in the stocks for drinking ale and beer, I trow thou wouldst not lose thy part." Loud laughed Robin and cried, "Now well taken, Tinker, well taken! Why, thy wits are like beer, and do froth up most when they grow sour! But right art thou, man, for I love ale and beer right well. Therefore come straightway with me hard by to the Sign of the Blue Boar, and if thou drinkest as thou appearest--and I wot thou wilt not belie thy looks--I will drench thy throat with as good homebrewed as ever was tapped in all broad Nottinghamshire." "Now by my faith," said the Tinker, "thou art a right good fellow in spite of thy scurvy jests. I love thee, my sweet chuck, and gin I go not with thee to that same Blue Boar thou mayst call me a heathen." "Tell me thy news, good friend, I prythee," quoth Robin as they trudged along together, "for tinkers, I ween, are all as full of news as an egg of meat." "Ay, marry, that I do somewhat," quoth Robin, "and I have seen him this very morn. But, Tinker, men say that he is but a sad, sly thief. Thou hadst better watch thy warrant, man, or else he may steal it out of thy very pouch." "Let him but try!" cried the Tinker. "Sly may he be, but sly am I, too. I would I had him here now, man to man!" And he made his heavy cudgel to spin again. "But what manner of man is he, lad? "Much like myself," said Robin, laughing, "and in height and build and age nigh the same; and he hath blue eyes, too." "Nay," quoth the Tinker, "thou art but a green youth. I thought him to be a great bearded man. Nottingham men feared him so." "Truly, he is not so old nor so stout as thou art," said Robin. "But men do call him a right deft hand at quarterstaff." "Ay, that will I," quoth Robin, "but show me thy warrant, man, until I see whether it be good or no." "That will I not do, even to mine own brother," answered the Tinker. "No man shall see my warrant till I serve it upon yon fellow's own body." "So be it," quoth Robin. "And thou show it not to me I know not to whom thou wilt show it. But here we are at the Sign of the Blue Boar, so let us in and taste his brown October." "By Our Lady," said the Tinker, after a long draught of the ale, "yon same Withold of Tamworth--a right good Saxon name, too, I would have thee know--breweth the most humming ale that e'er passed the lips of Wat o' the Crabstaff." "Drink, man, drink," cried Robin, only wetting his own lips meanwhile. "Ho, landlord! Bring my friend another pot of the same. And now for a song, my jolly blade." "Ay, that will I give thee a song, my lovely fellow," quoth the Tinker, "for I never tasted such ale in all my days before. By Our Lady, it doth make my head hum even now! Hey, Dame Hostess, come listen, an thou wouldst hear a song, and thou too, thou bonny lass, for never sing I so well as when bright eyes do look upon me the while." Then Robin Hood laughed aloud and quickly took the warrant from out the Tinker's pouch with his deft fingers. "Sly art thou, Tinker," quoth he, "but not yet, I bow, art thou as sly as that same sly thief Robin Hood." At this the host smiled slyly, as though saying to himself the rustic saw, "Teach a magpie to suck eggs." "Ho, landlord!" cried he, "whither hath that knave gone that was with me but now?" "What knave meaneth Your Worship?" quoth the landlord, calling the Tinker Worship to soothe him, as a man would pour oil upon angry water. "I saw no knave with Your Worship, for I swear no man would dare call that man knave so nigh to Sherwood Forest. A right stout yeoman I saw with Your Worship, but I thought that Your Worship knew him, for few there be about here that pass him by and know him not." "Now, how should I, that ne'er have squealed in your sty, know all the swine therein? Who was he, then, an thou knowest him so well?" "Now, by'r Lady!" cried the Tinker hastily, and in a deep voice like an angry bull, "thou didst see me come into thine inn, I, a staunch, honest craftsman, and never told me who my company was, well knowing thine own self who he was. Now, I have a right round piece of a mind to crack thy knave's pate for thee!" Then he took up his cudgel and looked at the landlord as though he would smite him where he stood. "Nay," cried the host, throwing up his elbow, for he feared the blow, "how knew I that thou knewest him not?" "Well and truly thankful mayst thou be," quoth the Tinker, "that I be a patient man and so do spare thy bald crown, else wouldst thou ne'er cheat customer again. But as for this same knave Robin Hood, I go straightway to seek him, and if I do not score his knave's pate, cut my staff into fagots and call me woman." So saying, he gathered himself together to depart. "Nay," quoth the landlord, standing in front of him and holding out his arms like a gooseherd driving his flock, for money made him bold, "thou goest not till thou hast paid me my score." "But did not he pay thee?" "But nought have I to pay thee with, good fellow," quoth the Tinker. So saying, he strode away toward the forest, talking to himself, while the landlord and his worthy dame and Maken stood looking after him, and laughed when he had fairly gone. "Robin and I stripped yon ass of his pack main neatly," quoth the landlord. Now it happened about this time that Robin Hood was going through the forest to Fosse Way, to see what was to be seen there, for the moon was full and the night gave promise of being bright. In his hand he carried his stout oaken staff, and at his side hung his bugle horn. As thus he walked up a forest path, whistling, down another path came the Tinker, muttering to himself and shaking his head like an angry bull; and so, at a sudden bend, they met sharply face to face. Each stood still for a time, and then Robin spoke: "Halloa, my sweet bird," said he, laughing merrily, "how likest thou thine ale? Wilt not sing to me another song?" "Now yield thee," quoth the Tinker, "for thou art my captive; and if thou do not, I will beat thy pate to a pudding." "Ay," quoth the Tinker, "blow thou mayest, but go thou must with me to Nottingham Town, for the Sheriff would fain see thee there. Now wilt thou yield thee, or shall I have to break thy pretty head?" "An I must drink sour ale, I must," quoth Robin, "but never have I yielded me to man before, and that without wound or mark upon my body. Nor, when I bethink me, will I yield now. Ho, my merry men! Come quickly!" "How now, good master," cried Little John, "what need hast thou that thou dost wind thy horn so loudly?" "There stands a tinker," quoth Robin, "that would fain take me to Nottingham, there to hang upon the gallows tree." "Then shall he himself hang forthwith," cried Little John, and he and the others made at the Tinker, to seize him. "Ay, marry, will I join with you all," quoth the Tinker, "for I love a merry life, and I love thee, good master, though thou didst thwack my ribs and cheat me into the bargain. Fain am I to own thou art both a stouter and a slyer man than I; so I will obey thee and be thine own true servant." So all turned their steps to the forest depths, where the Tinker was to live henceforth. For many a day he sang ballads to the band, until the famous Allan a Dale joined them, before whose sweet voice all others seemed as harsh as a raven's; but of him we will learn hereafter. The Shooting Match at Nottingham Town Then he bade all his servants and retainers to make ready to go to London Town, to see and speak with the King. In London King Henry and his fair Queen Eleanor held their court, gay with ladies in silks and satins and velvets and cloth of gold, and also brave knights and gallant courtiers. Thither came the Sheriff and was shown into the King's presence. "A boon, a boon," quoth he, as he knelt upon the ground. "Now what wouldst thou have?" said the King. "Let us hear what may be thy desires." "O good my Lord and Sovereign," spake the Sheriff, "in Sherwood Forest in our own good shire of Nottingham, liveth a bold outlaw whose name is Robin Hood." "In good sooth," said the King, "his doings have reached even our own royal ears. He is a saucy, rebellious varlet, yet, I am fain to own, a right merry soul withal." "But hearken, O my most gracious Sovereign," said the Sheriff. "I sent a warrant to him with thine own royal seal attached, by a right lusty knave, but he beat the messenger and stole the warrant. And he killeth thy deer and robbeth thine own liege subjects even upon the great highways." "Why, how now," quoth the King wrathfully. "What wouldst thou have me do? Comest thou not to me with a great array of men-at-arms and retainers, and yet art not able to take a single band of lusty knaves without armor on breast, in thine own county! What wouldst thou have me do? Art thou not my Sheriff? Are not my laws in force in Nottinghamshire? Canst thou not take thine own course against those that break the laws or do any injury to thee or thine? Go, get thee gone, and think well; devise some plan of thine own, but trouble me no further. But look well to it, Master Sheriff, for I will have my laws obeyed by all men within my kingdom, and if thou art not able to enforce them thou art no sheriff for me. So look well to thyself, I say, or ill may befall thee as well as all the thieving knaves in Nottinghamshire. When the flood cometh it sweepeth away grain as well as chaff." "Aha!" cried he suddenly, smiting his hand upon his thigh "I have it now! Ride on, my merry men all, and let us get back to Nottingham Town as speedily as we may. And mark well my words: before a fortnight is passed, that evil knave Robin Hood will be safely clapped into Nottingham gaol." But what was the Sheriff's plan? "Now," thought the Sheriff, "could I but persuade Robin nigh to Nottingham Town so that I could find him, I warrant I would lay hands upon him so stoutly that he would never get away again." Then of a sudden it came to him like a flash that were he to proclaim a great shooting match and offer some grand prize, Robin Hood might be overpersuaded by his spirit to come to the butts; and it was this thought which caused him to cry "Aha!" and smite his palm upon his thigh. So, as soon as he had returned safely to Nottingham, he sent messengers north and south, and east and west, to proclaim through town, hamlet, and countryside, this grand shooting match, and everyone was bidden that could draw a longbow, and the prize was to be an arrow of pure beaten gold. Then young David of Doncaster spoke up and said, "Now listen, I pray thee, good master, unto what I say. I have come straight from our friend Eadom o' the Blue Boar, and there I heard the full news of this same match. But, master, I know from him, and he got it from the Sheriff's man Ralph o' the Scar, that this same knavish Sheriff hath but laid a trap for thee in this shooting match and wishes nothing so much as to see thee there. So go not, good master, for I know right well he doth seek to beguile thee, but stay within the greenwood lest we all meet dole and woe." "Now," quoth Robin, "thou art a wise lad and keepest thine ears open and thy mouth shut, as becometh a wise and crafty woodsman. But shall we let it be said that the Sheriff of Nottingham did cow bold Robin Hood and sevenscore as fair archers as are in all merry England? Nay, good David, what thou tellest me maketh me to desire the prize even more than I else should do. But what sayeth our good gossip Swanthold? Is it not 'A hasty man burneth his mouth, and the fool that keepeth his eyes shut falleth into the pit'? Thus he says, truly, therefore we must meet guile with guile. Now some of you clothe yourselves as curtal friars, and some as rustic peasants, and some as tinkers, or as beggars, but see that each man taketh a good bow or broadsword, in case need should arise. As for myself, I will shoot for this same golden arrow, and should I win it, we will hang it to the branches of our good greenwood tree for the joy of all the band. How like you the plan, my merry men all?" Then "Good, good!" cried all the band right heartily. But now all the benches were filled with guests, lord and lady, burgher and dame, when at last the Sheriff himself came with his lady, he riding with stately mien upon his milk-white horse and she upon her brown filly. Upon his head he wore a purple velvet cap, and purple velvet was his robe, all trimmed about with rich ermine; his jerkin and hose were of sea-green silk, and his shoes of black velvet, the pointed toes fastened to his garters with golden chains. A golden chain hung about his neck, and at his collar was a great carbuncle set in red gold. His lady was dressed in blue velvet, all trimmed with swan's down. So they made a gallant sight as they rode along side by side, and all the people shouted from where they crowded across the space from the gentlefolk; so the Sheriff and his lady came to their place, where men-at-arms, with hauberk and spear, stood about, waiting for them. Then the herald stood forth and loudly proclaimed the rules of the game as follows: "Then," quoth the Sheriff, smiting his thigh angrily, "yon knave is a coward as well as a rogue, and dares not show his face among good men and true." "Now by our gracious Lady fair," quoth old Sir Amyas o' the Dell, who, bowed with fourscore years and more, sat near the Sheriff, "ne'er saw I such archery in all my life before, yet have I seen the best hands at the longbow for threescore years and more." "Now, shoot thou well, Gilbert," cried the Sheriff, "and if thine be the best shaft, fivescore broad silver pennies will I give to thee beside the prize." "Truly I will do my best," quoth Gilbert right sturdily. "A man cannot do aught but his best, but that will I strive to do this day." So saying, he drew forth a fair smooth arrow with a broad feather and fitted it deftly to the string, then drawing his bow with care he sped the shaft. Straight flew the arrow and lit fairly in the clout, a finger's-breadth from the center. "A Gilbert, a Gilbert!" shouted all the crowd; and, "Now, by my faith," cried the Sheriff, smiting his hands together, "that is a shrewd shot." "Now by all the saints in Paradise!" cried the Sheriff, "that is a lovely shaft in very truth!" "Well done, Gilbert!" cried the Sheriff right joyously. "Fain am I to believe the prize is thine, and right fairly won. Now, thou ragged knave, let me see thee shoot a better shaft than that." Then the Sheriff came down from his dais and drew near, in all his silks and velvets, to where the tattered stranger stood leaning upon his stout bow, while the good folk crowded around to see the man who shot so wondrously well. "Here, good fellow," quoth the Sheriff, "take thou the prize, and well and fairly hast thou won it, I bow. What may be thy name, and whence comest thou?" "Men do call me Jock o' Teviotdale, and thence am I come," said the stranger. "Then, by Our Lady, Jock, thou art the fairest archer that e'er mine eyes beheld, and if thou wilt join my service I will clothe thee with a better coat than that thou hast upon thy back; thou shalt eat and drink of the best, and at every Christmastide fourscore marks shall be thy wage. I trow thou drawest better bow than that same coward knave Robin Hood, that dared not show his face here this day. Say, good fellow, wilt thou join my service?" "Nay, that will I not," quoth the stranger roughly. "I will be mine own, and no man in all merry England shall be my master." "Then get thee gone, and a murrain seize thee!" cried the Sheriff, and his voice trembled with anger. "And by my faith and troth, I have a good part of a mind to have thee beaten for thine insolence!" Then he turned upon his heel and strode away. Then all sat down to the woodland feast and talked among themselves of the merry jest that had been played upon the Sheriff, and of the adventures that had befallen each member of the band in his disguise. But when the feast was done, Robin Hood took Little John apart and said, "Truly am I vexed in my blood, for I heard the Sheriff say today, 'Thou shootest better than that coward knave Robin Hood, that dared not show his face here this day.' I would fain let him know who it was who won the golden arrow from out his hand, and also that I am no coward such as he takes me to be." Then Little John said, "Good master, take thou me and Will Stutely, and we will send yon fat Sheriff news of all this by a messenger such as he doth not expect." That day the Sheriff sat at meat in the great hall of his house at Nottingham Town. Long tables stood down the hall, at which sat men-atarms and household servants and good stout villains,[Bond-servants.] in all fourscore and more. There they talked of the day's shooting as they ate their meat and quaffed their ale. The Sheriff sat at the head of the table upon a raised seat under a canopy, and beside him sat his dame. "By my troth," said he, "I did reckon full roundly that that knave Robin Hood would be at the game today. I did not think that he was such a coward. But who could that saucy knave be who answered me to my beard so bravely? I wonder that I did not have him beaten; but there was something about him that spoke of other things than rags and tatters." "_Now Heaven bless Thy Grace this day Say all in sweet Sherwood For thou didst give the prize away To merry Robin Hood_." "Whence came this?" cried the Sheriff in a mighty voice. "Even through the window, Your Worship," quoth the man who had handed the shaft to him. Will Stutely Rescued by His Companions NOW WHEN THE SHERIFF found that neither law nor guile could overcome Robin Hood, he was much perplexed, and said to himself, "Fool that I am! Had I not told our King of Robin Hood, I would not have gotten myself into such a coil; but now I must either take him captive or have wrath visited upon my head from his most gracious Majesty. I have tried law, and I have tried guile, and I have failed in both; so I will try what may be done with might." At this speech many of the band shook their heads, and said to themselves, "Now the Sheriff will think that we are cowards, and folk will scoff throughout the countryside, saying that we fear to meet these men." But they said nothing aloud, swallowing their words and doing as Robin bade them. Then Will Stutely leaped high aloft and laughed loudly, clapping his hands for pure joy that he should have been chosen from among them all. "Now thanks, good master," quoth he, "and if I bring not news of those knaves to thee, call me no more thy sly Will Stutely." But Stutely shook his head silently, for he said to himself, "Maybe there be those here who know my voice." Then the constable said again, "Whither goest thou, holy friar, upon this hot summer's day?" "I go a pilgrim to Canterbury Town," answered Will Stutely, speaking gruffly, so that none might know his voice. "Will Stutely hath been taken," cried they, when they had come to where he stood. "And is it thou that hast brought such doleful news?" said Robin to the lass. "Now hark you all!" cried Robin. "Our dear companion Will Stutely hath been taken by that vile Sheriff's men, therefore doth it behoove us to take bow and brand in hand to bring him off again; for I wot that we ought to risk life and limb for him, as he hath risked life and limb for us. Is it not so, my merry men all?" Then all cried, "Ay!" with a great voice. So the next day they all wended their way from Sherwood Forest, but by different paths, for it behooved them to be very crafty; so the band separated into parties of twos and threes, which were all to meet again in a tangled dell that lay near to Nottingham Town. Then, when they had all gathered together at the place of meeting, Robin spoke to them thus: "Now we will lie here in ambush until we can get news, for it doth behoove us to be cunning and wary if we would bring our friend Will Stutely off from the Sheriff's clutches." So they lay hidden a long time, until the sun stood high in the sky. The day was warm and the dusty road was bare of travelers, except an aged palmer who walked slowly along the highroad that led close beside the gray castle wall of Nottingham Town. When Robin saw that no other wayfarer was within sight, he called young David of Doncaster, who was a shrewd man for his years, and said to him, "Now get thee forth, young David, and speak to yonder palmer that walks beside the town wall, for he hath come but now from Nottingham Town, and may tell thee news of good Stutely, perchance." So David strode forth, and when he came up to the pilgrim, he saluted him and said, "Good morrow, holy father, and canst thou tell me when Will Stutely will be hanged upon the gallows tree? I fain would not miss the sight, for I have come from afar to see so sturdy a rogue hanged." "Ay, marry, that is true," cried the young man. "If Robin and his men be nigh this place, I wot right well they will strive to bring him forth from his peril. But fare thee well, thou good old man, and believe me, if Will Stutely die, he shall be right well avenged." Then he turned and strode rapidly away; but the Palmer looked after him, muttering, "I wot that youth is no country hind that hath come to see a good man die. Well, well, perchance Robin Hood is not so far away but that there will be stout doings this day." So he went upon his way, muttering to himself. When David of Doncaster told Robin Hood what the Palmer had said to him, Robin called the band around him and spoke to them thus: The sun was low in the western sky when a bugle note sounded from the castle wall. Then all was bustle in Nottingham Town and crowds filled the streets, for all knew that the famous Will Stutely was to be hanged that day. Presently the castle gates opened wide and a great array of men-at-arms came forth with noise and clatter, the Sheriff, all clad in shining mail of linked chain, riding at their head. In the midst of all the guard, in a cart, with a halter about his neck, rode Will Stutely. His face was pale with his wound and with loss of blood, like the moon in broad daylight, and his fair hair was clotted in points upon his forehead, where the blood had hardened. When he came forth from the castle he looked up and he looked down, but though he saw some faces that showed pity and some that showed friendliness, he saw none that he knew. Then his heart sank within him like a plummet of lead, but nevertheless he spoke up boldly. "Give a sword into my hand, Sir Sheriff," said he, "and wounded man though I be, I will fight thee and all thy men till life and strength be gone." "Then do but untie my hands and I will fight thee and thy men with no weapon but only my naked fists. I crave no weapon, but let me not be meanly hanged this day." "Now stand thou back thine own self," quoth Little John, and straightway smote the man a buffet beside his head that felled him as a butcher fells an ox, and then he leaped to the cart where Stutely sat. "Now as I live," cried the Sheriff, "yon varlet I know right well is a sturdy rebel! Take him, I bid you all, and let him not go!" So saying, he spurred his horse upon Little John, and rising in his stirrups smote with might and main, but Little John ducked quickly underneath the horse's belly and the blow whistled harmlessly over his head. "Nay, good Sir Sheriff," cried he, leaping up again when the blow had passed, "I must e'en borrow thy most worshipful sword." Thereupon he twitched the weapon deftly from out the Sheriff's hand, "Here, Stutely," he cried, "the Sheriff hath lent thee his sword! Back to back with me, man, and defend thyself, for help is nigh!" "Stand back, Sheriff!" cried Little John; and even as he spoke, a bugle horn sounded shrilly and a clothyard shaft whistled within an inch of the Sheriff's head. Then came a swaying hither and thither, and oaths, cries, and groans, and clashing of steel, and swords flashed in the setting sun, and a score of arrows whistled through the air. And some cried, "Help, help!" and some, "A rescue, a rescue!" "Treason!" cried the Sheriff in a loud voice. "Bear back! Bear back! Else we be all dead men!" Thereupon he reined his horse backward through the thickest of the crowd. "Oh stay!" shouted Will Stutely after the Sheriff. "Thou wilt never catch bold Robin Hood if thou dost not stand to meet him face to face." But the Sheriff, bowing along his horse's back, made no answer but only spurred the faster. Then Will Stutely turned to Little John and looked him in the face till the tears ran down from his eyes and he wept aloud; and kissing his friend's cheeks, "O Little John!" quoth he, "mine own true friend, and he that I love better than man or woman in all the world beside! Little did I reckon to see thy face this day, or to meet thee this side Paradise." Little John could make no answer, but wept also. Robin Hood Turns Butcher But in the meantime Robin Hood and his band lived quietly in Sherwood Forest, without showing their faces abroad, for Robin knew that it would not be wise for him to be seen in the neighborhood of Nottingham, those in authority being very wroth with him. But though they did not go abroad, they lived a merry life within the woodlands, spending the days in shooting at garlands hung upon a willow wand at the end of the glade, the leafy aisles ringing with merry jests and laughter: for whoever missed the garland was given a sound buffet, which, if delivered by Little John, never failed to topple over the unfortunate yeoman. Then they had bouts of wrestling and of cudgel play, so that every day they gained in skill and strength. "Good morrow to thee, jolly fellow," quoth Robin, "thou seemest happy this merry morn." "Ay, that am I," quoth the jolly Butcher, "and why should I not be so? Am I not hale in wind and limb? Have I not the bonniest lass in all Nottinghamshire? And lastly, am I not to be married to her on Thursday next in sweet Locksley Town?" "Ha," said Robin, "comest thou from Locksley Town? Well do I know that fair place for miles about, and well do I know each hedgerow and gentle pebbly stream, and even all the bright little fishes therein, for there I was born and bred. Now, where goest thou with thy meat, my fair friend?" "I go to the market at Nottingham Town to sell my beef and my mutton," answered the Butcher. "But who art thou that comest from Locksley Town?" "A yeoman am I, and men do call me Robin Hood." "Now, by Our Lady's grace," cried the Butcher, "well do I know thy name, and many a time have I heard thy deeds both sung and spoken of. But Heaven forbid that thou shouldst take aught of me! An honest man am I, and have wronged neither man nor maid; so trouble me not, good master, as I have never troubled thee." "Now may the blessings of all the saints fall on thine honest head!" cried the Butcher right joyfully, as he leaped down from his cart and took the purse that Robin held out to him. "Nay," quoth Robin, laughing loudly, "many do like me and wish me well, but few call me honest. Now get thee gone back to thy lass, and give her a sweet kiss from me." So saying, he donned the Butcher's apron, and, climbing into the cart, he took the reins in his hand and drove off through the forest to Nottingham Town. When he came to Nottingham, he entered that part of the market where butchers stood, and took up his inn[Stand for selling] in the best place he could find. Next, he opened his stall and spread his meat upon the bench, then, taking his cleaver and steel and clattering them together, he trolled aloud in merry tones: "Lamb have I that hath fed upon nought But the dainty dames pied, And the violet sweet, and the daffodil That grow fair streams beside. "And beef have I from the heathery words, And mutton from dales all green, And veal as white as a maiden's brow, With its mother's milk, I ween. "Now, beshrew his heart," quoth jolly Robin, "that would deny a butcher. And, moreover, I will go dine with you all, my sweet lads, and that as fast as I can hie." Whereupon, having sold all his meat, he closed his stall and went with them to the great Guild Hall. Then the Sheriff called Robin to him, not knowing him in his butcher's dress, and made him sit close to him on his right hand; for he loved a rich young prodigal--especially when he thought that he might lighten that prodigal's pockets into his own most worshipful purse. So he made much of Robin, and laughed and talked with him more than with any of the others. At last the dinner was ready to be served and the Sheriff bade Robin say grace, so Robin stood up and said, "Now Heaven bless us all and eke good meat and good sack within this house, and may all butchers be and remain as honest men as I am." At this all laughed, the Sheriff loudest of all, for he said to himself, "Surely this is indeed some prodigal, and perchance I may empty his purse of some of the money that the fool throweth about so freely." Then he spake aloud to Robin, saying, "Thou art a jolly young blade, and I love thee mightily"; and he smote Robin upon the shoulder. Then Robin laughed loudly too. "Yea," quoth he, "I know thou dost love a jolly blade, for didst thou not have jolly Robin Hood at thy shooting match and didst thou not gladly give him a bright golden arrow for his own?" At this the Sheriff looked grave and all the guild of butchers too, so that none laughed but Robin, only some winked slyly at each other. "Come, fill us some sack!" cried Robin. "Let us e'er be merry while we may, for man is but dust, and he hath but a span to live here till the worm getteth him, as our good gossip Swanthold sayeth; so let life be merry while it lasts, say I. Nay, never look down i' the mouth, Sir Sheriff. Who knowest but that thou mayest catch Robin Hood yet, if thou drinkest less good sack and Malmsey, and bringest down the fat about thy paunch and the dust from out thy brain. Be merry, man." "Now thou art a right merry soul," quoth the Sheriff, "and I wot thou must have many a head of horned beasts and many an acre of land, that thou dost spend thy money so freely." "I will bring the money," said the Sheriff. "But what is thy name, good youth?" "Men call me Robert o' Locksley," quoth bold Robin. Then Robin Hood laughed again. "So be it," he said, smiting his palm upon the Sheriff's hand. "Truly my brothers will be thankful to thee for thy money." Thus the bargain was closed, but many of the butchers talked among themselves of the Sheriff, saying that it was but a scurvy trick to beguile a poor spendthrift youth in this way. So they journeyed onward till they came within the verge of Sherwood Forest, when presently the Sheriff looked up and down and to the right and to the left of him, and then grew quiet and ceased his laughter. "Now," quoth he, "may Heaven and its saints preserve us this day from a rogue men call Robin Hood." Then Robin laughed aloud. "Nay," said he, "thou mayst set thy mind at rest, for well do I know Robin Hood and well do I know that thou art in no more danger from him this day than thou art from me." At this the Sheriff looked askance at Robin, saying to himself, "I like not that thou seemest so well acquainted with this bold outlaw, and I wish that I were well out of Sherwood Forest." But still they traveled deeper into the forest shades, and the deeper they went, the more quiet grew the Sheriff. At last they came to where the road took a sudden bend, and before them a herd of dun deer went tripping across the path. Then Robin Hood came close to the Sheriff and pointing his finger, he said, "These are my horned beasts, good Master Sheriff. How dost thou like them? Are they not fat and fair to see?" At this the Sheriff drew rein quickly. "Now fellow," quoth he, "I would I were well out of this forest, for I like not thy company. Go thou thine own path, good friend, and let me but go mine." "What wouldst thou have, good master?" quoth Little John. "Why," answered Robin, "dost thou not see that I have brought goodly company to feast with us today? Fye, for shame! Do you not see our good and worshipful master, the Sheriff of Nottingham? Take thou his bridle, Little John, for he has honored us today by coming to feast with us." Then all doffed their hats humbly, without smiling or seeming to be in jest, while Little John took the bridle rein and led the palfrey still deeper into the forest, all marching in order, with Robin Hood walking beside the Sheriff, hat in hand. So at last they came to that part of Sherwood Forest where a noble oak spread its branches wide, and beneath it was a seat all made of moss, on which Robin sat down, placing the Sheriff at his right hand. "Now busk ye, my merry men all," quoth he, "and bring forth the best we have, both of meat and wine, for his worship the Sheriff hath feasted me in Nottingham Guild Hall today, and I would not have him go back empty." All this time nothing had been said of the Sheriff's money, so presently he began to pluck up heart. "For," said he to himself, "maybe Robin Hood hath forgotten all about it." Then the Sheriff arose and said, "I thank you all, good yeomen, for the merry entertainment ye have given me this day. Right courteously have ye used me, showing therein that ye have much respect for our glorious King and his deputy in brave Nottinghamshire. But the shadows grow long, and I must away before darkness comes, lest I lose myself within the forest." "Nay, I forgot nought," said the Sheriff; yet all the same his heart sank within him. "But I say thou hast forgot something," quoth Robin. "We keep a merry inn here in the greenwood, but whoever becometh our guest must pay his reckoning." Then the Sheriff laughed, but the laugh was hollow. "Well, jolly boys," quoth he, "we have had a merry time together today, and even if ye had not asked me, I would have given you a score of pounds for the sweet entertainment I have had." Then "Ay!" cried all, in a loud voice. As he spoke the Sheriff's ruddy cheeks grew pale, and he said nothing more but looked upon the ground and gnawed his nether lip. Then slowly he drew forth his fat purse and threw it upon the cloth in front of him. "Now take the purse, Little John," quoth Robin Hood, "and see that the reckoning be right. We would not doubt our Sheriff, but he might not like it if he should find he had not paid his full score." "Nay, Heaven forbid!" cried the Sheriff hastily. "I can find mine own way, good man, without aid." Little John Goes to Nottingham Fair SPRING HAD GONE since the Sheriff's feast in Sherwood, and summer also, and the mellow month of October had come. All the air was cool and fresh; the harvests were gathered home, the young birds were full fledged, the hops were plucked, and apples were ripe. But though time had so smoothed things over that men no longer talked of the horned beasts that the Sheriff wished to buy, he was still sore about the matter and could not bear to hear Robin Hood's name spoken in his presence. When Robin Hood heard what had been proclaimed he was vexed, and said, "Now beshrew this Sheriff that he should offer such a prize that none but shepherd hinds will care to shoot for it! I would have loved nothing better than to have had another bout at merry Nottingham Town, but if I should win this prize nought would it pleasure or profit me." Then up spoke Little John: "Nay, but hearken, good master," said he, "only today Will Stutely, young David of Doncaster, and I were at the Sign of the Blue Boar, and there we heard all the news of this merry Fair, and also that the Sheriff hath offered this prize, that we of Sherwood might not care to come to the Fair; so, good master, if thou wilt, I would fain go and strive to win even this poor thing among the stout yeomen who will shoot at Nottingham Town." "Nay, Little John," quoth Robin, "thou art a sound stout fellow, yet thou lackest the cunning that good Stutely hath, and I would not have harm befall thee for all Nottinghamshire. Nevertheless, if thou wilt go, take some disguise lest there be those there who may know thee." "It is much against my will," said Robin Hood, "ne'ertheless, if thou dost wish it, get thee gone, but bear thyself seemingly, Little John, for thou art mine own right-hand man and I could ill bear to have harm befall thee." So Little John clad himself all in scarlet and started off to the Fair at Nottingham Town. So Little John came to the Fair. All scarlet were his hose and jerkin, and scarlet was his cowled cap, with a scarlet feather stuck in the side of it. Over his shoulders was slung a stout bow of yew, and across his back hung a quiver of good round arrows. Many turned to look after such a stout, tall fellow, for his shoulders were broader by a palm's-breadth than any that were there, and he stood a head taller than all the other men. The lasses, also, looked at him askance, thinking they had never seen a lustier youth. Then he strolled to the platform where they were at cudgel play, for he loved a bout at quarterstaff as he loved meat and drink; and here befell an adventure that was sung in ballads throughout the mid-country for many a day. Presently Eric saw where Little John stood among the others, a head and shoulders above them all, and he called to him loudly, "Halloa, thou long-legged fellow in scarlet! Broad are thy shoulders and thick thy head; is not thy lass fair enough for thee to take cudgel in hand for her sake? In truth, I believe that Nottingham men do turn to bone and sinew, for neither heart nor courage have they! Now, thou great lout, wilt thou not twirl staff for Nottingham?" Then the people shouted so loud that folk came running from all about to see what was the ado; while Little John leaped down from the stand and gave the staff back to him that had lent it to him. And thus ended the famous bout between Little John and Eric o' Lincoln of great renown. Then the Sheriff stepped down from the raised seat and came to where the archers stood, while all doffed their caps that saw him coming. He looked keenly at Little John but did not know him, though he said, after a while, "How now, good fellow, methinks there is that about thy face that I have seen erewhile." "Mayhap it may be so," quoth Little John, "for often have I seen Your Worship." And, as he spoke, he looked steadily into the Sheriff's eyes so that the latter did not suspect who he was. "A brave blade art thou, good friend," said the Sheriff, "and I hear that thou hast well upheld the skill of Nottinghamshire against that of Lincoln this day. What may be thy name, good fellow?" "Men do call me Reynold Greenleaf, Your Worship," said Little John; and the old ballad that tells of this, adds, "So, in truth, was he a green leaf, but of what manner of tree the Sheriff wotted not." "Then here stand I a free man, and right gladly will I enter thy household," said Little John, for he thought he might find some merry jest, should he enter the Sheriff's service. "Then," said Little John, "for joy of having gotten myself into thy service, I will give fat steers and brown ale to all these good folk, to make them merry withal." At this arose a great shout, many casting their caps aloft, for joy of the gift. Then some built great fires and roasted the steers, and others broached the butt of ale, with which all made themselves merry. Then, when they had eaten and drunk as much as they could, and when the day faded and the great moon arose, all red and round, over the spires and towers of Nottingham Town, they joined hands and danced around the fires, to the music of bagpipes and harps. But long before this merrymaking had begun, the Sheriff and his new servant Reynold Greenleaf were in the Castle of Nottingham. How Little John Lived at the Sheriff's When he came downstairs he saw the Steward standing near the pantry door--a great, fat man, with a huge bundle of keys hanging to his girdle. Then Little John said, "Ho, Master Steward, a hungry man am I, for nought have I had for all this blessed morn. Therefore, give me to eat." Then the Steward looked grimly at him and rattled the keys in his girdle, for he hated Little John because he had found favor with the Sheriff. "So, Master Reynold Greenleaf, thou art anhungered, art thou?" quoth he. "But, fair youth, if thou livest long enough, thou wilt find that he who getteth overmuch sleep for an idle head goeth with an empty stomach. For what sayeth the old saw, Master Greenleaf? Is it not 'The late fowl findeth but ill faring'?" "Now, thou great purse of fat!" cried Little John, "I ask thee not for fool's wisdom, but for bread and meat. Who art thou, that thou shouldst deny me to eat? By Saint Dunstan, thou hadst best tell me where my breakfast is, if thou wouldst save broken bones!" "Thy breakfast, Master Fireblaze, is in the pantry," answered the Steward. "Then fetch it hither!" cried Little John, who waxed angry by this time. "Go thou and fetch it thine own self," quoth the Steward. "Am I thy slave, to fetch and carry for thee?" "I say, go thou, bring it me!" "I say, go thou, fetch it for thyself!" When the Steward saw what was done, he waxed mad with rage; and, as Little John stooped to look within the pantry, he seized him from behind by the nape of the neck, pinching him sorely and smiting him over the head with his keys till the yeoman's ears rang again. At this Little John turned upon the Steward and smote him such a buffet that the fat man fell to the floor and lay there as though he would never move again. "There," quoth Little John, "think well of that stroke and never keep a good breakfast from a hungry man again." Then the Cook walked straightway to the broken pantry door, through which he saw Little John tucking a napkin beneath his chin and preparing to make himself merry. "Why, how now, Reynold Greenleaf?" said the Cook, "thou art no better than a thief, I wot. Come thou straight forth, man, or I will carve thee as I would carve a sucking pig." "Lion or no lion," quoth the valorous Cook, "come thou straight forth, else thou art a coward heart as well as a knavish thief." "Ha!" cried Little John, "coward's name have I never had; so, look to thyself, good Cook, for I come forth straight, the roaring lion I did speak of but now." At last, after a long time had passed, the Cook drew a full, deep breath, as though of much regret, and wiped his hands upon the napkin, for he could eat no more. Little John, also, had enough, for he pushed the pasty aside, as though he would say, "I want thee by me no more, good friend." Then he took the pottle of sack, and said he, "Now, good fellow, I swear by all that is bright, that thou art the stoutest companion at eating that ever I had. Lo! I drink thy health." So saying, he clapped the flask to his lips and cast his eyes aloft, while the good wine flooded his throat. Then he passed the pottle to the Cook, who also said, "Lo, I drink thy health, sweet fellow!" Nor was he behind Little John in drinking any more than in eating. "Now," quoth Little John, "thy voice is right round and sweet, jolly lad. I doubt not thou canst sing a ballad most blithely; canst thou not?" "So be it, pretty boy," quoth the Cook. "And hast thou e'er heard the song of the Deserted Shepherdess?" "Truly, I know not," answered Little John, "but sing thou and let me hear." Then the Cook took another draught from the pottle, and, clearing his throat, sang right sweetly: THE SONG OF THE DESERTED SHEPHERDESS "_In Lententime, when leaves wax green, And pretty birds begin to mate, When lark cloth sing, and thrush, I ween, And stockdove cooeth soon and late, Fair Phillis sat beside a stone, And thus I heard her make her moan: 'O willow, willow, willow, willow! I'll take me of thy branches fair And twine a wreath to deck my hair. "'The thrush hath taken him a she, The robin, too, and eke the dove; My Robin hath deserted me, And left me for another love. So here, by brookside, all alone, I sit me down and make my moan. O willow, willow, willow, willow! I'll take me of thy branches fair And twine a wreath to deck my hair.' "But ne'er came herring from the sea, But good as he were in the tide; Young Corydon came o'er the lea, And sat him Phillis down beside. So, presently, she changed her tone, And 'gan to cease her from her moan, 'O willow, willow, willow, willow! Thou mayst e'en keep thy garlands fair, I want them not to deck my hair_.'" "Now, by my faith," cried Little John, "that same is a right good song, and hath truth in it, also." THE GOOD KNIGHT AND HIS LOVE "_When Arthur, King, did rule this land, A goodly king was he, And had he of stout knights a band Of merry company. "Among them all, both great and small, A good stout knight was there, A lusty childe, and eke a tall, That loved a lady fair. "But nought would she to do with he, But turned her face away; So gat he gone to far countrye, And left that lady gay. "There all alone he made his moan, And eke did sob and sigh, And weep till it would move a stone, And he was like to die. "But still his heart did feel the smart, And eke the dire distress, And rather grew his pain more sharp As grew his body less. "Then gat he back where was good sack And merry com panye, And soon did cease to cry 'Alack!' When blithe and gay was he. "From which I hold, and feel full bold To say, and eke believe, That gin the belly go not cold The heart will cease to grieve_." "Now, by my faith," cried the Cook, as he rattled the pottle against the sideboard, "I like that same song hugely, and eke the motive of it, which lieth like a sweet kernel in a hazelnut" "Now thou art a man of shrewd opinions," quoth Little John, "and I love thee truly as thou wert my brother." "And I love thee, too. But the day draweth on, and I have my cooking to do ere our master cometh home; so let us e'en go and settle this brave fight we have in hand." "Ay, marry," quoth Little John, "and that right speedily. Never have I been more laggard in fighting than in eating and drinking. So come thou straight forth into the passageway, where there is good room to swing a sword, and I will try to serve thee." "Now will I make my vow," quoth Little John, "thou art the very best swordsman that ever mine eyes beheld. Truly, I had thought to carve thee ere now." "And I had thought to do the same by thee," quoth the Cook, "but I have missed the mark somehow." "Now I have been thinking within myself," quoth Little John, "what we are fighting for; but albeit I do not rightly know." "Now, thou art a man after mine own heart!" cried the Cook right heartily, "and, as thou speakest of it, that is the very service for me. I will go with thee, and that right gladly. Give me thy palm, sweet fellow, and I will be thine own companion from henceforth. What may be thy name, lad?" "Men do call me Little John, good fellow." "How? And art thou indeed Little John, and Robin Hood's own right-hand man? Many a time and oft I heard of thee, but never did I hope to set eyes upon thee. And thou art indeed the famous Little John!" And the Cook seemed lost in amazement, and looked upon his companion with open eyes. "I am Little John, indeed, and I will bring to Robin Hood this day a right stout fellow to join his merry band. But ere we go, good friend, it seemeth to me to be a vast pity that, as we have had so much of the Sheriff's food, we should not also carry off some of his silver plate to Robin Hood, as a present from his worship." "Ay, marry is it," said the Cook. And so they began hunting about, and took as much silver as they could lay hands upon, clapping it into a bag, and when they had filled the sack they set forth to Sherwood Forest. Plunging into the woods, they came at last to the greenwood tree, where they found Robin Hood and threescore of his merry men lying upon the fresh green grass. When Robin and his men saw who it was that came, they leaped to their feet. "Now welcome!" cried Robin Hood. "Now welcome, Little John! For long hath it been since we have heard from thee, though we all knew that thou hadst joined the Sheriff's service. And how hast thou fared all these long days?" "Right merrily have I lived at the Lord Sheriff's," answered Little John, "and I have come straight thence. See, good master! I have brought thee his cook, and even his silver plate." Thereupon he told Robin Hood and his merry men that were there, all that had befallen him since he had left them to go to the Fair at Nottingham Town. Then all shouted with laughter, except Robin Hood; but he looked grave. Though Little John was vexed with this, he strove to pass it off with a jest. "Nay, good master," quoth he, "if thou thinkest the Sheriff gave us not the plate, I will fetch him, that he may tell us with his own lips he giveth it all to us." So saying he leaped to his feet, and was gone before Robin could call him back. "Why, Reynold Greenleaf!" cried the Sheriff, "whence comest thou and where hast thou been?" "I have been in the forest," answered Little John, speaking amazedly, "and there I saw a sight such as ne'er before man's eyes beheld! Yonder I saw a young hart all in green from top to toe, and about him was a herd of threescore deer, and they, too, were all of green from head to foot. Yet I dared not shoot, good master, for fear lest they should slay me." "Why, how now, Reynold Greenleaf," cried the Sheriff, "art thou dreaming or art thou mad, that thou dost bring me such, a tale?" "Nay, I am not dreaming nor am I mad," said Little John, "and if thou wilt come with me, I will show thee this fair sight, for I have seen it with mine own eyes. But thou must come alone, good master, lest the others frighten them and they get away." So the party all rode forward, and Little John led them downward into the forest. "Now, good master," quoth he at last, "we are nigh where I saw this herd." Then the Sheriff descended from his horse and bade them wait for him until he should return; and Little John led him forward through a close copse until suddenly they came to a great open glade, at the end of which Robin Hood sat beneath the shade of the great oak tree, with his merry men all about him. "See, good Master Sheriff," quoth Little John, "yonder is the hart of which I spake to thee." At this the Sheriff turned to Little John and said bitterly, "Long ago I thought I remembered thy face, but now I know thee. Woe betide thee, Little John, for thou hast betrayed me this day." In the meantime Robin Hood had come to them. "Now welcome, Master Sheriff," said he. "Hast thou come today to take another feast with me?" "Nay, Heaven forbid!" said the Sheriff in tones of deep earnest. "I care for no feast and have no hunger today." "Nevertheless," quoth Robin, "if thou hast no hunger, maybe thou hast thirst, and well I know thou wilt take a cup of sack with me. But I am grieved that thou wilt not feast with me, for thou couldst have victuals to thy liking, for there stands thy Cook." Then he led the Sheriff, willy-nilly, to the seat he knew so well beneath the greenwood tree. "Ho, lads!" cried Robin, "fill our good friend the Sheriff a right brimming cup of sack and fetch it hither, for he is faint and weary." "How now," quoth Robin, "dost thou not like our new silver service? We have gotten a bag of it this day." So saying, he held up the sack of silver that Little John and the Cook had brought with them. Then, slinging the bag upon his shoulder, he turned away, the Sheriff following him, all too perplexed in mind to speak. So they went forward until they came to within a furlong of the spot where the Sheriff's companions were waiting for him. Then Robin Hood gave the sack of silver back to the Sheriff. "Take thou thine own again," he said, "and hearken to me, good Sheriff, take thou a piece of advice with it. Try thy servants well ere thou dost engage them again so readily." Then, turning, he left the other standing bewildered, with the sack in his hands. Little John and the Tanner of Blyth All the air was laden with the bitter fragrance of the May, and all the bosky shades of the woodlands beyond rang with the sweet song of birds-the throstle cock, the cuckoo, and the wood pigeon--and with the song of birds mingled the cool sound of the gurgling brook that leaped out of the forest shades, and ran fretting amid its rough, gray stones across the sunlit open glade before the trysting tree. And a fair sight was that halfscore of tall, stout yeomen, all clad in Lincoln green, lying beneath the broad-spreading branches of the great oak tree, amid the quivering leaves of which the sunlight shivered and fell in dancing patches upon the grass. Suddenly Robin Hood smote his knee. Now it was an ill piece of luck for Little John that he left his duty for his pleasure, and he paid a great score for it, as we are all apt to do in the same case, as you shall see. Now Arthur had been to Nottingham Town the day before Little John set forth on his errand, there to sell a halfscore of tanned cowhides. At the dawn of the same day that Little John left the inn, he started from Nottingham, homeward for Blyth. His way led, all in the dewy morn, past the verge of Sherwood Forest, where the birds were welcoming the lovely day with a great and merry jubilee. Across the Tanner's shoulders was slung his stout quarterstaff, ever near enough to him to be gripped quickly, and on his head was a cap of doubled cowhide, so tough that it could hardly be cloven even by a broadsword. Now as Little John stepped blithely along, thinking of nothing but of such things as the sweetness of the hawthorn buds that bedecked the hedgerows, or gazing upward at the lark, that, springing from the dewy grass, hung aloft on quivering wings in the yellow sunlight, pouring forth its song that fell like a falling star from the sky, his luck led him away from the highway, not far from the spot where Arthur a Bland was peeping this way and that through the leaves of the thickets. Hearing a rustling of the branches, Little John stopped and presently caught sight of the brown cowhide cap of the Tanner moving among the bushes. "I do much wonder," quoth Little John to himself, "what yon knave is after, that he should go thus peeping and peering about I verily believe that yon scurvy varlet is no better than a thief, and cometh here after our own and the good King's dun deer." For by much roving in the forest, Little John had come to look upon all the deer in Sherwood as belonging to Robin Hood and his band as much as to good King Harry. "Nay," quoth he again, after a time, "this matter must e'en be looked into." So, quitting the highroad, he also entered the thickets, and began spying around after stout Arthur a Bland. So for a long time they both of them went hunting about, Little John after the Tanner, and the Tanner after the deer. At last Little John trod upon a stick, which snapped under his foot, whereupon, hearing the noise, the Tanner turned quickly and caught sight of the yeoman. Seeing that the Tanner had spied him out, Little John put a bold face upon the matter. "Hilloa," quoth he, "what art thou doing here, thou naughty fellow? Who art thou that comest ranging Sherwood's paths? In very sooth thou hast an evil cast of countenance, and I do think, truly, that thou art no better than a thief, and comest after our good King's deer." "I care not who thou art," answered the bold Tanner, "and unless thou hast many more of thy kind by thee, thou canst never make Arthur a Bland cry 'A mercy.'" "Is it so?" cried Little John in a rage. "Now, by my faith, thou saucy rogue, thy tongue hath led thee into a pit thou wilt have a sorry time getting out of; for I will give thee such a drubbing as ne'er hast thou had in all thy life before. Take thy staff in thy hand, fellow, for I will not smite an unarmed man. "Marry come up with a murrain!" cried the Tanner, for he, too, had talked himself into a fume. "Big words ne'er killed so much as a mouse. Who art thou that talkest so freely of cracking the head of Arthur a Bland? If I do not tan thy hide this day as ne'er I tanned a calf's hide in all my life before, split my staff into skewers for lamb's flesh and call me no more brave man! Now look to thyself, fellow!" "Nay, I pass not for length," answered the Tanner. "My staff is long enough to knock down a calf; so look to thyself, fellow, I say again." So, without more ado, each gripped his staff in the middle, and, with fell and angry looks, they came slowly together. All this time Robin Hood lay beneath the bush, rejoicing at such a comely bout of quarterstaff. "By my faith!" quoth he to himself, "never had I thought to see Little John so evenly matched in all my life. Belike, though, he would have overcome yon fellow before this had he been in his former trim." "Hold!" roared Little John. "Wouldst thou strike a man when he is down?" "Ay, marry would I," quoth the Tanner, giving him another thwack with his staff. "Stop!" roared Little John. "Help! Hold, I say! I yield me! I yield me, I say, good fellow!" "Hast thou had enough?" asked the Tanner grimly, holding his staff aloft. "Ay, marry, and more than enough." "Then thou mayst go thy ways; and thank thy patron saint that I am a merciful man," said the Tanner. "Men do call me Arthur a Bland," spoke up the Tanner boldly, "and now what may be thy name?" "Ha, Arthur a Bland!" quoth Robin, "I have heard thy name before, good fellow. Thou didst break the crown of a friend of mine at the fair at Ely last October. The folk there call him Jock o' Nottingham; we call him Will Scathelock. This poor fellow whom thou hast so belabored is counted the best hand at the quarterstaff in all merry England. His name is Little John, and mine Robin Hood." "How!" cried the Tanner, "art thou indeed the great Robin Hood, and is this the famous Little John? Marry, had I known who thou art, I would never have been so bold as to lift my hand against thee. Let me help thee to thy feet, good Master Little John, and let me brush the dust from off thy coat." "Nay," quoth Little John testily, at the same time rising carefully, as though his bones had been made of glass, "I can help myself, good fellow, without thy aid; and let me tell thee, had it not been for that vile cowskin cap of thine, it would have been ill for thee this day." "Will I join thy band?" cried the Tanner joyfully. "Ay, marry, will I! Hey for a merry life!" cried he, leaping aloft and snapping his fingers, "and hey for the life I love! Away with tanbark and filthy vats and foul cowhides! I will follow thee to the ends of the earth, good master, and not a herd of dun deer in all the forest but shall know the sound of the twang of my bowstring." Robin Hood and Will Scarlet Quoth Robin Hood to Little John, "Why didst thou not go straight to Ancaster, yesterday, as I told thee? Thou hadst not gotten thyself into such a coil hadst thou done as I ordered." "I feared the rain that threatened," said Little John in a sullen tone, for he was vexed at being so chaffed by Robin with what had happened to him. "Nevertheless," growled Little John, "the holy Saint Swithin holdeth the waters of the heavens in his pewter pot, and he could have poured them out, had he chosen, even from a clear sky; and wouldst thou have had me wet to the skin?" After they had traveled some distance, the day being warm and the road dusty, Robin Hood waxed thirsty; so, there being a fountain of water as cold as ice, just behind the hedgerow, they crossed the stile and came to where the water bubbled up from beneath a mossy stone. Here, kneeling and making cups of the palms of their hands, they drank their fill, and then, the spot being cool and shady, they stretched their limbs and rested them for a space. "Heyday!" quoth he, "yon is a gaily feathered bird, I take my vow." "By my life!" quoth Robin Hood, laughing, "saw ye e'er such a pretty, mincing fellow?" "Truly, his clothes have overmuch prettiness for my taste," quoth Arthur a Bland, "but, ne'ertheless, his shoulders are broad and his loins are narrow, and seest thou, good master, how that his arms hang from his body? They dangle not down like spindles, but hang stiff and bend at the elbow. I take my vow, there be no bread and milk limbs in those fine clothes, but stiff joints and tough thews." "Pah!" quoth Robin Hood, "the sight of such a fellow doth put a nasty taste into my mouth! Look how he doth hold that fair flower betwixt his thumb and finger, as he would say, 'Good rose, I like thee not so ill but I can bear thy odor for a little while.' I take it ye are both wrong, and verily believe that were a furious mouse to run across his path, he would cry, 'La!' or 'Alack-a-day!' and fall straightway into a swoon. I wonder who he may be." "Some great baron's son, I doubt not," answered Little John, "with good and true men's money lining his purse." "Ay, marry, that is true, I make no doubt," quoth Robin. "What a pity that such men as he, that have no thought but to go abroad in gay clothes, should have good fellows, whose shoes they are not fit to tie, dancing at their bidding. By Saint Dunstan, Saint Alfred, Saint Withold, and all the good men in the Saxon calendar, it doth make me mad to see such gay lordlings from over the sea go stepping on the necks of good Saxons who owned this land before ever their great-grandsires chewed rind of brawn! By the bright bow of Heaven, I will have their ill-gotten gains from them, even though I hang for it as high as e'er a forest tree in Sherwood!" "Why, how now, master," quoth Little John, "what heat is this? Thou dost set thy pot a-boiling, and mayhap no bacon to cook! Methinks yon fellow's hair is overlight for Norman locks. He may be a good man and true for aught thou knowest." "Nay," said Robin, "my head against a leaden farthing, he is what I say. So, lie ye both here, I say, till I show you how I drub this fellow." So saying, Robin Hood stepped forth from the shade of the beech tree, crossed the stile, and stood in the middle of the road, with his hands on his hips, in the stranger's path. Meantime the stranger, who had been walking so slowly that all this talk was held before he came opposite the place where they were, neither quickened his pace nor seemed to see that such a man as Robin Hood was in the world. So Robin stood in the middle of the road, waiting while the other walked slowly forward, smelling his rose, and looking this way and that, and everywhere except at Robin. "Hold!" cried Robin, when at last the other had come close to him. "Hold! Stand where thou art!" "Wherefore should I hold, good fellow?" said the stranger in soft and gentle voice. "And wherefore should I stand where I am? Ne'ertheless, as thou dost desire that I should stay, I will abide for a short time, that I may hear what thou mayst have to say to me." "Then," quoth Robin, "as thou dost so fairly do as I tell thee, and dost give me such soft speech, I will also treat thee with all due courtesy. I would have thee know, fair friend, that I am, as it were, a votary at the shrine of Saint Wilfred who, thou mayst know, took, willy-nilly, all their gold from the heathen, and melted it up into candlesticks. Wherefore, upon such as come hereabouts, I levy a certain toll, which I use for a better purpose, I hope, than to make candlesticks withal. Therefore, sweet chuck, I would have thee deliver to me thy purse, that I may look into it, and judge, to the best of my poor powers, whether thou hast more wealth about thee than our law allows. For, as our good Gaffer Swanthold sayeth, 'He who is fat from overliving must needs lose blood.'" All this time the youth had been sniffing at the rose that he held betwixt his thumb and finger. "Nay," said he with a gentle smile, when Robin Hood had done, "I do love to hear thee talk, thou pretty fellow, and if, haply, thou art not yet done, finish, I beseech thee. I have yet some little time to stay." "I have said all," quoth Robin, "and now, if thou wilt give me thy purse, I will let thee go thy way without let or hindrance so soon as I shall see what it may hold. I will take none from thee if thou hast but little." "Alas! It doth grieve me much," said the other, "that I cannot do as thou dost wish. I have nothing to give thee. Let me go my way, I prythee. I have done thee no harm." "Nay, thou goest not," quoth Robin, "till thou hast shown me thy purse." "Good friend," said the other gently, "I have business elsewhere. I have given thee much time and have heard thee patiently. Prythee, let me depart in peace." "Alas!" said the stranger sadly, "it doth grieve me that this thing must be. I fear much that I must slay thee, thou poor fellow!" So saying, he drew his sword. "Put by thy weapon," quoth Robin. "I would take no vantage of thee. Thy sword cannot stand against an oaken staff such as mine. I could snap it like a barley straw. Yonder is a good oaken thicket by the roadside; take thee a cudgel thence and defend thyself fairly, if thou hast a taste for a sound drubbing." Little John and the Tanner had been watching all that passed, but when they saw the stranger drag the sapling up from the earth, and heard the rending and snapping of its roots, the Tanner pursed his lips together, drawing his breath between them in a long inward whistle. "By the breath of my body!" said Little John, as soon as he could gather his wits from their wonder, "sawest thou that, Arthur? Marry, I think our poor master will stand but an ill chance with yon fellow. By Our Lady, he plucked up yon green tree as it were a barley straw." Whatever Robin Hood thought, he stood his ground, and now he and the stranger in scarlet stood face to face. "Hold!" cried Little John, bursting from his cover, with the Tanner at his heels. "Hold! give over, I say!" "Stop!" cried Robin Hood, "we will fight no more. I take my vow, this is an ill day for thee and me, Little John. I do verily believe that my wrist, and eke my arm, are palsied by the jar of the blow that this stranger struck me." Then Little John turned to Robin Hood. "Why, how now, good master," said he. "Alas! Thou art in an ill plight. Marry, thy jerkin is all befouled with the dust of the road. Let me help thee to arise." "A plague on thy aid!" cried Robin angrily. "I can get to my feet without thy help, good fellow." "Nay, but let me at least dust thy coat for thee. I fear thy poor bones are mightily sore," quoth Little John soberly, but with a sly twinkle in his eyes. "Give over, I say!" quoth Robin in a fume. "My coat hath been dusted enough already, without aid of thine." Then, turning to the stranger, he said, "What may be thy name, good fellow?" "My name is Gamwell," answered the other. "Ha!" cried Robin, "is it even so? I have near kin of that name. Whence camest thou, fair friend?" "Ha! Will Gamwell!" cried Robin, placing both hands upon the other's shoulders and holding him off at arm's length. "Surely, it can be none other! I might have known thee by that pretty maiden air of thine--that dainty, finicking manner of gait. Dost thou not know me, lad? Look upon me well." "Now, by the breath of my body!" cried the other, "I do believe from my heart that thou art mine own Uncle Robin. Nay, certain it is so!" And each flung his arms around the other, kissing him upon the cheek. "Yea," said young Gamwell, "and I did so look up to thee, and thought thee so above all other men that, I make my vow, had I known who thou wert, I would never have dared to lift hand against thee this day. I trust I did thee no great harm." "No, no," quoth Robin hastily, and looking sideways at Little John, "thou didst not harm me. But say no more of that, I prythee. Yet I will say, lad, that I hope I may never feel again such a blow as thou didst give me. By'r Lady, my arm doth tingle yet from fingernail to elbow. Truly, I thought that I was palsied for life. I tell thee, coz, that thou art the strongest man that ever I laid mine eyes upon. I take my vow, I felt my stomach quake when I beheld thee pluck up yon green tree as thou didst. But tell me, how camest thou to leave Sir Edward and thy mother?" "Will Scarlet," quoth Little John, stepping forward and reaching out his great palm, which the other took, "Will Scarlet, the name fitteth thee well. Right glad am I to welcome thee among us. I am called Little John; and this is a new member who has just joined us, a stout tanner named Arthur a Bland. Thou art like to achieve fame, Will, let me tell thee, for there will be many a merry ballad sung about the country, and many a merry story told in Sherwood of how Robin Hood taught Little John and Arthur a Bland the proper way to use the quarterstaff; likewise, as it were, how our good master bit off so large a piece of cake that he choked on it." "Nay, good Little John," quoth Robin gently, for he liked ill to have such a jest told of him. "Why should we speak of this little matter? Prythee, let us keep this day's doings among ourselves." "Nay, good Little John," said Robin hastily, "I do bethink me I have said full enough on that score." "Nay, then," said Robin Hood testily, "I was mistaken. I remember me now it did seem to threaten rain." "Truly, I did think so myself," quoth Little John, "therefore, no doubt, thou dost think it was wise of me to abide all night at the Blue Boar Inn, instead of venturing forth in such stormy weather; dost thou not?" "A plague of thee and thy doings!" cried Robin Hood. "If thou wilt have it so, thou wert right to abide wherever thou didst choose." "Come," cried Robin, biting his nether lip, while the others could not forbear laughing. "We will go no farther today, but will return to Sherwood, and thou shalt go to Ancaster another time, Little John." So said Robin, for now that his bones were sore, he felt as though a long journey would be an ill thing for him. So, turning their backs, they retraced their steps whence they came. The Adventure with Midge the Miller's Son "Since thou speakest of it," said Will Scarlet, "methinks it would not be amiss myself. There is that within me crieth out, 'Victuals, good friend, victuals!'" "I know a house near by," said Arthur a Bland, "and, had I but the money, I would bring ye that ye speak of; to wit, a sweet loaf of bread, a fair cheese, and a skin of brown ale." "For the matter of that, thou knowest I have money by me, good master," quoth Little John. "Why, so thou hast, Little John," said Robin. "How much money will it take, good Arthur, to buy us meat and drink?" So Little John gave Arthur the money, and the others stepped to the thicket, there to await the return of the Tanner. After this no man spake more, but each munched away at his bread and cheese lustily, with ever and anon a pull at the beer. At last Will Scarlet looked at a small piece of bread he still held in his hand, and quoth he, "Methinks I will give this to the sparrows." So, throwing it from him, he brushed the crumbs from his jerkin. "I, too," quoth Robin, "have had enough, I think." As for Little John and the Tanner, they had by this time eaten every crumb of their bread and cheese. "Truly, I do not mind turning a tune," answered Will Scarlet, "but I would not sing alone." "Nay, others will follow. Strike up, lad," quoth Robin. "In that case, 'tis well," said Will Scarlet. "I do call to mind a song that a certain minstrel used to sing in my father's hall, upon occasion. I know no name for it and so can give you none; but thus it is." Then, clearing his throat, he sang: "_In the merry blossom time, When love longings food the breast, When the flower is on the lime, When the small fowl builds her nest, Sweetly sings the nightingale And the throstle cock so bold; Cuckoo in the dewy dale And the turtle in the word. But the robin I love dear, For he singeth through the year. Robin! Robin! Merry Robin! So I'd have my true love be: Not to fly At the nigh Sign of cold adversity_. "_When the spring brings sweet delights, When aloft the lark doth rise, Lovers woo o' mellow nights, And youths peep in maidens' eyes, That time blooms the eglantine, Daisies pied upon the hill, Cowslips fair and columbine, Dusky violets by the rill. But the ivy green cloth grow When the north wind bringeth snow. Ivy! Ivy! Stanch and true! Thus I'd have her love to be: Not to die At the nigh Breath of cold adversity_." "'Tis well sung," quoth Robin, "but, cousin, I tell thee plain, I would rather hear a stout fellow like thee sing some lusty ballad than a finicking song of flowers and birds, and what not. Yet, thou didst sing it fair, and 'tis none so bad a snatch of a song, for the matter of that. Now, Tanner, it is thy turn." "Nay, sing up, friend," quoth Little John, who sat next to him, patting him upon the shoulder. "Thou hast a fair, round, mellow voice; let us have a touch of it." "Nay, an ye will ha' a poor thing," said Arthur, "I will do my best. Have ye ever heard of the wooing of Sir Keith, the stout young Cornish knight, in good King Arthur's time?" "Methinks I have heard somewhat of it," said Robin; "but ne'ertheless strike up thy ditty and let us hear it, for, as I do remember me, it is a gallant song; so out with it, good fellow." Thereupon, clearing his throat, the Tanner, without more ado, began to sing: THE WOOING OF SIR KEITH "_King Arthur sat in his royal hall, And about on either hand Was many a noble lordling tall, The greatest in the land. "Sat Lancelot with raven locks, Gawaine with golden hair, Sir Tristram, Kay who kept the locks, And many another there. "And through the stained windows bright, From o'er the red-tiled eaves, The sunlight blazed with light On golden helms and greaves. "But suddenly a silence came About the Table Round, For up the hall there walked a dame Bent nigh unto the ground. "Her nose was hooked, her eyes were bleared, Her locks were lank and white; Upon her chin there grew a beard; She was a gruesome sight. "And so with crawling step she came And kneeled at Arthur's feet; Quoth Kay, 'She is the foulest dame That e'er my sight did greet.' "'O mighty King! of thee I crave A boon on bended knee'; 'Twas thus she spoke. 'What wouldst thou have.' Quoth Arthur, King, 'of me_?' "'Nor wedded may this childe have been That giveth ease to me; Nor may he be constrained, I ween, But kiss me willingly. "'A wedded man,' quoth Arthur, King, 'A wedded man I be Else would I deem it noble thing To kiss thee willingly. "'Now, Lancelot, in all men's sight Thou art the head and chief Of chivalry. Come, noble knight, And give her quick relief.' "But Lancelot he turned aside And looked upon the ground, For it did sting his haughty pride To hear them laugh around. "'Come thou, Sir Tristram,' quoth the King. Quoth he, 'It cannot be, For ne'er can I my stomach bring To do it willingly.' "'Wilt thou, Sir Kay, thou scornful wight?' Quoth Kay, 'Nay, by my troth! What noble dame would kiss a knight That kissed so foul a mouth_?' "'_Wilt thou, Gawaine?' 'I cannot, King.' 'Sir Geraint?' 'Nay, not I; My kisses no relief could bring, For sooner would I die.' "Then up and spake the youngest man Of all about the board, 'Now such relief as Christian can I'll give to her, my lord.' "It was Sir Keith, a youthful knight, Yet strong of limb and bold, With beard upon his chin as light As finest threads of gold. "Her cheeks grew red as any rose, Her brow as white as lawn, Her bosom like the winter snows, Her eyes like those of fawn. "Her breath grew sweet as summer breeze That blows the meadows o'er; Her voice grew soft as rustling trees, And cracked and harsh no more. "Her hair grew glittering, like the gold, Her hands as white as milk; Her filthy rags, so foul and old, Were changed to robes of silk. "In great amaze the knights did stare. Quoth Kay, 'I make my vow If it will please thee, lady fair, I'll gladly kiss thee now_.' "She bent her down, she kissed his brow, She kissed his lips and eyes. Quoth she, 'Thou art my master now, My lord, my love, arise! "'And all the wealth that is mine own, My lands, I give to thee, For never knight hath lady shown Such noble courtesy. "'Bewitched was I, in bitter pain, But thou hast set me free, So now I am myself again, I give myself to thee_.'" "Yea, truly," quoth Robin Hood, when the Tanner had made an end of singing, "it is as I remember it, a fair ditty, and a ballad with a pleasing tune of a song." "It hath oftentimes seemed to me," said Will Scarlet, "that it hath a certain motive in it, e'en such as this: That a duty which seemeth to us sometimes ugly and harsh, when we do kiss it fairly upon the mouth, so to speak, is no such foul thing after all." "Methinks thou art right," quoth Robin, "and, contrariwise, that when we kiss a pleasure that appeareth gay it turneth foul to us; is it not so, Little John? Truly such a thing hath brought thee sore thumps this day. Nay, man, never look down in the mouth. Clear thy pipes and sing us a ditty." "Nay," said Little John, "I have none as fair as that merry Arthur has trolled. They are all poor things that I know. Moreover, my voice is not in tune today, and I would not spoil even a tolerable song by ill singing." "Who may yon fellow be coming along the road?" said Robin, breaking into the song. "I know not," quoth Little John in a surly voice. "But this I do know, that it is an ill thing to do to check the flow of a good song." "Nay, Little John," said Robin, "be not vexed, I prythee; but I have been watching him coming along, bent beneath that great bag over his shoulder, ever since thou didst begin thy song. Look, Little John, I pray, and see if thou knowest him." Little John looked whither Robin Hood pointed. "Truly," quoth he, after a time, "I think yon fellow is a certain young miller I have seen now and then around the edge of Sherwood; a poor wight, methinks, to spoil a good song about." "Now thou speakest of him," quoth Robin Hood, "methinks I myself have seen him now and then. Hath he not a mill over beyond Nottingham Town, nigh to the Salisbury road?" "Thou art right; that is the man," said Little John. "A good stout fellow," quoth Robin. "I saw him crack Ned o' Bradford's crown about a fortnight since, and never saw I hair lifted more neatly in all my life before." By this time the young miller had come so near that they could see him clearly. His clothes were dusted with flour, and over his back he carried a great sack of meal, bending so as to bring the whole weight upon his shoulders, and across the sack was a thick quarterstaff. His limbs were stout and strong, and he strode along the dusty road right sturdily with the heavy sack across his shoulders. His cheeks were ruddy as a winter hip, his hair was flaxen in color, and on his chin was a downy growth of flaxen beard. "Truly, it is a merry thought," said Will Scarlet. "Prythee peace, Little John," quoth Robin. "Thy foolish tongue will get us both well laughed at yet." "My foolish tongue, forsooth," growled Little John to Arthur a Bland. "I would it could keep our master from getting us into another coil this day." "Hold, friend!" cried Robin to the Miller; whereupon he turned slowly, with the weight of the bag upon his shoulder, and looked at each in turn all bewildered, for though a good stout man his wits did not skip like roasting chestnuts. "Who bids me stay?" said the Miller in a voice deep and gruff, like the growl of a great dog. "Marry, that do I," quoth Robin; "and let me tell thee, friend, thou hadst best mind my bidding." "And who art thou, good friend?" said the Miller, throwing the great sack of meal from his shoulder to the ground, "and who are those with thee?" "I give you all thanks," said the Miller, "but my bag is none that heavy that I cannot carry it e'en by myself." "Alas!" cried the Miller, "what would ye do to me? I have not about me so much as a clipped groat. Do me no harm, I pray you, but let me depart in peace. Moreover, let me tell you that ye are upon Robin Hood's ground, and should he find you seeking to rob an honest craftsman, he will clip your ears to your heads and scourge you even to the walls of Nottingham. "In truth I fear Robin Hood no more than I do myself," quoth jolly Robin. "Thou must this day give up to me every penny thou hast about thee. Nay, if thou dost budge an inch I will rattle this staff about thine ears." "Nay, smite me not!" cried the Miller, throwing up his elbow as though he feared the blow. "Thou mayst search me if thou wilt, but thou wilt find nothing upon me, pouch, pocket, or skin." "Alas!" cried the Miller, falling upon his knees, "spoil not all my good meal! It can better you not, and will ruin me. Spare it, and I will give up the money in the bag." "Ha!" quoth Robin, nudging Will Scarlet. "Is it so? And have I found where thy money lies? Marry, I have a wondrous nose for the blessed image of good King Harry. I thought that I smelled gold and silver beneath the barley meal. Bring it straight forth, Miller." Then slowly the Miller arose to his feet, and slowly and unwillingly he untied the mouth of the bag, and slowly thrust his hands into the meal and began fumbling about with his arms buried to the elbows in the barley flour. The others gathered round him, their heads together, looking and wondering what he would bring forth. "Stop!" roared Robin at last. "Give over, good friend, I am Robin Hood!" "Quick!" cried young David of Doncaster. "Our master is in sore need!" So, without stopping a moment, they dashed forward with might and main and burst forth from the covert into the highroad. "Why," quoth Robin in a mighty passion, "yon traitor felt low hath come as nigh slaying me as e'er a man in all the world. Hadst thou not come quickly, good Stutely, thy master had been dead." "Quick, men, seize the vile Miller!" cried Stutely, who was nigh choking with laughter as were the rest; whereupon several ran upon the stout fellow and seizing him, bound his arms behind his back with bowstrings. Now when they saw their master laugh, the yeomen who stood around could contain themselves no longer, and a mighty shout of laughter went up from all. Many could not stand, but rolled upon the ground from pure merriment. "What is thy name, good fellow?" said Robin at last to the Miller, who stood gaping and as though he were in amaze. "Alas, sir, I am Midge, the Miller's son," said he in a frightened voice. "I make my vow," quoth merry Robin, smiting him upon the shoulder, "thou art the mightiest Midge that e'er mine eyes beheld. Now wilt thou leave thy dusty mill and come and join my band? By my faith, thou art too stout a man to spend thy days betwixt the hopper and the till." "Then truly, if thou dost forgive me for the blows I struck, not knowing who thou wast, I will join with thee right merrily," said the Miller. Robin Hood and Allan a Dale At this all laughed but Little John and Robin, who twisted up his face. "I can speak for Midge," said he, "and likewise for my cousin Scarlet. This very blessed morn I looked at my ribs and found them as many colors as a beggar's cloak." At last the sun began to sink low in the heavens; the light grew red and the shadows long. The air grew full of silence, the birds twittered sleepily, and from afar came, faint and clear, the musical song of the milkmaid calling the kine home to the milking. "Ha!" quoth Will Scarlet, "this must be looked into. There is someone in distress nigh to us here." "I know not," quoth Will Stutely, shaking his head doubtfully, "our master is ever rash about thrusting his finger into a boiling pot; but, for my part, I see no use in getting ourselves into mischievous coils. Yon is a man's voice, if I mistake not, and a man should be always ready to get himself out from his own pothers." Then out spake Will Scarlet boldly. "Now out upon thee, to talk in that manner, Stutely! Stay, if thou dost list. I go to see what may be the trouble of this poor creature." "Halloa!" shouted Will Stutely, when they had come out from the forest into the little open spot. "Who art thou, fellow, that liest there killing all the green grass with salt water?" Hearing the voice, the stranger sprang to his feet and; snatching up his bow and fitting a shaft, held himself in readiness for whatever ill might befall him. The youth did as he was bidden and, with bowed head and sorrowful step, accompanied the others, walking beside Will Scarlet. So they wended their way through the forest. The bright light faded from the sky and a glimmering gray fell over all things. From the deeper recesses of the forest the strange whispering sounds of night-time came to the ear; all else was silent, saving only for the rattling of their footsteps amid the crisp, dry leaves of the last winter. At last a ruddy glow shone before them here and there through the trees; a little farther and they came to the open glade, now bathed in the pale moonlight. In the center of the open crackled a great fire, throwing a red glow on all around. At the fire were roasting juicy steaks of venison, pheasants, capons, and fresh fish from the river. All the air was filled with the sweet smell of good things cooking. "Good even, fair friend," said Robin Hood, rising as the other drew near. "And hast thou come to feast with me this day?" "Alas! I know not," said the lad, looking around him with dazed eyes, for he was bewildered with all that he saw. "Truly, I know not whether I be in a dream," said he to himself in a low voice. "Nay, marry," quoth Robin, laughing, "thou art awake, as thou wilt presently find, for a fine feast is a-cooking for thee. Thou art our honored guest this day." Still the young stranger looked about him, as though in a dream. Presently he turned to Robin. "Methinks," said he, "I know now where I am and what hath befallen me. Art not thou the great Robin Hood?" "Thou hast hit the bull's eye," quoth Robin, clapping him upon the shoulder. "Men hereabouts do call me by that name. Sin' thou knowest me, thou knowest also that he who feasteth with me must pay his reckoning. I trust thou hast a full purse with thee, fair stranger." At this speech a great shout of laughter went up from those around, whereat the poor boy looked as he would die of shame; but Robin Hood turned sharply to Will Stutely. "Why, how now," quoth he, "is this the guest that thou hast brought us to fill our purse? Methinks thou hast brought but a lean cock to the market." "Nay, good master," answered Will Stutely, grinning, "he is no guest of mine; it was Will Scarlet that brought him thither." Then up spoke Will Scarlet, and told how they had found the lad in sorrow, and how he had brought him to Robin, thinking that he might perchance aid him in his trouble. Then Robin Hood turned to the youth, and, placing his hand upon the other's shoulder, held him off at arm's length, scanning his face closely. "Allen a Dale is my name, good master." "Allen a Dale," repeated Robin, musing. "Allen a Dale. It doth seem to me that the name is not altogether strange to mine ears. Yea, surely thou art the minstrel of whom we have been hearing lately, whose voice so charmeth all men. Dost thou not come from the Dale of Rotherstream, over beyond Stavely?" "Yea, truly," answered Allan, "I do come thence." "How old art thou, Allan?" said Robin. "Methinks thou art overyoung to be perplexed with trouble," quoth Robin kindly; then, turning to the others, he cried, "Come, lads, busk ye and get our feast ready; only thou, Will Scarlet, and thou, Little John, stay here with me." To all this the yeomen listened in silence, the clatter of many voices, jesting and laughing, sounding around them, and the red light of the fire shining on their faces and in their eyes. So simple were the poor boy's words, and so deep his sorrow, that even Little John felt a certain knotty lump rise in his throat. "I wonder not," said Robin, after a moment's silence, "that thy true love loved thee, for thou hast surely a silver cross beneath thy tongue, even like good Saint Francis, that could charm the birds of the air by his speech." Then up spoke Will Scarlet. "Methinks it seemeth but ill done of the lass that she should so quickly change at others' bidding, more especially when it cometh to the marrying of a man as old as this same Sir Stephen. I like it not in her, Allan." "Ay, marry would she," cried Allan eagerly. "Nay," quoth Will Scarlet, laughing, "so far as that goeth, I know of a certain friar that, couldst thou but get on the soft side of him, would do thy business even though Pope Joan herself stood forth to ban him. He is known as the Curtal Friar of Fountain Abbey, and dwelleth in Fountain Dale." At last the feast was done, and Robin Hood turned to Allan, who sat beside him. "Now, Allan," quoth he, "so much has been said of thy singing that we would fain have a taste of thy skill ourselves. Canst thou not give us something?" (Giving an account of how she was beloved by a fairy prince, who took her to his own home.) "_May Ellen sat beneath a thorn And in a shower around The blossoms fell at every breeze Like snow upon the ground, And in a lime tree near was heard The sweet song of a strange, wild bird. "O sweet, sweet, sweet, O piercing sweet, O lingering sweet the strain! May Ellen's heart within her breast Stood still with blissful pain: And so, with listening, upturned face, She sat as dead in that fair place. "'Come down from out the blossoms, bird! Come down from out the tree, And on my heart I'll let thee lie, And love thee tenderly!' Thus cried May Ellen, soft and low, From where the hawthorn shed its snow. "Down dropped the bird on quivering wing, From out the blossoming tree, And nestled in her snowy breast. 'My love! my love!' cried she; Then straightway home, 'mid sun and flower, She bare him to her own sweet bower. "The day hath passed to mellow night, The moon floats o'er the lea, And in its solemn, pallid light A youth stands silently: A youth of beauty strange and rare, Within May Ellen's bower there. "He stood where o'er the pavement cold The glimmering moonbeams lay. May Ellen gazed with wide, scared eyes, Nor could she turn away, For, as in mystic dreams we see A spirit, stood he silently. "All in a low and breathless voice, 'Whence comest thou?' said she; 'Art thou the creature of a dream, Or a vision that I see?' Then soft spake he, as night winds shiver Through straining reeds beside the river. "'I came, a bird on feathered wing, From distant Faeryland Where murmuring waters softly sing Upon the golden strand, Where sweet trees are forever green; And there my mother is the queen.' "No more May Ellen leaves her bower To grace the blossoms fair; But in the hushed and midnight hour They hear her talking there, Or, when the moon is shining white, They hear her singing through the night. "'Oh, don thy silks and jewels fine,' May Ellen's mother said, 'For hither comes the Lord of Lyne And thou this lord must wed.' May Ellen said, 'It may not be. He ne'er shall find his wife in me.' "Up spoke her brother, dark and grim: 'Now by the bright blue sky, E'er yet a day hath gone for him Thy wicked bird shall die! For he hath wrought thee bitter harm, By some strange art or cunning charm.' "Then, with a sad and mournful song, Away the bird did fly, And o'er the castle eaves, and through The gray and windy sky. 'Come forth!' then cried the brother grim, 'Why dost thou gaze so after him?' "It is May Ellen's wedding day, The sky is blue and fair, And many a lord and lady gay In church are gathered there. The bridegroom was Sir Hugh the Bold, All clad in silk and cloth of gold. "In came the bride in samite white With a white wreath on her head; Her eyes were fixed with a glassy look, Her face was as the dead, And when she stood among the throng, She sang a wild and wondrous song. "By my faith and my troth," quoth Robin at last, drawing a deep breath, "lad, thou art--Thou must not leave our company, Allan! Wilt thou not stay with us here in the sweet green forest? Truly, I do feel my heart go out toward thee with great love." Then Allan took Robin's hand and kissed it. "I will stay with thee always, dear master," said he, "for never have I known such kindness as thou hast shown me this day." Robin Hood Seeks the Curtal Friar THE STOUT YEOMEN of Sherwood Forest were ever early risers of a morn, more especially when the summertime had come, for then in the freshness of the dawn the dew was always the brightest, and the song of the small birds the sweetest. "Now, good uncle," quoth Will Scarlet at last, when they had walked for a long time beside this sweet, bright river, "just beyond yon bend ahead of us is a shallow ford which in no place is deeper than thy mid-thigh, and upon the other side of the stream is a certain little hermitage hidden amidst the bosky tangle of the thickets wherein dwelleth the Friar of Fountain Dale. Thither will I lead thee, for I know the way; albeit it is not overhard to find." "Nay," quoth jolly Robin, stopping suddenly, "had I thought that I should have had to wade water, even were it so crystal a stream as this, I had donned other clothes than I have upon me. But no matter now, for after all a wetting will not wash the skin away, and what must be, must. But bide ye here, lads, for I would enjoy this merry adventure alone. Nevertheless, listen well, and if ye hear me sound upon my bugle horn, come quickly." So saying, he turned and left them, striding onward alone. "By my faith," quoth Robin to himself, "I do verily believe that this is the merriest feast, the merriest wight, the merriest place, and the merriest sight in all merry England. Methought there was another here, but it must have been this holy man talking to himself." THE LOVING YOUTH AND THE SCORNFUL MAID _HE "Ah, it's wilt thou come with me, my love? And it's wilt thou, love, he mine? For I will give unto thee, my love, Gay knots and ribbons so fine. I'll woo thee, love, on my bended knee, And I'll pipe sweet songs to none but thee. Then it's hark! hark! hark! To the winged lark And it's hark to the cooing dove! And the bright daffodil Groweth down by the rill, So come thou and be my love. SHE "Now get thee away, young man so fine; Now get thee away, I say; For my true love shall never be thine, And so thou hadst better not stay. Thou art not a fine enough lad for me, So I'll wait till a better young man I see. For it's hark! hark! hark! To the winged lark, And it's hark to the cooing dove! And the bright daffodil Groweth down by the rill, Yet never I'll be thy love. HE "Then straight will I seek for another fair she, For many a maid can be found, And as thou wilt never have aught of me, By thee will I never be bound. For never is a blossom in the field so rare, But others are found that are just as fair. So it's hark! hark! hark! To the joyous lark And it's hark to the cooing dove! And the bright daffodil Groweth down by the rill, And I'll seek me another dear love. SHE "Young man, turn not so very quick away Another fair lass to find. Methinks I have spoken in haste today, Nor have I made up my mind_, _And if thou only wilt stay with me, I'll love no other, sweet lad, but thee_." "_So it's hark! hark! hark! To the joyous lark And it's hark to the cooing dove! For the bright daffodil Groweth down by the rill And I'll be thine own true love_." "Nay, put up thy pinking iron, friend," quoth Robin, standing up with the tears of laughter still on his cheeks. "Folk who have sung so sweetly together should not fight thereafter." Hereupon he leaped down the bank to where the other stood. "I tell thee, friend," said he, "my throat is as parched with that song as e'er a barley stubble in October. Hast thou haply any Malmsey left in that stout pottle?" "Truly," said the Friar in a glum voice, "thou dost ask thyself freely where thou art not bidden. Yet I trust I am too good a Christian to refuse any man drink that is athirst. Such as there is o't thou art welcome to a drink of the same." And he held the pottle out to Robin. "Doss thou know the country hereabouts, thou good and holy man?" asked Robin, laughing. "Yea, somewhat," answered the other dryly. "And dost thou know of a certain spot called Fountain Abbey?" "Well then, good fellow, holy father, or whatever thou art," quoth Robin, "I would know whether this same Friar is to be found upon this side of the river or the other." "I do wish much," quoth Robin, looking thoughtfully at the stout priest, "to cross yon ford and strive to find this same good Friar." "Yea, good father," said Robin, "but thou seest that my clothes are of the finest and I fain would not get them wet. Methinks thy shoulders are stout and broad; couldst thou not find it in thy heart to carry me across?" "Did not the holy Saint Christopher ever carry the stranger across the river? And should I, poor sinner that I am, be ashamed to do likewise? Come with me, stranger, and I will do thy bidding in an humble frame of mind." So saying, he clambered up the bank, closely followed by Robin, and led the way to the shallow pebbly ford, chuckling to himself the while as though he were enjoying some goodly jest within himself. Having come to the ford, he girded up his robes about his loins, tucked his good broadsword beneath his arm, and stooped his back to take Robin upon it. Suddenly he straightened up. "Methinks," quoth he, "thou'lt get thy weapon wet. Let me tuck it beneath mine arm along with mine own." "Nay, good father," said Robin, "I would not burden thee with aught of mine but myself." "Dost thou think," said the Friar mildly, "that the good Saint Christopher would ha' sought his own ease so? Nay, give me thy tool as I bid thee, for I would carry it as a penance to my pride." "Many thanks, good father," quoth he. "Thou art indeed a good and holy man. Prythee give me my sword and let me away, for I am in haste." "Nay," interrupted the Friar, "I bid thee speak not so scurrilously neither, lest thou mayst perchance feel the prick of an inch or so of blue steel." "Tut, tut," said Robin, "speak not so, Friar; the loser hath ever the right to use his tongue as he doth list. Give me my sword; I do promise to carry thee back straightway. Nay, I will not lift the weapon against thee." "Marry, come up," quoth the Friar, "I fear thee not, fellow. Here is thy skewer; and get thyself presently ready, for I would hasten back." So Robin took his sword again and buckled it at his side; then he bent his stout back and took the Friar upon it. Now I wot Robin Hood had a heavier load to carry in the Friar than the Friar had in him. Moreover he did not know the ford, so he went stumbling among the stones, now stepping into a deep hole, and now nearly tripping over a boulder, while the sweat ran down his face in beads from the hardness of his journey and the heaviness of his load. Meantime, the Friar kept digging his heels into Robin's sides and bidding him hasten, calling him many ill names the while. To all this Robin answered never a word, but, having softly felt around till he found the buckle of the belt that held the Friar's sword, he worked slyly at the fastenings, seeking to loosen them. Thus it came about that, by the time he had reached the other bank with his load, the Friar's sword belt was loose albeit he knew it not; so when Robin stood on dry land and the Friar leaped from his back, the yeoman gripped hold of the sword so that blade, sheath, and strap came away from the holy man, leaving him without a weapon. The good Friar said not a word for a while, but he looked at Robin with a grim look. "Now," said he at last, "I did think that thy wits were of the heavy sort and knew not that thou wert so cunning. Truly, thou hast me upon the hip. Give me my sword, and I promise not to draw it against thee save in self-defense; also, I promise to do thy bidding and take thee upon my back and carry thee." Down went Robin into the water with a mighty splash. "There," quoth the holy man, calmly turning back again to the shore, "let that cool thy hot spirit, if it may." Meantime, after much splashing, Robin had gotten to his feet and stood gazing about him all bewildered, the water running from him in pretty little rills. At last he shot the water out of his ears and spat some out of his mouth, and, gathering his scattered wits together, saw the stout Friar standing on the bank and laughing. Then, I wot, was Robin Hood a mad man. "Stay, thou villain!" roared he, "I am after thee straight, and if I do not carve thy brawn for thee this day, may I never lift finger again!" So saying, he dashed, splashing, to the bank. "Thou needst not hasten thyself unduly," quoth the stout Friar. "Fear not; I will abide here, and if thou dost not cry 'Alack-a-day' ere long time is gone, may I never more peep through the brake at a fallow deer." And now Robin, having reached the bank, began, without more ado, to roll up his sleeves above his wrists. The Friar, also, tucked his robes more about him, showing a great, stout arm on which the muscles stood out like humps of an aged tree. Then Robin saw, what he had not wotted of before, that the Friar had also a coat of chain mail beneath his gown. "Look to thyself," cried Robin, drawing his good sword. "Now I crave a boon ere we begin again," quoth Robin, wiping the sweat from his brow; for they had striven so long that he began to think that it would be an ill-done thing either to be smitten himself or to smite so stout and brave a fellow. "What wouldst thou have of me?" asked the Friar. Meantime, the Friar stood watching keenly for what might come to pass, holding in his fingers the while a pretty silver whistle, such as knights use for calling their hawks back to their wrists, which whistle always hung at his girdle along with his rosary. "Truly, good master," said the Friar, looking somewhat abashed and reaching out his great palm to Robin, "I ha' oft heard thy name both sung and spoken of, but I never thought to meet thee in battle. I crave thy forgiveness, and do wonder not that I found so stout a man against me." "Truly, most holy father," said Little John, "I am more thankful than e'er I was in all my life before that our good friend Scarlet knew thee and thy dogs. I tell thee seriously that I felt my heart crumble away from me when I saw my shaft so miss its aim, and those great beasts of thine coming straight at me." "Thou mayst indeed be thankful, friend," said the Friar gravely. "But, Master Will, how cometh it that thou dost now abide in Sherwood?" "Why, Tuck, dost thou not know of my ill happening with my father's steward?" answered Scarlet. "But we are losing time," quoth Robin, "and I have yet to find that same Curtal Friar." "Why, uncle, thou hast not far to go," said Will Scarlet, pointing to the Friar, "for there he stands beside thee." "How?" quoth Robin, "art thou the man that I have been at such pains to seek all day, and have got such a ducking for?" "Why, truly," said the Friar demurely, "some do call me the Curtal Friar of Fountain Dale; others again call me in jest the Abbot of Fountain Abbey; others still again call me simple Friar Tuck." "I like the last name best," quoth Robin, "for it doth slip more glibly off the tongue. But why didst thou not tell me thou wert he I sought, instead of sending me searching for black moonbeams?" "Why, truly, thou didst not ask me, good master," quoth stout Tuck; "but what didst thou desire of me?" "Nay," quoth Robin, "the day groweth late, and we cannot stand longer talking here. Come back with us to Sherwood, and I will unfold all to thee as we travel along." So, without tarrying longer, they all departed, with the stout dogs at their heels, and wended their way back to Sherwood again; but it was long past nightfall ere they reached the greenwood tree. Robin Hood Compasses a Marriage All the band stared and many laughed, for never had they seen their master in such a fantastic guise before. "Why, master," quoth Little John, taking the bags and weighing them in his hand, "here is the chink of gold." "Well, what an there be," said Robin, "it is mine own coin and the band is none the worse for what is there. Come, busk ye, lads," and he turned quickly away. "Get ye ready straightway." Then gathering the score together in a close rank, in the midst of which were Allan a Dale and Friar Tuck, he led them forth upon their way from the forest shades. "Truly," quoth he, "the dear world is as fair here as in the woodland shades. Who calls it a vale of tears? Methinks it is but the darkness in our minds that bringeth gloom to the world. For what sayeth that merry song thou singest, Little John? Is it not thus? "_For when my love's eyes do thine, do thine, And when her lips smile so rare, The day it is jocund and fine, so fine, Though let it be wet or be fair And when the stout ale is all flowing so fast, Our sorrows and troubles are things of the past_." "Nay," said Friar Tuck piously, "ye do think of profane things and of nought else; yet, truly, there be better safeguards against care and woe than ale drinking and bright eyes, to wit, fasting and meditation. Look upon me, have I the likeness of a sorrowful man?" "Truly," quoth Robin, when he could speak for laughter, "I should say that thy sorrows were about equal to thy goodliness." So they stepped along, talking, singing, jesting, and laughing, until they had come to a certain little church that belonged to the great estates owned by the rich Priory of Emmet. Here it was that fair Ellen was to be married on that morn, and here was the spot toward which the yeomen had pointed their toes. On the other side of the road from where the church stood with waving fields of barley around, ran a stone wall along the roadside. Over the wall from the highway was a fringe of young trees and bushes, and here and there the wall itself was covered by a mass of blossoming woodbine that filled all the warm air far and near with its sweet summer odor. Then straightway the yeomen leaped over the wall, alighting on the tall soft grass upon the other side, frightening a flock of sheep that lay there in the shade so that they scampered away in all directions. Here was a sweet cool shadow both from the wall and from the fair young trees and bushes, and here sat the yeomen down, and glad enough they were to rest after their long tramp of the morning. Then up spoke Robin, "Now tell us, young David of Doncaster, what dost thou see?" So silence fell again and another time passed, broken only as I have said, till Robin, growing impatient, spake again. "Now tell me, young David, what dost thou see by this?" So Friar Tuck clambered over the wall, crossed the road, and came to the church, where the old friar was still laboring with the great key, the lock being somewhat rusty and he somewhat old and feeble. "Hilloa, brother," quoth Tuck, "let me aid thee." So saying, he took the key from the other's hand and quickly opened the door with a turn of it. "Who art thou, good brother?" asked the old friar, in a high, wheezing voice. "Whence comest thou, and whither art thou going?" And he winked and blinked at stout Friar Tuck like an owl at the sun. When Robin saw this train drawing near, with flash of jewels and silk and jingle of silver bells on the trappings of the nags, he looked sourly upon them. Quoth he to himself, "Yon Bishop is overgaudy for a holy man. I do wonder whether his patron, who, methinks, was Saint Thomas, was given to wearing golden chains about his neck, silk clothing upon his body, and pointed shoes upon his feet; the money for all of which, God wot, hath been wrung from the sweat of poor tenants. Bishop, Bishop, thy pride may have a fall ere thou wottest of it." So the holy men came to the church; the Bishop and the Prior jesting and laughing between themselves about certain fair dames, their words more befitting the lips of laymen, methinks, than holy clerks. Then they dismounted, and the Bishop, looking around, presently caught sight of Robin standing in the doorway. "Hilloa, good fellow," quoth he in a jovial voice, "who art thou that struttest in such gay feathers?" "Ha! is it so?" cried the Bishop. "Meanest thou this in sooth?" And he looked keenly at Robin, who gazed boldly back again into his eyes. "Now, if thou wilt cause this maiden (who hath verily bewitched my poor cousin Stephen) thus to love the man she is to marry, as thou sayst thou canst, I will give thee whatsoever thou wilt ask me in due measure. Let me have a taste of thy skill, fellow." "Nay," quoth Robin, "my music cometh not without I choose, even at a lord bishop's bidding. In sooth, I will not play until the bride and bridegroom come." "Now, thou art a saucy varlet to speak so to my crest," quoth the Bishop, frowning on Robin. "Yet, I must needs bear with thee. Look, Prior, hither cometh our cousin Sir Stephen, and his ladylove." So these also came to the church, and there Sir Stephen leaped from his horse and, coming to the litter, handed fair Ellen out therefrom. Then Robin Hood looked at her, and could wonder no longer how it came about that so proud a knight as Sir Stephen of Trent wished to marry a common franklin's daughter; nor did he wonder that no ado was made about the matter, for she was the fairest maiden that ever he had beheld. Now, however, she was all pale and drooping, like a fair white lily snapped at the stem; and so, with bent head and sorrowful look, she went within the church, Sir Stephen leading her by the hand. "Why dost thou not play, fellow?" quoth the Bishop, looking sternly at Robin. "Marry," said Robin calmly, "I will play in greater wise than Your Lordship thinks, but not till the right time hath come." Said the Bishop to himself, while he looked grimly at Robin, "When this wedding is gone by I will have this fellow well whipped for his saucy tongue and bold speech." "Let me look upon this lass," he said in a loud voice. "Why, how now! What have we here? Here be lilies in the cheeks, and not roses such as befit a bonny bride. This is no fit wedding. Thou, Sir Knight, so old, and she so young, and thou thinkest to make her thy wife? I tell thee it may not be, for thou art not her own true love." And now all was hubbub and noise. Stout Edward strode forward raging, and would have seized his daughter to drag her away, but Little John stepped between and thrust him back. "Stand back, old man," said he, "thou art a hobbled horse this day." "Down with the villains!" cried Sir Stephen, and felt for his sword, but it hung not beside him on his wedding day. Then up spake Edward of Deirwold in a deep voice of anger, "Is it thou, Allan a Dale, that hath bred all this coil in a church?" "Nay," quoth merry Robin, "that have I done, and I care not who knoweth it, for my name is Robin Hood." At this name a sudden silence fell. The Prior of Emmet and those that belonged to him gathered together like a flock of frightened sheep when the scent of the wolf is nigh, while the Bishop of Hereford, laying aside his book, crossed himself devoutly. "Now Heaven keep us this day," said he, "from that evil man!" Then up spake stout Edward in a loud and angry voice, "Now I say nay! I am her father, and she shall marry Sir Stephen and none other." Now all this time, while everything was in turmoil about him, Sir Stephen had been standing in proud and scornful silence. "Nay, fellow," said he coldly, "thou mayst take thy daughter back again; I would not marry her after this day's doings could I gain all merry England thereby. I tell thee plainly, I loved thy daughter, old as I am, and would have taken her up like a jewel from the sty, yet, truly, I knew not that she did love this fellow, and was beloved by him. Maiden, if thou dost rather choose a beggarly minstrel than a high-born knight, take thy choice. I do feel it shame that I should thus stand talking amid this herd, and so I will leave you." Thus saying, he turned and, gathering his men about him, walked proudly down the aisle. Then all the yeomen were silenced by the scorn of his words. Only Friar Tuck leaned over the edge of the choir loft and called out to him ere he had gone, "Good den, Sir Knight. Thou wottest old bones must alway make room for young blood." Sir Stephen neither answered nor looked up, but passed out from the church as though he had heard nought, his men following him. Then the Bishop of Hereford spoke hastily, "I, too, have no business here, and so will depart." And he made as though he would go. But Robin Hood laid hold of his clothes and held him. "Stay, my Lord Bishop," said he, "I have yet somewhat to say to thee." The Bishop's face fell, but he stayed as Robin bade him, for he saw he could not go. Then at last jolly Robin turned to the Bishop of Hereford, who had been looking on at all that passed with a grim look. "My Lord Bishop," quoth he, "thou mayst bring to thy mind that thou didst promise me that did I play in such wise as to cause this fair lass to love her husband, thou wouldst give me whatsoever I asked in reason. I have played my play, and she loveth her husband, which she would not have done but for me; so now fulfill thy promise. Thou hast upon thee that which, methinks, thou wouldst be the better without; therefore, I prythee, give me that golden chain that hangeth about thy neck as a wedding present for this fair bride." Then the Bishop's cheeks grew red with rage and his eyes flashed. He looked at Robin with a fell look, but saw that in the yeoman's face which bade him pause. Then slowly he took the chain from about his neck and handed it to Robin, who flung it over Ellen's head so that it hung glittering about her shoulders. Then said merry Robin, "I thank thee, on the bride's part, for thy handsome gift, and truly thou thyself art more seemly without it. Now, shouldst thou ever come nigh to Sherwood I much hope that I shall give thee there such a feast as thou hast ne'er had in all thy life before." "May Heaven forfend!" cried the Bishop earnestly; for he knew right well what manner of feast it was that Robin Hood gave his guests in Sherwood Forest. That night there was such a feast held in the greenwood as Nottinghamshire never saw before. To that feast you and I were not bidden, and pity it is that we were not; so, lest we should both feel the matter the more keenly, I will say no more about it. Robin Hood Aids a Sorrowful Knight SO PASSED the gentle springtime away in budding beauty; its silver showers and sunshine, its green meadows and its flowers. So, likewise, passed the summer with its yellow sunlight, its quivering heat and deep, bosky foliage, its long twilights and its mellow nights, through which the frogs croaked and fairy folk were said to be out on the hillsides. All this had passed and the time of fall had come, bringing with it its own pleasures and joyousness; for now, when the harvest was gathered home, merry bands of gleaners roamed the country about, singing along the roads in the daytime, and sleeping beneath the hedgerows and the hay-ricks at night. Now the hips burned red in the tangled thickets and the hews waxed black in the hedgerows, the stubble lay all crisp and naked to the sky, and the green leaves were fast turning russet and brown. Also, at this merry season, good things of the year are gathered in in great store. Brown ale lies ripening in the cellar, hams and bacon hang in the smoke-shed, and crabs are stowed away in the straw for roasting in the wintertime, when the north wind piles the snow in drifts around the gables and the fire crackles warm upon the hearth. So passed the seasons then, so they pass now, and so they will pass in time to come, while we come and go like leaves of the tree that fall and are soon forgotten. "Marry," cried Little John, clapping his palms together for joy, "thy bidding fitteth my liking like heft to blade. I'll bring thee back a guest this day, or come not back mine own self." Then they each chose such of the band as they wished, and so went forth by different paths from the forest. Quoth Robin Hood, "Yon is verily a sorry-looking gallant, and doth seem to have donned ill-content with his jerkin this morning; nevertheless, I will out and talk with him, for there may be some pickings here for a hungry daw. Methinks his dress is rich, though he himself is so downcast. Bide ye here till I look into this matter." So saying, he arose and left them, crossed the road to the shrine, and there stood, waiting for the sorrowful knight to come near him. So, presently, when the knight came riding slowly along, jolly Robin stepped forward and laid his hand upon the bridle rein. "Hold, Sir Knight," quoth he. "I prythee tarry for a short time, for I have a few words to say to thee." "What art thou, friend, who dost stop a traveler in this manner upon his most gracious Majesty's highway?" said the Knight. "Truly, good Robin," said the Knight, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, "thou hast a quaint conceit. As for the pair of eyes with which I regard thee, I would say that they are as favorable as may be, for I hear much good of thee and little ill. What is thy will of me?" "Now, I make my vow, Sir Knight," quoth Robin, "thou hast surely learned thy wisdom of good Gaffer Swanthold, for he sayeth, 'Fair words are as easy spoke as foul, and bring good will in the stead of blows.' Now I will show thee the truth of this saying; for, if thou wilt go with me this day to Sherwood Forest, I will give thee as merry a feast as ever thou hadst in all thy life." "Thou art indeed kind," said the Knight, "but methinks thou wilt find me but an ill-seeming and sorrowful guest. Thou hadst best let me pass on my way in peace." "I take thy meaning, friend," said the Knight gravely, "but I am not thy man, for I have no money by me." "Is it sooth?" said Robin, looking at the Knight keenly. "I can scarce choose but believe thee; yet, Sir Knight, there be those of thy order whose word is not to be trusted as much as they would have others believe. Thou wilt think no ill if I look for myself in this matter." Then, still holding the horse by the bridle rein, he put his fingers to his lips and blew a shrill whistle, whereupon fourscore yeomen came leaping over the stile and ran to where the Knight and Robin stood. "These," said Robin, looking upon them proudly, "are some of my merry men. They share and share alike with me all joys and troubles, gains and losses. Sir Knight, I prythee tell me what money thou hast about thee." When Sir Richard ended a silence fell, until at last Robin said, "And dost thou pledge me thy knightly word that this is all thou hast with thee?" "Yea," answered Sir Richard, "I do pledge thee my most solemn word, as a true knight, that it is all the money I have in the world. Nay, here is my purse, ye may find for yourselves the truth of what I say." And he held his purse out to Robin. "Put up thy purse, Sir Richard," quoth Robin. "Far be it from me to doubt the word of so gentle a knight. The proud I strive to bring low, but those that walk in sorrow I would aid if I could. Come, Sir Richard, cheer up thy heart and go with us into the greenwood. Even I may perchance aid thee, for thou surely knowest how the good Athelstane was saved by the little blind mole that digged a trench over which he that sought the king's life stumbled." After they had traveled thus for a time Robin Hood spake. "Sir Knight," said he, "I would not trouble thee with idle questions; but dost thou find it in thy heart to tell me thy sorrows?" Quoth Robin, "I understand not why those of thy kind live in such a manner that all their wealth passeth from them like snow beneath the springtide sun." "But where is thy son now?" asked Robin, who had listened closely to all the Knight had said. "In Palestine," said Sir Richard, "battling like a brave Christian soldier for the cross and the holy sepulcher. Truly, England was an ill place for him because of Sir Walter's death and the hate of the Lancastrian's kinsmen." "Truly," said Robin, much moved, "thine is a hard lot. But tell me, what is owing to Emmet for thine estates?" "It is not mine own lot that doth trouble me in that case," said the Knight, "but my dear lady's; for should I lose my land she will have to betake herself to some kinsman and there abide in charity, which, methinks, would break her proud heart. As for me, I will over the salt sea, and so to Palestine to join my son in fight for the holy sepulcher." Then up spake Will Scarlet. "But hast thou no friend that will help thee in thy dire need?" "Never a man," said Sir Richard. "While I was rich enow at home, and had friends, they blew great boasts of how they loved me. But when the oak falls in the forest the swine run from beneath it lest they should be smitten down also. So my friends have left me; for not only am I poor but I have great enemies." Then Robin said, "Thou sayst thou hast no friends, Sir Richard. I make no boast, but many have found Robin Hood a friend in their troubles. Cheer up, Sir Knight, I may help thee yet." The Knight shook his head with a faint smile, but for all that, Robin's words made him more blithe of heart, for in truth hope, be it never so faint, bringeth a gleam into darkness, like a little rushlight that costeth but a groat. "Stay, my Lord Bishop," cried jolly Robin in a loud voice, when he saw what had passed, "I will come to thee with all speed, for I would rather see thee than any man in merry England." So saying, he quickened his steps and soon came to where the Bishop stood fuming. At this, the Bishop glared like an angry cat, while even Sir Richard laughed; only Robin kept a grave face. "Alas! my lord," said he, "that thou hast been so ill-treated by my band! I tell thee truly that we greatly reverence thy cloth. Little John, stand forth straightway." At these words Little John came forward, twisting his face into a whimsical look, as though he would say, "Ha' mercy upon me, good master." Then Robin turned to the Bishop of Hereford and said, "Was this the man who spake so boldly to Your Lordship?" "Ay, truly it was the same," said the Bishop, "a naughty fellow, I wot. "And didst thou, Little John," said Robin in a sad voice, "call his lordship a fat priest?" "Ay," said Little John sorrowfully. "And a man-eating bishop?" "Ay," said Little John, more sorrowfully than before. "And a money-gorging usurer?" "Ay," said Little John in so sorrowful a voice that it might have drawn tears from the Dragon of Wentley. "Alas, that these things should be!" said jolly Robin, turning to the Bishop, "for I have ever found Little John a truthful man." At this, a roar of laughter went up, whereat the blood rushed into the Bishop's face till it was cherry red from crown to chin; but he said nothing and only swallowed his words, though they well-nigh choked him. "Nay, my Lord Bishop," said Robin, "we are rough fellows, but I trust not such ill men as thou thinkest, after all. There is not a man here that would harm a hair of thy reverence's head. I know thou art galled by our jesting, but we are all equal here in the greenwood, for there are no bishops nor barons nor earls among us, but only men, so thou must share our life with us while thou dost abide here. Come, busk ye, my merry men, and get the feast ready. Meantime, we will show our guests our woodland sports." So, while some went to kindle the fires for roasting meats, others ran leaping to get their cudgels and longbows. Then Robin brought forward Sir Richard of the Lea. "My Lord Bishop," said he, "here is another guest that we have with us this day. I wish that thou mightest know him better, for I and all my men will strive to honor you both at this merrymaking." "Speak out, Bishop," quoth Robin, laughing. "We of Sherwood check not an easy flow of words. 'Den of thieves' thou west about to say." Quoth the Bishop, "Mayhap that was what I meant to say, Sir Richard; but this I will say, that I saw thee just now laugh at the scurrilous jests of these fellows. It would have been more becoming of thee, methinks, to have checked them with frowns instead of spurring them on by laughter." "I meant no harm to thee," said Sir Richard, "but a merry jest is a merry jest, and I may truly say I would have laughed at it had it been against mine own self." "I have a story to tell you all, so listen to what I have to say," quoth he; whereupon, without more ado, he told them all about Sir Richard, and how his lands were in pawn. But, as he went on, the Bishop's face, that had erst been smiling and ruddy with merriment, waxed serious, and he put aside the horn of wine he held in his hand, for he knew the story of Sir Richard, and his heart sank within him with grim forebodings. Then, when Robin Hood had done, he turned to the Bishop of Hereford. "Now, my Lord Bishop," said he, "dost thou not think this is ill done of anyone, much more of a churchman, who should live in humbleness and charity?" To this the Bishop answered not a word but looked upon the ground with moody eyes. Quoth Robin, "Now, thou art the richest bishop in all England; canst thou not help this needy brother?" But still the Bishop answered not a word. "Who hath the score of the goods?" asked Robin Hood, looking at the Black Friars. Then up spake the smallest of all, in a trembling voice--an old man he was, with a gentle, wrinkled face. "That have I; but, I pray thee, harm me not." "Nay," quoth Robin, "I have never harmed harmless man yet; but give it to me, good father." So the old man did as he was bidden, and handed Robin the tablet on which was marked down the account of the various packages upon the horses. This Robin handed to Will Scarlet, bidding him to read the same. So Will Scarlet, lifting his voice that all might hear, began: "That we touch not," quoth Robin, "for this Quentin is an honest fellow, who hath risen by his own thrift." So the bales of silk were laid aside unopened. "Twoscore of great wax candles for the Chapel of Saint Thomas." At these words the Bishop shook as with a chill, and the box was set upon the ground. "My Lord Bishop, hast thou the key of this box?" asked Robin. The Bishop shook his head. Quoth Robin, "Thou, Will Scarlet, thou, Allan a Dale, and thou, Little John, count it over." At this the Bishop looked up, but he could say never a word; yet he was thankful to keep some of his wealth. Then Sir Richard arose. "I cannot stay later, good friends," said he, "for my lady will wax anxious if I come not home; so I crave leave to depart." Then Robin Hood and all his merry men arose, and Robin said, "We cannot let thee go hence unattended, Sir Richard." Then up spake Little John, "Good master, let me choose a score of stout fellows from the band, and let us arm ourselves in a seemly manner and so serve as retainers to Sir Richard till he can get others in our stead." "Thou hast spoken well, Little John, and it shall be done," said Robin. Then Robin Hood said, "Thou hast spoken well, Will Scarlet, and it shall be done." Then up spake Will Stutely, "Let us give him yon bale of rich velvet and yon roll of cloth of gold to take home to his noble lady wife as a present from Robin Hood and his merry men all." At this all clapped their hands for joy, and Robin said: "Thou hast well spoken, Will Stutely, and it shall be done." Then up spake the Bishop of Hereford in a mournful voice, "I, too, must be jogging, good fellow, for the night waxes late." But, as the Bishop rode away, he vowed within himself that he would sometime make Robin rue the day that he stopped him in Sherwood. But now we shall follow Sir Richard; so listen, and you shall hear what befell him, and how he paid his debts at Emmet Priory, and likewise in due season to Robin Hood. How Sir Richard of the Lea Paid His Debts THE LONG HIGHWAY stretched straight on, gray and dusty in the sun. On either side were dikes full of water bordered by osiers, and far away in the distance stood the towers of Emmet Priory with tall poplar trees around. Along the causeway rode a knight with a score of stout men-at-arms behind him. The Knight was clad in a plain, long robe of gray serge, gathered in at the waist with a broad leathern belt, from which hung a long dagger and a stout sword. But though he was so plainly dressed himself, the horse he rode was a noble barb, and its trappings were rich with silk and silver bells. The porter was drowsing on his bench within the lodge, but at the knock he roused himself and, opening the wicket, came hobbling forth and greeted the Knight, while a tame starling that hung in a wicker cage within piped out, "_In coelo quies! In coelo quies!_" such being the words that the poor old lame porter had taught him to speak. "Where is thy prior?" asked the Knight of the old porter. "He is at meat, good knight, and he looketh for thy coming," quoth the porter, "for, if I mistake not, thou art Sir Richard of the Lea." "I am Sir Richard of the Lea; then I will go seek him forthwith," said the Knight. "But shall I not send thy horse to stable?" said the porter. "By Our Lady, it is the noblest nag, and the best harnessed, that e'er I saw in all my life before." And he stroked the horse's flank with his palm. "Nay," quoth Sir Richard, "the stables of this place are not for me, so make way, I prythee." So saying, he pushed forward, and, the gates being opened, he entered the stony courtyard of the Priory, his men behind him. In they came with rattle of steel and clashing of swords, and ring of horses' feet on cobblestones, whereat a flock of pigeons that strutted in the sun flew with flapping wings to the high eaves of the round towers. While the Knight was riding along the causeway to Emmet, a merry feast was toward in the refectory there. The afternoon sun streamed in through the great arched windows and lay in broad squares of light upon the stone floor and across the board covered with a snowy linen cloth, whereon was spread a princely feast. At the head of the table sat Prior Vincent of Emmet all clad in soft robes of fine cloth and silk; on his head was a black velvet cap picked out with gold, and around his neck hung a heavy chain of gold, with a great locket pendant therefrom. Beside him, on the arm of his great chair, roosted his favorite falcon, for the Prior was fond of the gentle craft of hawking. On his right hand sat the Sheriff of Nottingham in rich robes of purple all trimmed about with fur, and on his left a famous doctor of law in dark and sober garb. Below these sat the high cellarer of Emmet, and others chief among the brethren. Jest and laughter passed around, and all was as merry as merry could be. The wizened face of the man of law was twisted into a wrinkled smile, for in his pouch were fourscore golden angels that the Prior had paid him in fee for the case betwixt him and Sir Richard of the Lea. The learned doctor had been paid beforehand, for he had not overmuch trust in the holy Vincent of Emmet. Quoth the Sheriff of Nottingham, "But art thou sure, Sir Prior, that thou hast the lands so safe?" "Ay, marry," said Prior Vincent, smacking his lips after a deep draught of wine, "I have kept a close watch upon him, albeit he was unawares of the same, and I know right well that he hath no money to pay me withal." "Ay, true," said the man of law in a dry, husky voice, "his land is surely forfeit if he cometh not to pay; but, Sir Prior, thou must get a release beneath his sign manual, or else thou canst not hope to hold the land without trouble from him." "How now," broke in the Prior in a quivering voice, his eyes glistening and his cheeks red with anger, "dost thou prate to my very beard, sirrah? By Saint Hubert, thou hadst best save thy breath to cool thy pottage, else it may scald thy mouth." "Nay," said the man of law smoothly, "I dare swear this same knight will never come to settlement this day, but will prove recreant. Nevertheless, we will seek some means to gain his lands from him, so never fear." So the brother arose and went and looked, and he said, "I see below a score of stout men-at-arms and a knight just dismounting from his horse. He is dressed in long robes of gray which, methinks, are of poor seeming; but the horse he rideth upon hath the richest coursing that ever I saw. The Knight dismounts and they come this way, and are even now below in the great hall." "Lo, see ye there now," quoth Prior Vincent. "Here ye have a knight with so lean a purse as scarce to buy him a crust of bread to munch, yet he keeps a band of retainers and puts rich trappings upon his horse's hide, while his own back goeth bare. Is it not well that such men should be brought low?" "But art thou sure," said the little doctor tremulously, "that this knight will do us no harm? Such as he are fierce when crossed, and he hath a band of naughty men at his heels. Mayhap thou hadst better give an extension of his debt." Thus he spake, for he was afraid Sir Richard might do him a harm. "Thou needst not fear," said the Prior, looking down at the little man beside him. "This knight is gentle and would as soon think of harming an old woman as thee." "Now, thou art a shrewd debtor, I wot," said he. Then, "Sir Sheriff, I drink to thee." But still the Knight kneeled upon the hard stones, so the Prior turned to him again. "What wouldst thou have?" quoth he sharply. At these words, a slow red mounted into the Knight's cheeks; but still he knelt. "I would crave thy mercy," said he. "As thou hopest for Heaven's mercy, show mercy to me. Strip me not of my lands and so reduce a true knight to poverty." "Thy day is broken and thy lands forfeit," said the man of law, plucking up his spirits at the Knight's humble speech. Quoth Sir Richard, "Thou man of law, wilt thou not befriend me in mine hour of need?" "Nay," said the other, "I hold with this holy Prior, who hath paid me my fees in hard gold, so that I am bounder to him." "Wilt thou not be my friend, Sir Sheriff?" said Sir Richard. "Nay, 'fore Heaven," quoth the Sheriff of Nottingham, "this is no business of mine, yet I will do what I may," and he nudged the Prior beneath the cloth with his knee. "Wilt thou not ease him of some of his debts, Sir Prior?" "Not another day," said the Prior sternly. "And is this all thou wilt do for me?" asked the Knight. "Now, out upon thee, false knight!" cried the Prior, bursting forth in anger. "Either pay thy debt as I have said, or release thy land and get thee gone from out my hall." Then Sir Richard arose to his feet. "Thou false, lying priest!" said he in so stern a voice that the man of law shrunk affrighted, "I am no false knight, as thou knowest full well, but have even held my place in the press and the tourney. Hast thou so little courtesy that thou wouldst see a true knight kneel for all this time, or see him come into thy hall and never offer him meat or drink?" Then quoth the man of law in a trembling voice, "This is surely an ill way to talk of matters appertaining to business; let us be mild in speech. What wilt thou pay this knight, Sir Prior, to give thee release of his land?" "Nay," cried the other shrilly, "it is but my fee that thou didst pay me, and thou gettest it not back again." And he hugged his gown about him. "Now, Sir Prior," quoth Sir Richard, "I have held my day and paid all the dues demanded of me; so, as there is no more betwixt us, I leave this vile place straightway." So saying, he turned upon his heel and strode away. All this time the Sheriff had been staring with wide-open eyes and mouth agape at the tall man-at-arms, who stood as though carved out of stone. At last he gasped out, "Reynold Greenleaf!" At this, the tall man-at-arms, who was no other than Little John, turned, grinning, to the Sheriff. "I give thee good den, fair gossip," quoth he. "I would say, sweet Sheriff, that I have heard all thy pretty talk this day, and it shall be duly told unto Robin Hood. So, farewell for the nonce, till we meet again in Sherwood Forest." Then he, also, turned and followed Sir Richard down the hall, leaving the Sheriff, all pale and amazed, shrunk together upon his chair. A merry feast it was to which Sir Richard came, but a sorry lot he left behind him, and little hunger had they for the princely food spread before them. Only the learned doctor was happy, for he had his fee. Thus rode forth good Sir Richard of the Lea to pay his debt to Robin Hood this bright and merry morn. Along the highway they wended their way, with measured tramp of feet and rattle and jingle of sword and harness. Onward they marched till they came nigh to Denby, where, from the top of a hill, they saw, over beyond the town, many gay flags and streamers floating in the bright air. Then Sir Richard turned to the man-at-arms nearest to him. "What is toward yonder at Denby today?" quoth he. "Please Your Worship," answered the man-at-arms, "a merry fair is held there today, and a great wrestling match, to which many folk have come, for a prize hath been offered of a pipe of red wine, a fair golden ring, and a pair of gloves, all of which go to the best wrestler." "Now, by my faith," quoth Sir Richard, who loved good manly sports right well, "this will be a goodly thing to see. Methinks we have to stay a little while on our journey, and see this merry sport." So he turned his horse's head aside toward Denby and the fair, and thither he and his men made their way. There they found a great hubbub of merriment. Flags and streamers were floating, tumblers were tumbling on the green, bagpipes were playing, and lads and lasses were dancing to the music. But the crowd were gathered most of all around a ring where the wrestling was going forward, and thither Sir Richard and his men turned their steps. Now when the judges of the wrestling saw Sir Richard coming and knew who he was, the chief of them came down from the bench where he and the others sat, and went to the Knight and took him by the hand, beseeching him to come and sit with them and judge the sport. So Sir Richard got down from his horse and went with the others to the bench raised beside the ring. Now there had been great doings that morning, for a certain yeoman named Egbert, who came from Stoke over in Staffordshire, had thrown with ease all those that came against him; but a man of Denby, well known through all the countryside as William of the Scar, had been biding his time with the Stoke man; so, when Egbert had thrown everyone else, stout William leaped into the ring. Then a tough bout followed, and at last he threw Egbert heavily, whereat there was a great shouting and shaking of hands, for all the Denby men were proud of their wrestler. "Nay," said the judge, "he is a stranger to me." Meantime, without a word, the young man, laying aside his quarterstaff, began to take off his jerkin and body clothing until he presently stood with naked arms and body; and a comely sight he was when so bared to the view, for his muscles were cut round and smooth and sharp like swiftrunning water. Then up spoke Sir Richard gently. "Nay," said he, "the youth is right; if the other dieth, he dieth in the wrestling ring, where he took his chance, and was cast fairly enow." "Now, I wonder who yon youth may be," said the judge, turning to Sir Richard, "he seemeth like a stout Saxon from his red cheeks and fair hair. This William of ours is a stout man, too, and never have I seen him cast in the ring before, albeit he hath not yet striven with such great wrestlers as Thomas of Cornwall, Diccon of York, and young David of Doncaster. Hath he not a firm foot in the ring, thinkest thou, Sir Richard?" "Ay, truly, and yet this youth threw him fairly, and with wondrous ease. I much wonder who he can be." Thus said Sir Richard in a thoughtful voice. Meanwhile the young stranger had made his way through the crowd, but, as he passed, he heard all around him such words muttered as "Look at the cockerel!" "Behold how he plumeth himself!" "I dare swear he cast good William unfairly!" "Yea, truly, saw ye not birdlime upon his hands?" "It would be well to cut his cock's comb!" To all this the stranger paid no heed, but strode proudly about as though he heard it not. So he walked slowly across the green to where the booth stood wherein was dancing, and standing at the door he looked in on the sport. As he stood thus, a stone struck his arm of a sudden with a sharp jar, and, turning, he saw that an angry crowd of men had followed him from the wrestling ring. Then, when they saw him turn so, a great hooting and yelling arose from all, so that the folk came running out from the dancing booth to see what was to do. At last a tall, broad-shouldered, burly blacksmith strode forward from the crowd swinging a mighty blackthorn club in his hand. "Wouldst thou come here to our fair town of Denby, thou Jack in the Box, to overcome a good honest lad with vile, juggling tricks?" growled he in a deep voice like the bellow of an angry bull. "Take that, then!" And of a sudden he struck a blow at the youth that might have felled an ox. But the other turned the blow deftly aside, and gave back another so terrible that the Denby man went down with a groan, as though he had been smitten by lightning. When they saw their leader fall, the crowd gave another angry shout; but the stranger placed his back against the tent near which he stood, swinging his terrible staff, and so fell had been the blow that he struck the stout smith that none dared to come within the measure of his cudgel, so the press crowded back, like a pack of dogs from a bear at bay. But now some coward hand from behind threw a sharp jagged stone that smote the stranger on the crown, so that he staggered back, and the red blood gushed from the cut and ran down his face and over his jerkin. Then, seeing him dazed with this vile blow, the crowd rushed upon him, so that they overbore him and he fell beneath their feet. Now it might have gone ill with the youth, even to the losing of his young life, had not Sir Richard come to this fair; for of a sudden, shouts were heard, and steel flashed in the air, and blows were given with the flat of swords, while through the midst of the crowd Sir Richard of the Lea came spurring on his white horse. Then the crowd, seeing the steel-clad knight and the armed men, melted away like snow on the warm hearth, leaving the young man all bloody and dusty upon the ground. Finding himself free, the youth arose and, wiping the blood from his face, looked up. Quoth he, "Sir Richard of the Lea, mayhap thou hast saved my life this day." "Who art thou that knowest Sir Richard of the Lea so well?" quoth the Knight. "Methinks I have seen thy face before, young man." "Yea, thou hast," said the youth, "for men call me David of Doncaster." "Ha!" said Sir Richard, "I wonder that I knew thee not, David; but thy beard hath grown longer, and thou thyself art more set in manhood since this day twelvemonth. Come hither into the tent, David, and wash the blood from thy face. And thou, Ralph, bring him straightway a clean jerkin. Now I am sorry for thee, yet I am right glad that I have had a chance to pay a part of my debt of kindness to thy good master Robin Hood, for it might have gone ill with thee had I not come, young man." So saying, the Knight led David into the tent, and there the youth washed the blood from his face and put on the clean jerkin. Then Sir Richard called aloud, "Friends, this is David of Doncaster; so think it no shame that your Denby man was cast by such a wrestler. He beareth you no ill will for what hath passed, but let it be a warning to you how ye treat strangers henceforth. Had ye slain him it would have been an ill day for you, for Robin Hood would have harried your town as the kestrel harries the dovecote. I have bought the pipe of wine from him, and now I give it freely to you to drink as ye list. But never hereafterward fall upon a man for being a stout yeoman." At this all shouted amain; but in truth they thought more of the wine than of the Knight's words. Then Sir Richard, with David beside him and his men-at-arms around, turned about and left the fair. But in after days, when the men that saw that wrestling bout were bent with age, they would shake their heads when they heard of any stalwart game, and say, "Ay, ay; but thou shouldst have seen the great David of Doncaster cast stout William of the Scar at Denby fair." Robin Hood stood in the merry greenwood with Little John and most of his stout yeomen around him, awaiting Sir Richard's coming. At last a glint of steel was seen through the brown forest leaves, and forth from the covert into the open rode Sir Richard at the head of his men. He came straight forward to Robin Hood and leaping from off his horse, clasped the yeoman in his arms. "Why, how now," said Robin, after a time, holding Sir Richard off and looking at him from top to toe, "methinks thou art a gayer bird than when I saw thee last." But Robin stopped him. "Nay, Sir Richard," said he, "think it not bold of me to cross thy bidding, but we of Sherwood do no business till after we have eaten and drunk." Whereupon, taking Sir Richard by the hand, he led him to the seat beneath the greenwood tree, while others of the chief men of the band came and seated themselves around. Then quoth Robin, "How cometh it that I saw young David of Doncaster with thee and thy men, Sir Knight?" Then straightway the Knight told all about his stay at Denby and of the happening at the fair, and how it was like to go hard with young David; so he told his tale, and quoth he, "It was this, good Robin, that kept me so late on the way, otherwise I would have been here an hour agone." Then, when he had done speaking, Robin stretched out his hand and grasped the Knight's palm. Quoth he in a trembling voice, "I owe thee a debt I can never hope to repay, Sir Richard, for let me tell thee, I would rather lose my right hand than have such ill befall young David of Doncaster as seemed like to come upon him at Denby." "Sir Richard," quoth Robin, "thou wilt pleasure us all if thou wilt keep that money as a gift from us of Sherwood. Is it not so, my lads?" Then all shouted "Ay" with a mighty voice. "I thank you all deeply," said the Knight earnestly, "but think it not ill of me if I cannot take it. Gladly have I borrowed it from you, but it may not be that I can take it as a gift." Then Sir Richard had the packs laid upon the ground and opened, whereupon a great shout went up that made the forest ring again, for lo, there were tenscore bows of finest Spanish yew, all burnished till they shone again, and each bow inlaid with fanciful figures in silver, yet not inlaid so as to mar their strength. Beside these were tenscore quivers of leather embroidered with golden thread, and in each quiver were a score of shafts with burnished heads that shone like silver; each shaft was feathered with peacock's plumes, innocked with silver. Sir Richard gave to each yeoman a bow and a quiver of arrows, but to Robin he gave a stout bow inlaid with the cunningest workmanship in gold, while each arrow in his quiver was innocked with gold. Then all shouted again for joy of the fair gift, and all swore among themselves that they would die if need be for Sir Richard and his lady. At last the time came when Sir Richard must go, whereupon Robin Hood called his band around him, and each man of the yeomen took a torch in his hand to light the way through the woodlands. So they came to the edge of Sherwood, and there the Knight kissed Robin upon the cheeks and left him and was gone. Thus Robin Hood helped a noble knight out of his dire misfortunes, that else would have smothered the happiness from his life. Little John Turns Barefoot Friar COLD WINTER had passed and spring had come. No leafy thickness had yet clad the woodlands, but the budding leaves hung like a tender mist about the trees. In the open country the meadow lands lay a sheeny green, the cornfields a dark velvety color, for they were thick and soft with the growing blades. The plowboy shouted in the sun, and in the purple newturned furrows flocks of birds hunted for fat worms. All the broad moist earth smiled in the warm light, and each little green hill clapped its hand for joy. On a deer's hide, stretched on the ground in the open in front of the greenwood tree, sat Robin Hood basking in the sun like an old dog fox. Leaning back with his hands clasped about his knees, he lazily watched Little John rolling a stout bowstring from long strands of hempen thread, wetting the palms of his hands ever and anon, and rolling the cord upon his thigh. Near by sat Allan a Dale fitting a new string to his harp. Quoth Robin at last, "Methinks I would rather roam this forest in the gentle springtime than be King of all merry England. What palace in the broad world is as fair as this sweet woodland just now, and what king in all the world hath such appetite for plover's eggs and lampreys as I for juicy venison and sparkling ale? Gaffer Swanthold speaks truly when he saith, 'Better a crust with content than honey with a sour heart.'" "Yea," quoth merry Robin, laughing, "that was the night that Will Stutely must needs snatch a kiss from the stout hostess, and got a canakin of ale emptied over his head for his pains." "Truly, it was the same," said Little John, laughing also. "Methinks that was a goodly song that the strolling friar sang. Friar Tuck, thou hast a quick ear for a tune, dost thou not remember it?" "_In the blossoming hedge the robin cock sings, For the sun it is merry and bright, And he joyfully hops and he flutters his wings, For his heart is all full of delight. For the May bloometh fair, And there's little of care, And plenty to eat in the Maytime rare. When the flowers all die, Then off he will fly, To keep himself warm In some jolly old barn Where the snow and the wind neither chill him nor harm. "And such is the life of the strolling friar, With aplenty to eat and to drink; For the goodwife will keep him a seat by the fire, And the pretty girls smile at his wink. Then he lustily trolls As he onward strolls, A rollicking song for the saving of souls. When the wind doth blow, With the coming of snow, There's a place by the fire For the fatherly friar, And a crab in the bowl for his heart's desire_." Thus Friar Tuck sang in a rich and mellow voice, rolling his head from side to side in time with the music, and when he had done, all clapped their hands and shouted with laughter, for the song fitted him well. "In very sooth," quoth Little John, "it is a goodly song, and, were I not a yeoman of Sherwood Forest, I had rather be a strolling friar than aught else in the world." "Truly, for the honor of the cloth," quoth Friar Tuck, "I hold with my good gossip, Little John." "That fitteth my mind," quoth Little John, "so let us forth, say I." Thereupon Little John and Friar Tuck went to the storehouse of the band, and there chose for the yeoman the robe of a Gray Friar. Then they came forth again, and a mighty roar of laughter went up, for not only had the band never seen Little John in such guise before, but the robe was too short for him by a good palm's-breadth. But Little John's hands were folded in his loose sleeves, and Little John's eyes were cast upon the ground, and at his girdle hung a great, long string of beads. Quoth jolly Robin, "Take thou the road to Gainsborough, and I will take that to Blyth. So, fare thee well, holy father, and mayst thou not ha' cause to count thy beads in earnest ere we meet again." "Good den, good beggar that is to be," quoth Little John, "and mayst thou have no cause to beg for mercy ere I see thee next." "Marry," quoth Little John to himself, as he strode along, "yon was no such ill happening; Saint Dunstan send me more of the like." After he had trudged along for a time he began to wax thirsty again in the warmth of the day. He shook his leathern pottle beside his ear, but not a sound came therefrom. Then he placed it to his lips and tilted it high aloft, but not a drop was there. "Little John! Little John!" said he sadly to himself, shaking his head the while, "woman will be thy ruin yet, if thou dost not take better care of thyself." "I give you good den, sweet friends," quoth Little John, striding up to where they sat. "Give thee good den, holy father," quoth the merry Beggar with a grin. "But look thee, thy gown is too short. Thou hadst best cut a piece off the top and tack it to the bottom, so that it may be long enough. But come, sit beside us here and take a taste of ale, if thy vows forbid thee not." "Nay," quoth Little John, also grinning, "the blessed Saint Dunstan hath given me a free dispensation for all indulgence in that line." And he thrust his hand into his pouch for money to pay his score. "Truly," quoth the Tinker, "without thy looks belie thee, holy friar, the good Saint Dunstan was wise, for without such dispensation his votary is like to ha' many a penance to make. Nay, take thy hand from out thy pouch, brother, for thou shalt not pay this shot. Ho, landlord, a pot of ale!" So the ale was brought and given to Little John. Then, blowing the froth a little way to make room for his lips, he tilted the bottom of the pot higher and higher, till it pointed to the sky, and he had to shut his eyes to keep the dazzle of the sunshine out of them. Then he took the pot away, for there was nothing in it, and heaved a full deep sigh, looking at the others with moist eyes and shaking his head solemnly. "Talking of fatness," said the Peddler, "thou thyself lookest none too ill-fed, holy friar." "Nay, truly," said Little John, "thou seest in me what the holy Saint Dunstan can do for them that serve him upon a handful of parched peas and a trickle of cold water." "Why, as for that," quoth Little John, grinning, "mayhap he hath lent me aid to learn a ditty or so." "Then, prythee, let us hear how he hath taught thee," quoth the Tinker. "_Ah, pretty, pretty maid, whither dost thou go? I prythee, prythee, wait for thy lover also, And we'll gather the rose As it sweetly blows, For the merry, merry winds are blo-o-o-wing_." "Nay," quoth Little John, "sin' I cannot tipple and sing, like Your Worship's reverence, in such a goodly place as Fountain Abbey, I must e'en tipple and sing where I can." "Now, out upon thee," cried the tall lean Brother in a harsh voice, "now, out upon thee, that thou shouldst so disgrace thy cloth by this talk and bearing." "Nay, fellow," said the lean Brother harshly, for he saw that Little John made sport of them, "we want none of thy company, so get thee gone." "Alas," quoth Little John, "I am truly sorry that ye like me not nor my company, but as for leaving you, it may not be, for my heart is so moved, that, willy-nilly, I must go with you for the sake of your holy company." "Truly, I am grateful to thee for the thought of me," quoth Little John, "but have no fear, brother; my limbs are stout, and I could run like a hare from here to Gainsborough." At these words a sound of laughing came from the bench, whereat the lean Brother's wrath boiled over, like water into the fire, with great fuss and noise. "Now, out upon thee, thou naughty fellow!" he cried. "Art thou not ashamed to bring disgrace so upon our cloth? Bide thee here, thou sot, with these porkers. Thou art no fit company for us." "La, ye there now!" quoth Little John. "Thou hearest, landlord; thou art not fit company for these holy men; go back to thine alehouse. Nay, if these most holy brothers of mine do but give me the word, I'll beat thy head with this stout staff till it is as soft as whipped eggs." "Why truly, gossip," spoke up Little John, "methinks it would be well to boil our pot a little faster, for the day is passing on. So it will not jolt thy fat too much, onward, say I." Little John looked over his shoulder, for they had now passed each other, and he called back, "Big Jack, lean Jack and fat Jack-pudding." At this the fat Friar gave a groan and seemed as if he were like to fall from his saddle for shame; the other brother said nothing, but he looked before him with a grim and stony look. "We have no money, fellow," said the lean Friar harshly. "Come, Brother Thomas, let us forward." "I tell thee, fellow, we have no money," thundered the fat little Friar with the great voice. "Ha' ye, in holy truth, no money?" asked Little John. "Not a farthing," said the lean Friar sourly. "Not a groat," said the fat Friar loudly. "Nay," quoth Little John, "this must not be. Far be it from me to see such holy men as ye are depart from me with no money. Get both of you down straightway from off your horses, and we will kneel here in the middle of the crossroads and pray the blessed Saint Dunstan to send us some money to carry us on our journey." "What sayest thou, thou limb of evil!" cried the lean Friar, fairly gnashing his teeth with rage. "Doss thou bid me, the high cellarer of Fountain Abbey, to get down from my horse and kneel in the dirty road to pray to some beggarly Saxon saint?" "Now," quoth Little John, "I ha' a great part of a mind to crack thy head for thee for speaking thus of the good Saint Dunstan! But get down straightway, for my patience will not last much longer, and I may forget that ye are both in holy orders." So saying, he twirled his stout staff till it whistled again. "Now, brothers, down on your knees and pray," said Little John; thereupon, putting his heavy hands upon the shoulder of each, he forced them to their knees, he kneeling also. Then Little John began to beseech Saint Dunstan for money, which he did in a great loud voice. After he had so besought the Saint for a time, he bade the friars feel in their pouches and see if the Saint had sent them anything; so each put his hand slowly in the pouch that hung beside him, but brought nothing thence. "Have ye nothing?" quoth Little John. "Nay, I warrant there is somewhat that hath crept into the seams of your pouches, and so ye ha' missed it. Let me look." But Little John turned his footsteps back again to Sherwood Forest, and merrily he whistled as he strode along. And now we will see what befell Robin Hood in his venture as beggar. Robin Hood Turns Beggar "Halloa, good fellow," quoth Robin, when he had come nigh to the other, "what art thou doing here this merry day, when the flowers are peeping and the buds are swelling?" "_I sit upon the stile, And I sing a little while As I wait for my own true dear, O, For the sun is shining bright, And the leaves are dancing light, And the little fowl sings she is near, O_. "And so it is with me, bully boy, saving that my doxy cometh not." "Sayst thou so?" quoth the Beggar. "Marry, I make no such serious thoughts upon the matter. I eat when I can get it, and munch my crust when I can get no crumb; likewise, when there is no ale to be had I wash the dust from out my throat with a trickle of cold water. I was sitting here, as thou camest upon me, bethinking myself whether I should break my fast or no. I do love to let my hunger grow mightily keen ere I eat, for then a dry crust is as good to me as a venison pasty with suet and raisins is to stout King Harry. I have a sharp hunger upon me now, but methinks in a short while it will ripen to a right mellow appetite." "Now, in good sooth," quoth merry Robin, laughing, "thou hast a quaint tongue betwixt thy teeth. But hast thou truly nought but a dry crust about thee? Methinks thy bags and pouches are fat and lusty for such thin fare." "Why, mayhap there is some other cold fare therein," said the Beggar slyly. "And hast thou nought to drink but cold water?" said Robin. At this Robin laughed aloud. "Marry," quoth he, "they did ill toward thee for thy kindness. But tell me truly, what hast thou in thy pouches?" "Peace, good friend!" cried Robin, holding up his hand. "Thou makest my poor stomach quake with joy for what thou tellest me so sweetly. If thou wilt give me to eat, I will straightway hie me to that little inn thou didst tell of but now, and will bring a skin of ale for thy drinking and mine." So Robin straightway left the Beggar, who, upon his part, went to a budding lime bush back of the hedge, and there spread his feast upon the grass and roasted his eggs upon a little fagot fire, with a deftness gained by long labor in that line. After a while back came Robin bearing a goodly skin of ale upon his shoulder, which he laid upon the grass. Then, looking upon the feast spread upon the ground--and a fair sight it was to look upon--he slowly rubbed his hand over his stomach, for to his hungry eyes it seemed the fairest sight that he had beheld in all his life. "Friend," said the Beggar, "let me feel the weight of that skin. "Yea, truly," quoth Robin, "help thyself, sweet chuck, and meantime let me see whether thy pigeon pie is fresh or no." At last, after a long time had passed thus, Robin pushed the food from him and heaved a great sigh of deep content, for he felt as though he had been made all over anew. "How!" said the Beggar reproachfully, "thou wouldst surely not talk of things appertaining to serious affairs upon such ale as this!" "Nay," quoth Robin, laughing. "I would not check thy thirst, sweet friend; drink while I talk to thee. Thus it is: I would have thee know that I have taken a liking to thy craft and would fain have a taste of a beggar's life mine own self." "Mayhap that may be so," quoth Robin, "for I bring to mind that Gaffer Swanthold sayeth Jack Shoemaker maketh ill bread; Tom Baker maketh ill shoon. Nevertheless, I have a mind to taste a beggar's life, and need but the clothing to be as good as any." "Now, fellow," said Robin, "it would ill suit me to spoil thy pretty head for thee, but I tell thee plainly, that but for this feast I would do that to thee would stop thy traveling the country for many a day to come. Keep thy lips shut, lad, or thy luck will tumble out of thy mouth with thy speech!" "Now out, and alas for thee, man, for thou hast bred thyself ill this day!" cried the Beggar, rising and taking up his staff. "Take up thy club and defend thyself, fellow, for I will not only beat thee but I will take from thee thy money and leave thee not so much as a clipped groat to buy thyself a lump of goose grease to rub thy cracked crown withal. So defend thyself, I say." Then up leaped merry Robin and snatched up his staff also. "Take my money, if thou canst," quoth he. "I promise freely to give thee every farthing if thou dost touch me." And he twirled his staff in his fingers till it whistled again. "How now!" quoth merry Robin, laughing. "Wilt thou have my hide or my money, sweet chuck?" But to this the other answered never a word. Then Robin, seeing his plight, and that he was stunned with the blow, ran, still laughing, and brought the skin of ale and poured some of it on the Beggar's head and some down his throat, so that presently he opened his eyes and looked around as though wondering why he lay upon his back. "I promise on the word of a true yeoman," quoth Robin, thinking that the fellow had a few pennies that he would save. "Marry," quoth Robin, laughing, "thou art a sly fellow, and I tell thee truly, had I known thou hadst so much money by thee maybe thou mightst not have carried it away, for I warrant thou didst not come honestly by it." So he turned and left Robin and, crossing the stile, was gone, but Robin heard him singing from beyond the hedge as he strode away: "_For Polly is smiling and Molly is glad When the beggar comes in at the door, And Jack and Dick call him a fine lusty lad, And the hostess runs up a great score. Then hey, Willy Waddykin, Stay, Billy Waddykin, And let the brown ale flow free, flow free, The beggar's the man for me_." "Marry," quoth Robin, laughing, and weighing the flask in his hands ere he drank, "methinks it is no more than seemly of you all to be glad to see me, seeing that I bring sight to the blind, speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, and such a lusty leg to a lame man. I drink to your happiness, brothers, as I may not drink to your health, seeing ye are already hale, wind and limb." At this all grinned, and the Blind beggar, who was the chief man among them, and was the broadest shouldered and most lusty rascal of all, smote Robin upon the shoulder, swearing he was a right merry wag. "Whence comest thou, lad?" asked the Dumb man. "Why," quoth Robin, "I came this morning from sleeping overnight in Sherwood." "Methinks he would, too," quoth Robin, laughing. "But what money is this that ye speak of?" "Stay, brother Hodge," quoth the Blind man, breaking into the talk, "I would not doubt our brother here, but bear in mind we know him not. What art thou, brother? Upright-man, Jurkman, Clapper-dudgeon, Dommerer, or Abraham-man?" At this the others bore back and stood at a little distance scowling upon Robin. "Come on, ye scum!" cried he merrily. "Here be cakes and ale for all. Now, who will be next served?" So, after a while, the Corn Engrosser came riding up to where Robin sat; whereupon merry Robin stepped straightway forth, in all his rags and tatters, his bags and pouches dangling about him, and laid his hand upon the horse's bridle rein, calling upon the other to stop. "Who art thou, fellow, that doth dare to stop me thus upon the King's highway?" said the lean man, in a dry, sour voice. "Pity a poor beggar," quoth Robin. "Give me but a farthing to buy me a piece of bread." "Now, out upon thee!" snarled the other. "Such sturdy rogues as thou art are better safe in the prisons or dancing upon nothing, with a hempen collar about the neck, than strolling the highways so freely." "Doss thou prate so to me, sirrah?" cried the Corn Engrosser in a rage. "Now I will have thee soundly whipped if ever I catch thee in any town where the law can lay hold of thee! As for giving thee a penny, I swear to thee that I have not so much as a single groat in my purse. Were Robin Hood himself to take me, he might search me from crown to heel without finding the smallest piece of money upon me. I trust I am too sly to travel so nigh to Sherwood with money in my pouch, and that thief at large in the woods." "Put up thy money, lad," cried the other quickly. "Art thou a fool, to trust to beggar's rags to shield thee from Robin Hood? If he caught thee, he would strip thee to the skin, for he hates a lusty beggar as he doth a fat priest or those of my kind." "Is it indeed so?" quoth Robin. "Had I known this, mayhap I had not come hereabouts in this garb. But I must go forward now, as much depends upon my journeying. Where goest thou, friend?" "I go to Grantham," said the Corn Engrosser, "but I shall lodge tonight at Newark, if I can get so far upon my way." "Why, as thou art an honest fellow and a rich fellow," said the Corn Engrosser, "I mind not thy company; but, in sooth, I have no great fondness for beggars." "Alas!" quoth Robin, "I would that I had as little money by me as thou hast, for this day I fear that Robin Hood will get every groat of my wealth." Then the other looked at Robin and winked cunningly. Quoth he, "I tell thee, friend, that I have nigh as much by me as thou hast, but it is hidden so that never a knave in Sherwood could find it." "Now, as thou art so honest a fellow, and, withal, so much younger than I am, I will tell thee that which I have told to no man in all the world before, and thus thou mayst learn never again to do such a foolish thing as to trust to beggar's garb to guard thee against Robin Hood. Seest thou these clogs upon my feet?" "Yea," quoth Robin, laughing, "truly, they are large enough for any man to see, even were his sight as foggy as that of Peter Patter, who never could see when it was time to go to work." All this time the Corn Engrosser had been staring at Robin, his mouth agape with wonder. "Art thou mad," quoth he, "to talk in this way, so loud and in such a place? Let us forward, and save thy mirth till we are safe and sound at Newark." At these words the corn factor grew pale as a linen napkin. "Who art thou that talkest so?" said he. Then merry Robin laughed again, and quoth he, "Men hereabouts call me Robin Hood; so, sweet friend, thou hadst best do my bidding and give me thy shoes, wherefore hasten, I prythee, or else thou wilt not get to fair Newark Town till after dark." At the sound of the name of Robin Hood, the corn factor quaked with fear, so that he had to seize his horse by the mane to save himself from falling off its back. Then straightway, and without more words, he stripped off his clogs and let them fall upon the road. Robin, still holding the bridle rein, stooped and picked them up. Then he said, "Sweet friend, I am used to ask those that I have dealings with to come and feast at Sherwood with me. I will not ask thee, because of our pleasant journey together; for I tell thee there be those in Sherwood that would not be so gentle with thee as I have been. The name of Corn Engrosser leaves a nasty taste upon the tongue of all honest men. Take a fool's advice of me and come no more so nigh to Sherwood, or mayhap some day thou mayst of a sudden find a clothyard shaft betwixt thy ribs. So, with this, I give thee good den." Hereupon he clapped his hand to the horse's flank and off went nag and rider. But the man's face was all bedewed with the sweat of fright, and never again, I wot, was he found so close to Sherwood Forest as he had been this day. Robin stood and looked after him, and, when he was fairly gone, turned, laughing, and entered the forest carrying the shoes in his hand. That night in sweet Sherwood the red fires glowed brightly in wavering light on tree and bush, and all around sat or lay the stout fellows of the band to hear Robin Hood and Little John tell their adventures. All listened closely, and again and again the woods rang with shouts of laughter. So some of the band held with Robin Hood and some with Little John. As for me, I think--But I leave it with you to say for yourselves which you hold with. Robin Hood Shoots Before Queen Eleanor THE HIGHROAD stretched white and dusty in the hot summer afternoon sun, and the trees stood motionless along the roadside. All across the meadow lands the hot air danced and quivered, and in the limpid waters of the lowland brook, spanned by a little stone bridge, the fish hung motionless above the yellow gravel, and the dragonfly sat quite still, perched upon the sharp tip of a spike of the rushes, with its wings glistening in the sun. The landlord came and brought a pottle of wine and a long narrow glass upon a salver, which he held up to the Page as he sat upon his horse. Young Partington poured forth the bright yellow wine and holding the glass aloft, cried, "Here is to the health and long happiness of my royal mistress, the noble Queen Eleanor; and may my journey and her desirings soon have end, and I find a certain stout yeoman men call Robin Hood." "An thou knowest aught of him, good fellow," said young Partington, "thou wilt do great service to him and great pleasure to our royal Queen by aiding me to find him." Then up spake the other yeoman, who was a handsome fellow with sunburned face and nut-brown, curling hair, "Thou hast an honest look, Sir Page, and our Queen is kind and true to all stout yeomen. Methinks I and my friend here might safely guide thee to Robin Hood, for we know where he may be found. Yet I tell thee plainly, we would not for all merry England have aught of harm befall him." "Set thy mind at ease; I bring nought of ill with me," quoth Richard Partington. "I bring a kind message to him from our Queen, therefore an ye know where he is to be found, I pray you to guide me thither." Then Partington paid his score, and the yeomen coming forward, they all straightway departed upon their way. Then Robin Hood bowed his head and taking the ring, kissed it right loyally, and then slipped it upon his little finger. Quoth he, "Sooner would I lose my life than this ring; and ere it departs from me, my hand shall be cold in death or stricken off at the wrist. Fair Sir Page, I will do our Queen's bidding, and will presently hie with thee to London; but, ere we go, I will feast thee here in the woodlands with the very best we have." "It may not be," said the Page; "we have no time to tarry, therefore get thyself ready straightway; and if there be any of thy band that thou wouldst take with thee, our Queen bids me say that she will make them right welcome likewise." That night they took up their inn in Melton Mowbray, in Leicestershire, and the next night they lodged at Kettering, in Northamptonshire; and the next at Bedford Town; and the next at St. Albans, in Hertfordshire. This place they left not long after the middle of the night, and traveling fast through the tender dawning of the summer day, when the dews lay shining on the meadows and faint mists hung in the dales, when the birds sang their sweetest and the cobwebs beneath the hedges glimmered like fairy cloth of silver, they came at last to the towers and walls of famous London Town, while the morn was still young and all golden toward the east. Thus Robin Hood and Little John and Will Scarlet and Allan a Dale came before the Queen into her own royal bower. Then Robin kneeled before the Queen with his hands folded upon his breast, saying in simple phrase, "Here am I, Robin Hood. Thou didst bid me come, and lo, I do thy bidding. I give myself to thee as thy true servant, and will do thy commanding, even if it be to the shedding of the last drop of my life's blood." "_Gentle river, gentle river, Bright thy crystal waters flow, Sliding where the aspens shiver, Gliding where the lilies blow, "Singing over pebbled shallows, Kissing blossoms bending low, Breaking 'neath the dipping swallows, Purpling where the breezes blow. "Floating on thy breast forever Down thy current I could glide; Grief and pain should reach me never On thy bright and gentle tide. "So my aching heart seeks thine, love, There to find its rest and peace, For, through loving, bliss is mine, love, And my many troubles cease_." Thus Allan sang, and as he sang all eyes dwelled upon him and not a sound broke the stillness, and even after he had done the silence hung for a short space. So the time passed till the hour drew nigh for the holding of the great archery match in Finsbury Fields. When all was quiet a bugle sounded, and straightway the archers came marching in order from their tents. Fortyscore they were in all, as stalwart a band of yeomen as could be found in all the wide world. So they came in orderly fashion and stood in front of the dais where King Henry and his Queen sat. King Henry looked up and down their ranks right proudly, for his heart warmed within him at the sight of such a gallant band of yeomen. Then he bade his herald Sir Hugh de Mowbray stand forth and proclaim the rules governing the game. So Sir Hugh stepped to the edge of the platform and spoke in a loud clear voice, and thus he said: So Sir Hugh spoke, and when he had done all the archers waved their bows aloft and shouted. Then each band turned and marched in order back to its place. Then while the deep buzz and hum of talking sounded all around like the noise of the wind in the leafy forest, Queen Eleanor turned to the King, and quoth she, "Thinkest thou that these yeomen so chosen are the very best archers in all merry England?" "Yea, truly," said the King, smiling, for he was well pleased with the sport that he had seen; "and I tell thee, that not only are they the best archers in all merry England, but in all the wide world beside." "Why, in sooth," said Queen Eleanor, laughing, "I know nought of such matters, but if thou hast a mind to do somewhat in that way, I will strive to pleasure thee. What wilt thou wager upon thy men?" "Methinks the thought of thy gold weigheth more heavily with thee than the wrong to thy cloth," said the Queen, smiling, and at this a ripple of laughter went around, for everyone knew how fond the Bishop was of his money. Then the Queen turned to a knight who stood near, whose name was Sir Robert Lee. "Wilt thou back me in this manner?" said she. "Thou art surely rich enough to risk so much for the sake of a lady." "To pleasure my Queen I will do it," said Sir Robert Lee, "but for the sake of no other in all the world would I wager a groat, for no man can stand against Tepus and Gilbert and Clifton." Then turning to the King, Queen Eleanor said, "I want no such aid as Sir Robert giveth me; but against thy wine and beer and stout bows of yew I wager this girdle all set with jewels from around my waist; and surely that is worth more than thine." "Now, I take thy wager," quoth the King. "Send for thy archers straightway. But here come forth the others; let them shoot, and then I will match those that win against all the world." "Yea," quoth Robin Hood, to whom she spake, "I will do my best for thy sake, and, if I fail, I make my vow never to finger bowstring more." Now, although Little John had been somewhat abashed in the Queen's bower, he felt himself the sturdy fellow he was when the soles of his feet pressed green grass again; so he said boldly, "Now, blessings on thy sweet face, say I. An there lived a man that would not do his best for thee--I will say nought, only I would like to have the cracking of his knave's pate! "Peace, Little John!" said Robin Hood hastily, in a low voice; but good Queen Eleanor laughed aloud, and a ripple of merriment sounded all over the booth. The Bishop of Hereford did not laugh, neither did the King, but he turned to the Queen, and quoth he, "Who are these men that thou hast brought before us?" Then up spoke the Bishop hastily, for he could hold his peace no longer: "Your Majesty," quoth he, "yon fellow in blue is a certain outlawed thief of the mid-country, named Robin Hood; yon tall, strapping villain goeth by the name of Little John; the other fellow in green is a certain backsliding gentleman, known as Will Scarlet; the man in red is a rogue of a northern minstrel, named Allan a Dale." At this speech the King's brows drew together blackly, and he turned to the Queen. "Is this true?" said he sternly. Merry Robin laughed, and quoth he, "Thou wilt have an ill time bettering that round, Will, for it is thy turn next. Brace thy thews, lad, and bring not shame upon Sherwood." Quoth the King grimly, to the Queen, "If thy archers shoot no better than that, thou art like to lose thy wager, lady." But Queen Eleanor smiled, for she looked for better things from Robin Hood and Little John. "By my soul!" cried Gilbert. "Art thou the devil in blue, to shoot in that wise?" "With all my heart," quoth merry Robin, "I will shoot from this time till tomorrow day if it can pleasure my most gracious lord and King. Take thy place, Gilbert lad, and shoot." Then the King arose from his place, and not a word said he, but he looked around with a baleful look, and it would have been an ill day for anyone that he saw with a joyous or a merry look upon his face. Then he and his Queen and all the court left the place, but the King's heart was brimming full of wrath. After the King had gone, all the yeomen of the archer guard came crowding around Robin, and Little John, and Will, and Allan, to snatch a look at these famous fellows from the mid-country; and with them came many that had been onlookers at the sport, for the same purpose. Thus it happened presently that the yeomen, to whom Gilbert stood talking, were all surrounded by a crowd of people that formed a ring about them. At this all shouted aloud, for it pleased them to hear Robin speak so of them. At this another great shout went up, and many tossed their caps aloft, and swore among themselves that no better fellows ever walked the sod than Robin Hood and his stout yeomen. The Chase of Robin Hood Then the Bishop spoke again, in his soft, smooth voice: At these words the King tapped his fingertips upon the table beside him with vexation. "What wouldst thou have me do, Bishop?" quoth he. "Didst thou not hear me pledge my word to the Queen? Thy talk is as barren as the wind from the bellows upon dead coals." "In sooth, good master," quoth Little John, "thy bidding and my doing ever fit together like cakes and ale. Let us in, I say also." Then up spake Will Scarlet: "I am ever ready to do what thou sayest, uncle, yet I could wish that we were farther upon our way ere we rest for the night. Nevertheless, if thou thinkest best, let us in for the night, say I also." When Robin came out of the inn, he found young Richard Partington sitting upon his horse in the white moonlight, awaiting his coming. "What news bearest thou, Sir Page?" said Robin. "I trust that it is not of an ill nature." "Methought that they were naughty fellows," said the host, when he heard whom the men-at-arms sought. "But I heard that blue-clad knave say that they would go straight forward to Saint Albans; so, an ye hurry forward, ye may, perchance, catch them on the highroad betwixt here and there." For this news the leader of the band thanked mine host right heartily, and, calling his men together, mounted and set forth again, galloping forward to Saint Albans upon a wild goose chase. For Robin was not as lucky in getting back as his men had been, as you shall presently hear. "Halloa, good friend," quoth Robin, from beneath the hedge, when the other had gotten nigh enough, "whither away so merrily this bright day?" At these words the Cobbler's eyes opened big and wide, and his mouth grew round with wonder, like a knothole in a board fence. "Slack-a-day," quoth he, "look ye, now! I ha' never seen those same golden birds. And dost thou in sooth find them in these hedges, good fellow? Prythee, tell me, are there many of them? I would fain find them mine own self." "Ay, truly," quoth Robin, "they are as thick here as fresh herring in Cannock Chase." "Look ye, now!" said the Cobbler, all drowned in wonder. "And dost thou in sooth catch them by dropping salt on their pretty tails?" "Nay, thou dost jest with me," said the Cobbler, "for my clothes are coarse and patched, and thine are of fine stuff and very pretty." "_Of all the joys, the best I love, Sing hey my frisking Nan, O, And that which most my soul doth move, It is the clinking can, O. Robin also gaped and stared in a wondering way, just as the Cobbler would have done in his place. "Alack-a-daisy, me," quoth he. "I know not whether I be sitting here or in No-man's-land! What meaneth all this stir i' th' pot, dear good gentlemen? Surely this is a sweet, honest fellow." "Alas!" quoth Robin Hood, "look ye there, now! See how your illtreatment hath curdled the wits of this poor lad and turned them all sour! I, myself, am Quince, the Cobbler of Derby Town." "Is it so?" said Quince. "Then, indeed, I am somebody else, and can be none other than Robin Hood. Take me, fellows; but let me tell you that ye ha' laid hand upon the stoutest yeoman that ever trod the woodlands." So Robin went with Sir Richard of the Lea, and did as he said, for he saw the wisdom of that which the knight advised, and that this was his only chance of safety. "Why, how now, Robin!" cried she, "dost thou dare to come into the very jaws of the raging lion? Alas, poor fellow! Thou art lost indeed if the King finds thee here. Dost thou not know that he is seeking thee through all the land?" "Yea," quoth Robin, "I do know right well that the King seeks me, and therefore I have come; for, surely, no ill can befall me when he hath pledged his royal word to Your Majesty for my safety. Moreover, I know Your Majesty's kindness and gentleness of heart, and so I lay my life freely in your gracious hands." Robin Hood and Guy of Gisbourne Great changes had fallen in this time; for King Henry had died and King Richard had come to the crown that fitted him so well through many hard trials, and through adventures as stirring as any that ever befell Robin Hood. But though great changes came, they did not reach to Sherwood's shades, for there Robin Hood and his men dwelled as merrily as they had ever done, with hunting and feasting and singing and blithe woodland sports; for it was little the outside striving of the world troubled them. The dawning of a summer's day was fresh and bright, and the birds sang sweetly in a great tumult of sound. So loud was their singing that it awakened Robin Hood where he lay sleeping, so that he stirred, and turned, and arose. Up rose Little John also, and all the merry men; then, after they had broken their fast, they set forth hither and thither upon the doings of the day. "I like thy plan," quoth Robin, "therefore we will part here. But look thee, Little John, keep thyself out of mischief, for I would not have ill befall thee for all the world." "Marry, come up," quoth Little John, "how thou talkest! Methinks thou art wont to get thyself into tighter coils than I am like to do." "Halloa, friend," cried Robin, coming forward at last, "who art thou that sittest there? And what is that that thou hast upon thy body? I make my vow I ha' never seen such a sight in all my life before. Had I done an evil thing, or did my conscience trouble me, I would be afraid of thee, thinking that thou wast someone from down below bringing a message bidding me come straightway to King Nicholas." "Who art thou, rascal?" said he at last, in a loud, harsh voice. "Tut, tut," quoth merry Robin, "speak not so sourly, brother. Hast thou fed upon vinegar and nettles this morning that thy speech is so stinging?" "An thou likest not my words," said the other fiercely, "thou hadst best be jogging, for I tell thee plainly, my deeds match them." "Nay, but I do like thy words, thou sweet, pretty thing," quoth Robin, squatting down upon the grass in front of the other. "Moreover, I tell thee thy speech is witty and gamesome as any I ever heard in all my life." "Why, truly, some folk do call him a great archer," said Robin Hood, "but we of Nottinghamshire are famous hands with the longbow. Even I, though but a simple hand at the craft, would not fear to try a bout with thee." At these words Guy of Gisbourne looked upon Robin with wondering eyes, and then gave another roar of laughter till the woods rang. "Now," quoth he, "thou art a bold fellow to talk to me in this way. I like thy spirit in so speaking up to me, for few men have dared to do so. Put up a garland, lad, and I will try a bout with thee." Then Guy of Gisbourne arose. "Now out upon it!" cried he. "The Devil himself could not hit such a mark as that." "Mayhap he could and mayhap he could not," quoth merry Robin, "but that we shall never know till thou hast shot thereat." At these words Guy of Gisbourne glared savagely upon Robin. Quoth he, "Thou hast a merry tongue, thou villain; but take care that thou makest not too free with it, or I may cut it out from thy throat for thee." For a time Guy of Gisbourne stared upon Robin as though bereft of wits; but his wonder quickly passed to a wild rage. "Art thou indeed Robin Hood?" cried he. "Now I am glad to meet thee, thou poor wretch! Shrive thyself, for thou wilt have no time for shriving when I am done with thee." So saying, he also drew his sword. And now let us see what befell Little John while these things were happening. Little John walked on his way through the forest paths until he had come to the outskirts of the woodlands, where, here and there, fields of barley, corn, or green meadow lands lay smiling in the sun. So he came to the highroad and to where a little thatched cottage stood back of a cluster of twisted crab trees, with flowers in front of it. Here he stopped of a sudden, for he thought that he heard the sound of someone in sorrow. He listened, and found that it came from the cottage; so, turning his footsteps thither, he pushed open the wicket and entered the place. There he saw a gray-haired dame sitting beside a cold hearthstone, rocking herself to and fro and weeping bitterly. "Please Your Worship," said Little John, in a cracked voice like that of an old man, "my name is Giles Hobble, at Your Worship's service." "Ay, marry," quoth Little John, "for money is not so plenty with me that I should cast sixpence away an I could earn it by an honest turn. What is it Your Worship would have me do?" "In sooth," said Little John, still in the old man's voice, "I ha' never done such a thing before; but an a sixpence is to be earned so easily I might as well ha' it as anybody. But, Your Worship, are these naughty fellows shrived?" "Nay," said the Sheriff, laughing, "never a whit; but thou mayst turn thy hand to that also if thou art so minded. But hasten, I prythee, for I would get back to mine inn betimes." Then Little John turned to the Sheriff. "Please Your Worship," said he, "will you give me leave to string my bow? For I would fain help these fellows along the way, when they are swinging, with an arrow beneath the ribs." "With all my heart," said the Sheriff, "only, as I said before, make thou haste in thy doings." At these words the Sheriff's men stood as still as stocks, for they knew right well that Little John would be as good as his word, and that to disobey him meant death. In vain the Sheriff roared at them, calling them cowards, and urging them forward in a body; they would not budge an inch, but stood and watched Little John as he moved slowly away toward the forest, keeping his gaze fixed upon them. But when the Sheriff saw his enemy thus slipping betwixt his fingers he grew mad with his rage, so that his head swam and he knew not what he did. Then of a sudden he turned his horse's head, and plunging his spurs into its sides he gave a great shout, and, rising in his stirrups, came down upon Little John like the wind. Then Little John raised his deadly bow and drew the gray goose feather to his cheek. But alas for him! For, ere he could loose the shaft, the good bow that had served him so long, split in his hands, and the arrow fell harmless at his feet. Seeing what had happened, the Sheriff's men raised a shout, and, following their master, came rushing down upon Little John. But the Sheriff was ahead of the others, and so caught up with the yeoman before he reached the shelter of the woodlands, then leaning forward he struck a mighty blow. Little John ducked and the Sheriff's sword turned in his hand, but the flat of the blade struck the other upon the head and smote him down, stunned and senseless. When Little John heard this speech he looked up, and straightway his heart crumbled away within him, for not only were the man's garments all covered with blood, but he wore Robin Hood's bugle horn and carried his bow and broadsword. "How now!" cried the Sheriff, when Robin Hood, in Guy of Gisbourne's clothes, had come nigh to them. "What luck hath befallen thee in the forest? Why, man, thy clothes are all over blood!" But the Sheriff of Nottingham clapped his hands for joy. "Now, Guy of Gisbourne," cried he, "if what thou tellest me is true, it will be the best day's doings for thee that ever thou hast done in all thy life." "What I have told thee is sooth, and I lie not," said Robin, still in Guy of Gisbourne's voice. "Look, is not this Robin Hood's sword, and is not this his good bow of yew, and is not this his bugle horn? Thinkest thou he would have given them to Guy of Gisbourne of his own free will?" Then the Sheriff laughed aloud for joy. "This is a good day!" cried he. "The great outlaw dead and his right-hand man in my hands! Ask what thou wilt of me, Guy of Gisbourne, and it is thine!" "Then this I ask of thee," said Robin. "As I have slain the master I would now kill the man. Give this fellow's life into my hands, Sir Sheriff." "Now thou art a fool!" cried the Sheriff. "Thou mightst have had money enough for a knight's ransom if thou hadst asked for it. I like ill to let this fellow pass from my hands, but as I have promised, thou shalt have him." "I thank thee right heartily for thy gift," cried Robin. "Take the rogue down from the horse, men, and lean him against yonder tree, while I show you how we stick a porker whence I come!" At these words some of the Sheriff's men shook their heads; for, though they cared not a whit whether Little John were hanged or not, they hated to see him butchered in cold blood. But the Sheriff called to them in a loud voice, ordering them to take the yeoman down from the horse and lean him against the tree, as the other bade. "Come!" cried Little John. "Here is my breast. It is meet that the same hand that slew my dear master should butcher me also! I know thee, Guy of Gisbourne!" King Richard Comes to Sherwood Forest And now came more bustle than ever; a great running hither and thither, a rapping of hammers and a babble of voices sounded everywhere through the place, for the folk were building great arches across the streets, beneath which the King was to pass, and were draping these arches with silken banners and streamers of many colors. Great hubbub was going on in the Guild Hall of the town, also, for here a grand banquet was to be given to the King and the nobles of his train, and the best master carpenters were busy building a throne where the King and the Sheriff were to sit at the head of the table, side by side. It seemed to many of the good folk of the place as if the day that should bring the King into the town would never come; but all the same it did come in its own season, and bright shone the sun down into the stony streets, which were all alive with a restless sea of people. On either side of the way great crowds of town and country folk stood packed as close together as dried herring in a box, so that the Sheriffs men, halberds in hands, could hardly press them back to leave space for the King's riding. "Ay, marry," grumbled the other, "but 'a did not think to have a hardfooted knave trample all over my poor toes as though they were no more than so many acorns in the forest." But of a sudden all this bickering ceased, for a clear sound of many bugle horns came winding down the street. Then all the people craned their necks and gazed in the direction whence the sound came, and the crowding and the pushing and the swaying grew greater than ever. And now a gallant array of men came gleaming into sight, and the cheering of the people ran down the crowd as the fire runs in dry grass. Then, above all the tumult and the shouting a great voice was heard roaring, "Heaven, its saints bless thee, our gracious King Richard! and likewise Our Lady of the Fountain, bless thee!" Then King Richard, looking toward the spot whence the sound came, saw a tall, burly, strapping priest standing in front of all the crowd with his legs wide apart as he backed against those behind. "By my soul, Sheriff," said the King, laughing, "ye have the tallest priests in Nottinghamshire that e'er I saw in all my life. If Heaven never answered prayers because of deafness, methinks I would nevertheless have blessings bestowed upon me, for that man yonder would make the great stone image of Saint Peter rub its ears and hearken unto him. I would that I had an army of such as he." To this the Sheriff answered never a word, but all the blood left his cheeks, and he caught at the pommel of his saddle to keep himself from falling; for he also saw the fellow that so shouted, and knew him to be Friar Tuck; and, moreover, behind Friar Tuck he saw the faces of Robin Hood and Little John and Will Scarlet and Will Stutely and Allan a Dale and others of the band. "How now," said the King hastily, "art thou ill, Sheriff, that thou growest so white?" "Nay, Your Majesty," said the Sheriff, "it was nought but a sudden pain that will soon pass by." Thus he spake, for he was ashamed that the King should know that Robin Hood feared him so little that he thus dared to come within the very gates of Nottingham Town. Thus rode the King into Nottingham Town on that bright afternoon in the early fall season; and none rejoiced more than Robin Hood and his merry men to see him come so royally unto his own. At these words the Sheriff of Nottingham looked down gloomily, and the Bishop of Hereford, who was present, gnawed his nether lip. Quoth the Sheriff, "I can tell Your Majesty but little concerning the doings of those naughty fellows, saving that they are the boldest lawbreakers in all the land." Then up spake young Sir Henry of the Lea, a great favorite with the King, under whom he had fought in Palestine. "May it please Your Majesty," said he, "when I was away in Palestine I heard ofttimes from my father, and in most cases I heard of this very fellow, Robin Hood. If Your Majesty would like I will tell you a certain adventure of this outlaw." Then the King laughingly bade him tell his tale, whereupon he told how Robin Hood had aided Sir Richard of the Lea with money that he had borrowed from the Bishop of Hereford. Again and again the King and those present roared with laughter, while the poor Bishop waxed cherry red in the face with vexation, for the matter was a sore thing with him. When Sir Henry of the Lea was done, others of those present, seeing how the King enjoyed this merry tale, told other tales concerning Robin and his merry men. "By the hilt of my sword," said stout King Richard, "this is as bold and merry a knave as ever I heard tell of. Marry, I must take this matter in hand and do what thou couldst not do, Sheriff, to wit, clear the forest of him and his band." "Marry, Sir Hubert," quoth the King, "this pleaseth me well. But how wilt thou cause me to meet Robin Hood?" "I like thy plan, Sir Hubert," quoth the King merrily, "and tomorrow we will try it and see whether there be virtue in it." So it happened that when early the next morning the Sheriff came to where his liege lord was abiding, to pay his duty to him, the King told him what they had talked of the night before, and what merry adventure they were set upon undertaking that morning. But when the Sheriff heard this he smote his forehead with his fist. "Alas!" said he, "what evil counsel is this that hath been given thee! O my gracious lord and King, you know not what you do! This villain that you thus go to seek hath no reverence either for king or king's laws." "But did I not hear aright when I was told that this Robin Hood hath shed no blood since he was outlawed, saving only that of that vile Guy of Gisbourne, for whose death all honest men should thank him?" "Then," quoth the King, breaking in on the Sheriffs speech, "what have I to fear in meeting him, having done him no harm? Truly, there is no danger in this. But mayhap thou wilt go with us, Sir Sheriff." "Nay," quoth the Sheriff hastily, "Heaven forbid!" "How now, fellow," quoth the King, "who art thou, thou naughty rogue? Hast thou no regard for such holy men as we are?" "It may not be," said Robin, "for it would look but ill of us to let such holy men travel onward with empty stomachs. But I doubt not that thou hast a fat purse to pay thy score at our inn since thou offerest freely so much for a poor draught of wine. Show me thy purse, reverend brother, or I may perchance have to strip thy robes from thee to search for it myself." "Nay, use no force," said the King sternly. "Here is my purse, but lay not thy lawless hands upon our person." "Hut, tut," quoth merry Robin, "what proud words are these? Art thou the King of England, to talk so to me? Here, Will, take this purse and see what there is within." "Then keep them covered in peace," said Robin, "and far be it from me to make you break your vows." Little John, with threescore yeomen at his heels, had also gone forth that morning to wait along the roads and bring a rich guest to Sherwood glade, if such might be his luck, for many with fat purses must travel the roads at this time, when such great doings were going on in Nottinghamshire, but though Little John and so many others were gone, Friar Tuck and twoscore or more stout yeomen were seated or lying around beneath the great tree, and when Robin and the others came they leaped to their feet to meet him. "By my soul," quoth merry King Richard, when he had gotten down from his mule and stood looking about him, "thou hast in very truth a fine lot of young men about thee, Robin. Methinks King Richard himself would be glad of such a bodyguard." "These are not all of my fellows," said Robin proudly, "for threescore more of them are away on business with my good right-hand man, Little John. But, as for King Richard, I tell thee, brother, there is not a man of us all but would pour out our blood like water for him. Ye churchmen cannot rightly understand our King; but we yeomen love him right loyally for the sake of his brave doings which are so like our own." "Who art thou, mad priest?" said the King in a serious voice, albeit he smiled beneath his cowl. At this Friar Tuck looked all around with a slow gaze. "Look you now," quoth he, "never let me hear you say again that I am no patient man. Here is a knave of a friar calleth me a mad priest, and yet I smite him not. My name is Friar Tuck, fellow--the holy Friar Tuck." "There, Tuck," said Robin, "thou hast said enow. Prythee, cease thy talk and bring some wine. These reverend men are athirst, and sin' they have paid so richly for their score they must e'en have the best." Friar Tuck bridled at being so checked in his speech, nevertheless he went straightway to do Robin's bidding; so presently a great crock was brought, and wine was poured out for all the guests and for Robin Hood. Then Robin held his cup aloft. "Stay!" cried he. "Tarry in your drinking till I give you a pledge. Here is to good King Richard of great renown, and may all enemies to him be confounded." Then all drank the King's health, even the King himself. "Methinks, good fellow," said he, "thou hast drunk to thine own confusion." "Never a whit," quoth merry Robin, "for I tell thee that we of Sherwood are more loyal to our lord the King than those of thine order. We would give up our lives for his benefiting, while ye are content to lie snug in your abbeys and priories let reign who will." At this the King laughed. Quoth he, "Perhaps King Richard's welfare is more to me than thou wottest of, fellow. But enough of that matter. We have paid well for our fare, so canst thou not show us some merry entertainment? I have oft heard that ye are wondrous archers; wilt thou not show us somewhat of your skill?" "With all my heart," said Robin, "we are always pleased to show our guests all the sport that is to be seen. As Gaffer Swanthold sayeth, 'Tis a hard heart that will not give a caged starling of the best'; and caged starlings ye are with us. Ho, lads! Set up a garland at the end of the glade." "Hearken to him!" quoth Friar Tuck. "Why, master, thou dost bestow buffets from thy strapping nephew as though they were love taps from some bouncing lass. I warrant thou art safe to hit the garland thyself, or thou wouldst not be so free of his cuffing." At this a great roar went up, those of the yeomen who sat upon the grass rolling over and over and shouting with laughter, for never before had they seen their master so miss his mark; but Robin flung his bow upon the ground with vexation. "Now, out upon it!" cried he. "That shaft had an ill feather to it, for I felt it as it left my fingers. Give me a clean arrow, and I will engage to split the wand with it." At these words the yeomen laughed louder than ever. "Nay, good uncle," said Will Scarlet in his soft, sweet voice, "thou hast had thy fair chance and hast missed thine aim out and out. I swear the arrow was as good as any that hath been loosed this day. Come hither; I owe thee somewhat, and would fain pay it." "Go, good master," roared Friar Tuck, "and may my blessing go with thee. Thou hast bestowed these love taps of Will Scarlet's with great freedom. It were pity an thou gottest not thine own share." So spake the merry King; but, even as he ended, there came suddenly the sound of many voices, and out from the covert burst Little John and threescore men, with Sir Richard of the Lea in the midst. Across the glade they came running, and, as they came, Sir Richard shouted to Robin: "Make haste, dear friend, gather thy band together and come with me! King Richard left Nottingham Town this very morning, and cometh to seek thee in the woodlands. I know not how he cometh, for it was but a rumor of this that reached me; nevertheless, I know that it is the truth. Therefore hasten with all thy men, and come to Castle Lea, for there thou mayst lie hidden till thy present danger passeth. Who are these strangers that thou hast with thee?" "How is this, Sir Richard?" said he sternly. "How darest thou step between me and these fellows? And how darest thou offer thy knightly Castle of the Lea for a refuge to them? Wilt thou make it a hiding place for the most renowned outlaws in England?" Then Sir Richard of the Lea raised his eyes to the King's face. "Far be it from me," said he, "to do aught that could bring Your Majesty's anger upon me. Yet, sooner would I face Your Majesty's wrath than suffer aught of harm that I could stay to fall upon Robin Hood and his band; for to them I owe life, honor, everything. Should I, then, desert him in his hour of need?" Then all arose and the King beckoned Robin Hood to come to him. "How now," quoth he, "is thine ear still too deaf to hear me speak?" "Mine ears would be deafened in death ere they would cease to hear Your Majesty's voice," said Robin. "As for the blow that Your Majesty struck me, I would say that though my sins are haply many, methinks they have been paid up in full thereby." So Robin bade his men make ready a grand feast. Straightway great fires were kindled and burned brightly, at which savory things roasted sweetly. While this was going forward, the King bade Robin call Allan a Dale, for he would hear him sing. So word was passed for Allan, and presently he came, bringing his harp. "Marry," said King Richard, "if thy singing match thy looks it is fair enough. Prythee, strike up a ditty and let us have a taste of thy skill." Then Allan touched his harp lightly, and all words were hushed while he sang thus: "'_Oh, where has thou been, my daughter? Oh, where hast thou been this day Daughter, my daughter?' 'Oh, I have been to the river's side, Where the waters lie all gray and wide, And the gray sky broods o'er the leaden tide, And the shrill wind sighs a straining.' "'What sawest thou there, my daughter? What sawest thou there this day, Daughter, my daughter?' 'Oh, I saw a boat come drifting nigh, Where the quivering rushes hiss and sigh, And the water soughs as it gurgles by, And the shrill wind sighs a straining.' "'Why growest thou so cold, my daughter? Why growest thou so cold and white, Daughter, my daughter?' Oh, never a word the daughter said, But she sat all straight with a drooping head, For her heart was stilled and her face was dead: And the shrill wind sighed a straining_." All listened in silence; and when Allan a Dale had done King Richard heaved a sigh. "By the breath of my body, Allan," quoth he, "thou hast such a wondrous sweet voice that it strangely moves my heart. But what doleful ditty is this for the lips of a stout yeoman? I would rather hear thee sing a song of love and battle than a sad thing like that. Moreover, I understand it not; what meanest thou by the words?" "I know not, Your Majesty," said Allan, shaking his head, "for ofttimes I sing that which I do not clearly understand mine own self." "Well, well," quoth the King, "let it pass; only I tell thee this, Allan, thou shouldst turn thy songs to such matters as I spoke of, to wit, love or war; for in sooth thou hast a sweeter voice than Blondell, and methought he was the best minstrel that ever I heard." That night he lay in Sherwood Forest upon a bed of sweet green leaves, and early the next morning he set forth from the woodlands for Nottingham Town, Robin Hood and all of his band going with him. You may guess what a stir there was in the good town when all these famous outlaws came marching into the streets. As for the Sheriff, he knew not what to say nor where to look when he saw Robin Hood in such high favor with the King, while all his heart was filled with gall because of the vexation that lay upon him. The next day the King took leave of Nottingham Town; so Robin Hood and Little John and Will Scarlet and Allan a Dale shook hands with all the rest of the band, kissing the cheeks of each man, and swearing that they would often come to Sherwood and see them. Then each mounted his horse and rode away in the train of the King. THUS END the Merry Adventures of Robin Hood; for, in spite of his promise, it was many a year ere he saw Sherwood again. Robin, through his great fame as an archer, became a favorite with the King, so that he speedily rose in rank to be the chief of all the yeomen. At last the King, seeing how faithful and how loyal he was, created him Earl of Huntingdon; so Robin followed the King to the wars, and found his time so full that he had no chance to come back to Sherwood for even so much as a day. As for Allan a Dale and his wife, the fair Ellen, they followed Robin Hood and shared in all his ups and downs of life. And now, dear friend, you who have journeyed with me in all these merry doings, I will not bid you follow me further, but will drop your hand here with a "good den," if you wish it; for that which cometh hereafter speaks of the breaking up of things, and shows how joys and pleasures that are dead and gone can never be set upon their feet to walk again. I will not dwell upon the matter overlong, but will tell as speedily as may be of how that stout fellow, Robin Hood, died as he had lived, not at court as Earl of Huntingdon, but with bow in hand, his heart in the greenwood, and he himself a right yeoman. Now it chanced that on that very morn Little John was walking through a spur of the forest upon certain matters of business, and as he paced along, sunk in meditation, the faint, clear notes of a distant bugle horn came to his ear. As leaps the stag when it feels the arrow at its heart, so leaped Little John when that distant sound met his ear. All the blood in his body seemed to rush like a flame into his cheeks as he bent his head and listened. Again came the bugle note, thin and clear, and yet again it sounded. Then Little John gave a great, wild cry of yearning, of joy, and yet of grief, and, putting down his head, he dashed into the thicket. Onward he plunged, crackling and rending, as the wild boar rushes through the underbrush. Little recked he of thorns and briers that scratched his flesh and tore his clothing, for all he thought of was to get, by the shortest way, to the greenwood glade whence he knew the sound of the bugle horn came. Out he burst from the covert, at last, a shower of little broken twigs falling about him, and, without pausing a moment, rushed forward and flung himself at Robin's feet. Then he clasped his arms around the master's knees, and all his body was shaken with great sobs; neither could Robin nor Allan a Dale speak, but stood looking down at Little John, the tears rolling down their cheeks. Now Robin had done much to aid this cousin of his; for it was through King Richard's love of him that she had been made prioress of the place. But there is nought in the world so easily forgot as gratitude; so, when the Prioress of Kirklees had heard how her cousin, the Earl of Huntingdon, had thrown away his earldom and gone back again to Sherwood, she was vexed to the soul, and feared lest her cousinship with him should bring the King's wrath upon her also. Thus it happened that when Robin came to her and told her how he wished her services as leech, she began plotting ill against him in her mind, thinking that by doing evil to him she might find favor with his enemies. Nevertheless, she kept this well to herself and received Robin with seeming kindness. She led him up the winding stone stair to a room which was just beneath the eaves of a high, round tower; but she would not let Little John come with him. So the poor yeoman turned his feet away from the door of the nunnery, and left his master in the hands of the women. But, though he did not come in, neither did he go far away; for he laid him down in a little glade near by, where he could watch the place that Robin abided, like some great, faithful dog turned away from the door where his master has entered. There he saw his own dear master leaning against the gray stone wall, his face all white and drawn, and his head swaying to and fro with weakness. Then, with a great, wild cry of love and grief and pity, Little John leaped forward and caught Robin Hood in his arms. Up he lifted him as a mother lifts her child, and carrying him to the bed, laid him tenderly thereon. And now the Prioress came in hastily, for she was frightened at what she had done, and dreaded the vengeance of Little John and the others of the band; then she stanched the blood by cunning bandages, so that it flowed no more. All the while Little John stood grimly by, and after she had done he sternly bade her to begone, and she obeyed, pale and trembling. Then, after she had departed, Little John spake cheering words, laughing loudly, and saying that all this was a child's fright, and that no stout yeoman would die at the loss of a few drops of blood. "Why," quoth he, "give thee a se'ennight and thou wilt be roaming the woodlands as boldly as ever." But Robin shook his head and smiled faintly where he lay. "Mine own dear Little John," whispered he, "Heaven bless thy kind, rough heart. But, dear friend, we will never roam the woodlands together again." As he finished speaking, he raised himself of a sudden and sat upright. His old strength seemed to come back to him, and, drawing the bowstring to his ear, he sped the arrow out of the open casement. As the shaft flew, his hand sank slowly with the bow till it lay across his knees, and his body likewise sank back again into Little John's loving arms; but something had sped from that body, even as the winged arrow sped from the bow. For some minutes Little John sat motionless, but presently he laid that which he held gently down, then, folding the hands upon the breast and covering up the face, he turned upon his heel and left the room without a word or a sound. Thus died Robin Hood, at Kirklees Nunnery, in fair Yorkshire, with mercy in his heart toward those that had been his undoing; for thus he showed mercy for the erring and pity for the weak through all the time of his living. And now, dear friend, we also must part, for our merry journeyings have ended, and here, at the grave of Robin Hood, we turn, each going his own way. End of Project Gutenberg's The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood, by Howard Pyle	redpajama-book	55,744

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